D'hulster - A Sufi Performing Empire.pdf

Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf İSAR Yayınları | 15 Osmanlı’da İlimler Dizisi | 3 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf Editörler Ercan Alkan Osman Sacid Arı 1. Baskı, Aralık 2018, İstanbul ISBN 978-605-9276-12-2 Yayına Hazırlık M. Fatih Mintaş Ömer Said Güler Kitap Tasarım: Salih Pulcu Tasarım Uygulama: Recep Önder Baskı-Cilt Elma Basım Halkalı Cad. No: 162/7 Sefaköy Küçükçekmece / İstanbul Tel: +90 (212) 697 30 30 Matbaa Sertifika No: 12058 © İSAR Yayınları T.C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı Sertifika No: 32581 Bütün yayın hakları saklıdır. Bilimsel araştırma ve tanıtım için yapılacak kısa alıntılar dışında, yayıncının yazılı izni olmadan hiçbir yolla çoğaltılamaz. İSAR Yayınları Selami Ali Mah. Fıstıkağacı Sok. No: 22 Üsküdar / İstanbul Tel: +90 (216) 310 99 23 | Belgegeçer: +90 (216) 391 26 33 www.isaryayinlari.com | yayin@isar.org.tr Katalog Bilgileri Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf | ed. Ercan Alkan - Osman Sacid Arı | İstanbul 2018 (1.bs.) | İSAR Yayınları - 15 / Osmanlı’da İlimler Dizisi - 3 | ISBN: 978-605-9276-12-2 | 16,5 x 24 cm. - 863 s. | 1. Tasavvuf ve Tarikatler_ Osmanlı Devleti 2. Sosyal Yaşam ve Gelenekler 3. İlimler Tarihi OSMANLI’DA İLİMLER DİZİSİ | 3 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf Editörler ERCAN ALKAN OSMAN SACİD ARI A Sufi Performing Empire: Reading Two Unpublished Works of Muh. yı--i Gülşenı(d. 1604-05)* Kristof D’hulster Postdoctoral research fellow of the Research Foundation – Flanders, Belgium. This contribution1 starts from a minor footnote to the history of Ottoman Egypt at the end of the 16th century: an Ottoman punitive expedition against a band of marauding Bedouins, organized by the local governor, Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa. This expedition was by no means exceptional: throughout the ages, hundreds, if not thousands of similar tecrīdes must have been organized. The non-exceptional nature of this event might explain why historiographical narrative either omitted it all together, or referred to it most briefly. Nonetheless, three small, unpublished Ottoman works have come to light that all deal exclusively with this expedition: a mesnevī and a risāle written by Muḥyī-i Gülşenī, and another mesnevī written by Kelāmī-i Rūmī2. Obviously, these texts are meaningful on the local level first and foremost, as these strongly supplement our scant knowledge of the expedition, of Aḥmed’s * 1 The author is grateful to the organizers of the 2017 symposium of the İstanbul Araştırma ve Eǧitim Vakfı (İSAR) for the opportunity to present his research, as well as the Dār al-Kutub alMiṣrıyya for the permission to work on its materials. Moreover, he wishes to thank Frédéric Bauden, Mounira Chapoutot-Remadi, John Curry, Side Emre, Heinz Grotzfeld, Kaya Şahin, and Peter Verkinderen for their useful comments and invaluable help in procuring some of the unpublished materials. The topic of this contribution will be dealt with more exhaustively in a forthcoming article, which will present, among others, a more detailed account of Aḥmed’s beylerbeylicate and of the history of the ‘Azāle Bedouins, as well as a full edition of the two works of Muḥyī and the work of Kelāmī. 2 Kelāmī-i Rūmī, Risāle-i ‘Azāle-i Vācibü’l-İzāle, Dār al-Kutub al-Waṭanīya al-Tūnisīya, Ms. 9592, ff. 1v-25r; Maktabat al-Malik ‘Abd al-‘Azīz, al-Şayḫ‘Ārif Ḥikmat, Ms. 4227 (a mesnevī of 526 verses). Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 701 governorate, and of the ‘Azāle Bedouins targeted. While I start by offering a “localized” reading, I will quickly move beyond Cairo of the 1590s. As I will argue, the true importance of these texts — that is, their actual relevance — lies elsewhere. Trifling as this expedition may have been, small as the texts are, and local as their topic and their intended audiences must have been, I suggest to zoom out of these texts and to juxtapose them. By doing so, I argue that these texts transcend the triviality of the incident and the circumscribed spatial and temporal locality of the Egyptian countryside of the 1590s. Thus, refocusing I will demonstrate how we can relate these texts to transformative trends of much greater, indeed, of imperial scale. We can use them to further our understanding of some major realignments of political, religious, spiritual and judicial authority, and through them, we can illustrate the era’s intense experimentation in the area of rule, law, and religion. In the following, I start by introducing the three key players: author Muḥyī-i Gülşenī, the Egyptian governor Aḥmed Paşa, and the marauding ‘Azāle Bedouins. Kelāmī is not included here, as I will deal with his mesnevī, the Risāle-i ‘Azāle-i Vācibü’l-İzāle, elsewhere. Having thus set the scene, I will zoom in onto Muḥyī’s two texts, thus allowing the reader to familiarize himself with the particular expedition and the two distinct ways in which Muḥyī dealt with this. Next, I will zoom out of the texts and out of Cairo of the 1590s. I will identify some of the multiple dimensions of the author’s identity, as these transpired in his two ‘Azāle-Nāmes, and relate these to a number of larger, imperial-wide transformative trends. I conclude by juxtaposing the two texts. Rethinking these as the two halves of a literary dyptich allows us, so I argue, to appreciate how Muḥyī reified a particular vision of empire. I. Setting the scene Before looking into the two texts, it is worthwhile to set the scene by introducing the three main characters. First, there is the author of these two unpublished texts, Muḥyī-i Gülşenī (1529-1604). While, for a long time, Muḥyī was remembered first and foremost as the author of the Menāḳib-i İbrāhīm-i Gülşenī —the hagio-biography of the founder of the Gülşenīye ṭarīḳa3 — and as the inventor of Bāleybelen — one 3 Finally some good news regarding the Cairo tekke, which is in a dilapidated state: it has now been included on the 2018 World Monuments Watch, so there is still hope for this unique site! See https://www.wmf.org/project/takiyyat-ibrahim-al-gulshani. 702 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf of the oldest artificial languages attested — our current understanding of this prolific author has grown considerably, both in scope and in depth. Not only are there ever more of his roughly forty titles becoming available - through the editorial work of Berat Açıl, Abdullah Arı, Mustafa Koç, Çelik Nülüfer, Abdullah Tümsek, and Ceren Ulusoy, to name but a few — also our understanding of his milieu and of the Ḫalvetī ṭarīḳa that gave him his nisba is developing at great pace — through the studies of, among others, Abdurrahman Adak, Mehmet Akay, Hüseyin Akpınar, Muhsin Macit, Özkan Öztürk, and Uǧurtan Yapıcı in Turkey, and John Curry and Side Emre in the United States of America. In light of this growing body of literature, there is little need to introduce the Gülşenīye and Muḥyī, especially in a volume such as the present one. Here, it should suffice to highlight three elements of Muḥyī’s biography that remain little explored. First, there is his networking in Istanbul and Cairo, as reflected by, among others, his active search for patronage4 through panegyric poetry and other works dedicated to the sultans Süleymān and Murād III5, and to a range of local officials in Egypt6, including pashas, başdefterdārs and muftis. Second, there is his judicial activity, being appointed as a nā’ib ḳāżī in Cairo (the qadiship offered to him in the mid-1560s he turned down).7 Third, there is his acquaintance with grand mufti Ebū’s-Su‘ūd, which dates back to his Istanbul days in the 1540s.8 These three dimensions are highlighted here for a reason, as they actually meet in the two works that are the subject of the present chapter, the ‘Azāle-Nāme-i Manẓūm and the ‘Azāle-Nāme-i Mensūr. Both works are small as compared to some of Muḥyī’s other titles, and — at least on the surface — their significance is highly circumscribed, both local4 It would be interesting to explore whether - and if so, how - his active search for patronage was connected to his position at the Cairo tekke of the Gülşenīye. Did he lose the battle over its leadership in 1579 because of a patronage all too close, or was this patronage rather his response to lost status? For his patronage and network ties in general, see Emre, Ibrahim-i Gulshani and the Khalwati-Gulshani Order. Power Brokers in Ottoman Egypt. 5 For Muḥyī’s Sīret-i Murād-i Cihān, see Arı, “Muhyî-i Gülşenî, Eserleri ve Sîret-i Murâd-ı Cihân (İnceleme-Metin-Sözlük)”, Arı, “Muhyî-i Gülşenî’nin Sîret-i Murâd-ı Cihân İsimli Eseri”; Öztürk, “Muhyî-i Gülşenî’nin Siret-i Murâd-ı Cihân’ında Medenî Hikmet Tasavvuru”. For Muḥyī’s meeting with the sultan, see Curry, “‘The meeting of the two sultans’. Three Sufi mystics negotiate with the court of Murād III”. 6 For his panegyric poetry dedicated to a later governor of Egypt, Yavuz ‘Alī Paşa (1601-1603), see Kelâmî-i Rûmî, Vekāyi‘-i Ali Paşa, pp. lv-lvii. 7 Muhyî-i Gülşenî, Bâleybelen, p. 38. 8 Muhyî-i Gülşenî, Bâleybelen, especially pp. 26-27; Muḥyī-i Gülşenī, Menāḳıb-i İbrāhīm-i Gülşenī, especiall pp. 383-384 [re-edited by Mustafa Koç and Eyyüp Tanrıverdi: Menâkıb-ı İbrâhim-i Gülşenî, Muhyî-i Gülşenî (İstanbul, 2014)]. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 703 ly and temporally, as they deal but with one particular event in one particular locale at one particular point in time: a punitive expedition organized by the local governor, Aḥmed Paşa, against a band of marauding Bedouins, the ‘Azāle, in the Egyptian countryside in 999/1594. Before zooming in on these texts, however, let us first familiarize ourselves with the governor and the Bedouins as the second and third main character of this chapter. As for Ḫādım Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa, who governed Egypt from 999/1591 to 1004/1595, his full biography remains to be written9. However, a starting point — sufficient for the present purpose — is offered by the Sicill-i ‘Osmānī: “Of Albanian origin, he was raised in the Enderūn and was appointed as kilerci başı. Following the beylerbeylicate of Cyprus, in 998/1590 he became vizier and vālī of Egypt, followed by the governorship of Bosnia in 1003/1594-95. While he defeated 2,000 enemies in a battle [i.e. the siege of Eger as part of the Long Turkish War] in 1005/1596-97, he suffered defeat at the Danube in 1006/1597-98 and was subsequently dismissed from office. He was reappointed as vizier and became the ḳāymaḳām of the grand vizier in 1008/1599-60. Dismissed from the latter office after 10 months, he was appointed as the muḥāfıẓ of Anatolia. In 1012/1603-04, he was imprisoned in Yedikule. In Muḥarrem 1013/1604, he was appointed as ḳāymaḳām a second time. Dismissed again, he performed the Hajj in 1016/1607-08 and retired. He passed away in Istanbul on Ramadan 23 1022/November 6 1613. He is buried in the Küçük Karaman Camii in the Fātiḥ neighbourhood. He had a mosque, a medrese and a dārü’l-ḳurrā’ built in 1004/1595-96. The people loved listening to him reciting the Quran, given his beautiful voice. He was a wise and moderate man.”10 Drawing on Ḥasan Bey-Zāde’s Tārīḫ, Kātib Çelebī’s Fezleke and Muṣṭafā Ṣāfī’s Zübdetü’t-Tevārīḫ, Kaçan Erdoǧan and Bayrak have elaborated on Meḥmed Süreyyā’s entry, adding some dates and other details regarding the ups and downs of Aḥmed’s overall career and the military operations he was involved in, against, among others, several Celālī leaders.11 Yet, when it comes to his 9 Quite some Ottomans went by the name of Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa, and the present Aḥmed has been confused especially with his more famous namesake, the 17th-century grand vizier Filibeli Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa (see Köprülü, “Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa”, p. 76, for Aḥmed’s misattributed mosque complex in Fatih, and his endowed book collection in the Süleymaniye Library; Eyice, “Hâfız Ahmed Paşa Camii ve Külliyesi”, p. 86). 10 Süreyyā Meḥmed, Sicill-i ‘Osmānī, II: 556. 11 Kaçan - Bayrak, “Hadım Hafız Ahmed Paşa’nın Mısır’daki Evkafı”, here pp. 2-5. 704 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf years in Egypt, Erdoǧan and Bayrak do little more than specifying this tenure, which lasted from the middle of 999/1591 up to the beginning of Receb 1003/March 1595. Consequently, it is clear that, when zooming in onto Aḥmed’s Egyptian years, we need to look into the local Egyptian sources first and foremost. This exercise, however, is neither as easy nor as rewarding as one would hope. While the aftermath of the Ottoman conquest is fairly well-covered by authors such as İbn İyās and al-Diyārbakrī, and historiographical production picks up speed again by the time of the “Second Ottoman Conquest of Egypt”12 in the early 17th century, the intermediate decades are hardly covered. Admittedly, more recent research of, among others, Daniel Crecelius, Nelly Hanna, Jane Hathaway, Seyyid Muhammed, Otfried Weintritt and Michael Winter has enabled us to fill in some of the many gaps and to move beyond the pioneering works of Peter Holt and others. Still, at present we are able to reconstruct his governorate in its broadest possible outlines.13 Making due with what we have got, let us now cull some of the major sources, starting at the turn of the 16th century and then moving up to the early 18th century. As fraught with problems as it may be, al-İsḥāḳī’s Aḫbār al-Uwal, which ends in 1031/1621-22, does offer us a convenient starting point: “Then Aḥmed became governor on Ramaḍān 17 999. He was affectionate towards the ‘ulamā’ and the fuḳarā’, a wise man and a good administrator. He built a large rest house (wakāla) and a small rest house, a market place, a coffeehouse, houses and apartments at Būlāḳ, Cairo, in the vicinity of the firewood storehouses. He built a place of worship in the large rest house that overlooked the Nile, thereto appointing some personnel; it is a place of Islamic rites. He also built in Rosetta a rest house, a coffeehouse and apartments, and a pond on the Pilgrims Road, to the benefit of the pilgrims. When he was dismissed from the office of paşa of Egypt and returned to the imperial thresholds, divine providence came to his aid and he was appointed to the office of grand vizier (wizāra ‘uẓmā) (sic). The people thanked him and he was praised during his office. He then resigned from the office of vizier and asked permission to go on Hajj. This permission was granted, 12 Sabra, “‘The Second Ottoman Conquest of Egypt’: Rhetoric and Politics in Seventeenth Century Egyptian Historiography”, pp. 149-177. 13 Good starting points are offered by, among others, Hanna, “The Chronicles of Ottoman Egypt: History or Entertainment?”, pp. 237-250; Hathaway, “Sultans, pashas, taqwims, and mühimmes”, pp. 51-78; Holt, “Ottoman Egypt (1517-1798)”, pp. 3-12; Shaw, “Turkish source-materials for Egyptian history”, pp. 28-48; Weintritt, Arabische Geschichtsschreibung in den arabischen Provinze des Osmanishen Reiches (16.-18. Jahrhundert). Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 705 and he thus came to Egypt by sea. He was given a very good welcome by the notables, and received gifts. He performed the Hajj, came back and went to Jerusalem and Hebron, and then returned to the domains of Rum. He passed away there. He had held the office of paşa of Egypt until his dismissal on the 9th of Şa‘bān 1003, that is, 3 years, 10 months and 22 days.” 14 Next we have a contemporary to al-İsḥāḳī, yet writing in Ottoman: Çerkesler Kātibi Yūsuf. In his Selīm-Nāme, finished in 1620, he adds not only that Aḥmed was inclined to worldly affairs (Eǧerçi ṣūretā mufti-i vüzerā’ görünürdü, velī ḥubb-i dünyāda ṣāki Ḥasan Paşa idi), but also that all was not well under Aḥmed’s tenure: unnamed Bedouins leaders had rebelled to the extent that Aḥmed retaliated with an ılġar, as a result of which many Bedouins perished, and their women, children and cattle were sold on Rumayla.15 İbrāhīm b. Yaḥyā Mollāzāde’s Tevārīḫ-i Mıṣr-i Nādirati’l-‘Aṣr, which was finished in 162021, fills in some more details. These ‘uṣāt-i ‘Urbān, this bāġī ve ṭāġī ḳabīle were apparently called the ‘Azāle, and fitne ve fesādleri ḥaddan füzūn olmaḳla, Aḥmed had sent out an expedition, killing over two thousand!16 Another classic, as (in)famous as al-İsḥāḳī’s work, is Süheylī’s Tārīḫ, which runs up to the 1630s. While Sühyelī does not mention the Bedouin trouble, he does elaborate on Aḥmed’s ḥubb-i dünyā, stating that Aḥmed had: “(…) a worldly inclination, (aiming at) acquiring everything. He gave posts to those who helped him acquire earthly goods, and he profited thereof. In particular he valued the rank of those of wisdom and knowledge and showed them various kinds of kindness and benevolence.”17 In his Minaḥ, Rawḍa al-Ma’nūsa, Nuzhat, Rawḍat al-Zahīya, Ḳaṭf al-Azhār and Kawākib, the prolific İbn Abī l-Surūr (d. c. 1661) adds a detail here and there, but these should not detail us here. Having thus reached the early 18th century, there is Meḥmed b. Yūsuf el-Ḫallāḳ’s history18. The author sheds no new light on the tecrīde against the ‘Azāle eşḳıyā, prompted by their ziyāde ṭuġyānlıḳ, but he does add some new details regarding Aḥmed, which suggest that this author was more cognizant of Aḥmed’s background than the previous sources. He indicates Aḥmed’s Albanian (Arnavud) background, and records 14 Al-İsḥāḳī, Aḫbār al-Uwal fī Man Taṣarrafa fī Miṣr min Arbāb al-Duwal, p. 157. 15 Çerkesler Kātibi Yūsuf, Selīm-Nāme, published in Doǧan, “Çerkesler Kâtibi Yusuf’un SelimNâme’sinin Mukâyeseli Metin Tenkîdi ve Deǧerlendirmesi”, pp. 151-152. 16 İbrāhīm b. Yaḥyā Mollāzāde, Tevārīḫ-i Mıṣr-i Nādirati’l-‘Aṣr, ff. 43r-v. 17 Süheylī, Tārīḫ-i Miṣr i-Ḳadīm, Tārīḫ-i Miṣr i-Cedīd, II: 58b. 18 Meḥmed b. Yūsuf el-Ḫallāḳ, Tārīḫ-i Mıṣır, BnF, Supp. Turc 512, ff. 57v-58r. 706 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf that he had been a kilerci başı in the sultan’s palace before leaving the palace (taşra çıḳup) in 997 for the governorship of Cyprus. Furthermore, Aḥmed is said to have been a sweet-voiced mücevvid and ḥāfıẓ, who recited the Quran from beginning to end once a week. A last new element he adds is a big flood, which entered “through the Bāb al-Naṣr, like sea waves, banging the dead from the graves and destroying the houses and buildings.” Obviously, other sources could be brought in, including Mar‘ī b. Yūsuf’s Nuzhat al-Nāẓirin; Riḍvānpaşazāde ‘Abdullāh Çelebi’s Tārīḫ-i Mıṣır; al-Ṣawāliḥī’s Tarācim, al-‘Ubaydī’s Ḳalā’id al-‘İḳyān, the Zubdat Iḫtiṣār, the so-called Paris Fragment, İbn al-Wakīl’s Tuḥfat, Aḥmad Şalabī’s Awdaḥ, al-Şarḳāwī’s Tuḥfat al-Nāẓirīn, alCabartī’s ‘Acā’ib al-Āthār, and al-Ḳal‘āwī’s Ṣafwat. However, as it turned out, these either leave Aḥmed’s tenure unmentioned, or merely fill in some more details that are less relevant in the present context. In sum, what do we have? There are Aḥmed’s extensive building activities, his greed and favouritism, an undated flood, and a punitive expedition against the ‘Azāle Bedouins. For a governorate of 4 years, the annals are meagre by all means, and it is safe to say that, if anything, Aḥmed’s tenure proves the paucity of the historiographical material at hand.19 Of the handful of items, only that of his building activities appears to be well documented, and, consequently, has been studied in detail. Behrens-Abouseif, Hanna, and Kaçan Erdoǧan & Bayrak have all dealt with his real estate in Egypt and the vaḳf related to it this, the former two working solely from his Egyptian waḳfīya kept in Egypt’s Daftarḫāna Wizārat al-Awḳāf, and the latter working on all of his waḳfīyes (in Egypt, Cyprus, Rhodes, İstanbul, etc.) kept in Turkey’s Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi 20. While none of Aḥmed’s Egyptian real estate seems to have survived, his mosque complex in Istanbul, financially supported by, among others, his waḳf at Būlāḳ, is discussed by Eyice, Bilge, and Çobanoǧlu.21 19 In order to fill in the many gaps, archival materials will prove indispensable. See, e.g., Orhonlu C., Osmanlı Tarihine Âid Belgeler. Telhîsler (1597-1607) (İstanbul, 1970), passim. 20 Daftarḫāna Wizārat al-Awḳāf, 911, dated 8 Şa‘bān 1003/195; Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Arşivi. d, nr. 6972, ff. 2a-45a. See Behrens-Abouseif, Egypt’s Adjustment to Ottoman Rule: Institutions, Waqf, and Architecture in Cairo (Sixteenth-Seventeenth Centuries); Hanna, An Urban History of Būlāq in the Mamluk and Ottoman Periods; Kaçan Erdoğan & Bayrak, “Hadım Hafız Ahmed Paşa’nın Mısır’daki Evkafı”. 21 For his külliyet, sometimes wrongly attributed to his near-contemporary namesake, grand vizier Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa, see Bilge, “İstanbul Fatih’deki Hâfız Ahmed Paşa Külliyesi’nin vakfiyesi”, pp. 277-330; Çobanoǧlu, “Hâfız Ahmed Paşa Külliyesi”, pp. 492-493; Erünsal, Osmanlı Vakıf Kütüphaneleri, pp. 150-151; Eyice, “Hâfız Ahmed Paşa Camii ve Külliyesi”, with pictures of the exterior and the interior of the mosque, and of the inscription; Eyice, “Yok olmaktan Kurtarılan Bir Eser: İstanbul’da Hafız Ahmed Paşa Külliyesi”, p. 227-330; Soysal, Türk Kütüphâ- Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 707 Another one of the handful of items that capture Aḥmed’s tenure in Egypt, one mentioned by Çerkesler Kātibi Yūsuf and İbrāhīm b. Yaḥyā Mollāzāde, was his tecrīde or punitive expedition against a band of marauding Bedouins. These ‘Azāle Bedouins are the third and last key player that needs to be introduced.22 While their history too remains to be written, a fairly clear picture emerges from the evidence culled from Mamluk and Ottoman, Egyptian and Arabian sources.23 As to be expected and as confirmed by the scattered evidence, their relation with the state — Mamluk and then Ottoman — fluctuated strongly: co-optation wherever possible, open conflict and state repression if needed. On the one hand, there were the ‘Azāle ‘Urbān24. These made their first appearance in the early days of the sultanate of Ḳāytbāy (r. 1468-1496), as they nomadized between Buḥayra and the north of Upper Egypt, and centred on Giza, just southwest of Cairo.25 On the few occasions they appear in the Mamluk sources, they are depicted in a negative light. The first to mention them is al-Ṣayrafī. In the 1468 entry of his chronicle, he calls them ra’s al-sharr wa al-fitna; while in the 1469 entry, he has sultan Qāytbāy replying to complaints over their fasād and nahb by summoning the district heads to decapitate them.26 Little surprise then that these ‘Azāle were the target of various tecrīdes. The 1498 tecrīde, for example, is depicted in fairly gruesome detail by İbn Iyās: men in iron chains, women bound with ropes and with decapitated heads hung around their neck, nailed onto boards and paraded through town on camel back….27 Of course, all this strikes a familiar chord. These Mamluk sources prove that there is nothing new, neither in the ‘Azāle’s brigandage at neciliǧi, IV: 234. 22 For Bedouins in the Mamluk and Ottoman period, see, among others, Aharoni, The Pasha’s Bedouin. Tribes and state in the Egypt of Mehmet Ali, 1805-1848; Rapoport, “Invisible Peasants, Marauding Nomads: Taxation, Tribalism, and Rebellion in Mamluk Egypt”; Shwartz, Die Beduinen in Ägypten in der Mamlukenzeit; Winter, Egyptian Society Under Ottoman Rule 1517-1798. 23 References are scattered over a wide array of sources, including the works of al-Ṣayrafī, İbn Taġrībirdī, İbn Zunbul, İbn Iyās, al-Nahrawālī, Damurdāşī, İbn Abī l-Surūr, and al-Cazīrī. Still, their history can be reconstructed only piecemeal. 24 Either with ‘ayn or ġayn, and with a single zā’ or a double zā’. While Murtaḍā al-Zābidī’s Tāc el-‘Arūs records only ‘Azzāla, the manuscript evidence of both Muḥyī and Kelāmī rather point at ‘Azāle. 25 Evliyā Çelebi’s Nile Map records a locality called Ḫabīroġlu ḳaṣabası (see Dankoff R. & Tezcan N., Evliyâ Çelebi’nin Nil Haritası, p. 80, Ja6, Ja10, Ja11). The Déscription de l’Égypte records a locality called Ma‘ādī Ḫabīrī, close to the Pyramids, where they used to operate a ferry (ma‘diya) over the Nile. 26 Al-Ṣayrafī, İnbā’ al-Ḥasr bi Abnā’ al-‘Aṣr, pp. 32, 125. 27 İbn İyās, Badā’i‘ al-zuhūr fī waqā’i‘ al-duhūr, III: 405-410. 708 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf the end of the 16th century, nor in Aḥmed Paşa’s expedition against them. In fact, there is even nothing new in the fact that Aḥmed’s 1594 tecrīde received a literary rendering, both by Muḥyī and by Kelāmī-i Rūmī. The 1498 Mamluk tecrīde, for example, was the subject of a long zacal by Badr al-Dīn al-Zaytūnī that begs comparison with Muḥyī’s mesnevī: “In the domains they spread corruption * Because of which killing them is a religious duty!” (Fī al-arāḍī sa‘aw fasād * Li ajli dhā qatluhum wājiba)! Every now and then, the ‘Azāle weighed politically as well: in 1495, they sided with Aḳbirdī al-Dawādār in his struggle against Muḥammad b. Ḳāytbāy, and in 1516, they fought on the side of the Ottomans against Ṭūmānbāy, the last Mamluk sultan. Supposed to keep them in check and acting as the main liaison between the group and the state was their leading family of the Banū Ḫabīr (or Ḫabīr Oġulları or Ḫabīrī). Indeed, it was always one of their ranks whom the Ottomans appointed as the şeyḫ el-‘Arab of the district of Giza: İbn Sallām (or Sālim?), circa 1499; Ḥammād, circa 1517, who attained the rank of sancaḳ bey; Ca‘far, murdered in 1594; the latter’s son, ‘Alī, at least until 1608; ‘Umrān, circa 1713; and Aḥmad, circa 1799. Whereas the ‘Azāle were clearly a liability, these Ḫabīrīs were not. Ḥammād and his brother, Sallāma, for example, were fully o-opted, even joining Sinān Pasha in his Yemen Campaign. II. Zooming in on the texts Having familiarized ourselves with the prolific Muḥyī-i Gülşenī, beylerbey Aḥmed Paşa, and the marauding ‘Azāle Bedouins as the three key players, let us now turn our attention to Muḥyī’s texts themselves: the ‘Azāle-Nāme-i manẓūm, or versified ‘Azāle-Nāme, and the ‘Azāle-Nāme-i mensūr, or prose ‘Azāle-Nāme. While this chapter explicitly aims at zooming out of these texts, thus moving beyond their immediate and highly circumscribed evidential value, it should be clear that we cannot proceed without at least briefly zooming in on the texts and detailing the history that “took place” in these texts themselves. Both texts are preserved as a unicum in a single mecmū‘a (Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣriyya, Mejāmī‘ Turkiyya, 23).28 This convolute is dated around 1010/160102, and contains thirty-five works by Muḥyī’s hand, all copied by one of his pupils in a fairly legible ta‘līḳ. 28 See Ḥilmī al-Dāġistānī, Fihrist, pp. 335-338, 398; Fihris al-Makhṭūṭāt al-Turkīya al-‘Uthmānīya allatī qtanahā Dār al-Kutub al-Qawmīya mundhu ‘Ām 1870 ḥattā nihāyat 1980 M 1870-1980, III: 150-151. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 709 As common for poetry on a heroic theme, the first text, the ‘Azāle-Nāme-i Manẓūm (folios 407v-412v)29 is an Ottoman-Turkish mesnevī of 361 beyts, written in the müteḳārip maḥzūf meter (fe‘ūlün fe‘ūlün fe‘ūlün fe‘ūl). The poem is divided in a number of sections, but — perhaps due to the poor quality of the black-and-white scans available to the present author — many of the Persian section headers are illegible. Skipping the stock ḥamdele and na‘ṭ — something every tongue falls short in doing anyway (Anıñ medḥin ėtmekde ḳāṣır zebān * Ḳaçan na‘tını ėde vaṣf u beyān) — sultan Murād III (r. 1574-1595) is hailed as “he who the world wishes for” (murād-i cihān), the “custodian of justice and mercy of the world * helper of the Sharia and surety of the era” (Emīn-i ‘adālet emān-i cihān * Mu‘īn-i şerī‘at żamān-i zemān), the “climes’ protector, sultan Murād * world’s aid and diffuser of justice and equity” (Ḥafīẓ-i eḳālīm sulṭān Murād * Naṣīr-i cihān nāşir-i ‘adl u dād), in whose obedience shahs continue to be, and whose realm stretches between Mecca and Egypt, Yemen and Abyssinia, East and West, Baghdad and Basra, Jaffa and the Desht-i Kipchak. Next, Muḥyī zooms in onto Egypt. Reference is made to an ‘adil-nāme sent to Egypt by the sultan, “filling its cities and abodes with justice” (‘Adil-nāme irsāl ėdüb şehriyār * ‘Adāletle pür oldı şehr ve diyār). Undoubtedly, this ‘adil-nāme (referred to as cümle Mıṣr ehline ‘arż-i ḥāl) is a short form — perhaps for metrical demands — of the more common term ‘adālet-nāme.30 The sultan’s rescript, redressing the malpractices of provincial authority, was read and studied by all qadis and beys (Ḳużāt ile beğler olub müctemi‘ * Oḳundı ve hep oldılar muṭalli‘), and was not without its effect: “All forever submitted to şer‘ and ḳānūna, through which Egypt attained order” (Hemīşe olub şer‘ ve ḳānūna rām * Bulur Mıṣır dāyim bulardan niẓām). As “the people of Cairo heard (the ‘adil-nāme), it was as if an ocean of God’s favour boiled over” (Mıṣır ḫalḳı çūn anı gūş eyledi * Yemm-i luṭf-i ḥaḳḳ ṣanki cūş eyledi). Indeed, sheikhs, beys, qadis and troopers alike, all “opened their lips to utter praise and salutation (Meşāyiḫle beğler ḳużāt ve sipāh * Sipās ve taḥīyetle açub şifāh). One particular blissful measure taken by the sultan to rectify matters in Egypt was his appointment of Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed as its governor. Punning on his agnomen, ḥāfıẓ, Muḥyī calls him no less than the “protector of Egypt” (ḥāfıẓ-i Mıṣır), who “always increased justice, who made a Nile(-size river) of favour flow to Cairo” (Ziyād eyleyüb ‘adilni her zemān * Kerem Nīlini Mıṣra ḳılḍı revān). 29 Muḥyī, ‘Azāle-Nāme-i manẓūm, Dār al-Kutub wa l-Wathā’iḳ al-Ḳawmīya, Mecāmī‘ Türkīye 23, ff. 407v-412v. 30 See Darling, “Justice and Power in the Ottoman Empire”; İnalcık, “Adâletnâmeler”. 710 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf In spite of Murād’s blessed sultanate, and in spite of the justice of his appointed representative in Egypt, Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed, however, all was not well in Egypt, for Bedouins are causing trouble. Indeed, so the people say, if the ruler really wants to put a stop to tyranny (ki şeh def‘-i ẓulm isteriyse eğer), he ought finish off those Bedouins who bring cruelty and affliction over Egypt (Gelür Mıṣra her dem cefā ve miḥen), and then especially the main evildoers among them, “their leaders in mischief” and “the like of (the people of ) ‘Ād (Ḫuṣūṣan bulardan re’īs el-fesād * Muḥārib çū ‘Ād işleri hep ‘inād), “those called ‘Azāle and obedient to (the devil) ‘Azāzīl * Whose rebellion and scandalous behaviour continue” (‘Azāle be-nām ve ‘Azāzīle rām * Rezāletle ṭuġyānları ber-devām), and who “revel in (shedding) illicit blood” (Daḫi ḫūn-i nā-ḥakḳdı cümbişleri). In the past, the Mamluk sultan Ḳāyıtbāy (r. 1468-1496) had sent some swift-footed punitive expeditions against them (Niçe kere merḥūm şeh Ḳāyıtbāy * Cerīde ėdüb ‘asker-i tēz-pāy), yet, while he was able to put down the enemy’s burning and fire (Sūz u nār-i a‘dāyı söndürmiş ol), time and this flared up anew. On more than one occasion, they even entered the city of Cairo through the Bābü’n-Naṣr, bringing calamity to the very heart of Mıṣır. As the Circassian sultans (r. 1382-1517) fell short to mend this (Selāṭīn-i Çerkes ḳalub ‘ācizīn * ‘İlāc ėtmemişler o derde hemīn), a general lawlessness ensued, with wine being drunk, people being roasted, and women being abused rather than married. In short, whatever sacred observances there were in Islam, quickly these ‘Azāle disposed of them. Never did they turn to a judge; never did they humble themselves before the governors, acting instead as their own mufti and their own judge. They roamed Giza, Şübrement and Ümm Ḫunān, Dehşūr and Dimnāvī, stealing gold and other goods from the people, traders, pilgrims and travellers alike. After the Ottoman take-over in 1517, the Ottoman governors had sent expeditions against them (Görüb anlaruñ cevrini dāyimā * Ėderlerdi irsāl ılġar aña). These efforts were never to any lasting avail, given these governors’ short tenure (Velī çāre hergez bulunmazdı * Ki varanlaruñ müddeti azdı). But now, under Aḥmed’s beylerbeylicate, these mischievous ‘Azāle had taken it too far: in Giza, they murdered Ca‘fer b. Ḫabīr, a member of one of their own leading families, who, significantly, had been appointed by the Ottoman sultan as the şeyḫü’l-‘Arab of Giza (Daḫi Cīzede şimdi şeyḫ alub * Olar Ca‘feri bir şeb ṭaleb ėdüb, Bulub ġāfil anı o ḳavm-i nijend * Keserler baş eyleyüb çoḳ gezend). As such flagrant disrespect of Ottoman authority could not be left unanswered, the pasha decided to solve the problem of the ‘Azāle once and for all (‘Azāle izālesi oldı merām). Having prayed for their removal day and night, Aḥmed receives divine inspiration and draws his plan of attack. Setting up Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 711 camp in Giza, he assembles the beys, judges and leaders and consults with them (Gelüb Cīzede eyledi çūn maḳām * Otaḳlarına geldi beğler tamām; Ḳużāt ve ehālī-i tedbīr hem * Gelüb fetiḥle kesr içün oldı ṣanem). The flaw of the previous expeditions was quickly identified: following the initial attack, the ‘Azāle used to flee and scatter, and the Ottomans refrained from pursuing them. Hence, lasting only for a few days, these tecrīdes failed to solve the problem once and for all (Bilindi ki sābıḳda ılġar olan * Bir iki gün ançuḳ olurmış revān, Ẓafersiz dönerlermiş āḫir ḥazīn). Clearly, the solution lay in a more sustained tecrīde, and a prolonged pursuit of the fleeing Bedouins, as far as Girgeh in Upper Egypt, if need be (Ve bi l-cümle ‘araż-i şeh-i kāmyāb * Maṣūn ola dėyü bu oldı cevāb)! Once the necessary provisions were made, messengers are sent out to summon the brave and bold horsemen, each a hero in the hunt for enemies (Şecā‘etde cür’etde mümtāzlar * Şikār-i a‘ādīde şehbāzlar). The messengers’ call is answered in great number, for all are as eager to see an end to the ‘Azāle, as the lion is eager to hunt the gazelle (‘Azāle izālesine her diler * Ġazāle şikāra gider ṣanki şīr). As news spread across Egypt, all district kāşifs come with their troops: ‘Abdü’l-Laṭīf from Şarḳīye, Ḳāsim from Manūfīye, Ca‘fer Ġāzī from Ḳalyūb, Aḥmed from Behensā, ... Ḥakīm Oġlı is selected to lead the operation (Dėnildi Ḥakīm Oġlı serdār ola * Ki ḥikmetle ḥukm ėder ol dāyimā, Şecā‘etle meşhūr dur ol emīr * Ne var ‘askere olurısa emīr), while several other officials are assigned their specific tasks: the ḳapucı başı Ḫıżr Aġa, Ḫıṣım Maḥmūd Beğ, Muḥammed Beǧ Cündī Ḥüseyn, the emīr-i kebīr Küçük Sinān, cebeci ‘Alī Beǧ, ḳāżī Ibrāhīm, Pīrī Beǧ. All of these, it goes without saying, excel in courage and military prowess, and take up position and narrow the escape routes for the Bedouins (Menāfiz olub cümle ‘Urbāna teng * Yüridi feżāya hizebrān-i ceng). The following 150 beyts portray in full colour the Ottoman soldiery as Firdawsian lions that successfully hunted down the cowardly ‘Azāle gazelles. Attacks and retreats follow in quick succession, and Muḥyī makes sure several Ottoman officials have their moment of glory. Ḳāżī Maḥmūd, e.g., is highlighted first, as he closed in together with those who roar as lions, each of which a mail-clad crocodile and a bright-faced leopard (Nehengān-i cevşen-ḳabā her biri * Pelengān-i rūşen-liḳā her biri). With all its confusion, it was like the day of resurrection, with the enemy heading for hell (Çū oldı bu āşūbla resteḫīz * ‘Adū dūzaḫa ṭutdı rāh-i gürīz). When the falcon flies, the crow flees; when the leopard attacks, the fox runs off; and when the lion charges, the dog makes itself scarce (Ḳaçar cümle ṣan şīr öñünden kilāb, Ḳaçar rūbah eylerse ḥamle peleng). Hence, those Bedouins who lived to see another day set tot heir heels and positioned themselves on top of a mountain. Three Bedouins mount a counter-attack, advancing side by side, heedlessly 712 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf and shouting (Gelür anlar üstine üç tėk ‘adū * Urub na‘ralar bī-ḥazar sū-be-sū). As they see Ḥakīm Oġlı, they understand that he will show no mercy, and, finding no refuge, they take up position at Saḳar31 (Ḥakīm Oġlını çūn görerler hemān * Bilürler ki ḥükminde vėrmez emān, Mefer bulmayub ol nefer-i bī-ẓafer * Muḳarrar ėderler Saḳarda maḳar). The Bedouins decide to try and wear down the Ottomans, attacking and retreating consecutively (Döner cümlesi kerr-ü-ferrīyle hep * Tā ki vėreler döne döne ta‘ab). To the tune of death playing its lute (Ecel nāyı çūnkim ṣalā eyledi), fierce fighting takes place, and many enemies are brought down on the road to perdition (Reh-i mevte a‘dāyı ḳıldı revān). Some Bedouins seek refuge at the Pyramids, like the Pharaohs, but Moses’ wrath had come down upon them like a dragon. The enemy suffers blows from swords, maces, arrows and lances; some are cut up, some split up, some sliced up and some struck (Kimi tīġle kimi kūpāl ile * Kimi tīrle kimi evṣāl ile, Kimin biçdiler kimini ḳırdılar * Kimin dildiler kimini vurdılar). Then another day of fighting ensued. Twenty Ottomans wolves set out to tear the foxes (Yiğirmi nefer gürg-i nerler çıḳar * Ki rūbahları çāk çāk ėdeler). Even though the enemy numbered over two thousand, the Ottoman troops faced them and encircled them. Ṣaġır ‘Osmān takes one down, intent to severe his head. Several hundreds of ‘Azāle crows swoop down onto his single Ottoman falcon, wanting to roast him on their spears (O bāz üzere üşer niçe yüz ġurāb * Ki rümḥiyle anı ḳılalar kebāb). His companions then forsake him, as they believe that he cannot be saved, yet, ‘Osmān unsheathes his sharp sword, and puts some to the ground (O ḫod tīġ-i bürrānı ‘uryān ḳılur * Niçesin hemān ḫāka yeksān ḳılur). Cutting one, he turns to the others, his skills as deadly as a wide-cast cobweb (Kesüb birisini döner anlara * Yayıḳ örümcekdür hüner anlara). Bedouins take to their heels, crying for a way out (Ḳaçarlar dėr, “Ey ḳavim eyne l-mefer?”). Several hundreds are killed that time, while the remainder flees. Following other exploits, now those of Dāvud Aġa and Cellād Ḫıṣmī, there is a duel. The “asses’ leader” (re’s-i ḫarān), İbn ‘Aclān, one of the ‘Azāle, challenges the Ottomans, calling for his “match” (‘adīl) in fighting. İbn ‘Ādil, another Bedouin leader who had been co-opted by the Ottomans as kāşif, takes up the challenge and wins the duel. Also fighting on the Ottoman side is the son of murdered sheikh, İbn Ca‘fer ‘Alī, who is mocked by one of the Bedouins, “It was I who killed your father!” (Babañ ḳātiliyim!). ‘Alī ends up decapitating the provocative Bedouin, thus avenging his father’s death. 31 To be identified as Saqqāra in Giza? Possibly a deliberate pun on Saḳar, one of the seven Hells in Islam. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 713 Three hundred and thirty-seven verses down in the mesnevī, following a period of 13 days of fighting, at last, victory! Admittedly, the enemy remains combative: “Before long, Cairo will be ours! The sultan’s sword is long, you say? Beware, for our spears are even longer!” (“Biz ze-‘āḳıbet Mıṣra ḥākim tamām, Deseñ seyf-i sulṭān ṭavīl ėt ḥazer * Mezārīḳunā eṭvalü minhü,” dėr). Yet, taking these claims for what they are — empty threats — the Ottoman troops returned, unharmed, laden with booty, and confident that the ‘Azāle’s disrespect of both ḳānūn and şer‘ (bī-vech-i ḳānūn ve şer‘) has been set straight. There is an interesting dissonant note here: not only the servants and mounts of the ‘Azāle are sold at the qadis’ order, but also their wives, children and deserted slaves, even though the sale of these was not entirely lawful (Ġulām-i buġāt ve devābb-i ‘uṣāt * Gelüb bey‘ olundı bi-emr-i ḳużāt, Anıñ k’olmadı bey‘i cāyiz tamām * ‘İyāl ile evlād ve hārib ġulām). Having witnessed the sharpness of the Ottomans’ sword (Ki ‘Osmānīyān seyfi kāṭı‘ imiş), those who had escaped the Ottoman’s wrath now cried, “We’ve become Muslims! Mercy!” (Bu ḥālı görüb çaġrışub bī-gümān * “Muslimān olub” dėdiler “El-emān!”). As the granting of emān has been part of the Ottoman ḳānūn since old, this is duly granted (Çūn evvelde ḳānūn-i ‘Osmānīyān * Emān vėrimdür pes vėrildi emān), and those who survived return to obedience. The beys enter the city, and the enemies’ heads, displayed on their bayonets (Serneyzede rü’us-i a‘dā nişān), are ignominiously paraded through the city (Çū şehr içre teşhīre oldı ṣalā). As the news of the victory spread, other Bedouins drew their lesson (Alub cümle-i A‘rāb bundın ḥisāb), and before long, all Arabs made peace, obediently and unconditionally (İṭā‘atle ṣulḥ ėtdiler bī-ṭaleb). Especially the Ḥavvāre, praying God to defend them “from want after plenty” (ḥūr u kevriyle,) pledged their loyalty to the Sharia. Everywhere begs on guard could now make room for pilgrims and traders, and youth can carry property again unattended (Gider mālla yalñız bir ṣabī). Most fittingly, the poem concludes with lavish praise of God and of sultan Murād, the sāye-i ḥaḳ, melce’-i ḫāfiḳeyn, melāz-i cihān, imām-i enām, kerem-güster-i dehr, sedād-i bilād and menā-i fevād. Indeed, “May (Murād) always be victorious over his enemies, * Just as Muḥyī may always be merry at the feast!” (‘Adūya ẓaferler bulub dāyimā * Düğün içre şādān ola Muḥyīyā). Let us now move over to Muḥyī’s second work, the ‘Azāle-Nāme-i Mensūr (folios 412v-415v)32, an Ottoman-Turkish risāle of some 1,900 words that consists of an introductory part, three maḳāles, and a concluding dyptich. Mostly consisting of continuous text, several items, such as the maḳāle titles, the sultan’s 32 Muḥyī, ‘Azāle-Nāme-i mensūr, ff. 412v-415v. 714 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf name and Quranic verses are highlighted through overlining, bold characters or rubrication, and occasionally a dāre (small circle) is used as a textual divider. The opening ḥamdele and na‘t are both in Arabic Especially God’s suppression of those prone to war and coercion is highlighted: “Praise be to God, who, through His light, has lifted the affliction (caused by) the one who has kindled a fire for war, and who, through His power, has annihilated the one who has been stubborn in coercion (alladhī adhhaba bi nūrihi ḥuzn man istawqada li al-ḥarb nāran, wa dammara bi qudratihi man kāna ‘anīd ijbāran), and God bless Muhammad, who has been sent to mankind as an admonishment and as a good tiding, as well as His family and his Companions, who were (as numerous as) stars and (as splendid as) flowers.” The full scale of Muḥyī’ invocation of God is made clear by bringing in the Quranic parallel of Noah’s plea with God (LXXI: 26-27) (ll. 5-6): “My Lord! Leave not one of the disbelievers in the land. If thou shouldst leave them, they will mislead Thy slaves and will beget none save lewd ingrates.” Referred to as the “The exposition (ma‘rūż) of the humble Muḥyī, who is destitute of the Almighty” (Ma‘rūż-i faḳīr-i ḳadīr Muḥyī-i ḥaḳīr), the author then lays out the topic of this nāme: “In the region of Egypt, there is a group of wicked Arabs, a band of unjust highway robbers, whose treacherous character and proneness to doing wrong (ṭāyife-i A‘rāb-i bāġīye, ki cemā‘at-i ḳuṭṭā‘-i ṭāġīye dur, ḫıyānetle mevṣūf ve cināyetle ma‘rūf olduġı) are more manifest and clearer than the sun, and more plain and better known than the moon. In particular (I am referring to) the group of the ‘Azāle, who are highway robbers and rebels outside of God’s favor. As the people of the villages and of Old and New Cairo are constantly under the terror of that unparalleled band, their repulsion has become a debt and a loan to the rulers, necessary (to be redeemed), and their suppression has become an indispensable and individual duty for all people (def‘i ḥukkāma ḳarż ve deyn-i lāzim, ve ref‘i ḫāṣ ve ‘āmma farz-i ‘ayn ve mühim olmuşdı).” Interestingly, whereas elsewhere Muḥyī refers to this text as a risāle, here, he calls it a ma‘rūż. Especially in light of the topic of the risāle and its connections to the writings of grand mufti Ebū’s-Su‘ūd Efendi (for which, see below), it is tempting to understand ma‘rūż here as a technical term (i.e. as an ‘arżu ḥāl Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 715 by the grand mufti addressed to the grand vizier), and thus to think of the risāle as a (literary reworking of ) of an ‘arżu ḥāl submitted by Muḥyī to beylerbey Aḥmed.33 However, given the fact that Muḥyī refers to his Menāḳıb as a ma‘rūż also, we should probably understand the term here in its more general meaning of “exposition”. Through the auspiciousness of Murād III, this debt of repelling the ‘Azāle has been paid by the sultan’s representative in Egypt, Aḥmed Paşa. It was he who has made the laws of justice current in Egypt anew, and it was he who has worked tirelessly to liberate Egypt from the marauding Bedouins: “Since the ruler of Egypt, the best of his kind and one who gave rise to conquest and victory, His Excellency Aḥmed Paşa (…) has become pasha of Egypt, through the prosperity and good luck, and the auspiciousness and majesty of His Excellency, the most lofty sultan and the most noble pādişāh, who holds the reins of the sultans of (all) climes, sultan Murād (…), and (since) the laws of justice and equity have become current, and (Aḥmed Paşa) has made a great endeavour and has relentlessly used all diligence in stopping the devilish ‘Azāzīl who go by the name of ‘Azāle (‘Azāle nām ‘Azāzīliñ izālesinde), who are outside of the rules of Islam.” Muḥyī has written this text, referred to this time as a risāle, in order to demonstrate the “vileness of the ‘Azāle and (mutatis mutandis, the legality of ) stopping them”, a line that runs more smoothly in Turkish than it does in English translation: ‘Azāleniñ rezālet ile izālesinde bu risāle ketb olub. Mostly reiterating lines 1-146 of the mesnevī, the first section offers little new. It starts by explaining the ‘Azāle’s “treacherous nature and the wrongs they commit” (ḫıyānet ve cināyetlerin beyān ėder). Already in the days of the “Kurdish and Circassian sultans” (i.e. the Ayyubids and the Mamluks), these Bedouins had been in control of some villages around the city of Giza, close to Cairo, exploiting their inhabitants, appropriating the share of their crops due to the treasury, and carrying off as booty their horses, garments and belongings (Mıṣra ḳarīb Cīze nām ḳaṣaba eṭrāfında Şübrement ve Üm Ḫunān ve Dimnāvī ve Dehşūr nām ḳaryeleriñ ehline ḥukm ėdüb, bī-vech şer‘-i şerīf ve ḳānūn-i münīf ehlerine taṣarruf ėdüb, zer‘leriniñ ḫarācını ḳable māl el-salṭanat ḳabż ėdüb, esbān u esbāb ve māllarını hemīşe ġāret ėtmeğin). The Circassian sultans Baybars and Ḳāyıtbāy 33 See Gerber, State, Society, and Law in Islam, pp. 88-92; Heyd, Studies in Old Ottoman Criminal Law, pp. 183-184; İnalcık, “Şikâyet Hakkı: ‘Arż-i ḥâl ve ‘arż-i maḥżar’lar”, pp. 33-54. In fact, the Cairo mecmū‘a contains a number of ‘arżu ḥāls by Muḥyī (Mecāmī‘ Türkīye 23, ff. 416-455). 716 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf had organized several rapid incursions (ılġar) against them, but never to any lasting avail. Sometimes, the Bedouins gained the upper hand, killing some Muslims; sometimes, they suffered defeat and retreated to the deserts, hills and mountains, where they fortified themselves, safely out of the Ottomans’ reach (ḳaçub berārī ve tilāl u cibālda, ki ‘asker varmaḳ ‘asīr ola, kendülere ḥiṣār eyleyüb varub onda ḳarār ėderler idi). Following the Ottoman take-over in 1517, things only got worse. Even though the governors had sent out several forays against them, these turned out to be nothing “but letters without grammar” (i.e., uncoordinated and meaningless) (bi-‘aynihi sābıḳda olan vech üzere ṣarf bilā ḥarf vāḳi‘ olurdı), as a consequence of which the Bedouins’ oppression only increased. Not only the villages southwest of Cairo suffered, in fact, the ‘Azāle sometimes even ventured into Cairo itself, causing havoc even at the Azhar Mosque (miyān-i Mıṣırda ma‘bed-i ṣulaḥā ve meclis-i ‘ulamā olan cāmi‘ el-Ezherde fesādlar ėdüb), before retreating to their mountainous strongholds (yine ol ṭāġīlaruñ ḥiṣārı olan ṭaġlara ṭaġılurlar idi). Whomsoever Rūmīs they found, they showed them no mercy, killing the one and roasting the other (ve niçe müddetdür Rūmīlerden her kimi bulsalar bī-teraḥḥum ėdüb, kimini helāk ve kimini kebāb ėdüb). Fleeing from the laws and observances of Islam (ḥuḳūḳ ve şe‘āyir-i islāmdan ḳaçarlar idi), they saw no harm in drinking wine (istiḥlāl ile dāyimā şerāb içerler idi), took recourse to neither judge nor magistrate, and spilled the blood of merchant, pilgrim and traveller alike. At the time of sowing, they sowed nothing but the seeds of tyranny; at the time of harvesting, they cut nothing but the throats of their victims (zer‘ zemānında re‘āyānıñ ġallātın alub toḫum-i ẓulm ekerlerdi, ve vaḳt-i ḥiṣādda kimini keserler kimini biçerler idi). But now, at the onset of Aḥmed Paşa, they have gone too far: “One night, through a ruse, they had invited Ḫabīr Oġlı Ca‘fer, chosen and subsequently appointed as şeyḫ el-‘Arab of the province of Giza by the sultan, and had murdered him, before scattering and returning to their usual plunder and sacking (Ḫuṣūṣan şimdi cānib-i salṭanatdan kendiler iḫtiyār ėdüb Cīze vilāyetinde şeyḫ el-‘Arab ta‘yīn olan Ḫabīr Oġlı Ca‘feri ḥīle ile bir gėce żiyāfet ėdüb ḳatl ėderler ve ṭaġılub her cānibe nehb ve ġārete giderler). As soon as the news of İbn Ḫabīr’s murder reached governor Aḥmed Paşa, he sent several envoys to the ‘Azāle, summoning them to obedience (iṭā‘ate da‘vet ėtdi). Yet, their devilish nature proved obstinate and they kept to the path of error (anlaruñ şeyṭānı ‘inād eyleyüb ṭarīḳ-i żelālete alı gitdi). Hence, the pasha pledged solemnly: “Before long, we will find ourselves victorious inside Cairo, having found our objective and desires! Indeed, the outcome that we aim at is for the perfidious ones to be killed by the sword of the law, for their heads to be Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 717 raised onto the bayonet, thus publicly exposing (them) as criminals, and for them to find an awful doom in the Afterlife! (‘An ḳarīb ẓafer ile Mıṣra dāḫil oluruz ve maḳṣūd u münāmızı onda buluruz. Fī l-vāḳi‘ netīce-i maḳṣūd ḫāyin seyf-i şer‘le maḳtūl olmaḳdur, ve teşhīrle serleri serneyze serefrāz olub āḫiretde ‘azāb-i ‘aẓīm bulmaḳdur).” In the end, thus it happened (nitekim vāḳi‘ oldı). Concluding the first section, Muḥyī praises God, for at last the ‘Azāle have been repulsed and suppressed, extirpated and put down (Pes el-ḥamdü li-llāh, def‘ ve refi‘lerine tedbīr oldı ve ḳal‘ ve ḳam‘ları netīce boldı). While the first maḳāle laid out in sufficient detail the fesād wrought by the ‘Azāle, the second section — by far the longest — offers the Quranic proof (naṣṣ) that killing these “unjust brigands” (ẓaleme ḳuṭṭā‘) is “obligatory” (vācib). In fact, this section is no more than a tefsīr of the infamous Quranic “Brigandage Verse” or Āyetü’l-ḥirābe (Quran, V: 33-34)34, defining both the meaning of brigandage and detailing its proper Quranic punishment, as this ranges between execution and banishment. This commentary taps into the linguistic and the historic strand of Quranic exegesis and, given its fairly elliptic nature, is no easy reading. For convenience sake, let us start with Pickthall’s translation of verses V: 33-34 in full: “The only reward of those who make war upon Allah and His Messenger and strive after corruption in the land will be that they will be killed or crucified, or have their hands and feet on alternate sides cut off, or will be expelled out of the land. Such will be their degradation in the world, and in the Hereafter theirs will be an awful doom. Save those who repent before ye overpower them. For know that Allah is Forgiving, Merciful.” Rather than quoting the verses in full, Muḥyī presents them in eleven successive parts, each time giving the Arabic original, followed by a verbatim translation into Ottoman Turkish, and a commentary35. Without any introduction, Muḥyī starts his discussion of the Brigandage Verse by tackling the first part and second part, thus defining the crime that is dealt with: 34 The literature on ḥirābe is considerable. See, among others, Abou El Fadl, Rebellion & Violence in Islamic Law; Hallaq, Sharī‘a. Theory, practice, Transformations; Kraemer, “Apostates, rebels and brigands”, pp. 34-73; Lange, Justice, Punishment and the Medieval Muslim Imagination. The concept of the sā‘ī bi l-fasād, in its longue durée, has most recently been treated by Yavuz, “A Legal Concept in Motion: The ‘Spreader of Corruption’ (sā‘ī bi’l-fesād) from Qarakhanid to Ottoman Jurisprudence”. 35 In the following quotations, what is translated from the Arabic is put in italics. 718 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf “God, exalted is He above all, has said, “İnnamā jazā’u alladhīna yuḥāribūna Allāha wa rasūlahu”, i.e., the reward of those who have been making war upon the followers of God, exalted is He above, and of His messenger, (in other words,) upon Muslims.” (Qāla Allāhu ta‘ālā: “Innamā jazā’u alladhina yuḥāribūna Allāha wa rasūlahu”, ya‘nī: anlaruñ cezāsı, ki ḥaḳḳ-i ta‘ālānıñ ve resūliniñ evliyāsı ile, ki muslimīn dur, muḥārebe ėderler.) Having explained why it is necessary to extrapolate the meaning of waging war upon God and His Messenger to waging war upon Muslims in general, Muḥyī discusses what ḥirābe actually entails: “This phrase is the first part of a discourse that has been revealed in relation to one (specific) type of (the various) types of killing, and it explains the fesad and ifsād, that is, the taking of property and the like that are connected with that (specific type of ) killing, and the punishment that these deserve. Essentially, war is the seizing by force of spoils.” (Ve bu cümle kelām-i müste’nif dur, ki envā‘-i ḳatıldan bir nev‘ içün sevḳ olunmuşdur, ve ol ḳatla muta‘allaḳ olan fesād ve ifsād, ki aḫz-i māl ve neẓāyiri dur, ve anlara lāzim olan cezāyı beyān eyler. Ve aṣılda ḥarb selb-i selebdir.) The crux of the matter is simple: “What is meant at this point (more specifically) is highway robbery (Bu maḥalde murād ḳat‘-i ṭarīḳdır). Briefly discussing the importance of the locality of the crime (either in- or outside of the city), he then moves on to the second part of the verse, “Wa yas‘awna fī al-arḍ fasādan”, (i.e.,) “As well as [of ] those who strive after corruption, either being corrupt or (merely) striving after corruption,” in which the author engages in a fairly linguistic discussion of, among others, the syntactic relation between yas‘awna and yuḥāribūna, and of the word fasād. The bottom-line is that ifsād and fesād are to be equated with ḥirābe (Pes arż vücūdında ifsād ve fesād eyleyen ıṣlāḥ-i ḥaḳīḳet ėdeniñ żıddı dur, belki muḥāribi dur). The following four parts detail the various punishments meted out for ḥirābe, no small matter, since ḥirābe infringes not only on the ḥuḳūḳ al-‘ibād, but on the ḥuḳūḳ Allāḥ first and foremost, thus constituting a ḥadd: killing, crucifixion, amputation, or banishment. All this is presented in such a condensed form, that it is often quite hard to digest the subtleties of the argumentation. Skipping over “‘An yuqattalū” and “Aw yuṣallabū”, let us consider one of the more legible sections, Muḥyī’s exegesis of the amputation: “Aw tuqaṭṭa‘a aydīhim wa arjuluhum min khilāfin”, (i.e.,) their right hand and left foot are cut off, or their left hand and right foot, in case they are Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 719 left-handed. This holds for those who have taken property without killing, that is, their hand is cut off because they have taken property (and) their foot is cut off because they have filled the road with fear, for the road’s safety may not be lost. The cutting off on alternate sides is to (prevent the culprit from future) killing. Whether (the victim) is a Muslim or a zimmī makes no difference. Amputation is necessary whenever the (value of the) object stolen, when divided by the (number of ) thieves, amounts to 10 dir- ham each, or if its value is equivalent to that. Otherwise, it (the value of the object stolen) is less or if (the victim) is an infidel, then the punishment is not necessary.” (“Aw tuqaṭṭa‘a aydīhim wa arjuluhum min khilāfin”: yā ṣaġ eli ṣol ayaġı kesilür, yā ṣol eli ṣaġ ayaġı kesilür eğer ṣolaḳ ise. Bu ḥāl eğer māl alub ḳatl ėtmezler ise. Ya‘nī: aḫz-i māl içün eli ḳat‘ olur, iḫāfet-i ṭarīḳ içün ayaġı ḳaṭ‘ olur, ki emn-i ṭarīḳ fevt olmaya. Ḫilāfan ḳaṭ‘ olmaḳ öldürmemek içün dür. Ve bu ḥāl cümle müslimler ve zimmīler olurlar isedir, ve aldıḳları nesne, her bir sāriḳa taḳsīm olduḳda, onar dirhem düşersedir, yā ḳıymeti aña berāber olursadır- ki bu ḳat‘ lāzim gelür. Yoḫsa aḳal olsa yā kāfir olsalar, ol cezā lāzim gelmez.) Regarding expulsion, Muḥyī discusses both the interpretation of “the mezheb of the greatest imam”, that is Abū Ḥanīfe, and of al-Şāfi‘ī. Next Muḥyī turns his attention to the important conjunction “aw”: while, theoretically, the imam is left free choice (bu cümlede imām muḫayyer dür), practically, he doesn’t choose freely. Indeed, only “those who do not know the different classes of men don’t understand that the word “aw” in the verse comes with a gradation” of punishments (ki merātib-i nāsı bilmeyen bilmez, ki āyetde “ev” lafẓı taḳsīm içündür). Following a highly technical linguistic exegesis of “zālike”, “lahum khizyun fī al-dunyā”, “Wa lahum fī al-ākhira”, and “‘adhābun ‘aẓīmun”, Muḥyī turns his attention to the various opinions on the verse’s asbāb al-nuzūl, either in relation to the Hilāl bin ‘Uwaymir Aslamī or to the ‘Uraynīyīn. Moving over the next Quranic verse, “Save those who repent before ye overpower them. For know that Allah is Forgiving, Merciful”, Muḥyī’s exegesis highlights the — for ḥudūd exceptional — possibility of repentance before being overcome, yet stresses the fact that such repentance only nullifies the ḥadd punishment (ḫüdā-i ta‘ālānıñ ḥuḳūḳına maḫṣūṣ olduġına), with the ḳısāṣ, while no longer obligatory, remaining permissible (vücūbı tevbe ile sāḳıṭ olur, ammā cevāzı sāḳıṭ olmaz). Hinting at two historical precedents — one involving ‘Alī and Ḥāris bin Bedr, the other involving Muḥammed and Vaḫşī, the murderer of his uncle Ḥamze — Muḥyī concludes the second section by addressing the sālik-i mesālik-i ilāhī 720 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf ve ṭāriḳ-i ṭarīḳ-i nā-mütenāhī and reiterating that highway robbers are nothing less than Allāh ta‘ālāya ve resūlına muḥārib. Whereas, in the first section, Muḥyī spelled out the mischief wrought by the ‘Azāle, and, in the second section, he identified this mischief as nothing less than ḥirābe and detailed the appropriate Quranic punishment, in the third, concluding section, he brought his argumentation full circle, by spelling out the obvious outcome: the ‘Azāle are to be labelled muḥāribūn; and, mutatis mutandis, the harsh punishment inflicted by the Ottomans is fully şer‘an, in line with the Sharia (mezkūr ‘Azāle ṭāyifesi bu naṣla vācibü’l-ḳatıl olub). Tellingly, Muḥyī highlights the importance of the “people of the law in delivering from ill those who rule” (ḥuḳūḳ nāsı ḥākim olan ehline ḫalāṣ eyleye). This is precisely what the “people of the law” did in the present case: providing a solid foundation for “those who rule” to act in accordance with God’s law: “It is on this solid foundation that the justice and equity of the pādişāh of the world, and the flags of the most noble ḫāḳān, the sultan of the rulers of the climes, sultan Murād, son of sultan Selīm, may God make his power per- petual and may He furnish his proof with glorification and honor, have emerged, (and) the ruler of the refuge of justice, the propagator of equity and siyāset, His Excellency Ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa, may God make him obtain his objective in this world and in the Hereafter, has summoned the Egyptian judges, emirs and ‘ulemā, and has inquired about the conditions of the aforementioned.” (Aña binā’an ‘adl ve dād-i pādişāh-i ‘ālem ve rāyāt-i ḫāḳān-i ekrem, sulṭān-i ḥākimān-i aḳālīm, sulṭān Murād bin sulṭān Selīm, edāma llāh sulṭānahu ve aḳāme burhānahu bi t-ta‘ẓīm ve t-tekrīm, ẓuhūr ėdüb, ḥākim-i ma- ferr-i ‘adālet nāşir-i dād ve siyāset ḥażret-i ḥāfıẓ Aḥmed Paşa, enāla llāh maḳsūdahu fī l-dünyā ve l-uḫrā, ḳużāt ve ümerā’ ve ‘ulamā-i Mıṣrī iḥżār ėdüb, mezkūrlaruñ ḥālların istifsār ėtdi.) In answer to that, the aforementioned “judges, emirs and ‘ulamā’” have established that “killing them is a religious duty, and that extirpating them and putting them down is an individual duty” (vācibü l-ḳatl olduḳların beyān, ve ḳal‘ ve ḳam‘ları farż-i ‘ayn olduġın ‘ayān ḳıldılar). Here, the risāle again links up with the mesnevī. After briefly referencing the necessary provisions in terms of travel, supplies and the blocking of escape routes, Muḥyī concludes with the ‘Azāle meeting their fateful doom, which he rendered elliptically, not to say laconically: varub görüb ırub girüb urub ḳırub dėrub getürdiler, ve şer ve şūrların ortadan götürdiler. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 721 III. Zooming out of the texts As we have detailed above, the poem focuses squarely on the actors involved in the punitive expedition against the ‘Azāle — making sure that a whole range of Ottoman officials got their “five minutes of fame” — and hardly addresses the issue of this punishment’s legality. The prose text, on the other hand, focuses on the legal rationale behind it and wastes but few words on the actual execution of the punishment. Having thus familiarized ourselves sufficiently with the texts, let us now zoom out. What do we find? First, it is clear that Muḥyī felt equally at home in the Firdawsian universe of leopards and panthers, as he did in the terse Arabicizing legalistic tefsīr vocabulary. Whereas the mesnevī depicts the hizebr, şīr, neheng, peleng, and gürg, and stars Ferīdūn, Cem, İskender and those other immortal heroes of the Persian pantheon, the risāle harks back to the Benī Kināne, imam ‘Alī and His Excellency Ḥamze. Obviously, there is nothing new in finding people operating across discursive borders. Nonetheless, it remains worthwhile to stress that this observation holds true for Muḥyī as well. Next, as said before, in the mesnevī, Muḥyī made sure that a long list of Ottoman officials got their “five minutes of fame”, highlighting, for example, the exploits of a Dāvud Aġa, who is otherwise left completely unidentified. As these references make little if no sense to outsiders, it is clear that the poem was geared towards a local audience of Ottoman-speaking officials in Egypt first and foremost. As for the risāle, there can be no doubt regarding its dedicatee and target of patronage: Aḥmed Paşa, whose tecrīde Muḥyī legitimized. As such, both ‘Azāle-Nāmes suggest an intimate relation between Muḥyī and state officials, a relation that he sought to activate, maintain and strengthen. Again, to find proof of Muḥyī’s mundane interests in Cairo, of his active pursuance of patronage, and — more broadly — of Gülşenīye-Ottoman rapprochement can hardly be considered a novelty. Still, it is worthwhile to remind the reader of the fact that, also when it comes to patronage as the main modus operandi of social actors, Muḥyī was very much a “man of his age”. Third, when thinking of Muḥyī as a Sufi writer first and foremost, we can appreciate his risāle as an example of the rapprochement of Sufism and Sunni Islam, thus bearing witness to the process of Sunnitization — that “close interplay between imperial politics and confession building”36, as Derin Terzioǧ36 See Terzioǧlu, “Sunna-Minded Sufi Preachers in Service of the Ottoman State: The Naṣīḥatnāme of Hasan Addressed to Murād IV”; Terzioǧlu, “How to Conceptualize Ottoman Sunnitization: A Historiographical Discussion”. 722 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf lu put it so aptly — and, more specifically, to process of the institutionalization of the Ḫalvetīye37. Already before, Terzioǧlu rightfully warned against a conceptualization of Sunnitization as a top-down process first and foremost, emphasising “that Sufis were not only at the receiving end of Ottoman confessionalization politics”. Hence, identifying Muḥyī as one such “agent of Sunnitization”38 should hardly come as a surprise. But then again, when it comes to the prose ‘Azāle-Nāme, it remains useful to highlight this particular lens. Here — in a concise yet indisputable way — we find a “Sunnitizing Sufi agent” at work. Summarizing, this “distant reading” has allowed us to recognize multiple dimensions of this author’s identity — both edīb and deputy judge, both seeking God and seeking patronage, both Sufi and Sunni — and to appreciate the way in which these — for us moderns sometimes seemingly contradictory — dimensions combine into one kaleidoscopic personality. Admittedly, neither the dimensions themselves nor their specific constellation are new in any particular way, for indeed research into these is booming more than ever. Still, it is quite refreshing to see how these varied dimensions can coalesce into works as small and “trifling” as the two ‘Azāle-Nāmes, and allow us to appreciate just how much Muḥyī was a “man of his age”. One final dimension remains to be explored in some greater detail, and this relates to Muḥyī’s tefsīr, one that is legalistically oriented rather than of the mystical bend. As he did not produce a full tefsīr himself39, what tefsīr did he follow? As to be expected, the usual suspects — such al-Zamakhsharī’s Kashshāf, al-Qurṭubī’s Jāmi‘ and al-Suyūṭī’s al-Durr al-Manthūr, all enumerated in the imperial medrese curriculum analyzed by Ahmed and Filipovic40 — show a lot of common ground. Yet, no perfect match turned up, that is, until I decided to follow up on a clue in Muḥyī’s Menāḳib: “Whenever I was in the service of Ebū’s-Su‘ūd Ḫoca Çelebi, he used to explain so much, be it in the field of tefsīr, te’vīl or ‘ilm-i ṣūfīye, that by (doing nothing but) writing all this down in detail, my life would have been ful- filled! 37 Terzioǧlu, “Sufis in the Age of State-Building and Confessionalization”, pp. 86-99. 38 Terzioǧlu, “Sufis in the Age of State-Building and Confessionalization”, p. 96; Terzioǧlu, “Sunna-Minded Sufi Preachers in Service of the Ottoman State”, p. 251. For other “Sunnitizing” Ḫalvetīs, see Clayer, Mystiques, État et Société. 39 He did in fact produce partial tefsīrs (see Muḥyī, Menāḳıb, p. xiii: “Tefsīr-i Sūratu’l-Ḳadr”). 40 Ahmed - Filipovic, “The Sultan’s Syllabus”, pp.183-218. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 723 (Eǧer tefsīr eǧer te’vīl eǧer ‘ilm-i ṣūfīyeden ol ḳadar nevādir beyān ėderlerdi ki eǧer anları ‘ömrimde tafṣīl ėdüb taḥrīr ėdedim, kifāyet ėderdi).41 Clearly, during his Istanbul days, Muḥyī and grand mufti Ebū’s-Su‘ūd had met and had actually discussed the exegesis of, among others, Quran VIII: 9-10.42 If we now turn our attention to Ebū’s-Su‘ūd Efendī’s famous tefsīr, the İrşād al‘Aḳl al-Salīm, we find a striking resemblance between the grand mufti’s tefsīr and Muḥyī’s risāle. In fact, every now and then, the risāle is little more than a verbatim Ottoman-Turkish translation of the İrşād’s Arabic original!43. Consider the following prime examples: Ebū’s-Su‘ūd: Kalām musta’nif sīḳa li bayān ḥukm naw‘ min anwā‘ al-ḳaṭl, wa mā yata‘allaḳu bihi min al-fasād bi aḫd al-māl wa naẓā’irihi.44 Muḥyī: Ve bu cümle kelām-i müste’nif dur, ki envā‘-i ḳatıldan bir nev‘ içün sevḳ olunmuşdur, ve ol ḳatla muta‘allaḳ olan fesād ve ifsād, ki aḫz-i māl ve neẓāyiri dur. Ebū’s-Su‘ūd: Ammā ḳaṭ‘ aydīhim fa li aḫd al-māl, wa ammā ḳaṭ‘ arculihim fa li iḫāfat al-ṭarīq bi tafwīt amnihi45 Muḥyī: Aḫz-i māl içün eli ḳat‘ olur, iḫāfet-i ṭarīḳ içün ayaġı ḳaṭ‘ olur, ki emn-i ṭarīḳ fevt olmaya. Ebū’s-Su‘ūd: “Wa lahum fī l-āḫira”, ghayr hādā “‘adābuh ‘aẓīmun” lā yuḳādar ḳadruhu li ġāyat ‘uẓm cināyatihim. Fa ḳawluhu ta‘ālā “lahum” ḫabar muḳaddam wa “‘adābun” mubtada’ mu’aḫḫar wa “fī l-āḫira” muta‘allaḳ bi maḥdūf waḳa‘a ḥālan min ‘adāb, li annahu fī l-aṣl ṣifa lahu fa lammā ḳadama ntaṣaba ḥālan ay kā’inan fī l-āḫira.46 Muḥyī: “Wa lahum fī l-āḫira”: daḫi anlara āḫiretde bu ‘azābdan ġayrī “‘azābun ‘aẓīmun”, bir büyük ‘azāb, var dur, ki ḥaḳīḳetde cezāları bu dur ki ‘azāb-i āḫiret, şedīd ve ‘aẓīm dur. Ḳavluhu ta‘ālā “lahum” ḫaber-i muḳadd41 Muḥyī, Menāḳıb, pp. 383-384. 42 For Ebū’s-Su‘ūd’s relation with the Ḫalvetīs, see Terzioǧlu, “Sufis in the Age of State-Building and Confessionalization”, p. 94. 43 İrşād al-‘Aḳl al-Salīm, II: 46-48. While a convenient introduction is offered by Imber, Ebu’sSu’ud. The vast literature on the şeyḫü’l-İslam is presented by Düzenli, “Şeyhülislâm Ebussuûd Efendi: Bibliyografik Bir Deǧerlendirme”, pp. 441-475. For his tefsīr in particular, see Naguib, “Guiding the Sound Mind: Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s Tafsir and Rhetorical Interpretation of the Qur’an in the Post-Classical Period”, pp. 1-52; Aydemir, Büyük Türk Bilgini Şeyhülislâm Ebussuûd Efendi ve Tefsirdeki Metodu. 44 İrşād al-‘Aḳl al-Salīm, II: 46. 45 İrşād al-‘Aḳl al-Salīm, II: 47. 46 İrşād al-‘Aḳl al-Salīm, II: 46-47. 724 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf am dur, ve “‘azābun ‘aẓīmun” mübtedā-i muvaḫḫar dur, ve “fī l-āḫira” maḥzūfe muta‘allaḳ dur, ki ‘azābdan ḥāl-i vāḳi‘ olmuşdur, zīrā aṣılda aña ṣıfatdur. Muḳaddam olmaġın, ḥālīyet üzere menṣūb dur, kāyinan fī l-āḫire dėmekdur. In another sample, of the four interpretations regarding “fasādan” given by Ebū’s-Su‘ūd, Muḥyī leaves out the second: Ebū’s-Su‘ūd: “Wa yas‘awna fī l-arḍ” ‘aṭf ‘alā “yuḥāribūna”, wa l-cār wa l-macrūr muta‘allaḳ bihi. Wa ḳawluhu ta‘ālā “fasādan”, immā maṣdar waḳa‘a mawḳi‘ al-ḥāl min fā‘il yas‘awna ay mufsidīna, aw maf‘ūl lahu ay li l-fasād, aw maṣdar mu’akkid li yas‘awna li annahu fī ma‘nā yufsidūna ‘alā annahu maṣdar min ’afsada bi ḥadf al-zawā’id, aw ism maṣdar. Muḥyī: “Yes‘avne” “yuḥāribūne”ye ma‘ṭūfdur, cār (“fī”) aña muta‘allaḳ dur. Ammā “fesādan” mevḳi‘-i ḥālde “yes‘avne”ye, mufsidūne fā‘ilinden maṣ- dar-i vāḳi‘ olmuşdur, yā “yes‘avne”yi mü’ekkid maṣdardür, ki yufsidūne ifsāden dėmekdür, ḥamzeniñ ḥazfi ile, yā ism-i maṣdardür. While the correspondence is less obvious for this last sample, the congruence is still noticeable. Note how Muḥyī substitutes Ebū-Su‘ūd’s ‘indanā with mezheb-i imām-i a‘ẓam: Ebū’s-Su‘ūd: “Aw yunfaw min al-arḍ”, in lam yaf‘alū ġayr al-iḫāfa wa l-sa‘y li l-fasād. Wa l-murād bi l-nafy ‘indanā huwa l-ḥabs, fa innahu nafy ‘an wajh al-arḍ li daf‘ şarrihim ‘an ahlihā wa yu‘zarūna ayḍan li mubāşarati- him munkar al-iḫāna wa izālat al-amn. Wa ‘inda al-Şāfi‘ī raḍiya llāh ‘anhu l-nafy min balad ilā balad lā yazālu yaṭlub wa huwa hāribun fazi‘an, wa ḳīla huwa l-nafy ‘an baladihi faḳaṭ. Wa kānū yanfawna ilā Dahlak, wa huwa balad aḳṣā Tihāma, wa Nāṣi‘, wa huwa balad min bilād al-Ḥabaşa.47 Muḥyī: “Ev yunfav mina l-arż”: yā ol yerden nefiy olunurlar, eğer yalñız taḫvīfe ve fesād içün sa‘ya ḳaṣr ėtdiler ise. Nefiyden murād beledde anıñ taṣarrufı ḳılmamaḳ dur. Pes ol ḥaseble ḥapisle daḫi olur, ki mezheb-i imām-i a‘ẓamdur ki vech-i arżdan ol nefiy ile def‘ dur, tā imām Şāfi‘ī rażi- ya llāh ‘anhu buyurur bir yerden bir yere muttaṣıl nefiy ėtmek dur, ki def‘ küllī ḥaysīyeti ile ola, ki bir yerde ḳarār ėtmeye. Ve ṣaḥābe-i kirām nefy-i beled ėtdiklerini Dehleke irsāl ėderler idi, ki aḳsā-i Tihāme dur, yā Ṣani‘ (sic) nefiy ėderler idi, ki bilād-i Ḥebeşdendur. Pes bunlaruñ ‘amelinde ḥapis ve tesyīr bulunur. 47 İrşād al-‘Aḳl al-Salīm, II: 47. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 725 In light of this compelling evidence, one can only state the obvious, that is, that Muḥyī’s exegesis of the Āyetü’l-Ḥirābe is strongly indebted to the grand mufti’s İrşād. Yet, admittedly, this alone is not all that remarkable: as said, we know that Muḥyī and Ebū’s-Su‘ūd had met in Istanbul, we know that they had discussed tefsīr, and we know that Ebū’s-Su‘ūd’s tefsīr had found its way into the religious curriculum already by the 17th century48. Much more remarkable than the similarity an sich, however, are its implications. For Shuruq Naguib, who rightfully recognized the watershed quality of the İrşād: “(…) the composition of Irshād could be thus conceived as an effort to extend and maintain control over the very meaning of the divine book and, hence, over not only the geographical realms of Islam but also the very realm of its religious truth, the Qur’an. Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s dedication at the outset of Irshād (e.g. his claim to the universal viceregency of God, to the greater tradition of caliphate, and to the superior imamate), is a literary expression of that extension. With a work of Qur’an interpretation by the highest religious authority, the Shaykh al-Islam himself, the Ottomans would become defenders of the birthplace, the law and the central book of Islam.”49 So not only is Muḥyī’s exegesis not of the mystical bend, thus illustrating the institutionalization of Sufism, it also gives testimony to the Ottomanisation-cum-Hanafitization of the law in face of the realm’s religious-legal pluralism. Muḥyī did not offer just any legalistic exegesis of the Quran and even not, more specifically, just any Ḥanafī interpretation! No, he gave Ebū’s-Su‘ūd’s interpretation, which is about as close as one could get, in early modern times that is, to an “official” or “state-sanctioned” Quranic exegesis. In a 2005 article, Rudolph Peters raised the question as to “What does it mean to be an official madhhab?” 50 While the answer to such a complicated question can only be nuanced and many-sided, surely, Muḥyī’s emulation of the İrşād must be part of it! IV. Juxtaposing the texts So far, by zooming out of the texts, we have observed some of the multiple dimensions of the author and of the empire he lived in, and we have relat48 Naguib, “Guiding the Sound Mind”, p. 6. As it happens, included among the books deposited in the vakıf by Aḥmed Paşa was Ebū’l-Su‘ūd’s tefsīr (see Bilge, “İstanbul Fatih’deki Hâfız Ahmed Paşa Külliyesi’nin vakfiyesi”, p. 313). 49 Naguib, “Guiding the Sound Mind”, pp. 46-47. 50 Peters, “What does it mean to be an official madhhab? Hanafism and the Ottoman Empire”, pp. 147-158. 726 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf ed these dimensions to a number of “-izations” of much grander, indeed, of imperial-wide scale, such as Sunnitization and legal Hanafization. Indeed, it is very rewarding to read the texts against this background of larger transformative trends, researched by scholars such as Nabil al-Tikriti, Abdurrahman Atçıl, Guy Burak, Nathalie Clayer, Markus Dressler, Tijana Krstić, Reem Meshal, Rudolph Peters, Derin Terzioǧlu, and Baki Tezcan. Yet, in the following, rather than dealing with any of these trends in more detail by reiterating their findings, I would like to take a different course, and I will do so by juxtaposing the texts. Before doing so, it is useful to summarize the texts in a fairly radical way, and a lead to do so I found in the preamble to the Egyptian Ḳānūn-Nāme of 1525, dealt with by, among others Snjezana Buzov, Uriel Heyd, and Kaya Şahin51. This preamble, produced in tandem by grand vizier İbrāhīm Paşa and nīşāncı Celālzāde Muṣṭafā, is well known, and deservedly so: in the words of Buzov, it is nothing less than the “political and legal manifesto of Süleymān’s early reign”. In this preamble, two potent symbols are juxtaposed: on the one hand, the zebān-i tīġ or “the tongue of the sword of those empowered to inflict heavy punishment” (i.e. the ehl-i seyfiyye), and, on the other hand, the tīġ-i zebān or “the sword of the tongue of the guardians of the holy law” (i.e. the ehl-i ‘ilmiyye): “Since, in some matters it was not possible to cut dispute and opposition with the sword of the tongue of saints of the sharî‘a, it was perceived necessary to treat them by means of the tongue of the swords of governors of secular punishment (siyâset).”52 (Ba‘żı ḫuṣūṣīyatta ḳaṭ‘-i nizā‘ ve husūmet tīġ-i zebān-i evliyā-i şerī‘at ile mümkün olmayub zebān-i tīġ-i vālīyān-i siyāsetle olmak vācib iḫṣāṣ olunub.)53 In my view, we can use this highly evocative dichotomy of siyāset and Sharia as a radical summary of Muḥyī’s texts. What do we see when we keep sufficient distance? When summarizing the two works in the broadest possible strokes, one could say that each corresponds to one of the multiple strands of Ottoman imperial legitimation. On the one hand, there is the poem, which depicts the campaign as siyāset, that is, penal policy outside of or next to the realm of 51 Heyd, Studies in Old Ottoman Criminal Law, p. 3; Şahin, Empire and Power in the Reign of Süleyman. 52 Buzov, “The Lawgiver and His Lawmakers” p. 202. 53 Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnameleri, pp. 63-188, here p. 88. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 727 the sacred Islamic law, the Sharia. Not the “people of the pen” perform here, but the “people of the sword”, who make their swords speak in defence of the cause of the Ottoman ruler, in his capacity of sultan, a worldly power and protector of the Ottoman realm. On the other hand, there is the prose text, which paints a picture of Sharia. The policy against the ‘Azāle is one that presented not as siyāseten but as şer‘an, one obliged by the Quran, that is, legitimized by God’s Word. Here, we find the “people of the pen” who yield the pen and the Book as a sword in defence of the cause of the Ottoman ruler, now in his capacity of the imam/caliph, the representative of God’s Prophet and guardian of the Umma. By thus zooming out, we can fully appreciate these texts as literary reflections of siyāset and Sharia, as two important strands of legitimation in the Ottoman imperial project. In relation to this, it is important to stress the fact that the meaning of the ‘Azāle-Nāmes — indeed, of any literary work — is constructed not only textually, but also extra-textually. Consequently, any interpretive effort needs to be informed by extra-textual elements as well. In this light, it is interesting to observe the ways in which these two strands of legitimation “wrote themselves differently into” the ‘Azāle-Nāmes, both textually and extra-textually. Even though we are dealing with a single author (Muḥyī), a common language (Ottoman Turkish) and a shared title (‘Azāle-Nāme), we are faced with two very different works: different in terms of genre (mesnevī versus risāle), in terms of linguistic register (Persianizing versus Arabicizing Ottoman Turkish), and in terms of discursive spheres (Firdawsian versus Quranic). Clearly, Muḥyī tailored the texts for the audience he had in mind. In order for his communication to be as strong as possible, he made sensible choices in terms of genre and register, drawing on very distinct knowledge systems and cultural literacy, making sure that all these textual building blocks were neatly aligned. Siyāset neatly aligns with mesnevī, with a Persianate vocabulary, and with Pre-Islamic figurative language. Sharia, on the other hand, requires the Quran and stern Arabic, and its technicalities were best served by prose, not poetry. When we now juxtapose the two ‘Azāle-Nāmes, what happens? By doing so, I argue, these texts combine into a powerful literary diptych. This is not to say that the texts ought to be read together. Obviously, as in any diptych, the two texts can be read as stand-alone signifiers, so to speak: each text comes with its own meaning, and can be appreciated accordingly by an audience. Yet, so I argue, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Mutually comple- 728 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf menting and affecting each other’s meaning, the two texts reach their fullest potential only and precisely through their juxtaposition. What then is their fullest meaning? Juxtaposed, the two texts were very much in tune with developments at the imperial centre, as they reify the Ottoman vision of empire. In the 1525 preamble, referred to above, crimes had multiplied to such an extent that “disputes and feuds could no longer be decided by the sword of the tongue (tīġ-i zebān) of the guardians of the holy law, but required the tongue of the sword (zebān-i tīġ) of those empowered to inflict heavy punishment.” Clearly, in those cases where the canonical “sword of the tongue” failed, the Ottomans made their extra-canonical “sword” speak instead. Our two texts, dated some 70 years later, evoke the same instruments of empire, at least so I argued: in the mesnevī, Muḥyī presents the “tongue of the sword”; in the risāle, he presents the “sword of the tongue”. There is one difference, however: we can no longer distinguish the canonical from the extra-canonical. The soldier’s “sword” does not come to the aid of the judge’s “tongue”, as some sort of extra-canonical backup for those instances where the canonical falls short. Instead, the “tongue” of the soldiers’ “sword” is the judges’; and the “sword” of the judges’ “tongue” is the soldiers’! In a nutshell, when juxtaposed, what is it that these texts “do”? The reality that these shape is one where siyāset and Sharia coincide. The sultan’s siyāset is nothing but the implementation of the “correct” interpretation of the Sharia, and the Sharia is nothing but the divinely sanctioned rationale of siyāset. Sultan and imam/caliph merge, as do soldier and judge. Whatever words the soldiers’ swords utter, these are the judges’ words; and whatever swords the judges’ tongues yield, these are the soldiers’ swords. Harassing people, drinking wine and local highway robbery to the detriment of a local Ottoman cause now amount to Quranic brigandage and waging war upon the Islamic Umma (ḥirābe). Hizebrān u bebrān setting out on an ılġar and fighting upon the sultan’s path now equal mücāhidūn setting out on a cihād and fighting upon God’s path. In short, juxtaposed, the two texts combine into a vision of siyāset şer‘īye. They reify a vision in which the sultan’s rule is in full accordance with God’s word, is justified by it, and, in fact, is nothing but its implementation.54 This particular vision of empire is not the vision as it transpired in the 1525 preamble; 54 Siyāset şer‘īye is not to be misunderstood. Not only was it a “vision” rather than a “given”, it was also two-pronged, produced as much through adjusting the siyāset to make it fit to Sharia, as through directing a particular understanding of Sharia to make it fit to siyāset. Compare to Burak G., “According to His Exalted Ḳânûn”, pp. 74-86. Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf 729 instead, it is the updated vision, as it was championed first and foremost by Ebū’s-Su‘ūd Efendi.55 V. A Sufi performing empire In one of his articles, “Aspects of Legitimation of Ottoman Rule as Reflected in the Preambles to Two Early Liva Kanunnameler”, Abou-El-Haj observed that, “We, as historians, are the ones who give the document its historical mean- ing through interpretation. The premise is that the document does not speak, in and of itself, and especially only through internal analysis, but has to be made to speak (...).”56 This first call, I believe, has been answered, as I have made two minor texts of Muḥyī speak. In fact, I made them speak loud enough as to reach beyond their circumscribed spatial and temporal locality of Cairo and Giza in the 1590s, and to bear on a range of 16th century imperial-wide transformative trends, such as institutionalization of Sufism and legal Hanafization. In this respect, an excellent case in point was offered by Muḥyī’s emulation of Ebū’s-Su‘ūd’s tefsīr, and this leads us to a second summons made by Abou-ElHaj in that same article: “Most studies that focus on ideology in Ottoman history have portrayed it as a unilateral imposition by the ruling class on a seemingly passive population. Few scholars seem to emphasize the reciprocal dimension of ideology.”57 This second call too I have answered. In the ‘Azāle-Nāmes, Muḥyī discursively produced not only his own identity, but also that of the Ottoman Empire. He did not do so in splendid isolation, but in a reciprocal dialogue with other 55 Compare to Ergene’s observations regarding ‘adālet-nāmes, in which she sees the Ottoman sultan depicted both as imam and as the archetypical benevolent despot, Ḫusrev. Indeed, she noticed “the existence of not one but two distinct images of just rulership”. On the one hand, there is the imam, whose authority “is derived from, and limited by, the dictates of religion”, the “executive and the representative of the sharia”, in line with “the basic ideals of the classical Hanafi definitions of caliphate”. On the other hand, there is the sultan, “who wants to prove his Husrev-like character”, and who “will not hesitate to use the ‘sword of siyāsa’” if need be. (Ergene B., “On Ottoman Justice: Interpretations in Conflict (1600-1800)”, Islamic Law and Society 8 (2001): 52-87, here pp. 61-62). 56 Abou-El-Haj R., “Aspects of the legitimation of Ottoman rule”, p. 381. 57 Abou-El-Haj R., “Aspects of the legitimation of Ottoman rule”, p. 372. 730 Osmanlı’da İlm-i Tasavvuf stakeholders, first and foremost Ebū’s-Su‘ūd Efendi. However absent the grand mufti personally was from Cairo in the 1590s, Muḥyī made him present there and then, precisely by reciprocating him. This he did most clearly through his tefsīr, where he simply emulated Ebū’s-Su‘ūd’s interpretation. This he also did, I claim, by writing not one but two ‘Azāle-Nāmes. As I have argued, somewhat more tentatively, these two texts, when read together, reify the vision of empire as championed by Ebū’s-Su‘ūd: a vision of siyāset şer‘īye. 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