CHAPTER SEVEN

From Caliphate to Kingship

‘Umar’s Reign and Future Changes

A reader who seeks to establish a firm sequence of causality for the political turmoil that spanned ‘Alī’s reign and the civil wars can easily concentrate on the reign of ‘Uthmān for having provided the background and various radical changes that affected the government of the early Islamic state. However, when the history of this period is read from the perspective of the inferences of the Islamic historiographical scheme, it becomes evident that in fact it is the reign of ‘Umar that holds the real answers, not only about the reigns of ‘Uthmān and ‘Alī but also about the emergence of the Umayyads and the transformation of the Islamic state from a caliphate to a kingship.

We have already seen that information about the reign of ‘Umar was often intended to stand in deliberate dialogue with events and actions from ‘Uthmān’s time. Stories of the conquest, of revived tribal solidarity, and of proper manners of government control that occured in ‘Umar’s reign are twisted or overturned in ‘Uthmān’s time. This type of historical construction is particularly obvious when analyzing speeches attributed to ‘Umar that often establish the ideal against which the reader is expected to read later change, both in ‘Uthmān’s reign and beyond. Perhaps the most significant of these speeches are those given at the end of ‘Umar’s reign, when the second caliph seems to capture a key historical moment of power and equilibrium in both the civil and the religious life of the community. In one such speech, ‘Umar declares,

“God has imposed on you gratitude and instituted the pilgrimage for you as part of the bounty of the hereafter and this world that He has provided for you, without your asking Him or wishing it from Him. He created you, after you were nothing [inna allāh khalqakum wa lam takūnū shay’an], for Himself and for you to worship Him. He had the power to make you subservient to the weakest of His creation, but rather He made subservient to you the general mass of His creation. He did not make you subservient to anything other than He. And He ‘subjected to you what is in the heavens and on earth and made His favors abound upon you, both open and hidden.’¹ ‘He carried you by land and sea.’² ‘And He gave you of good things, perchance you might be grateful.’³ Then He made for you hearing and sight. Of God’s favors to you are those that He granted to mankind in general and others that He granted exclusively to the people of your faith. These general and special favors are continued during your turn of fortune, your time, and your generation [thumma ṣārat tilka al-ni‘am fī dawlatikum wa zamānikum wa ṭabaqatikum]. None of these favors has come to anyone in particular without, if he were to share out what he received among all the people, their gratitude for it being difficult for them and their right to have it overburdening them, except with God’s help along with faith in God and His Messenger. You are appointed successors on earth and conquerors of its people [fa-antum mustakhlafūn fī al-arḍ qāhirūn li-ahlihā qad naṣara allāh dīnakum]. God has given your faith victory. No other community who differs from you in faith is left except two: one rendered submissive to Islam and to those who follow it, they paying you tribute, while the Muslims take the best of their livelihood … and a [second] community waiting for God’s battles and attacks every day and night. God has filled their hearts with terror. They have no refuge to which they can flee or an escape by means of which they can guard against attack. God’s armies came upon them suddenly and right into their own territory. [All this you have been granted] along with an abundance of food, a pouring out of wealth, the repeated dispatch of [victorious] troops and the [successful] defense of the frontier areas with God’s permission, together excellent general security better than which this community had not experienced since Islam came into existence …⁴

This speech reiterates a sentiment frequently evident in the exchanges between the Arabs and the Sasanids before the battles of conquest in Iraq and Persia. The reminders about the hardships that the Arabs knew prior to Islam, their ignorance of religion, and the change in their way of life draw on familiar themes. What sets this speech apart, however, is that its composition is similar to that of the Prophet’s farewell speech. Whereas in the earlier speech the Prophet outlined certain ritualistic points and legal customs, ‘Umar’s speech mainly discusses the subject of historical change and the community’s role among the nations. As he captures the moment of Islamic victory over other nations, ‘Umar provides what amounts in essence to a sketch of a new Genesis story, however this time it is a story of the creation of empire and a new community rather than a story of the creation of man. The ni‘ma (bounty) of mankind’s creation is transposed into a ni‘ma of statebuilding and dominance over other nations. What God had enjoined into a covenant with Abraham and a minority community in ancient time had come to maturity with an enterprise of expansive conquest. And, the Qur’ān’s characterization of Adam’s primordial creation as the symbolic representative of God on earth is extended by ‘Umar into a vision of the entire community of believers as such khalīfas.

However, no sooner does ‘Umar summarize this ebullient theme in moral and religious terms than he begins to give caution, in other speeches, against transformation and downfall. The two pillars of Islamic triumph, according to ‘Umar, are the law-abiding behavior of rulers and the faithfulness of their subjects. He summarizes this partly when he declares, “O subjects, you have an obligation to us to give advice on what is unknown and to cooperate in doing good. There is no forbearance [ḥilm] dearer to God and more generally advantageous than that of a gentle leader [ḥilmu imām wa rifquhu]. O subjects, there is no ignorance more hateful to God and more generally evil than that of a harsh leader [jahlu imām wa khurquhu]. O subjects, he who enjoins well-being for someone in his midst, God will bring him well-being from above.”⁵

The words here were undoubtedly meant to allude to ‘Uthmān and to offer a reminder of how ‘Umar differed in his style of rule. But ‘Umar’s words of wisdom and reflections on potential change do not exist in isolation in Ṭabarī’s chronicle. They simply bring to culmination myriad exhortations made earlier, in various speeches, by Abū Bakr and various Arab commanders on both the Iraqi and Syrian fronts. Abū Bakr’s famous instructions (waṣāya) to his leading commanders (first to Usāma, but also to Yazīd b. Abī Sufyān⁶), Khālid’s jihād speech before the Battle of Yarmūk, al-Muthanna’s speech before the Battle of the Bridge, and Sa‘d’s victory speech after Qādisiyya all revolve around a set of closely related themes. The idea that man should conduct himself toward God with piety (taqwā) and conduct himself in life with the qualities endurance and economy (al-jidd wa’l-qaṣd), patience (ṣabr), and trust in God (tawakkul); and the recognition of jihād (īthār al-jihād) as a noble form of ‘amal are matters that are linked to divine satisfaction (riḍā), favor (ajr) and support (ma‘ūna). Together, these ideas and modes of action converge to describe the epic transformation of the Arab nation from a state of servility and ignorance to one of concordance and triumph.

Before the Battle of Qādisiyya, ‘Umar gives Sa‘d advice consistent with later speeches. “Renew your commitment!” ‘Umar commands. “Admonish your soldiers, and speak to them about [the necessity to have the right] intention and about seeking God’s reward … Stand firm! Help will come from God according to the [purity] of intention, and reward will come according to what you sought. Be cautious with those who are under your command and with the mission entrusted to you. Ask God to grant you well-being, and say frequently, ‘There is no power and no strength except in God!’ … Fear God, hope for Him, and do not be haughty! Know that God has made a promise to you, has taken this matter upon Himself, and will not break His promise. Be careful not to turn Him away from you, lest He put someone else in your place.”⁷ In another letter to ‘Utba b. Ghazwān in A.H. 17/ A.D. 638, ‘Umar advises him as follows: “Keep the people far from injustice, fear God, and take care lest fortune turn against you [iḥdharū an yudāla ‘alaykum] because of an act of treachery or concupiscence [li-ghadr aw baghy] committed by one of you. For through God you have attained what you have, on the basis of a covenant that He has concluded with you [‘alā ‘ahdin ‘āhadakum ‘alayh], and He has shown you His grace in matters He reproached you for. So fulfill the covenant with God and carry out His commands; then He will give you help and victory [yakun lakum ‘awnan wa nāṣiran].”⁸

From various angles, ‘Umar’s speeches warn about the danger of lapsing over time (dawāl), and the possibility of the transmission of divine favor to another nation.⁹ This process of change is not tied to a particular religious dogma or to a chosen group of people as much as it is linked to a profane routine of human conduct. ‘Umar delivers this message clearly when he declares, “The Arabs are noble through the Messenger of God. Some of them may share many ancestors with him. We ourselves meet and support his line of descent after [going back] only a few generations, then do not diverge from it as far back as Adam. [Even so], if non-Arabs carry out [good] deeds and we do not, then they are nearer to Muḥammad than we [fa-hum awlā bi-Muḥammad] on the Day of Resurrection. Let no one rely on close relationship; rather, let him act for God’s reward. For he whose effort falls short cannot get ahead by means of his ancestry [fa-man qaṣṣar bihi ‘amaluhu lam yusri‘ bihi nasabuhu].”¹⁰ ‘Umar’s reputation for egalitarian rule made him an appropriate person to give warning on this score, but the invocation of the image of lineage dating back to Adam and the changing of the present situation that ‘Umar fears are tied to a role for the Creation story in the overall casting of the community’s turn toward fitna in Ṭabarī’s chronicle. In this speech, ‘Umar’s words not only allude to the parable of Cain’s genealogical pride, which cost him divine favor, but also link the fate of Islamic history at that juncture with the whole parable of Adam and Eve.

Although this broader reference cannot be inferred from this speech alone, it does seem to be intended in other declarations made by ‘Umar and from reported events that are scattered through the last years of the caliph’s reign. ‘Umar’s invocation of the Creation parable occurs in a prologue to his instructions where he outlines the shūrā plan. There one can find the caliph bringing that ancient religious theme to closure in political terms. ‘Umar describes to the community how he had debated whether to appoint a successor, but then found it impossible to find a perfect successor. He then relates in a manner resigned to fate, and more in keeping with the dreamy style of Abū Bakr at his moment of death, how he had come to that decision. He says,

“I had decided after talking to you that I would look [into the matter] and appoint someone over you, the most suitable of you to bear you along the true path [aḥrākum an yaḥmilakum ‘alā al-ḥaqq]”—and he pointed to ‘Alī—“but I fell into a swoon [wa rahiqatnī ghashya] and saw a man who had entered a garden that he had planted [fa-ra’aytu rajulan dakhala janna qad gharasahā]. He began to pick everything, both the young tender plants and the mature ones, clutching them to him and putting them beneath him. I knew that God was in control and was taking ‘Umar into His mercy. I do not want to take on the burden [of the caliphate], dead as well as alive. You should [approach] that group of men who the Messenger of God said are ‘among the people of paradise.’”¹¹

This statement is unusual not only for its clear admission that ‘Alī was the most suitable candidate, but also for its establishment of an unusual metaphor, of a man entering a garden and making judgment on its harvest. The imagery used here bears some resemblance to the description in the Book of Genesis of how God entered the garden after Adam’s sin and found out what had happened with the affair of the tree. ‘Umar’s parable uses the garden as a metaphor on life and the abode of the Islamic state, while the act of Adam’s temptation (fitna) is shifted to become the act of the community’s political trial (fitna) with various civil wars about to ensue. The parable is interesting not only for how it links the coming death of ‘Umar with the ensuing trial—a notion consistent with various accounts that portray ‘Umar as the gateway guarding the community from civil war—but also for its transposition of a biblical religious tale into a political and historical one. To the narrator of the story, the Garden of Eden of the Bible had reached its earthly counterimage in Islamic history with the garden of state, a kind of virtuous society presided over by an ideal caliph. There is here the messianic vision of a just ruler (God’s caliph), symbolized by ‘Umar, who presided over an idealized setting that existed in both concept and physical setting, a desert Arcadia, perhaps, that ‘Umar had guarded day and night through vigilant scrutiny of its public and political life. This kingdom was now about to pass, while ‘Umar would thereafter be viewed as the last to rule over it until the time of redemption should come with the mahdī or Jesus.

Therefore, far from being the joyous act of political pluralism and consultation that a modern reader might find it to be, the episode of the shūrā council’s debate over the succession was thus in origin a cataclysmic narrative about the end of the Islamic state and the end of history. The temptation of Adam in the garden is translated into the political temptation of the Islamic community after Muḥammad’s (or ‘Umar’s) death. Since Adam was viewed not only as the father of humanity (Abū’l-bashar) but also in his Persian capacity as Jayumart (Abū’l-furs)—the father of all successive kings whose line came to extinction with the fall of Yazdajird (a fact tellingly mentioned early in Ṭabarī’s chronicle soon after the Creation/Fall narrative)—it would have been immediately discernable to the literate medieval reader that universal history was finally coming full circle in ‘Uthmān’s reign, with divine judgment falling after the twin peaks of revelation and conquest of Persia in the Prophet’s and ‘Umar’s reigns respectively. This theme of anxiety about what is to come is then referred to more extensively in ‘Umar’s final words to the community about the need for agreement on the matter of succession. ‘Umar warns of the specific reasons he believes conflict may come about. The threat to the community, he warns in a manner akin to that of the Prophet in his final sermon (ḥijjat al-wadā‘), comes from within rather than from without.

“I have no fear for you with the people if you remain on the straight path,” ‘Umar declares in his outline of the shūrā procedure. “However, I do fear for you if there is a difference of opinion among you and the people then differ among themselves. Offyou go to ‘Āisha’s room, with her permission, and deliberate. Choose one of you.” Then he added, “Do not go to ‘Āisha’s room; rather stay near at hand.” The narrator then reports, “He [i.e., ‘Umar] put down his head, exhausted by the loss of blood.”

Soon afterward, almost simultaneously with the event of his death, as in the Prophet’s succession, the companions confirm the late caliph’s fear when they quickly enter into a rivalry that seems to be a resumption of the dispute first begun at the Saqīfa of Banū Sā‘ida. The first sign of this comes as ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf opened the shūrā proceedings by asking, “Who among you would be willing to withdraw from [the race for the caliphate]?” No one answered his call.¹² Then, when the community assembled for the funeral prayer over ‘Umar, ‘Alī and ‘Uthmān reportedly competed as to who should lead the congregation in the prayer (presumably with the precedent formerly set for Abū Bakr’s political legitimacy when he led the community in prayer during the Prophet’s illness). Here Ibn ‘Awf had to reprimand them both, saying, “Each of you likes to be a leader, but this matter is not for either of you. It is for Ṣuhayb, who was designated by ‘Umar to lead the community in prayer for three days, until they agree on an imām [kilākuma yuḥibb al-imra, lastumā min hādhā fī shay’, hādhā ilā Ṣuhayb …],”¹³ thereby casting the orthodox praise for Ṣuhyab as the model believer who is disinterested in politics. These images of companion competition and eagerness for leadership were meant partly to illustrate that future rivalries in the civil war had had such early signs written all over them. ‘Uthmān’s future statement against his critics—when he refused the urgings of the opponents to his rule that he resign, claiming that the caliphate had come to him as a bestowal from others rather than as a result of his eager seeking of it—is clearly subverted here by such depiction.

The scene of the shūrā perfectly illustrates ‘Umar’s forebodings (“I do fear if there is a difference of opinion …”). Although here ‘Umar’s comment is general, assigning blame to all of the companions, occasionally the caliph gets more specific. He implies some concern, for example, that Ṭalḥa could prove stubborn and refuse to give his bay‘a (wa man lī bi-ṭalḥa … arjū an lā yukhālif, in shā’ allāh),¹⁴ and he urges ‘Uthmān not to lord it over the community by appointing his relatives to positions of power.¹⁵ ‘Umar even suspects that ‘Āisha will one day use her prestige as Mother of the Faithful to wage war. His criticism of her is indirect, however, and needs to be inferred from the way he modifies his instructions. When ‘Umar declared, “Off you go to ‘Āisha’s room,” then hesitated and said, “Rather stay near at hand [‘inhaḍū ilā ḥujrat ‘Āisha bi-idhnin minhā fa-tashāwarū wa ikhtārū rajulan minkum’, thumma qal, ‘lā tadkhulū ḥujrat ‘Āisha wa lakin kūnū qarīban’]”, it seems clear that he was offering some knowledge of ‘Āisha’s ability to stir trouble. After thinking that he had honored ‘Āisha for her stature as purveyor of ḥadīth by inviting the shūrā members to her house, ‘Umar quickly holds back on his command, clearly fearful—or tendentiously critical—that the religious expertise of a woman would be used for political gain. Given that ‘Umar’s voice in the ḥadīth sources defines many religious laws pertaining to women, his voice in this historical narrative was clearly meant to be consistent with his religious voice, which often controlled or curtailed their rights (a later Sharī‘a development, as discussed above). His quick change of opinion thus shows the incorporation of a Jamā‘ī-Sunnī political commentary that later repudiated ‘Āisha’s political activism and limited her role to that of a ḥadīth transmitter only.¹⁶

DISCORD IN THE GARDEN: THE DISPUTE OF THE SHŪRĀ

We have thus far examined the shūrā scene in its preliminary phase as the declaration of ‘Umar’s instructions and the expression of forebodings.¹⁷ However, the full density of the shūrā scene’s range of allusions only comes to the reader’s attention when ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf sets out to implement it. Here the story weaves together a subtle web of statements and actions that foreshadow diverse moments of future tragedy. In this second phase of the shūrā narrative, the reader should note the cascading style that narrators employed to show a character—here ‘Abd al-Raḥmān—inheriting roles (in words, gestures, or dramatic temperament) that others (himself or ‘Umar) played in previous narratives. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān continues the role that ‘Umar played in Abū Bakr’s succession and foreshadows the role that ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ will play at the Taḥkīm. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān had played a role in advising Abū Bakr on ‘Umar’s succession, but at the shūrā the two characters of ‘Umar and ‘Abd al-Raḥman seem at times to merge. ‘Abd al-Raḥman, for example, begins his opening speech to the crowd of the shūrā by telling them about an epiphany he had, which he describes in terms highly reminiscent of the language ‘Umar used to preface his succession plans. When Sa‘d sought to quickly arrange the succession by inviting ‘Abd al-Raḥman to appoint himself as caliph with the statement “Have yourself accepted [as caliph], give us some respite and raise up our heads [ayyuhā al-rajul bāyi‘ li-nafsika wa ariḥnā wa irfa‘ ru’ūsanā]”¹⁸—‘ Abd al-Raḥmān brushed this aside, saying that he had withdrawn his name from the candidacy. He then described a vision that had motivated him to come to this decision:

“[I saw myself in a dream]¹⁹ as if in a green meadow rich in fresh herbage. A stallion camel came in—I have never seen such a noble stallion—and passed through like an arrow, without paying attention to anything in the meadow, right to the other side without stopping. A stallion followed him in immediately after and left the meadow. Then a fine thoroughbred stallion entered, dragging his halter, turning right and left, going where the other two went and leaving. Then a fourth stallion camel entered, and pastured in the meadow. No, indeed, I shall not be the fourth. No one can take the place of Abū Bakr and ‘Umar after their death and [then] be approved of by the people.”²⁰

There is no doubt a similarity between ‘Abd al-Raḥmān’s dream and what ‘Umar described at the outset of the shūrā story. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān reuses the metaphors of garden (earth) and passage (life) to convey his own disinterest in a political adventure, and this link between the two stories suggests that the narrators were offering a link between these two architects of Jamā‘ī-Sunnī politics and doctrine from a later perspective. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān, like ‘Umar, is portrayed as a man disinterested in holding the caliphal office, as if in an aside of religious advice about the ultimate wrongfulness of the ambition for political power, whether it be crafted by shūrā or other means.

The link with ‘Umar also takes the reader farther back, to the scene of the Saqīfa of Banū Sā‘ida, a story not coincidentally recounted on the authority of Ibn ‘Abbās. There Ibn ‘Abbās quotes ‘Abd al-Raḥmān, who describes ‘Umar resisting nomination to the caliphate in the strongest terms.²¹ The usually roaring ‘Umar is portrayed as modest and calm when Abū Bakr offers to give him the bay‘a, and in this we see a clear attempt to harmonize the voices and temperaments of ‘Umar and ‘Abd al-Raḥmān between the Saqīfa and the shūrā. Both men on these occasions act like masters of ceremony and sources of pressure rather than as real candidates for the caliphal office. And just as ‘Umar gives advice about the proper relation of the Anṣār to Quraysh, so does ‘Abd al-Raḥmān advise at the end of the shūrā that the results of companion “agreement” should not be challenged. The connections between the two scenes were clearly intended to be examined in detail.

A more subtle and potentially more controversial line of allusion in the narrative of the shūrā, however, would have tied ‘Abd al-Raḥmān’s actions to those of ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ and the Taḥkīm later on. As in the events leading up to the Taḥkīm, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān consults key candidates for the caliphal office in private. ‘Amr and ‘Abd al-Raḥmān’s actions are not identical, since the treachery of the former is not so blatantly evident in the shūrā scene. However, there is plenty of overlap in the two episodes, with subplots of caucusing day and night and even a Satan-like intrusion when ‘Amr exhorts ‘Alī to show disinterest in holding the office because this would be more likely, according to ‘Amr, to win him ‘Abd al-Raḥmān’s admiration and the group’s support.²² Even without ‘Amr’s role, however, the story of the shūrā shows a process of consultation that is apprehensive of ‘Alī and appears designed to seek his isolation from the group.

Whereas the Taḥkīm provides an embarrassing case of blatant political deception, the shūrā story was meant to illustrate the need for firmness in political decisions and the crucial role that a statesman plays, even though the principle of shūrā itself showed the religious merit of community consultation and of the companions interacting as equals. The secular messages were equally critical: that consultation can be distorted by kin ties (Sa‘d and ‘Abd al-Raḥmān), that guile can take lesser forms than open deception, as ‘Amr did (the quality of idhān), and that political resolve in the end is necessary for the survival of the state. The word of ‘Abd al-Raḥmān is backed by the sword of Abū Ṭalḥa al-Anṣārī, and it is shown that the community must emerge with a single voice in order to avoid fitna and division. Viewed from this vantage point, the Taḥkīm was undoubtedly a deteriorated form of something that started out more civil—albeit morally ambiguous. But the thrust of Ṭabarī’s political narration probably views the rise of the Umayyads as the natural drift of such secular, political matters of state toward kingship. The bitter edge of ‘Amr’s treachery is removed in ‘Abd al-Raḥmān’s seemingly fair consultation, but it is clear that narrators across these various texts and personalities (‘Umar, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān, and ‘Amr) were celebrating the role of the skillful politician, whether or not he acted with guile.

A reader can gain a firmer grasp of the linkage intended in all these episodes by examining ‘Alī’s victimization as the consultation progresses. On the whole, the story of the shūrā is not sympathetic to ‘Alī’s political assertiveness, and one sees that some companions are in a rush to wrap up matters, just as in the Saqīfa scene. Sa‘d—who seems to control a running back-and-forth dialogue with ‘Abd al-Raḥmān at the shūrā that is reminiscent of the interactions of ‘Umar and Abū Bakr at the Saqīfa, and had started out the whole deliberation by suggesting that Ibn ‘Awf accept the bay‘a himself—becomes panicked when voices of dissent start rising between ‘Ammār and Ibn Abī al-Sarḥ at the shūrā, and he (i.e., Sa‘d) anxiously prompts, “Get it over with, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān, before our people fall into civil war! [ifragh qabla an yaftatin al-nās].” Unlike at the Saqīfa, however, where ‘Alī’s presence is diminished and his victimization is applied by proxy through Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda, at the shūrā ‘Alī’s anxieties and expressions are more passionate and target specific individuals. In the preliminary backstage discussions that the companions reportedly had before ‘Abd al-Raḥmān assembled everyone for a public hearing, the narrator describes how ‘Alī came to Sa‘d b. Abī Waqqāṣ, a cousin of ‘Abd al-Raḥmān, and pleaded with him not to collude in any unfair lobbies. ‘Alī’s words were “I am asking you, in the name of the kinship of this son of mine with the Messenger of God and that of my paternal uncle, Ḥamza, with you, not to stand with ‘Abd al-Raḥmān and assist ‘Uthmān against me. I have connections ‘Uthmān does not.”²³ That Sa‘d, a companion who reportedly stood neutral in the future wars of the Battles of the Camel and Ṣiffīn, was selected to be the object of ‘Alī’s anxiety may seem puzzling, especially in the absence of a recorded reply from Sa‘d to ‘Alī’s plea. However, the narrator’s intent in this case was not so much to illustrate Sa‘d’s role as a participant in the shūrā, but to show Sa‘d as the father of ‘Umar who would commit the atrocity against the ‘Alid family at Karbalā later on. Through his pleadings, ‘Alī was trying to forestall not merely Sa‘d’s bias at the shūrā, but also Sa‘d’s family’s future collusion in an anti-Hāshimite war that would lead to tragedy.

This particular exchange between ‘Alī and Sa‘d may form an exception, with its pointed reference to an event so distant in the future. However, in the main body of the shūrā narrative, ‘Alī’s grievances and anxiety relate directly to the threat being posed against his candidacy. After it seemed that ‘Alī was the sure candidate for the office and everyone present tacitly recognized this (with ‘Uthmān showing that he had no chance of getting elected by sitting at the back of the mosque), ‘Abd al-Raḥmān came forward and, after a brief questioning, proclaimed ‘Uthmān as the designated third caliph. Then an interesting development happens, when ‘Alī begins to voice his displeasure with the outcome of the shūrā, something he had not done openly on previous occasions such as the Saqīfa, and ‘Abd al-Raḥmān sternly tries to silence him by warning him not to challenge the outcome of what he claimed to be the jamā‘a’s agreement. “Do not make yourself open to criticism, ‘Alī,” ‘Abd al-Raḥmān replies. “I have looked into the matter and consulted the people. They regard no one as the equal of ‘Uthmān [yā ‘Alī lā taj‘al ‘alā nafsika sabīlan fa innī qad naẓartu wa shāwartu al-nās fa-idhā hum lā ya‘dilūna bi-‘Uthmān].”²⁴ The words of both actors here are worthy of notice, as ‘Alī replies, “You have always been partial in his favor [ḥabawtahu ḥ abw al-dahr].²⁵ This is not the first time you have banded together against us. But ‘[my course is] comely patience and God’s help is to be asked against what you describe [fa-ṣabrun jamīlun wa allāhu al-musta‘ān ‘alā mā taṣifūn].’²⁶ You have appointed ‘Uthmān only so that the rule will come back to you. ‘Every day God exercises power.’²⁷”²⁸

‘Ali’s disgruntlement finally sounds the opening shot of Hāshimite war with Quraysh, as he gives free expression to the Hāshimites’ frustration that they are being deliberately discriminated against. Evoking the image of Jacob’s victimization by his children (and of ‘Āisha’s ironic use of the same expression in the ordeal of ḥadīth al-ifk),²⁹ ‘Alī says, “My course is comely patience and God’s help is to be asked against what you describe,” thereby connecting the fortunes of the Hāshimite family with that of biblical patriarchs. In contrast, ‘Abd al-Rahman’s comment is that of the established political power, which sternly warns ‘Alī. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān not only misrepresents the election of ‘Uthmān as the result of a judgment of excellence (“I have looked into the matter and consulted the people [fa-innī qad naẓartu wa shāwartu … wa al-nās … lā ya‘dilūna bi-‘Uthmān]”), since what in fact what had tipped the balance was ‘Uthmān’s answer that he would abide by the practices of his predecessors, but he also threatens ‘Alī by saying that the new authority would be justified in acting against him if he continued to grumble (lā t aj‘al ‘alā nafsika sabīla). The exchange ends as ‘Alī departs upset, saying, “[God’s] decree will come in its time! [sa yablughu al-kitābu ajalahu].”

Amid this shocking outcome of the third succession, which still ignored the merits of the Hāshimites, and with the image of ‘Alī’s angry departure putting an end to a premature open conflict with the companions, the narrators leave it to a supporter of ‘Alī to voice amazement at the outcome of the shūrā and express sympathy for him. Standing aside as ‘Alī departs and in full view of what had just taken place, this man, al-Miqdād b. al-Aswad, comments in dazed grief, “I have never seen such things as have been visited upon the people of this house after the death of their Prophet. I am amazed at Quraysh [innī la-a‘jabu min Quraysh] that they have abandoned someone who cannot be matched, in my opinion, in knowledge and the ability to act justly. What, indeed, if I were to find supporters against ‘Uthmān.”³⁰ Although himself a member of the Anṣār, al-Miqdād is used here by narrators as the symbolic stranger-in-town who recognizes the simple truth that the Prophet’s closest kin deserve to succeed him first, and is incredulous at the attitude of the natives, who, like the Israelites before, turned against their prophets and imām s. Al-Miqdād in this context continues a theme captured best in the words of Jesus, when he lamented that a prophet is rejected by his people and accepted by foreigners (“A prophet is not without honor, except in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house” [Mark 6:4]).³¹ ‘Abd al-Raḥmān offers a warning to al-Miqdād as he did to ‘Alī, saying, “Fear God, Miqdād, I am afraid you might fall into temptation [ittaqī allāh fa-innī kh ā’ifun ‘ alayka al-fitna].”³² But al-Miqdād appears to take a more active stand on behalf of ‘Alī. And, just as ‘Alī had effectively declared war on the shūrā members with his comment and his sudden departure, al-Miqdād was used here by narrators as the paradigm of all successive supporters of the ‘Alid revolts, namely foreign support in foreign lands.

‘ALĪ’S DISPOSSESSION: THE SIN OF ISLAMIC HISTORY

‘Alī’s dispossession from the succession on the third round could no longer be viewed as a passing political event or the result of accident. The rich art and crafty attitude with which narrators shroud the shūrā highlight how significant they conceived this event to be. Viewed in the broader sweep of early Islamic history, ‘Alī’s dispossession was an epoch-defining event that would usher in future conflicts and nurture hopes of a messianic figure from the family of the Prophet who would set right the ‘Alid claim to succession.

And yet in spite of the wrong done to ‘Alī, narrators conceived a contradictory perspective of Islamic history, whereby even though ‘Alī was pitied for his loss of the caliphate, his political distancing was still considered a necessity. A number of layers of ideological motives converged in the text to ensure ‘Alī’s loss. Perhaps the most obvious among these is the layer of ‘Abbāsid political interest, which constantly tried to steer Hāshimite leadership away from the ‘Alids and toward the ‘Abbāsid line. Through the depiction of ‘Alī as an unwise strategist, the ‘Abbāsids generally sought to position their competing claim to political leadership from early times.

The ‘Abbāsid political motive overlapped greatly with the Jamā‘ī-Sunnī religious motive, which rested on a different—albeit related—ideological thrust. With the close interrelation among religious textual clusters (ḥadīth, tafsīr, lore) and the reporting role of Ibn ‘Abbās in each of these areas, the subordination of ‘Alī’s historical quest was not considered an unrelated political issue but an integral and necessary part of the religious lore. Ibn ‘Abbās, the ancestral symbol of the ‘Abbāsid dynasty and the anchor of a sprawling legal and exegetical discourse, stood as the key political and religious beneficiary of the narrative trend of the shūrā scene. But in this maze of Hāshimite rivalry and historical-religious links, the man who protected the roles of the ‘Abbāsids and of Ibn ‘Abbās—and, more comprehensively, the Sunnī ideological imperative—was ultimately ‘Umar, which leads us back to the beginning portions of the shūrā narrative and impels the reader to re-explore the unique behavior that ‘Umar displayed when he set out to draft the puzzling arrangement of a limited shūrā.

A prelude to exploring ‘Umar’s role in shaping ‘Alī’s political loss ought to begin with appreciating the drama of his words and actions as he laid out the plan for succession. From the outset, it is worth noting the surprising nature of ‘Umar’s indecisiveness on the issue of the third succession. Whereas in earlier years ‘Umar was famous for stressing the importance of quick, firm steps toward political action, with the benchmark remaining the episode of Abū Bakr’s succession—which ‘Umar never tired of praising as the high point of religious faith and consolidation of power—at the shūrā ‘Umar becomes soft and ambiguous. He appears to distance himself from the community of companions, treating them as equals, and displays a resignation to fate, as if leaving the community to fend for itself in the coming phase of discord and tribulation.

The few words he gave before launching the detailed description of the shūrā offer a nice disclaimer that he has not abandoned his preference for a sure candidate. “If Abū ‘Ubayda b. al-Jarrāḥ were alive,” ‘Umar said, “I would appoint him, and if my Lord questioned me, I would say, ‘I heard Your prophet say that [Abū ‘Ubayda] was the guardian of this community.’ If Sālim, client of Abū Ḥudhayfa, were alive, I would appoint him, and if my Lord questioned me, I would say, ‘I heard your prophet say that Sālim loves God vehemently.’”³³ But both men that ‘Umar mentioned were conveniently not around to spoil the flood of allusive tale-telling Ṭabarī was going to amass. Abū ‘Ubayda had died a few years earlier in a plague in Syria, while Sālim(mawlā of Abū Ḥudhayfa) was most likely either a fictitious character—whose name related to the root of the word “Islam” and thus served as a generic icon of the ideal Muslim believer or ruler, disinterested in politics and greatly devoted to God—or a prophetic praise from the caliph for the future ḥadīth scholar Sālim b. ‘Abdallāh b. ‘Umar.³⁴

With these possibilities unlikely, however, ‘Umar could then be used by narrators to interact with the companions who were around, and not with those who were absent. Thus he turns to announcing in clear knowledge of what is to come how the shūrā will evolve and that it will come down to a choice between ‘Alī and ‘Uthmān. “I think one of these two, ‘Alī or ‘Uthmān, will become leader,” ‘Umar declares. “If it is ‘Uthmān, he is a gentle person; if it is ‘Alī, he has a sense of humor. How suitable he is to carry them along the true road!”³⁵ ‘Umar’s recognition that ‘Alī was a leading candidate and his even stronger endorsement of ‘Alī in other conversations with Ibn ‘Abbās leads the reader to wonder why ‘Umar did not choose ‘Alī.

This was the core dilemma that the shūrā narrative artfully dodges, and the fatal error that brought about the fall of the community. ‘Umar could not choose ‘Alī because, in the entwined political and religious spheres of Islamic valuation, such a political endorsement of ‘Alī at the expense of the companions implicitly meant accepting the Shī‘ī claim of the Hāshimite imām’s infallible leadership. As such, ‘Umar’s choice of ‘Alī would have undermined basic doctrinal and legalistic Sunnī views of the ninth century that challenged Shī‘ī premises of qarāba, waṣiyya, and ‘ilm (the principles of religious authority based on prophetic kinship, designated testament, and gnosis), all of which were considered the assets of ‘Alī. The religious and the historical problems ran parallel. While ninth-century ḥadīth scholars tried to ignore history, however, narrators of these tales set about crafting a story of contested succession, setting two key viewpoints, the Hāshimite and the Sunnī, in conflict and in dialogue on many levels and in various manners, both soberly argumentative and irreverent; but they ultimately always made sure that the voice confirming the jamā‘ī and ḥadīth -oriented views stood out more prominently.

‘Umar’s whole effort from the contingency procedures of the shūrā was essentially crafted to try to put ‘Alī at a disadvantage by equating him with others, involving Ibn ‘Awf as an arbiter (even involving Ibn ‘Umar if need be), and hurrying through the entire process in three days. Religious factors were not alone in shaping ‘Umar’s push of the caliphate away from ‘Alī. Narrators implicitly suggest that ‘Umar (or perhaps the later Sunnī view) saw in ‘Alī a lack of political skill and a certain quality of naive puritanism. In many instances from the time of the Prophet’s death onward, ‘Alī is shown as having lacked the necessary political initiative, and Ibn ‘Abbās as never losing the chance to remind him of that. At the shūrā, too, ‘Alī’s conduct is meant to confirm this impression. Had he shown a little more craft, he could have turned the path of deliberation in his favor and thus forestalled Sunnī gravitation to Mu‘āwiya in later times.³⁶ But this did not happen. And, so from his vantage point, ‘Umar set out to craft a procedure that would lead to a choice of a caliph who would fit Sunnism’s doctrinal and political interests. ‘Uthmān, a man with a reputation for extra ease (līn) and a preference for his clansmen, became here the link with the ideological Sunnī emphasis on the collectivity of the companions, sunna (ḥadīth), and the legitimation of the concentrated political authority about to be vested in the third caliphate.

Sunnī Islam (or ‘Umar’s tendentious view of the new caliph) was certainly not enamored with ‘Uthmān, but if the latter’s qualifications and reign were to be scrutinized, this risked a problematic discussion of the civil war, and the changing worth of the companion community after the war. And although the literature of ḥadīth itself did not rest primarily on the authority of these companions, a lot in Sunnī ideology depended on accepting the companion community as a model of the jamā‘a and as the individuals who abided by the Prophet’s covenants, both in his lifetime and afterward, unlike predecessor communities of the Israelites. Under those circumstances, a defense of ‘Uthmān was ultimately a defense of a complex web of Islamic dogma that rested on the attributed authority of ‘Āisha, Ibn ‘Abbās, Ibn ‘Umar, and ‘Umar. An inquiry into the succession controversy, in turn, essentially amounted to a questioning of the paradigm of Jamā‘ī-Sunnism. When faced with a choice between ‘Uthmān and ‘Alī, Ṭabarī’s narrators could not but choose ‘Uthmān. In spite of the latter’s political mishaps recounted above (his poor advice to ‘Umar on the Persian campaign, his indulgence of governors, and his stubborn ways of rule), ‘Uthmān was made to appear as the loyal follower of precedent, not just of the Prophet but more significantly of Abū Bakr and ‘Umar.³⁷ In light of this, there was no question that ‘Uthmān would receive the coalescing opinion of the shūrā and indeed be recognized as an expected heir apparent for ‘Umar long before the shūrā even happened.³⁸ As far back as the year A.H. 14/ A.D. 635, when ‘Umar first set out on a ruse expedition that preceded the Arab campaign at Qādisiyya, Sayf b. ‘Umar refers to ‘Uthmān as having been called “radīf” for the caliph, a term the narrator explains as meaning “the individual whom the Arabs hope will succeed their leader [ba‘da ra’īsihim].”³⁹

THE RETURN OF THE UMAYYADS

With the community plunged into civil war and the rule of the Prophet, Abū Bakr, and ‘Umar ended, the reader may well imagine that the cycle of Islamic historical narration would conclude with chaos, awaiting perhaps a singular moment of final redemption with the ‘Abbāsid revolution in A.D. 750. Far from being the end of the story, however, the civil war brings about the emergence of the Umayyad dynasty as the credible, newly emerged Arab/Islamic power.

The Umayyad emergence was by no means an anomaly in the logic of narrators who welded the master narrative of Islamic history from ancient times to the ninth century. While narrators conceived of the early Rāshidūn period as an era of ideal rule aided by the grace of providence, they appreciated the Umayyads within a more secular frame of valuation that conceived of the rise of the Umayyads as a return of history to its pre-Islamic stream of secular struggle, where political authority is defined by a moralistic dialectic and by the search for leaders who are competent, charismatic, and of elite social lineage. The gradual shift of the caliphate to Mu‘āwiya was read as emblematic of this transition back to the Jāhiliyya, where the Banū Abd Shams were politically prominent.

Warnings of a potential historical turn in the life of the community have already been noted in the speeches of ‘Umar (iḥdharū an yudāla ‘alaykum—innamā balaghtum mā balaghtum bi ‘ahdin, etc.). The second caliph’s words, however, did not say how history would shape up during this transition or who would inherit political authority. It seems to have been left to Mu‘āwiya to pick up this theme and elucidate it further, to the advantage of the Umayyad family. This Mu‘āwiya does in two crucial narratives that appear to complement one another. The first is his lengthy debate with the Kufan opposition. The second is his blunt address to the companions after he bade farewell to ‘Uthmān and set out on the return journey to Syria. On both occasions, Mu‘āwiya is used by the narrators not only to confirm the views of ‘Umar, but also to articulate a philosophy of history that Ṭabarī and/or his narrators espoused. Of particular importance in Mu‘āwiya’s words is the juxtaposition of two worlds, those of the Jāhiliyya and of Islam, where Islam represents a utopian-heavenly synthesis, which was once realized in ‘Umar’s reign but will henceforth become otherworldly and unattainable. He notes that the umma was blessed in that utopian phase (from Muḥammad to ‘Umar) when it observed its covenants, forsook ambitions, obeyed its rulers, and remained egalitarian.

The danger of historical turn is best summarized in Mu‘āwiya’s declaration to the companions. There, as we saw, he began by praising them as the ones who once presided over this ideal (“You are the companions of the Messenger of God, the best [of his followers] on earth, and those charged with the affairs of this community. No one other than you can hope for that [antum aṣḥāb rasūl allāh wa khīratuhu fī’l-arḍ wa wulātu amrihādhihi al-umma lā yaṭma‘u fī dhalika aḥadun ghayrukum]”).⁴⁰ But he then gives them strongly cautionary words of how this could change if they were to seek to dominate and compete in power. If this happened, he warned, then the traditional, pre-Islamic rhythm of history would return (“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 [wa in aṣghū ilā al-dunyā wa ṭalabūhā bi’l-taghālub sulibū dhalika wa raddahu allāh ilā man kāna yar’isuhum]”).⁴¹

His words of rebuke to the companions contain a religious admonition as well as a reminder that, on secular terms, his family was more suited to rule before Islam and would become so afterward if the community were to abandon the ethic of equality and mutual support that had lent it divine grace since the time of the Prophet. His words also seem to echo what Hurmuzān said to ‘Umar when the two argued as to why the Sasanids were victorious against the Arabs in pre-Islamic times (“In the days before Islam, ‘Umar, God left things between us and you as they were, so we had the upper hand over you, since He was neither with us nor with you. But when He took your side, you gained the upper hand over us [innā wa iyyākum fī al-jāhiliyya kāna allāh qad khallā baynanā wa baynakum fa-ghalabnākum idh lam yakun ma‘anā wa lā ma‘akum fa-lammā kāna ma‘akum ghalabtumūnā].”)⁴² Jāhiliyya, in this context, does not refer merely to a state of religious ignorance, but to a secular balance of political society (of Arabs and non-Arabs) in an environment shaped only by secular mores and coercive power. In this environment, leadership is invested in those competent to hold it and of elite lineage (akramahum aḥāban wa amḥaḍahum ansāban), and who have the virtues associated with their noble rank (wa akmalahum murū’atan).⁴³

In his other speech to the Kufans, Mu‘āwiya extols the merits of the tribe of Quraysh as a divinely selected and preserved tribe that had existed since pre-Islamic times, and he becomes more specific in praising his father, Abū Sufyān, as the most noble of the Quraysh. He digresses only briefly to pay respects to the Prophet’s excellence as a case of divine exception (intikhāb) connected to the religious mission and gift of prophecy. Mu‘āwiya defines authority in terms of class, honor, and moral responsibility, attributes the Kufan challengers lack, then caps his pro-Umayyad speech by rationalizing a religious endorsement of his rule.⁴⁴ As he argues with the Kufans, Mu‘āwiya uses the term “imāma” to refer to political authority, and characterizes his rule, and that of the Sufyanids more generally, as taking charge of the role of the imāms. But what Mu‘āwiya means in this usage goes beyond the Sunnī religious sense of “imām” as a prayer leader to encompass a more secular and universalist meaning that perhaps stood closer in meaning to the ancient Persian conception of the monarch as a divinely blessed ruler.⁴⁵ Mu‘āwiya was speaking more of the hierarchical order when he spoke of the “a’imma,” even as his words may have intersected with the polemical ḥadīth conceptions of the imām’s importance.⁴⁶ This deliberate double use of the was not the only example of a term in Mu‘āwiya’s polemic harboring a double meaning, one that is generic and linguistic, and another that is politically authoritarian.⁴⁷

The emphasis on class in Mu‘āwiya’s political definitions surfaces in another way when he denounces the social background of his opponents, particularly that of Ṣa‘ṣa‘a b. Ṣuḥān, and their lack of purpose in challenging the governor of Kufa. This attack was perhaps meant to run parallel to his other criticisms of the companions, such as when he warned them before his return to Damascus of what might happen if they overthrew ‘Uthmān. Although Mu‘āwiya’s words there are not as scathing as those he gives to Ṣa‘ṣa‘a (that his village was the most wretched, etc.), he makes his point clearly enough when he tells the companions that none of them were leaders before Islam (fa-lam yakun minkum aḥadun illā wa fī faṣīlatihi man yar’isuhu wa yastabiddu ‘alayhi wa yaqṭa‘ al-amr dūnahu wa lā yushhiduhu wa lā yu’āmirahu ḥattā ba‘tha allāh jalla wa ‘az nabiyyahu).⁴⁸ The notions that various tribes are headed by natural leaders and that the Islamic community inherited the same pattern of leadership seems clear from Mu‘āwiya’s language. His speeches to the Kufans and to the Medinans were meant to intersect at several points and eventually to allow the reader to take a conclusion from one, apply it to the other, and then build on it with the words of ‘Uthmān.⁴⁹ In the declarations of both Mu‘āwiya and ‘Uthmān there is an emphasis on the need for leadership, which is juxtaposed with the alternative of chaos (fitna). Challenging leadership as thoroughly as the opponents of ‘Uthmān did is viewed by Ṭabarī’s narrators as leading to the downfall of nations. As ‘Uthmān commented in his warnings to the opposition, “You will never find a community [umma] that has been destroyed except after it has fallen term imām into discord. [Such a community can be saved] only if it has a head who can unite it. If ever you do that, you will not perform the prayer together, your enemy will be given power over you, and you will disagree as to what is lawful or forbidden [fa-innakum lam tajidū ummatan halakat illā min ba‘di an takhtalifa illā an yakūna lahā ra’sun yajma‘uhā wa matā taf‘alū dhalika lā tuqīmū al-ṣalāta jamī‘an wa sulliṭa ‘alaykum ‘aduwwukum wa yastaḥillu ba‘ḍukum ḥurama ba‘ḍin … wa takūnū shiya‘an].”⁵⁰

What differentiated ‘Uthmān and Mu‘āwiya was not the adamant stress on preserving central rule, but the methods they used in dealing with the opposition. Unlike Mu‘āwiya, ‘Uthmān was willing to debate with the opposition at greater length and with more patience, and he was hesitant to use force even when it was recommended by his advisors. At the famous general gathering in Medina of ‘Uthmān’s governors on the heels of complaints cast by the Kufans against their governor, ‘Uthmān listened patiently to all the proposed views, in the sober manner characteristic of al-Ma’mūn at a similar later assembly before the outbreak of war with his brother in A.D. 194/ A.D. 810.⁵¹ After ‘Uthmān’s governors advised strong action against the dissidents, Mu‘āwiya recommended to the caliph that he listen to their advice, since they knew the situation in their provinces best. He then boasted that Syria was a model of a stable community, and said that this was a result of his capable rule and/or the virtue of the people of that province (this is left ambiguous). “You have made me a governor over a people,” Mu‘āwiya said, “about whom you hear nothing but good [qad wallaytanī fa-wullītu qawman lā ya’tīka ‘anhum illā al-khayr].”⁵² He then added, “These two men [Sa‘īd b. al-‘Āṣ of Kufa and ‘Abdallāh b. Sa‘d of Egypt] know best about their own districts [wa al-rajulān a‘lam bi-nāḥiyatihimā].”⁵³ When asked what he thought was the wise strategy or sound opinion in handling the situation (fa-mā al-ra’y ?), Mu‘āwiya said the caliph should use some toughness in dealing with opponents: “stern discipline” (ḥusn al-adab), his code for repression.⁵⁴ This ‘Uthmān refused to do. His refusal in this context was not grounded in weakness (although this is certainly a layer of reading for the text that puts it in a continuous line with his pattern of interaction with ‘Alī and Marwān later on), but rather was a choice made in light of his pious apprehension of causing bloodshed. The significance of the text then turns from being an analytic political counsel to a description of a predestined issue when ‘Uthmān declares in resignation, “What we fear might happen to the umma shall indeed come to pass, but the way to hold things back is through leniency, generous treatment, and the gratification [of desires], except if the matter relates to the commandments of God [al-līn wa’l-mu’ātāt wa’l-mutāba‘a illā fī ḥudūd allāh]… . Restrain the people, bestow their rights upon them, and forgive them[kafkifū al-nās wa ightafirū lahum].”⁵⁵ He had opted to become a Jesus-like victim of an irreconcilable opposition.

In a comparison of Mu‘āwiya’s and ‘Uthmān’s viewpoints on the crisis and the consequences of ‘Uthmān’s pious stance, Ṭabarī’s accounts of subsequent events seem clearly intended to show the series of dilemmas that were bound to face the community as a result of the opposition ‘Uthmān confronted, the kind of ruler he was, and the clash between secular and religious methods being discussed by the caliph and his governors. In an important sense, it was ‘Uthmān’s lenient policies that led to the caliph’s victimization and the spread of chaos, which thus raised the question of whether ‘Uthmān’s conciliatory religious approach ought to be replaced by a more authoritarian government that would be more effective in establishing public order and stability. On this political level, Ṭabarī’s accounts succeed one another with a clear secularist escalation. The religious ‘Uthmān gives way to the more savvy Mu‘āwiya, and the lenient government of al-Mughīra in Mu‘āwiya’s time will in turn give way to the tougher policies of Ziyād b. Abīhi. Everything is strung together in Ṭabarī’s narratives to favor the priority of political order as the crucial condition for the religious well-being of the jamā‘a.

During the fitna Mu‘āwiya’s discourse is closely tied in with ‘Uthmān’s on this level, but they both find a political ancestor in the discourse of ‘Umar and his exhortations for obedience to authority. That ‘Umar also held the caliphs accountable for their own actions was crucial—as was the recognition that ‘Uthmān’s varied innovations provoked much of the resentment against him—but such counterarguments were something that the narratives suspended when other lines of meaning were held as more prominent. It was now not the egalitarian quality of ‘Umar’s government that the later narratives sought to evoke, but the second caliph’s hayba (charisma), his all-encompassing definition of the caliphate (sulṭān allāh, the hegemone of God) as a binding moral institution, and his emphasis on the subjects’ duty for obedience.⁵⁶ The stern language of ‘Umar’s speeches, which was meant to herald the religious triumph over the Sasanids and provide warnings about changes to the lifestyle of faith, gradually provides a model of pure political control as similar phrases, exhortations, and commanding language are used by Umayyad leaders to establish their rule.

Such parallels of borrowing in Umayyad times sometimes appear in Mu‘āwiya’s wise and somber sayings, in speeches that seem to echo the wisdom of ‘Umar. But the most uncanny resemblance occurs in offspring speeches by commanders such as al-Mughīra b. Shu‘ba and Ziyād b. Abīhi. Without attribution, some declarations of these commanders could easily be mistaken for the assertions of ‘Umar.⁵⁷ The texts show a similarity in their charismatic presence, firm and quick assertions, and varied tones of reflection on past experience and what methods of government work best with the public. Different styles of governing and toughness are meant to be a response to threats to caliphal rule, but indirectly they are also justified as ways of managing the security of the community. The chain of Sasanid political logic is Arabized by the Umayyads, although their rule is never quite Islamized, except in the broadest respect to broad principles and the claim of continuity with the early Medinan caliphate. Al-Mughīra, the more lenient of the two commanders, showed his skill in forestalling a Khārijite revolt in A.H. 42/ A.D. 662. Despite his assertiveness, however, al-Mughīra remained a patient governor, made wiser by years of interaction with different leaders and the shifting tide of Qurashī rivalry.

But as times changed—and the chronicles portray Kufa and Basra as having become zones of chaos and depredation, not just because of zealots but also brigands and gangs—the narratives seem to prepare the way for the arrival of greater authority with Ziyād b. Abīhi. With various threats meant to intimidate the established government and openly contentious issues about the previous fitnas, Ziyād would take his approach of emulating ‘Umar to a very menacing extent in the thundering speech he gave upon his assumption of the governorship of Basra in A.H. 45/A.D. 665. The irony of this transition toward a path of authority lies not only in the way narrators crafted later speeches that evoked parallels with the past, but also in how they sometimes showed ‘Umar himself as having expected the transition to happen, making him anticipate the trend toward despotism, albeit in purely parabolic terms.⁵⁸ The same issues of how to establish public order and community loyalty concerned personalities as varied as ‘Umar, ‘Uthmān, Mu‘āwiya, al-Mughīra, and Ziyād, yet the response constantly brought an increase, not a lessening, in political authoritarianism in the transition from Rāshidūn to Umayyad rule.⁵⁹

MU‘ĀWIYA B. ABĪ SUFYĀN: THE FIFTH OF THE RĀSHIDŪN?

That the Umayyads were praised by the Sunnī narrators can indeed seem odd, given that their rule is recognized in traditional histories as that of “kings” and given the Umayyad clashes with various religious oppositions over the years. Mu‘āwiya in particular could be faulted the most, since he challenged ‘Alī’s caliphate, used all manners of conspiracy to further his control, and left the community with his designated successor, Yazīd, who ruined any chances for reconciliation after the civil war. The image of the Umayyad dynasty, however, rests on various considerations in the texts, many of which were not meant to be negative. Although the Umayyads did act in a clan-centered manner, introduced the principle of a double succession, and levied excessive taxes on occasion, they were also viewed as possessing tribal virtues that made them worthy to rule even if they were secular. The qualities of muruwwa, najda,ḥilm, and ‘aql (chivalry, bravery, patience, and common sense) that they brought to the caliphate offered the best that pre-Islamic Arabian society could offer, and these attributes would be represented so often as the forte of the Sufyanids that in a way they handed them down in their family as a waṣiyya (testament of advice), in a way strong enough to rival the gnostic testaments that the ‘Abbāsid imāms handed down in their own family.⁶⁰ And in spite of the Umayyad disinterest in collaborating with ḥadīth and other religious scholars, their rule was generally viewed in later times as more beneficial in material terms than even that of their successors, the ‘Abbāsids.⁶¹ Mu‘āwiya represented the epitome of the munificent Umayyad whose generosity and tolerance toward allies and rivals made him seem to be the last of the tribal shaykhs.

That Mu‘āwiya represented an admirable example of an Arabian “king” can easily be appreciated from these qualities. However, it may be possible even to argue that in the way they depicted Mu‘āwiya, Ṭabarī’s narrators also intended to portray him as the last of the Rāshidūn caliphs. Admittedly, the term “Rāshidūn” has a strong polemical Sunnī sense, which religious scholars devised to suggest a harmony among the first four caliphs as individuals of equal virtue. The term was also intended to refer, however tenuously, to the existence during this time of a cohesive jamā‘a—a community with a consensus—which the caliphs were eager to preserve. It is in the context of this latter feature particularly that the historian can actually link Mu‘āwiya’s approach to political action during the civil war with the Rāshidūn. For, much as ‘Alī asserted his authority on the basis of community support, Mu‘āwiya also laid a similar claim to leadership on the basis of jamā‘ī support,⁶² and spent much of his political career adapting his authoritarian claim to the frame of the community’s interest, negotiating this on the basis of a set of secular virtues.

These merits were of course enhanced by the fact that Mu‘āwiya was a companion of the Prophet. It was well known that the Sufyānids had converted late, and that Mu‘āwiya did not have as illustrious a religious past as Abū Bakr or ‘Umar, but Mu‘āwiya was viewed as having other attributes that made his family close to that of the Prophet. Mu‘āwiya’s sister was married to the Prophet, which put him on a footing to rival Abū Bakr and ‘Umar,⁶³ and ḥadīth literature would later exaggerate Mu‘āwiya’s role as a companion to the Prophet, calling him “kātib al-waḥy” (scribe of revelation), and in fact claimed that the Prophet had predicted his rule. (Much of this dates to ninth-century Ḥanbalī propaganda.⁶⁴) Also strengthening his early Sunnī credentials for later generations was the fact that he had served the second caliph as governor of Syria, where he succeeded his brother Yazīd after the latter died in A.H. 17/ A.D. 638; Mu‘āwiya was allowed to remain in that office even as the caliph shuffled and dismissed governors in the southern Iraqi towns.⁶⁵

It was the association of his name with the caliphate of ‘Umar that greatly enhanced Mu‘āwiya’s political image in the jamā‘ī view. This is evident from the very beginning, in arguments with the Kufan opposition in A.H. 33/ A.D. 653, when Mu‘āwiya prepared the public for his leadership. Al-Wāqidī’s version of the context of Mu‘āwiya’s declaration begins with a brief exchange in which a member of the opposition delegation asserts, “We command you to resign your office [‘amal], for among the Muslims there is one who has better right to it than you.” When Mu‘āwiya asked, “Who is that?” Ṣa‘ṣa‘a b. Ṣūḥān replied, “Someone whose father had a higher standing in Islam than yours, and who himself has a higher standing than you.” Here the delegation was clearly referring to the office of the caliphate, rather than mere provincial administration, when they were asking Mu‘āwiya to step aside. Ṭabarī’s narrator was reifying the rivalry and debate between ‘Alī and Mu‘āwiya four years before its time, turning it into a subplot of this debate between a governor and his opposition. Mu‘āwiya’s assertion of political self-legitimation then comes across strongly in the next part of the exchange, when he declares,

“By God, I have some standing in Islam. There were others whose standing surpassed mine, but in my time there is no one better able to do my job than I [laysa fī zamānī aḥadun aqwā ‘alā mā anā fīhi minnī].⁶⁶ ‘Umar b. al-Khaṭṭāb was of this opinion, and had there been a man more capable than I, ‘Umar would not have been indulgent in regard to me or anyone else [fa-law kāna ghayrī aqwā minnī lam yakun lī ‘inda‘Umar hawāda wa lā li-ghayrī]. Nor have I instituted any innovation that would require me to resign my office. Had the Commander of the Faithful and of the Community of Muslims thought so,⁶⁷ he would have written to me.”⁶⁸

The language Mu‘āwiya uses throughout is one of loyalty to the caliph and service to the jamā‘a. ‘Umar’s appointment of Mu‘āwiya to Syria’s governorship had an almost irrevocable quality in the absence of a flagrant transgression. So for ‘Alī to have sought to dismiss Mu‘āwiya from office, even before the latter opposed him on the grounds of avenging ‘Uthmān, appeared in Sunnī valuation as a symbolically impertinent action, however altruistic it may have been in motive. By the same token, Mu‘āwiya’s resistance to ‘Alī seemed in this context more understandable, since he was appointed by ‘Umar and was posing legitimate questions (about bringing ‘Uthmān’s assassins to justice) to a caliph whose involvement in the event was dubious and whose political wisdom was questionable. With such a networking of past and present discourses, narrators could negotiate a greater level of authority for Mu‘āwiya’s rule in Syria, framing it as a remnant unit of Rāshidūn rule capable of ruling the entire caliphate.⁶⁹ As such, Mu‘āwiya was not the first of the Umayyads, but the last restorer of political order in the early Islamic state.

From this perspective, Mu‘āwiya’s election is judged not in light of the freak result of the Taḥkīm, but as an effort to repatch the community, which is reflected in the way chroniclers generally referred to Mu‘āwiya’s final accession to the caliphate in A.H. 41 as “the year of the consensus”(‘ām al-jamā‘a). Through this action, and due to his association with the times of the Prophet and the first two caliphs, Mu‘āwiya’s reputation gains merit.⁷⁰ Ṭabarī’s chronicle confirms this impression when he devotes more attention to praiseful anecdotes about Mu‘āwiya’s qualities and capability to rule than to ‘Alī, who gets but a slim two pages.⁷¹ And here, as in the aforementioned speech by Mu‘āwiya, the reader can note the high proportion of anecdotes attributed to ‘Umar in which he makes favorable comments about Mu‘āwiya. In all of these ‘Umar admires Mu‘āwiya on political and moral grounds, not religious ones. One such anecdote, describing an encounter between Mu‘āwiya and ‘Umar when the caliph came to examine the province, deserves a full description for its allusive implications.

Ṭabarī relates that when the caliph arrived with his advisor, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf, both were riding donkeys. Mu‘āwiya, who had set out in a lavish parade of cavalrymen to meet them, seems to have passed them on the road, not knowing who they were, until he was alerted that these were probably the visitors. When he returned to them, Mu‘āwiya dismounted and walked beside ‘Umar for some distance as the caliph ignored him. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf then said to ‘Umar, “You have tired the man!” ‘Umar turned to Mu‘āwiya and declared, “O Mu‘āwiya, you head such retinues, while petitioners, I heard, are standing at your door.” Mu‘āwiya replied, “Yes, O Commander of the Faithful.” “Why is that?” ‘Umar asked. Mu‘āwiya replied, “Because we are in a land which is infiltrated by the spies of the enemy, and there is a need that they be awed by the majesty of Islamic rule [fa-lā budda lahum min haybat al-sulṭān]. If you command me to remain in this manner, I will do so, and if you command me to change ways, I will also do it.” ‘Umar then answered, “If this is true, then yours is the wise judgment of an intelligent man [ra’yu labīb], and if it is untrue, then it is the savvy deception of the sophisticated man [khid‘atu adīb]. [I never debated you in anything and found myself anything but puzzled.] I shall neither command you, nor forbid you to do this.”⁷²

At first the dialogue between the caliph and his governor seems to form the primary point of the anecdote, as it shows the wit and political tact of Mu‘āwiya in handling both the affairs of his province and the criticism of his suzerain. While it achieves a literary purpose, however, the anecdote also opens a broader dialogue regarding political methods between a ruler from one era (the Rāshidūn) and a ruler from another (the Umayyad). Mu‘āwiya is not here disparaged as an arbitrary autocrat, as the stereotype of the Umayyads generally goes, but as a ruler adjusting to the conditions of a province adjoining the Byzantine empire that required a different style of rule. Still, even as he is allowed such an exception for political behavior, Mu‘āwiya is portrayed as the loyal official willing to bend to the commands of the arch symbol of Sunnism. Taking all of this into account, ‘Umar in the end opts to let Mu‘āwiya remain in his established condition, it is implied, because he either admires his skillful answers, believes that there is a danger in the continuing rivalry with the Byzantines, or simply finds in Mu‘āwiya the new way of the future and its needed rulers. A greater political legitimacy is thus bestowed on Mu‘āwiya as someone who is semi-autonomous in forming judgments, and he is allowed this new status less on the basis of his lineage or companionship than on his discernable qualities of statecraft. Mu‘āwiya in essence becomes a successful Arab counterpart for Khusraw or Caesar, in the words of ‘Umar, much as circumstances once demanded that the Arabs put forward ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ to match the military guile of al-Arṭabūn.⁷³

Narrators clearly saw in Mu‘āwiya a worthy successor of ‘Umar and commander of the jamā‘a. The unusual praise that ‘Umar bestowed on Mu‘āwiya finds no parallel in the evaluations of any of the other governors or even the senior companions, whom ‘Umar directly considered for caliphal succession (as is evident in the discussion between ‘Umar and Ibn ‘Abbās on this topic).⁷⁴ However more practical was ‘Umar’s leadership than that of ‘Alī, it was clear that narrators saw Mu‘āwiya’s political style as even more realistic. Narrators who compared ‘Umar and Mu‘āwiya found the latter to have better political skills for the jamā‘a, and showed their distance from the ultra-asceticism of ‘Umar.⁷⁵

The medieval narrators recognized that leaderships need to adjust differently as people change with changing times.⁷⁶ This undoubtedly created a deficit of piety for later caliphs, who compared themselves with the earlier times of the Rāshidūn but could do little to make the religious and political welfare of the community remain in harmony. Mu‘āwiya was the first caliph to note this, when he compared himself with the Rāshidūn and found himself falling short. This happened on one occasion when he was examining conditions in Syria. As he journeyed back to Damascus, and just before he entered the city, he ordered a stop for rest. The narrator then describes:

Carpets were laid out for the caliph on a summit location overlooking the road, and he sat down and gave me permission to sit with him.[Soon] the caravans were passing by, as were the loaded baggage trains, camels of transport, and the horses. He then reflected and said to me, “O Ibn Mas‘ada, may God have mercy on Abū Bakr. He did not seek this world, nor did it want him. As for ‘Umar,” or he may have said “Ibn Ḥantama” [the Sufyanid pejorative nickname of ‘Umar], “the world sought him but he turned away from it. And then came ‘Uthmān, who chose to take things from this world, and it took its share from him. And then we wallowed in this world [wa ammā naḥnu fa-tamarraghnā fīhā].” But as if he then felt regret [thumma ka’annahu nadim], the narrator says, he added, “[By God], it is only kingship that God seems to have bestowed on us [innahu la-mulkun ātānā allāh iyyāh].”⁷⁷

Ṭabarī’s account of Mu‘āwiya’s context for this statement is a classic Sunnī political anecdote of the ninth century, which looked back on certain periods of political stability before the onset of conflict as exemplary times for the jamā‘a, the most prominent of these being the reigns of ‘Umar b. al-Khaṭṭāb, Mu‘āwiya b. Abī Sufyān, and Hārūn al-Rashīd. Since the latter caliph was contemporaneous with and may have interacted with the famous ascetic ‘Abdallāh b. al-Mubārak, Ibn al-Mubārak was chosen in these anecdotes to recount such edifying stories about the caliphs.⁷⁸ In descriptive terms, the story bears two aspects of linkage. The first is with the Sīra, specifically the scene of the conquest of Mecca when Abū Sufyān is described as sitting with al-‘Abbās, also at a vantage point, surveying the marching troops of the Prophet as they passed on a road symbolizing the establishment of the Islamic state. What Abū Sufyān had once admired as the rise of the prophet’s “kingship” in his famous observation to al-‘Abbās—“The dominion of your nephew has indeed become great [laqad aṣbaḥa mulku ibni akhīka ‘aẓīman]”—now becomes the dominion of Mu‘āwiya as the latter surveys the riches of the world passing by his throne in Damascus. The second probable link relates to the above-described scene of ‘Umar’s encounter with Mu‘āwiya in Syria. Mu‘āwiya expresses his reflective sentiments as he is about to reenter Damascus, just where ‘Umar did the same; and in contrast to his sure comments to the second caliph at the time, Mu‘āwiya speaks with some regret, as if this time finally accepting the caliph’s criticisms.

The message of religious reflection is woven via artful displacement and restoration in the main actors’ positions (‘Umar and Mu‘āwiya). In the latter story, however, Mu‘āwiya’s reflection goes beyond commenting on the differences in the ways of the early caliphs, to encompass some doubt about how the succession had ended and was yet to go. The narrator seems to imply that after the tumultuous events leading to Mu‘āwiya’s accession—circumstances that were undoubtedly acknowledged to be an error (a final falta, perhaps)—there needed to come a phase of stability when authority would not be questioned again. Mu‘āwiya gets the advantage from this, with the narrator implying that he was predestined to rule (innahu la-mulkun ātānā allāh iyyāh), and the community is implicitly exhorted to accept a stable political regime to serve as a foundation to its more important pursuits: maintaining the unity of the jamā‘a and observing religious rituals. Any nostalgia for the times of the Rāshidūn, especially for the open government of the second caliph, is rejected as no longer suitable.⁷⁹

‘Abd al-Malik b. Marwān would go farther than Mu‘āwiya, who did no more than acknowledge the difference in his rule from that of the Rāshidūn, by banning the pious publicizing of stories about the Rāshidūn, especially about the caliph ‘Umar. The continued recounting of such historical lore (al-maghāzī wa’l-siyar), he asserted, was often meant to be insulting to current rulers, and emboldened subjects to challenge those in authority.⁸⁰ In another famous remark (sometimes included in a speech he reportedly gave after the pilgrimage in A.H. 75/ A.D. 694), ‘Abd al-Malik confirmed this theme when he addressed the people of Medina, saying, “A lot of unrecognizable lore has been coming to us from the east [wa qad sālat ‘alaynā aḥādīth min qibal al-mashriq lā na‘rifuhā], but I command you to adhere to what is in the Qur’ān that ‘Uthmān [referred to as “al-imām al-ma ẓ lūm”] compiled for you, and to your religious obligations [‘alaykum bi’l-farā’i ḍ].”⁸¹ He also declared, “We shall tolerate anything from you except leading an insurrection or starting a religious war [‘aqdu rāya aw wuthūb ‘alā minbar].”⁸²

The Islamic state makes a decisive turn toward kingship in Mu‘āwiya’s reign, and Islamic tradition seems to accommodate this within a new conception of predestiny. The concept of the divine selection of rulers is disconnected from any pious competition among traditional contenders for the caliphate among the Quraysh; the caliphate is viewed by later thinkers as simply the gift of inscrutable providence. This was the message enshrined in the Qur’ānic verse that reads: “Say: ‘O God, Master of the Kingdom, Thou givest the Kingdom to whom Thou wilt, and seizest the Kingdom from whom Thou wilt, Thou exaltest whom Thou wilt, and Thou abasest whom Thou wilt; in Thy hand is the good; Thou art powerful over everything.’”⁸³ This verse raises the question of dynastic transitions above the national or tribal levels, placing it more within a cosmology that includes a broader and parallel pattern of astronomical transition, and this is confirmed in the sequentiality of the next statement, which dwells on the cycles of the day and the night: “‘Thou makest the night to enter into the day and Thou makest the day to enter into the night…. Thou providest whomsoever Thou wilt without reckoning.’”

The medieval chroniclers never invoke this verse in the historiography of the civil war as a means for legitimizing the rise of the Umayy-ads, relying instead on ḥadīth and on sayings from the companions. The reader was expected to accept the Umayyad state as the fulfillment of a ḥadīth attributed to the Prophet in which he states, “[The Islamic state] shall start with prophecy, then turn into a caliphate, and then become a kingship.”⁸⁴ And although this was not a flattering assessment of the kind of government that was emerging at the third stage, ḥadīth and legal texts discourage Muslims from challenging this authority, since such questioning was construed as a challenge to the unfolding will of God. Thus, when someone expresses a mere exasperation to ‘Āisha that Mu‘āwiya had become caliph, she voices a rebuke clearly meant as a corrective to her previous rebellious actions during her war with ‘Alī: “It is the kingdom [or rule] of God [sulṭān allāh]. He grants it to whomsoever He wills.”⁸⁵ Islamic political tradition would also frequently cite the Qur’ānic verse that exhorted believers to obey rulers (“obey God, obey the Messenger, and those in authority among you”),⁸⁶ to discourage them from rebelling against a Muslim ruler.⁸⁷

The understanding of the Qur’ānic reference to “sulṭān allāh” now took on a different sense of political rule from the more humble category of “imāra” (command), although the two terms converged in their basic reference to the idea of political leadership. The term imāra seems to have preserved the idyllic image of early caliphal rule, with both all its openness to consultation and its demonstrations of the limitations of puritanical religious practice.⁸⁸ However, the concept of sulṭān (authority) became something nebulous and was allowed to slide in connotation to encompass a government based on coercive power that was less accountable to the dictates of religion. Mu‘āwiya remained cautious about the introduction of this new system of rule, but a later caliph such as ‘Abd al-Malik is represented in the sources as nothing but a dictator who honored no religious advice.

The Rāshidūn caliphate and the time of ‘Abd al-Malik can easily be seen as belonging to different periods and thus as having no connection, but this was not how Ṭabarī’s narrators perceived matters. The emergence of the despotic regime of ‘Abd al-Malik was viewed as the final phase in the cycle of seditious wars that had plagued the community since the times of ‘Uthmān. The catharsis for ‘Uthmān’s overthrow comes when ‘Abd al-Malik’s governor in Kufa, al-Ḥajjāj b. Yūsuf, questions the companions in A.H. 74/ A.D. 694 about why they neglected ‘Uthmān during his time of need,⁸⁹ and it is also evident in his punishing those who allegedly took part in the abuse of the caliph.⁹⁰ ‘Abd al-Malik is represented in this context as having compared his method of rule to those of his predecessors, particularly ‘Uthmān, Mu‘āwiya, and Yazīd, and stressing the difference—or corrective, from his perspective—of his policy in relation to the methods of predecessors.⁹¹

Piety and politics were clearly very different matters in the early Umayyad period. Contrary to the orthodox portrayals of Mu‘āwiya, the Umayyads were not actively seeking to rally the jamā‘a to their side, although they eventually acquired this image through an ‘Abbāsid back-projection on history.⁹² Indeed, what is remarkable in this context about the emergence of Islam in Arabia is not that it overthrew the traditional social elite of Mecca, which may have happened temporarily during the lifetime of the Prophet, but that it brought them together against it. This is reflected in the way the first caliphs, Abū Bakr and ‘Umar, found themselves obliged to rely on Sufyanid commanders in Syria, but it is even more evident in the coalescence of disparate branches of the wider clan of the Banū ‘Abd Shams during the caliphate of ‘Uthmān and afterward. When they in turn acceded to power, the Umayyads became a magnet for Arab tribesmen (Muslim and Christian) who found the Hāshimite or Medinan-led religion to be too messianic. The dynasty itself kept its distance from the full picture of the religion of the Ḥijāz, with all its details of ritual and its redefinitions of the ethical and social worldview.

Islam for the Umayyads was an important tool for imperial development, but they used it only on the level of symbolism—such as in the building of the great mosque of Damascus, the mosque of the Prophet in Medina, and the Dome of the Rock—or as a grand gesture of conquest (against Constantinople and on other frontiers). The reality of their interest in the faith seems to have been superficial—as superficial, perhaps, as was Constantine’s adoption of Christianity as the official faith of the Roman empire in the fourth century A.D. This is reflected not only in the absence of a clear involvement by the dynasty in the shaping of the texts of Islamic lore and doctrine (as is strongly the case for the ‘Abbāsids), but also in their caution about venturing much beyond Syria to nurture Islam in the Ḥijāz, something that later caliphs such as al-Manṣūr, al-Mahdī, and al-Rashīd did. In spite of their roots in the Ḥijāz, the Umayyads conducted all their propaganda locally, in Syria. Mu‘āwiya chose to receive his bay‘a in Jerusalem after the abdication of al-Ḥasan in A.H. 41/ A.D. 661, and ‘Abd al-Malik set out to build the Dome of the Rock as the dynasty’s own symbol of connection to the new faith and temporarily as an alternative site for pilgrimage during the time ‘Abdallāh b. al-Zubayr was in control of the Ḥijāz.⁹³ When he finally added the profession of faith to the first fully Arabic type of the Islamic dinar, ‘Abd al-Malik was not starting something new with this religious message, but rather showing a final Umayyad recognition of the need to harness the force of religious propaganda in the war against pietistic and messianic opposition within the caliphate, and in preparation to raise the thresh-hold of challenge to the Byzantine empire in subsequent years.⁹⁴

The transition from the Rāshidūn to the Umayyads changed not only the caliphal institution but also the methods of political control and centralization. With the Umayyads, a host of issues that had been religiously contested throughout the Rāshidūn caliphate were established as integral to their rule. The caliph’s controversial reliance on his kin in government service and its corollary of introducing hereditary rule were continued from ‘Uthmān’s time by the Umayyads. The assertion of caliphal privilege in taking a share of land revenues, which was contested when ‘Uthmān established agrarian reserves and made some feudalistic bequests, was an economic practice continued by Mu‘āwiya.⁹⁵ And finally, the brute assertion of political power, which previous contenders were hesitant to make and debated extensively in polemics (such as in the Khārijite challenge to ‘Alī as to why he would not take the booty of those whom he fought), becomes a central feature of Umayyad political hegemony.

SYRIA: THE BASE OF THE ISLAMIC EMPIRE

Just as the cycle of Rāshidūn history culminates in Islamic historiography with the establishment of Umayyad rule, Syria comes to be viewed as the seat of the caliphate in territorial terms. Statements of praise for Syria abound in the sources, and can reflect in certain contexts a central theme for the Islamic chronicles. Goldziher once argued that this current of praise was promoted by partisans of the Umayyad family during the time of the dynasty or was simply an expression of local patriotism.⁹⁶ This view, however, must be revised to consider the possibility that this praise came from ‘Abbāsid narrators during the ninth century when an ascendant Sunnism was asserting itself. The favorable current toward the province was in the first instance an assertion against a Hāshimite sympathy that was increasingly shifting its loyalty from the ‘Abbāsid family to the more sectarian devotion of Shī‘īsm and to the ‘Alid family.

But on a second and equally crucial level, this Sunnī assertiveness reflected a ferment of dispute within the methods of Sunnī doctrine itself, where the faction that favored reliance on ḥadīth (ahl al-ḥadīth) was contesting the use of ra’y (reasoned speculation) as a credible method of orthodox juridical practice. This traditionist approach to ḥadīth had been on the rise since the late eighth century. It represented in part the followers of the Medinan school of Mālik b. Anas, but it also embodied an ‘Abbāsid caliphal interest that constructed a master narrative about early Islam that reconciled the privilege of the ‘Abbāsid name in Islam’s early history with other traditionalist formulations of ḥadīth and lore that centered on such figures as ‘Āisha and ‘Abdallāh b. ‘Umar. It was in part within this process of synthesis and back-projection that the ‘Abbāsids also allowed the invention or embellishment of stories about the formation of an early Syrian ḥadīth, current during the reign of ‘Abd al-Malik, that centered on such figures as Ibn Shihāb al-Zuhrī, Sa‘īd b. al-Musayyib, Ibn Jurayj, and al-Sha‘bī.⁹⁷ In the ferment of competition in Iraq during this time between the followers of Abū Ḥanīfa and those of Mālik b. Anas, there was probably a Shu‘ūbī dimension to the growing rivalry as well. Thus, the ra’y crowd was taunted by the ahl al-ḥadīth for not knowing the Arabic language well enough, which caused them to fail to keep up with the corpus of ḥadīth, and the ahl al-ra’y took pride in the logical acumen of Abū Ḥanīfa in solving juridical dilemmas.⁹⁸ It was in such an environment of juridical polarization, with both currents sponsored by the ‘Abbāsids until the time of Hārūn al-Rashīd, that the ḥadīth current was imbued with an Arabist identity and became increasingly pro-Ḥijāzī and pro-Syrian in the face of a host of challengers, from the followers of ra’y to those of Shī‘īsm and the Mu‘tazila.

The synchrony of and frequent interaction between religious dicta and the historical narrative of the early Islamic state, as has been examined in this study, thus give a final shaping to the role of Syria in light of religious expectations of the ninth century. In various sundry statements in ḥadīths, Syria is usually referred to as the land of those who are religiously steadfast, the region that harbors the so-called al-abdāl, a group of forty sages who are divinely ordained to guide the faithful of their land and shield it from catastrophe.⁹⁹ Other ḥadīths count Damascus as one of the heavenly cities,¹⁰⁰ and numerous other ḥadīths dwell on the merits of the mosque of Damascus and the blessedness of the region as the place of the initial nurture of Jesus and his eventual second coming.¹⁰¹

The historical narratives of Ṭabarī and other sources for the early caliphate do not invoke these sayings of religious praise. The chroniclers, as usual, focus more on a seemingly feasible political narrative and on nonmythical stories. However, here too one finds an undercurrent of favorable depiction of the Syrian-based community of the faithful. We have already seen how, in describing the first signs of dissent in ‘Uthmān’s time, Ṭabarī made the propaganda of Ibn Saba’ seem successful in various regions, including Egypt, Iraq, and Ḥijāz, although failing to gain any support in Syria. The event showed that Syria, in that context, was the keeper of the Sunnī mission, even as sectarian fragmentation took over in other provinces.

However, it is likely that several other segments of Ṭabarī’s chronicle that describe matters relating to Syria were meant in origin to be allusive and to explain, for instance, the attention of the Rāshidūn caliphs to that province. The Prophet’s directing the first army of Islamic conquest toward Syria—and the determination of Abū Bakr to keep this campaign on track no matter how badly the troops of Usāma b. Zayd were needed in Medina, for example—probably reflected the narrators’ intent to link up Syria with the Medinan state as soon as possible. Usama’s campaign, although less significant than the bigger expeditions sent out later in ‘Umar’s time, is described with great fanfare in Abū Bakr’s time as the fulfillment of the Prophet’s wish. Important speeches and dialogues are assigned to key personalities during its departure in disproportion to the modest conquest it was expected to accomplish. The reason for this was mainly symbolic, because in hindsight the acquisition of Syria would come to be perceived as an early step toward the formation of a Jamā‘ī Islamic state (characterized as well by an inflexibility in dealing with the Ridda factions).

However, even before the Sunnī orthodoxy of the ninth century redirected the interest in Syria to a polemical purpose, this theme had a parabolic role in the original drift of Islamic historical composition as well. We have already seen how Ka‘b al-Aḥbār predicted to Mu‘āwiya that he would assume the caliphate during the civil war contestations, and that Ka‘b played a significant role in the mythology of ‘Umar’s biography as the paradigm of the just and triumphant king. In tracing the Syrian theme in Islamic historiography, it can be said that ‘Umar’s conquest of Jerusalem formed only a part of the overall Syrian direction of the Arab caliphate. Aside from his fame for hailing ‘Umar as the redeemer of Jerusalem, Ka‘b is also famous for traditions in which he hails Muḥammad as an expected prophet who would emerge in Mecca and find his kingdom established in Syria. The full text of this tradition has Ka‘b declare, “I find it written in the Torah: ‘Aḥmad [a related name to Muḥammad] is my chosen servant [‘abdī al-mukhtār]. He is neither aggressive, nor rough, nor loud in the marketplace. He does not repay a bad action with a bad action, but forgives. His birthplace is in Mecca, his migration is to Medina [Ṭāba], and his kingdom will be in Syria [wa mulkuhu bi’l-shām].”¹⁰²

Later an abbreviated version of this saying merely states: “Muḥammad’s caliphate is in Medina, and his kingdom will be established in Syria.”¹⁰³ The connection between the fullfillment of prophecy in Mecca and the rise of the Arab caliphate in Syria should therefore not be perceived as direct, but as something mediated by a whole saga about the ideal rule of ‘Umar, who legitimizes the comeback of the Umayyads. This has already been examined in secular and moralistic terms above, but the narrators go farther in the way they have ‘Umar make the culminating speech of his reign while he was in Syria rather than in the Ḥijāz or in Iraq.

Ṭabarī records this highpoint of ‘Umar’s caliphate in the year A.H. 17/A.D. 638, when the caliph set out to visit Syria, a year after he had come to the region to gain the surrender of Jerusalem. The year A.H. 17 is packed in Ṭabarī’s chronicle with various strands of storytelling that herald important topics that unfold later. However, the most notable episode that the chronicler describes for that year is the caliph’s visit of inspection in Syria. For that occasion, the narrators assign to ‘Umar a declaration that amounts to a farewell speech, similar in emotion though not in substance to what the Prophet made during the Hijjat al-Wadā‘. Ṭabarī also inserts innuendo about ‘Umar’s tacit designation of Mu‘āwiya on that occasion as a viceroy in Syria and a potential successor to the caliphate.

After completing a tour of inspection of the region, ‘Umar reportedly decided to use Syria as a base from which to make important administrative changes and declarations. While there, he announced the replacement of Yazīd b. Abī Sufyān and Shuraḥbīl b. Ḥasna as governors by Mu‘āwiya and placed both Abū ‘Ubayda and Khālid under Mu‘āwiya’s command, and settled various inheritance questions in Syria. Then he reportedly “ordained various matters and stood with the people for a moment of goodbye [thumma qāma fī’l-nās bi’l-wadā‘].”¹⁰⁴ In his speech ‘Umar declared,

“I have been put in charge over you and I have carried out what I had to do with respect to those matters concerning you, which God has entrusted to me. If He wills, we will justly distribute among you the revenues of your fay’ lands, your living quarters, and your raiding assignments. We have given you your due. We have mobilized armed forces for you; we have put your access routes in order. We have indicated places for you to settle. We have extended the revenues of your fay’ lands for you and of that part of Syria you fought for [wa mā qātalt um ‘alayhi min sha’mikum]. We have ordained your foodstuffs for you, and we have given orders that you be given your stipends, allowances, and supplementary allocations. He who possesses information on a certain issue should act upon it. Let anyone inform me [about something special he knows]; then I myself shall put that into practice, God willing. There is no power except with God.”¹⁰⁵

What immediately seems unusual in this speech is the way ‘Umar speaks to his audience in Syria, as if they were his central community of followers in Medina. For an experienced reader, such a speech and such intimacy with the audience could be recognized as traditionally more the habit of ‘Umar in Medina, where he frequently would summon a congregational prayer gathering when something important happened, such as the arrival of news related to the conquests; then he would outline his policy and ask for public counsel. Here, however, he takes this posture in Syria. He speaks about organizational steps he has taken for the military and the people of that province as if these actions were for the good of the entire empire. And, just as significantly, one finds in the scene an aspect of foreshadowing, at that critical juncture where the leading members of the community were assembled and the moment was one of celebrating triumph and the coming tenure of a “strong governor”—presaging Mu‘āwiya’s future political importance. Syria, in the vaguest of ways, is made to seem the successor to the Medinan caliphate, which ended in idealist terms with ‘Umar’s reign.

Whereas the Prophet had legislated about individual rights and ritualistic matters in his farewell speech, ‘Umar legislated about governmental organization in this speech in Syria and established what he considered to be the equilibrium of the Islamic state. Unlike the sacred occasion of the Prophet’s pilgrimage in Mecca, ‘Umar’s assembly was civil and perhaps leisurely. It was through the moral example of ‘Umar that the decrees on that occasion gained religious weight as sunna, but it was also because of a willing community of followers, the jamā‘a. The sacrality of ‘Umar’s speech is only finally established when the satisfied crowd now subconsciously remembers the Prophet, and asks ‘Umar to have Bilāl make the call for prayer. Not everyone in that assembly had known the Prophet, but Ṭabarī implies a coalescence in the public spirit when Bilāl made the call to prayer. Those who did know the Prophet were moved to tears by the occasion, with ‘Umar being the one who wept the most copiously, but those too young to have seen the Prophet wept as well, moved by the emotions of the others.¹⁰⁶ Bilāl’s call to prayer thus provided not just a religious conclusion for the story, but a link of political legitimation with the Sīra as the base of the Islamic state, now shifted from Medina to Damascus.