Bélisaire's African Languages

Whilst perusing Guy-Joseph Bonnet's Souvenirs historiques, we were delighted to find more details on the linguistic skills of Bélisaire, a "mulatto" who, for a brief time at least, led African rebels in the early days of the Haitian Revolution. According to Bonnet, Bélisaire could communicate with Aradas, Mandingues, Hausas, Congos, and Nagos, a feat which made him a respected figure among these bossales. It is unfortunate that we lack any surviving writings by Bélisaire in which he documented some of his understanding of these various African languages spoken in colonial Haiti. 

Zagada

Source

After reading Geggus's essay on "Kongomania" and seeing his reference to one of the few known African leaders in the North during the early days of the Haitian Revolution, we had to consult ANOM's digitized collection of Moreau de Saint-Méry's papers. Geggus briefly mentioned Zagada as the leader of a band of Aradas and Aoussas (Hausas), but based on his name, we wondered if he was possibly Hausa. Well, after consulting ANOM, we found the source cited by Geggus, a 1792 letter addressed to Moreau de Saint-Méry. According to the document, Zagada's band of rebels were armed with arrows, which is not too surprising. But the combination of Aradas and Aoussas is interesting, since another leader of a band of rebels, La Fortune, was said to lead a group of Nagos (Yorubas) in Limonade. Our guess is that Zagada was Hausa, although we would have to consult the names of various groups sometimes lumped into the "Zagada" category in order to confirm it. 

Bori in Tunisia and al-Timbuktawi

Ismael Montana's study and translation of Hatk al-Sitr is an interesting study of the manifestation of the Bori cult in Ottoman Tunisia. Although, sadly, too brief of a treatise, al-Timbuktawi's biased yet provocative denunciation of the religion as shirk requiring state intervention to eradicate it and reenslave recalcitrant "Sudan Tunis" in the Regency is both disturbing and illustrative of West African jihadist intellectuals of the late 18th and early 19th century. To Montana, al-Timbuktawi's views and his intervention in the state of affairs in Tunis, through which he passed whilst performing the pilgrimage, represents an instance of West African Islamic intellectual currents and interactions with both Wahabbism and North Africa. 

Surprisingly, however, Montana did not fully explore the deeply misogynistic element of al-Timbuktawi's work, which sees Bori's threat to the Islamic state and society of Tunisia as particularly dangerous due to the role of its female priests, "lesbianism" and the local Tunisian women enthralled by this cult of ritual healing and polytheism. This gendered dimension is mentioned in terms of the prominent role played by women as ritual leaders and priestesses in Bori, but its gendered impact on local Tunisian society seems to us as particularly important, since it reflects both the misogyny of al-Timbuktawi (and probably many of the pro-jihad intellectuals in West Africa) and another aspect of the great role of women in Bori. 

We hope to read Tremearne's later account of Bori to gain deeper insights into this gendered dimension of the religion as well as its practice in both Hausaland and North Africa. Since al-Timbuktawi was mainly writing for the purpose of convincing the authorities in Tunis to suppress Bori, he does not cover in great detail the religion or the ethnic origins of its practitioners. Certainly, the Hausa influence is predominant based on some of the names and titles used in the cult (referring back to political titles in Borno or Hausa kingdoms, for instance, or using Hausa words). But, one wonders about the Bambara, Songhay, and Nupe mentioned by al-Timbuktawi. Indeed, if Bori in North Africa is similar to Gnawa in Morocco, one also wonders if a degree of syncretism was also emerging within West Africa itself due to the slave trade between the areas of the Niger Bend and the Central Sudan. For instance, were there "Bambara" and Songhay groups present in the Hausa kingdoms who introduced aspects of the Bamana boli and Songhay holey? And what of Hausa captives, Nupe and even Yoruba groups who may have also interacted with the ritual and theological facets of "indigenous" African religions in Hausaland? While some of the similarities with Vodun and Yoruba practice may be superficial, the prominence of animal sacrifice in specific rituals, spirit possession, and the ways in which Bori could coexist with Islam like Vodou and Yoruba religion with Catholicism have always struck us as areas worthy of further exploration.

Bélisaire and African Languages

Although he is occasionally problematic as a source and must be interpreted cautious, Mollien's Haïti ou Saint-Domingue includes a fascinating account of the "mulatto" rebel leader, Bélisaire. In the first tome of his work, Mollien described him as a mason who spoke several African languages. Indeed, his facility with African languages elucidates his success becoming a leader of slave rebels in the West of the colony of Saint-Domingue. Supposedly, he led a band that grew to be as many as 150, and he may have spoken Hausa, if Mollien is to be believed. Other sources, more reliable on this figure, include Thomas Madiou and Beaubrun Ardouin. According to Madiou, Bélisaire Bonnaire led his band of rebels in an African style, too. From Ardouin, we learn that Bélisaire was still around after the Haitian Revolution, loyal to Petion's Republic. If Mollien is correct about Bélisaire speaking Hausa, one wonders about the degree to which African languages spoken by smaller minorities of the African-born population were learned by others. And to what extent Bélisaire is exceptional among Creoles and people of color in learning African languages is another area worthy of exploration.

Descourtilz and the Africans of Saint-Domingue

The third tome of Michel Etienne Descourtilz's Voyages d'un naturaliste: et ses observations includes a fascinating essay entitled Essai sur les mœurs et coutumes des habitants de Guinée à Saint-Domingue. One of the few detailed accounts of African "nations" in the colony based on interviews and observations, Descourtilz's brief essay provides information and impressions on about 18 African "nations" in colonial Haiti, concluding with a longer chapter on Creoles which contrasts the natural simplicity of the Africans with Creole immorality. Sadly, some of the chapters are far too brief, while other chapters cover "nations" which are obscure or very difficult to identify. He also gathered his data from Africans and Creoles interrogated or observed in the area of Saint-Marc and Artibonite Valley, aided by an unnamed domestic presumably enlisted to make the Africans more comfortable. Of course, this means the Africans he wrote about may not have present in large numbers in other parts of the colony. Nonetheless, Descourtilz provides some of the few detailed descriptions of Mozambiques, Borno ("Beurnon"), and Fulanis (Islamic nomadic ones) in the colony. To our knowledge, Descourtilz was also the only one to write about the Dunkos, a group likely hailing from what is today northern Ghana. 

In the first chapter, on the Dunkos and Aradas, Descourtilz wrote admiringly of their features. Scarification is big, but the infamous practice of poisoning among the Arada occupies a large section of the chapter. One particularly infamous case involved an elderly Arada woman said to have killed 70 infants to prevent them from growing up as slaves in the colony! Then, Descourtilz wrote about the "Arada" king subject to ritual seclusion and customs, before a brief description of Arada religion. Noting the power of their priests, they also adored a variety of beings or Gods, including the Moon, water, and serpents. It is a little unclear who exactly these "Arada" were. Presumably they were not natives of the Porto-Novo kingdom of Arada, and like the Dunkos, represented a composite group. The "Dahomet" nation, however, appear to have been subjects of the Dahomey kingdom. Descourtilz's description fo the burial of Dahomey's kings and the sacrifice of captives seems to be accurate or at least partly based on reliable accounts. 

Fida Africans, the subject of the next chapter, presumably came from Ouidah (or were sold via Ouidah). Commenting negatively on their physical features, Descourtilz has little to say about them. Following Fida are the Essa blacks. Essa, a "nation" or ethnicity we could not identify, were known for worshipping their previous kings. They also embalmed the corpses of deceased and placed the bodies on a throne. Likewise, the Urba "nation" are difficult to identify. According to Descourtilz, they possessed a god named Brataoth. Their king was surrounded by magicians whose arbitrary judgements sometimes caused the unjust punishment of soldiers. Human sacrifice was also practiced after military defeat. However, at least one king of Urba converted to Christianity after speaking with a missionary, miraculously recovering from a a malady. This would imply Urba was probably located closer to the coast. 

Other nations are mentioned for their religious and theological views. For instance, the belief in the transmigration of souls was attributed to the Aminas and Ibos. A particularly depressing case of an Amina mother on the Desdunes plantation was said to have killed herself and her 2 sons out of a belief that after death, they would return to their country of origin. Naturally, due to his own political and racial biases, Descourtilz also praised Monsieur Desdunes as a benevolent master who treated his slaves like a father treats his children. In contrast with the horrifying suicides trigged by enslavement, Descourtilz also shared the positive story of a reunion of 2 Ibo lovers owned by M. Pelerin of Cayes Saint-Louis. Unfortunately, despite reproducing a song attributed to these two, Aza and Evahim, Descourtilz changed the melody. But it is still worthy of attention for its Creole lyrics, even if one would expect Aza and Evahim to have communicated in their Igbo lover when reunited across the Atlantic. 

Although we have discussed Descourtilz's chapter on Bornoans in Saint Domingue, they are worth mention again. A number of customs, practices, religious zeal, and gender relations are subjects of importance here. For instance, Descourtilz viewed Borno Africans as a nation in which women were submitted to men. This is interesting, given the high divorce rates among the Kanuri in the 20th century (which was probably the case in the 1800s and possibly the 1700s, too). One wonders if Descourtilz mainly or only had access to male informants from Borno, which may have exaggerated the degree to which women were subjugated. Nonetheless, it was clear that Islam was very influential in social relations and the attachment to books, prayer, and social conduct. No other Islamic nation were mentioned in Descourtilz's essay besides the Fulani. What is so confusing about this account of Borno is that a long anecdote about a corrupt African prince who killed a child for recreation and went unpunished, triggered a conflict with a pagan ruler that resulted in many of his "nation" being sold into slavery. Several of them ended up in Saint-Domingue, where the Rossignol-Desdunes plantation received many. If this prince was a Sayfawa maiwa, it would be interesting if any traditions or written sources can attest to his corrupt, violent behavior. This would match the sense in some sources that Borno in the 18th century had become corrupt and the Sayfawa were less able to control vassal chiefs and rulers. Also, assuming it is true, the Sayfawa rulers testing the morality of their subjects by leaving items in public spaces and using spies to capture any thieves for sale as slaves (plus their families) is an extreme measure. 

Surprisingly, 3 Gold Coast "nations" (Acra, Crepeens, Asante) are discussed separately from the Dunkos, who one would expect to have been somewhat more similar to them. Descourtilz praises their fishing talents while accurately acknowledging that they believed in a distant, Supreme Being. Because this Supreme Being is too distant, they worship a number of "fetishes" like the snake, or heron. Their prodigious memory similarly impressed Descourtilz, who noted they could easily refer to events or circumstances from long ago with surprising exactness. Unfortunately, for some of these nations and the subsequent chapters, the "nations" are either too ambiguous to identify or, in the case of the Congos, shockingly incomplete. For example, the Diabon were said to have sacrified strangers to their gods. For the Congos, we learn little. 

In the final chapters, on Vodou and Creoles, one sees the most detailed accounts of black culture in the colony. Relying in part on the testimony of an educated black woman named Finette, Descourtilz expresses familiarity with the Arada origin of the word, Vodou, as well as the Dom Pedre (Petro). Despite spilling much ink on the superstitions of the blacks and their beliefs in sorcery or the power of their idols, he draws from examples of cases of people falling ill after disputes with Vodou priests. Indeed, according to his source, Finette, Tousaint Louverture himself consulted a Vodou priest specializing in divination. According to this oracle, Tousaint was warned that his first chief, Dessalines, was to later betray him to the French. Vodou ritual leaders are even accused of abusing their power to receive extra food during a famine in the Artibonite region in 1803, using religion as a pretext to demand additional offerings that they consumed themselves or later sold. But it is in the ultimate chapter where one suspects Descourtilz's political and racial biases most mislead him. Creoles, according to him, suffered from feelings of enmity toward whites, were lazy, immoral, and cruel. Indeed, a particularly egregious case of a man who rejected his own mother led to Descourtilz writing to Toussaint Louverture to have the arrogant man punished for abandoning her. Even black mid-wives and medical practitioners were dismissed as ignorant and dangerous. In addition, Creoles did not raise their children properly, spoiling them in their youth so they were ill-prepared for their future life in the colony. If it isn't clear already, Descourtilz's own sentiments about the Haitian Revolution shaped his writings about the Creoles. 

Western Narratives of the Fang

Du Chaillu and Milligan provide accounts of the Fang from 1861 and 1912, respectively. In the half-century dividing the two men’s narratives, the Fang remain savages with a history of cannibalism, but Milligan’s description demonstrates a growing concern for evangelizing the African people. Soon, religion becomes the saving factor in Milligan’s account for the civilizing impact of European imperialism on the Fang. In the mid-19^th century, however, Du Chaillu shows no interest in Christianizing the Fang, preferring to exalt them into noble savages for his European and North American readership. Thus, the writings of Du Chaillu and Milligan illustrate a shift in Western perceptions of Africans in the mid-19^th century to one of scientific racism and imperialism, embedded with theological justifications for European imperialism.

Du Chaillu’s account, more comprehensive than Milligan’s, nevertheless shares racist sentiments with the latter. Both writers described the Fang as primitive peoples, but Du Chaillu’s romanticization of the Fang as, “Finer looking men I never saw…” because of the martial, fierce-looking fellows exemplifies his idealization of the Fang (Du Chaillu 110). The Fang are also referred to as “the finest, bravest-looking set of negroes I have seen in the interior…” (121).  These fine-looking Negroes, superior to the coastal societies familiar to the European traders, were feared by Du Chaillu to degenerate as a result of their southward migration, where they would become more like the aforementioned coastal peoples (121). The Fang, as interior peoples, are further removed from European contact and become noble savages, while the coastal societies with which they regularly traded with for centuries, were degenerate, immoral, and savage, despite their closer contact with Europeans, which contradicts White Supremacy since the African groups in more contact with Westerners would likely be the most civilized. In fact, Du Chaillu describes the Fang as the most promising people in all of Western Africa, especially for their stamina, unvarying hospitality, kindness, courage, and fierceness (129).

Milligan also uses racist discourse when describing the Fang, but does not idealize their pre-colonial past or suspected cultural practices such as cannibalism or the use of fetishes. Attributing the problem of cannibalism to a natural consequence of fetishism, the primary problem of the Fang, and Africans generally, African religious practices become the cause of their barbarity (Milligan 241). Thus, the shift from a more scientific and comprehensive look at the Fang from Du Chaillu’s somewhat fanciful and sensationalized writing begins to rely on Christianity to further justify European racism and imperialism simultaneously. Whereas Du Chaillu also described the African as “poor people leading dreadful and dreary lives,” and using primitive technology, despite their “considerable ingenuity in manufacting iron” (Du Chaillu 102 and 122), he never resorts to attributing Fang inferiority solely to their religious customs or race. Milligan praises Christianity’s effects for convincing the African to recognize Christ as the human ideal, and therefore see the divine origin and noble destiny of humanity instead of their degrading conception of man’s nature (Milligan 242).  The superstitious African, who consumes human flesh for fetish protection from enemies, will cease practicing cannibalism as soon as the Gospel becomes intelligible (243). Unfortunately, the African’s fetishism will not disappear immediately, since the grease from boiled human remains were smeared upon bodies for protection, according to Milligan (244). Regardless, the African receives the opportunity for moral transformation and the sanctity of human life because of colonialism and Christianity, while Du Chaillu, though racist himself, does not endeavor to identify the cause of Fang inferiority with African religion or race.

One must also note the different eras in which the two writers were engaged in to better understand their perceptions of Fang. Each never witnessed cannibalism, yet both Du Chaillu and Milligan assumed it was true, contradicting a European rational approach to knowledge and science because of their preconceived notions of African inferiority. Du Chaillu, however, seems to have been writing for geographical organization or secular White audience, since his account describes hunting, political institutions, food, music, trade, marriage, and weapons. Milligan’s emphasis on fetishes, religious life, and African religious deficiencies, as well the title, The Fetish Folk of West Africa, reveal a study focused on religion for Westerners in the early colonial period. For Milligan, Christianity is the salvation of Africa, and the thorough Europeanization in dress, religion, and morality will elevate the African to civilization. His contrast of a Christian woman of Gabon juxtaposed with a photograph of interior women sends that message quite clearly, since her European dress, and hair sharply differs from the naked interior women carrying cassava and firewood (246). Milligan’s purpose of writing about the Fang has a single purpose of highlighting the positive results of colonialism, as well as proving African inferiority.

Despite writing accounts in 1861 and 1912, both writers concur on African primitiveness and cultural deficiencies and the practice of cannibalism, even with the absence of eyewitness evidence. Milligan’s piece demonstrates a shift from the noble savage lens of Du Chaillu to a purely colonial, white supremacist gaze that came as a result of direct European conquest and rule. By 1912, the French had established themselves firmly in Gabon, and missionary activity had begun decades earlier, so the narrative of noble savages became less relevant politically because African backwardness needed to be depicted as poorly as possible to align with the proclaimed paternalist intentions of European imperialism. Hence, cannibalism remains a significant part of Milligan’s narrative, as well as African moral degradation.

Western Desert...

We were once fascinated by 9th and 10th century Arabic sources referring to an oasis route that was formerly full of Rum and Copts whilst also partaking in a trade network that stretched as far as Ghana and Kawkaw in West Africa. Whilst the Arab sources say the route was in use until the 860s, and was utilized by Egyptians and Nubians to reach Libya, the Magrib or the Sudan (the land of "blacks") to the southwest. Although other trade routes did replace the one banned by the Tulunids, we are interested in the history of pre-Islamic trans-Saharan trade that linked the Western Oases of Egypt to sub-Saharan Africa. The evidence for this is slim. And what we could find in archaeological studies is simply an urbanization in the area during Roman Rule, which subsequently declined by the 4th and 5th centuries. Thus, it is possible that the growth of towns in the Oases during Roman and Byzantine rule was merely linked to a regional trade network to Egypt, Nubia, and parts of today's Libya. However, Ibn Hawqal's 9th century description of the area does suggest travelers from Egypt and Nubia used a route through these oasis region before the Arab conquest. And even after the shift in routes and the decline of the oasis town of Srbuh, the area was described in the 11th century by al-Bakri as being linked to today's Siwa oasis. The Egyptian oases were still full of people, including Copts living in their own village or in mixed contexts. 

We wonder if, perhaps, this earlier desert that was discontinued by the Tulunids may have once connected Egypt (and Nubia) with the Fazzan and, by extension, further south with Kawar, Marandet, Gao, and Ghana. If true, this could have been another avenue for Christian traders to reach the central Sahara and Sudanic regions. Of course, the picture of decline in the region centuries before the Arab conquest makes this less plausible. But we find it interesting how Kawar was described as exporting alum, like some of the oasis towns in the Western Desert. Kawarian traders were also described as traveling to the east using a route through the northeast by the 12th century. The Garamantes and their related peoples in the Fazzan would have already been linked to Augila and other oases to the east before the Islamic period, and it is likely that Kawar was known to the Garamantes (perhaps for a trade in salt, slaves, ivory, and other commodities?). Also, the survival of Christian communities in the aforementioned Egyptian oases could have been another vector for Christian influences in Sudanic Africa during the Middle Ages. For instance, perhaps Qasr Umm Isa in Kawar was named because of Coptic and/or Nubian travelers and traders who reached the area? We lack adequate knowledge of what transpired in the area of Darfur and Wadai but it seems likely that a medieval Nubian presence was felt much further west than we realize. One could imagine Christian influences via Nubia and, perhaps, the Saharan route that led to Egypt via its western desert played a role here. And, furthermore, from Ibn Hawqal, we learn that the Abdun rulers of the Oases had been in conflict with Nubia. Perhaps that conflict in the 9th century favored a Nubian route further west through Kordofan and Darfur to reach the Maghrib or Fazzan. 

The Bambara in Haiti

Marriage in Jacmel of Louis Rene, of the Bambara country, to Sophie, also of the Bambara nation. When free people still use the "nation" Bambara to identify themselves, it may be a more meaningful claim of self-identity or self-expression tied to the Bamana or Bambara peoples.

Unlike, say, Louisiana, where the "Bambara" presence and legacy has been a subject of study or inquiry for some time, the "Bambara" legacy in Haiti is understudied. While scholars continue to debate the meaning of the term and to what degree its use in the Americas reflected a single or singular "people" in our modern sense, "Bambara" was a "nation" in Saint-Domingue with a consistent presence throughout the 18th century. The "Bambara" were always a sizable proportion of the Senegambian/Upper Guinea captives in the colony, and have likely shaped Haitian Creole, Vodou, and other aspects of Haitian culture in ways we do not always appreciate. For instance, is the Haitian Creole baka related to the Bamana baga or are veve also partly inspired by graphic signs of Bamana? Is the concept of nyama perhaps relevant here for understanding aspects of Haitian religion?

Arrival of a slave ship bringing "Bambara"captives to Saint-Domingue.

We suspect that "Bambara" did acquire some specificity in Saint-Domingue as an ethnolinguistic term, perhaps as a hodgepodge category combining non-Muslim Mandingues, Bamana, and others who spoke Mande languages. For instance, one runaway ad describing a Soso (Susu) as a type of "Bambara" suggests that the French recognized that some of the captives from areas of Upper Guinea spoke related languages or were conversant in other tongues. That "Bambara" was an ambiguous "nation and that its use within West Africa itself was also somewhat ambiguous is clear, however. The appellation of "Bambara" for pagans in Senegambia region and today's Mali is clear, and the Bamana states of the 17th and 18th century were also heterogeneous in that people of diverse origins could be incorporated into the state. 

More examples with 2 slave ships bringing "Bambara" captives to Haiti. One carried a mixed cargo with Wolof, Poulard and Bambara.

What is clear is that the "Bambara" were distinct from Wolof and Poulards. They also shared enough commonalities within their own group to be recognizable in the colony for factors besides language. Behavior, facial scarification, and, in some cases, self-assertions of a "Bambara" identity in the colonial era or post-independence era may point to an actual idea of a "Bambara" ethnicity or "nation" in some limited form. To what extent these were victims of the slave trade of Kaarta and Segu is unclear, although one would expect some Bamana to have fallen victims to the slave trade when their armies lost to others. 

Amazingly, assertions of a Bambara national identity persisted in 19th century Haiti. The above case, of Charles, born in c.1770 but registering in 1810, is declared to be of the Bambara nation. This is possibly meaningful, since it suggests that an identity linked to Bambara-ness lingered after Haitian independence.

Its interesting to see that even after Haitian independence, some were still identified as Bambara, as the case of Charles in 1810 indicates. "Bambara" did mean or connote something beyond a "nation" entirely fabricated or shaped by the slave trade and colonial society. Indeed, the retention of a "Bambara" nation in Haitian Vodou and aspects of Mandingue and Bamana culture surviving among Haitians in Morne Rouge may be telling. A deeper study of the Bamana language may also reveal more influence from Bamana and related Mande languages in Haitian Creole. 

Intriguingly, Bambara also survived as a surname in Haiti. Like other African "nations" taken as surnames, Bambara appeared as late as the end of the 19th century in places like Bainet. There, in Bainet, a Dessources Auguste, who died in 1905, was said to be the son of a Simone Bombara (Bambara). 

The "Bambara" legacy can also be seen in the Haitian Revolution itself with leaders like Gilles Bambara, who was sadly imprisoned by the orders of Dessalines for raising questions of caste (according to Ardouin and Madiou). One wonders if the martial prowess and development of Segu and Kaarta may have been an influence on the rebel slaves of "Bambara" origin in Saint-Domingue. Certainly "Bambara" and other West African beliefs influenced the use of charms and gris-gris or amulets during the Haitian Revolution. 

A "Bambara" captive listed in a notarized document from 1719, Jacmel.

We hope to revisit this topic with a deeper level of sources on the "Banbara" nation in Vodou and possible influences from the Bamana in Haitian Creole. Even if outnumbered by other groups, the "Bambara" were a consistent presence throughout the 18th century for African "nations" in Saint-Domingue. It is very likely that, like in Louisiana, they had a strong influence on the early slave culture in the colony and probably shaped other aspects of Haiti we do not know about. That some free people of color and even Haitians in the 19th century still used the "nation" of Bambara to mean something, we suspect that the self-identification may have actually corresponded more than we realize with the Bamana in Mali. 

The Sayfawa of Kanem-Borno

Muhammad Nur Alkali's Kanem-Borno Under the Sayfawa: A study of Origin, Growth and Collapse of a Dynasty is a vastly important work in the history of one of Africa's greatest royal dynasties. Existing for probably over 1000 years, the dynasty succeeded to build a strong state in an environmentally challenged zone. Later, they survived disintegrating forces to reemerge from their new, more secure base, Borno, as the dominant power of the Central Sudan. It's rulers were renowned for undertaking the pilgrimage to Mecca, sponsoring Islamic scholarship, and for occupying a central role in trans-Saharan and Sudanic trade routes for centuries. Nur Alkali's careful history of the dynasty, which benefits from his local connections and familiarity with Kanuri language and unpublished sources by local Borno scholars, is mainly marred by poor editing. This, sadly, occasionally hinders understanding and is a shame. Nur Alkali's explanation for the Sayfawa dynasty's decline in the 18th century is also unconvincing or incomplete. The spread of Sufism within the state, for instance, is never elucidated, and the reader is still somewhat confused about the author's argument for the growing autonomy of provinces and territorial chiefs within the Empire. Nonetheless, this work, despite its age as a 1970s dissertation, is foundational for its delicate balance of written and oral sources, plus Nur Alkali's judicious analysis of these sources to create a complete narrative of the Sayfawa maiwa.

One of the best features of the book, although also depressing, is the reference to unpublished and important studies by local Borno intellectuals. For instance, Ibrahim Imam was the author of an unpublished work, Peoples of Bornu, that is cited repeatedly by Alkali. It is a pity the work was never published since its author was a Kanuri person with elite connections who interviewed people from different backgrounds/social classes about history, genealogies, etc.  While colonial-era administrators like Palmer did similar things, Palmer lacked the deeper familiarity and experience with the local languages and cultures and undoubtedly introduced his own colonialist and racist biases. Alkali also cites some other unpublished works, including ones from an elder shaykh's family library, Sheikh Abubakar El-Miskin. Obviously, we lack the ability to read such texts in Arabic, Kanuri or West African languages, but it is a shame some of these texts were never published or translated into English and French. For instance, an important Kitab by Muhammad Yanbu remains unpublished, while a study and translation of another of his texts remains inaccessible. These sources are of great importance for shedding light on local traditions of historiography and scholarship, which may be at risk of loss due to the ravages of time.

Moving on to Alkali's analysis of Kanem, or the first phase in the Sayfawa's history, our historian favors environmental/ecological understandings for the decline of Sayfawa power in the 1200s and 1300s. He also favored a divine kingship model for the pre-Islamic Sayfawa rulers, although "sacral" rather than divine kingship might be more applicable in this context. And despite the conversion to Islam, there was continuity in the "sacral" nature of kingship that was promoted further by Islamic study, pilgrimage, and devotion after Islamization of the dynasty. Nonetheless, the Sayfawa were able to unite various clans and establish a firm power base in Kanem. Through control of Kawar and trans-Saharan trade, plus ties to Egypt and the East, Kanem emerged as a major power in the Central Sudan during its Kanem phase. However, the apogee of medieval Kanem was quickly followed by decline after the reign of Dunama Dibalemi. Nur Alkali here prefers environmentalist explanations that center on the growing competition for increasingly scare resources. Imperial overexpansion under Dunama plus the decline of conditions in Kanem caused by the increasingly arid conditions led to conflict, civil strife, rebellious princes, and the near-disintegration of the empire. Nur Alkali is probably on firm ground here, as studies by subsequent researchers have pointed to dry periods and the further desiccation of the Sahel that must have contributed to the decline of living conditions in Kanem as sedentary agriculturalists and nomadic groups completed for resources. The reference to Muhammad Yanbu attributing the opening of the Mune by Dunama to the nefarious influence of Egyptians is also fascinating, although possibly a tradition from centuries later that did not accurately reflect what transpired. Nonetheless, that later generations of Borno scholars believed Egyptian intervention may have played a role in the destabilizing of Kanem suggests the Sayfawa maiwa may have been seen as a potential threat by leading powers of the Muslim East. 

Miraculously, however, the Sayfawa dynasty survived the century or so of political instability and strife after Dunama Dibalemi's reign. The houses of Idris and Dawud battling for the throne, scheming kaigamas and wars or battles with the Bulala, Sao (spelled Sau by Nur Alkali) and Judham Arabs did not lead to the complete collapse of the dynasty. Yet, realizing how unsustainable Kanem was and the ongoing conflict with the Bulala, the Sayfawa wisely made the decision to relocate to Borno as the center of the Empire. According to Nur Alkali, Borno was an excellent choice for rebuilding the Sayfawa state. Here, in a rich agricultural plain favorably situated for trade with both North Africa and across the Sudanic belt, the Sayfawa were able to reestablish their power through a period of consolidation, expansion and, in the 18th century, decline. Borno, whose "Sao" and other non-Kanuri groups were not completely subjugated until the reign of Idris b. Ali in the late 1500s, was nonetheless a favorable environment for agriculture, leather, textiles, salt trade, the slave trade, and the growth of towns and cities, like Birni Gazargamo. Borno, in short, provided a firmer foundation for the next apogee of the Sayfawa dynasty, one built on a more stable base that did not quickly collapse as the case of Kanem.

As one would expect, much of the book is spent on the important reigns of mais like Ali Gaji, Idris b. Ali, Umar b. Idris, and Ali b. Umar as major figures in the development of Sayfawa's power. These rulers also exemplified certain trends of state-building and political philosophy that reflected Islamic influences as well as local factors deeply rooted in the dynasty. Unlike Nur Alkali, we would suggest the Sayfawa retained many aspects of their pre-Islamic roots, particularly those which enhanced the status of the mai. Yet, under the periods of expansion and consolidation in the 1500s and 1600s, Borno embraced new ideas, military tactics and weaponry (firearms, for instance), and administrative reforms to integrate non-Kanuri peoples into the state. This remarkable achievement led to a period of longer-lasting hegemony and regional preeminence for Borno, which saw its influence spread deeply across the Central Sudan and the effective reconquest of Kanem, it's ancient heartland. Rulers like Umar b. Idris appear to have strengthened or consolidated the gains of the 16th century by incorporating, as in the case of Muniyo, a Mandara prince as a loyal agent of the state. Additional provincial officials were appointed and incorporated into a complex administrative system that improved defenses while preserving a predominant role of the central state for ensuring additional military support in the provinces.That said, one is surprised by some of Nur Alkali's conclusions. For instance, he expressed skepticism about the presence of Turkish mercenary gunners in the army of Idris b. Ali during the 1570s. That struck us as an unfair conclusion, particularly as Ahmad b. Furtu would have been well-informed and certainly able to distinguish Turks, Arabs, and others. In addition, some of Idris b. Ali's campaigns in and near Borno itself were not mentioned, since the author focused on the campaigns against the Sao and Ngizim. That seems to have been a mistake, since understanding Borno's relations with the Tuareg in the 1600s and 1700s would have benefitted from an analysis of Tuareg groups raiding Borno's frontier in the 1500s. This was clearly a longstanding problem in the region, and almost certainly one in which the sultans at Agades likely had little or no control over. 

As previously mentioned, we are not sure his explanation for the decline of the Sayfawa in the 1700s is convincing or complete. The period of decline, which he states began as early as the late 17th century but really developed over the course of the 18th, was attributed to a gradual loss of Sayfawa or Central control of territorial chiefs and rulers, like the Galtima (galadima?). This process is not exactly clear, although this may reflect our limited sources on this era. It is clear that some provincial officials began to ignore the Mai in Gazargamo while other peoples, like the Bade, resumed their semi-autonomous state. Meanwhile, the conflicts with the Tuareg did not end, as Borno lost, in c.1759, the lucrative Saharan site of Bilma. In addition, a drought in the 1740s triggered more southward migration of nomadic groups like the Tubu, Koyam and Jotko, who were not easily controlled by the Sayfawa. Unfortunately, we are still in the dark about why exactly the central government began to lose control of provincial chiefs and officials. And why this process led to a decline in military effectiveness that would be necessary to reassert Sayfawa control. Was it due to an abandonment of an expansionist foreign policy? In a disappointing way, Nur Alkali's final chapters seem to echo the problematic views of Urvoy, who see in the Late Sayfawa Period a series of weak rulers more focused on Islamic piety and study than the ordeals of effective state management or policy. Of course, this portrayal could be accurate, but it seems quite incomplete and does not adequately explain why the administrative system of fiefs, territorial divisions and military defenses severely declined across the 18th century. Undoubtedly, the famine years were likely an important factor. Tuareg raids and the loss of Bilma certainly contributed, too. But something else must have been occurring during the "Late Sayfawa Period" to hasten this decline. This decline, perhaps best epitomized by Mai Ali's disastrous 1781 campaign against Mandara, revealed just how much decay or rot infested the state. References to written sources seem to affirm this idea of corruption and decay, too, if the poems of al-Tahir (died c.1776) and other intellectuals are any indication. But surely there remains much room in future scholarship to entangle what caused the decline of the Sayfawa political system in the 18th century. 

To conclude his study, Nur Alkali briefly elucidates the rise of conflicts with the Fulani in western and southern Borno as well as the rise of al-Kanemi (though quite briefly). We are in complete agreement with Nur Alkali on the primarily political nature of the conflict with the Fulani, rather than religious factors being important for understanding Borno's conflicts with Sokoto. We also find it unlikely that Muhammad Bello's account is very reliable, although he should still be seriously considered in light of local Borno sources referring to corruption and internal problems in Borno during the 18th century. But one was hoping for a history of the Sayfawa that chronicled their later years of decline, as al-Kanemi increasingly sidelined them and became the effective head of government. What was the Sayfawa court like in those days, as it was reduced to figurehead status and dependence on al-Kanemi for its very survival of the Fulani attacks? One suspects that those depressing twilight years from c.1808-1846 involved factors that might have been unsavory to elites of Borno in the 20th century. Yet understanding those crucial decades might elucidate our struggle to make sense of the pre-Shehu years of Borno and why, according to Barth and others, records of the Sayfawa dynasty may have been destroyed or obfuscated. That complex, ambivalent legacy seems very relevant for an understanding of the historiography of Borno and how one dynasty supplanted and later erased the one whose very existence had been central in the history of Kanem and Borno. Although it does appear that many notables from the Sayfawa period were incorporated into the al-Kanemi dynasty's system, which inherited and maintained many aspects of the previous system, there likely were a series of conflicts over power and legacy which shaped how the history of the Sayfawa is remembered in the 20th and 21st centuries. 

In summation, Nur Alkali's study is a major one that highlights a number of local sources, traditions, and perspectives on one of the world's great royal dynasties. While the explanatory power of the later chapters on Borno's decline leave something to be desired, this is an excellent overview of the complex history of a major dynasty. The familiar problems of sources is a huge barrier for the early period in the dynasty's history, before Islamization in the late 11th century. Nonetheless, Nur Alkali adroitly draws from oral traditions and written sources to develop a plausible model for the Sayfawa dynasty's rise and fall in Kanem. While we take issue with the portrayal of the pre-Hume Mais as divine kings, his analysis of Kanem's decline after its zenith under Dunama Dibalemi is persuasive. Today, with the benefits of more archaeological excavations and new interpretations of the old sources, one can undeniably improve upon this. But, one should pursue the theory proposed by Muhammad Yanbu on Egyptian interference influencing Dunama Dibalemi's behavior with regard to the Mune. Likewise, scholars today must reexamine the 18th century in Borno, trying to find and publish any texts from that era and studying family papers, manuscripts, and texts that have survived. Lastly, a serious analysis of the role of slavery and the slave trade in the history of Kanem-Borno is a must. Nur Alkali largely ignores slavery, though sources suggest captives were the most valued commodity of the Sayfawa state in trans-Saharan commerce. Local agriculture, textiles, leather products, and salt were probably of greater importance for sources of revenue and in terms of the state's trade with other Sudanic peoples (Hausaland, Kwararafa, Kanem, Bagirmi, etc.), but slave labor contributed to this to some degree. While probably on a smaller scale than the prevalent system of slavery in the 19th century Sokoto Caliphate, any attempt at developing a deeper understanding of the social and economic history of Kanem-Borno must treat the issue of slavery more deeply. 

Jewry of Medieval Cairo

The Jewish community was very integrated culturally, politically and economically into the larger society of Egypt. The Jewish residents of the cosmopolitan city fared better under Islamic rule than anywhere in Christian Europe. Indeed, their integration into Egyptian society indicates the degree of heterogeneity and diversity in Egyptian society. The simple fact that Jews enjoyed rights and privileges in addition to tolerance in Muslim Egypt, as demonstrated by the Geniza papers, also counters the myth of Muslim intolerance and oppression of dhimmis, or non-Muslims. In fact, Jews generally lived under much worse conditions in Christian Europe during the medieval period since there were few legal protections, combined with a theologically driven anti-Semitism that led to ghettoization, collective violence as retribution, and general hostility. Jews in Islamic lands, such as Egypt, however, enjoyed special protections under Islamic law that allowed freedom to worship, maintain their own community institutions, greater economic opportunities, and no ghettoization. Nevertheless, Jews were still a minority group in a Muslim-dominated social hierarchy, and were never completely free from repression or discriminatory practices, a product of the Pact of ‘Umar.

 Culturally, Jewish Egyptians were far more integrated into Egyptian society than their counterparts in Europe. Jewish and Muslim dietary laws, for instance, converged in multiple instances, especially regarding consumption of pork. Jewish halakha and sharia law also have parallels, offering evidence of additional similar cultural and religious practices that eased socializing between Muslims and Jews.[1] In addition, interreligious marriage between Muslim men and Jewish women faced no opposition.[2] No evidence of Sunnii Muslims believing in contamination from contact or socializing with Jews appears, either, which has further support by the mixed character of residential areas. In fact, Jews and Muslims could own property together, and the Jewish community of Cairo was not separated from the rest of the city, but spread across in different clusters. [3] The Geniza also show that the Jewish population lived in neighborhoods where at least half of the houses had Gentile neighbors.[4] Thus, Jews and Muslims lived side by side, could intermarry, owned property and businesses in partnerships, practiced similar dietary laws, and interacted with each other socially in the marketplace, in administrative positions, and in hospitals.

Furthermore, Jews adopted cultural and social practices of the broader Muslim society, such as the Arabic language and script, and the position of the qadi within Islamic society became a model for judges in the Jewish community.[5] Due to the influence of Islam, Jewish judges were increasingly expected to perform similar roles of administering and managing funds connected with social services to the community, such as taking care of orphans, widows, the poor and sick, foreigners and captives.[6] In addition, despite occasional attempts to enforce a distinctive dress code for Jews and other non-Muslims, it was rarely enforced and Jews and Muslims were indistinguishable by their attire during the Fatimid and early Ayyubid dynasties.[7] Unfortunately, there were periods where the imposition of dress restrictions on dhimmis, meant to perpetuate a distinction between Muslims and non-Muslims, was enforced, such as during the reign of the mad Fatimid caliph, al-Hakim, considered insane and cruel by all Muslim historians. This particular Fatimid caliph, ruling from 996–1021, required Christians and Jews to wear distinctive belts and badges.[8] This one extreme case of persecution against Jews and Christians also included requiring Jews to wear an image of the golden calf worshipped by the Israelites in Exodus and Christians an image of the cross in public baths.[9] Still, most Muslims considered these persecutions aberrations, and in the aftermath of these persecutions, dhimmis forced into conversion were allowed to convert to their previous faiths.[10]

Despite being quite integrated into overall Egyptian society, Jews were often pressured into expressing their religious faith behind closed doors. Funeral processions, for example were often difficult since public displays of the Jewish faith contradicted a regulation in the Pact of ‘Umar, which aimed to limit displays of faiths besides Islam.[11] They also had to be sure that new synagogues would not surpass surrounding mosques in height lest they arouse the fanaticism of some of the Muslims, another burden on their freedom of religious and cultural expression because the synagogue was the center of the Jewish community.[12] The Jewish community also did not practice the seclusion of women, so that aspect of cultural identity among Cairo’s Jewry was absent within their own community, although they were also patriarchal and male-dominated. Still, like Muslim women, Jewish women had to worship in a separate compartment in the house of worship.[13]  

            On the political level, Cairo’s Jewish community was relatively integrated into the state apparatus. Like other non-Muslim communities, the Muslim rulers allowed a certain amount of autonomy, often working through religious leaders within the Jewish communities to collect taxes and administer the law. This practice was instituted in Egypt through the position of the Gaon, or head of the yeshiva, which had judicial and administrative authority over the Jewish community.[14] The Muslim state also reserved the right to confirm his office, ruling through the Gaon and the Nagid, a Hebrew title for the ‘head of the Jews.’[15] The Nagid was expected to address complaints by Jews about government oppression, expected to act against rapacious officials either by intervention through the central government or by talking things over with local authorities on the occasion of a visit, essentially representing the power of the Muslim state through the religious institutions of Jewish life, the synagogue and yeshiva.[16] The elders and notables of the Jewish community also participated in the political system by issuing and receiving letters on behalf of the state, promulgating statutes, and signed contracts, sometimes alone or in conjunction with the muqaddam, an appointed executive.[17] The muqaddam also played an essential role in the political system, appointed with the consent of the community by the Jewish central leaders and accredited by local representatives of the government.[18] The aforementioned judges, whose role in the Jewish community by the middle of the 12^th century began to resemble that of the Muslim qadi, also participated in this system as intermediaries between the Muslim state and Jewish subjects.[19]

            The Jewish community of Cairo was also given positions in the state beyond that of representing their religious group. For example, the sofer, or Jewish scribes and copyists, served the Fatimids as court scribes.[20] Jewish physicians also served in the Fatimid court, such as Moses b. Elazar, who became an influential person in the court of caliph al-Mu’izz in the 10^th century.[21] Other physicians with political power include Samuel b. Hananya, who became a leader in the Jewish community in the middle 12^th century.[22]  Indeed, the Shiite Fatimids were well-known for condoning dhimmi participation in state service, partly due to the simple fact that the dynasty was Shiite in a sea of Sunni Islam and therefore eager to find loyal administrators.[23] With that consideration, the rise of Jewish merchant Ibn Killis, an Muslim convert, in the financial administration of the Fatimids in the late 10^th century, or the Tustari family, no longer surprises.[24] The Jewish vizier, Abu S’ad, who reached the pinnacle of his power during the regency of the mother of caliph al-Mustansir, provides another example of Muslims serving in the highest positions within the Fatimid caliphate.[25] The presence of Jews at the highest positions in the Muslim world indubitably illustrates the degree of integration Jews reached under Islam.

Unfortunately, Jews and other dhimmis were excluded from state service in the 9^th century by the decree of Abbasid caliph al-Mutawakkil, but the decree was only sporadically enforced during Abbasid rule.[26] The simple fact that Jews and Christians were found in all urban centers of the Islamic world made them inevitably tied to the political system in some way, even if only a few Jews rose to top administrative positions. Still, the Pact of ‘Umar, the aforementioned bilateral contract between Muslims and dhimmis in which dhimmis agree to discriminatory regulations, such as the jizya, or poll tax, in exchange for tolerance and protection, obviously did not exclude Jews from participating in political circles.[27] The legal system also treated Jewish subjects with far more juridical objectivity, not imposing collective punishment on Jews for alleged crimes of individuals, unlike the Latin West where pogroms and collective punishment were common.[28] However, the jizya tax was a heavy burden on non-Muslim populations, especially since if they did not receive a receipt, they could be charged again.[29]

            On the economic front, Jews were also well integrated into Egyptian society. As mentioned previously, Jews and Muslims owned property together and were business partners, something impossible in the contemporary West.[30] Jews were also present in the economy at several different levels and types of employment, not solely moneylenders. Jews were broadly distributed across all sectors of economy, with some owning land and raising crops in arable Egypt while others were also involved in dyeing, metalware, cheese, sugar manufacture, and various other sectors of the economy.[31] Jews were present at ports, served as police and engaged in tax-farming.[32] The control of mints was also Jewish-dominated in most Muslim states.[33] Thus, Jews were wholly integrated in broad array of economic activities in the Islamic world, and often traveled abroad to engage in international trade with Muslim partners in addition to engaging in intra-Jewish trade and economic exchanges across the Dar al-Islam.

  Uniquely, Jewish moneylending was largely within the Jewish community in the Islamic world, unlike Jewish moneylenders loaning to strapped rChristians in medieval Europe.[34] The Christian theological claim against usury and the pursuit of material wealth contradicted Islam’s pro-trade stance, which encouraged the pursuit of material wealth, trade, and business, thereby sparing Jews of ridicule and violence for engaging in usury or business.[35] Medieval Islam did not portray the Jew or Christian as collaborating with Satan to undermine society, which Jews were perceived to do in Christian Europe for practicing usury.[36] As a result, shared judgment of Muslim and Jewish legal experts regarding the necessity for flexible response to the law of the merchants developed alongside congruence in economic practice generally.[37] Nevertheless, Jewish merchants often signed contracts before Muslim and Jewish authorities concurrently.[38] In addition to engaging in business transactions on an international level, Jewish merchants of Cairo were active in all the bazaars, marketplaces, and squares, not exclusively the Lane of Jews, which only housed a fraction of Cairo’s Jewish residents.[39]

The degree of Jewish assimilation into Muslim Egypt during the medieval period contradicts standard depictions of Islam and Arabs as intolerant. Participating in every economic sector, working as viziers, administrators, and community representatives for the Jewish minority and the Muslim state, or adopting elements of Islamic culture demonstrate the high degree of cultural miscegenation in the pluralistic societies of the Islamic world. This degree of cultural heterogeneity hardly surprises when on takes into account Egypt’s large Coptic population in the medieval period, as well as the general cosmopolitan character of Cairo and the Nile Delta throughout history, since it is the meeting ground for Asia, Africa, and Europe. The high degree of Jewish assimilation and tolerance in Fatimid Egypt, for example, stands true for the Coptic communities and other Christian sects in the region. Naturally, this relative tolerance and acceptance of dhimmis in the Muslim world was far from a Golden Age of interfaith solidarity, since they were required to pay taxes and did at times face persecution or special impositions regarding dress and displays of religion. The centuries proceeding Fatimid and early Ayyubid rule in Egypt also show that the inclusion of non-Muslims in positions of authority and other special privileges could be revoked by intolerant rulers. Regardless of what dynasty ruled in Cairo, however, the Jewish population enjoyed far more protection and inclusion within broader society than their counterparts in Christian Europe enjoyed until the arrival of industrial nation-states.

---

[1] Cohen 27

[2] Ibid 64.

[3] Ibid 126

[4] Gotein 290.

[5] Ibid 216

[6] Ibid.

[7] Cohen 64.

[8] Ibid 165.

[9] Ibid 74.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Ibid 60.

[12] Gotein 144.

[13] Ibid 215.

[14] Ibid 5.

[15] Ibid 23.

[16] Ibid 37.

[17] Ibid 60.

[18] Ibid 68.

[19] Ibid 216.

[20] Ibid 229.

[21] Ibid 243.

[22] Ibid 244.

[23] Cohen 67.

[24] Ibid 92.

[25] Ibid.

[26] Ibid 66.

[27] Ibid 54.

[28] Ibid 74.

[29] Ibid 67.

[30] Ibid 126.

[31] Ibid 99.

[32] Gotein 362, 379.

[33] Cohen 375.

[34] Ibid 98.

[35] Ibid 89.

[36] Ibid 173.

[37] Ibid 94.

[38] Gotein 400.

[39] Ibid 291.