Icons of Power and Religious Piety The Politics of Mamluk Portonage

Material Evidence
and Narrative Sources

Interdisciplinary Studies of the History
of the Muslim Middle East
Edited by
Daniella Talmon-Heller and Katia Cytryn-Silverman
LEIDEN | BOSTON
This is a digital offfprint for restricted use only | © 2015 Koninklijke Brill NV
Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Acknowledgements xiv
List of Abbreviations xv
Contributors xvi
Introduction: Material Evidence and Narrative Sources. Interdisciplinary

Studies of the History of the Muslim Middle East 1
Daniella Talmon-Heller, Katia Cytryn-Silverman and Yasser Tabbaa
PART 1
Economics and Trade
1 Material Evidence and Narrative Sources: Teaching and Studying

Numismatic Evidence 17
Jere L. Bacharach
2 How to Measure Economic Growth in the Middle East?

A Framework of Inquiry for the Middle Islamic Period 30
Stefan Heidemann
3 Ladies of Quseir: Life on the Red Sea Coast in Ayyūbid Times 58

Donald Whitcomb
Part 2
Governmental Authority
4 What Happened in 155 / 771–72? The Testimony of Lead Seals 71

Nitzan Amitai-Preiss
5 The Architectural Patronage of the Fāṭimid Queen-Mother Durzān

(d. 385/995): An Interdisciplinary Analysis of Literary Sources,
Material Evidence and Historical Context 87
Simonetta Calderini and Delia Cortese
vi contents
6 On Archives and Archaeology: Reassessing Mamlūk Rule from

Documentary Sources and Jordanian Fieldwork 113
Bethany J. Walker
Part 3
Material Culture
7 Evidence of Material Culture from the Geniza—An Attempt to

Correlate Textual and Archaeological Findings 147
Miriam Frenkel and Ayala Lester
8 Originality and Innovation in Syrian Woodwork of the Twelfth and

Thirteenth Centuries 188
Yasser Tabbaa
9 Two Mamlūk minbars in Cairo: Approaching Material Culture

through Narrative Sources 216
Miriam Kühn
Part 4
Changing Landscapes
10 Icons of Power and Religious Piety: The Politics of Mamlūk

Patronage 239
Nimrod Luz
11 The Early Islamic City of Ramla in Light of New Archaeological

Discoveries, G.I.S. Applications, and a Re-examination of the
Literary Sources 267
Oren Shmueli and Haim Goldfus
12 The Role of the Imperial Palaces in the Urbanization

Process of Istanbul, 1856–1909 301
Daphna Sharef-Davidovich
contents vii
Part 5
Monuments
13 Turbat Abū Zakariyyā Ibn ʿAbd Allāh Mūsa (Chief Surgeon of

al-Bīmāristān al-Manṣūrī) and his Social Status according to his
Endowment Deed (waqfĳiyya) 317
Hani Hamza
14 Oral Tradition and Architectural History: A Sixteenth-Century

Ottoman Mosque in the Balkans in Local Memory, Textual Sources,
and Material Evidence 341
Maximilian Hartmuth
15 Deliberately not Empty: Reading Cairo’s Unknown Soldier

Monument 360
Yoram Meital
Index 377
PART 4
Changing Landscapes
chapter 10
Icons of Power and Religious Piety: The Politics of

Mamlūk Patronage
Nimrod Luz
Pre-modern and pre-industrialized societies most often have been dominated

by a small, privileged, upper tier of society. Members of this stratum occu-
pied most key institutions and the vast majority of important public roles, in
addition to being in possession of disproportionate amounts of wealth and
dominating access to most public resources. How did these elites, these very
fortunate few, maintain their position? How did they legitimize their rule
and their claim to authority? Certainly, power—sheer, mundane, and banal
power—was a necessary component but, as Antonio Gramsci argued, hege-
mony cannot rest solely, and over a long period of time, on the executing of
power, or exclusively sustain itself by coercion.1 Even in the most brutal and
tyrannical of regimes a certain amount of legitimacy and consent is essential
to the stability and the maintenance in power of the elite and its accepted
ruler. The question then should be how the power of the ruling group is trans-
formed into authority and acquires legitimacy. Authority exists when people
grant a particular group the right to control their lives. It can be maintained
only when the ruled accept the hegemony of the rulers—this is in contrast to
traditional understandings of “power,” which assume the application of coer-
cion and force in order to achieve a dominant position.
Max Weber’s work is seminal to understanding the roots of legitimacy and
authority in the social order. Weber was concerned primarily with the ways in
which political, military, or religious power was translated into legitimacy. The
longer an elite group exercises power, and the deeper is that power, the more
in need it is of justifĳication, which can be achieved through appeals to various
forms of legitimation. Weber defĳines three ultimate principles of the legitima-
tion of power:2
1 On the roots of political and cultural hegemony, see A. Gramsci, Selections from the Prison
Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci, eds. and trans. Q. Hoare and G. Nowell-Smith (London, 1971).
2 M. Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology (New York, 1968):
952–954.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004279667_012

240 LUZ
1. a system of consciously-made, rational rules;

2. personal authority; and,
3. charisma.
The use of any such component may vary from one system to another but,
according to Weber, the trinity of charisma, traditionalism, and legal rational
factors were indeed the bases of authority and forms of legitimation for power.
Weber’s work served as the jumping-offf point for Gideon Sjoberg, in his
discussion of the roots of legitimacy in historical society.3 He accepts that in
order to maintain conditions of supremacy, certain justifĳications must be put
in place, and certain explanations or rationalizations need to be agreed upon.
Thus, Sjoberg suggests four principal modes of rationalization and methods of
justifying the suzerainty of one body of persons (or a person) over all others:4
1. The appeal to absolutes;

2. The appeal to tradition;
3. The appeal to experts; and,
4. The appeal to the governed.
The appeal to absolutes is a claim to legitimization by means of forces that are

independent of human action. Thus, the ruler or the elite justify their posi-
tion on the grounds that they act according to the will of God, or the gods, or
‘natural law’. The appeal to tradition is closely interwoven with, and usually
completes, the appeal to any form of divinity. They are but another face of the
acknowledged set of norms and accepted rules or ‘natural laws’ in pre-modern
societies. This is much like the manner in which the Islamic canon (or code of
practice) was initially formulated in the Qurʾān (appeal to the absolute) and
complemented by the sunna (appeal to tradition). Sjoberg is of the opinion
that the appeal to experts, as well as appeals to the governed, have dominated
the modern urban scene. He has argued that in industrial societies rulers
appeal to the experts—that is, to those who own the relevant technological
knowledge. The appeal to the governed in modern societies is made through
propaganda, and the use of mass media.
It would seem that all four principles were put into practice, and there-
fore may be found, in the landscape of Mamlūk cities. Indeed, it is through
the landscape and the transformations of the urban scene that we can learn
more about the means and methods the Mamlūk elite resorted to in order
3 G. Sjoberg, The Preindustrial City, Past and Present (Glencoe, 1960), 221.
4 Sjoberg, Preindustrial City, 224.
ICONS OF POWER AND RELIGIOUS PIETY 241
to maintain its power and fortify its legitimacy among local governed com-
munities. The Mamlūks, like any other ruling elite, were in constant need of
sustaining and legitimizing their rule. In addition, they had their own particu-
lar and unique problems. Bought as slaves and of various Turkic origins, the
Mamlūks could not produce a privileged or prestigious lineage. They difffered
from their governed communities ethnically, linguistically and culturally. By
and large, the Mamlūk aristocracy was an alienated and suspect foreign elite.
It would seem that their main justifĳication in claiming control of the region
was their military prowess, as well as their success in checking the enemies of
Islam.5 The unique social structure of Mamlūk society posed even graver prob-
lems for the continuation of their status, both on a public and on a personal
level. Mamlūk society was a continually replicating, single-generation military
aristocracy.6 On a practical level, this meant that the sons of Mamlūks could
not become Mamlūks. Thus, the latter were deemed unfĳit to hold important
positions within the Mamlūk administration. To overcome this problematic
situation, as well as to navigate the rather precarious political climate, mem-
bers of the Mamlūk aristocracy—sultans included—were heavily involved
in the establishment of endowments and the construction of various public
buildings.7
Humans live in an incredibly complex world of man-made objects. In any
given environmental setting, the array of objects exists as components in a
variety of interrelated sign systems.8 The built environment is a language that
transforms aims, wants, and ideals into concrete objects that carry the mean-
ing their builders invested in them. The question of meaning is surely one of
the most complex (and vexing) issues in any discussion of a philosophical
5 R. Kruk, “History and Apocalypse: Ibn al-Nafīs’ Justifĳication of the Mamlūk Rule,” Der Islam
72 (1995): 324–337; R. Amitai, “The Mamlūk Institution, or One Thousand Years of Military
Slavery in the Islamic World,” in Arming Slaves: From Classical Times to the Modern Age,
ed. C. L. Brown, and P. D. Morgan (New Haven, 2006) 59, n. 84; A. F. Broadbridge “Mamlūk
Legitimacy and the Mongols: The Reigns of Baybars and Qalāwūn,” MSR 5 (2001): 91–118; idem,
Kingship and Ideology in the Islamic and Mongol Worlds (Cambridge, 2008), 1–5. Whereas
Broadbridge focused on external audiences (Mongols, in this case), I focus here on internal
ones and on dialogue with the local population.
6 Surely there were exceptions to this norm, as the Qalāwūnid lineage clearly demonstrates,
but by and large the Mamlūks manifested a unique, non-hereditary political system.
7 See, e.g., R. S. Humphreys, “The Expressive Intent of the Mamlūk Architecture of Cairo: A
Preliminary Essay,” SI 35 (1972): 69–120; and, N. Luz, The Mamluk City in the Middle East.
History, Culture and the Urban Landscape (Cambridge, 2014), 107–147.
8 D. Preziosi, The Semiotics of the Built Environment: An Introduction to Architectonic Analysis
(Bloomington, 1979), 1.
242 LUZ
nature.9 Meaning in architecture or, as I relate to it throughout this discus-

sion, meaning in and of the built environment, is an intricate and multifaceted
subject. It is concerned with semiotics and therefore presents a challenge to
the reader of the signs and calls for a multilayered reading. Norberg-Schultz
put forward the idea that objects acquire their represented quality through
the eyes and perception of the beholder.10 Put diffferently, the way we perceive
objects is closely connected to our experience and acculturation as observers.11
Norberg-Schultz suggested a hierarchy of order, in which objects are perceived
on a continuum from being merely physical entities to an understanding of
them as metaphysical and symbolic structures. The reading of Mamlūk institu-
tions and monuments, as I refer to them throughout this chapter—as icons in
the cultural landscape—is in accordance with this understanding of objects
as symbols and metaphors of human actions.12 This reading involves moving
from a functional perception of objects—that is, objects as infrastructures,
and objects as part of a practical system within the city—to a highly symbolic
and metaphysical level of understanding.
In the sections that follow, I read into the semiotics of the construction activ-
ity of the mostly Mamlūk aristocracy in the urban landscape. The focus of this
chapter and its underlying assumption are that, in addition to practical mat-
ters, the buildings they constructed were part of an efffort to gain and maintain
legitimacy in the eyes’ of, and approval for and of their rule on the part of, the
local population. The central premise of the discussion is that the Mamlūks’
urban policy and urban projects were dictated by, in addition to practical
and private and personal reasons, the constant need to negotiate their status
among their respective audiences and clients. The chapter explores the sym-
bolic and ideological nature of public and monumental buildings in cities and
offfers a critical reading of the Mamlūk elite’s activities and influence in and on
cities. I examine the construction of citadels, mosques, religious schools and
ṣūfī lodges, and analyze their roles and meanings in the urban landscape.
9 Humphreys, “Expressive Intent,” 70–78. Humphreys was the fĳirst to seriously engage with
the concepts of intentions and meanings in Mamlūk architecture.
10 Ch. Norberg-Schultz, Intentions in Architecture (Oslo, 1965), 27–41.
11 On the subjective and reflexive quality of understanding the landscape and perceptions
of place, see Y. Tuan, Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes and Values
(Englewood Clifffs, 1974).
12 For more on the concept of landscape as a metaphor by which to live, see D. Mitchell,
Cultural Geography: A Critical Introduction (Malden, 2001), 120–144.
1.1 The Citadel—Authority, Legitimacy, and Ultimate Power

In his description of cities in Bilād al-Shām, al-Ẓāhirī (d. 1468/872) provides us
with a list of 56 cities.13 While the Mamlūks built (or renovated) walls in only
ten of them, no less than thirty-four were furnished with a citadel. The citadel
(al-ʿqalʿa) was indeed a central element of the Mamlūk Sultanate’s fortifĳication
policy. This is attested to time and again by the special interest sultans and
provincial governors showed regarding this urban feature.
After the conquest of Safed (northern Palestine) from the Franks in
664/1266, Sultan Baybars personally saw to the re-construction of a formidable
fortress therein. He did not deputize the task but supervised the project in per-
son and actively participated in the building process.14 If we are to trust the
chronicles, he worked shoulder to shoulder with his soldiers to carry military
equipment into the armory (zardākhāna) located inside the fortress. He is also
reported to have carried large building stones along with the masons while
cleaning the moat that previously had been ruined during the Mamlūk siege.15
After the initial repairs had been executed, Baybars allocated a monthly sum
of 80,000 dirhams to continue the renovations. In addition to its gargantuan
proportions, the citadel was located on the highest topographical point of the
city. It loomed large over the city and served as the newly established central
point in the city. Thus, the residential areas of the city developed around the
citadel.16 The conquest of Tripoli by the Mamlūks led to the total demoli-
tion of the earlier city in favor of its reconstruction in a newly-chosen, inland
location.17 The new city of Tripoli was built some four kilometers due east of its
former location along the river of Abū ʿAlī, on the western slopes of the Turbul
ridge. The most conspicuous construction in the newly-built Mamlūk city was,
indeed, the citadel. Built atop the former Crusader fortress, the Mamlūk cita-
del was renovated by Amīr Asandamur al-Kurjī al-Manṣūrī during his tenure as
governor of the city from 700/1300 to 707/1307.18 It occupied the highest point
in the town, and its heavy fortifĳications added considerably to its threatening
13 Khalīl ibn Shāhīn al-Ẓāhirī, Kitāb Zubdat Kashf al-Mamālik, ed. P. Ravaisse (Paris, 1894),
41–49.
14 ʿIzz al-Dīn ʿIbn Shaddād al-Ḥalabī, Ta⁠ʾrīkh al-Malik al-Ẓāhir (Beirut, 1983), 353.
15 Naṣīr al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥman b. Muḥammad al-Furāt, Ta⁠ʾrīkh al-Duwal wa-’l-Mulūk, vol. 2
(Beirut, 1890), 2.
16 On the importance of the citadel to a citizen’s perception of the city, see B. Lewis, “An
Arabic Account of the Province of Safed—I,” BSOAS 15 (1953): 477–488.
17 Ibn al-Furāt, Ta⁠ʾrīkh, 8: 80–1; Tāqī al-Dīn al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-Sulūk li-Maʿrifat Duwal
al-Mulūk, vol. 1 (Cairo, 1934), 748.
18 Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ al-aʿshā fī ṣināʿat al-inshāʾ, vol. 4 (Beirut,
1984), 148.
244 LUZ
and detached position vis-à-vis the city. In 710/1310, the sultan al-Malik al-Nāṣir
Muḥammad ibn Qalāwūn issued a decree instructing the governor to renovate
the citadel of Jerusalem.19 Unlike Safed and Tripoli, the citadel in Jerusalem did
not enjoy such a prestigious or commanding topographical position. However,
it was separated from the rest of the city by high walls and a moat, which, like
its counterparts in Safed and Tripoli, transformed it into an inaccessible, iso-
lated and formidable urban institution.20
The citadel became an indispensable part of the urban defense system,
almost a prerequisite in the fortifĳication dictionary of cities. How are we to
read the meaning of the citadel within the urban landscape? What message
were the Mamlūks trying to convey through this construction, above and
beyond its functionality? Jere Bacharach sees its physical detachment from
the other areas of the city as a genuine representation of the Turkish elite’s
mental detachment from the local population.21 Surely, detachment and alien-
ation were indeed communicated by an urban landmark that was kept sepa-
rate by walls and moat, and at times located in a separate or remote part of the
city. Yet, given the manner in which the Mamlūks conducted themselves and
their managerial style in Syrian cities, it would seem that what they wanted to
express and communicate through the citadel was less banal. In cases where
the ruler(s) wants to be separated totally from his subordinates, a much more
hierarchic and regulatory landscape is designed. In such cases, the built envi-
ronment can be used to create barriers, gaps and other obstacles that prevent
any contact, whether visual or auditory or both, between the ruler and those
he governs.
19 M. van Berchem, MCIA 2/2 (Cairo, 1927), 142.

20 On the citadel of Tripoli, see also N. Luz, “Tripoli Reinvented. A Case of Mamlūk
Urbanization,” in Towns and Material Culture in the Medieval Middle East, ed. Y. Lev
(Leiden, 2002), 53–72. Gosheh has suggested the existence of a wall in the Mamlūk period
that separated the citadel from the city; see M. Gosheh, “The Walls and Gates of Jerusalem
Before and After Sultan Süleymān’s Rebuilding Project of 1538–40,” in Governing the Holy
City: The Interaction of Social Groups in Jerusalem between the Fatimid and the Ottoman
Period, ed. J. Pahlitzsch and L. Korn (Wiesbaden, 2004), 126, and 137, Fig. 12. I have
elsewhere demonstrated the Mamlūks’ general aversion to fortifying cities with walls (see
Luz, Provincial Cities, 107–114). Even assuming that Gosheh’s hypothesis was able to be
verifĳied, it would only accentuate the symbolic role of the citadel as an isolated and awe-
inspiring edifĳice.
21 J. L. Bacharach, “Administrative Complexes, Palaces, and Citadels: Changes in the Loci
of Medieval Muslim Rule,” in The Ottoman City and Its Parts: Urban Structure and Social
Order, ed. I. A. Bierman et al. (New York, 1991), 111–128.
The plan of the round city of Baghdād (Madīnat al-Salām) is a case in

point. The morphology created by the ʿAbbāsid caliph enabled him to be
utterly secluded and remote from the citizens of the city. A person entering
the round city was scrutinized and, the further one wanted to penetrate the
city, the greater the number of inspections and check points to which one
was subjected. The very entry into the inner circles was in itself a sign of one’s
prestigious position within the ʿAbbāsid court.22 The meticulous design of the
Chinese imperial domain, also known as the Forbidden City, successfully con-
veys similar needs and the ideology of the ruler’s supremacy—in the Chinese
case, divinity—over his citizens.23 The same morphology or landscape was not
created by the Mamlūks in Syria, and although the gates of the citadel were
heavily secured, citizens were not banned from entering the compound.24 As
stated above, discerning the message that Mamlūk rulers conveyed through
the citadel demands a more nuanced reading.
The intensity of Sultan Baybars’ involvement in the renovation of the cita-
del of Safed surely is indicative of the fact that its importance did not lie only
in the military sphere. The messages conveyed by Baybars were both internal
and external. Like other Mamlūk sultans, he was constantly scrutinized and
checked by his fellow offfĳicers. Renovating the citadel and actively participat-
ing in the work delivered the message of his commitment to his people, his
intentions as to the continuation of the military campaign ( jihād) against the
Frankish kingdom, and his status as fĳirst among equals.25 Internally, sultans
were constantly preoccupied with their position among their military inti-
mates and former fellow offfĳicers.26 Externally, it was a clear sign to the local
population regarding his obligation to pursue the jihād against the Franks
and his role as the protector of Islam against the might of the Mongols in
northern Syria. On the highest point of Safed, at the central part of the cita-
del, Baybars undertook the construction of a tower that was to bear his name:
Majdal al-Ẓāhir.27 Certainly, it was not built solely for functional purposes.
22 J. Lassner, “The Caliph’s Personal Domain: The City Plan of Baghdad Re-Examined,” in The
Islamic City: A Colloquium, ed. A. H. Hourani and S. M. Stern, (Oxford, 1970), 103–118.
23 G. Guo-Hui, “Perspective of Urban Land Use in Beijing,” GeoJournal 20/4 (1990), 359–364.
24 J. Bacharach, “The Court-Citadel: An Islamic Urban Symbol of Power,” in Urbanism in
Islam, vol. 3, ed. Y. Takesshi (Tokyo, 1989), esp. 219–221.
25 P. M. Holt, “The Sultan as Ideal Ruler: Ayyūbid and Mamlūk Prototypes,” in Süleyman the
Magnifĳicent and His Age: The Ottoman Empire in the Early Modern World, ed. M. Kunt and
C. Woodhead (London, 1995), 122–137.
26 Y. Frenkel, “Public Projection of Power in Mamlūk Bilād al-Shām,” MSR 11 (2007): 39–40.
27 Lewis, “Arabic Account,” 487, in which al-ʿUthmānī, a native of Safed, acclaimed the
building activity of Baybars and described the tower as an architectural gem.
246 LUZ
The construction of a high-rise tower of very generous proportions in the mid-

dle of the gigantic citadel of Safed was a physical manifestation of the sultan’s
role, commitment and authority as the leader of the Mamlūk sultanate.28 It
was an icon of power and a landmark that conveyed the message of his dedica-
tion to the military tasks at hand, but also to his position as the just, pious, and
genuine ruler.
In 710/1310 the citadel of Jerusalem was renovated following a decree issued
by none other than Sultan al-Malik al-Nāṣīr Muḥammad b. Qalāwūn.29 It is
rather telling that the inscription of the renovation, in which the acts of the sul-
tan and his involvement in the construction are commemorated, was afffĳixed to
the eastern wall of the citadel, the one facing the city. The inscription relating
the identity of the sultan and the date of the decree was attached to the wall
close by the citadel’s main entry gate, the one used by the local population
of the city. When the walls of the city were renovated by the Ottoman Sultan
Suleiman al-Qānūnī in 1538–1541, no fewer than twenty-four inscriptions were
placed on them. They were all placed on the external face of the wall. It seems
logical to assume that the builder had another audience in mind, rather than
the people of the citadel. In the case of the Mamlūk sultan, that audience con-
sisted of the citizens of Jerusalem. The renovation of the citadel of Jerusalem,
a city of insignifĳicant position in the geopolitics of the Mamlūk sultanate in
Syria, cannot be understood solely as an accommodation of a military need.
In his description of Jerusalem, al-ʿUmarī (d. 749/1349) cast serious doubt on
the actual efffĳicacy of the citadel in the defense system of the city: “its existence
or the lack of it makes no diffference as it is completely useless and it does
not [add] to the buttressing [of the city].”30 This denigrating observation ques-
tions the practicality of the citadel as part of the fortifĳication system of the
city. According to al-ʿUmarī, it was nothing but a whim of the sultan and an
extravagant, useless element in the city. This is a rather harsh judgment if one
considers the fact that the city’s walls were intentionally breached by al-Malik
al-Muʿaẓẓam ʿĪsā in 616/1219 and were not repaired thereafter.
The citadel surely had an important military role to play in an otherwise
defenseless city. The importance of al-ʿUmarī’s observation lies in the fact that
it focuses our attention on the symbolic aspects of the building, rather than
28 Ibn Shaddād estimated this construction as reaching a height of roughly 60 m.; see Ta⁠ʾrīkh
al-Malik al-Ẓāhir, 353. On this construction, see also K. Raphael, Muslim Fortresses in the
Levant: Between Crusaders and Mongols (London, 2011), 146–155.
29 MCIA 2/b, 142, n. 1.
30 Aḥmad b. Yaḥyā ibn Faḍl Allāh al-ʿUmarī, Masālik al-Abṣār fī Mamālik al-Amṣār (Cairo,
1342 H), 138.
just its functionality. According to his astute observation, the citadel needs to
be seen as a symbol and an icon of the sultan’s presence in the city. Indeed it is!
Above and beyond any practical value that the citadel adds or fails to add
to the city’s defense, its importance lies squarely in the message it conveys to
the people of the city. This was one of the main institutions through which the
sultan chose to represent himself in the city. Through the citadel, sultans were
able to express a twofold message: the fĳirst was Mamlūk dominance and their
hegemonic position; the second was the ruler’s obligation and commitment to
the defense of the population he governed. And this is why we fĳind time and
again throughout the cities of Syria that sultans personally intervened in the
construction, renovation, and repairs of citadels. Indeed, the citadel became
an iconic structure, carrying a dual message about the Mamlūk sultan’s hege-
monic position and his role in the city.
1.2 The Friday Mosque31—Demonstration of Religious Piety and Appeal

to the Governed
During the fĳirst centuries of Islam the central position (and role) of the Friday
mosque in cities was one of the main indicators of social cohesiveness, and of
the central role the Islamic state/caliphate played in the shaping of its citizens’
public space and cultural urban landscape. Friday mosques became the focal
points in new cities created by Islamic rulers but eventually also in already
existing cities.32 In cities constructed by Muslim rulers, such as Baṣra, Kūfa,
Fusṭāṭ, and al-Ramla, the mosque was to be found literally at the geographi-
cal center of town.33 In those cities, a religious-political center was created
through the juxtaposition of the governor’s residence (dār al-imāra) with the
main Friday mosque. These elements of the urban landscape often were inter-
connected enough so as to enable the governor to make a direct approach from
his house to the main mosque.34 The linkage between those two important
31 In the section that follows, I use the terms “Friday mosque,” “congregational mosque,” and
“main mosque” interchangeably.
32 Cities such as Aleppo and Damascus therefore could exhibit the same urban feature at
their functional center as could new cities, e.g., the amṣār. See N. Alsayyad, Cities and
Caliphs: On the Genesis of Arab Muslim Urbanism (New York, 1991), 43–112.
33 Al-Ramla is one case in point: see N. Luz, “The Construction of an Islamic City in
Palestine. The Case of Umayyad al-Ramla,” JRAS 7 (1997): 27–54. On Anjar, see D. Sourdel,
“La Fondation Umayyade d’al-Ramla en Palestine,” in Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur
des Vordern Orients, ed. H. R. Romer and A. Noth (Leiden, 1981), 387–395.
34 In the Umayyad palatial complex in Jerusalem located to the south of the Ḥaram al-Sharīf,
one still can see the remains of such a passage that connected the main palace (e.g., the
governor’s house) to the qibla wall of the mosque.
248 LUZ
urban institutions, both created by the “state,” is a clear indication of the way
the caliph (and his proxies) understood his responsibility, commitments and
status vis-à-vis the community of believers. During the Umayyad period the
monumental and central mosque was transformed into the main setting for
a range of ceremonies that gradually evolved out of and served to bolster the
symbolic aspects of the caliph’s role and status. These ceremonies celebrated
and commemorated both his role as the head of the Muslim state and as a
prominent religious fĳigure within that state.35 By the third century AH, the
central congregational mosque was no longer the only forum for performance
of these rituals and ceremonies. However, it retained its status as the most
important religious institution in the urban milieu.36 Naturally, this change
greatly influenced the layout and design of mosques, especially those features
adopted so as to reflect a symbolic meaning.
Another important development, which followed in the wake of the matu-
ration of Islamic communities, was the emergence of institutions and alter-
native buildings where communities could perform a variety of religious and
social activities. In al-Maqrizī’s description of late fourteenth- or early fĳifteenth-
century Cairo, he mentions no fewer than 88 Friday mosques, 19 small mosques
(masjid), 74 madrasas, 21 khānqāhs, 12 ribāṭs, 25 zāwiyas and a pilgrimage site
(mashhad).37 Naturally, this also meant that the centrality of the main Friday
mosque dwindled and its dominant role or presence in the urban landscape
was considerably lessened. The creation of architectural alternatives does not
mean that the Friday mosque ceased to function as the main site for prayers,
but that the urban community developed more options for itself. This tran-
sition is yet another sign—indeed, a physical one—of the maturation and
transformation that Islamic societies were going through as they became that
much more sophisticated, multi-layered, and complex.38 As a natural outcome
of their demographic growth they were also much more diverse, fractured
and fragmented.39 Throughout this period of adolescence of the Islamic city,
35 J. Sauvaget, La Mosquée Omeyyade de Médine: Étude sur les Origins Architecturales de la

Mosquée et de la Basilique (Paris, 1947), 122–159, apud Humphreys, “Expressive Intent,”
82, n. 1.
36 P. Sanders, Ritual, Politics, and the City in Fatimid Cairo (Albany, 1994), 39–82.
37 Al-Maqrizī, Al-Mawāʿiẓ wa-’l-ʿItibār bi-Dhikr al-Khiṭaṭ wa-’l-Āthār, vol. 2 (Cairo, n.d.).
38 O. Grabar, “The Architecture of the Middle Eastern City from Past to Present: The Case of
the Mosque,” in Middle Eastern Cities: A Symposium on Ancient, Islamic, and Contemporary
Middle Eastern Urbanism, ed. I. M. Lapidus (Berkeley, 1969), 26–46.
39 In a sense, I am describing a process similar to what Kennedy has referred to as the
“creation of the Islamic Commonwealth,” by which he meant the political disintegration
the religious requirement for congregational prayer was answered, alongside

the traditional great mosque, by numerous smaller community mosques.40
Against this background, I will look into the construction of mosques in Syrian
cities, mainly by Mamlūk sultans, which will facilitate a reading into the semi-
otics of the buildings and the intents of the diffferent builders as can be deci-
phered from the buildings (and textual sources, when available).
Immediately after Safed was taken from the Franks, Sultan Baybars initi-
ated and executed the construction of two mosques; one inside the citadel and
the other in a newly established quarter.41 The mosque in the citadel did not
survive and nothing is known of its architectural style or plan. It was built on
a former Crusader church, which more than suggests Baybars’ intentions of
presenting himself as the vanquisher of the Franks and the protector of Islam.42
The other mosque, known as Masjid al-Aḥmar, was built in a very modest fash-
ion. It was a rectangle that measured 15 × 15.5 m., and, except for an ornate
façade typical of Mamlūk constructions, had no other distinctive features. It
surely did not follow the classic plan of early mosques, which were inspired
by the plan of the Ḥijāzī courtyard house.43 However, the inscription, which
is still visible adorning the gate of the building, conveys very clearly the inten-
tions the builder had in mind in ordering its construction:
In the name of Allāh, the Merciful and the Compassionate. This blessed
mosque was built on the instructions of our lord the sultan al-Malik
al-Ẓāhir, the most great and magnifĳicent master, the wise, the just, the
defender of the faith, the warrior along the borders, the victorious, sup-
porter of the faith and the world, sultan of Islam and Muslims, slayer
of the infĳidels and the heathens, capitulator of rebels and conspirators,
of the Muslim world in the 9th–10th centuries despite the maintaining of a fairly unifĳied
cultural-religious unity; see H. Kennedy, The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates: The
Islamic Near East from the Sixth to the Eleventh Century (London, 1986), 200–211.
40 Regarding the complex hierarchy of mosques and the role of the Friday mosque in defĳining
the urban entity, see Johansen, “City and Mosque.” On the architectural diffferences and
growing visual vocabulary of mosques, see B. S. Hakim, Arabic-Islamic Cities: Building and
Planning Principles (London, 1986), 100.
41 Ibn Shaddād al-Ḥalabī, Ta⁠ʾrīkh al-Malik al-Ẓāhir, 353.
42 The story of the mosque replacing the church is conveyed by al-ʿUthmanī, apud Lewis,
“Arabic Account,” 487.
43 The plan of this mosque and its inscriptions were published in a survey conducted by
Mayer. See L. A. Mayer, J. Pinkerfĳield, H. Z. Hirschberg, and J. L. Maimon, Some Principal
Muslim Religious Buildings in Israel (Jerusalem, 1950), 38–41.
250 LUZ
Baybars al-Ṣālaḥī, partner of the Commander of the Faithful, and this in

the year four and seventy and six hundred [1276].44
It should be emphasized that this is in no way a singular inscription, and

Baybars often chose to depict himself in this fashion in his inscriptions.
However, this does not mitigate the importance and the symbolic implications
of the construction of that mosque at Safed. Baybars depicts himself as a true
and devout Muslim, protector of the believers and a zealous fĳighter for the
umma. The messages behind the building are not hidden. In a very plain and
clear fashion, Baybars conveys to the Muslim citizens of Safed his role in their
lives and his commitment to their safety and well-being.45 It is apparent that
what seems to be of the utmost importance for the sultan is that he present
himself not just as a pious Muslim, but also as the person who enables the
population he governs to lead a similarly pious life.
In Jerusalem, sultans concentrated throughout the Mamlūk period on the
upkeep and refurbishing of the area of the Ḥaram al-Sharīf. Indeed, time and
again, sultans focused their attention solely on the area of the main mosque
of the city. This stands in direct contrast to their conduct in other parts of the
city. Apart from the mosque that was constructed in the citadel, there was only
one humble mosque built, by Sultan Qalāwūn in the Christian quarter.46 How,
then, should we understand this dichotomy in the Mamlūk sultans’ use of
mosques as iconic landmarks that served to promote their legitimacy among
the governed? The main reason for their doing so likely would have been down
to considerations of cost efffĳiciency. The holiness attributed to the Ḥaram
al-Sharīf area as the third most important Islamic site rendered all other pos-
sible building sites within the city totally useless in the pursuit of this end.
The importance of the main mosque of Jerusalem was felt far beyond the city
limits. It was a unique and highly symbolic compound, one already revered
far and wide throughout the Muslim world. Indeed, it was the religious center
for the Muslim community of Jerusalem. The use of mosques as a metaphor
44 Ibid., 40; see also Y. Yadin, “Arabic Inscriptions from Palestine,” Eretz-Israel: Archeological,
Historical and Geographical Studies, vol. 7 (Jerusalem, 1964), 113–114. On the political
message of this mosque, see H. Taragan, “Doors that Open Meanings: Baybars’s Red
Mosque in Safed,” in The Mamlūks in Egyptian and Syrian Politics and Society, ed.
M. Winter, and A. Levanoni (Leiden, 2004), 3–20.
45 For a comprehensive discussion of Baybars’ activities promoting his legitimacy among
local populations, see S. A. Jackson, “The Primacy of Domestic Politics: Ibn Bint al-Aʿazz
and the Establishment of Four Chief Judgeships in Mamlūk Egypt,” JAOS 115 (1995): 52. See
also K. Cytryn-Silverman, “Three Mamlūk Minarets in Ramla,” JSAI 35 (2008): 379–403.
46 MCIA 2/b, 202, n. 67.
for the Sultan’s commitment to the people he ruled and an expression of his
personal piety would be and were far more efffĳicient in the already-existing
religious center than they would be in any other newly-developed one. The
religious prestige of the al-Aqṣā Mosque and the importance of the Ḥaram
area in the urban landscape were unrivalled by any other would-be sultanic
mosque. For this reason, sultans were drawn to construction and renovation in
this particular area. In Jerusalem they were not likely to succeed in creating an
alternative that would be as successful in acquiring for them the public image
and legitimacy they so desired.
The mosques of Tripoli tell a very diffferent story. No fewer than nine
mosques were built in the newly established Mamlūk town of Tripoli. All the
mosques of the city, apart from those constructed by sultans, represent the
breaking away from the traditional Ḥijāzī-style (central courtyard) mosque.
However, I would like to focus in particular on the two mosques that were built
following the traditional plan—which, not accidentally, were also the only two
sultanic mosques.47
The fĳirst mosque to be built in Tripoli was the main Friday mosque. The
construction began under the sultan al-Ashraf Khalīl, in 1294, and was com-
pleted during the reign of his brother al-Malik al-Nāṣir, in 1314.48 The mosque
was constructed atop the ruins of a Crusader church. The plan followed the
main features of the traditional Arab or hypostyle mosque, being rectangular
in plan with an enclosed courtyard.49 The courtyard accommodated an ablu-
tion facility at its center. The mosque had three entrances. Creswell defĳined
the three entrances as a Syrian feature, one that started “haphazardly in the
Umayyad mosque of Damascus.”50 The qibla wall was part of a covered prayer
hall (masjid area) and, on the other three sides, open arcades (riwāq) were built
that faced onto the main courtyard. A similar plan was used in the al-Thawba
mosque. This mosque was built by the river and as a result has sufffered over
time from the recurrence of floods; one such flood even saw the disappearance
of the inscription carrying the offfĳicial building date. According to Tadmurī,
the mosque was built during the third reign of the sultan al-Malik al-Nāṣir,
47 For a discussion of the history and architecture of the two mosques, see H. Salam-Leibich,
The Architecture of the Mamluk City of Tripoli (Cambridge, 1983), 16–28, 93–100.
48 É. Combe, J. Sauvaget, G. Viet (eds.), RCEA 13 (Cairo, 1944), 122–123; M. Sobernheim, MCIA
2 (Cairo, 1909), 49.
49 On the origin and early development of mosques, see R. Hillenbrand, Islamic Architecture:
Form, Function and Meaning (Edinburgh, 2000), 31–128.
50 K. A. C. Creswell, The Muslim Architecture of Egypt 2; Ayyūbids and Early Baḥrite Mamlūks,
A.D. 1171–1326 (Oxford, 1959), 101.
252 LUZ
1311–1340.51 The mosque was constructed so as to include the same features

as the Friday mosque, the main diffference being the inclusion of a dome that
adorned the covered prayer hall. These two mosques, both built by sultans, are
anomalous when compared with the other mosques in Tripoli, all of which
were built during the Mamlūk period. When private builders, or even high-
ranking offfĳicials from the Mamlūk elite, built in Tripoli, they followed other
designs that had long forsaken traditional plans. Why was it that during the
fĳirst decades following the reconstruction of Tripoli, Mamlūk sultans decided
to go harken back to the Umayyad style and plan? What was the message
they were trying to convey? And for what reasons did this plan better serve
their needs?
F. B. Flood has promoted the idea that an architectural revival of Umayyad
style and elements took place under Qalāwūn and his heirs.52 Decorative ele-
ments and architectural fashions that were initially developed and used in key
buildings of the Umayyad period were adopted in Mamlūk monumental build-
ings. Thus, features originally found in the Umayyad mosque in Damascus or
in the Dome of the Rock reappeared in newly established Mamlūk buildings
of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Flood interpreted this
nostalgic trend and the intensive use of ancient ornamentation as part of the
sultans’ need to further legitimize their rule, particularly during the Qalāwūnid
period. This is a form of a legitimation mechanism that draws on the past by
creating ties and borrowing characteristics to be found in the earliest, most
venerable, Islamic monuments in Syria. By interacting with an allegedly com-
mon past and by creating a linkage to the past, the Mamlūk sultans were
presenting themselves as legitimate heirs of that past. The rather obsessive
interest sultans showed in Umayyad architecture therefore is a direct result of
their need for legitimacy.
This retro fashion, and the recycling of early motifs to be found in perhaps
the most revered and sacred Islamic compounds in Syria, served this pressing
need of the sultans. In a similar vein, and as is evident in the case of Tripoli, we
may fĳind the use and the reinterpretation of Umayyad iconography in Mamlūk
sultanic compounds. In this formative period of Mamlūk architecture, along
with establishing an independent and original Mamlūk style, sultans also
relied on the use of archaic motifs to enhance the symbolic messages of their
buildings.
51 ʿU. Tadmurī, Ta⁠ʾrīkh wa-Athar Masājid wa-Madāris Tarābulus (Tripoli, 1974), 135–138; and,
Salam-Leibich, Tripoli, 96–97.
52 F. B. Flood, “Umayyad Survivals and Mamlūk Revivals: Qalāwūnid Architecture and the
Great Mosque of Damascus,” Muqarnas 14 (1997): 57–79.
In Tripoli, the two mosques associated with sultans—the Great Mosque,

dated from 1294, and al-Tawba, dated from the mid-fourteenth century—
employed the traditional hypostyle plan. In using a traditional plan, the sultan
clearly presents himself as a continuation of that past. The sultans appealed
to tradition and common heritage as a way to portray themselves to their
audience as committed Muslims, but more than that, as legitimate rulers. It
is rather telling that in Tripoli the fĳirst building to be erected by the sultan
was the Friday mosque, and not the citadel—a clear indication of the religious
commitment of the sultan. The sultanic mosques of Tripoli were physical
metaphors for the ruler’s dedication to the needs of his subjects, in particular,
and to Islam in general. In much the same way that early sultans presented
themselves in Damascus and Cairo as architectonic heirs of the Umayyads,
they revealed their need for legitimacy in the early Friday mosques in Tripoli.
During the Mamlūk period, Friday mosques were of decreasing symbolic
importance within cities. The development of an elaborate building vocabu-
lary contributed directly to changes in the spatial behavior and preferences
of potential patrons. Nevertheless, the sultans did not neglect the upkeep
and renovation of Friday mosques. They served as a highly efffĳicient symbol
that allowed them to represent themselves as both pious and legitimate rul-
ers. During the early decades of the Mamlūk period, sultans were more prone
to exploiting former building traditions, doing so in order to strengthen their
position by presenting themselves as rightful heirs to that glorious past. As
time passed and initial anxieties lessened so, too, did the need to rely on and
invoke the past.
In his discussion on the waning interest in the hypostyle mosque, Humphreys
concurs with Grabar that the reason probably lies in “a widening of the social
base of architectural patronage.”53 Put simply, there were more builders and
patrons involved in construction in and around more cities, and they had a
richer visual and architectural vocabulary from which to choose. Thus, during
the Mamlūk period, sultans, high ranking military offfĳicers (amīrs), members
of the Mamlūk aristocracy and people of means all were engaged in religious
building projects.
2 Religious Buildings as Symbols of Piety—Appealing to the Experts
As stated previously, landscape is ideological simply because it represents the

way people want to depict themselves, their world, their ideals and cultural
53 Humphreys, “Expressive Intent,” 91; Grabar, “Architecture of the Middle Eastern City,” 39.
254 LUZ
understanding. Every building and each builder has their own unique story to
tell and, as a consequence, each has their own idiosyncratic symbolic meaning.
However, in what follows I would like to examine the impact and meanings of
the sum total of religious buildings in the urban landscape. In much of the anal-
ysis that follows, I am mostly concerned with Jerusalem. During the Mamlūk
period, the city enjoyed an astounding amount of prosperity, at least in so far as
it concerns the construction of religious buildings. This can be attributed more
than anything else to the city’s revered religious status within Islam. Jerusalem
could boast more than twice the number of religious buildings than Tripoli
even though the latter was a bigger city both in its built-up area and by
population.54 This disproportionate amount of construction clearly indicates
that, owing to its special qualities, Jerusalem was a preferential location for
many individuals. Unquestionably, each had his own particular reasons, his-
tory and needs, but they all chose to build in Jerusalem, thereby emphasizing
the fact that they all understood that “advertising” their piety in Jerusalem’s
landscape would yield better results than in other cities. It locates the follow-
ing discussion squarely in the realms of symbolism, propaganda and demon-
strations of religious piety. These buildings did indeed have functional raison
d’êtres also, but I will be less concerned with these in the following analysis.
With regard to Muslims’ spatial behavior and a location’s symbolic reli-
gious signifĳicance, there exists no site that rivals the importance and status of
the Ḥaram al-Sharīf. This may be deduced from the simple fact that Muslim
residential areas developed nearby from the Ayyūbid period onward, mostly
along its external walls. The Ḥaram was the religious focal point of the city for
Muslims and therefore the most alluring site for potential builders. Sultans and
other members of the Mamlūk aristocracy were known to build either within
the Ḥaram al-Sharīf or as close to it as was possible; and, since the area of the
Ḥaram was the most desirable location, a spatial hierarchy was established
with the main criterion being proximity to the most attractive place. This can
be inferred from two independent sources—fĳirst, the spatial layout of religious
buildings in Jerusalem; and second, the detailed description of important
buildings in Jerusalem provided to us by Mujīr al-Dīn al-ʿUlaymī (1456–1522).
Let us begin with an examination of the physical layout of religious buildings
in Jerusalem. The following map (Fig. 10.1) shows the location of all religious
buildings in Mamlūk Jerusalem. The buildings include: madrasas, zāwiyas/
khānqāhs and ribāṭs.55 The data for the map was collected during the survey of
54 M. Meinecke, “Mamlūk Architecture, Regional Architecture Tradition: Evolutions and

Interrelations,” Damaszener Mitteilungen 2 (1985): 163–164.
55 For the diffferent symbols see map legend.
figure 10.1 Layout of pious buildings in Mamlūk Jerusalem. Map by author.
the city and was corroborated with other existing surveys and complemented
with information Mujīr al-Dīn provides in his description of the city.56
A quick analysis of the map enables us to make a few rudimentary observa-
tions. The Ḥaram al-Sharīf indeed served as the center of gravity for the numer-
ous builders active during the period. Most of the Islamic religious buildings
in the city were built as close to it as was possible. The overwhelming majority
56 M. H. Burgoyne, Mamlūk Jerusalem: An Architectural Study (London, 1987); D. ʿAlī, Al-Quds

fī al-ʿAṣr al-Mamlūkī (Cairo, 1987); Al-ʿAsalī, Maʿāhid al-ʿIlm fī Bayt al-Maqdis (Amman,
1980); idem, Min Āthārinā fī Bayt al-Maqdis (Amman, 1982).
256 LUZ
of buildings constructed along the streets leading to the Ḥaram were madra-
sas. As one moves further away from the Ḥaram, the number of ṣūfī lodges
increases. Most religious buildings erected in quintessentially non-Muslim
areas in the city were zāwiyas. This is also true in regard to buildings that were
built outside of the city limits as defĳined by the still-standing stretches of the
largely derelict city wall.57 That is, those religious buildings that were built
outside of the city were, by and large, ṣūfī lodges. Indeed, the nature of the
building was not haphazardly determined. The builder was influenced by the
particular location of the prospective building vis-à-vis the Ḥaram. In addition
to practical needs and functionality, the buildings were also symbolic state-
ments and self-representations of the builder. Their identity was apparently
important, hence, the spatial diffferentiation that was thus established.
The description of the main religious buildings in Jerusalem as found in
Mujīr al-Dīn’s narrative is yet another attestation to the centrality of the Ḥaram
al-Sharif among the various patrons,58 but it also allows for much more refĳined
observations. Mujīr al-Dīn begins his description of buildings in Jerusalem at
the Ḥaram before then moving on to describe the other buildings, listing them
in concentric circles radiating from this important compound. The following
table notes all of the religious buildings in Jerusalem according to his descrip-
tion. I have distinguished between buildings built by the Mamlūk aristocracy
and those built by what I refer to as private builders. As will be demonstrated
below, the location of the buildings is another distinguishing factor.
Table Religious Buildings in Jerusalem
Structure Madrasa Zāwiya/Khānqāh

Location Mamlūks Private Mamlūks Private
Adjacent to 20 4 1 1
the Ḥaram
Close but not 9 6 1 5
adjacent
Not close or 3 0 4 10
outside the city
Total 32 10 6 16
57 As discussed above, during the Ayyūbid period the walls of Jerusalem were breached and
not fully restored or renovated until the early Ottoman period.
58 Ibid.
The table allows both a horizontal and a vertical analysis of the layout of build-
ings in the city. I will fĳirst address the horizontal distribution, by which I refer
to the arrangement according to the building preferences in relation to the
Ḥaram al-Sharīf. Thereafter, I will examine the vertical division, which is based
on the social identity of the builder and the classifĳication of the building(s).
Indeed, most of the buildings that were constructed in the immediate vicin-
ity of the Ḥaram were madrasas. The ratio is 12 to 1 in favor of the madrasa
when compared to ṣūfī lodges (hereafter: zāwiya). In the second category of
buildings—those “close to the Ḥaram but not adjacent”—this ratio changes to
2.5 to 1, still in favor of madrasas. In the third category, which comprises build-
ings that are either remote from the Ḥaram or outside of the city, this changes
dramatically; in this most distant circle centered on the Ḥaram, the ratio is
4 to 1 in favor of zāwiyas. It would seem that the numerous builders (circa 30)
preferred to use the madrasa as a sign of their religious piety when building
in close proximity to the revered religious center of the city. As a counterpoint
against this tendency, the number of zāwiyas is seen to increase with distance
from the Ḥaram. The linkage between the central mosque and the center of
religious education need not surprise us. From its early stages, the madrasa
was the main institution that absorbed learning activities that previously had
been performed in the mosque.59 Thus, the functional linkage contributed
directly to the spatial preferences of the builders and the proximity of the
madrasa to the main mosque.
The data presented in the table generally afffĳirm the prevailing tendencies
among the diffferent types of builders. However, it would seem that similar
location preferences are also embodied when we consider multiple edifĳices
sponsored by the same individual builder. The reestablishment of Islamic rule
in Jerusalem following the battle of Ḥiṭṭīn (583/1187) was characterized by vari-
ous acts that can be defĳined as the re-Islamization of the landscape. In trying
to conceal, or at least mitigate, the highly Christianized character of the city,
Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn engaged in several building projects that focused mainly on the
Ḥaram area. As part of this concentrated efffort, he confĳiscated former Christian
institutions and transformed them into Islamic ones. Thus, he impounded the
monastery of St. Anne, north of the Ḥaram, and the house/palace of the Latin
Patriarch, located in very close proximity to the Holy Sepulcher. The former com-
pound was transformed into a madrasa (aptly named al-Madrasa al-Ṣalāḥiyya,
no. 41 in the map), and the latter into a ṣūfī lodge (al-Khānqāh al-Ṣalāḥiyya,
59 G. Makdisi, The Rise of Colleges: Institutions of Learning in Islam and the West (Edinburgh,
1981), 27fff.
258 LUZ
no. 4 in the map).60 Surely, after he had inflicted such a devastating blow to the
Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn faced no opponent or constraints.
As a victorious sultan, he would not have faced any serious obstacles to any
construction plan he might have chosen to initiate. And yet, in deciding on
the nature of the buildings that he would endow in Jerusalem, the madrasa
was built in close proximity to the Ḥaram and the khānqāh built at the hub of
the Christian quarter. The case of Amīr Badr al-Dīn Luʾluʾ Ghāzī (775/1373–74)
is even more intriguing. He was responsible for the construction of no fewer
than three buildings in Jerusalem: a madrasa, a zāwiya and a ribāṭ.61 The ribāṭ
will not concern us further since little is known of it save its location, in an
alley offf of Ṭarīq al-Silsila, the main street of the city. Al-Madrasa al-Luʾluʾiyya
was constructed in 775/1373 in the Marzubān neighborhood, which is on the
eastern side of the central market area of the city—that is, the former Roman
cardo. Simultaneously he also constructed a zāwiya carrying his name close to
the northern gate of the city, Bāb al-ʿAmūd. The identity of Badr al-Dīn Luʾluʾ
is not altogether clear. Michael Burgoyne has suggested that he was probably a
eunuch of little or no importance within the Mamlūk bureaucracy.62 Judging
by the less ostentatious location of the buildings he constructed in Jerusalem,
we may also establish that his means were relatively modest compared to those
of sultans or high-ranking amīrs—his buildings occupy mostly locations that
are not in the vicinity of the Ḥaram. For the purposes of the current discussion,
what is important is the personal choice of locating the madrasa closer to the
Ḥaram than the zāwiya. Again, as was the case with the building choices made
by Salāḥ al-Dīn, the location preferences of the same builder were consistent
with the general tendency previously established, of building religious schools
as close as possible to the main mosque and ṣūfī centers mostly removed
from it.
The arrangement of zāwiyas in Mamlūk Jerusalem has three main char-
acteristics. First, unlike madrasas, zāwiyas were often constructed within
residential neighborhoods, usually in former private residences (for instance,
60 Y. Frenkel, “Political and Social Aspects of Islamic Religious Endowments (‘awqāf ’):

Saladin in Cairo (1169–73) and Jerusalem (1187–93),” BSOAS 62 (1999): 1–20. See also MCIA
2/b, p. 87 fff.; J. Pahlitzsch, “The Transformation of Latin Religious Institutions into Islamic
Endowments by Saladin in Jerusalem,” in Governing the Holy City: The Interaction of Social
Groups in Jerusalem between the Fatimid and the Ottoman Period, ed. J. Pahlitzsch and
L. Korn (Wiesbaden, 2004), 47–69.
61 Burgoyne, Mamlūk Jerusalem, p. 424.
62 Based on the sijill documents, Burgoyne has suggested that he was serving under the
sultan al-Ashraf Shaʿbān (Ibid., 424).
nos. 10, 14, 23, 25, 28, 29 in the map). Second, ṣūfī centers are also to be found in
predominantly dhimmī areas in the city (for instance, nos. 1, 4, 20, 31, 36 in the
map). Third, zāwiyas, and only zāwiyas, were constructed outside the city limits
(for instance, nos. 2, 8, 18, 22, 33 in the map). Unlike madrasas, which are more
elaborate, at times even extravagant, compounds, and which were in need of
a constant flow of cash for their upkeep, ṣūfī centers were far less demanding
to construct and simpler to maintain. This is probably why people of modest
and limited means and of humble social origins could well have established a
zāwiya when they likely could not have sustained the costs associated with the
construction and maintenance of a madrasa. Thus, the relatively low costs of
zāwiyas were indeed a factor in determining their location within and outside
cities. The popular characteristics of the zāwiya and the nature of activities
conducted therein were sufffĳiciently met even in humble compounds such as
the former residence of the founder.63 The layout of religious buildings clearly
indicates that compounds constructed by members of the Mamlūk aristoc-
racy tended to be more elaborate and expansive, and to occupy premium sites
in the city. It would seem that madrasas were better suited to conveying the
“expressive intentions” of the numerous founders when building close to the
Ḥaram, the religious center of the city. Interestingly enough, the same layout
and building preferences were identifĳied in Damascus.64 I have already alluded
to the various reasons that served to prompt members of the Mamlūk aristoc-
racy to erect these buildings in those locations. It is the location of zāwiyas
with which I am now concerned.
The construction of zāwiyas in quintessentially Christian areas, both urban
and rural, is not endemic to Mamlūk Jerusalem. The role of ṣūfīs as agents
of Islamization has already been established in previous studies.65 A case in
point is the family of Abū al-Wafāʾ, who during the Mamlūk period estab-
lished no fewer than three centers in and around Jerusalem.66 The two lodges
63 As in the case of Zāwiya al-Muḥammadiyya in Jerusalem, see Mujīr al-Dīn al-ʿUlaymī,

Al-Uns al-Jalīl bi-Ta⁠ʾrīkh al-Quds wa-l-Khalīl (Amman, 1973), 2, 44.
64 L. Pouzet, Damas au VIIe/XIIIe siècle: Vie et Structure Religieuses d’une métropole Islamique
(Beirut, 1986), 521.
65 J. S. Trimingham, The Sufĳi Orders in Islam (Oxford, 1971), 9, in which the author discusses
the role of Ṣūfīs in ethno-cultural border regions such as Anatolia, Inner Asia and North
Africa. Cf. A. Layish, “Waqfs and Ṣūfī Monasteries in the Ottoman Policy of Colonization:
Sulṭān Selīm I’s Waqf of 1516 in Favour of Dayr al-Asad,” BSOAS 50 (1987): 61–89; and,
R. Amitai-Preiss, “Sufĳis and Shamans: Some Remarks on the Islamization of the Mongols
in the Ilkhanate,” JESHO 42 (1999): 27–46.
66 N. Luz, “Aspects of Islamization of Space and Society in Mamlūk Jerusalem and its
Hinterland,” MSR 6 (2002): 133–154.
260 LUZ
outside of the city were located in previously Christian villages. Subsequently,

the villages’ population changed (either through immigration or conversion,
and most likely both), and became predominantly Muslim. Backed by the
powers that be—a Mamlūk local governor was included in the Abū al-Wafāʾ
family—ṣūfī orders were often at the forefront of the process of converting
the local population to Islam. This process often entailed forcefully encourag-
ing local non-Muslim communities to emigrate.67 It is, therefore, not a mere
coincidence that restoring Islamic glory to Jerusalem following the battle
of Ḥiṭṭīn was celebrated, among other things, in the construction of a ṣūfī
center/post adjacent to the most holy Christian site in the city: the Church of
the Holy Sepulcher. Surely, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn was not hoping or expecting to con-
vert the Christian clergy that resided in the city, nor was it realistic to assume
that the pilgrims who sojourned into the city for a short time would “see the
light,” and recite the shahāda, simply because they were exposed to ṣūfī activi-
ties. These were not destitute communities or individuals, as in the case of
formerly Byzantine Anatolia. The builder’s dual intentions of demonstrating
Islamic piety and of adorning the urban landscape with Islamic symbols were
better served by these institutions. The vociferous, extravagant and ostenta-
tious aspects of ṣūfī activities—certainly so when compared to those that took
place in madrasas—were more appropriate and efffĳicient as a part of the reli-
gious and cultural strife that was efffectively conducted along those delicate
and dialectic intra-city religious border lines. The ṣūfī rituals—for instance,
dhikr and samāʿ—unconfĳined by any very rigid protocol, were a provocative
and constant statement as to the presence and dominance of Islam in the city.
The informal and less inhibited nature of the activities conducted in zāwiyas
located in non-Muslim areas better served the ideological message of Islamic
hegemony in the urban landscape. Thus, when a builder wanted to announce
his devotion as well as to make a stand for Islam against its opponents in the
city, ṣūfī centers were preferred. The same logic was not applied when the
same builder was working within the Islamic community. On these occasions,
madrasas were a better response to the need to demonstrate genuine piety.
A vertical analysis of the table—that is, according to the builder’s social sta-
tus and the type of building—reveals a marked tendency on the part of the
Mamlūk aristocracy to build as close as possible to the Ḥaram. An overwhelm-
ing majority of the madrasas built near to the Ḥaram were indeed the result
of Mamlūk elite-sponsored projects. The ratio of sponsors is 5 to 1 in favor of
67 On the role of Ṣūfīs in conversions and demographic changes, see S. Vryonis, The Decline
of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamization from the Eleventh
through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, 1971).
various representatives of the Mamlūk aristocracy. As we move farther from

the Ḥaram, the ratio shifts to 1.5 to 1 in favor of members of the local popula-
tion. As already explained, madrasas were not constructed in what I defĳine
here as the third circle, the one farthest from the Ḥaram. The picture is dramat-
ically diffferent, however, when we consider zāwiyas. While in the circle closest
to the Ḥaram the ratio is 1 to 1—there are only two compounds to consider—in
the middle circle the ratio is 5 to 1 in favor of the private sector. In the third,
farthest circle, the ratio is 2 to 1 in favor of the private sector. Thus, we may
infer that most ṣūfī-related centers were built by people who were not part of
the Mamlūk aristocracy. The Ḥaram and its environs were the most prestigious
and sought-after locations, and were the overwhelming favorite among mem-
bers of the Mamlūk aristocracy looking to sponsor building activities. There
appears to be a direct correlation between the status and rank of the builder
within the Mamlūk elite and the proximity of the compound to the Ḥaram. It
would seem that building inside the Ḥaram was the prerogative of sultans and,
as we move farther out, we encounter compounds built by amīrs and various
lower-ranking offfĳicials. Of course, building preferences were also related to the
economic abilities and constraints of the builder. Naturally, sultans and high-
ranking amīrs were in a better fĳinancial position and therefore could affford a
more expensive location in the heart of the city. Put diffferently, they were able
to meet the costs of buying land in the vicinity of the Ḥaram.
3 Conclusions
The urban landscape is the sum total of the accumulated building activities of
many diffferent builders and sponsors. Although each was personally motivated
and each had his own unique situation and needs, certain general tendencies
can be distinguished where religious buildings are concerned. The importance
of the religious center in Jerusalem is demonstrated time and again by each
religious building that was constructed as close to it as was possible. Its impor-
tance is also afffĳirmed by the hierarchy of the builders and their constructions.
It would seem that a structural hierarchy existed, in which the location of the
building was somewhat analogous to the builder’s status within the Mamlūk
hierarchy. The closer was one’s building to the Ḥaram, the greater one’s posi-
tion was within the Mamlūk hierarchy. The construction of religious buildings
was deemed to be the most efffective expression of legitimacy for builders with
access to plots of land lining the streets that lead to the Ḥaram, as well as those
in its vicinity. The centrality of the main mosque and its signifĳicant impact on
the development of the urban landscape were also observed in Tripoli. The
262 LUZ
main Friday mosque, the end result of prolonged sultanic effforts, became a
focal point around which many religious buildings (mostly madrasas) were
constructed. As in Jerusalem, the sponsorship of much of the building activity,
and the attendant manufacturing of symbols of piety, was largely confĳined to
members of the Mamlūk aristocracy.
It is now useful to return to the question of legitimacy so that we might
understand the intensity of Mamlūk building activities, especially as they
concerned religious buildings. I would leave other practical reasons aside—
for instance, the need and desire to take care of one’s family in the form of
waqfs, motivations of genuine religious devotion, etc.—and instead focus on
the question of legitimacy and the mechanisms available for the sustaining
of authority. As mentioned above, Sjoberg presents us with four main tactics
through which authority might be maintained and legitimized. In addition to
the appeal to God and the appeal to religion,68 he also mentions the appeal
to experts and the appeal to the governed. While Sjoberg insists that appeals
to the experts only can be found in modern societies, the argument I put
forth here is that we should consider the excessive use of religious buildings
as symbols in the urban landscape to constitute a medium that enabled the
Mamlūks to appeal to the experts and, through them, to the population they
governed. The construction of a madrasa and the need to support its upkeep
was a form of dialogue between the Mamlūk aristocracy and the most impor-
tant social stratum within Syrian society: the ʿulamāʾ.69 They were the leading
and most important element within Muslim communities, serving not only as
the regulators of norms and the main arbiters of “proper” social conduct but
also as intermediaries between diffferent echelons of society. The ʿulamāʾ were
in charge of the constant translation and dissemination of the sharīʿa. They
were, by defĳinition, the experts through whom the Mamlūks could establish a
dialogue with the populace they now ruled. Indeed, it was a quid pro quo situ-
ation, in which the Mamlūks were in charge of supplying the means for the
very existence of the ʿulamāʾ and, in return, they received public legitimacy
through their consent to allow the use of their pious buildings. The appeal
68 These tactics were applied by the Mamlūks, as has been demonstrated with the analysis
of the construction and upkeep of mosques.
69 On the role of the ʿulamāʾ as mediators between Mamlūks and the local population,
see I. Lapidus, Muslim Cities in the later Middle Ages, Cambridge 1984, 107 fff. See also
M. Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190–1350,
(Cambridge, 2002), in which the importance of learning and religious scholars is heavily
debated; and, Y. Lev, “Symbiotic Relations: ʿUlamāʾ and the Mamlūk Sultans,” MSR 13
(2009): 1–26.
to experts is physically manifested in the construction of religious buildings,

mainly madrasas. The Mamlūks were demonstrating their own Islamic piety
by exploiting the same cultural vocabulary shared by the experts (ʿulamāʾ) and
those they governed (the local Muslim community). Thus, when a madrasa
is adorned with a Qurʾānic inscription, we should read it as an appeal to the
learned strata that was aimed at gaining consent without coercion, to reintro-
duce Gramsci’s theoretical perspective. It would seem that this demonstration
of piety (the use of verses from the Qurʾān), although most probably addressed
to literate scholars (even today those inscriptions can often only be deciphered
by experts), was designed also to fĳind ways to reach a much broader audience.
By appealing to scholars through reference to a shared cultural-religious world-
view, the Mamlūks were conveying a message to the entire Muslim population.
Many of the ʿulamāʾ found their livelihood in numerous jobs and practices
offfered at those institutions. Their very employment at institutions that were
constructed by the Mamlūks conveys the message of willing and conscious, or
unconscious, acceptance, which in turn serves to legitimize the activities and
authority of the Mamlūks. By accepting positions within those institutions,
many ʿulamāʾ were conveying a non-verbal message of acknowledgment of the
builders’ piety. This message would permeate through them to the entire soci-
ety. The centrality of the ʿulamāʾ and their prestigious social status rendered
them the most efffective link between the governing elite and the governed.
Indeed, the ʿulamāʾ served as experts and the buildings in question as the mass
media channels through which the Mamlūks could appeal to the people they
governed and sustain their legitimacy while also preserving their authority.
Bibliography
ʿAlī, D. Al-Quds fī al-ʿAṣr al-Mamlūkī. Cairo, 1987.

Alsayyad, N. Cities and Caliphs: On the Genesis of Arab Muslim Urbanism. New York,
1991.
Asalī, K. J. Maʿāhid al-ʿIlm fī Bayt al-Maqdis. Amman, 1980.
———. Min Āthārinā fī Bayt al-Maqdis. Amman, 1982.
Amitai, R. “The Mamlūk Institution, or One Thousand Years of Military Slavery in the
Islamic World.” In Arming Slaves: From Classical Times to the Modern Age, edited by
C. L. Brown, and P. D. Morgan. 40–78. New Haven, 2006.
Amitai-Preiss, R. “Sufĳis and Shamans: Some remarks on the Islamization of the Mongols
in the Ilkhanate.” JESHO 42 (1999): 27–46.
Bacharach, J. “The Court-Citadel: An Islamic Urban Symbol of Power.” In Urbanism in
Islam, vol. 3, edited by Y. Takeshi. 205–245. Tokyo, 1989.
264 LUZ
———. “Administrative Complexes, Palaces, and Citadels: Changes in the Loci of

Medieval Muslim Rule.” In The Ottoman City and Its Parts: Urban Structure and
Social Order, edited by I. A. Bierman et al. 111–128. New York, 1991.
Broadbridge, A. F. “Mamlūk Legitimacy and the Mongols: The Reigns of Baybars and
Qalāwūn.” MSR 5 (2001): 91–118.
———. Kingship and Ideology in the Islamic and Mongol Worlds. Cambridge, 2008.
Burgoyne, M. H. Mamlūk Jerusalem: An Architectural Study. London, 1987.
Chamberlain, M. Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190–1350.
Cambridge, 2002.
Combe, É., Sauvaget, J. and Viet, G. (eds.). Répertoire Chronologique d’Épigraphie Arabe
13. Cairo, 1944.
Creswell, K. A. C. The Muslim Architecture of Egypt 2: Ayyūbids and Early Baḥrite
Mamlūks, A.D. 1171–1326. Oxford, 1959.
Cytryn-Silverman, K. “Three Mamlūk Minarets in Ramla.” JSAI 35 (2008): 379–432.
Flood, F. B. “Umayyad Survivals and Mamlūk Revivals: Qalāwūnid Architecture and the
Great Mosque of Damascus.” Muqarnas 14 (1997): 57–79.
Frenkel, Y. “Political and social aspects of Islamic religious endowments (‘awqāf ’):
Saladin in Cairo (1169–73) and Jerusalem (1187–93).” BSOAS 62 (1999): 1–20.
———. “Public Projection of Power in Mamlūk Bilād al-Shām.” MSR 11 (2007): 39–53.
Gosheh, M. “The Walls and Gates of Jerusalem Before and After Sultan Süleymān’s
Rebuilding Project of 1538–40.” In Governing the Holy City: The Interaction of
Social Groups in Jerusalem between the Fatimid and the Ottoman Period, edited by
J. Pahlitzsch, and L. Korn, 117–137. Wiesbaden, 2004.
Grabar, O. “The Architecture of the Middle Eastern City from Past to Present: The Case
of the Mosque.” In Middle Eastern Cities: A Symposium on Ancient, Islamic, and
Contemporary Middle Eastern Urbanism, edited by I. M. Lapidus. 26–42. Berkeley, 1969.
Gramsci, A. Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci, edited and trans-
lated by Q. Hoare, and G. N. Smith. London, 1971.
Guo-Hui, G. “Perspective of urban land use in Beijing.” GeoJournal 20 (1990): 359–364.
Hakim, B. S. Arabic-Islamic Cities: Building and Planning Principles. London, 1986.
Hillenbrand, R. Islamic Architecture: Form, Function and Meaning. Edinburgh, 2000.
Holt, P. M. “The Sultan as Ideal Ruler: Ayyūbid and Mamlūk Prototypes.” In Süleyman
the Magnifĳicent and His Age: The Ottoman Empire in the Early Modern World, edited
by M. Kunt and C. Woodhead, 122–137. London, 1995.
Humphreys, R. S. “The expressive intent of the Mamlūk Architecture of Cairo: A pre-
liminary essay.” SI 35 (1972): 69–120.
Ibn al-Furāt, Naṣīr al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥman b. Muḥammad. Ta⁠ʾrīkh al-Duwal wa-’l-Mulūk.
Edited by Q. Zurayk. Beirut, 1937–1942.
Ibn Shaddād al-Ḥalabī, ʿIzz al-Dīn. Ta⁠ʾrīkh al-Malik al-Ẓāhir. Weisbaden, 1983.
Jackson, S. A. “The primacy of domestic politics: Ibn Bint al-Aʿazz and the establish-
ment of four chief judgeships in Mamlūk Egypt.” JAOS 115 (1995): 52–65.
Johansen, B. “The All-Embracing Town and its Mosques. ‘Al-Miṣr al-Jāmiʿ’.” Revue de
l’Occident musulman et de la Mediteranée 32 (1981): 139–161.
Kennedy, H. The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates: The Islamic Near East from the
Sixth to the Eleventh Century. London, 1986.
Kruk, R. “History and apocalypse: Ibn al-Nafīs’ justifĳication of the Mamlūk Rule.” Der
Islam 72 (1995): 324–337.
Lapidus, I. Muslim Cities in the later Middle Ages. Cambridge 1984.
Lassner, J. “The Caliph’s Personal Domain: The City Plan of Baghdad Re-Examined.”
In The Islamic City: A Colloquium, edited by A. H. Hourani and S. M. Stern. 103–118.
Oxford, 1970.
Layish, A. “Waqfs and Ṣūfī Monasteries in the Ottoman Policy of Colonization: Sulṭān
Selīm I’s Waqf of 1516 in Favour of Dayr al-Asad.” BSOAS 50 (1987): 61–89.
Lev, Y. “Symbiotic Relations: ʿUlamāʾ and the Mamlūk Sultans.” MSR 13 (2009): 1–26.
Lewis, B. “An Arabic Account of the Province of Safed—I.” BSOAS 15 (1953): 477–488.
Luz, N. “The construction of an Islamic city in Palestine. The case of Umayyad al-
Ramla.” JRAS 7 (1997): 27–54.
———. “Provincial Cities in Mamlūk Syria 1260–1517.” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University
of Jerusalem, 2000.
———. “Aspects of Islamization of Space and Society in Mamlūk Jerusalem and its
Hinterland.” MSR 6 (2002): 133–154.
———. “Tripoli Reinvented. A Case of Mamlūk Urbanization.” In Towns and Material
Culture in the Medieval Middle East, edited by Y. Lev, 53–72. Leiden, 2002.
———. The Mamluk City in the Middle East. History, Culture, and the Urban Landscape.
Cambridge 2014.
Makdisi, G. The Rise of Colleges: Institutions of Learning in Islam and the West.
Edinburgh, 1981.
Maqrīzī, Taqī al-Dīn. Kitāb al-Sulūk li-Maʿrifat Duwal al-Mulūk. Cairo, 1934.
———. Al-Mawāʿiẓ wa-’l-ʿItibār bi-Dhikr al-Khiṭaṭ wa-’l-Āthār. Cairo, n.d.
Mayer, L. A., J. Pinkerfĳield, H. Z. Hirschberg, and J. L. Maimon. Some Principal Muslim
Religious Buildings in Israel. Jerusalem, 1950.
Meinecke, M. “Mamlūk Architecture, Regional Architecture Tradition: Evolutions and
Interrelations.” Damaszener Mitteilungen 2 (1985): 163–176.
Mitchell, D. Cultural Geography: A Critical Introduction. Malden, 2001.
Mujīr al-Dīn al-ʿUlaymī, Al-Uns al-Jalīl bi-Ta’rīkh al-Quds wa-l-Khalīl. Amman, 1973.
Norberg-Schultz, C. Intentions in Architecture. Oslo, 1965.
Pahlitzsch, J. “The Transformation of Latin Religious Institutions into Islamic
Endowments by Saladin in Jerusalem.” In Governing the Holy City: The Interaction
266 LUZ
of Social Groups in Jerusalem between the Fatimid and the Ottoman Period, edited by
J. Pahlitzsch, and L. Korn, 47–69. Wiesbaden, 2004.
Pouzet, L. Damas au VIIe/XIIIe siècle: Vie et Structure Religieuses d’une métropole
Islamique. Beirut, 1986.
Preziosi, D. The Semiotics of the Built Environment: An Introduction to Architectonic
Analysis. Bloomington, 1979.
Qalqashandī, Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad. Ṣubḥ al-Aʿshā fī Ṣināʿat al-Inshāʾ. Beirut, 1984.
Raphael, K. Muslim Fortresses in the Levant: Between Crusaders and Mongols. London,
2011.
Salam-Leibich, H. The Architecture of the Mamluk City of Tripoli. Cambridge, 1983.
Sanders, P. Ritual, Politics, and the City in Fatimid Cairo. Albany, 1994.
Sauvaget, J. La Mosquée Omeyyade de Médine: Étude sur les Origines Architecturales de
la Mosquée et de la Basilique. Paris, 1947.
Sjoberg, G. The Preindustrial City, Past and Present. Glencoe, 1960.
Sobernheim, M. MCIA 2. Cairo, 1909.
Sourdel, D. “La Fondation Umayyade d’al-Ramla en Palestine.” In Studien zur Geschichte
und Kultur des Vorderen Orients, edited by H. R. Roomer, and A. Noth, 385–397.
Leiden, 1981.
Tadmurī, ʿU. Ta⁠ʾrīkh wa-Āthār Masājid wa-Madāris Tarābulus. Tripoli, 1974.
Taragan, H. “Doors that Open Meanings: Baybars’s Red Mosque at Safed.” In The
Mamlūks in Egyptian and Syrian Politics and Society, edited by M. Winter and
A. Levanoni. 3–20. Leiden, 2004.
Trimingham, J. S. The Sufĳi Orders in Islam. Oxford, 1971.
Tuan, Y. Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes and Values.
Englewood Clifffs, 1974.
ʿUmarī, Aḥmad b. Yaḥyā ibn Faḍl Allāh. Masālik al-Abṣār fī Mamālik al-Amṣār. Cairo,
1342H/1924.
van Berchem, M. MCIA. Cairo, 1927.
Vryonis, S. The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of
Islamization from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century. Berkeley, 1971.
Weber, M. Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology. New York, 1968.
Yadin, Y. “Arabic Inscriptions from Palestine.” In L.A. Mayer memorial volume (1895–
1959). Eretz-Israel: Archaeological, Historical and Geographical Studies, vol. 7, edited
by M. Avi-Yonah et al., 102–116. Jerusalem, 1964.
Ẓāhirī, Khalīl ibn Shāhīn. Kitāb Zubdat Kashf al-Mamālik. Edited by P. Ravaisse. Paris,
1894.

Icons of Power and Religious Piety The Politics of Mamluk Portonage

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Icons of Power and Religious Piety The Politics of Mamluk Portonage

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Material Evidence

and Narrative Sources

Daniella Talmon-Heller and Katia Cytryn-Silverman

Introduction: Material Evidence and Narrative Sources. Interdisciplinary

1 Material Evidence and Narrative Sources: Teaching and Studying

2 How to Measure Economic Growth in the Middle East?

3 Ladies of Quseir: Life on the Red Sea Coast in Ayyūbid Times 58

4 What Happened in 155 / 771–72? The Testimony of Lead Seals 71

5 The Architectural Patronage of the Fāṭimid Queen-Mother Durzān

6 On Archives and Archaeology: Reassessing Mamlūk Rule from

7 Evidence of Material Culture from the Geniza—An Attempt to

8 Originality and Innovation in Syrian Woodwork of the Twelfth and

9 Two Mamlūk minbars in Cairo: Approaching Material Culture

10 Icons of Power and Religious Piety: The Politics of Mamlūk

11 The Early Islamic City of Ramla in Light of New Archaeological

12 The Role of the Imperial Palaces in the Urbanization

13 Turbat Abū Zakariyyā Ibn ʿAbd Allāh Mūsa (Chief Surgeon of

14 Oral Tradition and Architectural History: A Sixteenth-Century

15 Deliberately not Empty: Reading Cairo’s Unknown Soldier

Icons of Power and Religious Piety: The Politics of

Pre-modern and pre-industrialized societies most often have been dominated

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004279667_012

1. a system of consciously-made, rational rules;

1. The appeal to absolutes;

The appeal to absolutes is a claim to legitimization by means of forces that are

nature.9 Meaning in architecture or, as I relate to it throughout this discus-

1.1 The Citadel—Authority, Legitimacy, and Ultimate Power

19 M. van Berchem, MCIA 2/2 (Cairo, 1927), 142.

The plan of the round city of Baghdād (Madīnat al-Salām) is a case in

The construction of a high-rise tower of very generous proportions in the mid-

1.2 The Friday Mosque31—Demonstration of Religious Piety and Appeal

35 J. Sauvaget, La Mosquée Omeyyade de Médine: Étude sur les Origins Architecturales de la

the religious requirement for congregational prayer was answered, alongside

Baybars al-Ṣālaḥī, partner of the Commander of the Faithful, and this in

It should be emphasized that this is in no way a singular inscription, and

1311–1340.51 The mosque was constructed so as to include the same features

In Tripoli, the two mosques associated with sultans—the Great Mosque,

2 Religious Buildings as Symbols of Piety—Appealing to the Experts

As stated previously, landscape is ideological simply because it represents the

54 M. Meinecke, “Mamlūk Architecture, Regional Architecture Tradition: Evolutions and

figure 10.1 Layout of pious buildings in Mamlūk Jerusalem. Map by author.

56 M. H. Burgoyne, Mamlūk Jerusalem: An Architectural Study (London, 1987); D. ʿAlī, Al-Quds

Table Religious Buildings in Jerusalem

Structure Madrasa Zāwiya/Khānqāh

60 Y. Frenkel, “Political and Social Aspects of Islamic Religious Endowments (‘awqāf ’):

63 As in the case of Zāwiya al-Muḥammadiyya in Jerusalem, see Mujīr al-Dīn al-ʿUlaymī,

outside of the city were located in previously Christian villages. Subsequently,

various representatives of the Mamlūk aristocracy. As we move farther from

to experts is physically manifested in the construction of religious buildings,

ʿAlī, D. Al-Quds fī al-ʿAṣr al-Mamlūkī. Cairo, 1987.

———. “Administrative Complexes, Palaces, and Citadels: Changes in the Loci of

You might also like