ARAM, 18-19 (2006-2007) 601-620.D. TALMON-HELLER doi: 10.2143/ARAM.19.0.2020748 601

GRAVES, RELICS AND SANCTUARIES: THE EVOLUTION OF SYRIAN SACRED TOPOGRAPHY (ELEVENTH-THIRTEENTH CENTURIES)

Dr. DANIELLA TALMON-HELLER (Ben-Gurion University of the Negev)

Ibn Jubayr, a renowned Maghribi traveler who visited in 580/1184, lists “custodianship over one of the blessed sanctuaries” (sadanat mashhad min al-mashahid al-mubaraka) as one of the best and most profitable occupa- tions pious foreigners residing in Damascus could aspire to hold.1 Other twelfth-thirteenth century sources show that (visits to sanctuaries) in Zangid and Ayyubid were indeed prevalent enough to keep many custo- dians busy. Moreover, they indicate that the number of sanctuaries to be vis- ited and safeguarded was on the rise: existing commemorative structures asso- ciated with the lives and deaths of prophets or (mashahid and ma- qamat)2 were refurbished, and new ones were being established all over the country. In this paper I venture to offer some explanations for the popularity of ziyarat and for the growing interest in ancient tombs, sacred sites and relics at a particular place and time in history. Namely, against the backdrop of the and the Muslim counter-Crusade, of the spread of in the Is- lamic world and of the revivification of sunni (known as iÌya’ al- sunna). I will portray attitudes of different elements in society – rulers, mem- bers of the military elite, ‘ulama’ and commoners – towards the cult of holy sites, and consider the input from “above” and from “below” to its promotion. The claim that there was a significant upsurge in Islamic commemorative structures and cults in the twelfth century is not new, yet I hope to draw here a more nuanced picture regarding the geographical spread and the social fiber of this phenomenon. Also, I will make a preliminary attempt to substantiate it from an angle little explored up till now: the evolution of the specific tradi- tions that build up the sacred topography of Bilad al-Sham.3 1 Ibn Jubayr, RiÌla, ed. W. Wright and M.J. De Goeje (Leiden, 1907), 278; English transla- tion: R.J.C. Broadhurst, The Travels of Ibn Jubayr (London, 1952), 289. 2 For a discussion of the development of commemorative architecture in the Muslim world and of relevant terminology see O. Grabar, “The Earliest Islamic Commemorative Structures, Notes and Documents,” Ars Orientalis 6 (1966): 7-12. See also J. Meri, The Cult of the Saints among Muslims and Jews in Medieval Syria (Oxford, 2002), 262-272. 3 See Grabar, “Commemorative Structures,” 13-14; J. Sourdel-Thomine, “Traditions d’emprunt et dévotions secondaires dans l’Islam du XIIe siécle,” REI 55 (1987-89): 319-27; Y. Frenkel, “Baybars and the sacred geography of Bilad al-Sham: a chapter in the Islamization of Syria’s landscape,” JSAI 25 (2001): 153-156; J. Meri, “Zigara,” EI2, XI:528.

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MOTIVATIONS FOR ZIYARA

Standing at the grave of the saintly Îanbali shaykh Abu ‘Umar (d. 607/ 1210), the Damascene philologist and historian Abu Shama (d. 665/1268) was moved to tears. He describes his experience saying: “I have encountered there, with God’s succor, great tenderness (riqqa ‘aÂima) and I wept with all my heart.” Another visitor to the grave of Abu ‘Umar, ‘Abd al-Mawla b. MuÌammad, tells of a wondrous event he witnessed there. He was all alone, reciting surat al-Bakara, when he heard a voice rising from the grave to cor- rect his reading of verse 68.4 Other reports of wonders – light or fire emanating from graves,5 the apparition of the prophets al-Kha∂ir or MuÌammad, the sud- den appearance of a cloud to shade a funeral on a blazing hot summer day6 – teach us that the devout, ‘ulama’ included, sensed that there was a special con- centration of baraka (blessings) nearby graves. Mystical and spiritual experi- ences were expected to occur there.7 Medieval sources do not allow a detailed reconstruction of the reli- gious beliefs, personal circumstances and psychological motivation of Mus- lims who undertook a ziyara. They do hint at a few objectives that the devout were hoping to achieve at cemeteries and sanctuaries: a cure from disease,8 the undertaking of a vow or the fulfillment of one,9 pleading for mercy before God, or praying for rain.10 Most Muslims assumed, as do visitors at cemeteries in various cultures, that the dead are closer to God and enjoy a certain moral

4 Abu Shama, Tarajim Rijal al-Qarnayn al-Sadis wa’l-Sabi‘, ed. M.Z. al-Kawthari (Cairo, 1947), 75. For a portrait of Abu ‘Umar see D. Talmon-Heller, “The Shaykh and the Commu- nity – Popular Îanbalite Islam in 12th-13th Century Jabal Nablus and Jabal Qasyun,” Studia Islamica 79 (1994):114-117. 5 Ibn Jubayr, RiÌla, 282. 6 Ibn Rajab, Al-Dhayl ‘ala ™abaqat al-Îanabila, ed. al-Fiqi (Cairo, 1952-3), 2:60; Ibn ™ulun, al-Qala'id al-Jawhariyya fi Ta'rikh al-∑aliÌiyya, ed. M. A. Duhman (Damascus, 1949), 2:530; Abu Shama, Tarajim, 73; Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughyat al-Talab fi Ta'rikh Halab, ed. S. al- Zakkar (Beirut, 1988-89), 1:464. See also Meri, The Cult, 21-24. 7 For a rich discussion of baraka see Meri, “Aspects of Baraka (Blessings) and Ritual Devo- tion among Medieval Muslims and Jews,” Medieval Encounters 5 (1999): 46-69. See also V.W. Turner, Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture (New York, 1978), 6. 8 I have not found a special emphasis on healing, in line with the conclusions of Ch. Melchert (in his review of Miracle and Karama: Hagiographies médiévales comparés, ed. D. Aigle (Turnhout, 2000), in JAOS 122 (2002): 633-635) on the Muslim hagiographical tradition. Still, a few pilgrims and travelers explicitly sought cures: see Ibn Rushayd al-Fihri (d. 721/1321) in al- Munajjid, Madinat Dimashq, 198; J. Meri, A Lonely Wayfarer’s Guide to Pilgrimage. Text and translation (Princeton, 2004), 14-15. 9 See for example Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:463 and 9:4062; Ibn Shaddad, Al-A‘laq al- Khatira fi Umara' al-Sham wa’l-Jazira, ed. Y.Z. ‘Abbara (Damascus, 1991), 1:159. 10 On istisqa’ at Magharat al-Dam on the outskirts of Damascus (supposedly, a hiding-place for prophets, where “prayers are answered”) see Ibn ‘Asakir, Ta’rikh Madinat Dimashq, ed. ‘A al-‘Amrawi (Beirut, 1995), 2:333-336; Ibn al-‘Imad, Shadharat al-Dhahab, ed. ‘A.-Q. al- Arna’u† and M. al-Arna’u† (Beirut, 1991), 7:53-54. On istisqa’ by graves see I. Goldziher, Mus- lim Studies, ed. and trans. S.M. Stern and C.R. Barber (London, 1967), 2:285-286.

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advantage over the living. Despite some controversy among theologians,11 the notion that men and women, who already during their lifetime were righteous and close to God, did not lose their intercessory powers (shafa‘a) at death was widely upheld. The notion that these powers were most accessible at their graves drew the reverent and the needy to burial sites.12 Ibn al-‘Adim (d. 660/1262), an eminent scholar and a prominent member of the Aleppan elite, combined the quest for the spiritual and the intellectual in his trip to the grave of the ascetic Abu Marwan al-Maghribi. His visit took place while he was working on the entry devoted to Abu Marwan in his volu- minous biographical dictionary, Bughyat al-™alab fi Ta’rikh Îalab. He con- cludes his report about this trip as follows: “I visited the righteous men there, may God have mercy upon them all, and may we all benefit from their bless- ing, amen.”13 In Ibn Jubayr’s experience, the holy and the beautiful were inter- twined, to create a powerful impression. His recollection of al-Rabwa, the ref- uge of Maryam (Mary) and ‘Isa (Jesus) reads as follows: “It is one of the most remarkable sights in the world for beauty, elegance, height and perfection of construction for the embellishment of the plaster, and for the glorious site… a better sight could not be seen.”14 In some cases a change in one’s way of life, such as a process of penance, or the choice of a life of seclusion and , was motivated by a ziyara. Or the other way round: such changes were enhanced during a ziyara, or cul- minated in its performance.15 I did not find, however, that a lingering sense of guilt, such as had burdened medieval Christian pilgrims, prompted Muslim pil- grims to take to the road.16 Moreover, a ziyara could be a happy and relaxing experience: an occasion for an outing with family members and friends, feast- ing and eating sweets. A ziyara of that type was performed by Ibn al-‘Adim, in a party that included some of his relatives and their guest – a qa∂i from Da- mascus, while the family was spending the summer (“the days of the water- melon”) at the countryside.17 Typically, they chose a local site – Mashhad RuÌin – thereby eliminating long-distance travel and its hardships.18

11 A.J. Wensinck, D. Gimaret, A. Schimmel, “Shafa‘a,” EI2 9:177-179; L. Kinberg, “Interac- tion between this World and the Afterworld in Early Islamic Tradition,” Oriens 29-30 (1986): 298-300. 12 C.S. Taylor, In the Vicinity of the of the Righteous: Ziyara and the Veneration of Saints in Late Medieval (Leiden, 1998), 47-52. 13 Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 7:3440. 14 Ibn Jubayr, RiÌla, 276; trans. 287. 15 See for example Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 7:3381-82. 16 No wonder – the Muslim perception of sin and salvation is much more optimistic than the Christian, if only because it does not charge man with the primordial sin (H. Lazarus-Yafeh, Some Religious Aspects of Islam (Leiden, 1981), 48; J. Sumption, Pilgrimage. An Image of Me- dieval Religion (London, 1975), 98-113). 17 Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:466. 18 On the local character of Muslim saints see also Taylor, In the Vicinity, 83.

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Women may have shared with men all the above-mentioned motivations for performing a ziyara, but may have had additional reasons, particular to their gender. Several modern scholars assume that women were more attracted to grave worship than men because of their limited opportunities to participate in official religion, and because it allowed them to get away, for a while, from the strict supervision of male relatives.19 In the corpus of sources I had read (all written by men, of course), I did not find clear evidence in support of this assumption.20

OLD AND NEW PILGRIMAGE SITES

Tombs considered to be of prophets belonging to the Biblical-Qur’anic tradi- tion, or sanctuaries commemorating them, and tombs of Companions of the Prophet MuÌammad (ÒaÌaba), some of whom died during the conquest of Syria, dotted the landscape of seventh/thirteenth century Syria. To these we can add tombs of relatives of the Prophet, mainly descendents of ‘Ali and Fa†ima (Ahl al-Bayt).21 In Shi‘i collective memory Damascus was the place of captivity and suffering of the women and children survivors of Karbala’ (680), and the burial place of some of the mutilated bodies of the martyrs.22 There were also tombs of later Muslim martyrs, amongst them warriors of the coun- ter-Crusade, and tombs of exemplars of sorts, with a special concentration of the venerated – righteous “friends of God” of the highest rank.23 Da- mascus was particularly blessed in this respect, accommodating the ancient cemeteries of Bab al-∑aghir and al-Faradis. Though not quite the equivalent of the al-Qarafa cemetery in Cairo (which drew Sultans, high-ranking ‘ulama’ and Muslims of all other echelons of society for organized daily ziyarat24). Ibn

19 P. Brown, Cult of the Saints (Chicago, 1981), 44; B. Shoshan, “High Culture and Popular Culture in Medieval Islam,” Studia Islamica 73 (1991): 83. 20 Neither does Joseph Meri (Meri, The Cult, 169). 21 According to Ibn Jubayr “wa-mashahid kathira li-ahl al-bayt, ra∂iya Allahu ‘anhum, rijal wa-nisa’, wa-qad iÌtafala al-Shi‘a fi al-bina’ ‘alayhim, wa-laha al-awqaf al-wasi‘a.” (Ibn Jubayr, RiÌla, 279). See also M. Î. al-Jalali, Mazarat Ahl al-Bayt wa-Ta’rikhuha (Beirut, 1995), chapters on al-Sham. 22 Some scholars suggest that the earliest commemorative structures in Islam were Shi‘i, and the Sunnis began to build their own to compete with them (see survey of the scholarly debate on this point in C.S. Taylor, “Reevaluating the Shi‘i Role in the Development of Monumental Is- lamic Funerary Architecture: the Case of Egypt,” al-Muqarnas 9 (1992): 1-10; Y. Raghib, “Les premiers monuments funéraires de l’Islam,” Annales Islamologiques 9 (1970): 21-36). 23 On the abdal’s special connection to Syria, see S.D. Goitein, “The Sanctity of and Palestine in Early Islam,” in his Studies in Islamic History and Institutions (Leiden, 1966), 135-48; Amikam Elad, “The Caliph Abu ’l-‘Abbas al-SaffaÌ, the First ‘Abbasid mahdi,” in Mas’at Mosheh. Studies in Jewish and Islamic Culture Presented to Mosheh Gil, ed. Ezra Fleischer et al. (Tel-Aviv, 1998), 38-49 [in Hebrew]. 24 Taylor, In the Vicinity, 63-64; idem, “Saints, Ziyara, QiÒÒa and the Social Construction of Moral Imagination in Late Medieval Egypt,” Studia Islamica 88 (1998): 103-120.

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Jubayr claims, that the efficacy of supplications (du‘a') by the blessed graves of Companions at Bab al-∑aghir had been proved by the experiences of many pious and righteous pilgrims.25 The common assumption that burial next to the graves of the righteous was beneficent26 made those cemeteries into favored burial-grounds for ‘ulama’ of all generations, to further enhance their prestige in the eyes of visitors. In the first extant guide to the visitor of Syrian sanctuaries, Kitab al-Isharat fi Ma‘rifat al-Ziyarat by Abu Bakr al-Harawi (d. 611/1215),27 al-Harawi re- lates the discovery of long-forgotten graves in Damascus, and the renewed in- terest in them. He writes: “In the cemetery of Damascus there are many peo- ple from among shaykhs and righteous persons about whom we have written briefly, so as to avoid excessive length. It is said that among them are seventy of the ÒaÌaba … And they say that the cemetery of Damascus was ploughed under and sown over a hundred years ago, and therefore those graves were un- known.”28 In his introduction he also alludes to a past period of disregard for the tombs of Companions and Successors.29 Further indication that the enthusi- asm for “long-forgotten graves” was on the rise, on a scale not characteristic of an earlier period, may be found in a comment by Ibn al-‘Adim. He tells of the recent construction of a on ancient tombs of righteous men “of which all signs had been obliterated (qubur al-ÒaliÌin qad intamasat).”30 Inscriptions show that the tombstone on the grave of the companion of the Prophet, Abu al-Darda, and that on the grave of Ka‘b al-AÌbar of the genera- tion of the Successors (both died in 32/652-3) were renovated in the 620’s/ 1220’s by residents of Damascus. The tombstone on the grave of the compan- ion Bilal b. RabaÌ, the first muezzin (d. 20/641), was remade in 625/1228.31 Earlier, Nur al-Din renovated Ibrahim south of Aleppo.32 Ibn Shaddad reports, in the second half of the thirteenth century, that this last site attracted pilgrims of all countries, and many wished to be buried in its vicinity.33 Nur al-

25 Ibn Jubayr, RiÌla, 279. 26 Ibn Qudama, al-Mughni, ed. A.‘A. Turki, ‘A.M. al-Îuluw (Cairo, 1986-90), 3:442; Taylor, In the Vicinity, 47-50. For a specific request to be buried by a ÒaÌabi see Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 2:1258-59. See also Ibn Jubayr, RiÌla, 274. 27 Text, English translation, introduction and annotation in J. Meri, A Lonely Wayfarer. For an earlier French translation see J. Sourdel-Thomine, Guide des lieux de pèlerinage par Abu’l- Îasan ‘Ali al- Harawi (mort 611/1215), traduction annotée (Damascus, 1957). 28 Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 14-15. 29 Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 4-5. 30 Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 7:3382. 31 Répertoire Chronologique d’Épigraphie Arabe, ed. E. Combe, J. Sauvaget, G. Wiet (Cairo, 1931-43), 10:249-50, 259. Ibn ‘Asakir quotes Hibat Allah b. Akfani (d. 524/1129) describing the tombs of the ÒaÌaba at Bab al-∑aghir cemetery (Ibn ‘Asakir, Ta’rikh, 2:419). 32 Originally built in 479/1086, according to an inscription with the names of Malikshah and NiÂam al-Mulk (Grabar, “Commemorative Structures,” 29). 33 Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq, 1:143. On the widespread cult of Ibrahim throughout Syria and Mesopotamia see Eddé, Alep, 430; Meri, The Cult, 195-99.

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Din also constructed a mausoleum in honor of the companion Abu Sulayman al-Darani, in the village of Darayya.34 An early twelfth century inscription of endowment at a maqam in honor of an anonymous in Faluja (north-east of Gaza), and another in Maqam al-Nabi Lut (Lot) in Kafr Burayk south-east of Hebron,35 testify to the appearance of sanctuaries in Palestinian villages. Abu Shama speculates that the ziyara to the graves of the Patriarchs in Hebron became customary only after ’s reconquest of most of Pales- tine. There is, of course evidence of considerably earlier Muslim pilgrimage to Hebron, sometimes en route to or from the Prophet’s tomb at al-Madina. Early traditions even recommend a visit to the Tomb of Abraham as a substitute for a visit to the tomb of the Prophet in times of war and road closures, or: as the “Ìajj of the poor.”36 Yet, in line with Abu Shama’s observation, the first ex- plicit itinerary of a tour of holy places in Hebron and its vicinity dates to the twelfth century,37 and only in the thirteenth century the Arabic name al-Khalil (the Friend – Abraham’s epithet in Muslim lore) emerges as the actual name of the city, which until then was addressed in Muslim sources as Îabra or Îabrun. Moreover, it becomes the counterpart of Jerusalem, as one of the al- Îaramayn al-Sharifayn, a term reserved until then for Mecca and .38 Abu Shama and his colleague al-Nawawi ridicule the ignoramuses who think that a visit to Jerusalem and Hebron is an integral part of the Ìajj (“min tamam al-Ìajj”), or that it secures the entrance to paradise.39 We do not know whether al-Malik al-Mu‘aÂÂam (governor of Jerusalem 597-615/1201-18, ruler of Da- mascus 615-24/1218-27) shared this notion, but he must have enhanced the popularity of the ziyara to Hebron by adding on to the building of its Ìaram.

34 J. Sauvaget, Alep: essai sur le dévelopment d’une grande ville syrienne des origines au milieu du XIXe siècle (Paris, 1941), 124-25; N. Elisseéff, “Les monuments de Nur al-Din,” BEO 13 (1949): 5-43. 35 Barik, or Caphar Barucha, is mentioned by St. Jerome, in the early fifth century, as Lot’s burial place. According to Yaqut, Lut was honored with a sanctuary at Yaqin (sic!) where he had settled after the destruction of Sodom. He adds that the name Yaqin derives from Lut’s confes- sion: “aykantu anna wa‘d Allah Ìaqq (I fully acknowledge that God’s warning is absolutely true).” M. Sharon, Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicorum Palaestinae, (Leiden, 1999), 2:12-15l; Yaqut, Mu‘jam, 5:426. 36 See Kister, “Sanctity,” 27-29; A. Elad, “Pilgrims and Pilgrimage to Hebron (al-Khalil) During the Early Muslim Period (638?-1099), in Pilgrims and Travellers to the Holy Land, ed. Bryan F. Le Beau and Menachem Mor (Omaha, 1996), 27-28. 37 The itinerary includes Rachel’s tomb, Bethlehem, Halhul, Rama, Kafr Burayk and al-Yaqin (Elad, “Pilgrims,” 45). 38 Elad, “Pilgrims,” 25; M. Sharon, “Khalil,” EI2 4:956-957. 39 Abu Shama, Kitab al-Ba‘ith ‘ala Inkar al-Bida‘ wa’l-Îawadith, ed. M. Salman, Riyad 1990, pp. 283-84; al-Nawawi, Fatawa al- al-Nawawi, ed. M. al-Arna'u†, Damascus 1999, 154. Nawawi criticized fa∂a’il al-Sham traditions and notes that they are popular among common folk (‘awwam ahl al-Sham) – see P. Cobb, “Virtual Sacrality: Making Muslim Syria Sacred be- fore the Crusades,” Medieval Encounters 8 (2002), 37 n. 9. In truth, there is evidence of much earlier Muslim pilgrimage to Hebron. See Elad, Pilgrims.

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He endowed the income of two villages to cover the costs of the construction, salaries of custodians, oil for lamps and provisions for pilgrims.40 He also added a minaret to the of Yunus (Jonah), supposedly built upon the prophet’s tomb in nearby Halhul (623/1226). Both Hebron and Halhul were situated in the same region, a land “permeated with Jewish and Christian asso- ciations,”41 and threatened with restoration to the hands of the Franks.42 The intensification of the ongoing competition between Muslims and mem- bers of the older religions of the region, and between the Muslim rulers of Syria and their Christian-Latin adversaries,43 and the fact that the possession of holy sites played a role in this competition44 did not escape the penetrating ob- servations of medieval scholars. Ibn Shaddad cites anonymous historians (ahl al-ta’rikh) who said that while Jabal Sam‘an (in northern Syria) was in the hands of “the Christians and Franks,” a large Christian crowd would go up there every spring. After the Muslims had regained control of the region (in 529/1135) Muslims began to venerate the place “twice as much as the Chris- tians,” and turned it into a popular pilgrimage site.45 Anecdotes brought forth by the historians and travelers Ibn al-‘Asakir, Ibn Jubayr, al-Harawi, Ibn al-‘Adim and Ibn Shaddad show that people willingly adopted new sites and were ready to contribute to their construction, refurbish- ment and upkeep. According to those anecdotes, men and women of various social strata and ethnic backgrounds rediscovered long-forgotten graves of prophets and ÒaÌaba thanks to a visionary dream they had experienced. In most of those stories, the dreamer – in particular if he happened to be a simple soldier, a sinner, or a shepherd – expresses his anxiety that he will meet with disbelief. In all those cases he, or she, worry in vain. After all, dreams were regarded as a source of guidance and means of legitimization since early Is- lamic times.46 Their audience – be it friends, a wealthy emir, a crowd standing at the entrance to a local mosque, “the people” (al-nas) – follow the dreamer

40 RCEA, 10:105; Sharon, “Khalil,” 957. 41 Tamari, “Nabi Yunus,” 394-96. 42 For the historical background see R.S. Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: The Ayyubids of Damascus, 1193-1260 (Albany, 1977), 183-184. 43 See Frenkel, “Baybars,” 166. 44 For the parallel ongoing dispute between Judaism and Christianity over the question “Whose land?” see E. Reiner, “A Jewish Response to the Crusades,” in Juden und Christen zur Zeit der Kreüzzuge, ed. A. Haverkamp (Sigmaringen, 1999), 209-231. 45 Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq, 1:166. See also D. Sourdel, “RuÌin, lieu de pèlerinage musulman de la Syrie du nord au XIIIe siècle,” Syria 30 (1953), 93 n.2, 100-101. 46 See L. Kinberg, “Literal Dreams and Prophetic Îadith in Classical Islam – a comparison of two ways of legitimation,” Der Islam 70 (1993): 279-300. On receptiveness and suspicion regarding dream-messages seeY. Bilu, “Oneirobiography and Oneirocommunity in Wor- ship in Israel: A Two-Tiered Model for Dream-Inspired Religious Revivals,” Ethos 10 (2000): 85-101.

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to the site he had envisioned. There, the truth of the matter becomes evident immediately thanks to a sign or a series of signs: the apparition of al-Kha∂ir, the revelation of a spring, the odor of musk, the unearthing of ancient edifices or graves, a sudden recovery of health, “and other things that amazed the peo- ple and soldiers.”47 Better yet, some of the dreams provided instructions for the construction of a mausoleum. The people obviously shared the belief that the dream-message, whether transmitted to the individual dreamer through the Prophet or through some other person from dar al-Ìaqq (the world of truth, the hereafter), may have a meaning and contain guidance for the whole commu- nity.48 So they got to work at once, to create a new pilgrimage site. Rulers also took part in the establishment of such sites, and in financing their upkeep and frequent renovation. In 541/1147, shortly after his ascension to rule, Nur al- Din completed the renovation of mashhad MuÌassin b. Îusayn on the outskirts of Aleppo, a shrine which was desecrated by the Crusaders during the unsuccessful siege they had laid on the city in 517/1123.49 The Shi‘i historian Ibn Abi ™ayyi’ (d. c. 630/1232-3) concedes that the grave of this ob- scure “last grandson of ‘Ali” was unknown even to the Shi‘is of Aleppo until discovered by Sayf al-Dawla b. Îamdan in 351/962. Since then the site has been repeatedly renovated by Sunni rulers and commoners.50 The story of Mashhad Îusayn, a sanctuary at the foot of Mt. Jawshan, west of Aleppo, is a fascinating example of a “discovery” and “revival” of a site, orchestrated by a range of plebeian and royal players. The shrine was estab- lished, according to Ibn Abi ™ayyi’, thanks to a dream of a shepherd. Timidly standing before the Great Mosque of Aleppo sometime in 573/1178, the man claimed that he was ordered to construct a mashhad in honor of Îusayn at a certain place south-west of Aleppo. Îusayn had allegedly once stopped to pray there. At the sight of a spring that suddenly began to flow on the spot, a group of the townsmen became convinced of the veracity of the dream. A mashhad was indeed constructed, owing to the generous support of the Sunni Zangid prince al-Malik al-∑aliÌ. Aleppan dignitaries (including Sunnis like the qa∂i Ibn Shaddad), craftsmen and shopkeepers donated money or labor. Some years later, Saladin and his son al-Malik al-Åahir endowed property for the upkeep

47 The most detailed account of “signs” I have come across appears in the story of al-Bajani – a penitent veteran soldier, who founded a shrine for al-Kha∂ir in the early twelfth century (Ibn al- ‘Adim, Bughya, 7:3382, trans. in Meri, “Re-appropriating Sacred Space: Medieval Jews and Muslims seeking Elijah and al-Kha∂ir,” Medieval Encounters, 5 (1999): 259-260 and idem, The Cult, 179-83). 48 Kinberg, “Literal Dreams,” 288-289, 293. 49 J. Raby, “Nur al-Din, the Qastal al-Shu‘ubiyya, and the ‘Classical Revival,’” al-Muqarnas 21 (2004): 297. 50 Grabar regards this mashhad as one of the earliest of its kind (Grabar, “Commemorative Structures,” 18). See also Eddé, Alep, 448-52; al-Jalali, Mazarat, 234; RCEA, 9:125. Transla- tion of the passage quoted from Ibn Abi ™ayyi’ see Meri, The Cult, 159.

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of the place, and – for the distribution of sweets on Friday nights. With time, pious visitors filled the mausoleum with their gifts: carpets, mats, drapes, brass vessels, lamps and candles. The Shi‘i qa∂i Baha’ al-Din b. al-Khashshab, one of two prominent Aleppans who were appointed to supervise the adminis- tration of the waqf of the sanctuary, began the construction of a convent for ascetics who wished to live on the spot. Looting Mongol soldiers put an end to the project in 658/1260.51 Another site for pilgrimage in Northern Syria was, to a large extent, the creation of a clerk in the administration of al-Malik al-Åahir (r. 582/1186-613/ 1216) of Aleppo, Sadid al-Din al-MuÂaffar.52 Sadid al-Din was sent to Jabal Sam‘an in 600/1203-4, in order to conduct a land-survey. Upon his arrival he decided to spend the night in a deserted sanctuary, considered to house the graves of Quss b. Sa‘ida,53 and the apostles (al-Hawariyyun) Sam‘un al-∑afa’ and Sam‘an.54 Villagers from nearby RuÌin warned him of robbers and wild animals, but Sadid al-Din did not change his plans. Cured from a lingering dis- ease during that night, he avowed to dedicate his time and money to the reha- bilitation of the sanctuary. He retired from his former life to reside in the sanc- tuary till his last day. He renovated the mashhad, planted a fruit orchard and exposed a dried-up spring. His former employer, al-Malik al-Åahir, paid him a visit and endowed the site with the revenues of a nearby village. After the death of both Sadid al-Din and al-Malik al-Åahir, the heir of the latter, al- Mu‘aÂÂam Turanshah (d. 658/1260) provided for the salaries of caretakers. One of his emirs, a daughter of another emir, and the supervisor of the waqf endowed a wall, a bathhouse and a khan. Local villagers dug a cistern.55 Since the middle of the seventh/thirteenth century, a weeklong festival (mawsim) by the name of khamis al-ruzz – “Thursday of the Rice” (the equivalent of the Egyptian “Thursday of the Lentils,” according to the chronicler) used to be celebrated there in the spring. The festival drew people from Aleppo, Hamat, Harran, Balis and their surroundings, to become, to the best of my knowledge, the first recorded Syrian mawsim. Ziyarat at personal dates, in private compa- nies, as repeatedly claimed here, have become popular much earlier. It is hard, and perhaps unnecessary, to explain the connection between the sanctuary of Quss b. Sa‘ida and the “Thursday of the Rice”, especially as the timing of the festival was not associated in any way with his life, but with the seasons. Prob-

51 Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq, 1:152-55. For other shrines erected in honor of Îusayn b. ‘Ali in Syria, Mesopotamia and Egypt see Meri, The Cult, 191-195. 52 Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq , 1:159-167 (trans. in D. Sourdel, “RuÌin,” 90-93, and in Meri, The Cult, 203-204). 53 Considered to have been a Ìanif (an early Arabian monotheist), or even one of the compan- ions (Ch. Pellat, “Ëuss b. Sa‘ida,” EI2 5:528). 54 Al-Harawi and Yaqut argue against the identification of the graves of the apostles there. See discussion in Sourdel, “RuÌin,” 94, 98-99. 55 Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:466; Eddé, Alep, 433.

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ably, like many other mawasim, it was celebrated around graves, but actually very loosely tied to them.56 I will return to this point in the conclusions. The last case that I wish to discuss here is that of a sanctuary dedicated to the companion ‘Abd Allah al-AnÒari, a sanctuary that was controlled by women of non-Arab origins. In this case, the information about the location of the forgotten grave was revealed to a wife of a Turkish emir in her sleep. A grave was indeed found at the place she had mentioned, on the outskirts of the neighborhood of the Yaruqiyya,57 and a mausolem was constructed (the chronicler does not tell us by whom). It did not become a successful enterprise until another woman, the freed slave Azanaylufar, renovated it. After 622/ 1225, the year of the death of her former master (whose daughter, incidentally, endowed the construction of the khan at Mashhad RuÌin mentioned above), Azanaylufar went to reside at the sanctuary. She used to take care of pilgrims and provide them with sweetmeats and rosewater. Her daughters and maid- servants continued her life’s work there, until the destruction of the site by the Mongols.58 It would have been nice to know whether this particular site was especially attractive for women, or perhaps for Turkish pilgrims, and what were its ties with the near-by neighborhood of the Yaruqiyya, but the sources do not satisfy our curiosity on those points. As mentioned earlier, mausolea of recently dead exemplars, especially those of jihad fighters and martyrs, could also become sanctuaries. Al-Fandalawi, an elderly Maliki scholar who insisted upon fighting the army of the Second Cru- sade despite his advanced age, was killed by the Franks on the outskirts of Damascus in 543/1148. His martyrdom (shahada) was glorified by chroni- clers, biographers and poets, and recorded on his tombstone. In no time his grave became a pilgrimage site for those who wished to pray and offer suppli- cations.59 The grave of Badr al-Din al-Hakkari, who achieved martyrdom while fighting the battle of Jabal al-™ur (Mt. Tabor) in 615/1218, and the cem- etery of Mamilla in Jerusalem – the resting-place of the remains of Muslims martyred in the course of the bloody conquest of Jerusalem in 109960 – also drew pious visitors. The phrases “maqÒud bi-l-ziyara,” (is the aim of pilgrim- age) or “yuqÒad li-l-ziyara wa-l-tabarruk bihi,” (is sought for pilgrimage and blessings) describe, in our sources, some tombs of scholars61 and pious rulers.

56 Von Grunebaum, Muslim Festivals (London and New York, 1958), 81; Meri, The Cult, 123. 57 Turkmen from Northern Syria and Eastern Anatolia (Humphreys, From Saladin, 30). 58 Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq, 1:156-57; Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:465; Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 12-13. For an English translation of Ibn Shaddad’s passage see Meri, The Cult, 171. 59 For details and references see D. Talmon-Heller, “Muslim Martyrdom and Quest for Mar- tyrdom in the Crusading Period,” Al-Masaq, 14 (2002): 131-140. 60 Abu Shama, Tarajim, 38, 108. 61 Dhahabi, Ta’rikh al-Islam, ed. ‘U. ‘A.-S. Tadmuri (Beirut 1990-1999), 46:247, 50:410; Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:462; Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 44-45.

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Nur al-Din (d. 569/1174), for instance, is elevated to the rank of the awliya’ by al-Harawi, who includes his tomb in a list of pilgrimage sites in Damascus.62 ‘Ulama’ hardly opposed this trend. When requested to provide counseling on practical problems related to the management of shrines, they reply in a matter-of-fact manner. For example: the renowned Shafi‘i jurisconsult al- Nawawi (d. 676/1277) was asked whether the keeper of a sanctuary may ex- change surplus oil and candles brought to the place as votive offerings, for some other useful commodity. He replies yes, on the condition that the keeper is legally in charge (al-naÂir al-shar‘i).63 ‘Izz al- Din al-Sulami (d. 660/1262), the most important and daring mufti of his day, allows the adornment of the mausolea of scholars and righteous men with candles, lamps and curtains, by deduction from the permissibility to adorn . He adds a restriction: mashahid are to be treated as houses rather than as mosques; their sanctity (Ìurma), does not, by any means, approach that of mosques.64 In their legal and theological writings scholars address the issue of proper practice in cemeteries and mausolea.65 They may criticize their contemporaries for deviating from the prescriptions of the religious law and the moral code, but they do not express objection to the visitation of graves as such, nor to most customs associated with it.

RELICS

Relics of prophets and saints were cherished as repositories of baraka, prob- ably no less than their graves and the sites of their activities. In early Islam, the cult of relics was considered to be a despicable bid‘a (innovation),66 but in the Ayyubid period relics were displayed in mosques and their cult was practiced in public openly. A part of the skull of YaÌya b. Zakariyya (John the Baptist), for example, discovered in 435/1043-4 in Ba‘alabak, was kept inside the mosque of the citadel of Aleppo. The authenticity of this relic was proven, ac- cording to Ibn al-‘Adim, when it emerged intact from a fire that had consumed the citadel in 609/1212. The sanctuary was renovated by al-Malik al-Åahir. The skull survived another fire – one that the Mongols had provoked there al- most fifty years later – thanks to two of the commanders of the citadel, who transferred the relic safely to the Great Mosque of Aleppo. Visitors continued

62 Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 34-35. 63 Al-Nawawi, Fatawa 94. 64 Al-Sulami, Fatawa, ed. M.J. Kurdi (Beirut, 1996), 325, 330. 65 Ibn Qudama, al-Mughni, 3:517-23; al-Nawawi, KhulaÒat al-AÌkam, ed. H.A. al-Jamal (Beirut, 1997), 2:1060-1063; al-Ghazzali, IÌya’ ‘Ulum al-Din (Cairo, 1955), 4:490-93 (bayan ziyarat al-qubur). 66 Goldziher, Muslim Studies, 2:322-32; idem, “The Cult of the Saints in Islam,” Muslim World 1 (1911): 302-305.

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to seek its blessings in its new abode.67 Another part of the same skull and part of the stone from which Moses had drawn water during the exodus, were safe- guarded in the Great Mosque of Damascus.68 A footprint of Moses (or his grave, according to another tradition) was exhibited in Masjid al-Qadam (or al- Aqdam) in Damascus.69 Although, as Christopher Taylor notes, the Christian obsession with relics, the dismemberment of saints and the ceremonial translation of relics were un- known in Islam,70 ancient remnants of the lives and deeds of saintly figures were considered to be a precious commodity and were regarded highly. The wealthy and powerful were prepared to purchase them with large sums of money. In the summer of 548/1154, shortly before the fall of ‘Ascalon to the Franks, the remains of Îusayn were discovered there, and were translated to Cairo by order of the Fa†imids.71 A unique copy of the Qur’an known as muÒÌaf ‘Uthman, considered to have been written at the command of the third Caliph and stained by his blood, was translated from Tiberias to Damascus in 492/1099. It was kept in a special case in the Great Mosque of Damascus and taken out daily to be touched and kissed.72 Its baraka was reconfirmed during the 543/1148 siege on Damascus, when paraded to the mosque’s courtyard in order to enhance the efficacy of a special mass prayer that was held there.73 A footprint of the Prophet, imprinted in a piece of Basalt from Îawran, was transported to Damascus in the middle of the twelft century. Housed first in the al-Mujahidiyya, it was later placed in the sanctuary dedicated to Sayyida Ruqayya, the daughter of the Prophet and his first wife Hadija.74 The Ayyubid sultan al-Malik al-Ashraf (r. 626/1229-635/1237) especially constructed a college for the study of prophetic tradition (dar al-Ìadith) to house a sandal of the Prophet. Al-Ashraf, who is described by his contempo- raries as a God-fearing man of simple faith and a great admirer of ascetics and Sufis, was deeply moved by this relic when he first saw it. He is said to have yearned to keep the sandal, or at least part of it, in his possession. The anec- dote about his change of mind in favor of preserving the sandal’s integrity and placing it in the Dar al-Îadith al-Ashrafiyya so that it may be accessible to all,75

67 Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 12-13; Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq, 1:122-23; Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:459-60; RCEA, 10:91. For the earlier history of this relic see Meri, The Cult, 200. 68 Al-Harawi, 15 (trans., 34); Sourdel-Thomine, “Les anciens lieux de pèlerinage damascai- nes d'après les sources arabes,” BEO 14 (1952-54): 75. 69 Ibn ‘Asakir, Ta’rikh, 2:339; J. Sadan, “Le Tombeau de Moïse à Jéricho at à Damas. Une competition entre deux lieux saints principalement à l’epoque ottomane,” REI 49 (1981): 73. 70 Taylor, In the Vicinity, 54-55. 71 C. Williams, “The Cult of ‘Alid Saints in the Fatimid Monuments of Cairo,” Muqarnas 13 (1985): 39; D.J. Stewart, “Popular Shi‘ism in Medieval Egypt,” Studia Islamica 84 (1996): 55. 72 Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 32-33; Ibn Jubayr, 268. 73 J.-M. Mouton, “De quelques reliques conservées à Damas au Moyen Age, stratégie poli- tique et religiosité populaire sous les Bourides,” Annales Islamologiques 27 (1993): 247-50. 74 Mouton, “reliques,” 246-48. 75 Sib† b. al-Jawzi, Mir’at, 8:713, 716; al-Yunini, Dhayl Mir’at al-Zaman (Haydarabad, 1954), 2:45-46. See also Humphreys, From Saladin, 210-13; Mouton, “reliques”, 246-47.

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was probably related in order to enhance al-Ashraf’s image as a pious ruler. For us, it testifies to the significance of relics, at least those associated with the Prophet, as well as to the somewhat surprising but apparently “natural” – in the eyes of medieval observers – combination between the cult of the Prophet as a saint, and the “academic” study of his lore.76 Ibn Rushayd al-Fihri (d. 721/1321), an Andalusi scholar and traveler who arrived in Damascus during 684/1285, visited the place, seeking a cure from an illness he was afflicted with. Although his visit did not take place on a Monday or Thursday during the regular visiting hours, the custodian opened for him the richly decorated ebony case in which the relic was kept behind a brass door, covered with three silken drapes. He was allowed to touch it, and regained – so he claims in his travelogue – his health.77

OLD AND NEW NARRATIVES

Some medieval Syrian authors admit that the aura of sanctity of certain pil- grimage sites originated in pre-Islamic times, and had gone through several historical-religious stages. The most comprehensive list of the transformations of a holy place I know of was composed by the Sicilian geographer al-Idrisi (d. 548/1154). Speaking of the sanctuary located by Bab al-Faradis (the gate leading to the Great Mosque of Damascus) he quotes anonymous informants who claim that the edifice was erected by the Sabaian, who used to pray there. Later it was in the hands of the Greeks, who used it for their own religious rites. After a while, pagan kings brought idols into the place; then – at the time of YaÌya b. Zakariyya' (John the Baptist) – it was venerated by the Jews. The Christians took hold of the place, and built a church around the decapitated head of YaÌya. Finally, with the Islamic conquest, Muslims took over.78 The Syrian geographer Ibn Shaddad (d. 684/1285) explains, for example, that Mashhad al-Kha∂ir in the vicinity of Aleppo is an ancient building, con- sidered to have predated Islam (“innahu qabla al-milla al-Islamiyya”).79 He also tells us that a big marble seat found in the middle of Îammam Mughan in Aleppo, known as the “seat of Jesus,” was part of a pagan fire-sanctuary (ma‘bad li-‘ubbad al-nar) in Antiquity. It was sanctified at a later period by the Jews, and then by Christians, who associated the site with Jesus and with the much later monk Barsauma. Finally, concedes Ibn Shaddad, the sanctuary was appropriated by the Muslims.80

76 For a reminiscent case in fifteenth century Cairo see J. Berkey, “Tradition, Innovation and the Social Construction of Knowledge in the Medieval Islamic Near East,” Past and Present 146 (1995): 38-39. 77 Ibn Rushayd al-Fihri, as quoted by al-Maqarri, in S.-D. al-Munajjid, Madinat Dimashq ‘ind al-jughrafiyyin wa-l-raÌÌalin al-Muslimin (Beirut, 1967), 198-199. 78 Al-Idrisi, Nuzhat al-Mushtaq, in al-Munajjid, Dimashq, 99. 79 Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq, 1:143. 80 Ibn Shaddad, al-A‘laq, 1:142. Barsauma is probably Bar-Soma, an Archimendrite and saint

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For us, who are interested in the periodization of this process, it is unfortu- nate that Ibn Shaddad uses such a vague term to denote the time of the “islamization” of the sanctuary, but it is unlikely, of course, that he could have been more precise. A complete “conversion” of the site, such that entails the narration of a coherent Islamic history of the place, the exclusion of members of other faiths and the establishment of a distinctly Islamic ritual, may have lasted centuries, if it ever took place. In most cases, the Islamic perspective (or: narrative) about the place, and the Muslim visitors who stopped there, must have joined an existing cult, and only very gradually, if at all, superseded it and replaced it.81 Even the erection of a distinctly Islamic architectonic fea- ture, such as a minaret or miÌrab, perhaps did not necessarily imply the imme- diate elimination of non-Muslims from the site. If we wish to find literary indications of the progression of an Islamic sacred geography in Bilad al-Sham, we should look for the development of narratives that bring together physical places and Qur’anic or early Islamic figures.82 We must compare the admittedly few relevant early texts we have with later texts, in search of new narratives, or the reinterpretation of old ones.83 Al- Muqaddasi’s geographical treatise AÌsan al-Taqasim fi Ma‘rifat al-Aqalim (The Best Divisions for Knowledge of the Regions), which appeared in 375/ 986, may serve as an adequate point of departure. His chapter about al-Sham reflects Syria’s early-established sanctity in Islam.84 It begins as follows: “Syria is the abode of the Prophets, the habitation of the righteous, the home of the successors of the Prophet… It contains the first qibla, the scene of the day of the resurrection, and of the night journey of the Prophet.” Muqaddasi concludes this chapter saying: “We have mentioned most of the holy places (mashahid) in the introductory to this region, were we to enumerate their loca- tions our book would be over-long. I will just mention that most of them are in the neighborhood of Jerusalem, less in the rest of Palestine, fewest in Jordan.”85

of the Syrian church, who died in 458 C.E. On “continued sanctity” see also Meri, The Cult, 38- 39; Cobb, “Virtual Sacrality,” 35-55. 81 For examples of the perpetuation of Christian cults alongside Muslim cults see A. Elad, Medieval Jerusalem & Islamic Worship (Leiden, 1994), 134-136; Meri, The Cult, 207, 212. For an analysis of the Islamization of the landscape see Sh. Tamari, “Arabization and Islamization of the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus,” Studi in onore di Francesco Gabrieli (Rome, 1984), 761- 781; N. Luz, “Aspects of Islamization of Space and Society in Mamluk Jerusalem and its Hinter- land,” Mamluk Studies Review 6 (2002): 133-154; Frenkel, “Baybars,” 153-170. 82 About the Christian creation of holy places, as understood by R.A. Markus, see “How on Earth Could Places Become Holy? Origins of the Christian Idea of Holy Places,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 2 (1994): 257-271, esp. 265. 83 “Reinterpretation” is the term used by Goldziher; see Muslim Studies, 2:300-305. 84 Scholars agree that Syria’s sanctity was established under the Umayyads, but disagree about the relative importance of religious and political motivations (see Elad, Medieval Jerusa- lem, 147-163). Elad himself notes that “religion and politics are inseparable in early Islam” (idem, p. 149), a comment that may well apply to the crusading period as well. 85 Al-Muqaddasi, AÌsan al-Taqasim fi Ma‘rifat al-Aqalim, M.J. De Goeje (Leiden, 1906), 151, 184; trans. al-Muqaddasi, The Best Divisions for the Knowledge of the Regions, trans. B. Collins (Reading, 2001), 128, 155.

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Despite his wariness of excessive detail al-Muqaddasi does mention specific sites in connection with some twenty prophets and ÒaÌaba, and two relics of the Prophet. These include habitations, oratories, wells, gates, a cradle, a prison, a grave, and the like.86 Pilgrimage to those sanctified places is men- tioned only once: when he speaks of Hebron and its special arrangements for providing visitors with food.87 The first anthologies of Fa∂a’il al-Sham (“the merits of Syria”) abound with sayings in praise of the land as a whole, idealized, entity (stretching from the Euphrates to the southern shore of the Mediterranean – “min al-Furat ila al-‘Arish”),88 and in praise of its people. They say conspicuously little about specific sites, aside for Jerusalem, Hebron (al-Khalil), Bethlehem and Damas- cus – where “Almost every site is assigned a role not only in the Messianic drama but also in the broader context of Islamic sacred history.”89 This holds true for the works of al-Wasi†i,90 ‘Ali b. MuÌammad al-Raba‘i91 and Ibn al- Murajja92 – all written in the first half of the eleventh century. They mention other locales, but without specific detail. Al-Raba‘i, for example, writes: “In Tarsus there are ten tombs of prophets, in Masisa five… in the frontier and coastal districts a thousand tombs. At Antioch, is the tomb of Îabib the car- penter, at Homs thirty tombs, at Damascus five hundred…”93 The nearly con- temporaneous QiÒaÒ al-Anbiya’ (tales of the Prophets) by al-Tha‘labi, also enumerates only very few specific locations in Syria in the course of stories about the deeds of prophets.94 Compared to the Byzantine popular “Vitae Prophetarum” (Lives of the Prophets), with its richness of geographical and topographical detail, the lack of concrete information about the precise places of birth, death or wondrous doings of the prophets in the Muslim works, is conspicuous. While the Vitae Prophetarum practically draws an itinerary for Christian pilgrims willing to walk in the footsteps of the prophets, the early

86 Al-Muqaddasi, AÌsan, 151, 156, 160, 167, 170, 172-73, 178 (trans. 128, 133, 137, 141, 143, 144, 149). 87 Al-Muqaddasi, 172-73 (trans. 144). 88 Al-Raba‘i, Fa∂a’il al-Sham wa-l-Dimashq, ed. ∑.-D. al-Munajjid (Damascus, 1950), 11. 89 Meri, The Cult, 30 (see idem, 29-43). 90 Al-Wasi†i, Fa∂a’il al-Bayt al-Muqaddas, ed. I. Hasson (Jerusalem, 1979). 91 Compare the chapter about the virtues of al-Sham and its people (where no specific site is mentioned) with the chapter in praise of Damascus (which associates saintly figures – al-Kha∂ir, YaÌya b. Zakariyya', Hud, Musa, Maryam b. ‘Imran, ‘Isa, Ibrahim, etc. – with specific loci in and about the city): al-Raba‘i, Fa∂a’il, 30-35, 50, 51, 56, 69. About this work see Cobb, “Virtual Sacrality.” 92 Ibn al-Murajja al-Maqdisi, Fa∂a’il Bayt al-Maqdis wa-al-Khalil wa-Fa∂a’il al-Sham, ed. O. Livne-Kafri (Shfaram, 1995). 93 Al-Raba‘i, Fa∂a’il, 49 (quoting Ka‘b al-Abar); trans. Cobb, “Virtual Sacrality,” 45. Also in several variations in Ibn al-‘Asakir, Ta’rikh, 2:410. 94 Such as: Bethleem, with the palm tree that gave Maryam shelter; Nazareth, “in the moun- tain of Hebron” as the dwelling place of ‘Isa; Homs as the home of 900 companions of the Prophet, of whom seventy had fought in Badr (al-Tha‘labi, QiÒaÒ al-Anbiya’ (Cairo, 1937), 324, 330, 199).

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Fa∂a’il and QiÒaÒ works hardly provide the grounds for the establishment of Muslim sanctuaries and the performance of Islamic pilgrimages.95 There were, of course, Muslim local oral traditions, which we cannot usually retrace, some of them transmitted from father to son for generations.96 But if we concentrate on those traditions first committed to writing (first – as far as extant sources go), we will find that a century or two later, Syrian authors do supply consider- ably more information about the sanctity of specific Syrian sites; albeit – in- formation which they often question, or even discard as unauthentic. Kitab al-Isharat fi Ma‘rifat al-Ziyarat by Abu Bakr al-Harawi (d. 611/ 1215), and the geographical lexicon Mu‘jam al-Buldan by Yaqut (d. 626/ 1228), demonstrate this phenomenon. A typical example is Harawi’s treatment of a tradition that “sets” the Arab prophet ∑aliÌ within the precincts of a shrine nearby Qinnasrin (in northern Syria). He writes: “It is said that the fe- male camel went out from there to ∑aliÌ. It contains the camel’s hoof prints. The truth is that ∑aliÌ was in the land of Yemen, and that his tomb is in Shabwa.”97 The eleventh century author of QiÒaÒ al-Anbiya’, al-Tha‘labi, who relates the story of the prophet and the camel in length, as proof of ∑aliÌ’s di- vine ordination, locates the miraculous emergence of the beast from a rock in “the land of al-Îijr, between the Îijaz and Syria,” in an unspecified wadi, cave and mosque. Al-Tha‘labi’s story ends with ∑aliÌ’s death in Mecca. Burial in Qinnasrin is not mentioned.98 Al-Harawi, who lists almost two hundred sites, expresses his doubts regard- ing sanctuaries in honor of ÒaÌaba and prophets (such as Musa-Moses, Joshua b. Nun, ‘Isa-Jesus and Maryam-Mary). In some cases he suggests corrections to the traditions he cites: usually to claim that Companions were actually bur- ied in the Îijaz, or that prophets were active in Palestine rather than in north- ern Syria. A couple of examples, which by no means exhaust the fund, may suffice. Having related that people say that the companion Abu Umama al- Bahili is buried in Kafr Najd in the vicinity of Homs, al-Harawi asserts that his tomb is actually in al-Madina. He refutes the claim that Joshua’s tomb is lo- cated at al-Ma‘arra because to the best of his knowledge it is in Nablus.99 Al- Harawi repeatedly ends his entries with the routine formula: and God knows

95 D. Satran, Biblical Prophets in Byzantine Palestine (Leiden, 1995), 38-40. 96 The explanation of the Jewish pilgrim Menahem ha-Hevroni (early thirteenth century), re- garding the Jewish traditions of holy places in Palestine, may well apply to Muslim traditions just as well: “those who live today in the Land of Israel… received [traditions], each person from his father… and they know the whole matter.” (E. Reiner, “Traditions of Holy Places in Medieval Palestine – Oral versus Written,” in Offerings from Jerusalem, ed. R. Sarfati (Jerusalem, 1996), 9. 97 Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 16-17, 44-45. Ibn al-‘Adim suggests that the mistaken tradition originates from the fact that the name of the builder of the shrine was ∑aliÌ – ∑aliÌ b. ‘Ali ibn al- ‘Abbas governor of Syria (Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:467). 98 W.M. Brinner, ‘Ara’is al-Majalis fi QiÒaÒ al-Anbiya’ or Lives of the Prophets (Leiden, 2002), 114-123. 99 Meri, Lonely Wayfarer, 16-19. Those are but two of more than twenty explicit (and many more implicit) cases. Al-Harawi’s doubts regarding the tomb of Joshua b. Nun were not shared by al-Malik al-Åahir Ghazi, who renovated the sanctuary, nor by the visitors that frequented the

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best. My impression is that he means to say that most of his informants do not. Yaqut, who relates a legion of traditions establishing the exact location of biblical-Qur’anic events in Damascus and its vicinity,100 often contests tradi- tions regarding the burial place of Companions and relatives of the Prophet in more peripheral settlements, in a way similar to that of al-Harawi’s. For exam- ple: in the entry about Ba‘alabak he argues that while “it is said” that ÎafÒa bint ‘Umar the wife of the Prophet is buried there, in truth she is buried in al- Madina, and the grave in Ba‘alabak must be that of another ÎafÒa. As for a stone, that according to Damascenes served Abraham to smash the idols that his father had produced, Yaqut argues that Azar never left Harran.101 It seems to me that at least some of the traditions that al-Harawi and Yaqut dismiss were, at that time, rather recent local attempts at attaining a stake in sacred topogra- phy, especially in peripheral areas that heretofore did not enjoy the blessings of saintly baraka, the proximity of sanctuaries and the presence of pious visi- tors in their vicinity. Or else, that these traditions were so suspect in the eyes of these scholars not because they lacked decent longevity, but because they were based on local folklore and propagated a vernacular translation of Qur’a- nic and early Muslim heroes into local scenes. And that vernacular version did not necessarily conform with the “official” versions known to the learned.102 To summarize my argument: I would cautiously like to suggest that a sig- nificant portion of the traditions that associate specific “secondary” locations in Syria with the deeds of specific venerated Islamic figures, or with their burial places, were disseminated between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries. By using the term “secondary” locations I mean to exclude “primary” loca- tions as Jerusalem and Damascus, Îebron and Bethleem, whose Islamic sanc- tity was securely established in much earlier narratives.103 By using the adverb “cautiously” I mean to qualify my findings: they are based on a small number of extant works of the genres of fa∂a’il, qiÒaÒ al-anbiya’, geographical trea- tises and guides. Also, there are indications that a coherent, or elaborate narra- tive was not a preliminary condition for the formation of a sacred site for pil- grimage. A vague oral tradition could also suffice, as we hear from Ibn al- ‘Adim, in the following excerpt of his chapter about sanctuaries in Aleppo and its surroundings: “In the lands of Aral, a village on Jabal Sam‘an… there is a sanctuary… known as Mashhad al-Rajam, which people visit, and thereby

place (Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1:468). Another tradition, apparently accepted by Jews and Mus- lims in the beginning of the thirteenth century, located the tomb near Tiberias (E. Reiner, “From Joshua to Jesus: The Transformation of a Biblical Story to a Local Myth,” in Sharing the Sacred, ed. A. Kofsky, G.G. Stroumza (Jerusalem, 1998), 232 n. 21). 100 Yaqut, Mu‘jam, 2:587-597. 101 Yaqut, Mu‘jam, 1:454, 522. 102 Here I rely heavily on the ideas of Elchanan Reiner regarding medieval Galileen Jewish traditions (Reiner, “Joshua to Jesus,” 240-241). 103 M. Kister, “Sanctity, Joint and Divided: On Holy Places in the Islamic Tradition,” JSAI 20 (1996): 18-65.

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benefit from its baraka. There is a cellar there, and it is said that one of the prophets, who was stoned by his people, [hid] in that cellar. I heard that from my father.”104 Here, the “numinous potency” (in Tamari’s words), or the baraka (in an Arabic word) of the dead prophet, whoever he was, may have sufficed in the eyes of the believers, and a narrative explaining his precise as- sociation with the holy place was superfluous for them. Just as was a narrative explaining the precise association of the festival of khamis al-ruzz celebrated in northern Syria, to the Hijazi poet and monotheist Quss b. Sa‘ida. Yet, on the whole, the evidence about the evolution of traditions converges nicely with the evidence about the evolution of constructions – as drawn from twelfth-thirteenth century historical writings – and does suggest parallel tex- tual and architectural developments.105

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSIONS

In light of the evidence presented above, in Zangid and Ayyubid Syria the initiatives to sanctify ancient tombs and relics and make them into pilgrimage sites initially came from laymen of various social groups, Sunnis and Shi‘is. Rulers and members of the ruling elite often financed the construction and re- construction of sanctuaries, and initiated the translation of relics and their proper housing in Syrian centers. Once a sanctuary was established, local arti- sans and farmers contributed labor, visitors donated goods, and ascetic men and women who took residence at the sanctuary offered services to pilgrims. Sites that had acquired popularity were enlarged and supplied with improved facilities, to further enhance their reputation. The cult at those sanctuaries seems to have been inclusive of all social classes, incorporating Muslims of relatively marginal groups alongside mem- bers of the military elite and ‘ulama’. The latter did not refrain from ziyarat. As we have seen, some ‘ulama’ even recorded their experiences in autobio- graphical remarks scattered in various literary works. They do not express ob- jection to the visitation of graves as such. The well-know antagonism of some later scholars towards saint-worship does not characterize the Ayyubid pe- riod.106 The political backdrop – primarily the Crusades and the Muslim counter- Crusade – may explain the intensification of the cult of holy sites in the whole

104 Ibn al-‘Adim, Bughya, 1: 465. 105 As established in two of Shmuel Tamari’s works: “The Nabi Yunus Masjid in ÎalÌul (Judea),” Annali dell’Instituto Universitario Orientale, 44 (1984): 373-397; and idem, “Ara- bization.” 106 This is also Taylor’s impression regarding Egyptian scholars of the Mamluk period (Taylor, In the Vicinity, 211) and Meri’s, who presents the various stages of the debate, from the ninth to the fourteenth century (Meri, The Cult, 126-139).

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region, as have suggested several historians. Emmanuel Sivan eloquently ar- gues for the influence of the crusades upon the reinforcement of the sanctity of Jerusalem in Islamic thought and politics.107 Joseph Sadan suggests that pil- grimage to Prophets’ graves in central Syria thrived because those in Palestine were hard to access during the Crusading period.108 Jean-Michel Mouton points to the translation of relics endangered by the approaching Franks to a safe haven in adjacent Muslim territory, and to its byproduct – new sites for pilgrimage.109 Other scholars stress the competition between Sunnis and Shi‘is, suggesting that the Fa†imid cult of ‘Alid saints was the source of inspiration and model for imitation for the later Sunni cult. Christopher Taylor, who disagrees with this theory convincingly, in my opinion, suggests that the prime motivation behind the ‘Alid cult of saints in Fa†imid Egypt was “to guard against their own as- similation to the overwhelmingly Sunni environment around them.”110 It is beyond the scope of this paper to delve on the relationship between Sunnis and Shi‘is in the Fa†imid and Ayyubid periods, but obviously, we must seek for another explanation for the involvement of Sunni rulers in the ‘Alid cult in Syria. Had those Sunni rulers primarily meant to assert the “rights” of Sunnis to ahl al-bayt, or rather to co-opt local Shi‘is and promote peaceful co-exist- ence between the two groups?111 The first suggestion seems more in line with Nur al-Din’s policy in Aleppo, where during most of his rule, sectarian tension was rife.112 The antagonism of Sunnis towards Shi‘is reappears in our sources a propos claims to sacred space in thirteenth-century Damascus. Sunnis called for the destruction of a shrine Shi‘is had erected at Bab Jayrun (one of the gates of Damascus), in honor of “a Malika from the progeny of ‘Ali b. Abi ™alib.” The historians who present the case deny the authenticity of Shi‘i claim, commenting angrily on the inconvenience caused at the narrow gate.113 The role of Sunni-Shi‘i strife as an instigator to the creation of sanctuaries and cults in medieval Syria needs further study. Presently, I would like to stress some other features of twelfth-thirteenth century Islam and Muslim-Syrian society. First and foremost – the intensely

107 E. Sivan, “Le Caractère sacré de Jérusalem au XIIe-XIIIe siécles,” SI 51 (1967):149-182; idem, “The Beginnings of the Fa∂a’il al-Quds Literature,” IOS 1 (1971): 263-272. 108 Sadan, “Le tombeau,” 71-72. 109 Mouton, “reliques,” 247. 110 Taylor, “The Shi‘i Role,” 1-4, 8. 111 As Ibn al-‘Adim seems to suggest (Ibn al-‘Adim, Zubdat al-Îalab fi Ta'rikh Îalab, ed. al-Dahhan (Damascus, 1954, 1968), 2:214; idem, Bughya, 1:411-12). 112 Shortly after the renovation of mashhad MuÌassin he introduced a succession of restrictive measures against the Shi‘is of Aleppo, such as the conversion of Shi‘i mosques into Sunni madaris and the prohibition of the Shi‘i adhan (H.M. Khayat, “The Si‘ite Rebellions in Aleppo in the 6th A.H./12th A.D. Century,” RSO 46 (1971): 167-195). See also Raby, “Nur al-Din,” 297- 300. 113 See Meri, The Cult, 45-46.

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religious climate of the Zangid and Ayyubid period, which had its roots in the iÌya’ al-sunna (revivification of the Sunna) movement, activated in Baghdad several decades prior to the Crusades.114 Under the explicit banner of iÌya’ al- sunna, hundreds of new mosques, and sufi lodges were established in Syria at that period, not only in the main cities, but also in provincial towns and even in villages. Sultans, local rulers and members of the military and ci- vilian elites, and plebeian citizens took part in endowing this building- boom.115 In urban centers large crowds convened weekly for the recitation of Qur’an and Ìadith, for the public reading of various religious texts, and for ecstatic assemblies of dhikr and exhortation (majalis al-wa‘Â).116 Ascetics, as well as full-fledged sufi shaykhs, acquired dominant roles in religious life, fully legitimized in religious doctrine. The halo of sanctity which had accom- panied them in life, was widely considered unmarred by death and burial, and continued to draw the devout.117 It is also against this backdrop that I wish to explain the rising popularity of grave visitation and pilgrimage to holy sites. As the demand grew, new sanctuaries were established: some on sites appro- priated (or partly appropriated) from the Christian and Jewish map of holy places, some on newly discovered tombs and relics of old, some on the tombs of recent ‘ulama’ and holy men. New narratives that tie together venerated fig- ures and specific geographical locations within the framework of Islamic tradi- tion, some of them attributed to visionary dreams, were propagated. Strikingly, many of these new or renovated sites emerged in provincial towns and rural areas, spreading, as it were, the centuries-old Islamic sanctity of al-Sham from its grand traditional loci (Jerusalem, Damascus, Hebron, and a number of other sites), to lesser settlements and faraway mountains. There, ziyarat, the routine upkeep of sanctuaries and the establishment of new destinies for pilgrims served for the expression of lay piety in that “pious age”; venues for those men and women, commoners and members of marginal social groups, who could not well express themselves in the more official institutions of learning and liturgy. What came, primarily, I think, “from below” was quickly matched “from above,” to become a widespread and inclusive trait of reli- gious life in Zangid and Ayyubid Syria.

114 See J. Berkey, The Formation of Islam (Cambridge, 2003), 189-202; Y. Tabbaa, The Transformation of Islamic Art during the Sunni Revival (University of Washington Press, 2001), 18-26. 115 See Talmon-Heller, “Religion in the Public Sphere: Rulers, Scholars and Commoners in Syria under Zangid and Ayyubid Rule (1150-1260),” in: The Public Sphere in Muslim Societies, ed. M. Hoexter, S.N. Eisenstadt and N. Levtzion (Albany, NY, 2002), 49-64. 116 See my “Islamic Preaching in Syria during the Counter-Crusade (12th-13th centuries),” forthcoming in Crusades-sonderheft volume on the history of crusades and the latin East in honor of Prof. B.Z. Kedr, ed. R. Ellenblum and I. Shagrir. 117 Goldziher, Muslim Studies, 336-341; Berkey, The Formation, 240-243, 249-251.

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