A History of the Muslim World to 1405: The Making of a Civilization

by Vernon O Egger

  A solution proposed by Ibn al-Shatir to the problem of the moon’s orbit around the earth.

  Ibn al-Shatir, too, was concerned with the problems of the eccentrics and the epicycles. Like all other astronomers of the fourteenth century, he saw no need to challenge Ptolemy’s basic model, but rather to make it internally consistent. Starting with the assumption that celestial orbits are the result of a succession of uniform circular motions, he developed models of orbits of the moon and the planets that did not require eccentrics. His highly sophisticated geometry allowed him to accomplish what the master Ptolemy could not. His geometric models, which assume a geocentric universe, show up in a revised form two hundred years later in the heliocentric model of Copernicus. Since the late 1950s, when Ibn al-Shatir’s manuscripts were first discovered by European scholars, historians of science have been wrestling with the remarkable similarity of the models of Ibn al-Shatir and of Copernicus. They are aware that just because Ibn al-Shatir came up with such models prior to Copernicus does not mean that someone else could not devise them, but two considerations cause them to think that they must have been transmitted in some form to central Europe, where Copernicus could have had access to them. One reason is that no such models existed in the European tradition from which Copernicus could borrow. The other is that it is inconceivable that Copernicus would come up with the models himself, since they cause, rather than solve, problems for his theory. The lack of a theory of gravity in the Copernican model renders Ibn al-Shatir’s models problematic in a heliocentric context: Without gravity, Copernicus has no explanation for why celestial bodies orbit the sun, whereas the Ptolemaic model utilized the Aristotelian theory that planets and moon “desire” the earth. The discovery of a “missing link” between Ibn al-Shatir and Copernicus would provide a fascinating glimpse of late medieval intellectual history.

  Ibn Khaldun

  Ibn Khaldun (1332–1406) was descended from one of the great families of Seville. His great-grandparents fled the city just before its fall to Castile in 1248 and settled in Tunis, where Ibn Khaldun was born. As the scion of a wealthy and powerful family, he received the best education possible, but was forced to migrate west in 1352 after the plague epidemic took the lives of his parents and teachers. For most of the rest of his life he served as a government minister. He found advisory positions in the Marinid capital of Fez, and then at Granada and several small principalities in modern Morocco and Algeria. Life as a government minister in that era was notoriously unpredictable and dangerous, but Ibn Khaldun seems to have had a knack for making enemies that made his own career even more unpredictable and dangerous than most: In every position that he held, he was either jailed or forced to leave town. Perhaps seeking a more stable career line, he sailed for Egypt in 1382, the same year that Sultan Barquq seized power and inaugurated the Circassian period in Mamluke history. Barquq recognized Ibn Khaldun’s achievement as a scholar and a jurist, so he appointed him professor of Maliki law and then to be the senior Maliki qadi of Egypt. Even in Egypt, Ibn Khaldun encountered political problems and temporarily lost his posts. Because he was so adept at establishing contacts with important patrons, however, he always regained his positions.

  Soon after Barquq’s death in 1400, Timur began his invasion of Syria. The new Mamluke sultan insisted that Ibn Khaldun join his entourage as he went to Damascus to repel the attack. When the sultan returned in haste to Cairo, however, and his army straggled after him, he left Ibn Khaldun behind in the defenseless city. Timur asked to see him. Ibn Khaldun was thereupon lowered over the city’s walls by ropes in a scene strikingly evocative of an episode in the life of the Christian theologian and missionary Paul fourteen centuries earlier. He spent five weeks in Timur’s camp, serving as “scholar in residence.” Ibn Khaldun recorded his experiences in the camp in a remarkably informal style. (See the extract in Chapter 10.) Timur wanted detailed knowledge of the Maghrib, and Ibn Khaldun presented enormous quantities of oral and written information, but in a way that portrayed the area as strong and united, rather than as the weak and divided region that it actually was. Whether the information he provided had anything to do with the fact that Timur did not venture south of Damascus is a matter of conjecture. Ibn Khaldun managed to obtain a safe conduct for himself and several of his friends, but witnessed the murderous sack of the city and the burning of the great congregational mosque for which Ibn al-Shatir had served as timekeeper. Ibn Khaldun died in Egypt in 1406, a year after Timur.

  Ibn Khaldun is best known for the Muqaddima, or “Introduction,” to his history of the Arabs and Berbers. In 1374, after a particularly exhausting period of government service in North Africa, Ibn Khaldun had sought refuge with a Berber tribe in what is now Algeria. He stayed with them for four years, and it was during this time that he wrote the Muqaddima, a massive introduction (the English translation is in three large volumes) to an even larger work of history. Its originality and profundity have had a major influence on Egyptian historians of the fifteenth century, Ottoman historians, and social scientists and philosophers of our own time. Many consider it to be the first work of genuine social science. While it is too complex to be summarized in a few dozen words, mention can be made of its most famous features. It includes a survey of the full range of Islamic learning, but concentrates on the dynamics of historical change. Ibn Khaldun’s positivism is revealed in his blistering critique of the metaphysics of philosophy and is expressed again in his theory of history, which he believes to be governed by rational or natural laws. He stresses the role of climate, geography, economics, and ecology in creating the distinctive characteristics of given societies.

  Most famously, Ibn Khaldun proposes a theory of historical change based on his understanding of North African history: An aggressive and simple nomadic community conquers an existing state and then develops a dynamic community characterized by ethnic, religious, or lineal solidarity. As the nomads become assimilated to the urban society they have conquered, however, the second generation becomes corrupted by the vices of urban civilization, and in particular tends to reject the loyalty-based political authority that had made the state possible in the first place. The third and final generation loses both its solidarity and its martial spirit, and becomes the easy prey of yet another vigorous nomadic community. Ibn Khaldun offered numerous examples from the time of the Arab conquests through the Berber dynasties of the Almoravids, Almohads, and Marinids to support his theory. The destructive campaigns of Timur, coming after he had written his book, could only reinforce his conclusions.

  Hafez

  The rebirth of Persian literature that began in the ninth century produced numerous talented poets. The epic poet Ferdowsi (ca. 940–1020) and the mystical poets Farid al-Din ‘Attar (ca. 1120–ca. 1220), Sa‘di (ca. 1193–1292), and Jamal al-Din al-Rumi (1207–1273) are still revered in Iran. Speakers of Persian, literate and illiterate alike, can recite from memory numerous verses of their poetry, and can harmonize Ferdowsi’s celebration of pre-Islamic Iran with the religious themes of the others. As beloved as these poets are, however, the favorite poet of many Iranians is Hafez (ca. 1325–ca. 1390). Widely regarded as the greatest lyric poet in Persian, Hafez honed his craft in the midst of the chaos of the immediate post-Il-khanid era.

  Hafez lived almost his entire life in Shiraz. When he was about ten years old, the Il-khanid ruler Abu Sa‘id was poisoned, and the Il-khanid regime disintegrated. Various chieftains throughout the former empire seized power in the provinces. In Shiraz and western Iran, the Muzaffarid dynasty proved to be dominant until Timur conquered the area in 1387. Local revolts continued throughout Hafez’s life, however, and Shiraz changed hands several times. Hafez’s family was not prominent in the community, but he managed to acquire a deep knowledge of the Islamic sciences, Arabic, and Persian literature. He is said to have written several commentaries on religious texts and to have taught the Qur‘an. (His name is actually an honorific, deriving from the Arabic word hafiz, which literally means “memorizer
,” specifically one who has memorized the entire Qur’an.)

  Hafez was a deeply spiritual Sufi, but he did not possess an ascetic nature. He saw no contradiction between a love for God and a robust delight in the pleasures of the senses, and he composed poetry celebrating both. He became so renowned in Shiraz for his verses that he became a court poet for the Muzaffarids, although he fell out of favor with them in 1368. His sensual lifestyle and love of wine provoked the ulama to criticize him, and at his death, some of them did not even want him buried in a regular cemetery.

  Hafez specialized in the type of poetry known as the ghazal, a lyric poem of six to fifteen couplets. By the fourteenth century, Arabic and Persian poetry had developed certain conventions that were beginning to make poetry stilted and formal. Hafez deliberately chose to write about everyday experience in simple and colloquial language, avoiding artificial display. The listener detects a remarkably humane and honest spirit in the poet. Unlike most court poets, he wrote few panegyrics, and even when he satirized hypocrites, he did not use the insults commonly hurled by other poets.

  Hafez continued the Persian Sufi tradition of allusive images. His poetry contains many references to lovers (both male and female), wine, idols, mosques, birds, flowers, and other potent symbols. On the other hand, even at its most materialistic, it is often couched in Islamic terminology. Western students of his poetry have often wondered whether his language is allegorical and needs to be “decoded” for its spiritual message, or whether it is simply the sly musings of a profligate. Neither approach is adequate for the great Persian poets. Ambiguity of meaning is intrinsic and essential to their poetry. The cultivation of ambiguity was born in the midst of political and religious tension. Iranians chafed under the political dominance first of Arabs, and then of Turks and Mongols. Iran was a religious cauldron, as well. Both Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism (a religion that arose in third-century Iran and was severely persecuted by both Christians and Muslims over the next millennium) contained elements that still appealed to some Iranians. As a result, literally minded interpreters of the Qur’an bitterly criticized Muslims who were philosophically or mystically inclined, out of suspicion that they were being seduced by the older religions. In this political and religious hothouse, poets with serious themes learned to express themselves through double entendre, symbol, and metaphor. Everyday experience became inextricably entwined with the mystic’s hunger for union with God.

  The People’s Poet

  The poetry of Hafez, like that of many of the great Persian poets, can be read on at least two levels. Its literal meaning expresses the values of the secular sophisticate, but its words can be interpreted as metaphors for Sufi mystical theology. After Hafez’s death, his poetry became popular even in the Ottoman Empire and in Muslim India, where Persian literature benefitted from court patronage. On the level of popular culture, many people used his poems for divination: They would open a copy of his collection of poetry, the Diwan, at random and place their finger on a poem, expecting it to give them guidance for the day.

  THE BODY’S CUP

  Last night I saw angels knocking at the tavern door;

  they shaped and cast a winecup from Adam’s clay,

  and I was drunk with potent wine poured

  by ascetic angels who dwell behind the sacred veil.

  The sky couldn’t bear that burden of love along,

  so they cast the dice and my poor name came up.

  Seventy-two sects bicker over fairy tales;

  forgive them, they don’t know the truth.

  Thank you God for making peace with me;

  the Sufis dance and raise their cups to you.

  The candle laughs flame, but the true fire

  harvests bodies of countless ecstatic moths.

  The brides of poetry have combed my hair.

  Only Hafiz has ripped the veil from wisdom’s face.

  SOURCE: Willis Barnstone and Tony Barnstone, eds. Literatures of the Middle East. Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2003. Translation ©2003 by Tony Barnstone. Reprinted by arrangement with Prentice Hall.

  Ibn Battuta

  Ibn Taymiya, Ibn al-Shatir, Ibn Khaldun, and Hafez were intellectuals of the first order whose work is still the object of scholarly inquiry. Other intellectuals of similar stature could be treated here who worked in the natural sciences, historical studies, and religious studies. It seems appropriate to close this section, however, with Ibn Battuta (1304–1368), who was a minor intellectual but whose career, as suggested at the beginning of this chapter, demonstrates the scope and depth achieved by Islamic civilization by the fourteenth century. Ibn Battuta may have qualified as the most widely traveled individual prior to modern times. Born in 1304 in Tangier, he had the typical education of a young man who was preparing for a career as a qadi. Like many other young scholars, after his preparatory training he was ready to seek certificates from the more celebrated ulama in the great centers of Islamic studies. Thus, he embarked upon the hajj in 1325, planning to combine the fulfillment of that religious duty with the experience of studying with some of the more famous scholars of the two Holy Cities and of the Mamluke Empire. By the time he had completed the hajj, however, he had developed a passion for seeing the world. Over the next two decades, he became a citizen of the world, and before returning to Morocco in 1349, he had traveled at least 60,000—and perhaps as many as 75,000—miles.

  Ibn Battuta could not have timed his travels better if he had had the hindsight of history and returned in a time machine. He passed through Cairo during the third reign of the Mamluke al-Nasir Muhammad, and thus saw Egypt and Syria at their most prosperous and stable period for centuries before or after that time. He sailed south along the African coast as far as modern Tanzania. Later, he was introduced to Orhan, the Ottoman leader; to Abu Sa‘id, the last of the Il-khan rulers; and to Uzbeg, the great khan of the Golden Horde. (He even accompanied one of Uzbeg’s wives—a Byzantine princess—to Constantinople so that she could give birth to her child in her father’s palace.) He took advantage of Muhammad ibn Tughluq’s generosity to foreign scholars and served the Delhi Sultanate as a qadi and administrator of a huge mausoleum complex. After serving the sultan for seven years, he spent several months as a qadi in the Maldive Islands and may have traveled as far east as China, although features of the account of his trip to Sumatra and Beijing cause some scholars to think that this section was composed by the editor of his book.

  On his way back to Morocco from the Indian Ocean basin, Ibn Battuta began to see evidence of the problems that would have made his trip impossible had he begun it later. As he came through Iran and Iraq, he had to dodge the chaos and anarchy that followed the death of Abu Sa‘id, and in Syria he witnessed the devastation of the plague. By the time he reached Cairo, it, too, was reeling from the epidemic, as well as from the violence that had begun to diminish the quality of life there since the death of al-Nasir Muhammad seven years earlier. He returned home to Morocco in 1349, but his travels were not over. During the remaining twenty years of his life, he visited both Granada and Mali.

  The significance of Ibn Battuta’s career goes well beyond the actual number of miles that he traveled. A contrast with the extensive travels of Marco Polo, which had taken place some fifty years earlier, is instructive: Whereas Polo’s travels took place almost entirely in strange and alien cultures, Ibn Battuta always found a Muslim community in which his skills were valued. Polo could not possibly have traveled as extensively as he did had he remained within a Christian, Latin, or Greek culture. By contrast, Ibn Battuta found mosques, schools, Sufi communities, and the recognition of the Shari‘a as the legal norm in an uninterrupted zone from Morocco to the steppes of Russia and Central Asia, and all around the rim of the Indian Ocean basin. Everywhere he went, he found that his mastery of the Arabic language was useful to him, either as a lingua franca or as a skill that qualified him for remunerative positions as a religious specialist. He found the areas on the periphery of the Isl
amic heartland to be the most rewarding, for there he was invariably given a lavish welcome, including money, robes, horses, and wives. In those areas, the members of the Muslim community were eager to have a religious authority who could advise them on how to follow the Shari‘a, and the local rulers were eager to have their own authority legitimized by their patronage of specialists in the Islamic sciences. Ibn Battuta’s career reveals in strikingly personal and concrete detail that, despite the catastrophes of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the Islamic world had become the largest cultural continuum in the world.

  Law

  The most honored intellectual activity in the Muslim world was jurisprudence, or fiqh. This valuation was justified: Not only did Muslims consider Islamic law to reflect God’s will, but, as we have seen repeatedly, the independence of Islamic law from any given regime enabled societies to continue even when their governments were destroyed. Thus, the Shari‘a was one of the most important elements in the “glue” that held Islamic civilization together. As the law books proliferated, however, many jurists began to question what their role was. If they did not make the law, but only inferred from the sources what God’s will was, would there come a time when they had no more original work to do?