CHAPTER SIX

‘Alī

In the Image of the Prophets

THE BACKGROUND OF ‘ALĪ’S CALIPHATE

The death of ‘Uthmān marks a key turning point in the narrative of the Rāshidūn caliphate. For the last six years of ‘Uthmān’s reign there are conflicting arguments in the texts, as we saw, about how to judge the third caliph: whether he had provoked the opposition with his innovations and bias to his family or if it was the opposition that exaggerated the case against him and was ultimately to blame for the breakdown of negotiations and the beginning of the attack. All these divergences, however, come to a halt once ‘Uthmān is killed. Suddenly the various narrative voices coalesce to reflect a singular position of pity for the fallen caliph, and the event of his death takes on the character of the martyrdom of a religious saint. Gone are all the doubts about ‘Uthmān the politician—about his competence, sincerity, and authoritarianism—as all blame is leveled on those who abandoned him: ‘Alī and the companions but, interestingly, neither the Sufyanids nor the Marwanids.

The scheme used to represent the significance of the caliph’s overthrow draws on a Christian notion of atonement that is filtered through the words of converted Jews, such as Ka‘b al-Aḥbār and ‘Abdallāh b. Sallām. In this context, the latter’s comment before ‘Uthmān’s death becomes more meaningful, when he is said to have exhorted the attackers, saying: “Do not do this! God has shielded you from the sword of discord ever since He brought out our Prophet, Muḥammad, and you will remain so until you kill your imām. If this happens, God will unleash the sword of the fitna on you, and not hold it back until the reemergence of Jesus…. Your town has been guarded by the angels, ever since the Messenger of God settled in it. But if you kill [‘Uthmān], they shall abandon you until the Day of Judgment.”¹ In another remark, Ibn Sallām warns that the death of a caliph leads to a divine punishment like what follows the murder of a prophet.² The cycle of ‘Uthmān’s death and the events that followed were clearly made to resemble the story of John the Baptist and the destruction of Jerusalem in A.D. 70, which in Ṭabarī’s accounts is attributed to an Eastern ruler, Bukhtnaṣar, rather than to the Romans.³ Also emphasizing the inevitable nature of the subsequent conflict is a comment attributed to Ibn ‘Abbās in which he reportedly says, “If the people had not sought vengeance for ‘Uthmān, they would have been smitten with stones from the heavens.”⁴

The hagiographic lamentations about ‘Uthmān’s overthrow now give way to a cycle of salvationist atonement that is represented by the onset of the first civil war, known as the first fitna, among the leading companions. It is not only through the description of the military conflict that narrators convey the process of atonement, but also through the depiction of confusion and of the sudden shifts in companion positions after ‘Uthmān’s death. If the narratives leave it unclear why ‘Āisha suddenly switched sides to avenge ‘Uthmān, or why companions with conflicting interests would join in fighting ‘Alī, this is in part because the various traditions wanted to show the illogical drift of the community in this phase of atonement.

POSITIONING UMAYYAD LEGITIMACY

Only Mu‘āwiya’s personality is kept stable during the interim of the Battle of the Camel, as the story completely neglects to record his view of the contenders in the first fitna. This omission was calculated not only to keep the focus on ‘Āisha’s incoherent political role, but also to preserve Mu‘āwiya’s political role for a later kingship and to shield him from the chaotic scene of the religious community (the companions), which was enduring the lesson of political setback after its abandonment of ‘Uthmān. The depiction of Mu‘āwiya’s diplomacy and political skill is consistently favorable during ‘Uthmān’s reign and will be resumed with consistency in various stories about his speeches, behavior, and temperament after he accedes to the caliphate. The depiction of Mu‘awiya’s role in the emergence of the early Islamic state and the general positioning of Umayyad political legitimacy will be examined later in more detail, but it is important here to examine an early speech, which was meant not only to project confidence in his ability to rule, but also to represent a prophesy about the fitna that would come if ‘Uthmān were overthrown. In an incident that gives Mu‘āwiya the high ground and foreshadows his rise, Ṭabarī recounts a long declaration that Mu‘āwiya made to the companions just before Medina descended into the chaos that brought about the murder of ‘Uthmān. The account says:

When Mu‘āwiya bade farewell to ‘Uthmān, he left [the latter’s] residence attired for the journey, girded with a sword and with his bow on his shoulder. Then [Mu‘āwiya] happened to meet a few of the Emigrants, among them Ṭalḥa, al-Zubayr, and ‘Alī. He rose and greeted them; then he leaned on his bow and said, “You know that this situation has come about because the people are struggling among themselves to achieve supremacy for certain men. There is not one among you but that some member of his clan used to claim leadership over him, dominate him, and decide matters without him, seeking neither testimony nor advice from him. Then at last Almighty God sent His Prophet, through him ennobling those who heeded him. When the Muslims turned the leadership over to his successors, they did so through consultation among themselves, assigning superiority on the basis of priority [of conversion], precedence [in religion], and legal judgment [ijtihād]. If [the community’s leaders] act on that basis, then they will keep control of matters and the people will submit to them. But if they pay heed to the things of this world and seek them in a struggle for supremacy with one another, they will be deprived of [power] and God will give it back to those who used to lead them. Otherwise, let them beware of the vicissitudes of fortune, for God has the power to alter [His decree], and He can dispose as He wishes of the kingship and authority that are His. I have left among you an old man, so display goodwill toward him and protect him. Thereby you will be more fortunate than he.” Then [Mu‘āwiya] bade them farewell and went on his way. ‘Alī said, “I see no good in this [man].” Al-Zubayr said, “No, by God, there was never anything more distressing to you than he was this morning.”⁵

This episode conveys implications in both the descriptive postures taken and the speech delivered. Mu‘āwiya’s encounter with a trio of companions suspected of complicity or at least gross negligence as regards ‘Uthmān’s murder was meant to evoke the scene of the night conspiracy between Abū Lu’lu’a, Hurmuzān, and Jufayna. The event is set just before ‘Uthmān’s murder, as is the conspiracy relating to ‘Umar’s assassination, but this time the narrative is developed by making Mu‘āwiya issue a warning about what would happen if the caliph were killed. In both look and tone, Mu‘āwiya is cast as the symbolic heir of ‘Umar, with the sword replacing the darra (the whip) of ‘Umar, and with Mu‘āwiya’s menacing words echoing the preachings of ‘Umar.⁶

Here there is none of the pragmatic and opportunistic character that one finds in portrayals of Mu‘āwiya at the Battle of Ṣiffīn and afterward. Mu‘āwiya’s words are carefully shielded from religious criticism, and they throw ‘Alī on the defensive instead of giving him the final word of noble judgment, as he later tended to be represented. It is almost as if Mu‘āwiya gives fair warning about the kind of Jāhilī politics that might once again come to prevail—and the kind of person he will become—if the fabric of the jamā‘a is torn. Mu‘āwiya’s role provides a range of reflections all summed in one. He is used to reflect qualities of ‘Umar, his own political style, and the narrators’ philosophy of history, which saw an imminent turn about to occur and cause the community to fall from its peak.

‘Alī was unanimously elected as caliph soon after ‘Uthmān’s death. The community, reportedly distraught over ‘Uthmān’s assassination, turned to ‘Alī as the most senior surviving member of the Muhājirūn community. Ṭalḥa and al-Zubayr, by encouraging ‘Alī to accept the caliphate, almost reenact the roles that ‘Umar and Abū ‘Ubayda took at the Saqīfa in nominating Abū Bakr. Language similar to what Abū Bakr once used is enunciated by ‘Alī when he declares to those present, “I would serve you better as wazīrthan I would asamīr .”⁷ ‘Alī also offered to abide by the choice of another individual as caliph, promising full obedience to whoever this might be (“da‘ūnī wa iltamisū ghayrī… in taraktumūnī fa-innamā anā ka-aḥadikum… wa aṭwa‘ukum li-man wallaytumūh amrakum”),⁸ but the community refused. His time had finally come, after three successions that had overlooked him. He used the moment to stress the imperative of obeying authority, and he put himself forward as an example of a loyal subject willing to obey another leader. He had consented to rule only after no one else seemed to be a possible candidate.

‘Alī’s first step, after his initial hesitation at assuming power, was to insist that the oath of allegiance to his rule (bay‘a) be taken in public at the mosque. Here one senses his oblique rebuke of the narrow way the bay‘a of Abū Bakr was accomplished, within a narrow group of Qurashīs at the Saqīfa of Banū Sā‘ida. The message of this gesture is that a true bay‘a should include the jamā‘a as a whole, involving both the Muhājirūn and the Anṣār; only such a bay‘a, he said, would satisfy all Muslims (“riḍā al-muslimīn”).⁹ Furthermore, such a step was meant to discredit future dissent from the opposition, especially from Ṭalḥa and Zubayr, who broke their bay‘a soon after swearing allegiance and rallied with the opposition, and as such were portrayed as breaking with the jamā‘a. Dīnawarī includes this sense of popular consent as characterizing ‘Alī’s bay‘a when he quotes the new caliph as saying, “O you people, you have now given me bay‘a as you have those before me. Changes in opinion [al-khayār] happen before the bay‘a, but once the oath is taken there is no more choice. It is for the imām to lead in an upright fashion, and for the people to give in to him. And know that this a public declaration of loyalty [bay‘a tan ‘āmmatan]. Whoever repudiates it repudiates his faith in Islam. It was not an accident [lam takun falta]!”¹⁰

Very quickly after ‘Alī’s accession, allegiance to his rule began to crumble, as ‘Āisha mysteriously made her way to the outskirts of Medina at Rabdha and started defaming ‘Alī and preaching the righteous call to seek out ‘Uthmān’s assassins for punishment. She was followed by Ṭalḥa and al-Zubayr, who claimed that they had been coerced into giving the bay‘a to ‘Alī and were now ready to throw off his rule. Plans were laid in place for the three to go to Basra, where they would organize their opposition, try to coopt sympathizers in Kufa, and wage war against ‘Alī. This dissent among three leading companions of the Prophet would form the backdrop for the conflict of the first fitna, which would culminate with the Battle of the Camel, an event that receives great attention in the sources as the first of three major wars that ‘Alī would be forced to wage (the wars against Mu‘āwiya and the Khārijites were the two others). Why the people of Basra and Kufa would join the opposition against ‘Alī if their grievances against ‘Uthmān were presumably solved with his overthrow is not clear; nor is it clear how a town like Kufa could champion two leaders at once, ‘Alī and Ṭalḥa.

The accounts leading up to the Battle of the Camel should not be read for political and military details. The extant references to troop mobilization and movements, battle locations, and the actual war are all quite hazy and seem generally secondary to the bigger story that Ṭabarī was trying to tell about the interaction of key personalities (at that juncture, these were ‘Alī, ‘Āisha, Ṭalḥa, and al-Zubayr). Portraying the vehement disagreement among these companions and the religious justification for their actions preoccupied narrators the most. At the center of the debate was the question of religious responsibility for seeking out and punishing the assassins of ‘Uthmān. After a long hiatus of inaction by some companions (such as ‘Āisha and al-Zubayr) as well as the complicity of others (such as Ṭalḥa) in his downfall, the zealous posturing of this group seems strange.

Alī is generally represented as both convincing and decisively successful during this first phase of civil war. Each of his opponents suffered from a tainted motive in challenging him, and this comes across clearly in the chronicle accounts. ‘Āisha is represented as a fickle personality who used an old grudge against ‘Alī—dating back to the issue of ḥadīth al-ifk (the affair of the slander)—to cover her personal hostility to ‘Alī. Her incoherent and ultimately harmful planning of a challenge to ‘Alī is further used to convey a fairly direct message about the detrimental role of women in politics. A major aim from the descriptions of her political activities at that juncture was to show how she exacerbated the problem. While her followers among the opposition were originally motivated to dissent because of the death of ‘Uthmān, their anger had grown at the Battle of the Camel over a matter of honor, namely the presence of ‘Āisha in the war zone. Her camp fought desperately to protect her while her enemies sought to capture her. Al-Zubayr’s role during the conflict is represented as flawed by his primary motives of pride and a heroic impulse to prove himself a chivalrous warrior. And Ṭalḥa is shown as the one tainted the most in the way he showed a consistent trend of ambition for leadership. Conspicuously absent from this depiction of the opposition to ‘Alī is Mu‘āwiya, who seems deliberately distanced from the scene in order to let the discussion focus more on ‘Āisha. ‘Āisha is thus put in the ironic position of arguing against ‘Alī in a manner that facilitates the later rise of the Umayyad political claim, gives some momentum to the Sunnī opposition to ‘Alī, and even facilitates the emergence of Shī‘īsm generally.

THE IMAGE OF ‘ALĪ AND THE PROPHETS

The image of ‘Alī in the sources rests on a complex web of intersection with imagery drawn from the lives of the prophets. His successive losses and his steadfast resolve in dealing with them, as caliph and spiritual leader, echo the tribulations faced by previous prophets. Whether in limited segments of experience or snapshots of expression and profile, one sees diverse similarities and variations on situations and features from the lives of Saul, David, Moses, John the Baptist, and Muḥammad. Indeed, when juxtaposed with the Sīra of the Prophet, the story of ‘Alī provides on many occasions what appears to be the exact antithesis of the various successful and religiously triumphant contours of Muḥammad’s experience. Just as some moments come to repeat closely, they suddenly break off into failure. ‘Alī fails to co-opt public support as Muḥammad did, fails to have his religious authority recognized, and leads a fragmented community in a failed struggle against the very Sufyanid camp that Muḥammad had earlier vanquished.

A beginning for reading the kernel of linkage between the two figures, ‘Alī and Muḥammad, can be found in the Prophet’s famous assertion to ‘Alī, “You are to me like Aaron was to Moses, except that there is no prophet after me”¹¹ This declaration—which appears to have more depth of representation in the sources than the comparisons we saw the Prophet establish earlier between Abū Bakr and ‘Umar and the personalities of Abraham and Noah, respectively—takes ‘Alī to a social level higher than that of being just a companion.¹² Muḥammad’s comment starts to take on a different light when placed within the full picture of ‘Alī’s life and experience. Recalling the incident of “mu’ākhāt” already cited, along with the story of how ‘Alī occupied the Prophet’s bed when the latter had set out on the hijra to Medina, impels the reader to see a story that casts ‘Alī as acting out a role that is not just that of a second in command but that of a historical “double” for Muḥammad in various contexts.

The existence of a parallel structure between the Sīra and the biography of ‘Alī has been overlooked by modern historians, yet this issue permeates the entirety of the narrative of ‘Alī’s reign. A sampling of such analogies can set the stage for a thematic linking of the two story cycles. Ṭabarī tells us, for example, that when the lines were drawn for battle between ‘Alī and Mu‘āwiya at Ṣiffīn, ‘Abdallāh b. Budayl, a key commander in ‘Alī’s camp, characterized ‘Alī’s war with Mu‘āwiya as a repeat of the picture of the Battle of Badr. Ibn Budayl exhorted his troops, saying: “We have fought against them with the Prophet, and now we do so again [wa qad qātalnāhum ma‘ al-nabiyyi marra wa hādhihi thāniya],”¹³ while ‘Alī himself gave a spirited plea to God before Ṣiffīn in a manner reminiscent of Muḥammad’s supplications for victory before Badr.¹⁴ ‘Alī’s camp, made up predominantly of a mix of non-elite Meccan families and non-Meccan emigrants to Kufa, was viewed in parallel terms to Muḥammad’s early Medinan community—as the camp of the marginalized and unjustly treated. In addition, strategies from Badr are repeated in ‘Alī’s time, with significant moral overtones. When ‘Alī’s opponents tried to control the water wells and to prevent ‘Alī’s troops from drinking, as the Prophet had done to the Meccans earlier, they failed. But although ‘Alī’s followers did succeed in seizing the wells, they did not bar the enemy from the water as the Prophet had done. This story was meant to show the recurrence of the Umayyad grudge at Ṣiffīn just as it reworked the Prophet’s posture by empowering ‘Alī to once again use that strategy to Hāshimite advantage as Muḥammad had before. And one could argue that Mu‘āwiya’s success in evading a military confrontation at Ṣiffīn reworked the success of Abū Sufyān when he escaped safely with the trading caravan before the Muslims and the Meccans engaged in the first battle.

These similarities between Muḥammad’s and ‘Alī’s lives are distinctly marked at the Taḥkīm, when a truce was negotiated between the famous representatives of the warring parties, ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ and Abū Mūsā al-Ash‘arī. We are told that in the preliminary stages of the negotiations, when Abū Mūsā began drafting the truce document, he started by writing: “This is what ‘Alī, Commander of the Faithful agreed to… [hādhā mā taqāḍā ‘alayhi ‘Alī amīr al-mu’minīn…].” ‘Amr objected to referring to ‘Alī as Commander of the Faithful and said: “Just write his name and that of his father. He is your commander but not ours.” Hearing this, ‘Alī said: “God is the Greatest! Verily this event has happened before, and is again like a parable [sunnatun bi-sunna wa mathalun bi-mathal]. I now remember how, when I was a scribe serving the Messenger of God during the day of al-Ḥudaybiyya, they [the unbelievers] said: ‘You are not the Messenger of God, nor do we hold witness that you are that, so just write your name and the name of your father.’” Hearing that ‘Alī had compared him to Suhayl b. ‘Amr, the representative of the unbelievers at al-Ḥudaybiyya, ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ now said: “Praise be to God! Are you saying that the lesson of this is that we are now similar to the unbelievers, even though we are believers? [subḥān allāh, wa mathalu hādhā an nushabbahu bi’l-kuffār wa nahnu mu’minūn?].”¹⁵ The statement underlines ‘Amr’s resentment of being characterized in a way that puts him on par with non-Muslims, and thus from a polemical angle engages the complex debates that later developed in Jamā‘ī-Sunnī Islam about whether one can side with one party over another in that conflict. But the more central point, which provides the mirror image to ‘Alī’s comparison but was intentionally left to be inferred, is that ‘Alī was essentially comparing himself and Muḥammad.¹⁶ The omission of the outright comparison between ‘Alī and the Prophet (unlike the comparison between communities on which ‘Amr comments) is not absent from the text because of redaction but was crafted in origin in such a brief and artistically uneven way to evoke a debate on several levels.

Taking into account such innuendo casts into a new perspective other seemingly factual points about ‘Alī’s life. The anti-Hāshimite boycott that ‘Alī experienced after the death of the Prophet because of ‘Alī’s refusal to recognize the bay‘a of Abū Bakr was probably meant to echo the earlier, more well-known occasion when the Meccans boycotted Muḥammad and the Hāshimite family in an attempt to stop him from preaching Islam.¹⁷ ‘Alī, like Muḥammad, was being represented in those critical years as the new head of the Prophetic/Hāshimite family, suffering an equal measure of social rejection and pressure.

Parallels in the life of ‘Alī, as stated earlier, reach out farther than the Sīra, however, and touch on symmetries with the lives of the pre-Islamic prophets, especially Moses and his relation to the Israelites. Viewing the early Islamic victory as a cyclical renewal of the success of the ancient Israelites led to the connection of the motifs of victory and redemption. Just as Moses and David (taking over from Saul) were viewed as leading across the threshold of salvation (both territorial and moral), Islamic narratives showed Muḥammad’s victory as inaugurating a similar religious success.

A vivid example of these linkages between the biography of ‘Alī and images from the pre-Islamic past is provided in a self-contained anecdote recounted by Ṭabarī about an event ‘Alī once took part in. ‘Alī, we are told, happened to be leaving his residence when a man called out screaming for help: “By God, help me.” The narrator continues: “Two men were fighting with one another [fa-idhā rajulān yaqtatilān]. ‘Alī then poked the chest of this man and that [fa-lakazṣadra hādhā wa-ṣadra hādhā], and said to them, ‘Get out of the way.’ One of the men then said: ‘O Commander of the Faithful, this man bought a lamb from me, and I had set the condition that he would not give me punctured coin in return [maghmūzan wa lā muḥazzafan], yet he gave a dirham that is damaged [(maghmūzan]. When I tried to return it to him, he punched me.’ ‘Alī then turned to the other man and said: ‘What do you say?’ ‘He is telling the truth, O Commander of the Faithful.’ ‘Alī then said: ‘Then give him what he set as condition,’ and followed by ordering both men to sit down before him, and said to the man who was struck: ‘Exact your punishment on this man [iqtaṣ].’ The man, however, said: ‘May I pardon him, Commander of the Faithful?’ ‘That’s your right, too,’ ‘Alī said. When the man [who was slapped] got up and left, ‘Alī ordered that the offender be carried on the back of another man, and then struck him fifteen punches using the darra .‘Alī then said: ‘This is in return for what you violated from the man’s right [ḥurma].’”¹⁸

This story applies a literary rearrangement of the themes and phrasing from two different Qur’ānic stories about Moses and David. The opening of the scene of the two men fighting one another resembles the Qur’ānic scene in which Moses witnesses an Israelite fighting an Egyptian. The phrasing applied to describe ‘Alī’s initial intervention echoes the Qur’ānic phrasing in that account. Ṭabarī’s words, “fa idhā rajulān yaqtatilān, fa-lakaz ṣadra hādhā wa ṣadra hādhā,” evoke the Qur’ānic description of the two men “fighting” (yaqtatilān), as well as the element of surprise relating to the fact that Moses did not expect to see this. The Qur’ānic verse states: “wa dakhala al-madīnata ‘alāḥīni ghaflatin min ahlihā wa wajadā fīhā rajulayn yaqtatilān, hādhā min shī‘atihi wa hādhā min ‘aduwwih, fa-istaghāthahu alladhī min shī‘atihi ‘alā alladhī min ‘aduwwihi, fa-wakazahu Mūsā fa-qaḍā ‘alayhi (And he [Moses] entered the city, at a time when its people were unheeding,¹⁹ and found there two men fighting; the one was of his own party, and the other was of his enemies. Then the one that was of his party cried to him to aid him against the other that was of his enemies; so Moses struck him, [and the man fell dead]).”²⁰

The two stories of ‘Alī and of Moses intersect in the most tangible way when the word “fa-wakazahu” from the Qur’ān is reworked with minor variation to apply to ‘Alī, “fa-lakazaṣadra hādhā wa ṣadra hādhā.” However, whereas in the Qur’ānic account the story describes a tragic trial of Moses, in ‘Alī’s situation the incident takes on the character of a legal test and evokes yet another Qur’ānic comparison, namely with the story that describes the two men in dispute who come to David and ask him to resolve their conflict. In ‘Alī’s story, the plaintiff describes the aggression of his business partner, and the dispute over money payment, which points to the fact that the transaction involved a lamb, thereby hinting at a stylistic connection with the story of David, in which one man accuses the other of having stolen his lamb and adding it to his flock of ninety-nine.²¹ Unlike in David’s case, in which the Qur’ān points to that prophet’s mishap of rushing to judgment in favor of one party without listening to both, in the story of ‘Alī the caliph shows a repair of David’s lapse. ‘Alī carefully examines the statements of both sides before he decides to rule in favor of one party against the other. The anecdote thus illustrates how both stylistic and thematic points were reworked to show the ways in which ‘Alī’s behavior was reminiscent of prophetic experiences and to illustrate an occasion with a similar challenge of moral temperance and legal knowledge. Caliphs—or more accurately Hāshimite caliphs, it is also implied—were especially vulnerable to the types of divine tests that the biblical prophets faced.

The analogy that this anecdote creates between the profiles of ‘Alī, Moses, and David illustrates the reshaping of older images and wordings in the stories about the caliphs. But it is here worth stressing that the parallelism between ‘Alī and Moses goes beyond self-contained images, and is in fact an exercise that permeates the accounts of the two histories. We can see evidence of this in the drift of the central historical narratives as well as in the marginal anecdotal material if we consider the symmetry between the two constituencies. ‘Alī’s supporters can seem—and indeed a group of them are shown—to be entirely devoted to his cause and loyal to his leadership. They can speak with a firm loyalty resembling that of the followers of Muḥammad at Badr, such as when one commander is quoted telling ‘Alī: “Commander of the Faithful, lead us wherever you wish,” while another, Ṣayfī b. Faṣīl al-Shaybānī, declares: “Commander of the Faithful, we are your party [ḥizb] and your supporters. We oppose those whom you oppose and join together with those who are obedient to you. Lead us against your enemies, whoever they are, wherever they are. God willing, you will not lack followers great in number and firm in intention [sir binā…. fa innaka lan tu’tā min qillati ‘adadin wa lā ḍa‘fi niyyati atbā‘in].”²² Even ‘Alī at the beginning sounds entirely impressed with the unity and loyalty of his camp when he tells them: “I have chosen you specially out of all the garrison cities, in preference to others [innī qad ikhtartukum ‘alā al-amṣār wa innī bi’l-athra].”²³ And elsewhere he lauds them, saying: “Men of Kufa, it was you who repelled the power of the Sasanids and their kings. You scattered their troops, and their inheritances fell to you [yā ahla al-Kūfa wullītum shawkata al-‘ajam wa mulūkahum wa faḍaḍtum jumū ‘ahum ḥattāṣārat ilaykum mawārithuhum…].”²⁴ Ahl al-Kūfa are here meant to personify the Islamic victory over the Sasanids and inheritance of the land in a way that echoes the ancient Israelite conquest of Pharaoh.Ahl al-Kūfa are shown victorious, in the words of ‘Alī, because they were the abused party (naṣarakum allāh‘ alay-him bi-baghyihim wa ẓulmihim).²⁵

However, not too long a time would pass before ‘Alī himself would become so frustrated with the fractious nature of his community and its seditious leaders, such as al-Ash‘ath, that he would tell them: “Would that I had in exchange for every eight of you one of ahl al-Shām.”²⁶ The problem ‘Alī had with his community was not one of outright treachery but, as was the case with the followers of Moses, a problem of inconsistent abidance by the word of the religious leader and by the established rules in general. The Kufans are shown as fickle, overzealous in their claims of piety and adherence to the ‘Alid cause, and often totally unreliable, such as when they ask ‘Alī, as he exhorts them to march quickly against Mu‘āwiya after they defeated the Khārijites, to give them a break before resuming the war on another front. Their claim “kallat suyūfunā wa nafadhat nibālunā (our arrows are exhausted and our swords have become blunt)”²⁷ is a statement that has the ring of ancient Israelite discourse in the post-exodus years. The words of the Kufans, like those of the ancient Israelites, illustrate the impossible nature of human desires and the folly of individual temperaments even among the followers of a prophet.

THE CRISIS OF DECISION MAKING

How ‘Alī came to be disillusioned with his community of followers, and perhaps with the use of political action altogether, is a process that unfolded over time in response to various political developments. This experience left its mark on ‘Alī’s outlook on political life and human behavior. Yet what comes across in the detailed accounts of ‘Alī’s encounters, debates, and wars with various enemies is the constancy of his spirit amid the very unconstant camp he was leading.

‘Alī’s character is the most mature when it engages questions of religious correctness, and this has been the main impetus behind the Sunnī view, following an ‘Abbāsid propagandistic current, that saw ‘Alī as an individual more erudite than politically astute.²⁸ However, in the case of ‘Alī, unlike that of Abū Mūsā al-Ash‘arī, it was idealism rather than naivete that led the way to failure. Sometimes it was also a sense of religious tawakkul (religious trust in fate)—similar to that of the Prophet when he agreed to set out for Uḥud even though he recognized it would be a mistake from the beginning. Hence too the similarity of ‘Alī’s acquiescence to having Abū Mūsā represent his camp at the Taḥkīm. Those around who could second-guess the past were many, starting with his own son al-Ḥasan. “I advised you but you disobeyed me,” al-Ḥasan said. “I urged you to leave Medina [when ‘Uthmān was besieged] so that when he was killed you would not be present. Then the day he got killed I commanded you not to take on the allegiance until the delegations from the garrison cities and the Arab tribesmen and every area’s allegiance had come to you. Then when these two men [Ṭalḥa and al-Zubayr] did what they did, I commanded you to stay at home until they had got their settlement… you disobeyed me in all this.” ‘Alī responded, “My son, [listen]! As for your saying, ‘If only you had left Medina when ‘Uthmān was besieged,’ by God! We were under siege no less than he! Then, as for your words ‘Do not take on the allegiance until allegiance from the garrison cities comes,’ the choice of ruler belonged to the people of Medina and we didn’t want to destroy that tradition. Then, as for your words ‘when Ṭalḥa and al-Zubayr left,’ the whole Muslim community was facing weakness. By God! Since I became caliph, things have continually gone against me and diminished me, and I never attain anything I should. Then as for your words ‘Sit at home,’ how then could I fulfill my responsibilities? What do you want me to be? Do you want me to be like the hyena that gets surrounded and calls ‘dabābī dabābī’ until its hocks are untied and it is forced to come out? This is no situation for me to be in. If I don’t look after my responsibilities and concerns in this question, then who will? So that’s enough, dear boy.”²⁹

This conversation, reported by Sayf b. ‘Umar, purportedly happened back in A.H. 36/ A.D.656, before the Battle of the Camel, when ‘Alī was setting out from Medina to Basra. However, ‘Alī repeated a similar defense of his position just before the Battle of Ṣiffīn, in an account relayed by Abū Mikhnaf.³⁰ And he continued this line of conversing with his son, al-Ḥasan, during the Battle of Ṣiffīn, when ‘Alī concluded with the words: “My son, there is a day coming for your father that he will inevitably face, and going fast will not postpone it for him, and walking normally will not hurry it up. By God, it does not matter for your father whether he comes upon death or death comes upon him.”³¹ In all these situations, ‘Alī explained to his son, he was taking the best option that the situation presented him with. All alternative actions, whether refusing the bay‘a or leaving matters in the hands of his opponents, would have meant abandoning the situation to an even worse war, or sacrificing the moral stature that the Hāshimite family held in the community. The problem of ‘Alī was not only that ideal behavior for him rested in making strict religious evaluations, but also that a leader must conduct himself according to honorable, even chivalrous criteria, which in his dictionary even meant going against sound strategy, as at Ṣiffīn, when he allowed the camp of Mu‘āwiya to drink from the wells (these happened to be under ‘Alī’s control) even though a better move would have been to prevent them access.³²

The nobility of ‘Alī’s approach to war is also evident from the detailed scenes that describe the combat, where it is often overlooked that at Ṣiffīn ‘Alī fought alongside his troops in the thick of battle, unlike Mu‘āwiya, who was sheltered behind layers of guards (as the scene of Ibn Budayl’s attack will later show). While his action underscores his sincerity and his solidarity with his community, it was politically questionable. When ‘Umar had proposed earlier to lead the Qādisiyya campaign in person, he was advised by his companions (including ‘Alī) against doing this, because it would embolden the enemy to fight more, and because if the war resulted in his death, the community would be thrown into disarray. At Ṣiffīn, therefore, ‘Alī was going against his own advice in order to stress the righteousness of his war against Mu‘āwiya. Narrators may not have appreciated Mu‘āwiya’s excessive cowardice any more than they did ‘Alī’s extra daring in battle, but they undoubtedly meant to juxtapose two extreme images and to show that a middle ground should be found. The lesson of ‘Alī’s military mistakes was that a successful political leadership acts with prudence and pragmatism rather than in puritanical or heroic ways.

The tragedy of ‘Alī is unique among the caliphs, since he arrives late to the succession in spite of all his merits. But his plight is exacerbated by the difficult times that emerged after ‘Uthmān’s death, which brought in an era of moral ambiguity. When Muḥammad fought against the Quraysh, the division between believers and infidels was clear, as was the singularity of leadership. But ‘Alī’s enemies were not infidels, and they had their own set of demands, which the caliph was expected to deliver. For ‘Alī to lead in such a climate required prodigious explanations, argued with such fineness of religious interpretation that the situation almost required of others a religious belief in his credibility as imām that went beyond his role as political leader. ‘Alī spent the entirety of his reign trying to achieve this, yet with every new stage of explanation, his quest only seemed to provoke a new battle. Ḥadīth preserves the irony of his condition in the statement predicting ‘Alī’s dilemma, when the Prophet declares, “Verily, there shall be among [the community] one who will fight over the interpretation of the Book as I fought for its revelation.”³³

THE ROAD TO ṢIFFĪN: THE QUESTION OF RESPONSIBILITY FOR ‘UTHMĀN’S MURDER

Unlike his victory at the Battle of the Camel and his successful arguments there against ‘Āisha’s coalition, ‘Alī’s conflict with Mu‘āwiya, which led to the Battle of Ṣiffin, is represented in the sources as a genuine trial for the caliph. At the Battle of the Camel, ‘Alī’s fight was against a group of leaders who had once pledged their bay‘a to him, and so the caliph’s moral right was clearer in the fight against a ridda of sorts. The coalition of ‘Āisha had few coherent arguments against ‘Alī, since its leaders were themselves once vocal opponents of ‘Uthmān and were confused about the real reason for their march against ‘Alī. The fact that a war had taken place among the companions was still severely jarring, and the various hyperbolic descriptions about the fighting that took place around ‘Āisha’s camel are meant to express this later sense of disbelief within the jamā‘a that such a conflict could happen. Nevertheless, the conflict was brought under control, with different sides regretting their roles in mobilizing for conflict, or meeting deaths that carried a redemptive quality for the ṣaḥāba .‘Alī equally regretted that this conflict had to happen, and the superiority of his political leadership as caliph and against the seditious voices is vindicated in a way that ‘Uthmān never managed to enjoy.

With Ṣiffīn, however, the challenges to ‘Alī are more diverse in both their nature and their places of origin, and the story does not end with healing but with greater social dissent within the community; it eventually culminates in the caliph’s assassination. At Ṣiffīn, ‘Alī’s challenge lay in making cohesive arguments to those who refused to give him allegiance unless he showed a willingness to punish ‘Uthmān’s assassins. From this confrontation, war erupts, and new religious issues are raised within his camp, ostensibly over the possibility of compromise. In the process, ‘Alī’s camp fragments, and as every new camp raises new arguments to the caliph, the level of polemics becomes more intertwined and frustrating. The original issue of ‘Uthmān stood from the beginning as the central problem. Mu‘āwiya embraced the cause of seeking justice for ‘Uthmān in the name of religion and kinship right, and as cover for retaining control of his own governorship in Syria.

There is no doubt for anyone who reads the narratives, even at a cursory level, that Mu‘āwiya, in the events leading up to Ṣiffīn, comes off very badly from a religious point of view. His image is that of a pragmatic power organizer who stops at nothing to win, although it is to be noted that the historical accounts on the whole still place a greater blame on ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ than on Mu‘āwiya.³⁴ Mu‘āwiya knows that his credentials are no match for ‘Alī, and he realizes that ‘Alī’s statements about him are true—that he has no sābiqa in Islam (or “salafuṣidqin”) and that he is a “ṭalīq” and son of a “ṭalīq” who converted to Islam only as a last resort.³⁵ Throughout the contentions with Mu‘āwiya—through emissaries and in discussions with his own followers—‘Alī appears more sincere and in command of the Qur’ānic discourse, which he uses to confirm his arguments.

The big questions at Ṣiffīn, however, do not concern Mu‘āwiya as much as they do ‘Alī himself and whether he had convincing arguments against Mu‘āwiya. The reader is given the opportunity to observe the complications that keep mounting in ‘Alī’s government. The story is not about exploring the sincerity of Mu‘āwiya in seeking justice for ‘Uthmān’s death, but rather concerns the legitimate questions that can be asked of ‘Alī, such as why ‘Uthmān had been murdered in the full light of Medina and why he had been left insufficiently protected by the ṣaḥāba, and, more importantly, what ‘Alī was doing to bring the assassins to justice. Mu‘āwiya’s role as contender on grounds of kin and even the flimsy memory of his role as a ṣaḥabī become irrelevant, since his voice, aside from being the voice of an ambitious politician, represents the questions that an ordinary subject of the caliphate would raise. The importance of Mu‘āwiya’s questioning process lies in the way it puts ‘Alī in the spotlight, while ‘Alī’s answers, although seemingly neutral, are frequently argued with loopholes and digressions to other topics that show an apologetic sentiment hanging over his declarations. One key declaration by ‘Alī in which this style is evident is made as he engages the first embassy sent by Mu‘āwiya to negotiate the conflict.

‘Alī’s answer directed to this group (consisting of Ḥabīb b. Maslama al-Fihrī, Shuraḥbīl b. al-Simṭ, and Ma‘n b. Yazīd b. al-Akhnas) starts out with a description of the historical background and then addresses his view of the ṣaḥāba as well as the question of caliphal succession, but it avoids giving an opinion on ‘Uthmān’s murder.³⁶ ‘Alī begins by recounting how Abū Bakr and ‘Umar succeeded to the caliphate and comments that they did govern rightly (“aḥsanā al-sīra wa ‘adalā fī al-umma”) even though they had ignored the right of the family of the Prophet to succession.³⁷ However, when he gets to ‘Uthmān, ‘Alī does not say that he had had misgivings about the caliph, but rather that the people did, and that the murder occurred when the public decided against having ‘Uthmān continue to rule. After the murder, it was also the public that came to ‘Alī and asked him to be caliph. ‘Alī not only emphasizes here that his candidacy was unsolicited but hints that his acceptance was a religious duty, for had he refused, he said, the community would fragment. ‘Alī’s tone then turns more specifically sour against his opponents. Although he may be stating a fact by noting that Ṭalḥa and al-Zubayr reneged on their bay‘a, his digression into a defamation of Mu‘āwiya is clearly out of place in the context of the argument at hand, and it implies that Mu‘āwiya does not deserve to debate the politics of the caliphate because his family converted late and had a history of opposing Islam from the very beginning, and thus that his motives are suspicious.

Then, when asked by Mu‘āwiya’s delegation to declare that ‘Uthmān was unjustly killed, ‘Alī’s ambiguity is put on the spot and he replies with an elliptical answer: “I will not say either that he was killed unjustly or that his killing was justified, because he was unjust himself [lā aqūl innahu qutila mazlūman wa lā innahu qutila ẓāliman].”³⁸ The delegation members then said: “Whoever does not assert that ‘Uthmān was killed unjustly, we disassociate ourselves from him,” and they got up and left. ‘Alī then said, quoting a Qur’ānic verse: “You will not make the dead hear, you will not make the deaf harken to the call when they turn away, going back, and you will not guide the blind from going astray. You will only make those who believe in our signs give ear, for they are Muslims.”^39,40

On the surface, the citing of the Qur’ānic verse at this juncture seems straightforward, showing ‘Alī’s religious erudition. However, the context is not entirely flattering to him, as the verse here caps the dubious reply, “I will not say either that he was killed unjustly or that his killing was justified, because he was unjust himself.” Had this evasive answer been uttered by Abū Mūsā al-Ash‘arī, narrators would have poured their satirical wrath on him, as they did during a debate recounted for the Battle of the Camel. At the time, when ‘Abd Khayr al-Khaywanī had asked Abū Mūsā: “Do you not admit that those two men [Ṭalḥa and al-Zubayr] had offered their bay‘a to ‘Alī?” Abū Mūsā agreed, but when then asked, “And do you know if [‘Alī] did anything to warrant the breaking of his bay‘a ?”Abū Mūsā replied, “I don’t know.” ‘Abd Khayr then said: “We shall then abandon you until you make up your mind [fa-innā tārikūka ḥattā tadrī].”⁴¹ An equivalence of evasion and erudite naivete therefore does exist here between the two reactions of Abū Mūsā and ‘Alī on the issue of ‘Uthmān. However, when ‘Alī concludes by stating a Qur’ānic verse, the text here warrants closer scrutiny, since it includes dual implications. While on one level the narrator was implying that Qur’ānic verses were punctuating events in ‘Alī’s life as they did during the Prophet’s life earlier, on another level the comparison breaks down, since the historical circumstances of the two figures were not similar. Unfortunately for ‘Alī, his opponents were not clear infidels, individuals opposing a religious message, but merely political opponents, however suspect their piety and problematic their religious arguments. Thus, the citing of an apt verse becomes mainly a boastful line, serving a rhetorical purpose rather than offering true religious vindication.⁴²

The broader questions the narratives were addressing in this and other debates were the following: When is abandonment of political action (“i‘tizāl”) right (“wa anā mu ‘tazil”)? If the people first chose ‘Uthmān and then killed him, what worth is there to the judgment of the people? ‘Uthmān may have been right that his rule would amount to nothing if he appointed whomever people had a whim for (“mā arānī idhan fī shay’in in kuntu asta‘milu man hawaytum”).⁴³ And finally, the hypothetical question: what would ‘Alī’s reaction be if Mu‘āwiya, whose background ‘Alī described correctly, were sincere about seeking justice for ‘Uthmān? Would it then not be that ‘Alī, who was championing the cause of the marginal Arab tribes and the non-Arab converts of Iraq, was declaring an opinion that subverted the very grounds of his support?

‘Alī’s comment that Mu‘āwiya and his allies were only fighting to gain dominion (“in yuqātilūna illā ‘alā hādhihi al-dunyā li-yakūnū jabābiratan fihā mulūkan”),⁴⁴ and ‘Ammār’s comment during the battle that Mu‘āwiya’s demand for vengeance for ‘Uthmān was only a ploy to gain more ground (“wallāhi mā ṭilbatuhum bi-damihi[i.e.,‘Uthmān]wa lākinna al-qawma dhāqū al-dunyā fa-istaḥabbūhā wa istamra’ūhā… wa tilka makīdatun balaghū bihā mā tarawn”)⁴⁵ are true, but the question ‘Alī then fails to answer is what he would have done if the demands put forward by Mu‘āwiya had come from someone else—that, is if the demand was not a “makīda” and reflected no “idhān,” and if the alternative opposition was not fighting to gain glory in the world. These hypothetical possibilities are opened not just by the circumstance of ‘Uthmān’s murder but by the very nature of ‘Alī’s strategy of defending his argument.

The ambiguity in ‘Alī’s role is heightened further when he seems to show an inconsistent attitude in dealing with the assassins. Why, for instance, did ‘Alī take a scrupulous stand, exacting punishment against ‘Ubaydallāh b. ‘Umar for his assassination of al-Hurmuzān following ‘Umar’s death,⁴⁶ but not show the same type of vigorous scrutiny with regard to ‘Uthmān’s death?

All this evidence and direction of argumentation represents the case that could be made against ‘Alī and his defenses. Ṭabarī would have imagined the companion foes of ‘Alī (jumhūr al-ṣaḥāba) and Sunnīs more generally arguing this view. However, the same pool of narratives also includes potential for counterarguments that showed ‘Alī not so much an apologist for the assassination but a helpless leader in the midst of a political storm. Dīnawarī here preserves this other image of ‘Alī’s reaction to the demands of Mu‘āwiya. The author describes how a certain ascetic from Syria (“min ‘ubbād ahl al-shām”), Abū Muslim al-Khawlānī, visited Mu‘āwiya, hoping to defuse the conflict. When Mu‘āwiya informed him that he would quickly drop the challenge to ‘Alī if only he brought the assassins to justice, the ascetic resolved to mediate between the two and took this demand to ‘Alī. Carrying a letter from Mu‘āwiya about this basic demand, Abū Muslim traveled to see ‘Alī and when they met, began by saying:

“O Abū’l-Ḥasan, You have assumed political leadership [innaka qad qumta bi-amrin wa wullītahu], and by God we would not like anybody else to assume the caliphate in your place so long as you follow the righteous path [mā nuḥibbu annahu li-ghayrika in a‘ṭayta al-ḥaqqa min nafsika]. ‘Uthmān was killed unjustly. If only you would hand over to us his assassins, you will be recognized as our leader, and then truly you shall find us supportive of you if someone dares to challenge you afterwards…”

‘Alī was not able to discuss the situation at the time and told Abū Muslim to come by the next day, when he would give him an answer. Meanwhile, ‘Alī ordered that the guest be treated generously and with great hospitality. However, when Abū Muslim came to ‘Alī in the mosque the next day, Dīnawarī says, he found the caliph seated in the mosque with some ten thousand people, all wearing armor and shouting: “We are all the murderers of ‘Uthmān.”⁴⁷ ‘Alī’s point here was clear. Although he was caliph, he stood helpless, knowing that if he extracted the assassins from the crowd, he would plunge the community into a bigger civil war than would be solved at first impression. The murder of ‘Uthmān, in this context, was not the work of a few but reflected the will of a substantial segment of the community. As caliph, ‘Alī could not ignore the pressure of his followers. The circumstances were in some sense very similar to those that faced ‘Uthmān after ‘Umar’s death, when the new caliph had to resolve the crisis of punishing ‘Ubaydallāh b. ‘Umar without splitting the community. How to uphold religious justice while preserving the political unity of the state was becoming a worse dilemma over time.⁴⁸ Other accounts also contradict reports about ‘Alī’s ambiguity on the murder of ‘Uthmān and show him greatly saddened by it.

Dīnawarī’s account has a significant continuation that merits consideration. After ‘Alī wrote a letter to Mu‘āwiya, he also wrote to ‘Amr, warning him about the evil distraction that worldly interest can bring about: “The world is a distraction from other pursuits. He who gains a portion of it becomes so eager to preserve his share that he becomes even more attached to it, nor does he stop at what he gained but keeps hoping for what lies ahead, which he can’t reach. Alas, in the end he shall be parted from all that he gathered. Verily the joyful one is he who learns a lesson from the example of others. Do not destroy your merits by going along with Mu‘āwiya and his bāṭil (fraud or blasphemy), for he is ignorant of the righteous and has chosen the bāṭil.”⁴⁹

‘Amr, we are told, wrote back to ‘Alī, inviting him to agree to what they (Mu‘āwiya and ‘Amr) called for. ‘Alī, of course, rejected this and began preparing to march against the Syrians (ahl al-Shām) when an important development occurred. Just as he was exhorting his followers to mobilize, and to march against the enemies of “the sunan and the Qur’ān,” and against “the killers of the muhājirūn and the Anṣār,” a man from Fizāra called “Arbad” reportedly stood up and challenged ‘Alī, saying: “Do you want us to kill the people of al-Sham, just as you had us kill the people of Basra before? By God, this shall not happen.” Here al-Ashtar reportedly shouted: “Would someone shut this man up?” The Fazārī man then decided to make a run for his life, but a small throng pursued him and beat him up until he fell dead. When ‘Alī was informed of this man’s death, he reportedly said: “A man killed by an uncertain hand [qatīlu ‘amiyya, lā yudrā man qatalahu]” and decided to pay his blood money from the treasury.⁵⁰

This sideshow of confrontation between ‘Alī and the Fazārī echoes in part the famous Qur’ānic story that describes Moses facing a situation in which an Israelite and an Egyptian engaged in a fight. The first time this happened, Moses aided the Israelite and killed the Egyptian without knowing what was happening. Moses’ sympathy was based only on blood solidarity, and in ignorance of the moral dispute at stake. However, when a similar situation later confronted Moses, the Egyptian confronted Moses with the words: “Moses, do you want to slay me just as you slew a living soul yesterday? Do you just desire to be a strongman [jabbāran] in the land, never attempting to be a peacemaker? [qāla yā Mūsā a-turīdu an taqtulanī kamā qatalta nafsan bi’l-ams? in turīdu illā an takūna jabbāran fī’l-arḍ wa mā turīdu an takūna min al-muṣliḥīn].”⁵¹ Hearing these words, we are told, Moses stopped aiding the Israelite without inquiring further. The Egyptian’s cautioning words: “Do you seek to be a ‘jabbār’ in your acts,” parallels the Fazārī’s words: “Do you want us to kill the ahl al-Shām as we killed the ahl al-Basra yesterday?” The stylistic resemblance between the two leaves little room to doubt the symmetry between Moses and ‘Alī. Both men appear in a situation of moral crisis, meting out punishment in ways that do not follow religious law or common morality.

The fact that ‘Alī’s followers kill the Fazārī dissident does not ease the burden on ‘Alī, but rather complicates matters more for him, since soon after, instead of punishing the assassins, he pays the victim’s blood money and declares that the murderer is unknown. The resemblance between ‘Alī’s attitude toward the assassins of ‘Uthmān and the assassins of the Fazārī man is too striking to overlook. So what can the reader do here but find a double standard in ‘Alī’s behavior: calling for justice for the death of Hurmuzān, but overlooking the aggression of his followers. This followup segment to the meeting between Abū Muslim and ‘Alī shows how a narrative’s moral implications could entirely change with the slightest digression or embellishment on an original account. When ‘Alī first invited Abū Muslim to the mosque and we saw the ten thousand shouting anti-‘Uthmān slogans, we saw ‘Alī remain silent, and even Abū Muslim said nothing after ‘Alī mentioned that he will give him a letter to Mu‘āwiya. The silence of these key actors in the debate is meant to leave much ambiguity about what happened, and, just as importantly, about whether the ascetic thought that ‘Alī was in a genuine bind with his followers or that the scene was staged. ‘Alī’s pious letters to Mu‘āwiya and ‘Amr do little to elucidate his real position on punishing ‘Uthmān’s assassins. It is then not until the dissension of the Fazārī man that we are led to examine the commentary of the narrators on ‘Alī’s position by exploring the vicissititudes of the moral crisis Moses faced before.

What exactly ‘Alī’s true feelings about the past were is an open topic that allows for much speculation. Various narrators knew the religious, moral, and political significance of his sayings and actions, and in response they set out to tinge various anecdotes with shades of argument and innuendo that evoked questions relating to justice, as well as to political legitimacy and polemics about religious interpretation. Throughout the story of Ṣiffīn, and based on the evidence presented about the various personalities, the sympathy of the reader is intended to gravitate to ‘Alī, and the reasons for this are many: he was overlooked for succession in the early days, he was pushed to accept the caliphate by the community after ‘Uthmān’s death, and he was forced to go to war by opposing seditious groups. Throughout the conflict he tries to take the high ground of religious principles, to place the welfare of the community above particular concerns, and to behave nobly in war, even at the direst of times. At Ṣiffīn, for instance, ‘Alī’s troops did not prevent those in Mu‘āwiya’s camp from access to the water wells even though the latter had initially implemented a strategy that prevented Ali’s camp from access to the water wells.⁵² Numerous similar gestures of forgiveness are attributed to ‘Alī, and these incidents color, in retrospect, the fact that ‘Alī in essence allowed Mu‘āwiya the chance to debate him later.

However, despite his great efforts to save lives, ultimately ‘Alī was trapped in a war in which he had to fight to preserve his leadership, and so the question that must inevitably follow his trail of battle was whether it was worth it. How to explain the loss of life and the bloodshed was an onerous task, even with his thorough religious arguments about the inferiority of Mu‘āwiya and his camp. Over the years, ‘Alī had developed a string of epithets to describe his opponents—al-nākithūn, al-qāsiṭūn, al-fāsiqūn, and al-māriqūn (those who break their oaths, are unjust in their dealings, resemble in behavior the infidels, and the transgressors)—drawn from Qur’ānic language. However, if on occasion meaningful, such as when he characterized those who broke their bay‘a (‘Āisha’s camp, al-nākithūn), this exercise of labeling became—in the rhetorical scheme of Ṭabarī—ambitious and trifling at the same time. It was ambitious for the way it made ‘Alī act like a prophet casting religious judgments on people, and trifling for the way it made him appear showing off his knowledge of the Qur’ān on appropriate occasions. Qur’ānic recitation had turned into an art for reading events on the ground and competing artfully in placing frames around events and people. And as such it was no surprise that ‘Alī was king of the Qurrā’. With the conflict now reaching to include average believers, who were forced to choose sides, ‘Alī’s claims of faḍl (merit) and ṣābiqa (religious seniority for precedence in conversion) were subverted by an enterprise increasingly vain and florid rather than substantial. The sharp demarcation that the community had known in Muḥammad’s time between believers and unbelievers and the clear definition of a righteous war was now replaced with the interminable ambiguity of material and political goals masquerading in religious terms.

Individual scenes of erroneous destruction at the Battle of Ṣiffīn were also used to sharpen the critique of ‘Alī, to show the limits of his control (even of his supporters), and to raise questions about the margins of caliphal responsibility for acts of violence. When ‘Alī’s followers torched the house of Jarīr b. ‘Abdallāh, an emissary of ‘Alī who tried to be duplicitous in his negotiation with ‘Uthmān, we are told that a son of Jarīr came out and told ‘Alī: “If one man in this house committed a crime, there are others in there who have done you no offense.” ‘Alī was gripped by guilt over the incident, and said: “We ask forgiveness of God,” and abandoned the place.⁵³ ‘Alī could do his best to avoid innocent bloodshed, but narrators found it still complex to see how the rules of conquest could be applied to a Muslim opponent. At the Battle of the Camel, for instance, after ‘Alī achieved victory, we are told that he forbade his troops from claiming the booty of the opposing camp (except for the weapons and beasts of burden used in the war), but here a foot soldier told ‘Alī: “Commander of the Faithful, how is it that it was legitimate that we fight them but not legitimate to claim their belongings? [kayfa ḥalla lanā qitāluhum wa lam yaḥill lanā sabyuhum wa amwāluhum].”⁵⁴ Although this comment occurred before Ṣiffīn, it was clearly written to convey a wide-ranging, ironic critique of ‘Alī’s attempt to maintain a purity of arms. Even from an average soldier’s view, it is implied, the idea that one could justify fighting with the possibility of killing but could not justify claiming the booty because that would amount to theft seemed surreal. ‘Alī’s only reply was that one cannot claim booty from monotheist enemies and told his followers that they should refrain from asking about things they don’t know and just do as they are told.

THE AMBIGUITY OF MOTIVES: HONOR AND PIETY

Mu‘āwiya and ‘Alī, as we have seen so far, received widely different levels of representation from the medieval narrators. Whereas narrators could directly portray Mu‘āwiya’s ambitious pursuit of power and place his motives beneath a very transparent moral lens, their approach to analyzing ‘Alī was more complex and rarely so direct. The ways they examined ‘Alī’s view of ‘Uthmān and the opponents of ‘Uthmān, as we saw, leave their messages highly elusive and lead the reader to doubt the moral direction of the community under ‘Alī’s leadership. Another area in which ambiguity played an important role was their portrayal of the moral dimension of the war, specifically in how they represented the motives and goals of ‘Alī’s followers as the two parties prepared for war.

At the outset of the preparation, and from the perspective of ‘Alī, the war was an inevitable choice. In a speech at the beginning of mobilization, ‘Alī ordered his followers not to begin combat until they were first attacked by the enemy, and he advised them to avoid excessive or gratuitous violence, and not to take any booty that had not been used in the enemy camp for the purpose of the war. And no matter what provocation came, ‘Alī commanded them, they must not direct their aggression against the women and the elderly among the enemy.⁵⁵ Later, when the conflict began, ‘Alī followed up with additional advice, exhorting the troops to maintain a steadfast belief in God and to fight shoulder to shoulder in one formation (“ṣaffān”) in a manner that adhered to the Qur’ānic description of the united camp of believers. He urged them to hold their ground and to fight without speaking or making grandiose gestures. Only their bravest, he said, must carry their banners, and they should all purify their intentions and keep patient until the end, for only with patience does God grant victory.⁵⁶

These two speeches complete the picture of ‘Alī’s hope that his troops will live up to their role as defenders of religious righteousness. As the battle erupts, ‘Alī’s troops fulfill the reader’s anticipation of their commitment to ‘Alī’s leadership and to their religious cause. However, as narrators focus their description on vignettes of combat, exhortation, and individual heroism, and as the war begins to take on a life of its own, it starts to seem as though ‘Alī’s followers are fighting more for individual honor and tribal glory than for achieving the religious objective that ‘Alī described. Soldiers begin making sensational declarations as they are galvanized by the zeal of combat, and they exhort one another to leave a mark on the collective memory of the camp.

Two chief lieutenants of ‘Alī, Mālik ibn al-Ḥārith al-Ashtar and ‘Abdallāh b. Budayl, come under the spotlight in this context and stand out as epitomes of the hero with complex motives. Al-Ashtar, who led the left wing of ‘Alī’s army, is quoted at times as exhorting his troops with religious language that mirrors earlier advice by ‘Alī, telling them: “These people [i.e., the enemy] are only fighting you for your religion, to stamp out the sunna and give rise to bid‘a, and return you to the days of ignorance from which God had extracted you.”⁵⁷ However, he then follows up with a zealous secular statement, telling the troops: “Verily, retreat from battle will rob you of dignity and the fay’, and will bring you shame both in this life and the next.”⁵⁸ Al-Ashtar’s words are timed just before his battallion makes an assault to relieve the besieged right flank of the army, led by ‘Abdallāh b. Budayl. When they rescued this flank, we are told, they found them (numbered between two and three hundred) holding their ground in a block formation. Ibn Budayl’s troops, we are told, thought that ‘Alī had died in battle and immediately asked about him. When they heard that he was safe (“ḥayyun ṣāliḥun fī’l-maysira”), the troops expressed thanks to God.

Al-Ashtar’s words were no doubt situated at that juncture to show his strategic role in preserving the army. However, just when it seemed that both commanders were ready to retreat and regroup, we are told that Ibn Budayl told his troops to follow him in launching an assault on Mu‘āwiya’s headquarters. Al-Ashtar, portrayed as the wiser strategist, told Ibn Budayl: “Don’t do this! Hold your ground with the others,” but Ibn Budayl refused. Then a Homeric portrait is cast: wielding two swords, Ibn Budayl charges in the direction of Mu’awiya, a place defended by so many troops that “they looked like the mountains.” Ibn Budayl went ahead of his followers, killing anyone who came within his path, until he got to Mu‘āwiya. There was still some distance between the two, and Mu‘āwiya, seated in the shade of a man (‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. Khālid, according to some) who carried a golden shield to protect Mu‘āwiya from the sunlight, now said, “atarawnahu kibsh al-qawm?” wondering how the struggle would end. But as Ibn Budayl came closer to Mu‘āwiya, enemy soldiers came at him from all directions and surrounded him (“nahaḍa ilayhi al-nās min kulli jānib”). He fought there until he was killed, together with many of his followers. When a surviving party of his troops returned, al-Ashtar told them: “Wouldn’t my judgment have been better than yours? Didn’t I advise to stay with the camp?”⁵⁹

The portrait of Ibn Budayl’s reckless mission against Mu‘āwiya is as operatic in display as it is epic in style, and it conveys an ethical lesson about the folly of reckless heroism and its detrimental effect on central army strategy. The portrait, together with al-Ashtar’s words exhorting his troops to war, shows us the extent to which heroic motives had come to prevail once the war had started. When al-Ashtar, in another context, sees the corpse of Yazīd b. Qays al-Arḥabī being carried back to his camp, he reportedly says reflectively: “By God, this is how bravery and sincerity should be. Doesn’t a man feel shame going to battle, then coming back, not having killed or gotten killed?!”⁶⁰ In this we hear confirmation that the goals of the war had gradually altered into a quest for individual honor in the style of “ayyām” chivalry and warfare of the Jāhiliyya. Al-Ashtar’s performance in battle impresses viewers in ‘Alī’s camp, but some wonder about his individual hopes. When someone named Munqidh in ‘Alī’s camp saw al-Ashtar mounted on his horse, in full armor and brandishing a broad shining sword that glittered under the sun, he reportedly commented with mixed feelings: “This man’s combat makes him truly the noblest among the Arabs, if what he is doing is sincere [in kāna mā arā‘ alā niyyatihi].” When a companion told him: “And what could his intention be other than what we see?” Munqidh said: “I only fear that he is doing this to gain authority [innī akhāfu an yakūna yuḥāwilu mulkan].”⁶¹

The same types of temptations for achieving honor are seen affecting large military groupings as they do individuals. One key example of this involves the tribe of Rabī‘a, a tribe that was famous for its heroic stand during Qādisiyya and was dubbed at the time as the “lion.” As the tribe of Muḍar faltered during the Battle of Ṣiffīn, we are told, Rabī‘a held its ground and showed great endurance (“ṣabarū ṣabran ḥasanan”), fighting bravely, while one Khālid b. al-Maḥraz began exhorting them, saying: “O the party of Rabī‘a, God has assembled you all in this battle in a way that you have not been together since you were created…. Do not let anyone, young or old, later say ‘Rabī‘a has brought shame on us and escaped from battle, and brought about the defeat of the Arabs.’ Beware lest you become a bad omen today in the eyes of the Arabs and Muslims. Keep marching and be patient, for surely the forward march has long been your habit, and endurance is second nature to you [fa-inna al-iqdāma lakum ‘āda wa’l-ṣabru minkum sajiyya]. Be steadfast and keep your intention sincere for reward, for the reward of one who seeks God is honor in this world [sharaf al-dunyā] and rank in the hereafter [karāmat al-ākhira].Verily, God does not withhold reward from one who acts sincerely.”⁶²

This blending of honor and religious reward as incentives was intended by narrators to show how the motives for war underwent a gradual transmutation as the pressure of combat forced some tribes to compensate for the defeat of others in ‘Alī’s camp and impelled them to demonstrate their prowess. This pressure for tribes to do their best as fighting got worse becomes even more tragically pronounced when ‘Alī on one occasion reportedly happened to ride by the wing of Rabī‘a during his inspection of the camp formation. As ‘Alī came into their midst, Rabī‘a, it is said, became more zealous than ever about defending him (“tabārat Rabī‘a baynahā”), while a certain Shaqīq b. Thawr shouted among them: “O the people of Rabī‘a. The Arabs will never forgive you, nor do you deserve to live, if anyone reaches ‘Alī while he is in your midst and there is a soul among you still alive. But if you defend him, then you garner the glory of the world [wa in mana ‘tumūh fa-majdu al-ḥayati iktasabtumūh].”⁶³ In one sense, this declaration shows a type of wholehearted support reminiscent of the support that the early Muslims gave to the Prophet, and this connection was indeed meant to be read through the imagery of passionate support showed by followers of ‘Alī during battle. However, given that ‘Alī’s mission from the Sunnī perspective was not a prophetic one, with its setting of intra-Muslim fighting, such zealous exhortations for battle among Rabī‘a could only be read as a type of tribal “ḥamiyya” (zeal) that was exacerbating the war.⁶⁴ ‘Alī’s passing through an individual tribal camp thus becomes a moral liability rather than a blessing, since the combat will then worsen as different warriors compete to show their skill and elevate their tribe’s name. The tragic irony in the episode lies in the fact that while ‘Alī appeared to be doing his political duty of joining in with his troops, the event took on a dubious religious meaning in the context of a worsening war among Muslims.⁶⁵

Military heroism occupied a complex role in the narratives of Ṣiffīn. As a manifestation of dignity and commitment, this quality tended to be viewed as a branch of religious morality. The famous accounts of Mu‘āwiya’s cowardice whenever he was challenged to engage in individual combat by ‘Alī and the stories about ‘Amr’s shying away from fighting ‘Alī are widely held to be illustrative of an overall defect in Mu‘āwiya’s personality, just as ‘Alī’s bravery completes his image of religious righteousness. Yet outside the circle of these well-known leaders, the virtues of bravery and the stress on individual dignity had to be assessed in harmony with the effect on community agreement and stability. The war at Ṣiffīn, from the perspective of the jamā‘a of later times, suffered from imperfect grounds of contention among the leaders and from imperfect commanders advising the two parties. In this context, therefore, warfare lacked the compelling moral necessity that it had carried at the time of the Prophet, for example, when the boundaries between the protagonists were sharply drawn, and incentives of personal prowess and religious obligation reinforced one another. With Ṣiffīn, in contrast, the spectre of Muslims fighting each other raised doubts about the legitimacy of the conflict, even if a few factors—such as defending the caliph, combating Mu‘āwiya, and self-defense—carried some weight as justifications.

This doubt about the conflict’s legitimacy is alluded to in remarks of grumbling among the troops and in pitiful descriptions. Ṭabarī describes, for example, how at the outset of battle one man in ‘Alī’s camp marched out to duel with his opponent and was surprised to find out that the opponent who came to challenge him was his brother. When they recognized each other, we are told, each retreated without engaging in a fight.⁶⁶ In another corner of the battlefield we hear of a member of the tribe of Azd who declared that “it is one of the gravest errors and biggest trials that we have to fight our kinsmen [of the Azd].”⁶⁷ These images calling for a rapprochement and peace stand in contrast with the images of heroic conflict and vindication and appear to have been constructed in tragic dialogue with one another. Some fighters were made to appear as zealous as their forerunners at Badr, but without having the same moralizing parameters that defined their zeal, and this underscored the depiction of misfortune for those who found themselves fighting their kin-relations—an image that was somehow avoided, or at least downplayed, in the battles of the Sīra.

THE LINKAGES OF ṢIFFĪN

Linkages of Leadership

The spirit of moral doubt and mood of religious frustration that accompanied the behavior of some participants in the Battle of Ṣiffīn, as we just saw, was for some motivated by their agony over the internal civil war. The obligation to fight to defend the caliphate of ‘Alī when community opinion was divided was too great of a sacrifice and cast a shadow of disillusionment upon ‘Alī’s political drive that was similar to the disgruntlement directed against ‘Āisha at the Battle of the Camel. Expressions of isolated frustration among ordinary soldiers therefore reflect a key layer of communication between narrator and reader about the religious legitimacy of the war. Still, such instances of subtle commentary were embedded in a wider, artful depiction of Ṣiffīn that lent it similarities to some of the expeditions of the Prophet. Within this frame, the diverse set of allusions in these narratives therefore deserve some attention.

‘Alī is frequently cast in situations that replay events from Muḥammad’s life and moments from the stories of the prophets. We see one example of this in the way ‘Alī addressed the victims of the battle. Ṭabarī recounts that ‘Alī somberly spoke in the area of the cemetery of the Ṣiffīn victims, saying: “Peace be upon you, you of the desolate abodes and forsaken places, of the believing men and women, and of the Muslim men and women. You are they who have gone ahead before us, while we come after you and will shortly join you. Oh God, pardon us and them and forgive us and them…. He will make you arise from it again and gather you together upon it. Blessings upon he who remembers the return, acts for the final reckoning, is content with a sufficiency, and is satisfied with the reward that God will bestow upon him.”⁶⁸ In another version, also recounted by Abū Mikhnaf, ‘Alī states upon passing by the so-called Thawriyyūn weeping for the slain of Ṣiffin: “I bear witness for those of them who were killed patiently holding fast and expecting the rewards of martyrdom.”⁶⁹ ‘Alī’s behavior here would have reminded a classical reader of what Muḥammad did after the Battle of Badr, when he stood at the cemetery (al-Qalīb) of the Meccan pagans who fell in battle and chided them, saying: “O the People of al-Qalīb, have you found what God had promised to be a reality? For I have.” When the companions expressed surprise at this address to the dead, Muḥammad replied: “Verily, they hear what I say, but they just can’t answer.”⁷⁰ ‘Alī, like Muḥammad, is here portrayed as being capable of penetrating the veil between the seen and the unseen, and of carrying out a dialogue that confirms his prophetic powers.⁷¹

Linkages of Community

Thus far we have mainly examined narrative intersections with the past as they relate to ‘Alī himself. However, the caliph’s saga is laden with allusions that relate to his followers. In this context, a comparison between the community of ‘Alī’s followers and those of the prophets before is crucial to illuminate the sources of tragedy in ‘Alī’s life.

We have already noted the potential parallel that narrators sought to establish between ‘Alī’s community of supporters, the “neo-Anṣār” of Iraq, and the Anṣār of the Prophet. The declaration that Qaysī b. Faṣīl al-Shaybānī made at the Battle of al-Nahrawān—when he told ‘Alī: “O Commander of the Faithful, we are your party and helpers. We befriend whomsoever you are allied with and are enemies to your enemies…. Take us with you against any enemy that you choose, wherever they may be…. By God, you will not find yourself failing because we are few or lack a firm intention to follow” ⁷²—reminds the reader of a key moment just before the Battle of Badr, when al-Miqdād b. ‘Amr pledged to the Prophet on behalf of the Anṣār that they would support him wherever he went. Al-Miqdād’s statement in this context was: “O Messenger of God, march to whatever God has commanded you, we are with you. By God, we shall not say to you like the Israelites said to Moses, ‘Go forth, thou and thy Lord, and do battle; we will be sitting here.’⁷³ But we say, ‘Go forth, thou and thy Lord, and do battle; we will fight with you.’ I swear by the One who sent you with Truth, were you to march into the land of Bark al-Ghimād [i.e., Abyssinia], we would endure with you until we reached our goal.”⁷⁴ Thus, just as al-Miqdād sought to demonstrate that the Anṣār were not going to abandon the Prophet as the Israelites had abandoned Moses, the supporter of ‘Alī, narrators implied, emulated the commitment of the first Muslims. How true and unified this support for ‘Alī would remain, and how it compared with the ancient Israelites, then becomes a question for comparison.

From a traditional reading of Islamic history a comparison of the Anṣār of the Prophet to the supporters of ‘Alī may not seem an area with much potential for analysis. One may concede an incident of analogy such as the one recounted above, but on the whole the impression may be that while the Anṣār were remembered as steadfast supporters of their leader, ‘Alī’s supporters quickly fragmented into a range of factions: the Saba’iyya, the Qurrā’, the Khārijites, and the remaining Shī‘a group. This traditional view, however, fails to recognize the intimate bond that original narrators saw existing between the Sīra and the Rāshidūn narratives, and the fact that to some extent the Anṣār were not so different in religious profile or behavior from the supporters of ‘Alī. Both were non-Qurashī, anxious for their privilege, and overzealous in supporting their leader’s mission.⁷⁵ To probe this comparison a little more, one can examine antecedents for ‘Alī’s group’s behavior in Muḥammad’s time, as well as the tendentious turn of the Anṣār into religious militants in ‘Alī’s time.

Far from being the constantly abiding supporters of the Prophet, the Anṣār on occasion behaved in a selfish or insubordinate way. Their famous abandonment of their designated positions on the battlefield of Uḥud (in the case of the archers) was in origin intended to signal their potential fear of losing out on personal gain, while the grumbling of some members of the Anṣār (Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda) after the Battle of Ḥunayn about the inequitable division of booty, as we saw, was overlooked by the Prophet, although he then sounded the alarming note to ‘Umar by saying that the day might come when a group of these would turn into overzealous practitioners of the faith, much to their detriment. This was in reference to Hurqūṣ b. Zuhayr, who bore a large part of the responsibility for the attack on ‘Uthmān, and to another man, al-Mukhaddaj, who became a leader of the Khārijites. When the Prophet made these predictions, the Anṣār appeared devoid of any social or tribal affiliation, much as the followers of ‘Alī appear without a clear social identity and merely as symbolic factions. The Qurrā’ are mentioned in a report about a raid (sariyya) made by al-Mundhir b. ‘Amr to bi’r Ma‘ūna, when a narrator says, “The Messenger of God sent with him seventy men of the Anṣār, who were youthful and called al-Qurrā’ [shabībatan yusammawn al-qurrā ’].”⁷⁶

Going well beyond their famous support for the early prophetic da‘wa before the Hijra and their pivotal support at the Battle of Badr, the Anṣār themselves are frequently portrayed in exceptional terms as the crack troops of the Prophet in times of crisis. At the Battle of Ḥunayn, when the tide of battle began turning against the Muslims, the Prophet reportedly commanded his uncle al-‘Abbās to call out, “O Anṣār, the people who were at the tree, you who are the [keepers of, or those] intended in sūrat al-baqara [yā ma‘shara al-anṣār… ya aṣḥāba al-samura, ya aṣḥāba sūrat albaqara]!”⁷⁷ The word “al-samura” is explained by the narrator in the same context as “shajarat al-riḍwān” (i.e., referring to the tree where the companions offered their bay‘a during the episode of al-Ḥudaybiyya).⁷⁸ These references make the Anṣār seem quite akin to the passionate followers of ‘Alī.

Although the Prophet himself did not face a religious or a serious political challenge from the Anṣār, the narratives represent him as fearful that discord could one day come from them. In his farewell speech, Muḥammad bids the Anṣār to be patient with the Muhājirūn and to remain content with their share of influence, even if it seems to fall short of their aspirations (sa-talqawna ba‘dī athratan wa ‘alaykum bi’l-ṣabr).⁷⁹ He tells them as well to avoid religious zealousness (al-guluww fī’l-dīn).⁸⁰ The community at large, especially the Muhājirūn, he exhorts to look after the Anṣār, and he confesses that his story with the Anṣār—i.e., his reliance on their support—reflected a moment of weakness in his career that forced him to seek outside support.⁸¹ Between the fear that the Anṣār might one day use their zealotry to serve the wrong cause and the likelihood that their situation would be mishandled politically, the Prophet is shown as anticipating the danger that, with a revived sense of beleaguerment, the Anṣār could one day turn into a bunch of wild factions. The rough combatives, the messianists, the Qurrā’, and the zealots were all combined as one group in the Sīra, but they had become fragmented in ‘Alī’s time, and narrators portrayed these fragments in a sprawling exercise of representation that characterized the new socioreligious mosaic of ‘Alī’s camp, including both his partisans and his enemies (the dissidents).

Continuing in this reading of subtexts in the Prophet’s statements and the narrators’ representation of the group, one may also hypothesize the inference that the Anṣār were either an extraction of the Jewish community or their representational counterpart.⁸² As the Islamic parabolic novel, best represented in Ṭabarī’s chronicle, continued the tradition of biblical narration, it described the growth of Muslim zealots and messianists in a way that makes them comparable to Jewish factions in the Roman and early Christian periods. The collectivity of the Anṣār and its breakup in ‘Alī’s time therefore provided the key parallel to this earlier diversity. If the story were simplified, the narrators appear to be saying that the Anṣār were the Jewish community of Muḥammad, waiting to be fragmented.⁸³ That the Anṣār themselves were Jewish would no doubt be difficult to establish, but what matters more here in this context of historical representation is that the narrators’ descriptions of the attitudes of the Anṣār during the Sīra and ‘Alī’s time are framed in a manner consistent with earlier stories of the role of the Jews in supporting and then dissenting from the leadership of Moses. In a similar pattern of behavior, the Anṣār varied their support for ‘Alī while they simultaneously clung to narrow interpretations of the scripture (in the case of the Qurrā’).⁸⁴ It is within this frame that some observations preserved in the traditional sources make sense, such as ‘Umar’s statement that “the Banū Isrā’īl entered their phase of downfall when their Qurrā’ became numerous”⁸⁵ and “began to apply their own reasoning [al-ra’y] to interpret religion.” And it is within this frame that we must understand the Prophet’s summons to the Anṣār at the Battle of Ḥunayn that referred to them as “aṣḥāb sūrat al-baqara”; in essence, he was saying that the parable of sūrat al-baqara was none other than a parable about them.⁸⁶

All this evidence may not give an exact accounting for the Anṣār, the Shī‘a, or the Israelites, and their correspondence in real historical terms, but the story preserved in the early Islamic narratives was neither real in its details nor intended to be factual. Rather, it played with classical biblical imagery to communicate a parable on the folly of religious zealotry (the Qurrā’, the Khārijites),⁸⁷ the folly of political puritanism (‘Alī’s style of government), and the detrimental role that pride and heroism play in shaping certain religious conflicts. These are timeless moral lessons that span Ṭabarī’s chronicle from beginning to end, but the reader constantly finds these problems answered in a certain synthesis, either with religious compromise or political wisdom. It is for this reason that all fringe calls for “al-amr bi’l-ma‘rūf” are diminished in favor of the caliphs, and that Mu‘āwiya’s system of political toleration and avoidance of direct conflict are implicitly favored by the narratives of the early period.

‘Alī and His Supporters—Moses and the Israelites

With the analogies established between the followers of ‘Alī, the Anṣār, Ṣiffīn, and the Sīra, it is worth taking a closer look at ‘Alī’s dilemma with his followers and the Islamic version of its biblical antecedents. The specific problems with ‘Alī’s camp range across a wide spectrum of newly developed character flaws: its members are unreliable, they question the decisions of their leader, they offer excuses to avoid doing their duty, and on the whole they try to impose their own will, on the basis of motives favoring the here and now, over considerations of strategy and faith.

From the outset of the troubles at Ṣiffīn, we see that ‘Alī was forced to accept a truce because a sizeable faction in his camp refused to keep fighting, claiming that in doing so they were respecting the “call for the book” and showing their piety. No amount of explanation by ‘Alī that this was a ploy from the weakened pro-Umayyad party could change their minds, and ‘Alī was forced to stop. Later, as ‘Alī tried to regroup his forces and march against Mu‘āwiya in Syria, at the time when the Khārijites were becoming a threat in Iraq, we find ‘Alī’s supporters refusing to obey his order to march against Mu‘āwiya, and forcing him to fight the Khārijites first. It is never explained why ‘Alī’s supporters insisted on fighting the Khārijites first, but one can surmise that the Iraqis feared for their immediate property and livelihoods in Iraq.⁸⁸ Once again, ‘Alī was here forced to concede and begin by fighting the Khārijites first. However, even as this conflict came under his control, ‘Alī was still unsuccessful at persuading a key faction in his army to now march against Syria. When ‘Alī ordered his troops to do so, the reaction that he now heard from them was: “O Commander of the Faithful, our arrows are exhausted, our swords have become blunt, and our spear tips have fallen off… Let us go back [fa-irji‘ ilā miṣrinā] and let us get ready with better equipment, and maybe the Commander of the Faithful would even give us the arms of those who have fallen, for that would give us more strength against the enemy […fa-li-nasta‘idda bi-aḥsani ‘uddatinā wa la‘alla amīr al-mu’minīn yazīdu fī ‘uddatinā ‘uddata man halaka minnā].”⁸⁹ Then Ṭabarī’s narrator singles out al-Ash‘ath b. Qays as having been the one who took charge of making these statements to ‘Alī.

These excuses about “empty quivers and weakened swords” that are raised after the Battle of al-Nahrawān are meant to highlight the continuing transformation of this community of supporters. They are also emblematic of ‘Alī’s immediate and practical problem with his troops: their insubordination (“ma‘ṣiya”). His speeches were to repeatedly juxtapose the difference between the loyalty of the Syrians and the insubordination of the Iraqis. “What is the matter with you?! Don’t you feel the tie of religion or chivalry [ḥamiyya]?… Is it not astonishing that Mu‘āwiya summons the uncouth [jufāt] and the lowly and they follow him without stipend [‘aṭā’] or support [ma‘ūna)], and they respond to him twice or thrice in one year for whatever purpose he desires? But I call on you, you who are possessed of understanding, some of whom have a stipend and the rest receive support, but you remain apart from me, disobey me, and oppose me!”⁹⁰

Later, in the famous “khuṭbat al-jihād,” ‘Alī catalogues the entire range of flaws that his supporters show and reveals his frustration in full. This speech, which marks the climax of the problem of insubordination in ‘Alī’s camp, provides a vivid portrait of ‘Alī’s degree of anger and disillusionment with his followers and underlines the absurd nature of their excuses. It is at such peak moments of frustration that we can sense that ‘Alī’s career stands on a parallel footing with that of Moses. Two speeches set his frustration in relief. The first occurs after he receives pleas from Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr to help him defend Egypt, although the account is set after the death of Ibn Abī Bakr. After rallying the people to mobilize and receiving no support, Alī calls on the headmen of his constituency (ashrāf al-nās) and says in a distressed, somber voice:

“Praise be to God for what He has decreed concerning my affairs and ordained regarding what I do, and for my being put to the test through you, your party [firqa] of those who do not obey when I command or respond when I call. You are not worthy to be called sons! What do you expect for your steadfastness [mā tantaẓirūn bi-ṣabrikum] and jihād for your rightful cause [wa’l-jihādu ‘alā ḥaqqikum]? Death and humiliation are for you in this world for anything but what is right. By God, if death comes—and it will indeed come—it will certainly separate you and me, for I detest your companionship and I care nothing for you. I am amazed at you. No religion unites you and no zeal inflames you [lā dīna yajma‘ukum wa lā ḥamiyyata taḥmīkum] when you have heard that your enemy is coming to your country and launching an attack against you. Is it not astonishing that Mu‘āwiya summons the uncouth and the lowly and they follow him without stipend [‘aṭā’] or support [ma‘ūna], and they respond to him twice or thrice in one year for whatever purpose he desires? But I call you, you who are possessed of understanding, some of whom have a stipend and the rest receive support, but you remain apart from me, disobey me, and oppose me!”⁹¹

The second speech occurs after ‘Alī receives news of Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr’s death within the same report. Here ‘Alī gives a eulogy of Ibn Abī Bakr and then expresses his agony with his followers. He declares:

“Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr has been martyred—may God have mercy on him—and we seek for his recompense with God. By God, he was, as I know, indeed one of those who await the [divine] decrees [mimman yantaẓir al-qaḍā’], act [to attain] the [eternal] reward, loathe the way of the wicked [fājir], and desire the right path of the Believer. By God, I do not blame myself for failing, for I am fully experienced in enduring in war; I set about the matter boldly and resolutely, and I stand expressing my views effectively [innī la-uqdimu ‘alā al-amr wa a‘rifu wajha al-ḥazm wa aqūmu fīkum bi’l-ra’yi al-muṣīb]. I publicly call upon you for help and openly cry to you for assistance, but you do not heed what I say or obey what I command, so that things could not become worse for me. You are a people for whom vengeance will not be attained and revenge not taken. I have called you to the aid of your brethren for some fifty days, but you have gurgled as do slack-jawed camels slurping their water, and you were sluggardly, like people with no intention of waging jihād against the enemy or acquiring eternal reward… Shame on you!”⁹²

All the difficulties that ‘Alī faced were meant to be seen as emanating from a central moral defect, namely the lack of patience (ṣabr) on the part of his supporters, and their concomitant lack of willingness to persevere in the path of God. These problems were ultimately responsible for bringing about the failure of the caliph to unify his camp and suppress dissidents. Here the cyclical parallel with the story of the Israelites after the exodus comes into better focus. The nature and magnitude of ‘Alī’s failure to have his community cohere fully and follow his command faithfully was undoubtedly intended to trigger a memory of the Qur’ānic account of Moses and the Israelites.

The Qur’ānic account, which must be reconstructed from various verses, provides a cohesive picture of Moses’ years after the exodus and highlights particular moral flaws that undermined his mission. The story starts out with a declaration about the victory of the Israelites and how they were rescued and selected, in verses such as the following:

—“We delivered the Children of Israel from the humbling chastisement, from Pharaoh; surely he was a high one, of the prodigals; and We chose them out of a knowledge, above all beings.”⁹³

—“and We bequeathed upon the people that were abased all the east and the west of the land We had blessed; and perfectly was fulfilled the most fair word of thy Lord upon the Children of Israel, for that they endured patiently; and We destroyed utterly the works of Pharaoh and his people, and what they had been building.”⁹⁴

As the community of Moses makes the transition to safety, the Qur’ān highlights the various ways in which they start to transform. Interaction with the comforts of life and with other communities impels new desires and sows among Israelites the seeds of doubt in their mission and in the binding leadership of Moses. Hence we are shown how they begin to put forward a set of new demands, ranging from material desires regarding food⁹⁵ to religiously intransigent requests, asking to have deities as other communities do⁹⁶ or even to witness God directly.⁹⁷ In the area of military perseverance this sense of doubt and desire for self-preservation brings together these divergent voices of disgruntlement. When Moses called upon the Israelites to challenge the Canaanites and invade their land, the Qur’ānic account describes how the Israelites refused to obey, telling Moses to go on and fight by himself and God.⁹⁸

Throughout these verses, the language of the Israelites is cast in the imperative form—“lan naṣbira” (we will not endure), “ud‘u lanā rabbaka” (pray to thy Lord), “ij‘al lanā ilāhan” (make for us a god), “idhhab anta wa rabbuka” (go forth, thou and thy Lord)—reflecting a combination of religious blasphemy and political insubordination. This refusal to abide by commands is shown in the end driving Moses to great heights of anger, frustration, and personal reflection on his mission. A comparison can here be established between the representations of ‘Alī and Moses. The frustration of Moses rises from the social to the political level in ‘Alī’s story, and the two leaders often become similar not just in the stages of escalating dissent they have to deal with, but also in their resulting moods and tones of speech as well.

THE LINKAGE WITH ‘UTHMĀN’S FATE

The Taḥkīm marked the key moment in the beginning of that fateful transition in the character and belief of ‘Alī’s community. Whereas before the reader viewed Mu‘āwiya’s party as the greatest threat to ‘Alī, after the Taḥkīm, it quickly becomes clear that ‘Alī’s own party had become the greater threat. Bored with the conflict and showing signs of fickleness and unpredictability, ‘Alī’s supporters, as shown so far, refused to abide by his command and insisted that he stop the fighting and agree to arbitration. Although the theatrical nature of the debate between ‘Amr and Abū Mūsā invites skepticism, one must mainly focus on the structure of the account and how it relates to earlier episodes in Islamic history. The exclusion of ‘Alī from the discussion and the evocation of ‘Umar b. al-Khaṭṭāb’s legacy as the perfect model of the caliphate evoke memories of the Saqīfa of Banū Sā‘ida, at which ‘Alī was excluded from the caliphate and which showed ‘Umar playing a decisive role in steering the caliphate away from the Hashīmites. However, the Taḥkīm episode probably also evoked in the minds of readers a variation on the treachery that happened with the Ridda, and here one would note that it was al-Ash‘ath b. Qays, who once was a key leader among the Ridda folk, who led the call for the Taḥkīm and pressured ‘Alī to yield.

Insisting on a halt to the war, al-Ash‘ath demanded that ‘Alī send an order to all the army units, and specifically to al-Ashtar, to stop fighting. Hesitant at first, ‘Alī sent a messenger who, we are told, reached al-Ashtar at a spot where he was fighting and closing in on victory. When he received ‘Alī’s order, al-Ashtar told the messenger, “Tell him this is not the hour to call for a withdrawal. I am very hopeful of an imminent conquest, so don’t hold me back.”⁹⁹ As al-Ashtar kept on fighting, the dissenters in ‘Alī’s camp claimed that ‘Alī had forfeited his agreement and in fact ordered al-Ashtar to do the opposite and keep fighting. Exasperated, ‘Alī responded: “How could this be… didn’t you hear me command him in front of you?” The character of al-Ash‘ath’s party was now becoming clearer. They were not only moody and poor in judgment, but stubborn as well.¹⁰⁰ They showed further signs of treachery when they told ‘Alī, “Either you call back al-Ashtar or we will kill you as we killed [‘Uthmān] ibn ‘Affān.”¹⁰¹

To no avail could ‘Alī convince his followers¹⁰² that the raising of the Qur’āns on spears was nothing but a ploy, and that he knew the ill intentions of enemy leaders from days long past. Al-Ashtar leads the way in this medley of discord, scolding these followers after he quits the fight on the front and goes back to the camp to examine the situation. Ṭabarī gives al-Ashtar a major spotlight as he debates and attacks the dissenting followers. He begins with a cry of outrage and frustration that mirrors ‘Alī’s tone and anger later on. Al-Ashtar declares: “Men of Iraq [ya ahl al-‘Irāq], men of baseness and feebleness! [Will you abandon the battle] when you have won the upper hand over the enemy and they think that you are defeating them? They have raised the maṣaḥif [sing. muṣḥaf; Qur’ān codex or leaves], calling you to what is in them, but, by God, they have abandoned what God commanded in them and the example [sunna] of him to whom they were sent down. Do not respond to those people… Just grant me the respite of a time of the running of a horse, for I am sure of victory.” They replied, “In that case we would be partaking in your sin [khaṭī’a].” Al-Ashtar said: “Tell me, now that the best of you have been killed and only the base ones remain, when were you in the right? Was it when you were fighting and the best of you were killed? In that case, since you have now withdrawn from the fighting, you are in the wrong. Or are you now in the right? In that case, those of you who have been killed, whose merits you do not deny and were better than you are in hell…. Oh you of the dark foreheads, we used to think your prayers were a renunciation of this world and a longing to join God. But now I see that you merely flee to this world from death. Shame on you… After this you will never see glory again. May you perish just as those people perished.”¹⁰³

In these narratives al-Ashtar generally confirms the statements of ‘Alī and goes beyond him in taking more daring and controversial positions. Al-Ashtar’s speech engages questions relating to moral and religious debate that made halting the war not only a poor strategy but a betrayal of religious principle as well. Why did the idea of raising the Qur’āns occur now and not before, al-Ashtar asks. And what is the real meaning of jihād if it can be manipulated for different purposes? Not only were these questions aimed at ‘Alī’s immediate crisis, but they opened wider issues of dissent within the community. The dispute highlighted the absence of a binding religious opinion of the sort that had existed in the days of the Prophet, and its absence now illustrated what he had prophesied about the trouble that ‘Alī would face over the interpretation (ta’wīl) of the Qur’ān.¹⁰⁴

The exchanges that ‘Alī and al-Ashtar had with the dissenting party clearly show that ‘Alī’s strategy to continue the war was the sound political choice, and that his plans as caliph were being subverted by the whims of some of his followers. At that moment ‘Alī’s biography suddenly intersects with episodes in the final year of ‘Uthmān’s reign, when ‘Uthmān tried to engage the Kufans and Egyptians in argument. ‘Alī was about to suffer the same pressure that ‘Uthmān’s government had faced and tried unsuccessfully to resist. ‘Uthmān had insisted that caliphal authority should not be questioned on the whim of individual and factional loyalties: “I would be no ruler if I did what your whims desire me to do [mā arānī idhan fī-shay’in in kuntu asta‘milu man hawaytum wa a‘zilu man karihtum; al-amru idhan amrukum],”¹⁰⁵ ‘Uthmān once said. And as if to empha-size that they were using identical lenses in portraying the plights of ‘Alī and ‘Uthmān at that moment, narrators here make the dissidents in ‘Alī’s camp declare that if he refused to act upon their opinion, they would kill him as they had ‘Uthmān.

The irony in ‘Alī’s fate at that juncture lies in the fact that while he had earlier urged ‘Uthmān to negotiate with the dissidents even as ‘Uthmān insisted on the primacy of caliphal authority over all objections, ‘Alī now found himself in a situation almost identical to ‘Uthmān’s. The thematic connection between the two events is further strengthened by the fact that ‘Alī identifies the group as “ahl al-‘Irāq” in a clear reference to the fact that the same feisty group who challenged ‘Uthmān was now posing the threat to ‘Alī. Narrators here intended not only to show a continuity of group behavior from one reign to the next, but also to reveal similarity in the failures that brought down both caliphs.¹⁰⁶

‘Alī’s plight with the dissidents did not stop with his agreement to halt the fighting. Matters became even worse when this group insisted that ‘Alī designate Abū Mūsā al-Ash‘arī, a man lacking in political skill and characterized as “mughaffal” or “mudhin” (naive or duplicitous)¹⁰⁷, as his representative in the Taḥkīm. ‘Alī tried to resist his followers’ choice of Abū Mūsā, suggesting instead a more capable man such as Ibn ‘Abbās or al-Aḥnaf, yet he was again pressured to accept this designation.¹⁰⁸ One can see no clear reason behind the dissenters’ insistence on Abū Mūsā, except to allow narrators to illustrate once again the poor judgment and detrimental behavior of the Iraqi folk (ahl-Kūfa).¹⁰⁹ ‘Alī was again put in a position similar that of ‘Uthmān, when the latter was pressured by the Kufans to replace the governor of Kufa, Sa‘īd b. al-‘Āṣ, with Abū Mūsā al-Ash‘arī. Events from long ago, in the reign of ‘Uthmān, were shown here coming back to haunt ‘Alī’s political career, and showing the damage that earlier concessions were leading to.

There was similarity in the pattern of circumstances that ‘Alī and ‘Uthmān confronted but also, and more importantly, a trend of accentuation. Aside from their grievances and their pressure on ‘Uthmān to appoint a governor of their choice, the Iraqis, for example, also demanded that he publicly acknowledge his error and offer penance or engage in atonement (iqtiṣāṣ or iqāda). While on some level we are shown that ‘Uthmān was ready to negotiate some issues, as he frequently declared in his talks with ‘Alī, it is repeatedly hinted at in the sources that ‘Uthmān was hesitant to make a public declamation of his rule, and even more reluctant to offer physical penance. Pietistic and self-deprecating speeches he certainly made, but these are treated as religious, not political, declarations. As a caliph conscious of his authority, ‘Uthmān viewed making a declaration (shahāda) of atonement a sign of political defeat.

As we move into the story of ‘Alī and the Khārijites, we notice that the earlier demand that the opposition had placed on ‘Uthmān had grown in the hands of the Khārijites to become a religious cause, as they now stated that they would no longer obey ‘Alī unless he declared publicly that he had apostasized by accepting the Taḥkīm. For their part, the Khārijites said, they had sinned when they once accepted the Taḥkīm and had atoned for that act (“fa-lammā ḥakkamnā athimnā wa kunnā bi-dhalika kāfirīn wa qad tubnā fa-in tubta kamā tubnā fa-naḥnu minka wa ma‘aka”), and now they expected ‘Alī to follow. Shocked at such a request, ‘Alī declared: “May a whirlwind strike you and not one of you survive! After my believing in the Messenger of God, should I [now] testify to unbelief against myself? ‘Then I would have gone astray and would not be of the rightly guided.’ ¹¹⁰”¹¹¹ Thus the ambiguous accusation that ‘Uthmān had violated the law (“khālafa ḥukm al-kitāb”) and acted selfishly had now reached a new extreme, becoming an accusation of apostasy against the new caliph. The stories of ‘Uthmān and ‘Alī were clearly crafted in synchrony to show the extremes to which a perverted piety can go, thereby destroying the community and all measures of right and wrong.

The conjunction of setback for ‘Uthmān and ‘Alī, however, did not grow out of entirely identical responses by these two caliphs. ‘Uthmān had rejected compromise, while ‘Alī, who agreed to the arbitration, still found himself rejected. ‘Uthmān had once stubbornly refused to abandon Medina, claiming his preference to be in the sanctuary of the Prophet, as if implying that his successor intentionally wanted to break with this link, while ‘Alī left Medina for the more strategic location of Kufa, but this did not help him either. Ṭabarī’s work surely recognized the irony of how these divergent responses nevertheless produced identical results. In both cases, the caliphs had done what they saw would save the caliphate (absolutism or compromise) but still found themselves defeated.

All this was now leading toward the fulfillment of a sad prophecy made by Muḥammad about the emergence of a militant breed of schismatics. These were not outsiders to the community, but individuals who had actually fought in some later ghazwa s during the Sīra and essentially overlapped with the Anṣār. Their career transformation was cast as a parable for the individual believer about the danger of overconfidence among the pious and as a warning that served later Sunnī political consciousness about the limits of challenging authority. The occasion ḥadīth literature gives for this prophecy was the time ‘Alī sent to the Prophet a piece of raw gold from Yemen. When the Prophet divided it among four individuals (‘Uyayna b. Badr [al-Fazārī], al-Aqra‘ b. Ḥābis [al-Ḥanẓalī], and a fourth, said to be either ‘Alqama [b. ‘Ulātha al-‘Āmirī] or ‘Āmir b. al-Ṭufayl),¹¹² a man stood up and challenged him, saying, “Be equitable,” or “Fear God, O Messenger of God!”¹¹³ “Woe to you,” said the Prophet. “Who would be more fearful of God than I am?” Khālid b. al-Walīd (or ‘Umar, according to other versions) volunteered to kill the dissident (munāfiq), but the Prophet prevented him, saying that the man was a believer. “But there are many who say on their tongues what is not really in their hearts,” Khālid said. “Even so,” the Prophet said, “I was not ordered [by God] to dig through the hearts of people.” Then he looked at this man, who is described as having a protruding forehead, deep-set eyes, a thick beard, and a shaven head, and said: “There will come from the same origin as this man [min ḍi’ḍi’ hādhā] a people who recite the Book of God, but Its word will not mean anything to them. They will pass through faith like an arrow pierces through a hunt clean of blood. If you catch up with their time, destroy them the way Thamūd was destroyed.”¹¹⁴

This emergent group was none other than the Qurrā’ and Khārijite opponents of ‘Alī, as mentioned earlier. The circumstances of their original disgruntlement, charging the Prophet with unfairness and exhorting him to be more strict in religion, foreshadow their similar challenge to ‘Alī. Later ḥadīth categorizations of this group are murky (easterners, Anṣār, Qur’ān reciters), and Ṭabarī’s usage of these terms is equally loose, but from the similarities in the accusations and tone of the man who told the prophet to “be equitable” and the disgruntlement of Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda over the division of booty after the Battle of Ḥunayn, it becomes readily apparent that the future members of the Saba’iyya, the Qurrā’, and the Khārijites grew out of the Anṣār faction (possibly more specifically the Khazraj group).

Muḥammad, as shown on the occasion of al-Ḥudaybiyya and Ḥunayn, was consistently represented as lucky or successful in averting conflict. But ‘Alī would in time face the full burden of similar challenges. The radicalized offshoots of the Anṣār would wage a brutal campaign against those who did not join them. The story of the Khārijite attack on and murder of ‘Abdallāh b. Khabbāb, when he declared, contrary to their demands, that the ḥadīth “al-qā‘id fī’l-fitna khayrun min al-qā’im bihā” (he who is sitting during a time of sedition is better than the one who is standing) is an authentic saying of the Prophet, is greatly emphasized by Ṭabarī as a tragic example of the revival of the same zealousness that the Anṣār had displayed during the Sīra.¹¹⁵ At the same time, when a Khārijite saw a companion of his pick up a date that had fallen from a tree and eat it, he was severely reprimanded by another Khārijite on the grounds that “this was money taken without permission.”¹¹⁶ Ṭabarī juxtaposed the two incidents to illustrate the warped piety of extremists in general, and the Khārijites in particular. The incident of Ibn Khabbāb’s murder happened before the Battle of al-Nahrawān and was a key factor that forced ‘Alī to postpone his march on Syria in order to deal with the Khārijites.¹¹⁷

THE SECULAR POLITICAL THEMES

We have thus far examined the religious representation of ‘Alī’s interaction with his followers as an exercise anchored in several approaches: the reworking of the Qur’ānic saga of the Israelites, the deprecation of extremist piety, and the cathartic and ironic suffering of ‘Alī for his own history of overpious stances in ‘Uthmān’s time. Ṭabarī’s narratives rework various angles of action from ‘Uthmān’s time to show how they come back to haunt ‘Alī through more extreme offspring examples, such as ‘Ammār b. Yāsir, the Khārijites, and the Qurrā’ and the way these actors use language that ‘Alī had used before.

The ever-cascading irony in the migration of actions and statements from ‘Uthmān’s reign to ‘Alī’s provides key proof that narrators were subjecting ‘Alī to the same judgment he had cast before. A glaring case of this happens in one incident when ‘Alī was reportedly giving a sermon in the mosque, and he was interrupted by a Khārijite man named Yazīd b. ‘Āṣim, who repeated the rejectionist refrain against the Taḥkīm, saying, “Giving in to compromise is a form of hypocrisy [inna i‘ṭā’a aldaniyyati fī al-dīni idhānun fī amri allāh].”¹¹⁸ Like all such confrontations between ‘Alī and the Khārijites, this one led to nothing except a bitter parting between the two sides, but the key allusion in the story lies in the Khārijite’s borrowing of ‘Alī’s own earlier usage of the term when he refused to reappoint Mu‘āwiya as governor after ‘Uthmān died. ‘Alī’s explanation at the time included the point that doing this appeasement would be tantamount to dissembling (idhān). ‘Alī’s words were: “lā udhinu fī dīnī wa lā u‘ṭī al-daniyya fī amrī, lā asta‘milu Mu‘āwiya yawmayn abadan.”¹¹⁹

Another case of similar derivation occurred when ‘Alī later confronted the Khārijites before the Battle of al-Nahrawān, demanding that they surrender the murderers of ‘Abdallāh b. Khabbāb, and they refused. ‘Alī ordered them: “Hand us those who killed our brethren so that we kill them in punishment. Then I will let you go and turn my attention to the people of Syria [ahl al-shām]. Perhaps God will in the meantime reform your hearts and turn you to better conduct.” In response, the Khārijites sent back to ‘Alī the declaration: “We are all involved in the killing of them and we all consider the shedding of their blood legitimate.”¹²⁰ The relation here is to the episode recounted by al-Dīnawarī in which a Syrian emissary asked ‘Alī to surrender the murderers of ‘Uthmān. ‘Alī, as we saw earlier, was at a loss as to how to respond to this request, and when the Syrian emissary came face to face with the followers of ‘Alī in the mosque the next day, he heard them make a declaration similar to the statement the Khārijites made above. ‘Alī was thus putting forward the same limited demand that Mu‘āwiya had earlier put forward, but he received a similar rejection from the opposition.

In addition to serving as a parabolic religious saga, the story of ‘Alī addressed a set of secular political themes that ultimately made it sound both realistic and historical. An efficient summary of the secular dimension of ‘Alī’s story can be found in a comment that Mu‘āwiya made about ‘Alī, reportedly after the end of the war. There Mu‘āwiya declared: “I was aided in the war against ‘Alī with four things. I used to guard my secrets while he divulged his; my troops were the best in order and obedience, while his were the most vile and insubordinate; at the time of the Battle of the Camel, I left him to deal with his enemies. If they won, I would have found them easier to handle, and if he won, I realized, this would embolden him into thinking that he commanded the righteous cause [wa in ẓafira bihim ightarra bihā fī dīnihi]; and I was more beloved to the Quraysh than he was.”¹²¹ In this statement, narrators sum up all the key political issues around which these religious narratives were woven. The failings in ‘Alī’s political style dated back to his first days in power, when he refused to compromise with Mu‘āwiya or to listen to advisors who urged that he work in this direction. But ‘Alī’s failure to hold his military camp together was to become more pronounced as the years passed, especially toward the end of his reign. On the whole, the years after the Taḥkīm were some of the grayest in the life of ‘Alī. Although successful in suppressing the Khārijites at Nahrawān, with a divided power base he never seemed able to advance on Syria. Mu‘āwiya’s armies carried out raids on Egypt while ‘Alī’s followers undermined his authority in a variety of ways. Defections and insubordination were two of the most common flaws that challenged ‘Alī’s ability to wage a sustained war against Mu‘āwiya. The sources, as noted earlier, emphasize the problem of insubordination by juxtaposing the behavior of ‘Alī’s followers with Mu‘āwiya’s. Whereas in Mu‘āwiya’s camp much of the discussion of strategy was carried out in secret and then applied by the pro-Umayyad camp with no objections or interference, in ‘Alī’s camp the opposite was far more the norm. Whether through raising objections to ‘Alī’s decisions or reneging on their pledges, the ‘Alid camp was exasperatingly fractious and obstructed the crafting of an efficient and guarded plan to undermine Mu‘āwiya’s political challenge. Every suggestion ‘Alī would put forward elicited a questioning challenge and an alternative opinion.¹²²

Set against the background of his early political and moral statements, this situation in his camp may have an explanation. One can trace a root for this indulgent behavior of the pro-‘Alid party perhaps to ‘Alī’s original desire to make the caliphal office accountable to the public. His insistence that the bay‘a to his caliphate be taken publicly when he was first nominated to succeed ‘Uthmān and his belief that private planning was synonymous with exclusive family rule had begun this trend. Now, with complicated circumstances on hand, and with his followers having grown audacious and divided, ‘Alī was unable to draw any boundary between spheres of authority. One narrator offers a vivid illustration of this problem. In the course of describing how each side of the conflict planned for arbitration while negotiations were still going on at Dūmat al-Jandal, we are told that Mu‘āwiya’s messenger to ‘Amr during those days used to come and go with messages from ‘Amr’s camp without anyone knowing what information was exchanged. On ‘Alī’s side, in contrast, every time messengers traveled back and forth, the pro-‘Alids would come to Ibn ‘Abbās—who was in charge of leading the prayers in Abū Mūsā’s camp—and ask him: “What did the Commander of the Faithful send?” Ibn ‘Abbās reportedly grew frustrated with this situation and told his camp on one occasion: “Do you not have any reason, men! Can’t you see how the messenger of Mu‘āwiya comes and goes and no one knows what information he came with or sent back, and no one in their camp raises his voice or makes an utterance, while you are every day doubting and having suspicions taẓunnūn al-ẓunūn]!”¹²³

‘Alī was without doubt unlucky in having the supporters that he did, but the political failure that he endured was also in part a result of flawed strategy. The lack of discipline in his camp, for example, was worsened by the way he allowed himself to be misled by rumors told by his associates about competent governors. Hoping to maintain an emphasis on religious values and to stress the accountability of governors (in a style reminiscent of ‘Umar b. al-Khaṭṭāb, whom he cited as an example during the controversies with ‘Uthmān), ‘Alī proved hasty when he dismissed Qays b. Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda, the competent governor of Egypt, and replaced him with the inexperienced Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr. Only after the latter failed to govern Egypt and brought about its loss to Mu‘āwiya did ‘Alī realize that Qays was truly the more worthy of the two and that the information he had received about him was slander.¹²⁴ Another victim of the caliph’s ill-considred judgment was ‘Abdallāh b. ‘Abbās, who was accused by an anonymous source (sometimes named as Abū’l-Aswad al-Du’alī) of having used government funds for his own purposes. This time, however, the story does not give ‘Alī the chance to recognize Ibn ‘Abbās’ competence.¹²⁵ Ibn ‘Abbās is portrayed as having finally become angry with the caliph and resigned his governorship without giving any further chance for debate.

This issue of the divergence between Mu‘āwiya’s and ‘Alī’s approaches to planning was an area of historical description that served important political lessons in the ninth century, as writers began to craft treatises on statecraft and government. The theoretical issue of ideal government was intertwined with religious considerations when the subject, as in this case, focused on the contentions among the ṣaḥāba over the caliphate and particularly on the relative merits (religious and historical) of ‘Alī and Mu‘āwiya. That ‘Alī’s religious character was superior (al-afḍal) was well recognized. However, whether a man who was reasonably acceptable in religious terms (al-mafḍūl) and who possessed the political qualities that suited the time (Mu‘āwiya) was a credible political choice would have been the subject of controversy. In this particular case, examining how government ought to handle the issue of public versus private planning of strategy, narrators used the historically real conflict between ‘Alī and Mu‘āwiya to discuss a theoretical ethical, political, and religious debate of the ninth century.

ḤILM VERSUS IDHĀN

Just as he failed both to preserve the secrecy of private discussions and to keep himself from being misled by rumors, ‘Alī lost the battle of image politics. Mu‘āwiya, although less regarded under the Islamic system, had proved able to revive the image of the Sufyanids as heirs to a tradition of tribal politics and its modes of compromise. With his famed qualities of forbearance (ḥilm) and endurance and his discretionary system of pardons to wrongdoers and former foes, Mu‘āwiya gradually reconstituted a base of tribal support focused on his new center in Damascus. ‘Alī proved to be at a diplomatic disadvantage in this regard. Hampered by strict legal and religious codes that sacrificed all political and social considerations, ‘Alī was unable to compromise for political expediency. Even if he wanted to, his image as a religious guide devoted to repurifying the faith prevented him from showing diplomatic skill.

A key test for him on this level came soon after al-Khirrīt b. Rāshid’s defeat. The story in question relates to the case of the defection of the commander Maṣqala b. Hubayra al-Shaybānī, which invites attention because it had nothing to do with Mu‘āwiya, sympathy for the Khārijites, or anger against the Taḥkīm. Maṣqala, who reportedly was the governor of Ardashīr Khurra, had been sent by ‘Alī to back up Ma‘qil b. Qays al-Riyāḥī in his final campaign against al-Khirrīt b. Rāshid. When the war against al-Khirrīt’s coalition of pro-‘Uthmānids, Khārijites, and Christians has finally finished, the narrator describes a very poignant scene: the masses of prisoners of war, desperate men and women, crying out and anxious to reconcile before being separated from their families in exile. Ma‘qil himself reportedly admitted that he was greatly moved by the scene.¹²⁶ As commander of the punitive campaign, however, he could not do much to change the judgment of war without violating his loyalty to ‘Alī. As the prisoners were led off through the territory of al-Ahwāz, however, they reportedly crossed paths at one point with Maṣqala b. Hubayra al-Shaybānī, a leader among the Bakr b. Wā’il, a tribe that had always had a mind of its own, and they pleaded with him to help them, “O Abū’l-Fadl, protector of the men and liberator of the captives, be good to us—buy us and free us [yā abā’l-faḍli, yā ḥāmiya al-rijāl wa fakkāk al-‘unāt umnun ‘alaynā fa-ishtarinā wa a‘tiqnā].”¹²⁷ No tribal chief, especially a leader in the Banū Shaybān, could ignore the duty of responding to such a plea, no matter what other considerations were involved. Ma‘qil b. Qays was a member of Tamīm, and he was about to see how Bakr b. Wā‘il acts in such situations. Maṣqala now instantly wrote to Ma‘qil, offering to ransom the Banū Nājiya prisoners. Ma‘qil at first disliked having to make a deal on this issue just to appease an important chief of the Bakr b. Wā’il. “Had I known he [i.e., Maṣqala] was asking me this out of [political] sympathy for them,” he said, “I would have ordered his head struck off, even if this were to lead to a war of annihilation between Tamīm and Bakr b.Wā’il.”¹²⁸ Under the circumstances, however, Ma‘qil saw the virtue involved and agreed to the request but set the huge sum of a million dirhams for ransom. Maṣqala could not pay the whole sum at once, so he offered to pay part of it (two hundred thousand) immediately and promised to deliver the remainder soon afterward to ‘Alī. The issue seemed settled for the time being. Maṣqala had acted honorably, and the pain of the fitna prisoners was lifted unexpectedly.

It soon became clear, however, that Maṣqala’s chivalrous instinct vastly outstripped his economic means, since he was unable to come up with the rest of the money. ‘Alī’s repeated reminders to Maṣqala brought back no answers, and Maṣqala, now in a bind, turned to a companion of his and asked him if he thought ‘Alī could forgive him the remainder of the money. Was it possible that ‘Alī could emulate ‘Uthmān’s example with Ibn al-Ash‘ath when the latter was allowed to hold a 100,000 dirham concession annually from the tax revenue (kharāj) of Azerbayjān? “By God, if it was the son of Hind who held me in this debt or the son of ‘Affān, he would have forgiven me,” Maṣqala said. “[You know] this man [i.e., ‘Alī] does not do things this way,” Dhuhal b. al-Ḥārith reminded Maṣqala.¹²⁹ Unable to keep his promise, Maṣqala thus panicked and felt that his only way to safety lay in escape to Mu‘āwiya. And so one day, without giving notice to anyone, Maṣqala packed his belongings and went over to Mu‘āwiya’s camp. When he heard of the news, ‘Alī is said to have shown great surprise at the contradiction in Maṣqala’s behavior and commented: “He first acted like a nobleman, then fled like a slave… If only he let us know [of his predicament],” ‘Alī said, “we would have done no more than investigate him and detain him. We would then have taken what he could pay and then released him.”¹³⁰ This solution may have been lenient in ‘Alī’s view, but it is unlikely that Maṣqala would have accepted even this limited rebuke. The whole incident came to illustrate a key example of contradiction between moral and religious duties.

Maṣqala had acted at the outset in a gracious manner fitting with his rank and credibility within his tribe and region. Whether his motives reflected a genuine nobility of character or merely his sense of pride in his tribal affiliation and rank is difficult to determine and beside the point. The important fact is that his action, wisely gracious, fell more within the system of the pragmatic politics of Mu‘āwiya than within ‘Alī’s style of functioning. It was an action based on political considerations and not religious ones, and he would have been saved, as he indeed imagined, had he been living in a state ruled by Mu‘āwiya, since the two thought along similar lines of social behavior. From ‘Alī’s perspective, or at least from what his followers perceived his thinking to be, Maṣqala’s action was a form of idhān (a behavior of concession tantamount to dissembling) that deserved punishment. From the commander’s perspective, however, the situation he confronted demanded a change in policy, and so when narrators elaborated the details of this story that culminated with the defection of Maṣqala, they were in essence justifying the need for a regime like that of Mu‘āwiya.¹³¹ Precedents for pardon were already set by the Prophet after his victory at Badr and at the conquest of Mecca, and with such a background, ‘Alī was perceived as overzealous in suggesting a reprimand for Maṣqala. One could argue that ‘Alī’s uncompromising measure had a precedent in ‘Umar’s exacting policies, but the logic of the Islamic historical narrative would have distinguished between the times of ‘Umar and those of ‘Alī, with the former being characterized by a more pious generation presided over by a more astute ruler and the latter times depicted as a generation influenced by the experience outside Arabia and in a climate of conflict. There was no reason for Maṣqala to be exacting for a state treasury whose government had all but collapsed.

FRUSTRATION AND FAREWELL

The fall of Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr, ‘Alī’s governor in Egypt, and the loss of that province to Mu‘āwiya in A.H. 38 was a major strategic loss for ‘Alī and created an opening for Mu‘āwiya’s attacks on Iraq. The defeat of Muḥammad b. Abī Ḥudhayfa—another loyal commander of ‘Alī in Egypt—and the news of his murder dealt another major setback to ‘Alī. The fallout of these events materialized in the subsequent year, A.H. 39, when Mu‘āwiya’s commanders and frontier tribal affiliates were able to harass ‘Alī’s domain in Iraq and Arabia at will.

These political and military changes, however, are obscured by a narrative scheme that favors showing the pattern of an endemic crisis on ‘Alī’s side. Ṭabarī does not give an evenly detailed picture of how this came about, but Ya‘qūbī’s history gives a succinct overview of the twilight of ‘Alī’s rule. Typically, the chain of events runs as follows: Mu‘āwiya’s followers initiate a raid (ghāra) on a town under ‘Alī’s rule; then, frustrated with the negligence of his followers to defend his lands, ‘Alī makes a spirited summons to battle (da‘wa) that is heeded only by an exceptionally loyal commander, such as Jāriya b. Qudāma al-Sa‘dī. By the time ‘Alī’s troops eventually respond to the distress call in a particular town, however, Mu‘āwiya’s troops would have fled, and the failure in ‘Alī’s camp leads to further demoralization. ‘Alī then concludes the cycle by making a lamentation speech (khuṭba) that batters his followers for their delayed response and general lethargy and expresses his hope for divine help.¹³²

What resonates most in the tussle of these events is neither the actual military successes nor the failures on either side, but the spectacular speeches that ‘Alī makes to his followers. These exhortations to the ‘Alid followers intensify, particularly after the loss of Egypt, and provide us with some of the most eloquent speeches in Arabic literature.¹³³ With the exception of occasional shouts of support, however, ‘Alī’s exhortations fell on deaf ears and highlighted to him the sad reality that his worst enemies were not just Mu‘āwiya’s camp and the Khārijites but also his own followers. In addition to lecturing his followers, ‘Alī is described as writing various letters to his governors, advising them on proper political action. These letters, which provide a more flattering image of ‘Alī’s attentive governing, invent various scenarios of governors’ shortcomings, and show how ‘Alī sometimes advised a correcting path that would have confirmed a set of familiar maxims such as was known from the mirrors-for-princes genre. Ziyād b. Abīhi was advised not to tamper with the delivery of the tax revenue of Fars after word had reached the caliph about this; Qurẓa b. Ka‘b al-Anṣārī was advised to repair the canal system for the benefit of the community and its livelihood in his region; and Qays b. Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda was advised to treat his troops with equity.¹³⁴ History clearly yields to plain belles lettres (adab) in these documents, and these letters and covenants eventually give birth to an extensive list of wisdom sayings by ‘Alī.¹³⁵ Chronology is clearly of no importance after a certain point in this context, for these sayings become important for the way they stand outside historical narrative and provide the language and tools necessary for appreciating other narratives set in ‘Alī’s reign and elsewhere.

Although it is very difficult to draw boundaries around ‘Alī’s actual territorial sphere of control, much less to determine his exact whereabouts when such incidents as those concerning al-Khirrīt and the fall of Ibn Abī Bakr happened, one can get from the speeches and letters attributed to ‘Alī a very accurate profile of his personality and how it was shaped by political changes over the years. By A.H. 38/A.D. 658, as his reign approached its close, ‘Alī had grown disillusioned with any effort, political or religious, to rally public support. Soon after making his eulogy speech after the death of Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr, ‘Alī wrote to Ibn ‘Abbās, describing his frustration with his supporters:

“In the name of God the Merciful and Compassionate, from the servant of God, ‘Alī, the Commander of the Faithful, to ‘Abdallāh b. ‘Abbās, peace be to you. Praise be to God, for there is no other than He. Now Egypt has been conquered and Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr has been martyred. We look for his reward with God and we treasure him [in our hearts]. At the very start I stood among the people and commanded them to help him before the calamity should occur. I summoned them in secret and in public, over and over again. Some of them came unwillingly, some made lying excuses, and some stayed where they were. I ask God that He give me a way out and an escape from them and that He deliver me from them before long. By God, if I were not desirous of dying in God’s cause [shahāda], then I would not want to remain with these people for one day. May God strive to bring about for us and for you right guidance, rightful fear of Him and His right way. ‘He has power over everything.’ Salutations.”¹³⁶

Ever the understanding and loyal follower of ‘Alī, Ibn ‘Abbās wrote back encouraging ‘Alī to be patient and gave him prayers for imminent victory, saying:

“In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate. To the servant of God, ‘Alī b. Abī Ṭālib, the Commander of the Faithful, from ‘Abdallāh b. ‘Abbās. Peace be upon you, Commander of the Faithful, and God’s mercy and blessings. I have received your letter in which you mention the conquest of Egypt and the killing of Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr. God’s help is to be implored in every eventuality. May God have mercy upon Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr and may He reward you, Commander of the Faithful. I have asked God to give you a way out and an escape from the flock with which you have been afflicted and that before long He strengthen you with the support of angels [wa qad sa’altu allāha an yaj‘ala laka min ra‘iyyataka allatī ibtulīta bihā farajan wa makhrajan wa an yu‘izzaka bi’l-malā ’ ikati ‘ ājilan bi’l-nuṣrati].¹³⁷ God will do that for you and He will strengthen you and answer your call, and He will crush your enemy [fa inna allāhaṣ āni‘un laka dhalika wa mujību da‘watika wa kābitun ‘aduwwika]. I tell you, Commander of the Faithful, that the people sometimes drag their feet and then become eager. Treat them well, O Commander of the Faithful, flatter them and give them something to hope for [fa-irfiq bihim yā amīr al-mu’minīn wa dājinhum wa mannihim]. Ask God for help regarding them. May God suffice to comfort you for the trouble they cause you. Salutations.”¹³⁸

This exchange between ‘Alī and Ibn ‘Abbās is unlikely to have happened and instead was mainly a pro-‘Abbāsid digression positioned after the story of ‘Alī’s speech to his camp in order to serve an important legitimizing purpose. That ‘Alī would write such a revealing letter to Ibn ‘Abbās was intended to show how close the two were. The pro-‘Abbāsid tangent in this narrative therefore carefully strengthened the alliance between ‘Alī and Ibn ‘Abbās in order to legitimize the ‘Abbāsid claim to inheriting the ‘Alid right for the caliphate in the future. ‘Alī writes to Ibn ‘Abbās almost like a governor would write to a caliph, seeking counsel and awaiting orders, and Ibn ‘Abbās, fitting the role, writes back with some words of wisdom on social behavior and effective government. Ibn ‘Abbās comes across as a pragmatic and shrewd judge of human nature, resembling Mu‘āwiya more than he does ‘Alī. This exchange of letters therefore had more to do with historical argumentation over caliphal qualifications than it did with addressing a realistic event. Through Ibn ‘Abbās, the ‘Abbāsids can appear sympathetic to ‘Alī’s sense of frustration, but they seem also to argue for less idealism on the part of the caliph and greater sensitivity to social and personal motives. Political followers may be mundane and materialistic, according to Ibn ‘Abbās, but a competent ruler must work around these motives and co-opt them with short-term gains in order to realize the true and final goal.¹³⁹

The correspondence purportedly exchanged between ‘Alī and Ibn ‘Abbās provides a concluding occasion wherein the caliph sums up his political frustrations to one of his key officials. Another context that the narrators used to evoke a summary of ‘Alī’s beliefs was in his final testament to his children, al-Ḥasan and al-Ḥusayn. There the emphasis is twofold, on ethics and on the affirmation of proper religious rituals. The ostensible occasion for this testament is the question put forward to ‘Alī about whom he was going to name as successor. ‘Alī avoided naming a successor, however, perhaps in a manner meant to emulate the Prophet’s final situation. He then addressed his children as follows:

“I commend to you both the fear of God and that you do not seek this world even if it seeks you. Do not weep for anything that is taken away from you, speak the truth, show compassion for the orphan, succor those who are anxious, act on behalf of the foolish, be enemies to the wrongdoer and helpers to the wronged, act according to the Book, and let no man’s censure affect you while you work for God.”

More specific advice on the ideal manner of applying the ritual was then addressed to al-Ḥasan, as ‘Alī told him:

“I commend to you, my son, the fear of God, the holding of prayer at its appointed times, the payment of the zakāt on its due date, and a scrupulousness in performing ritual ablution, for there is no prayer without purification, and the prayer of the one who holds back the zakāt is not accepted. And I commend to you the pardoning of sin, the suppression of anger, observance of the ties of relationship, maturity in the face of coarseness [al-ḥilm ‘inda al-jahl], acquiring knowledge of religion [al-tafaqquh fī al-dīn], firmness in authority, frequent mindfulness of the Qur’ān, fulfillment of the duties of hospitality [jiwār], commanding the good and forbidding the evil, and keeping clear of immorality [al-fawāḥish]”

In the final testament ‘Alī gives to his children, he states:

“In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, this is the testament of ‘Alī b. Abī Ṭālib. He testifies that there is no god but God alone without partner and that Muḥammad is His servant and messenger ‘whom He sent with right guidance and the religion of truth to make it triumphant over every other even though the polytheists abhor it.’¹⁴⁰ ‘My prayer and my ritual [nusukī], my life and my death, belong to God, the Lord of the worlds, Who has no partner. Thus I was commanded and I am one of those who submit [al-muslimīn].’¹⁴¹ I commend to you, Ḥasan, and all of my offspring and family, the fear of God your Lord. ‘Die only as Muslims and hold fast together to the rope of God, not separating.’¹⁴² I heard Abū’l-Qāsim [i.e., the Prophet] saying, ‘The restoration of unity is better than all prayer and fasting.’

Look to your relatives and unite them, that God may make the reckoning easy for you. Fear God, fear God with regard to the orphans, and neither restrain their entreaties, nor let them be lost while in your care,… with regard to those who have a right to your protection and hospitality [jīrānukum], for they are the commendation of your Prophet, who never ceased to commend them so that we thought he would include them as heirs.

Fear God with regard to the Qur’ān and do not allow anyone to do more than you in acting in accordance with it,… with regard to the prayer, for it is the pillar of your religion,… with regard to the house of your Lord, and do not leave it as long as you live, for if it is abandoned, there will never be another to be compared with it,… with regard to the jihād in the path of God with your property and your lives,… with regard to the zakāt, for it quenches the anger of the Lord,… with regard to the protection [dhimma] granted by your Prophet and do not allow the dhimmī to be oppressed among you,… with regard to the Companions of your Prophet, for the Messenger of God commended them to us,… with regard to the poor and the destitute, with regard to what your right hands possess. Observe the prayer always!

Do not fear before God the blame of any man—He is sufficient protector for you against anyone who has designs upon you and oppresses you. ‘Speak good to the people’¹⁴³ as God has commanded you and do not abandon the commanding of the good and the forbidding of the evil, so that the worst ones among you obtain power: then you will call but no answer will be given to you. You must pursue mutual harmony and generosity, avoiding mutual opposition, separation, and fragmentation. ‘Help one another in piety and fear of God but not in sin and enmity to Him. Fear God, for His retribution is mighty’¹⁴⁴ May God preserve you as members of a family and your Prophet as one of you. I entrust you to God and I bid you farewell, and the mercy of God be upon you.”¹⁴⁵

These two testaments by ‘Alī stand out for their comprehensive provision of religious advice. In the first testament, the focus is mostly on summarizing the ritual, while in the second it centers on inculcating social and ethical views derived from Qur’ānic verses that stress themes of cooperation and communal unity. The emphasis on filial cooperation, avoiding conflict, and equitable treatment of all humanity point to goals that ‘Alī strove for in the disputes of the fitna but found elusive because of political factors. His advice to al-Ḥasan on the need to forgive wrongdoing and suppress his anger (ghafr al-dhanb wa kaẓm al-ghayẓwa ṣilat alraḥim) spells out important qualities that characterized ‘Alī’s behavior, although they pushed his endurance to the limit (whether in dealing with ‘Uthmān, ‘Āisha, Ṭalḥa, the Khārijites, or his own followers).

Speeches and wisdom sayings at the closing sections of important biographies are a common feature in early Islamic historiography. ‘Alī’s testaments, however, are different in the way they resemble the tone and some of the content of the Prophet’s famous farewell speech. On a basic level, ‘Alī’s testaments offer well-known religious advice, albeit his advice generally represents an efficient summary of religious issues. However, with the emphasis given to religious and ethical issues, it seems clear that narrators wanted ‘Alī to play the role of a religious preacher at the end rather than simply being a political leader. The fact that he was addressing his words to his children rather than to the public makes this whole scene appear more like a Shī‘ī waṣiyya from one imām to the next.

In enumerating the rituals or in describing the proper manner of ablution, how one should keep the prayer times, or be mindful of the duty of zakāt, ‘Alī’s statements would have been acceptable to Sunnī Islam. This is perhaps one reason Ṭabarī included them. However, Ṭabarī’s history also contained meanings that did not always square with Sunnī interpretations. When ‘Alī was given the opportunity to describe various religious tasks and principles, he was in essence being represented as the legatee of the Prophet, to whom he refers with a degree of overfamiliarity or daring as “Abū’l-Qāsim.”

When ‘Alī advised his children to abide by the Book, he was in one sense expressing an obvious Islamic position, yet he was also expressing in another sense a partisan (Shī‘ī) opinion, one which dismisses the sunna of the first two caliphs as an additional resource for establishing the law and political practice. In this he was acting within the boundaries of what he had promised he would do at the shūrā scene: rule not according to the precedents set by Abū Bakr and ‘Umar, but according to his own “sunna” (“bi-mablagh ‘ilmī wa ṭāqatī,” as ‘Alī put it). A Sunnī aspect to the narrative was here stressing the independent thinking of ‘Alī by showing that he has to repeat the obvious, and it depicts him giving this advice to his sons, rather than to the public at large. The narrative thus shows that ‘Alī acted till the end as if he was a second point of reference for the faith. Whether wittingly (and here the narrative would be satirizing the fourth caliph) or unwittingly (and here the text would be stressing how ‘Alī was thus allowing Shī‘īsm to read more into these events than necessary), ‘Alī’s words inevitably were making his stature in the early period a source of increasing partisanship.