Islamic Alternatives Non-Mainstream Religion in Iranic Societies 16 Gottinger Orientforschungen III Reihe Iranica 3447107790 9783447107792

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co.
KG, Wiesbaden
ISBN Print: 9783447107792 # ISBN E-Book: 9783447196307
G Ö T T I N G E R O R I E N T F O R S C H U N G E N
I I I. R E I H E: I R A N I C A
Neue Folge 16
Herausgegeben von
Philip G. Kreyenbroek
2017
Harrassowitz Verlag · Wiesbaden
© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Islamic Alternatives
Non-Mainstream Religion in Persianate Societies
Edited by
Shahrokh Raei
2017
Harrassowitz Verlag · Wiesbaden

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Contents
List of Plates ......................................................................................................... VII
Preface ................................................................................................................. XI
Early Shiʿism and Futuwwa
Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi (Paris)

New Remarks on Secrecy and Concealment in Early Imāmī Shiʿism: the Case
of khatm al -nubuwwa – Aspects of Twelver Shiʿi Imamology XII .................... 3
Mohsen Zakeri (Göttingen)

From Futuwwa to Mystic Political Thought – The Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh
and Abū Ḥafṣ Suhrawardī’s Theory of Government ............................................ 29
Ahl-e Ḥaqq (Yāresān)
Philip G. Kreyenbroek (Göttingen)

Some Remarks on the Early History of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq ...................................... 55
Martin van Bruinessen (Utrecht)

Between Dersim and Dālahū – Reflections on Kurdish Alevism and the
Ahl-e Ḥaqq Religion ............................................................................................. 65
Yiannis Kanakis (Exeter)

Yāresān Religious Concepts and Ritual Repertoires as Elements of Larger Net-
works of Socio-Political ‘Heterodoxy’ – Some Thoughts on Yāresān, Shiite and
Qizilbash/Bektashi Sources and Symbolism......................................................... 95
Cultural Anthropological Analysis
Jürgen Wasim Frembgen (Munich)

Beyond Muslim and Hindu – Sacred Spaces in the Thar Desert of Pakistan ....... 109

VI Contents
Alexandre Papas (Paris)

Dog of God: Animality and Wildness among Dervishes .................................... 121
Thierry Zarcone (Paris)

Sacred Stones in Qalandariyya and Bektashism .................................................. 139
Khāksār
Mehran Afshari (Tehran)

Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī and his Connection to the Ḥaydariyya and
Khāksāriyya .......................................................................................................... 161
Shahrokh Raei (Göttingen)

Some Recent Issues and Challenges in the Khāksār Order ................................... 167
Folk Sufism
Razia Sultanova (Cambridge)

Female Folk Sufism in the Central Asian Space-Time Continuum ....................... 183
Index ..................................................................................................................... 203
Plates

List of Plates
Yannis Kanakis:
Plate 1.1 Yāresān women and children in Banzalan village, during their daily late
afternoon gathering where they exchange news, discuss and sing. Oral
culture still holds its prevalent importance for most Yāresān.
Plate 1.2 ʿAlī (‘the lion of God’, with his double-edged sword Zulfiqar, a very
common Plate in Shiite environments). Picture taken at the sitting room
of a house in Yāresān village Zarde while a jam ceremony with very
large attendance is about to begin (food in the kitchen is being prepared
for it).
Plates 1.1–3 Jam ceremonies in Gahvareh town and Zarde village (both in Guran
Mountains). The ceremony leader, sayyed Fereidun Hosseini, is playing
the tanbur, the holy lute of the Yāresān.
Plate 3 Tanbur (holy Yāresān lute) construction in Gahvareh town by Yadollah

Farmani.
All images are derived from the author’s documentary film Yāresān – To sing is to be
(2008).
Jürgen Wasim Frembgen:
Plate 4.1 Kolhi settlement near the town of Mithi.
Plate 4.2 Samadhi of an anonymous Hindu sage near the village of Harehar.
Plate 5.1 Tomb-like Samadhi of an anonymous Hindu yogi near the fort of
Naukot.
Plate 5.2 Shrine of Sant Nenuram on the periphery of the small town if Islamkot.
Plate 6.1 Giving food to the poor at the ashram of Sant Nenuram (in the back-
ground an image of the ascetic Hindu saint).
Plate 6.2 New temple of Rama Pir at the village of Chelhar.

VIII List of Plates
Plate 7.1 Pithoro Pir, the saint of the Menghwar, depicted on a contemporary folk
painting displayed at his shrine in the desert west of Umarkot.
Plate 7.2 Tomb of Parbraham Faqir overlooking the village of Veri-jhap.
Plate 7.3 Shrine of Chhutto Faqir near Mithi.
Plate 8.1 Image of Malan Devi engraved on a wooden board at her temple in the
village of Harehar.
Plate 8.2 Nocturnal concert of songs venerating the saints of Thar in the village
of Malanhor Vena near Mithi.
All pictures were taken by the author during fieldwork.
Alexandre Papas:
Plate 9.1 A dervish in a 16th-century Indian miniature by Basāwan (ref. number

OA3619gb, Courtesy of Louvre Museum).
Plate 9.2 Ibrāhīm b. Adham in an 18th-century Indian miniature (ref. number

MBA 365.11, Courtesy of Museum of Angers).
Plate 9.3 A dervish leading a dog in a 19th-century Indian miniature (Album

(muraqqaʿ) of Persian and Indian calligraphy and paintings. Walters Art
Museum, ref. number W.668, fol 69a, © 2011 Walters Art Museum).
Thierry Zarcone:
Plate 10.1 “Aptal ou derviche” (Abdal or Qalandar dervish), 1688 (Raynal, “Plates
Naturelles de Turquie”, 1688, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Dé-
partement Estampes et Photographie, 4-OD-7, picture 35).
Plate 10.2 Photograph of Qalandar dervishes in Central Asia, early 20 th century

(private collection, Samarkand).
Plate 11.1 Photograph of a Qalandar dervish at Istanbul, late 19 th century (Collec-

tion of Pierre de Gigord, Paris).
Plate 11.2 Pālhang in the form of a teslim taş (private collection, Bursa).
Plate 12.1 Photograph of two Qalandar dervishes with stones on their belts (private
collection, Istanbul).

List of Plates IX
Plate 12.2 Drawing of Kazak Abdal (in Ahmed Rıfkı, Bektaşi Sırrı, Istanbul, 1910).
Plate 13.1 A teslim taş (private collection, Bursa).
Plate 13.2 A teslim taş (drawing with details).
Plate 14.1 Grave stone in the cemetery of the Bektashi Tekke in Izmir (photograph
by Th. Zarcone).
Plate 14.2 Calligraphic composition with a teslim taş and other Bektashi symbols
(Eşrefzāde Kadiri Tekke, Bursa).
Plate 15.1 Coffee cup in the form of a teslim taş, Çanakkale ceramic, 10 cm
(private collection, Istanbul).
Plate 15.2 “Betache derviche” (Bektashi dervish), 1688 (Raynal, “Plates Natu-
relles de Turquie”, 1688, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Départe-
ment Estampes et Photographie, 4-OD-7, picture 32).
Plate 16.1 Kaygusuz Abdal wearing a teslim taş and a pālhang with eight corners,
1847 (private collection, Istanbul).
Plate 16.2 Cafer bābā, Bektashi shaikh from Girit (Crete) (Erkal, Ali Ekrem, Gele-
neksel Kültürül ile Türk Girit. 3. Kitap: Toplum, Izmir, 2008, p. 277).
Plate 17.1 Nūri bābā, Bektashi shaikh from Istanbul (postcard, early 20 th century,
collection Th. Zarcone).
Plate 17.2 Teslim taş with the face of ʿAlī (private collection, Istanbul).
All copyright regulations have been observed by the author.
Shahrokh Raei:
Plate 18.1 Bahār ʿAlīshāh Yazdī (right) and Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh.
Plate 18.2 Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh.
Plate 19.1 Mīr Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī.
Plate 19.2 The entrance of the Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh of Tehran, September 7,

2013.
Plate 20.1 Mīr Ṭāher ʿAlīshāh.
Plate 20.2 Khāneqāh of Kermanshah, March 18, 2009.

X List of Plates
Plate 20.3 The entrance of the Khāneqāh of Kermanshah, March 18, 2009.
Plate 21.1 (First row) Mīr Ṭāhers sons: Mīr Jamāl (right) and Mīr Kos̲ar, June 16,
2010.
Plate 21.2 The celebration of the day of birth of Imam ʿAlī in Khāneqāh of Ker-
manshah, June 17, 2011.
Plate 21.3 Mīr Maẓhar.
Plate 22.1 Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh and two of his sheikhs in ʿAlī ebn-e Sahl Tekyeh in
Isfahan.
Plate 22.2 Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh and his wife
Plate 22.3 Two prominent sheikhs of Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh: Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh (left)
and Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh Ṭoroqī.
Plates 19.2, 20.2, 20.3, 21.1 and 21.2 are pictures taken personally by the author during
fieldwork. The copyright on the remaining images has expired by now.
Razia Sultanova:
Plate 23.1 Female praying ritual in Bukhara around the grave of Baha ad-din
Naqshband Bukhari, the founder of the Naqshbandi Sufi order.
Plate 23.2 Otin-Oy Malika in daily life.
Plate 23.3 Otin-Oy Ruhsatoi from Boisun village.
Plate 24.1 Female ritual led by Otin-Oys in Denau (Surhandarya district).
Plate 24.2 Female ritual led by Otin-Oys in the Andijan district, Ferghana valley.
All pictures were taken by the author during fieldwork.

Preface
In the last few years, a research project entitled “The Khāksār Order between Ahl-e
Ḥaqq and Shiite Sufi Order”, funded by the German Research Foundation, has been
carried out by the editor of the present book at the Institute of Iranian Studies at the
Georg-August University of Göttingen. This book is the proceeding of the symposium
“Islamic Alternatives; Non-Mainstream Religion in Persianate Societies”, which was
held within the framework of this project and with the financial support of the same
foundation at the University of Göttingen in April 2014.
The tradition and belief system of the Khāksār in question is closely connected to
several cultural and religious traditions across a vast geographical area in the orient:
the territory of Persianate societies, which might also be called ‘the territory of wan-
dering dervishes’.
The vast historical and cultural relations and associations, the similarities between
the Khāksār Order and the Futuwwa tradition or religious communities (such as the
Ahl-e Ḥaqq and Bektashi order in different geographical territories), the relationship
between this order and Dervish groups in Pakistan and Central Asia on the one hand
and its connection with the official orthodox Shia on the other hand – all these ideas
were also considered in the formation of this symposium and the present proceeding.
The common points and cultural relations of these numerous and diverse cultural
traditions as well as the heterodox movements in this region are so substantial that
understanding the related aspects of each helps us gain a deeper knowledge of the
whole subject matter.
Diverse domains of Iranian cultural history – which are in close or far association
with the Khāksār tradition – and its connection with several cultural phenomena such
as Naqqālī (dramatic storytelling), Pardekhānī (storytelling by reading paintings),
Maddāḥī (singing Shiite mourning), Taʿzīyeh (Shiite ritual dramatic art), and also the
tradition of Zūrḫāneh (the centre of Iranian heroic sport) have turned it into a multi-
dimensional cultural phenomenon. When studying this order and belief system, all
these different aspects should be considered. The Khāksār, especially the ʿAjam
branch of this order, have played an important role in the transmission of cultural
phenomena in Iran since the Safavid Era, and the Khāksār Dervishes were actively
present on the streets of Iranian cities and villages while wandering and praising ʿAlī
from this era until at least the end of the Qajar Era. As a result, the image that forms
in the mind of Persephones after hearing the word “Dervish” resembles the traditional
image of a Khāksār Dervish.

XII Preface
This symposium and the present proceeding attempted to gather as many special-
ists of these diverse but associated themes as possible in order to get to a better under-
standing of these concepts. Obviously, analysing all related dimensions requires more
articles and studies.
The discussed subjects and the groups under study in most of the papers are so
interconnected that it is difficult to categorise them into specific themes. The articles
mainly include several key words and interrelated themes. Therefore, their order in
this categorisation could as well be different to a great extent without facing a problem
in the understanding of the main idea. However, in order to achieve a structure and to
facilitate the presentation of the main subjects, they are divided into five categories.
– Papers which analyse Shiism, its first decades, and also the concept of the
Futuwwa which was later interwoven with Sufism.
– Papers which specifically and mainly focus on the Yāresān tradition.
– Articles which study key concepts in these religious groups from a cultural
anthropological perspective.
– Articles with a specific focus on Khāksārs.
– Articles which investigate the relationship between the folklore tradition and
Sufism in general as well as Khāksār and Yāresān traditions.
Obviously, the speakers from different universities and research institutes in Europe
and Iran who participated in this symposium and presented their ideas (first in form
of their speeches and then as articles) have played the main role in the formation of
this collection and helped enrich it.
Their scientific experiences, gathered in different geographical and cultural terri-
tories and with diverse and possibly interconnected heterodox religious groups within
the region, allowed for a productive exchange of valuable knowledge. Thus, I would
like to take this opportunity to express my sincere gratitude to the honourable contrib-
utors of this volume.
I would also like to express my special thanks to Professor Ulrich Marzolph, Dr.
Stéphane A. Dudoignon, and Dr. Khanna Omarkhali, who contributed to this sympo-
sium with their fruitful papers.
Dr. Mohammad Ali Soltani, who has been in close relationship with the followers
of the Khāksār and Yāresān for decades, participated in this symposium as a reliable
representative of these two religious traditions. At this point, I would like to express
my very sincere thanks to him. He also gave a detailed seminal speech in Persian
which unfortunately, for technical reasons, we were not able to publish in this volume.
Finally, I would like to thank the German Research Foundation, the Georg-August
University of Göttingen, and the director of its Department of Iranian Studies, Prof.
Philip Kreyenbroek who supported me in organising the symposium and publishing
this proceeding. This publication is also indebted to Peter Welk and Pierke Bosschieter
for proofreading and formatting it, as well as preparing the index.

Preface XIII
May this proceeding present an opportunity for a better understanding of Islamic

groups that have different ideas from orthodox Islam, and for attracting the academic
attention to these groups and their role in the cultural diversity of these societies.
Shahrokh Raei
Freiburg im Breisgau, 10th September 2016

Early Shiʿism and Futuwwa

New Remarks on Secrecy and Concealment in Early Imāmī
Shiʿism: the Case of khatm al-nubuwwa
Aspects of Twelver Shiʿi Imamology XII1
Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi

Paris
The practice of taqiyya, which could be translated as “tactical dissimulation”, means

“to hide a truth on the faith of those who are not worthy of it” (al-taqiyya kitmān
ḥaqīqa īmāniyya min ghayr ahlihā).2 In this sense, it is almost synonymous with two
other technical terms: kitmān and khabʾ. Taqiyya is the action name of the 8th form of
the root WaQaYa/Waqä, which evokes the sense of conservation, protection, and re-
frain from something by fear for one’s own security. The 8 th reflective form means to
protect oneself against something, to avoid something out of fear. In theological lan-
guage, the word has come to mean to hide one’s own religious affiliation or to even
deny it, in case of a serious threat to one’s physical integrity or life. Based on three
Qurʾānic verses (3:28, 16:106 and 40:28), the taqiyya was apparently first practiced
in this meaning by the Khārijis and is regarded as lawful in all branches of Islam if
necessary.3 It is to apply, in juridical terms, the legal concepts of vital need (ḍarūra)
and temporary authorisation (rukhṣa), as explained by Ḥanafī scholar Shams al-Dīn
1 This study is the twelfth in a series of articles devoted to the Twelver Shiʿi imamology The ten
first studies are now covered by M.A. Amir-Moezzi, La religion discrète. Croyances et pratiques
spirituelles dans l’islam shiʿite, Paris, 2006 (chapters 3 and 5 to 14; English translation: The
Spirituality of Shiʿi Islam: Beliefs and Practices, London & New York, 2011); the eleneth one
is: “Icône et contemplation: entre l’art populaire et le soufisme dans le Shiʿisme imamite (Aspects
de l’imamologie duodécimaine XI)”, Bulletin of the Asia Institute 20 (2006 – in reality 2012),
pp. 1–12 (also published in Differenz und Dynamik im Islam: Festschrift für Heinz Halm zum 70.
Geburtstag, H. Biesterfeldt und V. Klemm (eds.), Würzburg, 2012, pp. 473–492 (English trans-
lation in P. Khosronejad (ed.), The Art and Material Culture of Iranian Shiʿism, London & New
York, 2012, pp. 25–45).
2 K.M. al-Shaybī, “al-Taqiyya uṣūluhā wa taṭawwuruhā”, Revue de la Faculté des Lettres de l’Uni-
versité d’Alexandrie 16 (1962–1963), p. 15 (whole article: pp. 14–40).
3 M.A. Amir-Moezzi, “Dissimulation”, Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, J. MacAuliffe (ed.), Leiden,
vol. 1 (2001), pp. 320–324. On this practice among the early Khārijis, see Shahrastānī, Livre des
religions et des sectes, vol. 1, transl. by D. Gimaret and G. Monnot, Paris-Louvain, 1986, pp. 383
and 414.

4 Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi
al-Sarakhsī (d. 483/1090) in his al-Mabsūṭ.4 But the taqiyya has historically become
one of the most striking features of Shīʿī Islam, as a sort of symbol or emblem Shīʿī.
Even by opponents of the Shīʿīs, it is considered to be a proof of falsehood, hypocrisy,
and contradictory opinions of the latter. From al-Malaṭī’s Kitāb al-Tanbīh wa l-radd
ʿalā ahl al-ahwāʾ wa l-bidaʿ (“The Book of Awakening and the refutation of the sup-
porters of passionate opinions and reprehensible innovations”) through the contempo-
rary Wahhābi ideologists to the rigorous neo-ḥanbali Ibn Taymiyya in his Minhāj al-
sunnat al-nabawiyya fī naqḍ kalām al-shīʿa (“Path specified by the prophetic Sunnah
to refute the Shīʿī theology”) in the 8th/14th century, the heresiographers and Sunni
polemicists have all presented Shīʿīsm as a false faith mainly due to the practice of
taqiyya.5 Curiously, some orientalists and other scholars have adopted the same atti-
tude. In 1906, in his monograph on taqiyya, Ignaz Goldziher describes the concept as
a “futile imposture” while denouncing the lack of morality among Shīʿīs; the authors
of the article “Takiyya” in the second edition of the Encyclopedia of Islam, Rudolph
Strothmann and Moktar Djebli, warn against the great moral dangers of the tactical
dissimulation.6
And yet for more than a century and a half, the complexity of the concept had
already been quite finely developed by the learned French traveller, Count Arthur de
Gobineau. In his famous book Les religions et les philosophies dans l’Asie centrale,
published in Paris in 1865, Gobineau, while stressing the importance of the taqiyya
and its practice among the Shīʿīs, insists on its massive existence within three other
religious communities: Nusayri-Alawis in Syria, Christians in the regions of Trabzon
and Erzurum in Anatolia, and Zoroastrians in Iran. Thus, for him, the taqiyya is an
essential element of physical survival for minority communities in a hostile environ-
ment, but also of spiritual survival insofar as it allows these minorities to preserve
their specific religious doctrines.7
4 Al-Sarakhsī, al-Mabsūṭ, Beirut, n.d., pp. 38–47.

5 Al-Malaṭī, Kitāb al-tanbīh, S. Dedering (ed.), Istanbul, 1936, pp. 24–25; Ibn Taymiyya, Minhāj
al-sunna, n.l., n.d., vol. 1, p. 159–160. On the violent attacks of the ottoman thinker Muʿīn al-
Dīn Mīrzā Makhdūm, al-Nawāqiḍ li bunyān al-Rawāfiḍ, see E. Kohlberg, “Some Imāmī-Shīʿī
views on taqiyya”, Journal of the American Oriental Society 95 (1975), p. 395 (whole article:
pp. 395–402; repr. in id., Belief and Law in Imāmī Shīʿism, Aldershot, 1991, article no. III). On
the Wahhābis, see M. Litvak, “More harmful than the Jews: anti-Shiʿi polemics in modern radical
Sunni discourse”, in M.A. Amir-Moezzi, M.M. Bar-Asher and S. Hopkins (eds.), Le shīʿisme
imāmite quanrante ans après. Hommage à Etan Kohlberg, Turnhout, 2009, pp. 302–303 (whole
article: pp. 293–314). Also see al-Nawbakhtī, Firaq al-shīʿa, French translation by M.J. Mash-
kour, Les sectes shiites, 2nd ed., Tehran, 1980, pp. 79–80 (the two concepts of taqiyya and badāʾ
divine versatility – are denounced by opponents of Shiʿis as concepts used by them to justify
their contradictions and lies).
6 Goldziher, “Das Prinzip der takiyya im Islam”, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Ge-
sellschaft 60 (1906), p. 217 and 224 (whole article: pp. 213–226; repr. Gesammelte Schriften, ed.
J. Desomogyi, Hildesheim, 1967–70, vol. 5, pp. 59–72); EI2 (French version), vol. 10, pp. 145–
146.
7 A. de Gobineau, repr. 1928, pp. 1–18 and particularly pp. 12–13 and 16–17; cited by D. De Smet,
“La pratique de taqiyya et kitmān en islam chiite: compromis ou hypocrisie?” in M. Nachi (ed.),

New Remarks on Secrecy and Concealment in Early Imāmī Shi’ism 5
Indeed, for more than fifty years, the complexity of the concept has been discussed
from various angles in many studies in Shīʿīsm in general and in Twelver Imāmī
Shīʿīsm in particular.8 The authors of these studies (including Asaf A. Fyzee, Henry
Corbin, Etan Kohlberg, Hans G. Kippenberg, Josef van Ess, Maria Dakake, Daniel De
Smet, Orkhan Mir-Kasimov, and myself) were able to show (on the base of a large
number of old and new sources) that beyond concealment tactics, the taqiyya fills a
highly religious and spiritual role, since it is completely a part of the Shīʿī piety. It is
precisely for this reason – because it is not just a temporary ploy prompted by a tem-
porary situation – that Sunni heresiographers have so violently denounced it. After-
wards, Hans Kippenberg and Josef van Ess saw the sanctity of the taqiyya as an influ-
ence of Chrsitian disciplina arcani itself, based on Matthew 7:6: “Do not give dogs
what is holy, do not throw your pearls before pigs, they might trample them, then turn
against you and shred you”; Gospel’s passage was quoted almost verbatim by the
Ismāʿīlī thinker Ḥamīd al-Dīn al-Kirmānī (d. 412/1021) in order to justify the religious
Actualité du compromis. La construction politique de la différence, Paris, 2011, pp. 148–149

(whole article: pp. 148–161).
8 E.g. A.A. Fyzee, “The Study of the Literature of the Fatimid Daʿwa”, in G. Makdisi (ed.), Arabic
and Islamic Studies in Honour of H.A.R. Gibb, Leiden, 1965, pp. 232–249; H. Corbin, En Islam
iranien. Aspects spirituels et philosophiques, Paris, 1971–1972, index s.v. taqīyeh and ketmān;
E. Kohlberg, op. cit. (supra no. 5); id., “Taqiyya in Shīʿī Theology and Religion”, in H.G. Kip-
penberg and G.G. Stroumsa (eds.), Secrecy and Concealment. Studies in the History of Mediter-
ranean and Near Eastern Religions, Leiden, 1995, pp. 345–380; E. Meyer, “Anlass und Anwen-
dungsbereich der taqiyya “, Der Islam 57 (1980), pp. 246–280; M.J. Kister, “On ‘Concessions’
and Conduct. A Study in Early Islam”, in G.H.A. Juynboll (ed.), Studies in the First Century of
Islam Society, vol. 3, Carbondale, 1983, pp. 89–107; A. Layish, “Taqiyya among the Druzes”,
Asian and African Studies 19 (1985), pp. 245–281; Hans G. Kippenberg, “Ketmān. Zur Maxime
der Verstellung in der antiken und frühislamischen Religionsgeschichte”, in J.W. van Herten et
al. (eds.), Tradition and Re-Interpretation in Jewish and Early Christian Literature. Essays in
Honour of Jürgen C.H. Lebram, Leiden, 1986, pp. 172–183; A. Schimmel, “Secrecy in Sufism”,
in K.W. Bolle (ed.), Secrecy in Religions,, Leiden, 1987, pp. 81–102; J. van Ess, Theologie und
Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert Hidschra, vol. I-VI, Berlin – New York, 1991–1997, in-
dex, s.v.; M.A. Amir-Moezzi, Le Guide divin dans le shiʿisme originel, Lagrasse – Paris, 1992
(2007²), index s.v.; D. Steigerwald, “La dissimulation (taqiyya) de la foi dans le shīʿisme
ismaélien”, Studies in Religion 27/1 (1998), pp. 39–59; S. Makārim, al-Taqiyya fī l-islām, Beirut,
2004; L. Clarke, “The Rise and Decline of Taqiyya in Twelver Shiʿism”, in T. Lawson (ed.),
Reason and Inspiration in Islam (supra no. 1), pp. 46–63; M. Dakake, “Hiding in Plain Sight:
the Practical and Doctrinal Significance of Secrecy in Shiʿite Islam”, Journal of the American
Academy of Religion, 24/2 (June 2006), pp. 324–355; M. Ebstein, “Secrecy in Ismāʿīlī Tradition
and in the Mystical Thought of Ibn al-ʿArabī”, Journal Asiatique 298/2 (2010), pp. 303–343; D.
De Smet, op. cit. (supra no. 7); O. Mir-Kasimov, “Techniques de garde du secret en Islam”,
Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 228/2 (avril – juin 2011), pp. 265–287. The last fascicle of the
Spanish review Al-Qanṭara 34/2 (2013) is devoted to taqiyya. Several articles concern different
Shiʿi trends: D. De Smet, “La taqiyya et le jeûne de Ramadan: quelques réflexions ismaéliennes
sur le sens ésotérique de la charia”, pp. 357–386; M. Ebstein, “Absent yet All Times Present:
Further Thoughts on Secrecy in the Shīʿī Tradition and in Sunnī Mysticism”, pp. 387–413; R.
Gleave, “The Legal Efficacy of taqiyya Acts in Imāmī Jurisprudence: ʿAlī al-Karakī’s al-Risāla
fī l-taqiyya”, pp. 415–438.

practice of the taqiyya, i.e. to hide the secret doctrines of the community of those who
are not worthy of it.9
It is in this context that I translated the term with “custody” or “guarding the se-
cret”, a literal translation of the Arabic expression ḥifẓ al-sirr. Countless traditions
attributed to the holy imams of Shīʿīsm reported from early compilations of hadith-s
emphasize the esoteric nature of some Shīʿī teachings and the canonical duty, for the
initiated believer to keep these doctrines hidden. 10 Most of these traditions date back
to the 5th and 6th imams Muḥammad al-Bāqir (d. about 115/733) and Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq
(m. 148/765): “Our teaching is difficult, arduous, and it is a secret, made secret and
protected by a secret”;11 “nine tenths of the religion (i.e. the religion of the imams)
consist of keeping the secret, and whoever does not practice it has no religion”; 12
”keeping the secret is part of our religion (i.e. to us, the imams)... Whoever does not
practice this is devoid of faith”;13 “God’s rule is to keep the secret”;14 “he who divulges
our teachings is like him who denies it”;15 “to support our cause (i.e. us, the imams)
not only means to know and to admit it, but it also means to protect and to keep it
hidden from those who are not worthy of it”. 16
Schematically, one could say that taqiyya has two dimensions: an external or “po-
litical” dimension called “prudential taqiyya” by Etan Kohlberg (made necessary by
the fear of a minority community living in a hostile environment) and then an inner
“initiatory” dimension which the same scholar calls “non-prudential taqiyya”
9 Kippenberg, op. cit. (see no. 8), p. 173; van Ess, op. cit. (no. 8), vol. 1, p. 313; al-Kirmānī, al-
Risāla al-waḍīʿa fī maʿālim al-dīn, manuscript, Cambridge Or 1455 Arberry 9, fol. 49r, cited by
D. De Smet, op. cit. (see no. 7), p. 154. On the disciplina arcani in early Christianism, among
those considered to be faithful of it, like Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Saint Basil, Saint Cyril
of Jerusalem, Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, etc., see e.g. Dictionnaire de théologie
catholique, ed. by A. Vacant and E. Mangenot, tome 1, Paris, 1937, fasc. 2, col. 1738–1758; J.
Daniélou and H.I. Marrou, Nouvelle histoire de l’Église, Paris, 1963, vol. 1, pp. 99ff.
10 On the early compilations of Imāmī hadith-s, see E. Kohlberg, “Shīʿī Ḥadīth”, in A.F.L. Beeston
et al. (eds.), The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature I. Arabic Literature to the End of the
Umayyad Period, Cambridge, 1983, pp. 299–307; M.A. Amir-Moezzi, Le Guide divin (see supra
no. 8), pp. 48–58.
11 E.g. al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, ed. Mīrzā Kūčebāghī, Tabriz, s.d. (circa 1960), sec-
tion 1, chapters 11 ff., pp. 20 ff. On the importance of the notion of secret in Imāmī Shiʿism, see
M.A. Amir-Moezzi, La religion discrète (supra no. 1), pp. 220 ff. and index s.v. sirr, pl. asrār.
12 Al-Kulaynī, al-Uṣūl min al-Kāfī, ed. J. Muṣṭafawī, with Persian translation, 4 vols., Tehran, n.d.
(the 4th vol., translated by H. Rasūlī Maḥallātī, is dated 1386/1966), “Kitāb al-īmān wa l-kufr”,
bāb al-taqiyya, no. 2, vol. 3, p. 307.
13 Ibid., no. 12, vol. 3, p. 312; also al-Barqī, Kitāb al-maḥāsin, ed. J. Muḥaddith, Tehran,
1370/1950, pp. 202–203; Ibn Bābūya, Kamāl al-dīn, ed. ʿA.A. Ghaffārī, Qumm, reprint.
1405/1985, bāb 35, no. 5, vol. 2, p. 371.
14 Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq (attributed to), Tafsīr, ed. P. Nwyia, Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph
(Beirut), 43 (1968) p. 194; ed. ʿA. Zayʿūr, al-Tafsīr al-ṣūfī li l-Qurʾān ʿind al-Ṣādiq,, Beirut,
1979, p. 136.
15 Al-Kulaynī, ibid., bāb al-idhāʿa, no. 2, vol. 4, p. 77.
16 Al-Nuʿmānī, Kitāb al-ghayba, ed. ʿA.A. Ghaffārī, Tehran, 1397/1977, bāb 1, no. 3, p. 55. On
other early sources on the taqiyya, see Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin, no. 685, pp. 311–312.

(prompted by the need to keep the secret and to protect certain doctrines from the
uninitiated).17 Daniel De Smet has convincingly shown that the two dimensions are
not always separable and often communicate with each other.18 They are also pre-
sented as being firmly linked in the passage cited from the Gospel of Matthew.
But what applies to the custody of the secret? Which teachings are to be protected
at the same time that initiated faithfully from the ignorance often accompanied by the
violence of uninitiated adversaries? It is true that almost all Shīʿī works – whether the
corpus of Hadith, theological, and exegetical writings or legal treaties – contain a more
or less long chapter on the specific duty of guarding the secret – on different terms
that designate it (taqiyya, kitmān, khabʾ, etc., as we have already seen), on its doctrinal
necessity, its sacredness, its conditions of application. In Shīʿīsm, there are even
monographic treatises devoted to the taqiyya. But it is equally true that objects covered
by this duty will not necessarily be found in these chapters or those treatises. These
objects are scattered, often piecemeal, in the vast corpus of doctrinal works, using a
technique which itself belongs to the practice of the taqiyya and is called “the disper-
sion of information” (tabdīd al-ʿilm).19 The objects of the taqiyya are recognisable by
their esoteric and initiatory characters, allusive formulas that sometimes accompany
them, inviting the faithful to be discrete about them, their distance, or their break with
Sunni “orthodox” data. If need be, this once again confirms theories of specialists on
the “cult of secrecy” in religious traditions, from Georg Simmel through Paul Chris-
topher Johnson to Antoine Faivre and others, that “the secret” is often a sort of figure
of speech, a rhetorical device designed to pique the curiosity of the listener or reader
and to draw attention to the nature of teaching, but the “secret” is never left completely
hidden. We know that in Shīʿīsm, part of these “secrets” are messianic data, infor-
mation about the history of Qurʾān writing and the theory of falsification of the “offi-
cial” Qurʾān, the perception of the history of the early days of Islam, the attitude to-
wards the Companions of the Prophet, the hidden meanings of the scriptures, some
spiritual exercises as well as especially imamological doctrines concerning the nature,
status, and functions of the saints of Shīʿīsm par excellence, i.e. the imams.20 Among
these imamological beliefs on which the taqiyya applies, one, to my knowledge, has
not attracted the attention it deserves, given its huge religious and political signifi-
cance: the proper prophetic abilities of the imams.
The earliest reports on these capacities are to be found in the ancient corpus of
Imāmī Hadit, the oldest sources of which having been compiled roughly between 850
and 950 AD. These are the works of the muḥaddithūn, such as al-Sayyārī, Abū Jaʿfar
17 E. Kohlberg, “Taqiyya in Shiʿi Theology and Religion” (supra note 8), pp. 346 ff., 368 ff.
18 D. De Smet, “La pratique de taqiyya…”, pp. 152–153; id., “La taqiyya et le jeûne de Ramadan…”
(supra note 8), p. 357.
19 On the tabdīd al-ʿilm, see Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin, index s.v.
20 These topics are the principal subjects studied in already cited works of M.A. Amir-Moezzi. On
the issue of the falsification of the “official Qurʾan” in Shiʿism, see now E. Kohlberg and M.A.
Amir-Moezzi, Revelation and Falsification. The Kitāb al-Qirāʾāt of Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-
Sayyārī, Leiden-Boston, 2009.

al-Barqī, al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, al-Kulaynī, Ibn Bābūya al-Ṣadūq, or the authors of early
Qurʾānic exegesis like the Tafsīr, attributed to the eleventh imam al-Ḥasan al-ʿAskarī,
ʿAlī b. Ibrāhīm al-Qummī, al-ʿAyyāshī, or Furāt al-Kufī.21 Traditions whose contents
will be discussed here are cited from these as well as similar books, in particular the
Kitāb al-Kāfī (“sufficient Book”) by al-Kulaynī (d. c. 329/940–941), probably the
most complete compilation of this period.22
The hadith-s concerning the prophetic qualities of the imams seem to include sev-
eral groups, probably corresponding to multilayer phases. In one group, all prophetic
quality is radically derived from the imams. Through this kind of tradition, they keep
saying that their status is similar to that of imams of previous prophets and that their
jurisdiction applies only to licit and illicit, that is to say, a juridical science purely
“orthodox”. The aim of this kind of tradition seems to be the respect for the dogma
according to which Muḥammad is the last prophet and therefore Islam the last religion.
Al-Kulaynī grouped these traditions in a chapter aptly titled “The repugnant nature of
the belief in the prophecy of the imam” (karāhiyat al-qawl fīhim [i.e. fī l-aʾimma] bi
l-nubuwwa; as we know from elsewhere, this clearly means that some professed such
doctrines in Shīʿī circles).23 However, on closer inspection, one has the impression
that our traditionalist applied a form of taqiyya here. The chapter includes only seven
very short hadith-s in which a subtle evolution is clearly visible: while the first hadith-
s emphasise that Muḥammad is the last prophet, the Qurʾān the last revealed Book,
and the imams only guarantors of a good legal functioning of Islam, the last traditions
of the chapter attribute to the imams an increasing impact on the sacred space.24 In the
penultimate hadith of the chapter – while the imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq separates himself
from those who believe in the divine or prophetic nature of imams –, he describes
imams as treasurers of the knowledge of God (khuzzān ʿilm allāh), the interpreters of
God’s cause (tarājimat amr allāh) or even the clear proof of God (al-ḥujjat al-
bāligha). And then, in the last hadith, the same Jaʿfar is said to have stated that the
only difference between the imams and the Prophet Muḥammad is the number of
women legally allowed to marry! The following chapters in al-Kulaynī feature a much
larger number of traditions and seem to aim at qualifying strongly, if not contradicting,
the first group of “orthodox” hadith-s we mentioned. Indeed, in the following chapter,
21 On these sources, see the book cited in note 20 and the studies mentioned in note 10.
22 On this major author and his work, see now M.A. Amir-Moezzi and H. Ansari, “Muhammad b.
Yaʿqūb al-Kulaynī (m. 328/939–40 ou 329/940–941) et son Kitāb al-Kāfī. Une introduction”,
Studia Iranica 38/2 (2009), pp. 191–247; M.A. Amir-Moezzi, Le Coran silencieux et le Coran
parlant. Sources scripturaires de l’islam entre histoire et ferveur, Paris, 2011, chapter 5 (ex-
panded version of the previous article). Traditions concerning prophetic abilities of the imams
were echoed by countless other compilations of traditions. In order to avoid making the footnotes
too heavy, I shall confine myself mainly to the Kāfī.
23 Al-Kulaynī, al-Uṣūl min al-Kāfī (supra note 12), “K. al-ḥujja”, hadith-s nos. 696 ff., vol. 2, pp.
9 ff.
24 Respectively traditions nos. 1 to 5 and 6 to 7 of the aforementioned chapter.

the imams are appointed by the two technical terms muḥaddath and mufahham, re-
spectively, “to whom speak the heavenly entities” and “to whom is given the under-
standing of heavenly things”.25 The following chapters contain anthropogenic tradi-
tions according to which the imam is created from the same heavenly substance as the
Prophet Muḥammad. He has five spirits, the most noble of whom is called the Holy
Spirit or Spirit of Holiness (rūḥ al-quds) – a label, as we know, of the entity or faculty
allowing for the reception of revelation. 26 The imam is the vehicle of the celestial
entity called Spirit (al-rūḥ) as mentioned in the Qurʾān (e.g. Q. 17:85 and 42:52.):
“The Spirit proceeding from the Order of the Lord”; thanks to this celestial being,
which is superior to the archangels Michael and Gabriel, the imam is able to receive
divine revelations directly.27
It is interesting to note that in some traditions, by facing the imam who lists his
own prophetic abilities, his interlocutor (often an intimate disciple) seems to be trans-
fixed by the enormity of the statements of his master. So the imam assures his disciple
of his sincerity and at the same time asks him to remain discrete. 28 Of course, what is
at stake is the Islamic dogma of the absolute end, the final interruption of prophecy
after Muḥammad. I will get back to this later.
In other traditions, some shades are introduced, presumably to save the “orthodox”
dogma of the superiority of the Prophet Muḥammad to every human being in general
and to the imams in particular. According to these nuances, differences are established
between a prophet messenger (rasūl), a simple prophet (nabī), and an imam-muḥad-
dath: the prophet-messenger sees and hears the angel in a dream as well as while
awake, the simple prophet sees and hears the angel only in dream; and finally, the
imam-muḥaddath hears but does not see the angel.29 But even these shades appear to
be occasional and seem to have been elaborated in retrospect because they are appar-
ently contradicted by other allusive and tasty traditions. According to one of them, the
25 Al-Kulaynī, ibid., nos. 703 ff.; on these terms and especially the first one, see E. Kohlberg, “The
Term ‘Muḥaddath’ in Twelver Shīʿism”, in Studia Orientalia memoriae D.H. Baneth dedicata,
Jerusalem, 1979, pp. 39–47 (= Belif and Law in Imāmī Shīʿism – supra note 5 –, article no. V);
Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin, index s.v. and especially pp. 176 ff.
26 Al-Kulaynī, ibid., nos. 707 ff. See also al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, (supra note 11),
section 9, ch. 14 and 15. On the “five spirits”, see K.D. Crow, “The ‘Five Limbs’ of the Soul: A
Manichean Motif in Muslim Garb?”, in T. Lawson (ed.), Reason and Inspiration in Islam (supra
note 1), pp. 19–33; M.A. Amir-Moezzi, “Les cinq esprits de l’homme divin (Aspects de
l’imamologie duodécimaine XIII)” (forthcoming in Der Islam).
27 Al-Kulaynī, ibid., nos. 711 ff.; also al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, section 9, ch. 16.
28 Ibid., nos. 704 and 707.
29 Al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, section 8, chapter 1, pp. 368–374; al-Kulaynī, ibid.,
kitāb al-ḥujja, bāb al-farq bayn al-rasūl wa l-nabī wa l-muḥaddath, nos. 434 ff., vol. 1, pp. 248–
250; see also E. Kohlberg, “The Term ‘Muḥaddath’”, passim; Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin, p. 178.
The presentation of ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb as a muḥaddath by Sunni authorities (Y. Friedmann,
“Finality of Prophethood in Sunnī Islām”, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 7 (1986), p.
203 (the whole article: pp. 177–215)) seems to be part of the controversial anti-Shiʿi discourse,
with the aim to neutralise the prophetic abilities of ʿAlī by those of the second caliph (see A.
Hakim, “ʿUmar b. al-Ḫaṭṭāb, calife par la grâce de Dieu”, Arabica 54/3 (2008), pp. 317–336).

imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq shows “the fluff of angels” (zaghab al-malāʾika) to an intimate
disciple and falls into his house, which he keeps carefully.30 According to another
hadith, before the imam hears the clear question of a follower: “Do angels appear to
you?”, the same imam denies an answer and simply caresses the head of one of his
sons, saying: “With regard to our children, angels are nicer than ourselves.” In the
same hadith, Jaʿfar seems to declare by allusion that angels come to shake hands with
him (muṣāfaḥa).31 All this would indicate that the imam, as the greatest prophet, is
able to hear but also to see the angel and to be awake. Once again, al-Kulaynī brought
together these traditions in a chapter entitled “Angels come into the imams’ houses,
trample their carpets and provide them with information” (inna l-aʾimmat tadkhulu
malāʾika buyūtahum wa taṭaʾu busuṭahum wa taʾtīhim bi l-akhbār).32
Moreover, like Muḥammad, previous prophets, and ancient sages, the imam is ca-
pable of heavenly ascension; he rises to the divine throne in order to increase
knowledge or to meet the spirits of holy men of the past. 33 He has the holy scriptures
of previous religions, which he can read in their own language, he knows the events
of heaven and earth, of the past and the future, and he holds miraculous supernatural
powers and thaumaturgical faculties.34
Al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī (d. 290/902–903), a contemporary of al-Kulaynī, devotes
chapters 14–19 of the ninth section of his Kitāb Baṣāʾir al-Darajāt to the imams’ five
spirits, just like the prophets, the Holy Spirit, and the Spirit proceeding of the order of
the Lord (see above).35 Out of the large number of traditions, I shall confine myself to
mention only one particularly representative one. A disciple said to Imam Jaʿfar al-
Ṣādiq that ʿAlī, the first Imam, claimed in Yemen – where he had been sent to by the
Prophet – that he proceeded according to the precepts of God and Muḥammad; yet
how could he claim such a thing while the Qurʾān was not yet fully revealed and the
Prophet was absent? Jaʿfar replied: “He has been informed by the Holy Spirit.”36 In
other words, through his Holy Spirit, individual correspondent of the celestial entity
of the same name and often equivalent to the angel Gabriel (the angel of revelation),
the imam, namely ʿAlī, had the ability to receive the revelation directly, without de-
pending on the person of Muḥammad or the Qurʾān.
30 Al-Kulaynī, ibid., nos. 1021 and 1022, vol. 2, p. 241.

31 Ibid., no. 1020, vol. 2, pp. 240–241. The term muṣāfaḥa (“to shake hands with somebody”) also
means “to be face to face, to stand in front of someone”. In both cases, the visible presence of
the angels seems to be obvious.
32 Ibid., nos. 1020 ff., vol. 2, pp. 240 ff.
33 M.A. Amir-Moezzi, “L’imam dans le ciel. Ascension et initiation (Aspects de l’imamologie duo-
décimaine III)” (supra note 1; now in La religion discrete/The Spirituality of Shiʿi Islam, ch. 5).
34 M.A. Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin, part III–2.
35 Al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī, Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, section 9, ch. 14–19, pp. 445–466. On this author and
his work, see M.A. Amir-Moezzi, “Al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī (m.290/902–903) et son Kitāb baṣāʾir
al-darajāt”, Journal Asiatique 280/3–4 (1992), pp. 221–250; and id., Le Coran silencieux et le
Coran parlant (supra note 22), ch. 4; A.J. Newman, The Formative Period of Twelver Shīʿism:
Hadith as Discourse Between Qum and Baghdad, Richmond, 2000, ch. 5 and 7.
36 Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, section 9, ch. 15, no. 8, pp. 452–453.

All these capabilities are part of what is referred to as ”the knowledge of the invis-
ible world” (ʿilm al-ghayb), that Islamic orthodoxy is later reserved exclusively to the
prophets or even to God. But there is more. Many reports suggest that particularly
initiated disciples of the imams are also capable of prophetic exploits. It says first that
they were created from the same substance as the prophets, from the luminous material
of the celestial world of ʿIliyyūn.37 Then, the initiated adept, designated by the tech-
nical expression “probated faithful” (muʾmin mumtaḥan), is constantly put on an equal
footing with the angel of the nearby (malak muqarrab) and the prophet messenger
(nabī mursal).38 And in fact, if we look at the heresiographical and historical works,
the great “heretics” of early Islam – almost all of them from secret Shīʿī circles – have
claimed to be the place of the manifestation of God and/or were sent by God with
miraculous prophetic abilities, of course qualifying imams, but also prophets, espe-
cially Muḥammad and Jesus Christ. We have the examples of Abū Manṣūr al-ʿIjlī,
Bayān b. Samʿān, Abū l-Khaṭṭāb, or even the famous tortured mystic al-Ḥallāj.39
Hence the massive use of two prophetic traditions in Shīʿī corpus: “The sages are the
inheritors of the prophets” (al-ʿulamā warathat al-anbiyā) and “Sages of my commu-
nity are similar to prophets of Israel” (ʿulamā ʾummatī ka-anbiyāʾ Banī Isrāʾīl)40.
In this respect, the tradition called the “hadith of rank” (hadith la-manzila) seems
to be symptomatic. “In relation to me, you occupy the same rank occupied by Aaron
in relation to Moses, except that there is no prophet after me” (anta minni bi manzilat
Hārūn min Mūsā illā annahu lā nabiyy a baʿdī), the prophet Muḥammad said to ʿAlī.
This version of the tradition, called the “long version”, is reported by a variety of both
Sunni and Shīʿī sources – and rightly so, because it highlights the considerable weight
of ʿAlī’s religious “rank” ‘– placed on the very same plane as the biblical prophet
Aaron –, while respecting the “orthodox” dogma that Muḥammad is the last prophet.
37 Ibid., pp. 96–97.

38 M.A. Amir-Moezzi, “Seul l’homme de Dieu est humain. Théologie et anthropologie mystique à
travers l’exégèse imamite ancienne (Aspects de l’imamologie duodécimaine IV)” (supra note 1;
now in La religion discrete/The Spirituality of Shiʿi Islam, ch. 8).
39 On these characters and generally the ones heresiographers called “extremists” (ghulāt), see e.g.
H. Halm, Die islamische Gnosis. Die Extreme Schia und die ʿAlawiten, Zürich & München, 1982;
W. Tucker, Mahdīs and Millenarians: Shiite Extremists in Early Muslim Iraq, New York, 2008;
P. Crone, The Nativist Prophets in Early Islamic Iran: Rural Revolt and Local Zoroastrianism,
Cambridge, 2011; J. van Ess, Der Eine und das Andere. Beobachtungen an islamischen häresi-
ographischen Texten, Berlin & New York, 2011; S.W. Anthony, The Caliph and the Heretic. Ibn
Sabaʾ and the Origins of Shīʿism, 2012; M. Asatryan, Heresy and Rationalism in Early Islam:
the Origins and Evolution of the Mufaḍḍal Tradition, PhD Dissertation, Yale University, 2012.
On artificial and probably late dates of the hérésiographical distinction between the “moderate
Shiʿism” of the imams and the “extremist Shiʿism” of the ghulāt (especially in the early times),
see Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin, pp. 313 ff.
40 On the very important role of the imams’ disciples, see E. Kohlberg, “Imam and Community in
the Pre-Ghayba Period”, in S. Amir Arjomand (ed.), Authority and Political Culture in Shiʿism,
Albany, 1988, pp. 25–53 (= Belief and Law in Imāmī Shīʿism – supra note 5 –, article no. XIII);
and now L.N. Takim, The Heirs of the Prophet: Charisma and Religious Authority in Shiʿite
Islam, New York, 2006, passim.

However, there is also a “short version” which namely lacks the last sentence: “except
that there is no prophet after me”. This underscores this dogma. Paradoxically, this
latest version is also reported by the more orthodox Sunni sources. 41 Y. Friedmann
thinks this short version is the older one, dating from the time when this dogma had
not yet been finalised. On the other hand, U. Rubin – corroborating the view of Mus-
lim orthodoxy – argues that if this version was transmitted by impeccable Sunni au-
thorities, the reason is that it was not problematic precisely because the orthodox
dogma was firmly accepted by all.42 However, the great Shīʿī scholar Ibn Bābūya al-
Ṣadūq (d. 381/991) discusses at length this hadith in his book Maʿānī l-akhbār (“Un-
derstanding traditions”). It is true that he only reports the long version, but he mainly
focuses on the famous last sentence, emphasising the fact that without it, some Shīʿī
milieus professed that ʿAlī is a prophet after Muḥammad. This shows that on the one
hand, our scholar was aware of the short version’s existence, and on the other hand
that at least until the 4th/10th century, the dogma under discussion was not yet univer-
sally accepted, especially in Shīʿī circles.43
Thus, the existence of different groups of conflicting traditions shows that reports
from different periods or teachings were perhaps given to the disciples from different
levels, but their simultaneous presence in an important author such as al-Kulaynī, the
allusive tone of many of them, and the invitation of the imams to the utmost discretion
about them – all this proves that the duty of the custody of secrecy is in action here,
and for a good reason! What is at stake is to question the article of faith that
Muḥammad is the last prophet and thus Islam the last revealed religion.
41 E.g. al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ, ed. By Krehl, Leiden, 1864, “Faḍāʾil aṣḥāb al-nabī” 9, vol. 2, p. 436;
Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ, Cairo, 1955, “Faḍāʾil al-ṣaḥāba” 32, vol. 4, p. 1871; Ibn Maja, Sunan, Cairo,
1952, “Muqaddima” 115, vol. 1, pp. 42–43.
42 Y. Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood in Sunnī Islām” (supra note 29), pp. 186–187; id.,
Prophecy Continuous: Aspects of Aḥmadī Religious Thought and its Medieval Background,
Berkeley, 1989, pp. 59–60; U. Rubin, “The Seal of the Prophets and the Finality of Prophecy.
On the Interpretation of the Qurʾānic Sūrat al-Aḥzāb (33)”, forthcoming in Zeitschrift der
Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 164/1 (2014) (I warmly thank Professor Uri Rubin
from Tel Aviv University for having sent his article to me before publication), part 5.1: “ʿAlī and
Aaron”.
43 Ibn Bābūya, Maʿānī l-akhbār, Tehran, ed. ʿA.A. Ghaffārī, 1379/1959–1960, pp. 74–79; tradition
analysed by M.M. Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imāmī Shiism, Leiden & Boston
& Cologne, 1999, pp. 156–157. Indeed, we have already seen through the traditions reported by
al-Kulaynī that some Shiʿi faithfuls believed in the prophetic stature of imams (see supra); see
also al-Kulaynī, al-Rawḍa min al-Kāfī, ed. by H. Rasūlī Maḥallātī, Tehran, 1389/1969–1970,
vol. 1, pp. 173, 176 (The Umayyad caliph Hishām b. ʿAbd al-Malik acknowledges that some
Shiʿis of Kūfa consider the imam Muḥammad al-Bāqir as a prophet); see al-Ṣaffār al-Qummī,
Baṣāʾir al-darajāt, section 9, ch. 15, no. 5 (a disciple asks Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq if he is a prophet);al-
Nuʿmānī (d. c 345/956), Kitāb al-ghayba, ed. by ʿA.A. Ghaffārī, Tehran, 1397/1977, p. 145 (Ac-
cording to the author, the imams have exactly the same religious status as the Prophet); Ibn
Bābūya al-Ṣadūq, Amālī, ed. and Persian translation by M.B. Kamareʾī, Tehran, 1404/1984,
“Majlis” 47, no. 4, p. 278 (A Khārijī who converted to Shiʿism said that he recognised the pro-
phetic mission – risāla – of the imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq).

But what about the history of this article of faith? Were imamological Shīʿī doc-
trines they only ones during the first centuries of the Hegira to challenge it? Let us
look at things more closely. The dogma has crystallised around the interpretation of
the expression “seal of the prophets” in the Qurʾānic verse 33:40: “Muḥammad is not
the father of any of your men but he is the Messenger of God and Seal of the Prophets”
(mā kāna Muḥammadun abā aḥadin min rijālikum wa lākin rasūla llāhi wa khātama [or
khātima] an-nabiyyina...).44 The expression khātam/khātim al-nabiyyin is a hapax and,
like other words and expressions of the same kind, has given a lot of twisting first to
Muslim scholars and, as a result thereof, to the Orientalists and Islamicists. It would
be of Manichean origin. Ancient Muslim historians of religions say almost unani-
mously that it is Mani who bore the title “Seal of the Prophets”; this is the case for al-
Bīrūnī, al-Shahrastānī, Ibn al-Murtaḍā, or Abū l–Maʿālī al-Balkhī.45 Without going
into scholarly discussions, it seems to me that most modern scholars argue in the same
direction. From H.-Ch. Puech to J. van Reeth, M. Tardieu, G. Stroumsa, or the large
monograph Das Siegel der Propheten by C. Colpe, all scholars have associated the
term with Manichaeism and the person of Mani.46 They are equally unanimously sup-
porting that in Manichaean texts, “the Seal of the Prophets” does not necessarily mean
the last of the prophets. It is true that Mani saw himself as the equivalent of the Para-
clete promised by Jesus, but he also practised imitatio Christi; the term “Seal of the
Prophets”, although polyvalent in his mouth, seems to mean both “one who comes to
confirm” the mission of the Christ and the ones of Zoroaster and Buddha, since a seal
44 Cf. the verse 6:61 in the codex of Ubayy b. Kaʿb in A. Jeffery, Materials for the History of the
Text of the Qurʾān, Leiden, 1937, p. 170 (English text); and R. Blachère, trad. du Coran, Paris,
1966, p. 593 and notes.
45 Al-Bīrūnī, Āthār al-bāqiya, ed. by C.E. Sachau, Alberuni, Chronologie orientalischer Völker,
Leipzig, 1923, p. 207; al-Shahrastānī, Kitāb al-milal wa l-niḥal, ed. by W. Cureton, Book of
Religious and Philosophical Sects, London, 1846, p. 192; Ibn al-Murtaḍā et al-Balkhī, cited by
K. Kessler, Forschungen über die manichäische Religion, vol. 1, Berlin, 1889, pp. 349, 371; see
G. Stroumsa, “‘Le sceau des prophètes’: nature d’une métaphore manichéenne”, in id., Savoir et
salut, Paris, 1992, ch. XV, pp. 276–277 (French translation of “Seal of the Prophets: the Nature
of A Manichean Metaphor”, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 7 (1986), pp. 61–74).
46 H.-Ch. Puech, Le manichéisme, Paris, 1949, p. 146; M. Tardieu, Le manichéisme, Paris, 1981,
pp. 19–27; G. Stroumsa (1986; see the previous no. ; C. Colpe, Das Siegel der Propheten: His-
torische Beziehungen zwischen Judentum, Judenchristentum, Heidentum und frühem Islam, Ber-
lin, 1990, ch. 9; M. Gil, “The Creed of Abū ʿĀmir”, Israel Oriental Studies 12 (1992), 38 ff. (the
whole article: pp. 9–47); R. Simon, “Mānī and Muḥammad”, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and
Islam 21 (1997), p. 135 (whole article: pp. 118–141); M. Sfar, Le Coran, la Bible et l’Orient
ancien, Paris, 1998, ch. 11 (“Aḥmad, le prophète manichéen”); S. Evstatiev, “On the Perception
of the Khātam al-nabiyyin Doctrine in Arabic Historical Thought: Confirmation or Finality?”, in
S. Leder, H. Kilpatrick, B. Martel-Thoumian & H. Schönig (eds.), Studies in Arabic and Islam.
Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta (Proceedings of the 19th Congress of the Union Européenne des
Arabisants et Islamisants), Louvain, 2002, pp. 455–467; J. Ries, “Les Kephalaia. La catéchèse
de l’Église de Mani”, in D. De Smet, G. de Callataÿ & J. van Reeth (eds.), Al-Kitāb. La sacralité
du texte dans la monde de l’Islam, Bruxelles, 2004, pp. 143–158; J. van Reeth, “La typologie du
prophète selon le Coran: le cas de Jésus”, in G. Dye & F. Nobilio (eds.), Figures bibliques en
islam, Bruxelles, 2011, pp. 104–105 (whole article: pp. 81–105).

confirms the contents of an official letter. Guy Stroumsa analysed a fragment of a

Manichean text in Uighur translation called Xuāstvānīft, in which the initiated Mani-
chaeans, the Elects, are called “prophets”. Mani appointed the title “Apostle” to him-
self, was therefore superior to the “prophets”, and confirmed the mission of the Elect.
Here, the prophets are not predecessors but successors and followers of Mani. 47 We
are very close to the Shīʿī conception of the initiated successors of Muḥammad,
imams, and other sages the Prophet would have confirmed.
As Michel Tardieu noted, these metaphors belong to a Judeo-Christian background
in the strict sense.48 The importance and the rich symbolism of the “seal” are also
known among the Gnostics. In this respect, it is sufficient to see dozens of the term’s
occurrences in the index of Ecrits gnostiques. La bibliothèque de Nag Hammadi.49
Recently, Hartmut Bobzin supported the hypothesis that in a range of Judeo-Christian
and Christian texts, the expression means the person of Jesus who confirms and fulfils
the prophecy of Moses.50 This is also often the case with Muḥammad as the Qurʾānic
messenger who confirms and finalises the prophetic missions of Jesus and Moses.
Back to Islam, this time to Sunni Islam. The confirmation of the doctrine that
Muḥammad is the last prophet seems to be so absolute that it tends to obscure the fact
that this dogma has a history. However, both the complexity of the data in the Islamic
sources (starting with the exact meaning of the Qurʾānic term khātam/khātim) and the
diversity of critical studies on the issue (from H. Hirschfeld, I. Goldziher, J. Horowitz,
H. Speyer, J. Wansbrough on to the two now classic studies of Y. Friedmann, the book
47 G. Stroumsa, “Le Sceau des Prophètes”, p. 283.

48 M. Tardieu, Le manichéisme, p. 21.
49 J.-P. Mahé & P.-H. Poirier (dir.), Écrits gnostiques. La bibliothèque de Nag Hammadi, Paris,
2007, index p. 1812 (It has to be noted that in Allogène (NH XI, 3), “seal” means the closure of
the revelation; ibid., p. 1574).
50 H. Bobzin, “‘Das Siegel der Propheten’. Maimonides und das Verständnis von Mohammeds
Prophetentum”, in G. Tamer (ed.), The Trias of Maimonides. Jewish, Arabic and Ancient Culture
of Knowledge, Berlin, 2005, pp. 289–306; id., “The ‘Seal of the Prophets’: Towards an Under-
standing of Muḥammad’s Prophethood”, in A. Neuwirth, N. Sinai, M. Marx (eds.), The Qurʾān
in Context: Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qurʾānic Milieu, Leiden, 2010, pp.
565–583. One could add to the sources mentioned there: Tertullian, Adversus Iudaeos, XI, 10:
“Jesus is the seal (signaculum) of all the prophets who preceded him and who had come to an-
nounce him.” However, Tertullian is not Jesus but John the Baptist who is the last prophet (clau-
sula prophetarum), the last one to announce the coming of Christ. On the other hand, S. Khalil
Samir interprets the Qurʾanic expression as “a mark of belonging”, a sign of authenticity of the
prophetic mission of Muḥammad, comparing it to the gospel of John 6.27: “He [Christ] who is
the Father, God, has set his seal on”; Khalil Samir, “Une réflexion chrétienne sur la mission
prophétique de Muḥammad”, in A.-M. Delcambre & J. Bosshard (eds.), Enquêtes sur l’islam, en
hommage à Antoine Moussali, Paris, 2004, pp. 267 ff. (whole article: pp. 263–292); see also H.
Windisch, “Die fünf johanneischen Parakletsprüche”, in Festgabe für A. Jülicher, Tübingen,
1927, p. 120 (whole article: pp. 110–137).

of D. Powers, or the still unpublished article by U. Rubin) clearly show the yet enig-
matic history and nature of this doctrine.51
It is true that if we consult the literature of the Qurʾānic exegesis (even in early
times), we realise that practically the only interpretation of the Qurʾānic expression
khātam/khātim al-nabiyyin is that “there will be no more prophet after Muḥammad”.
But by examining other sources, particularly the corpus of Hadith and even the most
“orthodox” ones, other definitions seem to surface. For example, al-Bukhārī and un-
questionable Muslim authorities of Sunni Hadith reported a tradition in which the ex-
pression has the meaning of the prophet who comes to complete the mission of his
predecessors.52
As reported for example by Ibn Ḥanbal, Ibn Saʿd, al-Ṭabari, or Ibn Kathīr, in many
hadith-s the term means the prophet who just occurs before the end of time – and not
the last prophet.53
In a tradition attributed to ʿĀʾisha, the wife of the Prophet, Ibn Abī Shayba and
many others report that “You can say (about Muḥammad) that he is the Seal of the
Prophets but not that there will be no prophet after him”. 54 Other companions uttered
similar thoughts. In Ibn Abī Shayba, the chapter is called “All those who refused to
51 H. Hirschfeld, Beiträge zur Erklärung des Korān, Leipzig, 1886, pp. 71 f.; id., New Researches
into the Composition and Exegesis of the Qoran, London, 1902, p. 139; I. Goldziher, Muhamme-
danische Studien, I-II, Halle, 1888–1890, pp. 104 ff.; J. Horowitz, Koranische Untersuchungen,
Berlin, 1926, pp. 53 f.; H. Speyer, Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran, Berlin, 1931, pp. 422
ff.; A. Jeffery, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾan, Baroda, 1938, pp. 120–121; id., The
Qurʾan as Scripture, New York, 1952, pp. 78–79; J. Wansbrough, Quranic Studies. Sources and
Methods of Scriptural Interpretation, Oxford, 1977, p. 64; Y. Friedmann, “Finality of
Prophethood in Sunnī Islām” (supra note 39); id., Prophecy Continuous (no. 39); A.A. Ambros,
A Concise Dictionary of Koranic Arabic, Wiesbaden, 2004, p. 83 f.; J. van Ess, “Das Siegel der
Propheten: Die Endzeit und das Prophetische im Islam”, in M. Riedl & T. Schabert (Hrsg.),
Propheten und Prophezeiungen, Berlin, 2005, pp. 53–75; D. Powers, Muḥammad is Not the Fa-
ther of Any of Your Men: the Making of the Last Prophet, Philadelphia, 2009; U. Rubin, “The
Seal of the Prophets and the Finality of Prophecy” (see supra note 39). This list is not exhaustive.
52 This is the famous “tradition of the brick” (hadith al-labina), i.e. the missing brick in the grandi-
ose monument of the religion; see al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ, ed. by Krehl, Leiden, 1864, “K. al-
manāqib”, 18, vol. 2, p. 390; Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ, Cairo, 1955, “K. al-faḍāʾil”, 22–23, vol. 4, p. 1791.
53 Y. Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood”, pp. 182–183; the theme of “Muḥammad as the prophet
of the End of Time” (nabī/rasūl al-malḥama/al-malāḥim) is the main subject of the important
and unjustly forgotten book by Paul Casanova, Mohammed et la fin du monde. Étude critique sur
l’islam primitif, Paris, 1911–1913 (2 vols. + 1 vol. of supplementary notes) and 1924 (1 vol. of
supplementary notes).
54 Ibn Abī Shayba, al-Muṣannaf fī l-aḥādīth wa l-āthār, ed. by M. ʿA. Shāhīn, Beirut, 1416/1995,
vol. 5, p. 337, no. 26,644; also Ibn Qutayba, Taʾwīl mukhtalaf al-hadith, Cairo, 1326/1908, pp.
235–236 (French translation by G. Lecomte, Le traité des divergences du Ḥadīth d’Ibn Qutayba,
Damascus, 1967, pp. 207–209 (with the commentaries of Ibn Qutayba); al-Suyūṭī, al-Durr al-
manthūr fī l-tafsīr bi l-maʾthūr, reprint. Beirut, n.d. (Dār al-thaqāfa), vol. 5, p. 204; Y. Friedmann,
“Finality of Prophethood”, p. 192; id., Prophecy Continuous, p. 63; C. Gilliot, “Miscellanea co-
ranica I”, Arabica 59 (2012), pp. 118–119 (whole article: pp. 109–133).

profess that there will be no prophet after Prophet” (man kariha an yaqūl lā nabī baʿd
al-nabī).55
Moreover, according to a large number of traditional reports about Ibrāhīm (the
son the Prophet had with Mary the Copt and who died at a very young age), it is said
that while mourning the death of his child, Muḥammad declared: “By God, Ibrāhīm
was a prophet, the son of a prophet” and “... If he were still alive, he would be a truthful
man, a prophet (ṣiddīqan nabiyyan).”56
In traditions on the “biography of the Prophet” and transmitted by the famous Ibn
Hishām in his equally famous al-Sīra al-nabawiyya, in the episode concerning the
recognition of the prophetic nature of Muḥammad by the Christian monk Baḥīra/Ba-
ḥīrā, the term “seal of prophecy” mainly means a body mark, probably a freckle, as
proof of its wearer’s prophecy. The information shall be recorded by many other “bi-
ographers” of the Prophet.57
The assertion that the prophecy would end with the death of Muḥammad was ap-
parently not so obvious, at least during the first two centuries of Islam. The ancient
Arab poetry of the first century would also have preserved the traces of hesitation on
this issue. The Dīwān of (or at least attributed to) the Prophet’s contemporary poet,
Umayya Ibn Abī al-Ṣalt, contains a verse which says that Muḥammad is the Seal of
the Prophets – those who came before and those who will come after him. 58 Y. Fried-
mann also refers to other ancient poets in order to highlight the ambiguous meaning
55 Ibn Abī Shayba, ibid., 19, sub-chapter adab, vol. 5, pp. 219 ff. Apparently, in order to solve the
contradiction of these traditions with the dogma of “Muḥammad, the last prophet”, other tradi-
tions have been put into circulation in which ʿĀʾisha and other companions prohibited to say that
Muḥammad is the last prophet on earth because the Prophet Jesus would return to the world at
the end of time; see ibid., no. 26,645; Y. Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood”, pp. 192–193;
id., Prophecy Continuous, pp. 63–64; U. Rubin seems to accept the traditional view of Islamic
sources and refutes Friedmann’s analysis, see his article in press, “The Seal of the Prophets”, part
7 (“The Muslim Jesus”). In any case, what seems to be certain is that during the early days of
Islam, the doctrine that Muḥammad is the ultimate prophet was problematic; see also W. Made-
lung, The succession to Muḥammad. A study of the early Caliphate, Cambridge, 1997, pp. 16–
17.
56 Ibn ʿAsākir, Taʾrīkh madīnat Dimashq, al-Sīra al-nabawiyya, 2 vols., ed. by N. Ghazzāwī, Da-
mascus, 1984–1991, vol. 1, p. 120; Ibn Mājja, al-Sunan, ed. by M.F. ʿAbd al-Bāqī, 2 vols., Cairo,
1952–1954, bāb al-janāʾiz 27, vol. 1, p. 484, no. 1511; al-Bayhaqī, Dalāʾil al-nubuwwa, ed.
ʿA.M. Qalʿajī, 7 vols., Beirut, 1405/1985, vol. 7, p. 291. For a detailed discussion on these tradi-
tions, their justification by other traditions, and the sources, see Y. Friedmann, “Finality of
Prophethood”, pp. 187–190; id., Prophecy Continuous, pp. 58 ff.; C. Gilliot, “Miscellanea coran-
cia I”, pp. 119–20, especially note 64; U. Rubin, “The Seal of the Prophets”, part 3 (“Ibrāhīm’s
prophecy”) – who justifies the traditional Islamic view that Ibrāhīm died in infancy because (ac-
cording to the will of God) Muḥammad was supposed to be the last of the prophets.
57 C. Addas, “Baḥīrā” in M.A. Amir-Moezzi (dir.), Dictionnaire du Coran, Paris, 2007, pp. 105–
109.
58 Bihi khatama llāhu man qablahu/wa man baʿdahu min nabiyyin khatam, in Umajja ibn Abi ṣ-Ṣalt.
Die unter seinem Namen überlieferten Gedichtfragmente, ed. by Schultess, Leipzig, 1911, p. 24,
verse 12. As is the case with other ancient poets, the authenticity of the poems by Ibn Abī al-Ṣalt
remains problematic (for the latest status of the issue, see T. Seidensticker, “The Authenticity of

of the term “seal”.59 In the Naqāʾiḍ of Jarīr and al-Farazdaq, this term is set in the
plural and Muḥammad is called khayr al-khawātim, “the best of the seals”.60 Similarly,
in his commentary on the poems al-Hāshimiyyāt by Kumayt b. Zayd al-Asadī, Abū
Riyāsh al-Qaysī – as late as the beginning of 4th /10th century – argues that “the Seal
of the Prophets” means “the best (literally ‘the beauty’) of the prophets” (khātam al-
anbiyāʾ fa huwa jamāl al-anbiyāʾ).61
Of course, texts and traditions of this kind will later be interpreted more or less
subtly in order to save the dogma of “Muḥammad, the last prophet”, but the problem-
atic nature of the Qurʾānic expression “Seal of the prophets” and the verse that con-
tains it seems undeniable. The recent monograph by David Powers – dedicated pre-
cisely to this verse and entitled Muḥammad is not the father of any of your men. The
making of the last Prophet62 – is based on an impressive erudition as well as sophisti-
cated arguments and attempts to show that the verse 33:40 is a late addition whose
main objective was to establish precisely the doctrine of the ultimate prophet. Without
necessarily sharing the methods and conclusions of this book, we can see through it
the extent of the problems posed by the verse at the beginning of Islam. As we have
seen, this study (as well as many others since the late 19th century) shows the extreme
complexity of the subject and its turbulent history. 63 Based on a large number of very
old Islamic sources, their information often shows that the Shīʿīs were far from alone
during the first centuries of the Hegira to profess the possibility of prophecy continuity
even after Muḥammad’s death.
What can we conclude? Finally, the question about the end of the prophecy – prob-
ably asked just after the death of Muḥammad – was accepted by all Muslims, including
the Poems ascribed to Umayya ibn Abī al-Ṣalt” in J.R. Smart (ed.), Tradition and Modernity in
Arabic Language and Literature, Richmond, 1996, pp. 88–102; N. Sinai, “Religious poetry from
the Quranic milieu: Umayya b. Abī al-Ṣalt on the fate of the Thamūd”, Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies 74/3 (2011), pp. 396–419. If there are doubts about the attribution
of this verse, scholars are unanimous in dating it from the first two centuries of the Hijra, and it
is this point that is of interest for my study: during the early days of Islam, the term khātam/khātim
al-anbiyāʾ did not mean “the last prophet” to everyone. See Y. Friedmann, “Finality of
Prophethood”, pp. 184; U. Rubin, “The Seal of the Prophets”, part 7.1 (“Umayya b. Abī l-Ṣalt”)
– who, in order to justify the traditional Islamic position, commented the verse as to implicitly
announce the future coming of Jesus.
59 Y. Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood”, pp. 185–186.
60 The Naqāʾiḍ of Jarīr and al-Farazdaq, ed. by A. Bevan, Leiden, 1908–1912, vol. 1, p. 349. The
commentator of the verse (according to Friedmann, he is Abū ʿUbayda, d. 209/824–825) declares
that “the seal of the prophets means the best among the prophets” (…khātim/khātam al-anbiyāʾ
wa huwa khayr al-anbiyāʾ).
61 Die Hāshimijjāt des Kumait, ed. by Horowitz, Leiden, 1904, p. 85.
62 Philadelphia, 2009 (supra note 47).
63 See supra note 44 (Among the studies cited in this footnote, only Uri Rubin argues in the same
direction as the “orthodox” tradition, according to which our expression always and clearly meant
“the last prophet”).

the Shīʿīs (with the notable exception of some trends of Ismāʿīlism)64, perhaps in the
2nd and 3rd centuries AH. This unanimity seems to have been the result of the state’s
repression, itself a consequence of centuries of bloody conflict. Indeed, the history of
nascent Islam is marked by a secular violence manifested mainly by incessant civil
wars, which necessarily had a decisive influence on the genesis and development of
scriptural texts and religious doctrines.65 Y. Friedmann emphasises the impact of
many “false prophets” (i.e. obviously “false” to Muslim authorities) and violent wars
against them by the central government in the development of the dogmatic definition
of khatm al-nubuwwa as “the end of prophecy”.66 Let us remember the personalities,
like the prophetess Sajāḥ or the prophets Musaylima, al-Aswad al-ʿAnsi, or Ṭulayḥa
b. Khuwaylid, against whom the first caliph Abū Bakr set off the gory “wars of apos-
tasy” (ḥurūb al-ridda) just after the Prophet’s death. Later, this was the case for rebels
declaring themselves prophets and messengers of God, such as al-Ḥārith b. Saʿīd un-
der the Umayyads, and those of Muḥammad b. Saʿīd called “the Crucified” (al-
maṣlūb), Hāshim b. al-Ḥakīm called “the Veiled” (al-muqannaʿ), or Maḥmūd b. al-
Faraj under the Abbasids. However, in this context, among the various theological and
political trends, the number of rebels recognised by their disciples as “prophets” and
belonging to different Shīʿī sects is by far the highest. We have already mentioned the
names of some of them (see footnote 37 and accompanying text above). Among many
others, we can add the names of al-Mukhtār b. Abī ʿUbayd, ʿAbdullāh b. Muʿāwiya,
Mughīra b. Saʿīd, or Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl, grandson of the imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq,
who was considered a prophet by many Sevener Shīʿī sects, especially the Qarmaṭians:
the Umayyad and Abbassid caliphate’s histories beyond stories of their rebellion, the
declaration of their prophetic status – by themselves or by their supporters –, and their
ferocious repression by the caliphal forces. 67
64 With some variations due to the diversity of its trends, the Ismāʿīlī doctrine maintains that Mu-
ḥammad is the prophet of the sixth cycle, which is the cycle of the concealment of esoteric truths
(dawr al-sitr), and Islam is the religion of the same cycle. So there will be, after Muḥammad and
Islam, a prophet resurrector and a religion of a seventh and last cycle, the cycle of the revelation
of these truths (dawr al-kashf).
65 This is the main subject in M.A. Amir-Moezzi, Le Coran silencieux et le Coran parlant. Sources
scripturaires de l’islam entre histoire et ferveur (supra note 22).
66 Y. Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood”, pp. 193 ff. On prophetism and prophets just before and
during the life of Muḥammad, see now C.J. Robin, “Les signes de la prophétie en Arabie à
l’époque de Muḥammad (fin du VIe et début du VIIe siècle de l’ère chrétienne)”, in S. Georgoudi,
R. Koch-Piettre & F. Schmidt (eds.), La raison des signes. Présages, rites, destin dans les socié-
tés de la Méditerranée ancienne, Leiden & Boston, 2012, pp. 433–476.
67 See the studies cited in note 37. See also Gh. Ḥ. Ṣadīqī, Jonbesh hā-ye dīnī-ye īrānī dar qarn hā-
ye dovvom va sevvom-e hejrī, Téhéran, 1372 solar/1993 (expanded and updated version by the
author of his doctoral thesis: G.H. Sadighi, Les mouvements religieux iraniens aux IIe et IIIe
siècle de l’hégire, Paris, 1938); see also F. Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines,
Cambridge, 2007² (first ed. 1990), especially the index s.v. Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl b. Jaʿfar al-
Ṣādiq.

We can reasonably expect that the dogma of “the end of the prophecy” would have
been known for its first elaboration from the “wars of apostasy” onwards, in the circles
of the Medina caliphate, in order to delegitimize the claims of opponents. However,
ambiguity and vagueness surrounded the meaning of the Qurʾānic term khātam/khātim
– and did so for several centuries –, which clearly shows that the official definition
met with a number of resistances and thus took a very long time to finally be accepted
by all believers. The physical and doctrinal repression of Shīʿīs in general and their
“heretics” in particular certainly had something to do with the imposition of this una-
nimity.68
The theological and political issues were enormous. There was the authority di-
recting the community and the criteria for its legitimacy. To the caliphal power – just
like to the theologians and jurists who supported it and came to be called the Sunni
authorities –, the prophecy was complete because all words and directives, as divine
as prophetic, were now included in the Qurʾān and the “authentic” Hadith. For Shīʿīs
and some other, smaller movements, spiritual and temporal leadership of the faithful
could not be ensured solely by texts – for which, moreover, authenticity was a problem
–, but by inspired and wise men, divine sages whose head was the infallible person of
an imam. But for the caliphs and their theologians who controlled the holy Scriptures,
asserting their authority and presenting themselves as their sole guarantors was easier
than mastering men who claimed to be in direct contact with the source of these Scrip-
tures and who had real social influence. So on the political level, it was absolutely
necessary to suppress the prophecy claim by some opponents, mostly inspired by the
Shīʿī imamology and, on the religious level, to impose on all the doctrine of the end
of the prophecy.
This doctrine was therefore also accepted by Shīʿī Islam, at least by its main
branches. It is significant that all Shīʿī Qurʾānic exegeses of the verse 33:40, whether
pre- or post-Buyid sources, seem to have scrupulously adhered to this doctrine. But is
this not precisely a practice of taqiyya, especially in pre-Buyid exegesis?69 Indeed, the
idea of a final breakdown in communication between God and the Sage was appar-
ently unbearable for imams and their followers. Heirs of many doctrines of Judeo-
Christianity, Manichaeism, and Gnostic movements of late antiquity – identifying
themselves as divine representatives and initiate sages of a religion of knowledge –
introduced nuances in the prophetological data in order to reserve the possibility of
such a communication by at the same time applying the rules of taqiyya, the custody
68 S.M. Wasserstrom, “The Moving Finger Writes: Mughīra b. Saʿīd’s Islamic Gnosis and the
Myths of its Rejection”, History of Religions 25/1 (1985), pp. 62–90; also id., “The Shīʿīs are the
Jews of our Community: An Interreligious Comparison within Sunnī Thought”, Israel Oriental
Studies 14 (1994), pp. 297–324 (now in id., Between Muslim and Jew: the Problem of Symbiosis
under Early Islam, Princeton, 1995, ch. 3).
69 On the turning point was the Buyid era in the doctrinal evolution of Imāmī Shiʿism, see Amir-
Moezzi, Guide divin, pp. 33 ff.; id. & C. Jambet, Qu’est-ce que le shiʿisme?, Paris, 2004, part III,
1; on the pre-Buyid Shiʿi Qurʾanic exegesis, see Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early
Imāmī Shiism (supra note 40).

of secrecy.70 The prophet sees and hears the angel, while the imam (muḥaddath, never
called a “prophet”) can only hear the heavenly messenger; the prophet receives reve-
lation (vaḥy), while the imam is capable of receiving inspiration (ilhām); the prophet
is the messenger of the letter of the divine word (tanzīl) and its exoteric level (ẓāhir),
while the imam is the inspired messenger of his spirit, his esoteric dimension (bāṭin),
i.e. its spiritual exegesis (taʾwīl); the prophet is the legislator and founder of the outer
religion for the majority (al-ʿāmma, al-akthar), while the imam is the master of her-
meneutics, i.e. initiator of interior religion for a minority elite (al-khāṣṣa, al-aqall).71
As we have seen, the imam possesses all prophetic abilities at the same time (and
teaches them to his initiates as “heretics”): celestial ascension, communication with
the celestial entities, knowledge of the future, miraculous powers and thaumaturgical
abilities, etc. However, in order to distinguish the imam’s status from the one of the
prophet, the term used to describe his nature is walāya (divine alliance or friendship),
an extension on the esoteric level of the nubuwwa but distinct from it and transmitted
from generation to generation due to the sacred Legacy, the waṣiyya.72
Shīʿīsm thus gradually distinguishes between a legislative prophecy (nubuwwa
tashrīʿiyya) and an ontological non-legislative prophecy (nubuwwa takwīniyya), as
designated by the term walāya.73 Shīʿīsm thus seems to take in its own way; the old
Jewish division occurred after the advent of Christianity, according to E.E. Urbach,
70 In a recent article, M. Ebstein appropriately proposes the hypothesis that the concealment of
religious practices in the pious circles of the early days of Islam was directly related to the vio-
lence of the civil wars of this period (see his article “Yet Absent Present All Times...”, cited in
note 8).
71 See Amir-Moezzi, Guide divin et Religion discrète, index s.v.; I. Poonawala, “Ismāʿīlī taʾwīl of
the Qurʾān”, in A. Rippin (ed.), Approaches to the History of the Interpretation of the Qurʾān,
Oxford, 1988, pp. 199–222; E. Kohlberg, “In Praise of the Few”, in G.R. Hawting, J.A. Mo-
jaddedi & A. Samely (eds.), Studies in Islamic and Middle Eastern Texts and Traditions. In
Memory of Norman Calder, Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement 12 (2000), pp. 149–162.
72 On the walāya, see M.A. Amir-Moezzi, “Notes à propos de la walāya imamite” (supra note 1);
on the waṣiyya, see the seminal article by U. Rubin, “Prophets and Progenitors in the Early Shīʿa
Tradition”, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 1 (1979), pp. 41–65; also Amir-Moezzi, Guide
divin, index s.v. waṣī,, awṣiyā’, waṣiyya. On the concept as an extension of the Holy Spirit and/or
the Paraclete in the Islamic Montanist and Manichean doctrines, see J. van Reeth, “La typologie
du prophète selon le Coran: le cas de Jésus” (supra note 42), pp. 95 ff. (The author does not take
into account the specific Shiʿi doctrines).
73 For a well-documented history of the concept, see ʿA.K. Sorūsh, Basṭ-e tajrebe-ye nabavī, Teh-
ran, 3rd ed., 1379 solar /2000, especially the introduction and ch. 1. It is to be noted that in the
“rationalist” branch (Uṣūlī) of Imāmism, where the Buyid era figure of the jurist-theologians will
gradually replace the imam (now hidden), jurist-theologians will eventually claim for themselves
the status of walāya which is traditionally reserved for imams, distinguishing in turn between
walāya takwīniyya (“ontological/creative alliance” – exclusively reserved to the prophets and
imams) and walāya tashrīʿiyya or iʿtibāriyya (“legislating or relative alliance” – shared between
the imams and jurist-theologians), see Amir-Moezzi, Religion discrète, p. 204, note 125, and now
S. Rizvi, “‘Seeking the Face of God’: the Safawid Ḥikmat Tradition’s Conceptualisation of
Walāya Takwīniyya”, in F. Daftary & G. Miskinzoda (eds.), The Study of Shiʿi Islam. History,
Theology and Law, London & New York, 2014, pp. 391–410.

between religion founder, legislative prophecy, and non-legislative anti-innovation

prophecy.74 The Sunni orthodoxy categorically and often aggressively rejects these
doctrines.75 The faithful believers of the imams (victims of bloody repression for cen-
turies and ostracised by the majority of an official and increasingly rigid religion)
seem to have been forced to apply the taqiyya to many of their most important doc-
trines. The continuity of prophecy, a capital religious concept in many spiritual tradi-
tions of late antiquity, has been at the centre of these doctrines.
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From Futuwwa to Mystic Political Thought
The Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh and Abū Ḥafṣ Suhrawardī’s

Theory of Government
Mohsen Zakeri
Göttingen
A comparative survey of the history of Islamic Sufism in pre- and post-Mongol times
reveals a conspicuous disparity between the two epochs. No matter how radical any
of the pre-Mongol socio-political movements orchestrated by the ṣūfīs might have
been, they hardly ever reached out for political leadership of their communities. On
the other hand, during the interlude between the Mongol invasions and the emergence
of the so-called gunpowder empires in the Muslim world (Ottomans, Safavids, and
Moguls), the page turned, and for some two centuries, in almost any social revolt,
political struggle, or regime change, the ṣūfīs had a visible presence and often stood
in leadership positions. The popular motto of the classical ṣūfīs had been: Rajaʿnā min
al-jihād al-aṣghar ilā al-jihād al-akbar (We have returned from the lesser jihād – fight
against the infidels – to the greater jihād, that is, jihād khafī, the inner struggle), from
the worldly struggle to the more severe spiritual challenge. In the first phase of their
history, they were involved in the wars of expansion of Dār al-Islām and fought on
the side of the ghāzīs for its protection. In post-Mongol times, a return to the origins
took place, that is, the ṣūfīs were once again more active on the battle field than in
their khānqāhs.
Notwithstanding the favourable conditions which the Mongol rule might have pro-
vided for the cultural revolution and expansion of syncretic currents of thought, the
change of outlook in the ranks of a large portion of the population from a life of as-
ceticism and seclusion to that of activism, armed rebellions, and attempts at state-
building is something new and specific in this period. To be sure, diverse socio-eco-
nomic, religious, and political factors contributed to unfolding this phenomenon in
sundry places and over a long period of time. It is my contention that one such con-
tributing factor was the Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh’s unorthodox policy of engage-
ment with Sufism, Shīʿīsm, and Futuwwa. Corresponding to al-Nāṣir’s move and hand
in hand with it was the unique role played by the ambitious and dynamic ṣūfī Shaikh
Shihāb al-Dīn Suhrawardī in formulating a novel political theory of government in
which he tried to harmonise the institution of the caliphate with the ṣūfī brotherhoods,
the futuwwa fraternities, and the disgruntled Shīʿism. The Caliph’s unconventional

30 Mohsen Zakeri
undertakings and the shaikh’s ideological conceptions – which led to the spreading of
mystic political thought – have not been satisfactorily studied so far, although they
exercised far-reaching influence on the long-term process of social transformation that
took place after them. Since in the following two centuries, political theology based
on gnostic speculations became the dominant form of thinking in the Muslim world
and Suhrawardī’s contribution proved to be very significant in it, I would like to
briefly introduce here some facets of his ideas and their repercussions on later devel-
opments. The Mongols did put an end to the Caliphate but with it paved the way for
the emergence and leadership of shaikh-khalīfa, the mystic shaikh who had of late
received the stamp of legitimacy and was now ready to ascend the throne. 1
The Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh’s engagement with the futuwwa

Much has been said about the reasons why the Abbasid Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh
(r. 575–622/1180–1225) formally entered the futuwwa fraternities and brought them
under his rule. One line of argument headed by Paul Wittek almost a century ago
maintained that the caliph intended to use the military power of these scattered militia
gangs in order to fight the Crusaders and to free Muslim territories. This argument
was rejected by Franz Taeschner and others, who correctly observed that such an in-
tention cannot be verified anywhere in the sources.2 Taeschner offered the alternative
proposition that al-Nāṣir’s plan was to exploit these social groups and their mighty
urban armed bands in order to strengthen the vanished influence of the Abbasid Cali-
phate. The available literature supports this proposal, but Salinger rejected it and
wrongly, I think, argued that al-Nāṣir’s strategy was to enter these bands and destroy
them from within. On the contrary, the Caliph’s participation in the futuwwa gave
them the legitimacy they needed to stay relevant and provided the ground for the par-
tial unification and flourishing of these groups, which, as the caliph’s legacy, lived on
for several centuries.
Al-Nāṣir’s drastic, near revolutionary step to embrace the heretofore riotous and
violent youth clubs followed a twofold purpose: to unify in order to control; and to
reform their internal rules of affiliation and loyalty in ways more palpable to an aris-
tocratic taste. It goes to al-Nāṣir’s credit to first of all have realised the real weight of
these groups within the social structure of urban centres; and also noteworthy is his
boldness to expose himself to attacks from the side of conservative ʿulamāʾ. The offi-
cial recognition of the futuwwa as lawful social forces and the restructuring of their
morals along the lines of the sharīʿa in its ṣūfī version had the advantage of bringing
under the direct rule of the caliph the strategic power of numerous urban militia bands
which, until then, had been frowned upon by the orthodox ʿulamāʾ. What the initially
powerless Caliph did was to acknowledge the reality of the futuwwa on the ground
and to try to win them over instead of exhausting his own limited means and resources
1 For some general comments on this period, see M. Gronke, “Auf dem Weg von der geistlichen
zur weltlichen Macht”, pp. 164–83.
2 See G. Salinger, “Was the futūwa an Oriental form of Chivalry?”, pp. 486–487.

From Futuwwa to Mystic Political Thought 31
in a futile confrontation with them. Al-Nāṣir’s institutionalisation of the independent

futuwwa – which gave it a courtly flair and pushed it fully into the fold of Sufism –
was an adventurous move but proved to be rewarding and of long-lasting impact for
the history of Islam.3
Taeschner brought al-Nāṣir’s futuwwa move into contact with his main political
goal, namely the restoration of the temporal power of the Caliphate and the creation
of a kind of religious government in Iraq. He suspected that by concentrating the fu-
tuwwa on his person and propagating it among the rulers of the Islamic world, al-Nāṣir
wanted to create a political party under these princes that he could possibly use in the
pursuit of his objectives. In the absence of large military forces, the obligation associ-
ated with the futuwwa followers would have automatically put their forces at his dis-
posal.4 It is true that al-Nāṣir maintained an army of his own and eventually managed
to establish himself in Iraq for a short period of time; he even brought Khuzistān under
his rule, but his military victories were ephemeral. His success was more substantial
in strengthening the Abbasid Caliphate through the futuwwa.
Futuwwa as an overarching framework designating organisations based on an in-
tricate moral system had been a common urban phenomenon in Oriental Muslim cities
in much earlier times. By the late 6th/12th century, the futuwwa institution had come
close to the ṣūfī brotherhoods and variegated into numerous branches, each headed by
rivalling chiefs often antagonistic to one another. These popular but at times anarchis-
tic bands of ʿayyārān/fityān (adherents of the futuwwa) had become very powerful
political factors in Iraq and were in general responsible for fuelling social turmoil and
civil strife in Baghdad and its surrounding region. At least seven independent and
influential groups, known by name, were active in Baghdad alone at the time when al-
Nāṣir became caliph.5 The city’s socio-political history had been plagued by intermit-
tent riots ignited behind the scene by the leaders of these urban bands from the time
of the early Abbasids all the way to al-Nāṣir. In this long period, the ʿayyārs partici-
pated or played a major role in almost every religious, political, or social uprising of
significance. On the other hand, from the time of al-Nāṣir’s entrance to the futuwwa
in 578/1182 till 604/1207, that is for a quarter century, no rebellion of the ʿayyārs is
reported in Baghdad or territories under the Caliph’s rule. Even immediately after the
604/1207 outbreak of fighting caused by the ʿayyārs – which led to the Caliph’s fa-
mous decree (with which he declared the old futuwwa to be abrogated and took its
charge into his own hand)6 –, the situation returned to peaceful normality and re-
mained so all the way to the end of the Caliph’s rule. This effective control was indeed
an impressive achievement by itself.
3 Cf. Cl. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, p. 49.

4 F. Taeschner, “Das Futuwwa-Rittertum des islamischen Mittelalters”, pp. 376 ff.
5 See M. Zakeri, “The futuwwa ‘houses’ at the time of Caliph al-Nāṣir”, p. 222–237.
6 See P. Kahle, “Ein Futuwwa-Erlaß des Kalifen en-Nāṣir”, pp. 52–58.

32 Mohsen Zakeri
By approaching rivalling and belligerent groups of divergent sectarian and socio-

economic interests and by subjecting them to explicitly fixed behavioural rules in har-
mony with the law (in addition to an elaborate and sophisticated admission ceremo-
nial), al-Nāṣir moved to transform them into an instrument of social cohesion. He le-
gitimised and enhanced their power by recruiting the wealthy and powerful as well as
the urban middle class and by encouraging Muslim princes far and near to make sim-
ilar efforts – under his supreme guidance. More than fifteen princes from Egypt, Syria,
Anatolia, Iran, Afghanistan, and elsewhere responded to his call and formally entered
the futuwwa. Among those who received the emblematic trousers of manliness
(sarāwīl al-futuwwa) from him were the Zangid ruler Nūr al-Dīn Arsalān-shāh Atābak
of Mosul (589–607/1193–1211), the Aiyūbid al-Malik al-ʿĀdil of Damascus, brother
of Saladin and his entire family (in 599/1203), Shihāb al-Dīn Ghūrī (d. 602/1206) (the
king of Ghazna and India), and the Anatolian Saljuqid Sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn Kai Kāvūs I
(607–616/1210–1219).7
Al-Nāṣir’s official approval and politicisation of the futuwwa gave it a chivalrous
and courtly flavour, in its formal structure comparable with the institutions of Euro-
pean knighthood and chivalry; for in the name of chivalrous ideals, it set up a relation
of honour between each initiate and the master who initiated him. He drew dozens of
the lords of the time into common bonds under his personal leadership in his futuwwa
order. Kings, princes, and government officials on whom the Caliph had influence (or
expected to benefit from his status as the Caliph) were affiliated with it, and gradually,
a system of dependency developed which in some respects can be contrasted with
knighthood. Chivalry as propagated by the Caliph can be conceived as a kind of
agenda for a medieval political party. A system such as this one must have offered
incentives and encouragements to those who joined it.
The political motivation that moved individual Muslim rulers to join al-Nāṣir’s
futuwwa remains for the most part unclear. Making only the factor of legitimacy of-
fered by the Caliph responsible for all this enthusiasm does not suffice. The proposi-
tion that al-Nāṣir’s plan was to revive the Abbasid Caliphate by means of the unifica-
tion of Islamic dynasties under the banner of the Caliph is justifiable; however, to
consider this as an attempt to create a new political force behind the principle of the
jihād cannot be taken as convincing. Al-Nāṣir did not show any concern for the polit-
ical affairs of the Aiyubids, who were entangled in fighting against the Crusaders.
That the numerous princes who entered al-Nāṣir’s futuwwa recognised him as the un-
restricted chief of the fityān in their territories – considering the hierarchical order in
the futuwwa organisation –, at the same time made them dependent on him. By enter-
ing the futuwwa, the sultans and emirs acknowledged (at least pro-forma) that they
accepted the caliph as the one who had the authority and the right to bring the com-
munity of believers together. In addition, since it was stipulated that upon the entrance
of a prince into the futuwwa, all his subjects would be admitted simultaneously, any
7 Al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bi-al-wafayāt, Beirut 2000, VI, 192; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, Cairo 1423,
XXIII, 318; XXIX, 36.

tendency towards a solitary or independent move within the Islamic community was
restricted.
Al-Nāṣir sent his advisor on matters of the futuwwa (the celebrated ṣūfī Shaikh of
Baghdad, Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar Suhrawardī) to Kai-Kāvūs I, the ruler of Konya in Anato-
lia, for initiation. This happened while the Saljūqid Sultanate of Rūm was consolidat-
ing itself as a powerful Muslim state and was anxious to receive the endorsement of
legitimacy from the Caliph. Kai-Kāvūs I and his successors remained faithful to the
futuwwa as reshaped by al-Nāṣir, and this provided the stimulus to the rapid spreading
of futuwwa organisations, known as Ahīlik, in Anatolia. 8 Kai-Kāvūs I institutionalised
the futuwwa in his territories in such a profound manner that futuwwa circles remained
active in Anatolia for two or three centuries to come. A distinctive characteristic of
the Anatolian Akhyān brotherhoods is that a great number of nobles, jurists, ʿulamāʾ,
great merchants, and elites joined it, a fact which can be attributed to al-Nāṣir’s im-
pact. As the world traveller Ibn Baṭṭūṭa describes, the power of these groups in Ana-
tolian cities was so important that at times of central power’s weakness, they would
take the affairs of the cities into their hands.
Given the vigorous political activity which al-Nāṣir unfolded during his long 47-
year reign, it seems unlikely that by approaching the princes of the Islamic world, he
pursued no political purpose. It was due to his political intrigues and physical support
that the weak and shaky Saljuqid rule came to an end in 590/1194. Al-Nāṣir had called
in the support of the Khwārazmid Sultan Takish, but now that the Saljuqs were no
more, the Caliph and the Sultan were on the move to claim their fallen legacy. One of
al-Nāṣir’s main objectives was the unification of the religious and the worldly power
in his person. However, Takish’s successive victories forced the Caliph to
acknowledge him as the rightful sultan over Iran and the eastern lands of the caliphate.
It was only after al-Nāṣir in 626/1229 that Jalāl al-Dīn Mankūbirty/Mängübirdī, the
prince of Khwārazm (and a formidable enemy of al-Nāṣir) was invested by the Caliph
al-Mustanṣir’s (623–640/1226–1242) deputy and mentor on the futuwwa, Jalāl al-Dīn
ʿAbdallāh b. Mukhtār al-ʿAlawī (d. 649/1251).9
Al-Nāṣir affected an alliance with Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥasan III (d. 618/1221), chief of
the Ismāʿīlis of Alamūt. The alliance with the Caliph even led to the reform of some
radical Ismāʿīlī law positions. The sharīʿa, earlier announced as abrogated, was for
the most part restored among their supporters. The initiative for these reforms seems
to have come from Jalāl al-Dīn himself. In 608/1211, the Caliph al-Nāṣir acknowl-
edged Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥasan III’s new dispensation and issued a decree to that effect.
Whether he officially entered al-Nāṣir’s futuwwa or not is not recorded, but this is
very likely.
8 Cl. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, p. 196.

9 Ibn al-Miʿmār, pp. 81- 82; Ibn al-Fūṭī (ps-), al-Ḥawādith al-jāmiʿa, 4 vols., ed. M. Jawād, Bagh-
dad 1351/1932, I, pp. 256–257; ʿUmar al-Dasūqī, al-Futuwwa ʿind al-ʿArab; aw Aḥādīth al-
furūsiyya wa-al-mathal al-ʾulyā, Cairo 1370/1951, p. 248.

34 Mohsen Zakeri
Al-Nāṣir’s courtly futuwwa experienced its greatest success in Anatolia, Syria, and
Egypt – areas in which, especially after the fall of the Abbasid Caliphate to the Mon-
gols, the futuwwa continued to flourish for a long time. The futuwwa-nāmas (or the
organisational handbooks which were composed during the time of al-Nāṣir) exer-
cised a profound influence on the establishment of Akhī-brotherhood circles in Ana-
tolia as well as on the Dervish orders in Iran – and even on brotherhoods in Armenia.10
Hand in hand with such political measures, al-Nāṣir tried to create a balance be-
tween the Sunnīs and the Shīʿīs, or at least to treat both sections of the community of
believers equally. Needless to say, neither he nor any other caliph before or after him
could have identified himself as a Shīʿī without disqualifying himself as the rightful
caliph. Within the framework of the somewhat ambiguous measures the futuwwa of-
fered with its Shīʿī tendency, it was possible for him to keep the authority of the Ab-
basid Caliphate intact. Taechner suggested that the privileged position of ʿAlī as the
prototype of Fatā in the contemporary futuwwa writings was perhaps due to the influ-
ence of al-Nāṣir.11 However, we have to be careful not to generalise by taking ʿAlī’s
place in the futuwwa as evidence for the Shīʿī nature of the brotherhood. Cahen noted
that the futuwwa mainly refers to ʿAlī, but not to any other Shīʿī figure.
Under al-Nāṣir, an officially sanctioned move towards the ṣūfīs took place. Al-
Dhahabī reports that al-Nāṣir contemplated at some point to give up his post as caliph
and turn to ascetic practices.12 This mystic inclination is said to have shown itself in
the middle of al-Nāṣir’s term as caliph, that is, roughly around the year 1200. He let
build a house in Baghdad near a Ribāṭ for the poor people of the city, in which lessons
on Sufism were offered. He occasionally put on a ṣūfī khirqa specially prepared for
him and attended the lectures there. With the statement “May God forgive him”, al-
Dhahabī continues that finally, al-Nāṣir gave up his interest in ṣūfī-learning and turned
to the affairs of the state.
Suhrawardī’s Theory of the Caliphate

For the propagation of his imperial policy, al-Nāṣir could not have wished to get any-
body more suitable than the ṣūfī Shaikh Shihāb al-Dīn Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar b. Muḥammad
b. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAmmūya Suhrawardī (born 539/1145 and died in 632/1234). Through
the distribution of his numerous theoretical works on Sufism (which was his main
concern) and the massive propaganda for al-Nāṣir’s futuwwa as well as an eventual
enunciation of a reformed and expanded theory of the caliphate, Suhrawardī endorsed
the compatibility between the futuwwa and Sufism on the one hand and the Sunnīs
with the moderate Shīʿīs (the Imāmīs) on the other.
10 R. Goshgarian, “Futuwwa in 13th-century Rum and Armenia,” Tauris, 2012; eadem, “Opening
and Closing,” p. 36–52.
11 “Die Islamischen Futuwwabunde”, p. 33.
12 Taʾrīkh al-Islām, ed. Beirut 1998, XLV, p. 52; cf. al-Ṣafadī, Nakt al-himyān fī nukat al-ʿumyān,
Cairo 1911, p. 95; A. Hartmann, an-Nāṣir, p. 114; id., “Wollte der Kalif Ṣūfī werden?”, pp. 175–
205.

Suhrawardī’s so-called theory of government – which incorporated Sufism and the

futuwwa as integral parts into the concept of the caliphate – is well-known and often
discussed in modern literature. Above all, it was Angelika Hartmann who, in her
groundbreaking study on the Caliph al-Nāṣir four decades ago,13 assigned a major
section to Suhrawardī in which she spoke about his Grand Theory of the Caliphate.
Since then, she has further elaborated her observations on this point in several other
publications without, however, adding or changing anything substantially to her orig-
inal exposition.14
Not long ago, Erik Ohlander, in an exhaustive monograph on Suhrawardī,15 re-
turned to this discourse with what seems to be his mission to disqualify everything
that authorities in the field (such as Franz Taechner, Claude Cahen, or Angelika Hart-
mann) have said on Suhrawardī’s political ideas and his ties with the Caliph al-Nāṣir.
Among other things, Ohlander challenged Hartmann’s proposal to see Suhrawardī as
one of the main contributors to al-Nāṣir’s consolidation of power. He argues that
Suhrawardī was not the court theologian (as Hartmann suggests), as well as that his
ideas on the caliphate were first formulated in the last years of al-Nāṣir’s reign and
published even later.16 This statement is partially true and corrects some of Hart-
mann’s imprecise comments; nonetheless, as we shall see, Suhrawardī did present a
modified theory of the caliphate along the siyāsa-sharʿiyya line in which the caliph
held a pivotal role. I briefly reiterate some of Hartmann’s and Ohlander’s arguments
in the hope of keeping the discussion on this significant point alive.
At a time when Caliph al-Nāṣir was trying to re-establish religious and political
powers of the Abbasids with every military and ideological means accessible to him,
Suhrawardī, who had acted for him as a time-honoured diplomat in several occasions,
formulated a unique political theory with which he hoped to rejuvenate the caliphate,
among others, in his two Persian Futuwwat-nāmas as well as in a pamphlet called
Idālat al-ʿiyān ʿalā al-burhān (Triumph of the obvious over philosophical specula-
tion), in which he outlined his views on the relationship between the caliphate, Sufism,
and the futuwwa. This aspect of his multifaceted work has been the focus of study for
Taeschner, Hartmann, Ohlander, and others.
Idālat al-ʿiyān is one of the two pamphlets Suhrawardī composed against the thesis
of Muslim philosophers. The other one is Rashf al-naṣāʾiḥ al-īmāniyya wa-kashf al-
faḍāʾiḥ al-yūnāniyya, dedicated to Caliph al-Nāṣir whom he quotes as an authority on
hadith.17 The author assembled contradictory dogmatic trends into what he thought to
be purified traditionalism, in order to strengthen the Abbasid Caliphate. The work
13 An-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (1180–1225). Berlin and New York, 1975.

14 For a summary of this, see her contribution in EI2, s.v., “Al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh”, VII, 999–1000.
15 Sufism in the Age of Transition. ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and the rise of the Islamic mystical broth-
erhoods, Leiden 2008.
16 Ibid, pp. 255–256.
17 See A. Hartmann, “Sur l’édition d’un texte arabe medieval,” pp. 71–97.

36 Mohsen Zakeri
offers a broad politico-religious program from which only those are excluded who
challenge the Oneness of God.18
Idālat al-ʿiyān ʿalā al-burhān (Bursa, Ulu Cami, Tas. 1597) is also a refutation of
philosophy in 45 chapters in which arguments are supported with the verses of the
Qurʾān and exemplary stories of the fityān. The Idāla is a call to return to the only true
faith and at the same time recognition of the Abbasid Caliph as the only legitimate
sovereign of the Islamic community. Ohlander observes that this work was finished
after the Rashf, i.e. between 623/1226 and 632/1234. It contains the same underlying
ideas as the Rashf, but its linguistic style is more precise and quotations from author-
ities and mythological themes are less frequent.
The composition date of the Idālat al-ʿiyān is not known. Since Caliph al-Mus-
tanṣir (623–640/1226–1242), the grandson of al-Nāṣir, is referred to in the text as the
patron of futuwwa, it can be assumed that it was written between 1226 (the year in
which al-Mustanṣir became the caliph) and 1234 (when Suhrawardī passed away).
Ohlander raises the objection that Suhrawardī’s Idālat al-ʿiyān is not addressed to al-
Nāṣir but rather to al-Mustanṣir who became caliph a year and a half after him. 19
Thence, it should not be brought into connection with Suhrawardī’s contribution to al-
Nāṣir’s consolidation of power, as Hartmann suggested. He emphatically argues that
at that point, “the futuwwa itself was no longer Nāṣirian but rather Mustanṣirian”.
However, as Hartmann pointed out, the possibility should not be disregarded that
Suhrawardī had already started the composition of his book under al-Nāṣir. The text
closely reflects al-Nāṣir’s program in that despite its dedication to a later caliph, it can
be considered to be a work inspired by al-Nāṣir. As for the state policy regarding the
futuwwa in any case, al-Mustanṣir only continued the politics of his grand predeces-
sor. No meaningful distinction can be made between a Nāṣirian and a Mustanṣirian
futuwwa.
Ohlander further argues that rather than simply endorsing al-Nāṣir’s futuwwa re-
forms, Suhrawardī used his position as the Caliph’s emissary to promote his own form
of futuwwa. Ridgeon (Morals, pp. 64–65) evaluates Ohlander’s observation here as
being “most interesting”; yet a division between a Suhrawardian and a Nāṣirian fu-
tuwwa also belongs to the realm of imagination. It is true that Suhrawardī’s contribu-
tion to the Nāṣirī futuwwa is hard to delineate, but this is mainly because one cannot
think of the one without the other.
It was in fact Franz Taeschner, the Pied Piper of futuwwa studies, who interpreted
Suhrawardī’s political and ṣūfī activities in Asia Minor to be distinct from the Caliph’s
futuwwa. On the basis of linguistic peculiarities in one of Suhrawardī’s Persian epis-
tles on the futuwwa,20 Taeschner surmised that the futuwwa as represented by
18 See E. Ohlander, Sufism in the Age of Transition, pp. 292–302.

19 E. Ohlander, Sufism in the Age of Transition, p. 280.
20 Cf. Ṣarrāf, p. 94, where he uses akhī instead of futuwwat-dār and the classification of the fityān
into saifī and qawlī, common in the organisation of the akhīs, as well as the terms ṣāḥib (master,
patron) and tarbiyya (for the novice, instead of, for example, Ibn al-Miʿmār’s ṣaghīr and kabīr.

Suhrawardī was not identical with that of the Caliph. He inferred that this is a reflec-
tion of the close relations between the akhīs of Anatolia and Persia, even a futuwwa
of Suhrawardī’s own.21 However, Cahen and Breebaart22 showed that a consistent ter-
minology was not yet common among the Anatolian fityān in the 7th/13th century. Fur-
thermore and most importantly, Suhrawardī was in Anatolia on a mission on behalf of
al-Nāṣir to promote the caliphal courtly vision of the futuwwa, encouraging the local
rulers to join it; and that is exactly what he did.
Suhrawardī outlined the moral and practical imperatives of the futuwwa as twelve:
six outward and six inward. The outward signs are: bands of cloth (sexual restraint),
of stomach (rightful earning), of tongue, of hearing and seeing, of action (control of
what one does and where one goes), as well as of greed and high hopes. The inward
six signs are: generosity (sakhāwat), munificence (karam), humility (tawāḍuʿ), for-
giveness (ʿafw), nothingness (nīstī), and prudence (hushyārī) (Ṣarrāf, p. 96). This di-
vision finds its equivalent in the Anatolian Akhī organisations in which the rules to be
observed are reduced to three in each case. Taeschner took this as a sign that the fu-
tuwwa theory of the Akhīs was dependant on Suhrawardī’s teaching. 23
As Ohlander reports, it can be deduced from the manuscript copies of some of
Suhrawardī’s works (including the Idāla al-ʿiyān) that the license of audition (ijāza)
given to the students present at the shaikh’s Ribāṭ included the creed’s penultimate
article of faith, which reads:
We believe that the caliphate resides with the Quraish until the Day of Resur-
rection and that it will not be bestowed upon anyone else other than them. We
believe in the necessity of obedience to the Imām of the time, who is from the
Abbasids, and who grants the right to rule to those who govern on their behalf,
and we deem it necessary to fight one who revolts against the caliph (imām).24
The thorny problem of the relationship between secular rule and sacred power was the
main concern of Muslim political thinkers in that period. In the political theory of
government developed by intellectuals such as al-Māwardī and al-Ghazālī, the caliph,
in his amplitude of power, possesses an absolute supremacy both in the spiritual and
in the temporal sphere and grants the exercise of the temporal power to lay sovereigns
only in order to fulfil most properly his higher religious duties. Thus, a declaration of
faith such as the above is nothing but a reinvigoration of and adherence to the siyāsa
sharʿiyya political doctrine as developed in earlier days by al-Māwardī, al-Ghazālī,
and others, which al-Nāṣir had taken upon himself to re-impose. It is significance in
so far as it comes from the circle of a ṣūfī brotherhood and signals the readiness of its
21 F. Taeschner, “Eine Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī über die Futūwa”, p. 280.
22 Cl. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, pp. 196 ff.; A. Breebaart, “The development and structure of
the Turkish futūwah guilds”, pp. 109–139.
23 F. Taeschner, Zünfte, p. 230.
24 Aʿlām al-hudā, p. 91; Idālat, Ms. Bursa Ulu Cami 1597, fol. 85a–85b; quoted by E. Ohlander, p.
250.

38 Mohsen Zakeri
members for active involvement in state affairs. Similar sentiment has an echo in the
contemporary ṣūfī master Ibn ʿArabī (560–638/1164–1240) who, in his al-Futuḥāt al-
Makkiyya, recommends that the fatā must recognise the honour of rank and be sub-
missive to the sulṭān in all his acts, for he is the representative (nāʾib wa-khalīfa) of
Allāh on earth.25 The fatā should do everything the king expects from him, but not
expect his own wishes to be fulfilled (for if not on earth, he shall fulfil them in heaven).
Starting from this general affirmation, Abū Ḥafṣ Suhrawardī outlines a theory ac-
cording to which the three fields of Sufism, futuwwa, and caliphate form a unity: fu-
tuwwa as a sub-unit of Sufism, and Sufism in turn subordinate to the caliphate. In his
Risālat al-futuwwa,26 Suhrawardī speaks of Adam as God’s deputy on earth (khalīfat
Allāh fī al-arḍ) whose responsibility it is to spread justice (ʿadl) and to encourage his
children to build, do farming, and learn industries. Among them, only Shīth/Seth did
not engage in a profession and dedicated himself to the path of spirituality. Of course,
he did not abandon all handwork and rather learnt to do farming (in order to feed
himself) and weaving, particularly of ṣūf-cloth (in order to clothe himself), whence he
became the eponym of all ṣūfīs, the khalīfat Ahl Allāh. Thus, from the primordial
times, the world affairs are divided into two spheres, the apparent and the intrinsic,
the sacred and the profane, each complementing the other (Ṣarrāf, pp. 91–92).
Suhrawardī uses the term khalīfa (caliph) categorically for both Adam and Seth. Adam
spread the practical rules of the sharīʿa for ordinary Muslims, and Seth spread the
prayer rug of ṭarīqat (sajjādah-i ṭarīqat) for the people of the futuwwa and muruwwa.
This is why the old ṣūfī shaikh Junayd said: “Ṭarīqat is the essence of sharīʿat, and
ḥaqīqat (truth) is the essence of ṭarīqat” (Ṣarrāf, p. 93).
To better demonstrate the tripartite division of his concept and its further growth,
Suhrawardī resorts to a geographic scheme to visualise the mystic path: ṭarīqat is a
sea of which sharīʿat is the shoreline; and ḥaqīqat is a sea of which ṭarīqat is the
shoreline. One cannot navigate the sea without the science of navigation and geogra-
phic knowledge; this consists of the sciences of ṭarīqat in the sea of ḥaqīqat and of
futuwwat, which is a section of the sea of ṭarīqat. At the beginning in primordial times,
there was no distinction between ṭarīqat and futuwwat, up until the time of Khalīl
Allāh (i.e. The Friend of God; Abraham = Abū al-Fityān) when groups of impassion-
ate lovers of Allāh declared that due to their weaknesses, they were not capable of
fulfilling all the obligations demanded by the khirqa. Thence, Khalīl Allāh searched
and found an alternative path for them, namely the island of Futuwwat in the sea of
ṭarīqat, and asked these men to take that path in order to be secure from the tempta-
tions of Satan. The distinction between the two groups, the ṣūfīs and the fityān, was
then marked with the khirqa of the ṣūfīs and the underwear (zīr-jāma) of the Futuwwat
(Ṣarrāf, p. 94).
25 Al-Futuḥāt al-Makkiyya, ed. ʿUthmān Yaḥyā, Cairo 1992, IV, p. 59.

26 In Ṣarrāf, Rasāʾil-i Jawānmardān, pp. 89–102.

Furthermore, in his second treatise Kitāb fī al-Futuwwa,27 Suhrawardī defines fu-

tuwwat as the quintessence of sharīʿat, ṭarīqat, and ḥaqīqat; that is why Jawānmardān
(i.e. the adherents of futuwwat) said: futuwwat consists of three parts: sharīʿat, ṭarīqat,
and ḥaqīqat, for it encompasses all three. Added to this triad is maʿrifat (gnosis), and
again, futuwwat is the essence of all four (Ṣarrāf, pp. 105–106, 109, 111). Herewith,
the elemental relationship is established between ṭarīqat and futuwwat on the one hand
and the validity of both as a prerogative of God on the other hand. Thus, the three
institutions of Sufism, futuwwa, and the Caliphate receive their authority directly from
God’s original plan.
It is in the third chapter of the Idāla al-ʿiyān, under the title “On the relationship
between the honourable caliphate (al-khilāfa al-sharīfa) and mysticism (taṣawwuf)”,
that Suhrawardī defines al-khilāfa al-sharīfa as “the representative of God on earth,
for humanity (khalq) alone is incapable of finding its way to God.” For this reason,
God has chosen someone of their kind as deputy (wāsiṭa) between Himself and them.
He is the representative of God on earth (Khalīfat Allāh). Ibn Khaldūn puts this argu-
ment – regarding the necessity of the existence of a caliph in the same class with the
suppositions of those who see the caliphate as a necessity by reason and those who
assign the consensus (ijmāʿ) – only a second rank.28
Nothing is unusual in this announcement in comparison with the sharīʿa-based
enunciations of the caliph, except that Suhrawardī ignores the role of the ijmāʿ. As
Hartmann argues, his exclusion of the ijmāʿ was intentional, for in the following pages
(where he announces the imām as the only legitimate intermediary between God and
man), he comes close to the Shīʿī beliefs about the imām – to whom, due to his learn-
ing authority and charismatic role, they assign qualities which put him beyond any
need for consensus. In the same way in which the ṣūfī – when he has acquired the
honour or dignity of a shaikh (mashīkha or mashyakha) – becomes the mediator with
respect to the ṭālib or murīd (the seeker or willer who wants to be a novice), the imām
(= caliph) has a mediator function with God, too.
Suhrawardī’s view, according to which the function of the caliph is analogous to
that of the ṣūfī-shaikh, seems strange at first in terms of the established politico-his-
torical power relationships. This appears to be something new in the history of the
Sunnī caliphate theory, for Sufism had all along been treated with suspicion by the
ruling caliphs and the religious ʿulamāʾ, even after its half-hearted recognition under
al-Ghazālī’s theology. The change of opinion towards such heterodox groups was
made possible both by the widespread growth of ṣūfī lodges in the 6 th/12th century as
well as by the personal interests of the caliph.
For Suhrawardī, the absolute mediator role assigned to the caliph is evidence that
“the cause of the imām derives from God, and his judgement is God’s judgement”.
For the Sunnīs, the idea that God speaks directly through his agent on earth, that is,
27 Ṣarrāf, Rasāʾil-i Jawānmardān, pp. 103–166.

28 Cited by A. Hartmann, EI2, VII, 1000; Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddima, ed. Khalīl Shaḥḥāda, Beirut
1988, pp. 239–240.

40 Mohsen Zakeri
the caliph, is founded on the general precondition that the caliph is the guardian of
God’s revealed law (sharīʿa). Hence, Suhrawardī’s presentation could lead to the con-
jecture that by the formula “His judgement comes from God’s judgement”, he is trying
to win over Shīʿī circles. Suhrawardī deliberately formulates his ideas in such a gen-
eral form that the followers of both confessions would feel being addressed and that
their concerns have been taken into account. He consciously tries to outline religious
politics palpable to both the Sunnīs and the Shīʿīs.
Suhrawardī legitimises the legal position of the caliph in order to give advice to
the entire community of believers through the famous prophetic hadith: “He who
obeys me obeys God; and whoever rebels against me rebels against God; he who obeys
the Amīr al-Muʾminīn obeys me; and whoever rebels against him puts himself against
me” (cf. Qurʾān 4:49). It is true that the use of Qurʾānic citations and hadiths of this
sort – which are cited to justify political institutions as the basis for a systematic treat-
ment of the doctrine of the caliphate – is nothing new. According to al-Māwardī and
later on even Ibn Khaldūn, the caliph stands on the same level as the Prophet, with but
a single difference, namely that he cannot receive revelation from God. In other words,
the caliphate is defined as maintaining the authority of the Prophet for the protection
of religion, as well as the administration (siyāsa) of worldly duties.29 Al-Nāṣir seems
to have taken his claim to possess the heritage of the Prophet (mīrāth al-nubuwwa) –
not only like the majority of his predecessors in the sense of a rightful inheritor of the
ruling rank from the family of the Prophet, but also in the sense of an inherited re-
sponsibility, as the teaching authority for the divine law. He understood himself as a
performer of a religious policy that was open to the Sunnīs and the Shīʿīs.
Suhrawardī’s analogies with the ṣūfīs go further. After he made an analogy be-
tween the Ṣūfīs and the caliph, he now comes up with a second complement, namely
the caliph as a mystic. Just like the highest point to get to in Sufism is perfection
(kamāl), God has chosen the caliph because he is a perfect man. Perhaps in conse-
quence to this proposition, in the course of the 13 th century, the siyāsa sharʿiyya con-
cept of the caliph received a significant expansion in meaning. It was now used not
only in its political sense as a caliph or amīr al-muʾminīn, but also as a caliph in the
language of the brotherhoods. For example, in Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s conception of the
Perfect Man, the chief of the ṭarīqa is called “caliph”. One may also recall the slightly
later spiritual head of the Sarbadārān movement in Khorāsān famed as Shaikh-Khalīfa
(see below). In Suhrawardī and al-Nāṣir, the double meaning of khalīfa shows itself
theoretically and politically from the mystic and political sides.
The next analogy between Sufism and the caliphate consists of purity (al-ṣafā):
the people of mysticism (ahl taṣawwuf) are “the people of purity”, he says, and the
similarity between the caliph and the ṣūfīs is visible in that “the sublime caliphate (al-
khalīfa al-muʿaẓẓama) is the source of purity”. The core of Suhrawardī’s argument
forms the official sanctioning of Sufism and the futuwwa within the theory of the
caliphate; thus, he goes on to state:
29 H. Laoust, “La pensée et l’action politiques d’al-Māwardī”, p. 23.

The sublime caliphate is a book (daftar) of which taṣawwuf is a part; and ta-
ṣawwuf is a book of which the futuwwa is a part. The futuwwa is distinguished
by “pure morals” (al-akhlāq al-zakiyya), Sufism by a combination of pious
praxis and noble devotional litanies (awrād), and the honourable caliphate by
the unification of noble spiritual states (aḥwāl), pious praxis, and pure morals.30
Suhrawardī’s comparison of the caliphate with a “book” that covers taṣawwuf and
futuwwa in a subordinate way can be conveniently compared with his treatment of the
three grades of sharīʿa, ṭarīqa, and ḥaqīqa. Khilāfa and sharīʿa are the overarching
concepts and form a unity in their relationship to one another (as in all other Sunni
doctrines of the caliphate).
In the same vein, the futuwwat-khāna (the lodge or hospice of the fityān) relates
to the fatā/jawānmard like the khānaqāh to the ṣūfī – with the difference that ṣāḥib-i
futuwwat labours and earns money during the day, pays family costs, and with the rest
serves food to the needy in his hospice, but the khānaqāh is sponsored by non-ṣūfīs.
The futuwwat-khāna and the khānaqāh are always open to visitors who will receive
food and accommodation no matter who they are.
The master of the futuwwat always keeps an open table just as it is the custom
of the ṣūfī khānqāh. The futuwwat lodge (futuwwat-khāna) is also like the
khānqāh, although the master of the futuwwat establishes it through his own
toil, whereas someone else establishes the khānqāh – kings and princes build
most of them –, and it is questionable whether their finance is lawful or unlaw-
ful. The futuwwat renounces whatever is unlawful. Hence, the master of the
futuwwat is the builder of the futuwwat khāna, whereas the shaikhs and other
members [of the khānqāh] are parasites.31
It is not without some interest to compare this description with what Ibn Baṭṭūṭa ex-
perienced in Anatolia more than a century later:
An Akhī, in their idiom, is a man whom the assembled members of his trade,
together with others of the young unmarried men and those who have adopted
the celibate life, choose to be their leader. That is [what is called] al-futuwwa
also. The Akhī builds a hospice (zāwiya) and furnishes it with rugs, lamps, and
what other equipment it requires. His associates work during the day to gain
their livelihood, and after the afternoon prayer they bring him their collective
earnings; with this they buy fruit, food, and the other things needed for con-
sumption of the hospice. If, during that day, a traveler alights at the town, they
30 Idāla, fol. 89a-b; cf. E. Ohlander, pp. 280–281.

31 Suhrawardī, Futuwwat-nāma-duwwum, (Ṣarrāf, pp. 125–126); the last line in the text is confused:
instead of futuwwat-khāna, it repeats khānqāh; cf. Ridgeon, Moral, p. 65; id., Jawanmardi, p. 58.

42 Mohsen Zakeri
give him lodging with them; what they have purchased serves for their hospi-
tality to him and he remains with them until his departure. 32
Suhrawardī then outlines the ethical and practical morals of the futuwwa followers
with a number of moralising stories taken from the lives of the fityān. With this, he
closes his articulation of the theory of the caliphate and turns to the legendary origins
of the futuwwa, its obligations and ties with Sufism. By patronising and establishing
a direct relationship between the caliphate and mysticism through his viceroy, al-Nāṣir
created the possibility for himself to be accepted by a broad spectrum of people and
fraternal movements. This arrangement was beneficial for both the Caliph and the
Shaikh.
Ohlander (p. 281) questions whether a comprehensive alternative to the siyāsa
sharʿiyya discourse can be constructed out of these few points. Neither Suhrawardī or
Hartmann nor anybody else, for that matter, has claimed such an all-inclusive alterna-
tive. Suhrawardī based his exposition fully on the established parameters of the siyāsa
sharʿiyya and only extended them to embrace Sufism and the futuwwa; this novelty
is the aspect of his work that made his concept successful among the Anatolian Akhīs
and others in post-Mongol times, and this is worth to be noted in the history of political
thought in this period.
Suhrawardī was certainly not alone in his persuasion. There is a report about an
alleged encounter between Ibn ʿArabī and Suhrawardī in Baghdad. Yāfiʿī writes: “The
two masters and guides met each other. They stayed together for a while, with lowered
heads, and then parted without exchanging a single word. Subsequently Ibn ʿArabī was
asked: ‘What is your opinion of Suhrawardī?’ He replied: ‘He is impregnated with the
Sunna from tip to toe.’ Suhrawardī was also questioned as to what he thought of Ibn
ʿArabī. He replied: ‘He is an ocean of essential truth (baḥr al-ḥaqāʾiq).’”33 This anecdote
may, in any event, be evaluated as an attempt to popularise the legitimacy of Sufism
as part and parcel of Islam. During the period while Suhrawardī was underway from
court to court in Mesopotamia and Anatolia, Ibn ʿArabī was living in the region, and
there is a good chance that their ways might have crossed.
Ibn ʿArabī explains the spiritual aspect of the futuwwa as it is manifest in pro-
phethood: the Prophet’s death represents the end of prophethood because he is:
Sceau des prophètes. Mais c’est par cette futuwwa même qu’il veillera à ce que
le monde ne soit jamais dépourvu d’un héritier (khalīfa), dont la fonction sera
celle d’un pôle autour duquel l’univers continuera de tourner, et par qui la sain-
teté (walāya), les makārim et la gnose seront réservés et transmis … c’est par
32 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥlat Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, pp. 285–287; English translation, H.A.R. Gibb, The Travels of
Ibn Baṭṭūṭa (A.D. 1325–1354), 3 vols., Cambridge 1959–1971, II, pp. 418–420.
33 For details, see Cl. Addas, The Quest for the Red Sulphur, p. 240. A similar story has been told of
Suhrawardī visiting Bahā al-Dīn Walad in Konya, departing him with admiration but without
having exchanged a single word. See Aflākī, Manāqib al-ʿārifīn, 2 vols., ed. Taḥsīn Yāzījī, An-
kara 1976, I, p. 72.

la futuwwa que la continuité entre le Créateur et Sa création sera maintenue:

‘Le temps de la risāla (“mission”) et de la prophétie est terminé, mais la Révé-
lation continue par la voie de la futuwwa (wa baqiya l-vaḥyu futuwwa).’34
Ibn ʿArabī’s elaborations on the futuwwa ought to have had their impact on the active
life of the ṣūfīs as well.
A long discussion has been unfolded regarding the relationship between Shaikh
Shihāb al-Dīn ʿUmar Suhrawardī and Saʿdī, the poet of Shīrāz. Some of Saʿdī’s verses,
the authenticity of which has been questioned, seem to testify an encounter between
the two men. We know that Saʿdī’s patron Atābak Saʿd (d. ca. 623/1226), the ruler of
Shīrāz, entered the Nāṣirī Futuwwa.35 In 621/1224, a year before the Caliph al-Nāṣir
passed away, Saʿdī was living in Baghdad and taught at the Niẓāmiyya school. He
could have met the Shaikh and maybe even the Caliph. Wāʿiẓ Kāshifī attaches Saʿdī
directly with the futuwwa and notes that he was a pīr (spiritual master) of the trade
guild of water carriers (firqa-yi saqqāyān) who were honoured as ḥayāt bakhshān
(life-spenders). In the chain of honour of his own silsila (sanad-i futuwwa or
ʿahdallāh), Kāshifī includes Saʿdī who had received the futuwwa tradition as the nov-
ice (farzand) of Shihāb al-Dīn Suhrawardī.36 Kāshifī quotes a dozen poems by Saʿdī.
Saʿdī dedicated his Būstān (finished in 655/1257) to Muẓaffar al-Dīn, the son of Abū
Bakr b. Saʿd (623–658/1226–1259) and governour of Fārs; and a year later, in
656/1258, he dedicated his Gulistān to Saʿd b. Abū Bakr b. Saʿd. In these books, Saʿdī
has much to say about the fityān and jawānmardān.37 In the best tradition of his day,
he also composed a Naṣīḥat al-mulūk, a typical mirror for princes in form of a direct
epistle of advice (andarz-nāma) to a royal friend whom he does not name. It consists
of 150 wisdom sentences.38 This repeats the political ideas of the poet, as in his pre-
vious two books.39
The same or similar political concerns are depicted in the anonymous Persian his-
tory book Tārīkh-i Shāhī-i Qarākhtāʾiyān (wr. ca. 690/1291).40 It is divided into two
parts: Tadbīr mudun (management of cities) (pp. 1–90) and Tārīkh-i Kirmān (history
of Kirmān) (pp. 92–291). The first part takes its label from the Aristotelian domain of
political philosophy (the discourse on practical philosophy) and presents the author’s
perception of politics and ethics. In the second part, he tries to verify his viewpoints
by means of historical examples. As a whole, this is in form and content a book of
34 Layla Khalifa, Ibn Arabi: L’Initiation à la Futuwwa, Ibn Arabi: illuminations, conquêtes.
Beirut 2001, p. 17.
35 A. Hartrmann, an-Nāṣir, p. 107.
36 Cf. Wāʿiẓ Kāshifī, Futuwwat-nāma-yi sulṭānī, ed. M.J. Maḥjūb, Tehran 1350 š./1971, pp. 124,
295.
37 See Muḥammad Riḍā Shafīʿī Kadkanī, “Saʿdī dar silsila-yi jawānmardān”, in his Qalandariyya
dar tārīkh, Tehran 1386š./2007, pp. 527–536.
38 Kulliyāt-i Saʿdī, ed. M. ʿAlī Furūghī, Tehran 1385, pp. 1157–1176.
39 See a summary of discussions on Saʿdī and Suhrawardī’s ties in H. Katouzian, “Sufism in Saʿdī
and Saʿdī on Sufism,” pp. 191–202.
40 Anonymous, Tārīkh-i Shāhī Qarākhtāʾiyān, ed. M.I. Bāstānī Pārīzī, Tehran 1355š.

44 Mohsen Zakeri
advice or a mirror for princes in the tradition of naṣīḥat al-mulūk. The author was
under the spell of Saʿdī. The difference between the author of ‘The Royal History of
the Qarākhtāʾi Dynasty’ and Saʿdī is that the latter often supplements his political
viewpoints with moral anecdotes, whereas the author of the Royal History mainly uses
events of the past as historical experiences with which he seeks to bring the proper
rules of sovereignty close to the foreign sultan and his agents.
The impact of Suhrawardī’s theory of government

A survey of the history of political ideas in Iran reveals that Iranian political thought,
unlike its counterparts in the West, was increasingly based on mystical speculation
rather than pure rationality. The influence of Gnosticism was not only limited to the
arena of politics. The appeal and power of mystical contemplations reached out to an
extent that from the 7th/13th century onward, it became the main element of Muslim
civilisation. Many of the Islamic scholars who emerged after Suhrawardī and Muḥyi
al-Dīn Ibn ʿArabī were annotators of their works.
The Ṣūfī shaikh Najm al-Dīn Rāzī (d. 654/1256), known as Dāya, met al-Nāṣir’s
deputy Abū Ḥafṣ Suhrawardī in Malṭiyya [Malaṭya] and received a warm recommen-
dation from him for the Saljuq Sultan ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Kaiqubād. Najm al-Dīn Rāzī was
a disciple of Najm al-Dīn Kubrā (d. 618/1221), the founder of the Kubrawiyya Ṣūfī
brotherhood in Khorāsān. His “The Path of God’s Bondsmen’’ (Mirṣād al-ʿibād), in
particular its fifth chapter (pp. 409–548), is a “mirror for princes” in the tradition of
mystics. Najm al-Dīn Rāzī starts his section on “Sulūk-i mulūk wa arbāb-i farmān”
(Proper Manner of Kings and Commanders) (Mirṣād al-ʿibād, pp. 411–431) by divid-
ing the kings into two categories (the worldly and the religious kings) and describes
their respective characteristics. He adopts verses from the Qurʾān and outlines the
moral and practical qualifications of a just king in form of lengthy commentaries on
the verses. Thus, if a king (pādishāh) reins his lustful whim and treats his subjects
with affection and justice, he would deserve to be the deputy (khalīfa) of God on earth
(Mirṣād al-ʿibād, p. 420). This is an interesting point in that the book is addressed to
Sultan Kaiqubād of Rūm in 620/1223 – at a time when Caliph al-Nāṣir was still alive.
Another Kubrawī figure in this vibrant age of Sufism was ʿAzīz Nasafī (13th c.)
who composed several works in Persian on speculative mystic thought integrating
spirituality with philosophy. He incorporated a range of ideas into a coherent whole,
including those of Ibn ʿArabī and Najm al-Dīn Kubrā. Nasafī picked up the discussion
on the meaning of perfection and the ‘Perfect Man’ where Suhrawardī had left it and
gave it a crucial role in the formulation of his ideas. His notion of ‘perfection’ also
had a political side to it. In Nasafī’s mystic political scheme, the spiritual wayfarer
returns to earth from his ascent after having established a union with the source of all
goodness. He has achieved the highest degree of knowledge, has become perfect, and
knows what is best for the people, since he has climbed the ladder of perfection to the
peak of human cognition. According to Nasafī, a person who has reached that level of
realisation is a Perfect Man, and the people need him for advice and guidance: he is

the khalīfat Allāh on earth (Nasafī 1379, p. 78). Nasafī does not call for a life of se-
clusion, but rather shares the opinion that even the king (pādishāh) can set off on the
path of a spiritual journey, despite the fact that he is engaged in sorting out worldly
affairs. He says: “Journey is a search and the journeyman can be someone in the
church, in the khānaqāh, or on the throne of the king. Whoever is a seeker is a jour-
neyman.” In Nasafī’s mind, no contradiction exists between politics and spiritual ac-
complishment, for in the first place, politics must be the affair of a person who has
reached the summit of the path of perfection. Nasafī arrived at the idea of a Perfect
Man on the basis of his system of thought. He explains Gnosticism in a hierarchic
manner so that the person achieving the highest level of self-actualisation is neces-
sarily the Perfect Man. Since the source of all epistemological knowledge is only One
(God), for Nasafī, the one who achieves the highest level of recognition is the highest
person from an existential point of view. He states: “Oh dervish, there is a time when
the Perfect Man is the possessor of power, and he is a ruler (ḥakīm) or king
(pādishāh).” He does not encourage the engagement of dervishes with secular rulers,
but neither is he shy of seeing a dervish as a king. Nasafī’s penetrating reflections
encouraged mysticism-based political thinking in Iran. It seems that the trend set by
him continued and became the mainstream current. His political ideas, which can be
called ‘mystical-political thought’, certainly contributed to directing the mystics to-
wards politics.41
In the interlude between the Mongol invasions and the rise of the Safavids, Persian
works on the futuwwa, composed mainly for Dervish circles, set forth the futuwwa tradi-
tion of Shaikh Shihāb al-Dīn Suhrawardī in Iran. Najm al-Dīn Zarkūb’s (d. 712/1312)
Futuwwat-nāma (ed. Ṣarrāf, pp. 167–218), which follows Suhrawardī’s tradition, con-
tains details concerning the initiation ritual not found elsewhere. Using Suhrawardī’s
words, Zarkūb explains the position of the futuwwa in relation to the triad of spiritual
degrees of knowledge: sharīʿat, ṭarīqat, ḥaqīqat. Sharīʿat, which is ʿilm al-yaqīn (‘certain
knowledge’, e.g. believing in fire without having seen it), opens the gate of access to
ṭarīqat (‘mystic path’), which is ʿain al-yaqīn (‘the essence of certainty’, e.g. believing
in fire upon seeing it); ṭarīqat opens the gate of ḥaqīqat (‘spiritual reality’), which is ḥaqq
al-yaqīn (‘the truth of certainty’, e.g. the self becoming fire), and futuwwa, which is the
key to all of them. The ritualistic symbols and performances of the futuwwa are re-inter-
preted. The trousers (sarāwīl) of the futuwwa symbolise ʿiffat (‘decency’); the belt sym-
bolises shujāʿat (‘bravery’, i.e. the readiness to serve); water is a symbol for khirad or
‘wisdom’ and salt for ʿadālat (‘justice’).42
41 ʿIzz al-Dīn Nasafī, Bayān al-tanzīl, ed. Mīr Bāqirīfard, Tehran 1379; L. Ridgeon, “Nothing but
the Truth”, pp. 253–257; id., ʿAzīz Nasafī, Curzon 1998.
42 See E. Ohlander, “Inner-Worldly Religiosity”, pp. 14–35. It is to be noticed that Manṣūr b. Ar-
dashīr al-ʿAbbādī (d. 547/1152) had already used these three stages in his Ṣūfī-nāma, ed. Ghulām
Ḥusayn Yūsufī, Tehran 1347, pp. 198–199. Cf. also al-Qushayrī (d. 465/1072), al-Risāla al-Qushay-
riyya, ed. Cairo 1989, p. 199; Hujwīrī (d. 465/1072), Kashf al-maḥjūb, tr. R.A. Nicholson, Leyden
1911, pp. 381 f.

46 Mohsen Zakeri
ʿAlā’ al-Dawla Simnānī Abū al-Makārim Sulṭān al-Mutaʾallihīn (659–736/1261–

1336) was a spiritual descendant of the renowned ṣufī Najm al-Dīn Kubrā (540–
618/1145–1221; perished in the hands of Mongols), the founder of the Kubrawiyya order,
and had close ties with Ṣafī al-Dīn Ardabilī. His father Malik Sharaf al-Dīn served as a
vizier to the Mongol ruler Ghāzān Khān; he accompanied Arghūn for some time him-
self and accumulated great wealth. Later in life, he gave up worldly pleasures and
turned to the path of asceticism; his spiritual silsila goes through Abū Najīb
Suhrawardī. A Risāla fī al-futuwwa is attributed to Simnānī.43 This seems to be identical
with the section on the futuwwa in Āmulī’s (d. 753/1352) Nafāʾis al-funūn, so that its
authenticity is sometimes questioned. Simnānī has adopted several chapters of Ibn al-
Miʿmār’s Kitāb al-futuwwa and combined them with extracts from ʿAbd al-Razzāq
Kāshānī’s (d. ca. 730/1329) Tuḥfat al-ikhwān fī khaṣāʾiṣ al-fityān.44 Simnānī describes
the activities of the fityān as practiced during his time (p. 10). They maintained that
the Prophet prepared the ritualistic saltwater mix in three steps representing the three
stages of sharīʿat, ṭarīqat, and ḥaqīqat; he gave it to ʿAlī to drink, then put his trousers
on him and said: “Oh ʿAlī, I have made you perfect now (akmaltuka yā ʿAlī).” In a
similar manner, the initiated fatā becomes a ‘Perfect Man’.
Simnānī’s disciple Mīr Saiyid ʿAlī Hamadānī (713–786/1313–1384), who received
the libās al-futuwwa from Shaikh Muḥammad Adhkānī (d. 778/1376), followed suit by
his Persian Risāla-yi futuwwatiyya.45 For Hamadānī, the futuwwa forms an essential part
of the dervish system (faqr), and libās al-futuwwa, now consisting of a cap (kulāh) and
trousers (sarāwīl), is an integral part of the dervish outfit.46 He equates taṣawwuf with
futuwwa; the adherent of the futuwwa is referred to as akhī.47
Still in the 8th/14th century, the Shīʿī scholar Saiyid Tāj al-Dīn b. Muʿaiya was the
naqīb (deputy; spokesman) of the Shīʿīs in charge of performing the ceremony and of
handing out of libās al-futuwwa – a legacy that had remained in his family since the
time of al-Nāṣir. For some time, his authority in this honourable function was chal-
lenged by other members of the family so that the people of al-ʿIrāq were divided into
factions (aḥzāb) in their affiliation. Only after the contenders Fakhr al-Dīn b. Muʿaiya
and Naṣīr al-Dīn b. Quraish b. Muʿaiya died, Tāj al-Dīn became the sole authority,
and the ʿawāmm wa-khawāṣṣ, the commoners and the people of rank, referred only to
him for guidance and solutions of their disputes. As long as one of the members of
this family existed, the position of niqābat al-fityān remained in their house. Tāj al-
Dīn also bore the responsibility for dispensing khirqat al-taṣawwuf (‘patched robe’ or
distinctive ṣūfī cloak) all along, a position that was never disputed. 48
43 Ed. Qāsim Anṣārī, in Maʿārif-i Islāmī 4 (1366š.), pp. 19–36.

44 Ed. M. Dāmādī, Tehran 13692.
45 Ed. M. Molé, in Șarkiyat Mecmuasi 4 (1961), pp. 33–72; with an introduction in Turkish.
46 F. Taeschner, Zünfte, p. 240.
47 F. Taeschner, EI2, s.v. “Futuwwa”, II, p. 967.
48 Ibn ʿInaba (d. 828/1424), ʿUmdat al-ṭālib fī ansāb Abī Ṭālib, ed. Najaf 1960, pp. 171–172.

Breathing in line with Suhrawardī, Wāʿiẓ Kāshifī’s (d. 910/1505) Futuwwat-nāma-yi

sulṭānī49 is the most comprehensive of all Arabic and Persian treatises on the mystic fu-
tuwwa. This delightful book accommodates much rare and valuable information on ṣūfī
ethic, initiation rites, clothing, the bond between shaikh and murīd, etc. – among a number
of professional camaraderie groupings such as water-sellers (saqqāyān), weight-lifters,
wrestlers, poetry-reciters, story-tellers and entertainers of all sorts [Ibn al-Miʿmār had ex-
cluded some of these]. Above all, Kāshifī’s work shows that the futuwwa in its various
forms was still widespread in Iran towards the end of the 15th century.
From the 8th/14th century onwards, the title shāh (‘king’) was normally given to the
respectful heads of diverse ṣūfī orders. Mīr Saiyid ʿAlī Hamadānī (d. 786/1384) was
called Shāh of Hamadān, Saiyid Niʿmatallāh Walī (730–820/1330–1417) was Shāh
Niʿmatallāh, and Saiyid Qāsim Anwār (757–835/1356–1433) was Shāh Qāsim
Anwār. From earlier centuries, we know only of Shāh Shujāʿ Kirmānī (4th/10th cen-
tury). In later periods, first the Niʿmatallāhī guides (murshids) and then all Iranian
Shīʿī-ṣūfī schools add the attribute shāh to their names: Shāh Khalīlallāh Niʿmatallāhī,
Maʿṣūm ʿAlīshāh, Nūr ʿAlīshāh, Muẓaffar ʿAlīshāh, Majdhūb ʿAlīshāh, Mastʿalīshāh,
and others.
In general, it can be observed that the title of a King or Dervish-King was used for
the ṣūfī leaders who had tangible worldly power in addition to spiritual and esoteric
ranks. Mir Saiyid ʿAlī Hamadānī enjoyed an apparent authority and influence with
such reverence that he could publicly advise the kings of the time and even composed
a Book of Advice called “The Treasury of Advice for Kings” (Dhakīrat al-mulūk).
Although he was not a rebel, the rich and powerful feared him for the multitude of his
disciples who would not hesitate to pull out their swords on his behalf. Hamadānī
traced his family ties to the Shīʿī imāms, and the authentication of his khirqa reached
ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib; that is, he was a chief of the ʿAlawī futuwwa.
Culminating in the fall of Baghdad, Mongol invasions put an end to the Abbasid Ca-
liphate, but the courtly futuwwa which was by then so closely tied with it continued to
flourish in North Africa, Iran, Syria, and Anatolia. The Mamlūk Sultans of Egypt con-
tinued up to the 14th century to occasionally hand the futuwwa trousers to amīrs and
native notables.50 The most famous among them is Sultan Baybars, who was clothed
by the fleeing Abbasid prince al-Mustanṣir II in 659/1261,51 and from there on clothed
others himself. Baybars’ nominal restoration of the caliphate in Cairo had no other
goal but to acquire a measure of legitimacy for his own rule by installing the cousin
of the last Abbasid caliph. The most visible factor of this move was the establishment
and popularisation of the aristocratic futuwwa in Cairo. In 659/1261, Baybars let him-
self be initiated ceremonially into the futuwwa. From there on, the tradition spread
49 Ed. M.J. Maḥjūb, Tehran 1350 š./1971.

50 A.N. Poliak, Feudalism in Egypt, Syria, Palestine, and the Lebanon, 1250–1900, London 1939, p.
15.
51 Ibn al-Miʿmār al-Baghdadī, Kitāb al-Futuwwa, ed. Muṣṭafā Jawād et al., Baghdad 1958–1960,
p. 83.

48 Mohsen Zakeri
into Egypt and North Africa where it continued for several centuries. A good example
is the case of Berke Khan of the Golden Horde whose dominion extended over the
Kipchak steppes. When he lost most of his prestige after the defeat of Arigh Böke
(with whom he had made an alliance against other Mongol princes, including Hülegü),
he was anxious for an alliance with Baybars who had headed the only Muslim power
to successfully resist Hülegü. The members of an embassy sent by Berke to Baybars
for negotiations in 661/1263 were donned with the pants of the futuwwa. Baybars now
revived it to an institution of diplomacy. After al-Mustanṣir’s death in 660/1262, the
new Caliph al-Ḥākim was hastily endowed with the futuwwa, so that he could in turn
initiate the Golden Horde ambassadors.52
The chiefs who led the Mamlūk delegation to Berke Khān were Atābak Fāris al-
Dīn Āqqūsh al-Masʿūdī and ʿImād al-Dīn al-Hāshimī al-ʿAbbāsī. Both of them were
first received into the futuwwa by the new caliph in order to be able to act as his wakīls
before setting on the way.53 Wakāla, (‘deputyship’ within the futuwwa) means the
very honourable permission delegated to someone to execute the initiation ceremony.
In exceptional situations, it was possible for a non-fatā (not a member of the futuwwa)
to perform this role.
In eastern Iran, the organised ʿayyār militia demonstrated an impressive resourceful-
ness by confronting the invading Mongol armies in Khorāsān and later on provided sub-
stantial support to the emerging Kart dynasty in Harat (643–791/1245–1389). This in-
creased their popularity and prestige among the Iranian masses,54 an achievement the
ʿayyārs of other regions inherited. The Sarbadārids of western Khorāsān (758–
783/1357–1381), who rose in the wake of ineffectiveness and fiscal oppression by Mon-
gol governors and succeeded in dislodging the last of them from Iran, had close ties with
futuwwa circles. Significantly enough, their divine ṣūfī leader in Sabzawār was called
Shaikh Khalīfa (d. 736/1335), who had studied with Simnānī for awhile. Ibn Baṭṭūṭa
describes the early outlawry of the two brave brothers who inaugurated the Sarbadārid
movement in Baihaq in 737/1337 and says about their brotherhood that “they were futtāk
(‘assassins’), known as shuṭṭār in Iraq, sarbadārān (‘desperados’, literally ‘head-on-the
gallows’) in Khurasan, and ṣuqūra (‘hawks’) in Maghreb”.55 Great numbers of ʿayyārs
joined their rebellion from the very beginning. The egalitarian principles which they fol-
lowed (or at least claimed to follow) gave reason to some modern scholars to view this
régime as a robber state or a social revolutionary movement.56 The founder of this dynasty
52 P.M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades, New York 1993, pp. 94, 160.
53 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, al-Rawḍ al-zāhir fī sīrat al-Malik al-Ẓāhir, al-Riyāḍ 1976, p. 129; Peter Tho-
rau, Sultan Baibars von Égypten, ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Vorderen Orients im 13.
Jahrhundert, Wiesbaden 1987, pp. 147 f.; trans. P.M. Holt, The Lion of Egypt. Sultan Baybars I
and the Near East in the Thirteenth Century, London 1992.
54 M. Zakeri, “ʿAyyārān of Khorāsān and the Mongol invasion,” pp. 269–276.
55 Riḥla, ed. Beirut 1960, p. 383.
56 C.P. Melville, EI2, s.v. “Sarbadarids”, IX, pp. 47–49.

was ʿAbd al-Razzāq, whose attribute pahlawān (paladin) signifies his strength and affil-
iation with the jawānmardān/fityān groups.57 This dynasty was the first Shīʿī rule in
Iran.58 The last Sarbadār sultan, Najm al-Dīn ʿAlī Muʾaiyad, submitted to Tamerlane in
783/1381 and kept his position for another five years until he was killed in 788/1386; this
sealed the end of the dynasty.
In north Iran, Shaikh Zāhid Gīlānī (615–700/1217–1300), who traced his spiritual
silsila in the Suhrawardī line, created a ṣūfī order which his son-in-law Ṣafī al-Dīn Arda-
bilī inherited, and moved it from Gīlān to Ardabil. “There were a number of Akhis in
the time of Shaikh Ṣafī al-Dīn Ardabilī (1252–1334), the ancestor of the Safavid
Shahs, and some of them must be numbered among his own companions and follow-
ers. Notable amongst these is Akhī Sulaimān of Gilkhwārān, the father-in-law of the
Shaikh.”59 At least the names of 17 akhīs have been recorded in the entourage of
Shaikh Ṣafī. The background of the Ṣafawī shaikhs was firmly anchored in the akhī-
futuwwa movement.60 Like the Anatolian akhīs, their Iranian counterparts intervened
in politics. This can be seen in the example of Akhījūk who gained power in Tabriz
and Adharbāyjān for three years (758–760/1357–1359) until the Jalāyirid Shaikh
Uways conquered Tabriz.61
The militarisation of the Safavid ṣūfīs took a strong step forward in the hands of
Shaikh Junayd (d. 864/1459), a descendent of Shaikh Ṣafī al-Dīn. He was in fact the one
who formally announced his intention to establish a territorial kingdom. He lost his life
on this design, but his legacy was followed more effectively by his son Shaikh Ḥaydar
who created a powerful fighting force of ṣūfīs around himself. He lost his life, too, but
the Qizilbāsh bands he had organised proved to be a formidable force to his son Ismāʿīl.
By the time the Safavid Ismāʿīl set off to carve an empire for himself, the term ‘ṣūfī’ had
become equivalent to ghāzī, the warrior for the faith, and it completely lost its quietist
and mystical connotations.62
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57 See Beatrice Forbes Manz, Power, Politics and Religion in TiMurīd Iran, Cambridge 2007, pp.
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58 For a detailed study of this movement, see John Masson Smith, The History of the Sarbadar
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59 F. Taeschner, EI2, s.v. “Futuwwa”, II, 967.
60 B. Nikitine, “Essai d’analyse du Ṣafvat-uṣ-ṣafā [of Ibn Bazzāz, died 773/1371–1372]”, JA 245
(1957), pp. 385–394; here p. 393.
61 F. Taeschner, EI2, s.v. “Futuwwa”, II, 967.
62 For an overview, see H.R. Roemer, “Historische Grundlagen der persischen Neuzeit”, pp. 305–
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Conference of Iranian Studies, Cambridge 1995. Cambridge 1999, pp. 269–276.

Ahl-e Ḥaqq (Yāresān)

Some Remarks on the Early History of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
Philip G. Kreyenbroek
Göttingen
Dedicated to the Memory of

Sayyed Felekeddin Kakaʾi
Oral history is known for its propensity to compress and simplify the events of factual
history, so as to make them more easily memorable. At times, it can be shown to have
forced the events of history into a pre-existing mould.1 In Yezidi religious history, for
instance, various successors of Shaikh ʿAdi bin Musāfir were represented as his con-
temporaries and fellow members of a group of Seven Holy Beings (Heft Sirr) because
the religious tradition required the presence of such a group. 2
As long as we have sufficient information on actual history from other sources,
this phenomenon is interesting rather than problematic, but where no such objective
information is available the evidence that may be gleaned from essentially oral sources
can be tantalising. The early history of the Yāresān (also known as Ahl-e Ḥaqq, and
in the Autonomous Region of Kurdistan as Kākāʾi) is a case in point. There we have
a wealth of evidence from a sacred poetic tradition in a complex idiom,3 which alludes
to a body of knowledge that is taken for granted by members of the community but is
not necessarily known to the Western researcher. Secondly, we have the rich but
sometimes contradictory evidence from the oral tradition of the modern community.
Finally, some deductions can be made from the ritual tradition and priestly practice.
As far as hard evidence is concerned, the only thing available to us is a single
original written source, a waqf deed dated 1526 A.D.4 which mentions the Yāresān
holy figure Bābā Yādegār, calling him “the Lord Shaikh of the time, his Excellency
of holy epithets, Shaikh Yādegār, who is a follower of the descendants of ʿAlī… the
leader of the age, the knowledgeable one of the time and the period, a descendant of
a/the family of the Khāndān of Solṭān”5 – and stating that he lived in Sarā-ye Zarde-
1 On such features in Yezidi religious history, see Kreyenbroek 2008.

2 See Kreyenbroek 1995, pp. 27–39.
3 See Kreyenbroek and Chamanara 2013.
4 Attention was first drawn to the document by Mokri (1963).
5 Āqā-ye Šeyx-e zamān, jannāb-e moqaddas-alqāb Šeykh Yādegār, ke bande-ye owlād-e ʿAlī Abu
(sic) Ṭāleb mibāšad… pišwā-ye dowrān wa ʿāref-e zamān (wa) *aṣr, *salāle-ye dudmān-e

56 Philip G. Kreyenbroek
ye Yazdejerdi, i.e. “Sarā(y) of Zarde of Yazdegerd”, which may refer to present-day

Sarāne near Zarde in the Gūrān region. Bābā Yādegār’s shrine at Sarāne is still a major
place of pilgrimage, and the Gūrān area remains one of the heartlands of the Yāresān
religion.
We know that Bābā Yādegār (and also, presumably, his rival Shāh Ebrāhīm) had
some kind of connection with Solṭān Sahāk (Solṭān Esḥāq) who is regarded as the
founder of Yāri (i.e. the Yāresān religion) in its present form. Many accounts of early
Yāresān history claim that the religion first developed in Lorestan, to the south of the
Gūrān region, during the period of Shāh Khoshin, but at this early stage, the religion
is said to have been secret.6 However that may be, the figure of Solṭān Sahāk is pivotal
in the history of the Yāresān community. According to the tradition, Solṭān Sahāk
migrated from Barzinja (in the Shahrezor district in the present-day Autonomous Re-
gion Kurdistan) to nearby Perdiwar in the Hawramān region in Iran, which can be
reached from Sharezor by a path across the mountains. It is at Perdiwar that the Yāri
religion is said to have become manifest and to have acquired its present form, and
the sanctuary of Solṭān Sahāk at Perdiwar is still a much-visited place of pilgrimage.
It is interesting to note, however, that the birthplace of modern Yāri, the Hawrāmān
region, is now solidly Sunni. No Yāresān communities are to be found there. Further-
more, the language of the sacred texts of the Yāresān, the kalāms, is an intriguing
mixture of linguistic features, deriving from a range of local languages and dialects;
it seems that it is based on the speech of the Gūrān area,7 whereas the peculiar features
of the Hawrāmi dialect8 are scarcely ever found there. We have reliable information, 9
moreover, that the forms of Gūrānī (or Mācho) spoken by Kākāʾi communities in the
Autonomous Region of Kurdistan are similar in many ways to the Gūrānī dialect of
Zarde.
There is considerable evidence, then, to suggest that, beside Perdiwar in
Hawrāmān, the Gūrān region also played a key role in the development of Yāri, even
though the tradition itself generally suggests that the religion emerged fully developed
from Perdiwar. The question becomes particularly relevant in connection with the key
figures, Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm, and with the development of the Khāndāns,
the system of priestly lineages whose members act as spiritual authorities. Nowadays,
xāndān-e Solṭān, Šeyx Yādegār. Translation by the present author, in the light of Mokri’s inter-
pretation, from a copy published online under https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=
756079157747473&set=pcb.756084587746930&type=1&theater.
6 Information for which no reference is given is based on oral information collected during the
present writer’s research for Kreyenbroek and Kanakis (forthcoming).
7 See Kreyenbroek and Chamanara 2013.
8 Thus, Literary Gūrānī generally has neither gender or cases nor the use of a genitival ezāfe in -u.
For a grammar of Hawrāmi, see Mackenzie 1966.
9 I am indebted for this information to Dr Parwin Mahmoudveysi, a native speaker of Hawrāmi
and a long-time student of all related dialects.

Some Remarks on the Early History of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq 57
most Yāresān recognise eleven Khāndāns.10 Seven of these lineages, including those
of Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm, are said to have originated in Perdiwar.
Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm are often counted among the Haft Tan (Seven
Beings), venerated figures who embodied the seven Archangels at the time when
Solṭān Sahāk was in Perdiwar. As is well known, the Yāresān believe in a cyclical
course of history, in which a number of essential features of the time of Creation are
believed to recur on earth again at the beginning of each new cycle or “period”
(Dowre) of history. Thus at Creation, God evoked the Seven Beings, celebrated a jam
ritual with them and made a Pact (Bayāwbast), leaving the running of the world to the
Seven. The crucial period for modern Yāresān, as we have seen, is the Dowre of Solṭān
Sahāk, when all Seven Beings were present on earth in human form and the foundation
of the Yāresān religion was renewed. In Yāri accounts – as in Zoroastrianism –, this
group of seven typically consists of four great male 11 beings – the Four Angels (Chār
Malak) – together with one female angel and twin beings. A prominent list of the
names of the Seven during the Dowre of Solṭān Sahāk (whose contents receive some
confirmation from the sacred texts)12 gives Ramzbār as the female archangel and
Ruchyār and Aywat as the twin beings. The Four Angels, as described in the Yāresān
tradition, still bear a striking resemblance to ancient Iranian divinities: 13
– Benyāmin (//Mithra)
– Dāwūd (//Verethraghna)
– Pīr Musi (// Tiri)
– Moṣṭafā (//Vāyu)
While the Haft Tan are the “spiritual” Heptad that is in charge of this world, Yāri is
exceptional among “Iranian” religions in that it believes in a second, more “material”
or “earthly” Heptad, the Haftawāne. Among some members of the community, the
latter group is regarded as less prestigious than the Haft Tan.14
The problem with all this is that, besides the list of Haft Tan given above, different
lists of names also circulate in the community. One of the most obvious differences is
that some lists omit the name of Moṣṭafā, the Angel of Death, and substitute that of
10 The followers of Ḥāji Neʿmatollāh Jayhunābādi allegedly believe that his is the 12 th Khāndān,
and some Gūrāni Yāresān make similar claims about Sayyed Birāke, see Kreyenbroek and Ka-
nakis (forthcoming).
11 In Zoroastrianism, one of the seven Ameša Spentas, Aša Vahišta, is grammatically neuter.
12 See e.g. the Kalām-e Kałezarde (Taheri 2007, pp. 516–521), where the stanzas are attributed to
these figures.
13 See Kreyenbroek 1992. The names of these four beings are often mentioned together as a group.
Each is said to have a special link to one of the ‘elements’: earth, water, fire, and earth. See
Kreyenbroek and Kanakis, (forthcoming).
14 Certain modern Kākāʾi communities now refer to all Sacred Beings as Haftawāne, which shows
that this distinction is not universal in the later community. I owe this information to Mrs Prshng
Felekeddin Kakayi.

Khāwankār (God) or Solṭān Sahāk.15 Bābā Yādegār is sometimes listed as a member

of the Haft Tan of this Dowre, and some add the name of Shāh Ebrāhīm. In some
cases, Shāh Ebrāhīm and Bābā Yādegār seem to have replaced Aywat and Ruchyār.16
In the Yāri worldview, the hallmark of a major Dowre (such as that of Solṭān Sa-
hāk),17 is that all seven Archangels were incarnate at its beginning, so that they could
repeat the primordial jam ceremony during which God concluded a Pact with the Se-
ven. This logically implies that all members of a particular Heptad lived at the same
time. In other words, if Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm were members of the original
Haft Tan, they must have been contemporaries of Solṭān. The seven original
Khāndāns, including those of Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm, are said to have been
instituted at Perdiwar.18 According to Hamzehʾee,19 three of the ancient Khāndāns
were founded by members of the Haft Tan, namely Bābā Yādegār, Shāh Ebrāhīm, and
ʿĀlī Qalandar (the others are said to have been founded by members of the
Haftawāne). Interestingly, traditions vary as to whether ʿĀlī Qalandar lived before20
or after21 Solṭān Sahāk established the Khāndāns; there appears to be no suggestion in
the Yāri tradition that ʿĀlī Qalandar and Solṭān Sahāk were contemporaries. Thus, the
inclusion of ʿĀlī Qalandar in the list of Haft Tan may reflect the beliefs of a later age,
which in turn casts some doubts on Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm’s occasional
presence on such lists.
If we cannot place Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm firmly in Perdiwar, therefore,
it may be useful to examine the evidence that they spent some of their time in Gūrān.
Apart from the hard evidence of the waqf deed, there is also a strong tradition placing
Bābā Yādegār in Gūrān. Similarly, there are many traditions stating that Shāh Ebrāhīm
came to Gūrān from Baghdad. At that point, there are several versions of what oc-
curred: the followers of the “line” (see below) of Bābā Yādegār say that Shāh Ebrāhīm
killed Bābā Yādegār, while some of the followers of Shāh Ebrāhīm deny this.22
The Yāresān community is often divided into the “lines” of Shāh Ebrāhīm and
Bābā Yādegār, as all other Khāndāns are originally held to be subdivisions of the
Khāndāns of Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm. The founders of the other Khāndāns
are sometimes said to have been “outer” (ẓāher) incarnations of either Bābā Yādegār
15 Cf. Hamzehʾee 1990, p. 99.

16 According to Ṣafizāde (1375, p. 277; 1376, p. 124), Aywat is identical with Shāh Ebrāhim; ac-
cording to Hamzehʾee (1990, p. 211), Aywat was a name of Bābā Yāgedār.
17 It is believed that in some other, lesser “Periods”, only a few of the Haft Tan were present on
earth.
18 Hamzehʾee 1990, pp. 205–216; Mir-Hosseini 1996, pp. 122–123.
19 Hamzehʾee 1990, p. 211.
20 Hamzehʾee 1990, p. 206.
21 So Ṣafizāde 1376/1997, p. 306, citing Nur ʿAlī Elahi’s Borhān al–Ḥaqq (Elahi 1354/1975).
22 The version given by Ḥāji Neʿmatollāh (Jayḥunābādi/Mokri 1966, pp. 521–523), who was a fol-
lower of Shāh Ebrāhim, states that Shāh Ebrāhim had once intended to become the leader of the
community as a successor to Solṭān, but that God blamed him for his arrogance and preferred
Yādegār. After this, the two are said to have become reconciled. Later Shāh Ebrāhim died and
Bābā Yādegār led the community until his own death.

or Shāh Ebrāhīm (Bābā Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm themselves representing the “in-
ner” reality of those figures). When a person is initiated into a Khāndān of the Bābā
Yādegāri “line”, the Pīr who accepts him or her as his Murīd (“disciple”) states as part
of the liturgy that “Bābā Yādegār is on the throne” (Bābā Yādegār bar takhtan);
Khāndāns of the Shāh Ebrāhīmi “line” say: “Pīr-e Shāh Ebrāhīm bar takhtan.”23 In
other words, although there are many Khāndāns, the essential division is that between
those who follow the line of Shāh Ebrāhīm and the followers of Bābā Yādegār. A
certain animosity between the two groups is still perceptible when they meet in a re-
ligious setting.
All traditions seem to agree that whatever occurred between Bābā Yādegār and
Shāh Ebrāhīm happened in Gūrān. The Introduction to the Daftar-e Diwān-e Gewre-
ye Perdiwari offers the following account:24
Bābā Yādegār is at one with the Dowre of Solṭān, and he had the very Essence
of Solṭān… After (Solṭān) had bestowed on Yādegār the “leaf of being of his
own colour” (barg-e xodrangi),25 (i.e. the colour of Solṭān), and had recognised
him as his own “commemorator” (Yādegār) and replacement, Solṭān drew a
curtain over Perdiwar. The well-known groups and others were afflicted by the
iniquities of the Sunnis, and did not have the strength to maintain themselves
there. They fled, each (group) going its own way. Bābā Yādegār, for whom
Sarāne and Dālāhu had been appointed (as places to live) in the Presence of
Solṭān, was forced to move from Perdiwar to Sarāne at an early age, and he
lived there all his life. The coming of Shāh Ebrāhīm from Baghdad to achieve
a resolution, and its result, are well known.
Bābā Yādegār is widely referred to as Solṭān’s successor, but his group was not the
only one to move from Mt. Shāhu to Mt. Dālāhu, i.e. from Hawrāmān to Gūrān. In a
Kalām entitled “The birth of Shāh Ebrāhīm”,26 we hear that Solṭān ordered Ebrāhim’s
father, Sayyed Mohammad, to migrate to Dālāhu (i.e. Gūrān) with his household, his
animals, and all his people. His wife, Khātun Zaynab, complains bitterly about this,
as she cannot bear to abandon the loveliness of Mt. Shāhu, and to leave her family.
She begs her husband not to obey the order. Needless to say, her pleading is in vain,
and the family moves to Gūrān. In a later stanza, she urges her husband to migrate to
Shahrezor,27 apparently proposing to take the route across the mountain since a return
to Perdiwar is impossible. A little later, the text refers to the birth of Ebrāhim who is
23 Information from Sayyed Fereydoun Hosseini, verbal communication, Göttingen, June 2008.
This phrase is not mentioned in Hamzehʾee’s version of the prayer in question (Hamzehʾee 1990,
p. 210).
24 Anon. 1387/2008, pp. 10.
25 This expression denotes that Solṭān bequeathed his Essence (zāt) to Yādegār, or declared him to
be of the same Essence.
26 Tāheri 2007, pp. 915–923.
27 Wirēz sā bilmē parē Šarazür, “So get up, let us go to Shahrezor”, Taheri 2007, p. 917.

“wrapped in a shawl from Hāwār”. 28 The village of Hāwar (on which see further be-
low), is located in Shahrezor near the mountain path to Perdiwar. The passage suggests
that the early Yāresān community continued to have contacts with Shahrezor.
However this may be, clearly it was not just Bābā Yādegār and his followers who
moved south to Gūrān; Shāh Ebrāhīm’s family also migrated there, which suggests
that their move to Gūrān may have been part of a mass migration of Solṭān’s followers
away from Perdiwar, presumably some time after the death of Solṭān, who is buried
at Perdiwar. Had the community already been split into two rival Khāndāns, one might
have expected these groups to migrate to different places. A united move, on the other
hand, suggests that the early community was not yet divided along these lines. (As we
shall see below, one group in fact did move elsewhere.) This may imply that Khāndāns
were not yet a feature of the Perdiwar community. In fact, the overriding authority of
Solṭān Sahāk would have made it difficult for strong affiliations to other authority
figures to develop while he was alive. This hypothesis receives some support from the
fact that in the waqf deed mentioned earlier, Bābā Yādegār is referred to as being “of
a family belonging to the Khāndān of Solṭān”, which seems to imply that the followers
of Solṭān were thought of as a single Khāndān.
The alternative scenario, namely that the different Khāndāns developed after Sol-
ṭān’s death, appears to be corroborated by the fact that only one of the great figures of
the “original” list of Haft Tan of the time of Solṭān, Moṣṭafā,29 could possibly have
been the founder of a Khāndān; none of the other great names are reflected by the
Khāndān system.
Further evidence to suggest that the Khāndān system did indeed originate in
Gūrān is provided by the tradition of an unusual group of Yāresān who call themselves
“Perdiwari”, saying they came from Perdiwar. On 21 November 2009, through the
good offices of the late, lamented Sayyed Felekeddin Kākāʾi, then Ms Parwin
Mahmoudveysi and the present writer were taken to meet the inhabitants of the vil-
lages of Hāwār, Hāwāra Kon, and Derre Tuē, which lie on the Iraqi side of the border,
close to the mountain path that leads to Perdiwar in Iran. In view of their detailed
knowledge of both teachings and rituals of Yāri, there is no doubt that the Perdiwaris
are indeed followers of Solṭān Sahāk, but their cult differs from all others known to
this writer on a number of important points:
– They appear to be the only Kākāʾis who do not speak a form of Mācho, but
only Kurdish.
– Their jam ritual is very similar to that of other communities, and they recite
the kalāms or parts of those texts (nas̄r) but without music. In fact they have
no tanbur (the sacred instrument of other Yāresān communities). They say
they have lost their musical tradition.
28 Tifl mapēčā we šāl-e Hāwār, Tāheri 2007, p. 918.

29 Hamzehʾee (1990, p. 207) presumably following Jayḥunābādi (1966), states that Moṣṭafā was a
member of the Haftawāne, no the Haft Tan, of the Dowre of Sahāk.

– While most Iranian Yāresān now associate Sheyṭān with Dāwūd, who seems
to represent Mithra’s helper Verethraghna, this group insisted that Sheyṭān
was Binyāmin (//Mithra), which in the present writer’s view is the original
identification. It is possible that this view is also held by other Kākāʾis in
Northern Iraq.30
– They do not believe in a distinction between the Haft Tan and the Haftawāne,
a point that brings their theology close to that of Zoroastrianism and
Yazidism, but distinguishes it from that of many other Yāresān.
– Their Qible or “direction of prayer” is Perdiwar.
– They have Sayyeds, but no Khāndāns. When referring to that concept, they
speak of shākh (“branch”), instead of khāndān. They say that their Shākh “is
Perdiwar”.
It seems clear that the Perdiwaris had no contact with other Yāresān for a long time,
and that their religious lives developed along different lines from those of other Yā-
resān communities. The key question is, at what stage in the community’s develop-
ment this difference arose. It is remotely possible that the ancestors of the present-day
Perdiwari community originally spoke a form of Gūrāni, had a developed musical
tradition, identified Dāwūd with Sheytān, believed in a distinction between the Haft
Tan and the Haftawāne, and had a fully developed system of Khāndāns, but changed
all this in the course of time. If this were the case, however, it is difficult to account
for the fact that such essential features as the Khāndān system and the veneration of
the tanbur simply disappeared in this one community, particularly since many other
common ritual and doctrinal features of Yāri are fully preserved there. This is all the
more problematic because the community lives only a short distance away from the
sanctuary of Solṭān Sahāk, which probably never ceased to be a place of pilgrimage
for the entire community. Thus, they presumably had every opportunity to seek the
help and advice of other Yāresān communities, had they felt the need to do so.
The obvious alternative scenario is that, when the community was forced to leave
Hawrāmān, most Yāresān moved south to Gūrān. They settled there, adopted the local
language, and lived as a coherent community long enough for major developments in
ritual and doctrine to become deeply rooted in their culture. Some descendants of this
group later moved to various places in Iraqi Kurdistan, where their speech continues
to reflect their Zardeʾi origin. At least one group, however, did not follow this route
but took the mountain path into the Shahrezor region, settled on the western side of
the mountain and developed along its own lines without having contact with other
communities for a long time. It is plausible to assume that they felt no need to do so
because they regarded themselves as the true heirs of Perdiwar. If this is true, the
30 This view is also heard occasionally from other Kākāʾis from roughly the same region. (Sayyed
Khalil Kākāʾi from Khāneqin made the same identification in an interview with Ms Mahmoud-
veysi, Khāneqin, 7 Dec. 2009). More research is necessary.

Perdiwari community can be taken to have preserved a pre-Gūrāni phase in the devel-
opment of Yāri.
The fact that the Perdiwaris have Sayyeds but no Khāndāns could then imply that,
while Sayyeds formed part of the early community’s religious life, the Khāndān sys-
tem was not yet fully developed at this stage. 31 Given the central position of Bābā
Yādegār and Shāh Ebrāhīm (both of whom are associated with a migration to “Mt.
Dālāhu”) in the Khāndān system, and the fact that the tradition clearly suggests that
there was an element of rivalry between them, we might conclude that there was in-
deed a migration from Hawrāmān to Gūrān; that Bābā Yādegār flourished there as a
community leader around 1526; and that his authority came to be disputed by Shāh
Ebrāhīm, who had lived in Baghdad for some time but returned to Gūrān to claim a
position of authority there. The resulting conflict, it seems, split the community, in-
cluding the Sayyeds, who pledged allegiance to either of the two leaders. Eventually,
those two leaders came to occupy such an exalted place in the community’s memory
that they were associated with the chief objects of veneration of the age, the Haft Tan.
The origin of the Yāri Khāndān system could in fact be sought in this rift, which split
the Sayyeds into two different camps; the further elaboration of the system may have
been the result of a continuation of a tendency for leading Sayyeds to claim a degree
of autonomy, and thus to become founders of a new Khāndān.
The strength of this hypothesis is that it seems to account for most of the facts (the
historical role of ʿĀlī Qalandar remains shrouded in mystery); the downside is that,
given the nature of the evidence, it must of necessity remain speculative.
Bibliography
Anon, Daftar-e Diwān-e Gewre-ye Perdiwari (The Book of the Great Collection of Perdiwari
Kalāms), copied by Kāki ʿAzizpanāhi Tutshāmi, no place, 1387/2008.
Elahi, Nūr ʿAlī, Borhān ol-Ḥaqq (Demonstration of the Truth), Tehran, 1354/1975.
Jayḥunābādi, Ḥājj Neʿmatollāh, Shāh-nāma-ye Ḥaqīqat [French: Le Livre des Rois de Vérité:
Histoire traditionelle des Ahl-e Ḥaqq], vol. I, ed. by M. Mokri, Tehran/Paris, 1966.
Kreyenbroek, P.G., “Mithra and Ahreman, Binyamin and Malak Tāwus: traces of an ancient
myth in the cosmogonies of two modern sects”, in: Ph. Gignoux (ed.), Recurrent Patterns
in Iranian Religions; from Mazdaism to Sufism, Paris, 1992, pp. 57–79.
–, Yezidism: its Background, Observances and Textual Tradition, Lewiston NY, 1995.
–, “History in an Oral Culture: The Construction of History in Yezidi Sacred Texts”, The
Journal of Kurdish Studies VI, 2008, pp. 84–92.
Kreyenbroek, P.G. & C. Allison (eds.), Kurdish Culture and Identity, London, New Jersey,
1996.
31 An alternative explanation could be that all the Sayyeds who accompanied this group on its mi-
gration belonged to the same Khāndān, so that no need was felt to specify their lineage, and this
was gradually forgotten. On the other hand, if the question of a community’s Khāndān had been
as important as it is among most modern Yāresān, such a simple and significant fact would have
been unlikely to be forgotten.

Kreyenbroek. P.G. & B. Chamanara, “Literary Gūrānī: Koinè or Continuum?”, in: H. Bozarslan
and C. Scalbert-Yucel (eds.), Joyce Blau, l’éternelle chez les Kurdes, Paris, 2013, pp. 151–
168.
Kreyenbroek, P.G. & Y. Kanakis, God First and Last: Religion and Music of the Yāresān of
Gūrān, Wiesbaden (forthcoming).
MacKenzie D.N., The Dialect of Awroman (Hawraman-i Luhon), Copenhagen, 1966.
Mir-Hosseini, Z., “Faith, ritual and culture among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq”, in: P.G. Kreyenbroek & C.
Allison (eds.), Kurdish Culture and Identity, London, New Jersey, 1996, pp. 111–134.
Mokri, M., “Étude d’un titre de propriété du début du XVIe siècle provenant du Kurdistan”,
Journal Asiatique 1963, pp. 229–256.
Ṣafizāde, Ṣ., Nāmāwarān-e Yāresān [Famous Ones among the Yāresān], Tehran, 1376/1997.
Van Bruinessen, M., When Haji Bektash Still Bore the Name of Sultan Sahak: Notes on the Ahl-
e Ḥaqq of the Guran District, 1995, URL: http://www.let.uu.nl/~martin.vanbruinessen/
personal/publications/Bruinessen_Haji_Bektash_Soltan_Sahak.pdf.

Between Dersim and Dālahū
Reflections on Kurdish Alevism and the Ahl-e Ḥaqq Religion1
Martin van Bruinessen

Utrecht
Is Alevism Turkish or Iranian?

In the scholarly literature on the religions of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq, Yezidi, and Alevi (Kı-
zılbaş) communities, it has been common to highlight the influence of pre-Islamic
Iranian religion (vernacular Zoroastrianism or Mazdaism) on the former two as well
as of old Turkic religion (‘shamanism’) on the third, while acknowledging that be-
neath the surface, the three have a number of important institutions, beliefs, and prac-
tices in common that distinguish them from Sunni Islam. The publication of sacred
texts which had long been kept cautiously hidden from outsiders appeared to
strengthen the division between Iranian- and Turkish-tinged syncretisms, for the old-
est and most ‘authentic’ Ahl-e Ḥaqq texts are written in Gūrānī (and more recent im-
portant texts in Persian), the sacred poetry of the Yazidis is in Kurmanji, and their
alleged sacred books have come to us in a form of Sorani, whereas the vast corpus of
Kızılbaş sacred poetry as well as their only ‘book,’ the Buyruk, are in Turkish.2 Un-
derstandably, scholarship on the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and Yazidis has been dominated by
scholars with a background in Iranian studies, whereas the study of Alevism long re-
mained the domain of Turkologists. As a result, the Iranian elements in the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
and Yezidi religions have received more attention than possible historical connections
with Alevism, and in Turkey, the alleged Central Asian Turkish origins of Alevi reli-
gious institutions, beliefs, and practices were elevated into an unassailable dogma.
1 An earlier and shorter version of this paper was published in Mehmet Öz & Fatih Yeşil (eds),
Ötekilerin peşinde. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak'a armağan/In pursuit of the Others: Festschrift in honor
of Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Istanbul: Timaş, 2015, pp. 613–30.
2 Mohamed Mokri has published a large corpus of Ahl-e Ḥaqq kalām in Gūrānī (with translation
and commentary) as well as a major text in Persian by the Ahl-e Ḥaqq reformer Niʿmatullāh
Jayhūnābādı̄ ; earlier, Vladimir Ivanow had published a substantial Persian Ahl-e Ḥaqq text with
translation. Philip Kreyenbroek (in co-operation with the Yezidi pīrs Khidr Silêman and Xelīl
Jindī) published, translated, and analysed a large corpus of Yezidi sacred poetry (qawl). In Tur-
key, Abdülbāki Gölpınarlı and others have brought much Alevi-Bektashi material into the public
domain, especially hagiographies (menākıbnāme) and sacred poetry (deyiş, nefes). Hardly any of
this material is available in languages other than Turkish.

66 Martin van Bruinessen
There were a few studies that cut through the seemingly neat Iranian-Turkish di-
chotomy. One of the leading experts on old Turkish religion, Jean-Paul Roux, com-
mented that he recognised numerous Turkish elements in the Gūrānī texts published
by Mokri.3 More importantly, the pioneer of Ahl-e Ḥaqq studies, Vladimir Minorsky,
has pointed to the Turcoman Qaraqoyunlu empire, which in the mid-15th century con-
trolled Azerbaijan, Persian and Arab Iraq, as well as most of Kurdistan, as the cradle
of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq religion.4 Minorsky was fascinated by the emergence of new polit-
ical, cultural, and religious formations in the region, where Turkish and Iranian (as
well as Armenian and Aramaic) cultures interacted in the 15th to16th centuries. He was
also the first scholar to point to a surviving Turkish-speaking Ahl-e Ḥaqq community
in Azerbaijan named Qaraqoyun.
The Qaraqoyunlu ruler Jihanshah wrote poems in Turkish as well as in Persian,
with expressions in Arabic and references to the Qurʾān; although the backbone of his
empire was a confederacy of Turcoman tribes, his subjects and followers included
various ethnolinguistic groups.5 Half a century later, the Safavid Shah Ismaʿil, who
was the major formative influence on Anatolian Alevism, drew upon the same or an
even wider range of religious and ethnic resources. All his known poems (which are
considered sacred by the Kızılbaş) are in Turkish, but he is also said to have written
in Persian as well.6
Turkish scholarship, from Fuad Köprülü onwards, has long tended to prioritise the
Central Asian origins of Anatolian Alevism, focusing on the (Central Asian) Yeseviye
Sufi order and the role of the bābā – Turcoman religious leaders somehow connected
with that order – in shaping Anatolia’s religious syncretism.7 Studies dealing with the
rise of the Safavids in Anatolia stressed the Turkish character of the Kızılbaş move-
ment.8 The facts that even now, a considerable proportion of the Anatolian Alevis is
not Turkish but Kurdish (including speakers of Zaza as well as Kurmanji), that the
3 Jean-Paul Roux, ‘Les Fidèles de Vérité et les croyances religieuses des Turcs’, Revue de l’histoire
des religions 176(1) (1969), pp. 61–95.
4 V. Minorsky, ‘Jihan-Shah Qara-Qoyunlu and his poetry’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and
African Studies 16(2) (1954), pp. 271–297. Referring to the Turkish-speaking Ahl-e Ḥaqq com-
munity of the district still named Qaraqoyun in Maku, West Azerbaijan, Minorsky suggested that
“the beginnings of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq must be connected with the Qara-qoyunlu period (…), [and]
the final formation of this religion took place in the region of Shahrazur and Zohab (…); even if
the Ahl-e Ḥaqq doctrines were not a kind of state religion under the Qara-qoyunlu, they may
have developed in the favourable climate of unorthodoxy, which prevailed under the sultans of
the Black Sheep” (p. 276).
5 Minorsky, ‘Jihan-Shah Qara-Qoyunlu’, passim.
6 V. Minorsky, ‘The poetry of Shah Ismaʿil I’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Stu-
dies 10 (1942), p. 1008a.
7 Köprülüzade Mehmed Fuad, Influence du chamanisme Turco-Mongol sur les ordres mystiques
musulmans, Istanbul: Institut de turcologie de l’Université de Stamboul, 1929; Fuad Köprülü,
Türk edebiyatında ilk mutasavvıflar. 3. basim, Ankara: Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığı, 1982 [1919].
8 Faruk Sümer, Safevi devletinin kuruluşu ve gelişmesinde Anadolu Türklerinin rolü, Ankara:
Selçuklu Tarih ve Medeniyeti Enstitüsü, 1976.

Between Dersim and Dālahū 67
considerable Kurdish population of Khurasan descends from Kızılbaş tribes that had
followed Shah Ismaʿil from the Erzincan region to Iran, and that therefore, his follow-
ers must have included large contingents of Kurds was not perceived or deliberately
kept hidden by many scholars.9 Besides the Turkish bias of many leading scholars –
which also had an impact on the work of their European colleagues –, there were also
political constraints in Turkey that made it difficult to discuss the Kurdish dimension
of Alevism. The official denial of Kurdish ethnicity and the endorsement of histori-
ographies ‘proving’ that the tribes concerned were of Central Asian origin and of
Turkish ethnicity continued well into the 1990s.
The very concept of Kurdish Alevism was a contested one, and as a result of a long
period of official suppression and ideological misrepresentation, it could no longer be
observed as a living tradition. Like the Sufi orders, Alevi ritual had been formally
banned since 1925 (although many village communities, especially the Turkish-
speaking ones, continued to practice it secretly). Dersim, the geographical centre of
Kurdish Alevism, had moreover been subjected to a genocidal pacification campaign
in 1937–1938, followed by massive deportations. 10 Accounts by various officials serv-
ing in the region, who invariably insisted on the Turkish character of the population
and their religion, were long the only available representations of the religion of Der-
sim.
This Turko-centric definition of Alevism was challenged from the 1980s onwards
by the emerging Kurdish movement. Kurdish intellectuals of Alevi background in-
sisted on the differences between Turkish and Kurdish Alevism, which were some-
times framed as pro-state Bektashi versus oppositional Kızılbaş Alevism. They have
identified and emphasised elements in Kurdish Alevism that appeared to connect it
with Iranian religions such as Zoroastrianism and, more specifically, with Yezidi and
Ahl-e Ḥaqq traditions. Some activists countered the thesis of ‘shamanist’ origins with
the equally doctrinal insistence on origins in Zoroastrianism and Mazdaeism. 11 Others
9 There is no indication of the large Kurdish component of the Kızılbaş in Sümer’s study. Interest-
ingly, in his history of the Kurdish emirates, Sharafnāma, which was completed in 1597, the
former ruler of Bitlis, Sharaf Khān, claims that all Kurds were staunch Sunnis (except the occa-
sional Yezidi tribe). There are good reasons to consider this to be an apologetic statement, in-
tended to convince the Ottomans of the Kurds’ trustworthiness in their confrontation with the
Safavids.
10 Martin van Bruinessen, ‘Genocide in Kurdistan? The suppression of the Dersim rebellion in Tur-
key (1937–1938) and the chemical war against the Iraqi Kurds (1988)’, in: George J. Andreo-
poulos (ed.), Conceptual and historical dimensions of genocide, University of Pennsylvania
Press, 1994, pp. 141–170.
11 Cemşid Bender, Kürt uygarlığında Alevilik, Istanbul: Kaynak, 1991; Ethem Xemgin, Aleviliğin
kökenindeki Mazda inancı ve Zerdüst öğretisi, Istanbul: Berfin, 1995.

attempted to recover the pre-1937 religious tradition through systematically interview-

ing surviving knowledgeable persons.12 The 1990s and 2000s were a period of inten-
sive debate on the religious and ethnic identity of the Kurdish Alevis. 13
In academia, the Köprülü thesis of Alevism’s Central Asian origins was challenged
by new research on the itinerant dervish groups (Qalandar, Ḥaydarı̄ , Jalālı̄ ) that, before
the rise of the Safavids, helped shape the heterodox communities that were to become
the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and Alevis.14 Other important new work (to which I shall return be-
low) is based on the study of genealogical documents held by Alevi priestly lineages,
which showed the importance of the Iraqi Wafāʾiyya Sufi order – named after the
Kurdish saint Abuʾl-Wafāʾ Tāj al-ʿĀrifı̄ n – for shaping the religiosity of the bābā and
later Alevism. When the Ottoman Empire consolidated its control of Anatolia and
Iraq, the Wafāʾiyya networks were gradually integrated into the Bektashi order, but
for a long time, Alevi religious authorities continued their orientation towards Iraq. 15
Similarities and differences

My own familiarity with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq of Dālahū began during two visits of about
ten days each in 1976. It was here that I first heard Ahl-e Ḥaqq narratives about Haji
Bektash and discovered that educated Ahl-e Ḥaqq believed that the Anatolian Alevis
held the same or very similar religious ideas as they did themselves. I also noticed that
my informants easily incorporated material they read in books about other religions
12 Journals such as Berhem (published in Sweden in 1988–1993), Ware (Germany, 1992–2003),

and Munzur (Ankara, since 2000) have sparked an interest in documenting the oral traditions of
the Kurdish Alevis, and several of the contributing authors were explicitly interested in the sim-
ilarities between the recorded narratives and those of Iranian origin. Since 1999, the publishing
house Kalan in Ankara has published numerous books on Dersim, many of them based on inter-
views with old men and women known to be repositories of oral tradition. Oral history interviews
carried out by activists and scholars such as Metin and Kemal Kahraman, Bilal and Gürdal
Aksoy, Cemal Taş, Erdal Gezik, Mesut Özcan, and Hüseyin Çakmak have resulted in an impres-
sive body of new material on Dersim traditions before 1937.
13 Martin van Bruinessen, “‘Aslını inkar eden haramzadedir!’: the debate on the ethnic identity of
the Kurdish Alevis’, in: Krisztina Kehl-Bodrogi et al. (eds.), Syncretistic religious communities
in the Near East, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 1–23.
14 An especially relevant study is: Ahmet T. Karamustafa, God’s unruly friends. Dervish groups in
the Islamic later middle period, 1200–1550, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1994. From
an Indian perspective, an earlier study of the same groups is: Simon Digby, ‘Qalandars and re-
lated groups’, in: Yohanan Friedmann (ed.), Islam in Asia, vol. I: South Asia, Jerusalem: Magnes
Press, 1984, pp. 76–91.
15 Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, ‘Subjects of the Sultan, Disciples of the Shah: Formation and Transfor-
mation of the Kizilbash/Alevi Communities in Ottoman Anatolia’, PhD dissertation, Harvard
University, 2008. Earlier, both Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı and Ahmet Yaşar Ocak had noticed the
importance of the Wafāʾiyya, but neither had realised what this implied for the Kurdish/Iranian
contribution to Alevism.

into their own cosmology and found confirmation on their own religious ideas in the
existence of similar ones elsewhere.16
My first encounter with the religious universe of Dersim was through a few brief
visits in the late 1970s and early 1980s, my reading of travel reports, 17 the first aca-
demic studies on the subject,18 and meetings with intellectuals of Dersimi background.
From the beginning, I was struck by a number of remarkable similarities such as iden-
tical myths (although the protagonists have different names in the two regions), 19 sim-
ilar beliefs in the incarnation of God as well as other spiritual entities in human beings,
and forms of nature worship based on the belief that spiritual beings can be embodied
in human beings as well as trees, springs, mountains, rocks, and other objects – as well
as the rejection of the idea that Satan (or rather the Peacock Angel) represents the evil
principle.20
The periodical ritual meetings are known by the same name in both communities
(jam and ayin-i cem, respectively). In both communities, the singing of sacred poetry
(kalām, deyiş), accompanied by a small long-necked lute (tanbur, temur, tomir), is an
important element of the jam/cem.21 The tanbur is itself a sacred instrument, and it is
kissed respectfully before and after playing. The consecration and consumption of
16 Van Bruinessen, ‘When Haji Bektash still bore the name of Sultan Sahak. Notes on the Ahl-e
Ḥaqq of the Guran district’, in: Alexandre Popovic and Gilles Veinstein (eds.), Bektachiyya:
études sur l’ordre mystique des Bektachis et les groupes relevant de Hadji Bektach, Istanbul:
Éditions Isis, 1995, pp. 117–138; idem, ‘Veneration of Satan among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq of the Gūrān
region’, Fritillaria Kurdica, Bulletin of Kurdish Studies (Krakow) nos. 3–4 (2014), pp. 6–41
(available online at: http://www.kurdishstudies.pl/?en_fritillaria-kurdica.-bulletin-of-kurdish-
studies.-no.-3-4,78).
17 Especially L. Molyneux-Seel, ‘Journey into Dersim’, Geographical Journal 44(1) (1914), pp.
49–68; Melville Chater, ‘The Kizilbash clans of Kurdistan’, National Geographic Magazine 54
(1928), pp. 485–504; Andranig, Tersim, Tiflis, 1900 (recently translated into Turkish: Antranik,
Dersim seyahatnamesi, Istanbul: Aras, 2012).
18 S. Öztürk, ‘Tunceli’de Alevilik’, mezuniyet tezi, I.Ü. Ed. Fak. Sosyoloji bölümü, Istanbul, 1972;
Peter Bumke, ‘Kızılbaş-Kurden in Dersim (Tunceli, Türkei). Marginalität und Häresie’, An-
thropos 74 (1979), pp. 530–548.
19 For an example of a myth occurring not only in these two communities but among heterodox
groups all the way from South Asia to the Balkans, see Martin van Bruinessen, ‘Haji Bektash,
Sultan Sahak, Shah Mina Sahib and various avatars of a running wall’, Turcica XXI-XXIII
(1991), pp. 55–69.
20 Van Bruinessen, ‘Veneration of Satan’; Irène Mélikoff, Sur les traces du soufisme turc. Re-
cherches sur l’Islam populaire en Anatolie, Istanbul: Isis, 1992, p. 39. For a myth in which the
Peacock Angel plays a part in the creation of the world, as narrated by an Alevi sage in Dersim,
see Erdal Gezik, ‘Nesimi Kilagöz ile yaratılış üzerine’, Munzur 32 (2009), pp. 4–34.
21 On the Ahl-e Ḥaqq tanbur, see Partow Hooshmandrad, ‘Performing the belief: Sacred musical
practice of the Kurdish Ahl-e Ḥaqq of Guran’, PhD dissertation, University of California, Berke-
ley, 2004; Navid Fozi, ‘The hallowed summoning of tradition: body techniques in construction
of the sacred tanbur of Western Iran’, Anthropological Quarterly 80(1) (2007), pp. 173–205. In
Turkish literature, the instrument used in the cem is commonly referred to as bağlama, but Der-
simi musicians are increasingly using the term temmur or tomir, claiming that this is the original
name (cf. Munzur Çem, Dêrsim merkezli Kürt Aleviliği, Istanbul: Vate, 2009, p. 35).

food (niyāz/lokma) is another important element of a ritual meeting in both communi-

ties. Both in Dersim and among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq, the origin of the jam is explained by
narratives of a primordial meeting of forty dervishes (chil tan, kırklar), to which the
Prophet Muhammad – on the return from his ascent to heaven (miʿrāj) – was only
admitted after having been taught humility and declaring himself the lowest of serv-
ants.22
The meetings can only be held in the presence of – and have to be led by – a
hereditary religious specialist (dede or sayyid) belonging to a known and named line-
age (ocak, khāndān) that claims descent from the Prophet. Every adult person has to
be connected with a sayyid (who is his pı̄r) and with a second person from another
priestly lineage, who acts as his ‘guide’ (rayber, rehber, or dalīl). In Dersim, one
should (at least in theory) be connected to yet a third spiritual preceptor (called
murshid) whose status is even above that of the pı̄r. Since the members of the holy
lineages should also have their rayber, pı̄r, and murshid, this has led to a complex
stratification among these lineages, in which some act as pı̄r to one other lineage and
as disciples (ṭālib, toliw) to yet another.23
Both communities also believe in divine incarnation in human beings, ʿAlī being
the major incarnation recognised by both. However, the Ahl-e Ḥaqq have a consider-
ably more developed belief system concerning divine incarnation than the Alevis. God
and seven high spiritual beings (haft tan) are believed to have revealed themselves in
human form in various historical periods. Sacred history is cyclical; important events
repeat themselves in each cycle, and the consecutive human incarnations of the same
spirit are considered to be essentially identical. The Iranian concept of seven spiritual
beings jointly manifesting themselves in the world – which the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and
Yazidis have in common with Zoroastrianism and other Iranian religions – is not
known among the Dersim Alevis. The latter do believe in other divine incarnations
besides ʿAlī, such as the Jesus of their Armenian neighbours and Shāh Ismāʿīl, as well
as in other spiritual forces that were once incarnate in human form. In two of these
powerful forces, known by their human names Duzgin Bava and Avdil Mursa, we
may recognise an Iranian dualism. They are opposed to one another as forces of light
and darkness and command entire armies of benign and dangerous spirits. 24
22 An Ahl-e Ḥaqq version of this myth can be found in the Persian Tadhkira-i Aʿlā, edited and
translated by V. Ivanow in The Truth-worshippers of Kurdistan, Leiden: Brill, 1953, pp. 108–
109. Virtually identical versions are given by the Alevi Ağuçanlı author Adil Ali Atalay, İmam
Cafer-i Sadik buyruğu, Istanbul: Can, 1993, pp. 13–22, and the late Suleyman Şahin of the bābā
Mansur ocak in a recently published interview: Metin Kahraman & Kemal Kahraman, ‘Seyid
Süleyman Şahin Görüşmeleri-I’, Alevilerin Sesi 174 (2013), pp. 40–45.
23 Erdal Gezik, ‘Rayberler, pirler ve mürşidler (Alevi ocak örgütlenmesine dair saptamalar ve sor-
ular)’, in: Erdal Gezik and Mesut Özcan (eds.), Alevi ocakları ve örgütlenmeleri. 1. kitap, Ankara:
Kalan, 2013, pp. 11–77.
24 On Duzgin Bava and Avdil Mursa (Düzgün bābā and Abdal Musa) as opposed spiritual forces,
see: Erdal Gezik and Hüseyin Çakmak, Raa Haqi – Riya Haqi: Dersim Aleviliği inanç terimleri
sözlüğü, Ankara: Kalan, 2010, pp. 23–24, 70–73; Munzir Comerd, ‘Dersim inancı’nda Duzgın’,
Ware 11 (1997), 84–104. Abdal Musa is the name of a well-known 14th-century Turkish Bektashi

The Ahl-e Ḥaqq also believe in the reincarnation of ordinary human souls, which
is called dūnādūn, ‘exchanging one garment for another’. The same expression (don
değiştirme, ‘changing garment’) is also known among the Alevis but mainly for Ali’s
successive manifestations. The belief in the reincarnation of ordinary humans was still
recorded among the Dersimi just over a century ago, but currently, there appears to be
little memory of such beliefs, and at least one young Dersimi researcher insists
strongly on its absence.25
Between Dālahū and Dersim

As I have suggested elsewhere, the Bektashi order, which provided diverse heterodox
groups with a protective umbrella, may have constituted a connection between the
Anatolian Alevis and the Ahl-e Ḥaqq during the Ottoman period.26 The existence of
several Bektashi tekke (convents) in Baghdad, Karbala, Samarra, and Kirkuk during
the past four centuries is well attested.27 Legends about Haji Bektash have been incor-
porated into Ahl-e Ḥaqq religious lore; he is generally declared to be an incarnation
of one of the highest spiritual beings in their pantheon. Of the various Ahl-e Ḥaqq
communities, it is unsurprisingly among the Kākāʾı̄ of Kirkuk that we find the greatest
familiarity with the Bektashi tradition. Kākāʾı̄ sources quoted by Edmonds associate
an entire cycle of sacred history with the appearance of Haji Bektash, in which the
seven divine spirits (haft tan) took the form of Bektashi saints.28 This amounts to a
recognition of the Bektashiyya as essentially representing the same religion.
There is an even more remarkable testimony of Alevi communities living far to
the West and recognising Ahl-e Ḥaqq leaders in the Kermanshah region as their high-
est religious authorities. The American missionary Stephen van Rensselaer Trow-
bridge, who was based at ʿAyntab (Antep, Gaziantep) from 1906 to 1911 and in con-
tact with local Alevis, reports that these Alevis recognised a family of Ahl-e Ḥaqq
saint buried in Elmalı near Antalya; Düzgün bābā is the name of a mountain sanctuary in
Nazimiye, perhaps the most important ziyaret of Dersim.
25 The Armenian traveller Antranik was told by a sayyid that after death, the human soul may re-
appear in animal form, and another dede told him that he remembered a previous life as a donkey
(Antranik, Dersim, pp. 124–125). See, however, Kemal Astare, ‘Glaubensvorstellungen und re-
ligiöses Leben der Zaza-Alewiten’, in: Ismāʿīl Engin and Franz Erhard (eds.), Aleviler/ Alewiten.
Vol. 2: İnanç ve gelenekler/Glaube und Traditionen, Hamburg: Deutsches Orient-Institut, 2001,
pp. 149–162, which firmly denies the existence of belief in reincarnation. Krisztina Kehl-Bodrogi
also reports that she has in vain sought confirmation of a continuing belief in reincarnation (Die
Kızılbaş/Aleviten: Untersuchungen über eine esoterische Glaubensgemeinschaft in Anatolien,
Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1988, pp. 143–144). On the other hand, another student of Der-
sim’s oral traditions informs me that he has repeatedly heard accounts according to which the
human soul has to pass through 1,001 incarnations to reach perfection (Erdal Gezik, personal
communication).
26 Martin van Bruinessen, ‘When Haji Bektash’.
27 Ayfer Karakaya Stump, ‘The forgotten dervishes: the Bektashi convents in Iraq and their Kizil-
bash clients’, International Journal of Turkish Studies 16(1–2) (2010), pp. 1–24.
28 C.J. Edmonds, ‘The beliefs and practices of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq of Iraq’, Iran 7 (1969), pp. 89–106;
cf. van Bruinessen, ‘When Haji Bektash’.

sayyids as their chief religious authorities. In fact, he appears to claim that Alevi com-
munities all over Anatolia and Syria accepted these sayyids as their spiritual leaders:
“The Geographical Centre of [the Alevi] religion is in the town of Kirind, Ker-
manshah province, Persia. Four of Ali’s male descendants now reside in
Kirind. They are by name, Seyyid Berake, Seyyid Rustem, Seyyid Essed Ullah,
Seyyid Farraj Ullah. Seyyid is correctly said only of Ali’s descendants. These
men send representatives throughout Asia Minor and northern Syria for
preaching and for the moral training of their followers.”29
Trowbridge has to be taken seriously as a source; his article is one of the best early
reports on Alevi belief and practice. Sayyid Brāka and his grandson Sayyid Rustam
were the most powerful and influential Ahl-e Ḥaqq leaders of their day. Their de-
scendant, Sayyid Naṣreddı̄ n, is the much-respected religious leader of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
of Dālahū, the Gūrān region to the West of Kermanshah. (I have not been able to
identify the sayyids Asadullāh and Farajullāh.) This family of sayyids, known as the
Ḥaydarı̄ family, also extended its authority to various Turkish-speaking Ahl-e Ḥaqq
communities in Azerbaijan and Qazvin, sending dervishes there as teachers and per-
haps to collect tribute.30 These Turkish-speaking communities may at times have con-
stituted another bridge between the Kurdish heartland of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and Turkish-
speaking Alevi communities.
The connection between Anatolian Alevis and the sayyids in Dālahū appears to
have been lost in the course of the 20th century, and I have not found any traces of this
connection. Many educated Kurdish Alevis are aware of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and Yazidis,
and are convinced of the close relation between the three religions; but this awareness
appears to be based on a recent reading of academic studies or popularising books
rather than actual memory or direct acquaintance. 31 Musicians have played a special
29 Stephen van Rensselaer Trowbridge, ‘The Alevis, or Deifiers of Ali’, Harvard Theological Re-
view 2, no. 3 (1909), pp. 340–353, emphasis added. The quoted passage is at pp. 342–343.
30 One such community was that of the Qaraqoyunlu district in Maku, which was mentioned above
(see note 3). Z.A. Gordlevsky, who visited the district in 1916, writes that the community referred
to itself as Görän (meaning‘seeing’ in Turkish, but may, as suggested by Minorsky, also be
adapted from ‘Gūran’) and was regularly visited by dervishes sent in from Kermanshah to give
religious instruction. Gordlevsky’s 1927 Russian article was published in Turkish translation as:
‘Karakoyunlu (Maku hanlığı’na bir geziden derlenmis bilgiler)’, Alevilik-Bektaşilik Araştırma-
ları Dergisi 4 (2011), pp. 83–124. Irène Mélikoff visited this and other Turkish Ahl-e Ḥaqq com-
munities in Azerbaijan in the 1970s but does not mention their connection with the Gūran Ahl-e
Ḥaqq: Sur les traces du soufisme turc, pp. 33–38; instead, she emphasises their closeness to An-
atolian Alevism, which one of her interviewees explains as a ‘Suficised’ (by the Bektashis) ver-
sion of the same religion.
31 A popular book that may have been influential is Mehrdad Izady, The Kurds: A concise hand-
book, Washington etc.: Crane Russak, 1992, which claims that Alevism, Yezidism, and Ahl-e
Ḥaqq are three variant forms of an originally Kurdish ‘cult of angels’. It was translated into Turk-
ish in 2004 (Izady, Kürtler: bir el kitabı, Istanbul: Doz). Other books that had an impact include
my own Kürtlük, Türklük, Alevilik: Etnik ve dinsel kimlik mücadeleleri, Istanbul: İletişim, 2000,
which contains my earlier essays on the Ahl-e Ḥaqq; and the translation of M. Reza Hamzehʾee’s

role as cultural brokers: the Kurdish Alevi musician and musicologist Ulaş Özdemir,
from the Maraş region, has performed and recorded with the Kurdish Ahl-e Ḥaqq mu-
sician Ali Akbar Moradi, from Dālahū, seeking the commonalities in their musical
traditions.32 The Azerbaijani Ahl-e Ḥaqq musician Cavit Murtezaoğlu not only per-
forms frequently with Turkish musicians, but also published a book on the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
tradition in which he minimises the differences with Alevism.33
Kurdish Alevi intellectuals appear to be primarily interested in the Ahl-e Ḥaqq as
representing a common (Iranian) heritage that distinguishes them from Turkish Alevis
and Bektashis. There has also been recent interest in the Ahl-e Ḥaqq among Turkish
nationalists, who have been focusing more specifically on the role of the Bektashi
order and the Turcomans of northern Iraq. Of the various heterodox communities
there, the Shabak (of the Mosul plain) adhere to a version of the Kızılbaş religion,
whereas the neighbouring Sarlı̄ , like the Kākāʾı̄ and at least part of the Turcomans of
Tal Afar, are Ahl-e Ḥaqq.34 Earlier observers had remarked that the Sarlı̄ and Shabak
(and even more so the Yazidis, who also live nearby) are quite distinct and very con-
scious of belonging to different religions.35
Following the 2003 American invasion of Iraq and the fall of the Saddam regime,
there was considerable effort on the part of local Turcomans and agencies from Turkey
to persuade these communities of ambiguous ethnicity to declare themselves explicitly
as Turcoman. The Turkish think tank ORSAM, which surveyed the various heterodox
groups of Northern (Shabak, Kākāʾı̄ , and Turcoman) communities, found their reli-
gious traditions to be surprisingly alive in spite of the long period of repression. The
report glosses over the religious differences and suggests they are all integrated by the
1990 study, Yāresān (Ehl-i Hak), Istanbul: Avesta, 2009. Other studies suggest a common Turk-
ish religious background: Gölpınarlı, referring to various Azerbaijani Ahl-e Ḥaqq communities,
claimed that ‘in Iran, the Kızılbaş call themselves Ahl-e Ḥaqq’ (‘Kızılbaş’, İslam Ansiklopedisi,
vol. 6, Istanbul 1977, pp. 790, 794); Mélikoff, whose work is also well-known in Turkey, had
commented on the relationship between these Azerbaijani communities and Anatolian Alevism
(see note 30).
32 The Companion, the CD they recorded together, can be heard on Spotify, as can Moradi’s four-
volume set of Ahl-e Ḥaqq sacred music, Les Maqam Rituels des Yarsan.
33 Cavit Murtezaoğlu, Yarizm: Ehli Hak Alevilerin yirmi dört ulu ereni, Ankara: Yurt Kitap-Yayın,
2011. The book contains many kalām in Turkish. Murtezaoğlu was born in Tabriz and is con-
nected with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq community of Ilkhchi.
34 C.J. Edmonds, Kurds, Turks and Arabs. Politics, travel and research in North-Eastern Iraq,
1919–1925, London: Oxford University Press, 1957, pp. 182–201; Martin van Bruinessen, ‘The
Shabak, a Kizilbash community in Iraqi Kurdistan’, Les Annales de l’autre islam 5 (1998), pp.
185–196; Michiel Leezenberg, ‘Between assimilation and deportation: the Shabak and the Ka-
kais in Northern Iraq’, in: Krisztina Kehl-Bodrogi et al. (eds.), Syncretistic religious communities
in the Near East, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 175–194.
35 Edmonds, Kurds, Turks and Arabs, p. 195; Amal Vinogradov, ‘Ethnicity, cultural discontinuity
and power brokers in Northern Iraq: The case of the Shabak’, American Ethnologist 1 (1974),
207–218; Leezenberg, ‘Between assimilation and deportation’, pp. 171–172. Edmonds consid-
ered the Shabak, the Sarlī, and most of the Kākāʾı̄ as Kurds, but noted that there were also Kākāʾı̄
among the Turcomans, notably in Tall Afar.

Bektashi order, of which it mentions no less than 35 tekke (convents), many of which
it claims are still functioning. Eight of these tekke are located in Shabak and six in
Kākāʾı̄ villages.36 In fact, there exists an Iraqi Alevi-Bektashi Federation, based on the
Turkish model which claims all these communities as its members and on which the
report leans heavily.37
The presence of the Bektashi order in Ottoman and independent Iraq has long gone
virtually ignored, and its possible role in connecting various religious communities
deserves more scholarly attention. In the remainder of this paper, however, I intend to
focus on another institution that is capable of integrating religious communities, even
if there are ‘objective’ religious differences: the priestly lineage.
Priestly lineages
Among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and Alevis as well as the Yazidis, there is a limited number
of priestly lineages (typically considered to be sayyid, descendants from the Prophet
or from a saint in whom a divine spirit manifested itself). As observed above, every
individual has to be associated with a spiritual elder or pı̄r who belongs to one of the
priestly lineages (khāndān/ōjāgh/ocak) as well as with a ‘guide’ (dalı̄l, rehber) be-
longing to another priestly lineage. These priestly lineages constitute a caste, though
not all their members may act as religious specialists; they do not intermarry with
commoners, and there is a strong tendency for each lineage to be endogamous.
Certain saintly lineages may be so charismatic that they attract followers from out-
side the community in which they emerged. The Ḥaydarı̄ sayyids of Dālahū, whose
authority was recognised even by Alevi communities in Anatolia and northern Syria,
are a case in point. Another interesting case is mentioned by Michiel Leezenberg who
visited a Sarlı̄ community and discovered to his surprise that his interlocutors had pre-
viously been Shabak. A generation ago, a significant number of Shabak had shifted
their affiliation to a powerful Kākāʾı̄ sayyid who had offered them his patronage and
had thereby become Kākāʾı̄ /Sarlı̄ .38 The fact that the belief system of their new pa-
tron’s community was quite different from that of their community of origin appeared
to matter little. Other Shabak had de facto become Ithnaʿashari Shīʿīs when their pı̄r
entered into relations of patronage with urban Shīʿī sayyids, as Vinogradov had al-
ready observed.39
36 Bilgay Duman, ‘Irak’ta Bektaşilik (Türkmenler – Şebekler – Kakailer)’, ORSAM Rapor no. 88,
ORSAM, Ankara, 2011, available at: http://www.orsam.org.tr/tr/raporgoster.aspx?ID=2883 (last
accessed 29/10/2014). At least some of the ‘tekke’ in the list appear to be just shrines of Kākāʾı̄
saints. ORSAM (Center for Middle Eastern Strategic Studies) is specifically interested in the
position of Turcomans living outside Turkey’s borders.
37 The ORSAM website features numerous interviews with leaders of this Alevi-Bektashi Federa-
tion and affiliated persons speaking for the other groups.
38 Michiel Leezenberg, ‘The end of heterodoxy? The Shabak in post-Saddam Iraq’, in: Khanna
Omarkhali (ed.), Religious minorities in Kurdistan: beyond the mainstream, Wiesbaden: Har-
rassowitz, 2014, pp. 247–267, here p. 256.
39 Vinogradov, ‘Ethnicity, cultural discontinuity and power brokers‘, pp. 214–216.

The Turkish scholar Ahmet Taşğın draws attention to yet another factor: the Sha-
bak sayyids of two villages east of Mosul were relatives of Alevi sayyids in the Bismil
district of Diyarbakır, and there had been regular mutual visits. These had been dis-
continued because of political conditions, as a result of which ‘the relations with Tur-
key weakened.’40 And as the connection with Anatolian Alevis was cut, realignment
with Kākāʾı̄ , Shīʿī, or even Sunni sayyids may have been a survival strategy.
The khāndān of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq

Among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq exists only a limited number of sayyid families (khāndān or
ōjāgh), all of which trace their ancestry to early Ahl-e Ḥaqq saints who were them-
selves the embodiments of spiritual beings belonging to one of the main heptads in
the Ahl-e Ḥaqq pantheon. The most extensive list comprises the names of eleven such
khāndān, six of which descended from persons in the entourage of Sulṭān Sahāk, the
founder of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq religion, whereas the others descended from later incarna-
tions.41
Sulṭān Sahāk and the haft tan were mentioned above as the highest of the spiritual
entities. Sulṭān Sahāk was an incarnation of the Deity; as in all cycles of incarnation,
he was accompanied by four archangels (named Binyāmı̄ n, Dāwūd, Pı̄ r Mūsı̄ , and
Muṣtafā in this cycle – and identical with Jibrāʾīl, Mı̄ kāʾı̄ l, Isrāfı̄ l, and ʿAzrāʾı̄ l), a
female spirit (Ramzbār), and the spirit known as Bābā Yādigār, whose shrine in
Dālahū is the most important place of pilgrimage for the Gūrān. In some accounts,
Sulṭān Sahāk is one of the Seven himself; in others, they are the Sultān’s companions
and the heptad is completed by a ‘twin’ of Yādigār, Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m.42 Both Yādigār and
Ibrāhı̄ m are the progenitors of major khāndān; in the case of Yādigār, who remained
childless, the khāndān descends from his most-trusted servant. The status of Shāh Ib-
rāhı̄ m is contested among the Gūrān. The Shāh Ibrāhı̄ mī khāndān and their followers
are convinced that he is one of the haft tan and relates to Bābā Yādigār like one eye
to the other – or like (the imam) Hasan to Husayn. The Yādigārī and Khāmūshī
khāndān, on the other hand, see Ibrāhı̄ m as a much darker counterpart to Yādigār, who
killed the latter in at least one of their incarnations. They recognise Bābā Yādigār in
many famous martyrs who were beheaded (like Husayn) and speak of an occult strug-
gle (jang-i baṭinı̄) in which Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m is perpetually opposing Yādigār. In this ver-
sion of Ahl-e Ḥaqq cosmology, the pair Yādigār/Ibrāhı̄ m has been infused with the
Iranian dualism of light and darkness, and the haftawāne have similarly become darker
40 Ahmet Taşğın, ‘Irak’ta Bektaşi topluluğu Şebekler’, Türk Kültürü ve Haji Bektash Velī Araştırma
Dergisi 52 (2009), pp. 126–143, here p. 129. Taşğın claims that the previous generation of Sha-
bak sayyids, who had maintained these contacts, had been able to speak Turkish, but their de-
scendants no longer do so, although Turkish continues to be the ritual language.
41 Nur Ali-Shah Elahi, L’ésotérisme kurde. Paris: Albin Michel, 1966, p. 49; Edmonds, Kurds, Turks
and Arabs, p. 186; Murtezaoğlu, Yarsanizm, pp. 26–27.
42 For a succinct statement on the belief system of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq, see my entry ‘Ahl-e Ḥaqq’ in
the Encyclopaedia of Islam, third edition.

opponents of the haft tan; both are cosmologically necessary, but there is no moral
equivalence between them.43
However, both Ibrāhı̄ mī and Yādigārī agree that Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m is also connected
with another heptad, the haftawāne. These are more worldly counterparts to the purely
spiritual haft tan. The haft tan do not, for instance, engage in ordinary physical pro-
creation, whereas the haftawāne do. There are numerous narratives of virgin birth in
the case of the haft tan. Bābā Yādigār, for instance, was conceived when a girl servant
of Sulṭān Sahāk found and swallowed a pomegranate seed that had been spilt in a
ritual offering. She then gave birth from her mouth. It is significant that the Yādigārī
khāndān descends not from Bābā Yādigār himself but from a close associate. The
haftawāne are also called ‘sons’ of Sulṭān Sahāk, but my informants insisted that this
should not be understood in the ordinary biological sense; a myth has them miracu-
lously born after only seven days as perfectly identical adults, indistinguishable from
Sulṭān Sahāk.44
The various Ahl-e Ḥaqq communities broadly agree on the names of the haftawāne
in the period of Sultān. Two of them, Sayyid Muhammad and Sayyid Abu’l-Wafā, are
especially relevant for the Gūrān because they engendered the other two khāndān that
are influential in Dālahū (besides the Bābā Yādigārī), i.e. the Shāh Ibrāhı̄ mī and
Khāmūshī lineages. The eponymous Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m was a son (or, in other accounts, a
grandson) of Sayyid Muhammad, and Sayyid Khāmūsh was a son (or a grandson) of
Sayyid Abu’l-Wafā.45
The Ahl-e Ḥaqq recognise yet another heptad, the haft khalı̄fe, and the dalı̄l de-
scend from them. As has been said, every adult should have a pı̄r as well as a dalı̄l.
Just like the pı̄r should belong to a sayyid khāndān, the dalı̄l should (at least in theory)
belong to a family of khalı̄fe, descending from the original Seven who were appointed
by Sulṭān Sahāk. According to my Gūrān informants, each lineage of khalı̄fe is asso-
ciated with a particular sayyid khāndān and is called by the same name. The dalı̄l is,
as it were, the intermediary between the initiate (murı̄d) and his pı̄r, who in turn is the
channel of communication between his community and the pādishāh or divine mani-
festation. It is claimed that everyone is free to choose his or her own pı̄r and dalı̄l, but
in practice, the affiliation of commoner families (murı̄d) with specific khāndān tends
to remain unchanged over the generations. In spite of their pı̄r and dalı̄l titles, which
suggest religious instruction and guidance, most of the sayyids I met among the Gūrān
did not appear to be very knowledgeable about their religion. (The presence of a say-
yid, however, is necessary for any ritual to be valid, even the simplest offering or
niyāz.) Whichever religious instruction took place, it was given by parents and the
kalāmkhwān. However, the latter are also affiliated with specific khāndān, and I found
43 This dualism is reminiscent of the one of Duzgin Bava and Avdil Mursa in Dersim, see note 24.
44 Ivanow, Truth-worshippers, p. 126.
45 The names of the other five members of the heptad are given as Sayyid Ahmad Mīr-a Sūr, Sayyid
Bawa Īsı̄ , Sayyid Muṣtafā, Sayyid Shihābeddīn, and Sayyid Habīb Shāh (see Edmonds, Kurds,
Turks and Arabs, p. 186 and, with minor differences, Mokri, Ésotérisme kurde, pp. 48–49).

out that among the Gūrān, there were some significant differences in belief between
the Yādigārī and Khāmūshī on the one hand and the Shāh Ibrāhı̄ mī on the other hand.
The sayyid families are generally respected, but certainly not all of them are influ-
ential. Some sayyids, however, have emerged as powerful political as well as religious
leaders, commanding the unquestioning obedience of their followers who believed
them to be inhabited by a divine presence. One family of sayyids in particular, residing
in the village of Tūtshāmī near Kerend, rose to great prominence in the 19th century
and came to be recognised as the highest religious authorities not only by the Gūrān,
but also by Ahl-e Ḥaqq and related communities as far as northern Iran and (as we
have seen above) Anatolia. Although the family’s political influence has much de-
clined, Tūtshāmī to this day remains a major religious centre for the Gūrān – or at least
for certain sections of them. Sayyid Naṣreddı̄ n, the present head of the family, was
called by several of my informants the pı̄ r-i Gūrān or simply āghā, ‘the lord.’
The sayyids of Tūtshāmī

I heard stories about the sayyids of Tūtshāmī from the first day that I spent among the
Gūrān. The name of the village came up in many of my conversations at the shrine of
Bābā Yādigār – with the resident sayyids and dervishes as well as many pilgrims. All
of them admitted a certain degree of ignorance when I questioned them on the finer
points of doctrine and even ritual. They did carry out their rituals, of course, but never
took great pains to conform to the standard of correct practice they assumed to exist.
It was sufficient for them to know that there was a place where, theoretically, they
could go and find authoritative answers to any question. If I were interested in such
things, I was told repeatedly, I should go to Tūtshāmī, for that is where all the answers
are. Some called the village pāytakht-i tāyfe, ‘the capital of the [Ahl-e Ḥaqq] commu-
nity’. In the residence of the illustrious family, the māl-a āghā (‘house of the lord’), I
was sure to find the most knowledgeable kalāmkhwān.
Sayyid Naṣreddı̄ n has no political power such as his ancestors once wielded, but
he still exerts a moral authority over the Gūrān that enables him to mediate in conflicts.
This authority is not based on his religious knowledge (which he is not expected to
have; that is the province of the kalāmkhwān), but only on his family’s charisma. By
his followers, he is widely believed to be blessed with the presence of one of the haft
tan – some say Yādigār, others Binyāmı̄ n –, although he attempts to discourage such
beliefs. Similar claims of indwelling (ḥulūl) by one or more of the haft tan were made
in the past about his ancestors. The American missionary F.M. Stead – who spent a
long time in Kermanshah and Kerend in the early 20 th century and had very good
contacts with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq there – observed that “[t]he principal seyyid of the Gūrān
district is practically worshipped by his followers.” As an example of their veneration,
he relates that one of the tribal chiefs of the region once said to him: “May God forgive
me for saying so, but Seyyid Rustam is my God.” 46
46 F.M. Stead, ‘The Ali-Ilahi sect in Persia’, The Moslem World 22 (1932), pp. 186–187.

Tūtshāmī and the māl-a āghā were but meagre reflections of what they must have
been a century earlier. A few old kalāmkhwān still lived in the house, and every day,
visitors from all over the Gūrān district – peasants, nomads, and townspeople – would
come to pay their respect to Sayyid Naṣreddı̄ n and his father Sayfeddīn, visit sacred
spots in and around the house, and consecrate niyāz, little offerings of pomegranates
and sweets which they would take home afterwards. They would talk much of greater
days in the past, the times of Sayyid Brāka, Rustam, and Shamseddı̄ n, when Truth
(ḥaqı̄qat) was more palpably present on earth and the last great dervishes composed
the last inspired kalāms.
Tūtshāmī’s period of greatness was largely the work of one remarkable man: Say-
yid Ḥaydar, who later became known as Sayyid Brāka (1785–1863). Little is known
of his origins, except that he belonged to the Khāmūshī khāndān. It almost seems as
if his backgrounds are deliberately suppressed, in order to make it seem like he rose
from complete obscurity to supreme religious leadership of almost the entire Ahl-e
Ḥaqq community through the sheer force of his spiritual powers alone. The family
names itself Ḥaydarı̄ , as if its history only began with Sayyid Ḥaydar; the village of
Tūtshāmī is said to have been founded by him, too. However, not far outside the vil-
lage, near Sayyid Brāka’s simple grave, stand the ruins of an old house named after a
certain Sayyid Yaʿqūb about whom people told me nothing but incoherent stories. He
must have been an earlier resident, and his relation with the Ḥaydarı̄ family remains
unclear. Sayyid Brāka’s starting position may have been less lowly (and his appear-
ance less sudden) than is being claimed in retrospect.
Be that as it may, Sayyid Brāka did command tremendous respect in his lifetime.
His first successors, his grandson Rustam and his great-grandson Shamseddı̄ n, inher-
ited much of this respect as well as his political skills and were moreover quite char-
ismatic persons in their own right. These sayyids’ influence was not just restricted to
the Gūrān. The German physician J.E. Polak, who lived in Qazvin in northern Iran in
the mid-19th century and was in contact with local Ahl-e Ḥaqq, comments on the su-
per-human veneration in which they held a spiritual leader in Kermanshah province. 47
This can hardly have been anyone else but Sayyid Brāka, whom we also know to have
been mentioned a few decades later by Trowbridge in ʿAyntab.
The authority that the sayyids claimed for themselves was not exclusively spiritual.
The British consul Rabino relates how around 1900, Sayyid Rustam incited the chief-
tains of the Gūrān tribes to a rebellion against the paramount (and governmentally
recognised) khān of the Gūrān confederacy and succeeded in gradually stripping the
latter of both political authority and economic power.48 This was probably only the
culmination of a long process that had started under Sayyid Brāka, in which the say-
yids of Tūtshāmī gradually replaced the tribal khāns as the supreme leaders of the
Gūrān. The khāns never regained their power; the sayyids finally lost much of theirs
47 J.E. Polak, Persien. Das Land und seine Bewohner. Ethnografische Schilderungen, Bd. I.
Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1865, p. 349.
48 H.L. Rabino, ‘Kermanchah’, Revue du monde musulman 38 (1920), p. 24.

under Reza Shah’s centralising regime. Sayyid Rustam’s son Shamseddı̄ n, the last
really powerful sayyid, saw his secular authority gradually ebb away and had to make
great efforts to retain his authority as the sole spiritual leader of the Gūrān. His suc-
cessors were respected but exerted moral authority over only a certain section of the
Gūrān.
The Ḥaydarı̄ family
(arrows indicate succession to leadership)
Sayyid Brāka lived 1785–1863.49

Sayyid Rustam, who succeeded him, was still alive and in power in 1920. 50
Sayyid Shamseddı̄ n and his brother Nūreddīn exercised a dual leadership over the
Ahl-e Ḥaqq in the region in 1949.51 Later that same year, Shamseddı̄ n died and
Nūreddīn became the sole leader.52
Sayyid Sayfeddīn was still alive in 1976 when I visited Tūtshāmī, but his son
Naṣreddı̄ n was the universally recognised leader, believed to possess the divine spark
the father lacked.
49 Elahi, L’ésotérisme kurde, p. 111 (comment by the editor, Mohammed Mokri).

50 V.F. Minorsky, ‘The Gūrān’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 11 (1943), p.
95.
51 Henry Field, An anthropological reconnaissance in the Middle East, 1950, Cambridge, MA:
Peabody Museum, 1956, p. 43.
52 Mohammed Mokri, Le chasseur de Dieu et le mythe du Roi-Aigle (Dawra-y Damyari), Wiesba-
den: Harrassowitz, 1967, p. 3.

Historical origins of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq khāndān

Ahl-e Ḥaqq sacred history is cyclical; incarnations of the same spiritual entity who
lived in different historical times are considered to be identical in essence, and the
myths may bring together persons who, from the point of view of the historian, lived
in different times and even at different places. This may be illustrated by the list of
names of Companions (incarnations of the haft tan) in the cycle of Haji Bektash as
found in Kākāʾī daftar: Qayghusız ʿAbdāl, Gul Bābā, Shāhīn Bābā, Qaftān, Qizil
Dede, Turābī Orman, and Wêrān ʿAbdāl.53 It is obvious that these persons – to the
extent that they can be identified – were not historical contemporaries and flourished
in places far apart. Shāhīn Bābā, after whom a dergāh in or near Baghdad was named,
and possibly the poet Virani are the only geographically close ones. 54 However, they
all appear to be associated with the Bektashi order, and the fact that this list of names
exists in an Ahl-e Ḥaqq sacred text at all shows that the Kākāʾı̄ , who lived in Ottoman
territory, must have been more familiar with the Bektashiyya than the Gūrān and con-
sidered it as a related religious formation.
Similarly, the haft tan and haftawāne of Sulṭān Sahāk’s cycle were not necessarily
real contemporaries, and attempts to assign this cycle to a precise historical period
may be futile. The few concrete indications of historical dates are contradictory. Bābā
Yādigār and Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m are both called ‘sons’ of Sulṭān Sahāk and may have been
his successors as leaders of the early Ahl-e Ḥaqq community.55 They may have been
contemporaries, as is suggested by the existence of myths about a conflict between
them, but this was not necessarily the case, and the conflict may have taken place in
some of their other incarnations.
Mohammed Mokri discovered a title deed in which a piece of land was granted to
Bābā Yādigār in 933/1527 by a man who had been imprisoned in Baghdad and was
released through the saint’s intervention. Bābā Yādigār had appeared to the wazı̄r of
Baghdad in a dream and ordered him to set the prisoner free. 56 Mokri concludes that
Yādigār must therefore have been alive in 1527, which would place the beginning of
53 C.J. Edmonds, ‘The beliefs and practices of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq of Iraq’, Iran 7 (1969), p. 94.
54 The dergāh of Shāhīn Bābā was one out of the three that were regularly visited by Alevi dede
from East Anatolia, see Karakaya-Stump, ‘Forgotten dervishes’, pp. 18–19. The other two
dergāh were attached to the shrine complexes in Kerbela and Najaf. Wêrān Abdal may be the
16th- to 17th-century Bektashi poet Virani who is associated with Ali’s shrine and the Bektashi
tekke in Najaf, and who reportedly was venerated by the Kākāʾı̄ of Kirkuk, see Matti Moosa,
Extremist Shiites: The Ghulat sects, Syracuse University Press, 1988, p. 183. Kaygusuz Abdal,
Gül bābā, and Kızıl Deli Sultan are well-known Bektashi saints who founded tekke in Cairo,
Budapest, and Dimetoka.
55 Philip Kreyenbroek has recently suggested that they were the leaders of rival factions into which
the early Ahl-e Ḥaqq community split soon after moving from Hawramān (where Sultān Sahāk
lived and where his shrine is) to Dālahū. See Philip Kreyenbroek, ‘The Yaresān of Kurdistan’,
in: Khanna Omarkhali (ed.), Religious minorities in Kurdistan: beyond the mainstream, Wiesba-
den: Harrassowitz, 2014, pp. 3–11, at p. 4.
56 Mohammad Mokri, ‘Étude d’un titre de propriété du début du XVIe siècle provenant du Kurdis-
tan’, Journal Asiatique 251 (1963), pp. 229–256.

the Ahl-e Ḥaqq community somewhere in the 15th or early 16th century. However, the
grant may in fact have been made to the saint’s shrine (it mentions the site of the shrine
as the saint’s residence), and he may have appeared in the wazı̄r’s dream long after
his physical death. Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m is associated with Baghdad, not with Hawramān like
Sulṭān Sahāk or Dālahū as Bābā Yādigār, and my informants believed that he was
buried there.57 To my knowledge, there are no documents that give an independent
indication of when exactly he lived.
Ahl-e Ḥaqq sources agree that Sulṭān Sahāk was the son of a certain Sayyid ʿĪsı̄ ,
who had (together with his brother Sayyid Mūsī) come from elsewhere and settled in
Barzinja in Shahrizor. The same Sayyid ʿĪsı̄ is also the common ancestor of the prom-
inent and well-documented Barzinjı̄ family of sayyids and Sufi shaikhs. 58 The two
brothers are usually said to have arrived from Hamadan and to have been affiliated
with the spiritual lineage of ʿAlı̄ Hamadānı̄ and Muḥammad Nūrbakhsh,59 but there is
at least one source that may hint at another connection. A register of genealogies of
sayyid families in the Sulaymaniyah region lists Shaikh Mūsī and Shaikh ʿĪsı̄ Barzinjı̄
as the sons of a certain Bābā Rasūl, who in 760/1358 or sometime later arrived in
Barzinja in Shahrizor. The same manuscript mentions 846/1442 as the date of Shaikh
ʿĪsı̄ ’s death.60 The unusual name of Bābā Rasūl occurs two more times in the Barzinjı̄ ’s
family tree, most prominently in the person of Bābā Rasūl Gewre, ‘the Great’ (d.
1646), whose numerous children are the progenitors of distinct branches of the family
existing today.61 It is conceivable that the sayyid register makes an error in placing the
name of this much later ancestor before ʿĪsı̄ and Mūsī. However, it is tempting to
speculate whether this genealogy suggests an association of the Barzinjı̄ family with
the famous Anatolian saint Bābā Rasūl who led a popular millenarian rebellion against
the Rūm Seljuqs in Anatolia in the mid-13th century.62 Like several other bābā of his
day, this Bābā Rasūl was a Wafāʾı̄ , and he may therefore have had Iraqi connections
and certainly been known in Iraqi Wafāʾı̄ circles.
The Iranian author Sadı̄ q Safı̄ zāde has compiled ‘biographies’ of the haftawāne
and other persons in Ahl-e Ḥaqq sacred history, on the basis of Ahl-e Ḥaqq daftar and
57 Matti Moosa mentions the shrine of Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m in Baghdad as the second-most important place
of pilgrimage for the Kākāʾı̄ and Sarlī, after the one of Soltān Sahāk; see Moosa, Extremist Shi-
ites, p. 182.
58 Martin van Bruinessen, ‘The Qādiriyya and the lineages of Qādirī shaykhs among the Kurds’,
Journal of the History of Sufism 1–2 (2000), pp. 131–49; Edmonds, Kurds, Turks and Arabs, pp.
68–78.
59 Mohammad Raʾuf Tavakkulī, Tārīkh-i tasavvuf dar Kurdistān, Tehran, 1359/1980, pp. 133–134;
cf. Edmonds, Kurds, Turks and Arabs, p. 68.
60 Manuscript in the private collection of V. Minorsky, studied by M. Mokri, see Mokri, ‘Étude
d’un titre de propriété’, p. 241.
61 Edmonds, Kurds, Turks and Arabs, pp. 68–72. Van Bruinessen, ‘The Qādiriyya.’
62 Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, La révolte de bābā Resul ou la formation de l’hétérodoxie musulmane en
Anatolie au XIIIe siècle, Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1989. The date of Bābā Rasūl’s revolt
against the Seljuqs is around 1240, which places him perhaps a century before the Barzinjı̄ broth-
ers.

a variety of other written and oral sources, which he interpreted in a rationalistic way
by eliminating all miraculous elements.63 In his narrative, the haftawāne were mystics
who came from different parts of Iraq and Iran and gathered around Sulṭān Sahāk in
Pirdiwar as their pı̄r and murshid. Safīzāde makes all of them contemporaries, living
in the 13th to 14th century, but he does not inform us which source this dating is based
on.
I propose an alternative hypothesis: the five khāndān that are associated with the
haftawāne and their eponymous ancestors represent originally different communities
of spiritual teachers and followers that at some point in time (or at different points in
time) were integrated into the Ahl-e Ḥaqq. The eponymous founders of the khāndān
may have been contemporaries, but there is no compelling reason why this should
have been the case. The names of Abu’l-Wafāʾ and his successor Khāmūsh are espe-
cially tantalizing. Safīzāde identifies the former as Abu’l-Wafāʾ-i Kurdı̄ , who was sent
to Hamadan by Sulṭān Sahāk and was buried near the local shrine of Bābā Tāhir. His
grave, however, could not be found, for it was allegedly removed in the course of a
restoration of the main shrine.64
It is tempting to speculate whether the names of the founders of the Khāmūshī
khāndān may refer to the earlier Kurdish Sufi Abu’l-Wafāʾ, known as Tāj al-ʿĀrifı̄ n
(d. 1101). He was the son of a sayyid descending from the imam Zayn al-ʿĀbidı̄ n and
a Kurdish mother. He was the founder of the Wafāʾiyya Sufi order, which later became
influential in Anatolia. He remained childless and was succeeded by a nephew named
Khāmis – like his namesake of the haftawāne was succeeded by his son Khāmūsh. His
hagiography mentions that he had numerous Kurdish followers and was very tolerant
of their tendency to heterodoxy.65 Several Kızılbaş ocak of East Anatolia trace their
genealogy through Abu’l-Wafā to Imam Zayn al-ʿĀbidı̄ n, indicating the importance
of the Wafāʾiyya as a contributor to Anatolian Alevism. Moreover, his name also
comes up in early Yezidi history: he was a teacher of Shaikh ʿAdı̄ b. Musāfir and is
mentioned in several of the qaṣı̄da attributed to the latter – in one instance as a pro-
tagonist in a myth that is also attested among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq, the Bektashis, and in
Dersim.66
63 Sadīq Safīzāde, Dānishnāma-yi nām-āvarān-i Yārsān. Ahwāl u āṣār-i mashāhīr, tārīkh, kitābhā
u istilāhāt-i ʿirfānī, Tehran: Intishārāt-i Hayramand, 1376/1997.
64 Safīzāde, Nām-āvarān, pp. 134–137.
65 The hagiography was compiled in Arabic and completed in 1371 by a certain Shihābeddīn (an-
other name that also occurs among the haftawāne). See Alya Krupp, Studien zum Menaqybname
des Abu l-Wafaʾ Tag al-Arifin: Das historische Leben des Abu l-Wafaʾ Tag al-Arifin, München:
Dr. Rudolf Trofenik, 1976. An early Turkish translation exists, attesting to the influence of the
Wafāʾiyya in Anatolia and recently edited by Dursun Gümüşoğlu, Tācü'l Arifīn Es-Seyyid Ebu'l
Vefā menakıbnamesi, Istanbul: Can, 2006; cf. Ocak, La révolte de bābā Resul, p. 54, and Kara-
kaya-Stump, ‘Subjects of the Sultan’, passim.
66 Abu’l-Wafā rides a lion and Shaikh ʿAdī shows his superiority by mounting a rock and ordering
it to walk. Philip Kreyenbroek, Yezidism: its background, observances and textual tradition,
Lewiston, NY: Mellen Research Publications, 1995, p. 48. For other versions of the same myth,
see van Bruinessen, ‘Haji Bektash, Sultan Sahak, Shah Mina Sahib’.

The Alevi priestly lineages of Dersim

The ocak system of Dersim is complicated; there is a large number of ocak, several of
them broken up into sections that have become almost independent, and the relations
of authority between them defy any attempt at systematic representation. Most of them
are ‘independent’ ocak, in the sense that they have no or only tenuous relations with
the central Bektashi lodge in Kırşehir and were connected with the Safavids in the
past: they are Kızılbaş rather than Bektaşi. Some of the ocak, such as the Bamasur
(Bābā Mansur), Kureyşan and Ağuçan (Ağuiçen), have a strong local cultural identity
and are associated with a rich repertoire of local legends and sacred sites. It was mostly
from aged sayyids of these ocak that young artists and intellectuals recovered myths,
legends, and memories of a social and religious world that was completely overturned
in the massacres and deportations of 1937–1938.
In Dersim and the culturally related communities stretching in a wide arc from
Kahramanmaraş to the southern parts of Erzurum, entire tribes (or at least regional
sections of each tribe) used to be affiliated with the same murshid, pı̄r, and rehber,
each usually belonging to a different ocak. The members of pı̄r and murshid ocak must
also have their rehber, pı̄r, and murshid, in many cases apparently from other ocak
(however, the information about this is contradictory). The bābā Mansur and Ağuçan
ocak are most often mentioned as murshid (for the tribes in East and West Dersim,
respectively), and there are at least eight other priestly lineages that provide pı̄r and
rehber. Besides these Kurdish ocak, there are also a number of Turkish ocak with their
centres in the same region. The relations of spiritual guidance among the ocak as well
as between ocak and commoner tribes (ṭālib, toliw) are complex, and no unambiguous
hierarchy can be established; reports by local researchers are not consistent. 67 Alt-
hough murshid, pı̄r, rehber, and ṭālib stand in a relationship of authority to each other,
it is certainly not the case that tribes and ocak as social units constituted at any time a
four-layered stratified system. The terms reflect the past relationship with Shah
Ismaʿil and his successors; well into the 16th century, the rehber was the one to be in
contact with local communities of Kızılbaş, and the pı̄r was responsible for a large
region, as the representative (khalı̄fe) of the Safavid shah who was the murshid.68 How
this was transformed into the later ocak system, in which local ocak came to function
as murshid, remains unclear.
Most of what we know of the Dersim ocak system (and more generally of Kurdish
Alevi communities) consists of reconstructions of how it used to function before 1937,
based on interviews with aged informants. There is at least one cemevi in Dersim now,
a recent purpose-built structure for celebrating cem, but the rituals celebrated here
appear to be recently re-introduced rather than the continuation of the cem as practised
67 For a good analytical and critical overview, see Erdal Gezik, ‘Rayberler, pirler ve mürşidler (Al-
evi ocak örgütlenmesine dair saptamalar ve sorular)’, in: Erdal Gezik and Mesut Özcan (eds.),
Alevi ocakları ve örgütlenmeleri. 1. kitap, Ankara: Kalan, 2013, pp. 11–77.
68 M.A. Danon, ‘Un interrogatoire d’hérétiques musulmans (1619)’, Journal Asiatique 2e sér., tôme
17 (1921), pp. 281–293.

in the past. As the anthropologist Peter Bumke, who carried out research in Dersim in
the 1970s, remarked with some exaggeration, his informants appeared to adhere to ‘a
religion that is not practised’. 69 The ocak never ceased to exist, of course, and they
continued to be held in respect by the other tribes, but the regular visits by murshid,
pir, and rehber, which had been the occasions when cem were held, were to a large
extent disrupted by the deportations. However, conditions differed from place to
place, and some oral information suggests that here and there, cem continued to be
celebrated.
In the past two decades, a considerable body of information on the ocak system as
well as on other aspects of this religion has become available.70 Most significantly, a
large number of manuscript documents in the possession of ocak, such as genealogies
(shajara, şecere), letters of confirmation as sayyid (siyādetnāme) or khalīfa
(icāzetnāme) – which had long been kept hidden –, have been made available to and
been analysed by researchers.71 Besides scholarly studies on the subject, we now also
have self-representations of several ocak, usually with reproductions of their şecere
and other documents.72
The ocak documents of East Anatolia that have been studied so far have shown the
great importance of the Kurdish Sufi Sayyid Abu’l-Wafāʾ Tāj al-ʿĀrifı̄ n, through
whom many ocak trace their genealogies. Gölpınarlı and later Ahmet Yaşar Ocak
showed that many of the 13th-century Anatolian Sufi masters and charismatic leaders
known as bābā, including the famous bābā Resul, were in fact connected with the
Wafāʾiyya rather than the Central Asian Yassaviyya.73 Ayfer Karakaya-Stump ana-
lysed a large number of documents belonging to (Turkish) ocak in the Maraş-Adıya-
man-Malatya region, and her findings are of particular importance for my argument
69 Peter J. Bumke, ‘The Kurdish Alevis – boundaries and perceptions’, in: Peter A. Andrews (ed.),
Ethnic groups in the Republic of Turkey, Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1989, p. 515.
70 Nejat Birdoğan, Anadolu ve Balkanlarda Alevi yerleşmesi: ocaklar – dedeler – soyağaçları, Is-
tanbul: Alev Yayınları, 1992; Ali Yaman, Alevilik’te dedelik ve ocaklar, Istanbul: Karacaahmet
Sultan Derneği Yayınları, 2004; Hamza Aksüt, Aleviler: Türkiye – İran – Irak – Suriye – Bul-
garistan, Ankara: Yurt Kitap-Yayin, 2009; Dilşa Deniz, Yol/Rê: Dersim inanç sembolizmi. An-
tropoljik bir yaklaşım, Istanbul: İletişim, 2012.; Erdal Gezik & Mesut Özcan (eds.), Alevi ocak-
ları ve örgütlenmeleri. 1. kitap, Ankara: Kalan, 2013.
71 Birdoğan, Anadolu ve Balkanlarda; Ocak, ‘Türkiye Selçukluları döneminde’; Karakaya-Stump,
‘Subjects of the Sultan’; Caroline Tee, ‘Holy lineages, migration and reformulation of Alevi tra-
dition: a study of the Dervis Cemal ocak from Erzincan’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Stud-
ies 37(3) (2010), pp. 335–392.
72 Seyyid Hacı Mustafa Aklıbaşında, Ehlibeyt nesli Seyyid Mahmud Hayrani ve evlātları, Duisburg:
private, 1993; Kureşanlı Seyyid Kekil, Peygamberler ile seyyidlerin secereleri ve aşiretlerin ta-
rihi, Köln: private, n.d. [c. 2000]; Vaktidolu, Ağuiçenliler ocağı, Istanbul: Can, 2013.
73 Abdulbāki Gölpınarlı, Yunus Emre ve tasavvuf, Istanbul: İnkilāp, 1992[1961], pp. 46–50; Ocak,
La révolte de bābā Resul; idem, ‘Türkiye Selçuklulari döneminde ve sonrasinda Vefāī tarīkati
(Vefāiyye): Türkiye popüler tasavvuf tarihine farklı bir yaklaşım.’ Belleten 70(257) (2006), pp.
119–154.

because they show that the Anatolian Wafāʾiyya network and the Alevi ocak retained
strong connections with spiritual centres in Iraq for a long time. 74
Most of the Wafāʾı̄ dervishes appear to have joined the Kızılbash movement, and
the Wafāʾiyya network at least in part seems to have reoriented itself towards the
shrine of Shaikh Safi in Ardabil. Karakaya-Stump suggests that after the Ottoman
conquest of East Anatolia, the Anatolian ocak remained affiliated with the Safavids
via Iraq, where Ottoman control long remained less complete than in Anatolia. The
nodes of contact were dervish convents (dergāh or tekke), the most important of which
were located in the holy shrines of Karbala, Najaf, and Kāẓimayn. In the course of
time, these dergāh came to be affiliated with the Bektashiyya; as it did elsewhere, this
order incorporated and domesticated the various heterodox dervish groups. Additional
Bektashi dergāh were later established in places such as Kirkuk and Samarra and be-
came parts of the network visited by Anatolian dervishes and sayyids. Through the
centuries, sayyids of East Anatolian ocak would make journeys to Karbala, Najaf, and
Baghdad in order to request certification of their silsile, şecere, and icāzetnāme from
prominent sayyids residing there.75
This orientation towards Iraq continued, as Karakaya-Stump asserts, until around
1800, after which these ocak (whose documents she studied gradually) shifted their
orientation towards the central Bektashi lodge in Kırşehir. Other ocak, especially from
Dersim proper, may have continued to seek confirmation of their genealogies from
Karbala well after that date. I have heard of Dersim sayyids travelling to Karbala as
late as the mid-20th century. Birdoğan describes a şecere that was signed by sayyids
in Karbala in 1953. It belongs to one of the less well-known Turkish ocak, named
Shāh Ibrāhīm, and Birdoğan shows a healthy scepticism towards the genealogical
claims of this lineage, but there is little reason to doubt that the signatures and stamps
on the document are from Karbala.76
Some surprising coincidences

The Ahl-e Ḥaqq khāndān of Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m is associated with Baghdad and strongly
represented among the Kākāʾı̄ of Kirkuk. The existence of an Alevi ocak with the
same name, which moreover as recently as 1953 sought recognition and legitimation
from Iraq, raises the question whether there could be a connection between the two,
and if so, of what kind. As Aksüt suggests, the title ‘Şah’ in the ocak’s name may be
74 Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, ‘Documents and Buyruk Manuscripts in the private archives of Alevi
dede families: an overview’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 37(3) (2010), pp. 273–
286; idem, ‘Subjects of the Sultan’; idem, ‘The forgotten dervishes’.
75 Karakaya-Stump, ‘Subjects of the Sultan’.
76 Birdoğan, Anadolu ve Balkanlarda, pp. 198–203. On the Şah Ibrahim ocak, which is a section of
the Dede Garkin ocak, see also Aksüt, Aleviler, pp. 87–113; Hamza Aksüt, ‘Der Şah İbrahim
Ocağı: Die Siedlungsgebiete, der Gründer und die mit ihm verbundenen Gemeinschaften’, in:
Robert Langer et al. (eds.), Ocak und Dedelik: Institutionen religiösen Spezialistentums bei den
Aleviten, Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang Verlag, 2013, pp. 69–93.

of recent usage, for it used to be referred to as the Şeyh Ibrahim ocağı.77 In this case,
it is possible that the Anatolian sayyids, aware of the prominence of the Shāh Ibrāhı̄ mī
khāndān in northern Iraq and Baghdad, adapted their ocak’s name to resemble the one
of a more famous namesake. It is also imaginable that there is a more direct connection
between both lineages – as a resident of Baghdad, Shāh Ibrāhı̄ m may have been more
closely associated with the Safavids than other Ahl-e Ḥaqq saints –, but there is no
evidence for that effect.78
The name of Sayyid Abu’l-Wafāʾ occurs not only in the genealogies of many East
Anatolian Alevi ocak but is also associated with Shaikh ʿAdī bin Musāfir around
whom the Yezidi religion took its shape. This suggests that the milieu of Kurdish
followers of Sayyid Abu’l-Wafāʾ Tāj al-ʿĀrifı̄ n had a major formative influence not
only on Kurdish Alevism but on Yazidism as well. Both Abu’l-Wafāʾ and ʿAdı̄ b.
Musāfir were themselves sharīʿa-abiding, orthodox Muslims, but many of their fol-
lowers definitely were not, and Abu’l-Wafāʾs hagiography explicitly notes his toler-
ance of the Kurds’ failure to perform the canonical obligations and approval of their
samāʿ ritual that was criticised by other Sufis.79 The presence of a founding father of
the same name among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq khāndān raises fascinating questions which
cannot be satisfactorily answered. The connection between early Ahl-e Ḥaqq and the
said Kurdish Wafāʾı̄ milieu remains elusive. The names of the ancestors of the
Khāmūshī lineage, Abu’l-Wafāʾ and his grandson and successor Khāmūsh, are very
reminiscent of those of the 11th century (Abu’l-Wafāʾ and his nephew and successor
Khāmis), but a gap of at least three centuries appears to exist between the lifetimes of
the latter two and the emergence of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq.
Similarly, the name of Bābā Rasūl, who is mentioned as the ‘father’ of the sayyids
ʿĪsı̄ and Mūsī – who settled in Barzinja sometime between the 13th and the 15th century
and became the common ancestors of the Barzinjı̄ sayyids as well as the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
khāndān deriving from Sulṭān Sahāk –, is reminiscent of that of Bābā Rasūl, the leader
of the large Anatolian rebellion against the Seljuqs. Whatever the real identity of the
Anatolian Bābā Rasūl, he was a Wafāʾı̄ , and his name must have been well-known in
Iraqi (Kurdish) Wafāʾı̄ circles.
In the cyclical concept of sacred time that frames all Ahl-e Ḥaqq traditions, linear
time and chronology do not matter much. The concept of reincarnation makes it pos-
sible for historical persons living centuries apart to appear together in Ahl-e Ḥaqq
myths. I am not claiming that the Abu’l-Wafā (who actually lived in Kurdistan in the
11th century) and the Abu’l-Wafā of Ahl-e Ḥaqq tradition – or the Anatolian rebel
leader Bābā Rasūl and the Barzinjı̄ sayyids’ ancestor of that name – may actually have
been the same persons. The identical names may be pure coincidence. But it is not
77 Aksüt, ‘Der Şah İbrahim Ocağı’, p. 70.

78 Complicating matters further, Moosa mentions the existence of a Kızılbaş community named
Ibrāhimiyya among the Turcomans of Tall Afar, with both Safavi and Bektashi connections:
Moosa, Extremist Shiites, pp. 165–167.
79 Cited in Karakaya-Stump, ‘Subjects of the Sultan’, pp. 41–42.

impossible that some of the communities that merged into the Ahl-e Ḥaqq religion in
its formative stages had Wafāʾı̄ connections and looked upon Abu’l-Wafāʾ and Bābā
Rasūl as divinely inspired authorities with whose names they wished to be associated.
Conclusion
In spite of many similarities and a general family resemblance, the Ahl-e Ḥaqq reli-
gion and Kızılbaş Alevism have quite distinct belief systems. The clearest expression
of their belief systems is found in the religious poetry of kalām and deyiş, the oldest
and most respected of which is written in Gūrānī and Turkish, respectively. (But there
is a corpus of kalām in Turkish and Persian, as well as a small number of deyiş and
gulbang in Kurdish and Zaza.) There is no overlapping (thematically or even stylisti-
cally) between the kalām and the deyiş.80 In addition, we have a small number of prose
texts of both communities – various versions of the Buyruk, a type of Kızılbaş cate-
chism in Turkish that appears to be of early Safavid provenance,81 and a few relatively
late Ahl-e Ḥaqq prose texts in Persian.82 These texts are also very different from one
another, but they refer to a (small) number of common myths on the origin of the
world and the jam/cem ritual. There are no Ahl-e Ḥaqq communities that know the
Buyruk, nor Alevi communities that know any of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq texts. Intellectuals
of both communities have recognised their similarities or even proclaimed the funda-
mental identity of both religions; but where Kızılbaş and Ahl-e Ḥaqq communities
have existed in close proximity – as they did in northern Iraq –, they have maintained
clear and strict boundaries between each other. Individuals and even groups may oc-
casionally have crossed the boundary, but the distinctness of Shabak and Kākāʾı̄ has
remained.
Both the Kızılbaş and the Ahl-e Ḥaqq consist of numerous local communities that
until recently were largely endogamous, with each having their own cultural tradi-
tions, holy sites, and associated legends. Affiliation with a priestly lineage, which was
in charge of the core jam/cem ritual, integrated local communities into a larger moral
community with a certain sense of a distinct identity, which could be reflected in some
distinct ideas and practices within the overall system of their religion. A clear example
mentioned above is that of the Bābā Yādigārī and Shāh Ibrāhı̄ mī khāndān, who (within
their shared Ahl-e Ḥaqq belief in cycles of manifestation of spiritual beings) hold rad-
ically different views of the relationship between some of these entities. Similarly,
80 Perhaps an exception should be made for the religious poetry of Azerbaijani Ahl-e Ḥaqq. Cavit
Murtezaoğlu has published a large collection of kalām by Azerbaijani poets which are quite dif-
ferent in style from the Gūrānī kalām and somewhat similar to Anatolian Alevi poetry (Murte-
zaoğlu, Yarsanizm).
81 Atalay, İmam Cafer-i Sadik buyruğu; Anke Otter-Beaujean, ‘Schriftliche Überlieferung versus
mündliche Tradition: zum Stellenwert der Buyruk-Handschriften im Alevitum’, in: Krisztina
Kehl-Bodrogi et al. (eds.), Syncretistic religious communities in the Near East, Leiden: Brill,
1997, pp. 213–226.
82 The Tadhkira-i Aʿla, published by Ivanov, Truth-worshippers, and Jayhūnābādī’s as yet unpub-
lished Furqān al-Akhbār, which was a major source for Minorsky’s writings on the Ahl-e Ḥaqq.

minor differences between remembered ritual practices of different Alevi ocak be-
came manifest when the cem ritual was reinvented in Turkey’s metropolitan cities and
the diaspora in the 1990s. Oral history research suggests that at least some of the
Kurdish ocak (such as the bābā Mansur and Ağuçan) besides the common core of
myths and legends preserve distinct traditions of their own.
The social structure of commoner tribes and peasant communities tied to priestly
lineages is an important feature the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and Kızılbaş have in common (and
share with the Yazidis, with whom they otherwise maintain an even stricter bound-
ary).83 For the common adherents of these religions, the affiliation with a particular
ocak or khāndān may be more important for defining their religious identity than any
specific beliefs and practices. Each of these lineages is unambiguously either Ahl-e
Ḥaqq or Kızılbaş, and so, one would presume, are their followers. However, highly
charismatic sayyids may extend their religious authority not only across all of their
own ocak or khāndān, but also across other lineages – as did the Ḥaydarı̄ family of
Dālahū, which found recognition among communities affiliated with the Ātashbegı̄
khāndān in Azerbaijan and Qazvin as well as even among Alevi communities far to
the West which appeared unaware of the theological differences between themselves
and the Ahl-e Ḥaqq. In another case of realignment with a more powerful sayyid lin-
eage, we have seen that a group of Shabak had crossed the religious boundary and
became Sarlı̄ -Kākāʾı̄ .
The origins of the priestly lineage system and the jam/cem, in which specialists
belonging to these lineages play an essential role, cannot be unambiguously traced.
However, the genealogies of several Kızılbaş ocak that have been studied show their
connection to 11th-century Kurdish Sufi, Sayyid Abu’l-Wafā, and the Wafāʾiyya Sufi
order, which had emerged in southern Kurdistan and by the 13 th century had become
influential among the Turcoman and Kurdish tribes of Anatolia. The appearance of
orthodox Muslim sayyids and Sufi shaikhs (such as Sayyid Abu’l-Wafā and his con-
temporary Shaikh ʿAdī) among superficially Islamicised Kurdish tribes gave rise to
more or less stable religious communities that were affiliated with the descendants of
those sayyids and shaikhs, as well as of various degrees of attachment to scripturalist
Islam. The Safavid movement of the 15th and 16th centuries pulled many of these
groups, and notably their saintly families, together and imposed on them a certain
degree of uniformity in doctrine and ritual practice. Later, the Bektashi Sufi order,
closely connected to the Ottoman state, offered the same ocak affiliation and privi-
leges.
Five (or rather six) of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq khāndān claim descent from ancestors di-
rectly associated with Sulṭān Sahāk. No family genealogies have been published; Ed-
monds suggests that they can be traced to Sulṭān Sahāk. The myth of the miraculous
83 Even among the Sunni Kurds exist some saintly families that play a comparable role, such as the
Barzinjı̄ sayyids and Sufi shaikhs, as well as the Barzani family. See van Bruinessen, ‘The
Qādiriyya’.

birth of the haftawāne, however, suggests that the khāndān founders were Sulṭān Sa-
hāk’s sons only in a spiritual sense. I would suggest that these families originally rep-
resented different local spiritual traditions, i.e. priestly families with followers who
merged into the Ahl-e Ḥaqq in a similar way, since not much later, other such com-
munities were to join the Safavid movement and to become known as Kızılbaş. Some
names of protagonists in these khāndān are strangely reminiscent of names in the
Wafāʾiyya network.
During the Ottoman period, occasional contacts between Kızılbaş ocak and Ahl-e
Ḥaqq communities may have existed, as sayyids and dervishes affiliated with the for-
mer travelled to the Shīʿī shrine cities of Karbala, Najaf, Kāẓimayn, and Samarra in
search of authentication of their genealogical claims and confirmation of their author-
ity to act as pı̄r. There are no records of Ahl-e Ḥaqq pilgrimages to the same holy
cities, but Ahl-e Ḥaqq dervishes did travel vast distances. It is likely that the Bektashi
tekke in various Iraqi cities provided hospitality to both types of travellers.
As yet, little is known about two important populations that may have been inter-
mediaries between the Anatolian Kızılbaş and the Kurdish (or Gūrān) Ahl-e Ḥaqq.
Some Turcomans of Iraq (notably in Tal Afar) are reportedly Kākāʾı̄ ; many others
hold or held beliefs similar to those of the Kızılbaş. To my knowledge, there is no
serious study of the religion of the various Turcoman communities in Iraq.
There is some literature on the various Ahl-e Ḥaqq communities of Azerbaijan and
Qazvin, but they are not very informative about their religious beliefs and rituals –
and even less so about possible contacts with Kızılbaş communities of the same lan-
guage. They appear to have lived in relative isolation and may not have been influ-
enced much by the arrival of large numbers of Kızılbaş tribes in the early 16th century.
However, they were affiliated with the Kurdish Ahl-e Ḥaqq and, being Turkish-speak-
ing themselves, constituted a bridge between the Turkish- and Kurdish- or Persian-
speaking heterodox communities, as were the multilingual Shabak and Kākāʾı̄ com-
munities of northern Iraq.
The past two decades have seen an increasing interest among members of Ahl-e
Ḥaqq and Alevi communities in each other, and several authors have insisted on the
close relation between the two religious systems. These claims appear to be mainly
based on the reading of academic or popularising literature, but they have also spurred
young activists and scholars to carry out actual field research in other communities or
to make some of their own tradition available to others. These efforts may end up
having an impact on the ritual and discursive heritage of both groups, adding yet an-
other layer of common ideas.
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in: K. Kehl-Bodrogi, B. Kellner-Heinkele & A. Otter-Beaujean (eds.), Syncretistic religious
communities in the Near East, Leiden: Brill, 1997, pp. 1–23.
–, “The Shabak, a Kizilbash community in Iraqi Kurdistan”, Les Annales de l’autre islam 5,
1998, pp. 185–196.
–, “The Qādiriyya and the lineages of Qādirī shaykhs among the Kurds”, Journal of the His-
tory of Sufism 1–2, 2000, pp. 131–149.
–, “Ahl-e Ḥaqq“, Encyclopaedia of Islam, 3rd Edition, Part 2009-2, Leiden: Brill, 2009, pp.
51–58.
–, “Veneration of Satan among the Ahl-e Ḥaqq of the Gūrān region”, Fritillaria Kurdica, Bul-
letin of Kurdish Studies (Krakow), nos. 3–4, 2014, pp. 6–41.
Vinogradov, Amal, “Ethnicity, cultural discontinuity and power brokers in Northern Iraq: The
case of the Shabak”, American Ethnologist 1, 1974, pp. 207–218.
Xemgin, E., Aleviliğin kökenindeki Mazda inancı ve Zerdüst öğretisi, Istanbul: Berfin, 1995.

Yāresān Religious Concepts and Ritual Repertoires as
Elements of Larger Networks of Socio-Political ‘Heterodoxy’
Some Thoughts on Yāresān, Shiite and Qizilbash/Bektashi

Sources and Symbolism1
Yiannis Kanakis
Exeter
Dealing with oral sources often seems to be uncomfortable for scholarship, although
the study of orality has been flourishing in recent decades (increasingly enhanced,
moreover, by technological means: from the huge “portable” sound and image record-
ers of older ethnographers to the ultra-portable digital equipment of our time). As
scholarship, even when it comes to the assessment of first-hand ethnographic/anthro-
pological data, naturally tends to evolve in dialogue with established views, it some-
times finds it hard to fully gauge the constituents of cultural worlds whose fundamen-
tal ingredients and perceptions of collectivity, history, geography, politics, etc. had (or
have) little to do with standards and notions that are more or less taken for granted
today.
The historical processes through which a community, or a network of communi-
ties, is gradually getting assembled (and may also be instituted as such) based on a
common ground of historical experience/necessity, including economy and politics in
a large reading of these terms, can be of course approached, supposed, documented,
1 This paper is based on a video presentation of a Yāresān ritual. Only a few screenshots from the
video clips are included here. – The term ‘Yāresān’ is mainly used in relation to the Yāresān
communities of the Kermanshah region (especially the Gūrān Mountains) which is generally re-
garded as the current Yāresān heartland. The paper is selective as to the material presented: even
within the larger Yāresān network of communities, there are differences among some beliefs,
ceremonial practices, and terminologies. – The Qizilbash and Bektashi communities tend to be
placed under the umbrella term of ‘Alevism’ in much of the literature on Near- and Middle-
Eastern ‘heterodoxies’. Their multiple convergences and differences are methodically analysed
and debated in relative bibliography, some of which can be obtained from the bibliography sec-
tion. In this paper, the two terms will be mentioned separately in order to hint at the existence of
a (sometimes vague) line between them – the limits of which can often be transgressed by the
members of popular religion groups using one or the other term as their primary religious iden-
tification. – I would like to thank Yāresān music master Ali Akbar Moradi and Yāresān religious
leader Sayyed Fereidun Hosseini for their precious help.

96 Yiannis Kanakis
affirmed, and debated. But especially when it comes to communities whose main plat-
form of archiving, institut(ionalis)ing, exchanging, transmitting, and evolving is made
up by a grid of almost intangible, yet dynamically interlinked layers of orality, schol-
ars are sometimes left with potentially unreliable tools, terminologies and classifica-
tions derived from their scholarly backgrounds (including their structural outlooks on
historical realities).
Once terms such as ‘religious’ ‘minority’ have been pronounced without the nec-
essary care (or outside specific frames of reference), and once a scholarly discipline
has set the fundamental approaches to ‘this’ ‘minority’, it can be hard to rethink (even
harder: to possibly escape) the related historical quantitative and qualitative constitu-
ents that appear to characterise ‘it’.
The equation becomes even more complex in the case of communities that – in
addition to the above and despite their being usually placed under categorisations that
are convenient for legal, legalistic, historical, historicist, ‘national’, ‘ethnic’, ‘reli-
gious’, or other established sets of terminologies – insist to remain evasive: they can
be referred to, dealt with, analysed and confirmed in various ways but still continue to
look slippery due to a relative lack of data, to issues of cultural delimitation, or, fur-
thermore, because typical outlooks on them seem to necessitate reframing, reformat-
ting, and refinement (all the more because the standards and communities of reference
and comparison may be equally slippery).
I believe the Yāresān (or Ahl-e Ḥaqq) are such a case.
Academic interest in the Yāresān has been increasing in recent years,2 as important
contributions have been made to academic knowledge on their community(-ies)
(Kreyenbroek, Mir-Hosseini, van Bruinessen, Hamzehʾee, During, and others). More-
over – given the significance of the musically organised sound and of the sung verse
for the Yāresān – the musical teachings and the, sometimes internationally released,
musical work of prominent Yāresān musicians, but also the Yāresānism-related musi-
cal pieces directly uploaded on internet platforms by music students and practitioners,
progressively contribute to a fuller approach to the Yāresān. On the other hand, as
research advances, the elusiveness of some elements of Yāresān (and Yāresān-related)
culture(s) seems to become more evident.
‘Orthodoxies’, ‘heterodoxies’, and their networks

Especially (but not exclusively) when it comes to oral cultures, it can be hard (and
often arbitrary) to clearly place a community under taxonomies as radical as the ones
implied by the terms ‘orthodoxy’ and ‘heterodoxy’. For example, after the establish-
ment of Islam’s political-religious-economic network in the urban centres of the Near
and Middle East (7th to 9th century AD) and the concurrent densification/expansion
of the interconnecting road/commercial/political networks, the geographic, political,
and economic ‘gaps’ of this system became privileged grounds for the development
2 Earlier scholars who have written on the subject include Minorsky, Ivanow, Mokri, and Safizade
(see bibliography).

Yāresā n Religious Concepts and Ritual Repertoires 97
of ‘alternative’ (religious-)political trends. The Arab(ised) and ‘Sunni’ (in terms of

political standard) grip on the hearts of most urban centres was variably looser outside
of them – even more so, predictably, in remote mountain areas. Such places have tra-
ditionally been laboratories of popular religion syntheses, antitheses, and currents.
From Central Asia to the Iranian plateau and well into Anatolia (to partially refer
to only the East-West – or West-East – traditional grids of economic and political
paths), the centuries following Islamic expansion and socio-political settling were fol-
lowed by a multitude of ‘heterodox’ currents, some of which went beyond regional
boundaries.3
It may not be unnecessary to remind, parenthetically, that the study of religions –
eager to present and to clarify principles, mythologies, dogmas, and practices – can
sometimes neglect the economic and political aspects (as well as sources) of the es-
tablishment and the evolution of religious phenomena – as though charming founding
myths, communal confidence in ancestral practices, and charismatic leaders could by
themselves explain the formation, expansion, degree of intensity, interaction, and di-
achronic reach of religious creeds and currents. What is more, ‘orthodoxies’, ‘here-
sies’, and ‘heterodoxies’ are not self-sufficient nor self-explanatory terms but multiply
evolving comparative ones (which may largely depend on the eye of the beholder).
This also entails that the corresponding communities can go through diverse processes
of ‘orthodoxisation’ and ‘heterodoxisation’. These processes may become obscure or
forgotten once these communities have become settled within characteristics and lim-
its that look satisfactory or intelligible to them (or/and to outsiders). 4
At times, places and circumstances of prevailing orality(-ies) in which notions of
(public, academic, mediatic and political, oral and written) discourse – like the ones
currently experienced in the West (i.e. in the main centres of producing globally pre-
vailing academic standards) – were nearly non-existent, religious codes have also
functioned as ‘political parties’ or ‘political currents,’ resourcefully condensing and
containing political (as well as ethical and economic) standards. In this sense, the ap-
pearance and spread of a large number of ‘alternative’ Islams with pretentions to gen-
uine authenticity – or, reversely, with claims of adherence to antinomic, disturbing,
and sometimes outwardly illicit ideas (in occasional or permanent opposition to well-
established sources of ‘respectable’ ethics)5 – seems to correspond not only to loose
3 Cf. Crone, P., The Nativist Prophets of Early Islamic Iran, Cambridge University Press, 2012;
Piroudjou, H., Mithraïsme et émancipation. Anthropologie sociale et culturelle des mouvements
populaires en Iran, L’Harmattan, Paris, 1999.
4 Such processes may include larger or smaller groups and networks, and different characteristics
of them may be derived depending on the period under examination. (In my view, terms as well-
established as ‘Muslim’, ‘Christian’, ‘Shiite’, ‘Sunni’, etc. should not be taken for granted and
exempted from research on ‘orthodoxisation’ and ‘heterodoxisation’ processes).
5 This has often been the case with the Qizilbash, or various dualist groups. Cf. S. Saygırlı, “The
Rebellion of 1416: Recontextualizing an Ottoman Social Movement”, in: Journal of the Eco-
nomic and Social History of the Orient, vol. 55, no. 1 (2012), Brill, pp. 32–73; Stoyanov, Y., The
Other God: Dualist Religions from Antiquity to the Cathar Heresy, Yale University Press, 2000,

98 Yiannis Kanakis
control from Islamic state authorities but also to particular needs of local, regional,
and larger economic as well as political networks. The same is true in conditions of
(nominally or not) prevailing Christianity(-ies) and other political-religious contexts
and standards.6
This brief and very selective attempt at sketching out some bits of a frame within
which the Yāresān will come to be placed in following pages will be, also selectively,
complemented by references to groups that share some of the Yāresān ideas and prac-
tices, before some questions as to the place of the Yāresān within larger politico-reli-
gious networks are formulated later on.
Encoding and symbolising exception: Shiites, Qizilbash, Bektashi, and Yāresān

Standing on a rich subsoil of ancient (Iranian and other) popular and official religions,
the Yāresān (socio-)religious views have also been shaped by the inclusion and/or
filtering of elements derived from various other socio-religious currents that have
been present in traditional areas of Yāresān settlement (the Gūrān mountains in
the Zagros Range to the West of Kermanshah, Kermanshah city and region in
general, the Sahne area, and parts of northern Iraq – especially in the Kurdistan
autonomous region 7).
Furthermore, the Yāresān seem to have found it relatively easier to coexist with
Shiite rather than Sunni polities. A small branch of them, mainly based in the Sahne
area (not irrelevantly situated at some distance from the Gūrān and Kermanshah
Yāresān centres, on a traditional commercial road connecting it to major Shiite areas
and cities), even claims that the Yāresān are in fact a Shiite division – or sometimes
that in reality, they are (among) the ‘authentic’ Shiites. 8 A looser relation to Yāresān
traditions and an increasing adoption of Shiite religious and social standards can also
be found among certain other Yāresān groups, due to the influence of Iranian educa-
tion and media, to physical living proximity, and to state discrimination and pressure.
Shiite Islam, the state-sponsored religion in Iran since Shah Ismāʿīl (15th–16th cen-
tury AD), enabled Ardabil-, Tabriz-, and Qazvin-, then Tehran-based authorities to
esp. pp. 124–183. For a concise framing of some conditions of passage from a Christian to a
(‘heterodox’) Muslim religious-political system, see also Arnakis, G., “Futuwwa Traditions in
the Ottoman Empire: Akhis, Bektashi Dervishes and Craftsmen”, in: Journal of Near Eastern
Studies, vol. 12, no. 4 (Oct. 1953), pp. 232–247.
6 Crone, op. cit., esp. pp. 453–494.
7 Some of the historic and/or recent Yāresān areas are not mentioned here. For an outlook of the
historical and current Yāresān topographies, see P. Kreyenbroek on the previous pages of this
volume.
8 Cf. During, J., Musique et mystique dans les traditions de l‘Iran, Institut Français de Recherche
en Iran/Peeters, 1989, pp. 299–310. The author of the present paper has also come across similar
claims by Qizilbash and Bektashi communities in Turkey: that they are the ‘real’ Muslims as
opposed to the ‘corrupt’ Sunnis. Such claims are sometimes made in a figurative way in order to
merely stress the perceived difference between the Qizilbash and Bektashi high moral ground as
opposed to ‘hypocrite’ Sunni (social and political) ethics; still, a number of Qizilbashs and
Bektashis gives a literal meaning to such claims.

establish a power network that derived from popular religious-political traditions of

the Iranian space9 and which – very importantly – could be symbolically (and con-
spicuously) differentiated from neighbouring Sunni power networks (Ottoman and
others). The spread of Shiite Islam largely corresponded to the need of some groups,
traditions, and power as well as economic networks to claim that the world order pro-
posed by Sunni Islam and its ‘legal’ representatives was not just(ified). At the same
time, their own visions on (desirable, i.e. their own) power and economic networks
were still attached to Islam, for reasons of established convention, political reach, and
sometimes safety and convenience, so they would not reject Islam altogether.10 There-
fore, they proposed spectra of Islamic alternatives that clarified Sunni inaptitude (see
following paragraph) and favoured new leadership(s), vision(s) and action(s).
‘Martyr’ Ali, some of his avatars, and the cycle of time

One of the key symbols encoding this stance was Ali, the ‘martyr’. Unlike Sunnis,
Shiites believe that it was ʿAlī (ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib), the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-
law, and not Abū Bakr who ought to have legitimately succeeded Muhammad. Alt-
hough ʿAlī finally became the 4th successor (Caliph, spiritual and political leader of
the Muslims) for a relatively limited period, Shiite thinkers tend to believe that the
‘illegitimate’ initial succession caused Islam’s partial deviation from the Prophet’s
principles.11 ʿAlī’s alleged murder by his ‘illicit’ adversaries, the ‘martyr’ death of his
son Husayn after the battle of Karbala, and the political exclusion of his other son
Hassan establish among Shiites strong symbolisms of belonging to a community (or
communities) that has (have) historically been hard done by.
This powerful imagery has been adopted and cultivated by many ‘heterodox’
groups, i.e. groups in contact with and somehow related to, but not (fully) conforming
to a major political orthodoxy and its social standards. The social (ethnic, religious,
geographic, socio-economic, etc.) groups that have had reasons to feel excluded or to
seek different terms of participation in larger political and/or economic networks, have
often used this symbolism as a source of their claims’ ethical legitimacy: we are (with)
those who have always suffered injustice.
9 Cf. P. Crone, ibid.

10 These groups and networks – especially in the period that marked the beginning of the
serious Ottoman expansion, also to the East (15 th century AD) – partly derived from pro-
fessional guilds (aṣnāf) and their established bazaar relations and networks and sought to
prevent these networks from being swallowed by growing Ottoman ones. It is noteworthy
that Shah Ismāʿīl Safavi (Esmail I) himself, son of a dervish in Ardabil, was proclaimed leader
by the professional guilds’ spiritual patrons of this area’s important bazaar networks. Cf. Geof-
froy, E., “La « seconde vague »: fin XIIIe siècle – XVe siècle”, in: Popovic, A., & Veinstein, G.
(eds.), Les Voies d’Allāh, Fayard, Paris, 1996, pp. 60–67. The “bel exemple de glissement de
l’autorité spirituelle vers un pouvoir temporel” (good example of sliding from spiritual to tem-
poral authority), p. 60, in my view entails very vast socio-political connotations.
11 Momen, M., An Introduction to Shiʿi Islam: The History and Doctrine of Twelver Shiʿism, Yale
University Press, New Haven & London, 1985, pp. 11–22.

100 Yiannis Kanakis
But the importance of ʿAlī in popular religions of the Iranian (and Ottoman) space
precedes and exceeds Islam. ʿAlī is arguably an expression of (solar and other12) pre-
Islamic deities and symbols that – also because of his ‘alternativeness’ to a ‘main-
stream’ model, i.e. Muhammad – seem to have found in him a leading religious per-
sona that can be both powerful and flexible enough to carry, express, and accommo-
date desired admixtures to ‘mainstream’ socio-religious standards. In other words, he
is an exemplary figure rendering the ‘exceptionality’ (‘heterodoxy’, ‘heresy’) inserted
in an official religious body both symbolically potent and communally legitimate. He
is thus a central reference among Middle Eastern and East Mediterranean religious-
political heterodoxies,13 not only legitimising ‘heterodoxy,’ but also providing a po-
tential common ground with (and a link to) other communities also seeking ‘excep-
tionality’ within a larger official standard. A multitude of interrelated prophets, saints,
avatars, and leaders, variously present in ‘heterodox’ cults across the Near and Middle
East and the Balkans, as well as across official religions, keep a special role for ʿAlī
and his multiple incarnations.
Although not a central reference in their rituals, ʿAlī is a highly respected figure
among the Yāresān, constituting a bridge to Shiite, Qizilbash (-Alevi), and Bektashi
(-Alevi) groups.
By most Yāresāns, ʿAlī is considered to be the initiator of the first out of four
important periods of divine revelation to humans: the period of Sharīʿat, i.e. the divine
Law. Later, divine incarnations inaugurated the periods of ṭarīqat (path(s) to the di-
vine), Marifat (mystical knowledge), and, finally and most importantly, Ḥaqīqat
(deeper essence of the divine, cosmic Truth).
This last period was brought about by Soltan Sahhak, a semi-legendary14 figure of
the 14th–15th century AD, considered by the Yāresān to be the founder of their religion
(in its present form). He is also closely associated with another important ‘heterodox’
leader, the equally semi-legendary Haji Bektash Veli (13th-15th century AD) and cen-
12 Mélikoff, I., Sur les traces du soufisme turc: Recherches sur l’islam populaire en Anatolie, Isis,
Istanbul, 1992, p. 23. See also following pages.
13 Ali has sometimes been associated with Saint George, or Hidhir/Hizir, and other personalities
venerated by popular religion groups in the Near and Middle East as well as the Balkans. In some
cases, these personalities have even been variably regarded as avatars or reincarnations of Ali.
Cf. Mirmiroglu, V., Oi Dervissai (Οι Δερβίσσαι), Istanbul 1940/Athens 1998 (Ekati Publica-
tions).
14 Soltan Sahhak seems to have really existed, cf. Kreyenbroek, P., “Ahl-e Ḥaqq”, in: Hinnells, J.R.
(ed.), A New Dictionary of Religions, Oxford and Cambridge MA, 1995, pp. 13–14. The term
‘semi’-legendary is used in order to accommodate the ample supernatural elements of his hagi-
ography.

tral patron saint of the Bektashi (who bear his name) and most Qizilbash communi-
ties.15 According to many theologically informed Yāresāns,16 Haji Bektash was in fact
a manifestation or incarnation of Soltan Sahhak (or even Soltan Sahhak himself) who,
after laying the foundation of Yāresānism, appeared in Anatolia in order to (at least
partly) establish the right faith. 17 The fact that, as a historical figure, Haji Bektash
seems to have lived before Soltan Sahhak does of course not detract from his hagio-
graphic potential in communities of a primarily oral culture where perceptions of the
past are very different from precise historical records. Moreover, different informants
place varying degrees of emphasis on whether Haji Bektash was an avatar of Soltan
Sahhak or in fact of bābā Yadigar, one of Soltan Sahhak’s main disciples.18 It is in any
case possible for a divine representative to be simultaneously inhabited by more than
one divine avatar, disciple and/or manifestation.
To go back to ʿAlī, the fact that he symbolises a potentiality for spiritual guides
and leaders (other than Muhammad, the last and ultimate prophet for Sunnis) to be
carriers of the divine – thus also indicating the possibility for different acceptable so-
cio-political paths outside of the conventional limits of a regionally prevalent ortho-
doxy (whether Shiite or Sunni, depending on the area) – is central for his inclusion
among the (indirect) founders of Yāresānism. In other words, for most Yāresān com-
munities, ʿAlī is a bridge to Shiism (and other currents with a strong reference to him)
as a heteronomic potential deriving from popular religion, but not a symbol of direct
adherence to the Shiite creed.
Furthermore, the multitude of invariably or potentially shared, as well as of poten-
tially interchangeable, ‘heterodox’ saints and spiritual leaders sketches out a dynami-
cally laid-out (in time and space) network of ‘heterodox’ currents with varying degrees
of connection to each other.
One of these saints’ relatively steady characteristics among many ‘heterodox’
communities (such as the Yāresān, the Qizilbash, and the Bektashi) is that they are
seen as angels (or archangels), usually forming a heptad (and possibly containing a
smaller core of reference, for instance a tetrad) that relates to symbols or qualities that
were present during the creation of the cosmos. The multiplication of manifestations
of these beings in the cosmology and religious history of ‘heterodox’ groups, coupled
with the accommodation of other personalities that occasionally appear and whose
origin may be less explicitly related to the heptad, produce other important groups of
reference (for example composed of 40 members).
15 It is noteworthy that Haci Bektash Veli has sometimes been associated with Charalambos, bishop
of Magnesia (today’s Manisa, West Anatolia) in the late 2 nd century AD and saint of East Chris-
tian churches. Cf. Mirmiroglu, op. cit.
16 Derived from personal communications of the author in the Kermanshah region, Tehran, and
Western Europe.
17 Van Bruinessen, M., “When Haji Bektash Still Bore the Name of Sultan Sahak”, in: Popovic.,
A., & Veinstein, G. (eds.), Bektachiyya: Études sur l’ordre mystique des Bektachis et les groups
relevant de Hajji Bektach, Isis, Istanbul, 1995, pp. 117–138.
18 Actually, all important religious figures are incarnations and manifestations of the divine essence.

102 Yiannis Kanakis
Unlike in official Islamic (and Christian) orthodoxies, ideal time (as opposed to
everyday linear practicality) becomes thus cyclical, with similar types of events re-
produced in each of the religiously significant epochs (which sometimes mark the
passage from one perceived or experienced socio-political standard to another). Rein-
carnation (or metempsychosis) is not limited to spiritual leaders but (according to the
Yāresān, but also most Qizilbashs and Bektashis) expands to all people. However,
outside of the religiously important manifestations of divinity and its representatives,
angels, or avatars, a systematised view on the quantitative or qualitative evolution of
someone’s soul after death is usually absent and often seems to be irrelevant.
There is a very large number of other characteristics that some or most of the ‘het-
erodox’ groups in question share, as parts of their religious beliefs or as common,
untheorised practices. There exists an extensive bibliography and debate on these
(partly cited at the end of this paper). In terms of ritual, religious practice itself also
involves significant similarities, some of which will be discussed below.
Jam rituals19
The most important Yāresān ceremony is arguably the jam (a word of Arab etymol-
ogy, meaning ‘gathering’ or ‘congregational meeting’). It includes the singing of reli-
gious poems (often in part and not necessarily in a strict order) called kalām, and con-
sumption of certain foods and drinks (water for the Yāresān of Gūrān) which are con-
secrated during the ceremony.20 In most contemporary Yāresān communities, a mini-
mum of seven male participants is necessary to form a holy (semi-)circle, each holding
a specific function. The most important of these functions are: the sayyed, member of
a priestly family (or an adequately assigned representative); the kalāmkhwān who
sings the kalām and plays the holy tanbur (a Yāresān ritual long-necked fretted lute)
– this role is sometimes partly undertaken by the sayyed; and the khādem or dalīl, the
19 This part is a selective presentation of Yāresān ritual and makes some comparisons with the
Bektashi and Qizilbash ritual.
20 It is possibly noteworthy to bear in mind that the ritual consumption of meals (the Eucharistic
‘agape(s)’) also took place in early Christian ceremonies – when Christianity was itself rather
‘heterodox’. A symbolic remembrance of these meals is partly maintained in the holy commun-
ion (which also carries other meanings), entailing the ritual union of two economically and po-
litically allied types of societies: flatlands/fields (wheat/bread) and mountain sides (grapes/
wine). This union was politically sought (and practically established) by Roman Emperors such
as Trajan Decius and Marcus Aurelius Probus (3rd century AD) and further pursued by their suc-
cessors even after Great Constantine (4th century AD). More than eleven centuries later, the union
in question was expanded by some Bektashi and other ‘heterodox’ communities to include an-
other important type of society: that of the high mountain (semi-)nomads. This last union was
symbolised by the introduction of cheese (or, as the author of the present paper has witnessed in
eastern Turkey and northern Iraq, of cheese and/or butter) as the 3rd element of the holy com-
munion. Cf. the excellent, still unpublished study of E. Zakhos-Papazachariou on the toponyms
of the Baltza area, northern Greece, completed in 2012 for the 9 th Ephoreia of Byzantine Antiq-
uities in Thessaloniki (accessible via direct contact).

only one who remains standing during the ritual in order to perform tasks such as food
distribution.
The main ceremony of the Qizilbashs and Bektashis is called jam/jem, too. It also
involves a ceremonial semi-circle (or line), often composed of twelve men of a mature
age,21 in reference to the twelve imams of Twelver Shiism. A man of a priestly family
(often called dede, ‘grandfather’ – or, again, an adequately assigned representative)
also leads this ceremony. The role of the Yāresān kalāmkhwān is in this case per-
formed by the ashiq (other terms may also be in use) who sings poems (usually called
nefes) while playing the sāz (or baghlama, tanbur, tenbur, kopuz…), a lute of the same
family as the Yāresān tanbur.
Despite several (minor or significant) ceremonial differences, it is remarkable that,
for the Qizilbash, Bektashi and Yāresān, it is through the music of the holy lutes and
the ritual singing that the holy texts acquire their full meaning and potence (unlike in
many other – including neighbouring – religious traditions), a possible sign of a ritu-
alised, increased relative importance of orality over the written word. The musical
parts of the ritual often produce trance experiences among the participants, including
(sometimes uncontrollable) crying, losing conscience, and having visions, as well as
(less frequently in recent years) chewing lit carbons, dancing on fire, and other exem-
plary actions of exceeding normal physical limits. 22 Moreover, both the tanbur and
the sāz have until recently tended to be associated with vulgar, blasphemous, or rebel-
lious connotations by neighbouring Sunni or Shiite orthodoxies. Such associations
have also been common among the parts of these orthodoxies that were traditionally
tolerant of, or positive to, other musical instruments, indeed even ritual instruments
(for instance instruments used by heterodoxies perceived as less disturbing, such as
the Mevlevi or Mawlāyī, ritually using the nay, a kind of flute).23
Another important commonality is the discussion in which the ritual leader en-
gages the participants at the end of the ceremony. He discusses with them everyday
problems or religious, social, and practical questions, always with reference to com-
munity values. There may also be attempts to resolve disputes within the community,
as well as impositions of punishments such as damages paid to the injured party, ritual
21 An infrequent presence of old women among the people performing the ritual in both the Qi-
zilbash/Bektashi and the Yāresān case has been reported by informants but was never witnessed
by the author.
22 Most of these have been seen by the author during rituals, except for the more spectacular acts
of conspicuously exceeding bodily limits. On the other hand, such acts have been reported amply
and in detail by first-hand witnesses.
23 Derived from numerous personal communications of the author in Iran, Iraq, and Turkey. In the
Qizilbash and Bektashi musical repertoires, there are often sarcastic references to this negative
stance of pious outsiders to their holy lute. Moreover, as is the case among many ‘heterodox’
groups, the sound of the holy instrument is associated (in heterodox hymns, cosmogony and tales)
with the human obtaining a soul. In the Yāresān case, faced with the denial of the – divine, in
essence – soul to inhabit the humble, clay-built human body, God ordered the haft tan (the holy
heptad) to enter the body and play the tanbur. The soul was amazed, entered the body (while the
haft tan secretly exited it at the same time) and remained trapped in it.

104 Yiannis Kanakis
or physical excommunication, etc. The possibility for ritually enacted and publicly
pronounced, but personalised, advice and punishment is probably another major
(re)activator of the oral structure of these cultures, which differentiates them from
more officialised, impersonalised orthodoxies.
Some conclusive thoughts

This selective presentation has (among other things) omitted a reference to various
related ‘heterodox’ communities (such as the Yazidis with whom the Yāresān also
share an important number of elements) or various Sufi orders which seem to have
produced the initial ground for a large part of Yāresān beliefs and practices.
I have also tended to refrain from linguistic, ethnic, or national characterisations,
as well as from related terminologies (I will only limit myself to mentioning, at this
conclusive point, that most Yāresāns speak Kurdish dialects and regard themselves as
Kurds, while there are also some Azeris, Turcomans, Lores, etc.).
These choices have sought to (even indirectly) hint at the potential for another
reading of geographies and histories, complementary to more established views. Be-
yond colours on maps that sometimes emigrate, immigrate, or influence each other
and utterly depend on (or are classified under) specific names, titles, and categorisa-
tions, I have wanted to stress the importance of the notion of (dynamic) networks in
approaching communities.
I believe that such an approach may offer interesting additional tools for revisiting
the socio-political dynamics contained in, encoded through, and conveyed by religious
expression. As a research potential less fixed than established ethno-national and re-
ligious terminologies, the study of community networks also better allows in my view
to explore the idea that a network may exist with or without awareness (or conscious-
ness) of itself, its limits, its fluctuations, its eclectic liaisons, etc. In other words, I
believe that the notion of networks can better reveal the ways, paths, commonplaces,
properties, times, intensities, densities, and dynamics in and through which many
communal realities function. I consider this to be an important subject that seems to
become increasingly open to research – also in the fields of ‘Islamic’ ‘alternatives’.
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Cultural Anthropological Analysis

Beyond Muslim and Hindu – Sacred Spaces in the Thar
Desert of Pakistan
Jürgen Wasim Frembgen

Munich
Prologue
In Mithi, a small town with about 60,000 inhabitants located in the middle of the Thar
Desert of Pakistan, posters of gods and saints hang in the shops of the central Shahi
Bazaar that tell us something about the religious identities of the merchants and arti-
sans. At the Hindu merchants’ places – the majority here –, there are not only devo-
tional images of the chief pan-Indian deities Shiva, Vishnu, Krishna, Durga (the war-
like aspect of the Great Goddess), and Hanuman, but also those of local saints (sānt,
faqīr). In the shops of the Muslims, we find a number of Sufi posters with the portraits
of Muslim saints from the Sindh province, alongside calligraphies of Qurʾānic verses
and portrayals of Mecca and Medina. A comparative observation of these picture gal-
leries always reveals overlaps and links; for instance, we encounter Jhule Lal 1 – the
Hindu river god who is identified with the mysterious and mystic leader Khwaja Khizr
– in Muslim shops, while images of the two great Sufi saints of Sindh, Shah Abdul
Latif and Lal Shahbaz Qalandar also protect the shops of Hindus. In the shop of a
Hindu, I eventually read in Arabic calligraphic script the popular phrase of the famous
Indian mystic Kabir (1440–1518) on the wall, rāma raḥīm, krishna karīm – “God is
merciful, Krishna is generous”. South Asian Muslims at times address God as rām –
for example in the common greeting Allāh rām used in the Cholistan Desert of Paki-
stan –, and the words raḥīm and karīm describe divine attributes, which are among the
99 “Most beautiful names of Allāh”.
Therefore, this essay deals with contexts of lived contemporary religiosity in
which forms of popular devotion permeate each other mutually. 2 In social anthropol-
1 Khan, D.-S., Jhulelal and the Identity of Indian Sindhis, Oxford University Press, Karachi, 2008,
72–81; Parwani, L., Myths of Jhuley Lal: Deconstructing a Sindhi Cultural Icon, Oxford Univer-
sity Press, Karachi, 2010, pp. 1–27.
2 In addition to numerous research stays in various regions of Sindh (since 2003), I was able to
undertake two brief excursions to the Thar region during a visit resulting from the kind invitation
of the Goethe Institute (26.10.–31.10.2009 and 26.11.–30.11.2010). The results of these two jour-
neys (the first one together with Peter Pannke and Markus Litz, the second one with the anthro-
pologist and photographer Lukas Werth) as well as further supplementary investigations are pre-
sented here.

110 Jürgen Wasim Frembgen
ogy, such historic phenomena and processes that blend religious traditions are theo-
rised with the terms syncretism, hybridity, and heterogeneity. Many of the sacred
places I sought out in the Thar and other regions of Sindh are “inclusivist” spaces
which allow for social coexistence and commonality where no one is excluded. There
are saints claimed by both religious communities, such as the great Sufi Lal Shahbaz
Qalandar (d. 1274) whom Hindus consider to be an incarnation of the Shaivite ascetic
Raja Bhartrihari, or the ancient Indus deities Udero Lal or Jhule Lal whom Muslims
identify with Shaikh Tahir, a 16th century Sufi – or the miraculously immortal saint
Khwaja Khizr. Such sacred sites of saints with dual identities, which are characterised
not by scriptural religion, laws, and dogmas, but by the oral tradition of religious cus-
toms, are also often found in Sindh, a region formed more strongly by the Sufi culture
than any other in South Asia. They are also vital in the periphery – for example in the
Thar Desert. Within Pakistan, the Thar and the rocky region of Parkar (literally “be-
yond the salt flats”, i.e. the salt marshes of the “Rann of Kacch” in Gujarat, which
borders it to the southeast like a tail), together also called Tharparkar, form a very self-
contained, unique landscape which lies in the outermost southeast of the country and
belongs to the Great Indian Desert.
Muslims, Hindus, and Indigenous Tribes in the Thar

Even today, the Thar has largely remained an ethnological terra incognita. The Thari,
the inhabitants of this semi-desert, speak the Marwari dialect Dhatki or Thareli – some
also Parkari-Kolhi – and are divided into various ethnic groups, tribes, castes, and
occupational groups, which Ihsan H. Nadiem briefly presents in his book Thar.
The Great Pakistani Desert3

The Muslim part of the population mainly consists of various groups of Baloch (e.g.
Khosa, Rind, Chandio, Kashkheli) and Sindhi (e.g. Sumra, Samma, Memon, Nahrio).
Among Muslim caste groups, I was told about the Nuri/Arbab, Mallia, Dhal, Mangria,
and Rajar (the latter being followers of Pīr Pagaro). Among the Hindus, who largely
migrated from the Marwar region in south-western Rajasthan, are mainly Rajput clans
and the merchant class of Lohana (in particular Thakur) – in addition to various
smaller caste groups. The population in the Thar region roughly consists of equal parts
Muslims and Hindus; today, the total population might be at somewhat more than one
million people.4
Most of the approximately 3 to 4 million Pakistani Hindus live in the rural regions
of the southern province of Sindh, with the distinct majority of this discriminated and
3 Nadiem, I. H., Thar. The Great Pakistani Desert. Land – History – People, Sang-e-eMeel, La-
hore, 2001, pp. 88–112; cf. Smith, J.W., Gazetteer of the Province of Sind. Vol. VI Thar and
Parkar District, Bombay, 1919, pp. 8–9, 55.
4 In the most recent census of 1998, the population of Tharparkar was cited as 955,812; according
to that same census, the number of Hindus in the Sindh province was 2,280,842 (compared to a
total of 2,443,614 in all of Pakistan).

Beyond Muslim and Hindu 111
to the greater part impoverished religious minority living in the districts of Tharparkar
and Sanghar.5 As a marginalised group, they are frequently the victims of local vio-
lence in times of political-religious conflicts, such as that around the Babri Mosque in
northern Indian Ayodhya in 1992. Even the remoteness of the Thar offers insufficient
protection, given such consistently flaring conflicts.
Bhil, Kolhi (Plate 4.1) and Menghwar (Megh, Meghval) belong to the indigenous
tribal population. Today, they are subsumed by Hindus under the category achot – a
Sindhi term for Dalits (“untouchables”) or Harijans (“children of God” in Gandhi’s
diction) –, some of whom, however, have also converted to Christianity. Like other
ethnic groups in the Thar, they also mainly live as stock-breeders and grow some sor-
ghum and vegetables, too; the Menghwar men are traditionally leatherworkers, tan-
ners, and shoemakers, while their women produce very high-quality patchwork blan-
kets (ralli). The Kolhi work as landless peasants (hari) in many parts of the Sindh
province. Like the Bhil, they migrated to the area only recently. 6 The Bhil are one of
the largest tribal communities of South Asia and mainly live in central India; they also
migrated to Sindh from Gujarat. The question is which of their own religious ideals
and rites could be preserved until today among these socially discriminated groups
after their culture has been marked by dominant Hindu traditions and the influence of
the Muslims in Sindh.
The Thar Desert as a Spiritual Space

Deserts are landscapes full of contrasts: between the shimmering heat of the day and
the cold of the night; between the glistening sunlight and the darkness lit by the clear
starry night sky; between the hostile drought and the water in the gardens of the oases
that signify life.7 There have always been people who, in their search for spiritual
experiences, have broken out of the narrowness of settlements into the expanse and
freedom of the wilderness. Usually, they were mystics, ascetics, and poets who
climbed over the fence of their culture to find something different there. They im-
mersed themselves in the solitude and stillness in order to attain inner harmony and
spiritual truth.
In the context of Islam, it was the Prophet Muhammad himself who entered the
wilderness and regularly retreated for a few days into the Cave of Hira on a mountain
near Mecca in order to practice religious devotion. In the legend of Layla and Majnun,
which the Persian poet Nizami (d. 1209) wove into the most famous love epic of the
Muslim world, the desert becomes the place of all-consuming yearning for the be-
loved, where wild animals are the loyal companions of the hero and he finally de-
scends into madness and dies alone. According to folk beliefs, ghosts and demons also
prefer to live in the desert. The isolation and powerful quietude of extreme landscapes
5 Special Report “Religious Minorities living on the Edge”, in Herald 24/1 (1993), pp. 87–96.
6 Lambrick, H.T., Sind. A General Introduction, Sindhi Adabi Board, Hyderabad, 1964, p. 218.
7 On the following, see: Frembgen, J.W., Wege durch die Einsamkeit – Die Wüste als spiritueller
Raum im Islam, Ausstellungszentrum Lokschuppen, Rosenheim, 2006, pp. 177–185.

attracted mystics in particular, who spent 40 days here in prayer, divine contemplation,
fasting, and meditation. These exercises in asceticism, called khalwa in Sufism, served
to battle one’s carnal soul for the dissolution of the ego, and therefore advanced the
development of love of God and ultimately “annihilation” in the One. The South Asian
Sufi saint who particular sought the experience of the desert was Khwaja Ghulam
Farid (1841–1901), a member of the Chishti order. According to lore, he lived for 18
years as a wandering bard and poet in the Cholistan Desert, a sandy desert reaching
into the Thar in India. Like other Sufi poets, he employed romantic epics of local oral
tradition – for example Sassui Punhun – in order to interpret earthly love as an allegory
of the mystic love of God. This poetry is still recited by the Bhagat bards in southern
Punjab and Sindh. According to legend, the famous ascetic and ecstatic saint Lal
Shahbaz Qalandar (d. 1274) also crossed through, not only his own dasht-e tanhai –
“desert of solitude” –, thereby performing an “inner journey” in order to find the di-
vine beloved in his own heart, but also wandered himself through the rocky mountains
of Balochistan and the desert-like wastelands and plains of Sindh.
However, as mentioned above, love poems are known to have been written by
Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai (1689–1752), the greatest Sufi poet of Sindh, and are actually
set in the Thar Desert.8 The theme of his poetry, in which he frequently refers to folk
tales, is the transformation of the loving soul into pure love, whereby the female, as
the heroine of love, becomes a symbol of the soul. Two of these poems, Umar Marui
and Momal Rano, are of special interest here: the powerful ruler Umar Sumra (1355–
1390) who resided in Umarkot, kidnapped the shepherd maiden Marui, held her in
captivity in his castle, and attempted to seduce her with all means – yet without suc-
cess.9 The second story tells of Rano, the young vizier of Hamir Sumra (1400–1439),
and his love for the beautiful Momal, for whom he crossed the desert from Umarkot
every night on a fast camel. Incidentally, this hazardous and exhausting ride is an
important compositional element of the ancient Arabic lyric poetry known as qaṣı̄da.
The Thar is by no means as dry and hostile as other deserts; the summer monsoon
induces a brief period of fresh green, and winter also brings occasional rain, which
transforms the appearance of this wilderness. With its elongated, green hills, sand
dunes, gravel plains, and thorn savannahs, its trees, shrubs, sycamore figs, cacti,
grasses, and creepers as well as its astonishingly species-rich fauna, the Pakistani Thar
is a semi-desert of a very unique character, which also attracted mystics, ascetics, and
hermits of various religious traditions. They retreated there in order to spend time in
prayer and contemplation, to receive mystic inspiration, or – like the Sufis – to aban-
don themselves to the yearning for the Divine Beloved.
8 On Shah Latif, see: Schimmel, A., Mystische Dimensionen des Islam, Eugen Diederichs, Colo-
gne, 1985, pp. 551–558. On the poems mentioned here, see: Schimmel, A., Unendliche Suche.
Geschichten des Schah ʿAbdul Latif von Sind, New Age, Munich, 1983, pp. 25–26, 31–36;
Ghulam Abbas, Z., Pakistanische Volkserzählungen, Max Hueber, Munich, 1962, pp. 37–42;
Nadiem 2001, pp. 54–72.
9 Cf. Mubarak Ali, Essays on the History of Sindh, Fiction House, Lahore, 2005, pp. 73–118.

Some Muslim saints settled in the close proximity of the desert, in the flat, tama-
risk-covered plains which mark the transition to the undulating, hilly, sometimes
astonishingly green Thar alternating with arid areas in the north and west. Their
shrines, visited by the inhabitants of the Thar on their pilgrimages, are located here:
Saman Sarkar, Ghulam Shah Ghazi and Sajjan Sawai in Badin district; the Qadiri
mystic Mohammad Siddiq Sadiq (first half of the 19th century) in a village called Sufi
Faqir near the strategically important town of Umarkot, which lies on the historic trade
route between the Indus valley and the Indian region of Marwar; and the Naqshbandi
mystic, theologian, and missionary Abdul Rahim Girhori (1739–1778) in Girhori Sha-
rif near Mirpur Khas. Individual groups of Tharis occasionally make the pilgrimage
to the shrines of Shah Abdul Latif in Bhit Shah or to Lal Shahbaz Qalandar in Sehwan
Sharif, situated hundreds of kilometres away in interior Sindh.
In the desert itself, sacred places of saints can be found who once lived here but
then moved away, such as the female Hindu saint Sant Rama Bhai who migrated to
India 30 years ago. Also noteworthy is the living saint Lalan Lashari in a village be-
tween Mirpurkhas and Mithi, as well as the samadhi10 of Chando Pīr (near Kantio)
and Hardas Bhagat (in Mithi). Sometimes, the villagers do not know much about such
holy men who had wandered through the Thar in earlier times. On an excursion be-
tween Mithi and Chelhar near the tiny village of Harehar, for instance, Lukas Werth
and I found a small sacred site (called tān, derived from astāna) which served to re-
member a Hindu sage (swāmi). Situated at the edge of sorghum and sesame fields
halfway into the wilderness, it consisted of a tiny domed building surrounded by a
thicket; next to it was a grove of trees adorned with flags (Plate 4.2). A villager told
us that the sage had been living in this place five generations ago. Even today, every
year before the harvest, a sacrifice is made for him; the people bring sweet rice and
celebrate a little feast (melo). Saints – whether Hindu or Muslim – whose magical
powers are manifested at sacred spaces in the wilderness are liminal figures that pro-
tect and nourish the people with their blessings if they are regularly honoured in ritu-
als.11
Sacred Spaces in the Thar

In the following summary, I will briefly refer to some sacred monuments in order to
convey an idea of the diversity of religious cults in the Thar. In addition to the largest
shrine in the desert – the ashram of Sant Nenuram in Islamkot –, I will discuss two
significant supra-regional cults (Rama Pīr and Pithoro Pīr), the main centres of which
lie outside the Thar. They are telling examples of the interactions and intersections of
Hindu and Islamic forms of devotion. I will then refer to two shrines that may be
characteristic of the religious Thari life with regard to both their moderate size and the
10 The term samādhi basically describes a deep state of meditation, but in practice means the burial
monument of Hindus and Jainas, in particular including the pit in which ascetics are buried in
meditation pose.
11 Frembgen 2006, p. 185.

forms of devotion manifested there: those of Parbraham Faqir, a Hindu, and of

Chhutto Faqir, a Muslim. In closing, I will briefly mention the cult of a mother god-
dess (Malan Devi) in which the indigenous tribal groups are particularly involved.
Besides these selected shrines, there are, of course, many other small and larger
sacred places in the Thar. Some of them are very modest gravesites, such as the grave
of an anonymous Hindu yogi (Plate 5.1) in the wilderness near Naukot Fort or that of
Jindani Faqir, a Muslim Khoso-Baloch, directly adjacent to the entrance to this forti-
fication. In the latter, a number of clay water vessels are stored, which indicate the
prescribed religious cleansing in Islam and are donated by the believers as symbols of
purity in order to fulfil personal desires. They are a special form of the expression of
devotion that I have encountered only within the Thar Desert. Also of great signifi-
cance is Sardhro, a sacred space in the Karunjhar Mountains of Nagarparkar, directly
on the Indian border, which, after Hinglaj, is the second-most important one for Paki-
stani Hindus. The three small temples dedicated to Shiva and the holy spring nearby
are the destination of pilgrimages where the ashes of the dead are strewn into the wa-
ter.12 From time immemorial, sādhus and swāmis have gathered around this spring,
including Sant Nenuram, the greatest Hindu holy man of the Thar.
Sant Nenuram
In the ashram complex of Sant Nenuram at the edge of the small town of Islamkot
(approx. 20,000 inhabitants) – apart from small temples (mandir, mari) to Shiva,
Durga, and Kali as well as a prayer room full of the posters of deities like a picture
gallery –, we also find the samādhi shrines of a number of Hindu sages (Plate 5.2).
However, the centre of the complex is marked by a domed building with the arāmgah
of Sant Nenuram, the final “resting place”, which has been built over his ashes. Next
to it is a building that presents portraits of the saint, his wooden sandals, his walking
stick, and a bunch of peacock feathers with which he blessed his visitors. Another
object of relic character, which today serves devotional veneration in a large glass
case, is a bedstead upon which he slept or sat.
Nenuram (1898–1973) was born into a family of Suraj-Rajput and settled in Is-
lamkot in 1937, which at that time had a population of 3,000 at the most. Back then,
his ashram consisted only of simple clay-brick houses with sun awnings, a few small
temples, and the fountain next to the pilu trees. The holy man, who – as seen on his-
toric photographs – wore a long beard like a Muslim Sufi, is said to have meditated
below one of these trees for long periods of time. As people at the shrine told me (and
as documented by photographs), he wrapped only a cloth (dhotī) about his hips like
an ascetic in both summer and winter. Sant Nenuram particularly loved the animals
he fed daily. Therefore, his appearance and behaviour in some aspects reminds one of
Sain Kanwanwali, the “saint of the crows” from Gujrat in Punjab. Even today, the
extensive courtyard of the ashram is filled with the flapping of wings and the voices
of diverse birds, not just sparrows, minas, doves, and peacocks, but also crows, ravens,
12 Smith 1919, p. 44; Ahmed, M., Portraits of Ruin, in Herald 38/3 (2007), pp. 100–101.

and even vultures. Following the sānt’s example, the shrine attendants feed 40 kg of
seeds and cane sugar to birds and other animals every day. Women fetch water in the
courtyard, and twice a day, at noon and in the evening, rice and lentils are handed out
to the hungry. During meals, men, young lads, and women with small children sit
separately in long rows in the open hall designated for this langar or communal
kitchen (Plate 6.1).
Every year in late September, there is a three-day feast (melo) in remembrance of
Sant Nenuram, during which thousands of Hindus pilgrimage to his ashram in Islam-
kot in order to honour the gods and the saints, to listen to musicians and storytellers,
and to eat together. All year long, though, a Bhagat (singer) comes to the shrine daily
in order to perform devotional songs. The Bhagat Anupo Bhil prefers to sing poems
by the Bhakti mystic Mira Bai about Krishna, accompanying himself on the tambur
lute. Besides the love of god, the songs tell about the ideal of poverty (faqīri), which
unites Hindu mystics and Sufis.
Rama Pīr
The veneration of Rama Pīr or Ramdev Pīr in Rajasthan, Gujarat, and Sindh is an apt
example of the permeation of local religious traditions of Hindus and Muslims. As
Dominique-Sila Khan pointed out in her study, this leader of a clan of Tanwar-Rajputs
was no doubt originally a Hindu who had converted to Islam in the 14 th century and
acted as a missionary of the Shiite-Ismāʿīli denomination (Nizari-Ismāʿīli); ultimately,
he was transformed into a hero-saint respectively the deity of a popular Bhakti cult
himself.13 Since these times, the cult has gradually been embedded in a Hindu context,
for today Rama Pīr is seen as an incarnation of Vishnu-Krishna. However, Islamic
elements remain quite apparent; for instance, he is portrayed in figural art and in im-
ages very much as a Muslim saint with a beard. The devotional movement of Rama
Pīr is therefore a “forgotten chapter” in the history of Indian Ismāʿīlis.
In addition to the chief temple of Rama Pīr in Runicha-Ramdeora (near Pokaran
in Rajasthan), there are a number of other shrines venerating this miracle-working
holy man, many of which arose following the division of India in 1947, such as in
Sindh. The largest sacred place and pilgrimage centre of Rama Pīr in Pakistan is lo-
cated in Tando Allāhyar, a small town about 20 kilometres east of Hyderabad. 14 As I
was able to learn there, many groups of pilgrims come from small towns in Thar to
the annual feast (melo), such as Umarkot, Mithi, Kunri, and Diplo. According to local
mythology, Rama Pīr is said to have journeyed to Umarkot at that time in order to
marry a princess of the Sodha dynasty. In the saint’s iconography, many symbols of
“syncretistic” or “hybrid” character stand out; for instance, like many Muslim saints,
13 Khan, Dominique-Sila, Conversions and Shifting Identities. Ramdev Pir and the Ismāʿīlis in Ra-
jasthan, New Delhi 1997 (Manohar), pp. 60–96.
14 Bawani, Sohail Amir Ali, Beyond Hindu and Muslim. Rethinking Iconographic Models and
Symbolic Expressions in Sindh, a Case of Tradition of Rama Pir, in Nukta Art 2/1 (2007), pp.
64–71.

he is portrayed as a rider on a white horse. Other prominent symbols of his veneration

that are found in both Muslim and Hindu traditions are a footprint and banner or pen-
nant. Banners embroidered with a footprint are carried by pilgrims to the shrine and
installed there to fulfil a vow.
The cult of Rama Pīr is widespread among many Menghwar and Hindus of other
lower castes. There is also a temple dedicated to Rama Pīr in the middle of the Thar
Desert, at the edge of the village of Chelhar (Plate 6.2). The Menghwar settlement of
Akhaari is located right next to it. One month prior to our visit in November 2010, the
old temple had been torn down and the cement shell of the new building was rising in
its place. However, the entrance portal was – as in old times – adorned with numerous
flags which depicted the symbol of the feet of Rama Pīr. Both the newly constructed
temple and the flags of the pilgrims testify to the vibrancy of this sacred place.
Pithoro Pīr
A “forgotten tradition” similar to that of Rama Pīr is the cult of Pithoro Pīr, which on
the other hand is practiced mainly by Menghwar, but also by Sodha-Rajputs and Mus-
lims. In figural imagery and art, the bearded saint is shown on horseback (Plate 7.1);
according to legend, he is said to have disappeared into the earth with his horse and
thus attained unity with the divine (visāl). His shrine, which is visited by many inhab-
itants of the Thar, is situated in an arid region approximately 40 kilometres west of
Umarkot.
According to religious oral tradition, Pithoro Pīr was a miracle-working Muslim
saint of the 15th century who lived as an ascetic and warrior near Umarkot.15 He is said
to have been a pupil of the Suhrawardi saint Baha ud-Din Zakariya (d. 1262) or his
successor Shah Rukn ud-Din (d. 1335) and later gathered many disciples around him-
self. Meetings with the great Sufi master Baha ud-Din Zakariya are a popular subject
in the legendary tales of Sufi literature. Another charismatic holy man who is said to
have played a pivotal role in the life of Pithoro Pīr is Gosain Birnath Swami. Historian
Michel Boivin assumes that he may be a figure from the nāth tradition.16 Other ele-
ments of the hagiography of Pithoro Pīr indicate that at that time, there was a crisis of
Muslim invaders and a confrontation between two Rajput clans in the area of Umar-
kot, namely the Hindu Sodhas and the Muslim Sumras. Boivin sees signs of reconcil-
iation between Islam and Hinduism in the religious orientation and affiliation of Pi-
thoro Pīr through a heterogeneous local tradition. 17
As for the ancestry of Pithoro Pīr, there are varying opinions. The ruling dynasty
of the Sodha-Rajput, who have been active as ritual specialists with priestly functions
at his tomb from time immemorial, claims him to be its own and from this derives its
15 On the following, see: Boivin, M., Sufism, Hinduism, and Social Organization in Sindh: The
Forgotten Tradition of Pithoro Pir, in Boivin, M. & Cook, M.A. (eds.), Interpreting the Sindhi
World. Essays on Society and History, Oxford University Press, Karachi, 2010, 116–132.
16 Cf. Kalhoro 2015, p. 80.
17 Boivin 2010, p. 124.

inherited official charisma; this tradition is also revealed in devotional songs. By con-
trast, others see in him a progeny of the socially stigmatised Menghwar. The annual
feast on the anniversary of the saint’s death is celebrated jointly by tens of thousands
of pilgrims, whereby the prescribed religious categories and boundaries are dissolved
in the sense of “beyond Muslim and Hindu” or “Muslim as well as Hindu”. 18
Parbraham Faqir
According to legend, Parbraham Faqir wandered from Kacch through the Thar Desert
and settled by the village of Veri-jhap (between Mithi and Diplo) about 350 years ago.
Shah Abdul Latif mentions this sādhu in one of his poems. His samādhi or arāmgah
is located in the shrine of this Hindu saint, upon which – as with a Muslim cenotaph
– a green blanket is spread. His sister is buried next to him. In fact, this sacred space,
where there are no images of deities, gives the impression of a Muslim tomb (Plate
7.2).
There is a tree on a hill behind the shrine that is said to have grown from the tooth-
cleaning stick of the faqīr – a familiar subject in Islamic saintly legends. Right next to
this tree, a chabutra platform has been erected in Hindu style which marks the place
where the faqīr would sit with his friends. Both Hindus and Muslims partake in the
feast celebrated every year in the month of Chaitra.
Chhutto Faqir
Near the village of Malanhor Vena, about 5 kilometres from Mithi and in the middle
of an ancient cemetery, lies the tomb of a Muslim faqīr who is said to have lived there
about 300 years ago (Plate 7.3). Little seems to be known about Chhutto Faqir, alt-
hough he is said to have declared that after his death, no more evil spirits would be in
the region. This reveals that the wilderness is a place inhabited by jinns and demons
and feared by people. Holy men like Chhutto Faqir, who wields magic powers, are
reputed to be able to protect people from malevolent spirits.
The cenotaph under which the saint was buried is covered with shrouds. Besides
the usual cloths printed with calligraphic Qurʾānic suras, we noticed many indigo-
dyed ajrak cotton cloths which are typical for the textile arts of the Sindhis. In the
shrine, devotees have deposited miniature cradles, linked to the desire to be blessed
with children – decorative pendants of fabric with glass pearls in triangular amulet
shapes attached to them – as well as water vessels which signify religious cleansing.
All of these objects of devotion serve to fulfil personal wishes.
Muslims and Hindus are buried next to each other in this cemetery. However, it is
striking that two feasts are celebrated each year in remembrance of Chhutto Faqir: one
after Muslim tradition, with the consumption of meat on the first Monday in Ramadan;
18 Smith 1919, p. 45; Mayaram, Sh., Beyond Ethnicity? Being Hindu and Muslim in South Asia, in
Ahmad, I. & Reifeld, H. (eds.), Lived Islam in South Asia. Adaptation, Accommodation and Con-
flict, Social Science Press, Delhi, 2004, pp. 18–39; Boivin 2010, pp. 129–130.

and the second after Hindu tradition, i.e. only with vegetarian food, on the first Mon-
day in the Hindu month of Chaitra. Villagers emphasised that Muslims and Hindus
take part in both feasts nonetheless.
Malan Devi
The Great Goddess (devi) or mother goddess (mātā) appears in the religious universe
of Hindu traditions in all of her forms and facets, with an abundance of myths, rites,
and artistic representations.19 The principle of the shakti, the female, powerful aspect
of a male deity, is part of the monistic Vedanta philosophy. The ritual worship of the
Goddess in India goes back to the early days before the arrival of the Aryans; the
sacred devi sites of Hinglaj and Thatta in today’s Pakistan are of special interest. She
has different names depending on the region, tribe, or village. Her chief significance
is that she permeates creation, safeguards order, protects people, and fulfils their de-
sires. The devi is linked to countless tribal and local deities – both as a mother goddess
and in her warrior aspect as the Durga riding on a lion – and has assimilated many of
them, as can also be found in the Thar Desert.
In a Bhil village near Veri, the inhabitants told us that they venerate not only Shiva
and Rama Pīr, but also a mātā named Malan Devi.20 They sacrifice goats to her on a
circular cult place surrounded by thorn bushes and situated on a ridge above the set-
tlement. Near the village of Harehar is a temple of Malan Devi with a number of steles
inserted in the walls, showing the cult image of the Goddess. Here, she appears as a
protective Durga with a sabre. Small wooden murtis carved with rough anthropo-
morphic portrayals (Plate 8.1) and deposited beside miniature cradles and Shaivite
tridents in front of the temple indicate that Malan Devi is also responsible for the
desire to have children.
As yet, we know too little to say more about the significance of the cult of Malan
Devi; yet it appears to be an archaic form of religion which was apparently rather
suppressed in the Thar compared to the veneration of the great Hindu deities.
Epilogue
The Thar Desert is home to a variety of ethnic groups, each with their own cultural
features and characteristics. The question of inter-religious relationships between
Muslims and Hindus in this region has repeatedly been addressed during the portrayal
of their sacred spaces. In the different local traditions of the veneration of Sufi and
Hindu saints, we can ascertain a mutual “liminal” religious and cultural heritage, an
“intermediate space” or “threshold space”, which not only makes the conventional,
19 Cf. Dehejia, V. (ed.), Devi. The Great Goddess. Female Divinity in South Asian Art, Arthur M.
Sackler Gallery, Washington, D.C., 1999.
20 We cannot determine whether Malan Devi may be Malini, from the group of sapta mātrikas –
the “Seven Mother Deities” – who are usually described as dangerous (cf. Kinsley, D., Hindu
Goddesses. Visions of the Divine Feminine in the Hindu Religious Tradition, Motilal Banarsi-
dass, Delhi, 1987, pp. 151–160).

differentiating labels of “Muslim” and “Hindu” debatable, but dissolves them to a cer-
tain extent.21
Until a few decades ago, the religious identities of the Tharis were even more
blurred, overlapping and less set, more “hybrid” than today. Back then, many Muslims
visited the ashram of Sant Nenuram on a daily basis, celebrated the Hindu holidays of
Holi and Diwali and the Islamic Eid holidays together; Hindus offered participants in
the Shiite Muharram processions sherbat fruit juice, and there was generally a greater
mingling at religious festivities than is the case today. Although this tradition of re-
ciprocal invitations still prevails, the religious climate between the two communities
has become more rigid and rather aims at emphasising religious boundaries. The South
Asian components of interwoven religious and cultural traditions is usually renounced
in Pakistan today – a trend that is linked to the ever stronger revivalist and reformist
movements on the subcontinent since the end of the 19th century, which propagate the
distinct demarcation of religious identities in a purist sense.22 It is disturbing to ob-
serve that for about ten years, preachers of the anti-Sufi Tablighi Jamāʿat movement
have also regularly come to proselytise in the small towns and villages of the Thar. In
the wilderness between Umarkot and Kantio now stands a large madrasah of the De-
obandi school – an outpost of religious intolerance and a demonstration of the power
of strict Sunni mullahs with close ties to the Islamist Jamāʿat-e Islami. Not far from
this Qurʾān school, in the town of Kantio, there is a large Krishna temple. Following
the conflict surrounding the destruction of the Babri mosque in Ayodhya, India, in
1992 by Hindu extremists, the discriminated Hindu minority in Sindh became victims
of numerous violent attacks of retaliation, even in some towns of the remote Thar
region. Since then, Hindu temples and cremation grounds (mainly in Karachi, but also
in Hyderabad) were destroyed by Muslims or taken over by the land mafia and turned
into other uses.23
Sufism in Sindh and the life-affirming folk religion closely linked to it still form a
sort of bulwark against growing religious intolerance and “exclusivist” tendencies; yet
this appears to be growing ever more brittle in the light of the growing number of
bomb attacks on Sufi shrines in recent years. The values that are expressed and prac-
ticed in the religious customs at liminal sacred spaces are especially threatened. Thus,
the veneration of Sufi saints, such as Shah Abdul Latif, Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, Shah
Inayat, Pithoro Pīr, Jhule Lal/Khwaja Khizr, and also the faqīrs of the Thar Desert –
“who reached out to their fellow man, regardless of religion, caste, or ethnic origin” 24
21 Khan 2008, p. 72; Mayaram 2004, pp. 24–27; Bawani 2007, p. 70.
22 Khan 2008, p. 79.
23 Cf. Hassan, A., On the Rampage, in Herald 24/1 (1993), pp. 92b–93; Memon, M.F., Remains of
the Day, in Herald 30/11 (1999), pp. 122–125. In the meantime, however, we encounter isolated
pleasant cases of rapprochement and reconciliation among Muslims and Hindus, such as in a
village in Cholistan (see Rashid, S., Miraculous Medicine, in Herald 42/12 (2010), pp. 69–71).
24 Van Skyhawk, H., Well Articulated Better Paths, Friedrich-Naumann-Stiftung für die Freiheit,
Islamabad, 2014, p. XVIII.

– create a place of peaceful commonality and the reconciliation of religious differ-

ences – “beyond Muslim and Hindu” (Plate 8.2).
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Dog of God: Animality and Wildness among Dervishes
Alexandre Papas
Paris
This article is an attempt to present an overall picture of the dervish from a single and
side perspective, that is, his wild attitude and, more precisely, his cynegetic or “dog-
gish” behaviour. Recently, perhaps influenced by the craze for the animal question in
historical and anthropological studies over the past decades, scholars have taken an
interest in the figure of the dog (kalb in Arabic, sag in Persian, köpek/it in Turkish) in
terms of its relationship with Islam and Islamic mysticism. They used hagiographies,
iconography, narrative poetry, and Sufi legends. Yet, numerous sources remain ne-
glected, and, more importantly, one can hardly find a consistent discussion which
would offer a general interpretation of the intimate link between the marginal dervish
and the dog. Such an interpretation is based on two main results that will be discussed
in detail in this essay. Firstly, the dog appears as highly ambiguous, accused of impu-
rity and savagery on the one hand, but is also described as exemplary, even holy. Sec-
ondly, the animal brings virtues as diverse and paradoxical as loyalty, vigilance, and
humility, but also submissiveness, abasement, and blameworthiness, which echo the
traditionally contrasted image of the dervish.
Which lessons can we derive from these results? Beyond the classic, yet unfruitful
one in the case of the dog – alternative between the quest for pre-Islamic heritages
(the dog as a Zoroastrian or totemic substrate) and the strictly Islamic interpretation
(the dog as a symbol of loyalty and membership to a Sufi community) –, I shall put
forward another hypothesis. It seems that taken together and without speculating on
the historical period or social context – which both remain absent from most of the
texts dealing with dogs –, the various sources depict an ethology of the dog of God,
reflecting a specific devotion and a particular religious attitude. The canine ethos ap-
pears as a literal definition of the antinomian dervish who seeks to become a dog of
God, prowling on pilgrimage, lying down in devotion, starving as a beggar, barking
in prayer.
The Ambivalence of the Dog in Islam and Sufism
Negativity
At first glance, the dog has an extremely negative image in Islam. Among the various
languages of the Muslim world, it has inspired numerous insults. Arabic expressions
describe all sorts of bad conduct related to dogs, and proverbs recall that dogs bring

122 Alexandre Papas
the evil eye.1 In Persian, including Indo-Persian, insults associate the dog with malig-
nant, cruel, and depraved people.2 In Ottoman Turkish (and languages in contact with
it, like Greek), the dog designates the unbeliever, the enemy, the impure woman, and
so forth.3 In Central Asia, Uyghurs use to say about the benefits of early prayers, “even
a dog who gets up early can eat well”, 4 alluding to the miserable condition of the
animal. One also finds popular sayings associating dogs with tyrants, the former serv-
ing the latter in ferocity. These examples constantly establish a link between the dog
and all sorts of outcasts and outsiders, all those who, in other words, are rejected by
society.
Such a dreadful image would come from the common belief that the dog is of
devilish birth, manifested on its very body by light patches on each eyebrow, an un-
disputable mark of the devil for medieval Arabs. 5 Present as well among the ancient
and medieval Christian beliefs (especially about the black dog who is often considered
to be a demon),6 the Muslim myth of canine origin is explained by the Shīʿī encyclo-
paedist Muḥammad Bāqir al-Majlisī (d. 1698–1699) as follows:7 God created the dog
from the devil’s saliva. After God sent Adam and Eve to earth, the devil – who con-
tinuously pursued his vengeance against them – went to see the wildcats that had been
on earth before men, and harangued them: “two enormous birds, as no one has ever
seen, have descended from heaven; pursue them and eat them”. Filled with hatred, the
devil encouraged them by shouting and ranting. From his mouth, drool dripped: from
it, God created a couple of dogs who mounted guard next to Adam and Eve and kept
the wildcats at bay. Since this day, dogs and wildcats have always been enemies.
Lastly, one finds a more subtle reference to dogs in relationship with the devil in Quran
7:175–176, which compares dogs with people who, influenced by the devil, follow
their passions and deny the divine signs: “And recite to them the tiding of him to
whom We gave Our signs, but he cast them off, and Satan followed after him, and he
became one of the perverts. And had We willed, We would have raised him up
thereby; but he inclined towards the earth and followed his lust. So the likeness of him
is as the likeness of a dog: if thou attackest it, it lolls its tongue out, or if thou leavest
it, it lolls its tongue out. That is that people’s likeness who cried lies to Our signs”. 8
1 Lane, D.W., Arabic-English Lexicon, London, Willams & Norgate, 1863, s.v. “kalb”; Benkheira,
M.H., Mayeur-Jaouen, C., Sublet, J., L’Animal en islam, Paris, Les Indes Savantes, 2005, p. 9.
2 Steingass, F., A Comprehensive Persian-English Dictionary, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul,
1892, pp. 690–691.
3 Redhouse, J., Türkçe/Osmanlıca-İnglizce sözlük, Istanbul, Redhouse Yayınevi, 1968, pp. 564,
678; Couroucli, M., Du cynégétique à l’abominable: À propos du chien comme terme d’injure et
d’exclusion en grec moderne, L’Homme 174, 2005, pp. 230, 238, 241, 244, 246.
4 Wang, J., Uyghur Education and Social Order: the Role of Islamic Leadership in the Turpan
Basin, Tokyo, Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, Tokyo Univer-
sity of Foreign Studies, 2004, p. 186.
5 Viré, F., “Kalb”, Encyclopaedia of Islam. 2nd edition, Leiden, Brill, 1997, vol. 4, p. 490.
6 Couroucli 2005, p. 231; Benkheira et al. 2005, p. 94.
7 Quoted and summarised in Benkheira et al. 2005, p. 107.
8 I use the English translation by Arthur J. Arberry.

Dog of God: Animality and Wildness among Dervishes 123
A specifically Islamic debate on the dog regards the question of impurity (najāsa).9
Linked to the proximity to the devil, numerous authorities underline the ill-fated ef-
fects of a dog’s presence during prayer. Another injurious effect mentioned in an im-
portant hadith (see e.g. Ṣaḥīḥ Bukhārī, vol. 4, Book 54, no. 448, 450),10 – which is still
popular today – is that the angels who watch over believers never enter a house where
there is a dog. For their part, jurists discussed at length the contamination of a dog’s
saliva (if it drinks from a bowl, the water becomes impure) or body contact with hu-
mans. According to legal schools, the contamination requires three or seven washings
in order to be erased. Due to either their diabolical nature or their impurity, a series of
hadiths calls for the extermination of dogs. Of course without supposing a relation
between cause and effect, one might recall that the extermination of dogs took place
indeed in Istanbul in 1910, and prior to this in Cairo and Alexandria in the first half of
the 19th century.11 More than a Prophetic legitimacy, the hygienist and modern urban-
ism explain these events. Yet, they remind us that the approach of dogs was never
limited to a matter of words and symbolic representations. Finally, I would add that
this cleaning of streets coincides with a period of repression of begging dervishes and
antinomian mystics…12
In Sufism precisely, authors frequently compare the concupiscent ego (nafs) with
the dog, an ego that must be despised and eradicated, as is often claimed. For instance,
Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī said: “Tell the dog of the ego, ‘Take the whole world!’ When has
the ocean’s shore ever been polluted by a dog?” and “The dog of the ego has bared its
teeth and nipped the spirit’s foot”.13 However, more than a simple call for control of
the disobedient soul, the point is recognise, to disclose the wild side of man, the bes-
tiality of humanity, and the indomitable passion against reason. In other words, the
problem is not so much to exterminate the ego as it is to domesticate the violence
inside oneself. There are two eloquent expressions of this idea. The first is a story told
by ʿAṭṭār (d. 1220) about Manṣūr Ḥallāj:14 Coming back from Kashmir, the famous
mystic was invited by the Sufi master Abū ʿAbd Allāh Torūghbadī who immediately
gave him his place. Ḥallāj was accompanied by two black dogs, sat down with both
of them, started to eat, and even fed the animals. After finishing his meal, he just left.
Deeply shocked, Torūghbādī’s disciples asked the master how he could accept this
9 Benkheira et al. 2005, pp. 33–34, 92–98, 115–116.

10 I use the online edition at http://www.usc.edu/org/cmje/
11 See Pinguet, C., Les Chiens d’Istanbul. Des rapports entre l’homme et l’animal de l’antiquité à
nos jours, Saint-Pourçain-sur-Sioule, Bleu autour, 2008.
12 Papas, A., Dervish, Encyclopaedia of Islam. 3rd edition, Leiden, Brill, 2011, vol. 4, pp. 132–133;
Papas, A., Antinomianism (ibāḥa, ibāḥiyya), Encyclopaedia of Islam. 3rd edition, Leiden, Brill,
2014, vol. 2, pp. 25–26.
13 Quoted in Chittick, W.C., The Sufi Path of Love. The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi, Albany, State
University of New York Press, 1983, p. 88. Other quotations in Ritter, H., The Ocean of the Soul.
Men, the World and God in the Stories of Farīd al-Dīn ʿAṭṭār, Leiden, Brill, 2013, pp. 212–216.
14 ʿAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn, Tadhkirat al-awliyā, edited by Reynold A. Nicholson, London & Leiden,
Luzac-Brill, 1905–1907, vol. 2, pp. 101–102.

124 Alexandre Papas
impure attitude. The master explained: his dogs are part of his suite and they obey
him, whereas our dogs are inside us and we obey them.” A second source is the Iḥyāʾ
ʿulūm al-dīn (I, 5) in which Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī gives an original interpretation on
the aforementioned hadith saying, “Angels do not enter a house wherein there are
dogs”: actually, this hadith deals with inner purity and knowledge. The house should
be understood as the heart, which is the abode of angels who provide knowledge. The
dogs mean the forces of evil (envy, anger, lust, pride, etc.). If these dogs reside in the
heart, there is no place left for the angels; therefore, it is necessary to remove these
forces from the heart so that knowledge can enter it.
Rehabilitation
In spite of this general depreciation of the dog in Islam and Sufism, we find many
elements of clearing. Worth mentioning is at first the abrogation of the Prophet’s own
condemnation concerning the extermination of dogs. This condemnation – apparently
motivated by the necessity to solve the problem of a stray dog plague in Medina –
eventually excluded watchdogs, sheepdogs, and gun dogs.15 Hadiths also evoked the
Prophet’s young cousins and some of the companions who owned puppies, even the
Prophet who prayed once while a dog was playing in the vicinity. 16 A rich literature
goes through the behaviour (akhlāq) attributed to man’s best friend. For instance, in
his classification of animals, the theologian Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 1209) described
the dog as irritable, irascible, cowardly, and stupid, but also as endearing and affec-
tionate (mutawaddid).17 Earlier as well as later authors granted positive qualities to
the dog (vigilance and faithfulness in particular), such as the polymaths al-Jāḥiẓ (d.
868) and al-Damīrī (d. 1405). The most interesting text in this respect remains Ibn al-
Marzubān’s Kitāb faḍl al-kilāb ʿalā kathīr mimman labisa al-thiyāb. Composed in the
10th century, The Book of the Superiority of Dogs to Some of Those Who Wear Clothes
describes provocatively the merits of dogs (especially loyalty and fidelity) in contrast
to the defaults of men.18
The scriptural basis of the Islamic rehabilitation of the dog is no less than Quran
itself, in addition to a specific hadith and its later uses. In fact, except for Quran 7:175–
176, other occurrences do not attack the canine race, and Quran 18:9–26 even glorifies
it through the famous story of the People of the Cave (aṣḥāb al-kahf).19 As is well-
known, a dog accompanied and protected the Seven Companions who took refuge in
15 Viré 1997, p. 490; Benkheira et al. 2005, pp. 115–116.

16 Abou El Fadl, Kh., “Dogs in the Islamic Tradition and Nature”, Encyclopedia of Religion and
Nature, New York, Continuum International, 2004, online edition.
17 Benkheira et al. 2005, p. 34.
18 See al-Marzubān, Abū Bakr, The Superiority of Dogs over Many of Those Who Wear Clothes/
Faḍl al-kilāb ʿalā kathīr mimman labisa al-thiyāb, translated by G.R. Smith and M.A.S. Abdel
Haleem, Warminster, Aris & Phillips Ltd., 1978. On pp. xv-xviii, one finds concrete references
to dogs in al-Jāḥiẓ’s Kitāb al-ḥayawān and al-Damīrī’s Ḥayāt al-ḥayawān al-kubrā. The authors
argue that al-Marzubān relied heavily on al-Jāḥiẓ without mentioning him.
19 Fudge, B., “Dog”, Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, Leiden, Brill, 2001, vol. 1, pp. 545–546.

a cave in order to avoid the repression of their belief. Among the vast literature de-
voted to the story, let us mention just a few salient features. 20 The dog – traditionally
called Qiṭmīr, but also Raqīm, Ḥamrā, Qanṭūrīya, etc. – is considered to be one of the
Seven Companions and represents a model of loyalty since it followed and never be-
trayed them. Quran commentators such as Ibn Kathīr (d. 1373) saw Qiṭmīr as a mi-
raculous creature of God, who could even speak; the qiṣāṣ al-anbiyāʾ genre turned
him into an example of piety; and on the basis of Ismāʿīlī commentaries, Louis Mas-
signon identified him with Salmān Pāk, a companion of the Prophet and the “trainer”
of the Seven Imams.21 The hagiographical tradition mentions the Sufi master Nāṣih
al-Dīn, who named his pet dog Qiṭmīr, attributing to it spiritual virtues. An anecdote
reports that someone challenged the shaikh about his pet dog, asking why he was so
attached to it. The shaikh answered that he loved the dog because of its ability of
friendship with God, because it knew friend from foe, and because it could distinguish
between a lover and a repudiator of God – all of which were qualities the dog of the
Seven Companions had possessed.22 Lastly – again in reference to the hadith on the
angels not entering a house with a dog inside –, Muslim scholars discussed the ques-
tion as to whether Qiṭmīr had entered the cave or stayed at the threshold – a debate
that betrays the controversial nature of the dog as a symbolic figure and of its marginal
status, as we will see later.
The second scriptural source is a hadith reported by Abū Hurayra and quoted in
many collections (e.g. Ṣaḥīḥ Bukhārī, vol. 4, Book 54, no. 538; Book 56, no. 673). It
tells the story of a prostitute whom God forgave, for she had saved the life of a thirsty
dog in the desert. At the end of his Ilāhī nāma, ʿAṭṭār takes up the story again which
can be summarized as follows:23 the Prophet told the story of a depraved woman (or
a sinning man) who saw a well in the desert. A dog was standing there, dying from
thirst with its tongue hanging out. She took pity on the dog, used her shoe as a bucket
and scarf as a rope and drew water for the dog. The Prophet, who was on miʿrāj, had
a vision of her in paradise. The lesson here is not only that altruism is a cardinal virtue
(contrary to egoism), but also that affection given to dogs is a meritorious act. Another
20 See Kandler, H., Die Bedeutung der Siebenschläfer (Aṣḥāb al-kahf) im Islam, Bochum, Brock-
meyer, 1994; Fudge, B., “Dog”, Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, Leiden, Brill, 2001, vol. 1, pp.
545–546.
21 Uludağ, S., Tasavvuf kültüründe köpek [The dog in the culture of Sufism], Dergah 101, 1998, p.
18; al-Thaʿālibī, Abū Isḥāq, ʿArāʾīs al-majālis fī qiṣāṣ al-anbiyāʾ or “Lives of the Prophet”,
translated and annotated by W.M. Brinner, Leiden, Brill, 2002, pp. 689–714.
22 Nurbakhsh, J., Dogs from a Sufi Point of View, London, Khaniqahi-Nimatullahi Publications,
1989, p. 20. It is interesting to note here that in Maghreb, the names of the Sleepers and their dog
were written onto pebbles in order to ward off the wild dogs: see Doutté, E., Magie et religion
dans l’Afrique du nord, Alger, Adolphe Jourdan, 1909 pp. 245–246.
23 ʿAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn, Le Livre divin, translated by F. Rouhani, Paris, Albin Michel, 1961, pp. 426–
427; Ritter 2013, p. 286, gives an Arabic variant. See also a comparable story about Abū Shuʿayb
al-Muqannaʿ in Jāmī’s Nafaḥāt al-uns, edited by M. ʻĀbidī, Tehran, Iṭṭilāʻāt, 1997, p. 76.

126 Alexandre Papas
story from the same narrative provides an ontological basis to the emotional relation-
ship between Sufis and dogs:24 on a very hot day, the dervish Maʿshūq Ṭūsī threw a
stone at a dog that crossed his path. Suddenly, a horseman appeared, dressed in green
and with an illuminated face. The man, who was actually the Prophet Khiḍr, whipped
Maʿshūq and told him: “Don’t you know who you’ve thrown a stone at? Doesn’t he
have the same origin as you? Why do you take him to be lesser than yourself?” In an
earlier anecdote of the Ilāhī nāma, Jundī (perhaps Bābā Kamāl Jandī, a disciple of
Najm al-Dīn Kubrā on whom we will focus later) was asked by a mocker: “Are you
better than a dog?” The Sufi replied: “The dog is certainly destined to live in the dust
of roads, but its origins are the same as yours.” 25
Marginality
If Sufi authorities were enthusiast defenders of dogs, dervishes – in the sense of mar-
ginal mystics – were their most passionate lovers and closest friends. Besides the large
amount of miniatures featuring an antinomian dervish followed a by dog (often with
a sort of mimesis in their attitudes), sources describe several cases of proximity, if not
intimacy, between ascetics and dogs from the Middle Ages onwards.
An early case is the Samarkand-born dervish Fuḍayl ibn ʿIyād (d. 803), who is
supposed to have said: “If I could choose between living as a dog and dying as a dog
and not experiencing the day of resurrection, I would choose to live as a dog and die
as a dog and not experience the day of resurrection”. 26 A second early name is Sayyid
Sālār Miyān Ghāzī, an 11th-century renouncing ascetic of Central Asian origin who
died in battle in northern India. Legend reports that his horse and his dog watched over
his body until he was buried under a tree beneath which the saint used to preach. Lo-
cated in Bahraich in present-day Uttar Pradesh, the shrine includes the tomb of his dog
Sag-i Sangal.27 Much later, in 17th-century Maghreb, we find the case of ʿAbdallāh
Abū Kalb who led an unbridled life surrounded by dogs. 28 More recently, oral sources
and a shrine located in the Edirnekapı cemetery in Istanbul confirm the existence of a
fool in God (majdhūb) surnamed Köpekçī Ḥasan Bābā (d. 1897) or Abū al-Kalb. He
received five or six stray dogs into his place and used to roam the streets with them.
The animals obeyed him scrupulously, just like his twelve majdhūb disciples, among
them Şekercī Ahmed Bābā, Saka Bābā, and Eskīcī Süleymān Bābā.
The proximity between dervishes and dogs went as far as identity. According to
the Egyptian hagiographer al-Shaʿrānī (d. 1565), the Sufi master Aḥmad al-Rifāʿī (d.
1182) greeted all the dogs he met in the streets at the origin of the heterodox Rifāʿiyya
24 ʿAṭṭār 1961, p. 96; Ritter 2013, p. 337.

25 ʿAṭṭār 1961, pp. 95–96; Ritter 2013, p. 318.
26 Frembgen, J.W., Journey to God. Sufis and Dervishes in Islam, Oxford, Oxford University Press,
2008, p. 124, quoting R. Gramlich.
27 Mahmood, T., “The Dargah of Sayyid Salar Masʿud in Bahraich in the Light of the Standard
Historical Sources”, in Troll, Ch.W. (ed.), Muslim Shrines in India, New Delhi, Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1989, pp. 28, 31.
28 Benkheira et al. 2005, p. 161.

order; when he was asked why he did so, he explained that he had to be courteous with
himself.29 Similar to dervishes who brutally go into ecstasies, dogs also enjoy radical
mystical experiences: Mumshād Dinawarī (d. 912) narrated that one day, a dog was
barking when he left his house; when the saint said lā ilāha ilallāh, the dog immedi-
ately breathed its last.30 For Akbarian Sufis, who were accused of seeing divine signs
everywhere, even miserable creatures like dogs are evidences of God’s presence. To
a theologian who opposed this view and told him: “I turn away from a God who ap-
pears in a cat or a dog”, Sayyid Sharīf Jurjānī (d. 1413) allegedly replied: “I turn away
from a God who does not even appear in a cat or a dog!” 31
A last example which deserves more attention is the famous dog of the Central
Asian Sufi master Najm al-Dīn Kubrā (d. 1220).32 The legend goes as follows: the
shaikh enjoyed a magical gaze (naẓar) which could transform any creature into a mys-
tical, even holy being. One day, he set eyes on a dog which immediately went into
ecstasies and became a saint. The animal was afterwards always surrounded by a circle
of 50 to 60 dog disciples. When the holy dog died, Najm al-Dīn Kubrā erected a mau-
soleum over its grave. The shrine was located in Khorezm in present-day Uzbekistan.
Contextualising this story, which is associated with dog shrines in the region and var-
ious rituals with canine characteristics, Soviet ethnologists explained that the sacrali-
sation of the animal was a remnant of totemic cults, more precisely of Zoroastrianism,
which attributed magical powers to the dog, as is attested in Avesta itself. 33 Against
this thesis, it has been argued that this motif should be interpreted in Islamic and Sufi
terms through its hagiographical construction in the medieval and early modern peri-
ods. The controversial image of a dog who becomes a saint, even with a shrine at-
tached, would reflect the variety of Sufi groups in 13th- and 14th-century Central Asia;
then, until the 16th century, their rivalries were expressed in the admiration or aversion
for the mentioned controversial image.34
Far from any historicist reading, I think that this motif is better understood if situ-
ated in the larger frame of Sufis treating the figure of the dog and, more precisely, in
the marginal forms of mysticism involving dogs. It seems that this emergence of the
dog as a saint expressed the introduction or (re)introduction of marginal and antino-
mian practices within both Sufi orders and saint veneration. The dog would designate
29 Al-Shaʿrānı̄ , ʿAbd al-Wahhāb, al-Ṭabaqāt al-kubrā, Cairo, Al-Matbaʿat ̣ al-ʿAmirat al-

Sharafiyya, 1897, vol. 1, p. 122.
30 Al-Isfahānī, Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʼ wa tabaqa
̣ ̄ t al-as ̣fiyāʼ, Beirut, Dār al-Kutub al-
ʻIlmiyya, 1977, vol. 10, pp. 353–354; Lāmīʿī Chelebī, Nefaḥāt ül-üns. Evliyā Menḳibelerī, edited
by S. Uludağ and M. Kara, Istanbul, Marifet Yayınları, p. 226.
31 Lāmīʿī Chelebī 2005, p. 128.
32 Jāmī 1997, p. 422–423.
33 Snesarev, G.P., Remnants of Pre-Islamic Beliefs and Rituals among the Khorezm Uzbeks, Berlin,
Reinhold Schletzer Verlag, 2003, pp. 245–248; Demidov, S.M., Sufizm v Turkmenii [Sufism in
Turkmenistan], Ashkhabad, Ilim, 1978, p. 58.
34 DeWeese, D., “Dog Saints and Dog Shrines in Kubravī Tradition. Notes on a Hagiographical
Motif of Khvārazm”, in Aigle, D. (ed.), Miracle et Karāma. Hagiographies médiévales compa-
rées, Turnhout, Brepols, 2000 pp. 459–497.

128 Alexandre Papas
a recurring religious tendency toward a certain behaviour of the Sufi saint, modelled
on the behaviour of the dog with all its ambivalence and wildness. In both practices
and narratives referring to the Kubrawī dog-saint, we come across several features
typical of Islamic antinomianism.35 Comparable to Najm al-Dīn Kubrā, the Iranian
saint Yūsuf al-ʿAjamī (d. 1395–1396), who settled in Egypt and was famous for hav-
ing the visual power to transform dogs into saints, was a wandering hermit. A 15 th-
century Indian source mentions an intriguing Sufi group within the Firdawsiyya or-
der,36 derived from Najm al-Dīn Kubrā and called Kalābiyya, i.e. “The Canines”,
which may have been composed of heterodox dervishes. The Kubrawī master Ḥusayn
al-Khwārazmī (d. 1551) named his son’s dog “Afyūnī” (“opium eater”) in order to
disgust the young man who was an opium addict, like other disciples. This curious
statement might suggest the presence of antinomians, among whom drugs were pop-
ular. Finally, in the 1950s to 1960s near the shrine of Najm al-Dīn Kubrā in Konya
Urgench existed for a long time a lodge of Qalandar derviches (qalandarkhāna) who
used to raise dogs.
This long series of examples clearly shows the close association of the dogs with
the marginal dervishes, an association so close that, as further hagiographies and Sufi
writings will suggest, confusion arose between the image of the dervish’s dog and that
of the dog’s dervish, i.e. between the domestic and the wild sides of mystical life.
Moreover, the animality as sanctity as embodied by the dog-saints tends to put as a
condition of holiness the dehumanisation of the dervish, rather than a predictable an-
thropomorphism of the dog.
Dervish’s Dog or Dog’s Dervish?
Humility, humiliation
The virtue of humility is classically attributed to stray dogs and miserable puppies.
Often, dervishes claimed that dogs had taught them not only to be humble, but also to
be humiliated rather than to humiliate. In the Ṣifat al-ṣafwa, the Ḥanbalī polymath Ibn
al-Jawzī (d. 1201) told this anecdote:37 Abū Isḥaq Shīrāzī was walking with his disci-
ples when he encountered a man with a dog at his side. As the man pushed the dog off
the road (ṭarīq), the shaikh told him: “Why do you chase the dog away? Don’t you
know that he joined us on the road?” There is a variant reported by ʿAṭṭār:38 a Sufi
was taking a walk, and when he saw a dog on the road, he hit its leg with a stick. The
35 Benkheira et al. 2005, pp. 161–162; DeWeese 2000, pp. 467, 471–472; Snesarev 2003, p. 248.
36 It may not be a coincidence that the founder of the Firdawsiyya in Bihar, Sharaf al-Dīn Manerī
(d. 1381), quite often resorts to the figure of the dog in his letters. See Maneri, Sharafuddin, The
Hundred Letters, translated by P. Jackson, New York, Paulist Press, 1980, pp. 115, 232, 267,
297–298, 313, 319–320, 328, 333, 335, 343, 354.
37 Ibn al-Jawzī, Ṣifat al-safwa, edited by Mah ̣mūd Fākhūrı̄ , Beirut, Dār al-maʿrifa, 1986, vol. 4, p.
67.
38 ʿAṭṭār 1961, pp. 96–98; Ritter 2013, p. 337.

dog groaned and began to limp. He ran to Shaikh Abū Saʿīd to tell him about its mis-
adventure. The shaikh came to see the Sufi and asked him why he had done that, and
the Sufi said: “The dog itself is guilty, why did it soil my cloak?” Abū Saʿīd asked the
dog if the Sufi should be punished, and the dog said: “When I saw the Sufi robe that
man was wearing I thought he surely wouldn’t do anything to me. If he had been
wearing the clothing of a soldier, I would have kept away from him. If you wish to
punish him, remove his Sufi cloak so people will be in guard against him.” ʿAṭṭār
gives the moral of the story: do not think you are superior to the dog on the spiritual
path; if you think you are, this thought comes from your own canine nature.
Echoing these tales, the Naqshbandī master ʿUbayd Allāh Aḥrār (d. 1490) presents
the humiliation of the dog as a divine test for the mystics. 39 In a first advice, he ex-
plains: let us suppose a Sufi experiencing a spiritual state (wajd wa ḥāl). He is walking
and sees on the road a sleeping dog. He chases away the dog in order to continue his
walk. If he still experiences a spiritual state while he keeps going, it means that this
state is wrong and inauthentic. This is in fact one of the divine ruses (makrhā-yi ilāḥī),
since one cannot do such a bad deed in a spiritual state. A second advice goes, simply
put, like this: our spiritual lineage is gentle (laṭāfat); therefore, if someone shouts at
and mauls a dog without any reason, he is not one of us. Both advices can be under-
stood literally as well as figuratively: Sufis must not humiliate those miserable crea-
tures, i.e. dogs; the dog represents the quality of humbleness that any Sufi should have.
A last example of testing humiliation is hagiographical:40 Khwāja ʿAlī Sīrgānī used to
distribute bread in the shrine of Shāh Shujāʿ al-Dīn Kirmānī (d. 883–884). One day,
he asked God for a guest to fulfil his pious duty; all of a sudden, a dog arrived but was
driven away by Khwāja ʿAlī. Admonished by a divine voice, he understood that the
dog had been sent by God. The Sufi ran after the dog and apologised. It was his turn
to ask for leniency.
To sum this up, the dervish’s dog is both the subject of humiliation for the impious
and the model of humility for the pious.
The Pure and the Impure

It is possible that among the first ascetics of Islam, some chose to live with dogs in
ruins, slums, deserts, cemeteries, and garbage dumps, in a sort of companionship.
Whatever the historical reality, the idea was not simply to embrace radical poverty,
but, more specifically, to look for purity in impurity.
The hagiographer ʿAbd al-Raʼūf al-Munāwı̄ (d. 1621), a disciple of al-Shaʿrānı̄ ,
mentions an early, yet very legendary case:41 the semi-legendary Yemeni mystic
Uways al-Qaranī (d. 657) is said to have picked up old clothes from the landfill, sewed
39 Kāshifī Wāʿiz, ʿA., Rashaḥāt ʿayn al-ḥayāt, edited by ʿA.A. Muʿīnīyān, Tehran, Intishārāt-i Bun-
yād-i Nīkūkārī-yi Nūryānī, 1976, vol. 2, pp. 475–477.
40 ʿAṭṭār 1905–1907, vol. 1, p. 315; Ritter 2013, p. 339.
41 Al-Munāwı̄ , ʿAbd al-Raʼūf, al-Kawākib al-durriyya fı̄ tarājim al-sādat al-S ̣ūfiyya, edited by
M.A. Jādir, Beirut, Dār S ̣ādir, 1999, vol. 1, p. 212.

130 Alexandre Papas
and wore them. There, he also found crumbs to eat. One day amidst the trash, he said
to a barking dog: “Eat what you have in front of you, as I do myself. If I go to paradise,
it means that I’m better than you; if I go to hell, it means that you’re better than me.”42
In line with this exemplary conduct – which puts the human and the animal at the
same level of baseness with regard to their condition –, al-Shaʿrānı̄ reports that Abū
al-Muḥājir b. ʿAmr Qaysī (d. 796), an ascetic from Basra, taught that in order to reach
high spirituality, it was necessary to leave behind one’s children as orphans and one’s
wife as a widow and to live with stray dogs in the garbage. 43 Thus, there was a quest
for spiritual purity in physical impurity, amid the refuse, the waste, and with their first
consumers, the dogs – so much so that the dervish from Basra, Mālik ibn Dīnār (d.
748–749), who took care of a dog, explained that he did so because the dog was still
better than a bad companion.44
The culture of disgust finds an interesting expression in the supposed etymology
of the Turkoman saint’s surname Barāḳ Bābā (d. 1307–1308). He was a disciple of
the celebrated Ṣārī Ṣāltuḳ (d. 1293), a heterodox politico-religious leader of Anatolia
who had named him Barāḳ, which means “dog” in Kipchak Turkish. Several legends
assert that the disciple got this name because, like a dog, he had eaten the vomit of his
master Ṣārī Ṣāltuḳ.45 In reference to the juridical discussion on the impurity of dogs
and their contamination, which requires three or seven washings, we find the follow-
ing scene:46 one day, the malāmatī Sufi Bāyazīd Bisṭāmī (d. 874 or 877–878) went to
walk his dog. The dog savaged Bāyazīd who immediately pulled the skirts of his cloak
from it. The dog exclaimed: “If I am dry, there’s no harm whatsoever. If I am wet,
seven times water and one time earth will make concord between us. But if you draw
your skirts in upon yourself, even if you wash them with seven seas, you won’t make
yourself pure (pāk).” Bāyazīd said: “You are impure externally (ẓāhir), but I am im-
pure internally (bāṭin). Come, we will put the two together so that the association will
bring purity between us (…).” To put it another way, the dog’s impurity still is purity
compared to the dervish’s impurity, and it is the impure animal who teaches the pure.
42 Interestingly, the Tārīkh-i Rashīdī, a Central Asian chronicle of the 16th century, notes about the
conversion of a khan to Islam: “One day, when Tughluk Timur Khan was feeding his dogs with
swine’s flesh, Shaikh Jamal-ud-Din was brought into his presence. The Khan said to the Shaikh:
‘Are you better than this dog, or is the dog better than you?’ The Shaikh replied: ‘If I have faith,
I am better than the two, but if I have no faith, this dog is better than I am.’ The Khan was much
impressed by these words, and a great love for Islam took possession of his heart” (Ḥaydar, Mīrzā
Muḥammad, Tarikh-i-Rashidi. A History of the Moghuls of Central Asia, translated by E.D. Ross,
London, Curzon, 1898, p. 5).
43 Al-Shaʿrānı̄ 1897, vol. 1, p. 40.
44 Al-Shaʿrānı̄ 1897, vol. 1, p. 32.
45 Ocak, A.Y., La Révolte de bābā Resul ou la formation de l’hétérodoxie musulmane en Anatolie
au XIIIe siècle, Istanbul, Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1989, pp. 105–106.
46 ʿAṭṭār 1905–1907, vol. 1, p. 145; Ritter 2013, p. 317.

The Companionship of Dervishes and Dogs

Moving among different sources, we note that the companionship of dervishes and
dogs tends to become a reciprocal relationship in which the dog is man’s friend but
man is also the dog’s friend. The motif of reciprocity brings the two beings closer to
each other until their identification.
On the one hand, the dervish protects the dog. There are examples of austere Sufis
praised for giving food to starving and battered dogs abound in medieval hagio-
graphies. In reference to the merits of ḥajj and alluding to the hadith quoted above on
the rewarded prostitute or the sinner, the Khorāsānī Abū al-Qāsim Naṣrābādī (d. 977–
978)47 recounts this story: In Mecca during the last of his forty ḥajjs, he saw a hungry,
thirsty, and weak dog. Having nothing to give, the shaikh sold the merits of his forty
pilgrimages for a piece of bread which he gave to the dog. A wise companion (ṣāḥib)
saw that and explained that this was not enough! The poet Awḥad al-Dīn Kirmanī (d.
1238) wrote a variant involving Bāyazīd Bisṭāmī: 48 the Sufi was said to have made
seventy pilgrimages by foot. During one of them, he came upon a group of thirsty
travellers gathered near a well. A dog was also lying there and the pilgrims refused to
give it water. Bāyazīd offered them the merits of seventy ḥajjs for a sip of water. When
he received the water, he gave it to the dog. Jāmī’s (d. 1492) Nafaḥāt al-uns features
this scene:49 the Egyptian Abū Shuʿayb al-Muqannaʿ (d. 894–895) was famous for
having performed seventy ḥajjs on foot. On his last pilgrimage, he saw a dog in the
desert that was dying of thirst. The animal shouted: “Who wants to earn the profit of
his seventy ḥajjs for a sip of water?” He gave the water to the thirsty dog and declared:
“This is better than all my ḥajjs together (…).” Less allegorical and somewhat realistic
is what al-Daylamī (d. circa 1001) tells about his master Ibn Khafīf (d. 982):50 usually
a gentle man, the shaikh fulminated when the king ordered to kill all the dogs in the
city. In order to escape people’s attacks, a dog ran into Ibn Khafīf’s mosque. A soldier
entered so as to slay it. The shaikh became angry and threatened to punish all men if
he continued to annoy the dog.”
If the dervish often protects the dog, the dog protects the dervish in turn. Besides
the well-studied and important case of the dog of the Seven Sleepers, celebrated by
numerous authors across the Muslim world, we read in the Nafaḥāt al-uns again the
story of Abū ʿUthmān Maghrebī (d. 983–984) as told by himself:51 I went out hunting
with a horse and a dog. When I wanted to drink milk from the goatskin, my dog sud-
denly jumped up and stopped me. He did this twice. Finally, the animal dug its head
into the skin and drank the milk. Shortly after, it swelled and died. A poisonous snake
had touched the milk. My dog had sacrificed itself for me. The dog’s protection of the
47 ʿAṭṭār 1905–1907, vol. 2, p. 313.

48 Nurbakhsh 1989, p. 18.
49 Jāmī 1997, p 76.
50 Al-Daylamı̄ , Abū al-Ḥasan, Sı̄ rat-ı̇ Abū ʿAbdullāh, edited by A. Schimmel, Istanbul, Türk Tarih
Kurumu, 1955, p. 30.
51 Jāmī 1997, p. 87.

132 Alexandre Papas
dervish touches morality, too, as is narrated by the Celvetī shaikh Ismāʿīl Ḥaḳḳī Bur-
savī (d. 1725):52 there was a dog who loved his master Ḥārith b. Ṣaʿṣaʿa (d. 634). One
day, the dog attacked his master’s wife so as to punish her for having deceived him
and to clean his honour. Given the low condition of dogs, notwithstanding its full
rehabilitation in this story, it is all the more surprising that angels and jinns are said to
take canine forms in order to help men. Here again, Jāmī provides an interestingly
contrasted case:53 Abū Saʿīd Kharrāz (d. 890–891) was meditating in the steppe when
ten sheepdogs attacked him. Suddenly, a white dog showed up and moved them away.
According to al-Shaʿrānī, Abū al-Khayr al-Kulaybātī (d. 1503) took a pack of dogs to
Cairo. He was unfairly criticised for staying at the mosque with his dogs. Actually,
the animals were jinns who catered to people’s needs. 54
An Ethology of the Dog of God
Acting like a Dog

In a stimulating article, Süleyman Uludağ advocates that the dervishes endeavoured
to imitate the lifestyle of dogs.55 I would take this a step further by arguing that in
order to reach their mystical ideal, the most radical Sufis had the intention to become
dogs themselves, to behave exactly like creatures both the vilest and most faithful, at
once the wildest and most domestic, continuously at the threshold between man and
animal.
A piece of evidence for this hypothesis is given by Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (d. 728), as
presented by al-Yāfiʿī al-Yamanī (d. 1367).56 The ascetic enumerates ten qualities
(khiṣāl) of the dog which should be understood as ten practices of the dervish: to stay
hungry, which is the rule of the pious (ādāb al-ṣāliḥīn); to have no assigned place,
which is the mark of the renouncing (ʿalāmāt al-mutawakkilīn); to stay awake at night,
which is the quality of the benefactors (ṣifat al-muḥsinīn); to not leave behind a herit-
age after death, which is the virtue of the ascetics (akhlāq al-zāḥidīn); to stay bound
to your master despite the abuse and rejection, which is the disposition of the disciples
(shiyam al-murīdīn); to be content with the low place, which is the sign of the humble
(ishārāt al-mutawāẓiʿīn); to constantly leave a place and go somewhere else, which is
the mark of the satisfied (ʿalāmāt al-rāẓī); to return to the one who has beaten and
chased you, which is the virtue of the submissive (akhlāq al-khāshiʿīn); to stay away
from food offered to you, which is the virtue of the poor (akhlāq al-masākīn); to not
seek to return to a place you have left, which is the mark of the outcasts (ʿalāmāt al-
mujarradīn).
52 Quoted in Uludağ 1998, p. 20.

53 Jāmī 1997, p 183.
54 Al-Shaʿrānı̄ 1897, vol. 2, p. 24.
55 Uludağ 1998, p. 18.
56 Al-Yāfiʿī, ʿAbdallāh, Rawḍ al-rayāḥı̄n fı̄ ḥikāyāt al-S ̣āliḥı̄n, Cairo, Al-Maqtabat al-Tawfīqiyya,
n.d., no. 242.

This set of radical practices, explicitly modelled on the canine comportment, is

particularly suggestive for our perspective. A more implicit kind of sources is the rich
range of hagiographical and poetical mentions of specific actions performed either by
dogs with dervishes or by dervishes with dogs.
Starving and Eating

In several scenes, the starving dog, already dead or agonising, is described as an ema-
ciated, repulsive body whose teeth stand out horribly. A famous story in Sufi literature
tells about the encounter between Jesus and a dead dog: the prophet walks past a dead
dog from whose open mouth the stench of the carcass emerges. He says to his com-
panion: “He is God’s own; look at the whiteness of his teeth!” Jesus sensed neither
ugliness nor odour, he only saw the dog’s beauty. 57 The prophet made the dead animal
an object of admiration and conveyed that the greatest beauty was the greatest ugliness
– a paradox that may have sounded like a legitimation of mortifications for Sufis. Such
is clearly the point in the widespread narrative of Majnūn looking for Laylī and meet-
ing a dog. The polymath Jāmī and his Turkic “counterpart”, ʿAlī Shīr Nawāʾī (d.
1501), wrote the most detailed versions of this encounter. 58 Both authors described at
length the body of the miserable dog: its coat was ravaged by mange, its face full of
wounds, its legs were dismantled; after starvation, it was so scraggy that it looked like
a bag of bones, etc. Then Majnūn pronounced a long monologue enumerating the
qualities of the dog. Later in the chapter, both poets made Majnūn declare that he
himself was the dog of Laylī, in the same pathetic condition as the animal. As is well-
known, the general meaning of the romance is mystical, especially in Jāmī and Nawāʾī
versions. In this chapter, the body of the starving dog more precisely incarnates the
body of the mortified dervish, practising hunger (jūʿ) in its quest for the divine. 59
Another favourite subject of Sufi texts regards dog’s feeding. If we closely look at
the sources, the descriptions linger on the wild commensality, the vileness of eating
practices. In order to illustrate this, I would mention four examples. As a sort of tran-
sition between the topics of starving and eating, Saʿdī’s (d. 1291–1292) Būstān in-
cludes the narrative of an encounter between Junayd (d. 910) and a dog:60 the Sufi saw
a dog on the plain. The animal was in a terrible state, its teeth had fallen out, its claws
were damaged, its whole body was bruised. Seeing that, Junayd shared with it half of
his provisions. ʿAṭṭār relates that Maʿrūf Karkhī (d. 815–816) had an uncle who was
no less than the governor of a city. One day, the uncle passed by some ruins and saw
Maʿrūf sitting there, eating and sharing his meal with a dog. The dervish was taking
57 Nurbakhsh 1989, p. 30; Ritter 2013, p. 252.

58 Jāmī, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, Mathnawı̄ -yi haft awrang, edited by M.M. Gīlānī, Tehran, Kitābfurūshī-
yi Saʿdī, 1958, pp. 875–879; Nevāyī, Alī-şīr, Leylī vü Mecnūn, edited by Ü. Çelik, Istanbul, Türk
Dil Kurumu Yayınları, 1996, pp. 234–245.
59 On the technique of hunger, see the long section in al-Qushayrī, Al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism.
Al-Risala al-qushayriyya fi ʿilm al-tasawwuf, translated by A.D. Knysh & M. Eissa, Reading,
Garnet Publishing, 2007, pp. 157–160.
60 Saʿdī, Kulliyāt-i Saʿdī, edited by K.I. Jandaqī, Tehran, Intishārāt-i Sukhan, 1998, pp. 248–249.

134 Alexandre Papas
one bite himself and gave the next to the dog. The uncle exclaimed: “Are you not
ashamed to eat with a dog?” The saint answered: “I am so ashamed in front of the dog
that I have to feed it.”61 Besides the usual reversal of roles and values we have already
crossed, the saint’s own canine attitude while eating and sharing food is noteworthy.
The third example is a passing note by Abū al-Khayr al-Tīnātī (d. 960–961):62 “I was
staying in a hut in the bay of Damietta. At this time, many travellers used to make a
halt in Damietta. While eating there in the evening, they made picnics outside. I min-
gled with the dogs to eat the leftovers.” Equally evocative is what Lāmīʿī Chelebī
recounts in his biographical compendium: 63 Aḳ Şams al-Dīn b. Ḥamza (d. 1459) and
another man went to Ḥācī Bayrām (d. 1429) in order to become his disciples. How-
ever, the master was not welcoming. Then came the time for lunch. The two young
men brought plates with yogurt and wheat and distributed them everywhere. They
even gave some to the dogs of the villagers. Ḥācī Bayrām was still very rude with Aḳ
Şams al-Dīn and did not invite him to share lunch. Then the disciple stooped down to
eat from the bowl of the dogs. Seeing that, the master told him to come and join him
for lunch. Besides the typical lesson of humility, here we find again the imitation of
dogs’ epulary style.
Crawling, Barking, and Sniffing

Three other characteristics of the canine ethos emerge from the sources. The first one
is the way dogs crawl and lie down. For example, the Baghdadi mystic Shiblī (d. 945)
said: “I learned Sufism from a dog that was sleeping by the door of the house. The
master of the house came out and drove it away, but the dog came back. I said to
myself, ‘How wretched this dog is! When driven away, it still comes back’ (…).” 64
Furthermore, the dervish reproduces the dog’s posture: a fool who is a lover of God
sits smiling contentedly on a heap of ashes and gnaws on a bone. He says: “I’ve lived
for seventy years ‘in blood’. Now He has finally seated me on a heap of ashes and let
me sit before His door like a dog with a bone. Even if, like a dog, I have no access to
Him, I am happy to be a dog of His street.” 65 The dervish lives in the dust and closer
to the soil; the closer to the ground he stands, the purer he feels; mixing with the dust,
he purifies his body and soul. Another example is the Central Asian Qalandar
Bābāraḥīm Mashrab (d. 1711) who, with his dog and like it, crawled to the door of
Sufi masters. More originally, in a kind of inversion, the wanderer had his hands tied
behind his back and was dragged by the leash of his dog. 66 Similar to the dog, the
prostrate or bounded body of the dervish corresponds to the beggar’s attitude, but also
61 ʿAṭṭār 1905–1907, vol. 1, p. 271.

62 Jāmī 1997, p. 216.
63 Lāmīʿī Chelebī 2005, p. 836.
64 Nurbakhsh 1989, p. 8.
65 Ritter 2013, p. 351.
66 Papas, A., Mystiques et vagabonds en islam. Portraits de trois soufis qalandars, Paris, Cerf,
2010, pp. 51, 56, 69, 74–77, 110.

to his marginal position (symbolised by the doorstep) in terms of social and religious
norms.
The second ethological characteristic is the dog’s barking and howling. We read
that one night, Junayd went for a walk with a disciple. In this moment, a dog barked
and Junayd said, “Here I am! Here I am! (labayk labayk)”,67 i.e. the answer of the
pilgrims to God’s call, or talbiya. This interpretation of the dog’s bark as a divine call
is also mentioned by the Khorāsānī Abū al-Ḥusayn al-Nūrī (d. 907–908):68 upon hear-
ing the muezzin, he exclaimed: “What a curse and deadly poison!” When a dog
barked, al-Nūrī said: “Here I am, at Your service!” Accused of sacrilege, he explained:
“When the muezzin called for prayer, he mentioned God’s name mechanically; as for
the dog, didn’t God say ‘nothing is that does not proclaim His praise’?” Taking it a
step further, Saʿdī introduces an explicit account of a dervish barking for prayer: 69
From the ruins where a ragged gnostic (ʿārif-i zhandapūsh) lived, a passerby heard a
dog barking. He was puzzled by this sound. Looking for the dog, he went closer to the
ruins but did not see anyone apart from the dervish. The latter heard him and called:
“Come in, you should not think that it’s a dog that makes that sound, it’s me. When I
saw that God appreciated destitution (bīchāragī), I stopped thinking and reasoning
(rāy wa khirad) and set about barking like a dog at His door (chū sag bar darash bāng
kardam) (…).”
The third aspect of the canine ethology as manifested by dervishes is the sniffing.
Based on Aflākī’s Manāqib al-ʿārifīn, Speros Vryonis has shown that Qiṭmīr was
praised for his many qualities, including flair. 70 Two comic tales illustrate the idea.
Considered to be a true ascetic, the holy dog was offered an almond cake; Qiṭmīr
sniffed at it carefully and then walked away from it, preferring its usual diet of dry
bread crusts. Another time, it urinated on the prayer rug of a shaikh who pretentiously
asserted his priority in the Sufi lodge. In fact, the dog had an uncanny ability to sniff
out the disbelievers, so much so that “in every place, he saw one denied, directly he
urinated upon him!” One may speculate that the numerous cases of antinomian der-
vishes who, allegedly, urinated over their fellow believers are nothing but replica of
the dog’s scandalous act. More significant perhaps is the sniffing as a capacity of the
religious intuition claimed by dervishes.
Conclusion: Cynics in Islam

Throughout this essay, I have tried to draw from sources not only the metaphors and
allegories that Sufi authors accumulated through the figure of the dog, but also the
behavioural and corporal dimensions of their texts. Whether treatises, poetry or hagi-
ographies, mystical writings were read, commented, and discussed as much as they
67 ʿAṭṭār 1905–1907, vol. 2, p. 15.

68 Al-Qushayrī 2007, p. 268.
69 Saʿdī 1998, p. 245.
70 Vryonis, S., Man᾽s Immediate Ambiance in the Mystical World of Eflaki, the Mawlawi Dervish,
Qonya (1286–1291, d. 1360), Byzantina Symmeikta 9/2, 1994, pp. 375–377.

136 Alexandre Papas
were applied, far from simple rhetorical exercises. Yet, this means that all these nar-
ratives should be taken not so much as evidences of actual techniques than as patterns
for specific practices. By reading a vast – although never sufficient – array of treatises,
poetry, and hagiographies, I have endeavoured to understand the references to dogs as
radical religious attitudes marked by animality and wildness, in opposition to what
marginal mystics considered as conformist or, as one may say, “human, all too human”
forms of spirituality.
In order to make the perspective of an ethology of the dog of God more convincing,
I would pick up a comparative case that has been proposed by Jürgen Wasim
Frembgen.71 Against the idealistic philosophers of antiquity, the Cynics introduced a
heterodox school of thinking which, in many respects, reminds us of the unruly (bī
sharʿ) way of dervishes. Both groups disdained wealth, conventions, and laws; both
used humour, parodies, and provocation. Cynics and dervishes were often beggars
who lived in cemeteries, at the margins of society. It is also striking that both groups
used the symbol of the dog, as is plainly expressed by the term “Cynics” (in Greek
κυνικός, “dog-like”) and the following quotation of Diogenes Laertius (d. 323 BC):
“I wave my tail around those who give me alms, bark at those who don’t and bite the
scoundrels.” Equally striking are the cynical teachings we find in the pseudo-epigra-
phic letters, which were written in a simple style and addressed to the common herd
of Alexandria or Constantinople. These teachings clearly advocated taking the dog’s
way of life as a model to apply, in order “not to look like a dog but to really be a
dog”.72 Without positing an historical continuity from the Cynics to the dervishes –
not even a doctrinal similarity –, it remains to say that the cynegetic practices of Sufi
antinomianism reveal the existence of Cynics in Islam.
It also remains to say that as early as the 9th century, Diogenes and the Greek Cy-
nics were well-known to Arabic scholars who collected a large number of apoph-
thegms in their gnomologia.73 Medieval authors respectfully called them Dyūjānis al-
Kalbī (Diogenes the Canine) and the Kalābiyya (the Canines). Later, in the 13 th cen-
tury, the Egyptian biographer Ibn al-Qifṭī even compared Cynicism with radical Su-
fism, more precisely the malāmatiyya or path of the blame, but criticised both groups
harshly. In contrast, the 17th-century Iranian philosopher Quṭb al-Dīn Ashkevarī, who
was close to Sufism despite the Safavid context, not only recalled and detailed the
connection between kalbīs and malāmatīs, but defended their antinomian positions.74
71 Frembgen 2008, pp. 120–123. I am grateful to my colleagues Jürgen Frembgen and Mohammad
Ali Amir-Moezzi for their stimulating remarks on this point.
72 Paquet, L. & Goulet-Cazé, M.-O., Les Cyniques grecs. Fragments et témoignages, Paris, Librai-
rie Générale Française, 1992, pp. 20, 29, 107.
73 Gutas, D., “Sayings by Diogène preserved in Arabic”, in M.-O. Goulet-Cazé & R. Goulet (eds.),
Le cynisme ancien et ses prolongements, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1993, pp. 475–
518.
74 Terrier, M., Histoire de la sagesse et philosophie shīʿite: Présentation, traduction et commen-
taire du livre I du Maḥbūb al-qulūb de Quṭb al-Dīn Ashkevarī, PhD Dissertation, Paris, École
Pratique des Hautes Études, 2014, pp. 579–594.

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Sacred Stones in Qalandariyya and Bektashism
Thierry Zarcone
Paris
It is well-known to the historians of religions that the veneration of stone is universally

widespread and exists in most religions. Sacred stones or rocks are also present in
Islam, the best example being that of the black stone of Mecca – the remnant of an
ancient Arabic cult of monoliths (Bethyl) replaced and reinterpreted by Islam – or of
the Dome of the Rock at Jerusalem.1 Besides, the veneration of stones was maintained
as semi-independent cults in some trends of Turkic Islam under the influence of sev-
eral surviving pre-Islamic ideas (animistic and shamanic). Also, we know magic, cu-
rative, and rain stones, the latter being a very ancient magic artefact among both the
Islamic and non-Islamic Turkic peoples in all of northern Asia. Particularly interesting
is the case of a stone called pālhang by the antinomian Qalandars, the members of
guilds and the spiritual chivalry (Futuwwa), and of the “stone of the surrender” (teslim
taş) by the Turkish Bektashis. Although the pālhang and the teslim taş are both present
in the Bektashi sources at least since the beginning of 19th century, we know from
history that the pālhang has preceded the teslim taş and that this pālhang was one of
the major paraphernalia of the Ottoman, Persian, and Central Asian Qalandar der-
vishes. We do know, however, that there are some discrepancies between the function
and the shape of these two stones, both in history and at present times.
The pālhang
It is known from several Eastern and Western written as well as visual sources that
the tradition to wear stones at the girdle or on a belt was widespread among the Qal-
andars. For instance, the British traveller Rycaud in 1686 mentioned a “santone kal-
enderi” who “at his girdle, wore some fine polished Stone”. 2 These descriptions are
confirmed by many miniatures from the 17th and 18th centuries.3 In general, this stone
1 On stone veneration in Islam and in Turkey, see Tanyu, H., Türklerde Taşla İlgili İnançlar, An-
kara, Ankara Üniversite, 1968; Uçkun, R.K., “Haji Bektash Vilāyetnāmesinde taş ve kaya ile
ilgili inançlar”, in I. Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bektāş Veli Sempozyumu Bildirileri 22–24 Ekim 1998,
Ankara, Gazi Üniversitesi, 1999, pp. 369–374.
2 Rycaut, P., The History of the Present State of the Ottoman Empire, Amsterdam, chez Abraham
Wolfgank, 1686, p. 279.
3 “Book of paintings”, Bibliothèque nationale de France, manuscript Arabe 6077, ff. 3 v., 4 r., 9 r.
These paintings are accessible on the web page of the department of oriental manuscripts of the
BnF, http://mandragore.bnf.fr.

140 Thierry Zarcone
is known in the sources as a pālhang. But what does this word exactly mean? The term
is purely Persian and means a bent, a bridle, a rope, or a cord. And this is exactly what
the pālhang was and still is nowadays in Iran and in Persian Sufism. A Persian manu-
script, dated 1668–1669 and dealing with the paraphernalia of the Qalandars, indicates
that the pālhang/pālahang consists of a rope with seven knots, each with ethical and
mystical meanings. In this case, the pālhang is quite similar to the initiatic belt (shadd)
of the Futuwwa.4 Moreover, among the Khāksār Sufis of Persia, the pālhang is a piece
of cloth (maras) suspended to either the neck or the belt of the dervishes. 5
In addition, among the Ottomans, the ornamental carved stone fixed to belts by the
Qalandars received a symbolic and sacred virtue and was named after this belt. This
pālhang stone got seven or eight flutings at the beginning and later, among the
Bektashis, twelve. One of the oldest references to this stone in Western sources comes
from the British traveller John Covel who wrote in 1674 about the Qalandars he met
in the Levant: “many of them have a great 6 or 8 square Agat (with a hole in the
middle) at their girdle”.6 This central hole is also characteristic of the pālhang. As late
as the 17th century, the Jesuit Michel Nau, missionary in the Levant from 1668 to 1678,
provides us with a very accurate description of a Qalandar dervish, focusing on a stone
which is without doubt a pālhang:
“[the dervish wears] a piece of leather tightened by a leather belt with, in the
middle of his waist, an octagonal and flat stone approximately the colour of
alum (…). I do my best to learn about the reasons for such an attire and the
meaning of the stones he wears around his waist and at his ears; he answered
me that they are great mysteries…”7
This is the first mention of the secrecy concerning this stone, but without any expla-
nation. This point is confirmed by the same traveller when he meets another Qalandar
4 Āyīn-i qalandarī, in Mīr ʿĀbidīnī, A.T., and Afshārī, M. (eds.), Tehran, Intishārāt-i Faravān,
1995, pp. 155–156.
5 Futuvvatnāmahā va rasāʾil-i khaksāriyya, in Afshārī, M. (ed.), Tehran, Pijūhishgāh-yi ʿulūm-i
insānī, 2003, p. 148.
6 Early Voyages and Travels in the Levant. I. The Diary of Master Thomas Dallam, 1599–1600;
II. Extracts from the Diaries of Dr. John Covel, 1670–1679. With Some Account of the Levant
Company of Turkey Merchants, London, Hakluyt Society, 1893, p. 153.
7 “Il avoit la teste toute nuë et rasée; le reste du corps étoit aussi nud, à la réserve d’un morceau de
serge blanche, qu’il avoit sur les épaules, et d’une peau de cuir de couleur minime, qui le couvroit
depuis le bas-ventre jusqu’environ les genoux. Cette peau étoit serrée d’une ceinture de cuir, qui
lioit au milieu de son ventre une pierre plate octogone de couleur d’alun à peu près (…) Je fis ce
que je pûs pour sçavoir de luy la cause pour laquelle il s’habilloit de cette sorte, et ce que vou-
loient dire ces pierres qu’il portoit sur son ventre et à son oreille; il me répondit, que c’estoit-là
de grands mystères…”; Nau, M., Voyage nouveau de la Terre sainte, Paris, in J. Barbou, 1679,
2nd edition, 1757, p. 514.

Sacred Stones in Qalandariyya and Bektashism 141
who also tells him that the meaning of the stone is a “great mystery”. 8 Nau’s conclu-
sion is that the Qalandars didn’t want to reveal the symbolic virtue of the stone to a
non-Muslim, as this is a secret to all people who are not Qalandars (Plates 10.1, 10.2,
11.1).
Symbolizing asceticism and mortification

A rather old mention of the pālhang (Turkish: palheng) appeared in Anatolia in a
poem attributed to the poet Şirī – a supposed pseudonym of Haji Bektash (13th cen-
tury): this verse provides an insight into the symbolic signification of the pālhang
which embodies, in the eyes of the poet, an ascetic behaviour of separation from the
world, a well-known attitude in Sufism where it is practised as an “abandon of the
world” (tark-i dunyā). In this verse, the pālhang is also linked to the belt to which it
is usually attached (a point to be analysed below). But there is also a possibility that
this pālhang actually means the association of a belt and a stone:
With the four blows, we become the sultan of the real country
The treasure of the separation from everything is the lock of the pālhang and
the belt.9
Thanks to the traveller Evliya Çelebi who met Qalandar, Bektashi, and Abdal der-
vishes in 17th-century Anatolia, we know some complementary details about the uti-
lisation and the symbolic meaning of this stone. The Bektashi dervishes Evliya Çelebi
met at the convent (tekke) of Seyyid Battal Gazi (one of the most ancient and reputed
ones in Anatolia, near Eskişehir), wore the pālhang in combination with several other
Sufi paraphernalia like the begging bowl (keşkül), the stick (ʿaṣā), the ax (teber), the
horn (nefīr), etc. The pālhang was sometimes set with jewels and then called palheng-
i murassaʿ. Mention was also made of a belt ornate with several balgami (alabaster)
stones.10 As shown above in Şirī’s poetry, the pālhang is a symbol of renunciation and
the ascetic path. This view is confirmed by Evliya Çelebi who reports the following
words that probably stem from a Sufi catechism: “wearing the palheng, pressing it on
the waist and fighting his ego means that I am hard-hearted”.11
A very similar observation about the Qalandars is found in Rycaud’s travelogue one
century later: “although their path is ascetic”, writes the traveller, many Qalandars
“consume their time with eating and drinking”, and one characteristic of the pālhang
8 “Pour la pierre qui estoit à son ventre et à son oreille, il ne voulut jamais m’en rien dire, sinon
que c’étoient de grands mystères,” M. Nau 1679, p. 516.
9 Cihar-darb ile bakaa milkine sultan geçinür/Genc-i tecrīde miyan-bend palheng kilid; quoted in
Gölpınarlı, A., Tasavvuf’tan Deyimler ve Atasözleri, Istanbul, İnkılāp ve Aka, 1977, p. 272.
10 Evliyā Çelebi Seyahatnamesi, Dankoff, R.; Kahraman, S.A., and Dağlı, Y. (eds.), Istanbul, Yapı
Kredi Y., 2002, vol. 6, pp. 118, 149. See also id., 2002, vol. 6, p. 76; 2005, vol. 9, pp. 140, 146;
2006, vol. 3, pp. 12–13.
11 Palheng taşımak, çağrıma taş basup nefsile mücahede etmede taş yürekliyim demekdir, Evliyā
Çelebi 2006, vol. 1, p. 248.

142 Thierry Zarcone
was to help them support these faults: “in order to maintain this gluttony, they will fell
the stones of their Girdles, their Earings and Bracelets”.12 This ascetic function of the
pālhang was maintained over time until the end of 19th and the beginning of the 20th
century.
According to Yahya Agah Efendi, a Turkish Sufi writer at the beginning of 20 th
century, another meaning of the pālhang is reflected by the well-known Sufi adage
“little food, little talk, little sleep”.13 This ancient rule, which is emblematic of Sufi
asceticism, emerged among the earliest groups of Sufis in Iraq and then spread widely
in Sufi circles around the whole Muslim world. Yahya Agah Efendi explains that the
pālhang was a symbol of patience when performing the retreat (halvet) and fighting
the soul/ego (nefs). He then adds a new interpretation of the pālhang which was prob-
ably adopted after the spread of Shīʿī ideas to Anatolia. The pālhang, regarded as a
memory of the Prophet, is composed, in his eyes, of one or two stones (hacer, taş)
attached at waist height and intended to be used for diminishing hunger (cūʿ) and con-
solidating abstinence (perhiz). Hence, it is seen as the symbol of the Haseneyn, i.e.
Hasan and Husayn, the two sons of ʿAlī.14
All these interpretations of the pālhang – and especially the idea that tying a stone
to the belt can permit the suppression of hunger – are inspired by several Hadiths.
According to one of them, Talḥa’s father and his friends complained to the Prophet
Muhammad about their hunger. Then, they each fastened a stone onto their stomachs,
and Muhammad fastened two onto his.15 Thus, the Prophet of Islam appears here as a
determined and exceptional ascetic. This tradition was well-known in Ottoman literary
circles and even inspired a proverb: “for hunger, he has bound the stone against his
navel” (açlıktan göbeğine taş bağladı).16 The original Hadith had undergone some
variations in the Muslim world. In Shīʿīsm in general, ʿAlī was also regarded as an
ascetic who, like the model of the Prophet, burdened his stomach with a heavy stone
in order to diminish the pains of hunger.17 It is well-known that many Shīʿī ideas and
practices had penetrated into Anatolia, particularly after the emergence of the Safavid
state in the 16th century, and they were influential on the history of Bektashism. This
is the reason why the Hadith mentioned above comes in several variants. In one
Bektashi manuscript of the 19th century, the transmission of the pālhang is attributed
to ʿAlī. Furthermore, it claims that the Sufi tradition of wearing the pālhang comes
from the fact that Muhammad and ʿAlī, during the holy war (ghazā) and in order to
12 Rycaut 1686, p. 279.

13 Atasoy, N., Derviş Çeyizi. Türkiye’de Tarikat Giyim-Kuşam Tarihi, Ankara, T.C. Kültür Ba-
kanlığı, 2000, pp. 263–265; Yahyā b. Sālih el-İslāmbolī, Tarīkat Kiyafetleri, Tayşi, S. (ed.), Is-
tanbul, Sufi Kitab, 2006, pp. 172–173.
14 Ibid.
15 Guillaume, A., Traditions of Islam: an Introduction to the Study of the Hadith Literature, Oxford,
Clarendon Press, 1924, p. 144.
16 Gibbs, E.J.W., A History of Ottoman Poetry, 1907, ed. 1967: London, Luzac and Company, vol.
3, p. 56; vol. 5, p. 92.
17 Huart, p. 284.

strengthen the feeling of contentment (kanaat), each used to tie five stones to their
belts.18
In a variant of the Bektashi ritual of reception and in a poetry read to the new
member, the pālhang is called sang-i riyazet, i.e. “the stone of asceticism”. It hints
here to the faculty of supporting hunger and to content himself with simple food: “To-
day, I have attached the stone of asceticism to my waist/I contented myself with the
daily food, as in ‘We have divided [between them their livelihood]’”. 19 The second
part of the last verse “We have divided” – nahnü kasemna, from Arabic: naḥnu
qasamnā – hints to Quran 43:31:
“What, is it they who divide the mercy of the Lord? We have divided between
them their livelihood in the present life, and raised some of them above others in rank,
that some of them may take others in servitude; and the mercy of thy Lord is better
than that they amass” (translation by A.J. Arberry).
Among the Bektashi, the pālhang with twelve sides is also a symbol of the famous
formula “eline, diline belime sahip ol” (“to control one’s hand, one’s tongue and one’s
loins/sperm”) that is one of the major ethical and ascetic rules of this lineage 20 (Plate
11.2).
In Persian Sufism, the pālhang reflects the same values as in the Ottoman Empire,
but with a stronger influence by the Futuwwa; the lone difference is that it is a rope
(instead of a stone) that is composed of seven knots, each symbolising a quality of the
ascetic path, such as generosity, contentment, patience, privation, etc.21 Other Persian
treatises still focus on the same qualities, for instance: “My pālhang is patience (ḥilm
u ṣabr)”.22
In the Khāksār Sufi order, the sacred stone named “stone of contentment” (sang-i
qanāʿat) is very similar to the pālhang stone, probably because the Khāksārs have
borrowed many ideas and symbols from the Qalandars. The sang-i qanāʿat is depicted
as a nice and coloured stone generally fixed to a big bundle or sometimes tied across
the stomach behind the belt.23 It is also linked to the ascetic tradition according to
18 … pälhenkin aslı Hazret-i Muhammed aliye selam ve Hazret-i Imām-i Ali Efendilerimiz gazaya
giderlerken kanaat için kuşaklarının arasına beşer tane taş koydular. Fukaraya pālhenk takmak
buradan kalmıştır; “Mecmua-yi fevaid,” Manuscript by Atatürk Kitaplığı, Belediye, no. 415,
n.d., Istanbul, fol. 13 r.
19 Takınıp bugün miyānıma men seng-i riyāzet/“Nahnü kasemnā”daki rızkıma kıldım kanāat. This
poetry is comprehended in a private manuscript belonging to Noyan, B., Bektāşīlik ve Alevīlik,
Istanbul, Ardıç, Y., 2011, vol. 9, p. 274.
20 Teber, Ö.F., Bektāşī Erkānnāmelerinde Mezhebī Unsurlar, Ankara, Aktiv Y., 2008, p. 113.
21 From a Persian treatise on Qalandariyya (mid-17th century), published in Āyīn-i qalandarī, 1995,
pp. 155–156, 171; see also Futuvvatnāmahā va rasā’il-i khaksāriyya, 2003, pp. 148–149; and
Brown, J.P., The Darvishes or Oriental Spiritualism, 1868, reprinted, London, F. Cass, 1968, p.
176.
22 Āyīn-i qalandarī, 1995, p. 238.
23 Gramlich, R., Die schiitischen Derwischorden Persiens. Dritter Teil: Brauchtum und Riten,
Wiesbaden, Kommissionsverlag Franz Steiner, 1981, p. 5; Munjjamī, H., Mabānī-i sulūk dar
silsila-yi Khāksār-i jalālī va tasavvuf, Tehran, Intishārāt-i Tābān bā Hamkārī Nashr-i Shahrivar,

144 Thierry Zarcone
which a heavy stone placed upon the stomach may diminish the pains of hunger. The
sang-i qanāʿat is obviously an offshoot of the Qalandar pālhang. It is also known that
in the beginning of 20th century, some Central Asian Qalandars have also called the
stone attached at their belt sang-i qanāʿat.24 This name was furthermore given by the
Bektashis to their own stone called teslim taş (see below).
In Central Asia and in Xinjiang, up to the middle of the 20th century, the Qalandars
used to bind a large stone to their stomach. There are some photographs which show
that this stone was either a square or a circular or octagonal and flat stone, both with
a decoration in the middle (Plate 12.1). In Xinjiang, the stone is round and usually
made from jade that is precious in the region. 25 All these Qalandars resemble those
represented in paintings and miniatures of the 16th and 17th centuries.
Ritualising asceticism
Several sources report that in Futuwwa, Qalandariyya, and Bektashism, the pālhang,
whether a stone or a belt, was transmitted through a ritual of girding the waist. One of
the oldest mentions of the pālhang in Anatolia is found in the poetry of the Anatolian
dervish Yunus Emre (who lived in the 13th century), though many of his poems were
imitations composed by subsequent Sufi poets. It appears that the pālhang is linked to
a Sufi ritual of girding; and it reminds us of the belt girding of the Futuwwa which
was the initiation ceremony to enter this trend.26
Come now, Yunus, to repent, and do it since you are still living
Come with love and be girded with the pālhang of dervishism.27
In the 19th century, Yahya Agah Efendi reports that the transmission of the palheng-i
tarikat (stone of the Sufi path) or bel tokası (buckle of the waist) was very similar to
the ceremony of girding in the Futuwwa.28 In Bektashism in general, this ritual is ac-
2001, pp. 180–181. See also some complementary explanations on this stone with illustrations in
Frembgen, J.W., Kleid und Ausrüstung islamischer Gottsucher. Ein Beitrag zur materiellen Kul-
tur des Derwischwesens, Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz Verlag, 1999, pp. 207–208, 214–219.
24 Troitskaja, A.L., “Iz proshologo kalandarov i maddakhov v Uzbekistane”, in Domusulmanskie
verovaniya i obryady ve Sredney Azii, Moskow, Nauka, 1975, p. 222; French translation by Pa-
pas, A., Mystiques et vagabonds en islam. Portraits de trois soufis qalandar, Paris, Cerf, 2010,
p. 303.
25 Jarring, G., Dervish and Qalandar: Texts from Kashgar, Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell, 1987,
pp. 26, 29. We find the term kāvāsh for jade in this text more common than käsh.
26 Zarcone, Th., “Anthropology of Tariqa Rituals: About the initiatic belt (shadd, kamar) in the
Reception Ceremony”, Journal of Asian and African Area Studies, Kyoto, 2, 2008, pp. 57–68.
27 Yunus imdi tevbeye gel can sendeken eyle ʿamel/Işkıla gel kuşanıgör bu dervişlik palhengini;
Yunus Emre, Risālat al-Nushiyya ve Divān, Gölpınarlı, A. (ed.), Istanbul, Sulhi Garan Mat, 1965,
p. 131.
28 Atasoy 2000, pp. 263–265; Yahyā b. Sālih el-İslāmbolī 2006, pp. 172–173. See also Topuz-
kanamış, E., “Bir Bektaşi Erkānnamesi”, Türk Kültürü ve Haji Bektash Veli Araştırma Dergisi,
Ankara, 55, 2010, p. 433.

companied by the reading of some sura of the Quran with particular prayers (tercü-
man, tekbīr); all of them reveal to the initiate the meaning of the symbols embodied
by the sacred stone. The first sura is supposed to remind the ethical and ascetic virtue
of patience that is attributed to the pālhang: “Oh believers, be patient, and vie you in
patience; be steadfast; fear God; haply so you will prosper” (Quran 3:200).
There is also a cosmological interpretation of the pālhang symbol. Following the
reading of a sura of the Quran (65:12), it is indicated that the seven corners of the
pālhang are interpreted as a cosmological symbol in token of the seven heavens, seven
earths, and also the seven seas, as well as the seven planets of the Quran cosmos:
“It is God who created seven heavens, and of earth their like, between them the
Command descending, that you may know that God is powerful over everything and
that God encompasses everything in knowledge” (65:12).
This interpretation is confirmed in several Bektashi manuscripts.29 The tekbīr em-
phasises the creation of the seven skies by God, and the tercüman30 points to some
ascetic qualities, i.e. patience, contentment, etc.
The fact that in Bektashism, the new initiate is usually girded with a particular
woollen belt – called “sword-belt” (tiğbent31) which in this Sufi order is the equivalent,
of the initiatory belt of the Futuwwa – produces some confusion with the pālhang
which is also supposed to be girded around the initiate’s waist. The reason for the
existence of these two initiatory paraphernalia (that yet exclude logically each other)
lies in the syncretistic characteristic of Bektashism. Far from excluding the pālhang,
the ritual has associated this object with the tiğbent in a same ceremony, as demon-
strated in a poem dated 1875: “they tie the tiğbent and the palheng [round my
waist]”.32 Perhaps this is the explanation for why in the end, the pālhang, originally a
belt with a stone, only means a stone. Worth noting is that in some Persian texts of the
Persian Khāksār order, the tīgh, a sword, and the sang, a stone, are usually associated.
There are no explanations in the sources for the number of sides of the pālhang:
usually six or seven and more frequently eight. Six sides may be a hint at the Solomon
seal, and seven is a figure quite popular in the Muslim tradition, so it does not need
any explanation. The figure eight generally refers to ʿAlī ibn Mūsa or Riza, the eighth
Imam of Shīʿīsm who is respected both in the Futuwwa and in Bektashism. Pictured
by Vāʿiẓ al-Kāshifī (d. 1504–1505), the writer of a treatise on the Futuwwa as the
“honourable sultan of Khurasan”, this imam is also considered to be the teacher of the
29 Brown 1968, p. 176; Atasoy 2000, p. 263; Yahyā b. Sālih el-İslāmbolī 2006, pp. 172–173;
Soyyer, Y., 19. Yüzyılda Bektaşīlik, Izmir, Akademi Kitabevi, 2005, pp. 266, 284; Noyan 2011,
vol. 8, p. 414, vol. 9, p. 274.
30 Tekbir and tercüman are both names for particular prayers read during the Bektashi ritual.
31 On these paraphernalia, see Birge, J.K., The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 1937, reprinted, Lon-
don, Luzac, 1965, pp. 234–235.
32 Tīğ-i bendim ile palehengimi beste-meyān idiler; quoted in Topuzkanamış 2010, p. 433.

146 Thierry Zarcone
etiquette of the Futuwwa that was so influential on the Qalandariyya.33 Furthermore,

according to the Velāyetnāme (the major Bektashi hagiography), the sacred artefacts
(clock, headgear, candle, etc.) of the Sufi path were transmitted by the eighth Imam to
Ahmad Yasavī who then forwarded them to Haji Bektash, eponym of the Bektashi
order.34 Besides, as indicated in the Velāyetnāme, the cupola (kubbe) of Haji Bektash’s
mausoleum is composed of eight arches (terek) for the love of the eighth Imam (Ol
imam-ı Heştuminün ışkına).35
It is worthy to finally mention that in some cases, the pālhang has divinatory and
curative properties. Covel, for instance, mentions that thanks to this stone, Qalandars
were able to foretell the sickness of any people and that the stone is also a protection
against poison.36 We must think here about a possible link between the pālhang and
the famous “rain-stone” (yada stone) in the Turkic tradition, as well as other magic
stones in Anatolia. But this is another story.
The “stone of submission” (teslim taş) in Bektashism

There is a stone named teslim taş in the Bektashi order of dervishes, a Sufi lineage
strongly influenced by the Qalandariyya which originates partly in the pālhang alt-
hough it is different from it. I do not intend to develop in detail the case of this stone
here, but just to point to some of its major aspects, first and foremost its polysemic
quality. As mentioned above, when fixed to the girdle of a dervish or tied across his
stomach, the eight- or seven-sided sacred stone of the Qalandars is called palheng taşı.
If it is smaller, with usually twelve (sometimes eight or seven) sides and worn by a
Bektashi dervish on his neck, close to the heart, it is called teslim taşı (Plate 12.2). The
teslim taş or “stone of submission” is also, though rarely, named kanaat taşı, “stone
of contentment”, and even nowadays, in the Eastern Rhodope Mountains (Bulgaria),
cetvel or karataş (black stone), though the second term is usually used for the
pālhang.37 The teslim taşı generally has twelve sides in Anatolia – in reference to the
twelve imams –, but only seven sides in the Balkans (Bulgaria) – due to an excessive
veneration of the seventh Imam – and only rarely six or eight sides, contrary to the
pālhang. Its diameter is approximately 10 cm, and it is about 1.5 cm thick. It has a
hole from its top to the bottom through which a string is introduced; from the top of
33 Babayan, K., “Situating the master-disciple schema: cosmos, history, and community”, in bā-
bāyan, K., Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs. Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran, Lon-
don, Center for Middle Eastern Studies, Harvard University Press, 2002, p. 203.
34 Vilāyet-nāme, Manākib-i Hünkār Hacı Bektāş-ı Velī, Gölpinarlı, A. (ed.), Istanbul, İnkilāp, 1958,
p. 15; Velāyetnāme 2007, p. 106.
35 Hacı Bektāş-ı Veli, Velāyetnāme, Duran, H. (ed.), Ankara, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı Y., 2007, p.
638.
36 Covel 1893, p. 153; Tanyu, H. 1968, pp. 194–198.
37 The last name was used in 1994 by a Bektashi bābā living in a village near Hasköy. The stone
was made from akik (carnelian/agate) of yellow colour; Mikov, L.L., Bülgaristan’da Bektaşi-
Alevis Kültürü, Istanbul, Kitab Yayinevi, 2008, p. 189.

the stone, this string is thin and reaches around the neck of the dervish; at the bottom
of the stone, the string is thick and ends in some big circular knots (Plates 13.1, 13.2).
The stone itself is either made from a kind of alabaster (balgami), quarried near
the city of Kırşehir near the village of Hacıbektaş in Central Anatolia, or from a crystal
called necefi taş (stone of Necef), supposedly coming from Najaf in Iraq where the
mausoleum of Imam ʿAlī is situated. It is also worth mentioning that the balgami stone
is also called Balım taşı, from the name of Balım Sultan (16th century), the second
master of the Bektashism who is supposed to have miraculously created this stone. 38
The teslim taş is also made from onyx and particularly from carnelian/agate (akik), a
semi-precious stone enjoying particular favour among the Shīʿītes. Its colour is yel-
low, white, or beige, with red or brown veins and stains. 39
Due to its popularity and symbolic virtue, the teslim taş is not only worn as a sacred
paraphernalia suspended from the neck or as earrings by the high-ranking Bektashis,
but also – as both an object and an image – drawn and carved everywhere in the
Bektashi lodge for ritual purposes or for decoration. It is especially present in the ar-
chitecture, for example at the top of the main gates of the Bektashi lodges, on their
fountains and walls, on the grave stones of the Bektashi dervishes, etc. (Plate 14.1).40
It is also drawn in Bektashi calligraphies and on manuscripts in composition with other
symbols (Plate 14.2), as well as some objects of day-to-day life, like tea or coffee
cups, plates (Plate 15.1); jewellery and medals are also made in the form of this stone.
It is also worth noting that the stone is quite venerated by the members of other Turkish
Sufi orders, especially by Rıfāi and Halveti-Misriye.41 It is known, for instance, that
several Rifāi medals and calligraphies mingle the teslim taş with their own symbols.
The stone has finally become a talisman (tilsim), printed on paper or cloth, a phenom-
enon that has extended its influence beyond the Sufi milieu to the whole of the Turkish
society.42
As far as I know, there is almost no mention of the teslim taş in historical sources
prior to the 18th century, neither in the hagiography of Haji Bektash dating from the
16th century nor in the other hagiographies of the same period dedicated to Bektashis
saints. The lone Bektashi paraphernalia dedicated to the figure twelve is the headgear
38 Gölpınarlı 1977, p. 46–47.

39 For a general description of the teslim taş, see Tanyu 1968, p. 145–146; Işın, E. and Özpala-
bıyıklar, S., Hoş Gör Ya Hu, Osmanlı Kültüründe Mistik Semboller, Nesneler, Istanbul, Yapı
Kredi Kültür Sanat Yayıncılık, 1999, p. 68–71; Librairie de Péra, Müzayede. 28 Kasım 2002
Hotel Pera Palace. Auction. 28 November 2002, Istanbul, Librairie de Péra, 2002, p. 142–143;
Mikov 2008, p. 189, 316–318. On the carnelian in Shiʿism, see Sindawi, K., “Wearing the ring
on the right hand among Shiʿites”, in “The First Annual Research Conference, Al-Qasemi Aca-
demy – College of Education”, Israel, April 16, 2011, unpublished.
40 See for example Tanman, B., “İstanbul Merdivenköyü’nde Bektaşi Tekkesi’nin meydan evi
hakkında”, in Semavi Eyice Armağanı – İstanbul Yazıları, Istanbul, 1992, p. 321.
41 Clayer, N., Mystiques, Etat et société. Les Halvetis dans l'aire balkanique de la fin du XV e siècle
à nos jours, Leiden – New York – Köln, E.J. Brill, 1994, p. 46, footnote 170.
42 See Perk, H., Osmanlı Tılsım Mühürleri. Halūk Perk Koleksiyonu, Istanbul, Halūk Perk Müzesi,
2010, pp. 117, 119.

148 Thierry Zarcone
which was adopted with many Shīʿī ideas from the Kızılbaş and the Safavid states. In
the first half of 16th century, for example, the Sufi writer Vahidi wrote that the
Bektashi wear twelve-gored conical caps of white felt ornamented with a button made
of “Seyyid Ghazi stone” at the top (Yed fark-ı tāc üzre tāş dügme).43 We have no more
details about this “Seyyid Ghāzī stone” which obviously refers to the famous figure
of Seyyid Battal Ghazī, an Arab warrior who had fought the Byzantine Empire in the
8th century and was therefore regarded as a prestigious Bektashi saint. But Vahīdī
didn’t mention any twelve-sided stone.
The practice of carving a teslim taş into the Bektashi grave stone in the cemeteries
of the lodges of the order and elsewhere seems to appear at the end of the 18th century.
The twelve-sided stone is suspended with a collar to the upper part of the grave and
constituted by the headgear of the deceased dervish – a sign that it is not a pālhang.
The oldest grave stones with such a decoration stem from 1775, although in a small
number. Therefore, this decoration became the rule in the second part of the 19 th cen-
tury.44
However, an exceptional miniature exists from the end of the 17 th century, repre-
senting a dervish depicted as a Bektashi (probably a wandering Qalandar), with almost
all the well-known Sufi paraphernalia and, among those, both a pālhang at his waist
and a teslim taş with eight corners suspended from his neck. 45 This image is unique
for this early period in terms of wearing the two stones (Plates 15.2, 16.1). In the early
19th century, according to a European traveller who visited Greece, “the Bektashli are
so called from a Cappadocian sheikh who wore a stone upon his navel; in memory of
which his followers wear a stone which is green and of this form [included is a drawing
of a stone with seven sides] suspended to the neck, and hanging upon the naked
breast...”.46 Here, the teslim taş has seven sides, as is usually the case in the Balkans
(contrary to Anatolia, with twelve sides) (Plates 16.2, 17.1).
A polysemic symbol
The teslim taş is a quite complex polysemic symbol; it actually has a wide symbolic
spectrum, which hints to Shīʿī, Ismāʿīli, and Sufi myths and teachings. From its name,
it is clear that the teslim taş incarnates the resignation and submission to God as well
43 Vāhidī’s Menākıb-i Khwaja-i cihān ve netice-i cān, Karamustafa, Ahmed T. (ed.), Harvard, Har-
vard University, 1993, p. 156; Akça, Volkan, “Menakıb-ı Hace-i Cihan ve Netice-i Can”, Yüksek
Lisans Tezi, Cumhürriyet Üniversitesi, Sivas, Turkey, 2009, p. 134.
44 See Bacqué-Grammont, J.-L. et al., “Le tekke bektaşi de Merdivenköy”, Anatolia Moderna –
Yeni Anadolu, Paris, Jean Maisonneuve, vol. 2, 1991, pp. 29–135; Vatin, N. and Zarcone, Th.,
“Le Tekke bektachi de Kazlıçeşme”, Anatolia Moderna – Yeni Anadolu, Paris, Jean Maison-
neuve, vol. 7, 1997, pp. 79–109; Kut, G. and Eldem, E., Rumelihisarı Şehitlik Dergāhı Mezar
Taşları, Istanbul, Boğaziçi Üniversitesi Y., 2010.
45 Raynal, “Figures Naturelles de Turquie”, 1688, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département
Estampes et Photographie, 4-OD-7, picture 32.
46 Leake, W.M., Travels in Northern Greece, London, J. Rodwell, 1835, vol. 4, p. 284.

as the fidelity to the Bektashi path.47 This is an important concept not only in Bektash-
ism and Sufism but also in Islam. Another interpretation – though very unusual since
we never find it in the sources – is that the “stone is worn in remembrance of the
bestowal of Fāṭima, the daughter of the Prophet, upon his nephew ʿAlī”.48
Only some symbolic qualities attributed to this stone belong to an old tradition, as
documented in manuscripts and printed Ottoman sources. Some other qualities are
probably recent innovations, unless they are based on oral transmission. We would
distinguish three symbolic apprehension levels of this stone: 1. the symbolisation of
Bektashi myths and legends; 2. the symbolisation of the Shīʿī and Ismāʿīli sacred fig-
ures; 3. the symbolisation of the Bektashi path: Sufi teaching and initiatory death.
The first symbolic level: the symbolisation of Bektashi myths and legends
The Mosaic element
From Evliya Çelebi and some other writers, we know that since the 15 th century, a
stone, not yet named teslim taş, was suspended from the neck of a person in order to
indicate 1) that he wanted to express humility or 2) that he would be protected by God
or 3) that he had disobeyed the sharīʿa. This belief is based on the following myths:
Myth A: According to Agah Efendi (1904), the “secret” of the teslim taş is the
following: “In order to test the Prophet Moses, God asked him to bring the worst crea-
ture among those he had created. Then Moses tied a dog with scabies with a cord and
brought it to God. But this dog talked with a human voice and said: ‘Oh Prophet of
God! From whom have you heard that I am the lower creature of God?’ Moses felt
ashamed and repented of having thought so. He said: ‘Oh Master, I am guilty, I ask
pardon of God” – and expressed his humility (aciziyet) with a stone suspended from
his neck.49
Myth B: We are told by Evliya Çelebi that one day, the Holy Wisdom noticed that
Moses had left his blessed cloak (hırka) on a stone (taş) and was naked, taking a bath
in the Nile river. With the order of God, the stone started to move towards Egypt.
Moses took a stick (ʿaṣā) and set off in pursuit of the stone. Finally, he reached the
stone and beat it with his stick twelve times, making twelve holes. When Moses
learned that the stone was obeying the order of God, he begged it to be forgiven. The
stone forgave him but told Moses to suspend it from his neck through one of the holes;
so the stone would be with him in case he needed help. Moses did so, and nowadays,
among the dervishes, the balgami stone suspended from their necks is called sekel.
This is also the reason why a sekel [sekil], a “stone seat”, is nowadays suspended from
the neck of those who disobey the sharīʿa. Later, when he visited the desert of Tīh at
47 Ahmed Rifat Efendi, Mirʾātü’l-Mekāsıd fī defʿiʾl-Mefāsid, Istanbul, İbrahim Efendi Matbaası, 1876, p.
286; transliterated with an introduction by Salih Çift under the title Gerçek Bektaşilik, Istanbul, İz Y.,
2007, p. 419; Teber 2008, p. 113.
48 Brown 1968, p. 184.
49 Yahyā b. Sālih el-İslāmbolī 2006, pp. 154–155; Atasoy 2000, p. 353.

150 Thierry Zarcone
the foot of Mount Sinaï, Moses knocked the stone twelve times and thus created
twelve springs flowing from each of its twelve holes. 50
This myth is quite old since it was mentioned in a treatise of the Futuwwa (Fü-
tüvvetname), in the 15th century, by Seyyid Hüseyin b. Seyyid Gayb. 51 In this myth,
the stone got twelve holes and was suspended through one of them from the neck of a
man. Obviously, this myth is inspired by Quran 7:160: “And We cut them up into
twelve tribes, nations. And We revealed to Moses, when his people asked him for
water: ‘Strike with thy staff the rock’; and there gushed forth from it twelve fountains
all the people knew now their drinking-place.” Besides, Evliya Çelebi wrote that the
pālhang is also called palhenk-i musai; this should be the link between this stone and
the teslim taş that is mainly associated with the tradition of Moses. Both myths were
still influential on the Bektashis in the early 20th century.52
As a symbol of repentance, the origin of the stone is also linked to Abū Bakr, a
close friend of the Prophet of Islam and future caliph, who, “having one day used the
language which gave offence to the Prophet, repented of his fault and, to guard against
its repetition, hung round his neck a pebble, which he placed in his mouth on entering
the mosque.” This last legend was collected in the early 20th century.53
The Shīʿī elements

There is another myth we could call the “spittle of Haji Bektash”, that is a mix of
unidentified legends with Shīʿī ideas. According to this myth – of which there are
several versions –, Haji Bektash (or Balım Sultan, in other versions) was poisoned by
a man who had given him hospitality; but the saint immediately spat blood which
hardened into a stone called teslim taş.54 The red veins that appear on the stone are
considered to be these traces of blood. This narrative was clearly inspired by the leg-
endary life of Imam Hasan, son of ʿAlī, who had been poisoned by his wife Jaʿda at
the instigation of Muʿāwiya.55 Another version of this myth brings in more details: the
man who poisoned Haji Bektash was a Turk, i.e. a Muslim, and it was from a Christian
that the saint obtained an emetic that caused him to spit blood: “his spittle mixed with
his blood hardened into the red-veined variety of the local agate”, a stone found near
50 Evliyā Çelebi 2002–2006, vol. 1, p. 246.

51 Gölpınarlı, A., “Fütüvvet-nāme-i Şeyh Seyyid Hüseyin Ibni Gaybī”, İstanbul Üniversitesi İktisat
Fakültesi Mecmuası, Istanbul, vol. 17, no. –4, 1955–1956, p. 118; Şeker, M., Türk İslam Medeni-
yetinde Ahīlik ve Fütüvvet-Nāmelerin Yeri, Seyyid Hüseyin el-Gaybī’nin ‘Muhtasar Fütüvvet-
Nāme’si, Ankara, Ötüken, 2011, pp. 282–284.
52 See Garnett, L.M.J., Mysticism and Magic in Turkey. An Account of the Religious Doctrines,
Monastic Organisation and Ecstatic Powers of the Dervish Orders, New York, Charles Scrib-
ners’ Sons, 1913, pp. 115–117.
53 Garnett 1913, p. 117.
54 “Bektaşilik”, Manuscript Atatürk Kitaplığı, Belediye 443, n.d., Istanbul, p. 37.
55 See Donaldson, D.M., The Shiʿite Religion. A History of Islam in Persia and Iraq, London, Luzac
and Company, 1933, pp. 76–78; Madelung, W., The Succession to Muhammad. A Study of the
Early Caliphate, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1997, p. 331.

the village of Hacıbektaş, the centre of the Bektashi order. 56 The teslim taş is also
known as balgami taş (mucus or phlegm stone) from the element that composed the
vomit of the saint.57 A very similar legend exists in the oral tradition of the Qalandars
of Pakistan. According to them, the petrified vomit of Imam Hasan, poisoned by his
wife, was used to make stone amulets (taʿwīẕz), depicted as “poison stone” (zahr-
muhrah) that can protect someone from any poison. 58
In another version of this legend, Haji Bektash, visiting the village of Ermeni, was
granted hospitality by peasants who offered him a meal of curdled milk and honey.
The saint then spat out a mouthful of the food which at once hardened into stone, and
he told the peasants that the descendants of their descendants would never suffer from
hunger.59 According to another version of this legend – collected in 1995 by Lyubomir
Mikov in the Bulgarian Rhodope Mountains –, Haji Bektash, poisoned by the inhab-
itants of a village, vomited the bad food onto a stone which took the shape of the teslim
taş. However, the stone became black and tar-like because of the strength of the poi-
son; this is the origin of another name for this stone in use in the Balkans: “black
stone” (karataş).60
Meanwhile, several Shīʿīte beliefs mingled with the Anatolian legends, and the
teslim taş was regarded as a stone composed of the sacred soil of Karbala (turāb) as
well as of the blood of Husayn, the son of Imam ʿAlī who had been killed there. In the
eyes of the believer, this blood is a reminder of the imam’s martyrdom. According to
an Anatolian Shīʿī source from the 14th century about the murder of Husayn, Gabriel
gave the Prophet Muhammad a handful of white earth taken from paradise and told
him that when this earth would have the colour of blood, the end of Husayn would be
close.61 The Qalandars observed by Covel in the 17th century (see above) told him a
similar narrative about the great 6- or 8-square Agat at their girdle: they said “that this
stone foretold the sickness of their friends by growing pale on the edges, and their
death by growing pale towards the hole in the middle; he said it sweats against poison,
etc.”62 Obviously, this legend about the poisoning of Haji Bektash was inspired by the
oral tradition about the poisoning of Imam Hasan, son of Husayn. 63
56 Hasluck, F. W. Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1929, re-
printed, New York, Octagon Books, 1973, vol. 1, p. 288; Noyan, B., Bektaşilik Alevilik Nedir?,
Istanbul, Ant/Can, 1995, p. 244.
57 “Bektaşilik”, Manuscript by Atatürk Kitaplığı, Belediye 443, n.d., Istanbul, p. 37; Ziya, “Bek-
taşilik. 15”, Yeni Gün, Istanbul, 9th February 1931.
58 Frembgen, J.W., “The miraculous origin of Qalandar amulets: notes on the material religion of
dervishes and devotees in Pakistan”, Anthropology of the Contemporary Middle East and Central
Eurasia, vol. 1, issue 2, winter 2013, p. 171.
59 Degrand, Jules Alexandre, Souvenirs de la haute-Albanie, Paris, H. Welter, 1901, p. 230.
60 Mikov 2008, pp. 316–317.
61 Mélikoff, Irène, “Le drame de Kerbelā dans la littérature épique turque”, in Mélikoff, I., De
l’épopée au mythe. Itinéraire turcologique, Istanbul, Isis, 1995, pp. 44–45.
62 Covel 1893, p. 153.
63 Cf. Şahın, H.İ., “Kerbela olayının sözlü geleneğe yansıması: İmam Hasan ve İmam Hüseyin des-
tanı”, Türk Kültürü ve Haji Bektash Veli Araştırma Dergisi, Ankara, 60, 2011, p. 187.

152 Thierry Zarcone
The second symbolic level: symbolisation of the Shīʿī and Ismāʿīli sacred figures
The geometrical shape of the teslim taş – both of the stone itself and of the string and
the big knots at its end – bears numerical values (12, 8, 7, etc.) which hint at the most
sacred figures of Shīʿī tradition. First and foremost, the twelve sides of the stone rep-
resent the twelve imams of Shīʿīsm. However, if there are only seven sides, they refer
to the Seventh Imam, i.e. to the Ismāʿīli faith; and if there are eight sides, as explained
below, they pinpoint to Imam Riza. Furthermore, in the upper and lower sides of the
stone, near the hole used for the string, there are two little circles called habbe (grain,
seed): each of them is usually a little stone with six sides. According to a contemporary
great master of the Bektashi order, Bedri Noyan (d. 1997), these two grains symbolise
the love for the imams Hasan and Husayn. 64 Noyan also argues that the outer face of
the stone refers to Khadīja, the wife of the Prophet, and the inner face to his daughter
Fāṭima, wife of ʿAlī; this is the reason why the wife of a Bektashi shaikh can wear the
stone.65 We also know a very rare teslim taş as an object which in its outer side shows
a carved face of a person who is most probably ʿAlī (Plate 17.2).66
The third symbolic level: the symbolisation of the Bektashi path: Sufi teaching
and initiatory death
Two major ideas in Bektashi teaching are symbolised by the teslim taş. The first one
deals with the zāhir-bātin paradigm. The zāhir – which represents the open side of
Islam and its precepts and commandments, incarnated in the personality of Muḥam-
mad – corresponds to the outer face of the teslim taş. On the contrary, the inner face
of the stone is dedicated to the bātin, that is the secret dimension of Islam. The second
major Bektashi doctrine (symbolised by the teslim taş) is that of the Four Gateways:
şeriat (Sunni religious law), tarikat (Sufi path), marifet (gnostic knowledge of God),
hakikat (immediate experience of God) – each of them bringing a deeper understand-
ing of Islam than the previous one.67 The thin cord used to suspend the teslim taş from
the neck of the dervish is tied in a specific way in its lower section, forming four
circles which hint to these Four Gateways. 68
From a manuscript entitled “Evrad-i Abdalan” in the possession of Noyan, the
large section (kayışı) of the teslim taş string refers to the skin of the animal sacrificed
by Abraham in lieu of Ismāʿīl, as well as the one of Nesimī Sulṭān who was con-
demned to have his skin removed. Moreover, the thin section of the string is compared
64 From a manuscript entitled “Evrad-i Abdalan”, Noyan 1995, p. 244. See also Uludağ, H., “Os-
manlı Hat Sanatında Tekke Yazıları”, Yuksek Lisans Tezi, Istanbul University, 2005, p. 34.
65 Noyan 1995, p. 244; Mikov 2008, pp. 317–318.
66 Librairie de Péra. Müzayede. 10th May 2001, Hotel Pera Palas (Auction), Istanbul, Librairie de
Péra, 2001, p. 143.
67 Birge 1965, pp. 102–103; Korkmaz, E., “Haji Bektash Veli öğretesi dört kapı kırk makam”, in
Yalçın, A., Yücel, A., and Aytaç, G. (eds.), I. Türk Kültürü ve Haji Bektash Veli Sempozyumu
Bildirileri, Ankara, Gazi Üniversitesi Türk Kültürü ve Haji Bektash Veli AraştIrma Merkezi,
1999, pp. 207–240.
68 Teber 2008, p. 113 footnote 355.

to the cotton rope used to hang Manṣūr al-Ḥallāj. The deaths of these two latter Sufi
figures were interpreted as voluntary or spiritual, that is experienced by the candidate
during the Bektashi initiation ritual: this ceremonial occurred at a place called “dar”
in the Bektashi hall which is a symbolic gallows where Manṣūr al-Ḥallāj was hung (a
big teslim taş is usually present at this place). There are many poems that remind us
of this moment – the climax in the Bektashi ritual.69
The teslim taş in the Bektashi ritual

The teslim taş is depicted as an “autonomous symbol” (muhtar bir alamet) by a con-
temporary Bektashi author.70 The explanation for this is not easy. My idea is that this
stone is different from the symbols that are intimately linked to the ritual, such as the
belt (tığbend) or the headgear (kulāh); both symbols are transmitted only through a
particular ceremonial. For this reason, the teslim taş was and is still sold at Hacıbektaş
by the dervishes themselves to the sympathisers of the brotherhoods and can also be
offered by the heads of the order to their distinguished guests. On the contrary, neither
the belt nor the headgear can be offered to a non-initiate. However, the teslim taş is
no less sacred than these two objects.
The teslim taş is nevertheless present in the Bektashi ceremonial, though not sys-
tematically. For example, we do know that sometimes a big teslim taş was placed on
a low reading desk (raḥle) near a sofa (sedir) dedicated to a dignitary of the lodge. 71
Besides, in the centre of the ceremonial hall (meydan evi), there is a stone called mey-
dan taşı (stone of the hall) of about 20–25 m in diameter, which is either a square or
has the form of a teslim taş with eight or twelve corners. (This place is the same as the
dār al-Manṣūr where the initiate is symbolically sacrificed.) On top of this stone is
sometimes another oval stone called kanaat taşı (stone of contentment). It is obvious
that there are different versions in the Bektashi ritual concerning the shape and the
name of the meydan taşı. In addition, on occasions of ceremony, a lighted candle
stands on it. The legend attached to this stone is the same as that of the pālhang in
terms of suppressing the cravings of hunger. 72 Moreover, it is believed that Haji
Bektash said the following about the altar and the whole of the hall: “the candle is my
eye, the meydan taşı is my face, the hall of the lodge (meydan) is my body”.73
The teslim taş is usually only worn by the dignitaries of the order. However, it
must also be presented to the initiate during the ritual. At this moment, two verses
69 Noyan 1995, p. 244.

70 “Bektaşilik”, Manuscript, p. 37.
71 From an undated manuscript (probably of nineteenth century), Soyyer 2005, p. 245.
72 Brown 1968, pp. 167, 186, 206; Birge, 1965, p. 180; Noyan 2010, vol. 8, p. 65; Erdem, Cem,
“Muhammed Ali Hilmi Dedebābā Erkān-Nāmesi”, Türk Kültürü ve Haji Bektash Veli Araştırma
Dergisi, 57, 2011, p. 241.
73 Hazret-i pīr buyurmuştur ki: çerag gözümdür, meydān tāşı yüzümdür, meydān vücūdumdur; Şeyh
Abd ül-Latif Efendī, “Risāle-i Lahutiye”, manuscript in Süleymaniye Library, İzmirli Hakkı
1243, Istanbul, dated 1214/1799–1800, f 20r. The meydan taşı is mentioned elsewhere in this
manuscript, 3v, 7v, 13r, 20r.

154 Thierry Zarcone
from the Quran as well as prayers (tercüman and tekbīr) are read. Some verses deal
with Moses and the twelve springs (2:60), while others argue that there is no fright in
people close to God (10:62). Therefore, the shaikh holds the teslim taş with his two
hands and puts it around the neck of the dervish. 74 The more widespread prayers read
at this occasion regard the submission to God and to the voluntary sacrifice of the
initiate: “The rule of conduct of the Perfect have become my faith, no doubt now exists
in my heart about putting on the teslim [taş] I have given myself to the Thee”.75
Conclusion
In the course of time, the sacred stones worn by Qalandar and Bektashi dervishes have
undergone many changes. At the beginning a symbol of asceticism and austerity, the
stone has become a polysemic symbol hinting at mythical, gnostic, and Sufi ideas. But
it has also been a stone used for divination and healing (especially the pālhang), sim-
ilar to the rain stone in the shamanic Turkic world. It appears that there is a close link
between the stone and the belt, since they are two objects physically associated and
frequently considered to be only one object in the girding ritual of Qalandariyya and
Bektashism. Hence, this is the substitution of the belt for the stone with the word
pālhang... and a continuing confusion. The pālhang as a stone put upon the stomach,
however, is quite different from the stone suspended from the neck. The first one is a
symbol of asceticism while the second one is a symbolic conservatory of many Sufi
beliefs and practices. The fact that among 19th century Bektashis, these two were
twelve-corner stones does not signify that they got a same meaning, although both of
them hint at the twelve imams of Shīʿīsm. In addition, the foundation myths of these
two stones are not identical, as demonstrated in this study. My feeling is also that,
according to several Persian sources, the sang-i qanaʿat of the Khāksārs is closer to
the pālhang than to the teslim taş, to which it is usually erroneously compared. To
conclude this, when visiting the main khānaqā of the Khāksār-Jalālī lineage at Tehran
in May 2014, I was astonished to see on its walls a painting and a photograph depicting
Hajj Mutahhar ʿAlīshāh (d. 1982), the head of the Khāksār lineage, with a twelve-
corner object suspended from his neck that is similar to the Bektashi teslim taş. Ac-
cording to a descendant of Mutahhar ʿAlīshāh living in the khānaqā, this metal object
is called sang-i qanaʿat. I am not convinced, however, by this explanation and think
that Hajj Mutahhar ʿAlīshāh might have been influenced by the Bektashi attire, be-
cause in general, the sang-i qanaʿat – that is an offshoot of the pālhang – is fixed to a
big bundle or sometimes tied behind the belt, but never suspended from the neck. It
74 Noyan, 1995, pp. 328–329.

75 “Erenler erkanı oldu imanım; tevekkülde kalmadı şekk gümanım dokunup teslīmi Hakka oldum
teslim....”, Abd ül-Latīf Efendī, Şeyh. Risāle-i Lahutiye”, f 14r. See also Erdem, C., “Muhammed
Ali Hilmi Dedebābā Erkān-Nāmesi”, Türk Kültürü ve Haji Bektash Veli Araştırma Dergisi, 57,
2011, pp. 245–257.

has been demonstrated that Khāksār and Bektashi Sufis have met during the 19th and
20th centuries and influenced one another.76
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Khāksār

Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī and his Connection to the
Ḥaydariyya and Khāksāriyya
Mehran Afshari
Tehran
Qalandariyya is the name given to the Muslim mystics who underscored renunciation
and spiritual freedom to the utmost.1 Hence, some individuals who were ill-mannered
and misbehaved were not the members of any Sufi sects. In my opinion, “Qal-
andarīgarī” emerged from the impact of “Taṣawwuf” on the Futuwwa or Javānmardī
(chivalry) customs.2 Throughout history, the Qalandariyya was divided into several
branches. In Iran’s history, two groups of the Qalandariyya were known as the
“Ḥaydariyya”.
A group of the Ḥaydariyya included the adherents of Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e al-
Zāviʾī (d. 618/1221), who were famed in Iran, India, as well as Asia Minor in the 6 th-
10th/12th-15th centuries. Their leader, Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Zāviʾī, was laid to rest in
his hometown Zāvih, which is a town in the Khorāsān province in Iran. Therefore,
“Zāvih” is nowadays named “Turbat-e Ḥaydariyya”. His adherents travelled in groups
and were known to consume Hashish.33 Ibn Baṭūṭa, the 8th/14th-century traveler in In-
dia, encountered them wearing iron rings on their genitals in order to abstain from
sexual intercourse.4 They also stepped on fire while performing Samāʿ (the Sufi spir-
itual audition).5
Another group of the Qalandariyya was also known in Iran as the Ḥaydariyya.
During the reign of the Safavid (in the l0th-12th/16th-18th centuries), they were very
1 “The renunciation and spiritual freedom” were called “Tajrīd” by the Qalandars. Thereby, some
Qalandar names were followed by the adjective “Mujarrad”, such as Jamāl al-Dīn Sāvajī in the
7th/13th century. Some Persian dictionaries, such as the Burhān-i Qāṭiʿ compiled by Muḥammad
Ḥusayn Khalaf al-Tabrīzī and Farhang-i Anandurāj, translated “Qalandar” as the one who with-
draws from the world and is desirous of perfection. “Tajrīd” is an Arabic word and means “get-
ting naked”. Renouncing all worldly things and withdrawing from the world was called “Tajrīd”
and emphasized by the Qalandars.
2 Cf. Afshārī, Mihrān, Futuwwatnāmihā va Rasāʾili Khāksāriyyeh, Si risālih (Futuwwat-nāmihs
and treatises of Khāksāriyye), Tehran, 2003 (1382š), Int. pp. 35–36.
3 Al-Maqrīzī, Taqī al-Dīn: Al-Mawāʿiẓ va al-Iʿtibār, ed. by Ayman Fuʾād Sayyed, London 2003,
Vol. 3, pp. 418–419.
4 Ibn Baṭuṭa: Raḥla Ibn-i Baṭuṭa (Ibn Baṭuṭa’s travel book), ed. by Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Muʾmin
ʿUryān, Beirut, 1987, p. 394.
5 Al-Qazwīnī, Zakariyyā Muḥammad: Āthār al-Bilād va Akhbār al-ʿIbād, ed. by Ferdinand Wüs-
tenfeld, Wiesbaden, 1967, p. 56.

162 Mehran Afshari
active and assisted in propagating and developing the Shia. Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-
e Tūnī, the founder of this order, was a Shiite Qalandar and lived in Azerbaijan in the
late 8th and early 9th/14th-15th centuries (d. 830/1427).
In the 10th/16th century, Ibn Karbalāʾī quoted that few people among the Qal-
andariyya were as renowned as Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī. He was born and
grew up in Baku; moreover, he was a member of the Majẕūbān (one enraptured by
God).6 These ecstatics were mystics who were bound to Divine’s grace and attraction
rather than to their spiritual preceptor on the Sayr o Sulūk (the Path and mystic jour-
ney). People thought they were lunatic due to their unconventional behaviour and bold
sayings.7
Similar to other Qalandars, Mir Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī travelled widely. He
travelled across the Arrān, Caucasus, and Azerbaijan territories. Every land he stepped
on he built a Tikyih (a guild centre and monastery) in which one of his adherents took
up residence.8 He resided in Tabriz when Qarā Yūsuf (R. 792–823/1390–1420) and
his son, Iskandar (R. 823–841/1420–1437), ruled over this city. Here, Ḥaydar-e Tūnī
was known as “Bābā Ḥaydar”. Furthermore, Iskandar Shāh paid particular attention
to him. He passed away and was buried in his own Tikyih in Tabriz (830/1427).9 Qāżī
Nūr Allāh al-Shūshtarī reported that Ḥaydar-e Tūnī was a descendant of Imām Mūsā
al-Kāẓim, the 7th Imām of the Twelver Shia. The disciples of Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-
e Tūnī were its adherents. When they were honored to join the Qalandariyya order,
the Pīr (sage) inculcated and whispered in their ears the curse on the three first Ca-
liphs.10
During the Safavid period, the famous Ḥaydariyya – who rivaled with the der-
vishes of Niʿmat Allāhī – were the followers of Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī – but
not the adherents of Sulṭān Ḥaydar who was the ancestor of the Safavid King, as some
researchers have mistakenly presumed.11 In addition, since the Qalandars following
Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Zāviʾī were also called “Ḥaydariyya”, some researchers were
puzzled about these two groups’ identities and facts; therefore, their leaders were iden-
tified and presented in the wrong way.12
6 Ibn Karbalāʾī Rawẓat al-Jinān va-Jannāt al-Janān, ed. by Jaʿfar Sulṭān al-Qurāʾī, Tehran, 1965
(1344š), vol. 1, p. 467.
7 Afshārī, Mihrān, Nishān-i Ahl-e Khudā (The Signs of the people of God), Cheshmeh, Tehran,
2007 (1386š), pp. 52–54.
8 Ibn Karbalāʾī 1965, p. 467.
9 Ibid., pp. 467–468; Shūshtarī, Nūr Allāh: Madjālis al Muʾminīn, Tehran, 1975 (1354š), Vol. 2,
p. 51.
10 Shūshtarī 1975, p. 82.
11 Shafīʿī Kadkanī, Muḥammad Riżā: Qalandariyya dar Tārikh, Tehran, Sukhan publication, 2007
(1386š), pp. 229–230.
12 Al-Shaybī, Kāmil Muṣtafā: Al-Ṣilah bayna al-taṣawwof wa-al-tashayyuʿ, Beirut, 1982, Vol. 1,
p. 549; also Lughat nāmih Dihkhodā, followed by Ḥaydarī.

Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī 163
The Ḥaydariyya who were the followers of Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī in the
Safavid period were so active. Their Sheiks were titled Bābā13, and the Bābā in
Ḥaydarī Tikyih (who was named “Ḥaydarī Khānih”) held one of the positions granted
by the Safavid king in his period.14
The European travel books written in the Safavid period provide a description of
the appearance and outfit of the Ḥaydariyya. They covered their head with a piece of
worn-out cloth, hung a piece of sheep skin from their shoulders like a cloak, and car-
ried a stick in one hand as well as a bugle in the other. They walked in lanes and paths
and preached to tradesmen and people about the Shia and religious issues. 15
The manuscripts remaining from the Ḥaydariyya during the Safavid period inform
us more and better about the Ḥaydariyya. One of the important manuscripts about
them is number 3478 which can be found at the central library of Tehran University
and was written by the community of the Qalandars during the reign of Safavid Shāh
Sulaymān (R. 1105–1177/1666–1694). Many customs described in this manuscript
are part of the Futuwwa rituals, such as Mīyān bastan (in which a belt was buckled
around the new devotee) and barādargīrī (in which the apprentice chose two comrades
of his journey to assist him along the path of the Futuwwa). Furthermore, one of its
chapters is even named the Futuwwat-Nāmih of the Amīr al-Muʾminīn (the title of
Imam ʿAlī).16
These demonstrate the contribution and significance of the Futuwwa or
Javānmardī (chivalry) in the order of Ḥaydarī Qalandars in the Safavid period. The
other important point related to this manuscript concerns the leader of the Safavid
Ḥaydariyya whose name was Sulṭān Mīr Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar, which followed the ad-
jective “tūnī”.17 Whatever was noted in this manuscript about the genealogy of Mīr
Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī18 conforms to the one written about Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e
Tūnī,19 as reported by Ibn Karbalāʾī in the 10 th/16th century. This proves that in this
manuscript, Sulṭān Mīr Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī and Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tū-
nī, the leader of the Ḥaydariyya, were one and the same person. The followers of Mīr
Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī were probably Shiites. In order not to confuse this group
with the one of the Qalandariyya – who were the followers of Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e
al- Zāweī who might have been Sunnite –, the followers of Mir Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-
13 Naṣr Ābādī, Muḥammad Ṭāhir: Tadhkira-i Naṣr Ābādī, ed. by Aḥmad Mudaqqiq Yazdī, Yazd,
Universuty of Yazd, 1999 (1378š), p. 436.
14 Ibid., pp. 206, 430.
15 Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste: Tavernier’s travel book, translated by Abuturāb Anvarī, ed. by Hamīd
Arbāb Shīrānī, Tehran, Sanāʾī Library with the cooperation of Taʾyīd bookstore in Esfahan, 1957
(1336š), pp. 394–395. Engelbert Kaempfer: Kaempfer’s travel book, translated by Kiykāvūs
Jahāndārī, Tehran, Khārazmī publication, 1981 (1360š), p. 137.
16 Afshārī, Mihrān and Mirʿābedini, Abuṭālib, Ayīn-i Qalandarī (The Qalandarī cult), including
four treatises on the Qalandarī, Khāksārī, ʿAjam sects as well as Sukhanvarī, Tehran, Farāravān
publication, 1996 (1375š), pp. 129–134, 137–146; also Afshārī 2003, pp. 103–109.
17 Afshārī, Mihrān and Mirʿābedini, Abuṭālib 1996, pp. 100, 104, 106, 107.
18 Ibid., pp. 183–184.
19 Ibn Karbalāʾī 1965, p. 468.

164 Mehran Afshari
e Tūnī changed their leader’s title into Jalāl al-Dīn. The mentioned manuscript elimi-
nates the ambiguity and indentifies Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar as the Pīr (sage) and founder
of today’s Khāksār dervishes (mendicants) in Iran and Iraq. He is the same person as
Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī; moreover, the Khāksāriyya were the descendants of
the same Ḥaydariyya in the Safavid period. Some Jalālī Qalandars from India united
with some Ḥaydariyya followers; as a consequence, the Khāksāriyya order was
founded.20
Some Khāksāriyya followers presumed Mīr Djalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar to be identical
with Jalāl al-Dīn Bukhārī, the leader of the Jalālī Qalandars.21 However, the above-
mentioned manuscript proves that Sulṭān Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar and Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-
e Tūnī were one and the same person.
The next significant fact noted in this manuscript is related to “stone and razor”,
which were the instruments for shaving heads and were used by the Dallāks (the bath-
house staff who washed, massaged, and shaved the clients) in Ḥammāms (Muslim
bathhouses).22 These tools were attributed to Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar who was identical
with Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī.23 We know that Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī lived in
the Caucasus and Azerbaijan where he spent his whole life until he passed away. He
was laid to rest in Tabriz. Therefore, the adjective “tūnī” cannot be related to the town
of “Tūn” in Khorāsān. However, it might be related to the “Tūn” in Muslim bath-
houses. The brazier which warmed a public bath was called a “Tūn”.
Most Futuwwat-nāmihs (guild documents) written in Persian are about bathhouse
staff (Dallāk) and barbers (Salmānī), who in fact belonged to the same guild (Ṣinf).
They shaved their clients’ heads, washed them clean with the Kīs (wash cloth), ex-
tracted decayed tooth, etc. These Futuwwat-nāmihs were mostly written by the Ḥay-
darriyya in the Safavid period.24 Before that and at the latest in the 7th/13th century in
the Nāserī Futuwwat-nāmih, “dallāki” was not quoted as a guild deserving to have a
“Futuwwatdārī” (chivalry). 25 However, after the Safavid this guild followed the or-
ganisation of the futuwwa order and was supported by the Ḥaydariyya. Interestingly,
some Futuwwat-nāmihs of the dallāks and barbers were noted by the Khāksārī dervi-
shes in the 13th-14th/19th-20th centuries.26 Whoever enthused to be a dervish of the
Khāksārī order had to work as a dallāk or barber for a while. 27 In the Ḥaydariyya order
and among its adherents, i.e. the Khāksāriyya, these guilds were significant due to Mīr
Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī’s profession which was related to bathhouses and their
20 Afshārī 2003, Int. pp. 41–43.

21 Afshārī, Mihrān, and Mirʿābedini, Abuṭālib 1996, pp. 292–293, 321, 328–329.
22 Ibid., pp. 141–142, 169–172.
23 Ibid., p. 170.
24 For instance Afshārī, Mihrān, and Madāyinī, Mahdī, Chahārdah risālih dar bāb-i Futuwwat va
Aṣnāf (Fourteen treatises on the Futuwwat and guilds), Tehran, 2002 (1381š), p. 99.
25 Nāṣiri, Mawlānā, Futuwwatnāmi-yi Mawlānā Nāṣeri (Mawwlānā Nāṣeri’s Futuwwatnāmih), ed.
by Franz Taeschner, Leipzig, 1944, pp. 10–12.
26 Afshārī 2003, pp. 73–97.
27 Ibid., pp. 74–75.

Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī 165
staff. He was the founder and leader of these orders and, in addition, the one whose
title was changed into “Mīr Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar” by his adherents in order not to be
mistaken with “Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Zāviʾī”.
Bibliography
Afshārī, Mihrān, Futuwwatnāmihā va Rasāʾili Khāksāriyyeh, Si risālih (Futuwwat-nāmihs and
treatises of Khāksāriyye), Tehran, 2003 (1382š).
–, Nishān-e Ahl-e Khudā (The Signs of the people of God), Cheshmeh, Tehran, 2007 (1386š).
Afshārī, Mihrān & Madāyinī, Mahdī, Chahārdah risālih dar bāb-e Futuwwat va Aṣnāf (Four-
teen treatises on the Futuwwat and guilds), Tehran, 2002 (1381š).
Afshārī, Mihrān & Mirʿābedini, Abuṭālib, Ayīn-e Qalandarī (The Qalandarī cult), including
four treatises on the Qalandarī, Khāksārī, ʿAjam sects and Sukhanvarī, Tehran, Farāravān
publication, 1996 (1375š).
Al-Maqrīzī, Taqī al-Dīn, Al-Mawāʿiẓ wa al-ʾIʿtibār (The sermons and consideration), ed. by
Ayman Fuʾād Sayyid, London, 2003.
Al-Shaybī, Kāmil Muṣṭafā, Al-Ṣilah bayna al-Taṣawwuf wa-al-Tashayyuʿ (The unification of
Sufism and Shia), Beirut, 1982.
Al-Qazwīnī, Zakariyyā Muḥammad, Āthār al-Bilād wa Akhbār al-ʿIbād (The monuments of
cities and the news of people), ed. by Ferdinand Wüstenfeld, Wiesbaden, 1967.
Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Raḥla Ibn-e Baṭūṭa (Ibn Baṭṭūṭa’s travel Book), ed. by Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Munʿim
ʿUryān, Beirut, 1987.
Ibn Karbalāʾī, Rawḍat al-Jinān wa Jannāt al-Janān, ed. by Jaʿfar Sulṭān al-Qurāʾī, Tehran,
1965 (1344š).
Naṣr Ābādī, Muḥammad Ṭāhir, Tadhkira-e Naṣr Ābādi, ed. by Aḥmad Mudaqqiq Yazdī, Yazd,
University of Yazd, 1999 (1378š).
Nāṣiri, Mawlānā, Futuwwatnāmi-yi Mawlānā Nāṣeri (Mawwlānā Nāṣeri’s Futuwwatnāmih),
ed. by Franz Taeschner, Leipzig, 1944.
Shafīʿī Kadkanī, Muḥammad Riżā, Qalandariyya dar Tārikh (The Qalandariyya in history),
Tehran, Sokhan Publication, 2007 (1386š).
Shushtarī, Nūr Allāh, Madjālis al-Muʾminīn (Councils of believers), Tehran, 1975 (1354š).
Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste, Safarnāmih-yi Tavernier (Tavernier’s travel book), translated by
Abuturāb Noori, ed. by Ḥamid Shervāni, Tehran, 1957 (1336š).

Some Recent Issues and Challenges in the Khāksār Order
Shahrokh Raei
Göttingen
The traditions of the Khāksār order have gone through significant changes and trans-
formations in the last 80 years. Khāksāriyya – which is actually a continuation of the
Qalandarīyeh as well as a representative and remainder of the Iranian branch of the
Qalandarīyeh – is in its present form greatly influenced by developments and changes
which took place during the leadership and authority of two significant and charis-
matic Khāksār figures: Bahār ʿAlīshāh Yazdī (d. 1936) and Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh (d.
1983) (Plate 18.1).1
Bahār ʿAlīshāh Yazdī obtained leadership of the order in 1890.2 Most of the time,
he used to stay in Kufa Khāneqāh and was very dedicated to the order. Documents
from this time still indicate his good and extensive relations to have been full of re-
spect and reverence for Shia clerics. He was also an influential social figure and had
good relations and friendships with social authorities. Furthermore, he had a close
friendship with the authorities of Kurdistan Sufi orders and travelled there every year.
During these trips, Qāderī sheikhs welcomed him with respect and reverence. 3
In that time, the leadership of Khāksāriyya found an unprecedented glory. On Bahār
ʿAlīshāh’s trips, groups of 40 to 100 of his devotees would accompany him, and when
he passed away in September 1936,4 there were 46 authorized sheikhs.5 Among them,
Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh succeeded in overcoming his rivals with a letter written by one of
the devotees;6 thus, he became the successor of Bahār ʿAlīshāh.
His appointment to this position had other claimants, but Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh’s wis-
dom and long life helped him surpass his rivals and finally made him the sole authority
in the Khāksār Order in the last decade of his life. Following the tradition of Bahār
ʿAlīshāh, he kept good relations with clerics as well as friendships and cooperations
with political and social authorities in Iran so that officials would visit him in his
Khāneqāh.
1 On these personalities, see also: Gramlich 1965, p. 85; Monajjemī 2000, pp. 44–-50; Vāḥedī 225,
pp. 306–311.
2 Monajjemī 2000, p. 42.
3 Solṭānī 2001, pp. 386–403.
4 13. Rajab 1355 h.q.
5 Monajjemī 2000, pp. 43–44. There were four distinguished sheikhs among them. According to
Vāḥedī, he had 42 sheikhs (see Vāḥedī 2005, p. 306).
6 Mastūr ʿAlīshāh Kermānī. See Vāḥedī 2005, p. 307; Monajjemī 2000, pp. 44–45.

168 Shahrokh Raei
Bahār ʿAlīshāh Yazdī and Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh held the responsibility for leading
and conducting the Khāksār Order for more than nine decades. During this period, it
was in its prime – a time of social glory, the so-called ‘golden age’.
Among other struggles, this essay studies three important issues the Khāksār order
faced over the last decades, especially after the death of Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh, its au-
thoritative and charismatic leader7 (Plate 18.2).
Some Current Issues of the Khāksār Order
Leadership of the Khāksār Order after Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh:

Over the last decades, the dispute over the leading position of the Khāksār order da-
maged its unity as well as uniformity. Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh was the last Khāksār leader
who officially received this position as passed on from his predecessor. Since his death
in 1983, there have been many disagreements and conflicts within the order, and so
far, none of the Khāksār sheikhs has been able to claim the position of master of the
order without having been challenged.8
Unlike other orders that use the word Qoṭb for their main leader, the Khāksār use
the terms ‘Sar Selsele’ (head of the order) or ‘Qaṭār Kesh’ (leader of the row).
After Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh’s death, the responsibility of Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh of
Tehran – which he had founded and introduced as the main centre of the order – was
given to Mīr Jalāl al-Dīn Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī (Plate 19.1). Although Mīr Meṣbāḥ was
introduced as Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh’s successor, this succession was faced by doubts,
and some of the sheikhs and dervishes didn’t acknowledge him as successor of
Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh and as Sar Selsele. While Mīr Meṣbāḥ held the responsibility for
Tehran’s Khāneqāh, some sheikhs held separate Ẕekr sessions and in some cases also
introduced representatives for some towns.
After Mīr Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī’s death on 11 th January 2008, Baḥr ʿAlīshāh-e s̲ ānī-
ye Tehrānī (Nāderī), who is a Shiite cleric, was recognised by Mīr Meṣbāḥ’s followers
as the master in Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh, and he keeps this position until now9 (Plate
19.2).
One of the most serious splits of the order is rooted in the time of Moṭahhar
ʿAlīshāh. Between him and one of his devotees, Mīr Ṭāher (Sayyed Ḥoseyn Jāberī),
disputes arose that eventually led to Mīr Ṭāher’s exclusion from the order 10 (Plate
20.1).
Mīr Ṭāher, who had established a grand Khāneqāh in Kermanshah and had many
followers in this area, didn’t accept this deposition and tried to define his association
7 Most of the provided data here are based on experiences, research, interviews and correspond-
ence throughout my fieldwork in the last years.
8 Vāḥedī 2005, pp. 306–331; Monajjemī 2000, pp. 42–55.
9 The dervishes of Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh in Tehran added recently the term ‘Moṭahharī’ to the
name of their own order in order to differentiate their group from the others.
10 Apparently, these conflicts dealt with who had to carry the responsibility of the Khāneqāh of
Kermanshah.

Some Recent Issues and Challenges in the Khāksār Order 169
with the order independently from Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh 11 (Plates 20.2, 20.3). He
claimed that he associated with Bahār ʿAlīshāh, the main master before Moṭahhar
ʿAlīshāh, through Mastour ʿAlīshāh, one of Bahār ʿAlīshāh’s sheikhs. Since then, the
relationship between the Khāneqāh of Teheran and the ones of Kermanshah has al-
ways been strained, and the position of Mīr Ṭāher (and later his son Mīr Kos̲ ar) has
always been questioned by the dervishes and sheikhs of the Khāneqāh of Tehran as
well as their followers in other towns.
Since Mīr Ṭāher’s death on 7th April 2002, the Ẕekr sessions among the Khāneqāh
of Kermanshah have been held by his son, Jalāl al-Dīn Jāberī (Mīr Jamāl). Another
son of Mīr Ṭāher, Moḥī al-Dīn Jāberī (Mīr Kos̲ ar),12 who lived in Tehran for the last
years of his life, tried to become the leader of this new split-off. For example, he was
introduced as the master of the order by some of his disciples on different websites.
The disagreements among the Khāneqāh of Tehran helped him with this assertion.
This new split-off expanded its influence from Kermanshah to Tehran and then to
more towns like Ahwaz, Isfahan and Shahreza, by appointing respective sheikhs in
these regions (Plate 21.1).
Mīr Kos̲ ar passed away on 13th Mai 2015. Currently, some of his followers still
arrange the weekly sessions in Tehran, while the sessions of Kermanshah are also held
by Mīr Jamāl.
Therefore, nowadays not only in Tehran, but also in cities such as Isfahan, Mash-
had, and Ahwaz, separate sessions are held simultaneously, and there is no consensus
on the main leader and centre of the order in the region.
In the current situation and due to disagreements on the position of the order’s
master, in response to the question on this position, most dervishes admit that currently
there is no single master of the order, and each dervish performs his order duties before
his own sheikh or master. Of course, some dervishes also introduce their own master
as the single master of the order and attempt to prove this claim.
In the current situation, several places have also claimed to be the main centres of
the order, while the Khāneqāh of Tehran, called Moṭahharīyeh and inaugurated by
Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh, is still recognised by most members as the most important centre.
However, the Khāneqāh of Kermanshah, which was founded at almost the same time
as the Moṭahharīyeh, as well as the old Khāksār Khāneqāh of Isfahan have laid similar
claims.
Meanwhile, in contrast to the conventional tradition of the Khāksār, a range of
measures and efforts have been undertaken by some Khāksār sheikhs, especially by
the successors of Mīr Ṭāher, so as to convince and attract more followers to their own
group and to strengthen their respective position. Among others, they try to attract the
attention of the people by organising exciting sessions that are open to the public, and
11 On the Khāneqāh of Kermanshah, see also Raei 2014, pp. 243–244.

12 Formerly, he used to hold the title Mīr Khandān; in a book he published in Kermanshah, he also
held such a title (see Mīr Khandān 1982). Later, his title was changed and he was named Mīr
Kos̲ ar. A change in one’s dervish title is not common in Khāksār tradition.

170 Shahrokh Raei
by publishing and distributing self-made videos of these sessions. In some cases, after
such sessions, an initiation ritual is organised for those who are interested in joining
the order. Until some decades ago, the Khāksār order usually accepted a candidate
only through a very difficult and hard examination process. However, some branches
are trying to attract more people nowadays by creating a variety of attractions, which
is a fundamental contradiction to the common tradition of the order (Plate 21.2).
In this atmosphere of conflict and competition between different groups of the
Khāksār dervishes, most of these groups have created their own weblogs and homep-
ages, while also using various social media to construct a network of their own mem-
bers. The contents of these weblogs and websites mostly address challenges and dif-
ferences between these groups, especially on the issue of the order’s leadership.
As the dispute over the leading position of the order is very present among der-
vishes, more than half of the talks and interviews include definite opinions concerning
this question. Most dervishes constantly try to assert themselves into this specific dis-
cussion, and particularly the younger ones use much of their power to justify the po-
sition of their own groups. The followers of the various groups hold their meetings,
especially in the big cities, independently and refuse to participate in the meetings of
any other group.
In recent times, some of the dervish groups whose relationship with the order was not
officially recognised by other groups tried to introduce themselves as the survivors of
a forgotten lineage.
In the past, the Khāksār order was divided into four lineages, each with its own
characteristics.13 All present Khāksār ascribe themselves to the Gholām ʿAlīshāhī lin-
eage.
The Maʿṣūm ʿAlīshāhī Khāksār lineage existed until a few decades ago, but has
gradually disappeared. Sarmast ʿAlīshāh Ṭoroghī and Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh Dehkordī
were the last two important figures of this lineage, which was discontinued after they
passed away. It seems that their last few followers then joined the Gholām ʿAlīshāhī
lineage.14 Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh might have played a significant role in joining these two
lineages.15
In discussions, members of the Khāksār emphasize the fact that all current Khāksār
belong to the Gholām ʿAlīshāhī lineage.
Recently, a group of dervishes, led by a person called Mīr Afżal, claimed that their
ancestors had belonged to the Maʿṣūm ʿAlīshāhī dervishes and that they themselves
were also decedents of this lineage. But the Khāksār dervishes, especially the follow-
ers of Mīr Kos̲ ar, have argued that today, only one Khāksār dervish group exists, thus
13 I.a. Afshārī 2003, pp. 42–43; Modarresī Chahārdehī n.d., p. 3.

14 During my field studies, I encountered Khāksār dervishes whose last names were Maʿṣūm ʿAlī-
shāhī although they were considered to be Gholām ʿAlīshāhī Khāksār.
15 See Modarresī Chahārdehī 1990, p. 58.

persuaded them to withdraw their previous assertion in a meeting and prepared a man-
uscript which was signed by all participants.16 This gives an example of how the
Khāksār use every possible means to strengthen their branch.17
Besides Mīr Afżal, Roshan ʿAlīshāh from Shahriyar also uttered such a claim, and
after his death, his sheikh, Ṣedgh ʿAlīshāh, still claims connection with the lineage of
Maʿṣūm ʿAlīshāhi. In Isfahan, a certain Ẕāker ʿAlīshāh claims the same.
Another group of Khāksār recently claimed that they belong to the lineage of
Malāmatiyya, which was not known hitherto. Therefore, their claim probably cannot
be considered seriously. A person called Mīr Maẓhar who was one of Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh
Ṭoroqī’s devotees introduced himself as the master of a different lineage, namely
Khāksār Malāmati. He and his followers believe that there was a manuscript and a
throne fur (takht-e pūst) with Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh, which belong to the lineage of
Malāmatiyya, and nobody has been responsible for them for a long time. Moṭahhar
ʿAlīshāh entrusted them to his sheikh, Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh, who passed them on to Mīr
Maẓhar. Thus, Mīr Maẓhar accepted this responsibility and revived the lineage of
Malāmatiyya18 (Plate 21.3).
Besides these statements, there are no documents confirming the past existence of
a Khāksār Malāmat lineage with a special manuscript and a throne fur, so the veracity
of these claims is doubtful. It also has to be mentioned that besides the similarity of
the names, there is apparently no relationship between this lineage of Malāmatiyya
and the Malāmat principle of the 9th century which later affected the different Sufi
orders as well as the Qalandar tradition.19
The Initiation of Women

There are some scattered reports on the rejection of a relationship with women by the
Ḥeydarīs and Jalālīs, who were the ancestors of the Khāksār. Ibn Baṭuṭa reported that
the followers of Sheikh Ḥeydar even pinned rings to their penises in order to stay away
from the temptation of intercourse with women.20 In Bostān ul-Siyāḥa, it is also re-
ported that Jalālīs do not agree with the accumulation of wealth and the inclination to
women.21
The initiation of women is not part of the principles of the Khāksār tradition, and
usually, their different lineages didn’t accept women as members of the group. 22
16 I was provided with a copy of this manuscript.

17 After withdrawing his claim, Mīr Afżal has joined the dervishes in Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh and
has given an oath of allegiance to Baḥr ʿAlīshāh.
18 I.a. Interview with different members of this group.
19 On the Malāmat principle, see i.a.: Karamustafa 2006, pp. 30–31; Afšārī 2003, pp. 59–65;
Frembgen 1993, pp. 70–72; Zarrīnkūb 1988, pp. 335–357.
20 Zarrīnkūb 1988, p. 368.
21 Zarrīnkūb 1988, p. 375.
22 I.a. Alvandī 2004, p. 252.

172 Shahrokh Raei
Principally, the presence of women in a Ẕekr circle and in the ceremony room was
strictly forbidden until recently. Even little girls were not allowed to be in the cere-
mony room.23
Apart from the rejection of women in the Khāksār order, there were some special
rules on the relationship with the women in the community. For instance, a dervish
was not allowed to marry the daughter of his master, and also after the master’s death,
he was not permitted to marry the widow. The master was neither allowed to marry
the daughter of his own disciple.24
Recently, different opinions have formed among the masters of the Khāksār order
on the subject of women, and one of the fundamental actions of some leaders was the
initiation of women into the order.
There is no evidence of the initiation of women by the Khāksār until the time of
Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh. So his introduction of initiating women into the Khāksār order
was a fundamental step. According to the reports by Modarresī Chahārdehī, Moṭahhar
ʿAlīshāh initiated a woman from Mashhad as well as her classmate, a French woman.
He accepted them as his own devotees and presented them with needle-embroidered
vests.25
The number of women who were initiated by Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh was not limited
to these two. According to Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh (Aḥmad ʿAlī Borūmand, 1921-2014), one
of Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh’s sheikhs, he later initiated some other women, especially Bakh-
tīyārī ones, into the first stage of Khāksārieh, which means hearing their willingness
to become a Khāksār (Lesān Keshīdan) (Plate 22.1).
However, almost all women who were initiated by Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh remained
in this first stage (Lesān), and the only woman who could be promoted to the second
stage of Khāksāriyya (Pīyāle)26 by Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh was Parīdokht Behrūz, the wife
of Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh, the master of the Isfahan Khāneqāh. 27
Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh and his wife were both initiated into the Khāksārieh by Moṭahhar
ʿAlīshāh, and both could be promoted to its second stage (Pīyāle) at the same day
(Plate 22.2).
Despite these two reports on the initiation of women by Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh, it is
necessary to mention that this was not a general practice at that time, and it happened
only in a few cases.
One of the main steps during the initiation of women was taken by Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh,
the master of Isfahan. He had studied law and in 1946-47 wrote his bachelor thesis at
Tehran University on “Marriage in Islam and a brief comparison with the European
23 Based on the observations and experiences during fieldwork.

24 Modarresī Chahārdehī n.d., p. 67.
26 On this stage see: Khāje al-Dīn 1981, pp. 96–100; Gramlich 1981, p. 81; Monajjemī 2000, pp.
131–132.
27 Borūmand 1993, p. 63.

legal system”. Due to his interest in women’s rights and after his wife had been initi-
ated by Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh, he decided to accept women who were eager to be initi-
ated.28 During his lifetime, he thus initiated about 50 to 60 women to the first stage of
the Khāksār tradition, and about 15 to 20 of them reached the second stage.29
Nevertheless, the other sheikhs of Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh refused to initiate women,
and after Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh’s death, his successor, Mīr Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī, refused
to initiate more women; he sometimes uttered his objection to the initiation of women
in the convent of Isfahan.30
Most other sheikhs and masters of the order were still opposed to this matter, in-
cluding Mīr Ṭāher and his successor in the Kermanshah convent who insisted on the
refusal to admitting women. However, they pointed out that a woman, only in special
situations and under complex conditions, could join the Khāksār order through her
husband or her brother. Even then, some women were in contact with the Kermanshah
Khāneqāh and got orders for Khāksār recitations through Bībī Khadījeh, Mīr Ṭāher’s
wife. This way, they did have some kind of spiritual relationship with the master. In
fact, they were allowed to learn the Khāksār spiritual concepts and also received the
recitation orders through their relatives; but they were not allowed to sit in the Ẕekr
circle and couldn’t be promoted to the Khāksār mystical hierarchy. 31
Besides Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh, only a few other sheikhs initiated a limited number of
women. For instance, a person called Eḥsān ʿAlīshāh, a disciple of Mīr Ṭāher, did so,
and these women were allowed to take part in the Ẕekr sessions. For that reason, Mīr
Ṭāher rejected him.
Another Khāksār sheikh, Tūraj Adhamī (Maḥv ʿAlīshāh), initiates women today.
A group of Khāksār who call themselves Khāksār Malāmati also initiate women
through their husbands or acquaintances.
The initiation ceremony of women is conducted like that of male dervishes, and
the dervish woman who plays the role of Pīr-e Dalīl organises the pre-initiation cere-
mony, including the ablution of penitence.
The problem that arises during the initiation ritual is that according to religious
law, mutual body contact between a man and a non-related woman is forbidden.
Therefore, a conduction by Dalīl by taking their hand and kissing it is not possible as
part of the ritual. In order to solve this problem and to observe religious law, if the
candidate’s husband is an initiated dervish himself, he stands between the master and
the candidate and holds the master’s hand with one and his wife’s hand with the other
hand. In case the candidate’s husband is not an initiated dervish, the Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh’s
28 I.a. Interview with Shahzād Borūmand, the female sheikh of Isfahan Khāneqāh, on 31st August
2015. She could not give a more precise number.
29 I.a. Correspondence with Shahzād Borūmand on 4th February 2016.
30 I.a. Interview with Shahzād Borūmand on 31st August 2015.
31 I.a. Correspondence with Mīr Sarmast on 3rd February 2016.

174 Shahrokh Raei
wife plays the role of a connector and stands between the master and the candidate. 32
A similar solution has been found by the Neʿmatullāhī order. 33
Khāksār dervishes usually get a dervish or poverty name when initiated by the Pīr.
It consists of a name chosen by the Pīr and the word “ʿAlīshāh”. 34 Until recently, the
few women who were initiated into the Khāksār order did not have poverty names.
Around 2008 or 2009, Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh was the first one to give women poverty names
consisting of a chosen name and the word “Bānū”. However, he granted this poverty
name only to women who had reached the second stage of the Khāksār hierarchy.
Most women who had been initiated into the Khāksār order remained on the first
or second stages, Lesān and Pīyāleh. In response to the question why – despite the
spiritual merit of some female dervishes – women cannot be promoted to the higher
levels of the Khāksār hierarchy, Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh referred to a personal reason: In order
to reach Kesvat, the third stage, the arm of the dervish must be singed, and considering
the sensitivity of women I think singeing the arms of female dervishes is inappropri-
ate. However, he later decided to give female dervishes a sort of spiritual Kesvat in-
stead of singeing their arms. In some particular cases in the past, he had already given
male dervishes a spiritual Kesvat who couldn’t have their arms singed for medical
reasons such as diabetes or other problems with healing the wound. For this purpose,
by pressing the thumb on the arm, the master stigmatised it in a symbolic way and
gave the dervish a symbolic Kesvat.
The first one to get a Kesvat this way was Shahzād Borūmand (Malake Bānū),
who received it from his own father, Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh. In the last days of his life and
in the presence of some of his followers, Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh introduced Malake Bānū as
one of his sheikhs. Another female dervish, ʿĀdele Bānū, received her Kesvat in the
same way and was also introduced as a Cherāghī of Malakeh Bānū.
During the Ẕekr sessions of Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh in the Khāneqāh of Isfahan, women
and men participate in approximately equal numbers and sit around both sides of a
building, separated by a short guard. Through a CCTV broadcast, women can watch
the Pīr on a screen installed in the women’s area in the Khāneqāh.35
As mentioned above, during the years in which Noṣrat Alisah initiated women into
the Khāksār order, Mīr Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī, the master of the Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh
in Tehran, expressed his dissatisfaction and opposition to this practice. Noṣrat
ʿAlīshāh announced that he was the founder of a Khāksār school in which women
could be initiated. He also claimed that the other feature of his school was that the
32 I.a. Interview with Shahzād Borūmand.

33 In the Neʿmatullāhī order, the initiation of women is a general matter in which the sheikh and the
candidate each take one end of a rod or a rosary and the sheikh recites the homage verse from
Koran (sura 48.10) so as to form the contract (see also Gramlich 1981, p. 78).
34 See also Khāje al-Dīn 1981, pp. 90–96; Gramlich 1981, pp. 80, 92–93; Monajjemī 2000, pp.
128–131.
35 Participating in and recording the Ẕekr sessions in autumn 2011.

ritual of entrusting the head (Sarseporden) and breaking the nutmeg by the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
was not obligatory.36
The Connection with Ahl-e Ḥaqq

The Khāksār have a seven-level hierarchy. These seven levels or stages (haft marḥale,
haft maqām) of the mystical path show the spiritual level a dervish has reached, which
can only be judged by a sheikh. This is a question of reaching a certain level of spir-
itual accomplishment. The requirements for a certain level depend on each particular
sheikh. The promotion from one to the next level can only be realised with his consent,
and he is expected to include an initiation ritual.37 The first four of these seven levels
are known to dervishes. However, there are ambiguities regarding higher levels. Some
of the dervishes (for example Ḥoseyn Monajjemī) believe in five stages. And in some
cases, the order of the sixth and seventh levels is inversed and many dervishes are
unable to name and explain them.
As is known, in order to be initiated into the fifth level of the Khāksār hierarchy
or to perform the rituals of Sar Sepārī (‘entrusting the head’) or Jōz Shekastan (‘the
cracking of the nutmeg’), a dervish has to visit an Ahl-e Ḥaqq master, a man known
as the master of the time (seyyed-e vaqt).38 Through a ceremonial procedure, he will
be accepted to this level of the hierarchy. 39 Afterwards, he becomes a member of this
‘group of truth’ and is affiliated with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq.40
For this reason, both communities have always been in connection with each other.
Until the time of Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh in the early 1980s, Khāksār even used to turn to
the Ahl-e Ḥaqq for the Sar Sepārī or Jōz Shekastan rituals.
One of the acquaintances and devotees of Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh recalls that he knew
a few Ahl-e Ḥaqq masters who lived in the suburbs of Tehran. In some cases, when
there was an urgent need to perform a ritual, they were invited to the Khāneqāh to
practice these specific rituals. 41
The present state of relations with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq differs in various parts of Iran.
Khāksār dervishes in Tehran have largely retained their relations with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
and take regular trips to visit them. The Khāksār of the Khāneqāh of Kermanshah have
36 I.a. Interview with Shahzād Borūmand.

37 Raei 2014, pp. 238–241; Gramlich 1981, pp. 92–117.
38 The writings of Modarresī Chahārdehī and Alvandī on the turning of Khāksār to Ahl-e Ḥaqq
mention that the Khāksār dervishes refer to a master from the Shāh Hayāsī family (Modarresī
Chahārdehī n.d.; Alvandī 2004, p. 205). However, in the interviews, many Khāksār dervishes
claim that the turning of Khāksār to Ahl-e Ḥaqq for affiliation (Sar Sepārī) is not only restricted
to the Shāh Hayāsī family.
39 On this ritual, see Gramlich 1981, pp. 113–115; Gramlich 1976, pp. 159–160; Khāje al-Dīn 1981,
p. 103.
40 On some more similarities between the Khāksār and Ahl-e Ḥaqq traditions, see Raei 2009, pp.
349–357.
41 Interview with Dr. Aḥmad Eqtedārī in January 2014.

176 Shahrokh Raei
closer and more extended relations with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq.42 In some regions, due to
geographical limitations, the relations are more restricted. They have gradually de-
creased, and nowadays, even the ritual of ‘entrusting the head’ is performed inde-
pendently to a great extent from the Ahl-e Ḥaqq.
Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh Ṭoroqī from Mashhad, the prominent sheikh of Moṭahhar ʿAlī-
shāh, was one of the first sheikhs who didn’t send his devotees to the Ahl-e Ḥaqq for
the ritual of ‘entrusting the head’. The Khāksār dervishes declare he claimed that the
truth had been lost between Ahl-e Ḥaqq families, and the Ahl-e Ḥaqq themselves don’t
really know which family the truth belongs to now. In such a situation, his devotees
were not sent to the Ahl-e Ḥaqq for Sar Sepārī.43 Of course, the devotees Raḥmat
ʿAlīshāh also held the ritual of cracking the nutmeg, but without the presence of an
Ahl-e Ḥaqq master. It should be noted that Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh and his father Sarmast
ʿAlīshāh originally belonged to the lineage of Maʿṣūm ʿAlīshāhī in which the ritual of
‘entrusting the head’ was generally not practised. This could have influenced the de-
cision of Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh to not turn to Ahl-e Ḥaqq for this ritual (Plate 22.3).
Khandān ʿAlīshāh, the present Khāksār master in Shiraz, explained the relations
between the Ahl-e Ḥaqq and the Khāksār in an interview in January 2014: “Until
Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh’s time, one had to turn to the Ahl-e Ḥaqq to practice the Jōz She-
kastan, ‘the cracking of the nutmeg’ ceremony. But his successor, Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh
Ṭoroqī, did not believe in trusting those who did not recite prayers. He used to send
his devotees to one of the masters in Mashhad for the entrusting ceremony. As I am
one of the followers of Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh, I do not send my devotees to the Ahl-e Ḥaqq,
but other masters still do so.”44 Throughout Khāksār history, some full sheikhs, in-
cluding Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh and Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh Ṭoroqī, have been granted the per-
mission to perform the ritual of Jōz Shekastan by Ahl-e Ḥaqq masters. However, they
preferred to perform the ritual in the presence of an Ahl-e Ḥaqq master.45
On entrusting the head before the Ahl-e Ḥaqq, the devotees of Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh in
Isfahan have a different attitude. Although Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh himself has performed the
ritual of entrusting the head in the presence of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq in the past, around
2008-09 he decided not to send his devotees to the Ahl-e Ḥaqq any longer.
Due to Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh’s innovations in the tradition of the Khāksār, his devotees
describe him as the founder of the Khāksār school (Maktab-e Khāksār).46 As men-
tioned above, one of this school’s features is the elimination of the Sar Sepārī ritual
before the Ahl-e Ḥaqq.
42 For instance, on 17th June 2011, after the celebration of the day of birth of Imam ʿAlī in Khāneqāh
of Kermanshah, they travelled as a group to visit the shrine of Bābā Yādegār, the holy figure of
Ahl-e Ḥaqq.
43 According to several dervishes. He should express these statements in the presence of some
members of the Shāh Ebrāhīmī and Shāh Hayāsī families.
44 Interview with Mr. Kadīvar, the devotee of Khandān ʿAlīshāh in Shiraz, on 30th Dec. 2013.
46 Maktab-e Khāksār is also the title of a book which was written by Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh (Borūmand
1993).

The fact that the high-position people in the Khāksār group turned to the Ahl-e
Ḥaqq for this kind of initiation could indicate a historical connection between these
two religious communities. For this reason, both have most probably always been in
connection with one another. For example, we can assume that after this type of initi-
ation, a Khāksār dervish believes that there is no difference between the Ahl-e Ḥaqq
and the Khāksār. The text edited by W. Ivanow in his book is most likely taken from
a Khāksār who was familiar with and devoted to the Ahl-e Ḥaqq tradition.47
Apart from the initiation in the five stages of the mystic path by the Ahl-e Ḥaqq,
most of today’s Khāksār dervishes essentially see no special connection between their
own community and that of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq. However, some Ahl-e Ḥaqq recognise a
Khāksār dervish as a member of their own community, although they pray in the Mus-
lim way. They are convinced that over the course of time, the Khāksār have accepted
Islamic teachings and belong to the Muslim religion. 48 For their part, the Khāksār are
not pleased that the Ahl-e Ḥaqq see them as followers of their own religious tradition.
Younger members even consider this Ahl-e Ḥaqq initiation function to be a degrada-
tion and underestimation of their own order. Older members normally say that these
were instructions from the previous leader of the order and that it would be better to
follow them unquestioningly. It can therefore be noted that the Khāksār have a ten-
dency towards promoting themselves independently from the Ahl-e Ḥaqq. However,
it can be contested whether this is really the case.
A significant point which caught my attention in conversations with Khāksār and
Ahl-e Ḥaqq during my fieldwork is that the general knowledge of Khāksār about Ahl-
e Ḥaqq is far greater than vice versa. In towns where public knowledge about the Ahl-
e Ḥaqq is very limited, the Khāksār are usually the only people who can provide ex-
tensive information about them.
Summary
It can be said that over the previous century and specially during its last decades, the
Khāksār Order has accepted many changes and developments in a gradual process, as
well as occasional reforms. Most of these changes were unavoidable.
In adaptation to the modernisation of Iranian life in recent decades and as an ad-
justment to the social conditions, changes have been made in the traditions and rituals
of this order, which may even fundamentally contradict its belief principles, which
could not be expected.
Phenomena like the initiation of women which gradually find their place among
some of the Khāksār groups are not principally in accordance with the traditional
Khāksār belief system. The conditions in the modernising Iranian society (and the
sheer existence of this order with its relatively few followers within an orthodox Shiite
society) gives a certain direction to its transformations. Some Khāksār groups (which
have always and traditionally been in close social and religious relations with the Ahl-
47 Ivanow 1953, pp. 187–96.

48 According to a conversation with a master of the Ahl-e Ḥaqq in autumn 2008.

178 Shahrokh Raei
e Ḥaqq) have tried to restrict these contacts in the last few decades. Occasionally,
some of the Khāksār sheikhs, speaking about the issue of not referring to the Ahl-e-
Ḥaqq for the ritual of Sar Sepārī, claim that there is no need to turn and entrust the
head to people who do not recite prayers.
Apparently, the conflicts about the title of the leader of the order – which prevented
a sole authoritative and wise leadership in the last thirty years – has led to the decen-
tralisation and presence of different voices and to the application of several ideas to
the performance of religious traditions. This has affected the unity in the order in dif-
ferent ways (including the performance of rituals and traditions) to the extent that the
religious traditions have partially been transformed in some Khāksār groups.
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Folk Sufism

Female Folk Sufism in the Central Asian Space-Time
Continuum
Razia Sultanova
Cambridge
Introduction
Background
For some reasons – and this is still a rarely studied issue –, female forms of folk Sufism
in Central Asia are much wider and more diverse than those of men. It’s our scholarly
task to find explanations for that phenomenon.
Female involvement in the religions and cultures of Central Asia is evident in the
facts emerging from my study, which is based on nearly twenty years of fieldwork
and examination. Music is the thread which led to this discovery: singing voices heard
exclusively within closed female communities helped me recognise that, despite the
winds of political change and turbulent historical transformations, female life contin-
ues to follow the full compass of various religious practices and beliefs.
Being a female researcher was an additional advantage for me as this opened a
door to life “behind the walls”, behind bans and political restrictions – proving that
real life is richer than any scholarly theories and assumptions.
I am happy to share with my colleagues what I was privileged to witness: how the
sacred knowledge of a thousand years is transmitted orally from older to younger fe-
males, confirming the fact that the world belongs to woman.
In 1989, when I lived in Moscow and worked at the Union of Soviet Composers, I
was asked by a Russian publisher to write “something” about music and religion in
Uzbekistan. There, I travelled to the Ferghana Valley, the poorest and most religious
area at that time, where I felt rather puzzled. How could I research such a topic in our
ancient lands if the study of religion was forbidden and the amalgam of “music and
religion” officially inexistent? According to the Soviet account, all Soviet republics
were populated exclusively by “atheists”. Not only the relationship between music
and religion, but the very presence of such a phenomenon as a religion was under
question. I remembered myself that in the early 1980s, several of our relatives from
Andijan, which lies in the Ferghana Valley, were excluded from the Communist Party
just because they had buried a relative in accordance with Muslim tradition.

184 Razia Sultanova
After several weeks of fieldwork in and around Andijan, I discovered that in fact,
the area was deeply involved in religious musical activity performed by women, each
village having its own female representatives. It transpired that the whole Ferghana
Valley area harboured the most interesting, intensive, and varied forms of religious
rituals, none of which had previously had any opportunity of being mentioned in any
official papers, research projects, books, or articles. I felt just like Columbus discov-
ering America.
I must mention that after speaking to these women and having reassured them that
I was not going to give away their secrets, I was allowed to join their rituals, to make
recordings and conduct interviews. But there was a long way to go. I still had no idea
how I could approach the many hours of recordings in order to examine this heritage.
Numerous questions were to be answered.
How was it possible that this whole phenomenon had gone unnoticed, deliberately
or naturally, for a whole century, without being acknowledged by researchers, folk-
lorists, or the media? Could these rituals be categorised as a musical phenomenon,
since their status was not that of a musical performance but an integral part of daily
life? How could such performances be recognised within the long-standing tradition
of “liturgical music” (a term accepted in Islamic music study) if they were interwoven
with the routines of everyday life as forms of religious service? Should they count as
a “musical phenomenon” at all, consisting as they do of vocal recitation without any
instruments? Should they simply be classified as recitals of poetry?
I asked myself some practical questions, too: how could I in the late 1980s conduct
research into this rich, unknown material and speak up about the amazing, all-female
rituals of a religious nature when female members of local communities were still
involved in them? What should be the focus in studying these rituals? What was the
right angle from which to scrutinise them? Should I look at this phenomenon as an
insider, as a person for whom the Ferghana Valley was a native place, or as an outsider
for whom the rituals were just another example of live music performed in local com-
munities with limited access by outsiders? Eventually, after having browsed through
other research and having found many interesting sources to help me approach these
recordings, I was convinced that what I had found there and then in Uzbekistan was a
unique genre of religious rituals based on poetry and music or, more precisely, Sufi
poetry and music, which had undergone a development deeply underground. For cen-
turies, scholars and historians had studied those questions by focusing only on male
involvement and leaving behind its overshadowed female face. Therefore, this article
is a long journey to Central Asian culture, religions, and music-making traditions per-
formed in female communities. Pre-Islamic religious practices and mainly Shamanism
as well as Islamic Sufism are the main stops on that journey, and women are its main
heroines.
Central Asia and Sufism

In Central Asia, a number of major Sufi orders emerged between the 12 th and 17th
centuries. The earliest one of these, Yassaviyya, was founded in the region now known

Female Folk Sufism in the Central Asian Space-Time Continuum 185
as Turkestan and played a major role in spreading Islam among the nomadic Turkic
tribes of Central Asia. Possibly derived from Yassaviyya is the Bektashiyya order
which spread around Turkey. According to tradition, Hajj Bektash, the founder of
Bektashiyya, originally belonged to the Yassaviyya order. Another Central Asian or-
der is Chishtiyya. The origins of this order are uncertain, although the founder is gen-
erally believed to be Muʿin al-Din Chishti (c. 1142–1236), a native of Sijistan. The
order gradually spread into India where it remains until today as the largest and most
important Sufi order. Mawlawiyya traces its origins to the famous Turkish mystic and
poet al-Rumi (1207–1273). The order’s name comes from the Arabic word
“Mawlānā” (our master), a title given to al-Rumi by the order. Mawlānā was born in
Balkh (nowadays northern Afghanistan) and later moved to the Turkish town of
Konya, the home of the famous “whirling dervishes”. Kubrawiyya was founded by
Najm ad-din Kubra (1145–1221), a famous Sufi from Khorezm (nowadays Uzbeki-
stan) and a pupil of Abu Najib Suhrawardi. Qādiriyya is also rooted in Central Asia,
being founded by Abd al-Qadir Gilani (Djilani, 1077–1166). Nowadays, the
Naqshbandis is possibly the most famous and widespread Sufi order. Founded by
Baha ad-din Naqshband (d. 1389), based on the theory and practice of Yassaviyya as
well as the previous mystic school of Khajagon in a village near Bukhara in modern-
day Uzbekistan, the order gradually spread eastwards into India and westwards into
Turkey1 (Figure 1).
Women in Islam and Sufism

From the earliest days, women have played an important role in the development of
Islam and Sufism. Above, I have already mentioned one of them, who is considered
to be one of the founders of Sufism – Rabiʿah al-Adaviyah. She was born between 95
and 99 Hijai (713–718) in Basra, Iraq. Much of her early life has been recorded by
Khawaja Farid ad-din Attar. She is reported to have been born free as the fourth daugh-
ter into a poor but respected family and was therefore named Rabiʿah (Arabic for
“fourth”). When famine struck, she was kidnapped and sold as a slave. However, when
she grew up, her master discovered her piety and set her free out of fear of God. She
was the one to first to set out the doctrine of mystical love and is widely considered to
be the most important early Sufi poet.
A discussion of female Sufism would not be complete without citing Professor Anne-
marie Schimmel, an expert in Muslim culture. In Mystical Dimensions of Islam, she
notes that “Sufism, more than stern orthodoxy, offered women a certain amount of
possibilities to participate actively in the religious and social life... A number of Sufi
orders had women attached to them as lay members.” 2
1 Sultanova, Razia, From Shamanism to Sufism, IBTauris, London – New York, 2011, p. 32.
2 Schimmel, Annemarie. Mystical dimensions of Islam, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press. 1975, p. 42.

186 Razia Sultanova
In many ancient Central Asian cemeteries and tomb complexes, historical evi-
dence can be found of women participating and having a great influence in the devel-
opment of Sufism. For instance, in the Sverdlov district of Bukhara is the grave of
Mastura Khanim, or Agha-yi Buzurg. She was a famous Murshid or pupil of the
Naqshbandī order who died on 30th July 1523. She had acquired this status from
Shaykh Shād-i Giyati and his wife. She had been brought up in the spirit of a Murshid
by her grandfather and father. Among her disciples were both men and women. 3 An-
other leading female Sufi was Bibi Khadicha, a well-known head of the Kubrawiyya
who lived near Khiva in the 14th century. Her grave is situated in the Agahi village in
the Khiva district. She had dealings only with women, whom she recruited into her
order as teenagers and with whom she shared her secrets. Another female Sufi, Bibi
Zumrat, was known in the surroundings of Bukhara. Nowadays, the old local women
come to her tomb to pay tribute and say their nightly prayers. It is also well-known,
for instance, that the Yassaviyya Sufi order involved women participating in Zikr. 4
Uzbek Otin-Oy
The etymology of the word “Otin-Oy” is unclear. The term may have originated from
the Chagatay word “Hotin” (khātin), meaning “schoolteacher”, but a more descriptive
explanation would be desirable, as the Chagatay and Uzbek languages are almost iden-
tical. However, in Uzbek, “Hotin” means only “woman” or “wife”. Hence, one can
assume that this term represents an amalgamation of two different words, for example,
“Ohun(c) Hotin” or “Ota-Ona-Hotin”. Here, “Ohun” means “the educated”, whereas
“Ota” means “father” or, at the same time, “holy person”. The second part of the term
(“Hotin”) stands for “woman” or “wife”. So, presumably, Otin-Oy could signify the
particular woman who is the spiritual leader of a community, sometimes spelled
“Otin-buwy” (Otin = “granny” in Uzbek) or “Otincha” (a pet name). In modern trans-
lation, this means “religiously educated woman”, a kind of female Mullah. Normally,
they are descendants of mullā and qārī, people who were trained in religious schools
and have studied the Qurʾān in a thorough manner. These women are held in great
esteem in times of both trouble and peace. On weekdays or holidays, the Otin-Oys are
welcomed in each family and in every house. They give help, support, or advice to
anyone who needs it. They perform ancient rituals in a musical and poetic form which
“comment” on the occasion that is to take place. Generally, Otin-Oys are invited at
each important stage in life (birth, marriage, and death) or at numerous dates cele-
brated in the Muslim calendar. They sanctify each event by performing spiritual songs
and incantations.
3 Babajanov, Bakhtiyor. “O zenskikh sufiskikh centrakh-mazarakh v Srednej Azii XVI-XVIIvv”.

Srednyaia Azia i mirovaja civilizacija. Tashkent: 1992: pp. 17–18.
4 Djumaev, Aleksander. “Turkestanskij Starec Hodzha Akhmad Yassavi i musul-manskye du-
khovnye pesnopenia”. Musykalnaja Akademija 3–4 (1996), Moskva, p. 58.

Who, then, are the Otin-Oys in Uzbekistan? Very often, they are secularly unedu-
cated women. Nevertheless, from the point of view of social life, they are the uphold-
ers of spiritual and religious knowledge which is accessible only to chosen people, the
descendants of a spiritual social stratum. Though suppressed by the Communists, they
survived underground for almost 70 years and continued to be held in great esteem by
the local population.5
Where do they come from? As mentioned above, female activity in Central Asia
and, particularly, Uzbekistan was rigidly separated from that of the males. However,
there is historical evidence of women participating in the development of Sufism in
these lands. Many female Sufis are named in written sources of the Middle Ages. For
instance, some were mentioned by Abd al-Rahman Djami (15th century) in his book
of biographies of famous Sufis.6
As a rule, nowadays Otin-Oys are middle-aged or older women of unstained rep-
utation who are valiant mothers and wives. (Figure 2). In country life, Otin-Oys are
without exception participants in all major events and happenings in family life as
well as village life as a whole. However, their activity is strongly restricted to the
women’s sphere. As a rule, they are invited only into Ichkari – the women’s half of
the house.
In other respects, the appearance and lifestyle of Otin-Oy resembles that of every-
one else. (Figure 3).
It is not easy to identify an Otin-Oy in a crowd. The only distinguishing feature is
the traditional piece of clothing called Oq Rumol, a large white head scarf worn during
ritual performance. Obviously, the question arises: is any Uzbek girl or young woman
able to become an Otin-Oy, and what are the requirements? And how do they earn the
right to become an Otin-Oy?
In order to become an Otin-Oy, one must fulfil the following requirements:
– to have been born into the religious family of a Mullah or to have experienced
a difficult destiny, for example, having been widowed early in life or having
a handicapped child;
– to possess the required religious knowledge, such as of the Qurʾān, and to be
religiously observant – abiding by all Muslim holidays and following laws
and prohibitions dictated by Islam;
– to have musical and performing/acting talents such as a good ability to ex-
press emotions, a good voice, and a good ear for music, including good com-
munication skills and cheerfulness, which are also important qualities;
– to possess poetic skills – sometimes this allows for creative work, such as
composing poems for particular occasions;
5 There are special studies devoted to Otin-Oys by French anthropologist Habiba Fathi. See: Ha-
biba, Fathi. Otines: the unknown women clerics of Central Asian Islam. – Central Asian Survey,
1997, 16(1), pp. 27–43.
6 Abdurahmoni, Jomi. Osor. Dar hasht jild. Jildi hashtum. Nafahat al-Uns. Dushanbe, 1990, pp.
129–32.

188 Razia Sultanova
– to have a pleasant appearance or good looks and a woman’s natural charm –

often Otin-Oys are physically strong and in good natural health;
– to have received a specified level of training from an older Otin-Oy. This is
considered to be the main requirement, which must be fulfilled in order to
gain the right to become an independent Otin-Oy. Here, we can see the traces
of the Sufi concept of silsila or spiritual chain.
A further stage in mastering the requirements of the Otin-Oy involves learning in the
“school of life”, from one’s own marriage and motherhood, which is highly necessary
to gain the prestige and status of a respected woman in Uzbek society.
Lastly, the final stage in obtaining the status of an Otin-Oy is actually the start of
this new independence – “going out into the world”, the beginning of practice. Often,
this happens after the Otin-Oy’s own children have grown up, thus releasing her from
her parental duties and allowing some free time for her activities. At this point, she
has, at last, the opportunity to put knowledge into practice and to improve her skills
on a regular basis. As a rule, at this stage, the newcomer Otin-Oy receives a blessing,
Fatiḥa, from her spiritual teacher.
Today, along with other changing circumstances in Uzbekistan, the status of the
Otin-Oy has become somewhat fashionable. Many young women and girls in various
parts of the country have gained the right to receive religious education and become
an Otin-Oy. However, they need to gain experience in the tough school of life, which
certainly takes time.
Otin-Oys, being the organisers and conductors of ritual ceremonies, are represent-
ted by members of the most aristocratic social circles in the perception of the villagers,
namely individuals held in high esteem by the rest, holders of important posts and
significant roles in the community. Their leadership and orchestration of the process
thus projects the hierarchical composition of the ritual’s content onto the mass of par-
ticipants in these gatherings, thus mirroring the structure of the ritual.
The participants are divided into active members – with the Otin-Oy at the centre
of attention (if more than one are present, the oldest and most respected one occupies
the central place) – and passive observers – with the size of the audience depending
on the time and nature of the event (Figure 4).
How do they perform these rites? They sit down on the floor around the
Dastarkhan (a tablecloth on the floor filled with traditional food and drinks). At first
glance, they appear to sit around randomly, but in fact, they sit according to a strictly
observed order: the eldest woman sits opposite the door, in the centre of the circle. 7
The women seated nearest to her are of similar age. After them come the younger
women, with the last one – usually a young girl – sitting near the door. She brings the
tea and some food during the gathering. Naturally, that last place is the lowliest one.
One can see that this order illustrates the entire hierarchy of Uzbek women’s society.
7 Sultanova, Razia, 2011, p. 129.

The same order applies to singing. The right to start singing belongs to the most-re-
spected woman, the main Otin-Oy. She starts, and the others follow (Figure 5).
The question which now arises is: which occasions do Otin-Oys mark with their
chanting? In fact, every stage in life is supposed to be signified by the Otin-Oy’s per-
formance, from the birth of a child, the beginning or the end of every stage of child-
rearing (teeth or hair growing/cutting, the first time sitting/walking, the beginning of
nursery or school attendance); the initiation ritual for boys (Sunnat-Toy); meeting
classmates after graduation; applying for, obtaining, or leaving a job; betrothal, wed-
ding, divorce; hospitalisation/discharge from hospital; death and mourning rituals;
days of remembrance or commemoration. So, one can see that the Otin-Oy is present
at nearly every single situation in life.8
The role of the Otin-Oy in a female community consists of:
– A priestly function when she performs all religious activities among women.
However, in Central Asia, in the absence of female mosques or opportunities
for women to join communal prayers, the Otin-Oy’s responsibilities are not
a complete substitute for the ones of the imam in male congregations.
– Being a master of ceremonies, whatever their nature (religious, rites of pas-
sage, calendar).
– Being a teacher and role-model for young generations.
– Being the social authority, the leader of the female community.
In contemporary village life, one can compare Otin-Oys with psychoanalysts. If some-
one is in trouble, they are responsible for problem-solving, “negotiating” with the Al-
mighty, trying to support and comfort their people. At the same time, Otin-Oys are
remarkable public figures heading the social hierarchy, i.e. representing the upper
level of society.
The figure of the Otin-oy comes from the past. For example, female rituals of the
Qādiriyya Sufi order had a firm place in Tashkent at the beginning of the 20 th century.
According to A.L. Troitskaya, Īshān-bu (the wife of the local Īshān who is a descend-
ant of the Prophet), together with her best female religious assistants, Halfa and Otin,
wore the traditional white scarves and performed the Jahryia (“open”) version of
Qādiriyya Zikr. Each Zikr had a certain structure, starting with Qurʾān Sura number
1: Salavat for the Ghavsuli Agzam. The proper Zikr was based on the Chor Zarb,
which is “La ilaha il Allāh”. The women danced in a circle, which preceded the third
part of the Zikr with the Sura. The poetry of the Sufi poets Mashrab and Ahmad
Yassavy would usually be recited.9
Troitskaya mentions that Īshān-bu, who was heading the Zikr, was of Naqshbandi
Sufi origin although she performed the Zikr of the Qādiriyya Sufi order. According to
Troitskaya, Halfa and Otin were highly privileged religious women who served the
Zikr by helping Īshān-bu. Among other forms of Zikr performed in that community,
8 Ibid., p. 232.
9 Troitskaya, A.L. Zhenskyi zikr v Starom Tashkente, 1928, p. 174.

190 Razia Sultanova
Troitskaya mentions Ashir-Oy, the celebration after the death of Hasan and Husayn,
which has a special Zikr. The Zikr also marked a celebration of Muhammad’s birth-
day, Mawlūd, usually performed four months after the Ashir-Oy. But Zikr could also
be performed just for its own sake, as the author concludes. 10
An article by the same Troitskaya provides a very interesting piece of evidence
about the existence of Otin-Oys in Tashkent at the beginning of the 20th century. The
description of the rite defines the most significant characteristics of this kind of wo-
men as well as of the kind of rituals they performed. For example, Troitskaya inter-
prets the role of Otin-Oys as directing the Zikr with regard to the organisation of the
interrelation between the dance rhythm and the rhythm of general cries and weeping.
However, nowadays, this interrelation no longer exists in Otin-Oy activities. To-
day’s Otin-Oys are content with singing and recital.
As mentioned above, according to Troitskaya, each Otin-Oy had her very own
style. Each performed in a different way. However, my own investigation reveals that
a rather distinct similarity in the musical intonation of songs and tunes typical of var-
ious Otin-Oys can be distinguished within each region. For example, in the settlement
of Gushtyemas in the south of the Andijan district as well as in Butakora and Dudur
in the north of the Andijan region, the same songs based on texts by Mashrab and
Uvaysiy are performed in a very similar manner. And lastly, as Troitskaya also points
out, Otin-Oys covered their mouths with their hands and even with the holy books of
Qurʾān in trying to decrease the resonance of their voices, relating it to the fact of
general whirling in dance.
Comparing the Uzbek Muslim sermons by men and women
Male prayers
Let’s take a look at the length and structure of regular sermons performed by Uzbek
men in mosques and by women at home. Such a comparison could shed the light on
sound features of Uzbek religious rituals performed by male and female communities,
respectively.
It is well-known that at the time of establishing Islam, women and men prayed
together in any area of the Muslim world. However, in Central Asia, with its conse-
quent development of Muslim history, many restrictions had a place. Uzbek Islam
belongs to Hanafi Maẕhab (Maẕhab – a school of thought within the Islamic Fiqh
jurisprudence). According to the Uzbek Hanafi Maẕhab, women do not attend
mosques with men but pray at home.
If we compare the length and order of institutional Islamic sermons – as established
for centuries – with female rituals, there are some similarities and some differences.
As a rule, female prayer gatherings – which they call themselves “O’qish” (reading)
– have wider range of prayer genres and narrations than men’s sermons.
10 Troitskaya, A.L. Lechenie bol’nyh izgnaniem duhov (kuchuruk) sredi osedlogo naselenia Tur-
kestana // Byulleten’ SAGU, 1925, no. 10, pp. 145–155.

In Uzbekistan, for example, the longest male sermon at the Juma Namāz (Friday
prayer) mosque consists of consecutive parts lasting from 30 minutes to one hour
overall:
– Muezzin: a section comprised of Aẕān singing whereby everybody sits in
rows. Aẕān lasts for anything from 30 seconds to two to three minutes.
– Each man prays the Sunnat prayer in silence: this is not obligatory, and the
length of the prayer depends on the Sura that is read, which can be anything
from two to ten minutes; the Sunnat should consist of four Rakaats.
– Everyone prays for themselves with the Suras from the Qurʾān: first the Fa-
tiḥa and then any other Suras. As a rule, at least three Ayats of the particular
Sura need to be read, which (as mentioned above) may last from two to ten
minutes. If you read your prayer at home, it may last much longer – e.g. for
the length of the whole Sura.
– The imam reads a Vaʿẓ (the sermon) which provides explanations of either
the Ayat or the Hadiths. For every time of the year, the Vaʿẓ theme is sup-
posed to be a different choice, connecting times and places and containing a
didactic meaning according to the current world situation, the latest news,
government announcements, etc. – then calling to follow those rules (10–15
minutes); the Vaʿẓ starts with Ḥamd – glorifying Allāh and then Naʿt – and
praising the Prophet Muhammad and his companions, followed by the di-
dactic part with comments on a certain Ayat or Hadith. After that, the Imam
prays, asking Allāh to make sure everything he said was right or whether he,
the imam, went on the right path; he shortly finishes his Vaʿẓ with a Duʿā (all
in all from ten to thirty minutes, depending on the size of the mosque and the
congregation).
– The Muezzin finally reads either an Iqāma or a short version of an Aẕān,
followed by the imam’s performance of the Jamāʿa prayer which consists of
two Rakaats in a loud voice. After that, everyone is free to read another four
rakaats of a Sunnat prayer.
However, twice a year, at the time of big celebrations such as Eid al-Fitr or Eid al-
Adha, the prayers Namāz or Ṣalāt precede the Vaʿẓ sermon. In both of those cases,
the Vaʿẓ begins with a Ḥamd (glorifying Allāh) and a Naʿt (glorifying the Prophet and
the Khalīfs), followed by the Hadith or Ayats.
Female praying sessions

In my experience, female rituals are more varied than those of their male counterparts.
Perhaps one reason is that the purpose of female rituals often goes far beyond the
religious practices by combining numerous local features. For example, at the time of
Navruz (the pre-Islamic New Year), only women are supposed to sing songs during
the process of cooking the sacred meal Sumalyak. In a certain sense, while performing
rituals, women encourage the younger generation to participate in singing, clapping,
and performance, thus religiously and culturally socialising the children. This way,

192 Razia Sultanova
the women provide the adolescent generation with the knowledge about local history
and mythology. Therefore, such a ritualistic religious performance is an act of art for
these women which demonstrates that their faith and belief are not related to any fun-
damentalist or ideological force, but have a function that they perceive as healing,
engaging them in what they believe to be a peace-keeping process.
While in the past, women’s rituals mainly focused on specific forms of local Mus-
lim structures, in today’s hardships significant changes in the forms and content of
those rituals can be observed. For example, in current-day women’s meetings, all sorts
of shamanism features are a common means of spiritual support, with some forms of
popular magic, such as fortune-telling, divination, and superstition becoming increas-
ingly favourable.
So far, in the border regions of Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, female rituals are
performed in the open air or in the immediate vicinity of the sacred tombs of their
ancestors. In such places, the faithful pilgrims tie strips of colourful material to the
branches of trees and shrubs, which (according to the legends and stories) as talismans
help achieve the desired change in one’s destiny. This type of shamanic phenomenon
attests to the fact that in everyday life, Islam and Shamanism – or, in other words,
religion and magic – are closely intertwined.
The structure of female praying rituals

On the whole, each individual ritual represents a compound construction in which
obligatory pieces are alternated with derived variations. The common feature of all
rituals performed by Otin-Oys is defined by a number of independent pieces strung
like beads onto the thread of a particular subject relevant to the occasion. The similar-
ity of content is maintained within the framework of the same cosmological idea of
progression, with characters inhabiting the Heavens to the people on Earth (from Allāh
and the Prophet to Sufis, and further on to heroes and accounts of exceptional human
destinies) and then ascending back to the God.11 In essence, this performance structure
projects all the complexity of the universe in a compressed form, focusing on its rele-
vance to the persons concerned by involving them in this circle from God to Man and
back to God, thus reflecting the hierarchy of values in Muslim culture.
Each individual composite piece is framed with “Bismillahir-Rahmanir-Rahim”,
thus emphasising the link between the poetic and the musical aspects from the begin-
ning. This link encourages the transference of observers or participants from the real-
ity of life’s daily chores to the dimension of the spiritual world.
All kinds of eulogy are performed according to a predetermined order, thus fol-
lowing the established hierarchical structure. The opening reference to Allāh gradually
proceeds to praising the Prophet, then moving on to the sacred spirits, and so on. Fi-
nally, the subject of the event is addressed. The link between the subject, whatever it
may be, and the main story line is established with an allegory or simply by acknowl-
edging the reason of the event via direct statements, such as “Yes, let the newly-wed

couple be happy! May their life be prosperous!” in the case of a wedding, or in the
event of death: “Allāh is great! There must be a reason He takes away the best people,
close people.”
The use of standardised verbal expressions in these rituals is very common. The
more skilled the Otin-Oy, the greater is the ease with which she manipulates her rep-
ertoire and the more natural is the transition between the past and the present event.
Whatever the subject of the assembly – whether it is a religious holiday or a secular
event –, the religious part of the ritual often reaches sizeable proportions and involves
considerable complexity.
Essentially, religious fragments are followed by examples of high poetic skills and
a refined classical culture, rich in terms of philosophical heritage, followed by tales
taken from the lives of the famous, and then succeeded by educational stories from
everyday life. Mythical text is very often used in the course of these rituals. For a
religion, there is a superabundance of material (hymns, prayers, myths, prescriptions
for rituals), and virtually every kind of text has its religious elements, such as blessings
invoked on the recipients of letters. For love, the quantity is much lower, and much of
the literary material is in fact concerned with religion: religious love poetry.
The length of the ritual is determined by the significance of the event taking place,
the time of the day and the number of guests involved. The above factors can be ac-
commodated by the flexible nature of the ritual. However, the shortest variant of a
performance lasts approximately one hour, while the longest rituals I have observed
have continued for about twelve hours.12
Rituals led by Otin-Oys
Rituals performed for religious events

Religious events are common for the whole Muslim world, though some of them have
specific local importance. For example, in Uzbekistan they include:
– Mavlyudi Sharif (Holy Birth). The birthday of the Prophet Muhammad which
is celebrated with constant prayer and religious singing.
– Ramadan (or Uraza). This is the sacred month in Muslim history, derived
from when the Qurʾān was revealed. This is a month of fasting in Muslim
tradition. During this holiday, Otin-Oys are very welcome in every family
because they bless these families during the holy month. They pay particular
attention to the oldest members of their neighbourhood, the sick, the disabled,
orphans, and the less fortunate. Sometimes they set up Zikr rituals to cele-
brate this sacred month.
– Laylat al-Qadr (the Night of Destiny). The 27th night of Holy Ramadan when
the Qurʾān was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad.

194 Razia Sultanova
– Eid-ul Ramadan (Ramazon hayit). End of Ramadan celebrations when Mus-

lims go to the mosque for the final prayers of Ramadan and visit their rela-
tives, the sick, and people in need.
– Qurban-Hayit. The celebration of the Festival of Sacrifice devoted to the
story of Abraham who was asked by God to sacrifice his son but was then
given a ram by Allāh to sacrifice a lamb instead. In this celebration at the end
of the Hajj, people slaughter lambs as an offering while praying and singing
religious songs.
– Ashir-Oy (Commemoration of the Imams’ death). Imams are the descendants
of the Prophet Muhammad and Ali, his son-in-law. The sons of Ali, the
imams Hasan and Husayn, were killed in a fight between different factions.
Their death is considered to be a holy death and is commemorated especially
by Shia Muslims.
– Miʿrāj. A holy day devoted to the ascension of the Prophet Muhammad to
God’s presence.
– Hudoyi. This event normally takes place to mark three, seven, and forty days,
six months and one year of mourning. In modern Uzbekistan, it is also the
most common event for expressing any kind of gratitude to God. It takes
place on a range of very different occasions indeed: a recovery after a long
illness; a happy return from a long journey; the return of a son from military
service; a child’s enrolment at university; and so on. There are many such
happenings both in rural and in urban areas. It is performed within female
gatherings where the Otin-Oy conducts the event with prayers and recitations
of the ancient poetry of Ahmad Yassavi, Mashrab, Alisher Navoiy, Nodira,
Uvaysiy, or others in order to mark the occasion as sacred and to thank God.
– Mushkul Kushod (sorting out complications). This female ritual can be per-
formed at any time whenever a problem or a complication arises in some-
one’s life. It could be related to religious or daily life, but generally, the ritual
itself is performed in an Islamic way, which resolves the problem with the
grace of Allāh.13
Thus, it can be seen that the system of rituals represents not a casual range of perfor-
mances, but a harmonic space of songs and sounds, targeting every Muslim in the
community and underpinning any important event in life.
So in keeping the tradition through the long years of different cataclysmic events,
Uzbek society upheld for itself the right to its own sounds and songs rooted in the past.
They are still widely performed within the villages and various districts. Today, one
can “book” a professional Otin-Oy for any family occasion even in Tashkent.

Poetry in female rituals

The Otin-Oy’s range of ritual performances is very broad. It comprises different po-
etry genres, but all of them commence with the same introduction “Bismilla-Ir-rah-
manim-rahim...” and end with the formula “Allāhu akbar”. This prayer-like frame is
obligatory for any compulsory part of a ritual. According to my extensive field obser-
vations, many ritual sessions begin with “Fatiḥa”, which is the opening sura from the
Qurʾān.
Afterwards, they swiftly move to different stories from Islamic history and then to
Sufi or mystic poetry. In general, the order of these chants goes from slow to more
vivid and dynamic sections, ending with a short concluding chant. I would suggest
that all rituals are classified under different groups according to their poetic contents
and forms in the following way:
– Classic poetic forms: Ghazals, Murabba, Muhammas, as well as all the com-
plex Sufi poetry by Ahmad Yassaviy, Mashrab, Uvaysiy (1779–1845),
Nodira (1792–1842), and other poets. These forms sometimes include ex-
tracts from famous Ghazals by other poets like Hazini or Sufi Allāhyor.
– Elegies: “Arwah-noma”, “Musa-noma”, “Qiyomat-noma”, “Hikmats”, or
wisdom by Ahmad Yassaviy.
– Epic parables: a kind of rhythmic prose describing holy people or events,
such as “Ser malyak”, “There lived a man in Bagdad ”, “Dediyo” – including
“Hazrat Imam” (a didactic story about the death of Imam Husayn).
– Original songs created by the most remarkable Otin-Oys themselves.14
However, the main classification of rituals I would suggest is based on the order of
different Islamic chants and hymns. In fact, there are no fixed patterns for ritual de-
velopment, but a free style is used. This depends on the area of performance (in the
Ferghana Valley, rituals are mostly based on local Sufi poems), the Otin-Oy’s prefer-
ence (the older the Otin-Oy, the wider the collection of Ghazals performed), or the
reason for the ritual performance (for mourning, for example, the rituals are longer
than for weddings, and more genres are involved).
However, in my observation, rituals can be categorised as follows:
– Songs or recitals of glorification, an elaborate system of praise which in-
cludes all kinds of important characters in Muslim history at different levels
and render their due to each holy person. They can be subdivided into sepa-
rate subjects of praise or glorification:
- Ḥamd, praising Allāh, which is the most important type of glorification.
For example, below is a very popular one:
Table 1. “Qul hu Allāh subhan Allāh wird aylasam”:
Bismillohi rahmoni rahim! Qul hu Alloh, subhon Alloh, vird aylasam, a hu!
14 Sultanova. Razia, 2011, p. 150.

196 Razia Sultanova
Biri borim diydoringni ko ‘rarmanmu?

Ellik yoshda cho ‘llar kezib giyoh o ‘rdim,
Tonglar chiqib toat qilib ko ‘zim o ‘ydim,
Diydoringni ko ‘rarman deb, jondin to ‘ydim,
Boshdin ayoq hasratingda vird aylasam,
Ellik ikki yoshda kechdim xonumondin,
Tark ayladim xonumon ne, balki jondin,
Ellik uchda vaqt topmayin ro ‘za qildim,
Gumroh edim, yo ‘ldin ozdim, yo ‘lga solding,
Alloh dedim, labbay debon qo ‘lim olding,
If I acknowledge in meditation, saying “God is unique, God is holy”,

Will I ever see your face, oh, Almighty?
At fifty years of age, I roamed the steppes, collecting grasses,
Praying at sunrise, tearing my eyes out,
Wishing to see your beauty,
I felt satiated with life,
If I am struck with suffering from head to toe in my wish to see you,
At fifty-two, having disowned myself,
Having let go of all my wealth,
And even leaving my life behind,
At fifty-three, I have devoted myself to the fast,
Despite the time I was lost, He showed me the right way.
I said “Allāh!”, He replied “I am here!” and took me by the hand,
Will I ever see your face, oh, Almighty?15
Another widespread Ḥamd is called “Antalho”. It is known by its ubiquitous first line
“La ilaha il Allāh” (There is no other God but Allāh!), which has become a popular
ritual in the whole Islamic world.

Table 2. Antalho:
Bismillahi-r-rahmoni-r-rahim!
Antalho dey antalhaqq,
laysAllāhu illahu,
Asli rabbim Jallolloh,
mohi qalbim xayrulloh,
Nuri Muhammad salllaloh,
La ilaha il Allāh (6times)
Har kim maysa o’rguncha,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Go’ri bo’lar dunyocha,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Ochar bihishtdin darcha,
La ilaha il Allāh,
O’lib o’g’lon kelodir,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Doim xizmat qilodir,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Go’ri bo’lar qon asta,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Yotar qushdek qafasda,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Mehnat qilar payvasta,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Tahlil degan ushbu nom,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Tinmay ayting subhu shom,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Hamroh bo’lgay imoning,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Qorong’u go’r charog’ing,
La ilaha il Allāh,
Imon islom a’losi,
La ilaha il Allāh...
I celebrate you, God

I celebrate you, Almighty,
There is no God but the Deity.
Indeed, You are my Lord.
My Lord who created the universe.
I sacrifice my heart to you, God.
Resplendent Muhammad is the messenger of God.
There is no God but Allāh.

198 Razia Sultanova

While everyone is cutting grass,
His grave will be the whole world,
He will open the window of paradise,
A dead son is coming,
He will constantly serve God,
His grave will slowly be filled with blood,
He will lie like a bird in a cage,
Suffering will come and bind him,
This is cleansing,
You talk continuously from morning to night,
Your faith will be your companion,
In the dark grave, there will be light,
There is no God but Allāh!16
– A “Naʿt” praises the Prophet Muhammad as well as other Prophets such as

Musa, Adam, Ibrahim. For example: “Bugun Naʿtingni aytar man” (Today, I
shall glorify you, oh, our Prophet...”) etc.
– The “Madh” praises the followers and companions of Muhammad (Halifas
Abu-Bekr, Umar, Usman, Ali); Husayn, the grandson of Muhammad, who
was tragically killed (Dediyor, Ashur oy kissalari, Ser Malak); the founders
of the Maẕhabs or commandments of Islam famous in Central Asia, for ex-
ample, the repentance Ghavsul Aghzam Hanafi (see “Ghavsul Aghzam Ha-
nafi” below).

Table 3. Taubba tazarru (repentance):

Sharmandalya rasvolighim haddin oshdi
Ghavsul Aghzam podshohim madad qiling.
Osyi jonu gunohkorman ilohimga,
Ghavsul Aghzam podshohim, madad qiling.
Jaborrimga hech kim mandek sharmandamas,
odam hulki manga u’hshab yomon emas.
Tauba qilsam, gunohlarim tamom bu’lmas,
Ghavsul Aghzam, gunohlarim tamom bu’lmas,
Ghavsul Aghzam podshohim, madad qiling…
My disgrace is limitless,
Ghavsul-Aghzam, my sovereign, my king, help me.
I am very guilty, God,
There is no one who disgraced himself as much before God as I,
There is no one in the world as bad as I,
Even if I confess, my sins do not disappear,
No one has come to this world as faulty as I,
No one born by his mother is as wrong as I,
There is no one as bad amongst the insignificant as I am,
Ghavsuly-Aghzam, my sovereign, help me... 17
The leaders of the well-known Sufi ṭarīqats (orders) in Central Asia, people like Ah-
mad Yassavi, Naqshbandi, and so on (see Hojam Bahovaddindur); religious Sufi poets
popular in that area, such as Mashrab (1657–1711), Sufi Allāhyar (17th century), and
other poet mystics who wrote in Turkic (Chagatai) or Persian languages.
Some of these chants could be seen as songs or recitals of repentance and sorrow:
“Tawba tazarru” (song of repentance), “Arwah-noma” (pacification of the spirit),
“Qiyomat-noma” (description of the Day of Judgement), “Musa-noma” (adventures
of the Prophet Moses), and so on.
All these types of chanting and praises at such gatherings and singings fall under
the general term “O’qish” and are ultimately dedicated to Allāh.
17 Ibid., p. 151.

200 Razia Sultanova
Table 4. Arvahnoma – Song of the Dead:

Och yuzim, g’assol, bu dam yorug’ jahonni bir ko’ray,
Bu jahonda yaxshilik qilg’onlarimni bir ko’ray,
Necha yil, necha zamon bu dunyoda sayr ayladim,
Ro’zgor aylab o’zimni necha yor-yor ayladim,
Oqibat yotgan yerim shu bo’ldi nochor ayladim,
Och yuzim, g’assol, bu dam yorug’ jahonni bir ko’ray.
Open my face, washing person,

Let me see the world for a moment,
Let me see my good deeds in this world,
I was walking around for years and years,
Busy with daily life,
But my final destination is here, I’m helpless,
Open my face, washing person,
Let me see the world for a moment.18
Conclusion: Space and time in female rituals

Once, while observing mourning rituals of women in Bukhara, I was struck to see that
the relatives and neighbours of the deceased person came to the final farewell
prayer wearing a scarf or head-cover featuring a photo. That picture showed another
recently passed-away member of the family or a friend from the same village to whom
they attempted to send a visual message, a kind of “Hello!”. It is believed in Bukhara
that those who have recently passed away will be able to pass the message from the
village on to the universe where all the deceased people meet.
Such an assumption – made by the people of Bukhara in order to get in touch with
the supernatural world, where all who have passed away closely communicate, with
people using images as tools for contact between the real and the supernatural worlds
– is a peculiar phenomenon. It provides us with an insight into how community mem-
bers believe that they pass “messages” from their daily life into the time and space
continuum of non-existence.
While examining the features of female mourning rituals in Uzbekistan, one
can notice that they normally take place in the house of the deceased person and not
at a cemetery, as the house of the deceased person is believed to be the most apt place
of spiritual transmission.
So space has a liminal meaning in these Uzbek examples, i.e. it is outside the cat-
egory of existence. Due to the fact of death, the house becomes the point of transmis-
sion where prayers, laments, hymns, and blessings flow from our reality to the super-
natural world.
Similar features can be observed in the concept of time.
18 Ibid., p. 160.

A praying Muslim would normally come out of his prayer with the greeting words
“Assalom aleikum” (a form of “Hello!”), addressing everyone around.
This can be understood as the praying person having been absent or having gone
somewhere else for the time of the prayer. So the time aspect of Muslim prayer also
involves being outside of one’s ordinary existence and crossing a threshold that com-
bines the present and the transitional sense, therefore turning it into a liminal phenom-
enon.
The same happens during the time of female ritual performances. At the start of
such rituals, female participants get into a transitional state where they are no longer
considered to have the same rank as before. Their position grows in significance dur-
ing the time of these transformative rituals, with different statuses being ascribed to
them at the end of the performance. This could be one of the reasons for the popularity
of female rituals in Central Asian societies, where these rituals have become a method
of empowerment and gain respect for women within local communities, since the
healing powers attributed to these rituals allow for a separate sphere of social partici-
pation exclusively for women.
In anthropology, liminality (from the Latin word līmen, meaning “threshold”) is
the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rituals,
when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status, but also have not yet begun
the transition into the status they will hold after the ritual is completed. During a rit-
ual’s liminal stage, participants “stand at the threshold” between their previous way
of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way which the ritual es-
tablishes.
Thus, time and space for those Central Asian religious female rituals have a liminal
meaning, whereby each house becomes a mosque, a birth place for a newborn, or a
symbolic cemetery when a family member leaves our world. All these kinds of con-
nections reflect close links between our reality and the universe, and female rituals
offer best proof of that.
Therefore, “liminal” space and time, intertwined in the female folk religions of the
Central Asian peoples, have produced a joint interconnection or “knotted” effect,
which requires further examination by scholars and anthropologists.
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Index
Aḳ Şams al-Dīn b. Ḥamza 134 ocak system of 74, 83–86

āayyārān/fityān (futuwwa adherents) origins of 65–68
31, 33, 37, 38, 46 religion of
al-ʿAbbāsī, ʿImād al-Dīn al-Hāshimī 48 cem rituals in 69–70, 83–84, 87–
Abbasid Caliphate 88, 103
futuwwa fraternities in 29–40 connections with
and Suhrawardī's theory of govern- Sufism 68, 71
ment 34–44 Yārisanism 67, 68–69
ʿAbd al-Qāder Gīlānī 185 Yazidis 67
ʿAbd al-Raḥman Jāmī 187 Zoroastrianism 67
ʿAbd al-Razzāq Kāshānī 46, 48–49 cyclical time in 70
Abu al-Muḥājir b. ʿAmr Qaysī 130 in Dersim 67, 69–71, 83–85
Abū al-Qāsim Naṣrābādī 131 divine incarnation in 70
Abū Bakr 18, 150 importance of ʿAlī in 100
Abū Hurayra 125 music in 103
Abū Kalb, ʿAbdallāh 126 reincarnation in 71, 102
Abū l-Khaṭṭāb 11 rituals, banning of 67
Abū Manṣūr al-ʿIjlī 11 sacred texts of 66, 87
Abū Riyāsh al-Qaysī 17 social structure of 87–88
Abū ʿUthmān Maghrebī 131–132 Wafāʾī's joining 85
Adam 38 and Yāresān 71–72, 89
Adhamī, Tūraj (Maḥv ʿAlīshāh) 173 ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib
ʿAdī bin Musāfīr 55, 82, 86 importance of 99–100, 101
Advil Mursa 70 place in futuwwa 34
Afghanistan 32 prophetic abilities of 10, 11–12
Aflākī 135 on teslim taş 152
Agha-yi Buzurg 186 and use of pālhang 142
Ahl-e Ḥaqq. see Yāresān ʿAlī ibn Mūsa 145–146
Aḥrār, ʿUbayd Allāh 129 ʿĀlī Qalandar 58, 62
ʿĀʾisha 15 Allāhyar 195, 199
Akbariyya 127 al-Rāzī, Fakhr al-Dīn 124
Akhī brotherhoods 33, 34, 41–42, 47, Āmulī 46
49 Anatolia, futuwwa fraternities in 32, 33,
Akhījūk 49 34, 37, 41–42, 47, 49
Aksüt, Hamza 85–86 antinomianism 127–128
Alevis (Kızılbaş) Anupo Bhil 115
endogamy of 87 Arabic language 121–122
Kurdish 66–68, 72–73, 83–85 Armenia, futuwwa fraternities in 34

204 Index
asceticism 112, 141–142. see also der- jem rituals in 103

vishes music in 103
Ashkevarī, Quṭb al-Dīn 136 ocak affiliation in 88
Atābak Saʾd 43 pālhang in 141, 142–143, 145–
ʿAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn 123–124, 125–126, 146
128–129, 133–134 reincarnation in 102
teslim taş in 146–154
Bābā Kamāl Jandī 125 belts, initiation 140, 145
Bābā Rasūl 81, 84, 86 Berke Khān 48
Bābā Yādegār 55–60, 62, 75–76, 80, Bhil 111, 118
87, 101 Bībī Khadījeh 173, 186
Babri Mosque 111, 119 Bibi Zumrat 186
Baghdad, urban bands in 31 Bible, Matthew, 7:6 5
Baha ad-Din Naqshband 185 Binyāmin (Mithra) 57, 61
Baha ud-Din Zakariya 116 Birdoǧan, Nejat 85
Bahār ʿAlīshāh Yazdī 167–168, 169 Bobzin, Hartmut 14
Baḥr ʿAlīshāh-e s̠ ānī-ye Tehrānī Boivin, Michael 116
(Nāderī) 168 Borūmand, Aḥmad ʿAlī 172–174, 176
Balım Sultan 147 Borūmand, Shahzād (Malake Bānū) 174
Baloch 110 Brāka, Sayyid 72, 78, 79
al-Bāqir, Muḥammad 6 Breebaart, A. 37
Barāḳ Bābā 130 Bukhara 200
barbers 164 al-Bukhārī 15
Barzinjī sayyids 81, 86 Bumke, Peter 83
al-Baṣrī, Ḥasan 132 Būstān (Saʿdī) 43
bathhouse staff (dallāks) 164 Buyruk 65, 87
Bayān b. Samʿān 11
Bāyazīd Bisṭāmī 130, 131 Cahen, Claude 34
Baybars, Sultan 47–48 caliphs, siyāsa sharʿiyya concept of
Behrūz, Parīdokht 172 37–38, 39–40, 42
Bektashiyya cem rituals 69–70, 83–84, 87–88, 103
and connection between Yāresān and Chando Pīr 113
Alevis 68, 71 chanting, in rituals 102, 103, 191, 193,
convents of 71, 74, 85, 89, 141 194, 195–199
gravestones of 148 Chār Malak (Four Angels) 57
importance of ʿAlī in 100 Chhutto Faqir 114, 117–118
and Iraqi heterodox groups 73–74 Chishtiyya 185
origin of 185 chivalry 32, 163
religion of Christianity
connections with and "seal of the prophets" 14
Khāksāriyya 155 and taqiyya 4, 5
Wafāʾī 85 Colpe, C. 13
Yārisanism 71, 80 convents 71, 74, 85, 89, 141, 173
girding rituals in 144–145 Covel, John 140, 151
heptad in 101 cyclical time 57–58, 70, 80, 86, 102

Index 205
Cynics 135–136 Nag Hammadi 14

Edmonds, C.J. 71
dalīl 70, 74, 76, 102, 173 Egypt, futuwwa fraternities in 32, 34, 48
dallāks (bathhouse staff) 164 Eḥsān ʿAlīshāh 173
al-Damīrī 124 elegies 195
Dāwūd (Verethraghna) 57, 61 Encyclopedia of Islam (2nd ed.) 4
al-Daylamī, Abū al-Ḥasan 131 Ess, Josef van 5
Dersim 67, 69–71, 83–85 Evliya Çelebi 141, 149–150
Dervish orders. see under specific Evrad-i Abdalan (manuscript) 152
names of orders
dervishes Fāṭima (daughter of Muḥammad) 149,
and dogs 126–127, 128–135 152
wearing of sacred stones by 139– female rituals
155 in general 188–189
Dervish-King 47 chanting in 189, 194, 195–199
deserts, as spiritual place 111–112 liminality in 201
deyiş 69, 87 for mourning 200
al-Dhahabī 34 poetry in 194, 195–199
Dhakīrat al-mulūk (Hamadānī) 47 of Qādiriyya order 189–190
Dīwān (Ibn Abī al-Ṣalt) 16 for religious events 193–194
Djebli, Moktar 4 space and time in 200–201
dogs transitional states in 201
and dervishes 126–127, 128–135 Firdawsiyya 128
in Islam fityān/ʿayyārān (futuwwa adherents)
in general 121–122 31, 33, 34, 37, 38, 41, 46
impurity of 123 Four Angels (Chār Malak) 57
myth of origin 122 Four Gateways 152
rehabilitation of 124–125 Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim 136
in Sufism Friday prayer (Juma Namāz) 191
in general 123–124 Friedmann, Y. 12, 16–17, 18
and barking/howling of 135 Fuḍayl ibn ʿIyād 126
and crawling of 134–135 al-Futuḥāt al-Makkiyya (Ibn ʿArabī) 38
and feeding of 133–134 futuwwa fraternities
and humility/humiliation 128– after end of Abbasid Caliphate 47–
129 48
and purity/impurity 129–130 in Anatolia 32, 33, 34, 37, 41–42,
rehabilitation of 126 47, 49
as saints 127–128 in Armenia 34
and sniffing of 135 chivalry in 32, 163
and starving of 133 in Egypt 32, 34, 48
in Zoroastrianism 127 Ibn ʿArabī on 43–44
dualism, Iranian 70, 75–76 initiation belts of 140, 145
Duzgin Bava 70 in Iran 32, 47, 48
al-Nāṣir and 29–34
Ecrits gnostiques. La bibliothèque de Persian works on 45–47

206 Index
rituals of 144, 163 Halveti-Misriye 147

Saʿdī on 43 Hamadānī, Mīr Sayyid ʿAlī 46, 47, 81
in Suhrawardī's theory of govern- Ḥamd 191, 195–198
ment 34–42 Hamzehʿee, M. Reza 58
in Syria 32 Harijans 111
futuwwa-khāna 41 Hartmann, Angelika 35, 36, 39
Futuwwat-nāma (Zarkūb) 45 al-Hāshimiyyāt (Kumayt b. Zayd al-
Futuwwat-nāma-yi sulṭānī (Kāshifī) 47 Asadī) 17
futuwwat-nāmihs (guild documents) Hassan (son of ʿAlī) 99, 142, 150–151,
164 152
Hawramān region 56
Gabriel, angel 10, 151 Ḥaydar, Shaikh 49
al-Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid 37, 39, 124 Ḥaydar, Sulṭān 162, 171
Ghazals 195 Ḥaydarī sayyids 71–72, 74, 77–79, 88
girding rituals 144–145 Ḥaydariyya/Ḥaydarīs 161–165, 171
Girhori, Abdul Rahim 113 Hazini 195
glorifications 195–199 heptads. see Khāndāns; ocak system
Gnosticism 14, 30, 44, 45 heterodoxies 73–74, 96–98, 99–100,
Gobineau, Arthur de 4 101
Golden Horde 48 Hinduism 109–110
Goldziher, Ignaz 4 Hindus 113–119
Gölpınarlı, Abdülbaki 84 Holy Spirit 9, 10
Gosain Birnath Swami 116 Hülegü (Hūlagū Khān) 48
Great Goddess 114, 118 humility/humiliation, and dogs 128–
guild documents (futuwwat-nāmihs) 129
164 Husayn (son of ʿAlī) 99, 142, 151, 152
Gulistān (Saʿdī) 43
Gūrān region 56, 58–60, 61, 62 Ibn Abī Shayba 15–16
Gūrāni language 56, 65, 87 Ibn Abīal-Ṣalt, Umayya 16
Ibn al-Jawzī 128
Ḥācī Bayrām 134 Ibn al-Marzubān 124
hadiths Ibn al-Miʿmār 46
on dogs 123, 125 Ibn al-Qifṭī 136
in prayer rituals 191 Ibn ʿArabī 38, 42, 43–44
on prophetic abilities of imams 7–10 Ibn Bābūya al-Ṣadūq 12
of rank 11–12 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa 41–42, 48, 162, 171
on use of pālhang 142 Ibn Hishām 16
haft khalīfe 76 Ibn Kathīr 125
Haft Tan (Seven Beings) 57–58, 61, 75 Ibn Khafīf 131
haftawāne 57, 61, 76, 89 Ibn Khaldūn 39, 40
Haji Bektash Veli 68, 71, 80, 100– Ibn Taymiyya 4
101, 146, 150–151, 153, 185. see Ibrāhīm (son of Muḥammad) 16
also Sulṭān Sahāk Ibrāhīm, Shāh 56–60
al-Ḥākim, Caliph 48 Idālat al-ʿiyān (Suhrawardī) 35–36, 37,
al-Ḥallāj, Manṣūr 11, 123–124, 153 39

Index 207
Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn (al-Ghazālī) 124 encounter with dog 133

ijmāʿ (consensus) 39 prophetic abilities of 11
Ilāhī nāma (ʿAṭṭār) 125–126 and "seal of the prophets" 14
imams, prophetic abilities of 7–11, 19– Jhule Lal 109, 110
21 Jihanshah 66
impurity/purity 40–41, 114, 123, 129– Jōz Shekastan ritual 175–176
130 Jumʿa Namāz (Friday prayer) 191
incarnation, divine 70, 80, 100 Junayd 38, 49, 133, 135
initiation belts 140, 145 al-Jurjānī, ʿAlī ibn Muḥammad 127
Iran
futuwwa fraternities in 32, 47, 48 Kabir 109
Sarbadārid dynasty in 48–49 Kai-Kāvūs I 33
Sufi orders in 49 Kaiqubād, Sultan 44
Iraqi Alevi-Bektashi Federation 74 Kākāʾi, Sayyed Felekeddin 60
Īshān-bu 189 Kākāʾīs 55, 60–61, 71, 73, 74, 80, 85,
ʿĪsī, Sayyid 81, 86 89
Islam. see also Shīʿī Islam; Sufism; Kalābiyya 128
Sunni Islam kalāms 56, 60, 69, 87
Cynics in 135–136 Kanwanwali, Sain 114
dogs in 121–135 Karakaya-Stump, Ayfer 84–85
and Shamanism 192 Karbalā 85
in Uzbekistan 186–200. see also Kesvat, symbolic 174
Otin-Oys khabʾ 3, 7
Islamkot 113, 114 Khadīja (wife of Muḥammad) 152
Ismaʿil, Shah 66 Khāksāriyya
Ismāʿīl Ḥaḳḳī Bursavī 132 attracting new followers by 169–170
Ivanov, W. 176 competition between groups of 169–
170
Jāberī, Ḥoseyn 168–169, 173 founder of 164
Jāberī, Jālāl al-Dīn (Mīr Jamāl) 169 leadership of
Jāberī, Moḥī al-Dīn (Mīr Kosar) 169 conflicts over 168–171
Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq 6, 8, 10 during 'golden age' 167–168
al-Jāḥiẓ 124 lineages of 170–171
Jalāl al-Dīn ʿAbdallāh b. Mukhtār al- religion of
ʿAlawī 33 connections with
Jalāl al-Dīn Bukhārī 164 Bektashism 155
Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥasan III 33 Yārisanism 175–177
Jalāl al-Dīn Mankübirty 33 pālhang in 140
Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī 40 rituals in 173–174, 175, 176
Jalālīs 164, 171 sacred stones in 143–144, 145,
jam rituals 57, 60, 69–70, 87, 102–103 154–155
Jamāʿat-e Islāmī 119 seven-level hierarchy in 175
Jāmī, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 131–132, 133 women of 171–175
jem rituals 103 Khalīfā, Shaikh 48
Jesus of Nazareth Khalīl Allāh 38

208 Index
Khāmūsh, Sayyid 76, 86 Leezenberg, Michiel 74

Khan, Dominique-Sila 115 liminality 201
khānaqāh 41 love, mystical 112, 185
Khandān ʿAlīshāh 176
Khāndāns 56–60, 62, 75, 80–81, 85– Maʿānī l-akhbār (Ibn Bābūya) 12
86, 101 al-Mabsūṭ (al-Sarakhsī) 4
Khārijis 3 Mahmoudveysi, Parwin 60
al-Kharrāz, Abū Saʿīd 132 Maḥv ʿAlīshāh 173
khātam/khātim al-nabiyyin 13–18 al-Majlisī, Muḥammad Bāqir 122
Khātun Zaynab 59 Majnūn and Laylī legend 111, 133
Khwaja Ghulam Farid 112 Malake Bānū 174
Khwaja Khizr 109, 110 Malan Devi 114, 118
Kippenberg, Hans 5 al-Malaṭī 4
Kirmanī, Awḥad al-Dīn 131 Manāqib al-ʿārifīn (Aflākī) 135
al-Kirmānī, Ḥamīd al-Dīn 5 Mani, and "seal of the prophets" 13–14
Kitāb al-futuwwa (Ibn al-Miʿmār) 46 Maʿrūf Karkhī 133–134
Kitāb al-Kāfī (al-Kulaynī) 8, 10 al-Marzubān, Abū Bakr 124
Kitāb al-Tanbīh wa-l-radd ʿalā ahl al- Mashrab, Bābāraḥīm 134–135, 189,
ahwāʾ wa l-bidaʿ (al-Malaṭī) 4 190, 194, 195, 199
Kitāb Baṣāʾir al-Darajāt (al-Ṣaffar al- Maʿshūq Ṭūsī 126
Qummī) 10 Massignon, Louis 125
Kitāb faḍl al-kilāb ʿalā kathīr mimman Mastura Khanim 186
labisa al-thiyāb (Ibn Marzubān) 124 al-Masʿūdī, Atābak Fāris al-Dīn Āqqūsh
Kitāb fī al-Futuwwa (suhrawardī) 39 48
kitmān 3, 7 al-Māwardī 37, 40
Kohlberg, Etan 6 Mawlawiyya 185
Kolhi 111 Menghwar 111
Köpekçī Ḥasan Bābā 126 Mikov, Lyubomir 151
Köprülü, Fuad 66 Minhāj al-sunnat al-nawabiyya fī naqḍ
Kubrawī dog-saint 128 kalām al-shīʿa (Ibn Taymiyya) 4
Kubrawiyya 128, 185 Minorsky, Vladimir 66
al-Kulaybātī, Abū al-Khayr 132 Mīr Afżal 170
al-Kulaynī 8, 10 Mīr Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī 163–
Kumayt b. Zayd al-Asadī 17 165
Kurdish language 66, 87, 104 Mīr Jalāl al-Dīn Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī
Kurmanji language 65 168, 173, 174
Mīr Jamāl 169
Laertius, Diogenes 136 Mīr Kosar 169
Lalan Lashari, Sant 113 Mīr Maẓhar 171
Lāmīʿī Chelebī 134 Mīr Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Tūnī 162,
languages. see also under specific lan- 163–164
guages Mīr Ṭāher (Sayyed Ḥoseyn Jāberī)
used in kalāms 56 168–169, 173
used in sacred texts 65 Mira Bai 115
Laylī and Majnūn legend 111, 133 mirror for princes 43, 44

Index 209
Mirṣād al-ʿibād (Najm al-Dīn Rāzī) 44 Nafaḥāt al-uns (Jāmī) 131–132

Mithi 109 Nafāʾis al-funūn (Āmulī) 46
Modarresī Chahārdehī 172 Najm al-Dīn Kubrā 44, 46, 125, 127–
Mohammad, Sayyid 59 128, 185
Mokri, Muhammed 80 Najm al-Dīn Rāzī 44
Momal Rano (Shah Abdul Latif) 112 Naqāʾiḍ (al-Farazdaq) 17
Monajjemī, Ḥoseyn 175 Naqāʾiḍ (Jarīr) 17
Moradi, Ali Akbar 73 Naqshbandīs 185, 199
Moses 149–150, 154 Nasafī, ʿAzīz 44–45
Moṣṭafā (Vāyu) 57 Nāsih al-Dīn 125
Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh 154, 167–168, 169, Naṣīḥat al-mulūk (Saʿdī) 43
171, 172, 175, 176 al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh, Caliph
mother goddess 114 and futuwwa fraternities 29–34
mourning rituals 200 religious role of 37, 40
Muḥammad, Prophet and Suhrawardī's theory of govern-
on dogs 124, 125 ment 35
and hadith of rank 11–12 Naṣreddīn, Sayyid 72, 77–78, 79
as last prophet 11, 12, 13–19, 42–43 Nau, Michel 140
superiority of 9 Nawāʾī, ʿAlī Shīr 133, 194
and use of pālhang 142 Nenuram, Sant 113–115
wilderness retreat of 111 Nesimī Sulṭān 152
Muhammad, Sayyid 76 Niʿmat-Allāhiyya 162
Muḥammad is not the father of any of niqābat al-fityān 46
your men. The making of the last Nizami 111
Prophet (Powers) 17 Nodira 194, 195
Muhammas 195 Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh (Aḥmad ʿAlī
Muʿin al-Din Chishti 185 Borūmand) 172–174, 176
al-Munāwī, ʿAbd al-Raʾūf 129–130 Noyan, Bedri 152
al-Muqannaʿ Abū Shuʿayb 131 al-Nūrī, Abī al-Ḥusayn 135
Murabba 195 Nusayri-Alawis 4
murshid 70, 83–84
Murtezaoǧlu, Cavit 73 Ocak, Ahmet Yaşar 84
Mūsā al-Kāẓim 162 ocak system 74, 83–86
Musi, Pīr (Tiri) 57 Ohlander, Erik 35, 36, 37, 42
music. see also chanting Oʾqish 190, 199
in Alevism 103 oral history 47, 95–96
in Bektashism 103 orthodoxies 96–98, 99–100
in rituals, in Uzbekistan 183–184 OSRAM (Turkish think tank) 73
in Yārisanism 60, 69, 96, 102 Otin-Oys
Muslims, inter-religious relationships appearance of 187
with Hindus 109–110, 113–119 origin of term 186
al-Mustanṣir, Caliph 33, 36 regional styles of 190
al-Mustanṣir II, Caliph 47–48 requirements to become 187–188
Mystical Dimensions of Islam rituals performed by
(Schimmel) 185 in general 188–189

210 Index
chanting in 189, 194, 195–199 princes/rulers, joining futuwwa fraterni-

for mourning 200 ties 32–33, 43
poetry in 194, 195–199 prophetic claims
for religious events 193–194 of 'false' prophets 18
role of 186–187, 189 of imams 7–11, 19–21
in Tashkent 190, 194 of Muḥammad 13–18
Özdemir, Ulaş 73 state repression of 18–19
purity/impurity 40–41, 114, 123, 129–
Pakistan, inter-religious relationships in 130
109–110, 113–119
pālhang Qādiriyya 185, 189–190
ascetic function of 141–143 Qalandar, Lal Shahbaz 109, 110, 112,
cosmological interpretation of 145 113
curative properties of 146 Qalandariyya. see also Ḥaydariyya
divinatory properties of 146 legends of 151
and girding rituals 144 religion of, pālhang in 139–142,
materials used for 140, 141 144, 146, 164
meaning of word 140 Qaraqoyunlu empire 66
number of sides of 145–146 qaṣīda 112
offshoots from 143–144 Qāsim Anwār 47
in religion of Qiṭmīr 125, 135
Bektashis 141, 142–143, 145– Qurʾan
155 surahs
Qalandariyya 139–142, 144, 146, 1 189, 195
154 2:60 154
and remembrance the Prophet 142 3:28 3
parables 195 3:200 145
Parbraham Faqir 114, 117 4:49 40
Perdiwar 56, 57, 58 7:160 150
Perdiwaris 60–62 7:175-176 124
Perfect Man 40, 44–45, 46 10:62 154
Persian language 122 16:106 3
pīr 70, 74, 83–84 17:85 9
Pithoro Pīr 116–117 18:9-26 124–125
poetry. see also sacred texts 33:40 13, 17
of Khawja Ghulam Farid 112 40:28 3
in rituals 184, 189, 193, 194, 195– 42:52 9
199 43:31 143
of Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai 112 65:12 145
of Yunus Emre 144 Quṭb al-Dīn Ḥaydar-e Zāvīʾī 161, 162,
poisonings 150–151 163, 165
Polak, J.E. 78
poverty names 174 Rabiʿah al-ʿAdaviyah 185
Powers, David 17 Rabino, H.L. 78
praying rituals 190–193 Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh Dehkordī 170, 171

Index 211
Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh Ṭoroqī 176 sacred texts. see also poetry

Raja Bhartrihari 110 of Alevis 65, 87
Rama Bhai, Sant 113 of Yāresān 56, 60, 65, 69, 87
Rama Pīr 115–116 of Yazidis 65
Rashf al-naṣāʾiḥ al-īmāniyya wa-kashf Saʿdī 43, 133
al-faḍāʾiḥ al-yūnāniyya (Suhrawardī) Sadiq, Mohammad Siddiq 113
35–36 Safaviyya 66, 85, 88
rehber 70, 74, 83–84 al-Ṣaffar al-Qummī 10
reincarnation 71, 86, 102 Ṣafī al-Dīn Ardabīlī, shaikh 49
Les religions et les philosophies dans Safīzāde, Sadīq 81–82
l’Asie centrale (de Gobineau) 4 Sahāk, Sulṭān 75, 76, 80–81, 86, 88–89,
'religious minority' 96 100–101. see also Haji Bektash Veli
repentance 150 saints. see also under names of specific
retreats 111–112 saints, dogs becoming 127–128
Ridgeon, Lloyd 36 Sālār Miyān Ghāzī 126
al-Rifāʿī, Aḥmad 126–127 Sallinger, G. 30
Rifāʿiyya 126–127, 147 Salmān Pāk 125
Risāla fī al-futuwwa (Simnānī) 46 sang-i-qanāʿat 143–144, 154–155
Risālat al-futuwwa (Suhrawardī) 38 Sar Sepārī ritual 175–176
Risāla-yi futuwwatiyya (Hamadānī) 46 al-Sarakhsī, Shams al-Dīn 3–4
ritual instruments 60, 69, 103 Sarāne 56
rituals. see also cem rituals; female ritu- Sarbadārid dynasty 48–49
als; girding rituals; jam rituals; jem rit- Sardhro 114
uals; Jōz Shekastan ritual; Sar Sepārī Ṣārī Ṣāltuḳ 130
ritual; Ẕikr/Ẕekr rituals Sarlī 73, 74, 88
chanting in 102, 103, 191, 193, 194, Sarmast ʿAlīshāh Ṭoroghī 170, 176
195–199 Sassui Punhun (Khwaja Ghulam Farid)
of futuwwa fraternities 144, 163 112
in Khāksāriyya order 173–174, 175, Sayfeddīn, Sayyid 78, 79
176 sayyids/sayyeds. see also under names
for mourning 200 of specific sayyids
music in 60, 69, 96, 102, 103, 183– of Barzinjī family 81, 86
184 connections between Shabak and Al-
poetry in 184, 189, 193, 194, 195– evi 75
199 functions of 70, 102
for praying 190–193 of Ḥaydarī family 71–72, 74, 77–79,
Roshan ʿAlīshāh 171 88
Roux, Jean-Paul 66 knowledge of 76–77
Rubin, U. 12 of Perdiwaris 61, 62
al-Rumi 185 shifting affiliation to different 74
Rūmī, Jalāl al-Dīn 123 sāz 103
Rustam, Sayyid 72, 78, 79 Schimmel, Annemarie 185
Rycaud, P. 139, 141–142 "seal of the prophets" 13–18
Ṣedgh ʿAlīshāh 171
sacred stones 139–155 Seth/Shīth 38

212 Index
Seven Beings (Haft Tan) 57 connections with Alevism 68, 71

Seyyid Ghāzī stone 148 and Cynicism 136
Seyyid Hüseyin b. Seyyid Gayb 150 dogs in. see under dogs
Shabak 73, 74, 88 official sanctioning of 34
shāh (title in Sufism) 47 in Pakistan 109–110, 112–113, 116,
Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai 109, 112, 113, 119
117 sacred stones in. see pālhang; teslim
Shāh Ibrāhīm 62, 75–76, 80–81, 85–86, taş
87 and Suhrawardī's theory of govern-
Shāh Khoshin 56 ment 34–36, 40–42
Shāh Shujāʿ Kirmānī 47 title of shāh in 47
Shaikh Tahir 110 women in 185–190, 191–201. see
Shamanism 192 also Otin-Oys
Shamseddīn, Sayyid 78–79 al-Suhrawardī, Abū Ḥafṣ
al-Shaʿrānī, ʿAbd al-Wahhāb 126, 129, in general 29–30
130 about dogs 124
Shiblī 134 legacy of 44–47
Shīʿī Islam. see also Sufism; Sunni Is- mission to Kai-Kāvūs I 33
lam relationship with
beliefs about imams in 7–11, 19–21, Najm al-Dīn Rāzī 44
39 Saʿdī 42
and futuwwa fraternities 34 theory of government
and Muḥammad as last prophet 19 in general 34–38
al-Nāṣir and 34 function of caliph in 39–40
niqābat al-fityān in 46 futuwwa fraternities in 34–42
power networks of 98–99 and Sufism 34–36, 40–42
prophets belonging to 18 tripartite division of 38–39
and Sunni Islam 34 Suhrawardī, Abū Najīb 185
and taqiyya 4–7, 19–21 Sulaiman of Gilkhwārān 49
Das Siegel der Propheten (Colpe) 13 Sulaymān, Shāh 163
Ṣifat al-ṣafwa (Ibn al-Jawzī) 128 Sunni Islam. see also Shīʿī Islam
Simnānī, ʿAlāʾ al-Dawla 46, 48 and Muḥammad as last prophet 11,
Sindhi 110 12, 14, 19
al-Sīra al-nabawiyya (Ibn Hishām) 16 al-Nāṣir and 34
Sīrgānī, ʿAlī 129 and Shīʿī Islam 34
Şirī 141 syncretism 109
siyāsa sharʿiyya concept 37–38, 39–40, Syria, futuwwa fraternities in 32, 34,
42 47
Smet, Daniel de 7
Solṭān Sahāk 56, 57, 58, 60, 61 Tablighi Jamāʿat movement 119
Stead, F.M. 77 Taeschner, Franz 30, 31, 34, 36–37
Strothmann, Rudolph 4 Tāj al-ʿĀrifīn, Abuʾl-Wafāʾ 68, 76, 82,
Stroumsa, Guy 14 84, 86–87, 88
Sufism. see also Shīʿī Islam; under spe- Tāj al-Dīn b Muʿaiya, Saiyid 46
cific names of orders Takish, Sultan 33

Index 213
tanbur 60, 69, 102 Udero Lal 110

taqiyya Uludaǧ, Süleyman 132
concealment role of 3–4 Umar Marui (Shah Abdul Latif) 112
as guarding the secrets 6–7 Umar Sumra 112
religious role of 5–6 untouchables 111
and Shīʿī Islam 19–21 Urbach, E.E. 20
Tardieu, Michel 14 Uvaysiy 190, 194, 195
Tārūkh-i Shādī-i Qarākhtāʾiyān (anon.) Uways al-Qaranī 129–130
43–44 Uzbekistan
Taşǧin, Ahmet 75 important religious events of 193–
Tashkent, Otin-Oys in 190, 194 194
teslim taş 146–154 Islam in 186–200. see also Otin-Oys
in ceremonies 153–154
divinatory properties of 151 Vahidi 148
as image 147, 148 Vaʿẓ sermon 191
materials used for 147 Velāyetnāme 146
sides of 147–148 Vinogradov, Amal 74–75
as symbolisation for Vryonis, Speros 135
Bektashi path 152–153
memory of Fāṭima 149 waaf, dated 1526 A.D. 55
myths and legends 149–151 Wafāʾiyya 68, 81, 82, 84–85, 88
repentance 150 Wāʿiẓ Kāshifī 43, 47
sacred figures 152 waṣiyya 20
as talisman 147 Werth, Lukas 113
Thar desert Wittek, Paul 30
climate of 112 women
inhabitants of 110–111 in Khāksāriyya order 171–175
love poems set in 112 in Sufism 185–190, 191–201. see
sacred spaces in 113–118 also Otin-Oys
saints/mystics spending time in/near
112–116 al-Yāfiʿī, ʿAbdallāh 42–43
as spiritual place 111 Yahyā b. Sālih el-Īslāmbolī 142, 144,
theory of government 149
of others 37 al-Yamanī, al-Yāfī 132
of Suhrawardī 34–44 Yaʿqūb, Sayyid 78
al-Tinātī, Abī al-Khayr 134 Yāresān (Ahl-e Ḥaqq). see also Kākāʾī
Torūghbadī, Abū ʿAbd Allāh 123–124 Alevis' awareness of 72–73
Troitslkaya, A.L. 189–190 contacts with Alevis 89
Trowbridge, Stephen van Rensselaer early history of 55–60
71–72 endogamy of 87
Tuḥfat al-ikhwān fī khaṣāʿiṣ al-fityān Khāndāns 56–60, 62, 74, 75, 80–82,
(Abd al-Razzāq Kāshānī) 46 85–86, 88–89, 101
Turcoman 73 languages spoken by 104
Turkish language 65, 87, 122 Perdiwari group 60–62
twelve, figure 147–148 religion of

214 Index
connections with Khāndāns 74

Alevism 67, 68–69 religion of
Bektashism 71, 80 connections with
Khāksāriyya 175–177 Alevism 67
Wafāʾī 82, 86–87 Wafāʾī 82, 86
cyclical time in 57–58, 70, 80, 86, Yāresanism 61, 104
102 Seven Holy Beings in 55
development of 56–57 sacred texts of 65
divine incarnation in 70, 80, 100 Yeseviye Sufi order 66
haft khalīfe in 76 Yūnus Emre 144
Haft Tan (Seven Beings) in 57–
58, 61, 75, 80 Zāhid Gīlānī, shaikh 49
haftawāne 89 zāhir-bātin paradigm 152
haftawāne in 57, 61, 76, 80 Ẕāker ʿAlīshāh 171
importance of ʿAlī in 100, 101 Zarkūb, Najm al-Dīn 45
jam rituals in 57, 60, 69–70, 87, zāwiya (hospice) 41–42
102–103 Zaza language 66, 87
music in 60, 69, 96, 102 Ẕikr/Ẕekr rituals 168, 169, 172, 173,
reincarnation in 71, 86, 102 174, 189–190, 193
sacred texts in 56, 60, 65, 69, 87 Zoroastrians
Wafāʾī connections 68 religion of
sayyids, recognized by Alevis 71–72 Alevi connections 67
social structure of 87–88 and distinction between Haft Tan
Yazidi connection 104 and haftawāne 61
Yassaviyya 185 dogs in 127
Yassavy, Ahmad 189, 194, 195, 199 Seven Beings in 57, 70
Yazidis/Yezidis and taqiyya 4
Alevis' awareness of 72–73

Plate 1
Yannis Kanakis
1
Yāresān women and children in Banzalan village, during
their daily late afternoon gathering where they exchange
news, discuss and sing. Oral culture still holds its prevalent
importance for most Yāresān.
2
ʿAlī (‘the lion of God,’ with his double-edged sword Zulfiqār,
a very common Figure in Shiite environments). Picture taken
at the sitting room of a house in Yāresān village Zarde while
a jam ceremony with very large attendance is about to begin
(food in the kitchen is being prepared for it).

Plate 2

Plate 3
Tanbūr (holy Yāresān lute) construction in Gahvāreh town

by Yadollāh Farmānī.
◄
Jam ceremonies in Gahvāreh town and Zarde village (both in Gūrān Mountains). The
ceremony leader, sayyed Fereydūn Ḥosseini, is playing the tanbūr, the holy lute of the
Yāresān.

Plate 4
Jürgen Wasim Frembgen
1
Kolhi settlement near the town of Mithi.
2
Samadhi of an anonymous Hindu sage near the village of Harehar.

Plate 5
1
Tomb-like Samadhi of an anonymous Hindu yogi
near the fort of Naukot.
2
Shrine of Sant Nenuram on the periphery of the small town
of Islamkot.

Plate 6
Giving food to the poor at

the ashram of Sant Nenuram
(in the background an image
of the ascetic Hindu saint).
1
New temple of Rama Pir at the village of Chelhar.

Plate 7
Pithoro Pir, the saint of the

Menghwar, depicted on a
contemporary folk painting
displayed at his shrine in the
desert west of Umarkot.
1
Tomb of Parbraham Faqir

overlooking the village of
Veri-jhap.
2
3
Shrine of Chhutto Faqir near Mithi.

Plate 8
Image of Malan Devi

engraved on a wooden
board at her temple in the
village of Harehar.
1
2
Nocturnal concert of songs venerating the saints of Thar
in the village of Malanhor Vena near Mithi.

Plate 9
Alexandre Papas
1 3
A dervish in a 16th-century Indian A dervish leading a dog in a
miniature by Basāwan. 19th-century Indian miniature.
Ibrāhīm b. Adham in an 18th-

century Indian miniature (ref.
number MBA 365.11, Courtesy of
Museum of Angers).
2

Plate 10
Thierry Zarcone
“Aptal ou derviche” (Abdal or Qalandar

dervish), 1688.
Photograph of Qalandar
dervishes in Central Asia,
early 20th century.

Plate 11
1
Photograph of a Qalandar dervish at Istanbul,
late 19th century.
2
Pālhang in the form of a teslim taş.

Plate 12
1
Photograph of two Qalandar dervishes with stones
on their belts.
2
Drawing of Kazak Abdal.

Plate 13
1
A teslim taş.
A teslim taş (drawing with details).
1. Animal skin sacrificed in lieu of Ismāʿīl and

skin of Nesimī;
2. Cotton rope used to hang Mansūr el-Hallāj;
3a. Imam Hasan;
3b. Imam Husayn;
4. The Twelve Imams;
5. The Four Gates.
Outer face: Muhammad; Khadīja; zahir.
Inner face: ‘Alī; Fatima; batin.
2

Plate 14
Grave stone in the cemetery of the

Bektashi Tekke in Izmir.
Calligraphic composition
with a teslim taş and other
Bektashi symbols.
2

Plate 15
1
Coffee cup in the form of a teslim taş,
Çanakkale ceramic, 10 cm
“Betache derviche”
(Bektashi dervish), 1688.

Plate 16
1 2
Kaygusuz Abdal wearing a teslim taş and Cafer bābā, Bektashi shaikh from Girit (Crete).
a pālhang with eight corners, 1847.
Plate 17
1
Nuri bābā, Bektashi shaikh from Istanbul.
2
Teslim taş with the face of ‘Alī.

Plate 18
Shahrokh Raei
1
Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh.
2
Bahār ʿAlīshāh Yazdī (right) and Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh.

Plate 19
1
Mīr Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī.
2
The entrance of the Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh of Tehran,
September 7, 2013.

2
Plate 20
1
1. Mīr Ṭāher ʿAlīshāh.
2. Khāneqāh of Kermanshah, March 18, 2009.
3. The entrance of the Khāneqāh of
Kermanshah, March 18, 2009.
3
Plate 21
1 3
Mīr Ṭāhers sons (first row): Mīr Jamāl (right) Mīr Maẓhar.
and Mīr Kos̲ ar, June 16, 2010.
2
The celebration of the day of birth of Imam ʿAlī in Khāneqāh of Kermanshah,
June 17, 2011.

Plate 22
1
Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh and two of his sheikhs in ʿAlī ebn-e Sahl Tekyeh
in Isfahan.
2
Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh and his wife.
►
Two prominent sheikhs of Moṭahhar
ʿAlīshāh: Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh (left) and
Raḥmat ʿAlīshāh Ṭoroqī. 3

Plate 23
Razia Sultanova
1
Female praying ritual in Bukhara around the grave of Bahā ad-dīn Naqshband
Bukhārī, the founder of the Naqshbandī Sufi order.
2 3
Otin-Oy Malika in daily life. Otin-Oy Ruhsatoi from Boisun village.

Plate 24
1
Female ritual led by Otin-Oys in Denau (Surhandarya district).
2
Female ritual led by Otin-Oys in the Andijan district, Ferghana valley.


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© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co.

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek

For further information about our publishing program consult our

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

List of Plates ......................................................................................................... VII

Early Shiʿism and Futuwwa

Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi (Paris)

Mohsen Zakeri (Göttingen)

Ahl-e Ḥaqq (Yāresān)

Philip G. Kreyenbroek (Göttingen)

Martin van Bruinessen (Utrecht)

Yiannis Kanakis (Exeter)

Cultural Anthropological Analysis

Jürgen Wasim Frembgen (Munich)

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Alexandre Papas (Paris)

Thierry Zarcone (Paris)

Mehran Afshari (Tehran)

Shahrokh Raei (Göttingen)

Razia Sultanova (Cambridge)

Index ..................................................................................................................... 203

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Plate 3 Tanbur (holy Yāresān lute) construction in Gahvareh town by Yadollah

Jürgen Wasim Frembgen:

Plate 4.1 Kolhi settlement near the town of Mithi.

Plate 6.2 New temple of Rama Pir at the village of Chelhar.

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Plate 7.2 Tomb of Parbraham Faqir overlooking the village of Veri-jhap.

Plate 7.3 Shrine of Chhutto Faqir near Mithi.

All pictures were taken by the author during fieldwork.

Plate 9.1 A dervish in a 16th-century Indian miniature by Basāwan (ref. number

Plate 9.2 Ibrāhīm b. Adham in an 18th-century Indian miniature (ref. number

Plate 9.3 A dervish leading a dog in a 19th-century Indian miniature (Album

Plate 10.2 Photograph of Qalandar dervishes in Central Asia, early 20 th century

Plate 11.1 Photograph of a Qalandar dervish at Istanbul, late 19 th century (Collec-

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Plate 13.1 A teslim taş (private collection, Bursa).

Plate 13.2 A teslim taş (drawing with details).

All copyright regulations have been observed by the author.

Plate 18.1 Bahār ʿAlīshāh Yazdī (right) and Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh.

Plate 18.2 Moṭahhar ʿAlīshāh.

Plate 19.1 Mīr Meṣbāḥ Moṭahharī.

Plate 19.2 The entrance of the Moṭahharīyeh Khāneqāh of Tehran, September 7,

Plate 20.1 Mīr Ṭāher ʿAlīshāh.

Plate 20.2 Khāneqāh of Kermanshah, March 18, 2009.

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Plate 21.3 Mīr Maẓhar.

Plate 22.2 Noṣrat ʿAlīshāh and his wife

Plate 23.2 Otin-Oy Malika in daily life.

Plate 23.3 Otin-Oy Ruhsatoi from Boisun village.

Plate 24.1 Female ritual led by Otin-Oys in Denau (Surhandarya district).

All pictures were taken by the author during fieldwork.

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

© 2017, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

May this proceeding present an opportunity for a better understanding of Islamic