The Obligations of Princes: An Essay on Moslem Kingship

Although it is a dated translation, Baldwin's The Obligations of Princes: An Essay on Moslem Kingship is one of the more accessible translations of al-Maghili's treatise on politics. Written for the ruler of Kano, Muhammad Rumfa (r. 1463-1499) when al-Maghili lived in Kano, Taj al- Din fi ma Yajib 'ala l- Muluk shows how the influential North African scholar conceived of an ideal Islamic state. Throughout the short treatise, al-Maghili focuses on the role of the king or sultan as a force of justice who seeks to rule in a way to support the spiritual and material well-being of their subjects. An essential refrain throughout the text is translated by Baldwin, "The veiling of the king from his subjects is the source of all mischief" (p. 7). Throughout several short chapters, the reader is reminded of this. 

Since the question of how to rule justly was a central aim, al-Maghili's account gives a number of directives to Rumfa on how a king should rule. As previously mentioned, a king must not veil himself from his subjects as this is the source of all mischief. Indeed, "God has not invested you with power that you may lord it over your subjects and dominate them; He has put you in authority only to foster their spiritual and material well-being." In order to avoid that pitfall, a ruler must "Manifest your love of what is excellent, and of worthy people; show your hatred of corruption and corrupt people" (7). And while a prince is allowed to adorn their person and court, they must not exceed what is acceptable for men or reduce their treasury. In other words, the king can and will look "the part" through lavish clothes, courts, and jewelry. But, there must be moderation so that kings will not abuse the treasury. Muhammad Rumfa appears to have followed this through his own lifestyle.

Besides, these aforementioned injunctions, al-Maghili offers a number of reasonable guidance on administration, the conduct of war, and the duties of the prince in these spheres. A king should always have a guard at hand and also endeavor to use guile rather than outright war when feasible. Princes must be skeptical of those who come bearing presents and to forfeit strongholds they cannot hold. These suggest that an ideal ruler must know how to operate a state in which military matters require diplomacy and guile. Furthermore, overexpansion or attempting to make gains one cannot hold are foolish. In the context of competing Hausa kingdoms of the 15th century, this advice could be seen as a warning to be careful about entanglements one cannot win or turn to one's advantage. To what extent Rumfa followed this is unclear since he went to war with Katsina for 11 years without either side winning.

Lastly, it is worth mentioning that in judgement and the law the duty of the ruler is to ensure justice and support. Indeed, these two are the pillars of royal authority. Thus, upright and informed witnesses must be included for taking testimony in a case. Similary, princes cannot accept bribes or take money in cases In addition, al-Maghili writes, "It is the bounden duty of a great prince to sit everyday where the women and children may have access to them" (15). Clearly, the ruler cannot be completely separated or divorced from his subjects. The weakest and most minor among them should be able to reach the king when they have legitimate grievances or complaints about his administrators or governors. Justice likewise entails lawful collection of retinue and taxation. This must follow religious law and avoid seizing goods from the people. In fact, the ruler should be liberal and use state revunies to suppor t those in need, strengthen defenses or fortresses, and provide for the Islamic religious establishment. The poor, oprhans, descendants of the Prophet, and others must be supported, too. 

If a ruler violated these rules for proper Islamic governance and became tyranical, al-Maghili views them as illegitimate. Subjects were under no obligation to support these rulers if a rebellion breaks out. Instead, al-Maghili wrote, "Leave him and your claims on him, for God will take vengeance on a tyrant by means of a tyrant, to the ruin of them both" (18). Here one can see that, to al-Maghili, the political authority immediately lost legitimacy when it violated the core precepts of Islamic statecraft. In other words, the consent of the governed is a core part of the state contract. One can see here the seeds of Uthman dan Fodio's jihad which rocked the region in the 19th century as various Habe governments were accused of corruption, unjust practices, and violating Islamic tenets. As al-Maghili's responses to Askia Muhammad demonstrate, similar accusations were made against Sunni Ali of Songhay. In Air, too, the al-Lamtuni's questions to al-Suyuti of Egypt indicate a similar problem with widespread political corruption and a number of other practices which both viewed as unjust.

In that light, it is interesting to compare the ideal vision of a Muslim ruler described by al-Maghili (who also responded to questions from Askia Muhammad of Songhay) with what is known of Muhammad Rumfa. Based on the The Kano Chronicle, Muhammad Rumfa is remembered for having undertaken a number of innovations as well as welcoming sharifs. Given his vast number of wives and for allegedly being the first to use ostrich feather sandals and the kakaki, Rumfa appears to have elevated the royal court's style, ostentation, and power, both symbolically and politically. But in terms of the veiling of the king from his subjects, it is difficult to discern how and to what extent Rumfa may have tried to ensure access to his subjects. Perhaps the giving of state offices to eunuchs was meant to increase the power of the sarki as these officials would be bound to Rumfa? In that sense, he may have followed al-Maghili's recommendation to appoint governors who did not buy their positions with gifts and to closely scrutinize how his officials administered areas under their control. But the lenthy war with Katsina said to have taken place during his reign may be an example of failing to recognize an impossible situation that requires relinquishing strongholds and focusing on guile or other strategems for military victory. 

Abu Ishaq Ibrahim al-Kanemi

Wikipedia's Map of the Almohad state.

Whilst revisiting old notes, we came across references to the poet Abu Ishaq Ibrahim al-Kanemi. Comparing how Djibo Hamani wrote about him to the short description of him in the second volume of Arabic Literature of Africa: The writings of Central Sudanic Africa. Vol. 2 raises many questions. Hamani, like the editors of the Arabic Literature of Africa, draws from an exceedingly difficult to find study by Mohammad Bencherifa. Bencherifa, the author of Ibrâhîm al-Kânimî (m. 609/1212–1213), figure illustre dans les relations culturelles entre le Maroc et Bilâd al-Sûdân uses all known works in Arabic that mention al-Kanemi. Consequently, it is the best study of al-Kanemi and used by both of our sources.

Where do the accounts differ? Djibo Hamani, whose Quatorze siecles d'histoire du Soudan Central: Le Niger du VIIè au XXè siecle refers to Bencherifa, adopts a somewhat speculative approach. Hamani, like our other source, mentions al-Kanemi's birth in Bilma, a town in Kawar. He apparently arrived in Marrakesh in 1198. As for his surnames, Hamani interprets al-Zakawani as an allusion to the Zaghawa, an appellation used by medieval Arabic sources to refer to some of the populations living in Kawar and Kanem (Hamani 57). In addition, al-Kanimi was said to have possessed a mastery of the Arabic language. He impressed the court of Almohad Marrakesh and befriended a prince, also named Abu Ishaq Ibrahim (al-Mansur). Through his elite connections, al-Kanimi was said to have married an Almohad princess named Zahra and to have moved to Seville. But by c.1212, al-Kanemi had died in Marrakesh (58). As one might expect, Hamani also wrote of al-Kanemi's writings in defense of his skin color. Alas, none of his poetry survives except for fragments of his verses praising Almohad rulers. The ultimate reason why al-Kanemi may have reached Marrakesh in the first place could have been diplomatic. Hamani seems to concur with Bencherifa that al-Kanemi may have traveled there on behalf of the rulers of Kanem, interested no doubt in securing trade routes after the fall of the Bani Khattab in the Fazzan (57). This diplomatic purpose may have also been why al-Kanemi spent a lot of time with the envoy of Saladin at the Almohad court, Ibn Hummaya. 

Arabic Literature of Africa: The writings of Central Sudanic Africa offers a very different interpretation of al-Kanemi. The editors present the variants of al-Kanemi's name in the sources. Rendered as Ibrahim b. Ya'qub al-Dhakwani al-Kanemi, the editors also mention his name written as Abu Ishaq Ibrahim b. Muhammad b. Faris b. Shakla b. Amr b. Abd Allah al-Sulami al-Dhakwani in al-Dhayl wa'l-takmila. Instead of mentioning the Zaghawa, they stress the Dhakwani origin in a branch of the Banu Sulaym, Arabs who migrated west from Egypt in the mid-11th century. Apparently, al-Kanemi wrote a poem about his Dhakwani ancestry, too. However, this source agrees with Hamani about the poet's birthplace in Bilma. Since his skin color was described by contemporaries as "jet-black," at least al-Kanemi's mother was black. Indeed, if his skin color was very dark, it is possible that any Arab ancestor was more than one generation ago. If one assumes al-Kanemi was probably born around 1155, then his Arab ancestor who came to Kawar might have been born a century before him. Interestingly, the ruler of Kanem when he traveled to Marrakesh is remembered in the Diwan for being very dark-skinned, too. Lange has suggested this was due to his mother, Hawa, being a Dabir, a Kanembu group. Is it possible al-Kanemi's mother came from a Kanembu population rather than a Teda-Daza one? In addition, al-Kanemi was said by one source to have been educated in Ghana before traveling to Marrakesh. Furthermore, his defensive poems about the color of his skin were addressed to both his wife, Zahra and the poet al-Jirawi. Lastly, he died in Andalusia, not Marrakesh.

A map of Kawar in The Oasis of Salt: The History of Kawar, a Saharan Centre of Salt Production by Knut S. Vikor.

Obviously, part of the divergence of opinions on this obscure Arabic poet and grammarian can be traced to the source material. Lost works, fragments of his poetry quoted by others or references by later chroniclers or writers likely led to errors about him. One thing is clear, however: al-Kanemi was a highly respected poet from Kanem. His dark-skin and verses in praise of it also suggest something about possible views in the Maghreb of this period. After all, why write verses in a defensive tone about one's color unless others were denigrating it? This early form of racism or colorism did not completely hinder his social ascension if he was accepted at the royal court as a great poet whose renown even reached the eastern Mediterranean. The accounts also agree on a Bilma and Kanem origin for al-Kanemi. By the late 12th century, Kawar was in Kanem's sphere of influence, thereby explaining the al-Kanemi nisba. What can one possibly surmise about al-Kanemi from this bundle of facts, speculations, and contradictions?

First, the Banu Sulaym origins. In Corpus of Early Arabic Sources for West African History edited by Levtzion and Hopkins, 2 references to the Banu Sulaym can be found. According to Ibn Khaldun, they were Arabs who lived in Ifriqiya, opposite the Targa (331). But, it is likely that some branches of the Banu Sulaym lived further east, in today's Libya, during the 11th and 12th centuries. If so, and al-Kanemi's alleged Banu Sulaym origins are not fabricated, he was probably a descendant of a member of this group that migrated to Kawar from today's Libya. Since his Arab pedigree might have dated back a few generations, this would match a timeline of the late 11th century for his Arab ancestor to have migrated to Kawar. Bilma, whose first appearance in written history can be traced to the late 10th century author al-Muhallabi, was already a major town or settlement in Kawar by the time of al-Kanemi. In fact, al-Idrisi's description of the region points to its wealth through the trade in alun (salt?) and its residents who traveled far as merchants. For instance, Ankalas, the town he identified as having the most trade, had residents who traveled to the Maghreb and Egypt. Its local ruler was said to be a generous Muslim (123-124). The region would naturally have attracted both traders and nomadic groups traversing the desert. In Bilma, which Yaqut described as a town with a sultan subject to the Zaghawa ruler (Kanem), al-Kanemi was likely exposed to people of Arab, Berber, Kanem origin. Our poet, al-Kanemi, was undoubtedly a product of this multicultural, Islamic space.

Close ties to Kanem are further supported by problematic mahrams which allude to the local Kawarian elites seeking protection from the mai of Kanem. Allegedly dating to the late 12th century, probably during the reign of Abd Allah Bakuru, they illustrate Kawar's strong ties with Kanem. Likewise, the Diwan indicates Kawar roots and connections for a number of maiwa in 11th century Kanem. In truth, al-Kanemi himself allegedly told a story about a supernatural phenomenon in Kanem that indicates he had traveled there. In this story, reported by al-Umari but derived from the Takmila by Abu Abd Allah Muhammad b. Abd al-Malik al-Marrakushi, al-Kanemi reported sightings of a objects that resemble pots of moving fire at night. When traveling at night, people in Kanem saw it and it moved away as they tried to get near (260). This strange tale is difficult to interpret, but might be some type of meteorological or astronomical phenomena. It nonetheless suggests that al-Kanemi also traveled to Kanem. Thus, it is possible part of his education, which must have included robust training in Arabic language, the Quran and poetry, took place in Kanem. 

Another early center of Islamic scholarship in West Africa, Ghana (the ancient kingdom and not today's Ghana), may have been where al-Kanemi furthered his studies. Ghana certainly gained a reputation by the 12th century as a kingdom where one could find jurists, scholars, Quran readers, and people who traveled to al-Andalus or Mecca. Descriptions of Ghana from al-Bakri, al-Zuhri, Abu Hamid al-Gharnati, and al-Sharishi mention these details in their works from the 12th and 13th centuries. Therefore, it is not inconceivable for al-Kanemi to have studied in the Western Sudan. In fact, his roots in Kawar might have been a factor if salt from the oases was sold to lands west of Kanem by the 12th century. Unfortunately, no sources exist to verify Islamic and Arabic literary education in Ghana that attracted students from as far away as Kanem. It would certainly be plausible for al-Kanemi's education to have been in Kanem and Kawar, where Islam was established and the Sayfawa rulers promoted the religion. This seems more likely given the deeper roots of Islam in Kawar than in Ghana. Even in Kanem, one of the early Muslim maiwa, Bir b. Dunama, was remembered in tradition as a pious and learned man. Ahmad b. Furtu, whilst chronicling the Kanem campaigns of Idris Alooma, alludes to him as a "learned and God-fearing sultan." Thus, the Sayfawa maiwa may have even sponsored his education or been the ones responsible for sending al-Kanemi to Marrakesh in the first place.

Overall, much of the life of Abu Ishaq Ibrahim al-Kanemi remains a mystery. Was he really educated in Ghana? Was his first voyage to Marrakesh a diplomatic mission on behalf of the king of Kanem? If so, are there any extant Almohad accounts of Kanem's diplomacy with Marrakesh, as with the Hafsids in Tunis? Moreover, was he of Banu Sulaym descent and when did they establish a presence in Kawar? If his education in Arabic grammar and poetry took place in Kanem, was he close to the Sayfawa dynasty? If so, was his mission to Marrakech ordered by Salma b. Hawa? What was his life like as a dark-skinned black man in the Almohad court? Many of these questions are unanswerable with the currently available evidence. Nonetheless, it is probable he was educated at least partly in the kingdom of Kanem. If he was serving in a diplomatic capacity at the Almohad court, he would need to be an educated figure to best represent the kingdom with Muslim powers to the north. Apparently, he was so impressive a poet and grammarian that it was worthwhile for him to stay. To conclude, here are some of his verses composed in praise of the Almohad ruler, Yaqub al-Mansur, recorded by Ibn Khallikan (translated by Levtzion and Hopkins in the Corpus, p.163):

He removed his veil but my eyes, out of awe, saw him 

through a veil.

His favor drew me near, but being near, out of awe, I 

found myself distant.

Reconsidering Muslim Spain

Hitchcock's Muslim Spain Reconsidered is a short survey of the history of Al-Andalus from 711 to 1502. It would be difficult to do justice to several centuries of complex history, particularly in a region whose legacy has been used for various, occasionally contradictory purposes. For Hitchcock, Al-Andalus is not so much a paragon of interfaith harmony or unity, but rather part of a long history in which political concerns and interests (expediency) trumped religious or nationalist identities. For instance, the chapter in which El Cid is covered emphasizes the non-religious character of the historical El Cid. The cultural importance of Al-Andalus for scholarship, poetry, medicine, and translation of Classical knowledge is further emphasized for its long-term impact in Western Europe, too. Reasonable speculation about Al-Andalus's possible influence on Dante or the significance of Toledo as a center of translation of Islamic knowledge for the West serve to illustrate how Andalusian scholarship, book culture, and poetry made a huge impact on west. One of Hitchcock's particular strengths is his care to include aesthetic developments in poetry, architecture, and literature that illustrate distinctive Andalusian styles and identity, not just its emulation of the Islamic East. We certainly will be attempting to read Ibn Hazm, for example.

Medieval Arabic Epigraphy from Mali and Songhay History

Arabic Medieval Inscriptions from the Republic of Mali: Epigraphy, Chronicles and Songhay-Tuareg History by P.F. de Moraes Farias has long been on our reading list. One of the essential studies that endeavors to incorporate medieval epigraphic sources into our understanding of the history of the Songhay and the eastern arc of the Niger, this important work, despite its (necessarily) occasional speculative nature, raises a number of questions about the received wisdom on the history of Mali. First, by exploring the problematic way in which Heinrich Barth, Delafosse, and others have problematically assumed the 17th century Timbuktu chronicles can be treated as a reservoir of basic facts and data without any deeper ideological or textual analysis, this study illustrates how and why the funerary and non-funerary epigraphic evidence has been ignored, sidelined, or treated as peripheral. 

However, the funerary sources, as early sources covering dates from the early 11th century until the end of the 15th, are actual textual sources from the period before the rise of Sonni Ali and Askia Muhammad I. They shed (some) light on earlier rulers at Gao and Saney with more than just the kingslists that appear in the 17th century chronicles. Moreover, by ignoring the innovative nature of the tarikh genre in the 17th century Western Sudan, and the specific political and socioeconomic conditions which shaped its development after the fall of the Songhay imperial state and the establishment of the Arma, modern scholars have underappreciated the creativity of the chroniclers and their own motives. Furthermore, the chroniclers themselves lamented the lack of sufficient or detailed records from the early history of the Western Sudan, so epitaphs and other inscriptions from the 11th-15th century become exceptionally important sources to supplement our meager knowledge of that era.

That said, the inscriptions obviously cannot tell us everything. They do, however, provide a vista onto how the deceased and those who erected stelae or inscribed tombstones for the dead conceived of time, the calendar, their connection to the larger world of Islam, and hints of kingship, ethnicity, language, or cultural change. Part of this can be seen in Bentyia, where inscriptions record Songhay, Berber, and what appear to be Mande names. The intense interplay between Songhay and Tuareg cultures also challenges us to rethink casual or simplistic assumptions about "race" and culture, too. For instance, the askia title, which appeared in inscriptions centuries before the rise of Askia Muhammad at the end of the 15th century, may have a connection to a word of Berber derivation referring to a male slave (though this is a complex question that requires deeper familiarity with Songhay linguistics and oral tradition). It's quite clear, too, from reading de Moraes Farias, that the Ali Kulun character of Tuareg oral literature was likely the source for how the Timbuktu chroniclers sought to make sense of the period of Mali imperial domination of Gao and the eastern Niger. This suggests that some of the narratives about that period reported in the chronicles are unhistorical and the chronology of Malian rule and the different dynasties that ruled Gao will remain up for debate. 

Whether or not the epigraphic evidence can be used to postulate how kingship might have operated at Gao before the period of Mali's domination is uncertain, but de Moraes Farias's theory of rotating succession in the 11th-13th centuries is an intriguing one., After all, based on the funerary inscriptions from the early 1100s and 1200s at Gao and Saney (another site near Gao), he speculates that there may have been two lines or royal clans who alternated kingship. The first one was definitely Muslim by the second half of the 1000s, and the second one, the so-called Zuwa 'dynasty' may have either been officeholders who shared power with the earlier 'dynasty'. 

Besides raising questions about the Timbuktu chronicles and how medieval inscriptions in Arabic force us to rethink or reconceptualize space, belief, and culture in the medieval Sahel, one is also left with tantalizing references to what may have been early Sufist influence in the Sahel at Junhan. One is also left wondering why it funerary inscriptions were in vogue at Gao, Saney, Bentyia, and Essuk (Tadmakka) but no evidence for the practice has been found yet in Kanem. One would expect that similar connections with Tripoli, Qayrawan and other parts of the Maghrib (as well as similar Saharan and Sahelian Berber populations) did not lead to the development of funerary inscriptions at sites like Njimi (or perhaps at Manan, the earlier capital of Kanem which remains unknown). If the early prominence of Ibadis in Kanem's trans-Saharan trade is a factor, something similar was also an inhibiting factor at Gao.

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.

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.

The Sultanate of Mali

Hadrien Collet's Le sultanat du Mali - Histoire régressive d'un empire médiéval XXIe-XIVe siècle is a challenging read. Very academic and interested in avoiding literalist readings of oral traditions or Arabic sources, the focus of this regressive history is an emphasis on the historiography of Mali. This historiography reveals discursive practices of various generations of historians who wrote about the past of Mali, from Mamluk-era scholars like al-Umari to the post-medieval historians and chroniclers of the Timbuktu tarikh tradition or colonial and post colonial academics and scholars. By highlighting the historiographical turn, Collet's study endeavors to understand the ideological, literary, and other contexts of the key texts utilized as sources to construct a narrative of the "imperial" era in the Western Sudan. Likewise, a rereading of Arabic sources and a desire to place them in their context reveals how al-Umari, Ibn Battuta, and others from the Muslim world conceived of Mali in terms of Islamic geography, science, literature, and geopolitics. By attempting to understand the larger context for our external sources on Mali, instead of relying on extracts that divorce these sources from their larger context, one can gain new insights into the origin and meaning of the relevant writings. Collet's text particularly does this with regard to al-Umari's encyclopedic chapter on Mali and the Rihla of Ibn Battta. Surprisingly, Ibn Khaldun, who provides some of the richest information on Mali in the external sources, does not receive a chapter.

The choice of beginning with the colonial-era scholarship of the likes of a Delafosse and orientalists like Cooley to the nationalist scholarship of Mamby Sidibe or the post colonial age of scholarship from the likes of D.T. Niane and Cheikh Anta Diop, makes it easier to see for the reader how the narrative of the "Mali Empire" developed and became an established historical "fact" in academic, Afrocentric and online discourse. However, a deeper analysis of the ways in which this narrative was established by scholars and academics in the 19th and 20th centuries reveals a number of problems and concerns. Since we have not examined some of the scholarship analyzed here, particularly the works of Monteil or the Malian and Guinean publications of the post colonial era, we nonetheless find a problem with the colonialist, nationalist, Afrocentric, and interpretative lens used by these scholars. The colonial-era ones, for instance, like Delafosse, did not always cite their oral sources clearly and later scholars adopted a sometimes uncritical use of oral traditions, treating the griots as "neutral" reservoirs of "raw facts" or data that can be used to supplement the meager external Arabic sources for the medieval sultanate of Mali. In reality, however, these oral traditions as preserved by griots are not frozen in time but adaptable to new conditions and meanings to retain their relevance. In other words, scholars may have rushed to historicize figures like Sundiata while also promoting the narrative of a precociously modern "constitution" for the state established by this figure. 

In short, scholars must use oral traditions as carefully as written sources, and in so doing will similarly recognize the agency and creativity of griots as historians. This type of analysis will potentially elucidate or bring us closer to answering the questions of past generations of specialists and scholars. For instance, using oral traditions and archaeological data critically to rethink the location of the capital of the Mali sultanate. Instead of looking to Niani, the discredited imperial capital promoted by colonial scholars and Niane, the capital of the sultanate may have been further north and not in the Manden heartland as we know it today. Likewise, the collection of oral traditions in different parts of Manden and trying to analyze how they reflect post-"imperial" Mali conditions after the loss of their northern territories (Djenne, Walata, Timbuktu, etc.) highlights the "living" nature or conditions of oral traditions.

The next section analyzes post-medieval West African historians in an intriguing manner. Building on the model of historian Paulo Fernando de Moreas Farias and Mauro Nobili, the famous tarikhs of Timbuktu are seen in a new light. In addition, 19th century Islamic scholars such as Muhammad Bello of Sokoto and the chronicles and writings of Muslim scholars from Walata and the Hamdullahi caliphate. By treating the authors of texts as historian colleagues, one can begin to see how their construction of Mali and the pilgrimage of Mansa Musa functioned to express an Islamic West African conception of the region's past. Takrur, for example, is redefined by these authors in ways that clearly deviate from the historical kingdom of Takrur or the use of the term by Mamluk scholars in the East. Mansa Musa and his wondrous pilgrimage, the sponsorship of mosques, and the honor he accorded to the ulama represent a model of leadership. Like the future Askia Muhammad's function in the chronicles, Mansa Musa therefore served as an exemplary Islamic ruler who also helped establish Takrur as a Muslim geographic space. Although our 17th century chroniclers al-Sa'adi and Ibn Muhtar appear to have largely relied on oral traditions for Mali and a few external Arabic sources, their anecdotes, stories, and traditions on the Middle Niger's past under Malian suzerainty indicate the enduring memory and legacy of the kingdom. Even when in conflict with Songhay, the Islamic sultanate Collet suggests may be conceived as "modern" or "early modern" rather than medieval, Mali and the memory of Mansa Musa suggest it retained its power and legacy as an Islamic state. 

The final chapters analyzing the major external Arabic sources (al-Umari, Ibn Battuta) and the Mamluk-era writings on the pilgrimage of Mansa Musa, present, perhaps, the denouement of the historiographical and hermeneutical turn embodied in this work. These sources, written in the time of the Mali sultanate's zenith or soon after, reflect the power and reputation attained by the West African state after Mansa Musa's pilgrimage impressed Mamluk Cairo in 1325. Collet's reading of al-Umari and Ibn Battuta exemplifies this well, as both authors receive detailed treatment in terms of their backgrounds, their writings beyond the well-known extracts on Mali, and the literary and intellectual concerns and styles of their respective genres. Seeing Ibn Battuta and Ibn Guzzay's co-produced narrative as literary does not mean the voyage to the Sudan never happened (although it is possible Ibn Battuta never went beyond Walata). Indeed, following literary conventions and seeing the topology of the genre of travel writings that situated the Sudan (Black Africa) and the Far East as distinct zones bordering the unknown lands. The notion of "marvels" used here, particularly in the chapter on Ibn Battuta, was fascinating and points to, in our opinion, the overall veracity of Ibn Battuta's account of Mali. While undoubtedly drawing on a larger corpus of literature on the "Land of the Blacks" in Arabic literature, the local customs and "exoticisms" described in the text are sometimes unique and, if not directly witnessed by Ibn Battuta himself, were based on first-hand accounts. Like al-Umari, who also occasionally drew from the larger context of Arabic literary conventions and geography on sub-Saharan Africa, Ibn Battuta's story of cannibals to the south of Mali and other "marvels" demonstrates the literary nature of the source. That insight, however, does not mean the journey to Mali never occurred. It actually offers a new perspective that can raise new questions and conclusions about the nature of Mali during the 14th century. 

Sadly, Ibn Khaldun's detailed analysis of Mali does not have a separate chapter in Collet's detailed book. It is a shame, since Ibn Khaldun's use of a "Takruri" informant from Ghana indicates the presence of an account drawing on a different regime of truth. Indeed, the Takruri faqih in Cairo may represent a late 14th century West African perspective on Mali, drawing on "fresh" traditions and possibly written sources for his reconstruction of the chronology of mansas. Uthman, this Ghana faqih interpreted via Ibn Khaldun, represents, besides Mansa Musa himself in the reports on the pilgrimage, the closest thing to a contemporary "internal" voice on the sultanate. It would have been interesting to read Collet's breakdown of Ibn Khaldun and his larger sociopolitical theory of history in this context, as well as an early local/West African history of Mali. Otherwise, al-Umari largely relied on al-Dukkali, who is said to have lived in Mali's capital for several years, or the filtered accounts of what Mansa Musa was reported to have said to Mamluk officials during his Egyptian sojourn. Even if Ibn Khaldun's account is not particularly reliable, the use of Takruri informants who were contemporaries of 14th century Mali merits further investigation. 

Christianity and the Garamantes

One topic we hope archaeologists could potentially answer is the possible conversion of the Garamantes to Christianity in the 6th century. We know of at least 4 or 5 6th century sources that refer to Christianity among the Garamantes or with their neighbors, although the most direct source is John of Biclar. John of Biclar, whose chronicle mentioned Garamantian envoys to the Byzantines requesting peace and to become questions, gives a date of 568 or so. However, earlier references in the 6th century hint at a Christian presence among the Garamantes or their neighbors. For instance, Cosmas Indicopleustes, the famous 6th century traveler who is an important source on Aksum during this period, alluded to the land of the Garamantes as one that included churches. 

While Cosmas Indicopleustes may have writing rhetorically to suggest how universal Christianity was, it is interesting that he wrote around 550, several years before the Garamantes sent a delegation to the Byzantine Empire (to the coast or Constantinople?). In addition to these aforementioned writers, Procopius, whose Buildings includes a section on churches and construction in Libya and North Africa during the reign of Justinian. Like the others, Procopius  was writing around the middle of the 6th century, and according to him, the Byzantine Empire promoted Christianity in Ghadames, Augila (including a church for the Mother of God), and among various Berber peoples like the Gadabitani. He rebuilt and refortified cities like Leptis Magna, where he also constructed a chapel in honor of Mary. 

One more 6th century writer of the Roman Empire also alluded, indirectly, to the Garamantes. In his epic on the campaigns of John against the Berbers, Corripus wrote that neighbors of the Garamantes (Nasamonians) were part of the Berber alliance that attacked John. The genre and type of reference used by Corripus here is probably exaggerating the number and diversity of Berber foes John Troglita fought to portray him as a more heroic figure. Nonetheless, we know from earlier incidents that the Garamantes did occasionally participate or join in raids against the Romans on the coast of Libya in earlier centuries. If the Garamantes or their neighbors were involved in the conflict with John Troglita, perhaps it helps explain why they were seeking peace with the Byzantines by 568?

Additional references to the Garamantes in relation to Vandal North Africa (epigrams of Luxorius which reference Garamantes and their dark skin) and the Mediterranean can be found. And The Archaeology of the Fazzan series found evidence of ongoing trade and exchange with the Mediterranean at Garamante sites. However, no evidence of a church has been found at the capital of the Garamantes or any other site. In fact, archaeologists found evidence for the persistence of use of pagan temples. Indeed, Islam itself does not appear to have spread in the capital of the Garamantes for a few centuries after Uqba b. Nafi attacked Garama. Brunschevig also cited evidence that suggests the Fazzanis were pagans in the late 700s. So, what happened? Was Christianization of the Garamantes real or did the distance and realities of Byzantine rule in coastal Libya make it an ineffective mission? Or was the Fazzan already fragmented with a state or chiefdom based at Waddan and, perhaps, Zawila, the real centers of the Fazzan who were more likely to have received an actual church? Was Knut Vikor's theory correct about Qasr Umm Isa in Kawar being Jado (Djado)? If so, perhaps the place name is a testament to that era of 6th century Christian expansion, though we lack any evidence that the Kawar site ever hosted Christians. Besides this speculative theory, references in the early Arabic sources to Egyptians and Rum on an oasis route that connected Egypt to areas of the western Sudan may hint at contacts with Copts and Byzantines in the desert via Fazzan and Kawar. 

The Garamantes of Southern Libya

Charles Daniels wrote, in 1970, a short but summative work on the Garamantes. Of course, archaeologists and historians of today have access to more data, surveys, and excavations, including work at other sites across the Sahara. Nonetheless, Daniels, limited as he was by the state of archaeological research of his time and the handful of references to the Garamantes from Roman sources or Herodotus, was able to carefully wade through the confused or biased external sources and make some sense of the data from archaeology. Clearly, the Garamantes were not tent dwelling nomads or barbarians who lived only through brigandage. And while their material culture and architecture did seem to improve with the increase in imported goods from the Mediterranean, one wonders if craftsmen from the north were always responsible for the finer monuments and buildings. The Garamantes, as a civilization with roots in the last millennium before our era, and with ties to various advanced cultures, was perhaps capable of adapting and mastering other construction techniques besides mudbrick. That said, one wonders if the Garamantes were, as indicated by Daniels, more of a confederation. Therefore, their kingdom, despite most of its population probably being sedentary and living in the Fazzan oases, may have included Saharan pastoralists who did, occasionally, engage in banditry and attacks on Roman North Africa. This might explain part of the reason the Roman sources portrayed the Garamantes as Saharan bandits, if some of the allied Berber populations did attack coastal areas. 

In addition, Daniels draws from the general ancient literature on various Berber peoples across Libya and the Sahara to speculate about specific Garamantian customs and beliefs. He is likely correct about certain things, like the use of the Berber language, the Ammon cult, the practice of divination, and "looser" gender roles and polygamy among the Garamantes being shared with other Berber cultures. However, despite his acknowledgement of the racially mixed character of the Garamantes, he did not address the sub-Saharan and perhaps Tubu influences in Garamantian civilization. Surely, if the Garamantes were sometimes lumped into the "black" category by ancient Roman sources and were lumped into the "Sudan" category by medieval Arabic sources, the Garamantes likely exhibited many cultural traits of non-Berber origin, too. 

Olympius, Black Venator of Vandal Carthage

Latin poet Luxorius wrote a tribute of sorts to a popular, dark-skinned venator or beast-fighter in 6th century Carthage. A translation of the poem can be found here, translated by Art Beck. Below is Luxorious's praise of Olympius, who was an Egyptian:

The reason you’re so popular is that we’re grateful

for the show, Olympius, animal fighter. And

your name fits your gnarled body –– with the neck,

shoulders, biceps and back of a Hercules.

Astonishing, quick, daring, impetuous and ready for anything;

that you’re black doesn’t hurt your looks a bit.

Nature created, dark, precious ebony. Royal purple

glimmers deep within the noble murex.

Blue-black violets blossom in the soft grass.

Dark jewels invest us with a special grace.

The dusky trunk of the terrible elephant thrills us.

Black incense and pepper from the Indies civilize

us. Need I say more? Scarred by your countless

wins, you’re as beautiful in the people’s love

as those elegant fops are hateful.