S Constructing Ottoman Beneficence, An Imperial Soup Kitchen in Jerusalem (2002) PDF
S Constructing Ottoman Beneficence, An Imperial Soup Kitchen in Jerusalem (2002) PDF
S Constructing Ottoman Beneficence, An Imperial Soup Kitchen in Jerusalem (2002) PDF
AMY SINGER
Singer, Amy.
Constructing Ottoman beneficence : an imperial soup kitchen in
Jerusalem / Amy Singer.
p. cm. — (SUNY series in Near Eastern studies)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-7914-5351-0 (hc : alk. paper) — ISBN 0-7914-5352-9 (pbk. :
alk. paper)
1. Waqf—Jerusalem—History. 2. Endowments—Jerusalem—History.
3. Turkey—History—Ottoman Empire, 1288–1918—History. I. Title.
II. Series.
BP170.25.S56 2002
361.7’5’09569442—dc21 2002024171
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my teachers
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CONTENTS
vii
VIII CONTENTS
ix
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
xi
XII ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CONTENTS
Canbakal, Paul Cobb, Kate Fleet, Jane Hathaway, Halil Inalcık, Cemal
Kafadar, Benjamin Lellouch, Yusuf Natsheh, Gülru Necipo¬lu,
Christoph Neumann, Nicole van Os, Eleanor Robson, Jim Secord,
Lucienne Îenocak, Sara Wolper, Lucette Valensi and Dror Ze’evi.
For the past six years, Michael Bonner and Mine Ener have been
collaborators on a larger conference and book project about charity
and poverty in the Middle East. Working with them has provided a
continual source of inspiration and ideas. They and the scholars who
convened for four days at the University of Michigan’s Center for Middle
East and North African Studies in May 2000 under the auspices of an
NEH Collaborative Research Grant helped sharpen my thinking and
articulate many of the complex issues raised by philanthropy.
Leslie Peirce is my valued yoldaƒ of many years in exploring
Turkey and Ottoman history. Together we have discovered and dis-
cussed the endless variety of physical, material, and written docu-
ments that make the study of Ottoman history so compelling. Miri
Shefer and Liat Kozma worked as my research assistants during the
years that produced this book. I would like to thank them for their
invaluable contribution of enthusiastic and intelligent help with all
aspects of the project.
My thanks to Michael Rinella, Kelli Williams, and Patrick
Durocher of SUNY Press for their editorial expertise and guidance.
With so much help and encouragement, I would be ungenerous
if I did not acknowledge that I failed to heed all the advice given and
to incorporate the wealth of suggestions proffered.
Finally, thanks seems a small word to recognize the unwavering
companionship David Katz has provided as a partner in this life.
CONTENTS XIII
ABBREVIATIONS
xiii
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NOTE ON OTTOMAN TURKISH AND
ARABIC TRANSLITERATIONS
xv
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INTRODUCTION
And she also set down the following condition: that each of
the righteous men who sojourned in the room should receive
a ladle of soup and a loaf of bread at every meal served, and
a piece of stew meat on Friday evenings; that the imam of the
mosque, the clerk of the endowment, and [the employees] of
the public kitchen each receive a ladle of soup and two loaves
of bread at every meal served, and a piece of stew meat on
Friday evenings; and she also established that at every meal
served, four hundred persons from among the poor and
wretched, weak and needy each receive a loaf of bread and
each two a ladle of soup in a bowl between them, and share
a piece of stew meat on Friday evenings. Furthermore, it was
made a condition that no one other than the aforementioned
servants be appointed [to receive] food by claiming a pre-
emptive right or by request, and that no one make it a habit
to remove food in copper buckets. Such that if by some means
someone removed the food designated [for him], let it give
him no sustenance.1
1
2 INTRODUCTION
Damascus Gate
fountain
rosa
Via Dolo
(Hammam
al Sultan) fountain
fountain
loro sa
Via Do t al-Sitt Harem al-Sharif
¿Aqaba
al-Wad
Church of Hasseki
the Holy Sultan ¿imaret fountain
Sepulcher Dome of the Rock
al-¿Aqsa
citadel
Sultan’s
pool
0 300 m.
Map I.1 The Old City of Jerusalem, the HaÍÍeki Sultan ºmaret in the
center. Map by the author.
INTRODUCTION 3
place of the needy in society. However, this book is not about poverty
or the poor per se. It is about beneficence, whose recipients include
people deemed deserving because of their spiritual, social, or eco-
nomic status, and these include the poor and weak.
‡adaqa in Islamic law is distinguished explicitly from hiba, gift,
because it does not require the contractually binding acts of offer and
acceptance (ij«b wa-qab£l) between individuals. For the jurists, these
and several other conditions had to be met to create a valid gift.8 In
social terms, the distance between charity and gift may in fact be less
clear, especially an informal act such as putting money in the hand of
a beggar or leaving food at the doorstep of a needy family. Even the
large-scale imperial distributions of food through waqfs to be dis-
cussed here might seem to share some aspects of gift-giving, particu-
larly as they imply an acceptance not only of food but of sovereignty
and a reciprocal gift of loyalty. Yet there is a distinction necessary
between gift-giving and the formal endowments that constituted waqfs
and created large, ongoing institutions like the HaÍÍeki Sultan ºmaret.
One could begin with the observation that a waqf is a one-time gift
whose beneficiaries continue for generations; inevitably, it lacks the
quality of a transaction between specific individuals. Gifts and their
relationship to beneficence are not the focus of the present study,
though they deserve a separate inquiry. A social history of gift-giving
does not exist for Islamic or Middle Eastern history.9
One pious endowment is examined here in depth. It is true that
no one waqf can be singled out as a prototype of endowments, for
reasons that become apparent in the following discussions. Yet the
Jerusalem waqf of Hurrem Sultan was typical of Ottoman imperial
endowments for the way in which it was established and managed.
Though large in Jerusalem and Palestine, it was among the smaller of
such complexes, and though its provincial location (many days’ travel
from the imperial capital in Istanbul) might have diminished its sta-
tus, the special sanctity of Jerusalem compensated somewhat for the
intervening distance.
The ºmaret of Hurrem Sultan first came to my attention because
it took over large amounts of revenue produced in the villages of
southern Syria that were the subject of a previous study.10 It was an
important new institution, and its affairs and agents quickly perme-
ated the human, built, and cultivated systems of Jerusalem and the
surrounding region. Further investigation of the waqf itself has re-
vealed its rich extant historical record, both in the Ottoman archives
in Istanbul and in the records of the Muslim judges (kadi) of Jerusalem.
Moreover, the ºmaret is a living legacy, continuing to function to the
INTRODUCTION 7
end of the period of Ottoman rule, through the years of the British
Mandate, Jordanian sovereignty, and Israeli rule in Jerusalem.
While its longevity is intriguing, neither the continuity of func-
tion nor the continuous concentration of historical record is unique to
the waqf of Hurrem Sultan. Major monuments like this one had a
better chance of surviving intact than smaller endowments, as did
their documentation.11 The records of countless Ottoman endowments
of all sizes survive in Turkish archives.12 Many buildings, too, remain
to testify to the beneficence of their long-dead patrons. Like the HaÍÍeki
Sultan ºmaret, one may find them still in use. In addition to the eye-
catching mosques, public kitchens, too, still operate—for example, in
the complex of Bayezid II in Amasya and in that of Mihriƒah Valide
Sultan at Eyüp in Istanbul.13
Concentrating on one endowment highlights its particular com-
ponent institutions and explains how they both affected and were
shaped by local politics, economics, society, and culture, even during
the first years of their existence. The discussion of one waqf is impor-
tant not only because the complex process of its founding and opera-
tions touched numerous aspects of local economy and society, but
because the evidence available about this one foundation also compels
a reconsideration of certain modern myths and allegations about waqfs.
These derive partly from the historiography of the nineteenth- and
twentieth-century Middle East and Islamic world, which often sought
to blame Muslim institutions for their perceived failure to modernize.
In part, too, the endowments and their influence on property relations
and agricultural production were distorted (and sometimes demon-
ized) because the sources employed to study them were chiefly nor-
mative legal texts or prescriptive foundation documents, and not
ongoing records of waqf activities. Deviations from prescribed norms
read in written texts led observers who lacked an extensive under-
standing of the institution to compose severe criticisms of waqfs.14
This book focuses on the period and circumstances of the initial
founding of the HaÍÍeki Sultan ºmaret. The volume of documentary
material extant on this institution might have been reason enough for
this concentration. More importantly, the complex genesis of this en-
dowment merits focused consideration because it opens a window on
the entire culture of Ottoman imperial philanthropy. When Hurrem
Sultan set about creating the endowment in Jerusalem, she was acting
within a framework of traditions, motivations, and circumstances con-
structed from elements of Ottoman and Islamic history and culture, as
well as from the immediate context of the empire in the mid-sixteenth
century. The conceptualization of such a foundation came largely from
8 INTRODUCTION
or the peasants who supplied the bulk of its foodstuffs. The impover-
ished people who received a measure of sustenance from the vast
cauldrons remain largely unknown in the historical record. Nor do we
have a clear notion of how people gained the right initially to receive
food from the kitchen or an indication of the criteria used to judge
poverty or deservedness.
The research of other scholars, such as Suraiya Faroqhi, Miriam
Hoexter, and the late Ronald Jennings, has already demonstrated the
rich detail available in Ottoman archives about single institutions.18
There is also a tradition of waqf research that has produced analytic
works asking more general questions about waqf; they include the
writings of Baer, Barkan, Gerber, and Yediyıldız.19 These maintain waqf
as the focus, the central problematic. Yet waqf is often only one form
of many larger categories; for example, it is one kind of property
holding, one type of capital investment, one form of patronage, one
mode of beneficence. And it is within these multiple, overlapping
contexts that I think it is most useful to consider it.
Nonetheless, until now it has rarely been possible to trace out in
continuous detail the series of steps by which the revenue sources of
an endowment were organized, the buildings prepared, and the whole
put to work at its pious purpose. More importantly, it becomes clear
through this analysis that waqf-making is a far more complex, varied,
and imperfect process in its execution than the more usual descrip-
tions of it indicate, often based on the endowment deed alone. Robert
McChesney wrote diachronically about the shrine complex in Balkh
and demonstrated how changeable one endowment can be, using a
variety of sources. Miriam Hoexter’s work on the Awq«f al-‹aramayn
of Algiers undertook a similar project, though with different kinds of
sources and questions.20 The present study enjoys a denser documen-
tary base from which to discuss a single institution than either of these
two. Here, the endowment deeds are only one of several kinds of
Ottoman records available. The combination of endowment deeds,
property titles, account registers, reports, imperial orders, and local
judicial registers supplies abundant sources for a study of the HaÍÍeki
Sultan ºmaret.
Much of the once-absolutist sense of the nature and administra-
tion of endowments is contravened by such a close examination, and
it further impels us to reconsider some truisms about endowments
generally. There is a tendency to understand the process of foundation
as one which removed properties from their usual context and to see
all operations which sought to return them to the market as aberrant.
Any deviation from the original plan of the endowment was blamed on
INTRODUCTION 13
15
16 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
rather than continuous and unequivocal evidence, is the basis for iden-
tifying the roots of endowment–making in early Muslin society.4
According to Islamic tradition, the first waqf was made by the Prophet
from the wealth left to him by one of his followers. Alternatively, the
first waqf is ascribed to ˙mar b. al-Kha††«b, who asked the Prophet
whether he should give away as charity (Íadaqa) valuable lands he had
received. The Prophet told him: “in shi’ta ¥abbasta aÍlah« wa-taÍaddaqta
bih«” (“If you want, retain the thing itself and devote its fruits to pious
purposes.”) This ˙mar did, specifying that the land should never be
transferred by sale or inheritance.5
The earliest written references to waqf include legal texts and
inscriptions from the late eighth and early ninth centuries C.E.6 By the
time these records were made, the works of the jurists recorded not
only evolving doctrines but also the disputes among themselves about
the nature of waqf and the details of laws applicable to it, indicating
that the institution had been in place for some time. More ordered and
comprehensive legal works on waqf were produced in the mid-ninth
century, by Hil«l al-Ra’y (d. 245/859) and al-KhaÍÍ«f (d. 261/874),
who were the first to devote whole treatises to the subject.7
However it began, waqf-making acquired popularity as the chief
vehicle of formal philanthropy throughout the Muslim world. Despite
the strict legal constraints surrounding their founding and operation,
endowments evolved as enormously flexible and practical institutions.
Part of their popularity also derived from the fact that the waqf was
not merely a tool of philanthropy, but simultaneously achieved other
goals for the founders. Hence waqf has continued to be used until the
present in Muslim communities, and in many cases the laws govern-
ing waqf-making have today been integrated to national constitutions
and legal systems implemented by individual states.8
Scholars have pointed to waqf as one instrument that traditionally
organized and distributed relief and assistance to the needy and weak
in Muslim communities. What gradually has become the responsibility
of governments, public agencies, and non-governmental organizations
in the modern era was, for the most part, previously undertaken in
beneficent endowments constructed by individuals, often from among
the wealthy and powerful elites.9 Much relief was probably also distrib-
uted informally within communities, as has often been the case in so-
cieties and cultures around the world.10 Unlike informal assistance,
however, waqfs usually generated an inky trail which now lends them
disproportionate visibility as historical objects. The historian has a more
difficult task to document informal assistance, though it may also be
institutionalized as customary distributions of food or money at holi-
days, or at festivals such as circumcisions, weddings, and funerals.11
DEVOTE THE FRUITS TO PIOUS PURPOSES 17
WHAT IS A WAQF?
due to tradition, while the more general doctrine of ‹anaf± law had
come to restrict endowed property to immovables.16
Jews and Christians, too, could establish endowments to support
anything that was a pious purpose according to Islamic law, such as
a fountain, a public kitchen, or a shelter for the poor; churches and
synagogues did not meet this qualification. Under the Ottomans, how-
ever, some Christians religious establishments were also supported by
waqfs. In many cases, these endowments comprised extensive proper-
ties belonging to monasteries, whose tax yields to the state constituted
important revenues. Allowing the monastery property to be recorded
as waqf by means of legal fictions protected it and was appreciated by
the monks, who continued to remit their taxes.17
Another fundamental characteristic of a waqf under ‹anaf± law
is that it must be made in perpetuity. In fact, the permanence or
reversibility of endowments was a point of some disagreement among
the schools of law, as was the validity of a temporary waqf. Ab£
‹an±fa (d. 150/767), founder of the ‹anaf± madhhab, himself had said
that waqfs were only permanent when made as part of the final tes-
tament of the founder. Yet according to his student, Ab£ Y£suf (d.
182/798), a waqf was irreversible, and this was the practice in the
Ottoman empire. To emphasize and notarize this condition, a formal
request was usually made to the kadi to annul the waqf at the time of
its foundation, whereupon the kadi declared the impossibility of ab-
rogating what was already endowed, citing the opinion of Ab£ Y£suf.
This latter decision might be appended in writing to the endowment
deed itself.18
For the waqf to be legal, all parts of an endowment had to be
stipulated at the time of its founding, usually in an endowment deed
(waqfiyya). The revenue-producing properties were alienated perma-
nently as the principal capital for the endowment. The immediate and
successive beneficiaries (institutions and/or people) were stipulated
along with the condition that when they expired—the building col-
lapsed or the line of people died out—the revenues would devolve
upon the poor of Mecca and Medina or of some other place.19 This
condition rested on the assumption that the poor were as enduring as
any property (if not more so) and that as long as human beings exist,
poor people will be found among them.
A manager (mutawall±) also had to be stipulated when the foun-
dation was established, in order to oversee the proper functioning of
the endowment and to ensure that the specific terms laid down by the
founder were fulfilled. He or she was responsible for ensuring the
continuing productivity of the properties for the maximum benefit of
DEVOTE THE FRUITS TO PIOUS PURPOSES 21
the endowment, seeing to their upkeep and good repair and replacing
dilapidated or diminished properties with more productive ones. All
such changes, however, had to be expressly authorized by the local
kadi, who was responsible for the general welfare of individual en-
dowments in his jurisdiction.20
A perpetual succession of managers had to be established as
well, in keeping with the requirement for the eternal existence of the
waqf. They were frequently from the family of the founder. Other-
wise, and if the succession expired, the local kadi was responsible ex
officio to name the most appropriate and able person for the task—at
times, himself. The endowment deed might provide for additional
staff, depending on the purpose of the endowment. From one endow-
ment to another, the number of people varied with the quantity or size
of the beneficiaries and with the extent of the endowed properties to
be managed. Waqf employees filled key posts, such as teachers, doc-
tors, accountants, and revenue collectors, as well as auxiliary func-
tions, such as the custodians associated with any building. In larger
and smaller endowments alike, the manager might hire additional
temporary or permanent staff as needed, for example to carry out
structural repairs.
While a written endowment deed is not an absolute requirement
for the constitution of a waqf—only a formulaic oral declaration be-
fore witnesses is needed—the practice of writing the stipulations of
the endowment in ink, occasionally in stone, evolved to a norm.21
However, deeds vary extensively in their length and detail, leaving
broader or more narrow scope for decision-making to the manager
and the kadi. In the Ottoman period, the terms of such deeds were
often entered in their entirety into the written protocols of the kadi
(sijill) upon the initial constitution of a waqf; at other times they were
recorded or re-registered at a later date (possibly much later), at a
moment when it was deemed necessary to confirm the endowment
and its properties.22
Over time, the literal meaning of waqf and the condition of its
perpetuity have perhaps been responsible for overemphasizing the
permanency of the revenue-yielding properties as part of any single
endowment. The negative picture of waqfs, as well as criticisms of
their harmful effects on agrarian practice and property development,
seem to have evolved to some extent from a fixation on the suppos-
edly “stopped” aspect of the endowed principal. Assets are described
as “frozen” or the word “waqf” is translated with the European term
“mortmain” (“dead hand”) wrongly implying inertia.23 In practice,
properties were not permanently excluded from transactions, but were
22 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
The Qur’an does not refer specifically to waqf, but rather to alms
(zak«t) and generally to good works (Íadaqa, khayr). Payment of the
alms tax is one of the five basic obligations of the believing Muslim.
Zak«t is often discussed in the Qur’an along with prayer (Íal«t), chari-
table gifts or voluntary donations (Íadaq«t) and good deeds (Í«li¥«t),
those things that help believers gain entrance to Paradise.25 Waqf is a
type of good work, sometimes called Íadaqa mawq£fa.26
At the roots of waqf are Muslim religious principles and prac-
tices, as well as those of the societies and cultures from which and
among which Islam and the first Arab Muslim state evolved. Viewed
from a longer perspective, the endowments or foundations of classical
Greece and Rome contributed to formulating the practices of the west
Asian and Mediterranean regions, though these had been adapted and
translated through the media of Byzantine and Zoroastrian society
and culture.27 Islam emerged on the cusp of the Byzantine Christian
and Persian Zoroastrian oikoumenes, and there also encountered the
social organization and tenets of Judaism in communities scattered
throughout the larger political units.
In Judaism, the specific use of a term meaning justice or righ-
teousness (Íedaœâ) to name obligatory charitable contributions dates at
least to the second century C.E.28 However, no extensive scholarly dis-
cussion exists of the Jewish institutions of beneficence and relief in
rabbinic times or in premodern Europe, despite the centrality of the
DEVOTE THE FRUITS TO PIOUS PURPOSES 23
to protect personal wealth, provide for the founder’s family, and dis-
tribute inheritance in shares different from those prescribed in Islamic
law. For the members of an imperial household and other wealthy
individuals, waqfs were also a convenient tool of patronage, used to
broadcast power and to legitimize and strengthen sovereignty.
An examination of these varied motivations makes clear how
versatile an institution a waqf was for its founders. Thus the following
discussion considers the multiple uses of waqfs and how their ability
to serve many motivations also engendered severe criticism.
From the richest to the poorest of people who chose to endow
their property, the declared purpose in doing so was to bring the
founder closer to God (qurba) and to obtain a place in Paradise.40
“[Hurrem Sultan] having seen and beheld these endless graces and
boundless favours bestowed on her, and out of gratefulness therefor
and in compliance with the noble content of the holy verse: ‘Do good,
as Allah has done good unto you,’ unlocked the cupboards of favours
and gifts . . .”41 As here, a religious motivation for making waqfs is the
one most consistently articulated in the endowment deeds; the Qur’an
promises rewards from Allah for generous gifts and beneficent acts.
Beneficence brings spiritual benefit and is also a means of atoning for
sin.42 “Take of their wealth a freewill offering (Íadaqa), to purify them
and to cleanse them thereby, and pray for them” (IX:103).
The teachings of the Qur’an encourage generous and benevolent
actions: “True piety is this: to believe in God, and the Last Day, the
angels, the Book, and the Prophets, to give of one’s substance, how-
ever cherished, to kinsmen, and orphans, the needy, the traveller,
beggars and to ransom the slave, to perform the prayer, to pay the
alms” (II:177). “Surely those, the men and the women, who make
freewill offerings and have lent to God a good loan, it shall be mul-
tiplied for them, and theirs shall be a generous wage” (LVII:18). Be-
yond announcing individual generosity, these endowments also form
part of the calculations of mortals against the possibility of Paradise
after death. Their actions do not derive from a pure and simple altru-
ism. For those who believe in a state of being beyond death and a final
day of reckoning, the charitable actions of a lifetime are an investment
in eternity.
Motivations other than the spiritual aspiration for qurba, the goal
of Paradise, and the humanistic aim of providing financial support for
people and institutions certainly informed waqf-making. These atten-
dant motivations, however, must be discovered largely through cir-
cumstantial or indirect evidence, as the endowment deeds announced
only the piety and beneficence of the founder. Endowments served as
DEVOTE THE FRUITS TO PIOUS PURPOSES 27
THE OTTOMANS
fifteenth to the early seventeenth century, all other princes were elimi-
nated. There was thus no challenge to the reigning sultan from within
the family. This meant that Ottoman territory was never divided as a
result of the death of the sultan, nor was succession the result of a
contest between commanders. Thus, the ruler was not competing with
the families of previous or future rulers to control the resources of
their endowments. The endowments were part of the general capital
of the entire family, and it behooved the reigning Ottoman to look
after the waqfs of his ancestors since their condition was a reflection
on him as well. At the same time, however, each sultan was in part a
competitor with his predecessors in the contest to earn a reputation as
a successful ruler, to leave his mark on the empire. This more subtle,
ongoing rivalry also inspired waqf-making.
While in practical terms it was only the sultan, his household,
and a few powerful and solvent individuals who could afford to en-
dow large complexes, it would also have been unsuitable for others to
set up anything but more modest imitations. Imperial waqfs were
intended to be an expression of imperial beneficence and imperial
capacity. Among members of his own household, the sultan could
control this closely, since their endowments were made from proper-
ties deeded to them for this purpose. Among the notability, one as-
sumes there were some self-imposed limits as well as the practical,
financial ones.
There was, too, a crucial difference between the endowments of
the imperial family and those of their viziers and other high-ranking
officials. The officials, as private individuals, generally assigned the
management of their waqfs to members of their families or house-
holds. Only when the family and household descendents were extinct
did the management pass to some state official, often the holder of the
highest-ranking position in the professional hierarchy to which the
founder had belonged. Sultans and members of the imperial family,
on the other hand, conferred the management of their endowments on
Ottoman officials directly. There was no material benefit to the impe-
rial family from the waqfs. Unlike other waqf founders and the sul-
tans of other empires before them, the Ottoman dynasty benefited
largely in non-material ways from their endowments. Qurba, prestige,
legitimacy, and patronage were their rewards. The viziers and other
officials, by retaining management in family hands, were more typical
of most other waqf founders, where the endowment only came into
“public” hands once the family was extinguished.69
In the sixteenth century the imperial Ottoman endowments most
often named as their managers a member of the Ottoman military-
36 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
However, while the city benefited from these investments, the Otto-
mans could not alter its character. Basically, Jerusalem was a holy city,
a destination for pilgrims. With little industry or economic advantage as
counterweight to its location on a mountain at the edge of the desert,
the city remained dependent for survival on the fees it could charge
visitors and the money they spent on food, lodging, services, and sou-
venirs, as well as the generosity of patrons of all types.
A foundation like the ºmaret was intended to provide food as
assistance to a variety of people. Like other beneficent endowments of
the time, it was intended to aid, not to cure, the weak and impoverished
among those who ate there, as well as to recompense the employees
and to give strangers their due welcome. Unlike many large imperial
complexes, the public kitchen was the principle feature of Hurrem’s
complex. In this it also differed from the other endowments already
extant in Jerusalem. Over hundreds of years, Muslim rulers had con-
tributed mosques, colleges and sufi residences to the cityscape of Jerusa-
lem. The Dome of the Rock and al-Aqͫ were the focal prayer sites, with
the schools and residences ringing them on three sides around the pe-
rimeter of the ‹aram al-Shar±f. Prayer, the study of Qur’an, tradition,
and law, and the hosting of pilgrims, sufis, and scholars were the chief
activities supported by those who made endowments. Thus while
Hurrem’s public kitchen was fairly typical of Ottoman endeavors, it
was rather unique in Jerusalem. There were numerous waqfs which
supported the distribution of food to students or sufis or guests. But at
the time it was founded, there appears to have been only one such
kitchen in operation in Jerusalem, and no other similar institutions are
known to have been established subsequently.
The above sketch situates the HaÍÍeki Sultan ºmaret in the his-
torical stream of waqf-making. By the time it was established in Jerusa-
lem, the practice of waqf-making had long been embedded in Muslim
culture, continued by Ottomans in the tradition of their Selçuk, Mamluk
and Byzantine predecessors. Waqf-making was easily intelligible to
the subjects of the empire, and the large Ottoman endowments were
self-evident in the meaning they broadcast to those who encountered
them. Hurrem’s endowment was thus part of an established culture of
imperial beneficence, integral to the identity of the Ottoman empire
and its rulers. The spectrum of possible motivations, together with the
choice of waqf as a means to achieve or promote these aims, are inex-
tricably part of this culture. By combining the attainment of individual
goals, elite status aims, and social and economic relief into a single
mechanism, waqfs became extremely powerful and popular instru-
ments. The effects were not unlike those of some large philanthropic
foundations today.
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Chapter Two
39
40 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
41
copyright holder The Franciscan Printing Press, Jerusalem.
42
CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
Figure 2.2 Doors in the north façade, nineteenth-century drawing. Both doors belong to the original house of al-Sitt ¤unsh£q.
The doorway which appears as bricked up in the eighteenth-century drawing here seems to be open. Ermete Pierotti, Jerusalem
Explored (London: Bell and Daldy, 1864), Illustration #43. Courtesy of Widener Library, Harvard University. This work is in the
public domain.
A BOWL OF SOUP AND A LOAF OF BREAD 43
ments regarding managerial issues were intended for her. There seems
some merit in the belief that the waqfiyya was written for Hurrem to
read or have read to her, since it is in Turkish and does not lack any
of the expansive and intricate formulae of a final document. Had the
Turkish been a draft, such as the entries one sees in the mühimme
defterleri, it needed to include only the purely informational elements,
without all the ceremonial and rhetorical flourishes.9 In fact, the Ara-
bic text contains a shorter laudatory description of Hurrem than that
in the Turkish text.
Nonetheless, the titles, the calligraphy, and the inclusion of the
formal legal elements in this Turkish waqfiyya, including the kadi’s
formal validation of the endowment in the face of the pro forma at-
tempt to revoke it, all suggest that it represented the endowment as
originally conceived. A second deed probably became necessary with
the numerous, rapid changes that took place in the endowed proper-
ties. The Arabic version was also the more aesthetically elaborate and
ornate of the two documents, suggesting that it was a final presenta-
tion copy, after organization and construction of the waqf had been
completed. Notably, however, neither waqfiyya approaches the dra-
matic beauty of the title deeds.
The linguistic chronology of these deeds is curious. In fact,
Süleyman issued an order on 16 Safer 960/1 February 1553 that all the
waqfiyyas and related documents stored in the imperial treasury and
the imperial mint, which were written in Arabic as had been customary,
were to be translated into Turkish. This order was addressed to Alâüddin
Efendi, one of the teachers in Hurrem’s medrese in Istanbul.10 Thus one
might have expected to find the later version of the deed written in
Turkish and the earlier in Arabic, but this is not the case. If other ver-
sions existed, they have not yet come to light. That Hurrem’s deed was
already written in Turkish perhaps bears witness to her own status and
that of imperial women, showing how they were accommodated.11
The waqfiyya, whether Turkish or Arabic, can be divided into
several parts.12 A long introductory section replete with praises to
Allah and his prophet Mu¥ammad (1–2) is followed by Süleyman’s
formal signature (tu¬ra) (3) and the confirmation and witnessing of
the document by Ca¿fer b. Åli, chief judge (kazi¿asker) of the Anadolu
province. It continued with reflections on the nature of human exist-
ence, the beneficence of God and laudatory descriptions of Hurrem
and Süleyman (5–12). Several pages more were devoted to extolling
Hurrem’s beneficence and her motivations (12–17). Only then did
the physical and operational details of the Jerusalem endowment
begin.
46 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
courtyard
water
courtyard
fountain
courtyard
south
entrance
Figure 2.3 Overall ground plan. A) north entryway, B) room, 1–6) original
kitchen, 7–9) extension of kitchen (mid-sixteenth century), C) storeroom (kilar),
D) bakery, E) rectangular hall, F) large room, N) hall with four bays, possibly
the original mosque or refectory?, P) rectangular room, Q) storeroom, R) store-
room (both Q & R of later construction), A1) south entryway, M1–M8) bays
of the caravansaray, I) recess, J) rectangular room. Reconstructions and addi-
tions have altered or masked some of the original configurations of the build-
ings in the complex. In Sylvia Auld and Robert Hillenbrand, eds., Ottoman
Jerusalem. The Living City: 1517–1917 (London: Altajir World of Islam Trust,
2000), 772, figure 15.1. Permission from copyright holder the Altajir World of
Islam Trust. (Printed labels on the plan added by the author).
48 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
were issued.24 All the properties in them came from areas closer to
Jerusalem. Most were part of an exchange for already-endowed prop-
erties. The income from the lease (muœa†a¿a) of the Trablus soap facto-
ries had proved unreliable, while repairs to the factories themselves
were a constant burden. The distance from Jerusalem to Trablus must
have complicated the supervision of operations and the ability to ensure
a fair return from the tenants. In addition, the roads to and from
Trablus were not secure, so that a sizable delegation with a military
escort was regularly required to make the trip in order to collect endow-
ment monies.25 Thus it is not entirely surprising to find that several of
the properties—the Sa¿diyya and Åw«m±d soap factories and the ‡a¥y£n
windmills—did not appear in the waqfiyya of 1557. In their place, twenty
villages in the districts of Jerusalem and Gaza were added to the en-
dowment. Closer at hand and more easily accessible, their addition to
the waqf facilitated matters for the revenue collectors.26
Discussions of properties and transfers make it clear that the
manager began collecting endowment revenues as soon as the title
deeds were issued but before the waqfiyya was drawn up. Evidently
Hurrem’s intentions and those of Süleyman in giving her the property
were anticipated by the manager. While the collections may demon-
strate great efficiency on the part of the manager, or his eagerness to
please, the bookkeeping of revenues whose claimants were changing
could not have been simple. In principle, the title deed only estab-
lished ownership over the property, while the waqfiyya created the
endowment. The first manager of the ºmaret was from the pool of
military administrators who lived on their appointments to larger
(ze¿amet) or smaller (tımar) revenue grants. His jumping the gun on
collecting revenues may have reflected competition for revenues among
the men of this class.
In the district of Jerusalem itself the new properties included
Jericho (R±¥«) and the nearby farm of Ra’s al-Diq, the villages of Bayt
J«l«, Jufn« al-NaÍ«r«, Bayt Kis«, Bayt Liqy«, and Buqay¿at al-D• «n. From
the district of Gaza: Ni¿l±n, Yah£diyya, Ån«ba, Ran†iyya, Jind«s,
Kharbat«, Bir M«¿±n, Bayt Shann«, Bayt Dajj«n, Safariyya, Subt«ra,
Y«z£r, and the farm of Kansa. In the district of Nablus, the village of
Q«q£n, as well as taxes levied on the ‹aythana al-Jamm«s±n tribe in
the farm of Khash«na were also added.27
Several more changes were made ten months later, just before
the waqfiyya was issued. The village of Jufn« al-NaÍ«r« was not meant
to be part of the endowment at all, but had been written by mistake
instead of Bayt La¥m (Bethlehem) and two plots of land (œi†a¿-i arz•)—
Ra’s al-‹aniyya and Khillat al-Jawz—belonging to the nearby village
A BOWL OF SOUP AND A LOAF OF BREAD 51
Qaqun
Jaffa Rantiyya
Kafr ¿Ana
Yahudiyya
Yazur
Bayt Dajan Kafr Jinnis
Safariyya
Jindas Jufna al-Nasara
Ni¿lin
Ludd
Kharbata
Bi¿r Me¿in
¿Anaba
Bayt Liqya
Subtara
Bayt Shanna
Jadira Jib
Jericho
Bayt Iksa ¿Isawiyya
Buqaya¿ at al-Dan
Jerusalem
Bayt Jala
Bayt Lahm
Gaza
0 10 20 30 km
Map 2.1 Endowed villages in the sancaks of Jerusalem and Gaza (by Mu¥arrem
972/August 1564). Note the relative concentration of the villages to the west
of Jerusalem, from the city towards the coast. Map by the author.
52 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
port threshed grain from Jericho and other endowment villages to the
ºmaret in Jerusalem. For this the tribes received no fee; in addition they
were each expected to bring twenty-seven head of sheep and goats as
was customary ( ÷det diye). These eighty-one head were valued at 30 akçe
apiece, for a total of 2430 akçe.35 The note in the survey was clearly out
of date in referring to Jericho as part of the waqf, though quite probably
the tribes continued to be responsible for transporting and delivering
the grain from that village and others to Jerusalem.36
These exchanges of waqf properties are important evidence for
different aspects of Ottoman administration and endowment manage-
ment. First, the ease with which they can be traced today exemplifies
Ottoman record-making in this period. Second, the persistence of changes
is yet another indication that records, especially survey records, were
no better than snapshots of one particular instant and must be used
accordingly, since they could not keep up with the monthly or yearly
changes in landholding and revenue use. Third, the widespread use of
exchange demonstrates how flexible a waqf could be and also had to be
concerning its endowed properties. The fact that waqf properties were
readily and, here, frequently exchanged suggests that they were treated
as economic and commercial commodities. The symbolic and religious
aspects of the endowment were embodied in the services it offered and
the buildings or institutions supported by the properties. The revenue-
yielding properties themselves were mere instruments for these aims.
Yet this does not mean that they could be transferred at will; their
connection to the waqf dictated that defined legal procedures be fol-
lowed with the approval of the kadi in order to effect any such changes.
These procedures existed and were readily invoked. Thus the immedi-
ate equation of property transfer from an endowment with corrupt
management of that endowment is an incorrect assumption.37
The final property originally endowed by Hurrem Sultan was a
double bath around the corner from the ºmaret itself, inside the city.
It sat on the Via Dolorosa, just east of al-W«d Street, between what are
now the third and fourth stations of the Cross.38 The bath was an
entirely new building, constructed especially for the endowment, in-
creasing the facilities available in the city for routine hygiene and
ritual cleansing.39 Once built, the operation of the bath was leased out,
with the rental fee constituting revenues for the waqf. However, con-
struction took some time, and, as is not unheard of, went over budget,
so that initially the bath came under the “expenditures” (ihracat) head-
ing of the waqf accounts and not that of “revenues” (ma¥Íulat). Mean-
while, this project, together with the repairs and improvements made
on ¤unsh£q’s house, provided employment for both skilled and un-
skilled workmen in the city.
54 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
PERSONNEL43
içün). Two çanaœcı were also listed who looked after the cups and bowls
of the ºmaret.47 Five more people had joined the kitchen staff by 1557:
two more associate bakers; two additional people to prepare wheat and
rice for cooking; and another çanaœcı.
For the general welfare and custodial care of the endowment, a
guardian of the mosque and rooms (œayyım ve çırakcı) lit and doused
the candles, opened and shut the doors, and swept; one person looked
after all aspects of the caravansaray; there was a doorkeeper (œapıcı) of
the kitchen and refectory and another person (ferraƒ) to sweep out the
kitchen, refectory, and ºmaret, as well as take out the garbage; and a
person to light the lamps and candles (the ones not in the mosque and
rooms). A master repairman (ustaz meremmetçi) was provided for in
the Turkish waqfiyya, but by the time the Arabic text was drawn up
five years later, he had metamorphosed into a staff of four: a com-
bined carpenter-builder-stone cutter (najj«r wa-bann«’ wa-¥ajj«r); a re-
pair man for the double bath; a man to attend to the water channels
(qan«w«t±) leading to the baths and everywhere else in the ºmaret; and
a cashier or money changer (Íayraf±).48
This was the staff of the endowment. It is hard to know whether
it was considered a good place to work, although the ºmaret did seem
to offer some attractive terms to its employees. The positions there
included two meals a day along with the salary, with special dishes
for festivals. Work was steady year-round, not dependent on seasons
or military successes, though vulnerable should the ¿imaret cease func-
tioning, as happened occasionally. On the other hand, the work was
demanding and unrelenting, as anyone who has cooked for or cleaned
up after large numbers of diners will recognize.
The list of ºmaret employees in Jerusalem was completely stan-
dard, familiar from the waqfiyyas of numerous other ¿imarets like those
of the Süleymaniye or Fatih complexes in Istanbul or that of Bayezid II
in Edirne. These, however, employed six cooks and six bakers each,
along with larger staffs of wheat and rice sifters, servers, and dishwash-
ers.49 Small staffs, more comparable to those of the Jerusalem ºmaret,
were found at the Muradiye in Edirne or the complex of Selim II in
Karapınar.50 Of course, all these staffs bore only faint resemblance to
that of the imperial kitchens in Topkapı Palace, the “top of the food
chain.” There, separate kitchens served distinct groups among the pal-
ace residents and staff, with one kitchen dedicated solely to the produc-
tion of sweets (¥elvahane). In the second half of the sixteenth century,
sixty cooks and 200 other servants worked in these kitchens.51
One question which arises concerning the permanent positions
in this or any other foundation is what they actually entailed, whether
they were full- or part-time and whether the titles implied real tasks
A BOWL OF SOUP AND A LOAF OF BREAD 57
or simply sinecures. During the initial period which is the focus here,
the reports and expense registers clearly indicate that the ºmaret was
a functioning kitchen, serving large quantities of food to many people
regularly. Over time, however, it is unclear what happened to the
large staff and how much food continued to be cooked on site. By the
mid-nineteenth century, the staff was smaller, and much food was in
fact distributed in bulk as basic supplies, to be taken home and pre-
pared there.52 Quite possibly, some amount of cooked food continued
to be prepared for distribution from the ºmaret, even if most benefi-
ciaries received raw materials. That this is the case is suggested by the
fact that even today, when the place serves chiefly as an orphanage
and vocational training facility, meat with rice and vegetable soup is
cooked and distributed to needy people on Tuesdays and every day
during Ramadan.53
Curiously, a subaƒı was appointed for the villages of the waqf,
yet he was not listed among the staff in the waqfiyya itself. Subaƒıs
were soldiers who carried out various police functions, both in the city
and throughout the district of Jerusalem, helping to keep the peace
and serving as agents of the kadi. They were paid salaries, but might
also lease revenue-collection rights from other Ottoman officials. The
subaƒı of the ºmaret villages had no authority to collect revenues, since
the ºmaret had its own revenue collectors. Moreover, his salary was
not part of the endowment expenditures (at least not obviously), de-
spite the fact that the position seems to have become permanent, one
of the various subaƒı appointments in the district. This suggests that
keeping the peace and ensuring that the villagers kept to their agricul-
tural obligations were the jurisdiction of local Ottoman officials, no
matter what the status of the villages.54 Appointing a subaƒı specifi-
cally for these villages also indicates that they were recognized as a
unit, despite the fact that they were not located all together, not even
all in the same districts.
During times of hardship, particularly during the winter, a butcher
was appointed to the ºmaret to ensure a regular supply of meat. Butch-
ers not only slaughtered animals but were often responsible for main-
taining contacts with the villagers and bedouin who supplied the
animals and for ensuring their arrival in the city. Because none was
listed in the waqfiyya, the appointment of a butcher was a more com-
plex undertaking than hiring another kitchen hand, requiring imperial
approval. It seems to have become imperative for the kitchen, and a
butcher was authorized under Süleyman, and then again under Sul-
tans Selim II and Murad III.55 The presence of two butchers in the
provincial ºmaret in Karapınar suggests that this position may have
been created frequently for these large kitchens. Although there are no
58 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
butchers listed in the waqfiyyas for any of the large ºmarets in Bursa,
Edirne, and Istanbul, they may well have been appointed subsequently.
These ºmarets needed large quantities of meat. In Istanbul, they com-
peted with the palaces for regular supplies and confronted more dif-
ficulties than in Jerusalem, since the distinction and distance between
urban and rural was greater in the metropolis than in the province.
The task of supplying meat on a large scale was not one eagerly sought,
however, as the risk and expense anywhere meant a huge outlay for
an uncertain return.56
SOUP
larger containers, whereas the drier rich dishes could not be properly
prepared if the pot was too big.
The standard daily menu consisted of two soups (çorba), cooked
and served, morning and evening, with bread. Plain loaves (fodula)
baked from flour, salt, and water weighed a standard 90 dirhems after
baking.60 Bulgur (or burghul, cracked wheat) soup was the evening
meal, made with clarified butter, chick peas, onions, salt, and cumin.
Mornings, the soup was rice with clarified butter, chick peas, onions,
salt, and, according to the season, squash, yogurt, lemon, or pepper
for additional flavor. While simple, the soups, together with the bread,
offered a sound composite of basic nutrients—protein, carbohydrates,
vitamins, fat, etc.61 However, it is impossible to say that they provided
sufficient nourishment because there is no indication of how much
water went into the soups, nor how large the portions actually were.
These two soups were common fare in ºmarets, whether in Istanbul,
Edirne, Konya, Damascus, Ergene, or Bolayır.62 At the Süleymaniye,
one might find spinach, carrots, or parsley mixed with the rice soup,
while at Fatih there could be chard.63 The ºmaret at Dil, near Yalova
on the south coast of the Marmara Sea, appears somewhat exceptional
in that it served meat every day as part of the standard fare, not
reserved for special guests. Soup was both a real and symbolic dish.
It represented the most basic form of nourishment, the minimal meal
of subsistence, and the food to which even the poor could aspire daily.
In a memo she sent to the grand vizier in the mid-seventeenth cen-
tury, valide ¤urhan Sultan complained: “There is not enough firewood
in the Old Palace to boil soup!”64
Elsewhere only higher-ranking visitors received better than the
familiar soup. At Fatih, special guests or travelers were treated to a
mutton-enriched dish (dane), a stew (yahni), and bread. Should the rank
of the diner make it fitting, he was to be served a rice dish sweetened
with honey and saffron (zerde) as well, or sometimes a rice stew with
plums and other fruits (ekƒi aƒı). Members of the class of descendents of
the Prophet (eƒraf) were especially treated to a breakfast including sheep’s
trotters (paça), squash, honey, and jam.65 Instructions to the director of
the Süleymaniye ºmaret explicitly enjoined him to welcome travelers
better than any place else, and although dane and zerde were served to
this group daily, no fancy breakfasts were on offer.66 However, visitors
of rank could presumably request special dishes from the prepared
foods vendors at their own expense.67 At the Selimiye ¿imaret in
Karapınar, separate feasts (ziyafet) were budgeted for governors and
other high-ranking travelers on the Anatolian highway between the
capital and farther provinces.68 Absent, too, at the Jerusalem ¿imaret
60 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
was the offer of honey to arriving travelers. This was the practice at the
Süleymaniye and at Fatih, where bread and honey were budgeted daily
for this purpose.69 Honey is a rich natural source of energy, pure sugar
quickly absorbed into the body and thus ideal for weary travelers. Its
absence in Jerusalem might have derived from the relatively small
number or lower station of the travelers arriving at its door or was
perhaps due to the limited budget.
On special days, however, richer dishes were served to every-
one. These festivals included Friday nights (the night between Thurs-
day and Friday), the nights of Ramadan, the nights of Ńure, Mevlud,
Regaib, Berat, the sacrifice festival (kurban bayramı/ ºd al-aª¥a) and the
end of Ramadan (ƒeker bayramı/ ºd al-f ı†r).70 At such times bread was
served as usual, but the regular evening wheat soup was replaced by
dane and zerde. These two dishes were both ceremonial staples, ex-
pected and so placed on every table, no matter the rank of the guest.
For example, they appeared on the tables of rich and poor alike at the
circumcision feast of Süleyman’s sons, the Princes Bayezid and
Cihangir, in 1539.71
The 1557 waqfiyya for the ºmaret also stipulated that four caul-
drons (œazgan) full of soup (maraq) made “with all the necessary ingre-
dients” (al-ma¿r£f bi-jumla ¥aw«’ijihi wa-law«zimihi) should be prepared
for the day of ¿Aşure. Although no specific ingredients were listed,
this rich pudding, traditional for the occasion, was made with wheat,
rice, apricots, almonds, grapes, plums, chick peas, and fat in the
Süleymaniye ºmaret. The recipe was probably similar in Jerusalem,
though local custom and availability varied the particular dried fruits
and nuts added.72
Precise quantities of each ingredient to be used were listed in the
waqfiyya, along with the quantity of firewood budgeted for cooking
each meal. However, no amount of water was stipulated, and as the
size of the cauldrons used is now uncertain (although they were cer-
tainly huge), the total amount of soup cannot be easily calculated. One
should note, too, that it is the very elasticity of soup that makes it such
an appropriate dish for a public kitchen. When pressed, the cooks
could easily increase the quantity of soup to feed more people. In
doing so, the nutritional value of the soup (and the taste) was dimin-
ished. Yet the chief objective in serving soup was not always to fur-
nish a caloric minimum. Rather, the act of distribution in and of itself
had greater symbolic import. Obviously it was preferable that the
soup remain edible so as not to elicit critiques like that of Mu͆afa Åli,
who described the fare served in Istanbul ºmarets in his day:
A BOWL OF SOUP AND A LOAF OF BREAD 61
their bread has become black as the earth and looks like a
lump of dry clay, their soup has turned into dishwater, their
rice and puddings into vomited matter, most of their stewed
meat (yakhn±) is made of the meat of emaciated sheep that
were slaughtered after having died. . . . The medrese students
who are assigned food there . . . come solely to meet their
colleagues; they pour their soup to the dogs, and they them-
selves stay hungry and withdraw after for a while having
filled their air with the hullabaloo of the metal soup bowls.73
the legend, “let all who are hungry come and eat.” They had limited,
if impressive, resources as well as predetermined obligations to spe-
cific groups of people. Therefore, the access to food and the quantity
and quality of food distributed were rigorously defined in each case.
For some travelers, even the time of day was important: if someone
arrived before the noon prayer at the Sultan Selim ¿imaret in Konya,
he could eat that day; if not, he was entered only in the next day’s
roster.85 At the …smail Bey ¿imaret in Kastamonu, latecomers were of-
fered a snack of honey, walnuts, cheese and similar raw foods to tide
them over until the morning meal.
WHY JERUSALEM?
pious women to the site. ¤unsh£q’s house may have been a conscious
choice on Hurrem’s part, in which she built on the baraka (blessing,
beneficent force) of the previous owner in organizing her own chari-
table institution.
On a more personal level, Hurrem’s age may have been a factor
in the decision to found this particular complex. She was ill in the
years that the ¿imaret was being founded, although perhaps not as
early as 1549 when the first repair work began. By the time the final
deed was made in 1557, however, she was ailing and perhaps antici-
pating her death.92 Thus this ¿imaret was obviously her last major
beneficent undertaking, the last in a succession of pious deeds aimed
at procuring the founder a place in Paradise.
As might be expected, the waqfiyya for the Jerusalem complex
dwelt emphatically on Hurrem’s piety and renown as a generous pa-
troness of works benefiting the Muslims. Much of the initial portion of
the deed was woven from standard phraseology and formulae applied
to waqf founders and imperial women. Hurrem was described as
¿Ā’isha of the age and F«†ima of the time, the origin of the best
of the blooming sultanate and the shell of the pearls of the
glittering caliphate, surrounded by all kinds of favors of
the protecting King, mother of the Prince Me¥med son of the
most felicitous and great sultan . . .93
LADIES BOUNTIFUL
“And whosoever does deeds of righteousness, be it male or
female, believing—they shall enter Paradise, and not be
wronged a single date-spot.” (Qur’an IV:124)
71
72 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
understand the connection between them, the discussion will also con-
sider women as philanthropists in the Ottoman world specifically and
in Islamic societies.
Traditions existed in Islamic, Byzantine, and Turkic cultures about
the generosity and activism of important women; all of these contrib-
uted to the imperial Ottoman culture in which Hurrem Sultan founded
her waqf. The Byzantine tradition of women’s beneficent activism was
recorded in chronicles and was evident through its physical presence
in Anatolia, the Balkans, and Christian historical sites such as those in
Jerusalem. Patronage of charitable foundations in the Byzantine world
was probably one influential component shaping Ottoman waqf-
making culture. The empresses and princesses of Byzantium also must
have been unacknowledged among the influences on Ottoman women,
yet one can only infer the connections between the philanthropic
undertakings of imperial Byzantine and Ottoman women. A link be-
tween the Empress Helena and the Ottoman Hurrem certainly devel-
oped in later centuries, and the mingling of the two women’s careers
and reputations provides a fascinating confusion of cultural and con-
fessional borrowing and memorializing. No evidence contemporary to
its founding identifies the specific site of Hurrem’s endowment with
Helena. With the exception of the monumental Church of the Holy
Sepulcher, very few of Helena’s charitable establishments in and around
Jerusalem can be precisely located, though she had a reputation as an
active and generous patron.
A prominent role for imperial women in endowment-making
certainly followed from the traditions of women’s leadership roles in
politics, war, and governance among the Turkic ancestors of the Otto-
mans. In story, they had ridden into battle beside the men, and the
image of the Princess Salçan saving Prince Kan Turalı (more than once!)
is a vibrant one.4 Yet the fighting women celebrated in the tales of the
legendary poet Dede Korkut were a long-dead fantasy by the time of
Hurrem. By the sixteenth century, women of the Ottoman imperial
household had little contact with arms and battles, and were not for-
mally part of government. Their political involvements were played out
now on the household battlefield, one no less complex and dangerous
than that where armed soldiers faced each other. Publicly, these women
expended their energies in other arenas, philanthropy being a key one
and not necessarily apolitical. In this, Hurrem rivalled her Muslim para-
digms and surpassed the Ottoman women who preceded and followed
her (though she would not know this). Consciously, it seems, she was
the most active and visible Ottoman patroness ever, and this in itself
was testimony to the unique position and power she achieved.
LADIES BOUNTIFUL 73
was noted for her piety and her support of the Qalandariyya sufis in
Jerusalem.7 ¤unsh£q’s tomb across the street from the house, if not the
house itself, recorded her name in the topography of Jerusalem.
When Hurrem took over the site, the building there was not in
good condition. She and the men in charge of the endowment locally
invested significant sums to repair and enlarge it. Hurrem was prov-
ing quite concretely the strength of the Ottoman-Muslim rulers as she
(re)created an imposing building. It was an echo of what the Ottoman
sultans had achieved in Constantinople since 1453, rebuilding and
transforming the once-glorious Byzantine capital. The ¿imaret was part
of an ongoing effort by Hurrem and Süleyman to enhance Ottoman
prestige and legitimation. It appears to have been pointedly directed
against the Christian presence and traditions in Jerusalem. The ¿imaret
is located at the western edge of the clustered Muslim foundations,
which tend to hug the periphery of the Temple Mount when they are
not right on it. It is extremely close to, if not actually within, the
perimeter of the Christian quarter and a short block south of the Via
Dolorosa as it heads uphill toward the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
In fact, the ¿imaret is approximately midway between the key Muslim
and Christian shrines, some 600 feet from each one, in the zone of
transition from Muslim to Christian areas of the city. Not only was the
¿imaret physically imposing, but the kitchen there undertook immedi-
ately to feed approximately 500 persons twice a day, and when more
than expected arrived to receive food, they were not turned away. The
capacities of Ottoman beneficence were thus announced to the entire
local population, from a site especially close to the Christian residents.
The takeover of the site was thus part of the Ottoman coloniza-
tion of Jerusalem. Other takeovers occurred as well, like the eviction
of the Franciscans from their building on Mt. Zion and the installation
there of the local sufi Shaykh A¥mad al-Dajj«n± and his followers.8
Dajj«n±’s people were added to the list of those who were to be fed
daily from the ¿imaret’s cauldrons. Together, the dervish residence
and the HaÍÍeki Sultan ¿imaret constituted two prominent and newly
Ottomanized sites. Both sit high up, and—in the days before television
antennas and the construction of taller buildings—they commanded
vistas over the city. While the initial Ottoman capture of Jerusalem in
1516 was bloodless, the city still had to be conquered. The construc-
tion of the HaÍÍeki Sultan ¿imaret was but one maneuver in this effort.
A message about Ottoman superiority was clearly aimed at the
local Muslim and non-Muslim communities, as well as the pilgrims
arriving continually in Jerusalem.9 The Ottomans had ousted the
Mamluks. In addition, the message to the Christians included a re-
LADIES BOUNTIFUL 75
Here again, Hurrem is not mentioned at all, though it is clear from the
name that the building still held a dual identity and that the clientele
of the soup kitchen was mostly Muslim. When he wrote, Bartlett could
report that the building was called “Tekeeyeh” in Jerusalem, but “popu-
larly” called after Helena. The original benefactor, he indicated, was
Muslim, as attested by the “Saracenic character of the architecture,”
and he identified her as ¤unsh£q, basing himself on Muj±r al-D±n, the
LADIES BOUNTIFUL 77
pilgrims. I admit the truth of the tradition, but not that the
present building is of that date, for it is entirely Saracenic
work. The Mohammedans call it Tekhiyeh el-Khasseki-Sultane
(Convent of the favourite Sultana), and from documents which
they possess in the Mehkemeh [the kadi’s court] concerning
the registers of landed property, it is clear that it was built by
the Sultana Rossellane, the favourite consort of Solyman the
Magnificent, who established there a hospice for the poor and
the pilgrims. . . . This charitable foundation is still daily at work,
but on a reduced scale, owing to its diminished income. I
think, then, that this charity may have been commenced by S.
Helena (whence its name); then continued by the Latins after
her death, and during the Crusades; and kept up by the Mo-
hammedans after their conquest of Jerusalem, till it was finally
enlarged and enriched by Rossellane; who also built large rooms
there, and resided in it herself to minister to the poor and des-
titute; as is stated in the Mohammedan traditions, and in the
chronicles preserved in the mosque Kubbet es-Sakharah. . . . As
this building is assigned to S. Helena by the Christians, so also
are the caldrons. What excellent brass they must be to have
lasted in use from A.D. 326 to the present time!15
Early examples
Hurrem’s actions belonged to a longer tradition of Muslim be-
neficence, and her endowment deed invoked numerous pious Muslim
women. Within the Arab-Muslim tradition, examples begin with the
family of the Prophet Mu¥ammad. In elaborating her virtues, Hurrem’s
waqfiyya calls her the “¿ĀŒisha of the time, F«†ima of the age,” compar-
ing her to the favorite wife of the Prophet and his daughter.25 R«bi¿a (d.
801), a renowned mystic and saint,26 and Zubayda (d. 831), wife of the
famously generous caliph H«r£n al-Rash±d (d. 809), are mentioned as
paradigmatic women in the additional deed made for Hurrem by
Süleyman shortly after her death. Deeds of other Ottoman women also
mention Khad±ja, Mu¥ammad’s first wife, whose tomb in Mecca was
restored by Süleyman.27 Not surprisingly, the deeds of their endow-
ments cite only beneficent Muslim women as paradigmatic benefactors.
Traditions about the earliest period of Islam recall the benefi-
cence of Mu¥ammad’s wives. For example, Zaynab bt. Khuzayma al-
Hil«liyya was known as “mother of the poor” (umm al-mas«k±n). Another
Zaynab, bt. Ja¥sh, was also famously generous, known as “the refuge
82 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
of the poor.” Å̄Œisha was evoked frequently in later eras, although her
charitable acts were not necessarily more extensive than those of her
co-wives; she became an individual example of a collective attribute.
Also, she was said to live in poverty, having given away her wealth.28
FǠima was evoked as the epitome of daughter, wife, and mother for
her devotion to her father Mu¥ammad, her husband Åli, and her
martyred sons ‹asan and ‹usayn.29 Whether these women were his-
torically important as benefactors, they took on that quality as one of
their chief characteristics in historical memory. For this they were cited
as exemplary to the women of Hurrem’s time and continue today to
be paradigms for the correct comportment—variously interpreted—
of women.
The beneficent actions of prominent Muslim women, as with
those of men, are known from biographical dictionaries, chronicles,
and endowment deeds. While there are altogether fewer documented
examples of women founding waqfs, many individuals emerge from
the biographical literature as beneficent patrons among imperial or
powerful women in the Islamic world prior to Ottoman times. Women
were partners in dynastic endeavors. They supported building, artistic
production, and good works to the extent allowed by their personali-
ties and pockets. Those of fantastic wealth and superior generosity
have become immortalized as paradigms for later generations. Yet
biographical dictionaries do not record all people—far from it. Each
treats a category of people—scholars, rulers, artists—and generally
the most prominent of that group. Many secondary figures escape
mention. Women in general appear less frequently in biographical
dictionaries.30 Alongside them, others may have followed their lead in
less extravagant fashion, unrecorded heroines of local history or sim-
ply the mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters of rich men or provin-
cial officials. Beneficence was not predicated on wealth; as noted above,
it was practiced in obligatory and voluntary forms by Muslims of
every class and category.
Zubayda, also cited as a paradigm for Hurrem, was responsible
for a large number of public works, among them hospices and addi-
tions to the water supply system all along the pilgrimage route from
Iraq to Mecca, as well as in the holy city itself, where she passed many
months. Although she spent vast sums on her own wardrobe and in
support of artistic production, Zubayda’s pious incentive seems to
have derived from her own experience as a devout woman who made
the ¥ajj more than once and as the wife of a powerful and generous
ruler. An already-entrenched tradition of Muslims as contributors to
the welfare of Mecca and Medina reinforced Zubayda’s personal in-
LADIES BOUNTIFUL 83
this place the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was erected. Sometime
after her death, Helena was canonized, and St. Helena has been cred-
ited over time with the founding of numerous pious and charitable
establishments in Jerusalem and in the region around the city, all typi-
cal of the works of Byzantine imperial donors: hospitals, hospices for
travelers, homes for the aged, monasteries, and others.35 In addition to
the undertakings ascribed to her, Helena clearly set the tone for the
imperial and wealthy women of the fourth and fifth centuries.
The fourth-century reign of Constantine himself signalled the
changing form of public beneficence in the Byzantine empire, as em-
perors subsequently became active as patrons of large public institu-
tions established to support those in need.36 After Helena, a succession
of women affiliated to the imperial family consolidated the role of
women as partners in the imperial dominion, among them the em-
press Eudocia (d. 404), her daughter Pulcheria (d. 453), and another
Eudocia (d. 460). Establishing the form and fact of female power, these
women invested large sums in numerous and prominent philanthropic
works. With regard to Flaccilla (d. 397), wife of Emperor Theodosius
the Great, the fourth-century historian of the Christian Church,
Eusebius, notes what is true for all of these women: that they were
able to undertake beneficent works on such a scale only because of
their access to imperial wealth. In Constantinople itself, as well as
throughout the empire, they established hospitals, monasteries,
churches, poor kitchens, and refuges for the pious, the pilgrims, and
the poor.37 Jerusalem was a special focus for these endeavors, partly in
the wake of Helena’s personal example and partly due to its obvious
importance for devout Christians.
How Byzantine traditions in general entered the Ottoman world
is not always certain. Most importantly with regard to philanthropy,
the Byzantine practices that the Ottomans encountered were not en-
tirely unfamiliar. There were at least four spheres in which Byzantine
and Ottoman women met one another, in which Byzantine women
could have contributed to Ottoman imperial culture.
In space. Ottoman women lived in buildings, towns, and regions
of Anatolia, the Balkans, and the Arab provinces which had previ-
ously been Byzantine. Byzantine women established numerous pious
foundations throughout these regions, some of which survived in name
or in actuality to Ottoman times.
In time. Turkic peoples migrated into Byzantine Anatolia begin-
ning from the late eleventh century, as a result of which various syn-
cretic practices developed.38 The Ottoman and Byzantine states
coexisted for some 150 years, from around 1300 until the capture of
LADIES BOUNTIFUL 85
Turco-Mongol heritage
A Turco-Mongol context also existed for Hurrem’s charitable
undertaking, an additional component in the heredity of Ottoman
imperial women’s beneficence. Turco-Mongol traditions that infused
the Selçuks and other dynasties of Central Asian origin promoted a
political and even military role, as well as a beneficent one for women.42
These are wonderfully illustrated in the verses of the poet and bard
Dede Korkut. In them, both men and women recounted their gener-
ous deeds in the same formulaic language:
At the same time, a prince could dream of a bride who would be his
partner in every way:
From among the Great Selçuks and others who preceded the
Ottomans, several prominent women were remembered for their be-
LADIES BOUNTIFUL 87
The Ottomans
Ottoman women, unlike their Mamluk counterparts but similar
to their Selçuk predecessors in Anatolia, were part of a single dynastic
enterprise. The Selçuk sultans, however, carved their empire into shares
for their sons, who then fought among themselves for the supreme
office. The Ottomans, by and large, avoided these disputes of succes-
sion and confiscations, so that the dynastic enterprise became a more
unified and coherent undertaking. From the early decades of Ottoman
rule in northwest Anatolia, Ottoman imperial women made endow-
ments, and their endeavors grew in size with the expansion of the
LADIES BOUNTIFUL 89
public idioms of power and prestige. While the visibility of their do-
nations seems to share much with the beneficence of other imperial
women, the choices of place, form, size, and timing were determined
particularly from within the sultan’s household; the stereotype of
beneficent powerful women was reinforced and maintained with an
obvious Ottoman stamp.
99
100 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
and food cooked and ready, we placed a man [to watch] over
it; we made him wait while we were performing the noon
prayer, then we came back.
It is known to God, may He be exalted, that we found
no particle lacking in the tastiness of the food and the weight
of the bread, and that I had more than twenty portions of
bread weighed. I found all of them [weighed] 90 dirhems
each, after it was established that according to the noble
waqfiyya each was to be cut [unbaked] at 100 dirhems.3 When
it was necessary to distribute [food], according to the regu-
lations (œanun), after the bowls of those who came first for
food were set down and completely finished, [food] was given
to those who lived in the rooms of the residence (riba†)4, and
afterwards to the servants of it, and [then] because the refec-
tory was not large enough [to hold all the people at once],
the food was given first to the poor of the scholars (ehl-i
¿ilm), and then to the remaining fuœara and cumraya5 and then
to the women.
But, my prosperous sultan, the poor of this region are
many. Previously, food was distributed at one serving (nöbet);
now food which was cooked for one serving begins to be
cooked [for] two servings. I was amazed at the crowds and
the cry for help from the sort of people who said “we are still
hungry”, not receiving [food] because the food and bread did
not reach [them].
Let it thus be established to cook two servings of food;
the cook must make an effort that there be somewhat more
bread, or once again according to the first arrangement, it
shall be necessary to cook one serving in the morning—one
day rice, one day wheat—so that annually no person shall
remain destitute (ma¥rum).
With the perseverance and care and governance and pro-
tection of Me¥med a¬a of your servants, who is the director
(ƒeyh) of the ¿imaret, the conditions of the food of the imperial
¿imaret were stated to be thus.
comes once a year, and then only for 15 days during which
time he takes a stick in his hand; when food of the ¿imaret is
distributed he does not approach, and when he comes to the
bath building, he comes on horseback and looks on from in
front of the building atop his horse, without dismounting, and
once again returns to his room; and he does not procure all
the supplies which are needed at the proper time, [but] he
buys supplies out-of-season [hole in document]”6
In fact, my prosperous sultan, let the manager be that
one who does not let his foot leave the ¿imaret and does not
take his eye off the endowments. . . .
The true state of the case is thus: that the manager must
[hole: make prosper?] the ¿imaret. In the present condition one
silver coin (akçe) in ten is present from the yield of the endow-
ments. They were ready and waiting for the yield of the market
taxes (i¥tisab) and the tax of the village of Ludd, so that they
could collect it and pay the daily allowance to the servants.
The present chapter examines more closely how the ¿imaret at-
tempted to fulfill the purpose for which it was established. Certainly
the managers attempted (more or less) to operate within the frame-
work dictated by the waqfiyya; everyone had continual reference to
the stipulations of the founder as discussed in Chapter 2. Routine
activities as well as any necessary changes were supposed to be made
within its parameters and all breaches were measured against it. Thus
the waqfiyya continued to define the institution sustained by the en-
dowment and to articulate its goals. It was to ensure them that the
properties were meant to be managed to the best advantage of the
endowment, a task which readily admitted change as necessary and
beneficial. In addition, the law as defined by shar±¿a, œanun and ¿örf—
Islamic law, imperial dictate, and local custom—determined the ways
in which the manager could fulfill his basic task of running the ¿imaret
within the context of laws regarding endowments generally.
Practical demands of everyday operations forced the managers
continually to adjust the running of the kitchen to daily realities in
Jerusalem and her surroundings. While the specific purpose of the
foundation was to feed people deemed deserving and provide shelter
for travelers and others, practical realities broadened its role. Due to
the enormous supply needs of the kitchen, and the compass of the
endowment properties, the ¿imaret and its manager became a substan-
tial presence in the fabric of Jerusalem’s urban and rural life, key
figures in the local and regional economy and society.
From a close consideration of the early years of the Jerusalem
¿imaret, it emerges that the founding of such a charitable institution was
not a single act, but rather a process. Its deed conveyed a sense of the
intentions of the founder, the way in which the ¿imaret fit into the
imperial vision of Ottoman sovereignty and beneficence. Although the
date of the waqfiyya ostensibly marked a decisive moment for the en-
dowment, Chapter 2 has shown that such was not entirely the case.
Properties yielding revenues to the endowment were tapped before the
deed was made or exchanged out of it when the ink was barely dry.
And, the complicated transfer of properties in and out of the waqf
emphasized how extended the process of setting up an endowment
could be and how unfixed the endowed status of properties was in
actuality. Clearly, the guiding rationale behind the property transfers
was to stabilize income and facilitate revenue collection.9 Yet even after
achieving this, management of an endowment was a dynamic endeavor.
Properties, personnel, and produce were all in continual motion.
Åbdülkerim’s report covered several crucial areas of waqf ad-
ministration, including the competence of managers, food preparation,
104 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
ON MANAGEMENT
GETTING STARTED
Jacob and the mosque in Hebron, and the tomb of Moses, the Dome
of the Rock, and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem.15 At
this date, apparently, the Ottomans still had not sorted these sites and
endowments into units to be managed separately. After ‹aydar’s term,
the managers of the ¿imaret were appointed to that one institution
alone. ‹aydar was probably appointed to direct the new endowment
because he was already a manager of proven competence. In addition,
no official position as manager existed for the new endowment, since
it had not yet been formally constituted.
‹aydar spent much of his time organizing workmen and mate-
rials for the repairs and renovations needed to convert the former
house of ¤unsh£q into a public facility. Carpenters, stonecutters, build-
ers, their apprentices, other unskilled laborers, and porters were drawn
from among the local population with supplemental workers hired
from elsewhere in the larger province of Damascus. The manager had
imperial authorization to bring workmen to Jerusalem as needed. Stone,
wood, nails, plaster, lime, iron, tools, food, and fodder had to be
purchased locally or imported.16
A large establishment like the ¿imaret also required a steady sup-
ply of water. However, Jerusalem did not have abundant sources of
water inside the city or very nearby. Some wells and, more commonly,
cisterns for collecting rainwater existed inside the city walls, but the
city depended on the water piped in from far south of the city and
stored under the ‹aram al-Shar±f. Under Süleyman, the entire system
of aqueducts had been repaired and six fountains added as part of his
extensive investments in Jerusalem during the 1530s and 1540s. This
entire water system was maintained by a separate endowment.17
When the ¿imaret was built, water channels were constructed to
connect it to the main water system of the city, which distributed water
from the ‹aram. Pipes were also laid to the new bath under construc-
tion nearby. Together, the needs of the kitchen and the bath meant a
significant increase in demand on the general water supply of the city.
Thus Hurrem’s new waqf had to contribute to the waqf for water, to
ensure sufficient inflow to Jerusalem from Wadi Abyar. ‹aydar, how-
ever, was accused of interfering with the general water supply and
causing harm in his efforts to establish a fixed flow of water to the
¿imaret.18 Competition over water resources was an ongoing feature of
life in Jerusalem, pitting the city’s residents against each other and to-
gether against the bedouin and peasants outside the walls who persis-
tently tried to claim a share of what was piped toward the city.19
‹aydar not only oversaw all the repairs needed on the ¿imaret
buildings, but also managed the revenue-producing properties of the
SERVING SOUP IN JERUSALEM 107
Not only did Ferhad collect more than either of his predecessors, he
managed to collect monies owed to the waqf from their tenures as
well.28 Moreover, these figures were not simply entered in the ac-
counts register, but Ferhad included this paragraph explicitly describ-
ing his industry on behalf of the waqf.
The revenues amassed were put to immediate use. Ferhad spent
money required to develop the ¿imaret further. Under his supervision,
two construction projects were carried out on the extensive kitchen
buildings. The first was a granary built over the storeroom and oven.
Since the original granary had been located in a structure with an
open courtyard and water wells, the grain there spoiled rapidly, be-
coming rotten to the point where it was utterly useless for cooking.
For the cost of the granary—20,236 para—Ferhad requested imperial
assistance, as he could not raise the necessary funds locally.29
The second project for which Ferhad requested and received funds
was the roofing of the woodshed. Uncovered, the wood got wet in the
winter rain and made cooking very difficult. Moreover, one month
110 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
after he took office, the ¿imaret began to serve meals twice a day
instead of only once. As stipulated in the endowment deed, soup was
now ladled out along with a portion of bread both morning and
evening.30 This change in the serving practices may have prompted
Ferhad’s search for funds to defray the cost of roofing. Åbdülkerim’s
report had emphasized that the increased food preparations strained
the capacities of the endowment and made it more imperative to con-
serve and maximize all resources. Hence, a roof for the woodshed
became both more necessary and more difficult to fund from available
monies, though at 1677 para it cost a mere tenth of the new granary.
Firewood was one of the basic necessities of the ¿imaret. It was
the only non-edible ingredient of the cooked dishes listed in the en-
dowment deed and among the regular expenditures of this kitchen
and most others, too. Firewood was even listed among the supplies
purchased and transported by the army when on desert campaign.31
Unlike many basic ingredients stocked in the ¿imaret larder, firewood
was not delivered as a payment in kind from endowed villages but
rather was purchased on command from the village of J±b, northwest
of the city.32 Unfortunately, ¿imaret managers in the past had not al-
ways settled their accounts with the villagers. Ferhad was thus obliged
to pay for firewood delivered under his predecessor Åli, as well as
that purchased during his own tenure.33
Ferhad himself held a lease on the agricultural revenues from the
village of J±b, which were endowed for the waqf of the Mamluk Sultan
Īn«l in Cairo.34 This meant that he acted as a kind of revenue farmer for
the waqf in Egypt while managing the Jerusalem ¿imaret. The combina-
tion of responsibilities to the two waqfs effectively made Ferhad the
sole revenue collector for the village of J±b, although there was no con-
nection between the two endowments. In fact, each of the managers
discussed here combined his position in the ¿imaret with other fiscal
involvements in the immediate area, whether as a revenue holder in his
own right or as lessee of revenues belonging to someone else. The
possibility of controlling different kinds of revenues collection was one
way for Ottoman officials to consolidate power locally, even in a short-
term appointment. It allowed one person to broaden the scope of his
authority beyond the circumscribed bounds of his formal appointment.
Moreover, the farming of waqf revenue collection described here
is entirely comparable to the farming of other types of revenues
throughout the empire. This situation indicates further how deeply
integrated waqf properties were to the general Ottoman system of
property management, not isolated or insulated from it merely be-
cause they were part of a waqf. The same mechanisms of registration,
SERVING SOUP IN JERUSALEM 111
soup and bread given to each person or else to provide only one meal
per person per day. Two important differences from the normative
dictates of the endowment deed appear here. First, the deed specified
precisely how many people were to be fed: the staff; the residents of
the fifty-five rooms; and 400 poor and pious people. Yet the terse and
somewhat exasperated “but there are many poor people here,” found
in Åbdülkerim’s report, suggests that more people than provided for
lined up expecting to eat and that the manager felt compelled to feed
them. Certainly they could not be sent away hungry from the ¿imaret
of Hurrem Sultan, for who, they seemed to ask, would believe that the
beneficence of a sul†ana did not suffice for all? Åbdülkerim and Ferhad
appeared to concur in this attitude, seeking ways to stretch available
resources. Ferhad, however, was additionally concerned to run the
waqf successfully so as to enhance his reputation and gain some form
of promotion or recognition.
Second, the deed said that two meals per day were to be served.
Whereas both of his predecessors oversaw the serving of food only
once per day, under Ferhad two servings of food began to be cooked.40
In this way, there would be less pressure at each meal. In fact, the
endowment deed stipulated two meals be served daily, and it is not
clear why the change had not been implemented when that deed was
issued, some two years before Ferhad took office. However, the origi-
nal deed also seemed to indicate that the same people would be fed
twice a day—certainly this was the case for the employees and the
residents of the rooms. If the solution to overcrowding was to serve
two meals, it implied that half the current crowd would be served
each time. Feeding people twice a day represented a commitment to
their sustenance, even if the fare was basic and limited in quantity.
Feeding them once a day represented a different kind of commitment,
to supplement and succor, but not to sustain fully. The ¿imaret could
meet the basic needs of some of its clients, the more privileged ones,
but it could not adequately feed all comers.
The apparent shortage of food at the kitchen was a real problem,
since Åbdülkerim’s report described how the kitchen was preparing
soup and bread according to the quantities stipulated, and yet the
numbers of poor people who came to receive food overwhelmed
the existing capacity. “But, my prosperous sultan,” says the report,
“the poor around here are very numerous; I have been amazed at the
cries for help from the people who say ‘we are still hungry!’ ”41 This
passage leaves little doubt that the quite literally poor were among the
regular clients of this kitchen.
When the number of meals increased, larger quantities of all
supplies were necessary and, as indicated in Åbdülkerim’s report, they
114 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
would have to stretch farther than before. In fact, the only real increase
in food served was in the amount of bread. By adding twenty ba†m«n
of wheat to the daily supply, 275 more loaves of bread were to be
baked for distribution.42 This crisis may have prompted some of the
property exchanges and additions discussed in Chapter 2, since these
actions aimed at improving productivity as well as increasing rev-
enues absolutely. Interestingly, while Ferhad was reproached for his
superficial management of certain aspects of the endowment, he was
not blamed for the larger crowds and insufficient food available. No
one questioned that these were problems of Jerusalem which merely
manifested themselves at the ¿imaret.
The mention of a “former practice” of serving only one meal a
day suggests yet again that some kind of public kitchen may have
existed before Hurrem Sultan established hers, one which served as
the basis in setting up the ¿imaret. Burgoyne, in his work on Mamluk
Jerusalem, discusses how large and impressive ¤unsh£q’s residence
was but says nothing about any public or charitable functions it may
have performed. As this woman was known for her piety and other
works around Jerusalem, perhaps meals had been distributed to the
poor from her kitchen and continued to be in some way after her
death. The endowment of Hurrem Sultan may then have reinforced
this existing institution, inadequate to the demands on it or weakened
over time. The disparity in menus between the endowment deed and
an expenditures register from mid-April 1555 is another indication
that some previous institution was being replaced. The expenditures
included lentils to be cooked with vinegar as one of the dishes at the
¿imaret. Yet no lentil dish was found in either version of the waqfiyya,
nor is one commonly found in other ¿imarets; such a dish was distrib-
uted at the simǠ in Hebron, however. A note in the register says that
lentils were not available and so wheat was cooked instead of them.43
Despite shortages, the food served was of a certain quality. The
report of Åbdülkerim gave high marks to the cooks and bakers, say-
ing that the food was tasty and the bread, after weighing a broad
sample of loaves, came up to required weight. Yogurt or pepper pro-
vided seasoning, with additional bulk and variety in flavor coming
from seasonal vegetables. Perhaps the maintenance of standards in
cooking was due to the mixed clientele of the kitchen. Perhaps, too, it
was a reflection of the injunction that alms should be given from the
best of what one has, not the meanest part.44 Yet though it was sup-
posed to achieve a certain standard, the quality of the food in Jerusa-
lem remains an open question. Nothing indicates that it resembled the
stinking, inedible filth described by Mu͆afa Åli in Istanbul which the
SERVING SOUP IN JERUSALEM 115
such as bakers, dishwashers, and people to sift and clean wheat, along
with revenue collectors and repairmen. Again, the endowment deed
only served as a starting point for putting together a viable enterprise.
Ferhad’s problems did not end once the challenge of how to feed
more people was resolved. He faced problems of corruption among
his staff as well. Very shortly after Åbdükerim wrote his long report
about the ¿imaret operations, an expenditures register was drawn up
by Åbdul-Ra¥man, the kadi of Jerusalem, with the assistance of the
two envoys sent from Istanbul. (Åbdülkerim had crossed paths with
them near Damascus, as he made his own way north.) This register
roundly criticized Me¥med a¬a, ƒeyh of the ¿imaret. According to the
kadi, Me¥med a¬a was abusive of the staff and helped himself to food
far beyond his daily allotment. Like the other employees, he was sup-
posed to receive two ladles of soup and four loaves of bread each day.
Greedy Me¥med helped himself to six to eight ladles of food, with
extra pieces of fat and some sixteen loaves of bread.49 There is no clue
as to whether he was feeding only himself from these portions or
whether he was also trying to take out food for others.
In contrast to the kadi, Åbdülkerim had nothing but praise for
Me¥med a¬a, who, he said, faithfully looked after preparation of both
food and bread. Curiously, Åbdülkerim’s report also cautioned against
accepting any criticism of Me¥med, simultaneously expending several
lines of reproach against Ferhad. After Ferhad was replaced, the kadi
submitted another report in which he was the one to point out Ferhad’s
failings. These now included, in addition to the inattention previously
mentioned by Åbdülkerim, suspected embezzlement of ¿imaret funds.50
The checkered career of Ferhad as manager of the ¿imaret offers
some insight into the vulnerabilities of an endowment as well as the
possibilities for venality tempting its managers. While he successfully
collected overdue revenues, at the same time Ferhad was lax in super-
visory duties and perhaps greedy as well. As for Me¥med, the conflict-
ing reports on his abilities as ƒeyh of the ¿imaret could point to a rivalry
between the authors of the reports as well as recording his own ques-
tionable actions. Me¥med or one of his friends may have persuaded the
visiting Åbdülkerim to support him. Ultimately, the incident demon-
strates vividly the vulnerability of the Ottoman administration, depen-
dent on the one hand on the local people who staffed a wide range of
provincial Ottoman institutions, and on the other hand, reliant on Ot-
toman observers to report on local—and perhaps unfamiliar—situations.
An institution as large as the Jerusalem ¿imaret, with close to
fifty employees, far-flung properties, and a huge kitchen operation
was bound to run into problems with personnel. In Jerusalem, there
SERVING SOUP IN JERUSALEM 117
were no separate menus for the staff and the poor who came to eat;
the only difference between their meals was in quantity. How tempt-
ing, then, for those with easy access to help themselves to extra por-
tions of food.
BUILDING A BATH
including, initially, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and the ¿imaret.
Although they continued under separate management, by the mid-
seventeenth century the endowments again became linked, as demon-
strated by the appointment of two people sharing the two offices of
deputy of the manager and guardian of the keys of the Church.63
Contributions to the bath project, even as loans, were likely to find
favor in the eyes of those keeping track of the ¿imaret’s condition, and
the favor gained might be used for personal protection or promotion
in the future. Nor can purely pious motives be discounted as inspiring
the donations.
Although Ferhad was manager during most of the construction
period, Bayram was clearly more energetic and devoted to getting the
bath built and running. This was no simple project. In addition to
ensuring sufficient funds to pay for laborers and supplies, skilled
workmen had to be hired and adequate building materials purchased.
The professional builders came from Istanbul and Damascus, while
the unskilled laborers were probably hired in the immediate region.64
Local materials were used to the extent possible, and although some
marble was imported through the port of Jaffa,65 this was generally
considered too costly. Stone being in short supply, the waqf acquired
a decrepit house adjoining the bath and plundered it for materials.66
Finally, construction was hampered in the winter by the wind and
cold that descended on the city for several months.67
In this manner, the building of the bath proceeded in fits and
starts over almost two years, interrupted by lack of funds, materials,
and water. Under Bayram, the remaining third of the construction
work was finished in the last three months before it opened. Upon
completion, the first concessionary took over its operations on 15
Cemaziüevvel 963 (27 March 1556), leasing the bath for 60 para per
day, on which basis it would, in theory, earn the waqf 21,600 para or
531 sikke per year.68 This was the sum paid by two lease holders in its
first year of operation, and in the years that followed, the bath contin-
ued to be leased for 60 para per day.69 However, in the four-month
period from mid-June to mid-October 1558, the bath was idle for
twenty-two out of 120 days, presumably due to lack of water during
these summer months. The twenty-two days were then recorded in
the expenditures section of the register, presumably because the lease
holders had to be compensated for their lost income.70 The bath pro-
vides another telling example of what the running of a foundation
entailed for its manager. He was expected to supervise construction
and keep the accounts, as well as make up the shortfall when neces-
sary. Bayram earned great personal capital by putting up the money
120 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
needed for the bath even before he became manager. On this basis he
was appointed manager in the first place. His efforts generally were
also recognized, and shortly after his reappointment his annual salary
was raised by 3,000 akçe per year.71
Alongside the huge project of finishing the bath, Bayram over-
saw smaller but no less important matters. For the kitchen to function
effectively, it had to have the necessary equipment. This included
numerous kinds of cups and bowls, ladles and cauldrons for cooking
and serving, as well as scales, weights, knives, and long-handled bak-
ers’ shovels. Equipment used daily by the cooks and the bakers re-
mained in the kitchen and bakery, while the pantry-keeper stored
implements needed less regularly.72 One further piece of equipment
provided by the ¿imaret manager was a cauldron for processing in-
digo. It was loaned seasonally to the villagers of Jericho (at least while
the village was part of the waqf) who grew and processed indigo as
one source of their revenues.73
Missing equipment or funds to buy it came from Istanbul, par-
ticularly in the early years, since later these items would be purchased
from the annual revenues of the waqf. In the summer of 1556 the
following items were requested: two cauldrons for cooking dane and
zerde that would be smaller than the vast daily soup cauldrons, a large
serving tray, three pairs of large baskets for carrying bread from oven
to table, ten jars for storing oil and honey, iron for making bars for the
kitchen windows, and buckets with which Shaykh A¥mad al-Dajj«n±
and his followers could collect their daily food allowance.74 Each item
offers a small insight into the world of this ¿imaret. The cooks had a
professional attitude to their task, wanting specialized equipment and
not just making due with the available pots. The baskets conjure an
image of large piles of fresh loaves, while one can imagine trays of
zerde on Friday evenings. Were iron bars required on the kitchen win-
dows to prevent after-hours pilfering of provisions stored in the
great jars?
Removing food from the ¿imaret was not condoned. A special
exception to this rule was made for the sufi master in Jerusalem, Shaykh
al-Dajj«n± and his sixteen disciples, who had been given the Franciscan
Monastery on Mt. Zion in which to live and conduct their rituals.75
They were not specifically mentioned in the ¿imaret waqfiyya, though
they received food at the ¿imaret from its early days. Dajj«n± and his
followers obviously had special status to be allowed to take their food
away from the ¿imaret. Their settlement on Mt. Zion was in some
ways complementary to the establishment of the soup kitchen. Each
building occupied a high point of the city; the ¿imaret was close to the
SERVING SOUP IN JERUSALEM 121
DEALING IN GRAIN
sales and traffic around the empire. All exports of grain, even between
regions of the empire, had to be authorized from Istanbul.
From its founding, the ¿imaret was bound into the Mediterra-
nean grain trade. Not only did it sell surpluses, but it depended on
imports of rice from Egypt to stock its pantry, since rice was not
produced in significant quantities in the immediate region. A recipro-
cal trade in surplus waqf grain between Egypt and southern Syria also
evolved. The ships that carried the rice from Damietta to Jaffa some-
times returned with wheat and barley from the ¿imaret.85 Six months
after the grain sales were ordered, the Istanbul authority again issued
a permit, this time for relief assistance, in response to a report from
¤urgud that the most recent crops had been attacked by grasshoppers.
As a result, grain was now in short supply and prices had risen sig-
nificantly. Likewise, the bey of Egypt was authorized to sell grain to
¤urgud’s agent, but to beware of imposters as well.86
Ironically, this last order was issued only days before a reply to
another letter from ¤urgud. In this order, ¤urgud again received per-
mission to sell off a large quantity of grain that was close to rotting
from what remained in storage. Now, he was directed to sell the grain
to the Ragusans (Dubrovnik), to whom he was to issue a certificate
witnessing the sale.87 Dubrovnik enjoyed a special status in the Otto-
man empire, autonomous and left to see to its commercial fleet and
the vigorous traffic of goods arriving and departing in all directions.
The Ragusans were active merchants in both import and export, par-
ticularly as carriers of grain from the Ottoman empire to the Italian
states.88 It was perhaps for this reason that ¤urgud’s authorization
carried a caution that no grain but that of the ¿imaret waqf was to be
sold to the Ragusans. The temptation of the profit to be gained selling
to the eager Italian merchants might easily induce others to sell sur-
pluses, thus leaving the region with no grain stocks.
Either the previous sale to the Rhodian merchants had fallen
through, or more stocks of grain belonging to the ¿imaret were being
unloaded. Why they should be sold off when some form of shortage
existed is curious. Apparently, the rotting grain was good enough to
sell to the Ragusans, who had clients for it, but it was not fit to use in
the ¿imaret. Thus the ¿imaret maintained a standard in the quality of
the food it served, possibly because of its imperial identity, possibly
because the clientele sometimes included important people. It is also
possible that ¤urgud contrived the story of the bugs in order to make
a profit on sales that might otherwise not have been authorized.
The uncertainties of agrarian production were one of the chief
concerns of the waqf managers as well as of almost all revenue hold-
124 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
ers. The managers were dependent on agricultural yields not only for
the revenues of the endowment, but for the supply and stable func-
tioning of the public kitchen. Any crisis of production—drought, pests,
theft—thus created a dual threat: no cash for purchases and nothing
to buy. Even local disturbances could upset cultivation, as happened
in the village of Ran†iyya during the first year of ¤urgud’s tenure.
While he increased yields by an average of 50 percent everywhere
else, a fight in Ran†iyya with neighboring villagers caused a decrease
in yield of almost 40 percent.89
Because grain supplies were so closely controlled, the solution to
a crisis had to be negotiated via Istanbul. This made the managers
somewhat less flexible in their ability to respond rapidly in an emer-
gency. It also meant that the central authorities in Istanbul remained
closely informed of such matters or believed that they were. In this
specific case, imperial oversight may have been particularly close
because the ¿imaret was an imperial project and was in Jerusalem.
Obviously, however, illegal trafficking in grain went undocumented,
at least when it was undiscovered. Smuggling, always a temptation,
sometimes a possibility, was probably frequently a reality.
Concerns over agricultural production kept the managers of many
waqfs closely involved in the affairs of their villages. Peasants might
seek relief from the manager, being forgiven outstanding taxes or
granted enough money for seed in a year when a poor harvest left
them with nothing to plant the following season.90 In such situations,
endowment managers, and especially the managers of the large waqfs,
had more resources than other revenue recipients, since the endow-
ment depended on a mixture of revenue-producing properties that
left it less dependent on any single one. Tımar holders, who held grants
of revenues from one or two villages, would be hard put to provide
extensive aid in an emergency or to absorb a large loss.
¤urgud had to contend with crises other than those imposed by
nature. Like villagers all over, the peasants living in waqf villages
suffered rival claims to their produce. These came sometimes from
other Ottoman officials, sometimes from bedouin in the region. For
example, ¤urgud appealed to Istanbul for help protecting the village
of Q«q£n, the only village in the endowment in the district of Nablus.
Q«q£n was a district seat, a village with a regular market, and an
important source of revenue to the waqf.91 Local bedouin raided the
town regularly, taking food and fodder and imposing levies illegally.
¤urgud apparently saw the market as the magnet for the bedouin and
requested that it be moved to another village.92
In another case, ‹asan çavuƒ, who managed the ¿imaret twenty
years after ¤urgud, appealed for help during a trip to Istanbul. The
SERVING SOUP IN JERUSALEM 125
¤urgud did not spend all his energies on improving revenue col-
lections and dealing in grain. Under his supervision, with the approval
of the kadi and the governor of Jerusalem, the kitchen of the ¿imaret
was expanded, both to increase its capacity and to improve conditions
for the cooks. Four years after ¿Abdülkerim’s report was delivered, two
new hearths and two chimneys adjoined the original kitchen, requiring
an increased budget for firewood, which was also granted.94
Managers often left accounts for their successors to continue col-
lecting and paying, as with any ongoing business. This also reflected the
nature of the local agrarian economy, where villagers paid their taxes in
installments and the effects of good and bad harvests were absorbed by
the revenue holders. ¤urgud, however, left his successor with an addi-
tion to the waqf revenues, as well as outstanding payments.
126 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
FEEDING POWER
They give food, for the love of Him, to the needy, the orphan,
the captive; We feed you only for the sake of God; we desire
no recompense from you, no thankfulness.
(Qur¿an, LXXVI:8–9)
131
132 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
meaning. Yet it was also the necessary basis of human life; everyone
needed to eat. As a result, giving food was a consummate act of char-
ity. Imperial beneficence, so central to the legitimization and represen-
tation of imperial power, thus made important contributions to the
distribution of food. The Ottomans had the power to feed, and their
power was nurtured by feeding.
The large food matrices touched the majority of urban dwellers
in one way or another. However, food production was largely in the
hands of the rural peasantry, who were restricted in their movements
and obliged to maintain production of basic foodstuffs. The transport
and processing of food engaged merchants, sailors, and nomads. Al-
together, the organization of food supply and feeding systems stretched
across the spaces and populations of the empire. These systems aimed
to have an immediate and practical impact on the subject populations
of the empire, ensuring sustenance. At the same time, the responsibil-
ity for and commitment to food supply bound people into relation-
ships of patronage and benefit, of obligation and privilege, of vendor
and client. Food was an agent in creating economic, social, and politi-
cal hierarchies and defining power relations. Celebrations and feasts
were the occasions for extraordinary public distributions as well as
public displays of power and allegiance. Many ceremonies and rituals
incorporated food.
A conglomeration of food-related activities commands our atten-
tion in this chapter, from the preoccupation with adequate acquisition,
supply, preparation, and distribution, to the rituals and symbolic
meanings of foods and feasts. It addresses the supply of food to the
cities and palaces, to the army, and to the ¥ajj caravans. Public kitch-
ens throughout the empire were a distinct strand in these intertwined
organizations of food supply and distribution. While they did not
originate ex nihilo under the Ottomans, they did become particularly
widespread during Ottoman rule and stood (as Evliya observed) as a
signature Ottoman institution. After discussing the broader phenom-
enon of ¿imarets, the chapter closes with a discussion of how and why
food became a predominant agent and symbol of power in the Otto-
man context.
PROVISIONING
far smaller and more homogeneous than the Ottomans, yet depended
on the delivery of foodstuffs from foreign sources. The Ottoman em-
pire, in contrast, was largely autarchic. Supply concerns there focused
more on moving basic goods within the empire, preventing unautho-
rized sales to foreigners, controlling quality, and not on insuring suf-
ficient imports, as was the case with Venice and Genoa, for example.3
Yet the logistics of provisioning the vast span of Ottoman territory
resulted in regulated and intersecting systems; these further shaped
Ottoman administrative practices, as regulation and supply required
codification and responsible, experienced personnel. For all these
routines, as is usual with the Ottomans, extensive written evidence
survives.
None of these food systems worked perfectly or undisturbed.
Supply networks were vulnerable to weather disruptions, piracy, state
imperatives, or simply the temptation to sell or hoard for a larger
profit. Natural disasters could create temporary hardship or long-term
suffering. Famines came and went as a result of pests and drought,
and relief was more difficult away from coasts and alternate sources
of food. Thus the systems as discussed here are presented in a model
form, with the understanding that they suffered countless interrup-
tions and imperfections.
Provisioning channeled the attention and energies of officials in
the capital city Istanbul and the provincial towns alike. Daily and
emergency stocks of basic necessities were essential for all urban loca-
tions. For the larders of the Topkapı Palace, as well as for the resi-
dences of senior officials and notables, generous and various provisions
had to be acquired. The army on campaign—for months, sometimes
years—engendered another vast system of supply and delivery of basic
foodstuffs along its projected routes. Moreover, the annual ¥ajj cara-
vans guiding pilgrims to Mecca and Medina organized similar provi-
sioning networks overseen from Cairo and Damascus. Finally, food
was the agent and object of institutional and informal patronage and
poor relief.
tant markets along the Golden Horn each had a separate quay and
scales, for example: Ya¬kapanı (oil, fat), Unkapanı (wheat), Balkapanı
(honey) and Yemiƒkapanı (fruit).8 Not only were the markets separate,
but the preparation and sale of foodstuffs was divided amongst nu-
merous specific cook shops and stores. Once again, it is Evliya Çelebi
who provides an extensive catalogue of these from the mid-seventeenth
century.9
Wheat was distributed from the city granaries near the quays to
the millers and from there to the bakers. As with virtually all the city
trades and manufactures, the bakers were organized as a guild, with
a hierarchy of masters, journeymen, and apprentices preparing breads
of different qualities and prices. The sultan was responsible for pro-
viding bread daily to his subjects in Istanbul and as a result was
personally involved in ensuring grain supply to Istanbul. The grand
vizier himself inspected the bazaar every week to check on supplies
and manufacturing quality.10 While some people purchased their daily
supply of bread (sometimes more than once a day), others bought
wheat for grinding, or flour, prepared their dough at home, and then
took it for baking to neighborhood ovens. More well-to-do people
maintained separate baking ovens at home.11
Meat arrived in Istanbul mostly on the hoof from the Balkans.
People of means, merchants and artisans, were appointed to supply a
fixed number of animals for purchase and delivery to the city butchers.
Owners of large herds were required to send between five and ten
percent of their own animals to the markets. These suppliers were called
celep-keƒan, and were usually named to the task because they possessed
the financial resources necessary to convey large numbers of sheep and
goats overland to the capital. For this obligation they earned relief from
other levies, yet it was a costly and difficult charge.12 Again, as with
grains and bread, butchered meats of different qualities were sold to
individuals and also to shops preparing cooked foods. While bread of
some quality was daily fare for most everyone, meat consumption var-
ied enormously and, as the ¿imaret menus demonstrate, was not a regu-
lar ingredient in the cooking pots of poorer people.13
Prices of basic foodstuffs and raw materials for manufacturing
sold in the Istanbul markets and elsewhere were continually fixed and
readjusted by the kadi in consultation with local merchants and manu-
facturers. The fixing of maximal prices (narh) and frequent market
inspections all functioned as means to control production and distri-
bution.14 Market inspectors (mu¥tesib) oversaw the setting of prices,
the fair use of weights and measures, the quality of merchandise and
the moral behavior of people in the markets.
136 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
Provincial towns
In every region, local networks similar to that centered on Istanbul
existed to supply provincial and district towns. Emporia such as Aleppo
and Cairo probably rivaled the markets of Istanbul, while the markets
of major cities like Damascus, Edirne, Bursa, and Salonika offered resi-
dents an ample variety of special foodstuffs in addition to the essentials.
Enforced supply networks, price controls, and market inspections were
typical not only in the big cities like Istanbul and Bursa, but in smaller
places like Ankara and Jerusalem as well.19 In each town or city, the
local governors and kadis oversaw and managed the markets with as-
sistance from the market inspector and other authorities.
A corollary to regulating the movement and sale of foodstuffs
was the control over food production. This was accomplished by re-
stricting the movement of peasants, who incurred penalties or addi-
tional tax liabilities for changing their place of residence of their own
accord. Nor could they deliberately change the type or the quantity of
FEEDING POWER 137
unruly troops, however, peasant flight from the villages along the
way was not uncommon. On the eastern frontier, the scorched earth
policy of the Safavid army when in retreat both drove away local
peasants and destroyed the foodstuffs the Ottomans might have pur-
chased en route. Under the circumstances, the Ottoman supply system
encountered formidable problems, and the troops more often resorted
to grabbing stores from local people.29
Mu͆afa Åli sketched a picture of how this system ought to have
worked in his critique of the Ottoman campaign in the east that began
in 986/1578–79. Discussing its faulty logistics, he says:
The careful planning expected by Mu͆afa Åli was based on his knowl-
edge of other campaigns. Nothing was to be left to chance, and the
great distances and difficulties of supply in eastern Anatolia were
carefully considered in this plan linking stored supplies and garrison
towns. According to Mu͆afa Åli adequate provisioning required years
of accumulation to overcome the terrain and the distance of some
250 kilometers separating one base from the next. His prescriptions
were aimed not only at stockpiling adequate stores for the army, but
also at safeguarding peasants from the abuses of emergency military
requisitioning.
140 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
Janissaries
Food and everything associated to it also played a central role in
the life of the janissary corps. As with other groups—the cities, the
palaces, the army on campaign—the janissary corps had to be sup-
plied with foodstuffs, either distributed as part of salaries or made
available for purchase in sufficient quantities. The symbolic impor-
tance of food was, however, very emphatic for the janissaries. To begin
with, the corps itself was called the ocak (hearth) or ocak-i Bektaƒıyan
(hearth of the Bektaƒis). The names of the officer ranks came directly
from the kitchen: the çorbacı (soup maker) was the battalion commander,
while lower-ranking officers including the aƒcıs (cook) and kara kullukçus
(scullions).31 The use of these titles reflected the close affiliation of the
janissaries to the Bektaƒi dervish order. Among the Bektaşis, the kitchen
and hearth were sacred, thus prompting the use of kitchen terms and
occupations to denote the hierarchy among the dervishes.
The cauldrons (œaz¬an) of the janissary hearths have long been
understood to be the focal icon of their loyalty to the sultan. By accept-
ing his food, they reaffirmed their allegiance and obligation to serve.
Eating from the same pot also worked to create group solidarity. The
cauldrons, like the officer ranks, found their antecedents among the
Bektaƒis, evoking the sacred cauldron (œazan-i ƒerif) of the eponymous
leader, Hacı Bektaƒ. In the aƒ evi or kitchen of Bektaƒi residence com-
plexes, a huge cauldron often won great reverence for its role in the
special ceremonies of certain festivals.32 When the janissaries were
discontent and rebellion was cooking amongst them, they spilled out
the cauldrons to announce their rejection of the sultan’s gift of food.
Spiritual and political at one and the same time, the reversal of these
pots was the classic sign of janissary revolt.33 As was obvious from the
numerous reports quoted from travelers to the city, the cauldrons
were a central icon of the ¿imaret as well, at least in Jerusalem. They
announced its capacity to feed, and, when empty, stood in mute accu-
sation of diminished power.
‹ajj Caravans
Each year, two large caravans departed from Damascus and Cairo
in the direction of Mecca and Medina. The preparations for the pas-
sage of these long convoys of pilgrims, merchants, animals, and goods
bore a strong resemblance to those necessary for a military campaign.
While the army organized supplies and transit across Anatolia or the
Balkans and Hungary for some 150,000 men in the late sixteenth cen-
FEEDING POWER 141
In sum, the challenge of supplying the pilgrimage caravan and
the holy desert towns, combined with the demands of daily urban
supply and military campaign provisioning, occupied no small amount
of Ottoman time and resources. Food was not the raison dΐtre of any
of these enterprises; it was their sine qua non, recognized as such in
Ottoman policy. The power to feed fed power. All provisioning suc-
FEEDING POWER 143
cesses, unsung though they might be, were at the heart of Ottoman
stability and legitimacy, an obligation assumed by the sultans and
expected of them. In the practical realization of this obligation, the
sultan depended on the military-administrative corps, soldier-governors
who rotated through an array of appointments. Each post combined
military and civilian duties and one common task was to solve the
logistics of food supply for large numbers of people, whether seden-
tary in towns or on the move in caravans or on campaigns.
PRE-OTTOMAN PRECEDENTS
Make an enormous feast, then ask what you want and let
them pray.63
pared for holidays.69 Muj±r al-D±n also described the daily procedure
at the simǠ:
And this is the table of the Noble Abraham, peace be unto him,
which is called the Dash±sha; at the door of the kitchen a drum
is struck each day after the afternoon prayer, at the time of the
distribution from the generous table. The people of the town
and pious sojourners eat from it; the bread is made daily and
distributed at three times: early morning, after the midday prayer
to the people of the town, and after the afternoon prayer a
general distribution to the people of the town and the newcom-
ers. And the quantity of bread baked each day is 14,000 flat
loaves, but sometimes it reaches 15,000. And as for the capacity
of its waqf, it can scarcely be determined; and no one is kept
from his generous table, neither of the rich nor of the poor.
each person had his bowl filled with the soup of Abraham,
enough for the subsistence of men with their families. I [Evliya]
was also fortunately among the group of those fuœara. I re-
ceived a plate of wheat soup, a gift from God. I never wit-
nessed such a tasty meal at the table of either viziers or men
of learning . . .”72
This thriving “table” in Hebron may have been one inspiration for
Hurrem’s ¿imaret in Jerusalem. Hebron and Jerusalem were called “al-
‹aramayn,” the two sanctuaries, in echo of the two noble sanctuaries,
al-‹aramayn al-Shar±fayn, Mecca and Medina. In adding a public
kitchen to Jerusalem, Hurrem ensured that each of the four holy cities
had an institution to feed the hungry.
150 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
a range of local Byzantine practices and traditions which were not com-
pletely at odds with their own. The Byzantine web of charitable orga-
nizations (although the empire was impoverished by that time) included
distributions of food to needy and deserving persons, echoing practices
established in the Turkic principalities.
AN OTTOMAN INSTITUTION
mosque was providing food. Diyarbakir, however, stood out for the
rundown condition of its ¿imarets compared to other towns Evliya
visited: Bursa had twenty, Trabzon two, Konya eleven, Amasya ten,
Skoplje four, and Elbasan three.96 According to him, Jerusalem had
three as well.97 Evliya says that in comparison with the ¿imarets, the sufi
residences were more constant as sources of food for the poor. Yet
perhaps it was everywhere the case that these residences played an
important role in food distribution, and thus they worked, if not in
tandem, at least in a common endeavor with the ¿imarets.98 They have
already been noted as one basic precedent for the development of the
¿imarets. This last observation, however, raises a further question. Just
as the competition between Selçuk rulers and upstart amirs found ex-
pression in their respective endowing of mosques and sufi sites, it is
possible that the ¿imarets and sufi residences played some role in the
competition between sufi institutions and those of mosque-based Islam,
between the dervishes and the ¿ülema, for both popular support and
imperial patronage.
Ultimately, the Ottoman sultan’s preoccupation with food was in
part an outgrowth of his political and military capacities, and his
general responsibility to provide for his subjects. In the first two cen-
turies of Ottoman rule, this responsibility was captured in symbolic
acts like being the first to serve out food and lighting the first fire of
a new ¿imaret attributed to Orhan.99 This latter topos may have had its
origins in an anecdote attributed to Zaid b. Aslam and repeated by
Niz«m al-Mulk in his Siyasat-nama. According to the story, the Caliph
¿Umar encountered a destitute woman and her two children as he
walked in disguise one night. Not recognizing him, the woman cursed
the Caliph for ignoring their hunger. He, much chastised, went away
and returned to her as soon as possible carrying foodstuffs, then set
about lighting a cooking fire and preparing bread and soup for the
three hungry souls with his own hands.100
Little has been written about the symbolic function of the ¿imarets.
This is partly because most accounts emphasize their role in feeding
the poor, meaning the needy or destitute. Yet their most numerous
clients seem to have been their own employees, those of the com-
plexes and the various stipendiaries in them. Food distributions were
not always a form of poor relief or significant only for their economic
and subsistence consequences. All had symbolic and ritual aspects
that created layers of meaning beyond temporary sustenance or the
sensual enjoyment of eating. Giving and taking food symbolized and
actualized the dense networks of patronage woven with implications
of rights and obligations. Imperial distributions, in their many con-
FEEDING POWER 155
This passage articulates how the bonds created by the giving and
accepting of benefits conferred the right to speak critically of imperial
matters. Åz±z Efendi echoes the earlier Buyid articulation of a “claim
for this benefit” (haqq h«dhih± an-ni¿mah).107 Both define the two-way
bond set up by the benefit, a two-way claim (¥aqq): the just claim of
the giver to loyalty and service which imposed the same loyalty on the
recipient along with an almost intimate or familiar privilege to speak.
This ¥aqq was exemplified in the provision and acceptance of food—
most specifically, bread and salt. The negative version of expressions
with this phrase was employed to indicate a failure to fulfill the im-
plied obligations. When Mu͆afa Åli wrote in 1581 to criticize the
commanders Lala Mu͆afa Paƒa and Sinan Paƒa in the campaign against
Iran, he said: “None of them was animated by the zeal of religion or
by the wish to fulfill his obligations vis-à-vis the king whom they
owed bread and salt.”108 And he repeated, in upbraiding Îemsi Paƒa
for his unwillingness to relate a “curious story” to the sultan out of
fear for his own position: “Not only will you be a creature without
benefit and without harm, but you will have betrayed the King’s bread
and salt [that you have eaten].”109 The expression tuz etmek hakkı bilmedi
(lit. “he failed to recognize the claims of salt and bread”) implied the
failure to fulfill these obligations.110
The implication of loyalty due in exchange for sustenance invites
a comparison between the ¿imarets and the janissary ocak, both of
which traced their origins partly to the sufi residences. The janissaries
and the corps of religious scholar-judges were parallel institutions by
the sixteenth century, and the continued loyal service of both groups
was essential to the survival and functioning of the empire. Thus,
comparable to the symbolic significance of the janissary hearth, the
daily distributions in ¿imarets and madrasas to the large corps of schol-
ars and religious functionaries enacted a ritual of allegiance between
them and the sultan.
Yet the ¿imarets were not simply janissary ocaks in a different
setting. For one thing, they were never called ocak, but rather the
cooking place in them was called ma†bah (kitchen), which if anything
recalls the ma†bah-i ¿amire, the imperial kitchen. In addition, the
janissaries purchased their own food, although it was the sultan’s
responsibility to ensure that there were enough foodstuffs available
for purchase. Moreover, no account exists of ¿imaret cauldrons being
FEEDING POWER 157
spilled out, of food being refused in this setting. Ultimately, this sug-
gests a smaller role for the symbolic aspects of feeding at the ¿imarets,
a greater emphasis on the basic sustenance they afforded. Too, the
power or potential power of those who ate in ¿imarets could not rival
that of the janissaries (even if the janissaries and ¿ülema did sometimes
make common cause against the sultan). Those who ate in ¿imarets
were more dependent on them, more beholden to the sultan. In this,
his beneficence reinforced a less tenuous loyalty than the one which
anchored the janissaries. The sultans’ offer of food to these latter and
their acceptance was not framed by beneficence as much as by politi-
cal and military power.
Finally, compared with the janissary corps, the clientele of an
¿imaret was not an entirely fixed group. Each ¿imaret had a slightly
different character, and the individuals served could range from the
most important mosque functionaries and scholars to passing imperial
delegations to indigent beggers. Indigents, the most obvious people
(to modern eyes) to seek out such a facility, were only one group to
receive meals and not necessarily the largest. Together with other
aspects of Ottoman provisioning policies in the sixteenth century, the
public kitchens operated in a society where the state and beneficent
institutions had a continual and considerable role in contributing to
the daily livelihood of all kinds of individuals.111
The origins of these policies are to be found in the long-standing
practice of incorporating food into rituals of loyalty and celebration as
well as that of remunerating retainers with payments in kind, as well as
in cash. As the numbers of these retainers grew, sorted out into well-
defined branches of government, Ottoman forms evolved, creating the
¿imaret as a special institution. Ultimately, it brought together practices
arising from disparate motives. What united these motives was that all
recipients were considered deserving of the sultan’s beneficence.
The offer and acceptance of bread and salt were part of the social
transaction in the public kitchen. Both were first and foremost basic
ingredients in the distributions because they were the consummate
subsistence foods. And real food distributions were of crucial impor-
tance. Despite what the K • utadgu Bilig seems to imply, the tie of obliga-
tions and just claims between patron and beneficiary was as important
at the level of the urban lower classes as it was among the higher
ranking Ottomans. These ties linked the sultan with subjects of all ranks
throughout the empire. Imperial power in the Ottoman lands therefore,
was ultimately tied to the supply and distribution of food, symbolized
by and articulated through it. While nourishing people of all classes,
this same food sustained the sultan’s sovereignty and his domain.
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CONCLUSION: PRACTICING BENEFICENCE
“How could the plates of the poor who came be sent back
empty?”
(Gelen fakir fukaranın tabakları nasıl boƒ geri çevirilirdi?)1
There are, however, some good reasons for focusing on a single
endowment, in particular on the Jerusalem ¿imaret. ¿…marets have re-
ceived limited attention before now, the only published research being
the important studies cited above of Turkish scholars from a genera-
tion or two ago. Yet, but for a few exceptions, ¿imarets developed as
separate and sizable institutions only under the Ottomans. Their
presence in cities around the empire was thus a mark of Ottoman
159
160 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
manager reported to the kadi that he could not provide meals because
the supply of rice from Egypt to Jerusalem had been cut.2 In another
instance, the ¿imaret was closed entirely in March 1585 when it ran out
of supplies as a result of the too frequent (every six months) replace-
ment of its managers in the preceding years.3 Yet this situation was
only temporary, as evidenced by the numerous accounts registers com-
piled for the years shortly thereafter.4 Temporary closures continued to
threaten the ¿imaret over time, however, reiterating its dependence on
the presence of a capable manager. It was again closed in October 1626
until late the following spring, this time because the manager had gone
away without leaving anyone to take over his responsibilities.5
In each instance cited, the problem was reported to the kadi so
that he might correct the matter, accompanied by the complaint that
the situation was harmful to the poor. Yet it does not seem that the
¿imaret was ever closed for very long or thoroughly derailed from its
stated goals, though it suffered various deviations and checks. Evi-
dently the kadis and the imperial administration in Istanbul, to which
complaints were also forwarded, undertook seriously their roles in
preserving the ¿imaret and maintaining its operations. How much of
their commitment derived from pious dedication and humanitarian
concern is not possible to calculate. Pressures from interested parties
in Jerusalem and in the capital surely had some impact on the survival
of the ¿imaret as well.
This close focus on the ¿imaret has clarified how normal were
many of the processes connected to the establishment, management,
and preservation of waqfs, processes some of which have been la-
belled in the past as corrupt. The idealized picture of waqf, born from
the exquisitely constructed intention as penned in pristine and orderly
texts of endowment deeds and normative law, must give way. Along-
side it stands the imperfect execution as described in the view of waqfs
based on reports, accounts registers (muhasebe) and judicial protocols.
These depict a living endeavor, run by and serving human beings in
the short run, though the institution was made for God, to last an
eternity. The HaÍÍeki Sultan ¿imaret exemplifies the vulnerabilities of
all waqfs yet demonstrates, too, how the ¿imaret fulfilled a crucial
function in the city of Jerusalem despite its imperfections.
Hurrem Sultan established her presence in Jerusalem by found-
ing the ¿imaret, which marked again the long reach of her power and
beneficence. In the imperial Ottoman context, she was identified only
162 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
with paradigmatic Muslim women who fulfilled the same role. On the
ground in Jerusalem, however, Christians confounded her with other
beneficent women tied to the place, melding her into the topos of a
universal female figure providing for the weak. Hurrem’s choice of
what to do with her property and her ability or freedom to define the
elements to be endowed was circumscribed, if not by direct order,
then by the expectations of a subject population and the symbolic and
practical needs of the dynasty or government. Her actions had to take
familiar forms in order to be understood, forms that had come to
represent imperial power and beneficence.
Hurrem’s gender was a crucial factor in configuring her place in
the imperial hierarchy, and it gave her defined rights and limitations
within the framework of Islamic law. To some extent, beneficent ac-
tion enabled her to transcend the social and cultural restrictions placed
on her. The same was true for women elsewhere. With the Ottoman
model firmly in mind, further comparative work to explore the under-
takings of women will open a new avenue for cross-cultural studies.
Beneficence was the purview of imperial or wealthy women in many
cultures. Their undertakings often seem similar: material or medical
aid to the poor, foundations specifically to aid women, spiritual insti-
tutions. A few cases will suffice to demonstrate how different legal
and cultural conditions configured their beneficence in discrete ways,
how varied were the motivations for and consequences of women’s
beneficence.
In Imperial Russia, pious women of means used their wealth for
charitable purposes, founding religious communities, hospitals, schools,
and housing. Like Muslim women, these Orthodox Christians kept
their property even when married and so possessed the means for
philanthropy in their own right. Several paragons who set up founda-
tions and worked among the poor served as models for other wealthy
women to emulate in their charitable endeavors. The historical study
of Russian women as philanthropists provides a suggestive compari-
son as, in their case, it ultimately fostered the establishment of formal
charitable associations among women in the modern era.6 It would be
interesting to learn whether Ottoman women in the upper ranks of
society had any sense of shared undertaking in their philanthropy,
and whether this ultimately led them to create beneficent associations
at some later time.
Eighteenth-century Italy exemplifies a different climate of phil-
anthropic giving by noblewomen. In Turin, the increasing number of
donations by women to religious and secular charities is understood
to have been part of a strategy for asserting their property rights against
PRACTICING BENEFICENCE 163
the claims of their husbands and sons to the property women brought
with them to a marriage. The ability to make decisions about how to
use their money, even if it was only to give it away, was important to
these women, and the beneficiaries were various convents and refuges
for women.7 The antebellum United States demonstrates a similar aspect
of women’s beneficence. There, the transformation of charitable asso-
ciations into formal corporate entities gave married women control
over property and legal autonomy as officers of corporations that they
lacked as individuals.8
Legal discrimination against women worldwide, along with lim-
its imposed on them by social and cultural norms, have been fought
with gradual success. In the past, one key aspect of beneficence shared
among women was its use as a tool to achieve what might otherwise
be inaccessible: public action, voice, and status. Now, more women
are able to attain these goals directly. Moreover, the nature of women’s
beneficence is also shifting. In recent decades alone, women in signifi-
cant numbers have moved into professional positions where they
compete more equally with men to create and expend personal wealth.
As this happens, women also noticeably reassess their giving strate-
gies and preferences, making more independent decisions about where
to give, less obliged by traditional practices or family to support the
beneficiaries chosen and sustained by their fathers and husbands.9
Narrowing the focus to one waqf (while keeping an eye on oth-
ers) has revealed many characteristics of imperial waqfs across the
Ottoman empire. Without the detail presented, one would have little
sense of the widespread micro-economic influence of waqfs, the na-
ture of their operations or the immediate social meaning of their pres-
ence. Yet without the broader context of waqf-making, of the beneficent
roles of imperial women, and of Ottoman provisioning policies, it
would be hard to appreciate the aims and agendas being played out
through the collectivity of individual institutions. Altogether, this study
has demonstrated how an institution that seemingly served the weak
or disadvantaged (however temporarily) was in fact an agent of power:
for the imperial dynasty, for one imperial woman, for the person who
managed the ¿imaret, for the peasants tied to it, and for those privi-
leged enough to eat there.
Differences between individual endowments certainly existed in
specific form and purpose, as well as with regard to their imperial and
local standing, management of the properties, the clientele, the menus,
164 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
etc. Each has its own specific history. Yet the study of the ¿imaret
points out some important shared features of imperial endowments as
agents of Ottomanization in provincial settings. Alongside the mili-
tary and administrative institutions, they constituted another link to
the imperial center in Istanbul, another Ottoman institution which
was, in time, co-opted by local notables although never detached from
its imperial connection. Local subjects of the Ottoman empire who
were appointed to imperial waqf posts developed an interest in the
continuation and stability of Ottoman rule. This identification with the
Ottoman imperial project engendered loyalty alongside local self-
interest; even when the administrative posts of the HaÍÍeki Sultan
¿imaret were taken over by local families, used in the competition for
local status and power, they still remained Ottoman appointments
and the ¿imaret an Ottoman endeavor.10
In Istanbul, the chief eunuch who supervised the ¿imaret from
the Topkapı Palace used the waqf, along with the many others he
controlled, to dispense patronage through appointments. At another
level, the bond to the center was fiscal, whereby the waqfs delivered
surplus revenues to Istanbul or received funds when in need of sup-
port. More importantly, this link established a permanent avenue of
intervention from Istanbul, as well as a pipeline for complaints and
petitions from Jerusalem. Political and financial bonds tied the prov-
ince and the center through the waqf, since the sultan was obliged to
continue his support of imperial provincial institutions once estab-
lished. It would be a mark of dynastic and imperial weakness to let
them founder, especially as decrepit buildings were sometimes more
readily visible than ineffectual administrators.
No less important was the way the ¿imaret intruded and merged
with the organization of property, patronage, and power at the local
level. Because it was a waqf, dependent for its income on endowed
properties, the ¿imaret also altered economic relationships. The ties of
large waqfs to the countryside through their landholdings were not
superficial; they refashioned the identities of villagers both proximate
and remote, aligning them with the purposes of the waqf through
their regular payments in kind or in cash, as well as the supply of
other goods for purchase. Yet the villagers had little or no connection
to the beneficence served up at the kitchen. That was intended for the
pious poor, the travelers, the indigent, and whoever else managed to
receive a bowl of soup and a loaf of bread.
Considered from almost any angle, the waqfs were constructions
wholly embedded in the political, social, economic, and cultural fabric
in which they existed. To see them as isolated entities empties them of
meaning. Despite what the law codes seem to say about property
PRACTICING BENEFICENCE 165
The founding of waqfs by members of the imperial household
was also part of a collective undertaking to enhance the Ottoman
dynasty, reflecting the widespread use of waqfs by the imperial house-
hold for image-building and legitimation, social welfare, urban devel-
opment, and food supply. These endowments aimed collectively to
foster and uphold the ideal of the Ottoman sultan as a beneficent and
just ruler, providing subsistence along with spiritual and intellectual
support for his subjects. Both Süleyman and Hurrem were ambitious,
conscious of the enormously powerful and successful empire which
Süleyman led, and deliberate about enhancing its status and their own.
While imperial waqf-making can be seen as part of a collective
endeavor, the initiative for establishing beneficent institutions as waqfs
lay with individuals, and the recognition or acclaim gained from do-
ing so, whether in this world or the next, redounded to the individual.
Each waqf was an individual endeavor, the act of a single person who
thereby sought to draw himself or herself closer to God. Sultans and
others alike made waqfs as part of a spiritual calculus, no matter what
their additional motivations might be.
Mottahedeh has observed that: “Some forms of ni¿mah [benefit],
like public works, resembled the vow in that they were transactions
between a single man and an abstractly defined category of men; but
166 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
The formal vehicle of waqf certainly enjoyed enormous and long-
lived popularity, easily retrievable by the historian. The other formal
institution of charity was zak«t. Not much is known about the obliga-
PRACTICING BENEFICENCE 167
tory alms tax, but it does not appear to have played any significant
role as a source of poor relief or beneficent aid in Ottoman times.16
However, informal beneficence may well have rivalled waqf as a source
of support and subsistence. Informal beneficence, for the purposes of
this discussion, included all forms of donation and distribution that
were not codified, recorded, or regulated. As a result, they did not
create systematic documentary evidence. Yet while informal they were
nonetheless institutionalized, in the sense that distributions often oc-
curred at predictable times (holy days, personal celebrations, state
occasions) and places (mosques, palaces, wealthy private homes, pa-
rade routes). Moreover, informal beneficence was expected from people
of certain ranks and classes. The combination of expectation and pre-
dictability lent a more fixed and institutional quality to what other-
wise appeared as a haphazard event.
A few examples highlight some key features of informal giving.
One Ca¿fer Efendi, in extolling the beneficence of his patron Mehmet
A¬a, said:
Not only was Mehmet generous in the normal course of things, but he
made a point of maintaining his open door even in more straitened
circumstances.
This theme recurs. In the early twentieth century, a certain Enis
Paƒa was forcibly retired from imperial service on a meager pension.
He nonetheless maintained his kitchen as before. Daily, it served the
twenty-three people who formed his household and never fewer than
ten other guests. In addition to these, “there were many poor of the
mansion” (“Kona¬ın fakir fukarası çoktur”) who expected to receive food
and whom the paƒa was accustomed to feed. He also kept a bath
attached to the house, open for use to people in the neighboring quar-
ters. Even when the paƒa’s household itself had none, its depot still
fed the faucets where the poor could get water.18
Thus the ¿imarets were not the only locations where food was
distributed. As pointed out, mosques, medreses, and sufi residences
traditionally fed some people, though not necessarily every day. Others,
168 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
too, took an active role in feeding the poor and travelers. Evliya Çelebi
noted this in describing the city of Bitlis:
What made voluntary beneficence so central a component in
Ottoman society? It is striking that canonical charity had such a mea-
ger presence (or left so little trace) while at the same time a thriving
culture of giving existed. The legal institutions of zak«t and prescribed
maintenance payments to needy family members (nafaqa), which were
intended to ensure the subsistence of weaker people in society, be-
came subsumed by waqfs and direct informal distributions.21 Clearly,
people felt a compulsion, if not an obligation, to be beneficent, to help
the deserving targets of charity. They also, it seems, were more enthu-
siastic about doing so on their own terms and not through any impe-
rial office or central authority. The wealthiest and most powerful people
in the Ottoman empire did not pay taxes. This did not, however, mean
that they were unwilling to invest part of their income in the welfare
PRACTICING BENEFICENCE 169
INTRODUCTION
171
172 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
engineer, civil and military, to his Excellency [the Governor] Suraya Pasha of
Jerusalem.”
6. Yusuf Sa’id Natshe, “My Memories of Khassaki Sultan or ‘The
Flourishing Edifice,’ ” Jerusalem Quarterly File 7 (2000). See Ra’if Yusuf Nijm et
al. Kun£z al-Quds (Milan: Matabi Brughiriyu, 1983), 249–52, which described
in detail the state of the buildings and the repairs needed.
7. The term haÍÍeki (favorite) describes the woman preferred by the sul-
tan, hence Hurrem was known as HaÍÍeki Sul†an. On this see Pakalın, I:752–53
and Leslie P. Peirce, The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman
Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 63, 89, 95–96, 127–28.
8. For an introduction to the topic, see Y. Linant de Bellefonds, “hiba,”
EI2, III:350–51 and Franz Rosenthal, et al., “hiba,” EI 2, III:342–50.
9. The classic work on gifts is that of Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form
and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. W.D. Halls (London:
Routledge, 1990). Most recently, Natalie Zemon Davis has explored the status,
meanings, and uses of gifts in The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France (Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 2000).
10. Amy Singer, Palestinian peasants and Ottoman officials (Cambridge,
UK: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
11. See, for example, the work of Robert D. McChesney, which examines
the shrine complex at Balkh (Afghanistan) over a period of several hundred
years, Waqf in Central Asia: Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim Shrine,
1480–1889 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991).
12. The Topkapı Palace Archives, the Baƒbakanlık Arƒivi (both in Istanbul)
and the Vakıflar Umum Müdürlü¬ü in Ankara all contain endowment deeds,
accounts registers, and other documents about waqfs all across the empire.
Where local archives remain—as in Damascus, Jerusalem, and Cairo—there
are often similar records extant. In addition, the registers of judicial proceed-
ings (Tur. kadı sicilleri, Ar. sijill«t) everywhere in the empire preserve details,
though not systematically recorded, of waqf management. On the archives
and their contents, see Baƒbakanlık Osmanlı Arƒivi Katalogları Rehberi, Osmanlı
Arƒivi Daire Baƒkanlı¬ı, yayın nu. 5 (Ankara, 1992), yayın nu. 26 (Ankara,
1995); M.A. Bakhit, Kashsh«f i¥Í«’± zaman± li-sijill«t al-ma¥«kim al-shar¿iyya wa’l-
awq«f al-isl«miyya f± bil«d al-Sh«m, (Amman: Markaz al-Wath«’iq wa’l-Makh†ū†«t,
1984); and Suraiya Faroqhi, Approaching Ottoman History: An Introduction to the
Sources (Cambridge UK: Cambridge University Press, 1999) 49–57, 59–61.
13. I saw both of these ¿imarets in operation in 1995. Freely, in 1983, said
that the Eyüp ¿imaret was the only one still operating in Istanbul; see John
Freely, Blue Guide: Istanbul (London: Ernest Benn, 1983), 296. By 1999, at least
one other, the Ahmediye in Üsküdar, was again functioning (personal com-
munication from John Freely).
14. For different sorts of waqf critique, see W. Heffening, “waœf,” in SEI,
627–28 and H. A. R. Gibb and Harold Bowen, Islamic Society and the West. Vol.
1: Islamic Society in the Eighteenth Century (London: Oxford University Press,
1950), Pt. 2:165–78. For discussions of the critique, see McChesney, Waqf in
Central Asia, 5; John Robert Barnes, An Introduction to Religious Foundations in
NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 173
the Ottoman Empire (Leiden: Brill, 1987), 51–65; and D.S. Powers, “Orientalism,
Colonialism and Legal History: The Attack on Muslim Family Endowments in
Algeria and India,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 31 (1989): 535–71.
15. It does not, however, offer a detailed disquisition on the enormous
topic of waqf law as it developed in Islam, nor specifically on the ‹anaf±
school of law (madhhab) that predominated under the Ottomans. On this latter,
see W. Heffening and J. Schacht, “¥anafiyya,” EI2, III:162–64. On waqf law,
there are dozens of sources. A useful beginning point will be the new article
by Rudolph Peters, “waœf,” EI 2, XI:59–63.
16. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 205–12.
17. Aƒ means “cooked food” and is also used to describe a kind of soup;
hane designates a house, or a building or room set aside for a specific purpose.
18. Suraiya Faroqhi, “Sayyid Gazi Revisited: The Foundation as Seen
Through Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century Documents,” Turcica 13 (1981):
90–122; eadem, “The Tekke of Haci Bektaƒ: Social Position and Economic
Activities,” IJMES 7 (1976): 183–208; eadem, “A Great Foundation in Difficul-
ties: Or Some Evidence on Economic Contraction in the Ottoman Empire of
the Mid-Seventeenth Century,” in Mélanges Professeur Robert Mantran, ed. A.
Temimi (Zaghouan: CEROMDE, 1988), 109–21; Miriam Hoexter, Endowments,
Rulers and Community: Waqf al-‹aramayn in Ottoman Algiers (Leiden: Brill, 1998);
and Ronald C. Jennings, “Pious Foundations in the Society and Economy of
Ottoman Trabzon, 1565–1640. A Study Based on the Judicial Registers (Îer’i
Mahkeme Sicilleri) of Trabzon,” JESHO 33 (1990): 271–336.
19. G. Baer, “The Waqf as a Prop for the Social System, 16th–20th Cen-
turies,” Islamic Law and Society 4 (1997): 264–97; idem, “Women and Waqf: An
Analysis of the Istanbul Tahrîr of 1546,” Asian and African Studies 17 (1983): 9–
27; idem, “The Dismemberment of Awqâf in Early Nineteenth-Century Jerusa-
lem,” in Ottoman Palestine 1800–1914, ed. Gad G. Gilbar, (Leiden: Brill, 1990),
299–319; Ö. L. Barkan, “Osmanlı …mparatorlu¬unda Bir …skân ve Kolonizasyon
Metodu Olarak Vakıflar ve Temlikler,” Vakiflar Dergisi 2 (1942): 279–386; H.
Gerber, “The Waqf Institution in Early Ottoman Edirne,” Asian and African
Studies 17 (1983): 29–45; and Bahaeddin Yediyıldız, Institution du Vaqf au XVIIIe
siècle en Turquie—Étude socio-historique (Ankara: Imprimerie de la Société
d’Histoire Turque, 1985).
20. Hoexter, Endowments, Rulers and Community.
21. McChesney, Waqf in Central Asia, 5.
CHAPTER 1
1. All citations from the Qur’an are from A. J. Arberry, The Koran Inter-
preted (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983). Subsequent citations will give
sura and verse in the text in parenthesis with no further reference.
2. Muslim b. al-Hajj«j al-Qushayri, ‡a¥±¥ Muslim (Cairo: Dar al-Ghad al-
Årabi, 1987–1990), Kit«b al-waÍiyya 4.
174 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
Lebanon: The Kh«zin Sheiks and the Maronite Church (1735–1840) (Amsterdam:
Institute for Near Eastern and Islamic Studies, 1992), 34–36, 168–70; idem, “The
Maronite Waqf of Dayr Sayyidat Bkirk± in Mount Lebanon During the 18th
Century,” in Le Waqf dans l’espace islamique: Outil de pouvoir socio-politique, ed.
Randi Deguilhem (Damas: Institut Français de Damas, 1995), 259–75; and Moshe
Gil on the “waqf of dhimmis” in Documents of the Jewish Pious Foundations from
the Cairo Geniza (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 8–10.
18. Schacht, “Early Doctrines on Waqf,” 446–49 and Peters, “waœf.” See
the Arabic endowment deed of the HaÍÍeki Sultan ¿imaret in the Türk ve
…slam Eserleri Müzesi (T…EM) #2192, fol. 46v ff. or K.J. Al-Åsal±, Wath«’iq
Maqdisiyya Ta’r±khiyya (Amman: al-J«mi¿a al-Urdunniyya, 1983), 141.
19. See Peters, “waœf”. One example of such a stipulation is from the
waqfiyya of A¥med Paƒa and reads: “if the vicissitudes of time prevent and
their [the mosques and the soup kitchen supported by the endowment] res-
toration be rendered impossible, the income of the above-mentioned trusts
shall be distributed among the righteous Muslims and poor monotheists”
(Íule¥a-i muslimine ve fuqara-i muve¥¥idine). M. A. Simsar, The Waqfiyah of ’A¥med
P«¡« (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1940), 140.
20. See Simsar, The Waqfiyah of ’A¥med P«¡«, 190–92, on the authority of
the kadi and manager according to ‹anaf± law. On the nature of the kadi’s
relationship to waqfs and his role in overseeing their well-being, as part of his
responsibility to the general welfare of the Muslim community, see Miriam
Hoexter, “‹uq£q All«h and ‹uq£q al-¿Ib«d as Reflected in the Waqf Institu-
tion,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 19 (1995): 141–46.
21. Abu Y£suf maintained that the verbal commitment was sufficient;
see Goitein, Muslim Law, p. 160, on qaul. One example of a waqfiyya inscribed
on the building itself is the Mirjaniya medrese in Baghdad, for which see Rob-
ert Hillenbrand, Islamic Architecture: Form, Function, and Meaning (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1994), 28–29; another example is the Burujiyya
medrese in Sivas, on which see Albert Gabriel, Les monuments turcs d’anatolie
(Paris: E. de Boccard, 1934), 2:154–55.
22. The waqfiyya of the HaÍÍeki Sultan ¿imaret was copied into the
Jerusalem sijill in 1203/1788–89. This text is reproduced in Shaykh As¿ad al-
Im«m Al-‹usayn±, Al-Manhal al-‡«f± f±’l-Waqf wa-A¥k«mihi (Jerusalem, 1982),
78–93 and in Al-Åsal±, Wath«’iq, 127–42.
23. See Heffening, “waœf,” 627, who uses mortmain and the translation
“dead hand” to emphasize this view. Heffening’s article, written for the first
edition of the Encyclopedia of Islam (1931), has been until very recently the basic
general reference on waqf for scholars who need a succinct statement about
the subject. He has thus made no small contribution to the generally negative
views about waqf within and outside the field of Middle Eastern and Islamic
history. The work of Fyzee is another much-cited modern work on waqf which
has contributed its negative views to the general one, on which see Fyzee,
Outline, 232–34. On corruption and waqfs, see also H. A. B. Rivlin, The Agri-
cultural Policy of Mu¥ammad Ål± in Egypt (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1961), 35 and Gibb and Bowen, Islamic Society and the West, Vol. I, Pt. 2,
NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 177
pp. 177–78. For a cogent analysis of how negative attitudes to waqf evolved
as part of colonial rule by the French in Algeria and the British in India, see
Powers, “Orientalism, Colonialism and Legal History.”
24. See Majid Khadduri, “maÍla¥a,” EI 2, VI:738–40 and McChesney, Waqf
in Central Asia, 11–13.
25. Qur’an II:82, 83, 110, 215, 273, 277; IX:60, 103. See also M. Berger,
“khayr,” EI 2, IV:1151–53; T. H. Weir and A. Zysow, “Íadaœa,” EI 2, VIII:708–16;
and J. Schacht, “zak«t,” SEI, 654–56.
26. On this see McChesney, Charity and Philanthropy in Islam, 8, and
Schacht, “Early Doctrines on Waqf,” 447.
27. A. R. Hands, Charities and Social Aid in Greece and Rome (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1968).
28. Franz Rosenthal, “‡edaœa, Charity,” Hebrew Union College Annual 23
(1950–51): 429. Rosenthal’s article deals specifically with the evolution of the
term from its general meaning of righteousness to the specific one of obliga-
tory alms-giving.
29. Mark R. Cohen, “Poverty as Reflected in the Genizah Documents,”
typescript, p. 2, to be published in the Proceedings of the Seventh Interna-
tional Conference of the Society for Judaeo-Arabic Studies, ed. Paul Fenton
(forthcoming). My thanks to the author for sharing with me the typescript of
his paper.
30. Weir and Zysow, “Íadaœa,” 708–09. For a much later period, exten-
sive evidence on Jewish charitable organization and practice exists from the
Cairo Geniza. Jewish practices in Fatimid Cairo and Fustat are discussed ex-
tensively by S. D. Goitein in A Mediterranean Society, Vol. 2 (Berkeley: Univer-
sity of California Press, 1971), 91–143. Gil, Documents of the Jewish Pious
Foundations, 1–36, 102–17, also discusses the Jewish heqdēsh (endowment) with
reference to its origins and evolution and, more extensively, the relationship
between heqdēsh and waqf, as elucidated by the documents of the Geniza.
Other influences on the initial evolution of waqf included ancient Sheban
tradition from Yemen and Arabian tradition from the time of idol worship.
See Goitein, Muslim Law, 155. Dedications of property to the Ka¿aba in pre-
Islamic Mecca may also have served as a partial model for the early waqf, on
which see Barnes, An Introduction to Religious Foundations, 7 (though Barnes
gives this possibility little credence).
31. On Byzantine charitable institutions and their development gener-
ally, see Demetrios J. Constantelos, Byzantine Philanthropy and Social Welfare
(New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1968); idem, Poverty, Society and
Philanthropy in the Late Medieval Greek World (New Rochelle, NY: Aristide D.
Caratzas, 1992); P. W. Duff, “The Charitable Foundations of Byzantium,” in
Cambridge Legal Essays (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926), 83–
99; and Evelyne Patlagean, Pauvreté économique et pauvreté sociale à Byzance 4e-
7e siècles (Paris: Mouton 1977).
32. Judith Herrin, “From Bread and Circuses to Soup and Salvation: The
Origins of Byzantine Charity,” Davis Center Paper (Princeton, 1985), 16, 20, 26
and eadem, “Ideals of Charity, Realities of Welfare: The Philanthropic Activity
178 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
Press, 1994) 106, 126–27. See also Oded Peri, “Political Trends and Their Con-
sequences as Factors Affecting the Founding of Waqfs in Jerusalem at the end
of the Eighteenth Century,” (Hebrew) Cathedra 21 (1981): 73–88.
59. Hennigan, “The Birth of a Legal Institution,” 232.
60. Numerous scholars have pointed out that this value-laden khayr±-ahl±
distinction is a modern one. See Cahen, “Réflexions sur le Waqf Ancien,” 39–
40, 47. Gabriel Baer also concluded that the ahl±-khayr± distinction belonged to
legislation of the twentieth century, and not to Muslim laws pertaining to
waqf, on which see “The Muslim Waqf and Similar Institutions,” 21. See also
Rabie’s discussion of Maqriz±’s three groups of waqfs in Egypt, including
“awq«f ahliyya,” which were extensive estates in Syria and Egypt for “Sufi
houses, schools, mosques and tombs,” Hassanein Rabie, “Some Financial
Aspects of the Waqf System in Medieval Egypt,” Al-Majalla al-Ta’r±khiyya al-
MiÍriyya 18 (1971): 23. Here “ahliyya” appears to mean more “local, indig-
enous” rather than “family.” Lambton, in Continuity and Change, says there is
no “substantive distinction between private and charitable trusts” and that
“both public and private ultimately serve the same purpose and both are
bound by the same legal principles” (156). See also McChesney, Charity and
Philanthropy in Islam, 12, and Hennigan, “The Birth of a Legal Institution,” 1.
61. As related in Roy P. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early
Islamic Society (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 78.
62. On the area near Trabzon, see Anthony Bryer, “Rural Society in
Matzouka,” in Continuity and Change in Late Byzantine and Early Ottoman Soci-
ety, ed. Anthony Bryer and Heath Lowry (Birmingham, UK: Center for Byz-
antine Studies, 1986), 62. Goodwin lists a number of sites, in A History of
Ottoman Architecture, 162 ff., 182. From a somewhat later period, the conquest
of Cyprus (1571) produced similar takeovers of property by the Ottomans from
the Venetians who had maintained the Byzantine institutions on the island. On
this see Jennings, Christians and Muslims in Ottoman Cyprus, 404-41, 53.
63. Herrin, “Ideals of Charity,” 159.
64. Lambton, Continuity and Change, 149–51.
65. Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 348–55.
66. The matter of Byzantine influence has been a sensitive and contro-
versial subject in Ottoman historiography. See Cemal Kafadar’s remarks on
the subject, reviewing the debate, in Between Two Worlds: The Construction of
the Ottoman State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 24, 384-41.
67. Ethel Sara Wolper, “The Politics of Patronage: Political Change and
the Construction of Dervish Lodges in Sivas,” Muqarnas 12 (1995): 39–47.
68. Cornell Fleischer, “The Lawgiver as Messiah: The Making of the
Imperial Image in the Reign of Süleyman,” in Soliman le Magnifique et Son
Temps, ed. Gilles Veinstein (Paris: Documentation Française, 1992), 159–77;
Colin Imber, “Süleymân as Caliph of the Mulims: Ebû’s-Su¿ûd’s Formulation
of Ottoman Dynastic Ideology,” in ibid, 179–84; and Peirce, The Imperial Harem,
166.
69. See the example of Hersekzade A¥med Paƒa (d. 1517, holder of
various high offices, including the grand vizierate) who retained the offices of
NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 181
inspector and administrator for himself in his lifetime, then stipulated that
they should pass to his sons and the fittest of his freed slaves, respectively,
until they disappeared, at which time the Governor of Rümeli would be re-
sponsible for appointing capable persons to the two tasks. Simsar, The Waqfiyah
of ’A¥med P«¡«, 126–29, 187–88.
70. …. H. Uzunçarƒılı, Osmanlı Devletinin Saray Teƒkilatı (Ankara: Turk
Tarih Kurumu, 1945), 177–80; Barnes, An Introduction to Religious Foundations,
65–66; and Yediyıldız, Institution du Vaqf, 197–99.
71. On this see especially Gülru Necipo¬lu, “A Kânûn for the State, a
Canon for the Arts: Conceptualizing the Classical Synthesis of Ottoman Arts
and Architecture,” in Soliman le Magnifique, ed. Gilles Veinstein, 195–216.
72. See Goodwin, A History of Ottoman Architecture, 215–39 and Gülru
Necipo¬lu, “The Süleymaniye Complex in Istanbul: An Interpretation,”
Muqarnas 3 (1985): 92–117.
73. On Jerusalem, see Amnon Cohen, Economic life in Ottoman Jerusalem
(Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1989) and Ammon Cohen and
Bernard Lewis, Population and Revenue in the Towns of Palestine in the Sixteenth
Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 84–104. On the develop-
ment of cities in the Arab provinces under the Ottomans, see A. Raymond,
“The Ottoman Conquest and the Development of the Great Arab Towns,”
International Journal of Turkish Studies, 1 (1979–80): 84–101.
CHAPTER 2
1. Al-‹asan al-BaÍr± (d. 728), quoted in Weir and Zysow, “Íadaœa,” VIII:710.
2. Natshe, “My Memories,” 2.
3. On the ways in which different groups bargained and negotiated
with the Ottoman government, implicitly or explicitly, see Karen Barkey, Bandits
and Bureaucrats: The Ottoman Route to State Centralization (Ithaca: Cornell Uni-
versity Press, 1994) and Singer, Palestinian peasants, 2, 24–30.
4. One partial exception is the work of Ömer Lutfi Barkan in publishing
the expenditures registers from the construction of the Süleymaniye complex.
These registers give detailed accounts of labor and materials costs for this
huge project and focus on the economic aspect of waqf-making. See Süleymaniye
Camii ve …mareti …nƒaatı (1550–1557) 2 vols. (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1972–
79). Crecelius also provides some insights in his article on the waqf of Ab£
Dhahab in Cairo, where he follows the trail of documents that collected nu-
merous properties in preparation for the founding of this waqf. See Daniel N.
Crecelius, “The Waqf of Mu¥ammad Bey Ab£ al-Dhahab in Historical Per-
spective” (paper delivered at the conference on the Social and Economic As-
pects of the Muslim Waqf, Jerusalem, 1979).
5. These are found in TSAE-7816/1–9 and TSAE-7702. For a more lengthy
examination of the aesthetic qualities and the significance of their rich orna-
mentation, see Amy Singer, “The Mülkn«mes of Hürrem Sultan’s Waqf in
Jerusalem,” Muqarnas 14 (1997): 96–102.
182 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
6. Tülay Artan describes thus the vessels used to distribute food to the
princesses’ households in the eighteenth century, on which see Tülay Artan,
“Aspects of the Ottoman Elite’s Food Consumption,” in Consumption Studies
and the History of the Ottoman Empire, 1550–1922, ed. Donald Quataert (Albany:
State University of New York Press, 2000), 163.
7. Stephan had access to the final Arabic version of the deed when he
prepared his translation of the Turkish version (Tur.4). He does not say, how-
ever, where he saw the document. It is possible that he worked from the
Arabic text which was copied “from the fine copy” into the protocols of the
Jerusalem kadi (JS-280/pp. 18–27) in 1203/1788–89. This text is reproduced in
al-Åsal±, Wath«’iq, 127–42. Alternatively, there may be another “fine copy” of
the Arabic deed which is not publicly available.
8. This was Stephan’s contention in “An Endowment Deed,” 171.
9. For a description and discussion of the mühimme, see Uriel Heyd,
Ottoman Documents on Palestine 1552–1615 (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1960), xv-xvii, 3–6.
10. See …. H. Uzunçarƒılı, “Çandarlı Zade Ali Paƒa Vakfiyesi,” Belleten 5
(1941): 550, for a transliteration of the text of this order (ferman).
11. Yasser Tabbaa has found a bilingual waqfiyya in Damascus for the
Manisa complex of Hafsa Sultan, Süleyman’s mother, which may derive from
the same kind of deference. See the discussion on H-Turk, from December
2000, accessible via <http://h-net.msu.edu/>.
12. All page references are to the Ottoman Turkish version of the deed,
unless otherwise indicated. This document comprises 54 leaves bound into a
single volume. See the description in Lawrence I. Conrad and Barbara Kellner-
Heinkele, “Ottoman Resources in the Khalidi Library in Jerusalem,” in Aspects
of Ottoman History. Papers from CIEPO IX, Jerusalem, ed. A. Singer and A.
Cohen (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1994), 289.
13. Literally, al-mawq£f ¿alayhi means the thing for which something is
endowed, or the beneficiary.
14. All these buildings appear in both the Turkish and Arabic deeds
with little or no differences except for the absence of the stable in the Arabic
deed. It may be that it was assumed to be part of the han and therefore not
mentioned separately. Natsheh locates it in the existing stable of Dar al-Sitt
¤unsh£q, on which see Natsheh, “Al-¿Imara al-Åmira,” 764–65.
15. This according to Burgoyne’s description of the Mamluk building,
based on an architectural survey, for which see Burgoyne, Mamluk Jerusalem,
487–99.
16. Repairs are mentioned in JS 32/341 and JS 58/600 (1). On ¤unsh£q’s
house see Burgoyne, Mamluk Jerusalem, 42. See also D.H. Kallner-Amiran, “A
Revised Earthquake Catalogue of Palestine,” Israel Exploration Journal 1, 2 (1950–
51): 223–46; 48–65.
17. See the descriptions of Myres and Natsheh which compare the ex-
tant buildings to the descriptions in the waqfiyya, in “¿Al-¿Imara al-Åmira,”
539–82, 747–90.
18. Literally, al-mawq£f means “the thing that was stopped, designated.”
NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 183
32. On this question, see Singer, “Tapu Ta¥rir Defterleri and Kadı Sicilleri,”
119.
33. TTD 516/p. 66 and JS-70/p. 135.
34. The same note is found in the subsequent survey from around 1595–
97, TTD 515, also found in Ankara. JS-70 is a copy of TTD 516. JS-70 and TTD
516 have the following note appended: vaœfa sancaœ haÍÍlarindan ahar bedel
verilüb iƒbu œarye-i R±¥« vaœıftan ihrac olunub sanca¬a verilmek ferman olunub defter-
i icmalda/humayunda haÍÍ-i mir-i liva üzerine tarihi iƒaret olunmuƒtur. Mazra¿at
Ra’s al-Diq, listed with the village of Buqay¿at al-D • «n in JS-70, was listed in
the title deed with Jericho. In JS-70 a note says it was exchanged (mezbur
mezra¿a vaœıftan ihrac olunup sancaœ haÍÍlarından bedel verilmiƒtir), but the note
is absent in TTD 516, the original survey from which JS-70 was copied.
35. TTD 516/p. 68 and JS-70/p. 137; TTD 342/p. 4.
36. Dror Ze’evi, An Ottoman Century: The District of Jerusalem in the 1600s
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996), 103.
37. This has also been demonstrated with respect to the Awq«f al-
‹aramayn in Algiers, by Hoexter, Endowments, Rulers and Community.
38. Al-Åsal±, Wath«’iq, 132; Stephan says: “One of these [two baths] is
now no more to be identified. The other, having become disused, was sold in
the latter half of the 19th century to the Armenian Catholics, who built a
church on the site and reused part of the building of the former ‹ammâm as-
Sul†ân bought from the Khâlidi family” (“An Endowment Deed,” 184). See
also Stephan, “Three Firmans Granted to the Armenian Catholic Commu-
nity,” Journal of the Palestine Oriental Society 13 (1933): 238 ff. Stephan, it seems,
misunderstood the term çift hamamı to mean two baths instead of one double
bath, the one he described.
39. For the details of this, see Chapter 4.
40. The waqfiyya for this addition was copied into the Jerusalem sijill at
the same time as the original deed, towards the end of the eighteenth century.
I have worked from the text as published by al-Åsal±, Wath«’iq, 147–50. The
two additional title deeds are TSAE-7816/10–11, dated beginning of Îevval
967/July 1560; the waqfiyya is from the end of the same month.
41. MD-3 28/p. 9; 15 Ramazan 966/21 June 1559.
42. In this regard, the map of southern Syria made by Hütteroth and
Abdulfattah offers a striking demonstration of the links between properties
endowed and institutions supported in the sixteenth century, and makes clear
how extensive the property network could be; see Wolf D. Hütteroth and
Kamal Abdulfattah, Historical Geography of Palestine, Transjordan and Southern
Syria (Erlangen: Frankische Geographische Gesellschaft, 1977), Map 4.
43. Except where otherwise noted, all information on the personnel, sala-
ries, etc., comes from the Turkish and Arabic texts of the endowment deeds.
44. These mu¥asebe defterleri are discussed in Chapter 4.
45. Called Ja¿far agha in the Arabic waqfiyya (Al-Åsali, Wath«’iq, 135)
which makes it fairly certain he is the Ca¿fer A¬a listed as the babüsse¿adet
a¬ası in Süleyman’s time; see Mehmed Süreyya, Sicill-i ¿Osmanî (Istanbul:
Matbaa-i Âmire, 1308–11/1891–93. The babüsse¿adet a¬ası was probably the
NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 185
na¶ır until around 1590, when the darüsse¿adet a¬ası or kızlar a¬ası, who was the
chief eunuch of the harem, took over as chief eunuch of the palace. On this see
Uzunçarƒılı, Osmanlı Devletinin Saray Teƒkilatı, 173 and Pakalın, I:401.
46. Anyone who has ever purchased grains in bulk in an open market
can appreciate why so many people were necessary to wash and pick over the
large quantities of rice and wheat used daily in this kitchen.
47. Çanaœcı means a potter; perhaps they were also expected to manu-
facture and/or repair all the crockery needed by the place. It seems from this
number of dishwashers that the ºmaret supplied cups as soup bowls for all
those who ate there. Stephan has a slightly different configuration of people
and positions in this section, which he got from the Arabic deed he saw. This
suggests that it was not the published eighteenth-century sijill copy, which
conforms in detail to the Arabic waqfiyya in Istanbul.
48. There are some other, more slight differences in the personnel listed
in the two deeds; this is the only place where there is a significant difference.
49. Kemal Kürkçüo¬lu, Süleymaniye Vakfiyesi (Ankara: Resimli Posta
Matbaası, 1962), 38–40; A. Süheyl Ünver, Fâtih Aƒhânesi Tevzî’nâmesi (Ankara:
Istanbul Fethi Derne¬i, 1953), 5–6; and Ratip Kazancıgil, Edirne …maretleri
(Istanbul: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derne¬i Edirne Îübesi Yayınevi, 1991), 96–97.
50. Kazancıgil, Edirne …maretleri, 40–41 and Yusuf Küçükda¬, Karapınar
Sultan Selim Külliyesi (Konya: Karapınar Belediyesi Kültür Yayını, 1997), 125–
31.
51. Gülru Necipo¬lu, Architecture, Ceremonial and Power, The Topkapı Palace
(Cambridge, MA: M.I.T. Press, 1992), 70 and Uzunçarƒılı, Osmanlı Devletinin
Saray Teƒkilati, 380.
52. These nineteenth-century defters, listing stipendiaries and recipients
of food, are from the Nezaret Sonrası Evkaf Defterleri (EV) classification of the
Baƒbakanlık Arƒivi in Istanbul. They are numbered: EV-13370, 13391, 13407,
13432, 13446, 13460, 13485, 13495, 13504, 13645, 13646; 16873, 16926, 16935;
18277; 17146, 17753. One defter is found in the Kamil Kepeci classification of
the Baƒbakanlık Arƒivi KK-3397, mükerrer 43.
53. See <http://planning.pna.net/jerusalem/JERUSALE.htm>, Decem-
ber 2000.
54. JS 33-2800/p. 525 17 Shaww«l 964/13 August 1557; JS-40 379/p. 76
3 Rabı̄¿ II 968/22 December 1560. For a more extensive discussion of the role
of subaƒıs in the villages, see Singer, Palestinian peasants, 24, 26–28.
55. MD 36 375/p. 34, 23 Mu¥arrem 987/22 March 1579; and JS 31/435,
translated in Amnon Cohen and Elisheva Simon-Pikali, eds. and trans., Jews
in the Moslem Religious Court: Society, Economy and Communal Organization in
the XVIth Century, Documents from Ottoman Jerusalem (Hebrew) (Jerusalem:
Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1993), 250–51. On the butchers, see Amnon Cohen, Eco-
nomic Life, 21–23.
56. Küçükda¬, Karapınar, 130; on meat supply, see Robert Mantran,
Istanbul dans la Seconde Moitié du XVIIe Siècle (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1962), 194–
97.
57. These latter will be discussed in Chapter 4.
186 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
58. TSAD-1511 (pp. 12b-13a) lists specific tools in the ºmaret. See
Kazancıgil, Edirne, 99, on tinning.
59. Two separate smaller pots were specially requested in mid-1556; see
TSAD-3528/20.
60. 1 dirhem = approximately 3 grams, thus each loaf weighed about
270 grams wet. See H. Inalcik, “Weights and Measures,” in Inalcik and Quataert,
An Economic and Social History, 988.
61. For a discussion of the composition and caloric value of food distrib-
uted in welfare and poor relief institutions in early modern Europe, see Rob-
ert Jütte, “Diets in Welfare Institutions and in Outdoor Poor Relief in Early
Modern Western Europe,” Ethnologia Europaea 16, no. 2 (1986): 117–36. For an
evaluation of the nutrition content of the various ingredients at the ºmaret, see
Kenneth F. Kiple and Kriemhild Coneè Ornelas, eds., The Cambridge World
History of Food (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000), s.v.
62. On Konya, see …brahim Hakki Konyalı, Âbideleri ve Kitabeleri ile Konya
Tarihi (Konya: Yeni Kitap Basımevi, 1964), 977; on Damascus, see Yvette Sauvan,
“Une Liste de Foundations Pieuses (Waqfiyya) au Temps de Selim II,” BEO 28
(1975): 239; and on Ergene and Bolayır, see Ö. L. Barkan, “Osmanlı
…mparatorlu¬unda …mâret Sitelerinin Kuruluƒ ve …ƒleyiƒ Tarzına âit AraÍtır-
malar,” …stanbul Üniversitesi …ktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası 23, no. 1–2 (1962–63):
256 ff.
63. Kürkçuo¬lu, Süleymaniye, 43 and Ünver, Fâtih Aƒhânesi Tevzî¿namesi, 4.
64. Peirce. The Imperial Harem, 124.
65. Ünver, Fâtih Aƒhânesi Tevzî¿namesi, 4.
66. Kürkçuo¬lu, Süleymaniye, 43 and 45: “sâyir amâyirde ne-vech-ile ziyafet
ve ikram olunursa dahi ziyade edeler, noksân üzere etmeyeler.”
67. See Artan, “Aspects of the Ottoman Elite’s Food Consumption,” 141,
where sheep’s trotters were ordered especially from the Süleymaniye quarter
to one of the princesses’ private palaces.
68. Küçükda¬, Karapınar, 107; and see also Kazancıgil, Edirne, 99.
69. Kürkcüo¬lu, Süleymaniye, 43 and Ünver, Fâtih Aƒhânesi Tevzî¿namesi,
4. (The transcription is incomplete; check the facsimile, 13.)
70. On the festivals see either EI 2 or …A, s.v.
71. See references in Tezcan, Bir Ziyafet Defteri, at 42–43, 58.
72. Al-Åsal±, Wath«’iq, 139; Ömer Lutfi Barkan, “Süleymaniye Camii ve
…mareti Tesislerine ait Yıllık Bir Muhasebe Bilânçosu 993–994 (1585–1586),”
Vakıflar Dergisi 9 (1971): 155–60. See also Raphaela Lewis, Everyday Life in
Ottoman Turkey (New York: Dorset Press, 1971), 121, who says it always con-
tains nuts, raisins, and other dried fruits boiled with cereals.
73. Muƒ†af« b. Ahmet Ål±, Mu͆af« Ål±’s Counsels for Sultans, II:27, 144.
74. Tur. 4, f. 49–52.
75. Artan, “Aspects of the Ottoman Elite’s Food Consumption”, 155,
159–60.
76. Ünver, Fâtih Aƒhânesi Tevzî¿namesi, 5–6.
77. Sauvan, “Une Liste de Fondations,” 243.
78. Konyalı, Âbideleri ve Kitabeleri, 977.
NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 187
CHAPTER 3
1. “The New Colossus” was written in 1883 for the Statue of Liberty,
which was unveiled in 1886. The poem was only affixed to the statue in the
form of a bronze tablet in 1903. Bette Roth Young, Emma Lazarus in Her World:
Life and Letters (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1995), 3–4.
2. TSAD-8466.
3. ‹afÍa Sul†an, mother of Süleyman, is also credited with the founding
of the Jerusalem ¿imaret, a confusion perhaps due to the common connection
to Süleyman. See J. B. Barron, Mohammedan Wakfs in Palestine (Jerusalem: Printed
at the Greek convent press, 1922), 58. Barron, who was the Director of Rev-
enue and Customs for His Majesty’s Government in Palestine, does not give
his source for this information, and he is the only one to mention ‹afÍa. Yet
‹afÍa could not have been responsible for the ¿imaret; by the time it was
founded she had been dead for thirteen years. See Peirce, The Imperial Harem,
62, 199–200.
4. Dede Korkut, The Book of Dede Korkut, trans. Geoffrey Lewis
(Harmondsworth: Penguin Books 1974), 117–32; Peirce, The Imperial Harem,
274–75; Gavin R. G. Hambly, “Becoming Visible: Medieval Islamic Women in
Historiography and History,” in Women in the Medieval Islamic World: Power,
Patronage and Piety, ed. Gavin R. G. Hambly (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
1998), 11.
5. Kathleen McCarthy, “Parallel Power Structures: Women and the
Voluntary Space,” in Lady Bountiful Revisited: Women, Philanthropy, and Power,
ed. Kathleen McCarthy (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1990), 1.
6. Marina Warner, Alone of All Her Sex. The Myth and the Cult of the Virgin
Mary (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1976), 221–23, 273–98.
7. Muj±r al-D±n al-‹anbal±, Al-Uns al-jal±l bi-ta’r±kh al-Quds wa’l-Khal±l
(Amman: Maktabat al-Mu¥tasib, 1973), II:54, 64–65; Burgoyne, Mamluk Jerusa-
lem, 485–86, 505; and M. van Berchem, Matériaux Pour un Corpus Inscriptionum
Arabicarum Deuxième Partie: Syrie du Sud II. Jérusalem ‘Ville’ (Cairo: Institut
Français d’Archaeologie Orientale, 1922–23), 310–12, who discusses at length
her probable connection to the Mu¶affarid dynasty. On the Qalandariyya order,
2
see Tahsin Yazıcı, “K • alandariyya,” EI , IV:473–74.
8. On this incident, see Amnon Cohen, “The Expulsion of the Franciscans
from Mt. Zion,” Turcica 18 (1986): 147–57.
9. Jews, however, do not seem to have been among those who ever ate
at the ¿imaret, because of dietary restrictions, but also due to the extent of
relief available within their community.
NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 189
43. Geoffrey Lewis, “Heroines and Others in the Heroic Age of the
Turks,” in Women in the Medieval Islamic World, ed. Gavin R. G. Hambly (New
York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998), 150. For Dede Korkut, see the introductory
material in The Book of Dede Korkut, 9–23.
44. Ibid., 117. It is worth noting that Kan Turalı, having found a woman
who fit this description, almost kills her in a fit of pique when she saves his
life.
45. Lambton, Continuity and Change, 150–51, 271. On the notion of the
shamefaced poor and their status in early modern Italy, see Sandra Cavallo,
Charity and Power in Early Modern Italy: Benefactors and Their Motives in Turin,
1541–1789 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 12, 111–12,
187–88.
46. R. Stephen Humphreys, “Women as Patrons of Religious Architec-
ture in Ayyubid Damascus,” Muqarnas 11 (1994): 36, 49.
47. Yasser Tabbaa, Constructions of Power and Piety in Medieval Aleppo
(University Park, PA: Penn State Press, 1997), 48. The terms ribǠ, khanqah and
z«wiya are all used to described sufi residences. While in some places, the
distinctions between them may be clear, in others it appears that the terms
were used interchangeably, or that one was simply preferred over the others.
On this see J. Chabbi, “kh«nœ«h,” EI 2, IV:1025–26, who defines the term as “a
building usually reserved for Muslim mystics belonging to a dervish order.”
Chabbi says that all the terms—rib«†, tekke, z«wiya—are similar.
48. Ülkü Ü. Bates, “Women as Patrons of Architecture in Turkey,” in
Women in the Muslim World, ed. Lois Beck and Nikki Keddie (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1978), 245–46, 250, and Crane, “Notes on Saldj£q
Architectural Patronage,” 11.
49. Atıl, “Islamic Women,” 8.
50. Bates, “Women as Patrons,” 246.
51. Petry, “Class Solidarity,” 123–24.
52. Doris Behrens-Abouseif, “The Ma¥mal Legend and the Pilgrimage of
the Ladies of the Mamluk Court,” Mamluk Studies Review 1 (1997): 92–95.
53. Ibid., 88.
54. Berkey, The Transmission of Knowledge, 162–65; Leonor Fernandes,
“Mamluk Architecture” 115; and Petry, “Class Solidarity,” 133, 136.
55. Adam Sabra, Poverty and Charity in Medieval Islam: Mamluk Egypt 1250–
1517 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 84–85, 87, 92–93.
56. Maria Szuppe, “La Participation des femmes de la famille royale à
l’exercise du pouvoir en Iran safavide au XVI siècle,” Studia Iranica 23, 24
(1994): 258.
57. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 199.
58. Uluçay, Padiƒahların Kadınları ve Kızları, 3–5, 6, 23.
59. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 47. For examples of tombs, see Pars Tu¬lacı,
Osmanlı Îehirleri (Istanbul: Milliyet Yayınları, 1985): on Bursa, 73–74, on Edirne,
106, 108.
60. M. Ça¬atay Uluçay, “Kanuni Sultan Süleyman ve Ailesi ile …lgili Bazı
Notlar ve Vesikalar,” Kanuni Arma¬anı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1970), 229.
192 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
61. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 279; Uluçay, Padiƒahların Kadınları ve Kızları,
29–30; and …brahim Hakki Konyalı, “Kanunî Sultan Süleyman’ın Annesi Hafsa
Sultanın Vakfiyesi ve Manisa’daki Hayır Eserleri,” Vakıflar Dergisi 8 (1969):
47–56.
62. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 55–56.
63. Ibid., 41.
64. Bates remarks on the practice of naming women in relation to men,
in “Women as Patrons,” 248. Peirce discusses these boundaries extensively in
her article “Gender and Sexual Propriety in Ottoman Royal Women’s Patron-
age,” in Women, Patronage, and Self-Representation in Islamic Societies, ed. D.
Fairchild Ruggles (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000) 53–68.
65. M. Tolmacheva, “Female Piety and Patronage in the Medieval ‘‹ajj’,
in Women in the Medieval Islamic World, ed. Gavin R. G. Hambly (New York:
St. Martin’s Press, 1998) 165, n.25 and M. Tayyib Gökbilgin, “Hurrem Sultan,”
…A, V:595.
66. See on the various structures, s.v., in the …stA.
67. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 206–07 and Lucienne Thys-Îenocak, “The
Yeni Valide Mosque Complex at Eminönü,” Muqarnas 15 (1998): 58–70.
68. Ibid., 66. See also M.C. Îihabeddin Tekinda¬, “Çanakkale,” …A,
III:345.
69. See the lists of charitable endeavors recorded for each woman in
Uluçay, Padiƒahların Kadınları ve Kızları.
70. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 65–77.
71. This is based on Uluçay, Padiƒahların Kadınları ve Kızları and notes on
endowments from around the empire, but not on an exhaustive survey of
endowment deeds or other materials. To my knowledge, there does not exist
a complete listing of endowments made by members of the imperial house-
hold during the entire Ottoman period.
72. Bates, “Women as Patrons,” 257; Margaret L. Meriwether, “Women
and Waqf Revisited: The Case of Aleppo, 1770–1840,” in Women in the Ottoman
Empire, ed. Madeline C. Zilfi (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 128–52.
73. On inheritance in Islamic law, see J. Schacht and A. Layish, “m±r«th,”
in EI2, VII:106–13.
74. Rachel Emma Silverman, “Rich & Richer,” The Wall Street Journal, 11
January 1999, B6.
75. On the antebellum United States, see Lori D. Ginzberg, Women and
the Work of Benevolence: Morality, Politics, and Class in the Nineteenth-Century
United States (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 50–51; on Tsarist Russia,
see Adele Lindenmeyr, Poverty is Not a Vice: Charity, Society, and the State in
Imperial Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 111. From Mus-
covite times, Orthodox women had complete control over their property re-
gardless of marital status. In comparison, English and American women in
the nineteenth century lost extensive property rights when they married.
76. Peirce, “Gender and Sexual Propriety,” 60.
77. Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 202.
NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 193
CHAPTER 4
1. TSAE-7301/2, written on 10 Cumaziülevvel 962/2 April 1555.
2. TSAD-3643/8, dated to mid-Cemziülevvel 962/3–13 April 1555. Two
versions of this report exist: 3643/8 uses Arabic terms (†abb«¥±n, ¥ubb«z±n)
while 3643/9 uses Turkish (aƒcıyan, etmekciyan). Otherwise, 3643/8 has more
extensive marginal notes. It is also exquisitely penned, with each letter beau-
tifully formed and each page carefully laid out. As Hurrem was still alive at
this point, it is possible that an especially clean copy was made to submit
directly to her.
3. This is the weight of dough, wet and heavier than baked bread.
194 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
4. riba† hücrelerinde. This is the only instance where riba† is used to de-
scribe the HaÍÍeki Sultan ¿imaret in any way. Apparently, it looked to this
outsider like other sufi residences, perhaps due to the form, perhaps because
people lodged there. It is an indication of how much overlap existed both in
form and function between buildings of different names, as well as how much
variety there was in buildings of the same name. Hillenbrand calls Islamic
architectural terminology “notoriously vague”, on which see Hillenbrand,
Islamic Architecture, 219.
5. Persian jamr± (Tur. pl. cumr«ya) means “poor” or “mean.” See F.
Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary (New Delhi: Cosmo Publications, 1977).
6. Such holes are an unfortunate yet not unfamiliar hazard of archival
research.
7. The re¿aya were the tax payers in the Ottoman empire, largely peas-
ants but not exclusively. They are distinguished from the askeri, the military,
although the askeri referred to a much broader group of people who were
exempt from taxes. It seems here that Bayram loaned the waqf money to buy
supplies from the peasants.
8. The original document has a fold here, and the letters are obscured
and broken up.
9. For a detailed study of property exchanges and purchases, and for a
specifically similar situation, see Hoexter, Endowments, Rulers and Community,
116–18.
10. On mu¥asebe, see Ö. L. Barkan, “…stanbul Saraylarına ait Muhasebe
Defterleri,” Belgeler 9 (1979): 1–380.
11. Revenue grants in the Ottoman empire took the form of rights as-
signed to officers to collect portions of the yields in kind or cash from various
crops and taxes throughout the provinces. The smaller grants were called
tımar and larger ones ze¿amet. For more on these, see Inalcik and Quataert, An
Economic and Social History, 141. Tımar holders were the lowest on the scale of
military-administrative functionaries who were assigned local sources of rev-
enue. The scale included officer holders ranging from the tımar-holding cav-
alry officers (sipahis) to include the senior ranks of officers and governors
whose larger holdings were called ze¿amet and haÍÍ.
12. Kethüda and çavuƒ are functions, çelebi and a¬a are titles, and bey is
a rank. See James Redhouse, A Turkish-English Lexicon (Constantinople: A. H.
Boyajian, 1890), s.v. and Pakalın, s.v. for discussions of each.
13. TSAE-7301/2, page b.
14. Stephan, “An Endowment Deed,” 187. See similar charges to the
manager for the ¿imaret of Edirne in Kazancıgil, Edirne …maretleri, 96–97.
15. TSK-Ko¬uƒlar 888/pp. 162 bot., 230(a) and 283(a). The fees paid by
foreign Christian pilgrims to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulcher were
part of the waqf of the Dome of the Rock, on which see Cohen and Lewis,
Population and Revenue, 96.
16. TSK-Ko¬uƒlar 888/pp. 309a and 309a bot.; TSAD-1585 and TSAD-
9414 are detailed accounts of the cost of materials and labor for this project.
NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 195
mucibince †a¿am iki nöbet piƒirüb,” TSAE-2536. See also TSAD-6483, p. 3b. Nöbet
basically means a “shift” as in “a turn of action, duty, etc., in rotation with
others,” Redhouse, A Turkish-English Lexicon, s.v.
41. TSAE-7301/2, page a.
42. Twenty ba†m«n more (TSAD-3643/12); eighty ba†m«n yield 1100
loaves (TSAD-3643/8).
43. TSAD-3643/8 (Evasit Cemazielula 962/3–13 April 1555).
44. Weir and Zysow, “Íadaœa”, VIII:712.
45. Mu͆af« b. Ahmet Ål±, Mu͆afa Ål±’s Counsel for Sultans, II:27/144.
46. Ibid., II:28/145–46.
47. TSAD-3643/12.
48. TSAD-3643/8.
49. TSAD-3643/8.
50. TSAE-9297/36.
51. TSAD-6482/p. 3b.
52. See the text at the beginning of the chapter (TSAE-7301/2) as well as
TSAD-10609 (13 Mu¥arrem 963/28 November 1555).
53. Bayram died late in the year 1562. See Natsheh, “Catalogue of Build-
ings,” 711.
54. TSAE-7301/2, p. (b).
55. JS-31 1448/p. 298, 12 Jum«da II 963/23 April 1556.
56. Cohen and Lewis, Population and Revenue, 69.
57. See Martin Dow, The Islamic Baths of Palestine (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1996), 93–95 and Yehoshua Ben-Arieh, Jerusalem in the 19th Cen-
tury: The Old City (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben Zvi, 1984), 167, 168.
58. Jennings, “Pious Foundations,” 315, and two further examples, 277,
284.
59. On the bath construction see TSAE-7301/2 p. (c). and JS-31 2508/p.
518. About ongoing water problems see MD-36/374 and Heyd, Ottoman Docu-
ments, 146–50. And on baths generally, see J. Sourdel-Thomine, “¥amm«m,”
EI2, III:139–44.
60. Auld and Hillenbrand, Ottoman Jerusalem, 1018–20.
61. The ferman is mentioned in TSAD-1511 (evahir Îa¿ban 963/30 June–
8 July 1556), p. 10b. The precise dates for the bath construction were 1 Receb
961 to the latter part of Cemaziülahar 963 (2 June 1554 to 12–21 April 1556).
62. “‹amam binası muhim olub akçeye muzayak olma¬ın Bayram çavuƒ kendi
yanından Íırf eylemiƒtir.” (TSAD-3539). See also TSAD-3643/11; TSAD-1511.
63. Al-Åsal±, Wath«’iq, 313–14, a document from 1065/1655.
64. TSAD-3643/5, p. 3b.
65. TSAD-10609.
66. TSAD-3643/12, p. 4a.
67. TSAD-10609.
68. TSAD-3639.
69. TSAD-1511/p. 3a; the Muslim calendar has 354 days.
70. TSAD-961/p. 14b, p. 15b.
71. MD-2/1120/p. 110, 5 Ramazan 963/July 1556.
NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 197
CHAPTER 5
Istanbul in the sixteenth century, see Artan, “Aspects of the Ottoman Elite’s
Food Consumption,” 135–37. In general on consumption, see S. Faroqhi, “Re-
search on the History of Ottoman Consumption: A Preliminary Exploration of
Sources and Models,” in Consumption Studies and the History of the Ottoman
Empire, 1550–1922, ed. Donald Quataert (Albany: State University of New
York Press, 2000), 15–44.
14. On narh, see Inalcik and Quataert, An Economic and Social History, 46,
and Pakalın, 2:654–57.
15. On the imperial kitchen (ma†bah-i ¿amire), see Uzunçarƒılı, Osmanlı
Devletinin Saray Teƒkilatı, 379–84; H. Inalcik, D. Waines, and J. Burton-Page,
“ma†bakh,” EI2, VI:811; and Necipo¬lu, Architecture, Ceremonial and Power, 70.
16. In the eighteenth century, these daily deliveries represented an
important commitment of human and material resoruces, on which see Artan,
“Aspects of the Ottoman Elite’s Food Consumption.”
17. Arslan Terzio¬lu, Helvahane Defteri (Istanbul: Arkeoloji ve Sanat
Yayınları, 1992).
18. Necipo¬lu, Architecture, Ceremonial and Power, 69–72, 178.
19. Faroqhi, Towns and townsmen, 58, and Cohen, Economic life, 39.
20. Murphey, “Provisioning Istanbul,” 218, and Singer, Palestinian peas-
ants, 116.
21. Cohen and Lewis, Population and Revenue, 94; Faroqhi, Towns and
townsmen, Table 1, 303.
22. On manufacturing and production in Jerusalem during this period,
see Cohen, Economic life; on the guilds, see idem, The Guilds of Ottoman Jerusa-
lem (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 5, 13.
23. Cohen and Lewis, Population and Revenue, 95.
24. For the œanunname (regulatory code) of Jerusalem in the sixteenth
century, see Ö. L. Barkan, XV ve XVIıncı asırlarda Osmanlı …mparatorlu¬unda
Ziraî Ekonominin Hukukî ve Malî Esasları: Kanunlar (Istanbul: Bürhaneddin
Matbaası, 1943), 217.
25. Christine Woodhead, “Perspectives on Süleyman,” in Süleyman the
Magnificent and His Age: The Ottoman Empire in the Early Modern World, ed.
Metin Kunt and Christine Woodhead (Essex: Longman Group UK, 1995), 168.
26. Murphey, Ottoman Warfare 1500–1700, 70–73, 85–103.
27. I. Metin Kunt, The Sultan’s Servants: The Transformation of Ottoman
Provincial Goverment, 1550–1650 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983),
62–68.
28. Inalcik and Quataert, An Economic and Social History, 179–81; Gilles
Veinstein, “Some Views on Provisioning in the Hungarian Campaigns of
Süleyman the Magnificent,” in Osmanistische Studien Zur Wirtschafts- und
Socialgeschichte, ed. H. G. Majer (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1986), 177–85;
Caroline Finkel, The Administration of Warfare: The Ottoman Military Campaigns
in Hungary, 1593–1600. (Vienna: VWGÖ, 1988), 130–43.
29. Inalcik and Quataert, An Economic and Social History, 96; Finkel, The
Administration of Warfare, 137, 207. On the general attempts to limit abuses of
NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 201
57. Ni¶«m al-Mulk, The Book of Government, or Rules for Kings (London:
Routledge and Paul, 1960), 124–25. On the place of the Siyasat-nama in the
mirrors-for-princes genre, see Humphreys, Islamic History, 163–64.
58. Eliyahu Ashtor, A Social and Economic History of the Near East in the
Middle Ages (London: Collins, 1976), 232 ff; and Angelika Hartmann, “Al-
N«Íir li-D±n All«h,” EI 2, VII:996–1003.
59. A. K. S. Lambton, “Awqaf in Persia: 6th–8th/12th–14th Centuries,”
Islamic Law and Society 4 (1997): 316–17; W. Barthold, “Gh«z«n,” EI 2, II:1043.
60. S. A. Arjomand, “Philanthropy, the Law and Public Law in the Is-
lamic World Before the Modern Era,” in Philanthropy in the World’s Traditions,
ed. W. Ilchman, et al. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), 121–22;
Lambton, Continuity and Change, 155.
61. Maria Eva Subtelny, “A Timurid Educational and Charitable Foun-
dation: the Ikhl«Íiyya Complex of Åli Sh±r Nav«’± in 15th-Century Herat and
Its Endowment,” JAOS 111 (1991): 47–48.
62. Inalcik et al, “ma†bakh,” VI:809 and Artan, “Aspects of the Ottoman
Elite’s Food Consumption,” 133. The toys were also called ƒölen. Toy originally
meant “camp,” evolving to signify a large gathering and hence, a feast, on
which see Sir Gerard Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth
Century Turkish (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 566–67.
63. This description appears in different forms many times throughout
the text. See Dede Korkut, The Book of Dede Korkut, 29, 132, 170, 183.
64. Paula Sanders, Ritual, Politics, and the City in Fatimid Cairo (Albany:
State University of New York Press, 1994), 28, 52, 75, 79.
65. Ibid., 75–79.
66. Muj±r al-D±n, Al-Uns al-Jal±l, I:59.
67. Nasir-i Khusraw, Sefer Nameh, ed. and trans. C. Schefer (Paris: E.
Leroux, 1881), 57–58.
68. Behrens-Abouseif, “Q«ytb«y’s Foundation in Medina,” 66.
69. Muj±r al-D±n, Al-Uns al-Jal±l, II:443.
70. Muj±r al-D±n, Al-Uns al-Jal±l, I:58–59.
71. Åbd al-Ghan± al-N«buls±, Al-‹aªra al-Unsiyya f± al-Ri¥la al-Qudsiyya
(Beirut: al-MaÍ«dir, 1990), 252. Al-N«buls± was in Jerusalem and Hebron in
1101/1689.
72. Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, Vol. 9 (1671–72) (Istanbul: Devlet
Matbaası, 1935), 510.
73. Boaz Shoshan, Popular Culture in Medieval Cairo (Cambridge, UK:
Cambridge University Press, 1993), 58–60.
74. Tabbaa, Constructions of Power and Piety, 158, 160; Behrens-Abouseif,
Egypt’s Adjustment to Ottoman Rule, 164.
75. Sabra, Poverty and Charity, 92.
76. Ibid., 88–93.
77. These institutions were mostly called zaviye (Ar. z«wiya) in Anatolia
and the Balkans, while the terms rib«† and kh«naq«h were found more fre-
quently in the Arabic-speaking lands of the empire. Donald P. Little, “The
204 CONSTRUCTING OTTOMAN BENEFICENCE
Nature of Kh«nqahs, Rib«†s, and Z«wiyas Under the Maml£ks,” in Islamic Stud-
ies Presented to Charles J. Adams, ed. Wael B. Hallaq and Donald P. Little
(Leiden: Brill, 1991), 103–04 and passim. See also Inalcik, et al., “ma†bakh,”
VI:810, 812.
78. Annemarie Schimmel, The Triumphal Sun: A Study of the Works of
Jalalüddin Rumi (London: East-West Publications, 1980), 138–52. On the con-
vents as distributors of food, see Algar, “Food in the Life of the Tekke,” 302.
79. Wolper, “The Politics of Patronage.”
80. M. Fuad Köprülü, The Origins of the Ottoman Empire, trans. and ed.
Gary Leiser (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992), 64.
81. On the multiple roles of the sufis in the consolidation of Ottoman
society, see Eyice, “…lk Osmanlı Devrinin Dini-…ctimai Bir Müessesesi,” 23; Ira
M. Lapidus, “Sufism and Ottoman Islamic Society,” in The Dervish Lodge, ed.
Raymond Lifchez (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992) 26–28; and
Raymond Lifchez, in ibid., 4.
82. Evliya, Evliya Çelebi Seyahatnamesi, 1. Kitap, 132(a).
83. Oktay Aslanapa, Turkish Art and Architecture (London: Faber, 1971),
336.
84. Behrens-Abouseif, Egypt’s Adjustment to Ottoman Rule, 164.
85. Huart, “ ºm«ret,” EI, II:475.
86. M. Baba Tanman, “…maretler,” in IstA, 4:164–66. Tanman says many
were founded in the 200 years before the conquest of Istanbul, but relatively
few of these survive.
87. On canonization see Necipo¬lu, “A Kânûn for the State, a Canon for
the Arts.” Tanman reinforces this idea when he identifies the crystallization of
the ºmaret form in the buildings of the sixteenth-century master architect,
Sinan. See Tanman, “Sinan’ın Mimârîsi …maretler,” 333.
88. Barkan, “Osmanlı …mparatorlu¬unda …mâret Sitelerinin Kuruluƒ,”
242–43.
89. Ca¿fer Efendi, Ris«le-i Mi¿m«riyye, 107/86v.
90. Tanman, “…maretler,” 166.
91. See Freely, Blue Guide: Istanbul, maps; and Taƒkıran, Hasekinin Kitabı,
49, 114–23.
92. Konyalı, Âbideleri ve Kitabeleri, 972–73.
93. Pakalın, II:61–63. Unfortunately, Pakalın gives no date for these figures.
94. Gerber, “The Waqf Institution in Early Ottoman Edirne,” 43–44. In
his calculations, Gerber implies that only men ate in these ºmarets. However,
the examples of the HaÍÍeki Sultan ºmaret, the Süleymaniye, and the Jerusa-
lem ºmaret suggest that this is not a sound assumption.
95. Mu͆afa Åli’s writings about the capitals are distorted by his own
unhappiness at spending most of his life in provincial service, unable to con-
trive the combination of patronage and luck to gain a central appointment for
his talents. His remarks, however, are based on his own broad experiences
and observations and so should be given a guarded hearing. On his life and
work, see Cornell Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire,
The Historian Mustafa Åli, 1541–1600 (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1986), 40, 101–01, 103.
NOTES TO CONCLUSION 205
96. Evliya Çelebi in Diyarbekir, trans. and ed. Martin von Bruinessen and
Hendrik Boeschoten (Leiden: Brill, 1988), 31–32, 222 n.131. On Konya, see
Konyalı, Âbideleri ve Kitabeleri, 979.
97. Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, 9:189. Evliya neglects to name the three
ºmarets in Jerusalem, and thus far only that of Hurrem has been identified.
Unfortunately, it is not altogether unheard of that observations in Evliya can-
not easily be corroborated by other sources.
98. Evliya, Evliya Çelebi Seyahatnamesi, 1. Kitap: Istanbul, 132.
99. Åshiqpashaz«deh, Åshiqpashaz«deh Ta’r±kh±, 42.
100. Ni¶«m al-Mulk, The Book of Government, 143–44.
101. Konstantin Mihailovic, Memoirs of a Janissary, trans. B. Stolz (Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan, 1975), 31.
102. Necipo¬lu, Architecture, Ceremonial and Power, 55.
103. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 72–77.
104. Note the expression “ve Saruhan sanca¬ını yirdi,” Mehmed Neƒrî,
Kitâb-ı Cihan-Nümâ. Neƒrî Tarihi, Faik Reƒit Unat and Mehmed A. Köymen,
eds. (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1987), I:348–49.
105. As quoted in Kunt, The Sultan’s Servants, 41–42. Contrast this with
the threat issued by a Serb policeman to an Albanian in Peç: “you will never
eat Serbia’s bread again,” as quoted by Jeffrey Smith, “Thousands Flee as
Lawlessness Spreads in Kosovo,” The Washington Post, 20 July 1998, p. A12.
106. Rhoads Murphey, ed. and trans., Kanûn-nâme-i Sultânî Li Åzîz Efendi:
Aziz Efendi’s Book of Sultanic Laws and Regulations: An Agenda for Reform by a
Seventeenth-Century Ottoman Statesman (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University,
1985), 24, 42.
107. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 75.
108. Mu͆af« Ål±, Mu͆af« ¿Āli’s Counsel for Sultans, I:32/113.
109. Ibid., I:46/135.
110. Murphey remarks that this is akin to the modern English saying,
“biting the hand that feeds one.” See Murphey, Kanûn-nâme-i Sultânî, 52, n.58.
111. Murphey, “Provisioning Istanbul,” 217–19.
CONCLUSION
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Ahkam defterleri
Kamil Kepeci
Mühimme defterleri
Nezaret Sonrası Evkaf Defterleri (EV)
Tapu Tahrir defterleri
Topkapı Saray Arƒivi, Istanbul
Defter series
Evrak series
Topkapı Saray Kütüphanesi, Istanbul
Ko¬uƒlar 888
Türk ve …slam Eserleri Müzesi, Istanbul
#2192, waqfiyya
Tapu ve Kadastro Umum Müdürlü¬ü
Tapu Tahrir defterleri
Sijill«t al-Ma¥kama al-Shar¿iyya, al-Quds (Microfilm collection at Haifa Uni-
versity Library)
207
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229
230 INDEX
Egypt, 23, 123, 134, 141, 142, 150, food distribution, 1, 3, 11, 61, 62–65,
152, 161 100, 110, 112–117, 146, 160, 167–
ehl-i ºlm (scholars), 100 168; private, 168; quantity, 62,
ekƒi aƒı (rice stew with fruits), 59 115, 197 n. 75; symbolic roles of,
Elbasan, ºmarets in, 154 145–148, 154–157
enbar (granary), 46 fortresses, 93
endowment deed. See waqfiyya fountain (sab±l), 19
endowments: for women, 88; Franciscans in Jerusalem, 74, 120,
general, 15; intention of, 37; 197 n. 75
Muslim, 15–16 French Revolution, 98
Enis Paƒa, 167 Friday night, 1, 58, 60, 115, 171 n. 1
Ergene, 59 fruit, 62, 135
Ergin, Osman Nuri, 144 furun (oven), 46
Erzurum, 139 Fustat, 148
eƒraf, 59
Eudocia, 84 Gaza, 48, 122, 125
eunuchs, 93 Gaza district, 50, 52
Evliya Çelebi, 131, 135, 145, 149, Gazi Evrenos bey ºmarets (Balkans),
152, 153–154, 168 115
exchange of waqf properties. See istibdal gender, 9, 162; and philanthropy, 9–
exempt (serbest), imperial waqf 10; constraints of, 93
villages, 49 Genoa, 133
expenditures agent (vekil-i harc), 55 Georgia, 139
Gérardy Saintine, P., 77
faœir/fuœara (poor), 64, 100, 101, 102, Gerber, Haim, 12
117, 149, 167; definition of, 169 Ghazan Khan, 146–147
Faroqhi, Suraiya, 12 Ghaznavids, 146
Fars, 87 gifts, 155
fat (ya¬), 60, 102, 133, 135 goats, 135
Fatih Me¥med complex, 107; ºmaret, Golden Horn, 134–135
56, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63; neighbor- governor’s domain (haÍÍ-i mir-i liva), 52
hood, 29 grain, 141, 142, 147, 149, 150;
FǠima, daughter of the Prophet distribution of, 150; forced sale of,
Mu¥ammad, 81, 82 150; production, 134; sales, 122–
F«†ima al-Ma¿s£ma, shrine of 123; smuggling of, 124; spoiled,
(Qum), 95 109; supply, 135, 138; trade, 123;
Fatimid, 27, 148 transport of, 52, 134
feeding, traditions of, 10 granary, 109
Ferhad çelebi, 101, 105, 108–117, 119, granary keeper (anbari), 55
121 grand vizier, 93, 135
firewood, 60, 110, 112, 125, 133 grapes, 60
firewood taxes, 49, 108 grasshoppers, 123
Flaccilla, 84 Greece, 22
flour, 59, 75 gruel, 75
fodula (flat loaf of bread), 59, 62 guilds, 137
food: and allegiance, 140; animals, Gülbahar, 118
151; containers, 62; preparation, Gülçiçek, 85, 89
55, 58; prices, 135; production, Gülruh ºmaret (Akhisar), 89
136–137; quality of, 99–100, 114,
123, 160; removal of, 64; shortage, Hacı Bektaƒ, 140
113–114; supply, 65, 111, 160; ¥ad±th, 86
transport of, 58; variations in, 58 ‹afÍa Sultan, 90
INDEX 233
¥ajj (pilgrimage), 62, 66, 82–83, 88, Hatice ¤urhan Sultan, 59, 92, 95
104, 133, 146; security of, 141; ‹aydar bey kethüda, 105–108, 109
supply of, 141 hayrat (good works), 101
Halbwachs, Maurice, 80 ‹aythana al-Jamm«s±n tribe, 50
‹amm«m al-Sul†«n. See bath of the Hebron, 34, 66, 148, 152; mosque,
ºmaret 106. See also sim«† al-Khal±l
‹amza (imperial envoy), 99 Helena, Byzantine empress, 9, 71–
han, 46, 143. See also caravansaray 72; beneficent works of, 72, 83–84;
‹anaf±, 20, 22 connection to Hurrem, 75;
handicapped, 64 pilgrimage to Jerusalem, 83–84
¥aqq (just claim), 156 Helena, Queen of Adiabène, 81
‹«r«, 54, 126 ¥elvahane (confectionary), 56, 136
‹aram al-Shar±f, 3, 37, 46, 48, 66, heqdēsh, 177 n. 30
69, 74, 106; museum, 58 Herat, 147
‹aramayn al-Shar±fayn, 49, 54 her±se (meal pudding), 115
harem, 85 Herrin, Judith, 83
H«r£n al-Rash±d, 81, 83 Hersekzade A¥med Paƒa, 180 n. 69
‹asan çavuƒ (manager of the hiba (gift), 6
ºmaret), 124–125 Hijaz, 134, 141, 152
‹asan (imperial envoy), 99 Hil«l al-Ra’y, 16
‹asan (son of Caliph Åli), 82 Hodgson, Marshall, 25, 27
haseki (favorite), 89 Hoexter, Miriam, 12
Haseki complex (Istanbul), 4, 95; Holy Land, 80
ºmaret, 153; neighborhood of, 29 honey, 59, 60, 65, 102, 118, 120, 133,
HaÍÍeki Sultan ºmaret, 36, 37, 75, 135
76, 77, 78; accounts, 54, 109; basic hospice of St. Helena, 76
conditions, 1; clientele of, 62, 64, hospital (bimarhane), 19, 29, 36, 84,
157; choice of site, 66; connection 96, 153; of St. Helena, 75, 77
to Süleymaniye, 69–70; construc- hücerat (rooms), 46
tion of, 43, 106; contemporary, 39, Hungary, 140
40, 57; description, 40; expansion hünkâr œasri (imperial pavilion), 95
of kitchen, 125; expenditures, ¥urr (free), 18
111–112; eyewitness accounts, 3–4, Hurrem Sultan, 1, 4, 5, 7, 9, 68, 71,
39, 58, 75–78, 99–102; food 72, 161; as wife, 91; characteriza-
distribution, 100, 112–117; food tion in waqfiyya, 67; Christian
supply, 101; identity of diners, 64; origins of, 79; connection to
in nineteenth century, 57; inspec- Helena, 72, 75, 98; contemporary
tion of, 127; institutions, 46–48; image, 189 n. 19; endowments of,
Jews at, 188 n. 9; loans to, 112, 91; ºmaret in Mecca, 91, 142;
118, 119; location, 1–3, 74; ºmaret in Medina, 91, 142; ºmaret
management of, 99–130; mosque, (Cisr-i Mu͆afa Paƒa), 91; patron-
48, 55; motives for founding, 65; age in Mecca and Medina, 83;
numbers of diners, 63; origins, 7– personal motives, 67; prominence
8; 75; physical appearance, 40; of, 90–91; sons of, 67
properties, 44; quality of food, ‹usayn (son of Caliph Åli), 82
99–100; refectory, 61; revenues, Hutaym bedouin, 49
106–107; revenue collection, 108,
122; ƒeyh (director), 55; size of Ibn Farrukh, 141
endowment, 6, 46; staff, 54–58, 61, Ibrahim (r. 1640–48), 95
111, 115–116; stipulations of ¿±d al-aª¥a (kurban bayram), 60, 148
founder, 1. See also manager; ¿id al-fi†r (ƒeker bayram), 60, 148
mülkname; waqfiyya identity, construction of, 111
234 INDEX