Nikola Pantic - Sufism in Ottoman Damascus (Routledge Sufi Series) (2023)

Sufism in Ottoman Damascus
“This book probes directly and robustly the relations between official state religion,
Muslim jurisprudence and magical practices as they actually occurred, untroubled by
common clichés found in both contemporary sources and in modern scholarship.”
– Aziz Al-Azmeh, Central European University
Sufism in Ottoman Damascus analyzes thaumaturgical beliefs and practices

prevalent among Muslims in eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria. The study focuses
on historical beliefs in baraka, which religious authorities often interpreted as
Allah’s grace, and the alleged Sufi-ulamaic role in distributing it to Ottoman
subjects.
This book highlights considerable overlaps between Sufis and ʿulamā’ with state
appointments in early modern Province of Damascus, arguing for the possibility of
sociologically defining a Muslim priestly sodality, a group of religious authorities
and wonder-workers responsible for Sunni orthodoxy in the Ottoman Empire. The
Sufi-ʿulamā’ were integral to Ottoman networks of the holy, networks of grace that
comprised of hallowed individuals, places, and natural objects.
Sufism in Ottoman Damascus sheds new light on the appropriate scholarly
approach to historical studies of Sufism in the Ottoman Empire, revising its
position in official early modern versions of Ottoman Sunnism. This book further
reapproaches early modern Sunni beliefs in wonders and wonder-working, as well
as the relationship between religion, thaumaturgy, and magic in Ottoman Sunni
Islam, historical themes comparable to other religions and other parts of the world.
Nikola Pantić is Postdoc Assistant at the Department of Near Eastern Studies,

University of Vienna, and Permanent Fellow of the Center for Religious Studies,
Central European University, Vienna.
Routledge Sufi Series
General Editor: Ian Richard Netton
Professor of Islamic Studies, University of Exeter
The Routledge Sufi Series provides short introductions to a variety of facets of the
subject, which are accessible both to the general reader and the student and scholar
in the field. Each book will be either a synthesis of existing knowledge or a distinct
contribution to, and extension of, knowledge of the particular topic. The two major
underlying principles of the Series are sound scholarship and readability.
Previously published by Curzon
26. Sufism in Eighteenth-Century India

Muḥammad Nāṣir ʿAndalīb’s Lament of the Nightingale and Ṭarīqa-yi Khāliṣ
Muḥammadiyya
Neda Saghaee
27. Walāya in the Formative Period of Shi’ism and Sufism

A Comparative Analysis
Shayesteh Ghofrani
28. Nur Baba

A Sufi Novel of Late Ottoman Istanbul
Edited, Introduced and Translated by M. Brett Wilson
29. Sufism in Morocco’s Religious Politics

Refractions of Piety and Iḥsān
John C. Thibdeau
30. Love in Sufi Literature

Ibn ‘Ajiba’s Understanding of the Divine Word
Omneya Ayad
31. Sufism in Ottoman Damascus

Religion, Magic, and the eighteenth-century Networks of the Holy
Nikola Pantić
For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/Routledge-Sufi-Series/

book-series/SE0491
Sufism in Ottoman Damascus
Religion, Magic, and the Eighteenth-Century
Networks of the Holy
Nikola Pantić
First published 2024
by Routledge
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and by Routledge
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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2024 Nikola Pantić
The right of Nikola Pantić to be identified as author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
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Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-032-49797-6 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-032-49802-7 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-39553-9 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539
Typeset in Times New Roman
by Apex CoVantage, LLC
Contents
Note on Transliteration vi
List of figures vii
Acknowledgments viii
1 Patterns of Grace in History and Scholarship: Networks of

the Holy in Eighteenth-Century Bilād al-Shām 1
2 Miracles of God and Saintly Wonders: Magic and Religion

in the Syrian Eighteenth Century 46
3 Haunting the Shadows: Contending with the Jinn Between

the Visible and the Invisible Worlds 82
4 Path to Holiness: The Quest for Grace in Eighteenth-

Century Damascus 110
5 Beyond the Grave: Graceful Dead, Hallowed Places, and

the Network of the Holy 144
6 Artes Magicae: Thaumaturgical Rituals in Eighteenth-

Century Shām 185
7 Conclusion 228
Index 233
Note on Transliteration
Throughout this volume, the ALA-LC transliteration system is used for the Arabic
language. Well-known toponyms, as well as otherwise commonly known terms,
are presented in their English language forms. For the less-known toponyms and
phenomena, transliterations are frequently given in parentheses.
Figures
6.1 The ism that identified thieves in dream visions. 189

6.2 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Maghribī’s “magic square.” 190
6.3 “Magic square” from the eighteenth-century copy of the
Compendium. 191
Acknowledgments
This book is based on the research which I conducted during my doctoral training at
Central European University. I owe utmost gratitude to my supervisor and teacher,
Professor Dr Aziz Al-Azmeh. I am thankful for his energy, drive, and committed
work with me. Professor Al-Azmeh’s advice was always available, and his never-
ending questions always pointed at new directions for further research and study.
I especially admire the patience it took him to read all versions of this text, starting
from its very early and flimsy phases. I owe most heartfelt thanks to many scholars
whose invaluable advice over the years made this process much easier. Profes
sor Dr Nadia Al-Bagdadi, Professor Dr Tijana Krstić, Professor Dr Tolga Esmer,
Professor Dr Matthias Riedl, Professor Dr László Kontler, Professor Dr Grigor
Boykov, and Professor Dr Gábor Klaniczay helped my research take shape from
its earliest phases.
Professor Dr Jean-Louis Fabiani is a continuous source of inspiration. Discus
sions with him served not only to better structure the themes in this book after my
doctoral research was over but to highlight new study areas – which is delight
ful, as research should never slow down. Professor Dr Rüdiger Lohlker has been
extremely helpful, always willing to cooperate, and point out finer details tied to
my research. His suggestions helped formulate some of the ideas presented in this
book better, and for this, I owe him gratitude. I wish also to emphasize my endless
gratitude to Dr István Kristó-Nagy, Dr Kumail Rajani, and Dr Dunja Rašić who
helped track down some more mysterious details presented within this volume.
I have bothered many to read portions of this text as it was coming into shape.
They showed saintly patience to which I am very grateful. My primary “victim”
was my lovely wife, Teona. In addition, Dr Alexandra Medzibrodszky, Dr Igor
Vranić, Stefan Trajković-Filipović, Benjamin Sasse, and Elena Jebelean demon
strated ṣabr that premodern Sufis would envy.
I would further like to thank the faculty and staff of the Orient-Institut Beirut in
Lebanon. They were most helpful during my research stay there. Special thanks are
owed to Dr Stefan Leder, whose advice helped determine some new research direc
tions. Talks with Dr Astrid Meier made me think of some questions I otherwise
would not pose. She further assisted with locating invaluable source material. The
curiosity and energy of Dr Torsten Wollina made me think in new ways about my
project. My thanks also goes to Dr Kaoukab Chebaro of the American University
Acknowledgments ix
of Beirut for her assistance with the archives, as well as to Dr Kamil Chahine, who
helped obtain some of the source material.
The importance of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Oriental Archives for my
research needs to be emphasized. Many thanks to all the staff members who were
always ready to assist in all possible ways. Special gratitude is owed to Ms Susanne
Henschel of the Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, who offered useful guidelines
that made my work many times easier. In addition, I am grateful to Dr Ulrike Fre
itag and Dr Katharina Lange of the Zentrum Moderner Orient, who helped my
academic work under the sponsorship of the DAAD stipend. Professor Dr Xenia
von Tippelskirch at the Faculty of Philosophy, Humboldt University, offered help
ful remarks, especially upon hearing the presentation of my project, while I much
appreciate the support of Professor Dr Islam Dayeh of the Arabic Studies at the Free
University of Berlin. Finally, my gratitude goes to Professor Dr Marco Schöller
and Professor Dr Jonathan Berkey who, during a conference hosted by the Religion
and Politics Cluster of Excellence in Münster, inadvertently provided inspiration
for the development of my project.
Routledge editors “Joe” Whiting, Euan Rice-Coates, and Aruna Rajendran
eased the publishing process for me, and I thank them from the bottom of my heart
for bearing with me. Many thanks to the copy editing team as well. The administra
tive personnel of the Department of History and the Center for Religious Studies at
Central European University, my alma mater, also need to be given high praises.
Their eagerness to help, quick acting, and proper planning makes them the bind
ing factor that keeps our institutions together. Sadly, due to the relocation of the
university from Budapest to Vienna, some of these wonderful individuals are not
a part of the Department anymore. Special thanks to Esther Holbrook, formerly
of the Religious Studies Program, and the History program coordinators Aniko
Molnar, Agnes Bendik, Zsuzsanna Bajó, Mónika Zsuzsanna Nagy, and Margaretha
Boockmann. An utmost tragedy was the loss of Judit Gergely in 2015. She will
always be remembered.
Outside of academia, I do not know how to repay the support of my friends and
family. The most luminous stars among them are the “Broman” Nikola, Smi, Žika,
Ruža, Mišo, Strale, and Bojana, of whom some were even genuinely interested in
this material. The company of Flora, Dunja, Imogen, Iva, Bogi, Giorgia, Manuel,
Patrick, Mars, Sam and Viktor, whom I met in Budapest, made me a richer person
than I ever was. Special thanks go to Iuliana and Jesus Rosh, without whom it
would be difficult to perform even everyday functions at a very recent point in my
past. My father Zoran did everything to support me. So did my mother, Vojislava,
who did not live to see this work published. May she rest in peace.
1 Patterns of Grace in History
and Scholarship
Networks of the Holy in Eighteenth-
Century Bilād al-Shām
Eminent scholars of Damascus believed in many peculiar competencies of Aḥmad

al-Naḥlāwī (d.1744). Three men once saw al-Naḥlāwī sleeping in three different
city districts during the same night. When a boy fell to his apparent death from a
high rooftop, the people rushed with his body to the shaykh who simply held him in
his hands and brought him back to life. According to legends, al-Naḥlāwī foretold
the death of the Damascene governor, Sulaymān Pasha al-ʿAẓm (d.1743).
During a pilgrimage (ziyāra) to the shrine of the medieval Sufi master and saint,
Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī (d.848 or 875), al-Naḥlāwī sat next to the hallowed tomb
(ḍarīḥ). In this sacred space that was believed to empower wondrous acts,1 one of
the men who escorted the shaykh brought a hefty stone which he set before him,
saying that it would be great relief if he held gold instead. Al-Naḥlāwī gazed at the
stone, remarking that Allah had men who turned stones golden at a glance.2 The
stone indeed turned into gold, yet the man could not pick it up nor move it. React
ing to his astonishment, al-Naḥlāwī gazed at the object once more, changing it back
into stone and sending the man away.
Legends of Al-Naḥlāwī bent expectations of the humanely possible, yet
Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī (1759–1791) wrote about this shaykh in ceremonial,
respectful tones. This Damascene muftī, historian, Sufi Naqshbandīyya adherent,3
and the syndic of the descendants of the Prophet (naqīb al-ashrāf) in Damascus
read about the transformation of the rock from al-Naḥlāwī’s hagiographer and dis
ciple, Muḥammad al-Ja‘farī. A famous biographer himself, al-Murādī reacted with
nothing but pure admiration, referring to al-Naḥlāwī as the “Benediction of Damas
cus” (barakat al-shām).4 In the circles of the most prominent Damascene scholars,
al-Naḥlāwī represented a critically acclaimed Sufi saint. The act of transmutation
was an immediate demonstration of his praeternatural gifts, commonly believed to
be granted through piousness, devotion, and a purity of character unparalleled by
ordinary people. Restriction of access to the wondrous gold, as wonders (karāmāt)
allegedly represented consequences of divine will, and not of people’s wishes or
requests, highlighted beliefs that Allah’s will, and not some other force, operated
through al-Naḥlāwī, endowing him with His grace (baraka).
Situating grace (baraka) in popular religious belief and practice of eighteenth-
century Damascus, this book approaches Sufism5 with aims to expand the historical
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539-1
2 Patterns of Grace in History and Scholarship
knowledge about the relations between religion, thaumaturgy,6 and magic in Otto
man Shām. Sufism, which is until today often described as distinct and separate
from official Islam, had an important role in Syrian societies, where it served as
a primary vehicle for Muslim thaumaturgy. The old belief among Sunni Muslims
that the Sufi-ʿulamā’ could perform wonders by using praeternatural grace, often
defined by the ulamaic circles as Allah’s baraka,7 was widespread in eighteenth-
century Syria. I use the term thaumaturgy to further refer to the Sufi-ʿulamā’
wonder-working practices.
Thaumaturgy represented an important element integral to premodern Sunnism,
as was the case with other scriptural religions. Sufism in eighteenth-century Syria, as
well as elsewhere in the Ottoman Empire, therefore represented a constituent element
of Ottoman Sunni orthodoxy. Sufi traditions had an important role in matters ranging
from quotidian affairs to various state policies, due to widespread beliefs in saintly
wonders (karāmāt; sg. karāma) and prophetic miracles (muʿjizāt; sg. muʿjiza),8 and
the significance of divine grace (baraka) for premodern Muslims. Sufi traditions
in premodern Islam helped cultivate and maintain widespread trust in sodalities of
religious professionals who were believed to perform wonders through divine grace.
The body of premodern Muslim religious professionals contained significant
overlaps between the Sufis and the ʿulamā’. The Sufi-ʿulamā’ with official state
appointments, since the medieval and until the modern period, assumed the role of
what may sociologically be interpreted as a Muslim priestly sodality,9 even though
Islam did not incorporate a theological equivalent of the priestly function. The
Sufi-ʿulamā’ historical role as institutional dispensers of divine grace,10 as well as
their historical relation to the common people and the state, allows for such socio
logical definitions.
Eighteenth-century Syrian Sufi-ʿulamā’ represented the fundamental layer of
the network of the holy, which was the network of baraka, believed to grace virtu
ous people, prominent religious scholars, the living and the deceased saints among
them, and the Muslim prophets. The network of the holy comprised of institution
ally established relations11 between people, places, and objects, based on the wide
spread beliefs in their innate thaumaturgical qualities. Sporadic marginalization
of thaumaturgical practices became more prominent only after the emergence of
Muslim reformist thought during the nineteenth and the twentieth century.
In this book, the term religion refers to the orthodoxy of religious beliefs and
practice, as officially appointed members in an institutionalized office of authority
over a given religious tradition defined it at a given time. Discussions within the
following paragraphs commit to historical analyses of eighteenth-century Ottoman
institutional Sunni orthodoxy. This version of Sunni Islam was no monolith that,
without change, persisted across Eurasia since the seventh century.12 As a tradition
and a religious confession, Islam was changing over the passage of time, acquir
ing numerous historical and socio-anthropological realities pertinent to regions,
periods, and social groups.13 In the following chapters, I refer to Islam and use
the adjective Muslim to indicate human and historical phenomena, pertinent to
times and regions discussed in the following text, which were, as Shahab Ahmad
Patterns of Grace in History and Scholarship 3
indicated, relevant for producing meaning in terms of a hermeneutical engage

ment with what was presumed to have been the Revelation to Muḥammad.14 The
adjective “Muslim” pertains to the religious confession but also refers to a social
environment germane to various regions and periods discussed within this book.15
The religion-magic interplay represents the subject of a vast and lengthy scholarly
debate. Throughout history, religion contained conceptual, technical, and anthropological
overlaps with magic. Some contemporary scholarship therefore sees no reason for these
categories to remain distinct at all times.16 This book is, however, a historical account of
the effort of religious authorities, as well as the common people in eighteenth-century
Ottoman Syria, to create and maintain clear boundaries between these two concepts. Pri
mary historical sources at the same time indicate the existence of a third category, which,
despite its partial procedural overlap with magic, represented a fundamental element of
Ottoman orthodoxy. This was thaumaturgy, a tradition of beliefs and practices pertinent
to the working of wonders in Ottoman Sunnism.
Thaumaturgical practice was by no means unique to Ottoman early modernity
nor to Sunni Islam. It represented an important element in monotheistic religious
traditions and further afield. Before modernity, thaumaturgical traditions of various
religions had the function of providing immediate relief to the common people’s
religious needs17 and of dispensing grace18 for the supplicants. Wonder-working
was very important for the popularization of religion among the common people
and the further social and political integration of religious institutions and religious
authorities in various historical and geographical contexts. Research into thauma
turgy as an integral element of religious orthodoxies prior to modernity, as well
as into the historical agents which kept it distinct from magic, contributes to the
broader field of comparative religions. The results of this research indicate a path
towards more adequate historical narratives about a given region’s religious tra
dition. Furthermore, scholarly studies into thaumaturgical practices offer highly
complex historical and socio-anthropological explanations for the intricate entan
glement of religious institutions with a region’s economy, society, law, and politics.
In attempts to emphasize the historical significance of Sufism, scholarship at
times approached it through the lens of intellectual history. This is often case with
studying thaumaturgical and mystical trends globally.19 Research into Sufism as an
intellectual tradition over time produced many scholarly works that help understand
facts about the life and work of prominent Sufis. The analysis of Sufi thaumaturgy,
and the way it was practiced, may add to these scholarly findings by better illuminat
ing reasons for the relevance and the entanglement of Sufism in political, social, and
economic settings of premodern Muslim states. The thaumaturgical role of the Sufi
ʿulamā’ represented a crucial historical fact that highlights the involvement of mys
tical beliefs and practices in Ottoman socio-politics, economy, and everyday life.
This chapter explores how the historical narrative about religion in eighteenth-
century Ottoman Syria may be aligned with the newer scientific literature on reli
gion across the Ottoman Empire. Some readers may find this problematic, due to
insufficient empirical material and scholarly analyses of eighteenth-century Shām.
However, due to the highly centralized nature of the Sufi ṭuruq and the ʿulamā’
institutions in the Ottoman Empire, it is possible to draw parallels which align the
history of eighteenth-century Syria with the flows and developments across the
Ottoman realm. Such reading of Syrian history further avoids technical issues, as
it aims to produce a narrative of a highly significant Ottoman province, and not
of any exclusive local or Arab20 entity.21 I commence with an overview of rel
evant secondary literature, proceeding to discuss the historical place of Ottoman
Sufism in religious orthodoxy of eighteenth-century Syria. The discussion then
turns to religious authorities in charge of this orthodoxy and the Ottoman networks
of the holy.
Chapter 2 explores analytical tools for the historical study of eighteenth-century
Syrian Sufi-ʿulamā’ thaumaturgy. It explores primary sources to uncover strate
gies through which religious authorities of eighteenth-century Shām maintained
distinctions between thaumaturgy and magic – concepts which were anthropo
logically comparable – so as to make their profession exclusive and define illicit
practices. I explore the historical relationships between religion, thaumaturgy, and
magic in eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria. Discussions then turn to historical
beliefs in divine grace and the structure of the eighteenth-century Syrian network
of the holy. Relevant historical disputes over divine grace and its alleged recipients
are discussed within. During the early modern period, controversies arose around
the religion-magic relationships, or with religious rigorists casting doubt on the
thaumaturgical powers of Muslim saints.
Chapter 3 discusses forces of evil, on the case of the jinn, some harmful spells
and curses. Discussions within illuminate some important religious and socio-
anthropological functions of Allah’s grace. In popular belief and theologians’ texts,
baraka served both as a shield against malevolent forces and as a discursive tool
that indicated exemplary behavior, opposed to odious or undesired acts. Popular
beliefs in the continuity between the material and immaterial were integral to the
premodern understanding of nature and were presupposed in the development of
certain thaumaturgical practices of apotropaic and prophylactic variety. Ways to
contend with forces of evil represented an element in official religion of eighteenth-
century Syria that illuminates the intricate entanglement of thaumaturgical beliefs
and practices with everyday life within the Ottoman Province of Damascus.
Chapter 4 continues the discussion about the significance of baraka as both
a social and a socio-anthropological marker on the case of eighteenth-century
Damascus and this city’s Sufi-scholar networks. It shows that exemplary behavior,
piety, and righteousness in general represented primary conditions for beliefs in
an individual’s baraka. However, Damascene religious authorities had ways of
approaching this relation systematically and institutionally. Acquaintance with tight
Sufi-ʿulamā’ circles, comprised of prominent patrician families, was invaluable for
one’s career as a thaumaturge and scholar. Religious professionals of eighteenth-
century Damascus needed validation from their superiors and peers while training
as Sufis and studying ʿilm, so as to enjoy widespread popular beliefs in their own
thaumaturgical capacities. Their social mobility grew, as well as their opportuni
ties for acquiring lucrative state appointments and properties. Chapter 4 discusses
the most common proceedings of one’s journey from initiation to mastery, and
sometimes sainthood, which was an open social category, reliant on both peer rec
ognition and popular consensus. It further takes note of the wider social category
of the righteous (ṣāliḥūn) who were sometimes venerated for their own wondrous
powers, as well as some other groups whom the people attributed with myths of
divine grace, such as the hallowed fools (majādhīb).
Chapter 5 shows that beliefs in graceful dead and hallowed places influenced a
tradition of religious beliefs and practices that pervaded many domains of human
activity and had a practical role for both regional and statewide sociopolitical strat
egies, as well as regional and imperial economies. When a saint died, the Ottoman
subjects would erect shrines in their honor. It was believed that the saints continued
to emit baraka beyond the grave. Their praeternatural grace allegedly pervaded the
surroundings of the shrines, entering natural objects in the vicinity, while the saintly
presence allegedly often intervened in the affairs of the living. Chapter 5 studies
the importance of hallowed tombs, other sacred locations, and the beliefs in their
grace in eighteenth-century Syria. I discuss the pilgrimage (ziyāra) tradition, as
well as the complex economy that generated around it and around hallowed places.
Discussions in Chapter 5 further take note of various hallowed natural objects, such
as trees, rocks, caves, and water sources, which represented elements in the Syrian
network of the holy.
Chapter 6 discusses eighteenth-century Syrian Sufi-ʿulamā’ thaumaturgical
practice, highlighting the popular beliefs in the benefits of baraka for ritual effi
cacy as an important reason for the perpetuation of beliefs in the Ottoman network
of the holy. The procedure of the Sufi-ʿulamā’ thaumaturgical rituals for the most
part remained stable over centuries. In Chapter 6, I discuss most common ele
ments of Syrian ritual practice, of which some linger until today. Among the main
themes of Chapter 6 are thaumaturgical invocations, rituals at Muslim shrines,
public religious ceremonies, talismanics, and divination. Other factors that were
believed to influence ritual efficacy, such as time and space, are discussed within.
Thaumaturgy and magic represented anthropological homologues, albeit clearly
distinguished through theological treatises, and this chapter briefly reviews accusa
tions of sorcery and the official reactions they caused as they remain documented
in eighteenth-century Syrian primary source material.
The region I selected for my case study, eighteenth-century Syria, refers to the
Ottoman Province of Damascus and the Bilād al-Shām. Since the sixteenth century,
the Province of Damascus was comprised of ten ṣanjaqs: Jerusalem, Gaza, Ṣafad,
Nāblus, ʿAjlūn, Lajjūn, Tadmur (Palmyra), Sidon and Beirut, and Karak and Shaw
bak.22 The city of Damascus represented an important center for religious learning
and an important node of communication for Muslim theologians and the Sufis
of the Ottoman Empire. It was relatively well-connected with Istanbul, while its
Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodalities held strong ties with the Ottoman administration.23 There
existed a high level of mobility for the Syrian scholars and Sufis – educated Mus
lims frequently traveled within Syria, and to other regions as well, which led to the
development of broad networks of knowledge transmission and exchange.
The following analysis aims for a more accurate positioning of thaumaturgy in
early modern Syrian religion, as well as of Sufism in Ottoman Sunni Islam, as it
pertained to eighteenth-century Damascus. My exploration of approaches to study

ing religious authority in charge over Sunni orthodoxy in eighteenth-century Shām
begins with the overview of relevant secondary literature. The social and religious
history of this Ottoman province in the eighteenth century is not well-served by
existing research. The arguments presented in the following paragraphs are there
fore at times exploratory, where the present state of scholarship does not allow for
a synoptic nor a synthetic study.
Sufism in Scholarship, Sufism in Islam: Scholarly Approaches to

Religion of Eighteenth-Century Province of Damascus
Ample research on Sufism emerged in the previous century. Some scholarship
holds that Sufi mystical beliefs and practices gained prominence from the twelfth
century onwards.24 Their historical significance for the Mamluk and Ottoman
states has been well-documented.25 The term “Sufism” for a long time surfaced
whenever scholars researched Muslim mysticism. This was especially the case
with the analyses of the influence of mystical beliefs and practices on the political
establishments dominant in the Middle East and North Africa (as well as further to
the east) prior to the Muslim reforms of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.26
Scholarly approaches to Sufism still suffer from several problems, however.
Classical studies of Sufism often seemed to consider its subject of research distinct
from an official Islam. This old scholarly idea seems to remain in some contempo
rary work on eighteenth-century Syria, even though a significant body of second
ary literature emerged to argue against the classical attitudes and depict a more
reasonable narrative about Sufism in the Ottoman period.27
The scientific study of Sufism seems further hampered by two old dichotomies,
well known among scholars in humanities and religious studies. Their simplicity
fails to portray the complex dynamics of the early modern Syrian religious beliefs
and practices. They are often entangled and together create problems with attempts
to design a definition of Sufism that is precise enough yet sufficiently broad to
account for the full extent of the available factual material. One is reflected in
occasional scholarly descriptions of Sufism as a heterodoxy juxtaposed against the
orthodox binary of mainstream Islam. Sufism is also often portrayed as the “low”
pole in the traditional high-low dichotomy. Classifications of Sufism along these
binaries partially caused the lack of accurate positioning of Muslim mysticism in
religious studies today, further generating issues with the scholarly research of Syr
ian early modern religion.
The “high” and “low” binaries to this day maintain a considerable presence in
academic literature dealing with this, as well as many other topics.28 In the frame
work of the high-low binary, Sufism is supposed to represent the “low” – piety of
the masses, a form of popular religion,29 or religion of antinomian groups,30 against
an Islam of the elites, based on a puritanical reading of the Scripture. This dichot
omy possibly acquired a greater currency in the studies of Islam with Ernest Gell
ner’s research about sainthood in Morocco. The binaries of “popular” and “elite”
are obvious in his “pendulum swing” theory of Islam.31 Due to the long usage of the
adjective “popular” with reference to cultures portrayed as inferior to their “high”

and “elite” counterparts on the binary scale,32 writing about Sufism as an element
of “popular religion” today might strike the reader almost as pejorative.
Some recent scholarship on early modern Ottoman Syria went beyond the high-
low binaries. Efforts of such authors to redeem the “popular” customs of the Otto
man Bilād al-Shām33 resonate with broader historiographical attempts to locate the
ordinary people in history and improve historical knowledge about their particular
temporal and spatial contexts.34 However, these efforts in some cases led to the
other extreme, of depicting early modern Syrian religion almost entirely as a prod
uct of the common people’s beliefs and practices. In 2014, James Grehan’s study of
Sufism and popular religion in early modern Ottoman Syria concluded that Muslim
eighteenth-century religious beliefs and practices represented a “triumph of reli
gion ‘from below’.”35
I approach Islam of eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria, along with its Sufism,
as a product of interactions between Ottoman religious professionals and the rest
of the Syrian societies. Eighteenth-century Syrian Islam was influenced by the
combination of the latitudinarianism of official religious authorities and religious
and magical beliefs held across the social scale. Some caution is therefore neces
sary when the implementation of strict terms is concerned. I discuss eighteenth-
century Syrian religion not as a product of high and elite cultures nor as that of “the
masses” exclusively. The cultivation and maintenance of a vast body of religious
beliefs and practices represents a process of elaborate exchange between groups
of professionals, erudites, jurists, as well as the common people, under the careful
surveillance of the state authorities.36 I do not study a “religion of the masses,” nor
do I aim to employ the high-low dichotomy. Instead, when examining Sufism in
Islam, I predominantly refer to those practices which appealed to all social strata
in eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria37 and thus represented cultural property avail
able to all its inhabitants. If the word “popular” emerges in the following text, it
should not be understood as a term referring to the binary discussed earlier. I use
the adjective to indicate those cultural items described by Shirley Fedorak as the
sum of “performance, expression and symbolism that both influences and reflects
human culture”38 – the collective representations39 of the Syrian eighteenth-century
Ottoman subjects. The popularity of Sufism is evident. For a long number of cen
turies, it represented a corpus of widespread beliefs and practices that attracted and
welcomed the participation of all Muslims, regardless of their rank or status. It was
no different in eighteenth-century Bilād al-Shām.40
Another well-established dichotomy in the study of Islam (and other scriptural
religions) juxtaposes orthodox beliefs and practices against heterodox, or simply
heretical. This dichotomy is most often entangled with that of the high-low. The
implementation of the orthodox-heterodox binary reflects the old presumptions
that the orthodoxies of Muslim establishments continuously represented a set of
doctrinal, jurisprudential, and sociopolitical norms based upon the early sources
of Islam – the Qur’ān, the Ḥadīth, and the Sunna, which were presumed nomocen
tric yet not mystical.41 Attempts have been made to break through this dichotomy,
yet some of them bring more confusion than clarifications. For instance, Julian
Baldick dispatched the orthodox-heterodox binaries, asserting that they inherently

corresponded only to the Christian setting. Baldick insisted that heterodoxies could
not exist in Islam because orthodoxy was never present. He underlined that Islam
represents a scriptural religion without an official priesthood – a matter that my
research amply treats – concluding that no authoritative body existed to establish
any orthodoxy and eliminating the possibilities of any deviances.42
Other suggestions have been offered to neutralize the orthodox-heterodox
dichotomy in the previous decade. In his 2014 study of eighteenth-century Syria,
James Grehan offered an approach that partially reflected upon the theories of
Ernest Gellner, for whom Sufism represented a phenomenon which tended to
emerge and grow stronger wherever and whenever the state authority weakened,
especially on the margins of state systems.43 For Grehan, the historical popularity
of thaumaturgy in Syria owed to the gradual and continuous filtering of an “agrar
ian religion” into the cities of early modern Ottoman Shām. The strong presence
of this “agrarian religion” represented the consequence of the reliance of early
modern Muslim urban centers on their countryside and the dominance of an agrar
ian culture in both urban and rural hubs. Grehan concluded that “agrarian religion”
of the Ottoman realm represented eighteenth-century Syrian religious mainstream,
composed of popular beliefs and certain Sufi teachings, which overwhelmed the
high and literate elite ulamaic minority over time.44 This one-sided definition relies
on the orthodox-heterodox and high-low dichotomies equally and seems not to
fully acknowledge the complexity of Syrian eighteenth-century religion. Fur
thermore, Grehan’s theories might imply that the Syrian thaumaturgical tradition
represented a distinct and separate body of practices and beliefs in relation to an
official Islam. As it affects my case study, this occasional scholarly presumption
merits a brief discussion.
The scholarly separation of Sufi thaumaturgy from Islam represents in equal
measure the consequence of reliance on the previously outlined dichotomies and
the lack of consensus about the historical origins of Sufi beliefs and practices. Nile
Green indicated that the researchers of Sufism faced considerable difficulties in
attempts to analyze the origins of Muslim mysticism due to the scarcity of early
Muslim sources.45 The resulting debates at times questioned the relation of Sufism
to Islam, and it seems as if such discussions were more focused on pronouncing
upon the orthodoxy of Sufism than studying its history. Earlier academic debates,
for instance, questioned the potential of the Muslim Scripture to give rise to Sufi
traditions.46 Such debates did not acknowledge that historical developments – and
religions, as historical facts – most often emerge from a given set of circumstances
in a given time and space, and not from books. Written texts, however, may be later
used to lend credibility to a certain emergence, as the case may have been with
Sufism during the medieval period.47
Scholarship still occasionally questions what Sufism represents in Islam. Aca
demic depictions of Sufism often distinguish it from other Muslim “trends.”48
Alexander Knysh is opposed to creating artificial dichotomies between historical
versions of Sufism and Islam. He outlines the process through which the studies
of Sufism came to rely upon a joint enterprise consisted of numerous internal and
external components. To list but a few, Muslim sources from the medieval period
until modernity, which were sometimes hostile to certain practices in Sufism, or
denied it fully, Orientalist studies of the subject, works of Muslim reformists,
as well as the contemporary scholarship which is dependent on earlier historical
sources, all influence the scientific perception of Sufism today.49 However, Knysh’s
definition of Sufism as “Islam in miniature, with the major features of Sufism pre
sent in Islam and vice versa,” may in some cases appear problematic. The elabora
tion that Sufism, like Islam, contained all features of a religious tradition, without
highlighting the overlaps may be carelessly misunderstood to imply clear distinc
tions between the two phenomena.50 Furthermore, continuous emphasis needs to be
placed on the functions of Sufism which kept it integrated into the various versions
of official Islam throughout centuries. This book aims to contribute by discussing
Muslim thaumaturgical beliefs and practices in Syria as one aspect of the func
tional link which made Sufism an integral element of eighteenth-century official
religion in the Ottoman Province of Damascus. I approach Sufism as a mystical
tradition which, for a long time (and before the modern period), represented a
constituent element of official and mainstream religion, through its function as
a primary medium for Muslim thaumaturgical traditions, along with many other
mystical, ascetic, and devotional elements comprising the doctrine, beliefs, and
practices in Islam.
Instead of employing dichotomies of orthodox and heterodox, or high and low,
which may lead to distinctions between mainstream Islam and Sufism, I argue that
Sufism was inseparable from eighteenth-century Syrian Sunnism. Its roots were
deep within premodern Ottoman religious traditions. It was only during the modern
period that Muslim reformist thought attempted to push Sufism to the margins as
a heterodox body of superstitions. Modern reformers achieved varying degrees of
success in various regions and times. Before them, Sufism represented an important
component of practiced Islam, which had a considerable influence on the social,
economic, and political fields within the early modern Ottoman Empire. Recent
scholarship produced ample evidence of this influence, and it may be worthwhile
to explore the ways to align the history of early modern Syrian religion with some
of the more recent scholarly findings.
Religion of an Imperial Province: Eighteenth-Century Syrian

Sufism, its Primary Sources, and Contemporary Scholarship
Many studies were published on the history of Sufism in the Ottoman Empire,
predominantly focused on Istanbul, Anatolia, and the Ottoman Balkans. Yet what
kinds of processes allowed for the proliferation of Sufi ideas, beliefs, and practices
during the Ottoman era, and how do these processes relate to early modern Prov
ince of Damascus? The following discussion aims to suggest a way of filling the
gap in the history of eighteenth-century Syria through the framework of existing
secondary literature.
The functional overlap between various ulamaic and Sufi groups in eighteenth-
century Syria represents one of the main foci of my study. In eighteenth-century
Ottoman Bilād al-Shām, this overlap was demonstrated by officially appointed

representatives of a highly centralized network of religious authorities. Of high
importance were individuals such as Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿĀbidīn (1784–1836),
ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī (1641–1731), or Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī (d.1749). Ibn ʿĀbidīn
was a Damascene jurist and a Naqshbandīyya and Khalwatīyya Sufi order member.
He was a descendant of a long line of Muslim scholars. In Damascus, he held the
state-appointed position of a Fatwa Secretary (amīn al-fatwā).51 In his capacity as
a jurist in charge of writing legal opinions, Ibn ʿĀbidīn wrote around fifty works
that even today influence Hanafite jurists.52 ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī was also a
descendant of a long line of Muslim scholars and wealthy Damascene urban patri
cians. In addition, he was the highest-ranking Sufi shaykh and saint of his time.
He belonged to the Qādirīyya and Naqshbandīyya orders and worked as a muftī,
taught in many madrasas, and delivered sermons in mosques around the Province
of Damascus.53 He trained many students, among whom was Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī,
one of the most influential shaykhs of the Khalwatīyya order.54 Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī
produced a great number of works, describing his pilgrimages and leaving trac
tates on techniques of prayer and worship. He was a skilled networker who left
considerable influence on many Sufi- ʿulamā’ as well as other Ottoman notables.55
The majority of the most prominent Muslim authors, since the medieval period
and before modernity, were illustrative of the Sufi-ulamaic convergence. Such was
the case with widely known Ibn Khaldūn (1332–1406), a conservative adherent
to Ash’arite theology. Ibn Khaldūn held one of his mentors, Abū Mahdī ʿῙsā Ibn
al-Zayyāt – an Andalusian gnostic, “great among the saints”56 – in high esteem. Ibn
Khaldūn served as the rector of the Baybarsīyya Sufi lodge in Egypt57 and wrote a
tractate on Sufism, which was very influential during the premodern times, while
for today’s historians, it represents a valuable resource.58 These scholars exemplify
powerful individuals with authority and social status defined through the engage
ment with the ulamaic and Sufi institutions, wealth, and networking.
Social categories frequently employed by eighteenth-century Damascene eru
dites imply that the Sufi-ulamaic convergences were widely considered a matter
of course. For instance, al-Murādī left a biographical dictionary of eighteenth-
century Syrian notables. Aside from the commoners (al-ʿāmma), this text most
often refers to the Damascene classes of the scholars (al-ʿulamā’) and the righteous
(al-ṣāliḥūn).59 Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s writing often indicates a similar social division.60 The
term al-ʿulamā’ in eighteenth-century sources from Bilād al-Shām seems to rep
resent an overarching category which refered to appointed legal authorities, thau
maturgical professionals, and ranking Sufis (such as al-Nābulsī, for instance). The
term indicates popular expectations of the overlap between the Sufis and the Mus
lim scholars in eighteenth-century Bilād al-Shām. This functional overlap was not
confined to one century nor to one given province. In scholarship today, however,
the term ʿulamā’ often tends to imply scholars and jurists, yet not thaumaturges.
With the exception of Albert Hourani and Aziz Al-Azmeh, historians very rarely
noticed that the scientific approach to the premodern ulamaic role through such
limitations distracts from understanding these groups’ priestly function in various
types of historical Muslim states.61 Since the Abbasid and until the modern period,
the ʿulamā’ establishment served mystagogic, initiatory62 and thaumaturgical func

tions,63 in addition to their other responsibilities. Likewise, Sufi initiates with ula
maic careers in mind were required to learn about the ulamaic scholarly methods,
techniques, and disciplines, along with the requirements of their respective orders.64
Hüseyin Yılmaz traces an unprecedented level of entanglement between Sufi
and ulamaic circles during the Ottoman period. Due to heavy reliance on the Sufi
orders, they became invaluable for the Empire’s spread.65 The participation of
Sufis in ulamaic offices had much earlier roots. Throughout the early medieval
era, Sufis in the Middle East strove to bring their teachings in line with the main
stream Sunni doctrine.66 Mysticism played a significant role both for ulamaic
sodalities in state administration67 and individual scholars. Through the dissemi
nation of texts and oral transmission, Sufism gradually became more aligned to
the ulamaic teachings.68 With ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Qushayrī (986/987–1072/1073),
Sufism seems to have reached the form in which it was able to resist charges
of heterodoxy.69 The prominent Sufi shaykhs from the eleventh century onwards
seemed to move seamlessly between madrasas and ṭuruq, demonstrating shared
practice, language, and symbols.70
Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, Jonathan Berkey, and many other scholars see the jurist
cum mystic, Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad al-Ghazālī (1058–1111) as a pivotal figure
for the development of Sufism.71 Al-Ghazālī’s work embodied the growing accept
ance of Sufism by the ulamaic circles and contributed to the gradual harmoniz
ing of institutional Sufi training and madrasa education.72 The utilization of the
madrasa system by the Sufis was an important step towards the “hard institutional
ization” of Sufi orders.73 The institutionalization of the madrasa system, started by
the Saljuqs,74 reached its peak during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. By the
1500s, most madrasa teachers and judges had pensions, were divided into ranks,
and had grades under state auspices. Most scholars’ names figured on state-pay
ledgers.75
Since the eleventh century, the gradual alignment of Sufi doctrines to official
versions of Muslim orthodoxy occurred in parallel with the development of institu
tional Sufism – a transition from the individual master-disciple relationship model
to the Sufi ṭuruq (sg. ṭarīqa; [Sufi] “path”) with large followings.76 Very early on,
there existed a tendency of grouping Sufi adherents into clearly defined communi
ties with distinct boundaries and internal rules.77 Erik Ohlander traces the processes
through which Sufi education became increasingly tied to a particular location
between roughly the eleventh and the thirteenth century. Sufi lodges became the
places in which the core madrasa education was replicated by the disciples under
a shaykh’s supervision.78
It is possible to trace the development of the lodge since its early emergence.
Dina Le Gall distinguishes the three stages of the Sufi lodge development as the
ribāṭ, the khanqa, and the zāwiyā. The early ribāṭ’s function was to host Sufis, as
well as the poor of both genders. The khanqa in general represented a royal or a
princely foundation that hosted numerous Sufis, who were however not attached to
a particular master or a Sufi path. The third stage, the zāwiyā, was reserved specifi
cally for a certain order’s master and his disciples.79 Ohlander adds the fourth stage,
the ṭā’ifa, which developed during the Ottoman fifteenth century as an institution
alized network of lodges belonging to the same order and under the supervision of
a supreme master (shaykh al-ṭarīqa).80
The institutionalization of the location and method of teaching ran in parallel
with the continuous alignment of Sufi doctrines with Sunni orthodoxy as the centu
ries passed, allowing for a wider dissemination of texts as highly important media
for the spread of Sufi ideas. During the Mamluk and Ottoman centuries, the names
of scholars such as al-Suhrawardī and al-Gīlānī81 became eponyms to indicate a
particular set of doctrines, practices, and methods tied to increasingly differentiat
ing Sufi orders (ṭuruq). Their adherents commenced with codifying the collec
tive past into concrete, self-regulating methods of organization and practice which
were highly convenient for further reproduction.82 Adherents to a given order were
expected to function as brotherhoods based upon the medieval futuwwā principle,83
its elaborations laden with confraternal expressions aimed to describe a commu
nity of equals in faith.84 They were comparable to the concepts of brotherhoods in
Christ which featured in European sources during the premodern times.85 However,
clear ranks between the orders’ disciples seem to have begun emerging as early
as the eleventh century, with initiates at the bottom and the masters of orders at
the top.86 A transition was identifiable, meanwhile, from individual masters as the
focus of all learning to the institution of the ṭarīqa with specific teachings, practice,
and a set of doctrines.87
The legitimacy and authenticity of a given order was symbolized by that order’s
silsila, which at the same time legitimized the authority of every individual shaykh
of that order.88 Silsila represented a genealogical chain of knowledge and baraka
transmission and succession that ranged from the still living Sufis all the way to
a Sufi order’s eponymous founder, and at times further until the Prophet, often
through ʿAlī Ibn Abī Ṭālib.89 Silsilas were fundamental for internal organization
of various Sufi paths, as they represented core principles the ṭuruq were based
on.90 Rooted into the silsila principle, the ṭuruq became efficient mechanisms of
saint-making through the initiation of individuals,91 simultaneously functioning as
baraka-conducting chains92 and isnads leading to important historical Muslims to
ensure an order’s integrity. The orders’ masters were to be obeyed without ques
tion.93 They commanded authority as the successors of a long line of Sufi shaykhs
instead of functioning as individual teachers to isolated groups.94 The growingly
bureaucratized ṭuruq gradually became institutionalized channels for the dissemi
nation of Sufism as the secret legacy of the Prophet.95
During the early Ottoman period, emerging Sufi orders steadily grew in popu
larity among the Ottoman subjects.96 While the Ottoman administration strove to
consolidate its authority over official imperial religion and deal with its rivals –
such as the emerging Safavid dynasty – many orders that aligned with Sunnism
became much closer to the state top. Such was the case most prominently with
the Khalwatīyya and Naqshbandīyya orders.97 At the same time, efforts have been
made to align potentially problematic doctrines to the legislative norms of the
Ottoman government. Illustrative examples are provided by the scholarly studies
focused on the Bektashi order’s history.98
The works of Ibn ʿArabī (d.1240) were invaluable for the history of the Ottoman
Empire’s official religion. Early Ottoman scholars demonstrated mixed reactions to
his works,99 yet he was later considered the patron saint of the Ottoman dynasty.100
Dubbed “the Grand Master (al-shaykh al-akbar)” by the Sufis of the following
generations,101 Ibn ʿArabī received his spiritual and philosophical training from a
Muḥammad Ibn Qāsim al-Tamīmī (d.1207/1208), who was a prominent Ḥadīth
scholar and a biographer.102 He was buried in Damascus, and Selim I (1470–1520)
endowed a large shrine complex around his tomb.103 The commissioning of Ibn
ʿArabī’s shrine represented one of many pivotal events in the framework of the
Ottoman policy of institutionalizing the Sufi ṭuruq under the control of the ruling
class.104
Ottoman sources from the late fifteenth century onwards show an unprecedented
degree of ṭuruq organization as institutional networks across the Empire and under
control of state administration. The centralization of Sufi lodges’ networks reflects
the Ottoman rulers’ effort to organize the Empire’s religion (and its orthodoxy),
structure the orders of religious professionals to conform to state policies, and
respond to pressures from both within and outside its borders.105 Investigations
into Ottoman imperial patronage reveal a process of legitimization in which the
state administration continuously distinguished orthodox and illicit practices.106
This process extended over both the Sufi and the ulamaic sodalities in the early
modern period.
The participation of state administration in the institutionalization of Sufi net
works had roots in the medieval period. The governments of medieval Muslim states
significantly affected the development of Sufi orders. Erik Ohlander criticizes the
apparent reluctance of certain scholarship to acknowledge the ruling class’s sys
tematic patronage of popular Sufi-scholars and the ṭuruq from the medieval period
onwards.107 During the Abbasid reign, many prominent Sufis were appointed to
high-ranking positions of significant social and political influence,108 such was the
case with Abū Ḥafs al-Suhrawardī (1145–1234) under al-Nāṣir (1158–1225).109 The
ulamaic sodalities had continuously assisted the Abbasid state in locating ways to
justify the dynasty’s right to caliphate.110 The Abbasid caliph was claimed to be
graced by God and appointed to ensure the natural cycle of divine order.111 In turn,
the caliph provided legitimacy to the Sufi-ulamaic sodalities and made partner
ships with them through granting tenures and official appointments. In addition,
many Sufi-ʿulamā’ received lucrative landed properties and other privileges that
allowed for a significant degree of economic power.112 In the aftermath of the Mon
gol conquests, Sufi orders assisted the institutional and ideological amalgamation
of various communities, amidst a vast and heterogeneous domain characterized by
political discord.113 The Mongols themselves soon started to rely on the ṭuruq for
a number of purposes ranging from education to proselytization.114 Researchers
noticed a comparable state of affairs during the Ayyubid115 and the Saljuq116 reign.
During the early modern period, Sufi ṭuruq assisted in justifying the mystical
legacy of the Ottoman caliphate.117 While these mystical orders were conforming
to the imperial expectations of the social and religious norms, they were becoming
increasingly popular among the Ottoman elites. The state enforced Friday prayers
and commissioned the erection of numerous madrasas, mosques and masjids,

allowing the Sufi-ʿulamā’ to compete for appointments.118 By the sixteenth century,
Sufis could hold important government posts, such as tenures at courts. Adherents
of various mystical orders were taking a growingly significant role in many politi
cal and jurisprudential matters. Michael Winter demonstrates the involvement of
Sufis in state affairs on the case of ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Shaʿrānī (1493–1565). In
Winter’s work, it is apparent that personal relationships between Sufi masters and
office holders increased the shaykhs’ potential to influence state appointments.119
The participation of the Sufi-ʿulamā’ in politics, society, and economy of vari
ous Muslim polities during the premodern centuries is well-documented.120 Similar
to Sufi networks, during the Ottoman era, the increased bureaucratization of the
state affected an unparalleled degree of centralization of Ottoman ulamaic groups
and their official functions.121 The highest ranks of the ʿulamā’ were responsible
to the two chief judges. They were in turn under the supervision of the shaykh
al-islām, who operated under the rule of the sultan.122 Over time, the ulamaic net
works became highly exclusive and privileged social groups.123
Most individuals who later gained reputation as prominent Sufi-ʿulamā’ com
menced with their education at home with their families. They later joined one or
several of the available Sufi orders. A large number of the Sufis, in addition, sought
supervisors among the ʿulamā’ and received education which qualified them as
jurists, theologians, or teachers. The Ottoman administration frequently appointed
Sufi-ʿulamā’ members of patrician families at important jurisprudential and other
administrative positions.124 However, even those of humble origins were able to
accumulate social capital through acquaintances with the members of these net
works.125 Officially appointed Sufi-scholars enjoyed askeri status, superior to the
ordinary tax-paying subjects, and were immune to execution and confiscation.126
The ulamaic circles accumulated finances along with landed properties and the
waqf institutions127 that secured the social and material status of families over the
ensuing centuries.128 Careerism intensified among the appointed scholars, with an
increase in documented attempts to manipulate occupational benefits for the pros
perity of the appointees’ families.129 Madeline Zilfi sees the eighteenth century as a
period of true arrogance and power of the ʿulamā’,130 caused in part by the dimin
ishing of the Kadızadeli movement.131 Throughout the 1700s, the ʿulamā’ and the
palace formed the same ruling enterprise.132
Prominent shaykhs often superintended lucrative property endowments,
obtained important appointments from the state,133 and further networked with other
groups of Ottoman imperial elites. Gatherings in Sufi lodges, for instance, as well
as private assemblies (majlis, pl. majālis), allowed disciples and masters to mingle
among influential merchants, artisans, and other notables.134 For instance, personal
networks of the Khalwatīyya shaykh Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī, a student of al-Nābulsī,
allowed him to become the gray eminence behind the Khalwatīyya initiation cam
paign in Cairo. Al-Bakrī’s efforts led to a significant rise in the Khalwatīyya disci
ples’ numbers. Many of them obtained important positions from the state. Nine of
the Khalwatīyya members acquired tenures in the Cairene al-Azhar, with al-Bakrī’s
student Muḥammad Ibn Sālim al-Ḥifnī (d.1767), a Pole of his time, becoming its
rector.135 The Khalwatīyya’s popularity growth was interpreted in scholarship as
this order’s revival.136
In the eighteenth century, the Ottoman ʿulamā’ maintained the use of traditional
methods to control their knowledge transmission which also guarded access to
their exclusive networks. The circulation of knowledge was regulated through the
system of granting ijāzas. Religious scholars granted their students with several
types of such documents to attest to the completion of various training stages. ʿIlm
was taught in madrasas or mosques. The students could hope to obtain an ijāza,
which would allow them to further transmit or discuss a particular text. Further
more, certain ijāzas recognized a student’s aptitude to discuss a particular sub
ject or confirmed the successful completion of training in a particular discipline.
Finally, a shaykh could grant ijāzas of a general character, which would allow the
students to teach all works that their master taught as well. All such documents
represented institutional elements of one’s education.137 For the Muslim scholars,
these certificates were invaluable while they looked for opportunities to teach law
or issue legal opinions. With appropriate certification, the students would be able
to pursue appointments in the legal or the educational madrasa system. Later on,
some advanced to the position of judges or mudarrisūn.138
Sufi knowledge transmission also ended with the granting of ijāzas. These doc
uments certified that the initiates trained in a particular discipline, allowed them to
further transmit particular texts, or to teach and initiate new disciples.139 Sufi ijāzas
were legitimized through an order’s silsila. Upon initiation, the disciples would
tie a knot that symbolized the relationship of authority with their masters.140 New
initiates would receive a cloak and a cap as symbols of their office.141 This act was
comparable to initiation and graduation ceremonies in other scriptural religions.142
Hagiographies of saintly Sufi-ʿulamā’ were highlighting the entanglement
between ʿilm and taṣawwuf,143 over time becoming the evidence of the increasing
politicization of the ṭuruq.144 Communal Sufi affiliations represented a key mecha
nism in the transition of Sufism from a secluded collection of spiritual teachings to
an institution of widespread social and political presence in the Ottoman Empire.145
The Sufis came to represent an obvious corporate identity with specific gather
ing centers, garments, “vows of allegiance and an arcane idiolect.”146 The Sufism
that was taught represented an “increasingly institutionalized, confessionalized and
domesticated” doctrine.147 The Ottoman state administration persisted in its efforts
to centralize and align doctrinal and ritual conformity to social and political trends
of the period148 – the appointment of Sufi shaykhs, preachers and teachers largely
came under control of Istanbul.149 The masters of those orders that were most cor
respondent to the Ottoman political designs acquired immense renown,150 which
attracted numerous scholars. The Sufi-ʿālim overlap became a common occur
rence151 and has recently been documented in many relevant scholarly works.152
In light of this premodern overlap between the Sufi and ulamaic institutions, it is
possible to discuss the distinction between Sufism and official Islam only after the
advent of Muslim reformism. However, a highly relevant element for defining the
premodern Sufi-ulamaic role is still missing from the present discussion. In addi
tion to lucrative endowments, enviable prestige in various social environments, and
sociopolitical influence, Sufi-scholars of the Ottoman Empire enjoyed widespread
beliefs that they were the recipients of divine grace, which enabled them to per
form wonders. In addition to their other duties, they served as intercessors between
the common people and God and as institutional dispensers of divine grace. The
ʿulamā’ of eighteenth-century Damascus served as leaders of prayers (imāms), held
sermons as khāṭibs, or preached as wuʿāẓ and performed other devotional func
tions. As I discuss in the following chapters, the eighteenth-century Syrian Sufi
ʿulamā’ performed daily thaumaturgical interventions such as curing injuries and
sicknesses, or banishing daemons through exorcisms.153 They assisted the people
in baraka-harvesting. It was also believed that their baraka prevented misfortunes
or natural disasters.154 These beliefs were comparable to the widespread beliefs in
the thaumaturgical power of the Catholic priesthoods in early modern Europe.155
The practices and beliefs related to divine grace156 represented mechanical157
aspects of premodern scriptural religions158 and were, as Keith Thomas observes in
his lengthy study of early modern England, impossible to separate from devotional
religion prior to the Reformation (in Catholicism,159 for instance, as well as in other
forms of Christianity160), and the modern reforms in Islam.161 Anthropologically
and technically comparable to various magical practices162 yet, through a long line
of theologians, defined as the power to cause wonders through divine will, the
mechanical aspect of Islam – its thaumaturgy – was as important as its devotional
counterpart, and the two were inseparable in the domain of religious belief and
practice. It was widely believed that Allah’s grace, baraka, represented the energy
behind thaumaturgical acts. The beliefs in baraka tied the Sufi and ulamaic confra
ternities into an institutionalized body of divine grace dispensers.163
A Network of Wonders: The Place for Sufism

in Eighteenth-Century Shām
This book approaches Sufism as a body of mystical beliefs and practices which
contained the mechanical aspects164 of Islam, and which was largely comprised of
Muslim thaumaturgical traditions. I consider Sufism inseparable from premodern
Islam, where it contained a body of fully Muslim thaumaturgical beliefs and prac
tices that inspired the cultivation and ensured maintenance of the Muslim network
of the holy. The network of the holy further represented the foundation of the Otto
man early modern state religion.
The Ottoman network of the holy was reflected in early modern popular beliefs
in special individuals, places, and objects, interconnected by divine grace. Its
foundation was the network of religious professionals defined by the Sufi-ʿulamā’
whose authority over religious matters was certified by the Ottoman administra
tion. The beliefs in their baraka were endorsed by the state as well, for instance
through granting important appointments to the alleged wonder-workers or through
public demonstrations of belief in ulamaic grace.165 The network of the holy further
comprised of the social networks of the Sufi ṭuruq and of living Muslim saints. It
contained a system for the conveyance of Allah’s grace, most often in the form of
pedigrees of individuals through the pedigrees of Sufi paths.
The eighteenth-century Shāmī network of the holy was widely conceived as
laden with baraka and was believed to have only partially been immanentist –
observable in the material world.166 According to common beliefs, the network
of Allah’s baraka was comprised of praeternatural, or transcendental167 entities
as well, such as the deceased saints, as well as the prophets and other mystical
beings, like al-Khiḍr.168 Al-Khiḍr was frequently referred to as a saint in eighteenth-
century Shām. He was widely venerated and had many shrines in his honor.169
Such entities were believed to coexist with the living human beings, albeit unseen,
and to participate in daily affairs, especially when invoked to do so through ritu
alistic action.
Baraka was further believed to reside in certain natural objects, such as special
trees, rocks or caves, joined within a particularly “Muslim folk geology.”170 I con
sider such objects elements of the Ottoman network of baraka. Together with hal
lowed shrines, they formed a religious landscape that served as a focus and catalyst
for the communal sense of confessional identity.171
Studies into the Ottoman network of the holy contain potential to indicate an
intricate religious dynamic that in significant ways affected the religious, social,
political, and economic life of the Ottoman Empire. With the network of the holy,
the Sufi-ʿulamā’, through their thaumaturgical and devotional, as well as sociopo
litical and economic engagement, cultivated and maintained the corpus of early
modern Muslim beliefs and practices among the Ottoman subjects. They kept their
authority over religious matters by continually claiming association with the divine
through Allah’s grace.
I argue that the combination of Sufi training and official state appointments
of an ʿālim during the Ottoman period represents the key to locating and defining
functions of what might be sociologically (but not theologically or liturgically)
identified as a Muslim priesthood,172 without intentions to create blind and robust
comparisons with, for instance, Christian priestly establishments.173 I use the term
“priesthood” in reference to the highly exclusive, establishmentarian group of reli
gious professionals who over time kept particular vocabulary, particular behav
ior, as well as special garments as symbols of their office – Alexander Russell,
for instance, noticed that established Sufi shaykhs in eighteenth-century Aleppo
wore ulamaic robes in public.174 The members of this priestly sodality were united
by a common educational itinerary, a strong sense of corporate identity, preroga
tives and privileges, and a monopoly over devotional and educational functions.
In addition, the ʿulamā’ traditionally kept the idea that they were the successors of
prophets after the demise of the caliphate.175 The Sufi-ʿulamā’ were further in prac
tice defined and self-defined through their de facto role as intercessors – between
Allah and the people, as well as between political authorities and their subjects –
even though Islam had no clear theological equivalent of this function.176 The Sufi
ʿulamā’ sodality institutionally dispensed grace and brought other transcendental
goods to the people,177 in addition to its work on legislation, education, and social
control. Such beliefs are further evident from the interaction of the Damascenes
with foreign priests. James Grehan noticed the Damascenes’ belief that European
Christian clerics possessed thaumaturgical powers of their own.178
The historical concept of Allah’s grace reflects Weber’s sociological conceptu
alization of charisma,179 defined as a quality that distinguished certain individuals
as allegedly endowed with praeternatural competencies.180 Instead of indicating the
decline of charisma in the face of emerging institutions and bureaucracies, how
ever,181 primary sources show that the scholars of the Ottoman Empire continued
to rely on the charisma of their office,182 based in large part on the popular belief in
their grace. The fluidity of the process through which charisma passed from indi
viduals to institutions allowed for the growth of the network of the holy, as well as
for the spread of Sufi teachings and the cults of saints across the Ottoman imperial
domains and broader. Beliefs in their grace were invaluable for the Sufi-ulamaic
circles to establish an exclusive niche for their profession over the passage of time,
accompanied by its own prerogatives and privileges.
Religion, Thaumaturgy, and Magic in Ottoman Syria: Possible

Scholarly Approaches
Another highly important point I make in this book is that eighteenth-century Syr
ian thaumaturgical practices were technically, anthropologically, and conceptu
ally homologous to magical practices and beliefs present in the region and further
afield. Comparisons may be drawn to show that such was the state of affairs across
the Ottoman realm. However, the Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodalities over time developed
social, legal, and theological distinctions183 between wonder-working and magic,
creating a boundary between themselves as the institutional baraka-dispensing
body, and the rest of the people, who were forbidden to study and practice thauma
turgy without official guidance. The relationship between magic (siḥr) and wonder
(karāma) in premodern Islam seems comparable to relationships between thau
maturgy and magic in other religious traditions. Studies in comparative religion,
however, expose a gap pertinent to analyses of this binary.
The anthropological, technical, and conceptual similarity between certain reli
gious rituals and magic prompted Eugene Subbotsky to conclude that religion con
tained sanctioned magic.184 Subbotsky’s definition reflects the indicated scholarly
gap that owes to the rarity with which discussions of thaumaturgy feature in schol
arly works. The consequences of this rarity appear in scholarship on Sufism as
well – without debates on thaumaturgy, Muslim mysticism was at times compared
to Arab magic (siḥr),185 and these categories seem blurred in contemporary litera
ture.186 It is possible to identify the influence of broader scholarly works on religion
and magic in scholarship about Sufism as well. The evolutionary theories of reli
gion, which see magic as a primitive form of religious behavior,187 influenced later
authors to locate magic at the margins of religions.188 Emile Durkheim explained
religion as an already advanced system of subcults and practices, which represents
a higher stage of the evolution of faith. Durkheim held that magic remains outside
the boundaries of religion.189 Similar attitudes may be observed in Grehan’s narra
tive which may imply the development and popularization of the beliefs in baraka
and wonder-working traditions from within a widespread and prevalent agrarian

milieu.190 For Marcel Mauss and other classical scholars on these subjects, such
as James Frazer and Bronislaw Malinowski, magic was a little religion, one con
cerned with immediate goals191 and ultimately representative of a primitive form
of a higher, religious understanding of abstract supernatural entities.192 Alexander
Knysh in 2017 defined Sufism as “Islam in miniature,” which may be problematic
in case it leads to similar presumptions about Muslim beliefs and practice tied to
baraka and wonder-working.193
To avoid such problems and investigate deeper into the dynamics between
premodern religions and magical traditions, it is necessary to include thauma
turgy as the third category that stood between the binaries of religion and magic.
Thaumaturgy partially intersected with magical beliefs and practices, yet repre
sented a constituent element of premodern religions. In Islam, it was represented
mainly by Sufism. Eugene Subbotsky’s statement that religion contained sanc
tioned magic194 needs to be revised by stating that religion contained sanctioned
beliefs and practices developed around the concept of wonder-working through
divine grace – a given religion’s thaumaturgical tradition. Despite the techni
cal, anthropological, and conceptual parallels between thaumaturgy and magic,
there existed an array of sociopolitical, jurisprudential, and theological distinc
tions between the two, developed by religious authorities in office. Through such
distinctions, the sodality of religious professionals pertinent to a given religion
established their role as dispensers of divine grace, outlawing other practition
ers as illicit wizards and magicians. Such was the case with eighteenth-century
Syrian Sufism, which was distinguished from magic through the engagement
of Muslim priestly sodalities. The advent of Muslim reformism brought the
Sufi-ʿulamā’ thaumaturgical practices into question. During the nineteenth and
the twentieth centuries, many such practices became classified as superstitions.
Comparisons are therefore possible between such changes in Ottoman Syria and
similar historical processes that occurred, for instance, in Europe with the advent
of Protestantism.
What Remains: Eighteenth-Century Syrian Sources

The empirical base for my research is built in part on daily chronicles produced
in Syria during the 1700s. I am using these volumes to track important events and
mine data about the Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodalities, as well as other individuals. Of interest
are several autodidactic authors who chronicled events within eighteenth-century
Damascus. These authors represented the research subject of many today’s his
torians.195 The chronicle of Damascus written by the famous Damascene barber,
Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Budayr, contains the most material relevant for study
ing Damascene religious customs. Laden with narratives about people’s beliefs,
local saints, and holy madmen, Ibn Budayr’s chronicle illustrates well the everyday
religious customs and practices in eighteenth-century Damascus. In addition, Ibn
Budayr paid heed to omens and practiced many important customs himself, such
as the pilgrimage to saints buried around the provincial capital. I further read a
chronicle written by a court clerk from Homs, Muḥammad al-Makkī. Information

about popular religion is scarcer in this text, which is best used for topographi
cal references. The chronicle of Mikhā’īl Burayk, who was a senior cleric of the
Christian Orthodox establishment in Damascus, offers data about religious beliefs
and customs of both Christian and Muslim Damascene inhabitants, allowing for
comparisons between these two confessions in eighteenth-century Syria. Certified
scholars amply wrote about Shām as well. For instance, Muḥammad Ibn ʿĪsā Ibn
Kannān (d.1740) wrote of Damascene (Yawmiyāt; “Daily Events”) ulamaic net
works in ample detail that helps uncover the dynamics between religious profes
sionals in this eighteenth-century provincial capital.
Bibliographical dictionaries are another highly relevant genre. I am amply
using the work of Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī (1759–1791), who compiled the
biographies of important scholars, notables, and politicians of eighteenth-century
Bilād al-Shām. This dictionary helps map out the Damascene networks of the
holy and trace their dynamics. Al-Murādī systematically recorded the data about
individuals whose baraka was believed in. Some of these individuals were not
counted among the elites of Damascus, which reveals the significance of baraka in
eighteenth-century Syrian society as a trait which would make the ulamaic cir
cles enlist one of the common people in their tally of important Damascenes.
Al-Murādī’s work is useful for the analysis of baraka as a social marker.
Scholarly works of many eighteenth-century Sufi-ʿulamā’ reflect the influence
of religious rigorists active at the time. Fundamentalism induced the production of
apologetic works by the ulamaic sodalities in power. Two distinct streams of reli
gious rigorism influenced matters of religion (as well as, to an extent, social life)
in eighteenth-century Province of Damascus alongside Sunni mainstream. One of
these was the trace and remaining presence of the seventeenth-century Kadızadeli
movement. The other emerged in the Arabian Peninsula during the eighteenth cen
tury with the Wahhābī movement. While the latter was an object of derision that
remained distant from the Syrian urban hubs, the Kadızadelis were much better
networked. Their presence severely impacted religious and social matters in Istan
bul, as well as in Syria and Egypt.196 The Sufi-ʿulamā’ in Damascus appear to have
formulated their response to these movements in works of apologetic theology
where they discussed Sufism, the cult of saints in Islam, and many religious and
thaumaturgical practices. I read such volumes in parallel with the record of reli
gious practices left by eighteenth-century chroniclers and Sufi masters to gather
data about the boundaries of licit thaumaturgical practice, as well as the extant
beliefs in miracles, wonders, and Allah’s grace. Works of apologetic theology fur
ther make possible to identify responses to the doctrinal attacks launched by the
eighteenth-century Muslim rigorists. The legal and religious authorities of Damas
cus wrote amply about various elements of the Ottoman network of the holy. They
also elaborated upon what they considered blasphemous and antinomian types of
religious behavior, chastising certain groups as heretical.
Invaluable is the collection of treatises (Majmūʿat Rasā’il) by Muḥammad Ibn
ʿĀbidīn (1784–1836). This collection contains a lengthy text committed to defend
ing the legacy of Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s Sufi master, Khālid al-Naqshbandī (d.1827), from
opponents and skeptics.197 Ibn ʿĀbidīn took time to describe the Ottoman network
of the holy in detail, warning of the need to respect Muslim saints. Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s
text highlights in detail the distinctions between Muslim thaumaturgical practices
and magic, which was for him daemonic and blasphemous. Those who doubted
the Muslim saints (such as the representatives of rigorist streams in the region) are
denounced as heretics and ignoramuses. It is also possible to identify the traces of
apologetic writing about the Sufis and the Muslim saints in Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s magnum
opus, Answer to the Baffled (Radd al-Muḥtār). This work contains Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s
legal opinions on prayer, pilgrimage, charity, fasting, marriage and divorce, prop
erty and inheritance laws, and customary law. In addition to such matters, Radd
contains descriptions of the proper ways of praying, as well as of ritualistic sacri
fice. Hanafite Sunni scholars today still consult Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s works.
ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī left apologetic works himself. His treatise of deceased
saints, Revealing Light (Kashf al-Nūr), offers his views on the logic and necessity
of Muslim saintly cults. It further describes practices at saintly shrines. The Lordly
Revelation (al-Fatḥ al-Rabbānī) analyzes themes such as sinning, repentance, blas
phemy, and other matters of faith. As a contemporary of the Kadızadeli move
ment, al-Nābulsī wrote a document entitled Explanations of the Muḥammadan Way
(Sharḥ al-Ṭarīqa al-Muḥammadīyya) to address detractors and justify Sufi beliefs
and practices. To better understand rigorist attitudes which inspired al-Nābulsī’s,
Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s, and many other authors’ apologetics, I discuss the work of Mar ʿī
al-Karmī (d.1623/1624). Al-Karmī was selected due to his exceptional erudition
and wide renown. He was a Hanbalite judge from Cairo and a prominent represent
ative of Muslim rigorist thought. An adherent to Ibn Taymīyyan hostility against
Muslim cults of saints, al-Karmī wrote the Healing of Breasts (Shifā’ al-Ṣudūr) in
which he openly and aggressively attacks the veneration of saints and the customs
of ziyāra. I also make use of the texts of Birgivī Mehmed, partially the ideological
inspiration behind the Kadızadeli movement, as well as of Ibn Taymīyya, the medi
eval scholar of wide renown who caused much controversy with his skepticism
towards Muslim saintly cults.
Comparisons of eighteenth-century apologetic theological works with documents
about religion produced during earlier centuries allow for approaching Shāmī reli
gious practice from a longue durée perspective. Through such approaches, it may
become evident that the form of Sunnism that was prevalent in eighteenth-century
Syria belongs to a long tradition of Muslim religious beliefs and practices. Of sig
nificant help for diachronic comparisons, and acquiring a deeper understanding of
the discussed topics, is the famous Prolegomenon of the historian Ibn Khaldūn or
al-Baqillānī’s work on magic and religion. To broaden discussions of the relation
ship between the visible and invisible worlds in the premodern Muslim imaginary,
I read the classical works of authors such as al-Damīrī (d.1405), and al-Qazwīnī
(1203–1283). These authors wrote about the jinn as creatures that cohabited the
world with the rest of the human beings. Their texts contain suggestions of proper
apotropaic rites to be performed in case one encounters such creatures, or other
dangerous phenomena, and demonstrate a long tradition of belief that lasted among
the Muslims until the modern period (and in some cases until the present).
To discuss thaumaturgical practices, I read Sufi manuals produced or cop

ied during the eighteenth century. Highly relevant is the text written in 1795 by
Muḥammad al-Kīlānī about the initiation, training, and granting ijāzas to the
Qādirīyya Sufi disciples. It is entitled al-Durra al-Bahīyya (The Gorgeous Pearl).
Muḥamad al-Kīlānī also copied a treatise written by a Shafi’ite scholar, Muḥammad
Ibn Aḥmad al-Shawbarī (1569–1659). This treatise, entitled al-Ajwiba ʿan al-Asʾila
(Answers to the Questions), discusses Muslim saints and their wonders.
In addition, I use a number of thaumaturgical manuals written by anonymous
authors (or groups of authors) and copied during the eighteenth century. These
manuals occasionally refer to various important Sufi figures from the medieval
period and onwards, further discussing in detail many elements of Sufi thauma
turgical practice, such as repelling forces of evil, studying divine names, reciting
invocations, or crafting charms and talismans. They may have been used for train
ing Sufi disciples over the passage of time. This material is helpful for gaining
an overview of the proceedings of thaumaturgical rituals. These volumes at times
contain texts written in Arabic and Ottoman Turkish, which indicates that they
were widely circulated over the passage of time. Compendium of All Arts (Majmūʿ
min kul Fann) is a book about various rituals. Most of its content is committed to
instructing the readers into prayers and supplications which were believed to attain
immediate results, such as curing sickness, deflecting evil and attaining general
well-being. It demonstrates the reliance of certain Muslim thaumaturgical practices
on the position of celestial bodies, the four elements of the world, as well as the
days of the week. It further describes the production of some talismans and seals.
The Compendium also offers the description of the twelve jinnic clans and some
possible ways to contend with them. I am reading another thaumaturgical manual,
simply labeled as a Collection (Majmūʿa), which contains numerous apotropaic
and prophylactic rites and prayers, and further focuses on crafting various objects
of power, such as talismans or amulets. Letters in Sand (Risāla fī al-Ramal; a trea
tise on divination and many other aumaturgical practices) is a lengthy tome about
the mysterious power of Arabic letters and their use in talismanics and divination,
also offering invocations for a variety of purposes.
The widespread respect for the Muslim saints induced the development of par
ticular religious customs connected with pilgrimage (ziyāra) to saintly shrines.
Particular prayers and other religious actions were believed more powerful if per
formed near saintly tombs. To gather information about these practices, as well as
to gain a geographical awareness of Damascene saintly tombs, I use eighteenth-
century Sufi travelogues, as well as travel guides for the pilgrims. Among his
many written works, ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī left important riḥlas. These works
describe the locations of the Muslim shrines and their interiors in eighteenth-
century Syria, Lebanon, and Palestine. At the same time, it is possible to gather
information about the ritual procedure conducted within the shrines from this
material. Riḥlat Bilād al-Shām wa Miṣr wa al-Ḥijāz traces al-Nābulsī’s travels
through Syria, Egypt, and Hijaz. Al-Riḥla al-Ṭarābulusīyya is concerned with the
saint’s trip to Tripoli in 1700. Ḥullat al-Dhahab contains al-Nābulsī’s early trav
els to Lebanon. One of the more famous students of this saint, Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī
(d.1749) left a document entitled al-Riḥla al-Qudsīyya (Jerusalem Journey; dated to
1710) that describes al-Bakrī’s pilgrimages in Palestine. In addition, Ibn Kannān left
a Brief Summary of the History of al-Ṣāliḥīyya (Talkhīṣ Tārīkh al-Ṣāliḥīya, 1727).
The Damascene al-Ṣāliḥīyya district contained much religious importance due to the
high number of its Sufi lodges, frequently built near important saintly tombs. Many
saintly graves were located there as well,198 and the author left a detailed list within
his topographical work. Finally, Ibn Kannān offers details about the locations of
some other Damascene sacred places, such as the caves on Mount Qasioun. In addi
tion to Ibn Kannān’s work on al-Ṣāliḥīyya, the traveling guide to Damascus authored
by Aḥmad al-Manīnī (d.1758) is used for the eighteenth-century Damascene context.
To broaden empirical knowledge about the Damascene hallowed tombs, I use
works on saintly shrines from earlier centuries. Such are the chronicles of Ibn ʿAbd
al-Razzāq (1664–1725), Maḥmūd al-ʿAdawī (d.1622), and Imād al-Dīn al-Ḥanafī
(d.1494). Comparison between these texts demonstrates the continuous beliefs in
Damascene saints over the passage of time.
Travel accounts and ethnographical works produced by foreigners are help
ful for the research of Syrian premodern Islam. Western travelers to the Middle
East often wrote down a number of details tied to various Muslim religious rituals,
which are otherwise absent from Arabic sources. The local authors did not pen
them down presumably because they were widespread enough to be taken for mat
ters of course. Henry Maundrell (1665–1701) was an Oxford academic who later
joined the clergy of the Church of England. In 1697, he went to pilgrimage to Jeru
salem through Syria with fifteen other individuals. He kept a detailed journal that
I read here, since it contains descriptions of Muslim shrines, as well as of popular
religious behavior in Syria and Palestine. Maundrell did not live to see his journal
published. Alexander Russell (1715–1768) was a Scottish physician and historian
of nature who wrote about the social customs in Aleppo, where he was resident
between 1740 and 1754. His account gives information about the religious customs
of the eighteenth-century Aleppines. Constantin François de Chassebœuf, Count
de Volney (1757–1820) was a French philosopher and an orientalist who traveled
through Syria and Egypt between 1783 and 1785. His Travels contain his impres
sions of the Sufis, their practices, and their influence on state economy. John Lewis
Burckhardt (Johann Ludwig Burckhardt; 1784–1817) was a Swiss traveler who
assumed the name Shaykh Ibrāhīm Ibn ʿAbd Allah. He left an ethnographic work
that in detail describes the customs of the Sunni Muslims and pays much note to
religious beliefs and practice. This work is entitled Travels in Syria, while his Notes
on the Bedouins and Wahabys describes the problems Syrian and Egyptian people
faced during the Bedouin raids at the end of the early modern period.
Ethnographies written during the later centuries indicate that religious prac
tice among the peoples of the Middle East did not witness much change with the
passage of time. This is visible from the work of Louis du Couret (1812–1867)
who wrote about his travels through Egypt. Employed under Muḥammad ʿAlī, du
Couret converted to Islam and performed the Ḥajj, leaving much evidence about
the Muslim practices of worship and the Sufi lodges in the Middle East. Edward
William Lane (1801–1876) was an orientalist scholar and a lexicographer. In the
nineteenth century, Lane arrived to Egypt, lived there between 1825 and 1828 (and
returned for additional research in 1833), and published his Manners and Customs,
which contains helpful information about religious customs in the Middle East and
further indicates a continuity of Muslim religious traditions over the passage of
time and across space.
The beginning of the twentieth century brought along a number of anthropo
logical and ethnographical works, which in detail analyzed Muslim religious prac
tices in Syria and Palestine. I use the work of Samuel Ives Curtiss (1844–1904),
Primitive Semitic Religion To-day, and an even more important book of a Palestin
ian physician and anthropologist, Taufik Canaan (1882–1964). Canaan’s Moham
medan Saints is fully committed to discussing matters tied to the cult of saints in
modern Palestine.
These books and documents shed light on many issues pertinent to the history
of religion in Ottoman Syria before and after modernity. The information within
allows for a detailed discussion of the relationship between religion, magic, and
thaumaturgy, in Damascus of the eighteenth century, which represents the main
subject of the next chapter.
Notes
1 See Chapter 5.
2 The saint paraphrased a very old and curious quote, saying: “inna allah rijālan idhā
naẓarū ilā al-ḥajar yaṣīr dhahaban.” The paraphrase comes from a saying often com
֫
monly attributed to the Sufis, which goes: “inna allah rijālan [ibād an
] idhā arādū arāda,”
which is justified by the idea that the Sufis’ will is attuned to the eternal will of the
divine – they wanted only what Allah wanted. The saying represents an object of atten
tion even today, on numerous online portals, while variations of it may be found in older
Shi’ite Ḥadīth collections. See, for instance, Biḥār al-Anwār 26:14 and Kitāb al-Kāfī
2:352. Special thanks to István Kristó-Nagy and Kumail Rajani for their assistance
with tracking this saying down. Sufis, however, often took great liberty in both citing
and interpreting Ḥadīth material. See Rüdiger Lohlker, “ ‘Abd al-Karīm al-Jīlī and The
Praxis of Ḥadīth,” Ulumuna 25, No. 1 (July, 2021): 35–55.
3 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, “Relations Between the Syrian “Ulamā” and the Ottoman State in
the Eighteenth Century,” Oriente Moderno 79/1 (1999): 81, Albert Hourani, The His
tory of the Arab Peoples (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press,
2002), 255, Steve Tamari, “Biography, Autobiography, and Identity in Early Modern
Damascus,” in Auto/Biography and the Construction of Identity and Community in the
Middle East, ed. Mary Ann Fay (New York: Palgrave, 2001), 42–43, Itzchak Weis
mann, The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition
(London & New York: Routledge, 2007), 75–76, or John O. Voll, “Sufi Brotherhoods:
Trans-cultural/Trans-state Networks in the Muslim World,” in Interactions: Transre
gional Perspectives on World History, ed. Jerry H. Bentley, Renate Bridenthal, and A.
Yang (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 38–39.
4 Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī, Silk al-Durar fī Aʿyan al-Qarn al-Thānī ʿAshar [A String
of Pearls among the Notables of the Eighteenth Century], ed. Akram Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī.
Four volumes (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 2002), 1:228–234.
5 The term usually corresponds to the Arabic word taṣawwuf which has commonly been
taken to mean “adorning oneself in wool,” thus becoming a Sufi, due to the supposed
habit of the Sufis to wear wool instead of more luxurious clothing. This gesture is tied to
the world-renouncing thesis – see, for instance Carl W. Ernst, Sufism: An Introduction to
the Mystical Tradition of Islam (London: Shambhala, 2011), 1–17. Other theories tie the
term to the Greek sophos, “wisdom.” Both theories seem purely conjectural. See Mark
J. Sedgwick, Western Sufism: From the Abbasids to the New Age (New York: Oxford
University Press, 2017), 84.
6 Gr. θαῦμα – “miracle;” ἔργον – “work;” with θαυματουργία in Ancient Greek, indicating
the working of miracles or wonders.
7 This belief lasted for centuries. See Josef W. Meri, The Cult of Saints Among Muslims
and Jews in Medieval Syria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 100–116.
8 See Chapters 2 and 6 for a clarification of the difference between the two.
9 See, for instance, Max Weber, The Sociology of Religion, In Economy and Society 1
(Boston: Beacon Press, 1993), 28–31, 115–137, and Bourdieu, “Genesis,” 9–14.
10 The phrasing owes to Keith Thomas, who used it to refer to the thaumaturgical func
tions of the early modern English Catholic Church. See Keith Thomas, Religion and
the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century
England (London: Penguin, 1991), 31. It is highly relevant for the function of the ula
maic sodalities in the early modern Ottoman Empire and shall be used throughout the
following chapters.
11 See cooke and Lawrence, “Introduction,” 1–5.
12 A detailed discussion against approaching Islam as a monolith may be found in Aziz Al-
Azmeh, The Times of History: Universal Topics in Islamic Historiography (Budapest &
New York: Central European University Press, 2007), 47–61.
13 Shahab Ahmed, What is Islam? The Importance of being Islamic (Princeton & Oxford:
Princeton University Press, 2016), 97–101.
14 Ahmed, Islam, 404–405, 542.
15 miriam cooke and Bruce B. Lawrence, “Introduction,” in Muslim Networks: From Hajj
to Hip Hop, ed. miriam cooke and Bruce B. Lawrence (Chapel Hill & London: The
University of North Carolina Press, 2005), 1.
16 Christian Smith, Religion: What it is, How it Works and Why it Matters (Princeton &
Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2017), 27–28.
17 Pierre Bourdieu, “Genesis and Structure of the Religious Field,” Comparative Social
Research, 13 (1991): 22, 28–29.
18 Thomas, Decline, 31.
19 See Marinos Sariyannis, “Ottoman Occultism and its Social Contexts: Preliminary
Remarks,” Aca’ib: Occasional papers on the Ottoman perceptions of the supernatural 3
(2022): 35–36. For a broader context, see Bernd-Christian Otto and Michael Stausberg,
ed. Defining Magic: A Reader (Sheffield and Bristol: Equinox Publishing, 2013), 1–15.
20 On its own, the term “Arab” is highly problematic and of questionable descriptive and
explanatory value. For a detailed breakdown of its nuances, see Peter Webb, Imagining
the Arabs: Arab Identity and the Rise of Islam (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2017), 1–10.
21 This problem was discussed in Karl Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus, 1708–1758
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 3–10.
22 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, The Province of Damascus, 1723–1783 (Beirut: Khayats, 1966), 1.
23 David Dean Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman
Syria (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 64, and Albert Hourani,
Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1798–1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1962), 54, 62.
24 John Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971),
1–30, 83, 229. Jonathan P. Berkey, The Formation of Islam: Religion and Society in the
Near East, 600–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 231. Liana Saif
places the institutionalization of Sufism in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, observ
ing the gradual split between metaphysical theory and thaumaturgical healing from the
eleventh until the fourteenth century. See Liana Saif, “Between Medicine and Magic:
Spiritual Aetiology and Therapeutics in Medieval Islam,” in Demons and Illness from
Antiquity to the Early Modern Period, ed. Siam Bhayro (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2017),
335–338. Also see Liana Saif, The Arabic Influences on Early Modern Occult Philoso
phy (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 1–8.
25 For instance, see Nathan Hofer, The Popularisation of Sufism in Ayyubid and Mam
luk Egypt, 1173–1325 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 1–32, Daphna
Ephrat, “Sufism and Sanctity: The Genesis of the Wali Allah in Mamluk Jerusalem and
Hebron,” and Boaz Shoshan, “Popular Sufi Sermons in late Mamluk Egypt,” in Mam
luks and Ottomans: Studies in Honour of Michael Winter, ed. David J. Wasserstein and
Ami Ayalon (London & New York: Routledge, 2006), 4–18, 106–113 (respectively). For
the Ottoman context, illustrative is Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: The Construc
tion of the Ottoman State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 52, 140–142,
as well as Markus Dressler, “Inventing Orthodoxy: Competing Claims for Authority and
Legitimacy in the Ottoman-Safavid Conflict,” in Legitimizing the Order: The Ottoman
Rhetoric of State Power, ed. Hakan T. Karateke and Maurus Reinkowski (Boston: Brill,
2005), 151–173. Further see John J. Curry, The Transformation of the Mystical Thought
in the Ottoman Empire: The Rise of the Halveti Order 1350–1650 (Edinburgh: Edin
burgh University Press, 2010), 1–15, Mustapha Sheikh, Ottoman Puritanism and its
Discontents: Aḥmad al-Rūmī al-Āqḥisārī and the Qāḍīzādelis (Oxford: Oxford Univer
sity Press, 2016), 1–41, Winter, Society & Religion in Early Ottoman Egypt: Studies in
the Writings of ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Shaʿrānī (New Brunswick & London, 2009), 11–30,
or Riza Yıldırım, “The Rise of the ‘Religion and State’ Order: Re-confessionalization
of State and Society in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire,” and John J. Curry, “Some
Reflections on the Fluidity of Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy in an Ottoman Sunni Con
text,” in Ottoman Sunnism: New Perspectives, ed. Vefa Erginbas (Edinbrough: Edin
brough University Press, 2019), 12–46, 193–210, Examples are numerous. The present
volume deals with the Ottoman period and shall supply references throughout the text.
26 For other geographical contexts, see for instance Azfar Moin, “The ‘Ulama’ as Ritual
Specialists: Cosmic Knowledge and Political Rituals,” in The Wiley Blackwell History
of Islam, ed. Armando Salvatore (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2018), 377–392. Further
see Azfar Moin, “The Crown of Dreams: Sufis and Princes in Sixteenth-Century Iran,”
in The Millennial Sovereign: Sacred Kingship and Sainthood in Islam (New York:
Columbia University Press, 2012), 56–93. Moin deals with this topic in the whole book.
27 See Markus Dressler, Ron Geaves, and Gritt Klinkhammer, “Introduction,” in Sufis in
Western Society: Global Networking and Locality, ed. Markus Dressler, Ron Geaves
and Gritt Klinkhammer (Abingdon: Routledge, 2009), 1–12, or Lloyd Ridgeon, The
Cambridge Companion to Sufism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 278.
For a deeper explanation of the conservative view, see for instance, Linda Sijbrand,
“Orientalism and Sufism: An Overview,” in Orientalism Revisited: Art, Land and Voy
age, ed. Ian Richard Netton (London & New York: 2013), 99–105, or Ignác Goldzi
her, “Koranauslesung der islamischen Mystik,” in Die Richtungen der Islamischen
Koranauslesung (Leiden: Brill, 1920), 180–262.
28 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), 5–7.
29 See Ahmed El Shamsy, “The Social Construction of Orthodoxy,” in The Cambridge
Companion to Classical Islamic Theology, ed. Tim Winter (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2008), 97–117, and Ridgeon, Companion, 29.
30 Karamustafa, Friends, 12–25.
31 Ernest Gellner, “A Pendulum Swing Theory of Islam,” in Sociology of Religion:
Selected Readings, ed. Roland Robertson and Michael Zwettler (Baltimore: Penguin
Books, 1969), 127–141.
32 Peter Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe (New York: Harper Torchbooks,
1978), xi, 65–76, 91–115, 244–286. The theoretical model based on the “high”-“low”
dichotomy was later applied to many different periods where certain scholars attempted
to develop it further. For instance, see Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dia
lectic of Enlightenment, trans. John Cumming (London: Verso, 1992), xi-2, 120–167,
and Theodor W. Adorno, The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture, ed.
J. M. Bernstein (London: Routledge, 1991), 53–84. Finally, Herbert J. Gans, Popu
lar Culture & High Culture: An Analysis and Evaluation of Taste (New York: Basic
Books, 1999), 5–12, 27–76. The dichotomy pervades religious studies frequently. As
an instance relevant to my own research, see the debate about religious and magical
practice in Weber, Sociology, 11, 80–94.
33 See James Grehan, Everyday Life & Consumer Culture in 18th-Century Damascus
(Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007), 3–20, or Dana Sajdi, The Barber of
Damascus: Nouveau Literacy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2013), 114–137. Sajdi provides an interesting reading into
the Damascene eighteenth-century history through reading the chronicle of the barber
Ibn Budayr. She simultaneously traces the history of the city and of its chronicler. For
much of Sajdi’s methodological inspiration see Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the
Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller, trans. John and Anne C. Tedeschi
(Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), xiii-xxvi.
34 For a discussion about relevant research methods and approaches, see Sigurður Gylfi
Magnússon and István M. Szijártó, What is Microhistory? Theory and Practice (Abing
don: Routledge, 2013), 1–12, 62–78, 119–133, or Francesca Trivellato, “Is there a
Future for Italian Microhistory in the Age of Global History?” California Italian Stud
ies 2 (2011): http://escholarship.org/uc/item/0z94n9hq (Last accessed: April 15th 2021),
which is a helpful article for readers interested in delving deeper into this complicated
topic.
35 James Grehan, Twilight of the Saints: Everyday Religion in Ottoman Syria and Palestine
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 112–115.
36 See El Shamsy, “Orthodoxy,” 97–117. Michel de Certeau provides a starting point for
the consideration of a relevant theoretical approach to studying cultures and traditions.
See Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1988), xi–xxiv.
37 The methodological approaches of Clark and Clanton are highly illustrative. See Terry
Ray Clark and Dan W. Clanton, Jr., ed., Understanding Religion and Popular Culture:
Theories, Themes, Products and Practices (London: Routledge, 2012), 1–12. This is
comparable to Gábor Klaniczay, The Uses of Supernatural Power: The Transformation
of Popular Religion in Medieval and Early-Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton Uni
versity Press, 1990), 2–5.
38 Shirley A. Fedorak, Pop Culture: The Culture of Everyday Life (Toronto: University of
Toronto Press Incorporated, 2009), 1–13.
39 Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, trans. Karen E. Fields (New
York: Free Press, 1995), 5–12.
40 Eminegül Karababa and Güliz Ger, “Early Modern Ottoman Coffeehouse Culture and
the Formation of the Consumer Subject,” Journal of Consumer Research 37 (2010): doi:
10.1086/656422, or Rachida Chih and Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, “Le soufisme otto
man vu d’Égypte (xvie-xviiie siècle),” in Le soufisme à l’époque ottomane, XVIe-XVIIIe
siècle, ed. Rachida Chih, Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, Denis Grill, and Richard McGregor
(Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 2010), 1–56. See also Grehan, Every
day Life, 21–55.
41 See H A R Gibb, Mohammedanism: An Historical Survey (London & New York: Oxford
University Press, 1970), 60–72, 86–99, or Sir Hamilton Alexander Rosskeen Gibb and
Harold Bowen, Islamic Society and the West: A Study of the Impact of Western Civiliza
tion on Moslem Culture in the Near East, 2 volumes (London: Oxford University Press,
1969), 70–85.
42 Julian Baldick, Mystical Islam: An Introduction to Sufism (London: I.B. Tauris,
2012), 7.
43 Ernest Gellner, Muslim Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981),
114–130.
44 Grehan, Twilight, 6–19, 112–115.

45 Nile Green, Sufism: A Global History (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 16–19.
46 See Baldick, Mystical Islam, 9, 32–33, for a critique of ideas about Sufism originating
from the Muslim sources. Baldick pointed Christian asceticism as a possible tradition
of origin. For the criticized text see Louis Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Tech
nical Language of Islamic Mysticism: Translated from the French with an Introduc
tion by Benjamin Clark (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 49–67,
73–76, 94–106. Other religious confessions, however, naturally did have influence on
the development of Islam, and its Sufism. See Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam
in Late Antiquity: Allāh and His People (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014),
11–40, 449–487. Further see Alexander D. Knysh, Sufism: A New History of Islamic
Mysticism (Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2017), 15–18.
47 For instance, see Abu‘l-Qasim al-Qushayri, Al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism: Al-Risala
al-Qushayriyya fi ‘Ilm al-Tasawwuf, trans. Alexander Knysh (Reading: Garnet Publish
ing, 2007), xxi-xxvii, Ian Richard Netton, Islam, Christianity and the Mystic Journey:
A Comparative Exploration (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2011), 102–110,
or Martin Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar: Abū’l-Qāsim al-Qushayrī and the
Lạtā’if al-Ishārāt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 23–87, 205–236.
48 Correlatively, claims that Islam represents a monolithic historical entity are also quite
common. See Baldick, Mystical Islam, 1. For arguments against such attitudes, consult
Al-Azmeh, Times of History, 47–61.
49 Knysh, Sufism, 1–123, 142–143, 176–231, 225. Also see Rachida Chih, Sufism in Otto
man Egypt: Circulation, Renewal and Authority in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Cen
tury (London & New York: Routledge, 2019), 5–10.
50 Ibid., 14, 23.
51 See Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, “A Typology of State Muftis,” in Islamic Law and the
Challenges of Modernity, ed. Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and Barbara Freyer Stowasser
(Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press, 2004), 81–89.
52 Muhammad Qasim Zaman, Ashraf ʿAli Thanawi: Islam in Modern South Asia (Oxford:
Oneworld, 2008), 70–75.
53 Elizabeth Sirriyeh, Sufi Visionary of Ottoman Damascus: ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī,
1641–1731 (London and New York: Routledge Curzon, 2005), 1–17, as well as Astrid
Meier, “Words in Action: ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī as a Jurist,” in Early Modern
Trends in Islamic Theology: ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī and his Network of Scholarship
(Studies and Texts), ed. Lejla Demiri and Samuela Pagani (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
2019), 107–136. Further see Barbara Rosenow von Schlegell, “Sufism in the Ottoman
Arab World: Shaykh ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulūsī (d. 1143/1731),” unpublished PhD
diss., University of California, 1997, 16–22.
54 Ralf Elger, Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī: zur Selbstdarstellung eines syrischen Gelehrten, Sufis
und Dichters des 18. Jahrhunderts (Schenefeld: EB-Verlag, 2004), 52–103, or Zachary
Valentine Wright, Realizing Islam: The Tijaniyya in North Africa and the Eighteenth-
Century Muslim World (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2020),
34–36.
55 Al-Murādī, Silk, 4:220–228.
56 Abū Zayd Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima [Prolegomenon], ed. Jumaʿa Shaykha (Tunis:
Al-Dār al-Tūnisīyya li-l-Nashr, 1984), 593.
57 Knysh, Sufism, 179.
58 See Yumna Ozer, trans., Ibn Khaldūn on Sufism: Remedy for the Questioner in Search
of Answers (Shifā’ al-Sā’il li-Tadhīb al-Masā’il) (Cambridge: The Islamic Texts Society,
2017), i-xii, and Robert Irwin, Ibn Khaldun: An Intellectual Biography (Princeton &
59 As an instance, see al-Murādī, Silk, 4:305. The biographer uses similar social divisions
throughout the entire work. I discuss the righteous in Chapters 2 and 4.
60 Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Sall al-Ḥusām al-Hindī li-Naṣrat Mawlānā
Khālid al-Naqshbandī [Drawing out the Indian Sword in Defense of Our Master Khālid
al-Naqshbandī], in Majmūʿat Rasā’il Muḥammad Ibn ʿĀbidīn [The Collection of Trea
tises by Muḥammad Ibn-ʿĀbidīn], 4 volumes (Istanbul: Dar-i Saʿādat, 1907), 2:5–47.
61 Al-Azmeh, Times, 222–223.
62 Weber, Sociology, 54–61.
63 Al-Azmeh, Times, 222–223. Compare with Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline
of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England
(London: Penguin, 1991), 227–229.
64 Ernst, Sufism, 1–17.
65 Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political Thought
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018), 1–18.
66 Karamustafa, Friends, 87.
67 Green, Sufism, 5–11.
68 Ibid., 42.
69 See al-Qushayri, Epistle, xxi-xxvii, Netton, Mystic Journey 102–110, and Nguyen, Sufi
Master, 23–87, 205–236.
70 Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition: ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and the Rise of
the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2008), 307–310.
71 Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, The Kizilbash/Alevis in Ottoman Anatolia: Sufism, Politics and
Community (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2020), 50–51, Berkey, Formation,
231, or Eric Geoffroy, Introduction to Sufism: The Inner Path of Islam, trans. Roger
Gaetani (Bloomington: World Wisdom, 2010), 78–86.
72 Babak Rahimi and Armando Salvatore, “The Crystallization and Expansiveness of Sufi
Networks within the Urban-Rural-Nomadic Nexus of the Islamic Ecumene,” in The Wiley
Blackwell History of Islam, ed. Armando Salvatore, Roberto Tottoli, and Babak Rahimi
(Oxford: John Wiley & Sons Ltd., 2018), 257–264. Further see, for instance, Zeynep
Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire: The Politics of Bektashi
Shrines in the Classical Age (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2012), 1–4.
74 Derin Terzioğlu, “How to Conceptualize Ottoman Sunnitization: A Historiographical
Discussion,” Turcica, Vol. 44 (2012–2013): 306–307, Green, Sufism, 52.
75 Madeline Zilfi, The Politics of Piety: The Ottoman Ulema in the Postclassical Age
(1600–1800) (Minneapolis: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1988), 192–193.
76 Green, Sufism, 55–60, Derin Terzioğlu, “Sufis in the Age of State-Building and Confes
sionalization,” in The Ottoman World, ed. Christine Woodhead (London & New York:
Routledge, 2012), 86.
77 Ohlander, Sufism, 27–34.
78 Ibid., 53.
79 Dina le Gall, A Culture of Sufism: Naqshbandis in the Ottoman World, 1450–1700
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005), 45.
81 A Pole of his Time – see Chapter 2.
83 Ibid., 25–26, 285–288. Also Betul Yavuz, “The Making of the Sufi Order between Her
esy and Legitimacy: Bayrami-Malāmis in the Ottoman Empire,” unpublished PhD diss.
(Houston: Rice University, 2013), 98, Rıza Yıldırım, “Inventing a Sufi Tradition: The
Use of the Futuwwa Ritual Gathering as a Model for the Qizilbash Djem,” in Sufism
and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800, ed. John
Curry, Erik Ohlander (Abingdon: Routledge, 2012), 164–182, Terzioğlu, “Sufis,”
90–93, Green, Sufism, 52, 85–86.
84 The brotherhood notions had a practical application during turbulent periods in the history
of the Middle East. They pervaded, for instance, the discourse of lodges, which helped
amalgamate Muslim societies during power vacuums in the medieval and early modern
periods. This was, for instance, the case with Saljuq Anatolia. See Rachel Goshgarian,
“Opening and Closing: Coexistence and Competition in Associations based on Futuwwa
in Late Medieval Anatolian Cities,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40 (2013):
36–52. Compare with Gervase Rosser, “Trust,” in The Art of Solidarity in the Middle
Ages: Guilds in England, 1250–1550 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 149–186.
85 See for instance David Carpenter, “The Piety of Henry III,” in Henry III: 1207–1258,
volume 1 (London: Yale University Press, 2020), 273–348, Maurizio Viroli, As if God
Existed: Religion and Liberty in the History of Italy (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2012), 89–103, Kat Hill, “Brothers and Sisters,” in Baptism, Brotherhood ad
Belief in Reformation Germany: Anabaptism and Lutheranism 1525–1585 (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2015), 167–198, Colin Kidd, “Race and Religious Orthodoxy
in the Early Modern Era,” in The Forging of Races: Race and Scripture in the Protestant
Atlantic World, 1600–2000 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 54–78,
and L. Fatum, “Brotherhood in Christ: A Gender Hermeneutical Reading of 1 Thes
salonians,” in Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as a Social Reality and
Metaphor, ed. H. Moxnes (London: Routledge, 1997), 183–200.
86 It seems that al-Gīlānī contributed to the formulation of the orders’ hierarchy. See
Ohlander, Sufism, 27–34, or Yıldırım, “Sufi Tradition,” 164–182.
88 See Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 94–105, 261–263, 269–271. Further see Le Gall, Sufism,
166–167, Thierry Zarcone, “Bridging the Gap between pre-Soviet and post-Soviet
Sufism in Ferghana Valley (Uzbekistan): the Naqshbandi order between Tradition and
Innovation,” in Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World, ed.
Masatoschi Kisaichi (Abingdon: Routledge, 2006), 43–47, Shahzad Bashir, Sufi Bod
ies: Religion and Society in Medieval Islam (New York: Columbia University Press,
2011), 78–80, and Mohammed Yamin, Impact of Islam on Orissan Culture (New Delhi:
Readworthy Publications, 2009), 96–97.
89 The Naqshbandīyya was an exception, maintaining a Bakrī silsila. Le Gall, Sufism, 127.
90 Le Gall, Sufism, 14–16.
91 Green, Sufism, 93.
92 See Chapter 2 for baraka.
93 Ohlander, Sufism, 27–34, Derin Terzioğlu, “Man in the Image of God in the Image
of the Times: Sufi Self-Narratives and the Diary of Niyāzī-i Mıṣrī (1618–94),” Studia
Islamica, No. 94 (2002): 144, and Curry, Transformation, 8.
94 Some orders, such as the Naqshbandīyya, however, still seemed to prefer smaller, inti
mate meetings for the dissemination of their teachings, despite conforming to the insti
tutional framework. See Le Gall, Sufism, 46–47, or Green, Sufism, 131–135.
95 Ibid., 5–9.
96 Terzioğlu, “Sunnitization,” 307.
97 Terzioğlu, “Sufis,” 90–93.
98 See Surayia N. Faroqhi, “Conflict, Accommodation and Long-term Survival: The Bek
tashi Order and the Ottoman State” in Bektachiyya, Études sur l’ordre mystique des
Bektachis et les groupes relevant de Hadji Bektash, ed. Alexandre Popovic and Gilles
Veinstein (Istanbul: The Isis Publications, 1995), 171–184, or Yürekli, Architecture,
79–134. Although it is possible to presume the relationship between the Damascene jan
issary corps and the Bektashi order, such relations should not be taken for granted. See
Cemal Kafadar, “Janissaries and Other Riffraff of Ottoman Istanbul: Rebels without a
Cause?“International Journal of Turkish Studies, 13, Nos. 1 & 2 (2007): 113–116. Fur
ther studies of the janissaries in Ottoman Syria are a necessity to collect hard evidence
for such claims.
99 See, for instance, Le Gall, Sufism, 124–126, and Cankat Kaplan, “An Anti-Ibn ʿArabī
(d.1240) Polemicist in the Sixteenth-Century Ottoman Istanbul: Ibrahīm Al-Ḥalabī
(d.1549) and his Interlocutors,” unpublished MA thesis (Budapest: Central European
University, 2019), 10–23.
100 See Yılmaz, Caliphate, 211–214, Rafeq, “Relations,” 81, and Sirriyeh, Visionary, 126.
101 See Claude Addas and Peter Kingsley, Quest for the Red Sulphur: The Life of Ibn
ʻArabī (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1993).
102 See John Renard, ed., Tales of God’s Friends: Islamic Hagiography in Translation
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 1–12, 30–47.
103 Le Gall, Sufism, 124. Further see Chapter 5.
104 Heghnar Zeitlian Watenpaugh, The Image of an Ottoman City: Imperial Architecture
and Urban Experience in Aleppo in the 16th and 17th Centuries (Leiden and Bos
ton: Brill, 2004), 38–39, and Çığdem Kafescıoğlu, “In the Image of Rūm: Ottoman
Architectural Patronage in Sixteenth-Century Aleppo and Damascus,” Muqarnas 16
(1999): 74.
105 See Yavuz, “Sufi Order,” 134–159, Green, Sufism, 132–136, Ohlander, Sufism, 187–
190, Yürekli, Architecture, 1–4, 17–19, 33–34, 138–139, Terzioğlu, “Sunnitization,”
307, 320, Terzioğlu, “Sufis,” 90–93, Le Gall, Sufism, 45–47.
106 Yürekli, Architecture, 17–19. Also see Ohlander, Sufism, 35–42.
107 Ohlander, Sufism, 6.
108 Ibid., 19.
109 Maha El-Kaisy Friemuth, “al-Suhrawardi, Abu Hafs,” in Encyclopedia of Islamic Civi
lisation and Religion, ed. Ian Richard Netton (London & New York: Routledge, 2008),
619, or Qamar-ul Huda, “The Life of Shaikh ‘Abū Ḥafs ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī,” in
Striving for Divine Union: Spiritual exercises for Suhrawardī sūfīs (London & New
York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2005), 13–40.
111 This is comparable to sacred kingship in European history. See for instance Joseph
Canning, A History of Medieval Political Thought: 300–1450 (London & New York:
Routledge, 2005), 16–43, 47–58. Further see Thomas, Decline, 227–229. For the role
of the bishops for the development of medieval European political thought, again
highly comparable to the role of the ʿulamā’ for the caliphate-related developments,
see for instance Michael Edward Moore, A Sacred Kingdom: Bishops and the Rise of
Frankish Kingship, 300–850 (Washington D.C.: The Catholic University of America
Press, 2011), 1–20.
112 Yılmaz, Caliphate, 14, Green, Sufism, 7, 96, 131–135, and Aziz Al-Azmeh, Muslim
Kingship: Power and the Sacred in Muslim, Christian and Pagan Polities (London &
New York: I.B. Tauris, 1997), 157–159.
113 Knysh, Sufism, 179, Yılmaz, Caliphate, 111–112, and Green, Sufism, 131. Further see
Terzioğlu,, “Sufis,” 89.
114 Judith Pfeiffer, “Confessional Ambiguity vs. Confessional Polarization: Politics and
the Negotiation of Religious Boundaries in the Ilkhanate,” in Politics, Patronage
and the Transmission of Knowledge in 13th-15th Century Tabriz, ed. Judith Pfeiffer
(Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2014), 135–136, Karakaya-Stump, Kizilbash, 89–90, Green,
Sufism, 94, and Yürekli, Architecture, 14–16. Further see Terzioğlu, “Sunnitization,”
306–307.
115 Ethel Sara Wolper, “The Patron and the Sufi: Mediating Religious Authority through
Dervish Lodges,” in Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space
in Medieval Anatolia (Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003),
24–41.
116 H. Crane, “Notes on the Saldjūq Architectural Patronage in the Thirteenth Century
Anatolia,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 36, No. 1 (1993):
1–57.
117 Yılmaz, Caliphate, 1–4.

118 Derin Terzioğlu, “Sunna-minded Sufi Preachers in Service of the Ottoman State: The
naṣiḥatname of Hasan addressed to Murad IV,” Archivum Ottomanicum 27 (2010):
244–246, 250–251. Further see Sariyannis, “Occultism,” 37–38.
119 Winter, Society & Religion, 31–96.
120 Karamustafa, Friends, 36–37, Knysh, Sufism, 179, Al-Azmeh, Kingship, 182, Al-
Azmeh, Times, 159–179, 185–266, Yılmaz, Caliphate, 24–33, Rafeq, “Relations,” 88,
Enrico Boccaccini, “A Ruler’s Curriculum: Transcultural Comparisons of Mirrors for
Princes,” in Knowledge and Education in Classical Islam: Religious Learning between
Continuity and Change, ed. Sebastian Günther (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 684–712. The
relationships between Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodalities with the state in their administrative
capacities is comparable to the relationships between European ecclesia and various
medieval and early modern courts. See, for instance, Walter Ullmann, “The Secular
Prince and Papal Law,” and “Limitations of Theocratic Kingship,” in Principles of
Government and Politics in the Middle Ages (London: Taylor & Francis e-Library,
2010), 27–49, 88–95, respectively. Also see Walter Ullmann, “Lecture V-I: The King’s
Stunted Sovereignty,” in The Carolingian Rennaissance and the Idea of Kingship: The
Birbeck Lectures 1968–9 (New York: Routledge, 2010), 83–92.
121 Zilfi, Politics, 1–32.
122 Madeline C. Zilfi, “The Ottoman ulema,” in The Cambridge History of Turkey: Vol
ume 3, The Later Ottoman Empire 1603–1839, ed. Suraiya N. Faroqhi (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2006), 209–214, and Politics, 24.
123 Baki Tezcan, “The Ottoman “Mevali” as ‘Lords of the Law’,” Journal of Islamic Stud
ies, 20, No. 3 (September 2009): 383–384.
124 To receive lucrative positions in eighteenth-century Damascus, the Sufi-ʿulamā’
seemed to rely on the patronage of established and prominent members of the local
priestly sodalities. This shall be shown on concrete examples in Chapter 4.
125 See Chapter 4.
126 Zilfi, “Ulema,” 209, and Zilfi, Piety, 70–71.
127 See Chapter 5.
128 Tezcan, “Mevali,” 396.
129 Zilfi, “Ulema,” 209, 210–214.
130 Zilfi, Politics, 38–40.
131 See Chapter 2.
132 Zilfi, “Ulema,” 224–225. Further see Rafeq, “Ulamā,” 105–134.
133 Chih, Sufism, 33–35, as well as Al-Azmeh, Times, 220–221. Further see Chapter 5.
134 Chih, Sufism, 19, 25–26.
135 Ibid., 2–3, 29, 44.
136 Ibid., Khaled el-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History in the Seventeenth Century:
Scholarly Currents in the Ottoman Empire and the Maghreb (Cambridge: Cam
bridge University Press, 2015), 261–270, and Frederick de Jong, “Mustafa Kamal al-
Din al-Bakri (1688–1749): Revival and Reform of the Khalwatiyya Tradition?” in
Eighteenth-Century Renewal and Reform in Islam, ed. N. Levtzion and J. Voll (Syra
cuse: Syracuse University Press, 1987), 117–132.
137 See Vajda, G., Goldziher, I. and Bonebakker, S.A., “Id̲ jāza,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam
II, ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, W.P. Heinrichs (Brill
Online, 2012). http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_3485 (Last accessed:
February 28th 2023). Also see Aziz Al-Azmeh, Arabic Thought and Islamic Societies
(Abingdon: Routledge, 2013), 226–227, 231–233.
138 See Guy Burak, The Second Formation of Islamic Law: The Ḥanafī School in the
Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015),
27–28, or Michael Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in medieval Damas
cus, 1190–1350 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 87–90. Further see
Anver M. Emon, “Shari’a and the Modern State,” in Islamic Law and International
Human Rights Law: Searching for Common Ground? ed. Anver M. Emon, Mark S.
Ellis, and Benjamin Glahn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 76–80.
139 Taufik Canaan, Mohammadan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine (London: Luzac &
Co., 1927), 313, el-Rouayheb, Currents, 98, 125–128, and Rachida Chih, “Discuss
ing the Sufism of the Early Modern Period: A New Historiographical Outlook on the
Tariqa Muhammadiyya,” in Sufism East and West: Mystical Islam and Cross-Cultural
Exchange in the Modern World, ed. Jamal Malik and Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh (Leiden &
Boston: Brill, 2019), 114–116.
140 John Renard, “Initiation,” in Historical Dictionary of Sufism (Lanham: Rowman &
Littlefield, 2016), 153.
141 Edward William Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyp
tians: Written in Egypt During the Years 1833, 1834, and 1835, 2 volumes. (London:
Charles Knight & Co., 1836), 1:317, Chih, Sufism, 32.
142 See Paul B. Fenton, “Abraham Maimonides (1187–1237): Founding of a Mystical
Dinasty,” in Jewish Mystical Leaders and Leadership in the 13th Century, ed. Moshe
Idel and Mortimer Ostow (Lanham & New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers,
Inc. 2005), 143.
143 Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, “The Small World of Aḥmad al-Ṣāwī (1761–1825), an
Egyptian Khalwatī Shaykh,” in The Piety of Learning: Islamic Studies in Honor of
Stefan Reichmuth, ed. Michael Kemper and Ralf Elger (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2017),
105–144.
144 Yürekli, Architecture, 1–4.
145 Karakaya-Stump, Kizilbash, 62–63.
147 Terzioğlu, “Sunnitization,” 320.
148 Karakaya-Stump, Kizilbash, 259–267.
149 Derin Terzioğlu, “Patronage,” 149–150, 164–165, Green, Sufism, 131–135.
150 Le Gall, Sufism, 65–66.
152 Chih, Sufism, 7–11. Further see Denise Aigle, “Essai sur les autorités religieuses dans
l’islam médiéval oriental,” in Les Autorités Religieuses entre Charismes et Hiérarchie:
Approches Comparatives, ed. Denise Aigle (Turnhout: Brepols Publishers, 2011),
17–40, as well as Commins, Islamic Reform, 7–20. For the early modern Ottoman
period, see Le Gall, Sufism, 55–58, and Zilfi, Politics, 170–171.
153 See Chapters 3 and 6.
154 For instance, al-Murādī, Silk, 1:129–130.
155 All these matters bear a high comparative potential with the Catholic tradition in west
ern Europe. See Thomas, Decline, 28–29.
156 Randall Styers, Making Magic: Religion, Magic and Science in the Modern World
(Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 36–38, 106, and Jason A.
Josephson-Storm, The Myth of Disenchantment: Magic, Modernity and the Birth of
the Human Sciences (Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press, 2017), 41–178,
269–301.
157 The mechanical aspect of a religion is defined in this context by the belief in a causal
relationship between ritual performance and immediate results. See Thomas, Decline,
36, 46–57.
158 Thomas, Decline, 46–57.
159 Ibid.
160 See, for instance, Michael Macdonald, “Religion, Social Change, and Psychological
Healing in England, 1600–1800,” The Church and Healing 19 (1982): 101–125, or C.
Peter Williams, “Healing and Evangelism: The Place of Medicine in Later Victorian
Protestant Missionary Thinking,” Ibid: 271–285.
161 Ernst, Sufism, 8–18, and Al-Azmeh, Times, 47–66. Further see Aziz Al-Azmeh,
“The Discourse of Cultural Authenticity: Islamist Revivalism and Enlightenment
Universalism,” in Islams and Modernities (London & New York: Verso, 1993). 39–59,
and Albert Hourani, “Sufism and Modern Islam: Rashid Rida,” in The Emergence of
the Modern Middle East (Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press,
1981), 90–102.
162 For instance, Saif, “Medicine and Magic,” 336.
163 For the eighteenth-century Damascene context, see Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:36. Further see
ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥadīqa al-Nadīyya: Sharḥ al-Ṭarīqa al-Muḥammadīyya
[The Dewy Garden: Explanations of the Muhammadan Way], 2 volumes (Miṣr:
n.p., 1860), 1: 199–200, and ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, “Kashf al-Nūr ʿan Aṣḥābi
al-Qubūr [Revealing Light in what pertains to the Dead in Graves],” in “Wasā’il
al-taḥqīq wa-rasāʼil al-tawfīq. Taḥqīq al-maqs.ūd min maʿnā “Yā man huwa maʿbūd fī
s.ūrat kull maʿbūd” [Means of Investigation and Letters of Conciliation. Clarification
of the Meaning of “O you who is Worshipped” in cases of Worship],” MS Princeton
University Library, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Manuscript
Collection, Islamic Manuscripts, New Series no. 1113 Princeton, 162A-174A. This
is a copy produced in 1748/1749 by al-Ḥājj ʻUmar Ibn ʻAbd Allāh I am grateful to Dr
Astrid Meier for pointing me towards this collection.
164 See Thomas, Decline, 36, 46–57.
165 See Chapter 4, or Chih, Sufism, 32–36, 118, for some concrete examples of such dem
onstrations during the eighteenth century in Syria and Egypt.
166 Alan Strathern, Unearthly Powers: Religious and Political Change in World History
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 47–81, 131–141.
167 Ibid., 27–47, 117–131.
168 This mysterious creature guided Moses in Qur’ān, 18:65–82. Al-Khiḍr was in
eighteenth-century Province of Damascus frequently referred to as a saint. He was
widely venerated and had many shrines in his honor.
169 See Chapters 3, and 5.
170 Grehan, Twilight, 132.
171 Alexandra Walsham, The Reformation of the Landscape: Religion, Identity, and Mem
ory in Early Modern Britain and Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 567.
172 See Weber, Sociology, 28–31, 115–120, and Bourdieu, “Genesis,” 10.
173 The Muslim Scripture is often disparaging about the priests in other religions. See
5:82, 9:31, 9:34, 12:106, 42:21, 49:16, and numerous other instances. The eighteenth-
century barber-chronicler from Damascus, Ibn Budayr, tended to refer to the Sufi
ʿulamā’ as “noble ones” (afāḍil). See Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Budayr, “Ḥawādith
Dimashq al-Shām Yawmīyya min Sanat 1154 ilā Sanat 1176” [The Daily Events of
Damascus from the Year 1741 to 1763], MS Chester Beatty Library Ar 3551/2, Dublin,
31B. Pagination is unclear, so I suggested my own. The cover page is labeled as 1.
Henceforth: “HDY.”
174 Alexander Russell, The Natural History of Aleppo: A Description of the City and the
Principal Natural Productions in its Neighbourhood, together with an Account of the
Climate, Inhabitants, and Diseases, Particularly of the Plague, 2 volumes, ed. Patrick
Russell (London: G.G. and J. Robinson: 1794), 1:208.
175 Aziz Al-Azmeh, “God’s Caravan,” in Mirror for the Muslim Prince: Islam and the
Theory of Statecraft, ed. Mehrzad Boroujerdi (New York: Syracuse University Press,
2013), 326–400, Times, 223, and Kingship, 102–104. Further see Zilfi, “Ulama,” 209.
176 Intercession (Ar. shafāʿa) was confined to the Prophet, but was also attributed to the
saints and the righteous. See chapter 5.
177 Compare with Thomas, Decline, 31–32, 87–88.
179 See Hofer, Sufism, 95. Further see Jaume Aurell, “The Notion of Charisma: Historiciz
ing the Gift of God on Medieval Europe,” Scripta Theologica, 54 (2022): 607–637,
and Jonathan E. Brockopp, “Constructing Muslim charisma,” in Routledge Interna
tional Handbook of Charisma, ed. José Pedro Zúquete (London & New York: Rout-
ledge, 2021), 163–174.
180 See Max Weber, On Charisma and Institution Building: Selected Papers, ed. S.N.
Eisenstadt (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 48.
181 Ibid., 19–28. Also see Joseph Bensman and Michael Givant, “Charisma and Moder
nity: The Use and Abuse of a Concept,” Social Research, 42, No. 4 Charisma,
Legitimacy, Ideology, and Other Weberian Themes (Winter, 1975): 577, 610, Donald
McIntosh, “Weber and Freud: On the Nature and Sources of Authority,” American
Sociological Review, 35, No. 5 (Oct. 1970): 902–903, or Douglas F. Barnes, “Cha
risma and Religious Leadership: An Historical Analysis,” Journal for the Scientific
Study of Religion, 17, No. 1 (Mar., 1978): 2–3. For an interesting, and an older criti
cism of this scholarly understanding, see Edward Shils, “Charisma, Order, and Sta
tus,” American Sociological Review, Vol. 30, No. 2 (April, 1965): 202. Despite works
like Shils’s, such attitudes are prevalent to the contemporary period. See John Potts,
A History of Charisma (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 61–87, or Martino
Rossi Monti, “The Mask of Grace: On Body and Beauty of Soul between Late Antiq
uity and the Middle Ages,” in Faces of Charisma: Image, Text, Object in Byzantium
and the Medieval West, ed. Brigitte Mariam Bedos-Rezak and Martha Dana Rust (Lei
den: Brill, 2017), 48.
182 Weber, Charisma, 48–81.
183 Chapter 2 discusses this matter in detail.
184 Eugene Subbotsky, Magic and the Mind: Mechanisms, Functions, and Development of
Magical Thinking and Behavior (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 12–14.
185 The comparative potential between various thaumaturgical and magical traditions was
noticed in other confessions as well. For instance, see Thomas, Decline, 318.
186 See, for instance, Matthew Melvin-Koushki, “In Defence of Geomancy: Šaraf al-Dīn
Yazdī Rebuts Ibn Ḫaldūn’s Critique of the Occult Sciences,” Arabica T.64, Fasc. ¾
(2017): 348–397 or Matthew Melvin-Koushki, “Magic in Islam between Religion and
Science,” Magic, Ritual and Witchcraft, 14, No. 2 (2019): 267–268.
187 Possibly best expressed by Sir James Frazer. See J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough:
A Study in Magic and Religion (London: Macmillan Press, 1983), 63–79.
188 See Jacob Neusner, “Introduction,” and Hans H. Penner, “Rationality, Ritual, and Sci
ence,” in Religion, Science, and Magic: In Concert and in Conflict, ed. Jacob Neusner,
Ernest S. Frerichs, and Paul Virgil McCracken Flesher (New York & Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1989), 3–10, 11–26.
189 Durkheim, Elementary Forms, 39–43.
190 Grehan, Twilight, 14–19. Also see Gellner, Muslim Society, and 114–130.
191 See Frazer, Golden Bough, 70–79, and Bronislaw Malinovski, “Sir James George
Frazer,” in A Scientific Theory of Culture and Other Essays (New York: Oxford Uni
versity Press, 1960), 177–222.
192 Marcel Mauss, A General Theory of Magic, trans. Robert Brain (London: Routledge,
1972), 22–26, 112–120.
193 Knysh, Sufism, 7, 173–178.
194 Subbotsky, Magic, 12–14.
195 Bruce Masters, “The View from the Province: Syrian Chronicles of the Eighteenth
Century,” Journal of the American Oriental Society, 114 No. 3 (July-September,
1994): 353–362, and Dana Sajdi, “Peripheral Visions: The World and Worldviews of
Commoner Chroniclers in the 18th Century Ottoman Levant,” (PhD Diss., Columbia
University, 2002), 56–151.
196 See Chapter 2.
197 See Grehan, Twilight, 151, Martha Mundy, “On reading two epistles of Muham
mad Amin Ibn ‘Abidin of Damascus,” in Forms and Institutions of Justice: Legal
Actions in Ottoman Contexts, ed. Yavuz Aykan and Işık Tamdoğan (Istanbul: Insti
tut français d’études anatoliennes, 2018), Open Access: 10.4000/books.ifeagd.2316
(Last accessed: February 24th 2023), and Itzchak Weismann, Taste of Modernity:
Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus (Leiden: Brill, 2001),
56–80
198 Al-Ṣāliḥīyya is a district of Damascus which contained a lot of religious significance

for the city, with its numerous shrines and Sufi lodges. See chapter 5. Further see Toru
Miura, “The Ṣāliḥīyya Quarter in the Suburbs of Damascus: Its Formation, Structure,
and Transformation in the Ayyūbid and Mamlūk Periods,” Bulletin d’études orientales
47 (1995): 129–181.
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2 Miracles of God and Saintly
Wonders
Magic and Religion in the Syrian
Eighteenth Century
The aim of this chapter is to suggest a more accurate definition of Muslim thauma
turgy and its place between the historically and anthropologically opposed binaries
of religion and magic in the case of eighteenth-century Syria. In Islam, Sufism
was, across centuries, associated with beliefs and practices pertinent to Muslim
thaumaturgy. The following discussion aims to provide a more nuanced approach
through which Sufism may be studied as a constituent element of premodern Islam,
representative of Muslim thaumaturgy.
Muslim thaumaturgical and magical beliefs and practices were conceptually,
technically, and anthropologically homologous.1 The nexus between them was
reflected in practices and beliefs which involved invocations of and supplications
to the divine, as well as other celestial beings such as angels, for instance. These
practices were sometimes labeled theurgy, which as a term and a concept had a
long history in Eurasian regions.2 In the centuries before modernity, according to
the extant primary source material, while theologians mostly represented magic as
a generic phenomenon, thaumaturgy was a specific form of practice strictly defined
by sodalities of religious professionals in office. In eighteenth-century Syria, these
sodalities were represented by the Sufi-ʿulamā’ with official appointments.
Thaumaturgical beliefs and practices significantly helped the Sufi-ulamaic cir
cles to define and maintain the boundaries of their office, both during the eighteenth
century and in other premodern eras. It was widely believed that the individuals
who attained popularity through their virtue, piety, and righteousness were capa
ble of performing wonders through Allah’s grace. Most often, these individuals
would claim membership among the state-appointed Sufi-ʿulamā’ while the rest of
the common people were forbidden from performing thaumaturgical rituals. State-
appointed scholar-thaumaturges helped maintain the exclusiveness of their office
through their own teachings and written works, allowing for the continuity of Mus
lim religious and thaumaturgical traditions from the early Middle Ages and until
the Muslim reforms of the modern period.
Texts authored by eighteenth-century Syrian theologians indicate that the
principal difference between thaumaturgy and magic was the widespread belief
that Allah’s grace – baraka – made thaumaturgy possible, while magic was most
often described as daemonic. Such was the case with divine grace in Christian
traditions.3 As the cause and energy behind Muslim wonders, baraka represented
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539-2
Miracles of God and Saintly Wonders 47
an important religious resource as well as a social marker4 for the members of

eighteenth-century Syrian priestly sodality. I further discuss baraka, both as a
social marker and a socio-anthropological tool through which analyses of early
modern Ottoman societies may be conducted.
The networks of eighteenth-century state-appointed scholars and Sufi masters
represented an essential layer within the eighteenth-century Ottoman network
of the holy, which further comprised of the Sufi-ʿulamā’, the still-living Muslim
saints, the deceased awliyā’, and the prophets.5 This network, in addition, included
a number of sacred places such as shrines, or tombs, as well as natural objects like
rocks, caves, bodies of water, or trees.6 In this chapter, I discuss various compo
nents within this complex network of graceful individuals, places, and objects,
which was fundamental to Ottoman Sunni orthodoxy prior to the modern Muslim
reforms. Beliefs in their grace were widespread among the common people and the
elites in eighteenth-century Syria, as I demonstrate in other chapters of this book.
Throughout the medieval and early modern period, however, some Muslim the
ologians expressed skepticism towards certain elements of the Muslim network of
the holy. This chapter offers a brief account of such skepticism and its relevance for
the history of eighteenth-century Syria, analyzing the theological responses emerg
ing from it, such as they remain in primary source material.
“What I do is a Miracle, But What You Do is Magic:”7 Thaumaturgy

and Magic in Eighteenth-Century Damascus
Scholarship defines magic as a set of pragmatic acts achieving results through
unseen means.8 With the term magic, I refer to bodies of beliefs and practices
aimed to compel, bargain with, or appease various unseen forces capable of defy
ing natural causalities. Magicians believed themselves capable of manipulating
energies, which would directly or indirectly, through talismans, or images, for
instance, influence people, animate nature, or predict certain events. In addition,
certain types of augury and divination, such as geomancy, technically and concep
tually overlapped with various kinds of both magical and thaumaturgical practices.
During the eighteenth century, beliefs in magic (siḥr) were widespread in the
Ottoman Empire, and the Damascene Muslim scholars amply wrote about them.
Al-Nābulsī and Ibn ʿĀbidīn treated siḥr as an open-ended category pertinent to
various kinds of illicit beliefs and practices. This category included daemonology,
in the sense of bargaining with the jinn9 or compelling them to do one’s bidding.
Theologians further approached astrology, geomancy, and many other divination
techniques with caution, yet any practice aimed at praeternaturally causing harm
was considered magical,10 while certain forms of talismanics, various other types
of occult sciences (ʿulūm al-ghayb), illusionism, or prestidigitation were often
frowned upon.11
Making appropriate distinctions between magic and thaumaturgy appears to
be problematic for modern and contemporary scholarship, due to the seemingly
unstable technical (and sometimes social) boundaries between these categories in
various historical realities. In the Catholic case, which is in many ways comparable
48 Miracles of God and Saintly Wonders
to that of Islam, some scholars suggest that the difference between the concepts
of prayer and spell became elaborate only with the advent of Protestantism.12
Thaumaturgy as a frequent constituent of early modern religious orthodoxies, like
magic, aimed to compel, bargain with, or appease various unseen forces in order
to achieve results that defied natural causalities. The forces that both thaumaturges
and magicians supposedly interacted with were believed occult. These forces were
entities like gods, angels, daemons, spirits, and so on. Such forces may be defined
as praeternatural, or supernatural. Max Weber, however, noted that only a modern
spectator would understand them so.13 It is possible to presume that premodern peo
ples for the greater part accepted the idea that these forces dwelled unseen among
them. In the popular imaginary, they were fully natural, although they inhabited
a part of the world which was invisible. During the premodern centuries, there
existed a continuity between the visible and the invisible, which further influenced
the popular perceptions of nature.14
Distinctions between thaumaturgy and magic did exist before modernity, how
ever. Sunni theologians clearly separated these categories on the grounds of the
type of energy that was believed to cause their efficacy. In eighteenth-century
Damascus, Ibn ʿĀbidīn insisted that the praeternatural phenomena (khawāriq)
were real and divided into magic, wonder-, and miracle-working. Along with
other eighteenth-century scholars, he maintained that any mystical effect caused
by the pious and the righteous may have been understood as a wonder (karāma).15
Wonder-working was widely conceived as caused by Allah’s baraka, which most
often was acquired through exemplary behavior marked with devoutness, right
eousness, and piety. These qualities were in Arabic jointly indicated by the term
ṣalāḥ, which most often represented the primary condition for the beliefs in one’s
grace.16 The Sufis, widely assumed to have been the champions of ṣalāḥ, were
believed to be the recipients of divine baraka, which was believed to protect them
from sinful behavior and fuel their wonders. The causal relationship between
ṣalāḥ and baraka needs continuous emphasis. Studying the beliefs in this relation
ship allows to observe the ways through which the Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodalities and
the common people of eighteenth-century Shām identified their wonder-workers
and saints. Because of their baraka, the Sufis and the awliyā’ supposedly caused
wonders (karamāt), while the prophets caused miracles (muʿjizāt).17 These beliefs
remained fairly unchanged since the medieval period.18
Unlike wonder-working, eighteenth-century Syrian theologians considered
magic an evil inspiration from the devil (shayṭānīyya). Ibn ʿĀbidīn wrote that siḥr
corrupted the world and human character. He furthermore rendered any preter
natural phenomenon caused by an evil individual – a sinner, or an unbeliever –
clearly magical.19 Al-Nābulsī wrote that magicians were blasphemers and infidels
who often cooperated with the devils (shayāṭīn).20 Divine grace, attracted by traits
of exemplary individuals, which were commonly perceived as good and much
desired, represented the difference between wonder and magic in popular belief.
Making distinctions between wonder-working and magic based on the type of
energy that supposedly caused them seems near-ubiquitous across the globe and
is documented by contemporary scholarship. In many regions, people sanctioned
ritualistic practices that allegedly brought benefits. In contrast, practices tied to

curses or causing harm were usually condemned as witchcraft.21 It is striking,
however, that scholarship rarely mentions the concept of thaumaturgy explicitly.
Scholars instead focus on the relations between magic and the broader category
of religion, even though thaumaturgical beliefs as constituents of many religions
greatly facilitated making distinctions between religious orthodoxies and magical
traditions. The reasons for this omission seem to owe to both the anthropological
congruence of thaumaturgy and magic, as well as to the historical influence of
religious reforms that changed the attitudes towards thaumaturgical practice, as
I discuss later. Regardless, influential authors such as Max Weber also drew a line
between religion and magic according to the moral dispositions of the invoked
entities.22 The emergent good-evil dichotomy, evident in eighteenth-century Syria
from Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s treatises, and in medieval Islam from Ibn Khaldūn’s Prole
gomenon,23 may be found in many scholarly works in comparative religion. Some
prominent sociologists and anthropologists describe magic as antinomian and dae
monic, or committed to worshipping ancient and illicit deities. It is frequent to
encounter the descriptions of magic as a mockery of religious practice.24 It appears
that the good-evil dichotomy between religion and magic stood in direct relation
with the dichotomy of licit-illicit,25 which directly led to debates about orthodoxies
and heterodoxies.
Throughout the history of premodern religions, religious authorities in office
defined the orthodoxy of a given religious practice. In eighteenth-century Syria,
the ulamaic circles used the exclusive access to their trade to maintain boundaries
between the orthodox and the heterodox. The ʿulamā’ kept the idea that the Sufi
masters successfully distinguished proper from dangerous religious practice. An
established Sufi shaykh’s guidance was obligatory for those embarking on Sufi
paths.26 Common people were advised to adhere to the normative prescriptions
given by the religious authorities in office while performing common religious
rites. Divergences, or intentional practice of mystical arts by the commoners, were
a sign of infidelity (kufr) for the eighteenth-century Damascene ʿulamā’.27 Keith
Thomas traces comparable strategies through which the medieval English Catholic
Church maintained monopoly over religious orthodoxy.28 The Church condemned
any divergence from the proceedings of an officially prescribed ritual as sorcery or
devil-worship. Similarly, any usage of the Church’s symbols outside of the given
norm was outlawed along with participation in any rituals that the religious author
ities did not establish themselves.29
Eighteenth-century Damascene scholars, like Ibn ʿĀbidīn and al-Nābulsī, fol
lowed a tradition of theological writing that lasted for centuries and remained
preserved in older and very prominent texts. For instance, Ibn Khaldūn’s Prole
gomenon established identical boundaries between magicians and the Sufis.30 The
eighteenth-century ulamā’ often suggested that all praeternatural effects caused
by the righteous may have been regarded as wonders, as they served God, and not
daemons, celestial bodies, or their own interests. The similarity of Sufi rituals to
sorcery, or their overlaps with various categories of occult sciences, were permis
sible due to saintly and Sufi baraka which protected wonder-workers from all harm
and proved them sinless.31 Baraka served as an analytic instrument through which
Muslim premodern theologians distinguished between orthodox and heterodox
beliefs and practices over the passage of time.
It therefore appears that for early modern Muslim theological sodalities, the
boundaries between religion and magic mostly helped maintain the boundaries
between an exclusive group of religious professionals and the rest of the common
people, as was the case in other religious confessions across regions. Any simi
larities between institutionally sanctioned rituals and those of freelance magicians
were immediately discarded, as the former were believed to represent the conse
quence of divine grace, while the latter were described as diabolical. Distinctions
between religion and magic in Islam continually represented issues of control,32
while religious authorities strove to preserve their place as official divine grace
dispensers.33 Historians also noticed that various groups of religious professionals
across regions often exchanged accusations of sorcery, illusionism, or fraud during
disputes. This is in eighteenth-century Syria evident from Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s writing.34
The cynical formulation “What I do is a miracle, but what you do is magic”35 gains
significance for the analysis of the historical relations between thaumaturgy and
magic in Islam, espousing a particular strategy of exclusion aimed to preserve the
institutional character of a sodality of professionals with the claim over religious
orthodoxy through the belief in divine grace.
The official religious authorities’ classification of thaumaturgy in eighteenth-
century Syria as a fully orthodox cultural and religious corpus implies that Sufism,
a primary vehicle for Muslim thaumaturgy during the early modern period, cannot
be considered an odd, heterodox body of beliefs and practices, as some scholarship
suggested in the past.36 The scholarly view of Sufism as a heterodox body of mys
tical traditions in premodern Islam seems to owe significantly to the general ten
dency to overlook the history of thaumaturgy in scholarship today. The absence of
thaumaturgy from scholarly debates may occasionally lead to confusion between
the anthropological categories of religion and magic. This scholarly omission
might on the one hand represent the consequence of the historical fact that thauma
turgy and magic were congruent from an anthropological point of view.37 On the
other, the conflation of the categories of thaumaturgy and magic may be owed to
the historical Protestant influence in Europe, as well as the engagement of Muslim
modern reformers in the Middle East and North Africa. Through the influences of
such groups, thaumaturgy came under accusations that it represented magic itself,
despite the historical fact that these categories were distinguished through the doc
trines of religious institutions.38
European Protestant movements attacked the beliefs in the divine grace attrib
uted to the established priesthoods, as well as in the cults of saints which were
spread across Eurasia.39 For instance, in Western Europe, Protestants were widely
denying the thaumaturgical capabilities that the Catholic Church possessed accord
ing to common beliefs. The varying degrees of Protestant movements’ success
induced changes in the theological opinions about the origin and purpose of thau
maturgical beliefs and rituals.40 Belief in miracles and wonders caused by divine
will through the agency of the Catholic priests, as well as in any alleged priestly
power that granted immediate relief to the people,41 slowly took the character of
superstition. Thaumaturgy was, in the Protestant discourse, reduced to a lowly
magical practice inspired by devils and labeled evil, illicit, and heterodox.42
Similarly, the collapse of the thaumaturgy-magic distinction in the studies of
Islam may owe to the influences of modern scholarly writing about thaumaturgy
globally,43 as well as the efforts of the Muslim reformists to remove Sufism from
mainstream religion.44 The belief in Muslim saintly cults and Sufi wonders in Islam
was attacked by the Muslim reformist thought during the modern period, bringing
about comparable historical developments to those in Europe after the advent of
Protestantism.45 Scholarly studies of Islam today display an unease with position
ing the categories of religion and magic, as well as Islam and Sufism, while older
scientific works frequently indicated that Sufism was illicit and heterodox.46 All
the while, Sufism continues to pervade and exert a considerable influence on many
socio-anthropological and sociopolitical fields studied by the scholarship commit
ted to Islam.47
I suggest approaching Sufism in premodern Islam as a body of mystical beliefs
and practices, which were representative of Muslim thaumaturgy and fully ortho
dox, according to the doctrine of the religious authorities in power. This body of
mystical beliefs and practices contained many elements homologous to siḥr, yet
theologically, sociopolitically, and legally distinguished through the writings of
state-appointed Ottoman priestly sodalities. These sodalities used the beliefs in
divine grace – Allah’s baraka – to justify the efficacy of thaumaturgy and further
establish themselves as an institution of religious authority by claiming monopoly
over this thaumaturgical resource. Baraka was of high significance for the social
dynamics of early modern Ottoman Shām, where it represented both a social
marker and the supposed energy behind thaumaturgical efficacy.
Holy Energy: The Significance of the Belief in Allah’s Baraka

Depending on the region, the unseen energies that allegedly fueled magical and
thaumaturgical action (the magical or thaumaturgical capital, in Bourdiesque
terms48) would be dubbed mana,49 or purba, orenda,50 and so on. In the Muslim
case, it is possible to identify thaumaturgical energy as grace, baraka. Muslim
beliefs in baraka were comparable to the Christian beliefs in God’s grace.51
According to common beliefs, this mystical grace made prophetic miracles,
as well as saintly and Sufi-ulamaic wonders, possible.52 Muslims who dem
onstrated extreme piety, devoutness, and virtue53 in life were occasionally
believed to have become recipients of grace and furthermore capable of har
vesting this thaumaturgical capital from certain sacred places, such as saintly
shrines. Very importantly, these special individuals would be believed capable
of dispensing divine grace to the rest of the people, acquiring thus a specific
social function.54
The religious, sociopolitical, socio-anthropological, and economic significance
of baraka as a primary historical fact qualify it as a valid analytical tool for the
study of eighteenth-century Syrian religion. I am tracing the narratives about
baraka produced in eighteenth-century Syria to map out the Shāmī religious topog
raphy, as well as the networks of religious professionals who oversaw the dispens
ing of this thaumaturgical resource to the rest of the Ottoman subjects.
The state-appointed Sufi-scholars of note in eighteenth-century Damascus
wrote that the ultimate source of baraka was divine will. It is reasonable to pre
sume, however, that they felt moved to offer such explanations in the framework of
their apologetic responses to the rigorists’ doubt in Muslim saints. Beliefs that all
baraka came from Allah therefore may seem a second-order dogmatic and casu
istic explanation. As a primary anthropological fact, baraka may have sometimes
been seen as the energy of a hallowed individual or an object directly. Eighteenth-
century sources at times seem to support this view. For instance, the Damascene
barber Ibn Budayr writes only of the saints’ baraka during his pilgrimages around
the provincial capital.55 Similarly, biographies authored by al-Murādī often indi
cate the baraka of individuals, adding no mention of the divine.56 In the twentieth
century, Samuel Curtiss and Lewis Paton offer empirical evidence that the people
preferred to pray near saintly shrines to make their prayers to God more effica
cious.57 However, Paton was told in Syria that the common people fear God, yet
they fear the walī also “because he is near.”58 The proximity of the saints in com
mon imaginary may have influenced the way baraka was popularly viewed, which
is another comparative point across world religions.59
According to the apologetics of the ulamaic authors, baraka through divine
providence passed down through prophets of whom many feature in the Bible as
well (such as Abraham, or Moses).60 It then passed downwards to the deceased, and
then the still-living Muslim saints, as well as numerous Sufi masters. The shaykhs
were believed capable of developing various thaumaturgical skills and knowledge,
as well as causing wonders through this grace.
In premodern popular belief, baraka had near-physical properties. Muslims
believed that grace could “leak” between individuals through touch. In the popular
imaginary, baraka gathered around entombed saints, or within their memorials. It
also formed residues in places where powerful thaumaturgical acts allegedly hap
pened. From there, it leaked into other people and objects.61 Some Muslim thauma
turges were believed capable of fueling small items with a certain portion of their
baraka. They would thus create talismans aimed at a range of purposes – from
prophylactic to daemonological (aimed at controlling or banishing malevolent
praeternatural entities).62 The early modern Ottoman subjects had a gesture called
tabarruk (“solicitation of blessing”). One would hold their hands out, palms facing
upwards. They would motion as if they gathered water to symbolize the collection
of God’s power. Hands would then pass over the body from the head downwards to
symbolize “bathing” in the energy of God. This gesture is standard among Muslims
everywhere and is functionally comparable to the Christian sign of the cross.63 In
eighteenth-century Syria, it was customary to perform the tabarruk upon seeing
a saint or passing by a saintly shrine – according to belief an endless resource of
baraka.64
The people in eighteenth-century Syria (and premodern Muslims broadly)
believed that the function of baraka was to protect against devils, destructive
spells, curses, and other harmful phenomena such as diseases or natural catastro
phes. Furthermore, it was believed that baraka caused prayers to come true and
enhanced the power of some types of rituals. Sufis believed that particular chapters
from the Qur’ān, such as al-Fātiḥa, were able to activate baraka which would then
be used to realize a thaumaturgical purpose.65
The notion of baraka possesses a high degree of socio-anthropological signifi
cance for historical studies of premodern Islam. My research takes note of popular
beliefs that baraka was attracted by and accrued from the personal traits of vir
tue and devoutness (Ar. ṣalāḥ).66 Theological treatises, biographical dictionaries,
and daily chronicles written in eighteenth-century Syria frequently emphasize the
baraka of those individuals who attracted popularity through their exemplary life
styles. Reading documents about baraka therefore enables researchers to analyze
in detail the socio-anthropological dynamics of premodern Muslim societies. Such
is the case with eighteenth-century Syria as well, where the belief that Allah’s ener
gies acted as a shield against the perils of the unseen world and its malevolent
forces such as the daemons67 additionally strengthened the Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodalities’
institutionalized function as overseers of religious matters.68
Baraka influenced the people’s views of early modern urban topography. Otto
man subjects strove to be buried as close as possible to graves of famous saints,
or other places marked by religiously significant events. It was customary to erect
shrines in such locations. These could be humble edifices or more elaborate com
plexes. In Damascus, the shrines of Ibn ʿArabī and al-Nābulsī were very large
architectural clusters. Many saintly shrines over time became bigger economic
centers accompanied by various establishments aimed at accommodating pilgrims
and performing charity.69 Pilgrimage complexes grew in numbers and influenced
mobility patterns, causing the production of a distinct genre of travel guides.70
Baraka-harvesting pilgrimages were so common and frequent that James Grehan
finds the source material an inspiration to write about the Muslim ziyāra customs
as an obsession of some Sufi masters.71
It was believed that grace was earned by merit,72 most often after long years
of studying under established Sufi shaykhs. Those who acquired reputation for
their baraka commanded significant respect among their peers, as well as other
members of society. Many people who were believed recipients of Allah’s grace
pursued official appointments at important and lucrative positions within Otto
man administration. Their powers of office commanded significant sociopolitical
influence in different parts of the Ottoman Empire. Their baraka further served as
a powerful means of social mobility that occasionally facilitated an individual’s
advance from humble origins towards the highest echelons of the Ottoman imperial
administration.73
Graceful Networks: Wonder-Workers in Eighteenth-Century

Ottoman Syria
The Sufi-ʿulamā’ networks claimed monopoly over Allah’s grace. Baraka was for
them both the cause of their wonders and a discursive tool, which helped them
establish their authority over religious orthodoxy. Their professional credentials

were legitimized through the widespread belief in individuals, places, and objects
interconnected by praeternatural grace into a network of the holy that was funda
mental for premodern Ottoman Sunnism. This was a very broad network, com
prised of both vertical and horizontal connections, which was crucial for early
modern belief in Ottoman Syria. It may be mapped out by tracing the beliefs that
baraka was merited by individuals whom the Ottoman societies considered exem
plary. In the eighteenth century, the Syrian network of the holy was comprised of
prominent Sufi-ʿulamā’, deceased Sufi masters, Muslim saints (awliyā’), and the
prophets (anbiyā’).
Al-Nābulsī divided the ranks of the Ottoman network of the holy between the
ṣāliḥūn, the ʿulamā’, and the awliyā’.74 At the basis of the network of the holy
were the ṣāliḥūn who enjoyed popular belief that they were invested with divine
grace. It was believed that these individuals, with origins across the social scale,
merited their baraka through their virtuous ways of living, and that they could
therefore cause wonders.75 The ṣāliḥūn overlapped with the groups of Sufi masters
and disciples. Those ṣāliḥūn who attracted most respect usually belonged to vari
ous eighteenth-century Sufi orders during their lives, and the eighteenth-century
Syrian network of the holy, therefore, considerably overlapped with the network of
religious authorities represented by the officially appointed Sufi-ʿulamā’.76 How
ever, certain members of this category were believed to be the recipients of baraka
even though they did not follow the teachings of a specific Sufi order. Such cases
were still very rare.77
Above the ranks of the Shāmī ṣāliḥūn were the saints (sg. walī, pl. awliyā’).78
Scholarship defines the awliyā’ as “friends of God” (sg. walī allah),79 indicating a
certain closeness to the divine.80 This rank consisted of the members of the wider
social category of the ṣāliḥūn who were believed to have merited divine grace.
The most prominent saints were, however, almost always influential members
of the Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodalities.81 Out of each saintly generation, an individual of
unprecedented achievements would become known as the quṭb zamānihi (“the
Pole of his time”). It was believed that the Poles (aqṭāb) maintained worldly
order, prevented sin, and ensured that the people were protected from evil. In
practical terms, Poles of their time enjoyed unparalleled popularity and influ
ence, both among their peers and notables of economic and political influence.82
Rachida Chih identifies four of the most prominent Poles who lived between the
eleventh and the thirteenth centuries. In early modern Egypt, these individuals
were widely respected. They were ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Gīlāni83 (1078–1166), Aḥmad
al-Rifaʿī (1118–1181), Aḥmad al-Badawī (1200–1276), and Ibrahīm al-Dasūqī
(1255–1296).84 These four Sufi masters were celebrated as the eponymous found
ers of some of the larger Sufi orders – the Qādirīyya, Rifāʿīyya, Aḥmadīyya,
and the Burhānīyya85 – that existed deep into the nineteenth century (and are
still present in some regions). Taufik Canaan identified the same four individu
als as highly respected Poles in Syria,86 in addition to other Syrian aqṭāb such
as Arslān (Ruslān) al-Dimashqī (d.1160/64), “The Protector of Damascus,”87
or ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī. The Cordoban scholar, saint, and quṭb, Ibn ʿArabī,
remained remembered as the patron saint of the Ottoman dynasty88 and was ven
erated throughout the imperial domain. In the eighteenth century, Syrian priestly
sodalities considered al-Nābulsī the Pole of his time, while al-Ḥifnī enjoyed this
honor in Egypt.89 Numerous individuals from each generation of prominent Mus
lim ṣāliḥūn continuously expanded the saintly ranks. By the eighteenth century,
Ottoman Syria as well as other imperial regions had an exquisite number of nodes
in their networks of the holy90 integrated within a pyramid through which divine
grace was believed to descend upon humanity.
Above the deceased saints and the Poles, and under God as the source of all that
existed, stood the rank of the prophets (anbiyā’; sg. nabī). The difference between
the prophets and the saints was reflected in the beliefs that the former were tasked
with spreading divine revelation, which was further accompanied by their more
potent abilities. Prophetic calling and revelation often distinguished prophetic
muʿjiza from saintly karāma in the writings of Muslim theologians.91 Muḥammad
was considered the first among the prophets as the perfect man (al-insān al-kāmil).
He represented the source of knowledge and the most significant node of the net
work of the holy for the continuous vertical distribution of grace.92 Many Sufi
orders claimed to have been built on prophetic heritage.93 Among other prophets of
Islam, many were featured in the Old and New Testament traditions as well, such
as Abraham or Moses.94 The belief in the same prophets across scriptural confes
sions inspired some scholars to underline the wide syncretic tendencies that Sufism
contained during the previous centuries.95
Al-Nābulsī believed that the saints and prophets received Allah’s grace even
after death and until the end of days.96 He described their wonders as the proof of
their virtue.97 Due to the belief that saints continued to receive Allah’s baraka after
death, it was expected that they could also cause wonders postmortem. Through
out the premodern centuries, Muslims therefore turned the graves of their saints
into shrines,98 which became pilgrimage (ziyāra; pl. ziyārāt) destinations.99 In the
eighteenth-century, it was customary to pray and perform various religious rituals
in the vicinity of these shrines,100 in hopes that the saintly baraka would empower
a spell or strengthen a prayer’s efficacy. Furthermore, it was hoped that the unseen
saintly presence within the shrines would intercede101 before Allah and assist the
people with their needs.
Ottoman imperial urban planning throughout the early modern period at times
used the saintly shrines for a number of sociopolitical and economic purposes.
Sufi lodges, usually standing upon at least one hallowed tomb, lay within larger
building complexes specialized for charity and proselytization. Such complexes
frequently represented focal points around which new neighborhoods would be
developed in conquered cities.102 In Damascus, the Ibn ʿArabī complex represented
a very important Ottoman endowment. Sultan Selim I (1470–1520) commissioned
its renovation and expansion quite possibly in hopes of shifting the religious
center of the city away from the Umayyad Mosque and attributing more signifi
cance to his own dynasty in the wake of Mamluk defeat.103 The sociopolitical use
of hallowed graves was not an original Ottoman development. Muslim states that
existed for a number of centuries prior to the emergence of the Ottoman Empire
often used such graves for economic and self-representative purposes.104
Continuing a centuries-long tradition, Ottoman subjects organized ceremonies
to honor their prominent saints and prophets such as, for instance, the mawlids
(“birthday”)105 that represented major attractions for travelers as well as locals.106
Major fairs and markets would be organized on such occasions. These festivities
most often took place at saintly shrines that, in addition to marking saintly graves,
at times stood at places where legendary events from Muslim religious history
allegedly happened. A complex economy generated around Muslim sacred sites,
further indicating the economic correlates of premodern beliefs in baraka for the
historical studies of the Middle East.107 In addition to the large number of hallowed
shrine complexes, certain events would at times inspire beliefs that baraka resided
in natural objects such as trees, caves, rocks, or water sources.108 I consider the net
work of eighteenth-century Syrian sacred places – its “folk geology,”109 comprised
of sacred shrines, trees, caves, rocks, and water sources – an element in the Otto
man network of the holy.
In the eighteenth century, the ever-growing network of the holy was comprised
of entire silsilas of deceased saints and the Poles among them. For the Ottoman
priestly sodality, this network represented both the alleged source of divine grace
and the source of legitimacy in front of the rest of the people. Baraka correlated
to ṣalāḥ, and the priestly sodality fashioned itself as a network of role models in
the Ottoman societies based on beliefs in their grace. In certain regions, beliefs in
the network of the holy remain until today, while at many other places, Muslim
reforms succeeded at casting doubt in Muslim saints and their networks. This was
a slow process, however. The Sufi-ʿulamā’ in office during the eighteenth century
left a significant number of written works in response to disputes that occasionally
arose around matters of Ottoman belief.
Purity of Faith: Religious Rigorism of the Eighteenth Century

The persistence of rigorism on the margins of Ottoman societies inspired many
works of apologetic theology.110 The Sufi-ʿulamā’ in Damascus formulated their
response to rigorist movements in works that discussed Sufism, the cult of saints
in Islam, and many religious and thaumaturgical practices. Comparing these vol
umes with practiced religion as it was documented by eighteenth-century chroni
clers and Sufi masters illuminates the boundaries of licit thaumaturgical practice,
as well as the extant beliefs in miracles, wonders, and Allah’s grace. Authorities on
religion and jurisprudence in eighteenth-century Damascus, like al-Nābulsī, wrote
in detail about Ottoman network of the holy, enumerated what they considered
blasphemous and antinomian behavior, and issued accusations of heresy. Reading
al-Nābulsī’s writings, some scholars describe his authorship as a lifelong mission
of defending Sufism from Kadızadeli attacks.111 Muḥammad Ibn ʿĀbidīn’s treatise
defends his Sufi master Khālid al-Naqshbandī (d.1827) from opponents’ charges
of heresy.112 The apologetic tradition persisted among the Sufi-ʿulamā’ during the
modern times as well.113
Even though the Ottoman network of the holy, as well as the Muslim priestly
sodalities represented by the Sufi-ʿulamā’ with state appointments, held fast against
doctrinal attacks at least until the early nineteenth century, theological disagree
ments existed ever since the medieval period. Some prominent theologians occa
sionally tended to express doubts in the established and highly popular cults of
saints. At times they would doubt the thaumaturgical powers of the Sufis as well.
They, however, remained a minority until the modern period.
Scholarship traditionally suggests that the Hanbalite school of jurisprudence
(sg. madhhab, pl. madhāhib) was historically representative of a degree of ani
mosity towards Sufism. This scholarly presumption may owe to the Hanbalite
school’s more literalist approach to the Scripture.114 However, the eleventh-century
eponymous founder of the Qādirīyya, ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Gīlānī (1078–1166), him
self belonged to the Hanbalite madhhab. As one of the widely venerated Poles
of his time, al-Gīlānī had a shrine built in his honor in Baghdad. This shrine was
destroyed during the reign of Shah Ismāʿīl I (1501–1524) but the Lawgiver rebuilt
it later.115 A madrasa was named after him. Along with the shrine, this madrasa
represents a pilgrimage destination until the present day.116
In eighteenth-century Damascus, the Hanbalite school of jurisprudence enjoyed
considerable attendance and presence in official positions. Among its ranks were
individuals such as Abū al-Mawāhib Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Ḥanbalī (d.1714), one
of the most popular saints of eighteenth-century Damascus, a prominent author,
scholar, and a Sufi. He was also a critically acclaimed meteoromancer. His grave
was a very popular pilgrimage destination.117
Historians documented that the eponymous founder of the Hanbalite madhhab,
Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal (780–855), himself performed rituals of baraka-harvesting and
wondrous healing. For thaumaturgical healing, he used his spittle, or the hair of the
Prophet. His grave had a pleasant fragrance, and the people believed that he was a
saint.118 The case of Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal illustrates the long-lasting overlap between
an ʿālim and a thaumaturge. Disagreements that emerged among theologians over
the passage of time concerning certain Sufi practices and the cult of saints did not
neutralize this overlap during the premodern periods.
Over time, however, certain Hanbalite scholars developed a more rigorist119
attitude to the Muslim cults of saints. Teachings of the eponymous founder of the
Hanbalite madhab were often quoted as inspiration behind later rigorist thought.
Some rigorist scholars were important figures for the historical developments in
Syria over the passage of time. For instance, Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal left significant
influence on the written works of the famous Hanbalite scholar and a Qādirīyya
Sufi, Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Taymīyya (1263–1328).120 Ibn Taymīyya was a con
temporary to the Mongol campaigns in the Middle East and in time became known
for his own achievements in combat.121 While he was still a child, the advance of
the Mongols pushed him towards Damascus. Ibn Taymīyya considered that al
khalaf generations brought many innovations (bidʿa) in Islam and that ahl al-salaf
possessed more credibility concerning matters of proper belief.122 Ibn Taymīyya
interpreted Ibn ʿArabī’s self-proclamation to be the “Seal of the Saints” as a chal
lenge to Muḥammad’s prophethood.123 He was in favor of many devotional Sufi
practices, yet he expressed doubt about ziyāra, reasoning that the practice derived
from the hopes of acolytes to get closer to God, which was impermissible.124 His
writing and provocative behavior in front of the jurisprudential authorities caused
controversies in Damascus.125 Because of his attitudes, he was expelled from the
city and further prosecuted in Cairo and Alexandria.126 This Sufi-ʿālim’s shrine in
Damascus was a very important pilgrimage site. The eighteenth-century pilgrims’
guides still listed it among the most prominent religious destinations.127
Doctrinal disagreements persisted during the early modern period.128 Ibn
Taymīyya’s opinions endured among some Ottoman Sufi-ʿulamā’. However, schol
arly references to the Anatolian preacher, Taqī al-Dīn Muḥammad Ibn ʿAlī (d.1573),
later remembered as Birgivī Mehmed Efendi as a successor of Taymīyyan ideas
seem somewhat misplaced. Birgivī Mehmed featured in biographies as either a Sufi
or an ʿālim. His most popular written work, which still attracts much interest, is The
Muḥammadan Path.129 Birgivī seemed not to be interested in promotions, mostly
keeping to writing and preaching,130 pointing out the necessity to filter out undesir
able innovative elements from the corpus of orthodox practice.131 Birgivī staunchly
argued for uncompromising adherence to the Scripture, and appeared bothered by
what he considered the excesses of the later Sufi generations, yet the Muham
madan Path barely treats the matter of tomb visitations, while Birgivī seemed to
consider Sufi commitment and devotion beneficial for believers. Current scholar
ship presents evidence to consider later misattributions to his work.132 An adherent
to Hanafī-Māturīdī
. piety, Birgivī opposed many elements in Ibn Taymīyya’s writ
ing.133 For a long time, Birgivī’s work impressed other scholars and widely circu
lated within the Ottoman Empire. Birgivī’s ideas influenced many other authors,
including the eighteenth-century al-Nābulsī who wrote a commentary on Birgivī’s
most influential work.134 Among more precarious notions, however, in Birgivī’s
writing is the obligation of each believer to take responsibility over distinguishing
between right and wrong, making active efforts to fight for what is just.135
Birgivī Mehmed’s teachings represented one of Kadızade Mehmed Efendi’s
(d.1635) most important influences yet combined with Taymīyyan rigorism and
rigorist works of scholars such as Aḥmad al-Rūmī al-Āqḥiṣārī (d.1632), of which
some may have been mistakenly attributed later to Birgivī’s oeuvre, perhaps
influencing how some historians read Birgivī’s texts today.136 Kadızade Mehmed
enjoyed wide popularity in the seventeenth-century Ottoman Empire. In Istan
bul, he started a rigorist movement under the patronage of the state. Kadızade
Mehmed was a Khalwatī ʿālim whose personal charisma and capable networking
brought him to the court circles in Istanbul. He preached a version of Sunnism that
expressed doubts in the thaumaturgical capacities of the established Sufi-ʿulamā’
networks. He was in favor of a more puritanical reading of the scriptural sources.
His followers, the Kadızadeliler, received Sultan Murad IV’s (r.1623–1640) sup
port,137 while Kadızade Mehmed acquired lucrative appointments in the Mosques
of Selim, Bayazid, Süleyman I, and finally Ayasofya.138 The Ottoman court
appointed Kadızade Mehmed on various important administrative positions. At the
same time, the Ottomans kept ties to various Sufi branches, most predominantly
the Khalwatīyya.139
Over time, the Kadızadeliler established ties with the reforming Sufi
Naqshbandīyya order,140 possibly due to the somewhat more rationalistic
Naqshbandī attitude to doctrine and ritualized practice,141 and amassed a large
following, inspiring bouts of popular vigilantism. Many social practices deemed
“innovations” (bidʿa) were condemned, such as Sufi dances, music, or pilgrim
ages to saints’ tombs. Kadızadelis were also hostile to smoking, drinking coffee,
and alcohol. In Istanbul, as well as in some other provinces, such as Syria and
Egypt, an initiative emerged for strict control over female behavior.142 The belief
in baraka was soon placed under attack, followed by public defamations of certain
Muslim saints and mystical figures, such as Ibn ʿArabī, and the legendary al-Khiḍr.
There are primary sources which indicate that during the seventeenth century, Sufis
often played a more significant role than other ʿulamā’ for the development of
state orthodoxy – the Khalwatīyya order in particular. Green considers this a Sufi
monopoly over state appointments.143 This might have further provoked both the
Naqshbandī rivalry and Kadızadeli wrath.144
Many Sufis were defamed, and some Sufi lodges were raided or permanently
shut down. Distinctions between Ottoman Muslims and the dhimmīs were heavily
emphasized, with the movement arguing in favor of tightening restrictions for the
latter. The Jewish rebellion of Sabbatai Sevi145 coincided with the Kadızadeli upris
ing, leading to harsh repercussions against and forced conversions of the Jewish
imperial subjects. Records remain of a rare official penalty of death by stoning. In
1680, a boot maker from Istanbul accused his wife of interconfessional adultery.
She was stoned to death under the gaze of the sultan despite the circumstantial
character of the evidence.146 The Kadızadeli movement spread through the Empire,
and its influence was felt in Syria more visibly than in Egypt, due to its closer con
tacts with Istanbul.147
The Kadızadeli movement faced a serious opponent in the figure of the Grand
Vizier Köprülü Mehmed Pasha (d.1661), who was a ruthless and a competent com
mander. He intervened against the Kadızadeliler yet this was not definite, as the
Kadızadeli influence was felt long after, while the supporters of the movement
continued to maintain ties to the Porte, at least until the failure of the Vienna cam
paign in 1683. It was perhaps the persistence of and aftermath of rigorist thought
that inspired the Palestinian saint Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī to embark upon a revivalist
Khalwatīyya campaign.148
Some prominent Ottoman ʿulamā’ continued to support Taymīyyan ideas dur
ing the early modern period. I chose Zayn al-Dīn Marʿī Ibn Yūsuf al-Ḥanbalī
(d.1623/1624) due to his famous works and erudition. Ottoman scholars in Arabic-
speaking provinces widely read his texts. Originally from Tulkarm in Palestine
(hence the name al-Karmī), Zayn al-Dīn Marʿī the Hanbalite pursued education
in Jerusalem before attending al-Azhar in Cairo. Long study under many Syrian
and Egyptian jurists allowed al-Karmī to acquire a tenure in the Cairene Sultan
Hassan Mosque. He left many written works and received much praise due to his
eloquence and an enviable scholarly reputation.149 Al-Karmī’s Healing of Breasts
is committed to cults of saints and the ziyāra. Al-Karmī warned that the pilgrim
ages to saintly tombs represented blasphemy and innovation, explaining that the
popular practices in the vicinity of saintly graves risked idolatry, as they inspired
the worship of saints, and not of God. Al-Karmī claimed that those who believed
in the mystical powers of the awliyā’ and participated in the ziyāra read the Scrip
ture wrongly, or completely failed to read it. He considered the popular practices
of tomb veneration outside of the boundaries of orthodoxy. Those who argued in
favor of beliefs in the Ottoman network of the holy for al-Karmī represented igno
ramuses (jāhilūn).150
Al-Karmī considered that there was no difference between the saints and the
rest of the people and expressed astonishment with the Ottoman subjects’ cus
tom to bring votive offerings and perform religious rituals at saintly tombs
and sacred caves. He saw no reason for saintly tombs to be decorated with
silken, gold-embroidered coverlets, and severely admonished the habits of pil
grims to sit on graves, lean on, touch, or kiss them.151 Opposing such attitudes,
al-Nābulsī defended the belief that awliyā’ were those whom God has graced. This
eighteenth-century scholar believed that the wonders of the awliyā’ represented a
proof of their purity and virtue, and he considered the coverlets adequate markers
for the graves of such esteemed individuals. The eighteenth-century Damascene
Pole found the grace and virtue of both living and deceased Muslim saints suffi
cient reasons for their veneration.152 Failure to do so indicated an infidel (kāfir),153
who succumbed to ignorance (jahl).154
Like Ibn Taymīyya, al-Karmī was against the custom of building shrines around
saintly graves.155 Al-Nābulsī was not exceptional, however, when he endowed his
own shrine complex in the Damascene al-Ṣāliḥīyya.156 Al-Karmī was in Egypt sur
rounded by a sea of holy shrines. In addition to the widely venerated aqtāb Aḥmad
al-Badawī and Ibrāhīm al-Dasūqī, whose mawlids were holidays of much impor
tance in Egypt,157 the number of sacred places in the province resembled that of
premodern Syria.158
Al-Karmī was opposed to the customs of ziyāra due to his belief that the pil
grims were praying to saints directly.159 He condemned the mawlid celebrations, as
well as any other ceremonies organized near sacred tombs. He considered praying
or sacrificing at the tombs impermissible, insisting that all such practices repre
sented idolatry (shirk) and devilry (shayṭānīyya) as they facilitated the worship
of the awliyā’ and not of God. Al-Karmī considered all such things innovations
(bidʿa).160 Al-Nābulsī wrote that the pilgrims prayed in the vicinity of the holy
graves due to their wonders and their baraka. He believed that divine grace brought
benefits to the faithful and their prayers. He apologetically cautioned that the intent
of ziyāra was primarily to glorify Allah. If the veneration of hallowed tombs and
building shrines over them with all rituals that accompanied ziyāra were innova
tions, mused al-Nābulsī, they were good innovations (bidʿa ḥasana), justified by
the baraka of the entombed and the necessity to honor their ṣalāḥ.161
Accomplished Sufi-ʿulamā’ wrote amply in defense of their craft. They con
demned skepticism and reaffirmed the significance of the Ottoman network of the
holy for the divine and worldly order. In addition to al-Nābulsī, who identified
ignorance (jahl) as the driving force behind the doubt in Muslim saints, deceased
or still living,162 a generation later, the Damascene judge Ibn ʿĀbidīn discussed
these matters in response to the Wahhābī doctrinal attacks. He warned that doubt
in Sufi wonders, believed to represent the consequence of divine grace, contra
dicted divine will. He called those who disbelieved saintly wonders and prophetic
miracles innovators and infidels.163 The Damascene naqīb al-ashrāf, Muḥammad
al-Murādī, reflected this attitude and took care to record wonders of the shaykhs in
his biographical work.164
Subsequent generations of the Damascene ʿulamā’ wrote similar apologetics
due to their own historical contexts. For instance, the prominent Shafi’ite judge
Yūsuf al-Nabhānī (1849–1932) wrote from a setting tinged by increasingly fre
quent theological disputes between established scholar-thaumaturges and the rising
groups of modern reformers. In Damascus, Yūsuf al-Nabhānī was one of the most
representative members of the conservative ʿulamā’ who faced criticism from the
reformist groups, represented by the attitudes of Jamāl al-Dīn al-Qāsimī. Al-Qāsimī
was in turn influenced by Muḥammad ʿAbduh of Egypt.165 Al-Nabhānī insisted on
showing respect to deceased and living saints in his lengthy collection of legendary
saintly wonders.166
It is important to emphasize that, throughout most of the early modern period,
the overlap between the Sufi-ʿulamā’ remained uncontested, regardless of the
extant streams of rigorist thought.167 Sufism as a whole did not represent an object
of derision, it is rather that its certain aspects, like the pilgrimage rituals, or the
cults of saints, attracted rigorists’ animosity. The first attempt to outlaw the entire
body of Sufi mystical beliefs and practices occurred during the eighteenth century
with the rise of the Wahhābī movement in the emerging First Emirate of Dirʿīyah.
Muḥammad Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (1703–1792) was born in a family of Han
balite scholars coming from the Najdi village of ʿUyayna. Allegedly, he became
a ḥāfiẓ when he was ten years old and pursued studies in Medina, where he got
acquainted with the rigorists’ written works. ʿAbd Allah Ibn Ibrāhīm Ibn Sayf and
Muḥammad Ḥayyāt al-Sindī, a member of the Sufi Naqshbandīyya order, took Ibn
ʿAbd al-Wahhāb as a student. Ibn Taymīyya’s religious attitudes influenced these
two scholars, ries.168
Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb’s doctrine proclaimed the veneration of saints idolatry
(shirk). He urged the Muslims to adhere to the Prophet’s Sunna and abstain from
any excess. He viewed all religious practices that were not explicit in the Scripture
as heresy.169 Denying the Sufis their role as sanctioned interpreters of the Scrip
ture, he introduced an innovative rigorist thought.170 Because of this idea, he was
expelled from Basra and ʿUyayna banished him as well.171 In Dirʿīyah, which was
under the control of the Suʿūd Clan of the Annazah Tribe, a partnership was formed
between Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb and Muḥammad Ibn Suʿūd (d.1765) during 1744. Ibn
ʿAbd al-Wahhāb was to be in charge over religious matters in the newly emerging
Emirate of Dirʿīyah.172 He elaborated on his theological views in a text entitled
The Book of Divine Unity (al-kitāb al-tawḥīd), while the followers of his teachings
labeled themselves “al-muwaḥḥidūn.”173
Within the First Emirate of Dirʿīyah, the Wahhābīs commenced with the purges
of the previously established ulamaic circles. Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb ordered the
destruction of the shrine to Zayd Ibn al-Khaṭṭāb in ʿUyayna, along with some other
important graves. Trees around these sites were cut down,174 and another alleged
adulteress was stoned to death.175 Popular vigilantism increased under the influence
of Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb’s rigorism. Vandalization of Muslim shrines176 and Bedouin
raids caused much concern in some Syrian regions along the pilgrimage routes.177
The Muwaḥḥidūn ultimately became intolerable for the Ottoman administration.
In 1803, the Emirate’s forces took Mecca and Medina, putting forward a challenge
to the Ottoman claim to the caliphate.178 Pilgrims were banned from performing
the Ḥajj unless they would accept to conduct their prayers under the supervision of
Dirʿīyah’s own ʿulamā’.179 Muḥammad ʿAlī (1769–1848) of Egypt was called upon
to deal with the Wahhābīs. By 1813, his army took Mecca, and overcame the last
Wahhābī defenses in Najd by 1818.180
In Damascus, the Wahhābī movement represented a frequent object of derision.
A contemporary of the uprising, Ibn ʿĀbidīn remarked that the rigorist views of the
Wahhābīs represented an atrocity committed by deniers of faith (munkir). To believe
only in what was seen or heard was ridiculous for the Damascene judge who con
tinuously emphasized the reality of the praeternatural,181 encouraging the visitation
of saintly graves.182 Ibn ʿĀbidīn praised the ṣalāḥ of the saints183 and the Sufis, while
ferociously condemning skeptics. Sternly defending the legitimacy of the saintly
wonder, he emphasized that its cause was divine baraka, unlike the illicit magic of
the infidels, fueled by infernal energies.184 Like al-Nābulsī of the previous genera
tion of scholars, Ibn ʿĀbidīn encouraged prayers in the vicinity of saintly shrines and
the custom of honoring such sites with luxurious decorations.185 He penned down
the prevalent attitudes of the religious authorities in office, representative of main
stream doctrines until the advent of modern religious reformers.
According to primary sources, in eighteenth-century Damascus, thaumaturgy
was fundamental to practiced religion. Sufism, as the primary vehicle for Muslim
thaumaturgy, was inseparable from religious orthodoxy, based upon the Ottoman
network of the holy. The Sufi-ʿulamā’ in office had significant influence on socio-
politics, economy, and religion within a world that was perceived as only partially
seen. In its unseen part dwelled the deceased Muslim saints, who were the interces
sors between the people and God. However, popular imaginary filled the unseen
realms with various dangerous creatures as well. Muslim theologians and jurists
amply wrote about these entities, and the assistance of Sufi thaumaturges was often
needed by the common people to contend with them. The alleged recipients of
Allah’s grace often assisted the people with banishing unseen evils and driving off
infernalists. The possibility of cooperating with these invisible entities was strictly
admonished but never denied.
Notes
1 See Abū Zayd Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima [Prolegomenon], ed. Jumaʿa Shaykha
(Tunis: Al-Dār al-Tūnisīyya li-l-Nashr, 1984), 132–143, 146–157, 398–403, 572–574,
584–597, which is very comparable with the Catholic Christian case, as one can read
in Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in
Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London: Penguin, 1991), 27–48, 60–70,
152–153, 215–229, 318, 327–330. Also see Chapter 6.
2 See Thomas, Decline, 320. For Islam, see Toufic Fahd, “Siḥr,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam
IX, ed. C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, W.P. Heinrichs, and G. Lecomte (Leiden: Brill,
1997), 567–571, Toufic Fahd, “Magic in Islam,” in Encyclopedia of Religion, vol. 9, ed.
Mircea Eliade (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 104–109, A. Chris Eccel, Egypt, Islam,
and Social Change: Al-Azhar in Conflict and Accommodation (Berlin: K. Schwarz,
1984), 526–528, or Osman Bakar, Classification of Knowledge in Islam: A Study in
Islamic Philosophies of Science (Lahore: Suhail Academy, 2000), 221, 253–254. For the
history of theurgy in a wider Eurasian context, see Georg Luck, “Theurgy and Forms
of Worship in Neoplatonism,” in Religion, Science, and Magic: In Concert and Con
flict, ed. Jacob Neusner, Ernest S. Frerichs, and Paul Virgil McCracken Flesher (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 185–228, F.E. Peters, Allah’s Commonwealth:
A History of Islam in the Near East, 600–1100 A.D. (New York: Simon and Schuster,
1973), 265–305, Peter Moore, “Mysticism (Further Considerations),” in Encyclopedia
of Religion, Second Edition, ed. Lindsay Jones, Mircea Eliade, and Charles J. Adams
(Detroit: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 6355–6359, Ilinca Tanaseanu-Döbler, “Introduc
tion: The Problem of Theurgy,” in Theurgy in Late Antiquity: The Invention of a Ritual
Tradition (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 9–20, Crystal Addey, “Divina
tion and Theurgy in Iamblichus’ De Mysteriis,” in Divination and Theurgy in Neopla
tonism: Oracles of the Gods (London & New York: Routledge, 2014), 239–282, April
D. DeConick, “Introduction,” and Gregory Shaw, “Theurgy and the Platonists’ Lumi
nous Body,” in Practicing Gnosis: Ritual Magic, Theurgy and Liturgy in Nag Ham
madi, Manichaean and Other Ancient Literature. Essays in Honor of Birger A. Pearson,
ed. April D. DeConick, Gregory Shaw, and John D. Turner (Leiden & Boston: Brill,
2013), 1–6, 537–558, Wiebke-Marie Stock, “Theurgy and Aesthetics in Dionysios the
Areopagite,” in Aesthetics and Theurgy in Byzantium, ed. Sergei Mariev and Wiebke-
Marie Stock (Berlin & Boston: De Gruyter, 2013), 13–30, and Radcliffe G. Edmonds
III, “Drawing Down the Moon: Defining Magic in the Ancient Greco-Roman World,”
in Drawing Down the Moon: Magic in the Ancient Greco-Roman World (Princeton &
3 For instance, see Thomas, Decline, 55–57, 265, 564
4 See See Max Weber, On Charisma and Institution Building: Selected Papers, ed. S.N.
Eisenstadt (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 48.
5 Also see Chapter 4.
6 The geology of the network of the holy shall be further discussed in Chapter 5.
7 Neusner, “Introduction,” 4–5.
8 Robert H. Winthrop, Dictionary of Concepts in Cultural Anthropology (New York:
Greenwood Press, 1991), 167.
9 See Chapter 3 for more details.
10 Throughout Eurasian history, many practices, both magical and thaumaturgical,
depended on astrology and astronomy, as well as various divination techniques. See Aziz
Al-Azmeh, Arabic Thought and Islamic Societies (Abingdon: Routledge, 2013), 72–75.
However, such practices were frowned upon as well. Religious authorities claimed that
through astrology and occult sciences, an individual attempted to acquire knowledge
available only to God. Such attitudes were ubiquitous. Compare, for instance, Thomas,
Decline, 425–426, 432, 755–756 and Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 398–413, 601–605,
625–630, 677–682. Also see Liana Saif, “Between Medicine and Magic: Spiritual Aeti
ology and Therapeutics in Medieval Islam,” in Demons and Illness from Antiquity to
the Early Modern Period, ed. Siam Bhayro (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2017), 315–319.
Further see Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Sall al-Ḥusām al-Hindī li-Naṣrat
Mawlānā Khālid al-Naqshbandī [Drawing out the Indian Sword in Defense of Our Mas
ter Khālid al-Naqshbandī], in Majmūʿat Rasā’il Muḥammad Ibn ʿĀbidīn [The Collection
of Treatises by Muḥammad Ibn-ʿĀbidīn], 4 volumes (Istanbul: Dar-i Saʿādat, 1907),
2:1-47. Henceforth: MR Ibn ʿĀbidīn, however, indicates that God can inspire the right
eous into receiving otherwise hidden knowledge, which was treated as their thaumatur
gical capacity, and not sorcery, or any occult practice. Further see chapter 6.
11 See Chapter 6. For the differences between wonders and magic, see Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR,
2:14–18, 25–45. Further ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥadīqa al-Nadīyya: Sharḥ
al-Ṭarīqa al-Muḥammadīyya [The Dewy Garden: Explanations of the Muhammadan
Way], 2 volumes (Miṣr: n.p., 1860), 1:199–202, 232, 2:389–403. These divisions are
very old. See Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 141–165, 623–624, 630. For a systematic
theological discussion about wonderworking and magic, see Abū Bakr al-Bāqillānī,
al-Bayān ʿan al-Farq bayn al-Muʿjizāt wa al-Karāmāt wa al-Ḥiyal wa al-Kahāna wa
al-Siḥr wa al-Nārinjāt [Clarification of the Difference between Miracles and Wonders
and Illusions and Wizardry and Magic and Prestidigitation], ed. Richard J. McCarthy
(Cairo: al-Maktaba al-Sharqīyya, 1958). Also see Edward William Lane, An Account of
the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians: Written in Egypt During the Years
1833, 1834, and 1835, 2 volumes (London: Charles Knight & Co., 1836), 1:341–342.
Further see Marinos Sariyannis, “Ottoman Occultism and its Social Contexts: Prelimi
nary Remarks,” Aca’ib: Occasional papers on the Ottoman perceptions of the super
natural 3 (2022): 57–58.
12 Thomas, Decline, 69, and further Jan N. Bremmer, “The Birth of the Term ‘Magic’,”
Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 126 (1999): 1–12, and Mateo Benussi,
“Magic,” in The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Anthropology, eds. F. Stein, S. Lazar, M.
Candea, H. Diemberger, J. Robbins, A. Sanchez & R. Stasch (open access resource:
http://doi.org/10.29164/19magic (2019); Last accessed: February 27th 2023), 1–16.
Also see Mark A. Waddell, Magic, Science, and Religion in Early Modern Europe
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 198–202.
13 Weber, Sociology, 1–4.
14 Chapter 3 will discuss this matter in more details on the case of the jinn and beliefs in
daemons among the Muslims, especially in eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria.
15 See Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14–46. For comparative purposes, see Denise Aigle, “Charismes
et rôle social des saints dans l’hagiographie médiévale persane,” Bulletin d’études ori
entales 47 (1995): 15–36.
16 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200, and Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:5–18, 25–47.
17 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:5–47. These beliefs persisted until the present times. See Yūsuf Ibn
Ismāʿīl al-Nabhānī, Jāmiʿ Karamāt al-Awliyā’ [Collection of Saintly Wonders], ed. ʿAbd
al-Wārith Muḥammad ʿAlī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2009), 1:13–21. Hence
forth: JK. Further see Taufik Canaan, Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine
(London: Luzac & Co., 1927), 255. Compare with Eliza Marian Butler, The Myth of the
Magus (London & New York: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 1–12. Alexander
Knysh interprets karāma as “charisma” of a Sufi master, while baraka for him repre
sents a shaykh’s “blessing.” See Alexander D. Knysh, Sufism: A New History of Islamic
Mysticism (Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2017), 178.
18 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 134–157, 601–605, 623–631, 631–641, 653–671, 689.
19 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:5–7, 15–18, 25–32, 36–37, 38–47.
20 ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Fatḥ al-Rabānī wa al-Fayḍ al-Raḥmānī [The Lordly
Revelation And the Flow of Mercy], ed. Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Qādir ʿAṭā (Beirut:
Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1980), 136–137, and al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–202, 232,
2:389–403.
21 Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, trans. Karen E. Fields (New
York: Free Press, 1995), 199. Examples are many. For instance, Bronislaw Malinowski,
Magic, Science and Religion, and other Essays (Boston: Beacon Press, 1948), 67, or
Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss, Sacrifice: Its Nature and Function, trans. W.D. Halls
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964), 61–76. Further see Michael D. Bailey,
Magic and Superstition in Europe: A Concise History from Antiquity to the Present
(Lanham and New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. 2007), 134–140.
22 See Max Weber, The Sociology of Religion. In Economy and Society 1 (Boston: Beacon
Press, 1993), 28.
23 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:5–18, 25–47. Ibn Khaldūn explains that the difference between
saintly grace and magic is that the former is a sign of goodness and thus cannot
corrupt or be corrupted, unlike magical practice. See Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima,
139–142.
24 Marcel Mauss, A General Theory of Magic, trans. Robert Brain (London: Routledge,
1972), 14–23.
25 Frank Klaasen, The Transformations of Magic: Illicit Learned Magic in the Later Mid
dle Ages and Rennaisance (Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press,
2013), 8–12.
26 Muḥammad Ibn Ṣāliḥ al-Kīlānī, “Al-Durra al-Bahīyya fī Ṣūrat al-Ijāza al-Qādirīyya,”
[The Gorgeous Pearl in the License of the Qādirīyya], MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin,
Sprenger 819, Berlin, 10B. The text is an autograph from 1795. Henceforth: “DB.” Also
see Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Times of History: Universal Topics in Islamic Historiography
(Budapest & New York: Central European University Press, 2007), 232.
27 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:232, 389, Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:25–31, 36–37, 40–47.
28 Thomas, Decline, 28–53, 327–330.
29 Ibid., 55–57.
30 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 139–152, 584–597, 623–631, 631–641, 653–671.
31 See al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200, 2:389–403, Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–47, and also
ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, “Kashf al-Nūr ʿan Aṣḥābi al-Qubūr,” MS Princeton Univer
sity Library, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Manuscript Collection,
Islamic Manuscripts, New Series no. 1113 Princeton, 162A-174A.
Research, 13 (1991): 12–13.
33 It was similar with Christianity in Europe. Thomas, Decline, 303, and compare Ibid.,
52–53, 298–300, with Ibn Khaldun, al-Muqaddima, 1:139–165, 623–641.
34 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:1–15, 18–25, 32–47. The judge defends thaumaturgical beliefs from
skeptics by exchanging accusations of heresy with them. For comparative perspectives,
see Bailey, Magic and Superstition, 110–200, Neusner et. al., Religion, 142–187, and
Klaasen, Transformations, 10–12.
35 Neusner, et al., Religion, 4–5.
36 See the previous chapter.
37 Bremmer, “Birth,” 1–12, and Benussi, “Magic,” 1–16. For comparisons between Islam
and Christianity, one could compare Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 132–143, 146–157,
398–403, 572–574, 584–597, and Thomas, Decline, 27–48, 60–70, 152–153, 215–229,
318, 327–330.
38 See Bailey, Magic and Superstition, 110–200. For an interesting discussion, see Neus
ner et. al., Religion, 142–187. For the eighteenth-century Damascene context, see Ibn
ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:4–14, 18–25, 42–47.
39 Thomas, Decline, 69, 318, Bremmer, “Birth,” 1–12, and Benussi, “Magic,” 1–16, Win
throp, Dictionary, 167–170.
41 Ibid., 69. Also see Douglas Burton-Christie, “Early Monasticism,” and Edward How
ells, “Early Modern Reformations,” in The Cambridge Companion to Christian Mysti
cism, ed. Amy Hollywood and Patricia Z. Beckman (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2012), 37–58, and 114–136, respectively. Further see Stephen Sharot, “Protes
tants, Catholics, and the Reform of Popular Religion,” in A Comparative Sociology
of World Religions: Virtuosos, Priests, and Popular Religion (New York: New York
University Press, 2001), 211–241.
42 The case of early modern England represented the main focus of Keith Thomas, whose
work is very illustrative of such changes. See Thomas, Decline, 58–60. Also see Rob
ert Bartlett, Why can the Dead do Such Great Things? Saints and Worshippers from
the Martyrs to the Reformation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 85–92.
Further see Jason A. Josephson-Storm, The Myth of Disenchantment: Magic, Modernity
and the Birth of the Human Sciences (Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press,
2017), 55–56.
43 Thomas, Decline, 69, 318. Also see, for instance, Bremmer, “Birth,” 1–6, 9–12, and
Benussi, “Magic,” 1–16. Also see Winthrop, Dictionary, 167–170.
44 See, for instance, Chih, Sufism, 5–10.
45 Al-Azmeh, Times, 47–66, Aziz Al-Azmeh, “The Discourse of Cultural Authenticity:
Islamist Revivalism and Enlightenment Universalism,” in Islams and Modernities
(London & New York: Verso, 1993), 39–59, and Albert Hourani, “Sufism and Modern
Islam: Rashid Rida,” in The Emergence of the Modern Middle East (Berkeley & Los
Angeles: University of California Press, 1981), 90–102.
46 For instance, 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), 5–13.
47 See the previous chapter.
48 Bourdieu, “Genesis,” 2–5, 22–38.
49 Durkheim, Elementary Forms, 61–62.
50 For instance, Claude Levi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology (London: Penguin Books,
1993), 188–190.
51 Thomas, Decline, 31–32, 87–88. Further see Gábor Klaniczay, The Uses of Supernatu
ral Power: The Transformation of Popular Religion in Medieval and Early-Modern
Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 8–9.
52 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 151–152, 584–597, and Thomas, Decline, 31–32, 87–88.
53 Comparable to the history of Christian beliefs, once more. See Collin Morris, The Papal
Monarchy: The Western Church from 1050 to 1250 (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1989), 100, and Claudia Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian
Leadership in an Age of Transition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 17,
48, 150.
54 Compare Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 151–152, 584–597, with Thomas, Decline,
31–32, 87–88.
55 Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Budayr, “Ḥawādith Dimashq al-Shām Yawmīyya min Sanat
1154 ilā Sanat 1176” [The Daily Events of Damascus from the Year 1741 to 1763],
MS Chester Beatty Library Ar 3551/2, Dublin, 69A–69B. Henceforth: “HDY.”
56 For instance, Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī, Silk al-Durar fī Aʿyan al-Qarn al-Thānī
ʿAshar [A String of Pearls among the Notables of the Eighteenth Century], ed. Akram
Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī. 4 volumes (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 2002), 1:228–234, or 4:283–284, and
generally, throughout the collection. Other ʿulamā’ of note at times seemed to omit the
divine from their descriptions of saintly baraka. See, for instance, Muṣṭafā ibn Kamāl
al-Dīn al-Bakrī al-Ṣiddīqī, “al-Khamra al-Ḥisiyya fī al-Riḥla al-Qudsīyya,” [The Sen
sual Wine on the Journey to Jerusalem], MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. or. quart.
460, Berlin, copied in 1785, 28B. Henceforth: “KhH.”
57 For instance, Lewis Bayles Paton, “Survivals of Primitive Religion in Modern Pal
estine,” The Annual of the American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem, 1
(1919–1920): 63, or Samuel Ives Curtiss, Primitive Semitic Religion To-day: A Record
of Researches, Discoveries and Studies in Syria, Palestine and the Sinaitic Peninsula
(Chicago: Fleming H. Revel Company, 1902), 75, 92.
58 Paton, “Survivals,” 63. Compare with Thomas, Decline, 29.
59 See Pascal Boyer, Religion Explained: The Human Instincts that Fashion Gods, Spirits
and Ancestors (New York: Vintage Books, 2002), 159–160.
60 For the full list of most important prophets, consult Brannon M. Wheeler, ed., “Intro
duction,” in Prophets in the Quran: An Introduction to the Quran and Muslim Exegesis
(London & New York: Continuum, 2002), 1–15.
61 Chapter 5 gives more details.
62 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 623–625. Christian priests produced their own talismans
as well, Thomas, Decline, 58–60. Also see Chapter 6.
63 The Orthodox Christian populations today at various regions (such as in the central Bal
kans for instance) during religious services motion as if they are collecting smoke from
the priests’ censers before producing the Sign of the Cross gesture, symbolizing thus the
collection of the priest’s blessings.
64 See al-Murādī, Silk, 1:228–234, and Canaan, Saints, 91–92.
65 Detailed examples shall be given throughout this volume, predominantly in Chapters 3,
5, and 6.
66 al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200.
67 Demons represent the main subject of Chapter 3.
68 Highly comparable to medieval Christian Catholicism. See Thomas, Decline, 31–32,
87–88.
69 Chapter 5 analyzes Muslim shrines.
70 Rachida Chih, Sufism in Ottoman Egypt: Circulation, Renewal and Authority in the Sev
enteenth and Eighteenth Century (London & New York: Routledge, 2019), 24–25, and
Elizabeth Sirriyeh, Sufi Visionary of Ottoman Damascus: ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī,
1641–1731 (London and New York: Routledge Curzon, 2005), 108–111.
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 101. Damascus had a very large number of
sacred places (see Chapter 5). The Muslim cult of saints is comparable to such cults
among the Christians. See Bartlett, The Dead, 13–19.
72 Knysh appropriately notes the hereditary system of charismatic transmission adopted by
the Shi’ites. See Knysh, Sufism, 42.
73 See Chapter 4.
74 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:183. Al-Nābulsī uses the term of the ʿulamā’ to refer to the over
lapping groups of the Sufis and the Muslim scholars, like al-Murādī (see Chapter 1).
75 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–16, 32–37, 40–46, and Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 139–141
628–630. Chapter 4 offers a discussion of the Damascene ṣāliḥūn, showing that they
rarely acquired far-reaching influence, unlike the trained Sufi-ʿulamā’ who enjoyed
patronage of the influential Damascenes.
76 See Chapter 4.
77 Ibid.
78 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–16.
79 See Chih, Sufism, 111, and John Renard, Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Com
mitment, and Servanthood (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 1–20. See
chapter 4 for Muslim sainthood.
80 Nile Green, Sufism: A Global History (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 7.
81 See Chapter 4.
82 P. Kunitzsch, and F. de Jong, “al-Ḳuṭb,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam II, edited by P. Bear-
man, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, and W.P. Heinrichs. http://dx.doi.
org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_COM_0550 (Last accessed: February 26th 2023). Also
Chih, Sufism, 1, Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman
Political Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018), 204–205, and Aziz
Al-Azmeh, Muslim Kingship: Power and the Sacred in Muslim, Christian and Pagan
Polities (London & New York: I.B. Tauris, 1997), 183–185. Further see Michael
Winter, Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517–1798 (London & New York:
Routledge, 1992), 136. The belief in the Poles of the world resembles some Judaic
beliefs. See Paul B. Fenton, “Abraham Maimonides (1187–1237): Founding of a Mys
tical Dinasty,” in Jewish Mystical Leaders and Leadership in the 13th Century, ed.
Moshe Idel and Mortimer Ostow (Lanham & New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publish
ers, Inc. 2005), 143. Further, see Lane, Egyptians, 1:293.
83 This scholar was Persian, and the Arabic sources therefore often spell his name as
Kīlānī, Ghīlānī, or Jīlānī, due to phonetic incompatibilities. In Syria, the form Kaylānī
is frequently encountered.
84 Chih, Sufism, 11. Lane, Egyptians, 1:293–294.
85 In premodern centuries, the latter order also bore the name Burhāmīyya, as for instance
in Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:25.
86 Canaan, Saints, 273–274.
87 See Eric Geoffroy, “Arslān al-Dimashqī, Shaykh,” Encyclopaedia of Islam III, ed.
Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, and Everett Rowson (Brill Online,
2014). http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_23403 (Last accessed: Febru
ary 26th 2021).
88 Yılmaz, Caliphate, 211–214, Abdul-Karim Rafeq, “Relations Between the Syrian
“Ulamā” and the Ottoman State in the Eighteenth Century,” Oriente Moderno 79/1
(1999): 81, and Sirriyeh, Visionary, 126.
89 Chih, Sufism, 1, Winter, Egyptian Society, 136.
90 See Chapter 5 for Damascus.
91 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–37. Further see (al-Sayyid Shaykh al-ʿUlamā’) Muḥammad
Ibn Aḥmad al-Shāfi‘ī al-Shawbarī, “al-Ajwibah ‛an al-As’ila fī Karāmāt al-Awliyā’”
[Answers to the Questions about the Saintly Wonders], MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin,
Sprenger 819, Berlin, 45A–48B. The author lived between 1569–1695. I am reading a
copy made by Muḥammad Ibn Ṣāliḥ al-Kīlānī made in 1796. Henceforth: “AA.”
92 Al-Nābulsī, Fatḥ, 177. Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-Muhtār ʿala
al-Durr al-Mukhtār [The Answer to the Baffled over The Exquisite Pearl], 14 vol
umes, ed. Muḥammad Bakr Ismāʿīl (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīyya, 2003), 2:242–
243. Further see al-Nabhānī, JK, 1:9–14. Also see Chih, Sufism, 113.
93 For instance, John J. Curry, The Transformation of the Mystical Thought in the Otto
man Empire: The Rise of the Halveti Order 1350–1650 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh Uni
versity Press, 2010), 23–25 or Al-Kīlānī, "DB," 11B-12B.
94 Wheeler, “Introduction,” 1–15.
95 For instance, Grehan, Twilight, 183.
96 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 162A–174A. Further see al-Shawbarī,“AA,” 45A–45B.
97 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 168B.
98 Chapter 5 analyzes the structure of these sacred places.
99 The city of Damascus had several important graveyards which contained many shrines.
See Chapter 5.
100 See Chapter 6.
101 The Arabic term for intercession is shafāʿa. See Chapters 5 and 6, and al-Nābulsī,
Ḥadīqa, 1:183.
102 See, for instance, Grigor Boykov, “Reshaping Urban Space in the Ottoman Balkans:
A Study on the Architectural Development of Edirne, Plovdiv and Skopje (14th–15th
centuries),” in Centers and Peripheries in Ottoman Architecture: Rediscovering a Bal
kan Heritage., ed. Maximilian Hartmuth (Sarajevo: Cultural Heritage Without Bor
ders, 2011), 33–34, Giulia Annalinda Neglia, “Some Historiographical Notes on the
Islamic City with Particular Reference to the Visual Representation of the Built City,”
in The City in the Islamic World: Volume 1, ed. Salma K. Jayyusi (Leiden-Boston:
Brill, 2008): 3–4, Howard Crane, “The Ottoman Sultan’s Mosques: Icons of Imperial
Legitimacy,” in The Ottoman City and Its Parts: Urban Structure and Social Order,
ed. Irene A. Bierman, Rifa’at A. Abou-El-Haj, Donald Preziosi (New York: Aristide
D. Caratzas, 1991), 173–194, Ethel Sara Wolper, “The Politics of Patronage: Politi
cal Change and the Construction of Dervish Lodges in Sivas,” Muqarnas 12 (1995):
39–47, or Aigle, “Charismes,” 15–36. Also see Chapter 5.
103 Heghnar Zeitlian Watenpaugh, The Image of an Ottoman City: Imperial Architecture
and Urban Experience in Aleppo in the 16th and 17th Centuries (Leiden and Boston:
Brill, 2004), 38–39, Çığdem Kafescıoğlu, “In the Image of Rūm: Ottoman Architec
tural Patronage in Sixteenth-Century Aleppo and Damascus,” Muqarnas 16 (1999):
70–96.
24–41, Judith Pfeiffer, “Confessional Ambiguity vs. Confessional Polarization: Politics
and the Negotiation of Religious Boundaries in the Ilkhanate,” in Politics, Patronage
and the Transmission of Knowledge in 13th-15th Century Tabriz, ed. Judith Pfeiffer
(Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2014), 135–136, or Heath W. Lowry, “The ‘Soup Muslims’
of the Ottoman Balkans: Was there a ‘Western’ & ‘Eastern’ Ottoman Empire?,” The
Journal of Ottoman Studies 36 (2010): 98–102.
105 For proceedings of such ceremonies, see for instance ʿAlā al-Dīn Ibn Musharraf
al-Māridīnī, “Mawlid al-Nabī” [The Birthday of the Prophet], MS Staatsbibliothek zu
Berlin, Wetzstein II 1711, p. 1, Berlin, 1A–5B. The text is a copy from 1726. Fur
ther see Kamāl Jamīl al-ʿAsalī, Mawsim al-Nabī Mūsā fī Filisṭīn: Tārīkh al-Mawsim
wa al-Maqām [The Festival of the Prophet Moses in Palestine: The History of the
Customs and the Shrine] (Amman: Maṭbaʿat al-Jāmiʿa al-Urdunīyya, 1990), 101–150.
Many widely acclaimed saints were honored by mawlid ceremonies. See Lane, Egyp
tians, 1:307.
106 For instance, Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī was inconvenienced by the dense crowds of pilgrims to
the Shrine of Moses. See al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 11A.
107 Chapters 5 and 6 discuss the economic impact of sacred places and the Sufi intercession.
108 More details in Chapter 5.
109 A very apt term coined by James Grehan, in Twilight, 132.
110 Michael Winter, “ʿUlama’ between the State and the Society in Pre-modern Sunni
Islam,” in Guardians of Faith in Modern Times: Ulama’ in the Middle East, ed. Meir
Hatina (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2009), 40, and Abdul-Karim Rafeq, “ ‘Abd al-Ghani al-
Nabulsi: Religious Tolerance and ‘Arabness’ in Ottoman Damascus,” in Transformed
Landscapes: Essays on Palestine and the Middle East in Honor of Walid Khalidi, ed.
Camille Mansour and Leila Fawaz (Cairo & New York: The American University of
Cairo Press, 2009), 1–5.
111 See Dina Le Gall, “Kadizadelis, Nakşbendis, and Intra-Sufi Diatribe in Seventeenth-
Century Istanbul,” The Turkish Studies Association Journal, 28, No. 1/2 (2004): 19–20,
and Michael Winter, “Egyptian and Syrian Sufis Viewing Ottoman Turkish Sufism:
Similarities, Differences, and Interactions,” in The Ottoman Empire and its Heritage:
Politics, Society and Economy, ed. Suraiya Faroqhi, Halil İnalcık and Boğaç Ergene
(Leiden: Brill, 2014), 93–112. Further see Barbara Rosenow von Schlegell, “Sufism in
the Ottoman Arab World: Shaykh ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulūsī (d. 1143/1731),” unpub
lished PhD diss., University of California, 1997, 78–82.
112 See Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:1–10, 47–61. Also see Grehan, Twilight, 151, Martha Mundy,
“On reading two epistles of Muhammad Amin Ibn ‘Abidin of Damascus,” in Forms
and Institutions of Justice: Legal Actions in Ottoman Contexts, ed. Yavuz Aykan
and Işık Tamdoğan (Istanbul: Institut français d’études anatoliennes, 2018), Open
Access: 10.4000/books.ifeagd.2316 (Last accessed: February 24th 2023), and Itzchak
Weismann, Taste of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman

Damascus (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 56–80.
113 See al-Nabhānī, JK, 1:1–5.
114 George Makdisi, “Ahmad ibn Hanbal and the Qur’an,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 6
(2004): 22–34. Also, for instance, Racha El Omari, “Kitāb al-Ḥayda: The Historical
Significance of an Apocryphal Text,” in Islamic Philosophy, Science, Culture, and
Religion: Studies in Honor of Dimitri Gutas, ed. Felicitas Opwis and David Reisman
(Leiden: Brill, 2012), 419–421, and Ingrid Mattson, The Story of the Qur’an: Its His
tory and Place in Muslim Life (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2008), 143–144.
115 J. M. Rogers, Sinan: Makers of Islamic Civilization (London: I.B. Tauris and Oxford
Centre for Islamic Studies, 2006), 12.
116 Daphna Ephrat, A Learned Period of Transition: The Sunni ʿUlamā’ of Eleventh-
Century Baghdad (New York: State University of New York Press, 2000), 27.
117 See Chapter 6 as well.
118 Al-Azmeh, Muslim Kingship, 157. Also see Aziz Al-Azmeh, Secularism in the Arab
World: Contexts, Ideas and Consequences (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2019), 44–45. For ritualistic use of spittle, see Chapter 3.
119 Fundamentalism is a frequent element in scriptural religions. See, for instance, Alister
E. McGrath, Christian Theology: an Introduction (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2017),
43–46, E. Clinton Gardner, Justice & Christian Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni
versity Press, 1995), 54–62, Margo Todd, Christian Humanism and the Puritan Social
Order (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 1–21, or Milan Zafirovski,
The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Authoritarianism: Puritanism, Democracy, and
Society (New York: Springer, 2007), 1–2, 35–54, 80–122.
120 George Makdisi, “Ibn Taymiyya: A Sufi of the Qadiriya Order,” American Journal of
Arabic Studies 1 (1973): 118–129. Also see Knysh, Sufism, 44, and Stephen Schwartz,
The Other Islam: Sufism and the Global Road to Harmony (New York & London:
Doubleday, 2008), 127. Ibn Taymīyya’s work influenced many Ottoman theologians.
See Derin Terzioğlu, “Ibn Taymiyya: al-Siyāsa al-Sharʿiyya, and the Early Modern
Ottomans,” in Historicizing Sunni Islam in the Ottoman Empire, c. 1450-c.1750, ed.
Tijana Krstić, and Derin Terzioğlu (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 101–154.
121 H. Laoust, “Ibn Taymiyya,” in Bearman, et. al., Encyclopaedia of Islam II. http://
dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_3388 (Last accessed: February 26th
2021).
122 Abdul Hakim I. al-Matroudi, The Ḥanbalī School of Law and Ibn Taymiyyah: Conflict
or Conciliation (London & New York: 2006), 18–20.
123 Chih, Sufism, 137. Also see Yahya Michot, “From al-Ma’amūn to Ibn Sabʿīn via Avi
cenna: Ibn Taymīya’s Historiography of Falsafa,” in Islamic Philosophy, Science,
Culture, and Religion: Studies in Honor of Dimitri Gutas, ed. Opwis and Reisman
(Leiden: Brill, 2012), 453–475.
124 See Sayf al-Dīn al-Kātib, ed., Kitāb al-Ziyāra min Ajwibat Shaykh al-Islām Ibn
Taymīyya Raḥmahu Allah 661–728 [The Book of Pilgrimage [based] on the Response
of Shaykh al-Islām Ibn Taymīyya, may God have mercy upon him 1263–1328] (Bei
rut: Dār Maktabat al-Ḥayyā li-l-Ṭibāʿa wa al-Nashr, n.d.), 18–26, 27–75, and Alexan
der D. Knysh, Ibn ʿArabi in the Later Islamic Tradition: The Making of a Polemical
Image in Medieval Islam (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 87–88.
125 al-Matroudi, The Ḥanbalī School, 18, and Laoust, “Ibn Taymiyya.”
126 Ibid., and Al-Matroudi, Ḥanbalī School, 18–20.
127 See Grehan, Twilight, 102.
128 For the Ottoman context, see Derin Terzioğlu, “Sunna-minded Sufi Preachers in Ser
vice of the Ottoman State: The naṣiḥatname of Hasan addressed to Murad IV,” Archi
vum Ottomanicum 27 (2010): 241–312.
129 See for instance, Imam Birgivi (A 16th Century Islamic Mystic), The Path of Muham
mad (Al-Tariqah al-Muhammadiyyah): A Book on Islamic Morals and Ethics & Last
Will and Testament (Vasiyyetname), interp. Shaykh Tosun Bayrak al-Jerrahi al-Halveti
(Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2005). This text was fervently copied during the
early modern centuries. Further see Yılmaz, Caliphate, 86–89, and Chih, Sufism,
78, 135.
130 Yılmaz sees this as an expression of piety. See Yılmaz, Caliphate, 86–89.
131 Marc David Baer, Honored by the Glory of Islam: Conversion and Conquest in Otto
man Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 65.
132 Katharina A. Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety and the Law: A Study of Birgivī Mehmed Efendī’s
al-Ṭarīqa al-muḥammadiyya (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2020), 1–63, 76–100, 125–129.
Further see Birgivi, The Path, xiii-xv. Also see Muḥammad ʿAlī al-Birkiwī (al-Birkilī),
al-Ṭarīqa al-Muḥammadīyya wa al-Sīra al-Aḥmadīyya [The Muḥammadan Path and
the Life of the Prophet], ed. Muḥammad Nāẓim al-Nadawī (Damascus: Dār al-Qalam,
2011), 33–62, 77–106, 160–161, 171–177.
133 Ivanyi, Virtue, 37–40, 128. Khaled el-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History in the
Seventeenth Century: Scholarly Currents in the Ottoman Empire and the Maghreb
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 15–18. Further see Yılmaz, Cali
phate, 86–89.
134 See Philipp Bruckmayr, “The Particular Will (al-irādat al-juz’iyya): Excavations
Regarding a Latecomer in Kalām Terminology on Human Agency and its Position in
Naqshbandi Discourse,” European Journal of Turkish Studies, 13 (2011): 1–24. Avail
able online at http://journals.openedition.org/ejts/4601.
135 Ivanyi, Virtue, 94, Yılmaz, Caliphate, 86–89.
136 See Ivanyi, Virtue, 36-40, and Mustapha Sheikh, Ottoman Puritanism and its Dis
contents: Aḥmad al-Rūmī al-Āqḥiṣārī and the Qāḍīzādelis (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2016), 1–41, 116–166.
137 Grehan, Twilight, 102, Chih, Sufism, 135.
138 Baer, Glory, 65, and Madeline Zilfi, The Politics of Piety: The Ottoman Ulema in the
Postclassical Age (1600–1800) (Minneapolis: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1988), 132.
139 Yılmaz, Caliphate, 48–51, and Terzioğlu, “Preachers,” 257. Also see Grehan, Twilight,
102, Chih, Sufism, 135, and Baer, Glory, 68–70.
140 Sariyannis, “Occultism,” 41.
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005), 152–156.
142 Sheikh, Puritanism, 2, and Douglas A. Howard, A History of the Ottoman Empire
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 168–172. See also Ira M. Lapidus,
A History of Islamic Societies, third edition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2014), 370. It is a universal trend for religious rigorists to attempt establishing par
ticular moral codes. See Thomas, Decline, 121. Further see Le Gall, Sufism, 150–151,
Baer, 63–78, 105–119, or Curry, Transformation, 78–80.
144 Derin Terzioğlu, “How to Conceptualize Ottoman Sunnitization: A Historiographical
Discussion,” Turcica, 44 (2012–2013): 319, or Le Gall, Sufism, 150–156.
145 See Gershom Scholem, Sabbatai Sevi: The Mystical Messiah (1626–1676) (New Jer
sey: Princeton University Press, 1973).
146 Le Gall, Sufism, 150–153, also Baer, Glory, 63–75, 105–119. Fariba Zarinebaf,
Crime & Punishment in Istanbul 1700–1800 (Berkeley & Los Angeles & London:
University of California Press, 2010), 106.
147 Chih, Sufism, 139.
148 Baer, Glory, 70–78, 104–118, 226.
149 Chih, Sufism, 32–36, 118.
150 See Farid al-Salim, “Landed Property and Elite Conflicts in Ottoman Tulkarm,” Jeru
salem Quarterly 47 (2011): 75. Further, Sebastian Gunther, Todd Lawson and Christian
Mauder, eds., Roads to Paradise: Eschatology and Concepts of the Hereafter in Islam
(Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2017), 931–933, Michael Winter, “ʿUlama’,” 40. Finally,
see Marʿī ibn Yūsuf al-Karmī al-Ḥanbalī, Shifā’ al-Ṣudūr fī Ziyārat al-Mashāhid wa
al-Qubūr [The Healing of Breasts with What Concerns the Visitation of Shrines and
Graves], ed. Asʿad Muḥammad al-Ṭayyib (Mecca: Maktabat Narrār Muṣṭafā al-Bāz,
1998), 7–10. Henceforth: ShS.
151 Al-Karmī, ShS, 17–155.
152 Ibid., 25, 37–45.
153 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 162A-174A. Further see al-Nabhānī, 1:13–14.
154 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–26, 30–47.
155 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 167A-173B. Further see Al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 2:429.
156 Al-Karmī, ShS, 45–55.
157 Al-Murādī, Silk, 3:44.
158 See Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, The Mulid of al-Sayyid al-Badawi of Tanta, trans. Colin
Clement (Cairo & New York: The American University of Cairo Press, 2019), 83–108.
159 Chih, Sufism, 1–21.
160 197 Al-Karmī, ShS, 17–155.
161 Ibid.
162 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 168B, and throughout this text.
163 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 162A–174A, al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200.
164 Ibn ʿAbidīn, MR, 2:5–15.
165 For instance, al-Murādī, Silk, 1:229, 1:284, 2:76, 3:205, 3:69, 3:103, or 3:175.
Syria (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 45–46, 116–118.
167 Al-Nabhāni, JK, 1:24–40. Skepticism represented a universal phenomenon to many
different religions. See J. L. Schellenberg, “On Religious Skepticism,” in Prolegom
ena to a Philosophy of Religion (Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press, 2005),
95–105.
168 See Sariyannis, “Occultism,” 41.
169 Sayed Khatab, Understanding Islamic Fundamentalism: The Theological and Ideo
logical Basis of Al-Qa’ida’s Political Tactics (Cairo & New York: The American Uni
versity in Cairo Press, 2011), 63, Sherifa Zuhur, Saudi Arabia (Santa Barbara: Clio,
2011), 39.
170 Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb was eager to identify heretics. See Chih, Sufism, 137. Further
see Samira Haj, “The Islamic Reform Tradition,” in Reconfiguring Islamic Tradition:
Reform, Rationality, and Modernity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 1–30,
and David Commins, The Wahhabi Mission and Saudi Arabia (London: I.B. Tauris,
2006), 1–40. For more about the movement as it was seen in Egypt during the nine
teenth century, see Lane, Egyptians, 1:128.
172 Haj, “Reform,” 17.
173 Ibid., 17–18, John Obert Voll, Islam: Continuity and Change in the Modern World
(Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1982), 53–54. Further see Ayman S. al-Yassini,
“Saudi Arabia: The Kingdom of Islam,” in Religions and Societies: Asia and the Mid
dle East, ed. Carlo Caldarola (Berlin: Mouton Publishers, 1982), 69–72, and Israr
Hasan, The Conflict Within Islam: Expressing Religion Through Politics (Blooming
ton: iUniverse Inc., 2011), 10–15.
174 Zuhur, Saudi Arabia, 39, Commins, Mission, 26–30, Haj, “Reform,” 17–18, and Voll,
Islam, 53–54.
175 Afshin Shahi, The Politics of Truth Management in Saudi Arabia (Abingdon: Rout-
ledge, 2013), 47.
176 See Leila Ahmed, Quiet Revolution: The Veil’s Resurgence from the Middle East to
America (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2011), 95, or Jon Amarjani,
Modern Islamist Movements: History, Religion, and Politics (Oxford: Wiley, 2012),
125–126.
177 The vandalization of the shrine in Karbala possibly earned Ibn Saʿūd’s son, Abd al-
ʿAzīz, death at the hands of a vengeful assassin in 1803. See Shahi, Truth, 49, and
Zuhur, Saudi Arabia, 41.
178 That the Ottoman subjects were highly concerned with such raids was visible from the
eighteenth-century Shāmī source material. See for instance, al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 19B–
20A, 21B. Further see Canaan, Saints, 2–3, 36, 93–95, and John Lewis Burckhardt,
Notes on the Bedouins and Wahabys: Collected During his Travel in the East (London:
Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley, 1831), 2 volumes, 2:168–176. Further see Karl
K. Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus, 1708–1758 (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1980), 97–107, Mohannad al-Mubaidin, “Aspects of the Economic History of
Damascus During the First Half of the Eighteenth Century,” trans. W. Matt Malcycky,
in Syria and Bilad al-Sham under Ottoman Rule, ed. Peter Sluglett and Stefan Weber
(Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2010), 137–154, Shahi, Truth, 49, Zuhur, Saudi Arabia, 41.
179 Commins, Islamic Reform, 108.
180 Ibid., 22.
181 Ibid.
182 Ibn ʿAbidīn, MR, 2:4–16. Al-Nābulsī without reservation dismisses such people as
absolute ignoramuses (sg. jāhil), Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 162A–174A, or al-Nābulsī,
Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200.
183 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 3:150–151.
184 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 2:114–115, 242–243, and MR, 2:14–47.
185 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2–61, and Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 2:114–116, 3:150–151, 9:522.
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3 Haunting the Shadows
Contending with the Jinn Between
the Visible and the Invisible Worlds
Muslims believed that invisible entities cohabited nature with the human beings,
calling these creatures the jinn (or jān; both are plural forms of m. sg. jinnī, f. sg.
jinnīya). According to beliefs, these daemons were without any specific corporeal
form and were most often unseen. The jinn were featured in Arabic poetry of the
pre-Islamic period. After the emergence of Islam, they appeared in the Qur’ān and
in many other written works. In eighteenth-century Syria, theologians frequently
wrote about them in ample detail, demonstrating that the issue of daemons was
approached seriously and with full attention of religious authorities in office.1
Beliefs in the jinn are widespread even today.
Describing them as capricious beings with a penchant for mischief, classical
texts told of maladies this unseen force caused to human beings. It was believed
that the jinn used their powers to swoon, mislead, and enrapture travelers, at times
causing dire consequences.2 Their bewitching call (hātaf)3 was heard in the desert
for centuries. Some scholarship etymologically relates the term jinn to Aramaic
words used for gods who turned malevolent and became daemons.4 Similarities
may be drawn across many cultures, such as among the pre-Christian Greeks.5 Otto
man scholars also employed similar relations. For instance, the Hanbalite rigorist
al-Karmī associated pre-Islamic deities, such as al-ʿUzza and al-Lāt, with the jinn.6
The history of the popular customs related to interacting with the jinn reflects
the continuity between the visible and invisible worlds7 in the beliefs of eighteenth-
century Syrian subjects. There existed a range of protective rites and rituals aimed
at warding off the jinn, or coercing them into particular actions. I discuss these
practices to demonstrate how thaumaturgical resources were used to contend with
dangerous elements in nature. Resulting rituals were derived from a much longer
tradition disseminated by prominent theologians in office during the early modern
period. Most of these thaumaturgical rituals contained many elements that oth
erwise featured in scriptural sources, which further allowed the ʿulamā’ in office
to justify them as fully orthodox in their works of apologetic theology.8 When
I discuss such rituals, I therefore approach them as elements of eighteenth-century
orthodox religious practice. It was preferred that the Sufis oversaw thaumaturgical
rituals, as it was believed that their grace would secure efficacy.
The analysis of the popular beliefs in the jinn in eighteenth-century Syria brings
to light many functions of Allah’s baraka for early modern Ottoman religion. The
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539-3
Haunting the Shadows 83
common beliefs that God’s grace protected its recipients from evil and could be
dispensed to the rest of the population through protective rites further clarifies
the historical and sociological role the state-appointed Sufi-ʿulamā’ played among
the people as a priestly sodality.9 Furthermore, it appears that baraka was often
used to signal proper behavior and exemplary individuals, both in popular tales and
ulamaic texts. In widespread beliefs, the absence of grace was often followed by
daemonic influence, demonstrating the premodern function of grace as a tool for
making boundaries across the social scale.
Sunni thaumaturgy in eighteenth-century Syria contained elements, which,
according to popular beliefs and expectations, immediately relieved the needs of
the supplicants,10 ranging from deflecting evils, over wondrous healing, to banish
ing unseen monsters and devils. Analyses of these elements may offer additional
and highly significant detail to historical studies of the significance of thaumaturgy
for premodern peoples and its embeddedness in matters ranging from everyday life
to exclusive instances, along with its official overseers – the state-appointed Sufi
ulamaic priestly sodalities of the Ottoman Empire.
The Nature of the Beast: What Were the Jinn and Where They
Dwelled in the Syrian Eighteenth Century
The Qur’ān adopted the jinn from older beliefs, among many other elements per
tinent to pre-Islamic and other traditions. The jinn of the Muslim Scripture could
not deny divine will, as supremacy of Allah was considered uncontested. Some
members of this unseen species became Muslims themselves.11
A fully coherent classification of the jinn did not exist in premodern times.12
During the medieval period, there was a tendency to compare the jinn with Allah’s
angels (malak; pl. malā’ika).13 Scholars show that both malā’ika and the jinn were
historically attributed with similar powers, such as flight and transmogrification.14
These similarities may be the result of historical inconsistencies concerning the
nomenclature and classification of Muslim unseen forces,15 such is often the case
in other scriptural religions.16 In the eighteenth century, Ibn ʿĀbidīn appeared to use
the terms jinn or jān to refer to various creatures believed to elude natural sight.
He identified the malevolent among them as shayāṭīn (“devils;” sg. shayṭān).17 The
particularly powerful malignant jinn have at times been called ʿifrīt as well.18
Both the angels and the jinn were of course creations of God.19 The angels were
obedient to the Creator who used them as emissaries. They spent the rest of their
time in flight, observing worldly affairs. Each angel frequently had a single func
tion as the purpose of its existence, such as carrying the divine message, or pun
ishing evildoers.20 Some distinctions between them and the jinn are evident. Ibn
ʿĀbidīn distinguished the jinn from the angels by their supposed outward appear
ance, as well as their role in the world. He believed that the angels were created
from light in aesthetically appealing forms, while the jinn had grotesque bodies
made of air. The shayāṭīn were made of fire.21 The jinn retained their freedom of
will,22 allowing Ibn ʿĀbidīn, like many other Muslim scholars, to classify some of
them as devils due to their malevolence.23
The eighteenth-century ʿulamā’ believed that the jinn were created before
human beings and ever since approached humanity with alternating curiosity and
hatred.24 It was often easy to provoke their wrath. They would then become mis
chievous and cause many troubles.25 Although unseen, the jinn were believed to
cohabit the human world equally.26 Muslim zoological dictionaries often included
the jinn among the rest of the worldly fauna, and such was sometimes the case even
in the contemporary period.27 Ibn ʿĀbidīn believed that the accidental sighting of
the jinn, as well as of an angel, a prophet, or a jinnic battle in the sky28 represented
a wonder due to the beliefs that all such entities were at most times invisible to
human beings.29 Eighteenth-century ʿulamā’ believed that the awliyā’ were aware
of such entities’ presence due to saintly grace.30
The jinn were believed to inhabit elements of air and fire in the case of shayāṭīn.31
It was believed that they further settled within natural objects such as trees, rocks,
or caves. They were often fond of settling in human-built structures – in particu
lar the water cisterns and bathhouses,32 and some domestic locations, such as the
hearth or the threshold.33 Some jinn were believed to ride animals, such as wolves
or ostriches.34 Some possessed the power of flight as well as of crossing between
the visible and invisible worlds.35
The jinn were believed to have been organized into clans, like humans.36 Gri
moires circulated during the eighteenth century describe twelve of such clans. The
Compendium of All Arts,37 for instance, allocates jinnic clans to the signs of the
zodiac.38 For instance, the Gemini Clan (qabīlat al-jawzā’), also known as Chil
dren of the Desert (banū hawjal39), occasionally rode lions, resided in mountain
ous terrains, or the clouds.40 The Cancer Clan (qabīlat al-saraṭān), Children of the
Tempest (banū zawba ʿa), inhabited cliffs. The Virgo Clan (qabīlat al-sunbula41) –
the Children of the Birds (banū al-ṭayyār) – inhabited thresholds, as well as some
trees.42 Regardless of their clan, the jinn caused a myriad of problems to the human
beings, most often including body aches, arthritic problems, malignant growths,
and epileptic fits.43 Humans were more prone to assaults of the clan belonging to
their own birth sign. Astrological relations between the humans and the jinn are
reflected in certain theories according to which every human being was believed
to be accompanied by their doppelgänger.44 The relevant Arabic term is qarīn,45
which inspired scholarly investigations into guardian angels along with the mis
chievous jinn that were believed to shadow human beings.46
The jinn possessed the power of transmogrification. They passed through the
visible world in the form of various animals such as cats, dogs, goats,47 various ver
min, scorpions, and most often serpents.48 Snakes, scorpions, as well as lions (rid
den by some jinnic subspecies) represented symbols used for magical practices or
talismanics.49 Various religious traditions employed serpents as symbols50 of both
good and evil.51 In twentieth-century Palestine, Taufik Canaan observed a curious
linguistic distinction in the usage of the terms ʿarbīd, (but also thuʿbān), and ḥayya
in relation to the jinn. All indicating serpents, the former would be used for ven
omous varieties and bore relation to the shayāṭīn, while the latter seemed related
to benign jinn.52 The eighteenth-century Syrian sources imply similar distinctions

between the terms thuʿbān and ḥayya.53
Muslim scholars were arguing if this species was able to eat and drink like
humans.54 Legends of romantic affairs between the humans and the jinn were not
rare, either before or after the emergence of Islam.55 Ulamaic debates revolved
around the ability of the jinn to copulate. In the Egyptian town of Dasūq, early
nineteenth-century rumors spread of a shaykh who was married to a jinnīyya. This
marriage gave him the privilege, according to the popular belief, of making many
wishes come true. Lane compared this man to a hero from the Arabian Nights who
found a magic lamp.56 Debates of such marriages remain preserved in some early
modern sources. These beliefs are encountered in Syria and the Middle East until
the present.57
In addition to the incorporeal jinn, Arabic legends tell of a corporeal variety of
daemon – the ghoul (ghūl), which today enjoys much global popularity in social
media and entertainment material. There are various etymological and morpho
logical accounts of the word ghūl,58 yet its origins remain obscure. As with the
jinn, there seems to exist a lack of proper classification of this species. Conflicted
accounts define the ghoul as an exclusively feminine enchantress, or a mascu
line member of the jinn which poses as an attractive female. Alternatively, the
ghoul is described as an infernal being.59 Most accounts describe this monster
as a grotesque anthropomorphic beast with a disfigured face and body. Usually
it would have donkey hooves instead of feet.60 According to common beliefs, it
would change into a more appealing form, such as that of an attractive woman
(the hooves would remain). It would then use its enchanting voice to swoon the
unaware into perdition.61 Myths about ghouls persisted throughout the centuries.62
John Burckhardt records the Bedouin beliefs that invisible female daemons carried
off travelers who would tarry behind caravans. Such a creature would be dubbed
Umm Maghaylān, which may be a dialectal inflection of the morphological root
of the word ghūl.63 The belief in the ghoul persists in Syria as well as elsewhere
until the present day.
In today’s western popular culture, the ghoul is known as a nocturnal monster,
an undead, and a necrophagist.64 Legends of the ghouls breaking into cemeter
ies to devour the entombed do not seem of Arabic origin. Al-Rawi presumes that
Antoine Galland (1646–1715) introduced necrophagia into the myth about the
ghoul in his translation of the Arabian Nights that was published between 1704
and 1717. Galland might have attempted to add more spectacle to the description
of this creature.65
Comparable legends exist in other Arabic-speaking regions, like with the mythi
cal hyena. This animal is a scavenger that feeds on carrion, has a very particular
cry, and releases a recognizable odor from its anal glands. These traits, along with
its apparent androgyny (in the case of the spotted hyena), may have through his
tory inspired beliefs into its magical properties across Africa, and then West and
South Asia. Arabic legends narrate that hyenas acquired mysterious powers dur
ing nighttime. They struck at unwary humans, entrancing them with a humanlike
voice, or spraying them with their scent. If the victim sensed the hyena’s odor,
they would be compelled to obey the beast’s commands.66 Myths about the hyena
also imply that the beast would at times turn into a human being during the day
and lead a double life.67 Beliefs in transmogrifying creatures are ubiquitous. Some
scholars, however, presume that tales of shape-shifting hyenas may bear origins in
sub-Saharan Africa, where at many places there existed cults committed to a vari
ety of mythical transmogrifying beasts. The beliefs in the mystical powers of the
hyena were spread between central Africa and the Indian provinces.68 The mythical
hyenas and ghouls remain in a wide variety of today’s popular content, from music
to video games. In addition, narratives about these creatures are used to frighten
and warn, for instance, ill-behaving children, or those who do not sleep at home
during nighttime.69
Proper behavior, based on the ulamaic teachings and widespread beliefs that
circulated eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria, shielded people from assaults of
malevolent beings. In popular imaginary, falling from grace most often brought
dire consequences, while observing everyday thaumaturgical practice helped one
remain safe in a world where unseen dangers roamed, further integrating the beliefs
in grace within the quotidian setting of eighteenth-century Syria.
Wrath of the Beast: Jinnic Assaults, Improper Behavior,

the Ill-Prepared, and the Mad
The jinn allegedly inhabited the world in incredible numbers. People were warned
not to call each other by real names when they roamed the night outdoors.70 Old
beliefs emphasized that knowing the names of entities and phenomena made con
trol over them possible.71 Similar to the names of deities and angels that allegedly
banished malignant energies,72 myths narrated that a jinnī would be able to control
a human being should it acquire their name. As an important thaumaturgical ele
ment, names were used in talisman production, both by the humans and allegedly
the jinn.73 If one would, by mistake, reveal their own name during the night, leg
ends told that they might hear it called out in the darkness, often in compelling
tones (hātaf or ʿazīf),74 and without a visible source.75
Trees were often believed to represent jinnic haunts. The Compendium warns
that many jinnic clans attacked those who damaged allegedly haunted trees.76 In
Ottoman Syria, carob trees were rumored to be particularly favored haunts. The
carob has a peculiar appearance, and work on it may have used to bear a higher risk
of injury.77 In twentieth-century Palestine, the proverb that “sleep under the carob is
not praiseworthy” (al-nawm taḥt al-kharrūb ghayr mamḍūḥ) was quite widespread.
It was considered dangerous to tie animals to this tree or leave possessions under it,78
yet the carob was not the only species that inspired legends of daemonic haunts. Fur
thermore, water sources such as cisterns and bathhouses were believed to be among
the most favorite jinnic habitats. In many cultures, water represented an important
object of all kinds of beliefs, due to universal presumptions that it may serve as a
powerful conduit of energies, as well as possess various enchantments.79 Spilling
water was at times believed to provoke the jinn. Urination in the open was consid
ered risky.80 According to widespread beliefs, at least one, if not many, jinn usually
inhabited the threshold of a home. Legends warned the people not to trip or step
directly onto this jinnic haunt.81 It was unwise to beat children upon the threshold,
as the child could suffer convulsions, or physical defects later in life.82 Transgres
sions required immediate recitation of proper apotropaic formulae, at times fol
lowed by more complicated rituals.
Myths about the jinn often served as a literary device to warn against unde
sirable behavior. Stories related daemonic assaults to bad reputation.83 This was
especially the case if the victims were people of some public renown.84 Blatant
disrespect of the tenets of belief frequently featured among the transgressions of
the odious.85 Ibn Budayr recorded the death of a Damascene agha, Musṭafā Ibn
al-Qabbānī, in 1746. Ibn al-Qabbānī was remembered as a hoarder of essential
goods during financial crises. He succumbed to a fatal illness. A funeral procession
took Ibn al-Qabbānī to the prepared grave, where a large serpent (thuʿbān ʿaẓīm)
was spotted, so the people quickly covered the pit and proceeded to dig another
one. Mysterious serpents were dug up several more times before the people man
aged to bury the agha. The barber remarked that the serpents were drawn by the
agha’s vileness,86 and implied that odious characters would attract such creatures
postmortem.
Decency and proper behavior were crucial to avoid daemonic attacks. Illustrat
ing circumstances within the Syrian Christian clergy, the Orthodox priest Mikhā’īl
Burayk organized his narrative in a peculiar chain of events. During 1745, one of
many conflicts between Catholic and Orthodox groups in Damascus took place.87
Burayk’s narrative implies that this event was almost immediately followed by the
birth of a cyclops goat in the town of Maaloula (Maʿlūlā). Goats were believed to
frequently represent jinnic manifestations. The said animal died after a few days,
and the same period witnessed an outbreak of cholera.88
Tales of the jinn in Syria reveal that the beliefs in daemons were often used
as agents of social control and the preservation of social norms. According to
beliefs, however, certain individuals would at times suffer jinnic assaults without
any apparent reason.89 Some of them would remain unaware that prevention or
treatment was necessary until it was too late. Along with those believed to have
somehow fallen from grace, they at times suffered severe consequences due to their
supposed encounters with the jinn.
The mentally ill were traditionally regarded as victims of daemonic posses
sion.90 The word in Arabic for a madman is majnūn and refers to injinnation. These
were not to be confused with the majādhīb, however, whose unstable mental states
were explained through their ṣalāḥ that earned them divine grace, once again indi
cating the potential of baraka to serve as a social qualifier.91 For the “injinnated,”
there was a considerable lack of proper treatment even deep into the twentieth
century. Many lunatics underwent rigorous procedures aimed at expelling the jinn
out of their bodies.92 Cases of madness indicate the involvement of the Ottoman
network of the holy in the Syrian everyday, as the individuals, objects, and places,
which were believed to be conduits of baraka, played a significant role in treating
the insane. Studying the history of treating madness shows how deep the beliefs in
the thaumaturgical properties of Allah’s grace were integrated into the eighteenth-
century Syrian everyday.
Places allegedly laden with baraka often sheltered individuals believed to have
suffered daemonic ire. Sufi lodges or Christian monasteries served the purposes of
mental asylums, which did not exist everywhere until the twentieth century. The
insane were accommodated in small cells where most inmates bore heavy restraints
and lived in harsh conditions with poor hygiene. Should all such buildings be
absent, a dark room or a dry cistern would have been refurbished to accommodate
the patients. There existed a belief that poor living conditions would be unappeal
ing for the invasive jinn who would then leave the bodies of their victims.93 During
the course of the treatment, other rigorous measures were often applied. Forced
starvation was common, as it was presumed that the jinn preferred more corpulent
people and left the emaciated in peace.94 Diets of the insane consisted mostly of
unleavened bread. Patients would further be treated with talismans produced by
the Ottoman thaumaturges, or with water in which pages of the Scripture had been
submerged to assure the transfer of grace.95
In addition to talismanics, patients were occasionally offered more pragmatic
therapeutic methods. They underwent fumigation, and cauterization was common,
mostly at the back of the neck or the top of the head.96 Inmates were regularly
beaten. There are indications that such beatings originated in the Roman period.97
They were universally used in the Eurasian region during the eighteenth century.98
Their seeming goal in Syria and Palestine was to cause sufficient muscle and tis
sue strain and physically drive the jinn out.99 Due to Palestinian beliefs that the
jinn would not inhabit the pomegranate tree, switches were often made from its
branches and used to beat the insane.100
Kept in solitude under poor conditions, the patients had to entrust the rest of
their treatment to divine grace. Prayers were conducted for their recovery. Over
time, inmates would perhaps succumb to lethargy. They would then be proclaimed
cured, and their chains would be removed.101 Transcendental elements of the Otto
man network of the holy were often believed to participate in the treatment of
majānīn.102 People in the Middle East believed that a particular creature from the
Qur’ān was efficient in helping the mad. This was al-Khiḍr, the spiritual teacher
and temporary guide to Moses in the Scripture.103 At times dubbed walī, this green-
clad figure with a long white beard armed with a spear was most often brought in
relation to St. George, and both were often invoked by those in need of thaumatur
gical healing.104
The Palestinian town of al-Khader (al-Khaḍir) in the Bethlehem Governorate
had an asylum for the mentally ill, which stood on the grounds of the monastery
of St. George. It is believed that this saint was imprisoned and thrown in chains
there.105 Adjacent to the asylum stood a Church of St. George, and a chain was
suspended to run from it to asylum inmates’ fetters. It was hoped that the chain
would conduct the saint’s healing grace into the mad. At times, legends would arise
that the saint would signal the recovery of an inmate. Their fetters would burst
open on their own.106 Canaan narrates of a Bedouin who was brought to al-Khader
complex. During one night after his incarceration, he was spotted as he snuck along
the rooftop of the asylum. He was brought down and questioned to describe a
green-clad figure who undid his fetters. The Bedouin used the chain attached to the
church building to escape through a window. His tale apparently remained unques
tioned. He was proclaimed cured and allowed to go, promising a yearly tribute to
St. George.107
In the town of Qatana (Qaṭana), which is today a Syrian city in the Rif Dimashq
Governorate, a saint was entombed under the local mosque. The Christians of the
area, according to Burckhardt, referred to that tomb as the “Patriarch of Damascus.”
The people of Qatana narrated that this priest turned into a hermit and impressed
the Muslims by having sheep prostrate themselves with him during prayers. His
offspring were well respected in Qatana. A hole was dug to adjoin the grave of
the “Patriarch” so that the mad would be thrown inside. People would then slide a
stone on top of it to prevent escape. After some days, the patients would be released
with claims that their sanity had been restored.108
Many were not so lucky. Their condition would be so dire to require the direct
assistance of religious professionals within the Ottoman network of the holy.
Thaumaturges often answered summons to perform rituals in hopes of inducing
recovery, repelling evil forces, and restoring the minds of the patients. Sufis were
believed to improve the efficacy of deflective rituals as their grace allegedly dis
patched the jinn with ease.109
“Vade Retro Satana:”110 Repelling the Jinn Through Ritual

and Blood
Canaan related that a villager from early twentieth-century Artas (Arṭās) in the
Bethlehem Governorate once lay with his spouse under a tree that turned out to
be a jinnic haunt. The woman was struck by epileptic fits, and a Sufi master was
called to assistance. The thaumaturge identified the assailant daemon as the “Fly
ing Bird,”111 possibly referring to the jinnic Virgo Clan.112 In Jerusalem, Spoer was
told that a woman once left her child with the superintendent of a public bathhouse.
She heard the cry of her baby and rushed out. She slipped and suffered severe
cramps, which the Sufis later could not treat.113
Both the Artas villager and the lady from Jerusalem failed to recite the proper
protective formulae. Symptoms remained with the Artas villager’s wife,114 while
the woman from Jerusalem allegedly heard a mock cry of the bathhouse jinnī,
which duped her into slipping while her child safely slept in the arms of the super
intendent.115 These tales indicate the importance of apotropaic formulae and thau
maturgical rites for the Syrian everyday. Such rites were heavily reliant on the
thaumaturgical capacities of the Syrian network of the holy, and on baraka as the
ultimate shield from all evils. In case that these formulae were deemed insufficient
on their own, the people would call upon the Sufi masters, who, as recipients and
dispensers of grace, were believed to empower thaumaturgical rituals and hold spe
cial power over unseen forces. The structure of most apotropaic and prophylactic
rites contained within eighteenth-century thaumaturgical corpus derived elements
from scriptural sources, which was a fact the Sufi-ulamaic sodalities in office often
used to justify the orthodoxy of these rituals during the Ottoman times and after.116
Above all other jinn repellents stood the name of God. In addition, reitera
tions of the basmala,117 as well as of the taʿawwudh litany were often advised.118
The taʿawwudh is often recited in the Muslim everyday and goes, “I seek protec
tion in Allah from the accursed [stoned] devil” (a ʿūdhu bi-l-lah min al-shayṭān
al-rajīm). In addition, there existed an old belief in the jinn-repellent power of the
Qur’ānic chapters al-Falaq and al-Nās,119 jointly known as al-muʿawwidhatān
(Verses of Refuge). These two scriptural chapters, in combination with al-Fātiḥa,
had a number of applications ranging from thaumaturgical healing to dispatching
daemons and warding off sorcery.120 Failure to pronounce the taʿawwudh while,
for instance, going into water was believed to provoke the invisible creatures
residing within or nearby. It was customary to recite the taʿawwudh if one hap
pened to be near other supposed jinnic haunts, such as caves or trees. As illus
trated earlier, failure to recite proper apotropaic formulae may have resulted in
dire consequences. Canaan suggests that the husband from Artas should have
recited the basmala before approaching his wife,121 yet thaumaturgical manuals
used to contain an invocation that relates to the situation and goes, “. . . in the
name of God, oh, God, protect us from the devil and protect what You bestow
upon us.”122
Several of the Qur’ānic chapters were considered efficacious in combating dae
mons. The Throne Verse (Ayāt al-Kursī) and the Qur’ānic chapter Yā Sīn123 had
particular efficacy against the shayāṭin and the ghouls in popular belief. Occasion
ally, it was necessary to repeat the reading of these chapters over several days to
cleanse a haunting or complete an exorcism.124 Accidental transgressions or tres
passes into injinnated territory – like stepping on a threshold – required immediate
demonstrations of contrition, preferably accompanied by the dhikr.125
Simply passing by supposed injinnated grounds required but a short basmala,
sometimes along with the shahāda or al-Fātiḥa.126 However, to enter a purport
edly haunted space, one would need to request permission through the dastūr
formula127 after reciting apotropaic rites. Intruders into jinnic haunts would dem
onstrate humility and plead to enter, invoking God. Similar dastūr formulae were
used to warn females in a household or another locality to evacuate.128 Protection
was necessary for one’s belongings as well, as they were believed to provoke the
daemons’ curiosity. In Syria and Palestine, the taʿawwudh was pronounced over
clothing chests until the modern period, to protect personal items from soiling.129
People in eighteenth-century Syria needed to be prepared to defend from curses
too. It was believed that the jinnic clans could cast the evil eye upon those who
were born under the corresponding zodiac sign.130 The people believed that any
human could cast the evil eye too. Malocchio131 (Ar. al-iṣāba bi-l-ʿayn) would often
be caused by envy. Al-Nābulsī, like Ibn Khaldūn, believed that the evil eye could
occur accidentally. Expression of admiration for other people’s belongings or loved
ones needed to be followed by immediate recitation of protective formulae and
divine invocations, else the evil eye was risked. The absence of protective rites was
believed to cause the corruption of the object of admiration.132
In addition to protective words, the people used a talisman that looked like an
eye itself.133 Other protective charms sported an open hand, which was among the
Muslims known as khamsa (“the five” [fingers]), or the Hand of Fāṭima (605/615–
632; the daughter of Muḥammad).134 The hand symbol has a long history that pre
dates the emergence of Islam and Christianity.135 Both the Five and the eye talisman
were distributed as pendants or marbles.136 They were often painted on the walls
of shops and households. In addition, some would paint the word “Allah,” or the
taʿawwudh upon their façades.137 Amulets were collected from many other sources.
The body parts of the hyena had protective powers in popular belief. The hyena’s
skin and bits of its flesh were believed to possess special properties useful for heal
ing as well as protection. They were carried on one’s person or hung in important
places.138
The jinn were vulnerable to pomegranate branches,139 as well as to iron. Ideally,
only iron pales would be used for fetching water, followed by continuous repeti
tions of the dhikr.140 However, it was believed possible to physically subdue some
demons. According to certain legends, the ghouls as corporeal creatures could be
slain. The first swing of the sword against a ghoul needed to be fatal. A blow that
would only wound the creature made it virtually indestructible.141 The pre-Islamic
vagabond poet Thābit Ibn Jābir was reported to have been victorious in a duel
against a ghoul. His nickname, Ta’abbaṭa Sharrān (“the carrier of two evils”), pos
sibly stems from this encounter.142
Despite all attempts to keep them at bay, however, the jinn were sometimes
believed to cause great harm to certain individuals, such as madness or fits. Accord
ing to some legends, the jinn were capable of flinging heavy objects inside one’s
household, or in the streets, which prompted Ibn ʿĀbidīn to issue some real-estate
related legal advice connected to haunted properties.143 In such cases, protective
formulae were not enough. Exorcism would usually take place, most often under
supervision of a trained thaumaturge.
Available sources do not explicitly outline the correct exorcising procedure.144
Daemons were, however, banished fairly frequently, as it seems from the implica
tions in eighteenth-century ʿulamā’ writing.145 It was preferred for the religious pro
fessionals to conduct these rituals. It seems that the Qādirīyya Sufis were among
the more popular choices as exorcism overseers in Syria.146 They were not exclu
sive in conducting such rituals, as, for instance, the Rifāʿīyya order specialized
in expelling serpents from various localities. A Rifāʿīyya subbranch, the Saʿdīyya,
dealt with serpents and scorpions too. Members of both these orders had expertise
in poisons.147 Some members of the Saʿdīyya staged public performances during
which they bit into live venomous reptiles and arachnids.148
The exact procedure of the ritual needs reconstruction through comparative
source analysis. It was customary to fast for three days and three nights before ven
turing upon most thaumaturgical acts.149 Similarly, ritualistic ablution was a com
mon preparatory measure.150 Failure to observe the standards of ritualistic purity
was considered dangerous.151
After fasting and ablutions, the exorcist would attend the injinnated and mut
ter protective formulae (along with the dhikr, and the scriptural chapters) over
them – sometimes repeating them for days. Patients would at times be massaged,
starting from upper body parts in attempts to squeeze the jinnī out through the
victim’s toes.152 Shaykhs would use their spittle for massages as a supposed conduit
of grace.153 Healing and cursing by saliva is a universal phenomenon in religions.
Prophets of scriptural religions healed with their spittle. Most notable instances
were Jesus and Muḥammad.154
Thaumaturges would occasionally prepare special elixirs to assist their ritu
als. Thaumaturgical manuals advise the boiling of the so-called “flower of Mar-
yam,” that got its name because of the belief that the Virgin once wiped her face
with one such plant.155 Resulting maryamīyye would be used in massages or as a
curative potion.156 Alternatively, Qur’ānic verses would be written on the inside
of a bowl and then boiled until the ink dissolved. Pages of the Scripture could
be boiled instead, and the resulting water, which was expected to bear wondrous
properties, would then be drunk or massaged into the patient.157 When the ritual
proceedings were over, people could occasionally witness smoke exiting the
body of the injinnated individual as a sign of the ritual’s success and the jinnī’s
departure.158
Mikhā’il Burayk left a record of an exorcism performed by the Syrian Orthodox
clergy. In 1749 a Damascene woman lapsed into fits, provoking beliefs of injin
nation. She was fettered and locked within the Damascene Church of St. Nicho
las (Mār Niqūla, or Mār N’ūla colloquially). Burayk remembers how he prayed
with his fellows for the woman for several days while the daemon spoke to them
through her.159 Her condition slowly improved, until it finally appeared that the
shayṭān entirely left her.160
Burayk the priest suspected that a sorcerer – rajul sāḥir (lit. “magic-making
man”) – “wrote on pieces of paper”161 and compelled the shayṭān to possess the
woman. According to very old beliefs, it was possible for magicians who knew the
names of their targets to summon a daemon, inscribe their wishes for the target,
and seal it with their spittle, crafting a jinn-manipulating talisman.162 This belief
persisted until the modern period. In the early twentieth century, Stephan recorded
a story about a sorcerer from Nablus who conjured the jinn with the help of a talis
man and sent them to a married woman who hated him. She immediately went to
Jerusalem to ask for divorce. Ultimately, she married the daemonologist who hap
pened to reside in Jerusalem at the time of her trip.163
Methods for driving the jinn away from humanity were abundant. However, at
certain times, they were deemed either insufficient, or there were no skilled reli
gious professionals to conduct them. In such cases, people of early modern Syria
resorted to the old practice of bargaining with the unseen. Such bargains were usu
ally struck through an act ubiquitous in religions – ritualistic butchering.164
In Ottoman Syria, sacrificial custom persisted until the modern times, while its
roots were ancient.165 In eighteenth-century Bilād al-Shām, people sacrificed for
a variety of reasons, including protection from evil and exorcism. Sacrifice was
often offered to the saints as well, which I discuss in Chapter 6. Muslim thauma
turges often oversaw sacrificial rituals. Ibn ʿĀbidīn devoted two chapters to sacri
fice in his magnum opus, Answer to the Baffled. These volumes, titled The Book of
Slaughtering and The Book of Sacrifice,166 entered the corpus of Hanafite traditions
and are consulted to this day.
Offerings over the threshold were very frequent, as the threshold was one of
the favorite jinnic habitats.167 After reciting the taʿawwudh and other protective
wards, new owners would occasionally uproot the threshold stone and place a
new one.168 They would then offer sacrifice upon the new stone, hoping to make
the jinn leave.169 It was considered important for the sacrificial blood to touch the
threshold.170 The significance of blood reflects a universal belief that it, like spit
tle, carried the creature’s essence.171 Sacrifice was further offered for travelers and
pilgrims who were leaving or returning.172 During weddings, blood was sacrificed
to distract the jinn. After the proceedings, an animal’s blood would be drawn over
the newlyweds,173 and the bride would break a pomegranate fruit so that the seed
would spill over the threshold.174 Another animal would be sacrificed at a vantage
point overlooking the nuptial chamber, with blood drawn over the bride.175
People sacrificed on behalf of infants on the brink of death, believed to have suf
fered possession. Blood would be spilt on their bodies directly. Caution was taken
that the sacrificial animal was unharmed prior to the slaughter. It was suspected
that the infant would otherwise sympathetically suffer injuries.176 Canaan recorded
a custom of treating older children with epileptic seizures by selecting a smaller
animal, such as a pigeon, and inserting it headfirst into the rectum of the young
majnūn so that it dies of suffocation. It was hoped that the jinnī would be duped
into believing that it took the soul of the child, which would make it depart.177
It was customary to sacrifice during exorcisms. Most often, the injinnated would
lay their hand on the animal during the ritual preparation and performance,178 and
the people would make sure that the sacrificial blood comes into contact with the
patient.179 In other cases when an animal was slain for healing purposes, the ailing
body part would be anointed with the blood of the slain beast.180 After the exorcism
was over, if it was deemed successful, the people would offer another sacrifice as
an apologetic act towards the expelled jinn, in hopes to quell their wrath.181
The people in Ottoman Syria frequently sacrificed for the deceased. The pur
pose was twofold. The ritual was supposed to protect the deceased on their journey
to the afterlife, often as a generalized apotropaic act with no specific recipient.
Since the meat of the sacrifice was later distributed in an act of charity (ṣadāqa),182
it was also hoped that the sacrifice would help redeem the soul of the deceased.183
If the funeral proceedings required the corpse to be mounted on a camel and trans
ported to the grave, the people would draw blood over the mount before placing
the body.184 Syrian Christians sacrificed for similar causes. Especially during St.
George’s feast, clerics were called upon to bless the sacrificial animals. The meat
was distributed as charity, so the poor enjoyed a feast during these times of the
year.185 Sacrifices for the dead were not a unique Syrian custom and are still present
in many regions.186
Even though blood was important, in case that due to some circumstance it was
lacking, red henna could serve as a substitute.187 Until the modern times, many
houses in Palestine bore a red mark in the shape of the Hand of Fāṭima as protec
tion and proof that the due sacrifice took place.188
As with most religious practices, the presence of professional thaumaturges was

preferred during sacrificial slaughter.189 They would instruct the people into the
proper ways of offering sacrifice and oversee ritual proceedings. The Sufi-ʿulamā’
role in all rituals as guides, protectors, and overseers indicates popular expectations
of Allah’s baraka, dispensed by the ulamaic priestly sodality, to protect the human
beings from jinnic perils. The role of the Sufi-ʿulamā’ sodality as defenders from
malignant forces highlights in more detail the particularities of the Ottoman reli
gious field and the function of professional thaumaturges within it.190 The path to
thaumaturgical mastery was long and arduous yet brought many rewards, as some
initiates would eventually enter the saintly ranks in the Ottoman network of the holy.
Notes
Khālid al-Naqshbandī, in Majmūʿat Rasāʿil Muḥammad Ibn ʿĀbidīn (Henceforth: MR)
(Istanbul: Dar-i Saʿādat, 1907), 2:16–25.
2 Abdulla L. Tayib, “Pre-Islamic Poetry,” and M. J. Kister, “The Sīrah Literature,” in Arabic
Literature to the End of the Umayyad Period, ed. A.F.L. Beeston, T.M. Johnstone, R.B. Ser
jeant and G.R. Smith (Cambridge: New York, 1983), 41–48, 358, Harry Munt, Touraj Dary
aee, Omar Edaibat, Robert Hoyland and Isabel Toral Niehoff, “Arabic and Persian Sources
for Pre-Islamic Arabia,” in Arabs and Empires before Islam, ed. Greg Fisher (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2015), 414, and Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam in Late
Antiquity: Allāh and his People (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 207–212.
3 Amira Al-Zein, Islam, Arabs, and the Intelligent World of the Jinn (Syracuse NY: Syra
cuse University Press, 2009), 74.
4 Irving M. Zeitlin, The Historical Muhammad (Cambridge: Polity, 2007), 54, and Simon
O’Meara, “From Space to Place: The Quranic Infernalization of the Jinn,” in Locating
Hell in Islamic Traditions, ed. Christian Lange (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2015), 60.
Further see Aziz Al-Azmeh, “Paleo-Muslim Angels and Other Preternatural Beings,”
in The Intermediate Worlds of Angels: Islamic Representations of Celestial Beings in
Transcultural Contexts, ed. Sara Kuehn, Stefan Leder and Hans-Peter Pökel (Beirut:
Ergon Verlag in Komission, 2019), 144.
5 For instance, the terms theoi and daemones were used before Christianity to indicate
similar dynamics, and the latter became indicative of malevolent creatures only with the
emergence of Christian traditions. See Francis Macdonald Cornford, From Religion to
Philosophy: A Study in the Origins of Western Speculation (London: E. Arnold, 1912),
96, Ken Frieden, Genius and Monologue (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985), 35–40,
Harold Bloom, Figures of Capable Imagination (New York: Seabury Press, 1976), 80,
or R. M. Van Den Berg, Proclus’ Hymns: Essays, Translations, Commentary (Leiden:
Brill, 2012), 178. Further see Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 294. Simon O’Meara sees the jinn
legends as an autochtonous development among the Arabs. See O’Meara, “Jinn,” 59.
6 Marʿī ibn Yūsuf al-Karmī al-Ḥanbalī, Shifā’ al-Ṣudūr fī Ziyārat al-Mashāhid wa
al-Qubūr (henceforth: ShS), ed. As ʿad Muḥammad al-Ṭayyib (Mecca: Maktabat Narrār
Muṣṭafā al-Bāz, 1998), 58–60. This was a tendency from the medieval period. See Al-
Azmeh, Emergence, 294.
7 Al-Azmeh, “Angels,” 144–148.
8 Alexander D. Knysh, Sufism: A New History of Islamic Mysticism (Oxford: Princeton
University Press, 2017), 15. For illustrations, see Muṣṭafā Ibn Kamāl al-Dīn Ibn ‘Alī
al-Bakrī al-Ṣiddīqī, “al-Manhal al-ʿAdhb al-Sā’igh li-Warrādihi fī Dhikr Ṣalwāt al-Ṭarīq
wa Awrādihi,” MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Hs. or. 14153, Berlin, 1A–9B.
9 Comparable to the Christian traditions, and the role of Christian wonder-workers in bat
tles against demons. For instance, Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic:
Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London:

Penguin, 1991), 34–35, 56–57, 573.
Research, 13 (1991): 28–29.
11 Al-Zein, Jinn, 8–12, and O’Meara, “Jinn,” 65–68.
12 Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 294.
13 Ibid., 294–295.
14 Al-Zein, Jinn, 34–46, Lebling, Jinn, 1–6, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 294.
15 Ibid. Further see Al-Azmeh, “Angels,” 148–150. Also see Abū ʿUthmān ʿAmr Ibn Baḥr
al-Jāhiẓ, Kitāb al-Ḥayawān [The Book of Animals] ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad
Hārūn (Cairo: Maṭbaʿat Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1967), 6:220–223.
16 Stephen Burge, Angels in Islam: Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūī’s al-Ḥabā’ik fī akhbār al-malā’ik
(Abingdon: Routledge, 2012), 1–28.
17 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:16–23. Also see Abū Zayd Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, ed.
Jumaʿa Shaykha (Tunis: Al-Dār al-Tūnisīyya li-l-Nashr, 1984), 142–143, and al-Jāhiẓ,
Ḥayawān, 6:190–193. This is not his unique tendency, however. See Robert Lebling,
Legends of the Fire Spirits: Jinn and Genies from Arabia to Zanzibar (London & New
York: I.B. Tauris, 2010), 7–8.
18 Ibid. This is a widely known term due to the acclaim of Arabian Nights. See Lebling,
Jinn, 7–8.
19 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14.
20 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:16–18, Al-Zein, Jinn, 32–52, and Al-Azmeh, “Angels,” 148–150.
21 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:16–18. This corresponds to the findings in relevant scholarship,
which adds that it was believed that the humans were created from clay. See Lebling,
Jinn, 1–6, and O’Meara, “Jinn,” 58. Further see Kamāl al-Dīn al-Damīrī and Zakarīyā
Ibn Muḥammad Ibn Maḥmūd al-Kammūnī al-Qazwīnī, Ḥayāt al-Ḥayawān al-Kubrā wa
bi-Hāmishih Kitāb ʻAjā’ib al-Makhlūqāt wa al-Ḥayawānāt wa Gharā’ib al-Mawjūdāt
[The Major Book of the Life of Animals and The Book of Marvels of Creatures and
Animals and Strange Things Existing], 2 Volumes in One (Cairo: al-Matbaʿa al-ʿĀmira
al-Sharqīyya, 1888), 1:185–196. Henceforth: KAM. For the grotesque depictions of the
jinn, see Edward William Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Mod
ern Egyptians: Written in Egypt During the Years 1833, 1834, and 1835, 2 volumes
(London: Charles Knight & Co., 1836), 1:283–284. Medieval authors gave similar
depictions. For instance, see the illustration in Zakarīyā Ibn Muḥammad Ibn Maḥmūd
al-Kammūnī al-Qazwīnī, “Kitāb-i ʻAjā’ib al-Makhlūqāt wa Gharā’ib al-Mawjūdāt”
[The Book of Marvels of Creatures and Strange Things Existing], MS The National
Library of Medicine, 9409277, Bethesda, 262A. Samples are available online at: www.
nlm.nih.gov/hmd/arabic/natural_hist3.html (Last accessed: February 26th 2023). For
further reading, see Al-Zein, Jinn, 34–46, Lebling, Jinn, 1–6.
22 See Taufik Canaan, Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine (London:
Luzac & Co., 1927), 171, 281.
23 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:16–22. Such distinctions also represented a much longer trend, not
exclusive to Islam. See al-Damīrī and al-Qazwīnī, KAM, 185–196. Further see Thomas,
Decline, 560–570 for a comparative perspective.
24 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:16–26. See also ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Fatḥ al-Rabānī wa
al-Fayḍ al-Raḥmānī [The Lordly Revelation and the Flow of Mercy], ed. Muḥammad
ʿAbd al-Qādir ʿAṭā (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1980), 177–179. Further see
Michael W. Dols, Majnūn: The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society, ed. Diana E.
Immisch (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 215.
26 Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 206–208.
27 Lebling, Jinn, 4–5, 256–258. Further see Roger Allen, An Introduction to Arabic Litera
ture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 61, 118–120, 141–142, 218–220.
Further see Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 207.
28 James Grehan reads al-Nābulsī’s record of one battle between the jinn at James Gre
han, Twilight of the Saints: Everyday Religion in Ottoman Syria and Palestine (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2014), 143. It is fairly known that the medieval scholar Ibn
Faḍlān mistook the Aurora Borealis for another instance of such a battle. See Aḥmad
Ibn Faḍlān, Riḥlat Ibn Faḍlān Ilā Bilād al-Turuk wa al-Rūs wa al-Ṣaqāliba 921 [Travels
of Ibn Fadlan in the Lands of the Turks, the Rus, and the Slavs during 921], ed. Shākir
Luʿaybī (Abu Dhabi: Dār al-Suwaydī li-l-Nashr wa al-Tawzīʿ, 2003), 82–83.
29 See Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:22–23.
30 Ibid., and Muḥammad Ibn Ṣāliḥ al-Kīlānī, “Al-Durra al-Bahīyya fī Ṣūrat al-Ijāza
al-Qādirīyya,” (Henceforth: “DB”), MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Sprenger 819, Ber
lin, 10A. Further see Lane, Egyptians, 1:300.
31 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:16–22. Further see See Canaan, Saints, 86–88. Connecting fire with
daemonic forces is an old theme in numerous religious traditions.
32 Lane, Egyptians, 2:37.
33 Al-Zein, Jinn, 85–86, and Lebling, Jinn, 65–71.
34 Al-Zein, Jinn, 92–95. Also see William Smith, Religion of the Semites: The Fundamen
tal Institutions (London & New York, 2002), 90–139. Further, Dols, Majnūn, 215.
35 Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 209, and al-Zein, Jinn, 39.
36 Al-Zein, Jinn, 15, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 209.
37 “min kul Fann yabḥath annahu Jawāhir al-Kalām min Shiʿr wa Mathal wa Fawā’id min
kul Fāḍil wa Ākhir al-Kitāb Asmā’ wa Adʿiyāt min kul Shay’” [Compendium of All Arts,
the Jewels of Speech and of Poetry, Sayings and Proverbs and All that is Useful, with the
Last Part of the Book containing Seals and Invocations for Everything], MS Staatsbib
liothek zu Berlin, Glaser 100, Berlin. This is a composite text with multiple unidentified
authors. I am reading a copy from 1785. Henceforth: “MMKF.” Pagination is mine, due
to unclear labeling of the folios. I consider the first page with text to be 1B.
38 Historical sources at times tended to imply entanglements between astrology and dae
mons, or other forces of evil. See, for instance, Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 677–682.
Further see Liana Saif, “Between Medicine and Magic: Spiritual Aetiology and Therapeu
tics in Medieval Islam,” in Demons and Illness from Antiquity to the Early Modern Period,
ed. Siam Bhayro (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2017), 313–315. This is not unique to Muslim
tradition, as can be seen from Thomas, Decline, 425–426, 755–756, Tim Hegedus, “Astrol
ogy as the Work of Demons,” in Early Christianity and Ancient Astrology (New York:
Peter Lang, 2007), 125–138, Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum, “Porphyry of Tyre on the Dai
mon, Birth and the Stars,” in Neoplatonic Demons and Angels, ed. Luc Brisson, Seamus
O’Neill and Andrei Timotin (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2018), 102–139, Dorian Gieseler
Greenbaum, The Daimon in Hellenistic Astrology: Origins and Influence (Boston: Brill,
2016), 1–11, or Theodore Otto Wedel, Astrology in the Middle Ages (New York: Dover
Publications, Inc., 2005), 60–75. The correspondence between jinnic clans and the zodiac
is present in beliefs today as well, and can be noticed on many popular internet forums.
39 Hevcel in Ottoman Turkish bears a variety of meanings out of which some indicate a
vast desert without landmarks, a foolish man, or a female camel driven mad. Al-Zein
also finds that the term corresponds with the name of a jinnī who compels poets into
producing works without much quality, see Jinn, 126, 181.
40 “MMKF,” 106A.
41 While in Arabic the Virgo sign most often corresponds to the word ʿadhrā’ (lit. “virgin”),
al-sunbula corresponds to the Spica star in the Virgo constellation where it represents
the brightest celestial body and has sometimes been used to symbolize this zodiac sign.
See Rudolf Kippenhahn, 100 Billion Suns: The Birth, Life, and Death of the Stars, trans.
Jean Steinberg (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 12–14. The star has sym
bolical importance for various astrological contexts. See, for instance, Bernadette Brady,
Brady’s Book of Fixed Stars (Boston: Weiser Books, 1998), 270–275. For the Muslim
context, see, for instance, Abū Ḥanīfah Aḥmad Ibn Dāwūd Dīnawarī, Kitāb al-Nabāt
[Book of Plants], ed. Muhammad Hamidullah (Karatashi: Bayt al-Ḥikma, 1993), 87.
Further see James Rosser, “The Zodiacal Constellations,” in The Stars and Constella
tions: How and When to Find and Tell Them, ed. W.H. Rosser (London: Charles Wilson,
1879), 18.
42 “MMKF,” 105A–110B. Further see Canaan, Saints, 37.
43 “MMKF,” 105A–110B.
45 It is possible to identify this term in Qur’ān 4:38, 37:51, 43:36, and 50:23.
46 Lana Nasser, “The Jinn: Companion in the Realm of Dreams and Imagination,” in
Dreaming in Christianity and Islam: Culture, Conflict, and Creativity, ed. Kelly Bulke
ley, Kate Adams and Patricia M. Davis (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press,
2009), 144–155.
47 Canaan, Saints, 46, 66, 244, Al-Zein, Jinn, 92, Lebling, Jinn, 3.
48 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:21, Lane, Egyptians, 1:289, 299–300. Also see Al-Azmeh, Emer
gence, 208, and al-Zein, Jinn, 21.
49 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 626. Further see Chapter 6.
50 See, for instance, Roswell Park, The Evil Eye, Thanatology, and Other Essays (Boston:
The Gorham Press, 1912), 49–69.
51 James H. Charlesworth, The Good and Evil Serpent: How a Universal Symbol Became
Christianized (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), 1–57, 188–268, Susan Skin
ner, Symbols of the Soul: Sacred Beasts (Winchester & Washington: Circle Books,
2012), 2–5, and Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 208.
53 See, for instance, Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:19–23, or Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Budayr,
“Ḥawādith Dimashq al-Shām Yawmīyya min Sanat 1154 ilā Sanat 1176” (Henceforth:
“HDY”), MS Chester Beatty Library Ar 3551/2, Dublin, 28B.
55 Al-Zein, Jinn, 103–120, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 207.
57 Mrs. Hans H. Spoer (A. Goodrich-Freer), “The Powers of Evil in Jerusalem,” Folklore,
18 No. 1 (March 1907): 55, and Samuel Ives Curtiss, Primitive Semitic Religion To-day:
A Record of Researches, Discoveries and Studies in Syria, Palestine and the Sinaitic
Peninsula (Chicago: Fleming H. Revel Company, 1902), 115–120. Curtiss brings up an
example of a man from Nebk (al-Nabk) who was rumored to be demonic offspring, yet
such stories may represent a turn of phrase prompted by various contexts. Reports of
marriages and conceptions caused by the jinn are occasionally encountered on Arabic
news portals even today.
58 From istaghāl – “to kill,”(ightiyāl further means “assassination”) to the Mesopotamian
monster Gallu. See Ahmed K. al-Rawi, “The Arabic Ghoul and its Western Transfor
mation,” Folklore, 120, No. 3 (December 2009): 292–294 and Ahmed al-Rawi, “The
Mythical Ghoul in Arabic Culture,” Cultural Analysis 8 (2009): 45.
59 al-Rawi, “Ghoul,” 292, Canaan, Saints, 244.
60 Al-Jāhiẓ, Ḥayawān, 6:214–215.
61 Al-Rawi, “Ghoul,” 294–297, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 207. Myths such as these are remi
niscent of the legends of sirens, as for instance in Lillian Eileen Doherty, Siren Songs:
Gender, Audiences and Narrators in the Odyssey (Ann Arbor: University of Michi
gan Press, 1995), 138–139, or David S. Ferris, Silent Urns: Romanticism, Hellenism,
Modernity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), xi-xiv. Creatures such as these
also existed in the mythologies of many other cultures. For instance, Geoffrey Keating,
The History of Ireland: From the Earliest Period to the English Invasion, trans. John
O’Mahony (New York: Jame B. Kirker, 1866), 171–172.
62 For the eighteenth century, see for instance Muḥammad al-Ḥāfiẓ Ibn Ḥusayn al-Ṣaydāwī
al-Najjār, Al-Kashf wa al-Bayān ʿan Awṣāf Khiṣṣāl Shirār Ahl al-Zamān [Uncovering
and Shedding Light on the Characteristics of Evil among the Present Day’s People] ed.
Muhannad Mubayyiḍīn (Beirut: al-Markaz al-ʿArabī li-l-Abḥāth wa Dirāsat al-Siyāsāt,

2019), 170–176.
63 John Lewis Burckhardt, Travels in Syria and the Holy Land (London: John Murray,
1822), 451–452.
64 Similar in Lane, Egyptians, 1:290.
65 Al-Rawi, “Ghoul,” 299.
66 Canaan, Saints, 244, n5., Dan Boneh, “Mystical Powers of Hyenas: Interpreting a
Bedouin Belief,” Folklore, 98, No. 1 (1987): 58–62.
67 Boneh, “Hyenas,” 58.
68 Jürgen W. Frembgen, “The Magicality of the Hyena: Beliefs and Practices in West and
South Asia,” Asian Folklore Studies, 57, No. 2 (1998): 338. It is interesting that the
hyena was considered a Muslim among the people of the Côte d’Ivoire, see 333.
69 Al-Rawi, “The Mythical Ghoul,” 58.
70 This is also a myth in Jewish folklore. See Spoer “Powers,” 71.
71 See Ibn Khaldūn, Al-Muqaddima, 161, 658, very comparable to Catholic beliefs, as
presented in Thomas, Decline, 211. Some practical illustrations are given in Ikbal Ali
Shah, Black and White Magic: Its Theory and Practice (London: Octagon Press, 1975),
43–44. For historical comparisons, see Paul Allan Mirecki and Marvin W. Meyer, eds.,
Magic and Ritual in the Ancient World (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2002), 68–116, Claire
Fanger, Invoking Angels: Theurgic Ideas and Practices, Thirteenth to Sixteenth Centu
ries (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012), 60, 169, 192, or Robert
J. Wilkinson, Tetragrammaton: Western Christians and the Hebrew Name of God: From
the Beginnings to the Seventeenth Century (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2015), 1, 111, 160,
186, 460.
72 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:19–23. Sufis believed that the “greatest name” of God (al-ism
al-aʿẓam) was most useful for all rituals, including those that supposedly dispatched
demons. See Chapters 4 and 6.
73 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:18, 29–33, Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī, Silk al-Durar fī Aʿyan
al-Qarn al-Thānī ʿAshar, ed. Akram Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 2002), 1:59,
and Stephan H. Stephan, “Lunacy in Palestine Folklore,” The Journal of the Pales
tine Oriental Society, 5 (1925): 5–8. Further see Hassan Abu Hanieh, Sufism and Sufi
Orders: God’s Spiritual Paths, Adaptation and Renewal in the Context of Modernization
(Amman: Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung, 2011), 153–157. Talismanics represent an important
element in Ottoman thaumaturgical practice. In more detail, chapter 6 is committed to
treating such practices.
74 Al-Zein, Jinn, 74, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 208.
75 Spoer “Powers,” 71.
76 “MMKF,” 105A–110B.
77 Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 64–65, Spoer, “Powers,” 64.
78 Canaan, Saints, 37.
79 For antiquity, see Aleksandra Szalc, “In Search of Water of Life: The Alexander
Romance and Indian Mythology,” in The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East,
ed. Richard Stoneman, Kyle Erickson and Ian Richard Netton (Groningen: Barkhuis
Publishing, 2012), 327–338. For its influence on later traditions, Valerie Flint, Richard
Gordon, Georg Luck and Daniel Ogden, eds., Witchcraft and Magic in Europe: Ancient
Greece and Rome (London: The Athlone Press, 1999), 23. For North Africa, as well as
universally in the Arabic-speaking world, Edward Westermarck, Ritual and Belief in
Morocco, Volume I (London: Macmillan & Co., 1926), 290–325.
80 Stephan, “Lunacy,” 5–6, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 209.
81 In the Balkans, some people still avoid tripping or stepping on a threshold, yet not many
offer explanations as to why.
82 Stephan, “Lunacy,” 5–6, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 209. The threshold has a long history
of significance for magical acts. See J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic
and Religion (London: Macmillan Press, 1983), 720–725, and H. Clay Trumbull, The
Threshold Covenant or the Beginning of Religious Rites (New York: Charles Scribner’s
Sons, 1896), 3–24, 45–56, 74–98.
83 Such was the case in Christian myths as well. See Anna Kuznetsova, “’A Wall of Bronze’
or Demons versus Saints: Whose Victory?“in Demons, Spirits, Witches II: Christian
Demonology and Popular Mythology, ed. Gábor Klaniczay and Éva Pócs (Budapest &
New York: Central European University Press, 2006), 45–46.
84 One can notice that in Western Europe, many of the disputes between various ecclesiasti
cal groups sooner or later brought up tropes connected to demonology and infernalism
for the sake of labeling opponents. Similar was the case in Ottoman Syria. Compare with
Al-Karmī, ShS, 1–160, and Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:1–47, who reflect a centuries-old trend
between the official ʿulamā’ to exchange accusations of infidelity and blasphemy.
85 On the list of transgressions, wine-drinking was fairly common, while other kinds of
deviances may have been added. See Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 32A-32B, and Al-Murādī,
Silk, 3:291–300. For a wider early modern Ottoman context, see Başak Tuğ, Politics
and Honor in Ottoman Anatolia: Sexual Violence and Socio-Legal Surveillance in the
Eighteenth Century (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2017), 86–126, 140–154, and Tolga U.
Esmer, “Notes on a Scandal: Transregional Networks of Violence, Gossip, and Imperial
Sovereignty in the Late Eighteenth Century Ottoman Empire,” Comparative Studies in
Society and History, 58 No. 1 (January 2016): 99–128.
86 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 28B.
87 One of many – the Christian sects of Shām have an interesting history during the eight
eenth century. Mikhā’il Burayk al-Dimashqī, Tārīkh al-Shām [The History of Damas
cus] 1720–1782, ed. Qusṭanṭīn al-Bāshā al-Mukhalliṣī (Harissa: Matbaʿat al-Qadīs
Būlūs, 1930), 11–12. Henceforth: TS. Further see Anthony O’Mahony, “Between Rome
and Antioch: The Syrian Catholic Church in the Modern Middle East,” in Eastern
Christianity in the Modern Middle East, ed. Anthony O’Mahony and Emma Loosley
(New York: Routledge, 2010), 120–137, or Alexander Treiger, “The Arabic Tradition,”
in The Orthodox Christian World, ed. Augustine Casiday (London & New York: Rout-
ledge, 2012), 89–104.
88 Burayk, TS, 11–14.
89 Many cultures listed a number of comparable reasons for daemonic attacks. See Sari
Katajala-Peltomaa, Demonic Possession and Lived Religion in Later Medieval Europe
90 See Sameera Ahmed and Mona M. Amer, eds., Counseling Muslims: Handbook of Men
tal Health Issues and Interventions (New York: Routledge, 2012), 19–21, al-Zein, Jinn,
70–88, Lebling, Jinn, 72–76, 81–82, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 208–210. Understanding
mental illness as a consequence of daemonic assaults was a widespread historical phe
nomenon. See for instance, Katajala-Peltomaa, Demonic Possession, 1–27, Stephen A.
Diamond, “Madness, Mental Disorders, and the Daimonic: The Central Role of Anger
and Rage in Psychopathology,” in Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic: The Psycho
logical Genesis of Violence, Evil, and Creativity (New York: State University of New
York Press, 1996), 137–180, Yoram Bilu, “The Taming of the Deviants and Beyond: An
Analysis of the Dybbuk Possession and Exorcism in Judaism,” and Zvi Mark, “Dybbuk
and Devekut in the Shivhe ha-Besht: Toward a Phenomenology of Madness in Early
Hasidism,” in Spirit Possession in Judaism: Cases and Contexts From the Middle Ages
to the Present, ed. Matt Goldish (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2003), 41–72,
257–305, Leigh Ann Craig, “The Spirit of Madness: Uncertainty, Diagnosis, and the
Restoration of Sanity in the Miracles of Henry VI,” Journal of Medieval Religious Cul
tures, 39, No. 1 (2013): 60–93, or Anthony Ossa-Richardson, “Possession or Insanity?
Two Views from the Victorian Lunatic Asylum,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 74,
No. 4 (2013): 553–575.
91 For further discussion of hallowed fools, see Chapter 4.
92 Dols, Majnūn, 211–261, Ahmed and Amer, Mental Health, 19–21, al-Zein, Jinn,
70–88, Lebling, Jinn, 72–76, 81–82, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 208–210.
93 Stephan, “Lunacy,” 7–8.
95 Grehan, Twilight, 149. Also see Dols, Majnūn, 223–243. Asylums of such harsh con
ditions do not seem ubiquitous. Larger urban centers often took better care of their
patients. See Dols, Majnūn, 112–135.
96 Stephan, “Lunacy,” 8.
97 Mary de Young, Encyclopedia of Asylum Therapeutics, 1750–1950s (Jefferson: Mc
Farland, 2015), 309–310.
98 John Conolly, The Construction and Government of Lunatic Asylums and Hospitals
for the Insane (London: John Churchill, 1847), 46, 65.
99 Canaan, Saints, 123–125. In the present-day Balkans, parents sometimes shout at their
children that they shall drive the devil out of them while they are preparing to beat
them. Adults may be threatened the same way, albeit rarely.
101 Ibid., and Canaan, Saints, 123–125.
102 Alan Strathern, Unearthly Powers: Religious and Political Change in World History
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 27–47, 117–131
103 Found in Qur’ān, 18:65–82.
104 For instance, Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:127, also Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 83–84, 213–214,
and Spoer, “Powers,” 62. Also see ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥaqīqa wa al-Majāz
fī Riḥlat Bilād al-Shām wa Miṣr wa al-Ḥijāz [The Metaphor and the Truth on the Road
through Syria, Egypt and Hijaz], ed. Riyād ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd Murād (Damascus: Dār
al-Mu ʿarafa, 1989), 476. Further see Burckhardt, Travels, 39, 98, or John Spencer
Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 63.
105 Richard Pococke, A Description of the East and Some Other Countries, 2 volumes
(London: W. Bowyer, 1745), 2:44, Philip G. Baldensperger, “The Immovable East,”
Palestine Exploration Fund (1906): 196.
106 Canaan, Saints, 123–124, Stephan, “Lunacy,” 5–8.
108 Burckhardt, Travels, 48.
109 Spoer, “The Powers,” 58.
110 C.S. Greaves, “Inscription on the Font at Chelmorton,” Journal of the Derbyshire
Archaeological and Natural History Society (1879): 8.
111 Canaan, Saints, 37, n6.
112 “MMKF,” 107A–108B.
113 Spoer, “Powers,” 62.
117 It was traditionally believed that the basmala and the names of God had strong protec
tive capacities. For the eighteenth century, see “MMKF,” 60A–61B.
118 See Ismāʿīl Ḥaqqī al-Brūsawī, Rūḥ al-Bayān fī Tafsīr al-Qurʾān [The Book of State
ments on the Interpretation of the Qur’ān], 10 vols., (Beirut: Dār al-Fikr, s.d.), 1:3–10.
Ibn ʿĀbidīn unsurprisingly uses these forms very often in, MR, 2:1–47. Further see
Lane, Egyptians, 1:286.
119 Qur’ān 113 and 114.
120 See al-Brūsawī, Rūḥ 10:541–552. Further see Muḥammad Ibn Abī Bakr Ibn Qayyim
al-Jawzīyya, Tafsīr Suwar al-Kāfirūn wa al-Muʿawwidhatayn [The Interpretation of
Sūrahs Infidels and Refuge], ed. Muḥammad Ḥāmid al-Faqqī (Cairo: Maktabat al-
Sunna al-Muḥammadīyya, 1949), 15–18, 23–34, 100–111. Also Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR,
2:22–23, and Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 629.

122 This is an old invocation from the Ḥadīth. It was advised to be spoken out before
sexual intercourse. “Majmūʿa” [A Collection of Thaumaturgical Rites], MS Staatsbib
liothek zu Berlin, Hs. Or. 14283, Berlin, 11A. The text does not have an autograph
and has been copied in the eighteenth century, in standard Arabic; however, it con
tains additional texts in Ottoman Turkish, which indicates wide circulation. The text
spreads over the range of one single binding; however, the handwritings within the
collection are many, indicating that this copy changed many hands that added bits to
it. Pagination is missing, so I assume the page with the basmala is 1A. I am reading a
copy made during the eighteenth century (the archive catalogue does not specify the
exact date).
123 Qur’ān 2:255 and 36:1–83, respectively.
124 Al-Rawi, “The Mythical Ghoul,” 47–48. Repetitions represented a common element
in thaumaturgical practice, both in Syria and elsewhere. See Chapter 6 for details.
Compare with Thomas, Decline, 211. Other religions had equivalents. See Thomas,
Decline, 573, for instance.
125 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:20–22, Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 194, Stephan, “Lunacy,” 5–6,
Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 209–211.
127 Same rites were used to ask for saintly permission to enter a shrine. See Chapter 5.
128 Canaan, Saints, 86. These formulae apparently had a long history and later filtered
into a number of daily settings around the Middle East, to end as an element of Ara
bic colloquial. They are customarily used when entering one’s home. See Mansour
Shaki, “Dastūr,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica VII/1, 111–112; available online at: www.
iranicaonline.org/articles/dastur (Last accessed: February 25th 2023).
129 Spoer, “Powers,” 61, Grehan, Twilight, 150, Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 115.
130 “MMKF,” 105A–110B.
131 The evil eye curse is ubiquitous in various cultural traditions. See Alan Dundes, ed.,
The Evil Eye: A Casebook (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992). Each
chapter of this volume concerns a different region. For ideas about historical origins,
see John H. Elliott, Beware the Evil Eye: The Evil Eye in the Bible and the Ancient
World. Volume 1: Introduction, Mesopotamia, and Egypt (Eugene: Cascade Books,
2015), 1–76.
132 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 630. Further see.
133 This trinket is often given as a gift, and all travelers to the Arabic- or Turkish-speaking
regions may hope to be covered in them by the end of their visit. The aim of the object
is to ward off the evil eye. See Ahmed and Amer, Mental Health, 19–22, 343. In the
beginning of the twenty-first century, I have heard the people in Turkey along the Ana
tolian coastline referring to this trinket as the “Eye of Muḥammad.”
134 Fāṭima had a shrine in Damascus, which was comprised of a large mausoleum that
contained several venerated graves.
135 Fāṭima was, in some legends, compared to the Virgin in terms of purity and devout
ness. However, the symbol of the hand was connected to many other deities, such as
Ishtar or Aphrodite. See Annemarie Schimmel, Deciphering the Signs of God: A Phe
nomenological Approach to Islam (New York: State University of New York Press,
1994), 30, 37, 92, Sheila S. Blair, “Discerning the Hand-of-Fatima: An Iconological
Investigation of the Role of Gender in Religious Art,” in Beyond the Exotic: Women’s
Histories in Islamic Societies, ed. Amira el-Azhary Sonbol (New York: Syracuse Uni
versity Press, 2005), 356–358, or “Hamsa,” in The Encyclopedia of Jewish Symbols,
ed. Ellen Frankel and Betsy Platkin Teusch (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publish
ers, Inc., 1992), 70.
136 Both symbols have a long history in the entire Eurasian region and wider. See Park,
Thanatology, 9–31.
137 Lane, Egyptians, 1:321–322, 327–328.

138 See Aref Abu-Rabia, Indigenous Medicine among the Bedouin in the Middle East
(New York: Berghahn Books, 2015), 132. The body parts of the hyena were attrib
uted special powers wherever this animal was considered magical. See Frembgen,
“Hyena,” 339–340.
141 Al-Rawi, “Ghoul,” 296–297.
142 Al-Rawi, “Ghoul,” 296–297. Also Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 209, and Roger Allen, The
Arabic Literary Heritage: The Development of its Genres and Criticism (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998), 109.
143 Lane, Egyptians, 1:287. See Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-Muhtār
ʿala al-Durr al-Mukhtār, ed. Muḥammad Bakr Ismāʿīl (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-
ʿIlmīyya, 2003), 9:111.
144 Such was the case in earlier times as well. See Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 206.
145 Al Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 2:390–393.
146 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:59, Stephan, “Lunacy” 5–8. Further see Abu Hanieh, Sufism,
153–157.
147 See Itztchak Weismann, “Sufi Brotherhoods in Syria and Israel: A Contemporary
Overview,” History of Religions 43 (2004): 306. See also Aḥmad al-Ḥallāq al-Budayrī,
Hawādith Dimashq al-Yawmīyya [The Daily Events of Damascus] 1154–1175/1741–
1762, in the redaction of Muḥammad Saʿīd al-Qāsimī, edited Aḥmad ʿIzzat ʿAbd
al-Karīm (Damascus: Dār Saʿad al-Dīn, 1997), 91, n.1. Henceforth: HDY. Also see
Lane, Egyptians, 2:93–94.
148 Ibid., 2:179–180.
149 For instance, “MMKF,” 31A–32A. Fasting for three days before thaumaturgical per
formances represented a common preparatory measure for most rituals in the Eurasian
region. See Chapter 6.
150 Abd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, Nihāyat al-Murād fī Sharḥ Hadiyyat Ibn al-ʿImad [Ultimate
Wish in the Interpretation of Ibn al-ʿImad’s Gift], ed. ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-Ḥalabī (Limas
sol: Al-Jaffan & Al-Jabi, 1994), 57–124, and throughout this text. Also see Ibn ʿĀbidīn,
Radd, 2:464–465. Ablutions were universally advised before starting any Muslim reli
gious ritual. See Chapter 6.
151 Al-Nābulsī, Nihāya, 68–70, Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 2:464–465.
153 This was an old tradition. Aziz Al-Azmeh, Secularism in the Arab World: Contexts,
Ideas and Consequences (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2019), 45. For the
Syrian context, see Canaan, Saints, 124–125. Spittle could also be used to manipulate
the jinn into a talisman or induce a curse. See Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 625–626.
Further see Chapter 6 for details.
154 Frazer, Golden Bough, 17, 312–313, Frederick J. Gaiser, Healing in the Bible: Theo
logical Insight for Christian Ministry (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010), 152,
and John M. Hull, Hellenistic Magic and the Synoptic Tradition (Naperville: A.R.
Allenson, 1974), 76–78.
155 “MMKF,” 105A–110B. Also see Canaan, Saints, 109.
156 “MMKF,” 105A–110B.
157 Lane, Egyptians, 1:328. Most often, these would be the Healing Verses (Qur’ān, 9:14,
10:57, 16:69, 17:82, 26:80, and 41:44.). See Chapter 6.
159 This is a common story, still present in popular culture today.
160 Burayk, TS, 22.
161 Burayk is not specific. Ibid. However, he hints at the long-standing beliefs that it was
possible to manipulate the jinn through talismanics.
162 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 625–626. For the early modern context, see Ibn ʿĀbidīn,
MR, 2:18, 29–47. Talismanics shall be discussed in Chapter 6.
163 Stephan, “Lunacy,” 6, n.3.
164 Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss, Sacrifice: Its Nature and Function, trans. W.D. Halls
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964), 1–18, Guy G. Stroumsa, “Transforma
tions of Ritual,” in The End of Sacrifice: Religious Transformations in Late Antiq
uity, trans. Susan Emanuel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 56–83, Ivan
Strenski, “Public Discourse and the Theory of Sacrifice,” and “Imagining Sacrifice,”
in Theology and the First Theory of Sacrifice (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2003), 1–31,
192–228, Royden Keith Yerkes, Sacrifice in Greek and Roman Religions and Early
Judaism (Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2010), 20–50, or Albert I. Baumgarten,
“Part One: Sacrifice from a Comparative Perspective,” in Sacrifice in Religious Expe
rience (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 3–150.
165 Al-Zein, Jinn, 54–57, Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 206.
167 The threshold has a long history of significance for magical acts. See Frazer, Golden
Bough, 43, 720–725, Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 177, and Trumbull, Covenant, 3–24,
45–56, 74–98.
168 Canaan, Saints, 187, Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 184.
169 Ibid., 233.
171 Frazer, Golden Bough, 300–304.
172 Curtiss, Primitive, 177–178.
173 Mrs. H. Hamish Spoer, “Notes on the Marriage Customs of the Bedu and Fellahin,”
Folklore Vol. 21, No. 3 (September 1910): 281–293.
174 It was previously mentioned that according to popular belief, the jinn were vulnerable
to pomegranate. See Stephan, “Lunacy,” 8.
175 Mrs. Spoer, “Notes,” 293. Also see Grehan, Twilight, 174–177.
176 Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 177–178. Also see Canaan, Saints, 157.
177 Canaan, Saints, 170. In the Balkan territories common youth slang, the coinage “releas
ing the pigeon” referred to flatulence until very recently.
178 Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 148–149.
179 Ibid., 200–201.
180 Curtiss, Primitive, 213, and Lewis Bayles Paton, “Survivals of Primitive Religion in
Modern Palestine,” The Annual of the American School of Oriental Research in Jeru
salem, 1 (1919–1920): 56–64.
182 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:423–485, Lane, Egyptians, 2:259, 268, Curtiss, Primitive Reli
gion, 177–178, 223–225, Grehan, Twilight, 173. Also see Chapter 6.
183 Canaan, Saints, 170, 188–193.
184 Ibid, and Grehan, Twilight, 173.
185 Curtiss, Primitive Religion, 207. Also see Grehan, Twilight, 174–177.
186 See Alberdina Houtman, Marcel Poorthuis, Joshua Schwartz and Joseph Aaron Turner,
eds., The Actuality of Sacrifice: Past and Present (Boston: Brill, 2015).
187 Grehan, Twilight, 175–176. See also W. H. D. Rouse, “Notes from Syria,” Folklore, 6,
No. 2 (June, 1895): 173.
188 Park, Thanatology, 9–31, Schimmel, Signs of God, 30, 37, 92, Blair, “Hand-of-
Fatima,” 356–358.
190 Claude Levi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology (London: Penguin Books, 1993), 28,
and Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature,
ed. Randal Johnson (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993), 29–111, 161–175.
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4 Path to Holiness
The Quest for Grace in
Eighteenth-Century Damascus
Allah was the top of the vertical baraka-distribution chain, and first under him
were the prophets (anbiyā’; sg. nabī), of whom Muḥammad was the most perfect
and accomplished.1 Numerous ranks of the deceased Muslim saints (awliyā’; sg.
walī) queued under the prophets, with the most celebrated bearing the title of the
Poles of their time (aqṭāb; sg. quṭb).2 Their presence in the world ensured the natu
ral order of things, drove away corruption and chaos, and combated natural dis
asters.3 Names of most famous Poles figured in innumerable invocations ranging
from Sufi orders’ dhikr to brief conjuration spells.4 Under the rank of the deceased
saints stood the still-living ones, who amassed on popularity among the Ottoman
imperial subjects. Families of prominent awliyā’ yielded innumerable Sufis in the
following generations, who, as descendants of such acclaimed individuals, were in
high regard as well. Inhabitants of many regions still believe in saints and the Poles
among them.
In general, common people believed in the baraka of all Sufi order adherents.
The term “Sufi” is highly generic and applicable to all ṭuruq members. Eighteenth-
century Damascene Sufi shaykhs used to refer to their networks as confraterni
ties, with much accent placed on solidarity and collegiality. Sufi authors frequently
referred to their peers as al-sāda al-ṣūfīyya (“Sufi masters” or “notables”).5 In addi
tion, terms expressing brotherhood (ikhwān) or camaraderie (aṣḥāb) often came up
in writing.6 References to Sufi “brotherhoods,” however, land far from describing
the actuality of the Sufi lodge dynamics. Sufi masters maintained rigorous hierar
chy and expected absolute obedience.7 There existed clear ranks within the orders,
ranging from the shaykh al-ṭarīqa (the head of an order)8 to the new initiates (sg.
murīd; pl. muradā’). Beliefs in the baraka of Sufis in practice developed gradually
along with their accomplishments in learning and other achievements appreciated
by the networks of their peers.
This chapter explores how Ottoman subjects of eighteenth-century Syria attrib
uted Allah’s grace to individuals among them. I discuss factors that were crucial
for entering the ranks of eighteenth-century Damascene priestly sodality, illuminat
ing its internal relationships to indicate the dynamics of its networks. I examine a
number of possible paths that led to beliefs in one’s baraka, ranging from official
training in lodges and madrasas, to attracting veneration in other, sometimes spec
tacular ways. Finally, I discuss possible paths to sainthood in eighteenth-century
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539-4
Path to Holiness 111
Ottoman Syria, indicating the relations between its networks of religious profes
sionals and its networks of the holy. The following paragraphs illuminate the social
functions and socio-anthropological use of baraka among both the commoners
and the religious elites, highlighting yet from another angle the importance widely
invested in grace and grace-invested individuals among the people in eighteenth-
century Province of Damascus.
Aside from some very rare cases, sainthood followed years of study, training,
and commitment, usually under Sufi masters as well as the established religious
scholars in madrasas. Simultaneously, sainthood represented a product of skill
ful networking among the established religious professionals as well as the ordi
nary people. The majority of Syrian saints represented the consequence of popular
consensus and peer recognition. Saintly prominence could vary in scale. Many
individuals who were locally famous for their baraka never received universal
acceptance as the most prominent Sufi shaykhs, or the awliyā’ within the Ottoman
network of the holy. Beliefs in their power had a confined local character. Instead,
then, of a universal Ottoman network of the holy, dynamics of sainthood indicate
that there existed a multitude of interconnected and overlapped networks which
depended on regions and historical periods. Certain members of these networks
enjoyed veneration only locally, while others were celebrated in many realms of
the Ottoman Empire.
The eighteenth-century Syrian network of the holy continuously grew. The ranks
of Muslim saints swelled with the rising number of Sufi lodges,9 yet the Ottoman
religious establishment kept a strict mechanism for saint validation. Eighteenth-
century Syrian sources indicate the existence of a tight urban Sufi-ʿulamā’ milieu
(and it is legitimate to presume that comparable settings existed in the previous
centuries) whose recognition was crucial for the emergence of new saints. At the
same time, the ranks of this network yielded most of the prominent Damascene
awliyā’. The priestly sodality of Ottoman Shām maintained its claim over divine
grace and, through it, claimed privilege to serve as a primary authority for saintly
validation. Official and exclusive training, and widespread beliefs in their grace,
provided legitimacy to their establishment, also granting them immense popularity
among the imperial subjects.
However, sainthood represented an open-ended social category.10 Even those
without official Sufi or madrasa training at times managed to inspire beliefs in
their mystical competencies, although this was very rare. Due to the entanglement
of baraka with ṣalāḥ in popular beliefs, traits of piety and devoutness would some
times bring ordinary ṣāliḥūn to social positions of considerable popularity. During
the eighteenth century, some of them would be honored by ulamaic biographies that
immortalized them as prominent individuals within the Province of Damascus, along
with the widely respected Sufi-ʿulamā and other notables. This socio-anthropological
fact suggests that baraka served as a highly important social marker in Ottoman
societies, along with other parameters such as erudition or social and material
status.
Among the ṣāliḥūn featured in Syrian biographical dictionaries is a num
ber of alleged theoleptics (majādhīb; sg. majdhūb). The Arabic term majdhūb is
112 Path to Holiness
colloquially used for idiots but also marked individuals who were mentally dis
turbed yet believed inspired by divine or celestial interventions.11 Juxtaposing the
blessed madmen to the majānīn further illuminates the function of the popular con
cept of grace as a social qualifier. It was the ṣalāḥ of the majādhīb that granted them
baraka, and some of them even entered the Damascene saintly ranks. To deepen
the understanding of eighteenth-century Syrian beliefs in grace, wonder-working,
and sainthood, it is worthwhile to begin by discussing the basic and more generic
layer in the Ottoman network of the holy – the ṣāliḥūn.
God’s Grace is Upon Them: The Ṣāliḥūn and Popular Belief

Narratives of the virtuous and devout as blessed by Allah’s baraka were wide
spread among the Ottoman subjects in Syria, and shared across Ottoman social
strata, indicating a long tradition of belief and socio-religious expectations. It is
important to note, however, that the sources often employ both ṣalāḥ and baraka
as a common turn of phrase. It was customary to refer to likable people as blessed
with God’s grace. These expressions did not imply any wonder-workers and were
part of normal speech. Writing the obituary of his close acquaintance, Abū al-Surūr
(“father of happiness;” d.1748), Ibn Budayr composed his narrative to indicate
mysterious powers of the deceased, which may have been an exaggeration. The
barber indicated that this man’s talent to silently instill joy reflected his inner ṣalāḥ
and bore a mysterious character.12 Brief biographical descriptions, tinged with
notions of baraka, represented a standard that was widely used in the region. These
narratives did not always indicate sainthood, yet their usage illustrates well the
popular tendency to connect baraka with exemplary or desirable (depending on
the narrator) behavior.
Other narratives employed the concept of sainthood in a more elaborate and
direct manner. In 1750, Burayk recorded the death of one of his colleagues. After
his funeral, a strange light was sighted illuminating the grave while aromatic fra
grances allegedly pervaded the air that carried whispers around the tomb. Burayk
investigated and discovered that the deceased had a particularly vicious and malig
nant wife. Despite her unruly behavior, the late cleric persisted in patience (ṣabr)13
and kindness. Burayk, a true misogynist throughout his chronicle, concluded that
the phenomena at the burial site indicated the grace of the deceased earned through
his unyielding temper and the quality of his character. Burayk introduces the
entire account as a lesson for all those “who allow to end up with horrible and evil
women.”14 Limitations to stylistic usage of the themes of sainthood and grace were
sometimes blurred by authors’ liberties and common phraseologies, yet the inher
ent relationship between ṣalāḥ and baraka remains striking with various religious
groups in eighteenth-century Damascus.
Eighteenth-century sources, however, do offer proof of genuine and wide
spread beliefs in some ṣāliḥūn’ wondrous powers. Most of them were known only
locally. Abū Yazīd (d.1759) from Aleppo lived in such poverty that he wore the
same shirt for twelve years. He worked as the children’s caretaker in the Alep
pine al-Mushāriqa neighborhood mosque. His decency, honor, and virtue were so
famous that “whoever saw him got to love him” (man rā’h aḥabbah). Al-Murādī
relates the tale of a certain Muḥammad (surname was not indicated) who lived in
the workshop of a Muḥammad al-Bunī, and met Abū Yazīd when the caretaker was
already old and blind. He approached to kiss Abū Yazīd’s hand as was the custom,
which is indicative of the popular admiration the caretaker enjoyed and of popu
lar hopes in baraka-transfer through touch. When Muḥammad did so, Abū Yazīd
spoke out, guessing Muḥammad’s name and address. Al-Murādī considered this
event one of the blind caretaker’s wonders, while the al-Mushāriqa residents often
collected the caretaker’s trinkets, indicating that they believed in his grace and
hoped to partake of it through touch.15 ʿAbd al-Muʿṭī (d.1760) was another Alep
pine ṣāliḥ of note. He suffered from polydactyly on both of his hands and feet yet
persisted as a calligrapher until his death. Perseverance earned much respect from
the biographer al-Murādī, who left an emotional remark of the rainy day of ʿAbd
al-Muʿṭī’s funeral. The biographer considered it a suitable final honor.16
Patience, endurance, and perseverance (ṣabr) during hardships tended to inspire
as much admiration as ṣalāḥ did among the Ottoman ʿulamā’. Ṣabr was an explicit
requirement from the Sufi disciples to complete their training.17 Common people
and religious professionals in Bilād al-Shām often demonstrated parallel beliefs
and identical social expectations, indicating long traditions of cultural and reli
gious notions. Ibn Budayr’s diary of Damascus represents an excellent illustration.
Lamenting the passing of his master barber, Ibn Budayr writes that Ibn Ḥashīsh
(d.1742)18 was an extremely pious man who demonstrated patience and endurance
(ṣabr) along with many other qualities. For instance, Ibn Ḥashīsh groomed students
and the poor for free, displaying his generosity (another important trait for the Sufis
but for the common people’s views as well).19 In addition to coiffing, he offered
other services.20 The profession of the barber in many premodern Eurasian regions
involved some medical and surgical procedures, like teeth extraction, bloodlet
ting, cupping, and circumcision,21 and the barber’s diary indicates that Ibn Ḥashīsh
treated some afflictions of the eyes and the body. It is possible that the profession
of the barber bore a more mysterious air for the rest of the people,22 and Ibn Budayr
does write about his master’s grace, taking much pride in baraka-transfer induced
by personal contacts with Ibn Ḥashīsh.23 Ibn Budayr’s master in the diary bore
many constituent traits of the highly esteemed ṣalāḥ, which inspired the barber to
hint that Ibn Ḥashīsh’s competencies bore a more mystical air.
Awareness of what constitutes ṣalāḥ was widespread among the Ottoman sub
jects of eighteenth-century Syria. Even without Sufi training or madrasa educa
tion, therefore, some Syrian ṣāliḥūn enjoyed respect of the contemporary religious
scholars and elites. Eighteenth-century ʿulamā’ memorialized some ṣāliḥūn among
the biographies of much wealthier and more accomplished notables. Baraka would
often appear in these narratives along with ṣalāḥ, indicating that the personal quali
ties of virtue, righteousness, devoutness, patience, and persistence represented pri
mary conditions for the development of beliefs in an individual’s grace. Such was
sometimes the case even with those among the Ottoman subjects who happened
to lose their senses. If they were known for ṣalāḥ, they would not be deemed dae
monically possessed. Instead, they would inspire rumors of divine blessings.
The Blessed Fools: Theolepsis Among the Ṣāliḥūn of Eighteenth-

Century Shām
Ottoman subjects in Bilād al-Shām believed that Allah, His prophets, or His saints
may at times reach out towards the minds of the living and cause varying degrees
of distraction. Divine and saintly powers were believed strenuous enough to “pull”
(jadhba; in this context, “theolepsis” represents an adequate translation as well)
one’s consciousness out of the body.24 Theoleptics (sg. majdhūb; “the pulled one”
or “theoleptic,“but “idiot” in colloquial Arabic) would be left aware of both the seen
and unseen worlds and suffer a confusion of the senses. Bouts of strange behavior,
speaking in tongues, or unusual and bizarre gestures represented trademarks of the
graceful disturbed.25 It was generally considered unlucky to harm them.26
The belief in holy fools was old and widespread across various cultural tradi
tions.27 In Syria, it survived until modernity. Canaan narrates of early twentieth-
century madmen who obsessively repeated the same action or the same couple
of words.28 While passing through Ein ‘Arik (ʿAyn ʿArīk) in the Ramallah Gover
norate, for instance, Canaan noticed a theoleptic who always shouted and walked
only backwards. He forecasted rain by bellowing. He anxiously ran to and fro,
which was a signal to the villagers that the gendarmerie was arriving with the tax-
gatherers. People collected strands of his hair to fumigate the ill,29 hoping to induce
the transfer of the majdhūb’s grace.
Contrary to the injinnated,30 the majādhīb were subject to divine attraction and
therefore believed capable of attracting baraka and commanding some thaumatur
gical powers. In rare instances, majādhīb were capable of acquiring wide respect
and improving their social status due to the beliefs in their mystical charisma. Tales
of holy madmen represent another indicator of the social and sociological signifi
cance of baraka in eighteenth-century Syria.
In primary sources, theoleptics were a fairly common leitmotif. During the
eighteenth century, they would feature in a large number of accounts, at least in
a passing mention. Previously I took note of an Aleppine Muḥammad who made
acquaintance with Abū Yazīd the blind caretaker. Muḥammad was attending the
funeral of one such theoleptic (“. . . dhahabt fī janāzat aḥad al-majādhīb . . .”)
when the caretaker guessed his name and address. His account indicates that a
larger group of people went to pay respects to the deceased, and unfortunately
unnamed, holy madman.31
Ibrāhīm al-Kaykī (d.1748) was a famous theoleptic in the Damascene
al-Qubaybāt district, whom Ibn Budayr addressed as a shaykh and a walī. Beliefs
in al-Kaykī’s baraka compelled the locals not to mind the din he used to make.
Al-Kaykī would often sway back and forth, forcefully clapping his hands. One day
he passed by a milk vendor, became visibly agitated, and lapsed into bellowing.
This attracted a crowd who presumed he was thirsty. Al-Kaykī got a jug of milk
to calm down but immediately discarded it and continued shouting for a different
one, which he emptied to reveal a large serpent hidden within. Then he calmed
down and walked away.32 The appearance of serpents alluded to the jinn in many
tales, and it seems that uncovering snakes in vendors’ jugs represented a story of
wider popularity. In Cairo, theoleptics, as well as Sufis, uncovered snakes in such

containers multiple times, and in one instance, both a dead dog and a dead serpent
were found.33 It was believed that the majādhīb could sense these dangers because
of their baraka. Similarly, it was purported that nothing could remain hidden from
the gaze of fully trained Sufis.34
Despite the belief that they were graced by God, most majādhīb did not have a
reputation as saints or thaumaturges of great power. Most theoleptics were popular
figures of their neighborhoods only, their renown bearing a local character that
rarely merited recognition from the influential members of the ʿulamā’. Valida
tion from powerful individuals within the Sufi-ulamaic circles was fundamental for
one’s personal prominence, as was most often the case with beliefs in one’s saint
hood. Aḥmad Ibn Sarrāj (d.1726) lived near Bāb Tūmā in Damascus. He was highly
eccentric but also an accomplished clairvoyant.35 Many highly prominent ʿulamā’
expressed their admiration for this theoleptic, including al-Murādī, al-Bakrī,36 and
Ibn Kannān.37 Ibn Sarrāj featured in the writings of these important ʿulamā’ as a
saint, which merited him wide recognition.38
Beliefs in one’s baraka were sometimes more relevant than all other social
denominators. ʿUthmān Ibn ʿAbd Allāh (d.1782), or ʿUthmān al-Majdhūb, was a
slave of the chief military judge (Tr. kazasker; Ar. qād. ī al-ʿasākir) in Istanbul who
studied the Qur’ān and Qur’ānic sciences (ʿulūm). He also trained to become a cal
ligrapher. Ever since Ibn ʿAbd Allah suffered the “divine pull” (ḥaṣala lahu jadhbun
ilahī), he was prone to prodigious trances (aḥwāl khawāriq). It was believed that
he performed many wonders, widely recognized as a saint both among the common
people and the select few individuals (al-ʿām wa al-khāṣ39). Sultan Abdülhamid I
(r. 1774–1789) acknowledged ʿUthmān Ibn ʿAbd Allāh’s sanctity, while al-Murādī
was proud of his personal acquaintance with ʿUthmān al-Majdhūb, whom he met
during one of his visits to the imperial capital. He personally witnessed a demon
stration of Ibn ʿAbd Allah’s wondrous power (shāhadtu minhu karāmatan ẓāhira).40
Many appear to have clearly understood the benefits brought by reputations of
graceful insanity. Throughout centuries, theoleptics were often exempt from cer
tain legal proceedings. Like children or other insane, fiqh considered them legally
unaccountable for their words and deeds.41 Primary sources reveal instances when
certain individuals appeared to tune their behavior and social representation tech
niques to suggest theoleptic fits, in hopes of attracting rumors of baraka as well.
Eccentricity would help even the image of an established thaumaturgical expert or
an otherwise prominent member of society. Perhaps this is why Spoer remarked
that “the majority” of holy men in Palestine pretended to be mad, or displayed
eccentricity in their clothing, hygiene, and behavior during the modern period.42
The eighteenth century had such instances, and the authorities seemed aware of
these self-representative strategies. Illustrative is Grehan’s account about a theo
leptic from Tiberias who provoked the strongman-governor Ẓāhir al-ʿUmar (1689–
1775) by walking around naked. No action was taken prior to consultations with
jurists and the local muftī. The ʿulamā’ discussed ways to determine the authentic
ity of insanity, suggesting that the truly mad would not know the day of the week.
The theoleptic answered correctly, so he was beaten and ordered to remain clothed
while in public areas.43 This test, however crude, reveals that matters pertinent to
theolepsis required a considerable amount of caution and a certain level of profes
sionalism on the part of official jurists. On the other hand, al-Naḥlāwī, the “Ben
ediction of Damascus,” attracted rumors of jadhba as well, yet al-Murādī’s account
of the instance when he was seen casting his clothes and possessions off to roam
around the city betray little but humility. Al-Naḥlāwī’s credentials had validation
from the highest circles of Damascene religious professionals.44
Popular Sufis tended to exhibit eccentric behavior, often in connection with
prolonged self-isolation, known in Arabic as ʿuzla, or khalwa, which might have
given the Khalwatīyya their name. It was common for the Khalwatīs to annualy
spend forty days in isolated small cells.45 Many Sufi masters spent a time of their
lives as hermits, possibly to imitate Muḥammad’s own reported period of exile.46
During his own seven-years-long voluntary withdrawal from social life, al-Nābulsī
gradually neglected his physical appearance, his hygiene, and his manners. He
appeared in public disheveled, with hair and nails grown far too long. Afterwards,
he returned to public life and repaired such matters.47
The baraka of theoleptics would sometimes impress the highest ranks of the
Ottoman court. Due to the beliefs in their grace, the holy madmen occasionally
enjoyed widespread popularity as well as an enviable social status. The majādhīb
therefore represent a useful illustration of the importance of divine grace as a social
asset. However, in most cases it was the grace of established Sufi-ulamaic circles
that helped one progress towards the ranks of the highly influential imperial spir
itual elites. It was not easy to acquire such renown. Years of study and training were
necessary to finally reach mastery of a Sufi path and perhaps earn recognition as a
worker of wonders among the Ottoman subjects.
Exploring the Sea of Knowledge: Sufi Initiates on the Path to Grace

Similar as elsewhere in the Ottoman Empire, Sufi order membership represented
a defining parameter for Syrian biographers. Biographic data of an individual
included their Sufi order, madhhab,48 as well as the place of origin whenever such
data was available. If possible, biographers would also include the name of the
shaykh who performed initiation, as these were important links in long chains of
succession (silsilas) that emphasized the grave importance of the bonds between
disciples and masters.49
Despite the exhausting years of training, many Ottoman subjects flocked to
Sufi lodges scattered throughout the imperial domain to eagerly pursue spiritual
teachings and guidance. Research suggests that only a minority of early mod
ern Ottoman subjects did not claim membership in at least one Sufi order. The
vast majority visited the lodges to attend preaching and occasionally participate
in common rituals.50 In early modern Shām, a multitude of institutionalized Sufi
paths was open for the people. Among the largest orders, both in Shāmī and Egyp
tian territories, were the Qādirīyya, Naqshbandīyya, Khalwatīyya, Rifāʿīyya, and
the Shādhilīyya.51 The Aḥmadīyya, Burhānīyya, Yashrūṭīyya, and ʿAfīfīyya also
had presence in the region. Each of these orders had many subchapters that were
widespread in North Africa and the Middle East, with new ones emerging as time
passed.52 A subchapter of the Rifāʿīyya order with a particularly large following in
Syria was the Saʿdīyya, also called Jabāwīyya, which spread under the leadership
of Muṣṭafā Sāʿd al-Dīn al-Jabāwī.53
The dominant majority of the Damascene ʿulamā’ claimed affiliation to Sufi
orders, sometimes therefore fulfilling multiple functions. As a saint, quṭb, and a
muftī, a Qādirī and a Naqshbandī Sufi, ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī was exemplary of
this overlap. Al-Bakrī claimed membership in the Khalwatīyya, Naqshbandīyya,
and the Qādirīyya.54 The popularity of Sufism among the ʿulamā’ persisted until
modernity, with famous Yūsuf al-Nabhānī (1849–1932), for instance, joining the
Qādirīyya, Idrīsīyya, Naqshbandīyya, Shādhilīyya, Rifāʿīyya, and the Khalwatīyya
orders.55 Maintaining parallel affiliations, he became one of the more influential
Sufis of his time.56 Multiple Sufi order memberships were common in the early
modern period, as well as in other epochs.57 People were encouraged to join the
many available Sufi lodges. Ḥasan Abū Ḥalāwā al-Ghazzī, the master who initi
ated al-Nabhānī, underlined that the shaykhs’ supervision after initiation improved
one’s life, occupational, and social standards, and brought fortune to the disciples.58
Dina Le Gall observed that people joined several Sufi orders at once, believing that
they thus collected more baraka.59
The choice of a Sufi order represents relevant historical information, since it
most often reflects other individual parameters, such as social standing, family
ties, occupation, and personal contacts. For instance, joining the Naqshbandīyya60
represented a trend among the rich and prominent in eighteenth-century Damascus.
Ibn ʿĀbidīn belonged to the Naqshbandīyya, which remained the preferred order of
choice for his family.61 Such was the case with ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī,62 Aḥmad
al-Manīnī (d.1758),63 Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī,64 and many others. The naqīb al-ashrāf of
Damascus, Muḥammad al-Murādī, also followed the Naqshbandī path.65 Descend
ants of a bloodline usually started learning in youth, under supervision of their
fathers or other close male relatives, and soon underwent initiation into the fam
ily’s Sufi order of choice. Such was the case with the al-Nābulsīs, or al-Gīlānīs,
who were prominent among the Syrian Qādirīyya during the eighteenth century
too. Murād al-Bukhārī (d.1720) from Samarkand – al-Murādī’s great-grandfather
and the eponym of Al-Murādī bloodline – brought the reformed Naqshbandīyya
teachings from his journeys in India. He initiated some prominent family elders
in Damascus in addition to his own descendants.66 The biographer al-Murādī later
advised some Damascene writers and poets who followed the same ṭarīqa.67
Later acquired family ties could also encourage order preference. The famous
Ottoman Syrian poet, Aḥmad Ibn Ramaḍān (d.1738), most likely opted for the
Jalwatīyya because his brother-in-law was a shaykh of this order in an Istanbul-
based lodge close to the Sultan Selim Khān Mosque.68 Personal networks were of
high importance for the future initiates. For instance, Ibn Budayr and his master Ibn
Ḥashīsh had high reputation among some prominent Damascene Sufis. Ibn Ḥashīsh
groomed ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, which certainly brought much honor. His other
famous customers were Murād Efendi, the Naqshbandī master and the elder of the
al-Murādī family, as well as Muḥammad al-ʿAjlūnī (d.1735).69 Ibn Budayr him
self took great pride in his rich network, as well as the baraka he obtained from
his master, his acquaintances, and clients. The barber was proud of knowing the
chronicler and wonder-worker Muḥammad Ibn Jumʿa al-Maqqār (who was the bar
ber’s neighbor),70 a Shaykh Muḥammad al-Jabrī,71 and the Khalwatīyya shaykh,
Yūsuf al-Ṭabbākh (d.1746). Al-Ṭabbākh was a recognized saint, both by the peo
ple around Ibn Budayr and in accounts of the biographer al-Murādī. In the streets,
people often flocked to kiss his hands, touched him to induce baraka-transfer, or
performed the tabarruk near him.72 Many Damascenes who fascinated Ibn Budayr
belonged to the Qādirīyya – such as al-Nābulsī and al-Maqqār,73 which most likely
led to Ibn Budayr’s initiation among the Qādirīs under Shaykh Aḥmad al-Sābiq
(d.1748), who was a Damascene poet and author.74
It is possible to observe correlations between Sufi paths and professions.75
Partial social and geographical convergences existed between the Sufi orders and
trade guilds (aṣnāf)76 throughout the Middle East.77 Systems of internal organiza
tion were similar in both aṣnāf and ṭuruq. Both most often had a leading shaykh
(shaykh al-mashāyikh or shaykh al-ṭarīqa), under whom was the chief attendant
(naqīb al-nuqabā’) who served as the shayhkh’s viceroy. Each lodge had its own
shaykh, and each shaykh had an assistant (khalīfa), facilitating supervision over
the rest of the members.78 Unfortunately, extant source material does not allow
for a detailed description of Middle Eastern trade guilds, nor for detailed com
parisons between guilds and Sufi orders. More research is necessary to locate
relevant primary sources and build an empirical basis for comparative work.
The nexus between these organizations is, however, readable from indirect evi
dence. For instance, members of the Sufi orders often demonstrated tools of their
trade during public parades.79 It seems that most Qādirīyya Sufis in early modern
Egypt were fishermen who frequently paraded their poles in public processions.80
The Rifāʿīs and the Saʿdīs maintained their reputation as skilled “toxicologists.”81
The habit of the Aḥmadīyya to train donkeys82 may have alluded to this order’s
specialization for agrarian work or transport. It seems that this trend has changed
over time. Modern Sufi order members stemmed from diverse professional
backgrounds.83
Regardless of their order preferences, all initiates within Ottoman Empire
needed to be supervised by established masters, according to both jurists and
Sufis.84 Since the medieval period, scholars warned about the dangers of pre
tense to hidden knowledge without due supervision.85 In a work from 1795,
Muḥammad Ibn Ṣāliḥ al-Kīlānī, an alleged descendent of the Qādirīyya twelfth-
century founder, quoted the very old saying that the one without a master has the
devil as master (man lam yakun lah al-shaykh fa-l-shayṭān shaykhuh).86 Al-Kīlānī
wrote a treatise instructing the Qādirīyya in properly training their disciples. He
repeatedly emphasized the significance of the established master as the only one
able to direct the disciples properly,87 which, as a belief, had a long history.88
For al-Kīlānī, the relationship with the shaykh was the most valuable social tie a
trainee had to maintain.89
Initiation was performed upon explicit request of the new disciple. The ritual
symbolically established the bond between the master and apprentice. In the eight
eenth century, the Khalwatīs followed the initiation model transmitted by Muṣṭafā
al-Bakrī. The master sat down facing the qibla and positioned the hopeful so their
knees would touch. They recited al-Fātiḥa (both at the beginning and at the end of
the ritual). The master held the hopeful’s (murīd; also “novice,” “aspirant”)90 right
hand and accepted vows of obedience. The new initiate renounced the devil and
asked forgiveness three times in a row. He sought to be accepted into the order.
Finally, the shaykh revealed the first of the seven secrets – the seven names of God
that the disciple would continually seek through the course of his training. The
master then commenced with the dhikr, and the initiate recited after him.91 Emo
tions provoked by the ritual were sometimes so powerful that initiates wrote about
the baraka of their master that purged all worldly desires, while the dhikr melted
flesh and blood.92 At the end, the initiate received the cloak (khirqa) and cap of
office to symbolize admission to the Sufi lodge of his choice.93
Progression in rank came with new duties in the lodge. Lowest ranks would
usually be charged with the hygiene and orderliness of the footwear belonging to
the residents – usually the lodge’s shaykh and his assistants. Higher ranks served
as cupbearers and so on, while the superior rank among the disciples was chief
attendant, naqīb al-nuqabā’.94 The disciples were obliged to demonstrate solidarity
and collegiality (ṣuḥba)95 with the rest of the lodge’s members. All the while, the
shaykhs were expected to remain kind and understanding towards the lodges’ adher
ents, caring for the well-being of their disciples throughout the training and after.96
Initiates addressed their masters with elaborated gestures of respect and rever
ence. Proper ablution was observed before attending the shaykh’s presence. Initi
ates spoke and acted only with the master’s permission. They were not to lie or
shield their thoughts. Throughout their training, they were under scrutiny by the
shaykhs, who often recorded and interpreted the trainees’ dreams as well. They
needed to refrain from any deeds or words that suggested pretense to the shaykh’s
rank.97
Studies were long and arduous. Al-Kīlānī compared them with sailing an open
sea. The disciples, like ships, carried their elementary education in Qur‘anic sci
ences and theology like drops (qaṭra) in the “sea of knowledge” (baḥr al-ʿilm). The
ships were enforced by various disciplines received during Sufi training, and they
required a master to ensure the proper course, clarifying any mysterie.98
Most of Sufi acolytes’ training seemed focused on developing morals and disci
pline satisfactory to their master’s expectations. Initiates would often be required
to follow strict diet and particular ways of dress and behavior. They needed to
respect fellow members of their orders as their equals. They learned proper adab
when dealing with their shaykh, other trainees, and the rest of the people. They
were required to cast down their ego (nafs) and nurture traits of patience (ṣabr),
forbearance (ḥilm), sincerity (ikhlās), generosity (ikrām), asceticism (zuhd), humil
ity (tawādu’), modesty (hayā’), mercy (raḥma), proper etiquette (adab), devout
ness (ṣalāḥ), and patience (ṣabr).99 Disciples were required to demonstrate love
and compassion for the world (ḥubb al-dunyā) and to master their language,
remaining steadfast in all circumstances.100 These requirements were not unique

to the Qādirīyya, as most Sufi orders expected their adherents to fulfill them.101
Deviations from the proper course corrupted al-Kīlānī’s allegorical ship, along
with envy, pride, and other emotions that were broadly conceived as negative.102
Over the course of their training, the shaykhs revealed the names of God to
the disciples one at a time. It was widely believed that divine names contained
their own power and that reciting them during prayers, invocations, and the dhikr
could unlock hidden mysteries of the world and obtain esoteric knowledge. The
ultimate goal of the Sufis was to uncover and understand the Greatest Name of
Allah (ism allah al-aʿẓam) and, through it, unlock the hidden secrets of the world.103
The belief that divine names were able to induce powerful thaumaturgy is evident
across scriptural religions.104
Among the most important quotidian ceremonies of the Sufis was “remembrance
of God” – dhikr allah. Dhikr was central for a lodge’s ritualistic performance and
was conducted both publicly and within the privacy of the zāwiya.105 For al-Kīlānī,
it was as important as drinking water for the seafarers.106 The shaykhs of Sufi lodges
had the responsibility to transmit the proper methods for performing this ceremony
to the students (talqīn al-dhikr).107 It was mandatory to perform ablutions prior to
attending the ritual. During the proceedings, the Sufis invoked the names of God
and recited from the Scripture. They invoked their order’s silsila, often chanting to
the music of their fellows. They would occasionally use prayer beads (masbaḥa)108
to measure the length of the prayers and count repetitions. It was common to read
al-Fātiḥa at the beginning and end of each ceremony. The entire ceremony most
often took place in front of assembled crowds of the common people who flocked
to the lodges to attend the dhikr, hoping for the transfer of grace.109 For Sufi dis
ciples, the dhikr, over centuries, retained a special purpose. It was believed that it
protected the Sufis from the forces of evil, helped gain access to the unseen world,
and facilitated theolepsis. In ulamaic writing, it further distinguished wonders from
magic, since it protected the Sufis from the devils’ influence.110
Sufi adherents publicly participated in a range of charitable activities, both indi
vidually and in groups. Most orders had a centuries-long tradition of performing
charity, which was a significant boost for their popularity, especially in recently
conquered territories. Due to such activities, Sufi acclaim spread in many newly
taken Ottoman domains predominantly inhabited by Christians.111
Most lodges organized public rituals, aimed at a wide variety of goals. Some
were performed in times of political, social, or natural crises, to solicit divine
assistance for the people. For instance, when a catastrophic series of earthquakes
caused massive damage to the infrastructure of Damascus in 1759, the Sufis hosted
a range of ceremonies in attempts to drive away the danger.112 Large audiences
attended other, regular ceremonies, organized to demonstrate the praeternatural
powers of the Sufi disciples. The ṭuruq aimed to show the spectacular powers the
Sufis acquired through their baraka. For instance, the Aḥmadīyya Sufis had don
keys perform tricks, appearing as if charmed.113 Masochistic displays were frequent
throughout the centuries.114 Rifāʿīyya disciples skewered themselves in public,
broke rocks against their chests, and swallowed swords.115 The Sāʿdīyya, who were
experts on venom, bit into live snakes and scorpions.116 Their founder, al-Jabāwī,117
was rumored to have come up with the dawsa ritual.118 Disciples would lie abreast
on the ground. The shaykh would mount a horse and make it step over the lying
acolytes. They would then stand up to demonstrate that divine grace protected them
from harm. Dawsa was common during the celebration of the Prophet’s mawlid.119
Foreigners to the Middle East were astonished by these performances.
Sufi disciples hoped that the years of strict rules, chores, and study would even
tually result in long-awaited ijāzas. Sufi ijāzas allowed the disciples to teach or
distribute a particular text, while newly promoted masters received documents
permitting them to start their own lodges and initiate their own disciples.120 These
documents usually came wrapped into tubular cases that the Sufis proudly hung
on their belts and apparel.121 In addition to the disciple’s name, the ijaza contained
the name of the master, who, in writing, recognized the completion of the disci
ple’s training, allowing them to freely act under the rules of the lodge. He further
guaranteed that he imparted “all secrets” to the disciple.122 After the master, the
full silsila of the order would follow. The Qādirīs kept a silsila which, after ʿAbd
al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī and Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī, listed many saints this order venerated.
Among them was a medieval judge Abū Saʿīd Mubārak Makhzūmī (1013–1119)
from Baghdad, as well as al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī (642–728). Alexander Knysh identifies
the latter as one of the first authors of “Sufi-like” texts.123 The Qādirī silsila eventu
ally ended with the Fourth Righteous Caliph and the Prophet.124
Studying under esteemed ʿulamā’ and pursuing official appointments further
impacted one’s prominence, as well as the opportunity for lucrative tenures. Popu
lar beliefs in thaumaturgical mastery, ulamaic erudition, official appointments
within the imperial administration, as well as the prominence of one’s personal or
family networks – help identify the early modern socio-anthropological model of
the Ottoman Sunni priesthood. This priestly body appeared to possess the ultimate
say on who entered the widely recognized network of wonder-workers in Ottoman
Syria.
The Sufi-͑ulamā’: Religious Professionals and Peer Recognition in

Eighteenth-Century Shām
Most acclaimed members of the Shāmī priestly sodality usually studied under and
socialized with a tight network of well-established Damascene patricians, religious
elites, and other notables. In Damascus, of note were the families of al-Nābulsī,
al-Gīlānī, al-Mālikī, al-ʿAjlūnī, and al-Manīnī. ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī held
unparalleled status as the Pole of his time among the saints of Damascus. He was
also wealthy and owned much land in the region. His family yielded numerous
influential ʿulamā’ since the Mamluk era,125 while the eighteenth-century axial saint
held tenures in al-Sālimīyya126 and the Umayyad Mosque. Muḥammad al-Mālikī
(d.1706) also taught in the Umayyad Mosque.127 Muḥammad al-ʿAjlūnī (d.1748)
excelled as a teacher in fiqh and taṣawwuf.128 Aḥmad al-Manīnī (d.1758) was a very
prominent scholar and author, initiated into the Naqshbandīyya by the biographer
al-Murādī’s great-grandfather (while al-Nābulsī also belonged to this order). In
addition, he claimed membership in the Khalwatīyya and the Qādirīyya.129 His
affiliation with the Qādirīs was most likely the result of his acquaintance with the
al-Gīlānīs, descendants of this order’s founder. Al-Manīnī further studied under
al-Nābulsī and one member of the al-ʿAjlūnīs, of whom some were trained by
Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī.130
The network of these elites was entirely comprised of prominent figures
who worked as both scholars and Sufis. Influential scholar-thaumaturges of
eighteenth-century Damascus were a tight circle and kept exclusive claims to
matters of ʿilm and religion. Most of them held lucrative state appointments,
reflecting the Damascene branch of eighteenth-century Ottoman priestly sodal
ity. Religious professionals in training eagerly sought this network’s recognition
to boost their careers. Validation usually came in the form of ijāzas, which were
both the cause and the consequence of social mobility.131 Ijāzas signed by one of
the Damascene religious elites often represented a deciding factor in a scholar
thaumaturge’s career. Many scholars therefore strove to accumulate as many of
these documents as possible. This was an old tradition,132 and the eighteenth-
century Syrian scholars did not fall behind. ʿAbd al-Kāfī Ibn Ḥusayn (d.1772) from
Aleppo first studied under Aḥmad al-Dimiyāṭī and then took fiqh and ʿilm under
four more masters, receiving initiation from a Qādirī shaykh, Ṣāliḥ al-Mawāhibī.
He became well-versed in both ʿilm and taṣawwuf yet continued networking with
prominent Sufi masters until he secured ijāzas from al-Nābulsī and an al-ʿAjlūnī
offspring. He was the Shafi’ite imām in Aleppo, where his peers continuously
praised him.133
Syrian religious elites frequently networked beyond the Province of Damas
cus, as is illustrated by ʿAbd Allah Ibn al-Ḥusayn al-Suwaydī’s (d.1761) biography.
This incredibly popular Sufi-scholar from Iraq was acquainted with the al-ʿAjlūnīs
and al-Manīnīs, and with both al-Nābulsī and al-Bakrī, securing many invaluable
ijāzas. These scholars frequently met across, Syria, and Iraq, which undoubtedly
facilitated al-Suwaydī’s appointment to lucrative studying and lecturing positions
throughout the Middle East and the Arabian Peninsula.134
Notables studied ʿilm and taṣawwuf to satisfy requirements of their social sta
tus. However, material gain represented a practical reason to pursue a career as
a Sufi-scholar. Many Sufi-ʿulamā’ were able to earn well just by leading regular
dhikr rituals.135 In addition, they received considerable donations from the faithful.
Often, they received remuneration or gifts in exchange for thaumaturgical assis
tance. Exorcisms had a price, like talismans and spells136 – dispensing grace to the
people earned a decent living.137 Most Sufi initiates also had other occupations, as
agriculturalists, merchants, or artisans.138
After completing studies in madrasas, the Sufi-ʿulamā’ were, in addition, able
to turn enviable profit through their official appointments. Tenures kept by ula
maic groups of the Ottoman Empire often secured an admirable living standard.
The value of such tenures occasionally surfaces through anecdotes in the source
material. Aḥmad Ibn Shams al-Dīn (d.1759) was a highly prominent teacher and
wonder-worker, known as Ibn Siwār like his predecessors. Aḥmad Ibn Siwār held
a tenure as a preacher in Qubbat al-Bāʿūnīyya, a shrine that lay at the eastern part of
the Umayyad Mosque’s courtyard. His relative, Shaykh Muṣṭafā, died and left his
offspring locked in dispute over hereditary tenures against Ibn Siwār. After some
competition, Muṣṭafā’s offspring agreed to alternate between the Umayyad and
the al-Buzūrī Mosque, sharing both appointments.139 Members of the eighteenth-
century Damascene priestly sodality generally preferred to keep tenures within
their families, ensuring the prosperity of their descendants.140
At the end of the long journey, Sufi mastery was rewarding in many ways,
as the newly appointed shaykhs commanded high respect among their peers and
the common people. With wide popularity and a venerable status came a number
of privileges that the Sufi masters enjoyed as, allegedly, the recipients of God’s
baraka among the rest of the people.
The Popular Image: Shaykhs in Eighteenth-Century Damascus

In popular belief, the shaykhs, as recipients of divine grace, represented masters of
the knowledge of kings and religion of the prophets. Nothing remained unseen under
their gaze.141 Traditional gestures that publicly displayed veneration of the shaykhs
(and their baraka) were to kiss their hands, or perform the tabarruk near them.142
Ottoman societies had important expectations from the Sufi masters. I previously
discussed the frequent necessity of performing exorcisms, healing afflictions and
injuries, or assisting the Ottoman subjects in acquiring good fortune and blessings
through prayer and thaumaturgical rituals. The shaykhs allegedly had many powers
by divine will and were therefore distinguished as Allah’s chosen among the rest of
the people.143 They had the obligation of earning their powers through righteous
ness (ṣalāḥ) of mind and appearance, demonstrating proper behavior (adab) in all
matters, and refraining from any illicit acts (harām).144 As role models in their
societies,145 the shaykhs were required to continuously act as paragons of virtue.
Ṣalāḥ was of high importance for their grace and at times seemed more praised than
any other personal trait of an established shaykh.146 Al-Nābulsī speculated that the
shaykhs were protected from transgressions due to their baraka, piety, and virtue,147
which was a belief that existed since the medieval period.148
The long social, cultural, and theological engagement of the Sufis cultivated
a body of practices that remained stable at least since the eleventh century, and
perhaps longer.149 Sufi masters made efforts to restrict the circulation of ṭarīqa
knowledge outside of the lodges, at the same time strengthening the exclusive
character of their networks,150 and perhaps adding a mystical air to the nature of
their teachings. Long before the eighteenth century, rumors circulated that the Sufi
esoteric knowledge was detrimental to the minds of the uninitiated. Ibn ʿArabī
claimed that a master’s supervision would protect an individual from “harmful
doctrines.”151 The ʿulamā’ of eighteenth-century Damascus endorsed the occulta
tion of esoteric knowledge from the wider public,152 as they believed that it was
impossible for the commoners to distinguish between miracle and magic without
proper guidance.153 Independent dabbling in thaumaturgical practice was viewed as
an act of innovation (bidʿa) and heresy (kufr).154 Restrictions to knowledge trans

mission were actualized through the ijāza system.155 Knowledge occultation strate
gies maintained certified channels for the dissemination of ṭuruq teachings and
created a social necessity for intercessors between the common people and the
unseen powers under God. Sufi-ulamaic groups came to represent interregional
sodalities that, through mechanisms of exclusion, kept their professional niche and
maintained their tight networks.156
The Sufi occultation tradition may have inspired some scholarship to debate the
significance of literacy for Ottoman subjects in different regions. Grehan postulates
that the exquisite erudition of the Sufis and scholars inspired Syrian commoners to
attribute them with spectacular powers. He reasons that the predominant illiteracy
of Ottoman subjects in Syria may have resulted in beliefs that learning and literature
production were magical.157 Other scholarship, however, shows that various social
groups among the Ottoman subjects underwent diverse training due to their occu
pational requirements. The level of literacy varied among such groups and cannot
be reduced to a certain social class.158 However, due to exclusivism and mysteries
commonly connected with thaumaturgical knowledge, Sufi sodalities represented
the only institutionalized professional networks, which attracted beliefs that their
writing produced wondrous results, such as with their talismans, for instance.
Orthodox Christian priesthood in eighteenth-century Shām kept similar exclu
sivist trends, which were in line with a long tradition pertinent to both Catholicism
and Orthodoxy. Free reading of the Scripture became a point of debate among
theologians only with the advent of Protestantism.159 Burayk offers an illustration.
In 1749, a young man attempted to read the Gospel. As soon as the book was in
his hands, his brain froze. His father carried him home, and a long time had to pass
before he regained control of his mental faculties.160
Sufi masters had sufficient influence to often popularize social practices or
defend them from criticism. Scholarship sometimes has a tendency to discuss cer
tain social habits, such as smoking, drinking alcohol, or playing music, as taboos
in the Middle East during the eighteenth century.161 It is more accurate to state that
such practices represented taboos only for select groups of religious rigorists, such
as the Kadızadelis or the Wahhābīs.162 Rigorist groups, however, remained a minor
ity throughout the centuries of Ottoman rule, although the Kadızadelis managed
to secure support from the Ottoman government during a brief period.163 Primary
source material lends support to this view. For instance, Ibn Budayr writes of regu
lar musical performances in Damascus, most notably in the many coffeehouses of
the city.164
The apologetic reaction of established ulamaic officials to rigorist criticism
comes forth in eighteenth-century sources, however. ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī
left an entire work committed to the benefits of playing and listening to musical
instruments.165 Listening to both music and poetry (samāʿ) had great importance for
the Sufis, as it was believed that samāʿ helped in achieving mystical and ecstatic
states (aḥwāl),166 as was the case with tobacco, coffee, and sometimes alcohol.
Sufi masters claimed that these substances facilitated ritual trance.167 Sufi mas
ter al-Jabrī drank wine in public. Ibn Budayr, who took pride in their personal
acquaintance, relates al-Jabrī’s habits of frequent alternations between common
and entranced states under the influence of alcohol. No one was bothered, while
Ibn Budayr even used the coinage “Drinker of the Wine of the Greatest King”168
to address the shaykh. The correlation of Sufi trances to drunkenness represented
a much older trend, probably best represented in the poems of ʿUmar Ibn al-Farīḍ
(1181–1234).169 This Sufi master, famous for his poetry about love and sex in Sufi
metaphorical modes, was buried in Egypt. His mawlids were opportunities for peo
ple to harvest baraka from his grave, as it was believed that he was a saint.170
Beliefs in wondrous powers of Sufi shaykhs led to beliefs in Muslim saints.
The self-reproductiveness of the Ottoman network of the holy allowed for the
emergence of innumerable individuals who would inspire beliefs in their saint
hood over time. Sainthood validation, however, depended on a variety of Ottoman
social milieus. Names of many saints did not feature in collected biographies of
prominent elites. Those who rose to widespread prominence usually had excellent
networking skills and most often socialized with influential notables in the region.
They remained remembered as members of the higher ranks of the Syrian network
of the holy, widely revered because of their baraka and the wonders they allegedly
caused.
Those Who Ascended: Saints among the Eighteenth-Century

Damascenes
Immediately illustrative of widely renowned Damascene Sufi-ʿulamā’ and vali
dated saints were individuals like al-Nābulsī and al-Bakrī, or Abū al-Mawāhib
Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Ḥanbalī.171 They, however, populated the awliyā’ rank in
the Ottoman networks of the holy along with other select ṣāliḥūn (and some
times the majādhīb), as sainthood was an open social category.172 Awliyā’ grew
in numbers with each generation, and while some of them managed to accu
mulate sufficient renown to be venerated both by the common people and the
Sufi-ʿulamā’ across the Ottoman Empire, most retained a local character and a
limited geographical reach.
Locally, ordinary people treated even simple conjurors as official awliyā’,
regional or occupational, as was the case with some Christian saints as well.173
Illustrative is the case Abū Yazīd, the children caretaker. He was poor, he did not
possess any lucrative tenures in Aleppo, nor was there any rumor about his eru
dition or influence. The people of al-Mushāriqa District, however, used to col
lect bits and pieces of his personal belongings as amulets and lucky charms, and
they kissed his hands in passing to induce grace-transfer through touch.174 Certain
majādhīb were remembered as saints, but their sainthood also varied in geographi
cal extent. Despite the alleged extraordinary perception of Ibrāhīm al-Kaykī from
the Damascene al-Qubaybāt district,175 the majdhūb does not seem to have gained
prominence outside of his neighborhood. It was different with the charismatic
Aḥmad Ibn Sarrāj the theoleptic, who was honored in biographies written by very
influential Ottoman Sufi-ʿulamā’, which earned him a much wider renown as an
official saint.176 Personal acquaintances with the tight circles of eighteenth-century
Damascene priestly sodality played an invaluable role for one’s prominence, both
as a religious professional and as a walī.
Individual ṣalāḥ and acquaintances with influential networks sometimes bore
more significance for saintly biographies than ulamaic erudition. This was the
case with the incredibly popular al-Naḥlāwī (d.1744), perhaps one of the most
prominent and celebrated saints of eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria, of whom
al-Murādī writes with much ceremony, and whose alleged wonders I briefly dis
cuss in the first chapter of this book. Known as the “Benediction of Damascus”
(barakat al-shām), this shaykh attracted large crowds by his dhikr ceremonies,
while people sought out to perform the tabarruk near him. The wonders he caused
impressed both the common people and the Ottoman ulamaic circles, and he held
tenures and trained students, yet al-Murādī’s information about the erudition and
professional pedigree of this saint is poor. Al-Murādī’s account of al-Naḥlāwī
breaks Silk’s usual narrative style, putting tales of wonders and peculiar events in
place where data about learning and professional qualifications would be within an
extremely long biographical entry.177 Perhaps the biographer considered it super
fluous, since al-Naḥlāwī was featured in panegyrics of a large number of important
and well-connected Sufi-ʿulamā’, including al-Bakrī.178
Descendants of prominent saints were often themselves revered as wonder
workers,179 like Isḥāq al-Kaylānī (d.1771) who was a sayyid and an alleged descend
ant of the eponymous Qādirīyya founder. Al-Murādī procured some amulets from
him. During Abū al-Dhahab's (1735–1775) campaign on Damascus in 1771,180
Isḥāq al-Kaylānī died (māta shahīdan) and remained remembered as a martyr and
wonder-worker respected by the most prominent Sufi-ʿulamā’.181
Even though ulamaic training and sainthood often corresponded, in eighteenth-
century Syria they were analytically distinct. The scholar-thaumaturges of the
Empire enjoyed the monopoly over the functions of a priestly network, yet the
prominent awliyā’ could emerge from many other social strata and attract praise
from the common people and the Sufi-ʿulamā’ as well. On the other hand, many
prominent scholars never acquired a full saintly status. For instance, the passionate
learner Ḥusayn Ibn Ṭuʿma al-Baytimānī (d.1761), described as a virtuous and devout
man with many skills and talents, who studied under an array, including al-Nābulsī,
left written works that are still read today.182 Regardless, he never inspired explicit
beliefs in his sainthood, according to the biographer al-Murādī. Prominent Sufi
ʿulamā’ validation is missing from his biography, even though al-Murādī insisted
that a long period of studying under the Pole al-Nābulsī passed the axial saint’s
grace over to this scholar. The biographer also added that al-Baytimānī received
inspiration for a poem through dreams of al-Nābulsī and al-Murādī’s grandfather
Muḥammad.183
It was widely believed that the awliyā’ could acquire diverse praeternatural
powers, such as extraordinary strength or endurance – like Shaykh Ṭāhā ʿAbd
al-Qādir from modern Nablus who was allegedly able to lift two stone pillars in one
hand.184 Some saints were believed to fly, walk on water,185 speak with the dead, or
raise them back to life.186 According to rumors, Aḥmad al-Naḥlāwī turned stones
into gold,187 by which he was not exceptional.188 Animal charming was common,
as the Aḥmadīs trained donkeys, while the Rifāʿīyya and the Sāʿdīyya dealt with
venomous critters.189
Throughout the Ottoman period, sainthood as a concept was rarely open to offi
cial questioning. Individuals, however, sometimes had to verify their saintly cre
dentials.190 Examinations would occasionally keep one from official punishments.
Grehan reads of an ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Qawī (d.1866) who did not rise before the
Damascene governor and was thus ordered to drink an entire fountain of water
to prove his power. Allegedly, he succeeded, establishing sufficient flow through
fierce urination while drinking. The governor repented, and al-Qawī was free.191
During his travels in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century, al-Nābulsī
encountered many saints of local renown of whom he previously never heard of.
He would ask such individuals to perform the unusual deeds that locally popular
ized them. In Gaza, a local wonder-worker swallowed an entire apple in front of the
quṭb’s eyes.192 In early twentieth century, stories were told of a Palestinian Master
Jābir who welcomed some guests, unaware that they were saints, sent by God to
test his thaumaturgical prowess. He offered them food, and they responded that
they could not enjoy the meal without lemons. Jābir raised his hand and invoked
“Shaykh Badawī” – the founder of the Aḥmadīyya193 – to conjure a lemon from thin
air. He was congratulated on his sanctity.194
Most powerful saints were the widely venerated Poles (aqṭāb). Some had
transregional prominence, while some were revered across the imperial domain.
The critically acclaimed Poles like ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Gīlānī, Ibn ʿArabī, or Ruslān
al-Dimashqī all were very prominent Sufis and well-established ʿulamā’. During
their lives, they earned respect of both the commoners and the ulamaic circles
and were later remembered for centuries as some of the most important nodes in
the Ottoman network of the holy. Being a Pole brought sociopolitical prestige as
well. Al-Nābulsī enjoyed unprecedented authority during his own lifetime, while
al-Ḥifnī’s ascension to this rank through the pen of his students (Chih indicates that
he may have supervised his own biography writing) indubitably strengthened the
Khalwatīyya initiation campaign in Egypt. Chih indicates that he may have super
vised the composition of his own biography.195
Recognition of the Poles came gradually, most often through the writings of their
peers. In addition to a formidable sociopolitical influence such individuals pos
sessed, they were also believed to have the greatest thaumaturgical power among
the Muslim saints. In popular belief, they were crucial for maintaining the worldly
order.196 They were also capable of extraordinary feats far beyond the presumed
skills of other saints. Grehan reads of ʿAbd al-Fattaḥ al-Zuʿubī (d.1807), who told
to his student that a Pole of his time would be able to move Mount Lebanon with a
simple command. Mild tremors started at that moment, so the shaykh barked at the
mountain to hold still, as it was not spoken to.197
Legendary aqtāb powers were told in stories that survived centuries, often in
works of prominent ʿulamā’. According to one such story, the “Protector of Damas
cus,” Ruslān al-Dimashqī (d.1160/64),198 once lounged in a Damascene garden sur
rounded by a gathering of his peers. He picked a handful of branches. Discarding
one, he announced summer to the surprise of the onlookers who felt a sudden rise
in temperature. The quṭb threw another branch away to announce spring. Cano
pies around the audience turned richer in color but then changed as Ruslān called
autumn, discarding another branch. Finally, the quṭb conjured winter, and a cold
wind engulfed the audience.199
The people flocked around their saints to perform tabarruk in their vicinity or
collect their hair and trinkets to secure for themselves the flow of baraka. If the
saints were believed powerful in life, their competencies only grew after death.200
Edifices built upon their graves were equipped to facilitate baraka-harvesting,
while the still-living Syrian thaumaturges used these sites to augment the effects of
their prayers and rituals.
Notes
1 Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-Muhtār ʿala al-Durr al-Mukhtār,
ed. Muḥammad Bakr Ismāʿīl (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīyya, 2003), 2:242–243, and
ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Fatḥ al-Rabānī wa al-Fayḍ al-Raḥmānī, ed. Muḥammad
ʿAbd al-Qādir ʿAṭā (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1980), 177. Further see Yūsuf
Ibn Ismāʿīl al-Nabhānī, Jāmiʿ Karamāt al-Awliyā’ (Henceforth: JK), ed. ʿAbd al-Wārith
Muḥammad ʿAlī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2009), 1:9–14. Also Rachida Chih,
Sufism in Ottoman Egypt: Circulation, Renewal and Authority in the Seventeenth and
Eighteenth Century (London & New York: Routledge, 2019), 113.
2 See Chapter 2. Also Patrick J. Ryan, “The Mystical Theology of Tijāni Sufism and its
Social Significance in West Africa,” Journal of Religion in Africa, 30, Fasc. 2 (May
2009): 209.
3 See Chih, Sufism, 1, Further see Michael Winter, Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule,
1517–1798 (London & New York: Routledge, 1992), 136, Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate
Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political Thought (Princeton: Princeton Uni
versity Press, 2018), 204–205, and Aziz Al-Azmeh, Muslim Kingship: Power and the
Sacred in Muslim, Christian and Pagan Polities (London & New York: I.B. Tauris,
1997), 183–185. Further see Chapter 2.
4 For instance, Taufik Canaan, Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine (Lon
don: Luzac & Co., 1927), 260, and Margareth Smith, Rābiʿa the Mystic & Her Fellow
Saints in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 2.
5 For instance, Muṣṭafā ibn Kamāl al-Dīn al-Bakrī al-Ṣiddīqī, “al-Khamra al-Ḥisiyya fī
al-Riḥla al-Qudsīyya,” (Henceforth: “KhH”), MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. or.
quart. 460, Berlin, 17–A–17B. Also see Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:505.
6 For examples, see al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 1A–25B, Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:505, ʿAbd al-Ghanī
al-Nābulsī, Riḥlatān ilā Lubnān [Two Journeys to Lebanon], ed. Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn al-
Munajjid and Stefan Wild (Beirut: Franz Steiner, 1979), 116–120, and ʿAbd al-Ghanī
al-Nābulsī, Ḥullat al-Dhahab al-Ibrīz fī Riḥlat Baʿlbak wa al-Biqāʿ al-ʿAzīz [Splendid
Golden Attire in the Journey to Dear Baalbek and Bekaa], in al-Ḥaqīqa al-Majāz fī
Riḥlat Bilād al-Shām wa Miṣr wa al-Ḥijāz, ed. Riyād ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd Murād (Damascus:
Dār al-Mu ʿarafa, 1989), 38, 162.
7 Chih, Sufism, 11. Observed in medieval Sufism as well. See Eric Geoffroy, Introduction
to Sufism: The Inner Path of Islam, trans. Roger Gaetani (Bloomington: World Wisdom,
2010), 195–196. This is comparable to the obedience to bishops in European brother

hoods in Christ as well. See, for instance, Will Adam, “Natural Law in the Anglican
Tradition,” in Christianity and Natural Law: An Introduction, ed. Norman Doe (Cam
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 58–76.
8 The office of the order’s head combined a variety of social and religious functions. See
A.A. Batran, “The Kunta, Sidi al-Mukhtar al-Kunti, and the Office of Shaykh al-Tariq
al-Qadiriyya,” in Studies in West African Islamic History, Volume 1: The Cultivators of
Islam, ed. John Ralph Willis (London & New York: Routledge, 1979), 113–146. Further
see Chih, Sufism, 66–69.
9 This applied to the entire imperial domain. See Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined, 122.
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 66.
11 See Abū Zayd Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, ed. Jumaʿa Shaykha (Tunis: Al-Dār
al-Tūnisīyya li-l-Nashr, 1984), 149–151, 153–154.
12 Grehan, Twilight, 72. Grehan reads from Aḥmad al-Ḥallāq al-Budayrī, Hawādith Dimashq
al-Yawmīyya 1154–1175/1741–1762 (Henceforth: HDY), red. Muḥammad Saʿīd al-Qāsimī,
ed. Aḥmad ʿIzzat ʿAbd al-Karīm (Damascus: Dār Saʿad al-Dīn, 1997), 167.
13 Patience was very important for the Sufis and the common people in eighteenth-century
Damascus.
14 Mikhā’il Burayk al-Dimashqī, Tārīkh al-Shām 1720–1782 (Henceforth: TS), ed.
Qusṭanṭīn al-Bāshā al-Mukhalliṣī (Harissa: Matbaʿat al-Qadīs Būlūs, 1930), 27–28.
15 Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī, Silk al-Durar fī Aʿyan al-Qarn al-Thānī ʿAshar, ed.
Akram Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 2002), 1:86. For baraka-transfer through
touch and through objects, see Chapters 5 and 6.
17 For instance, Muḥammad Ibn Ṣāliḥ al-Kīlānī, “Al-Durra al-Bahīyya fī Ṣūrat al-Ijāza
al-Qādirīyya,” (Henceforth: DB), MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Sprenger 819, Berlin,
13B.
19 Ikrām was another important trait for the Sufis in training.
1154 ilā Sanat 1176” (Henceforth: “HDY”), MS Chester Beatty Library Ar 3551/2,
Dublin, 6A–6B.
21 For the Syrian region, see Muḥammad Saʿīd al-Qāsimī, Jamāl al-Dīn al-Qāsimī, and Khalīl
al-ʿAẓm, Qāmūs al-Sināʿāt al-Shāmiyya (Henceforth: QS), ed. Ẓāfir al-Qāsimī (Damascus:
Dār Ṭlās, 1988), 103–104. For the wider European context, see Roswell Park, The Evil
Eye, Thanatology, and Other Essays (Boston: The Gorham Press, 1912), 296–313.
22 Certain professions were universally often mystified. See, for instance, Julia de Wolf
Gibbs Addison, Arts and Crafts in the Middle Ages: A Description of Mediaeval Work
manship in Several of the Departments of Applied Art, Together with some Account of
Special Artisans in the Early Renaissance (Boston: L.C. Page, 1921), 109–119.
23 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 6A–6B.
24 Mark J. Sedgwick, Sufism: The Essentials (Cairo: The American University in Cairo
Press, 2000), 43–45, or Scott Kugle, Sufis and Saints’ Bodies: Mysticism, Corporeality
and Sacred Power in Islam (Chapel Hill: University of Carolina Press, 2007), 100–109.
26 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 153–154, and Sedgwick, Sufism, 43–45.
27 Michael W. Dols, Majnūn: The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society, ed. Diana E.
Immisch (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 366–410. The author pays attention to holy
madmen in other scriptural trends as well. Also see Albrecht Berger and Sergey Ivanov,
eds., Holy Fools and Divine Madmen: Sacred Insanity through Ages and Cultures (Neu
ried: Ars Una, 2018). Each chapter treats a different religious system, to comprise a
global overview of hallowed madness.
29 Ibid., 134–135. Hair, like spittle, was believed to carry the essence of an individual and
was, in the case of holy men, attributed with talismanic properties. See Chapter 6.
30 Ibn Khaldūn compares the injinnated with animals, stating that they had no reason, see
al-Muqaddima, 149–150, 153.
33 Dogs also symbolized transmogrified jinn. See Edward William Lane, An Account of
the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians: Written in Egypt During the Years
1833, 1834, and 1835, 2 volumes (London: Charles Knight & Co., 1836), 1:299–300.
34 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 10B-11A, and Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Sall al-Ḥusām
al-Hindī li-Naṣrat Mawlānā Khālid al-Naqshbandī, in Majmūʿat Rasāʾil Muḥammad
Ibn ʿĀbidīn (Henceforth: MR) (Istanbul: Dar-i Saʿādat, 1907), 2:1–47. Further see Ibn
Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 139, or Lane, Egyptians, 1:298–300.
36 Ibid., 1:125–126.
37 Muḥammad Ibn ʿĪsā Ibn Kannān, Yawmiyāt Shāmīyya min 1111h ḥattā 1153h [Daily
Events of Shām 1699–1740], ed. Akram Ḥasan al-ʿUlabī (Damascus: Dār al-Ṭibāʿ,
1994), 375–376.
38 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:125–129, Ibn Kannān, Yawmiyāt, 375–376.
39 See Chih, Sufism, 111.
40 Al-Murādī, Silk, 3:170–171. Al-Murādī also hints that this theoleptic used to wear
Mawlawī attire.
41 See Dols, Majnūn, 425–474. Further see Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 149–153.
42 Mrs. Hans H. Spoer (A. Goodrich-Freer), “The Powers of Evil in Jerusalem,” Folklore,
18 No. 1 (March 1907): 57, n1.
44 See Chapter 1, and al-Murādī, Silk, 1:228–234.
45 Lane, Egyptians, 1:314–315. The practice was not confined only to the Khalwatīs, and
has a long tradition. For instance, Daniella Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety in Medieval
Syria: Mosques, Cemeteries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyūbids (1146–1260)
(Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2007), 78–85.
46 See Chih, Sufism, 29, and 54.
48 The ʿulamā’, as well as ordinary people, often shifted madhhab adherence. See Abdul-
Karim Rafeq, “Relations Between the Syrian “Ulamā” and the Ottoman State in the
Eighteenth Century,” Oriente Moderno 79/1 (1999): 70. Further see, for instance, Leslie
Pierce, Morality Tales: Law and Gender in the Ottoman Court of Aintab (University of
California Press: Berkeley, 2003), 86–128.
49 This style of biography writing survived for centuries and into modernity. See for
instance, Canaan, Saints, 313.
50 Eminegül Karababa and Güliz Ger, “Early Modern Ottoman Coffeehouse Culture and
the Formation of the Consumer Subject,” Journal of Consumer Research 37 (2010): 17,
doi: 10.1086/656422, Grehan, Everyday Life, 21–55.
51 See Richard J.A. McGregor, Sanctity and Mysticism in Medieval Egypt: The Wafā’ Sufi Order
and the Legacy of Ibn ʿArabī (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2004), 1–49.
52 See the tally in John Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1971), 264–271. Some of the large orders at times amounted to several dozens of
subchapters. Also see Lane, Egyptians, 1:310–312, 316, and Sirriyeh, Visionary, 112–115.
53 James Grehan, Everyday Life & Consumer Culture in 18th-Century Damascus (Seattle:
University of Washington Press, 2007), 15, Rafeq, “Relations,” 81, and John P. Brown,
The Darvishes: Or Oriental Spiritualism (Abingdon: Routledge, 2008), 89. Brown’s
volume was first published in 1868.

55 This may have been a response to the Hamidian campaign of popularizing Sufi paths,
especially of the Rifāʿīyya. See Bruce Masters, The Arabs of the Ottoman Empire,
1516–1918: A Social and Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2013), 208–211, or Butrus Abu-Manneh, “Sultan Abdulhamid II and Shaikh Abulhuda
Al-Sayyadi,” Middle Eastern Studies, 15 No. 2 (1979): 131–153.
56 See David Dean Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Otto
man Syria (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 50, 116–118, and
Amal Ghazal, “Sufism, Ijtihād and Modernity: Yūsuf al-Nabhānī in the Age of ʿAbd
al-Ḥamid II,” Archivum Ottomanicum No. 19 (2001): 242–243.
57 See James Grehan, “The Legend of the Samarmar: Parades and Communal Identity in
Syrian Towns c. 1500–1800,” Past & Present 204 (2009): 96.
58 Ghazal, “Sufism,” 242.
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005), 167.
60 Le Gall, Sufism, 1–34, 87–106.
61 See Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Sall al-Ḥusām al-Hindī li-Naṣrat
Mawlānā Khālid al-Naqshbandī, in Majmūʿat Rasāʾil Muḥammad Ibn ʿĀbidīn (Hence
forth: MR) (Istanbul: Dar-i Saʿādat, 1907), 2:1–61., and Muharrem Kılıç, “Ibn ʿAbidin,
Ahmad b. ʿAbdulghani (1238–1307/1823–89),” in The Biographical Encyclopedia of
Islamic Philosophy, ed. Oliver Leaman (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 158–159. This is
an older trend. See Marinos Sariyannis, “Ottoman Occultism and its Social Contexts:
Preliminary Remarks,” Aca’ib: Occasional papers on the Ottoman perceptions of the
supernatural 3 (2022): 45.
62 Sirriyeh, Visionary, 1–17, Astrid Meier, “Words in Action: ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī as
a Jurist,” in Early Modern Trends in Islamic Theology: ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī and
his Network of Scholarship (Studies and Texts), ed. Lejla Demiri and Samuela Pagani
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019), 107–136.
63 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:153–166, and John O. Voll, “Sufi Brotherhoods: Trans-cultural/
Trans-state Networks in the Muslim World,” in Interactions: Transregional Perspec
tives on World History, ed. Jerry H. Bentley, Renate Bridenthal, and A. Yang (Honolulu:
University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 38.
65 Albert Hourani, The History of the Arab Peoples (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of
Harvard University Press, 2002), 255, Steve Tamari, “Biography, Autobiography, and
Identity in Early Modern Damascus,” in Auto/Biography and the Construction of Iden
tity and Community in the Middle East, ed. Mary Ann Fay (New York: Palgrave, 2001),
42–43, Itzchak Weismann, The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a World
wide Sufi Tradition (London & New York: Routledge, 2007), 75–76, or Voll, “Brother
hoods,” 38–39.
66 Rafeq, “Relations,” 81, Voll, “Brotherhoods,” 38–39, and Weismann, Naqshbandiyya,
75–76.
67 Voll, “Brotherhoods,” 38–39.
68 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:125. The Jalwatīyya is a sub-branch of the Khalwatīyya order that
appeared in the middle of the seventeenth century. See ʿAbd al-Bāqī Miftāḥ, Aḍwā’ ʿalā
al-Ṭarīqa al-Raḥmānīyya al-Khalwatīyya [Casting Light on the Merciful Ways of the
Khalwatīyya] (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīyya, 1971), 20–21, (Shaykh al-ʿUlamā’)
Ismā ʿīl Ḥaqqī Ibn Muṣṭafā (al-Islāmbūlī al-Ḥanafī al-Khalwatī al-Burmawī, d.1724),
Tamām al-Fayḍ fī Bāb al-Rijāl: Rijāl wa al-Mashāyikh al-Ṭarīqa al-Khalwatīyya [The
Overwhelming of the Gate of Men: The Men and the Masters of the Khalwatīyya Path],
ed. Aḥmad Farīd al-Mazīrī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīyya, 1971), 29, 32, 113, and
Maḥmūd Efendī al-Uskudārī (Usküdari) (d.1628), with the commentary (sharḥ) by
ʿAbd al-Ghanī Ibn Ismā ʿīl al-Nābulsī, Sharḥ al-Tajalliyāt al-Ilahīyya wa al-Kashfāt
al-Rabānīyya [The Explanation of Divine Manifestations and the Lordly Revelations],
ed. ʿĀṣim Ibrāhīm al-Kayyālī al-Ḥusaynī al-Shādhilī al-Darqāwī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub
al-ʿIlmīyya, 2013), 101–102.
69 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 6A–6B, and al-Murādī, Silk, 4:48–49. The al-ʿAjlūnī family was
highly placed and respected.
70 See Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn al-Munajjid, ed., Wulāt Dimashq fī ʿAhd al-ʿUthmānī [The Gover
nors of Damascus in the Ottoman Era] (Damascus: n.p., 1949), 8–10, and Ibn Budayr,
“HDY,” 20A.
72 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 27B, and al-Murādī, Silk, 4:283–285. Further see Dana Sajdi, The
Barber of Damascus: Nouveau Literacy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2013), 42, 63–69, 200.
73 Al-Munajjid, Wulāt, 8.
74 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 15B, al-Murādī, Silk, 1:207–209. Also see Dana Sajdi, The Barber
of Damascus: Nouveau Literacy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2013), 47.
75 See Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 233. This is comparable to Christian Europe. See, for
instance, Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs
in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London: Penguin, 1991), 30.
76 Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Islamic Art and Spirituality (New York: State University of New
York Press, 1987), 70, 162–163, or Khachik Gevorgyan, “Futuwwa Varieties and the
Futuwwat-nāma Literature: An Attempt to Classify Futuwwa and Persian Futwwat
nāmas,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 40:1 (2013): 3. Also see Titus
Burckhardt, Art of Islam: Language and Meaning (Bloomington: World Wisdom Inc.,
2000), 220–225. This convergence is sometimes comparable to the historical nexus
between the guilds in Europe and various Christian esoteric paths. For instance, see Ger-
vase Rosser, The Art of Solidarity in the Middle Ages: Guilds in England, 1250–1550
77 See, for instance, André Raymond, Artisans et commerçants au Caire au XVIIIe
siècle, 2 vols. (Damas: Institut français de Damas, 1973), 2:417–445, 503–585, or
Gabriel Baer, Egyptian Guilds in Modern Times (Jerusalem: Israel Oriental Society,
1964), 1–7.
78 This hierarchy was systematically analyzed in Iliyās ʿAbduh Qudsī, Nubdha Tārīkhīyya
fī al-Ḥiraf al-Dimashqīyya [A Brief History of the Damascene Crafts] (London:
Hindawi C.I.C., 2019), 11–22. Compare with Chih, Sufism, 35–37, 66–69. Further see
Batran, “al-Kunti,” 113–146. Also see Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition:
ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden & Bos
ton: Brill, 2008), 27–34, and Rıza Yıldırım, “Inventing a Sufi Tradition: The Use of the
Futuwwa Ritual Gathering as a Model for the Qizilbash Djem,” in Sufism and Society:
Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800, ed. John Curry, Erik
Ohlander (Abingdon: Routledge, 2012), 164–182.
80 See Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 233, and Lane, Egyptians, 1:311.
81 Ibid., Weismann, “Sufi Brotherhoods,” 306, or al-Budayrī, HDY, 91.
83 For instance, see Masatoshi Kisaichi, “The Burhāmi Order and Islamic Resurgence in
Modern Egypt,” in Popular Movement and Democratization in the Islamic World, ed.
Masatoshi Kisaichi (Abingdon: Routledge, 2006), 57–77.
84 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:25–47, al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 10AB, ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥadīqa
al-Nadīyya: Sharḥ al-Ṭarīqa al-Muḥammadīyya (Miṣr: n.p., 1860), 2:389–393, Further
see Ohlander, Sufism, 27–34, Derin Terzioğlu, “Man in the Image of God in the Image
of the Times: Sufi Self-Narratives and the Diary of Niyāzī-i Mıṣrī (1618–94),” Studia
Islamica, No. 94 (2002): 144, and John J. Curry, The Transformation of the Mystical
Thought in the Ottoman Empire: The Rise of the Halveti Order 1350–1650 (Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 8.
University Press, 2017), 200–201, 208.
86 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 10B Further see Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Times of History: Universal
Topics in Islamic Historiography (Budapest & New York: Central European Univer
sity Press, 2007), 232.
87 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 2A–11A.
88 Knysh, Sufism, 204, Geoffroy, Sufism, 142–151.
89 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 10B.
90 Geoffroy, Sufism, 3, Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 10B.
91 Chih, Sufism, 61–63.
92 Ibid.
93 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 11B-12A, Lane, Egyptians, 1:317, Chih, Sufism, 32.
94 Chih, Sufism, 66–69. This hierarchy is, as was indicated previously, comparable to the
hierarchy within Middle Eastern trade guilds. See Qudsī, al-Ḥiraf, 11–22.
95 Another point comparable to certain customs in Europe. See Rosser, Solidarity, 89–
118, 149–187. The Lutherans had similar ideas. Juxtapose, for instance, Martin Lu
ther, Family Devotions for Every Day in the Church Year, ed. Georg Link, trans. Joel
Baseley (Dearborn: Mark V Publications, 2010), 229–230, against Emil Brunner, The
Christian Doctrine of the Church, Faith, and the Consummation: Dogmatics Vol. III,
trans. David Cairns and T.H.L. Parker (Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 1960),
22–25, 82–86, 184.
96 Chih, Sufism, 65, Knysh, Sufism, 160.
97 Chih, Sufism, 63–65, 68.
98 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 1A–2B.
99 Ibid., 13B. Further see Chih, Sufism, 55–60, Knysh, Sufism, 137–145, Nile Green,
Sufism: A Global History (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 9–10, Geoffroy, Su
fism, 142–151. Also see Ohlander, Sufism, 28, 148–149.
100 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 2A–3A, 13B.
101 See for instance, Knysh, Sufism, 138–145, Chih, Sufism, 52–69, or Green, Sufism,
9–10. Ibn Budayr the barber echoes a good part of this terminology in his obituary of
Ibn Ḥashīsh. Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 6A–6B.
103 Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 158, 216. Further see ʿAbd al-Bāqī Miftāḥ, Kitāb al-Ism
al-Aʿẓam [The Book of the Greatest Name] (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīyya, 2012).
Names of angels and other celestial beings were of much importance in premodern
Europe’s religions as well. See Thomas, Decline, 211–213.
104 Robert J. Wilkinson, Tetragrammaton: Western Christians and the Hebrew Name of
God: From the Beginnings to the Seventeenth Century (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2015),
195, 278.
105 Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 265.
107 See al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 22B–23A.
108 Shauna Huffaker, “Prayer Beads,” in Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. Juan Eduardo Campo
and J. Gordon Melton (New York: Fast on File, 2009), 558–559. Praying beads and
rosaries are common across cultures.
109 Alexander Russell, The Natural History of Aleppo: A Description of the City and the
Principal Natural Productions in its Neighbourhood, together with an Account of
the Climate, Inhabitants, and Diseases, Particularly of the Plague, 2 volumes, ed.
Patrick Russell (London: G.G. and J. Robinson: 1794), 1:209–210. Lane, Egyptians,
1:313–314, 2:94, 169–175, Canaan, Saints, 313–321. Further see Knysh, Sufism, 178,
237, Chih, Sufism, 69–70. Also see Geoffroy, Sufism, 162–170, and Trimingham, Sufi
Orders, 192–196.
110 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 151, 572–573, 658–660.

111 For instance, Riza Yıldırım, “Dervishes, Waqfs, and Conquest: Notes on Early Otto
man Expansion in Thrace,” in Held in Trust: Waqf in the Islamic World. Edited by Pas
cale Ghazaleh (Cairo & New York: The American University in Cairo Press), 2011,
23–40, or Heath W. Lowry, “The ‘Soup Muslims’ of the Ottoman Balkans: Was there
a ‘Western’ & ‘Eastern’ Ottoman Empire?” The Journal of Ottoman Studies 36 (2010):
97–133. This practice is older than the Ottoman Empire and involved both Sufi lodges
and important mosques. See Talmon-Heller, Piety, 55–57.
112 For instance, see Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 92B. See Chapter 6 for more detail.
113 Lane, Egyptians, 312.
114 Weismann, “Sufi Brotherhoods,” 306, Ahmet T. Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends:
Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle Period 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City: Uni
versity of Utah Press, 1994), 12–32.
116 Ibid., 2:179–181.
117 This shaykh was a brigand who was later named Abū al-Futūḥ, “The Father of Victo
ries.” See Rafeq, “Relations,” 80.
118 Ibid., 81.
119 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 37B, Lane, Egyptians, 2:177–179, Canaan, Saints, 261, and F. de
Jong, Ṭuruq and Ṭuruq-Linked Institutions in Nineteenth Century Egypt: A Historical
Study in Organizational Dimensions of Islamic Mysticsim (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 91.
121 Canaan, Saints, 313. See the photograph in Knysh, Sufism, 188.
123 Knysh, Sufism, 71. Also see Louis Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical
Language of Islamic Mysticism: Translated from the French with an Introduction by
Benjamin Clark (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 119–137.
124 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 11B–12B, and Canaan, Saints, 313–321.
125 See Sami G. Massoud, The Chronicles and Annalistic Sources of the Early Mamluk
Circassian Period (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2007), 415.
126 See Abd al-Qadir al-Rihawi and Émilie E. Ouéchek, “Les Deux “Takiyya“de Damas:
La “Takiyya“et la “Madrasa“Sulaymāniyya du Marg et la “Takiyya“as-Salimīmiyya
de Ṣāliḥīyya,” Bulletin d’études orientales 28 (1975): 217–225.
127 Al-Murādī, Silk, 4:128–129.
128 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 6A–6B, al-Murādī, Silk, 2:122.
129 Ibid., 1:153–166, and Voll, “Brotherhoods,” 38.
130 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:154–155, 3:130, 4:220–228.
131 Chih, Sufism, 3, 33–35, and Al-Azmeh, Times, 232.
132 Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 227.
134 See Al-Murādī, Silk, 3:95–96.
136 Stephan H. Stephan, “Lunacy in Palestine Folklore,” The Journal of the Palestine
Oriental Society, 5 (1925): 7, Grehan, Twilight, 150–151, 152–153, 180, Canaan,
Saints, 134.
137 L. du Couret, Life in the Desert; or Recollections of Travel in Asia and Africa, Trans
lated from the French (New York: Mason Brothers, 1860), 419–421.
139 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:129–130.
140 Madeline Zilfi, “The Ottoman ulema,” in The Cambridge History of Turkey: Volume
3, The Later Ottoman Empire 1603–1839, ed. Suraiya N. Faroqhi (Cambridge: Cam
bridge University Press, 2006), 209–214, 221–223.
141 Al-Kīlānī, “DB”, 10B–11A. Also see Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14–47, and Ibn Khaldūn,
Muqaddima, 131–165.
142 Al-Murādī, Silk, 4:283–285, or 1:228–234.
143 Canaan, Saints, 255. Also Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:5–25, and ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī,
“Kashf al-Nūr ʿan Aṣḥābi al-Qubūr,” MS Princeton University Library, Department
of Rare Books and Special Collections, Manuscript Collection, Islamic Manuscripts,
New Series no. 1113 Princeton, 162A–168B.
145 Grehan, Twilight, 65, Chih, Sufism, 72–73.
146 Countless illustrations may be found in Al-Murādī’s biography, such as, Silk, 1:124–125 or
1:228–231. Orthodox Christians employed similar character appraisal. See Burayk,
TS, 79–80.
147 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 161A–174A, and Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:36–47.
148 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 132–138, 151–152.
150 ʿIlm education was similarly confined to the privacy of the teachers and students.
See Aziz Al-Azmeh, Arabic Thought and Islamic Societies (Abingdon: Routledge,
2013), 237.
151 See Knysh, Sufism, 145.
152 See Al-Azmeh, Arabic Thought, 237.
153 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14–47, al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 10B, Al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 2:389–403. Also
see Grehan, Twilight, 55–56.
154 Al-Kīlānī, “DB,” 10B, al-Nābulsī, Fatḥ, 136–137, al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 2:389–403, Ibn
ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:25–26, 36–37, 40–47. Also see Grehan, Twilight, 55–56.
155 See Chapter 1.
156 See Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical Reason, Volume 1 (London and New
York: Verso, 2004), 345–504.
157 Grehan, Twilight, 56, 64.
158 Nelly Hanna, “Literacy and the ‘great divide’ in the Islamic World, 1300–1800,” Jour
nal of Global History 2 (2007): 175–194.
159 For instance Thomas Hartwell Horne, “Popery the Enemy and Falsifier of Scripture,”
in The Protestant Quarterly Review Volume III, ed. Joseph F. Berg (Philadelphia: Wil
liam S. Young, 1846), 91–118. Similar tendencies were noticeable in Islam with Ibn
ʿAbd al-Wahhāb’s rising renown. See, for instance, Natana J. Delong-Bas, Wahhabi
Islam: From Revival and Reform to Global Jihad (Oxford & New York: Oxford Uni
versity Press, 2004), 282.
160 Burayk, TS, 26.
161 See Grehan, Everyday Life, 124–155, Karababa and Ger, “Coffeehouse,” 2–4, 7, Ralph
S. Hattox, Coffee and Coffeehouses: The Origins of a Social Beverage in the Medieval
Near East (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1985), and James Grehan, “Smok
ing and ‘Early Modern’ Sociability: The Great Tobacco Debate in the Ottoman Middle
East (Seventeenth to Eighteenth Centuries),” The American Historical Review 111, no.
5 (December, 2006): 1352–1377.
162 Mustapha Sheikh, Ottoman Puritanism and its Discontents: Aḥmad al-Rūmī al-Āqḥisārī
and the Qāḍīzādelis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 2, Douglas A. Howard,
A History of the Ottoman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017),
168–172, or Ira M. Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, third edition (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2014), 370.
163 See Chapter 2.
164 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 38A, 53A. About alcohol, see Al-Qāsimī, QS, 127. Further see,
Sajdi, The Barber, 30, 74–76, Grehan, Everyday Life, 142–146.
165 See ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, Iḍāḥ al-Dalālāt fī Samā ʿa al-Ālāt [Clarifying the Proof
in Listening to Instruments], ed. Aḥmad Murātib Ḥammūsh (Damascus: Dār al-Fikr,
1981), 16–21. Further see Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:505. For a broader historical context,
see Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 265.
166 Geoffroy, Sufism, 89, 170–174, Chih, Sufism, 72, 135.
167 Grehan, Everyday Life, 134, Green, Sufism, 80.
168 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 56A, and Sajdi, The Barber, 63–64.
169 See Emil Homerin, Passion Before Me, My Fate Behind: Ibn al-Farīḍ and the Poetry
of Recollection (New York: University of New York Press, 2011), 143–176.
170 Homerin, Passion, 1–30, and Winter, Egyptian Society, 175.
171 For more about Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Ḥanbalī, see Chapter 6.
173 For instance, ibid., 105. Compare with Thomas, Decline, 30.
176 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:125–129.
177 Ibid., 1:228–234.
178 Al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 4A.
179 See Grehan, Twilight, 71–75, Canaan, Saints, 134, 302, 309.
180 See P. M. Holt, “Egypt, the Funj and Darfur,” The Cambridge History of Africa Volume
4: From c.1600 to c.1790, ed. Richard Gray, J.D. Fage and Roland Oliver (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1975), 36–37, Bruce Masters, “Egypt,” in Encyclopedia
of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Gábor Ágoston and Bruce Alan Masters (New York: Facts
on File, 2009), 205, and Daniel Crecelius, “The Mamluk beylicate of Egypt in the last
decates before its destruction by Muḥammad ʿAlī Pasha in 1811,” in The Mamluks in
Egyptian Politics and Society, ed. Thomas Philipp and Ulrich Haarmann (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998), 126–127.
182 See, for instance, Hussein Ibn Ṭu ʿuma al-Baytimānī, Kashf ‘Astār al-Tawḥīd li-l
Murīd ‘An Wajh Jalālāt al-Qurān al-Majīd [Unveiling the Curtains of Monotheism
for the Disciple Faced with the Glory of the Qur’ān], ed. Dr. ʿĀṣim Ibrāhīm al-Kiyyālī
(Beirut: Kitāb Nāshirūn, 2019).
184 Canaan found the most stories about shaykhs with inhuman physical attributes in Nab
lus and its environment. Canaan, Saints, 256.
185 Imād al-Dīn al-Ḥanafī, “Kitāb fī Faḍā’il al-Shām” [The Book of Virtues of Shām],
MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Wetzstein II 1111, Berlin, 87A–87B. I am reading a
copy produced in 1591. The manuscript lacks its final portion.
186 Illustration at al-Murādī, Silk, 1:232.
187 Ibid., 1:233.
188 Ibn ʿAbidīn, MR, 2:36–37, and al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200, Further see al-Nabhānī,
JK, 1:41–51, and Chapter 6.
189 Lane, Egyptians, 1:310–312, Itztchak Weismann, “Sufi Brotherhoods in Syria and
Israel: A Contemporary Overview,” History of Religions 43 (2004): 306, or al-Budayrī,
HDY, 91.
191 Ibid., 76.
192 Ibid., 67–68.
193 See Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, The Mulid of al-Sayyid al-Badawi of Tanta, trans.
Colin Clement (Cairo & New York: The American University of Cairo Press, 2019),
61–82.
194 Canaan, Saints, 260. Saintly powers, and especially those of newly emerged holy men,
often required verification in various confessions. For instance, see Nancy Caciola,
Discerning Spirits: Divine and Demonic Possession in the Middle Ages (Ithaca & Lon
don: Cornell University Press, 2003), 14–15, 277, 289.
195 Chih, Sufism, 1, 112–126, and Winter, Egyptian Society, 136.

196 Lane, Egyptians, 1:293, Chih, Sufism, 1, and Winter, Egyptian Society, 136.
197 Grehan, Twilight, 65–66.
198 Eric Geoffroy, “Arslān al-Dimashqī, Shaykh,” Encyclopaedia of Islam III, ed. Gudrun
Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, and Everett Rowson (Brill Online, 2014). http://
referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-3/arslan-al-dimashqi
shaykh-COM_23403 (Last accessed: February 23rd 2023).
199 Al-Ḥanafī, “KFS,” 87A–87B.
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5 Beyond the Grave
Graceful Dead, Hallowed Places, and
the Network of the Holy
Muslims believed that the dead lingered in their graves unseen. Graves were at
times compared to households of the living, where people spent “small deaths”
in cycles of nocturnal slumber.1 Allegedly, the dead would remain close to their
graves until the Day of Resurrection (yawm al-qiyāma), aware of those who came
near them. The deceased were believed to interact with visitors and to participate
in activities around their tombs.2
It was believed that the access of the deceased to heavenly rewards was secured
by their devoutness.3 A deceased walī remained a walī and in popular imaginary
retained the same traits of humility, virtue, and righteousness.4 God therefore alleg
edly continued to reward such individuals with thaumaturgical power, and Ottoman
subjects believed in the unbroken effluence of baraka from the deceased saints.5
The belief that the dead saints radiated with baraka prompted the development
of grave-visiting tradition in Islam,6 with pilgrims traveling to sites where divine
grace was expected to be found. Over centuries, pilgrimages (ziyāra; pl. ziyārāt; lit.
“visit”)7 to saintly shrines grew into a widespread custom both among the common
people and the elites. Grave visits and tomb cults represent a very old and ubiqui
tous phenomenon, which is an important element in religions worldwide.8
Deceased Muslim saints were venerated because of their baraka.9 It was hoped
that the unseen saintly presence would assist people with quotidian affairs or inter
cede in front of God on their behalf. Saintly intercession (shafāʿa)10 was an impor
tant element in Muslim premodern beliefs and a strong motivation for embarking
upon ziyārāt. To ensure shafāʿa,11 the people would perform ziyārāt around the year
and often bring votive offerings to the shrines.12 Endless proliferation of the Muslim
networks of the holy ensured the appearance of numerous newly entombed awliyā’
with every generation. The sheer number of holy graves in Syria and Palestine made
Canaan remark that, “It is a pity that we have not countless sacred trees commemo
rating holy persons, for Palestine would then be more wooded and consequently
more healthy, fertile and beautiful.”13 Ottoman subjects crossed long distances to
visit the shrines and graves of the Province of Damascus, which was known in
Ottoman domains as Shām al-Sharīf (“honorable/venerable Damascus”).14
This chapter examines ziyāra traditions of eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria.
The significance of baraka for the believers inspired a rich corpus of early mod
ern Ottoman customs related to building, commemorating, and visiting graves of
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539-5
Beyond the Grave 145
Muslim saints and thaumaturgical experts. Beliefs in the grace of the dead and of
hallowed places ensured the continuation of religious traditions that, in practical
ways, significantly influenced urban and rural topographies, sociopolitical strate
gies, and regional and imperial economies. Visitations of saintly graves represent a
prominent scholarly subject. Pilgrimages to shrines around the globe are researched
in various historical contexts15 and across cultures and religious traditions.16
Muslim thaumaturgical rituals placed heavy importance on shrines, due to the
belief that the baraka within improved ritual efficacy.17 The graceful dead were
important in a more practical sense too. Hallowed tombs often represented topo
graphical references for eighteenth-century Damascene authors, indicating stand
ard terms through which the environment was popularly perceived. People wished
to be buried as close as possible to alleged wonder-workers, believing that saintly
baraka would radiate their graves as well. Entire new graveyards thus formed over
time, while some shrine complexes turned into centers of new urban districts, both
in newly taken and previously controlled cities of the Ottoman Empire. I also dis
cuss here how the Ottoman urban and social policies over time included sacred
graves as a catalyst for the growth of a complex pilgrimage economy and infra
structure. The religious, economic, and social significance of hallowed graves
prompted the commissioning of entire complexes of buildings around hallowed
grounds, aimed to accommodate the pilgrims, as well as to host public activities
of the Sufis that would facilitate the strengthening of state influence. In addition to
dispensing divine grace and ministering to popular religious needs, these activities
involved charity work and preaching.18
I further take note of the beliefs that baraka could spread from hallowed tombs
and shrines into the natural environment. The “leaking” of baraka into nature
was believed to come either from the entombed, or from a preternatural surge
caused by a legendary event that was believed to have taken place at a given site.19
These beliefs inspired the attribution of religious and thaumaturgical significance
to certain natural objects, such as caves, trees, water sources, or rocks.20 The grace
of such objects most often pertained to saintly wonders that allegedly occurred
nearby.
Everyday Life and the Graveside: Living with the Dead in

Scholarship suggested that Islam in eighteenth-century Syria in many ways rep
resented a religion of tombs, due to the evident popularity of such sites over the
centuries.21 Writing about al-Bakrī’s pilgrimages, Grehan indicates the Khalwatī
master’s obsession with ziyārāt to saints, adding that there was no reason for
him to hide such obsessions when even the Ottoman sultans endorsed saintly
cults.22 Al-Bakrī indeed committed a lot of time to pilgrimages to various destina
tions, including the Arabian Peninsula, Egypt, and Iraq.23 He echoed his master
al-Nābulsī’s primary motivation for the ziyāra, as an invaluable opportunity to col
lect blessings from the saints, which he believed were laden with various benefits.24
146 Beyond the Grave
Al-Bakrī was very far from exceptional during the eighteenth century. Most
Ottoman subjects frequently went to ziyārāt with full encouragement from the emi
nent jurists of the Empire. Thaumaturgical benefits were often highlighted as the
primary reason for such endeavors. Because they believed in Sufi baraka and the
many saintly wonders, scholars like Ibn ʿĀbidīn and al-Nābulsī supported visits
to the sanctified dead, criticizing the skepticism towards the benefits of ziyāra as
folly (jahl).25
During his pilgrimages, al-Nābulsī passed through dozens of cities and vil
lages in attempts to visit all important graves he could find or hear of.26 In his
riḥlas, he recorded that his main aim was to see the holy sites and draw upon
the baraka within.27 The widespread custom of pilgrimages to the saintly tombs,
both among the thaumaturges of the Empire and the rest of the Ottoman subjects,
inspired many ʿulamā’ to produce travel guides, enumerating and describing
such hallowed places. Elizabeth Syrriyeh observes how ziyāra customs provided
inspiration for the development of a literary genre committed to shrine pilgrim
ages in Syria.28 As an instance, Ibn Kannān left behind an account of shrines and
holy tombs in the Damascene al-Ṣāliḥīyya district within his broader work on
the topography of this neighborhood,29 and Aḥmad al-Manīnī also wrote a work
specifically committed to pilgrimage sites. Literature committed to describing
the ziyāra and offering guides to pilgrimage sites was common across Ottoman
domains.30
Visitations to graves and cemeteries in eighteenth-century Syria often repre
sented leisurely social events. In Damascus, the Christian priest Burayk noted that
the people often used the city’s graveyards as picnic locations. Picnics, poetry
reading, or theater performances at the shrines were common over the centuries.31
Burayk, however, complains that many people spent almost every Saturday visit
ing the dead. These would be opportunities to relax, and the Orthodox cleric fumes
about the popular use of coffee, tobacco, and alcohol near the graves.32 Aside from
pastime activities, people visited hallowed shrines to pray there, often with hopes
of fulfilling particular and immediate goals through saintly intercession. Trained
thaumaturges recited their invocations, intending to use saintly baraka to empower
prayers or ensure ritual efficacy.33 They often assisted ordinary people with rituals
at these special places.
In addition to visiting graveyards as a pastime, people in Syria expected from
their deceased saints to fulfill several important social roles. Even though death
removed them from humanity by making them unseen, Muslim saints were fully
integrated into everyday life of eighteenth-century Syria. Beliefs in the lingering
presence of dead saints continuously influenced everyday practices and religious
habitus of the Ottoman Syrian subjects. Aside from interceding on behalf of the
supplicants in front of Allah, the awliyā’ were expected to ensure order in urban and
provincial hubs. Awliyā’ were powerful defenders against all kinds of intrusions.
The following account illustrates this belief. Locust infestations were a recurrent
problem in the greater Syrian region. Canaan, however, recorded a story about a
sacred grove near the village of Yalo (Yālū), about thirteen kilometers southeast
from Ramla. Although the locusts thrived in the area, it was believed that no insect
managed to approach the territory of the grove, protected by the saintly baraka.34
Sacred places among the Muslims often functioned similar to protective talismans.
The saints allegedly punished all kinds of intrusions upon hallowed sites. The
Ottomans adopted a very old tradition of keeping valuables within the shrines in
hopes that the awliyā’ protected the vaulted items with their power. Such beliefs
may have dissuaded some pilferers. Beliefs in protective powers of shrines were
widespread. Temples in different regions often held treasures, treaties, and other
items of value.35 In Damascus, the Umayyad Mosque held the state treasury during
the reign of the same-named dynasty.36
Common people shared this custom. During their travels in Syria, Canaan and
Curtiss wrote of many shrines that served as vaults for equipment and tools neces
sary for daily labor. It was believed that the commemorated saints guarded these
items from thieves. At the same time, it seemed practical to leave equipment close
to people’s worksites.37 During his eighteenth-century pilgrimage to Jerusalem,
Henry Maundrell was caught by bad weather without adequate shelter. His party
stopped near the village of Shulfatīyya to the north of Damascus.38 Reluctant to
seek refuge in the village houses due to how badly they appeared to have been kept,
they bargained for shelter within a “Sheck’s House” – a hallowed tomb. The locals
did not yield to pleas nor offers of remuneration until Maundrell’s guides assured
them that they followed “Hamet and Aly” and not “Omar and Abu Bekar.”39 Villag
ers then allowed them to leave their possessions within the shrine. People and ani
mals were, however, ordered to stay outside, along with any weapons they might
have carried.40
Maundrell records an instance when the Virgin intervened against an attempted
theft at the Saydnaya Monastery near Damascus. Built in honor of the Virgin, this
site was known for its many miracles and was held in high esteem both by the
Christians and Muslims of the region.41 The covenant chamber of the monastery
contained an icon of the Virgin that was believed to assist in fulfilling one’s prayers
and facilitate curative processes.42 According to a story told by the locals, one
night, a thief attempted to steal the icon. Not long after, the icon allegedly trans
formed into a full body of flesh and blood. The intruder was so frightened that he
hurried back to return the artifact and confess his sins.43 In the nineteenth century,
the priests in the region assured Josias Porter that this wondrous icon was half
comprised from stone and half from flesh and blood.44
Muslim shrines, like sacred grounds in many other religious confessions, repre
sented sites where violence was forbidden.45 In eighteenth-century Ottoman Syria,
numerous holy sites served as neutral grounds for negotiations. Diplomatic and
business transactions were conducted on hallowed grounds, which was an almost
universal custom.46 Like the Christian saints, the awliyā were believed to tolerate
no deception.47 Canaan relates that the people used the shrines as places where
popular trials were held. The accused would swear to their innocence and pray at a
shrine. It was expected that the saints would strike liars down.48 The awliyā’ were
believed to swiftly react to desecration. Grehan takes note of al-Nābulsī’s account
about the shrine of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Ramathānī at Mount Lebanon. The spring
that connected to the shrine dried up, and this was explained by a story that some
Druzes wanted to prepare pork meat in the blessed water. This was believed to have
angered al-Ramathānī, who arrested the water supply.49
Canaan relates of a gendarme in Awarta (ʿAwartā; Nablus Governorate) who
took some grape branches from a vine that belonged to a local saint. The inhabit
ants warned him against it, yet he paid no heed and soon began vomiting blood
with no apparent cure.50 Entering a shrine without removing footwear soiled the
sacred grounds and caused paralysis to offenders. Other acts of shrine pollution,
such as disposing of excrement, inspired stories about the trees bending down
to administer furious beatings.51 Of course, exceptions existed. In the eighteenth
century and later, the peace of some shrines was disturbed. Some were robbed,
even in the larger cities, while Bedouin raids presented a constant danger to the
pilgrims.52 To protect the pilgrimage routes, the Ottoman administration main
tained the function of the Pilgrimage Commander (amīr al-ḥajj), granted in both
Syria and Egypt.53
Ottoman Syrian shrines were in many ways integrated into popular everyday, but
they also played a crucial role for official religious practice. This may be evident
while conducting an overview of the architecture and the interior layout of such
sites. Interior analyses of Muslim shrines indicate functional overlaps with various
types of prayerhouses built by the Muslims before modernity, further clarifying
the utility of these structures. Most shrines were optimized for baraka-harvests as
prayer houses, and as such they hosted throngs of pilgrims as the centuries went by.
Houses of the Dead: Shrines of Power and Prayer in Eighteenth-

Century Syria
To commemorate a saint, Muslims often erected a dome (qubba).54 In some
instances when resources were low, and the environment allowed, a shaykh’s
corpse would be interred within a natural cave. Canaan found several cave-shrines
around the village of ʿAwarta. It was similar with the maqām of Shaykh al-Sidrī in
the Palestinian town of ‘Anata (ʿAnātā; Jerusalem Governorate). Additional work
was commissioned on these caves, to widen their entrance or set up the interior.
When Canaan saw these sites in the early twentieth century, however, he noted
their very poor condition.55
People would place the corpse of a deceased Muslim on its right side, propped
by means of stones or earth, so that it faced the qibla.56 The grave of a saint (ḍarīḥ)
would be placed under the dome.57 Very often, it would stand under coverlets
(sutūr; lit. “curtains”) that sometimes bore verses from the Scripture.58 They
tended to look luxurious, woven out of silk with golden embroidery. McCown dis
covered that some Palestinian graves contained a footpiece to symbolize Munkar
and Nakir, the angelic watchers over the deceased.59 The walls of a qubba usually
had niches to store oil and censers which were to honor the deceased.60 A miḥrāb
would often be installed within the dome to indicate the direction of Mecca.61 The
more elaborate domes, especially in urban areas, held additional chambers which
were used to host guests of a shrine. A minbar would often be constructed for
an imām to conduct group prayers or teach students.62 In addition, some shrines
would have mosques built as part of the same complex. In Damascus, such was the
case, for instance, with the shrines of Ibn ʿArabī and al-Nābulsī. However, saints
were sometimes buried under simple domes that lacked any ornaments, as was the
case with Abū Sall who was buried in Ein Karem (ʿAyn Kārim), which is today a
Jerusalem district.63
In some places, shrines were erected without a ḍarīḥ. Their purpose was to com
memorate the saints who might have prayed or caused wonders during their stay in
these locations. Some saintly graves were without the proper dome, as was the case
with the majority of such sites in Jericho.64 Over time, many shrines were forgotten,
and some were destroyed.
A functional overlap may be detected between the saintly maqāms and mosques
across Ottoman domains. Grehan remarks that wherever mosques were not present,
saintly shrines fulfilled the functional role of prayerhouses in Syrian regions.65 This
was an old tradition which continued throughout modernity, where ethnographers
recorded it as well.66 Prominent mosques within the largest urban hubs continu
ously received many who traveled from the countryside to attend prayers, as well
as to conduct their everyday transactions.67 However, the maqāms admitted pil
grims frequently, at all times during a year. In addition, it was common for the
Sufi masters to teach their disciples within such buildings.68 In efforts to optimize
maqāms for these purposes, their domes were built so that they structurally cor
respond to mosques and be further used as prayerhouses.69 All standard procedural
requirements for proper praying needed to be observed, of course, yet mistakes
made due to a lack of information or resources seemed to have been tolerated dur
ing the eighteenth century.70
The functional overlap between the maqāms and the mosques in Muslim
domains attracted scholarly attention, and some research has been done to fur
ther illuminate this issue in various historical periods, both in the Middle East
and elsewhere in the world.71 It appears that the role of both the mosque and the
saintly shrine among the Muslims historically developed through an entanglement
of theological thought, the tradition of rituals and devotional arrangements, the
popular belief in the preternatural power of certain sites, and popular consensus.
The functional convertibility of saintly graves into prayerhouses was made pos
sible by the widespread beliefs in the baraka these sites contained due either to
holy and popular thaumaturges entombed at these locations or through legends of
powerful preternatural surges which took place nearby. Such was the case with
both sites of wide renown, such as al-Aqsa, or the Dome of the Rock,72 and with
humble shrines in the countryside that allegedly enclosed corpses of local saints
who never acquired wider popularity.73
Specific mosques were sometimes visited in particular because of the beliefs that
events of special religious significance took place there. In the eighteenth century,
Damascus itself contained many sacred sites, among which the Bāb al-Muṣalla
mosque in the Damascene al-Maydān district had special renown for its power.
Local legends narrated that the Companion Abū ʿUbayda Ibn al-Jarrāḥ (583–639),
who was one of the commanders during the siege of Damascus, chose the site of
this mosque as appropriate for worship.74 In the eighteenth century, this mosque
was believed to augment the efficacy of religious rituals conducted within. The
people often flocked to Bāb al-Muṣalla to host religious ceremonies in their strug
gle against natural disasters.75
Larger mosques of wider renown were frequented by many people of vari
ous origins, while the more humble, local edifices served the needs of the locals.
Authors such as al-Nābulsī took effort to record such smaller places, indicating
equal significance of various prayerhouses which comprised the Ottoman topog
raphy of the holy. Many holy places also contained trees or water sources. Some
were connected to caves as well. Due to the belief the radiance of baraka within the
shrines, the people believed that divine grace pervaded such natural objects, further
enrichening the eighteenth-century network of grace.
Pools of Effluence: Grace in Nature and the Network of the Holy

Scattered across the Middle East are caves that bear religious significance, as,
according to belief, important events from the Scriptures took place in them.
Close to Bethlehem is the Milk Grotto where a chapel was built in 1872. Mus
lims and Christians believe that Joseph and Mary hid there with the baby Christ
during King Herod’s Infant Massacre,76 and that wondrous events continued to
occur within until the present. Some still believe that the Milk Grotto has powers
of thaumaturgical healing.77 Many such caves are located in Bilād al-Shām, of
which the most popular were those on Mount Qasioun. Among them is the Cave
of Blood, where Cain allegedly murdered Abel. The people believed that Abel’s
blood painted the rocks near the entrance red.78 Nearby is the Cave of Hunger, with
its own qubba, committed to the Forty Martyrs who have prayed within until they
died of starvation.79
Until today, pilgrimages to caves on Mount Qasioun are quite popular.80 In the
eighteenth century, the thaumaturges of Damascus spent time in them, as they
believed in their baraka and wished to partake of it.81 These sites were believed to
augment the efficacy of thaumaturgical rituals. Aḥmad al-Manīnī (d. 1758) recalled
how the Qudāma family, a very important lineage of medieval Hanbalite scholars
and mystics who also had their shrines in Damascus, allegedly performed wonders
in these locations, along with many other Awliyā’.82
Beliefs in sacred caves were common in all scriptural traditions and beyond.83 In
Ottoman Sunnism, sacredness of particular caves was most often based on legends
that tied a site to a saint. Mount Qasioun was associated with numerous popular
beliefs. Jesus and the Virgin allegedly prayed there. Nearby was the place where
Abraham observed the stars, the site where al-Khiḍr and Moses prayed, along with
a testimony to Archangel Gabriel.84 In addition, the people believed in many saintly
wonders that occurred on Mount Qasioun.85
Diverse occurrences inspired beliefs in the sacredness of a locality. For instance,

some caves were believed to contain baraka due to their proximity to saintly
maqāms. Such was the case with the cave at the tomb of Nabī ʿUzayr (brought in
relation to Ezra) in Awarta.86 People would sometimes hear mysterious sounds that
resembled music, sense sudden whiffs of scented fragrance, or spot a green light
shining within a grotto.87 Canaan spoke with a leper from Abu Dis (Abū Dīs), a
guard of the Jesus Hilfe leper hospital in Jerusalem. This man was also receiving
treatment there. He lived in a tent near the hospital. He told Canaan of a cave near
his tent, wherefrom he would hear faint music every Thursday. He once checked
out of curiosity, spotting a green glow within. Although he was too poor to offer
a candle to the cave every week, he told the locals about it, so people soon started
bringing tributes. The custom eventually ceased, however, and the cave was for
gotten.88 Extant source material suggests that many caves across Syria bore only
limited regional significance or related to saints of local character. Their relation
to a saint or a prophet sometimes changed or disappeared from popular memory
over time.
Orthodox Christians in Damascus proclaimed certain places sacred due to simi
lar occurrences. In 1766, three workers passed by the grave of the former Patriarch
Silvester (d.1766). They saw a group of priests praying there, and a light shone
upon them with pleasant fragrance filling the air. Passersby rushed to spread the
word among others. This is one of several stories which Burayk used to validate the
sainthood of the deceased patriarch.89
Trees could also be proclaimed sacred. Hallowed trees appear as a universal
religious phenomenon.90 The olive, the fig, and the acacia had particular reli
gious significance for the Ottoman subjects. These trees have been documented
in the scriptural canon as plants of special importance,91 in addition to the mysti
cal Zaqqum.92 Belief in the sanctity of certain types of trees, such as the acacia,
predates the emergence of Islam,93 while the religious significance of some others
may have been imported into Muslim tradition during the territorial spread of Mus
lim polities.94 Over centuries, Muslims believed in special powers attributed to the
juniper and the mulberry as well.95
Beliefs in sacred trees formed similar to beliefs in hallowed caves, especially
if a tree grew on a solitary outcrop or some other place of prominence. Someone
might testify to spotting a glowing aura around a tree, earning it popular atten
tion.96 It was believed that the deceased saints sometimes explicitly claimed some
trees for themselves. People told that the deceased awliyā’ could allow people to
see them, or appear in visions and dreams.97 The intruding saint might have then
suggested that a particular tree belonged to him. Such was the case with the fig tree
above the maqam of ʿAbd al-Salām in ‘Anata.98
Purported thaumaturgical surges often caused the belief in a tree’s baraka.
A grove of oaks above the village of Barouk (Bārūk) in the Chouf district of Mount
Lebanon contained a tree named after Sitt (lady) Sāra, Abraham’s wife. In the mid
dle ages, the people believed her footprint lay in the rock under the tree.99 Sāra’s
tree was not exceptional. In the Zabadani region of the Rif Dimashq Governorate,
legends told of a girl named ʿArja (“lame;” this lady was sometimes named Fāṭima).
She was handicapped. While doing her chores, she chanced upon a saint who dis
pelled her afflictions. Bestowing blessings, he sent her home. The thaumaturgical
healing of ʿArja allegedly happened on an ancient plateau covered with trees. The
people believed that the saint’s baraka leaked into the surrounding area, and the
tree on the outcrop where thaumaturgical healing supposedly happened became
“The Mother of Pieces” (umm al-shaqāqif).100 Alternatively, the name of the tree
is umm al-sharāṭīṭ – “mother of rags” – and its sanctity is revered by some to this
day. Canaan wrote down a legend according to which Aḥmad al-Rifaʿī (1118–1181)
once cured a lame woman by letting her touch the seams of his mantle, which
seems allusive to the Mother of Pieces story.101
As baraka was believed to spread from the graves of saints into the environment,
all trees that grew near a maqām would often be recognized as sacred. In Damascus,
Ibn Kannān wrote about a Shaykh ʿAbd al-Hādī al-Ṣāliḥī (d.1548), who was the
master of the Sufi ʿAfīfīyya lodge in al-Ṣāliḥīyya district. He was buried at the base
of Mount Qasioun, and a tree grew over his tomb, to attract pilgrims.102 Passing
through ʿAwarta, Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī visited what he supposed to be the cave which
was believed to contain the graves of Joshua Ibn Nūn and Mufaḍḍal, son of Aaron's
uncle. Al-Bakrī admired the carob there, one of the favorite jinnic habitats,103 which
grew over the sacred grave. It was attributed with baraka, and al-Bakrī stopped to
pray and collect blessings from it by sampling its pods.104
Certain rocks allegedly contained residual baraka through relations with mythi
cal individuals. Curtiss found that many rock formations, which were sacred in
Syria and Palestine, represented spolia of various ancient edifices.105 To the north
of Damascus, Ibn Kannān pointed an outcrop near Barzeh. It was believed that
Abraham prayed there and that his grace radiated into the rock. A prayerhouse
stood to commemorate the spot. Near it was yet another shrine to al-Khiḍr.106 Both
sites represented important ziyāra destinations.107
For the Ottoman subjects, water was among the most powerful natural conduits
of baraka. Maqām construction was often followed by building a cistern. If a water
source was lacking, maqām superintendents filled pitchers with water and left them
for the pilgrims, like in the maqām of Shaykh Ḥamdallah in Biddu (Biddū; Jerusa
lem Governorate).108 Visitors gladly took water from shrines, as they believed in its
wondrous properties.109
Springs and other natural water sources could attract beliefs in blessings – many
were believed to carry wondrous properties in the greater Syrian region.110 Zamzam
water was eagerly collected by the pilgrims and stored in their possessions or house
holds.111 Near Maaloula, locals showed a cave called al-Murtaqala to al-Nābulsī.
The cave’s ceiling dripped, and locals told al-Nābulsī that this water brought heal
ing benefits, especially to children.112 Canaan recorded tales of a marsh named
al-Maṭbaʿa that was located near a north Palestinian Arab village of Tel Shemmam
(Tall Shammām). The marsh was related to a walī, yet the ethnographer does not
offer a name. The waters of the marsh were believed to have curative properties.113
Hallowed natural objects represented access points114 to saintly networks which
were hoped to transmit grace to the people. With continuous expansion of the Otto
man network of the holy, saintly shrines multiplied over time. Damascus contained
a thriving sacred topography that remained widely revered long after the advent of
modernity.
Posthumous Privilege: Interring the Sacred in Eighteenth-Century

Damascus
In the centuries after early Muslim conquests, many Christian sites in and around
Damascus were converted into Muslim religious edifices. Henry Maundrell
lamented the conversion of the shrine to St. George built outside Beirut to mark the
site where the saint allegedly fought the infernal dragon.115 Many prominent reli
gious edifices in the region shared similar histories, such as the Umayyad Mosque
in Damascus, or the al-Aqsa in Jerusalem.116 As time passed, a large number of new
saintly maqāms appeared within and around the premises of larger Syrian sites.117
There existed a habit of building shrines in the vicinity of older edifices of religious
significance.
In the countryside, the people of Ottoman Bilād al-Shām often buried the promi
nent in higher ground.118 Even in fully developed cities, the importance of graves in
high places was evident, as was the case with shrines on Mount Qasioun in Damas
cus.119 As time passed, however, in larger urban centers, many shrines hid from
sight due to expanding cities’ skylines. Damascus grew steadily over the centu
ries.120 By the 1700s, its neighborhoods engulfed larger portions of the surrounding
countryside and merged with nearby settlements, giving birth to new districts.121
By the time Canaan embarked upon his ethnographical research, many shrines in
urban localities were already buried under residential buildings, while the mazes of
streets and alleyways tucked away the older edifices.122
Burying someone near an older and prominent saint was considered a high
honor. The widespread belief in saintly baraka inspired Ottoman subjects’ aspi
rations to be buried in the vicinity of their saints. It was believed that those who
acquired posthumous proximity to the maqāms continued to partake in the efflu
ence of saintly baraka throughout their afterlife. The desire to be entombed near
saints because of their grace represented a much older religious tradition123 that
induced the development of sprawling new cemeteries around the awliyā’ shrines
in the Middle East.124 In Damascus, for instance, the maqām of the medieval Mas
ter Ruslān near Bāb Tūmā aggregated a cemetery that over time expanded towards
the Bāb al-Sharqī.125
The people believed that many Companions of the Prophet were interred in
Damascus. In addition, Damascus contained scores of deceased Sufi-ʿulamā’
(and other members of the network of the holy) in its many cemeteries, of which
Bāb al-Ṣaghīr was the oldest and possibly most significant for popular religion.126
This cemetery was located to the southwest of the Inner City, close to the same-
named gate, where it contained the graves of Muḥammad’s daughter, Fāṭima,
and Companions Abū al-Dardā, Aws Ibn Aws al-Thaqafī, and Bilāl Ibn Rabāḥ
(Bilāl al-Ḥabashī).127 To the southeast, there existed another cemetery close to
Bāb Kaysān. On the north side of the Inner City lay Marj al-Ḍaḥḍāḥ, that was
named after Abū Daḥdāḥ al-Anṣarī, and which was previously known as Maqbarat
al-Farādīs. In the vicinity lay the cemetery of Sūq Sārūja. To the east, the cemetery
of Bāb Tūmā continued as the cemetery of Shaykh Ruslān, while Bāb al-Sharqī
cemetery held the tomb of Ubayy Ibn Kaʿb. To the southwest towards Maydān,
two graveyards existed and have disappeared since. These were the al-Ṣūfīyya
(which contained the shrine to Ibn Taymīyya) and al-Zaytūn, which to the south
approached the graveyard of ʿĀtika Bint Yazīd, an Umayyad princess. Some other
smaller cemeteries followed the roads towards the south of the city,128 while outside
of the city walls and far to the north were the graves at the base of Mount Qasioun,
with special density inside the al-Ṣāliḥīyya District. Al-Ṣāliḥīyya had high religious
significance due to the large number of Sufi lodges and saintly tombs that lay there.
It is possible that the Ottoman administration attempted to shift the urban focus of
Damascus from the Umayyad Mosque towards this district by commissioning the
Ibn ʿArabī complex,129 which may have triggered the aggregation of other religious
edifices.
The city of Damascus was teaming with Allah’s grace. A narrative tradition that
lasted long before entering eighteenth-century documents held that Kaʿab al-Aḥbār
allegedly claimed that there were 1700 prophets and saints buried around the Prov
ince of Damascus, of which 500 were entombed around its perimeter, while another
thousand or so would be found along the Levantine shores.130 These numbers are
heavily exaggerated, but they demonstrate the significance of sacred graves for the
popular imaginary. It appears that the Ottoman subjects, in the cities as well as the
countryside, made an effort to accumulate as many tombs of hallowed people as
possible near their settlements, due to the alleged radiance of baraka from within
them. For instance, Canaan recorded the pride of ‘Anāta’s inhabitants with seven
saintly maqāms in its environment. In Awarta, the number of sacred places was
fourteen.131
The desire for a baraka source in one’s immediate vicinity is at times striking
from the sources. James Grehan reads al-Nabhānī’s records about a Sufi shaykh
Ibrāhīm al-Saʿdī (d.1874) from the Palestinian town of Jenin (Jinīn). Al-Saʿdī had
a wife who lived in the village of Zir’in (Zirʿīn), and he died in that settlement.
While the villagers prepared his funeral, residents of the neighboring al-Mazar
(al-Mazār; Jenin district), arrived to claim the corpse, as one of al-Saʿdī’s ances
tors already lay entombed in their village. Furious argument escalated,132 and the
al-Mazar party carried the corpse away, yet during their journey, the funerary bier
grew heavy. Firmly anchored to the ground, it knocked back or threw aside anyone
who attempted to move it, eventually drawing the crowd towards a solitary, neutral
spot between the two villages.133
Some Sufi masters allegedly picked their own burial sites postmortem. They
would fly to their graves. According to beliefs, saints occasionally flew,134 but more
often after death. There exist reports of funeral biers that flew towards the pre
ferred burial spots of the deceased shaykhs. The people would obey their wishes.135
Ibrāhīm al-Saʿdī’s posthumous shoving was not exceptional either, as such rumors
seem to have been tied to shaykhs across the Middle East.136
The eighteenth-century deceased were putting new pins on the Damascene reli
gious map. For instance, when al-Naḥlāwī, the “Benediction of Damascus,” died
in 1744, he was interred in Madrasat al-Khātūnīyya (al-Ṣāliḥīyya District), where
he used to perform the dhikr. The site attracted throngs of visitors over the years,
who made the tabarruk near it, as they did if they passed by the shaykh while he
was still alive. According to Akram Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī, the name of this site slowly
changed to Zāwiyat al-Naḥlāwī, in honor of this thaumaturge.137 Muslim wonder-
workers would have the opportunity of their graves becoming baraka-dispensing
sites regardless of their social rank or status. In the imperial capital, the sultan per
sonally handpicked the burial site of the famous ʿUthmān the Theoleptic.138 Saint
entombment practices influenced the way in which Damascene authors perceived
the city. Scholars like al-Murādī used shrines as topographical references.
Once an important saint was buried, graves of other hallowed or otherwise
prominent individuals gravitated around his maqām. It is noticeable that the
entombed saint’s popularity and influence affected the selection of individuals for
neighboring gravesites. For instance, the Syrian nobility – governors and military
commanders – had their own preferred interment spot within the Banī al-Zakī cem
etery in al-Ṣāliḥīyya.139 This site surrounded the tomb and mosque of Ibn ʿArabī, the
patron saint of the Ottoman dynasty.140 The biographers over time emphasized the
representable character traits of those entombed in the vicinity of such prominent
saints. Yūsuf Pasha Ṭūbāl (Tur. Topal Yusuf; d.1715), was appointed to the function
of the Pilgrimage Commander and, in 1713, entered Damascus with a company
of soldiers to, under imperial directives, evict the rebellious governor Nasuh and
arrange his execution.141 He succeeded and soon became a favorite across the Dam
ascene social scale. Al-Murādī’s account teams with praise for the pasha, who died
of illness soon after, in 1715. Al-Nābulsī personally conducted a funerary oration in
al-Sālimīyya, and the pasha was buried in the immediate vicinity of the Ibn ʿArabī
complex. The pasha’s tomb was decorated with an epitaph in verse composed by
the axial saint al-Nābulsī.142
One did not need to be a provincial governor to be entombed next to a saint.
However, deceased of a lower sociopolitical significance had lower-ranked saints
as posthumous neighbors. Aḥmad Ibn Hudhayb al-ʿĀnī (d.1746) studied under
al-Nābulsī and worked as imām at the al-Daqqāq Mosque. After he died, he was
buried close to a deceased medieval master thaumaturge al-Ḥuṣnī (d.1425).143
The ṣāliḥūn could, in general, hope to receive posthumous honors through a
burial at an important site. In 1760, the remains of the Aleppine polydactilous cal
ligrapher al-Muʿt. ī were entombed next to a local saint ʿAbd al-Razzāq Abī Namīr.
Al-Murādī the biographer seemed pleased with this choice.144 Similar was the case
with Abū Yazīd the caretaker. In 1759, at the age of 105, he was buried at the
gravesite of Shaykh Sarī al-Dīn.145 Purity of character, popularly connected with
grace, assured one’s posthumous honors which were alike to those of appointed
scholars and thaumaturges, although of a much smaller scale.
Entombment at prominent ziyāra locations was ensured through family ties,
or ṭuruq affiliations. Shaykhs were often entombed close to their relatives, as was
the case with many in Shām.146 Ibn ʿArabī complex held the remains of the “Grand
Master’s” offspring. The influential Sufi-ʿulamā’, who were the descendants of a
very prominent scholar Ibn Qudāma (d.1155) and established authorities of the
Hanbalite madhhab, also had several important ziyāra shrines in the al-Ṣāliḥīyya.147
Exceptional cases were buried in solitary or isolated graves, such as the Masters
al-Masālme in Yalo, who were believed to posthumously forbid burials in their
vicinity. They were believed to deflect such attempts by bending workers’ tools.148
Sufi disciples who studied under the same shaykh would occasionally be
interred together. Many lodges would have the grave of their founder or promi
nent shaykhs within the premises. The Damascene al-Ṣāliḥīyya had many exam
ples of which illustrative were the al-Khwārizmīyya and al-Qawāmīyya lodges.149
Adherents to such lodges were often buried within the same grounds.150 Servants
of deceased shaykhs would sometimes be buried in their former master’s vicin
ity.151 Many elites buried their relatives close to sacred grounds, in hopes that the
blessings would be stronger as proximity to a saintly tomb increased. As the saints
were believed to sternly protect their domains, in the modern period, it was also
hoped that proximity to saints would discourage political opponents from desecrat
ing graves through exhumations.152
The reproductive capacity of the Ottoman network of the holy was immense
and, over time, facilitated the emergence and subsequent entombment of so many
Muslim saints that it seemed impossible for the Sufi-ʿulamā’ in office to keep track
of all of them. This was especially the case in the countryside with many saints of a
local character,153 while some shrines would, over time, be completely forgotten.154
In some scholarship today, the somewhat open-minded response of the prominent
eighteenth-century ʿulamā’ to popular claims of sainthood was interpreted as a “tri
umph from below,”155 yet it rather demonstrated an intricate entanglement between
ulamaic longitudinarian attitudes and broad popular consensus. The primary source
material from the eighteenth century does not indicate a triumph but a flow of
matters of course which reflected a stable religious setting in the centuries before
modernity.
Ulamaic response to new and previously unknown saints comes forth clearly
from al-Nābulsī’s travelogues. At numerous places in the countryside, locals would
inform the axial saint that a local walī had a shrine in the vicinity. Al-Nābulsī
usually used phrases such as “it is told,” or “they informed me” (yuqāl annahu/
ukhbirnā annahu). He would accept and record the testimonies,156 occasionally
attempting to uncover further relevant data. Then he would enter under the dome
to perform his rituals and prayers.157
In addition to ambiguities generated by newly emerging saintly generations,
debates revolved around the veracity of locations where figures of wider religious
importance were supposed to have their shrines. Over centuries, people believed
that the grave of the Companion Ubayy Ibn Kaʿab (d.649) lay in the Damascene Bāb
al-Sharqī cemetery, while the consensus later changed, indicating his gravesite in
Medina. The Damascene Ibn Kaʿab site was, over time, attributed to other individu
als, such as Ābān Ibn Ābān, while it later became commonly known as the turba of
Ṣāḥib ʿUbayda. Similar was the case with Zaynab, who had a maqām in Damascus,
while another lay in a nearby village. Caliph ʿUmar II had tombs in Damascus and
Homs.158 Many figures of religious importance had several shrines built in their
honor that commemorated various stages from their hagiographies. Grehan records
seven shrines to Moses in the greater Syrian territory.159 Al-Khiḍr had a shrine in
the Damascene al-Ṣāliḥīyya, but Paton visited another Maqām al-Khiḍr in Baniyas,
while al-Nābulsī passed a third one during his journey from Beirut to Tripoli. The
shrine Paton wrote about was in need of some maintenance (at least in the twentieth
century), while the eighteenth-century quṭb’s account describes a more elaborately
ornamented and furnished edifice.160 The journal of the eighteenth-century court
clerk from Homs, Muḥammad al-Makkī, identifies the fourth shrine to al-Khiḍr in
this author’s hometown near the lodge of Sāʿd al-Dīn al-Jabawī (the founder of the
Saʿdīyya).161
Various religious relics also caused disputes. A notable example is the head of
al-Ḥusayn Ibn ʿAlī Ibn Abī Ṭālib, the location of which caused arguments over sev
eral centuries. Muslim rigorists in the early modern period quoted Taymīyyan opin
ions according to which these ambiguities rendered the whole purpose of ziyāra
futile.162 Al-Nābulsī had a list of shrines believed to contain al-Ḥusayn’s head.163
Debates about the whereabouts of religious relics resemble those among the Chris
tians, which could at times also last for centuries without resolution. According to
some Christian authorities, for instance, various relics of the Baptist were, aside
from the Umayyad Mosque, believed to have been in the church of St. Silvester
in Rome, as well as the Cathedral of Amiens in France.164 Cetinje in Montenegro,
Wadi Natrun in Egypt, Sozopol,165 and the monastery of St. Ivan (since 2010)166 in
Bulgaria also competed for the claim to some of these relics. Al-Nābulsī’s reports
add to the fire, claiming that a part of St. John’s head may have resided within a
chest under the Citadel of Aleppo.167
Having a shrine nearby ensured a continuous flow of baraka in popular belief
but also attracted countless travelers. Pilgrimage was an important source of rev
enue and therefore, in many practical ways, influenced the history of early modern
Syria. It naturally affected the architectural design of shrine complexes but, over
time, inspired the development of a complex economy. Pilgrimage customs opened
the space for sociopolitical and economic use of religious edifices and attracted the
involvement of state administration, which became the norm during the Ottoman
period.
Eternally Graced, Perpetually Endowed: Managing Hallowed

Venues and their Revenues
Whether they were humble and solitary, or large architectural clusters, most shrines
were classified as waqf-type property endowments.168 The waqf was maintained
under more specific legal rulings than other types of properties in the Ottoman
Empire. These endowments were subject to more lenient taxing policies169 and
depended on the endower’s, as well as their descendants’, patronage. The endower
had the right to list himself among the beneficiaries of a waqf’s revenue. This
would make the waqf a hereditary property, under the perpetuity condition – such
a waqf could not be claimed back by the government.170
Complex economic and legal mechanisms were involved in regulating waqf
endowments yet received scientific attention of such limited proportions that it
caused surprise with some scholars. Historians provided a map of the ample pri
mary sources that facilitate the study of waqf history. Scholarly emphasis was
placed on the significance of these endowments for the study of sociology, anthro
pology, law, and urban history of various Ottoman provinces. Existing research
considers the waqf properties as religious, medical, and charitable institutions,
analyzing how the waqf financed mosques, lodges, hospitals, madrasas, and other
facilities.171 The waqfs were some of the earliest Ottoman establishments, and their
numbers exponentially grew with the spread of the Empire. They facilitated pros
elytization during the early Ottoman conquests, especially in the Balkans. Military
campaigns were often followed by endowing new waqfs that specialized in charity
and spread religious teachings in newly taken realms.
In Ottoman times, state officials often converted existing, or built new, religious
edifices and commissioned works around them to build centrally organized waqfs
(ʿimāra; Tur. imaret).172 Such complexes served as urban fulcrums around which
new neighborhoods would spread.173 Watenpaugh presumes that Salim I commis
sioned works on and around the Ibn ʿArabī shrine in Damascus for similar reasons
– to encourage urban growth and erect landmarks to compete with previous sites of
religious importance. Furthermore, such commissions served as visual demonstra
tions of Ottoman political claims.174
From the early Ottoman period, Sufi lodges and important graves were usually
endowed as very important waqf properties. This type of a waqf most often con
tained a shrine, an accompanying zāwiyā, a madrasa,175 a public bathhouse176 as
well as a community kitchen.177 Sometimes a mosque would be commissioned in
the immediate vicinity, or directly over an important grave,178 like with Ibn ʿArabī
and al-Nābulsī complexes in Damascus, which later attracted other holy graves.
Some of these graves over time fell into oblivion.179 Occasionally, the commission
ing of certain shrines was followed by the spinning of legendary tales, for instance
of dreams that inspired architectural works.180
The reliance of the Ottoman administration on waqf properties in Anatolia and
the European provinces had much older roots.181 Sufi orders often enjoyed Mon
gol royal patronage even while the sovereigns were still Buddhists.182 Under the
Ayyubids and the Mamluks, patronage over Sufi lodges was a matter of prestige,183
allowing such establishments to support themselves by generating income through
various types of engagement. Royal patronage enabled the lodges to feed and equip
the traveling Sufis whose excursions did not represent only ziyāra-inspired tour
ism. These traveling dervishes were often on state-appointed missions to proselyt
ize within the newly taken regions.184
Early Ottomans adopted the custom of using Sufi lodges as an instrument for
conducting state policies, which was a pragmatic and a strategic choice nestled
within a long tradition, which perhaps cannot fully be expressed through the coinage
of a “mystical turn.”185. Under Ottoman rule, Sufi lodges were spreading the state-
endorsed religious and social values among the people of newly conquered regions.
The successful rate of lodges’ missions influenced the reliance of the Ottoman state
administration on the utility of the Sufis for strategic and urban policies over a num
ber of centuries. In the eighteenth century, Ottoman provincial governors called upon
famous Sufi masters to assign important tasks to their disciples. Acolytes were dis
patched as state agents to proselytize along the borders of the Empire.186 During the
nineteenth century, foreigners in the Ottoman Empire complained that Sufi disciples
often served as state-appointed spies.187 In addition to ministering to the people and
conducting various thaumaturgical rituals, the Sufi-ʿulamā’ played an important role
for imperial expansion, affecting the spread of Ottoman Islam from Central Africa
to China. The sheer expanse of the imperial realm led to the creation of immense
networks of circulation and exchange among the Sufi-scholars.188
Considerable trust of Ottoman officials in the Sufi-ʿulamā’189 continued the his
torical prestige game of political patronage. Elites bequeathed Sufi orders with rich
financial and material endowments. Evidence of their support remained traceable
even on a smaller scale through inscriptions on shrines that identified the endower,
the entombed, and the contemporary head of state. Taufik Canaan reads a num
ber of such inscriptions in Syria and Palestine.190 Ample evidence remains of such
support on a larger scale. Illustrative is the patronage strategy of the Grand Vizier
Sokollu Mehmet Pasha (1506–1579), who was famous for his support to religious
activities of the Sufis.191
Ottoman sultans represented themselves as servants of shrine complexes on the
main Ḥajj routes.192 These structures undoubtedly secured an unparalleled revenue,
accumulated through accommodating pilgrims on ziyāra routes. Khāns were often
built as parts of shrine complexes. These institutions were popular among both the
common people and the prominent Sufi-ʿulamā’ of the eighteenth century.193 In
the absence of a khān, guests would often lodge in a zāwiya,194 or at least within
a designated guest chamber.195 Al-Nābulsī remembered enjoying the hospitality of
some such sites.196 Pilgrimage travel guides contained the whereabouts of popular
khans for the convenience of the pilgrims.197 In certain cases, whole caravansaries
awaited to tend to visitors.198
The ayān of the Ottoman period supervised their own endowments, albeit
much less lucrative. The ʿulamā’ traditionally counted among endowers, which
became a trend long before the emergence of the Ottoman Empire. Ulamā’ ֫ often
received waqfs as gifts from important judges.199 In the eighteenth century, influ
ential shaykhs and other state-endorsed notables typically were the beneficiaries of
some highly lucrative waqf properties.200 Keeping waqf holdings boosted prestige
among the Ottoman elites, providing additional opportunities for social mobility
and networking.
Sufi-ʿulamā’ endowments produced enviable revenue.201 These waqfs would
stay under the patronage of influential families over centuries, such as the Qudāma
family complex.202 Aḥmad al-Manīnī recorded how Muḥammad Efendī al-Murādī
extended patronage over a shrine to al-Ḥusayn’s head.203 Al-Nābulsī commissioned

the construction of his own shrine-complex in Damascus, which remained under
supervision of his offspring along with other land holdings of the axial saint. On the
day of his funeral, all of Damascus entered a virtual lockdown as throngs gathered
to part with the eighteenth-century quṭb in al-Ṣāliḥīyya.204
Later during the nineteenth century, the scholar-thaumaturges of the Empire
continued to play significant roles in terms of governing waqf properties. Colonel
du Couret noticed that the Ottoman network of the holy either counted as patrons of
these waqfs, or otherwise superintended such complexes for the endower ayān.205
Graceful waqfs were a significant boost to financial capacities of the Sufi-ulamaic
networks in office, allowing them to compete with other elites of the Ottoman
Empire.
The smooth operation of a shrine complex necessitated the appointment of
superintendents (sg. khādim, pl. khuddām; lit. “servants”). These functionaries
supervised the activities within the shrine, however in most cases without access
to financial management. In some instances, they would receive such respect that
they would be addressed as shaykhs themselves. Curtiss described superintendents
in Syria and Palestine as “virtual priests” or “ministers” of Muslim shrines.206
Although this is an exaggeration, the superintendents were responsible for the
maintenance of waqfs as well as the collection of donations brought to compen
sate for the Sufi masters’ assistance with thaumaturgical rituals.207 Their function
was sometimes hereditary.208 They took care of the shrines’ quotidian matters. For
instance, they made sure that any crops within the shrine, such as fruit trees, con
tinued to yield. They assisted the pilgrims with their prayers, as well as sacrifice,209
which brought them in comparison to the superintendents of the pre-Islamic Arab
shrines called the sādin who performed similar roles.210 Finally, it was the task
of the superintendents to take care of the shrines’ guests. Al-Nābulsī sometimes
enjoyed their hospitality.211
Superintendents commanded considerable social respect, especially in large cit
ies of the greater Syrian region. They would often keep the keys to various Muslim
shrines.212 The social rank of the khuddām often depended on the social rank of the
shrine’s saint. Shaykh Aḥmad Ibn Yaḥyā served the Ibn ʿArabī complex until his
death in 1692, acquiring the name al-Akramī (“the most generous”). The biogra
pher al-Murādī attributes the Most Generous Aḥmad with the highly praised ṣalāḥ
and describes the superintendent as a competent author and poet.213 It was some
times common to appoint a superintendent for a widely venerated shrine among
those members of society who were themselves highly prominent. For instance, the
Ottoman state-endowed al-Badawī complex in Egypt fell under the responsibility
of the Egyptian eighteenth-century quṭb al-Ḥifnī.214 The khuddām seemed present
virtually everywhere, and Curtiss takes note of the superintendents of the Mother
of Pieces plateau in the Zabadani region, even though no shrine was documented
to have ever stood erect at this location.215
According to popular beliefs, anything that grew around the shrine counted as
the walī’s property. For instance, the fruit of a sacred tree, or any animal that lived
in it, counted as the belongings of the deceased saint.216 Waters accumulated within
a shrine counted as the maqām’s sabīl. Stealing such items was strictly forbidden.
The general intent was for these goods to remain available to all pilgrims. How
ever, superintendents had the right to collect such items and sell them for profit.217
Donations collected by the superintendents represented a significant additional
source of income, while the khuddām received frequent awards for their assistance
with conducting rituals, sometimes in the form of finances, and sometimes in other
goods of material value.218 Religious establishments that belonged to other confes
sions in Syria generated comparable profit. For instance, Curtiss estimates that the
abbot of the Monastery of St. George in northern Syria was able to afford buying
an entire bishopric.219
Prominence and popularity of many shrines dwindled over time. Many widely
revered shrines lost popular attention after the advent of modernity. Modern period
state authorities at times seemed too busy to deal with issues tied to particular
localities, especially in the countryside. For instance, McCown visited the village
of Biddu in the Jerusalem Governorate. There he saw a dilapidated shrine that
the locals were attempting to repair by petitioning the government for over a year
without any concrete response.220 A century before, it was possible to hope that the
revenue of the damaged waqf would be swiftly collected and used to restore the
hallowed tomb.221
Tombs of the awliyā’ as well as other sacred sites, such as trees, caves, or rocks,
represented access points towards the unseen where the people came to interact
with their network of the holy. According to beliefs, even the standard prayers had
more effect if performed in the vicinity of the entombed awliyā’ because of their
baraka. In addition, the Ottoman Sufi-ʿulamā’ had a range of thaumaturgical rituals
at their disposal, aiming at more specific goals, which were performed both in soli
tude and in front of large audiences at very prominent sites of religious importance.
Thaumaturgical procedure represents the subject of the next chapter.
Notes
1 Muḥammad Amīn Ibn ʿUmar Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-Muhtār ʿala al-Durr al-Mukhtār, ed.
Muḥammad Bakr Ismā ʿīl (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīyya, 2003), 9:505.
2 Marʿī ibn Yūsuf al-Karmī al-Ḥanbalī, Shifā’ al-Ṣudūr fī Ziyārat al-Mashāhid wa
al-Qubūr, ed. Asʿad Muḥammad al-Ṭayyib (Mecca: Maktabat Narrār Muṣṭafā al-Bāz,
1998), 27–28. Similar beliefs exist in many cultures.
3 Jane Idleman Smith and Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad, The Islamic Understanding of Death
and Resurrection (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 31–99. For the eighteenth
century, see ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Fatḥ al-Rabānī wa al-Fayḍ al-Raḥmānī, ed.
Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Qādir ʿAṭā (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1980), 271–272.
4 ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥadīqa al-Nadīyya: Sharḥ al-Ṭarīqa al-Muḥammadīyya
(Miṣr: n.p., 1860), 1:199, and al-Nābulsī, Fatḥ, 271–273.
5 ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, “Kashf al-Nūr ʿan Aṣḥābi al-Qubūr,” MS Princeton Univer
sity Library, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Manuscript Collection,
Islamic Manuscripts, New Series no. 1113 Princeton, 162A–174A. Also al-Nābulsī,
Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200.
6 Beliefs in the mystical powers of ancestors and other deceased are widespread around
the globe. See Harvey Whitehouse, Modes of Religiosity: A Cognitive Theory of Reli
gious Transmission (Lanham & New York: Altamira Press, 2004), 49–55. For a his
torical perspective, see Jennifer Larson, Understanding Greek Religion (Abingdon:
Routledge, 2016), 265–283, or Carla Maria Antonaccio, An Archeology of Ancestors:
Tomb Cult and Hero Cult in Early Greece (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers,
Inc., 1995), 1–72.
7 Richard J. McGregor, “Grave Visitation/Worship,” Encyclopaedia of Islam III, ed.
Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, and Everett Rowson (Brill Online,
2014). http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_27519 (Last accessed: Febru
ary 27th 2023).
8 Ample material was published to offer potential for comparisons between Islam and
other scriptural traditions. See Brian B. Schmidt, Israel’s Beneficient Dead: Ancestor
Cult and Necromancy in Ancient Israelite Religion and Tradition (Winona Lake: Eisen
brauns, 1996), 14–27, Christopher Tilley, An Ethnography of the Neolithic: Early Pre
historic Societies in Southern Scandinavia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1996), 317–335, Claire Trenery, “Demons, Saints, and the Mad in Twelfth-Century
Miracles of Thomas Becket,” in Demons and Illness, ed. Siam Bhayro, 339–358, Ali
son Chapman, “The Patrons of Heaven and Earth,” in Patrons and Patron Saints in
Early Modern English Literature (New York & London: Routledge, 2013), 1–20, Judy
Ann Ford, English Readers of Catholic Saints: The Printing History of William Cax
ton’s Golden Legend (Abingdon: Routledge, 2020), 86, Keith Thomas, Religion and
the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century
England (London: Penguin, 1991), 28, 55, Suzanne Glover Lindsey, Funerary Arts and
Tomb Cult – Living with the Dead in France, 1750–1870 (London & New York: Rout-
ledge, 2012), 1–56. For a number of case studies for modern and contemporary Islam,
attitudes towards baraka in tombs worldwide, and the cults of saintly tombs, see Mar
garet Cormack, ed., Muslims and Others in Sacred Space (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2013).
enteenth and Eighteenth Century (London & New York: Routledge, 2019), 111. Further
see Ibn ʿAbidīn, Radd, 2:114–115, 242–243
10 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:183. Valerie J. Hoffman, “Intercession,” Encyclopaedia of the
Qur’ān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe. Available online at: https://referenceworks.
brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-the-quran/intercession-EQCOM_00097?s.
num=43&s.rows=100 (Last accessed: February 27th 2023). Also see Feras Hamza,
“Temporary Hellfire Punishment and the Making of Sunni Orthodoxy,” and Wilferd
Madelung, “Al-Ghazālī on Resurrection and the Road to Paradise,” both in Roads to
Paradise, ed. Günther, et al., 371–406, 422–427. Further see Josef Van Ess, Theology
and Society in the Second and the Third Centuries of the Hijra vol. 4, trans. Gwendolin
Goldbloom (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2018), 608, 661–663, or Francis Robinson, “Reli
gious Inspiration in Islam,“in Inspiration in Science and Religion, ed. Michael Fuller
(Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2012), 35–42.
11 Saintly intercession is a common motif in scriptural religions. For comparative per
spectives, see, for instance, Devin DeWeese, Islamization and Native Religion in the
Golden Horde: Baba Tükles and Conversion to Islam in Historical and Epic Tradition
(Pennsylvania: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994), 60–65, 455, R.N. Swanson,
Religion and Devotion in Europe c.1215-c.1515 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1995), 35–42, Donald S. Lopez, Jr., “Sanctification on the Bodhisattva Path,” in
Sainthood: Its Manifestations in World Religions, ed. Richard Kieckhefer and George
D. Bond (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 172–217, or Patricia Cox
Miller, “Animated Bodies and Icons,” in The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the
Holy in Late Ancient Christianity (Pennsylvania: University of Pennsylvania Press,
2009), 131–147. Finally, compare with Thomas, Decline, 28.
12 For grave visitations, for instance, in medieval Damascus, see Michael Chamberlain,
Knowledge and Social Practice in medieval Damascus, 1190–1350 (Cambridge: Cam
bridge University Press, 1994), 118–120. Compare with Alexandra Walsham, The Ref
ormation of the Landscape: Religion, Identity, and Memory in Early Modern Britain
and Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 35–36.
13 Taufik Canaan, Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine (London: Luzac &
Co., 1927), 1.
14 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, “Relations Between the Syrian “Ulamā” and the Ottoman State in
the Eighteenth Century,” Oriente Moderno 79/1 (1999): 80.
15 For instance, in the context of Islam, see Marco Schöller, “Muslim Theory,” in The
Living and the Dead in Islam: Studies in Arabic Epitaphs II (Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz
Verlag, 2004), 13–43, Josef W. Meri, The Cult of Saints among Muslims and Jews in
Medieval Syria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), I-58, René Dussaud, “Palmyre
et la Damascène,” in Topographie historique de la Syrie antique et médiévale (Paris: P.
Geuthner, 1927), 247–322, and Alex Weingrod, “Saints and Shrines, politics, and cul
ture: a Morocco-Israel Comparison,” and Nancy Tapper, “Ziyaret: Gender, Movement,
and Exchange in a Turkish Community,” in Muslim Travelers: Pilgrimage, Migration
and the Religious Imagination, ed. Dale F. Eickelman and James Piscatori (London &
New York: Routledge, 1990), 217–235, 236–255, Daniella Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety
in Medieval Syria: Mosques, Cemeteries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyūbids
(1146–1260) (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2007), 152–161, 172–183, 199–203, Nelly Amri,
Les saints en islam, les messagers de l’espérance: sainteté et eschatologie au Maghreb
aux XIVe et XVe siècles (Paris: Cerf, 2008), 70–89, Sossie Andezian, Expériences du
divin dans l’Algérie contemporaine: adeptes des saints de la région de Tlemcen (Paris:
CNRS, 2001), 55–78, Christopher Schurman Taylor, In the Vicinity of the Righteous:
Ziyāra and the Veneration of Muslim Saints (Leiden and Boston, Brill, 1998), 62–79,
Robert Bartlett, Why can the Dead do Such Great Things? Saints and Worshippers from
the Martyrs to the Reformation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 13–22,
621–633, Smith and Haddad, Death and Resurrection, 183–192, Chamberlain, Damas
cus, 118–120, John Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1971), 179–180.
16 For comparative purposes with other regions, and other religious traditions, see Issachar
Ben-Ami, Saint Veneration among the Jews in Morocco (Detroit: Wayne State Uni
versity Press, 1998), 131–180, Mohammed El Ayadi, Hassan Rachik, Mohamed Tozy,
L’Islam Au Quotidien: Enquête sur les valeurs et les pratiques religieuses au Maroc
(Casablanca: Editions Prologues, 2007), 60–63, 71, Azfar Moin, “The Politics of Saint
Shrines in the Persianate Empire,” in The Persianate World, ed. Abbas Amanat and
Assef Ashraf (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 105–124, or Thomas, Decline, 717. For a global per
spective, see Dionigi Albera and John Eade, eds., New Pathways in Pilgrimage Studies:
Global Perspectives (New York & London: Routledge, 2017). Each chapter focuses on
a different region on the globe.
17 See Chapter 6.
18 A good illustration of the significance of important graves for the state was the Dama
scene shrine complex of Ibn ʿArabī, which represented an Ottoman dynastic endow
ment. See Heghnar Zeitlian Watenpaugh, The Image of an Ottoman City: Imperial
Architecture and Urban Experience in Aleppo in the 16th and 17th Centuries (Leiden
and Boston: Brill, 2004), 38–39, and Çığdem Kafescıoğlu, “In the Image of Rūm: Otto
man Architectural Patronage in Sixteenth-Century Aleppo and Damascus,” Muqarnas
16 (1999): 74.
20 Comparable with Walsham, Landscape, 50–53.

21 James Grehan, Twilight of the Saints: Everyday Religion in Ottoman Syria and Pales
tine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 85–86. Also see 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), 72–78, Chih, Sufism, 22–24, Nile
Green, Sufism: A Global History (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 93.
22 Grehan, Saints, 83–84, 101.
23 Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī, Silk al-Durar fī Aʿyan al-Qarn al-Thānī, ed. Akram
Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 2002), 4:220–228.
24 Muṣṭafā ibn Kamāl al-Dīn al-Bakrī al-Ṣiddīqī, “al-Khamra al-Ḥisiyya fī al-Riḥla
al-Qudsīyya,” (Henceforth: “KhH”), MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. or. quart.
460, Berlin, copied in 1785, 3A–5B, 13B. Also see Muḥammad Ibn ʿĪsā Ibn Kannān,
“al-Murūj al-Sundusīyya fī Talkhīs. Tārīkh al-Ṣāliḥīya,” [The Vast Gardens of the Brief
Summary of the History of al-Ṣāliḥīyya], MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Wetzstein II
1117, p. 1, Berlin, 4A–9B. Henceforth: “MS.”
Khālid al-Naqshbandī, in Majmūʿat Rasāʾil Muḥammad Ibn ʿĀbidīn (Henceforth: MR)
(Istanbul: Dar-i Saʿādat, 1907), 2:4–47, and Radd, 2:114–115, al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,”
162A–174A, and al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200.
26 James Grehan offers a map of one of al-Nābulsī’s itineraries. See Grehan, Twilight, 22.
27 ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥaqīqa wa al-Majāz fī Riḥlat Bilād al-Shām wa Miṣr wa
al-Ḥijāz [The Metaphor and the Truth on the Road through Syria, Egypt and Hijaz], ed.
Riyād ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd Murād (Damascus: Dār al-Mu ʿarafa, 1989), 37, as well as Abd ֫
al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, Riḥlatān ilā Lubnān [Two Journeys to Lebanon], ed. Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn
al-Munajjid and Stefan Wild (Beirut: Franz Steiner, 1979), 55–56.
29 For a sample of his ample record of such sites, see for instance, Ibn Kannān, “MS,”
5A, 8B.
30 For the North African and Egyptian cases, see Chih, Sufism, 21–28.
31 Taylor, Righteous, 62–79. Also, Donald Swenson, Society, Spirituality, and the Sacred:
A Social Scientific Introduction (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 178–179.
Further see Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 26.
32 Mikhā’il Burayk al-Dimashqī, Tārīkh al-Shām 1720–1782, ed. Qusṭanṭīn al-Bāshā
al-Mukhalliṣī (Harissa: Matbaʿat al-Qadīs Būlūs, 1930), 63–64. Henceforth: TS.
33 See Chapter 6.
35 See Brannon Wheeler, “Treasure of the Kaʿbah,” in Mecca and Eden: Ritual, Relics, and
Territory in Islam (Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 19–46. The
belief of saintly presence guarding property and people is old and seems ubiquitous. For
an anthropological theoretical background, see Mircea Eliade, “Sacred Space and Mak
ing the World Sacred,” in The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion (Orlando:
Harcourt, Inc., 1959), 20–67, and David Carmichael, Jane Hubert, Brian Reeves and
Audhild Schanche, “Introduction,” in Sacred Sites, Sacred Places, ed. David Carmi
chael, Jane Hubert, Brian Reeves and Audhild Schanche (Abingdon: Routledge, 1994),
1–8. For a comparative perspective with a historical background, see Marty E. Ste
vens, Temples, Tithes and Taxes: The Temple and the Economic Life of Ancient Israel
(Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2006), 64–65, Diane Harris, The Treasures of the
Parthenon and Erechteion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 1–39, Reynold Higgins,
The Aegina Treasure: an Archaelogical Mystery (London: British Museum Publica
tions, 1979), 48–50, Antonaccio, Ancestors, 116–118, Schmidt, Necromancy, 58–61,
Catherine Johns, “Faunus at Thetford: An Early Latian Deity in Late Roman Britain,”
in Pagan Gods and Shrines of the Roman Empire, ed. Martin Henig and Anthony King
(Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, 1986), 93–104, Charles G.

Leland, Etruscan Roman Remains and the Old Religion (Abingdon: Routledge, 2010),
31–32, 221. For a comparative perspective in later medieval and early modern times,
see Benjamin David Brand, Holy Treasure and Sacred Song: Relic Cults and their Litur
gies in Medieval Tuscany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 17–43, John Martin
Robinson, Treasures of the English Churches (London: Sinclair-Stevenson, 1995), 37,
Sheila Blair, The Ilkhanid Shrine Complex at Natanz, Iran (Cambridge: Center for Mid
dle Eastern Studies, 1986), 5–8, Stephen C. Berkwitz, The History of the Relic Shrine: a
Translation of the Sinhala Thūpavaṃsa (Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press,
2007), 208–244.
36 Ross Burns, Damascus: A History (London & New York: Routledge, 2007), 138–141.
This was the case elsewhere in Syria, see Ibid., 87–88. Further see Paul M. Cobb, White
Banners: Contention in ‘Abbāsid Syria, 750–880 (New York: State University of New
York Press, 2001), 151.
37 See, for instance, Canaan, Saints, 102, and Samuel Ives Curtiss, Primitive Semitic Reli
gion To-day: A Record of Researches, Discoveries and Studies in Syria, Palestine and
the Sinaitic Peninsula (Chicago: Fleming H. Revel Company, 1902), 160–161.
38 See Hugh Murray, The Encyclopaedia of Geography Comprising a Complete Descrip
tion of the Earth (Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard, 1837), 259, Fig. 555.
39 This distinction implies Shi’te presence in the region.
40 Henry Maundrell, A Journey from Aleppo to Jerusalim at Easter A.D. 1697 (Oxford:
Theater, 1703), 8–11.
41 Kathryn Blair Moore, The Architecture of the Christian Holy Land: Reception from
Late Antiquity Through the Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2017), 146–147, Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem:
A Corpus Vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 219, Amy G. Remen
snyder, La Conquistadora: The Virgin Mary at War and Peace in the Old and New
Worlds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 157–158, Ross Burns, Monuments
of Syria: A Guide (London: I.B. Tauris, 2020), 151, Dana Sajdi, The Barber of Damas
cus: Nouveau Literacy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2013), 31, and James Grehan, Everyday Life & Consumer Culture in
18th-Century Damascus (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007), 133. Further
see Mat Immerzeel, “Divine Cavalry: Mounted Saints in Middle Eastern Christian Art,”
in East and West in the Crusader States, Contexts, Contacts, Confrontations, ed. Krijnie
Ciggaar and Herman Teule (Leuven: Uitgeverij Peeters, 2003), 265–286. For the early
modern context, see Burayk, TS, 74, or Josias Leslie Porter, Five Years in Damascus,
Including an Account of the History, Topography, and Antiquities of that City, 2 volumes
(London: John Murray, 1855), 1:337–347.
42 See Chapter 6 for more about talismanics and image magic.
43 Maundrell, Journey, 130.
44 Porter, Damascus, 1:343.
45 This is a ubiquitous and an old tradition. See Eliade, “Space,” 20–67. Further see
Rebecca I. Denova, Greek and Roman Religions (Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell, 2019),
1–23, 99–103, or Thomas, Decline, 67, 113.
48 Canaan, Saints, 128–129, 270.
51 Ibid., 93–96.
52 For instance, Al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 21B, or Canaan, Saints, 246. Further see, for instance,
John Lewis Burckhardt, Notes on the Bedouins and Wahabys: Collected During his
Travel in the East (London: Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley, 1831), 2: 108–109,
168–176, Burns, Damascus, 245, Karl K. Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus, 1708–
1758 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 97–107, Mohannad al-Mubaidin,
“Aspects of the Economic History of Damascus During the First Half of the Eighteenth
Century,” trans. W. Matt Malcycky, in Syria and Bilad al-Sham under Ottoman Rule,
ed. Peter Sluglett and Stefan Weber (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2010), 137–154, Sherifa
Zuhur, Saudi Arabia (Santa Barbara: Clio, 2011), 41.
53 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, The Province of Damascus, 1723–1783 (Beirut: Khayats, 1966),
53, and Chih, Sufism, 17.
54 Other terms were used, such as mazār, the place of visitation, maqām, the dwelling,
or mashhad, the mark (these two words bear the technical meaning of “shrine”). For
domes, see Faḍl Allah Ibn Muḥibb Allah al-Muḥibbī al-Dimashqī, Riḥlatān al-Rūmīyya
wa al-Maṣrīyya [Two Journeys to Europe and Egypt], ed. ʿImād ʿAbd al-Salām Ra’ūf
(Damascus: Dār al-Zamān li-l-Ṭibā ʿa wa al-Nashr wa al-Tawzīʿ, 2012), 74, and Muḥsin
al-Amīn, Khiṭaṭ [The Topography of] Jabal ʿĀmil, ed. Ḥasan al-Amīn (Beirut: Maṭbaʿat
al-Anṣāf, 1961), 147–149. Further see Maundrell, Journey, 9–11, Canaan, Saints, 10, 17,
ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Tuḥfa al-Nābulusīyya fī al-Riḥla al-Ṭarābulusīyya, [The
Artwork of Nābulsī about a Journey to Tripoli], ed. Heribert Busse (Beirut: Argon Ver
lag, 2003), 38, and al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 86. Also see Chester Carlton McCown, “Muslim
Shrines in Palestine,” The Annual of the American School of Oriental Research in Jeru
salem, 2/3 (1921/1922): 50.
55 Canaan, Saints, 22, 42–44.
56 Edward William Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyp
tians: Written in Egypt During the Years 1833, 1834, and 1835, 2 volumes (London:
Charles Knight & Co., 1836), 2:266, Alexander Russell, The Natural History of Aleppo:
A Description of the City and the Principal Natural Productions in its Neighbourhood,
together with an Account of the Climate, Inhabitants, and Diseases, Particularly of the
Plague, 2 volumes, ed. Patrick Russell (London: G.G. and J. Robinson: 1794), 1:309.
Also see Leor Halevi, Muhammad’s Grave: Death Rites and the Making of Islamic
Society (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 190. This is a universal tradition
regardless of the region. See Nathal M. Dessing, Rituals of Birth, Circumcision, Mar
riage, and Death among the Muslims in the Netherlands (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 165.
For a wider reading about different burial customs in the world, see Christine Quigley,
The Corpse: A History (Jefferson: McFarland, 1996), 88.
57 For instance, al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 86, 88, 91, 100, 103, 138.
58 Al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 168B, Canaan, Saints, 29.
59 McCown, “Shrines,” 50–51.
60 Ibid., 51, Maundrell, Journey, 13, 131.
61 Maundrell, Journey, 14, Canaan, Saints, 14–17, McCown, “Shrines,” 51, Al-Nābulsī,
Ḥaqīqa, 138.
62 For instance, Al-Karmī, ShS, 37, and Grehan, Twilight, 23, 90.
63 McCown, “Shrines,” 50. For the environments, see the map in Louis Massignon, Docu
ments sur Certains Waqfs des Lieux Saints de l’Islam (Paris: Librarie Orientaliste Paul
Geuthner, 1952), 119.
67 Ibid., 2.
68 Al-Murādī, Silk, 3:95, for instance.
69 For descriptions of the interior of domes during the early modern period, see al-Muḥibbī,
Riḥlatān, 44–74 and al-Amīn, Khiṭaṭ, 146. Also see ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥaḍra
al-Unsīyya fī al-Riḥla al-Qudsīyya [The Human Presence at the Journey to Jerusalem],
ed. Akram Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī (Beirut: al-Maṣādir, 1990), 137, 195, 203, 218. Also Mas
signon, Documents, 83. Further see Canaan, Saints, 48–51, for layouts he saw in the
early twentieth century. For comparative purposes, see Akel Kahera, Latif Abdulmalik
and Craig Anz, Design Criteria for Mosques and Islamic Centers: Art, Architecture
and Worship (Amsterdam, Boston: Elsevier/Architectural Press, 2009), 1–8, and Doğan
Kuban, Muslim Religious Architecture, Part II: Development of Religious Architecture
in Later Periods (Leiden: Brill, 1985), 31–33. For comparisons towards the contempo
rary period, see Ismail Serageldin and James Steele, Architecture of the Contemporary
Mosque (New Jersey: Wiley, 1996), 9, 53, 87, 115.
70 See Ibn ʿAbidīn, Radd., 2:114–115.
71 See, for instance, Samer Akkach, “Architectural Order,” in Cosmology and Architecture
in Premodern Islam: An Architectural Reading of Mystical Ideas (New York: State Uni
versity of New York Press, 2005), 149–206, Finbarr Barry Flood, The Great Mosque
of Damascus: Studies on the Makings of an Umayyad Visual Culture (Leiden & Bos
ton: Brill, 2001), 15–113, Andreas Kaplony, The Ḥaram of Jerusalem: Temple, Fri
day Mosque, Area of Spiritual Power (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2002), 115–122,
Zeynep Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire: The Politics of
Bektashi Shrines in the Classical Age (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2012),
79–134, 25–50, or Talmon-Heller, Piety, 172–199. For other regions, illustrative are
Mehrdad Shokoohy, Muslim Architecture of South India: The Sultanate of Ma’bar and
the Traditions of the Maritime Settlers on the Malabar and Coromandel Coasts (Tamil
Nadu, Kerala, and Goa) (London & New York: Routledge Curzon, 2003), 34–49, and
Catherine B. Asher, The New Cambridge History of India 1:4: Architecture of Mughal
India (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 292–334.
72 Oleg Grabar, “The Sanctuary in a New Muslim Order,” in The Dome of the Rock (Cam
bridge & London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006), 159–204.
73 Sainthood varied in geographical relevance. See Chapter 4, and continue reading for
al-Nābulsī’s encounters with local shrines of unremarkable popularity. Rafeq, Damas
cus, 182–183.
74 See Abdul-Karim Rafeq, “The Social and Economic Structire of Bāb al-Muṣalla
(al-Mīdān), Damascus, 1825–75,” in Arab Civilization, Challenges and Responses:
Studies in Honor of Constantine K. Zurayk, ed. George N. Atiyeh and Ibrahim M.
Oweiss (Albany NY: State University of New York Press, 1988), 273.
75 See Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Budayr, “Ḥawādith Dimashq al-Shām Yawmīyya min
Sanat 1154 ilā Sanat 1176” (Henceforth: “HDY”), MS Chester Beatty Library Ar
3551/2, Dublin, 92B, and the next chapter.
76 Paul L. Maier, “Herod and the Infants of Bethlehem,” in Chronos, Kairos, Christos II:
Chronological, Nativity and Religious Studies in Memory of Ray Summers, ed. Ray
Summers and E. Jerry Vardaman (Macon: Mercer Univesity Press, 1998), 169–175.
77 Sera L. Young, Craving Earth: Understanding Pica, The Urge to eat Clay, Starch, Ice
and Chalk (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 47.
78 Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 11B–12A. Also see Sir Hamilton Alexander Rosskeen Gibb, ed.,
The Travels of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, A.D. 1325–1354, Part I (Cambridge: Hakluyt Society,
1995), 145.
79 Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 5A.
80 For seventeenth- and eighteenth-century context see, Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 4A–5B,
11B–12A, or ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Ibn Ibrāhīm Ibn ʿAbd al-Razzāq, Ḥadā’iq al-Anʿām fī
Faḍā’il al-Shām [Blissful Gardens of the Damascene Curiosities] ed. Yūsuf Budaywī
(Kuwait: Dār al-Ḍiyyā’ li-l-Ṭibāʿa wa al-Nashr wa Al-Tawzīʿ, 1989), 94–100, Hence
forth: FS. The beliefs in the preternatural power of these caves survived into moder
nity. See Muḥammad ʿIzz al-Dīn ʿArabī al-Ṣayyādī Kātibī al-Rifāʿī al-Shāfiʿī, al-Rawḍa
al-Bahīyya fī Faḍā’il Dimashq al-Muḥammīyya [Gorgeous Garden of the Curiosities
of Sacred Damascus] (Damascus: Dār al-Maqtabas, 1911), 41–43. Further see Burns,
Damascus, 5, Itztchak Weismann, “Sufi Brotherhoods in Syria and Israel: A Contem
porary Overview,” History of Religions 43 (2004): 307, Mārī Dikrān Sarkū, Dimashq
fatrat al-Sulṭān ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd al-Thānī [Damascus in the Age of Sultan Abdulhamid
II] 1293–1325h/1876–1908 (Damascus: Wizārat al-Thaqāfa, 2010), 77, or Ḥasan Zakī
al-Ṣawwāf, Dimashq: Aqdam ʿĀṣima fī al-ʿĀlam [Damascus: The World’s Oldest Capi
tal] (Damascus: Dār al-Quṭayba li-l-Ṭibāʿa wa al-Nashr, 2004), 219–221.
81 Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 11B, al-Murādī, Silk, 3:276–278.
82 Aḥmad Ibn ʿAlī Ibn ʿUmar Ibn Ṣāliḥ al-Manīnī, al-Iʿalām bi-Faḍā’il al-Shām [High
lights among the Virtues of Shām], ed. Aḥmad Sāmiḥ al-Khālidī (Jerusalem: al
Maṭbaʿa al-ʿAṣrīyya, n.d.), 71–109. Henceforth: IFS.
83 For instance, Ian Richard Netton, Islam, Christianity and the Mystic Journey: A Com
parative Exploration (Edinbrugh: Edinbrugh University Press, 2011), 84–89, Wilken,
“Holy Land,” 743–746, or Marion Dowd, “Chapter 8: Out of the Darkness, into the
Light: The Early Medieval Period (AD 400–1169),” in The Archaeology of Caves in
Ireland (Oxford & Philadelphia: Oxbow Books, 2015), 174–207.
84 Al-Ṣayyādī, RB, 41–42, al-Manīnī, IFS, 71–109, al-Razzāq, FS, 94–100. Also
Maḥmūd al-ʿAdawī, Kitāb al-Ziyārāt bi Dimashq [Pilgrimages in Damascus], ed.
Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn al-Munajjid (Damascus: Maṭbūʿāt al-Majmaʿ al-ʿIlmī al-ʿArabī, 1956),
4–8. Henceforth: ZD.
85 Al-Ṣayyādī, RB, 41–42.
87 Ibid., 135, 248. Further see Al-Ṣayyādī, RB, 41–43.
89 Burayk, TS, 85.
90 Pierre Jurieu, Histoire Critique des Dogmes et Cultes (Amsterdam: Francois
l’Honore & Co. 1704), 754.
91 Grehan, Twilight, 134–136, Canaan, Saints, 30–31.
92 Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Emergence of Islam in Late Antiquity: Allāh and his People (New
York: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 212–214, Said Mentak, “The Tree,” in Is
lamic Images and Ideas: Essays on Sacred Symbolism, ed. John Andrew Morrow (Jef
ferson: McFarland & Co., 2014), 125–129, and Mark G. Boyer, An Abecedarian of
Sacred Trees: Spiritual Growth through Reflections on Woody Plants (Eugene: Wipf &
Stock, 2016), 1–6, 50–55, 112–120, 135–140, 212–215.
93 Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 212–214, Helene Danthine, Le Palmier-Dattier et lest Arbres
Sacrés dans l’Iconographie de l’Asie Occidentale Ancienne (Paris: Librarie Oriental
iste Paul Geuthner, 1937), 100–125.
94 Fabrizio Speziale, Soufisme, Religion et Médecine en Islam Indien (Paris: Karthala,
2010), 128, Timothy Insoll, The Archaeology of Islam in Sub-Saharan Africa (Cam
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 294, Sharif Harir, “The Mosque and the
Sacred Mountain: Duality of Religious Beliefs among the Zaghawa of Northwestern
Sudan,” in Muslim Diversity: Local Islam in Global Contexts, ed. Leif Manger (Rich
mond: Curzon, 1999), 200–223.
95 Jane Hathaway, “The Mulberry Tree in the Origin Myths,” in A Tale of Two Factions:
Myth, Memory and Identity in Ottoman Egypt and Yemen (New York: State University
of New York Press, 2003), 135–142.
96 Canaan, Saints, 136, Curtiss, Primitive, 93.
97 Ibn ʿĀbidīn considers seeing deceased saints, prophets, angels, and sometimes even
the jinn a wonder. See MR, 2:22–23. The graceful deceased were not shy of invading
the dreams of some eighteenth-century Damascene scholars, like in al-Mūrādī, Silk,
2:62. Further see Canaan, Saints, 31, Hathaway, “The Mulberry Tree,” 135–142, and
Lewis Bayles Paton, “Survivals of Primitive Religion in Modern Palestine,” The An
nual of the American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem, 1 (1919–1920): 62.
99 Margaret Smith, Rābiʿa the Mystic & Her Fellow Saints in Islam (Cambridge: Cam
bridge University Press, 1984), 202.
100 Curtiss, Primitive, 44–45, 82–83, also see Grehan, Twilight, 138.
102 Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 9AB.

103 See Chapter 3.
104 Al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 28B.
106 Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 4B–5A, al-Manīnī, IFS, 94, al-ʿAdawī, ZD, 17, and al-Ṣayyādī, RB,
71–75.
107 Al-Ṣayyādī, RB, 41–42, al-Manīnī, IFS, 71–109, al-Razzāq, FS, 94–100.
108 Canaan, Saints, 38–39, 55.
109 Al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 13A, Imād al-Dīn al-Ḥanafī, “Kitāb fī Faḍā’il al-Shām,” MS Staats
bibliothek zu Berlin, Wetzstein II 1111, Berlin, 85A, Canaan, Saints, 28.
110 McCown, “Shrines,” 60–62.
112 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 98, Grehan, Twilight, 130.
114 See Eliade, “Space,” 20–67.
116 Further see Maundrell, Journey, 124, and Talmon-Heller, Piety, 184–190.
117 See Muṣṭafā Asʿad al-Luqaymī, Laṭā’if al-Uns al-Jalīl fī Taḥā’if al-Quds wa al-Khalīl
[The Majestic Human Uniqueness in Jerusalem and Hebron], ed. Khālid ʿAbd al
Karīm al-Hamsharī and Hishām Abū Armīla (Nablus: Jāmiʿat al-Najāḥ al-Waṭanīyya,
2000), 126–154. Henceforth: LU. Further see Al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 45–46, and al
Bakrī, “KhH,” 10A–12B.
118 Maundrell, Journey, 9–11, Curtiss, Primitive, 133, Paton, “Survivals,” 55, or Burayk,
TS, 27.
119 See Muḥammad Ibn ʿĪsā Ibn Kannān, al-Mawākib al-Islāmiyya fī al-Mamālik wa al
Maḥāsin al-Shāmīyya [Islamic Processions among the Properties and Amenities of
Syria] ed. Ḥakīm Ismā ʿīl and Muḥammad al-Miṣrī (Damascus: Manshūrāt Wizārat
al-Thaqāfīyya, 1993), 1:370–377. Also, al-Ḥanafī, “KFS,” 83B-111B. Further see al
Manīnī, IFS, 71–72.
120 Further see, for instance, Rafeq, The Province, 182–183, Chamberlain, Knowledge,
xiv-xv, Grehan, Everyday Life, 27–30, Samer Akkach, “Leisure Gardens, Secular Hab
its: The Culture of Recreation in Ottoman Damascus,” METU Journal of the Faculty
of Architecture 27 (2010): 73. doi: 10.4305/METU.JFA.2010.1.4, Linda Schatkowski
Schilcher, Families in Politics: Damascene Factions and Estates in the 18th and the
19th Centuries (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1985), 7–11, 31–35, ʿAbd al-Razzaq Moaz, “Do
mestic Architecture, Notables, and Power: A Neighbourhood in Late Ottoman Damas
cus. An Introduction,” 10th International Congress of Turkish Art, Geneva. 17–23
September1995 (Geneve: Fondation Max van Berchem, 1999), 489–495, Colette Es
tabet and Jean Paul Pascual, “Damascene Probate Inventories of the 17th and 18th
Centuries: Some Preliminary Approaches and Results,” International Journal of Mid
dle East Studies 24, no. 3 (August, 1992): 383–384, 389, Barbir, Ottoman Rule, 44–46,
Shimon Shamir, “Asʿad Pasha al-ʿAẓm and Ottoman Rule in Damascus (1743–58),”
Bulletin of the Shool of Oriental and African Studies 26, no. 1 (1963): 1–28, or Jane
Hathaway, The Arab Lands under Ottoman Rule, 1516–1800 (New York: Pearson
Longman, 2008), 108.
121 Further for Damascus, see Giuliana Amanda Neglia, “Processus de formation de
Damas à l’époque ottomane: La transformation d’une ville médiévale,” Bulletin
d’études orientales 61 (2012): 223–242, R. Stephen Humphreys, From Saladin to the
Mongols: The Ayyubids of Damascus 1193–1260 (New York: State University of New
York Press, 1977), 1–15, Nancy Khaler, “Iconic Texts: Damascus in the Medieval Im
agination,” in Damascus after the Muslim Conquest (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2011), 135–174, Leila Hudson, Transforming Damascus: Space and Modernity in an
Islamic City (London & New York: Tauris Academic Studies, 2008), 1–32, Cyrille
Jalabert, “Comment Damas est Devenue une Métropole Islamique,” Bulletin d’études
orientales 53/54 (2001/2002): 13–41, Jean-Luc Arnaud, “Corpus Cartographique pour

l’Histoire de Damas, Syrie, à la fin de la Période Ottomane (1760–1924),” Imago
Mundi, 53 (2001): 46–70, Fulya Üstün Demirkaya, “Spatial Reflections of Social
Change: The Change of Urban Pattern in the Ottoman Era,” Athens Journal of History,
3, No. 3 (2017): 205–224, and Burns, Damascus, 342–357.
122 Many larger cities in the Middle East developed similarly. See Canaan, Saints, 5.
123 For instance, see Rodolfo Amedeo Lanciani, Pagan and Christian Rome (Boston:
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1892), 51–167, 253–361.
125 See Khaled Moaz and Solange Ory, Inscriptions Arabes de Damas: Les Stèles Funé
raires (Damascus: Institut français de Damas, 1977), 10, 12.
126 Elizabeth Sirriyeh, “’Ziyārāt’ of Syria in a ‘Riḥla’ of ‘Abd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī
(1050/1641–1143/1731),” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and
Ireland 2 (1979): 109–122, Moaz and Ory, Inscriptions, 9–12, and Bianquis Thierry,
“Sépultures islamiques,” Topoi 4/1 (1994): 212–214.
127 Sirriyeh, “Ziyārāt,” 109–122, Moaz and Ory, Inscriptions, 18–24.
128 The number of important graves in Damascus was immense. See Sirriyeh, “Ziyārāt,”
109–122, Moaz and Ory, Inscriptions, 11–13, and Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 4A–12B,
al-Ḥanafī, “KFS,” 83B–111B, al-ʿAdawī, ZD, 9–103, al-Manīnī, IFS, 71–141,
al-Razzāq, FS, 126–181, al-Ṣayyādī, RB, 61–101, al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 45–96, Toru
Miura, Dynamism in the Urban Society of Damascus: The Ṣāliḥīyya Quarter from
the Twelfth to the Twentieth Centuries (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2015), 50–82, Bri
gitte Marino,” Les espaces de notables,” in Le fauburg du Mīdān à Damas à l’epoque
ottomane: Espace urbain, société et habitat (1742–1830) (Damascus: Institut français
de Damas, 1997), 315–341, or Toru Miura, “The Ṣāliḥīyya Quarter in the Suburbs of
Damascus: Its Formation, Structure, and Transformation in the Ayyūbid and Mamlūk
Periods,” Bulletin d’études orientales 47 (1995): 129–181.
129 See Chapter 1.
130 For the eighteenth-century context in which these “statistics” are quoted, see
Al-Manīnī, IFS, 70, 94, al-Razzāq, FS, 126, and Grehan, Twilight, 87. For Jerusalem,
see al-Luqaymī, LU, 214–288.
132 Contests between urban centers about the privilege to boast about a saintly tomb in the
vicinity were widespread, even with large-scale important personalities. See Joseph
Sadan, “Le tombeau de Moïse à Jericho et à Damas,” Revue des Etudes Islamiques
(1981): 59–99.
134 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:30, and Canaan, Saints, 257–258. Further see al-Ḥanafī, “KFS,”
85A–87B.
137 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:228–234.
138 Ibid., 3:170–171 and Chapter 4.
139 Al-Murādī, Silk, 3:192. Aleppine pashas were buried in the vicinity of Shaykh Abū
Bakr. See Russell, Aleppo, 1:207. Egyptian nobility preferred the al-Rifāʿī Mosque,
named after this Sufi order’s founder. See Yasser Elsheshtawy, “Urban Transforma
tions: Social Control at al-Rifa’i Mosque and Sultan Hasan Square,” in Cairo Cosmo
politan: Politics, Culture and Urban Space in the New Globalized Middle East, ed.
Diane Singerman and Paul Amar (Cairo & New York: The American University in
Cairo Press, 2006), 298.
140 Alexander D. Knysh, Ibn ʿArabi in the Later Islamic Tradition: The Making of a
Polemical Image in Medieval Islam (Albany: State University of New York Press,
1999), 25–37, 113–120, 133–140, Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mysti
cal Turn in Ottoman Political Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018),
211–214, Rafeq, “Relations,” 81, and Sirriyeh, Visionary, 126. Travelogues of the
Sufi masters reveal many similarities in other urban centers. For instance, al-Nābulsī,
Ḥaqīqa, 115.
141 Nasuh Pasha’s economic and military management was of much benefit for the subse
quent success of the al-ʿAẓms as the Shāmī governors. Barbir, Damascus, 54–55.
142 Al-Murādī, Silk, 4:305–306.
143 Ibid., 1:245–246. Al-Ḥuṣnī’s grave was a significant ziyāra site.
144 Chapter 4 and Al-Murādī, Silk, 3:153.
145 Ibid., 1:86 and Chapter 4.
146 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 3:43–44, Canaan, Saints, 22–24, 300–302.
147 Ibid., Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 1B–2A, and Miura, Damascus, 54–58.
149 Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 8B–9A.
151 Ibid., 23.
152 Ibid., 8–9.
153 See Chapter 4 and Grehan, Twilight, 110.
154 For instance, al-Amīn, Khiṭaṭ, 147, or al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 74–76. See also Canaan,
Saints, 60.
156 James Grehan studies this in Ibid., 108–110.
157 For instance, al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 86.
158 Sirriyeh, “ ‘Ziyārāt’,” 109–122, al-Manīnī, IFS, 71–141, al-Razzāq, FS, 126–181,
al-Ṣayyādī, RB, 61–101.
159 Grehan, Twilight, 107–108. Also see Sadan, “Moïse,” 59–99.
160 Paton, “Survivals,” 57, and al-Nābulsī, Tuḥfa, 43.
161 Al-Makkī the court clerk uses this site to give geographical data about the events
he describes, indicating its topographical significance. Muḥammad al-Makkī,
“Mudhakkarāt Aḥad Abnā’ Ḥimṣ ʿan Ḥimṣ wa Abnā’ihā“[The Memories of a
Son of Homs about Homs and its Sons], MS American University of Beirut,
MS 956.9:T181A:c.1, Beirut. I used an edited edition to help locate the manuscript.
The bibliographic data of this printout is as follows: Muḥammad al-Makkī Ibn al-
Sayyid Ibn al-Ḥājj Makkī Ibn al-Khāniqā, Tārīkh Ḥimṣ: Yawmīyyāt min Sanna 1100 ilā
Sanna 1135 [The Daily History of Homs from 1688 to 1722], ed. ʿAmr Najīb al-ʿAmr
(Damascus: Jaffan Traders, 1987), 186. The texts proved to be identical.
162 Al-Karmī, ShS, 113–115.
163 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 163.
164 Eileen M. C. Kane, The Church of San Silvestro in Capite in Rome (Genoa: B.N. Mar
coni, 2005), 16–20, and Gali P. Streete, The Salome Project: Salome and her Afterlives
(Eugene: Cascade Books, 2018), 39.
165 Andrew Phillip Smith, John the Baptist and the Last Gnostics: The Secret History of
the Mandaeans (London: Watkins, 2016), 165.
166 David Gibson and Michael McKinley, Finding Jesus: Faith, Fact, Forgery – Six
Objects that Tell the Remarkable Story of the Gospels (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
2015), 11–44.
167 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 45–46.
168 Grehan, Twilight, 21, 96.
170 Riza Yıldırım, “Dervishes, Waqfs, and Conquest: Notes on Early Ottoman Expansion
in Thrace,” in Held in Trust: Waqf in the Islamic World. Edited by Pascale Ghazaleh
(Cairo & New York: The American University in Cairo Press), 2011, 23–24. Also see
Muhammad Zubair Abbasi, “The Classical Islamic Waqf: A Concise Introduction,”
Arab Law Quarterly, 26, No. 2 (2012): 121–153, W. Heffening, “Waḳf,” in Ency
clopaedia of Islam, I (1913–1936), ed. M. Th. Houtsma, T.W. Arnold, R. Basset, R.
Hartmann (Brill Online, 2012). http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/2214-871X_ei1_COM_0214

(Last accessed: February 24th, 2023).
171 Randi Deguilhem, “The Waqf in the City,” in The City in the Islamic World: Volume 1,
ed. Salma K. Jayyusi, Renata Holood, Attilio Petruccioli and André Raymond (Leiden:
Brill, 2008), 923–952. Also see Heath W. Lowry Jr., “The Ottoman Tahrīr Defterleri
as a Source for Social and Economic History: Pitfalls and Limitations,” in Studies
in Defterology: Ottoman Society in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries (Istanbul:
The Isis Press, 1992), 3–18, and Hazim Šabanović, “Dvije najstarije vakufname u
Bosni“[The Two Oldest Waqfs in Bosnia], Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju i istoriju
jugoslovenskih naroda pod turskom vladavinom/Revue de Philologie Orientale et
d’Historie des Peuples Yougoslaves sous la Domination Turque [The Review of Ori
ental Philology and the History of Yugoslav Peoples under Turkish Rule] II (Sarajevo:
Veselin Masleša, 1951): 6–7.
172 See, for instance, Çiğdem Kafescıȯğlu, “Lives and Afterlives of an Urban Institution
and its Spaces: The Early Ottoman ʿİmāret as Mosque,” in Historicizing Sunni Islam
in the Ottoman Empire, c. 1450-. 1750, ed. Tijana Krstić, and Derin Terzioğlu (Brill:
Leiden, 2020), 255–307.
173 Aptullah Kuran, “A Spatial Study of Three Ottoman Capitals: Bursa, Edirne and Istan
bul,” Muqarnas 13 (1996): 114–131, and Grigor Boykov, “Reshaping Urban Space in
the Ottoman Balkans: A Study on the Architectural Development of Edirne, Plovdiv
and Skopje (14th-15th centuries),” in Centers and Peripheries in Ottoman Architec
ture: Rediscovering a Balkan Heritage., ed. Maximilian Hartmuth (Sarajevo: Cultural
Heritage Without Borders, 2011), 33–34. During his travels, al-Nābulsī encountered
numerous such examples, such as in Ḥaqīqa, 114–115.
174 Watenpaugh, Ottoman City, 38–39.
175 Anver M. Emon, “Shari’a and the Modern State,” in Islamic Law and International
Human Rights Law: Searching for Common Ground? ed. Anver M. Emon, Mark S.
Ellis, and Benjamin Glahn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 72–80.
176 For public baths in Damascus, see Jacques de Maussion de Favières, “Note sur les
bains de Damas,” Bulletin d’études orientales 17 (1961–1962): 121–131.
177 Yıldırım, “Waqf,” 25–27 and McGregor, “Grave Visitation/Worship.” Also see
Boykov, “Urban Space,” 33–34. Further see Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 179–180, and
Yürekli, Architecture, 149. For Damascus, see Miura, “Ṣāliḥīyya,” 129–181, Miura,
Dynamism, 174–204, Thierry, “Sépultures,” 215, Rafeq, “Relations,” 71–75, and Mar
ianne Boqvist, “Contributions of Šamsī Aḥmad Pasha and Lālā Muṣṭafā Pasha to the
Urban Landscape of 16th century Damascus,” Bulletin d’études orientales 61 (2012):
191–207. Also see Çığdem Kafescıoğlu, “In the Image of Rūm: Ottoman Architec
tural Patronage in Sixteenth-Century Aleppo and Damascus,” Muqarnas 16 (1999):
74, Dina le Gall, A Culture of Sufism: Naqshbandis in the Ottoman World, 1450–1700
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005), 51, or Amy Singer, “Imarets,”
in in The Ottoman World, ed. Christine Woodhead (London & New York: Routledge,
2012), 72–85.
178 Al-Karmī, ShS, 45–55.
179 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 74–76, al-ʿAdawī, ZD, 30–34. Further see Knysh, Ibn ʿArabi,
25–37, 113–120, 133–140, Yılmaz, Caliphate, 211–214, Rafeq, “Relations,” 81,
Kafescıoğlu, “Aleppo and Damascus,” 70–96, and Sirriyeh, Visionary, 126.
180 Howard Crane, “The Ottoman Sultan’s Mosques: Icons of Imperial Legitimacy,”
in The Ottoman City and Its Parts: Urban Structure and Social Order, ed. Irene A.
Bierman, Rifa’at A. Abou-El-Haj, Donald Preziosi (New York: Aristide D. Caratzas,
1991), 186. Further on dreams in Chapter 6.
181 Yılmaz, Caliphate, 5–20, 277–286.
182 Judith Pfeiffer, “Confessional Ambiguity vs. Confessional Polarization: Politics and
the Negotiation of Religious Boundaries in the Ilkhanate,” in Politics, Patronage and
the Transmission of Knowledge in 13th-15th Century Tabriz, ed. Judith Pfeiffer (Lei
den & Boston: Brill, 2014), 135–136.
24–41. For the Mamluk period, see for instance Bethany J. Walker, “Popular Responses
to Mamluk Fiscal Reforms in Syria,” Bulletin d’études orientales, 58 (2008–2009):
51–68.
184 Heath W. Lowry, “The ‘Soup Muslims’ of the Ottoman Balkans: Was there a ‘West
ern’ & ‘Eastern’ Ottoman Empire?,” The Journal of Ottoman Studies 36 (2010):
98–102, Chih, Sufism, 29, Yılmaz, Caliphate, 121.
185 Yılmaz, Caliphate, 1–13, 277–286.
186 Yıldırımm, “Waqf,” 24–29, Chih, Sufism, 2–5, 29–39.
187 du Couret, Life in the Desert, 420–421.
188 See Chih, Sufism, 5, or Alexander D. Knysh, Sufism: A New History of Islamic Mysti
cism (Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2017), 104.
189 See for instance a case study by Haim Gerber, “The Waqf Institution in Early Ottoman
Edirne,” in Studies in Islamic Society: Contributions in Memory of Gabriel Baer, ed.
Gabriel Warburg and Gad Gilbar (Haifa: n.p., 1984), 29–45.
191 Zeynep Yürekli, “A Building between the Public and Private Realms of the Ottoman
Elite: The Sufi Convent of Sokollu Mehmed Pasha in Istanbul,” Muqarnas, 20 (2003):
161–169.
193 See al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 6B. Further see Colette Estabet and Jean Paul-Pascal, “Le loge
ment des pèlerins à Damas au debut du XVIIIe siècle,” Revue du monde musulman et
de la Mèditerranèe 77–78 (1995): 275–286, and A. Abdel Nour, “Le résau routier de
la Syrie ottomane (XVIe-XVIIIe siècles),” Arabica (1983): 169–189.
194 In some cases, guest-oriented establishments were inseparable from such sites, as
shown by Lowry, “ ‘Soup Muslims’,” 100–102, 120–132.
197 Al-Muḥibbī, Riḥlatān, 56.
199 Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Times of History: Universal Topics in Islamic Historiography
(Budapest & New York: Central European University Press, 2007), 223.
200 Yıldırımm, “Waqf,” 23–28, Chih, Sufism, 18.
201 Ibid., 126–128.
202 Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 1B–2A, and Miura, Damascus, 54–58.
203 Al-Manīnī, IFS, 123.
206 Curtiss, Primitive, 144–147, 163.
207 This practice continued to the modern period. See Canaan, Saints, 134, and Curtiss,
Primitive, 144–150.
208 Paton, “Survivals,” 62.
209 See Chapter 6.
210 Al-Azmeh, Emergence, 238, Irving M. Zeitlin, The Historical Muhammad (Cam
bridge: Polity, 2007), 55.
213 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:246–248.

216 Canaan, Saints, 35. See Curtiss, Primitive, 213 for beehives that belonged to a dead
saint.
218 The price of thaumaturgical assistance is analyzed in more detail in Chapter 6.
219 Curtiss, Primitive, 148. The author is not clear if this is his exaggeration, or an actual
fact. Christian religious edifices were at times governed under slightly different laws.
For instance, see Oded Peri, “The Legal Status of the Holy Sites under Ottoman Rule,”
and “The Ottoman State and the Inter-Church Struggle over the Holy Sites,” in Chris
tianity under Islam in Jerusalem: The Question of the Holy Sites in Early Ottoman
Times (Boston: Brill, 2001), 50–96, 97–154, Charles A. Frazee, “The Eighteenth Cen
tury,” in Catholics & Sultans: The Church and the Ottoman Empire 1453–1923 (Cam
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 153–311, or Tom Papademetriou, “The
Patriarchal Tax Farm,” in Render unto the Sultan: Power, Authority, and the Greek
Orthodox Church in Early Ottoman Centuries (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2015), 107–178.
220 McCown, “Shrines,” 58.
221 For instance, Sylvia Auld, Robert Hillenbrand, and Yusuf Natsheh, Ottoman Jerusa
lem: The Living City, 1517–1917 (London: Altajir World of Islam Trust, 2000), 164,
280, 422. Also see Canaan, Saints, 35.
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6 Artes Magicae
Thaumaturgical Rituals in
֫
Early modern Sufi-ulamā’ thaumaturgical practice aimed at specific and often
immediate goals that varied from apotropaic and prophylactic rituals conducted for
individuals, groups, or entire regions, over wondrous healing and illness prevention
and treatment, to defying natural disasters and influencing weather. The people in
eighteenth-century Syria were eager to seek intercession, both from the living thau
maturges, and the graceful deceased. They often vowed to repay saintly assistance,
offering an assortment of goods, commodities, as well as blood. In popular belief,
Sufi masters had access to skills and knowledge that defied the humanely possible.
Spectacular competencies of the Sufis allegedly represented consequences of their
purity, devoutness, and righteousness, which earned them divine grace.
This chapter discusses techniques applied by eighteenth-century Syrian wonder-
workers in their hopes that they utilized divine grace for gaining practical effects.
I discuss various aspects of common thaumaturgical rituals to highlight the beliefs
in the practical utility of grace that further related the Ottoman network of the holy
to the Damascene everyday of the eighteenth century. Analyses of Sufi rituals have
potential to yield further clarifications of the deep social, political, and economic
significance of Sufism for the history of Ottoman provinces. Scholarship does not
conduct such research often, even though some authors highlighted its incredible
potential.1 In this chapter, I underline continuous demand for thaumaturgical goods
among the Ottoman subjects, regardless of their rank or occupation, broadening
the scholarly understanding of Syrian (and in general, Ottoman) premodern Sun
nism. The effects of thaumaturgical rituals at times depended on economic factors,
and were generally considered transactional, which created a complex economy of
Allah’s baraka that I discuss in this chapter as well. Beliefs in the efficacy of thau
maturgical rituals, fueled by grace earned through virtue and purity, represented a
long tradition across the Ottoman realms, and further in many other regions and
many other religious confessions.2
Texts that instructed into thaumaturgical procedures, which were copied and
distributed during the eighteenth century, often claimed that their contents were
transmitted by important figures of the past, such as Abū al-Ḥasan al-Shādhilī
(1196–1258),3 and many others.4 In eighteenth-century Syria, thaumaturgical ritu
als usually started after preparatory acts of ablution5 and fasting,6 while further
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539-6
186 Artes Magicae
purification was sometimes recommended, for instance, by donating to the poor.7

After preparations, rituals would most often commence with reading scriptural
chapters. Al-Fātiḥa was common during any ritualistic endeavor. The opening
chapter of the Qur’ān was followed by theurgical supplications expressing the goal
of the ritual. Combining elements that featured in the Qur’ān and other sources
of Islam into official thaumaturgical rituals assisted the ulamaic circles in making
arguments towards defending the orthodoxy of Sufi thaumaturgy from detractors.8
Additionally, thaumaturges would use requisites such as talismans, or other items
of power, which will be further discussed in the following pages.
The efficacy of thaumaturgy was widely believed in. The success of Sufi ritu
als was taken as a matter of course if those conducting it were punctilious. Addi
tionally, the widespread belief in the ṣalāḥ-baraka relations, and in karāma as
their consequence,9 usually led Ottoman subjects to interpret botched rituals as
the failure of supplicants to honor all moral and social prerequisites. In case of
thaumaturgical failure, the alleged relation between divine grace and the purity of
character led to ulamaic criticism of popular habits and practices. Occasionally,
similar worries surfaced among the common people. The high value of baraka as a
socio-anthropological analytical tool in early modern Syria is once again evident.
Possible falls from grace represented reasons for growing popular concern.
The efficacy of magic was also widely believed in. Unlike thaumaturgy, which
produced wonders through divine grace, magic (siḥr) was believed empowered by
daemonic forces.10 The Ottoman ʿulamā’ used the concept of baraka to create dis
tinctions between magic and thaumaturgy. Protected by their grace, the Sufis were
permitted to dabble in various occult arts. Other people who engaged in the same
craft were considered illicit magicians.
Forbidden Arts: Sorcery in Eighteenth-Century Province of

Damascus
Within the Ottoman network of the holy, the prophets (anbiyā’) had the greatest
powers. They were believed to cause miracles (muʿjizāt).11 Muslim saints (awliyā’)
allegedly caused wonders (karāmāt). Saintly powers resembled the prophetic, as
both were believed to heal the sick, communicate with animals, speak to and raise
the dead, dry up bodies of water, walk on water, turn stones golden, or fly.12 The
potency and efficacy of their supplications to God was considered unparalleled,
yet unlike prophetic miracles, wonders were believed unstable.13 The saints lacked
prophetic challenge,14 and a walī was not supposed to dare claim prophetic powers
since that would antagonize the divine.15
Descriptions of saintly wonders awarded them a spectacular air, but they had
their limit. In popular belief, karāma represented the consequence of divine, and not
saintly, will. In theologians’ writings, clear intent to cause particular goals through
a particular chain of actions and praeternatural means represented an important dif
ference between thaumaturgy and magic. Theologians further discussed the concept
of istidrāj (“luring”), referring to beliefs that God goaded sinful people to commit
even more sins by granting them their immediate desires, allowing for a period of
Artes Magicae 187
joy without self-reflection before administering punishment.16 Although in prac

tical terms rituals naturally involved deliberation, apologetic works authored by
the eighteenth-century Damascene Sufi-ʿulamā placed the agency behind karāma
strictly with God.17 This book began with Aḥmad al-Naḥlāwī and the legends of
his many wonders. When the “Benediction of Damascus” was asked to turn a stone
into gold, he hedged, hinting that he could fulfill little but God’s will. His power
was proven by successful transmutation, yet its object remained unmovable until
the saint restored its original form.18 The anecdote both celebrates al-Naḥlāwī’s
power and underlines that wonders were not supposed to relate to immediate
requests. Causing mystical effects (khawāriq) with clear intent indicated magical
activity (siḥr), which was forbidden.19
Throughout centuries it was believed that the jinn taught magic to some humans,
or showed them how to make talismans that facilitated interaction with these crea
tures.20 Ibn ʿĀbidīn and al-Nābulsī considered such magicians (sāḥir) a “plague
upon all Muslim beliefs” (al-sāḥir fa-huwa ṭā ʿūn fī al-ʿaqā’id al-islāmīyya kullihā)
who denied the unity of god (tawḥīd) and worshipped devils (shayāṭīn).21 For the
ʿulamā’, magicians were “obstinate people” (ahl al-hawā’; also “people of pas
sion”) who did not believe in Allah and thus corrupted both themselves and the
created world. Magic was a challenge to divine supremacy and an equivalent to
blasphemy. Thaumaturges themselves needed to abstain from intentionally bring
ing harm through practicing their art. It was forbidden to attempt to manipulate the
shayāṭīn, for instance, and use their power to achieve personal goals.22
The efficacy of siḥr was never denied, even though its practice was forbidden.23
Ulamaic office often warned of infernalists who conspired with devils, or sorcer
ers who were able to fly and turn people into donkeys and vice versa.24 During the
eighteenth century, magic was not just a subject of jurists’ and theologians’ mental
exercise within the Ottoman Province of Damascus. Although rarely, the extant
source material narrates of instances when sāḥirūn represented a practical prob
lem. In 1747, a Damascene neighborhood worried that a witch lived among them.
A woman was accused of luring boys and men to her house to perform magic on
them, and neighborhood rumors caused sufficient concern to involve the authori
ties. Vigilantes took the woman to a judge. Her properties were seized for thor
ough examination, but no evidence of sorcery was found. Her neighbors testified
to the officials that the accused was poor and lived in her house alone. She was
soon proclaimed free of charges.25 The stories of “poor old women” represented
a ubiquitous leitmotif in witch trials. In Europe, many women were freed based
on positive testimonies from their neighbors.26 Others were not so fortunate. In
1746, the Damascene treasurer (defterdār) Fatḥī al-Falāqinsī (d.1746) heard of a
geomancer27 with a reputation for the accuracy of his predictions. He summoned
the diviner, bullying him into giving several predictions. Al-Falāqinsī then asked
him if he could foretell that he would be beaten, fined, and fettered. The treasurer’s
words were carried out, and the geomancer was then banished from the city.28
Prosecutions of alleged magicians continued into the following centuries as
well. Lane recorded two Cairene cases when magicians attracted the attention of
the authorities. One man allegedly conjured apparitions, believed to have been the
188 Artes Magicae
jinn, via candle flame and commanded them into obedience. The other man was
purported to have influenced a Muslim woman so that she would fall in love with
a Cairene Coptic Christian.29
Early modern ʿulamā exercised caution towards popular magic yet usually
believed in the sanctity of most phenomena allegedly caused by the hands of the
Sufis and the awliyā’,30 similar to the medieval Christian Church, the attitude of
which, to a certain practice, often had decisive role for dubbing it orthodox or
magical.31 Since the saints were believed to be protected by their baraka, they
frequently dabbled in arts which were otherwise forbidden to the common people,
such was the case with various divination techniques.
Second Sight: A World of Interdependence

Traditionally, Muslim jurists thought low of divination, soothsaying, and astrology.
It appeared to them that through such activities, people wished to obtain knowl
edge that was accessible only to God, defying therefore the supremacy of Allah.
However, before modernity, it was fairly common for the Sufis to employ vari
ous thaumaturgical methods to divine truths about the past, present, and future. In
the eighteenth century, it was believed that inspirations from God could allow the
ṣāliḥūn to access certain hidden knowledges according to Allah's will, which was
seen as their wondrous capacity.32 Belief in the efficacy of divination techniques
was widespread among the commoners and elites. Numerous state officials, often
appointed at positions of great authority, relied on Sufi divination before attempt
ing any endeavor.33 Divination in general often involved the recitation of certain
words or Qur’ānic chapters, as well as preparation through prayer and ablutions.
The interpretation of dreams was an important practice and a common activity
within the Sufi lodges during the eighteenth century. Like with many other regions,
dreams often held much importance in Ottoman Damascus.34 Narratives about
important historical events in Syria (and wider) usually employed dream visions as
omens35 of future events. According to widespread legends, Selim I dreamt of Ibn
ʿArabī, who showed the sultan the conquest of Syria and Egypt. This legend may
have represented an attempt to add legitimacy to Selim’s dynasty in newly taken
territories.36
Ottoman ʿulamā’ considered possible for the jinn or the Muslim saints to enter
one’s dreams or cause visions to deliver a message or make a request.37 In Damas
cus, the muftī ʿAlī al-Murādī, according to Burayk, received inspiration from the
Virgin which compelled him to commission additional works on the Ṣaydnaya
complex. Burayk the priest praised the occasion.38 During the seventeenth century,
the Agha of the Aleppo citadel commissioned further construction works around
the shrine complex of Abū Bakr (d.1583), due to a dream vision in which this
saint appeared.39 Commoners also employed stories of praeternatural inspiration
in their self-representative narratives. Ibn Budayr claimed that he received inspira
tion from Allah to address his sons as sayyids.40 Exaggerations occurred, as with
the North African Sufi, Muḥammad al-Zawāwī (d.1477), who left a lengthy and
extremely detailed diary of his dreams featuring the Prophet Muḥammad.41 Sufis of
the Ottoman Empire maintained a long oneirocritical tradition,42 and a large body
Artes Magicae 189
of literature committed to oneirocriticism remains as primary source material.43

During the eighteenth century, al-Nābulsī wrote in this genre too – he left a work
named Interpretation of Dreams.44
Muslim scholars theorized that dreams could at times represent visions about
the real world. At least since Ibn Khaldūn, it was presumed that the absence of
other senses during slumber, combined with the balance of bodily humours45 and
the outside temperature facilitated the process through which one received visions
about the world around them. It was the responsibility of the interpreters to after
wards decipher a vision and uncover its meaning. Ibn Khaldūn insisted on the
importance of appropriate oneirocritical training, adding that official interpreters
were capable of deciphering dreams due to their special competencies, alluding to
the Sufis and their disciples.46
Ibn Khaldūn believed that it was possible to induce dreams of specific mat
ters. Oneiromancers would pronounce particular “dream words” (al-ḥālūma; the
“dream incantation“) before sleep and then hope to receive answers to their queries
during slumber. He claimed to have tried this himself. The ḥālūma were written
down as tamāghis baʿadān yaswādda waghdās nawfānā ghādis.47 Franz Rosenthal
presumes that these words are Aramaic and ventures a translation that goes, “You
say your incantations at the time of the conversation and the accident of sleep
happens.”48 There seems to be no affirmative causes for Rosenthal’s presumptions
about the origin of the dream incantation.
Combinations of disconnected Arabic letters were believed to assist the incuba
tion of diviners’ visions. Muslims, over centuries, believed in praeternatural proper
ties of Arabic letters. It was common to encounter disconnected letters, sometimes
in combination with numbers, on various objects ranging from talismans to scrip
tural texts. Certain combinations of disconnected letters were believed so powerful
that they, over time, acquired the status of divine attributes.49 At times, these letters
would be combined in seals (sg. khātam) or “names” (sg. ism) which diviners used
to boost the efficacy of their rituals. Thaumaturgical manuals copied in the eight
eenth century offer many diagrams for resolving a range of practical issues. For
instance, should a theft occur, one could draw an ism comprised of a string of Ara
bic letters hā (‫ )ه‬with some other letters present as well. One held to this drawing
while asleep to see the thief in a vision, if they satisfied the conditions of purity.50
Much more complicated seals existed, to be used both while awake and in slum
ber. Most such items required the user’s purity as the primary condition, and usually
Figure 6.1 The ism that identified thieves in dream visions.

Source: “MMKF,” 65B. Property of Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Orient
abteilung, Glaser 100.
190 Artes Magicae
activated upon the reading of a scriptural chapter. Sūrat al-Qadr (Q97:1–5), Sūrat
Yā Sīn (Q36:1–87), and Sūrat al-Ḍuḥā (Q93:1–11) seemed preferred, in addition to
al-Fātiḥa and al-Ikhlās.51
Some divination techniques required proxies. Lane pondered the curious case
of ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Maghribī in Cairo who caused praeternatural insight to young
assistants. Al-Maghribī openly claimed to work with two jinn. He used incanta
tions written on a piece of paper to conjure these creatures. The shaykh required the
attendance of a young boy who did not reach puberty during his performances. Vir
gins, black female slaves, or pregnant women suited him as replacement assistants.52
Lane personally chose some of them. The shaykh would put a charm under the assis
tant’s cap to “make [the boy’s] sight pierce into what [was to Lane and the shaykh]
the invisible world.” The charm was another strip of paper bearing inscriptions that
contained the second half of the Qur’ān 50:22 (Sūrat al-Qāf) verse: “We have lifted
this veil of yours, so today your sight is sharp!”53 The shaykh then drew a “magic
square” into the boy’s palm, dropping a blot of ink in the middle of it and demanding
from the boy to stare at it until he saw his reflection. A sequence of visions followed
while the shaykh burned incense, coriander, and charcoal, mixing in the written
incantations for the jinn and muttering over them. The audience was allowed to ask
various questions, and Lane was astonished by the accuracy with which the boy
answered. He spent several days listening to a number of boys whom the shaykh
allegedly caused to divine private information about Lane and his acquaintances.54
Figure 6.2 ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Maghribī’s “magic square.”

Source: Lane, Egyptians, 1:351.
Artes Magicae 191
The eighteenth-century Compendium of thaumaturgical rituals and prayers con

tains an identical magic square, which allegedly caught thieves or brought truth
ful answers to various questions. The manual underlines the required attendance
of young boys and girls, pregnant women, or slaves. The inscriptions contain
ing the Q50:22 verse part were to be placed in front of the assistants’ eyes, while
recitations should have included the repeated reading of al-Ikhlās. The similarity
between these accounts is striking, although the Compendium bears no mention
of the jinn, which might indicate that al-Maghribī attempted to add some more
mystery to his act. His overall performance was significantly more pompous than
the eighteenth-century recipe specified. This particular “magic square” seal was,
however, evidently known across regions for at least several hundreds of years
before the modern period.55
Figure 6.3 “Magic square” from the eighteenth-century copy of the Compendium.
Source: “MMKF,” 148A. Property of Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Orient
abteilung, Glaser 100.
192 Artes Magicae
Time and weather represented important factors for thaumaturgical rituals.

Upon his first visit, ֫Abd al-Qādir al-Maghribī complained to Lane about “unpropi-
tious” weather. The results of his performance were flimsy but were repaired in
the following days.56 Times of the day, days of the week, the four seasons, as well
as the months of the lunar year were important, along with the position of celes
tial bodies with regards to various constellations.57 It was believed that the recita
tion of certain words, as well as the inscriptions of certain seals and amulets, had
particular power if performed during a particular time.58 Thaumaturgical manuals
instructed about the procedure of drawing some seals during particular hours and
days and meditating upon them to uncover hidden knowledge. The invention of
some of these drawings was attributed to famous past figures, such as Abū Ḥāmid
al-Ghazalī (c.1058–1111)59 or Aḥmad al-Būnī (1225).60
Astrology thus remained important for rituals in Middle East and North Africa,61
as was the case in many regions throughout a long number of centuries.62 In popu
lar belief, signs of the zodiac corresponded to the four elements,63 which were
further connected to the bodily humours, to jointly portray a world of interdepend
ences. Muslims believed that this complex pattern could be read for signs about the
future, and at times influenced for mystical benefits.64 Across the Middle East and
North Africa, a device called zā’īrja was often used to, through algebraic calcula
tions, produce answers to diviners’ questions based upon the interdependence of
celestial bodies, humours, and astrological signs.65 There exist speculations that
the mechanics of the zā’īrja influenced the Christian philosopher and thaumaturge
Ramon Llull (1232–1316) to develop his own Ars Magna.66 Edward Lane records
the ample usage of the zā’īrja in Egypt during the early modern period.67
In addition to ways of divining hidden truths, Sufis had rituals which would
secure baraka for themselves and others. Through baraka, they were hoping to
induce a chain of causalities which would satisfy their desires, ranging from gen
eral good fortune to particular ambitions, such as having more money or driving
out bad neighbors. Baraka was most often harvested through prayer with particular
supplications that expressed the intent of the ritual performers.
Invocatio Domini: Supplications to God and Baraka-Harvesting

In addition to the dhikr, the most common ritual believed to facilitate communica
tion with God was the duʿa. This type of supplication was either pronounced on
its own, or after an official prayer. With the duʿa, the supplicants hoped to attract
divine attention and express their wishes, needs, or troubles to Allah.68 Eighteenth-
century thaumaturgical manuals contained supplications for various instances in
which the supplicants hoped for preternatural effects.69 Contemporary historians
discovered an abundance of prayer books written in Arabic, Persian and Turkish in
the Ottoman Empire during the early modern period, pointing out the significant
role of the Sufis for the distribution and recitation of such invocations.70
Supplication texts occasionally claimed a long history. For instance, the
Compendium quotes the critically acclaimed medieval scholar Aḥmad al-Būnī
Artes Magicae 193
(d.1225), as the source of some very potent duʿas.71 Some of them were believed to
originate even from much earlier centuries. Thaumaturgical manuals weave a story
of a trader from Baghdad, conveniently named Mubārak (“the blessed one”), who
knew a special supplication that shielded his household from a massive epidemic
that otherwise caused the death of 12,000 boys, each of them a ḥāfiẓ. This duʿa
was allegedly revealed by the greatest imām (al-imām al-aẓ֫ am). The title implies
Abū Ḥanīfa (699–767), the eponymous founder of the Hanafite madhhab.72 Abū
Ḥanīfa’s supplication is, with very minor variations from the eighteenth-century
version, read on social media today, and Yūsuf al-Nabhānī is cited as having trans
mitted it to following generations.73 Supplications aimed at combating diseases
and bringing good fortune glorified Allah through numerous repetitions of divine
attributes. They requested healing and pardon, pleading for God’s mercy. In addi
tion, some of them required the intoning of disconnected letters, believed to con
tain special powers.74 Compendium adds that in all cases even al-Fātiḥa, highly
comparable to the Christian Paternoster in premodern belief,75 had wondrous pow
ers, along with al-Ikhlās.76
Duʿas usually had no strict form, but shared standard elements. They mostly
contained the basmala, followed by divine names arranged in a dhikr. Among the
divine names, those that emphasized mercy and forgiveness were most frequent.
Verses from Qur’anic chapters often featured in the text, most often taken from
al-Fātiḥa or al-Ikhlās. Supplicants first reconfirmed their submission to divine will,
glorified the omnipotence of God, and then posed their requests. Thaumaturgical
manuals offered supplications intended for a range of outcomes – from gaining
material resources, through healing the infirm, to receiving hidden knowledge.77 It
was common to read Qur’ānic chapters during recitations, and the shahāda occa
sionally concluded the duʿa.78
Duʿas were available to all. Illustrative and very standard was the supplication
recited at the beginning of a lunar year. It was spoken out early in Muḥarram. The
text was rather brief and it follows, “My God, who is eternal, the graceful ever
living, [who is] affectionate, the new year [is here] and you are the ancient king.
I ask from you the strength against the devil and absolution from the fires, [I ask]
for pardon and forgiveness upon this soul inclined to evil that is striving to do and
say only that which is honorable to be brought closer to you, oh venerable and
majestic one.”79 It was believed that this supplication directed grace to the suppli
cant,80 which identifies its function as an incantation. A very similar supplication
was recited at the end of the lunar year.81
Duʿas of the Sufis allegedly brought special benefits because of their baraka.82
Some Sufis were held in particularly high esteem due to the quality of their recita
tions of duʿas and other incantations, which further strengthened beliefs in their
wondrous capacities. Abū al-Mawāhib Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Ḥanbalī (d.1714)
was a very prominent Hanbalite scholar, of celebrated prayer recitation skills.83
Al-Naḥlāwī’s dhikr was highly sought for.84 This is comparable to western Euro
pean regions, where the prayers of certain saints or other members of the Catholic
194 Artes Magicae
Church enjoyed particular renown because of both their efficacy and the eloquence
of the performers.85
Belief in the efficacy of a supplication or its elements was often based on repeti
tion.86 It was believed that repeated reading of Qur’ānic chapters, sometimes for
over hundreds of times, lead to specific results.87 Ibn Budayr’s Sufi master believed
that eighty-seven repetitions of the words yā ʿazīz (“my dear,” or “my precious,”
yet the word ʿazīz is generally applied to God, when it means “mighty”) after prais
ing the Prophet during the morning prayer88 brought many mystical benefits to the
supplicants, both in life and afterlife.89 Supplications aimed at particular goals,
like obtaining more resources, required several dozens of repetitions, while some
invocations were supposed to be repeated over several days, or weeks. Following
the correct procedure would grant various rewards ranging from general blessings
to hidden knowledge.90
The Sufis and the common people recited their duʿas after the five standard
prayers, as well as while harvesting baraka from hallowed grounds. It was believed
that duʿas were more potent when recited within shrines. In addition to attracting
grace, Muslims hoped that the supplications at saintly maqāms would persuade
the saints to assist them. They visited shrines because of common beliefs in their
numerous benefits, ranging from general blessings to averting natural disasters,
and some deceased saints were believed to control specific issues. For instance,
Maqām Zaynab was visited in Damascus to affect natural disasters.91 People had
similar beliefs in Christian Europe. Some Catholic saints were believed to special
ize in averting particular disasters.92
Chancing upon a shrine, one performed the tabarruk and recited the basmala,
sometimes with the shahāda. Ritual cleanliness was obligatory for those who wished
to enter.93 Entering unannounced indicated a lack of manners. It was customary to
pronounce the dastūr formula that was also used when entering someone’s home,
or injinnated grounds.94 One recited, “dastūr, yā walī Allah” (permission [to enter],
saint of God). The superindendents of shrines (khuddām) would sometimes refuse
to admit visitors, perhaps because a female group already occupied the premises.95
To attract the attention of the saintly presence allegedly lingering within
a shrine, one usually recited al-Fātiḥa for the interred, activating the baraka
within.96 Canaan read the saintly graves’ epitaphs that urged pilgrims to recite
al-Fātiḥa for the souls of the buried.97 Pilgrims often invoked the name of the
saint whom the shrine was committed to.98 Recitations of duʿas followed with
the aim of collecting grace, or receiving assistance with specific issues.99 It was
customary to circumambulate a shrine, which is still performed during the Ḥajj
in Mecca. People were eager to touch or kiss the shrine’s ḍarīḥ, or other objects
within,100 as touch was believed to induce the transfer of baraka that emanated
from the saintly presence and imbued the objects in the surroundings. Afterwards,
the pilgrims would get in contact with their loved ones, in hopes of transfering the
shrine’s baraka further.101
Al-Nābulsī left brief records of his shrine prayers. He would enter and “read
al-Fātiḥa and then a duʿa,” (wa sharaʿnā fī qirā’at al-fātiḥa wa al-duʿa), or, “read
al-Fātiḥa for [the saint] and then invoked God” (qara’nā lahu al-fātiḥa wa daʿawnā
Artes Magicae 195
allah).102 Sometimes he would stay to perform more standard prayers at a hallowed

site.103 Other members of the Ottoman Sufi-ʿulamā’ network conducted similar
rituals in shrines, like al-Bakrī during his rounds in Jerusalem.104 Common people
followed identical customs. Travel guides produced during the eighteenth century
to list the many maqāms of Bilād al-Shām continuously emphasized the benefits of
reciting duʿas in shrines.105
The Sufi-ʿulamā’ practiced dhikr within shrines. It was common to perform
night vigils (tahajjud) in maqāms as well. A night vigil was sometimes counted as
the “sixth” daily prayer, and the Sufis praised its supposed efficacy in collecting
Allah’s baraka. In addition, it was believed that the night vigil brought additional
benefits, such as safe passage into the afterlife.106 In addition to vigils, sleeping at
maqāms was widespread practice. It was believed that sleep within a shrine may
bring healing, or dreams carrying information of importance. This practice was
called incubation (istikhāra) and represented a fairly widespread phenomenon in
many world religions.107
Rituals performed in maqāms often coincided with many leisure activities.
Shrines were frequented by groups of Sufi disciples and masters, who usually
embarked upon their pilgrimages in company.108 Ziyārāt represented networking
opportunities. In 1689, ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī arrived to Joub Jannine (Jubb
Jinīn) in West Beqaa. He was greeted by the Sufi master Kamāl al-Dīn and got
acquainted with other colleagues during his rounds in the area. Afterwards, he
enjoyed some pastime under the canopy of the local sacred tree.109 In Hama, he
collected baraka for the entire Qādirīyya lodge by performing dhikr with his
fellows.110
In addition to praying in maqāms with hopes to augment the power of reli
gious rituals, the people of eighteenth-century Syria were (similar to elsewhere in
the Ottoman Empire) in the habit of using various items and objects which were
believed sacred. Some of them were old relics. Others lay within maqāms until
beliefs developed that the baraka of a shrine “leaked” into them. Talismans were
also very popular. Both Sufis and magicians had techniques for talisman production.
Conduits of Energy: Baraka-Laden Items and Talismanics

In popular belief, items that were in close contact with Muslim wonder-workers
brought benefits to those in their vicinity, or those who kept them on their person.
A proponent of the classical theory of magic, James Frazer explained this belief
through the principle of contagion, or the belief that items that were once in con
tact with each other retained properties of each other long after they have been
separated.111 Popular belief attributed considerable power to sacred relics. The
Ottoman dynasty kept items that supposedly belonged to Prophet Muḥammad,
along with strands of his beard, in the Topkapı Palace of Istanbul. These relics still
represent a popular exhibit.112 Al-Nābulsī expressed much awe for the Head of the
Baptist, allegedly in the Ummayad Mosque, and that of al-Ḥusayn.113 Relics were
significant in various religions through history, and until today.114
196 Artes Magicae
Objects that were in close proximity to hallowed tombs were considered

extremely potent. In 1710, Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī suddenly got a strong headache dur
ing his siyāḥa. Visiting the Shrine of Moses (maqām al-nabī mūsā), he first said a
prayer that was common upon entering a praying house (ṣallāt taḥīyyat al-masjid).
Observing elements of the common procedure, he turned towards the qibla, recited
al-Fātiḥa, and commenced with his invocation. Al-Bakrī then placed his head under
the coverlet of the grave and rubbed it against the ḍarīḥ. He claimed his headache
was gone instantly, and for good.115
It was believed that objects that lay around the shrines bore the maqām grace.
People occasionally rubbed against the rocks near shrines to alleviate pains,116
rolled on the hallowed grounds, or rubbed soil into their bodies.117 The axial saint
al-Nābulsī left a legend involving the conversation of his mother and a Damascene
Shaykh Maḥmūd. After the shaykh’s death, she was to bring young al-Nābulsī to
his grave and rub him with the soil to grant him baraka. Maḥmūd was later buried
in al-Sāliḥīyya.118 According to a long tradition, when a shaykh died, commoners
would rush to attend the preparation of his funeral, eager to touch objects near the
corpse, dip their clothes into the water intended to wash the body, and so on.119
Early during the nineteenth century, the people in Egypt believed in the curative
powers of the earth from Prophet Muḥammad’s grave. This soil was often gath
ered and sometimes baked into cakes to be worn as amulets or hung around the
households.120
Ottoman subjects in Syria collected small items from the shrines, believing in
their amuletic properties. Pilgrims brought pieces of grave coverlets (sutūr) back
to their homes. In the absence of sutūr, any bit of cloth from a shrine sufficed. The
Nabī Mūsā shrine in Palestine was famous for its black stones that the people often
kept on their person. Oil which burnt in the censers at shrines was frequently gath
ered by the pilgrims. It was massaged into the infirm. Vegetation that grew around
shrines was at times used to fumigate the ill. Canaan records that the waters of al
Mat.baʿa marsh near Tel Shemmam (Tal al-Shammām) were believed efficacious in
combating rheumatism and sterility.121
People believed that water represented a powerful energy conduit.122 Pilgrims
regularly collected water from shrines. Cisterns at hallowed sites fulfilled similar
functions to holy water for Christians.123 Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī indicates the mysterious
qualities of rainwater gathered in the Shrine of Moses.124 Water from the Zamzam
probably represented the most potent baraka conduit in the popular imaginary.125
Lane wrote that the people of Cairo were in the habit of dipping toothpicks into it,
since it was believed that the sacred water would help preserve oral hygiene and
welfare.126
The Scripture itself represented a powerful talisman.127 Qur’ānic verses, as well
as its pages, were dissolved in water to create curative potions.128 It was believed
that the Qur’ān contained six particularly powerful verses, jointly known as the
Healing Verses (ayāt al-shifā’).129 These ayāt could be written down and boiled in
a pot. If true believers drank this potion, it was hoped that they received thauma
turgical healing.130
Artes Magicae 197
The quest for baraka would at times lead to excessive fervor. Wicks of the
lamps that burned in shrines would be swallowed, often by women who wished to
induce pregnancy in the shrine of Nabī Mūsā, but in other shrines as well.131 The
chalk of the Milk Grotto in Bethlehem was believed to induce lactation.132 Accord
ing to beliefs, while the Virgin breastfed Christ, some milk fell on the ground,
painting the rocks within the grotto white.133 People usually rubbed this chalk into
the skin134 or kept it under their beds. It was not unusual, however, to eat it on the
spot.135 Collective effervescence136 could become dangerous. Maundrell recounts
that the crowd in front of the Holy Sepulcher pushed and shoved to approach the
Holy Flame and perform the tabarruk gesture, rubbing their hands against their
skin and beards. Collective excitement grew so much that the gendarmerie had to
get involved and break the crowd up. Despite their efforts, Maundrell witnessed
people getting singed in the struggle for divine grace.137
Items collected during pilgrimages often represented key elements of more
potent talismanic or amuletic devices. One of the most illustrative examples is a
type of sacred bread called quddāsa. Canaan recorded the making of this bread
in Jerusalem. People collected the corn that grew on the grounds of Abū Madyān
shrine. This maqām belonged to the al-Maghāriba Lodge complex. It was believed
that the saint’s hand was kept within.138 According to beliefs, the bread brought
no additional benefits unless it was baked during the holy month of Ramaḍān. In
Ramaḍān, people would knead dough from Abū Madyān corn, reciting the Scrip
ture over it. They would read al-Fātiḥa seven times, followed by ten repetitions
of al-Ikhlās, and then three readings of al-muʿawwidhatān – al-Falāq and al-Nās.
This dough would then be baked into bread which was expected to have curative
powers. Pieces of the quddāsa were eaten by the ill, both Muslim and Christian.
The bread would otherwise be suspended over the patients’ heads or placed under
their pillows. It was customary to perform one’s ablutions before consuming the
quddāsa.139
Many other pilgrimage “souvenirs” were used in talisman-making. The
bituminous stones of Nabī Mūsā would be cut into squares or triangles. The
shaykhs would make talismans out of them afterwards.140 Talisman-making
had a long tradition among the Muslims and was widespread in other religions
as well.141 Ibn Khaldūn believed that talismanics represented a science, which
allowed a human being to influence the world with the assistance of celestial
bodies.142
For the creation of a talisman, time was essential. Place was of importance as
well, and it was widely believed that talismans produced in maqāms yielded potent
results.143 Depending on their intended purpose, talismanic objects needed to be
crafted at particular dates, under particular astrological signs, or during particular
times of the day. Talismans were usually written on paper, but the wonder-workers
would sometimes use silk, clay, wood, or iron, and it was at times preferred that the
color of the material would be red, blue, or yellow. These talismans were believed
to bring many benefits to their holders, ranging from hidden knowledge to wishes
198 Artes Magicae
coming true.144 For the efficacy of all talismans, it was important that their makers
were pure in their faith and behavior.145
Some shaykhs empowered newly created talismans with other sources of grace,
such as their spittle. They recited particular texts during their work, like chap
ters from the Scripture or more intimate supplications. The duʿas in general served
curative and meliorative purposes but could be written on the talisman directly,
when they would have a prophylactic function. Muslim talismans would often bear
individual letters of the Arabic alphabet that were believed to augment the power
of other inscriptions and boost the talisman’s efficacy. Divine names often featured
on talismans as well.146
Talismans served a variety of functions, yet the ulamaic circles outlawed some
of them as a type of siḥr. Since the medieval period, there existed techniques for
making talismans that influenced rulers or compelled the jinn to do one’s bid
ding.147 However, some talismans that were created with intentions to influence
people – causing marital or sibling reconciliation, or driving rivals away when
placed under the threshold148 – do not seem to have raised any eyebrows.
In addition to talismans, Christians of eighteenth-century Bilād al-Shām (like
Christians everywhere), believed in the mystical power of icons. Icons were
believed to operate on similar principles as talismans and amulets. In classical
scholarship, it was considered that icons were homeopathically connected149 to
the saint whose portrait they displayed. Icons were believed to perform the role
of proxies150 for supplicants seeking saintly intercession.151 The primary condi
tion for icon activation was the piety of the supplicant. Burayk wrote reports of
a Christian whose prayers in front of the Virgin’s icon kept his family unharmed
during an armed conflict in Lebanon.152 Muslim maqāms without graves, com
mitted to particular saints or wondrous and miraculous events, were functionally
comparable to icons.
Beliefs in the mysterious power of objects, words, and letters were abundant in
premodern Syria, across social strata and religious confessions. Items and places
of power over centuries induced the development of a particular economy, focused
on the distribution of thaumaturgical goods and artifacts. Sufi assistance was not a
cheap popular commodity. The shaykhs often earned a decent living in the Middle
East under Ottoman rule.
The Price of Grace: The Economy of Wonders and Wonder-Working

Sufi assistance was unaffordable to some. Stephan heard that a shaykh from Jeru
salem once requested five Egyptian pounds and a sheep to perform an exorcism on
an epileptic child. The father could not afford the fee, and the child had to endure
the affliction.153
Early modern Muslim shaykhs generally dealt in a lucrative profession. Talis
manics generated a hefty revenue. Grehan observed that the Damascene Shākir
al-Mīdanī (d.1850) turned considerable profit with his amulets that were espe
cially appreciated by women who hoped to conceive male children.154 There was a
Artes Magicae 199
constant market for curative amulets. Abū Bakr al-Dusūqi (d.1779) had reputation
for his healing items.155 In addition to coin, people would at times pay with vari
ous goods, such as tobacco pouches and other accessories.156 Selling thaumaturgi
cal goods earned many shaykhs more than a decent living,157 similar to the clergy
among Christians. Christian believers frequently furnished churches or sent robes
and other items to the priests in exchange for their services.158
Votive offerings at shrines were frequent, as well as vows, which were con
sidered hazardous to break.159 People promised goods or valuables to a shrine in
exchange for saintly intercession. Starting a military campaign against Nablus
militias in 1735, Ẓāhir al-ʿUmar first went to Nazareth where he publicly prayed
in the shrine of the Virgin.160 Kneeling down, he rubbed his face in the soil of the
shrine and vowed that he would send regular tribute should he win the battle. He
emerged victorious and fully honored his promise.161
The people of Syria and Palestine often vowed to make donations in exchange
for intercession. Food and other material goods were offered to shrines for thau
maturgical healing,162 while many peasants prayed for rich crops, promising to take
a portion of their harvest to hallowed sites. Many shrines thus managed to sup
port themselves, accepting other product too, such as lamps or oil.163 The deceased
awliyā’ were presumed to have been decent and fair. They accepted only what
was owed to them. Canaan records that a woman vowed to bring some oil to the
Palestinian St. George shrine in exchange for her child’s recovery. The child grew
healthy, and she brought more oil than she promised. The surplus kept spilling
out of the lamps within the shrine until the priests told the woman that the saint
received what was promised and required no more.164
Some votive offerings to shrines were viewed as peculiar by the Damascene
chroniclers, yet the saints were believed open to all kinds of bargains. In 1743,
a man in Damascus fell ill. His lover, who worked as a prostitute, prayed at the
Maqām Shaykh Ruslān, promising that she would celebrate the saint’s mawlid
should her lover recover. When the man was back to his health, the prostitutes
of Damascus paraded the city with music, letting their hairs loose.165 Early mod
ern Province of Damascus occasionally faced legal difficulties with prostitution
in urban centers. Prostitutes would be expelled or faced prohibitions from time
to time.166 This parade’s purpose was to redeem a vow, and it attracted no known
repercussions.167
It was customary for the people to leave a testimony (mashhad) to their vow.
They would also leave mashhads to their pilgrimages. Simple symbols were suf
ficient – a piece of cloth tied to a convenient place within or near a shrine would
do. People often tied cloths to sacred trees near shrines,168 or placed piles of rocks
around the premises. The custom of placing mashhads survived into the modern
period, usually followed by the words, “I testify for you today, so that you shall tes
tify for me upon the Resurrection Day” (anā ashhad maʿak al-yawm wa anta tash
had maʿī yawm al-qiyāma, or in colloquial, anā bashad maʿak al-yūm wint tashad
maʿī yūm al-qiyāmi).169 This was a formulaic request for saintly intercession.
200 Artes Magicae
Pilgrimage mashhads served as collectibles for future pilgrims. If they took

something from a shrine, they would need to leave a possession in return. To
Maundrell, eighteenth-century maqāms looked like button makers’ shops with their
numerous beads, linen hangings, and other trinkets.170 These transactions also had
an alleged curative purpose. Leaving a mashhad, the ill would recite, “I have cast
my burden upon you, saint of God,” (ramayt ʿalayk ḥamalī yā walī Allah), in hopes
to part from their illness which the saint would dispatch. They would then collect
something from the shrine to facilitate recovery.171
People frequently sacrificed to the awliyā’. Sometimes they would vow an ani
mal which would be butchered only later. If someone would promise half a cow to
a walī, from that moment onwards and until the animal was sold, half of its milk,
its offspring, and anything which would accompany the animal represented the
shrine’s property. If the animal was sold, half of the profit was sent to the shrine.172
Edward Lane saw that sacrificial animals were allowed to walk and graze wherever
they wished until the sacrifice was performed.173
It was considered obligatory that the sacrificial animal (dhabīḥa or ḍaḥīyya)
should bleed. In the modern period, Curtiss documented universal beliefs that the
most important part of ritualistic slaughter was the “bursting forth of blood.”174
It was imperative that the ḍaḥīyya was healthy. Wounded or sick animals were
unacceptable. The ḍaḥīyya would be taken to the shrine and forced to lie on its left
side. Its head would be pointed towards the qibla (Christians and Jews turned their
animals towards Jerusalem). The actual slaughter would be carried out by the sup
plicant or an adjutant.175 The shrine’s superintendent (khādim) would sometimes
assist the act,176 but proximity was important, and so the supplicant usually kept
their hand on the animal.177 The ritual started with the basmala and continued with
a supplication arranged to express the intent of the sacrifice. Duʿas were preferred
while performing the slaughter,178 recited without pause and with intense focus.
Appointed butchers invoked God before delivering the killing blow, which was
intended to be swift and accurate, not to torture the animal needlessly.179 After the
sacrifice, the corpse of the animal would be cut and at times prepared on the spot.
This food was not intended to turn profit – instead, it was customary to arrange a
public feast, the aim of which was charity (ṣadāqa).180 Supplicants who offered sac
rifice would feed the hungry and the mendicant, but other people equally as well.181
The walī received the beast’s soul,182 while the people satisfied with the rest.
People most often offered sacrifice in hopes of saintly intercession, wondrous
healing, or general good fortune. I discussed apotropaic sacrifice in Chapter 3. In
case one sacrificed to protect a household, they would often leave a bloody hand-
print on the façade as a mashhad. This type of mashhad featured on some maqāms
as well. In the absence of blood, people would use red henna.183 Sacrifice was also
offered in penance. The gendarme from Awarta who took grapes from hallowed
ground without saintly permission vomited blood until he offered blood to the
shrine.184 Sometimes awliyā’ demanded sacrifice in oneiric visions. In one docu
mented instance, a spear-wielding saint inspired members of several different con
fessional groups through dreams of one man, and Paton saw several hundreds of
Artes Magicae 201
people south of Damascus sacrificing a sheep to fulfill saintly demands for quelling
an ongoing cholera epidemic.185 People in early modern Ottoman Empire sacri
ficed for a wide number of other reasons. Aside from Eid al-Fitr and the Prophet’s
mawlid, birthdays of the popular saints were celebrated as well. Sacrifice would
be offered on such occasions.186 Up to the twentieth century, Ottoman authorities
would offer sacrifice prior to commencing any large-scale endeavors,187 such as
opening new railway connections.188 Grehan emphasizes the impact such acts had
on imperial economy along with communal prayers as well as other ceremonies
held by the Ottoman authorities within different regions of the Empire.189
Invocations, talismanics, and sacrifice at times represented constituent elements
of complicated ceremonies under supervision of the Sufi masters. These were
large-scale events that included crowds of participants, both common and the elite.
Some rituals like these represented official state ceremonies, while others would
be organized ad hoc in response to impending dangers and natural catastrophes.
United We Stand: Public Thaumaturgical Rituals in

Eighteenth-Century Damascus
Perhaps the most prominent standard public thaumaturgical ceremony was the
state-endorsed rain-summoning prayer (ṣalāt al-istisqā’). Rain prayers were a part
of a lengthy tradition that was kept in Ottoman Syria during the early modern and
the modern periods.190 Ibn Khaldūn considered rain prayers the responsibility of the
caliph that was outsourced to the imāms of large congregational mosques.191 A Sufi
shaykh would usually be appointed as the ritual leader.
In eighteenth-century Damascus, Abū al-Mawāhib Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Ḥanbalī
(d.1714) enjoyed particular renown because of his recitation skills, and he used to
lead rain-summoning prayers. Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī was also a very influential Han
balite scholar, remembered as a chronicler and a historian, and respected widely for
his erudition.192 He was a teacher and shaykh to Ḥusayn al-Baytimānī, Aḥmad Ibn
Siwār,193 and Aḥmad al-Manīnī.194 Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī became a walī, and his grave
was frequently visited in al-Ṣāliḥīyya during the eighteenth century.195
Al-Murādī recounts a rain-summoning prayer of 1696. The people fasted for
three days before gathering in the celebrated Bāb al-Muṣalla Mosque, which was
believed to augment thaumaturgical efficacy.196 They brought sacrificial animals,
cows, goats, and sheep. Directing supplications to Allah, the crowd raised their
voices in theatrical cries. Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī came to pray with the assembled peo
ple and had a chair placed in the center of the mosque. From the chair, he com
menced with a duʿa. The scene lasted a while before Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī, seeing
no immediate result of the ritual, grabbed his beard and yelled: “My God, do
not expose this old man [to shame] in front of your worshippers!” As the popu
lar imaginary linked thaumaturgical power of an individual with their ṣalāḥ, the
Hanbalite saint’s reputation may have been at stake. He was in front of many of
his peers, as well as the common people of Damascus in a space crowded with
expectations. He snapped at God, and al-Murādī reported that, soon after, the
202 Artes Magicae
“gates of the sky opened” (infataḥat abwāb al-samā’), gracing Damascus with
heavy rains that lasted for three days.197
Names of the prominent and tenured Sufi-ʿulamā’ tended to come up when
ever a public prayer was organized, especially in dire moments. The devastating
earthquakes of 1759198 demolished much of the Damascene infrastructure. Qub
bat al-Naṣr on Mount Qasioun was heavily damaged199 along with the Umayyad
Mosque, while the city’s water supply remained cut off for a number of days.200
The freshly appointed governor, ʿAbd Allah Pasha Al-Shatajī (r.1758–1759),201
ordered a public prayer. The people fasted for three days before congregating in
Bāb al-Muṣalla. The governor came to attend the ceremony, surrounded by his
retinue and the Damascene scholars, Sufis, and elites. Aḥmad Ibn Siwār,202 a for
mer apprentice of Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Ḥanbalī, was assigned as the prayer leader.
Ibn Budayr wrote that the prayers lasted for three full days. People were shouting
and crying “as if it was the Judgment Day.”203 Ibn Siwār recited his duʿas, and the
people repeated after him.204
Some disasters which were specific to the region necessitated particular protec
tive measures. Legends told of a mystical water which lured a mysterious black
bird by the name of samarmar.205 In popular beliefs, flocks of black birds followed
the special water and destroyed locust infestations, which, in the Greater Syrian
region, represented a common occurrence. People in eighteenth-century Syria
believed that samarmar’s water flowed somewhere between Shiraz and Isfahan.206
During 1747, when a particularly severe infestation thrived in the region, Asʿad
Pasha al-ʿAẓm assigned two Sufi-ʿālims to fetch some of this water.207 One of them
was Alī al-Maṣrī the Shafi’ite (d.1749), who was a prominent lecturer. The other
one remains remembered as ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Kafarsūsī. According to the old
belief, the pair was supposed to collect samarmar’s water and then travel back
without looking over their shoulders, leaving water containers on the ground or
passing under roofs. If they would fail to observe these rules, their quest would
be futile.208 The shaykhs returned with the water, and the Sufi disciples formed a
welcoming procession, brandishing colorful flags to the beating of drums that cel
ebrated the pair’s success. Mystical water was transferred to smaller containers and
suspended all over Damascus – especially at prominent places, like the minarets of
the Umayyad Mosque.209 The governor ordered some water to be sent to Hawran to
deal with the infestation there.210
The locusts continued to plague the countryside throughout the season, and
Ibn Budayr’s narrative took a turn to question popular behavior in Damascus. As
there could be little doubt in the wonders of God’s chosen, blame was bound to
transfer to the people. The barber reported rumors of sinfulness, transgressions
against faith, and provocations of Allah’s wrath. Virtue and purity seemed luxuri
ous commodities upon reading the diary of Ibn Budayr who accused the people
of corruption and odious behavior.211 Sufis organized more parades. The Saʿdīyya
Shaykh Ibrāhīm al-Jabāwī led a public prayer at the shrine of Zaynab. To the beat
ing of drums and under the order’s flags, the people then circumambulated the city
Artes Magicae 203
citadel. Finally, the Saʿdīyya disciples performed their trademark act, the dawsa.212
In the following days, concerns arose about sinful women, prostitutes in public
spaces, and popular unrest caused by the many militant factions in Damascus.213
Similarly, Grehan relates a few failed istisqā’ rituals in Damascus during the winter
of 1662/1663. The ceremony was organized twice in the Umayyad Mosque with a
procession towards the suburbs. There was no rain, and the popular humility and
modesty were immediately questioned.214
An analysis into the form and the mechanics of the premodern Muslim thau
maturgical ritual in the case of eighteenth-century Bilād al-Shām demonstrates
that the ritual proceedings would remain the same in most cases, regardless of
scale. Certain standard requirements needed to be honored, such as ritualistic
purity induced through fasting and ablutions. The duʿa represented a common
element in most rituals and was crucial due to its function of expressing the sup
plicants’ needs in hopes of communicating them to the deity. The deceased saints’
intercession was often solicited in times of dire needs as well as for individual
well-being.
Throughout the premodern period, there existed the belief that the Sufi
duʿas were particularly potent and efficacious. It was, therefore, that the
prominent members of the Ottoman network of the holy often stood as imāms
regardless if the prayer was public and counted as a state ceremony or more
private and aimed at particular personal goals of the supplicant. The popular
expectations that the Sufi-ʿulamā’ led particularly efficacious rituals indicates
another angle through which their sociological role as a priestly sodality may
be approached.
While documenting their theological views, the ʿulamā’ throughout the centuries
developed the distinction between thaumaturgy and magic based on their supposed
origin. Because of their baraka, the Sufis, in their social environments, without
repercussions, dabbled in some practices which theologians otherwise found ques
tionable. On the other hand, practitioners of various magical rituals without institu
tional training or support supposedly acted upon daemonic inspiration. In practice,
however, it would seem that the proceedings of many magical and thaumaturgical
rituals followed a similar form.
Ottoman Sunnism strove to preserve its thaumaturgical elements during the
spread of reformist thought in the later centuries. Syrian thaumaturgical traditions
remained largely unchanged even long after the emergence of Islamic reforms.
Reformist alterations to attitudes towards religion within the Ottoman ulamaic cir
cles took root only gradually, over the course of the following centuries.
Notes
2 See Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in
Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London: Penguin, 1991), ix, 27–29. For
204 Artes Magicae
a study of Christianity in India, see R. L. Stirrat, “Holy Men and Power,” in Power and
Religiosity in a Post-Colonial Setting: Sinhala Catholics in Contemporary Sri Lanka
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 122–149.
3 The medieval founder of the Shādhilīyya order. See, for instance, Ramzi Rouighi, The
Making of the Mediterranean Emirate: Ifriqiya and its Andalusis, 1200–1400 (Philadel
phia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 141–142.
4 More examples subsequently.
5 ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, Nihāyat al-Murād fī Sharḥ Hadiyyat Ibn al-ʿImad [Ultimate
Wish in the Interpretation of Ibn al-ʿImad’s Gift], ed. ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-Ḥalabī (Limas
sol: Al-Jaffan & Al-Jabi, 1994), 57–124, and Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 2:464–465.
6 “Majmūʿ min kul Fann yabḥath annahu Jawāhir al-Kalām min Shiʿr wa Mathal wa
Fawā’id min kul Fāḍil wa Ākhir al-Kitāb Asmā’ wa Adʿiyāt min kul Shay’ (Henceforth:
“MMKF”), MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Glaser 100, Berlin. 28B, 31A. Pagination is
mine, due to unclear labeling of the folios. I consider the first page with text to be 1B.
The three days and nights of fasting before venturing a ritual were common in scrip
tural traditions. See Thomas, Decline, 49, 164, 255. Further see Ronald L. Eisenberg,
Dictionary of Jewish Terms: A Guide to the Language of Judaism (Rockville: Schreiber
Publishing, 2008), 130. The tradition was very old. See S. H. Mathews, “Fasting in Old
Testament and Ancient Mediterranean World,” in Christian Fasting: Biblical and Evan
gelical Perspectives (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2015), 25–52, Jonathan Harris, “The
Passage of the First Crusade,” in Byzantium and the Crusades (London: Bloomsbury,
2003), 59–76, or Hermann Oldenberg, “Cult Observances,” in The Religion of the Veda,
trans. Shridhar B. Shrotri (Delhi: Motilal Banrsidass Publishers, 1988), 224–231.
7 “Majmūʿa” [A Collection of Thaumaturgical Rites] MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin,
Hs. Or. 14283, Berlin, 17B.
8 Knysh, Sufism, 15, or Lloyd D. Graham, “Qur’ānic Spelling: Disconnected Letter Series
in Islamic Talismans,” (2011): 1–28. Available online at www.academia.edu/516626/
Qur_anic_Spell-ing_Disconnected_Letter_Series_in_Islamic_Talismans (Last accessed:
February 24th 2023). Good illustrations are in Muṣṭafā Ibn Kamāl al-Dīn Ibn ‘Alī
al-Bakrī al-Ṣiddīqī, “al-Manhal al- ʿAdhb al-Sā’igh li-Warrādihi fī Dhikr Ṣalwāt al-Ṭarīq
wa Awrādihi,” MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Hs. or. 14153, Berlin, 1A–9B.
Khālid al-Naqshbandī, in Majmūʿat Rasā’il Muḥammad Ibn ʿĀbidīn (Henceforth: MR)
(Istanbul: Dar-i Saʿādat, 1907), 2:14–26, 36–37, ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Fatḥ
al-Rabānī wa al-Fayḍ al-Raḥmānī [The Lordly Revelation And the Flow of Mercy], ed.
Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Qādir ʿAṭā (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1980), 177–178.
10 See Chapter 2. Further see Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14–18, 25–28, 36–37, 42–45, al-Nābulsī,
Fatḥ, 177–178, ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥadīqa al-Nadīyya: Sharḥ al-Ṭarīqa
al-Muḥammadīyya (Miṣr: n.p., 1860), 2:390–392, Abū Zayd Ibn Khaldūn, al-
Muqaddima [Prolegomenon], ed. Jumaʿa Shaykha (Tunis: Al-Dār al-Tūnisīyya li-l-Nashr,
1984), 132–138, 628–630, 689. For comparative purposes, see Denise Aigle, “Charis
mes et rôle social des saints dans l’hagiographie médiévale persane,” Bulletin d’études
orientales 47 (1995): 15–36, or Eliza Marian Butler, The Myth of the Magus (London &
New York: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 1–12.
11 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14–18. These beliefs were an old tradition. See Ibn Khaldūn, al-
Muqaddima, 134–143. For comparative purposes, see Butler, Magus, 1–12.
12 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14–37, al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–200.
13 Yūsuf Ibn Ismāʿīl al-Nabhānī, Jāmiʿ Karamāt al-Awliyā’ (Henceforth: JK), ed.
ʿAbd al-Wārith Muḥammad ʿAlī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2009), 1:19–21.
Al-Nabhānī gives a lengthy list of wondrous powers at JK, 1:41–51.
14 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–18. Also see (al-Sayyid Shaykh al-ʿUlamā’) Muḥammad Ibn
Aḥmad al-Shāfi‘ī al-Shawbarī, “al-Ajwibah ‘an al-As’ila fī Karāmāt al-Awliyā’”
(Henceforth “AA”), MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Sprenger 819, Berlin, 45A–48B,
Artes Magicae 205
and Taufik Canaan, Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine (London: Luzac
& Co., 1927), 255.
15 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15, 32–37, Al-Nabhānī, JK, 1:13–14, 19–20. Also see Canaan,
Saints, 255. Compare with Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddimah, 132–157.
16 See al-Nabhānī, JK, 1:21–23. Further see Ludwig W. Adamec, Historical Dictionary of
Islam, Third Edition (New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2017), 221.
17 See, for instance, Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:36–47, and al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 2:389–403. These
beliefs persisted to the twentieth century. See al-Nabhānī, JK, 1:21–40, 51–56. This
is comparable to the Christian premodern history. See Thomas, Decline, 69. Further
see Michael Muhammad Knight, Magic in Islam (New York: Tarcher Perigee, 2016),
27–54, John D. Martin III, Theurgy in the Medieval Islamic World: Conceptions of
Cosmology in al-Buni’s Doctrine of Divine Names (Cairo: The American University of
Cairo, 2011), 3–5, Hassan Elboudrari, “De la magie en Islam: entre licéité et illicéité.
Paradoxes et ambivalences,” Correspondances 49 (1998): 10–15, Mahmoud Haggag,
“Magie im teologisch-rechtlichen Diskurs der arabisch-islamischen Gelehrsamkeit,”
and Hans Daiber, “Magie und Kausalität im Islam,” in Die Geheimnisse der oberen
und der unteren Welt: Magie im Islam zwischen Glaube und Wissenschaft, ed. Sebastian
Günther and Dorothee Pielow (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2018), 135–154, 155–168, and
Koushki, “Magic”: 256–287.
18 See Chapter 1.
19 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:36–47, al-Nabhānī, JK, 1:21–40, 51–56.
20 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:18, 28–31. The jinn were claimed to have inspired the pre-Islamic
sorcerers or kuhhān (sg. kāhin/kāhina). See Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 142–143, or
Edward William Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyp
tians: Written in Egypt During the Years 1833, 1834, and 1835, 2 volumes (London:
Charles Knight & Co., 1836), 1:283–286. Further see Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Emergence
of Islam in Late Antiquity: Allāh and his People (New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2014), 207.
21 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:28, al-Nābulsī, Fatḥ, 136–137. Further see Ibn Khaldūn, al-
Muqaddima, 134–143, 151.
22 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–18, 25–45, al-Nābulsī, Fatḥ, 136–137, al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa,
1:199–202.
23 See for instance, Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 134–143. For the eighteenth-century
context, see al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 1:199–202, 2:389–403. Belief in all kinds of preter
natural powers persisted until the modern centuries. See al-Nabhānī, JK, 13–16.
24 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:29. Further see al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 2:389–403.
25 See Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Budayr, “Ḥawādith Dimashq al-Shām Yawmīyya min
Sanat 1154 ilā Sanat 1176” (Henceforth: “HDY”), MS Chester Beatty Library Ar
3551/2, Dublin, 36B.
26 Witches were often freed or accused based on their neighbors’ testimonies. Many “poor
old women” were released from trial if their cohabitants vouched for them. See Grehan,
Twilight, 152, and Thomas, Decline, 310–312.
27 Geomancy was considered magic. See Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–18, 36–37, 42–45, and Ibn
Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 141–165, 623–624, 630. Further see Chapter 2.
28 Mikhā’il Burayk al-Dimashqī, Tārīkh al-Shām 1720–1782 (Henceforth: TS), ed.
Qusṭanṭīn al-Bāshā al-Mukhalliṣī (Harissa: Matbaʿat al-Qadīs Būlūs, 1930), 14.
29 Lane, Egyptians, 1:345–346. See Chapter 3 for stories of people manipulating the dae
mons through talismans.
30 See Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:14–15, 25–28, 36–44.
32 For the eighteenth century, see for instance Ibn ʿĀbidīn, MR, 2:15–18, 28, 36–47, or
al-Nābulsī, Ḥadīqa, 2:389–403. Further see Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 141–165,
398–413, 623–630, 677–682, and Lane, Egyptians, 1:342–345. By now, occult sciences
206 Artes Magicae
represent a vast field within the subject of Islamic studies that, unfortunately, cannot be
treated comprehensively within the confines of this volume.
33 See, for instance, Azfar Moin, The Millennial Sovereign: Sacred Kingship and Saint
hood in Islam (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 66, 113–121. Further see
Liana Saif, “Between Medicine and Magic: Spiritual Aetiology and Therapeutics in
Medieval Islam,” in Demons and Illness from Antiquity to the Early Modern Period, ed.
Siam Bhayro (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2017), 315–319. Astrology and its entanglement
into the common and political affairs of Muslim polities represent large subjects that
sadly cannot be treated here due to issues of space.
enteenth and Eighteenth Century (London & New York: Routledge, 2019), 64–65, 68.
For broader contexts, see Kelly Bulkeley, Visions of the Night: Dreams, Religion and
Psychology (New York: State University of New York Press, 1999), 1–30, Kelly Bulke
ley, The Wilderness of Dreams: Exploring the Religious Meaning of Dreams in Modern
Western Culture (New York: State University of New York Press, 1994), 81–204, or Iain
R. Edgar, “A Comparison of Islamic and Western Psychological Dream Theories,” in
Dreaming in Christianity and Islam: Culture, Conflict, and Creativity, ed. Kelly Bulke
ley, Kate Adams and Patricia M. Davis (New Brunswick: Rudgers University Press,
2009), 188–199. For the Muslim context, see John C. Lamoreaux, The Early Muslim
Tradition of Dream Interpretation (New York: State University of New York Press,
2002), 1–14, or Kelly Bulkeley, “Islam,” in Dreaming in the World’s Religions: A Com
parative History (New York & London: New York University Press, 2008), 192–212. For
other regions, see other chapters in ibid., or M. C. Jȩdrej and Rosalind Shaw, eds., “Intro
duction: Dreaming, Religion and Society in Africa,” in Dreaming, Religion and Society
in Africa (Leiden & New York: 1992), 1–20. Further see Thomas, Decline, 152–153.
35 Omens had much significance in eighteenth-century Syria. See James Grehan, Twilight
of the Saints: Everyday Religion in Ottoman Syria and Palestine (Oxford: Oxford Uni
versity Press, 2014), 140.
36 Çığdem Kafescıoğlu, “In the Image of Rūm: Ottoman Architectural Patronage in
Sixteenth-Century Aleppo and Damascus,” Muqarnas 16 (1999): 74.
37 ֫
Ibn Ābidīn, MR, 2:22–25. Also see Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī, Silk al-Durar fī Aʿyan
al-Qarn al-Thānī ʿAshar [A String of Pearls among the Notables of the Eighteenth Cen
tury], ed. Akram Ḥassan al-ʿUlabī. 4 volumes (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 2002), 2:62. Further
see Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political
Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018), 115–120, 239–240.
38 Burayk, TS, 74, Dana Sajdi, The Barber of Damascus: Nouveau Literacy in the
Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2013), 79.
39 This was an important early modern saint in Aleppo, See Heghnar Zeitlian Watenpaugh,
The Image of an Ottoman City: Imperial Architecture and Urban Experience in Aleppo
in the 16th and 17th Centuries (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), 139–143.
1154 ilā Sanat 1176” (Henceforth: “HDY”), MS Chester Beatty Library Ar 3551/2,
Dublin, 24B–25A.
41 See Jonathan Katz, Dreams, Sufism and Sainthood: The Visionary Career of Muham
mad al-Zawawi (Leiden, New York and Koeln: Brill, 1996).
42 See, for instance, Lamoreaux, Dream Interpretation, 1–44.
43 See Sajdi, The Barber, 131. Oneirocritical literature was produced in many different
cultures. See, for instance, Steven M. Oberhelman, “Dreams in Greek Thought before
Achmet,” in The Oneirocriticon of Achmet: A Medieval Greek and Arabic Treatise on
the Interpretation of Dreams (Lubbock: Texas University Press, 1991), 23–64, Hans
Jürgen Bachorski, “Interpreting Dreams in Medieval Literature,” in Dreams and His
tory: The Interpretation of Dreams from Ancient Greece to Modern Psychoanalysis,
ed. Daniel Pick and Lyndal Roper (London & New York: Routledge, 2004), 57–90,
Artes Magicae 207
Ann Marie Plane and Leslie Tuttle, eds., “Introduction: The Literatures of Dreaming,”
in Dreams, Dreamers and Visions: The Early Modern Atlantic World (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 1–32, and Ann Marie Plane, “Lived Religion
and Embedded Emotion in Midcentury Dream Reporting,” in Dreams and the Invis
ible World in Colonial New England: Indians, Colonists, and the Seventeenth Century
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 104–126.
44 See ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, Taʿṭīr al-Anām fi Tafsīr al-Aḥlām [The Scent of Sleep
with Interpretation of Dreams] (Beirut: Dār al-Fikr, n.d.). In the early modern period,
dream interpretation represented the focus on many Ottoman authors everywhere
around the Empire. Bašeskija’s Sarajevo chronicle contains a section about dreams. See
Mula Mustafa Ševki Bašeskija, Ljetopis 1746–1804, ed. & trans. Mehmed Mujezinović
(Sarajevo: Sarajevo Publishing, 1997) 407–417.
45 Theories of bodily humours partially represented the foundation of many medical as
well as esoteric schools of thought in the Eurasian region and wider. For the Muslims,
see Emilie Savage-Smith, “Were the Four Humours Fundamental to Medieval Islamic
Medical Practice?” in The Body in Balance: Humoral Medicines in Practice, ed. Per
egrine Horden and Elisabeth Hsu (Oxford: Berghan Books, 2013), 89–106, or Özgen
Felek, “Epilepsy as ‘Contagious’ Disease in the Late Medieval and Early Modern Otto
man World,” in Plague and Contagion in the Islamic Mediterranean: New Histories of
Disease in Ottoman Society, ed. Nükhet Varlik (Kalamazoo: ARC Humanities, 2017),
158. For a wider, and much older context, see Virginia Langum, “Medicine, Sin and
Language,” in Medicine and the Seven Deadly Sins in Late Medieval Literature and
Culture (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 29–82, Thomas F. Glick, Steven Livesey
and Faith Wallis, eds., Medieval Science, Technology, and Medicine: An Encyclopedia
(New York & London: Routledge, 2005), 337–339, Danielle Jacquart, “Moses, Galen
and Jacques Despars: Religious Orthodoxy as a Path to Unorthodox Medical Views,”
and Peregrine Horden, “Religion as Medicine: Music in Medieval Hospitals,” in Reli
gion and Medicine in the Middle Ages, ed. Peter Biller and Joseph Ziegler (Suffolk:
York Medieval Press, 2001), 33–46, 135–154, C.J. Duffin, “Lithotherapeutical research
sources from antiquity to the mid-eighteenth century,” and “The gem electuary,” in
A History of Geology and Medicine, ed. C.J. Duffin, R.T.J. Moody and C. Gardner-
Thorpe (London: The Geological Society, 2013), 7–44, 81–112, Laura Linker, Lucretian
Thought in Late Stuart England: Debates about the Nature of the Soul (New York: Pal-
grave Macmillan, 2013), 1–12, or Simone Macdougall, “Health, diet, medicine and the
plague,” in An Illustrated History of Late Medieval England, ed. Chris Given-Wilson
(Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1996), 82–102. The vastness of this topic
does not allow proper treatment within this volume.
46 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 143–154, 597–601.
47 Ibid., 146–147.
48 Ibn Khaldūn, The Muqaddimah: An Introduction to History, 3 volumes, trans. Franz
Rosenthal (London: Routledge, 1958), 1:213. At the present times, these words may be
found in several fantasy novels where they have the same purpose.
49 Graham, “Spelling,” 1–28. Further see Venetia Porter, “The use of Arabic script in
magic,” Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies, 40 (2010): 131–140. Also
see Edmond Doutté, Magie & Religion dans l’Afrique du Nord (Algiers: Typographie
Adolphe Jourdan, 1909), 170–179, Pierre Lory, La science des lettres en Islam (Paris:
Dervy, 2004), Fatih Usluer, “Les Themes Bibliques Dans le Houroufisme,” Ишрак/
Ishraq, II (2011): 426–443, Noah Gardiner, “Forbidden Knowledge? Notes on the Pro
duction, Transmission, and Reception of the Major Works of Aḥmad al-Būnī,” Jour
nal of Arabic and Islamic Studies 12 (2012): 81–143, Matthew Melvin-Koushki, “The
Occult Challenge to Philosophy and Messianism in the Early Timurid Iran: Ibn Turka’s
Lettrism as a New Metaphysics,” in Unity in Diversity: Mysticism, Messianism and
the Construction of Religious Authority in Islam, ed. Orkhan Mir-Kasimov (Leiden &
208 Artes Magicae
Boston: Brill, 2014), 247–276, or Knight, Magic, 55–78, Eric Geoffroy, Introduction to
Sufism: The Inner Path of Islam, trans. Roger Gaetani (Bloomington: World Wisdom,
2010), 21–22, Knysh, Sufism, 56. Further see Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 631–641.
50 “Majmūʿ min kul Fann yabḥath annahu Jawāhir al-Kalām min Shiʿr wa Mathal wa
Fawā’id min kul Fāḍil wa Ākhir al-Kitāb Asmā’ wa Adʿiyāt min kul Shay’ (Henceforth:
“MMKF,”), MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Glaser 100, Berlin, 65B.
51 Ibid.
52 Such categories symbolize purity and innocense, which represented crucial elements in
many religious rituals in various regions of the world. For instance, Moshe Blidstein,
Purity, Community, and Ritual in Early Christian Literature (Oxford: Oxford Univer
sity Press, 2017), 3–106, John D. Caputo, “Insistence and Hospitality: Mary and Martha
in a Postmodern World,” in The Insistence of God: A Theology of Perhaps (Blooming
ton: Indiana University Press, 2013), 39–58. For Africa, see David Chidester, “Purity,”
in Wild Religion: Tracking the Sacred in South Africa (Berkeley: University of Califor
nia Press, 2012), 132–151. For a wide variety of pre-monotheistic contexts, consult the
chapters in Christian Frevel and Christophe Nihan, eds., Purity and the Forming of Reli
gious Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean World and Ancient Judaism (Leiden &
Boston: Brill, 2013).
53 The words are as follows: “fa-kashafnā ʿanka ghiṭāʾaka fa-baṣaruka al-yawma ḥadīdun.”
See Lane, Egyptians, 1:349. Lane errouneously places this verse as Q50:21.
54 Lane, Egyptians, 1:349–357.
55 “MMKF,” 148A.
57 Time remained significant for ritual efficacy in the later centuries as well. See Lane,
Egyptians, 1:339–340.
58 For instance, “MMKF,” 69A–B.
59 Shihāb al-Dīn al-Shuhrī al-Ḍamīrī, “Risāla fī al-Kīmīyā’,” [Writings on Alchemy]
MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Hs. or. 14418, Berlin, 24A–26B. This manuscript was
copied in 1769. A number of other texts seem to have been added into the same binding,
jointly entitled “֫Idat Rasā’il al-Mukhtalifa” [Various Treatises].
60 For instance, “MMKF,” 31A.
61 See Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 141–165, 398–413, 623–630, 677–682, Lane,
Egyptians, 1:341–342, Saif, “Medicine and Magic,” 313–319, Aziz Al-Azmeh, Ara
bic Thought and Islamic Societies (Abingdon: Routledge, 2013), 72–75, or Matthew
Melvin-Koushki, “Magic in Islam between Religion and Science,” Magic, Ritual and
Witchcraft, 14, No. 2 (2019): 255–287. Also see Annick Regourd, “Astres et Astrolo
gie chez Ibn al-Qalānisī,” Bulletin d’études orientales 44 (1992): 69–77, Zeina Matar,
“The Chapter on Death Prediction (Qaṭ/Qu ֫ ṭū֫) from the Kitāb Faraj al-Mahmūm by
Ibn Ṭāwūs,” Bulletin d’études orientales 44 (1992): 119–125, M. Kubilay Akman
and Donna M. Brown, “Ahmad al-Buni and His Esoteric Model,” The Esoteric Quar
terly 13/4 (Spring 2018): 51–75, and Daniel Martin Varisco, “Illuminating the Lunar
Mansions (manāzil al-qamar) in Šams al-maʿārif,” Arabica 64 (2017): 487–530. For
comparative perspectives, see Thomas, Decline, 425–426, 755–756, Tim Hegedus,
“Astrology as the Work of Demons,” in Early Christianity and Ancient Astrology (New
York: Peter Lang, 2007), 125–138, Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum, “Porphyry of Tyre on
the Daimon, Birth and the Stars,” in Neoplatonic Demons and Angels, ed. Luc Brisson,
Seamus O’Neill and Andrei Timotin (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2018), 102–139, Dorian
Gieseler Greenbaum, The Daimon in Hellenistic Astrology: Origins and Influence (Bos
ton: Brill, 2016), 1–11, or Theodore Otto Wedel, Astrology in the Middle Ages (New
York: Dover Publications, Inc., 2005), 60–75.
62 Franz Cumont, Astrology and Religion Among the Greeks and Romans (New York:
Cosimo, 2006) 3–56, Edward Grant, “The Mystery Religions and Astrology,” in
Science and Religion 400BC-AD1550 (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University
Artes Magicae 209
Press, 2004), 97–101, William Eamon, “Astrology and Society,” Steven Vanden
Broecke, “Astrology and Politics,” and Brendan Dooley, “Astrology and Science,”
in A Companion to Astrology in the Rennaissance, ed. Brendan Dooley (Leiden &
Boston: Brill, 2014), 141–192, 193–232, 233–266. Chapters in Nicholas Campion,
ed., Astrology and Cosmology in the World’s Religions (New York & London: New
York University Press, 2012), study the history of astrology and its significance for
religion in various parts of the globe, while Nicholas Campion, Astrology and popu
lar Religion in the Modern West: Prophecy, Cosmology, and the New Age Movement
(London & New York: Routledge, 2012), gives insight into the status of this practice
today.
63 “Risāla fī al-Raml,” [Letters in Sand], MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Hs. or. 14419,
44A. The text was copied during the eighteenth/nineteenth centuries. The pages are
not numbered. I am marking the first folio as 1AB. Henceforth: “RFR.” Further see
Al-Azmeh, Arabic Thought, 69–80.
64 Azfar Moin comprehensively presents this web of interconnected elements in his Moin,
Sovereign, 66, 113–121.
65 The device is best described in Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 642–656. An illustration is
available in Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddimah, 3: 204–205. The author claims he tried it to his
satisfaction. The way the device operated was investigated thoroughly in David Link,
“Scrambling T-R-U-T-H: Rotating Letters as a Material Form of Thought,” in Variantol
ogy 4: On Deep Time Relations of Arts, Sciences and Technologies in the Arabic-Islamic
World and Beyond, eds. Siegfried Zielinski, Eckhard Fürlus and Gloria Custance (Köln:
König, 2010), 215–266.
66 See Mark D. Johnston, The Evangelical Rhetoric of Ramon Llull: Lay Learning & Piety
in the Christian West Around 1300 (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1996), 1–35, Mark D. Johnston, “Ramon Llull, ca. 1232–1316,” and Gregory Stone,
“Ramon Llull and Islam,” in A Companion to Ramon Llull and Llullism, ed. Amy
M. Austin and Mark D. Johnston (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2018), 3–17, 119–145, or
Dominique Urvoy, “La place de Ramon Llull dans la pensée árabe,” Catalan Review 4
(1990): 201–220
67 Lane, Egypt, 1:336–338.
68 “Dua,” In The Oxford Dictionary of Islam, ed. John L. Esposito. Oxford Islamic Studies
Online, www.oxfordislamicstudies.com/article/opr/t125/e561 (Last accessed: Febru
ary 24th 2023), L. Gardet, “Duʿāʾ,” in Bearman, et. al., Encyclopaedia of Islam II. http://
dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_COM_0195 (Last Accesed: February 24th 2023),
or Jenny Berglund, “What Takes Place in the Quran Class?” in Religion, Spirituality
and Identity, ed. Kirsi Tirri (Bern & Berlin: Peter Lang, 2006), 207–208.
69 “Majmūʿa” [A Collection of Thaumaturgical Rites], MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin,
Hs. Or. 14283, Berlin, 2A–3A.
70 See Guy Burak, “Prayers, Commentaries, and the Edification of the Ottoman Suppli
cant,” in Sunni Islam, ed. Krstić and Terzioğlu, 232–253.
71 “MMKF,” 31AB. Aḥmad al-Būnī was a highly influential medieval Sufi. He is best
known for his texts about talismanics and hurufism. He authored the famous Shams
al-Ma ʿārif. See Nicole B. Hansen, “Ancient Execration Magic in Coptic and Islamic
Egypt,” in Magic and Ritual in the Ancient World, ed. Paul Mirecki and Marvin Meyer
(Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2002), 428–432.
72 “Majmūʿa,” 16B.
73 Compare “Majmūʿa,” 16B with the recitation at www.youtube.com/watch?v=3U-0cr
lL9EA&t=67s (Last accessed: February 24th 2023). Note the tabarruk motion that
extends throughout the reading and the accentuated intonation of disconnected
letters.
74 Ibid., 16B–17B. See Graham, “Spelling,” 1–28.
75 See Thomas, Decline, 211.
210 Artes Magicae
76 “MMKF,” 33B, 119B.

77 Production of the manuals containing these duʿas was parallel to the production of man
uals for prayers and litanies aimed at identical effects in Western Europe. See Thomas,
Decline, 131–141.
78 “RFR,” 20B–21A. Further see, “Majmūʿa,” 2A–3A, 5A–8B, 14A–17B, 25B, 45A–46A,
47A–48A.
79 This text is still shared across social platforms.
80 “Majmūʿa,” 12A.
81 Ibid., 25B.
82 These beliefs persisted until the modern period. For instance, al-Nabhānī, JK, 1:42.
83 See Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn al-Munajjid, Muʿajam al-Mu’arikhīn al-Dimashqiīn wa ‘Āthāruhum
al-Makhṭūṭa wa al-Maṭbūʿa [The Dictionary of Damascene Historians and their Manu
scripts and Printed works] (Beirut: Dār al-Kitāb al-Jadīd, 1978), 334. His grave was an
important ziyāra location in Damascus.
84 al-Murādī, Silk, 1:228–234.
86 Repetition represents a universally important element in many religions. See, for
instance, Thomas, Decline, 211, Jonathan Z. Smith, Imagining Religion: From Baby
lon to Jonestown (Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 54, Robert
Wuthnow, What Happens when we Practice Religion? (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2020), 43, 159, Robert N. McCauley, “Putting Religious Ritual in its Place: On
Some Ways Humans’ Cognitive Predilections Influence the Locations and Shapes of
Religious Rituals,” in Locating the Sacred: Theoretical Approaches to the Emplace
ment of Religion, ed. Claudia Moser and Cecelia Feldman (Oxford & Oakville: Oxbow
Books, 2014), 144–164, John F. Schumaker, The Corruption of Reality: A Unified
Theory of Religion, Hypnosis, and Psychopathology (Amherst: Prometheus Books,
1995), 141–143, Robert Yelle, Semiotics of Religion: Signs of the Sacred in History
(London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 50–53, or Whitehouse, Modes, 8, 66. On the development
of beliefs in ritual efficacy and repetition, see Pascal Boyer, Religion Explained: The
Human Instincts that Fashion Gods, Spirits and Ancestors (New York: Vintage Books,
2002), 3–50. Further on making conclusions about ritual efficacy and the way through
which new rituals are developed and retained in Max Weber, The Sociology of Religion.
In Economy and Society 1 (Boston: Beacon Press, 1993), 1, Randall Styers, Making
Magic: Religion, Magic and Science in the Modern World (Oxford & New York: Oxford
University Press, 2004), 7–12, and James E. Alcock, “Propensity to Believe,” Annals of
the New York Academy of Sciences 775 (1995): 64–78.
87 “MMKF,” 33B, 119B.
88 Ṣalā ʿalā al-Nabī. In Islam, this is a formal phrase commonly recited after speaking out
names of the prophets. It is commonly translated as “Peace be upon him” (Ar. ṣallā allah
ʿalayhi wa sallama).
89 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 43A.
90 For instance, “MMKF,” 27A–28B, 119AB, or “Majmūʿa,” 45A–46A, yet both of these
works, like many such volumes, committed hundreds of pages to invocations that were
supposed to be spoken in various instances.
91 See Christopher Schurman Taylor, In the Vicinity of the Righteous: Ziyāra and the Ven
eration of Muslim Saints (Leiden and Boston, Brill, 1998), 130. A mosque was erected
there in 1990.
92 See Thomas, Decline, 28–31.
94 See Chapter 3.
96 Among many other instances, see ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, al-Ḥaqīqa wa al-Majāz fī
Riḥlat Bilād al-Shām wa Miṣr wa al-Ḥijāz [The Metaphor and the Truth on the Road
Artes Magicae 211
through Syria, Egypt and Hijaz], ed. Riyād ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd Murād (Damascus: Dār
al-Mu ʿarafa, 1989), 45, 86, 88, 100, 103. Further see Abd al-Ghanī al-Nābulsī, Ḥullat
al-Dhahab al-Ibrīz fī Riḥlat Baʿlbak wa al-Biqāʿ al-ʿAzīz [Splendid Golden Attire in
the Journey to Dear Baalbek and Bekaa], in Riḥlatān ilā Lubnān [Two Journeys to
Lebanon], ed. Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn al-Munajjid and Stefan Wild (Beirut: Franz Steiner, 1979),
87, 88, 106, 117. The function of the sūra was comparable to the purpose of reciting
talbiya when entering a pre-Islamic shrine. See al-Azmeh, Emergence, 227–228.
97 The usual phrasing would be, “for his [the saint’s] soul, recite al-Fātiḥa.” See Canaan,
Saints, 21.
98 Ibid., 86–88.
99 Al-Nābulsī, Lubnān, 106; and Ḥullat, 106. “MMKF,” 140B–142A, suggests some
supplications suitable for the gravesites.
100 Marʿī ibn Yūsuf al-Karmī al-Ḥanbalī, Shifā’ al-Ṣudūr fī Ziyārat al-Mashāhid wa al
Qubūr (Henceforth: ShS), ed. As ʿad Muḥammad al-Ṭayyib (Mecca: Maktabat Narrār
Muṣṭafā al-Bāz, 1998), 37–44, and al-Nābulsī, “Kashf,” 162A–174A.
102 For concrete examples of this brief procedure, see for instance, Al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa,
45, 88, 138, but across the whole travelogue as well.
103 Ibid., 138.
104 Muṣṭafā Ibn Kamāl al-Dīn al-Bakrī al-Ṣiddīqī, “al-Khamra al-Ḥisiyya fī al-Riḥla al
Qudsīyya,” Henceforth: “KhH,” MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. or. quart. 460,
Berlin, 9A.
105 Muḥammad Ibn ʿĪsā Ibn Kannān, “al-Murūj al-Sundusīyya fī Talkhīṣ Tārīkh al
Ṣāliḥīya,” [The Vast Gardens of the Brief Summary of the History of al-Ṣāliḥīyya],
MS Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Wetzstein II 1117, p. 1, Berlin, 4A-12B, al-Ḥanafī,
“KFS,” 83B–111B, Maḥmūd al-ʿAdawī, Kitāb al-Ziyārāt bi Dimashq, ed. Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn
al-Munajjid (Damascus: Maṭbū ʿāt al-Majmaʿ al-ʿIlmī al-ʿArabī, 1956), 9–103, Aḥmad
Ibn ʿAlī Ibn ʿUmar Ibn Ṣāliḥ al-Manīnī, al-Iʿalām bi-Faḍā’il al-Shām [Highlights
among the Virtues of Shām], ed. Aḥmad Sāmiḥ al-Khālidī (Jerusalem: Al-Maṭbaʿa
al-ʿAṣrīyya, n.d.), 71–141, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Ibn Ibrāhīm Ibn ʿAbd al-Razzāq, Ḥadā’iq
al-Anʿām fī Faḍā’il al-Shām [Blissful Gardens of the Damascene Curiosities] ed.
Yūsuf Budaywī (Kuwait: Dār al-Ḍiyyā’ li-l-Ṭibāʿa wa al-Nashr wa Al-Tawzīʿ, 1989),
126–181, Muḥammad ʿIzz al-Dīn ʿArabī al-Ṣayyādī Kātibī al-Rifāʿī al-Shāfiʿī, al
Rawḍa al-Bahīyya fī Faḍā’il Dimashq al-Muḥammīyya [Gorgeous Garden of the Curi
osities of Sacred Damascus] (Damascus: Dār al-Maqtabas, 1911), 61–101, al-Nābulsī,
Ḥaqīqa, 45–96.
106 Al-Bakrī, “MA,” 5B. Further see Zain-ud-Din Ahmad bin Abdul-Lateef Az-Zubaidi,
The Translation of the Meanings of Summarized Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhāri, Arabic-English,
trans. Muḥammad Muḥsin Khān (Riyadh: Maktabat Dār al-Salām, 1996), 300–301.
Also see Muhammad Imran, Salat-ul-tahajjud (Chicago: Kazi Publications, 185), 50–
51. Night vigils are ubiquitous in religions. See, for instance, Moshe Weinfeld, “The
Decalogue: Its Significance, Uniqueness, and Place in Israel’s Tradition,” in Religion
and Law: Biblical-Judaic and Islamic Perspectives, ed. Edwin B. Firmage, Bernard G.
Weiss and John W. Welch (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 42–43, Núria Montser
rat Farré-i Barril, “Sleep Deprivation: Asceticism, Religious Experience and Neuro
logical Quandaries,” in Religion and the Body: Modern Science and the Construction
of Religious Meaning, ed. David Cave and Rebecca Sachs Norris (Leiden & Boston:
Brill, 2012), 217–234, or Yitzhak Hen, Culture and Religion in Merovingian Gaul:
A.D. 481–751 (Leiden & New York: Brill, 1995), 85. Finally, see Thomas, Decline,
151, for nocturnal vigils in shrines of Catholic saints.
107 See Bulkeley, Dreaming, 138–139, John Spencer Trimingham, Islam in West Africa
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959), 122–123, and F.E. Peters, The Hajj: The Muslim
Pilgrimage to Holy Places (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 15–16.
212 Artes Magicae
Further see Gil Renberg, “General Introduction,” in Where Dreams May Come: Incu
bation Sanctuaries in the Greco-Roman World (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2016), 3–35,
Peter Kingsley, In the Dark Places of Wisdom (Inverness: Golden Sufi Center, 1999),
80–105, Kimberley C. Patton, “A Great and Strange Correction: Intentionality, Local
ity, and Epiphany in the Category of Dream Incubation,” History of Religions 43/3
(February 2004): 194–223, and Gary B. Frengren, Medicine & Religion: A Historical
Introduction (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014), 55–70, 118. Also see
Koowon Kim, “Introduction,” in Incubation as a Type-Scene in the ‘Aqhatu, Kirta,
and Hannah Stories: A Form-Critical and Narratological Study of KTU 1.14 I-1.15
III, 1.17 I-II, and 1 Samuel 1:1–2:11 (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2011), 1–26.
108 For instance, al-Murādī, Silk, 1:228–234, or al-Bakrī, “KhH,” 5A–20A.
109 Al-Nābulsī, Ḥullat, 116–120.
111 J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (London: Macmillan
Press, 1983), 14–16.
112 Çiğdem Kafescioğlu, Constantinopolis/Istanbul: Cultural Encounter, Imperial
Vision, and the Construction of the Ottoman Capital (Pennsylvania: The Pennsylva
nia State University Press, 2009), 20. J. Gordon Melton, “Topkapi Palace,” in Ency
clopedia of Religious Phenomena (Detroit: Visible Ink Press, 2008), 337–338, and
Chih, Sufism, 78.
114 Brannon M. Wheeler, Mecca and Eden: Ritual, Relics, and Territory in Islam (Chi
cago & London: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 70–100, and Thomas, Decline, 34,
50–51. Further see Swanson, Religion and Devotion in Europe c.1215-c.1515 (Cam
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 158–165, Daniel Rock, Hierurgia or Tran
substantiation, Invocation of Saints, Relics, and Purgatory (London: C. Dolman, 1851),
259–287, Ian G. Williams, “Relics and Baraka: Devotion to the Prophet Muhammad
among Sufis in Nottingham, UK,” in Reading Religion in Text and Context: Reflections
of Faith and Practice in Religious Materials, ed. Elisabeth Arweck and Peter Collins
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 65–82, George C. Coulton, “Relics,” in Five Centuries of
Religion vol. III: Getting & Spending (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1936),
87–108, Cynthia Hahn, Passion Relics and the Medieval Imagination: Art, Architec
ture and Society (Oakland: University of California Press, 2020), 63–100, or James B.
Tschen-Emmons, “Religion,” in Artifacts from Medieval Europe (Greenwood: ABC-
Clio, 2015), 203–246. Further see Kevin Trainor, “Buddhist relic veneration in India,” in
Relics, Ritual and Representation in Buddhism: Rematerializing the Sri Lankan Thera
vada Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 32–65.
116 Chester Carlton McCown, “Muslim Shrines in Palestine,” The Annual of the American
School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem, 2/3 (1921/1922), 63.
117 Taylor, Righteous, 62–79. Also Donald Swenson, Society, Spirituality, and the Sacred:
A Social Scientific Introduction (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 178–
179. See also John Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1971), 26.
118 This Achilles-like myth is read by Elizabeth Sirriyeh, “’Ziyārāt’ of Syria in a ‘Riḥla’
of ‘Abd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī (1050/1641–1143/1731),” Journal of the Royal Asiatic
Society of Great Britain and Ireland 2 (1979): 112.
119 For instance, Daniella Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria: Mosques, Cem
eteries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyūbids (1146–1260) (Leiden & Boston:
Brill, 2007), 151–163, 223–224.
122 Ibid., 105–118.
123 Ibid., 28.
Artes Magicae 213

125 Grehan, Twilight, 132, and Canaan, Saints, 99.
127 Aziz Al-Azmeh, The Times of History: Universal Topics in Islamic Historiography
(Budapest & New York: Central European University Press, 2007), 107, Ingrid Matt-
son, The Story of the Qur’an: Its History and Place in Muslim Life (Oxford: Wiley-
Blackwell, 2008), 148, William Albert Graham, Islamic and Comparative Religious
Studies: Selected Writings (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 193–298, Venetia Porter, “Talis
mans and Talismanic Objects,” in Medieval Islamic Civilization: An Encyclopedia, vol.
1, ed. Joseph W. Meri (New York & London: Routledge, 2006), 794–795, Daniel W.
Brown, Introduction to Islam (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 78, Gilbert Delanoue
and Jacques Jomier, “Les Musulmans,” in L’Egypte d’aujourd’hui: permanence et
changements, 1805–1976 (Paris: Editions du Centre national de la recherche scienti
fique, 1977), 27–67, or Jacques Jomier, “La place du Coran dans la vie quotidienne en
Égypte,” l’Institut des belles-lettres arabes 15 (1952): 131–165. This is comparable to
the Christian approach to the Bible. See Eyal Poleg, “The Bible as Talisman: Textus
and Oath-books,” in Approaching the Bible in Medieval England (Manchester: Man
chester University Press, 2013), 59–107. Comparative cases can be found elsewhere
as well. See Paul Copp, “Scripture, Relic, Talisman, Spell,” in The Body Incantatory:
Spells and the Ritual Imagination in Medieval Chinese Buddhism (New York: Colum
bia University Press, 2014), 29–58.
128 See chapter 3. Lane, Egyptians, 1:318, 328, Grehan, Twilight, 149–155.
129 See Qur’ān, 9:14, 10:57, 16:69, 17:82, 26:80, and 41:44. Further see, for instance,
Gerda Sengers, Women and Demons: Cultic Healing in Islamic Egypt (Leiden &
Boston: Brill, 2003), 44. The curative properties of these verses are still believed in.
Further see Lane, Egyptians, 1:328.
130 “Majmūʿa,” 13A. This was frequently done in the early modern and modern periods.
See Lane, Egyptians, 1:318, 328.
132 Henry Maundrell, A Journey from Aleppo to Jerusalim at Easter A.D. 1697 (Oxford:
Theater, 1703), 89–90. See also Grehan, Twilight, 129.
133 Sera L. Young, Craving Earth: Understanding Pica, The Urge to eat Clay, Starch, Ice
and Chalk (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 47.
135 Young, Craving Earth, 47.
136 Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, trans. Karen E. Fields
(New York: Free Press, 1995), 212–215. See also Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy:
An Inquiry Into the Non-rational Factor In the Idea of the Divine and its Relation to
the Rational (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), 71–77.
137 Maundrell, Journey, 95–96.
138 Louis Massignon, Documents sur Certains Waqfs des Lieux Saints de l’Islam (Paris:
Librarie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1952), 82–87, and Canaan, Saints, 114. n.2.
139 Canaan, Saints, 114. Canaan adds that the whole Qur’ān used to be recited by a number
of readers in shifts.
140 Ibid., 105–118.
141 See Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 623–630, and Thomas, Decline, 33–35. Further see
Knysh, Sufism, 54, Knight, Magic, 69–70, al-Azmeh, Times, 223, Graham, Writings,
187, 212, Sir Ernest Alfred Wallis Budge, “Arab and Persian Amulets and Talismans,”
in Amulets and Superstitions (New York: Dover Publications, 1978), 33–81, C. Bur
nett, “Talismans: Magic as science? Necromancy among the Seven Liberal Arts,” in
Magic and Divination in the Middle Ages: Texts and Techniques in the Islamic and
Christian Worlds (Aldershot: Variorum, 1996), 1–15, W.E. Staples, “Muhammad,
a Talismanic Force,” The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures,
57, No. 1 (January, 1940): 63–70, Taufik Canaan, “The Decipherment of Arabic
214 Artes Magicae
Talismans,” Berytus Archaeological Studies 4 (1937): 69–110, and 5 (1938): 141–51,

Emilio Spadola, “Summoning in Secret: Mute Letters and Veiled Writing,” in The
Calls of Islam: Sufis, Islamists and Mass Mediation in Urban Morocco (Blooming
ton: Indiana University Press, 2014), 64–80, Travis Zadeh, “An Ingestible Scripture:
Qur’ānic Erasure and the Limits of “Popular“Religion,” Kevin Bond, “Buddhism on
the Battlefield: The Cult of the “Substitute Body“Talisman in Imperial Japan (1890–
1945),” and Justin McDaniel, “The Material Turn: An Introduction to Thai Sources
for the Study of Buddhist Amulets,” in Material Culture and Asian Religions: Text,
Image, Object, ed. Benjamin J. Fleming and Richard D. Mann (New York & London:
Routledge, 2014), 97–119, 120–134, 135–150, Michael Levi Rodkinson, History of
Amulets, Charms and Talismans: A Historical Investigation into their Nature and Ori
gin (New York: New Talmud Pub. Co., 1893), 4–93, or Alison Marshall, “Shamanism
in Contemporary Taiwan,” in Chinese Religions in Contemporary Societies, ed. James
Miller (Santa Barbara: ABC-Clio, 2006), 123–146.
142 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 623–630.
144 A few examples in “MMKF,” 46A–48B.
145 “Majmūʿa,” 17B.
146 “RFR,” 6A-9B, “Majmūʿa,” 16B–17B, Graham, “Spelling,” 1–28, Canaan, Saints,
115–118.
147 See Chapter 3. For medieval examples, see Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 625–626,
and Mushegh Asatrian, “Ibn Khaldūn on Magic and the Occult,” Iran & the Caucasus,
7, No. 1/2 (2003): 97. For early modern and modern examples, see Chapter 3 and
Lane, Egyptians, 1:349–357.
148 For instance, “RFR,” 20B, or “Majmūʿa,” 101B–102A.
149 Frazer, Golden Bough, 16–18.
150 Instances of similar image magic were recorded in many regions. See Frank Klaasen,
The Transformations of Magic: Illicit Learned Magic in the Later Middle Ages and
Rennaisance (Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013), 33–57,
Sophie Page, Magic in the Cloister: Pious Motives, Illicit Interests and Occult
Approaches to the Medieval Universe (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University
Press, 2013), 74, Jessica Dell, “’A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean!’ Image
Magic and Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor,” in Magical Transformations
on the Early Modern English Stage, ed. Lisa Hopkins and Helen Ostovich (Farnham:
Ashgate, 2014), 185–202, Anne Lawrence-Mathers and Carolina Escobar-Vargas,
“Astral and image magic: the bases of ritual magic,” in Magic and Medieval Society
(London & New York: Routledge, 2014), 35–37, Marla Segol, “Word and Image in
Medieval Kabbalah: Interpreting Diagrams from the Sefer Yetsirah and its Commen
taries,” in Word and Image in Medieval Kabbalah: The Texts, Commentaries, and Dia
grams of the Sefer Yetsirah (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2012), 1–20, and David
Morgan, “Image,” in Key Words in Religion, Media and Culture, ed. David Morgan
(New York: Routledge, 2008), 96–110. Also see Jamal J. Elias, “Seeing the Religious
Image in the Historical Account: Icons and Idols in the Islamic Past,” in Material Cul
ture, ed. Fleming and Mann, 284–302.
151 Beliefs in the power of icons are well-documented in Christianity. See George Lund
skow, The Sociology of Religion: A Substantive and Transdisciplinary Approach
(Los Angeles: Pine Forge Press, 2008), 214, or Zuzana Skalova, “The Icon of the
Virgin Galaktotrophousa in the Coptic Monastery of St Antony the Great at the Red
Sea, Egypt: A Preliminary Note,” in East and West, ed. Ciggaar and Teule, 235–264,
Michelle Lang, “A Secular Trinity? The Transformation of Christian iconography in a
Post-Christian Age,” in Beyond Belief: Theoaesthetics or Just Old-Time Religion? ed.
Ronald R. Bernier (Eugene: Pickwick Publications, 2010), 98–112.
152 Burayk, TS, 43–44.
Artes Magicae 215
153 Stephan H. Stephan, “Lunacy in Palestine Folklore,” The Journal of the Palestine Ori
ental Society, 5 (1925): 7, n.4.
155 Ibid.
159 Taking vows at shrines has a long tradition among the Arabs. See, for instance, Grehan,
Twilight, 169–173. Also James Grehan, “The Mysterious Power of Words: Language,
Law, and Culture in Ottoman Damascus (17th–18th Centuries),” Journal of Social
History 37, No. 4 (Summer, 2004), 992.
160 Paying equal respect to Muslim and Christian shrines in Syria represented a common
habit of the people that belonged to all confessional groups. See Anna Poujeau, “Shar
ing the Baraka of Saints: Pluridenominational Visits,” in Sharing Sacred Spaces in the
Mediterranean: Christians, Muslims and Jews at Shrines and Sanctuaries, ed. Dionigi
Albera and Maria Couroucli (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012), 202–218.
For further comparisons, see Cory Thomas Pechan Driver, Muslim Custodians of Jew
ish Spaces in Morocco: Drinking the Milk of Trust (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018),
38–49, 55–58, 76–86, 127–129.
161 Grehan, Twilight, 183. In front of a military retinue, this was doubtlessly a very power
ful self-representative act.
163 Samuel Ives Curtiss, Primitive Semitic Religion To-day: A Record of Researches, Dis
coveries and Studies in Syria, Palestine and the Sinaitic Peninsula (Chicago: Fleming
H. Revel Company, 1902), 162, Canaan, Saints, 145–150.
164 See Canaan, Saints, 145.
165 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 45A–45B.
166 See Elyse Semerdjian, “Off the Straight Path”: Illicit Sex, Law, and Community in
Ottoman Aleppo (New York: Syracuse University Press, 2008), 94–137, 182. Specifi
cally for the Damascene case, see Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 24A–24B.
167 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 45A–45B. Also see Sajdi, The Barber, 30.
168 McCown, “Shrines,” 62. Tying rags to trees was a more universal custom. See, for
instance, Ceri Houlbrook, “Roots of a Ritual,” in The Magic of Coin Trees from Reli
gion to Recreation (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 25–70.
169 McCown, “Shrines,” 65–68. Also, Canaan, Saints, 75.
172 Ibid., 156–158. Also consult Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:423–485.
174 Curtiss, Primitive, 197, 212. Compare with Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:423–485.
175 Canaan, Saints, 161–164, Curtis, Primitive, 173–174, 223–225.
176 Compare with the pre-Islamic shrine superintendents in al-Azmeh, Emergence, 238,
Irving M. Zeitlin, The Historical Muhammad (Cambridge: Polity, 2007), 55.
177 Curtiss, Primitive, 144–149. Canaan, Saints, 160–163.
178 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:423–485. Also see Canaan, Saints, 163.
179 Consult Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd, 9:423–485, and Canaan, Saints, 160–163. These instruc
tions apply to any sort of butchering work and represent until today the procedure of
producing ḥalāl food. In the contemporary period, the practice attracted criticism from
various animal protection activism groups. See Katherine Wills Perlo, “Islam,” in Kin
ship and Killing: The Animal in World Religions (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2009), 95–114.
180 Canaan, Saints, 177–178, and Curtiss, Primitive, 172, 223–225.
216 Artes Magicae

182 Canaan, Saints, 169–174, Grehan, Twilight, 174–176.
183 Ibid. Also Maundrell, Journey, 13 and McCown, “Shrines,” 51. McCown interprets
these marks as symbols of happiness. See Grehan, Twilight, 174–176 as well.
184 See Chapter 5. Also Canaan, Saints, 36.
185 Lewis Bayles Paton, “Survivals of Primitive Religion in Modern Palestine,” The
Annual of the American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem, 1 (1919–1920):
62.
186 Kamāl Jamīl al-ʿAsalī, Mawsim al-Nabī Mūsā fī Filisṭīn: Tārīkh al-Mawsim wa
al-Maqām (Amman: Maṭbaʿat al-Jāmiʿa al-Urdunīyya, 1990), 101–150, Grehan, Twi
light, 172–175, or Chih, Sufism, 2.
187 For instance Stephen P. Blake, “Ceremony,” in Time in Early Modern Islam: Cal
endar, Ceremony, and Chronology in the Safavid, Mughal, and Ottoman Empires
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 76–106, Selçuk Akşin Somel, The
Modernization of Public Education in the Ottoman Empire, 1839–1908 (Leiden: Brill,
2001), 141, James Grehan, “Fun and Games in Ottoman Aleppo: The Life and Times
of a Local Schoolteacher (1835–1865),” in Entertainment among the Ottomans, ed.
Ebru Boyar and Kate Fleet (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 90–120, Ehud R. Toledano, As if
Silent and Absent: Bonds of Enslavement in the Islamic Middle East (New Haven: Yale
188 Curtiss, Primitive, 189.
190 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 274. Further see Ibn ֫Ābidīn, Radd, 3:70–71, Grehan,
Twilight, 164–165, Alexander Russell, The Natural History of Aleppo: A Description
of the City and the Principal Natural Productions in its Neighbourhood, together with
an Account of the Climate, Inhabitants, and Diseases, Particularly of the Plague,
2 volumes, ed. Patrick Russell (London: G.G. and J. Robinson: 1794), 1:195, and
Canaan, Saints, 219.
191 Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, 274.
192 Al-Munajjid, al-Mu’arikhīn, 334, and Muḥammad Ibn ʿĪsā Ibn Kannān, Yawmiyāt
Shāmīyya min 1111h ḥattā 1153h [Daily Events of Shām 1699–1740], ed. Akram
Ḥasan al-ʿUlabī (Damascus: Dār al-Ṭibāʿ, 1994), 226–227.
193 Ibid., 2:60–62, and 1:129–130, respectively. The biographies of these gentlemen were
discussed in Chapter 4.
194 Ibid., 1:153–166. Also see Chapters 4 and 5.
195 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:79–81. A list of frequently visited saints filters through compara
tive reading of Ibn Kannān, “MS,” 4A–12B, al-Ḥanafī, “KFS,” 83B–111B, al-ʿAdawī,
ZD, 9–103, al-Manīnī, IFS, 71–141, al-Razzāq, FS, 126–181, al-Ṣayyādī, RB, 61–101,
al-Nābulsī, Ḥaqīqa, 45–96, and others.
196 Abdul-Karim Rafeq, The Province of Damascus, 1723–1783 (Beirut: Khayats, 1966),
182–183, and Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 92B.
197 Al-Murādī, Silk, 1:79–81. Also, James Grehan, “Street Violence and Social Imagina
tion in late-Mamluk and Ottoman Damascus (c. 1500–1800),” International Journal
of Middle East Studies 35, no. 2 (May, 2003): 218, footnote 10, and James Grehan,
“Words,” 1000.
198 Riyāḍ al-Darāwisha and Nīqūlas Ambrīsīz, “Zilzāl ʿĀm 1759 fī Wādī al-Buqāʿ: Dalālāt
fī Taqdīr al-Makhāṭir al-Zilzālīyya fī Manṭiqat Sharq al-Mutawassiṭ,” Bulletin d’études
orientales 47 (1995): 235–246.
199 This was a large religious edifice. See Samer Akkach, “Leisure Gardens, Secular Hab
its: The Culture of Recreation in Ottoman Damascus,” METU Journal of the Faculty
of Architecture 27 (2010): 73.
200 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 91B–92B.
Artes Magicae 217
201 The nickname corresponds to the Turkish word çeteci which indicates a military com
mander, and this pasha, in fact, had a prolific campaigning career. For Damascus
specifically, see James Grehan, Everyday Life & Consumer Culture in 18th-Century
Damascus (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007), 90–91.
202 See Chapter 4.
205 M. C-F. Volney, Travels through Syria and Egypt in the years 1783, 1784, and 1785.
Containing: The Present Natural and Political State of those Countries, Their Produc
tions, Arts, Manufactures and Commerce; with Observations on the Manners, Cus
toms and Government of the Turks and Arabs, Translated from the French, 2 volumes
(London: G.G.J. and J. Robinson, 1788), 1: 307–308. Further see Jibrail S. Jabbur, The
Bedouins and the Desert: Aspects of Nomadic Life in the Arab East, trans. Lawrence I.
Conrad, ed. Suhayl J. Jabbur and Lawrence I Conrad (Albany: State University of New
York Press, 1995), 150–151.
206 Aḥmad ʿIzzat ʿAbd al-Karīm, one of the modern editors of al-Qāsimī’s version of the
barber’s diary, gives a short account about this bird in Aḥmad al-Ḥallāq al-Budayrī,
Hawādith Dimashq al-Yawmīyya [The Daily Events of Damascus] 1154–1175/1741–
1762, in the redaction of Muḥammad Saʿīd al-Qāsimī, edited Aḥmad ʿIzzat ʿAbd
al-Karīm (Damascus: Dār Saʿad al-Dīn, 1997), 140, n. 1, while some centuries before
him, Al-Murādī the biographer does the same in Silk, 3:226–228. Also, see Grehan,
Twilight, 1–3. James Grehan did ample research on the samarmar. See James Grehan,
“The Legend of the Samarmar: Parades and Communal Identity in Syrian Towns c.
1500–1800,” Past & Present 204 (2009): 89–125.
208 Al-Murādī, Silk, 3:227, and Grehan, “Samarmar,” 89.
209 James Grehan traces some other occasions when samarmar was called, such as one
instance in the sixteenth-century Aleppo, when the authorities, however, refused the
water to be hung on the citadel, stonewalling the people with the sultan’s authority. See
“The Legend of the Samarmar,” 122.
210 Ibn Budayr, “HDY,” 33A, Grehan, “Samarmar,” 89–90.
212 Grehan, “Samarmar,” 90.
213 Ibid. 36B–37B.
214 Grehan, “Violence,” 218.
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7 Conclusion
After the advent of modern Islamic reforms, attitudes to Sufism and its thaumaturgi
cal components gradually changed, classifying much of it as superstition. Depicted
as a collection of popular heterodoxies, Sufism did not correspond to the orthodox
Sunnism of modern Muslim theologians anymore, even though there never was
a clear cut between Sunni mainstreams and various types of Sufi doctrines. The
extent of reformists’ success varied across regions and periods. During the nine
teenth century, Ottoman provinces, which gradually grew in autonomy, witnessed
the rise of certain political streams for which Sufi doctrines were crucial, which
is illustrated by the teachings of Aḥmad Ibn Idrīs (d.1837) and of his Sanūsīyya
order, as well as by the history of the Tijānīyya order1 in North Africa. Doctrines of
Ibn Idrīs and Aḥmad al-Tijānī (d.1815), who drew on Ibn Idrīs’s teachings and, in
the style of Ibn ʿArabī, proclaimed himself the “Seal of the Saints,”2 inspired later
scholarship to formulate theses about the development of “Neosufism” in parallel
with Islamic reforms. However, the Neosufism thesis fails to demonstrate signifi
cant novelties in the development of Sufi orders.3
Until the present, Sufism continues to spread and attract disciples across the
globe, with varying impact on mainstream religions depending on the region.4
Social media platforms and various online forums serve as methods of promot
ing Sufi order values and at times allow for a wider access to Sufi lore.5 Some
states in the Middle East recently witnessed the Sufi orders’ effort to engage more
actively in politics. Such is the case with contemporary Yemen.6 Over the course
of recent history, Muslim reformists gained influence in Syria only gradually,7 and
even today, it is possible to notice the presence of large orders, like the Qādirīyya.8
Across the globe, Sufism retained its popular influence throughout the Muslim
reforms and beyond. However, the extent of its impact on Muslim states’ economy,
society, and politics is incomparable to centuries before modernity.
Changing attitudes towards Sufism and its thaumaturgy among theologians,
inspired by Muslim modern reforms, resemble the changing attitudes towards won
ders and cults of saints in Europe after the advent of Protestantism. The study of
premodern Sufism opens possibilities for further studies in comparative religion,
which may help better understand the historical developments of various scriptural
religions over the passage of time. In addition, such studies would contribute to the
more appropriate positioning of the socio-anthropological categories of religion,
DOI: 10.4324/9781003395539-7
Conclusion 229
thaumaturgy, and magic prior to the advent of Enlightenment and later Muslim
reforms.
Beliefs in thaumaturgical efficacy, and in Allah’s grace (baraka) as its fuel,
declined since the eighteenth century and continued to dwindle as Muslim states
began to follow the global secularization tendencies.9 They gradually separated
from the official versions of Sunnism and remained at the margins of political
systems. Primary source material from early twentieth-century Syria indicates,
however, that common people retained many customs and beliefs which were con
sidered mainstream prior to the modern reforms in Islam. Such is still the case
today.
In eighteenth-century Bilād al-Shām, as well as in other Ottoman provinces,
baraka was widely believed in as crucial for practiced religion. Ulamaic circles
used baraka in their texts as a social marker that helped maintain the distinctions
between religious professionals, exemplary individuals, and the rest of the people.
Individuals characterized by purity, piety, and devoutness often enjoyed beliefs in
their baraka, which distinguished them from the rest of the imperial subjects in
Syria.
Grace was often attributed to religious professionals who underwent Sufi train
ing and who, at times, pursued further education in the many madrasas of the Syr
ian region. It was widely believed that the individuals graced with baraka could
perform wonders and thus override the expected chains of natural causalities. These
wonders brought mystical benefits to the population, ranging from curing diseases
to banishing malevolent invisible entities and keeping them at bay. The most prom
inent of those individuals whose baraka was believed in remained remembered as
Muslim saints, the awliyā’, who could predict future events, demonstrate inhuman
physical prowess, and manipulate the living, the dead, and the forces of nature.
The modern official versions of Sunnism later cast doubt on the powers of Muslim
saints, denying their baraka and dubbing their thaumaturgical works sorcery, as
was the case after the emergence of Protestantism in Europe.10
According to common beliefs in eighteenth-century Province of Damascus,
baraka poured out from the divine and graced numerous Muslim saints, passing
down to the Sufi shaykhs and the prominent ʿulamā’. It resided around the tombs
of these individuals. The belief in the baraka of hallowed tombs induced the devel
opment of pilgrimage traditions, the ziyārāt, with the purpose of collecting divine
grace from these sites. The pilgrimage traditions slowly acquired a significant eco
nomic influence. Patronage of sacred places developed into a game of prestige,
while the shrines as waqf-endowments represented a marker of social rank for their
overseers and patrons. Complex economy developed around the Muslim shrines
that generated significant revenue each year.
People believed that grace leaked into the surroundings of Muslim shrines, from
the hallowed deceased, or as residue after religiously significant legendary events,
such as a prophet’s prayer or a vision. Grace allegedly empowered trees, caves,
rocks, and items that lay near the shrines. The Syrian people of all social ranks
eagerly collected such items as souvenirs in the hopes that they would gain access
to baraka within. Enchanted natural phenomena (such as caves or trees), along
230 Conclusion
with the Muslim shrines, represented elements in a network of baraka that joined
the awliyā’ and other recipients of Allah’s grace. This network of Allah’s baraka
represented the eighteenth-century Syrian network of the holy that was a funda
mental element of Ottoman early modern Sunnism. In addition, the network of the
holy served as a means of legitimization for the establishment of religious profes
sionals which may sociologically and anthropologically (but not theologically) be
described as the Ottoman priestly sodality.
Sociological definitions of an Ottoman priestly sodality are identified through
the overlap between the Sufi and ulamaic networks and best represented by institu
tionally trained Sufis who were accomplished as the ʿulamā’ and who kept official
state appointments. Through the authority of their qualifications and tenures, such
individuals commanded significant authority over social, jurisprudential, and reli
gious matters in eighteenth-century Syria, enjoying meanwhile the popular belief
in their baraka. Individuals like al-Nābulsī, or Ibn ʿĀbidīn of the next generation,
illustrate prominent members of the Syrian priestly sodality, whose quill helped
preserve and further develop religious beliefs and practices pertinent to eighteenth-
century Ottoman Sunni orthodoxy. The access to this group was restricted by means
of initiation and certification that further strengthened the professional character of
religious authorities in Ottoman Syria. Validation of this tight network was of high
importance for aspiring scholars but for the emerging saints as well. Most promi
nent awliyā’ usually claimed membership in this exclusive group.
In eighteenth-century Syria, the Ottoman priestly sodality fulfilled many func
tions, ranging from intercession between people and God, to deflecting forces
of evil. They treated the ill, exorcised the injinnated, and defended the Ottoman
subjects from catastrophic occurrences, such as locust infestations or earthquakes.
Over centuries, they developed a complex thaumaturgical procedure through which
they hoped to harvest and utilize the grace that the popular belief invested them
with. Significance attributed to baraka by widespread beliefs made Sufism, the pri
mary vehicle for thaumaturgy in early modern Syria (and beyond), highly relevant
for matters ranging from the everyday to complex political strategies. Sufism in
Ottoman Damascus before modernity represented an inseparable element of Otto
man orthodoxy.
Notes
1 See, for instance, R. S. O’Fahey, Enigmatic Saint: Ahmad Ibn Idris and the Idrisi Tra
dition (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1990), 1–9, or Zachary Valentine
Wright, On the Path of the Prophet: Shaykh Ahmad al-Tijani and the Tariqa Muham
madiyya (Atlanta: African-American Islamic Institute, 2005), 1–24, 134–139. Both Ibn
Idrīs and the Tijānīyya represented the ideological legacies of the Khalwatīyya spread
in the eighteenth century, influenced by Muṣṭafā al-Bakrī. See Rachida Chih, Sufism in
Ottoman Egypt: Circulation, Renewal and Authority in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth
Century (London & New York: Routledge, 2019), 92–95.
2 Ibid., and Alī Ṣāliḥ Karrār and Yaḥya Muḥammad Ibrāhīm, “A Sudanese Tijānī Shaykh:
Muddathir Ibrāhīm al-Ḥajjāz,” Sudanic Africa 14 (2003): 61–75, and Rüdiger Seese
mann, “The Takfīr Debate: Sources for the Study of a Contemporary Dispute Among
African Sufis. Part 1: The Nigerian Arena,” Sudanic Africa 9 (1998): 39–70. Further
Conclusion 231
see Zachary Wright, “Afropolitan Sufism: The Contemporary Tijaniyya in Global Con
texts,” in Global Sufism: Boundaries, Structures, and Politics, ed. Francesco Pirano and
Mark Sedgwick (London: Hurst & Company, 2019), 55–74.
3 For a detailed and well-formulated critique of the Neosufism thesis, see Chih, Sufism,
7–12, 79–96, 147. Further reading in R.S. O’Fahey and Bernd Radtke, “Neo-Sufism
Reconsidered,” Der Islam: Journal of the History and Culture of the Middle East 70
(1993): 61–64, or Mark Sedgwick, “Neo-Sufism,” in The Cambridge Companion to
New Religious Movements, ed. Olav Hammer and Mikael Rothstein (Cambridge: Cam
bridge University Press, 2012), 198–214.
4 For instance, Alexander D. Knysh, Sufism: A New History of Islamic Mysticism (Oxford:
Princeton University Press, 2017), 176–230, Eric Geoffroy, Introduction to Sufism: The
Inner Path of Islam, trans. Roger Gaetani (Bloomington: World Wisdom, 2010), 126–
141, Justine Howe, “Contemporary Mawlids in Chicago,” William Rory Dickson and
Merin Shobhana Xavier, “Disordering and Reordering Sufism: North American Sufi
Teachers and the Tariqa Model,” Florian Volm, “The Making of Sufism: The Gülen
Movement and its Effort to Create a New Image,” or Simon Stjernholm, “Sounding
Sufi: Sufi-oriented Messages on Swedish Public Service Radio,” in Global Sufism:
Boundaries, Structures, and Politics, ed. Piraino and Sedgwick (London: Hurst & Com
pany, 2017), 119–136, 137–156, 177–192, 193–208, David Westerlund, “The Contextu
alization of Sufism in Europe,” Marcia Hermansen, “What’s American about American
Sufi Movements?“and Ravil Bukharaev, “Sufism in Russia: Nostalgia for Revelation,”
in Sufism in Europe and North America, ed. David Westerlund (London & New York:
Routledge Curzon, 2004), 13–35, 36–63, 64–94, or Jamal Malik and Saeed Zarrabi-
Zadeh, “Introduction,” in Sufism East and West: Mystical Islam and Cross-Cultural
Exchange in the Modern World, ed. Jamal Malik and Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh (Leiden &
Boston: Brill, 2019), 1–30.
5 For instance, Margaret J. Rausch, “Encountering Sufism on the Web: Two Halveti-
Jerrahi paths and their missions in the USA,” in Sufism Today: Heritage and Tradition
in the Global Community, ed. Catharina Raudvere and Leif Steinberg (London & New
York: I.B. Tauris, 2009), 159–176.
6 See Knysh, Sufism, 210–214.
Syria (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 45–56, 63–64, 100–118.
8 Paulo G. Pinto, “Creativity and stability in the making of Sufi tradition: The Tariqa
Qadiriyya in Aleppo, Syria,” in Sufism Today, ed. Raudvere and Stenberg, 117–136.
9 The concept of secularism is still landlocked in a complicated academic debate. See
Rajeev Bhargava, ed., Secularism and its Critics (New Delhi: Oxford University Press,
1998), Fenella Cannell, “The Anthropology of Secularism,” in Annual Review of
Anthropology, 39 (2010): 85–100, and Jose Casanova, Public Religions in the Modern
World (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1994), 1–74, compared to Charles Taylor,
“Western Secularity,” in Rethinking Secularism, ed. Craig Calhoun, M. Juergensmeyer,
and Jonathan VanAntwerpen (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2011),
31–53.
10 See Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in
Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London: Penguin, 1991), 69, or Robert
Bartlett, Why can the Dead do Such Great Things? Saints and Worshippers from the
Martyrs to the Reformation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 85–92.
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Index
Ābān Ibn Ābān 156 amīn al-fatwā (Fatwa Secretary) 10

Abbasid(s) 10, 13 amīr al-ḥajj: Pilgrimage Commander 148,
ʿAbd al-Qādir, Ṭāhā 127 155
ʿAbduh, Muḥammad 61 ‘Anata (ʿAnātā) 148, 151, 154
Abdülhamid I 115 Anatolia 9, 29, 58, 59, 158
Abel (Old Testament) 150 Andalusia 10
Abī Namīr, ʿAbd al-Razzāq 155 angel(s) 4, 48, 83–84, 86, 148; Gabriel
Abū Bakr (d.1583) 188 (Archangel) 150; malā’ika 83;
Abū Bakr (the First Righteous Caliph) 147 malak 83
Abu Dis (Abū Dīs) 151 Arabian Nights 85
Abū Ḥanīfa (al-imām al-aʿẓam) 193 Arabian Peninsula 20, 145
Abū Sall 149 Arab(s) 4
Abū al-Surūr 144Abū Yazīd 112–114, 125 ʿArja 151–152
al-ʿAdawī, Maḥmūd 23 Artas (Arṭās) 89–90
ʿAfīfīyya 116, 152 Asia 85
Africa 86; Central Africa 159; North Africa aṣnāf (trade guilds) 118; shaykh al
6, 50, 117, 188, 192, 229 mashāyikh (guilds) 118
agha 87, 188 astrology 22, 47, 188, 192
Aḥmadīyya 54, 116–118, 120, 127 Ātika Bint Yazīd 154
Ahmed, Shahab 2 augury 47
ʿAjlūn 5 Awarta (ʿAwartā) 148, 151–153, 154, 200
al-ʿAjlūnī 121–122; al-ʿAjlūnī, Ayyubid(s) 13, 158–159
Muḥammad 118, 121 al-Azhar 14, 59
Aleppo 17, 23, 112, 122, 125, 157, 188; Al-Azmeh, Aziz 10
al-Mushāriqa (a city district al-ʿAẓm: Sulaymān Pasha 1; Asʿad
in eighteenth-century Aleppo) Pasha 202
112–113, 125
Allah 1, 2, 4, 16–17, 20, 46, 48, 51–56, 58, al-Badawī, Aḥmad 54, 60, 127; al-Badawī
60, 62, 82–83, 88, 90, 91, 94, 110, shrine 160
112, 114, 120, 123, 146, 154, 184, Baghdad 57, 121, 122, 193
187, 188, 192–195, 200, 201, 202, al-Bakrī, Muṣṭafā 10, 14, 22, 59, 117, 119,
230–231; God (in Christianity) 121, 122–123, 125–126, 145, 146,
46, 51; God (in Islam) 13, 16, 46, 152, 195, 196, 201
49, 52, 54–55, –58, 60, 62, 83, 90, Baldick, Julian 8
112, 115, 120, 123, 124, 127, 144, Balkans 9, 59, 158
186–188, 192–194, 200, 201, 202, al-Bāqillānī, Abū Bakr 21
231; god (various) 48, 82; al-ism Baraka 1, 2, 4–5, 12, 16–18, 20, 46–50,
al-aʿẓam (ism Allah al-aʿẓam the 51–57, 59–61, 82–83, 87–89,
greatest name of God) 120 94, 110–121, 123, 125–127, 128,
234 Index
144–146, 148–155, 157, 161, Cave of Blood 150

185–186, 188, 192–197, 203, Cave of Hunger 150
230–231; (divine/God’s/Allah’s) charisma 17
grace 1–5, 13, 15–20, 46–48, Chih, Rachida 54, 127
50–56, 60–62, 82–84, 86–90, 92, Chouf 151
110–116, 120–124, 126, 144–145, Christian(ity) 8, 16, 17, 20, 46, 51–52, 82,
150, 152–155, 157, 160, 185–186, 87, 88–89, 91, 93, 120, 124–125,
193–198, 230–231; tabarruk 52, 146, 147, 150, 151, 153, 157, 188,
118, 123, 126, 128, 155, 194, 197 192, 193, 194, 197, 198, 199, 200;
Barouk (Bārūk) 151 Catholic 16, 47, 49, 50, 87, 99,
Basra 61122 124, 194; Church (Christian) 188
al-Baṣrī, al-Ḥasan 121 (Cathedral of Amiens/France 157;
Baybarsīyya Sufi lodge 10 Catholic 49, 50, 194; of England
al-Baytimānī, Ḥusayn Ibn Ṭu ʿma 126, 201 23; of Saint George/al-Khader
Bedouin 23, 62, 85, 89, 148 88; of Saint Nicholas/Damascus
Beirut 5, 153, 157 92; of St. Silvester/Rome 157);
Beit Liqya (Bayt Liqyā) 149 cleric/clergy (Christian) 18, 20,
Beit Sourik (Bayt Sūrīk) 149 23, 87, 92, 93, 112, 146, 199;
Bektashi(s) 12; Bektashīyya lodge 188 Coptic 188; (of England) 23;
Berkey, Jonathan 11 Holy Sepulcher/Holy Flame 197;
Bethlehem 150, 197; Bethlehem Monastery (Saydnaya) 147, 188
Governorate 88, 89 (of St. George/Palestine 159; of St.
Bible/Scripture (in Christianity) 52, Ivan/Bulgaria 157); Orthodox 20,
124, 150 87, 92, 124, 146, 151; Paternoster
Biddu (Biddū) 152, 161 193; priest/priesthood (Christian)
Bilād al-Shām 1, 5, 7, 9–10, 20, 22, 92, 16, 17, 50, 87, 89, 92, 124, 146,
113–114, 150, 153, 195, 198, 203, 147, 151, 187, 199; Protestant(s)/
230; Province of Damascus 4–6, Protestantism 19, 48, 50, 51, 124,
9–10, 20, 59, 111, 122, 126, 144, 229, 230; Reformation 16
154, 186–187, 199, 230; Shām Cordoba 54
1–4, 6, 8, 16–17, 19, 21, 48, 51, Count de Volney, Constantin François de
54, 111, 114, 116, 121, 124, 126, Chassebœuf 23
144–145, 153, 185; Syria 1–231 Curtiss, Samuel Ives 23, 52, 147, 152, 160,
Birgivī Mehmed Effendi, Taqī al-Dīn 161, 200
Muḥammad Ibn ʿAlī 21, 58
al-Bunī, Aḥmad 192, 192; Muḥammad 113 Damascus (city) 1, 4–6, 9–10, 13, 16, 17,
Burayk, Mikhā’īl 19, 87, 92, 112, 124, 146, 19–20, 23, 24, 47–49, 52–58,
151, 188, 198 60–62, 85, 87–89, 92, 110–117,
Burckhardt, John Lewis (Johann Ludwig/ 120–128, 144–147, 149–158,
Shaykh Ibrāhīm Ibn ʿAbd Allah) 160, 185, 187–188, 194, 196, 198,
23, 85, 89 201, 201–202, 203, 231; Bāb al
Burhānīyya/Burhāmīyya 54, 116; Burhānī/ Muṣalla 149–150, 201–202; Bāb
Burhāmī 127 al-Sharqī 153, 154; Bāb Kaysān
153; Bāb Tūmā 115, 153, 154; Marj
Cain 150 al-Ḍaḥḍāḥ (Maqbarat al-Farādīs)
Cairo 14, 21, 58, 59, 115, 187, 188, 189, 153–154; al-Maydān 150, 155;
197 Mount Qasioun 150, 152–154, 202;
Caliphate 13, 17, 62; caliph 13, 201 al-Qubaybāt 114, 125; al-Ṣāliḥīyya
Canaan, Taufik 23, 54, 84, 89, 90, 93, 114, 60, 146, 152, 154–157, 160, 196,
144, 146, 147, 148, 149, 151, 152, 201; al-Ṣūfīyya 154; Sūq Sārūja
153, 154, 159, 194, 196, 197, 199, 154; al-Zaytūn 154
214 al-Damīrī 21
carob 86, 152 dastūr 90, 194
Index 235
al-Dasūqī, Ibrahīm 54, 60 Green, Nile 8, 59

dawsa 121, 202 Grehan, James 7, 8, 18, 53, 115, 124,
defterdār/treasurer 187 127, 145, 147, 149, 154, 57, 198,
dhikr 90–91, 110, 119–120, 122, 126, 155, 201, 203
192–195
dhimmi(s) 59 Ḥadīth 7, 13, 91
al-Dimashqī, Arslān/Ruslān (“Protector of ḥāfiẓ 61, 193
Damascus”) 54, 127, 128 Ḥajj 23, 62, 159, 194
al-Dimiyāṭī, Aḥmad 122 Hama 195
Dirʿīyah, First Emirate 61–62 Ḥamdallah, shaykh 152
divination 5, 47, 188–190, 192 Ḥanafī (school)/Hanafite(s) 10, 21, 58, 85,
Druze(s) 149 93, 193
duʿa (invocation/supplication) 5, 22, al-Ḥanafī, Imād al-Dīn 23
90–91, 120, 146, 186, 192–196, Ḥanbalī (school)/Hanbalite(s) 21, 57, 59,
198, 200–201 61, 82, 150, 156, 195, 201, 201
du Couret, Louis 23, 160 hātaf/azīf 82, 86
Durkheim, Emile 18 al-Ḥifnī, Muḥammad Ibn Sālim 15, 55,
al-Dusūqi, Abū Bakr 199 127, 160
Homs 19, 157
efficacy 5, 22, 48, 51, 55, 82, 89–90, Hourani, Albert 10
145–146, 150, 184, 186–189, al-Ḥusayn Ibn ʿAlī Ibn Abī Ṭālib 157,
194–195, 198, 201, 230 159, 195
Egypt 10, 20, 22, 23, 54, 55, 59, 60, 61, 62, al-Ḥuṣnī 155
85, 116, 118, 122, 125, 127, 145,
148, 157, 160, 188, 192, 196, 198 Ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī, Abū al-Mawāhib al
Eid al-Fitr 201 Ḥanbalī 57, 125, 193, 201–202
Ein ‘Arik (ʿAyn ʿArīk) 114 Ibn ʿAbd al-Razzāq 23
Ein Karem (ʿAyn Kārim) 149 Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb, Muḥammad 61, 62
England 16 Ibn Abī Ṭālib, ʿAlī, (the Fourth Righteous
Enlightenment 230 Caliph) 12, 121, 147, 140, 157
Eurasia 2, 46, 50, 88, 113 Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Muḥammad Amīn 10, 20–21,
Europe 12, 16, 18, 19, 50, 51, 158, 187, 47–50, 56, 61–62, 83–85, 90–91,
193, 229, 230 92, 117, 146, 187, 231
evil eye/malocchio/al-iṣāba bi-l-ʿayn Ibn ʿArabī (al-shaykh al-akbar/the Grand
90–91 Master) 13, 53–55, 57, 59, 123,
127, 149, 154–155, 158, 160, 188
al-Falaq 90, 197 Ibn Budayr, Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad 19, 52,
al-Falāqinsī, Fatḥī 187 87, 112–114, 118, 127–125, 188,
fiqh 115, 122 194, 202–203
France 157 Ibn Ḥanbal, Aḥmad 57
Frazer, James 19, 195 Ibn Ḥashīsh 113, 117
futuwwā 12 Ibn Hudhayb, Aḥmad al-ʿĀnī 155
Ibn Ḥusayn, ʿAbd al-Kāfī 122
Galland, Antoine 85 Ibn Idrīs, Aḥmad 229
Gaza 5, 127 Ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Abū ʿUbayda 150
Gellner, Ernest 6, 8, 18 Ibn Jumʿa, Muḥammad al-Maqqār 118
geomancy 47, 187 Ibn Kannān, Muḥammad Ibn ʿĪsā 20, 22,
al-Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad 11, 192 115, 118, 146, 152
al-Gīlānī 12, 117, 121–122; ʿAbd al-Qādir Ibn Khaldūn, Abū Zayd 10, 21, 49, 90,
al-Gīlānī 54, 57, 126–127; Isḥāq al 189, 201
Kaylānī 126; Muḥammad al-Kīlānī Ibn al-Khaṭṭāb, Zayd 62
21, 119–120 Ibn al-Qabbānī, Musṭafā 87
Grand Vizier 59, 159 Ibn Ramaḍān, Aḥmad 118
236 Index
Ibn Sarrāj, Aḥmad 115, 126 203; ghoul/ghūl 85–86, 90–91;

Ibn Sayf, ʿAbd Allah Ibn Ibrāhīm 61 hyena (mystical) 86, 91; ʿifrīt
Ibn Shams al-Dīn, Aḥmad Ibn Siwār 123, 83; jinnī/jinnīyya 83, 85–86, 89,
201, 202 92–93; shayṭān(īyya)/shayāṭīn
Ibn Suʿūd, Muḥammad 61–62 (devil(s)) 48–49, 51–52, 60,
Ibn Taymīyya, Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad 21, 57, 83–84, 85, 90, 92, 118–120, 187,
58, 60, 61, 154 194; Umm Maghaylān 85
Ibn al-Zayyāt, Abū Mahdī ʿĪsā 10 Joseph (New Testament) 150
ijāza(s) 14, 15, 22, 61, 121–122, 124
illusionism 47, 50 Kaʿab al-Aḥbār 154
ʿilm/ʿulūm (Qur’ānic science/s) 4, 15, 115, Kadızadeli(s)/Kadızadeliler 14, 20–21, 56,
119, 122; ʿālim/ʿulamā’ 2, 8–11, 58–59, 124
13–17, 19–20, 49, 52, 54, 57–59, Kadızade Mehmed Efendi 58
61–62, 82–86, 91, 94, 111, 113, Karak 5
115–117, 120–128, 146, 156, 159, Karakaya-Stump, Ayfer 11
186–188, 198, 203, 230–231 al-Karmī: Zayn al-Dīn Marʿī Ibn Yūsuf 21,
imām(s) 16, 122, 149, 155, 193, 201, 203 59–60, 82, 147
India 86, 117 al-Kaykī, Ibrāhīm 114, 125
Intercession (shafāʿa) 55, 144, 146, 185, al-Khader (al-Khaḍir town) 88–89
198–200, 203, 231; intercessor(s) Khalwatīyya 10, 12, 14–15, 58, 59, 116,
16, 17, 62, 124, 144 117, 118, 122, 127; Khalwatī(s) 58,
Islam 2–3, 5–9, 14–20, 23, 46–47, 49, 119, 145
50–51, 53, 55–57, 82–83, 85, 91, khāṭib(s) 16
144–145, 151, 159–160, 186–187, khawāriq: praeternatural/mystical
203, 229–230; Muslim 2–24, phenomena/effects 1, 5, 16–17,
46–47, 50–62, 82–85, 89–90, 91, 47–49, 51–52, 59–60, 86, 115, 121,
93, 110–111, 125, 127, 144–151, 127, 127, 151, 186–187, 189, 192,
153, 155–157, 160, 186, 188–189, 198, 202, 230
192, 194, 196–199, 203, 229–231; al-Khiḍr 17, 59, 88, 150, 152, 157
Sunni 2–3, 5–6, 9, 11, 12, 20–21, khirqa 119
23, 47–48, 54, 58, 83, 121, 150, al-Khwārizmīyya (lodge) 156
185, 203, 229–231 Knysh, Alexander 8–9, 19, 121
Ismāʿīl Agha 188 Köprülü Mehmed Pasha 59
Ismāʿīl I, Shah 57 kufr 49, 124; bidʿa (religious innovation) 57,
isnad 12 59–61, 124; heresy/heresies 56, 61,
Istanbul 5, 9, 15, 20, 58, 59, 115, 117, 195 124; heretic(s) 7, 20; heterodoxy/
istidrāj 186 heterodoxies 6–9, 11, 49–51;
infidel(s) 48–49, 60–62; jahl/
al-Jabāwī, Muṣṭafā Sāʿd al-Dīn 117, 121, jāhil(ūn) (ignorance/ignoramus(es))
157, 202 21, 60, 146; kāfir 60; munkir 62;
al-Jabrī, Muḥammad 118, 125 shirk (idolatry) 60–61
Jalwatīyya 117
Jenin (Jinīn) 154 Lajjūn 5
Jericho 149 Lane, Edward William 23, 85, 187, 190,
Jerusalem 5, 23, 59, 89, 92, 147, 149, 151, 192, 196, 200
153, 195, 197, 198, 200; Jerusalem al-Lāt 82
Governorate 148, 152, 161 Le Gall, Dina 11, 117
Jesus Hilfe Hospital 151
Jew(s)/Jewish 59, 200 Maaloula (Maʿlūlā) 87, 152
jinn/jān 4, 21–22, 47, 82–93, 114, madhhab/madhāhib 57, 116, 156, 193
187–190, 198; daemonology 47, madrasa(s) 10, 11, 14, 15, 57, 110, 111,
52, 92; daemon(s) 16, 21, 46, 113, 122, 158, 202, 230; Madrasat
48–49, 82–83, 85–92, 113, 186, al-Khātūnīyya 155; mudarris(ūn)15
Index 237
al-Maghribī, ʿAbd al-Qādir 190, 191–192 of Selim 58; of Süleyman I 58;

magic/siḥr 2–5, 7, 16, 18–21, 24, Sultan Hassan Mosque 59; Sultan
46–51, 62, 84–85, 92, 120, 124, Selim Khān Mosque 117; Umayyad
186–188, 190, 195, 198, 203, Mosque 55, 121, 123, 147, 153,
230; magician(s) 19, 47–50, 92, 154, 157, 202, 203
186–187, 195; sāḥir(ūn) 92, Mount Lebanon 127, 148, 151
187; sorcerer(s) 92, 197; sorcery Mount Qasioun 23, 150, 152, 153, 154, 202
5, 49–50, 90, 186–187, 230; Mubārak, Abū Saʿid 121
wizard(s) 19 muftī 1, 10, 115, 117, 188
Maḥmūd, shaykh 196 Muḥammad ʿAlī 62
majdhūb/majādhīb 5, 87, 111–112, Munkar and Nakir 148
114–116, 125; jadhba 114, Murad IV 58
116; theolepsis 114, 116, 120; al-Murādī 117, 118; ʿAlī al-Murādī 188;
theoleptic(s) 111, 114–116 Muḥammad Khalīl al-Murādī 1,
al-Majdhūb, ʿUthmān Ibn ʿAbd Allāh 115 20, 52, 61, 113, 115, 116, 117, 118,
majlis/majālis 14 122, 126, 155, 159, 160, 201, 201;
majnūn/majānīn 87, 93, 112 Muḥammad Murād 117, 118, 122,
al-Makkī, Muḥammad 20, 157 126, 155, 159–160
al-Mālikī 121; al-Mālikī, Muḥammad 121 al-Murtaqala 152
Malinowski, Bronislaw 19 Muṣṭafā, shaykh 123
Mamluk(s) 6, 12, 55, 121, 158 al-Muʿṭī, ʿAbd 113
al-Manīnī 121–122; al-Manīnī, Aḥmad 23,
117, 122, 146, 150, 159, 201 al-Nabhānī, Yūsuf Ibn Ismāʿīl 61, 117,
maqām al-nabī mūsā/Shrine of Moses 154, 193
196–197 Nāblus: Nablus Governorate 5, 92, 127,
al-Masālme 156 148, 199
masbaḥa/prayer beads 120 al-Nābulsī 117, 121; al-Nābulsī,
Mashhad 200 ʿAbd al-Ghanī 9, 10, 21–22,
masjid(s) 14 47–49, 53–56, 58, 60, 62, 90,
al-Maṭbaʿa 152 116–118, 121–122, 123, 125–127,
Maundrell, Henry 23, 147, 153, 145–147, 149–150, 152, 155–160,
197, 200 187, 189, 195–196, 231
Mauss, Marcel 19 al-Naḥlāwī, Aḥmad Ibn Murād
al-Mawāhibī, Ṣāliḥ 122 (barakat al-shām “Benediction of
mawlid(s) 56, 60, 121, 125, 199, 201 Damascus”) 1, 116, 126–127, 155,
al-Mazar (al-Mazār) 154 187, 193
McCown, Chester Carlton 148, 161 Najd 61–62
Mecca 62, 148, 194 naqīb al-ashrāf 1, 61, 117
Medina 61, 62, 156 al-Naqshbandī, Khālid 20, 56
meteoromancer 57 Naqshbandīyya 1, 10, 12, 59, 61, 116–117,
al-Mīdanī, Shākir 198 122; Naqshbandī 117–118
Middle East 6, 11, 23, 50, 56, 57, 85, 88, al-Nāṣir 13
117, 118, 121, 122, 124, 149, 150, Neosufism 229
153, 154, 192, 198, 229 network(s) of the holy 1, 2, 4–5, 16–18,
Milk Grotto 150, 197 20, 47, 54–56, 60, 62, 88–89, 94,
Mongol(s) 13, 57, 158 111–112, 125, 127, 144, 153, 156,
Morocco 6 160–161, 185–186, 203, 231
mosque 10, 14, 15, 59, 89, 112, 149–150,
155, 158, 201; al-Aqsa 149, 153; Ohlander, Erik 11, 13
Ayasofya 58; Bāb al-Muṣalla 149, oneiromancy/oneirocriticism 189
150, 201, 202; of Bayazid 58; al Ottoman(s): (Empire) 2–10, 12–18, 47,
Buzūrī 123; al-Daqqāq 155; Dome 51–56, 58–60, 62, 82–83, 94,
of the Rock 149; al-Mushāriqa 112; 110–114, 116–118, 120–127,
238 Index
144–149, 151–160, 185–186, al-Rawi, Ahmed K. 85

188, 192, 195, 196, 198, 201, 203, reformism/reformist 15, 19, 46–47, 49–51,
229–231 56, 61–62, 203, 229–230
Oxford 23 religion 2–7, 16, 18–19, 46, 49–52, 83, 92,
120, 144, 195–197, 229
Palestine 22, 23–24, 59, 84, 86, 88, 90, 93, Rifāʿīyya 54, 91, 116–117, 120, 127
115, 127, 144, 148, 152, 154, 159, Rif Dimashq 89, 151
160, 199 rigorism (religious) 4, 20–21, 52, 56–59,
Palmyra 5 61–62, 82, 124, 157
“Patriarch of Damascus” 89 al-Rifaʿī, Aḥmad 54, 152
Porter, Josias 147 Russell, Alexander 17, 23
prestidigitation 47
prophet(s) 1, 2, 17, 47–48, 52, 54–56, Sabbatai Sevi 59
84, 92, 110, 114, 123, 151, 154, al-Sābiq, Aḥmad 118
186, 230; Abraham 52, 55, 150, ṣabr 112–113, 119
151, 152; Jesus Christ 12, 92, al-Saʿdī, Ibrāhīm 154
150; (Moses) 52, 55, 88, 150, 157; Saʿdīyya/Jabāwīyya 117, 121, 127, 202
Muḥammad (al-insān al-kāmil) 1, Ṣafad 5
13, 55, 57, 61, 121, 153, 188, 195, Safavid(s) 12
196, 201 Ṣāḥib ʿUbayda 157
St. George 88–89, 93, 153, 161, 199
qāḍī al-ʿasākir (kazasker): chief military Saint/saints 50, 88, 89, 125–128, 194;
judge 115 sainthood 5, 7, 110–112, 115,
Qādirīyya 10, 22, 54, 57, 91, 116–122, 125–127, 156; walī (Allah)/awliyā’
126, 195, 229 1–2, 4, 5, 10, 12, 15, 16, 18–23,
al-Qāsimī, Jamāl al-Dīn 61 47–49, 51–56, 59, 61–62, 84,
Qatana (Qaṭana) 89 89, 93–94, 110–112, 114–115,
al-Qawī, ʿAbd al-Karīm 127 117–118, 121–122, 125–128,
al-Qazwīnī 21 144–156, 160, 185–188, 194–195,
Qibla 119, 148, 196, 200 197–203, 230–231
Qubbat al-Bāʿūnīyya 202 ṣalāḥ 48, 53, 56, 60, 62, 87, 111–113, 119,
Qubbat al-Naṣr 204 123, 126, 160, 186, 201; ṣāliḥ(ūn)
Qudāma (family) 150, 156, 159 (the righteous the virtuous) 2, 4–5,
Qur’ān 7, 53, 82, 83, 88, 90, 92, 115, 186, 10, 46, 48–49, 51, 53, 54–55, 60,
188, 190, 193, 194, 196; ayāt al 111–114, 123, 125–126, 144, 155,
shifā’ (Healing Verses) 196; ayāt 185, 203
al-kursī (the Throne Verse) 90; al al-Salām, ʿAbd 151
Fātiḥa 53, 90, 119, 120, 186, 190, al-Ṣāliḥī, ʿAbd al-Hādī 152
193, 194, 196, 197; al-Ikhlāṣ 190, Saljuq(s) 11, 13
191, 193, 197; al-muʿawwidhatān Sanūsīyya 229
(Verses of Refuge) 90, 197; al Sāra (Abraham’s wife) 151
Nās 90, 197, 202; al-Qadr 190; Sarī al-Dīn 155
Scripture (in Islam) 6, 8, 57, 58, 60, Saydnaya 147, 188
61, 83, 88, 92, 120, 148, 150, 151, sayyid(s) 126, 188
186, 189, 197, 198; Yā Sīn 90, 190 Selim I 13, 55, 188
al-Qushayrī, ʿAbd al-Karīm 11 al-Shādhilī, Abū al-Ḥasan 185
quṭb/aqṭāb (Pole of his time) 15, 54–57, Shādhilīyya 117
60, 110, 117, 121, 126–128, Shafi’i(te) (school) 21, 61, 85, 122, 202
157, 160 Shahāda 90, 193, 194
al-Shaʿrānī, ʿAbd al-Wahhāb 14
Ramallah Governorate 114 al-Shatajī, ʿAbd Allah 202
al-Ramathānī, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 148 Shawbak 5
Ramla 147 al-Shawbarī, Muḥammad Ibn Aḥmad 22
Index 239
shaykh al-islām 14 talismanics 5, 22, 47, 84, 88, 195,

shrine 1, 5, 13, 17, 21–22, 23, 47, 51, 197–198, 201; talisman(s)/seal(s)
52–58, 60, 62, 123, 144, 145–150, 22, 47, 52, 86, 88, 91–92, 122,
152–156, 157–161, 194–201, 202, 124, 147, 186–187, 189, 195,
230; ḍarīḥ 1, 148–149, 194–196; 196–198
dome 148–149, 156; maqām al-Tamīmī, Muḥammad Ibn Qāsim 13
148–149, 151–157, 161, 194–195, Tel Shemmam (Tall Shammām) 152
196–199, 200; miḥrāb 148; minbar thaumaturgy 2–5, 16, 17–20, 24, 46–53,
149; qubba 148, 150; sutūr 148, 56, 57, 58, 61, 62, 82–83, 86,
196 88, 90, 114–115, 120–124, 127,
Sidon 5 144–145, 150–152, 159–161,
al-Sidrī 148 185–187, 188, 189, 196, 198–199,
al-Sindī, Muḥammad Ḥayyāt 61 201–203, 229–231; karāma/
silsila(s) 12, 15, 56, 116, 120, 121 karāmāt 1, 2, 18, 48, 55, 188–189;
Sokollu Mehmet Pasha 159 miracle(s) muʿjiza/muʿjizāt 2, 20,
Subbotsky, Eugene 18, 19 46–48, 50–51, 55–56, 61, 123,
Sufism 1–233; khalīfa (assistant) 118; 147, 186; thaumaturge(s) 4, 10, 46,
khanqa 11; murīd/muradā’ 48, 52, 61, 62, 88–89, 91–94, 115,
(initiate; disciple; acolyte) 1, 10, 122, 126, 128, 146, 149–150, 155,
11, 12, 14–15, 20, 52, 94, 110, 160, 185, 186, 187, 192; wonder/
113, 116–122, 124, 149, 156, 159, wonder-working 1–3, 16, 18–22,
189, 195, 202–203, 229; naqīb al 46, 48–50, 51–56, 60, 61–62, 84,
112–113, 115–116, 118, 120, 123,
nuqabā’ (chief attendant) 118–119;
125–127, 145–146, 149–150,
ribāṭ 11; shaykh al-ṭarīqa (supreme
155, 185–187, 195, 197, 198, 202,
master, shaykh al-mashāyikh) 11,
229–230
110, 118; shaykh(s)/(Sufi) master(s)
theurgy 46
1, 4, 10–15, 17, 20, 47, 49, 52–56,
Thomas, Keith 16
61, 85, 89, 92, 110–111, 114, Tiberias 115
116–127, 145, 148–149, 152, al-Tijānī, Aḥmad 229
154–156, 159–160, 185, 190, Tijānīyya 229
196–199, 201–202, 230; Sufi transmogrification 83–84, 86
1–233; Sufi lodge 10, 11, 13–14, Tulkarm 59
23, 55, 59, 88, 110–111, 116–123,
152, 154, 156–159, 188, 195, 197; ʿulūm al-ghayb (occult sciences) 47, 49, 186
Sufi order(s)/ṭarīqa/ṭuruq 3, 9–15, ʿUmar II 157
16, 54–55, 59–60, 61, 91, 110, ʿUmar (the Third Righteous Caliph) 157
116–124, 155, 158–159, 188, 203, al-ʿUmar, Ẓāhir 115, 125, 199
229; Sufi-ʿulamā’/Sufi-scholar(s) Umayyad(s) 147
2–5, 10, 13–20, 46, 47–48, ʿUyayna 61, 62
51–56, 58, 60–62, 83, 90, 94, al- ʿUzza 82
111, 115–116, 121–126, 153, 156,
159–161, 185, 187, 195, 202–203; Vienna 59
ṭā’ifa 12; taṣawwuf 15, 121–122; Virgin (Mary) 92, 147, 150, 188,
zāwiyā 11, 120, 155, 158, 159 197–198, 199
al-Suhrawardī, Abū Ḥafs 12, 13
Suleiman I (“Lawgiver”) 57 Wahhābī(s) 20, 61, 62, 124; al-muwaḥḥidūn
sultan 14, 59, 145, 155, 159, 188 61–62
al-Suwaydī, ʿAbd Allah Ibn al-Ḥusayn 122 waqf 14, 157–161, 230
Watenpaugh, Heghnar Zeitlin 158
taʿawwudh 90–91, 93 Weber, Max 18, 48, 49
al-Ṭabbākh, Yūsuf 118 Winter, Michael 14
Tadmur 5 wuʿāẓ (preachers) 16
240 Index
Yalo (Yālū) 146, 156 Zāwiyat al-Maghāriba 197

Yashrūṭīyya 116 Zaynab 157, 194, 202
yawm al-qiyāma (Day of Resurrection) Zilfi, Madeline 14
144, 199 Zir’in (Zirʿīn) 154
Yemen 229 ziyāra (ziyārā): pilgrimage 1, 5, 10, 21–22,
Yılmaz, Hüseyin 11 52–53, 55–60, 144–146, 152,
155–156, 157–159, 195, 197,
Zabadani 151, 160 200, 230
al-Zawāwī, Muḥammad 188 al-Zuʿubī, ʿAbd al-Fattaḥ 127

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Sufism in Ottoman Damascus

Sufism in Ottoman Damascus analyzes thaumaturgical beliefs and practices

Nikola Pantić is Postdoc Assistant at the Department of Near Eastern Studies,

26. Sufism in Eighteenth-Century India

27. Walāya in the Formative Period of Shi’ism and Sufism

28. Nur Baba

29. Sufism in Morocco’s Religious Politics

30. Love in Sufi Literature

31. Sufism in Ottoman Damascus

For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/Routledge-Sufi-Series/

1 Patterns of Grace in History and Scholarship: Networks of

2 Miracles of God and Saintly Wonders: Magic and Religion

3 Haunting the Shadows: Contending with the Jinn Between

4 Path to Holiness: The Quest for Grace in Eighteenth-

5 Beyond the Grave: Graceful Dead, Hallowed Places, and

6 Artes Magicae: Thaumaturgical Rituals in Eighteenth-

6.1 The ism that identified thieves in dream visions. 189

Eminent scholars of Damascus believed in many peculiar competencies of Aḥmad

indicated, relevant for producing meaning in terms of a hermeneutical engage­

pertained to eighteenth-century Damascus. My exploration of approaches to study­

Sufism in Scholarship, Sufism in Islam: Scholarly Approaches to

adjective “popular” with reference to cultures portrayed as inferior to their “high”

Baldick dispatched the orthodox-heterodox binaries, asserting that they inherently

Religion of an Imperial Province: Eighteenth-Century Syrian

Ottoman Bilād al-Shām, this overlap was demonstrated by officially appointed

the ʿulamā’ establishment served mystagogic, initiatory62 and thaumaturgical func­

and commissioned the erection of numerous madrasas, mosques and masjids,

A Network of Wonders: The Place for Sufism

Religion, Thaumaturgy, and Magic in Ottoman Syria: Possible

and wonder-working traditions from within a widespread and prevalent agrarian

What Remains: Eighteenth-Century Syrian Sources

chronicle written by a court clerk from Homs, Muḥammad al-Makkī. Information

To discuss thaumaturgical practices, I read Sufi manuals produced or cop­

44 Grehan, Twilight, 6–19, 112–115.

117 Yılmaz, Caliphate, 1–4.

198 Al-Ṣāliḥīyya is a district of Damascus which contained a lot of religious significance

Potts, John. A History of Charisma. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.

Sijbrand, Linda. “Orientalism and Sufism: An Overview,” 98–114. In Orientalism Revisited:

Voll, John O. “Sufi Brotherhoods: Trans-cultural/Trans-state Networks in the Muslim

an important religious resource as well as a social marker4 for the members of

“What I do is a Miracle, But What You Do is Magic:”7 Thaumaturgy

ritualistic practices that allegedly brought benefits. In contrast, practices tied to

Holy Energy: The Significance of the Belief in Allah’s Baraka

Graceful Networks: Wonder-Workers in Eighteenth-Century

establish their authority over religious orthodoxy. Their professional credentials

Purity of Faith: Religious Rigorism of the Eighteenth Century

Weismann, Taste of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman

Rafeq, Abdul-Karim. “ ‘Abd al-Ghani al-Nabulsi: Religious Tolerance and Arabness’ in

to benign jinn.52 The eighteenth-century Syrian sources imply similar distinctions

Wrath of the Beast: Jinnic Assaults, Improper Behavior,

“Vade Retro Satana:”110 Repelling the Jinn Through Ritual

As with most religious practices, the presence of professional thaumaturges was

Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London:

Muhannad Mubayyiḍīn (Beirut: al-Markaz al-ʿArabī li-l-Abḥāth wa Dirāsat al-Siyāsāt,

121 Canaan, Saints, 37, n6.

137 Lane, Egyptians, 1:321–322, 327–328.

Burayk, Mikhā’il al-Dimashqī. Tārīkh al-Shām [The History of Damascus] 1720–1782.

God’s Grace is Upon Them: The Ṣāliḥūn and Popular Belief

The Blessed Fools: Theolepsis Among the Ṣāliḥūn of Eighteenth-

wider popularity. In Cairo, theoleptics, as well as Sufis, uncovered snakes in such

Exploring the Sea of Knowledge: Sufi Initiates on the Path to Grace

remaining steadfast in all circumstances.100 These requirements were not unique

The Sufi-͑ulamā’: Religious Professionals and Peer Recognition in

indicated, relevant for producing meaning in terms of a hermeneutical engage

pertained to eighteenth-century Damascus. My exploration of approaches to study

the ʿulamā’ establishment served mystagogic, initiatory62 and thaumaturgical func

To discuss thaumaturgical practices, I read Sufi manuals produced or cop

an act of innovation (bidʿa) and heresy (kufr).154 Restrictions to knowledge trans

2010), 195–196. This is comparable to the obedience to bishops in European brother

joy without self-reflection before administering punishment.16 Although in prac

The eighteenth-century Compendium of thaumaturgical rituals and prayers con