Quest for the Red Sulphur The Life of Ibn Arabi

The Islamic Texts Society Golden Palm Series

Cambridge 1993

CLAUDE ADDAS

Quest for the Red Sulphur The Life of Ibn Arabi

Translated from the French by Peter Kingsley

 The Islamic Texts Society 1993

English translation © The Islamic Texts Society 1993 translated from the French by Peter Kingsley

First published as Ibn ^cArabï ou La quête du Soufre Rouge.

by Claude Addas, Éditions Gallimard 1989

This edition published 1993 by The Islamic Texts Society

5 Green Street, Cambridge. CB2 3ju, u.k.

TO MY FATHER

'Tell me, friend, which place you want me to take you to . . ..

— I want to go to the city of the Messenger, in search of the Station of Radiance and the Red Sulphur.’

Ibn ^cArabi, The Book of the Journey by Night

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

This is not just a translation of the book which appeared in French in 1989 under the title Ibn ^cArabî ou La quête du Soufre Rouge, but effectively a second edition. The author has modified a number of passages; sometimes new material has been added; and what was originally just an index of select Arabic terms has been expanded into a full glossary for the convenience of readers with no knowledge of the language. As a rule the author's practice of omitting the al- prefix in proper names has been adhered to.

I owe a special debt of gratitude not only to Claude Addas but also to Michel Chodkiewicz for their constant help.

P.K.

Contents

System of transliteration for Arabic characters xi

List of abbreviations xii

Foreword xiii

Introduction i

1. Home Land it

‘Andalusia belongs to God’ 11

The descendants of Hàtim al-Tà’ï 17

Tn the time of my sinful youth’ 27

1. Vocation 33

‘When God called me to Him’ 3 3

Entering the Way 44

Western Sufism in Ibn ^cArabi’s time 52

The masters of Seville 61

1. Election 74

Cordoba: the Great Vision 74

Seville: retreats and revelations 81

1. Ibn ^cArabî and the Savants of Andalusia 93

Ibn ^cArabi’s training in the traditional religious disciplines, according to his Ijaza 97

Training in literature according to the Kitâb muhâdarat al-abrâr 100

Theological and philosophical training 102

1. God’s Vast Earth hi

‘I am the Qur’an and the Seven Substitutes’ 111

Heir to Abraham 120

1. Fez 132

‘Make me into light’ 132

A‘face without a nape’ 142

Ascension 153

1. Farewells 169
2. The Great Pilgrimage 181

The East under the Ayyùbids 181

Voyage to the centre of the earth 193

In the shadow of the Ka^cba 211

1. ‘Counsel My Servants' 218
2. Damascus, ‘Refuge of the Prophets’ 245

Ibn Arabi and the Syrian fuqaha’ 245

The meeting of the two Seals 259

Conclusion 290

Appendices 295

1. Chronological table of Ibn Arabi's life 296
2. Ibn Arabi and his links with the various Sufi currents in the

Muslim West 311

1. The teachers in traditional religious disciplines frequented by

Ibn Arabi in the Muslim West 312

1. The men of letters frequented by Ibn Arabi in the Muslim

West 314

1. The four silsilas of the khirqa akbariyya 315

Bibliography 322

1. Manuscript sources 322
2. Published sources 322

Index of Names 330

Glossary and Index of Technical Terms 342

SYSTEM OF TRANSLITERATION FOR ARABIC CHARACTERS

b

t O

th Lb

j I h C kh t,

d 3

dh 3

r J

The article: al- and 1- (even in front of sun letters)

Short                 Long

vowels               vowels               Diphthongs

—         u               \S    à                 J—        aw

—         a               i       ü                5^—         ay

—         i                4^ *                   sr          iyy

uww

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

Awâmir: al-Awâmir al-'ala iyya fî l-umûr al-^calâ'iyya, by Ibn Bibi. Bayân: al-Bayàn ai-mughrib fî akhbâr al-maghrib, by Ibn ^cIdhàri. Bidâya: al-Bidâya wa 1-nihâya, by Ibn Kathir.

B.E.O.: Bulletin des études orientales.

Dhikr: Dhikr biiâd al-andalus H muallif majhül.

Dïbâj: al-DIbâj al-mudhhab, by Ibn Farhùn.

Durra: al-Durrat al-fâkhira, by Ibn ^cArabi.

El: Encyclopedia of Islam (EF first edition, El^z second edition).

E.T.: Études traditionnelles.

Fusüs: Fusüs al-hikam, by Ibn ^cArabï.

Fut.: al-Futühât al-makkiyya, by Ibn ^cArabï.

GAL: Geschichte der arabischen Literatur, by C. Brockelmann.

Histoire et classification: Histoire et classification de l’œuvre d'Ibn ^cArabî, by O. Yahia.

I.F.A.O.: Institut français d’archéologie orientale.

I.F.D.: Institut français de Damas.

Ijâza: Ijâza li 1-malik al-Muzaffar, by Ibn ^cArabï.

Mishkât: Mishkât al-anwâr, by Ibn ^cArabï.

Muhâdarat: Muhâdarat al-abrâr, by Ibn ^cArabï.

Mu^cjib: al-Mufib fî talkhîs akhbâr al-Maghrib, by ^cAbd al-Wahïd al-Marrâkushî.

Nafh: Nafh al-tîb, by Maqqarï.

Nayl: Nayl al-ibtihâj, by Ahmad Bàbà.

Passion: The Passion of al-Hallâj, by Massignon.

R.E.J.: Revue des études juives.

R.G.: Répertoire général des œuvres d'Ibn ^cArabi, in O. Yahia’s Histoire et classification.

Rüh: Rüh al-quds, by Ibn ^cArabî.

Seal of the Saints: Seal of the Saints, by M. Chodkiewicz.

Shadharât: Shadharât al-dhahab, by Ibn al-^cImàd.

Tak.: Takmila, by Ibn al-Abbàr.

Tâlî: Tâlî wafayât al-a^cyân, by Ibn al-Suqâ^cï.

Tarâjim: Tarâjim rijâl al-qarnayn al-sâdis wa 1-sâbr, by Abu Shâma. Tashawwuf: al-Tashawwuf ilâ rijâl al-tasawwuf, by Ahmad Tàdilî. ^cUnwân: ^cUnwân al-dirâya, by Ghubrïnï.

Wâfî: al-Wâfî bi l-wafayât, by Safadî.

Wahîd: al-Wahîdfî sulûk ahl al-tawhîd, by ^cAbd al-Ghaffâr al-Qùsî.

xn

Foreword

When, several years ago, I decided to set off on the track of Ibn ^cArabî, I was aware that the journey would be long and adventurous, and I would not have set out at all unless I had been certain at the time that I would find help and comfort in the company of other pilgrims. Of those travelling compa­nions—of whom there have been so many that it would not be possible to mention them all—there are five in particular to whom I owe a special debt: Professor Pierre Thillet, who agreed to supervise my thesis: my father Michel Chodkiewicz, through whom I discovered the universe of the Shaikh al- Akbar while still a child, through whom I came to love him while a teenager and understand him as an adult; my husband, who during these years of research shared daily in my venture and accepted all the sacrifices it involved; my daughter Walâya, who joined up with us in mid-journey to bring us 'freshness and peace’: Dominique de Ménil, who through her generous support and friendly enthusiasm made my work so much easier at a practical level. I would have them all know how grateful to them I am. Finally, my sister Agnès devoted weeks to the difficult and tiresome task of typing up a manuscript which was often virtually illegible. She knows how dear she is to me, but I wish also to express a sister’s gratitude.

Above and beyond these direct sources of assistance I am indebted to the lineage—still very much alive—of Ibn ^Arabi’s disciples for helping me bring this work to completion. Whether famous or unknown, they have ensured the transmission and preservation of the legacy of Ibn Arabi over a period of eight centuries. I trust I am not unworthy to inscribe my name in turn in their silsila.

Paris, October 1987

Introduction

Over the past few years the space given by publishers to works on Sufism in general and on Ibn ^cArabï in particular has grown considerably. This has been the case in Arab countries as well as in the West, and has often involved the publication of works outside of the more strictly specialised series. The number of critical editions, translations and monographs has multiplied.^[1] A number of different aspects of the teaching of Ibn ^cArabi— called the ‘Shaikh al-Akbar’. ‘Greatest of the Masters’—have certainly benefitted from this attention; however, any search in recent bibliographies for a work on his life which meets the basic requirements of historical research will be in vain. The only work of any extent which is at all accessible today remains the study by Asin Palacios in his Islam cristianizado: at the beginning of this book, published in Madrid in 1931, he attempted in less than a hundred pages to reconstruct the principal stages in the terrestrial journey and spiritual path of the author of the Futûhât makkiyya. But although Asin was living and writing after both Nicholson and Nyberg, he was much more of a pioneer in Ibn ^cArabI studies than either of them and unfortunately, at the time when he produced his Vida de Abenarabi, research on the subject of the Shaikh al-Akbar was virtually non-existent. This means that he did not have access to all the information now available: I refer especially to 0. Yahia’s History and Classification of the Work of Ibn ^Q Arabi, which is the result of a long and patient inventory of the manuscripts. Also, many of the monographs that have been devoted to the mystical path (tasawwuf) during the sixth and seventh centuries of the Hegira—for example the works of Fritz Meier and Henry Corbin—had not yet been written, and inevitably this made it more difficult than it is nowadays to situate Ibn ^cArabi in his environment.

As a result, even though the biographical sketch which we owe to the great Spanish Islamologist has down to the present time remained the principal

source used by most writers when referring to Ibn ‘Arabi’s life, it is largely outdated. It should be added that, in addition to these shortcomings for which history alone is responsible, there are also serious deficiencies in his work which are due to his unfamiliarity with a considerable number of Ibn ^fArabi’s own writings and also with the historiographic and hagiographie literature composed in the Shaikh al-Akbar's time or shortly afterwards. In fact Asin only used the information preserved in just a few of Ibn ^cArabï’s works— mainly the Futühât and the Rùh al-quds—and in two compilations of considerably later date: the Nafh al-tib by Maqqari (d. 1041/1631) and the Shadharât al-dhahab by Ibn al-^cImad (d. 1089/1678). In other words, on the one hand he failed to utilise a large number of internal sources—especially the samcFs or ‘reading certificates’ included in Ibn ^cArabi’s works which, as we will see later, make it possible to retrace and date with precision his travels in the East. This is not even to mention the many unpublished treatises by Ibn ^cArabi which sometimes contain invaluable information about his encounters, his journeys and his spiritual experiences. On the other hand he failed to exploit external sources w'hich, as well as being of fundamental importance, are also readily available: for example the Takmila of Ibn al- Abbâr (d. 658/1259), published in Madrid as far back as 1888, the ^zUnwan al-dirdya by Ghubrini (d. 704/1304), published in Algiers in 1910, or the Tashawwuf ilâ rijàl al-tasawwiif^[2] of Yüsuf Ibn Yahyà al-Tâdilï (d. 627/1230). These and other similar documents supply various pieces of information about Ibn ^cArabi as well as about the men and women who—directly or indirectly—played a role in his development. Similarly, it is clear that Asin never consulted the Wâfï by Safadi (d. 764/1363), the Dhayl ^calâ kitâb al- rawdatayn by Abu Shâma (d. 665/1268) or the Dhayl mir’ât al-zamdn by Yûnînî (d. 726/1326).^[3] And yet these documents, along with a considerable number of others which I will not list here, provide detailed information about the reception Ibn ^cArabi was given in the East and about his companions in Syria.

For these reasons it is not surprising that even the most superficial exami­nation of the Vida de Abenarabi reveals inaccuracies, instances of confusion and numerous errors. For example, Asin Palacios states that Ibn “Arabi was in Mosul in 6oih, and in Cairo in 603.^[4] In fact we can now be much more precise: it can be established that in 6oih Ibn ^cArabî also went to Jerusalem;^[5]that in 602 he went to Konya,^{[6] [7]} and then back to Jerusalem' before going on to Hebron in 602^{[8] [9]} and finally to Cairo in 603. Elsewhere Palacios makes a mistake—persistently repeated by later writers, who as a rule merely copy his conclusions—regarding the date of Ibn ^cArabi’s meeting in Konya with the Seljuq sultan Kaykâ'ûs. ‘Ibn ^cArabï’, he writes, ‘arrived in Konya, capital of that part of the Byzantine Empire which had submitted to Islam; it was there that the king Kaykâ’ûs had ascended to the throne in 607/1210. Word of Ibn ^cArabi’s fame had reached the court ahead of him, and the king went out to meet him in person and welcome him with every possible honour.... This period of relative calm allowed Ibn ^cArabI to resume his writing and it was there, during that year, that he produced two of his works: the Risâlat al- anwâr and the Kitab mashâhidal-asrâr’y Corbin for his part briefly refers to the meeting between the king and the Sufi in the following terms: ‘Three years later, in 607/1210, Ibn ^cArabi was in the heart of Anatolia, in Konya, where the Seljuq sovereign Kaykâ'ûs I accorded him a magnificent reception’.^{[10] [11]} In fact, however, the Risâlat al-anwârwas written in Konya in 602, not 607: this is stated explicitly by Ibn ^cArabi himself at the end of the text." As for the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrâr, it was composed in Seville in 590: this also is stated by the author, in the very first lines of the work.^[12] Finally, the ‘magnificent reception' by Kaykâ’ûs cannot possibly have taken place in 60711 for the simple reason that the king only ascended to the throne in 608/12 tx.^[13] It is worth noting that neither Palacios nor Corbin gives the slightest reference which would help to substantiate the claim that this particular meeting took place at that particular date.

One other fact to be borne in mind is that as a rule Asin simply repeated the information contained in the short biography which the Egyptian editor appended to the text of the Futühât, and which is essentially a résumé of Maqqari’s Nafh al-tib.'⁴ Hence for example his account of the famous incident in Bougie in 597/1200, when Ibn ^cArabîsaw himself united with the stars and with the letters of the alphabet. In fact, however, this event is reported in detail not only by Ghubrini¹⁵ but also on two separate occasions by Ibn ^cArabï himself.^[14] It is the same in the case of the meeting between Ibn ^cArabi and Suhrawardi at Baghdad: according to Asi'n ‘he [Ibn ^cArabi] arrived in 608 at Baghdad, his final destination: his aim was to meet in person a certain great Sufi who had opened a school for homiletics and mystical exercises in the city. This man was the famous Shihâb al-Din Suhrawardi, author of the 'Awarif al-ma^carif.... The biographers relate all the details of this initial meeting between the two masters: “They looked at each other in silence for a long while, then they parted without saying a word” ’.'^[15]Unfortunately Asin fails to tell us who these biographers were. For his own part 0. Yahia cites Ibn al- Imâd as authority for locating the episode in Baghdad in 608.^[16] However, the relevant passage in the Shadharât^[17] gives neither a place nor a date for the event, which raises the question as to whether it took place at all.

On the other hand Asin Palacios makes no mention whatever of the marriage between Ibn ^cArabi and the mother of Sadr al-Din Qûnâwï, even though it is referred to in several Arabic and Persian sources. As a matter of fact this event in the private life of the Shaikh al-Akbar was to have very important consequences for the diffusion of his thought in the Islamic world. On the other hand, Asin concocted—without any supporting evidence whatever—a meeting between Ibn ^cArabi and Abu Madyan at Bougie in 590,^[18] In fact Ibn ^cArabi states explicitly in the Rüh^[19] that he never encountered ‘physically’ the man whom he considered his master par excellence.

Finally, it is important to emphasise the extent to which the reliability of the Vida de Abenarabi is compromised by the fact that it is profoundly marked—sometimes even disfigured—by its author’s religious prejudice. This is already evident in the very title of the work: Islam cristianizado. There is no point in dwelling on the offensive expressions (‘mental imbalance’, pathological case’) which often accompany Ibn ^cArabi’s name.^[20] However irritating they are, they can at least be ignored. To a certain extent this kind of prejudice is understandable in the case of a churchman living at the time of Asin Palacios; but when it leads him to assert—without any justification whatever—that Ibn ^cArabi was motivated by a ‘political hatred against the Christians’ which made him return to Anatolia in 612 so as to direct the anti-Christian policy' of Kaykâ’ùs, his bias is something much more serious. Interpreting inner states of the soul is one thing; rewriting history is another. If Asin had gone to even the slightest trouble to acquaint himself with Near­Eastern chronicles for the period of Ibn Arabi’s lifetime, he would have discovered that the policy of Kaykâ’ùs was so far from being anti-Christian that Muslim writers accused him of colluding with the Franks.^[21]

*

If Asin can to some extent be excused for the shortcomings of his work, the same cannot be said for those more recent writers who have tackled the subject of Ibn Arabi’s life. The fact is that they in turn failed to consult the works mentioned above even though they had become easily accessible. For instance, Ibn Arabi’s Rasa’il were edited in Hyderabad in 1948, a first critical edition of Tâdilî’s Tashawwuf was produced in 1954, and the majority of the Tabaqât have appeared in print starting from 1950. Instead of taking the trouble to check Palacios’ assertions, these later writers have simply reproduced the errors contained in Islam cristianizado—or, even worse, added to them.^[22] In this respect Ruspoli’s introduction to chapter 16 7 of the Futühât is typical. In the four unfortunate pages which he devotes to the life of Ibn 'Arabi, he manages to invent for him a marriage with Nizam, the inspirer of the Tarjumàn al-ashwâq,^[23] and to have him return to the West after his definitive departure for the East in 598.^[24]

There is no denying that O. Yahia has made a serious effort to achieve precision in the chronological table of Ibn Arabi's life which he presents at the start of his General Index. However, here too one notes a considerable number of omissions and inaccuracies. For example, for the year 586/1190 he limits himself to reporting the visit made by Ibn Arabi to one of the women who were his spiritual masters in Marchena; but strangely he fails to point out that it was during the same year that Ibn Arabi went to Cordoba, where a decisive event in his spiritual destiny occurred. In fact this piece of information is given in a famous passage of the Fusiis al-hikam.¹' Similarly, he omits to mention that in 595/1198 the Shaikh al-Akbar returned to Cordoba, where he attended the funeral of Averroes which he describes in the Futühât;^2K or that on the 12th of Jumâdâ 599/1202 he went to Taif where, as he tells us at the start of the Hilyat al-abdâl,²^ he meditated at Ibn ‘Abbas’ grave. And one learns with astonishment that in 598 Ibn‘Arabi stopped off in Casablanca—even though the city which bears this name was only built in the eighteenth century.^{[25] [26] [27] [28]}

*

This all goes to show that at the present time no dependable and detailed study of Ibn ‘Arabi’s life is available in a Western language. Those who are fortunate enough to be able to cope with the subtleties of Arabic are left with the option of referring to the Arab sources, either ancient or modern; they are then faced with a choice between two different kinds of document, or more precisely between two different types of information. On the one hand there are the details provided by the entries—often brief, always lifeless—in the tabaqdt, those vast biographical dictionaries in which the author confidently sums up a whole lifetime in a few lines. Boring and dull, these curricula vitae are all very much the same and are repeated from writer to writer, century to century: names, first names, surnames, masters, travels, writings. To spare oneself the labour one could simply refer, like Asin, to the Nafh al-tib—a work in which its author meticulously noted down and assembled most of the entries referring to Ibn Arabi which existed in his time.³ ' But Maqqari was no different from many other Arabic compilers in his disregard for historical truth; what is more, he was a fervent supporter of Ibn Arabi. As a result, he reproduced a number of fairly incredible anecdotal stories which, as we will see when we come to examine them, very probably derive from Fayrüzâbâdi (d. 817/1414).

The second type of document consists of hagiographical writings. For example, there are a few rather fine pages at the start of al-Qari al-Baghdadi's Manâqib Ibn ^cArabî^î2 which present a summary of Ibn Arabi’s life in the same kind of anecdotal style which Farid al-Din Attàr used in his Tadhkirat al-awliya. But the author does not stop there. Keen to rally his reader to the cause of the Shaikh al-Akbar—for whom he expresses a profound veneration—he goes to great lengths to demonstrate that there were ^culama or theologians with the very best of reputations, and hardly likely to raise any suspicions as to their orthodoxy, who acknowledged [bn Arabi's sainthood. To achieve this he simply puts into their mouths statements which they never made. So, for instance, Dhahabî’s sober assertion that Ibn ‘Arabi was ‘the model for those who teach the Oneness of Being' is transformed in the Manâqib into ‘the shaikh, the ascetic, the imam, the saint, the ocean of truths. . ,’!³³ This kind of golden legend was then perpetuated in later centuries by Sha^crânï³⁴ and, to a lesser degree, by Maqqari.

What is true of some of Ibn Arabi's supporters is also true of virtually all his opponents. They too were not bothered with scruples. Both sides were writing ad maiorem Dei gloriam and piously relegated historical truth to its proper place. For example DhahabI does not think twice about reporting that Ibn Arabi had married a jinn who used to beat him black and blue.³³ Others, not quite so prone to such flights of fantasy, asserted that he had perverse sexual habits³⁶—an accusation which admittedly is hurled at anyone who is open to suspicion of heresy in the eyes of the Doctors of the Law.

During the last decade Shaikh Mahmud Ghurâb of Damascus has gone to considerable lengths to make Ibn Arabi better known to the Arab world. He has published ten or so different works which assemble various texts of Ibn Arabi according to theme: ‘the Imaginai World', ‘the Perfect Man’, and so on. One of these monographs, published in Damascus in 1983, is called The Life of Ibn ^QArabi according to Ibn 'ArabiA⁷ Faithful to the method he has laid down for himself, the author simply reproduces one after another various texts (extracted only from printed works of Ibn Arabi: he makes no use of manuscripts) in which the Shaikh al-Akbar speaks in the first person. This anthology could be genuinely useful, but unfortunately Mahmud Ghurâb fails to give the references for this patchwork of quotations. In the case of a literary output as vast as Ibn Arabi’s—adding up to thousands of pages— this is, to say the least, inconvenient.

*

33- Ibid., p.38. The editor of the .Manâqib, Dr Salah al-Din Munajjid. took the trouble to cite the original text of Dhahabi which al-Qâri al-Baghdâdî claims to be quoting. It was recorded by Yâfil (cf. Mir'âtal-janân. 1338 edition. IV, p. 100) and no doubt derives from Dhahabfs Ta'rikhal- islàm, although I have not been able to confirm this. The same kind of falsification occurs in the case of Ibn Kâthïr's biographical note in the Hidâya (cf. Manâqib Ibn "Arabi, p.36).

34' Sha^crànï. al-Yawâqït wa 1-jawâhir, Cairo 1 369. ad init.: al-Tahaqât al-kubrâ, I, p.188.

35- Dhahabi. Mïzân al-i^ctidâl, Beirut 1965. III. p.659.

36. See for example Safadi. al-Wafi bi l-wafayat, Wiesbaden 1981, IV. p.174.

37- This is a free translation of the original title (Ibn "Arabi: tarjamat hayâtihi min kalârnihi, Damascus 1983).

All in all, any contemporary reader of Ibn ^cArabi who would like to consult a biography of him is—even if he happens to know Arabic—faced with only two options. Either there is the study by Asm Palacios, which apart from its major deficiencies is also extremely prejudiced, or there are the frequently fantastic stories told by the Arab biographers which, depending on the author’s bias, provide a vast wealth of either fabricated anecdotes or pious defamation. This is, to say the very least, a highly paradoxical situation when one considers on the one hand the immense significance (acknowledged even by his detractors) of Ibn ^cArabi and his school in the history of Sufism, and when on the other hand one notes how the number of studies and translations in these areas keeps increasing from year to year. It was no doubt presumptuous to try to set matters right, but that is the task I have set myself in this book. To study the Greatest of the Masters as if he was just a brilliant metaphysician, without any roots, without a history of his own, without a homeland, is to risk failing to interpret correctly the nuances of a way of thinking which is inseparable from his personal experience. Certainly he was destined to fulfil an eminent function in the subsequent history of Sufism, both as a major point of reference in matters of doctrine and, less overtly, as source of a spiritual influx which even today is not exhausted. But this function, which is illustrated and encapsulated in his title ‘Seal of Muhamma­dan Sainthood’, is not something which can be understood in some nebulous void unpeopled by men and women and devoid of any points of reference in space or time. Ibn ^cArabî’s companions arc not just walk-on parts, his contemporaries were not just onlookers, the countries which he lived in were more than theatrical backdrops, and the events he experienced were for him far more than the simple reversals in a dramatic plot. In this respect all the biographies of Ibn ^cArabî which were mentioned earlier share one major shortcoming. Not once do they try to delineate the cultural, social and political landscape in which his destiny unfolded, and never do they attempt to evoke the epoch, so rich and sumptuous but also so grave, into which he was born and in which he died: the era of the Reconquista in the West, the era of the Crusades and soon afterwards of the Mongol invasions in the East. It is quite true that works written about this period are extremely inadequate. Even today there is still no study which deals specifically with the Andalusia of Ibn ^cArabT’s time—that is, with Andalusia under the Almohads. This means that anyone interested in discovering information which could help to shed light on Andalusian society during that period is obliged to consult the historiographical works written at the time. However, history as it was conceived of then is something very different from the discipline which bears the name today. Any attempt to find details about the living conditions of the general population in, say, Ibn al-Abbàr's Takmila or Ibn Tdhârï's Ba’jân al- mughrib is totally in vain. Their concern was not with writing history in the way this is understood today—let alone with sociology. Their aim was to transmit a very specific type of information regarding the key figures and the political and military events which in one way or another characterised their century.

The East under the Ayyubids is slightly better documented. The studies by C. Cahen, E. Sivan and S. Humphreys carefully document the Ayyùbid system of government and its interactions with the Christian world. The doctoral thesis defended by L. Pouzet in 1981 assembles the historical data concerning religious life in Damascus during the seventh/thirteenth century. More recently, D. Gril’s edition and translation of a seventh-century hagiographical text’⁸ provides invaluable information about the Sufi circles which existed in Egypt at that time. But a great deal still remains to be done, and I venture to express the hope that this book will contribute towards a better understanding of a period which witnessed such major upheavals in the Islamic world.

*

My aim is essentially biographical. In the first instance it consists of retracing Ibn ^cArabI’s spiritual and intellectual journey while, wherever possible, situating this journey firmly in the religious and historical context of the time. Within this framework there could be no question of undertaking a detailed analysis of Ibn ^cArabï’s doctrine and teaching. My intention has been much more modest: to contribute a little to clarifying the origin of his teachings and also to emphasise how closely they are related to the ‘states’ (ahwal) and ‘stations' (niaqâmât) which he experienced, as well as to an already lengthy tradition which he inherited and in turn transmitted. Besides, the principal themes of his thought have already been the subject of meticulous examination for a number of decades. There is no need to go back as far as Nyberg or Asm: one has only to think of the work done by Corbin and Izutsu (and more recently by another Japanese scholar, Masataka Takeshita), or of the penetrating commentaries by Michel Vâlsan which accompany his translations, to gain an idea of the number of publications which have been devoted to deciphering the corpus of Ibn ^cArabi’s writings—although of course this is not to say that the deciphering is even nearly complete. And yet for obvious reasons it has proved impossible to confine myself to simply citing these studies: frequently I found it essential to refer in passing to the main ideas which run through Ibn ^cArabi’s work, although I make no claim to have done so exhaustively.

1. La Risâlade Safial-Din Ibn Abi l-Mansur: biographies de maîtres spirituels connus par un cheikh égyptien du VII^e/XIll^c siècle, introduced, edited and translated by Denis Gril, I.F.A.O. 1986.

'I only speak of what I taste,' states the author of the Futühât.^!H In a sense his entire work is nothing but the record of his inner experience: visions, dialogues with the dead, ascensions, mysterious encounters in the ‘Imaginai World’ (^calani al-khayâl), miraculous journeys in the celestial spheres. Whether they are a psychopath’s fantasies, as Asin Palacios believed, or genuine spiritual perceptions as Corbin claimed, the fact is that for Ibn Arabi they were not only as real but much more real than the Andalusian earth on which he walked as a child. Everyone who devotes himself to studying the Shaikh al-Akbar—whether as a biographer or as a historian of ideas—must take this into account.

*

It takes a saint to understand a saint,’ wrote Julien Green about Francis of Assisi.⁴⁰ Indeed I make no claim to have understood—let alone made understandable—that elusive figure whose existence I will be describing. Many enigmas remain. In saying this I have in mind not so much those historical riddles for which some document, lost today, may tomorrow provide the answer, as those illuminations for which we can record both date and place but without being able to share in their light. I have in mind those contradictions which no doubt resolve themselves sub specie aeternitatis, but which from the terrestrial point of view remain unsolved; those certainties that are inaccessible to the reason of mortals, and the privilege of the muhaqqiqün or realisers of the truth. To the best of my ability I have followed Ibn Arabi down those strange trails that are not always contained within the four points of the compass. During the course of this journey one can sometimes feel one has lost one’s way; sometimes one can feel a prisoner in a labyrinth from which there is no way out. But the Shaikh al-Akbar asserts that ‘all paths are circular’,⁴' which among other things means that the journey which the reader is about to embark on will lead him back to himself.

1. Fut.. II. p.24: see also Fut., IV. p.75.
2. Julien Green. Frère François. Paris 1982, p.86.
3. Fut.. HI. p.65: Kisâlat al-anwâr, p.12.

IO

1. Home Land

‘ANDALUSIA BELONGS TO GOD’

‘You who live in Al-Andalus, with its waters, its shade, its rivers, trees—how blessed you are!

The Garden of Bliss is nowhere else than in your country, and if it was possible for me to choose between them it would be your country I would choose.

Don’t be afraid of going to Hell tomorrow: whoever has known Paradise will never enter Gehenna.'^[29]

C

ountless poets have sung the charms of the Andalusian countryside, with its green gardens, its rivers, its flowers, its fragrances and scents; these verses by Ibn Khafâja (d. 533/1139) are far from unique.^[30] Andalusia, land of enchantment, land of Paradise—the native Arabic literature abounds with these enthusiastic eulogies. ‘Andalusia and everything in it belongs to God', another poet declaims.^[31] From statements such as these to making the prophet Muhammad say what he never said is just a small step; the Andalusians took that step by piously inventing some hadîths. ‘After my death a peninsula will be conquered in the West; its name is Andalusia. Whoever lives there will live in a state of blessedness; whoever dies there will die a martyr . . ,.’^[32] Or again: 'God spread out the Earth before me and I was able to see how much of it my community would possess. I saw that Andalusia would be its final conquest. I asked Gabriel: “Gabriel, what is that peninsula?" He replied: "Muhammad, that is the peninsula of Andalusia, which your community will conquer after your death. Whoever lives there will live in a state of blessedness; whoever dies there will die a martyr”.”’ Put together from bits and pieces, these ‘hadïths’ testify just as much to the strength of sheer passion which the Arab conquerors felt for Andalusia as to the complete and utter absence of that scientific scrupulousness which the compilers were sometimes quite capable of.

Let us take a closer look at this land which became the inspiration for so many eulogists. It is common knowledge that by ‘ Al-Andalus' Arabic writers meant not only the region equivalent to what is Spain today but also ‘Islamic Spain irrespective of its geographical extension, which diminished bit by bit as the Christian reconquest proceeded'.^{[33] [34]}

During the Almohad Empire, which is the period that concerns us, Al- Andalus designated the provinces—or more accurately the kiiras. according to the geographical terminology used by the Arabs—of Valencia, Tudmir (provincial centre Murcia) and Jativa in the Levant (sharq al-andalus); of Jaén, Elvira (near to Granada), Almeria and Malaga in the East; of Cordoba, Seville, Ecija, Carmona and Niebla to the West; in the South, Moron, Sidona, Calsena and Tacoranna (provincial centre Ronda), and in the Algarve (gharb al- andalus)—present-day Portugal—Osconoba (with Silves as its centre) and Beja.

Apart from some disagreement as to whether Spain should be situated in the fourth or fifth climate,⁷ the fact is that Arab geographers followed each other closely in their descriptions of Andalusia and that there is not much difference between one account and another. The following example is also typical of the rest:

‘Andalusia is a fertile peninsula, remarkable for the immense size of its lands and sea, for the great variety of its fruits and for its natural resources. It is favoured with a considerable population and enormous advantages. There are many wild animals, birds and fish for game. Its soil is good, its water drinkable .... Uninhabited regions are rare; fortresses and castles are everywhere. It also has a rich quantity of mines, of rock crystal, ore, sulphur, lead and tin.’⁸ Add one further comment by the same author—'The inhabitants of Andalusia are more courageous and more difficult to govern than any other people; even the great Caesar himself. . .’—and the picture is complete!

Stereotyped as it is, this idyllic description does none the less contain a substantial degree of truth. There is no denying that the regions of Cordoba and Seville—in particular the Aljarafe, the range of hills stretching to the West of Seville—and also the regions of the Levant and Algarve have been favoured by nature to a much greater extent than the rest of the Iberian peninsula. Abundantly watered by the Guadalquivir (al-wtïdïal-kabîr) and its tributaries (chief of which is the Guenil, al-wâdi al-sinjïl), and perfectly irrigated from the Umayyad era onwards, the soil in these areas is fertile and favourable for the cultivation of fruits and vegetables. The Andalusians took special pride in the variety and abundance of the fruit; apples, pears, apricots, cherries, pomegranates and especially tigs grew in profusion. The olive groves in Jaén, Malaga and particularly in the Aljarafe stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see; the Aljarafe was also a centre of intensive apiculture. As for the sea, it was a generous source offish for the Andalusians, who were prodigious sardine-eaters.^[35]

The complete absence of statistical data, plus the Arab geographers’ lack of concern with demographical matters, renders impossible any serious attempt at estimating the population of Islamic Spain in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.^{[36] [37]} On the other hand we are well informed as to the elements that went to make up this extremely mixed population.' '

Those who were Arabs in the true sense of the word came for the most part from Syria and the Yemen, after the conquest. They represented a privileged and affluent minority and formed a closed caste, a nucleus of great families (buyütât) who owned the best land and most often occupied important administrative posts.

From the eleventh century onwards, as the Almoravids and then the Almohads came to power, the number of Berbers in Andalusia increased considerably. These nomads from North Africa were recruited en masse as mercenaries; disliked by Arabs and Andalusians, they were regarded as coarse and uncouth. The Almohad dynasty brought a change in their social status: previously confined to the lower classes, a large number of them now took up judicial posts while others excelled in the religious sciences. We will also see that several of Ibn ^cArabfs spiritual masters came from this class of uneducated and illiterate Berbers.

Among these non-native elements in the population of Andalusia, mention should also be made of the existence of a small number of blacks from Sudan. Brought to Andalusia by the slave trade, they were for the most part employed as mercenaries.

The aboriginal population consisted of three groups. Statistically the most significant one was the muwallads, or Spaniards converted to Islam. Farmers, craftsmen and traders, they also made up most of the working population.

Then there were the Christians and Jews. Both were minority groups. There had been a major emigration of Christians to the north of Spain after Toledo was captured by Alphonso VI in 478/1085. However, a small nucleus of this Mozarab community stayed on in Andalusia. Under the Almoravids, and even more so under the Almohads, they were increasingly ill-treated and humiliated. The religious tolerance which had characterised the caliphate of Cordoba was no more than a distant memory. Admittedly times had changed: the Muslim realm in Spain was shrinking from day to day as the Reconquista continued to gain more ground. When ^cAbd al-Mu’min came to power, he declared that he would no longer tolerate anyone but Muslims on his territory; churches and synagogues were systematically destroyed.^[38]

The situation was even worse for the Jews. In face of the Almohad persecutions many of them emigrated to Toledo or to the Maghreb—as for example in the case of Maimonides, who fled Cordoba in 544/1149 and took refuge first of all in the Maghreb and then in Egypt, where he died in 601/ 1204. Those who stayed on lived together in special quarters of the great cities. Especially in Granada, but also in Seville and Cordoba, they formed an important and prosperous community until 557/1162; but in that year the city was recaptured by the Almohads, and most of them were either killed or expelled.^[39]

The manual of hisba (‘inspection’) by Ibn ^cAbdun, written at the beginning of the twelfth century, provides a remarkable insight into the attitude of intolerance which was sweeping through Andalusia at that time. A magistrate at Seville, he used every possible opportunity to express his profound contempt for the dhinmns, non-Muslims: ‘It is forbidden', he writes,

‘to sell a coat which has belonged to a leper, a Jew or a Christian without disclosing the fact to the potential buyer . . .'.’⁴ Elsewhere he advises that'no tax-collectors, policemen, Jews or Christians should be allowed to wear the dress of a member of the aristocracy, of a lawyer or of a man of means; on the contrary, they should be abominated and shunned . . ,’.^{[40] [41]} And that is not all. According to Ibn ^cAbdün, priests are fornicators and the churches are brothels! ‘Members of the clergy are debauchees, fornicators and sodomites. Women Franks are to be forbidden to enter the church on any day except when there are services and on holy days, because it is their custom to go there to banquet, drink and fornicate with the clergy .. ,’.'⁶ Finally, Jews and Christians must be absolutely forbidden to educate themselves and above all to act as tutors to Muslims.¹⁷

One other very special characteristic of Andalusia was the number of its towns, many of which dated from Roman times, and its fortresses. If the land may well have been a paradise, it was also highly coveted.

Whatever the views of lyrical eulogists as to the country’s charms, the fact is that from the eleventh century and even more so from the twelfth century onwards Al-Andalus presents the picture of a landscape devastated by war. W⁷ith the capture of Toledo in 478/1085 by Alphonso VI of Castile, and then of Saragossa in 512/1118 by Alphonso the Warrior of Aragon, the Reconquista —which had made little progress up until then—inexorably tightened its grip around the Islamic realm in Spain. Certainly the Almoravid Berbers from North Africa rallied to the cry for help from the reyes de Taifas, and still managed to hold the Christians in check beyond their frontier. But very soon they were to be crushed in turn by other Berbers—the Almohads. In 539/1145, with the conquest of Morocco and Ifriqiya scarcely completed, the Almohad troops landed in the Iberian peninsula under ^cAbd al-Mu’min, who had succeeded to the Mahdi Ibn Tumart in 527/1133. Two years later they took Jerez, Niebla, Silves, Beja. Mertola—and finally Seville, where the Almohads set up their administrative capital.

By the time of ^cAbd al-Mu’min’s death in 558/1162 almost all of Andalusia had been conquered and subdued. The rebellions which flared up here and there in reaction to the abuses perpetrated by the rank and file of the Almohad army were rapidly put down. The famine and penury which had ravaged Seville were averted.

On his father’s death Abu Ya^cqûb Yusuf seized power, although only after eliminating a few rival candidates who were something of a nuisance. He inherited a vast empire which was prosperous and strong economically, politically and also from a military point of view. But even so, a shadow darkened the scene. The shadow had a name: Ibn Mardanish.

Demented and cruel’: that is the image which the medieval Arab chroni­clers liked to present of the Levantine sovereign, Muhammad b. Sa^cd Ibn Mardanish. The chroniclers in question were men such as Ibn Sàhib al- Salât^[42] (d. 594/1198) and Ibn Tdhârî^[43] (d. C700/1300)—that is, men whose impartiality is to say the least open to question.^[44] The verdict of the great Orientalist R. Dozy is quite different. He does not conceal his admiration for the great opponent of the Almohads, and observes that ‘He liked to dress in the same way as his neighbours, the Christians, and carry the same weapons as they did; he liked to fit out his horses in the same way, and he took pleasure in speaking their language. Most of his soldiers were from Castile, Navarra and Catalonia; he had homes built for them—and a large number of taverns as well, which caused a major scandal among strict Muslims .... In every Christian prince he saw an ally, a friend, a brother .... He was a man of great shrewdness: he knew when to pardon with nobility and when to punish severely, according to the circumstances. He had prodigious energy and was an excellent horseman; his bravery was a match for any ordeal. In battle he was so ready to sacrifice himself and endanger his life that he had to be reminded that a general-in-command has other duties than those of an ordinary soldier’.^[45]

With the assistance of Christian mercenaries Ibn Mardanish defied, haras­sed and menaced the Almohad Empire for nearly fifteen years. In 554/1159 he attempted to take Cordoba, then descended on Seville; encouraged and commanded by their future sultan Abu Ya^cqüb Yüsuf,^[46] the inhabitants of Seville put up a resistance and after three days managed to repel the besieger. This did not prevent Ibn Mardanish and his troops from regularly ravaging the campana of Seville during the years that followed; his ally and son-in-law

The descendants of Hâtim al-Taï even succeeded in taking Granada in 557/1162, although admittedly only for a short time.^[47]

However, in 560/1165 Ibn Mardanish had his first setback. The Aimohad armies, reinforced by contingents from North Africa, crushed his troops not far from Murcia; he himself fled to Murcia for refuge. The capital of Tudmir, founded in 216/831 during the reign of'Abd al-Rahmân II, was surrounded by high walls and strong fortifications which made it impossible for the Almohads to take the city by storm. So began a test of strength between the Aimohad sovereign and the Levantine king which was to last seven years.

THE DESCENDANTS OF HÂTIM AL-TÂ’ï

T am al-Arabi al-Hatimi, the brother of magnanimity; in nobility we possess glory, ancient and renowned. '^[48]

In the vast corpus of his writings it is not unusual to come across verses such as these in which the Shaikh al-Akbar, Muhyl l-Din Muhammad b. ^cAli b. Muhammad al-^cArabï al-Tà’ï al-IIâtimî. celebrates his pure Arab origin and the legendary generosity associated with the name of his ancestors, the Band Tayy’.^[49] Arab^[50] and of noble descent, Ibn 'Arabi’s family belonged to the khâssa or high society of Andalusia. Although it cannot be established conclusively, there is every reason to believe that part of the Yemenite clan of the Band Tayy’ emigrated to Spain during the initial years of the Arab conquest, which attracted several great families (buyiitdt) to the Iberian peninsula from Syria and the Yemen.^[51] At any rate we know that already in the time of'Abd al-Rahmân I (d. 172/788) some members of the clan were

settled in the city of Jaén; in his Jamharat al-ansâb Ibn Hazm noted their presence in Baza and Tijola, while Maqqari gave their locality as southern Murcia—which is precisely where the Shaikh was born.^[52]

It was in fact in precisely the year 560/1165, inside the fortress which was under siege and threat from the Almohads, that Ibn ^cArabI came into the world. In his own words, ‘I was born during the rule of this caliph [i.e. AI- Mustanjid bi-IIâh], in the realm of Abu ^cAbd Allàh Muhammad b. Sa^cd b. Mardanlsh in Andalusia’.^[53] When he met the historian Ibn Najjar (d. 643/ 1245) in Damascus, he gave him his exact time of birth as during the night of Monday the 17th of Ramadan, 560.^[54] For his parents it was a major event: Muhammad was and w’ould remain their only son.^[55]'

What precisely was the position held by Ibn ^cArabi’s father in Ibn Mardanish’s government? To my knowledge none of our sources is specific on this point. However, it would appear that up until the time of Ibn Mardanish’s downfall he was one of the high-ranking dignitaries in the realm. The Almohad sultan Abu Ya^cqùb Yusuf retained in his own service the majority of his opponent's courtiers, and entrusted Ibn ^cArabI’s father with what seems to have been a major post. This he continued to hold during the reign of the third Mu’minid sovereign. Abu Yüsuf Ya^cqûb al-Mansûr.^[56]One day he would be sharply criticised for his participation in power—which for some unavoidably meant participation in corruption—by one of Ibn ^cArabi’s Andalusian masters.^[57]

It would be wrong, however, to conclude that he was a luke-warm Muslim devoured by ambition and lust for power. There arc some details regarding his death^[58] which on the contrary suggest that he was—perhaps in extremis—one of the awliya, or saints, and more precisely that he was

The descendants of Hatim al-Ta'i ‘among those who have realised the "Dwelling-place of Breaths" ' (man tahaqqaqa bi manzil al-anfâs).^[59] This category of spiritual men is also designated by the Shaikh al-Akbar as al-rahmâniyyün. because they are governed specifically by the divine name al-Rahman, ‘the Merciful’,^[60] which is a reference to the hadïth of the Prophet: ‘The Breath (nafas) of the Merciful comes to me from the Yemen’.^[61] They are characterised by the ability to perceive spiritual and sense-perceptible realities through the sense of smell (al-shamm). To quote Ibn ^cArabi: ‘One of the distinguishing features of someone who has attained to this station (tnaqdrn) is the fact that at the time of his death he is declared alive even though he is dead; but if his pulse is taken, he is declared to be dead ....

‘I experienced this in the case of my father, God have mercy on him. For a while we hesitated to bury him, so closely did he resemble a living person by the expression on his face, even though by the cessation of his pulse and breathing he resembled someone who was dead.

‘A fortnight before his decease he had told me he was about to die, and that his death would take place on a Wednesday. So it was. On the day when he died he was seriously ill. He sat up without any support and said to me: “My child, today is the day of departure and meeting”, f replied: "In this journey God has written your salvation, and in this meeting He has blessed you”. He was delighted by these words, and he said to me: “May God reward you! My child, everything that I heard you say and which 1 did not know and at times reproved you for: that is my profession offaith" (huwa dhâ and ash-haduhu). Then a white glow appeared on his forehead—in contrast to the colour of the rest of his body—but it caused him no pain; it was a radiant light which my father was able to see. This glow then spread over all his face and finally covered the whole of his body.

T embraced him, bade him farewell and, as I was leaving, said: "I am going to the Great Mosque; [I will remain there] until I am brought news of your death”. He replied: “Go, and do not allow anyone to come and see me”. Then he called his wife and daughters to his side.

‘At midday I was told he had died; I went to him and found him in the state in which one wondered on seeing him whether he was alive or dead. It was in this condition that he was buried.'^[62]

On his own admission, Muhyi 1-Din's father did not always share his son's sense of religious vocation or his certainty in matters of doctrine. None the less he felt a certain pride in the face of spiritual talents which were so remarkable that they attracted the praise of his friends—for example of Averroes, who requested that he arrange a meeting with the exceptional child; we will come back to this famous episode later. As for Ibn ^cArabi himself, there can be no doubt that he suffered inwardly as a result of his father’s reserved attitude towards him (and also towards Sufism, al- tasawwuf)^[63] and one day he took him to a great saint in Cordoba, whom he asked to pray for him.^[64] But whatever their disagreements in matters of opinion, when they were confronted with the danger of death only tenderness remained. Muhyi 1-Din recounts how ‘One day I became seriously ill and plunged into such a deep coma^[65] that I was believed to be dead. In that state I saw horrible-looking people who were trying to harm me. Next I became aware of someone—kindly, powerful, and exhaling a delightful fragrance—who defended me against them and succeeded in defeating them. “Who are you?’’, I asked. The being replied to me: “I am the süra Yâ-Sïn; I am your protector!Then I regained consciousness and found my father—God bless him—standing at my bedside in tears; he had just finished reciting the süra Yâ-Sïn.’^[66]

In Ibn ^cArabf’s family his predisposition had no lack of antecedents. Three at least of his uncles—Abu Muhammad ^cAbd Allah b. Muhammad al-^cArabi al-Tâ’î on his father’s side, and Abu Muslim al-Khawlani and Yahya b. Yughân on his mother’s—were distinguished for their spiritual aspirations.

It was clearly the first of these—Abu Muhammad al-^cArabi—who made the most profound impression on the young Muhammad. Later he would describe his remarkable experience three times, in the Rüli al-quds;^[67] the

The descendants of Hatim al-Tai

Durrat al-fâkhira⁴⁴ and the Futühât al-makkiyya.⁴⁵ This man is a typical example of that frequent phenomenon in the history of sainthood every­where in the world: the literal ‘conversion’—suddenly and abruptly—of a person who up until that time had shown no real inclination towards piety and asceticism. The event in question, related in detail by Ibn ^cArabi in his Rüh. occurred when his uncle was already well advanced in years.

One day a young boy came into the pharmacy in which the old man happened to be sitting and asked him for a remedy. The uncle made a sarcastic remark in response to the boy’s ignorance in pharmaceutical matters. His youthful interlocutor was clearly someone who was spiritually advanced beyond his years, and he retorted that whereas his own ignorance of drugs was of no consequence the old man would, on the contrary, pay dearly for his heedlessness and stubborn disobedience with regard to God. The effect of the retort was immediate and devastating. The man placed himself in the service of the child and dedicated himself to God up until the time of his death, which occurred three years later. Ibn ^cArabI states in the Durra that during that period he attained a high degree of sainthood. In the chapter of the Fûtuhât which is devoted to the category of ‘spiritual men whose hearts are attached to breaths' (ahi al-qidüb al-muta^cashshiqa bi-1-anfâs) — apparently identical to the category his father belonged to—Muhyi l-Din actually specifies that his paternal uncle ^cAbd Allah b. M. al-^cArabi possessed this station (maqâm) on both the sense-perceptible and the spiritual plane (hissan wa nufnan). This is confirmed by the following anecdote in the Rüh: ‘Sitting at home he often used to say: “Dawn is breaking”. One day I asked him, “How do you know that?”. He replied: “Child, from His throne God sends a breath which blows from Paradise; it descends from there at dawn so that every true believer inhales it every day”.’⁴⁶

Finally, it is worth noting that Ibn ^cArabï refers to his uncle’s death as occurring before his own ‘entry into the Way’ or, to use the expression he himself commonly used, during the period of his jâhiliyya, or ‘ignorance’.⁴⁷ This means, as we will see, that it happened before 580H.

preceding biographical sketch, where Ibn 'Arabi declares that he belonged to the élite of spiritual men: Rah, p. 96: Sufis of Andalusia, p.96.

44-   Only one manuscript of the shorter version of the Durrat al-fdkhira appears to survive (the longer version is lost), and unfortunately I have not been able to consult it. However. R.W.J. Austin provides a partial translation of it in Sufis of Andalusia; the biographical sketch of Ibn ^cArabi’s uncle is on pp.99-100.

45-    Fut., I, p.185.

46-   Tâdilî (d. 627/1230) describes an identical phenomenon in the case of Abu Ya^czâ. Cf. Tashawwuf. ed. A. Tawfiq. Rabat 1984, § 77. p.216.

47-    Rüh. p.98; Sufis of Andalusia p.99: Fut., I. p.185.

Equally interesting and rather similar is the case of another member of his family: his maternal uncle, the prince Yahyà b. Yughân al-Sanhâjï (d. 537h).^{[68] [69] [70] [71]} who was the ruler of Tlemcen. This man's remarkable story is preserved in three texts: in Ibn ^cArabï’s Futühât^4l) and Muhâdarat al-abrâr,^ and in the Tashawwuf^1,1 by Yùsuf b. Yahyà al-Tàdilî (d. 627/1230).

Of these three versions it is the one in chapter 73 of the Futühât which provides the most detailed and complete account of the circumstances which led up to that fine morning when the Berber prince abandoned his throne and his possessions in order to dedicate himself body and soul to God. In this chapter the Shaikh al-Akbar is enumerating and defining the various categories of awliya; in the passage in question he is describing the category of ascetics (al-zuhhad)—those who of their own free will have renounced the goods of this base world,^[72] ‘who have preferred God (al-haqq) to His creatures (al-khalqf.^[73] '

‘One of my maternal uncles (ba^cdu akhwâlî) was one of these ascetics (zuhhâd). He was the ruler of Tlemcen and his name was Yahyà b. Yughân. During his time there was a man called Abu ^cAbd Allah al-Tunsf:^[74] a jurist, a deeply religious person and a hermit (fâbid munqatf) who came originally from Tunis. This man had settled in a place called al-^cUbbàd, just outside Tlemcen. He had isolated himself in a mosque, in which he devoted himself to the worship of God. His tomb is still to be found there; it is famous and frequently visited.

‘One day this saintly man was walking inTlemcen. between Aqadabir and the town centre, and my uncle Yahyà b. Yughân, the king of Tlemcen, surrounded by his retinue and followers, crossed paths with him. He was told: “There is Abu ^cAbd Allah al-Tunsi, the holy man of our age!" The king reined in his horse and stopped; he greeted the old man, who greeted him back. The king, who was magnificently dressed, asked him: “Shaikh, is it permitted for me to do my prayers in the clothes I am wearing?” The old man burst out laughing. “What are you laughing at?”, the king demanded. He replied; "At

The descendants of Hâtim al-Tai the pettiness of your understanding, at the ignorance of your soul, and at your state! Nothing resembles you more closely than a dog which wallows in the blood of a carcass and devours the flesh in all its uncleanliness, and then lifts its paw when it pisses so as not to soil itself. You are a bowl filled with dirt. You ask me about your clothes while you are responsible for all the injustice that your subjects are suffering!” The king burst into tears, dismounted from his horse and there and then renounced his kingdom. He placed himself in the service of the shaikh, who put him up for three days but then came to him carrying a piece of rope and said: “King, the three days of hospitality which are prescribed have passed; get up and go and collect wood”.

‘So it was that he started gathering wood, carrying it on his head and taking it to the market; there the people wept when they saw him. He would sell the wood, take what he needed to feed himself and distribute the rest in alms. He stayed in his town doing this until he died; he was buried alongside the shaikh [Abu ^cAbd Allah]. The shaikh had the habit of saying to people who came to him to ask him to intercede with God on their behalf: “Go and ask Yahyâ b. Yughân; he is a king who renounced his kingdom. If God had subjected me to such a test, perhaps I would not have abandoned my kingdom!” ’^[75]

In the Muhâdarat al-abrâr Ibn Arabi adds that one day he made a pilgrimage to ^cUbbàd to meditate at the graves of his uncle Yahyà and of Abu Madyan, who many years later would be buried in the same place.^[76]

So here, too, we are faced with a spectacular case of tawba, of a sudden and unexpected conversion: a new awareness violently shakes the individual and brings him to a total metamorphosis of his being. Is the story too good to be true? The dialogue between the prince and the ascetic presents one of the most familiar situations in hagiographical literature all over the world: dramatic confrontation, instantaneous transformation of the sinner. It is difficult not to see in this one of those rhetorical formulae which are a common element of every golden legend. But Ibn Arabi, who was so careful in describing the innumerable stages and many perils of the Path, was not at all prone to theatrical simplifications. At the very least we must assume that he transcribed a family tradition just as he heard it; and we must not forget that a metanoia which strikes like lightning may be a rare phenomenon, but it is by no means simply impossible.^[77] In this connection it is worth noting

that Tadili’s version—more succinct but similar in its essential details— contains no reference to texts by Ibn ^cArabi (of which he apparently had no knowledge), but is based on an oral tradition received from one of his contemporaries. This would suggest that the story of the prince of Tlemcen’s sudden conversion was told independently in this form and that—whether historical or legendary—it was this particular version of the events which continued to be propagated.

It was also in similar circumstances that, as we will see, the process of rujif —of return to God—was triggered in Muhyi 1-Dïn: suddenly, and according to some sources during a high-society evening. The fact that there were two precedents for this in the family is not insignificant.

Finally there was his maternal uncle, Abu Muslim al-Khawlânï, who according to Ibn Arabi belonged to a different category: the class of devotees (al-^cubbâd). The ^cubbâd, distinguished by him from the zuhhâd, are explained by him as being men of legal obligations (ahi al-farâ’id). Some of them live cut off from other men, while others have chosen to remain among them. They are free from greed and lust but. he specifies, ‘they do not perceive either the divine objects of knowledge and the divine secrets or the subtle spiritual world (al-malakilt), and they are not favoured with immediate understanding of the verses of the Qur'an. However, at every instant they contemplate Retribution (al-thawdb). Resurrection and the terrors it entails, Paradise and Hell. . ..

‘My maternal uncle Abu Muslim al-Khawlânï was one of the greatest of their kind. He would stay standing in prayer all night long, and when his strength started to fail him he would hit his legs with sticks which he kept specifically for this purpose and say to them: “You deserve more blows than my horse does. If the companions of Muhammad believe they will have the prophet all to themselves then, by Allah, we will push them up around him until they realise they have left behind them men (rijâl) who arc worthy of the name”.'^[78]

Rahmâniyyün, zuhhâd, ^cubbâd: definitely there was no lack of spiritual vocations in Ibn Arabi's family. What about his mother? His writings seem not to contain even the slightest allusion which would help us to form at least an approximately accurate picture of her personality. However, she is mentioned twice in the Ruh al-quds. From the first passage it emerges that Ibn Arabi was an obedient son who was extremely respectful towards his mother: a normal attitude for a Muslim, a fundamental one for a saint.^[79]From the second passage we learn that his mother died shortly after his

The descendants of Hâtim al-Taï father, and that from then on Muhyï 1-Dïn was obliged to become the sole provider for his family; as we will see, this was to provoke a few family conflicts.⁶⁰ However, a reference in the Futühât does reveal that his mother assiduously frequented Fatima bint Ibn al-Muthannâ, who was one of Ibn ^cArabi's spiritual masters.⁶¹ At the very least this suggests an orientation on her part towards Sufism, the tasawwuf.

To complete this family picture one final person needs to be mentioned: Abù l-Walid Ahmad b. Muhammad al-“Arabi. By some he has been identified with one of Ibn “Arabi’s paternal uncles, but I believe this identification is wrong. Whenever it is a case of the three uncles already mentioned. Ibn “Arabi specifically states his bond of kinship with them by referring to them as khal (meaning a maternal uncle) or ^camm (in the case of a paternal uncle). However, no such designation occurs in the various passages where Ibn “Arabi quotes Abu 1-Walid al-“Arabi in connection with certain hadiths which this man had transmitted to him.⁶² On the grounds of his nasab ‘al-'Arabi’, 0. Yahla⁶³ and subsequently R. Austin⁶⁴ have drawn the conclusion that in him we have yet another paternal uncle of Ibn “Arabi. This is hardly likely: apart from the absence of the term ^camnt, we must also not forget that there was another bayt al-^cArabi in existence in Andalusia at this time, which as it happens consisted of the parents and descendants of the famous qàdï Abu Bakr Muhammad Ibn al-“Arabi id. 543/1148), who was a celebrated expert in hadithf^ What is more, when we turn to the long list of masters in the religious sciences which Ibn “Arabi enumerates in his famous Ijâza li-l-Malik al-Muzajfar, we read that ‘Another of my masters was Abu l-Wa’il b. al- “Arabi; from him I received the Sirâj al-muhtadin of the qàdï Ibn al-“Arabt, who was his cousin; he also transmitted hadiths to me from him, and gave me an ijâza (authorisation)’.⁶⁶ Finally, when Ibn “Arabi refers to this same

sion of his mother to go to Rota. We will see later that he made this journey in approximately 59OH. which means that at the time he was about thirty years old.

1. Durra § 3, in Sufis of Andalusia, p.74-5.
2. Fut., II, p.348.
3. Fut.. I, p.32, where Ibn ^cArabî specifies that he met him in Seville in 592H in his home; Rüh, preface, p.22 (this section of the book is not translated by Austin in Sufis of Andalusia]; Mishkât ai-anwâr, Cairo edition, 1329H, § 14. p.15.

63- Histoire et classification, I, p.95.

1. Sufis of Andalusia, introduction, p.29.
2. Regarding this person see EI² s.v.; V. Lagardère, ^cAbü Bakr b. al-^cArabi, grand cadi de Séville’, Revue de 1'Occident musulman et de la Méditerranée 40. 1985, 2, PP.91-T02.
3. Ijâza li-l-Malik al-Muzaffar, ed. Badawi in Quelques figures et thèmes de la philosophie islamique, Paris 1979, p. 177. It should be noted that this edition is incomplete and inaccurate in several places: see the review by G. Vajda in Arabica, II, January 1956. p.93.

transmitter in the Mishkât al-anwàr he applies to him the nisba 'al-Ma^caliri', which belongs to the qâdi's family but not his own?⁷

So the first eight years of Ibn ^cArabi’s childhood were spent behind the high walls of this small independent kingdom—the final bastion of anti-Almohad resistance. Situated on a plain on the banks of the river Segura (wâdï shaküra), Murcia and its surrounding region enjoyed a fertile and rich soil, with gardens, orchards and farmed land everywhere which enabled the popula­tion to provide for its own needs. But this prosperity was to be of short duration. War was approaching, bringing in its wake famine and misery. In 563/1168 Abu Ya^cqub Yusuf, who had proclaimed himself Amir al- mifminin, signed peace-treaties with the kings of Leon and Castile.^{[80] [81]} A year later Ibn Hamushk, son-in-law and right hand man of Ibn Mardanish. deserted his father-in-law and rallied to the cause of the Almohads. From then on the Mu’minide sultan could engage all his forces in the final assault against the ruler of the Levant. He would no doubt have launched the assault straight away if certain events had not intervened to thwart his plans. In that year (565H) there was an earthquake in Andalusia; Cordoba, Seville and Granada were severely hit, Murcia seemed to have been miraculously spared.^[82] But Abu Ya^cqüb also suffered a more personal setback: at the very same time the Almohad sultan fell seriously ill in Marrakech. It would take almost two years for him to recover. As soon as he was better he returned to Seville; there he gathered his troops and threw them against Ibn Mardanish who, defeated and wounded, took shelter one more time behind the walls of Murcia. There, if we are to believe the chronicles, his madness unleashed itself. He tortured his companions, assassinated his sister and drowned his children, immured his two viziers alive and—to the great relief of those close to him—finally breathed his last in Rajab 56711.^[83]

His sons left immediately for Seville to pledge their allegiance to the Almohad ruler, and took with them several of the city's notables. Was the father of Ibn ^cArabï included in the delegation? Very probably he was. In any case, in 568H Ibn ‘Arabi's family left Murcia once and for all and settled in the capital of Andalusia, where his father entered the service of the sultan Abu Ya^cqüb.^[84]

The young Ibn ^cArabi was confronted with a spectacle which was at once

‘In the time of my sinful youth' fascinating and disturbing. Except perhaps for its innumerable gardens and fountains, Seville bore little resemblance to the introverted and reclusive city of Murcia. It was a gigantic city, overpopulated, swarming with people, noisy, gaudy. Arabs mixed with Berbers and Andalusians. Muslims with Christians and Jews; the most distinguished jurists kept company with poets and philosophers; the most depraved of libertines rubbed shoulders with the greatest of saints. It was a city of great—almost irresistible—temptation.

‘IN THE TIME OF MY SINFUL YOUTH’

When Francis of Assisi—that other saint of the Mediterranean who died roughly ten years earlier than the Shaikh al-Akbar—referred to the tumultuous and turbulent period which preceded his dramatic conversion with the expression ‘in the time of my sinful youth’, it is quite clear what he meant. But what exactly did Muhyi l-Din mean when, evoking the same period in his life, he spoke of the ‘time of my jahiliyya'—using a term which in the history of Islamic civilisation is a traditional way of referring to the period of‘ignorance’, of paganism, that precedes the coming of Islam? Is it because, like many others, he succumbed to the irresistible attractions of Seville—that ‘fiancée’ of whom so many poets have sung eulogies?⁷²

Cordoba and Seville were always rivals. Although in the first few centuries after the Islamic conquest preference was given to Cordoba, she was finally outmatched by Seville. With the coming of the Almohad dynasty, and especially under the reign of the second Mu’minid king Abù Ya^cqüb Yùsuf, Seville experienced her hour of glory. She owed this economic and political supremacy to the fact that she held two major trumps: the Guadalquivir, whose right bank skirts the Andalusian capital, and the Aljarafe which stretches off to the west of the city.

The river Guadalquivir—which has its source at Cordoba—is compared time and time again by Arab writers with the Nile, the Tigris or even the Euphrates. With its port and shipyards it was Seville's most important economic centre of activity and the city's chief artery of communication. Countless different kinds of merchandise—grains, coal, cotton, oil—were Drought there by boat, some intended for import, others for export; so were all sorts of travellers, both foreign and native.⁷’ However, even in spite of the surveillance maintained by the amin who, along with his aides, was responsible for ensuring respect for the law and the maintenance of good

1. On the poets who have celebrated the charms of Seville see H. Pérès. Poésie andalouse, PP.I 34H.

73- Regarding the Guadalquivir cf. J. Bosch Vila, Sevilla Islàmica, pp.206-16.

behaviour, the Guadalquivir was also a place of debauchery. Wine, music and women were able to circulate more freely than anywhere else—much to the indignation of Ibn ^cAbdün. who wrote: 'Bargemen should not allow across a woman who looks like a woman of bad living .... There must be an absolute ban on women organising pleasure outings and drinking parties along the river, especially when they deck themselves out in all their finery’.^[85]

According to the poets the Guadalquivir was the necklace of the ‘fiancée’, and the Aljarafe her diadem. It was there that all the agricultural production of the Seville region was located, along a stretch of twenty or thirty miles: olive groves, fields of cotton and grains, orchards and so on.^[86]

When emigrants such as Ibn ^cArabI’s family disembarked in Seville in 568H they discovered a city undergoing rapid expansion. In the year before, the sultan Abu Ya^cqûb Yüsuf, enchanted by the Andalusian capital, had initiated a series of large-scale building projects which were to change the urban landscape considerably. First of all he decided to construct a bridge connecting the two banks of the Guadalquivir—in other words linking Seville to Triana, the port for the Aljarafe—and so facilitate both communica­tion and commerce between the city and the surrounding countryside.'^[87] In the same year he ordered his architects to build a group of small palaces on the outskirts of Seville; known as ‘buhayra, they were surrounded by vast gardens, orchards and fields of olive trees brought from the Aljarafe.^[88] Also in the year 56711, he drew the plans for a great mosque to replace the mosque of Ibn ^cAddabàs which had been damaged in the last earthquake and which was in any case too small to accommodate the growing population of Seville. According to Ibn Sâhib al-Salât the mosque—whose famous minaret, the ‘Giralda’, still survives—was completed in 57IH; strangely, however, it was only inaugurated in 5 77/1182.^[89] But of all the projects undertaken by the king, the most useful for the inhabitants of Seville, even if not necessarily the most prestigious, was the restoration of the ancient Roman conduit system. As a result the entire population of the city was supplied with drinking water. The inauguration of the Seville water reservoir on the 15th of Jumâdâ II, 567/1172, provided the occasion for a grand ceremony attended by the sultan and all of the city’s top dignitaries.^[90] Seville witnessed a prosperity and splendour she had never known before.

However, what must have been the most fascinating aspect of the city for a visitor was the strange mixture of austerity and luxury, of piety and debauchery, which seemed to impregnate Seville. To begin with, the Almohad movement was essentially religious.^[91] The disciples of the Mahdi Ibn Tumart had defined their mission as being to restore a pure and rigorous Islam, to purge the decadent morals of the Andalusians and to re-establish the true tawhld, or pure monotheism. The Almohad State was a theocratic state in which religion governed all one’s daily actions. ^cAbd al-Mu’min was faithful to his master’s way of thinking and applied the doctrine of the Mahdi without any leniency. A very pious man himself, and naturally inclined to asceticism, he was severe in punishing any deviation from Qur’ânic law. Alcohol was strictly forbidden; anyone who failed to perform the required prayers was considered a renegade; Jews and Christians either had to convert to Islam or leave.^[92]'

His son and successor, Abu Ya^cqûb Yusuf, was well-versed in theology and could boast that he knew the two Sahih, or collections of prophetic Traditions, by heart. But he had an inquiring and sophisticated mind, and was equally interested in medicine, philosophy and astrology, surrounding himself with famous individuals such as Ibn Tufayl, Ibn Rushd and Ibn Zuhr.^[93] In the words of the author of the Mu^cjib, ‘He knew better than anyone else the language of the Arabs, their battles, their achievements and their history, both before and after the coming of Islam; he devoted himself to the study of all this while he was the governor of Seville . . .. There was no one more skilled than he in reciting the Qur’an, no one who was faster in solving a grammatical problem, no one more expert in philology. As a king he was firm, energetic, generous and magnanimous . . .. Consequently his nobility of soul and his lofty aspirations prompted him to learn philo­sophy .... In short, neither before nor after him was there a king among the Mu’minids to compare with Abu Ya^cqûb’.^[94] After due allowance is made for exaggeration, we are left with the picture of a man whose education and interests were not limited to the narrow sphere of the religious sciences stricto sensu.

Following the example of their new king, the Almohads gradually succumbed to the seductive refinements of Andalusian society in general, and of Seville society in particular. Seville was a melting pot. Every possible race and religious denomination came together, as did the most diverse of talents: singers, poets and musicians mixed with ^culama and philosophers. Debauchery and asceticism, depravity and sainthood were the two different faces of the ’fiancée'. Ibn Arabi certainly experienced the second: was there a time when he was also on close terms with the first?

As the son of a noble and rich family, Muhyï l-Din’s years of adolescence were peaceful and carefree. He seems not to have attended the Qur'ànic school, where according to Ibn ^cAbdùn the teachers were ignorant and the teaching mediocre.^[95] He no doubt had private tutors in his own home, like any other son born into high society. Anyway, one thing we know for certain is that he studied the Qur'an with ‘a man of the Path', Abu ^cAbd Allah al- Khayyât, to whom he would always remain deeply attached. As he says in the Rûh: 'When I was a child 1 studied the Qur’an with him [i.e. Abu Abd Allah al-Khayyat] and had a great affection for him; he was our neigh­bour .... Of all the spiritual men I have met since returning to the Path, there is not one of them I have wanted to be like—except for him and his brother’.^[96] Many years later, during his journey to the East, Ibn Arabi would meet up again with the Khayyât brothers in Cairo and spend an unforget­table month of Ramadan together with them.^[97]

Of those Sufis whom Ibn Arabi knew⁷ as a child, mention must also be made of Abü Ali al-Shakkâz. He was closely linked in friendship with his paternal uncle, Abu Muhammad al-Arabi, and would subsequently become one of his spiritual teachers.^[98]

*

In the annals of Seville 5 74/1178 was a black year. The Guadalquivir—up until J:hen a source of riches and prosperity—now became the cause of desolation and loss. The river burst its banks, flooded the countryside and devastated the crops.^[99] The peace treaties signed in 568-6911 with the kings of Leon, Castile and Portugal had expired; the king of Portugal, Alphonso Enriquez, sent his son Sancho to attack Seville. The two armies came face to face near the Aljarafe; the Ahnohads were routed.^[100]

But none of this seems to have troubled the easy and comfortable existence of Muhyï 1-Dîn, judging from his silence about these events. Occasionally he accompanied his father on his trips^[101] and made his entry into Andalusian high society; he was promised a position as scribe to the governor of Seville.^{[102] [103]} His destiny seemed traced out for him: he would follow in the footsteps of his father . . ..

But the teenager felt drawn in a different direction. He had a presentiment of certain inner spiritual needs, but still hesitated to take the crucial step. This was the period of his jâhiliyya: the period in which the young Ibn ^cArabi remained divided between his desire to enjoy the good things of this low world and his desire for God; the period when he had a vague apprehension of the Truth but did not yet know it in its fullness. It was not that he really disobeyed God; he simply gave Him the minimum. As he confesses at the start of the Ruh: ‘As the night drew to an end my wicked companions and I went off to get some sleep because we were exhausted after all the dancing (wa qad ta^cibnâ min kathrati ma raqasnâ). We would go off to our beds just as the hour for the dawn prayer was approaching. We would then perform the smallest possible ablution—anything less would not have deserved the name ‘ablution’ at all—and might perhaps go to the mosque. But most of the time on such occasions we chose instead to perform the prayer at home by reciting the süra al-KawthaF*² and the Fâtiha . . .. Occasionally, when I was feeling better disposed than the others, I would perform my ablutions and go to the mosque. If when I got there I was told that the prayer had finished, that gave me no cause for sorrow; precisely to the contrary .... If I happened to arrive in time to perform the prayer behind the imam, one of two things occurred. Either 1 was completely absorbed in thinking about the marvellous night 1 had just spent listening to an excellent musician declaiming some fine verses: in this case I would spend the entire prayer rehearsing the same thoughts over and over again until 1 no longer knew what the imam was praying or which prayers he had recited, but simply saw people doing something and imitated their gestures .... Alternatively sleep would start to overcome me. and in that case I would keep watching the imàm to see if he had finished the prayer; the lengthy recitations became unbearable and inside myself I would start cursing him: “There he goes, off on the sura al-Hashr or the WâqFal Couldn’t he have made do with the al-lnfitâr or the al-Fajr?⁹³ Didn’t the Prophet himself recommend that prayers be kept short?” ’⁹⁴

This confession is too precise, too realistic to be simply a case of the kind of literary artifice which aims—as so often in conventional accounts of ’conversion'—at producing an edifying contrast between the ‘before’ and the ‘after’. It helps to shed some light on the state of mind of the youthful Muhyi 1-Din, and on the contradictory feelings that moved him. He admired his old uncle who one fine morning left the pharmacy to devote himself to God: he revered Abu ^cAbd Allah al-Khayyat. with whom he was discovering the mysteries of the Qur’an, and secretly he dreamed of one day being like this saintly man. And yet at the same time he would not renounce—at least not yet—those long nights of music in the company of his friends. He was jâhil, ignorant: he had not yet taken the plunge. And yet, if we restrict ourselves solely to the reliable sources of information which are available to us, it appears that Ibn ^cArabi's tawba was not a sudden renunciation of a life of debauchery. This period of jâhiliyya from which he was to emerge seems to have been no more than a phase of (jhafla: of heedlessness or ‘distraction’.

1. The suras al-Infitar (82) and al-Fajr (89) are short, the al-Hashr (59) and al-Waqi'a (56) are long.
2. Kith, p.42.
3. Vocation

‘WHEN GOD CALLED ME TO HIM’

W

hen? How? Why? These are the questions the ‘ordinary' man asks himself every time he is confronted with the case of an individual who. all of a sudden, chooses God.

Sometimes he has a detailed autobiographical account, such as Saint Augustine’s Confessions, to help him find the answers. But even in the most favourable circumstances, even in the case of a completely ‘naked’ account which has managed to stay free from the pious conventions to which this literary genre so often falls a victim, is that enough for us to fathom the inmost depths of a soul and understand this strange, disconcerting course of events? Most of the time, as if to force us to follow him down the same path he has already trodden, the saint keeps silent and history remains dumb. This, in effect, is what has happened in the case of Ibn ^cArabi:^[104] his writings offer nothing in the way of a systematic account, including dates, of the stages of his conversion. However, among the thousands of pages that make up his work, he often happens to corroborate a point of view he has just been elaborating on by citing his own spiritual experience. On those occasions he allows extremely valuable autobiographical details to slip out in a few brief Words or phrases. By gathering these scattered pieces of information and supplementing them with the reports of his disciples and his biographers, an attempt can be made to provide the answers to the questions posed above.

In those passages from his books in which Ibn ^cArabî refers—explicitly or implicitly—to his ‘return to God’, one notes immediately the recurrence of certain key terms: khalwa (‘retreat’), fa th (‘illumination’), tnubashshira or sometimes wàqi’-a ('vision'), tawba ('conversion') and rujif (‘return’).^[105] These terms represent so many asymmetrical pieces which, once brought together and arranged in a coherent manner, will allow us to reconstruct a plausible account of the successive phases in Ibn Arabi's ‘return to God'.

One of the most famous passages in the Futùhât provides the answer to the question, ‘When?’. This is the passage which describes the notorious meeting between Ibn Arabi and Averroes. 0. Yahia, on the basis of another passage in the Futùhât where Ibn Arabi mentions the date 580/1184 in connection with his entering the Path’, places this interview between the saint and the philosopher in around the same year.^[106] However, the account in question contains certain details which appear to contradict such an assumption. Ibn Arabi describes how 'One fine day I went to Cordoba to visit the qâdï Abu 1-Walid Ibn Rushd (Averroes). He wanted to meet me, as he had heard of the illumination which God had granted to me during my retreat (mà fataha Hah bihi ^zalayya fî khalwati); he had expressed amazement on learning what he had been told about me. My father was one of his friends, and accordingly sent me to him on the pretext of doing some errand or other, although his real purpose was to allow him to speak with me. At that time I was still just a boy (sabiyyun) without any down on my face or even a moustache (m« baqala wajhï wa lâ tarra shâribî). . .’.^[107]

Muhyi 1-Din was therefore an adolescent who was hardly older than fifteen at the most. If, as 0. Yahia supposes, the meeting with Averroes occurred in 580, he would have been twenty years old—and no doubt his growth of hair would have been much more pronounced. This makes it extremely improbable that the famous interview took place any later than 575/1179. No doubt it will seem amazing that someone as important and renowned as Averroes—a man who was confidant and personal physician to the sultan Abù Ya^cqüb Yusuf, and who at that particular time held the position of qâdïat Cordoba^[108]—should have requested an interview with a youth who for his part claimed to be a confidant of Heaven. But the Arab biographers would not have been too surprised: according to them Averroes was a very modest man, and above all someone who had a curiosity and thirst for knowledge that were never satisfied. As Ibn al-Abbâr (d. 658/1260) wrote about him: ‘Never has Andalusia known a man as perfect, as learned and as virtuous as he was. Noble though he was, there was no one more humble and more modest than he. From his earliest years to the time of his death he devoted himself to learning. It is even said of him that never in his life did he stop his reflections or his reading except on the night when his father died and on his wedding night.... He concerned himself with the knowledge of the Ancients and in this matter was the guide of his time. His advice was sought in medicine as well as in jurisprudence, not to mention his competence in syntax and in literature.’^[109]

So it emerges from Ibn ^cArabi’s own testimony that at this period he had already obtained illumination (fath) during a retreat ( khalwa).^{[110] [111]} Fath is a term which in its etymological sense means 'opening', but which is used in the technical vocabulary of Sufism to indicate the spiritual opening or illumina­tion that marks acquisition of a higher ‘station’ in one’s spiritual journey, ordinarily it is only obtained after a long period ofinitiatic discipline (riyada).^s It is interesting to note that in his Risâlat al-anwâr Ibn ^cArabi warns novices specifically about the premature acquisition of fath: ‘Before entering into retreat you must first have submitted yourself to initiatic discipline; that is, you must have purified your character, renounced carelessness, and made yourself capable of enduring whatever does you wrong. Someone in whom illumination precedes the practice of initiatic discipline will not—save in exceptional cases—attain to spiritual virility’.^{[112] [113]} In fact Ibn ^cArabi himself was plainly one of these ‘exceptional cases': for him, according to his very own words, fath preceded riyâda (qad taqaddamafathï ^ca!à riyâdatï).^IQ In other words what happened to him was an experience of jadhba, of being snatched out of oneself in ecstasy,^[114] and was not the outcome of a sulitk—of a methodical advance, step by step, along the Way that leads to God. We will come back to this point later.

But all this tells us nothing at all about what actually pushed him. young man as he was, to withdraw from the world. On this point Ibn Arabi’s own writings remain stubbornly silent, and it is elsewhere that we need to look to find the answer. The only one of his biographers who seems to have addressed the problem is a writer who lived considerably later than him: al- Qârï al-Baghdâdï (d. 821/1418). As was noted earlier, all the statements in this author's Manâqib Ibn^c Arabi need to be treated with considerable caution. A fervent supporter of Ibn ^cArabi, he was determined to convince his reader at all costs of the orthodoxy and sainthood of the Shaikh al-Akbar, and to this end he did not hesitate (in entirely good faith, no doubt) to falsify texts so as to make them say what they do not say.^{[115] [116]} However, as this is the only account which appears to exist, I quote it for what it is worth: ‘He [Ibn Arabi] was among those who are sons of princes and of the great ones of this world; his father was the minister to the master of Seville, the sultan of the Maghreb. A prince who was one of his father’s friends invited him to dinner, along with other sons of princes. When the shaikh Muhyi 1-Din and the others were all present they ate to repletion, and then the goblets of wine began circulat­ing. When it came to the turn of the shaikh Muhyi l-Din, he grabbed the goblet and was just about to drink when he heard a voice call out to him: “Muhammad, it was not for this that you were created!” He threw down the goblet and left in a daze. When he arrived at the door to his home he met the vizier’s shepherd, dirty and dusty as usual. He had him accompany him to the outskirts of the town and swapped clothes with him. Then he wandered for a long while until he arrived at a cemetery' which lay alongside a stream. He decided to stay in the cemetery; in the middle of it he discovered a tomb in ruins, which had turned into a cave. He entered it and starting practising the invocation (dhikr), only coming out at the hours of prayer. The shaikh [Ibn Arabi] has said: “I stayed four days in that cemetery. I then came out with all this knowledge [which 1 now possess]" ’.^Ii

There is one other piece of evidence which seems to coincide with the end of this account in Baghdadi’s Manâqib; but it is considerably more reliable, because it derives from one of the closest disciples of the Shaikh al-Akbar. In a small treatise entitled Kitâb wasâ’il al-sâ’il,^[117] IsmàTl b. Sawdakîn al-Nüri (d. 646/1248) scrupulously gathered together the remarks made by his master and the advice he received from him during their private discussions. In this work he records that Ibn Arabi said to him: ‘I went into retreat before dawn (al-fajr) and I received the illumination (fath) before the sun rose (qabla tulif al-shams). After the fath I obtained . . .’⁵ during the morning, along with other stations. I remained in this place for fourteen months, and so it was that I obtained the secrets which I wrote about afterwards. My fath at that time was a state of being snatched out of myself in ecstasy (wa kâna fathï jadhbatan ft tilka l-lahza).''⁶

Is this fourteen-month retreat the same as the one which, according to al- Qârî al-Baghdâdî, took place in a cemetery and lasted four days? Whatever the answer may be, the fact is that all three accounts—the one in the Futùhât, the one in the Manâqib and the one in the Kitab al-wasail—refer to an illumination received during a retreat; furthermore, the reports of both Baghdadi and Ibn Sawdakin specify that during the course of this period of seclusion Ibn ^cArabi acquired the knowledge and the secrets which he sub­sequently divulged in his writings. Now if we turn back to the autobio­graphical account of the meeting with Averroes, and in particular to the dialogue that took place between them, we note that for an adolescent (sabiyy) Muhyi 1-Din seems indeed to have already been in possession of immense knowledge which confounded even the philosopher: ‘As I entered, the philosopher rose from his seat and came to meet me, showing me every possible token of friendship and consideration and finally embracing me. Then he said to me: “Yes”. I in turn replied to him: “Yes”. Then his joy increased as he saw that I had understood him. But next, when I myself became aware of what it was that had caused his joy, I added: "No”. Immediately Averroes tensed up, his features changed colour and he seemed to doubt his own thoughts. He asked me this question: “What kind of solution have you found through illumination and divine inspiration? Is it just the same as what we receive from speculative thought?" I replied to him: “Yes and no. Between the yes and the no spirits take flight from their matter and necks break away from their bodies”. Averroes turned pale; I saw him start to tremble. He murmured the ritual phrase, “there is no strength save in God”, because he had understood my allusion.’^{[118] [119] [120]}

Before leaving the subject of this decisive retreat, one final piece of evidence remains to be cited which is hardly less trustworthy than the evidence just mentioned. It is the account which Mu'ayyad al-DIn Jandï (d. approx. 700/ 1300)—author of a famous commentary on the Fusüs ahhikam—received from his teacher Sadr al-Dïn Qünâwï (d. 672/1274), who was a disciple and step-son of Ibn ^cArabi: ‘He [Ibn ^cArabi] withdrew from the world at the start of his vocation, at Seville in Andalusia, for a period of nine months, and during this time did not break his fast. He went into retreat at the beginning of Muharram and was instructed to come out of it on the day of the ^CW al-fitr.. ,.'^[121]

Do these three testimonies (Baghdadi. Ibn Sawdakin, Jandi)—of which it is important to remember that only one, Ibn Sawdakin’s, is direct—all refer to one and the same retreat or to several quite distinct retreats which took place at different points in time? As far as the khalwa alluded to by Jandi is concerned, one detail at the end of the text and which we will come back to in a later chapter suggests that it refers specifically to a retreat undertaken by Ibn ^cArabi at Seville in 586H—that is, a considerable time after his entry into the Way. As for the accounts given by Baghdadi and Ibn Sawdakin, in spite of the discrepancy regarding the period of duration it would seem that both of them are descriptions of the very first khalwa undertaken by the young Muhyi l-Din: a retreat that took place some time before his encounter with Averroes, and during the course of which he became aware that he had obtained not only fath but also—in a synthetic sense, no doubt—all of the sacred sciences which he would later expound in his writings. However, it is important to emphasise that throughout his life Ibn ^cArabi undertook innumerable retreats;^[122] certain people such as Dhahabi, whose interpretations are never exactly benign, were of the opinion that these seriously affected his mental health.^[123] This means we must allow for the possibility that the two accounts refers to two separate retreats which were among the earliest that Ibn ^cArabi undertook.

Whatever the case may be, one certain fact emerges in the light of these various texts. This is the fact that the very first stage in Ibn ^cArabi’s spiritual journey consisted of an immediate fath or illumination, or more precisely of a jadhba, the state of being drawn out of oneself in ecstasy as the result of a divine intervention which is direct and abrupt; and that he obtained this illumination straightaway and without any prior effort during the course of a retreat—very probably in the same cemetery in Seville in which, as we will see later, he would continue isolating himself many years later.

However extraordinary and dazzling it may be, if a sincere spiritual vocation is to avoid ending in failure it must inevitably pass at some time through the stage of tawba, conversion. Whereas fath and jadhba arise independently of the will of the wall, or saint, tawba is a voluntary and conscious act of repentance and the firm desire to return to God and put an end to one's state of distraction. Here history encounters metahistory, for it was in the presence of Jesus, his real ‘first teacher’, that Ibn ^cArabi claims he underwent conversion: ‘It was at his hands', he states in the Futühât, although without dating the event, ‘that I was converted Fidâ yadihi tubtu): he prayed for me that I should persist in religion (dm) in this low world and in the other, and he called me his beloved. He ordered me to practise renunciation (zuhd) and self-denial (tajrid)’.^[124] Elsewhere he says again about Jesus: ‘He was my first teacher, the master through whom I returned to God (shaykhunâ al-awwal alladhi raja^cnâ ^calâ yadayhï); he is immensely kind towards me and does not neglect me even for an instant’.^[125] The mutual affection and the privileged relationship which were established from the very start between Ibn ^cArabi and the prophet ^cîsâ—who according to Islamic tradition will return to earth at the end of time to re-establish peace and justice by acting in conformity with Islamic law—are not just accidental; as we will see later, there is one fundamental point which they shared in common. But even if this was not so, it would still be surprising—in view of the frequency and extreme explicitness of these references to ‘Isa and to his role as ‘first teacher’—that Henry Corbin missed the significance of the relationship, insisting instead on making Khadir the ‘initiator’ of the Shaikh al-Akbar. The intervention of Khadir was certainly very real. However, it occurred much later and was considerably less decisive.

Reinforced in his conviction by the continual encouragement he received from Jesus, Muhyi 1-Din redoubled his efforts and finally decided to renounce the luxury in which he found himself and to strip himself of his possessions, just as his supernatural teacher had prescribed. Ibn ^cArabi explains that, when a disciple has no family to provide for, he strips himself of all his possessions and entrusts them to his shaikh, if he has one. ‘So it was that I myself stripped myself of everything that belonged to me; however, at that time I had no [terrestrial] teacher to whom I could entrust my affairs and hand over my possessions. I accordingly turned to my father and, after consulting with him, gave him everything I possessed. 1 did not appeal to anyone else because 1 did not return to God through the intermediary of a teacher, for at that time I knew none. I parted from my possessions just as a dead man is parted from his family and from all he owns. When I consulted with my father concerning the matter, he asked me to return everything to him, and I entrusted to him all I had. Never did I subsequently ask him what he had done with it.’^[126]

Two essential points emerge from this account. Firstly, Ibn ^cArabi clearly specifies at the start of the text that the obligation of stripping oneself of one’s possessions only applies to someone who has no family to provide for. This makes it difficult to suppose that Ibn ^cArabi himself would have acted any differently and that he would have disposed of his fortune if he had a wife to look after at the time. However, Asin Palacios asserts—without giving the slightest reference—that Ibn ^cArabi was married at an early age to Maryam bint Muhammad b. ^cAbdün in Seville.^[127] To my knowledge this is neither stated nor even suggested in any source at all or in any text of Ibn ^cArabi. On the contrary, he declares in the Futûhât^[128] that for the first eighteen years after entering the Way he fled from women: ‘Of all men, there was no one who felt greater aversion for women and for sexual union than I did. starting from the moment when I entered the Way and for the eighteen years that followed'. It is perfectly possible that Ibn ^cArabi only contracted a marriage after his arrival in the East, at Mecca in 598H. where a number of people from the Maghreb—including the Band ^cAbdün—were temporarily resident. The second important point is that Ibn ^cArabi states specifically that at the time when he parted with his possessions he had as yet not encountered any teachers of the Way. Considering that—as we will see—he began frequenting masters in 580/1184 at the latest, we can conclude that this episode occurred at an earlier date, when he was not yet twenty years old.

This gesture of total renunciation marks a decisive turning-point in the destiny of Ibn ^cArabi; he had chosen the path of poverty and renunciation and would never turn from it. From that time on through to the end of his days his only means of subsistence would be the gifts and alms which he received from his companions on the Way and from some princely families once he had settled in the East.^[129] For him it was a matter of realising pure servitude («/- ^cubüdiyya al-mahda), which demands of the wall or saint that he abandon all rights and all possessions that might keep alive in him the illusion of rubiibiyya, of sovereignty. Furthermore, the things he owns exert by that very

'When God called me to Him’ fact a right over him, and so their ownership secures in a certain sense the ^cubüdiyya< the servitude, which is due to God alone: in the words of the Shaikh al-Akbar, ‘every servant of God over whom someone exerts a right falls short in his servitude to the extent of that right’.^[130] In short, he who possesses nothing is possessed by nothing save God. As Ibn ^cArabï himself writes: ‘Ever since the moment when I attained to this station [of pure servitude] I have possessed no living creature and not even the clothes I wear, for I only wear the clothes that are lent to me and that I am authorised to use. If I happen to come into possession of something I part with it at once, either by giving it away or by freeing it in the case of a slave. I made this commitment when I wanted to realise supreme servitude Çhibüdiyyat al-ikhtisâs) in relation to God. I was told at the time: “That will not be possible for you as long as one single being has the right to demand something of you.” I replied: “God Himself will not be able to demand anything of me!” I was asked: “How could that be?" I replied: “Demands are only made of those who deny [their ontological poverty], not of those who recognise [it]; of those who claim to be possessors of rights and goods, not of he who declares “I have no right, no share in anything!” ’^[131]

TheyouthfulMuhyïl-Dîn's efforts andzeal were soon rewarded with a vision in which he saw himself under the protection ofjesus, Moses and Muhammad. This spiritual event was, as we will see later, of major significance in the process of Ibn ^cArabi's conversion. Fortunately we possess two autobiographical accounts of it, contained in two short and as yet unpublished treatises: the Diwân al-ma^carif and the Kitab al-mubashshirat.²⁹

In the first of these texts, Ibn Arabi provides a concise but comprehensive version of what happened. During this vision, he explains, while Jesus urged him on yet again to asceticism (zuhd). Moses announced to him that he would obtain the knowledge called ‘LadunnV: the very same knowledge which the Qur’an (18:65) attributes to that interlocutor of Moses whom Islamic tradition calls by the name of Khadir. As for the prophet Muhammad, he advised him to follow him step by step: ‘Hold fast to me and you will be safe!’ (istamsik bï taslam).

In the Kitâb al-mubashshirât, on the other hand, we have an account which although only partial is also very detailed; in addition, it contains some chronological references. As its title (The Book of Visions) suggests, this short work is a record by Ibn Arabi of certain visions of his which he thought could be useful to others. The passage that concerns us occurs in the first section, which deals with the subject of attachment to hadith (al-tamassuk bi-1-hadïth). ‘During the period when as yet 1 knew nothing of learning (qabla an a^rif al- some of my companions had planned to encourage me to study books of ra’y;³° at the time I was completely ignorant of this science as well as of hadith. In my sleep I saw myself in a huge space, surrounded by armed people who intended to kill me; there was nowhere at all where I could find refuge. Then 1 saw in front of me a hill on which the Messenger of God was standing. Immediately I took refuge beside him; he opened his arms wide and pressed me very forcefully against himself, saying: “My beloved, hold fast to me and you will be safe!" I then looked around me to see my assailants, but there was no longer a single one of them to be seen. From that time onwards I gave myself to the study of hadith.'

In this account one notes immediately that Jesus and Moses are absent. However, this omission is nothing surprising: in the preface to the treatise Ibn ^cArabi promises specifically to convey only as much of these visions as contains a teaching which will be useful to anyone and everyone, and to remain silent about what is just of personal concern to himself (wa ma yakhtassu bi dhàtï falâ ahtâj ilâ dhikrihi).^{[132] [133]} The text also confirms—although further confirmation is hardly needed—that Ibn ^cArabfs conversion occur­red much earlier than 580H. To be more specific, Ibn *ArabI himself states that at the time when he experienced this vision he had no knowledge at all of hadith: but. as we will soon see, starting from 578/1182—and possibly even earlier—he applied himself very intensively to the study of hadith.

Two passages in the Futühat highlight the importance in Ibn ^cArabi’s eyes of this triple prophetic intervention: for him, his conversion to God really dates from that particular point in time. Hence his statement in the Futùhât that ‘My return to the Way was accomplished through a vision under the guidance of Jesus, Moses and Muhammad’.^[134] Elsewhere he writes, without giving any further details: 'It was as a consequence of this vision that I returned to God’.^[135]

After this conversion—pleasing to Heaven, as it would seem—came the most painful and most perilous test: ‘abandonment’ (al-fatra). In Islamic prophetology this term is used to designate the period of ‘divine silence’ which separates the coming of two prophets. In the technical vocabulary of Sufism, fatra refers to a period of inescapable ‘slackening’, of acedin, when the spiritual man feels himself somehow abandoned by his Lord³⁴ and fears that this state of abandonment could be permanent: for sometimes He remains silent forever. In Ibn ^cArabi’s own words: 'Know that I received this verse³⁵ from God as an invocation (dhikr) when He called me to Him, and that I responded to His call. I practised it for a time, and then came a period of “abandonment” (fatra). This is the “abandonment” which is well known in the Way of the men of God; it inescapably befalls everyone who travels the Path. When it strikes, one of two things happens: either it is followed by [a return to] the initial state of adoration and spiritual effort (mujahada), which is the case for those men of divine Providence (ahi al ^cinâya al-ilâhiyya) whom God protects, or for others the fatra persists and never leaves them: they will never succeed. When the state of “abandonment” took possession of me and dominated me, I saw God in a vision (wâqfa).³⁶ He recited to me these verses: “It is He who sends the winds announcing His Mercy..(Qur'an 7:57). I understood that these verses were a reference to me, and I said to myself: “By means of them He is indicating my initial success through which God guided me under the protection of Jesus, Moses and Muhammad, peace be upon them”.’³⁷

So Ibn ^cArabi emerged victorious from this ordeal to which many before him had succumbed. Strengthened by a divine vision, he was able to follow the path that would lead him to the pinnacle of sainthood.

*

To summarise briefly, but also as precisely as possible, what on the basis of the documentary evidence already cited can be inferred as to the probable sequence of events in Ibn ^cArabï’s ‘conversion’: as a fifteen-year old teenager

1. Regardingfatra, cf. Istilâhât, p.8, § 66, where Ibn ^cArabi defines the term as the ‘extinction of the fire which from the start had been consuming' (khumüd nâr al-bidâya al-tnuhriqa). It should be emphasised that the Prophet himself experienced such an 'abandonment'. For a period of time—ranging from fifteen to forty days according to the commentators—Gabriel stopped visiting him and the Revelation was temporarily interrupted, until the verse was revealed to him: Your Lord has not abandoned you or taken an aversion to you' (Qur'an 93:3). Cf. Ràzi. al-Tafsir al-kabir, Tehran, n.d., XXXI. p.209.

35- Le. ‘The good earth produces vegetation with God s permission' (Qur'an 7:58).

36. In Fut., II, p.491, Ibn ^cArabi explains that waqâ'F (plural of wâqi'a] are annunciatory visions (rnuhashshiràt) and constitute the beginning of divine revelation (awâ'il al-wahy al-ilâhî); they come from the depths of the being (min dâkhil) and from the man’s essence (min dhât al- insân). He goes on to specify that by some they are received in sleep, by others w'hen they are in the state of extinction (fana), and by yet others w'hen they are awake. In the Istilâhât al-suflyya, P.i2, § 111, he defines a wâqi'a as that which enters the heart in some form or other from the other world.

37- Fut., IV, p.172.

he was dividing his time between studying the Qur'àn in the company of a 'man of the Way’ and his nocturnal 'distractions' in the company of his mischievous comrades, when God abruptly called him to order. Shaken, he fled and for a while withdrew far from the world. During this voluntary seclusion he received illuminations and spiritual knowledge. He then submitted to tawba or conversion at the hands of Jesus, who commanded him to strip himself of his possessions. As he had not yet met any worldly teacher to whom he could attach himself, he abandoned his possessions to his father and found himself received under the protection of Jesus, Moses and Muhammad. But he would still have to undergo fatra, the crossing of the desert; after he had done so God received him and welcomed him among His own.

In a sense Ibn Arabi arrived at the goal of spiritual realisation straight away. Following the example of the majdhiib, the ‘ecstatics’, he burned all the stages and in one single leap completed the journey of the Quest. But how can someone who has not confronted the dangers, faced his adversaries and traversed each of the stages one by one possibly claim to be a guide to others? Accordingly Ibn Arabi was obliged to make the journey again, step by step: to perform the wayfaring or sulük patiently and enter truly on the Way.

ENTERING THE WAY

Hold fast to me!’, the prophet Muhammad had said to Ibn Arabi. To hold fast to the Prophet is to attach oneself to his Sunna and become impregnated with the Qur’àn, which ^cA’isha described as ‘the very nature of the Messenger of God’ (kâna khuluquhu aI-qur’ari).^iS The young Muhyi l-Din understood the message. At the same time as waging the ‘great holy war’ under the direction of Jesus, he undertook to deepen his knowledge of the Qur'àn and the hadlth. At Seville in 578/1182, when he was eighteen, he followed the courses of the famous reader (muqri’) of the time, Abu Bakr Muhammad b. Khalaf al-Lakhmî (d. 585/1189).^{[136] [137]} From him he learned the seven readings of the Qur’àn and the Kitâb al-kâfï of Muhammad b. Shurayh^[138] (d. 476/1083), which al-Lakhmi had received from the author’s son. Abu 1-Hasan Shurayh al-Ru^caynï^[139] (d. 537/1142). The same work was _ajso transmitted to him by another muqri', 'Abd al-Rahmàn b. Ghalib Ibn al- Sharrât⁴² (d. 586/1190), who instructed him as well in recitation of the Qur'an. At the same time he studied the hadith and the Sira with the muhaddith 'Abd al-Rahmân al-Suhayli⁴’ (d. 581/1185). who taught him all his works and in particular his Rawd al-anif, a commentary on the Sira of Ibn Hishâm. And he also attended sessions with the qddllbn Zarkün⁴⁴ (d. 586/ 1190), who transmitted to him the Kitab al-taqassi of Yùsuf al-Shâtibï⁴⁵ and issued him with an ijâza Simma, or authorisation in absentia.⁴⁶

It was doubtless also during the same period that he frequented ^cAbd al- Haqq al-Azdl al-Ishbili,⁴⁷ author of a large number of works on hadith of which the best known are the Ahkàrn al-kubrâ, al-wustâ and al-sughrâ. In addition to his own works, he also transmitted to Ibn ^cArabl the writings of the famous Zâhirite, Ibn Hazm (d. 456/1064). It is worth noting in passing that ^cAbd al-Haqq al-Ishbili was on very close terms with Abu Madyan⁴⁸ (d. 594/1197), who was to be Ibn 'Arabi’s master par excellence even though they were never to meet in this world.

These masters, frequented by Ibn 'Arabi in his youth between 5 78 and 580H, were affiliated to Malikism, which was the major legal school in Andalusia. Ibn ^cArabi himself, however, would ally himself neither with this nor with any other madhhab, or legal school;⁴⁹ he was in a sense his own

mentioned in the majority of chains of transmission at the time. Cf. Dabbi. Bughyat al-multamis. ed. Codera, 1885, § 849.

1. For Ibn al-Sharrât cf. Ijâza, p.173; Tak., ed. Codera. § 1620; Ghâyat al-nihâya. I, p.379.
2. Hâfiz muhaddith and highly-reputed linguist, al-Suhayli was the author of numerous works. He died at Marrakech, where he had settled in approximately 579H, which means that his teaching of Ibn 'Arabi must have occurred at an earlier date. Cf. Ijâza, p.181; Muhâdarat, I, pp.6, 72, 236; also Ibn Farhün, Dîbâj, Beirut, n.d., p.150; Mu'jam al-mu'allifin, V, p.147.

44-   Ijâza, p.174. Ibn Zarqün was fora while qâdi ofSilves and Ceuta, before settling in Seville where he transmitted hadith. Cf. Tak.. § 821; Dîbâj, p.285: Dhayl 1«? 1-takmila, VI. p.203.

45-   A great muhaddith of the 5th/eleventh century; he died in 463/1071. Cf. Dîbâj, pp.357- 58.

46. Ibn 'Arabi always makes a point of distinguishing in his Ijâza between the oral teaching that he actually received and a mere ijâza ^càmma, which was an authorisation usually issued by correspondence. The ijâza 'in absentia' was in fact very widespread at this time: cf. D. Urvoy, Le Monde des Ulémas andalous, Geneva 1978, p.166.

47- Fut., I, p.649; II. P-302; Ijâza, p. 174. 'Abd al-Haqq al-Azdi. known as Ibn al-Kharrât. was khatib of Bougie at the time of the Almoravid revolt by the Banü Ghâniyya in 58 ih. Cf. Dîbâj, PP-175-76; Marrâkushi. Mifjib. p. 197; IbnZubayr, Silat al-sila, ed. Lévi-Provençal. Rabat 1938. § 9. PP-sff.

1. For his relationship to Abû Madyan cf. Ibn 'Arabi, Risalat, in Alif, p.26: also Ghubrini. Gnwân al-dirâya. Algiers 1970, § 5, p. 73.
2. For Ibn 'Arabi's 'madhhab' cf. Michel Chodkiewicz, 'Ibn 'Arabi; la lettre etla loi', in Actes du colloque: Mystique, culture et société, ed. M. Meslin, Paris 1983, pp.27-40. The attempt has often madhhab. In fact, in contradiction of the thesis upheld by the majority of jurists, he considered that the door of ijtihad, of personal effort at legal interpretation, is not closed but will remain open until the end of time. Accordingly every ijtihad is valid—provided of course that it does not contradict what is expressly prescribed by the Muslim law or sharing.⁵⁰ In the Futühât he confides; ‘I have the intention, if God gives me a long life, to compose a major work which will deal with all legal questions as they appear in their external aspects, first of all expounding and elaborating on each question from the external point of view and then examining its status in relation to the internal side of man (hukmuhâ fî bâtin al-insân)'.⁵¹

Ibn ^cArabi would never really carry out this project. However, he did devote several hundred pages of the Futühât to discussing the pillars of Islam and the legal problems to which they give rise. Within the framework of this present study it is obviously impossible to analyse and explain Ibn ^cArabï’s method and position relative to each one of these points. It should be sufficient to say as a generalisation that his position in matters of sharra was to consider and at the same time validate every conceivable interpretation which Islamic law provides, and it is characterised by the systematic intention to lighten as much as possible the burden of taklif or legal obligation which weighs upon every Muslim. One typical passage in the Futühât sums up his position well, and shows how severe he was in his judgement of the doctors of the Law: ‘God has made the divergence in legal questions a mercy for His servants and a broadening (ittisâ^c) of what He has prescribed they should do to testify to their adoration. But in the case of those who follow the jurists of our time, these jurists have prohibited and restricted what the sacred Law had broadened in their favour. They say to the person who belongs to their school, if for example he is a Hanafite: “Don’t go looking for a rukhsa (an alleviation or exemption) from ShafiH regarding this problem you are faced withand so on with all of them. This is one of the greatest calamities and heaviest constraints in the matter of religion. God Himself has said: “In religion he has not imposed anything difficult on you” (Qur’an

been made, following several Muslim authors and Goldziher, to make a Zâhirite of Ibn ^cArabi. Certainly he did not hide his admiration for Ibn Hazm (cf. the vision in which he saw the Prophet embracing Ibn Hazm: Fut., IL p.519 and the Kitab al-rnubashshirat, ms. Fatih 5322. f° 90b: also Fut., II, p.302, Diwan, pp.205-6). However, Ibn^cArabi clearly states that he was not affiliated to any madhhab (cf. Dhvdn, p.47). A number of texts in which he defines his position with regard to usül al-fiqh or sources of law are cited by Cyrille Chodkiewicz in chapter 4 of the anthology Les Illuminations de La Mecque/The Meccan Illuminations, ed. Michel Chodkiewicz, Paris 1988.

1. Cf. Fut.. I, p-494: IL PP165, 685: III. pp.70, 336.
2. Fut., I, p-334-

22:78)- The Law has affirmed the validity of the status of anyone who makes a personal effort at interpretation for himself and for those who follow him. But in our days the jurists have condemned this effort, claiming it encourages people to make a mockery of religion. For them to say this is the height of ignorance.’⁵²

However, it is important to point out that the extreme leniency in matters of jurisprudence which Ibn 'Arabi recommended in his works is intrinsically linked to the function of mercy with which (as we will see later) he considered himself to be invested; in other words, it must be understood within the context of his teaching as a whole. It is not to be interpreted as a form of latitudinarianism; in fact, on the contrary, it goes hand in hand with an exceptional personal rigour in observance of the sharî^ca. For himself and for his disciples Ibn ^cArabi was far from choosing what was easiest. As he explains: ‘I trust I am one of those who fulfil their commitment to God and do not betray the pact (mïthâq).... It is towards this that I guide men and it is upon this principle that I train my disciples. I do not allow anyone who has undertaken a commitment (^cahd) towards God and to whom I transmit my teaching to betray this commitment, regardless of how large or small its benefit will be. I do not permit him to do this—not even in the name of a legal mitigation (rukhsa) which would authorise him to do so without committing a sin.’⁵³

In a chapter of the Futùhât where Ibn ^cArabi discusses the divine Names and their power and effects on the different categories of spiritual men who are governed by them, he states: ‘I myself obtained these stations (maqàmât) when I had just started on the Way, in only a short period in 580'.⁵⁴ He will therefore have been twenty years old at the time. Some four or five years had passed since his meeting with the philosopher Averroes at Cordoba. The asceticism and extreme austerity which he had imposed on himself during that period had produced a prodigious metamorphosis in him which sometimes had particularly astonishing aspects. For example, he declares that thanks to the spiritual influx (rühâniyya) of Jesus he obtained at the start of his wayfaring the station of the famous Qadib al-Ban, who through his anaginal strength’ (quwwat al-khayâl) had the power to assume any form he desired.⁵⁵ Elsewhere he states specifically that in his own case he only assumed either human or angelic forms, never the form of animals.⁵⁶ Further, according to his disciple Qûnawï Ibn ^cArabi ‘had the power of meeting with the spirit of any of the prophets or saints of the past whom he

1. Fut., I, p.392.            53. Fut.. I, p.723.            54. Fut., II, p.425.

S S. Fut,, III. p.4 3. In his Creative Imagination Henry Corbin strangely failed to make use of the valuable data contained in this chapter on the ‘alam al-khayâl, or imaginai world.

S^. Fut., I, p.603.

chose. This he was able to do in three ways. Sometimes he made their spirit descend into this world, where he perceived them in a subtle corporeal form similar to the one they possessed while alive; sometimes he induced them to present themselves to him in his sleep: and at other times he cast off his own corporeal form so as to meet them'.^[140] But even that is not all. Chapter 178 of the Futühât—a long chapter devoted to the subject of the station of Love (maqdm al-mahabba)—reveals that, during an episode which we will examine later, Ibn 'Arabi's imaginai power had attained to such a height that he saw God at every instant, just as the Prophet used to see Gabriel.

But these supernatural powers were far from being the only indications as to his spiritual progress: at the most they were just external signs, and eventually dangerous temptations which sometimes punctuate the course of sainthood. The fundamental change that occurred in Ibn ^cArabi had to do with his perception of beings and things. Every single thing is sublime when viewed in its relation to God. In fact from the point of view of the divine essence there are no superior beings and inferior beings, things that are noble and others that are not. ‘There is not one single substance ( jawharfard) in the entire universe—at however high or low a level—which is not linked to a divine reality (haqîqa ilahiyya), and from the point of view of the Almighty there is no pre-excellence (tafâdul).’⁵⁸

This is not just some metaphysical assertion: on the contrary, it is the statement of an intimate and self-evident fact which transforms the very being along with its perception of the world. This is shown by the following story. ‘One day it happened that, openly and in public, I was carrying something disgusting in my hands, which was hardly in keeping with my social rank (m« kâna yaqtadïhi mansabifî 1-dunyâ). A foul stench of salt fish was emanating from it. My companions imagined I was carrying it with the intention of mortifying my soul (mujâhadatan li nafsî), because in their eyes I was much too lofty to stoop to carrying such a thing. They said to my shaikh: “So-and-so has gone beyond the bounds of propriety in his efforts at self­mortification!” The shaikh replied: “Well, let's ask him what his reason was for carrying the thing”. So it came about that the shaikh questioned me in front of them and told me what they had said. I replied to them: “You are mistaken about me in your interpretation of my action; by God. that was not my intention in doing what I did! It was simply that I saw that God, in spite of His Greatness, did not disdain to create such a thing. How then am I to disdain to carry it?” The shaikh thanked me, and my companions were left stupefied.’⁵⁹ Ibn ^cArabi refers again to this episode in another passage of the Futûhàt, where he provides some additional information.^[141] Firstly, he remaps that this was the first experience of this kind which happened to him on the Path (awwal mashhad dhuqnâhu min hâdhâ 1-bâb fï hâdhâ 1-tarïq) and that it happened right in the middle of the souk—in other words in the busiest place in town. Secondly, he states that the shaikh upbraided him with the words ‘the people of your rank among those who are great in this world (ahi mansabika min arbâb al-dunyâ)’. This expression, together with the statement at the start of the first account (‘which was hardly in keeping with my social rank'), provides ample proof—if proof were needed—of the prestige and high social standing of Ibn ^cArabi and his family in the society of Seville.

However, the most important point to emerge from this incident is the fact that it occurred when he had only just started on the Path—in other words in approximately 580/1184—and that at the time he was frequenting a spiritual master. To whom does the expression shaykhi, 'my master', refer? There would seem to be only one person to whom it could possibly refer at that particular time: Abù l-^cAbbâs al-^cUryabï, the first murshid whom Ibn ^cArabi frequented on the Path. Because, as we will see, he had a very large number of teachers, the Shaikh al-Akbar was almost always careful to specify the name of any master he happened to mention—except on a few occasions such as in the present instance, where he restricts himself to ‘my master’ or some similar expression. But by cross-reference between these few passages and other texts it can be established without any doubt that the master in question was the shaikh al-^cUryabi. This is how Ibn ^cArabi describes his first encounter with the man whom, in the incident described above, he refers to as ‘my master’: ‘The first time I appeared in front of my master (shaykhi) I said to him, “Give me a counsel (a wsini) before you look at me! I will keep your counsel and you will only look upon me again when you will see me invested in it’’. He said to me: “That is a noble and sublime aspiration (himma). My child, close your door, break all ties and keep company with the All-Bounteous; He will speak to you without a veil.” I put this counsel into practice until 1 had seen its benediction for me. I then went back to him and he saw I was invested with it. He said: “Like this it is good; otherwise, not’’.'⁶¹

We can now compare this account with the one given by Ibn ^cArabi in the Rûh of his first meeting with the shaikh Abü I-^cAbbâs al-^cUryabî. ‘The first Person I met on the Way was Abu Ja^cfar Ahmad al-^cUryabî. He had arrived in Seville at a time when I had only just started to become acquainted with this noble Path. I was the first of those who hastened to him. I found a man totally devoted to invocation (dhikr). I presented myself to him and he knew immediately the spiritual need which had brought me to him. He asked me; “Are you firmly resolved to follow the Way of God?” 1 replied: "The servant is resolved but it is God who determines the matter!” He then said to me: “Close your door, break all ties and keep company with the All-Bounteous; He will speak to you without a veil”. I put this into practice until I received illumination’.⁶²

Quite obviously, then, it is the shaikh Uryabi who is referred to in the first of the passages quoted above; comparison of other passages corroborates this conclusion. All the other places in the Futühât where fbn Arabi refers to this master without naming him are concerned with the practice of invocation (dhikr) using the divine Name Allah: ‘This divine Name (Allah) was the one I used in practising invocation and it was also the one used by the teacher through whom I entered the Way’;⁶³ ‘One day I went to see one of those men who are present with God, one of my masters who practised the invocation “Allah, Allah" without adding anything else, and 1 asked him “Why do you not say ‘là ilâha ilia llâh' [‘there is no god but God’] instead?”, because I hoped as a result of my question to benefit from a spiritual teaching. He replied to me: ‘ ‘My child, the breath of everyone who breathes is in the hands of God, not in his own hands, and every letter (harf) is a breath. I am therefore afraid in case by saying ‘là’ [‘no’] as part of the formula ‘là ilâha ilia llah’, that ‘là' might be my last breath and as a result I will die in the terrible solitude of negation (ft wahshati l-nafy)’’ ’.⁶⁴

Let us now compare these two texts with two others in which fbn Arabi alludes to the dhikr practised by his master Abu 1-Abbâs al-^cUryabi. ‘Some men of God practise dhikr with the name “Allah, Allah”. This was the form of dhikr used by my master Abu 1-Abbâs al-^cUryabi’.⁶⁵ ‘One day 1 went to my master Abu 1-Abbâs al-^cUryabi, a native of Ulya, who devoted himself entirely to invocation of the Name “Allah” without adding anything else. I asked him: ‘ ‘My master, why do you not say ‘là ilâha illâ llâh'? "He replied to me: “My child, breaths are in the hands of God, not in mine. I am therefore afraid in case He calls me back to Him at the moment when I am saying ‘la . and of dying as a result in the terrible solitude of negation!”.'⁶⁶

The juxtaposition of these various passages requires no commentary. When fbn Arabi simply speaks of 'shaykhi' without being more specific, it is unquestionably Abü 1-Abbâs al-TJryabi to whom he is referring.

6z. Rüh. § i. p. 76; Sufis of Andalusia, p.63. In this text it will be rioted that Ibn ^cArabi attributes to the shaikh ^cllryabi the kunya ‘Abü Jafar' instead of'Abu l-^cAbbâs'. This may be due to a lapsus calami on his part, or because the Andalusian shaikh was known by both of these kunyas.

63. Fut., III. p.300.        64. Fut., IV, p.497.

65. Fut., IV. p.89.          66. Fut., I, p.329.

If Ibn ‘Arabi’s first ‘supernatural’ teacher was Jesus, it was through ‘this illiterate peasant who was unable to write or even count’⁶⁷ that, at about the age of twenty, he began his sulük. It is in fact interesting to note that there happens to have been a close connection between ‘Uryabi, the terrestrial teacher, and Jesus, the supernatural one. As he himself writes: 'My master Abû [-‘Abbas al-^cUryabi was Christie (‘isâivi) at the end of his life, whereas I was at the beginning'.⁶⁸ In another passage from the Futühât which we will later need to examine in greater detail, Ibn ‘Arabi states again: ‘My master Abu PAbbàs al-‘Uryabi was ‘‘on the foot” of Jesus (^calâ qadam Isa)'.*"*

There is no need here to analyse the notion of prophetic inheritance (wirâtha), which occupies an important place in Ibn ‘Arabi’s hagiology. This has in fact already been done and. besides, belongs to an analysis of doctrine which cannot possibly be undertaken here.⁷⁰ The essential point to bear in mind is that for Ibn ‘Arabi the saints are fundamentally heirs of the prophets (warathat al-anbiya’); the predominance of the inheritance from this or that prophet is what determines the spiritual type of any given saint. It also sometimes happens that a saint inherits successively from a number of prophets, and this is precisely what happened in the case of the Shaikh al- Akbar, who explains that after having been ‘Christie’ he became ‘Mosaic’. ‘Hüdic’ and so on until he inherited from the prophet Muhammad himself.⁷¹ However, from whichever of the hundred and twenty-four thousand prophets a saint inherits, indirectly it is the inheritance of the prophet Muhammad—‘tabernacle’ (mishkât) of all the successive prophets—which he really receives. The fact that Ibn ‘Arabi defines himself as having been a ‘Christie’ type in his youth is hardly surprising in view of the major role which Jesus clearly played at the start of his spiritual vocation. And yet, as we will soon discover, this relationship with the Son of Mary also had another aspect. For the moment it is enough to remember that, through the intermediary of his first teacher who was also ‘Christie’, Ibn ‘Arabi was under the influence of Jesus.

f>7- Rüh, p.76; Sufis of Andalusia, p.63.

68. Fut., I, p.223. Also, in Fut., I, p.365 Ibn ‘Arabi mentions the following snippet: 'It was said to our master. “You are Jesus the son of Mary’’.' In his translation of this chapter of the Futühât Michel Vâlsan correctly identifies the master in question as ‘Uryabi. Cf. Études Traditionnelles, July/October 1962. p.169 and n. 12.

69- Fut., Ill, p.208.

1. The first systematic analysis of Ibn ‘Arabi's doctrine of sainthood is the one made by Michel Chodkiewicz in his work Seal of the Saints. Regarding the particular point in question here see especially chapter 5.
2. Fut., I, p.223 (Tsàwî. müsüwî, hüdij.

WESTERN SUFISM IN IBN ^CARABÏ'S TIME

In Ibn ^cArabî’s time two major movements dominated Sufism in the Islamic West. The first was known as the ‘school of Almeria’, and its chief repre­sentatives were Abu l-^cAbbas Ibn al-^cArif^[142] and Abu 1-Hakam Ibn Barrajân. ^[143]3 Three letters which were written by Ibn al-^cArif to Ibn Barrajân, and published in 19 56 by Father Nwyia,^[144] leave no possible room for doubt as to the nature of the relationship between these two Andalusian Sufis: Ibn al-^cArif considered himself a humble disciple of Ibn Barrajân,

Ibn al-^cArif settled in Almeria, which at the start of the sixth/twelfth century had become one of the main centres of Andalusian Sufism, and there he gathered around himself a considerable number of disciples; meanwhile, his master Ibn Barrajân had been proclaimed ‘imam’ in a hundred and thirty villages in the region of Seville.^[145] Their popularity, as well as the doctrines that they taught, rendered them suspect in the eyes of the Almoravid authorities. In 536H Sultan ^cAli b. Yüsuf b. Tâshifin commanded them to appear at Marrakech, and he also summoned another Sufi, Abü Bakr al- Mayürqï; according to Ibn al-Abbar all three men taught the same doctrine.^[146]However, they did not all receive the same treatment. According to Marrâkushî,^[147] Mayûrqï was arrested, whipped, and then released; after this misadventure he went to stay for a while in the Mashriq before returning to the Maghreb, where he taught hadîth in Bougie. As for Ibn Barrajân, the Takmila simply states that he met with his death at Marrakech^[148]—but without being any more specific about the circumstances in which he died. However, in the Tashawwuf Tadili relates the following story: 'When Abù

Western Sufism in Ibn Arabi's tinii’ j-Hakam Ibn Barrajàn was taken from Cordoba to Marrakech he was interrogated regarding some things he had said which had been held against him, and he debated the issues after the fashion of ta'wïl. He extricated himself from what had given rise to the criticisms and then declared: "I will not live [long], but he who summoned me here will not survive my death". He died, and the sultan gave instructions to have his body throwm on the city’s rubbish dump.’ However, as Tàdilï goes on to explain, Ibn Hirzihim (one of Shaikh Abu Madyan's teachers) was informed by a disciple of his about the sultan’s decision and issued a call to the population of Marrakech to attend a funeral ceremony for Ibn Barrajàn.^[149]

And finally, there is Ibn al-^cArif. While Ibn Bashkuwàl is as evasive as could be about the causes of his death, he is very precise regarding the date when he died: ‘He died on Thursday night, and was buried during the day of Friday the 23rd of Safar, 536'.^[150] Ibn al-Abbâr gives two versions of what happened.^[151]' According to the first, the sultan was convinced of Ibn al-^cArif’s excellence and piety and ordered him to be released and escorted to Ceuta, w^rhere the shaikh died as the result of an illness. According to the second—to which Ibn al-Abbâr says he is unwilling to give much credence—Ibn aI-^cArïf was poisoned on his return journey, while making the sea crossing.

A year after the death of Ibn al-^cArif another Sufi, Ibn Qasi. claimed he was the Mahdi and organised an anti-Almoravid rebellion in the Algarve.^[152] With the help of his disciples he managed to seize a number of strongholds in the region. When the Almohads landed on the peninsula. Ibn Qasi initially rallied to their cause in 540/1145 but eventually dissociated himself from them and died, also assassinated, at Silves in 546/1151.

Of these three representatives of Almoravid Sufism it was unquestionably Ibn al-^cArif who exerted the greatest influence on the evolution of Ibn ^cArabi's teaching. The numerous references in the Futùhât to the Mahâsin al-majalis— a work in which Ibn al-^cArif describes the different stages of the Way—and the various allusions to the man himself^{[153] [154]} testify both to Ibn ^cArabi's interest in his work and to his profound respect for its author, whom he praises for his perfect knowledge and describes as ‘one of the men of spiritual realisation' (min al-muhaqqiqin).*⁴ It is important to emphasise in this connection that, of the three men mentioned above, Ibn al-^cArïf appears to have been the only one whom Ibn ^cArabi specifically refers to as shaykhuna, ‘our master'.

Several of Ibn ^cArabi’s Andalusian teachers were associated directly or indirectly with the Almerian school. This was the case for example with Abû Abd Allah M. b. A. al-Ansàrï al-Ghazzâl, who according to Ibn ^cArabi was a disciple of Ibn al-Arîf.^[155] Yusuf b. Yahyà al-Tadili, who as noted earlier died in 627/1230, also cites a contemporary of his to the effect that Shaikh al- Ghazzâl was one of Ibn al-Arif’s greatest disciples (min akbar talâmidha Ibn al- ^cAnjf).^[156] But as the editor of the Tashawwuf, Ahmad Tawfiq, correctly points out,^[157] this would seem to be chronologically impossible: Abû ^cAbd Allah al- Ghazzâl, known as Ibn al-Yatim al-Andarshi, is said by his biographers to have been born in 544/1149—that is, eight years after the death of Ibn al- Arif. Yet according to these same compilers Ghazzàl’s father, Abu l-Abbas (d. 581/1185), was a disciple of Ibn al-'Arif,^[158] which clearly suggests that different people have been confused. Ibn Arabi himself cannot have been entirely responsible for inventing the stories he tells about al-Ghazzâl’s presence in Almeria together with his master Ibn al-Arif. He knew him far too well (a poem in the Diwan and one of his Risâlât show that he exchanged correspondence with him)^{[159] [160] [161]} to confuse him with his father.

Similarly, both Abd al-Jalïl b. Müsâ (d. 608/1211)—author of the Masail shu^cab al-iman,³⁰ and frequently visited by Ibn Arabi at Qasr Kutàma (Alcazarquivir)⁹'—and Shaikh Abû Sabr Ayyub al-Fihri (d. 609/1212), with whom he studied hadith in Ceuta, were disciples of Ibn Ghalib al-Qurashi (d. 568/1172),^[162] who was himself a disciple of Ibn al-Arif. There were also Ibrâhîm b. Tarif and his friend Abd Allah al-Qalfat, whose company Ibn Arabi frequented between 589 and 594. These two men (we will have more to say later about them as well as about al-Fihri) were disciples of Abu 1-Rabi^c al-Màlaqî, himself a disciple of Ibn al-Arif.^[163]

Finally it should be mentioned that Shaikh TJryabi, in spite of the fact that he was totally illiterate, was familiar with Ibn al-Arif’s doctrinal arguments and used to debate them with his disciple Ibn Arabi. This emerges from the following passage in the Rüh al-quds. ‘The last time 1 visited him—God have mercy on him—in the company of others ... he announced: “Let us examine a problem which I have already put to you, Abu Bakr [here he pointed to me with his finger], for I have always been astonished by the saying of Abu 1-Abbas Ibn al-Arif which runs, ‘Until what has never been has been extinguished and what has never ceased to be remains’. We all know that what never was is extinguished and what has never ceased to be endures, so what does he mean by these words?” As none of my companions was able to provide an answer, he turned to me. Even though, in contrast to them, I knew the answer. I refrained from speaking because I had adopted the habit of forcing myself to keep silence. The shaikh understood, and did not insist.'^[164]

In 590/1194 at Tunis, Ibn Arabi studied Ibn Barrajân's Kitâb al-hikma under the direction of his teacher Abd al-Aziz al-Mahdawi.^[165] Possibly he had already obtained some knowledge of the work through another teacher of his, Abd al-Haqq al-Ishbili (d. 581/1185), who according to the Dïbâj was a disciple of Ibn Barrajàn.^[166] In any case. Ibn Arabi’s opinion of this other representative of the Almeria school appears to have been more reserved. He undoubtedly possessed knowledge of some of the spiritual sciences— especially the science of astrology (^cilm al-falak), which enabled him to predict Saladin’s victory at Jerusalem—but Ibn Arabi emphasises that he had not mastered this knowledge completely.^[167] He does however acknowledge the value of Ibn Barrajân’s exposition of the ‘divine Reality out of which everything is created’ (al-haqq al-makhlüq bihi),^[168] which is an idea that occupies an important place in his own teaching.^[169]

As for Ibn Qasi, contrary to the general opinion shared by Western specialists the Shaikh al-Akbar did not think highly of him. To be fair, it must be admitted that the frequent references in his writings to this teacher and to his work, the Kitâb khal^c al-na^clayn,^[170]° not to mention the eulogistic expressions which he sometimes uses in referring to him,^[171] would seem fl priori to support such an interpretation; indeed, this interpretation appears never to have been questioned. However, even the most cursory reading of Ibn Arabi’s commentary on Ibn Qasl’s Khal^c al-na^clayn (a work often referred to in the literature but apparently rarely consulted) shows just how mistaken

this view actually is.^{[172] [173] [174] [175]} It was. again, in Tunis in 590/1194, when he met the son of Ibn Qasi,¹⁰³ that Ibn Arabi first became acquainted with the Khar al- na^clayn. But there can be little doubt that at that time he just leafed through the work or read a few passages from it,¹⁰⁴ because it was only much later___________________

when he settled down to writing the commentary—that he discovered its real contents. There are various indications in the Sharh kitâb khaF al-nalayn that Ibn Arabi composed it during his Damascus period¹⁰³—in other words between 620 and 638 and most probably during the very last years ofhislife. This helps to explain why it differs so much in tone from the passages in his earlier works where he refers to Ibn Qasi. In reading the commentary one perceives that the further Ibn Arabi proceeded with his reading and analysis of the Khal^Q al-na^QIayn, the more noticeably he modified his opinion of the author. Satisfied to begin with, then astounded, he ended up horrified and disappointed. At the start of the text, when commenting on the khutba (doxology) of the KhaF al-na^clayn, he is almost enthusiastic: T am virtually certain that this man [Ibn Qasi] was a man of spiritual experience' (yaghlabu ^calâ zanninâ annahu min ahi al-dhawq).^[176] A little further on Ibn Arabi is already much more critical, and asserts that ‘this man in his book has not adhered to what the faith demands’ (hàdhà 1-rajul mà waqafa fikitâbihi ^calâ mâ yaqtadïhi al-ïmàn).¹⁰⁷ Finally, in the following pages he calls him an imitator (inuqallicl), an ignoramus (jahil) and even an impostor:¹⁰⁸ ‘He is nothing but a transmitter (iiâqil) and an imitator, devoid of spiritual experience and revelation .... Through what he says here he has put an end once and for all to my mistaken judgement about him’. Ibn Arabi then goes on to explain that Ibn Qasi simply transcribed more or less faithfully what he was told by a great master of the Way called Khalaf Allah al-Andalusi. ‘This person came to see him [Ibn Qasi] and described to him what had entered his heart from the Holy Spirit and the divine light.... I am able to distinguish between what originates from him [Ibn Qasi] and what he has transmitted [from Khalaf Allah], Besides, I know certain things about his states from other people. I happen to have met his son, who is an intelligent and discerning person, and I questioned him about his father’s states. What he described to me confirms what I have just said about his imperfection . ... [This also emerges from] the letter he wrote to ^cAbd al-Mu’min b. ^CA1I and what he says in it about himself, which was not true .... He was not a man of spiritual realisation but an ignoramus’.^[177]

Asin Palacios, and after him Henry Corbin, are quite categorical in stating that the ‘school of Almeria’ was simply an extension and continuation of the famous ‘Masarra’ school.^[178] And yet Asin was quite aware that there is nothing—no document or any other source of information—to support this thesis, or rather hypothesis. He also attempted in the studies he devoted to Ibn Masarra al-Jabali (d. 319/931) and his school^[179] to demonstrate that this shaikh was not so much a mystic as a ‘Bâtinite philosopher’ whose teaching was inspired in its essentials by pseudo-Empedocles. ‘Beneath the appearance of Mu^ctazilism and Bâtinism, Ibn Masarra was the defender and propagator within Spanish Islam of the Plotinian system of pseudo-Empedocles and of its most characteristic thesis: the hierarchy of five substances presided over by a spiritual First Matter.’^[180] Unfortunately, on this point as well Asin Palacios was unable to refer to any documents which might have enabled him to substantiate his thesis, for the simple reason that neither of the two works attributed to Ibn Masarra—the Kitâb al-hurùf and the Kitâb al-tabsira—had been rediscovered at the time when he was writing. As Professor Stern was to emphasise many years later in a paper that criticises and takes issue with Asin Palacios’ theory,^[181] his argumentation is in fact based ultimately on nothing more than a remark by the historian Ibn Sa^cid al-Qurtubi (d. 402/ 1070) to the effect that certain Bâtinites such as Ibn Masarra professed the doctrine of Empedocles. As to Ibn Masarra’s philosophical system, the only substantial evidence available to Asin Palacios to help him form some idea of its nature consisted of two passages from the Futûhât in which Ibn ^cArabi refers to him.^[182] Stern himself consequently came to the conclusion that Shaikh al-Jabali was not so much a Neoplatonic philosopher as a mystic who derived his teaching from Sufism. The debate is not yet closed, and we must wait for further studies to bring additional facts to light before the issue can be settled one way or the other. This will be made much easier by the fact that in 19 72 Dr. Kamàl Ibrahim Ja^cfar discovered the two treatises by Ibn Masarra— the Kitâb khawâss al-hurüf and the Kitâb al-i^ctibâr—which up until then had been known by the name of Kitâb al-tabsira. From the lengthy account of these texts which he has provided^[183]'⁵ it emerges that, although there is undoubtedly a Neoplatonic tone to Ibn Masarra’s doctrine (itself far too common a feature in Sufi literature and philosophy to enable one to draw any significant conclusions), it is hard to establish any filiation between this tendency in Ibn Masarra and the doctrine of pseudo-Empedocles—let alone to justify any reference to it in terms of ‘Bâtinite philosophy’. Ibn Masarra’s Neoplatonism is in itself not at all surprising. The influence of Neoplatonic ideas had already become widespread, especially through the so-called ‘Theology of Aristotle’, and the reconstruction which Asin Palacios went on to produce would appear—to say the very least—highly conjectural.^[184]

Whatever the final truth of the matter, one thing which is certain is that Ibn ^cArabi knew—and appreciated—the work and teaching of Ibn Masarra, whom he describes as ‘one of the greatest masters of the Way in terms of knowledge, spiritual state and revelation'.^[185] He refers to him explicitly twice in the Futûhât, and once in the Kitâb al-mim—where, with regard to the secrets of the science of letters’, he states that he will tackle the subject ‘in the manner of Ibn Masarra’.^[186] Of these three texts (to which we should also add an allusion in the Fusüs),^[187] the one that offers the clearest evidence for supposing Ibn ^cArabi was influenced by Ibn Masarra is chapter 13 of the Futûhât, which deals with the symbolism of the Throne, the Intellect and the Universal Soul. And yet Abù l-^cAlâ ^cAfîfî has very correctly pointed out that the Neoplatonism of the Shaikh al-Akbar is in fact closer to that of the Ikhwân

Western Sufism in Ibn ^çArabi 's time al-Safâ', or ‘Brethren of Purity', than to the Neoplatonism of Ibn Masarra.^[188][n fact already long before Ibn "Arabi's time the Epistles of the Brethren of purity—composed during the second half of the fourth/tenth century^[189]— had penetrated both philosophical and Sufi circles in Andalusia, where they encountered considerable success. In spite of the fact that Ibn "Arabi does not seem ever to have referred explicitly to the Epistles, the similarities and coincidences between his teaching and the teaching of the Brethren of Purity on a number of points—for example regarding the vegetative soul^[190]—reveal their direct influence on his thinking.

*

In parallel to the ‘school of Almeria’—which so tangibly left its mark on Andalusian Sufism, giving it a character and originality that are quite unique—we also see another trend emerging. This trend was specifically associated with the Maghreb, and its chief representatives were Abu Ya"za (d. 572/1177), Ibn Hirzihim (d. 559/1163) and, slightly later, Abu Madyan.^[191]In this case there was certainly no question of a ‘school' as such: the names of these saints are not associated with any specific doctrine or even with any particular written text. Essentially it was due to their extraordinary per­sonalities that they made such an impression on their contemporaries and even down to today are numbered among the most venerated saints of the Maghreb. This is particularly true of Abu Ya"za:^[192] a Berber who was unable to express himself correctly in Arabic, his karâmât or charismatic powers were—as Ibn "Arabi himself observes^[193]—famous throughout the Maghreb. He seems to have had the ability to read people's thoughts, penetrate their hearts—and, above all, to master wild cats. Ibn Hirzihim, described by Tâdill as a jurist (faqih) and haflz,'²⁶ was more erudite. He had studied the works of

Muhàsibï and expressed great admiration for Ghazâlï’s Ihya ^culüm al-dïn According to Tàdilî it would seem that he spent some time in prison.

It was with Abu Madyan that the Sufi trend which is unique to the Maghreb really asserted itself. Originally from the region of Seville, Abÿ Madyan lived for a while in Fez, where he met Abu ^cAbd Allah al-Daqqàq—_a rather extravagant Sufi, according to the hagiographers—who seems to have passed on to him the khirqa.¹²⁷ In Fez he also met Ibn Hirzihim, who taught him the works of Muhàsibï and Ghazâli; and in addition he became a disciple of Abu Ya^cza. After a voyage to Mecca where he possibly encountered Abd al-Qàdir al-Jïlànî (d. 560/1165), he settled in Bougie.¹²⁸

The sheer number of Abu Madyan’s disciples—some of whom spread his teaching in the East¹²⁹—helps to explain the privileged position he occupies in all Sufism, both Western and Eastern.¹³" This makes it all the more regrettable that no proper and comprehensive study has yet been devoted to such a major figure in the tasawwuf of the Maghreb. Ibn Arabi was to have many teachers who were disciples of Abu Madyan: Yûsuf al-Kûmï, Abd al- Aziz al-Mahdawï, Abd Allah al-Mawrûrï and a considerable number of others, as we will see.¹³¹ References in his writings to the saint of Bougie are far too numerous to be listed here: a statistical study would easily show that of all the Sufis whom he mentions, it is Abù Madyan—whom he never even met—to whom Ibn Arabi refers most often.¹³² This preference is not due just to the influence which Abu Madyan exerted on him through the medium of his disciples: there were also certain points that they shared in common, as we will soon see.

*

To sum up: there can be no doubting whatever that Ibn Arabi was influenced by elements of doctrine which derived from representatives of both these two

1. For Abu Abd Allah al-Daqqàq cf. A. Bel. ‘Sidi Bou Medyan et son maître Ed-Daqqâq à Fès’. in Mélanges René Basset. Paris 1923,1. pp.31-68. Regarding investiture with the khirqa, or 'frock’, see in more detail below, chapter 6.
2. For Abu Madyan cf. Tashawwuf. § 162, pp. 319-26: Ibn Qunfudh. Uns al-faqir wa 'izz al- iiaqir. Rabat 1965: El² s.v. Abu Madyan: É. Dermenghem. Culte des saints, pp.71-86 and Vies des saints musulmans, Paris 1983, pp. 249-63.
3. Cf. pp.27-8 of D. Gril's introduction to the Risdla of Safi al-Dïn b. Abî Mansûr.
4. It is worth emphasizing that Ibn Arabi greatly contributed to making him known in Oriental Sufi circles through his own works, in which he cites Abu Madyan repeatedly and with extreme veneration.
5. For a table listing Ibn Arabi's affiliations with the various Sufi currents in the Islamic West, see Appendix 2.
6. See for example Fut., I. pp.184. 221, 244, 280, 448, 480: II, pp.201, 222, 233: III. pp.94, 117. 396: IV. pp.50, 141, 195. 264: Tadbîràt ilâhiyya, ed. Nyberg. 1919, pp.126, 158- 59; Mawâqf al-nüjum, Cairo 1965, pp.89. 140.

aior trends—the one Andalusian, the other from the Maghreb—and that his writings bear their imprint in numerous places. However, the g^traordinary bulk of his writings, plus the sheer diversity and complexity of ^je themes he develops, makes it difficult (and, within the framework of this «articular study, impossible) to attempt any precise evaluation of the extent to which he is indebted to Andalusian Sufis for his own ideas—ideas that in many jespects are so subtle and original. And yet regardless of their particular linings or affiliations, his teachers did not confine themselves to transmitting

■ jo him their doctrinal convictions or initiating him into the mysteries of

■ metaphysics. Through the advice they offered him and through the practices they prescribed for him they helped him overcome the many different obstacles which stand in the way of whoever undertakes the quest for the Red Sulphur.

THE MASTERS OF SEVILLE

After Abu Madyan, the teacher whom Ibn ^cArabi probably mentions most frequently in the Futühàt is Abu l-^cAbbàs al-^cUryabi.¹³³ Clearly the times he spent in the company of this illiterate peasant from Ulya¹³⁴ in the Algarve had a profound effect upon him. It is also significant that among the recommen­dations (wasâya) of Ibn ^cArabi which Ismâ^cïl b. Sawdakln transcribed in his Kitab wasà'il al-sail, several derive from Abu l-^cAbbàs al-^cUryabi. So, for example, the following prayer which Ibn ^cArabi was to make his own: 'Oh Lord, nourish me not with love but with the desire for love’ (Rabbi urzuqni shahwat al-hubb là l-hubb).¹³³

This influence—which is especially evident in Ibn ^cArabi’s initial attach­ment to the practice of dhikr using the divine Name ‘Allah’ alone¹³⁶—is hardly surprising. For a start, ‘Uryabi was his murshid al-awwal, his first teacher: a relationship which is always of special significance in Sufism. Secondly—and this is probably the most decisive factor of all—TJryabî was governed by the state of hibüdiyya. or total servitude. ‘My master Abu l[194]^cAbbàs al-^cUryabï, who was the first teacher whom I served and received graces from, had one foot planted firmly in this domain—the domain of servitude.’¹³⁷ Now in Ibn ^cArabI’s eyes the state of hibüdiyya surpasses all

others. It is the state every disciple must aspire to and the goal of spiritual realisation, because it represents the return to the original state: to the ontological nothingness of the creature or created being. Whoever has realised ‘ubùdiyya or servitude has stripped himself of rubübiyya, of the ‘Lordship’ which really belongs to God alone but which ordinary men in their arrogance claim for themselves. According to Ibn ^cArabi the state of such a person is comparable to a stone that falls where it is thrown: he is literally ^cabd Allah, the slave of God. In a sense it can be said that Ibn ‘Arabi’s entire teaching as embodied in his writings has as its sole aim to guide his ‘spiritual children' (we will see in due course why the term ‘children’, rather than 'sons’, has to be used) towards that state of servitude to which ‘Uryabi had guided him. Be a pure servant! (kun ^cabdan mahdan). . .. That is what I was advised by my shaikh and master Abu l-‘Abbas al-‘Uryabi.’’³⁸ It will emerge later that the only people who realise the state of ^cubûdiyya fully are the malaniiyya, the ‘People of Blame'.

Finally, there is the fact that Shaikh ‘Uryabi was in a sense responsible for the first meeting between Ibn ‘Arabi and Khadir, that mysterious interlocutor of Moses: the master of the ‘masterless’, he who is the supreme possessor of the ^cilrn ladunï, the ‘knowledge inherent in God'.’³⁹ This initial meeting took place in Seville when Ibn ‘Arabi was still a youth, and it was to be the first in a series of interventions by Khadir in his spiritual destiny which would culminate in his double investiture with the khirqa khadiriyya, the ‘initiatic mantle’ transmitting the baraka of Khadir: firstly at Seville in 592 and then at Mosul in 601.

Before telling the story of this first encounter with Khadir, it is worth pointing out that Muhyi l-Din was only around twenty years old when he met ‘Uryabi. The following episode occurred at the start of this companion­ship, as he himself says (fî bidâyati amri). His youthfulness excuses—or at least explains—the lack of adab or propriety which, on his own admission, he showed. He still had a great deal to learn about the rules of proper behaviour which normally govern the relationship between disciple and master. ‘A difference of opinion arose between me and my master Abù l-‘Abbâs al- ‘Uryabi, regarding the identity of a person whose coming the Prophet had announced. He [Shaikh ‘Uryabi) said to me, “The reference is to so-and-so, son of so-and-so’’, and he mentioned someone whom I knew⁷ by name: I had never seen the person but I had met his cousin. I expressed scepticism and refused to accept what the shaikh said about this individual, because I had an ^{[195] [196]}

The masters of Seville infallible perception (basira) regarding the man in question. As it happens, there can be no doubting the fact that later the shaikh changed his opinion. But he suffered inwardly [as a result of my attitude], although I was unaware of this because at the time I was only in my early stages. I left him to return home. On the way I was accosted by someone whom I did not know. First of all this person greeted me, with a great deal of love and affection in his gesture. Then he said to me: “Accept what Shaikh Abu I-^cAbbas says about so-and-so!" I understood what he was asking. I immediately returned to the shaikh to let him know what had happened to me. When I appeared before him he said to me: “Oh Abu ^cAbd Allah, is it going to be necessary for Khadir to come to you every time you hesitate to admit what I say, and tell you: ‘Accept what so-and-so says’? And how is that going to happen each time you refuse to accept my opinion?” I replied: "The door of repentance is open”. He said: "The repentance is accepted”.’^[197]

Ibn 'Arabi refers again to the incident in another passage from the Futühât; this time, as well as mentioning the traditional ideas about Khadir he gives some additional details. ‘Khadir’s name is Balyâ b. Malikân .... He was in an army and was sent by the commander in search of water, which they had run short of. He discovered and drank from the Source of Life, and so it is that he is still living now: he had no idea that God had granted immortality to whoever drinks that water. I met him in Seville, and he taught me to submit to spiritual masters and not contradict them. In fact on that very day I had contradicted one of my teachers on a particular issue, and was just leaving him. I then encountered Khadir in the quarter of the Qus al-haniyya.^[198] and he said to me: “Accept what the shaikh says!” I returned immediately to the shaikh. When I arrived at his place, even before I could speak a word he said to me: “Oh Muhammad, does this mean that every time you contradict me I will have to ask Khadir to instruct you in submission to the masters?” I replied: “Master, are you saying that the person who gave me this instruction was Khadir?” He answered: “Yes!” I said in reply; “Glory be to God for this teaching. But even so, things will turn out just as I said they would!” Some time later I visited the shaikh and saw that he had come round to my opinion. He said to me: “It was I who was wrong and you who were right”. I replied: “Master, now I understand why Khadir only instructed me in submission and did not say that you were right in the matter. To the extent that legal statutes (ahkâm mashrù^ca) were not involved, I ought not to have contra-

dieted you; but if they had been involved it would have been forbidden me to stay silent”.’¹⁴²

Apart from the fact that this incident led to the meeting with Khadir, it also testifies to the paradoxical nature of the master-disciple relationship in Ibn ^cArabi’s case. Undeniably he neglected even the most elementary rules of propriety with regard to Tryabi by contradicting him on a point of only secondary importance, because the shari^Qa w^ras not at stake. The issue on which Ibn ^cArabi disagreed with his teacher clearly had to do with the identity of the Mahdi, whose coming had in fact been announced by the Prophet and whom Tryabi thought he recognised in one of his contempor­aries. However, it emerges from the second account that if Ibn ^cArabi was wrong in his attitude, he was right as far as the heart of the matter was concerned. This was why Khadir did not tell him he was mistaken but simply said he should submit to his master. It was a piece of advice that Ibn ^cArabi put into practice quite literally, because although he repented of his attitude he would not budge from his position (‘Even so, things will turn out just as I said they would!’). As a disciple, murid. Ibn ^cArabi was hierarchically inferior to Tryabi and owed him his obedience; as a gnostic (^cdrif) endowed with an inner certainty (basira), he spoke the truth and in this particular instance surpassed his master.

It is worth clarifying one point here once and for all: this has to do with the ambiguous nature of Ibn ^cArabi’s relationship to his teachers. The ambi­guity becomes quite apparent even from the most cursory reading of the biographical sketches of his teachers which he provides in the Ruh al-quds and the Durrat al-fakhira. If we adhere to the explanations that he himself gives, it was due to two causes: firstly, the exceptional talents and charismata with which he was favoured from a very early age, and which made him an altogether exceptional disciple; secondly, it was a result of the function he was called upon to exercise in the sphere of sainthood or waldya. In Ibn Arabi's case the suhik—the ‘wayfaring’, or methodical progression along the Path under the direction of teachers—did not correspond to any persona! need to achieve spiritual realisation because, as we have already seen, he had received this from the very start. When he met Tryabi he was only a novice in appearance. And yet, however great his spiritual capacity, every ‘knower of God’ (^çârifbi llâh) must submit to education and initiation ( tarbiya) at the hands of a teacher—whether living or dead^{14 5}—who will instruct him in the

1. Fut., HI, p.336.
2. I am alluding here to the case of the 'uwaysiyya'—those who are trained by a master who died sometimes decades or even centuries earlier. There is the famous example of Shaikh Abu 1-Hasan Kharaqâni (d. 425/1034). who was trained by the spiritual influx (rûhâniyya) of Abu Yazïd al-Bistâmï: cf. Jâmï, Nafahât, p.298: also the articles by J.T.P. de Bruijn in EF and by H. Lambert in the Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. Kharaqâni.

The masters of Seville techniques that will enable him to become the master of his talents and know himself. In other words, in the case of the Shaikh al-Akbar the fact that as a disciple he owed obedience to his teachers did not prevent him from being superior to them in gnosis. This is even more so because, in conformity with the particular function to which he would later lay claim, he was strictly speaking ‘beyond categories’, and as such the only created being to whom he was answerable was—and could only be—the prophet Muhammad. In this sense it is legitimate to maintain that really Ibn ^cArabi had no teacher. At least potentially, during the period that concerns us, and fully and effectively later on, he affirmed that he possessed the highest degree of realisation of sainthood {walâya).

In this connection it is worth citing the instructions given to him by the ‘Imam of the Left' during their encounter in subtle form. *.. . This Imam showers created beings with benefits and blessings without their being aware of the fact. He did so in my case by announcing to me some good news about my state, which I was unaware of even though it was my own state, and by informing me about it. He also forbade me to affiliate myself (al-intimâ’) with the teachers whom I was frequenting, and said to me: “Affiliate yourself to none but God, for none of those whom you have met has authority over you (laysa li ahad minman laqaytahu ^calayka yad). No. it is God Himself who through His Goodness has taken you in His charge {Allah tawallâka). Mention if you wish the virtues of those whom you meet, but affiliate yourself to God. not to them”. The state of this Imam was equivalent to my own (kâna hâl hâdhâ 1-imâm mithla hall sawa), because none of those whom he had frequented had authority over him. I was told as much by trustworthy people (al-thiqa). and he himself informed me of this at the time of our meeting in the ‘ ‘intermediary realm” (Ji mashhad barzakh)’.¹⁴⁴

To appreciate fully the implications of this verbal exchange between Ibn Arabi and the Imam of the Left, we need to refer briefly to what Ibn ^rArabi himself has to say about the hierarchy of initiation at the start of the twelfth volume of the Futûhât. At the summit of the pyramid are the four Pillars {awtâd), with first of all the Pole (qutb), followed by the ‘Imam of the Left’, then the ‘Imàm of the Right' and finally the fourth Pillar. The true holders of these fonctions are the four prophets, who are considered by Islamic tradition to be always living: Idris, Jesus, Elijah and Khadir. Idris is the Pole, Jesus and Elijah are the two Imams, and Khadir the fourth Pillar. Each of these prophets Permanently has a substitute (naib) in the world below: a man who fulfils the function in question. The Pillars—both the titular ones and the substitutes— belong to the category of afrâd, or ‘solitary ones'. ‘Their equivalents among

Ï44. Fut.. II. p.573.

the angels are the muhayyamürt: the spirits overcome by love in the Divine Majesty, in other words the Cherubim (karrübiyyün).... Their station (maqâm) is intermediate between the station of the "confirmation of truth” (siddiqiyya) and the station of legislative prophecy (nubuwwat al-tash- ri^c).... It is the station of free prophecy (al-nubuwwa al-mutlaqa)' .^[199]

No one has authority over the Pillars: they know and acknowledge God alone, who Himself takes charge of teaching them. Moses’ famous adventure with Khadir (Qur’ân 18:59-81) is a good example of this independence on the part of the Pillars. So, when Ibn ^cArabi declares that his state is equivalent to the state of the Imam of the Left (or in fact of the ‘substitute’ who was fulfilling his function at that particular time) he is clearly suggesting that they both belong equally to the category of the 'solitary ones’. Indeed it is even probable that the ‘good news’ which the Imam announced to him regarding his state refers to precisely this point: that would explain why he goes on to advise him not to become identified with any teacher, because it is ‘God Himself who has taken you in His charge'.

As to the identity of the person who had assumed the function of Imam of the Left at the time of this encounter between him and Ibn ^fArabi, there are a number of reasons for supposing it was Abù Madyan (d. 5 94H). Ibn ^cArabî in fact states on several occasions that Abu Madyan was the Imam of the Left, and that an hour before his death he succeeded to the previous Pole;^[200] he explains that this information was conveyed to him in a vision by Abù Yazid al-Bistami.^[201] It also emerges very clearly from his account that he had never met this Imam of the Left except in the spirit. Now as it happens, in a biographical sketch in the Rüh which we will examine more closely later, he describes how one day Abû Madyan sent him the following message ‘Regarding our meeting in the subtle world there is no question: it will happen. Regarding our physical encounter in this world. God will not permit it.’^[202]

It must be said straight away that Ibn ^cArabi did not only include himself among the ‘solitary ones’; on his own admission he was also one of the four Pillars. ‘To each Pillar (watad) belongs one corner of the corners of the House [the Ka^cba]. The Syrian corner belongs to him who is on the heart of Adam; the Iraqi corner to him who is on the heart of Abraham; the Yemenite corner

to him who is on the heart of Jesus; and the corner of the Black Rock to him ^ho is ^{on t}*^le heart of Muhammad—and this is my corner, God be «raised!’¹⁴⁹ Ibn ^cArabi goes on to specify that the Sufi Rabi^c b. Mahmùd al- yardini^{150 was} >ⁿ his own time one of the Pillars and was replaced at his death by someone else; he also states that, apart from himself, there was a Persian (rajulfârisi) and an Ethiopian (rajul habashi).¹¹'¹ However, this piece of evidence does pose a problem. If we compare it with another passage in the futühât where Ibn ^cArabi asserts that the Pole corresponds to the corner of the Black Stone,¹⁵² it is tempting to deduce that he himself was the Pole. But man when he entered the Path. As he himself emphasises, spiritual graces received in the early stages are extremely dangerous for the novice who has not previously practised riyâda, initiatic discipline. This was precisely his own situation. In such a case the company of shaikhs, their advice and their protection are essential if the novice is to avoid the danger of backward­sliding or, even worse, of going astray. And as there was an abundance of saints in Seville, Ibn ^cArabi was to go knocking at their doors so as to derive benefit from their teaching and their baraka.

For the Shaikh al-Akbar there was nothing to prevent a disciple having several teachers. On the contrary, he states at the end of the Kitab nasab al- khirqa that only the ignorant have invented this rule: ‘Be assured that there is no stipulation in the obligatory conditions of initiatic investiture and spiritual companionship that this garment [khirqa] must be received from one person alone. No one has ever imposed such a condition. It is an established fact that one of the men of the Path has said: “Whoever wishes to see three hundred men in one man has only to look at me, for I have followed three hundred teachers and from each of them I have derived a quality”.... Investiture [with the khirqa] simply consists of keeping the company of a master and practising his spiritual discipline, and that does not involve any restriction in number. In stating these facts I am referring to certain ignorant people

149-    Fut.. I, p.160.

150-    For Rabï^c al-Mardinï cf. Ibn Hajar, Lisân al-mïzan, Hyderabad 1329H, II, pp.446-48.

1. Probably the reference is to Badr al-Habashi. Ibn ^cArabi's companion. This is the implication of the passage in the Futühât (I, p.10) where—speaking of himself, Habashiand two other individuals—Ibn ^cArabI states: 'We were the four Pillars'.
2. Fut., II, p.5.

^x53- Fut., IV, p.77. An explanation of this apparent discrepancy may lie in the fact that according to Ibn ^cArabi some afrâd, or 'solitary ones', are actually superior to the Pole in respect of their knowledge of God (Fut., Ill, p. 13 7). This is especially the case with the Seal of the Saints— the function Ibn ^cArabf claimed for himself.

who imagine that one is only entitled to receive the khirqa from one person alone’.^[203]

At this particular period in the Islamic West it was normal and even commonplace to follow the spiritual teaching of several Sufi masters simul­taneously. Suhba, ‘spiritual companionship’, was still an informal practice and had not yet acquired the characteristics of a structured and more or less regulated institution that it began to assume at the close of the twelfth century—and even more definitively in the thirteenth century—in the East, where an organised and therefore more rigid system came into being which would soon be given the name of tariqa. This means that at that time there was a certain discrepancy between Oriental Sufism and Andalusian Sufism, Sufism in the East was induced for various different reasons to implement this progressive structuring, and this became especially evident in the growth of a community strength of spiritual life as attested by the proliferation virtually everywhere of khânqâhs. In Andalusia, on the other hand, the quest for God remained to a large extent a purely individual undertaking, free and flexible. These differences in emphasis could naturally lead to reciprocal misunder­standings, and these were sometimes aggravated by a certain contemptuous attitude on the part of Orientals towards people in the Maghreb and Andalusia. Ibn Arabi was to have bitter personal experience of this on his arrival in the East when—in a Cairo khânqâh in 598H—a shaikh from Irbil made some highly offensive remarks to him about Andalusian Sufis, who according to this man knew nothing about the Path.¹⁵⁵ It would appear that this criticism was one of the reasons which encouraged Ibn Arabi some time later to write the Rühal-quds, in which he highlights the virtues, the qualities and the spiritual knowledge of the Sufis he had known in the Islamic West.

Having a variety of spiritual directors did, however, pose some problems. The disciple could find himself in a situation where he was confronted with instructions that were apparently contradictory. As Ibn Arabi writes in the Futühât: ‘One day I went to see my teacher Abu l-Abbas al-^cUryabi while I was in this state [of confusion]; I was troubled at the sight of men disobeying God. He said to me: “My companion, occupy yourself with God!” I left him and went to Shaikh Abü ^cImrân al-Mîrtûli, still in the same state of mind. He said: "Occupy yourself with your soul!” I replied: “Master, I am in a state of perplexity: Shaikh Abu 1-Abbâs tells me to occupy myself with God but you tell me to occupy myself with my soul. And yet both of you are guides towards God!” Abu ^cImran started weeping, and said to me: “My friend, Abu 1-Abbàs has directed you towards God, and the Return is to Him. Each of us has directed you in accordance with his spiritual state (hâl). I hope that God will

The masters of Seville make me reach the station of Abu l-^cAbbâs. So listen to him: that will be better for you and for me”. I returned to Shaikh Abü l-^cAbbâs and told him what Abu Tmràn had said. He said to me: “Take account of his advice, for he has pointed out to you the path (al-tariq) whereas I have pointed out to you the Companion (al-rafiq). You should therefore act in accordance with what he has told you and in accordance with what I have told you”.'^[204],

Abü Tmràn Mûsà b. Tmràn al-Mïrtülï (d. 604/1207) came, as his name indicates, from the fortress of Mertola where Ibn Qasï had established his headquarters.^[205] He subsequently settled in Seville, and it was there that Ibn ^cArabï became his companion. T experienced some marvellous times with him. His spiritual energy was closely linked with God for the purpose of safeguarding and protecting me against seductions and regressions, and in this he was successful. He himself attested to this and announced it to me.’^[206]

Ibn ^cArabi very probably met Mïrtûlï shortly after meeting ^cUryabi—in any case by 580/1184 at the latest. In both the Futùhàt and the Durra^[207] he describes an incident in which he himself and his teacher Mïrtûlï had a confrontation with ^cAbd al-Rahmân b. ^cUfayr, who denied the miraculous powers of saints. At the time. Ibn TJfayr was Seville's khatib or city scribe. It was he who in 577/1182 inaugurated the great mosque built during the reign of Yùsuf Abu Ya'qub. According to Ibn al-Abbâr (d. 658/1259) he died in around 580/1184.^[208]

Mïrtûlï’s teaching appears to have focussed essentially on the mortification of the soul (hence his advice to the young Muhyï 1-Dïn) and on asceticism (zuhcT). On this theme of asceticism he composed a collection of poems^[209]which merited a reference to him by several compilers such as Ibn al-Abbâr, who describes him as a companion of Ibn Mujahid—-a famous ascetic who doubled as a poet.^[210] Ibn al-Abbâr seems not to have suspected that the author of the Diwan was himself a saint; but the fact did not escape Ibn ‘Arabi. At the start of the second volume of the Futühüt, where he enumerates the different categories of saints, he reveals that Mïrtûlï was one of ‘the men whom God assists and who in their turn assist created beings’ (rijâl al-imdâd al-ilàhi wa l-kawni): Tn every age there are three—neither more nor less. They seek assistance from God and give assistance to created beings with kindness, gentleness and mercy as opposed to violence, harshness or severity. They

turn to God so as to derive benefit from Him, and then turn to created being_s so as to benefit them .... I met one of them in Seville. He was one of the greatest spiritual men I have known: his name was Mûsâ b. Tmràn. the master of his time’.^[211]

It was very probably from his own teacher, Ibn Mujahid (d, 574/1178), that Mîrtülî inherited his strong taste for asceticism. Described by the author of the Nayl al-ibtihâj as the ‘ascetic of Andalusia', zâhid al-Andalus,^[212] Ibn Mujahid was one of the most famous Andalusian Sufis of his time. Ibn al- Abbàr himself testifies to his sainthood: ‘He was in his time the point of reference in matters of virtue (salâh), scrupulousness ( wara^c) and worship. He was one of the servants of God and one of His saints .... His miracles are known to everyone, not to mention his competency in jurisprudence (fiqh) as well as in readings from the Qur’an («Z-qirâ’flt)’.^[213] In this particular instance Ibn ^cArabi and the Andalusian historian are of the same opinion; in fact Ibn “Arabi places Ibn Mujahid in the highest category of malâmiyya, or ‘People of Blame’.^[214] Some ambiguous statements in the Futühât would seëm to suggest that he had met Ibn Mujàhid in person during his youth (that is. before 574H): he possibly learned the Qur’àn from him while still an adolescent.^[215]In any case he had obtained from him an ijàza ^câmma (an authorisation ‘in absentia'), which however does not necessarily imply that he had attended his classes.^[216]

The spiritual method of Ibn Mujàhid was characterised chiefly by the meticulous practice of muhasabat al-nafs—that is, the daily examination of one’s conscience. He transmitted the details of this practice to one of his disciples, Abu ^cAbd Allah b. Qassùm, who taught them in turn to Ibn “Arabi. T have known two men who were like this: Abu ^cAbd Allah b. Mujàhid and Abu ^cAbd Allah b. Qassùm. I knew them both in Seville. They possessed this station and were poles among the ‘‘men of energetic intention” (al-rijâl al- niyyàtiyyün). When I in turn arrived at this station myself I imitated them and their companions, obeying the instruction of the Messenger of God when he commanded: “Demand accounts of yourself” (hâsibü anfusakum).^[217] Our teachers accordingly had the habit of keeping accounts of what they said and did, and recording everything in a notebook. After the evening prayer they

I

jifould isolate themselves in their own homes so as to demand accounts of I themselves. They would take up their notebook, examine their actions and ^ords during the course of the day, and render to each of their actions whatever it deserved. If it merited the request for forgiveness, they requested forgiveness; if it merited repentance, they repented .... I did even more than them, because I also recorded my thoughts (khawâtir); that is. in addition to my acts and words I noted down all the thoughts that crossed my mind.'^I7°

Ibn ^cArabi mentions that he was the companion of Ibn Qassûm (d. approx. 606/1209) for almost seventeen years.^{[218] [219]} Considering that he left Andalusia for good in approximately 596/597, this implies that he already knew him in around 580/581—that is, at a time when he was also the disciple of Mïrtûlî and TJryabi. He specifies that, in addition to the daily examination of conscience, Ibn Qassûm transmitted to him all the rules relating to ritual purity and prayer. Jurist (faqih), ascetic and excellent grammarian: that is how this other disciple of Ibn Mujahid is presented to us by the author of the Takmila.^{[220] [221]} But here again it would be a mistake to judge by appearances alone. According to Ibn ^cArabi this jurist—with apparently nothing to distinguish him from the other ^culama’ in Seville apart from the austerity and self-deprivation which he imposed on himself—was, just like his teacher, one of the malâmiyya, the ‘People of Blame’.'⁷⁵

The malâmiyya, too. are ‘solitary ones’ (afrâd); but in their particular case they are viewed not in relation to their function or position but solely with regard to their spiritual state. The malâmï is a pure servant (fabd mahd). His one and only desire—if any desire still remains in him—is to conform strictly to the divine will. Stripped of his ego. he has renounced all free will (ikhtiyâr). As Ibn ^cArabi puts it: ‘The malâmiyya are spiritual men (al-rijâl) who have assumed the highest degree of sainthood (walâya). There is nothing higher than them except the station of prophecy. [ Their station] is the one referred to as the Station of Proximity (maqâm al-qurba)^[222] .... No miracles (kharq ^câdat) are ascribed to them. They are not admired, because in the eyes of men they are not distinguished by behaviour which is ostensibly virtuous . . .. They are the hidden ones, the pure ones, the ones in this world who are sure and sound, concealed among men .. .. They are the solitary ones (al-afr ad).'^[223] Elsewhere, Ibn ^cArabï also specifies that the ‘solitary ones’ fall into two categories: those who use their spiritual energy (rukkàb al-himam) as their ‘mount’, and those who use their acts (rukkâb al-a^cmâl). Those in the first category have chosen not to intervene in the affairs of this low world and not to exercise any function. On the other hand, those in the second category find themselves compelled—by divine command, that is—to exercise authority and assume a function of‘government’ (tadbir); the most eminent example is the case of the Pole. These are the mudabbirün, the ‘Directors’. They are superior to those in the first category because, following the example of the prophets, they have returned from God to created beings—without, however, leaving God, for in every single thing at every instant they perceive the wajhu llâh, the Face of God. But it must be clearly understood that the first category as well as those in the second have fully and totally realised ^cubüdiyya, the service of God.

Ibn ^cArabi tells us that four of the spiritual masters whose company he kept as a young man in Seville were among these ‘Directors’. This is the picture he draws of them in chapter 32 of the Futühât—a chapter devoted specifically to this category of saints: ‘At Seville in Andalusia I encountered several individuals who belonged to this category. One of them was Abu Yahya al- Sanhâjî the blind. He lived in the Zubaydi mosque. I was his companion until he died. He was buried on a high mountain which is very windy, towards the east. Everyone found it difficult to climb the mountain because of its height and because of the wind that blew without ceasing. But God stilled the wind, which stopped blowing the moment we laid him on the earth. We then began digging his grave and erecting his stele. When we had finished doing this we laid him in his tomb and left. As soon as we had moved away, the wind started blowing again as usual, and everyone was amazed.^[224]

‘Sâlih al-Barbari,^[225] Abu ^cAbd Allah al-Sharafi^[226] and Abu l-Hajjaj al- Shubarbuli^[227] also belonged to this category. Sâlih wandered (sâha) for forty years and then remained at Seville in the al-Rutandalï mosque for another forty years, in the same state of self-deprivation which he had known during

ills years of wandering. As for Abu ^cAbd Allah al-Sharafi, he was one of those men for whom distances were annulled (sâhib khatwa). For nearly fifty years fie never lit a lamp in his home, and I have seen him do some extraordinary things. As for Abu 1-Hajjâj al-Shubarbuli (he came from a village called Shubarbul, to the east of Seville), he was one of those men who have the power to walk on water and who are frequented by spirits. There is not one of these men whose company I have not kept, to whom I have not been linked in friendship, and who did not love me . . .. So it is that these four men belonged to this station (maqamf, they were among the greatest of the malâmiyya saints’.^[228]

The evidence is not to be denied. From the very start—one could say forever—Ibn ^cArabi’s spiritual vocation appears to have been carefully guarded and protected by the Solitary Ones (afrâd). Like guardian angels they are present all along his route, everywhere and at all times, at every bend and every stopping place. From Jesus, the Imam of the Right who accepted his tawba or ‘conversion’, through the fourth Pillar—Khadir— who called him to order and the Imam of the Left who warned him, to the malâmiyya of Seville who instructed him and trained him, everything comes to pass just as if the ‘solitary ones’ had assembled or re-assembled to form an impenetrable barrier around the young Andalusian.

1. Election

cordoba: the great vision

586, 594, 598: Ibn ^cArabi’s spiritual destiny hinges around these three dates. To each one of them corresponds a major episode in one and the same basic event. Already with the first of these episodes the story or history of the Shaikh al-Akbar ceased to be a simply individual adventure: for himself and for his disciples his own story had already merged with the history of sainthood itself. To be more precise it became the axis of that history, as the 'solitary ones’ had perhaps already sensed. Somewhere something impor­tant, something prodigious, was in preparation; a new chapter in sacred history was beginning. The whole universe, celestial and terrestrial, became the theatre in which this divine play was to be acted out.

Ibn ^cArabi describes the first act: T saw all the prophets from Adam down to Muhammad. God also showed me everyone who believes in them—all those who have been and all those who will be until the Day of Resurrection, from the greatest to the smallest’.^[229] Another passage in the Futdhat provides some additional details: T saw with my eyes (ra'aytu mushàhadata ^:ayn) all the Messengers and prophets. Among them I spoke to Hùd,^{[230] [231]} the brother of ^cAd. I also saw with my eyes all the believers—those who have been and those who will be until the Day of Resurrection. God showed them to me in one and the same place, on two different occasions (fi stfid wâhid fi zamânayn mukhtali- fayri)'.* Finally, in the Fusds al-hikam Ibn ^cArabi gives two valuable pieces of information about the place and date of this vision: ‘Know that when God showed to me and made me contemplate all the Messengers and prophets of the human species from Adam down to Muhammad, in a scene (mashhad) in which it was granted to me to participate at Cordoba in 586, none of them

an initial answer. During the course of his biographical sketch of Abb Muhammad Makhlüf al-Qabâ'ilï—a saint of Cordoba to whom he once took his father⁵—Ibn ^cArabi relates that one evening after leaving the shaikh he had a vision in which he saw all the Messengers and prophets gathered together: ‘Next 1 noticed a man who was tall, with a broad face, white hair and a large beard, and who had his hand on his cheek. I chose to address them is missing”. 1 asked him: “And you? Which of them are you?” He replied: “I am Hüd, of the people of ^cAd”. I said: “Why have you all come?” He answered: “We have come to visit Abu Muhammad”. On waking, I inquired about Abu Muhammad Makhlüf [al-Qabà’ilî] and learned that on that very night he had fallen ill. He died a few days later'.⁶

From these various passages we are already in a position to draw some conclusions. Ibn ^cArabî had not one but two visions at Cordoba. During the first one, in 586/1190, he witnessed the assembling of all the Messengers and prophets; during the second, which also occurred in Cordoba but at a different time, he saw ‘all the believers’, which therefore included all the prophets and all the saints. It was during this second vision that he discovered that every saint (wa/î) is ‘on the foot of’ (^calâ qadam) a prophet; so it was that he saw Shaikh ^cUryabi ‘on the foot of Jesus'.⁷

When the Elect of God assembled in Cordoba, what was their purpose in doing so? According to the incident described in the Ruh, it will have been to be present at the last moments of Shaikh al-Qabà’ilî. However there was also another reason, which Ibn ^cArabï would seem not to have revealed anywhere in his written works but which he did confide to certain disciples of his who, from generation to generation, handed down to each other the secret of the Great Vision at Cordoba. Fortunately for us, some of them have left written testimonies. Thanks to the research conducted by specialists into Ibn ^cArabi's school we are now in a position where we can trace this information back to a disciple of the second generation; but hopefully there is a very good chance that, in the years to come, the editing and systematic study of the works written by Ibn ^cArabi’s direct disciples^[232] will make it possible to trace the line of transmission back even further.

For the time being it is Mu’ayyad al-Din Jandi (d. approx. 700H) who is the first to divulge this mystery, in a work that in fact happens to be a commentary on the Fusils.^[233] Jandi, as mentioned in the last chapter, was a disciple of Qûnawî, who in turn—as we will see later—was brought up from a very young age by the Shaikh al-Akbar himself. ^cAbd al-Razzâq Qâshânï (d. 730/1330Y Jandi's disciple, and then Dâwûd Qaysari (d, 751/1350), a disciple of Qâshânï, repeat the same details in turn in their own commentar­ies on the Fusüs:^[234] The prophets and Messengers of God assembled in honour of Ibn ^cArabi to congratulate him on being nominated the ‘Seal of Sainthood’, the supreme heir to the Seal of the prophets.

*

What precisely is implied by the notion of a ‘Seal of Sainthood’ (khatm or khatam al-walaya)? What is the function of the Seal within the sphere of sainthood? We can now give very precise answers to these questions thanks to a recent work by an author who has not only analysed the references to the Seal in Sufi literature in general but has also succeeded specifically in extracting Ibn ^cArabi’s own teaching on this matter from the enormous corpus of his writings and from the various expositions of the idea— sometimes contradictory and often ambiguous—that they contain.^[235] This means there is no need to go over the groundwork again. However, the spiritual biography of Ibn ^cArabi is so intimately related to the issue of the Seal of Sainthood that there can be no tackling the one subject without also coming to grips with the other, and some presentation of the broad outlines of his teaching on the matter will be indispensable.

T was prophet when Adam was still between water and mud.’ For some saints this hadith^[236] is the prophet Muhammad’s affirmation of the pre-

^{stence of the Muhammadan Reality, the tiaqïqa mujiammadlyya. He had jjeen, was, and will be. All the prophets who had been sent to men since the time of Adam are consequently just bearers or receptacles at a given moment in human history of a fragment of this Muhammadan Reality, which never stopped travelling in this way through time and from man to man up until the moment of its total and perfect extériorisation in the historical personality of the prophet Muhammad. With his death the gate of legislative prophecy’ (nubuwwat al-tashri) was definitively closed; only ‘sainthood’ (walâya) remains, and it is therefore through it—or more precisely through the saints who realise it—that the Muhammadan Reality will continue on its course until the end of time. What makes this even truer is the fact that, as we have seen, for Ibn ^cArabi every ‘saint’ (wall) is the heir (wârith) to one of the prophets, with the qualification that even when a saint inherits from another prophet apart from Muhammad he none the less always receives his heritage indirectly from the Seal of prophets himself.

These ideas were to be attacked severely by a good number of jurists. But that is not all. Ibn ^cArabi went on to explain that sainthood encompasses the divine message (risâla) and prophecy (nubuwwa). Every prophet, or nabi. is consequently also a saint or wall, and in the person of each prophet the wall is superior to the nabi. In effect what he was saying is that the divine messages and prophecy have an end—which is marked by the death of the prophet Muhammad—but that sainthood has no end either in this world or in the future life, as is proved by the designation of God as al-Wali in the Qur’àn (2:57). Furthermore, the distinction between ‘sainthood’ and prophecy' is a pretty tenuous one because according to Ibn ^cArabi the highest level of sainthood—the level of the ‘solitary ones' (afrâd)—has the title of nubuwwa ‘Umma or 'general prophecy’ (as opposed to legislative prophecy).

Now just as there is a ‘Seal of legislative prophecy’ in the person of Muhammad (Qur’an 33:40), so there is a Seal of saints. This function is in fact divided according to Ibn 'Arabi’s teaching between three separate individuals. The first, who is the Seal of Muhammadan sainthood, seals the heritage of strictly Muhammadan prophecy. At any given moment he is the manifestation of the integral, effective and unique realisation of Muhamma­dan sainthood (walaya muhammadiyya); in other words he is the externalisa­tion of the prophet Muhammad’s name of al-wali, which had been partially eclipsed by his function of divine messenger (rasül). In Ibn Arabi’s words: lust as God sealed legislative prophecy through Muhammad, so, through the Muhammadan Seal He has sealed the sainthood which derives from the Muhammadan legacy but not the sainthood which derives from the legacy of the other prophets, In fact there are saints who, for example, inherit from Abraham or Moses or Jesus: and there will continue to be saints of this kind

after the time of the Muhammadan Seal, although there will no longer be any saints who are “on the heart of Muhammad”.’³³

With the death of the Muhammadan Seal none of the saints will any longer have direct access to the strictly Muhammadan heritage, but the grade of ‘general prophecy’ will still remain open: in other words there will still be afrâd. It will only be with the advent of the ‘Seal of Universal Sainthood’ that the gate of non-legislative prophecy will in turn be closed. Even after his coming there will still be saints, but from then on none of them will attain to the station of afrâd.

Finally, with the third Seal sainthood will be definitively closed. Ibn ^cArabi reveals that this third Seal will not just be the last of the saints: he will also be the last man to be born into this world, ‘The last-born of the human species will be in the line of Seth and will possess his secrets. After him no more children will be born into the human race. He will be the Seal of Infants (khatm al-awlad). He will have a sister who will be born at the same time as him but will emerge from the womb before him, him after her. The head of this Seal will be placed near the feet of his sister. His place of birth will be China and his language will be the language of the people of that land. Sterility will spread among men and women and there will be a proliferation of marriages not followed by any births. He will call men to God and they will not reply to his call. After God takes away his soul and the souls of the believers of his time, those who survive him will be like beasts. They will pay no regard either to the lawfulness of what is licit or to the unlawfulness of what is illicit. Animal nature will be the only authority they obey; they will do nothing but follow their passions, free of all reason and every sacred Law. And it will be on them that the Hour will dawn.’³⁴ Nowhere in ibn 'Arabi’s writings does this third Seal seem to be identified any more precisely, so all that remains is to determine the identity of the individuals invested with the functions of Muhammadan Seal and of Seal of Universal Sainthood.

Regarding this second function, Ibn 'Arabi is quite categorical: for him the Seal ofUniversal Sainthood is Jesus. 'There are in fact two Seals; through one of them God seals sainthood in general, through the other He seals Muhamma­dan sainthood. As to the person who is the Seal of sainthood in an absolute sense, it is Jesus. He is the saint who in the time of this Community [i.e. the Islamic community] is the holder par excellence of this non-legislative prophetic function, because henceforth he is dissociated from the function of legislative prophet and Messenger (rasûl). When he descends at the end of time he will do so in the capacity of heir and Seal, and after him there will be no further saint ^{[237] [238]}

glowed with general prophecy .. .. As to the Seal of Universal Sainthood, after there will no longer be any saints [who attain to this level], this is therefore Jesus; we have met numerous saints who were “on the heart of Jesus” or of another of the Messengers.'¹''

Once again, it will be worth noting the major role that Ibn ^cArabi ascribed to

We are now in a better position to understand the exact nature of that special relationship between Ibn ^cArabi and Jesus which has been referred to several times already: for if Jesus is the Seal of Universal Sainthood, Ibn ^cArabi himself laid claim to the role of Muhammadan Seal. Only a partial and extremely biased examination of his writings could possibly have incited certain authors to maintain that no formal declaration to this effect is to be found in his writings.^{[239] [240] [241]} We have, for example, his statement that ‘I am— without any doubt—the Seal of Sainthood, in my capacity as heir to the Hashimite and the Messiah’?^[242] Again, in a poem from the Diwan he declares:,

‘I am the Seal of Saints, just as it is attested

That the Seal of the Prophets is Muhammad:

The Seal in a specific sense, not the Seal of Sainthood in general.

For that is Jesus the Assisted’.^[243]

The Muhammadan Seal is the comprehensive and integral manifestation of the walâya muhammadiyya, or Muhammadan sainthood, which is the supreme source of every other form of sainthood. In this respect and from this point of view he is superior to all the prophets and Messengers, because it is from him that all the prophets derive their sainthood; even Jesus himself, as a wall, is under the authority of the Muhammadan Seal. On the other hand, as a prophet and divine messenger Jesus is superior to the Seal of Muhammadan Sainthood, who possesses neither of these functions. As Ibn ^cArabi explains: Muhammadan sainthood—that is, the sainthood which pertains specifically to the Law revealed by Muhammad—has its own Seal, whose rank is inferior to the rank of Jesus because Jesus is a Messenger’.^[244]

Elsewhere he writes as follows: ‘When Jesus descends to earth at the end of time God will grant him the privilege to seal the Great Sainthood (al-walâya al-kubrâ), which is the sainthood that begins with Adam and ends with the last of the prophets. This will be an honour for Muhammad because universal sainthood—the sainthood of all communities—will only be sealed by a Messenger who follows his Law. Jesus will therefore seal the cycle of the Kingdom and universal sainthood simultaneously. This makes him one of the seals of this world. As for the Seal of Muhammadan Sainthood, who is the Seal of the sainthood which pertains specifically to the community that is Muhammad’s in the mode of appearance, Jesus himself will be placed under the authority of his position—just as will Elijah, Khadir and every other saint of God belonging to that community. In other words, although Jesus is a Seal he will himself be sealed by the Muhammadan Seal’.^[245]

Although Ibn ^cArabi was the first to expound this remarkable doctrine (al- Hakim al-Tirmidhi had already used the expression khatm al-walâya, but had been somewhat enigmatic about what it meant),^[246] he was not alone in claiming the title of Muhammadan Seal. There were others after him who ascribed this function to themselves.^[247] Obviously it is not the historian’s job to pass judgement one way or the other in such cases of rival claims. Here we are in the realm of the undemonstrable, and the very notion of a ‘Seal’ can only concern us to the extent that it represents a fact in the history of ideas and as such plays an important role in the subsequent evolution of Sufism. However, within the perspective of this book it is essential to point out that for Ibn ^cArabi there is no possible room for doubt: he himself is the Supreme Seal, the source of all sainthood, and his spiritual journey as well as his teaching can only be properly understood in the light of this inner certainty which determined his life and his work. On plenty of occasions in this book we will be confronted with the various aspects of this issue. Here it is sufficient to bear in mind that for Ibn ^cArabi the Cordoba vision marked the solemn acknow­ledgement by the Elect of God of his nomination as Seal of Muhammadan Sainthood.

SEVILLE: RETREATS AND REVELATIONS

The population of Seville was in turmoil. The new sultan, Abù YùsufYa^cqûb al-Mansür, had succeeded to his father who had been mortally wounded during the Almohad disaster at Santarém in 580/1184, and was now coming to the Andalusian capital firmly resolved to restore order to the tumultuous city.

With the third ruler of the Mu'minid dynasty, the Almohad state had reached its apogee. Mansùr was a great lover of art and culture like his father, but in military leadership he demonstrated his superiority and succeeded where his father had failed. In 581/1185 he took back Bougie from the Band Ghàniya, who had launched a huge Almoravid offensive in North Africa. In 583/1187 he crushed their army at the battle of Hamma and subdued the Arab tribes of Ifriqiya who had rallied to the cause of the Almoravids. But his greatest victory of all was to be the bitter defeat he inflicted on the people of Castile at Alarcos in 591/1195.^[248]

Mansür disembarked at Seville in Jumâdâ II, 586/1190. He carried out a general inspection of the administration, held an inquiry into the iniquities perpetrated by government officials and personally kept a watchful eye open to ensure that justice was respected. He also attempted the difficult task of applying to Seville the decrees he had enacted at Marrakech on ascending to the throne: absolute prohibition of the sale of alcohol^[249] on pain of death, and the banning of singers and musicians from practising their professions. The musical instruments on the Guadalquivir fell silent—at least for a while.^[250]

But there was also more. The new ruler was a fervent admirer of Ibn Hazm and did not believe in the Imamate of Ibn Tumart;^{[251] [252]} he adopted Zâhirite ritual and declared war on the Mâlikites. According to the author of the Mifjib he forbade the teaching of manuals of applied jurisprudence and ordered the auto-da-fé of a large number of Màlikite works such as the Mudawwana by Sahnûn (d. 240/854). From this time onwards jurists were obliged to adhere strictly and solely to the Qur'an and hadïth.^2S Simultaneously he gave instructions to the muhaddithün, or transmitters of the prophetic traditions, to begin compiling the ‘ten works’ (al-musannafât al-^cashara)—in other words the ten collections of hadîth which were accepted as canonical. These collections were soon to become disseminated throughout the Maghreb.^[253]

Mansûr's religious rigorism became increasingly pronounced from year to year; at the end of his life he issued a law compelling Jews to wear distinctive clothing.^[254] That was to be one of the last measures he took. The sultan was tired, eaten up with remorse at having had his brother and uncle killed in 583/1187 for attempting to overthrow him; from 594/1197 onwards he relinquished fulfilling his public function more and more, and gave himself to asceticism and works of piety instead.^[255]

It was during this period, in 594/1197, that he had Abù Madyan summoned to the palace at Marrakech. What exactly did he want from him? We will never know, because the saint died en route and was buried at ^cUbbad, not far from Tlemcen. This request on the part of the sultan has been variously interpreted. According to G. Marçais and Asm Palacios, Mansur summoned Abu Madyan because he was disturbed by his increasing popularity.^[256] There would therefore be something of an analogy between the case of Abù Madyan, identified as a potential rebel, and the case of other unruly Sufis such as Ibn Barrajân or Ibn QasI: he would have been taken to Marrakech as a prisoner to be tried. But this is not a very plausible hypothesis. By this time Mansur had already withdrawn from the exercise of power, entrusting it to his family instead; and besides, nothing entitles us to suppose

Seville: retreats and revelations that Abû Madyan could have represented—or even appeared to represent—a threat to the power of the Almohads.

There is also another version of the events which seems more satisfactory because it corresponds more closely to what we know about the sultan’s state of mind towards the end of his reign. According to the author of the Risâla— Ibn Abï Mansur (d. 682/1283)—Mansur made the decision at the end of his life to enter the Path and revealed his wish to a saintly woman in Marrakech; she in turn advised him to speak to Abu Madyan. When the saint came to hear of the sultan's wish he apparently exclaimed: Tn obeying him I am obeying God, Glory to Him! And yet I will not reach him but will die at Tlemcen.' Ibn Abï Mansür goes on to explain how when Abu Madyan arrived in the town of Tlemcen he said to the sultan's envoys who were escorting him: * “Salute your master and tell him he will find healing at the hands of Abù PAbbâs al-Marînï”. So it was that our master Abû Madyan died, in Tlemcen. ’⁵ This Abû l-^cAbbâs al-Marînï was none other than Abû l-^cAbbâs Ahmad b. Ibrâhîm al-Mariyyï al-Qanjà'irï: an Andalusian Sufi from (as his name suggests) the region of Almeria who according to Ibn ^cAbd al-Malik was the ‘shaikh ofthe entire Sufi community in the Maghreb'. He went to the East on four occasions, and crossed paths with Ibn ^cArabî in Hebron in Shawwâl 602/1205.⁵⁴ All his biographers emphasise the respect and veneration shown to him by the Almohad rulers: in this connection Ibn ^cAbd al-Malik's detailed sketch of him contains a story about the alms that the Almohad sultan entrusted to him for distributing to the poor in Medina. Also, according to Ibn Sâhib al-Salât it was Mariyyï who in 592/T195 persuaded Mansür to renovate the great mosque of Ibn ^cAddabâs.⁵⁵

From a passage in the Rüh it would appear that Mansür was also on very good terms with Yüsuf al-Shubarbulï, a disciple of Ibn Mujahid.⁵⁶ Further, we will see in due course that the time came when he offered assistance to Ibn ^cArabi himself. But this was during a period when the Shaikh al-Akbar was resolutely avoiding all association with men of power—and indeed had for some time been avoiding associating with men in general.

* ^{[257] [258] [259] [260]}

‘The Messenger of God has said: “Demand accounts of yourself before they are demanded of you". With regard to this matter God revealed to me a sublime spectacle (mashhad ^cazim), at Seville in 586.'^[261] Ibn Arabi says no more; but clearly he is referring to a vision relating to the Last Judgement. Now it so happens that several autobiographical accounts survive in which he mentions the various supernatural perceptions he was granted by way of anticipation of the Resurrection and Last Judgement. The analogies between these accounts are no justification for mixing them up: each of the visions describes one particular aspect either of the universal Resurrection or of Ibn Arabi’s own resurrection. In any case two of these texts cannot possibly bear any relation to the ‘sublime spectacle' of 586, because they refer to visions which he experienced in the one case in Fez in 593 and in the other case in 599 at Mecca. However, we also possess two other accounts by Ibn Arabi which mention neither dates nor place-names but which quite possibly correspond to the vision of 586.

The first of these accounts is to be found in chapter 71 of the Futühàt—a chapter devoted to the ‘secrets of fasting'. After explaining that on the Day of Judgement the saints will first of all intercede on behalf of those who have done them harm (he notes that in the case of those who show kindness to the saints, their benevolence will itself be their safe-conduct), Ibn Arabi describes the vision he was granted of his own intercession. ‘God has promised me that on the Day of Resurrection I will be able to intercede on behalf of everyone who falls within my gaze—those whom I know and those whom I do not know. He showed me this in a scene (mashhad) in such a way that I saw it and experienced it with certainty.’^[262]

In the Kitab al-mubashshirdt or ‘Book of Visions’ Ibn Arabi gives a complete and detailed report of the event. T saw in a vision that the Resurrection had taken place. People were rushing forward; some were clothed, others naked; some were walking on their legs, others on their faces.

‘Then God came, “in the darkness of thick clouds, accompanied by angels” (Qur’an 2:210), seated on His Throne which was being carried by angels. They placed the throne to my right. While all this was happening I experienced no fear or anxiety or fright.

Then God placed His palm upon me to make me know what my situation had been [in this low worldj; thanks to the authentic hadith (al-hadith al- sahïh) I understood his intention^[263] and I said to Him: “Lord, kings demand

F

Seville: retreats and revelations accounts of their subjects because they are poor and need what they take from them for their treasury. But You are rich. Tell me then what You will add to Your purse by demanding accounts of created beings". He smiled and replied: “What do you want?" I answered: “Authorise me to go to Paradise [ie. directly and without rendering accounts]”. He gave me His authorisa­tion-

‘Then I saw my sister Umm Sa^cd. I said to Him: “And my sister Umm Sa^cd!” He replied: “Take her with you". Then I saw my sister Umm Alâ’. I said to Him: “And her as well?” He replied: “Her as well!” I said to Him: “And my wife Umm ^cAbd al-Rahmân!” He replied: “And your wife Umm Abd al- Rahmàn". I said to Him: “And Khâtün Umm Jùnân!” He replied: “And Khâtùn Umm Jûnân!" I said to Him: “This is taking too much time: let me take all my companions and relatives whom I know, as well as everyone else whom You wish". He answered: “Evenifyou were to ask me if you could take all the people of the Station (ahi al-mawqif),⁴° I would let you”.

T then remembered the intercession of the angels and prophets and, out of respect for them, I [only] took with me everyone who fell within my gaze (God alone can count them): those whom I knew and those whom I did not know. I made them go in front of me, keeping behind them so as to prevent them becoming lost on the way.'⁴'

The two accounts coincide: in both cases it is a question of Ibn Arabi interceding on behalf of ‘everyone who fell within his gaze, those whom he knew and those whom he did not know’. But are we to identify the description contained in these two texts with the vision of the ‘sublime spectacle’ that he experienced in Seville in 58611? One small detail in the names referred to—the name of Umm Jùnân—would seem to suggest we must answer this question in the negative. We know absolutely nothing about this woman apart from the fact that she was so close to Ibn Arabi that he specifically interceded on her behalf. But her name and aristocratic title, khâtün, which was a title applied chiefly to the wives of Seljuq and Ayyûbid rulers, suggest she was Turkish or Kurdish in origin, and this makes it unlikely that Ibn Arabi could have known her in Andalusia.

But there is one particular feature of this account that merits closer consideration. This is the fact that the first four individuals whom the Shaikh al-Akbar asked to be able to take with him to Paradise are all women. The Kitâb al-kutub contains a long letter written by Ibn Arabi to Umm Sa^cd to

40.This is a reference to a hadîth which does not seem to be included in any of the canonical collections but which Ibn ‘Arabi cites at length, together with its isnâd, in Fut., I, p.309 and in Muhàdarat, II, pp.i 86ff. According to it, at the Last Judgement man will have to travel the length of fifty mawàqif ('halts’). We will come back to this hadîth in a later chapter.

1. Kitâb al-mubashshirât, ms. Fatih 5322, f° 93a; ms. Bayazid 1686, f° 62b.

console her over the death of Umm Ala',^[264] and from this document it emerges that he was very attached to his two sisters (it will be remembered that he had no brothers) whom he took with him to Fez after his father’s death with the aim of marrying them off.^[265] The two other women referred to in the passage remain an enigma. Of Umm Jûnân we know absolutely nothing—not even the nature of her relationship to Ibn Arabi. As we have seen, Umm Abd al- Rahmân was the name of one of his wives—but which one? Various references in the Futühât indicate that he had at least two wives. It would appear that his first wife was Maryam bint Muhammad b. Abdûn al-Bijà’ï; he possibly married her in Seville,^[266] and her spiritual aspirations were very much in harmony with his own—as the following passage shows. ‘My saintly wife Maryam bint M. b. ^cAbdùn al-Bijà’ï said to me: “In my sleep I saw someone who often comes to visit me in my visions, but whom I have never met in the world of sense-perception. He asked me: ‘Do you aspire to the Way?’ I replied: ‘Most certainly yes, but I don't know how to reach it!’ He said: ‘Through five things, namely trust (al-tawakkid), certainty (al-yaqïn), patience (al-sabr), resolution (al-‘azïma) and sincerity (al-sidq)’ ”.’^[267]

The second of Ibn Arabi’s wives whom we know about was Fatima bint Yunus b. Yusuf Amir al-Haramayn. She gave him a son, Muhammad dmâd al-Din (d. 667H), to whom he bequeathed as an endowment (waqf) the first draft of the Futühât.^[268] But here things become complicated. Ibn Arabi also had a second son, Muhammad Sa^cd al-Dîn (d. 656H), who was born in Malatya in 6i8h and apparently from another wife.^[269] Could it be that the mother of this Muhammad was the same as Qûnawï’s mother—that is, the woman who according to some sources became Ibn Arabi’s wife in Anatolia? Also, according to some late sources, after he had settled in Syria Ibn Arabi married the daughter of the ‘Mâlikite qâdî’ of Damascus.^[270] No doubt the

reference here is to Zayn al-Din ^cAbd al-Salàm al-Zawàwï (d. 68 in),⁴⁴ the first Mâlikite qâdï of Damascus, who came from a great Berber family of jurists which had settled close to Bougie; a member of this family had been one of Ibn Arabi’s teachers during his stay in that town.^{[271] [272]} And finally, according to Muhammad Banü Zaki’s Tuhfat al-zair^{[273] [274] [275]} Ibn ^cArabI married a daughter of the Banü Zakî, who for a long time occupied the position of qâdï in Syria; some corroboration of this can perhaps be derived from a reference in the Diwan, where Ibn “Arabi states that he had invested the daughter of ZakI al-DIn with the khirqa.'¹

Which of these women is Umm ^cAbd al-Rahmân? In the present state of our knowledge it is impossible to give an answer. However, it is worth noting that only two sons are ever referred to either by Ibn ^cArabI himself in the sama^cs of his writings or by later chroniclers: Muhammad ^cImàd al-DIn and Muham­mad Sa^cd al-Dïn. This naturally leads one to suppose that if Ibn ^cArabï ever had a son called ^cAbd al-Rahmàn, he must have died at a very young age.

Whatever the nature of the bonds of kinship and affection which linked Ibn Arabi with these four people, one fact is particularly striking—namely that the first beneficiaries of his intercession with God were all women. Indeed here too he distinguishes himself from the majority of his co-religionists, because for him there was not one single level of spiritual realisation which women are incapable of attaining. ‘Men and women have their share in every level, including the function of Pole (qutb)’.³³

Furthermore, several of Ibn “Arabi’s spiritual teachers were women; they include two whose company he used to frequent in Seville when still a youth—Fàtima bint Ibn al-Muthannà and Shams Umm al-Fuqarà’.

Fàtima bint Ibn al-Muthannà often used to tell her young disciple: T am your spiritual mother and the light of your carnal mother’.⁵⁴ Although this lady of Seville was over ninety years old, her face was so pink and fresh that Ibn ^cArabI would blush whenever he saw her. She lived in extreme poverty, feeding herself from the waste that the people of Seville left outside their doors. She appears not to have had any home of her own until the day when Ibn ^cArabi and two other disciples of hers built her a hut out of reeds. In his Rüh al-quds he has no hesitation in stating that ‘she was a mercy for the worlds’, and he states that she had at her command an extremely unusual

but totally devoted servant: the sûra al-Fâtiha, who—just like Aladdin’s genie of the lamp—fulfilled even the smallest of her wishes.^[276]

It was apparently in 586/1190,^[277] at Marchena of the Olives which was a citadel not far from Seville, that Ibn 'Arabi met Shams Umm al-Fuqarâ’. As he himself writes in the Rüh al-quds, ‘She had a stout heart, noble spiritual energy and great discrimination. She concealed her spiritual state, but sometimes she would reveal an aspect of it to me in secret because she had been granted a revelation about me, and this would give me great joy’.^[278]

During the same year, 586, Ibn 'Arabi became acquainted with some saints who fell within a rather peculiar spiritual category: the ‘demented’ (bahdlfl). In a chapter of the Futühât which is devoted specifically to them,^[279]he explains that the ‘demented’ have lost their reason as the result of a theophany and a sudden seizure which comes from God. ‘Their reason remains with Him (^cuqûluhum mahbûsa ^cindahu), rejoicing in the contempla­tion of Him, plunged into His Presence, overcome by His Majesty. They are reasonable men but without any reason! (hum ashüb ^cuqül bi-lâ ^cuqül).’ A little further on he explains that there are three types of ‘demented’. There are those in whom the inspiration which visits them (wârida) is more powerful than their own inner strength, and they are accordingly dominated by their spiritual state. There are those whose inspiration is equal in strength to their own inner strength: in their case their outward behaviour is apparently quite normal, but they are suddenly distracted when the inspiration seizes them. Finally there are those whose interior strength is greater than the strength of the inspiration; they do not show anything when seized by the inspiration. There are in addition two separate kinds of ‘demented’: the ‘sad demented’ (mahzüri) and the ‘joyful demented’ (mnsrür). ^cAlï al-Salâwî^[280] and Abu 1-Hajjàj al-Ghilyàri,^[281]° whom Ibn 'Arab! met in Seville in 586H, both belonged to the second category. On the other hand Yusuf al-Mughawir (d. 619/1222), whose company he also frequented in Seville during the same year, was one of those who weep without ceasing.^[282]

Ibn 'Arabi was all the better equipped to describe the station of the bahdlil or ‘demented’ because he himself had experienced it at a certain period in his life. ‘I myself have experienced this station (maqàm). For a time, according to vvhat people have told me, I performed the five prayers and directed them as imâm. I carried out the bowings and prostrations and all the prayer rituals— the gestures as well as the recitations—without seeing anything myself. 1 had no awareness of those who were with me, or of the place, or of what was happening or of anything else in the sense-perceived world. This was due to a state of contemplation which dominated me and in which I was annihilated both to myself and to everything else. They told me that when the time for prayer arrived I recited the call to prayer and directed the prayer itself. I was like someone asleep who gesticulates [in his sleep] without being aware of it.’^[283]

It was during this same period that he established a bond of friendship with the khatïb of Marchena, ^cAbd al-Majid b. Salama, who told him of his fabulous encounter with Mu^câdh b. al-Ashraf, one of the ‘substitutes’ (abdâl) of his time.^[284] As for Ibn ^cArabi himself, there was nothing more natural than that he should see one of these mysterious individuals suddenly appear right in the middle of his house. That is precisely what happened to him in the same year, 586, in Seville. One evening, after performing the prayer at sunset he suddenly experienced a burning desire to meet the man who from this time onwards he was to consider his master: Abu Madyan. There was a knock at the door, and it was Abù ^clmrân Mûsâ al-Sadrànï, a companion of Abu Madyan and himself one of the seven ‘substitutes’ who—after the four Pillars—represent one of the highest levels of the initiatic hierarchy. Ibn “Arabi asked him: ' “Where have you come from?” Mùsâ replied: “From Shaikh Abù Madyan in Bougie”. “And when were you with him?” “I performed the sunset prayer with him, just now. After finishing the prayer he turned to me and said: ‘Muhammad b. ^cArabi is now thinking such-and-such a thought, in Seville. Go to see him straight away and give him such-and- such a message from me’.” He then described the desire I had had to meet Abu Madyan and told me that the shaikh had said: “Inform him that as far as our meeting in the spirit is concerned, that will certainly take place. But as to our corporeal meeting in this world, God will not permit it. . .” ’.⁶⁴

Their encounter ‘in the spirit’ did indeed take place: there would appear to be good justification for equating it with the dialogue quoted earlier between Ibn “Arabi and the Imam of the Left, which took place in the ‘Intermediary World’ or barzakh and during the course of which the Imàm of the Left announced to Ibn “Arabi ‘good tidings regarding his state’. This dialogue is most probably to be dated to the same year (586), shortly before the Cordoba vision.

It is important to note that so far the majority of the spiritual teachers whose company Ibn ^cArabi kept—for example Mîrtülî, Ibn Qassüm. Shubar- bulï—were affiliated with the Andalusian schools of Ibn al-^cArif and Ibn al- Mujâhid, and that the teaching of these masters clearly bears the mark of this affiliation. But it is perhaps no coincidence that in this same year, 586, Muhyi 1-DIn appears to have come under the spiritual supervision of Abu Madyan through the intermediary of several of his disciples. So, for example, he performed a month-long retreat in Seville with Abu Ahmad al-Salâwi, who was a long-standing companion of Abu Madyan. ‘He came to Seville when I was under the charge of my shaikh Ya^cqûb al-Kümï. The spiritual state of this man Abû Ahmad was powerful. He had been the companion of Abu Madyan for eighteen years; his ascetic and devotional practice was intense, and he would weep abundantly. I spent a whole month with him at the mosque of Ibn Jarrad.’^[285]

Shaikh Abü Ya^cqûb Yûsuf al-Kümï, whom Ibn ^cArabi also refers to in this passage and whom he also knew in 586«, was another disciple of Abu Madyan. He was doubtless the first of Ibn 'Arabi’s masters to transmit to him the teaching of the great saint of the Maghreb, whose miracles and virtues he loved to speak of in Seville for hours on end.

Muhyi 1-Dln’s relationship with al-Kümï was rather strange. The various different anecdotes in the Rüh that contain references to him reveal the profundity of Ibn 'Arabi’s veneration for the man. The love he felt for him was so sincere that, as he tells us, he was able to make him appear at any time of the day or night that he wanted to talk with him.^[286] But more often than not he experienced a reverential fear in his presence which paralysed him completely. He confesses in the Rüh: ‘When I stood in front of him—or any other of my teachers—I would start trembling like a leaf in the wind; my voice would change and my limbs would start knocking together. When he noticed this he would show kindness towards me and make a special effort to help me relax, but that only served to increase the fear and veneration he inspired in me’.^[287]

And yet Ibn 'Arabi specifically states elsewhere that in certain respects he was Kümi’s teacher. In the Futühât he explains that, when a disciple dies before completing his sulük or faring of the way’, it is the shaikh’s responsibility to ensure he completes it posthumously. ‘That was the opinion _of my master Abu Ya'qüb Yûsuf al-Kûmî. He is the only one of my teachers who trained me in initiatic discipline (riydda); he helped me in initiatic discipline while I helped him in the states of ecstasy (mawdjid). He was for me simultaneously master and disciple, and I was the same to him. People were astonished and nobody understood the reason. This happened in 586; in my case illumination (fath) had preceded discipline (riydda).'^bS

In reality it would seem that from a certain point of view all of Ibn ^cArabI’s spiritual teachers were his disciples. The reason for this has already been touched on: it has to do with the fact that his relationship to them was on two different levels—the level of disciple (murid) and the level of gnostic (^carif). The following incident provides a good illustration of the kind of spiritual benefit which he could bring them. To cite his own words: ‘There was a time when I became accustomed to withdraw into cemeteries to isolate myself. I heard that my master Yüsuf b. Yakhlaf al-Kûmî had announced: “So-and-so [and he referred to me by name] has given up the company of the living because he prefers the company of the dead!’’ I sent someone to tell him: “If you join me you will soon see whose company I keep!” He performed the dawn prayer and came out alone to meet me; he searched for me and found me sitting between the tombs with my head lowered, talking with the spirits who kept me company. He came and sat beside me, full of respect. I turned towards him to look at him and saw that he had changed colour and seemed ill at ease. He was unable to raise his head because of the weight that was pressing down on him; I looked straight at him but he was unable to look at me because he was so disturbed. When I had finished my conversations and the ‘spiritual instant’ (wdrid) had come to an end, the shaikh relaxed and, relieved, turned to me and kissed me between the eyes. I said to him: “Well, master, who is it who keeps company with the dead—you—or I?” He replied: “Certainly not, by God; it is I who keep company with the dead!”’^{[288] [289]}

Not only the dead spoke with Ibn ^cArabi during his solitary retreats. So too did God. As he explains: ‘The descent of the Qur’an into the heart of the servant is the descent of God into him; God then speaks to him “from him and in him” (min sirrihi fi sirrihi)’.⁷⁰ This is precisely what happened to him on several occasions. In a Seville cemetery to which he was accustomed to withdraw (this was also in 586) he ‘received’ a number of Qur’ânic verses.⁷¹ Clearly this is a reference to the descent of the Qur’an in a shower of stars’ (nujûman), which it is possible for saints to experience in the same way that the prophet Muhammad had before them. According to Ibn ^cArabI, Muhammad received revelation in three different modes. Firstly he received the Book in its aspect of furqân during the Night of Destiny (laylat al-qadr); secondly he received it as qur'ân throughout the month of Ramadan: and finally he received it progressively over a period of twenty-four years in a shower of stars (nujüman). It is this 'starry' descent of the Qur’an—a direct perception of the original Revelation, not to be confused with its methodical memorisation—which was experienced by the saints. So, for example, it is said that Abù Yazïd Bistâmï ‘did not die before he had “retained” the entire Qur’an’ (rnâ tnâta hattâ istazhara al-qur'ân)—a statement which is not to be interpreted literally, because knowing the Qur'an by heart is something much too commonplace to deserve being mentioned in the case of such an important person. In a section of the Kitâb al-isfâr devoted to the 'Journey of the Qur’an’, Ibn ^cArabi declares that he had experienced this ‘starry’ descent in his early stages. He further adds that in fact ‘the Qur’an never stops travelling towards the heart of those who preserve it’.^{[290] [291]}

*

Visions, retreats, revelations: for Ibn ^cArabï 586 was plainly a year full of blessings. One other piece of information perhaps needs to be added to the evidence adduced so far. This can be found in a passage in Jandî's Sharh fusüs al-hikam:⁷ⁱ there, basing himself on the testimony of his teacher Qunawi, Jandi asserts that it was at the end of a nine-month retreat in Seville that Ibn ^cArabi was told he was the Muhammadan Seal, the supreme Heir. There is no reason to doubt that the retreat in question took place in 586H—a year when Muhyi l-Din increased the number of his retreats and frequented the cemeteries of Seville assiduously. As to how we are to reconcile this testimony with the interpretation given by the same author of the Cordoba vision, that is a problem we will have to come back to. The matter is complicated even further by a number of other, subsequent visions which also have a bearing on Ibn ^cArabi’s claim to the title of Seal of Muhammadan Sainthood, because each of these would seem to offer grounds for assigning a different date to his investiture.

1. Ibn ^cArabi & the Savants of Andalusia

I

t is not only difficult but impossible to map out Ibn ^cArabi's destiny with any real precision, and even more impossible to verify the legitimacy of his claims in matters of walàya, or sainthood. But it is a somewhat easier task— and indeed a very necessary one—to situate this destiny in the context of the society in which he lived and to determine the nature of his position amongst his contemporaries. This means in particular determining his relationship with regard to the various intellectual and religious circles of the Islamic West, which is where his vocation asserted itself and also where he spent almost half of his life.

Everyone who either has been or at present is involved in research into Islamic Spain in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries—regardless of the particular field of research involved (history, literature or religion)— inevitably comes to one and the same conclusion: in spite of the plethora of events that happened during the period, and in spite of the fact that it played such a decisive role in the history of Islam in the West, the Almohad era badly lacks a comprehensive study. Between, on the one hand, the work done by E. Lévi-Provençal on Islamic Spain from the time of the conquest down to the fall of the Cordoba caliphate (422/1031) and, on the other, R. Arié’s studies of Spain under the Nasrids we are faced with a gaping void. As Dominique Urvoy has pointed out with regard to the social system of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, ‘we possess no comprehensive study of al-Andalus for this period. We possess no—or at any rate very few—archival documents to help us reconstruct it. The chronicles provide the only material available to us, but they just deal with factual history’.^[292] In practice this means that if we Want to reconstruct even a small part of the intellectual and religious context of the Almohad period we are obliged to turn to the tabaqât, or biographical collections. These are a literary genre in which the Arabs are past masters: they are compilations—sometimes in alphabetical order, sometimes accord­ing to date of death—of biographical sketches of ^culama or ‘savants’, in the broadest sense of this term. Regardless of who their author happens to be, these sketches are presented in a virtually uniform fashion and could hardly be more insipid or boring: names (father’s name, grandfather’s, surname, kunya), town of birth, teachers, disciples, travels, type of training and discipline, date of death. However, in Le Monde des Ulémas andalous Urvoy has shown that a meticulous examination and systematic analysis of the sketches contained in these tabaqât does yield data which can help to clarify matters for anyone concerned with the social, religious and intellectual life of the period. By carrying out an analysis of this type in the case of the Sila by Ibn Bashkuwâl (d. 578/1183) and the Takmila of Ibn al-Abbar id. 658/ 1259), Urvoy himself has come up with statistics which reveal some of the characteristic features of cultural and religious activity during the period when Ibn ^cArabi was living in the Islamic West, and from these data certain significant conclusions can be drawn.

To begin with, one notes that between 585 and 610 the census shows a considerable increase in the number of hdama in Seville: 100. or 68 up on the preceding period (565-85) and far larger than the number registered in Cordoba.^{[293] [294]} There is a similar increase in the region of the Maghreb.⁵ Secondly, it appears that during this same period the traditional religious disciplines (hadith, fiqh, Qur’an) made a major leap forward throughout the Almohad realm. For hadith the number swells from 5 7 names to 78; forfiqh, from 76 to 88, and for the Qur’an from 97 to 126: there is also a substantial increase in adab, language and kalâm.⁴ It is also to be noted that this rapid advance in the traditional and literary disciplines is more accentuated in Seville than elsewhere in Andalusia.⁵ And finally, when one examines the interrelation­ship between the various religious and literary disciplines one finds that hadith was practised by almost a quarter of the jurists (fuqahâ'), and became more and more closely linked with asceticism (zuhd) and Sufism; jurispru­dence (fiqh) was intimately associated with literary disciplines, and the Qur’an with study of Arabic (which is quite normal).⁶ This all goes to show, firstly that Seville's efforts to supplant her rival Cordoba had finally succeeded, and secondly that Almoravid and Almohad Islam had broken with Andalusian tradition and re-allied itself with the tradition of the East.⁷ One other fact which emerges is that although Mâlikism held the majority

Ibn Arabi and the Savants of Andalusia position, it was not the only madhhab or ‘school’ in existence in Andalusia. Under the Almohads there was a slight increase in Shâfrism, and Zâhirism also continued to thrive.^[295]

*

Ibn ^cArabi’s dogmatic and intellectual training began, as we have seen, in Seville in 578, and this means it coincided with the renewal of the religious and literary disciplines—especially Qur'ânic learning. To what extent did he benefit from this revival? What if anything did he gain from the teaching of the great savants or ^culama of his time? What was his relationship with the religious dignitaries—the qâdîs and khatibs? One possible way of arriving at answers to these questions is to examine the Ijâza he wrote to King Muzaffar plus the chains of transmission given at the start of the Muhâdarat al-abrâr, and then to complete these sources of information with the various pieces of data scattered throughout the body of his work. But first of all there are a few points regarding these sources which require a little clarification.

Several passages in the Kitâb muhâdarat al-abrâr contain allusions to events and people dating from a period considerably later than Ibn ^cArabi’s own time. This has led R. Hartmann, and subsequently Brockelmann,^[296] to deny Ibn ^cArabï’s authorship of the work and attribute it to someone writing later than Dhahabi (d. 748/1342). In fact, however, it is simply a question of a few interpolations—only to be found in some editions^[297]—that have been inserted into a text the overall authenticity of which is beyond any doubt. Even a superficial reading of the Kitâb muhâdarat al-abrâr allows one to be quite categorical: Ibn ^LArabi is indeed its author. This is attested irrefutably by the many references to his spiritual teachers (Shams Umm al-Fuqarâ’, Yùnus al- Hàshiml, Mawrùrî, etc.), companions and disciples (Habashî, Qûnâwî’s father, Abu l-^cAbbas al-Harrar). and by the information he provides about his birth, family, travels, encounters in Cairo and Jerusalem, about his correspondence with King Kaykâ’ûs and about his poems (which are mostly to be found either in the Dïwân or in the Tarjumân al-ashwâq). Certain details even enable one to establish that Ibn ‘Arabi composed the work over a very long period of time. So, for example, at the start of the first volume of the Muhâdarat al-abrâr Ibn ^cArabi refers briefly to the reign of Caliph al-Nàsir li Dîn-Allâh (d. 622/1225) and adds the following remark: ‘He was granted allegiance on the 25th of Dhû l-qa^cda 575, and now we are in Shawwâl,

6u—may God prolong his days...’. But he clearly completed this statement quite a few years later, because he adds the information that in 623 Caliph al-Zâhir was succeeded by al-Mustansir (d. 640/1242): ‘it is he who is the present ruler at the time that I am writing' (huwa al-khalifa al-ân hîna taqyîdï hâdhâ).'¹ Al-Mustansir was caliph from 623 to 640 but, as the Kitâb inuhâdarat al-abrâr is included in the Fihris drawn up by Ibn ^cArabï in 627H,^{[298] [299]} we are able to conclude that he must have written it between 611 and 62 7H.

If there is no problem as far as the authorship of the Ijâza li 1-Malik al- Muzaffar is concerned, we do have a problem with the identity of the person for whom it was intended. At the start of the text Ibn ^cArabI specifies that he is addressing the certificate to a person called ‘al-Malik al-Muzaffar Bahâ’ al-Din Ghâzï b. Malik al-'Adil'. A glance through any list of Ayyubid sultans'^[300]reveals that two of them—both living during the same period—could have been referred to by this name: either al-Malik al-Ashraf I Muzaffar al-Dïn Mùsâ b. Malik al-^cAdil, who ruled first of all at Mayyâfâriqïn from 607 to 618 and then at Damascus from 627 until his death in 635/1238, or al-Malik al- Muzaffar Shihâb al-Dïn Ghâzï b. al-Malik al-^cÂdil, who reigned at Mayyâfâri- qîn from 627 to 64 5/1247. 0. Yahia equated the addressee of the Ijâza with the ruler of Damascus,^{[301] [302]} and he is very probably correct. Ibn ^cArabï in fact specifies at the beginning of the text that he wrote this Ijâza in Damascus in 632H, which is when al-Ashraf happens to have been ruler of the city. There is also the fact that, whereas a reference in the Futühât establishes Ibn ^cArabi visited Mayyâfâriqïn at least once during his years of travels through the East,'⁵ we know he no longer left Syria after 620; and yet in 632 al-Malik Muzaffar Shihâb al-Dïn was in Mayyâfâriqïn.

Before examining the Ijâza itself it is worth recalling that Ibn ^cArabï was over seventy years old when he wrote this certificate, in which he mentions the masters whose company he used to keep—in the case of some of them over forty years previously. The passing of time, the author's old age and a memory which—on his own admission—sometimes faltered, all help to explain a few slips and inaccuracies which crept in when he was recording the names of his teachers.

Ibn ^cArabî’s training in the traditional religious disciplines

IBN ^cARABÏ's TRAINING IN THE TRADITIONAL RELIGIOUS DISCIPLINES, ACCORDING TO HIS I]AZA

Ibn ^cArabï’s Ijâza falls into two parts. The first part is an inventory of the teachers in the traditional religious sciences (Qur’ân, hadîth, tafsir, etc.) whom he frequented in the West as well as in the East; in the second part, which is of no concern to us here, he has drawn up a list of his numerous writings. If we are to arrive at a genuinely meaningful reconstruction of the network of relationships that existed between Ibn ^cArabi and the savants of Andalusia and the Maghreb¹⁶ it will be necessary wherever possible to distinguish in his mashyakha or list of shaikhs between those who were his teachers and those from whom he just obtained a certificate in absentia (ijâza Umma) without actually meeting them.

It is worth emphasising that the majority of the teachers mentioned by Ibn ^cArabi in his mashyakha were among the most famous savants or hilama of the Almohad era. What is more, seven of them (Hajari, Ibn Zarqün, Ibn Abi Jamâra, Tàdilï, Ibn al-Kharrat, Ibn al-Faras and Ibn Samhün) held the official posts of qâdï or khatib under the Almohads. This makes it very clear that Ibn 'Arabi’s personal development is not something that took place on the fringes of the Andalusian intellectual élite but that, on the contrary, he was sometimes on the closest of terms with the hilama and with official religious circles. In fact this observation happens to apply to the majority of Andalusian Sufis during Ibn ^cArabi’s lifetime. From the study by D. Urvoy it emerges very plainly that the Almohad era sa w a significant strengthening of the links between on the one hand asceticism and Sufism and. on the other hand, both the traditional religious disciplines—especially hadîth—and the literary ones. One also notes that at least seven of these hdaniâ'—some of whom were Ibn ^cArabi’s spiritual teachers—were themselves Sufis. The muhaddith Ayyüb al-Fihri was a disciple of Abu Madyan. Abû Ya^czâ, Ibn Mujahid and Ibn Ghalib; Muhammad b. Qâsim al-Fâsï was to invest Ibn ^cArabi with the khirqa in Fez in 594, while Mïrtülî was one of his first teachers, as we have already seen; Ibn al-Kharrât had very close ties with Sufi circles and especially with Abü Madyan and Ibn Barrajân; and Ibn Sâ’igh, Ibn al-^cAs and Zawâwï were also teachers of Ibn ^cArabi. But it is also true that some of the great hdama of the time were not: they include Ibn Hubaysh (d. 584/ 1188), Ibn al-^cAt (d. 609/1212). Ibn Baqi (d. 625/1228) and Ibn Wâjib (d. 614/1217).

These minutiae apart, it is quite clear that Ibn ^cArabi received a solid education in the Islamic West which focussed essentially on the Qur'an and

1. For a list of them see Appendix 3.
2.  

IBN 'ARABI AND THE SAVANTS OF ANDALUSIA

hadith. This is hardly likely to surprise anyone who has read the Futùhüt. The space taken up in this work with quotations from the Qur’àn and hadith (with a marked preference for Muslim’s Sahih in the case of hadith), Ibn 'Arabi's constant concern to base his teaching on scriptural foundations and his strict attachment to the Sunna (displayed especially by the wasàyâ or ‘testimonies’ in the final chapter) all go to show the extreme importance in his eyes of a thorough study of the Qur’an and hadith', it was for the same reason that he continued perfecting his knowledge in these areas throughout the rest of his life. So. in the East we see him following the teaching of Ibn Sukayna (d. 607/ 1210) whom he met in Baghdad, and of the qâdi al-qudât or ‘judge of judges’ of Damascus, ^cAbd al-Samad al-Harastânî (d. 614/1217), who transmitted to him Bukhari's Sahih, and alsoofNasr b. Abïl-Faraj al-Hâshimï (d. 619/1222) who in Mecca taught him Abu Dâwùd’s Sunan.

And yet for Ibn 'Arabi knowledge of the Qur’an and hadith was not something that could be reduced to a mere accumulation of often sterile erudition as in the case of the jurists or fuqaha. Certainly there can be no accusing him of neglecting the isnâds or chains of transmission, and he was scrupulous in his respect for the utterance of the text (m«tn); but for him true knowledge of the hadith derived from the divine teach ing (khitâb ilâhi) granted as a favour to the ‘saint-prophets’, al-awliya al-anbiya'—a term which he applied to the most perfect of the saints. ‘Prophecy’, he writes, ‘is simply divine speech.' This speech can manifest itself in various ways. Referring to the verse ‘It does not happen to any man that God speaks to him other than through revelation or from behind a veil or by sending him a messenger' (Qur'an 42:51), Ibn 'Arabi explains: ‘Revelation is either what He projects into the hearts of His servants without intermediary, making them hear it inside themselves, or what He tells the servant from behind the veil of some form or other through which He speaks to him, ... or what He says to him through the intermediary of a messenger . . .’J⁷ Else where¹⁸ he specifies that the difference between a prophet and a saint is that to a prophet the revelation brings legislation (al-wahy bi l-tashri^Q) whereas in the case of a saint it is simply a confirmation of the authenticity of what has been brought by the prophet. In this way the saint conforms to the Law not just by imitation (taqlid) but as a result of an inner certainty (^cala basiratin). According to Ibn 'Arabi this is the meaning of the verse in which God makes Muhammad say, T call to God in accordance with an inner certainty (^ca/« basiratin)—both I and those who follow me’ (Qur’an 12:108). ‘Those who follow' him truly are the heirs of the prophets (warathat al-anbiya), to whom God has shown the form of the Prophet (mazhar Muhammad) receiving from

Ibn 'Arabi 's training in the traditional religious disciplines the form of Gabriel (mazhar Jibril) the divine discourse together with the legal statutes it contains—in just the same way that the companions saw Gabriel at the time of his dialogue with the Prophet on the subject of ‘submission, faith and charity’ (islam. îmân and ihsân). This, states Ibn ^cArabi, is why a saint (wall) may validate a hadith which is adjudged apocryphal according to the usual criteria, and why he may on the other hand reject a hadith which according to these same criteria is considered authentic. '⁹ T myself have been the recipient in this way of many legal prescriptions (ahkâm) which were given by Muhammad and are acknowledged as forming part of his law by the doctors of the Law (^culama al-rusüm), even though up until that time I had had no knowledge of them whatsoever.’^{[303] [304]}

There are a good number of examples in Ibn ^cArabI’s writings of this supernatural transmission of legal rules. Here are a couple: ‘As for myself, I saw the Messenger of God in a vision of good omen (ruga mubashshira), and in the vision he commanded me to raise my hands during prayer at the moment of the takbir of sanctification, when bowing and when straightening up from the bow’.^[305] Ibn ^cArabi was later to discover that this ritual practice was recommended by hadiths which he did not know existed. On another occasion the Prophet told him that prayer can be performed in front of the Ka^cba at any time, although everywhere else there are times when it is prohibited. T saw the Messenger of God when I was in Mecca. He showed me the Ka^cba and said: “You who dwell in this house, do not prevent anyone who has performed the circumambulations around it, regardless of the time of day or night, from praying in front of it regardless of the time of day or night, because from that person’s prayer God creates an angel which will ask pardon of him right up to the Day of Resurrection’’.’^[306]

As regards knowledge of the Qur’an, we have already seen that at a very early stage Ibn 'Arabi had experienced the revelation ‘in a rain of stars’ (tanzil nujûman). But he also experienced the descent of the Qur’an in another and even more surprising form, as the following passage shows. Tn a dream I saw a being who was one of the angels; he gave me a piece of agglutinated earth, free of any dust and bottomless in depth. When I was holding it in my hands I discovered that this piece of earth was none other than His word, "Wherever you find yourself, turn towards Him . . . thank Me and do not be ungrateful!"

(Qur’an 2:150-2). I was stupefied: I was unable to deny either that this was the very essence of these verses, or that it was also a piece of earth. I was then told: “This was the way in which the Qur’an was revealed (or the way in which these verses were revealed) to Muhammad”. At the same time I saw the Messenger of God, who was telling me: “This is how they were revealed to me (hâkadhaunzilat ^Qalayya): experience it for yourself. Can you deny what you are witnessing?”.’²’

TRAINING IN LITERATURE ACCORDING TO THE

KITÂB MUHÂDARAT AL-ABRÂR

Of all oflbn Arabi's writings, the Kitâb muhâdarat al-abrâr certainly has to be grouped among those that have elicited the least interest from specialists concerned with the study of his school. Atfirst sight there is nothing to justify defining this particular work as ‘esoteric’. The principal themes which it unsystematically deals with are israîliyyât (traditions relating to Jews and Christians), sermons, fables, proverbs and the history of the Ancients. This is how Ibn Arabi himself describes the work: T have included in this book— which I have entitled “The Conference of the Pious and the Conversation of the Perfect”—all kinds of literary stories (adab), sermons, proverbs, unusual anecdotes, chronicles of times gone by, the lives of the Ancients and of the Prophets, the history of kings both Arab and non-Arab. noble virtues, marvellous stories, traditions I have been told about the beginning of things and the creation of this world ... as well as some talk which is entertaining and amusing while not serving to undermine religion . . ,’.²⁴ Here we are faced with a classic example of a book of adab—a literary work aimed at being instructive, funny and erudite all at the same time, and destined for a fairly broad readership of udaba, or literati.

It is worth pointing out in passing that spiritual teaching is not altogether absent from the work. Most often it remains just beneath the surface, but sometimes it emerges quite explicitly—as for example in the dialogue-form. So it is that we come across Abd Allah Mawrürî (later there will be more to say about this individual, who was a disciple of Abù Madyan and an intimate friend oflbn Arabi) describing to the author a series of visions ( waqa'f) which reveal the great masters of Sufism such as Dhü 1-Nûn al-Misri, Junayd, Bistâmï and Ghazàlï asking subtle questions of Abu Madyan such as ‘What is [true] unity (tawhid)?’ or 'What is the secret of the secret?’²⁵ It would seem

23. Fut., I, p.714. 24. Muhâdarat, I, p.2.

1. Cf. e.g. I, pp.173, 199: H. pp.14, 31. 148, 171, etc.

LOO

Training in literature

that, through the medium of a seemingly casual and informal book. Ibn ^cArabi was attempting to communicate some fundamental notions about Sufism to ‘non-initiates’—and, as a result, reach a wider audience.

However, the chief interest of the Muhâdarat al-abrâr from our immediate point of view lies in the fact that it informs us with a fair degree of accuracy about Ibn ^cArabï’s contacts with the literati of his time as well as about the extent of his own literary erudition.

All the people mentioned in this work—linguists, grammarians and poets^[307]—were the intellectual élite of the Almohad era, although there is a noticeable absence of any reference by Ibn ^cArabi to literati such as Ibn Hawt Allàh (d. 613/1216) or Ibn Madâ (d. 593/1196), to mention the names of just two men who were also among the most eminent representatives of literary life in the Islamic West during the twelfth century. The discussions and conversations which Ibn ^cArabi held with these people more or less constitute the oral sources that lie behind the Kitâb al-muhâdarat. But he was equally dependent on written sources, and he drew up a list of these in his preface. The titles of the works—approximately forty in number—give a good idea of the simultaneously religious and edificatory aim which Ibn ^cArabî had in mind when writing the Kitâb al-muhâdarat. For example, he mentions Ibn Jawzi's Kitâb safwat al-safwa, Qushayrï’s Risâla. Sulamï’s Maqâmât al-awliya, the Kitâb al-kâmil li-1-adîb by Abu l-^cAbbâs al-Mubarrad, Ibn ^cAbd Rabbihi’s Kitâb al-^ciqd. Jàhiz's Kitâb al-mahâsin wa 1-addâd, Abû Tammâm’s Kitâb al- hamâsa and Husrï’s Kitâb zuhrat al-adab. Needless to say, in addition to these works he also mentions all the classics on the Sira and hadith. But it is clear nonetheless that the Shaikh al-Akbar had a special appreciation for ‘profane’ literature and also had certain affinities with literary circles. There is nothing at all surprising in this because, as we have already seen, during his time the majority of Andalusian Sufis also devoted themselves to adab; in this respect Ibn ^cArabi was very much a part of the period in which he lived. But if one reads carefully the stories and poems contained in the Kitâb al-muhâdarat, one perceives that he only took an interest in adab or made use of it either to the extent that this literature invariably contains a moral and is therefore the expression of a kind of universal wisdom, or because it represents an excellent educational tool. This emerges very clearly from the preface to the book, where—apparently to justify the ‘futile’ nature of the work—Ibn ^cArabi points to certain Andalusian Sufis, such as Ibn Mujàhid and his disciple Ibn Qassüm. who had made use of adab as well. Finally, the interest he shows in poetry is also to be explained as due to the fact that he himself was a poet. From the Dîwân, through the poems written as introductions to each chapter

IBN ^CARABÏ AND THE SAVANTS OF ANDALUSIA

of the Futùhât, to the Tarjumân al-ashwâq, he wrote thousands of verses. For him poetry was an appropriate instrument for the transmission of certain essential truths. So it is that he addresses a warning to readers of the Futùhât who might be tempted to ignore the verses that open each of the chapters: ‘Consider carefully the verses placed at the start of each chapter of this book, because they contain knowledge (fuhlm) which I have deliberately put in them. Indeed you will find in these verses things which are not mentioned in the exposition of the corresponding chapter’.^[308] Later we will see how Ibn “Arabi had a vision in which he saw an angel bring him the sura al-Shtfarâ’ (‘The Poets’) in the form of a parcel of light; it was as a consequence of this angelic descent that he composed one of his collections of poems, the Dïwân al-ma^cârif.^[309]

THEOLOGICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL TRAINING

As we have seen, in both the traditional religious and literary disciplines Ibn “Arabi’s erudition and training were generally speaking very broad and, as such, were fully in keeping with the culture and education of a twelfth­century Andalusian intellectual. Can the same be said of his acquaintance with speculative theology (kalâm) and philosophy (falsafa)? What value did he attribute to these two branches of learning?

Firstly it is important to emphasise the fact that Ibn “Arabi's initiation into works of a doctrinal nature—not only philosophical works but even works relating to tasawwuf or Sufism—happened relatively late. It was only in 5 86/ 1190, that is around twelve years after the commencement of his vocation, that he first became acquainted with Qushayri’s Risàla through the intermediary of his teacher Yusuf al-Kùml. even though this is among the most classic manuals of Sufism. ‘I had never heard anything whatsoever about Qushayri’s Risàla, or about any other work of a similar kind; I did not even know the meaning of the term “tasawwuf”.’²³ He was soon to make up for the delay, at least in the sphere of tasawwuf. The historian Ibn “Abd al-Malik al- Marrâkushî (d. 703/1303) informs us that he was even given the surname ‘al-Qushayri’. so devoted he was to reading the Risàla.³⁰ And if we draw up a quick list of the authors on Sufism whom he refers to in his writings, we see that not a single one of the most famous of them is missing: Ghazâlî, TirmidhI, Niffari, “Abd Allah al-Ansârï, Sulami, Qushayrî, Muhàsibï, Abû Tâlib al-

Makki and so on. This is not even to mention Ibn al-^cArif, Ibn OasI, Ibn Masarra and Ibn Barrajàn, who. as we saw earlier, are all authors whom he had studied in Andalusia in or around the year 590/1193.

The answer to our second question is to be found in the muqaddima or introduction to the Futühât.³¹ According to Ibn ^cArabI kalatn (speculative theology) is a useful science, but its usefulness is limited. He explains that in laying down the fundamental principles of this science the aim of the theologians (mutakallimün) was to defend the religion against its enemies: people who by means of rational argumentation either denied the existence of God or at the very least rejected certain basic dogmas such as the Divine Attributes, prophecy, the Resurrection and so on. The theologians were accordingly compelled to use the same weapons as their adversaries in order to combat error and ignorance, and in so doing the work they performed was beneficial. However, Ibn ^cArabI claims, kalâm is only necessary for a few people, and one theologian per country is more or less all that is required (shakhs wàhid yakfï tninhii fî l-balad}.^}Z He also goes on to establish a distinction between the first of the theologians (al-mutaqaddimiin) and their epigones (al-muta’akhkhirün).³³ The Imàm al-Haramayn³⁴ (d. 505/1111) and Abu Ishâq al-Isfarâ’inî³⁵ (d. 418/1028), not to mention GhazâlP⁶—all three of them famous representatives of Ash^carism—are referred to by him in terms of respect, although this does not prevent him from occasionally criticising them. It should also not be forgotten that he exchanged correspondence with another famous theologian, Fakhr al-Dïn RâzP⁷ (d. 606/1209), although admittedly his intention was to try to make him abandon speculative thought and turn instead to the Way. 'Dear brother, why remain in this abyss instead of returning to the way of asceticism, of mortification and the retreats that have been prescribed by the Messenger of God?’³⁸ A priori there is no reason to suspect the historicity of this relationship between the two men, even though no trace survives of any letter or letters written by Râzî to Ibn ^cArabI. If we are to believe a statement in one of the manuscripts, one other short text by the Shaikh al-Akbar—the Risâla fî wujûh al-qalb—would seem also to have been written for the benefit of Râzî and at his request.³⁹

3i. Fut., I, pp.34-5. 32. Fut., I, p.36.

33. Fut.. II, p.289.  34. Fut., I, p. 162: II, p.289: IV. p.52.

35- Fut., I, p.204; II. PP-I34, 289.

1. Ibn ^cArab! cites Ghazal! very often. Cf. e.g. Fut., II, pp.tO3, 262, 289, 345: IV, pp.89,106, 260, etc.
2. Risâla ilâ kimâm al-Râzî, in Rasail. Hyderabad 1948, trans. Michel Vàlsan in Études traditionnelles, July-October 1961.

38-    Risâla ilâ l-imâm, p.4.

39-    Cf. O. Yahia, Histoire et classification, R.G. § 62.

In Ibn ^cArabï's time Ash^carism was the most popular school in Andalusia as well as in the rest of the Islamic world, and Imam al-Haramayn's Irshâd was one of the most frequently studied works.^[310] However, among Andalu­sian Sufis there were some who were adherents of Mu^ctazilism, as emerges from the following anecdote in the Futùhât.^[311]1 met Abu ^cAbd Allàh b. Junayd, who was one of the masters of the Way. He was a native of Qabrafig, in the Ronda region, and adhered to the MuTazilite madhhab [sic]. I noticed that he denied the possibility [for a man] to acquire the attribute corresponding to the Divine Name “al-qayyùrrT, and I made him abandon this thesis and his doctrine. The doctrine he subscribed to was the teaching of the creation of acts by servants, but he rallied to my view after I had explained to him the meaning of the verse, ‘‘Men are superior to women" (al-rijâl qawwamùn ^calâ 1-iiisû’, Qur’ân 4:34), in which God asserts the existence for man of a certain degree of qayyümiyya or ‘‘existence". He had come to visit me and. after he had returned to his own country, I went to visit him and induced both him and his companions to abandon their doctrine regarding the creation of acts by man.’

This incident, as well as the letter to Râzï, must not be allowed to create the wrong impression: as a general rule Ibn ^cArabi tended to adopt an attitude of indifference towards the polemics which divided MuTazilites and Ash^carites. Most of the time he was content simply to indicate the respective positions adopted by either side and eventually to refute them—although without really becoming involved in the controversy. In fact he would seem to have rejected not so much the theses propounded by either of the two sides as the intellectual process and method of reasoning which led them to maintain such-and-such a theory. For him, ^caql or intellect cannot lead to a decisive certainty, and whoever places too much reliance upon it is automatically condemned to discover truths that are only relative—although the person then makes the mistake of believing they are absolute. This means that in the disputes which divided the theologians, just as in the disputes which divided the jurists, nobody is entirely wrong and nobody is entirely right. The various passages in his writings in which Ibn ^cArabi raises the problem of the attribution of acts demonstrate very clearly that, in spite of the statement cited above, he did not categorically reject the MuTazilite position on this issue but endeavoured to show in what respect it was valid and in what respect it was false.^[312]

This meant that the opinions expressed by Ibn ^cArabi sometimes agreed with the view held by the Ash^carites, sometimes with the view held by the MuTazilites; most often they were in agreement with both parties at once. And yet he explains that he arrived at his own conclusions by a completely different route. One particular example is the case of the hotly debated issue as to the Vision of God in the future life—an issue on which, as we happen to know, Mu^ctazilites and Ash^carites were divided. According to Ibn ^cArabi the MuTazilites are quite right (sadaqat al-mu^ctazila) in denying the possibility of the Vision because all that one’s gaze will be able to take in will be the Cloak of Divine Magnificence (rida al-kibriya)—and this ‘Cloak’ is the creation itself. Therefore we are that Magnificence in which the Divine Essence cloaks Itself (nahnu ^cayn al-kibriya ^Qalâ dhâtihi). One consequence of this is that in a sense all we will ever be able to see is ourselves. However, a few lines further on Ibn ^cArabi states that the Ash^carites also have right on their side (fa sadaqa al- ash^carï) in asserting the possibility of the Vision, because the veil cannot help contemplating Him whom it veils (al-hijâb yashhad al-mahjüb).^[313]

*

Ibn ^cArabi adopts the same position with regard to philosophy (falsafa) as with regard to speculative theology. ‘The science of the philosopher is not totally in vain’, as he writes (al-faylasùf laysa kullu ^cilmihi bâtilan).⁴⁴ He clarifies and explains his point of view in chapter 226 of the Futühât, which is concerned with the question of will (irâda):⁴⁵ T reject reflection because it engenders confusion (talbis) and absence of veridicy (^cadam al-sidq) in the person who makes use of it. Furthermore, there is not one single thing that cannot be known through revelation (kashf) or spiritual experience (wujùd). Besides, to devote oneself to [speculative] reflection is a veil (hijab). There are those who question this, but no man of the Way denies it; only the people of speculative reflection and reasoning by induction (ahi al-nazar wa 1-istidldl) claim to contradict it. And if there are a few among them [i.e. the philosophers] who experience spiritual states, such as Plato the Sage, that is something extremely rare; those individuals are comparable to men of revelation and contemplation.’

This means that in Ibn ^cArabi’s eyes the only true philosopher, the only philosopher who deserves the name of ‘sage’ (hakim here becomes a synonym for ^carif, gnostic), is he w'ho endeavours to perfect his knowledge by means of contemplation and spiritual experience. The model for this type of philo­sopher is the man named by Ibn ^cArabi in the passage just cited: the ‘divine Plato’ (Aflatün al-ilâhï). The rest—those who rely only on their intellect (^caql)—will never grasp any more than a minuscule part of the truth. The Shaikh al-Akbar attempts to illustrate this point in a lengthy chapter of the Futûhât^ in which he describes in the form of an allegory the simultaneous ascension (mfraj) of two individuals: one of them a believer who walks in the footsteps of a prophet, the other a philosopher who relies on his faculty of reason to lead him to the truth. Whereas the man of faith has his prophet to guide him, the philosopher claims he can accomplish the celestial journey on his own. The rest of the story is easy to guess. In each of the seven heavens that they arrive at the believer is greeted by the prophet who resides there, who initiates him into its secrets and transmits to him its spiritual knowledge. As for the philosopher, he is received by the ruling angel of the heaven, who only imparts to him a portion of the cosmological knowledge corresponding to that particular sphere. When he arrives at the seventh and final heaven, the heaven of Abraham, the philosopher finds himself prevented from continuing on his journey: he is told that he must retrace his steps, be converted, and finally perform all over again the journey which was made by the man of faith—who continues on his way until he reaches the threshold of the Divine Presence.

Ibn ^cArabi had himself had encounters with those whom he calls disbelieving philosophers. He had met one of them—a man who denied miracles—in Andalusia in 586/1190. ‘This is what happened to me during a meeting I attended in 586. A certain philosopher (shakhs faylasüf) was present, a man who denied prophecy in the sense that it is defined by Muslims, rejected the miracles performed by the prophets and maintained that realities are immutable (al-haqâ'iq là tatabaddalu). This happened during the winter, when the weather was particularly cold; in front of us was a large brazier (manqal). This incredulous liar explained that although the common herd claims [on the authority of the account in the Qur’an] that Abraham was thrown into the fire which did not burn him. in truth fire by its very nature necessarily burns combustible matter; therefore the fire in question as mentioned by the Qur’an in the story about Abraham was no more than a [symbolic] expression of Nimrod's anger and rage—in other words it was really the fire of wrath .... When he had come to the end of his speech, one of those who were present and who had attained to this station [i.e. the station of abandonment of charismata] . . . said to him: “Is that [the man pointed the brazier] not fire that burns?” "Yes”, the other man replied, “Well see for yourself!”, he cried, and threw some of the coals straight at the other man’s chest; they remained clinging to his clothes until the man returned them

1. Chapter 167. Fut.. II. pp.273-9. It has been translated into French by S. Ruspoli. L’Alchimie du bonheur parfait. Paris 1981.

with his hands. When the infidel saw that they did not burn him, he was surprised and placed them back in the brazier. Then [the man] said to him: "Now put your hand near the fire'. He did so and burned himself. , .. The disbeliever was converted, and from that time onwards acknowledged [miracles].’^[314]

The most famous of all the Andalusian philosophers whom Ibn ^cArabi met was Averroes; the reader will remember the account of their first encounter at Cordoba, when Ibn ^cArabï was a mere fifteen years old. In the same passage of the Futühât^[315]* he describes his second meeting (if one can use such a word in referring to an encounter that took place outside the physical world) at a later date with the man who wrote the great Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphy­sics. ‘Subsequently I had the wish to meet him a second time. He was shown to me—God have mercy on him!—in a vision (wâqi^ca), in a certain form. A light veil had been placed between him and me so that I could see him although he could not see me and was unaware of my presence. He was so absorbed that he paid no attention to me, and I said to myself: “This is not someone who is destined to follow the same path as me''.’

It emerges that Ibn ^cArabi distinguished clearly between two different types of philosopher. On the one hand there is the philosopher-infidel whose punishment in hell will, he declares,^[316] be to be afflicted by the same ignorance which had been the lot of the ignorant believer in this world (whereas, contrariwise, the believer will be rewarded in paradise with the knowledge which had belonged to the philosopher-infidel on earth). On the other hand there is the philosopher-believer, such as Averroes. Certainly he is superior to the first type, but his possibilities remain limited; he will never attain to the level of knowledge possessed by the wall or saint. The ‘divine Plato' therefore remainsan altogether exceptional case, and clearly Ibn ^cArabîknew of no one who was Plato’s equal among his own contemporaries.

*

When reading Ibn ^cArabi’s works one cannot help perceiving that his knowledge of philosophy was very superficial and, what is more, that he had no desire whatever to increase it. His reaction to a passage in The Ideal City by Farabi (d. 339/950) gives a good idea of the sense of repulsion which philosophical language produced in him. T have seen an infidel (ba^cd ahi al- kuffar) declare in a book called The Ideal City (I had found this book, which I had not seen previously, at the home of an acquaintance of mine in Marchena of the Olives, had picked it up to see what it was about and came across the following passage): ‘"In this chapter I wish to examine how to postulate [the existence of] a divinity in the world”. He had not said God (Allah)! I was amazed and threw the book at its owner’s face.’^[317] Is Ibn Arabi just pretending he does not know the name of the ‘impious’ author of The Ideal City, or had he really never heard of Farabi’s name? The first alternative is the more likely. As a reader of Ghazâlï’s Ihya he must have glanced through—if not actually read—the Maqâsid al-falâsifa or at the very least the Tahâfut, in which he was bound to gain some indirect acquaintance with the general trends in Islamic philosophy. And yet one notes in his own writings the apparent absence of any reference to Avicenna, Kindi or even Ibn Tufayl— an Andalusian like Ibn Arabi himself, and only slightly older than he was. If he had some idea of what they stood for—even through the bias of works that criticised them—he saw no value in either discussing or even mentioning them. What is more, in spite of the fact that—thanks to the circumstances already described—he was personally acquainted with Averroes, there is no sign that he ever read his works. On the other hand he refers at least twice to Ibn Sid of Badajoz (d. 521/1127) and his Pythagorean interpretation of Unity. This fact is even more remarkable when we consider that Ibn Sid was known primarily for his works on grammar and philology. According to Asin Palacios, who seems not to have been aware that Ibn Arabi refers to him, The Book of Circles—which was Ibn Sid's only truly philosophical work—was mainly studied in the Jewish intellectual circles of Andalusia.^[318]* In this particular treatise Ibn Sid expounds a Neoplatonic system of emanation into which he has incorporated elements of Pythagorean teaching—a fact which did not escape the Shaikh al Akbar, who says of him: ‘Regarding the question of Unity (Tawhid) he taught the doctrine of the Pythagoreans, who establish Unity by means of number which they use to prove the Unity of God’.^{[319] [320] [321]} It is clear that he is referring here to the Book of Circles (in fact almost certainly to chapter four of the treatise, which summarises the Neopythagorean doctrine of Number), even though in the Sharh khaT al-na^zlayn he calls the book the Kitab al-Tawhid or ‘Book of Unity’.^[322]

To this lack of knowledge of Arab philosophy we must add a blatant ignorance of Greek philosophy. Apart from a reference to the Sirr al-asrâr by pseudo-Aristotle,⁵⁴ which was a work that enjoyed an exceptionally large circulation in the Arab world, and another reference to Hippocrates’ Book of the Elements,⁵⁵ his allusions to Plato, Socrates or Aristotle are always very vague and it is quite clear that he had not read them.⁵⁶ As for what he knew of Neoplatonism, we have already seen that he was basically indebted for it to the works of Ibn Masarra and to the Epistles of the Brethren of Purity.

Finally, it is worth emphasising that there is no reference or quotation to suggest that Ibn ^cArabï knew any other languages apart from Arabic and very probably Berber—which was commonly spoken in medieval Andalusia and was the mother tongue of several of his teachers. Consequently if (as K. Austin has proposed, although without being able to cite any specific source in support of his contention)⁵⁷ he had some knowledge of Jewish philosophy and esotericism—and in particular of the Kabbala, which was blossoming in the Andalusia of his time—he probably acquired what he knew as a result of encounters with Jewish literati who spoke Arabic. So, for example, he relates a discussion he had one day with a Rabbi about the esoteric significance of the letter ba ;⁵⁸ from this particular episode it emerges that he knew that the Torah as well as the Qur’àn begins with this letter. However, although in his writings we certainly find a few rare and very general allusions to the Torah,⁵⁹ they would seem for example not to contain any reference whatever to Maimonides' Guide of the Perplexed—a work written in 1190 and cited by Ibn Sab^cin. The same comments apply to his knowledge of Persian literature. Through his Iranian friends and disciples— especially Qünawï and Awhad al-Dîn Kirinânî (d. 635/1238)—he could not

Possibly we are to deduce from this that the work in question—which probably enjoyed a wider circulation than Asin Palacios suggests—was known by both of these titles.

1. Tadbïrât ilâhiyya, ed. Nyberg, p.120.
2. Fut., 1. p. 56. Hippocrates' theory about the elements was known to the Arabs through the intermediary of Hunayn b. Ishaq's work, Fi 1-ustuqisât ^calâ ra'y Ibüqrât (cf. GAL. I. p.369). Doubtless Ibn ^cArabi"s reference is to this particular work.
3. Cf. e.g. Muhâdarat, II, p.243, where he quotes a maxim attributed to each of these philosophers.
4. Ibn 'Arabi. The Bezels of Wisdom, trans. R.W.J. Austin, London 1980, introduction, p.2 3.
5. Fut.. I. p.83.
6. Cf. e.g. Fut.. II, p.261, where he states that the verse 'Do not say; I will do such-and-such a thing tomorrow without adding "if God wills" ’ (Qur'an 18:23) is to be found in the Torah in the Hebrew language". To my knowledge the only passage in the Old Testament which bears even a slight resemblance to this saying occurs in Ecclesiastes (Sir. 39.6); but the text in question is in Greek, not "in the Hebrew language".

1BN ^CARABÏ AND THE SAVANTS OF ANDALUSIA

possibly have remained unfamiliar with the works of the Shaikh al-Ishràq, who was executed at Aleppo in 587/1191. But a search through the corpus of Ibn Arabi's writings for even the slightest reference to the Hikmat al-ishrâq or any other of Suhrawardi's writings reveals nothing at all.

There are some who have attributed to Ibn Arabi an acquaintance with Indian literature, and have even gone so far as to ascribe to him the translation of a treatise on yoga called the Amratkund (Kitâb hawd al-hayat) on the grounds that the text of this work is to be found in majmifât or ‘compilations’ of some of his authentic writings. Recently I have seen a manuscript of this kind, dating from the nineteenth century and belonging to a private Moroccan collection. The ascription, as was shown by Massignon and later by 0. Yahia, is quite clearly absurd.⁶⁰ However, an article which has only recently been published testifies to the continuance of this legend down to the present day.⁶¹

1. Cf. O. Yahia. Histoire et classification. R.G. § 230.
2. M.R. Tarafaldar, 'The Bengali Muslims in the Precolonial Period', islam et Société en Asie du Sud. Paris 1986. p.107. n.42.
3. God’s Vast Earth

‘l AM THE QUR'AN AND THE SEVEN SUBSTITUTES*

W

hen, in Andalusia, I arrived at the Mediterranean sea’—so Ibn ^cArabï tells his disciple Qünawï—‘I resolved not to make the crossing until I had been allowed to see all the internal and external states that God had destined for me until the time of my death. So I turned towards God with total concentration and in a state of contemplation and vigilance that were perfect; God then showed me all my future states, both internal and external, right through to the end of my days. I even saw that your father, Ishaq b. Muhammad, would be my companion, and you as well. I was made aware of your states, the knowledge you would acquire, your experiences and stations, and of the revelations, theophanies and everything else with which God was to grace you. I then went to sea, with insight and certainty as my possession. Everything was and everything is just as it was bound to be.’^[323]

In all probability it was in Algeciras (Jazirat al-khadra)^[324] that, in the year 589/1193, Ibn ^cArabi had this vision of his own future and the future of his disciples. The Andalusian port of Algeciras was linked with Ceuta by an endless stream of sea-traffic, facing it across the Strait of Gibraltar; the ‘green island' of the Arab geographers, it is where Khadir is said to have gone with Moses to rebuild the wall of the two orphans,^[325] and it was certainly from here that the young shaikh set sail for the Maghreb for the first time in the year 589.

On his arrival in Algeciras he visited Shaikh Ibrahim b. Tarif al-^cAbsi,^[326] who according to the author of the Takmila⁵ was a disciple of Abu 1-Rabï^c al-Màlaqi (a member of the Almerian school)⁶ and of Ibn Mujahid before he himself became the teacher of Abu ^cAbd Allah al-Ourashi" (d. 599/1202).

Soon afterwards he landed at Ceuta and began his first tour of the Maghreb. He apparently stayed for a while in Ceuta itself—at least long enough to follow the teaching of three great muhaddiths who were living there at the time: ^cAbd Allah al-Hajari (d. 591/1194), who in Ramadan 589 transmitted to him Bukhari’s Sahîh;^s Ibn al-Sâ’igh⁹ (d. 600/1203), transmit­ter of Ibn Bashkuwâl and Ibn Quzmân and also a Sufi who according to Ibn ^cArabi had attained to the ‘level of the Red Sulphur':¹⁰ and finally Ayyüb al- Fihri (d. 609/1212), a disciple of Ibn Hubaysh and Ibn Bashkuwâl in the traditional religious sciences but also a companion of Abu Ya^cza and Abù Madyan, who died a martyr in the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa.¹ ' Another person who attended these gatherings was the qadi or judge of Ceuta, Abù Ibrâhîm b. Yaghmûr (d. approx. 609/1212). A bond of friendship was forged between him and Ibn ^cArabi. who praises him in the Futühât for his

and once in Ceuta together with his disciple HabashI (these last two meetings took place, as we will see later, in or around 594—5). See Kith §25, p.i 19: Sufis of Andalusia. pp. 128-2 9; and Kitab al-kutub, p.9, in Rasai!, Hyderabad 1948.

1. Takmila, ed. A. Bel and Bencheneb. Algiers 1910, §402. Cf. also Safi al-Din Ibn Abi Mansur, Risdla, pp.nr, 118, 120. I2l,andthe biobibliographical sketch by Denis Gril, p.218.
2. For Abû I-Rabî^c al-Mâlaqï- who was himself a disciple of Ibn al-Arif- cf. Fut.. III. p.508 and IV, p.474; Ruh, pp.99,120; Sufis of Andalusia, pp.101.104,128-29; Ibn Abi Mansür, Risàla, p. n8. and the biobibliographical sketch on p.222.
3. An Andalusian Sufi from Algeciras who was also taught by Abû 1 Rabi' al-Mâlaqï. Cf. Ibn Arabi, Tajalliyât. p.26, in Rasa il; Ibn Abi Mansur, Risàla, pp.88. 111-16 and the sketch on p.232.
4. Fut., I, p.32; III. p.334; Ijaza, p.180. For Hajari cf. Takmila. ed. Codera, § 1416, and Nayl, P-I35-

9- Fut.. II, p.528; III, p.334; IV, p.489: Rüh § 38, p.123; Sufis of Andalusia, p.136; Tashawwuf. § 198, p.377; Takmila. ed. Codera. § 2070; Silat al-sila, § 391. p.200.

1. Ruh, p.123. Red Sulphur is an alchemical symbol and refers to the material capable of transforming silver into gold; this is the sense in which Ibn Arabi uses the term in the Tadbirât ilâhiyya. ed. Nyberg, p.219. The expression is often used in Sufi vocabulary as a metaphor indicating the excellence of the spiritual level attained by a saint, or wall; Ibn Arabi himself is often referred to by his disciples as kibrit al-ahmar. Sha^crani td. 973/1565) used the expression as the title for one of the works he devoted to the teaching of the Shaikh al-Akbar (al-Kibrit al-ahmar fi bayân ’•ulürn al-Shaykh ai-Akbar, Cairo. 1369a, in the margin of the Yawdqit wa l-jawahir). The 'red sulphur' which—according to the quotation from the Kitab al-isra used as the epigraph to this book—the pilgrim sets out in search of in ‘the city of the Messenger' is none other than the 'inheritance' reserved for whoever attains to the Station of Muhammad.
2. Fut.. Ill, p.334; Ijâza. p.i8<>; Tashawwuf, § 240, p.415: Takmila, ed. Bencheneb, § 536; Ibn Qunfudh, Uns al-faqir. p. 32.

exceptional integrity.^[327] To him he represented the perfect example of a just governor: anger had no hold over him, and when he punished and applied the legal penalties prescribed by the sharra he acted solely out of obedience towards God and out of mercy towards the guilty party, who in this way was purified of his wrongdoing. This, Ibn ^cArabi tells us, was how Abü Ibrâhîm behaved—a man ‘who wept abundantly, meditated intensely, practised dhikr unceasingly and reconciled enemies’.^[328]

Ibn ^cArabi did not linger too long in Ceuta, and was soon continuing on his pilgrimage. His destination was Tunis—and specifically Shaikh ^cAbd al-^cAzïz al-Mahdawï. The idea of making this visit had come to him quite suddenly. One day in 589, he explains in the Rüh,^[329] he set off from Seville and wandered along the western coast until he arrived at Rota, '^[330] where he performed the Friday prayer. It was there that he met for the first time Muhammad b. Ashraf al-Rundi, one of the seven substitutes (abdâï). ‘He told me many things and promised me that I would meet him again in Seville. I stayed with him for three days, then left. He predicted to me in detail everything that was to happen to me after we separated, and everything came to pass as he had said. On my return to Seville, God put the idea into my head of going back to see him so as to gain benefit from his company. It was a Tuesday; I asked my mother's permission and she gave it. The next morning there was a knock on the door. When I went to open it I found a man from the desert who asked me, "Are you Muhammad b. al-^cArabï?” “Yes”, I replied. He went on to tell me: “While I was walking between Marchena and Purchena I met a man who inspired a reverential fear in me. He asked me if I was going to Seville and I said yes. Then he said to me: ‘Find the house of Muhammad b. al-^cArabï, meet the man in person and tell him that his companion al-Rundi sends him his greetings. Tell him also that I counted on coming to see him, but that he will suddenly conceive the desire to go to Tunis. May he travel in peace and—God willing—he will see me when he returns to Seville' What he said did indeed come to pass, because the next day I left to visit you [i.e. Shaikh Mahdawi].’^{[331] [332]}

At the beginning of the Futùhât'⁷ Ibn ^cArabï states that he stayed twice at Tunis with Shaikh Mahdawi: first of all in 590/1194, followed by his return to Andalusia, and secondly in 598/1201, just before he left for Cairo never to return to the West. The incident at Rota must have taken place in 589, shortly before his crossing at Algeciras and his arrival at Tunis in 590H, because at the end of the passage quoted above Ibn Arabi writes that he subsequently returned to Seville where he met up with al-Rundi once again.

The account in the Rith raises a question. If one fine morning Ibn Arabi left Seville to go and see al-Mahdawi, he must already have known of him by name and reputation. Who was it who told him about him? We are not in a position to give an exact answer to the question, but most probably he was told by one of the teachers associated with Abù Madyan—who was himself one of Mahdawi’s teachers.

Between Ceuta and Tunis Ibn Arabi no doubt stopped off in Tlemcen— unless he only broke his journey there on his return. At any rate he stayed there in 590/1194,¹⁸ and it was there that he met the mystical poet Abù Yazïd al-Fazàzï (d. 627/1230).¹⁹ During this same trip to Tlemcen he also made the acquaintance of a saintly man called Abù Abd Allah al-Tartusi,²⁰ who during a discussion with Ibn Arabi evinced a critical attitude towards Abù Madyan. At once Ibn Arabi—whose veneration for Abu Madyan knew no bounds—formed an aversion towards al-Tartùsi, but that same night he had a dream in which he saw the Prophet rebuke him. ‘The Messenger of God asked me; “Why do you hate so-and-so?” 1 replied: “Because he hates Abù Madyan!” He said to me: “Does he not love God and me?” I answered: “Certainly he does; he loves God and he loves you". He replied; “Why then do you hate him for hating Abù Madyan rather than love him for loving God and His Messenger?” I answered: “Messenger of God, I have committed an error and have been negligent. I now repent, and he is one of the people whom I love the most! You have warned me and counselled me”. When I woke up I took some valuable clothes, climbed into my saddle, went to the man’s house and told him what had happened. He wept and accepted the gift, and understood that the vision was a warning from God. His reservations about Abù Madyan vanished immediately, and he started to love him'.²¹

The name of Tunis is almost inseparable from the name of the famous mosque Zaytùna, which was built in 114/732.²² However, in his Nuzhat al- mushtâq Idrisi (d. approx. 560/1165) does not even so much as refer to it: ‘The last-mentioned town [i.e. Tunis] is beautiful, surrounded in every

r8. Fut., I, p.379; IV. p.498.

1. Fut., I. p.379. For Fazazi cf. Takmila, ed. Codera, § 1641, Nayl, p.163: GAL, S.i. 482.
2. Durra, § 66, in Sufis of Andalusia, p.155; Fut., IV, p.498.
3. Fut., IV, p.498.
4. For details about the mosque cf. El¹ s.v. Masjid.

direction by cultivated plains yielding wheat and barley as their principal produce .... inhabited and visited by neighbouring populations and by foreigners from distant lands; it is encircled by solid earthen entrenchments and has three gates. All the fruit and vegetable gardens are situated inside the city; outside it there is nothing worth mentioning . . .'.^2?

Did Ibn Arabi like the town? Clearly he did, because after his arrival in 590/1194 he stayed on for almost a year in the company of Shaikh Abd al- Aziz Mahdawi and of Mahdawl’s teacher, Shaikh Ibn Khamis al-Kinâni al- Jarrâh, who was another disciple of Abu Madyan and lived in the port. ‘He (Shaikh Kinâni] was a surgeon in Tunis. To go to see him I made the journey barefooted in spite of the intense heat, following the example of my two teachers Abu Ya^cqüb and Abu Muhammad al-Mawrüri^{[333] [334]} who told me that this is how they had gone to visit him.’^[335] A passage in the Durrat al-fakhira reveals that a deep affinity and indeed complicity had rapidly become established between Muhyi l-Din and Kinâni. ‘This eminent man was one of the shaikhs of Abd al-Aziz al-Mahdawi, and yet Mahdawi did not know him in his full reality because the shaikh did not totally unveil himself to him .... I remained in his company for a little less than a year. Before my departure he insisted that I say nothing either to Abd al-Aziz al-Mahdawi or to anyone else about his true state. He also asked me not to give any more thought to it.’^[336] Evidently Ibn Arabi—contrary to Mahdawi—was able to perceive Shaikh Kinâni’s true spiritual calibre. This is all the more significant because there is a passage in the Futühât which suggests the insight was reciprocal. In the preface to this work Ibn Arabi relates—in a tone which would seem to betray some bitterness—that at the time of his first stay in Tunis in 590H Shaikh Mahdawi manifested a certain coldness towards him; ’but', he adds, T forgave him because it was my outer state and the evidence of appearances which led him to do so. I had in fact hidden both from him and from his disciples what I really was by adopting an external manner of behaviour which was atrocious . . ,'.²⁷ He explains that one of the causes of this initial rejection to which Mahdawi and his entourage subjected him was the famous verses he recited to them one day when everyone was present, in

which he declared ‘I am the Qur’an and the Seven Substitutes'.^{[337] [338]} Any assertion of this kind, in which the speaker identifies himself with the Divine Word, is obviously blasphematory by nature, and the statement by Ibn Arabi just cited clearly indicates that it was not a question here of an ‘ecstatic pronouncement' or shath—uttered while in the grip of a condition of spiritual agitation—but of a kind of deliberate provocation aimed at concealing at least temporarily his state of ‘pure servanthood’ or ^cubüdiyya. However, he further qualifies himself by adding a remark which shows that although his reciting of this scandalous verse was premeditated, the verse itself was nonetheless inspired and is in no way an expression of egoistic self-importance: 'By God, of those verses that 1 recited there was not one single one which I did not hear as if I was dead .... In all that noble gathering there was nobody who perceived me [as 1 was in reality] with the exception of Abù Abd Allah b. al-Muràbit; but his perception was only very vague because he was still overwhelmed with confusion about me. As for the old shaikh ]arrâh (God have mercy on him), we had revealed ourselves to each other, mutually and voluntarily, during a sublime meeting (qad takâshaftu mefahu ^Qala niyyat fi hadratin ’(diyyat)'

Ibn ^cArabi and Kinânî also had a friend in common: Khadir. ‘I was in the port of Tunis, on a small boat at sea, when I was gripped by a pain in the stomach. While the other passengers slept I went to the side of the boat to look out at the sea. Suddenly, in the light of the moon which on that particular night was full, I caught sight of someone in the distance who was coming towards me walking on the water. As he drew level with me he stopped and lifted one foot while balancing on the other; I saw that the sole of his foot was dry. He then did the same with his other foot, and I saw the same thing. After that he spoke to me in a language which is unique to him; he then took his leave and went off in the direction of the lighthouse which stood at the top of a hill a good two miles away. It took him three paces to travel the distance . . .. Possibly he went to visit Shaikh Ibn Khamis al-Kinânï, one of the great masters of the Way who lived at Marsâ ^cIdün and from whose place I was returning on that particular evening.’³⁰ The reference to Shaikh Kinânî allows us to date this second encounter with Khadir with complete certainty to 590H as opposed to 59811, which was the year of Ibn Arabi's second visit to Tunis. This is because in a small work written by Ibn Arabi in 590H on his return from Tunis, he mentions Shaikh Kinânî, applies to him the formula of tarahhum (the formula for someone who has died) and specifies that he was buried at Marsâ ^cIdün.^[339] In other words Shaikh Kinànï died in 590/1194, between the time of Ibn ^cArabi's arrival in Tunis and the time of his return to Seville a little less than a year later: the meeting with Khadir in the port of Tunis will therefore have taken place during this same period.

Mahdawi’s attitude to Ibn ^cArabl in 59OH is rather surprising, because although he distanced himself from this doubtless rather unusual disciple the opposite was not the case: Ibn ^cArabi experienced a very real and profound veneration for the man. It was for him that he was later to write the Rüh al- quds and undertake the composition of the Futühât makkiyya. in which he always refers to him as al-walï, 'the friend'. But that is not all. Hardly had he returned from Tunis than he set to writing a small treatise addressed to the companions of Mahdawî and in particular to his own cousin Abu 1-Husayn b. aI-^cArabï, who was also a disciple of Mahdawl. This text, which has been recently published, contains a section devoted to enumerating the merits (manâqib) of Shaikh Mahdawl.^[340] In addition, Ibn ^cArabi announces to his reader that he intends to write an independent work devoted entirely to the virtues (fadail) of the Tunisian master.^{[341] 3} And finally, in the passage from the prologue to the Futûhât which was mentioned earlier Ibn ^cArabi declares with regard to Mahdawî, his servant Ibn al-Murâbit, himself and Habashl, ‘We were the four corner supports (arkân)'—an obvious allusion to the four Pillars (awtâd).^[342] But admittedly it was a question here of Ibn ^cArabï’s second stay in Tunis, eight years later.

590/1194 was the year that began a long period of wandering for Ibn ^cArabi in three-dimensional space. But it was also, and above all, the year of his simultaneous entry into what he calls ‘God’s Vast Earth’ (ard Allah al- wâsFa, Qur’ân 4:97) and the ‘Realm of Symbols’ (manzil al-rumüz). He states that he entered this ‘Vast Earth’—a land which no geographer will ever be able to map—in his thirtieth year, and that from then onwards he never left and never would leave it. Sometimes he also refers to it as the ‘Earth of Reality’ (ard al-haqfqa), and he devoted the whole of chapter eight of the Futühât to it.^[343] It must be said that the idea of a world where ‘spirits are corporealised and bodies spiritualised’ is not unique to Ibn ^cArabi. We find it referred to by various names in earlier writers, and even in pre-Islamic traditions.^[344] Henry Corbin, in an important work which he devoted specifically to this subject,^[345] has brought together a number of sources of information and both translated and analysed texts written by several authors—including chapter 8 of the Futühât. It will therefore be sufficient here just to sum up the essential details mentioned in this lengthy passage, while at the same time rounding them off with some further details taken from chapter 351 of the Futühât—a source Corbin failed to make use of.

The Earth of Reality, Ibn ^cArabI explains at the start of chapter 8, came into being ‘out of the surplus of clay from which Adam was created’; it is imperishable and immutable (bâqiya là tafnâ wa là tatabaddalu). Everything that dwells in it possesses life and speech (hayy nâtiq). Gnostics enter it in their spirit, not their body; in other words they leave their carnal envelope in this lower world. The earth in question is located in the barzakh—the intermedi­ary world where spirits receive a subtle body. As Ibn ^cArabi writes: ‘Every body in which spirits, angels and jinns clothe themselves and every form in which a man perceives himself while asleep is a subtle body belonging to that earth’.^[346]

In chapter 351 Ibn ‘Arabi reveals a completely different aspect of this spiritual Earth: it is the Earth of those who have realised total servitude (^cubüdiyya) with regard to God. ‘Servitude is complete and pure submission, in conformity with the very essence of the servant’s nature (dhâtiyya li l-^abd).... It is only realised by those who inhabit God’s Vast Earth, which contains both the contingent (hudüth) and the eternal (qidam). This is the Earth of God; whoever dwells there has realised true servitude with regard to God, and God joins that person to Himself, because He has said, “You My servants who believe, My Earth is vast, therefore worship Me” (Qur’an 29:57), alluding in these words to the Earth of which I am speaking. I myself have been worshipping God in this place ever since the year 590, and we are now in the year 635. This Earth is imperishable and immutable; that is why God has made it the abode of His servants and the place of His worship .... It is a spiritual Earth, intelligible and not of the senses (hiya ard nufnawiyya, ma^cqula ghayr mahsüsa).. ,.’^[347]

Another passage from the Futühât allows us to conclude that the event in question here occurred in Tunis, at the same time as Ibn ^cArabi gained access to the Dwelling-Place of Symbols. 'This Dwelling-Place itself consists of a number of different Dwelling-Places, such as the Abode of Unity (manzil al- wahdàniyya), the Abode of the First Intellect, the Abode of the Sublime Throne . . . and the Abode of the Vast Earth. When I entered this Dwelling-Place, while staying in Tunis, I unconsciously let out a cry: not a single person heard it without losing consciousness. The women who were on the adjoining terraces fainted: some of them fell from the terraces into the courtyard, but in spite of the height they suffered no harm. I was the first to regain consciousness: we were in the course of performing the prayer behind the imâm. 1 saw that everyone had collapsed, thunderstruck. After a while they recovered their own spirits and I asked them: “What happened to you?” They answered: “It’s for you to tell us what happened to you! You let out such a cry that you have been the cause of what you see”. I said to them: “By God, I had no idea I uttered a cry!”.’^[348]

As we can see, Tunis was an important stage in Ibn ^cArabi’s journey. On the one hand it was during this prolonged stay in the city that he gained access to the Earth of Reality and in doing so ‘realised’ the state of total servitude. On the other hand, through his companionship with Kinânî and Mahdawï for a period of almost a year his spiritual and doctrinal education was completed. But that is not all. In his huge Diwan Ibn ^cArabi states that it was in Tunis, in the year 590, that he came to know he was the Heir of Muhammadan knowledge:

'Without any doubt at all I am the Heir of the knowledge of Muhammad And of his state, both secretly and manifestly.

I came to know this in the town of Tunis

Through a divine command I received during the invocation (dhikr).

This happened to me in 590 . . „’^[349]

It was possibly during the course of this spiritual event that those verses came to his lips which were to scandalise Mahdawï and his disciples: ‘I am the Qur'àn and the Seven Substitutes’. At any rate it seems clear that the ‘revelation’ in Tunis concerning his status as warith, or Muhammadan Heir, was linked with his entry into the Vast Earth of God.

'In every epoch there is one unique being thanks to whom that age attains its apotheosis.

I am that being, through to the end of time.’

There is in fact no-one who to my knowledge has realised the station of servitude (maqam al~^cubüdiyya) better than I have, and if such a being exists he can scarcely be more than my equal because I have attained to the plenitude of servitude. I am the Pure and Authentic Servant; I have not the slightest aspiration to sovereignty (rubübiyya).'^4Z

On his return to Andalusia in the same year, 590/1194, Ibn “Arabi was no longer the same person. Thirty years old, he had attained to his spiritual maturity and from this time onwards was capable in turn of training and teaching others. And yet his teaching was not simply destined for a few disciples gathered around him. The ‘Muhammadan Heir’ was to address himself ‘to all nations’ thanks to a monumental corpus of writings, and to this period are to be dated the first texts in a long series of works which he was to continue writing until he died.

HEIR to ABRAHAM

On his return to Andalusia Ibn “Arabi set sail from Qasr Masmûda,⁴’ the Moroccan port more commonly known as Ksar;^{[350] [351] [352]} situated on the southern shore of the Strait of Gibraltar some twenty kilometres to the west of Ceuta, it was linked with the port of Tarifa in Spain. In the middle of the night, as Ibn Arabi tells us in the Durra, he boarded a boat at Ksar to go and visit Shaikh ^cAbd Allah b. Ibrâhîm al-Mâlaqï^[353] who lived in Tarifa. This Sufi—just like Shaikh Ibn Tarif, with whom he was on close terms—was a disciple of Abù 1-Rabi^c al-Mâlaqï, and he was famous for his futuwwa, or ‘heroic generosity’. According to Ibn ^cArabi’s description of him in the Ruh, ‘He was always to be seen busying himself on someone else’s behalf—never for himself. He went to see governors and judges for the sake of other people’s affairs, and his house was always open to the poor’.^[354]

From Tarifa. Ibn ^cArabi continued on his journey until he came to Seville. There a strange thing happened to him. Before leaving the Maghreb, while he was still in Tunis he had one day mentally composed a poem inspired by the sight of the Great Mosque (no doubt the Zaytüna mosque) and more specifically by the maqsura of Ibn Muthannâ. Ibn ^cArabi had recited the verses to himself and for himself alone; they could not possibly have been known to anyone else—or at least so he thought. On his return to Seville he encountered a young man he had never seen before who recited to him word for word the poem he had composed in Tunis. Ibn 'Arabi did not conceal his amazement. T had not recited it to anybody! I asked him who had composed these verses, and he replied that their author was Muhammad b. al-^cArabi. Then I asked him: “When did you learn them?” In spite of the long distance [between Tunis and Seville] he gave me the exact date on which I had composed them. “And who taught them to you?” He answered: “One evening I was in the eastern quarter of Seville, by the roadside together with a group of companions, when a stranger we didn’t know who looked like pilgrims (sayyâh) do passed close by us and came over to join our group. He talked with us for a bit and then recited these verses. As we found them pleasing we noted them down. We then asked him who had written them and he replied: ‘So-and-so’ (he told them my name). After that we pointed out to this man that we had no knowledge of any maqsura of Ibn Muthannâ in our own town. He replied: ‘It stands beside the Great Mosque in Tunis; that is where he has composed them—at this very instant!’ He then disappeared, and we were unable to understand who exactly he was or how he had managed to vanish right in front of our eyes ....” This happened in 590, and we are now in the year 63 5.’^[355]

Ibn ^cArabi explains that this invisible person who had so indiscreetly listened in on his monologue was one of the men of ‘the Hidden World’ (rijâl al-ghayb) who have the ability to listen to men without their being aware of the fact—regardless of whether they are talking at the top of their voice or silently within themselves—and then divulge whatever they happen to hear. It should, however, be pointed out that although Ibn ^cArabi sometimes used the expression rijâl al-ghayb very loosely—as is very common in Islam—he also gave it a more technical sense, applying it to one specific category of saints to whom he devotes a lengthy passage in the vast inventory he compiled at the start of the second volume of the Futühât. ‘There are never more than ten of them; they are men of fear (khushif) and never speak except in a murmur (hamsan), because they are overpowered by the epiphany of the Merciful. ... They are the Hidden Ones (al-mastûrün) and the unknown; God has hidden them in His earth and in His heaven. They speak only to Him, and contemplate nothing besides Him; “they walk on the tips of their toes (hawnan) and when they are troubled by the ignorant their answer is ‘Peace’ ’’ (Qur’an 2 5-.63).¹⁴⁸ However, he adds further on that Sufis also apply the same expression rijâl al-ghayb in its broader sense to men who avoid being seen (such as in the case of Ibn ^cArabi’s mysterious companion in the story told earlier on), also to pious and believing jinns, and finally to beings who derive their knowledge and their sustenance from the invisible world, al- ghayb.

Shortly after Ibn 'Arabi returned to Andalusia his father died, leaving two daughters still unwed. The Risâla mentioned earlier, addressed by Ibn 'Arabi to his cousin, enables us to date his father’s death with a fair degree of accuracy. In it he writes: ‘Among the merits [of Shaikh Mahdawï] I will also mention the following. He sent for me one evening to ask me to accompany him to the baths (hammâm), which was something I enjoyed very much. Among us that night was Shaikh Abu Muhammad Jarrâh (God have mercy upon him!)—a devout hermit who was the warden of the port, which is where he was eventually buried. When we arrived at the hammam [Shaikh Mahdawï] placed some towels in front of him and called the disciples up one by one. He covered each of them with two towels—one around their torso, the other around their waist—so that he could then undress them. When he had finished he did the same for me and for himself. He had used very long towels so as to hide our nakedness the better. We spent an excellent night in the shaikh’s company and in the best possible state “in a garden whose fruits will soon be ready” (Qur an 69:23). until the first third of the night had come to an end. We then went to his house and everyone performed their prayers (flwrdd) until the break of dawn. [In the morning] my father—may God have mercy upon him!—asked me: “What happened with the shaikh in the hammâm?” I told him what had happened: he was surprised and condemned behaviour of such a kind in these times and in this country.’⁴⁹

The tarahhum formula, ‘may God have mercy upon him!’, is traditionally spoken when referring to the dead; Ibn 'Arabi’s use of it here on mentioning his father indicates that at the time of writing this Risâla—namely on his return from Tunis in 590/1194—his father had already died. On the other hand, this same text also reveals that his father was with him in Tunis in 590 at the time of the hammam incident. Furthermore, it is very probable that his father died in Seville, because we know from elsewhere that he spent his final moments in the company of his wife and two daughters.⁵⁰ From these various pieces of evidence we can conclude that Ibn ^cArabï’s father died in 590/1194. some time after they had been together in Tunis but before Ibn 'Arabi sat down to write the letter to his cousin on his return to Seville. ^[356]

One point about which there is no doubt is that his father’s death—which was apparently followed shortly afterwards by the death of his mother^[357]— was to turn Muhyî 1-Dïn’s so far calm and peaceful existence upside down. An only son, he found himself head of the family, and from now on the duty of providing for his two sisters fell upon him.^[358] However, as we have seen, the young shaikh had made a vow of poverty. It was already a number of years since he had stripped himself of all his possessions, leaving it to God to care for meeting his needs. Asceticism of this kind was hard to reconcile with his new⁷ responsibilities. His family circle realised this immediately, and put pressure on him to return to the world and renounce the Path. Everyone individually contributed their own advice, and everyone together begged him to put an end to his eccentricities and start shouldering his responsibilities in the proper way.

These tests did not catch Ibn ^cArabI unprepared: years earlier he had been warned about them by his master, Shaikh Sâlih al-Barbari, In his own words: ‘At this period I had only just started to follow the Way.^[359] and I had received certain instructions of a spiritual nature which I had confided to nobody. The shaikh [al-Barbari] said to me: ‘‘My son, when you have tasted honey leave the vinegarl God has opened the Way to you, you must hold to it with resolution. How many sisters do you have?" I told him I had tw⁷o. “Are they married?" I replied that they were not yet married but that the elder of the two had been promised to the emir Abû l-^cAlà’ b. Ghâzün. “My child, know that this marriage will not take place. Your father and the man whom you speak of will die. and you will be left alone to look after your mother and sisters. Your family will try to persuade you to return to the world so as to take care of them. Don’t do what they ask you. and pay no attention to their words .... If you listen to them, you will be abandoned in both this world and the other, and left to yourself” ’.^[360]

It was only some time later that the full significance of Shaikh Barban’s warning dawned on Ibn ^cArabi, during a retreat in Seville in the course of which he became the recipient of the Abrahamic heritage. , On the same night of this retreat I received the illumination (fath) corresponding to the dhikr I was practising. Its light revealed to me what had so far been hidden from me. Next this revealing light was eclipsed and I said to myself: “This is the contemplative vision of Abraham" (hâdhâ mashhadun khali- liyyun). I then knew that from this time onwards I was the Heir (wârith) of the community (umma) which God had commanded both us and His Messenger to follow in His utterance: "The community of your father Abraham; it is he who has called you muslimîn” (Qur'an 22:78). I realised his quality of father (ubuwwatahu) and my quality of son (bunuwwati). My master Salih al-Barbari had said to me at Seville: "My child, beware of tasting vinegar after tasting honey!" I now understood what he meant.'^[361]

In line with Ibn ^cArabi’s notion of wirâtha or inheritance, as it was explained earlier, to ‘inherit’ from the prophet Abraham means to realise the mode of contemplation of the Divine Presence that is unique to him. But it also means becoming endowed with the character traits that define his particular spiritual type as described in the revelation of the Qur'an, which emphasises his clemency and compassion. Muhyï 1-Din was to receive confirmation of this many years later during his stay in the haram or sacred precinct at Mecca, when he was in the process of composing a chapter of the Futühât in front of the maqâm Ibrâhîm, or ‘station of Abraham'. Traditionally this term maqâm (‘station’) refers to the stone Abraham climbed onto to help his son construct the Ka^cba; but here, as we will see, it is given a deeper meaning. ‘Know that while I was in the process of writing these lines, near to the maqâm Ibrâhîm, ... I was overcome by sleep and I heard one of the spirits of the Supreme Pleroma announce to me on God's behalf: “Enter into the maqâm Ibrâhîm"—a maqâm which for him consisted of being compas­sionate (awwâh) and clement (halim). Then he recited to me the verse, “Certainly, Abraham is compassionate and clement" (Qur’an 9:114). I then understood that God would necessarily give me the strength which accompanies clemency, because one can only manifest clemency in relation to the person one dominates. I also knew that God was sure to test me by means of slanderous accusations that would be spoken against me by people towards whom I would be obliged to show clemency even though I had power over them, and that I would be heavily afflicted, because God used the word halim, which is the form of the intensive. Furthermore, Abraham has been described as awwâh, which is a word that strictly applies to someone who sighs a great deal because of his perception of the Divine Majesty and because of his powerlessness to render glory to that Majesty. For a contingent being is incapable of exalting and glorifying the Divine Majesty as It deserves.’⁵⁶

Shaikh Barbari had seen correctly. Some time after he had given his warning, the emir who had been promised to Ibn ^cArabi's sister died. His death was followed a few years later by the death of Ibn "Arabi’s father in 590/1194. In Ibn ^cArabi’s own words: ‘The time arrived when my family came looking for me to reproach me for failing to look after my sister’s needs. Next my cousin came to see me, and with much thoughtfulness and consideration begged me to return to the world for the good of my family'.^[362]

Ibn ^cArabi had not forgotten Shaikh Barban’s words, and refused to yield. For him there was no question of changing his mode of existence or renouncing siyâha: those long periods of wandering across Andalusia, far from the great cities and the crowds. As he was to write later in the Futühât: ‘siyâha consists of travelling across the earth to meditate on the spectacle of the vestiges of centuries gone by and nations that have passed away’.^[363] To a certain extent it is true to say that for the greatest part of his life—that is, up until the time when he settled permanently in Damascus—Ibn ^cArabi never stopped practising siyâha, firstly in the West and then in the East. In his case at least, these wanderings were also made for the purpose of meeting the saints of his time so as to profit from their baraka and their knowledge, and for the purpose of gaining first-hand acquaintance with the various categories of spiritual men whom he was subsequently to describe in his writings so vividly.

As we saw earlier, one of these periods of wandering brought him into the company of one of the seven abdâl: Ashraf al-Rundi. This time, in 590/1194, they led him to his third encounter with Khadir and to a meeting with a man whose rank was even higher. ‘Some time later [i.e. after the second encounter with Khadir in Tunis] I set off on a journey along the coast in the company of a man who denied the miraculous power of the saints. I stopped off in a ruined mosque to perform the midday prayer together with my companion. At the same moment a group of those who wander remote from the world entered the mosque with the same intention of performing the prayer. Among them was the man who had spoken to me at sea and whom I had been told was Khadir; there was also another man of a high rank who was hierarchically superior to Khadir (akbar minhu manzilatan). 1 had already met him previously, and we had become bound by ties of friendship. I got up and went to greet him; he greeted me in turn and expressed his joy at seeing me, then he moved forward to direct the prayer. After we had finished the prayer the imam started to leave; I followed him as he moved towards the door of the mosque, which faced to the west and looked out over the ocean in the direction of a place called Bakka.^[364]1 had just started talking with him at the door to the mosque when the man whom I said was Khadir took a small prayer rug which was stored in the mihrâb. stretched it out in the air seven cubits above the ground and got onto it to perform the supererogatory prayers. I said to my travelling companion: “Do you see that man and what he is doing?” He asked me to go over and question him, so I left my companion and went over to see Khadir. When he had finished his prayers I greeted him and recited some verses to him .... He said to me: ‘‘I only did this for the sake of that unbeliever!”, and he pointed to my companion who denied the miracles of the saints and. sitting in a corner of the mosque, was watching us . . .. We then left for Rota.’⁶⁰

So who was this person who was superior to Khadir. whom Ibn ^cArabi had already met and with whom he had forged bonds of friendship? He must surely have been either the Pole (qutb) or one of the two Imâms who are hierarchically superior to Khadir, the fourth watad or ‘pillar’. (Naturally the question of superiority only arises with regard to the function performed; as far as the actual spiritual level of the afrdd or ‘solitary ones'—and that includes the ‘pillars’—is concerned, they are equal to the Pole.) Perhaps then we should read this account in the light of another passage in the Futühàt^hI where Ibn ^cArabï declares that during the course of his wanderings (JÏ befdi siyâhâtï) he had met and seen with his own eyes⁶² the Imam of the Right, who among his other duties is responsible for training the afrâd.

*

In spite of his prolonged absences and in spite of the family tensions that affected him Muhyï 1-Din found the time to compose two treatises during the months following his return from Tunis. These writings from the period of his youth are the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrar al-qudsiyya ('The book of the contemplations of the most holy secrets’) and the risdla addressed to the companions of Mahdawi which has already been referred to a number of times in the past few pages. This risiila, edited and published without any title

Arab geographers as being close to Wadi Bakka or Wàdï Lakka; the famous battle which decided the fate of Spain 1092/711 was fought just offshore from it. The precise orthography and location of the place have given rise to a whole controversy: cf. Lévi-Provençal, Histoire de l'Espagne musulmane. I, pp.20-21 and. for Wâdî Bakka. Dozy, Recherche, I, pp. 305-7. If this is the place in question Ibn 'Arabi was very roughly half-way between Tarifa and Rota, which was indeed the town he was heading for.

1. Fut.. I, p.186.
2. Fut.. II, p.572.
3. Ibn 'Arabi uses the verb ^cayana to describe his meeting in physical mode with the Imam of the Right, and to distinguish it from his meeting in subtle mode (fi mashhad barzakhi] with the Imam of the Left. by Dr. Taher in 1985 from one rather late manuscript, would seem at first glance to correspond to numbers 625 and 626 in Osman Yahia’s General Repertory. In other words it is a case of one and the same work known under different titles, composed—as Ibn Arabi states at the start of the text—in 590/1194 on his return from Tunis for the benefit of Mahdawi’s compa­nions, and more specifically for his cousin Abu 1-Husayn b. Arabi. From the point of view of the themes discussed in it and the ideas it develops, this risâla seems also to be identical to number 632 in the General Repertory, which is entitled al-Risâlafî 1-rtubuwwa wa l-walâya. To simplify matters I will give the text published by Dr. Taher the title Risâla fï l-walâya, because walâya or sainthood is its chief subject as well.

But here things become complicated. In his descriptive comments on the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrâr (number 432 in his Repertory), O.Yahia notes on the basis of Ibn Arabi’s own statement in the preface to the treatise that it too was written in 590, for Mahdawi’s companions and in particular for his cousin. In other words, every point of detail here is identical to what we find stated at the start of the Risâla fï l-walâya. Is this just a coincidence? Before accepting such a convenient solution to the problem we need to examine the facts a little more closely. To begin with, one notes that in the Mashâhid Ibn ^cArabi refers to his Tadbïrât ilâhiyya, to the Kitâb lawâmi^c al-anwâr and to the Kitâb al-hikma by Ibn Barrajàn—three works which are also referred to in the Risâla. And that is not all. In the preface to the Mashâhid Ibn Arabi announces his intention of devoting a work to Shaikh Mahdawi’s merits (mandqib); as was mentioned earlier, we find the same plan laid out in the Risâla/1* l-walâya. Finally, although the editor of the text seems not to have been aware of the fact, the last pages of the Risâla are directly and very obviously related to the Mashâhid. In the pages in question^[365] Ibn “Arabi justifies his use of expressions which are liable to scandalise the reader, such as ‘qâla If al-haqq’ (‘God said to me’), ‘quitu lahu' (T replied to Him') or ‘ashhadanï al-haqq’ (‘God made me contemplate’). These expressions never occur in the Risâla fï l-walâya, and yet they are virtual leitmotifs featuring on every page of the Mashâhid. Furthermore. Ibn Arabi specifies that by expressing himself in this way he is simply imitating some of his predecessors such as the author of the Mawâqif (sâhib al-mawâqif), Niffari (d. 354/965).⁶⁴ But while the structure of the Kitâb mashâhid is certainly reminiscent of the structure of Niffari’s Mawâqif, the same can hardly be said of the Risâla. In other words far more is involved here than mere coincidences.

What are we to deduce from all these details? Two hypotheses present themselves. Firstly, the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrâr and the Risâla fï l-walâya are two distinct and independent works composed in the same circumstances and (hardly an impossible situation) addressed to the same individuals. In this case the Risâla in the form in which it has been published would be a mutilated text to which a copyist inadvertently and rather ill-advisedly added some extracts from the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrâr. The second hypothesis is that initially the Risâla fï l-walâya and the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrâr formed one and the same work, with the Risâla serving as a kind of preface to it. Two factors allow us to conclude that this second hypothesis is the correct one. First of all, comparison shows that the first thirteen folios of the manuscript of the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrâr^[366] are identical to the published text of the Risâla fï l-walâya. And secondly, we happen to possess the decisive testimony of IsmâTl b. SawTlakin who—under the supervision and dictation of his master—wrote a commentary on the Kitâb al-isrâ’ and Kitâb mashâhid entitled Kitâb al- najât . . , fïsharh . . . kitâbay al-isrâ’ wa l-mashâhid. This commentary, which is simply the transcription of verbal explanations provided by the author himself, establishes without the slightest doubt that our Risâla fï l-walâya— identical to the first thirteen folios of the manuscript of the Kitâb al- mashâhid—is indeed the preface to this treatise. At the beginning of the Kitâb al-najât Ibn Sawdakin explains that he did not consider it necessary to comment on the opening section of the Mashâhid because it is merely a ‘preface (muqaddima wa tamhid) containing some useful teachings regarding the virtues of Shaikh ^cAbd al-^cAziz al-Mahdawi: it is perfectly clear and transparent (zâhir wa jalï) and requires no explanation'.^[367] Furthermore, an attentive reading of the Risâla fï l-walâya (that is, of the preface to the Kitâb mashâhid al-asrâr) shows that in these pages Ibn ^cArabi was attempting to legitimise the very same things he would be saying further on in the text of the Kitâb mashâhid—-things quite unacceptable to a rigid orthodoxy. So, in commenting on a statement attributed here to Shaikh Mahdawi (‘The saints of this community are the prophets of the other communities’),^[368] he evokes the divine inspiration bestowed on the saints as well as the divine secrets and knowledge with which they are favoured and which both induce and authorise them to express themselves in a manner usually reserved for the prophets because, as in the case of the prophets, they have become privileged in being able to speak with God. In the text of the Kitàb mashâhid al-asrâr itself Ibn ^cArabi turns so to speak from words to action: in an allegorical style reminiscent of Niffarî’s Mawàqifhe describes a series of ‘abodes of contempla­tion', each of which represents a face-to-face encounter with God.

At any rate, the Kitàb mashâhid al-asrâr would seem not to have been the first of Ibn ^cArabî’s writings because it contains a reference to another work— the Kitàb al-tadbîrât al-ilâhiyya—which will necessarily have been written earlier, either before 590/1194 or in the same year. But here again things become complicated, and any attempt to arrive at a precise dating as the basis for a chronological classification of his works turns out to be a perilous enterprise. Ibn ^cArabï specifies at the start of the Tadbîràt that he wrote this voluminous work in a period of four days, at Moron (Mawrùr)—a town not far from Seville—in Andalusia, and especially for Abu Muhammad al- Mawrürî.^[369] He also refers in it to several other of his works-—which will therefore already have been written at the time^[370]—including the Kitàb insha al-jadawil. However, if we turn to Osman Yahia's Repertoire Général we find that this same work (also known by the title Insha' al-dawair) was written in 598!^{[371] [372]} Yahia bases his dating of the composition of the Insha' al-dawâ'ir on a passage in the first volume of the Futùhât; but what exactly does Ibn ^cArabi say in the passage in question? Addressing himself to Shaikh Mahdawi he writes as follows: ‘You already know [the chapter] on the cause of the beginning of creation (sabab bad’ al-^càlam) which is contained in my book called al-^cAnqà al-mughrib . . . and in my book called Insha al-dawair, part of which I wrote (alladhï allafnâ ba^dahu) at your home during my visit in 598 .... I took it with me to Mecca to finish it off but this book [i.e. the Futühàt] prevented me’.⁷' Furthermore, at the start of the Insha’ al-dawair the author specifies that he has written the work for ‘Abd Allah Badr al-IIabashi; and yet we only see this companion of Ibn ^cArabi’s first appearing in his life in the year 594/1198, at Fez.

All this gives us grounds to suppose that, if it is true that in some instances

Ibn ^cArabi composed his works ‘all of a piece’ and over a short period of time,⁷² there were also other instances where—on the contrary—the composition stretched out over a period of several years, thereby explaining the sometimes contradictory chronological allusions which we often encounter. What is more, even in the first case (the case of works completed in a single sitting) we see Ibn ^cArabi returning to and amending texts years afterwards; this was the case for example with the Mawâqï al-nujùm, as we will see later. In these circumstances it is quite impossible to assign a precise date to the actual commencement of his activity as an author, or to determine which of the works that can safely be ascribed to the period of his youth was the first to be completed in its entirety. Until further notice, as it were, the best we can do is to take stock of the various pieces of information that all seem to point to the same conclusion, which is that the period of his thirtieth year was a decisive time: a time when his spiritual magistracy began to manifest itself externally and also the time when the enormous literary production which he has bequeathed to us began—apparently in a very rapid rhythm. We find in these early works all the major themes which much later on were to be organised and synthesised in the Futùhât, already conveyed with an authority deriving from a vast learning but above all from a wealth of inner experience.

The little that we know about the person to whom the Tadbïrât were addressed illustrates once again the ambivalence of Ibn ^cArabi’s relationship to the Sufis he knew. A disciple of Ibn Saydabün, of Shams Umm al-Fuqara’ and above all of Abù Madyan (who greatly admired him), Mawrüri was perhaps himself one of Ibn ^cArabi’s teachers. However, it is difficult to be certain about the matter because the references to him are in this respect contradictory. According to the story in the Futùhât,⁷³ Mawrüri became the disciple of Ibn ^cArabi because one day he had had a vision of his dead brother who said to him, 'Only he who knows his Lord can see Him’. ‘So’, Ibn ^cArabI writes, ‘he came to visit me in Seville and told me his vision. He then explained to me that he had come to see me because he wanted me to give him theknowledge ofGod. He stayed in my company until he knew God as far as it is possible for a contingent being to know Him.’ In this passage Ibn ^cArabi refers to Mawrüri as ‘sâhibuna, ‘our companion’. However, in the same volume of the Futùhât, in a chapter concerned with the Poles and their stations,⁷⁴ the Shaikh al-Akbar relates how he saw in a dream that the Pole of

1. This was the case not only with the Tadbïrât, completed in four days, but also with several other treatises such as the Kitâb al-yaqïn, which was written in 601 at Hebron in only one day (cf. R.G. § 834)-
2. Fut., IV, p.510.  74. Fut., IV, p.76.

Ido

tawakkul, or abandonment to God, was ^cAbd Aiiâh al-Mawrùrï, and that he met him and was his companion (fiayantuhu wa sahibtuhu). Similarly, in the Durrat al-fakhira he states again that for a period of time Mawrhri kept his company,⁷⁵ but in the Rüh he states the opposite: 'I visited him and profited from his company' ^ashartuhu mu'asharatan wa intafa^ctu bihi).⁷⁶ Perhaps these apparently irreconcilable statements are to be understood as indicating that the relationship between Ibn ^cArabi and Mawrhri was similar for example to his relationship with Shaikh Abu Ya^cqhb al-Khmi, who was simultaneously his disciple and his master.

75,    Durra, § 14, in Sufis of Andalusia, p.108.

1. Riih, § 14, p.ioi: Sufis of Andalusia, p.103. For Mawrhri cf. also Fut., I,p.666; IV, p.217; Kitab al-kutub, p.9, in Rasa il; Kitab al-isfar. p.57, in Rasâ’il; Muhâdarat. 1906, I, pp.110, 145, 173, 188, 199; II, pp.31, 148, 171, etc., where Mawrhri tells Ibn ^cArabI of visions of Abu Madyan addressing a gathering of great Sufi masters. One is bound to wonder whether the person who really experienced these immensely prolific visions of Abu Madyan was not Ibn ^cArabi himself.

W

hile Ibn ^cArabï—apparently indifferent to the rumblings of war —was devoting his time now to siyâha or wanderings, now to the composi­tion of his works,^[373] the population of Seville lived in the fear and distress caused by the repeated assaults from Castile. Once the truce signed in 586/ 1190 had expired, King Alfonso VIII decided to resume fighting against the Almohads: in 590/1194 he bathed the whole region of Seville in fire and blood.^[374] Increasingly worried, the people of Seville sent emissaries to Marrakech to request help from the sultan, Abu Yùsuf Ya^cqùb immediately assembled his troops and marched towards Seville, arriving eventually on the 20th of Jumàdâ II 591/1195.^[375]

When the Almohad reinforcements arrived in Seville Ibn ^cArabi himself happened to be in Morocco—in Fez, to be precise. ‘I was in Fez in 591 when the Almohad armies disembarked in Andalusia to confront the enemy that was seriously threatening Islam. It was there that I encountered a man of God, one of my best friends, who asked me: ‘‘What do you think of this army? Will it win a victory this year?” I turned the question back on him: “What do you think yourself?” His answer was: ‘‘God has spoken about this battle, and He promised the Prophet victory in this very year. He mentioned it to him in the Book He revealed to him when He said: ‘In truth We have given you a resounding victory' (Qur’an 48:1). The good news is contained in those two

words, ‘resounding victory' (fathan mubinan). Examine carefully the sum total of the numerical value of the letters". I counted them up and found that the victory would indeed occur in 591. I had barely returned to Andalusia before God gave victory to the Muslims.’^[376]

The Almohads certainly won the day. Approximately two months after their arrival in Seville, they annihilated the troops of Alphonse VIII at Alarcos^[377] on 8 Sha^cbàn 591/1195: a date the Castilans were not easily to forget. There is no doubt that the Arab chroniclers exaggerated the importance of the victory, which did not exactly change the course of history. However, from this time onwards Castile no longer dared measure itself against Ya^cqüb, and the Andalusians knew peace—at least for a few years.

‘The town of Fez’—wrote Idrîsî (d. 560/1165)—‘has many houses, many palaces and many trades. Her inhabitants are industrious, and their architecture—like their industry—has an air of nobility. There is a great abundance of all kinds of staples and provisions. Wheat in particular is cheaper there than in any neighbouring region. Fruit production is substantial. Everywhere one looks one sees fountains topped by cupolas, water reservoirs with arches and decorated with sculptures, and other beautiful things. The surrounding neighbourhoods are well supplied with water, which gushes in abundance from a number of springs and makes everything look green and fresh. Gardens and orchards are well cultivated, and the inhabitants are proud and independent.’^[378] Apart from being an important commercial crossroads (thanks largely to its privileged geographi­cal location), Fez was also an intellectual and religious centre which enjoyed considerable prestige—especially during the time of the Almohads. Poets and literati came from all parts of the Almohad Empire to practise their crafts; many hilama from Andalusia as well as the Maghreb met there to carry on their disputes. More discreetly and not quite so loudly, Sufis arrived in search of a master or so as to be able to do their practices in favourable surroundings. No doubt Ibn ^cArabi was one of them—unless we follow Dominique Urvoy in preferring to suppose that it was the ‘instinct to flee' which drove the young shaikh to leave Andalusia for Fez at exactly the same time that Castile was threatening the impending destruction of Seville and the surrounding region. Urvoy speaks of Ibn ^cArabi in the following terms: ‘While the instinct to flee seems to have been all that counted for him-—returning to Andalusia when he thought victory over the Christians had been won but then leaving again when he realised he had been mistaken. . However, this interpretation of events would seem to be somewhat fragile. Firstly, the extract from the Futühât quoted at the start of this chapter shows quite plainly that Ibn ^cArabi returned to Andalusia before the battle of Alarcos and its successful outcome for the Muslims—although according to what he himself says he admittedly knew about the Almohad triumph in advance. And secondly, he left Andalusia again in 593/1196, when the Christian threat had—at least provisionally—been removed, and returned in 595/1198. In fact it proves very difficult to establish any correlation between Ibn “Arabi's journeys to the Maghreb and the course of historical events: between 589 and 597 he was continually crossing backwards and forwards across the Strait of Gibraltar. Instead, it would seem to have been the case that the reasons behind this particular departure for Fez were more of a domestic and spiritual nature. On the one hand, the journey gave Ibn ^cArabi the opportunity to escape for a while from the pressure his relatives were exerting on him to convince him to 'return to the world’. On the other hand, Fez was the citadel of Moroccan Sufism: it was there that Abù Madyan had chosen to pursue his training, and it was there that he had met his two masters, Abu ^cAbd Allàh al-Daqqâq and Ibn Hirzihim (d. 559/1165). Certainly Ibn ^cArabi knew neither of these men himself, but it is very probable that he kept the company of their disciples and through them received their teaching orally. At the very least we do know that during his first stay in Fez he met the muhaddith Muhammad b. Qâsim b. ^cAbd al-Rahmân al-Tamïmï al-Fàsi (d. 603/1206). According to Ibn Abbâr— who expresses some reservations about his abilities as a transmitter (rawf)^{[379] [380]}— Muhammad b. Qâsim spent fifteen years in the East, where he met the famous Abù Tâhir al-Silafï (d. 578/1182). But this man was no ordinary muhaddith. He was also a Sufi—one of those Sufis who were to transmit the khirqa to Ibn “Arabi. Furthermore, he is noted not so much for transmitting hadlth to Ibn ^cArabï as for handing down to him traditions (akhbdr) about the saints of Fez—especially about Abu “Abd Allah al-Daqqâq.^[381] He left a record of these akhbdr in one of his works, the Kitâb al-mustafâd fl dhikr al-sâlihïn . . . fl madmat. which Ibn “Arabi studied under his guidance.^[382]

Ibn “Arabi also formed friendships with two notorious Sufis, Abu “Abd Allah al-Mahdawi (not to be confused with “Abd al-“Aziz Mahdawi) and Ibn Tâkhmïst. Regarding Abu “Abd Allâh al-Mahdawi, who died at Fez in 595/ 1198, Tâdili tells us that he saved the population of the town from famine by distributing wheat to everyone, and that he spent forty years in the Great Mosque seated facing towards the qibla.^[383] Ibn ‘Arabi for his part confirms that Abù ^cAbd Allah al-Mahdawï was one of the malâmiyya^[384] and that he belonged to the spiritual category of ‘men of ardent desire’ (ahi al-ishtiyâq). These men—who are never more than five in number—are the men of the five obligatory prayers. ‘Each of them fully realises one of the five obligatory prayers .... It is through them that God maintains the existence of the world. Their verse in the Book is: ‘‘Observe the prayers, and the middle prayer” (Qur'an 2:238). They never cease praying, either during the night or during the day. Sâlih al-Barbari, whom I knew and whose companion I was until the time of his death, was one of them, as was Abû Abd Allah al- Mahdawi of Fez, whose companion I was as well'.^[385] In addition, he notes in the Rith al-quds'^[386] that for sixty years Mahdawi never turned his back to the qibla—a detail corroborated by the account in the Tashawwuf.

As for ^cAbd Allah Ibn Takhmîst (d. 608/1211)—who according to Tâdilï saved the passengers of a boat from shipwreck simply by his presence’^[387]—Ibn Arabi describes him too as being a malâmi, who was believed by his contemporaries to be one of the abdâl or ‘substitutes'.^[388]

During one of his stays in Fez—perhaps the one in 591—Ibn Arabi also met an eminent representative of kalâm, or speculative theology, Ibn al- Kattànï (d. 597/1200),'⁷ and became involved in a debate with him over the divine attributes. This was a thorny issue, and one that led to a great deal of ink being spilt by Muslim theologians, Some denied the existence of divine attributes as distinct from the Divine Essence: others taught tashbih, anthropomorphism: while yet others—the Ash'arites—admitted the exis­tence of divine attributes as distinct from the Divine Essence but held that these attributes possessed no reality apart from Essence. Ibn Arabi states his own position clearly at the beginning of the Futiihât. ‘To say that God is Knowing, Living, Powerful and so forth: all this is a matter of relationships (nisab) and assignations (idâfàt) with regard to Him and not of distinct essences (a^cyân zaida), because that would amount to qualifying the Divine Essence with imperfection. Indeed whatever is perfect through the addition of something is imperfect in its essence with regard to the perfection deriving from this addition. But He is perfect in His very Essence. Consequently it is impossible to add something separate to His Essence, but it is not impossible to attribute to Him relationships and assignations. As for the person who declares that these attributes are not Him and yet at the same time are not other than Him—that is a totally mistaken assertion . . ,.’^[389] This last thesis was the one upheld by Muhammad Ibn al-Kattànî. 'At Fez I saw Abu ^cAbd Allah Ibn al-Kattanl, who was the representative in his time of the speculative theologians (mutakallimün) in Morocco. One day he questioned me about the divine attributes. I gave him my opinion on the matter and then asked him what he thought: “Do you agree with the declared view of the mutakallimün?” He replied: “I will tell you my opinion. As far as I and my colleagues are concerned it is impossible not to assert the existence of an adjunct (zaid) to the Essence, which is called an attribute (si/a).... How­ever, we declare that this adjunct is not Him and yet is not something other than Him .. .”. I replied to him: “Abu ^cAbd Allah! I will say to you what the Messenger of God said to Abù Bakr about his interpretation of the dream: you are partly right, partly wrong!”^[390] ... He was like someone whom God sends to his ruin in spite of his learning. That is not to call his faith into question— only his intelligence.'^[391]

*

In 591/1195 Fez—like Tunis and like every other city where he stayed for any length of time—became for Ibn ^cArabî a stage on which a number of visionary events were acted out; although they were not quite as decisive as the ones he was to experience there two years later, they are just as indicative of his spiritual progress. First of all, a passage in the Futûhàt reveals that it was at Fez, in the year 591/1195, that he attained to the ‘Abode of the pact between plants and the Pole’;^[392] he also explains that it was through reaching this Abode that he knew in advance (and therefore not just on the basis of the arithmological considerations mentioned earlier) of the victory of the Almohads at Los Alarcos. This is because in the case of this ‘Abode’, as in the case of all the others, gaining access to it also entails gaining acquisition of a number of special sciences w’hich are peculiar to it. Three of these sciences demand our particular attention: the ‘science of the illumination of revelation’ (futüh al-mukâshafa), the ‘science of the illumination of sweetness' (futüh al-halâwa), and the ‘science of the illumination of expression’ (futüh al- ^Qibâra). At first sight these three notions appear extremely abstruse, and fully to understand what they mean we have to turn to chapter 216 of the Futùhât where Ibn “Arabi describes and analyses the three types of illumination in question.

Ibn “Arabi starts off by explaining ‘the illumination of expression'. This 'is only given to the perfect Muhammadan, even if in other respects he is the heir to another prophet. The most powerful station (maqâm) obtained by the person who has received this illumination is the station of veracity (sidq) in all he says, in all his movements and in his state of repose .... Such a person is incapable of conceiving inwardly what he will say, then putting it into order by means of reflection and finally uttering it. For him, the moment in which he speaks is the same as the moment in which he conceives the discourse by means of which he expresses his thought.... Of all the men I have met throughout my life, I have not met one who showed any trace of this form of illumination. Nonetheless, it may be that such men exist and that I simply have not met them; but the one thing about which I am sure and certain is that I am one of them . . „’²²

From this passage we see that only the ‘perfect Muhammadan' obtains this illumination. Ibn “Arabi also explains at the very start of the chapter that from this station of‘veracity’ derives the Fjâz al-qur'àn, the inimitability of the Qur’ân. T raised a question about this issue during the course of a vision. The reply that was given to me was: “[the ifâz] consists of your speaking only the truth (sidq) and nothing except what exists in reality (amr waqi^c muhaqqaq) without adding so much as a particle, and without lying within yourself. If your discourse is of such a nature, then it is inimitable (mufiz)”.’ In the first volume of the Futühât Ibn “Arabi refers again to this vision but in terms that are more specific. T was asked during the course of a vision: “Do you know what the inimitability of the Qur’ân is?” “No”, I replied. I was told: “It is the

p.6). This means that the Pole's authority extends throughout the entire creation including the vegetable, mineral and animal kingdoms, which offer him their allegiance in the same way as those men who recognise him. Cf. Kitab manzil al-qutb, in Rasa il, Hyderabad 1948.

1. Fut., II, p.506.

fact that it communicates the Truth (al-haqq). Observe the truth and your discourse will be inimitable”.’^[393] This is a particularly interesting detail when one bears in mind the immense importance Ibn ^cArabI attached to the exact and literal transcription of divine and prophetic utterances.^[394]

Ibn Arabi continues: ‘The second category of illumination is the illu­mination of inner sweetness (fath al-halâwa fî 1-bâtin) .... Even though it is spiritual (nufnawiyya), this sweetness is nonetheless perceptible in just the same way that one perceives the coldness of cold water .... Whoever experiences it feels a loosening of his limbs and joints and a kind of numbness . ... This sweetness is of no fixed duration, and in my case its duration was variable. Sometimes it descended upon me while I was doing something or other and it lasted only an instant, but at other times it descended on me and persisted for days and nights before disappearing .. ,’.^[395]

‘The third type of illumination is the illumination of revelation procured by knowledge of Godin things. Know first of all that God is too great, too sublime to be known in Himself. But on the other hand He can be known in things . ... In fact things are veils in relation to God; when they disappear, what is behind them is revealed. He who has revelation sees God in things just as the Prophet saw what was going on behind his back^[396] . ... I myselfexperienced this station (maqâm), praise be to God! Furthermore, it is impossible to know God in things save through the manifestation of things and through the disappearance of their status. The eyes of the ordinary man stop at the status of things, whereas those who have the illumination of revelation see nothing in things but God. Among them there are those who see God in things, and there are others who see things and God in them . . .. The greatest illumination in this domain is when the vision of God is the very vision of the world (yakünu ^cayn ruyatihi iyyâhu ^cayn ruyatihi al-^Qâlam).... 1 have discovered no-one among the men of God who have dealt with the subject of this illumination before me who have noted this particular point.’^[397]

This last paragraph calls for some explanatory comments, because it either explicitly or implicitly formulates several ideas which are fundamental to Ibn Arabi’s doctrine. The first notion which one notes immediately is that God can only be known in things, because according to Ibn Arabi He can only be known in His capacity of rabb or lord of something; the Divine Essence is by its very nature absolutely unknowable. The notion of rabb. as implied in the above passage, is one of the recurrent themes in the Shaikh al-Akbar’s teaching. Every being—or, more generally speaking, every thing, because in his eyes everything is alive—is subsumed under the authority of a Divine Name which is its rabb, its own ‘lord’, and for which it provides the locus of its epiphany.^[398] Consequently, according to Ibn ^cArabï. all that each of us is ever capable of knowing of God is our own rabb. and this is one of the meanings he ascribes to the hadith he so often comments on: ‘He who knows himself knows his Lord’ (man ^carafa nafsahu ^carafa rabbahu)—that is, the Divine Name which governs him.^[399] But also—and this is a point of major importance—the knowledge of things necessarily precedes the knowledge of God. As Ibn ^cArabï says in the same passage of the Futühât: ‘The goal is to know God in His capacity as Lord of the world, and this knowledge only becomes accessible once prior knowledge of the world has already been obtained. This is something that is understood by the most perfect among the men of God, and it is why the Messenger of God said, “He who knows himself knows his Lord’’. Also worth noting is the fact that the idea of 'God knowable in things’ is implied in another idea which was particularly dear to Ibn ^cArabï and is a correlate of the notion of rabb: the idea of tajalliyât or ‘self-disclosures’. It is because every single thing is the receptacle of theophanies that by seeing it one can see God.^[400]

Finally, it will be noticed that Ibn ^cArabï establishes a distinction between the person who only sees God in things and the person who sees things and God in them. These two standpoints correspond respectively to the perspec­tive of the wâqif, the person who comes to a halt in the Divine Presence and from that time onwards knows and sees nothing but God,^[401] and of the raji^c, the person who has returned from God to created beings while remaining simultaneously present with God because he sees the Face of God in everything. According to Ibn ^cArabi this second case is superior to the first. As he writes in another passage in the Futühât: ‘To be attentive to God and [simultaneously] to the created object forms part of the perfect acquisition [obtained by a man] of the Divine Names’.^[402] However, there is another even higher stage: the stage where the ‘vision of God is the very vision of the world’. The being who attains to this stage never ceases contemplating the multiple in the One and the One in the multiple.

It was also in 591, and very probably in Fez as well, that Ibn ^cArabî gained access for the first time to the 'Abode of Light', where he was instructed in the difference between sensible bodies (ajsâm) and subtle bodies (ajsâd). At the beginning of chapter 348 of the Futühât he writes as follows: ‘Know that this Abode is one of the Abodes of Unity and Light (min manâzil al-tawhid wa l-anwâr). God granted me access to it on two occasions: it was in this Abode that I came to understand the difference between sensible and subtle bodies. Sensible bodies (ajsâm) are what are known to ordinary men—regardless of whether they are fine and transparent or dense, visible or invisible. Subtle bodies (ajsâd) are the bodies in which spirits manifest in the waking state [when one perceives them], in the form of sensible bodies (ajsâm): and they are also the forms perceived by the sleeper in his sleep. They are similar to sensible bodies but are different from them’.^[403]

In 593/1196 Ibn ^cArabi gained access to the Abode of Light for the second time—and, as we will see, in a most spectacular way. Without anticipating this second event, it is worth noting that the account given above would seem to need to be set alongside another passage from the Futühât concerning the ‘Abode of the Extinction of Sins’ (al-fana ^can al-mukhâlafât). Ibn ^cArabl explains that the people who experience this fana, or extinction, are of two kinds. ‘On the one hand there are those whose sins (ma^casi) have not been pre-eternally decreed (lam yuqdar ^calayhim). They only perform acts which are permitted (mubâh), even if they appear to commit acts of disobedience (mukhâlafât) which legally are designated in the community as sins (ma^câsî). . .. For they have been told in a way they were able to hear and understand: “Do what you wish, I have already forgiven you”,^[404] just as it was said to the fighters at Badr. For them, the status of acts of disobedience has been annihilated (faniyat ^canhum ahkâm abmukhâlafât). . ..

‘On the other hand there are those who have obtained knowledge of the secret of the pre-eternal decree (sirr al-qadar). . .. They have seen what in the way of actions they have been destined to perform—inasmuch as these actions are actions, not inasmuch as they are of this or that status [i.e. are permitted or forbidden]. They have seen this in the Presence of the Pure Light (hadrat al-nür al-khâlis).. .. Below this Presence there are two other Presences: firstly the Presence of Half-Obscurity (sadfa) and secondly the presence of Pure Obscurity (al-zulnia al-mahda). In the Presence of Half­Obscurity legal obligation (taklif) has appeared, the Word has become divided into words and Good has become differentiated from Evil; but the Presence of Obscurity is the Presence of evil which contains no good ....

‘So, when men belonging to this second category see what they see in the Presence of the Light, they hasten to commit all the actions which they know must issue from them: but in doing so they are "extinguished" to the status of closeness or distance which is [normallyl implicit in these actions. From then onwards they obey and disobey without any intention either to come closer [to God] or to transgress the prohibitions ....

‘It was this strange kind of extinction which God acquainted me with in Fez. 1 have seen nobody who has experienced it and yet I know that there are men who have experienced it; it is simply that I have not met them. However, in my case I saw the Presence of Light and the corresponding status but this contemplation did not exert its status upon me. In fact God raised me into the Presence of Half-Obscurity while at the same time He preserved me and rendered me impeccable (hafizanî wa ^casamam). Consequently, I have the status corresponding to the Presence of Light while remaining in the Presence of Half-Obscurity, and for the people of the Way this is more perfect.’³⁵

In other words. according to Ibn Wrabl’s own statement he belonged to the second category of men who are preserved from committing sin and have gained knowledge in the Presence of Light of the sirr al-qadar or secret of the pre-etemal decree—that is, of their destiny. To grasp the full implications of this exceptional grace—of which he considered himself a privileged recipient —and the consequences liable to follow from it we need to turn to a passage in the Fusus al-hikam which elucides the peculiar modalities of this knowledge of the sirr al-qadar. The passage in question occurs in the second chapter, where Ibn ^cArabi deals with the various sorts of divine gifts and the different attitudes adopted by men with regard to the favours dispensed by the Most High. He explains that there are those who formulate a request (either in a specific form or not) and there are those who abstain from doing so, and ‘among these is the person who realises that the knowledge which God has of him in all his states is none other than the knowledge of what he was in the state of immutable essence (fï hâl thubüt ^Qaynihi), prior to his existentiation • ■ .. This is the highest category of spiritual men and the one that is most perfect in revelation (akshaf). They are those who have gained knowledge of

35' t'ut.. II, pp.512-13.

the secret of the pre-eternal decree. They fall into two separate categories: he who has a synthetic knowledge and he who has a distinctive knowledge. The second of these two categories is superior to the first. In fact he knows what the Divine Knowledge knows about him—either because God grants him knowledge of what He obtains from his very essence or because He reveals to him both his immutable essence and the sequence of all his future states. This last ease is the most elevated of all’.’⁶

It would seem that Ibn ^cArabi claimed he belonged to this last category. Does he not say himself that at the moment when he embarked for the first time on a boat to the Maghreb he had a vision of all his future states— and even the states of disciples of his such as Qünâwï and Qûnâwï’s father?’'

A ‘face without a nape’

‘When His Essence became cloaked in my khirqa

Both Arabs and non-Arabs hesitated about it.’’^s

Ibn ^cArabî seems to have been invested with the khirqa for the first time in 592/1195, in Seville. It will be remembered that this is an initiatory rite’⁹ which binds the disciple to his teacher, who by transmitting to him his baraka or spiritual influx makes him a new link in the uninterrupted chain (silsila) that goes back to the Prophet.^{[405] [406] [407] [408] [409] [410]} However, it is important to understand that the term khirqa—frock' or ‘cloak’—should not be taken literally. The investiture is not necessarily performed in actual practice by the transmission of a cloak or garment, but can also be accomplished (as was to be the case with Ibn ^cArabi in the East) by using a turban or just a simple piece of material. And it must also be emphasised that the wearing of the khirqa (libs al-khirqa) was not always understood in the same way in all periods and in all parts of the Muslim world.⁴' In Ibn ^cArabi’s time investiture with the khirqa was a form of initiatory bond frequently used in the East, along with other methods equally well attested in Sufi literature. On the other hand, in the Islamic West the term khirqa appears to have tended to be used as a symbolic way of describing suhba—keeping the regular company of a teacher—rather than as referring to an actual form of ritual affiliation. This at any rate was how Ibn 'Arabi interpreted the term—in conformity with the usage of Sufis he had known in the West—before his arrival in the East.

The first master to endow Ibn 'Arabi with the khirqa was Taqi al-Din 'Abd al-Rahmàn b. 'Ali al-Tawzari al-Qastallâni. This man belonged to a family of southern Tunisian origin which had affiliations with Sufism that were to take a rather strange turn. 'Abd al-Rahman, himself a muhaddith-süjïA² had two brothers: Abu l-'Abbâs Ahmad and Muhammad. Muhammad settled in Marrakech and entered the service of the Almohads as a Idlib.⁴' As for Abu l-'Abbàs (d. 636/1238)—whom Ibn 'Arabi was to meet in Egypt and at whose request he wrote the Kitâb al-khalwa al-mutlaqa⁴⁴—he was a disciple of Shaikh Qurashi (d. 599/1202) and, in accordance wi