ABSTRACT Safavid Shiʿism, the Eclipse of Sufism and the Emergence of ʿIrfān by Ata Anzali The fundamental question I have tried to answer in this diss ertation is how and when in the religious history of Iran the term " ʿirfān" ʿirfān" came be used as an alternative to "taṣ " taṣavvuf." avvuf." I demonstrate in detail how this discursive development was a response to major transformations in the religious landscape of Iran in the Safavid period, during which time the majority Sunni populace gradually converted to Twelver Shiʿism. Shiʿism. I begin my discussion with a general overview of this transformation and the subsequent emergence, in the seventeenth century, of a Shiʿi hierocracy Shiʿi hierocracy aided by the Safavid Court. I then focus on the efforts of the ʿulama to establish a new Shiʿi orthodoxy Shiʿi orthodoxy by labeling alternative religious views "heterodox" and by launching literary, and sometimes physical, campaigns against those who held them. More specifically, I focus on the anti-Sufi campaign that swept across major urban centers in Iran during the mid-seventeenth century and how, due to the convergence of a number of favorable socio-political conditions, the heirocracy was gradually able to stigmatize terms like "Sufi" and "Sufism" in the eyes of the public. This campaign would have not met with success, I argue, had it not been for the the efforts of charismatic, charis matic, Sufi-minded, and syncretistic members of the 'ulama to incorporate popular elements of Sufi thought into their newlydesigned, alternative Twelver mode of spirituality, which was based on new terminology. I also examine the Sufi response to the abovementioned transformation and to the anti-Sufi campaign by focusing on the historical and intellectual developments of the Ẕahabī Sufi order. Then, based on my analysis of both the Sufi-minded and anti-Sufi fronts in the cultural
battleground of Safavid Iran, I turn to the educated circles of S hiraz to discuss in detail how several intellectual trends found there contributed to the formation of the category of ʿirfān in the early decades of the eighteenth century. In my analysis I focus particularly on the work and career of Shah Muhammad Dārābī and Quṭb al -dīn Nayrīzī. Then I offer a brief synopsis s ynopsis of how the category of ʿirfān came to be used with greater frequency in the writings of eighteenth-century Persian scholars of Islam. Finally, and in order to show the contemporary relevance of this early modern semantic development as well as its continuity and discontinuity with modern usage, I offer a sketch of the evolution of the category of ʿirfān in twentieth-century Iran.
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Note on Transliteration I follow the IJMES transliteration system for Arabic Ar abic and Persian with following exceptions: In the case of Persian names of contemporary figures, they often adopt a specific English spelling of their names (or are referred to by one consistent spelling of their name in English-language media), and I reflect these spellings to the extent possible. In addition, I have avoided transliterating the names of major urban centers in the Middle East, except when they appear as part of a person’s name (thus: Qom and Qumī, Tehran and Tihrānī). I also do not transliterate Arabic and Persian words that have been adopted into use by mainstream English media, following the guidance of the Oxford Dictionary of English (See: Catherine Soanes and Angus Stevenson, eds., Oxford Dictionary of English , 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). Transliterated words are italicized only in their first firs t appearance in the dissertation. The Arabic definite article “ al-” has been dropped from surnames in overwhelmoing majority of cases as per Persian usage due to the Persian cultural and linguistic focus of the project. Finally, in Persian, the tāʾ ū a is rendered a, not ih, for the sake of consistency with the Arabic. Persian iżā is indicated as –i (-yi for words ending in vowels), but omitted in personal names (e.g., Qub alal-īn ayrīī instead of Qub alal -dīndīn-i ayrīī).
Contents ................ ................. .................. ......... 1 Introduction: the Question of ʿirfān in Contemporary Iran.................................
Chapter One: The Big Picture ........................................................................................................
12
Sufis, Philosophers, and the Quest for Maʿrifa or “gnosis” ....................................................... 13 Avicenna and His Legacy of ʿIrfān ............................................................................................. 24 Safavid Beginnings and Sufism .................................................................................................
42
The Ẕahabiyya during the Sixteenth Century ....................................................................... 50
Shāh ʿAbbās, the Demise of the Qizilbash, and the Rise of ʿUlama................................. ................ ................. ....... 54 Abū Muslim, Sufism and Storytelling .................................................................................... 57 Chapter Two: The Making of the anti-Sufi Front .......................................................................... 70
Introduction ..............................................................................................................................
71
Refutation of Sufism in Seventeenth Century Iran ................................................................... 73 Philosophy between Sufism and anti-Sufism ............................................................................ 88 Conclusions and Analysis ........................................................................................................
117
Chapter Three: The Sufi Response ..............................................................................................
128
Introduction ............................................................................................................................
129
The Zahabīs during the Seventeenth Century ........................................................................ 132 ...................................................................................................... 140 Tafsīr Muʾmin Mashhadī ......................................................................................................
Bayān al-Asrār .....................................................................................................................
141
Muʾaẕẕin-i Khurāsānī and the Making of the Golden Lineage ............................................ 144 aīb al-dīn Riā and the Demise of rganized Sufism ....................................................... 159 Conclusions and Analysis ........................................................................................................
170
Chapter Four: The Invention and Spread of ʿIrfān ......................................................................
179
Introduction: The Shiraz Circle ............................................................................................... 180
adrā, His Students, and ʿIrfān ................................................................................................
185
Qub al-Dīn ayrīzī and the Ẕahabī rder .............................................................................. 193 al al-Khitāb .......................................................................................................................
195
Shāh Muammad Dārābī , Suf ism ism and ʿIrfān ............................................................................ 209 Miʿrā al-Kamāl ..................................................................................................................... 214 ʿIrfān after the Safavids ...........................................................................................................
232
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ʿAbd al-Raīm Damāvandī ...................................................................................................
233
Bīdābādī and arāqī ............................................................................................................
242
The iʿmatullāhī Revival .....................................................................................................
251
Epilogue: Modern Developments in ʿIrfān ..................................................................................
260
Introduction ............................................................................................................................
261
Kayvān Qazvīnī and his Discontent with Sufism.................................. ................ .................. ................. .............. 263 Final Thoughts .....................................................................................................................
274
Bibliography ................................................................................................................................
278
Manuscripts .............................................................................................................................
279
Published Sources ....................................................................................................................
281
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List of figures:
Figure 1: Anti Sufi Polemics during the Safavid Period …………………………………………. 77 Figure 2: Anti Sufi Polemics 1500-1900……………………………………………………………………2 56
Introduction: the Question of ʿirfān in Contemporary Iran
On October 5, 2011, the fourth channel of government-run Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB4) televised a debate featuring Mahdi Nasiri and Mohsen Gharavian. 1 The former is an independent commentator on religious and social issues and the editor-in-chief of
Simāt , a quarterly ournal established to, as the subtitle of the ournal goes, provide “a platform to explain and defend the teachings ( maʿārif ) of the Qur’an and the family of the Prophet, peace be upon them.”2 The latter is a well-known and somewhat controversial ayatollah from Qom, a lecturer in Islamic philosophy, and the author of several books on theology, philosophy, logic, and other subjects.3 The theme of the debate, which was broadcast nationally in Iran, was the
relationship between ʿirfān and Islam.4 Nasiri has long been known for his adherence to a
1
IRIB4 primarily caters to highly educated class of Iranians on various subjects in humanities, arts and sciences. The debate can be accessed online at: nār- yi jnjālī -yi Nsiri v Ghrvin drbār - yi ʿirfān v dīn, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-DZIQHdfsg&feature=youtube_gdata_player. 2
All issues of the journal can be accessed online at http://www.sematmag.com/index.php.
3
4
For his personal website see http://www.gharavian.ir/.
The term ʿirfān has been translated into English by scholars of Persian mystical tradition as Islamic “mysticism,” “mystical
2
puritanical reading of Shiʿism and his passionate promotion of the idea that the true face of Islam and the original doctrines of the twelve Shiʿi imams have been obscured by various “curtains” over the course of the centuries. ne of these curtains is Sufism, and another is philosophy.5 In contrast to Nasiri, Gharavian, who studied under prominent teachers of
philosophy and ʿirfān in Qom, is a firm believer that ʿirfān is not only compatible with, but also an integral part of the teachings of the imams. Many aspects of this debate would be interesting to discuss, but the feature that goes to the heart of the question asked in this dissertation is the terminology used by the two men. Throughout nearly an hour of back and forth debate, Gharavian consistently uses the word
“ʿirfān”—a term that generally has positive connotations among Persian speakers—to refer to the mystical tradition of Islam. Nasiri, on the other hand, insists on using the term tvvf
(“Sufism”), or alternatively the peorative ʿirfān-i ml (“the so-called ʿirfān”). asiri’s semantic choice strikes the native speaker of Persian as strange, but it is deliberate: he wishes
to make the point that what is called ʿirfān in Iran today is in fact Sufism—a term imbued with negative connotations and sometimes used as a pejorative, especially among religious people.
This televised debate, in particular asiri’s word choices and their implications, is one of many examples of the dispute in larger Iranian society over the status of ʿirfān and Sufism and their relationship to “authentic” Islamic teaching. o in-depth study of the intensification of this debate has been carried out, but having tracked publication trends in Iran in recent
knowledge,” “theosophy,” “gnosis” and “gnosticism.” Given the opaque and amorphous conceptual boundaries of the terms like mysticism, gnosticism and theosophy in English, there is little in the way of clarity that such translations can offer. Thus, I have decided to use the original term in the hopes that, after reading this research, the reader would at least understand the rationale of each one of the abovementioned translations chosen by scholars of the field. Therefore, this introduction does not aim to provide the reader with a clear definition of the category of ʿirfān and set its conceptual boundaries vis -à-vis Sufism; rather, its goal is to illustrate the real-life relevance and implications of the semantic dichotomy maintained in contemporary Persian literature, in which ʿirfān and Sufism are conceived as two separate poles. 5
A third curtain is modernity.
3
years, it seems clear to me that the argument between proponents and opponents of Sufism
and ʿirfān has escalated over the course of the last decade.6 I believe this can be traced to socio-cultural developments in Iran following the Islamic Revolution. After the success of the Islamic Revolution of 1979 and the subsequent takeover of major branches of government by conservative religious circles led by Ayatollah Khomeini, a new form of religiosity came to be promoted and idealized in Iran. This religiosity was based primarily on a framework laid out by Khomeini and his students, particularly the prominent religious intellectuals Morteza Motahhari and Ayatollah Montazeri. 7 ʿIrfān was a maor component of this revolutionary religiosity. This was related to the fact that Khomeini, the architect and the leader of the Islamic Revolution, was not only a mujtahid (jurisconsult) and
mrjʿ-i tqlīd (source of emulation) of the hig hest caliber, he was also an acclaimed ʿārif or
“gnostic.”8 As such, he was a proponent of and commentator on works of speculative mysticism by Ibn ʿArabi (d. 638/1240), the Islamic philosopher and mystic par excellence, as well as a student of the mystical philosophy of the Shiʿi philosopher and theologian Mullā adrā (d. 1050/1640).9 Exclusive, unlimited media access enabled Khomeini’s students to promote an Islamic ideology that combined the modernist, juristic and mystical elements reflected in their
leader’s religious outlook. The invasion of Iraqi forces in the summer of 1980 and the ensuing, disastrous war that engulfed both nations for eight years heightened the relevance of this 6
See note 22 below.
7
These two men played a fundamental role in constructing the framework on which the Islamic Republic’s ideology has rested ever since. Other important contributors also existed; for a detailed discussion of this ideology and its architects see: Hamid Dabashi, Theology of Discontent : the Ideological Foundation of the Islamic Revolution in Iran (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 2006). 8
9
The explanation for choosing the term gnostic as an equivalent for ʿārif (lit. knower) is given in the first chapter.
or more on Khomeini’s ʿirfān see: Alexander Knysh, “ Irfan Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy of Islamic Mystical Philosophy,” Middle East Journal 46, no. 4 (October 1, 1992): 631 –653.
4
ideological rhetoric, one which portrayed the invading force, backed by the imperialist West, as the enemy of Islam rather than Iran. This casting of the conflict as a holy war reinforced to the Iranian public the mystical aspects of this ideology, which drew on foundational Shiʿi
narratives of the martyrdom of the Prophet’s grandson usayn at the hands of the Umayyad Caliph Yazīd during the Battle of Karbala in 680.10 Those in the seminaries, however, were not always inclined to embrace the mystical
elements of the new ideology. Khomeini’s penchant for mysticism was an exception, not a norm, in the upper echelons of the Shiʿi hierocracy in Qom. Most high-ranking religious scholars were suspicious of philosophy and ʿirfān, to say the least, and they were disinclined to give ʿirfān a free pass to enter the seminary curriculum. Granted, Ibn ʿArabī’s speculative mysticism and Mullā adrā’s philosophy had been taught in the seminaries for over two centuries, but the teachers who propagate their thought had always been marginalized (if not demonized or opposed outright) by jurists intent on safeguarding orthodoxy. In fact, during
the 1950s, Khomeini himself was at odds with Ayatollah Burūirdī, the most prominent mrjʿ of the time, over the issue of teaching the mystical philosophy of adrā openly in the
(the Shiʿi seminary system).11 Nor were his mystical views well-received among Arab religious scholars when he was exiled by the Shah to Iraq. Khomeini’s followers often speak of how exoteric and literalist urists despised him to the extent that they considered even his son to be ritually impure because of his father’s indulgence in the heretical teachings of Ibn ʿArabī and his teaching of Mullā adrā’s books .12 Even after the revolution, Khomeini was forced to
10
For more on mysticism, martyrdom, and the youth see: Roxanne Varzi, Warring Souls : Youth, Media, and Martyrdom in PostRevolution Iran (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006). 11
12
Roy P. Mottahedeh, The Mantle of the Prophet : Religion and Politics in Iran (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1985), 242 –43.
The story, which is probably a myth, is continually repeated. For an informed discussion of Khomeini and his opponents in this regard (and one that mentions this story), see Ali Mousavi Bonordi, “Imām Khumainī va mukhālfān -i hawzavī -ash,” Samin
5
cancel a series of nationally broadcast lectures due to mounting pressure from the traditional seminary authorities who were outraged by the strong mystical and philosophical coloring of
Khomeini’s bāinī (esoteric) interpretation of the Qur’an. Despite such opposition, proponents of philosophy and ʿirfan have gradually, in the years since the revolution, changed the status quo such that Mullā adrā’s mystical philosophy is now an accepted element of the official se minary curriculum. Moreover, Ibn ʿArabī and his
followers’ works on speculative mysticism are taught with greater frequency, freedom, and openness. This is largely thanks to the efforts of Muhammad usayn abātabāʾī in the prerevolutionary period13 and to structural reforms in the administration and curriculum of the
seminary introduced by Khomeini’s supporters after the revolution. The gradual move of both philosophy and ʿirfān into the mainstream is perhaps best reflected by the adoption into the awza curriculum of two textbooks written by abātabāʾī for students of philosophy as well as the production of the first ever textbook on speculative mysticism.14
In advocating ʿirfān, ideologues of the revolution provided the passionate young generation of Iranians known as the “Children of the Revolution” with an attractive
(blog), March 29, 2010, http://mousavibojnordi.blogfa.com/post-9.aspx. 13
abātabāʾī (d. 1981) was the twentieth century’s most prominent Twelver Shiʿi philosopher. For more on his life and thought and for an overview of Islamic philosophy in Iran in modern times, see Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Islamic Philosophy from Its Origin to the Present : Philosophy in the Land of Prophecy, SUNY Series in Islam (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006), 254 –277. Also See Mehdi Aminrazavi, “Islamic Philosophy in the Modern Islamic World: Persia,” in History of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr and Oliver Leaman, Routledge History of World Philosophies (London: Routledge, 1996), 1037 –1050. 14
The two textbooks on adrā’s philosophy , Bidāyt l-ikma (The Beginnings of Philosophy) and Nihāyt l-ikm (The Conclusion of Philsophy), were written in the first decade after the revolution in response to the demand in the seminaries that novice religious students be educated in accordance with the Khomeini- approved model. See Muammad usayn abāabāʾī, Bidāyt l-ikm (Qom: Muʾassasat al -Nashr al-Islāmī al -Tābiʿa li- Jamāʿat al-Mudarrisīn, 1985); Muammad usayn abāabāʾī, Nihāyt l-ikm (Qom: Muʾassasat al -Nashr al-Islāmī al-Tābiʿa li- Jamāʿat al-Mudarrisīn, 1984). The Bidāy is also translated into English: Muammad usayn abāabāʾī, The Elements of Islamic Metaphysics : (Bidāyt l-ikm), trans. ʿAlī Qūlī Qarāʾī (London: ICAS, 2003). The textbook of speculative mysticism mentioned above was published only within the last several years, and the late date is an indication of how problematic Ibn ʿArabī’s school of thought remains in cir cles of leadership in the awza. See Yadollah Yazdanpanah, bānī v l-i ʿirfān-i nrī (Qom: Intishārāt-i Muʾassasa- yi Āmūzishī va Pazhūhishī - yi Imām Khomeini, 2009).
6
spirituality and a grand framework of meaning. T he promotion of ʿirfān as the “true essence”
of Islam’s mystical tradition also entailed casting aspersions on institutional Sufism and questioning the authenticity and orthodoxy of iʿmatullāhī and Ẕahabī Sufis. However, due to
Khomeini’s deep and personal investment in the tradition of High Sufism (represented by Ibn ʿArabī and his school of thought), organized Sufism remained— for a while —safe from outright persecution. The end of the war with Iraq and the liberal economic and cultural policies pursued under the presidencies of Rafsanjani and Khatami brought dramatic changes in the Iranian socio-cultural landscape. One aspect of this change was a rapid increase in the number of syncretistic, New Age-inspired religious movements. Scientific theories, alternative medicine, traditional esoteric sciences like alchemy, and modern forms of s pirituality began to be mixed with orthodox Islamic beliefs in various ways to cater to (for lack of a better term) middle-class Iranians in major urban centers who have increasingly resisted the state-sponsored religion forced down their throats.15 These new spiritual movements are generally described by the adjective ʿirfānī in contemporary Persian discourse.16 This designation highlights their place in a modernist trajectory of religious thought and practice which began in the early twentieth century and which has led to the formation of a distinct category to which the word “ʿirfān” now refers. 15
For more on these new developments see Alireza Doostdar, “antasies of Reason: Science, Superstition,’ and the Supernatural in Iran” (Harvard University, 2012). 16
For example, a new school of mysticism known as ʿirfān-i kyhānī (cosmic mysticism) or ʿirfān-i lq (ring mysticism) has recently become wildly popular in major urban centers of Iran. The founder of this school, Mohammad Ali Taheri, published a number of books explaining his vision, all of which were promptly banned by the authorities, who were alarmed by the increasing number of people joining his school of thought. See Muhammad Ali Taheri, ʿIrfān-i kyhānī (lq) (Qom: Intishārāt-i Andīsha- yi Māndagār, 2009). The major common denominator of many of these new spiritual movements appears to be their emphasis on the compatibility of modern science with the supernatural. Doostdar talks extensively about this aspect of new spiritual movements in his dissertation. See Alireza Doostdar, “antasies of Reason: Science, Superstition,’ and the Supernatural in Iran” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2012).
7
The present-day proponent of ʿirfān in Iran tends to be wary of institutional forms of Sufism, which are often viewed as despotic, corrupt and superstitious. Instead, modern-minded intellectuals in Iran embrace the category of ʿirfān as a realm distinct from that of traditional Sufism. In doing so, they construct a modern discourse of spirituality (often called mʿnviyyt ) that picks and chooses from the long history of Persian Sufism those aspects that are deemed sufficiently modern to meet the needs of a new generation of highly-educated Iranians who aspire to a spirituality compatible with science, modern philosophy, and contemporary lifestyles.17 Such alternative readings of religion and mysticism give the ideologues of revolution an immense amount of anxiety, and the Islamic regime has proven increasingly intolerant of independent and popular religious/spiritual movements, no matter how much they emphasize their allegiance to Shiʿi orthodoxy. The regime has become increasingly obsessed with drawing
clear and fast boundaries between “genuine,” Khomeini -style ʿirfān and “pseudo-ʿirfāns” (ʿirfān-hā- yi kāẕib).18 The main responsibility of combatting these “deviant” mysticisms both ideologically and physically is relegated to the extensive, quasi-militia branch of the
Revolutionary Guards known as the Basi. In a clear shift of policy from Khomeini’s time, a 17
Soroush Dabbagh, son of the famous Iranian intellectual and religious reformer Abdulkarim Soroush, has recently published two consecutive articles on the subject. In these two articles he attempts to lay out the philosophical foundations of what he calls “ʿirfān-i mudirn” (modern ʿirfān) in contradistinction to “ ʿirfān-i snntī ” (traditional ʿirfān). See Soroush Dabagh, “arvāra- yi az ʿirfān-i mudirn: tanhāʾī maʿnavī,” Āsimān, no. 1 (2011). The second installment, entitled “ar -vāra- yi az ʿirfān-i mudirn (2)”, can be found in author’s personal website at http://soroushdabagh.com/home/pdf/191.pdf. The early development of this modernist discourse on spirituality will be discussed in the epilogue of this dissertation. In contrast, Mustafa Malekian, another prominent contemporary intellectual and philosopher in Iran, has put more emphasis on the category of mʿnviyyt (spirituality) in his construction of a modern Persian spiritual discourse in which traditional mysticism is put in conversation with a modern form of rationality. Hence the title of his major project: “ʿAqlāniyyat va maʿnaviyyat” (“Rationality and Spirituality”). or more on h is views see Mustafá Malikiyan, Ḥdī s-i ārimndī: jstārhāyī dr ʿqlāniyyt v mʿnvviyt , Bīnish-i Maʿnavī 41, (Tehran: igāh-i Muʿāsir, 2010). See also Muafá Malikiyān, Rāhī bih rhāyī: jstārhāyī dr bāb-i ʿqlāniyyt v mʿnviyyt , Bīnish-i Maʿnavī (Tehrān: igāh -i Muʿāir, 1381), and Muafá Malikiyān, Dīn, mʿnviyyt v rshnfikrī - yi dīnī: sih gft v g bā fá likiyān, (Tehran: Nashr- i Pāyān, 1387). A weblog dedicated to the propagation of his thought and that of a handful of other Iranian intellectuals and philosophers can be found at http://neeloofar.ir/index.php. 18
As Doostdar has shown, the more one tries to pinpoint differences between “true” and “false” esoteric practices, the more elusive these differences become. See Doostdar, “antasies of Reason.”
8
brutal and unyielding policy of persecution against traditional Sufis and the New Age
movements has accelerated under Khamenei, Iran’s current supreme leader. As noted above, due to Khomeini’s personal sympathy with Sufi tradition, a “don’t ask don’t tell” policy was followed under his leadership. As a result, the iʿmatullāhīs and Ẕahabīs, which had generally been considered orthodox orders and which subjected themselves to clerical hegemony, were left to practice and preserve their centers.19 Times changed, however,
after Khomeini died. His heir, Khamenei, lacked his predecessor’s strong background in ʿirfān, and he had no sympathy for traditional Sufi groups. The liberal tendencies of Presidents Rafsanjani and Khatami did not initially provide Khamanei with amenable circumstances for attacking the Sufis. However, following the election of Mahmud Ahmadinejad as president in 2005, Khamanei was able to consolidate his power over the upper echelons of the political system, and the inherent tension between the totalitarian interpretation of Shiʿism centered around the idea of vilāyt -i faqih (guardianship of the jurist) on the one hand, and the Sufi demand for total submission to the will of the mrshīd or pīr (spiritual guru) on the other, became readily apparent. The first major clash between the regime and the orthodox Sufi
orders happened in May of 2006, when one of the most important iʿmatullāhī khānaqāhs (centers), located in the holy city of Qom, was confiscated and razed to the ground in the
aftermath of a bloody clash between the iʿmatullāhī dervishes and the Basi militia.20 The pressure on the iʿmatullāhīs and other Sufi groups has been increasing ever since.21 19
ther Sufi groups that were deemed heterodox, like the ūrbakhshi branch of the iʿmatullāhī order, were not so fortunate. They were brutally persecuted and pushed underground soon after the revolution. Their leader, Sayyid Javad Nurbakhsh, fled to London and died there in 2008. 20
Although authorities have denied iʿmatullāhī claims regarding the death of several dervishes, officials confirmed the arrest of over 1200 members of the iʿmatullāhī khānaqāh. 21
The annual Human Right s Watch report designates the iʿmatullāhīs as a religious minority under discrimination. See “World Report 2011: Iran | Human Rights Watch,” n.d., http://www.hrw.org/world -report-2011/iran. For Amnesty International’s report see “Amnesty International | Working to Protect Human Rights,” n.d.,
9
As mentioned above, amidst the heightened political and social tensions of the past several years scholars have increasing ly focused their attention on the ʿirfān versus Sufism
debate and the question of the relationship of each with “authentic” Islam.22 iʿmatullāhī leaders, long suspicious of the ʿirfān/Sufism dichotomy, 23 have grown increasingly aware of the danger posed by this seemingly innocuous semantic distinction, which allows proponents of state-sponsored ʿirfān to marginalize institutional Sufism and persecute Sufis without
appearing to be opposed to spirituality. This has led the iʿmatullāhīs to push more strongly their arguments in favor of using the two terms synonymously.24
http://www.amnesty.org/en/region/iran/report-2011. A more detailed report listing instances of illegal detainments, torture, and intimidation can be found at “Hr_violations_dervishes.pdf,” n.d., http://www.europarl.europa.eu/meetdocs/2009_2014/documents/dir/dv/hr_violations_dervish/hr_violations_dervishes.pdf. I am not in a position to confirm the details of this report, but there is little question in my mind that most of the information found in it is factually correct. 22
For the first two decades after the revolution there was little debate on the issue. One of the few (and perhaps the sole) discussions on the topic in that period can be found in a 1994 issue of Kyhān-i ndīsh that contains two essays dealing with the difference(s) and similarities between Sufism and ʿirfān. See Manūchihr adūqī, “Yagānagī ya dugānagī - yi taavvuf bā ʿirfān,” Kyhān-i ndīsh, no. 54 (1994): 86–90, as well as Ranbar aqīqī, “Sayrī dar ʿirfān va taavvuf,” Kyhān-i ndīsh, no. 54 (1994): 99–116. In contrast, recent years have seen a dramatic surge in the number of articles and books dealing with the issue of taavvuf versus ʿirfān. The following works are among many that address the issue in detail or are devoted to it entirel y: Alireza Arab, vvf v ʿirfān dīdgāh-i ʿlmā- yi mtʾkhkhīr -i Shī’ (Tehran: Intishārāt -i āmin-i Āhū, 2009); Javad Tehrani, ʿ Arif va fī chi mīgynd (Tehran: Nashr-i Āfāgh, 2011); Ali Agha -Nuri, ʿĀrifān-i mslmān v shri’t -i islām (Qom: ashr-i Dānishgāh-i Adyān, 2008); Muhammad Javdan, “ʿĀlimān -i shī’a va taavvuf,” Hft āsīmān, no. 33 (2004); ʿAlī Muvaidiyān ʿAār, fm-i ʿirfān (Qom: Nashr-i Dānishgāh-i Adyān, 2009). The recently-established publication house Rāh -i īkān has been very active in publishing works that deal with the distinction between “true” and “false” versions of ʿirfān and/or the relationship between the latter and Islam. The maority of these can be considered part of the anti-iʿmatullāhī propaganda encour aged by state policy. Examples of works published by Rāh-i īkān are Jaʿfar Tavānā, Sarchashma-hā-yi ta avvuf (Tehran: Rāh-i īkān, 1386); Reza Madani, Irfān-i islāmī v ʿirfān iltiqāī : brrsī v nqd-i ʿqāyid-i firqa- yi gnābādiyy (Tehran: Rāh-i īkān, 2008); and Muhammad Reza Rousta, fāvt -i ʿirfān v tvvf (Tehran: Rāh-i īkān, 2009). Several issues of the periodical ʿIrfān-i Iran, edited by the scholar of Persian Sufism Seyyed Mustafa Azmayesh, a iʾmatullāhī himself, feature articles that d eal with this distinction. See especially Nos. 7, 10, 22 and 27-8. 23
As will be discussed in detail in the last chapter, iʿmatullāhīs entered the cultural landscape of Iran from India in the ea rly decades of the nineteenth century and thus, unlike the Ẕahabīs, they did not participate in the formation of this dichotomy. Instead, their literature often deemphasizes the difference between ʿirfān and Sufism. or example, afīʿalīshāh , the renowned late nineteenth century iʿmatullāhī qb (pole), questioned the validity of such a distinction. See asan afī ʿAlī Shāh, ʿIrfān lqq (Tehran: Muhammadī, 1954). 24
ūrʿalī Tābanda, Āshinā- yi bā ʿirfān v tvvf (Tehran: Intishārāt -i aqīqat, 2001). This work can be accessed online at http://www.sufi.ws/books/download/farsi/ashnaeebaerfan- chap3.pdf. Tābanda is the current murshīd of the Gunābādī branch of the iʿmatullāhī order. Shahram Pazouki, a prominent scholar of Sufism and a iʿmatullāhī himself, has argued that the use of the term “ʿirfān” to indicate the mystical tradition of Islam has a relatively short history. See Shahram Pazouki, “Pārāduks -i taavvuf nazd -i asātīd va shāgirdān -i Mullā adrā,” lsf, fl-nām mjll- yi dānishkd- yi dbiyyāt v ʿlm-i insānī dānishgāh-i Tehran, no. 12 (2006): 93–108.
10
This dissertation is an attempt to identify the cultural trajectories and intellectual trends that contributed to the formation of this dichotomy. One that has been exploited in several episodes of the Iranian history, including the above-mentioned contemporary scene, as an effective discursive tool both by secular and religious authorities t o legitimize the persecution of Sufis. Thus, this genealogical study is not only well overdue as a scholarly work, but also, and more importantly, helps give a voice to the subaltern Sufis of Iran. In chapter one, I provide a backdrop for my subsequent narrative and arguments by
outlining the historical and intellectual contexts in which the category of ʿirfān emerged and was developed. Chapter two discusses in detail the formation and development of a strong anti-Sufi front in seventeenth century Iran, comprised of religious scholars and centered in Isfahan. I also treat the influence of this front on perceptions of Sufism as Safavid rule declined. In chapter three, I analyze the Sufi response to the above-mentioned phenomenon
and, more generally, the increasing dominance of Shiʿism in Iran. In doing so, I focus on the development of branch of Sufism that came to be known as the Ẕahabiyya order, while
simultaneously keeping in view its rival order, the prominent ūrbakshiyya. Chapter four expands on the material in preceding chapters by discussing the intellectual, social, and religious forces that contributed to the formation of a new discourse on spirituality centered
on the emerging categories of ʿārif and ʿirfān. It also examines the maor intellectual figures, based primarily in Shiraz, who were responsible for the formation and spread of this
Counter-arguments in line with the official narrative of the Islamic Republic have been developed. See, for example, Hossein Ghaffari’s response to the abovementioned article by Pazouki: Hossein Ghaffari, “Taavvuf yā ʿirfān? Pāsukhī bar maqāla- yi pārāduks-i taavvuf nazd -i asātīd va shāgirdān -i Mullā adrā,” lsf, fl-nām-yi majalla- yi dānishkd- yi dbiyyāt v ʿlm-i insānī - yi dānishgāh-i Tehran, no. 12 (2006): 109 –126. Ghaffari is a prominent student of the late Morteza Motahhari, the main ideologue of the Islamic Republic. A considerable amount of activity surrounding the issue has taken place on the internet as well. Take, for example, an anti-Sufi blogger who has entitled one post “ʿIrfān yes, Sufism no.” (Saber Qodsi, “ʿIrfān ārī, taavvuf na,” March 15, 2006, http://www.kherghe.blogfa.com/post-77.aspx). See also this substantial anti -Sufi website: “Pazhūhishī darbāra - yi Muyī aldīn Ibn ʿArabī, ʿirfān va taavvuf,” n.d., http://www.ebnearabi.com/.
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alternative discourse. These include Qub al-dīn ayrīzī, Shāh Muhammad Dārābī and ʿAbd al-
Raīm Damāvandī . Finally, I close with a brief sketch of how these developments connect to transformations initiated by the forces of modernity in late nineteenth- and twentieth century Iran.
Chapter One: The Big Picture
13
In Arabic, the root ʿ-r-f , from which the term ʿirfān, ʿārif, and maʿrifa are derived,
denotes “recognition” or “knowledge.” Its beginnings in Arabic literature of the Islamic period are humble. The Qur’an does not contain the terms mʿrif and ʿirfān, and when other words derived from the root ʿ-r-f appear, they generally correspond to “recognition” (which is
25
From an etymological perspective, both mʿrif and gnosis come from roots that denote “knowledge.” Both are overwhelmingly used for a particular type of knowledge that relates to divine mysteries. (The ED defines gnosis as “the knowledge of spiritual mysteries.” See Angus Stevenson, ed., “Gnosis oun,” Oxford Dictionary of English, Oxford Reference Online (Oxford University Press, n.d.), http://www.oxfordreference.com.ezpprod1.hul.harvard.edu/views/ENTRY.html?entry=t140.e0339470&srn=1&ssid=1173748542#FIRSTHIT.) There are also other connotations of the term gnosis, rooted in its strong association with Christian Gnosticism, that make it a good candidate to render in English what is meant by mʿrif. Among them is the unmediated nature of this knowledge, the fact that it is reserved for a few elite, and its realization through exploring the inner self. (See: Wouter J. Hanegraaff, ed., “Gnosticism” (Leiden: Brill, 2006), http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUL.ejournals:sfx3170000000000647.). Yet, as we will see in the coming pages, in talking about mʿrif and ʿirfān, rather than emphasizing the “noetic” aspect of the concept , it is overwhelmingly used to refer to an advanced spiritual station ( mqām), which is associated with the profound realization of the true nature of Reality (l-qq) in non-dual terms. Therefore, it seems appropriate to point out that mʿrif is technically closer to what Versluis has called “metaphysical gnosis” in contrast to “cosmological gnosis.” While the latter “ entails a su btle dualism of subject-object, to some extent belongs to the realm of knowledge, and reveals correspondences between subject and obect, or between humanity and the natural world,” metaphysical gnosis “is non -dualistic spiritual insight, as one finds in the work of Meister Eckhart or in that of the contemporary American author Bernadette Roberts… [It] represents direct insight into the transcendent” (See: Arthur Versluis, “What Is Esoteric? Methods in the Study of Western Esotericism,” Esoterica IV (2002): 3 and 11.) Yet, I refrain f rom translating ʿirfān to “gnosis” as Corbin, and asr following him, has done (Henry Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy (London: Kegan Paul International, 1993), 21; Seyyed Hossein asr, “Shiʿi sm and Sufism: Their Relationship in Essence and in History ,” Religious Studies 6, no. 3 (1970): 229 –242. This has mostly to do with the fact that, first, I am at odds with the particular methodology and a- historical framework within which Corbin and his followers have defined ʿirfān as “gnosis.” Secondly, and as I will demonstrate in detail in later chapters, ʿirfān, in contrast to maʿrifa, especially from the eighteenth century onward is often used in the literature as a form of –ism, that is, for example, as an equivalent for the term taavvuf or Sufism. The most systematic and clear definition of ʿirfān, I believe, is offered by Gerhard Böwering. See Gerhard Böwering, “ʿERĀ (1),” ed. Ehsan Yar -Shater, Encyclopædia Iranica (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1982). Here, he suggests “Islamic theosophy” as an equivalent for ʿirfān and offers several defining features of the modern use of the concept. They are (1) an emphasis on the mystico-philosophical side of Sufism and Shiʿism in contra -distinction to the organized practice of Sufism (tvvf ) and to the ration al speculation and legalistic reasoning of Shiʿite theology ( klām) and law ( fiqh); (2) an stress on the intuitive side of Islamic thought and wisdom (ikm), traced back to Shihāb al -dīn Yayā Suhravardī and ʿIbn ʿArabī , as against the tradition of deductive philosophy ( falsafa), associated with Ibn Rushd (d. 595/1198); (3) roots in the bāin, the inner and hidden side of Islamic religiosity, that is understood, together with the generally more prominent, outer and manifest side ( āhir ) of Islamic law and religion, as shaping the totality of Islam (See: Ibid.). While I find Böwering’s systematic and clear exposition of the outlines of category of ʿirfān extremely valuable, it has a maor shortcoming. amely, it does not take int o account the most important modernity-inspired shift that took place in the category of ʿirfān during the early twentieth century. The new conceptual dimensions introduced to ʿirfān can best be understood by following the corresponding developments in Western understandings of the c oncepts of “spirituality” and “mysticism.” (or the latter two terms and their modern developments see L. E. Schmidt, “The Making of Modern Mysticism’,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 71, no. 2 (June 1, 2003): 273 –302; Richard King, Orientalism and Religion : Post-colonil heory, Indi nd “the ystic Est” (London: Routledge, 1999). I will talk about this aspect of the category of ʿirfān briefly in the Epilogue.
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opposed to forgetfulness), rather than knowledge. 26 Instead, beginning with the Qur’an, the
concept of “knowledge” (which is opposed to jahl, “ignorance”) is denoted by words derived from the root ʿ-l-m, from which come various verb constructions as well as nouns like ʿālim and
ʿilm. In contrast with the non-appearance of “ʿirfān,” the term ʿilm is used as “knowledge”
more than sixty times in the Qur’an.”27 Furthermore, it is important to note that constructs from the root ʿ-r-f are never used to denote something about the Divine nature, acts, and attributes, whereas al-ʿlīm (the Knower) is one of the most commonly used Names of God. In
accordance with the Qur’an, Muslim authors have refused to acknowledge al-ārif as a Divine Name, arguing that the latter root signifies a prior knowledge that has been, or is susceptible to being, forgotten and then remembered. This recognition, they explain, is not applicable to the omniscience God. Hence, Muslim authors have made several attempts to draw a clear line of distinction between ʿilm and maʿrifa. Any substantial discussion of such distinctions, mostly based on philological observations, as interesting as they might be, fall beyond the scope of this dissertation. 28 What is important for this project is that Sufi authors, even when they theoretically distinguish between the two terms, have largely used them interchangeably.29
It appears that the term maʿrifa, along with the active participle ʿārif (“knower” or “gnostic”), was first singled out as a distinct category in the early Sufi lexicon around the
26
See: 2:89; 2: 146; 5:83; 6:20; 6:46; 9:102; 12:58; 12:62; 16: 83; 22: 72; 23: 69 among others. This is the case for another repeatedly used construction of the root ʿ-r-f in the Qur’an, i.e., term mʿrf, which means “the recognized [way].” 27
This count is specifically for the form ʿilm. If we count all various derivatives of the root ʿ-l-m, there are more than six hundred cases. 28
or a basic summary of such efforts see: "Maʿrifa." Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online , 2012. Reference. Harvard University. 23 May 2012 http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-2/marifa-COM_0686 29
See, for example, Chittick’s statement about the use of ʿilm and mʿrif in Ibn ʿArabī’s corpus in William C Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge : Ibn al-ʿArbi’s etphysics of Imgintion (Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 1989), 149.
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middle of the third/ninth century. 30 The emergence of maʿrifa as a category is in fact connected to an important transformation in the early spiritual landscape of the Islamic heartlands. This transformation occurred when the ideal type of spirituality signified by zuhd (“renunciation”) and associated with a pietistic lifestyle centered on ʿībād (“worship”) was challenged by a new spiritual vision in which the ideal adept was primarily concerned with the cultivation of the inner life. 31 This new vision, according to Karamustafa, was an inward turn [that] manifested itself especially in new discourses on spiritual states, stages of spiritual development, closeness to God, and love; it
also led to a clear emphasis on knowledge of the interior’ (ʿilm l-bāin) acquired through ardent examination and training of the human soul….or these interiorizing’ renunciants, the maor renunciatory preoccupation of eschewing this world (dnyā, literally, the lower, nearer realm) in order to cultivate the other world (ākhir, the ultimate realm’) was transformed into a search for the other world within the inner self. 32
There were a number of distinct spiritual movements in the early centuries after the dawn of Islam that contributed to the development of this “inward turn.” ot all associated
30
Massignon credits Ẕu al-ūn al-Mirī (d. 245/856) with singling out mʿrif as a distinct category [Louis Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical Language of Islamic Myst icism (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 143.] 31
Historians and hagiographers have traditional taken the early hhād or ascetics to be “Sufis -in-waiting,” or “proto-mystics,” (See, for example, the now classic Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill,: University of North Carolina Press, 1975). However, I am in general agreement with Nile Green that the two could better be understood as manifestations of rival visions of the spiritual path. See Nile Green, Sufism : a Global History (Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 20 – 23. 32
Ahmet T Karamustafa, Sufism : the Formative Period, The New Edinburgh Islamic Surveys (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 2.
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with those movements initially identified as Sufis, 33 but the confluence of these different trends in the spiritual landscape of early Islam eventually led to the emergence of a more unified entity, called Sufism, starting roughly from the fourth/tenth century.34 Early figures who were influential in the develo pment of the “inward turn,” including Ẕu al-ūn, Yayā b.
Muʿāz (d. 258/871), Sarī al -Saqaī (d. circa 253/866), and others used the concept of maʿrifa, among others, to identify and distinguish the new paradigm of spirituality. or them, ʿārif (“gnostic”) as an ideal type stands in contrast, and is superior, to the previous ideal of the āhid (“ascetic”). or example, Ẕu al-ūn is recorded to have said that “[A]scetics are the kings of the afterlife, and gnostics (ʿārifān) are the kings of the ascetics.” 35 Similarly, Sirī Saqaī contrasts
the two, saying that “an ascetic’s life is not pleasurable since he is occupied with his self, but the life of a gnostic is pleasurable because he is occupied with other than his/her self.”36 In the
33
For example, krrāmiyy and mlāmtiyy seem to be significant rivals of the early Sufi movement in Khurasan region.
34
The Arabic term that is usually translated into English as Sufism is taavvuf. The latter, as a verbal noun, means “the process of becoming a Sufi,” and as such it refers to the spiritual and ethical ideal that early Sufi masters offered as their goal. ne finds many definitions of taavvuf in classical and early Sufi literature. All these definitions are somewhat “elusive from the perspective of descriptive history and social science,” as Ernst points out. They “do not have any clear reference to a defined group of people. Instead, they accomplish a powerful rhetorical transaction; the person who listens to or reads these definitions is forced to imagine the spiritual or ethical quality that is invoked by the definition, even when it is paradoxical. Definitions of Sufism are, in effect, teaching tools.” Carl W Ernst, The Shambhala Guide to Sufism (Boston, Mass.: Shambhala, 1997), 23–4. Ernst then points out the problems of translating the term to Sufism as a form of –ism, the most obvious being that taavvuf is often understood in Sufi literature as a prescriptive term that refers to a “process” that the adept must go thr ough, that is, the process of becoming a Sufi. In contrast, “Sufism” is essentially descriptive, connoting something static and describing, as all –isms, a coherent system of beliefs that belong to particular philosophic or social movements often with welldefined boundaries. Yet, he admits, the widespread use of the translation gives us little choice but to use it, while remaining aware of its shortcomings and problematic history. (For his detailed discussion see: Ibid., 1 –31.) Taking issue with the term Sufism from another perspective, Nile Green has suggested that it might be better to use “Sufi Islam” instead of “Sufism” to emphasize how Islam and Sufism are inseparable for most Muslims, even though, like Ernst, he is aware that the current convention is unlikely to change. Green, Sufism, 18. For an informed discussion of the problems involved in translating Sufism to Islamic mysticism see Ibid., 1–5. otwithstanding the vexing problem of translation, scholars have pointed out the significance of the emergence of transition from the term Sufi to the more substantial form of taavvuf by tenth century as an indicative of the consolidation of a core set of beliefs and practices for the early Sufi movement. Ibid., 16, 42; Karamustafa, Sufism, 51. The increasing use of terms like hl l-tvvf (folks of taavvuf ) or simply l-āʾif (the group) from the tenth century onward in the Sufi literature can be understood in a similar way. The transition from various early designations like Sufi, akīm, ʿārif, malāmatī and others to ahl al-taavvuf is indicative of a certain maturity in the pr ocess of consolidation of the Sufi movement and a reflexive selfconsciousness among its adherents. 35
36
arīd al-Dīn Aār, ẕkirt l- Aliyā’ (Leydan: Brill, 1907), 128. ibid., p. 283
17
same vein, Yayā b. Muʿāẕ says “the ascetic is pure in appearance but polluted (āmīkht) inside,
[whereas] the gnostic is pure inside and polluted in appearance.”37 In addition to the abovementioned statements, popular sayings were invented and circulated either as qdsī hadith (sacred traditions ascribed to God) or as mursal (traditions ascribed to the Prophet) in order to provide a basis of legitimacy and authenticity for the
introduction of this new term, and more generally this new paradigm of the “inward turn.” The famous qudsī hadith mn ʿrf nfsh fq ʿrf rbbh (“he who knows himself, knows
his Lord”), which was apparently put into circulation by Yayā b. Muʿāz, is a case in point.38 The rise to prominence of such statements in Sufi literature in subsequent centuries played an instrumental role in popularizing the terms ārif and maʿrifa in later Sufi literature. From the beginning of its use in the third/ninth century, the concept of ʿārif , or
“gnostic,” stands out as a descriptor of someone who has reached an advanced level of spiritual achievement. In the spectrum of spiritual stages and layers of inner realization, a gnostic, to use Ẕu al-ūn’s terms, “is among the Sufis, yet distinct from them.”39 In the sources, advanced levels of spiritual achievement have mainly to do with the realization of a unitive state in which the agency of the wayfarer is subsumed and annihilated in the agency of God, who is the only true agent. Accordingly, Ẕu al-ūn develops a three-level hierarchy of mʿrif in which the highest level is concerned with ifāt l-vdāniyy or “the attribute of unity.”40
Abū af of Nishabur (d. ca. 260/874) is reported to have said,
37
ibid., 305 and 307.
38
Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical Language of Islamic Mysticism, 83–88. Also: Böwering, “ʿERĀ (1).”
39
40
Aār, ẕkirt l- Aliyā’ , 126.
Ibid., 127.
18
Gnosis necessarily entails for the man his absence ( ghayba) from himself, in such a way that the memory of God reigns exclusively in him, that he sees nothing other than God and that he turns to nothing other than to Him. For, just as the man who reasons has recourse to his heart, to his reflection and to his memories, in every situation which is presented to him and in every condition which he encounters, so the gnostic has his recourse in God. Such is the difference between him who sees through his heart and him who sees through his Lord. 41
Likewise, al-Shiblī (334/946) is believed to have said, “When you are attached to God, not to your works, and when you look at nothing other than Him, then you have perfect
gnosis.”42 And in a similar vein, Abu Yazīd al-Bistāmī (261/875) is recorded as saying, “The creature has its conditions, but the gnostic does not have them, because his traits are effaced and his essence (huviyya) is abolished in the essence of the One. His features become invisible
beneath the features of God.” Al -Bistāmī is later remembered in Sufi literature as slān lʿārifīn or “the king of the gnostics.”43 This appellation is not surprising in light of his ecstatic mystical states, of which he reported with hybrid utterances ( shāt ) like “Glory be to me! How great is my majes ty!” and “Thy obedience to me is greater than my obedience to Thee.” As one of the most celebrated Sufis, he is famous for his open statements in which he talks
41
Quoted from " Maʿrifa." Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online , 2012. Reference. Harvard University. 23 May 2012 http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-2/marifa-COM_0686 42
Ibid.
43
Aār, ẕkirt l- Aliyā’ , vol. 1: 134.
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about shedding his “I”-ness like a snake’s skin in the state of annihilation ( fnā), only to gain a transformed self-consciousness in which there is no self but God. This was, in fact, what a gnostic was supposed to achieve. Abu Bakr al-Vāsiī (320/932) is also worthy of quotation: A gnostic is not authentic when there remains in the man an independence which dispenses with God and the need for God. For to dispense with God and to have need of Him are two signs that the man is awake and that his characteristics remain, and this on account of his qualifications. Now the gnostic is entirely effaced in Him whom he knows. How could this—which is due to the fact that one loses his existence in God and is engrossed in contemplation of Him—be rue, if one is not a man devoid of any sentiment which could be for him a qualification, when one approaches existe nce?”44
What is striking about the above quotes is that they emphasize the consequences of attaining gnosis rather than focusing on the actual content of it. That is to say, gnosis, at least at this level of development, is not about a specific subject of knowledge, about the “what” of
“what the mystic knows.” Rather, it is indicative of a mystical mqām (station) which is acquired by the gnostic when he advances close to God. In such a state, we are told, the gnostic
“recognizes” that what he thought was “him,” “his” acts, and “his” attributes, are, in fact, those of God. The literature is thus concerned with what follows from acquiring such a state, rather than what is entailed, in noetic terms, in that knowledge. In fact, the distinction between being and knowing no longer applies at this advanced spiritual station. Moreover, it 44
Quoted from " Maʿrifa." Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online , 2012. Reference. Harvard University. 23 May 2012 http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-2/marifa-COM_0686
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should be emphasized that at this stage of historical development we are still far from the nuanced and sophisticated Akbarian language of Sufi metaphysics that made it possible for the
latter’s followers to talk extensively about the Divine world—the world of Unseen—in concrete terms. As the older and rival paradigm of zuhd weakened and the term Sufi became more
prevalent as an umbrella term, the term ʿārif came to be situated and understood in relationship to the term Sufi, rather than zāhid. In this process, however, it retained its elitist connotations, referring to a level of spiritual realization attained only by the select among the friends of God (liyāʾ). In an early compilation of the sayings of the great Sufi of Khurasan,
Abū Saʿīd Abu al-Khayr (d. 440/1049), the f ollowing conversation is reported to have happened between him and a certain Khāa Maʿad, in which the latter praised Abū Saʿīd with these words: “I am not going to call you a Sufi or a dervish, but a perfect ʿārif.”45 Here, Abū Saʿīd is identified as an accomplished gnostic rather than a Sufi or a dervish, implying that the former is superior to the latter two terms. It is important to note, however, that the abovementioned anecdote, when analyzed in the context of other similar anecdotes, does not appear to conceive of gnostics as a group distinct from the Sufis, as Pourjavady argues, or as an antithesis to Sufis, as Ghaffari has suggested. 46 Rather, the former denotes a person who has reached a
particularly advanced spiritual maqām (“station”) of mystical realization, and it is used as a designation for accomplished friends of God, whether they identify as S ufis or not. Similarly,
Abdullāh Anārī (d. 481/1088), in his biography of Tirmi ẕī (d. ca 297/910), recognizes the latter 45
ibn Abī Saʿīd ibn ʿAbī āhir ibn ʿAbī Saʿīd ibn ʿAbī al -Kayr, Asrār Al-tīd fī qāmāt l-Shykh Abī Sʿīd, ed. Amad Bahmanyār, chāp-i 2. (Tehran: Kitābkhāna- yi ahūrī, 1978), 231. 46
ar Allāh Pūravādī, Ishrāq v ʿirfān : qāl-hā v Nqd-hā, Chāp-i 1., Markaz-i Nashr- i Dānishgāhī (Series) Irfān ; 3. (Tehran: Markaz-i ashr-i Dānishgāhī, 1380), 250–255.Ghaffari Husayn, “Taavvuf Ya Irfān? Pāsukhī bar Maqāla - yi Pārāduks-i Taavvuf azd-i Asātīd va Shāgirdān -i Mullā adrā,” lsf, l-nām jll- yi Dānishkd- yi Adbiyyāt v ʿUlm-i Insānī Dānishgāh-i Tehran, no. 12 (2006): 109 –126.
21
not as a Sufi but as a akīm (“wise man”) who was also a gnostic (kīmī bd ʿārif ).47 Furthermore, in the early hagiographical sources, discussions of the meaning of the terms Sufi
and Sufism are often immediately followed by anecdotes about maʿrifa and ʿārif. 48 Thus there is a strong sense of continuity and connection between the two sets of concepts, rather than opposition and contra-distinction. In the few cases that the term ʿirfān appears in early
classical Sufi literature, its range of meaning is indistinguishable from that of the term maʿrifa, indicating a lack of semantic independence and significance. 49
Gnosis reached its climax in Ibn ʿArabī’s thought as the pivotal concept of a trend within Sufism usually known as “High Sufism,” As Sufism spread throughout the Muslim world, its adherents diversified. Many among the learned sought refuge in Sufism after becoming disillusioned with the spiritual promise of other fields of religious knowledge. Experts in theology, jurisprudence and other sciences converted to Sufism, sparking conversation between, and a synthesis of, these branches of knowledge, which significantly influenced the future trajectories of all of them, including Sufism. The thought and work of Ibn
ʿArabī (d. 638/1240), otherwise known as the Greatest Master ( al-shaykh al-akbar ), are among the most remarkable products of this type of synthesis. Even a basic understanding of his complexities of thought and mind-bogglingly vast writings requires familiarity with nearly all the Islamic sciences from jurisprudence and theology to medicine and the esoteric sciences. This is especially the case with his magnum opus , l-tāt l-Makkiyya. 47
or information on how the term akīm was used early on in Khurasan to refer to a mystically -minded group associated mainly with the malāmatīs, not than Sufis, see Sara Sviri, “akīm Tirmidhī and the Malāmatī Movement in Early Sufism,” in The Heritage of Sufism, ed. Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan, vol. 1 (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 592 –596. 48
For example see the anecdotes in Kshf l-jb about Junayd. Also the anecdotes in ẕkirt l- Aliyā on Bishr al-afi and Ẕu al-ūn. 49
The word only appears three times in the entire volume of Kashf al-mhjb, a relatively early classical Sufi hagiography written by al-Huvīrī (d. 465/1072). Again, in two out of the three, ʿirfān is used in a secular meaning.
22
It was with Ibn ʿArabī and the school of thought he founded that the category of gnosis (maʿrifa) became the hallmark of intellectual Sufism. 50 Thanks primarily to Ibn ʿArabī’s spiritual accomplishments, intellectual gifts, and ability to develop a language to talk systematically about the World of the Unseen (ʿālam al-ghayb), an alternative paradigm arose in Sufism. This
paradigm, to use Chittick’s words, is “the Sufi path of knowledge,” and it contrasts with an equally strong and important paradigm, the “Sufi path of love.” The following paragraph is a good illustration of the path of knowledge, written by the Greatest Master himself: God never commanded His Prophet to seek increase of anything except knowledge, since all good ( khayr ) lies therein. It is the greatest charismatic gift (krām). Idleness with knowledge is better than ignorance with good works . . .
By knowledge [maʿrifa] I mean only knowledge of God, of the next world, and of that which is appropriate for this world, in relationship to that for which this world was created and established. . . .Knowledge [ʿilm] is an all-encompassing divine attribute; thus it is the most excellent bounty of God. Hence God said,
“[Then they found one of ur servants, whom We had given mercy from Us], and whom We had taught knowledge from Us ” (18:65), that is, as a mercy from Us. So knowledge derives from the mine of mercy.51
50
An alternative and equally strong traectory was the Persian ecstatic trend of “love Sufism” in which the concepts of ishq and mbb were the primary players. Rumi is the most celebrated and renowned representative of this trend. Obviously, categories like “intellectual Sufism” and “love Sufism” are abstract scholarly constructs. They are useful insofar as they can help us understand, classify and account for the apparent differences that we see in the Sufi literature and all the different ways in which various Sufi masters approach fundamental questions of the spiritual path. Actual Sufis are always a mixed bag of all these “ideal types,” to use Weber’s terminology. Thus, Ibn ʿArabī writes an entire treatise on the subect of love tit led rjimān l- Ashvāq. 51
Ibn ʿArabī, al-tāt l-Makkiyya, ed. ʿUthmān Yayā and Ibrāhīm Maẕkūr, Monumenta Classica. (al -Qāhira: al-Hayʾa alMiriyya al-ʿĀmma lil-Kitāb, 1972), vol. 2, p. 370. Quoted from: Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, 148.
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Ibn ʿArabī speaks of the ʿ ārifn (plural of ʿārif) as the greatest friends of God and defines maʿrifa as “any knowledge which can be actualized only through practice (ʿa mal), godfearingness (tqvā), and wayfaring ( slk).”52 The prominence of the concept of ʿārif in his oeuvre can be gleaned from the fact that the term occurs more than one thousand times in the
tāt .53 In spite of this, ʿirfān is a marginal term, not only in Ibn ʿArabi’s corpus, but also in
other classical works of Sufism from this period. In the rare cases that the word ʿirfān is used by Ibn ʿArabī, it does not signify an –ism like Sufism. Rather, it denotes an advanced spiritual maqām (“station”) at which one becomes a gnostic (ʿārif). Even as late as the seventh/thirteenth century, the term only appears twice in ʿAār’s (d. 1221) classic Sufi hagiographical work, Ta ẕkirat al- Aliyā. One of the two occurrences is a reference to nonreligious knowledge, and in the other, ʿirfān is interchangeable with maʿrifa. Therefore it
seems safe to say that ʿirfān is an obscure term in Ibn ʿArabī’s time and the centuries that followed, despite the monumental influence of the Greatest Master’s speculative mysticism and its heavy dependence on the category of gnosis. This obscurity remained the case until the late Safavid era, when, in the seventeenth century, an important semantic change occurred in
regards to ʿirfān. But another branch in ʿirfān’s genealogical tree must be addressed before we move to the Safavid period.
52
Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, 149.
53
My count includes singular form ʿārif as well as its plural forms ʿārifūn and ʿārifīn. I have based this estimate upon the re sults gained from oor software’s search engine. The concept of gnosis or maʿrifa is as popular. Terms like Sufi an d Sufiyya (and related general references such as al-qawm) do appear frequently but much less than the former cluster of terms (about three hundred times). One is tempted to compare this, for example, with ẕkirt l- Aliyā of ʿAār in which the occurrence of terms like Sufi and taavvuf is comparable to that of ʿārif and maʿrifa (The term Sufi appears close to a hundred times in ẕkirt. The term taavvuf scores around the same. The term ʿārif scores a little bit higher, close to a hundred and fifty ). This, of course, is a rudimentary and impressionistic comparison that does not take into account many factors, not least among them the difference in genre.
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The elitist nature of the concepts of ʿārif, and maʿrifa made them popular not only among sophisticated Sufi intellectuals, but also another elite group, i.e., philosophers. The philosopher par excellence of the Islamic world, Avicenna (d. 416/1037), dedicates an entire chapter of his classical al-Ishārāt v l -nbīhāt to a systematic exposition of the spiritual stages traversed by gnostics entitled mqāmāt l-ʿārif īn or “The Stations of the Gnostics.” Here too ʿārif
is contrasted to zāhīd and ʿābid. While the latter two, Avicenna says, are mostly concerned with avoiding the lower realm of the world ( dnyā) and its attachments, the gnostic is entirely absorbed in the divine world, constantly receiving manifestations of light his innermost heart
and preferring nothing to His ʿirfān (ʿirfānihī). 54 One of the earliest commentators of al-Ishārāt , Fakhr al-Rāzī (d. 606/1210) starts his comments on this chapter by saying that it is the most
noble among the chapters of this book and that in it the author (Avicenna) “has systematized the sciences of Sufis ( ʿlm l- fiyy) in a way no one has done before him.”55 There is no question that the content of this chapter would have not been possible were it not for the
development of the concept of ʿārif and other related concepts in Sufi literature. Yet it is problematic, in my view, to describe the chapter as one in which “the science of Sufism” is discussed, as Rāzī and other commentators who have followed him on this point have said. At the very least, to say that “Sufism” is the best descriptor of the chapter’s contents flies in the face of Avicenna’s avoidance of any reference to such terms, or to names or works associated with Sufism, despite their relation to the themes he addresses. In other words, by forgoing any 54
Abī ʿAlī usayn ibn ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna), al-Ishārāt v l -nbīhāt (Tehran: Mabaʿat al -aydarī, 1958), vol. 3: 369 and 375. 55
Ibid., vol. 3: 363.
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explicit reference to the original web of concepts from which key terms like maqām, ʿārif, riyā (self-mortification), irād ([mystic] will) and others emerged, Avicenna is consciously portraying his spiritual discourse as independent from, and contrasting with, the prevailing Sufi discourse. This comes as no surprise given the sour relationship between philosophers and Sufis throughout much of the history of the Islamic world. Sufis overwhelmingly disapproved of the discursive philosophy promoted by Avicenna and his students; in fact, philosophy was
the main target of their criticism. “There is no one more distant from the law of the Hashemite prophet than a philosopher” says ʿAār, echoing Sanāʾī’s sentiments: “rom words like
primary matter’ and primary cause’ you will not find the way into the Presence of the Lord.”56 In short, as Schimmel eloquently and succinctly puts it, “[t]he little philosopher’ is both the laughing stock and the scapegoat for the mystics.” 57 Having said that, the problematic view of commentators in subsequent centuries (namely, that this chapter of al-Ishārāt explains the science of Sufism) is understandable when we take into account the historical and intellectual changes that had taken place in the Muslim world since the time of Avicenna. Sufism grew rapidly in the centuries after the great
philosopher’s death, effectively conquering the cultural landscape of the Middle East at both the elite and popular levels (this transformation will be addressed further below). It was only natural for later commentators of Avicenna, who lived and breathed in a Sufi-dominated intellectual environment, to interpret the ninth chapter as a distinct section discussing the science of Sufism rather than an independent piece of philosophical discourse.
56
Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, 18–19.
57
Ibid.
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The Avicennan ideal of the perfect gnostic, therefore, stands in contrast to the ideal espoused by many Sufis. It presupposes a thorough training in the rational sciences, especially in discursive metaphysics. Epistemologically, it rejects mystical visions (mkāshfāt ) as primary
sources of knowledge in favor of the “faculty of reason.” or peripatetic philosophers like Avicenna, philosophy ( ikm), was comprised of two branches, the practical and the speculative,58 which provided the adept with a wholesome, integrated, and complete vision of the meaning of life and its final goal. The perfect philosopher, in other words, is not one who completes theoretical training in discursive philosophy and then, with a purified intellect and soul, awaits the light of divine gnosis to spark in his mind. The right conception of philosophy entails spiritual growth, spiritual realization, and perfection.
Perhaps the best signifier of the independence of Avicenna’s philosophical discourse from that of Sufism is expressed in his re-definition of the concept of pīr , or “spiritual mentor,” in his treatise entitled Ḥyy ibn qān or “The Living, Son of the Wakeful ne.” This symbolic, enigmatic story tells of how the soul of the adept meets its heavenly master, the Active Intellect (al-ʿaql al- fʿālī ), and asks it about the mysteries of the world. The Active Intellect, or
“the Living,” in the metaphysical scheme of peripatetic philosophy, is emanated as a “son” from “the Wakeful one,” that is, the penultimate pure Intellect. Both metaphysical entities are discussed in great detail in the theory of creative emanation professed by ārābī and Avicenna. In Avicenna’s story, the Active Intellect surpasses the perceptible world through knowledge, the soul’s guide towards its prime Principle, which is the Being that shines forth over all others. Although some scholars have tried to argue that Avicenna was a Sufi and to make sense
58
n the philosophical origins of this classification see Avner Giladi, "n the rigins of Two Key Terms in Gazālī’s Iyā’ ʿlm aldīn," Arabica XXXVI, no. 1 (1989), pp. 81-93.
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of the story by interpreting it as a mystical, illuminationist piece59 or an explicitly Sufi treatise,60 the story makes perfect sense within the confines of peripatetic principles, as Goichon has convincingly argued. 61 As Pourjavady has pointed out, this symbolic story is probably the first treatise in
which the term pīr, which refers to a human guide in Sufi literature, is redefined as an abstract, heavenly entity -- in this case the Active Intellect -- that appears to the philosopher or the mystic, guides him/her, and provides him/her with divine secrets.62 The philosopher’s goal is to gain access to the Active Intellect in order to realize the Truth of the universe as it is.
This transformation of the idea of the pīr from a human master to an abstract heavenly entity is, in my mind, a significant indicator of Avicenna’s elitist aversion to the most fundamental requirement of the Sufi path, that of following the commands of the spiritual guru just like the corpse in the hands of the washer. Instead, it is the heavenly Active Intellect that guides the philosopher toward final realization of the Truth. This aversion to t he Sufi notion of the spiritual guru also explains the absence of such a figure in the ninth chapter of al-Ishārāt. In the coming chapters we will follow closely the different interpretations of the notion of the
spiritual guru, known in Sufi literature variously as pīr, murshīd, stād, qb and shaykh, for an author’s interpretation is an important barometer of how closely he associates with traditional institutionalized forms of Sufism. Tracking this helps us to make sociological and intellectual
distinctions that allow an accurate charting of the genealogy of the category of ʿirfān.
59
Avicenna and Henry Corbin, Avicenna and the Visionary Recital (Irving, Tex.: Spring Publications, 1980), 23 –27.
60
Georges C. Anawati, ʾllfāt Ibn Sīnā, Wḍʿh Jrj Shiāt Qnātī. dīr li - Amd Amīn, qddim li-Ibrāhīm dkr. (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1950), 213–244. 61
Amélie Marie Goichon, “ayy B. Yaḳẓān,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition (Brill Online, 2012), http://referenceworks.brillonline.com.ezproxy.rice.edu/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-2/hayy-b-yakzan-COM_0281. 62
Pūravādī, Ishrāq v ʿirfān, 147–150.
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Avicenna’s deployment of the notion of ʿārif and ʿirfān, I believe, is also different in key ways than that of his Sufi counterparts. That is, rather than viewing an ʿārif as someone who has reached an advanced stage in the Sufi path, he uses the term to refer to an advanced philosopher, one whose rational soul has reached the stage of the Acquired Intellect (ʿāql-i
mstfād).63 Given his consistent refusal to employ the term taavvuf , it is only natural that Avicenna would attempt to construct a new substantive term to refer to the system of spiritual growth and attainment that he lays out in the ninth chapter. Given the centrality of the
concept of ʿārif in this chapter, it is not surprising that Avicenna’s substantive construct comes from the same root and is, in fact, ʿirfān. As a systematic thinker and an astute philosopher, Avicenna realizes the need to define this new category, which he does as follows:
ʿIrfān begins with differentiation ( tfrīq), renounciation (nq), abandonment (tark) and rejection (rf). It continues with an integration ( jamʿ) which is the integration of Divine attributes into the essence of the true seeker. It ends in the One (l-vāid), and then, stillness (vqf ).64 Whoever prefers ʿirfān for the sake of ʿirfān has associated a second with God, and whoever realizes ʿirfān it is like not realizing it but realizing the one who is known (al-mʿrf bihī ) and thus he has plunged into the abyss of intimacy (vl) and there are [other] stages … unknowable and unspeakable…whoever wants to know them he has to ascend gradually until he is among the folks of vision (ahl al-mshāhd) rather than dialogue (mshāfh) and among the one who has reached the Reality (al-ʿayn) rather than those who have heard of its vestige (sr ).65 Here, ʿirfān is understood as a process through which one goes to become an ʿārif. As such, it is similar to the abovementioned process of taavvuf , through which one becomes a Sufi.
63
Dimitri Gutas, “AVICEA V. Mysticism,” Encyclopædia Iranica, Online Edition, December 15, 1987, http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/avicenna-v. 64 65
Abī ʿAlī usayn ibn ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna), al-Ishārāt v l -nbīhāt , vol. 3: 389. Ibid., vol. 3: 390.
29
Avicenna’s al-Ishārāt quickly became an indispensable textbook of philosophy, a fact that is attested by the considerable number of commentaries written on it and their wide distribution. As early as the late sixth/twelfth century it had become known as mf l-
flāsif, literally “The Sacred Book of Philosophers.” 66 Yet its mystical vision was overshadowed by that of Sufism, which was omnipresent in all layers of Muslim society. In such a context the
philosopher’s remarks about spirituality and mysticism were not destined to have a tremendous impact on the society of the learned, at least in the short run. As Sufism permeated Muslim societies, philosophers were forced to come out of their comfort zone of metaphysics in order to prove their knowledge and relevance, writing treatises with themes similar to those of Sufi writings. As mentioned above, by Avicenna’s time, Sufism and philosophy were considered two alternate and competing trajectories for the novice aspiring sʿād, or “eternal felicity.” Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) clearly delineates these two alternative trajectories, pitting philosophy against Sufism in his iān l-ʿamal, which was written just before he converted to Sufism and left his teaching chair in Baghdad,67 In iān he states his belief that one should begin with thorough training in the rational sciences before (possibly) embarking on the Sufi path. However, in al-Munqi ẕ min l-lāl, a spiritual
autobiography written after his conversion, Ghazālī vehemently reects the notion that philosophy and theology (klām) lead to saʿādat. It is only the Sufi path, he claims, that can guarantee such an outcome. 68 66
Jean R. Michot, “La Pandémie Avicennienne Au VIe/XIIe Siècle Présentation, Editio Princeps Et Traduction De L’introduction Du Livre De L’advenue Du Monde (Kitāb udūt h Al-ʿālam) d’Ibn Ghaylān al -Balkhī,” Arabica 40, no. 3 (November 1, 1993): 287 – 344. 67
Abū āmid Ghazzālī , īān l-ʿAml, ed. Sulaymān Dunyā, al -abʿa 1., Zakhāʾir al -ʿArab, 38 (Cairo: Dār al -Maʿārif, 1964), 220– 228. 68
Abū āmid Ghazzālī , al-nqiẕ min l-lāl v-l-vil ilā Ẕī l -ʿI v l- Jlāl, UNESCO Collection of Representative Works: Arabic Series. (Beirut: al-Lajna al-Duvalīyya li Taramat al -Ravāʾi, 1959), 18–28. Scholars of Ghazālī have recently taken into question the stark contrast that is portrayed in the Deliverer between the pre-conversion and post-conversion framework of
30
Similarities can be detected in the Aāf l-shrāf of Khāa aīr al -Dīn Tūsī (d. 672/1274), one of the most important philosophers of his time, a prominent commentator on
al-Ishārāt, and a man of politics during the tumultuous times following the Mongol invasion. In the opening remarks of Aāf , Tūsī says that after writing a treatise on ethics (entitled Akhlāq-i
Nāirī ) following the principles of philosophers, he desired to write one based on the principles
of the “ sālikān-i rīqt .” The latter phrase is an unmistakable reference to Sufi adepts, and the author continues to use such terminology throughout the work. 69 Tūsī devotes a chapter of
Aāf to the notion of maʿrifa or gnosis, pointing out in the beginning that gnosis is attained in several stages. It is accessible to lay people as well as the most accomplished mystics, but only
the latter can achieve the title ʿārif or gnostic.70 Readers of this Persian treatise on ethics will find that Tūsī has given up his forebear’s ambition to establish and promote an independent spiritual discourse based in philosophy as an alternative to that of Sufism.71 This can be understood in the context of his era, a time of great change that anticipated the predominance of Sufism in Muslim societies in the Mongol
period. In Madelung’s terms: It is thus not surprising that he felt competent to compose a treatise on the Sufi path. Both he and the vizier Juwayni, a Sunni and firm supporter of Islam, must Ghazālī’s thought. They agree, however, that notwithstanding Ghazālī’s own framework of thought, he did see philosophy as an obstacle for majority of his readership in their pursuit of felicity. See: Kenneth Garden, “Revisiting al -Ghazālī’s Crisis through his Scale for Action (iān l-‘Aml),” unpublished article For a detailed treatment of the philosophic and Sufi underpinnings of Ghazālī’s thought see Alexander Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought: Al-Ghazali's Theory of Mystical Cognition and its Avicennian Foundation (London and New York: Routledge, 2011). 69
aīr al-Dīn Muammad ibn Muammad ūsī, Aāf Al-shrāf , ed. Muammad Mudarrisī, trans. Muammad ibn ʿAlī Jurānī (Tehran: Kitābfurūsh-i Islāmiyya, n.d.), 28–34. 70
71
Ibid., 133–34.
Also, Tūsī seems to have been unimpressed by Avicenna’s concept of ʿirfān, as the term does not appear in Aāf . It is not until the early sixteenth century that Aw āf and the ninth chapter of al-Ishārāt are taken as sources of inspiration for a prominent philosopher of the early Safavid era in Shiraz, i.e., Ghiyā s al-dīn Manūr Dashtakī (d. 1541 or 42) to compose a new treatise called qāmāt l-Sāʾirīn v qāmāt al-ʿārifīn. The concept of ʿirfān plays a more important role in his sixteenth century treatise, as we will see in the final chapter of this dissertation.
31
have sensed the growing tide of Sufi sentiment throughout Islam, which was to reach its peak in the Mongol age. They must have been aware that Sufism, if anything, could break down the barriers between schools and sects and unite all Muslims under the banner of the great Sufi orders. Tusi thus conceived his treatise on Sufi ethics as a complement, addressed to the common Muslim, to his philosophical ethics, addressed to the elite. 72
In pointing to “the growing tide of Sufi sentiment throughout Islam” in the Mongol age as the reason behind Tūsī’s decision to write Aāf , Madelung refers to the well-established historical fact that during the latter half of the twelfth century and thirteenth century, important developments took place in Sufism. In the words of Nile Green: Having established their institutional footholds across a wide region, the period between 1100 and 1500 … saw the Sufis achieve an extraordinary ascent to a position in which, from Morocco to Bengal, they acted as the social and intellectual linchpins of the very different communities that they penetrated across this vast area. By 1500, not only were Sufis at once the patrons and clients of kings, they were also central to the lives of lower class groups in town as well as country, a position consolidated by their role in the conversion of nomadic and cultivator groups to Islam in expanding frontier regions.”73 This new Sufism was in full bloom from the thirteenth- to the sixteenth century. The reorganization of Sufism was completed in the latter half of the twelfth century with the establishment of formal Sufi brotherhoods or orders ( tariqa). These developments were characterized by two main features. The first was the institutionalization of Sufism; namely, the emergence across the Muslim world of Sufi silsilas (“orders”) which practiced formalized rituals of mystical worship known as ẕikr. The second was the popularization of Sufism, indicated by the widespread appeal of Sufi shaykhs as charismatic leaders and saintly figures at the center of popular cults. 72
Wilfred Madelung’s article “asir al -Din Tusi’s Ethics: Between Philosophy, Shiʿism and Sufism” i n Giorgio Levi Della Vida Conference 1983 : University of California, Los Angeles) and Richard G. Hovannisian, Ethics in Islam (Malibu, Calif.: Undena, 1985), 85-101. An updated version of this article can be found online at: http://www.iis.ac.uk/WebAssets/Large/Nasir%20al-Din%20Tusi%27s%20Ethics%20-%20final.pdf The latter has been my source. 73
Green, Sufism, 71.
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The establishment of Sufi brotherhoods (silsilas), some local and s ome trans-regional, followed the emergence of Sufi lodges —variously called khānqāh, ribā , zaviy, drgāh, or
tekiyye—as significant centers of medieval social life alongside madrasas and mosques. In the aftermath of the Mongol invasion and the termination of the office of caliphate in 1258 and its attendant blow to the unity of the worldwide Muslim community (umma) , these brotherhoods
“gave the ordinary Muslims who oined them both the conceptual and institutional framework with which to connect themselves to a contemporary community of fellow believers and a past
tradition of blessed forerunners.”74 A series of towering figures emerged and laid down the foundations of the Sufi worldview, codes of social conduct, an d details of the spiritual path.
Some among them later became known as “founders” of Sufi orders. These include: Abū aīb al-Suhravardī (d. 1168), ʿAbd al -Qādir al- Jīlānī (d. 1166), Amad b. al-Rifāʿī (d. 1182), Amad al Yasavī (d. 1166), am al -Dīn Kubrā (d. 1221), Muʿīn al -dīn Chishtī (d. 1236), Abu al-asan alShāẕilī (d. 1258), Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (d. 1273) and Bahā al -Dīn al-Naqshband (d. 1389). These founders, as Green suggests, are better understood “as men who amassed resources – whether patrons and property or teaching and charisma – that could be inherited and used by their
successors to found the brotherhoods which were named after them.” 75 The Sufi ethos went beyond the walls of the khānaqāh, entering the fabric of society in the form of khī /futuvva men’s clubs and guild organizations that functioned as regulators and maintainers of the social order. As a result, Sufism gradually began not only to dominate
74
Ibid., 87.
75
Ibid., 85.
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religious life of the people, but also to provide an important basis for social order. 76 In
Hodgson’s words, [T]he Sufi tie at once deepened the local moral resources, and tied them into a system of brotherhoods in some ways as universal as the old caliphal
bureaucracy had been, which had disappeared….Thus Sufism supplemented the Shariʿa as a principle of unity a nd order, offering the Muslims a sense of spiritual unity which came to be stronger than that provided by the remnant of the caliphate.77
In terms of the popularization of Sufism, Sufi pīrs, especially after their deaths, became the centers of popular cults. Fantastic stories of their miraculous works (krāmāt ) spread with viral speed, and tombs were built at their gravesites, becoming the center of shrine visitation rites. The common people performed such visitations in search of the intercession of the Sufi saints, in whose human sympathies they found more comfort and compassion than in the remote Oneness of God. Peasants in both the towns and the countryside sought shelter in the shade of local ascetics who had received the khirqa (“cloak”) of a prominent order, considering them the protectors of their villages or towns and honoring their tombs as loci of spiritual power.78 It is important to note that the abovementioned developments occurred with the
overwhelming consent of the ʿulama. By the early twelfth century, urists, hadith scholars, and theologians had, in accordance with their populist principles, mostly accepted the new Sufism 76
Marshall G. S Hodgson, The Venture of Islam : Conscience and History in a World Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), vol. 2, 204. 77
78
Ibid., 221.
Ibid., 217–18.
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of the masses and merely tried to discipline it. In fact, in this period Sufi shaykhs and the
ʿulama did not constitute two opposing poles, as the common misperception would have it. That is to say, the ʿulama generally accepted Sufism as a dominant reality of their lifetime, and the Sufi shaykhs, sometimes highly educated religious scholars, usually emphasized the importance of observing religious law while simultaneously claiming that exclusive authority rested in esoteric knowledge of Divine revelation. Erik Ohlander, in his in-depth study of the
life and work of ʿUmar al -Suhravardī, a towering figures of this time who later became recognized as the “founder” of Suhravardiyya Sufi order, emphasizes the same point when he says: While Suhrawardi was a Sufi shaykh, he was also a member of the ʿulama, publicly enunciating his membership in their ranks through participating in their culture and, what is more, counting among his many teachers, students, associates, and disciples individuals who clearly identified themselves as full fledged members of that body, transmitting hadith, teaching in madrasas, serving as muftis and qadis, preaching, and leading prayers in Friday congregational mosques. Judging from both Suhrawardi’s lengthy arguments for the Sufis, in their capacity as the other worldly-ʿulama, as the legitimate possessors of prophetic heirship and their very public presence in multiple arenas of power and influence, the sheer self-assuredness of Suhrawardi and his associates is as astounding as it is telling. For Suhrawardi, it was not a matter of effecting some types of reconciliation between the ʿulama and the Sufis through answering criticisms voiced by individuals such as Ibn al-Jawzi, but rather consolidating a position of a group who were already well-established, deeply entrenched in a culture of religious professionals toward whom the st ate looked for support and legitimacy and the people for religious guidance and intercession.79 As a result of the spread of Sufism both within the circles of the learned elite and among the lay masses, Sufis “Succeeded in combining a spiritual elitism with a social
populism… [Therefore,] Sufism provided a wide field of free development for the exceptional individual, as we shall be seeing; it also provided a vehicle for expressing every aspect of 79
Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition : Umar al-Shrrdī nd the Rise of the Islmic ysticl Brotherhoods, Islamic History and Civilization, 0929-2403 ; V. 71 (Leiden ;: Brill, 2008), 193.
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popular piety within Islam.”80 This broad appeal came at a cost. Some scholars speak of the
“price”81 paid using terms like “decadence,” “corruption,” “degeneration” and “vulgarization,”82 but others have chosen terms like “vernacularization” and “diversification” to avoid not only the negative overtones of the first group of words, but also the sharp
dichotomy drawn by the former between “elite” versus “popular” Sufism. 83 I incline toward the view that emphasizing this dichotomy, as scholars have traditionally done, often leads to a distorted picture of Sufism in general. The most obvious problem with such dichotomies is that they are products of elitism. That is, they are discursive tools produced by the insider, learned elite to maintain and promote their status, or by the outsider, scholarly, modern elite who have an aversion to what they consider to be popular (and therefore not worthy of study) religiosity. Insider elites consider themselves to be the
guardians of “true” Sufism and often dismiss the ignorant masses for being easily fooled by charlatans and tricksters who pose as saints and wonder workers. Outsider elite scholars who
have dedicated their lives to the study and analyses of this “true” Sufism are equally appalled by such superstitious renderings of “pure” Sufi teachings. Having said this, I cannot entirely avoid this dichotomy in a dissertation that is an exercise in writing intellectual history, which by definition is a history of the learned elite. Moreover, learned Sufis of the late Middle Ages and early modern era used this dichotomy, or similar tropes, to describe how they felt about the culture of their time and its players, how 80
Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, 218.
81
Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs : Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran, Harvard Middle Eastern Monographs ; 35 (Cambridge, Mass.: Distributed for the Center for Middle Eastern Studies of Harvard University by Harvard University Press, 2002), 447. 82
Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, 218. and 456-457. Leonard Lewisohn, “Sufism and the School of Ifahān: Taawwuf and Irfān in Late Safavid Iran: Abd al -Razzāq Lahīī and ay -i Kāshānī on the Relation of Taawwuf, ikmat and Irfān,” in The Heritage of Sufism, ed. Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan, vol. 3 (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 105. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, 20. 83
Green, Sufism, 101.
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things were, and where they felt they should be headed. From their point of view, there was indeed a striking contrast between an advanced Sufi master and the wandering mendicant dervish who sold herbs and drugs and entertained people with fantastic stories. The latter was often a freelance beggar and an adventurer who at times veered into trickery and theft, while the former was (at least from an elitist point of view) a guardian of the Sufi ideal who busied himself penning treatises and training students to pass on the authentic tradition of Sufism. More specifically, there is a clear tendency among some Sufis, especially those who
followed Ibn ʿArabī, to focus exclusively on the so -called mqqiqn (realizers) among the Sufis, a small group of elite friends of God (awliyā), and to distance themselves from pedestrian and “ignorant” aspirants of the Sufi way, who ar e often designated by the derogatory epithet
jahalat al- sfiyy (ignorant Sufis). The teachings of Ibn ʿArabī in particular lent themselves to such an elitist approach since the highly complicated and abstract nature of his thought and work made them accessible, and relevant, only to a few elites within Sufi society and beyond.
As we saw earlier, Ibn ʿArabī himself encourages such an elitist approach in his writings by focusing primarily on gnostic ʿurafā, of whom he considers himself to be the most accomplished.
In addition to the detectable frustration in learned circles over some aspects of the popularization of Sufism, one can also discern a growing sense of resentment among intellectual elites of the Later Middle Period of Islamic history over what they saw as the increasing dominance of formalities and the hegemony of rigid orthodoxies, not only within Sufi circles, but also other in learned traditions such as jurisprudence and philosophy.84 One of 84
I am adopting Marshal H odgson’s terminology in speaking about “the Middle Period.” It refers, in his own words, to “the period between the mid-tenth century at the collapse of the classical caliphate, under whose auspices the culture had been
37
the most noteworthy manifestations of this resentment is the emergence of the antinomian Qalandars, but the critiques that emerged from this trend are pertinent to this study because they were often framed in terminology that pits the gnostic against the Sufi based on their attachment, or lack thereof, to such formalities. In an interesting example, Rumi, himself an accomplished and learned Sufi, juxtaposes
all three of the terms (Qalandar, ʿārif, and Sufi) in one statement, saying, “I envy the Qalandars since they have no beard…the Sufis enoy the abundance of beard, but before the Sufi is done with combing his beard, the gnostic has already reached God.”85 This brief anecdote encapsulates an important cultural criticism of Muslim Societies in the Later Middle Period. As Sufi institutions developed and worship became more formalized, or, t o put it in Hodgson’s terms, as the early Sufi tradition of intensive interiorization re-exteriorized its results,86 focus often shifted to institutional formalities, outward signs of piety, and the nuances of outward performance. Also, as a result of their popularity, Sufi shaykhs were able to secure huge financial resources – mostly in the form of pious endowments and donations – and forge political connections with local and regional holders of power. Starting from the fifteenth
century, “in the region stretching between Anatolia and India we find more and more saints being described through the terminology of kingship. Saints were termed “emperors” (shāh), their shrines called “royal courts” (dargāh), and their headgear considered “crowns” (t ā j).” 87
taking form, and the end of the fifteenth century, when a new world geographical balance gave its first intimations with the opening up of the wider oceans by ccidentals.”Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2: 3. Hodgson divides the Middle Period into the Earlier Middle Period (950-1250) and the Later Middle Period (1250-1500). 85
Shams al-Dīn Amad Aflākī, nāqib Al-ʿārifīn, ed. Tahsin Yazıcı, Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları. III. Dizi ; Sa. 3. (Ānqara: Chāpkhāna-yi Anjuman-i Tārīkh-i Turk, 1959), 412. Qouted in Manūchihr adūqī, “Yagānagī ya dugānagī - yi taavvuf bā ʿirfān,” Kyhān-i ndīsh, no. 54 (1994): 86 –90 86
Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2: 218.
87
Green, Sufism, 99.
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Sufism was no longer solely about the initial “inward turn,” a spiritual promise attained through spiritual and material poverty ( faqr ), observing the inner life, and abstinence from worldly desires. It was also connected – in a fragile economy and poor society – to centers of power and authority. Affiliation could mean minimal sustenance, and if one was lucky enough, wealth and political connections. As these worldly appeals influenced the rank and file of those
affiliated with the khānaqah, the problem of riyā (hypocrisy) and tvīr (dissimulation) became the object of important cultural critique. Hafez is perhaps the most outspoken and eloquent of the critics of hypocrisy. Like Rumi, he prefers the antinomian Qalandar or the bandit (rind),88 whose hallmark is an absolute indifference to social status and outward appearance, to the sham piety of ascetics and Sufis and their ceremonious attire that trumpets a superficial and dishonest spirituality. Many cloaks are superficial symbols of superstition and patchwork mantle of poverty (dalq) a sign of hypocrisy, Hafez says:
Not all Sufi coin is pure and unadulterated; How many cloaks deserve to be thrown in the fire! Would that the touchstone of experience were in our midst, That those who are adulterated might be embarrassed. Those brought up in the lap of luxury will not find their way to the friend,
The lover’s path is for rinds who throw caution to the wind. Hafez’ old cloak and prayer mat will go to the wine-seller, If his wine comes from the hand of the moon-faced cup-bearer.89 88
Rind, variously translated in English as “rake, ruffian, pious rogue, brigand, libertine, lout, debauchee,” etc ., is the very antithesis of establishment propriety. or more on Hafez’s depiction of rind and Qalandar see: ranklin Lewis, “HAEZ Viii. HAEZ AD REDI,” ed. Ehsan Yar -Shater, Encyclopædia Iranica (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, December 15, 2002), http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hafez-vii-viii. 89
Ghazal #155. I would like to thank Laurie Pierce for her help with this translation. My references are to ghazal numbers in Hafez’s Dīvān follow their order in Khānlarī’s critical edition: Shams al-D īn Muammad āfiẓ, Dīvān-i Ḥāfi Khāj Shms l-Dīn
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Hafiz portrays the gnostic as part and parcel of the Sufi world, a world from which he can (and must) redeem himself.90 In order to find such redemption he needs only to burn the
Sufi cloak, which will open up the path toward becoming the leader of the world’s rinds.
Set fire to the cloack and then become, O gnostic wayfarer, the leader of the ring of the world rinds.91
This radical critique of outward and formal signs of piety, i ncluding Sufi forms, is
bound up in Hafez’ use of a language full of symbolic allusions ( ishārāt ) and allegories that has bewildered scholars of Persian literature, who have long argued over th e meaning and
reference points of his poetry. The poet’s independent, rebellious, and free-spirited quest for beatitude and wisdom has prevented him from being pigeonholed into traditional categories
like Sufi, scholar, ascetic, and so on. Some scholars have talked about him as an ʿārif or gnostic, a designation that both reflects his non-conventionality and emphasizes the spiritual significance of his wisdom, which earned him the title of Tongue of the Unseen ( lisān l-ghayb). Yarshater’s comments on Hafez as an ʿārif deserve to be quoted in full:
Hafez very often is called an ʿārif. The application of this term depends on what is meant by it. If by ʿārif is meant a person of wisdom and insight, broadmmd, ed. Parvīz ātil Khānlarī, Chāp -i 2. (Tehran: Khārazmī, 1983). / / / / 90
91
Lewis, “HAEZ Viii. HAEZ AD REDI.” Ghazal # 267
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mindedness and understanding, given to reflection on human destiny, the transience of life, and the vanity of our worldly concerns, a man who would not go for the dogmatic rigidity of formal religion and the intervention of selfappointed guardians of faith in the daily lives of believers, but would prefer the devotion of truly pious men and sets high value on purity of heart and kindliness towards others rather than pretentious observation of religious ordinances—in other words, a benevolent sage—there is no reason to deny that epithet to Hafez …. n the other hand, if by ʿārif is meant a “mystic,” that is, a person who believes in the theory and practice of Sufism, is attached to a certain Order or the circl e of a Sufi mentor (pir) or a khānaqāh, or allows the clarity of his mind to be clouded by the irrational and obfuscated by the woolly thinking of some Sufis and their belief in miraculous deeds ascribed to their saints, then the epithet is a misnomer. While it is clear that Hafez distinguishes sincere, self-effacing, and godly mystics from the false ones, he does not belong to any Sufi school of thought, but chooses to be entirely free and independent of any such attachment… Confusing Hafez’s lack of fanat icism, his broad world view, and his contemplative and moral musings with “mysticism” implies a subjective interpretation of his poetry.92
or me, Yarshater’s remarks above reveal more about the dominant paradigm of the early twentieth century in which the scholar and his colleagues were trained than they do about the nature of Hafez and his spirituality. The paradigm I reference was one in which institutionalized Sufism was highly stigmatized and loaded with excessively negative projections. Notwithstanding this peripheral observation, Yarshater’s point that Hafez represents an independent spirituality that stands in contrast to formalized and institutionalized religiosity is well taken. This refusal to be limited to the confines of any specific orthodox model also manifests itself in the highly elusive and heavily symbolic language of Hafez, which renders it impossible to reduce and interpret the poems within the boundaries of established discourses of meaning.
92
Ehsan YarShater, “HAEZ I. A VERVIEW,” ed. Ehsan Yar -Shater, Encyclopædia Iranica (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, December 15, 2002), http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hafez-vii-viii.
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Within the highly elusive constellation of si gnifiers in Hafez’s Dīvān, the symbolism of
the pīr, or spiritual guru, stands out in its importance to this study. In line with Sufi thought, Hafez consistently emphasizes an adept’s need for a guide in his/her spiritual ourney. However, the way he talks about the pīr prevents his discourse from being reduced to an essentially Sufi one. The spiritual guide of Hafez’ poetry is the pīr -i mghān (The Zoroastrian master), who is based in khrābāt (tavern). In one instance, however, Hafez refers to a certain
pīr -i golrang (The Rose-colored Master) as his spiritual guide. 93 Many scholars have searched the historical record in the hopes of identifying this figure as a real human being, a Sufi shaykh of
a specific khānaqāh. Pouravady has convincingly demonstrated, however, that the R osecolored Master is better understood not as a human guide, but as a symbolic reference to the abstract divine reality, the Active Intellect that manifests itself to the wayfarer to guide him
along the Path, much as we saw in Avicanna’s Ḥyy ibn qān.94 Poujavaday points out that Hafez was not the first figure to have used color imagery to refer to the Active Intellect.95 As the last chapter of this dissertation will demonstrate, Hafez is among the inspiring figures for the late seventeenth century Safa vid religious scholars who constructed a category
of ʿirfān independent from and contrasting with taavvuf . Among others, his symbolic take on the notion of spiritual guru that locates him the World of the Unseen was probably fundamental in paving the way for later mystically-minded Twelver scholars of religion to
proect onto the figure of the imams, especially the enigmatic figure of the Hidden Imam, all the qualities normally attributed to the murshīd or the pole (qub) in Sufi literature.
93
94
95
Ghazal # 199.
Pūravādī, Ishrāq v ʿirfān, 166–177.
For example, one of Suhravadī’s short Persian treatises is titled ʿAql-i Surkh (the Red Intellect) and tells a similar symbolic story of the encounter of the soul of the gnostic with his heavenly spiritual guide.
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Between the fourteenth-century poet Hafez and his seventieth-century commentator
Shāh Muhammad Dārābī (about whom we will talk later) lie three centuries in which the most important religious transformation seen in Iran since the advent of Islam took place. The relevant aspects of this fundamental change in the Persian religious landscape must be discussed in order to understand both the continuities and the disruptions in intellectual trends from pre-Safavid times to the post-Safavid era.
The Safavid Sufi order is said to have been founded by Shaykh afī al -dīn Ardabīlī (d. 1334). Sometime during the fifteenth century the order took on a strong political-military agenda, and both Shaykh Junayd (d. 1460) and Shaykh aydar (d. 893/1488), the grandfather and father, respectively, of Shāh Ismāʿīl (d. 931/1524), died on the battlefield in their fight against Qrqynl rulers. With the help of Anatolian Sufi tribes known as the Qizilbash (Red Heads) that acted as their military and ideological backbone, the Safavids’ struggle culminated
in the enthronement of Shah Ismāʿīl as the first Sufi-king of Iran. Qizilbash religiosity was marked by a mixture of shamanistic ideas, Sufi ideals, and a distinct messianic vision. Each of the early Safavid rulers was venerated by the Qizilbash not only as the murshid-i kāmil (“perfect leader”), but also as the reincarnation of heroic figures of the past who fought for the cause of the family of the Prophet. They were believed to have acquired certain divine qualities and powers that even made them worthy of worship. An anonymous Venetian merchant who was in Tabriz in 1518 stated the following about the Safavid ruler:
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This Sophy is loved and reverenced by his people as a god, and especially by his soldiers, many of whom enter into battle without armour, expecting their master Ishmael to watch over them in the fight. There are also others to go into battle without armour, being willing to die for their monarch, rushing on with naked breasts, crying “Schiac, Schiac.” [shaykh, shaykh] The name of God is forgotten throughout Persia and only that of Ismael remembered; if any one falls when riding or dismounted he appeals to no other god but Schiac, using the name in two ways, first as god Schiac; secondly as prophet; as the Mussulmans say “Laylla, laylla Mahamet resuralla” [Lā ilāha illā Allāh, Muhammad Rasūl Allāh. That is: There is no god but God and Muhammad is his messenger] the Persians say “Laylla , yllala Ismael vellialla” [There is no god but God and Ismael is his friend] besides this, everyone, and particularly his soldiers, consider him immortal. 96 At the nascent stage of the Safavid revolution, the symbolic and charismatic role played
by Shah Ismaʿīl prompted many of the Qizilbash Turkish tribes to pay allegiance to him, guaranteeing their unconditional submission and support. 97 The syncretistic, revolutionary, and popular form of religiosity to which the Qizilbash adhered, although extremely helpful in the initial stages of the Safavid revolution, was a liability in later phases, when rulers focused their efforts on the stabilization and institutionalization of the newly-established empire. At this stage bureaucrats and the landed elite were more needed. Additionally, the establishment of a new religious orthodoxy capable of providing society with law and order was an indispensable necessity.
Although it is not entirely clear why Shah Ismāʿīl chose Twelver Shiʿism as the statesponsored “national religion” for his kingdom, it is abundantly clear that in the f ollowing decades, with a brief exception, Safavid religious policy increasingly consisted of promoting Twelver orthodoxy, which provided the kingdom with legitimacy and a basis upon which to 96
Giosofat Barbaro et al., Travels to Tana and Persia, Harvard College Library Preservation Microfilm Program ; 02724. (London: Printed for the Hakluyt Society, 1873), 206 –207. 97
or an interesting perspective that tries to understand the religious relationship between the Qizilbash and Shah Ismāʿīl by reference to the formers cannibalistic rituals see Shahzad Bashir, “Shah Ismaʿil and the Qizilbash: Cannibalism in the Religious History of Early Safavid Iran,” History of Religions 45, no. 3 (February 1, 2006): 234 –256.
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construct and maintain social cohesion. Hand in hand with this policy went the suppression of religiously-inspired dissident movements that threatened this unifying or thodoxy. The Safavid kings claimed legitimacy as the shadows of God on earth, guardians of the true faith, and upholders of Twelver tradition. As such, it was imperative that they fight Sunnism (most notably the Sunni Turks of the Ottoman Empire) and combat movements that did not conform to orthodoxy. Although several brutal massacres took place during t he late sixteenth- and early seventeenth century, particularly involving adherents to the Nqtvī and Hrfī heresies, the kings appeared aware of the problems entailed in killing their way to conformity and social cohesion.98 Establishing a strong and popular religious orthodoxy proved a more attractive method of suppressing and preventing such deviations. In other words, identifying and suppressing heresy in a systematic way requires a systematic notion of orthodoxy and an
organized group of “guardians” who patrol the boundaries between heresy and orthodoxy. With the support of the royal court, such a group came into being: a class of Shiʿi ʿulama that emerged in the early seventeenth century and grew in size and strength as newly-established Twelver centers of learning in Iran produced exponentially increasing numbers of graduates. It is an irony of history that the demise of organized Sufism came about under the Safavids, who themselves came to power as a Sufi order. In the beginning of the sixteenth century, when most of Iran fell under the control of the Safavids, many active Sufi orders existed throughout Persia. By the end of Safavid rule, there is little evidence of any active Sufi orders in Iran.
98
For a fascinating overview of the rel igious views of the Hurūfīs and their founder see Shahzad Bashir, Fazlallah Astarabadi and the Hurufis, Makers of the Muslim World (xford: neworld, 2005). or uqavīs see ādiq Kiyā, Nqtviyān ā Psikhānīyān, Īrān Kūda ; Shumāra-yi 13 (Tehran: Anjuman- i Irān, 1941).
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In attempting to account for the drastic decline of organized Sufism, historians of the Safavid period have largely assumed the existence of a royal policy of active, targeted, and systematic persecution of Sufi orders, enforced more or less consistently throughout the
dynasty’s rule. This assumption is both plausible and convenient, and thus it has been repeated time and again as a fundamental explanation for the eclipse of organized Sufism in Iran.99 My reading of the sources, however, suggests that this top-down conversion model tells us more about the problematic assumptions of its advocates rather than a close reading of the contemporaneous historical evidence. A detailed critique of this assumption is beyond the scope of this dissertation, but I would like to devote a bit of space here to sketching the outlines of an alternative model for analyzing and understanding the disappearance of organized Sufism in Iran. This decline, I believe, can be more accurately attributed to the conversion of Iran’s masses to Shiʿism in the sixteenth century, the crown’s ferocious propagation of anti-Sunni Twelver idealogy by way of the Qizilbash zealots, and the way in which the existing Sufi orders
responded to the changing religious environment. Dina Le Gall’s fascinating study of the history of the aqshabandī order, although not concerned with Safavid history per se, is (as far 99
Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam : Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shiʿite Iran from the Beginning to 1890, Publications of the Center for Middle Eastern Studies ; No. 17 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 112–119. Aromand’s historical overview of the phenomenon, which he discusses under the heading “Suppression of Sufism,” has been the main source for many later scholars in constructing similar narratives, either based on the same scant primary sources on which Arjomand bases his argument or by simply referring the reader to the above mentioned section in the latter’s book. See, for example: Saad H Rizvi, “A Sufi Theology it for a Shī’ī King: The Gawhar -i Murād of Abd al -Razzāq Lāhīī (d. 1072/1661- 2),” in Sufism and Theology, ed. Shihadeh Aymen (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 83–88. Lewisohn, “Sufism and the School of Ifahān: Taawwuf and Irfān in Late Safavid Iran: Abd al -Razzāq Lahīī and ay -i Kāshānī on the Relation of Taawwuf, ikmat and Irfān,” 67– 84. Green, Sufism, 141. The notion of Safavid suppression of Sufism is much older, however, going back to the late nineteenth and early twentieth century Iranian scholars of Persian literature. In his A Literary History of Persia, Edward Browne defers to the authority of his “learned and scholarly friend,” Muhammad Qazvīnī, to whom he wrote to inquire about the reason of the “decline” of Persian poetry during Safavid times. The latter attributes this declin e to the connection between poetry and mysticism in general. Since mysticism, he says, was brutally suppressed by the Safavids, it is no surprise that belle lettres and poetry declined. See: Edward Granville Browne, A Literary History of Persia (Cambridge: University Press, 1928), vols. 4: 26–28. In contrast, Ẕabīhullāh afā, in his ārīkh-i Adbiyyāt dr Irān, offers a quite different perspective that, in spite of some important points of disagreement, I find much more accurate when it comes to the roots of the decline of organized Sufism in Iran. afā’s position on this subect comes very close to the alternative framework I suggest below. See: Ẕabī Allāh afā, ārīkh-i Adbīyāt dr Īrān, Chāp-i 6. (Tehran: irdawsī bā hamkārī -i Adīb, 1984), vols. 5: 201–222.
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as I am aware) the first major step toward questioning the assumptions traditionally made by historians and constructing a new framework for understanding this period.100
aqshbandīs were among the Sufi orders disinclined to adopt the Safavid version of Twelver Shiʿism. As Le Gall explains in her work, in the first half of the sixteenth century, several outstanding members of the order travelled as missionaries from Greater Khurasan to major urban centers like Qazvin in the Iranian plateau with the intent of establishing
aqshbandī centers there.101 These missions faced increasing hostility due to their emphasis on their Sunni roots. By the second half of the century, this antagonism had forced them to move to the fringes of the Safavid Empire, where the central government had little muscle to bother
them, or to leave entirely and settle in ttoman lands. Le Gall’s analysis of the decline of the Naqshbandiyya provides us, I believe, with a good starting point for a sounder analysis of Safavid attitudes towards Sufism. She says: The picture that emerges from sixteenth-century Naqshbandī sources is somewhat more complex. The Safavids may well have sought to extirpate the ariqa, as well as other manifestations of Sunnism, but this was not easily achieved in central Iran, and certainly not in border areas such as Khorasan or Azerbaian. In time, the aqshbandī presence did disappear throughout the country. However, this was the product of a protracted process that lasted some fifty years in Herat and Qazvin and over a century in Tabriz and its environs. It involved instances of outright repression, of flight or emigration to Sunni territories beyond the border, and of shaykhs who simply withdrew from teaching or proselytizing. Nor was emigration out of Iran always a response to direct and outright repression by the regime: it might be induced by the 100
As far as I know, Kathryn Babayan was the first to mention the challenge that Le Gall’s narrative poses for the paradigm espoused by Arjomand. See Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 114 note 91. In addition to Le Gall’s valuable contributio n, I must point out, two articles in Mazzaoui’s edited volume, Safavid Iran and Her Neighbors from Hamid Algar and R. D. McChesney also push for a new direction in understanding the sixteenth century Safavid Iran. See: R. D. McChesney, “The Central Asian Haj-Pilgrimage in the Time of the Early Modern Empires,” in Safavid Iran and Her Neighbors , ed. Michel M Mazzaoui (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2003), 129 –156; Hamid Algar, “aqshbandīs and Safavids: A Contribution to the Religious History of Iran and Her eighbors,” in Safavid Iran and Her Neighbors, ed. Michel M Mazzaoui (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2003), 7–48. urthermore, the fact that ewman’s balanced narrative of the Safavid history in his Safavid Iran does not emphasize the suppression assumption too much is a good sign of a general preparedness in revisiting the problem. See: Andrew J Newman, Safavid Iran : Rebirth of a Persian Empire, Library of Middle East History ; V. 5 (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006). 101
Dina Le Gall, A Culture of Sufism : Nqshbndīs in the Ottomn World, 1450-1700, SUNY Series in Medieval Middle East History (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005).
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inauspicious atmosphere that the establishment of a Shiʿi state entailed, or by the actual or anticipated loss of patrons, or simply by the towering difficulty of living among Shiʿi neighbors who became increasingly arrogant as Safavid rule was becoming more entrenched. 102 In other words, when the Safavid policy of religious coercion started in the sixteenth century with an emphasis on the two central pillars of tvllā (love for the family of the Prophet) and tbrrā (dis-association from the enemies of the family of the Prophet, most important among them the three first Caliphs), many among the ʿālim-Sufis who had no problem with the first pillar refused, as standard-bearers of Sunni religiosity, to compromise on the second, which involved cursing revered companions of the Prophet whose legacy was central to that religiosity.103 Under the social pressure caused by the tabarrāʾī Qizilbash, they had no choice but to leave the heartlands of the Iranian plateau either for the fringes of the Safavid Empire or Ottoman and Mughal realms where they found the environment much more
hospitable. And, like the aqshbandī shaykhs, some of the most important Kubrāvī masters preferred to continue their activities in Uzbek territory or northern Mughal regions. With the constant drain of learned Sufis from the central Safavid realm, Sufism was increasingly dominated by Qalandars, wandering dervishes and low-profile populist shaykhs with little knowledge of Islamic sciences, to say nothing of the jugglers, magicians, and entertainers who posed as dervishes to project a holy and enigmatic aura. Amidst such circumstances the newly-emerging class of Shiʿi ʿulama was able to paint its conflict with the Sufis as a war between knowledge and superstition, discipline and laxity, and observance and antinomianism.
102
103
Ibid., 24–5.
afā, ārīkh-i Adbīyāt dr Īrān, vols. 5: 157–162.
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The other major Sufi order of pre- Safavid Iran, the iʿmatullāhiyya, was clearly in decline long before the advent of Safavid rule, and thus it is utterly confounding to see
historians reference, as if it were an established fact, Safavid suppression of the iʿmatullāhī order.104 During the fifteenth century, iʿmatullāhīs in Kerman lost their two maor leaders, one to India and the other to death. What remained of the order in Iran soon became an aristocratic familial entity mostly interested in preserving its material interests and forging profitable political alliances. As such, when the Safavids established their power, the
iʿmatullāhīs forged close relationships with the Court by arranging strategic marriages between the two families, and they held important official posts in the Safavid dynasty, especially in Yazd.105 The cozy relationship between the iʿmatullāhīs and Safavid monarchs began to sour only in the first decades of the seventeenth century, when a member of the
iʿmatullāhī family known as Mīrmīrān became involved in a r ebellion in Kerman against the Shah. Other Sufi orders, like the Kubraviyya, had a religious outlook that included distinctly
Shiʿi elements like belief in the sanctity of the Twelve imams and the occultation of the Twelfth Imam and his return as the messiah (the Mahdi).106 These were naturally more prone to adopting elements of the increasingly dominant religious outlook of the state-sponsored
104
For example, see Terry Graham’s sensational choice of title in Terry Graham, “The iʿmatu’llāhī rder Under Safavid Suppression and in Indian Exile,” in The Heritage of Sufism, ed. Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan, vol. 3 (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 178–200. In addition to the fact that his general conception of the so-called Safavid suppression of Sufism is entirely dependent upon Aromand’s work, the author presents not a single piece of evidence to substantiate his claim that the iʿmatullāhīs were suppressed by the Safavids. n the contrary, Graham’s narrative often provides us with evidence that such suppression could not have happened in the first place because, as Graham puts it, by 1450 what was remaining of the iʿmatulllāhī Sufi order had already declined “from a dynamic spiritual institution into a moribund dynastic family tradition.” Ibid., 178. 105
See: "iʿmat-Allāhiyya." Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online , 2012. Reference. Harvard University. 09 July 2012 106
Marian Molé, “Les Kubrawiya entre sunnisme et shiisme aux huitième et neuvième siècles de l’hégire”, Revue des Études Islamiques 29 (1961), 61-142.
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Shiʿi ʿulama at the expense of Sufi beliefs and practices that, from a creedal as well as a sociological point of view, set them apart from “orthodox” religious groups. Growing anti-Sufi sentiment among the public, exacerbated and perpetuated by the anti-Sufi campaign of the mid-seventeenth century, forced Sufis to downplay distinctly Sufi components of their identity, such as the use of a specifically Sufi technical vocabulary, participation in social
networks centered around the khānaqāh, and adherence to beliefs and forms of practice not in tune with the new orthodoxy.
f the Kubravī branches, the ūrbakhshiyya was by far the most prominent Sufi order in Iran from the sixteenth- through the mid-seventeenth century.107 Yet its rival branch, later called the Ẕahabiyya, played the most significant role in the Shiʿ i-Sufi synthesis and the
eventual emergence of ʿirfān as a distinct category in the latter half of the seventeenth century. This was due to the latter being more willing than any other Sufi order to adopt Safavid-approved Twelver religious belief and practice. The presence and activities of the charismatic and influential Ẕahabī master, Muʾaẕẕin Khurāsānī (d. 1082/1671), in mid seventeenth century Isfahan was a major factor in this adoption.108 Given this fact, studying the development of the Ẕahabī Sufi order provides us with a unique window into understanding how Sufism came to terms with the new religious environment of Safavid Iran
and how Sufis forged a new identity comprised of both Sufi and Twelver Shiʿi elements after they, like Persian society at large, were cut off from traditional Sunni-Sufi ways. In order to properly understand the Ẕahabī response during the seventeenth century, a brief overview of the origins and developments of the order during the preceding centuries is necessary.
107
That is, if we do not enter the ruling Safavī order and its Qizilbash supporters into our comparison.
108
Muʾaẕẕin’s life and career will be analyzed extensively in chapter three of this study.
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The story of the Ẕahabī Sufi order, which the next few chapters tell in great detail, is
intertwined with that of the ūrbakhshī order. In fact, as I plowed through the primary sources for an extended period of time with the goal of understanding the changes through which the Ẕahabīs went, I increasingly realized that another tale—a ūrbakhshī one—is told between the lines of Ẕahabī history. Some aspects of the ūrbakhshī story are lost forever, but others have been preserved in disguise as parts of Ẕahabī history. The assimilation of
ūrbakhshī heritage into Ẕahabī lore began i n the early eighteenth century as the former order teetered on the verge of extinction while the latter, thanks to the sharp political instincts of its leader, was heading toward one of the high points of its short history. This high point was reflected by considerable literary activity and the social prestige of its leaders in Shiraz and will be discussed further below. For the remainder of this chapter, however, we will return to sixteenth- and early seventeenth century Iran to discuss relevant aspects of important religious, political, and social developments of the era.
The story of the Ẕahabiyya and their lineage in Sufi tradition begins with a split that
occurred in the Kubravī order in the first half of the fifteenth century, when ʿAbdullāh Barzishābādī (d. ca. 856/1452), a prominent student of the Central Asian master Isāq Khuttalānī (d. 826/1423), parted ways with his master, who had apparently come to believe and support the messianic claims of another of his students, the charismatic Sayyid Muhammad Nurbakhsh.109 ollowers of the latter came to be known as ūrbakhshiyya. 109
A masterful analysis of the contesting accounts of this split is presented in: Devin DeWeese, “The Eclipse of the Kubraviyya in Central Asia,” Iranian Studies 21, no. 1/2 (January 1, 1988): 45 –83. See, especially pp. 55-62. His analysis is based, for the most part, on two alternative narratives, one in ūr Allāh ibn ʿAbd Allāh Shushtarī, jālis Al-mʾminīn, Chāp-i 4. (Tehran:
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Abdallāh Barzishābādī himself had a following, though his students were not known under a unified title. Rather, the primary sources indicate that different regional branches of his followers were known by different titles. For example, the author of jālis l-mʾminīn reports at the end of fifteenth century that the followers of Abdallāh in the region of Khurasan are called with the general ephitet ūfiyya or “Sufis.”110 Hāfiẓ Hussayn Karbalāʾī (d. 997/1589), the author of Rvāt l- Jinān (written in 975/1576) and one of the last representatives of the Lalaʾī
branch, a regional offshoot of the followers of Abdallāh Barzishābādī in Tabriz , refers to his spiritual lineage using various general designations like Ahmadiyya, ʿAlaviyya, ʿAlaʾ alDavliyya, Kubravīyya, and Junaydiyya. The most specific designation he uses is that of
ʿAbdullāhīyya.111 The author of Ta ẕkirat al- ẕākirīn, a ūrbakhsī Sufi known as Muaqqiq Ardabīlī (d. after 1055/?) reports that the followers of Abdallāh Barzishābādī could be found in Herat in his time, and that they are known as “
,” a word in the manuscript not
legible enough to read in its entirety, but clear enough to determine that it is definitely not
Ẕahabiyya.112 The lack of a fixed and well- known title for the Barzishābādī branch, in contrast to the rival ūrbakshiyya, might be due to a lack of charismatic unified leadership among the followers of ʿAbdullāh. This, in turn, might have contributed to an easier transition among those followers to the Safavid-sponsored Twelver religious outlook that was a significant part Kitābfurūshī -i Islāmiyya, 1377), vol. 2, 144 –149, and the other in usayn Karbalāʾī Tabrīzī, Rāt l- Jinān v Jnnāt l- Jnān, ed. Jaʿfar Sulān Qurrāʾī, Mamūʿa-yi Mutūn-i ārsī (Tehran: Bungāh-i Tarjuma va Nashr- i Kitāb, 1965), 243–250. 110
Shushtarī, jālis Al-mʾminīn, vol. 2, 156. Even as late as 1083/1672, there is evidence that could indicate a continuation of the usage of the designation fiyy for the order. In the section dedicated to dervish poets, asrābādī introduces a certain Mīr Muhammad and says that he was a disciple of Shaykh Muhammad ʿAlī Mashhadī, who was a “Sufi”. In contrast, none of the other mystically-minded poets mentioned in this section are called Sufis. See: Muammad āhir arābādī Ifahānī, ẕkir-yi Na rābādī :ẕkirt l-Shʿrā Bih Inimām-i Rsāʾil, nshʾāt v Ashʿār , ed. Musin āī arābādī, Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Asāīr, 1999), 302. 111
Karbalāʾī Tabrīzī, Rāt l- Jinān v Jnnāt l- Jnān, vol. 2: 373. Although he uses the term silsilat al- ẕahab to refer to the spiritual lineage of Barzishābādī (Ibid., vol. 2: 207.), it is obvious that the term is meant as a salutary attribute for thi s spiritual lineage rather than a proper designation for a particular silsila. 112
Mīrzā Muhammad Ardabīlī Bīdgulī, “Taẕkirat al -Ẕākirīn”, 1780 1194, 91, Ms. o. 345, Kitāb-khāna-yi Madrasa- yi amāzī.
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of the new identity forged in the seventeenth century by the order, which eventually consolidated under the title of Ẕahabiyya in Shiraz. Keep in mind —and this is among the original findings of this research—that there is no evidence whatsoever to indicate that the designation Ẕahabiyya was used to refer to any branch of existing Sufi orders in Iran until the final decades of the seventeenth century. Later Ẕahabī attempts to date this designation to sources from the sixteenth century or earlier are based either on hagiographical narratives with little historical value or on intentional manipulations of older manuscripts involving the ex post facto insertion of the designation. 113 Up until the early sixteenth century, the major strongholds of the followers of
Barzishābādī were located outside the Safavid realm in Greater Khurasan. It was in the time of Hāī Muhammad Kabūshanī (d. 1531/938), otherwise known with the honorary title Makhdūm i Aʿẓam, that one of his students, a certain Shaykh Ghulām-ʿAlī īshābūrī (d. ?), introduced a branch of this order in Iran proper (that is, in the Safavid realm). No biographical/hagiographical information on the latter seems to exist. In fact, sources indicate 113
Two maor studies of the history of the Ẕahabī order are conducted by two Persian scholars affiliated with the order. Though the works do have some scholarly value, they are for the most part a repetition of traditional sacred history. See Isānullāh ʿAlī Istakhrī, Ul-i vvf (Tehran: Kānūn-i Maʿrifat, 1960). Asadullāh Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy: vvf -i ʿilmī, Āsār -i Adbī (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Dānishgāh-i Tehran, 198 3). or a counter argument on some aspects of Ẕahabī hagiography see Saʿīd afīsī, Jstj dr Avāl Āthār -e rīd l-Dīn ʾAār Nīshābrī. (Tehran,: Kitābfurūshī va Chāpkhāna -i Iqbāl, 1320). Here afīsī easily debunks the attribution of hr l-ʿjāʾib – in which a rather ambiguous mention is made to an order called ẕhb and is picked up by Istakhrī and Khāvarī - to the famous Persian poet ʿAār īshābūrī (d. ca. 627/1230). Many examples for manipulation of earlier source can be presented. For one, see the recent edition of f-yi Abbāsi, printed in Iran under the auspice of the Ẕahabī order upon which aghfoory’s translation of the work into English is based (See: Muammad ʿAlī Mashhadī Sabzavārī, f- yi ʿAbbāsī : the Golden Chain of Sufism in Shī’ite Islm, trans. Mohammad Hassan aghfoory (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2008). The original manuscripts to which I had access do not include the epithet Ẕahabīyya ( Muhammad ʿAlī Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS)”, n.d., f. 15, Ms. No. 590, University of California, Los Angeles. Library. Dept. of Special Collections: Caro Minasian Collection of Persian and Arabic Manuscripts, http://minasian.library.ucla.edu/browse.html.). This is evidently interpolated later into the print version, both the early one printed on the margins of Sbʿ l-Masānī (aīb al-dīn Riā Tabrīzī Isfahānī , Sbʿ l-sānī (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Khāniqāh-i Amadī , 1981), 11.) and the newer edition. Another case of the interpolation of the designati on Ẕahabīyya can be found in Ibid., 5. Compare it to aīb al -dīn Riā Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “Sabʿ al -Masānī (Manuscript)”, n.d., f. 5a, MS. o. 2 901, Kitābkhāna, Mūzih, va Markaz-i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī, http://dl.ical.ir., in which the word Ẕahabīyya is missing. Another example is the curious appearance of the designation “Ẕahabīyya” in a number of manuscripts of Rvt l- Jinān. as Sultan alQarāʾī points out in his excellent introduction to the work, there are all later interpolation (as late as nineteenth century) to the original text by Ẕahabī copiers who, in the absence of any living Lalaʾī tradition to claim the book, have been all too h appy to adopt this important text of immense historical value into their own lore. See: Karbalāʾī Tabrīzī, Rāt l- Jinān v Jnnāt l Jnān, 35.
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that he was by no means the most important disciple of Makhdūm-i Aʿẓam or even a notable one, for the prominent students of the order remained in Central Asia. For example, in the
ta ẕkira literature of Central Asian Sufis and beyond, the name of Shaykh usayn Khārazmī (d. 958/1551), the central figure in the Kubravī order after Khabūshānī, looms large.114 In the face of the absence of information on īshābūrī and his most important disciple, Shaykh Tā al -Din Hussayn Tabādkānī (d. ?), whom the Ẕahabī’s consider the next leader of the order, contemporary Ẕahabī authors have been content to misidentified the latter with the Central
Asian usayn Khārazmī . This misidentification supplies desirable hagiographical information about one of the many enigmatic and otherwise unknown Ẕahabī Shaykhs who purportedly oversaw the Ẕahabiyya order over the course of the entire sixteenth century.115 While there is no doubt that the real Khārazmī was a Sunni, the one adopted into Ẕahabī sources has been
transformed into a passionate Shiʿi.116 Given the paucity of information, we do not know when exactly the ishabūrī branch of the Barzishābādī order officially converted to the Safavid version of Twelver Shiʿism. Hamid Algar has suggested that “the perpetuation in Khurāsān of
the line from ishabur, at a time when Shiʿism was being energetically propagated there by the Safavids, suggests that this branch of the Kubravī had already made the transition to Shiʿism.”117 While we cannot be certain about this, it is quite obvious that the connection between the Central Asian centers and the Iranian centers was soon cut off, likely due to 114
Shushtarī, jālis Al-mʾminīn, 162. DeWeese’s account of his life and activities incorporates many of the earliest accounts and is by far the best one we have on Khārazmi’s life. See DeWeese, “The Eclipse of the Kubraviyya in Central Asia,” 69– 75. 115
See: Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 261–63.Istakhrī, Ul-i vvf , 351–61. Obviously Gramlich is mis-led by these identifications and repeats the same mistake Richard Gramlich, Die Schiitischen Derwischorden Persiens, Abhandlungen Für Die Kunde Des Morgenlandes; 36 (Marburg: Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft, 1965), 16. 116
Khārazmī’s collection of poems contains a harsh repudiation of the so -called rāfiis or “reectors,” that is, those who reect the companions of the Prophet. Khwārazmī Kamāl al -dīn usayn, “Ādāb al -Murīdīn”, n.d., f. 79a, MS. o. 10043, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz-i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī. 117
Hamid Algar, “ḎAHABĪYA,” Encyclopædia Iranica, December 15, 1993, http://iranica.com/articles/dahabiya-sufi-order-ofshiite-allegiance.
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constant military conflict between the Safavids and the Uzbeks in the Khurasan region.
ollowing the divisive Safavid policy of propagating a tabarrāʾī version of Twelver Shiʿism, Uzbeks reacted with a similarly ferocious campaign against the so-called rāfia (the Rejecters [of the companions of the Prophet, the first three caliphs]) which is, to some extent, reflected in Sufi literature of the era as well.118 The era of doctrinal ambiguity and synthesis between
Shiʿism and Sunnism was over. Meanwhile, at the turn of the century, the Safavid Empire was undergoing the dramatic structural and ideological changes that had such profound impact on the seventeenth century religious landscape. These changes were primarily implemented by the most powerful and
influential of Safavid monarchs, Shah ʿAbbās the Great (r. 996/1587-1039/1629).
Due to the efforts of Shah ʿAbbās I, Safavid rule evolved beyond agrarian -based military-fiscal polity into a territorial empire, one in which complex ideology, sophisticated culture, and religious zeal, rather than raw military power, provided cohesion.119 A major component of this transformation was entrance on the political scene of a corps of Caucasian slaves ( ghlām) which ʿAbbās I introduced for the purpose of supplanting the influence and taking over the rule of the Qizilbash.120 As a result, by the time Shah ʿAbbās I’s successor, Shāh
afī (r. 1039/1629-1052/1642), was inaugurated as the king, Caucasian slaves in the Safavid 118
or more on the religious milieu of Central Asia and the disputes between Shiʿa and Sunni parties see: Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , Chāp-i 1., Pizhūhishkada-i awza va Dānishgāh ; 37-39 (Qom: Pizhūhishkada-i awza va Dānishgāh, 2000), vols. 1: 49–67. Also see afā, ārīkh-i Adbīyāt dr Īrān, vols. 5: 163 –170. 119
Rudolph P. Matthee, Persia in Crisis : Safavid Decline and the Fall of Isfahan , International Library of Iranian Studies ; 17. (London: I. B. Tauris, 2012), 251-52. 120
For a fascinating and detailed account of this new elite class see Sussan Babaie, Slaves of the Shah : New Elites of Safavid Iran , Library of Middle East History ; V. 3. (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004).
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household were in full control of the political arena. 121 It is probably not an exaggeration to say that the Zohab treaty with the Ottomans in 1639, in which Safavids acknowledged in
perpetuity their rival’s claim to Mesopotamia, sealed this transformation.122 It symbolized the end of war as the natural condition of the state, which in turn spelled the end of its many practical and symbolic functions, including keeping tribal forces engaged, acquiring booty and
slaves, enhancing the shah’s heroic aura, and forcing him to patrol his realm. The demise of the Qizilbash was concomitant with the ascendance of alternative status
groups of a different disposition. Most important among these were the bureaucrats (“men of the pen” who were mostly ethnic Persians), the “new” clerical class (composed of Persians as well as Arab immigrants from Lebanon and Bahrain), and, eventually, the eunuchs who came to dominate court politics in the later seventeenth century.123 As this new clerical elite consolidated power and became a prominent class, they were able, with the help of the political center, to impose their desired version of orthodoxy upon the populace, objecting to the aspects of popular religiosity that they found most objectionable, especially those represented in the religious outlook of Qalandars, Qizilbash, and many wandering dervishes.
121
Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 148. For more on this transformation see Idem , “The Safavid Synthesis: rom Qizilbash Islam to Imamite Shiʿism,” Iranian Studies 27, no. 1/4 (January 1, 1994): 135 –161. Also see the same author’s dissertation: Kathryn Babayan, “The Waning of the Qizilbash : the Spiritual and the Temporal in Seventeenth Century Iran” (Princeton University, 1993), http://search.proquest.com/docview/304099961?accountid=11311. Babayan’s dissertation, which unfortunately remains unpublished, is the most brilliant scholarly narrative of this transformation. (Parts of this unpublished dissertation do appear in her Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs). 122
Matthee, Persia in Crisis, 252.
123
Ibid. Andrew Newman has questioned the factuality of the mi gration of a significant number of Arab ulama from Jabal ʿAmil to Iran, calling it a myth. See:Andrew J. ewman, “The Myth of the Clerical Migration to Safawid Iran: Arab Shiite pposition to ʿAlī al -Karakī and Safawid Shiism,” Die Welt Des Islams 33, no. 1, New Series (April 1, 1993): 66 –112. His arguments have not been persuasive for the majority of the historians of Safavid era. Counter-arguments have been offered in Mahdi Farhani Munfarid, Muhajarat-i ʿlm- yi Shiʿ Jbl-i ʿAmil bih Irn: dr ʿsr -i Safavi (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1998); Rula Jurdi Abisaab, Converting Persia : Religion and Power in the Safavid Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004); Devin J. Stewart, “otes on the Migration of ʿĀmilī Scholars to Safavid Iran,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 55, no. 2 (April 1, 1996): 81 –103.
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However, the ʿulama’s consolidation of power was not realized fully until the second half of the seventeenth century. To speak of a hierocracy in previous times is anachronistic,
for up until that time the ʿulama were largely divided among themselves, with clashing agendas and drastically differing views of what constituted orthodoxy. Yet one can definitely say that the process of institutionalization (or routinization of charisma, to borrow from Weber) started in the early decades of the seventeenth century. With a critical mass of the populace, especially in the heartlands, converted to Shiʿism, and with the official sponsorship of Safavid kings, the emerging class of Shiʿi ʿulama was in a favorable position to draw up the blueprint of a new social order. The one hundred years from 1620 to the abrupt end of the Safavid Empire in 1722 can be seen, from this perspective, as a century in which we witness the
evolution of the ʿulama from a heterogeneous, and in some cases syncretistic, group in which prominent figures like Shaykh Bahāʾī and Malisī Sr. depended more on their Sufi-inspired personal charisma than on institutional power, to a tightly-controlled, highly hierarchical and institutionalized social class. This transition resulted in a clerical hierocracy that depended on the discourse of orthodoxy imposed by the power of the state and promoted via its vast financial resources. The key to this evolution was religious education. Thanks to financial support from the Safavid court, numerous madrasas were built and endowed in major urban centers. This building process gained momentum especially after ʿAbbās I transferred the capitol to Isfahan. Hundreds of students flocked to these madrasas to study under prominent
Shiʿi ʿālims. Some of these teachers were imported from Lebanon and Bahrain – long Twelver strongholds – and others were local Persian scholars. This new, energetic, and idealistic
generation took charge of educating the masses and attacking various forms of “deviance.”
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Such attacks were not initially targeted against “Sufism” proper, since, in the early decades of the seventeenth century, the Safavid dynasty still lived under the shadow of its past strong Sufi affiliations. By the early seventeenth century, remnants of the Sufi past, like referring to the shah as the murshid-i kāmil and using the sjjād-i irshād (prayer mat of guidance) in coronation ceremonies had lost much of their original significance and meaning, but they were remained symbolically attached to Safavid discourses of legitimacy and authenticity to the extent that they could not be thrown out.124 Instead, other “deviations” related to Sufism provided easier targets for puritan defenders of God and were usually called by the technical term bidʿt , or “innovation.” ne such deviation was the popular practice of storytelling. At the time, storytelling (qi-khānī ) was among the most influential mediums for creating, guiding, and expressing religious, economic, and social aspiration and discontent. Stories were performed by professional storytellers ( q or qi-khānān) in public venues: coffee houses, bazaars, and elsewhere. Although a major source of entertainment, they were also frequently used as powerful political tools.
According to Babayan “The story of Abū Muslim, as told in its many versions across Iran and Anatolia, represents one such political narrative. It encapsulated an alternative
historical narrative of the Abbasid revolution that overthrow the “tyrannical” rule of the Umayyads (41/661-750/133), who had usurped the right of the family of the Prophet to rule over the Muslim community.”125 The tone of this drama as a genre is set by the death of the
124
It was only decades later, during the reign of Shah ʿAbbās II, that there seems to be a conscious effort on the part of the Safavid monarch to disentangle Safavid political discourse from the remnants of Sufi-infused symbols. One such example is the decision not to use the saāda, for the first time, in ʿAbbās II’s coronation. See Sholeh Alysia Quinn, “Coronation arrativ es in Safavid Chronicles,” in History and Historiography of post-Mongol Central Asia and the Middle East : Studies in Honor of John E. Woods, ed. Judith Pfeiffer and Ernest Tucker (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2006), 327 –28. 125
Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 122. My brief report on the subject of Ab ū Muslim-nāmas heavily relies upon
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prophet’s grandson Husayn (d. 61/680) at Karbala. “ The martyred family of Muhammad is portrayed as the victim of the aggression of the the qawm (Umayyads), who had usurped the right of leadership of the Muslim community of Ali and his children. Most of the epics written
in Turkish that would have been heard and retold by the Qizilbash begin with Husayn holding his half -brother Muhammad b. anafiyya (d. 700) in his arms.”126 Husayn then designates his half-brother as the heir of his authority (Imamate) and envisions a line of imams that differs from that of Twelver Shiʿism. “The genealogy can be reactivated in the future, however, with his expected return in another human form, notably including that of Abū Muslim.”127 “Like
Husayn and Abū Muslim, Shah Ismāʿī l and his Qizilbash devotees entered the battlefield and sacrificed their lives for the beloved family …[F]or his Safavi adepts, Junayd [Ismāʿīl’s grandfather] like Abū Muslim for the Khurramiyya, was the reincarnation of the divine one.” 128 “
In the legendary realm of the Jnydnāme, Junayd was a descendent of Ali and a contemporary
of Abū Muslim. At the end of this epic, the reader is sent to the Ab slimnāme to follow the story of Junayd.”129 Storytellers, tapping into widespread sentiments of what Marshal Hodgson aptly called
“ʿAlid loyalty,”130 recounted the chivalric struggles of Abū Muslim and his companions as supporters of the rights of the family of the Prophet against the perceived injustice of the Umayyads. As Safavid missionaries traveled to Anatolia from Iran to pr opagate their cause Babayan’s masterly narrative. 126
Ibid, 126.
127
Ibid, 126.
128
Ibid., 138-39 . Also see afā, ārīkh-i Adbīyāt dr Īrān, vol. 5: 148.
129
Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 140. Primary sources tell us that a group of Sufis, referred to as “Sūfiyān -i Ardabīl,” recited the stories of Ibn anafiyya and Abū Muslim . See Ibid., 121. 130
Hodgson, The Venture of Islam.
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among the Qizilbash, the story of Abū Muslim was used to draw parallels between the mythical figure and the actual struggles of their time. Thus Abū Muslim-nāmas were used as powerful tools to incite the Turkmen of Anatolia and Syria. But as the power of the Qizilbash in court began to wane and their form of religiosity was seen as a liability, the court was eager to endorse attacks on practices that were becoming increasingly problematic, that is, practices that inspired the masses and could be (and were) used to manipulate them. Attacks on the practice of storytelling were not only politically beneficial for the state, they were also in the interest of the newly emerging clerical class for whom identifying forms of heresy and deviation was the easiest means to define orthodoxy (albeit in a negative way). Popular practices like storytelling were brought to the public by diverse people, but mostly by wandering dervishes, some of whom had loose connections to organized Sufism. The storytellers entertained people with religious stories of the family of the Prophet, reciting passionate poems about their unique and heavenly qualities, their heroic acts in defense of the true faith, and the sufferings they endured in their noble cause. This practice was widely known as mddāhī . They also told secular epic stories from irdawsi’s Shāh-nām (“Book of the
Kings”) about ancient Persian kings. Although not all maddāhs were qia-khāns and vice versa, there was some overlap. 131 Not all storytellers were affiliated with organized Sufism. Instead, they were part and parcel of a widespread, popular, and highly visible social phenomenon sometimes referred to as dervishism in the older tradition of orientalism.132 However, most did have ties with organized Sufism, and their paraphernalia and technical vocabulary were suggestive of such an affiliation. Thus they were widely perceived by the 131
132
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 859.
George Swan, An Outline for the Study of Dervishism Covering Six Elementary Lectures on the Popular Development of Sufism or Mohammedan Mysticism (Cairo, 1925).
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common people, learned scholars of the madrasa, and foreign travelers as a Sufi-related group in spite of the fact that many of those who donned the dervish garb and travelled from town to town with fantastic stories did not have slightest adherence to any otherworldly and ascetic lifestyle.133 It would be wrong to draw a firm line between the so-called “dervishism,” i.e., the conglomerate of highly eclectic and syncretistic forms of belief and practice represented by individual free-ranging dervishes, and the tradition of organized, institut ional Sufism of the
khānaqāh. Members of organized Sufism were also involved in such practices. We are told, for example, that the renowned ūrbakhshī Sufi shaykh, Qāī Asad Quhpāyī (d. 1048/1638), who oversaw the ūrbakhshī khānaqāh in Kāshān in the early seventeenth century, was fond of Abū Muslim.134 Even some of the Sufi- minded ʿulama of the early seventeenth cent ury, luminaries of the Safavid era like Muhammad Taqī Malisī, who will be discussed in the next two chapters, are reported to have been comfortable with such practices. Sufis are also portrayed as fans of Shāh-nām khānī in different sources. In the middle of the seventeenth century, in Ḥdiqt l-Shīʿ, the pseudo-Ardabīlī tells of a certain group of Sufis called Jawriyya or Jriyy who are fond of listening to the stories of the Zoroastrians (gabrān) and that of Shāh-
nām.135 Even much later, when such practices were supposed to have been marginalized,
another elite ūrbakhshī Sufi, namely Mirzā Abu al -Qāsim Sukūt (d. 1238/1822) nearly lost his
133
ʿAbd al-usayn Zarrīnkūb, Dnbāl- yi Jstj dr vvf -i Īrān, Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Amīr Kabīr, 1362), 228–29. James Morrier’s account in his The Adventures of Haji Baba Isfahani, although it dates to the early eighteenth century, is a good example of how a suspicious outsider might have seen wandering dervishes. 134
See Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, “Sih Risāla dar Bāb -i Abū Muslim va Abū Muslim āma -hā,” in īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān, vol. 2 (Iran: Kitābkhānah- yi arat-i Āyat Allāh al -ʿUẓmā Marʿashī aafī, 1995), 255. 135
pseudo-Ardabīlī, Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ, ed. ādiq asanzāda and ʿAlī Akbar Zamānīnizhād, Chāp -i 1. (Qom: Anāriyān, 1998), vol. 2: 777.
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life when the mob attacked his house, accusing him of reading Shāh-nām with his disciples.136 As these examples demonstrate, the so-called “popular” or “folk” aspect of Sufism was often
linked and lived together with “elite” or “high” Sufism in the context of organized Sufi orders centered in khānaqāh. It was perhaps this intermingling of “popular” with “elite” elements of Sufism that made it possible for puritan mullas, after the concern with storytelling subsided, to initiate the next phase of their religious crusades: a fierce anti-Sufi campaign.
While there are instances of some ʿulama opining against the practice of storytelling, especially the story of Abū Muslim during the sixteenth century, the wave of coordinated attacks came only later. Early examples include the great Arab mujtahid, Shaykh ʿAlī al-Karakī
(d. 940/1533), who came to Iran upon Shah Iamāʿīl’s invitation. He issued a ftvā, a religious opinion, in which he encouraged the followers of the imam to curse Abū Muslim and other enemies of the family of the Prophet. 137 A short time later, a student of his named Muhammad
b. Isāq al-amavī (d. after 938/1531) wrote a treatise called Anīs l-mʾminīn against Abu Muslim-nāmas. Babayan’s view is that these early attacks constitute the first of two “waves” of anti-Abū Muslim propaganda in which representatives of “Twelver orthodoxy” tried to suppress what they considered to be heretical renditions of the sacred history of the infallible Imams.138 Her reconstruction of this so-called “first wave” is based entirely upon amavī’s
work. Many details of Hamavī’s assertions, like the destruction of the tomb of Abū Muslim by
136
Muammad Maʿūm Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, ed. Muammad Jaʿfar Mahūb (Tehran: Kitābkhāna -yi Bārānī, 1960), vol. 3: 249. He was, according to the missionary Rev. Henry Martin, “one of the most renown Soofies in all Persia” and “a large proportion of the people of S hiraz, it is computed, [were] either the secret or avowed disciples of Mirza Abulcasim.” John Sargent, A Memoir of the Rev. Henry Martyn, B. D. : Lte ello of St. John’s College, Cmbridge, nd the Chplin to the Honourable East India Company (Boston: Perkins & Marvin, 1831), 300. 137
The fatvā is mentioned in a number of early sources, including the Anīs itself. It is reproduced in Ja’fariyan’s valuable report of the content of his work along with a lengthy brilliant discussion of the practice of storytelling during the Safavids. See Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 2: 862 –869. 138
Babayan, “The Waning of the Qizilbash,” 204.
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Shah Tahmāsb (r. 1524 -1576) in Khurasan,139 are not mentioned in any of the chronologies dedicated to the life of the first two kings of the Safavid house, as Babayan herself acknowledges.140 Given amavī’s strong bias against the folk of Abū Muslim, it is very unlikely
that the early attacks constituted a coordinated and wide spread attempt, “a wave,” so to speak against such a popular practice. Even if we accept his claim about the destruction of Abū Muslim’s tomb in the vicinity of ishabur, the fact that, according to amavī himself , the tomb was soon re-built by Abū Muslim’s fans indicates that during the sixteenth century public opinion was still overwhelmingly in favor of this mythic figure and as such a strong and coordinated attack against his myth is very unlikely to have occurred.141 The fact is that the
Shiʿi ʿulama still lacked effective organization and had yet to establish a discourse of orthodoxy that would function as a base for attacking heterodoxy gives us further reason to doubt the existence of anything beyond scattered and isolated attempts to attack the practice.
It is only toward the end of the reign of Shah ʿAbbās I, when the initial foundations of the clerical hierarchy were being laid, that we witness the emergence of what can be called a
concerted campaign against Abū Muslim and the storytellers who recited his epic, one that ignited a major debate in seventeenth-century Iran. These polemical writings, which took the
form of refutations (“rdd”), were authored by a group of religious scholars from Isfahan, Mashhad and Qom.142 Among the earliest rudūd was that of ʿUmdat al-mqāl written by the son
139
140
141
142
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 864. Babayan, “The Waning of the Qizilbash,” 204. amavī , Anīs l-’minīn, 182.
Rasūl Jaʿfariyān has extensively dealt with various aspects of this cultural phenomenon, its underlying reasons, and its connection to Sufism, messianic and apocalyptic movements, and the ghul āt or “exaggerationists” trends within Shi’a society at the time. Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyyh dr ʿArh- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , Chāp-i 1., Pizhūhishkadah-i awzah va Dānishgāh ; 37-39 (Qom: Pizhūhishkadah-i awzah va Dānishgāh, 2000), vols. 2: 851– 79. as well as Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, Qih-khānān dr ārīkhi Islām v Īrān : rrī Br Jryān -i Qih-khānī, Ibʿād v vr -i Ān dr ārīkh-i Īrān v Islām, Chāp-i 1. (Iran: Dalīl, 1999).
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of al-Karakī, asan (d. after 966/1559). There is also a small treatise against the practice of Abū Muslim-nāma khānī (reading the story of Abū Muslim) titled Ṣīft l-rishād written by the
vehement enemy of Sufis in Mashhad, Muhammad Zamān (d. 1041/1631).143 He was also said to be the teacher of Muʾaẕẕin Khurāsānī before the latter’s conversion to Sufism under the guidance of Shaykh Hātam, his beloved master.144 In his introduction to the work, Zamān tells how he learned about a certain sayyid (descendent of the Prophet) in Isfahan, known as Mīr Lawī , who suffered a strong reaction from the people there because of his controversial public comments against Abū Muslim. It
was in his support, Zamān recounts, and with the hope of guiding the people of Isfahan that he took upon himself to write the treatise.145 Many other sympathetic ʿulama were to follow his lead. In twenty years, more than 17 works were written in Lawī’s support, of which Ṣift l-
rishād is one of the earliest. 146 The attack on Sufism followed immediately after this anti-Abū Muslim campaign. The puritan activists were eventually successful, in both cases, in marginalizing what they perceived to be a threat to the “true” reading of Islam. The attacks on
storytellers and later on Sufis and a host of other “heretical” movements only shows the empty half of the glass, so to speak. For such popular and wide-spread practices to be
marginalized, the emerging class of Shiʿi ʿulama needed to provide the populace, and the learned, with an attractive alternative. In order to do so, they started a tireless substantial 143
This treatise, along with two other important examples belongi ng to the same genre, have been published by Ja’fariyan. See Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, “Sih Risāla dar Bāb -i Abū Muslim va Abū Muslim āma -hā.” Mīr Muhammad Zamān Mashhadī (d. 1041/1631), otherwise known as the Mujtahid , was, according to Amal al-āmil, not only a skilled urist, but also a recognized philosopher (akīm) and theologian (mutakallim) in the early seventeenth century in Mashhad. See Muammad ibn al -asan urr alʿĀmilī, Amal Al-āmil., 1965, vol. 2: 273. 144
Valī Qulī ibn Dāvūd Qulī Shāmlū, Qi Al-khāqānī , ed. asan Sādāt āirī (Tehran: Sāzmān-i Chāp va Intishārāt -i Vizārat -i arhang va Irshād -i Islāmī, 1371), vols. 2: 182–84. 145
Muhammad Zamān Raavī, “aīfat Al -rīshād,” in īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān, ed. Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, vol. 2 (Qom: Kitābkhānah-yi arat -i Āyat Allāh al-ʿUẓmā Marʿashī aafī, 1994), 268–69. 146
Muammad Musin Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l-Shīʿ (Beirut: Dār al -Avāʾ , 1983), vol. 4: 152.
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effort in which they focused on traditions of the imams, known as hadith literature, as an alternative source of authority that could provide them with a new religious framework that met the worldly and otherworldly needs of everyday people. Therefore, during the seventeenth century, there was immense activity by Twelver religious scholars, financially and
politically supported by the Safavid monarchs, to gather, “discover,” comment upon, and distribute the heritage of the imams from all the existing sources scattered in every corner of
the Shiʿi world.147 It is fair to say that one of the most striking features of Shiʿi intellectual life in Safavid Iran from the early decades of the seventeenth century till the fall of Isfahan in 1722 is the stunning pace at which the study of hadith became the most dominant business of the
ʿulama. The period represents one of the most intense episodes in the history of Shiʿism in terms of both the “gathering” and “discovering” of the sayings or hadiths of the imams. In the frantic race to contribute to the formation of a new religious framework for the newly-
converted people of Iran, the most pressing task was to find “reliable” sayings of the imams to replace the old Sunni ones as foundations of legitimacy and authority. The radical increase in scholarly activity when it comes to canonical collections of Twelver hadith is perhaps nowhere more obvious than in the number of commentaries on the most important part of the canon, Usl l-Kfī. Out of twenty commentaries that I was able to
identify using Āghā Buzurg’s bibliographical compendium, sixteen were written between 1600 and 1737 (see the table).148 Perhaps the most interesting fact about these commentaries is that
147
For example, convoys were sent to libraries around the Muslim world, even as far as Yemen, to find unique manuscripts of the early hadith works compiled by Shiʿa scholars. See Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 751. In addition, many hitherto obscure collections of hadith, almost forgotten by history, along with some others that had previously been unknown, were either “discovered” or “recovered,” and then their content was “authorized” in miraculous encounters with the imams during the seventeenth century and early eighteenth century, with increasing implications for religious thought and life. 148
The list of commentaries was compiled from the following pages in: Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l-Shīʿ, vols. 13: 95 – 100; ibid., vols. 14: 26 – 28.
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the portfolio of commentators reflects an amazing spectrum of diverse intellectual leanings.
They include the founder of the Akhbārī school, Mullā Amīn Astarābādī (d. 1036) and other Akhbārī scholars who were vehemently against philosophy and Sufism, like Mullā Khalīl Qazvīnī (d. 1089/1678), Uūlī urists like ʿAlī al -ʿāmilī (d . 1103/1691) and Muhammad āli Māzandarānī (d. 1081/1670), as well as Sufi -minded philosophers like Mullā adrā , pure philosophers like Mīr Dāmād, and theologian-philosophers like Mīrzā Rafīʿā. This diversity illustrates the centrality of Shiʿi hadith literature in the consolidation of orthodoxy and the competition and rivalry in authorization and authenticity that it involved. The fact that no Sufi shaykh can be found amongst the commentators is a significant indicator that in this
competition, Sufis lagged behind the ʿulama.
1500-1550
0
1551-1600
1
1601-1640
3
1641-1690
9
1691-1737
4
1738-1783
1
The exponential increase in hadith-related scholarly activities also meant that the number of traditions circulating in scholarly circles grew s ignificantly. Therefore, the next
generation of hadith scholars like Muhammad Bāqir Malisī, the prominent son of Muhammad Taqī, and Shaykh urr al-ʿAmilī (d. 1104/1693), a prominent member of the Arab immigrant religious scholars from Lebanon, were urged in the last decade of the seventeenth century to take on the daunting task of compiling massive encyclopedic works like Biār l- Anvār and
66
Vsāʾil l-Shīʿ. The modern standard edition of the former is published in 110 volumes whereas the latter, which deals only with matters of Shariʿa is no less than 30 volumes. Simultaneous with this upsurge in general scholarly interest in the study of hadith came the establishment and rapid spread of the Akhbārī (Scripturalist) legal school of thought that eclipsed the traditional Sunni-inspired rational Ulī school in the latter half of the seventeenth century and for most of the eighteenth century. Several attempts have been made to explain the popularity of the Akhbārī school at this point in the history of Twelver Shiʿism. Robert Gleave has summarized such efforts succinctly, pointing out briefly why each
explanation ultimately fails to account for the school’s success and popularity. In general, Gleave says, such explanations fail to understand and appreciate “the multifarious intellectual
interests and diverse academic careers of its various adherents.”149 This failure, I believe, partly has to do with the lack of attention to the larger context in which Akhbārism flourished—a
larger context in which there was an urgent and immediate need for wide ranging, “authentic” hadith upon which to base the new Twelver religious framework of thought. The Akhbārī School, with its considerably relaxed and liberal appro ach to authenticating hadith
statements, maximized the number of much-needed traditions speaking to different aspects of everyday life. Thus, it served this urgent need much better than the traditional Uūlī methodology, in which the elaborate disciplines of ʿilm al-rijāl and ʿilm dirāy l-hadith were used to evaluate the reliability of the narrators involved in the isnād of each hadith (that is, the line of transmission through which the hadith has reached the scholar from the imam).150
149
R. Gleave, Scripturalist Islam : the History nd Doctrines of the Akhbārī Shīʿī School, Islamic Philosophy, Theology, and Science; V. 72 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 173 –74. 150
In fact, as Arjomand has observed, the re-emergence of an authentically Shiʿite Uūlī school of urisprudence at the en d of the eighteenth century seems to be predicated on the Akbhārī interregnum. In his own words, “[T]he fruits of Akhbārī traditionalism were fully appropriated by orthodox Shiʿism… in the closing decades of the eighteenth century, the collections of traditions such as ay’s Wāfī, al-urr al-ʿĀmilī’s Wsāʾil, and Malisī’s own Biār served as invaluable and indispensable new
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Furthermore, the Akbhārī movement’s categorical reection of Sunni sources and Sunni methodology in the study of hadith and Islamic law, especially as reflected in the writings of
its “founder” Muhammad Amīn Astarābādī (d. 1037/1627),151 was conveniently in line with Safavid propaganda, which made every effort to draw a sharp distinction between the Sunni
Turks (ttomans) and the followers of the family of the Prophet (Shiʿi Savafid denizens). By contrast, the Uūlī school of thought was dependent on a platform mainly laid by Sunni scholars of law.152 Akhbarism as a form of legal orthodoxy, then, should be analyzed and understood in the larger context of the enormous popularity of and emphasis on exclusively Twelver traditions. It is not surprising, then, that scholars like Muhammad Taqī Malisī and his son
Muhammad Bāqir Mailsī (d. 1110/1699), whose primary agenda was the collection and dissemination of the Shiʿi hadith literature, are understood to have been more aligned with the Akhbārī movement in spite of their assertions that they chose a “middle road” between sources upon which the value-rational ingenuity of the Ulī jurists in creation of new legal norms could be exercised. In fact, it does not seem to be an exaggeration to say that the accumulation of traditions in this period was a precondition for the revival of jurisprudence, which aimed both at the harmonization of the traditions as normative stereotypes and deduction of further positive (ḍʿī ) norms.” See Aromand, The shadow of God and the Hidden Imam, 153. 151
Devin J. Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy : Twelver Shiite Responses to the Sunni Legal System (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1998), 207 –08. Gleave, Scripturalist Islam, 157. 152
In another essay he argues against the dominant scholarly perspectives that pigeonhole the Akhbārī movement as anti philosophy or anti-Sufism, saying that “there is no single Akhbārī position on the role of philosophy and mystical exp erience in the discovery of religious knowledge.” Robert Gleave, “Scripturalist Sufism and Scripturalist Anti -Sufism: Theology and Mysticism Amongst the Shiʿi Akhbariyya,” in Sufism and Theology, ed. Ayman Shihadeh (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 158–176. Although I am in essential agreement with Gleave on this latter point, when it comes to mainstream discursive philosophy, otherwise known as peripatetic (mshshāʾī ) philosophy, there seems to be an overwhelming consensus among the Akhbārī scholars to condemn it as a foreign and un -Islamic discipline of knowledge by referencing to its Greek roots and some purportedly heretical beliefs that, they said, maor philosophers held. Akbārī scholars like Mullā adrā’s student ay Kāshānī , who were well- versed in Islamic philosophy, usually differentiate between what they call “official philosophy” ( ikmt -i rasmiyya), which they do not hesitate to express their aversion to, and “divine philosophy” ( ikmt -i ilāhī ), which is, according to them, is derived from prophetic sources of revelation and the traditions of the imams. Besides this, Gleave’s astute observations on the nature of the Akhbārī movement ought to be welcomed and praised as a much -needed corrective to the misleading picture of Akhbārism that plagues primary sources of urisprudence, mostly hostile to Akhbārism, and, from there, some scholarly and non-scholarly expositions in Persian, Arabic and English in which proponents of this school are generally understood to be rigid literalists and fanatic bigots. This picture has prevailed as a result of negative Uūlī portrayal of Akhbārī scholars in biographical and bibliographical resources. Since the Akbārī school was effectively eradicated by the early nineteenth century, what is remembered of Akhbārism comes mostly from later hostile Uūlī ulama .
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Akhbārism and Uūlism. Both of their lives were occupied with an enthusiastic effort to recover the forgotten legacy of the imams, which had been dispersed in hundreds of canonical and non-canonical sources, thereby reorienting the scholarly priorities of their colleagues by bringing the study of hadith from the periphery to the center of attention.153 Together, and with the help of the many students they trained, they not only brought the study of hadith from the margins of madrasa to the center of the curriculum but also took important steps toward broadening the potential audience of hadith by translating major
canonical works into Persian. According to Malisī Sr., prior generations of ʿulama had paid little attention to the study of hadith, preferring to rely upon rationalist (istidlālī ) methods in jurisprudence in issuing their opinions ( ftāvā). He speaks of a time when hadith books were
difficult to find in Isfahan and credits his teacher, Shaykh Bahāʾī, and Mulla Amīn Astarābādī, the author of al-vāʾid l-Madaniyya, for reversing the trend. In his own words: About 30 years ago,154 the great and learned Mawlānā Muhammad Amīn Astarābādī began to occupy himself with the examination and study of the khābr (traditions) of the sinless Imams. He studied the censure of opinion and evaluation [found in the akhbār] and became acquainte d with the method of the companions of the holy sinless imams. He wrote the al-vāʾid l-Madaniyya and sent it to this country [that is, Iran]. Most of the people of aaf and the ʿAtabāt (lit. the Sacred Threshholds) approved of his method and returned to the akhbār. The truth is that most of what Mawlānā Muhammad Amīn said is true…And now, it is close to forty years that I have toiled so that in many libraries there are several copies of all the books [of hadith], not only in Isfahan but also in the surrounding towns and other counties. The water that was gone from the river is back and, praise be to God, the majority of the learned of this time spend their time with the hadith literature and this [mood] increases everyday … and, praise be to God that the sovereign King and the exalted mīr s (princes) also spend much of their time reading and discussing the hadith literature. 155 153
154
155
Jaʿfariyan makes a similar remark. See Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 3: 1043. This refers to the last years of Astarabadi’s life.
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 3: 1058 –1060. Here, Jaʾfariyan is quoting from the manuscript of Malisī’s Lvāmīʾ Ṣāhbqrānī , written from 1065 to 1066/1655- 66, dedicated to Shah ʿAbbās II.
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Given this situation, it is not surprising to find Sufi shaykhs and Sufi-minded religious
scholars inclined to the Akhbārī position, as it allowed a more flexible and relaxed approach in integrating much-needed traditions from hadith collections into their discourse as indicators of its authenticity. In fact, most of the major figures discussed in the following chapters either explicitly express their preference f or the Akhbārī to the hadith literature or implicitly
demonstrate such Akhbārī leanings in their discussions of certain hadiths.156
Having surveyed the most important political, religious, and intellectual developments relevant to the upcoming discussion of the late Safavid debate over Sufism and ʿirfān, we will now proceed to the specifics of what led to the near-total marginalization of organized Sufism and its associated discourse in the latter half of the seventeenth century as well as the
emergence of ʿirfān as an alternative.
156
Unlike the abovementioned Sufi-minded figures, philosophers, especially those in the mainstream who adhered to an essentially peripatetic philosophical framework, were naturally more in line with the rationalist Uūlī discourse and as such, many of them tend also to be urists of Uūlī leaning . Figures like Mīr Dāmād and his student Sayyid Amad al -ʿAlavī are good examples.
Chapter Two: The Making of the anti-Sufi Front
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This chapter analyzes the formation of the anti-Sufi front in the second half of the eleventh/seventeenth century. I will examine the surge in refutations of Sufism, taking into consideration the religious outlook of the most active of their authors, the specific groups targeted in such works, and the kind of charges leveled against the Sufis. My emphasis will be on the aspects of anti-Sufi rhetoric that I believe were most instrumental in the eventual eclipse of the categories of Sufi and Sufism, which in turn necessitated the invention of the
category of ʿirfān. While this chapter deals with the way opponents of Sufism stigmatized and marginalized institutional Sufism by emphasizing its Sunni roots and the antinomian behavior of some Sufis and dervishes, the next chapter will be devoted to an analysis of how highranking participants in organized Sufism responded to those accusations. As such, this and the subsequent chapter should be seen as two parts of a single unit.
Radd, or “refutation,” is among the oldest and most popular genres of Islamic literature. As Islam rapidly expanded, early Muslims consolidated their power over the Middle East and
beyond, and in the process they came into contact with “religious others”—representatives of a host of different religious beliefs and practices. Intellectual confrontations with these people sparked the writing of polemical works, which began in earnest during the second Islamic
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century. The earliest targets of such writings were other religions, like Christianity and Judaism, rather than internal doctrinal disputes.157 As these works increased in number, they were categorized under a distinct literary genre, that of rdd or refutations.158 As the threat of foreign religions subsided by the end of the third century when Muslim converts from Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism reached a critical mass, the focus s hifted
toward internal disputes and various “deviant” types of belief and practice among Muslims themselves.159 A close examination of the quantity and quality of the works written in this
genre, the specific groups targeted, and the type of “deviant” beliefs and practices focused upon in each era is indispensable to the historian of religions who seeks to construct an accurate image of the type and severity of perceived and actual threat(s) to the authority of
157
Fortunately, some recent and substantial studies of Muslims writings on other religions/sects have substantially increased our understanding of this important subject. A survey by Guy Monnot represents one of the most sustained and valuable efforts at systematically retrieving the Muslim literary production on non-biblical religious other(s) up to 1882. His invaluable chronological classification of over one hundred and sixty literary references is complemented by Patrice Brodeur who, incorporating Adang and Anawati’s data, added to the survey wr itings on biblical religions. See Georges C. Anawati, Polémique, apologie et dialogue Islamo-chrétiens: positions classiques médiévales et positions contemporaines, 1969; Camilla Adang, Muslim Writers on Judaism and the Hebrew Bible : from Ibn Rabban to Ibn Hazm, Islamic Philosophy, Theology, and Science, 0169-8729 ; V. 22 (Leiden ;: E.J. Brill, 1996); Patrice Claude Brodeur, “rom an Islamic Heresiography to an Islamic History of Religions : Modern Arab Muslim Literature on Religious thers’ with Special Reference to Three Egyptian Authors” (Harvard University, Divinity School, 1999). 158
The second/ninth and third/tenth centuries were marked by fierce religious competition, which led to the many refutations written during the early Abbasid Caliphate and targeting both non-Muslim religions and various Islamic tendencies. In contrast, in the third Islamic century (ninth century C.E.), the growth in polemical refutations led to the development of what Monnot called general heresiography.’ He explained this generic consolidation by noting the shift from the juxtaposition of polemical writings ( kutub al-radd) to the progressively more systematized treatises ( al-maqalat ). 159
Therefore, the number of refutations against other religions drops drastically in the fourth/eleventh Islamic century, in no small part due to the decline of Mu’tazili prominence and the victory of Islam over the Manichaeans, whose headquarters moved from Baghdad to Samarqand at the beginning of the fourth Islamic century. The following table, which is taken from Brodure’s dissertation, best speaks to this point. See: Brodeur, “rom an Islamic Heresiography to an Islamic Histo ry of Religions,” 35.
General heresiography
II (cent.) 0
III 5
IV 6
V 6
VI-IX 8
Particular refutations Descriptive works
11 7
31 7
3 3
5 7
7 3
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the political, intellectual and social guardians of the interpretation of the faith that prevailed at the time.
No concrete evidence suggests substantial activity in writing such refutations against Sufis during the sixteenth century.160 This can be seen in the light of the continued and strong presence of Sufi institutions from the Late Middle Period in Iran as an indicator of the continued dominance of Sufi ethos and networks within Safavid Persianate society. Furthermore, it can be read as indicative of the lack of, or weakness of, a political/religious power structure whose continued dominance was tied to maintaining a certain version of
religious “orthodoxy” that considered Sufism a threat. This, however, does not preclude the existence of the political will, as we saw in the case of Shah ʿAbbās, to suppress certain groups of politically active Sufis (such as the disenchanted Qizilbash tribes as well as the heretical’ uqavī movement) who posed a threat to the recently established political order.161 It was only after Shah ʿAbbās’ reforms and the transformations of the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth century, which led to the demise of the old religious and political structures of
160
We are told that the Lebanese jurist of the early Safavid times, al- Karakī, wrote a treatise called Maāʿin l-Mujrimiyya that included a refutation of Sufism. The work has not survived and as scholars have noted, it is doubtful that it was anything beyond a refutation of the story of Abū Muslim. We are also told that, in the middle of the sixteenth centu ry, al-Karakī’s son wrote a treatise called ʿUmd l -qāl that contained anti-Sunni and anti-Sufi rhetoric. This work has not survived either. See Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿr - yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , Chāp-i 1., Pizhūhishkada-i awza va Dānishgāh ; 37-39 (Qom: Pizhūhishkada-i awza va Dānishgāh, 1379), vol. 2, 520 -21. 161
The initial persecution of this movement under Shah Ismāʿīl and Shah ahmāsb gradually led those involved to disguise themselves as dervishes. Thus the most important uqavī figure at the turn of the century was known as Dervish Khusraw ( d. 1002/1593 ). Khusraw initially developed a cozy relationship with Shah ʿAbbās but was eventually executed on charges of heresy. uqavīs were increasingly considered a political threat , and thus brutally persecuted, at which time they began to oin the Qizilbash and translate their political ambitions into action by participating in the latter’s rebellions. See Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 101. This was most clearly epitomized in the revolt of the disenchanted Qizilbash uqavī leader, Dervish Riā (d. 1631) in Qazvin, which was brutally suppressed, putting an end to a series of uqavī and Qizilbash revolts. Ibid., 377–78.
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power and the rise of new ones based upon clerical authority, that the cultural and political landscape of Persia was ripe for an organized and sustained attack against Sufism. Although this chapter focuses exclusively on seventeenth century attacks on Sufism, it is important to keep in mind that these were not the first, or the last, attacks against Sufis. Nor were such polemical and sometimes physical attacks on Sufis launched exclusively by the clergy, as was the case in the Safavid era. As Von Ess and Bowering have emphasized, a considerable number of polemical works and acts of actual persecution against Sufis were carried out by Sufis themselves. 162 That is to say, many polemics directed against a given group of Sufis were instances of intra-Sufi debates over controversial doctrines and practices. Most
notably, we know that although Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328) was a Qādirī Sufi, he attacked Ibn ʿArabī virulently and had an influence on Ibn al-Jawziyya (d. 751/1350), the author of lbīs Iblīs, arguably the most widely read classical work written against Sufism. What happened during the Savafid era, however, happened in a unique religious and political context. The old
equilibrium between the ʿulama and Sufis was broken in the aftermath of state-sponsored propaganda that introduced a militant and exclusive Twelver Shiʿism, primarily defined and understood in anti-Sunni terms, as the official religion of Safavid Persia. A new equilibrium was sought by the center of political power, and much was at stake. It was in this context, and under the watch and approval (whether implicit or explicit) of the Safavid kings, that some mid-ranking religious scholars found the opportunity to launch a sustained and public literary attack on Sufism that began roughly in the fourth decade of the seventeenth century and was sustained, more or less, throughout the century.163 The
162
F. de Jong and Bernard Radtke, eds., Islamic Mysticism Contested : Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics, Islamic History and Civilization. Studies and Texts; V. 29 (Leiden: Brill, 1999). 163
My use of the term “campaign” to describe this wave of anti -Sufi polemics is justified, I believe, by its sustained and co-
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outpouring of polemical works against Sufism began immediately following the anti-Abū
Muslim campaign discussed in the previous chapter. While the attacks against Abū Muslim were mostly limited to the two decades between 1036/1626 and 1059/1649, 164 the anti-Sufi campaign, which started to pick up around the same time (See Figure 1 below),165 was sustained for a much longer period, an indication of the strength and significance of the target and its deep roots in the society. 166 As Figure 1 indicates, the most intense period of attacks, in terms of the sheer number of anti-Sufi treatises produced, was between the years 1061/1651 and 1077/1666 under the
reign of ʿAbbās II (r. 1642-1666).167 To emphasize only the quantitative increase, however,
ordinated nature. 164
This is based upon Babayan’s estimations. See Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 421. For her rationale See ibid., 158 note 73. Newman, however, maintains that the year 1043/1633 was the starting point of two decades of polemical works against Abū Muslim. See Andrew J Newman, Safavid Iran : Rebirth of a Persian Empire, Library of Middle East History ; V. 5 (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006), 131. To reconcile the two dates, we need to keep in mind that while Babayan is concerned with the start of debate on Abū Muslim, which apparent was initiated by Mīr Lawī’s oral attacks from the pulpit, ewman’s dating reflects the start of the essay-writing campaign, which, based upon the information Zayn al- ʿābidin ʿAlavī’s son has provided us at the end of his father’s polemical work Ihār l-Ḥqq, started a little bit later. See Muammad Musin Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l-Shīʿ (Beirut: Dār al -Avāʾ, 1983), vols. 4: 150 –51. 165
Between the years 1631 and 1650 the following works were written specifically against Sufism: ī l-Mashrabayn, Lawī Rdd-i Ṣfiyān , Muhammad āhir Qumī ; Salva al-Shīʿ, Lawī ; Ul l l-ī , Mīr Lawī ; Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ, Anonymous (probably Qumī and Lawī to gether, see footnote 179 below). 166
Interestingly, simultaneous to this campaign in Safavid Iran, a similar phenomenon occurred in Ottoman domains, where a co-ordinated campaign against Sufis was launched by the middle-class religious scholar and preacher Kadizade Mehmet b. Mustafa (d. 1635), the figurehead of what is known as the Kadizadeli movement. The success of the Safavid anti-Sufi campaign and the eventual demise of the Ottoman one speak to the dramatically different religious and cultural contexts in which the two operated. Why the two anti-Sufi movements happened roughly at the same time has not been explored. A comparative historical analysis of the two movements might answer this important question and shed light on some hitherto-neglected shared cultural dynamics between the Safavids and the Ottomans. For more on the Kadizadeli movement see Madeline C. Zilfi, “The Kadizadelis: Discordant Revivalism in Seventeenth -Century Istanbul,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 45, no. 4 (October 1, 1986): 251–269. Also see Semiramis Cavusoglu, “The Kâdîzâdeli movement : an attempt of seriat-minded reform in the Ottoman Empire” (Princeton University, 1990). 167
For this chart, I have consulted with al-Ẕrīʿ, taking advantage of its extensive references cross-references. I was able, then, to tally a comprehensive list of such works and thereafter to locate and get access to most of them, which mostly remain in manuscript from. Based on Āghā Buzurg’s suggestions and my own explorations of the primary sources, I was able to date, more or less successfully, each work and sort them out in historical order. This time consuming task was made easier by a software among the valuable productions of the Noor company, titled rājim v Kitāb- shināsī, in which some the contents of some of the most famous bibliographical compendiums, including al-Ẕrīʿ are searchable. In addition to following al-Ẕrīʿ’s many many cross references, and in order to make sure my search is comprehensive enough to cover the overwhelming majority of anti-Sufi literature, I went through all search results brought up by searching the keyword “radd,” in addition to search results of other general key words lie “taavvuf,” “mutaavvif,” and “ūfī.” I have also consulted other bibliographical sources like Amal al-āmil and its tmīm and Takmila. The results were tallied and processed to be used as the basis for the
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would be somewhat misleading given the fact that there were two particularly active polemicists writing in this period, namely Muhammad āhir Qumī (d. after 1098/1686) and
Mīr Lawī (d. after 1082).168 Each of these men penned several refutations.169 Toward the end of the seventeeth century there is a decline in the number of works written against Sufism, but the number of religious scholars contributing to the campaign increases.170 This is a good
indicator of the success of early attempts spearheaded by Qumī and Mīr Lawī to spread their anti-Sufi agenda and attract more people to their side, finally bringing high-ranking ʿulama,
like urr ʿĀmilī and Mullā Khalīl Qazvīnī , to join their campaign and strike the final blow to Sufism.
charts. Needless to say, it is impossible to date some of the works with precision. For such cases, I have used approximations based on what can be derived from external as well as internal evidence. In the case of the works that belong to the sixteenth century, that is, l-āʿin l-Mujrimiyya by al-Karakī and Umda al-qāl by his son, neither of them have survived us and it is not clear that they were primarily written against Sufis. Even if they were, the fact that they were written in Arabic significantly reduced the range of their audiance to a few learned students of religious sciences. I am also not entirely comfortable with categorizing adrā’s Ksr l- Anām l- Jāhiliyy as a anti-Sufi treatise because of the entirely different perspective from which his criticism of Sufism was launched. I will talk about the peculiarity of this work in some detail in the comng pages. 168
Although usually referred to as Mīr Lawī, his full name is Muhammad b. Muhammad Lawī al -usaynī al -Mūsavī al Sabzavārī. Mutafā Sharīʿat has recently produced evidence that “Muhammad” was not the given name of the author, saying that his full name wass simply Mīr Lawī Mūsavī Sabzavārī. See: Mīr Lawī Sabzavārī , Kifāyt l-htdī fī ʿrīft l-Mahdi ʿAlyhi l-Slām, ed. Mutafā Sharīʿat Mūsavī (Qom: dar al-Tafsir, 2005), 21 –26. 169
Between the years 1651 and 1666 the following polemical works were written against Sufism: lāẕ l-Akhyar, nis l- Abrār, Ḥikmt l-ʿĀrifīn, tāvā Ẕmm l-Ṣfiyy , Brhān Qāiʿ and ft l- Akhyār , all by Muhammad āhir Qumī ; Aʿlām l-ibbīn , Idrāʾ l-ʿĀqilīn, nbīh l-Qāfilīn and Tasliyat al-Shrīʿ, all by Mīr Lawī ; Sqb l-Shihāb and Shihāb l-ʾminīn, anonymous (a student of M ī r Dāmād. see footnote 207); Hidāyt l-ʿAvām or Nīt l-kirām, byʿIām al -dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn (for information on him, see the following discussion); Rdd-i br Ṣfiyān, Amad b. Muhammad Tūnī; and al-Sihām l-āriq, ʿAlī alʿĀmilī. 170
During the period between 1667 and 1699 the following were penned in refutaion of Sufism: Dirāyt l-Nisār, ʿĀlam al -Hudā b. ay Kāshānī ; ibbān-i Khdā and al-vāʾid l-Dīniyy, Muhammad āhir Qumī ; l-ākimāt , Mulla Khalīl Qazvīnī; al-Isnā ʿ Āshriyy, urr al-ʿĀmilī; Arbʿīn, Mullā Ẕu-l-faqār, and Jāmiʿ Ardbīlī, hmmd ʿAlī Shafīʿ Mashhadī. From 1700 to 1733 we have Rdd Br Ṣfiyān , Raī Qazvīnī ; Rdd-i Ṣfiyy , Jadīd al-Islām; al-Rdd ʿlā Ahl l -Shhd, Muhammad Saʿīd Lāhīī . All the abovementioned lists exclude works written in India against Sufis.
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16
15
14
12
10
8
7
6
5
4
2
1
1
3
3
1700-33
1734-66
1
0 1500-1550 1551-1600 1601-30
1631-50
1651-66
1667-99
Number of anti-Sufi treatises
Figure 1 Anti Sufi Polemics during the Safavid Period
The public and political costs of directly atta cking Sufism were very high when Lawī began his oral attacks from the pulpit. And even later, at the peak of anti-Sufi polemic in the second half of ʿAbbās II’s reign, Sufism in both popular and elite forms still had a vibrant and strong social presence.171 Fierce debate on the issue broke out not only in the capital, but also in other major urban centers like Mashhad. 172 ʿAbbās II, who was sympathetic with the Sufis, was disturbed by the fact that some had dared to publicly denounce the heritage upon which Safavid dynasty based its legitimacy, and he threatened to physically punish and cut off the stipend of the people involved in the campaign. 173 In an additional gesture of explicit support
171
There were at least twenty- one active khāniqāhs in Isfahan alone during Shāh Sulaymān’s (r. 1079/1668 -1106/169 4) reign. See Muli al-dīn Mahdavī, Zindgī -nām- yi ʿAllām jlisī (Tehran: Dabīrkhāna- yi Hamāyish-i Buzurgdāsht -i ʿAllāma Malisī, Bakhsh- i Intishārāt, 1999), 201–202. 172
See aīb al -dīn Riā’s report of this debate in Mashhad in aīb al -dīn Riā Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Khāniqāh-i Amadī, 1981), 360–366. Relevant pages from a manuscript I accessed have also been consulted for the sake of accuracy. In this case, see aīb al -dīn Riā Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “Sabʿ al -Masānī (Manuscript)”, n.d., f. 328a– 334a, MS. No. 2901, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz-i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī, http://dl.ical.ir. 173
Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 365.
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for Sufis, he ordered a Sufi center to be built on the banks of the Zā yanda River in 1070/1660. 174 The center was called kiy- yi y after the Sufi-minded religious scholar Mullā Musin ay
Kāshānī (d. 1091/1680), whose work will be discussed below. The shah’s threat appears to have calmed the situation somewhat in Isfahan, at least for a brief period, but in cities like Mashhad the acrimonious nature of the debates intensified. 175 Mounting pressure from the Sufi camp
forced Lawī , after his initial attacks on Sufism, to keep a low profile for a time, and for two decades he published his anti-Sufi rhetoric pseudonymously. The mood of the time is vividly reflected in one of his own treatises, Salvat al-Shīʿ, which was written under the pen name
Muhammad b. Muahhar al-Miqdādī. Here, speaking of an anonymous “Sayyid” (i.e . himself), he says:
…and they [Sufi sympathizers] forged so many lies against him…every single day they would make one of their followers famous as a malʿūn (cursed) by him [that is to say, they would spread the rumor that Lawī cursed so and so and he would become immediately popular among the Sufi -minded people], so
much so that, from the end of the year 1050 to this time which is the middle of 1060, and in order to avoid any trouble and keep their mouth shut, he [Lawī ] would not accompany the epithet laʿīn (cursed) upon mentioning Satan’s name,
would not curse Yazīd, Muʿāviya, and Banu -Umayya, and be careful so that nobody would hear the term laʿnat (curse) from him…176
174
Muammad āhir Vaīd al -Zamān Qazvīnī, ʿAbbās-nām : yā shr-i indgānī -i sāl-i Shāh ʿAbbās Sānī , 1052-1073, ed. Ibrahim Dihgan (Arāk: Dāvūdī, 1950), 256. 175
aīb relates that one of the maor debates in public, in the presence of the Shaykh al -Islam of Mashhad, happened between his master Muʾaẕẕin Khurāsānī and an anonymous opponent, an Arab mulla whom he describes as mādda - yi fisād (the root of [this] corruption). This could perhaps be a reference to the famous anti -Sufi Shaykh urr al -ʿĀmilī, whom we know arrived in Mashhad around 1073. 176
Mir Lawī, “Salvat al -Shīʿa,” in īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān, ed. Shaykh Amad ʿAbidī, vol. 2 (Iran: Kitābkhāna - yi arat-i Āyat Allāh
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As mentioned in the previous chapter, Lawī’s attacks from the pulput were largly responsible for starting the heated debate on Abū Muslim both in public spaces and in learned circles. The reaction to Lawī’s attacks was strong, and he came under increasing attack, even receiving threats to his life.177 According to his own statements, Lawī was trained in Isfahan under the most
prominent scholars of the period, Shaykh Bahāʾī and Mīr Dāmād. 178 As a mid-ranking mullā with little taste for scholarship but an unbeatable talent forpreaching and an unmatched puritan spirit, he represents the “populist” front of the attacks on Sufism. He mobilized his audience in extraordinary ways. His popularity greatly impressed the Fr ench traveller John Chardin (d. 1713) who, as an outsider observer, had this to say about an incident he witnessed firsthand: They found the year 1645, at the corner of an old tomb, a marble with the inscription of Shaykh Abū al-utū. Everyone imagined that it was the epitaph of the famous Shaykh Abū al-utū Rāzī , the author of the famous commentary on the Qur’an in Persian, who was a saint in their eyes, and soon they built a mosque there and a tomb within, which adorned the people at will by its offerings and other devotions. But all this devotion was soon passed, for at the same time a famous Mulla, whom I met, called Mīr Lawī , one of the popular preachers in the country, who sometimes preached in full space, began to prove by passages of history and tradition that the real Shaykh Abū al-utū had been buried in the small town of Rayshahr, and that this Abū al-utū was a Turkish Sunni and a great enemy of the Imams. So he persuaded the people, one day after hearing him preach, two thousand people went towards the mosque and al-ʿUẓmā Marʿashī aafī, 1374), 356. Interestingly enough, and in perfect harmony with this account, aīb writes of an “ignorant” Mulla nicknamed (that is, by his enemies, the Sufis) “Mullā Laʿnatī” [the Curse(d) Mullā] for his unrelenting insistence on cursing prominent Sufis in public. See: Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 362. 177
Mir Lawī, “Salvat al -Shīʿa,” vols. 2: 354–56. īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān (Iran: Kitābkhāna- yi arat-i Āyat Allāh al -ʿUẓmā Marʿashī aafī, 1373), 2: 269, 274–77. Also: Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al-Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript)”, 1083/1672, f. 9b, o. 1154, Central Library & Documentation Center, University of Tehran. 178
In several places of his Kifāyt l-htdī he refers to both as his teachers. See: Īra Afshār and Muammad Taqī Dānishpazhūh, Fihrist-i Kitāb-hā- yi Kitābkhān- yi rkī -i Dānishgāh-i Tehran (Tehran: Dānishgāh -i Tehran: Intishārāt-i Kitābkhāna-yi Markazī va Markaz -i Asnād, 1965), vols. 5: 665, 678, 691,693, 699.
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the tomb and plundered and razed the building. I later saw that place reduced in latrines from which you can judge how far away is the Muslim clergy from prudence and authority of the Roman church, which is careful not to permit examination by the subjects it exposes people to its worship and veneration.179
Chardin’s final observation is of utmost importance. Comparing the structure of the Muslim clergy to that of the Roman Church, he notes how independent religious action and expression in Safavid Iran were much less controlled and centralized than in Roman Catholic realms. Only in the absence of a well-established and dominant hierocracy can the populace make or break saintly figures in a matter of a day, something that, according to Chardin, could never happen in the Catholic Church. It is highly possible that many high-ranking clerics of the time, or those who aspired to be included among the elite group of religious scholars sponsored by the state, agreed with Lawī about the heretical nature of Sufism. What they did not share with him was the puritan passion needed to prompt them to take on the political and social risks of expressing their opinion. The topic was too hot to touch, in other words. By the time anti-Sufi rhetoric accelerated, the power of Qizilbash in the Safavid court had waned, and the Sufi ethos of the dynasty that positioned the shah at the center as murshid-
i kāmil had become, for the most part, a hollow legacy rather than a meaningful and practiced reality. But the Safavid discourse of legitimacy was still bound up in a past full of Sufi symbols that could not be quickly forgotten. In other words, the memory of the founding fathers of the Safavid dynasty, most significantly afī al-Dīn Ardabīlī, Shaykh Junayd, Shaykh aydar , and
Shah Ismāʿīl, still held a firm grip on the public imagination and thus any attack on Sufism could easily be seen or portrayed as an attack on the roots of Safavid dynasty. The high-
179
John Chardin, Sfrnām-i Shārdn : Matn-i Kāmil, trans. Iqbāl Yaghmāʾī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Tūs, 1993), vols. 4: 1519–20. For the French original, See: Sir John Chardin, Voyages du chevlier Chrdin en Perse, et tres liex de l’Orient: enrichis d’n grnd nombre de belles figures en taille-douce, représentant les antiquités et les choses remarquables du pays (Le Normant, Imprimeur-Libraire, 1811), vols. 8 : 20-21.
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ranking ʿulama, even those intellectually opposed to Sufism, were either connected to the court or considered the kind of activities in which Lawī was involved to be too politically risky.They felt it more prudent to spend their time consolidating their power in the court and, in the case of aspiring students, achieving the necessary academic credentials to be promoted to the ranks of the elite.
The latter seems to have been the case for Muhammad ahir Qumī , the other active member of the anti-Sufi literary campaign. Q uite contrary to Mīr Lawī’s populist personality ,
which earned him the title of “ Lī mʿrk-gir among his detractors,”180 Qumī was a scholar by nature, and his involvement in the fight against Sufis in the early period of his career appears not to have been entirely his own decision. The story, recorded by none other than
Mīr Lawī , unfolds as follows: Qumī, a young, mid-ranking religious scholar at the time (that is, sometime before 1060/1650), wrote a short treatise against Sufis entitled Rdd-i Ṣ fiyan. According to Lawī,
Qumī had no intention of distributing the treatise widely, thereby triggering a high-profile controversy. Rather, it was a certain “disciple” (murīd) of allā called ʿAlī Beg” who “stole” Qumī’s Radd and circulated it among the ʿulama in Isfahan in order to provoke them against the former. Eventually the work came to the attention of Malisī Sr., Qumī’s Sufi-minded teacher in hadith, who took it upon himself to write marginalia in the treatise refuting its assertions.181 Malisī Sr.’s notes and the original text were later combined by Mīr Lawī in a 180
Muhammad Muʾmin usaynī abīb Tunikābunī, “Baīrat al -Muʾminīn”, n.d., 180, MS o. 3928, Central Library & Documentation Center, University of Tehran. Maʿrika -gīr was a common epithet used in the period to refer to public performers and entertainers like storytellers, e ulogizers of the imams, ugglers, athletes, and so on. Lawī was given this title in an apparent allusion to the populist and passionate nature of his lectures from the pulpit. n Maʿrika -gīrī See Ẕabīhullāh afā, “Ishāra- yi Kūtāh Bi Dāstān Guzārī va Dāstān Guzārān tā Dawrān -i Safavī,” Irān-Shināsī , no. 3 (1989): 466. 181
Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 187a. The unlikelihood of a unior religious scholar like Qumī engaging in a direct dispute with his teacher is part of Āghā Buzurg’s argument against ascribing the marginalia to Malisī Sr. See Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l-Shīʿ, vol. 4: 497.
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treatise entitled i l-shrbyn v nqi l-Ma ẕhabayn, which contained Lawī’s
marginalia in support of Qumī’s position .182 This work, unfortunately, has not survived in it s
182
This was not the only instance in which Lawī and Qumī worked in close “collaboration,” nor was it the mos t important one. One of the most cited and influential anti-Sufi books, Ḥdiqt l-Shīʿ, I believe, is a product of corroboration between the two. Ḥdīq has been traditionally ascribed by the anti-Sufi ʿulama to the famous early Safavid jurist and reli gious scholar Amad b. Muhammad al-Ardabīlī (d. 993/1585), otherwise known as Muqaddas Ardabīlī. Many Sufi -minded ʿulam a have cast doubts on the matter, rejecting most of the traditions as later fabrications, and developing several hypotheses as to the identity of the real author. The heated debate between the two camps reflects the strategic position of the text in this debate. The influences of Ḥdīq as a fundational source for later anti-Sufi polemics cannot be overemphasize. This is especially true of a number of hadiths that appear, for the first time, in this work and – authenticated by their ascription to Ardabīlī, are circulated widely afterwards. As Babayan has pointed out, Ḥdīq is also unique in the fact that it is the only substantial refutation of Sufism to start with an attack on Abū Muslim. “This particular format,” she observes, “allows us to place the Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ in time, for it is the work that connects both waves of disputations, falling squarely in the middle of the two and contains both a section on Abū Muslim’s heresy and a section on Sufis.” Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 421–22. Several independent scholarly studies have also been accomplished in recent decades to investigate the problem of authorship regarding this book, both by Iranian as well as Western scholars. (For example, see Andrew J. ewman, “Sufism and Anti Sufism in Safavid Iran: The Authorship of the adīqat al -Shīʿa’ Revisited,” Iran 37 (January 1, 1999): 95-108 and Mahdi Tadayyun, “adīqat al -Shīʿa Yā Kāshif al -aqq,” ’ārif 6 (1364): 105 –121.) While some scholars, like Babayan, are unanimous in rejecting the authenticity of Ḥdīqt’s alleged authorship. While some, like Babayan, speculate that Mīr Lawī is the author, others, like Dānishpazhūh and ewman, reect such speculation and identify Qumī as the real author. Although both hypotheses are plausible, they ignore the possibility of an alternative explanation in which multiple authors may have contributed to the formation of the text. There is in fact some evidence in the text that supports such a hypothesis. A major portion of the same text has long been known with the title of Kāshif l-Ḥqq (written in 1058/1648 in Deccan of India). Written by Mullā Muʿizz Ardastānī, it comes without the anti-Sufi polemical section . The anti-Sufi section of the book, which is most probably added later to K ā shif , closely resembles in structure and in content, as Newman demonstrates, to one of the earliest treatises written by Qumī against Sufis, mentioned ear lier in this chapter, namely Rdd-i Ṣfiyān. In many places, even the wordings of the two are exactly the same. Having analyzed these similarities in a long and informative article, Newman finally comes to the conclusion that “Al -Qummi…became apprised of the Indian essay Kāshif l-Ḥqq, redrafted its discussion of Abū Muslim to add the ferocious anti -Sufi polemic detailed above, and circulated it as al -Ardabīlīs the adīqa emboldened by his support from some established clerics and only further disma yed with the subsequent machinations of the court (as witnessed by ʿAbbās IIs flirtation with Sufism and the Shahs invitations to Taqī al -Malisī and ay), now somewhat abridged, and created some variations on, the earlier work in order to create a se parate’ essay, preserving enough of the originals verve to add fuel to the fire.” ewman, “Sufism and Anti -Sufism in Safavid Iran,” 102–103. While this is a plausible scenario, it does not account for some unique features of the content of the work, nor it does seem to be compatible with basic facts regarding Qumī’s treatise. irst, the earliest extant manuscript of Radd belongs to the year 1061 whereas we have no manuscript of Ḥdīq earlier than 1095/1684. In terms of references, while the earliest ment ion to the latter appears in Mīr Lawī’s Salvat alShīʿ (written 1060), the former, as a basis of Ul l l-ī has been in circulation among the learned circles much earlier. ewman’s observation that Qumī, in one instance, “corrected” the Ḥdīq (thus implying a later date for the former) is simply based on a dropped line in the print edition ( See Andrew J. ewman, “Sufism and Anti -Sufism in Safavid Iran: The Authorship of the adīqat al -Shīʿa’ Revisited,” Iran 37 (January 1, 1999): note 40). Furthermore, the fact that, while in earlier manuscripts of Ḥdīqt there is no reference to Malisī Jr.’s Biār l- Anvār, this latter book is mentioned a number of times in the latter manuscript, thus indicating a rather long process of redactions and editions that finally produced the text as we know it at the end of the seventeenth century. The author of Birt l-mʾminīn provides us with some further clue regarding other collaborators of the project Ḥdīq. He says that a certain Mulla Qāsim ʿAlī Mashhadī (d. ?), a pīshnmā or prayerleader was in fact the one who fabricated the famous anti-Sufi traditions that, for the first time, appear in Ḥdīq and, from there, spread to other similar polemical works and into anti -Sufi polemics like urr al-ʿĀmilī’s al-Isnā ʿAshriyy. (See: Muhammad Muʾmin usaynī abīb Tunikābunī, “Baīrat Al -muʾminīn”, n.d., 225, MS o. 3928, Central Library & Documentation Center, University of Tehran). Secondly, ewman’s hypothesis cannot account for the very interesting fact when we compare Ḥdiq to Radd: in a number of places in the latter work where only ʿulamā are mentioned as the guardians of truth in contrast to Sufis, Ḥdiq inects “sayyids” besides “ʿulamā” in a sentence that are otherwise is exactly th e same in both works (Compare, for example, Muhammad āhir Qumī, “Radd -i ūfiyān” , n.d., f. 28b, MS No. 5468, Central Library & Documentation Center, University of Tehran to pseudo- Ardabīlī, Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ, ed. ādiq asanzāda and ʿAlī Akbar Zamānīnizhād, Chāp -i 1. (Qom: Anāriyān, 1998), vol. 2: 784). This inection of the title sayyid is best explained if we assume that a “sayyid” was in charge of later redactions of Radd. In this case, Lawī is the best candidate. The prologue of Kifāyt, of which we talked about earlier, testifies to how strongly he felt about being associated with “sayyids” in contrast to “ʿulamā,” which, in the case of that prologue, are represented by Malisī Jr (See Mīr Lawī , Kifāyt, folios 1-4, Tehran University Central Library MS, 1154). Moreover, a contemporary source, i.e. Bīrt l-mʾminīn, explicitly accuses Lawī of writing the Ḥdiq in spite of the fact that
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original form. It appears, however, that it was a voluminous treatise, and Lawī cites its length as the reason for his decision to write a summary of it entitled Usl l l-ī and designed to be more accessible to a broader audience. 183 A unique manuscript of the latter
work has survived, on which Jaʿfariyan has commented extensively .184 Having been dragged into a debate with his teacher, Qumī seems to have embraced the role of debator, writing numerous treatises “exposing” the heretical views of the likes of allā and Ibn ʿArabī and effectively functioning as the intellectual backbone of the anti-Sufi campaign. As a talented scholar and shrewd politician, he gradually rose to fame in later stages of his career, holding both the office of shaykh al-islam and the postion of Friday prayer leader in Qom. An important point about the debate over Sufism during this period is that nearly all of the polemical works were written in Persian rather than Arabic in an attempt to reach a broader audiance. In other words, the campaign did not primarily target elite learned circles, but instead aimed to change public perceptions of Sufism, thereby creating a hostile
the entire work is written, as the author indicates in his introduction, in response to “the Judge of Qum” and his anti -Sufi polemics. See usaynī abīb Tunikābunī, “Baīrat al -Muʾminīn,” 180. The author is a Sufi, and the personal physician of the Safavid king. Based on external evidence, we can be pretty sure that Ḥdiq was written between 1058/1648 -1060/1650; a date that matches perfectly with this liminal position of the book between the two campaigns. By 1060, the anti- Abū Muslim campaign has effectively come to an end and the anti-Sufi one is in full swing. My dating is based on the assumption that the author of Ḥdiq has in fact taken Kāshif l-Ḥqq and inserted the anti-Sufi material to it. Based on this assumption, there are two pieces of evidence that back my dating. We know that Kāshif was finished in 1058 in India according to the date at the end of that book (See Tadayyun, “adīqat al -Shīʿa Yā Kāshif al -aqq,” 97). The first mention to Ḥdiq as an anti -Sufi treatise is found in Mīr Lawī’s Salvat al-Shīʿ, which was written at 1060/1650 ( See Mir Lawī, “Salvat al -Shīʿa,” 351). Babayan argues that the Hadiqat al- Shī’a was written between 1055/1645 and 1086/1675, citing a reference in the text to a tomb in Isfahan which was extant in 1055/1645 but destroyed as Chardin left, i.e. after 1086-87/1677 (Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 233 note 556). Elsewhere, however, she gives 1058/1648-49 as the completion date (Ibid., 249). 183
Mīr Lawī, “Arbaʿīn”, n.d., 397, MS o. 0356, University of California, Los Angeles. Library. Dept. of Special Collections: Caro Minasian Collection of Persian and Arabic Manuscripts, http://minasian.library.ucla.edu/browse.html. 184
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 2: 572–75. Given the fact only a single copy of its summary is available, Lawī’s assertion in Kifāyt that, at the time of the writing, i.e. 1081 -1083, there were “thousands of copies” of this work circulating in Isfahan must be hyperbole. Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 186b.
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environment for dervishes and Sufis who occupied and controlled public spaces like bazaars, central squares, and coffeehouses.
The eventual success of this campaign, in spite of initial opposition by prominent and popular ʿulama like Malisī and ay as well as by the shah (Abbās II, for example, was known as the shāh-i drvīsh-dst , or dervish-loving king),185 is a testament to the importance of such public debates and their effectiveness in shaping public opinion and, ultimately, the opinion of the elite. In turn, this demonstrates the limited extent to which the political center could exert its influence in public debates and spaces. As ewman convincingly argues, the “center” may have tried to shape public and private debates and discourse, but it was only one among many social forces, and by no means always the strongest of them. 186 Babayan has also emphasized the uncontrollable nature of public spaces like coffeehouses.187 The “center,” as much as it influenced public opinion due to its ability to finance its own approved narrative, was itself influenced by changes in public and learned opinion that occurred beyond its control. The degree to which public opinion can be shaped and the imagination of the masses inspired by forces independent of state propaganda is evidenced in a description of the coffeehouses of Isfahan during the reign of ʿAbbās II, written by Chardin. The renchman depicts coffeehouses as a place where one heard news and talk of politics freely, without any fear of the authorities. Denizens of a coffeehouse would play chess and backgammon, but there w ould also be a mulla, a dervish, or a poet to whom they could listen if they so desired. According to Chardin:
185
Muammad āhir Vaīd al -Zamān Qazvīnī, ārīkh-i Jhānārā- yi ʿAbbāsī , ed. Saʿīd Mīr Muammad ādiq and Isān Ishrāqī (Tehran: Pizhūhishgāh-i ʿUlūm-i Insānī va Muālaʿāt -i arhangī, 1383), 744. 186
Newman, Safavid Iran.
187
Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 443. For more on public spaces in the Safavid era see Ibid., 439-446.
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The speeches of mollahs or dervishes are moral lessons similar to our sermons, but it is not scandalous to ignore them. No one is obliged to leave his game or his conversation in order to listen. A mulla stands up in the middle or at one end of the coffeehouse and begins to speak out loud, or a dervish
suddenly enters and admonishes the gathering about the world’s vanity, of the worthlessness of wealth and honor. It happens often that two or three people talk at the same time, one at one end, and one storyteller at the other. Ultimately, there is here ample in the world [of coffeehouses.] The serious man, of course, would not dare engage in pleasantries, each does his harangue and listens to whom he pleases.188
The ones preaching, storytelling, and entertaining in such public spaces were not
shaykhs of Sufi khānaqāhs or learned mutahids. Rather, they were wandering dervishes and low ranking mullas, poets, and maddāhs. Accordingly, it should be emphasized again that Mīr Lawī and other mullas involved in the anti -Abū Muslim campaign or the anti-Sufi campaign were not among the high-ranking ʿulama of their age. 189
Sufis were the easier targets for passionate puritan preachers like Mīr Lawī and writers like Qumī. A more difficult task was standing against some of the most prominent, 188
Chardin, Sfrnām-i Shārdn, vols. 2: 844 –45. English translation, with minor modifications, by Babayan in Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 441. For the original French see: John Chardin, Voyages Du Chevalier Chardin En Perse, Et Atres Liex De l’Orient, Enrichis D’n Grnd Nombre De Belles igres En ille -douce, Représentant Les Antiquités Et Les Choses Remarquables Du Pays., Nouv. éd., soigneusement conférée sur les 3 éditions originales, augm. d’une notice de la Perse , depuis les temps les plus reculés usqu’à ce our, de notes, etc.,. (Paris: Le ormant, 1811), vols. 4: 68–69, http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUL.FIG:004370194. Comparing the Persian rendition to the original French, it is amazing to see the degree of libe rty that Mr. Iqbāl has taken in his translation. 189
Mammad āhir Qumī became a prominent cleric decades after the initial stage of anti -Sufi campaign, centered around his response to Malisī Jr. At the time of writing his refutation of Sufism, he was on ly a junior scholar. He was also a student of Malisī Sr. That is why Āghā Buzurg doubts that he could dare to engage in a dispute with the latter. Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, alẔrīʿ ilā ānīf l-Shīʿ, vol. 10: 207.
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charismatic religious scholars of the time like Malisī Sr. and Shaykh Bahāʾī, whose syncretistic religious outlook the puritans equally abhorred. The task was easier in the case of Shaykh
Bahāʾī, a polymath and arguably the most celebrated religious scholar in Iranian popular imagination across generations. Bahāʾī’ is said to have enoyed the company of dervishes and Sufis, his works like al- Arbīn and Kshkl contain strong mystical overtones, and there are even tales that he travelled around in a Sufi cloak,190 but because he was deceased, his detractors were safe from being taken to task for the way they portrayed him to the public. By
contrast, going up against the likes of Malisī Sr and Musin ay, both well-known for their mystical leanings, portended a long, nasty internal fight among the ʿulama over who was to define orthodoxy.
The enmity and hatred of Lawī toward Malisī Sr and his son are most colorfully manifested in the f ormer’s Kifāyt l-htdī fi maʿrifat al-Mahdi, otherwise known as Arbʿīn,
which is essentially a diatribe against the two Malisīs.191 In this work, Lawī criticizes both Malisī Sr. and the “ignorant” people of Isfahan (Malisī Sr.’s followers), accusing them of harboring ghuluvv or “exaggeration” in their beliefs and practices ust as Sufis did. According
to Lawī, at Malisī’s burial ceremony, the people “considered the Hidden Imam his servant and attributed miracles to his mule, and they broke his coffin and hung the pieces on their
arms as a talisman, looking for blessing and luck in this way.” 192
190
or more about Shaykh Bahāʾī’s mystical tendencies see: Leonard Lewisohn, “Sufism and the School of Ifahān: Taawwuf and Irfān in Late Safavid Iran: Abd al -Razzāq Lahīī and ay -i Kāshānī on the Relation of Taawwuf, ikmat and Irfān,” in The Heritage of Sufism, ed. Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan, vol. 3 (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 88 –89. 191
Kathryn Babayan gives a fairly detailed report of the way Lawī portrays Malisī Sr . See: Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 461–73. 192
Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 9a.
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Lawī goes on to claim that the masses prostrated themselves in front of Malisī Sr.’s tomb and circumambulated it.193 He also relates that the latter had a personal singer (mrib)
named Shāh Mirak Zarkash in his service.194 Lawī was also furious over Malisī’s unapologetic support and service to the Safavid house and the cozy relationship he had developed with the king, and he accused him of worldly ambitions and of being embroiled in politics for the purpose of material gain.
Such allegations might be easily dismissed as fabrications of a hostile mind, and there is ample evidence that Lawī’s rhetoric against his opponents was full of hyperbole and exaggeration, if not outright lies. Yet other sources confirm, at least partially, what he said
about Malisī. Take for example Chardin’s report of people’s visitation to Malisī’s tomb:
[U]nder the dome bearing the name of the dervishe’s shrine [lies] the grave of a certain Mohammad Taqi, who was the priest of this mosque or Pich
amaz, during ʿAbbās II. He was recognized as a saint during his life, which he led in extreme detachment from the world; the populace venerated him as a prophet. He predicted his death, they say, three months before it occurred, while being in perfect health. 195
193
Ibid., f. 185a. Also in Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 465.
194
Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 185b. Also in Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 164. 195
From: Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 465.
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Malisī Sr. is among the religious scholars who argued for the permissibility of listening to beautiful tunes, provided that they remind the listener of God.196 His position favoring the consumption of hashish is often mentioned by later scholars who debated the issue in their works of jurisprudence.197 Mīr Lawī also relates that Malisī Sr. would praise Abū Muslim and
allā from the pulpit .198 Again, while it is difficult to know for certain whether Malisī would have publicly defended such controversial figures, there is little doubt about his strong Sufi proclivities.199
It was not only the exoteric jurists and puritans who opposed Sufism. Although their efforts were in no way as strong and influential as the abovementioned anti-Sufi campaign, the elitist philosophers in Isfahan, founders of the so- called “School of Isfahan,” were also quick to express their contempt for institutionalized and popular Sufism. For example, Mīr indiriskī (d. 1050/1640), although reportedly sympathetic towards dervishes, 200 did not hesitate to condemn what he considered to be problematic aspects of popular manifestations of the Sufi spirit, including the Qalandar pheonomenon. In an interesting analogy that casts society and 196
197
198
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 700. iʿmat Allāh ibn ʿAbd Allāh Jazāʾirī, al- Anār Al-nʿmāniyy (Tabrīz: Kitābī aqīqat, 1959), vol. 4, 55. Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 9a.
199
It is noteworthy in this regard that, in a small treatise ascribed to him and entitled shvīq l-Sālikīn, Malisi identifies the Ẕahabī ariqa as the best path toward God . The work is dedicated to defending Sufism against its detractors. It is very difficult to confirm shvīq as an authentic work of Malisī. Even if we do accept such an ascription, it is doubtful that the designation “Ẕahabī” refers to what is later known as the Ẕahabiyya, a particular Sufi or der. As we saw in the previous chapter, the designation Ẕahabiyya was not used in reference to a specific Sufi order in his time. Therefore, use of the term should eithe r be seen as an instance of later Ẕahabī meddling with earlier sources for the purposes of associating influential Sufi figures and ulama with their order, or understood as a general designation referring to the esoteric teachings transmitted by the family of the Prophet, especially through the line that begins with the first imam and ends with the eighth—the so-called maʿrūfī spiritual line of transmission. 200
Lewisohn, “Sufism and the School of Ifahān: Taawwuf and Irfān in Late Safavid Iran: Abd al -Razzāq Lahīī and ay -i Kāshānī on the Relation of Taawwuf, ikmat and Irfān,” 99– 100.
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its different classes and groups as the human body with its organs and parts, Mīr indiriskī asserts that the Qalandars, who refuse to make a living on their own and instead live off charitable donations are the pubic hair t hat should be removed from society as the Islamic
tradition of “sunan al-fira,” which concerns the removal of pubic hair, recommends. 201 Philosophers opposed manifestations of Sufism beyond the antinomian and radical. The most prominent philosophical figure of the early seventeenth century, Mīr Dāmād, otherwise
known by the honorary title of the “Third Teacher,”202 brushed off some of the metaphysical teachings of so-called high-Sufism’ in addition to popular forms of Sufism. 203 For example, he dismissed the signature metaphysical postulate of the Sufis, that is, the existence of an intermediate imaginal world (mundus imaginalis) between the material and abstract worlds, as a poetical fancy that cannot be proven by reason. 204 His critique of Rumi and the poet’s f amous
201
Abū al-Qāsim ibn Mīrzā Buzurg Mīr indariskī, Risāl- yi Ṣināʿiyy, ed. asan Jamshīdī, Chāp -i 1., alsafa va ʿirfān ; 152. (Qom: Muʾassasa-i Būstān-i Kitāb, 2008), 19. Although there appears to be a clear distinction between Qalandarsim as an ant inomian social movement on the one hand and organized Sufism on the other, it is not quite clear if the two could be distinguished when it came to the popular mode of Sufi religiosity known as dervishism. iʿmat Allāh ibn ʿAbd Allāh Jazāʾirī, al- Anvār lN ʿmāniyy (Tabrīz: Kitābī aqīqat, 1959), vol. 2: 308. 202
After Aristotle, the First Teacher, and al-Farabi, the Second Teacher.
203
See: Lewisohn, “Sufism and the School of Ifahān: Taawwuf and Irfān in Late Safavid Iran: Abd al -Razzāq Lahīī and ay -i Kāshānī on the Relation of Taawwuf, ikmat and Irfān,” 93– 95. This article, which is going to be cited a couple of times in the following pages, is the most relevant scholarly piece on the subject. Lewishon’s polemical tone significantly reduces t he analytic value of the article. Nevertheless, his vast knowledge of primary sources, reflected in this article, was a significant help for me in the initial stages of my research. 204
Muammad Bāqir ibn Muammad Dāmād, Jẕvāt v vāqīt , ed. ʿAlī Awabī, Chāp -i 1., Mīras-i Maktūb (Series). ʿUlūm va Maʿārif -i Islāmī ; 35. (Tehran: Mīrās-i Maktūb, 2001), 62–67. This, of course, is not to say that Mīr Dāmād did not have mystical visions or a penchant for spirituality. See Henry Corbin, “Confessions Extatiques De Mīr Dāmād, Maitre De Théologie Ispahan,” in Mélanges Louis Massignon (Damas: Institut français de Damas, 1956). Rather, and in contrast to what Nasr and Dabashi have argued, my argument is that his type of spiritual quest can be analyzed squarely within the peripatetic philosophical framework in which mystical visions are not considered as valid epistemological sources of knowledge. This is a model in which even the power of prophecy is interpreted as a special function of a purified reasoning faculty known as ds or “intuitive udegment.” See: Muammad Bāqir ibn Muammad Dāmād, l-Rvāshi l-Smāviyy fī Shr l- Aādīs l-Imāmiyy (Tehran: s.n., 1894), 32. or asr’s position see, for example: Seyyed Hossein asr, “Spiritual Movements, Philoso phy and Theology in the Safavid Period,” in The Cambridge History of Iran: Timurid and Safavid Periods, ed. Peter Jackson and Laurence Lockhart, vol. 6 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 669–675, http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn3:hul.ebookbatch.CAMHI_batch:9780511467783. Dabashi agrees with asr. See Hamid Dabashi, “Mīr Dāmād and the ounding of the School of Ifahān’,” in History of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr and Oliver Leaman, Routledge History of World Philosophies (London: Routledge, 1996), 597–634. What remains to be explored in detail is the possibility that Mīr Dāmād’s opinions about rational reasoning and mystical visions have gone through an evolution from works like al-Qbsāt in which he looks like a pure and rigid peripatetic philosopher, and works written at the end of his career, like al- Jʿliyy and al-
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verses205 that liken philosophers to lepers dependant on the shaky and unreliable leg of reasoning is well-known.206
Mīr Dāmād’s sentiment was prevalent among many of his students. Sayyid Amad al ʿAlavī al-Āmilī (d. after 1054/1644), one of the most prominent of these and an established philosopher himself, wrote Ihār l-Ḥqq v iʿyār l -Ṣidq to refute the practice of storytelling. 207
We also have a lengthier treatise against Abū Muslim titled Khlāt l-vāʾid, written by another notable student of Dāmād named Abd al -Mualib b. Yayā āliqānī (d. after 1043/1633).208 āliqānī says that he repeatedly heard Mīr Dāmād speak highly of Mīr Lawī .209
In fact, and as mentioned above, Lawī himself claims that he was a student of Shaykh Bahāʾī and Mīr Dāmād and had great respect for them both. There were other prominent students of the Third Teacher at the forefront of the attacks against Sufism.210 Among them, none had more influence on the course of rational and
mystical Shiʿi thought than Mullā adrā, the author of one of the earliest polemical works Khalsa al-lktiyy in which he seems to be more interested and invested in mystical visions and thought. As far as I knkow, ayrīzī was the first to raise this possibility. See Abū al -Qāsim Amīn al -Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, ed. Muammad Khāavī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Mawlā, 2004), vol. 3: 1211. 205
See Jalāl al-Dīn Muammad al -Balkhī al-Rūmi, snvī -i ʿnvī , ed. Reynold Alleyne Nichols on, Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Amīr Kabīr, 1984), vols. 1: line 2125–2153. 206
or Mīr Dāmād’s response to Rumi and a passionate rebuttal by ayrīzī, see Sayyid Qub al -dīn Muhammad ayrīzī, “Qaīda yi ʿIshqiyya”, n.d., f. 98b, Ms. o. 4889, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz-i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī. 207
Amad al -ʿAlavī al-Āmilī, “Iẓhār al-aqq va Miʿyār al -idq,” in īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān, ed. Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, vol. 2, 10 vols. (Iran: Kitābkhāna- yi arat-i Āyat Allāh al-ʿUẓmā Marʿashī aafī, 1373), 26 0–68. 208
The treatise was written two years after the death of the aforementioned Mulla Muhammad Zamān in 1043/1633. āliqānī also provides us with a long list of books and treatises written in Lawī’s support by the ʿulama . 209
Abd al-Mualib b. Yayā āliqānī, “Khulāat al -avāʾid,” in īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān, ed. Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, vol. 2 (Iran: Kitābkhāna yi arat-i Āyat Allāh al -ʿUẓmā Marʿashī aafī, 1373), 274. 210
The author of Nīt l-kirām refers to an anonymous prominent sayyid among t he students of Mīr Dāmād who penned two important anti-Sufi treatises entitled Shihāb l-ʾminīn and Sqb l-Shihāb. It is true that, as a pillar of the early Safavid system of education, Mīr Dāmād trained hundreds of students among whom there were some more sympathetic toward Sufism. Having said that, the fact that such a considerable number of the scholars he trained harbored such a hostile attitude towards Sufism indicates that, at the very least, Mīr Dāmād did not exhibit any outstanding sympathy tow ards Sufism. Quite to the contrary, as is shown above, his works indicate an explicit sense of disapproval.
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against Sufism. In his Ksr Anām l - Jāhiliyy or “Breaking the Idols of Ignorance,” completed in
the reign of Shah ʿAbbās I in 1027/1618, he rails in virulent, stinging language against a group he calls “pretend Sufis” (mtvvifn). 211 His critique of this group has two fundamental aspects. First, he accuses them of hypocracy and pursuing worldly pleasures such as lust and fame, and of deceiving simpletons and ignorant people around them in order to succeed in their abominable goal. Second, he portrays them as staunch enemies of knowledge and learning, as a bunch of i gnorant charlatans who find the pursuit of knowledge beyond the
reach of their laziness and immersion in worldly pleasures. Given this damning portrayal, one might think that adrā was exclusively targeting wandering, low-profile dervishes with no ties to institutionalized Sufism, who spend their days entertaining people with stories and talents
in uggling and the like. Yet adrā makes clear the fact that his critique applies equally to shaykhs at the center of organized Sufism: “Woe to the ignorance of these tail-less and earless donkeys,” he says, “who have all become shaykh -fabricators and shaykh-sellers. Every couple of days they would become disciples of an ignorant [and, thus] empty of their religion and
their wit.”212 Accordingly, he continues, “the majority of those who retreat to the monasteries ( mīʿa) to be pointed at [as a virtuous person] and sit in the khānaqāhs to become famous as ascetics and performers of miracles are deficient, damned fools, and imprisoned by the fetters
of lust.” 213
211
As asr reminded us many years ago “The term mutasavvif is perfectly legitimate in most schools of Sufism, where it refers to the person who follows the path of Sufism, but in Safavid and post-Safavid Iran it gained a pejorative connotation as referring to those who "play" with Sufism without being serious, in contrast to the real sufis who were called Sufijya. It thus acquired the meaning of mustasvif, a term used by some of the earlier sufis to designate those who know nothing about Sufism but pretend to follow it.” asr, “Spiritual Movements, Philosoophy and Theology in the Safavid Period,” 679 note 4. 212
Muammad ibn Ibrāhīm adr al -Dīn Shīrāzī, Ksr Anām l- jāhiliyy, ed. Musin Jahāngīrī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Bunyād ikmati Islāmī -i adrā, 2002), 176. / / 213
Ibid., 177–78. I have had an eye on Muammad b. Ibrāhīm al - adr al-Dīn Shīrāzī, Breaking the Idols of Ignorance : Admonition of
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ne should not, however, categorize adrā’s criticism of most aspects of the Sufism of his time with the many anti-Sufi treatises written decades later in the middle of the seventeenth century. adrā’s intellectual outlook, the two decades of separation between his
Kasr and the anti-Sufi campaign discussed above, and the content of his work are among the most salient factors that should persuade any observer of the cultural landscape of Safavid Iran to treat his criticism as a representative of a distinct intellectual traectory. adrā’s unique intellectual outlook sets his writings, including the Kasr, apart from even the mainstream
philosophical elite. That is, adrā cannot be categorized as a participant in the mainstream philosophical discourse of his time. He was no ordinary philosopher, and his “radical” views were very costly for him socially and intellectually. Perhaps nothing s peaks to his marginalization from the intellectual circles of his time more than his self-imposed exile to the small village of Kahak in the vicinity of Qum and the correspondance with his teacher that dates to that time, in which he complains about the hostilities he faced.214 His uneasy relationship with mainstream philosophers, exoteric jurists and puritan fundamentalists is expressed in detail in his Sih Al, in which he rails against a group of “hypocritical and worldly
scholars” comprised of philosophers, theologians and urists who were, according to him, completely obsessed with fame, worldly gain, rivalry, and envy. 215 Another reason why his critique of Sufism should be treated separately is that although
he was vehemently opposed to “pretend Sufis,” the teachings of high Sufism remained sacred to him. In fact, he uses the terms Sufi, dervish, and Sufism (taavvuf ) in a relatively positive sense in his Sih Al , which was written primarily to defend a group of enlightened elite known the Soi-Disant Sufi, trans. Mahdi Dasht Bozorgi and Sayyed Khalil Toussi (London: ICAS Press, 2008) for my translations. 214
Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī, Shr-i Ḥāl v Ārāʾ-i lsfī -i llā Ṣdrā (Tehran: ahat -i Zanān-i Musalmān, 1981), 6–7.
215
Muammad ibn Ibrāhīm adr al -Dīn Shīrāzī, Risāl- yi Sih Al, ed. Seyyed Hossein asr (Tehran: Mawlā, 1961), 9– 10.
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as ʿrfā (gnostics) and liyā (the friends of God) against the attacks of exoteric, literalist jurists and theologians.216 Similarly, in his Kasr, he is careful to carve out a safe space for “real
Sufis,” whose spiritual states remain hidden from the eyes of people. “A Sufi,” he adds, “remains hidden from the eyes of the mind as a Sufi even though his body and other aspects of his personality might be visible to the [bodily] eyes.”217
It is not only Sufis who, from adrā’s perspective, can be divided in to separate “real” and “predend” categories. Such a distinction should also be made, he believes, when it comes to philosophers, or kmā. “Real” or “divine” philosophers, together with the “Lords of truth
and gnosis” (rbāb-i qīqt v ʿirfān) are pitted not only against the exoterist jurists and theologians, but against the mainstream philosophers ( jmhr -i flāsif) and their official philosophy (l-ikm l-rasmiyya). As a disciple of Ghazālī, the highest form of knowledge for
adrā is not ultimately the discursive disciplinary one, but the unmediated knowledge of mystical visions (ʿilm-i mkāshfāt ) which leads one to esoteric knowledge of the Qur’an and the hadith literature.218 The only real disciple of knowledge is ʿilm l-tīd or “the science of
unification” otherwise called ʿilm-i ilāhī or the “divine science.” 219 The same picture is reflected in his magnum opus , al- Asfār l-rbʿ, in which he quotes Ibn ʿArabī and other Sufis whom he holds in high regards, calling them l-mqqiqn min l - sfiyy (“the Realizers among the
Sufis”) or simply ʿārifūn (“gnostics”).
216
Ibid., 39, 43, 113, 122.
217
adr al-Dīn Shīrāzī, Ksr Anām l- jāhiliyy, 177.
218
adr al-Dīn Shīrāzī, Risāl- yi Sih Al, 96 and 104.
219
Ibid., 122. To say that the only real kind of knowledge is the science of unity does not preclude, for adrā , the necessity of preparing oneself by pursuing madrasa-based disciplinary sciences as prerequisites.
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Unlike terms like ʿārif and maʿrifa, the category of ʿirfān does not appear frequently in ādrā’s own works. Neither does it in his students’ works, as we will see in the next chapters. Yet the grand synthesis of philosophy, speculative mysticism, theology, and Twelver hadith tradition that his innovative and masterly philosophical system k nown as l-Ḥikm l-
Mut ʿāliy or “Transcendental Philosophy” achieved became a primary reference later once the term ʿirfān was established. Transcendental Philosophy is therefore a bold attempt, and an original contribution, toward integrating major elements of Sufi thought like the Unity of Being and the Ishraqī School with its emphasis on mystical visions as valid sources of knowledge into a single, coherent philosophical system. With his adoption of these mystical elements, adrā acknowledges that in the final analysis, rationality and reason can only take the wayfarer so far toward understanding the mysteries of God. For him the realm of afterlife and the knowledge of the self, for example, remain fundamentally beyond the reach of reason and rationality. To attain true knowledge in such areas one must rely upon mystical visions and Prophetic injunctions. Only after doing so can the student of philosophy hope to develop rational arguments to establish the philosophic validity of such ideas and ideals.
In this light, adrā’s Kasr might be best understood not as an outsider attack meant to destroy the foundations of Sufism, but as an insider critique from the elitist margins of philosophy and speculative mysticism, aimed at reforming both Sufi and Twelver thought by
offering a new mystical ideal based on the synthesis of Twelver Shiʿa hadith literature, Ibn ʿArabī’s speculative mysticism, peripatetic discursive philosophy, Illuminationist principles, and theology. In fact—and this is an original contribution of this chapter—it was adrā’s attempts to synthesize speculative Sufi metaphysics with philosophy, especially his defense
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and promotion of the idea of the Unity of Being, that brought philosophy under the radar of the puritan fundamentalist critique in the second half of the seventeenth century. We now turn to the fascinating way in which authors of anti-Sufi literature broadened their scope of attacks to include philosophy by focusing on a unique and understudied treatise written between 1075/1664 and 1081/1670 by ʿIām al-dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al-dīn (d. after 1081).220 The title of the work is recorded as Hidāyt l-ʿAvām v īt l -Liʾām and alternatively as Nīt l-Kirām v īt l -Liʾām.221 The work has largely been neglected by scholars except f or a brief, but valuable report by Ja’fariyan, who examined an incomplete
manuscript at the Marʿashī Library in Qom.222 We known nothing about the author from bibliographical sources,223 and no other work written by him seems to exist.224 220
My dating is based on two observations. First, the marginalia on folio 128b (which was apparently added later, probably by the copier of the manuscript), was written to announce and th ank God (!) for the death of Muʾaẕẕin in 1082, which clearly signifies that the main body of the text was written before the latter’s death. See: ʿIām al -dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām”, 1083, f. 128b, MS. o. 10369, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz -i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā-yi Islāmī. Second, the reference to Nīt in Mīr Lawī’s Kifaya is immediately followed by an explicit reference to the year 1081. See Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 11b. 221
Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l-Shīʿ, vol. 24: 182.
222
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 2: 570 –572. Unfortunately, Ja’fariyan’s report does not include anything from the most important part of the manuscript, its lengthy epilogue. This is apparently due to the fact that the copy he consulted is missing a substantial part of the epilogue. In the Malīs copy, the epilogue starts at folio 112b. The Marʿashī copy, according to the information provided by the cataloguer, ends abruptly at a place that correspondes to folio 120b of my copy. Amad usaynī, Fihrist-i Nuskha-hā- yi Khī -i Kitābkhān-i ʿUmmī -i Ḥrt Āyt Allāh l-ʿUmā Njfī rʿshī (Qom: Chāpkhāna-i Mihr-i Ustuvār, 1354), vols. 5: 154–56. The Malīs copy’s prologue continues to folio 144b. 223
The one scant piece of biographical information comes from the epilogue, in which the author identifies Shaykh Abdallāh Shūshtarī and Shaykh Bahāʾī as masters of his masters.ʿIām al -dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al -Kirām va aīat al-Liʾām,” f. 141b and 120a. 224
The fact that ʿIām is unknown for bibliographical sources has been the primary reason behind Ja’fariyan’s assertion that it is a pseudonym. According to Jaʿfariyan, the real author must be Muhammad āhir Qumī, whom Ja’fariyan believes wrote under a pseudonym as a safety measure. Jaʿfariyan’s conecture does not hold on several accounts. irst, it is not clear why Qumī would write so many anti -Sufi treatises under his real name, sending some of them, like nis l- Abrār to the Safavid monarch for him to read, and then suddenly decide to hide behind a pseudonym. As far as we know, in terms of scholarly fame and respect as well as his relationship with the Royal Cour t, Qumī’s star was rapidly rising. Indeed, he would soon be appointed as the Chief Judge of Qom and the Friday prayer leader of the city. As such, there is no reason for him to hide his identity under a pseudomym. urthermore, in the epilogue, to which Ja’ fariyan apparently did not have access, the author of this work explicitly acknowledges that the twelve chapters of the book are copied from another work, that is Qumī’s ft l- Akhyār. Throughout the chapters, there are instances in which ʿIām adds a paragraph or two making a clear distinction between his voice and the voice of Qumī by adding “va ʿIām gūyad...” (“and ʿIām says...”). See, for example: Ibid., f. 3a, 15a. In addition to these points, the author explicitly references his differences of opinion with the author of ft l- Akhyār in the epilogue, saying “know… that many conversations crossed the mind of this humble [man], whose name is Muhammad and who is known as ʿIām, throughout the previous twelve chapters, but I held my tongue so that absolutely nothing is added to the statements
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The book is a reproduction of Qumī’s ft l- Akhyār to which a lengthy and important
epilogue is added by ʿIām that contains critical information about the anti -Sufi campaign and the general framework of the debate on Sufism and philosophy, as well as extensive quotes from polemical works against Sufis and philosophers that have not survived elsewhere. ʿIām sets up the stage for his critical attacks by categorizing his targets into two groups: flāsif (philosophers) and mbtdiʿ (innovators). By the second group, he explains, he means Sufism
and all other kinds of heresy, including the uqavī and other movements that he views as intimately connected to Sufism. In calling the Sufis innovators he is simply following Qumī’s usage in ft l- Akhyār , in which this designation is used many times in reference to “the
followers of allā and Bayazīd.” 225 The author of Nīt provides us with unique glimpses of the dynamics of the anti-Sufi campaign in a number of ways. First, his work clears up confusion about the authorship of a number of polemical works of this period. 226 ʿIām also provides us with the most detailed picture of how the anti- Sufi camp viewed the activities of Muʾaẕẕ in and other active Sufis. Although the basic framework of his narrative is very similar to that of Kifāyt l-htdī, ʿIām
adds detail to Mīr Lawī’s account.227 More importantly, he provides us with brief descriptions of the author of the book on those subects, and they are left untouched” Ibid., f. 113a. 225
Muammad āhir ibn Muammad usayn Qumī, ft l- Akhyār (Tehran: Chāp-i Muavvar, 1958). Bidʿa or innovation is a common term used in reference to beliefs and practices that contradict conceptions of orthodoxy at a given time. Qumī seems to be particularly fond of the term, which he uses extensively in his criticism of Sufism. Both Nīt and Kifāyt refer us, on several occasions, to another polemical work called āyi l-btdīʿ. Although the author of the latter is not named, given Qumī’s vocabulary, it is possible that this lost work belongs to him. 226
He explicitly states, for example, that works like Tasliyat al-Shīʿ and its abbreviated form, entitled Salvat al-Shīʿ, are written by a certain Sayyid (that is, Mīr Lawī) who, out of concern for his own safety, wrote under the pseudonym Muahhar b . Muhammad Miqdādī .ʿIām al -dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 121a–121b. While Ja’fariyan is not aware of this explicit statement, he comes to the same conclusion based on other evidence. See Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 2: 559–560. He also mentions that the same author is responsible for two other polemical works against Sufism, i.e., ī l-Mashrabayn and Aʿlām l-ibbīn. ʿIām al -dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 124a–124b. 227
ʿIām al-dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 126a– 129a. Mīr Lawī actually refers to Nīht for further information about Muʿaẕẕin. Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 11b.
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and sometimes extensive quotes from polemical works against Sufism that would otherwise have been completely lost to us. Among these are two works written by an anonymous sayyid,
who is described as “one of the renowned men of knowledge and exalted sayyids of the time, whom I do not know of anyone in our age who can match his erudition and knowledge.”228 ʿIām goes on to recount two of this anonymous sayyid’s works, which were written against Sufis and philosophers: Shihāb l-ʾminīn fi Rjm l-Shyāīn l-btdiʿīn and Sqb l-Shihāb fi
Rajm al-rtāb. The former has not survived in any form, and the only part of the latter that exists is an extensive quote from the introduction found in Nīt . In the quoted portion, the anonymous author mentions that he decided to write the Sqb since his other work, Shihāb l-
ʾminīn, in which he refutes the two groups of innovators and philosophers, was too laden with technical vocabulary to be suitable for a general audience. He adds that he decided to write Sqb when he noticed that lay people were being led astray by the lure of Sufi music and dance.229 Perhaps the most important features of Nīt are its coupling of philosophy and Sufism in its attacks and its emphasis on and extensive quoting from the abovementioned treatises that, according to the author, were written against both philosophy and Sufism. The closing section of the epilogue is quite revealing in this respect. Most of other anti-Sufi
228
ʿIām al-dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 114b. The quote extends from folio 115a to folio 121a. In one of the excerpts quoted from his works, this anonymous sayyid claims to be a student of (among othe rs) Mīr Dāmād, whom he calls ustād al -kull or “the Universal Teacher” and whose anti -Sufi stand he references. Ibid., f. 120a. Āghā Buzurg speculates that this particular sayyid could be only Sayyid Amad al -ʿAlavī (d. after 1054/1644) the prominent philosopher student of Mīr Dāmad. See Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l-Shīʿ, vol. 5: 8. This does not seem to be supported by the content of Sqb that is quoted here, for the author of Sqb is unapologetically and vehemently against philosophy. Also, ʿIām demonstrates explicit approval of Sayyid Amad’s work later in his discussion of ghinā, feeling no need to conceal his identity. See ʿIām al -dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 134b. I am tempted to suggest that this anonymous sayyid is none other than our own Mīr Lawī. I believe Āghā Buzurg has given too much credit to the hyperbolic statement of ʿIām that this sayyid’s erudition is unrivalled . Obviously, for those who were obsessed with polemical writings against Sufis, Lawī was a hero who deserved such praises . 229
ʿIām al-dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 117b.
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treatises of the time are relatively unconcerned with philosophy. If they mention it at all, it is only in passing remarks or brief chapters that are dwarfed in length by the anti-Sufi material.
ft l- Akhyār, the work reproduced in Nīt , is an apt example, for philosophers are only targeted in its last chapter.230 It appears that the author of Nīt , by adding the epilogue, wanted to shift and expand the rhetoric to cover philosophy in more detail alongside Sufsim.
He thus builds upon Qumī’s critique of philosophers by spending the first few pages of the epilogue on an extensive quote from Sqb that constitutes a strong rebuttal of philosophy. He follows the quote with the usual anti-Sufi rhetoric and then returns to philosophy at the end as his primary target.231 In this closing section, several quotes from Safavid luminaries like
Shaykh Bahāʾī, ay Kāshānī, Malisī Jr., and others are presented in which these figures condemn the study of philosophy. 232
In oining philosophy with Sufism as a target of his attacks, ʿIām asserts that “the master of Sufism and the mulids have been often philosophy-minded.” 233 He complains about the fact that, in his time, philosophy has defiled and led astray many students in madrasas:
In these times, there are many people of corrupt belief…there is a group of them that call themselves seekers of knowledge (ālib l-ʿilm) and, by doing so, soil the name of the seekers of religious sciences. That is because they embark upon reading books of philosophers and Sufis without [first] having the power of certitude and without seeking the knowledge of religion. Thus, they have become corrupt in their beliefs and most of them go on to deceive ignorant 230
This chapter is curiously missing from the print version of ft l- Akhyār . See Qumī, ft l- Akhyār .
231
In the part specifically dedicated to attacks against Sufism, several figures are explicitly named. Among them is a certain Mīr Taqī Sūdānī, who is said to have been a student of Mamūd Pisīkhānī, the leader of the uqtavī her esy. According to the author, the former was declared an infidel by Shaykh ʿAlī aqī Kamaraʾī ( d. 1060/1650), a judge from Shiraz who was promoted as the Shaykh al-Islam of Isfahan during the reign of Shah ʿAbbās II. ne Sufi awrūz is also mentioned, who was murdered in Shiraz after being declared an infidel. ʿIām al -dīn Muhammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al -Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 119a. ther Sufi names include Mīr ʿAskarī Rīkhtagar, usayn Rīkhtagar and ʿAbdullāh Mutaannīn . The latter also looms large in Mīr Lawī’s rhetoric in Kifāyt . It is unlikely, however, that this was his real name. Rather, Mutaannīn appears to be a deragetory epithet that Lawī has chosen to label this ʿAbudllāh a lunatic . Unfortunately, I was unable to determine his identity. 232
Ibid., f. 133a–139a.
233
Ibid., f. 120a.
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people … it must be known that those among the Twelver ʿulama who possess a perfect power of certitude and divine souls, if they want to study books of philosophy and other books after finishing up their studies in religious sciences in order to break the glasses of misgivings ( shbhāt ) and corrupt imaginations with stones of refutation thrown out of the sling ( flākhn) of reasoning and syllogism, then that is permissible, yet they cannot be called philosophers…therefore, for others, it is better for them to turn away from reading and hearing such books so that they are not inflicted with an enormous loss.234 These remarks, I believe, represent a new turn in the long battle against different types
of “heterodoxy” by the emerging guardians of Safavid Twelver orthodoxy. The battle, as we depicted in the previous chapters, started off with uqavīs and storytellers, expanded to Sufism, and was then ready to take on another major enemy, philosophy. In other words, after Sufism became the focus of attention in the middle of the seventeenth century, philosophy seems to have become the favorite target of attacks, especially in the last three decades of the Safavid rule. To put in perspective the growing anti-philosophy sentiment in some clerical circles, it is interesting to note that Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ contains not the slightest criticism of philosophy. In fact the author(s) of Ḥdīqt , contrary to his usual aggressive mood, explicitly name a number of major figures in the history of Islamic philosophy, like Avicenna and Sayyid
aydar Āmulī (d. 787/1385), going on to excuse these authors’ support for Sufism by asserting that they had been tricked by Sunnis. “Everyone is subect to mistakes, except for the infallible imams,” the anonymous writer(s) says .235 The attacks on philosophy in works like Nīt were mostly written in Persian, a clear sign of the intention of their authors to engage a more general audience. However, they did not appear out of the blue. Rather, one can see the first inklings of the turn against philosophy
234
Ibid., f. 120a–120b.
235
pseudo-Ardabīlī, Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ, vol. 2: 795.
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in the latter half of the seventeenth century in a number of treatises written in Arabic that, as such, were intended for the scholarly elite. The earliest known independent work against philosophy in this period belongs to none other than the most learned anti-Sufi religious
scholar of the time, Muhammad āhir Qumī . Written before 1075 and titled Ḥikmt l-ʿĀrifīn,236 the work is an outstanding and learned critique of a variety of received philosophical and theological positions from an Akbarian point of view. 237 Given the fact that this work was written in Arabic and saturated with highly technical philosophical and theological vocabulary, there is no doubt that it was meant only for an elite group of professionals. The focus of attention had not yet shifted toward bringing the debate about philosophy into the public domain.
A brief examination of the content of the book reveals several interesting points. irst of all, one of its striking features is its extensive quotations from important works by Mullā adrā, like al- Asfār and al-Shvāhid.238 adrā is one of the primary targets of Qumī’s critique, along with Ibn ʿArabī and other prominent members of his school like Qayarī. The author expresses his surprise that in his time some are trying to synthesize philosophy and Sufism (a clear reference to the school of Mulla adrā ), given the fact that Sufis had abhorred and ridiculed the philosophical quest from the earliest centuries of Islam and the inception of the mystical quest as a distinct trend in Muslim world.239 This is not only some of the earliest
236
Newman dates the book to somewhere between the years 1068/1657- 1075/1664. See: ewman, “Sufism and Anti-Sufism in Safavid Iran,” note 46. 237
The only substantial study of this work is in process by Sayyīd Muhammad Hādī Girāmī. I am indebted to his brief analysis of the content of the work published online at: http://sematmag.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=176:2011-01-21-20-38-42&catid=43:no-3&Itemid=53 238
Muhammad āhir Qumī, “ikmat al -ʿĀrifīn”, n.d., 145, 163 and 168 among others, Ms. o. 13822, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz- i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī. 239
Ibid., 229.
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evidence that Sadrā’s philosophy had already gained some prominence among the learned by the third quarter of the seventeenth century; it also confirms our hypothesis that the beginning of the attacks against philosophy had much to do with the synthesis that Mulla adrā tried so hard to create between the discursive philosophical tradition of the time and the mystical tradition, especially as represented by the Ibn ʿArabi school. 240 Qumī’s choice of title here is also significant. In choosing to call his critique of discursive philosophers as well as the mystical philosophy of adrā “ikma,” he is effectively
trying to reclaim the category, which has Qur’anic roots, from the philosophers who, according to him, had long hiacked it and manipulated its Islamic and Qur’anic outlook to mislead people about the “foreign” content of their speculations. His choice to name the posssessors of this Qur’anic ikma or wisdom “ʿārifīn” is another important strategic move vis à-vis the Sufis and especially the proponents of adrā’s mystical philosophy. With it he seems to be trying to offer a new definition, or a new vision within which the term ārif can be redefined in accordance to the canonical sources of Twelver Shiʿism. This new vision replaces
God with imam as the primary subect of maʿrifa, or “gnosis.” The famous qudsī hadith “he who knows himself, knows his Lord,” mentioned in the opening section of the first chapter as one of
the foundations upon which the pursuit of maʿrifa was legitimized, is replaced with an exclusively Shiʿi hadith focusing on the imamate that says “ne who dies not knowing his imam has died a jāhilī death [that is, as a non-Muslim].”241 The importance of this shift in focus, epitomized by the two abovementioned hadiths, cannot be over emphasized.242 Whatever the
240
Ja’fariyan has also suggested a similar thesis. See: Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 537.
241
Source
242
This important point was brought to my attention by Todd Lawson. See Todd Lawson, “The Hidden Words of ay Kāshānī,” in Iran, Questions Et Connaissances: Actes D u IVe Congrès Européen Des Études Iraniennes, ed. Philip Huyse and Maria Szuppe, Studia Iranica. Cahier, 25-27 (Paris: Association pour l’avancement des études iraniennes, 2002), 430 note. 13.
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disagreements and hostilities between the pro-Sufi and anti-Sufi camp were, they both agreed on one very important point: the foundations of Shiʿi maʿrifa or “gnosis” must be built, they held, on the knowledge of the imams. Admittedly, the two groups had very different ideas about the nature of the imams and the essence of their teachings. But the esotericism that permeated Shiʿi teachings even in the most important canonical works like al-Kāfī meant that both groups increasingly understood the imams in terms of their quasi-divine qualities, their miraculous deeds, and the secret, esoteric base of their teachings.243 This important thread will
be followed in chapter four, where attention will be given to the career and works of Qub aldīn ayīzī, whose magnum opus is also known by its alternative title Ḥikmt l-ʿĀrifīn, as well as the works of ʿAbd al -Raīm Damāvandī . Starting around 1080/1669, the Persian polemical works against philosophy follow
Qumī’s Ḥikmt l-ʿārifīn. The final chapter of his ft l-Akhyār and an independent work entitled al-vāʾid l-Dīniyy, both written in Persian by Qumī, are prime examples. The latter
book was written during the reign of Sultan Sulaymānin in a question and answer format. Its content sheds light on the context of anti-philosophy discourse at the time. In one instance
Qumī is “asked” to explain why, if philosophical ideas are so dangerous and heretical, none of the ʿulama has bothered to declare philosophers infidels. The question itself reveals the extent to which the author is concerned with the lack of precedence for attacking philosophy among
the ʿulama. Unable to mention any contemporary religious scholars who had taken up writing refutations of philosophy, he brings up Ghazālī and his famous critique of philosophy as his only substantial example. The name of the latter is brought up in spite of the fact that as a Sufi
243
For more on the esoteric nature of the early Shiʿi teachings see Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, he Divine Gide in Erly Shiʿism : the Sources of Esotericism in Islam (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994); Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, The Spirituality of Shiʿi Islam : Beliefs and Practices (London: I.B. Tauris, 2011).
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and a Sunni, Ghazālī was otherwise a primary target of criticism for Qumī and other anti-Sufi polemicists like Shaykh ʿAlī ʿAmilī. 244 Nevertheless, Qumī summarizes Ghazālī’s arguments and opinions against philosophy as reflected in his l-nqi and al-hāft.245
Qumī’s treatises can be seen as the first serious attempt by a high-ranking religious scholar to confront philosophy, not only within intellectual circles but in public. We have contemporary reports that popular preachers also began the practice of c ondemning
philosophy as a “foreign science” and a “heresy” along with Sufism around the same time.246 The two tracts mentioned above, Shihāb l-ʾminīn and Sqb l-Shihāb, should also be seen as part and parcel of this novel polemical development. Philosophy proved a much different target than Sufism. Due the efforts of Shiʿi
intellectual giants like aīr al-dīn ūsī and al-illī , philosophical vocabulary had been integrated into and become a natural part of of traditional madrasa discourse, especially in
theology (kalām) and the principles of urisprudence ( l l-fiqh). By the time the Safavids came to power, theology had become almost indis tinguishable from philosophy, and the
vocabulary of Aristotelian logic had penetrated the science of uūl al-fiqh to the extent that the mastery of the former was considered a prerequisite for the student aspirings to advance his knowledge in the latter. Unlike organized Sufism centered in the khānaqāh, philosophy, at least to the extent that it was required to understand theology, was an integral part of the
244
At one point, he calls Ghazzālī “the head of the enemies of the family of the Prophet.” ʿAlī b. Muhammad b. al -asan b. Zayn al-Dīn al-ʿAmilī, “Al-Sihām al -Māriqa fī Aghrā al -Zanādiqa”, n.d., f. 8a, Ms. o. 1968, Central Library & Documentation Center, University of Tehran. 245
Muhammad āhir Qumī, “al -avāʾid al -Dīniyya”, n.d., 724–728, Ms. No. 2749, Central Library & Documentation Center, University of Tehran. 246
Muhammad Bāqir Sabzavārī, the appointed Shaykh al -Islam of Isfahan after Malīsī Jr., expresses his concern over some preachers who portray a picture of philosophy for the public that is totally opposed to Islamic teachings. See Muammad Bāqir ibn Muammad Muʾmin Sabzawārī, Rt Al-nvār -i ʿAbbāsī , Chāp-i 1., Mīrās-i Maktūb (Series).Ulūm va Maʿārif -i Islāmī ; 7. (Tehran: Āyina- yi Mīrās, 1998), 599 –602. Quoted in Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr - yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 532.
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madrasa curriculum. As such, prominent teachers of traditional peripatetic philosophy were among the most respected of the learned class in the madrasas and had a congenial and warm relationship with the higher echelons of the political order. This being the case, such teachers constructed and sustained a powerful philosophical orthodoxy, controlling the relevant discourse as well as the prestigious philosophy chairs in the madrasas. The prominent members of this establishment, for obvious socio-economical and intellectual reasons, did not
welcome “innovations” of the sort that Mulla Sadrā, for example, was eager to introduce into philosophical thinking. This explains, to a large extent, the reason why philosophy, in spite of its obvious
foreign’ roots, came under the radar of puritans so late in the Safavid period. Another important development that facilitated the turn against philosophy at the end of the this period was the gradual ris e to prominence of Akhbārism in madrasas as an alternative
framework of legal thought in which uūl al -fiqh (and its Aristotalian foundations) was completely rejected as a methodology for juristic inquiries,. The jurists adhering to the
Akhbārī legal school, in a fundamentalist return to rīqt l-qudama (the way of the predecessors [among hadith scholars]) freed themselves of the necessity of incorporating the extensive technical uūlī vocabulary that was , in turn, thoroughly indebted to peripatetic philosophy and logic. Thus they were also free to attack philosophy as a foreign element that needed to be purged from the madrasas.
Yet philosophy’s dominant position was extremely hard to shake. Perhaps nothing illustrates the position of philosophical studies at the end of the Safavid period more powerfully or vividly than the testimony of the Augustinian friar named Antonio, a native of Portugal who converted to Islam in Isfahan in 1108/1696 and wrote several treatises against
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Christianity and Judaism under his new name, Ali-Qulī Jadīd al-Islām (d. after 1135/1722). His testimony deserves to be quoted at length: It has happened too often for me to be in the company of a group of them [religious students] who, having spent years in the madrasas in pursuit of knowledge, believed they knew something and numbered themselves amongst the knowledgable (ahl-i ʿilm). Even as a recent convert at the time with no thorough knowledge of the hadiths, when I asked them about a tradition that dealt with the most fundamental matters of religion, they did not know, and I was the one who taught them on the matter. They said, we study philosophy (ikma); it is a number of years that we have been busy with books like Shr-i Hidāy and Shifā and Ishārāt so we could not find spare time to study hadith, an excuse that is worse than the offense itself! You see, all this considerable money that is tiresomely collected is spent in madrasas in pious endowments with the intention of creating ʿulamā and educating the followers of the first Imam ʿAli in matters of religion… [and then] these students end up reading such material… one time when I had a conversation with one of these philosophy-reader Mullas and told him that Plato and Aristotle’s philosophy has nothing to do with religion and religiosity. In response, he told me that nowadays the amount of stipend depends on one’s knowledge of Plato and Aristotle’s philosophy; I and people like me, who come to study here, since we are poor, also want to make a living as a student; and as we see that the system of stipends and promotions in Isfahan revolve around philosophy, we spend our time studying Plato and Aristotle’s philosophy and do not bother with urisprudence (fiqh) or hadith.247 Another interesting anecdote comes from tmīm Aml l- Āmil, in the section in which its author describes the most prominent and politically well-connected jurist of the final
decades of Safavid rule, Muhammad Bāqir Khātunābādī (d. 1127/1715), who was the first cleric to occupy the position of mullābāshī (a position created by the last Safavid king, Shāh Sultan Husayn, which was the highest religious office in the land.248 The anecdote goes as follows: I heard my master… Amīr Muhammad āli al-usaynī [al-
Khātūnaābādī] say: we were studying Shr l-Ishārāt and its marginalia with our great teachers. We were told to study Shr l-Ishārāt with Amīr Muhammad 247
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿr- yi dīn, frhng v siyāst , 677–678.
248
or more on Khātūn -ābādī, see Ja’fariyan’s excellent introduction in: Muammad Bāqir Khāūnābādī, Tarjama- yi Anājil-i Arbʿ, ed. Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, Chāp -i 1., Mīrās-i Maktūb; 31 (Tehran: ashr-i uqa, 1996), 44–54.
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Bāqir [Khātūnābādī] for what was in it in terms of getting closer to the Sultan [becase the teacher was close to him], so we sat in his class while he boasted of what he did not possess; and he would narrate something from al-ʿAllāma al-
Khānsārī’s marginalia and oppose him with absurd criticism. Then, when we reected his criticism of Khānsārī, he would return to us and say, “We wanted to say that very thing!”249
Khātūnābādī is categorized in tmīm as a faqīh or “urist.” The fact that he took it upon himself to teach philosophy, even though—as the quote indicates—he was not an authority on the rational sciences, reveals much regarding the curriculum of the madrasas and the position
of philosophy therein. The author also relates the story of another Khātūnābādī, Hā Ismāʿī l, who taught the music section of Avecinna’s magnum opus Shifā in one of the most important madrasas of Isfahan, Madrasa- yi Jāmiʿ Sultānī .250 The lengthy quotations above on the position of philosophy in the Safavid era are necessary as a corrective to romantic notions about the persecution of philosophers among some modern scholars who focus upon the Safavid era, Islamic education, and the madrasa system. Such notions cast philosophers as noble guardians of rationalism and reason who were as threated, along with Sufis, those incarnations of tolerance and universal peace, by bigoted literalists and exotericists. The most detailed, scholarly and passionate account in which
249
ʿAbd al-abī ibn Muammad Qazwīnī, tmīm Aml l-āmil, ed. Amad usaynī, min makhūāt Maktabat Āyat Allāh al Marʿashī al-ʿĀmma ; 16. (Qom: Maktabat Āyat Allāh al -Marʿashī, 1407), 78. :
250
Ibid., 66.
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philosophy, along with Sufism, is portrayed as a victim of literalist jurists is found in Hamid
Dabashi’s contribution to Seyyed Hossein asr and liver Leaman’s History of Islamic Philosophy. 251
In a passionate tone that betrays his personal disdain for the opposing camp, Dabashi
writes: “Those who engaged in philosophical matters did so at some peril to their personal safety and social standing,” and thus, “the fate of philosophy was left in the hands of whimsical monarchs who for a number of practical and symbolic self-interests, such as their need for a court physician and court astronomer, would inadvertently provide for the possibilities of
philosophical pursuit” which “has never had any institutional found ations except at the clandestine peripheries of the madrasa system, in the libraries of wealthy individuals, and
ultimately in the whimsical vicissitudes of the court.” Dabashi dramatizes the miserable situation of the noble science of philosophy by sugges ting that “[]inancial support for students of philosophy was virtually non- existent,” and that “The madrasa system and its total reliance on religious endowments prohibited any financial support for students who were
attracted primarily to philosophy.” To support such sweeping claims, Dabashi offers only slight historical evidence, the weakness of which is revealed upon closer scrutiny. Examples buttressing his argument
include Mulla Sadrā’s retreat from Shiraz to Kahak, a village near Qom. The expulsion of another philosopher, Mulla ādiq Ardistānī (d. 1134/1721), by Shah Sultān usayn during the
251
Dabashi, “Mīr Dāmād and the ounding of the School of Ifahān.” This perspective is by no means limited to his work. In fact, it has become the standard view of scholars working on the intellectual and cultural history of late Safavid Iran with few exceptions. or a few examples see Zarrīnkūb, Dnbāl- yi jstj dr tvvf -i Īrān, 262-66; Pierre- Jean Luizard, “Les Confreries Soufies En Iraq Aux Dix-neuvieme Et Vingtieme Siecles Face Au Chi isme Doudecimain Et Au Wahhabisme,” in Islamic Mysticism Contested : Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics, ed. F. de Jong and Bernard Radtke, Islamic History and Civilization. Studies and Texts, 0929-2403 ; V. 29 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 283 –315. Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam , 151 and 158-159; and Sayyid Hussein Nasr in his various works on Islamic philosophy. The latter two subscribe to a limited version of the persecution thesis in which philosophers are seen as under heavy attack only in the last couple of decades of the Safavid rule. I argue that even at that period, perceptions of persecution are heavily exaggerated. See footnote 261 below.
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final decade of the Safavid rule, is cited as another example of how philosophers were victims of bigotry and narrow-mindedness. In addition, Dabashi refers u s to “reports” indicating that “on the front doors of some
schools in Isfahan the patrons had specifically prohibited the teaching of philosophy.”252 But if the late Safavid environment was so unwelcoming of and even hostile to the pursuit of philosophy, how was it that it nurtured one of the most extraordinarily innovative episodes in
the history of philosophical thinking in Muslim lands, one that Dabashi’s former teacher Seyyed Hossein asr boasts was “one of the apogees of Muslim history” both aestheticall y and intellectually?253 For Dabashi, the Safavids get no credit for this intellectual renaissance. In fact,
he says, “If we witness the rise of a particular philosophical disposition, recently identified as the school of Isfahan’ during the Safavid period, this phenomenon must be attributed more to the diligent and relentless philosophical engagements of a limited number of individuals
rather than considered the product of favorable and conducive social circumstances.” 254 One wonders what to make of this curious statement given that just one page before Dabashi
emphasizes that “The flourishing of Mīr Dāmād and the establishment of the School of Isfahan’ would hardly have been possible without these necessary political and social developments” (that is, the advent of the Safavids in Persia and their establishment of Isfahan as their capital and the new center of the Shiʿi world).255
252
Hamid Dabashi, “Mīr Dāmād and the ounding of the School of Ifahān’,” in History of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr and Oliver Leaman, Routledge History of World Philosophies (London: Routledge, 1996), 599 –600. 253
Mian Mohammad Sharif, A history of Muslim philosophy. With short accounts of other disciplines and the modern renaissance in Muslim lands. (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1963), vol. 2, 904. asr’s position in this regard seems to have gone through an evolution. For his latest remarks in this regard See Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Islamic Philosophy from Its Origin to the Present : Philosophy in the Land of Prophecy, SUNY Series in Islam (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006), 212. 254
Dabashi, “Mīr Dāmād and the ounding of the School of Ifahān’,” 598.
255
Ibid., 597.
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The portrayal of philosophy as a victim emerges from a misguided reliance on secondary sources rather than a rigorous study of the primary ones. In the case of adrā’s retreat to Kahak, as Rizvi points out, the reason behind it remains highly debatable, and it is not obvious at all that the so-called “nomocentric” urists were behind it. 256 Dabashi also fails to mention that after a whi le, Imāmqulī Khān, who became governor of Shiraz in 1030/1621 built a magnificent madrasa, the Madrasa- yi Khān , and invited Sadrā to return and teach philosophy there.257 adrā accepted the invitation and began to teach there around 1037-38/1627, more than a decade after he left in the same city for Kahak. The madrasa gained so much fame that
the European traveler Herbert Thomas reports “[A]nd, indeed, Shiraz has a college wherein is read philosophy; astrology, physic, chemistry, and the mathematics; so as it’s the more
famoused through Persia.”258 As for the oft -cited incident of the expulsion of the philosopher Mulla ādīq Ardastānī along with a number of his students, including azīn from Isfahan, Ja’fariyan has recently questioned the reliability of the only source containing the story.259 Reliability issues aside, the original source, from which the story is copied repeatedly in the
works of opponents of the “bigoted” Malisī Jr., tells the story of Ardastānī’s expulsion explicitly in the context of Malisī Jr.’s efforts against Sufis, among whom Ardistānī and others supposedly exiled from Isfahan are surpisingly included. There is no mention that philosophy had anything to do with his expulsion; in fact, philosophy is not mentioned at all.260
256
Sajjad H. Rizvi, llā Ṣdrā Shīrāī : His Life and Works and the Sources for Safavid Philosophy, Journal of Semitic Studies. Supplement ; 18 (Oxford: Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester, 2007). 257
Rizvi even claims that the vaqf-nāma of the madrasa required the teachin g of philosophy. I was unable to find such a requirement in the document, however. 258
asr, “Spiritual Movements, Philosophy and Theology in the Safavid Period,” 679.
259
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 587.
260
Abū al-asan Qazvīnī, vāʾid l-Ṣfviyy, ed. Maryam Mīr Amadī (Tehran: Muʾassasa- yi Muālaʿāt va Taqīqāt-i arhangī,
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Ardistānī’s association with Sufism is understandable if we take into account the fact that two of his prominent students, Qub al-dīn ayrīzī and ʿAbd al -Raīm Damāvandī , about whom we will talk extensively in the next two chapters, were affiliated with the Ẕahabī and
ūrbakhshī Sufi orders. Another, azīn Lāhīī, also had a strong penchant for mysticism. This strongly suggests that Malisī’s reported enmity with Ardistānī was rooted mainly in the latter’s Sufi proclivities rather than in his position as a teacher of philosophy. Even Ardistānī’s purportedly anti-Sufi student, Mullā Ismāʿīl Khāūʾī (d. 1173),261 who wrote a treatise refuting
the notion of vadat al -vuūd, is careful to remind his readers at the end of this treatise that a twelfth group of Sufis, unlike the eleven heretical Sufi denominations he previously
enumerated, are truely Shias who avoid the antinomian behaviors of the other goups like singing, dancing, drinking, and looking at beautiful faces, devoting themselves instead to a life of asceticism following the model of the imams. 262 His previous description of the eleven
deviant’ groups of Sufis is undoubtedly informed by Ḥdiqt l-Shi‘, but his decision to allow for a group that is “ok,” stands in contrast to all other anti-Sufi treatises of the period, which categorically condemn Sufism in all its forms. This decision is probably rooted in his personal familiarity with a Safavid Shiʿi-compliant brand of Sufism that was represented by his teacher,
Ardistānī, or by the latter’s students. urthermore, as Āshtiyānī has suggested, Ardistānī’s philosophical views, reflected in the two extant treatises Risālt l- Jʿl and Ḥikmt -i Ṣādigiyy,
demonstrate his debt to adrā, and thus his deviation from mainstream discursive philosophy, often referred to as ikmt -i rsmī . His works provide us with the earliest example of
1988), 78–79. 261
or a succinct yet rich biography of him see ʿAlī Karbāsī, Ḥkīm-i tʾll Bīdābādī : Iyāgr -i Ḥikmt -i Shīʿī dr Qrn-i Dvādhm-i Hijrī , Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Pizhūhishgāh-i ʿUlūm-i Insānī va Muālaʿāt -i arhangī, 2002), 65–68. 262
Ismāʿīl Khāūʾī, “Risāla”, n.d., Ms. o. 869/2, Kitābkhāna- yi Dānishgāh-i Isfahān.
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philosophical literature in which the tangible influence of Mullā adrā’s synthesis of high Sufism and discursive philosophy can be seen. 263 With all of this in mind, the story of his expulsion from Isfahan, irrespective of its historic accuracy, confirms an earlier claim I made, namely, that the increasing discontentment with and criticism of philosophy as a foreign
science began when Mullā adrā’s Transcendental Philosophy blurred the boundaries between Sufism and philosophy. In spite of the increasingly hostile and heated rhetoric against philosophy, philosophers remained highly influential in the court up until the early decades of the eighteenth century and thus their high social status was preserved. Examples of this include
the prominent role played by Mullā Muhammad Bāqir Sabzavārī (d. 1090/1679) in Sulaymān’s accession to the throne. The philosophically oriented Āghā usayn Khānsārī (d. 1089-90/16789)—a student of Mīr Dāmād, Taqī Malisī, and Sabzavārī—was also among the trusted members
of the court ʿulama, and the shah erected him a mausoleum upon hi s death. And we have already seen how Muhammad Bāqir Khātūnābādī, the mullābāshī of the late Safavid period, was compelled to teach philosophy in spite of his obvious lack of competence.264
263
Muammad ibn Ibrāhīm adr al -Dīn Shīrāzī, al-Shvāhid l-Rbbiyy fī l-nāhij l-Slkiyy, ed. Jalāl al -Dīn Āshtiyānī, Chāp-i 2. (Mashhad: Markaz-i ashr-i Dānishgāhi, 1981), ad–va–hijdah. 264
It might be said, by proponents of the limited version of the persecution of philosophy thesis like Nasr and Arjomand, that the abovementioned figures do not cover the last three decades of the Safavid rule, when, they believe, the actual persecutions against philosophers happened. In addition to the abovementioned anecdote from Khātūnābādī’s teaching of philosophy, in order to further substantiate my claim, I surveyed the biographical contents of tmīm Aml l-ʿĀmil by Shaykh Abd al- abī Qazvīnī (d. after 1197/1783) to see if there is any meaningful decline in the number of ʿ ulama with expertise in ratinal sciences in the early decades of the eighteenth century compared to the latter half of the seventeenth century. tmīm is a perfect bibliographical source for such a survey sinec it was written at 1191/1777 as a supplement to Shaykh urr al -ʿĀmilī’s Amal al Āmil to extend the latter’s coverage of the prominent ʿulam a to the twelfth/eighteenth century and also to make up for some important figures of the past that slipped ʿĀmilī’s attention. The author lists one hundred and thirty -seven names, mostly from the twelfth/eighteenth century, providing a short biography for each. Among them, seventy-two cases were active mostly during the last three decades of the Safavid rule and beyond, and can be divided into two groups: first, the ʿulam a who passed away after 1150/1738, and who were most probably actively teaching in their profession after the fall of Isfahan (fifty cases), and second, those who died before 1150/1738, which means a major part of their career as teachers of Islamic sciences overlapped the last three decades of the Safavid rule ( twenty-two cases). The results are very interesting: Number of the ʿulama
Number of philosophers or those with combined expertise in transmitted and rational sciences
percentage
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The polemical works, however, met with a certain degree of success, especially as they
were bolstered by the increasing influence of Akhbārism at the final decades of the Safavid rule. Their level of success in shifting public opinion against Sufism and philosophy in the last three decades of the Safavid rule can be judged from a comparison of vaqf-nāms (pious
endowment documents) from the time of ʿAbbās II with those written during the reign of Shah Sultān usayn (r. 1694-1722), the last Safavid king. No such documents dating to the former period explicitly exclude philosophy or Sufism from the curriculum of t he madrasa being endowed, but a number of documents belonging to the latter period explicity condemn the so-
called “illusory” sciences. The vaqf-nāma of two of the most important madrasas built during the reign of ʿAbbās II, namely Jadda- yi Kūchak and Jadda-yi Buzurg, do not put any conditions on resident students in terms of the type of studies they might pursue.265 The documents also include the list of books donated to the library, among which no major work of philosophy or Sufism can be found. Nor do they include a considerable number of hadith collections. Rather, the
overwhelming maority of the books are related to urisprudence, theology (kalām), and mniq (logic). This stands in striking contrast to the vaqf-nāma of the Sultānī madrasa, one of the
Death before 1150/1738 d. 1150/1738 to 1192/1777 Total
22 50 72
13 22 35
%59 %44
As we can see, nearly sixty percent of the featured ulama who died before 1150 are either described as philosophers (akīm ) or as encompassing both rational and transmitted sciences ( jāmiʿ l-mʿql v-l-mnql). For the other group, it is forty-four percent. This is a clear indication that although at the end of the Safavid era the number of students occupying themselves with philosophy has a meaningful decline, nearly half of the students of religion studied philosophy during the span of this century. I have been inspired here, I must gratefully acknowledge, by Ja ʿfariyan’s analysis of the Tatmī m. My conclusions are based, however, on my own reading of the work . Jaʿfariyān comes to a similar conclusion based on several ob servations, including the fact that from among one hundred and seventy-five book titles mentioned in the work, close to fifty are on philosophy. The number of books on urisprudence is only slightly more. See: Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhn g va Siyāst , vols. 2: 725 –28. 265
Ahmad uzhat, ed., “Chahār Vaqf -nāma az Chahār Madrasa dar Dawra - yi Safavi,” in īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān, vol. 3 (Iran: Kitābkhāna- yi arat-i Āyat Allāh al-ʿUẓmā Marʿashī aafī, 1374), 93– 111.
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most splendid projects of the Safavid era, built between 1118/1706 and 1126/1714. This document explicitly prohibits resident students from discuss ing books of pure philosophy (ikmt -i irf ) and Sufism.266 In another case, the vaqf-nāma of the Maryam Bigum madrasa,
built in 1115/1703, explicitly prohibits the students from teaching or learning from “books of illusory sciences,” i.e., the sciences of shbh (doubt), as rational sciences and ikma were known. Such books included Shifā, Ishārāt , Ḥikmt l-ʿ Ayn, Shr l-Hidāy, and the
like.”267Additionally, the vaqf-nāma of a madrasa in Hamadan, built in 1100/1689 by Shaykh ʿAlī Khān Zangana Iʿtimād al -Dawla, similarly asserts that “if the teacher and students occupy themselves with teaching and learning of philosophical sciences ( ʿlm-i ikmiyy) that are
contrary to the Shariʿa without refuting it, their stipend should be withheld and they must be expelled from the madrasa.”268 In addition to these explicit exclusion s, we should also take into consideration a curious
phenomenon in which, in at least two of the vaqf -nāmas belonging to madrasas established during the reign of Shah ʿAbbās II and Shāh Sultān usayn, there is a meaningful erasure exactly where the author clarifies what sciences may be pursued in that madrasa. One example is the vaqf-nāma of the Shafiʿiyya madrasa built in 1067/1657. According to the document,
eligibility to receive stipeds is contingent on the condition “that the students pursue [….]
266
See ʿAbd al-usayn Sipintā, ārīkhch- yi Aqāf -i Ifhān. (Isfahan: Intishārāt -i Idāra-i Kull-i Awqāf, Mantaqa-i Ifahān, 1967), 168.; also in Manūr ifatgul, Sākhtār -i Nihād v Andīsh-i Dīnī dr Īrān -i ʿAr -i Ṣfvī : ārīkh-i vvlāt -i Dīnī -i Īrān dr Sd -hā-yi Dhm tā Dvādhm-i Hijrī -i Qmrī , Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Rasā, 2002), 336:
267
268
Ibid., 338-339.
Ibid., 331:
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religious sciences.” 269 A similar erasure is observable in the vaqf-nāma of the Imāmiyya madrasa in Isfahan, built in 1129/1717, six years before the fall of the Safavid capital. 270 Although we do not know what words are missing, these erasures indicate the extreme sensitivity surrounding what was considered a legitimate pursuit of knowledge and speaks to the political battle over who defines such boundaries. Tampering with a vaqf-nāma is considered among the most grievous sins one can commit, but apparently the stakes were high enough in the abovementioned cases that such concerns could be overruled. The evidence contained in the vaqf-nāmas mentioned above should be taken with a grain of salt. That is, the documents cannot be taken as representatives of widespread or universal practice. Rather, they can only be seen as indicators of a growing trajectory. Other vaqf-nāmas available to us from the same period are silent about philosophy and Sufism. One such example is the vaqf- nāma of the Sultān usayniyya madrasa built by Āghā Kamāl (d. after 1133/1720), director ( ib Jmʾ) of the Central Treasury ( Khānāh- yi ʿĀmir), on which construction began in 1107/1695 and continued until 1133/1720, with an attendant extension of its endowments.271 This document contains no negative mention of philosophy or Sufism. In fact, quite to the contrary, an examination of the brief list of books endowed to the madrasa at
the end of this document reveals some classics in the study of philosophy, such as Avicenna’s
al-Shifā, among the endowed books.272
269
Ibid. , 327: ...
270
Adīb-i Barūmand, Abdul -ʿAlī, “Vaqf nāma -yi Madrasa- yi Īmāmiyya- yi Isfāhān” in Vqf, īrās-i Jāvīdān. (Tehran: Sāzmān-i Awqāf va Umūr -i Khayriyya), Nos. 19-20, 1376/1997, 137-39. 271
272
Rasul Jaʿfariyan (ed.), īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān, vol. 1, 251-290.
Ibid., 290.
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Furthermore, as we move from Isfahan to other major urban centers like Shiraz, there is no substantial indication that either philosophy or Sufism was targeted. To the contrary, when we assemble the pieces of the historical puzzle, the image of an intellectual environment quite welcoming to philosophers and Sufis emerges. The vaqf-nāma of the Muqīmiyya madrasa, built in 1059/1649, states that students should occupy themselves with learning
ʿlm-i dīniyy or “religious sciences” like fiqh, hadith, tafsīr, ʿuūl, and also other preliminary sciences like Arabic grammar and literature. The document states further that students are
allowed to extend their area of study to other sciences with the aim of “sharpening their minds;” an explicit reference to mathematics and philosophy.273 Another vaqf-nāma from the year 1094/1683 that belongs to the Imāmiyya madrasa of Shiraz requires the superintendent or “mutavallī” to find and appoint a scholar as the madrasa’s primary teacher who is competent both in naqlī or “transmitted” and ʿaqlī or “rational” sciences.274 We already mentioned Herbert Thomas’ observations on the Khān madrasa wherein he says, “philosophy, astrology, physic, chemistry, and the mathematics [are read]; so as it’s the more famoused through Persia.”275 Another piece of testimony comes from the memoir written by azīn Lāhīī (d. 1179/1766) about his travel and stay in Shiraz, in which he fondly remembers many teachers of philosophy and Sufism whom he met there. These include figures like the mystically-minded
Shāh Muhammad Dārābī Shīrāzī (d. 1130/1718), 276 as well as philosophers like Ākhūnd Masiā
273
Hātamī, āima, “Vaqfnama-yi Madrasa-yi Muqimiyya-yi Shiraz (1059)” in Vqf, īrās-i Jāvīdān. Nos. 43-44, 1382/2003, 40-59: .
274
Rasul Ja’fariyan (ed.), īrās-i Islāmī -i Īrān., vol. 9, 678
275
asr, “Spiritual Movements, Philosophy and Theology in the Safavid Period,” 679.
276
Muammad ʿAlī azī n, ārīkh v Sfrnām-i Ḥīn, ed. ʿAlī Davānī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Markaz- i Asnād-i Inqilāb-i Islāmī, 1375), 177–78.
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asavī (d. 1127/1715), a student of Āghā usayn Khānsārī , the Shaykh al-Islam of Isfahan. 277 We will return to this environment and the important teachers of philosophy and Sufism in Shiraz
that contributed, more than anyone else, to the formation of the category of ʿirfān, in chapter four.
azīn’s remarks about Isfahan’s intellectual environment in the final decades of Safavid rule are also colorful, and they remind us to view the success of the anti-philosophy, anti-Sufi
campaign in relative terms. He speaks of his wonderful years in Isfahan and his erudite teachers, including Mīr Sayyid asan Tāliqānī who, according to azīn, synthesized the vision of philosophy (ikma) with that of Sufism and taught not only Ibn Arabī’s but also Suhrawardī’s Hyākil l-Nr .278 In Isfahan he also studied with the famous mystically-minded philosopher of the time, Mullā ādiq Ardistānī. His comments about Isfahan’s intellectual environment are not followed by complaints about the opponents of Sufism and philosophy.
or does he mention his alleged expulsion from Isfahan, along with Ardistānī and others among the latter’s students, at the order of the shah. Rather, what can be gleaned from his memoirs is (1) that the study of hadith had become a normal occupation of not only the students of hadith but also of those in the philosophically- and mystically minded circles of learning and (2) that in spite of growing opposition, philosophy continued to be pursued by students without any major hassles.279
It was only after the fall of Isfahan that many of the elite members of society, including azīn himself , decided to flee the city they adored so much, and it was then that the enterprise
277
278
279
Ibid., 169.
azīn, ārīkh v Sfrnām-i Ḥīn, 169-170.
I will present a more detailed picture of his memoir in the fourth chapter that will substantiate the two abovementioned points.
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of teaching and learning philosophy and mysticism was damaged due to a lack of financial resources and the dispersion of human resources. 280
The relationship between Sufism and Islamic rationalist discourses on the one hand and puritan discourses on the other has been often an uneasy one. By rationalist discourse, I mean the variety of disciplinary practices in which the process of human reasoning, understood fundamentally on the basis of Aristotelian logic, is considered a valid and
inevitable epistemological source for extracting authentic truths’ when it comes to religiously significant questions and debates. Early Muʿtazilite theology, uūlī urisprudence, classical Ashʿarite theology (which was practically indistinguishable from discursive philosophy especially in fundamental questions of the metaphysics of being), and Islamic discursive philosophy are all considered, from this perspective, rationalist discourses. By puritan discourses, I am referring to movements within Muslim learned society that are marked by (1) their desire to free Islamic knowledge from foreign’ elements of influence and thus (2), an anti-establishment agenda that challenges the authority and validity of certain traditional
disciplines of Islamic sciences in favor of a return to the “pure” fundamentals of faith found in the early golden age’ of the Prophet and his Companions.281 The ahl al-hadith movement of the early ʿAbbasid period, pioneered by scholars of hadith like Ibn anbal and later Ibn Taymiyya,
280
Corbin’s appraisal of the situation seems relatively accurate in this regard. See: Henry Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy (London: Kegan Paul International, 1993), 348 –49. 281
I intentionally avoid using the term fundamentalism here since, as Bruce Lawrence and others have shown, it is essentially a modern phenomenon. See Bruce B. Lawrence, Defenders of God : the Fundamentalist Revolt Against the Modern A ge, Studies in Comparative Religion (Columbia, S.C.) (Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina Press, 1995). There are, however, considerable similarities between the outlook, structure of thought, and ideals of what I call “puritan” movements and modern fundamentalist discourse.
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and the Akhbārī school of legal thought that emerged during the Safavid era can be considered puritan discourses for the purposes of this analysis. For their part, Sufis did not hesitate to express their disdain for philosophy, dismissing rational methods of inquiry about God as limited and futile.282 At the root of this disdain was the subordinate and ultimately unnecessary position of reason in Sufi epistemology, which
casts reliance on the limited capabilities of human reasoning as a hindrance to an adept’s spiritual progress. For most Sufis disciplinary knowledge, especially rational discourse, was irrelevant at best, and a major obstacle and distraction at worst. For both the philosopher and the jurist, the cult of Sufi saints was at best an aberration of superstitious and uneducated minds, and at worst, evil directly at work. For the expert in Islamic law, whose efforts are geared toward regulating social spaces and transactions as well as providing ritual guidelines, predictability and rationality as defined within the limits of religious law are of utmost importance. The fact that jurisprudence as a discipline was based upon the rationalist s cience of uūl al-fiqh, in addition to the fact that many jurists were also trained as theologians, made their intellectual outlook similar to that of the philosophers, especially when it came to the fundamental concepts that defined God and shaped the way Muslim intellectuals though about divinity and its relationship to humanity. Philosophers too, inasmuch as they were obsessed with crafting rational explanations of the universe and human interactions, were deeply troubled by the prospect of chaotic and spontaneous mystical experiences, which came dangerously close to undermining the fragile social structure that philosophy underwrote. Their tightly sealed systems of legal interpretation and 282
The stor y of the alleged meeting between Avicenna and Abū Saʿid Abū al -Khayr is merely one example of how the rational method was often distained, though not rejected, by Sufis. In the story of their encounter, the two are said to have met and engaged in a three-d ay private conversation. At the end, each is asked his impression of the other, to which Abū -Saīd replies that everything that he could see, Avicenna knew. In turn, Avicenna said that everything he knew, Abū -Saīd could see. Rumi’s contempt of rational inquiryand his conception of it as an unreliable and shaky starting point from which to pursue Divine knowledge is famous.
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metaphysical speculation stood in contrast to the seemingly chaotic, spontaneous world of Sufis in which ruptures between the Unseen world and the conscious mind constantly threatened established norms. To put it in terms of the politics of spiritual and material power, authority, and dominance, the immanent and easily accessible God whom the Sufi shaykh of the khānaqāh and the syncretistic wandering dervish claimed to mediate through their charisma or baraka was a formidable threat to the competing authority that the jurists claimed as interpreters of
God’s will, commandments, and preferences. The promise of an ever-present, immanent God, present in fresh and tangible ways and experienced via human yet divine abodes filled with His Presence was perhaps the most powerful aspect of the Sufi message—an aspect that made Suf ism popular with the lay masses who found little solace in the philosopher’s dry notion of
God and the urist’s obsession with obedience to a remote and often demanding God. The saintly figure offered what neither the philosopher nor the jurist could: a direct connection to the supernatural; the possibility of tapping into the infinitely abundant resources of the World of Unseen (ʿālam al-ghayb) for meeting both worldly and other-worldly needs; the ability to bring heaven and earth and the mundane and sublime together in the present moment—here, now, embodied. Puritan critiques usually reflect the struggle of an anti-establishment minority within learned society to topple existing power structures of knowledge replace them with an alternative, utopian model. The successful resistance of ahl al -hadith to state-sponsored
Muʿtazilite theological thought in spite of a brief but intense period of inquisition under Caliph Amin is an apt example. More relevant examples are found in the figures of Mīr Lawī and Qumī, whom we studied in this chapter. As mentioned above, both were mid-ranking religious
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scholars and neither had strong ties to or a considerable stake in the political establishment in their early and mid careers.283 In fact, both vehemently opposed and entered a costly debate
with Malisī Sr. and ay Kāshānī , who were allies of the monarch in promoting and preserving the state-sponsored religious power structure. In waging a war not only against Sufis, but also against syncretistic readings of Islamic sources by the ʿulama, Mīr Lawī and Qumī aspired to replace the existing paradigm of scholarship in madrasas with a new one that they considered authentic and in accordance with the way Islam was understood and explained by the imams and the Prophet. Accordingly, ʿulama trained in the madrasa system consistently portrayed the Sufis of
this period as ignorant and opposed to learning and education. This is a common feature of both esoterically- or exoterically inclined ʿulama. Mullā adrā , for example, in his critique of Sufism claims that the real pursuit of spirituality can only happen after a thorough training in disciplinary sciences. According to adrā, the quest to attain gnosis cannot result in “genuine” outcomes if one refrains, as many dervishes and Sufis do, from participating in disciplinary discourse, which is housed in the madrasa.284 Accordingly, he stridently accuses the “pretend-
Sufis” of having slidden into the abyss of imaginary illusions by prohibiting their discursive and rational faculties from flourishing through learning:
Those who have installed themselves during out time in the position of irshād (guidance) and khalāfa (vicegerency [of God]), most of them, but all of them are stupids ignorant of the ways of kwowledge and maturity (rshād) … they have mostly banned conceptual understanding (l- vr l-idrākiyy) and have block the doors of sciences and knowledge ( mʿārif )… thinking that such an action on 283
Qumī later became the shaykh al -Islam as well as the judge of Qum. Accordingly, he declared his fealty to the political establishment by writing a treatise on the necessity of Friday prayers at the time of Occultation as a religious obligation at 1069/1558. See ewman, “Sufism and Anti-Sufism in Safavid Iran,” 101– 102. For a case study of the political implications of the hotly debated issue of riday prayers during the Safavid period see Andrew J ewman, “ayd al -Kashani and the Rejection of the Clergy/State Alliance: riday Prayer as Politics in the Safavid Period,” in he ost Lerned of the Shiʿ : the Institution of the rjʿ qlid, ed. Linda S Walbridge (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 284 adr al-Dīn Shīrāzī, Ksr Anām Al- jāhiliyy, 26–46.
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the part of the seeker is the one that prepares him/her to focus the attention towards the Bountiful Origin ( al-mbdʾ l- fyyā) and have not understood that to prevent perceptory, rational and imaginary faculties from … maturity leads them to slip towards distorted concepts fabricated by imagination.285 The same line of attack against institutional Sufism and its anti-knowledge position is
pursued by ʿAbd al-Razzāq Lahīī (d. 1072/1661-2), a prominent theologian and student of adrā. In his introduction to Ghr rād, a theological work that stresses the importance of the spiritual path and is dedicated to Shah ʿAbbās II, he says: The reality of taavvuf is nothing but the travelling of the esoteric Path…and we already said that to embark upon such a Path, the exoteric path is a prerequisite. So, a Sufi should first become a philosopher (akīm) or a theologian (mutakallim). To claim to have become a Sufi before getting a solid grounding in philosophy and theology, that is, without completing the way of reason, whether it is according to the terminology of the ʿulamā or not, is charlatanism and deceiving the mass. The point is not about the word “taavvuf” or “Sufi.” Rather, our intention is the spiritual Path ( slk) and the pursuit of real union (vl).286 In a reiteration of his teacher’s critique of non-madrasa-trained Sufis and dervishes he says: Sufis and Qalandars who do not have firm grounding in discursive philosophy (ikmt -i bsiyy), who lack acquaintance with theology (kalām), traditional commentaries and exoteric knowledge concerning ontological origins and end of creation (mbdʾ v mʿād), while introducing themselves as masters (murshid) and spiritual guides of people – as do the qāb of our own period and previous epochs – are nothing but bridands who waylay the common folk. adr al-Mutaʾallihīn [Mullā adrā] in his treatise Ksr Anām l - Jāhiliyya took such people to task and exposed the [un]learning of this group, revealing the extent of their decadence. 287
ther madrasa-based scholars, even though they where fundamentally opposed to adrā’s vision of what a truly Shiʿi gnosis looks like, shared his and his student’s derision of this 285
Ibid., 39.
286
ʿAbd al-Razzāq Lāhīī, Gawhar-i rād, ed. Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn Qurbānī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Sāzmān-i Chāp va Intishārāt-i Vizārat-i arhang va Irshād -i Islāmī, 1993), 38–39. 287
I have slightly changed Lewisohn’s translation of Lāhīī’s remarks here: Lewisohn, “Sufism and the School of Ifahān: Taawwuf and Irfān in Late Safavid Iran: Abd al -Razzāq Lahīī and ay -i Kāshānī on the Relation of Taawwuf, ikmat and Irfān,” 112.
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alleged anti-intellectual tendency of Sufis. For example, later on, Sayyid iʾmatullāh Jazāʿirī (d. 1112/1701), a high- ranking religious scholar, a student of Malisī Jr., and a vehement critic of Sufism, explains in his al- Anvār l-Nʿmāniyy that one of the reasons behind the popularity of Sufis is that their path is much easier than that of disciplinary knowledge, for the former promises the same results in a much shorter period of time!288 Another prominent Akhbārī scholar and the author of the influential anti-Sufi treatise Isnā ʿshriyy, Shaykh urr ʿAmilī , makes a similar point when he says: And it has come to a point regarding those who claim to have had visions that they say the seekers of [disciplinary] knowledge (lbt l-ʿilm) are wrong, that they are only concerned with exoteric matters and that they do not know God and his religion, and that the Sufis are the folks of esoteric matters and they are the ones who know God as He deserves to be known. Therefore, [in their minds] Sufism has become the opposite of the pursuit of knowledge, so they say: are you a Sufi or a seeker of knowledge?289
The dichotomy of the Sufi Path (sulūk) versus disciplinary knowledge, then, surfaces in anti-Sufi literature no matter the intellectual outlook of the author. This debate can be understood, of course, as a rivalry between two alternative hegemonic systems, that of the
khānaqāh and the madrasa. In the former the adept must totally submit himself to the shaykh “like a corpse in the hands of the washer,” as the famous Sufi saying goes. In the latter, the student is disciplined by the mentor in accordance to a very specific interpretation of selected
texts. This educational discipline secures the “conservative” mystica l experiences and rules out the possibility or validity of alternative experiences, providing controlled venues through which the erratic and unruly eruptions of the mystical may be channeled.290
288
Jazāʾirī, al- Anvār l-Nʿmāniyy, vol. 2: 293.
289
Riā Mukhtārī, ed., “Risala fī al-Ghinā,” in Ghinā, sīqī , vol. 1, Chāp-i 1., Mīrās-i iqhī (Qom: Mu’assisa- yi Būstān-i Kitāb (Markaz-i Intishārāt Daftar-i Tablīghāt -i Islāmī ), 2008), 183. 290
Drawing rigid boundaries between the “genuine” and “false” pursuits of gnosis emphasized by Sadra guarantees that the
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In an analysis that starkly contrasts with what we said above, Lewisohn has claimed
that the emphasis on the pursuit of disciplinary knowledge reflected in Lāhīī’s Gawhar is the “sine q non of practical Sufism” and “was not by any means an independently developed doctrinal innovation original to the Safavid Shiʿi theological milieu in which he [Lāhīī] flourished: the doctrine has definite resonances, if not its entire origin, in the classical Persian
Sufi tradition itself.”291 Lewisohn, unfortunately, does not give us any clue as to how he has established this sweeping claim in regards to the totality of classical’ Persian Sufi tradition.
The only example he mentions is a quote from the Kubravī Sufi master, ʿAzīz asafī (d. between 1281-1300) in which the latter says that the novice should “first go to the madrasa and acquire necessary Islamic legal knowledge ( ʿilm-i shriʿt ) …Then, he should study beneficial knowledge so that he becomes quick-witted and fathoms subtile expressions, since the understanding of learned discourse which is acquired in the madrasa is an extremely
important pillar of this subect. Then, he goes to the khānaqāh and affiliates himself as a disciple to a shaykh, devoting himself to the threshold, contenting himself with one shaykh
alone, learning what is necessary of the science of the mystical path’ (ʿilm-i rīqt ).”292
“noetic” content of the mystical experience, to borrow from Willam James, will not b e understood and interpreted against orthodoxy according to his understanding. Of course, all such efforts only meet with partial success as a certain degree of “innovativeness” marks the mystical in all contexts. That is what, I believe, constructivist in terpretations of mystical experiences fail to account for. or more on the “conservative” nature of mystical experiences see Steven T. Katz, “The Conservative’ Character of Mysticism,” in Mysticism and Religious Traditions, ed. Steven T. Katz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 3 –60; Steven T. Katz, “Languauge, Epistemology, and Mysticism,” in Mysticism and Philosophical Analysis, ed. Steven T. Katz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978), 22 –74. His views have been influential and have recently been taken up by scholars of Sufism as an interpretive framework for understanding Sufism. See Nile Green, Sufism : a Global History (Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 3 –4. Katz’s view, however, have been challenged by several counter -arguments. See, for example Robert K. C. Forman, Mysticism, Mind, Consciousness (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999). Also see Ata Anzali, Sākhtgirāʾī Snnt v ʿIrfān (Qom: Anjuman-i Maʿārif -i Islāmī, 2005), 232–298. 291
Lewisohn, “Sufism and the School of Ifahān: Taawwuf and Irfān in Late Safavid Iran: Abd al -Razzāq Lahīī and ay -i Kāshānī on the Relation of Taawwuf, ikmat and Irfān,” 110. 292
Translated by Lewisohn in Ibid. note. 217
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While this passage in and of itself seems to support Lewisohn’s claim, what immediately follows it--which is unfortunately left out by Lewisohn-- represents a more complex picture.
asafī explicitly mentions that while he indeed believes that going through the madrasa education and then embarking upon the esoteric training is the best way to go, there are two opinions regarding the best way to proceed with the esoteric path: While some insist upon proceeding through the path of learning and repetition [of disciplinary knowledge] towards the goal of esoteric realization, others emphasize the necessity and urgency of starting right away with ascetic and meditative practices under the provision of a shaykh. The latter group argues against the necessity of madrasa training first by pointing out that, given the limited time a normal person has at his/her disposal, it is virtually impossible for the novice to finish all the necessary training in disciplinary knowledge, and secondly, they point out, the heart of the mystic, upon its purification with the regimen of mystical practices, will be like a polished mirror reflecting the omniscience source of knowledge and thus making all human knowledge irrelevant.293
asafī’s entire discussion is predicated upon Ghazālī’s exposition in īān l- ʿAmal. In the latter work, Ghazzālī contrasts the position of Sufis regarding the pursuit of knowledge with that of a specific group of learned people (ahl al-ʿilm), whom he cal ls “al-naẓẓār.” As Kenneth Garden has argued, the term most likely refers to philosophers.294 While the latter group believes in the necessity of complete training in discursive knowledge first, the Sufis
“don’t encourage [adepts] to learn and teach [disciplinary] knowledge and read what the
293
ʿAzīz al-Dīn ibn Muammad asafī, jmʿ-yi Rsāʾil shhr bi-Kitāb Al-insān Al-kāmil, ed. Marijan Molé (Tehran: Anjuman-i Īrānshināsī -i arānsa dar Tehran, 1980). 294
Kenneth Garden, “Revisiting al -Ghazālī’s Crisis through his Scale for Action (iān l-‘ml),” Forthcoming in the proceedings of the Conference Islam and Rationality: the Impact of al-Ghazali, The Ohio State University, November 10-12, 2012, Leiden: Brill, Georges Tamer ed.
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authors have written [about it]. Rather, [they say] the [valid] path is that of beginning with struggle (mjāhd) by eradicating the vices, cutting all the attachments, and facing towards
God with the totality of one’s resolution and will ( himma).”295 Al-aẓẓār, or philosophers, Ghazālī says, agree that this is ultimately a legitimate course of action, yet they insist upon educating the faculty of reason so that the wayfarer can distinguish between baseless illusions on the one hand and real spiritual accomplishments and states on the other.296 Ghazālī continues with the interesting and well-known example of a painting competition between the Chinese and the Romans to illustrate the difference between the two paradigms.297 The same
example is mentioned in asafī’s discussion. inally, Ghazālī suggests that his personal opinion is that the madrasa-then-khānaqāh model is meant only for a few gifted and elite aspirants of the mystical path who embark upon their journey at a young age. For the common man, who has neither the intellectual power nor the time required to finish the madrasa curriculum, his
recommendation is to skip the madrasa and oin the khānaqāh right away.298 Ghazālī’s exposition of the Sufi perspective in his īān in which Sufi path is portrayed as discouraging, or being unenthusiastic, about the disciplinary Islamic sciences is corroborated by mainstream classic Persian Sufi texts like irād l-ʿIbād in which only a minimal knowledge of Shariʿa, not thorough training in the exoteric sciences, is considered a
295
Abū āmid Ghazzālī , īān l-ʿAml, ed. Sulaymān Dunyā, al -abʿa 1., Zakhāʾir al -ʿArab, 38 (Mir: Dār al -Maʿārif, 1964), 221– 222:
296
Ibid., 223–24:
....
297
298
Ibid., 225–26.
Ibid., 226–28.
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prerequisite for embarking upon the Sufi path and oining the khānaqāh. rom this perspective asafī’s position, in which he advocates a combination of madrasa and khānaqāh training as the ideal, reflects a new development in the learned Sufi tradition in which Sufism and the quest for gnosis is increasingly seen as the culmination of rather than an alternative to the quest for discursive knowledge. The earliest trends of this development can be observed in Ghazālī’s īān, and it reaches its apex, perhaps, in the scholarly complexity of Ibn ʿArabī’s
oeuvre. Having said this, it is important to note that asafī, simultaneous to his advocacy of the abovementioned synthesis, admits that such a dichotomy is indeed prevalent, and as such, if there is a choice to be made between these two alternative approaches, the latter path, which does not necessitate training in disciplinary knowledge, is the closer and more conducive to getting results,299 which is Ghazālī’s own position regarding ordinary seekers of felicity.
Given Sufism’s strong tradition of seeing the disciplinary sciences as obstacles for wayfarers, it should not surprise us that adrā and his students frame their antagonism toward institutional Sufism as an opposition between madrasa training and the regimen of the
khānaqāh, in which discursive knowledge is highly suspect and under-emphasized, if not rejected outright, in favor of a set of meditational steps novice takes under the supervision of his shaykh. To conclude, then, the jurist, theologian, and philosopher can all be seen as trainees of
the madrasa system who were dependant on that system’s rational discourse and elaborate curriculum. Together they formed a block in a power struggle against the Sufis whose primary
modus operandi was the khānaqāh, socially speaking, and mystical visions (mukāshafāt),
299
asafī, jmʿ- yi Rsāʾil shhr bi-Kitāb Al-insān Al-kāmil, 92.
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epistemologically speaking. The Sufi master, located at the center of the khānaqāh as the intermediary visionary through whom a community of followers received divine guidance, represented a challenge to the mujtahid , located at the center of the madrasa as an intermediary hermeneut through whom the community of followers gained access to the divine, present in the form of sacred letters and words in the canonical scripture. It must be noted, however, that the debate cannot be reduced to economics or politics. It was also a genuine religious debate in which both parties fought for what they considered to be the
“original” message of Islam as embodied in the sayings and acts of the Prophet and, more importantly, the imams. To reduce this rivalry to mere politics would be a mistake, I believe, and a distorted view of how religious subjects construct their world and live their religion.
Chapter Three: The Sufi Response
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By the middle of the seventeenth century, the Safavid project of converting Iran to
Shiʿism had successfully pushed Sunnism to the fringes of Safavid lands, with most Sunnis living in tiny pockets surrounded by an overwhelming Shiʿi maority. Maor Sufi orders present at the time in Iran had already converted to Shiʿism, though not necessarily to the “official” Twelver version. This marginalization and conversion, however, did not prevent the enemies of Sufism from continuing to question the validity and authenticity of the Sufi quest based on its Sunni past. As far as the critics were concerned, the ostensibly Shiʿi Sufis had preserved the
maor Sunni elements of their thought. Thus, as “disguised” Sunnis, Sufis represented a tainted and distorted version of Shiʿism.300 Early Sufi figures like Sufyān S awrī and asan Barī , whose uneasy relationship with the imams are preserved in a number of traditions in canonical
300
See, for example, the way Qumī questions the sincerity of the ūrbakhshī Sufis, saying their claim to be Shiʿa was merely a bluff. Muammad āhir Qummī, Shish Risāl- yi ārsī , ed. Jalāl al -Dīn usaynī Muaddis (Tehran, 1960), 303.
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hadith collections,301 were brought up, along with ecstatic figures like allā and Bāyazīd , to
emphasize the problematic “Sunni” origins of Sufism as well as the “heretical” nature of its teachings.302 Additional traditions, taken primarily from Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ on the authority of
Ardabīlī, were produced and circulated to substantiate the claim that the imams took an active stand against the Sufis of their time.303 The problem was not that Sufism was perceived as incompatible with Islam, as a Wahhabi, for example, would declare. For these detractors, Sufism was indeed compatible with Islam —ust with the “wrong” version. By the mid-seventeenth century, the Sufi orders remaining in the Safavid heartlands were already fully Shiʿi according to the Safavid interpretation of the term. Yet their past history, naturally, was deeply embedded in the Sunni world. Any successful response to charges of Sunnism, then, necessitated efforts to revise and redefine the past. The earliest (and
yet the most thorough and substantial) example of this revisionist attempt, ūrallāh Shūshtarī’s jālīs l-ʾminīn, belongs to the turn of the century (it was written in 1010/1602). The author of this work, a Kubravī Sufi affiliated with the ūrbakhshī branch, argued that the Kubravī masters, along with many other prominent scholars of the past, were dissimulating Shiʿis (that is, they practiced taqiyya or dissimulation out of fear of persecution). jālis became one of the most freq uently quoted hagiographical sources among seventeenth century
Sufi-minded Shiʿi scholars as well as Sufis themselves. Central to this revisionist agenda was a
301
n Sawrī see, for example, Muammad ibn Yaʿqūb Kulaynī, al-Ul min l-Kāfī , ed. ʿAlī Akbar Ghaffārī (Tehran: Dār al -Kutub al-Islāmiyya, 1957), vols. 1: 393–94 and 5: 65–70. n Barī see ibid., vol. 1: 51; 2: 222 and 5: 113. See also Qumī’s long and damning diatribe, which is based on the abovementioned traditions. Qumī, ft l- Akhyār , 30–36. 302
303
Muammad ibn al-asan urr al -ʿĀmilī, l-Isnā ʿAshriyy fī Al-rdd ʿlā l -Ṣfīyy, al-abʿa 2. (Iran: Darūdī, 1987), 15.
One of the most comprehensive compilations of traditions from Ḥdīqt and other sources is urr al -ʿĀmilī, l-Isnā ʿAshriyy fī Al-rdd ʿlā l-Ṣfīyy. Curiously, urr mentions a hadith, ostensibly quoted in Shaykh Bahāʾī’s Kshkhl, in which the Prophet is said to have predicted the emergence of a group called Sfiyy. The Prophet dissociates himself from this group and calls them “the Jews of this nation ( umma) who are more deviant from the infidels.” Ibid., 16 an d 34. Not surprisingly, the hadith is not found in the Kshkl.
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categorical denial that any maor Sufi figure, like Rumi, Ibn ʿArabī, afī al-Dīn Ardabīlī, ʿAttār, Najm al-Dīn Kubrā, ʿAlāʾ al-Dawla Simnānī and others, had any affiliation with Sunnism. This revisionist hagiographical agenda took centuries to be completed. The re sults, however, were astonishing, as can be seen in the following quote, spoken two centuries later by Shīrvānī, the
iʿmatullāhī Sufi traveler and historian of the early Qaar period: “A Sufi, [by definition,] cannot be a Sunni!”304 It is interesting to contrast this statement with what an elitist mystic of the fifteenth century, āʾin al-d īn Turka (d. 830/1427), had to say about Sufism: “All the Sufi shaykhs follow the Sunni denomination. In fact, no one who is not a member of Sunni denomination can grasp this science [of Sufism]. Hence, anyone who comes to a Sufi master (murshid) in pursuit of this science will not be offered any spiritual direction until he or she
converts to Sunnism.”305 In order to better understand how this transformation happened and how organized Sufism came to terms with the fundamental changes in religious landscape of Iran, I found it helpful to focus on one specific Sufi order and track the relevant changes in its religious outlook. Otherwise, the task would have been daunting, and certainly beyond the scope of one dissertation. The history of Ẕahabī order is intertwined, as I have stated above, with that of the
ūrbakhshī order. Therefore, in the course of our discussions of Ẕahabī historiography and hagiography, ūrbakhshī masters will pop out, from time to time, from corners of concealment and obscurity. This, in fact, has been one of the most fascinating aspects of my exploration of Sufi history in Iran in this period.
304
305
Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn Shīrvānī, Bstān l-Siyā (Tehran: Kārkhāna-i abīb Allāh, 1897), 292–93.
Quoted from Leonard Lewisohn, “Sufism and Theology in the Confessions of āʾin al -Dīn Turka Ifahānī (d. 830/1437),” in Sufism and Theology, ed. Ayman Shihadeh (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 66.
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According to Ẕahabī sources, the center of the order’s activity was transferred to
Mashhad by an illiterate artisan -turned-Sufi, one Dervish Muammad Kārindihī (d. circa 1037/1627), who, according to aīb al -dīn Riā, was a shoemaker. 306 Mashhad, home to the shrine of ʿAlī b. Mūsā al-Riā, the eighth Shiʿi imam, was, not surprisingly, a Shiʿi stronghold.307 According to official Ẕahabī genealogies, Kārindihī became the leader of this Sufi order after
his master Ta al-Dīn usayan Tabādakānī (d. ?) passed away. The official Ẕahabī lineage proceeds from Dervish Muammad Kārindihī to Shaykh ātam Zarāvandī (d. circa 1647/1057), yet another obscure shaykh in the Ẕahabī lineage about whom we know little. 308 The Ẕahabīs
also emphasize that Shaykh Kārindihī was utterly unsuccessful in establishing himself as heir to the office of shaykh, spending much of his life in seclusion, unwilling to face several other
disciples of Tabādkānī who made similar claims of being the legitimate heir of the master. 309 External evidence confirms this marginalization. Kārindihī and his heir Shaykh ātam seem to have been completely overshadowed in popularity by another prominent Sufi of t he time, Shaykh Muʾmin Mashhadī (d. 1063). The author of Qi l-Khāqānī recounts that the latter was the most respected and prominent Sufi shaykh (shaykh al-mashāiykh) in the entire
Khurāsān region. Shāmlū also mentions the considerable financial resources that Shaykh
306
See Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” f. 10. aīb’s account of his activities is by far the most detailed and reliable that we have. See Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 346. 307
In fact, as the Safavids increasingly sought the assistance of the Twlever ulama in forging a basis of legitimacy to replace the old Qizilbash-Sufi paradigm, Mashhad surpassed Ardabīl as the most important symbolic center of the state-sponsored religiosity. Shah ʿAbbās’s trip on foot to Mashhad could be seen as a watershed moment in this regard. or more on Mashhad and its increasingly important role in Safavid religious polity see Sefatgol, Sākhtār -i Nihād v Andīsh -i Dīnī dr Īrān-i ʿr -i Ṣfvī , 229–232. 308
309
Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 349. Ibid., 346–47.
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Muʾmin had at his disposal and the many charitable constructions built at his behest.310 In spite of Muʾmin Mashhadī’s prominence in Khurasan , not much is known about his life or literary activity. Some information exists, however, in a work written b y Shaykh usayn Zāhidī (d. after 1058/1648) and titled Byān l- Asrār (written at 1058/1648). Its author is a descendent of
Shaykh Zāhid Gīlanī (d. 1301), afī al -Dīn Ardabīlī’s master. The Zāhidī family in general, and our author in particular, had close ties with the royal court as custodians (mtvllī ) of the
shrine of afī al -Dīn in Ardabil,311 arguably the most important sacred space in Iran after alRiā’s tomb in Mashhad. Zāhidī’ frequent references in Byān to figures like afī al -Dīn Ardabīlī, Pīr-i Pālāndūz (the packsaddle-maker master), and own master Shaykh Muʾmin Mashhadī make it clear that he considered them part and parcel of a unified spiritual constellation to which he himself also belonged.312 The author mentions ūrbakshiyya as a prominent and “very famous” Sufi order
in the whole of Khurasan and specifically associates their arīqa with the silent ẕikr ( ẕikr-i khfī ) rather than the vocal ẕikr ( ẕikr-i jlī ) which, according to him, is a hallmark of the Safavid
310
Shāmlū, Qi Al-khāqānī , 183–84.
311
usayn Zāhidī , Silsilt l-Nsb Sfviyy: Nsb-Nām- yi Pādishāhān-i bā ʿimt -i Sfvī , Publications Iranschähr ; 6 (Birlin: Caphana-i Iransahr, 1964). 312
The fact that Zāhidī did not view his simultaneous connections to the Safavid order through his family, and to Shaykh Muʾmin through discipleship, as mutually exclusive requires further attention here. Zāhidī’s multiple spiritual loyalties can be interpreted in more than one manner. I believe the soundest interpretation results from a comparison of the situation of Sufism in Iran during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries to the formative centuries of early Islamic era (the third to fifth centuries). In both cases there is certain fluidity in the way spiritually-minded people shaped their identity and chose their affiliations. The borders between Sufi orders seem to have been less distinguishable than we tend to conceive of them, which allowed individuals to change shaykhs and learn from leaders of different spiritual lineages, while later Sufis were attached to specific silsilas. This is typical of eras in which new identities are in the process of emerging and the connections to old identities are loosened, allowing individuals to move across them with relative freedom. That is why I agree with Bash ir that translating the term silsila to order leads to an exaggerated conception of the internal cohesion and discipline such entities possessed and that, for the purposes of scholarly analyses, the term “network” conveys the reality on the ground much better (Shahzad Bashir, Sufi Bodies : Religion and Society in Medieval Islam (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 11. or translation purposes, however, silsila must be translated into “order” since the term was intentionally used by Sufis to convey a sense of internal cohesion and discipline.
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Sufi order.313 Furthermore, he associates Pīr-i Pālāndūz, with the silent method of ẕikr, quoting him as an authority in this respect.314 He makes no mention of the Ẕahabiyya (or any other Sufi order for that matter).315 Later genealogies produced by the Ẕahabīs claim both Pīr Pālāndūz, and Shaykh
Muammad Muʾmin, as a part of their own lineage.316 We know that the memory of the rivalry, or even enmity, between the followers of ūrbakhsh and the followers of Barzishābādī was alive and well at the end of sixteenth century, according to the report of jālis l-mʾminin that I mention above.317 Yet with the eclipse of the ūrbakhshī order in Iran during the eighteenth century and the rise to prominence of the Ẕahabī order, Ẕahabī writers began to
take advantage of the ūrbakhshīs’ demise to bolster their claims of legitimacy, history, and authority by rewriting ūrbakhshī history as their own. They not only claim ūrbakhshī
313
usayn Zāhidī, “Bayān al -Asrār (Manuscript)”, n.d., 105, Ms. o. 3043/1, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz -i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī. We know from contemporaneous sources that the Barzishābādī Sufis, in contrast to the ūrbakhshīs, practiced the vocal method in their ẕikr sessions. 314
Ibid., 110–111. rom sources like Muʾaẕẕin’s f as well as later Ẕahabī writings, we know that Ẕahabīs, like the Safavi Sufis, practiced the vocal rather than silent ẕikr. 315
Zāhidī is silent about the purported master/disciple relationship between Shaykh Muʾmin and Pīr -i Pālāndūz. It is safe, however, to assume that these two figures were closely related in terms of their Sufi affiliations. Faghfoory misreads Byān in this regard (Mashhadī Sabzavārī, The Golden Chain, xxx.). 316
To see Dervish Muammad Kārindihī identified as Pīr -i Pālāndūz, see Shams al -dīn Ẕahabī Parvīzī, ẕkirt Al- Aliyāʾ, 1953, 130; Musin Imād Ardabīlī, snvī ẕkrt Al- sālikīn (Tehran: abʿ-i Kitāb, 1949), 43. rom there in Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 264–64; Istakhrī, Ul-i vvf , 363–64. This misidentification is easily explained by the prominence of the latter figure (Pīr -i Pālāndūz). His beautiful tomb is still a destination of pilgrimage adacent to the shrine of al -Riā, but the building was built, according to the date engraved on a white stone inside, in 985/1577. This is inconsistent with Kārindihī’s death date, which is, according to aīb, almost a half a century later at 1037/1627. either aīb nor ayrīzī refer to him as Pālāndūz. aīb explicitly mentions that this Dervish Muammad was a shoemaker (khffāf ) rather than a packsaddle-maker. See Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 346–48; Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 3: 1212. Zāhidī’s remarks suggest also cast doubt on this identification. In his remarks in Byān l-srār , Pīr-i Pālāndūz is implicitly associated with the ūrbakhshī order (Zāhidī, “Bayān al -Asrār (Manuscript),” 60–61, 111 and 128). We might conclude, then, that this is most likely another attempt of the Ẕahabīs to claim the heritage of the ūrbakhshī Sufis as their own. Shīrvānī avoids such conflation in his illustrated map of Sufi genealogies. See Zayn al- ʿĀbidīn Shīrvānī, Riyā l-Siyā, ed. āmid Rabbānī (Tehran: Kitābfurūrūshī -i Saʿdī, 1960). Unfor tunately, Algar takes this identification for granted, relying on pro- Ẕahabī narratives. See Hamid Algar, “ḎAHABĪYA,” Encyclopædia Iranica, December 15, 1993, http://iranica.com/articles/dahabiya-sufi-order-of-shiiteallegiance. 317
Shushtarī, jālis Al-mʾminīn, vols. 2: 156–57.
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shaykhs, but also go so far as to completely deny that such a rivalry has ever existed.318 This denial explains the otherwise-surprising appearance of ūrbakhshī treatises in the margins of
Sbʿ l-Masānī 319 by the Ẕahabī Shaykh aīb al -dīn Tabrīzī Isfahānī (d. 1108/1696) and the change of the author of Byān l-srār ’s name to usayn Ẕahabī, which allowed this important work to be claimed as a Ẕahabī piece of literature. 320
In any case, Zāhidī’s remarks on the prominence of ūrbakhshīs in Khurasan in the mid-seventeenth century are confirmed by hostile sources. The ūrbakhshiyya happen to be the only Sufi order specifically named in the anti-Sufi polemical works written in the second half of the seventeenth century. 321 Prominent scholars like Bashir and Algar downplay the importance of such statements as merely rhetorical exercises.322 Qumī’s remarks, however, are too specific to be brushed off as false rhetoric. In addition, there is much evidence for the
presence of ūrbakhshīs in Iran that has evaded these fine scholars of Sufism. or example, we know that an active khānaqāh existed near Sabzavār in the village of Sidīr until the late
318
In his introduction to the early edition of the f printed in Tabriz, the Ẕahabī activist and calligrapher Musin -i ālī , otherwise known as ʿImād al -uqarā (d. 1914), dismisses jālis l-ʾminīn’s account of the schism between ūrbakhshiyya and Ẕahabiyya as a lie fabricated by a fanatic nāsibī (enemy of the household of the Prophet) and criticizes Shīrvānī and Maʿūm ʿAli-shah quite harshly for repeating the same “nonsense” in their accounts. See Mashhadī Sabzavārī, The Golden Chain, xviii–xix. 319
See the three ūrbakhshi treatises on the margins of Sbʿ. (Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 120–140, 141–51 and 152 –220.). This was first printed in 1922 through the efforts of the aforementioned ʿImād al -Fuqara, along wit h Vaīd al -Awliyāʾ (d. 1955), the next Ẕahabī Shaykh. 320
The author’s name is transformed to “Shaykh usayn Ẕahabī,” and his remark on the prominence of ūrbakhshī order is erased from the “authorized” Ẕahabī version. See usayn Ẕahabī (sic), Byān l-Asrar (Tabriz, 1954), 83. This seems to be an agenda that was pursued by Shams al- dīn Parvīzī, himself a Ẕahabī. See his remarks in Ẕahabī Parvīzī, Ta ẕkirat Al- Aliyāʾ, 88. To his credit, Khavari cautions the readers of the unreliable nature of Parvīzī’s Ta ẕkirat al- Aliyā. See: Khāvarī, Ẕahabiyya, 304 note 1. 321
322
Qumī, Shish Risāl- yi ārsī , 303; Qumī, ft l- Akhyār , 202; pseudo-Ardabīlī, Ḥdīqt l-Shīʿ, vol. 2: 796.
Shahzad Bashir, Messianic Hopes and Mystical Visions : the Nrbkhshiyy Beteen edieval and Modern Islam, Studies in Comparative Religion (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003), 194. Algar, Hamid, "ūrbakhsh i yya," Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, and W .P. Heinrichs, Brill, 2011, Brill Online, RICE UNIVERSITY, 20 May 2011. http://www.brillonline.nl.ezproxy.rice.edu/subscriber/entry?entry=islam_SIM-5992.
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seventeenth century.323 Dervish Kamāl and Shaykh Muhammad Muʾmīn Sidīrī after him were
the last ūrbakhshī masters who operated in Sidīr. Sometime in the early eighteenth century, under the leadership of Mīr Muammad-taqī Khurāsānī (otherwise known as Shāhī), the
lineage transferred its center to Mashhad. As we will see in the next chapter, Shāhī is among a handful of Sufi masters that ayrīzī met during his lifetime. The latter praised Shāhī highly in his writings, saying that he was “renowned in every quarter of the earth and among the murshīds for those who seek guidance in the spiritual Path.”324 ayrīzī and other writers of biographical sources in which Shāhī’s name appears curiously suppress the name of the Sufi order with which he was associated. 325 In spite of this censorship, we know that he was a
master of the ūrbakhshī Sufi order. He appears in the ūrbakhshī lineage as a student of Muammad Muʾmīn Sidīrī from the very khānaqāh in Sidīr mentioned above .326
323
Shāmlū, Qi Al-khāqānī , 193–194. Although Shāmlū does not explicitly identify the center in this village as a ūrbakhshī one, the names match precisely the ūrbakhshī genealogies mentioned in later sources. See, for example, Shīrvānī, Riyā lSiyā, 336. rom there Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vol. 2: 321. This ūrbakhshī lineage is also mentioned in a unique manuscript in Tehran University’s collection. See “Silsila - yi Sidīriyya- yi ūrbakhshiyya- yi Hamadāniyya”, n.d., Ms. o. 4689/2, Central Library & Documentation Center, University of Tehran. This manuscript even extends the lineage beyond the late seventeenth century. It is obvious, however, that the ūrbakhshī masters abandoned the center at Sidīr for Mashhad. The ruins of this khānaqāh still exist in the village of Sidīr (nowadays, Istīr), known locally as the tomb of “Pīr -i Istīr.” According to the reports of eyewitnesses, there are three gravestones on which the names of six masters are inscribed. They are Shaykh ʿAli [Juvainī] (d. ?), Shaykh [Dervish] asan (d. ?), Shaykh [Dervish] Muammad -riā (d. ?), Shaykh [Dervish] Kamāl al-dīn [Sidīrī] (d. 1071), Shaykh Muhammad Muʾmīn [Sidīrī] (d. after 1076), and a certain Hāī Muʾmin (d. ?). These names match, almost perfectly, with what is recorded in the abovementioned genealogies. Local people consider the buried saints to be descendants of Kumail b. Ziyād, a close confidant of the first imam in esoteric matters, according to the Twelver tradition. or more information on this tomb visit: http://razavi-chto.ir/?portal=MainPortal&modules=content&ref=146 324
Abū al-Qāsim Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, ed. Muammad Khvāavī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Mawlā, 2004), vol. 3: 1220. 325
or example, ʿAbd al -abī Qazvīnī, in accordance with the strong anti -Sufi sentiments inherited from his teacher, Mullā Khalīl Qazvīnī, gives a detailed account of Shāhī’s miracles and exemplary piety and asceticism while going on to point out that “all the people of knowledge and nobility who met him and with whom I met mentioned that he never spoke as Sufis speak about their s uperstition, their technical vocabulary, their pretentions, and beliefs.” (Ibid., 86) 326
Shīrvānī, Riyā l-Siyā, 336. His source is probably “Silsila- yi Sidīriyya- yi ūrbakhshiyya- yi Hamadāniyya,” f. 2. This might in fact be the first evidence we have of the attempt by Ẕahabī authors to suppress the name of the ūrbakhshī order as they sought to assimilate its heritage as their own.
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In the early seventeenth century, prominent students from this khānaqah like Qāī
Asad Kūhpāʾī (d. 1048/1638) established another important center in Kāshān. 327 The overwhelmingly Shiʿi makeup of the population of both Sabzavār and Kāshān suggests that ūrbakhshī Sufis had made a smooth and easy transition to Twelver Shiʿism.328 We know that the khānaqāh at Kāshān was operational until 1076/1665 under Asad’s disciple, Mīrzā Muammad Ardabīlī Bīdgulī, also known as Muaqqiq (d. after 1076/1665). Sometime in the final decades of the seventeenth century, however, this center seems to have ceased to operate
as a khānaqah. The Sufi -ūrbakhshī literary tradition that was produced and preserved there, however, had a significant and lasting impact on later developments in the spiritual landscape of Iran. 329 This influence is especially evident in the writings of the arāqīs, two celebrated
religious scholars who lived much of their lives in Kāshān and who, as we will see in the final chapter, had access to this literature. In sum, to the extent that the primary sources give us an accurate picture of the situation of organized Sufism during the latter half of the seventeenth- and the early decades
of the eighteenth century in Iran, the ūrbakhshiyya are the only maor Sufi order known both to proponents and opponents of Sufism in the heartlands of the Safavid Empire. The rival
Barzishābādī branch, led by Muʾaẕẕin and aīb during most of this period, is mentioned only sporadically under general titles in Sufi sources. The new title of “Ẕahabiyya” emerged, as I 327
The tomb of Qāī Asad still exists in Kāshān. He was buried in his k hānaqah, most of which was razed in the early twe ntieth century to make space for a road proect. or more on Asad see arābādī Ifahānī, ẕkir- yi Nrābādī , 300. Asad’s ūrbakhshī lineage is recorded a work by his prominent disciple, Muaqqiq Ardabīlī (d. after 1076). See Ardabīlī Bīdgulī, “Taẕkirat alẔākirīn,” 90–91. 328
Perhaps nothing signifies the symbolic importance of Kāshān as the ideal urban center in Safavid imagination than the choice to bury the great Shāh ʿAbbās, the Safavid monarch most revered by Iranians even up to the present day, in that city. 329
Although much of this heritage is now lost to us, extant works enable us to get a glimpse of its vibrancy and intellectual rigor. One of these is the dīvān (collection of poems) of Qāī Asad , which has survived and is presently being prepared for publication by Afshin Atefi. Three other works by Muaqqiq were at the final stage of publication when I was preparing the final draft of this manuscript.
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have argued, only in the early eighteenth century. The consolidation of the order under this new title, I believe, is an important indication of a new identity that emerged as a result of a
synthesis between the old Kubravī Sufi ethos and the new Safavid Twelver Shiʿism aggressively propagated by the ʿulama. As such, I believe the so-called Ẕahabī order was going through an important transition
at this period that was marked by a “crisis of identity” in terms of its connection to Sufi tradition, the sources of legitimacy upon which it drew, and its relationship to the emerging
hierocracy of Twelver ʿulama. It is important to emphasize the “Safavid” nature of this crisis. That is to say, I am not talking simply about love for the twelve imams, a prevalent marker of the pre-Safavid and early Safavid era that Marshal Hodgson aptly called ʿAlid loyalty. 330 Nor am I speaking only of the basic dichotomy that cast Safavid Twelver discourse as the polar opposite of (Ottoman and Uzbek) Sunni discourses—a dichotomy in which tbrrā, disassociation from other companions of the Prophet, was a necessary accompaniment to
tvllā, love of the imams.331 Rather, I am talking about the urgent need for a new discourse of legitimacy to supplant a Sufi discourse rooted in the Sunni past—an alternative discourse based on Twelver hadith sources and the discursive tradition built upon those sources by
Twelver ʿulama. ortunately, a number of important works written precisely at this time provide us with a detailed picture of Sufis’ innovative attempts to legitimize and authenticate their tradition on the basis of a new canon: the four early Shiʿi compendiums of hadith 332 along 330
Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2: 446. Also see Matthew S. Melvin- Koushki, “The Quest for a Universal Science: The ccult Philosophy of āʾin al -Dīn Turka Ifahānī (1369 -1432) and Intellectual Millenarianism in Early Timurid Iran” (Yale University, 2012), 69–71. Other scholars have called this blurring of the boundaries between Shiʿism and Sunnism “Twelver Sunnism.” See Rasūl Jaʿfariyān, ārīkh-i shyyʿ dr Īrān : A Āghā tā Qrn-i Dahum-i Hijrī , Chāp-i 1. (Qom: Anarīyān, 1996), vol. 2: 726. 331
This phenomenon was mostly known to the Sunni world under the title of raf, or “reection,” with the Shi’a labeled rāfiī . See Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr - yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , 32–36. 332
These are al-Kāfī by Kulaynī, hẕīb and n lā r by Ibn Babūya and l-Istibār by ūsī .
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with other, less universally-accepted, hadith compilations that they found helpful. Such attempts necessarily involved the partial or complete demolition of problematic aspects of the previous narrative of sacred history, in which Sunni sources of hadith, Sunni scholars, and Sunni Sufi shaykhs were the primary sources used in the construction of an authentic religious discourse. As a result, many of the old markers of identity for Sufi orders, which had informed the connections and distinctions between Sufi discourse and other learned Islamic discourses as well as between rival Sufi orders, became increasingly irrelevant. New markers of identity were needed, and as they were invented by innovative Sufi masters of the time, they came to play important roles in defining the emerging religious identity of Sufi orders, including that of the Ẕahabiyya. Most of these new markers connected Sufi discourse to the Sufi elements of
Safavid sacred history (going back to the foundational figure of afī al-dīn Ardabīlī) or to sources of Twelver tradition that lent themselves to being used as evidence of the authentically Twelver nature of Sufi discourse. In order to demonstrate more concretely how these new priorities and markers of identity manifested themselves in works written by Sufis as well as the Sufi-minded ʿulama, I turn now to an analysis of a number of important texts that, I believe, are good representatives of the abovementioned changes during the seventeenth century. The works address here are
(1) a commentary on the thirtieth section of the Qur’an by Shaykh Muʾmin Mashhadī most likely written during the early decades of the century; (2) Ẕāhidī’s Byān l-srār (written circa
1058) which I mentioned briefly above; and (3) Muʾaẕẕin’s f- yi ʿAbbāsī , written before 1075/1666 during the reign of ʿAbbās II.
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Published two decades ago in Mashhad, this is a commentary on the thirtieth (the final)
part of the Qurʾan (known as ʿamma juz). The author identifies himself on the first page as Shaykh Muʾmin Mashhadī. 333 The work is written in Persian and dedicated to Shah ʿAbbās I on the occasion of his travel to Mashhad. 334 The style and the content of the work suggest that it
was written in the early seventeenth century, and its mention of Shāh Abbās’ coming to Mashhad probably references the shah’s famed ourney on foot from Isfahan to Mashhad to visit the shrine of the eighth imam in 1010/1601. 335 A reading of the text quickly reveals that its author is an erudite Sufi shaykh. Although his references to Twelver Shiʿism as the firqa- yi nājiy, or “the saved sect,” indicates that he adhered to Twelverism at least nominally, a closer examination of the content of book reveals that the author had a long way to go in order to be regarded as a truly Shiʿi author by the standards of mid-seventeenth century Isfahan. The commentary, as a whole, is heavily based upon an important work of tafsir by Zamakhsharī (d. 539/1144), that is, al-Kshshāf . It quotes
Sunni canonical sources extensively, rarely making use of specifically Shiʿi sources of hadith. The author’s knowledge of Shiʿi exegetic tradition is superficial, and his lack of reference to the canonical Shiʿi hadith collections is a strong marker that he speaks from the vantage point of a
333
There is a possibility that this Shaykh Muʾmin is the same Shaykh Muʾmin of whom we spoke earlier, i.e., the prominent ūrbakhshi master of the early seventeenth century. Since there are several people called Shaykh Muʾmin in this period in Khurasan, however, this remains a conjecture. It should be noted , though, that the title of Muʾmin (which is used to frequently by individuals in this period as part of their name) could indicate a recent conversion into the official version of Shiʿism. The word muʾmin in Shiʿi literature , when used in contrast to Muslim , often refers to a person who is a true believer in Twelverism in contrast to a Sunni, who is only a nominal Muslim. 334
Ibid. Given this dedication, the date that appears at the end of the manuscript (1089/1678) must a mistake or a reference to the date in which this particular manuscript was copied from the original. 335
The symbolic significance of this trip occupied Iranian imagination for centuries to come. See, for example ʿAbbās ibn Muammad Riā Qummī, fātī Al- jinān (Beirut: Dār Iyāʾ al -Turās al-ʿArabī, n.d.).
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Sunni-dominated educational curriculum and its relevant intellectual world. 336 The network of authorities and references brought up throughout the work to support the points raised is similar to that of Sufi works written in Central Asia in the mid- and late sixteenth century. As such, the work belongs to a nascent stage of the transformation of Sufism in Iran, one in which Sufi teachings remain deeply embedded in traditional Sunni frameworks of reference despite nominal adherence to Safavid Twelverism. Soon, however, a different kind of Sufi writing appeared in the new cultural environment of Iran, especially in major cities that contained larger proportions of Twelvers or were more central to the Safavid agenda. This type of writing is marked by a conscious effort to draw upon the broader hadith literature associated with Shiʿism. Byān l- Asrār, of whose author I spoke earlier, is representative of this development.
Byān is written as a commentary on ib l-Shriʿ v iftā l -Ḥqīq. The latter work is comprised of one hundred chapters written from an esoteric perspective on the spiritual levels and qualities of the wayfarer. The work is heavily laden with Sufi vocabulary.
Within learned Shiʿi circles, the earliest appearance of content that appears later in the work that came to be known as the ibā is found in al- Amālī by Ibn Bābūya (d. 381/ 991), better known as Shaykh adūq.337 Ibn Bābūya makes no mention of a book called ibā, and the
essential figure in the transmission of this content appears to be the well-known Sufi, Shaqīq 336
Several examples of the many references to Sunni tafsīr works are as follows: Muammad Muʾmin Mashhadī, fsīr -i mmd ʾmin shhdī Br Jʾ -i Sīm-i Qrʾān-i jīd, ed. ʿAlī Muaddis, Mamūʿa - yi Mīrās-i Īrān va Islām. (Tehran : Markaz- i Intishārāt-i ʿIlmī va arhangī, 1983), 14, 30, 61, 149, 171, and 172. 337
Muammad ibn ʿAlī Ibn Bābawayh al -Qummī, Amālī -i Shykh Ṣdq, ed. Muammad Bāqir Kamaraʾī, Chāp -i 4. (Tehran: Kitābkhāna- yi Islāmiyya, 1362), 638–640. Muammad Bāqir ibn Muammad Taqī Malisī, Biār Al-nār , ed. ʿAbd al -Zahrāʾ Alawī (Tehran: Dār al -Kutub al-Islāmiyya, 1376), vol. 1, 32.
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al-Balkhī (d. 193/809), who ascribes it not to Jaʿfar al-ādiq, but to bʿ hl al-ʿilm (some learned people).338 It is not quite obvious what happened between the eleventh- and the thirteenth
century, when ʿAlī b. Tāvūs al -illī (d. 663/1265) not only mentions the name of the book, ibā, in his work entitled al- Amān, but also confidently ascribes it to Jaʾfar al-ādiq, the sixth
imam, strongly recommending that devout Shiʿites take the book as their company during travels.339 Despite this mention and recommendation, the work seems to have been unknown to all but a few Sufi-minded religious scholars of Shiʿism. It was not until the advent of the Savafids that the work began to circulate widely among Twelver Sufis of the time. ibā
provided Shiʿi Sufis as well as Sufi-minded Shiʿi religious scholars with an important source for authorizing and legitimizing their teachings based on what they considered to be an
“authentically” Shiʿi work. A brief look at the number of manuscript copies of the work preserved in libraries in Iran demonstrates its importance. Only two extant copies of the book can be dated to the sixteenth century, and not a single copy dating to previous centuries has survived. The situation changes dramatically when it comes to the eleventh/seventeenth century, as fifty-seven manuscripts can be dated, precisely or approximately, to that century, and twenty-five to the subsequent one (See the Figure below).340 This is a huge and dramatic
338
Although I was not able to trace the reception of ibā in early Sunni-Sufi learned tradition, based upon a manuscript I was able to examine through Houghton Library’s online collection (dated 711/1311) as well as on the above information about the appearance of some parts of the book in early Shiʿi works on the authority of Shaqīq Balkhī, it appears that at least a nuc leus of what later came to be known as ibāh was in fact Shaqīq al -Balkhī’s contribution. or Houghton Library’s manuscript see Shaqīq ibn Ibrāhim Balkhī, “Mibā Al-sharīʿa Wa-miftā Al-aqīqa / min Taānīf al -Shaqīq al-Balkhī”, 711, MS Arab 124, Hougton Library, Harvard University, http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:FHCL.HOUGH:1580067. 339
Raī al-Dīn Abī al -Qāsim ʿAlī ibn Mūsá Ibn āwūs, al- Amān min Akhār Al-sfār W-al-mān (al-aaf: Manshūrāt al -Mabaʿa alaydariyya, 1951), 91. 340
I have consulted the massive and comprehensive index of the manuscripts recently published by the majlis under Mustafa Dirayati’s supervision as the source for this chart. See: Muafá Dirāyatī, ihristvār-i Dastnivisht-hā- yi Īrān (Dinā)., Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Kitābkhāna, Mūzih va Markaz -i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī, 1389), vol. 9, 656-664.
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increase that demonstrates the important role the work played in the cultural and religious landscape of the second half of the Safavid rule. 341
Date
Number of surviving manuscripts
1500-1550
0
1551-1590
2
1591-1640
8
1640-1688
30
1689-1737
11
1738-1785
2
The question of who wrote the ibā does not concern me here. Rather, the importance of Byān lies in the fact that it represents one of the earliest examples of Sufi writings in which authors begin to focus upon traditions of the Twelve imams rather than those of the Prophet, his companions, and the early and foundational figures of Sufism. That is to say, Byān can be seen as an early example of an emerging Sufi discourse validated through an alternative set of authoritative sources. Accounts of the imams effectively become the new 341
It is important to mention the role that a noteworthy Arab Shiʿi scholar of the early Safavid era plays in this regard. Zayn alDīn al- Jubāʾī al-ʿAmilī (d. 966/1558), otherwise known as the Second Martyr, appears to be the link through whom Sufi authors of the seventeenth century come to know ibā. The author of Byān for example, in his introduction, states that it was Zayn al-Dīn who named the collection ibā l-Shriʿā v iftā l-Ḥqīqa, even though he does not question that the content of the book is attributable to the sixth imam . Zāhidī, “Bayān al-Asrār (Manuscript),” 3. There is also a unique manuscript of ibā copied in 1082 by none other than our own Muʾaẕẕin Khurāsānī. In this manuscript, the author claims that he copies from an original that was penned by the Second Martyr himself. See Dānishgāh -i Tehran. Dānishkada - yi Maʿqūl va Manqūl. and Ziyāʾ alDīn Ibn Yūsuf Shīrāzī, Fihrist-i Kitābkhān-yi Madrasa- yi ʿĀli-i Siphsālār (Tehran: Chāpkhāna-i Dānishgāh, 1315), vol. 1, 308 -310. Zayn al-Dīn had strong Sufi leanings that are reflected in some of his writings, especially his Munyat al-rīd. His scholarly credentials, and especially his tragic execution by Ottoman authorities f or being a Shiʿa, gave him an impeccable aura of sainthood and authority. Sufi authors in Safavid Iran took advantage of the combination of Sufi- Shiʿi elements in his character and writings as an important source of legitimacy for their teachings.
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hagiographica. One of the most active Sufis of the time who contributed significantly to the formation of this emerging discourse was Muʾaẕẕin Khurāsānī, the prominent learned Sufi master of the latter half of the seventeenth century in Isfahan.
Muammad ʿAlī Mashhadī (d. 1078/1668) was in itiated into the Kubravī -Barzishābādī Sufi order and trained by Shaykh ātam Zarāvandī, and after the latter’s death he emerged as one of the most influential Sufi figures of his time in Iran, especially in Mashhad and Isfahan. Biographical information about him in contemporary chronicles represents him as a popular
and charismatic shaykh and a devout lover of the family of the Prophet. Valī -qulī Shāmlū, a Sufi-minded chronicler of late Savafid times, provides the most extensive report on Muʾaẕẕin in his Qi l-khāqānī.342 According to Shāmlū, in the year 1652, Muʾaẕẕ in left for hajj along with a large group of pilgrims from across Khurasan, and the author notes that he sponsored many
poor people on this ourney: “This humble one has heard from a reliable source that after this peerless shaykh returned from that trip, he owed fourteen hundred tuman. In a short while, it was granted to him as a freely bestowed gift from the Royal Treasury ( khān- yi ʿāmira).”343 According to the same source, he made a second hajj trip in 1655, and on his way back home,
during the reign of Shāh ʿAbbās II, he stayed in the capitol for an extended period of time. His charismatic personality and erudition soon made him a prominent memb er of elite society in 342
Babayan gives a partial report of this section of Qi in Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 453–455.
343
Shāmlū, Qi Al-khāqānī , 187. Translation from Babayan. Here Babayan mistranslates the term “khazāna - yi ʿāmira” to “the Royal Treasury.” Although there is no doubt that in specific contexts the term can indeed be translated as Babayan has done, the context of this passage leaves no doubt that what the author has in mind is “the Divine Treasury.” See: Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 428 and 454. Compare it to Shāmlū, Qi Al-khāqānī , 185. n a completely different register, it is quite entertaining to compare Shāmlū’s report of Muʾaẕẕin’s ha trip and the financial problems entailed with Mīr Lawī and ʿIām’s version referenced previously. Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al Madī (Manuscript),” f. 11a. ʿIām al-dīn Muammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al-Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 126a– 129a.
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Isfahan as well as a popular figure among the populace as a prayer leader and a preacher. His
erudition made it possible for him to forge connections with some of the ʿulama, like ay Kāshānī, as well as members of Royal Court, including the king himself. 344 Due to his success in forging connections with prominent political and religious figures of his time and his popularity as a charismatic Sufi master, he became a primary target of the anti-Sufi campaign. Mīr Lawī portrays him as a skilled charlatan who fooled people into giving him large sums of money by fabricating fantastic stories of the miracles and dreams of the imams he had experienced.345 He is called nothing less than “a human Satan,” “the leader of
the caravan of misguidedness” ( pīshāhng-i kārivān-i lālt ) and “infidel” (kāfir ). Lawī’s frustration with Muʾaẕẕin’s popularity is clearly reflected in the following remarks: “[Isn’t] there someone out there more righteous, more knowledgeable, or more ascetic than this Shaykh Muammad ʿAlī? Which one of the ʿulama, flā (knowledgeable men) , or ʿbbād (worshippers or ascetics) of the time has been the subject of such great interest by the people compared to him? Some insightful people who know the situation of that leader of the caravan of misguidedness ( lālt ) know that this destroyer of religion busies himself with nothing but making accusations (iftirā) about God, the Prophet, and the immaculate imams, and that he occupies himself with songs and illicit music ( ghināʾ) in the mosque; and even though many among the ust believers (ʿdl-i mʾminīn) and reliable people of religion ( siqāt -i ahl-i dīn) have officially signed a document indicating his kufr (infidelity), not one of his deceived followers turned their back on him, rather they grew even more interested in that satan afterwards … what business do the common folk have with the teachings of the ʿulama?” 346 344
In this report he is said to be present in a special session convened b y ʿAbbās II to meet with two prominent dervishes from the ttoman lands, Dervish Mustafa and Dervish Manūn who requested to meet with their Safavi counterparts, Mulla Raab ʿAlī and Dervish Muammad āli Lunbānī , who had just received grants from the monarch. In this courtly assembly, Mulla Musin ay is also said to have been present. Muammad āhir Vaīd al -Zamān Qazvīnī, ʿAbbās-nām, ed. Ibrahim Dihgan (Arāk: Dāvūdī, 1951), 255. 345
A more extensive and detailed account of charges of financial fr aud and other accusations can be found at ʿIām al -dīn Muammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al -Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 126a–129a. 346
Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al -Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 10a–11a. Also in Mīr Lawī, “Arbaʿīn,” 17. Babayan’s understanding and translation of this passage is flawed, leading to unwarranted statements about Muʾaẕẕin’s religious outlook . Instead of “making accusations (iftirāʾ) about God, the Prophet, and the immaculate imams” she has “he made higher claims than God, the Prophet, and the immaculate Imams.” Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 452. This mistranslation paves the way for her to argue for a non- existing “ghuluvv” that has infused the religiosity of men like him (Ibid., 455).
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The picture reflected in Muʾaẕẕin’s own writings, however, is quite different. Two substantial pieces of his work survive. First and foremost is a substantial work on Sufism titled
f- yi ʿAbbāsī , written around the year 1666 and, as the title suggests, dedicated to the
Safavid monarch, Shah ʿAbbās II.347 Second is a collection of his poems, his Dīvān.348 Whereas the bulk of the poems in the latter work belongs to the early years of his career as a Sufi master prior to his extended stay in Isfahan, 349 the former work belongs to his Isfahan period, which spanned the final decade of his life. The picture of his religious outlook reflected in the Dīvān is that of a devout Shiʿa, a passionate lover of the family of the Prophet and the twelve imams
(whom he understands in an unmistakably Twelver Shiʿi way), as well as a genuine Sufi who does not shy away from defending controversial practices such as smāʾ (Sufi musical dance) and the vocal congregational sessions of ẕikr. urthermore, he frequently and explicitly refers
to his beloved master, Shaykh ātam. In line with most traditional Sufi poetry, the central Sufi notion of love or ʿishq, is emphasized. In his case, however, he gives this central concept an
overwhelmingly Shiʿi tone by emphasizing the primacy of the love of the imams and its importance for embarking and continuing through the spiritual Path or sulūk.350 Among all the
347
f a has been printed twice in Iran; once in the early twentieth century and the other in twenty-first century. It has also recently found its way into English thanks to aghfoory’s translation. Mashhadī Sabzavārī, The Golden Chain. My references here will be primarily to two manuscripts from the Minasian Collection and the Majlis Library, although I will occasionally use aghfoory’s translation when I quote from the manuscript. aghfoory’s excellent translation is based, unfortunately, on an early twentieth century print edition of the work which has been “corrected” by Ẕahabī editors. 348
Muammad ʿAlī Mashhadī, “Dīvān”, n.d., Ms. o. 8983/1, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz-i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī.
349
I found no mention of Isfahan or figures and events associated with his adventures in the post-hajj period in the poems. It is clear that some poems recorded in the Dīvān belong to the early years of his career as a master of this Sufi order (For example, see ibid., f. 120a). This particular poem, in wh ich he mourns his master, was most likely written soon after the death of his master, Shaykh ātam. Another ghazal refers to the year 1062/1651, before his first hajj trip (See: Ibid., f. 115a). The Majlis manuscript is incomplete, though (See: Ibid., f. 135a). It is possible that a complete version includes some poetry that was written after his pilgrimage to Mecca. 350
Ibid.
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imams, the figure of the eighth Imam, ʿAlī b. Mūsā al-Riā, the patron of the Ẕahabī order looms large in his poetry.
In contrast to his Dīvān, Muʾaẕẕin’s f- yi ʿAbbāsī clearly reflects the influence of the religious, intellectual, and political environment of Isfahan . It is a major and innovative contribution to the project of shifting the foundations of old Sufi teachings to the newly-
developed and expanding platform of Shiʿi hadith literature. 351 A deeper look into the content of the book provides us with a unique window through which we can understand and analyze the dramatic transformations of Sufism in this critical period. Before getting into details, I would like to make two general observations about the content of the book. First, the author is clearly preoccupied throughout the work with responding to the increasing attacks of the anti-Sufi campaign, which was at its peak when he wrote the book. In fact, the attacks constitute the very rison d’être of penning the f, as
Muʾaẕẕin mentions in his opening remarks.352 The main accusation that Muʾaẕẕin seems to be worried about countering is that of being Sunni. To counter such “false accusations,” he argues that the scarcity of Shiʿi traditions in mainstream Sufi sources is, for the most part, a result of the practice of taqiyya or “dissimulation.” In writing the f, Muʾaẕẕin claims, he is making
the first attempt in Shiʿi literature to demonstrate how the basics of the Sufi path and its
351
Seyyed Hossein Nasr was the first scholar of Persian Sufism to have emphasized the importance of the f a couple of decades ago. See asr, “Spiritual Movements, Philosophy and Theology in the Safavid Period,” 663– 65. Perhaps based on his suggestion, Mohammad Faghfoory, a close friend of Nasr, translated the work into English. Although my analysis of the f is based on two ma nuscripts that I examined for the purpose of this research, I have used aghfoory’s good translation in my direct quotations of the work, with minor corrections. 352
In the introduction, the author specifically points out that he was compelled to write the book because of the onslaught of a fierce anti-Sufi campaign that was initiated by the “ignorant” who know nothing of the exoteric as well as the esoteric knowledge. See Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 11.
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precepts and practices are fully rooted in, and in compliance with, the teachings of the infallible imams.353 What follows is an extensive discussion in twelve chapters (the number is
not a coincidence) in which he draws upon Shiʿi hadith sources like Kulaynī’s Ul l-kāfī, adūq’s al-jālis and Īʿtiqādāt , Sayyid Raī’s Nahj al-blāgh, ūsī’s al- Amālī and Ibn Abī Jumhūr al-Asāʾī’s ʿAvāli l-Lʾālī.354 This takes us to the second striking feature of the work, that is, the ubiquitous presence of copious quotations from Shiʿi had ith collections as well from the writings of well-known Sufi-minded Twelver scholars of the past. This clearly reflects a period in Safavid religious history that, as I discussed in chapter one, is marked by intense scholarly activity in hadith studies. It also clearly speaks to the abovementioned urgent need of Sufi authors to develop an alternative framework of reference to legitimize their teachings.
Shāmlū’s astute and extremely important remarks about Muʾaẕẕin, in which he mentions that the latter was busy during his years of residence in Isfahan with the study of hadith literature, should be understood in this context. 355
Moving beyond the general remarks above, Muʾaẕẕin’s prologue contains a number of extremely important points about the situation of the so-called Ẕahabī order at this time. irst, much like the author of Byān, he writes as both an affiliate and proponent of the Safavid Sufi order as well as a member of the specific Sufi tradition he has inherited from his master. Neither in his Dīvān nor in f does Muʾaẕẕin use the term Ẕahabiyya in reference to the Sufi order to which he belongs.356 Rather, he employs a number of general epithets like silsil- yi 353
Ibid., 11–15.
354
Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, 228–48.
355
Shāmlū, Qi Al-khāqānī , vol. 2: 187.
356
Contrary to what later Ẕahabī sources would have us believe, the designation Ẕahabiyya does not occur even once in the entire book. The Minasian collection manuscript, which has been my primary source throughout this research, does not include the epithet Ẕahabiyya where it is apparently inserted in later redactions (See the margins on Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ lsānī , 11. compare to Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa-yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 15.). A similar case can be found in the text of
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khā-yi muqaddasa-yi nabaviyya (the special, sacred, and prophetic order) and rīq- yi mriyy- yi mkht- yi mrtviyy (the unique, laudable and ʿAlid path). The term
murtaaviyya (ʿAlid) also appears in his Dīvān as a title for this arīqa.357 He emphasizes that genealogically his silsila “is connected to the pure caliphate-foundation house (khānidān-i khilāft bnyān) of the Safavids” and boasts of being trusted as a “gatekeeper” and a “treasurer” of the secrets of this royal Sufi order.358 To make this connection clearer, he provides a chain of transmission that connects him an d the order to the legendary figure of Shaykh afī al-dīn
Ardabīlī as a supplement to the primary Barzishābādī chain of spiritual transmission, which he lays out in detail.359 This dual lineage, at the same time that it provides him with a way to distinguish his lineage from that of the Safavid order, also provides with a much-needed source of authentication and legitimacy.
Muʾaẕẕin’s attempt to connect his spiritual lineage through an additional alternative line to the Safavid order is by no means a unique phenomenon, as we saw with the case of
Byān. Irrespective of the historical value of such claims, there is no doubt that forging such
connections, or emphasizing existing ones, were valuable and indispensable to a Sufi order’s survival in the new Shiʿi milieu of Iran. Karbalāʾī, who belongs to another Barzishābādī branch Sbʿ l-Ma sānī itself (See Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 5, where the term “Ẕahabiyya” is mentioned, and compare it to the manuscript: Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “Sabʿ al -Masānī (Manuscript),” f. 5a.). As for the term silsilat al- ẕhb, there is only one place in the entire work where it appears. This, however, is in the middle of a quote from the famous Central Asian Naqshbandi Shaykh, Khāa Muhammad Pārsā (d. 865/1460), in which the latter, in accordance to the traditional aqshbandi usage, makes use of the term as an honorary one for the chain of transmission from al -Riā to the Prophet (See: Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 203–204.). Given the fact that we kno w that Barzishābādī was in fact a student of Pārsa for a long period of time, it is quite normal to see Pārsa’s usage of the term to be adopted beyond the aqshbandī lineage by the Barzishābādī shaykhs. 357
Mashhadī, “Dīvān,” f. 128a.
358
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 10. The exact phrase appears in Shāmlū, Qi l-khāqānī , vol. 2, 186, which indicates that Shāmlū had access to the book– a confirmation not only of Shāmlū’s mystical proclivities but also of the well-received position of Muʾaẕẕin’s work among the elite members of the Safavid house. 359
Ibid., 208–09. Also see the Malis’ manuscript: Muammad ʿAlī Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Malis MS)”, n.d., f. 27b–30a, Ms. o. 17760, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz -i Asnād-i Malis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī. The claimed link between Muʾaẕẕin’s primary Kubravī lineage and the Savafid lineage is Shāh Qasim Anwār (d. 837/1434), a student of Shaykh afī’s son, Shaykh Badr al-Dīn. The figure of Shayh afī remained beyond the reach of ev en the most outspoken critiques of Sufism.
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called the Lalaʾī after its founder, Sayyid Badr al-dīn Amad Lalaʾī (d. . 912/1506), claims that Shah Ismaʿīl spared this branch in Tabriz from persecution by Qizilbāsh zealots partly d ue to his awareness of the connection between the two orders. 360 The same connections helped the
ūrbakhshī Sufi order flourish in Khurasan and Central Iran, especially in Kāshān and araq. Using general epithets like nabaviyya, murtaaviyya and raviyya (which refer explicitly to the Prophet, ʿAli, and the eighth imam, consecutively), and paying lip service to the Safavid Sufi order by pointing out the abovementioned connections, not only indicate the formation of a new identity based on the personality and teachings of the Twelve imams, but also its compliance with the hegemonic Sufi discourse of the Safavids. As we transition from the prologue to the content of the book, we find a long introduction (muqaddima) that is divided into five uneven chapters that together constitute more than one-third of the whole book. The author starts with a discussion of the meaning of the terms Sufi and taawwuf . Little here departs from the traditional Sufi discourse of past
masters. The traectory of the chapter changes significantly, however, as Muʾaẕẕin embarks upon an explanation of how the majority of those who are called Sufis and dervishes in his day
are “impostors.” After spending nearly ten pages enumerating the vices and dangers of such people, he follows with a lengthy discussion of what constitutes a “real” Sufi, what attributes and qualifications a Sufi must have, and how scarce such people are. For more than sixty pages he quotes numerous traditions, primarily from the imams but also from the Prophet. In every case, the original Arabic text is accompanied by its Persian translation, an important indicator of the kind of audience the author had in mind while writing the work. Most of these traditions
from Shiʿi hadith collections talk about the extraordinary spiritual accomplishments and
360
Karbalāʾī Tabrīzī, Rāt l- Jinān v Jnnāt l- Jnān, vol. 2: 105 and 159.
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qualifications of real “muʾmins” or true Shiʿ ites. or Muʾaẕẕin, however, they refer to real Sufis since, we are told, one cannot be a true Shiʿ ite without following the path of Sufism and vice versa. Copious quotations from Twelver sources followed by extensive discussion of how they affirm the validity of the Sufi path is the main strategy of the author in providing his sketch of a prototype that is at once an ideal Sufi and an ideal Shiʿi.
After a cursory discussion of the two main precepts of the faith, i.e., tawid (“the unification of God”) and mʿād (“Resurrection”), the rest of sections in the introduction are dedicated to explaining the Sufi perspective on that most crucial of doctrines, the imām
(Imamate). A lengthy eulogy for each imam follows. The brevity of the author on the subects of tawid and mʿād versus the length at which he treats the Imamate is a clear indication of the primary intellectual issues of the time. In his conclusion of this part, and after clarifying
the meaning of “imam” from a Sufi point of view, the author presents us with a general discussion of how Sufis trace their teachings back to the imams, after which he lays out his own spiritual genealogy connecting him to the imams and, through them, to the Prophet.361
Throughout this long introduction, Muʾaẕẕin takes advantage of every opportunity to emphasize the importance to Sufis of observing Shariʿa, again a clear indication of the sort of allegations he faced.362 The main body of the book starts with a lengthy discussion of knowledge. Again, I take this as a sign of the primacy and importance of the issue of religious knowledge and
epistemology for Muʾaẕẕin. Shiʿism has concerned itself with the issue of religious knowledge,
361
362
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 208–09.
Ibid., 183–191. At the end, he specifically mentions that a group called mlāid claim that the burden of observing the law is taken off of the accomplished mystics. ot surprisingly, Muʾaẕẕin categorically reects this claim. The term malāida (Sing. mlid) is usually used in classical sources to refer to Ismailis, but in this context it might also refer to the Nqtvī movement that had been suppressed by Shāh ʿAbbās ust decades before f was written.
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its nature, and its authentic sources from the early times. Shiʿi ʿulama have long emphasized the imams as the only valid sources of religious knowledge, the sole inheritors of the prophetic gnosis, and the treasurers of divine secrets. It has been long noted that al-Kāfī , the most celebrated and authoritative among the four Shiʿi canons of hadith, begins with a chapter titled kitāb l-ʿaql va-l-jahl (The Book of Intellect and Ignorance). Having noted this, I believe there is something more going on in f and its author’s concern with knowledg e. The
debate over “approved” sources and methods of attaining gnosis or maʿrifa, as I mentioned in the concluding section of the previous chapter, was at the center of the battle between Sufis
and the ʿulama over the attempt to define the basic framework of Twelver orthodoxy. Whereas the Sufi considers intuitive unmediated knowledge, gained by purifying the heart through bodily mortification and mental meditation, to be the true and authentic religious knowledge, the madrasa scholar disdains such a conception, emphasizing disciplinary discurs ive knowledge as the only true religious knowledge. The stakes were incredibly high. Whoever won the battle of definition and gained the authority to define what is and is not a legitimate source of religious knowledge and how such knowledge can be attained, could effectively dominate and control religious discourse at the expense of rival claimants. As such, it should not surprise us that this issue was constantly debated between pro-Sufi and anti-Sufi authors. Knowledge, then, is the subject of one of the most extensive discussions of Tuhfa.363
This is why Muʾaẕẕin insists on talking about Sufism as a “science” and highlights a dichotomy between formal disciplinary fields of knowledge (ʿ lm-i rasmiyya), in which reasoning plays an essential role in constructing arguments, and what he calls the real
sciences (ʿlm-i qīqiyy). The latter, for him, is nothing but the “science of Sufism” (ʿilm-i 363
Ibid., 212–39.
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tvvuf ), and it is only by mastering the latter that a drop of the unfathomable ocean of Divine gnosis can be distilled in the heart. In talking about Sufism as a science, Muʾaẕẕ in aligned himself not only with a long tradition of learned Sufism364 but also with some of the
respected Sufi-minded Twelver religious scholars, like his contemporary ay, his teacher adrā, and the (much earlier) respected Lebanese religious scholar, the Second Martyr. The latter’s Munyat al-rīd is among the most-cited works in Sufi treatises of this period. A favorite paragraph from this work that is frequently referenced by Sufis and Sufi-minded religious scholars in regards to the above-mentioned classification of the branches of knowledge deserves to be quoted in full here: After learning the exoteric sciences and all that earlier scholars have compiled in their books such as [rules] for daily prayers, fasting, recitation of the Qur’an and other prayers, there are other things the learning of which is necessary for a scholar. For, in addition to the supererogatory rites, obligatory rituals and duties that are expected of every individual who reaches the age of adolescence (mukallaf ) to observe are not limited to the ones compiled by jurisprudents. Rather, there are sciences beyond them and learning them is more essential and observing them more important. They are also subject of great debate and controversy. They include [the science of] purification of the soul from vicious habits and traits such as pride, bigotry, jealousy and hatred or other poisonous characteristics that have been discussed in relevant sciences … It is mandatory for everyone to learn these sciences and put them to practice. These are duties and obligations that cannot be found in the books of jurisprudence or discussions of [the laws of] transaction and rent and the like. In order to acquire the knowledge of these sciences every individual who reaches the age of adolescence (mukallaf) is expected to seek scholars of the truth (ʿlm- yi qīqt ) and read books they have written in these fields. There is no pride more destructive for a divinely learned man than his preoccupation with the formal sciences and his negligence of his own soul and struggle to earn God’s pleasure, Blessed and Exalted is He.365 364
References to Sufism as a branch of knowlege or ʿilm go back as early as eleventh century in works like Huvīrī’s Kshf ljb and Abdullāh Ansārī’s nāil l-Sāʾirīn. Later on, Ghazālī divided knowledge into the categories of exoteric and esoteric and divided the latter into ʿilm al -muʾāmalāt and ʿilm al -mukāshafāt. With the emergence of Ibn ʿArabī, the latter division expanded significantly and resulted in the establishment of a distinctly Sufi metaphysical school of thought, usually referred to as al-ʿilm bi- Allāh or ʿilm īlāhī in contrast to ʿilm mnāil l-ākhir or simply ʿ ilm al-manāil that referred to what Ghazālī called ʿilm l-mʿāmlāt . Further research is necessary to lay out exactly how all the abovementioned categories overlapped and interacted. 365
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 238–239. I have used aghfoory’s translation here, with minor corrections. See Mashhadī Sabzavārī, The Golden Chain, 103–104. Originally in Zayn al- Dīn ibn ʿAlī Shahīd al -Thānī, Munyat Al-
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…[T]hen after complete knowledge of exoteric sciences (ʿilm l- āhir ) [the seeker of knowledge] moves forward to learn the real sciences ( l-ʿlm l-qīqiyy) and the true disciplines (l- fnn l-qqiyy). Indeed, these are the kernel of the sciences and the essence of all that is known. Through these sciences one can attain the stations of those who were brought nigh to God and reach the station, as those [before you] who have reached the station of union [with the Beloved]. May God connect us and you to that threshold, verily He is the Generous and the Bestower.366 or Muʾaẕẕin, there is no question that the abovementioned emphasis of al-ʿĀmilī on the “real” sciences over the official ones can only be interpreted in one way, that is, as a reference to the science of taavvuf. The real ʿālims are none other than Sufis.367 Thus, he concludes:
Therefore, it is prudent to say that by relying on formal knowledge based on reason one cannot attain the station of ʿirfān, which is the abode of those who are brought nigh to the Lord. One cannot witness the beauty of the true Beloved by any means other than the light of the sun of divinely inspired knowledge. Because on the path of reason there are many thorns of skepticism and doubt and the feet of reason are traversed through the realm of thoughts and the end of most of the arguments is disagreement and the basis of syllogism (qiyās) is often conjecture and exaggeration ( gāf ).368
Muʾaẕẕin also finds in Zayn al-Dīn an ally for himself on the subect of the traditional Sufi classification of ʿulama 369 into three groups: (1) exclusively well-versed in exoteric matters (al-ʿālim bi-amr Allah ); (2) exclusively well versed in esoteric matters (al-ʿālim billāh); or (3) wellmrīd fī Adb Al-mfīd W-al-mstfīd, ed. Riā Mukhtārī, al -abʿa 1. (Beirut: al -Amīra lil-ibāʿa wa-al-Nashr wa-al- Tawzīʿ, 2006), 154–55. 366
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, The Golden Chain, 109. riginally in Shahīd al -Thānī, Munyat Al-mrīd fī Adb Al-mfīd W-al-mstfīd, 389.
367
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 239.
368
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, The Golden Chain, 107. Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa- yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 249.
369
The term ʿulama in the context of this old classification (see the note below) should not be understood as having the same meaning and connotations of its modern use in which it is overwhelmingly used to refer to a distinct social class and heirarchy of religious scholars trained and based in madrasa. Rather, it denotes a more general meaning of someone who is knowledgeable about religious matters.
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versed both in esoteric and exoteric sciences (al-ʿālim billāh va-bi-ʾamr Allah). 370 The third type,
obviously, is the ideal, not only from Muʾaẕẕin’s perspective, but also from that of Zayn al- Dīn, and it is this type, according to Muʾaẕẕin, who are real Sufis, those “poles (qāb) of the time” of whom only a handful can be found in the east and west in each aeon. They are the ones under whose patronage the entire populace lives. 371 Zayn al-Dīn was not the only prominent Sufi -minded Twelver scholar of the past whose
work Muʾaẕẕin found extremely useful in laying the foundations of the alternative Twelver basis of legitimacy for Sufism. The original affinity between Shiʿi thought and Sufi thought, and the fact that most Twelver scholars throughout history operated in a predominantly Sunni environment in which Sufism was a major and often dominant player, resulted in many well-
known religious scholars of Shiʿi affiliation w riting treatises that drew upon, and deeply resembled, Sufi literature. As such, beyond the classical sources of Twelver hadith and wellknown Sufi works, f is filled with copious quotations from, to mention a few important
examples, Ibn Abī Jumhūr al-Asāʾī’s ʿAvāli l-Lʾālī,372 Ibn ahd illī’s l-īn fi Ṣifāt l-ʿĀrifī n,373 aīr al-dīn ūsī’s Aāf l- Ashrāf, ʿAllāma illī’s inhāj l-Krām and Shr l-jrīd, Shaykh Bahāʾī’s Kshkl, l- Arbʿīn and other works, including, finally, Zayn al-Dīn al-ʿĀmilī’s Munyat alrīd. By the end of the first chapter of the f , the halfway point of the book has been passed. This, again, is indicative of how important the subjects covered in the early portions were to the author. 370
This is a very old classification that is ascribed by Rāzī in his Qur’an commentary to Shaqīq al -Balkhī. akhr al-Dīn Muammad ibn ʿUmar Rāzī, al-fsīr Al-kbīr , al-abʿa 3. (Beirut: Dār Iyāʾ al -Turās al-ʿArabī, n.d.), vol. 2: 181. Zayn al-dīn paraphrases Rāzī in some length here. See Shahīd al -Thānī, Munyat Al-mrīd fī Adb Al-mfīd W-al-mstfīd, 123–25. 371
372
373
Ibid. 278-79
or his biography, see Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vols. 1: 248–51. or information on illī , see ibid., 221–23.
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I would like to close my analysis of the content of f- yi ʿAbbāsī with a brief note on
how this work addresses the subect of the spiritual guru or pīr. As I suggested earlier, the way this sensitive and fundamental element of traditional Sufi thought is handled in the writings of this era provides us with a useful barometer of how transformations in the religious
environment influenced Sufis’ understanding of their own heritage and social institutions. The spiritual guru and his necessity for the wayfarer is address in the last chapter of f. The
chapter features a detailed discussion of 1) why one must seek a pīr in order to embark upon the mystical path and 2) the necessary qualifications of those who wish to embark upon this path as disciples, or those who present themselves as qualified masters ready to guide. According to the author, someone truly worthy of shaykhhood needs to have attained five fundamental and twenty secondary qualities in terms of his mystical capabilities and moral character. 374 Muʾaẕẕin’s discussion of these qual ities and is taken, often word for word, from a classical Sufi source, that is irād l-ʿibād by the Kubravī Sufi shaykh, am al -Dīn Rāzī Dāya
(d. 654/1256). While it is quite normal for a Sufi master like Muʾaẕẕin to paraphrase irād , what interests me here is the places in which he feels it is necessary to edit or add to Dāya’s comments. In irād , the author begins his discussion of what it takes to qualify as spiritual guru with five fundamentals upon which such qualification is based. Four of these have to do with the ability of the potential spiritual guru to be able to receive Divine secrets and grace,
unmediated.375 As such, these four fundamentals demonstrate beautifully how the Sufi vision of the ideal religious type is fundamentally different from that offered by the ʿulama, whose 374
375
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Malis MS),” 494–529.
ʿAbd Allāh ibn Muammad am al -Dīn Rāzī, irād Al-ʿibād, ed. Muammad Amīn Riyāī, Mamūʿa - yi Mutūn-i ārsī ; 46 (Tehran: Bungāh-i Tarjuma va Nashr- i Kitāb, 1973), 237–40.
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emphasis has always been on the mediation of proper religious knowledge through other
human beings, that is, prominent teachers past and present. Here Muʾaẕẕin follows the author of irād with minor additions and modifications.376 What he leaves out, however, is Dāya’s final remarks in which he discusses how the novice should attain this unmediated knowledge.
Dāya emphasizes the crucial role of falling in love with the beauty ( jmāl) of the master and, then, giving up all personal preferences and choices in favor of those of the master.
Apparently, such language did not seem suitable to Muʾaẕẕin given his erudite orthodox audience. Another example of such an erasure comes a number of pages later when Dāya discusses the proper mode of behavior in samāʾ, or Sufi dance, and the proper way of prostration in front of the master. 377 Moving to the twenty additional qualities that a person must have to be a true master, two important differences between irād and f can be found at the beginning of the list that are quite useful for our purposes. The first quality that Najm al-Dīn considers necessary
for a Sufi master is a “minimal knowledge of Shariʿa,” which allows him to give appropriate advice to his disciples in “urgent cases.”378 Muʾaẕẕin adds the following provision to Dāya’s remark: “if the master reaches the station of leadership of the community, mastery of the exoteric sciences is necessary so that one can help solve the questions and problems of wayfarers and disciples.”379 This additional provision, I believe, is a reflection of the intellectual
environment of Isfahan and the struggle for dominion over the newly formed Shiʿi religious discourse. Muʾaẕẕin understands that, as a resident of a khānaqāh, he would not be taken 376
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 512–516.
377
Najm al-Dīn Rāzī, irād Al-ʿibād, 263; Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 527.
378
Najm al-Dīn Rāzī, irād Al-ʿibād, 244.
379
Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Malis MS),” 515.Mashhadī Sabzavārī, The Golden Chain, 208.
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seriously by the ʿulama, who were increasingly expanding their control over the social, financial, and political resources that any major religious discourse would need to survive. Had he chosen to ignore the so-called “official sciences” in favor of his “real science,” he would
have been dismissed and marginalized as an “ignorant” dervish against whom not only the puritan anti-Sufis wrote, but also the mystically-minded ʿulama like adrā and ay . Thus, it is not difficult to understand why, at such a late stage in his career, he decided to spend time studying hadith. In the heyday of scholarly attention to, and even obsession with, hadith in the middle of the seventeenth century, such study would provide him with the needed credentials to engage in a meaningful conversation with his colleagues from madrasas and patrons of the court. The second striking, and yet not surprising, contrast to irād is the latter’s emphasis on the necessity, for both the master and disciple, to adhere to the essentials of Sunni doctrine (iʿtiqād-i ahl-i snnt v jmāʿt ). Muʾaẕẕin simply replaces this with his own emphasis on the necessity of a pure and unwavering submission to the teachings of the imams.380
Muʾaẕẕin was a pivotal figure in the fluid and dynamic spiritual and religious environment of Safavid Iran, and his intellectual and religious outlook provides us with a window into the major cultural trajectories of the era. First, we have the early decades of his career (the pre-Isfahan era) in which he functioned as a popular Sufi shaykh, located centrally
and comfortably in his khānaqāh, and practicing regular ẕikr and samāʾ with his disciples much as the old Kubravī masters would have done. Then, came the second phase of his career (post-Isfahan), epitomized by his f , which is indicative of an acute sense of awareness and concern about the issues that were debated in the intellectual environment of Isfahan in
regards to religious authority and authenticity. As such, Muʾaẕẕin stood between the two 380
Najm al-Dīn Rāzī, irād Al-ʿibād, 244; Mashhadī Sabzavārī, “Tufa - yi ʿAbbāsī (Minasian MS),” 516.
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worlds and made an original and innovative attempt to arbitrate their differences. That is, between the world of institutionalized Sufism and that of the religious and political elite of the capitol, where he represented the learned tradition of Sufism and engaged in scholarly conversations with mystically-minded ʿulama and sought the sponsorship of the Safavid monarch by presenting himself a true guardian of the Safavid Sufi legacy and a devout Twelver.381
During the final decades of Safavid rule, the pressure on Sufis and dervishes increased.
The death of Malisī Sr. in 1659, whose popularity and explicit proclivities toward Sufism made him a valuable and strategic ally of Sufis facing the increasing pressure of the anti-Sufi campaign, was a significant blow to the pro-Sufi front. Seven years later, Sufis lost another
maor ally, Shah ʿAbbās II, the last Safavid king who openly favored dervishes and Sufis. Four years later, Muʾaẕẕin, one of the most prominent Sufi masters of the time in terms of his influence in the capitol, passed away. The remaining prominent players in the religious landscape of Iran gradually distanced themselves from Sufism in the wake of the increasing pressure of the anti-Sufi campaign and the weakening of royal support. The tide was rapidly turning against Sufis.
381
Muʾaẕẕin is, for example, reported to have raised the authority of ay Kāshānī when questioned about t he validity of the practice of samāʾ in his khān aqāh. In response, we are told, ay denied having supported such a practice (See ʿIām al -dīn Muammad b. iẓām al -dīn, “aīat al -Kirām va aīat al -Liʾām,” f. 126b–127a). Babayan reports the same story based on Ja’fariyan’s report in Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs, 448. Although, as she has pointed out, ay’s denial is in agreement with the stand he takes against the practice of ẕikr -i alī in his l-ākimāt , since the story only appears in antiSufi literature and serves an obvious polemical goal, it must be approached very carefully. Irrespective of the factuality of the story, it vividly portrays the place of ay in between the two cultures , that of the Sufis and that of the ʿulama. For such a story to be told, his authority must be evoked both by Sufis seeking to legitimize a given practice, and by their opponents, to undermine its legitimacy.
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or example, ay Kāshānī , who initially wrote treatises in which he favored Sufism, at least in its learned forms, gradually distanced himself from it at the final decades of his career and wrote a treatise in which he expressed regret for having spent his time with such inauthentic teachings.382 This trend became more pronounced, culminating in the work of his
erudite son, Muammad b. Musin (known as ʿAlam al-Hudā) who as a prominent religious scholar wrote several treatises against Sufism. 383 The same trend is observable with Malisī Sr. and his son. While the former, as mentioned, did not hesitate to defend certain elements of
Sufi thought, his son Muammad Bāqir Malisī (d. 1111/1699), who gradually rose to prominence after his father’s death to become the shaykh al-islam of Isfahan, vehemently opposed Sufism and wrote treatises that contributed to the anti-Sufi campaign of his time. His appointment to the office of shaykh al-islam was followed by two other similarly important appointments in Qom and Mashhad. By 1687 three of the most prominent and outspoken antiSufi critiques, Muammad āhir Qumī in his hometown, Shaykh urr ʿAmilī in Mashhad, and
Malisī Jr. in Isfahan were appointed to the highest clerical positions in these three maor urban centers of Iran. The emergence of this Mashad-Qom-Isfahan triangle of anti-Sufi shaykh al-islams is an important development in the anti-Sufi campaign. Whereas in the early decades only mid-ranking mullas engaged Sufis, as the final decades of the seventeenth century approached, high-ranking ʿulama were given the power and authority to fight all forms of heresy, including Sufism.384 382
or an analysis of the evolving position of ay regarding Sufism see Jaʿfariyān , Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 2: 537–556. 383
or a bibliography of ʿAlam al -hudā see iyāʾ al -dīn usaynī’s introduction to al-Vāfī : Muammad ibn Murtaā ay Kāshānī , al-Vāfī , al-abʿa 1. (Isfahan: Maktabat al -Imām Amīr al-Muʾminīn ʿAlī al -ʿĀmma, 1986), vols. 1: 18–29. 384
Sefatgol, Sākhtār -i Nihād v Andīsh-i Dīnī dr Īrān-i ʿr -i Ṣfvī , 452. The fact that the “archbishops” of all three of the most important urban centers of Iran, religiously speaking, were also followers of A khbārism testifies to the dominant position of this legal school of thought in the final decades of Safavid rule.
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Malisī Jr. also engaged in a revisionist agenda regarding his father’s legacy in which he categorically denied the latter’s Sufi proclivities. In a well-known and widely-circulated statement he says:
Beware lest you suspect my erudite father … that he was among Sufis or believed in their path…far from it…he was the most familiar to traditions of the family of the Prophet among his contemporaries…his path was the path of asceticism (zuhd) and abstention (varaʿ)…and in the initial stages of his [scholarly] life he used to associate with the title of taavvuf so that they [Sufis] get interested in him and are not scared away, so that he can forbear them from holding such beliefs, and he was successful in guiding many of them to the path of the Truth…and, at the end of his life, as he realized that such a provision has expired and that the flags of misguidedness ( lāl) have been removed, and realized that they are explicit enemies of God, he distanced himself from them and used to declare them infidels… and I am more familiar with my father’s path, and his writings about this are at my disposal. 385 Contemporary western historians have made much of the so- called “volte-face” of
Malisī Jr. in painting a damning picture of the latter as a fanatical and bigoted mulla.386 There is no doubt that his position vis-à-vis Sufism was in contrast to his father’s. It is also true that,
especially in the final decade of his life, he took on the mission of fighting “deviant” yet popular practices like drinking, prostitution, juggling, storytelling, and so on. Religious minorities also suffered persecution under his watch. Having said that, two important points must be taken into consideration, especially regarding his opposition to Sufism. Malisī Jr.’s 385
Malisī, Ṣirāt l-Njāt, quoted in Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 2: 530 –31. Interestingly enough, Mīr Lawī quotes the above statement a number of times at the end of Kifāyt disapprovingly, saying that Malisī Jr. Sufi proclivities were too obvious to be denied by such statements. Lawī even specifically names a certain Mīr Qāsīm Ẕākir (d. ?) as Malisī’s murād (Sufi master) and the one who sow the seed of the love for ghīnā (singing) in his heart. See Mīr Lawī, “Kifāyat al-Muhtadī fī Maʿrifat al -Madī (Manuscript),” f. 185b. 386
A negative picture of Malisī Jr., as a bigoted and fanatical clergy has dominated Western scholarship since E.G Browne’s groundbreaking studies. For a brief and refreshingly personal account of this bias against him see: Newman, Safavid Iran, ix. As Newman indicates, the stereotype proves to be very resilient. It is easily discernible in Arjomand, The shadow of God and the Hidden Imam. Influenced by Aromand’s studies, Lewisohn continues to adhere to the same stereotype, calling Malisī Jr . a “bigot” (Leonard Lewisohn, “An Introduction to the History of Modern Persian Sufism, Part I: The iʿmatullāhī rder: Persecution, Revival and Schism,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African S tudies, University of London 61, no. 3 (January 1, 1998): 410.). More recently, this inaccurate image in which Malisī is seen responsible for “wiping out much of organized Iranin Sufism” in Matthis Van Den Bos’ otherwise valuable study of iʿmatullāhī’s during the nineteenth and twentieth century. (Matthijs van den Bos, Mystic Regimes : Sufism and the State in Iran, from the Late Qajar Era to the Islamic Republic (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 51. A balanced and informed analysis of his career can be found at Sefatgol, Sākhtār -i Nihād v Andīsh -i Dīnī dr Īrān-i ʿAr -i Ṣfvī , 217–223.
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stance should be seen in the larger context of a growing discontent with Sufism at the time. Malisī Jr., as a pupil of not only his father but also Muammad āhīr Qumī , was born into an environment more hostile toward Sufism, and his contributions make better sense when read against such a background.387 With such a context in mind, it can be said that what father and
son had in common far outweighed their differences. As Zarrīnkūb has noted, Malisī Jr. himself made a distinction between Sufis who complied with the percepts of Shariʿa and other more antinomian Sufis. Thus, portrayals of his blanket opposition t o Sufism cannot be taken at face value. 388 More importantly, the central concern overshadowing the lives of both was a genuine and enthusiastic effort to recover the forgotten legacy of the imams dispersed in hundreds of canonical and non-canonical sources, and thus, reorienting the scholarly priorities of their colleagues by bringing the study of hadith from the periphery to the center of attention.389 In this effort, they assimilated many elements of Sufi thought, as I will discuss below in this
chapter’s concluding remarks. Both Malisīs eagerly spoke of their dreams and mystical experiences involving the imams, often the Hidden Imam. Malisī Jr., who surpassed his father in gaining popular support and seizing the public imagination as a saint, was buried, at his own request, in a spot near his father and was visited in the same way. Symbolically, there can be no stronger sign to indicate that the son, rather than viewing himself as someone who broke with his father’s path, considered himself the upholder of his legacy, viewed him as his example, and wished to be buried beside him.
387
Although this needs further research, one cannot dismiss Malisī Jr’s claim that his father distanced himself from Sufis at the end of his career. 388
389
Zarrīnkūb, Dnbāl- yi Jstj dr vvf -i Īrān, 260. Jaʿfariyan makes a similar remark. See Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , 1043.
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At the same time, the Safavid realm was faced with increasing problems in managing the economy and the financial resources of the empire. 390 As if this was not enough, during the
first decade of the rule of Shah afī II, Iran was struck by two bad harvests, a devastating earthquake in Shirvan, and several other calamities that proved that the shah had been crowned at an inauspicious time, thus necessitating that the coronation be done anew, this
time under the name Shāh Sulaymān.391 The economic hardship nevertheless continued for most of Sulaymān’s reign. The following decade proved to be domestically troublesome, in spite of relative calm on the borders. Despite the overall deterioration in the general financial
and structural health of the empire, and mainly due to the unwavering support of the Safavid monarchs, especially the final king, Shah Sultan usayn (d. 1726),392 the ʿulama were increasingly successful in securing the necessary financial and political resources t o build the grand structure of their hierocracy. An increasing number of madrasas were built, and the general environment of religious education was flourishing apace. 393 The period of more than
half a century after the death of Shah ʿAbbās II can be considered the apex of clerical power, when the religious hierocracy was consolidated with an elaborate structure and strong alliance with the political establishment.394 In contrast, the Sufi khānaqāhs and dervish monasteries came under increased pressure because of the difficulty they faced in securing the necessary financial resources to 390
Matthee, Persia in Crisis.
391
“The 1670s witnessed drought, harsh winters, locust swarms, famine, and earthquakes … In 1678-79 some 70,000 people were said to have perished from famine in Isfahan alone ” (ewman, Safavid Iran, 94-95). Newman also tells us about another poor harvest in 1669, and a plague in Gilan in 1684-5 which spread to Aradabil, where some 80,000 were said to have died, and thence to Hamadan. It went on to strike Azerbaijan, Mazandaran, Astarabad, and Isfahan itself in 1686-7. In 1689 plague was said to have killed thousands in Shiraz, and struck areas from Baku to Basra, Mosul and Baghdad (Ibid). 392
For his religious sensibilities and devotion see Sefatgol, Sākhtār -i Nihād v Andīsh-i Dīnī dr Īrān-i ʿAr -i Ṣfvī , 91–97.
393
For a detailed and masterly analysis of the hierocratic structure of the late Safavid period see ibid., 397 –458.
394
Ibid., 184–234.
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keep such centers operational. The Ẕahabī order is an excellent example. According to Ẕahabī sources, the leadership of the order was passed on to an artisan named aīb al-Dīn Riā Zargar
Tabrīzī (d. ca. 1108/1696) who lived in Isfahan for most of his life. A careful reading of aīb’s own reconstruction of the chain of events that led to his assumed designation to the leadership of the order, 395 as well as the information available to us from independent sources reveals otherwise. Ta ẕkira- yi Nsrābādī (written at about 1672) includes the name of a certain
Mīr Muammad in the list of poet -dervishes of the time and a disciple of Shaykh Muammd ʿAlī Mashahdī (Muʾaẕẕin) who succeeded him as the leader of the order.396 His full name was Mir Muhammad Sharīfī Mashhadī (Qaʾinī), and he is mentioned in Rt l- Jnnāt along with Muammad Alī al-Muʾaẕẕin as the two prominent Sufis of the age.397 aīb himself calls Mir Muammad the perfect disciple (murid-i kāmil) of Muʾaẕẕin.398 The fact that Mīr Muammad’s name appears in a number of independent contemporaneous sources that are completely
silent about aīb suggests that the latter was not a well-known or serious claimant. It is only natural to speculate that after Muʾaẕẕin’s death, it was Mīr Muammad who was viewed as the next leader. His leadership, however, lasted only for a brief period, since Mīr Muammad was nearly the age of his master, Muʾaẕẕin, and died soon after. It is more likely that aīb began to lay claims to the position of the leadership of the order after Mīr
395
aīb al -dīn Riā Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “ūr al -Hidāya (Manuscript)”, 1230, f. 184b–186a, Ms. o. 4978, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz-i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī. Also in aib al-Din Riza Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Nr l-Hidāy (Tehran: Chapkhana-i ʿIlmi, 1946), 284–86. See also Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 368. 396
ar-ābādī, ẕkir- yi Nrābādī , 302.
397
Muhammad Bāqir Khwānsārī, Rāt l- Jnnāt fī Avāl l-ʿUlmāʾ v l -Sādāt , ed. Muammad ʿAlī al -Rawātī Isfahānī (Tehran: Maktabat Ismāʿīliyān, 1962), vol. 3: 142. 398
Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “ūr al -Hidāya (Manuscript),” f. 183a.
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Muammad’s death. His low profile and literary silence for more than a decade after his master passed away speaks clearly to his peripheral position. 399
aīb’s autobiographical account of his miserable situation in Isfahan is a personal testimony not only of the effects of the abovementioned economic hardships, but also to his utter failure to reinvigorate the order after his master’s death. aīb was unable to gain a considerable number of followers in Isfahan. In the very last pages of Sbʾ l-Masānī, written in
Isfahan in 1090/1680, he complains about the city that was “built by Judas” and empty of any
muruvvat or “chivalry.”400 He explains that in the initial years of his residence in the capitol, he was able to gather and spend some level of fortune. As a result, many desperate people in those harsh economic times frequented his house. The rapid depletion of his resources and his inability to replenish them speak to a situation in which, in the absence of wealthy and wellconnected patrons, many Sufi centers must have been faced with no choice but to stop operating after a while. T his stands in stark contrast to a report on Mashhad written by aīb
nearly a decade earlier, in which he portrays a prosperous khānaqah with a kitchen full of food. 401
In spite of his dismal record in terms of leadership, aīb permanently marked the Sufi order by giving it the name that it continued to be known by from the eighteenth century
399
Each of his three works dates to between 1090 and 1100. Khavari mistakenly dates Nr l-Hidāy to 1077. The book was finished after 1089 since the latter date is specifically mentioned in the text. See ibid., f. 101b. 400
401
Tabrizi Isfahani, Sbʿ Al-Masani., 372-73.
He lost three or four of his children to these harsh economic conditions in Mashhad and then in Isfahan. For his heartbraking account of losing his children see Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “ūr al -Hidāya (Manuscript),” f. 172b–173a. Also in Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 372–73. A more detailed account is provided in aīb, Nr l-hidāy, folio 178, Majlis Library MS 4978. In one place aīb complains about how the people who frequented him took advantage of the food and then left him alone as soon as he ran out of the financial resources to support such generosity (ibid.). His account tells us much about the situation on the ground in terms of Sufi lodges and hospices. Many people who frequented such places did so partly because they met some of their basic needs such as food and shelter. Such was the role his master’s khānaqāh played in Mashhad, according to him. According to Nr l-hidāy, aib lived in his master’s compound for a while on the second floor, beneath which was the food storage place for the khānaqāh. Ibid.
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onwards, i.e. the Ẕahabiyya. Anyone familiar with the Sufi world will quickly note that the
designation “Ẕahabiyya” is an anomaly for a Sufi order. That is to say, it contrasts with the overwhelming majority of Sufi orders and their various branches, which are named after their charismatic founding figures.402 Ẕahabī sources, which have not been able to agree on a single explanation for the designation, seem to be as confused and unsure about its origins as
everyone else, including contemporary scholars. Yet given the increasing pressure from the anti-Sufi front, which in turn led to the stigmatization of epithets like ūfiyya, by which the order was previously known, and given the urgent need for an authentically Twelver outlook, both in social and intellectual terms, the title of Ẕahabiyya was the perfect choice given its
strong semantic association with the figure of the eighth imam, ʿAli b. Mūsā al-Riā. It was also a natural choice given the fact that the order had flourished in Mashhad during the previous
century with an active khānaqāh located close to the shrine as its center of activities. The eighth imam was in effect the patron of the order from the early seventeenth century onward. The choice of Ẕahabiyya as a designation was also in accordance with the increasing role that the eighth imam played in the religious imagination of the newly-converted Shiʿi population of Iran. It confirmed the Twelver nature of this Sufi order and preemptively responded to the charges of Sunnism usually leveled against the Sufis at this time.
It is in aīb’s writings, then, that the first literary evidence of an attempt to use the term “Ẕahabiyya” as the official designation of t he Sufi order can be observed. The second decade of the eighteenth century marks the peak of his literary activities. It was in this period that we can see in at least two of his works clear attempts to introduce the new designation. In his Nr l-Hidāy, there is a section near the end in which he expands upon the claim that all 402
For a comprehensive list see T rimingham’s illustrated genealogies (J. Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi orders in Islam (London: Oxford University Press, 1973), p. 30, 46, 56, and Appendix C.
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Sufis derive their esoteric knowledge from the fountain of the family of the Prophet, and that all masters trace their spiritual genealogy to one imam or the other. In this section, he
classifies all of the important Sufi groups of his time into four principal orders: (1) the Rifaʾī, (2) the aqhshbandī, (3) the Shaārī order, and finally (4) the Kubravī orders. The latter, aīb says, is also
called silsilat al- ẕahab. It is the mother of orders (ʾumm al- slāsil) that all
orders of [spiritual] poverty sprang from [because] through generations of immaculate imams it[s teachings] has reached the hands of Alī ibn Musa al-Riā. There is no doubt whatsoever in this order’s Shiʿism and validity since it is said in a hadith that [whoever] believes in al-Riā is without any doubt a pure Shiʿite and [consequently] believes in the rest of the imams. This order is based in Iran and its branches are spread out all over the world, and it go es back, via Maʾrūf
al-Karkhī, to Al-Riā …403
Thus, the designation Ẕahabiyya was born at the end of the seventeenth century as the legitimate child of a new and distinct religious and spiritual milieu that was, more than
403
Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “ūr al -Hidāya (Manuscript),” f. 186b– 188a. In some other cases, instead of usi ng the term Ẕahabiyya, aīb first mentions the traditional title of Kubraviyya, followed by a mention of the possible alternative silsilat al- ẕahab. See ibid., f. 95b., in which he uses the same term to refer to the adherents of this order ( fqirān-i silsilat al- ẕhb). See also ibid., f. 189b., where he mentions silsilat al- ẕahab again and says that it is called silsila- yi kbrā as well. This is unlike his later work, Sbʿ lsānī (written 1095), in which the he repeats the same four-fold categorization of the Sufi orders but clearly prefers the new designation over the old one. He chooses a shortened version of the designation silsilat al- ẕahab, i.e., ẕahab, to refer to the fourth principal Sufi order. o mention is made of Kubraviyya. See Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 64–65. In Sbʿ, aīb also experiments with several other forms of the designation, including rviyy, mrtviyy (Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “Sabʿ al -Masānī (Manuscript),” f. 5b.) and ẕhbiyy- yi Riā Tabrīzī Isfahānī, Sbʿ l-sānī , 13. Both cases are obviously attempts to emphasize the links of this order to the first and the eighth Imam. This flexibility of terminology is a clear sign that no particular designation among the aforementioned possibilities had been fixed upon. Another observation that requires further investigation is the noteworthy absence of any mention of the ūrbakhshī Sufi order. This could be among the earliest signs of the ẕahabī revisionist efforts to de -emphasize, and ultimately deny, any distinction between the two rival Kubravī branches in Iran.
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anything else, Safavid in nature . As a spiritual order, they were in full compliance with the
“official” hagiographical narrative constructed to provide spiritual legitimacy to Safavid rule— a narrative that revolved around the figure of afī al-Dīn Ardabīlī as the founding figure of the Safavi Sufi order. 404 afī al-Dīn was the center of an elaborate foundational myth as a sayyid (descendent of the Prophet) and a pious and orthodox Sufi follower of the Twelve imams. As such, he embodied the ideal type in Safavid spirituality, a model to be emulated, and an example to be followed completely. His presence overshadowed other Sufi figures of the past,
effectively pushing them to the background. As we have seen, aīb’s master, Muʾaẕẕin, proected a similar picture of himself as a “gatekeeper” to the secret teachings of the Grand Master, afī al-Dīn. The Safavid nature of this silsila also meant that it incorporated into its worldview
essential elements of the new Twelver orthodoxy developed by the ʿulama. Most important in this regard was the omnipresence of the Twelve imams in the order’s literature, whose dazzling charisma and indisputable authority effectively relegated all other Sufi figures to the margins. The saintly figures of the past, charismatic Sufis and dervishes at the center of public devotional rites, were eclipsed by the Twelve Imams and their descendants. Devotion to the latter replaced the former cults and their quasi-divine powers and the powerful symbolism of the imams became the new focus of the mass religiosity as well as the main theme of religious literature by the elite. In spite of this original contribution, and as a result of several abovementioned factors,
such as the hostile environment created against Sufis and the lack of financial resources, aīb 404
Therefore, the connection of the spiritual lineage of the Ẕahabī Sufi order to the Safavid order remains important. This is reflected in aīb’s remarks, taken almost word for word from his master’s f. He says first, that Shaykh afī’s silsila can also can be traced back spiritually to al -Riā via Maʾrūf and second, that silsilat al -ẕahab is also connected to the founder of the Safavi order, Shaykh afī. The connecting link is, again, Shāh Qasim Anvār. See: Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “ūr al -Hidāya (Manuscript),” f. 188a–189a.
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al-Dīn spent the last years of his life in isolation, passing away around 1108/1698. 405 For the next two decades, there is little to report about Ẕahabī social, literary, or intellectual activities . So murky was the situation of organized Sufism in general and the Ẕahab ī order in particular that the very existence of the next Ẕahabī pole, ʿAlī -naqī Iahbānātī (d. 1126), would be
doubtful were it not for the fact that his successor, ayrīzī, mentions him as his master.406 Until recently, no piece of writing was ascribed to Iahbānātī in primary and secondary sources about the history of the order. A recently-published monograph titled Brhān l-rtāīn, however, has shed light on the situation of the order during those difficult times.407 The structure of Brhān and the issues with which its author is most concerned are similar to those of f. In fact, the work is not so much an original contribution as it is a rehashing of the
themes already treated by Muʾaẕẕin and aīb. In the opening section, however, the author gives us a clue of how hostile the environment had become for Sufis in comparison to several decades prior:
The masses… because of their ignorance and misguidedness, have found the courage to be sarcastic and curse and harass God’s servants to the degree that they consider such harassment the most important religious duty after the five daily prayers. They use sword, stone and sticks if they are able; otherwise they consider backbiting, defaming ( iftirā), traducement (bhtān), sarcasm (ʿn), cursing (lʿn) obligatory upon themselves.4 08
405
or his death date see Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 287–89.
406
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 3: 1199.
407
Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 297. Iahbānātī’s monograph has been published recently. See: ʿAlī -naqī Iahbānātī , Brhān l-rtāīn, ed. Muammad Hurtamanī (Isfahan: Muqīm, 2003). 408
Iahbānātī , Brhān l-rtāīn, 1–2.
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In spite of this hostility and the extremely weak situation of the order, this is an important episode in the history of the Ẕahabīs, because after this time the center of the order
is permanently transferred to Shiraz. In comparison to Isfahan, the latter was a much more welcoming and tolerant environment for “unorthodox” figures. Iahbānātī died in his hometown at 1126/1714 in anonymity, barely noticed by the learned notables of his time.409 The Ẕahabī order, however, underwent a revival under the leadership of his disciple, ayrīzī, who spent half a century engaged in intense cultural activities as a prolific writer and respected teacher. 410 These efforts won him the epithet of mujaddid or “reviver” in Ẕahabī sources.411 This prominent Ẕahabī shaykh, Qub al-dīn ayrīzī, however, was more similar to a
ranking resident of a the madrasa than a Sufi shaykh of the khānaqāh, both in terms of his outward appearance and in terms of his intellectual and religious outlook. He was an established teacher in madrasas of Najaf, the study of hadith was his main occupation, and, as we will see in the coming chapter, he even refused to be called a Sufi. This was a fascinating and important development for the future of Persian Sufism in general and the Ẕahabī order in particular that I will follow in detail in the next chapter.
The picture above details how well positioned Sufism was in the early seventeenth century, before the first attempts were made by a group of mid-ranking ʿulama to challenge its
409
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 3: 1199. n his death date see Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 296.
410
or an account of later developments in Ẕahabī leadership see: Leonard Lewisohn, “An Introduction to the History of Modern Persian Sufism, Part II: A Socio- Cultural Profile of Sufism, from the Dhahabī Revival to the Present Day,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University o f London 62, no. 1 (January 1, 1999): 36 –59. 411
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb,
.
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legitimacy. It also gives a vivid sense of how dramatically this position had changed by the early decades of the eighteenth century, by which time public opinion had turned against Sufis and dervishes. Lack of sponsorship and this coordinated and well-organized campaign, implicitly supported by sources of power, explain how Sufism was negatively affected and weakened. However, it does not account for how the average denizens of Safavid Empire, especially in major urban cities, who had previously depended on the rich and diverse symbolism of Sufism to make sense of the natural and supernatural worlds, were able to severe those ties in a matter of less than a century. It also does not explain how they became domesticated Twelvers who looked up to the ʿulama as the new source for meeting their religious needs and connecting them to the Absolute source of power, grace and knowledge. The key to answering this question lies in the role of hybrid and extremely popular figures like Shaykh Bahāʾī, Malisī Sr., his son, and ay Kāshānī . Throughout the seventeenth
century, they played an important role in redirecting people’s religious attention from the charismatic Sufi shaykh toward the imams when it came to worldly as well as otherworldly needs and aspirations. These figures acted as spiritual translators, so to speak, allowing people to successfully and satisfactorily replace former ways of finding meaning and staying connected to the heavens. The imams, through their assumed infallibility and the fantastical accounts that had developed around their personalities, had already bee n accorded quasidivine status, and it was only necessary to develop ways for the people to access them easily, as they previously had Sufis and dervis hes. In Aromand’s sociologically informed words: The basic religious predispositions and demands of the masses are marked by the congeniality of savior soteriology and the desire for solicitation of supernatural powers for earthly benefits such as good health and fulfillment of wishes. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the lay masses’ demand for salvation was met by living saviors: the Sufi shaykhs and the claimant to mahdihood. For these the Shiʿite religious professionals had to substitute
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acceptable otherworldly saviors. These same otherworldly saviors could then be solicited and induced to use their supernatural powers from the worldly benefit of the believers. To establish their hierocratic domination over the masses in Iran, the Shiʿite doctors had to take two sets of factors into account: the predispositions and religious demands of the lay masses, and the services required by the rulers in exchange for which the indispensable royal political support could be secured. Under the impact of these two sets of factors, the “established” or orthodox Shiʿism that the doctors of Safavid period sanctioned and propagated came to differ in some important respects form the Shiʿism of the sectarian phase, a religion of urban minorities that had borne the imprint of the outlook of their literate dominant strata.412
Such hybrid figures among the ʿulama were popular not only because of their personal piety but also because, unlike proponents of puritan ical discourse like Mīr Lawī and elitist
advocates of rationalist discourse like peripatetic philosophers and exoteric uūlī urists, they represented and promoted a syncretistic mode of religiosity that integrated popular belief and practices. In doing so, they adopted major elements of popular Sufism and looked for traditions from the imams that could serve as a basis for incorporating those elements into the outlook of a new Twelver religious orthodoxy, one that was developing throughout the second half of the seventeenth and the first half of the eighteenth century. Even when these hybrid figures could not find such traditions they would seek alternative rationales for incorporating elements of popular religiosity. Quasi-magical and magical invocations previously under the domain of dervishes and Sufis, such as dʿā nvīsī (charm writing), istikhār (consultation of the Qurʾan to determine whether or not to undertake a specific action), and the use of talismans were increasingly taken over by a professional class of mullas who did not hesitate to claim exclusive authority
over these practices. Take for example, Aromand’s succinct account of one of the treatises written by Malisī Jr., titled Ikhtiyārt. In this work, Ajromand says: 412
Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam, 164.
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[B]asing his prescriptions on a mixture of considerations dr awn from astrology, geography, and sacred history, he determines the appropriateness of the days of the year for specific activities, the significance of natural and astral phenomena, the proper times, places, and conditions of copulation, the hours of istikhār, and the days and manners of seeking help from the “men of the invisible world” (rijāl l-ghayb). It is interesting that in conunction with this last topic, Malisī has to admit the absence of reference in the traditions gathered by the Shiʿite scholars to the “men of the invisible world,” but opines that they must be the souls of the fourteen Immaculates (the Prophet, āimah, and the twelve Imams), and of the prophets Khir and Elīās, who are identified by the Sufis as the “poles” (of the universe; sing. Qub).413 The other major adoption of Sufi rituals took the form of endorsing and encouraging
the masses’ practice of visiting the tombs of the imams and their descendants (imām-zāda), a practice known as ziyarat . The intercession of the imams and their descendants was perceived as the key to success in this world and salvation in the hereafter, and one of the best ways to acquire this was to please them by visiting their resting places. A visit to the tomb of an imam, some traditions held, was equal, if not superior to the hajj.414 Most of the tombs used for imām-
zāda were doubtless former shrines of Sufi saints, and many more were “discovered” during the Safavid era in remote regions. Such discoveries often brought considerable financial resources to the attendant region. The pilgrim would even prostrate and circumambulate the tomb, imploring the immaculate imams to intercede on their behalf that God might grant their
413
414
Ibid., 157–58.
or a very interesting comparison of the attention ziyārat received in later hadith collections as compared to that of early canonical texts, see ibid., 169. According to the data Arjomand retrieves from a number of classi cal sources, the number of pages dedicated to the matter of a in early compilations dwarf that of ziyārat by at least a factor of four . The equation is virtually reversed, however, in Malisī Jr.’s Biār where, in contrast to 387 pages dedicated to hajj, more than a thousand pages deal with matters of ziyārat. Aromand also raises the interesting point that Shiʿite theologians of Jabal al -ʿAmil do not seem to have modified, over time, the proportions of attention paid to ha and ziyārat in the “our Books.” The assertion is solely based, however, on the famous al-urr al-ʿĀmilī’s massive Vsāʾil l-Shīʿ, in which a similar ratio is found as in the early canonical works. Further research is necessary to draw any general conclusions. Also, it is important to note that in the case of the anti-Sufi campaign, the major players who start the polemics and remain in the spotlight are Iranian, although Arab scholars join in later. That is to say, this is not, as Ajormand insists, a fight between the Persian ʿulama, the so called “sayyid notables,” and the “clerical estate,” which was comprised of immigrant Arab ulama. Rather, sources suggest a mixed and rather unified front against the dervish cult that had so deeply penetrated the public life of the denizens of Iran, especially in Isfahan.
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wishes, which, most of the time, pertained to worldly needs.415 The belief in the ability of the imams and their descendants to perform such tasks was the cornerstone of this popular practice, and its rison d’etre. The Sufi metaphysical concept of the Perfect Man and his indispensable role in channeling divine grace and attention was perfectly embodied in the imams, and fantastic accounts of the supernatural powers of the imams and their miracles occupied the public imagination as well as thousands of pages of the newly-collected hadith compilations. Such fantastical accounts were by no means exclusively attributed to the imams,
however. Their most sincere followers, especially those among the ʿulama and particularly if they were sayyids (descendants of the family of the Prophet), were believed to be endowed with the same magical powers and, as such, they became the center of religious devotion and imagination, especially after their death. In addition, visions and dreams became an important
venue for creating channels of connection to the imams by both Sufis and the ʿulama and a pillar for establishing authority and charisma. 416
The high ranking ʿulama, and even the mid -ranking mullas would not have been successful in gradually shifting the focus of religious s ensibilities and the aspirations of the masses to the imams were it not for their populist allies, their foot soldiers known as mddāh (eulogizer [of the imams]). The performance of eulogies of the imams in which the memories of their heroic lives and sufferings for God were transmitted was an old practice that not only had enormous religious significance but was also a maor form of entertainment. Eulogizing
the Twelve imams and remembering their suffering, especially the tragic death of usayn, the
415
The importance of the shrines of the real and putative imām -zādas in popular religiosity – a feature of popular Sufism taken over by Safavid Shiʿi sm— is clearly shown in the seventeenth-century European sources. Ibid., 167. 416
This is an extremely important issue that needs to be further investigated in the context of seventeenth century Safavid Iran. For a recent and fascinating collection of essays on the role of dreams in Mfuslim societies see Ozgen Felek and Alexander D. Knysh, eds., Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies (State Univ of New York Pr, 2012).
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grandson of the Prophet and the son of the first Imam ʿAlī, was widely popular in the period between the thirteenth- and sixteenth centuries, when the lines between Shiʿism and Sunnism were blurred not only in Iran but also in many other Muslim-dominated regions of the Middle
East. This period saw the rise of a phenomenon that Hodgson aptly called “ʿAlid loyalism,417 which preceded the rise of the anti- Sunni and divisive Qizilbash tabarrāʾī propaganda machine.
Vāʿiẓ Kāshifī’s Rt l-Shhdā, a passionate account of the suffering of the martyrs of Karbala that became so popular in seventeenth century Safavid Iran and beyond was compiled
in the Timurid court before the advent of Shāh Ismāʿīl. The Timurid Court, in fact, represented the pinnacle of the spread of what Koushki calls “imamophilism,” which made it difficult even for strictly Sunni orders like the Naqshbandiyya to distinguish between an “approved” version
of love for the imams and the disapproved hatred and cursing of the first three caliphs as well as ʿĀisha, the Prophet’s beloved wife, that was known as Raf (rejection).418 So mddāhī (performing the eulogies of the Imams) and r-khānī (remembering the passion of the third imam) became increasingly popular. Such stories and eulogies were often told by dervishes as part of their multi-faceted entertainment skills. They would entertain people with storytelling, juggling, snake charming, and selling exotic merchandise and herbal medicine in coffeehouses, bazaars, and central squares. In the context of seventeenth century Safavid Iran, the propagation of Twelver
Shiʿism was considered a prestigious and sacred duty and was not only the primary agenda of
417
Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2: 446. Mole’s old yet still authoritative on the Kubravi order between Shiʿi sm and Sunnism provides an excellent account for the general phenomenon that is some scholars have called Twelver Sunnism (See Jaʿfariyān, ārīkh-i shyyʿ dr Īrān, vol. 2: 726.) provides further details in the case of a specific Sufi order, a branch of which cam to be known later in Iran as Ẕahabiyya. See Marian Molé, “Les Kubrawiya entre sunnisme et shiisme aux huitième et neuvième siècles de l’hégire”, Revue des Études Islamiques 29 (1961), 61-142. 418
Matthew S. Melvin-Koushki, “The Quest for a Universal Science: The ccult Philosophy of āʾin al -Dīn Turka Ifahānī (1369 1432) and Intellectual Millenarianism in Early Timurid Iran,” 69– 71.
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the ʿulama but also the maor component of the Safavid ideological agenda. As such, a huge amount of financial, political, and social resources flowed in that direction. W andering mendicant dervishes found their storytelling and entertainment s kills useful in eulogizing the infallible imams. The religious outlook of dervishes comprised a wide spectrum from antinomian Qalandars who cared little for religious precepts to passionate devout Twelver dervishes who were squarely within the boundaries of orthodoxy as drawn by the clerics. For example,
according to Zarrīnkūb, “the alālī dervishes arriving from India were sometimes called Qalandars by the lay people even though they did not have any relation to the old Qalandars,
and maddāhī was their main occupation, which they considered “far” (a mandatory religious obligation)…aydarīs and Shaārīs would specially appear on the street with their strange appearance, sometimes nude and sometimes with a piece of animal skin on their shoulders.
The Jalālīs would wander in the streets and bazaars … chant poems [eulogizing the Imams] and collect donations… In spite of the resentment of the urists and puritans, the desperate appearance of the dervishes would invoke the generosi ty of lay people.” 419 These dervishes would often gather in a lodge, usually called tekiya, to share their donations, eat together, and
have samāʿ sessions. Yet, with the increasing power of religious hierocracy and its persecution and suppression of antinomian and “problematic” aspects of the dervish phenomenon, they increasingly functioned under the auspice of clerics as auxiliaries in propagating an orthodox version of the love of the family of the Prophet among the populace. These men gradually gave up their dervish paraphernalia, and their outlook and religious worldview came to be less and less defined by the traditional Sufi ethos and the ethos of chivalry ( fit yān) and mlāmtiyy 419
ʿAbd al-usayn Zarrīnkūb, Dnbāl- yi Jstj dr vvf -i Īrān, Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Amīr Kabīr, 1362), 242–45.
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(“the folks of blame”). Mīr Lawī’s father, a well-known “dervish-maddāh” called Mullā Lawī , is a perfect example of this new class of “eulogizers” that appears to have emerged during the seventeenth century in Safavid Iran and func tioned increasingly as an effective arm of the
clerical hierarchy. arābādī records that Lawī’s poetry eulogizing the imams was so elegant that most of his colleagues, other dervish eulogizers, used them.420 As dervishes complied with the requirements of the dominant religious orthodoxy, the name for their lodge, tekiya, was increasingly used to refer to a place where the passion of the third imam was commemorated and as a gathering place for other religious celebrations connected to the life and career of the imams.421 In sum, as Shiʿism made inroads into Iranian society during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, these Sufi-minded ʿulama banished and abandoned some elements of the Sunni-Sufi framework of thought and action, while remodeling other elements to bring them more in line with fundamentally Shiʿi religious sensibilities. These remodeled Sunni elements kept their essential functions. This is especially true of Sufi practices and beliefs, where the process of transition to Twelver Shiʿism can be primarily seen as a “redirection” of Sufi sensibilities and loyalties. Yet, there is no doubt that this process of religious and intellectual appropriation and synthesis was concomitant with an equally important process of socio-political “domestication.” The Sufi pīr or qub was not just an idea. It was a reality. And 420
421
arābādī Ifahānī, ẕkir- yi Nrābādī , 430.
It is interesting to note that the latter term, tekiya, was used as an equivalent to khānaqāh, zāviya, and ribā , to denote an establishment that belonged to a group of Sufis, at least as early as the tenth/sixteenth century especially the Ottoman Anatolia. See Clayer, Nathalie. " Tekke." Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online , 2012. Reference. RICE UNIVERSITY. 28 June 2012 http://referenceworks.brillonline.com.ezproxy.rice.edu/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-2/tekkeSIM_7486 It was perhaps through the Turkish tribes of Anatolia, the Qizilbash, that constituted the military backbone of the the early Safavid Empire that this distinct term migrated to Iran and started to be used to refer to dervish lodges. There, while it was used as a synonym for khānaqāh, as the establishment of tekiya - yi ay by Shāh ʿAbbās II indicates, it was increasingly also used to refer to places in which the maddāh and rawa -khwān dervishes would perform their eulogies and tell the story of usayn’s passion . Later, perhaps by the end of the eighteenth century, tekiya ceased to function as a Sufi center and its latter fuction came to define its semantic connotation.
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this reality was intimately connected with an extensive array of social relationships and
institutions, like the widespread and popular institution of the khānaqah and the social structure shaped and guided by the dynamics of the master/disciple relationship. It was this
social aspect that the emerging class of Shiʿi religious scholars of all affiliations found most threatening to their claims to exclusive authority and power in religious matters and beyond. Sufis thus came under severe attacks and, sometimes, actual persecution. It was also this Sufi concept that was most heavily revisited and reshaped by Sufis and Sufi-minded religious scholars, a phenomenon that will be discussed in detail in the next chapter.
Chapter Four: The Invention and Spread of ʿIrfān
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So far, my discussions of the debates on Sufism at the end of the Safavid era have been focused mostly on Isfahan, and for good reason. In the post-Shah ʿAbbās era of Safavid absolutism, the bureaucracy, administration and finances of the empire became increasingly centralized. An unparalleled amount of wealth and power were concentrated in the capital, and thus Isfahan was not only the political center of Safavid Iran, but also the intellectual, educational and religious heart of the entire realm. Those who aspired to become scholars, especially in the religious sciences, would, after spending some years in their hometown going through the basics, migrate to Isfahan in order to train under the most prominent scholars of the era. For anyone to be taken seriously as a learned member of Safavid society, he had to forge connections to the Isfahan elite. With the increasing interest of Safavid monarchs in religious sciences and debates and the resultant flood of financial resources into madrasas and the hierocracy in control of the education system, Isfahan was full of promise for the novice aspirant.
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Such is azīn Lāhīī’s (d. 1179/1766) depiction of the cultural and intellectual environment of the late seventeenth century and early eighteenth century. azīn is
emblematic of the urbane, cultivated, and cosmopolitan Shiʿ ite educated in late Safavid Isfahan. Open-minded and tolerant, he sought out fellow scholars among Christians, Jews, and
Sabians, and in return was “equally admired and esteemed by the Muselmān, Hindoo, and English inhabitants of India.”422 Born in 1103/1691, he spent nearly two decades of his early life in the capitol as an avid student. His autobiography provides a colorful and vibrant picture of the circles of learning in Isfahan, where he studied medicine, mathematics, astronomy, jurisprudence, hadith, philosophy, and mysticism with prominent teachers of the time. 423
Among these was Mīr Sayyid asan Tālīqānī , azīn’s teacher in philosophy and mysticism who taught Ibn Arabī’s and Suhrawardī’s Hyākil l-Nr .424 According to azīn, āliqānī was an outstanding scholar who synthesized ikma and taavvuf. Although azīn complains about the charges of heterodoxy leveled by exoteric religious students against mystically-minded scholars like Tāliqānī, it is clear from his overall account that it was possible for an interested student to pursue both philosophy and mysticism, at least in their
speculative forms, with relative freedom in the context of the madrasa. It was only after the fall of Isfahan that many of the elite members of society, including azīn himself , fled the city that they adored so much. Thereafter the enterprise of teaching and learning about
422
Quoted in John Perry, “AZI LĀHIJI,” Encyclopædia Iranica, December 15, 2003, http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hazin-lahiji. 423
424
azīn, ārīkh v Sfrnām-i Ḥīn, 168–172.
Ibid., 169–170.
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philosophy and high mysticism was damaged due to a lack of financial support and the dispersal of human resources.425 Isfahan, however, was by no means the only important cultural hub of the Safavid realm. Other major urban centers, like Qom, Mashhad, Kashan, and Shiraz were also actively involved in learning and education. The latter city stands out as a vibrant intellectual center, especially for philosophically and mystically inclined students of religious sciences. The cultural outlook of Shiraz was different from that of Isfahan in a number of ways. First, and perhaps due to the strong presence and influence of organized Sufism, it was marked by a liberal spirit, a more tolerant environment that was hospitable to forms of belief and practice
that would have been marked, contested, and persecuted as “deviant” or “heretical” in other, more conservative urban centers like Isfahan, Qom, and Mashhad. Second, because Shiraz had been the heart of Persian intellectual and aesthetic life for centuries before the advent of Safavids, and because of its strategic geographic location, the intellectual outlook of many of its learned denizens was markedly cosmopolitan. This was due in part to a fascinating cultural exchange between Shiraz and India.426 Shiraz was also host to the most prominent
philosophers of the Islamic world in the period between the ninth and tenth centuries. igures like Jalāl al-dīn Davānī (908/1502), adr al -dīn Dashtakī (903/1497), Ghiyās al-Dīn Mansūr Dashtakī (948/1541), Muaqqiq Khafrī (957/1550), and am al -Dīn Mamūd ayrīzī (d. 1526)427 formed the core of what has come to be known as “the School of Shiraz.” 428 425
Corbin’s appraisal of the situation seems accurate in this regard. See: Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy, 348–49.
426
The constant flow of scholars, poets, and dervishes back and forth from some regions of Iran, like the Caspian Sea area and Shiraz, to India is a fascinating and understudied phenomenon that needs further investigation. 427
Reza Pourjavady, Philosophy in Early Safavid Iran : Najm al-Dīn md l-Nyrīī nd His Writings, Islamic Philosophy, Theology, and Science ; V. 82. (Leiden: Brill, 2011). 428
This term has recently been used by some Iranian scholars to refer to the flourishing and vibrant period of Islamic philosophy at the Late Mi ddle Period in Shiraz. See, for example, Kakaei’s remarks about the so -called maktab-i Shiraz at
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The city was also a major stronghold of Sufism. 429 The urbakhshī Sufi order in particular had had a major presence in the city since the building of the ūriyya khānaqāh by
a prominent student of ūrbakhsh, Muammad Lāhīī . A scholarly narrative of the history of Sufism in Shiraz during this period is long overdue. We know virtually nothing about the fate
of the ūriyya khānaqāh and the developments of organized Sufism there in the sixteenth and seventeenth century. The uqavī movement also seems to have had a strong presence in Shiraz in this period. A number of extremely important Sufi figures of Shiraz, like Mamūd Dihdār, better known by his pen name ʿAyānī, and his son Muammad Dihdār (d. 1016), whose pen name was ānī, seem to be connected to this movement.430 Although the center of philosophical learning moved to Isfahan beginning with the early seventeenth century and the rise of prominent figures like Mīr Dāmād, Shiraz remained an important cultural and intellectual center throughout the Safavid period. azīn’s remarks on his trip to Shiraz beautifully demonstrate the vibrancy of educational system there. He relates that after moving to Shiraz shortly before the year 1130/1717, he studied the most
celebrated canon of Shiʿi hadith, Usl l-Kāfī , with Shāh Muammad Dārābī Shī raz ī (d. 1130/1718), by some accounts the most prominent mystically-minded religious s cholar of
Ghiyāth al-Dīn Manūr Dashtakī Shīrāzī, Ghiyās l-Dīn nr Dshtkī v lsf- yi ʿIrfān: nāil l-Sāʾirīn v qāmāt l-ʿĀrifīn, ed. Qasem Kakaie, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Intishārāt-i arhangistān-i Hunar, 1387). 429
Ibid., 22.
430
Most of Dihdār’s writings remain in manuscript form. A number of them, however, were published in Iran more than two decades ago. See: Muammad ibn Mamūd Dihdār Shīrāzī, Rsāʾil-i Dihdār , ed. Muammad usayn Akbarī Sāvī, Chāp -i 1., Mīrās-i Maktūb (Series) ; 1. (Tehran: uqa, 1996). Corbin is perhaps the first scholar of Sufism to have drawn our attention to the importance of these two figures. His remarks are brief, and as the editor of Dihdār’s works mention, confused (see: Ibid., 13-14). or Corbin’s remarks see: Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy, 337. Dihdār’s indebtedness to the uqavī worldview is most apparent in his treatise titled Durr-i tīm. See Kiyā, Nqtviyān ā Psikhānīyān, 25–32. For a more recent scholarly piece about the Dihdār family see: ʿAbbās Zāriʿī Mihrvarz, “Pazhūhish -i Darbāra- yi Kāndān-i Dihdār,” Aftabir.com, n.d., http://www.aftabir.com/articles/view/applied_sciences/geograohy_history/c12c1216705220_history_p1.php/%D9%BE%DA% 98%D9%88%D9%87%D8%B4%DB%8C-%D8%AF%D8%B1%D8%A8%D8%A7%D8%B1%D8%A9%D8%AE%D8%A7%D9%86%D8%AF%D8%A7%D9%86-%D8%AF%D9%87%D8%AF%D8%A7%D8%B1.
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Shiraz.431 He also studied philosophy with Ākhūnd Masiā asavī (d. 1127/1715), a student of
Āghā usayn Khānsārī , the shaykh al-islām of Isfahan. 432 In addition, azīn gives a brief account of other prominent mystically-minded figures whom he me t there, like Muammad
Bāqīr ūfī, who taught him Suhravardī’s lvīāt , and Muammad ʿAlī Sakākī , who was affiliated with organized Sufism.433
It was perhaps due to Shiraz’ more hospitable environment that Iahbānātī moved there permanently. It was also there, as I will demonstrate in this chapter, that the category of
ʿirfān was conceived. There were several important intellectual traectories that contributed to the formation of this category in Shiraz, all of which constituted attempts to salvage traditional Sufi discourse from ruin at the hands of the clerical hierocracy and their foot soldiers, who had successfully stigmatized Sufism among the public. These attempts were focused on introducing a new Twelver mystical discourse that borrowed heavily from Sufi
teachings, but was purged of the “problematic” and “innovative” aspects of institutionalized Sufism. Most importantly, this new discourse was built around new terminology that helped
its proponents significantly in their claim that this “authentic” Shiʿi mystical discourse was not the same as the “heretical,” Sunni-dominated, Sufi one. Mystically-minded religious scholars who hailed from Shiraz were the pioneers of this discourse, and they came at it from different intellectual vantage points. These were 1) the tradition of philosophical mysticism pioneered
by adrā and his students; 2) the reformed tradition of organized Sufism represented by the Ẕahabī Sufi order and, most importantly, Qub al-dīn ayrīzī; and 3) a distinct and independent trend represented by Shah Muammad Dārābī who , as a prominent poet and a religious 431
azīn, ārīkh v Sfrnām-i Ḥīn, 177–78.
432
Ibid., 178.
433
Sakākī will be discussed briefly be low.
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scholar, tapped into the rich poetic tradition of Shiraz as well as its strong philosophical tradition to contribute to this project. The rest of this chapter is dedicated to explaining how each of the above-mentioned trends contributed to the formation of the category of ʿirfān, and to how the next generation of mystically-minded Persian religious scholars began to use this category in contrast to Sufism.
Mullā adrā, who is without doubt the most influential philosopher of the Safavid era in the later history of Islamic philosophy, is best known for the grand synthesis of philosophy, speculative mysticism, theology, and Twelver hadith tradition in his innovative and masterly philosophical system known as l-Ḥikm l-tʿāliy or “Transcendental Philosophy.” In this
synthesis, he stands on the shoulders of giants like Avicenna, Ibn ʿArabī, Suhravardī, and Ghazālī. This is clear from his fr equent quotation of the aforementioned figures in his magnum opus, al- Asfār l-rbʾ (“the our Journeys”), in which he laid out the contours of his philosophic thought in their most extensive form. The pivots around which his teachings revolve are the ideas of vdt l-vjd, or “unity
of being,” and al-insan al-kāmil, or “the Perfect Man.” The former references the belief that ultimately all of Reality is one. All manifestations of existence, therefore, are reflections of this single Reality. Everything in the cosmos is the result of a divine tjllī , or theophany.434 The
idea of the Perfect Man reflects Ibn ʿArabī’s understanding of human nature. The human being, as an androgyny, contains potentially all levels of existence within and is, thus, the mirror in which God, the ultimate Reality who is the One, contemplates Himself. The reality of this
434
As far as I know S. H. asr has been the first to translate taallī as theophany.
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archetypal notion of human being is contained potentially in every human being but is actualized only within the being of prophets and the greatest saints. On the basis of these two
doctrines, Ibn ʿArabī developed an elaborate cosmogony, sacred psychology, eschatology, epistemology, and prophetology.
Although these two principles in Ibn ʿArabī’s grand metaphysical thought were developed well within the boundaries of traditional Sufism, the highly complicated, abstract nature of his teachings which presupposed a thorough knowledge in almost all fields of Islamic thought made them accessible, and relevant, only to a few elite within Sufi society. As such, they were detached relatively easily from the social contexts of Sufism. This was a task that a
group of Shiʿite philosopher-mystics took upon themselves. With their efforts, Ibn ʿArabi’s cosmogony and his idea of the Unity of Being and his metaphysical anthropology and the
relevant notions sainthood or “valāya” and the Perfect Man were adopted to be used as an interpretive framework in which the fundamental concept of Imamate was understood. Although adrā’s mystical philosophy represents the culmination of such a synthesis, the process started much earlier. A maor early figure is Sayyid aydar Āmulī (d. 1385), a major Twelver Shiʿi theologian and a disciple of the school of Ibn ʿArabī, who wrote an important commentary of the . His Jāmʾ l-srār or “The Sum of Divine Secrets” is the pivotal text
that provides an Akbarian take on the Shiʿi doctrine, especially that of the Imamate. Although he criticizes Ibn ʿArabī in a number of places on the doctrine of valāya or “sainthood,” the fundamental structure of Sa yyid aydar’s understanding of valāya as it is applied to the
“infallible imams” of Shiʿism is thoroughly shaped by Ibn ʿArabī’s school of thought. “The perfect cohesion between the theosophy of al-Suhrawardi's ishraq, the theosophy of Ibn al-
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'Arabi and the Shiite tradition was consolidated by Ibn Abi Jumhur (804/1401-1402) and his great work, the Kitab al-jli” according to Corbin. 435
We should also take into consideration the works of Muammad Dihdār which, as Corbin has noted, are predicated on the synthesis between Shiʿism and Sufism that is the
hallmark of Sayyid Haydar Āmūlī’s writings. As such, Dihdār’s works anticipate the full-blown synthesis of adrā’s Transcendental Philosophy.436 Thus we see that, in addition to the influence of giants like Ibn ʿArabī and Suhravardī, an existing trend in Shiʿi thought helped lay
the groundwork of adrā’s grand and majestic system of thought. This synthesis was, thus, taken to the level of perfection by Mullā adrā whose thought has left a personal stamp on Iranian philosophy or, more broadly speaking, Shiʿi thought down to our own time.437 Transcendental Philosophy succeeded in integrating the abovementioned
fundamental aspects of the Sufi metaphysical thought with an Ishraqī coloring and bring it home with the esoteric traditions from the imams in a single coherent philosophical system. 438
435
Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy, 335.
436
Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy, 332–334.
437
Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy, 342.
438
Nasr is correct in e mphasizing the importance of the fact that adrā never wrote a commentary on Ibn ʿArabī’s or any independent treatise that was exclusively dedicated to matters of speculative Sufism as ibn ʿArabī’s disciples did. He would certainly consider himself a philosopher, rather than a disciple of the school of Ibn ʿArabī. His notion of philosophy, however, was quite different compared to the common notion of what philosophy is in his period, as well as our period. In this light, many scholars have justifia bly questioned translating ikma to “philosophy” and have suggested other alternatives like “theosophy,” and “onto -theology.”S. h. asr uses theosophy as in equivalent throughout his writings. Saad Rizvi proposes the term “onto-thology.” See: Saad H. Rizvi, “Philosophy as a Way of Life in the World of Islam: Applying Hadot to the Study of Mullā adrā Shīrāzī (d. 1635),” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 75, no. 01 (2012): 33 –45. Both of the alternatives, however, fail to convey that, for the most part of his writings, consistently and continuously, Sadra strictly follows the inherited logic of rational argumentation from Aristotelian philosophy based on the ultimate and exclusive validity of syllogism as the only method for philosophic inquiry. Having said so, it is true that Sadrā did not consider philosophy to be just about argumentation, syllogism, and fierce debates over conceptual hair-splitting. Influenced by the ishrāqī or “Illuminationist” school of philosophy best represented by the Slain philosopher, Suhrawardi (d. ), he also considered ikma to be “a way of life,” and rationality, along with ascetic practices and obedience to the Divine law, a means towards an end that is attaining the maʿrifa or “gnosis” pertaining to iss ues of ultimate importance to human being, i.e., the knowledge of the Self, and Divine, his Attributes and Names, and the way in which the whole creation is from Him and will eventually return back to Him. The result is a unique understanding of the essence and function of philosophy elaborated under the title of Transcendent Philosophy.
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As a result of the adoption of these mystical elements, adrā is ready to acknowledge that, at the final analysis, there is only so much that rationality and reason can do to help the wayfarer to understand the mysteries of God. For him, for example, the realm of afterlife, and the knowledge of the self, remains fundamentally beyond the reach of reason and rationality. To attain true knowledge in such fields, one has to rely upon mystical visions and Prophetic injunctions. Only after doing so the student of philosophy can hope to develop rational arguments to establish the philosophic validity of such ideas and ideals. 439
As I also mentioned in chapter two, the category of ʿārif in Mullā adrā’s works is used in accordance with its traditional meaning, i.e., to denote the advanced among the awliyāʾ or “friends of God.” What is noteworthy about adrā’s usage, however is his coupling of ʿārifs with those whom he calls the “real” or divine philosophers (kmā l-mt’llihīn).440 This is a clear indication of the adrāian synthesis in which the ideal ʿārif and the ideal akīm are seen as identical. In contrast to adrā’s frequent use of the term ʿārif, the term Sufi rarely appears. The term ʿirfān is likewise infrequently used, but when it does appear, it follows the abovementioned paradigm and is used in conjunction with terms like brhān (philosophic argument), yqīn (certitude) and l-ikm al-ilāhiyy (divine philosophy). The few instances in
which adrā uses the term make it clear that it had not yet become the semantic locus of an established set of beliefs or practices. In other words, its scattered and casual use indicates that
it does not refer to a particular concept with clear boundaries classified under an –ism like 439
S. H. Nasr rem inds us that adrā’s school of thought should technically be categories as a form of ikmat or “philosophy” rather than ʿirfān, which, for him, is the Persian name for doctrinal Sufism. I would contend that, technically speaking, ʿirfān, as a constructed category, came to be used for the Twlever reception of Ibn ʿArabī’s teaching much later. Even those who considered themselves to be students of Ibn ʿArabī did not think of their intellectual activities under the category of ʿirfān. To the contrary, such doctrinal elaborations were considered to be an integral part of taavvuf , variously called ʿilm l-tvvf or “the science of Sufism,” or ʿilm -i ilāhī or “the divine sciene.” Therefore, to contrast ikma to ʿirfān as asr always does in his exposition of The twelver tradition of gnosis (maʿrifa) is anachronistic. See, for example Seyyed Hossein Nasr, The Garden of Truth : the Vision and Practice of Sufism, Islm’s ysticl rdition, 1st ed. (New York: HarperOne, 2007), 225. 440
There are many instances. or several examples see Muammad ibn Ibrāhīm adr al -Dīn Shīrāzī, al-Ḥikm l-tʿāliyy fī l Asfār l-ʿAqliyy. (Tehran: Shirkat Dār al -Maʿārif al-Isl āmiyya, 1958), vol. 1: 6.
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Sufism. Instead, ʿirfān refers to an ideal—the highest and ultimate goal of the seeker of gnosis. The same seems to be true in the writings of adrā’s prominent students, who increasingly emphasized the category of ʿārif, but not in such a way that distinguishes it as a coherent and distinct group with a defined set of beliefs and practices.
Gawhar-i rād, an important work by a prominent student of adrā named ʿAbd al Razzāq Lāhīī (d. 1072/1661 ), provides us with an illuminating statement in this regard. In his classification of the rational sciences, he emphasizes that, unlike kalām (theology) and ikmt -i mshshāʾī (peripatetic philosophy), the ishrāqī (Illuminatist) school of philosophy and Sufism cannot be categorized as branches of knowledge. Whereas the former two are, according to
Lāhiī, concerned with exoteric ways of acquiring knowledge, Sufism and Ishrāq are concerned with practicalities of the mystical/esoteric Path. 441 But, Lāhiī notes, there exists another school of philosophy in which the philosopher and the Sufi come much closer to one another:
The most urgent kind of knowledge is knowing yourself and returning to it and knowing your God and recognizing your God’s command. It is the totality
of this kind of knowledge that theologians call “uūl al-dīn” (principles of religion), philosophers “hikmat-i īlāhī” (divine philosophy), and Sufis maʿrifat (knowledge, or gnosis). 442
The use of the term maʿrifat (=maʿrifa) instead of ʿirfān as an equivalent to divine
philosophy in this passage is noteworthy. It clearly speaks to the fact that the grand synthesis
441
442
Lāhīī, Gawhar-i rād, 38–41.
Ibid., 19.
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of adrā, even by the middle of the seventeenth century, was not known as ʿirfān, and neither was the Sufi ideal of self-knowledge. This would soon change. A century later, religious
scholars like Mullā Mahdī araqī (d. 1209/1794) and his son Mullā Amad, who were trained in adrā’s mystical philosophy, would refer to both as ʿirfān, as we will see at the end of this chapter.
A similar trend is observable in the writings of Mullā adrā’s other prominent student, Mullā Musin ay (d. 1091/1680). In the two works in which indebtedness to his teacher is most obvious, Klimāt knna and Ul l-ʿārif, the category of maʿrifa, again, is prominent. The very title of the former work, Klimāt knn min ʿUlm hl l -ikm v-l-ʿrif is telling
in this regard. Again, we see the pairing of ikma and maʿrifa, which indicates their increasing proximity in Transcendental Philosophy. A quick look at the contents of the book reveals that ay draws heavily upon the school of Ibn ʿArabī and its elaborate metaphysical system in order to explain fundamental questions regarding the reality of being and the position of human being. He begins most of the chapters (kalimas) by laying out what the ahl al-mʿrif or
“the folks of gnosis” say regarding the topic of the chapter.443 In most cases, the content of what the “folks of maʿrifa” say is saturated with the vocabulary of the school of Ibn ʿArabī. ay mentions Rūmī, calling him al-ʿārif al-Rmī ,444 and he mentions Mullā adrā in his autobiography, calling him dr -i ahl-i ʿirfān (The chief of the folks of ʿirfān). 445
In associating ikma with maʿrifa, ay is careful to distinguish between the standard, mainstream discursive philosophy known as peripatetic philosophy, and the type of
443
Muammad ibn Murtaā ay Kāshānī , Klimāt knn min ʿUlm Ahl l-Ḥikm v l-ʿrif, n.d., 5, 24, 25, 28, 36, 42, 45, 48, 54, 55, 74. 444
Ibid., 16.
445
ay Kāshānī , Risāl- yi Shr-i Ṣdr . quoted in Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vol. 2: 545.
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philosophy that to him epitomizes real ikma.446 The difference can be gleaned from a brief comparison of two of his important works Ul l-mʿārif and Klimāt. In the former, ay rarely talks about “ahl-i maʿrifat.” In fact, the book is an standard exercise in discursive philosophy, although like his master, he deviates somewhat from the accepted norms of peripatetic philosophy and argues for the alternative principles, like ālt -i vjd (primacy of existence) and rkt -i jhrī (substantial motion), that define adrā’s Transcendental Philosophy in contrast to other schools of philosophy. On the rare occasions that he speaks of “the folks of
gnosis,” he is referring to his master teacher, to other figures in the school of Ibn ʿArabī, or Ibn ʿArabī himself.447 We get a better sense of what real ikma or gnosis means for ay in Klimāt, a highly eclectic synthesis of the metaphysical principles of Ibn ʿArabī with the traditions of the Twelve
Imams, in the footsteps of Mullā adrā. 448 Copious quotes from canonical and non-canonical hadith sources are followed by comments and explanations according to the p rinciples of “ahl-
i maʿrifa.” Clearly, the author’s primary concern is to reconcile philosophical and mystical principles with the statements of the imams found in the hadith literature, thereby
demonstrating that there is no contradiction between “real” ikma on the one hand, and the way of prophecy on the other. 449 This is a concern that he shares with his teacher, Mullā adrā,
and many other members of the ʿulama, whether philosophically inclined or of scripturalist 446
ay Kāshānī , Klimāt knn min ʿUlm Ahl l -Ḥikm v l-ʿrif, 341.
447
Muammad ibn Murtaā ay Kāshānī , Ul l-ʿārif , ed. Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī (Mashhad: Muʾassasa- yi Chāp va Intishārāt-i Dānishgāh-i irdawsī, 1975), 178, 176, 94, 56. 448
Having said so, the role of his other teacher in Shiraz, the prominent Akhbārī scholar, Sayyid Māīd al -Barānī (d. ) can not be underestimated. As it is quite clear from a cursory look at the ayian oeuvre, his concern and engagement with the hadith literature is much more serious and extensive than adrā’s . 449
ay Kāshānī , Ul l-ʿārif , 4.
.
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(Akhbārī) leanings. As the new Shiʿite orthodoxy took shape in the various disciplines, the most urgent need of proponents of rival narratives was to authenticate their respective hermeneutics by drawing upon the authoritative hadith sources. The clearest sign of this concern amongst the religious elite of Safavid Persia in the seventeenth century is the number of commentaries and marginalia written on the most authoritative hadith canon, Ul l-Kāfī. Out of twelve commentaries on Ul l-Kāfī written during the twelfth century (Islamic calendar), six are written by philosophically-inclined scholars. 450
ay’s Klimāt is so thoroughly informed by the vocabulary of Sufi metaphysical thought that one might be tempted to categorize it as a work of Sufism. As Lawson indicates in his excellent study of Klimāt, however, this is the wrong conception and categorization of the book.451 Klimāt is better understood as a representative of a genre that emerged in relation to the new paradigm of Twelver spirituality that developed during the seventeenth century; one that, although deeply indebted to the Sufi literature, gradually formed an independent identity. One hundred years later, this identity acquired a name for itself: ʿirfān.
As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, however, it was not only adrā and the circle of students closest to him who contributed to the development of a distinct discourse
that came to be known later as ʿirfān. Sufis and Sufi-minded religious scholars also played a role.
450
Most notable among them are Mīr Dāmād, Mullā adrā, Mīrzā Rafīʿā (d. 1082).
451
Lawson, “The Hidden Words of ay Kāshānī,” 428– 432.
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Sayyid Muammad Qub al-dīn ayrīzī (d. 1173/1760) was born around 1688/1100 in ayrīz, a small town in the ancient province of ars.452 He is considered by Ẕahabī Sufis to be the thirty-second Qub of the order, that is, the successor of ʿAlī -naqī Iahbānātī (d. circa 1129/1717), whom I mentioned in the final pages of the previous chapter. Iahbānātī died in his hometown in anonymity, barely noticed by the learned notables of his time.453 The Ẕahabī
order, however, underwent a revival under the leadership of his disciple, ayrīzī, who devoted nearly half a century to intense cultural activity, writing prolifically and functioning as a respected teacher. 454 These efforts won him the epithet of muaddid, or “reviver,” in Ẕahabī sources.455
ayrīzī has been at the center of Ẕahabī hagiographical accounts since the nineteenth century, when the influential Ẕahabī master Abulqāsim Rāz Shīrāzī (d. 1286/1869), the thirty-
fifth pole of the order who was otherwise known as Mīrzā Bābā, wrote the first detailed account of his life. His biography is peppered with dozens of miraculous events (karāmāt).456 In the second half of the twentieth century, two major pieces were written on the history of the
Ẕahabī order that treat the life and Sufi career of ayrīzī in depth. 457 Most of ayrīzī’s writings
452
According to Khāavī in Amīn al -Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, v (pan). Also see Abulqāsim usaynī Sharīfī Shīrāzī Ẕahabī, “Yak Qismat az Tārikh -i ayāt va Karāmāt -i arat -i Sayyid Qub Al -dīn Muammad Shīrāzī,” in ẕkirt Al- Aliyāʾ, ed. Shams al-dīn Ẕahabī Parvīzī, 1953, 4. or his date of birth see Khāvarī’s discussion: Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 299–300. 453
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 3: 1199.
454
or an account of later developments in Ẕahabī leadership see Lewisohn, “An Introduction to the History of Modern Persian Sufism, Part II.” 455
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb., p. XVIII (
)
456
At the time of this writing I did not have access to this work in its entirety. A significant portion of it, however, was at my disposal thanks to its having been printed as part of Parvīzī’s ẕkir. See Ẕahabī Parvīzī, ẕkirt Al- Aliyāʾ. 457
I am referring to Isānullāh Istakhrī and Asadullāh Khāvarī’s contributions . While there is much that can be learned from their account, there is an unmistakable hagiographical tone to their writing and a partisan bias that prevents them from
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have been published in recent decades thanks to active Ẕahabī publication house in Shiraz and especially to the continuous efforts of Muhammad Khajavi. 458
The story of ayrīzī’s initiation to Sufism follows a familiar and repeated pattern in which is said to have spent years mastering the official fields of discursive knowledge, especially the rational sciences of philosophy and theo logy, with the purpose of finding
satisfaction and salvation. Disillusioned, he gave up the madrasa career, at least for a while, and converted to Sufism under ʿAlī -naqī Iahbānātī , who was his shaykh al-irshād (master of guidance).459 After spending many years in seclusion, meditation and self-mortification, he emerged as a learned and prominent Sufi master. His most celebrated and most extensive work is l l-Khitāb, sometimes known as Ḥikmt l-ʿArifīn. This is a lengthy msnvī written in Arabic in which he lays out his mystical worldview in detail. Although most of l l-Khitāb was written at the height of his career as a Sufi master in the final years of Safavid rule in Isfahan, he assembled scattered pieces and edited them as a single work only after the fall of
critically engaging the sources they have painstakingly examined. Khāvarī’s work is significantly superior to Istakhrī’s in this regard. In spite of his Ẕahabī affiliations, he has attempted to keep a critical distance from the primary material in some p arts of his work and to offer an alternative narrative, though he was not always successful. A few examples will be mentioned in the coming pages. 458
or a detailed bibliography of ayrīzī see Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 526–65. Khāvarī mistakenly attributes some treatises to ayrīzī based on what appears to be a misreading of the primary sources. For example, he mistakenly includes a treatise titled Jām-i Jhān-nmā among ayrīzī’s writings (ibid., 548). The source of this mistake is likely a manuscript collection in which this treatise, which is a well -known work of the prominent Sufi Shaykh Muammad Maghribī Tabrīzī (d. 809/1406, otherwise known as Shīrīn), is bundled with other treatises that belong to ayrīzī. see Sayyid Qub al -dīn Muammad ayrīzī, “Risāla -yi Jām-i Jahān-namā va Rūiyya”, n.d., f. 1, Ms. o. 4889, Kitāb-khāna, Mūzih, va Markaz -i Asnād-i Majlis-i Shūrā- yi Islāmī (ote that in f. 3b the date 738 is mentioned by the author, which accords perfectly with the treatise being written by Shīrīn). urthermore, Khāvarī count s two other treatises, Shr-i Ziyārt -i Jāmiʿ and Shr-i vāʾid among ayrīzī’s writings. Khāvarī, Ẕhbiyy, 530. This is also the result of a misreading of his source, in this case bāshīr l-Ḥikm, in which the two abovementioned treatises are attributed to Shaykh Amad al -Asāʾī. See Abulqāsim usaynī Sharīfī Shīrāzī Ẕahabī , bāshīr lḤikm: Shr-i Ḥdīs-i Nr mmdī (Shiraz: Khāngāh-i Amadī, 1973), 88. The most dependable report in regards to the number of ayrīzī’s writings is p erhaps found in a work written by his daughter Umm Salama and entitled Jāmiʿ l-Klliyāt . Umm Salama mentions that her father had penned fourteen works, though she does not provide their names. Umm Salma ayrīzī, Jmiʿ l-Kulliyat , ed. Mahdī Iftikhār (Qom: Bakhshāiysh, 2007), 18. To my knowledge, the most accurate enumeration of ayrīzī’s works based on this report is Khaavi’s. See his introduction to Sayyid Qub al -dīn Muammad ayrīzī , Risāl- yi Riyy v inhj l-rīr , ed. Muammad Khāavī (Shiraz: Kitābkhāna-yi Amadī, 1977), 15–33. 459
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 3: 1317.
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Isfahan. In the aftermath of this catastrophic event, he stayed in Iran for a time, travelling extensively to different cities like Qazvin and Mashhad, but eventually followed the itinerary of many of the learned of Isfahan in their exodus to the ʿAtabāt (the Sacred Thresholds, that is the tombs of imams in Najaf and Karbala). It was in the relatively safe and tranquil environment of Najaf that he was able to gather the disparate parts written previously in between the two covers of l al-Khitāb.460 He later returned to Shiraz, only to leave again for
the ʿAtabāt in 1163/1750, in the final decade of his life. He passed away in aaf on April fifth, 1760.461
The picture of ayrīzī reflected in l l-Khitāb is that of an erudite religious scholar and a passionate Shiʿite who views himself as a member of the lineage of learned and great gnostics (ʿrfā) and the kings of spiritual poverty (mlk l-faqr ). These gnostics and kings of spiritual poverty, he says, adhere to a worldview derived from the Qur’an and the teachings of the imams, and he believes it an honor to be in the service of such people. He does not call these people Sufis, as I will discuss momentarily, but he leaves us no doubt as to their identity:
460
Ibid., vol. 3: 1309 and 1267. Khāavī’s recent polished edition of Khuyī’s commentary on l , that is īān l-Ṣvāb fī Shr l l-Khitāb, is the primary reference used in this study for understanding ayrīzī’s worldview. The commentary includes two independent works of ayrīzī, Shms l-Ḥikm and Kn l-Ḥikm. For the sake of convenience, however, we will refer to the work as l even when our reference is actually to Shms l-Ḥikm or Kanz. 461
ayrīzī, Jmiʿ l-Kulliyat , 19.
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I have served gnostics, the leaders of the ʿAlīd Shiʿa party…who were the
kings of poverty in their age, and they associated, in terms of their arīqa (Sufi path) with the holy raavī order known as Ẕahabiyya.462
When speaking of gnostics and kings of spiritual poverty, he highlights the name of his
Sufi master, ʿAlī -naqī Iahbānātī, saying the latter was the “pride of the greatest divine men (ilāhiyyīn) in asceticism and the king of kings of poverty, my shaykh and master (murshīd), and my reference in the al-ikm l-mawhibiyya (divinely endowed philosophy). … [He] was unique
among the dervishes of his age, and I did not meet anyone who could match his glory.” 463 He mentions only one other figure as his “teacher:” Shāh Muammad Dārābī , under whom he studied hadith and who was, according to ayrīzī, “the teacher of all of the learned
in Shiraz in his time.”464 The life and career of Dārābī will be discussed in some detail in the coming pages. Suffice it here to say that Dārābī must have exerted maor influence over ayrīzī’s post-conversion intellectual outlook, given that he is the only intellectual whom ayrīzī mentions having learned from. My extensive examination of the two men’s writings suggests that this influence played itself out in more than one way. As it was for Muʾaẕẕin in his f , the most central and pressing concern for ayrīzī throughout his l is to establish the authenticity of his discourse by rooting it in the teachings of the imams. Therefore, the work is filled with copious quotations of hadith and ubiquitous references to the imams and their teachings. Reading through l it is clear that
ayrīzī was tremendously influenced by the hadith movement of the late Safavid period. More 462
463
464
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vols. 3: 1198, 1318. Ibid., vol. 3: 1199.
Ibid., vol. 3: 1201.
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particularly, although there is no explicit proclamatio n of his adherence to the Akhbārī legal
school of thought, there are strong signs that he indeed preferred Akhbārism as his methodology in dealing with the hadith corpus. In l and the many other writings by him
that I examined, ayrīzī never once touches upon topics discussed in uūl al-fiqh (principles of jurisprudence) and ʿilm al-rijāl (science of biographical evaluation). For an erudite religious scholar of his caliber, this can be taken as indicative of his preference for the opposing,
Akhbārī school of thought. Furthermore, his explicit disdain for and extensive criticism of Aristotelian logic (mniq), upon which not only philosophy and theology but also uūl al-fiqh
heavily rely, also suggests that he was fundamentally at odds with the uūlī discourse.465 As we will see, his teacher in hadith, Dārābī, also preferred the Akhbārī method. Another striking feature of l is its strong rhetoric against discursive philosophy.
Throughout the work ayrīzī maintains a sharp distinction between falsafa, which is portrayed in the light of its Greek roots and incompatibility with Islamic doctrine, and ikm , which is presented as the antithesis of the former, derived from the fountainhead of prophecy. The former is often called l-ikm l-falsafiyya (discursive philosophy) or l-ikm l- ynniyy (Greek philosophy). The latter, in contrast, is called l-ikm l-ʿalaviyya (ʿAlid philosophy) or l-
ikm l-mdiyy or nabaviyya (Muhammadan philosophy). 466 His vehement condemnation of the philosopher, when taken at face value, suggests that ayrīzī thinks about metaphysics and other core questions dealt with by Islamic philosophy in a fundamentally different manner than the philosopher he critiques. A close reading of his exposition of key elements of the
alternative ikma ayrīzī outlines, however, tells us otherwise. That is, his attacks on philosophy are essentially used as a rhetorical tool to differentiate his discourse—an 465
For his criticism of Aristotelian logic see, for example: Ibid., vols. 1: 127–28 and 2: 557 –62.
466
al al-Khitāb is filled with this dichotomy. To mention a few examples see ibid., vols. 3: 1319 and 1: 24– 58.
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“authentic” one based solely on the teachings of imams—from the “foreign” discourse of philosophers based on Greek thinking. The reality is that, other than his disagreements with
the way peripatetic philosophers framed their discussions of the ecessary Being (vāib alvuūd), ayrīzī uses the same vocabulary of philosophical inq uiry related to God that the Muslim intellectual world inherited from Avicenna and al- ārābī. This is not to say that he was a peripatetic philosopher. He definitely did not consider himself to be a philosopher, let alone a peripatetic one. His critique, however, shares fundamental similarities with that of adrā and his followers against mainstream philosophy, namely that it focuses s olely on discursive practices without any concern for the realization of wisdom through met aphysical discussions. Therefore, his critique might be better understood as an insider attempt, like those of Sayyid
aydar and Mullā adrā, to reform philosophical discourse according to the precepts of Twelver doctrine and the mystical/esoteric aspirations exemplified in the ideal t ype of gnostic
rather than as an outsider Akhbārī attack aimed at dismantling the entire discipline of philosophy,
In emphasizing the prophetic or ʿAlid nature of the ideal ikma, ayrīzī stands in a long list of Twelver philosophers in the Safavid era, starting with Mīr Dāmād, who distinguished between the essentially secular philosophical discourse he referred to as ynnī (Greek) and the faith-based philosophy referred to as ymānī (Yemeni) philosophy.467 This distinction was primarily a rhetorical one. That is to say, the advocates of faith-based philosophy did not 467
Yamān (lit. right) or yaman (lit. Yemen) as sym bols that are most probably used in referece to a Prophetic tradition found in al-Kāfī and other primary hadith collections in which the prophet praises Yemenis as the best among the people of Arabia and says l-īmān ymānī v-l-ikm ymāniyy (the Faith is Yemeni and the ikma as well). Kulaynī, al-Ul min l-Kāfī , vol. 8: 70. As such, they refer to what is authentically Prophetic and faith-based. Corbin offers a different understanding of their symbolism, which in my view is incorrect. Regarding Mīr Dāmād’s use of this symbolism he says, “Yamani philosophy’ means the wisdom revealed by God to man through the prophets and through illumination; Yaman (Yemen) symbolizes the right or oriental (mashriqi) side of the valley in which Moses heard the message of God. It is, therefore, the source of divine illumination in contrast to the occident, the source of Peripatetic philosophy, the ccident symbolizing darkness and being on the plane of philosophy, i.e., rationalism.” See Henry Corbin, “Le récit d’initia tion et l’hermetisme en Iran,” Eranons Jahrbuch, vol xvii, 1949, 136 -37.
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attempt to come up with a distinct philosophical and metaphysical tradition based on the traditions of the imams (if such a thing were even possible; rather they tended to emphasize philosophical understanding as the most appropriate conceptual framework for making sense of Twelver traditions. Twelver traditions, in the eyes of these philosophers, revealed their most profound meaning when interpreted in a philosophical framework. That being s aid, this was definitely not a one-way street. The hadith literature also informed philosophical discourse, for example by suggesting questions to be dealt with and goals to be met. At any rate, developing a philosophical discourse that functioned as an interpretive
tool for making sense of Twelver esoteric doctrine was at the center of Mullā adrā’s innovative attempts, and his students like ay followed in his path. Therefore, it should not surprise us that both of them are mentioned by ayrīzī among a handful of intellectual figures that, ayrīzī claims, adhered to the same vision that he elaborates in l.468 His remarks about Mullā adrā are particularly interesting :
He was the reference ( istīnād) of the teacher of my teacher and many of his writings, some of his poetry and some written by his own hand are in my possession. However, since at his age philosophers were dominant he did not have any choice but to speak in their language. [Thus] he has explained divine sciences (al-mʿārif l-ilāhiyy) that belong to the folks of divine poverty (al-
fqrāʾ l-ilāhiyyīn) according to the logic of philosophers and in the language of theologians, and there is no dispute in terminology (lā mshāt fī -l-iilā).469
468
ther prominent contemporaneous figures included in his list are Muammad Bāqir Khurāsānī, ʿAbu al -Razzāq Lāhīī, and the latter’s student, Qāī Saʿīd Qumī. Amīn al -Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vols. 3: 1204 –1224. 469
Ibid., vol. 3: 1220.
200
Thus the vehement and unwavering cond emnation of philosophy becomes, in the case
of adrā, a passing reference to differences in vocabulary. 470 Given ayrīzī’s long companionship with Muammad ādiq Adrastānī , one of the earliest philosophers of the time to adhere explicitly to the fundament al principles of Transcendental Philosophy, his sympathy
with adrā and ay should not come to us as a surprise.471 Another similar feature of l and f is that both of their authors make a substantial effort to compile a list of authoritative Twelver ʿulama whose writings and biography can be used to bolster arguments for the authenticity of their mystical discourse.
ayrīzī’s list of figures is similar to that in Muʾaẕẕin’s f. Those among the ʿulama who, according to ayrīzī, sympathized with “the folks of poverty” include aīr al-dīn ūsī ( Aāf
al- Ashrāf ), Bābā Afal al -Kāshī, ʿAllāma al-illī (inhāj l-Kirām) , Ibn Abī Jumhūr al-Asāʾī (ʿ Avālī l-Lʾālī ) , Sayyid aydar Āmulī (l-ī l- Aʿm and Jāmiʿ l- Asrār ), Zayn al-Dīn al-ʿĀ milī (Munyat al-rīd) , the author of ibā l-Shriʿ, Mīr Dāmād,472 Shaykh Bahāʾī,473 Ibn ahd al-
illī, and Ibn Tāvūs. The recurrent appearance of hadiths and quotes from the above-
470
ayrīzī has a point here. adrā himself explicitly says in a number of places that in some of his works he followed the conventions and vocabulary of mainstream philosophy in spite of the fact that , in the final analysis, his views are much closer to the gnostics among the most accomplished Sufis, especially when it comes to the fundamental doctrine of the Unity of Being. See adr al -Dīn Shīrāzī, al-Ḥikm l-Mutaʿāliy fī l- Asfār l-ʿAqliyy., vols. 1: 9–12. A brief look at the major themes covered in his l confirms his debt to adrā.It is impossible here to summarize ayrizi’s grand metaphysical thought. or the interested reader, I suggest starting with Kh āavī’s introduction to l in which he discusses maor themes of ayrīzī’s worldview in some detail. See: Amīn al -Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 1: hijdah – si–va–haft. It suffices here to say that in his primary attempt in l to introduce a proper explanation of the doctrine of the Unity of Being, he uses terminology similar to that used by adrā. Examples include the reference to tawīd (the doctrine of unity of God) in terms of “al-vada al -ẕātiyya al -aqīqiyya” or the essential True Unity as opposed to “al -vada al -ʿadadiyya” or numerical unity. See ibid., vols. 1: 265–303. 471
or Ardastānī’s take on adrā’s philosophy see Āshtiyānī’s remarks in adr al -Dīn Shīrāzī, al-Shvāhid l-Rbbiyy fī lnāhij l-Sulkiyy, ad–va–hifdah – ad– va–nūzdah. 472
Mīr Dāmād, according to ayrīzī, turned away from the path of philosophers at the end of his life.
473
According to ayrīzī, he was initiated into the Ẕahabī order by Shaykh Muʾmīn Mashhadī.
201
mentioned sources is another element shared by both l and f, which testifies to the
limited pool of traditions and secondary works from “authoritative” Twelver ʿulama whose work can be effectively used in this regard.474
The alternative title ayrīzī sometimes uses for l , that is, Ḥikmt l-ʿĀrifīn, tells us much about the intellectual environment that prompted the writing of his magnum opus. It is
highly unlikely that, in choosing such an alternative title, ayrīzī was unaware of Qumī’s substantial criticism of the metaphysical speculations of philosophers an d mystics in his book titled Ḥikmt l-ʿĀrifīn, which I discussed briefly in chapter two. Almost a fourth of Qumī’s work
is dedicated to a detailed refutation of the idea of vadat al -vuūd or “Unity of Being” as explicated by the students of the school of Ibn ʿArabī. 475 Within this section, Qumī specifically
criticizes adrā and his followers’ novel innovation in which they have “combined philosophy with Sufism.”476 Vadat al-vuūd is also a maor concern informing ayrīzī’s work. ne might say that the r ison d’etre of writing the l is the offering of an authentic’ understanding of
this doctrine in contrast to the “deviant” understandings promoted by the soi-disant Sufis and those among the learned philosophers who had not properly understood t his doctrine. As such, l can be seen as an attempt to rescue the idea of vadat al -vuūd from the gross misunderstanding and distortion that ultimately resulted in the doctrine being targeted as a
form of heresy by Qumī and other anti-Sufi authors.
474
ayrīzī also gives us a sense of what his library looked like. He points out, with much pride and satisfaction, that he possessed some of the works of Sayyid aydar, Mulla adrā and ay. He specifically points out Sayyid aydar’s two abovementioned works, many of Mullā adrā’s monographs, some in his own handwriting, and, finally, ay’s l-Vāfī, l-Ṣāfī and his Dīvān. Once again, there is no mistake whose intellectual genealogy he imagined himself to be a part of. 475
Qumī, “ikmat al-ʿĀrifīn,” 312–398.
476
Ibid., 314–315.
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In this surprising way, then, ayrīzī can be considered a faithful student of Qumī in
spite of the stark differences in their understandings of Shiʿism and mutual hostility on the issues of spiritual authority and authenticity. Both of them agree on the primacy and priority
of hadith literature as a foundation of the new Shiʿi thought. urthermore, they agree that traditional discursive philosophy and what is generally understood as the teachings of Sufism is utterly unsuitable and in many cases contradicts the teachings of the imams outright. Their
differences, however, can be seen in ayrīzī’s defense of an authentic’ version of Sufi doctrines, explicated in Sayyid aydar and Mullā adrā’s adoption of Ibn ʿArabī’s original idea. Whereas Qumī criticizes both Ibn ʿArabī and Mullā adrā for their innovations and for their advocacy of the heretical and blasphemous idea of the Unity of Being, ayrīzī spends much of his magnum opus offering an explanation of this doctrine that, according to him, is fully compatible with the esoteric teachings of the imams. l l-Khitāb is filled with Shiʿi traditions
that, according to ayrīzī, are best understood as explications of the doctrine of vadat al vuūd. That is why, he concludes, not believing in vadat al-vuūd must be considered a heresy!477 In writing works dedicated to ikm from the perspective of the ʿārif, that is Ḥikmt l-
ʿĀrifīn, Qumī and ayrīzī both laid claims onto these categories and how they should be defined and understood. That is to say, the categories of ikm and ʿārif were at the center of a discursive dispute in which both sides were attempting to rehabilitate those categories that
had previously been “hiacked” by discursive philosophers and ignorant Sufis. ayrīzī and Qumī have dramatically different perspectives and in many respects their respective beliefs about what constitutes real’ ikma or ʿirfān stand in sharp contrast to each other. 477
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 3: 1847.
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As an Akhbārī puritan religious scholar, Qumī does not have much to offer in terms of a systematic and well-defined exposition of authentic ikma and maʿrifa . In his writings, there is
not much to be found in this regard beyond general remarks that the highest form of maʿrifa is “the knowledge of the imam” ( mʿrift l-imām) and that a true akīm or a real ʿārif is one who “knows the true imam and learns religious teachings (mʿārif dīniyy) from him.”478 He spends the overwhelming majority of his writings refuting alternative visions with which he disagrees. That is to say, he does a tremendous job in tearing down what he considers to be a problematic reading of the teachings of the imams but has little to offer in terms of a positive and elaborate alternative that could take the place of such misunderstandings. This, in fact, is the hallmark of all puritan, fundamentalist, and reactionary discourses.
or ayrīzī, one the other hand, while the need to derive authentic religious knowledge from the fountain of imam is imperative, the scope of reliable traditions upon which this true ikma can be built is much wider that what Qumī would allow. These include the kind of hadiths that he, Muʾaẕẕin, adrā, and other Sufi-minded scholars or Sufi Shiʿ ite shaykhs emphasize in their writings, none of which make their appearance in Qumī’s writings, presumably because of their less reliable nature, or their ambiguous meaning. Furthermore,
ayrīzī’s Sufi affiliation and his strong belief in the ultimate validity of a refined tradition of metaphysical thinking, informed both by philosophical and Sufi discourse, as the best one in which the teachings of imams can be interpreted sets him apart, significantly, from Qumī and other puritan anti-Sufi and anti-philosophy authors. He is, in spite of his strong rhetoric of
advocating a purely ʿAlid philosophy, in the lineage of syncretistic thinker.
478
Qumī, “ikmat al -ʿĀrifīn,” 4–5.
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Having mentioned his sympathy for synthetic and syncretistic modes of thought represented by the above-mentioned religious scholars, there is no mistake in the fact that
ayrīzī’s heroes in l are a group that he often calls them “folks of poverty” or ahl al-faqr, an elite and chosen group among the learned people (ahl al-ʿilm), otherwise known as gnostics.479
They stand, as the pinnacle of creation, in opposition to a “triangle of evil.” Philosophers stand in one corner of this triangle and comprise the primary target of ayrīzī. H e bashes them for having hiacked the Path of God by introducing their innovations, that is, their “foreign sciences” borrowed from Greeks. ayrīzī’s strong rhetoric against philosophy should be understood in the context of the last three decades of Safavid rule when, as mentioned in chapter two, philosophy, along with Sufism, was increasingly targeted by puritan mullas. Such mullas reside in the second corner of the abovementioned triangle and are usually referred to as āshbāh hl l-ʿilm (pseudo-learned men) who made the cultural environment of his time so
hostile and poisonous for the “friends of God.” These exoteric ʿulama refuse to consider anything but the literal meaning of the Twelver traditions. According to ayrīzī, the fall of Isfahan was a catastrophe visited on the people of Iran by God in retribution for their harassment, cursing, and persecuting the folks of poverty and genuine dervishes.480 The last corner of the triangle —the final group to come under ayrīzī’s ire— is the most surprising: the Sufis. ayrīzī’s negative use of the term Sufi and Sufism throughout l, and 479
480
See, for example: Amīn al -Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 2: 546.
This spiritual pathology of the Safavid society is an interesting and unique freature of l that needs to be further investigated. ayrīzī expand on this pathology in an independent treatise titled ibb l-mālīk (Medicine of the kingdoms). No extant copy of this work treatis e has been known until recently. Rasul Ja’fariyan argues for a possible match in an anonymous manuscript that he has discovered based upon his analysis of the content of the work. This manuscript is published, along with its Persian translation and a thoro ugh introduction. See: Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 3: 1309–1355. Also, see the story printed on the margins of l from Jalāl al-dīn Muammad Shīrāzī known as Majd al-ashrāf, the thirty-sixth pole of the Ẕahabī order on the authority of his master. The story focuses on ayrīzī’s various attempts, writing letters, meeting people, etc to raise awareness of his contemporaries of this “malady” and seek a way out o f what he saw was a definitive way towards the collapse of the Safavid rule. See: Amīn al -Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vols. 3: 1251 –1254. Although it is clear that the structure of the story is constructed and edited later, it seems to contain some historically accurate information about the chaotic period around the Afaghan invasion.
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his consistent effort to draw a sharp line between Sūfiyya on the one hand and the folks of poverty on the other (among whom he counts himself) is a striking feature of this work. Unlike
his predecessors who single out a group of soi-disant Sufis usually called mutaavvifun and differentiate between them and the real Sufis, ayrīzī’s criticism of Sufis is not qualified in such a way. It seems that for ayrīzī, terms like Sufi and Sufism are stigmatized beyond any hope for redemption. They are so tainted in the public eye by negative implications that
ayrīzī finds the old strategy of differentiating between “good” versus “bad” Sufis useless. So, in a strategic semantic retreat, he gives up on the term Sufi and uses it exactly as opponents of
Sufism would. As a result, the term Sufi in ayrīzī’s lexicon is used as a synonym of mutaavvif , the soi-disant Sufi of his predecessor. 481 Those who would have previously been called real’
Sufis are now called faqīr or dervish and, more frequently, ʿārifs or gnostics. Ironically for a Ẕahabī Sufi master, ayrīzī vehemently admonishes those who accuse
him of being a Sufi: “those liars have called us infidels; we will call them stupid, truthfully.”482 He also says, “in their foolish understanding, and because of their excessive ignorance, they
called all the gnostics Sufis.”483 In an expression of the continuation of such “accusations” even after the fall of Isfahan he says:
I heard the lowly liars accuse me of Sufism, without any knowledge and solely on the basis of their stupidity ... people like them destroyed the Iranian 481
For some examples, see: Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vols. 2: 551, 612 and 3: 1182, 1199, 1241, 1243, 1249, 1302. That is why in almost in every single case, the commentator is urged to use the term “ sfiyy- yi rdīʾ” (literally, bad Sufis) to explain ayrīzī’s cr itical comments. In page 552, Khuyī actually makes an attempt to answer the question directly and explains ayrīzī’s negative usage of the term in term of its overwhelming association in the public use with heretical and antinomian beliefs. 482
Ibid., vol. 3: 1241.
483
Ibid.
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territories with similar stupid accusations. Those among them who have survived in different corners of your land are [again] expressing their animosity
with the folks of God (ahl Allāh) with the same accusation, with which they destroyed cities and with which they opposed the great noble Shiʿas (followers) of ʿAli.484
In the same way, ayrīzī laments that in spite of his master’s outstanding accomplishments in the ascetic life and his unique mastery of divine secrets, the people of his
time not only failed to take advantage of his knowledge, they also looked down on him. “The arrogant people of Isfahan,” he says, “belittled frie nds of God in every land. Because of their deficient insight, they called them, the greatest ones among the pious, Sufis,’ simply because of their asceticism.”485 At the same time, he revels in the history of Sufism, while simply using alternative titles like faqr (poverty) for his heritage. For example, he tells us that there are four important
“orders of the folks of poverty” ( slāsil hl l-faqr ) within Muslim community.486 Here, ayrīzī’s reference is to the fourfold classification of Sufi orders by the Ẕahabī master, aīb al-dīn Riā, in his Nr l-Hidāy. According to this classification, out of four Sufi orders, that is the
aqshbandiyya, the Shaāriyya, the Rifāʿiyya and the Ẕ ahabiyya it is only the last that is active Iran and is honored to be particularly associated with the eighth Imam. 487 It is of this order
that ayrīzī considers himself the “guardian.”
484
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, vol. 3: 1302.
485
Ibid., vol. 3: 1199.
486
Ibid., vol. 3: 1185.
487
Ibid., 1187. Also: Tabrīzī Isfahānī, “ūr al -Hidāya (Manuscript),” f. 186a– 186b.
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The author of l also provides us with a list of prominent gnostics among the learned
of his time who, according to him, “although some might have some reservations res ervations about the others,” they are in fundamental agreement with the way of the folks of poverty that is represented best by his master ʿAlī Iahbānātī, i.e., the Ẕahabiyya. The list of people is important, as it reflects whom among the t he learned elite of his time ayrīzī associated the most.
Six people are enlisted here with whom ayrīzī had a close relationship. These are (1) Shāh Muammad Dārābī ;488 (2) Muammad ʿAlī Sakākī Shīrāzī (d. 1135);489 (3) Muammad ādiq Ardastānī (d. 1134 or 38);490 (4) Āghā Khalīl Isfaānī [Qazvīnī] (d. 1136);491 (5) Amīr Ibrāhīm Qazvīnī (d. 1149); 492 and finally (6) Mīr Muammad -taqī Khurāsānī (d. circa. 1150). 493 Of the above six figures, five are either officially affiliated with a Sufi order (#2, #5 and #6), or have strong mystical proclivities (# 1 and #3). Unfortunately, contemporaneous sources are silent about the exact order to which
yi Nāsīrī, associates him with the Sakākī paid allegiance. A later source, that is, the ārs -nām- yi
Ẕahabī order.494 This, rather than a reflection of an earlier source, seems to be an impressionistic conecture on behalf of asāʾī given the prominence of the Ẕahabī order in
488
Muammad Muammad ʿAlī azīn Lāhīī, ārīkh v Sfrnām-i Ḥīn, ed. ʿAlī Davānī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Markaz- i Asnād-i Inqilāb-i Islāmī, 1996), 177–78. 489
Ibid., 179.
490
We are tol d that Ardastānī was expelled from Isfahan due to his Sufi proclivities. Although we cannot be sure of the historicity of this incident, as we mentioned earlier, there is no doubt about his inclination towards Sufism which made him an ideal candidate as the figure .
491
Muammad Musin Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, bqāt Aʿlām l-Shīʿ, ed. ʿAlī aqī Munzavī, al -abʿa 2. (Qom: Muʾassasat Muʾassasat Ismāʿīlīyān, 1990), vols. 6: 15–16. Also: ʿAbd al-abī ibn Muammad Qazvīnī, tmīm Aml l- Āmil, ed. Amad usaynī, min Makhūāt Maktabat Āyat Allāh al -Marʿashī al-ʿĀmma ; 16. (Qom: Maktabat Āyat Allāh al -Marʿashī, 1987), 142–46.
492
Shīʿ (Beirut: dar al- Taʿāruf, 1986), vols. 2: 227–8. On his Sufi proclivities and his Ibid. Also Musin al -usaynī Āmilī, Aʿyān l-Shīʿ (Beirut: close relationship to Mīr Muammad -taqī (#6 above) see: Qazvīnī, tmīm Aml l- Āmil, Āmil, 85. 493
Āmil, 84–87. Qazvīnī, tmīm Aml l- Āmil,
494
yi Nāirī , ed. Manūr Rastigār asāʾī (Tehran: Amīr Kabīr, 1989), vol. 2: 1171. asan ibn asan usaynī asāʾī, ārsnām- yi
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Shiraz during his lifetime in the mid to late nineteenth century. While Sakākī’s affiliation with organized Sufism is clearly mentioned in azīn’s remarks as well, it is highly unlikely that he was a Ẕahabī. If that were the case, one wonders, why would ayrīzī have failed to mention it?
In fact, given ayrīzī’s conscious effort to conceal the ūrbakhshī identit y of other Sufi masters he accompanied, and his above-mentioned reference to “reservations” that some of
these six had about each other, it is more likely that Sakākī was a ūrbakhshī Sufi. The fact, we know that ūrbakhshīs and sometimes aqshbandīs used the term silsilat al-ẕahab to refer to a particular spiritual lineage that connected them to the imams, especially the eighth imam,
through Maʿrūf Karkhī. Another case of a ūrbakhshī acquaintance of ayrīzī is Mīr Muammad -taqī Khurāsānī, otherwise known as Shāhī. ayrīzī praises him with the highest of his words. Shāhī is, according to him, “renowned in every quarter of the earth and among the murshīds murs hīds for those who seek guidance in spiritual Path.” The name of the Sufi order he associated with, however, is curiously suppressed both by ayrīzī and other biographical sources that mention him.495 In spite of this censorship, we know from a unique manuscript that he was a master of
the ūrbakhshī Sufi order. His name appears on the ūrbakhshī order’s lineage as a student of Muammad Muʾmīn Sidīrī, from the khānīqāh in Sidīr, close to Sabzavār, that we mentioned it as one of the active ūrbakhshī centers in Khurāsān in second chapter.496 Yet it is not the career of the members of organized Sufism among his companions that
interests us here. It is in the figure of Shāh Muammad Dārābī , a mystic-poet and an
495
or example, ʿA bd al-abī Qazvīnī, with his strong anti-Sufi sentiments inherited from his teacher Mullā Khalīl Qazvīnī, after giving a quite detailed account of his miracles and his exemplary piety and asceticism makes sure to point out that “al l the people of knowledge and nobility who met him and with whom I met mentioned that he never spoke as Sufis speak about their superstition, their technical vocabulary, their pretentions, and beliefs.” (Ibid., 86) 496
Siyā, 336. Most probably, his source is: “Silsila- yi Sidīriyya- yi ūrbakhshiyya- yi Hamadāniyya,” Shīrvānī, Riyā l-Siyā, Hamadāniyya,” f. 2.
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outstanding religious scholar who was ayrīzī’s hadith teacher that we find what we are looking for in terms of the possible model that ayrīzī looked into in his dramatic choice to put aside the category of Sufism and choose the epithet of ʿārif as an alternative that stands in direct opposition and contrast to the former.
Information about Dārābī’s life and works is scattered piecemeal in a wide variety of primary sources. Based on these sources, prominent bibliographers of poets and ʿulama have constructed a picture of his career and life that can be quite puzzling at times.497 Sources of
confusion are Dārābī’s longevi ty (his students insist that he lived more than a hundred years)498 and the fact that he, like many poets and writers of his time, spent many years in India in
pursuit of royal sponsorship. These factors resulted in Dārābī’s life being discussed under two, and sometimes three, different names. 499
497
The best attempt to reconstruct the basic chronology of Dārābī’s life has been accomplished recently by ādīq Ashkivarī. See his introduction to: Dārābī Shāh Muammad , ẕkir- yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, ed. Yusūf Bayg Bābāpūr and ādīq Ashkivarī (Qom: Mamaʿ -i Ẕakhāʾir-i Islāmī, 2012), uh – Haftādu–du. Haftādu–du. A comprehensive list of Dārābī’s writings is included in Ashkivari’s informative introduction. 498
or example azīn claims that lived close to a hundred and thirty years. azīn, ārīkh v Sfrnām-i Ḥīn, Ḥīn, 178.
499
or example, Ādamiyyat has divided Dārābī’s works under three different entries: Muammad usayn Ruknzāda Ādamiyyat, Dānishmndān v Skhnsrāyān-i ārs (Tehran: Kitābfurūshīhā-yi Islāmiyya va Khayyām, 1337), vols. 3: 229, 230 and 544. Similarly, Āghā Buzurg contends that there are two Dārābīs in this period whose identity and work should not be mixed. See: Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l -Shīʿ, Shīʿ, vols. 9: 665 –6. His contention seems to be based upon 1) the fact that two different pen names, “Shāh” and “ʿĀrif” are reported by the sources as having been used by Dārābī, and 2) that one of these appears to refer to a poet who lived and died in India whereas the other refers to the master of Hazīn and ayrīzī and a maor scholar who was born in Iahbānāt, lived in Shiraz, and died in his hometown. Therefore, Āghā Buzurg distinguishes distinguishes between Muammad ʿĀrif Iahbānātī , the famous scholar of hadith and the author of iʿrāj al-Kmāl and Riyā l-ʿĀrifīn and Shāh Muammad Dārābī or Dārābirdī , the author of ẕkirt l- shʾrā who died in India. In response, it should be said that the the use of two different pen names —“Shāh” in some poems and “ʿĀrif” in others—does not necessarily mean that two different authors wrote the poems. See Amad Gulchīn Maʿānī, ārīkh-i ẕkirhā yi ārsī, Publications De l’Université De Tehran ; o. 1236/1. (Tehran: Dānishgāh Dānishgāh-i Tehran, 1348), vols. 2, 103. In this survey of biographical works on Persian poets the author provides an extensive description of Lāʾif l-khyāl by Shāh Muammad
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Turning to the matter of Dārābī’s longevity, it should be acknowledged that miraculous length of life is often attributed att ributed to saintly figures. In Dārābī’s case, however, a number of reports by his contemporaries lead one to believe that he indeed lived more than one hundred
years. The earliest known literary trace left by Dārābī is an extant copy of ʿUrfī Shīrāzī’s Dīvān, copied by Dārābī himself in 1636 while the latter was in India. In order for him to have been old enough to travel to India from Shiraz and an accomplished enough calligrapher to produce such a beautiful piece of art, he must have been at least in his late twenties at the time.500 This puts his birth date somewhere around the beginning of the second decade of the seventeenth century. More concrete dates in relation to his literary activities come from his iʾrj, which mentions the year 1104/1692,501 and from his commentary on the fourth imam’s Ṣīf, which
Dārābī penned in Isfahan in the year 1114/1702. 502 Another important piece of information about the chronology of his life comes from his student st udent azīn, who mentions that Dārābī Dārābī, going on to count iʾrāj l-kmāl among the latter’s writings. Gulchīn Maʿānī also mentions that Dārābī wrote poetry using two pen names: Shāh and ʿĀrif. The author also makes no mention of Dārābī’s death in India, in spite of Āghā Buzurg’s claim. In fact the wording of Ṣb-i Gulshan gives the impression that his permanent abode was not India, and that he was there only for a visit. ʿAli Hasan Khan ʿĀshiqī, Subh-i Gulshan. (Bhopal : Fayz-i Manba’-i Ranq-i Ariyai,, 1878), 220, http://hdl.handle.net/2027/uc1.b3819092. It is indeed a possibility that the author use two different pen names at different stages of his life, or, alternate pen names depending upon his residence (Iran or India). While the pen name Shāh appears to be deeply rooted in his Indian connections, the pen name ʿĀrif would have been a beneficial and natural choice in Iran, especial ly towards the end of the seventeenth century when Sufism had come under increasing pressure, allowing allowing the author to keep from being targeted as a Sufi. The possibility of India versus Iran explanation is supported by Ashkevari’s finding that the author himself appears to have scratched out the pen name ʿārif and replaced it with Shāh as he was finalizing the copy of Lāʾif in India. See the related remarks in Shāh Muammad , ẕkir- yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, Khyāl, Shast–va–chahār. Āghā Buzurg himself seems to have reconsidered his position and later explicitly acknowledges the possibility that the two were one and the same, given that there is “doubt about Ṣb-i Glshn’s report regrding his death in India.” See: Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, bqāt Aʿlām lShīʿ, Shīʿ, vols. 6: 330 –332. Other scholars have also emphasized that these purportedly different personalities all belonged to one man. See Ashkevarī’s yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl. Davānī also leans towards this introduction to the recent publication of Lāʾif : Shāh Muammad , ẕkir- yi Ḥīn, 333. This view is also held by some contemporary conclusion. See his remarks in azīn, ārīkh v Sfrnām-i Ḥīn, contemporary scholars. ther examples of this confusion, mostly based on Āghā Buzurg’s misleading comments are: ʿAlī Karbāsī, Ḥkīm-i tʾll Bīdābādī : Bīdābādī : Iyāgr -i Ḥikmt -i Shīʿī dr Qrn -i Dvā zdahum-i Hijrī , Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Pizhūhishgāh-i ʿUlūm-i Insānī va Muālaʿāt-i arhangī, 1381), 68. 500
This beautiful manuscript was brought to my attention by Sadeq Ashkevari. I later found out that it was the property of the late Stuart Cary Welch. His descendants put it up at auction last spring in London, where it sold for £ 73,250 by Sotheby in London at April 6 th, 2011. 501
502
Muammad ibn Muammad Dārābī, “Miʾrā al -Kamāl”, n.d., 117, MS. o. 7205, Kitābkhāna- yi Āstān-i Quds Raavī .
Muammad ibn Muammad Dārābī, Riyā l-ʿĀrifīn fī Shr Ṣīft Syyid l-Sājidīn, ed. usayn Dargāhī and Muamad Taqī Sharīʿatmadārī, Sharīʿatmadārī, al-abʿa 1. (Tehran: Dār al -Usva, 2000), 10.
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passed away while he was studying in Shiraz. Shiraz . Although we know azīn stayed in Iran Ir an until 1146/1733, we do not know the exact dates of his study in Shiraz. He was likely in his late twenties and early thirties while in Shiraz, and his stay certainly occurred during the last
decade of Safavid rule, a couple of years before the fall of Isfahan. This puts Dārābī’s approximate death date somewhere around 1130/1717.503 Based on this timeline, his claim to have been a student of Shaykh Bah āʾī might not be that farfetched.504
Dārābī also appears to have lived in India for extended periods of time on several occasions. In fact, the title of shah (king) before his name indicates a strong st rong connection to India, where it was customary for Sufi saints s aints and friends of God to be honored with this title.505
All three of Dārābī’s prominent students who left behind biographical information about him relate that he was their primary teacher in hadith and mention m ention him teaching classical philosophy textbooks as well as other sciences. 506 503
or a list of different death dates mentioned in primary sources see Shāh Muammad , Ta ẕkir- yi yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, bīst. I am inclined toward Āghā Buzurg’s conclusion in this regard: Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l -Shīʿ, Shīʿ, vol. 9: 666.
504
Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb, 1212. See also Gulchīn Maʿānī, ārīkh-i ẕkir-hā- yi ārsī,, ārsī,, vols. 2, 101. Gulchīn refers to Lāʾif l-Khyāl as his source. At the time of writing, the recent edition of the latter work was not at my disposal to verify this issue. 505
or a summary of his trips see Shāh Mua mmad, ẕkir- yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, Khyāl, Hijdah–nūzdah. Although the exact length of his stay(s) is not clear, there are specific times when we know he was in India. For example, from an extant manuscript of the Dīvān of ʿUrfī Shīrāzī, scribed by none other than our own Shāh Muammad , we know that he was in India in the year 1046/1636, in a town called Muhammadpūr. We also know from another extant treatise by Dārābī that in the year 1062/1651 he entered Ahmadabad, the capital of Gujerat province in India, via Surat. Muammad ibn Muammad Dārābī, Līf- yi Ghybī (Shiraz: Kitābkhāna- yi Amadī, 1978), 131. Tihrānī Tihrānī has obviously missed this explicit explicit mention to the the year 1062 when he contends that the received scholarly view that Līf was written around 1087 is not correct and suggests, based upon what appears to be a misreading of a paragraph in the work, that it appears to have been compiled sometime between the years 1038 and 1043. As we will presently see, an analysis of the contents of Līf reveals its striking similarity to works written in the late twelfth century. Ashkevarī confirms the later date of 1087 and adds that the date is mentioned at the end of a manuscript of Līf that he has examined as well. See: Shāh Muammad , ẕkir- yi yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, yāl, si–va– yik. According to Ashkevari, he stayed in India for five years until he returned to Shiraz and Isfahan in 1067. Ibid., ūzdah. His second trip to India appears to have happened around 1076 when he started to write ẕkir-yi Lā’if l-Khyāl, a biography of Persian poets there. See Ibid. It looks like he stayed there until 1083, the date he finished his Riyā l-ʿĀrifīn. A number of years later he headed back to Iran and resided in Isfahan for a couple of years, where arābādī met him. arābādī Ifahānī, ẕkir-yi Nrābādī , 592. His last trip to India, as far as we know, happened around 1100. The date is mentioned in small treatise on ʿĀlm l-isāl āl (imaginal world) which he wrote aboard ship while sailing to India. azīn Lāhīī, ārīkh v Sfrnām -i Ḥīn, Ḥīn, 333. Ashkevari contends that this is probably Dārābī’s last work, since no other work among his writings is dated later than 1100. In my udgment, however, Ashkevari seems to have overlooked that the year 1104 is mentioned in Dārābī’s iʿrāj. See his remarks in: Shāh Muammad , ẕkir- yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, Bīst–va–panj.
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Dārābī’s mastery of hadith is best exemplified in his commentary on l-Ṣīf lSjjādiyy, which he titled Riyā l-ʿĀrifīn. This work was written during the reign of Shah
Sultan usayn and dedicated to the same s ame. Therefore, it is no surprise that ayrīzī mentions Dārābī as the primary teacher on whose authority he narrates the traditions of the family of the Prophet (his shaykh al-ijā, in other words). In his own words:
f the learned (fualā ) with whom I met among the contemporaries: first, the learned professional, my teacher and the one whom I reference in
narrating from the infallible imams … master of both rational and narrated sciences ( jāmiʿ l-mʿql v l-mnql), container of the principle ( l) and the branches ( frʾ) [of religion], the most knowledgeable, most intelligent, Mawlā
Shāh Muammad Dārābī , peace be upon him. He was the teacher of all the learned of Shiraz in his age, and I am in possession of a treatise by him titled
iʿrāj l-Kmāl in his own handwriting, which is an inquiry about the meaning of
shaykh and [his] guidance, and disciple (murīd) ( murīd) and his seeking of guidance (istirshād).507
This emphasis on hadith by Dārābī and his students is another testament to how the study of hadith was a centerpiece of the t he madrasa curriculum in the early decades of the 506
or a comprehensive list of his students see Ashkevari’s notes in Shāh Muammad Muammad , ẕkir- yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, Khyāl, Bist–vadu – bist–va–chahār. Hazīn Lāhīī praises him as “teacher of the ʿulamā” ( stād l-ʿlmā) and “example of the gnostics” ( usvat alʿrfā) and recalls his participation in Dārābī’s class on Ul l-kāfī as as well as his philosophy class in which he learned Ḥikmt lʿAyn from him. Muammad ʿAlī azīn, ẕkirt l-ʿāirīn, ed. Maʿsūma Sālik, Chāp -i 1., Mīrās-i Maktūb (Series). Zabān va Adabīyāt-i ārsī ; 2. (Tehran: Nashr- i Sāya, 1996), 112–13. azīn, ārīkh v Sfrnām -i Ḥīn, 177–78. Muammad Muʾmin Muʾmin Shīrāzī Jazāʾirī, his other student, also praises Dārābī in the highest terms, stating that he was his primary teacher not only in hadith, but also in the natural sciences, philosophy, mathematics, astronomy, astronomy, and music, among others. Muammad Muammad ʿAlī ʿUlmāʾ, ed. Shihāb al -Dīn Marʿashī aafī (Qom: Maktabat Baīratī, 1981), 172. Here Kashmīrī, Njm l-Smāʾ fī rājim l-ʿUlmāʾ, Jazāʾirī points out out that Dārābī was born in Iahbānāt Iahbānāt (hence his epithet Iahbānātī Iahbānātī instead instead of Dārābī Dārābī in some sources ) and died around 1140 in his hometown after spending his life as the master of all the learned in Shiraz teaching and writing. Hazīn’s report, as we mentioned, indicates that his death occurred before the fall of Isfahan at 1135. 507
Khiāb, 1201. Amīn al-Sharīʿa Khuyī, īān l-Ṣvāb dr Shr-i l l-Khiāb,
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eighteenth century, whether one was interested in hadith and jurisprudence or philosophy and mysticism.
Another interesting fact about Dārābī is that, despite his strong penchant for mysticism and the fact that his vocabulary borrows heavily from Sufi literature, none of his contemporaries associated him with organized Sufi orders, either in India or in Iran.508 The fact
that ayrīzī refers to ʿAlī Iahbānātī, and not Dārābī, as his shykh t -rīqa (master of the [Sufi] Path) is also reflective of Dārābī’s hesitation to operate within the framework of traditional Sufi institutions.509
The importance of Dārābī for our inquiry is that the earliest attempts to replace terms like Sufi and Sufism with ʿārif and ʿirfān occur in his writings. Later figures like ayrīzī operated under his direct influence as they sought to unburden themselves from the heavy weight of the negative connotations such terms had acquired in the aftermath of the anti-Sufi campaign. In fact, an examination of the numerous extant works by Dārābī demonstrates that
he, along with Muʾaẕẕin and ayrīzī, was at the front line of the Sufi response to this campaign. He wrote works dedicated to three hotly debated issues of the time related to Sufism: qāmāt l-Sālikīn on the issue of music ( ghinā) and its legitimate and illegitimate forms,510 iʿrāj l-Kmāl on the master/disciple relationship in Sufism, 511 and Līf- yi Ghybī
508
The only exception is a report that around the year 1038/1630 someone named ʿĀrif Shīrāzī entered Isfahan in dervish garb (libās-i faqr) and claimed to be a nephew of ʿUrfī Shīrāzī. azīn, ẕkirt l-ʿāirīn, 245. If this ʿĀrif is the same as our Shāh Muhammad, whom we know sometimes wrote poetry with the nickname ʿĀrif, then it follows that Dārābī, at least in the early stage of his career, officially associated with Sufism. Most likely, however, he changed his appearance later on as he advanced his knowledge of various disciplines and emerged as a prominent teacher in Shiraz. 509
There is an ambigious piece of evidence that raises the possibility of him being affiliated with organized Sufism at the early stages of his career. See ibid. 510
Muammad ibn Muammad Dārābī, “Maqāmāt al -Sālikīn,” in Ghinā, sīqī , ed. Sayyid Jaʿfar abavī, vol. 1, 2 vols., Chāp -i 1., Mīrās-i iqhī (Qom: Mu’assisa- yi Būstān-i Kitāb (Markaz-i Intishārāt Daftar -i Tablīghāt -i Islāmī ), 2008), 283–496. 511
Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl.”
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that contains his take on the debate over terms like Sufi and Sufism.512 Directing our focus
upon him is worthwhile not only because of his influence on ayrīzī and the latter’s choice to distance himself from the term Sufi, but also because of his larger influence on the intellectual circles of Shiraz. As a prominent and universally respected teacher in the city for over a
century, he contributed to the nascent stages of the formation of the paradigm of irfān in an unparalleled way due to the number of students he influenced. Among his works that contributed to the debate on Sufism during the seventeenth century, none were more important than iʾrāj l-Kmāl and Līf- yi Ghybī. The former is only work by Dārābī included
in the handful of titles ayrīzī explicitly cites as belonging to his library, an indication of how important he considered this work to be.
iʿrāj l-Kmāl is the only work by Dārābī that deals exclusively with the debates over Sufism in his time.513 As the subtitle of the work indicates, it focuses on what was perhaps the most volatile issue in the debate between the Sufi-minded and anti-Sufi camps, the issue of master/disciple relationship, whether it could be reconciled with the role of the infallible imams vis-à-vis their followers and, as a result, whether or not it was “innovation” or bidʿa. I should mention that I am not concerned here with the master/disciple relationship as an isolated issue that revolves around a person-to-person relationship in spiritual matters. To the contrary, I am primarily concerned with it as a highly significant social phenomenon developed across centuries and located at the heart of an array of social rituals and an elaborate ethos. Such rituals and codes of conduct played an important role in regulating not 512
513
Ibid.; Dārābī, Līf- yi Ghybī .
There is only one known copy of this work available which is held at the Central Library of Astan-i Quds in Mashhad, Iran. I was fortunate to be able to get a digital copy of the work via my generous friend Mr. Sayyed Sadeq Ashkevari.
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only the social hierarchy of the khānaqāh, but also the larger network of social groups that were connected to Sufi institutions in different ways. The significant social implications of this
relationship were what the emerging hierocracy of the ʿulama found most threatening to their authority and power in religious matters and beyond. This sense of threat led to the Sufis coming under severe attacks and, sometimes, actual persecution. It would be simplistic and
naïve, however, to reduce the activities of the ʿulama (a highly complex and amorphous social group) vis-à-vis Sufis and dervishes to a series of negative attacks aimed at the suppression and silencing of the latter camp. As we mentioned at the end of the previous chapter, simultaneous to those attacks, a highly innovative and syncretistic attempt was being made within the boundaries of the clerical hierocracy to offer an alternative model of guidance that
had the “infallible imams” at its center. In other words, the ʿulama did not merely say what, from their perspective, was wrong with Sufism. They also offered an alternative vision of how
one could pursue spirituality in the “right” way. I believe that this, in addition to the unwavering support the ʿulama received from the political establishment, was an important contributing factor in their ultimate success. At the level of the illiterate masses, the development of cults of veneration and worship around the tombs of imams and their descendants, as discussed earlier, as well the widespread retellings of miraculous stories about the infallible imams by passionate mullas, wondering dervishes, and maddāhs, was instrumental in focusing public attention on the imams instead of Sufi saints. As the nvvāb or
“deputies” of the Hidden Imam, similar stories and cults of worship were developed around charismatic and high-ranking members of the hierocracy. 514 or the learned ʿulama themselves, dreams and visions of the imams and the enormous literary legacy of the imams as
514
I will have more to say about the language of “deputyship” and its implications in the coming pages.
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preserved in the hadith literature functioned as primary sources of spiritual guidance. A new spiritual hierarchy developed in which the gates of heaven opened not by way of the saintly
figure of the Sufi shaykh at the khānaqāh or the local Sufi shrine, but by way of the charismatic clergy and the local imāmzāda. It was in the context of such negotiations about the authentic’ channels of connection
between heaven and earth that Dārābī dedicates a whole treatise to explaining the meaning of guidance. The exercise of explaining what the concept of guidance means in spiritual matters presupposes the existence of a certain degree of confusion and uncertainty about the boundaries of the notion and a debate over its definition. The ones who eventually gained the upper hand in defining such boundaries became the new guardians of the gates of heaven. This is what iʿrāj is about. As a Sufi-minded religious scholar, Dārābī, somewhat like Muʾaẕẕ in in f , seems to be straddling the two worlds of traditional Sufism and the newly-emerging orthodox Twelver
Shiʿism. There are differences, however, in the two authors’ approaches. As someone solidly grounded in the world of organized Sufism, Muʾaẕẕ in approached this shady area where the two worlds intermingled (mjmʿ l-bryn) privileging traditional Sufi discourse. However
Dārābī, as someone solidly grounded in the tradition of madrasa, approached the same problems with a primary commitment to orthodox Twelver discourse. As such, his arguments in iʾrāj, although thoroughly informed by traditional Sufi discourse and employed mainly in defense of its fundamental ideas, can be seen as an attempt to domesticate the Sufi tradition by revisiting some key concepts, their definitions, and premises.
Similarly to Muʾaẕẕin in f , Dārābī opens his remarks in iʿrāj with a discussion of the nature of religious knowledge and a basic classification of the scholars of religion, the
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ʿulama. This confirms our claim once again that the crucial point of disagreement between the Sufis and the emerging clerical class was regarding the proper relationship between disciplinary/rational knowledge, which is based in the madrasa, and inspirational/intuitive
knowledge, which is gained through training in the khānaqāh. The same tripartite division that we discussed in f is presented by Dārābī, who divides the ʿulama are divided into those who are experts in the exoteric sciences (ʿlmā l- ẕāhir ) and those who are experts in the esoteric sciences (ʿlmā l-bāin). The ideal spiritual guide occupies the third category as
ʿālim who is competent in both the esoteric and exoteric sciences.515 Representatives of this third group are called al-ʿlmā l-rbbāniyyin (divinely [inspired] religious scholars) and,
according to Dārābī, terms like pīr and murshīd refer to none other than these divinely inspired religious scholars.516 He maintains that these ulamā are in fact the same as those the
Second Martyr calls the ʿ lmā l-qīq, those who embark on the path of asceticism and spiritual advancement after finishing formal training in the religious disciples. In other words, they combine the knowledge of Shariʿa with accomplishments in arīqat and the realization of
aqīqat.517 The term ʿālim rbbānī went on to be used frequently in later Shiʿi mystical literature as one of the important alternative for the original Sufi concept of pīr. Thus a new terminology appeared, suited to a context from which organized Sufism, along with important elements of
its technical language, were purged in favor of a new, Shiʿi-inspired lexicon. Interestingly, one of Dārābī’s primary strategies in defending the “orthodox” nature of terms like pīr or qub, which are found in abundance in Sufi literature, was to play down their technical meanings and treat them essentially as synonyms of more general and less loaded 515
Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl,” 97.
516
Ibid., 129 and 134 –5.
517
Ibid., p .66
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terms like stād (teacher), rāhnmā (guide), shāgird (student), rāhr (wayfarer), ʿālim (scholar),
mtʿllim (learner), and others. All of these terms, according to him, refer to nothing more than an educational relationship in which knowledge flows from the more to the less informed.518
onetheless, Dārābī is clear in his belief that embarking upon the spiritual path is impossible without the proper training of a master, a murshīd (in Arabic) or pīr (in Persian).519 He qualifies this general statement, however, by saying that no one can be the ultimate spiritual guru but the imam. It is only in the period of occultation, that is, when the ultimate
qub or “pole” of the universe is not accessible, that any degree of authority can be attributed to the gnostics, those divine religious scholars who are masters of both exoteric and esoteric aspects of religion:
So, if you said what is meant by [terms like] murshīd is no one but the infallible [Imams] we say: yes, but when they are present. When they are in occultation, however, the gnostics among the religious scholars who know the
esoteric sciences are, with the help of their hadiths, their deputies (nuvvāb). Then if it is said that their hadith is sufficient for us, we would say, if their hadith is sufficient, then why do exoteric religious scholars [go to their teachers in hadith] and take the hadith and hear it from their mshāyikh l-ijā? Therefore, [one has to] take the way of practice (rīqt l-ʿamal) from the
518
519
Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl,” 95. Ibid., 94.
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murshīd ust like one learns his way in the science of hadith from the masters of hadith (mshāyikh al-hadith).”520
The language of deputyship or niyāba in the above quote is highly significant. Beginning with ʿAlī al-Karakī in the early sixteenth century, Twelver urisconsults
(“mutahids”) began, with the support of Safavid monarchs, to employ the language of niyāba or deputyship to solidify their authority as true representatives of the Hidden Imam.521 The Safavid monarchs benefitted extremely from this claim since, they claimed, the jurisconsults graciously relegated the burden of governance to them. The shah, in other words, acted as a deputy of the Hidden Imam, approved by the learned mujtahid, to rule over the masses. While
Dārābī does not directly challenge the deputyship claims of the exoteric mutahid whose expertise is solely in the matter of Shariʿa, he states emphatically that it is the third group, those who combine exotericism and esotericism, who are the true deputies of the Hidden
Imam. Dārābī quotes a number of hadith to substantiate his claim and concludes: And this [hadith] is explicit in [saying] that the perfect master who is
“the believer” (muʾmin) [mentioned there], stands as the representative of the infallible Imam, and there is no doubt that he has a partial valāya (vlāy nāqi), which is the position of the murshīd; and it should be clear that the master of
520
Ibid., 105. (margins) .
521
Jaʿfariyān, Ṣfviyy dr ʿAr- yi Dīn, rhng v Siyāst , vols. 1: 122, 212 and 215.
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the esoteric sciences also have the exoteric sciences. Otherwise, he would not be qualified for the position.522
Therefore, it might be more fitting to analyze the above-mentioned remarks of Dārābī in terms of their relation to an emerging power struggle within the hierocracy itself —a struggle over who has the right to claim the deputyship of the Hidden Imam, rather than a debate between the Sufi shaykh on the one hand, and the jurist on the other. Another striking similarity between iʿrāj and f unfolds in the final pages of the former, where Dārābī starts a discussion about the necessary qualities that both the master and the disciple need to possess. The list is almost identical to that we saw in f.523 A few points of divergence from the latter, however, clearly indicate that Dārābī’s vision of the master/disciple relationship was different than that of a solid member of organized Sufism like
Muʾaẕẕin. irst, it is interesting that although Dārābī does not fail to mention the necessity of the disciple submitting to the master, he qualifies this assertion with an overarching principle
that the adept does not need to obey the shaykh if the latter’s demands are contrary to Shariʿa.524 Although Dārābī sets the parameters of his dis cussion so that it is inconceivable for the pīr to do or made the adept do something contrary to the law, the fact that he brings up such a hypothetical is a significance departure from the traditional Sufi understanding in which, based on the famous story of Moses and an anonymous companion traditionally
understood to be Khir, the disciple is required to submit to the will of his master unconditionally, like a corpse in the hands of the washer, even if the orders of master violate 522
523
524
Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl,” 172. Ibid., p 174.
Ibid , p 178.
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common sense and basic tenants of Shariʿa. In fact, am al -dīn Rāzī, in his classical irād l-
ʿibād, based on the logic of the abovementioned Qur’anic story emphasizes that the disciple is to submit to the will of the master even when he thinks that it contradicts the law.525 This is
exactly where Dārābī is not willing to adhere to the well-established and traditional Sufi understanding of the relationship. In his elaboration of the twentieth qualification of the disciple in iʿrāj –taken almost word for word from Muʾaẕẕin’s Tuf—he drops the reference
to the traditional corpse/washer analogy even though he still makes use of the Qur’anic story to emphasize the importance of disciple’s submission. In his innovative attempt to decontextualize and then redefine central Sufi concepts
connected to the concept of pīr, Dārābī also addresses the concept of vlāy or “friendship [with God]” and vlī or “friend [of God].” There few terms more important in classical Sufi literature than valāya. Accomplished Sufis, by the virtue of their advance spiritual stations, that is, their “closeness” to God, become his favorite servants, the pinnacles of his creation, and the rison d’etre for its sustenance. Such “friends of Allah” are called valīs in another sense of the root, that is, because God has bestowed upon them “guardianship” over the general
order of the universe, and, more particularly, over “ignorant” people who have gone “astray.” The valīs guide God’s wandering servants toward him, and in order to do so, they have been given a special authority that otherwise belongs only to God. That is, the authority to manage and decide on the affairs of their disciplines in every aspect of their lives. This authority overrules the authority of the subject himself over his body, his soul, and his life in general.
They are thus called valīs because they literally are “lā bi l-trrf” (one who has priority in managing the affairs of somebody else). 525
ʿAbd Allāh ibn Muammad am al -Dīn Rāzī, irād l-ʿIbād min l-bdʾ ilā Al-mʿād (Tehran: Kitābkhāna- yi Sanāʾī, 1984), 147.
222
In re-evaluating the role of spiritual master from a Shiʿi standpoint, Dārābī argues that such absolute authority can only be conferred by God to a handful of his most perfect servants,
that is the “infallible imams.” Therefore, he says, the term valī cannot be understood to refer, as it previously had, to someone has priority over a disciple’s body a nd soul in all matters. To the contrary, the term valī must be understood in light of its more general meaning to be something similar to nāir (“helper”) or mibb (someone who takes care of another out of affection).526 Dārābī follows with the explicit c onclusion that accusing Sufis of having believed
that an adept should act, in terms of his will, “like a corpse in the hands of a washer,” is baseless.527 This takes us to a striking feature of iʾrāj as a whole that I alluded to above. That is, its re-interpretation of technical Sufi concepts in a way that th eir connection to the technical
vocabulary of traditional Sufism is much weakened. Dārābī’s liberal willingness to compromise on hardcore Sufi terminology and to settle on less “problematic” and more “authentic”looking alternative terms can be seen throughout, as he reminds us often that the technical terms one chooses to use do not matter. Rather, it is the realities to which such terms point that are important:528 l mshāt fi l -iilāh (“there is no dispute in terminology).”529 This conscious attempt to de-emphasize the technical framework of reference for fundamental Sufi terms can be understood as a response to the criticism that Sufi vocabulary is, for the most
526
527
Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl,” 97–8. Ibid., 149.
528
Ibid., 100.
529
For example, see ibid., 106–07, 160. Dārābī’s tendency to de -emphasize and de-contextualize the technical meanings of Sufi terms is also clearly seen in Līf. As long as one submits himself to the path laid out by the infallible imams, in matters both exoteric and esoteric, Dārābī says, it is of no importance whether he or she is called Sufi or faqīh (urist). Sufism is not ust a word, “it is its meaning that is the criteria…the letters fāʾ, qāf, and hāʾ [=fiqh] are not [in their own] luminous ( nrānī ), neither are the letters tāʾ, ād, vāv, and fāʾ [=taavvuf ] dark ones ( lmānī ) that belong to hell ( jhnnmī ).” Dārābī, Līf- yi Ghybī , 110.
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part, alien to that found in authoritative hadith collections. Dārābī pursues a double strategy in which, on the one hand, he de-emphasizes the technical meanings of such terms and, on the other hand, cites many examples from other disciplines of knowledge in which extra-canonical terminology are used without inciting charges of “innovation.” 530
An interesting example is his discussion of the term ikma, or philosophy. As a prominent teacher of peripatetic philosophy, and in response to criticism from the anti-Sufi and anti-philosopher camp who noted that Qur’anic ikma had nothing in common with the field of knowledge that had come to be known by the same term, he redefines the term in the following way:
So, if you said the ikma that is praised in the science of Shariʿa is different from the ikma that is customary among the students I would say: [the definition of] ikma is to know the reality of things as they are according to the capacity of human understanding…and the result is that the philosopher (akim) is one who knows things as they are and acts accordingly. That is why in Ḥikmt -i ʿAlāʾī it is said – in Persian – that the akim [is] the truthful (rāst - gftār ) and righteous (durust-kirdār ). Therefore, ikma is something that includes the science of Shariʿa… and the science of tafsīr, hadith, and fiqh are all included in ikma…and our master, Shaykh Bahāʾī, has pointed out in some of his writings that ikma is derived from the fountain of prophethood (nubuvva), and since the names of some prophets were recorded in Greek, people got confused [and thought] that those names refer to philosophers rather than prophets, and then he said [for example] Hermes Trismagestus is the [Greek] name of prophet Idris and Pythagoras the name of prophet Shīs [Seth, son of Adam]. 531 As the reader has surely noticed, this willingness to compromise on terminology is not,
in spite of Dārābī’s claim, simply a superficial exchange of different words referring to the same truth. Quite to the contrary, terms that are deeply rooted in a Sunni-Sufi heritage are taken out of their original register, the original network of meaning to which they belonged,
530
531
Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl,” 105–106. Ibid., 155–56.
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and re-introduced in a different register in which they are understood in the context of a new web of meaning and signification that revolves around Twelver teaching.
Among such terms Sufism itself. Dārābī experiments with several alternative terms for this concept, ʿirfān among them. or Dārābī, ʿirfān is primarily an authentic, Shiʿi word for spirituality, in contrast to the problematic, Sunni-related aspects of taavvuf: If the fact that there are Sunni scholars among urists (fuqahā) ( fuqahā) is not considered a stain on the face of the glorious gl orious science of fiqh, similarly, the fact
that there are rare Sunni Sufis among the ʿurafā (gnostics) is not a blemish for ʿirfān.532
Therefore, a gnostic, ideally, cannot be a Sunni. Dārābī makes the latter point clear in a number of places in iʿrāj by emphasizing that the spiritual lineages that originate from
problematic Sunni figures like asan Basrī and Sufiyān Sawrī awrī , whom I discussed in brief earlier in this dissertation, are illegitimate.
And if you said that some orders trace their lineage back to asan al-Barī or Sufiyān Sawrī awrī and these two are condemned [by the imams] I would say only a few among the orders end in those two and it does not impinge upon the discipline of taavvuf and ʿirfān.533 A Sufi who is opposed to the pure imams is cursed forever… the disparagement of Sufism that is found in some hadiths refers to this group gr oup who were opposed to Their Majesties, disputed them, and were actively pursuing a way contrary to the true way of Twelverism. It does not refer to a group g roup whose spoken words, deeds, and religious observances best followed their Highnesses, the pure imams. How it is fair to call this latter group Sufis just because they persist in remembrance of God ( ẕikr), purification of their food and their soul and refining their ethical qualities and, then, start fighting them, expressing hostility towards them, and rejecting them. As soon as we have learned a couple of [urisprudential] problems (masʾala) from the books of transactions and 532
Ibid., 113.
533
Ibid., 125 and 113.
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business (muʿāmilāt va taārat), even if we have thousands of blameworthy deeds opposed to the exalted tradition of Their Majesties, we consider ourselves better than the group that we have called Sufis; even if we observe them doing their best to follow their Highnesses, the Imams. [And this] merely based on the presumption that we are jurists and they are Sufis. What kind of logic does this follow, and according to what notion of fairness, judgment, and law is it? 534 In spite of this rhetorical emphasis on the Shiʿi-Sunni dichotomy between ʿirfān and taavvuf, Dārābī uses the two words in conunction with one another (ʿirfān va taavvuf ) in a number of passages like the one above. This, I believe, was a way for the author to give his
readers a sense of what the newly-introduced category meant. As far as I have been able to determine, Dārābī was the first author who used ʿirfān in conunction with taavvuf as an alternative and an equivalent. In doing so, he transcribes many of the semantic se mantic denotations
and connotations of Sufism onto ʿirfān. ʿIrfān is used, therefore, as a substantive term that signifies a particular discipline ( fann), rather than a signifier s ignifier of an advanced spiritual station that is marked by gnostic, ontological realization of the unity that underlies apparent
multiplicity. Dārābī also calls it a ma ẕhab, which implies a defined set of beliefs and practices or a particular school of thought. 535 As I mentioned previously, the term taavvuf , based on its literal derivation, signifies a process in which one becomes an accomplished Sufi. This
procedural denotation is also transcribed onto ʿirfān by Dārābī. In a brief but important passage in which he gives a rough definition of the abovementioned terms he says,
Sufism and ʿirfān means to be devoid of all the vices ( ra ẕāʾil) and to be adorned with all the virtues ( fāʾil) and to observe the exoteric and the esoteric [aspects] of the Shariʿa.536
534
yi Ghybī , 108–109. Dārābī, Līf- yi
535
Dārābī, “Miʾrā al -Kamāl,” 150.
536
Ibid., 148.
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This definition clearly draws upon that given to ʿirfān by Avicenna in the latter’s alIshārāt , which was briefly treated in the first chapter. According to Avicenna, “ʿirfān begins
with differentiation (tafrīq), renunciation (naq), abandonment (tark) and reection (raf (r af). It continues with an integration (amʿ) that is the integration of Divine attributes into the essence of the true seeker. It ends in the ne (al-vāid), and then stillness (vuqūf).” 537 Tūsī, in his clarification of this condensed and abstruse definition, explains that the beginning stages
of ʿirfān mentioned by Avicenna essentially refer to a stage of the Sufi Path called takhliya (emptying [the soul from vicious traits and qualities]). Similarly, the middle stage, called amʿ, refers to what is known in Sufi S ufi literature as tliy (adornment [of the soul with divine qualities and attributes]) among the Sufis. This eventually leads the sincere seeker to the stage of oneness (vd) and tranquility. 538 Tūsī provides a more detailed schema of the ascending order of spiritual stages in his Aāf l- Ashrā f , drawing heavily upon the mnāil ([spiritual] stations) genre of Sufi literature , best represented by ʿAbdallāh Ansārī’s nāil l-Sāʿirīn.539 As I
mentioned earlier, the fact that both akhr Rāzī and ūsī take this Sufi-inspired understanding of Avicenna’s remarks for granted is primarily due to the increasing dominance of Sufi discourse in their era. Avicenna himself does not make any reference to terms like Sufi or Sufism or to prominent figures associated with Sufism. As a teacher of philosophy in Sh iraz, Dārābī was fully aware of the Avicennan tradition
of ʿirfān. As a part of the vibrant intellectual environment of Shiraz.540 he personally knew adrā during the later stages of the latter’s teaching career in the city, and Dārābī actually 537
Abī ʿAlī usayn ibn ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna), al-Ishārāt v l-nbīhāt , vol. 3: 389.
538
Ibid. Tūsī’s commentary on the margins.
539
540
ʿirfān, 224–47. or an informative analysis of Tūsī’s Awaf see: Pūravādī, Ishrāq v ʿirfān,
yi Lāʾif l-Khyāl, Khyāl, shast–va–panj. Shāh Muammad , ẕkir- yi
227
mentions adrā’s name approvingly in qāmāt l-Sālikīn.541 His philosophical approach, however, especially to fundamental questions of the metaphysics of being, seems to have remained largely Avicennan and thus untouched by the latter. lat ter.542 Yet, the fact that he is on record as having written a treatise called Isbāt bāt ʿĀlm l-isāl āl or “Proving the [existence] of the
Imaginal World” indicates the heavy influence of Sufi -illuminationist trends of thought on him. Here, Dārābī contends that although the existence of such a realm cannot be proved by reasoning, it has been confirmed by mystical visions and also by the implications of hadith literature.543 The lack of attention to adrā’s philosophy is not surprising here, even for a
denizen of Shiraz. We know that adrā’s adrā’s innovative mystical philosophy remained marginal in philosophical circles until the end of the eighteenth century and the emergence of Mullā ʿAlī ūrī (d. ).544 It was not, then, the mystical philosophy of adrā that informed Dārābī’s notion of ʿirfān. Quite the contrary, in his attempts to introduce this category as an alternative for Sufism, he was influenced by mainstream figures of philosophy and theology like Avicenna and ūsī . As a mystically-minded Shiʿi religious scholar, the most important medium through which he interpreted the Avicennan tradition is the figure of air al-dīn ūsī. The latter’s
541
Dārābī, “Maqāmāt al -Sālikīn,” 323–24.
542
or example, in his comments on the issue of “vadat al -vuūd va-l-mawūd” that appear on the margins, he lists five distinct positions. Among the five, he ascribes one, that is, “vadat al -mawjūd va-l-vuūd,” to the ʿurafā. Surprisingly, he does not adhere to this position, but sticks to the standard peripatetic position in which vuūd is understood to be identical to the essence of God, but an accident (ʿara ) when it comes to the essence of c ontingent beings. This is in contrast to adrā’s signature position, that of ālt l-vjd (primacy of being), which, in the final analysis, is replaced by the Sufi position of vadat al-vuūd). Dārābī’s preference of the position of the ukamā, and branding it as the position of Twelver Shiʿism, is indicative of how much his general outlook is defined by traditional philosophical discourse. In the end, however, Dārābī downplays the difference between the abovementioned positions, positions, casting it as an esse ntially terminological one. Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl,” 151. 543
See Ashkevari’s brief report of this treatise in: ādīq Ashkivarī, “ʿĀlam al-Misāl: āl: Muʿarrifī - yi Pazhūhashī Pazhūhashī az ʿAr -i afavī,” Iilāʾāt -i Ḥikmt v ʿrift , no. 73 (2012): 34 –35. 544
Slkiyy, adr al-Dīn Shīrāzī, al-Shvāhid l-Rbbiyy fī l-nāhij l-Slkiyy,
–
.
228
name appears in Dārābī’s writings more than that of any other Shiʿite ʿālim. Dārābī cites passages from ūsī’s works frequently, especially from his Sharh al-jrīd as well as Aāf lshrāf. 545
Although the dominance of the Sufi tradition largely prevented Avicenna’s notion of ʿirfān from reaching the attention of many learned circles, it appears that the situation in Shiraz was somewhat different. For some reason, in early sixteenth century Shiraz, the
distinctively Avicennan notion of ʿirfān came into the spotlight after half a millennium thanks to a small treatise titled nāil l-Sāʼirīn v qāmāt l -ʻĀrifīn and written by the prominent
al-dīn Manūr Dashtakī (d. 1542). This philosopher and dignitary of early Safavid Shiraz, Ghiyās al work offered a fresh look at the ninth chapter of Avicenna’s al-Ishārāt that drew heavily upon Tūsī’s commentary on that chapter as well as the latter’s Aāf . The title of the work, which is a precise combination of the title of the ninth chapter of al-Ishārāt (qāmāt l-ʿĀrifīn) and that
of Ansārī’s abovementioned classical work ( nāil l-Sāʿirīn) is an explicit restatement of Avicenna’s definition of irfān in terms o f Sufi stages of spiritual advancement, just as found in Tūsī’s Aāf .546 The heroes of Dashtakī’s nāil, however, are the gnostics, and their special gift is ʿirfān. Sufism and Sufis are not mentioned at all, and if they are, they are disapprovingly called soi-disant Sufis (mutaavvifun).547
Dashtakī’s definition of ʿirfān in this work is taken verbatim from al-Ishārāt .548 What represents a development from the latter work, however, is Dashtakī’s increasing use of ʿirfān
545
ūsī, Aāf Al-shrāf . Dārābī also frequently quotes from Tūsī’s important and foundational work of theology jrīd l-Iʿtiqād See, for example, p. 137-138
546
or a fuller analysis of Dashtakī’s sources in his nāil see Pūravādī, Ishrāq v ʿirfān, ʿirfān , 248–262.
547
l-Dīn nr Dshtkī v lsf- yi yi ʿirfān, ʿirfān, 169, 178. Dashtakī Shīrāzī, Ghiyās l
548
Ibid., 179–180.
229
as a substantive term that sometimes refers to a distinguished group of people, the rbāb-i
ʿirfān (Lords of ʿIrfān).549 To further reinforce ʿirfān as a distinct category and the folks of ʿirfān
as a distinct group of the learned, Dashtakī provides us with a short list of terms that are used by the folks of ʿirfān. 550 Although he does not mention this fact, the list is taken, almost word for word, from Suhravardī’s Klimt l-vvf , in which the terms are listed under the heading mlāt l- fiyy fiyy (technical terminology of the Sufis). 551 That is to say, in spite of
his indebtedness to Sufi literature, Dashtakī follows the example of Avicenna in eschewing any mention of Sufis or Sufism in his reproduction of the ʿirfānian discourse. This is not the case, however, with Dārābī. As a Twel ver religious scholar who had an equal footing in hadith, philosophy, and Sufism, the latter explicitly brought together elements from each of the
aforementioned fields to establish a distinctively Safavid Shiʿi mystical discourse that referred to by the term ʿirfān.
The above discussion was exclusively focused on Dārābī as a religious scholar and the way in which his scholarly background and commitments informed his idea i dea of what ʿirfān is. Yet Dārābī was also a poet from the very city that was home to two of the most celebrated and popular Persian poets, Hafez and Sa’di. Centuries after these poets’ deaths, the cultural environment of Shiraz was still indelibly marked by the legacy of these two towering figures in the history of Persian literature. Interestingly for this study, Dārābī c hose to use the pen name
ʿārif, or “gnostic,” in his poetry, which indicates the t he significance of this notion in Dārābī’s overall mystical-poetic thought.
549
Ibid., 150 and 159.
550
551
Ibid., 180.
See Kākāʾī’s comments: Ibid., 229 (n. 59), 251 (n. 150).
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urthermore, Dārābī is the author of what can be considered the first commentary on the ghazals of Hafez. 552 His Līf- yi Ghybī, a brief commentary on a limited number of Hafez’s odes, is arguably the most widely read of his works, certainly among Persian men of letters; it is also the work in which he uses the category of ʿirfān most frequently and consistently. In fact, given the popularity of Līf among a wide range of learned Iranians who were interested
in reading about Hafez’s poetry, one could say that this work probably played a more important role than iʿrāj in the establishment and spread of the notion of ʿirfān.553
As Dārābī mentions in his introduction of the work, his maor drive in writing Līf was to defend Hafez against increasing attacks by critics who accused the poet of being a Sunni and a heretic based upon their reading r eading of some of his odes. 554 Although I was not able to t o find any literary evidence of Hafez being directly attacked in anti-Sufi anti- Sufi literature, it is quite obvious from the text of Līf as well as the reason stated by its author for its writing, that Hafez was in fact targeted by puritan defenders of orthodoxy. In fact, one would be surprised if this were
not the case, given Hafez’s subversive s ubversive and erotic imagery, his syncretistic and pluralist tendencies, and his anti-establishment tone and indulgent manners.
Dārābī’s commentary, the earliest substantial one in which Hafez’s poems are interpreted against the grain of their literal meaning, in a completely symbolic and otherworldly manner, should be understood in the context of such attacks. In fact, one could 552
The only work preceding Līf in this genre is Davānī’s commentary on a single ghazal and two lines of poetry from Hafiz. Jalāl al-Dīn Davānī Kāzarūnī, Naqd-i Niyāī : dr Shr-i D Byt v k Ghl Khāj Ḥāfi Shīrāī , ed. usayn Muʿallim, Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Amīr Kabīr, 1994). or an interesting analysis of this commentary see: Carl W Ernst, “Jalal al -Din Davani’s Interpretation of Hafiz,” in Hafiz and the Religion of Love in Classical Persian Poetry, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, Lewisohn, Iran and the Persianate World. (London: I. B. Tauris in association with Iran Heritage Foundation, 2010), 197 –211. 553
iʿrāj still remains in manuscript form. There are only two known extant copies. In comparison, more than a hundred known manuscripts from Līf can be found around the world. In addition, it has been published several times. First, it was printed among the publications of the first modern- style university established in Iran, Dār al -unūn, in 1304/1886. Then, the publication house of the Ẕahabī order in Shiraz, Kitābkhāna - yi Amadī , printed it again in the early twentieth century. Finally, Līf has been recently published in Iran in 2006 by arāvat publications. 554
yi Ghybī , 7. Dārābī, Līf- yi
231
argue that the long tradition of treating Hafez’s language symbolically, as representative of a purely metaphysical eros, can be chalked up entirely to the desire, among religious readers, to make this beloved Persian poet acceptable to the guardians of orthodoxy. Doing this required the domestication of the explicitly sexual, pluralistic, and sometimes antinomian nature of
Hafez’s language and the neutralization of its subversive potential by transferring its referents to the afterworld and a heavenly beloved.
In his attempt to avoid the stigma of taavvuf and associate himself with the new paradigm of ʿirfān as an alternative, Dārābī finds Hafez, with his anti-establishment tone and rage against religious formalities and hypocrisy, an important ally. His imaginative ahl-i ʿirfān,
or “folks of ʿirfān,” are not entangled in myriad formalities and a convoluted and corrupt web of social hierarchies and, as such, they are naturally at home in the world of Hafez. I say
“imagined” because notion of ʿirfān was still in its infancy, and no set of beliefs had been outlined that glued a group of like-minded elites together as gnostics. Although Dārābī frequently refers to prominent Sufis and Sufi- poets like Ibn ʿArabī, am al-dīn Kubrā,
Hamadānī, al-Kāshānī, Maghribī, Bābā Afẓal, ʿIrāqī and others, he rarely uses the epithet Sufi to describe them. Instead, they are each part and parcel of the imagined and idealistic notion of ahl-i ʿirfān. Dārābī traces ʿirfān itself back to the first imam, whom he calls sr lqa- yi rbāb-i
ʿirfān or “the foremost in the chain of the lords of ʿirfān.”555
The most pronounced attempt by Dārābī to identify the folk of ʿirfān as a group with an independent discourse comes at the end of Līf, where a concise lexicon of technical terms used mainly by Hafez and other Sufi poets is included under the title of iilāāt -i ahl-i ʿirfān or
“the [technical] vocabulary of the folks of ʿirfān.” This is somewhat similar to the list by 555
For example: Ibid., 8.
232
Dashtakī mentioned earlier in this chapter, but a key difference is that Dārābī’s list, rather than referencing an elitist philosopher-Sufi like Suhravardī as its source, uses the popular figure of
Hafez as a reference point of the vocabulary of the folks of ʿirfān. 556
The sudden collapse of the Safavid Empire was a catastrophe of monumental proportions for the people, particularly in the capitol, and especially for the elite who were sustained by royal patronage or by endowment revenues that flowed into madrasas in a seamless process supported by the Safavid king. Some scholars were killed, and many others left the devastated capitol for the Indian courts or the holy shrines of the imams in Najaf and Karbala within the territory of the Ottoman Empire. This process of immigration did not happen overnight or even within the first year after the fall. It took some scholars a decade to
exhaust all alternatives for staying within the “Shiʿite Realm.” Yet the extensive religious endowment system that backed the madrasas and the mosques outlived Safavid rule for the most part, and in spite of decreased revenues in the aftermath of the dramatic decrease in
Isfahan’s population, some scholars were able to sustain themselves and remained in Isfahan. By all accounts, however, it was the Sacred Thresholds of Karbala and Najaf that
received the greatest number of exiled ʿulama. This is not surprising given the fact that even prior to the fall of Isfahan a constant flow of religious scholars travelled between major Iranian
urban centers and the ʿAtabāt for the purpose of pilgrimage. This meant that a network of human connections and potential financial and social supporters existed prior to the fall of the
556
Dārābī also draws upon classical works like Shabistarī’s Gulshan-i Rā rather than a marginal treatise like Klimt l-vvf (See: Ibid., 19–20, and 38.)
233
Safavids. As we already mentioned in the previous chapter, ayrīzī, after spending some years wandering in Iran after the fall, finally decided to move to the ʿAtabāt and start teaching there.
Some of ayrīzī’s mystically-minded contemporaries also left Isfahan for the ʿAtabāt. Among these religious scholars was ʿAbd al -Raīm Damāvandī (d. after 1160), whose career and work are pertinent to our goal in outlining the development of the ʿirfānian discourse. Although we are fortunate in that a number of his works are available (mostly in manuscript form but some recently printed), there is a dearth of material when it comes to his biography.
We know little of his early education, his travels, etc. What information exists tells us that Damāvandī was, like ayrīzī, a student of Muammad ādiq Ardistānī (d. 1134).557 The fact that he is called ʿAbd al-Raīm “Ifahānī” by one of his students indicates that he resided in the Safavid capital for an extended period of time. 558 In keeping with the intellectual climate of the early eighteenth century, even a quick look at the content of his works demonstrates that commenting upon the traditions of infallible imams was the focal point of his intellectual and literary agenda.559 His intellectual pedigree includes the names of prominent members of the
Shirazi elite like Mullā adrā,560 his student ay Kāshānī ,561 and Shāh Muammad Dārābī ,562 all
557
ʿAbd al-Raīm Damāvandī, “Miftā -i Asrār al-usaynī,” in Anthologie Des Philosophes Iraniens : Depis Le XVIIe Siècle Jsqʾà Nos Jours. Textes Persans Et Arabes Choisis Et Présentés Par Sayyed Jalâloddîn Ashtiyânî. Introduction Analytique Par Henry Corbin., ed. Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī and Henry Corbin, vol. 4, Bibliothèque Iranienne ; No 18-19 (Teheran: Departement d’iranologie de l’Institut franco-iranien de recherche, 1971), 589 –590 and 736. 558
ʿAbd Allāh ibn ūr al -Dīn Tustarī, al-Ijā l-Kbīr, ed. Muammad Samāmī āʾirī, al -abʿa 1., min Makhūāt Maktabat Ayat Allāh al-Marʿashī al-ʿĀmma ; 23. (Qom: Maktabat al-Marʿashī, 1989). 559
This is even obvious from the choices he makes for the titles of his writings. Most of them include an imam’s name. or example: yāt l-Ḥsyniyy, iftā Asrār l-Ḥsynī , and Ḥll Rm Rviyy among others. 560
See, for example, his discussion of the concept and the reality of vuūd (being) in which he quotes adrā’s al- Asrār at some length: ʿAbd al -Raīm Damāvandī, “all Rumūz Raaviyya dar Shar -i adīs Raʾs al - Jālūt”, n.d., f. 60a, Ms. o. 1952, Mar’ashi Library. Also see his extensive quotes from adrā’s discussions on the nature of knowledge in abstract beings (mjrrdāt ): ʿAbd al-Raīm Damāvandī, “Shar -i Kalām-i ʿAlavī”, n.d., f. 72a–73a, Ms. o. 1952, Mar’ashi Library.
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of whom he frequently cites. Looking farther back, Ibn ʿArabī and his school of thought play a considerable role in Damāvandī’s thinking, in which ay, adrā, and Dārābī largely figure as explicators of and commentators on the grand metaphysical perspective that was laid down by
Ibn ʿArabī and his students.563 As far as we know, iftā Asrār l -Ḥsynī is the only lengthy and substantial extant
work by Damāvandī. According to the author, this work was written to communicate secret teachings that cannot be found in the writings of other ukamā (philosophers) and ʿurafā. Damāvandī says writing it also provided him the opportunity to share some of his own visions and mystical experiences.564 Reading through Mift ā , one can easily see how Damāvandī fits
into adrā’s school of thought in which, as mentioned before, there is a conscious effort to emphasize the similarity of the two ideal types of akīm (philosopher) and ʿārif (gnostic) by linking them when speaking of the vision of ikma and maʿrifa. Damāvandī thus begins this
work with a philosophical argument for the existence of God, inspired by his teacher Ardistānī, before discussing tawīd, the unity of God, “according to the way of gnostics.” Unlike the rational arguments of philosophers, Damāvandī says, the notion of the unity of God from a
gnostic’s perspective is something that can only be attained through mystical visions. In other words, catching a glimpse of what the gnostic means by the term vadat al-vuūd is outside the
561
See, for example, his references to ay’s al-Vāfī and his ʿAyn l-qīn: ʿAbd al-Raīm Damāvandī, “uyūāt al -usayniyya fī Tafīl al-Insān al -Kāmil ʿalā al -Qur’ān”, n.d., f. 63b–64a, Ms. o. 1952, Mar’ashi Library. Also ʿAbd al -Raīm Damāvandī , “AlTawīd”, n.d., f. 68b, Ms. o. 1952, Mar’ashi Library.Damāvandī, “Shar-i Kalām-i ʿAlavī,” f. 74a. His special attention to Kāshānī’s works is also evident from the fact that he wrote a marginalia on the latter’s Qur’anic commentary, l-Ṣāfī . See Damāvandī, “uyūāt al -usayniyya fī Tafīl al -Insān al-Kāmil ʿalā al -Qur’ān,” f. 65b; Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf lShīʿ, vol. 4: 281. 562
or example see Damāvandī, “uyūāt al -usayniyya fī Tafīl al -Insān al -Kāmil ʿalā al -Qur’ān,” f. 64b. Also see: Damāvandī, “Al-Tawīd,” f. 67a–68a. A maor portion of the content of these pages is taken verbatim from Dārābī’s iʾrāj. See Dārābī, “Miʾrā al-Kamāl,” 151. 563
Damāvandī, “Shar -i Kalām-i ʿAlavī,” f. 79a.
564
Damāvandī, “Miftā -i Asrār al-usaynī,” 577–78.
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ability of reason.565 It is here that Damāvandī tries to distinguish between the two “ways” by
defining ʿilm and maʿrifa in contrast to each other. The former means to know God via reasoning and exoteric disciplines of knowledge, whereas the latter means to reach God via
mystical visions and esoteric knowledge. Thus an ʿālim, a religious scholar, is one who has discursive knowledge of God, whereas a gnostic is one who has reached perfect union with God.566 The group of philosophers he identifies as divine (īlāhī ) or theosophers (mtʾllīh) are distinguished from traditional discursive philosophers by their acceptance of mystical visions (mkāshfāt ) as legitimate venues for ascertaining true esoteric knowledge upon which their philosophy is based. There is no doubt from the context of iftāh that adrā and his mystical
philosophy, inspired by the illuminationist principles of Suhravardī and the esoteric synthesis of ʿAmulī, are among the prime members of this elite and exalted group. Throughout iftā and in the rest of his oeuvre, Damāvandī, like Dārābī and ayrīzī, makes a conscious effort to avoid the stigmatized terms of Sufism and Sufi whenever possible. Following in the footsteps of the latter two, he also chooses to replace those terms with words
like ʿārif and ʿirfān. He also frequently refers to his favorite group of gnostics as the folk of ʿirfān and sets them apart as adherents to a distinctive spiritual ideal, which is, in turn, reflected in their taste in spiritual matters, their distinctive set of metaphysical beliefs, and their books.567 But he falls short of promoting ʿirfān to the position of a discipline, a fann like
565
Ibid., 604–08.
566
Ibid., 607.
567
Ibid., 648, 681, and others. In terms of a distinctive set of metaphysical commitments, Damāvandī particularly singles out their position on the problem of being (vuūd) expressed in their unwavering belief in the Unity of Being, vadat al -vuūd, and also their belief in the “imaginal realm” (ālam al -misāl). The latter issue, for a long time, was a marker of difference between philosophers, who rejected the existence of such a realm, and the Sufis who emphasized its existence. It was Suhravardī who, for the first time, assimilated this realm, situated in between the material world and the world of abstract entities (muarradāt) based on his own mystical visions rather than a particular discursive argument. We already mentioned Dārābī’s independent treatise dedicated to proving the existence of this realm based on visions as well as his particular reading of some traditions from the infallible imams. Damāvandī follows the latter’s footsteps by claimi ng that many traditions of the imams
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theology, jurisprudence, and philosophy. To the contrary, in his discus sion of what constitutes the subjects of inquiry in several fields of knowledge, he emphasizes the identity of the subject
matter in theological and philosophical inquiries with that of “the real Divine [discipline of] knowledge” (ʿilm-i ilāhī - yi qīqī ) whose masters are usually identified as “realizers among the gnostics” (mqqiqīn-i ʿrfā) and “divine among the philosophers” ( illāhiyyīnmtʾllihīn kmā).568 All of these terms are also mentioned repeatedly in adrā’s oeuvre. Several decades will pass before this important step is taken, that is, before the term ʿirfān becomes the official
title of this “divine discipline” of knowledge. This happens in the time of Mullā Mahdī arāqī (d. 1209/1794) whom we will discuss later in this chapter.
Damāvandī’s notion of the spiritual guru, or pīr, should be touched upon here. Like Dārābī and many other mystically-minded authors we have discussed, Damāvandī insists on the necessity of pursuing the spiritual path under the guidance of a mentor. When it comes to
identifying his own murshīd, however, we observe an important and peculiar development that, as far as I can find, is unique to Damāvandī’s thought. He simply insists that the third imam, usayn b. ʿAlī, is his murshīd and refuses to mention any “ordinary” human being as his spiritual mentor.569 This unique and important development can be interpreted in the context of the shifting boundaries of the master/disciple relationship, which were transitioning out of the traditional Sufi register into the newly-developed Twelver-Safavid register in which the imams dominate the spiritual realm as immanent guides for their mystically minded followers,
that otherwise cannot be made sense of are in fact perfectly understood if we interpret them as referring to incidents happening in this intermediary realm, rather than the material world. He also mentions that the existence of this realm, which is something implied in the hadith literature, is confirmed by the illuminationist philosophers and the folks of ʿirfān . Ibid., 699. 568
Damāvandī, “Miftā -i Asrār al-usaynī,” 661–65.
569
Ibid., 622, 728.
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the “perfect murshīds.” In this context, the “ordinary,” that is, non-infallible, murshīds of each era are simply seen as advanced followers of the imams. They are “perfect Shiʿas” who are
given permission to guide lay Shiʿ ites towards the maʿrifa of imams. 570 That is why Damāvandī dedicates an entire chapter of his iftā to the issue of murshīdology (mrshīd- shnāsī ). One thing in this chapter that immediately strikes the reader is Damāvandī’s observation that it had become increasingly difficult to find a murshīd. Damāvandī accepts the fact that is no pīr to follow, or so it appears. Yet, he says, the world cannot be empty of hidden friends of God. In fact, he proposes a combination of prayers and daily meditational and devotional practices, almost all of which are focused on the intercessory power of the imams to help the seeker find a spiritual mentor.571 The eclipse of
the khānaqāh as a social space reserved for murshīds and pīrs has naturally resulted in their “occultation.” Such spiritual mentors cannot be easily located anymore. Mullā adrā’s elitist and self-fulfilling dream has come true: all those who would have taken refuge in khānaqāh have been indeed declared “deficient, damned fools, and imprisoned by the fetters of lust.” In
contrast, the identity of the exalted and elite servants of God in possession of maʿrifa, those “fruits of creation” and ultimate “purpose of the universe,” have been concealed by God himself from being known by the “lowly nature” of the “ignorant” people.572 In spite of his unwavering emphasis on the central role of the imams in the mystical
quest, Damāvandī is no orthodox religious scholar. After succeeding in finding such a murshīd,
570
It would be fascinat ing to analyze Shaykh Amad Asāʾī’s notion of the perfect Shiʿa in this light . My impression is that the Shaykhī movement, and the Bābī one afterwards, represent the “danger” that was entailed in the above -mentioned shift of charisma and spiritual authority from Sufi saints to the imams. The real possibility of having dreams and encounters with the latter by advanced followers of them opened the space up for all sorts of possibilities from special deputyship to Mahdihood. 571
572
Damāvandī, “Miftā -i Asrār al-usaynī,” 676–77. adr al-Dīn Shīrāzī, Ksr Anām Al- jāhiliyy, 177–78.
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he confirms the validity of meditational practices in which the spiritual mentor is the subject of mental concentration. He dismisses charges of idolatry raised against such a practice and explains the reason why it is needed for an initiate to do so.573 Damāvandī’s defense of such
problematic’ Sufi teachings is indicative of his close association, if not outright affiliation, with organized Sufism. In fact, I argue based on his writings that he was affiliated with the
ūrbakhshī order. The unorthodox nature of Damāvandī’s teachings is revealed most plainly in his radical
interpretation of the meaning of the Madī , and the related concept of the Seal of the Saints (khātm l-liyāʾ). The twenty-eighth chapter in iftā is dedicated to this discussion. In
Twelver literature the Mahdī has traditionally been understood to be the Twelfth Imam who has long been in “occultation” ( ghayba) and whose return at the End of Time to restore justice to the world is anticipated. Damāvandī’s understanding of this notion, however, is colored by Ibn ʿArabī’s notions of the Seal of the Saints and the Perfect Man. In this regard, he makes a distinction between two types of valīs or friends of God. Valāya (friendship [with God]), he explains, can be either “solar” ( shmsī ) or “lunar” ( qmrī ). The Perfect Man, or the Seal of the Saints, who is himself a perfect and comprehensive mirror in which all divine attributes are
reflected, is likened to the sun and portrayed as the original source of the “light” of valāya. In contrast, all other friends of God are likened to the Moon in terms of their dependence on that
original source of light. In other words, their “friendship” with God is a reflection of that of the Perfect Man. The more spiritually accomplished they are, the more perfectly their mirror reflects, until at last they become full-moons that perfectly mirror the Sun.574
573
Damāvandī, “Miftā -i Asrār al-usaynī,” 679.
574
Ibid., 730–33.
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Such friends of God whose distinctly advanced level of mystical realization allows them to stand face in face with the Sun and reflect it in full, Damāvandī says, “often” claim to be
Mahdīs themselves. In such cases, the disciple should accept the claim, understanding the difference between the eschatological Mahdī personality, who will come at the end of the time, and such “lunar” claimant to Mahdīhood that are results of a perfect union, a merger of identity, between the mystic and the Seal of the Saints.575 Damāvandī closes his discussion of
the Mahdī by pointing out that his interpretation of the station of Mahdihood is sometime referred to as bur -kāmil or “perfect manifestation,” which is “the flow ( sryān) of the perfect
friend of God (the Madī) in others.” Burūz is among the original ideas of the founder of the ūrbakhshī Sufi order and relates to his understanding of the role of the Perfect Man. Although it still is not clear what
ūrbakhsh himself exactly meant by the idea, his most prominent student, Shams al-Dīn Muammad Lāhīī (d. circa. 912/1506), offered his own interpretation in a famous commentary on Shabistarī’s Gulshan-i Rā entitled fātīh l-Iʿjā. According to Shahzad Bashir’s analysis of Lāhīī’s comments, for him, Burūz means that “the Muhammadan Reality manifests itself in the bodies of living human beings through the process of proection (burūz). This occurs at varying levels, so that the perfect humans in a given historical period are receptacles of the
proection available in that age.” Bashir’s analysis of Lāhīī’s worldview leads him to believe that “Lāhīī most likely regarded ūrbakhsh as the physical manifestation of Muhammadan Reality in his lifetime in this sense (thus the term, mhdī - yi drān), and not as the eschatological savior who is to be the only other complete manifestation of the Muhammadan
575
Ibid., 734. Damāvandī also relates an account of a personal conversation with a certain Shaykh usayn from Qaīf whose teacher, named Mullā Muammad ʿAlī, reports his encounter with a “mahdī” in India. Ibid., 736 – 37.
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Reality besides Muhammad the Prophet;” 576 an analysis that is conf irmed by Damāvandī’s own understanding mentioned above.
Damāvandī’s comments in this particular chapter draw heavily upon the latter source. The appearance of the notion of burūz in Damāvandī’s writings brings us to the question of his Sufi affiliations. Āshtiyānī, in his short introduction to iftā , contends that the author was “apparently” among the Ẕahabī Sufis of his time. 577 He does not share with us the source upon which he has relied, however. This identification flies in the face of his belief in bu rūz, which is
a signature ūrbakhshī idea. Given the numerous instances in which we have seen Ẕahabī authors appropriating ūrbakhshī works and figures as their own, one cannot help but wonder whether this is another such case. A strong confirmation of this suspicion comes from the author of rāʾiq, who classifies Damāvandī “among the greatest shaykhs of the ūrbakhshī
order.”578 Not all Sufi-minded religious scholars were as radical in their conception of the
spiritual guide as Damāvandī. In fact, one mig ht say that the extent to which that they operated within the boundaries of the Twelver orthodoxy determined the amount of social space and economic opportunity granted them by the established hierocracy to be raised as the guardians of the esoteric aspect of Shiʿism from the ranks of ʿulama. 579
576
Shahzad Bashir, Messianic Hopes and Mystical Visions : the Nrbkhshiyya between Medieval and Modern Islam, Studies in comparative religion (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003), pp. 174-75. 577
578
579
Damāvandī, “Miftā -i Asrār al-usaynī,” 576. Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vol. 3: 163.
Although this is beyond the immediate focus of this dissertation, it is important to point out here that there is an inherent potential in the logic based upon which Shiʿism is built that even the most literalist and puritan readers would have difficu lt time to interpret away the abundance of traditions from the imams speaking quite directly to the matter. By this inherent logic, I mean the essential belief that the community of Muslims after the Prophet is still in need of divinely guided leaders whose knowledge is inherited, in an esoteric transmission, from the Prophet himself. This was in fact one of the major reasons why the charismatic figures mentioned in chapter three could so easily assimilate pivotal popular elements of Sufism into their worldview and present themselves as alternatives for the public. For more on this se e Amir-Moezzi, he Spiritlity of Shiʿi Islam. Also see his earlier work, Amir-Moezzi, he Divine Gide in Erly Shiʿism . or an alternative point of view on Shiʿism and
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The second half of the eighteenth century witnessed the realization of what had only been imagined in previous works. This time period saw the development of a group of mystically-minded Twelver religious scholars who were highly knowledgeable about the
esoteric aspects of Shiʿism and at the same time fully trained in the exoteric matters of Shariʿa in madrasa. These saintly figures later came to be known as the akhlāqiyyūn (moralists), a reference to their emphasis on the ethical requirements of being a true Shiʿite. They operated more or less within the framework of the established Twelver hierocracy and become reference points for students of religious knowledge ( talaba) who sought guidance in matters pertaining to the spiritual quest. In spite of the glaring resemblance of their spiritual discourse to Sufism, they were, like others before and after them, reluctant to—and even scared of — being associated with that worldview or even with its lived reality. Among the prominent
members of this newly-emerging group of moralist ʿulama were Āghā Muammad Bīdābādī (d. 1198/1782), Mullā ʿAbd al -amad Hamadānī (d. 1216/1801), Mullā Mahdī irāqī, and the latter’s son, Mullā Amad irāqī (d. 1245/1829 ).580
esotericism see Hossein Modarressi Tabataba’i, Crisis and Consolidation in the Format ive Period of Shiʿite Islm : Ab Jʿfr Ibn Qib l Rāī nd His Contribtion to Imāmite Shīʿite hoght (Princeton, N.J.: Darwin Press, 1993). 580
I have purposefully not included the name of the prominent Arab jurisconsult (mujtahid), Sayyid Mahdī b. Mutraā aafī, better known as Bar al -ʿUlūm (d. 1212/1797), in this list in spite of his reported penchant for Sufism and esotericism. My decision is based on the fact that his intellectual genealogy is different from that of the Iranian figures. The phil osophical mysticism of Mullā adrā plays no role in his thought , and the sources leave us with many unanswered questions regarding his mystical tendencies.The hagiographical narratives written by other religious scholars remembers him most importantly for several meetings that we are told he had with the Hidden Imam in which he was greeted with a warm hug. In Sufi literature, however, he is remembered as secretly meeting with the iʿmatullāhī Sufi ūr Alīshāh for spiritual advice. Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vols. 3: 199–200. More importantly, a brief treatise has been ascribed to Bar al -ʿUlūm titled Sayr va Slk which is, especially in the second half, filled with technical Sufi vocabulary. Āghā Buzug has suggested that the whole treatise or at least the latter parts of it are not from Bar al -ʿUlūm. (Āghā Buzurg ihrānī, al-Ẕrīʿ ilā ānīf l -Shīʿ, vol. 12: 284. The editor of the treatise is conviced otherwise: Muammad Mahdī ibn Murtaā Bar al -ʿUlūm, Risālt l-Sayr va al-Slk, ed. Muammad usayn usaynī ihrānī, al -abʿa 1., Dawra- yi ʿUlūm va Maʿārif -i Islām, 4 (Beirut: Dār al -Maaa al-Bayāʾ, 2001), 10–13. While this is not the place to offer a detailed argument, my initial analysis of the treatise reveals that the latter parts do indeed demonstrate a considerable difference, in terms of the worldview of the author, from the initial parts. The original author of the last chapters, I suggest, is probably a Sunni Sufi, possibly with aqshbandī affiliations. Since we ca nnot be sure that the treatise belongs to him, we are basically left with little upon which to base our analysis of his mystical worldview.
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Although these men differed in terms of their level of adherence to adrā’s
Transcendental Philosophy, their intellectual outlook is marked by a shared sympathy for adrā’s notions of philosophy and gnosis as well as for his attempt to synthesize and understand both in light of Shiʿi hadith. More particularly, their understanding of the doctrine
of the Unity of Being was shaped not only by prominent followers of Ibn ʿArabī like Dāvūd Qaysarī and ʿAbd al-razzāq Kāshānī but also—and more importantly—by adrā’s grand synthesis of philosophy and mysticism. Often, they would teach jurisprudence or hadith as a means to establish their authority and pay lip service to the dominant madrasa paradigm. At the same time, they would have a smaller circle of students with whom they studied texts of philosophy. They would also leave their more esoteric comments on hadith literature for such small circles of close students, or would bury them in obscure and marginal small treatises.581 It is impossible to treat all the above-mentioned figures in detail here. It will suffice, I believe, to
discuss in some length the relevant aspects of the thought of Bīdābādī and arāqī.
Āghā Muammad Bīdābādī and Mullā Mahdī irāqī are both among the religious scholars who were trained mainly in Iran in the traumatic intellectual environment of postSafavid Isfahan. Unlike many of his contemporaries, the former is not recorded as ever having spent extensive time in Najaf or Kabala. 582 Bīdābādī received his training in the study of
581
A number of fascinating writings by the above- mentioned ʿulama on the occult sciences like alchemy, letterism and numerology are extant. The transmission of occult sciences among Shiʿa mystically minded ʿulama in this period as a whole is a significant and exciting subject of research that I decided to leave out of my discussions. 582
A major biography of him was recentl y published by ʿAlī adrāʾī in Iran . This has been among the most important sources for my discussion of Bīdābādī. See: Karbāsī, Ḥkīm-i tʾll Bīdābādī .
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hadith583 and in esoteric sciences like alchemy, 584 philosophy, and urisprudence. arāqī’s religious training years, however, were divided between an initial s tage in Isfahan and a
secondary stage in the ʿAtabāt.585 In the early years of their training, each learned philosophy from the prominent post-
Safavid philosopher of Isfahan, Ismāʿīl Khāūʾī ( d. 1173/1760 ), a student of Ardistānī whom we discussed in chapter two.. Therefore, the two men contribute an important continuity in the transmission of the philosophical tradition from the Safavid times through the Interregnum to the Qajar period. Both are described and praised in biographical literature as gnostics as well as philosophers.586 Their intellectual outlook is marked, as mentioned earlier, by a special attention to Mullā adrā and his notions of philosophy and mysticism. Bīdābādī happened also
to be the teacher of Mullā ʿAlī ūrī (d. 1246/1830) who has rightly been credited with promoting adrā’s philosophy such that his works became mainstream , standard textbooks for students of philosophy.587 arāqī’s Qurrat al-ʿUyn is a maor philosophical treatise on the
metaphysics of being throughout which the influence of adrā , often referred to as ʿārif-i
583
He is also said to have been a student of Muammad -taqī Almāsī (d. 1159), a grandson of Malisī Sr in the study of hadith. urthermore, he has been enumerated among the prominent Akhbārī scholars of his time.Khānsārī, Rāt l- Jnnāt fī Aāl lʿUlmāʾ v l-Sādāt , vol. 7: 118. Almāsī has been identified as one of the earliest scholars to take ādrā’s mystical philosophy seriously into consideration for teaching, and thus he played an instrumental role in promoting his works. Muammad Jaʿfar ibn Muammad ādiq Lāhīānī, Shr Risālt l-shāʿir llā Ṣdrā , ed. Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī, al-abʿa 2. (Qom: Maktab al-Iʿlām al-Islāmī, n.d.), 17. This speculation is not substantiated by reference to primary sources. This needs to be further investigat ed. 584
Murtaā Garāʾī Gurgānī, “Bīdābādī, Āghā Muammad,” ed. Kāẓim Mūsavī Bunūrdī, Dāʾirt l-ʿār if-i Buzurg-i Islāmī (Tehran: Markaz- i Dāʾirat al -Maʿārif -i Buzurg-i Islāmī, 1988). 585
asan āimī, “Kuhan -tarīn Shar-i āl-hā- yi Mullā Muammad Madhī irāqī,” Kitāb-i āh-i Dīn, no. 53–54 (2002): 26 –30. For a more detailed biography and bibliograph y of his works see asan arāqī’s introduction to: Muammad Mahdī ibn Abī Ẕarr arāqī, al-Lmʿ Al-ilāhiyy v l-Klimāt l-Vjī, ed. Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī (Mashhad: Anuman -i Falsafa, 1978), 1 –47. 586
Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, v. 3: 214. For a fairly detailed biography and a comprehensive bibliography of arāqī see arāqī, al-Lmʿ l-ilāhiyy v l-Klimāt l-Vjī, 1–47. 587
or more on ūrī’s influence in reviving adrā’s philosophy see Ashtiyānī’s remarks in his introduction to adr al -Dīn Shīrāzī, al-Shvāhid l-Rbbiyy fī l-nāhij l-Slkiyy, . –
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Shīrāī , as well as the tradition of high Sufism represented by the Akbarian school is unmistakable.
The intellectual and spiritual outlook of both seems to have also been influenced by
Sufi shaykhs of their time, as well as the Sufi literature to which they had access. Bīdābādī is reported to have been, during his years of learning in Isfahan, a student of Qub al-dīn
ayrīzī.588 This has been the major factor prompting Ẕahabī authors to include Bīdābādī in their lineage of master/disciple as a murīd of ayrīzī.589 Although his affiliation with the Ẕahabiyya is probably a myth, Bīdābādī’s penchant for esotericism and mysticism is beyond doubt. Much of his correspondence is in fact comprised of questions about the spiritual path
submitted to and answered by him in his capacity as an accomplished gnostic. Both Bīdābādī and arāqī were heavily influenced by the Akhbārī thought that dominated the intellectual environment of the maor centers of learning in Iran and Iraq, and they can be categorized as Akbhārī thinkers with a penchant for mystical philosophy of adrā. Thus they are similar to ay Kāshānī , who lived nearly a century before them. 590 An important and relevant aspect of Bīdābādī’s teachings that I would like to highlight is his emphasis on the necessity of an “ordinary” spiritual guru, that is, a pīr/murshīd. But he de-emphasizes the conception of a personal and unique relationship between master and disciple in which the latter receives a detailed set of customized instructions, instead focusing 588
Āshtiyānī has disputed this. His obection seems to be based on his disdain for Sufis. The truth is that there is no concrete historical evidence to prove either way. 589
Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vol. 3: 215; Shīrvānī, Riyā l-Siyā, 336. See also Karbāsī, Ḥkīm-i tʾll Bīdābādī , 203–04. and usayn Mudarrisī abātabāʾī, Du Risāla az Āghā Muammad Bīdābādī dar Sayr va Sulūk , Vaīd. Neither his own writings nor the biographical information we have from non-Sufi-affiliated authors do confirm this claim 590
or a detailed and wonderful analysis of the intellectual outlook of Mahdī arāqī in the context of the eighteenth century religious and cultural trends in Iran and Iraq see Juan R. I. Cole, “Ideology, Ethics, and Philosophical Discourse in Eighteent h Century Iran,” Iranian Studies 22, no. 1 (January 1, 1989): 7 –34.
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on the necessity of complying with the most minute details of Shariʿa, performing obligatory and supererogatory devotional practices based on the hadith literature, and an intense and
central focus on the suppression of lust and controlling the “animal” soul. The term murshīd and its equivalents rarely appear in his writings, and when they do, they are used to refer to
the imam as the universal murshīd (mrshīd-i kull).591 Reading through his vast correspondence, it is clear that many of his contemporaries looked to him as a potential spiritual guide, but that he intentionally declined to play the role of the traditional murshīd who gave specific instructions and demanded the complete obedience of his potential disciples. For example, in an interesting written exchange, Sadr al-dīn Kāshif Dizfūlī, who is called Bīdābādī’s “murīd” in Sufi literature despite the fact that the two never actually met, asks the latter for a ẕikr
formula that he can use as a novice for progressing along his sulūk. 592 Bīdābādī, in a brief and humble response, merely says that “according to the traditions [of the imams], there is no better ẕikr than lā ilāh illā Allāh (There is no god but God).”593 Dizfūlī, in a response that reflects his utter disappointment, writes: Oh my master ( syyidinā) and my lord (mlānā), this ẕikr is brief. It has neither a number, nor a set time. [May I further ask,] should it be [recited as] a verbal ẕikr ( ẕikr-i lisānī ) or a ẕikr of heart ( ẕīkr -i qlbī ) as the folks of visions and ʿirfān has written about it? Is it supposed
591
usayn Mudarrisī abātabāʾī, “Sih Maktūb az Āghā Muammad Bīdābādī dar Sayr va Sulūk,” Vīd, no. 246 –247 (1357): 390. Examples to the contrary of what I stated above can be found, but they are usually found in works that we have good reason to believe they are falsely attributed to Bīdābādī. or example, there is an explicit reference to the shaykhs of the Sufi ariqa and the necessity of their permission for the adept to begin observing a specific regimen of ẕikr practices in: Mīr Sayyid asan Mudarris Hāshimī, Shr-i Risāl- yi Siyr v Slk nsb Bih ... mmd Bīdābādī , ed. ʿAlī Karbāsī, Chāp -i 1. (Isfahan: Kānūn-i Pizhūhish, 1997), 206. The ascription of this work to Bīdābādī, as the editor himself acknowledges in his introduction, has b een seriously questioned by scholars of the field. See:Ibid., 35 and 85 (n. 45). 592
adr al-dīn Kāshif Dizfūlī, irʾāt l-Ghayb : Bih Hmrāh-i Ḥqq l-Ḥqīq li- Arbāb l-rīq, ed. āhīd al -Sādāt Pizishkī, Chāp -i 1. (Tehran: Bāztāb, 2006), 83–5. 593
Qouted in: Mudarris Hāshimī, Shr-i Risāl- yi Siyr v Slk nsb bih mmd Bīdābādī , 14.
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to be after some bodily mortification ( riyāt ) or not? Please kindly explain its requirements and its etiquette (ādāb) in detail for this humble servant. 594
Dizfūlī may have been dissatisfied with Bīdābādī’s general recommendations, but the orthodox nature of the latter’s spiritual discourse appealed to elite and high-ranking members of the clerical estate. It is a great irony that Mīrzā Abu al-Qāsim Qumī (d. 1231/1815), one of the most prominent and famous jurists (mujtahids) of his time in Iran, an enemy of Sufism, and the author of an anti-Sufi treatise, perso nally wrote Bīdābādī to ask for spiritual advice as he
prepared to visit the ʿAtabāt.595 The two are said to have had a cordial relationship. Moreover, this was a complementary relationship in which Qumī claimed authority in the worldly domain and, as the deputy of the Hidden Imam, relegated the otherworldly domain of spiritual
guidance to Bīdābādī. Mullā Amad arāqī’s Jmiʾ l-Sʾādāt, an important work of ethics and morality that became extremely popular among subsequent generations after his son tr anslated it into Persian (with some additions) as iʿrāj l-Sʿād, provides us with another example of how this moralist group of mystically-minded ʿulama contributed to the establishment and spread of
ʿirfān as a category among their audience. 596 In his introduction to Jāmīʿ, arāqī explains that he decided to write the book as a compendium on ethics (khlāq), comprised of Islamic traditions from the Prophet and the imams and a summary of what the pillars (sāīn) of
594
Kāshif Dizfūlī, irʾāt Al-ghayb, 87.
595
ʿAlī adrāʾī Khuyī, “Ādāb al -Sayr va al- Sulūk,” Pyām-i Ḥ : Nashriyya-i Shrā- yi ʿĀlī -i Ḥ-i ʿIlmiyy., no. 6 (1373): 99 –118. Accessed online at: http://mazhabi-farhangi.mihanblog.com/post/1650 596
Jāmiʿ was translated by the order of the Qajar monarch at -ʿalī Shāh so that a wider audience might benefit from its contents. The Persian translation soon came to be the standard textbook of ethics to which the ulama would refer their clients.
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“ikma” and “ʿirfān” have said in this regar d.597 He continues with advice for the pupil who seeks to embark upon the laborious path of knowledge and learning. He suggests that such a
student always take a “balanced” approach to the different disciplines and avoid being obsessed with one or the other. Here, ʿirfān is mentioned alongside ikma, ishrāq, and kalām as
one of the disciplines of the “rational” sciences. The author encourages the pupil to incorporate each one of them into his studies, but none at the expense of the others.598 Throughout the book the pattern of mentioning the folk of “ʿirfān” alongside the folks of
ikma continues. There is no doubt that what arāqī has in mind when he casts ʿirfān as a discipline of the rational sciences is the elaborate metaphysical school of thought established
and developed by Ibn ʿArabī and his students, which was eventually provided with a sound philosophical basis in Mullā adrā’s Transcendental Philosophy. arāqī was in fact an outstanding student of adrā’s synthesis, as his Qurrat al-ʿUyn, a philosophical treatise on metaphysics completed in 1186/1772, demonstrates. This long and erudite treatise shows how deep a mark adrā’s philosophy has left on his philosophical thinking, and it is a confirmation of the fact that the received philosophical paradigm had shifted from the traditional
peripatetic one to the synthesis introduced by adrā more than a century and a half earlier.599 adrā, along with Ibn ʿArabī and his followers like Qayarī and Qūnavī are among the names most cited in this treatise. However, they are all cast as outstanding gnostics rather than 597
Muammad Mahdī ibn Abī Ẕarr arāqī, Jāmiʿ Al- sʿādāt , ed. Muammad Kalāntar, al -abʿa 4. (aaf: Dār al -uʿmān lil-ibāʿa va-l-Nashr, n.d.), 34. 598
599
Ibid., vol. 1: 119.
Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī and Henry Corbin, Anthologie Des Philosophes Iraniens : Depis Le XVIIe Siècle Jsqʾà Nos Jors. extes Persans Et Arabes Choisis Et Présentés Par Sayyed Jalâloddîn Ashtiyânî. Introduction Analytique Par Henry Corbin., Bibliothèque Iranienne ; No 18-19 (Teheran: Departement d’iranologie de l’Institut franco -iranien de recherche, 1971), 352.
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Sufis.600 Throughout the work, the position of philosophers is contrasted with that of gnostics.
Mullā adrā, along with the aforementioned Akbarian scholars, constitute a second camp in opposition to the traditional peripatetic philosophers and theologians. At the end of Jāmīʿ the author lists six groups of people most susceptible to conceit ( ghrr ), and these include the “mutaavvifa,” or pretend-Sufis, preachers, and seekers of knowledge (ahl al-ʿilm). His criticisms of Sufis, although similar in content those discussed previously, are unique in one aspect. That is, he rarely uses, even in condemnation, the
designation Sufi. To the contrary, his rebuttal is focused on “pretend-gnostics.” That is, those who portray themselves as gnostics in spite of the fact that they lack proper knowledge of, or
experience in, the spiritual path. Such people, he says, think if they resemble the “true ʿārifs” in attire, customs, rites, and words, they have succeeded in reaching advanced stages of ʿirfān.
He dismisses their naiveté and warns those who claim “taavvuf” and “ʿirfān” in this manner that they will be exposed and punished in the hereafter. 601 Since he mentions the specific language and particular customs and attire of true ʿārifs, there can be no mistake that he is talking about a group of Sufis —about an organized order. Yet, he refrains from using the term Sufi for this group, members of which he views as honest and true friends of God.
arāqī’s reference to specific Sufi rites, attire, and vocabulary should not come as a surprise to us. His hometown, arāq (which is located close to Isfahan), and the city of his residence, Kashan, were both strong ūrbakhshī strongholds. Among arāqī’s contemporaries 600
Mullā adrā is frequently called “ʿārif -i Shīrāz” and Qūnavī “adr al -ʿurafā.” See, for example: Muammad Mahdī ibn Abī Ẕarr arāqī, “Q urrat al-ʿUyūn,” in Anthologie Des Philosophes Iraniens : Depis Le XVIIe Siècle Jsqʾà Nos Jors. extes Persns Et Arabes Choisis Et Présentés Par Sayyed Jalâloddîn Ashtiyânî. Introduction Analytique Par Henry Corbin., ed. Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī and Henry Corbin, Bibliothèque Iranienne ; No 18-19 (Teh ran: Departement d’iranologie de l’Institut franco -iranien de recherche, 1971), 392, 405, 417 and 424 among others. 601
arāqī, Jāmiʿ Al- sʿādāt , vols. 3: 29 –30. -
-
...
! .
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was an active ūrbakhshī shaykh, ʿAbd al -Vahhāb āʾīnī (d. 1212/1797), a disciple of
Muammad-taqī Shāhī whose name I mentioned among the contemporaries and companions of ayrīzī.602 Although information about the situation of ūrbakhshī khānaqāh in Kashan during the eighteenth century is lacking, it is clear that ūrbakhshī literature, the legacy of
writers like Mīrzā Muammad Bīdgulī , was available to both father and son.603 This can be gleaned from arāqī Jr.’s Kitāb l-Khʾin or “the Book of Treasures,” a marvelous collection of passages taken from various sources dealing with everything from the most technical details of the astrolabe, numerology, and mathematical problems to more quotidian, yet admittedly important, problems like premature ejaculation!604 In spite of the fact that a considerable
number of passages in the text are taken from or inspired by Sufi literature, arāqī is successful in completely avoiding the term Sufism and its related cognates, using in their place the phrase ahl-i ʿirfān. As it is customary in the genre of kshkl, the author sometimes quotes extensively from unique sources at his disposal that he believes deserve to be preserved for later generations.
ne important literary source to which arāqī had access was the ūrbakhshī literature preserved in the order’s khānaqāh in Kashan, which was also the resting place of the charismatic master Asadullāh Quhpāʾī. Accordingly, al-Khāʾīn includes a discussion of the Sufi techniques of ẕikr-i khfī (hidden ẕikr) in which the author lays out different techniques as practiced in specific Sufi orders.605 arāqī’s exposition is an abridged version of Muaqqiq 602
āʾīnī was based in his hometown as a Sufi shaykh and buried there close to the tomb of another ūrbakhshī master, Sayyid Mammad Laavī ūrbakhsī (d. 903) Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vols. 3: 159 and 215 –16. 603
arāqī Sr. mentions the two Sufi orders of ūrbakhshiyya and aqshbandiyya in his Qurrat al-ʿUyn. See: arāqī, “Qurrat alʿUyūn,” 474. 604
The work was complet ed after 1229 since that date appears in it. See: Amad ibn Muammad Mahdī arāqī, al-Khāʾin, ed. ʿAlī Akbar Ghaffārī (Tehran: Kitābfurūshī -i ʿIlmiyya Islāmiyya, 1960), 422. 605 Ibid., 333–34.
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Ardabīlī’s discussion in Ta ẕkirat al-Zākirīn, which he follows immediately with a complete spiritual lineage of the latter and his master Qāī Asad Quhpāʾī , which is likewise taken and
abridged from Ardabīlī’s work.606 Another discussion of the seven levels of ẕikr follows the lineage, after which comes a quote from the Hadiyya al-Khayr of asan b. Qāsim b. Muammad
ūrbakhsh, grandson of the founder of the order. This includes a discussion of technical details concerning the specific moves involved in ẕikr.607 These ūrbakhshī works still exist in
manuscript form in the library of the Sultānī madrasa, one of the most beautiful monuments from the Safavid period where arāqī taught for many years. 608 Although quoting from ūrbakhshī sources, especially in the context of the kashkūl genre, does not necessarily mean that arāqī was affiliated with the order, it does strongly suggest that he viewed the ūrbakhshī heritage as part of the larger Twelver world and their
Sufi pursuit a legitimate one, albeit with some reservations. or example, arāqī quotes passages from Sufi literature in which the issue of the murshīd and the necessity of his guidance for the adept in the initial stages of his spiritual journey is raised. In most cases,
however, arāqī reminds the reader that the imams, as “perfect murshīds,” are the true figures to whom the term refers. He goes on to explain that due to the difficulty of distinguishing between real masters and charlatans, followers of the imams should seek their guidance in the sayings and deeds of the infallibles as recorded in the hadith literature.609 On one occasion, he endorses a controversial Sufi meditational technique, that of visualizing the
606
Ardabīlī Bīdgulī, “Taẕkirat al -Ẕākirīn,” 50–53 and 89 –95. Narāqī, al-Khāʾin, 334–35.
607
arāqī, al-Khāʾin, 336–38.
608
I have been informed that Mr Afshin Atefi is in the process of editing three of Ardabīlī’s treatises for the purpose of publication. Qāī Asad’s Divan is also in the final stages of publication. 609
arāqī, al-Khāʾin, 409, 411 and 415.
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face of the shaykh and meditating upon it. It is surprising to see this prominent member of the
Shiʿi hierocracy endorse a practice that had been criticized even by some Sufi orders. This signifies the extent to which he and others like him were willing to embrace Sufism. araqī,
however, is quick to qualify his endorsement by making clear that “shaykh” in the context of this practice can be none other than one of the imams.610 In conclusion, it is in the career and works of this father and son that ʿirfān is finally
established as a term that contrasts with taavvuf and refers to a particular “discipline” of religious knowledge. This newly consolidated use of ʿirfān became the semantic locus of a decontextualized, privatized, elitist, and somewhat pluralistic version of Sufi discourse; decontextualized because its connections to previous Sufi discourse were de-emphasized or intentionally severed; privatized, because it existed in the absence of the strong social networks that existed around Sufism with the khānaqāh at their center; elitist, because the
complex mystical philosophy at the heart of ʿirfān was only accessible those trained for years in Islamic philosophy and Ibn ʿArabī’s speculative mysticism; and pluralistic due to having been significantly influenced by Hafez’s pluralism and cosmopolitan thought. Although th e latter characteristic was neglected by religious scholars deeply committed to an exclusively Twelver framework of thought, it was taken up in the early decades of the twentieth century by modern minded intellectuals of Iran, who sought a universal and pluralistic concept to describe their spiritual perspective and experience. I will discuss this briefly in the epilogue.
To continue the story of Sufism and ʿirfān beyond figures like arāqī and Bīdābādī into the nineteenth century would require a detailed discussion of the most significant historical
610
Ibid., 414–15.
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event of the century for organized Sufism, that is, the re-introduction of the iʿmatullāhī Sufi order to Iran by missionaries from India. Such a discussion is at present beyond the scope of this research project, but a brief overview of the most important aspects of this reintroduction helps transition us to the epilogue, where we close with a brief discussion of the contemporary
situation of ʿirfan. The iʿmatullāhī order is named after one of the most celebrated Sufi masters of classical Persian Sufism, Shāh iʿmatullāh Valī (d. 834/1431). It started as a dynamic spiritual movement, but with the departure of his prominent successor, Shāh Khalīlullāh (d. 860/1455),
to India and the premature death of the latter’s son, Mīr Shams al-dīn (d. 854/1450), the order declined rapidly in Persia and by 1450 was little more than a moribund dynastic family tradition. The spiritual center of the order, however continued vibrantly in Deccan region of India. More than three centuries later, with the power of the clerical hierocracy in Iran
having weakened after the demise of Safavid Empire, the iʿmatullāhī “center” decided to send missionaries to revive organized Sufism in Iran. In line with this intention, Shāh āhir Dacanī (d. ? ) and, a bit later, Maʿūm ʿAlī -Shāh (d. 1211-12/1796-97) were sent to Iran from India by
Ria-ʿalī Shāh (d. 1214/1799), the shaykh of the iʿmatullāhī khānaqāh in India.611 When MaʿūmʿAlī -shāh arrived in Shiraz in 1190/1776 -77, the city was a thriving and peaceful environment under the auspices of the Zand ruler, Karīm Khān (r. 1171-1193),612 who,
611
or a brief historical account of the iʿmatullāhī past see: " iʿmat -Allāhiyya." Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online , 2012. Reference. Harvard University. 30 June 2012 http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-ofislam-2/nimat-allahiyya-COM_0865 612
or more on Karīm Khān see Perry’s informative account of his life and career John R. Perry, Karim Khan Zand, Makers of the Muslim World (Oxford: Oneworld, 2006).
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we are told, had cordial relationship with the Ẕahabī Sufis of Shiraz.613 Unlike their Ẕahabī
brethren, Maʿūm and his close disciples did not receive a friendly welcome from the political establishment or the clerical hierocracy. Their problems with the Zand authorities were likely related to their alliance with the Qajars, who were locked in a power struggle with the Zand dynasty.614 Their problems with the ʿulama, however, had to do with their “foreign” and
“unorthodox” outlook and teachings. The contrast between the way Ẕahabīs and iʿmatullāhīs were received speaks clearly to how extensively the Safavid period had changed the profile of th e Ẕahabī Sufi order. By this time, Ẕahabī shaykhs had given up their distinctive Sufi attire and embraced the standard
attire of the ʿulama in order to escape the suspicion of religious puritans. The unremarkable, scholarly appearance of the Ẕahabī masters was in stark contrast to the stunning sight of a passionate Sufi fresh from India, decked out in the cloak of a dervish with all its paraphernalia whose hair, like that of a Qalandar, was uncut.615
Maʿūm’s charismatic personality led to the conversion of several people who became extremely devout disciples, and their expertise in music and beautiful voices and faces seem to have added to the charisma of the movement.616 They travelled extensively in Iran and 613
Under the relatively secure and prosperous environment that was provided under the Zand dynasty and the figure of Karīm Khān, and taking advantage of a cordial relationship that was developed between the ruling party and the Ẕahabī upper echelon, Ẕahabīs were successful in securing their stronghold in Shiraz. They were even promoted as the custodians of the shrine of Shāh -chirāgh, easily the most important religious site of Shiraz, with a huge amount of revenues in religious endowments and donations. The political innocence of the Ẕahabī religious agenda must have contributed significantly to the cordial relationship that existed between the master of the Ẕahabī order at the time, Āghā Muammad Hāshīm Darvīsh . For an standard exposition of the Ẕahabī perspective of his life and Sufi career see: Istakhrī, Ul-i vvf , 327–343. For a more detailed and better researched account, still from a Ẕahabī point of view, see ayyiri’s introduction to his critical edition of nāhil l-qīq: Muammad Hāshim Darvish Shirazi, nāhil l-qīq, ed. Muammad Yūsuf ayyirī (Shiraz: Daryā - yi ūr, 2003), 1–80. 614
Abbas Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal : the Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844-1850 (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1989), 75. 615
616
Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vol. 3: 175.
Maʿum’s disciples came from extremely diverse socio -cultural backgrounds. Some had been trained in the madrasa and some were uneducated. Among the former group was his first disciple, ay -ʿalī Shāh (d. 1199/1784), who is recorded to have
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Mesopotamia, including to the holy city of Karbala. 617 Their “problematic” religious outlook
and rapid success alarmed the ʿulama, who were, however, unable to take serious action against them in the absence of a strong political establishment. This latter problem was solved
with the rise of Qaar dynasty to power in Iran at 1794 and, especially after the enthronement of the second Qaar king, at-āli Shāh in 1797, who had a close and warm relationship with the Shiʿite hierocracy. The powerful corroboration of the state and the hierocracy that had functioned so effectively in preserving and promoting the interests of both parties against rival social entities was re-instituted. The only difference was that the hierocracy, having had more than a hundred years to refine its power structures, was in a much stronger position visà-vis the newly-established Qajar dynasty. Compared to the Safavid monarchs, the Qajars had a
greater need for the ʿulama to function as underwriters of their rule in order for the dynasty’s legitimacy to be established in the eyes of the public. 618 As a result, a new wave of anti-Sufi polemical works was penned, 619 but this time the fight was not confined to rhetoric. The anti-Sufi urists felt empowered enough to launch a wave of physical
persecution against the newly-arrived Sufis, effectively containing the rapid rise to popularity of been a ūrbakhshī Sufi before he oined his master. See William Ronald Royce, “Mir Ma’sum ali Shah and the i’mat Allahi Revival 1776-77 to 1796-97: A Study of Sufism and Its Opponents in Late Eighteenth Centur y Iran” (Ph.D., Princeton University, 1979), 95–6, http://search.proquest.com.ezpprod1.hul.harvard.edu/pqdtft/docview/302926950/citation/1381ED8D3CC5050DD00/1?accountid=11311. (This is yet another evidence of the fact that the ūrbakhshī Sufi order had a considerable presence in some maor Iranian urban cities, including Shiraz and Kashan). Another learned disciple of his was ūr -ʿalī Shāh, who is also recorded as being extremely handsome and having exquisite taste and facility in composing poetry. See: Ro yce: 102. MushtāqʿAlī Shāh (d. 1206/1791) was a professional instrumentalist and vocalist, as was darvish usayn -alī. See Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vols. 3: 175, 194 –95. n the popularity of his music see Royce, “Mir Ma’sum ali Shah and the i’mat Allahi Revival 1776-77 to 1796- 97,” 108. 617
Royce’s unpublished dissertation remains, I believe, the most accurate scholarly account of the career of Maʿūm in Iran . Several other pieces of scholarship were produced afterwards. A summary of what can be found in iʿmatullāhī and other sympathetic sources is provided in Lewisohn, “An Introduction to the History of Modern Persian Sufism, Part I.” A more critical reading can be accessed in Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 71–80. 618 For a detailed analysis of the relationship between the ulama and the state during the Qajar period see Hamid Algar, Religion and State in Iran, 1785-1906 : the Role of the Ulama in the Qajar Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980). Also see Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 1–109. 619
See the chart below. The abovementioned Mīrzā Qumī as well as the Sufi Killer Bihbahānī were both contributors of this second wave of anti-Sufi polemics.
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Maʿūm and the initial circle of iʿmatullāhī shaykhs.620 This persecution, of course, was c arried out in close corroboration with the state. The Sufis were declared infidels and chased from city to city and town to town. Sources tell us that some of the opponents of Maʿūm, probably those among the puritan defenders of orthodoxy, exploited the title of shah (king) in his name and made the authorities suspicious that he was pursuing an undercover political agenda.621 Between 1206 and 1217, several
prominent iʿmatullāhīs were murdered. Muammad-ʿAlī Bihbahānī (1216/1801),622 one of the prominent jurisconsults of the time, came to be known as the “Sūfī -kush” (the Sufi Killer) for his
involvement in the murder of several iʿmatullāhīs including Maʿūm-ʿAlī Shāh. 623 As Amanat has observed, “the ….persecution of iʿmatullāhīs was the first successful case of the ʿulama’s vigorous campaign to involve the government in the task of eradicating religious dissent.”624 The previous antiSufi campaign, as we have seen, was carried out with the tacit approval of the Safavid state, but the state did not play a direct role. The following chart gives the reader a sense of how these two anti-Sufi
620
See Malcolm’s rough estimations in John Malcolm, The History of Persia, from the Most Early Period to the Present Time: Containing an Account of the Religion, Government, Usages, and Character of the Inhabitants of That Kingdom. , A new rev. (London,: Murray, 1829), vols. 2: 290–300, http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUL.FIG:005948666. Amanat’s analysis of Malcolm’s statements is helpful. See Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 80. 621
Shīrāzī Maʿūm ʿAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, vol. 3: 172.
622
n him, see: Hamid Algar, “BEHBAHĀĪ, MAMMAD -ʿALĪ,” Encyclopaedia Iranica, Online Edition, December 15, 1989. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/behbahani-aqa-mohammad-ali-b 623
Mushtāq -ʿAlī, along with one of his disciples named Jaʿfar -ʿAlī, was beaten and stoned to death in 1206/1791 by a mob in Kirman that attacked them after be ing stirred by a puritan preacher. Maʿum-ʿAlī was detained and murdered on the order of Bihbahānī in Kirmānshāh in 1211 -12/1796-97. The latter also was involved in the murder of Muẓaffar -ʿAlī Shāh, a prominent disciple of Mushtāq -ʿAlī in 1215/1800. ūr-ʿAlī Shāh was also poisoned, most probably by the agents of the Sufi Killer in Mosul, and he died there at 1212/1797. Muʾaar-ʿAlī Shāh, another disciple of Mushtāq, was beaten to death in 1217/1802. 624
Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 78.
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Figure 2 Anti Sufi Polemics 1500-1900
The brutal persecution of the iʿmatullāhis, compared to the relative peace and prosperity in which Ẕahabīs lived during the same period, simply demonstrates the extent to which the anti-Sufi movements of in the latter half of the seventeenth century, as well as the general religious environment of Iran, had been successful in transforming Sufi institutions
and traditions to conform to the established norms of the Twelver hierocracy. iʿmatullāhī leaders of the at the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth century were, by contrast, faithful to traditional Sufi teachings, including the traditional conceptualization of the master/disciple relationship. They did not have the long history of interaction with the
257
cultural forces of Iran, including the ʿulama, that would have given them an understanding, like that the Ẕahabīs had, of how to survive in a religious environment where the clerical hierocracy had powerful resources at its disposal to systematically suppress rival religious
visions. or example, unlike what he saw with Dārābī and his notion that the deputyship of the Hidden Imam belonged to a group of ʿulama excelling in both exoteric and esoteric aspects of religion, the iʿmatullāhīs directly challenged “the theoretical foundations of the collective deputyship of the ʿulama. In their view, the qb , the spiritual and secular leader of the Sufi order, rather than the ʿulama in their entirety should be considered to be the special representatives of the Hidden Imam.” 625 Although it took the newcomer iʿmatullāhīs some time to come in terms with the reality of the hostile environment toward Sufis in Iran, after a couple of decades they gradually came to terms with this new cultural landscape as their masters transitioned the order towards a more conformist and orthodox-friendly one. Unlike early masters who were either illiterate or less educated, an advanced level of knowledge in exoteric matters through
madrasa training was a routine part of later iʿmatullāhī masters’ intellectual outlook. This “was reflected in a moderated imagery, and in the fact that each of the order’s qbs would now also be a mulla.” 626 In the process, iʿmatullāhīs ceased to be an influential force in the public domain, but they won an important victory when they entered the court and managed to recruit several prominent members of the Q aar family, including the Crown Prince ʿAbbās
625
Oliver Scharbrodt, “The Qub as Special Representative of the Hidden Imam: The Conflation of Shiʿi and Sufi Vilāyat in the iʿmatullāhī rder,” in Shiʿi rends nd Dynmics in odern imes (XVIIIth -XXth Centuries) = Courants Et Dynamiques Chiites à L’époqe oderne (XVIIIe-XXe Siècles), ed. Denis Hermann and Sabrina Mervin, Bibliothèque Iranienne ; No 72. (Beirut: OrientInstitut, 2010), 41. 626
Bos, Mystic Regimes, 62.
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Mīrzā (d. 1249/1833 ). 627 As a result, from the middle of the nineteenth century onward, the iʿmatullāhī order can be viewed from a social perspective as an aristocratic elite Sufi group. 628 Their heavy presence in court circles naturally gave the iʿmatullāhīs enormous political
power. Accordingly, they played an important role in Iran’s tumultuous transition into a modern nation-state over the course of the latter half of the nineteenth century, up through the Constitutional Revolution (1906). However, in the public domain they were not able to
operate many khānaqāhs as instruments for recruiting the masses. ne important aspect of the history of the iʿmatullāhī order in late nineteenth century Iran was the widespread and bitter infighting between several branches of the
iʿmatullāhī establishment.629 As a result, there was no single iʿmatullāhī position when it came to vexing questions of the time, especially regarding modernity and the modern nationstate. While some branches supported the old tradition of kingship, others pioneered modern
intellectual and political concepts. Their response to the category of ʿirfān was also varied. While the more traditional branches, like the Gunābādīs, preferred the use of Suf ism as a “sacred” term over ʿirfān, others embraced the latter designation, mostly under the influence of modernity. Any analysis of the notion of ʿirfān and its developments during the nineteenth and early twentieth century, therefore, needs to incorporate the iʿmatullāhī circles and their influence on Qajar religious and cultural discourse as a major factor.
627
For an anthropologically informed analysis of this important development see ibid., 52 –67.
628
On the use of “aristocratic” see ibid., 62: note 89.
629
For a brief account of these splits see ibid., 76 –80. A much more detailed account can be found at Lewisohn, “An Introduction to the History of Modern Persian Sufism, Part I.”
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Epilogue: Modern Developments in ʿIrfān
261
As we approach the end of the nineteenth century, that is, the period in which
modernist ideas were forcefully debated among Iranian intellectuals, ʿirfān, the preferred category of reference for a group of syncretistic ʿulama whose mystical proclivities did not allow for a wholesale rejection of Sufi ideas and ideals, also came under the radar of a group of mystically-minded modernist intellectuals who shared the former group’s disdain for popular manifestations of Sufi practice, belief, and social institutions, viewing them as remnants of a backward looking social malady that had kept the nation from progressing towards the
Promised Land of modernity. ʿIrfān provided both groups with an amenable discursive and spiritual space in which they could talk about their spiritual experiences and aspirations in an individualistic and personal manner without contradicting philosophical, rationalist, and
modernist modes of thinking and/or the fundamentals of Shiʿi belief and practice. Up until this time this new definition of ʿirfān, as a creation of elite religious circles, does not seem to have spread much beyond them. Prior to the early twentieth century, none of
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the maor Persian, Arabic, and Turkish dictionaries dedicate a separate entry to ʿirfān. It is occasionally mentioned under maʿrifa or the root ʿa -r-f as a cognate meaning of “knowledge,” “insight,” or “culture.” or example, the Persian dictionary of Ghiyas al-lghāt, first printed in 1826, gives us two maor meanings for ʿirfān: the first is “knowledge” (in general); and the second is “knowledge of God.”630 Later Persian dictionaries authored in the late nineteenth century, like Anandraj (written ca. 1888),631 or in the early twentieth century, like Farhang-i
Nfīsī, which was written the famous physician and intellectual āim al -Aibbā (d. 1923), have similar definitions.632 In the same vein, the Persian-English Dictionary of . Steingass (1892)
defines ʿirfān as “Knowing, discerning…knowledge, learning, science,” whereas taavvuf is translated into “Mysticism, Sufism; … contemplation,” thus emphasizing the virtual monopoly of the term taavvuf in referring to the so-called mystical aspects of Islam among the learned of that time.633 It is only with the emergence of modern media and, simultaneously, the social transformations that occurred in Iranian society as a result of the introduction of modern
ideas, that ʿirfān came to be used among the learned in reference to an interpretation of spirituality and mysticism that contrasted with traditional notions held mainly by Sufis but also by some of the ʿulama. ne of the most influential figures in shaping the modern category
630
Ghiyās al-Dīn Muammad Rāmpūrī, “Maʿrifa,” ed. Manūr S arvat, Ghiyās l-Lghāt (Tihrān: Amīr Kabīr, 1984).
631
Muhammad Pādshāh Shād, Farhang-i Anndrāj (Tīhran: Kitabkhana- yi Khayyām, 1956).
632
ʻAlī Akbar afīsī, “Maʿrifa,” rndsār (rhng -i Nfīsī) (Tihrān: Rangūn, 55 1940).
633
rancis Joseph Steingass et al., “Taavvuf,” A Comprehensive Persian-English Dictionary : Including the Arabic Words and Phrases to Be Met with in Persian Literature (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner & co., ltd., 1930). Francis Joseph Steingass et al., “Maʿrifa,” A Comprehensive Persian-English Dictionary : Including the Arabic Words and Phrases to Be Met with in Persian Literature (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner & co., ltd., 1930).
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of ʿirfān in this regard is ʿAbbās Kayvān Qazvīnī (d. 1938), a famous preacher in Tehran in the early twentieth century.634
Kavyān was first and foremost a preacher, a mid-ranking mulla who spent years in the
madrasa system. He was also affiliated with the iʿmatullāhī Sufi order for over three decades of his life and acted, according to sympathetic sources, as an “itinerant shaykh” ( shaykh-i syyār ), first as a disciple of the afīʿalīshāhī branch of iʿmatullāhiyya and then, after many
travels, as an adherent of the Sulātʿalīshāhī branch.635 After becoming disillusioned with Sufism, he dedicated the last decade of his life to writing and preaching about the fundamental reforms he believed were necessary to traditional Sufism. His writings during this period are of particular interest to this study. Although he was not a scholar and most of his writings contain inaccuracies rooted in the primarily rhetorical intent of their author, Kavyān’s insights into the situation of Sufism and the Sufi-minded ʿulama in Iran during the early decades of the twentieth century are extremely valuable. Having been affiliated and then cut his ties with organized Sufism, he had both the first-hand lacked by those without insider knowledge of Sufi circles as well as the intellectual distance difficult for a practicing Sufi to attain.
634
Kayvān’s biography, and especially the years he spent as a iʿmatullāhī adept, were subects of much dispute between his students, who provide friendly accounts, and the iʿmatullāhīs, whose accounts are hostile. or a fairly balanced biography o f Kayvān see: Kayvān Samīʻī and Manūchihr adūqī, D Risāl Dr ārīkh-i Jdīd-i vvf -i Īrān, Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Pāzhang, 1991). 125-152. His success as a preacher is reflected in the early pages of Samīʿī’s biography. See Ibid. 125 -6. Independent sources confirm his fame as a preacher: ʻAlī Riā Iʻtiām , Bih Rivāyt -i Saʻīd Nfīsī : Khāirāt -i Siyāsī, Adbī, Jvānī , Chāp-i 1. (Tihrān: Markaz, 2002), 588. 635
Matthijs van den Bos, Mystic Regimes : Sufism and the State in Iran, from the Late Qajar Era to the Islamic Republic (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 81. iʿmatullāhī sources deny that he was promoted to the rank of an itinerant shaykh.
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Before looking at his criticism of traditional Sufism, I would like to delve into an original and insightful classification that he introduces regarding the Sufi-minded groups of his era. This phenomenological classification touches upon some of the most central concerns of this dissertation. It delineates three different ways in which Sufi-minded groups positioned themselves vis-à-vis traditional Sufism in general and the term Sufi and Sufism in particular.
In this classification, Kayvān draws on his years of familiarity with different religious groups over the course of his career. As such, he has much to offer to the researcher in terms of a birds-eye perspective of the spiritual landscape of Iran at the time.636
According to Kayvān, Sufi-minded groups of his time position themselves vis-à-vis the fundamental category of Sufism in three distinct ways. The first group occupies a state called
barzakh, or “limbo,” meaning they exist in the space between exotericism and esotericism (barzakh bayn-i qishr va lubb ). The second group is located at “the outset of Sufism” (bidāyt -i
tavvuf ), and the third group is at the “center of Sufism” (mrk-i tvvf ). What all three
have in common is 1) a disdain for exotericism and praise of esotericism; 2) accepting Rumi’s snvī in their hearts even if they deny that in front of people; 3) making efforts to improve their moral character and talking about Universal Peace ( l-i kull); 4) refraining from indulging in worldly pleasures (khush- grānī ); and 5) exaggerating (ghuluvv) about the
imams, the saints, the pīrs, and their miracles.637 These commonalities could spark an interesting conversation in and of themselves, but what differentiates the groups is more pertinent to this study. 636
This classification has surprisingly received no major scholarly attention. It has only been quoted in two works of Persian scholars of Sufism with no analysis. See ʻAlī Karbāsī, Ḥkīm-i tʾll Bīdābādī : Iyāgr -i Ḥikmt -i Shīʻī Dr Qrn-i Dvādhm-i Hijrī , Chāp-i 1. (Tihrān: Pizhūhishgāh-i ʻUlūm-i Insānī va Muālaʻāt -i arhangī, 2002), 206; Manūchihr adūqī, ārīkh-i Ḥkmāʾ V ʻUrfā- yi tʾkhkhir (Tehran: ikmat, 2002), 214–15. 637
ʿAbbās Kayvān Qazvīnī, Rāgshā, Bihīn Skhn, Ustvār , ed. Mamūd ʿAbbāsī, 1997, 134–35.
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The first and the second group are differentiated in only one way: the first group does not have special instructions for ẕikr-i qlbī, while the second does. In another place in the
same work, Kayvān makes it clear how important ẕikr of the heart is in comparison to ẕikr of the tongue, remarking that the former is essential in the eyes of Sufi masters to consider one an official member of their Sufi order. 638 Therefore, the existence of special instructions and distinct techniques for performing this kind of ẕikr—or the lack thereof —is an important parameter for him in his classification. Both groups, however, have significant differences with the Center that are unrelated to instruction about the ẕikr of the heart. Kayvān enumerates six principal differences. All of them have to do with the presence of a strict set of rules, the wellorganized hierarchy, and the accompanying formalities and technical vocabulary that are the hallmark of the Center and that are lacking in the Outset. The real distinction, therefore, is
between traditional, institutionalized Sufi groups and those who, from Kayvān’s perspective, occupy the turf of Sufism, but disassociate themselves from the formalities, institutional hierarchy, and most of the technical vocabulary that defines the Center. or example, groups at the Center are full of titles like shah and qub, they require the performance of elaborate initiation rites in order to become a member, and disciples are required to adhere to a single spiritual master or qub. Furthermore, the initiate is not free to act as a missionary for his spiritual vision unless given permission by the shaykh. In contrast, groups at the Outset are defined by their lack of the abovementioned characteristics. 639
In addition to laying out the general distinguishing markers above, Kayvān gives us the name of prominent figures that he associates with each group. Among the prominent
638
639
Ibid. 239.
Kayvān Qazvīnī, Rāgshā, 140–42.
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members of the second group, Kayvān includes his contemporary, Mullā Javād Isfahānī (d. 1339/1921), who is known as Ādīna, as well as Āghā Muammad Bīdābādī . I spoke in detail about Bīdābādī in the previous chapter. Moving in to the 20th century, Ādīna was among the most prominent teachers of the mystical philosophy of Mullā adrā in his time after his teacher Jahāngīr Khān Qashqāʾī (d. 1328/1910) in Isfahan. 640 Kayvān tells us that he himself was among the disciples of Ādīna fo r several years and was given special instructions by him to perform a difficult form of the hidden ẕikr.641 Both figures are said to have been associated with the Ẕahabī order. Irrespective of the truth or falsehood of such associations, the very fact, as I
mentioned in relation to Bīdābādī, that their association is said to have been with the Ẕahabī, and not the iʿmatullāhī order is meaningful. ames he places in the first group include Mulla at-ʿAlī Sultānābādī (d. 1900)642 and Mullā Husayn-qulī Hamadānī (d. 1311/1893), under whom Kayvān claims to have been educated for a while in Najaf. 643 These are among the prominent members of the ʿulama who later came to be known as the khlāqiyyn (moralists) due their emphasis on moral purification and following a strict ethical code of conduct that was based on the teachings of the imams
and read through the lens of ʿirfān and Sufism. The first two groups, Kayvān says, do adhere to the tenants of Twelver Shiʿism and there is nothing “particular” about their belief wo rth mentioning. In other words, figures who are categorized under the first and second group operated mostly within the boundaries of the Twelver orthodoxy of their time.
640
adūqī, ārīkh-i Ḥkmāʾ V ʻUrfā- yi tʾkhkhir , 334–35.
641
Kayvān Qazvīnī, Rāgshā, 138.
642
About him See adūqī, ārīkh-i Ḥkmāʾ V ʻUrfā- yi tʾkhkhir , 237–257.
643
Hamadānī was among the students of the most prominent teacher of adrā’s Transcendental Philosophy in Qaar era, Hā Mullā Hādī Sabzavārī (d. 1289/1872).
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The most relevant feature of Kayvān’s discussions for our purpose is his description of each group’s relationship with the term Sufism. Whereas the first group is extremely “scared” of being called Sufis,644 the third group considers the term “sacred” to the extent that they say it is extremely difficult to find one truly worthy of the title among masters of each age.645 In contrast to these two extremes, the second group occupies a middle ground. While they are
not “scared” of the term, they do not necessarily apply it to themselves either. These distinct reactions to the terms Sufi and Sufism correlate to Kayvān’s choice of title for each group. Groups at the Center consider Sufi to be the holiest of terms, groups at the Outset take a neutral stance, and those in Limbo afraid of being associated with it. The Center is comprised of traditional organized Sufism that, in Kayvān’s mind, is best exemplified by the
iʿmatullāhī order.646 The Outset is represented by religious scholars who, due to their close relationship with Sufi masters—something that, in the case of Bīdābādī and Ādīna, resulted in them being identified as Ẕahabīs—are accustomed to the traditional world of Sufism. They do, however, follow an independent spiritual trend marked by a distinctive discourse that allows them to distance themselves from traditional Sufi discourse. It is primarily among this group
that the category of ʿirfān flourished as a definition of their independent spiritual discourse. The third group consists of individuals among the ʿulama whose contact with Sufi masters is the weakest of all. As such, even the hagiographical accounts of their lives and career have not been successful in associating them specific spiritual gurus. Usually they happen to be students
644
He recounts a personal memory o f his master in which Ādīna tells him how he was previously “scared” of “becoming” a Sufi but after a dream he was convinced that there was no need to be scared of the term Sufi anymore! See Kayvān Qazvīnī, Rāgshā, 140. 645
646
Ibid.
A glaring fact about K ayvān’s works is the absence of any mention to Ẕahabiyya. Given his extensive involvement in Sufism for more than three decades, it is unlikely that this absence is due to his unfamiliarity with the order.
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of the second group of ʿulama (the utset) and, as such, they often do see ʿirfān as the most appropriate identifier of their spiritual journey.
After positing organized Sufism as the “center,” Kayvān engages in a detailed criticism of it. He severely criticizes the increasing sectarian feuds between different Sufi orders and the hegemonic nature of the relationship between the master and his disciples, which often led to scandalous exploitations of the disciples by opportunistic and world-seeking masters . His criticism, in other words, is all related to the vices of corrupt Sufi social institutions and hierarchies.647 In place of those institutions and hierarchies, he advocates a more pluralistic
and universal understanding of Islam and Sufism, and he finds institutionalized Sufism illsuited to the realization of that goal. Emphasizing the term ʿirfān over taavvuf is a strategy for him to change the existing paradigm in which everything he loved about “the essence of religion” was categorized under the rubric of either zuhd (asceticism) or taavvuf . To this end, he re-defines ʿirfān as a broad concept that can be divided into (1) ʿ ilmī , or
speculative; and (2) ʿmlī , or, practical.648 In doing so, he effectively takes the traditional classification of taavvuf (tvvf -i ʿilmī versus tvvf -i ʿmlī ) and replaces taavvuf with ʿirfān. urthermore, he elevates ʿirfān as a concept such that taavvuf becomes a subcategory that can be discussed under the former. Therefore, for him “the purported necessary connection between ʿirfān and taavvuf is baseless . The relationship between the two is partial overlap. either all gnostics (ʿārifs) are Sufis, nor all Sufis gnostics.”649 In another step that further marginalizes the concept of Sufism, he also makes a distinction between two kinds of
647
Kayvān was a prolific writer. His critique of the iʿmatullāhī order is detailed in his Rāgshā and Bihin-sukhan. His criticism of organized forms of Sufism in general is best found in his ʿIrfān-nām and Ustvār. 648
649
Kayvān Qazvīnī, Rāgshā, 326. Ibid., 124.
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Sufism, qīqī , or “genuine,” versus mrsm, or “traditional.” Most of w hat is associated with organized and institutionalized forms of Sufism fits under the second subcategory, that is, the non-genuine traditional Sufism.650 At the same time, he speaks sympathetically about the first subcategory, that is, genuine Sufism, which according to him is devoid of all the corruptions
and superstitions with which traditional Sufism is polluted. ʿIrfān, he says, is the proper designation for the latter. The main difference between Sufism (that is, the non-genuine form which, according to
him, is what is practiced by an overwhelming maority of Sufis and ʿirfān is that 1) the latter lacks hierarchical structures, either in the form of orders or in the form of the master/disciple relationship; 2) it has no place for secretive and non-accessible language and teachings; and
finally 3) the genuine impulse of ʿirfān is not confined to one specific set of beliefs, practices, customs, or organizations.651 Therefore, “although nowadays we don’t know of any Sufis with traditional titles and organizations outside the world of Islam,” he says, “real Sufis can be
found not only within the Islamic world, but within every religion.”652 Who are these anonymous Sufis of the West, one wonders? In a brief footnote related to this point, Kayvān opens up a window al lowing us a glimpse of what he means by “real Sufis.” According to him,
adherents of the Theosophical Society can be properly categorized under the title of “universal ʿirfān, which is not bound to any specific religion.”653 Kayvān’s approach to religion in general, and ʿirfān in particular, reflect a universalistic perspective. n the former he says: “My materials are based on human thought with no regard 650
651
Ibid., 326.
ʿAbbās Kayvān Qazvīnī, Irfān-nām, Chāp-i 1. (Tehran: Āfarīnish, 2009), 35.
652
Ibid.
653
Ibid.
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to race, nationality, science, or religion. People of all places are my audience without any exception.”654 The latter is also defined in a universalistic spirit:
[ʿIrfān] is neither an official field of knowledge … nor it is a religion or a branch of a specific religion that is biased or defensive against other religions and denominations and sets its goal on the same level with other religions’ goal and makes every attempt to promote it and to falsify the others. To the contrary, it is an all-encompassing way of knowledge that can turn to any science, religion, and philosophy and take benefit from them at the same time that they take benefit from it so that eventually it becomes intimately united with them… therefore, ʿirfān is not only the basis of science and religion but also their ornament and perfection, and it is the means by which they resolve their differences and reconcile their hostilities.655 The main characteristics of the notion of ʿirfān, based on the above definition and other remarks by Kayvān in his writings are as follows: (1) ʿIrfān refers to a highly individualistic form of spirituality. (2) It is universalistic and pluralistic in nature. (3) It is agreeable to reasoning and knowledge. It is not difficult to realize that all of these characteristics are emblematic of a modernminded approach to spirituality, and this was an approach that resonated with many of the
enlightened scholars of that time. Yet these characteristics also existed in the notion of ʿirfān that we discussed in the previous chapters. There we saw how, by undermining the extensive social network within which Sufism operated, the alternative mode of spiritual quest signified
by the term ʿirfān was in effect an individualistic one. This is not, of course, to say that the post-Safavid concept of ʿirfān was devoid of authoritative and hegemonic systems that controlled its function. The ʿirfāni quest was possible for the adept only if he or she operated within the established norms of Twelver orthodoxy. Yet, the fact that the intimate and highly-
654
Kayvān Qazvīnī, Irfān-nām, 17.
655
Kayvān Qazvīnī, Rāgshā, 72; Kayvān Qazvīnī, Irfān-nām, 28.
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hegemonic personal relationship between master and disciple was transformed into a symbolic and highly-abstract form of relationship that the adept was supposed to establish with the imams gave the student much freedom to come up with his/her own detailed plan of how to progress toward the end goal of mystical realization. As for the third characteristic
mentioned above, I have discussed in detail how the proponents of ʿirfān during the late Safavid period, most of whom were trained in the madrasa tradition, tried to portray their opposition to organized Sufism in terms of a dichotomy between knowledge and ignorance.
Given the resonance of Kavyān’s notion of ʿirfān with both modernist -intellectual (munavvar ala-fikr ) and traditional-rationalist discourses, it is not surprising to find, after three decades, that a well-known professor of Persi an literature and Sufism, Jalāl al -dīn Humāʾī
echoes Kayvān’s remarks so closely. He writes: ʿIrfān, in its widest meaning, is not a science or a technology…to the contrary, it can be said that it is compatible with all kinds of science and technology and does not belong to a
specific religion or sect…it is compatible with all religions and sects. It is a misconception to think that the terms ʿārif or Sufi or ʿirfān are the same with taavvuf … principally taavvuf itself should be considered one of the br anches of ʿirfān; Taavvuf is a way of sulūk [or
“spiritual pursuit”] that originates from the fountain or ʿirfān. ʿIrfān is a more general concept that includes Sufism and other paths (nil-ha)…[therefore] it is possible for a person to be an
ʿārif but not a Sufi.656
656
Jalāl al-Dīn Humāʾī, “Jilva -hā- yi ʿIrfān-i Irān: Az Barnāma -hā-yi Marz-hā-yi Dānish,” Rādy Irān: Nshriy- yi Idār-yi Kull-i Intishārāt V Rādy, no. 44 (1960): 16 –17.
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This definition was so well-received that it quickly found its way into the most prestigious contemporary Persian dictionary, the Dihkhdā, without the slightest change.657
This authoritative Persian dictionary includes a lengthy entry on ʿirfān written in the late 1960s or early 1970s. Three maor meanings are listed under the entry. irst we read that ʿirfān can be used as a synonym for taavvuf. Second we are told that it can mean “gnosis,” or knowledge of the Divine. According to the entr y, this gnosis “can be attained either through
rational reasoning or mystical visions.” inally, in its broadest sense, the dictionary declares that ʿirfān is “finding out the true reality of things through visions.” In clarifying this latter meaning, the entry adds that “taavvuf is ust one manifestation of ʿirfān…it is only a specific
sect, a particular spiritual path that stems from the fountain of ʿirfān. The latter is a universal and comprehensive term that includes taavvuf…it is possible for an ʿārif, thus, not to be a Sufi and vice versa.” Let’s focus on the latter two definitions that conceive of ʿirfān as a distinct concept from taavvuf. The “experiential” and “personal” nature of ʿirfān is underscored by pointing out the central role of mystical visions in both definitions. This is further reinforced when we take into account the lack of reference to any specific Sufi-related social institution, such as
the khānaqāh, or communal rituals like ẕ ikr. The dictionary furthermore emphasizes that ʿirfān, as gnosis, although primarily a product of mystical visions, can also be attained through rational-philosophical argumentations. That is to say, ʿirfān is in essence compatible with reasoning and rationality. The influence of adrā’s mystical philosophy is most forcefully demonstrated in such claims. inally, there is an unmistakable emphasis on the superiority of 657
ʻAlī Akbar Dihkhudā, Muammad Muʻīn, and Jaʻfar Shahīdī, “Irfan,” Lghtnām-yi Dihkhuda (Tihrān: Muʾassasa-ʾi Intishārāt va Chāp-i Dānishgāh-i Tihrān :, 1373 [1993 or 1994-1994 or 1995 137 2). The iʾmatullahī master, Sayyid abd al -hua Balaghi aini, otherwise known as Huat ʿAlī -Shāh (d. 1976), borrows the exact same definition in his work. See: Manūchihr adūqī, “Yagānagī Ya Dugānagī - ye Taavvuf Bā ʿirfān,” K yhān-i Andīsh, no. 54 (1994): 89.
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ʿirfān, as a universal and all -encompassing concept, to taavvuf , a restricted and narrow one. This is the only characteristic of ʿirfān as understood by Kayvān and his followers that is not explicitly contained in post-Safavid understanding of the term.
This emphasis on the compatibility of ʿirfān with all kinds of philosophies, knowledge, and religions, or, as a contemporary author put it, with “all kinds of science and technology,” should be understood in the context of a deep soul-searching among the learned of that time
to identify cultural elements responsible for the “backwardness” of their country in contrast to the progressiveness of Western civilization. To this effect, people like Kayvān who deeply
valued what religion in its “genuine” form has to offer society, made every attempt to distinguish what they consider to be “at the heart” of the prophetic message from human defilements in the form of corrupt organizations, hierarchies, and dogmas. Kayvān’s own words clearly reflect this sentiment and the influence of Western currents of thought. He says: I protest against the form of Sufi orders and against the title of qub and the institution
of master/disciple. I want to distinguish between two kinds of taavvuf as Protestants made a distinction between two aspects of Christianity and said we do accept the essence of Christian religion as sacred and necessary to abide by, but refuse the Pope’s arbitrary interference in matters of dogma.658
It is significant to note that the word “protest” in the abovementioned quote is not a translation. Kayvān himself deliberately uses the exact word, transliterated from English into Persian script. This can be seen as an attempt to emphasize 1) the familiarity of the author with a modern culture and its lexicon; and 2) the deep similarity that he perceived between his 658
Kayvān Qazvīnī, Rāgshā, 342–43.
274
reformist ideas and objection to traditional Sufism on the one hand and the Protestant Reformation on the other.659 Kayvān’s modernist agenda is perhaps nowhere more clear than in the 1930 version of his ʿIrfān-nām in which he used the Gregorian calendar, the measure of the modern age. In line with this modernist stance, his prominent student, Mudarrisī
Chahārdahī (d. 1997) referred to his master not as sheikh’ but as the great philosopher.”660 The same mood is reflected in the words of a prominent Iranian politician and man of
culture of the early twentieth century, Zakāʾ al-Malik urūqhī (d. 1942).661 In his forward to rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq , a classic source on the history of Persian Sufism printed in 1900, urūqhī
deliberately avoids any reference to the term taavvuf . Instead, he repeatedly uses terms like ʿārif and ʿirfān, which are rare ly used in the actual content of the book. Furthermore, he warns that this new conception of ʿirfān, if not accompanied by “reasoning and trustworthy evidence, has no place among the learned and critical generation of the age of discovery.” 662
Based on this brief exposition of some aspects of the modern development of the
concept of ʿirfān, I conclude that there is no doubt that certain aspects of the contemporary ʿirfāni discourse developed in response to, and were influenced by, the process of modernization in Iran. Other elements, however, have been in the making since the 659
Kayvān’s observation deserves to be studied in more depth, especially given the similarities between the religious developments in Iran discussed in this dissertation and those occurring in Europe over the course of the Protestant Reformation, which was in full swing during the early Safavid period. 660
Bos, Mystic Regimes, 84.
661
the famous intellectual and the publisher of first non-state sponsored periodical in Iran
662
Muammad Maʻūm Shīrāzī Maʻūm ʻAlī Shāh, rāʾiq l-Ḥqāʾiq, ed. Muammad Jaʻfar Mahūb (Tihrān: Kitābkhāna - yi Bārānī, 1960), vol. 1: 8. urūqī and Kayvān represent only a portion of the modernist intelligentsia in Iran. ther more radical thinkers, like atʿalī Akhūndzāda (d. 1878) and later Amad Kasravī (d. 1946), thought Twelver Shiʿism in general, and Sufism and Dervishism in particular, were corrupt beyond hope. In order to deliver on the promise of modernity to the Iranian nation, they held that traditional religion and Sufism needed to be expunged. For an authoritative and masterful scholarly account of the position of Sufism from 1850-1950 in Iran and different views that various social groups held about it see: Lloyd V. J Ridgeon, Sufi Castigator: Ahmad Kasravi and the Iranian Mystical Tradition, Routledge Sufi Series ; 19 (London: Routledge, 2006).
275
seventeenth century in an authentically Persian context. That is to say, if the concept of ʿirfān as a category referring to a privatized, elitist, rational, science-friendly, and universal concept looks much like the concept of mysticism, it is not because it was transplanted into the soil of Iranian culture by so-called “westoxificated” puppets of imperialism, or by reactionary fundamentalists who, despite their rhetoric, are deeply embedded in modernity. To the
contrary, in proposing ʿirfān as an alternative to taavvuf , modern Iranian intellectuals appropriated an already well-developed notion that they found to be an apt expression of their modern aspirations. In the final paragraphs of this dissertation, I would like to use this genealogy of ʿirfān to explore whether we, as scholars of religion, have anything to learn from it about the ways in which we use analytical categories, like mysticism, in cross-cultural studies. Take, for example, the privatized nature of the mystical quest, which is often listed as one of the prominent features of a distinctively modern and Western religious consciousness.663 Richard King deals with this aspect of mysticism to some extent in his Orientalism and Religion . I would like to quote him at some length, as his remarks are germane to the point I would like to make. Speaking of
what he sees as distinctive features of modern Western notions of mysticism, King says “[T]he privatization of mysticism – that is, the increasing tendency to locate the mystical in the psychological realm of personal experiences, serves to exclude it from political is sues such as social justice. Mysticism thus has become seen as a personal matter of cultivating inner states of tranquility and equanimity, which, rather than seeking to transform the world, serve to
accommodate the individual to the status quo through the alleviation of anxiety and stress… In
663
Richard King, Orientalism and Religion : Post-colonil heory, Indi nd “the ystic Est” (London: Routledge, 1999), 13.
276
this way, mysticism has been thoroughly domesticated…[it] has become at once decontextualized, … elitist, … antisocial, …[and] otherworldly.” My point is simple: there is nothing uniquely modern or Western about such
developments: ʿirfān was all of these— decontextualized, elitist, depoliticized, antisocial, otherworldly, and domesticated—many years before the advent of modernity in Persia. There
was no scholarly and/or imperial will to make it “amenable to simplistic comparative analysis,” as King asserts about mysticism. There was no foreign colonial agent seeking to make Sufism “irreconcilable with the goals of political and social transformation,” to turn it to an anti-revolutionary opiate, so to speak. It is true that Sufism was domesticated and even violently suppressed. But it is also true, as I have tried to demonstrate, that concurrent with— but quite independent from—its suppression and domestication, irfan flourished as a distinct notion of mystical quest with a distinctly rational, elitist, and otherworldly flavor.
ow, it is true that King’s primary focus, like many other scholars of religion who concentrate on postcolonial studies, is on Eastern religions, especially Hinduism and Buddhism. But, there can be no mistake that the case studies in this work and many others are used to draw broad conclusions about how concepts like religion and mysticism, as categories deeply embedded in the history of Western colonialism, should either be abandoned completely in scholarly discourse or not applied in comparative analysis and cross-cultural classifications. There is no question that such studies, which re-examine the historical contingencies that shape our seemingly solid categories, need to be taken seriously. In fact, they have been taken seriously by scholars for good reasons. What makes me uncomfortable with this trend of scholarship, however, is its exclusive attention to the modern West, its emphasis on the utter distinction between the West and the rest
277
and between the modern and the pre-modern. These dichotomies are supposed to be destabilized in postcolonial and postmodern frames of thought, but somehow they always manage to sneak
their way back in, as can be evidenced in, for example, itzgerald’s The Ideology of Religious Studies .664 This, I believe, has partly to do with the current status of the study of religion and the default position of prioritizing Western phenomena in religious theorizing.665 In their attempt to break away from the status quo by focusing on Eastern rather than Western religious phenomena, deconstructionist scholars easily fall into a reactionary discourse that reproduces the same binary thinking and modes of power and dominion that they supposedly reject. In their determination to fight the perceived imperialistic agenda of religious studies as a Western discipline of knowledge and indict the scholars of religion for their sins in this regard, the agency of the Other is too easily
dismissed as a form of “resistance” or “adaptation.” It is as if other cultures and civilizations have never been smart enough, or imperialist enough for that matter, to think of comparisons and classifications, or to impose their constructed categories on others. But, we know that other cultures have also used comparative analyses, that they have objectified their own Others. We know that Western colonialism was not the first colonialism, and that comparison has long been an imperial enterprise.666 Only through taking these things in account might we overcome recent unhealthy moves in the humanities toward the ghettoization of the Western world of ideas.
664
Timothy Fitzgerald, The Ideology of Religious Studies (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000).
665
Robert A. Orsi, The Cambridge Companion to Religious Studies, Cambridge Companions to Religion. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 3–12. 666
Wendy Doniger, “Post -modern and -colonial -structural Comparisons,” in A Magic Still Dwells : Comparative Religion in the Postmodern Age, ed. Kimberley C. Patton and Benjamin C. Ray (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 2000), 63–74.
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