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Persian Sufism in Its Historical Perspective

Author(s): Abdol-Hosein Zarrinkoob

Source: Iranian Studies , Summer - Autumn, 1970, Vol. 3, No. 3/4, Persian Sufism in Its Historical Perspective (Summer - Autumn, 1970), pp. 139-220

Published by: Taylor & Francis, Ltd. on behalf of International Society of Iranian Studies

Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/4310072

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*g tZarrmfZo6 PREFACE

The eight sections of the present essay are drawn from the lectures I delivered at Princeton University and at the University of California, Los Angeles, in 1969-1970. Because of the diverse nature of the audience I did not go into the details that would be necessary in a new approach to a traditional problem. Instead, my principal aim was to present a brief sketch of the contents of what may be called Persian mysticism, while showing at the same time the remarkable role that this variety of Islamic mysticism has played in the cultural development of Persia.

The origins of Sufism--as Islamic mysticism is generally called--presents a very controversial problem indeed, but that Persia was the cradle of early Sufism is beyond doubt. Moreover, if mysticism is taken to be--as it usually is--an expression of man's belief in direct connection with the godhead, the well-known ethical concepts of the Zoroastrians--for whom every particular deed of daily life, good or bad, is the joint product of man and either

the principle of Good or of Evil--might also be considered as uncon- scious expressions of a pantheistic type of mysticism. Thus, while a series of social, religious, and political interactions occurring in the late Sasanian period prepared Zoroastrian minds for a new faith introduced by the Muslim conquest of Persia, the converted Zoroastrians of the early Islamic period were able to retain some of their former ethical tenets in the Sufi philosophy.

Sufi philosophy found a most hospitable soil in the domain of Persian poetry. The Persian poetry of classical times was so

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extensively influenced by Sufi philosophy that almost every great lyric poet of that period was a Sufi, as nearly every great Sufi of the time was a poet. Indeed, the influence of Sufism on Persian poetry was so considerable that if the Sufi poets had not appeared on the literary stage, Persian literature would have remained for

long centuries no more than a court literature limited to a panegy- ric character. It was in the works of Sang'i, cAttar, and RUrl that the oppressed classes were finally given a voice in literature, and social injustice, on which hardly a word could be uttered by a court-poet, was sharply criticized in the bons mots of the "wise fools" (dIvanigan-i agil), who figured as heroes in a number of the tales of the Sufi poets.

The role of Sufi orders in the development of social ethics was by no means of lesser importance. Attempts at reform were also undertaken by various groups of Sufis. Although these were of no single character, the socio-political movements of the Sarabadarls and the Safavids represent outstanding examples. Finally, the well- known system of Persian chivalry, called javanmardi, and its tradi- tional rules of athleticism have remarkable links with the Sufi tra- dition.

Such a diverse set of problems must be treated in any out- line of Persian mysticism, no matter how brief. Unfortunately, however, lack of time did not permit me to discuss a number of questions that are of importance in the development of Persian Suf- ism. Although there exists a considerable number of Western contri- butions on the Sufi heritage of Persia, this short essay may be of interest in that it offers, at least on certain particular questions, a Persian point of view.

Abdol-Hosein Zarrinkoob Los Angeles

June 1970

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Opinions differ on the origin of Islamic mysticism, but that

Persia was one of its earliest cradles cannot be questioned. At the

time of the emergence of Islam in the Near East, Mesopotamia and Khurasan were the two windows through which the fresh air of ideas

could penetrate the fenced enclosure that was the Sasanian Empire-- Hellenistic ideas and Semitic religions through northern Mesopotamia,

and Indian and Chinese influences through Khurasan.

In the decades immediately before the Muslim Arabs appeared

at the gates of the Sasanian Kingdom, Greek Neo-Platonists, banished

from the Byzantine Empire in 529 A.D., had found refuge in the Sas- anian Court, for the famous Medical Academy of Jundlshapiir had been for a considerable time an active center for the medical sciences--

including those of the Hellenistic tradition. The Medical Academy was probably founded in the late third or fourth century of the

Christian era, and from the fifth century unto early Islamic times,

it served as a refuge for the Nestorians driven from Edessa in 489 A.D.

Elements of the Chinese and Indian cultures--including a few Indian books and elements of Chinese Buddhism--had also crossed the eastern and northern frontiers of Khurasan in early Sasanian times. The origin of the story of Barlaam, introduced at that time, may be found in such eastern sources. The state religion of the Sasanian Empire, especially toward its final days, was Zoroastrianism, some- times in Zurvanite form. Zurvanism tended to be monotheistic and, despite its temporary predominance in the third century, was gener- ally regarded as a heresy by orthodox Zoroastrian priests. Commun- ities of Jews and Christians enjoyed religious freedom, but Chris- tianity was not strong enough at that time to replace Zoroastrian- ism, even if Islam had not appeared there.

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Zoroastrian priests were cruelly zealous about persecuting heretics and putting down what they called "bad-faith" or heretical tendencies. The execution of Mani and the persecution of the fol- lowers of Mazdak for which the Sasanian government has often been accused, comprise only a part of these priests' anti-heretical ac- tivities. A well-known high priest of early Sasanian times, Mobad Kartir, has described his own anti-heretical exploits in a famous inscription on the so-called Kaa'ba of Zoroaster, near Persepolis.1 With much joy and pride, this high priest of the early Sasanians relates in this Pahlavi inscription how he has succeeded in expel- ling Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, and Brahman monks, together with other non-Iranians of "bad-faith," from within the Empire.

Nevertheless, there was a turmoil in the consciences of some of the elite concerning religious problems. The case of Salman-i Farsi may be considered illustrative of this religious crisis. This holy man, in whom early mystics of Persia later found a forerunner of Sufism, was a Persian Zoroastrian of the late Sasanian period. According to the Islamic legend, the quest for a new faith led this Zoroastrian youth to adopt Christianity, took him later to Syria and then to Medina, where he became a fervent Muslim and a faithful companion to Muhammad.

The same religious crisis may have affected the conscience of a physician of King Anushiravan named Burzoe, who had perhaps been influenced by exposure to Manichean or Buddhist thought. He has described his own religious crisis and the perplexity of his generation concerning religious matters in a preliminary chapter of his Pahlavi translation of the Indian fables of Bidpay.

Although Burzoe is supposed to have been a vizier to the Sasanian King and Salmin a wandering monk, and though Salman was a companion of Muhammad and the physician Burzoe a contemporary of Muhammad's father, both nevertheless are believed to have lived in the same religious milieu and to have undergone nearly the same crisis of conscience. In the few decades just prior to the advent of Islam, others like them became receptive to Christian teachings in Mesopotamia, and to Buddhist practices in Khurasan.

The greater part of Mesopotamia had not only been the site of the Persian metropolis of Ctesiphon, over several centuries in pre-Islamic times, but also the arena of some of the most impor- tant political and social events in Persian history. Even the modern name of the area, Iraq, is probably a loan word from the Pahlavi Erag, meaning low-land or south-land. It corresponded to

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the Sasanian province of Suristan, which was considered the heart of Eranshahr (dil-i Iranshahr). While this western portion of the Sasanian Empire was influenced by the Semitic and Greek worlds, its eastern sector, the larger satrapy of Khurasan, was a conjunc- tion of Chinese, Indian, and Iranian cultures. Toward the end of the Sasanian Empire, the heart of Eranshahr was undergoing a re- ligious and intellectual crisis. Controversial theological works by Zoroastrian priests such as the Denkart and gkand Gumanik ViYar, even though belonging to later periods, clearly reveal the serious- ness of the religious turmoil within the Zoroastrian community in late Sasanian times. Faced with the turmoil and disorder of the late Sasanian period, the Zoroastrian hierarchy was in a perpetual struggle against all that was felt to be "bad-faith" or of a her- etical tendency.

While Zoroastrianism and Christianity were engaged in a latent struggle for supremacy, Manichaeism, which had been expelled as a dangerous heresy from Persia proper, found refuge in Egypt and Transoxania. As a matter of fact, the spread of Manichaeism in Transoxania was such that in 732 A.D. the edict of a Chinese emper- or, Huan-Tsung, considered "the teaching of Lord Mani" as "the in- ternal religion of western Barbars," which were none other than the Iranians of Transoxania.2

Some kind of mysticism, of course, could be found in most of the religions then in vogue in the Persian world. Generally speaking, mysticism is an attempt to attain direct and personal communication with the godhead. Therefore, mystical experience is perhaps as old as humanity and is not confined to any race or re- ligion. If this definition of mysticism can be accepted--and it seems as good a starting point as any--then one would be justified in finding in the Central Asian shamans the forerunners of Chris- tian and Muslim mystics.

Until recent times, among some inhabitants of northeast Asia the shaman was a type of medicine-man, combining certain functions of priest and doctor, who was believed to have the authority to em- ploy or persuade the spirits to serve his purposes, for instance, to leave the body of a sick man. The ceremonies and rituals of these medicine-men as described by W. Radloff3 in the late nine- teenth century, represent the painful endeavor of the shaman to communicate with the godhead. The ecstatic trances of the shaman, produced by means of religious dances, reveal a rough kind of mys- tical experience. It is no wonder then that the shaman occurs so

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often in Persian Sufi and even profane literature as an example of a fervent worshipper in non-Muslim lands with whom Persian poets may have been acquainted.4

The mystery of Mithra offers one of the most ancient

examples of a mystical religious cult of Iran. Though some scho- lars have refused to identify the Iranian Mithra with the Mithra that is depicted in the mystery, the name itself is strongly sug- gestive of its Iranian origin. The seven grades through which the initiate in this cult had to pass symbolized the passage of his soul through the seven heavens to the abode of Light--appar- ently a forestate of mystical union with the Divine. Mithraism

is believed to have some influence on the early Christianity, to

which it later became the most popular rival in the Roman World.

While it is true that Zoroaster himself cannot reasonably be

viewed as the tgpe of mystical shaman that H.S. Nyberg5 has sought to find in him, his teachings nevertheless do not lack mystical elements. Zoroaster's central theme was the dualism of good and evil, the dualism of light and dark. According to his teachings, man is free to choose between good and evil in the battle between

these two powers in the present world; if he chooses the good, his good work will enlarge and strengthen the realm of good, and vice

versa. Zoroastrianism maintains that Ahriman, the God of Darkness, and Ormazd, the God of Light, are competing for the control of the world, and man's free will consists of his having the option of helping the one or the other. The dualistic distinction that Zoro-

aster made between the sources of good and evil is extended by Mani to hold between the natural and the supernatural, and between the soul and the body.

Although this dualism is perhaps not rationally justified, yet the distinctions that we make between good and bad, intelli-

gence and matter, and the like seem to demand an explanation that cannot be given by strict monism. In fact, religious dualism of- ten emerges as an answer to the problem of evil in a belief system that assumes one good and omnipotent God; it is an attempt to an- swer the question as to why everything in the world does not go according to the will of this creator and ruler.7

Zoroaster's trysticism is inherent in his view of the relation- ship with Ormazd and is based on personal endeavor against the devil. The essence of his teachings, in which man's good work is considered his contribution to the construction of a better world, is a degree

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of personal communication with the godhead. It is not, however,

for this particular reason that some scholars of past generations have sought to find the origin of Muslim Sufism in Zoroastrianism. Although Zoroastrianism refuses to consider the soul apart from

the body, or the external apart from the temporal, it nevertheless maintains that existence begins as a duality and ends in a unity,8 and this is almost the same philosophical conclusion that the Muslim

mystic poet cAttar (d. 1220) reaches in his Parliament of Birds (Mantiq al-7ayr).

The Journey into heaven and hell depicted so differently by al-MacarrI, Sana'i, and Dante may have its oldest pattern in a sim- ilar description by a Zoroastrian priest, Ardly Wlraz Namag. The very concept of paradise and hell set forth in the vast Zoroastrian literature is in itself essentially mystical. The final passage of the righteous soul to the sublime abode of good, the vision of God which is the greatest joy of heaven, is a real mystical realization in Zoroastrianism.

Ardiy Viraf, whose journey into the realms of heaven and hell has been described in the Pahlavi book bearing his name, is to be regarded as the type of Zoroastrian holy man-mystic. His

emergence into the presence of the All Highest, as the end of his

journey, is a mystical experience, which he reports thus: "When Ormazd spoke in his manner, he said, 'I was astonished; for I saw a light, but no body did I see. A voice I heard, and I knew that this was Ormazd."'9 This reminds one of the description of the ascension of the Msulim B3yazid of Bistam.

A gnostic component in Manichaeism gives this kind of Per- sian dualism a more visible mark of mysticism. The gnosticism of

the early Christian centuries, whlich was by no means a single, or- ganized movement but a syncretism of kindred tendencies emanating from different sources, considered the world of matter, including man's body, the creation of an evil deity; it sought the deliver- ance of the soul by religious and mystical rites and expected its realization through the coming of a special emissary of light.

Mani, the prophet of Manichaeism, presented himself as this emissary of light.10 His teachings survived him and spread with amazing rapidity westward and eastward in the civilized world. Manichaeism, in whose origins scholars like H.C. Puech have found mystical gnosis rather than theological knowledge, expresses a kind of dualistic mysticism, based on a secret gnosis that is supposed to lead to the rescue of light from darkness--the final salavation.11 As a matter of fact, gnosticism is supposed to have arisen out of

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the debate over the question of evil: when the gnostic man finds his world surrounded by evil, he feels himself to be alien and a prisoner in such a world; he thus feels a nostalgia for a world of light and revolts against the dark one.

For the Manichaean, the material principle and everytning that emanates from it is considered essentially evil. The soul, being a fragment of the godhead, a spark of divine fire, is im- prisoned in the body, and its rescue is to be attained by gnosis, which is co-natural with the soul to the point of identity. Thus, Manichaeism, being a gnostic type of religion, may be defined as

a mysticism of transformation, in which knowledge brings immediate

and definitive liberation of rebirth into light.12 Like other kinds of gnosis, the gnosis that was supposed to underlie Manichean teachings consisted of a knowledge that was not a mental acquisi- tion arrived at through the exercise of observation and reason so much as mystical enlightemnent received by the supernatural process of revelation. This feature of Manichaeism is to be seen in those Manichaean literary works that have been preserved. In the Mani- chaean hymn-cycles in Parthian, for example, there sometimes runs a strong mystical theme.13 The crude ascetism of this "Apostle of Light" considered man's soul to be imprisoned by his body, to be finally rescued in death.

One is tempted to compare this teaching of Mani with what the Muslim Suf is call annihilation. The same concept is also of great importance in the teachings of Buddha. In fact, what Mani-

chaeism had to struggle against in Transoxania and eastern Khurasan at that time was the continuous advance of the teachings of Buddha, the spread of which into Khurasan probably dates from pre-Sasanian times. An early Sasanian governor of this province, Peroz, who was a son of Ardashir Papakan, the founder of the Sasanian dynastry, ap- parently deemed it necessary to call himself a Mazda worshipper and a Buddhist at the same time.14

Nevertheless by the end of the Sasanian period, when a Chi- nese pilgrinm, Hsuan Tsang (602-664 A.D.), was visiting the area, the religion of Buddha had been to some extent driven from the re- gion of the North Oxus to the south.15 Even in early Islamic times

there was a market in Bukhara, fge Bizar-i Makh, where idols rep- resenting the Buddha were sold. The Persian word but, indicating idol in general, probably finds its origin in this context. More- over, the glittering Balkh, the Balkh-i Bamik, on the south side of the Oxus remained a holy place for Buddhist pilgrims of the east for a long time.

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The word Buddh or Buddha as used by such Muslim writers as al-Biruni, MasCudi, and al-Shahrist5nT, means the founder of Bud- dhism, the Sakyamnuni, who was born about 560 B.C. in the foothills of the Himalayas, and preached the so-called Nirvana as the way of deliverance (mukshi).

Al-Shahristanl's description of Budis'ya,17 the rank of the men who seek the path of truth, as attained by, for example, pat- ience, renunciation of the world, and abstention from wordly de- sires, reminds us of what, at a later time, the Sufis considered ascetic ideals. Thus, the ascetic life, intuitive gnosis, and ec- static experiences so essential in Sufism were already known, more or less, in pre-Islamic Persia.

Moreover, esoteric interpretation of revelation, so highly appreciated by the Muslim Sufis, also had a parallel in pre-Islamic Persia.18 Certain features of the Muslim use of allegorical inter- pretation may be traced to the influence of Philo-Judaeus (ca. 20 B.C. - 50 A.D.) and other scholars of Alexandria.19

This method of Qur'anic exegesis was viewed with abhorrence by Islamic orthodoxy, and considered dangerous and tending toward zandaqa or heresy. This term was widely used in Muslim criminal law to describe the heretic whose teaching was potentially danger- ous to the state, and was borrowed in Iraq from the vocabulary of the Sasanian administration, and is thought to derive from the Sasanian ZandIk, which referred to those who based their teaching on the Zand, the commentaries on the Avesta, rather than on the Avesta itself.20 What is of interest to us here is that mystical elements of pure contemplation have been discerned in the teaching of some of the pre-Islamic ZandlksI21

Thus, the world of pre-Islamic Persia offered a variety of religions and beliefs, all of which contained elements of mystical experience. Into this world of social disorder, religious crisis and mystical aspiration, Islam forced its way, delivering the final blow to the civilizations of the ancient Near East and bearing fresh ideas and new aspirations to the world. When Persia was con- quered by the Arabs, Zoroastrianism, the religion of the state, was defeated along with the state itself. However, it was not till two centuries later that most of Persia became converted to Islam.

The new religion preached by Muhammad urged man's absolute submission to God's will, the expression of which was believed to be contained in the Qur'an. This God was unique and close at hand:

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"We have created man and we know what his soul whispers within him, for we are nearer to him than his jugular vein." (Qur'an, 50:15). Although, according to some non-Suf i interpreters, this verse re- fers to Allah's knowledge of man, rather than the latter's union with him, it has been often mystically interpreted as an allusion to man's union with God. The human soul through which God had granted life and intelligence to man was considered in the Qur'an as something mysterious, something noble and divine. From a psy- chological point of view, this soul was seen as the "commanding soul" (al-nafs al-'amm5rah) (12:53), i.e., commanding the evil and physical desires, while from the ethical standpoint it was called the "blaming soul" (al-nafs al-lawwEmah) (75:2), corresponding to the conscience morale. But when viewed from the purely mystical standpoint, it was called the "tranquil soul" (al-nafs al-mutma- 'innah) (89.9:27), ready to join its Lord. This is the Qur'anic basis of the return to God in which Muslim mystics have sought justifica- tion for their teachings.

Islam laid great stress on the divine unity and on man's de- pendence on God. It urged penitence on the sceptical and Epicurean aristocracy of Mecca and threatened them with the coming of divine wrath and the tortures of hell. In such a system of theocentric

cosmology, Allah was considered as the reality, al-haqq--a word which was later used in Sufi terminology and which played an im- portant role in the persecution of the martyred lallTj. This word was originally used in the Qur'anic text to mean fixed reality, and it was later that pantheistic tendencies ascribed absolute reality to it. A rather pantheistic interpretation was made also of the following passage in the Qur'an: "Allah's are the East and the West; wherever ye turn, there is the face of Allah." (2:115). This, together with several other passages of the Qur'an, reveal the mys- tical character some critics of past generations have failed to recognize in Islam.22

Absolute devotion to God, as preached by Muhammad, demanded that man should honor and serve solely God, and required selfless- ness in connection with man's relation to God.23 This mystical selflessness has found an especial expression in the Muslim notion of the obligatory daily prayer or salat, one of the five pillars of faith in Islam. The humble attitude with which Muslim daily prayer is performed reveals the strange feeling that the believer may experience in finding himself in the presence of his Creator.24 It may be considered as a real, though formal, experience of man's direct communication with the Deity. In fact, there is a divine tradition which divides the Ualat between man and God, as though

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it were two parts of a dialogue.25 That is why the ialat has often been styled the ascension of the believer in God's presence.

Allah, of whom Muhammad was but a servant and messanger,

was not just an omnipotent deity to be feared but also a compassion- ate one. Accordingly, Muhammad's message was not only a message of fear but a gospel of hope as well.26 Nevertheless, the vision of the final destruction of the world, together with the coming judg- ment of Allah on mankind on the Day of Resurrection haunted the minds of the early Muslims of Mecca and did not leave them even during their warlike days in Medina.

The sharp contrast generally drawn between the Prophet's life in his Meccan and Medinan periods is not historically justi- fied, even though the post-emigration situation contained problems that required much flexibility and diplomatic talent. This did not, however, turn him away from the passionate endeavor begun in Mecca to preach his religious ideals. Even the conception of the negation of the world was not erased from his mind by the spoils of war that came to him in Medina. The joys and blessings of paradise being the main goal of the ordinary Muslim, fear of hell and aspirations toward paradise remained the leading conceptions of the community with regard to Allah.

Monastic life, to which there is but one brief reference in the Qur'an (57:27), was by no means denigrated in early Islam. As a matter of fact, the oft-cited tradition of "no monasticism in Islam" does not occur in canonical collections and seems to have been introduced in later times.27 Although Muhammad did not praise extreme monasticism, neither did he criticize it. That the epithet "monk" (rahib) was given in early Islamic times to various pious individuals reveals that there was nothing odious about it at that time.28 The fear of God, for which there is some justification in the revelation encouraged some of the Prophet's companions to prac- tice strict ascetism.

It should be borne in mind that Muhammad's entire life was regarded by his disciples and companions as the unexcelled model of purity and piety, so that even Muslim warriors of later times who were fighting to carry this new message throughout the world endeavored to follow and imitate his pious deeds in their daily life. When the unexpected conquest of Syria, Egypt, and Persia-- all yielding a vast amount of rich spoils of war--turned some spoil-hunters of Jihiliyah-minded Arabs toward the search for worldly pleasures, pious followers of the Prophet did not hesitate to protest. A result of this protest was the.so-called Great

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Mutiny, which ended in the overthrow and assassination of the

third caliph and led to the notorious conflict between Ali and

Mucawiyah, and eventually gave rise to terrible civil wars, sec-

tarianism, and the rise of the Persian sectors of Iraq and the Shicites of Khurasan against the Umayyads. During all these epi- sodes, faithful believers remained in protest, and the ever- increasing tendency toward non-conformism led by prominent ascetics

was one manifestation of this protest. Moreover, Sufism appeared as a protest against a disturbed society, its traditionalism and its intellectualism.

The death of Muhammad in 632 A.D. left his community face

to face with problems of various kinds, the first and most funda- mental being the question of the succession and the nature of the

social and religious leadership of the Muslim world. Although the emergence of a number of more crucial events caused this problem

to be neglected for a while, the question of succession later re-

sulted in divisions within the Islamic world that led to a series of civil wars. One faction, the Shicites, who were partisans of Ali, the son-in-law of Muhammad, took serious issue with the

orthodox position that considered the legitimacy of the elections

of the first three caliphs as unquestionable. There were also the Kharijites who opposed both Ali and his Syrian rival.

The civil wars, in which these politico-religious opposition parties were all involved, created new difficulties with each of these parties claiming to be the only true Muslims and considering

others unbelievers. Moreover, all viewed the ruling Umayyad cal- iphs, if not as godless, at least as usurpers and unqualified rul- ers. That these rulers did not hesitate to violate certain Islamic

rules was beyond question; the question was whether the committing of such mortal sins excluded them from the Islamic community.

The Kharijites maintained that a Muslim who committed a mor-

tal sin must be excluded from Islam, and that even an Imam, if guilty of a mortal sin, ceased to be a Muslim and must be ousted. The opposite view was held by the Murji'ites who contended that mortal sin did not exclude a Muslim from his faith, and that an imam, even if guilty of mortal sin, did not cease to be a Muslim. As a matter of fact, the Murji'ites found their name ("postponers")

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in their argument that judgment on the Umayyads and on all sinners professing the Islamic faith should be postponed to the life here- after and to God. Thus the Murji'ites declined to pass judgment on who was entitled to salvation as a good Muslim and thereby, in effect, gave support to the Umayyads, whom they probably recognized as no more than the de facto rulers of the Muslim community.

This compromising school of Murji'ites even maintained that, in the well-known Ali-Muciwiyah conflict, both sides were right, and that there was no inconsistency in imagining that two caliphs might le at the same time in different parts of the Muslim world. On the question of caliphs and sinners, the Shicites shared the view of the Murji'ites that the commission of mortal sins did not exclude a Muslim from his community; but this view did not prevent them from judging and condemning the Umayyads as godless rulers with heathen tendencies.

Thus no possible connection can be made between the Murji- 'ites and the Shicites, even though they shared more than one point in their creeds; and the position of Laoust, for example, that the

Murji'ites may have had connections with Muhammad al-ljanafiyah, a son of Ali cannot be historically justified.3 The son of Ali was the patron of one of the most ancient schools of Shicism, which in- evitably played a considerable part in the fall of the Umayyads.

The Shicites held--and this was the primary distinction be- tween them and other Islamic sects--that the office of imam was by no means something that God would leave to men's choice, but that divine decree would determine who would become Muhammad's suc- cessor as the legal imam. This divinely appointed imam could not be Abu Bakr, whom men had recognized as the first caliph at the death of Muhammad but, rather, the more qualified Ali, the Prophet's cousin and son-in-law, who later was elected the fourth caliph. The Shicites also believed in the infallibility of imams in their pro- nouncements on faith and morals. Thus, the Shicite imam was be- lieved to be guided by God in all his acts.

Among other theological problems wrestled with in Murji'ite- Kharijite circles, the most controversial was the question of free will versus predestination. In this connection, opposite positions were taken, in particular by the Jabarite and Qadarite schools. The Qadarites believed in man's free will, and for this reason, despite the Christian elements in the views of some of their fore-runners, they were looked on by orthodox Muslims as being tied to Zoroastrian beliefs. That they considered man as creator of his own actions was

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interpreted as a new expression of Zoroastrian dualism. The oppo-

site view, held by the Jabarite school, denied man's freedom of will and made nearly no distinction in this connection between man and inanimate nature, viewing man's acts as subordinate to the com- pulsion of God.

Passages relating to both free will and predestination are

to be found in the Qur'an but by no means does their content per- mit one to agree with Hubert Grimme and Golziher that the passages

dealing with free will and responsibility may belong to the irres-

ponsible period of Muhammad's life in Mecca, whereas during the period in Medin31 his revelations contained only the concept of predestination. The point is that the position of the Qur'an concerning this problem was more ethical than theological in nature.

As a matter of fact, the theological aspect of the problem was raised outside the Mecca and Medina experiences of the Mluslims, perhaps primarily in Iraq and Khurasan, where the problem had been

pondered long before the advent of Islam. The new discussion pro-

bably represented a revival of the ancient problem of Zurvanite Zoroastrian scholasticism. The fact that, in accordance with a

pseudo-prophetic tradition, the Qadarites have been called the Magians of the Muslim community may suggest their connection with

pre-Islamic Persia. There is no wonder then that an early ascetic

with Sufi inclinations, al-Hkarith al-Muhasibi, refused to accept his inheritance from his father, who professed Qadarite ideas. As Islam forbade members of different religions to inherit from one another, this saintly youth elected to live his life in poverty

rather than accept his inheritance from a Qadarite father.

The first Muslim to hold the position of the Jabarites is

said to have been Jahm b. Safwan, a Persian proselyte of late Um-

ayyad times who rose in rebellion against Arab rule and was killed circa 764 A.D. in Khurasan.32 The doctrine of free will was first taught by a certain Macbad al-Juhanl, who was probably a disciple of the well-knowm Uasan al-BasrT. Moreover, the claim that Hasan-- a supposed forerunner of Sufism--may himself have held this stand is probably justifiable, but he was not a fervent preacher of this doctrine.3

The Qadarites formed a kind of politico-religious party that is supposed even to have played a part--though limited--in some of the dynastic affairs of the Umayyads.34 During the period of reli- gious and social chaos when Umayyad rule was being replaced by the Abbasid caliphate, Muslim society witnessed the growth of a kind of

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theosophical school which later developed into the real mystical dimension of Islam--Sufism. This theosophical movement represented in its early days a reaction against theological speculations as well as against strict traditionalism. As a matter of fact, tra- ditionalism and rationalism had been in opposition and now both were in decline. Concerning articles of belief, ordinances of wor- ship and other religious matters, the prophetic tradition was re- garded with only slightly less reverence than the Qur'an, and was always considered the most reliable authority after it. But the Muctazilites, who rejected anthropomorphic tendencies in Islamic revelation and tradition, stressed that everything in tradition and revelation must be interpreted in accord with reason. This, indeed, had considerable effect in shattering some of the firm emphasis or- thodox Muslims laid on tradition.

Nevertheless, when the Ashcarites began their campaign against Muctazilism, doubts were cast on the value and limits of reason. The doctors of the Ashcarite school went so far as to con- sider the law of causality as non-applicable to the process of cre- ation, so that even for what the rationalists used to call the Law of Nature, they substituted the notion of the so-called Divine Habit. It was not a law, they maintained, but simply the habit laid on nature by God, that makes certain things follow others. Thus, the predominance of Ashcarism was to some extent a factor in the decline of reason in religious domains.

With neither tradition nor reason to inspire great confi- dence, there remained, in the search for religious certitude, only the so-called inner light, of which the Sufis were fervent advo- cates. These were pious people who were unable to satisfy their religious needs within the traditional and intellectual Muslim or- thodoxies. To them, traditional services and rituals only competed with the search for paradise as reward; the exoteric sciences of the jurists and thelogians were nothing but the normal path to pres- tige and wealth--the mere ar0 of building the worldly stable as Jalal al-Din Rumi would say. Traces of these early Islamic sects. however, can be found in the Sufi heritage. The well-known reli- gious liberalism of the Sufis reminds us, for instance, of the Mur- ji'ite willingness to postpone judgment. The idea of trust in God, on which early Sufis laid so much stress, seems also to bear the Jabarite imprint. Similarly, the incarnation theories preached by some early Sufis were probably borrowed from the extremist Shicites. Nevertheless, their firm belief that the ways leading to God are as numerous as human souls did not allow them to follow those sects

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and individuals who claimed that the slightest deviation from tra- ditional Islam led to heresy. Indeed they found truth, in greater or lesser measure, in all creeds and faiths.

Among the earliest individuals on whom the name Sufi was bestowed, there was Jibir b. Hayyan, known as Geber rex Arabum to the Medieval West, who reportedly was a contemporary of the early Abbasid caliphs. This grandfather of modern chemistry was an out- standing exponent of hermetic knowledge in Islam. As a matter of fact, the hermetic nature of writings bearing the name of Jabir caused him to be regarded as a mysterious personality. There is not, however, sufficient evidence to cast serious doubt on his his- toricity. True, much of this hermetic legacy in the ancient Near East, which existed centuries before Jabir was born, was concerned with alchemy, astrology, and other occult sciences, but there was also a philosophical, mystical aspect with which another Sufi of a somewhat later time, the Egyptian Dhu al-Nun, was connected. In- deed, Jabir (d. 776) reportedly had close connections with the same Shicite circles that the well-known Sufi martyr al-Hall&j was linked to in his early days. Al-Hallaj is also said to have been an al- chemist for a while, but his Sufi vocation predominated.

Whereas Jabir was more inclined to alchemy, his Egyptian col- league, Dhu al-Nun, was inclined to mystical experience. A Muslim Negro, Dhu al-Nun (d. 850) preached asceticism and was a father of mystical theory. He is credited with the knowledge of the secrets of hieroglyphic inscriptigns as well as with the authorship of some books on occult sciences. 6 He is said also to have belon ed to the same school of occultism to which Jabir had belonged.3 It was this hermetic feature of his teaching, rather than his supposed Muctazilite tendencies, that may have caused his arrest in Cairo and his imprisonment in Baghdad. The mystical teaching of Dhu al- Nun was based on gnosis or intuitive knowledge, which was esteemed by the Suf is as the best path to the knowledge of God, neither rea- son nor tradition being comparable to it.

The spiritual purification that Sufis expected to attain through self-mortification and the renunciation of worldly plea- sures was believed to end in the enlightenment of their hearts, which they termed safa ("purity of heart") and from which they sometimes claimed the word "Sufi" was derived.

However, whereas the name of a similar group with mystical and hermetic features known as the "Brethren of Purity" (Ikhwan al-Safi) can actually be said to derive from this mystical concept

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of purity, the same etymology cannot be applied to the name Sufi. Among the etymologies proposed for this word, the most probable is no doubt its derivation from the word , "fwool." Suf is wore coarse woolen garments as a sign of their religious mendicancy. These woolen robes, usually made of rage, were as much the mark of a Sufi as bushy hair and bare feet are the signs of an American hippy. It should be added that a few mystics refused to wear any distinctive mark, and there were persons who maintained with Huj- wiri that, "It is inward glow (hurqa] that makes the Sufi, not the religious habit [khirqah l."38

Despite their strict rejection of worldly pleasures, Sufis did not regard the formal devotion of orthodox Muslims as of great importance. Moreover, for the formal knowledge of learned theolo- gians they had nothing but contempt. When Macrtif, an early Sufi of Baghdad (d. 815), tried to argue that Sufism consisted of grasping the realities and of renouncing what was in the hands of created beings, he seems to have found even the devotions of the orthodox and the theologians to be worldly and among the unreal things to be renounced.

When asked by a young prince what the way to God was, Dhu al-Nun replied that there was a lesser way and a greater way. Any- one who desired the lesser one should abandon the world and give up sinning. But he who chose the greater one must abandon everything but God and empty his heart of all things.39 Thus, a formal trad- itional devotion was far from being the greater way to God.

The Sufi insistence that God should not be worshipped out of hope or fear but solely for God's sake was the point that differen- tiated the ordinary ascetic (zahid), for whom hell and paradise con- stituted the main concern, from the mystic (c5rif) whose sole con- cern was divine love. This concept of divine love, based on disin- terested devotion to God, received greatest stress in the teachings of Rablcah of Basrah. This saintly woman (d. 801) was a prototype of the mystic, an Islamic Santa Teresa, who is believed to have spent her life in seclusion and celibacy. Her extreme asceticism and her mystical teachings brought her several devoted disciples and associates among whom were such pious men as al-Hasan al-Basri and Sufyan al-Thawri.

One of the earliest devotees of Sufism, somewhat earlier than Rablcah, was Ibrahim b. Adham (d. ca. 777), the princely saint of Balkh whose legend reminds us of the story of Buddha. According to his well-known legend, he was the son of an independent prince

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of Balkh of Arab stock. Influenced by some kind of divine voice, or impressed by the exhortation of some divine messenger, he gave up his throne, chose the life of poverty and became a wandering dervish living on his own labor.

A more celebrated Sufi of Persia was B3yazId of Bistam (d. 875), who is considered to have held the same high rank among the Suf is as Gabriel had among the angels.40 Ecstatic paradoxes con- nected with his name reveal great boldness of conception that some- times manifested pantheistic features. One day, in a state of mys-

tical trance, he cried out: "Glory to me! How great is my maj- esty. ' In a similar case he uttered with strange boldness: "Be- neath my cloak there is nothing but God." Pantheism or incarnation, these utterances underwent elaborate interpretations that made them

acceptable to orthodox Muslims.

Nevertheless, when a few decades later almost the same ut-

terance was made by the younger HallTj (d. 922), it did not receive such a favorable response. Like BEyazld of Bist&m, HallZj probably also had a Zoroastrian grandfather. Up till the age of forty, he had lived with Sufi companions. Then he travelled in Khurasan,

Turkistan, India, and finally settled in Baghdad, where he got in

touch with Muctazilites, Shicites, and several other religious and social sects. Arrested for unknown involvements, he spent eight

years in prison, and then after a seven-month trial, he was mutil-

ated, crucified, decapitated, and burned to ashes. His crime, ac- cording to later Suf is who recognized him as their martyr par ex-

cellence, was that he had divulged the divine secret. He had ut- tered, during an ecstatic trance, but before those who could not

understand it: "I am the Truth."

While the disciples of Hallaj later gathered around Ablu cUmar al-Hashimi in Ahwaz and around Faris al-DInawarl in Khurasan to continue his teachings, the Sufi school of Baghdad, formerly

headed by the well-known al-Junayd, did not show great sympathy for

this eccentric martyr. Thus, while the disciples of Hallij suc- ceeded later in finding an echo of his teachings in the voice of

Abu Sacid in Khurasan, the Sufi school of al-Junayd (also called the Master of the Way) leaned increasingly toward intellectualism and traditionalism. This mystical school of Baghdad, however, did for Sufism what the Shaficl school did for traditionalism in estab-

lishing its fundamental principles. The main topics of this school were gnosis, love, and the unity of God (taw id) so that its teach- ings on these topics were worked out and developed in a speculative mysticism.

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Al-Junayd, the inspired teacher of this school, held that

Sufi truths contained esoteric elements that should not be revealed to the uninitiated. In his correspondence he insisted ceaselessly to his friends that they talk to people carefully and with caution. His school contained such distinguished Sufis as ShiblI and Nuri, and even al-Hallaj in his early career had connections with it. The caution with which the Master of the Way used to teach spared

him from what happened later to Hallij and his friend Ibn cAta', whereas what he actually taught could also seem to the uninitiated people as a pure incarnation of pantheism. According to his teach- ings, Sufism consisted essentially of being with God with no at- tachment to anything else. So, when the Sufi was wholly present

in God, he was wholly lost to himself, and this was what the Sufis called annihilation. Al-Junayd (d. 910) did not live to witness

the tragic episode of al-Hall5j, but al-Hallij had in fact left the school while the master was still alive, the latter being too conservative for the tastes of this eccentric mystic.

With the decline of the Sufi school of Baghdad, following

the execution of al-1jallaj, Khurasan offered a more hospitable cli- mate for the movement. In fact, this eastern province of Persia had never ceased to contribute to the development of Sufism, with great personalities like Ibrahlm Adham (d. 777), Shaqlq-i BalkhI (d. 810), Almad b. Varb (d. 849), AImad b. Khadruyah (d. 864), Abu

VafQ-i Haddad (d. 879), and many others.

At the time that Persian literature was attaining its climax in Khurasan, Sufism was also producing great leaders there. One of

these was IJakIm of Tirmidh, to whom the Sufi sect bearing his name (Iaklmiyah) paid homage, and who is said to have devoted the larger part of his life to ascetic practices and Sufi meditation in his native town, located in the Upper Oxus not far from Balkh. He was author of many interesting books, including his autobiography. His ideas on sainthood were greatly esteemed by later Sufis, and his psychological writings may have influenced al-Ghazzall (d. 1111). Finally, his ideas on sainthood are supposed to have had some in- fluence on Ibn al-cArabTIs ideas on the subject.

While this great Sufi of Khurasan was a traditionalist, a jurist, and a theologian, the famous Abu al-Hasan-i Khariqani, who lived a century later, was nearly an illiterate who had spent his early days as a donkey-driver. Nevertheless, his imposing dignity was such that even learned people who came into his presence could scarcely utter a word before himA41 Though but a simple peasant from the Bistim district, he was viewed by his fellow Sufis to be continuing Bayazid's experiences. His sayings, a collection of

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which is extant, reveal an experience v6cue of mystical acquisi- tions. 4 He inspired such reverence in the famous Shaykh AbU Sacid that, when the latter came into his presence, he did not utter a

word. Abu al-Hasan asked him why he kept silent. AbU Sacid an- swered that "one interpreter is enough for one theme." Thus, so long as Abui al-Hasan was talking, Abii Sacld was silent.43

Abui Sac-d b. Abiu al-Khayr (d. 1048) was regarded as the greatest Sufi leader of his time, and had a wonderful religious ex- perience with the extraordinary power of thought-reading. Moreover,

he was the first Sufi shaykh to recite poetry in the course of his

sermons instead of the Qur'an and traditions. A large part of these poems were compositions of earlier Sufis, and his own compo- sitions were very few in number. Nevertheless, it was chiefly

through this great shaykh of Khurasan that Persian poetry became more closely linked with Sufism. He is also said to have corres-

ponded with the philosopher Avicenna, and according to a biographer, he even had a personal meeting with the sage in the latter's own monastery at Nishapur. According to a popular story, after they

had conversed with each other for three days, the philosopher said

of him to his disciples: "All that I know, he sees," while the mystic declared to his followers: "All that I see, he knows."

This encounter, differently recorded in various sources and probably lacking an historical basis, illustrates the idea that Suf is had about the character of their own teachings. Attempts to bring this anti-intellectual and anti-traditional mysticism within the scope of the newly established scholasticism of orthodox Islam were undertaken by a Sufi scholar of the same century, the famous Imam Qushayrl (d. 1074) who is 4laimed to have disapproved of Abu Sacid's supposed extravagance.

In contrast with Abu Sacid, who did not like to waste his time in the tedious task of writing, Imam Qushayri was a prolific

writer and his works, together with a few remnants of the treatises, of some precursors, contributed to crystallizing Sufi teachings into scholastic speculations. Imam Qushayri 's tract on Sufism, al-Ris3lat al-Qushayriyah, was a real handbook of Sufi knowledge, making the Sufi doctrines available to theologians and scholars.

His younger contemporary, Khwajah cAbd Allgh Ansari of Herat (d. 1089), held a similar attitude toward Sufism. He was a Hanbal- ite scholar, whose encounter with Abu al-Hasan-i Khariq5nT had in- clined him to Sufism. He wrote books on Sufism, among which his collection of mystical litanies, the Munajat, is still much enjoyed

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in Persia. Nevertheless, in practice he remained a Hanbalite scho-

lar rather than a Sufi, and it was as a theologian that he was per- secuted and exiled in his last years.

Intellectualist tendencies of the late eleventh century in

Islam led Sufism to speculation and systematization. This in turn gave rise to Sufi orders, now scattered throughout the Muslim world.

These orders, however, came into being just when living Sufism was on the road to decline, thus marking a new stage in the development of this movement.45

III

Whereas the execution of al-Hallaj taught the Suf is to avoid what can be called unorthodox attitudes, the conversion of the the- ologian al-Ghazzall to Sufism caused the orthodox Muslims to regard Sufism with more respect and greater interest. Al-Ghazzill is said to have spent his last years in a Sufi monastery which he built close to his former college, abandoning scholastic speculation for mystical intuition. It was almost half a century after his death that the first orders of Suf is came into being. His conversion to the mystical way no doubt had a decisive effect on reconciling Sun- nism to Sufism--an achievement without which the Sufi orders would

not have had the opportunity for missionary activities.

The founding of Sufi monasteries had begun much earlier. Institutions financed by pious endowments were originally built in the remote frontiers of the Islamic world. But when Ni;im al-Mulk (d. 1092), founder of the first great universities in the Saljuq kingdom, also built a series of Sufi monasteries in the bosom of Near Eastern capitals, other grandees, even princes and caliphs, followed his example and, within a few decades, Sufi monasteries were to be seen in nearly the whole of the Muslim Near East. These monasteries had a peculiar attraction for those Sufis who did not like to give up urban life and preferred to have a connection with scholastic activities of theologians and jurists.

When the Sunni-Sufi conflict was nearly over, there flour- ished in Iraq and Khurasan a number of Sufi teachers to whom fol- lowers flocked. Such Sufi leaders as CAbd al-Qidir al-GIlnI (d. 1166), CUmar al-Suhrawardl (d. 1234), and Najm al-Din Kuhbr (d. 1221) had their own monasteries with considerable numbers of

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disciples and adepts, but even though the great Shaykh Suhrawardi

had received a caliphal diploma which recognized him as the Great Master of all the Suf is, the system of the orders was not yet fully established in this period.

Moreover, long before the orders came into existence, a

series of Sufi sects had been recorded in the works of HujwTrl, Qushayri, SarrEj, and other authors. These sects were essentially the result of doctrinal schism. In other words, such mystical

groups as the Nurls, Hulil's, cIshqls, and Wasills are to Sufism what Murji'ites, Jabarites, Muctazilites and Qadarites are to or- thodox Islam, denoting differences in tenets and principles rather

than divergences in worship and rituals.

It was only in the last days of SaljUq rule that the first Sufi orders emerged in the Muslim Near East, though still a bit more time was needed before they found their final shape. Never-

theless these orders later formed a network of Sufi organization

that gradually spread from one end of the Muslim world to the other,

with their own hierarchies, customs and rituals.

Their system, however, was considerably influenced by both orthodox traditionalism and formal scholasticism in the course of its development. Religious rituals were usually observed with al- most the same carefulness as in the mosques, and Sufi teachers--

just like the traditional transmitters in orthodox schools--were not considered reliable unless they had received formal authority

from their masters--Khirqah and Wil5yah in the case of Sufis. The founding of the orders was in one sense a definite triumph of Sufism in the obstinate struggle it had undertaken long before for recog- nition, 46 but the systematization of Sufism within the conventional frame of orders also put an end to its spontaneity and its ecstatic character.

That some Sufi thinkers like cAyn al-Qudat-i HamadanI (d. 1163), Ibn al-cArabi (d. 1240), and Ibn Sabcin (d. 1270) could from time to time reveal their intuitive speculations had little to do with the usual life of the orders, and their influence did not ex- tend beyond the literary works of Sufis, which was still open to ecstasy and intuition.

The formation of Sufi orders, moreover, provoked schisms and differences against which Sufism had originally emerged as a reaction. The critical remarks of the liberal Sufi, Sacdi of Shiraz (d. 1292), probably refer to this change. He claimed that in the

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early days of Islam, the Suf is were outwardly scattered but in- wardly united, whereas they later became apparently organized yet really dispersed.47 This was perhaps the reason for which SacdI-- himself a disciple of Suhrawardi and also naturally disposed to Sufism--did not openly join any of the numerous Sufi orders of his time.

At thg time that Ibn Khaldun (d. 1406) was writing the Muqaddimah,4 Sufism, no doubt under the influence of the order

system, had become not so much a set of doctrines as 4 mode of life--a metodo de vida as M. Asin Palacios calls it. This can- not explain however the whole development of Sufism--particularly in the period before Ibn Khaldun.

Although the Sufi life on the whole was a contemplative one, it nevertheless differed from order to order, from teacher to teacher. A Sufi order was an organized brotherhood, formed around a Sufi teacher who was believed to have the gift of miraculous pow- ers and therefore to be qualified to lead others in the divine path, from which fact is derived the commonest designation of a Sufi or- der, tari ah, which means "pathway."

These tariqahs, differently explained by different Sufi teachers, separate various Sufi orders from each other. It is no wonder, then, that in the course of time a large variety of Sufi orders developed in various countries ranging in their mode of life from ascetic pacifism to militant pantheism. The orders differ in customs and in rites, whose observance is required of every ini- tiate.

The initiate receives his formal admission into the order through a series of ceremonies supervised by his Sufi teacher, us- ually of a symbolic character. This symbolism gives a mysterious aspect to the life of Sufi monasteries, and differs according to orders and rituals. In one order, for example, the initiate re- ceives an earring from the shaykh, reminding him probably of the total submission the shaykh urges on him. In another case, he is bound--on shoulder or waist--by a black cloth or belt, which will remind him always of his continual contest with the devil. Hanging a small stone on his neck symbolizes the initiate's total submis- sion--whence the Turkish taslim-tash, i.e., the contentment stone-- both used by the Turkish order called Bektashi.

The Sufi dance so greatly appreciated by the Turkish Mev- levis displays also a symbolic character. This symbolic feature

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is also to be found in the attire of Sufis. Sufi orders differ

even in this respect. While some wear caps in the shape of a rose, tulip or heart, others may wear turbans--just like orthodox priests. There are Suf is wearing caps with five, twelve, or eight- een sections, whereas others walk through the streets with long hair floating in the air. The shape of their caps, the color of their garments display a variety of different tastes--all, however, bearing their peculiar symbols.

The spiritual teachers of several orders wore the turbans

of orthodox jurists, symbolizing their claim to supreme knowledge,

the gnosis. This supreme knowledge is what the Suf is claimed to be the esoteric teaching of the Prophet inherited by them through their shaykhs. It was however only the intuitive acquisition of early Sufis that was systematized and formulated in a form accep- table to orthodox formalism.

That all the Sufi orders trace their spiritual patronship, through either Abu Bakr or Ali, to the person of Muhammad indi- cates not only their attempt to establish their ritual tradtions on the same authority as that used by orthodox traditionalists but also reveals their claim to inheritance of the supposed esoteric

teachings of the Prophet.

The Sufis claimed that Muhammad's teaching was twofold: the exoteric one was addressed to all Muslims whereas the esoteric was disclosed only to some intimate companions. The Sufis pretended to have inherited the latter from these intimate companions to whom they believed their shaykhs were connected. The possession of this esoteric knowledge so elevated the Sufi teachers in the eyes of their followers that not infrequently cults formed around them, and their tombs became, in many cases, places of pilgrimage.

Moreover, the transmission of such sacred knowledge was us-

ually accompanied by great discretion on the part of the shaykh. (A similar situation was to be met by the traditionalists in anoth- er way.) This feature added a mysterious appearance to some Sufi orders--which might suggest why rulers were suspicious of them.

Whereas most Sufi orders avoided political involvements, some had a certain interest in what can be called political affairs.

It is conceivable that the pretention to the prophetic wisdom--

supposedly inherited from Muhammad--may have led some of the Sufi shaykhs to assume a political mission. That they sometimes used to call their felt hat the crown of poverty and to add the titles

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Shah or Sultan to their humble names could have sufficed to make

them suspect in the eyes of some narrow-minded sovereigns. The popularity of Sufis and their success in Muslim society by causing a loss, and not a small one, in the prestige of jurists and in the

high position they5beld in Muslim eyes, excited the latter's anger against the Sufis.

Nevertheless, there were Sufi shaykhs with definite politi-

cal or social pretensions. The Kharijite-Shicite disposition to launch open warfare against unqualified rulers never ceased to haunt pious Muslims, so that an ambitious shaykh could well repre- sent a revolt against an unqualified sovereign as a religious or social necessity. This is the reason that Sufi orders occasionally have been involved in fighting against invaders, oppressors, and even unjust rulers.

The history of Persia, like that of several other Islamic countries offers several cases of the involvement of Sufi .orders in such activities. One interesting example, which goes back to

pre-Mon&ol times, is the case of the Kizarunid order, founded by Abu Ishaq-i Kazaruini (d. 1033), a well-known saint of Persia.51 He was an ardent preacher and his order lasted for centuries. Al- though he came of a family of Zoroastrians, he made great efforts to convert Zoroastrians of Firs to Islam. The order bearing his name spread through Persia to India, China, and Anatolia. Owing to its militant character, it played a very considerable role in the Ottoman Empire during the fifteenth century. Another example of militant Sufism was the case of the Juriyah order. The founder, a certain Shaykh Hasan-i Jurl (d. 1338), succeeded in preparing the way fo what some historians call the "Shici republic" of Sarbid- irids7w2 But the best example in the history of Persia is the case of the Safavids, a dynasty of Persian rulers, named after the title of its founder's grandfather, the well-known Shaykh SafI al-Din of Ardabil (d. 1335). Although Shaykh Safi himself, like so many other shaykhs of his time, was an orthodox Sunni, his successors and son p embraced Shicism and later made it the state religion of Persia.3 The Mongol invasion (ca. 1219) witnessed the militant response of the Kubrawiyah in Transoxania. During this struggle the founder of this order Shaykh Najm al-DIn Kubra (d. 1221) met his death. We are told by some historians that having obstinately refused the Mongol offer of a compromise, this saint preferred the gallant death of a militant martyr to a servile life of submission to infidels. After his death, his order counted a galaxy of saints, among whom CAll' al-Dawla-i Simnini (d. 1336) founded the branch called Rukniyah; Sayyid Muhammad Nurbakhsh started a branch called

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the Nurbakhshi order, and a certain Sayyid CAbdallh established a new order called Dhahabis.

An ex-commissioner of the Mongol state, afterwards converted to Sufism, cAl.t al-Dawlah stood fast against the pantheistic doc- trine of Ibn al-cArabi, a doctrine which was appreciated greatly by Shaykh cAbd al-Razzaq of the Suhrawardi school, which had a special attraction for Sufis in Persia. He had, however, enough tolerance to seek spiritual guidance even from Mongol monks of his time. He succeeded, as did his other Kubrawi predecessors--Sacd al-Din Hamii- yah (d. ca. 1252) and Sayyid Ali HamadanTI (d. 1385)--in establish- ing closer connections between Shicism and Sunnism in their Sufi teachings.

His other Kubrawi colleague, Sayyid Muhammad Nurbakhsh, (d. 1463) openly embraced Shicism. This Sufi teacher had, however, other aspirations of a more ambitious nature. Several times he

was proclaimed caliph by his followers, and several times arrested, banished, or imprisoned by the sultan contemporary with him, the

Timurid Shah Rukh. His order, despite various persecutions, found

its way to India where for a long time it held a considerable pos-

ition in Kashmir.

The last offshoot of the Kubrawiyah was the so-called Golden Order, the Dhahabis. It openly professed Shicism and preserved-- even during the unfavorable Safavid period--its supremacy in south

Persia. Among its teachers the most celebrated was one Sayyid Qutb

Nayrizi (d. ca. 1759) who wrote Persian and-Arabic poetry. His Sufi teaching reminds us of that of Ibn al-cArabi, whereas his Arabic poetry betrays the influence of the Egyptian Ibn al-Farld and his Persian verses reveal something of the style of CAttir. Some of his theosophical views have been criticized by the later Nicmat Allahi.

Among the Sufi orders that gained a certain popularity in Persia in the wake of the Mongol invasion, one should also name the Suhrawardis and the Qalandaris. The former, whose founder Shaykh CJUmar al-Sahrawardi (d. 1234) was a friend and favorite of the Abbasid Caliph al-Nasir, lost its influence in Persia probably with

the fall of Baghdad. As a matter of fact, the friendship between the caliph al-Nasir and the Sufi Suhrawardi was such that the cal- iph appointed him the chief of all Sufi monasteries, and sent him as his ambassador to the court of Muslim sovereigns. That Suhra- wardi-cites the name of this caliph as an authority in support of tradition is a curious point. Although the original order found

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more disciples in Afghanistan and India, its offshoots remained

active in Persia long after the episode of Baghdad. Among these

sub-branches are the Khalwatl order of Khurasan and the Jamalis of the district of Isfahan. The Safawiyah order also was an offshoot of Suhrawardlyah but later it gradually developed into an indepen- dent order.

The Qalandarls, and the Naqshbandis as well, enjoyed only a limited success in Persia. The former was not really an organized order and the latter, being of a rigid Sunni character, could not

establish a firm foothold in the pro-Shicite land of the Great Sophy.

The Qalandarlyah, mentioned in the Arabian Nights, were a sort of wandering dervish sect rather than an order. They had no

fixed rule or ritual and used to show--somewhat like the earlier

Malamatis--an utter disregard for religious and social conventions. They probably originated in central Asia and were influenced by Indian ideas. It is said that a Persian, Jamal al-Din Sawaji, preached the beliefs of this discipline in fourteenth century Per-

sia, which would explain why the members5Vf this sect were so num- erous in the early days of the Safavids. That they had no en-

thusiasm for orthodox Sunnism is probably another reason. Some sources, however, trace them bags to the Naqshbandis--though prob- ably with no reliable evidence. The Naqshbandis enjoyed great popularity in Transoxania and Afghanistan, just before the rise of the Safavid dynasty. The founder of the order was a Baha' al-Din Muhammad (d. 1389) called Shah-i Naqshband. He had spent several years in the service of a Tatar prince, but, once converted to Suf- ism, he led an ascetic life. His order was closely connected with

an older one--that of Nasir al-Din b. MaImud Shashi called Khwa ah-

i Ahrgr (d. 1490), who was the patron and spiritual teacher of JamI. 6 After the death of the Shah-i Naqshband, however, the dis- putes of his descendants on succession, together with the advent of the Shicite Safavids, put an end to their influence in Persia. The Safavid order was but the Azari branch of Suhrawardis, whose foun- der, the famous Shaykh SafI, was a well-known Sufi teacher of his time. Nevertheless, some legends may have been introduced later to make him a suitable ancestor for a royal dynasty of the Shicite faith--a sayyid.

Whereas the SafawiLyah order gave rise in Persia to the royal Safavid dynasty, in Asia Ninor it developed into minor sub-divisions among which the Jalwatis or Hudals recruited a considerable number of followers in the Ottoman Empire. The founder of the latter was

a cerWin Pir-i Uftadah (d. 1628) whose followers used to wear long hair.

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Once ascended to the throne, the Persian Safawiyah felt in- secure amidst the bigoted and undisciplined Sufi militia, whose lack of interest in religious matters could be harmful to an inex- perienced government whose support was based mainly on its state religion. These considerations, together with the hostile attitude of the Shicite ulama toward Sufism, led the Safavid kings to look on Sufis as a threat to the religion and to the state as well. Thus, Sufism was vanquished in the "Land of the Great Sophy," and outside the ancestral order and its titular custodianship of Shaykh Safi al-Din's tomb, there remained nothing of Sufism in the Safavid realm.

Their fall (1738) provided the Nicmat-Allahi order of India an opportunity to launch anew a Sufi movement in Persia. This Sufi order is still one of the most extensive, if not the largest, ex- isting in Persia today. Its founder, Shah NiCmat-Allih Vall (d. 1431), is said to have enjoyed the favors of the Timurid, Shlh Rukh, but during the Saf avid rule his descendants and successors remained in the Deccan, far from Persia. Shah Nicmat-Allah, author of more than three hundred Arabic and Persian treatises on mystical sub- jects, is famous in Persian literature for his apocalytic sayings concerning the troubles of the last days of the world, with some messianic prophecies. He was born in Aleppo, spent several years in Mecca and Egypt, journeyed in Khurasan and Transoxania, and fin- ally settled down in Kirman, where his tomb is still visited by groups of pilgrims. His poetical work, even though well appreci- ated by some Sufi readers, lacks great literary value; it is a rather monotonous and mediocre poetry with strong pantheistic ideas.

During the Safavid reign his descendants either migrated to India or remained in Persia under clever camouflage. They suc- ceeded for a while, nevertheless, in finding a welcome response to their call in the chaotic situation of post-Safavid Persia. We are told that some thirty thousand followers gathered around the Indian Mir Macsum Ali Shah, a Nicmat-Allahi teacher who arrived in Shiraz in the happy days of Karim Khan Vakil (d. 1779). But, at the instigation of hostile ulama, the rulers of the Zand dynasty persecuted them and obliged them to go to Mesopotamia. Toward the beginning of the Qajar period, the Nicmat-Allihis made an attempt to establish their master's cult in Kirman where his shrine was erected but this was met by the opposition of the ulama and re- sulted in chaos during which a fervent Sufi, Mushtiq Ali was killed (1792). Also, the saintly poet, Nur Ali Shah (d. 1789), who had recruited a considerable number of followers in Isfahan and Kurdi- stan, was accused in the meantime of dynastic ambitions and is said to have met his death in wandering exile, reportedly poisoned.58

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It was not until the middle of the Qajar period that the

Nicmat-Allihis finally could establish their order in Persia. The keen interest the prime minister Hiji Mirza Aqasi (d. 1849) had in their cause may have been a reason for their success. Later shaykhs, however, particularly Sultan Ali Shah (d. 1909) in Khura- san, and ?afi Ali Shah (d. 1898) in Tehran, gained a part of their popularity through their traditionalism, as both wrote commentaries on the Qur'an.

Generally speaking, if the order system of Sufism has not met in Persia the fervent welcome it has received in India, Turkey, Egypt and North Africa, one reason, no doubt, lies in the hostility of the Persians to organized religious groupings; this factor, how- ever, must not be exaggerated. Nevertheless, the anti-hierarchical Sufism of the period before and during Hallaj's time has always been kept alive throughout Persian literature and its reflection is to be found in Persian lyrics up to the present. So, even if the Sufi orders did not make considerable contributions to the dev- elopment of Sufism in Persia proper, Persian literature has re- mained the mirror for Sufi thought for even a longer time.

Muslim mystical experience has found its best expression, with perhaps a few exceptions, in Persian poetry. Was that because mystical visions seemed more congenial to Persians that mystical rites?

This literature was addressed much more to the reader's heart than to his mind and therefore intuitive elements were pre- valent in it. Although it is true that its entire content may not be considered intuitive, even in its ethical and didactical as- pects, it does not strictly follow the conventions of secular lit- erature.

For traditional conventions, the Sufi poet has no great res- pect, viewing them essentially as veils separating his mind from the object of continual vision. "Don't think of aught except the vision of me" was the bitter rebuke Rumi thought he received from his divine lover, who did not like him to be preoccupied with rhyme and prosody.59 Thus, rhyme and all other conventions of prosody were regarded by Sufi poets as barriers to divine contemplation,

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and therefore to be avoided. This kind of vision, not uncommon among other Sufi poets, led them to consider everything as mere images of that supreme beauty which was the goal of all their quests. This notion in turn led to a symbolic emphasis in much of Sufi poetry. Divine love, the main object of mystical experi- ence, found an expression in human love, and images borrowed from secular literature were abundantly used to describe mystical ex- periences. When physical love became the primary motif of mystical symbolism, wine and the tavern constituted its other elements, and all played a considerable role in the later development of mysti- cal literature.

The cult of love was considered a Sufi way to purification of the heart. Does not even physical love require an utmost al- truism without which there can be no true love? But when Sumnun al-Muhibb (d. 913) maintains that love is the foundation of the way to God, and thereby raises it above the gnosis, he means that disinterested love in which the Sufi can find a bridge to pass to the realm of spiritual love.60

Lovers of this kind admire, adore, and enjoy the object of their love as something intrinsically precious and worthy of wor- ship. And it is just this point which divides the formal ascetic who worships his God through fear or hope and the mystic devotee whose worship is only for God's sake.

With this disinterested love there remains but a few steps to the divine love in which the final connection demands total sacrifice of the lover. An allegorical tale of the poet CIraqi (d. 1309) illustrates this final annihilation of the lover in such a disinterested love. There was a miserable man, he recounts, who had spent most of his days amidst the ash-heaps of bath-house fur- naces. He went once on an excursion to a field--a green field with beautiful meadows and fragrant flowers. Suddenly a beautiful youth passed by, mounted on a horse, as though going hunting. The poor man was immediately seduced by his beauty and fell in love with him. There was, of course, no hope for the poor beggar in such a love affair with a prince, and this hopeless passion kept him for some time in a desperate state.

Two weeks passed, with the wretched man knowing no way to find his beloved prince. One day the youth reappeared in the field, in hunting garb, riding his beautiful horse, and the poor man had a strange idea as to how to gain his desire. He secretly slaugh- tered a deer, clad himself in its hide, and exposed himself in such a way that the prince took him for a deer. Wounded by his beloved's

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arrow, he fell down nearly lifeless. But when the prince came up to him and laid the wounded man's head on his own breast, the man passed away in joy and contentment.

The only path the poor beggar could find to his beloved prince was by sacrificing himself. Thus, also, the human soul, whose whole life has been spent in the ash-heaps of earthly plea-

sure, can enjog1connection with the godhead only through abnegation and sacrifice. That the object of love is represented here in a male person is significant in itself because the Sufis pictured the supreme beauty with rather virile characteristics, i.e., strength and jealousy. Moreover, this conception was also a re- flection of homosexual tendencies developed in the course of time in their own wandering life, for homosexuality was not uncommon among the Suf is of monasteries. Even Sufi poets like Sang'i, Aw- lad-i Kirmani, and cIraqi are said to have had an inclination toward "Greek love," with Sania' and Kirmani reported to be specifically interested in the companionship of beautiful boys. It is said that clriqi, when already a venerable shaykh, could often be found jok- ing and playing with teenagers.

However, despite the enthusiasm with which wine had been praised in Persian Sufi poetry, no reliable instance of an actual orgy is ever recorded by these Sufi poets. Wine has occupied, from time immemorial, a central place in the religious rituals of the ancient Near East. In Persia, its invention goes back to a grand- son of the legendary first king of Iran, Jamshld, and the Persian wine-cult may be traced back to haoma, the mysterious intoxicating drink of pre-Zoroastrian time. In Greece, the God of Wine had an influential cult and the religion of the ancient Hebrews also con- tained elements of wine worship. The expression "blood of grapes" frequently occurring in Persian lyrics was used as early as in Genesis (49:11) and the Christian Eucharist sublimated it into an apt symbol of divine presence, the presence of one who called him- self the "true vine" (John 15:1).

Long before Muslim Sufis began their Bacchic songs, Philo of

Alexandria 8 hilo Judaeus) had compared mystical ecstasy with in- toxication, and Plotinus also had found in the intoxication pro- duced by wine, the symbol of spiritual contemplation, whence the concept of sober intoxication (sobria ebrietas).63

Is there any possible relation between the Eucharistic sym- bolism of wine and the Sufi one? In Persian poetry, just as in early Muslim Arabic poetry, the Christian monastery is always con- nected with the custom of wine drinking, but even ancient Magians

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are also credited with dealing in wine in countries where the pro- hibited wine could not openly be brought to market except by these religious minorities. Nevertheless, Muslim mystics usually depict Christians as far from enjoying this mystical intoxication and Ibn al-Fariq tells us that these monastic folk could never truly ach4ve a mystical state in imbibing wine but only aspired to do so.

There was, however, a Qur'anic source for this symbolic wine in the reference to the pure drink of paradise (Qur'an, 76:21) which was interpreted by the Sufis as the beatific vision. It was mainly to this symbolic wine that the wine-songs of Ibn al-Farid and at least a considerable part of those of Hafiz allude. This explains why Ibn al-Farid goes sometimes as far as to claim that not only is it no sin to drink that wine, as some allege, but it is a sin not to taste of it.

Thus, the use of this symbol for spiritual drunkeness was so common in the Islamic world that one might wonder if there was any prohibition against wine drinking in Islam. Moreover, exalta- tion of wine sometimes is so expressed that it is unclear whether the poet is presenting himself as a drunkard or a mystic. In the works of some Persian poets, especially H5fiz and CIraqi, the tav- ern is sometimes a tavern and sometimes a symbol of the Sufi mon- astery.

With all these symbols, Sufi poetry became essentially a symbolic literature in which God is called the beloved, spiritual ecstasy the wine, and the Sufi cloister the tavern. Such symbolic language has found explanations in a celebrated didactical poem of Shykh-i Shabistari (d. 1320), who explicitly points out that in Sufi language "to become a haunter of the tavern is to be set free from self" and states that when the gnostics speak of wine, tavern, and sweetheart, these are all "symbols of the one reality, who in every form is manifested in his glory." 65

The same explanation is also given by Ibn al-cArabi, some- times called the Doctor Maximus of the Muslim Sufis, whose Tarju- man al-Ashwaq--a collection of Arabic poems dedicated to a Persian Beatrice--reveals a mystical symbolism that reminds us to Dante's songs. In an introductory chapter of this work, the great Shaykh tells us that all the profane works in it are to be considered as having esoteric meanings.

A third work in the same vein is the celebrated poem Tarji- band of the Persian poet Hatif of Isfahan (d. 1784). What Hatif

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tells us in this connection has such close resemblance to the words of the Doctor Maximus that one wonders if the Persian poet was not actually influenced by the Arab master:

0 Hatif, the meaning of the Gnostics, whom they some- times call drunk and sometimes sober,

(When they speak of) the Wine, the Cup, the Min- strel, the Cupbearer, the Magian, the Temple, the Beauty, and the Girdle,

Are those hidden secrets which they sometimes declare

in cryptic utterance. If thou shouldst find they way to their secret thou

wilt discover that even this is the secret of those mysteries,

"He is One and there is naught but He: There is no God save Him alone!",66

In any case, this poetical symbolism served as leitmotif for esoteric interpretations the Sufi theoreticians made of the ecsta- tic utterances of Sufis, a task begun with the well-known Sufi school of Baghdad and continued very elaborately by al-Sarraj.

A careful interpretation of these "inspired paradoxes" was also undertaken by the Persian Ruzbihan al-Baqli (d. 1209), whose work had some role in enhancing the posthumous prestige of Hallaj, and to Sufism in general. Explanations of these inspired paradoxes were based in particular on allegorical interpretati-ons. These al- legorical symbols, moreover, were used as the basic canvas in Sufi romances and epics, sometimes with ethical or didactical features. The well-known "Parliament of Birds" (Mantig al-Tayr) of CAttar, a masterpiece of Persian Sufi literature, provides an outstanding example of this allegorical type.

In this allegorical poem of some 4,600 couplets, the Persian poet relates how the birds under the guidance and leadership of the hoopoe set out in quest of their sovereign, the Simurgh. This un- seen sovereign of the birds was supposed to dwell in the Caucasus mountains beyond seven valleys, whose crossing would entail great dangers and difficulties. Of all the birds who set out on this

dangerous quest, thirty birds survived to reach the sovereign's palace only to learn that the Slmurgh (literally, "thirty birds") was nothing but their own thirty persons. In fact, they finally found their unseen sovereign in the reflection of their own faces

and found themselves and the Simurgh to be one. That out of all

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kinds of birds only thirty constituted the supreme being of Simurgh

was due to the fact that only those who had really sought their God

were destined to attain that perfection.

Thus this allegory represents the journey of the mystic Sufi to God. The hoopoe, which in the Qur'an is emissary of King Solo- mon to the Queen of Sheba, represents the Sufi shaykh, whose pre-

sence is supposed to be indispensable in the Sufi journey to God.

cAttar, of whom Shaykh-i Shabistari said that his like would not reappear for a hundred centuries, was born in a village near Nishapur, an old citadel of Sufism. His father was a pharmacist

(ca4pr), a profession the poet also followed, whence his pen-name. He kept a pharmacy where he was consulted by patients to whom he

dispensed prescriptions. When he felt called to follow the religious life, he gave up his profession, went on a pilgrimage to Mecca, then lived in seclusion, and spent most of his time in self-mortifi- cation, until he met his death at the hands of the Mongols during

their sack of Nishapur. cAttar also wrote other longer mystical poems with a didactical character. His poetry, even if poetically inferior to that of Sanai'i, is superior to it in charm and effect. With Sani'i and Rumi he constitutes the summit of Persian mysticism.

cAbd al-Rahman Jiml (d. 1492), though having equally great mystical gifts, has never been placed in their high rank

Compared to the work of CAttar, the style of Sana'i seems a bit more didactical and turgid. It has nevertheless been highly appreciated by later Sufis, who probably found in the poet's per- sonal conversion something extraordinary and divine. A professional

panegyrist of the Ghaznavid court for a long time, he finally was

digusted by that silly work, did pentience, was converted to Suf- ism, renounced the world, and went so far as to walk barefooted in the streets.

He wrote several philosophical and lyrical poems and antici-

pated Dante in his description of a heavenly journey in a short poem called "The Journey of the Servants of God to the Place of Re- turn" (Sayr al-cibad ila al-Macad). But his most famous work was "The Garden of Truth" (Hadiqat al-Haqigah), a long poem of some 10,000 couplets, divided into ten chapters dealing with mystical subjects. This great monument of Sufism is not, however, an even and homogeneous work. As the poet's death evidently left it un- finished, other posthumous works--all written in the same meter as

the yadigah were probably incorporated. This explains the chaotic arrangement of the ljadigah where some chapters do seem scarcely to be properly placed.

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Sana'i's work was much esteemed by RiIII and especially by Riimi's first spiritual teacher--Sayyid Muhaqqiq-i TirmidhI. This eminent Sufi used to quote from the poet Sana'? in his own dis- courses, and Rumi himself referred to or commented on SanVI's work very often in his Mathnawi. The Hadiqah is a collection of long didactic chapters on Sufi subjects interspersed by tales sometimes of allegorical character. Some of these tales have been retold by

cAttir or RumI, both of whom recognized in him a master and pre- cursor.

Nevertheless, the climax of Persian Sufism, if not that of the whole Muslim world, was reached neither by SanVi nor by cAttar but by Jal5l al-Din Ruimii, whose famous Mathnawi is one of the girat- est literary monuments of all time. Jalil al-Din, however, did not consider poetry and art as an object but as a means of expressing his explosive fervor and his unlimited passion.

His song of the reed-pipe, which opens the Mathnawi, reveals the complaints of the soul, whose separation from its divine abode is represented by the metaphor of the reed-pipe being cut off from its reed-bed. The whole of the Mathnawi--a long poem of some 25,631 couplets--may be considered an illustration of this idea. The reed- pipe represents the human soul, imprisoned in the earthly body, for which the final rescue lies in death. This is of course not the animal death with which animal life ends in this world, but the death of earthly desires, which leads to a spiritual rebirth.

Besides the Mathnawi, Jalil al-Din also wrote lyrical poems-- a collection of some 40,000 couplets--called the Dlv5n-i Shams-i Tabrizi. As a matter of fact, the unusual grandeur and depth of these lyrical poems echo the unequaled passion of the poet for his spiritual leader, to whose memory most of these poems have been dedicated.

That cAbd al-Rahman-i Jami (d. 1492) was the last great bard of classical Persian Sufism is beyond question. But his works are by no means to be considered as of a purely mystical character. He is rather to be placed in the same class as Nizami Ganj awl and Amir Khusraw, whose works, though profane, are not lacking in mystical spirit. As a matter of fact, Jami was converted to the Naqshbandi order in Khurasan but remained all his life a scholar and poet, rather than an ascetic mystic.

Nevertheless, his "Golden Chain" (Silsilat al-Dhahab) sounds

at several points like the Madiqah, though it lacks the unequalled vigor of Sani'i. His Salaman-u Absil is also an allegorical poem written after a well-known tradition of Muslim theosophy probably

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begun by Avicenna. "Rosary of the Pious" (Sub]iat al-Abrir)intro- duces a new meter for long peoms on mystical subjects. His death, however, marks the end of the classical age of Sufi poetry and the

works of such modern Sufis as Nur Ali Shah and Safi Ali Shah expose only a new kind of Sufi poetry, that of pure Shicite tendencies.

Prose works of Persian Sufis, though of a larger variety and quantity, are not of such great literary interest. This prose her-

itage consists of mystical sermons, theosophical dissertations, bio- graphies, memoirs, and letters, of differing literary value. Among

the earliest specimens of theosophical achievements, Hujwlrl's Kashf al-Mahji-b and Mustamli's Sharh-i Tacarruf67 are typical. They contain nearly all the kinds of material to be found in later prose works of Sufis. As a matter of fact, such works as Miftah al-Nijat, Mi?bah al-Hid yah, Mirsad al-cIbgd, and Maqgad-i Aqga are later de- velopments of this same tradition.

The same can be said of biographies and memoirs dealing with

the lives and works of Sufi saints. CAttgr's Tadhkirat al-Awlia', undoubtedly based on works already at hand in his time, is the prototype of this genre, so that Jamit's Nafahat and other similar works are only continuations of the same tradition of CAttar. More- over, nearly every great shaykh of the past has found at least one admirer to write down his acts and sayings. Works like the Asrir al-Tawhid68 on the life of Shaykh Abii Sacid and Mag`amat-i Zindah- Pulb9 on the works and life of Shaykh Ahmad-i Jim are but two cel- ebrated spcimens of a whole genre. These biographies of saints

are chiefly based on records of their acts and words taken down

during their lives by their own disciples. Unfortunately, we do not possess a large number of these notes on the great shaykhs.

Nevertheless, there are quite a few preachers whose sermons

have been written down and collected by their disciples in the well-

known fashion of the old traditionalists. Al-Shahristinl and Sacdl are among non-Sufi preachers whose Persian sermons have been pre- served. In the case of Rumi we even have a collection of his fam- iliar discourses, or "table talk," the content of which is best ex- pressed by its title, "There is what is therein" (Fihi ma FThi).70

This custom of writing down the table talk of the shaykhs seems to have been current in RiumiL's circle, as collections were

also made of the discourses of his-two spiritual teachers, Sayyid Burhan-i Muhaqqiq and Shams-i Tabrizi, as of those of his father,

Baha -i Walad. Among these, only those of Shams-i Tabrizi have re- mained unpublished.

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Although keeping personal diaries was not much in vogue among Persian Sufis, we are, nevertheless, in possession of one specimen which seems to be of a very original character--a large part of the intimate journal of Bahi al-Din Valad, the venerable father of Jalil al-Din Riimi, who tries to analyze his daily acts and thoughts. What has led this celebrated saint to write down his deeds and thoughts was probably a desire to check his acts in order to avoid any offense to his religious conscience. We read in Ibn al-cArabils Futuhit7l that the teachers of that Spanish saint used also to write down all they did and said, and used to read it through after their nightly prayers. If Harith al-Muhasibi kept a journal, it was to account for his sins in order to perform formal penitence for them--whence his name, al-Muhasibi, "the accountant." Moreover, Hakim-i Tirmidhi. and Fadl-i Astarabadi wrote down their dreams, and Ibn al-cArabi kept a Aareful record of his mystical ex- periences in his Meccan revelations. But the case of Baha al-Din Valad is somewhat different. Although it sometimes sounds like Bayazid's "Ascension" and Niffril's "Stages" in its ecstatic fea- tures, his work is unique in the freshness of his ideas and the depth of his analysis.

Among minor genres of literary prose the personal correspon- dence of some Suf is is also of some importance. The epistles of al-Junayd, and the letters of Abu Sacid shed new light on the dev- elopment of Sufi doctrines. There also exist collections of let- ters and epistles belonging to both Ghazzili and Rumi, which have great literary value.

But the huge number of letters composed by CAyn al-Qu4at deserve special mention. A spiritual disciple of Ghazzili, this ga4j of Hamadan was also a prolific writer. In addition to excel- lent quatrains, in which he is not inferior to Khayyim, he wrote theosophical works both in Arabic and Persian. As a Sufi teacher, moreover, he used to preach his ideas through long letters addressed to his few disciples and admirers. Among these admirers there was a vizier of the Saljuqs whose fall provided an opportunity to the hostile ulama of Hamadan to engineer the arrest of cAyn al-Qudat. He was arrested under suspicion of heresy, sent to Baghdad for trial, imprisoned there for some months, and returned to Hamadan to be ex- ecuted, crucified and burned in 1127 A.D. In one of his most im- pressive letters, sent to the ulama of Islam while imprisoned in Baghdad, the poor ga4i of Hamadan very explicitly claims his inno- cence and explains the esoteric meaning of the ideas for which his enemies have caused his arrest. This epistle, called "The Complaint of the Stranger,"i an English translation of which was recently pub- lished by A.J. Arberry, is one of the most brilliant works of the

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and contains a brief but precise exposition of his teachings. CAyn al-Qudat is supposed to have written more than 120 letters, in Ara-

bic and Persian, all dealing with mystical problems.

A parallel course in this method of teaching was followed by

Qutb b. Muhl al-Jahruml, some four centuries later. This saintly leader is supposed to have founded a utopian community in Persia around the beginning of the Safavid period. He used to teach and lead his followers by means of correspondence--just as did cAyn al- Qudat. His letters, only a selection of which has been published, show that his socialistic community was located in a place called

Ikhwan Xbad somewhere in the neighborhood of Jahrum. His letters

are mostly addressed to his disciples in Ikhwan Ab5d or to others concerning their spiritual problems, and are of considerable mysti-

cal and ethical interest.

Before the Sufi orders came into being, and especially in

the early days of the ascetic movement in Islam, Sufism rather tended to individualism. Nevertheless, the early Sufis did not go

so far as to detach themselves from social life and to abandon society as doomed to corruption and destruction. Temporary retire-

ment or wandering in remote places did not always prevent them from

taking part in congregational Friday prayer, in pilgrimages to Mecca and occasionally in holy wars. The performance of such reli-

gious duties, however, did not lead them to urge asceticism on other Muslims as a recipe for collective life. Even the Sufi story tellers (guaH) who used to threaten the common folk with descrip- tions of hell, urged only personal penitence and individual devo- tion. Unlike the Anchoretes of Egypt and the Syrian Sons of the

Covenant (Bena- Qey-ma), no organization linked them in their ascetic endeavors.

The assumption that every person has a direct and personal connection with the godhead, and the conviction that there are as many ways to God as there are human souls, did not permit the fer-

vent penitents--in revolt against the extravagances of the commun-

ity--to spend their time on the salvation of others.

There were ascetics who avoided frequenting societies and

markets, seeing in them barriers to disinterested devotion.72 To

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an admirer who once expressed the desire to live for a while with the ascetic Shucayb b. al-Harb, the pious man pointed out that wor- ship does not permit collaboration and sharing.73 Ibn al-MIubgrak was asked what the heart's remedy was. "Not seeing men' was his an- swer. Another Sufi remarked that union with God is sepay tion from all else and separation from all else is union with Him. Hence the well-known Sufi definition for the gnostics: ki'in'n ba'in, i.e., a detached being, one who outwardly lives with men but is in- wardly detached. This explains why some early Sufis like Rabi ah and Ibrahim-i Adham did not endeavour to preach Sufism as a way open to all.

Nevertheless, the fact that the Suf i movement originated among common folk and represented a reaction against the rigid for- malism of jurists and traditionalists made it more attractive for common people, and especially for the men of the bazaar. In fact, a number of Sufi teachers arose from among the bazaar people. Par- asitism, occasionally in vogue among the ulama, was never heard of among early Suf is, who preferred to earn their daily bread by their own labor. It is no wonder then that out of some sixty persons Hujwiri named as the forerunners of Sufism, fifteen were connected to the crafts and business.75

Uways al-Qarani was a shepherd; Habib b. Salim was a shep- herd; Bayazid was a water carier; Sari al-Saqati was a huckster- Shaqiq-i Balkhi was a merchant; Abiu Hafs al-Nishaptiri was an iron- smith; Hamdun al-Qasslr was a laundrymaA; Al-Junayd was a glass dealer; Sumnun al-Muhibb was a date merchant; Abu Bakr al-Warraq was a book dealer; Abii Sacid al-Kharraz was a haberdasher; Khayr al-Nassaj was a weaver; Abiu al-cAbb5s al-Amull was a butcher; Abii Isbaq al-Khawwa was a date dealer; Abu Hamzah al-Baghd5di was a cloth dealer.

Among other celebrated Suf is there are also craftsmen and artisans of every kind, such as baker (khabbiz), barber (muzayyin), fisherman (sammak), plasterer (Qatir%), shoemaker (khaffaf, , iadhdha), donkey driver (khar-bandah), saddler (sarrij), pharmacist (5aydal- an!), flour dealer (daggig), and many others.

The conversion of some craftsmen to Sufism may have led to mass conversions of various local or provincial guilds and corpor- ations, who would find in the new teaching moral support against the tedious formalism of the ulama, so alien to their psyche. But there remains the question whether this membership did not later serve as a stone weight attached to the bird's wing and thereby

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prevent it from distant flight. Inasmuch as pure mystical experi- ence is concerned, the answer must be affirmative.

Nevertheless, this was not the only factor in the later de- velopment of Sufism, and its effect appeared only in the course of time. It was with the conversion of artisans and craftsmen however that Sufism gained the concept of both brotherhood and initiation. This led to the idea that no individual can expect perfection in the Sufi path unless he is guided by an authoritative master--an idea evidently connected with traditions of both guild corporations and the IsmaCIlT Karmathians. But this notion was indeed essenti- ally inconsistent with the original Sufi belief in personal and direct communication with God. Nonetheless, theoreticians soon ap- peared to incorporate the theory of sainthood (wilayah), through which Sufism could develop Sufi orders.

That Abi Bakr, Ali, and especially Salmgn-i F5rsI, have been credited by the Suf is as their patrons also bears witness to the influence of guild corporations in the development of the system of Sufi orders. All three were, of course, linked in one way or an- other to the concept of labor and craft. Abu Bakr is said to have continued his business even during his caliphate; Ali is reported to have been a hired worker in palm groves, and Salman is believed to have lived by weaving reed baskets even when already the gover- nor of Ctesiphon. Moreover, each of them represented qualities which common Muslims required for spiritual leadership: Abu Bakr was representative of orthodox faith, Ali the paragon of pious knighthood, and Salman the prototype of sincere devotion.

Nevertheless, the individualist trend of early Sufism held some Sufi saints aloof from relations with common folk. It is true that later generations of Sufis found in Uways al-Qarani an eponym for their individualist position also, but they themselves founded no actual order or sect and remained faithful to their original in- dividualism. An early prototype of this group was the well-known

Ribicah al-Adawiyah (d. 801). Even if-some ascetics like tiasan al- Basri, Sufyin al-Thawri, and Malik-i Dinar paid occasional visits to her, they were neither her disciples nor companions. Devotion to God with the utmost of disinterested love was the only result of her teaching. The following anecdote illustrates her stand in connection with formal ascetism: one day she was running along quickly, carrying fire in one hand and water in the other. When asked what she meant by such an action, she replied: "I am going to set fire to paradise and pour water on hell so that people will cease to worship God in the hope of paradise or from fear of hell."

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Even if a similar procedure can also be found in the act of a legendary woman of Alexandria, one cannot help comparing the hu- man aspect of this mystical stand with the fury of tne religious position of a Catholic preacher who used to threaten sinners with the terrifying words of a German poet:

If hell were going out, then would I with any breath blow up the last glimmering coals till they should blaze up again into all the first fury of their f lame.76

Ribicah's disinterested love for God left no place in her heart for any other passion. She even had little concern either for the holy person of the Prophet or for the evil spirit of Satan. It is no wonder then that Suf is like her devoted little energy to preaching, much less to the founding of orders. There is no doubt, however, that there were also Sufis to whom, besides the beatific vision of heaven, the pious and honest life on earth mattered as well. The optional poverty which they professed attracted some op- pressed people as a way to peace of mind. Whereas more sophisti- cated people resorted to medicine and other practical ways to cure their illnesses and difficulties, the common folk--possessing inad- equate material resources--sought out Sufi saints to cure them and to be their mediators and advocates with God. This explains why the Sufi saints were more highly esteemed by common folk than the representatives of religious law or the governing class. That this situation did not hold true in Safavid Persia may be due to the fact that the representatives of religious law were not only agents of the ruling class but also representatives of the Hidden Imam to whom the ruling class also claimed connection.

In any case, instead of the scrupulous care the representa- tives of religious law urged in the actions of the bodily members in rituals, the Suf is advocated stress on the deeds of the heart. This also could have more attraction for impatient workmen who naturally had no time to wory about the scrupulous rituals required by formal jurists. The anti-intellectual position the Suf is held from time to time led them gradually to claim connection with the "'unseen" (ghtyb), and hence their esoteric interpretation of revel- ation.

Whereas moderate Sufis were trying to find traditional sup- port for their mystical beliefs, there were also extremist Sufis who always sought mystical interpretations for religious traditions. They soon claimed that the outward acts were nothing more than sym- bols of the inward feelings. This sounded, indeed, similar to

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Karmathian and IsmaCili ideas, and despite the great divergences between the Sufis and these groups concerning the problem of teach- ing (taclim), the theory of wilayah (sainthood) also worked to bring Sufism and IsmaCilis together so that esoterism became a fam- iliar common ground for both. The pilgrimage to Mecca, to mention only one instance, offers an interesting illustration of this af-

finity. Nearly the same esoteric interpretation advanced by the IsmiaCilis concerning the mysteries related to the Kaa'ba has been maintained by some Sufi teachers. There is, for instance, a well- known qagidah in the Diwan of Nasir-i Khusraw in which this Ismi- CliI poet attempts to give an esoteric interpretation to every sin- gle process of the Islamic hajj. The poet describes therein how he goes out to meet and welcome a friend just returning from the pilgrimage. After the formal greetings he then starts to inquire of his friend about his pilgrimage. He asks him whether he had perceived the symbolic meaning of all the ritual acts he had per- formed. These symbolic meanings are, of course, what the IsmiCilis think to be75he actual meaning of such rites as ihrCam, rajm, tal- biyah, etc.

When the poor baji remarks that he never perceived such hidden meanings for the rituals connected with the pilgrimage, the poet points out that he then has not performed a true pilgrimage, but has solely succeeded in going to Mecca, in seeing the Kaa'ba and in buying the fatigues of the desert for silver.

The same dialogue, in a shorter form, is 7geported by Hujwiri to have occured between al-Junayd and a friend. The similarity of both dialogues is such that were not the Ismacilis credited with esoterism as one essential tenet of their creed, one would think that the poet had plagiarized the theme from his Sufi predecessor. This esoterism developed later into the strange belief expressed by some Sufis that religious law is only for common folk so that the elect Sufis are to be considered about it. Even though no particu- lar person has been accused of such belief,79 preachers of this opinion have been called ibakis, "libertines," and criticized both by orthodox Sufis and orthodox ulama. This Sufi opinion also had an Ismacill flavor and was considered by some also to reveal some Manichaean tendencies (zandagah).

If the orthodox Suf is excluded these libertines from their brotherhoods, they also did not consider blameless the members of another unorthodox group called the "people of blame." This group did not consider religious law below their dignity but neither did they show great interest in its ordinance in public. Nevertheless,

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they were supposed to observe religious law, though only in private.

The "people of blame" not only paid little attention to their ap- pearance but also manifested extreme indifference to the judgment of public opinion. On the contrary, they are said to have committed the most shameless deeds simply to draw upon themselves disapproving or unfavorable public opinion. They reportedly thought that public blame directed against them would have a great effect in making their devotion more sincere and more disinterested.

This kind of attitude, however, was not uncommon among Chris- tians of the Near East. The famous story of Theophile and Mary as

related by Syriac sources depicts these two holy per ons so that they appear to be forerunners of the Muslim Malamis.OO These two saints of the Syrian church are believed to have lived a long time publicly as buffoons and jesters of blameworthy appearance, whereas they secretly lived as real ascetics. This was of course in accor- dance with that maxim of the Christian faith which teaches believ- ers not to pray in the streets "that they may be seen of men" (Mat- thew 6:5).

This Sufi school, however, did not survive its early shaykhs of the ninth and tenth centuries, and in the following centuries Sufis spoke of "blame" as a theoretical rather than practical tenet. The way in which Ibn al-cArabi and Jalal al-Din Mulawi speak of "blame" does not suggest_any allusion to an existing Sufi order. Even the so-called Malami order in the Ottoman Empire does not seem to have an actual connection with the old school of Khurasan. The notorious Shaykh Hamzah (d. 1575), to whom the founding of this order is attributed, is said to have been executed by Sultan Murad III for pro-Christian tendencies.

Was there really any connection between the "people of blame" and the order called Fityan in later times? Contrary to what A. cAfifi81 has advocated in favor of such a connection, B. Furuzanfar finds little evidence for it. He points out that while the Fityan boasted about their good deeds, the "people of blame" concealed their good deeds and used to draw public blame on themselves.82. Nevertheless, the Fityin movement seems to have originated from the connection between Sufism and the guild corporations--sometimes even through the cAyy5rs.

Originally connected with the sacred memory of Imam Ali-- whome the Prophet allegedly recognized as the unequaled Knight of Islam--the movement was encouraged, if not actually conducted, by some branches of Alids who considered themselves the true

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representatives of this sacred knighthood. That the Caliph Nasir (d. 1225), who was credited with pro-Alid tendencies, placed him- self at a later time at the head of this wide-spread organization may bear witness to its link with the Alids and Abbasids. Among the Sons of Imam Ali, Muhammad al-Hanaflyah, who dreamed of his father's knighthood, had connections with the forefathers of the Abbasids. That a Shicite sect called Kayslinites gathered around his name and became the nucleus of Abbasid propaganda is signifi- cant because not only does Muhammad al-Hanafilyah develop later as the hero of an epic popular among artisans and craftsmen but also Abbasid propaganda was connected with the guild corporations of Kufah (for which reason the warrior aristocracy of the Arabs had always despised them).

These so-called freed-men, mainly non-Arab peasants, artisans and craftsmen, had marked the anti-Umayyad movements of both al- Mukhtar and Abu Muslim with their Kaysanite tenets. These provin- cial and urban classes of non-Arab stock, regarded for a long time by the tribal Arab nobility as non-qualified for the noble task of war, proved their organized power in their anti-Arab revolts. They had inherited, in fact, a certain organizing experience from the past days of MadZ'in (Ctesiphon) when their fathers had had to deal with corporation problems such as tax distributions under the Sasan-

ians. The barber-governor of post-Sasanian MadVin, Salman-i Farsl, may have served as a link in this supposed Mada'in-K5ufah connection.

The predominance of artisans and craftsmen in the formation of Abu Muslim's partisans was so great that the general and his soldiers were all, not without some derision, surnamed the Saddlers. Even later it was a coppersmith of Sistan who raised almost the first open revolt against the Abbasids in Persia, this time with the cooperation of a new organization, the cAyyars. These were voluntary warriors, grouped together under a knighthood ethic with a discipline similar to that of guild corporations, putting the "initiate" under the tutelage of the "pioneer," and appearing in urban and rural centers either for the purpose of holy wars or sim- ply to represent a front of opposition against local powers.

Later, when Sufism could gain some converts among craftsmen and artisans, these losely organized groups--sometimes also called

rindin--found their way into Sufi ranks, and hence the frequent use of rind in Persian poetry as a synonym of Sufi. Clad in soldiers' uniforms and bound by almost no special discipline, the secular ele- ments of CAyyars, the true libertines as the epithet rind may de- pict them, were often a real threat to the security of towns, es- pecially during peace time. This explains why the soldier garb

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inspired such hatred and terror among common folk that the "people of blame" used it to deter the public from respecting and esteeming them.

However, the principles of the cAyyars concerning generosity and chivalry sometimes reached such a high standard that the moral ideals of a certain Nuh-i cAyyar seems as pure and disinterested as those of the "people of blame."183

That some shaykhs of the Malgais--Ahmad b. Khadriiyah for in- stance--used to wear soldier's garb instead of The Sufi wool gar- ment may give support to the supposed connection of the "people of blame" with the CAyyars, who had made a rule to wear warrior garb and to call their chieftain by military titles like sarhang (colo- nel) and sardar or salgr (general).

The cAyy5r-Fityin connection led them later to frequent par- ticipation in holy wars and to occasional retirement into ribats-- frontier barracks built for war use in remote frontiers of the world but gradually becoming peaceful dwellings for ascetic retire- ment. Moreover, this connection developed in the athletic tradi- tions of Persian gymnasiums (zuirkhanahs) where the Imam Ali was

highly respected as the sovereign of-men (shah-i mard5n), and a poet of Khwlrizm, called Piurya-i Vali or Qit-li, was honored as their most eminent Sufi-athelete. Afterwards the wrestling exer- cises also became a symbol of their inward struggle or spiritual war against the Devil. The organization of the gymnasium offers

striking affinities with the Sufi khaniqghs and their initiation rituals bear likeness to that of the Fityan and the Sufi orders alike.

Another survival of the Sufi-cAyygr tradition was the well- known Haydari-Nicmatl quarrels in Safavid and Qajar Persia, which ceased only one hundred years ago. This was a Persian version of the notorious Gwelf-Ghibellines conflict, which divided the chief cities of Safavid Persia into wards and excited continual outbursts of violence between quarters and parties.85 That both parties were credited with Sufi eponyms--the Haydaris with a certain Qutb al-Din Haydar and the Nicmatis to Shah Nicmatallih--denotes their rela- tions with the Sufi-cAyyars.

Despite what some European travellers have noted, the custom was by no means an invention of Shah CAbb5s the Great but a contin-

uation of the town-wars (shahr Jan ) I accounts of which may be found in historians of pre-Safavid times.

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That the ethical value of Fityan tenets was of a higher sta-

ture than that of the CAyyars is, indeed, beyond question. The

futflwah, being more urban, seemed more refined that the CAyyirs, who offered something more rude. Nevertheless, the early Sufis re-

cruited converts from both. Thus, for instance, whereas Fu4ayl b. Iyad was a highwayman, Hamdiin-i Qassar was an artisan of urban or- igin. The doctrine of "blame" was greatly appreciated by the lat- ter who is reported to have said, "Blame is the abandonment of wel- fare."87

Did the Qalandaris continue the traditions of the "people of blame"? It is indeed, in the late tenth century, during the dec- line of the "people of blame" as a group, that the earliest mention of Qalandars occurs in Sufi literature. They also used to wear sol-

dier's garb, though not as a special costume. Moreover, they re- garded their opposition to rigid formalism as a revolt against hyp-

ocrisy. Nevertheless, the Qalandars seem to have been more cynical in social behavior and less careful in religious matters than the

"people of blame. " The use of hashish and henbane was widespread among them, and instead of soldier's garb they sometimes wore the skins of lions or leopards to inspire fear and respect among rustic folk. Moreover, contrary to most Sufi orders, whose members had long hair or wore felt caps, they used to shave their heads, beards and even eyebrows. They probably represented, at least in their

prime, a reaction against the order system already in vogue, and

especially against their rigid and too formalistic regulations.

The inner light on which the Suf is had based their theory of

knowledge developed gradually into a rationalist anti-rationalism. Speculative reason was considered by the Sufis as unqualified for the quest of the unseen and regarded as no more than a useful tool for getting on in the world. Confined to such an elementary level, speculative reason was considered alien to the sublime truth of the unseen, which was deemed beyond its access.

The theologians and the philosophers who use speculative

reason in search of higher truth are compared by one Sufi thinker88 to the blind, who use their sense of touch in order to get an idea of what is to be seen. This attempt is, of course, a failure since it cannot result in certainty.

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Moreover, what can the blind man's touch grasp out of the infinite reality that is the unseen? A very superficial and vague idea, indeed. To illustrate this point they often quote a well-

known parable, probably of Indian orijin, a Pali version of which goes back to the second century A.D.89 The parable, which appears in Ghazzali, Hadigah, Mathnawl, and a prose work of cAziz al-Nasaf i, with rather different details and applications, tells us that once a group of blind men came to an exhibition of elephants to find out .what an elephant was like. As they could not see the animal, each one felt it with his hand and got a different idea of it. One felt only its trunk and found the beast to be like a waterspout, another handled its ear and pictured it to be like a fan. A third who had rubbed against its leg thought the elephant to be similar to a pil- lar, and the fourth who had laid his hand on its back imagined it to be something like a throne. It is true that each one of these

persons in some sense spoke the truth, but the idea they got of its whole was inevitably wrong. The palm of the blind man, to which is likened the speculative reason of individuals, cannot cover the whole truth. That kind of knowledge, inaccessible to speculative reason, is such that once taught by the teacher, the disciple's conception of it may be equal to that of the teacher,90 whereas the knowledge acquired by the heart cannot be taught, and each dis- ciple and teacher must have his own taste of it--hence its appella- tion cilm-i dhawqgi. Such is the higher knowledge that the Suf is call macrifah or Cirfan, i.e., gnosis, and claim to be above spec- ulation and teaching. It is not to be acquired by reasoning and

speculating but by emptyin? the heart of thought, and by reaching to it for spiritual gifts.

This explains why the Sufis don't regard bookish knowledge as necessary for high knowledge, and urge only purification of the heart.92 That learned people like cAyn al-Qudat and Jalal al-Din Mawlawi chose some illiterate folk like Shaykh-i Barakah and Salab al-Din Zarkub as their spiritual leaders indicates the minimal con- cern they had for speculation and formal learning. We are told that neither Shaykh-i Barakah nor 5alah al-Din could speak good Persian, but only dialect or slang. As a matter for fact, the spi- ritual teacher has no teaching role but has only to assist the dis- ciple in his spiritual journey and to keep him within the path.

It is no wonder then that a well-known Sufi thinker like CAzTz al-Nasaf i points out explicitly that the "knower" whom one may trust in the Sufi path is neither to be found among the bookish preachers nor even among the Suf is of convents, who are of self- conceited and egotistical nature.93 In other words, the role of

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the Sufi spiritual teacher is rather like that of the Socratic Maeutic, who is to help the disciple's heart to give birth to its inner gnosis, and nothing more. If some spiritual teachers, es- pecially after the establishment of orders, have been regarded as something more, that is rather in connection with their sainthood and with their place in the Sufi hierarchy of saints.

Sufi knowledge derives from the heart, on which the whole

psychology of the Suf is is based. By the heart, they conceived

nearly the whole of man's inner life, including knowledge and ac- tion. This concept was based on the Qur'an,94 but nearly all the Semitic peoples of the pre-Islamic Near East had a similar concept. Thus, not only in the Old Testament Psalms, 95 but also in the New Testament, the heart denotes the inner man. It is used in nearly

the same sense throughout the whole of the biblical writings. Even the "heart of God" has been used97 to denote the center of divine designs and will.98

The Suf is considered the heart as both the theologian's ratio and intellectus, in evidently the same way that the French mystic Pascal"" often made use of it, perhaps with still greater stress on its intuitive character. To the Suf is the heart is ra-

ther a transcendental subtlety (latifah-i rabbani), connected in a mysterious way to the "cone-shaped fleshy organ situated in the left side of the chest." The Sufi knowledge has, of course, no connection with this physical heart.

The relationship between its psychological aspects and its physiological functions has led the Sufis to consider the heart

the real meaning of the glass lantern (zujajah) installed in the mysterious niche (mishkat), allegorically depicted in the Qur'an (24:35). The Suf is, of course, interpreted the Qur'anic niche as

the human body and identified the Qur'anic lamp Qpisbak) therein as the heart with its hidden innermost aspects.luu

Among these hidden aspects which form the "wonders of the heart,It the Sufis make special mention of the spirit (U) the secret (sirr), the hidden (kh-afi), and the most hidden (akhfa), all concepts being borrowed from revelation. These are considered by some Sufis to be merely different appellations of one and the same thing,101 whereas others view them as ordered according to their increasing separateness from the body or just in accordance

with the dependence of each element to its superior.102 They, how- ever, may be taken as vague reflections--or rather as a mystical expression--of the modern psychological concepts of the conscious

and the subconscious.

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That the heart has been compared by the Sufis to a light in

the midst of the well of naturel03 bears allusion to the fact that the heart should not be regarded simply as a mirror that reflects

the images it receives, but rather as a well, the clearness of which comes from its own depths,104 and which only need be kept clear and pure. Like the well in which the beautiful face of Yusuf was reflected, the heart also reflects the beauty of the divine be-

loved, for whom the heart of the believer is a favorite site.105

This explains why the inner light, being of a divine nature, expels all other knowledge. As a matter of fact, other knowledge comes only from physical senses whereas that of the heart comes directly through the world of divine certainty and remains beyond any doubt.lU1 Thus, conceived as a living mirror endowed with thought and feeling, the heart reflects the divine truth, the pos-

sessions of which realizes the real essence of man (taqiqat-i adami).

This real essence of man is the gnosis through which the

heart can consume its earthly part in the divine essence. This

final annihilation of the earthly part of the heart into the div- ine essence is to be realized, according to Sufis, by the process of the purification of the heart. For this purpose, the Sufi has to watch the heart very carefully and to keep it from being dark- ened by excessive connection to earthly desires. Hence the perpet- ual watching of the heart practiced by the Sufis, for which reason they call themselves the "people of the heart." This continuous watching of the heart provided the Suf is with the opportunity to peruse the inner man and to observe its changes and evolutions. They were so scrupulously aware of this continuous change of the heart that they thought its name (qalb) to be derived from the very root that means "change."107 It was this perusal of the heart which led them to distinguish between time (waqt), occurrence (kha- tir), state (jal), and station (magqm) in their mood. These terms are of frequent use in Sufi literature and bear witness to their deep experience of psychological problems. By "time" they mean the spiritual instant in which the heart enjoys the present with no memory of the past and no thought about the future. It differs from what ordinary folk think in that Sufi time is filled with the thought of God whereas the common people may feel the happy instant empty from any concern. Besides this, the present instant is either

under the pressure of a spiritual "state" o0 spiritual "station." Concerning these two kinds of mood, Hujwlrl remarks that the istate" has overwhelming supremacy over "time" and makes it happy or unhappy. The "occurrence" (khatir) is a passing thought which comes to the mind and is quickly removed.109

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Sufis do not abandon their watch over the heart even in sleep. Yet they do not really put much stress on the unreal char-

acter of dreams. The difference between sleeping and waking is, according to a Sufi writer,110 like the difference between the feelings of a person who has seen everything during the night by light and his feelings when the sun rises and he experiences every- thing as it was, but in a stronger light. This explains why they called their veridical visions "the happening" (wagicah), whether

asleepill or awake.112 The dream was considered by most Sufi shaykhs as the usual path to a Sufi miracle--a kind of inspiration occurring especially to Sufis. The explanations they used to give of dreams were sometimes of Platonic or Indian origin. For in-

stance, according to al-Ghazzall and Jalal al-Din Mawlawi, the be- lief that the soul abandons the body during sleep and roams where it likes can be traced to the Upanishads.l13 Nevertheless, the Sufis based their own explanations on prophetic and divine tradi- tions.

In fact, the stress placed on the belief in the prophetic character of dreams is an important though not exclusive feature of Sufism. In a dream, the soul was believed to wander in higher

spheres, during which it received directions and inspiration. The role that dreaming played in the spiritual life of Sufis suggests Babylonian (Gilgamesh) and Zoroastrian (Arday Viraf) influence. The Sufis had faith in the truth of dreams and founded a part of their mystical revelation on it.

A whole series of mystico-psychological experiences was re-

vealed to the Sufis in the course of these inspections of the

heart. They distinguished between "absence" and "presence,." between t'contractiontt and "expansion." They differentiated between various degrees of knowledge, such as consciousness, unconsciousness, cer- tainty, etc., and felt that all this intuitive knowledge was a re- sult of their inward experiences. The beatific vision supported by both revelation and tradition--especially in the form of accounts of nocturnal ascent--was also considered by the Sufis as a result of gnosis.

Divine manifestation (tajalli) was believed to occur both in essences and attributes (tajallT-i dhat wa sifat). This, how- ever, did not mean that a creature could actually be identified with God. Even the well-known comparison of the moli iron and fire, current almost from the early Christian period, illustrating man's annihilation in the godhead, does not presuppose the change of essence.115

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The absence of mind (ghaybat) in which condition the heart forgets all except Allah, expressed on the other side by the pre-

sence of God (btuur), as well as the contraction of the heart (abd) in the state of being veiled from the divine presence, and its ex-

pansion (bas;) in the state of revelation, all are preparatory to

the beatific vision that leads to the mystical experience in which

the mystic is unconscious of his self and conscious solely of God. It is in this way that he finally rids himself of the Satanic scat-

teredness (tafriqah) and reaches the apostolic state of concentra- tion (jam) in the divine presence: a long and painful way for a poor human to attain the beatific vision!

Another result for the Sufis of their continuous watch over

the heart was a moral system based on the careful analysis of human

moods and characters. They used this analysis also for the purifi-

cation of the heart, i.e., its moral purification. The purifica-

tion of the heart as practiced by Sufis often led them to examine themselves very carefully in order to detect any trace of hypocrisy

or latent polytheism, and by this self-examination they acquired, among other practical benefits, a secure comprehension of the human

heart. It was this knowledge that gave them success in gaining

more followers and that enabled them to found their engavors (mu-

Jiahidit) on psychological and ethical considerations.1

Most of their moral system, however, was based on the prac- tical emphasis by Sufi shaykhs on certain virtues to be sought or

certain vices to be fought. Abu Sacid Kharraz, for instance, urged that trustfulness (idq) and sincerity (ikhlia) should be observed in all deeds and thoughts.17 But Abu al-Husayn Nunr insisted that the preference of others to oneself (Ithar) was to be regarded as the cornerstone of all ethical and religious acts.118

The most elaborate system that the Sufis produced in ethical knowledge was Ghazzali's work, whose influence on Islamic thought was unequalled. According to his theory, because man's salvation is in his spiritual perfection, he must permit the divine part of his being--his heart--to become more developed and vital. This aim may be attained only by morality based, not on philosophical spec- ulation, but on following the way of the prophets and saints--the

religious path of the orthodox Sufis.

The ethics of these orthodox Sufis was by no means a pessim- istic one. The horrible hell in which Macarri and Khayyam had suf- fered did not offer such a disheartening perspective to GhazzilI and Mawlawi. One immediate result of their quasi-pantheistic ideas was their optimism. When the whole universe becomes perfect in

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itself everything therein must also be a perfection in its con- text.1-l Thus, the world of the Sufi does not offer itself as the valley of tears that the former monks and ascetics depicted. Even human beings are so tightly connected in one body in such a world that, if one mem?&r is suffering from a pain, his pain, to use the words of Sacdi,l will leave no rest for the other members. Amidst all the horror of the Crusaders and the Mongols, did this message not offer new hope for the human heart?

Neither wealth nor women were regarded by the orthodox Sufis as traps of the devil. Concerning worldly wealth, the well-known debate which Sacdl had with his rivall21 was discussed everywhere. The debate centered on whether the rich man who prays to his God and avoids what religious law prohibits represents a higher ideal than the poor man who faces dire needs and fails to follow religious laws strictly. The orthodox Sufis held that wealth was not bad in itself; what was bad was that it diverted man from his God. In an oft-quoted passage of the Mathnawi}22 the poet likens wealth to water in its relationship with a boat. Whereas water beneath the boat supports it, if it comes inside the boat it may destroy it. The same is to be said of wealth. If one's heart is not attached to it, great support may be derived from it, but once love of it enters the heart, wealth destroys the heart's purity.123

Such a convenient rationale was of course exploited by Sufi shaykhs who were the spiritual kindred of some medieval popes. This explains why a famous shaykh like Abu al-Maf3khir-i Bakharzl (d. ca. 1378) could boast of his poverty even though he was wealthy enough to dedicate from his own possessions tens of villages and

hundred! 2f landed properties to the khanigqh of his own grand- father.

With women, the case was the same. The idea of celibacy was evidently so alien to the life of orthodox Suf is that even the ru- mors that Abu cAbd Alla b. al-Khafif had contracted four hundred marriages ,125 or that Shaykh Ahmad-i Zindah Pil had married a four- teen-year old girl while in his eighties, caused no great scandal.

Moreover, even music and dance could not be excluded from the program that the orthodox Suf is had planned for the purifica- tion of the heart. As a matter of fact this custom, called "audi- tion" ;amac), was considered one of the main features of Sufi life. 4' Abu al-cAla' al-MacrrI finds gluttony to be another of their features. The stories told about Abui Sacid-i Abu al-Khayr provide illustrations of both characteristics. Abu Sacidrs enthu- siasm for music and dance made his disciples precursors of the

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whirling dervishes. Nevertheless, contrary to what biographers of Abu SaCid have remarked, Imam Qushayri did not condemn "audition" absolutely.

Despite the objection of opponents, however, "audition" held an obvious attraction for the ordinary Sufis. So, not only in the

social hall (jam5cat khanah) of the khinigqhs, but also in the large halls of private houses in nearly all medieval Muslim cities in the Near East and elsewhere, did the lively activity of the Sufi "audi- tions" take place. Drums, cymbals, and reed-pipes in their ori- ental varieties were played during these performances. The poems sung or recited by qawwalan were usually accompanied by exclama-

tions or the moving of heads or limbs. The Sufi s danced, moved around, jumped, clapped hands and gradually forgot themselves. Some wept, others beat on their faces. One would shriek and another

would tear his garments or take them off. A shaykh of Baghdad is

said to havre compared the Suf is in the "audition" to flocks of sheep attacked by wolves.127 According to Sufi thinkers, the object of the Sufis in listening to the music was not solely pleasure and de- light, but, rather, the inward feeling of something close to their

hearts. Ecstasy already existed and could only be strenghthened by hearing the musicA128 Thus, the "people of the heart," as the Sufis liked to call themselves, based on the heart not only their faith and knowledge, but even their pleasure and recreation.

VII

With the development of the system of orders, a theory of

sainthood was also developed by the Sufi shaykhs, based mainly on a pyramid-shaped hierarchy of saints. This was particularly needed in a period when the Sufi orders required an internal measure by which to check their spiritual achievements. Since the saints were likened to the Qur'anic companion-teacher of Moses, whose words were to be obeyed without any argument,129 and since they were occasion- ally compared to the mountain echo of God's voice, i13 the shaykhs of khaniqahs, who generally envisioned themselves at the top of the

pyramid, acquired undisputed authority. Thii1 of course, strength- ened the rigid discipline of the khaniqahs, without which no or- der could exist. Although the position of the top man--or the top

men--of the hierarchy had on occasion been secretly and timidly dis- puted even among some early Sufis,132 it was especially in later times that a significant number of shaykhs insisted on their exclu- sive superiority as the top saint.

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A theory of sainthood had of course existed in Islam long

before the orders came into being, though it fell upon the Sufi

orders to develop it later and to give it practical value. The

concept of sainthood in Islam was perhaps as old as Islam itself;

the Qur anl33 speaks of the saints (awliya-i 'alllh) as the friends of Allah, who will not be afraid or subject to grief. Much has

been related in the traditions concerning these "friends of God," but nothing in particular in support of their ability to work mir- acles. As a matter of fact, there is no claim of miraculous power even for the Prophet himself in the Qur'an, even though the Qur'an itself is claimed to have the miraculous character of divine revel-

ation. Nevertheless, Muslim creeds supported by later traditions speak of prophetic miracles as performed by Allah in order to prove

the authenticity of his Prophet. Theologians styled as miracles

(mucjizah) every supernatural act performed by a prophet which no challenger can duplicate. Nevertheless, the devil (shaytin), pha- roah (fircawn), and the anti-Christ (da jjl) are also reported to have performed some supernatural acts. These were not considered

by Muslim theologians as acts of divine grace, but rather as what

may be called divine deception (istidraj) to lull them into false confidence for a while.13

As for the Sufis, they didn't fail to offer excuses even for Satan and the pharaoh. True that the faith of Satan and the pharoah had been discussed long before the Sufist by various sects like the

Kharijites, Murji'ites and Muctazilites,I35 but the Sufis went oc- casionally as far as expressing sympathy--if not admiration--for

them. Thus, not only was the pharoah's dispute with Moses re arded as being based on surface and color by Jalal al-Din Mawlawl 6 but Ibn al-cArabi went as far as declaring the pharoah a saint.137

As for Satan, the Sufis looked on him as a true lover who had given his reverence only to his beloved, whence his obstinate

refusal to prostrate himself before Adam. This is what he himself

explains to us in a passage of the Mathnawl,138 where Jalal al-Din gives him the opportunity to justify himself. In his Ta SIn al- Azal wa al-Iltibas 139 Hallaj recognized in pharoah and IblIs (Sa- tan) his own teacher and declared them to be true knights in divine love.140 Ahmad al-Ghazzali asserts141 that everyone who does not learn the true monism (tawhid) from Satan is an atheist. According

to cAyn al-Qu4at, this poor, damned being was in fact a passionate lover who did not hesitate to call contempt and blame down upon himself, for his beloved's sake.142

That Sufi speculation provided the two damned characters with such a paradoxical but brilliant defense naturally incited the

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ulama's wrath against them. Did this sympathy for the devil, taught so enthusiastically by Sufi preachers, have any relation to the so-

called devil wymhipping Yazldls? That particular question requires further study,l 3 but that this position increasingly exposed the Sufis to the hostility and suspicion of orthodox Muslims is beyond doubt.

In fact, the concept of divine deception (istidraj) requires

that Satan and pharaoh thuld be considered mere tools for the ful- fillment of God's will. Indeed, their deeds were in full agree- ment with God's foreknowledge of them. Whether obedient or disobi- ent to God, they were carrying out his eternal will in the way de- creed by Him. Since their disobedience was eternally decreed by divine will (mashlyah, iradah), how could they obey? Moreover, true lovers delight in the anguish their beloved may inflict upon them. If it is true that the lover's pleasure is to be the means of the expression of his beloved's will, then Satan and the pharaoh cannot be recognized as anything else.

To return to sainthood and the gift of the miracle: whether this supernatural power was or was not bestowed upon the friends of God was always a controversial point for various sects and groups. Whereas the Hashiwlyahs maintained that such special privilege may have been conferred on some pious people of the past, but that such privileged people no longer exist, the Muctazilites thought that no Muslim can be more privileged than another, and therefore there are neither special friends o Allah nor any kind of supernatural deeds to be performed by them.1 5 The free thinkers (zindigs) denied that even things contrary to the usual course of things can happen.

The orthodox Muslims (Ashcarls) thoutht it evidently possible, as did some philosophers like Avicennal 6 and Ibn Khaldun.47 Never- theless, al-Biruni is sceptical on this point when he tells us that all people who hold doctrines like incarnation (tuliul) and identi- fication (itta4ad) and who live in extreme asceticism are naturally disposed to claim things that are logically unacceptable. 14

Providing a welcome answer to a natural need of the ordinary man, the belief in saints and their miraculous power spread through- out the whole Muslim world. Its influence in Muslim territories be- came so great that in India it gave birth to the strange cult of Panchon Pir, the worship of five elders, which spread among some Indian castes that were partly or wholly Hindu, 9 but who enlisted some Sufi saints like Baha al-Haqq, Shah Shams-i Tabriz and others, among the varying lists of their five elders.

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The great popularity of the early ascetics had left such an impact on the memory of the common folk that they gradually became centers of a cult--with their tombs serving as its temples. Frequenting graves and especially those of pious men was always regarded as a source of blessing (barakah) and spiritual profit (fayl). In spite of numerous traditions against performing prayers near the tombs,150 the tombs of some pious people became sanctua- ries with domes (qubbahs) upon them and with gardens (rau4ah) around them. A number of tomb-mosques (mashhads) were erected in the course of time, especially around the tombs ascribed to early martyrs, prophets, Alids, miracle workers and even great ulama. In the case of Sufis they often became central mohasteries (khani-

The holy men buried in these tomb-mosques and khaniqahs were believed to be spiritually alive, even though bodily emtombed. Miraculous powers were ascrfeld to their earth (turbat), to their shadow, and to their names. 1 This supernatural power was first accorded to these dead immortals and was gradually extended to their spiritual heirs, the Sufi shaykhs. This miraculous power ascribed to Sufi shaykhs, and occasionally also to some pious ulama, included unusual gifts like thought reading, telepathy, prophecy, and hypnotic power. They are believed, moreover, to possess other extraordinary powers such as the ability to transform themselves into various shapes, to transport themselves instantly to distant places, to walk on the sea and on air, to transmute copper into gold and to check rains and floods. Their prayers are believed to be heard and accepted by God, their presence is considered to be beneficient and divine--hence the public belief in their bles- sings. This blessing (barakah) was occasionally sought in the dust on which they walked or rode.152 Nevertheless the trampling (daws) ceremonies, during which a number of dervishes lay down with their faces to the ground so that the shaykh could ride over them on horseback and thus give them blessing, was not performed anywhere except in Cairo and Syria, and that almost exclusively by Sacdl brotherhoods in Mawlid ceremonies. This blessing by the shaykhs attracted the poor people to seek and place their spiritual welfare in the persons of these supposed holy men, who were believed to have a hand in the government of the universe.

Is there a possible link between this Sufi idea with that of the Brahman ascetics who thought also of gaining complete power over nature? The point is that the Brahmans earned this power through personal asceticism, whereas the Suf is thought to gain it chiefly through what they called divine grace (minnah). Moreover, the Muslim

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saints considered this miraculous power as a tempatation and did

not like to boast of it.153 This Sufi concept has scarcely any con- nection with the notion of charismata of the early Christian

churches. The supposed phonetic and semantic resemblance seems to

be accidental.

The miraculous power of the stints was regarded to have been

derived chiefly from divine race,15 and bestowed upon the saint as a generous gift from God, 55 whence its name karamah (generos- ity). The Suf is themselves regarded miracles as divine acts, be-

lieving that man could only perform a miracle as the representative

of God.156

Thus, whereas Avicenna and the theologians explained the

miraculous acts of the saints on the grounds of the existence of

still unsolved mysteries of nature, the Sufis themselves explained it as a result of their divine connections--their so-called vice-

gerency. That they are considered the governors of the universe,

the men for whose sake the rain falls and the plants grow on the earth,157 is evidently in their capacity of vicegerency, their qual- ity of being "perfect men." The concept of the "perfect man" as represented in the works of Ibn al-cArabi, cAbd al-Karim Jili, and-- with a slight difference--in the works of Jalal al-Din Mawlawi, CAzIz-i Nasafi, and Shaykh-i Shabistari denotes the highest type of human being, one who has realized his oneness with God. In other

words, the perfect man was regarded as the universal spirit or the universal reason which united within himself inward and outward re-

ality. He is the medium through whom God knows himself and his

creatures, the microcosm that reflects the divine perfection with

the whole macrocosm in his miniature being.

The Shicite Suf is based the concept of sainthood (wilayah) on the word mawla, a mysterious epithet uttered by the Prophet in Ghadir, on his way back from Mecca in 633 A.D. The perfect man was thus represented by the twelve Alid Imams. The cult of saints as conceived by the orthodox Suf is, however, was linked to the Prophet himself. There was not only a prophetic tradition, based on the authority of Ibn Masciud, that would legitimize the hierarchical system of Sufi sainthood but also the concept of the nur-i Mubammadi i.e., the light of Muhammad, which would make him the central fig-

ure of Sufi sainthood. Conceived as the first creation, this "light of Muhammad" was regarded somewhat like logos in its twofold rela- tion with God and the world. The side immanent to God received di- vine emanation that is transmitted to the world through the side adjacent to the world. Thus, while wilgyah (sainthood) is the God- side of "Muhammad's light," its world-side is the prophecy.

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Does this mean that sainthood is superior even to prophecy, and that the prophets are lower than the saints? The orthodox Suf is held that the end of sainthood is only the beginning of pro-

phecy,158 but there were extemist Sufis who maintained that the importance of a prophet is due to his sainthood rather than his

prophecy. It was a view similar to this that Hujwiri159 found in vogue among some extremist Sufis of Khurasan, and which he criti- cized as inspired by the devil. This extremist idea of sainthood was supported by a more extremist interpretation of the legend of

KhiQr and Moses. That Moses had still more to learn from this good

"servant" of God160 was considered by extremist Sufis to indicate the superiority of saints to prophets.161 Moreover, they claimed that saints receive inspiration directly from God, whereas prophets

receive it only through an intermediary. The orthodox Suf is con- sidered all these statements false. They maintained that the sup-

posed superiority of Khidr to Moses is only a misunderstanding of the Qur'an since God has granted various spiritual gifts to various persons, and this does not mean that He has favored one of them

over the other.162 The miracles of saints are granted to them by virtue of their obedience to the prophet of their time. Further-

more, while the inspiration of prophets is continuous, the inspira-

tion of saints is only occasional. According to Hujwlri the sub- lime contemplation which a saint reaches after he has attained his

utmost perfection is only the first step of prophets.163 Al-Sarraj points out that Khidr could never bear a single moment of the illu-

mination which Moses had enjoyed.164 Thus, despite the preference of the extremist Sufis for sainthood, the orthodox Sufis held that

one moment of a prophet is better than the whole life of a saint. In other words, the fleeting state (hal) of a saint is the perma- nent station (mag,a) of a prophet and that which is just a veil (hijab) to a prophet is a spiritual station to a saint.

The immortal Khidr represents for the Suf is the prototype of the spiritual teacher whose knowledge cannot be taught by words but can be gained only by personal experience of the disciple himself. That he forbade Moses to ask him anything meant that the spiritual

teacher could not explain all and that the disciple should wait un- till his own inner eyes were opened.165 A regular or even occasional meeting with this typical teacher of saints has always been consid-

ered by Suf is as a privilege of the Sufi saints.166

Although Ibrahim b. al-Adham is reported to have met Khidr several times on the way to Mecca,167 and Hakim al-Tirmidhi is said to have geceived a private lesson from him every day for several yearsP,16 another Sufi, Ibrihim al-Khawwas, refused to accompany

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Khidr who desired his company, fearing that his mind might become engaged by someone other than God.169 His refusal was later con- sidered as progress toward a greater spiritualism.170 This was what happened to the Mulla Shah Q5dirl, a Sufi of India, who refused to accept assistance offered him by Khidr. 111

The problem of sainthood had been discussed by early Suf is such as Ibrahim-i Adham and Bayazid, but it was through Hakim al- Tirmidhi that it developed into a full theory. This philosopher- saint was mostly preoccupied with his visions and contemplations. His autobiographical sketches depict his wife also as being absorbed in mystical dreams. He was one of the great theoreticians of Is- lamic mysticism and tended toward a contemplative kind of philo- sophy. The only historical fact we know of his life is that, driven out from his native town, he fled to Nishapir, where, in 898 A.D., he was still teaching. His last days, however, were evidently spent in Tirmidh where the ruins of his Comb are still visited.172 His theory on sainthood, as explained in his book on the "seal of the saints," which was later propounded by Ibn al-cArabi and others, divided the saints into two categories--common (c5mmah) and partic- ular (kh-a8h), representing a compromise with formal asceticism. But whether he himself his wife, or an imam had the "seal of the saints" is not clear .13

The so-called lore of letters (cilm al-turuf), probably linked in one way or another to the letters at the beginning of some Qur'anic suras, assigned numerical values to the Arabic letters and involved methods of predicting future events. It was occasionally called al-simia and al-ja 4 and together with al-kImy , it con- stituted the secret knowledge of the saints. Messianic ideas as ex-

pressed in Hurufi- Nuqtawi sects, symbolic designations like yal- lali for Ali and mim for Muhammad, and esoteric expressions like ta sin al-azal of HallHj and h3mim al-lidam of Abu Bakr al-Wasiti, together with a considerable number of esoteric writings of cabal- istic character, are the results of this occult lore of the saints.

The pyramidal hierarchical system, with some variation in classification and denomination, fixes the total number of living saints for each time at nearly the numbers of days in the lunar year (354 days), and thus imputes their supposed link with the cosmic or- der. Unknown to the public and even to themselves, the saints of the hierarchy are called "the invisible men" (rijal al-ghayb). They are also called the abdal, abdHl5n, and budalV, i.e., the substi- tutes, since when one of them passes away, his place is immediately filled by another saint.

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There is, of course, great discrepancy concerning their cat- egerization, with some systems divided into six grades and others into seven. The pseudo-prophetic tradition of Ibn-Masci3d divides them into a group of three hundred people with hearts like that of Adam, forty people with hearts like that of Abraham, seven with hearts like that of Moses, five people with hearts like that of Gabriel, three people with hearts like that of Michael, and one person with a heart like that of Israfil.175

The head of the hierarchy is called gu$b (the pole). He is the man whose help is sought by all--including saints. This ex- plains why he is also called ghawth (succour), though this title has also been given on occasion to a saint immediately below the "tpole" in the pyramid. Despite the fact that the saints are usual- ly considered to be hidden from the public eye, some shaykhs of the khiniqahs have claimed to have become the "pole" (succour), or "sub- stitute." The comparison of the heart of the quyb to the heart of Israfil denotes that the former, like that archangel, will give new spiritual life to the dead. The concept of gu;b has been connected by various Sufis to the idea of the Shicite imam, in whom some Shicite Suf is have also recognized the "seal of the saints."l176 The Shicite Sufis of today regard the Hidden Imam to be at the head of the hierarchy so that the great Shaykh of the Gunibadi Order--to

take a modern example--acts t7 his name and even accepts pledges of allegiance on his behalf.

Sainthood, however, is not always confined to wise and ser- ious people. Insane and lunatic men have also been occasionally accepted among their sacred ranks. These are the so-called at- tracted ones, (majdhUban) whose bold utterances are sometimes con- sidered to be inspired. Peculiar representatives of these people

are the so-called wise fools (cuqa1.-i maj:nIn, shiirldagan), to whom cAttar has devoted a number of his poetical stories. Contrary to Jewish tradition, which considered the "fool" impious or wicked,178 the Muslims regarded them as people who were excused and freed from religious and social duties. Their insanity was sometimes recognized by the Sufis as a divine madness (junun-i il-

ihi). They were regarded by some Suf173hinkers as being partly or completely conquered by the "unseen." A prototype of these holy fools was the well-known Buhlul (d. ca. 814 A.D.), whom legend has made a cousin of the Caliph Harun al-Rashid (d. 809 A.D.). Although stories about him have been partly confused with those of Ulayyan, Anbawa, Taq al-Baqal and other notorious fools,180 he undoubtedly had Shicite tendencies, and had addressed remonstrances to the Cal- iph Hariun. A number of his stories are recorded in Sufi literature, and have thoughtful features. He is said to have been a contemporary of Fu4ayl.

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Another representative of these wise fools is the martyr Sarmad (d. 1661-2), known for his exquisite quatrains and his tra- gic death. Converted to Islam, this Jew of Kashan travelled to India and embraced Sufism. It was there that he became a fakir, lost his control and went about naked. His unconsciousness was such that he used to utter unorthodox words and to pronounce only the negative part of the Muslim faith, claiming that he had not passed the stage of negation to reach the state of affirmation. Such daring utterance was sufficient to draw public wrath against him. Having been admired by the Prince Dara Shukiuh, he later was arrested and put to death as a heretic--just after the fall of that ill-starred Prince.

Thge wise-fool saints as represented by Buhljul, Luqman-i Sarakhsi9 and Sarmad, remind us in several respects of the Syriac gate ascetics for whom the best way to follow the Christ was to act like a fool in order to be exposed to the public ituta (contempt).

Thus the ?ate ascestics are to be considered as a Christian pre- 82 cursor of both "the people of blame" and the wise fools of Islam.1 Nevertheless, they were probably not regarded with the same compas- sionate eyes as their Muslim counterparts were later regarded in Muslim countries.

These wise fools of Islam are also depicted in the poetical works of cAttar, who has no less than 115 stories concerning their deeds and words in the course of his MathnawiyHt.183 They express their bold and daring opinions concerning the godhead, creation, and especially the distribution of fortune and good, in ways that are pessimistic, harsh, and sometimes cynical. Their critical stand toward God and creation reminds us of the heretic Ibn al-Rawandi. A

well-known q_scah of cAyy8-l-Qudat attributed also with some addi- tions to Ni?ir Khusraw, may be considered as a list of the ob- jections frequently raised by these wise fools of cAttir against the godhead.

VIII

The atmosphere in which the Sufi thinker used to live was haunted by the overwhelming idea of God. The "Infinite" had en- chanted him and he could do nothing but concentrate on it, submit to it, and enjoy it. When awake his heart was preoccupied with this idea, and when asleep his dreams were filled with divine

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visions. When he tended his heart, he found that it was the favor-

ite throne of God; and whenever he neglected it, even for a short

moment, he would feel that it has fallen prey to the devil's at- tempts to lure it away (waswas, waswasah). When speaking to other men, his speech was in one way or another connected with God; when silent his thoughts were directed to the same idea.

His best moments were mostly spent in his dhikr, the regular ritual glorifying Allah with certain fixed phrases repeated in a definite order, either aloud (dhikr-i jall) or whispered (dhikr-i khafi), often with peculiar breathing and physical movements. When he gave in to earthly pleasure, he would hear the bodiless voice of

the heavenly herald (hatif) rebuking him. This auditory hallucina- tion, which reminds us of the Zoroastrian srush and the Socratic

daimon, would lead him back to his fixed idea.

This fixed idea pursued him, tortured him and sometimes re- duced him to sacred delirium. Although he was kind, quiet, and wise in his general comportment, his behavior manifested certain

pathological signs when observed by the layman. His involvement in the divine affair absorbed nearly all of his time and attention. Every time Abi Hamzah-i Sufi (d. 902 A.D.) heard the wind whistling, the water murmuring or the cock crowing he used to sa: "Yes, here I am," as if in everything he heard a divine call.l8 Long before his persecution, Hallaj used to go to the market places of Baghdad

and shout helplessly: "O folk, help me to get rid of the One [God] who does not leave me to myself to enjoy, nnr does he take me away from myself so that I may live in peace."186

Such an internal condition did not permit the Sufi to exper- ience anything but God in all of his external environment. To him

God was the absolute reality, the creative truth (saq), compared to which everything else seemed to be unreal, vain and of a shadowy existence.187 With such a concept of God, he naturally was not in- clined to seek logical proof of God's existence. A well-known tra- dition that the Prophet had urged Muslims to think of the mercies

of God rather than His existenc!, ould suffice to keep him away from metaphysical speculations. What can one gain from all such

useless speculations? How should the gnat know--asked Jalil al-DIn Mawlawi ingeniously--of how old the garden is? The poor creature, continues the poet, has just been born in the spring and will see its death the following winter.189 If the miserable worm, born in- side the timber can know the wood when it was a young tree, then the philosopher may also know the beginning of the world.

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As a follower of revelation the Sufi disliked the Hellenis-

tic philosophy introduced in the Muslim world by MuCtazilite theo- logians, but as a preacher of the divine path he could rethink its problems within the limits of revelationi. The presence of God in the universe is, of course, as evident as the brightness of the sun, as impossible to overlook as the fact of man's own existence. Con- cerning this problem, however, a number of speculative proofs were to be found in every formal credo of orthodox Islam.190 Theologians and philosophers have presented their well-known arguments on novi-

tate mundi (1,udiJth-i Calam), or on contingentia mundi (imkan-i C5lam), but all these skillful arguments have sought in the imper- fect a reason for the perfect, in the unreal a witness to the real. But a mystic cannot share such reasoning. If there is something whose existence needs to be demonstrated, it is by no means the perfect being; it is rather the unreal being of the world. The phil- osopher who proves the existence of the necessary by means of the contingent is like the foolish man who seeks, to use the word of

Shabjfiari, the blazing sun by the dim light of a torch in the des- ert. A critical remark made by Shams-i Tabrizl (d. ca. 1247) in this connection represents the Sufi stand on such problems. We read in FTh ma FIh that Shams was present one day in a meeting where an arrogant scholar claimed to have convincing proof for the existence of God. The following day Shams proclaimed ironically before the same audience that he had seen the angels come down to earth the night before to thank the scholar for proving the exist- ence of their God. Then Shams reproached the arrogant philosopher in his sarcastic way:

If there is anyone who requires a reason for

his being, it is not the Creator of all things, it is the poor creature whose being depends on the will and providence of his Creator. l92

When al-Ghazzali and Mawlawl accused the philosophers of disbelief, there was no doubt in their minds that Greek philosophy was a direct threat to the true faith. But they didn't have the courage--or, more accurately, the capacity--to eliminate their own interest in speculation that was so clearly reflected and developed in their exposition of the Sufi path. This explains why they re- mained somewhat rationalistic even in their declared anti-rational- ism.

Moreover, some earlier Suf is like Hakim-i Tirmidhi , al-Junayd and Hallaj also had philosophical tendencies, just as some philo- sophers like al-Farabi, Avicenna, and Shaykh-i Ishraq did not lack mystical inclinations. It is for this reason then that Avicenna

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speaks so highly of the mystics,193 and that Shaykh-i Ishraq as- sures us that Aristotle himself--appearing in the Shaykh's illumi- native vision--had declared people like Biyazid and Sahl-i Tustari to be the real philosophers who had not stopped on the edge of for- mal sciences but had reached intuitive and contemplative know- ledge. 194

The common point at which the mystic and the philosophers usually met was the metaphysical region, the realm of the unseen, their common concern being knowledge, the soul and God. Neverthe- less, unlike the philosophers who sought to know God only through His own existence, the mystics' guide to this knowledge was His undeniable Omnipresence. This kind of proof was hence called lid- digin, a Qur'anic appellation the Suf is used to employ-195

The true knowledge that lies beyond the reach of reason is accessible only to the heart, which is a window onto the realm of the "unseen." It is through this inner light that the Sufi can ex- plore the hidden realm, which is closed to reason. The philosopher who tries to force his way through this closed region is like a man who sees a shadow and deduces that the shadow belongs to a person but is unable to judge what that person is like. Only the inner light can penetrate into the forbidden area and recognize the per- son to whom the shadow may belong.196 This knowledge of the "un- seen," denied to mortals and belonging only to God,-97 is occasion- ally granted to the saints, through his inner light, from God's side. It is therefore called Cilm-i ladunni, "knowledge from the side of God."

Thus, the world of the unseen, forbidden to both the external senses gnd speculative reason is, nevertheless, an object of Islamic faith, 8 and no Muslim is allowed to doubt its existence. Whereas the external world, open both to sense and reason, is also called the world of creation (cUlam.i khalq) and the world of sovereignty (calam-i mulk), the unseen world is styled the "world of command' (cilam-i amr) and the invisible world (cilam-i ghayb). This hidden realm includes the world of divine authority (cllam-i malakut), the world of divine power (Cilam-i jabarUt) and the world of divine be- ing (cilam-i lihut). Even though there existed some ambiguity con- cerning the relation among these three worlds, there was no doubt, however, about their existence.

To the Sufi's mind, the perceptible world has no real exist- ence so that, compared to the "unseen world," it is but a mere sha- dow. Therefore everything that belongs to the perceptible world is

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considered as an illusory veil for the Sufi traveller whose ulti- mate goal is to attain the one reality beyond the shadowy world. With such a spiritualist cosmology, the present world is of little value to the Sufi, not even worth "the wing of a midge," to use the usual Sufi expression. Nevertheless in his happy instants, he may find this same vain world an emanation of God. Hence his lack of pessimism. Through his mystical experiences he finds, moreover, the only truth, the "One" compared to whose existence all other be- ings have only a shadowy existence. Here we find the mystic Ibn al-cArabi one pace from what may be called pantheism. What Ibn al- cArabl meant by His "unity of being" (wabdat al-wujud) is not real- ly very clear, and the ambiguous way in which he has explained his ideas has invited confusion and misunderstanding. His unity of be- ing, in any case, seems to be closer to panentheism rather than mere pantheism. One may call it a monism very far from both pan- cosmism and acosmism.

Even if Ibn al-CArabi taught what may be called a pure pan- theism, his teaching did not tail to encounter obstinate opponents even among his fellow Sufis. 9 And his teaching did not become acceptable to orthodox Sufis until Sufi scholars like Uadr al-Din and Qaysari in Turkey, cAbd al-Razzaq and Jami in Persia and Trans- oxania brought it within the established Sufi kind of panentheism already familiar to early Sufi s.

A well-known reinterpretation offered by the Indian mystic Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (d. 1624) suggests it to be an experimental unity (wabdat al-shuhUd), of psychological rather than ontological nature, in the course of which the gnostic "sees" nothing but God. Nevertheless, when he turns to his normal state, he finds that his experience is but a subjective realization and that the "being" is by no means to be confused with the "non-being."200 A faint re- flection of what the ILall5jites have called "the unity of witness" may be seen in this new interpretation. The Hallajites explained that the union with God was experienced by al-Hall5j. It was, however, achieved in God's bearing witness to his own unity in the mystic's heart.

The divinity (1ThUt), however, even though fully manifested in humanity (nasut),Lu? remains transcendental in its unity, and the gulf separating the being ahd the non-being remains unbridged. As a matter of fact, even in his mystical moments, the human soul is veiled from the godhead by its very esseg, its "I-ness" (anni- y) which keeps it away from the divinity. Nevertheless, these happy moments do provide rare opportunities to enjoy the beatific vision.

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The sincere crossing of the mystic through an innumerable

series of "veils," separating him from his "sublime goal" is what the Sufis call the spiritual ascension (micraj). In addition to writing on the lnocturnal ascension of the Prophet, which was by far the most sublime type of ascension, the Sufis also reported on their own spiritual ascnesions. Whether the Prophet's ascension did or did not inspire Dante's Divine Comedy does not concern us here, but on the Sufi ascension reports, that of Bayazid left a visible mark.

Numerous records have been preserved of this heavenly jour-

ney, including some even with esoteric interpretations. In one ac- count he is reportedly to have pitched his tent opposite God's throne. In another passage, finding himself at the very throne of God, he asks in a friendly fashion: "o throne, they tell us that God rests upon thee," and the throne answers: "O Bayazid, we are told that He dwells in a humble heart." In another passage he makes use of the well-known mystical symbols of a bird and its wings to narrate his spiritual adventure. "I became a bird with a body of oneness and wings of everlastingness." The fact that the "spiritual bird" flew further on, crossed the "field of eter- nity," and reached the "tree o oneness,"t only to find at the end that "all this was a fraud,"20 denotes that the mystic can never succeed in crossing the impossible gulf separating him from the godhead. One may recall cAttar's "thirty birds," which, even though they found themselves to be essentially one with the STmurgh, could not penetrate the curtain where the godhead remained, beyond their reach. Hence the sceptical tone occasionally expressed in Sufi poetry, describing gnosis to be an illusion, and even love to be a deception.

In view of such a desperate prospect, what hope remains for a real mystical union? When Hlfiz assures us that the "love" is not really as easy a task as it tirst appears, he is explaining this tragic aspect of Sufi love.204 Even if the mystical union could be attained for a perfect man, its expression would not be easily achievable, given the limited possibilities of ordinary words.

Sacdi tells us in a brilliant passage of a mystic who once bowed his head in holy meditation and was plunged deep in the sea of divine contemplation. When he came back to himself, one of his companions asked him, "What gift did you bring us from the garden you have been enjoying?" He answered, not without desperation: "First, I had the intention of filling my skirt with roses for

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friends, but when I reached there the flgwers' perfume so ravished me that my skirt slipped from my hand."2

A strikingly similar account was given by Ibn al-cArabI, who describes in a less poetical way the same desperate attitude of the mystic. "A diver who was endeavoring to bring to the shore the red jacinth of deity hidden in its resplendent shell, emerged from that ocean empty-handed with broken arms, blind, dumb, and dazed...1" When he was asked "What has disturbed thee and what has happened," he answered with almost the same sceptical tone of Sacdi, "Far is that which you seek.... None ever attained to God and neither spi- rit nor body conceived the knowledge of him.",206

This desperate attitude, however, does not prev-ent the mystic from having his rare moments of Supreme Delight. These moments are filled with the experience of dissolution of one's individual con- science into an alleged cosmic one. Such an unusual experience brings about the pleasant hallucination of having joined the cosmic conscience. It is in the latter that the mystic recognizes the so- called universal truth--whence his claim to utmost certainty.

This mystical certainty--a characteristic of Sufi thought-- denotes firm faith in the "unseen"t and in the life hereafter. It requires the believer to be so sure of the existence of the unseen

that according to an oft-quoted expression, ascribed by some wrk7 ters to AmIr Ibn cAbd-i Qays and by others to Ali b. Abi Talib, even if the veils which separate the perceptible world from the t'unseen't were lifted, the Sufi's certainty would not be increased.

This explains why the fear of death, of fate, and of men so abundantly found in pre-Islamic minds is not to be seen in Sufi literature.208 When no real existence, but only a shadowy one, is ascribed to the whole perceptible world, what then remains to in- spire fear in the Sufi's heart? We read in Asrir al-Tawhid that once Abu Bakr-i Wasiti said to his disciples that

The sun is shining through the window and motes of dust have appeared. Then the wind blows in and the motes begin to move in the sunlight. Can all this in- spire in you any fear? In the eyes of the believer, that is, the true Sufi, [continued the holy man] the

whole of the perceptible worig9is naught but that worth- less dust moved by the wind.

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Three degrees of certainty are mentioned in the Qur'an of which there are many different Sufi interpretations indeed.210 They consist of the knowledge of certainty (cilm al-yaqin),a the intui- tion of certainty (cayn al-yagin), and the realization of certain-

ty (haqq al-yagIn), of which the first concept represents knowledge, the second sight, and the third reality.

Thus, whereas the knowledge of certainty denotes the firm belief in what the revelation has urged as the object of creed, the intuition of certainty describes the mystical contemplation with which the Sufi intuitively perceives the object of the belief, and the realization of certainty refers to the state in which the Sufi experiences the actual happening of what he had intuitively perceived before.

These different degrees of certainty coincide also with the different aspects of religious life as conceived by the Sufis. The knowledge of certainty belonging to the common (clmmah) conforms to the religious law (sharicah), the intuition of certainty, which

belongs to the elect (kha?), coincides with the mystical path (yarigah), and the realization of certainty, which belongs to the super-elect (khas al-kha:$q), coincides with the mystical truth (4aqIqah). In other words, while the knowledge of certainty re- quires the purification of the body, the intuition of certainty is based on the purification of the heart, and the realization of certainty demands the purification of the soul.211 The mystical experience styled the "unity of witness," which Shaykh Ahmad Sir- hind? proposed against the so-called unity of being of Ibn al- cArabi belongs also to the concept of the intuition of certainty just mentioned above.212

Whereas the orthodox theologians held that there is no dis- tinction between the "law" and the "truth," so that they did not recognize in Muslim religious life any special title for the "path." the extremist Suf is claimed that the "law" itself was nothing but a way to the "truth," and, once the "truth" is attained, the "'law"i is eliminated. The orthodox Suf is, however, maintained that the "law" is a guiding light without which the traveller cannot find his way along the path, and so every deviation from the "law" is also a deviation from the "path.",21- This explains why Shaykh-i Jim argued for his so-called authoritative license (magam-i muba

bi-Wujlat), according to which the Sufi can do onli that for which he is able to find an authoritative justification. 14

To the question of whether religious observance (takllf) prescribed by the "law" may or may not be eliminated for the mystic

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who has attained the truth, the famous Shaykh-i Kubr5 answers "yes" because for such people the religious observancg is in no way a

painful obligation (mashagqah, taklif shaqq); in fact, it is a delight rather than a tiresome task. This sagacious shaykh remarks

elsewhere that, in the spiritual quest undertaken by the Suf is, the

"law" is like t6 vessel, the "path" like the sea, and the "truth" like the pearl. Thus, anyone who desires to gain the pearl has to embark on the vessel and to sail the sea.

Despite the great weight the Suf is put on religious obser-

vances, they did not Ereach any discrimination in matters of reli- gion. For Jalal al-Din Mawlawi religious quarrels, which at that time took such horrible shape as in the Crusades, were judged to be based on essentially mere verbal disputes. Long before him, al-

Hallaj taught that Judaism, Christianity, Islam and even other creeds were only different appellations of one and the same truth.217 This view was shared by many Sufi thinkers. cAyn al-Qudat remarks, for instance, that if a Muslim could see in Christ what the Chris- tians see in him, he would inevitably be a Christian.218 And Shabistari tells us with much more emphasis that if the Muslim knew what faith meant, he would see that real faith is idol-worship, and

that if the idol-worshipper knew what the idol was, how would his faith be misplaced?219

Thus, not only did they advocate the ultimate unity of re- ligions, but they also thought, with Hallaj,220 that religions are imposed by God on men rather than cho4en by men themselves. No one is to be reproached for his religion, and therfore the concept of

the unity of religions was enthusiastically taught by the Sufi

shaykhs.

Even the Hindu thinkers Kabir (d. 1518) and Nanak (d. 1539), who preached the "unity of religions" in a country where religious differences had produced unnumerable troubles, really found their true inspirers in the Muslim Suf is. The idea of the unity of reli- gions did not succeed, of course, in producing religious peace in India but made of the Hindu poet, the mystic Kabir, a holy man.

After his death Hindus and Muslims contended25yr his body and dis- puted whether it should be buried or burned. The new Sikh reli- gion founded by Nanak, though based on this tolerant concept, failed on several occasions to end disputes between Muslims and Hindus.

A stronger version of this idea, however, was the religious policy of the Mongol Emperor Akbar (d. 1605), who thought that every person according to his condition may give the Supreme Being

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a different name, and urged that religious disputes cease. This high ideal was not best realized in his Divine Religion (Din-i Ilahi), which he founded as a new faith, but in the person and the teaching of his great-great-grandson, the Prince Dira Shukuh, whose personal attempts to realized this idea cost him his life.

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EPILOGUE

There is every reason to believe that Sufism has gradually

lost its significance as an intellectual force in modern Persia.

Tired of persecution, vexed by contempt, and split by sectarian

strife, it has finally succumbed to the pressures of circumstances. Respectable shaykhs of past generations, such as Safi Ali Shah (d. 1899) and Haj Mulla Sultan Gunib5dI (d. 1934), have passed away, leaving behind nothing but quarrels and chaos. Mendicant dervishes of the Jalili and Khaksari types have come to represent almost the only remnants of the wandering dervishes, and they are

regarded as idle beggars in popular eyes.

Although certain groups of Nicmatullahis and Dhahabis are still strong enough to absorb even elements of higher society into

their ranks, the mystical mood no longer plays any major role in their actual life. Polemical writings concerning their pretentions to succession to the dead shaykhs have also discredited the living

ones in popular esteem. Kayvan-i Qazvlnl (d. 1938), a renegade of the GunabadIs, accused the shaykhs who were his contemporaries of rapacious and ambitious intentions. Some of his books, especially

Kitab-i Ustuvir, Kitgb-i R5z-Gush,, and Kayvan-Namah, have caused irreparable damage to the prestige of Sufi shaykhs.

Needless to say, the fanatical ulama at the present time criticize Sufism as severely as the ulama of Qajar and Saf avid

times did. A mordant pamphlet, for instance, written by a relig-

ious writer of Qum, has raised heretical accusations against such poets as Hafiz and RUmi. 2z2

Kasravi (d. 1946), a modern Persian historian and religious reformist, regarded the Sufi teachings as an opiate which Western imperialism has infused into the East to prevent its awakening. He insisted that, even, in the past, the teachings of H5fiz, Sacdi, and Rumi had only encouraged ignorance and idleness among their ad- mirers. Kasravi's pamphlet223 has been regarded by many as a bill of indictment against Sufism.

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The so-called progressive groups, also, frown upon Sufism. The Marxists, for instance, regard Sufism as a weapon used by the reactionary classes against the anti-capitalist struggle of the proletariat. A well-known essay by Ahmad Qazi (= T. Erani, d. 1940) on mysticism,224 although based on a very incomplete know- ledge of the subject, represents an example of the critical atti- tude that Persian materialists have adopted regarding Sufism.

From the philosophical standpoint, logical objections, though not always of a coherent and profound nature, have been raised against the Sufi epistemology. A dilettante lawyer, to mention just one example, who has recently published a book against Sufi philosophy,225 points out that the intuitive knowledge on which Sufism is based can be but a mere illusion. He has main- tained that the pantheistic theory of the Sufis is a hasty and su- perficial interpretation of existence derived chiefly from the ancients' erroneous conceptions of the world.

Even the very few scholars who now work on critical editions of classical Sufi texts treat these texts as sources for philolog- ical analysis, rather than as sources of mystical lore. This kind of approach is to be seen very clearly in the notes, remarks, and prefaces in their editions of Sufi texts.

While we must not expect to find suitable successors to Ghazzali and RUmI in such a secular time as ours, the contemporary literature of Sufism, it should be noted, displays nothing of that freshness which characterized the Sufi creations of classical times. It is true that a pessimistic melancholy, so frequently experienced in modern poetry, reveals a certain resemblance to the work of some Sufi poets of the past, but Sufism is no longer able to hold its position even on the edges of modern society.

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NOTES

1. The text of this inscription has been rendered into Eng-

lish by M. Sprengling, Third Century Iran: Sapor and Kartlr (Chi-

cago, 1953). See also J. de Menasce, Xkand Gum5nik Vigar: La solu- tion decisive des doutes, text et tradution (Universite de Fribourg en Suisse, 1945), pp. 242-43.

2. H.H. Schaeder, "Der Manichaesmus und sein Weg nach Osten,

Glaube und Geschichte," in Festschrift fuOr Friedrich Grogarten (Giessen, 1948), p. 248.

3. W. Radloff, Aus Sibirien, Vol. II (Leipzig, 1893), pp. 20 ff. Further information on Siberian Shamanism may be found in

A. Friedrich and G. Budruss, Schamanengeschichten aus Sibirien (Mun- chen, 1955) and H.N. Michael, Studies in Siberian Shamanism (Toron- to, 1963). Although as a religion, Shamanism almost ceased to ex- ist, remnants of its rites and practices are still recognizable in

popular magic and folk tales of India and Central Asia.

4. V.G. Biuchner, "Shaman, I" in Encyclopedia of Islam, Vol. 4, pp. 302-03, finds no connection between the Persian Shaman and the

idea of the sorcerer-priest among the Northeast Asian peoples, but

the descriptions of shamanism in Persian poetry leave no doubt for me that they are identical. Persian poets like Rudaki may have learned about such sorcerer-priests from Tungus slaves in the court

of Bukhara.

5. H.S. Nyberg, Die Religionen des Alten Iran (Leipzig, 1938).

6. W. Henning, Zoroaster, Politician or Witch-doctor? (Ox- ford, 1951).

7. The dualism of Zoroaster is perhaps best understood, as Henning has pointed out in Zoroaster, Politician or Witch-doctor?, as a protest against monotheism. For a further discussion of this problem, see J. Duchesne-Guillemin, The Western Response to Zoro- aster (Oxford, 1958).

8. R.C. Zaehner, The Dawn and Twilight of Zoroastrianism (London and New York, 1961), p. 275.

9. Ibid., p. 306.

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10. Mani was born in South Babylonia in 216 A.D. He preached activelv throughout the Persian empire until the Sasanian Great King Bahr5m I had him fettered and thrown into prison earl.y in 276 A.D.

According to Manichaean sources, Mani died there within a month of his imprisonment. For a detailed account of his life and beliefs

see G. Widengren, Mani and Manichaeism (London and New York, 1965).

11. H.C. Puech, Le Manichaeisme (Paris, 1948), p. 70. 12. H.C. Puech, "The Concept of Redemption in Manichaeism,"

Papers from the Eranos Yearbook, Vol. VI, pp. 249-50. 13. M. Boyce, The Manichaean Hymn-Cycles in Parthian (Oxford,

1954).

14. E. Herzfeld, Paikuli, Monument and Inscription of the Early History of the Sassanian Empire, 2 vols. (Berlin, 1924), p. 43. See also Menasce, op. cit., p. 243, note 2.

15. W. Barthold, "Der Iranische Buddhismus und sein Verhalt- nis zum Islam," in Oriental Studies in Honour of Cursetji Erachji Pavry, ed. by Jal Dastur Cursetji Pavry (London, 1933), p. 29.

16. Narshakhl, The History of Bukhara, trans. by R.N. Frye (Cambridge, Mass., 1954), p. 20.

17. Muhammad al-Shahrastani, Book of Religious and Philo- sophical Sects, Cureton edition (London, 1846), p. 418.

18. In Islam, this method of interpretation was largely

used by Shicites, the Ikhwin al-*afa, philosophers, and Sufis who wished to bring Qur'anic revelation into agreement with their own tenets.

19. I. Goldziher, Die Richtungen der Islamischen Koransle- guns (Leiden, 1902), p. 210.

20. Zaehner, op. cit., p. 196. 21. R.A. Nicholson, Studies in Islamic Mysticism (Cambridge,

1921), p. 133. 22. L. Massignon, Essai sur les origines du lexique de la

mystique musulmane (Paris, 1922), pp. 117-20. 23. This was the so-called inclusive devotion of faith to

God--ikhlia al-dnIl li-allih. See the Qur'an, 4:146, 7:29, 10:22, 21:65, 39:11, 14:40, 12:65.

24. See for example E.W. Lane, Manners and Customs of Mod- ern Egyptians (London, 1895), p. 98.

25. Ahmad b. Hanbal, Musnad, vol. II, ed. by A4mad Shikir (Cairo, 1948-present), p. 460. See also al-Bukhiri, Sa4hI, ed. by L. Krehl and T. Juynboll (Leiden, 1862-1908), blb 39.

26. H.A.R. Gibb, Mohammedanism (Oxford, 1949), p. 40.

27. Massignon, aj. cit., p. 124. See also M.M. Khwansirl, Rawcit al-Jinnat fi ahwal aiTCulamia wa al-Sidit, Vol. II (Tehran, 1287), p. 232.

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28. Massignon, P. cit., p. 124, note 4, where he makes men- tion of, among others, Abu Bakr al-Makhzuml (d. ca. 94 A.H.) who was

called "rihib of the Quraysh." Murdar, a Muctazilite teacher, was also called, and not in a pejorative sense, the "rihib of Kufah."

29. This was in particular the position of Muhammad b. Kar-

ram, a Jurji'ite of the early Abbasid period whose views manifest some Sufi features. Cf. H. Laoust, Les schismes dans l'Islam (Paris, 1965), pp. 121-22.

30. Ibid., p. 29-30.

31. Cf. I. Goldziher, Muhammad and Islam (New Haven, 1917), pp. 99-100.

32. He is said to have denied the mercifulness of God--as an attribute resembling human attributes--and in so doing he may

be considered similar to the so-called wise fool mystics of Islam. He is reported (see H. Ritter, Muslim Mystics' Strife with God," Oriens Vol. 5, No. 1, pp. 1-15) to have taken his disciples to vis-

it lepers and other sufferers. He would then say, pointing to these people, "This was all done by the Most Merciful of Mercifuls." Was this converted Persian still under the influence of his former creed, which attributed all these kinds of evils to the Devil? He is re- puted to have been killed under suspicion of heresy.

33. Cf. H. Ritter, Der Islam Vol. XXI, pp. 1-83.

34. Laoust, 2p. cit., pp. 48-49. 35. Jalal al-DIn Riumi, Mathnawl, Book IV, ed. and trans. by

R.A. Nicholson, Gibb Memorial Series, New Series, IV (London, 1929), lines 1515-1519.

36. Ibn al-Nadim, Kitab al-Fihrist, ed. by Fligel (Leipzig, 1871-2), p. 358.

37. Ibn al-Qifti, Tarikh al-Hukama', ed. by J. Lippert (1903), p. 183.

38. Abfl al-Hasan CAli b. cUthmf n Hujwiri, Kashf al-MatjUb trans and ed. by R.A. Nicholson, 2nd ed., Gibb Memorial Series, Vol. XVII (London, 1967), p. 47.

39. FarId al-Din cAttir, Muslim Saints and }?ystics (Tadhki- rat al-Awli' )trans by A.J. Arberry (Chicago, 1966).

40. Hujwiri, op cit., p. 106. 41. Ibid., p. 163. 42. S. de Laugier de Beaurecueil, Khawadja cAbdullih Ansari

(Beirut, 1965), p. 66. 43. Hujwlrl, op. cit., p. 163. 44. B. Furuzinfar, ed., Tarjumah-i Risilah-i qushayriah

(Tehran, 1345), pp. 129-130, casts doubt on this point. 45. The recent work by J. Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Or-

ders in Islam (Oxford, 1971) reached me too late for inclusion here.

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However, I refer interested students to it, and in particular to Professor Triminaham's comprehensive glossary of Sufi and Islamic terminology. Concerning the Shi'ite orders of Iran see: R. Grllm- lich, Die Schiitischen Derwischorden Persiens (Wiesbaden, 1965).

46. A.J. Arberry-, 'TSufism," Handbuch der Orientalistik, Abt. I: VIII Band: 2 abs. (Leiden and KBon, 1961), p. 465.

47. Gulistan, Chapter 2, Story 25. 48. For an English translation of his views on Sufism, see

"The Science of Sufism," The Mugaddima, Vol. 3, trans by F. Rosen- thal (New York, 1958), pp. 76-102.

49. Algzel: Dogm tica, moral y asc6tica (Saragossa, 1901), p. 101.

50. Ibid., p. 104.

51. A.J. Arberry, "The Biography of Shaikh Abiu Ishaq al- Kazaruni , Oriens, Vol. III (1950), pp. 163-182.

52. A. Bausani, "Religion under the Mongols," Cambri4ge History of Iran, Vol. 5 (Cambridge, 1968), p. 547.

53. For a more detailed discussion concerning the Shicite development in Persian Sufism, see M. Mole "'Les Kurbrawiya entre Sunnisme et Shiisme," Revue des Etudes Islamigues (1961), pp. 61- 142.

54. F.C. Schillinger, ed. Persianische und Ost-Indianische Reiseschreibung (Hamburg, 1710), p. 685.

55. MacsUm Ali b. Rahmat cAll Nicmat-Allahl al-Shlrazi (MacsUm Alishah), Tara'ig al-Haqga'iq, 2nd ed., ed. by M. Mahjub (Tehran', 1339), p. 354.

56. Jami dedicated his Tu1fat al-Atrar to Khwaj ah-i Ahrar. 57. H.A. Rose, The Dervishes (London, 1927), p. 87; this

is a new edition of J.P. Brown's The Dervishes (Istanbul, 1868). 58. For a detailed account of these events see Sir John

Malcolm, The History of Persia, Vol. II (London, 1815), pp. 417- r22.

59. Rumi, c. cit., Vol. I, line 1727. 60. Hujwlrl, j cit., pp. 308-309. 61. cIraqi, The Song of Lovers (cUshshaq-n5mah), ed. and

trans. by A.J. Arberry, (London, 1939), pp. 33-39. 62. Philo Judaeus, On a Contemplative Life, in Works trans.

by C.D. Youge (London, 1855), Vol. 4 , p. 3. 63. For further details, see H. Lewy, Sobria Ebrietas: Un-

tersuchungen zur Geschichte der antiken Mystik (Giessen: A. Topel- mann, 1929).

64. A.J. Arberry, The Mystical Poems of Ibn al-Farid, pp. 81-90.

65. Shaykh Mahmud Shabastarnl, Sharh-i Gulshan-i Raz, ed. by E.H. Whinfield (London,, 1880), pp. 42, 27, 29.

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66. E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia (Cambridge,

1928), Vol. IV, p. 297. Pp. 284-297 contain both the complete text

of Hatif's Tarjic-band and Browne's translation of it. 67. Khwajah AbU Ibrahim IsmlcTl b. Muhammad Mustamli Bukh-

ari Shart wa Tarjumah al-Tacrruf Limadhhab al-Tasawwiuf (Lucknow, 1933, 4 vols.

68. Muhammad b. al-Munawwar, Asr5r al-Tawhld fTl Maqamat al- Shajykh Abi Sacid (Tehran, 1934-5).

69. Maqcmit-i 7 andapil (A1mad-i tain); Persian text from 4th cent. A.H. by Sadid al-Din Muhammad Gaznavi, ed. by H. Moayyed, 1961.

70. Numerous editions, most recent (Tehran, 1340). 71. Abii Bakr Muhammad, known as Ibn al-cArabli, Al-Fut5hat

al-Mskkiyahh, 2nd ed., Vol. II (Cairo, 1293), p. 275. 72. For cases see Ibn al-Mubarak, Kitab al-Zuhd (Indian

edition, 1966), pp. 4-5.

73. Qushayrl, qo. cit., p. 158. 74. Hujwiri, op. cit., p.131. 75. Ibid., pp. 82-160.

76. Heinrich Heine, Die Stadt Lucca, Chap. IX. This prayer

has also been voiced in Persian verse; see Sacdi, Bustan Chap. II; cf. the prayer of Suhrawardi, which has greater moral intensity than R5bicah's.

77. For detailed descriptions of these rites, conslut the

article "Hadjdj" in Encyclopedia of Islam, Vol. II, 1st ed. 78. Huj'wlri, p. cit., p. 328. 79. For the case of Hidrimi, see Najm al-Din Kubra, Die

Fawaih al-Jamil wa Faw5tih al-Jalal des Najm ad-Din Kubra, ed. by F. Meier (Wiessenbaden, 1957

80. For the Syriac text ania English translation of this ac-

count, see E.W. Brooks, "John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints III,"I Patrologia Orientalis, Vol. 19, pp. 164-79.

81. Abu ?Abd al-Rahmin S lami, Risalat al.-Malimatlyab, ed.

by Abu al-CAlah CAf if?l as Al-Malaamatiyah wa al-Soflyah wa Ahl al- Futuwah (Cairo, 1945).

82. B. Furuzanfar, Sharh-i Mathnawl-i Sharlf (Tehran, 1347 A.H. Sol.), II, p. 735.

83. See the dialogue between this Nflb-i CAyyar and the Sufi Shaykh Hamdun al-Qassar in Hujwiri,_2. cit., pp. 183-84, where the cAyyar takes what is very much a MalImati stand on the problem of gentlemanly behavior.

84. Ibid., p. 119. 85. Malcolm, pg. cit., Vol. 86. See, for instance, Abiu al-Hasan CAli b. Zayd-i Bayhaqi,

Tarikh-i Bayhap, ed. by A. Bahmanyar (Tehran, 1317); Cizz al-Din Abu al-Hasan, known as Ibn al-Athir, Al-Kimil fi al-Tarikh, trans

IRANIAN STUDIES 215

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by J.T. Reinaud and C.F. Defremery into French as Extrait de la... Kamel, Recueil des Historiens des Croisades.. .Historiens Orientaux, tombs. I, 2, 4, 5 (Paris, 1872-); A.K.S. Lambton, Islamic Society in Persia (London, 1954).

87. Hujwiri, op. cit., p. 66, which gives a detailed ex- planation of this saying.

88. cAyn al-Qudat al-Hamadani, Zubdat al-Haqa'iq Ch. 17.

89. See Rhys Davids, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society

1911, pp. 200-01; cf. Abu Hayyan, Muqabaslt, p. 259, where the Arab thinker quotes this parable immediately following a reference to Plato.

90. CAyn al-Qu4it, op. cit., Ch. 61.

91. Ibn al-cArabi, p2. cit., I, p. 70. 92. See Mathnawl, II, line 159; cf. Hafiz, Diwan, ghazal

no. 162.

93. CAzzi al-Nasafi, Kashf al-Haqagiq, Persian text ed. by A.M. Damghani (Tehran, 1965), p. 28.

94. See, for instance, 5:27, 2:97, 26:194. 95. 83:3. 96. Luke 16:15. 97. Gen. 6:6; cif. Ps. 32:11.

98. That the Hebrew leb (heart) was translated in later biblical writings alternately by the Greek words nous and kardia, to distinguish its rational and emotional aspects, was evidently

a Hellenistic influence. To the average Semite, such distinctions

remained unknown. For further details on the use of this concept in biblical writings, see Tresmontant, A Study of Hebrew Thought, pp. 83-124.

99. See, for instance, Les Pensees ed. by Brunschwicg, p. 459.

100. For more details on this esoteric interpretations, see

Shaykh Najm al-Din Razi, Mirsad a1-cIb3d (Tehran, 1312 A.H.Sol.) pp. 69.70; cf. cAyn al-QuQgt, Tamhidit, No. 342, where other interpre- tations are given as well.

101. Shabastari, p2. cit., p. 4. 102. Qushayri, op. cit., p. 134; cf. passages quoted by F.

Meier, Die Fawi'ih, p. 170.

103. Kubrl-Meier, Die Fawia'ih, op. cit., Nos. 14, 139. 104. For a detailed illustration of such a comparison, see

Abu Hamid al-Ghazzali, Mizan al- Amal (Cairo, 1328), p. 109; cf. Margaret Smith, Al-Ghazzali, The Mystic (London, 1944), p. 73.

105. A divine tradition often quoted by Sufis is usually re- lated to support the latter statement. See, for example, Abu Nasr

CAbdallah b. CAll al-Saraj al-Tiusi, Al-Lumac fT al-Tasawwuf, ed. by R.A. Nicholson (Leiden, 1914), p. 594; and al-Ghazzali, IyacUlum al-Din (Cairo, 1272), 3:12.

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106. See GhazzilT:, oa, p . cit., cAj Iib al-Qalb, Bayan 10' cf. A.J. Wensinck, La Pensee de Ghazali (Paris, 1940), pp. 122- 125.

107. See, for instance, Kubra, RpR. cit., No. 16. 108. Hujwlrl, op. cit., p. 369; cf. p. 367. 109. Itid., p. 387.

110. Qushayrl, o. cit., p. 698.

111. See, for instance, Firdaws al-Murshidiyah, pp. 270,

474, 480, etc.

112. RAzi, pj. cit., pp. 160-65; and Shabastari, p. cit., pp. 91, 96, 228, 368.

113. Upanishads IV, 3, 9-14. 114. See, for instance, A.J. Wensinck, "New Data Concerning

Syriac MAystic Literature," p. 25.

115. Hujwlri, p. 245; cf. Mathnawl, II, 830, 1347. 116. For an illustrative example see the story of Shaykh

Abu Sacid and Hasan Mu'addib in Asrar al-Tawhid, op. cit., pp. 211- 212.

117. See "Kitab al-Sidq," IRA, 1937.

118. Hujwlirl, P2. cit., pp. 190-05. 119. For further details on this point see Shabastari, P.

cit., p. 461. 120. Gulistan, Ch. I, Story 10.

121. Gulistan, Ch. 7. 122. Mathnawl, 1, 983-85.

123. Cf. Miftib al-Nijit, pp. 146-49. 124. See O.D. Tcheschovitch, Bukharskyj dokumenti XIV veka

(Tashkent, 1965). 125. Hujwiri, p. cit, p. 247. 126. See, for instance, Abijal-Husayn al-N5rT' s view in

Sarraj, . cit.,p. 272. 127. See Sarraj, p. cit., p. 288, quoted by F. Meier, Vom

Wesen der islamischen Mystik (Basel, 1943), pp. 19, 49.

128. Sarraj, op. cit., pp. 296-97. 129. Qur'an, 18:65-78. 130. See, for instance, Mathnawi I, 3191: V, 1899; cf. also

I, 224, 237.

131. Cf., for example, Firdos al-murshidiyya: Die vita des Scheichs Aub Ishaq al-Kazeruni, ed. by F. Nieier (Leipzig, 1948), pp. 340-41.

132. Muhammad b. Munawwar, Asrar al-Tawhld, ed. by Z. Saf a (Tehran, 1332 A.IH. Sol. ), pp. 48, 93, 291.

133. Qur'an, 10:62. 134. See Tari'iq al-Haqa'iq, pj. cit., p. 1171; cf. Hujwiri,

p2. cit., pp. 220-35; A.J. Wensinck, Muslim Creed, Its Genesis and

IRANIAN STUDIES 217

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Historical Development (Cambridge, 1932), p. 226. 135. See Abii al-Mughith al-Husayn b. Mans-ur (al-Hallaj),

Kitab al-Tawasin, ed. by L. Massignon (Paris, 1913), pp. 172-73. 136. Mathnawl, I: 1246-7; cf. also index.

137. See Ibn al-CArabi, 2j. cit., I: 307; IV: 615. 138. Mathnawl, II: 2642-3.

139. Kitfb al-Tawisin, 2p. cit., IV: 24. 140. Ibid., pp. 20-22; cf. A-yn al-Qu4it,_yR. .,_No. 288. 141. See Ibn al-Jawzi, al-Muntazam fT Tirikh al Muluk wa al-

Umam (Haydarabad, 1359), Vol. 9, p. 261. 142. See CAyn al-Qudat, Xp. cit., p. 283. 143. See R. Lescot, Enquete sur les yasidis de Syrie et du

Djebel Sinjar (Beirut, 1938), pp.51 ff. 144. Cf. Mathnawi, I1: 2645-9.

145. See Hujwlrl, 2k. cit., p. 213. 146. See Avicenna, Kitab al-Isharat wa al-Tanluhit trans.

into French by A.M. Goichon (Paris, 1951), pp. 503-06, 519-20. 147. lbn Khaldun, pp. cit., Quatremere ed., Arabic text I:

109, 199.

148. See "Kitib Batanjal al-Hindi,"i ed. by H. Ritter, Oriens 1956, Vol. IX, p. 199.

149. For further details, see D.S. Margoliouth, "Panj Pir," Encyclopedia of Islam.

150. See Muhammad b. Ismicil al Bukhirl, Salat, bibs 48, 52, 54; Jani'iz, bib 62; and several others mentioned by Ibn Taymiyah, Contributions a une Etude de la Methodologie Canonique, trans. by H. Laoust (Cairo, 1939).

151. Firdos al-Murshidiyya, pp. cit., Ch. 40. 152. For illustrations see the accounts of travels and mis-

sions of Abu Ishaq Shirazi and Shihib al-Din Suhrawardl in various places in the Near East.

153. See Sarraj, 'p cit., pp. 323-25.

154. See, for instance, Tirmidhi, Khatm al-Awliya', ed. by U. Yahya (Beirut, 1965), pp. 116-216.

155. Kubra, op. cit., No. 167. 156. LihijI, Sharh-i Gulshan-i Riz, ed. by K. SamiCi (Teh-

ran, 1337 A.H. Sol.) pE 441. 157. See Hujwirl, pp. cit., p. 213. 158. Ibid., p. 236; cf. cAzIz al-Nasafi, cit, p. 80. 159. Ibid. 160. Qur'an, 18:64-82. 161. See Sarrij, ?. cit., pp. 422-24. 162. Ibid., p. 423. 163. HuTjwlrT, op. iS, pp. 236-37. 164. Sarraj, loc. cit. 165. See cAyn al-Qudit, Zubdah, op. cit., Ch. 61; cf. Ch. 68.

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166. Tirmidh, op. cit2., p. 361; cf. Ghazzali, Ihya, p . cit., III: 25.

167. Tadhkirat al-AwlIya', pp. cit., I, pp. 88-90. 168. Ibid., II, pp. 91-93.

169. Hujwirl, op. cit.. 153. 170. See Awrad al-Ahbab, II, pp. 339-40. 171. Dara Shukiih, Safinah (Tehran, 1965), pp. 160-61. 172. W. Barthold, Turkistan down to the Mongol Invasion, tr.

in Gibb Memorial Series, V., 2nd ed. (1928), pp. 75-176. 173. Concerning the possibility that his wife was perhaps

the beneficiary of that privilege, see his autobiography, Kitab Khatm, where she is supposed to receive a gem (niin = the seal) from God together with the knowledge of the "formers" and the "lat- ters" (ulum-i awwalin wa akhirin).

174. Cf. Ibn Khaldun , op. cit., III, p. 137.

175. See Nasafi, 2pj cit., p. 315. 176. See Lihiji, op. cit., p. 315. 177. See Haj Mulla Sulifn, Wilayat-Namah, pp. 23-25. 178. See, for instance, Deut. 32:21; Ps. 13:1, 52:2; cf.

Job 30:8; Isa. 32:5, Sir. 50:28.

179. See Ibn al1-cArabl, 2,. cit., I, Ch. 44. 180. See P. Loosen, Zeitschrift fUr Assyrologie, Vol. 27,

1912, pp. 196-201.

181. Cf. Asrir al-Tawhid, 2p. citi., ndex. 182. M. Widengren, Orientalia Suecana, Vol. 2 (1953), pp.

41; cf. M. Mole, Les mystiques musulmans, (Paris, 1965), p. 12. 183. B. Furuzanfar, Sharh.-i Ahwal-i cAttar, p. 68; cf. H.

Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, Mensch Welt und Gott in Den Geschichten des Fariduddin cAttar (Leiden, 1955), pp. 159-180.

184. See cAyn al-Quqit, Tamhidat, pp cit., p. 189; cf. Niair Khusraw, DIwln, p. 364.

185. Pages from Kitab al-Lumac of Abu Nasr al-Sarraj, ed. by A.J. Arberry (London, 1947), pp. 6-7. Cf. 26,30.

186. Akhbar al-Halaj, 3rd ed., No. 38; cf. 10, 36. 187. Qur'an 10:32; 20:114. 188. See Lihij i, op. cit., p. 87. 189. See Mathnawl, II: 2321-2 190. For a concise survey of these theological proofs con-

cerning the existence of God see A.J. Wensinck, "Les preuves de 1'existence de Dieu dans la theologie musulmane," Mededeelingen der Koninklijke Akademie (Amsterdam, 1936).

191. See Shastari, po. cit., p. 87. 192. Mawlna Jalail al-Din Mawlawi, FT ma Fih, ed. by B.

Furuzanfar (Tehran, 1330), p. 92. 193. Ibn Sina, Livre des directives et remarques, Nouveau

groupe.

194. Shaykh-i Ishriq, Opera Metaphysica et Mystica, ed. by H. Corbin (Istanbul, 1945), p. 74.

IRANIAN STUDIES 219

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195. Ibn Sina, 2i. cit., pp. 371-72. 196. For more details on this comparison see Qaysaril's in-

troduction in the commentary to the Ta'Iyat al-Kubra, quoted by cUthm2mn Yahya, ed., in Khatm al-Awlya, Q. cit., Appendix 492.

197. Qur'an, 10:20. 198. Ibid., 2:3.

199. See, for instance, correspondences between CAbd al- Razzaq-i Kashani and cAla' al-Dawla-i SimnanI, in CAbd al-Rahman Jami, Kitab Nafahjat al-Uns, ed. by M. TawhIdIpur (Tehran, 19i9).

200. For a further discussion of this theory see Burhan Ahmad, The Mudjaddid's Concept of Tawhid, (Lahore, 1940).

_ 201. For al-Hallij's remarks on this point, see Kitab al- Tawasin, Li' cit., pp. 129-141; cf. pp. 78, 198-199.

202. See Akhbar al-Halla;, No. 50.

203. See Sarraj, op. cit., p. 384. 204. DIw5n, ghazal No. 1. 205. Gulistan, introductory chapter. 206. Ibn al-cArabI, Futuhat, op. cit., as quoted by Fleis-

cher in Catalogue of Oriental Manuscripts in the Leipzig University Library, p. 493.

207. See the discussion in Sarraj, cit., p. 70; and cAyn al-Qud-at, TamhIdat, op. cit., p. 98.

208: For a concise study of the pre-Islamic background of the Qur'anic concept of fear, see H. Ringgren, "Die Gottesfurcht im Koran,"o Orientalia Sueccana, Vol. III, pp. 2-4.

209. Munawwar, Li' cit., p. 274. 210. Qur'an, 65:95; 69:51; 102:5, 7. 211. For further details on this point, consult Razi, Li.

cit., Ch. 3, 5, 7, 8.

212. Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktibat, No. 43. 213. MathnawI, V, preface. 214. See, for details, Miftih al-Nij:t, Ch. 5. 215. See Kubra, Li. cit., No. 39. 216. Ris5lat al-Safinah, quoted by F. Meier in Fawaih, Lp.

cit, p. 282.

217. See Akhbar al-lalli, No. 45. 218. cAyn al-Qu4at, Tahdt, p. cit, No. 370. 219. Shabastarl, opL cit., verses 872-73. 220. Akhbar al-Hallj, cit. 221. Sir Charles Elliot, Hinduism and Buddhism, Vol. II

(London, 1921), p. 265. 222. Sayyed Abul-Fazl Burqaci Quml, Al-Taftish dar Maslak-i

Sufi va Darvlsh (1377 A.H.) 223. S.A. Kasravi, Sufifari (Tehran, 1332) 224. A. Qazi (= T. Erani), Irfan va Usul-i Maddi (Tehran,

1323).

225. M. Javan, Kitab-i Radd-i Tasavvuf va Hikmat al-Ishrl (Tehran, 1347).

220 SUMER-AUTUMN 1970

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Contents

Issue Table of Contents

Iranian Studies, Vol. 3, No. 3/4, Persian Sufism in Its Historical Perspective (Summer - Autumn, 1970), pp. 136-221

Front Matter
Note from the Editor [p. 136]
Foreword [pp. 137-138]
Persian Sufism in Its Historical Perspective [pp. 139-220]
Back Matter