Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Frontiers of Ottoman Studies:

State, Province, and the West

Volume I

Edited by
Colin Imber and Keiko Kiyotaki

I.B. Tauris
London . New York
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ISBN: 1 85043 631 2
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Volume 2.
ISBN: 1 85043 664 9
EAN: 978 1 85043 664 5
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 Contents

Preface vii
Introduction Colin Imber 1

Chapter 1: Politics and Islam

Mustafa Safi’s Version of the Kingly Virtues as Presented

in His Zübdet’ül Tevarih, or Annals of Sultan Ahmed,
1012-1023 A.H./1603-1614 A.D. Rhoads Murphey 5

İfta and Kaza : The İlmiye State and Modernism in Turkey,

1820-1960 Kemal H. Karpat 25

From Kadı to Naib : Reorganization of the Ottoman

Sharia Judiciary in the Tanzimat Period Jun Akiba 43

Chapter 2: Economy and Taxation

The Role of the Sarrafs in Ottoman Finance and

Economy in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries
Yavuz Cezar 61

The Poll-Tax and Population in the Ottoman Balkans

Nenad Moačanin 77

The Practice of Tax Farming in the Province of Baghdad

in the 1830s Keiko Kiyotaki 91

Chapter 3: The Development of Ottoman Towns

The City of Adilcevaz in the Late Middle Ages and the

Early Ottoman Period Tom Sinclair 109

The Town of Çankırı: Its Population and Development

M. Mehdi İlhan 127

Defending the Cult of Saints in Seventeenth-Century

Kastamonu: Ömer El-Fu’âdî’s Contribution to Religious
Debate in Ottoman Society John J. Curry 139
A Developing Village in the Middle of the Nineteenth
Century: Salihli Nejdet Bilgi 149

The Urban Fabric of Damascus in the Middle of the

Nineteenth Century: A Study of the Tax Register (Rüsum
Defteri) of 1852 Tomoki Okawara 167

Chapter 4: Arab and Jewish Communities

Cultural Ties between Istanbul and Ottoman Egypt

Michael Winter 187

The Evlâd-i ‘Arab (‘Sons of the Arabs’) in Ottoman

Egypt: A Rereading Jane Hathaway 203

The Young Turks and the Arab Press Caesar E. Farah 217

Secular and Jewish Studies among Jewish Scholars of the

Ottoman Empire in the Sixteenth Century Shaul Regev 241

The Importance of the Archive of the Hakham Bashi in

Istanbul for the History of Ottoman Jewry Yaron Harel 251

Jewish Entrepreneurship in Salonica during the Final

Decades of the Ottoman Regime in Macedonia (1881-
1912) Orly C. Meron 265

Contributors 287
Index 289
 Preface

These volumes contain a selection of the papers presented at the

15th Symposium of the Comité International d’Études Pré-
Ottomanes et Ottomanes (CIEPO-15), held in London from 8 July
to 12 July, 2002. Keiko Kiyotaki arranged the chapters in the
volumes under thematic headings which reflect the sessions of the
conference. Colin Imber was the overall editor of volume 1, dealing
with the political, social and economic history of the Ottoman
Empire. Keiko Kiyotaki edited the statistical material in the volume.
Volume 2 covers literary and cultural topics. To maintain the
thematic integrity, the editors had regrettably to exclude some
articles that were intrinsically very interesting. We were also unable
to consider contributions in languages other than English. The
editors respected the authors’ own systems of transliteration. Tables
and illustrations were standardised in form only. Endnotes remain
unaltered except in the style of citation. The authors were
individually responsible for obtaining permission to use copyright
materials. Views and opinions in the text are those of the individual
authors.

Colin Imber and Keiko Kiyotaki

vii
 Introduction

Colin Imber

More than a quarter of a century ago a scholar described Ottoman

history as ‘Clio’s poor relation’. That was certainly true then, and in
terms of the status of Ottoman history, at least in the history
departments of European and American universities, it remains true
today. Furthermore, the study of Ottoman history since the collapse
of the Empire after 1918 has suffered from more than neglect, and
has had to endure more than its fair share of stresses and strains.
Despite pockets of enlightenment, most western historians have,
until fairly recently, been content to think of the Ottoman Empire, if
they thought of it at all, in terms of ‘the Turkish menace’ or as ‘the
sick man of Europe’. Western thinking about Ottoman government
and institutions often did not progress beyond a vague concept of—
in the words of a British administrator in Mandate Palestine—‘the
blasting rule of the Turks’. In the twenty-five or so countries that
today occupy the former territory of the Ottoman Empire there is a
greater awareness of Ottoman history and consciousness of an
Ottoman legacy. However, more often than not Ottoman history in
these countries has been co-opted by nationalist governments and,
outside Turkey at least, presented in school and university curricula
in terms of ‘the Turkish yoke’ that for centuries stifled the culture
and development of the occupied nations. In Turkey, on the other
hand, the nationalist agenda has been to present a one-dimensional
view of the Empire as a great and uniquely Turkish achievement, and
to seek the origins of its institutions in a vaguely defined Turkish
past, somewhere in Central Asia.
These ways of thinking have left a legacy of clichés and
misconceptions that even today present a minefield through which
serious students and researchers must pick their way carefully. It is,
however, easy to exaggerate the obstacles that face historians of the
Ottoman Empire. Next to the nationalist and other politically and
ideologically motivated dross, there are seams of gold, and as more
historians enter the field the quantity and quality of published
material has increased. Studies continue to appear which add not
only to the sum of our knowledge of the Ottoman Empire but also
2 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
to our understanding of how it worked, allowing us to see beyond
the old clichés and to correct hoary misconceptions. As an example,
Keiko Kiyotaki’s article in this collection directly challenges a
frequently stated opinion that the practice of tax farming in the
Ottoman Empire was necessarily a symptom of weak and inefficient
government and a source of corruption. Through a case study of
Iraq in 1831 she demonstrates that in some respects tax farming was
beneficial. It not only gave the farmer an interest in stimulating the
economic activities that provided him with an income and the
government with revenue; it also had the effect of giving the tax-
farmers, often powerful local notables, a vested interest in upholding
the Ottoman system.
Such re-assessments are possible only through a careful study of
the sources, and in this respect Ottomanists are more fortunate than
historians working in other areas of the Islamic world. As the articles
in this collection show, Ottoman source material is abundant, and in
particular the millions of documents preserved in the Prime Ministry
Archive (Başbakanlık Arşivi) in Istanbul. Although this is the
repository for records of the central government, and presents a
view of the Empire as seen from Istanbul, its records are
indispensable for the study of the Ottoman provinces, an area of
research that is coming increasingly to the fore and which forms a
theme of this volume. The Ottoman Empire, as one historian wisely
remarked, ‘floated on a sea of paper’: Ottoman administrators had a
passion for lists and inventories which today provide much of the
raw material for provincial history. Above all, from the early years of
the Empire’s existence, the government maintained registers of
taxable resources throughout the sultan’s realms, and it is these
documents in particular that provide information about the
provinces. Their focus is obviously narrow, but as tax records, they
give a picture of settlement patterns, economic activities, and the
distribution of tax revenues, and they provide a broad picture of
populations and how they fluctuated over the years. It is by the
careful study of tax registers that Mehdi İlhan is able to plot the
changes in population, city boundaries and districts in the Anatolian
city of Çankırı and Tomoki Okawara is able to correct the hitherto
accepted picture of Damascus as a city that underwent little change
in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These articles
demonstrate how the apparently arid pages of Ottoman tax registers
can provide the foundation for urban and provincial history. At the
same time, historians are beginning to test the evidence of the
registers against archaeological, seismic and other evidence on the
ground. Tom Sinclair’s study of the town of Adilcevaz on the eastern
frontier of the Ottoman Empire exemplifies this new trend. At a
different level, John Curry’s study of the Anatolian ‘saint’ Ömer al-
 Introduction 3
Fu’adi of Kastamonu serves as a reminder of the cultural and
religious particularism of towns and districts outside the capital.
A growing interest in the different communities within the
Empire parallels the research into its various regions and again, by
emphasising Ottoman pluralism, serves to show that the advent of
Ottoman rule did not, as nationalists once assumed, simply obliterate
or drive underground non-Muslim and non-Turkish cultures. The
Ottoman Jewish community in particular enjoyed a less chequered
history than did the Jews in many regions of western and eastern
Europe. In this volume Shaul Regev shows how Jewish scholarship
continued to flourish in the Ottoman Empire, while Orly Meron’s
picture of Jewish entrepreneurship in Salonica reminds us of the
international importance of the large Jewish population of that city
between the fifteenth and early twentieth centuries. The multi-
national character of the Ottoman Empire was something that it
shared with its dynastic rivals, the Habsburg and Romanov Empires,
and which proved, as many have pointed out, to be a fatal weakness
in its final decades. The principle of dynastic rule was not something
that could survive the growth of nationalist ideologies in the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries. When intellectuals in the Empire
began to identify their own communities as forming political nations
and above all, perhaps, when the post-1908 Young Turk government
began to promulgate Turkish nationalism as an official doctrine, the
old imperial structure, perhaps best understood as a coalition of
interests and semi-autonomous communities allied to the ruling
dynasty, was bound to collapse. The papers by Caesar Farah and
Yaron Harel, by referring to the beginnings of Arab nationalism and
Zionism in the early twentieth century, connect with this theme.
The increasing amount of research on the Ottoman Empire below
the level of the central government and the ruling élite has not
displaced work on the central themes of imperial history. In this
volume Rhoads Murphey’s article on Mustafa Safi’s early
seventeenth century Annals of Ahmed I—a work which, like many
other important Ottoman histories, survives only in manuscript—is
a reminder of the importance of Ottoman literary chronicles, not
only in providing a narrative framework for the Empire’s history, but
equally for understanding how the dynasty sought to legitimise its
rule and how Ottoman subjects viewed the sultans. It is primarily
through semi-official chronicles such as Safi’s that we catch a
glimpse of the image that the sultans presented, or tried to present to
the outside world. Yavuz Cezar does not concentrate on the person
of the sultan or specifically on his government, but rather on a group
of men without whom the government could not have functioned.
In most years from the last quarter of the sixteenth century the
Ottoman treasury ran a deficit and, in the eighteenth and nineteenth
4 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
centuries, before the establishment of a banking system, turned to
the great financiers of Istanbul for credit. These men and their
businesses are the subjects of Yavuz Cezar’s study. The development
of banking in the nineteenth century was one of a series of centrally
inspired reforms which collectively can be seen as an effort by the
reformers to create a ‘state’ in the modern understanding of the
term, with permanent institutions and an increasingly wide range of
government functions. The reform of the judiciary which, in one of
its aspects, forms the subject of Jun Akiba’s paper, was another
expression of these changes.
All the papers in this volume demonstrate how progress in
Ottoman studies still depends on a close reading of primary source
material. Jane Hathaway’s paper, for example, by focussing on the
meaning of a deceptively simple phrase, evlâd-i ‘arab (literally ‘sons of
the Arabs’), in the context of Ottoman Egypt, reminds us how
historical interpretation can often depend on our understanding—or
misunderstanding—of small details in the texts, sometimes even
single words. It is often the apparently inconsequential detail that
leads to important discoveries and opens up new fields of research.
In this collection, by enquiring into the sense of the term ‘household’
in Ottoman fiscal documents, Nenad Moačanin raises broader
questions about social and family structures in the Ottoman Balkans.
The fact that the interpretation of historical documents still often
hinges on the precise definition of words is an indication that the
serious study of Ottoman history is still at a very early stage in
comparison with the historiography of western Europe. This means,
however that, with so much to discover and so much material at the
historian’s disposal, it has become one of the most exciting fields for
historical research even if, in terms of prestige and profile, it still
remains ‘Clio’s poor relation’.
 1
___________________________________

POLITICS AND ISLAM

Mustafa Safi’s Version of the Kingly Virtues as Presented

in His Zübdet’ül Tevarih, or Annals of Sultan Ahmed,
1012-1023 A.H./1603-1614 A.D.

Rhoads Murphey

Volume two of Safi’s history is outwardly ‘factual’ and uses the

annalistic format to cloak its interpretive bent. Conversely, volume
one of the Zübdet is self-avowedly focused not on the ‘major’ events
of Sultan Ahmed’s reign, but on the meaning, significance and
interpretation of seemingly commonplace ‘minor’ events connected
with the daily routine of the sultan and his entourage. It is his (i.e.
the sultan’s) movements, actions and gestes that make up the
narrative core of the volume, while he (the historian) Safi places
these impromptu ‘moments’ and ‘glimpses’ of the royal personage in
their appropriate interpretive context. It is a highly personal account,
often based on Safi’s own privileged access to direct observation of
the sultan in private non-rehearsed moments closed to all except
intimate members of the sultan’s household staff, or the even more
limited numbers of potential observers chosen to accompany him
during his hunting excursions.
The tale revolves exclusively around the sultan and is told by way
of anecdotes (menkibe) which exemplify his possession of the
qualities of the ideal king as defined in medieval theoretical political
tracts like Ghazali’s early twelfth-century Nasihat al-Muluk and the
well-known late eleventh century Siyasetname of Nizam al-Mulk. In
many ways this first volume of Safi’s history fits better with that
tradition than with any pre-existing form of Ottoman historical or
political writing. The Risale of Ayn Ali written in 1018/1609 for the
same sultan is far more a practical guide to the mechanics of good
administration than a theoretical treatise on kingly virtues.
6 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
The starting point of the work is an account of Ahmed’s accession
and coronation in 1012/1603 which is distinct from the rest of the
volume and fits more with the annalistic or factual format of volume
two. This takes up the first 14 folios of the volume and clearly
identifies the sultan as the main subject and point of reference for
the rest of the work. By far the longest part of the volume covering
112 out of 192 folios of the Berlin manuscript is devoted to the
menakib of Sultan Ahmed. Here the author illustrates the acts and
describes the exceptional qualities and attributes of the youthful
sultan which, according to one of Safi’s favourite and oft-repeated
expressions, have: ‘never before been seen or heard of in a sovereign occupying
the Ottoman throne’. By this Safi expects the audience to understand in
particular the sultans Mehmed Fatih and Süleyman Kanunî. At the
end of the menakib section the work is interrupted with a long
digression dedicated to brief sketches of the events (of the ‘major’
sort dealt with mostly in volume two) of the reigns of Ahmed’s
thirteen predecessors on the Ottoman throne beginning with Osman
Gazi. Although the digression is of substantial length (62 folios),
only one of the reigns, that of Ahmed’s father Mehmed III, is
covered in any detail.
Safi’s digression is justified, in fact necessitated, by a comment at
the beginning of the volume which indicates that as he was writing
the preface to his history, the Ottoman dynasty had reached the 321st
lunar year of its existence, corresponding to the year 1020 hicrî or
1611 A.D.1 Accordingly, all of Ottoman history up to the accession
of Ahmed I in 1012/1603 forms the natural and inevitable yardstick
against which to compare Ahmed’s performance during his first
eight years on the throne. Its purpose however is not to provide a
detailed history of the dynasty (it is too brief for that), but rather to
provide a point of reference for the assessment of Ahmed’s reign.
Before turning our attention to a few of the themes treated by Safi
in the menakib pages of Volume One, it will perhaps be useful to
take a brief look at the overall scope and purpose of the work. The
first point to be made is that the work is long. The two volumes
comprise roughly 650 folios or 1300 pages of text, but cover only an
eleven year span of Ottoman history from December
1603/Receb1012 to the end of 1614/Zilkade 1023. This is fairly
prolix even by the most tolerant of standards. The second point is
that, contrary to popular belief, Safi’s work is not really a chronicle as
traditionally defined and it certainly cannot be considered a
continuation (zeyl ) to Hoca Saadeddin’s ‘Crown of Histories’ as
claimed by Babinger.2 Both the ‘Crown’ and Mustafa Ali’s ‘Essence
of Knowledge’ (Kunh al-ahbar) are truly retrospective accounts of the
dynasty up to their own times, whereas Safi’s ‘Quintessence’ (Zübdet),
apart from the 62 folio digression in Volume One (ZT I, folios 127-
 Politics and Islam 7
89), focuses on the author’s own times and covers only the initial
years, not even the whole reign, of one sultan. The case for Ali rather
than Safi as the continuator and completer of the ‘Crown’ is much
stronger on two grounds. In the first place, Ali’s admiration for
Saadeddin, though complicated by debts of obligation through
patronage, was seemingly sincere 3 which suggests a personal motive
for his attempt to emulate the achievements of his close
contemporary and fellow historian. Perhaps more to the point ,
secondly Ali’s work actually does continue the ‘Crown’, whereas the
‘Quintessence’ picks up the thread with an 83 year gap in coverage
between the death of Selim I in 1520/926 and the commencement
of Ahmed’s reign in 1603/1012.
In the portion of his work devoted to the menakib of the young
sultan Ahmed, Safi is exploring with his intended audience,
composed principally of the sultan and his top government advisers
what, at this stage of the dynasty’s development in the 321st lunar or
313th solar year of its existence, they would consider the abiding
values for which the regime should be known and remembered. In
his view, the possession by the currently reigning Ottoman sultan of
the high moral traits, intellectual abilities and physical attributes
ascribed to the figure of the ideal ruler in the standard cannon on
Islamic statecraft deserved celebration not only because these high
virtues were personified by the current Ottoman ruler, but because
they typified the Ottoman regime itself.
Safi divides his text in 112 folios or eleven score pages of text
allocated in the crimped taliq script of the Berlin manuscript to nine
distinct categories.4 Of these, the first six are devoted to character
traits or moral virtues, the seventh to the sultan’s public building
activities and charitable donations to serve as the proof and
demonstration of his possession of the kingly virtues of generosity
(kerem, saha) and piety, and sections eight and nine to his physical
strengths and competence to rule. These sections are of varying
length and importance, but neither the number of anecdotes
provided nor the overall length of any of the sections provides a
reliable indication of the importance assigned to it by the author. For
example, despite its relative brevity, the paramount importance of
section one on sultanic justice (adalet) covering only six folios of text
is indicated by the pre-positioning of this section at the beginning of
the account. The emphasis in terms of length and extent of coverage
is placed on sections six (on sultanic generosity) and seven (on
construction of mosques and imarets) which together cover 32 out of
112 folios or about three tenths of the total.
It may plausibly be argued that Safi’s choice of emphasis was
dictated at least in part by his desire to refute the controversial views
put forward by Mustafa Ali in his treatise composed in 1581/989
8 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
and addressed to Murad III. Ali’s list in the Nushat al-Selatin of
eighteen lazime or requirements for the ideal ruler contained two
controversial and contentious items, both of which seem to call into
question basic commitments with which the Ottoman regime had
long been associated. In lazime nine Ali expressed the view that
rather than authorizing expenditure of the funds belonging to the
beyt’ül mal to support charitable giving, sultans should rely exclusively
on the gains from their own conquests (mal-i ganimet),5 and in a
similar vein in lazime thirteen Ali expressed the view that imperial
bounty and gifts to individuals in all forms ought to be confined to
what he called ‘reasonable’ limits.6 Safi takes precisely the opposite
view that there can be no such thing as excess of virtue, and that the
perception as well as the reality of sultanic generosity formed a basic
source of the state’s well-being and a principal cause of the dynasty’s
preservation. To demonstrate his points, Safi provides examples, a
small sampling of which we will present in the remainder of our
paper.

General Overview and Contents of Folios 15 to 127 of

Volume One of the Zübdet

[note: folio references are to the Berlin Ms., Or. Oct. 1044]

Section I (Sultanic justice), ff. 15-22

[note: anecdotes in this section are chosen to show an ideal
balance between hilm and gazab or clemency and severity]
Section II (Sultanic probity and honesty), ff. 23-4
Section III ( Sultanic piety)
(a) episode detailing Ahmed’s smashing of the chiming clock
presented by the ‘infidels’ to Sultan Mehmed III as a diplomatic
gift (ff. 24-5)
(b) account of Ahmed’s diligence in the performance of the five
daily prayers (ff. 25-31)
(c) account of Ahmed’s financing of the construction of mosques
and mescids (ff. 31-8)
Section IV (Sultanic reason and intelligence (akl ) [ff. 38-56]
Section V (Sultanic modesty and humility),ff. 57-66
[note: this section is intended to balance against the excesses
proudly acknowledged in sections 3(c), 6 and 7].
Section VI (Sultanic generosity and magnanimity), ff. 67-79
Section VII (Sultan Ahmed’s charitable building programme). ff. 79-
92
Section VIII (Sultanic bodily vigour and skills in horsemanship and
the hunt), ff. 92-114
 Politics and Islam 9
Section IX (Sultanic valour and bravery (şecaat) including an account
of the ruler’s omnipresence and omnipotence), ff. 114-27.

Section I: Sultanic Justice

The dominant theme of the first section on sultanic justice is that

true justice must be tempered with mercy and in it the sultan is
portrayed as successfully treading a finely defined line between
undue severity and unjustified clemency. The anecdotes show him
avoiding excessive punishment for minor crimes that posed no real
threat to social order on the one hand, while unflinchingly meting
out the severest penalties to the sowers of political discord and
causers of social unrest. This theme is paralleled in the hunt section
where Safi portrays the sultan allowing a fatally trapped boar to
escape in the wild as demonstration of his merhamet and mukerremet
(Section VIII, folio 112a). Balancing this act of clemency, he is
shown in another anecdote eliminating a wild boar caught roaming
in the vicinity of Fenerbahçe because its behaviour threatened the
residents while also inflicting damage on their crops (Section VIII,
folio 113b). Likewise, in one of the first anecdotes in Section One,
the sultan is shown in a forgiving mode when he insists that a strict
interpretation of the şer‘i hadd penalties disallowed regarding theft as
a capital crime. Thus, he demands that a horse thief be punished
with zecr (forced labour in the gallies) rather than katl (summary
execution), despite the fact that the thief has upset vital state
priorities, delaying transport of supplies destined for the eastern
front in the critical year following Kuyucu Murad’s assumption of
the Grand Vizierate in 1015/1606 [Section I, folio 18a]. On the
other hand, when the inhabitants of Gebze complained of a
disturbance of the peace caused by the presence of an outlaw (şaki)
in their midst, the sultan immediately dispatched the bostancı başı to
bring him to justice at the court in Üsküdar where he was tried and
executed in consideration for the public good (Section I, folio 19a-
b). A similar anecdote relates how during his excursion to Edirne in
1014/1605 the sultan himself presided over the public execution of a
şaki named Ayneci Hasan as a warning to other fomenters of public
disorder (ibret l’il nas) [Section I, folios 21a-22a].
The sultan’s severity in the prosecution of justice is balanced
throughout this section by the author’s insistence on the need for
scrupulous avoidance of any exceeding of the şer‘i limits for
punishment of crimes. For example, in the above-mentioned case of
Ayneci Hasan, the author is at pains to point out that before the
order of execution was carried out, every care had been taken to
ensure that the case was properly investigated and the evidence
10 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
supporting the imposition of the extreme penalty was juridically
sound (Section I, folio 19a: ‘hadd-i şer‘den tecavüzden ihtiraz-i tam edip
…’).
The theme of the rule of law and sultanic justice, though clearly
viewed by the author as an essential foundation supporting the well-
being and stability of the state, is not treated very fully in this section.
This is partly because allusions and direct references to sultanic
justice are plentiful in other parts of the work, making a proliferation
of examples in the first and most directly relevant section
superfluous. Thus, the importance of direct access to sultanic justice
is alluded to in an aside in the section on the hunt (Section VII , folio
102a) where Safi refers to unwelcome interference by the court
chamberlains (hacibs) during periods when the sultan made his
residence in the capital Istanbul. This he contrasts to the relative
openness and accessibility of the sultan and his closer listening to the
petitions of his subjects during his tours through the countryside.
The author’s claims about the usefulness of the royal hunt from this
perspective are made much more explicit in a passage in volume two
which covers the sultanic excursion to Edirne in late 1021-early
1022/winter 1613 (ZT II, folios 227b-228a). Here he deflects
potential criticism of the sultan for his seeming preoccupation with
trivial pursuits like the hunt by stating that these occasions actually
served a three-fold function. On this particular occasion Safi
prefaced his description with an explicit claim that by participating in
the hunt Sultan Ahmed was merely carrying out God’s will and
designs. In making such claims Safi was seemingly influenced by
Fakhr al-Din Razi’s notion of divine guidance and assistance
extended to the rulers of Islamic states by way of irshad-i ghaybi.7
Safi’s message is that God works his will in mysterious ways whose
subtle logic is beyond man’s reason and capacity to judge.
The second function of the hunt was to strike fear into the hearts
of the state’s enemies caused by the appearance of the sultan near
the frontiers of his realm which, by past experience, had always
foretold the imminent commencement of a military campaign. The
third purpose of the hunt was to serve as an occasion for the sultan’s
acquiring of direct knowledge about the state of his realms by
hearing the views of his subjects presented in their own words rather
than through the medium of a vizier’s telhis or the interference of any
other intermediary.8 The multiple functions of the hunt are explored
elsewhere in Safi’s work too (in both volumes one and two) where
the distribution of rewards and sharing out of the captured game at
the conclusion of the hunt offer manifold occasions for the display
of sultanic generosity (see below, Section VI).
 Politics and Islam 11
Section II: Probity and Scrupulous Honesty

The length of this section, completed in a mere two folios, serves as

no indication of the importance attached to it in Safi’s philosophical
scheme. Here we are presented a tale showing the sultan’s
abhorrence for ‘ill-gotten’ gains demonstrated by his insistence on
the return to its ‘rightful’ owners of the considerable sum of 300,000
akçes. This legacy had been claimed by a preliminary judgement as
the property of the beyt’ül mal because the legatees had been absent
(gaib) at the time of the testator’s death and could not be quickly
identified or tracked down. When the legal heirs eventually
materialised the sultan, ignoring the agreement on the part of the
absent legatees to forego a part of their inheritance, and overriding
the sustained objections of his chief treasury officer, the defterdar,
decided to return the whole sum to its rightful owners. This short
section of the menakib is both thematically important as a
demonstration that the sultan’s rule was indeed ‘just’, as claimed in
the immediately preceding section, and that he is a pious and God-
fearing ruler as the author will set about to demonstrate in the
following section. Funds acquired illegitimately could bring no credit
to the sultan even if expended for the purpose of erecting
monuments to God’s greater glory.
A single anecdote has equal force to a dozen if it is based on
supportable claims. The relaters or conveyers of the anecdotes are
thus important to Safi as a source of authentication and verification
of the claims he puts forward in the menakib. In the case
concerning the disputed legacy, Safi’s informant was a high-ranking
figure close to the sultan, the damad Mustafa Pasha who at the time
of writing had recently stepped down as the Grand Vizier’s kaim-
makam and whose own reputation for probity and honesty was
beyond reproach. According to the Sicill-i Osmani Mustafa Pasha had
served first as chief equerry, then deputy Grand Vizier between
1016/1607 and 1018/1609 and died in 1019/1610.9 This implies that
Safi had already been collecting material for his anecdotes for several
years before his own elevation as the sultan’s private spiritual adviser
(imam-i sultani ) in Ramazan 1017/December 1608 and the official
commissioning of his history (ZT II, folio 140a-b). Safi suggests that
the sultan’s principled position in this decision was that protection of
the financial rights of orphans and survivors (mal-i yetim) took
precedence over all other concerns. Although he shared with his
defterdar this-worldly concerns such as the meeting the pressing
demand to pay the quarterly wage instalments of the Janissaries, his
main responsibility and accountability as sultan was to God in the
afterlife. Thus, financial concerns arising out of his position as head
of state ruling over a world empire in the present were if not trivial
12 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
then transitory matters which had to take second place to his abiding
concern to maintain his own reputation for honesty and fair play.

Section III: Piety and Building Projects

We skip over these details bearing a thematic connection to later

sections on sultanic generosity (Section VI) and charity (Section VII)
in order to save space for analysis of some of the more original
aspects of Safi’s coverage of sultanic gestes in other sections.
Section IV: Sultanic Intelligence

In this section of the work Safi begins to develop the idea that the
sultan (at present the still untried, but in his fundamental character
‘impressive’ teenage monarch Ahmed) possessed superior, semi-
miraculous powers of intellect, observation and intuition. The notion
that sultans possessed a God-given ability to see through external
appearances and make sound decisions based on assessment of the
fundamentals is expressed in the idea of kariha or sudden inspiration
of the mind. This idea that sultans possessed exceptional insight is
certainly not original to Safi, but Safi cleverly develops this theme in
relation to a sultan whose early reign seemed to be filled more with
disappointments than successes in encounters on both land and sea.
One recent exception, albeit not one that led to any permanent
strategic gains for the Ottomans, was the strange and unexpected
successes of the Ottoman gallies against a small fleet of heavily
armed Maltese galleons led by Commander Fressinet in the waters
off Cyprus in the summer of 1018/1610. This strange reversal of
fortunes for the ‘infidels’ serves as an opportunity for Safi to reflect
on Ahmed’s military prowess in comparison with his predecessors.
Safi favourably compares the record of the currently reigning
sultan and his kapudan Halil Pasha with the record of achievement
for a single encounter achieved by Sultan Süleyman and his
celebrated admiral Barbarossa. In actual fact, the Ottoman capture of
the Black Gehennam or ‘Red’ Galleon and several other impressive
enemy ships in 1610/1019 is confirmed in a number of
contemporary Western accounts.10 But, putting aside the dubious
rhetorical gains from Safi’s undisguised eulogy and in the end rather
unconvincing hyperbole, it can be seen that the author had a more
serious purpose in mind in his suggestion that it was through the
influence exerted by the sultan through remote control and
telepathic communication that Halil Pasha was led to the right place
at the right time to achieve this success. Safi seems to imply here that
the sultan had gained sahib-kiran status by proxy through his admiral
by exerting the force of his superior intellect in absentia. By the
 Politics and Islam 13
traditional logic, the ‘Lord of the Conjunction’ achieves success as a
conqueror partly because of superior tactics and martial abilities but
equally because he enjoys divine guidance and support (al-mü’eyyed
min ‘ind Allah). Thus Safi, far from regarding Halil Pasha’s ‘lucky
strike’ against the Maltese Commander Fressinet as a random event,
sees in it a sign of divine favour and a portent of the sultan’s future
success. These views are made explicit in a brief though revealing
passage where Safi offers his comments on the events and
unequivocally attributes Ottoman success to the sultan’s insight:
Akl-i sahih ve ayar, ve zihn-i müstakim al edvarı vasitasıyla hakikat-i
hal’a ittila, ve nefs al emr’e işraf ve istitla sebebi iledir.
(ZT I, folio 50b)

Section V: Sultanic Humility (Modesty)

The next section of the Ahmedian menakib is devoted to developing

the theme of the sultan’s humility as demonstrated by his lack of
concern with physical comfort and luxury and his disinterest in the
outward trappings of his imperial office. Here we see the first
indications of Safi’s view that the ideal ruler should model his
personal behaviour not on usual human practice and average human
morality, but rather by the highest moral standards set by the sunna
of the Prophet and the example of the hülefa-i Rashidun who
succeeded him. Sultan Süleyman is again referred to as rival
candidate for pre-eminence in this kingly virtue because in his later
life he turned his back on the finery and pomp of sultanic office
even though his achievements as ruler and his status as world
conqueror had made him the object of all the world’s admiration and
envy. In a telling passage Safi states:

Sultan Süleyman … evahir-i ömrlerinde libas kısmından sof ve kutn ile

kâni, ve harir kısmından külliyyet ile rafi oldukları şayidir
(ZT I, folio 60b).

This emphasis on the sin of kibr or pride and the importance of the
sultan’s setting an example to his subjects by his own modest habits
and self-denying inclinations had a particular resonance for Ottoman
audiences for two reasons. The first was that frugality in the sultan
was in a way expected so that his vast expenditures for hayrat and his
monumental building projects could properly be understood as a
sign of his piety and charitable concern as opposed to the alternative,
and always possible, interpretation that it was a wasteful display of
imperial power unjustified in the current climate of general economic
hardship and financial strain. The theme of imperial profligacy (israf )
14 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
had already been developed by Mustafa Ali, and Safi, in his double
role as adviser to the sultan and eulogizing chronicler of his reign,
would have been remiss in his duties if he had not raised and dealt
effectively with this issue on his own account.
The second reason for the emphasizing of kibr (pride) was that it
was precisely this fault which was being ascribed by defenders of the
regime to the most determined challengers of sultanic authority,
namely the Celalis who, despite Kuyucu Murad’s recent successes in
the field, were at the time of writing still far from having been dealt
a decisive knockout blow. In Safi’s view, the only way to achieve
success against them was for the sultan (and his closest advisers) to
occupy the moral high ground and to studiously avoid all taint and
suspicion of corruption and greed. This was a tall order for the
young sultan to fill, but Safi’s insistence on it and his developing of
the theme of the good vizier (i.e. Öküz Mehmed Pasha) and the bad
vizier (i.e. Nasuh Pasha) in volume two is revealing of Ottoman
governing principles and priorities which were, at least in some
government circles, still operative.
As evidence of the sultan’s humility and distaste for unnecessary
display, the author provides the example of his incognito attendance
at prayer services held at Aya Sofya on Arefe Günü in March
1610/Zilhicce 1018 when instead of sitting apart in his usual isolated
vantage point in the imperial loggia, he took up his place among the
other members of the congregation and sat humbly and simply like
all the other prayers on a straw mat on the floor (ZT I, folio 66a).
The theme of the sultan mingling with his subjects and his frequent
adoption of disguise (tebdil-i suret) in order to carry out impromptu
inspections and inform himself of their views, is taken up repeatedly
elsewhere in the menakib, particularly in the closing part of the mini-
corpus in section nine.

Section VI: Generosity/Magnanimity

The association of the virtuous and just ruler with acts of

spontaneous (and ideally disproportionate or excessive) acts of
kindness and generosity is a well-worn theme in the medieval Islamic
literature on statecraft. Sultanic largesse was not just an ideal to be
striven for, but an indispensable part of the exercise of power and
authority. No sultan could hope to establish his authority upon his
accession to the throne without a generous distribution of sultanic
largesse to his household troops and Safi is quick to note the sultan’s
exemplary performance of this obligatory act of ‘expected’ generosity
in other parts of his history. What he means to document in this
section of the menakib portion of his work is the ways in which
 Politics and Islam 15
Sultan Ahmed excelled in the performance of unexpected or
extraordinary acts of generosity.
The menakib tradition is by its very nature devoted to a recording
of exceptional acts of bravery, kindness, saintliness and other
exemplary, even superhuman, qualities of the protagonist or hero
figure on which the taleteller chooses to dwell. Therefore this vying
for recognition of superior virtue—based on one of the root
meanings of the verb ‘nkb’ in the active participial form—is at the
heart of Safi’s undertaking in this part of the work. Munificence,
magnanimity and bounty are qualities admirable in their own right,
but for a sultan with responsibility for the care of his subjects,
especially the poor and vulnerable members of society (widows,
orphans etc.) they are essential prerequisites for effective rule. By
definition, the height of generosity is to reward someone who is by
his actions or character undeserving of reward. Safi gives several
examples of this quality in Ahmed whose acts of gratuitous
generosity he likens to the attitude of the noble Abd Allah ibn Umar
ibn al-Khattab (d. 73/693), renowned for his manumitting of slaves
as a reward for their professions of faith and intention to convert to
the true Islamic belief, despite the fact that he had been reliably
informed that their statements of conversion were insincere. By
rewarding them beyond their deserts he (like his later emulator sultan
Ahmed) stood to lose very little except material possessions (slaves
or cash), whereas the example of spontaneous generosity had the
potential for leading the unbelievers to consider a sincere conversion
(ZT I, folio 68b for the comparison to Abd Allah ibn Umar).
The first tale in Section Six relates the sultan’s practice of saçma or
showering of coins on onlookers who awaited the royal procession
and passage. Safi dwells in particular on this ritual as performed
when the sultan was on one of his frequent excursions to the
countryside outside the capital. On one occasion, Ahmed is
portrayed as having rewarded a zimmi who had lined up twice at
separate halting places of the royal procession to receive double his
allotment of royal grace and largesse; the second time professing an
acceptance of Islam. The sultan, although he knew the claim to be
bogus, was incapable of restraining his natural impulse for all-
encompassing bounty which was part of his innate character. To
reward only the deserving or just would be a sign of meanness on his
part, a gesture to be avoided while distributing imperial largesse
since, in a sense, ‘overdoing it’ was the very nature of the symbolism
of the occasion.
A second anecdote relates a boat trip taken between Üsküdar and
Eminönü during which the sultan travelling incognito engages his
zimmi boatman in conversation and in a light-hearted exchange
invites him to convert. Although the zimmi declines the invitation, at
16 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
the end of the trip before leaving the boat the sultan leaves several
gold pieces on the bench as an offering in place of the few akçes fare
that would normally be expected. The boatman immediately
understands that the passenger was not just a wealthy person but one
with nobility of spirit possibly, even probably, the sultan himself and
immediately he regrets his earlier decision, not out of mercenary
motives but out of admiration for his former passenger’s gesture of
spontaneous generosity. The ritual distribution of gifts and rewards
by the sultan form a consistent theme of sultanic superfluity repeated
throughout the work. Section Six itself contains a number of
examples showing the extremes and excesses achieved by Ahmed in
his demonstrations of royal generosity. For example at the
conclusion of a particularly successful hunting expedition, in addition
to the usual richly brocaded robes of honour (hilat) he rewarded his
falconers by filling the falcon’s hood (üsküf ) with gold coins (ZT I,
folio 74a). Likewise, in the ceremonies held to celebrate the ground
breaking and later foundation laying phases of the construction of
the magnificent imperial mosque bearing his name, in addition to
organizing feasts for state dignitaries and guests of honour, he also
made sure to include in his banqueting plans all the construction
workers occupied at the site (ZT I, folio 75a). Food distributions and
feasting were the ideal metaphor for his paternalistic and caring rule
and the placement of this section on generosity here at the heart of
the menakib pages is by no means accidental. These allusions to
sultanic bounty make the perfect introduction and bridge to the next
section (Section VII following immediately on its heels on folio 79)
which gives an extensive account of the sultan’s building programme
devoted to charitable purposes.
Section VII: Building Works

The detailed section covering 13 folios (26 pages) on the various

building projects sponsored by Sultan Ahmed has a completely
different character from the rest of the menakib division of Safi’s
work and can therefore be skipped over with relative brevity. It is
worth noting however that in similar fashion to Section One where
the two sides of sultanic justice were exemplified and demonstrated,
so too in Section Seven there is a conscious attempt to provide a
balance of coverage between high profile and large-scale projects like
the Sultan Ahmed Mosque and the repairs to the Kaaba in Mecca on
the one hand, and more prosaic, but for the residents of the affected
neighbourhoods perhaps even more praiseworthy, efforts by the
sultan to improve their living conditions on the other. One such
project was the fountain erected in the Tophane district whose water
supply came from a relatively distant source at the imperial gardens
 Politics and Islam 17
of Karabali located near Taşlık at the present-day site of the Swiss
Hotel overlooking the Bosphorus. This project was prompted by the
suffering caused by the water shortages experienced during the
drought of 1020/1611 to which the sultan responded with practical
measures designed to alleviate his people’s hardships (ZT I, folio
91b).
In another part of his history devoted to an account of the sultan’s
residence at the palace of Istavroz on the Asian shore of the
Bosphorus in the summer of 1022/1613 (ZT II, folios 294b-295a),
the author records the sultan’s preoccupation with the acquiring of
merit (savab) due from his financing and completion of beneficial
projects like the construction of fountains. Ahmed insistently
regarded projects undertaken for the public good to be his own
imperial prerogative and was unwilling to share it even with
members of his own palace staff and even when they offered to
sponsor and pay for the projects themselves. In denying permission
to one of his own officers belonging to the Hass Oda staff to realise
plans for the construction of a new fountain, Ahmed delivered an
impassioned speech simulated by Safi as follows:
Hayır. Bu hayr’da kimsenin müşareketi, ve ol amel-i kesir al-ecr’de gayrın
müşayaatı makbul-i hümayunum yoktur. Bu bab’da sana ecr-i delalet
kâfi .

Section VIII: The Royal Hunt

This section of the menakib holds a particular interest since it adds a

physical dimension to the account of the semi-miraculous mental
powers ascribed to the figure of the ruler in Section Four on sultanic
intelligence. One of its most consistent and persistent themes is the
sultan’s ability—derived from good horsemanship, physical stamina
(küvvet-i bazu), patience in adversity and disregard for his own
personal comfort—to achieve unexpected (even miraculous) feats of
rapid movement and mobilization. The writer was of course not
unaware of the fact that Ahmed, due to his tender age at the time of
his accession, was effectively the first sultan ever to have assumed
office without the usual period of on-the-job training as governor of
an Anatolian province. His remarks are thus to be interpreted in part
as an argument and assertion that Ahmed’s preoccupation with the
hunt fulfilled the equivalent training role. At the same time, he wants
it clearly understood that, although Ahmed had not yet personally
led any campaigns, he had all the requisite abilities to do so in the
fullness of time.
The endurance theme and the omnipresence and speed themes
developed in this section are thus all to be understood within this
18 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
context of fitness to rule from the standpoint of his competence to
lead military campaigns. The hunt, treating themes like the tracking
and trapping of prey, was in fact a perfect metaphor for fighting with
human opponents and the significance of Safi’s allusions to birds of
prey swooping down on their unsuspecting quarry is all too
transparent in its reference to the empire’s enemies in its two-front
war in the Hungarian and Iranian borderlands. His assertion that the
sultan’s seemingly trivial pursuits masked a far more serious
occupation with mastering the arts of war was not just credible
according to traditional custom and belief, but also welcome news
to his readers. In effect Safi—using rather crude techniques of
augury and divination from signs and portents signalled by the flight
pattern of birds conforming to the conventions of the traditional
pseudo-science of ornithomancy or iyafa—was indicating that he saw
indications of the ruler’s future potential as a gazi sultan cast in the
traditional mould. In this longish, but by virtue of its thematic
content introductory, twelve-folio section of the work Safi lays the
groundwork for the linked concluding section of the Ahmedian
menakibs in Section Nine where he focuses again, this time
providing more concrete examples, on the theme of sultanic
presence and omnipresence. In the final section, the connections
between the sultan’s ability to appear with the speed of a hawk and
strike unexpectedly are developed more fully as are the obvious
implications of this ability both for the empire’s internal residents
(obedient subjects and rebellious Celali’s alike) and its external foes.
Section IX: Sultanic Valour and Bravery (Şecaat )

Coverage of this important topic will be divided (as is conceptually

appropriate to Safi’s view of the subject) into its three main
constituent parts:

A. Speed (çabuk-suvarî )
B. Surprise Appearances (tebdil-i suret)
C. Sight and Glimpse (didar, dide)

IX/A—The Sultan’s Speed (on Horseback)

The physical capabilities of monarchs were linked by the time-

honoured conventions of the adab al-muluk literature with their
mental capacity . The young prince’s training was explicitly founded
on the principle: mens sana in corpore sano. Safi’s claims about the
semi-magical or miraculous mental powers of the sultan developed
in Section Four of the menakib are balanced in this section with tales
of the sultan’s extraordinary physical powers, focusing in particular
 Politics and Islam 19
on speed and Ahmed’s exceptional ability—natural in a youth of
sixteen years, but elevated to a level of seemingly supernatural
capacity in Safi’s account—to cover large tracts of land on
horseback, seemingly tirelessly. Of the several menkibes which focus
on this topic, perhaps the most interesting and significant is the one
in which Safi teases out a deeper or hidden significance from the fact
that the sultan, travelling light, was able to make two short back-to-
back journeys to and from Edirne at an early point in his reign in
1014/1605. He acknowledges that the reason for the sultan’s speedy
and sudden return to Istanbul after only a week’s stay in Edirne was
dictated by the military crisis in Anatolia which required his urgent
presence to deal with a Celali threat against the former Ottoman
imperial capital Bursa, but the rapid reaction itself Safi takes as a
portent of great things to come in the future and a warning to the
enemies of the state, both internal and external, that the sultan, ever
vigilant, is never far away.
The restlessness of the sultan and his desire to be always on the
move is here subtly transformed by Safi from a weakness into a
hidden strength with a single (or a few rather artfully conceived)
strokes of the pen. The sultan is praised in the Edirne anecdote for
his dexterity on horseback (sebkbarlık) and swiftness in riding (çabuk-
süvarî ). By demonstrating his ability to reach Edirne, known by all to
be a six-stage journey, in a mere three going and four coming back
(the comment comes in relation to the return journey on folio 120b)
the sultan has proven his manliness and courage (şecaat) to the
satisfaction of all. Not content with this somewhat dubious
contention about the exceptional nature of the feat, the author then
goes on to compare this ‘rare’ event with Sultan Süleyman’s speed
record in his covering the whole distance to Hungary with his heavily
laden baggage trains in a mere twenty five days:

Sultan Süleyman Budin kalesine ki menzil-i selatin ile iki aylık yoldur,
yiğirmibeş günde geldiği gibi, padişah-i asr…
(ZT I, fol. 121b).

By drawing such parallels and placing Ahmed in the category of the

thunderbolt sultans among his ancestors with their fabled ability to
strike with lightning speed and devastating effect the author’s clear
implication is that the empire’s current adversaries had better be on
their guard. Both the author and his audience were of course keenly
aware of the fact that the Ottomans had signed a peace treaty with
Habsburgs in 1606/1015, with concessions over the status of
Hungary, and that as he was putting the finishing touches on volume
one of his history a treaty with the Safavids (signed in October
1612/Ramazan 1021) was imminent. This however, or so Safi,
20 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
strongly hinted, should not be considered the end of the matter in
either case.
In another tale, this time conveyed to the author by Cerrahzade
Mevlana Mehmed Efendi who had spent a period of captivity in the
hands of the Safavids, it is reported that rumours of the sultan’s
rapid movements were circulating at Shah Abbas’ court giving rise to
speculation and fear of Ottoman intentions on the eastern front of
the empire. Addressing the shah in a bit of dialogue skilfully
simulated by Safi , the alim issues the following words of warning to
his captors:
Sultan al haremeyn ve’l hafikeyn hazretleri (i.e. Sultan Ahmed) bir
muteharrik neşet [dir]. Iki gün bir yerde karar etmemek mükteza-yi tab-i
hüimayunları, bir an halî oturmamak iktiza-yi hatir-i ilham-
makrunlarıdır. Inme ve binmede usanmaz, ve hareket-i anife ile gelme ve
gitmeden mande olmaz, bir zat-i merdane sıfatdır.
(ZT I: 122b-123a).

He then goes on to state:

Murad-i şerifi olan mahal’a zaman-i yesir’de vusala kudreti ba irade-i

Allah kati zahirdir.’

Having established the sultan’s exceptional power, physical stamina

and youthful energy that allow him to appear where and when he
wants, Safi’s next task is to demonstrate how these sudden
appearances are used to good effect in the internal administration of
his empire.

IX/B—The Sultan’s Surprise Appearances

The periodic appearance of the sultan among his subjects both

impromptu and planned is regarded by long-standing custom and
time-honoured tradition among writers of adab al-muluk manuals as
an essential part of good government. These traditions held that the
movement and circulation of the ruler was a particularly effective
instrument for the execution of justice and prevention of oppression
and dereliction of duty by his officers when the sultan’s inspection
visits were carried out surreptitiously. The practice of tebdil-i suret or
appearances of the sovereign disguised in the everyday costume of
his subjects, was, according to Safi’s account, much favoured by
Ahmed. At all events he seems not to have enjoyed much the rigid
formality and confinement of life in the palace, and his frequent
excursions, whether for the purpose of inspection or for pleasure,
are amply documented. Safi is inclined to regard them as
 Politics and Islam 21
opportunities for hearing the petitions and complaints of his subjects
and taking swift action to right wrongs as soon as he learned of
them. He formulates this view in his introduction to Section Nine of
the menakib:

Gah Sipahi tarzında ve gah Rumeli dilaverleri tarzında devr edip, bazı
mahal-i zihama ve nice mecami-yi pür-izdihama iktiham etmişler ve bu
takrible nice ahvala şu’ur, ve nice kazaya ve umura vukuf-i mevfur tahsil
etmekle, icra-yi ahkam-i fadl, ve imza-yi seyf-i adl ile intikâm eylemişler’
(ZT I, folio 115b).

Some of Safi’s anecdotes are seemingly based on actual events and in

some cases these, in addition to being verified by ascription to a
named informant, are also dated. One such case is the incognito
inspection by the sultan of the Grand Vizier Kuyucu Murad’s camp
at Üsküdar in May 1610/Safer 1019 before his departure for the
eastern front. When he attempts to enter the commander’s tent in
the guise of a sipahi the sultan is denied admission after being told by
the guards that their master is not to be disturbed during his
afternoon siesta (kaylule). The sultan leaves as his calling card a single
arrow which the vizier upon waking up from his nap of negligence
(khwab-i gaflet) immediately recognizes as a warning from the sultan
to improve his vigilance. In his narration of the anecdote, Safi
suggests three possible interpretations of the symbolic meaning of
the sultan’s leaving of the lone arrow as offered by three different
observers. The first gives the view that it is the sultan’s way of
indicating to the vizier that he should be ‘straight as an arrow’ in the
execution of his duties and eschew all forms of corruption and
injustice. The second opines that the sultan has chosen this way of
issuing a threat to his vizier that he faces the risk of dismissal or, if
circumstances justify it, even a shot through the heart by way of
execution. Finally a third commentator offers his view that the
arrow’s barb is aimed not at the vizier, but rather issued to him as
equipment to remind him that his objective is the Iranian front
where the arrow can be used to better purpose aimed against the
Safavid enemy. In effect the third message is both a warning and an
encouragement telling the vizier to tarry no longer on the outskirts
of Istanbul and proceed immediately to the front. (ZT I, folio 116b):
Later Safi reports these interpretations being discussed and debated
in the city and asks the sultan to explain his real intentions.
Concerning the final two alternatives he offers the following remark:

Ikisinin dahi mutalaası rast, ve kelamının her birisi dürüst-i bi-kem u

kastdır
(ZT I,folio 118b)
22 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

The sultan’s behind-the-scenes vigilance and knowledge gained by

means of tebdil-i suret is contrasted in the sleeping vizier anecdote
with the vizier’s negligence and deficiency of intellect, based on the
logic that you can’t understand what you don’t know and the vizier,
the captain of the Ottoman ship of state, has just been caught asleep
at the wheel. Several other anecdotes in this section focus on the
sultan’s successes in intelligence gathering and one claims that during
the royal excursion to Bursa in Receb 1014/November 1605 he even
infiltrated the camp of the rebels outside the city to eavesdrop on
their plot making (ZT I, fol. 126a: ‘… hariç-i belde’de sipah zorbalarının
çadırları içine girdiler ve, köşe-be-köşe seyr ile, ol taife’nin evzaını gördüler’).
The take-home message being conveyed throughout this section is
that not only is the sultan omnipresent but, as a result of his wide
circulation (often in disguise) throughout his realm, he is also
omniscient.
IX/C—The Beneficial Effects of the Glimpse or Sight of the Royal Presence

Interspersed among the anecdotes in Section Nine of the menakib,

whose principal focus revolves around accounts of the sultan’s
riding skills and his surprise visits on both lazy viziers and other
wrongdoers, Safi gives strategic placement to an account of the
beneficial effects of the sultan’s appearance, arrival and residence
(however brief) in his second capital Edirne. One such visit occurred
towards the beginning of his reign in the autumn of 1605/1014.
According to Safi’s account, the townsfolk of Edirne expressed
extreme joy and jubilation at his arrival since no royal visit had been
paid to their city since the time of Selim II who spent a prolonged
period of residence there in the winter of 1567-8/975 (ZT I, folio
119b: ‘Sultan Selim Han-i Sani’den berü padişah yüzün görmek, ve cemal-i
ba-kemalı müşahedesi ile murada ermek müyesser olmamağla…’). Safi then
goes on to philosophise and reflect on the life-enhancing qualities
and restorative properties with which the royal presence was imbued.
He describes how the mere sight, even at a distance, of the imperial
aura allowed average mortals to imbibe and absorb some of the
sultan’s strength and charisma to the betterment of their own lives.
The notion of the curative effects of the royal touch in the Western
concept of sacral kingship has been studied in detail in a classic work
by Marc Bloch published more than forty years ago,11 but to my
knowledge the subject of the healing power of the sight of the
sovereign and the importance of proximity to his line of sight (nazar-i
iltifat) in oriental ideas of sacral kingship has as yet been little studied
and certainly merits closer attention. On this theme allow me to
quote once more directly from the from the horse’s mouth:
 Politics and Islam 23

Didar-i şahan-i Al-i Osman tişne-yi dillerin ab-i hayata ve devran-i

hicret-menzilleri ru-yi canana olan iştiyakı gibi cümleten meştak, ve tecelli-i
cend-i devlet ve ikbala pür-eşvak olmuşlar idi
(ZT I, folio 119b).

[Their thirsting hearts were panting to be slaked by the fountain of

life by the sight of the kings belonging to the House of Osman and
they jointly longed for reunion with the unsatisfied yearning of
parted lovers awaiting the return of the beloved and all were filled
with desire for the beatific royal apparition which harbingers good
fortune and prosperity].
The references to the healing properties of the sight of the royal
presence and the intermingling of subjects and sovereigns in Section
Nine brings a close to the menakib section of Safi’s work, while at
the same time providing the context and justification for his brief
excursion into the retrospective history where he recounts the deeds
of valour accomplished by Ahmed’s ancestors and thirteen
predecessors on the Ottoman throne. This account is not just brief
(it runs to only 62 folios out of the combined total of roughly 650 in
the two volume work), but also composed in such a way as to avoid
distracting the reader’s attention too much from the kuvvet-i kalb
(strength of character) and şecaat (boldness) of his main subject,
Ahmed.

Conclusion

Safi’s history is a long, complex and multi-dimensioned work. In

Volume One, the sultan is the author’s exclusive focus. The only
other people who intrude themselves into his account are palace
informants and conveyors of tales or, very occasionally and
exceptionally, co-actors like Kapudan Halil Pasha who is mentioned
only as an incidental instrument as part of Safi’s account of the
sultan’s own very considerable part in the navy’s successes in the
summer of 1610/1019. The sultan’s daily routine and his transfers of
location (nakl-i mekan, tebdil-i mekan) are the subject of prolonged and
detailed coverage as are his movements in pursuit of quarry during
the hunt. Throughout the work, but particularly in Volume One, the
author sometimes deliberately ignores seemingly important (‘major’)
events, while giving long and detailed attention to signs and portents
and the deeper significance of seemingly trivial (‘minor’) events. Of
course his priorities were dictated in part by his role and
responsibilities in the sphere of news management and spin and the
necessity for mounting a spirited defence of the monarchy as an
institution on the one hand while offering an explanation for the
24 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
apparent failings of the monarch as a person on the other, but it
goes deeper than that. Defence of reputation (i.e. the sultan’s in
Volume One) and reputation enhancement (e.g. the justification
offered for Öküz Mehmed Pasha’s promotion to the Grand
Vizierate and the lambasting of his rival Nasuh Pasha in Volume
Two) represent only one dimension of the Zübdet, and only one of
the levels on which it can meaningfully be read.
Safi’s interests are not global history, retrospective history or even
the political and diplomatic history of his own time. Instead he offers
a highly introspective account of the person of the sultan and
focuses on the underlying meaning rather than the superficial
appearance of events affecting the dynasty. Safi’s account of sultanic
personality is quite unusual. Unlike the şehnamegu and writers of
accounts of individual campaigns whose more narrowly defined job
as panegyrists it was to catalogue a limited range of achievement
confined mostly to the military sphere, Safi’s vision of history offers
us a well-rounded account of a man ‘in full’. As such it is a great
rarity in the Ottoman historical corpus offering us a fascinating
alternative, more contemplative even subversive, reading of
Ottoman history to that more typically served up in the sturm und
drang single-dimensioned versions.

Notes
1 See the Zübdet ül Tevarih, Staatsbibliothek, Berlin, MS Or. Oct. 1044, [henceforth
ZT] Volume I, folio 2b.
2 cf. Babinger, Geschichtsschreiber, 146.
3 Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, 127.
4 See below, General Overview.
5 Tietze, Counsel for Sultans, Pt. I, 146.
6 Tietze, op. cit., 152: ‘ Bahşiş u ata, ve inam u saha’da galat kılmayalar. Bu makule edvar
ısraf u ıtlaf idiği aşikâr’.
7 See Lambton, State and Government in Medieval Islam, 133.
8 ZT I, folio 228a: ‘ reaya ve beraya ki paytaht-i Konstantiniyede arz-i ahval onlara nisbetle
kemal suubet ve işkal üzeredir, bu Dar al-Nasr Edirne’ye gelip, her gün taşaları teşrif etmek
ile, men-i hacib ve derban, ve zecr-i bevvab-i bi-aman olmayıp …, arz-i hal-i pür-melal
etmelerini teshil ve tesyirdir’
9 Sicill-i Osmani Vol. 4, 383.
10 See in particular, Grimston, Continuation, 1298 and Hammer, Geschichte, Volume
4, 439-40.
11 cf. the English translation by J. Anderson entitled The Royal Touch.
 İfta and Kaza: The İlmiye State and Modernism
in Turkey, 1820-1960

Kemal H. Karpat

Introduction

Islam in today’s secular republican Turkey reflects a remarkable

institutional continuity along with a number of modernist changes in
its organization and thinking. Resulting not only from the
incorporation of secular western features into the system but also
from an evolution in thinking within the Islamic system itself, these
changes have allowed Turkey’s Islam to coexist with a self-
proclaimed secular state supposedly not involved in religious issues.
Actually from the beginning of the age of reforms, the state took
an active role in directing (or misdirecting) the course of religious life
and using the faith for its own interests. In fact, during that time, the
state, that is the cadre of decision-makers who control the regime
and its ideology, engaged in shaping the Islamic institutions and the
ilmiye in a way not seen in the pre-reform period.
Today, organizationally speaking, the Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığı (est. 3
March 1924) can be considered the counterpart of the old Meşihat or
şeyhülislamate. The Diyanet is bound to the Prime Minister’s office
but acts largely as an independent body in issuing its views on a
number of religious matters. It is, at the same time, a national
Turkish institution interested in salvaging the Ottoman material
legacy and even in establishing schools in the former Ottoman
territories in the Balkans. Its long time head, Mehmet Nuri Yılmaz
with his white turban, poise and erudition, appeared much more like
an old chief mufti than a modern bureaucrat, although he controlled
his own 88,000-strong bureaucracy of imams and hatips.
Working closely with the Diyanet in various capacities, but not part
of it, are the professors who teach in the approximately fifteen
divinity schools located in some of the major state universities
controlled by the government through YÖK, the Council of Higher
Education. These faculties, significantly named İlahiyat (spiritual,
heavenly) instead of diniyat (religious), are modelled after the similar
bodies that were part of the Darül-fünun, the Istanbul University,
26 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
established in 1870. The first Divinity School was established under
the leadership of Tahsin Efendi, a Paris-educated former medrese
teacher who had repudiated religious dogmatism in favour of
progress through science and education.
The elections of 2 November 2002, brought to power the Justice
and Development Party and resulted in the appointment of Mehmet
Aydın, the much respected head of the Divinity School of Ege
University in Izmir, as state minister in charge of the Diyanet. Aydın
reportedly advocated that the head of the Diyanet be elected by the
faculty of the divinity schools and members of the religious
bureaucracy and intelligentsia. Today’s İlahiyat teachers—one could
call them müderrises—are exceptionally well-educated, modernist and
Kemalist, but also good Muslims. Their job it is to study Islam, tefsir
and hadis being among their key subjects.
Some of the old medreses closed by the Republican government
in 1924 gradually reopened after 1952 as imam hatip schools. Other
closed medreses merely had relocated to private quarters in a move
initiated by the Republican People’s Party, the very architect of
secularism, in the late 1940s. These rearrangements of religious
education were concluded during the Premiership of M. Şemseddin
Günaltay (1883-1961), who is also credited for enacting the law
establishing the basis of multi-party democracy in Turkey. The initial
purpose of the new medreses was to provide trained (and controlled)
imams and hatips to perform religious services and prevent self-
proclaimed ‘hocas’ and populist preachers from filling the ‘secularist’
spiritual vacuum with obscurantism and anti-Kemalist propaganda.1
In 2000 there were over a thousand co-educational imam hatip
schools, but the number decreased substantially after the
government decided that the imam hatip schools must accept only
graduates who had completed the eight-year orta (mid-level)
education in regular state schools. In addition, the graduates of the
imam hatip schools now may enroll in only a limited choice of
university faculties. A resulting decrease of interest in imam hatip
schools suggests that the previous popularity of those schools was
due to their having offered possibilities for lay professional training
in addition to Islamic teaching.
The similarity between the Ottoman and current situations applies
to the tarikats as well as to the ilmiye. Throughout the Ottoman era
many members of the ilmiye belonged to various sufi tarikats and a
variety of nineteenth century sufi tarikats still exist, although most of
the Ottoman Bektaşi, Halveti, Kadiri and other orders have
disappeared or have been reduced to shadows of their former selves.
Today, the popular religious orders are largely Nakşbendi, divided
into groups such as Nurcu, Süleymancı, Fetullacı, etc., and most of
them espouse the teachings of Şeyh Halid (d. 1827). At the same
 Politics and Islam 27
time, they combine a modernist, Turkish national stand on most
contemporary issues with a high degree of Islamic orthodoxy.
On the other hand, there no longer is an official ilmiye. Instead,
the kadı courts of the old judiciary system have been replaced by lay
civil courts and lay judges trained in law schools in a secularization of
the judiciary that began in the Tanzimat period but ironically
intensified during the reign of Sultan Abdülhamid, the most islamist
Ottoman ruler of the nineteenth century.
Now the greatest difference between the old and new Islam in
Turkey is that religion no longer is the principal subject governing
public life because the overwhelming part of the population
considers itself Muslim without being islamist. Beginning in the
nineteenth century and throughout the Republic, the ilmiye lost its
kaza (judiciary) function. It preserved the ifta, that is, opinion
rendering, when it did not pertain to Islamic legality of government
actions and related issues. Rather, the ifta’s new role was to explain,
justify and legitimize in an Islamic way social and political change.
True, many medieval Islamic writings offer a variety of arguments
defending changes in the rules and regulations governing society, but
making such arguments was not the primary task of the ilmiye. In
the late Ottoman state and today’s Turkey, by contrast, the ilmiye’s
primary function shifted towards reconciling change with Islam and
adapting society to contemporary life.
A quick glance at the enormous outpouring of so-called ‘Islamic’
books, journals, and newspapers (Zaman, Akit, Yeni Şafak etc.) in
Turkey indicates that they remain preoccupied with modernization,
that is, with the Republic and the compatibility between its reforms
and Islam. The opinions and arguments range from liberal and
humanistic to conservative and dogmatic, but the central topics
continue to be change and modernity and their suitability to Islam.
To the objection that because this modernity came from the
Christian West, any innovation or bida is a violation of Islam, the
answer is that science and civilization are based on reason or akl and
utility. The old argument that the West took its science from Islam is
rarely heard.
Underneath all the debates about the place of Islam in Turkish
society and contemporary civilization lies the desire to preserve the
society’s spiritual and moral integrity. Because religion serves as a
vehicle for that purpose, in today’s Turkey, identity is viewed in
national terms, and is inseparable from religious identity, despite the
ethnic connotation of the former. Thus the boundary of Islam has
expanded to include national identity, although one also can argue
that the two always were inseparable from each other. In any case,
the Diyanet and the leaders of the divinity faculties—that is, the
modern Kemalist şeyhülislam and the müderrises—are the source of a
28 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
modern, reasoned ifta to reconcile Islam and modernity within a
cultural-historical framework.

The Historical Background

The tension between a static system of beliefs and a changing social

and political environment was felt in the early days of Ottoman
history. Although the state had to intervene as an umpire and
occasionally side with one party or another, it generally kept a
healthy distance from both. I fully agree with R.C. Repp’s view that
behind the creation of the original müftilik back in the fifteenth
century ‘was the desire to create within the state a distinctly religious
figure, free from the taint of secular government… [he quotes
Kramer] and represent, so to speak the religious conscience of the
people’.2
In 1924 the state made the Diyanet the official spokesman and
interpreter of Islam in order to reassure the common citizens that
their creed is safe and they can become modern and worldly yet
remain Muslim. Consequently, 81 percent of the people interviewed
in a survey conducted by Binnaz Toprak opposed the abolition of
the Diyanet. While few people show any real interest in what the
Diyanet does, it is perceived as being the second party in a dialogue
between faith and state that has been going on for centuries. Those
who told interviewers they wanted to abolish the Diyanet probably
were the radical Kemalists and islamists who form a mere ten
percent of the population. In a similarly paradoxical way, the army
was criticized for a variety of reasons by a vast percentage of
respondents but supported by 86 percent of them as the most
trusted institution in Turkey and the only institution capable of
holding the state-faith dialogue on an even keel.
The relationship between Islam and modernity in Turkey has
always been decided, controlled and conditioned by a state pursuing
the one basic goal of its own survival. In the nineteenth century the
state’s relations with its subjects underwent a fundamental change as
the state sought to base itself on a nation rather than to act as the
arbiter and balancer among various communities and social groups.
The policy for building a nation, known as Ottomanism, forced the
state to emphasize certain religious and political ties in order to build
allegiance to the state and assure social cohesion. As it emerged, the
nation, in turn, represented a new form of political and social
organization that called for the state to undertake even more drastic
changes in government as well as in all other areas of social and
cultural activity.
The political-social changes undertaken by the state would be
called ıslahat or reform and could be summarized in one word,
 Politics and Islam 29
modernization. It was in this context that the ilmiye’s role was
redefined in order to reconcile Islam with social change, and religion
ceased to be the preserve of various communal leaders in order to
become the government’s primary implement of modernization. In
the past Islam and the ilmiye had provided legitimization for the
state’s actions; now the task of the ilmiye was to argue that because
Islam was compatible with modernization, the sultan-caliph’s Islamic
credentials as a ruler were not impaired even as he reformed society
and its institutions.
The involvement of Islam and the ilmiye in the process of change
began after Mahmud II had disposed of the ayans and Janissaries and
suffered a severe defeat in the war with Russia in 1828/9. The
opinions on their exact role in the process, however, are sharply
conflicting. Niyazi Berkes saw the ilmiye as totally opposed to
change while Uriel Heyd and David Kushner have provided
convincing evidence that many members of the ilmiye actually
became members of various reform councils.3 Yet one fact is certain,
the ilmiye who had reigned supreme in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries,4 using contrived religious arguments to thwart
rational explanations for the deterioration of Ottoman state power,
rapidly lost their influence in society to the rising bureaucrats and lay
intellectuals and the modern schools.
The creation of the Evkaf Nezareti in 1820 brought administration
of all the vakıfs under state control and by allowing the government
to use their revenues for its own purposes, dealt a grave economic
blow to the medreses, the educational backbone of the ilmiye.
During the same régime of Sultan Mahmud II, however, the sultan
appointed imams and hatips to military units to provide religious
services for the recruits. In the end, a good part of the ilmiye
opposed Mahmud’s reforms and were exiled, but the şeyhülislam
and his entourage gave the sultan full backing and eventually
Mahmud made the şeyhülislam a member of the ministerial cabinet.
The selective incorporation of the ilmiye into the state service had
begun.
In a recent study, Seyfettin Erşahin of the Divinity Faculty of
Ankara has shown how Mahmud delegated Yasincizade
Abdulwahhab, the şeyhülislam in 1821-2 and 1828 to 1833, to use
Islamic sources to provide a theory of total obedience to the sultan
and the necessity of reform.5 Citing twenty-five hadises,
Abdulwahhab argued that a civilized human society was based on
solidarity and cooperation and that when ‘şer ve fesad ’ (evil and
corruption) undermined the social order, then the ahkam could be set
aside to restore umran (civilization). In such a situation it was
incumbent on the ruler to issue some general principles enforceable
in this world. According to Abdulwahhab as well as Hoca Ishak and
30 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Esad Efendi, two other ulema who published works on this issue the
‘icab-ı maslahat’(force of circumstances) permitted the Muslims to
adopt a new policy and attitude. Abdulwahhab described how the
Prophet himself had taken certain decisions that deviated from the
norm, before employing great effort to demonstrate that Mahmud
possessed all the attributes required of Islamic rulers. He was Zill
Allah (the Shadow of God) and every subject needed to obey him.
With a variety of Islamic references, Abdulwahhab portrayed
Mahmud as a ‘renewer’ who was dedicated to the continuity of the
Muslim community and its faith. Consequently, practically all the
reforms undertaken by Mahmud, including the introduction of
newspapers, publication of books, etc., were in accordance with
Islam. So, too, was the required change of clothing (from which the
ilmiye were exempt) as all that insured good appearance avoided israf
(squandering). In fact, however, during the Tanzimat period and
Abdulhamid’s reign such reforms as the rise of a modern school
system, the rapid growth of a bureaucracy-intelligentsia, a decline in
the number of medreses, lack of vakıf revenues and the
establishment of a state or nizami court system under judges trained
in the law schools all further marginalized and fragmented the ilmiye.
Although the upper layer of the ilmiye headed by the şeyhülislam
cooperated with the government and submitted to the sultan-caliph’s
wishes, many lesser ulema, notably in the towns and cities of
Anatolia drifted away from the centre, economically, ideologically
and socially. At the same time, they legitimized their actions as a
protest of the true believers against a state which itself had drifted
away from Islam. The upper crust of the ilmiye already associated
with the government continued to discuss the islamization of the
reform and received generous government salaries while the mid-
level mollas, usually unranked and deprived of government support,
tended to associate themselves with the community and its aspiring
new leaders, the eşraf.
A variety of factors increased the mid-level mollas’ association
with the neo-sufi popular orders, notably the Nakşbendi. For
instance, there was the influx of Caucasian followers of Şeyh Şamil
who further popularized the Halidiya and there also was a degree of
regionalization—or ‘turkification’—of Islam, as Butrus Abu-Manneh
has claimed.6 But most of all, the religious leaders in the countryside
believed that the so-called reforms were not rejuvenating society, but
were only increasing the state’s power. They were not against
renewal and change; they wanted them to conform to the material
needs of society and to Islam. Evidently they wanted a series of
reasoned arguments showing that change was compatible with their
faith. Instead, Mahmud’s ilmiye was justifying reforms that
strengthened the state, not the society. The old theoretical concept
 Politics and Islam 31
of din ü devlet—the communion of state and faith—had disintegrated
with the division among its advocates, the ilmiye.
In the Tanzimat period a new brand of religious leaders rose from
the relatively unranked ulema in the countryside. Their rise reflected
at least two new forces that were transforming Ottoman society and
producing a more natural, widely accepted synthesis between Islam
and modernity. First, economically, this countryside ulema was
relatively independent of the government and supported by eşraf, the
new middle-class leaders whose position and income were rooted in
the community, not the government. Fundamental to both the
emergence of the eşraf and the mental outlook shared by the
countryside ulema was a new economic order created by wider trade
opportunities and intensified relations with Europe.
Second, as David Commins has shown in his work on Islamic
reform in Syria,7 the countryside élites also took advantage of new
opportunities to invest in land. Originally meant to consolidate state
control of the state lands, the Land Code of 1858 ended up
privatizing them. This process later was intensified during
Abdulhamid II’s reign, by amendments to the Land Code of 1877-97
that left practically no difference between mülk and miri landholders.
A relative increase in agricultural production ensued, for the amount
of the uşr tax collected was three times greater in 1900 than at mid-
century, and there was some resulting capital accumulation in the
hands of the rising agrarian middle class.8 Donations from local
landlords assured the survival of the ilmiye and vaizan in the
countryside and supported local medreses and mektebs. Consequently a
number of medreses and mektebs continued to function under the
direction of the same müderris or of their descendants, although the
government now ignored all but the most well-known local and
provincial medreses. While the local medreses and traditional schools
often sought leadership and suggestions from the larger centres,
including the şeyhülislamate, in reality they were becoming more
likely to follow the views of the local community and their local
sponsors.
The involvement of the mid-level, independent-minded ulema in
commercial activities and crafts, while they devotedly studied Islam
on their own, is a fact needing closer research. I became alerted to
this phenomenon many years ago when I found a group of
merchants in Istanbul who originally came from Elaziğ; more than
half of them claimed to have learned their trade from their fathers
and grandfathers, who were members of the local ilmiye.9 Ziyauddin
Gümüşhanevi, founder of the major Halidiyya branch in Turkey, was
the son of a merchant from Gümüşhane in northeastern Turkey and
originally made his living by crafting purses; and Ahmed Hamdi
Akseki, about whom there will be further discussion, sustained
32 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
himself economically by carving and selling seals (mühür) while
studying in the medrese of Karamanlı Süleyman Efendi in the town
of Ödemiş in the Aegean region.
Free of economic dependence on the government, while deeply
knowledgeable about Islam and aware of the conditions in their own
communities, the second-rank ilmiye developed a far more realistic
understanding of social reform than did the bureaucrats who
considered themselves agents of modernization. My own view is that
the ulema in the countryside defined reforms in the strictly utilitarian
terms of economic improvement, governmental efficiency and
honest administration, all coexisting with an orthodox yet worldly
Islam. They thus freely criticized the established government for
both its maladministration and its contrived Islamic arguments.
The ulema in general, but especially its mid-level ranks, deeply
resented the otherwise little-noticed granting of ‘equality’ to
Christians through the Islahat Fermanı of 1856, part of the Paris treaty
of the same year.10 The edict was issued against the advice of a
council of ulema that had debated the question in detail for two
weeks in November 1849, when it was introduced by the sultan at
the insistence of the British ambassador, Stratford Canning. Looking
at the issue strictly from the viewpoint of the şeriat, the council had
stated that Christian testimony could not be accepted in criminal
cases but Christians could be consulted. Furthermore, the cizye
should be retained and not changed to bedelat-ı askeriye (tax in lieu of
military service) though in this case, the final decision was to be left
to the government. The council also had stated that Christians could
not be placed in a position to command Muslims but could be
conscripted into service units of the army.11 At the same time, the
council had recommended increased economic benefits for
Christians. The Rescript of 1856, however, accepted all the
provisions the council had rejected, provoking a constantly
deepening rift between the state and the economically independent
countryside ulema, which no longer equated the state’s own interest
and views with that of its constituency.
Actually the council had supported considerable change in the
Christians’ status quo. If the question had not been imposed on it by
the zealously Protestant Ambassador Canning, the ulema’s reaction
might have been even more positive. Nevertheless, Cevdet Pasha,
the learned alim and historian as well as Minister of Vakıfs and
spokesman for the state, criticized the ilmiye for insisting that there
could not be an alliance between Darul-Islam and Darul-Harb. On the
contrary, he pointed to the Crimean War as having created such an
alliance, which ultimately necessitated the broadening of Christians’
rights.12
 Politics and Islam 33
The Crimean War was a turning point in the Ottoman opening to
Christian Europe. Even some of the ulema in India argued that
England was now part of the Darul-Islam because the Caliph had
become England’s ally to defeat Russia, the sultan’s worst enemy.
After the Paris treaty, however, the mistrust and animosity towards
France and England revived as the two powers tried to exploit the
‘equality’ granted Christians. To increase their own influence in the
Ottoman state, they used the upper-class Christians as agents in their
commercial and judicial dealings with the Ottoman government. The
Muslim reaction took the form of nationalism, creating further
opposition to the Tanzimat reforms, to the Ottoman government
itself, and to the upper ilmiye which sanctioned the reforms. The
vaizan (preachers) used their exceptional influence among the lower
classes to mobilize effective resistance against the Rescript of 1856
and Europe, too.
The coming of Abdulhamid II brought momentous changes in
the government’s relations with the ilmiye and in the entire issue of
reform. Unlike every previous sultan (possibly excepting Abdulaziz
in his last years), Abdulhamid emphasized his role as Caliph of all
Muslims rather than his position as the Ottomans’ sultan. He fused
the Ottoman ruler’s titles into one by placing the Caliphate on the
first plane and using it to strengthen the central government’s
authority. Abdulhamid also used Islam to strengthen the political
unity of his Muslim subjects who became the overwhelming majority
after the loss of the Balkans in 1878. He, therefore, sought to gain
the confidence of the restive Arabs and to integrate millions of
Muslim refugees from the Balkans and Caucasus into the Anatolian
society. The international facet of this policy, generally known as
pan-islamism, was a political tactic that used the threat of cihad in
order to thwart French, Russian and British ambitions in the
Ottoman Empire.
Although the sultan became the de facto political head of Islam,
religious decisions were ostensibly left to the şeyhülislam.
Abdulhamid espoused the old dictum that the padişah-caliph had the
right of tazir (censuring, reproof) and not of ifta (opinion).
Abdulhamid considered himself the executive of the şeriat, not its
interpreter, and this formula suited most of the ilmiye and the body
public. Thus the şeyhülislam apparently regained his old position as
the uppermost source of ifta, but that right was left to the
şeyhülislam only provided he became the sultan’s clerk, for the
caliph’s view prevailed.
The ilmiye seemed to believe that a strong government dedicated
formally to Islam was the best guarantee of its own position and
mission. It seems that the sultan had reached a consensus with the
upper ilmiye that he was the head of the government and the
34 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
şeyhülislam was the head of the ilmiye and the voice of Islam.
Abdulhamid was closely assisted by one of the most learned alims,
Uryanizade Ahmed Esad Efendi (1813-89). After serving as kazasker
of Rumili and Anatolia and a member of the Ayan Council, Esad
Efendi served as şeyhülislam from 1878 to 1889. He was a strong
believer in absolute sultanic authority over the government and the
sultan’s non-involvement in religious affairs. His successor,
Cemaleddin Efendi (1848-1919), known as ‘Abdulhamid’s
şeyhülislam’, believed that the old unity of din ü devlet had been
restored.13 In reality, after outwardly assuming all the credentials of a
bona fide ruler-caliph, the sultan engaged in a series of far-reaching
social, educational, and economic reforms that greatly exceeded
those of the Tanzimat.
Abdulhamid received a powerful rational Islamic backing for his
reforms from Cevdet Pasha, who had been Minister of Vakıfs and
Justice. A convinced monarchist but also a social relativist and a
follower of Ibn Khaldun, who had translated the Muqaddimah,
Cevdet had consistently defended the view that ‘Zamanın tagayyuru
ahkamın tebeddülünü meşru kılar ’ (changed conditions legitimize the
change of laws). He consequently criticized the ulema for their
opposition to reforms—including the Edict of 1856—and cited
Koranic verses and hadises to support his views.14 Cevdet favoured
neither resistance to change nor blind imitation of the West. He
believed reform consisted of social and cultural revival achieved by
infusing traditional institutions with western science and
technology.15 Cevdet’s extraordinary contribution to Islamic
modernism and the maintenance of Ottoman legacy, however, still
awaits a competent full-length study.16
Another defender of Abdulhamid was the journalist and novelist
Ahmet Midhat Efendi, who advocated among other things, the
rights of women and made many aspects of European life and
history known in Turkey.17 He was a social and cultural liberal but a
political conservative and a supporter of Abdulhamid’s absolutism.
Thanks to defenders such as Ahmet Midhat, Abdulhamid established
his credentials as an islamist ruler free of the European political and
cultural tutelage that seemed to taint the Tanzimatists.
Under Abdulhamid, railways, the press, finances, the economy,
communications, agriculture—practically every sector of Ottoman
society—underwent considerable renovation without opposition or
even criticism. Abdulhamid’s borrowings from the West far
exceeded those of the Tanzimat but were described as having an
Arabic-Islamic origin. By claiming, for instance, that many western
sciences, including algebra and chemistry were discovered by Arabs,
the sultan was politically courting the Arabs and, at the same time,
clothing the secular aspects of contemporary civilization in
 Politics and Islam 35
respectable Muslim garb. He thus upheld human society’s worldly
aspects, which had been condemned in the past as maddiyyun and
tabiyyun or materialism.
Abdulhamid’s greatest achievement was the creation of a three-
tiered educational system originally designed in 1869. The religious
mektebs were converted into modern schools while the existing
professional schools were reformed and new ones were added to
them. The purpose was to use education as the means to acquire the
strength of Europe and to refashion the internal society. Although
the process of teaching was moved from the mosque to the school,
many members of the ulema, such as the illustrious Esad and Ali
Haydar Efendis, were put in charge of carrying out the educational
reforms. The curricula of the schools, notably at the upper two levels
(ruşdiye and idadi), now consisted mainly of secular subjects, but
courses on Islam were introduced after 1890 to counteract the
influence of the missionary and foreign schools. There was much
that was new in the schools (maps, buildings, teaching methods) and
also much continuity, producing in the end a new Ottoman Islamic
identity. 18
Abdulhamid made a special effort to court the notables and the
ulema in the countryside as well as many sufi orders. He often
consulted with the head of the Halidiyya-Ziyayya, and when
Ziauddin Gümüşhanevi died, the sultan ordered him entombed at
the entrance of Süleyman the Magnificent’s türbe (grave-mausoleum).
By contrast, the sultan practically preempted the real power of the
official ilmiye and the şeyhülislamate by making them the
government’s agents in control of the preachers or vaizan. In
addition, he ordered that the ‘imams, hatips and other employees of
religion’ be examined and certified before being allowed to practice.19
Because the şeyhülislam still retained the formal authority to
sanction the sultan’s dethronement Abdulhamid kept the meşihat
under close supervision, possibly having heard that some of the
officials had ties to his critics. In 1891 the Council of Ministers
ranked the branches of the bureaucracy as askeriye, mülkiye and
kalemiye (military, administrative, secretarial), significantly omitting
the ilmiye. Probably prodded by the sultan, the council met again
one week later and included the ilmiye in the classification and
ranking of the bureaucracy but left the şeyhülislam out of the ilmiye.
Actually the ‘new’ ranking conformed to the old one, except that the
old title kazasker (chief kadı) was changed to sadr-ı Rumeli-Anadolu
payesi.20
The opposition to Abdulhamid was directed against his
absolutism, not his reforms. It rose not only from the students
educated in modern schools but also from the ulema in the
countryside. The former invoked the lay principles of freedom
36 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
embodied in the Constitution of 1876, which the sultan had
suspended; the latter criticized the sultan because, in the words of
Musa Kazım (1858-1919), şeyhülislam from 1910 to 1918 in the
Young Turk era, the ‘khalifa was elevated to the rank of deity’. A
large number of ulema originating in the countryside such as
Mehmed Esad of Erbil, Şevki Celaleddin, and many Bektaşis and
Kadiris as well as the leading Arab Islamic thinkers Rashid Rida and
Abdulhamid al-Zahrawi charged that Abdulhamid’s absolutism had
converted the caliphate into a tool of oppression. Consequently,
both westernists and islamists regarded the Young Turks’ revolution
of 1908 as a liberating movement directed against Abdulhamid’s
absolutism and not against his widespread reforms.
In truth, the Young Turk revolution was a middle-class social
revolution against the imperial system and its entrenched
bureaucracy, including the old ilmiye. It was also a populist
revolution on behalf of the millet (nation), and it was a revolution of
the countryside against an overly centralized state. As is well known,
the revolution originated in Macedonia and was carried out by a
combination of military leaders and local notables, but it was
preceded by a series of uprisings in Anatolian cities led mainly by
local merchants and craftsmen.
The revolution uprooted the ilmiye entrenched around the throne
and brought to power the countryside religious cadres. The
şeyhülislam, who remained a member of the ministerial cabinet until
1916, lost his independence. Despite the collapse of the old ilmiye,
Islam remained central in the political life of the new leaders and
continued to play a major role in community life. The Young Turks
remained fully aware of the Ottoman caliph’s prestige in the Muslim
world even though their call to cihad at the beginning of the First
World War resulted from German insistence rather than the Young
Turks’ belief in its effectiveness.
From 1908 on, the term ilmiye was replaced by the ideological
term islamcı, or islamists, to distinguish the group from two other
major ones, the westernists and the Turkists. Westernism, despite its
ultimate victory in the Republic, was espoused by a relatively small
group while Turkism long had been embraced by all parties involved
in the debate. Turkism posed the biggest and most divisive challenge
to the islamists because it superseded the question of modernism,
which, as Ziya Gökalp showed in his famous article ‘Üç Cereyan ’
(Three Currents), had been accepted by all intellectuals.21
The islamists in the Young Turk era, like most political actors of
the time, had provincial origins. A fairly large number of them
appear to have studied in their local medreses, but many, especially
the younger ones had attended only the modern schools.
 Politics and Islam 37
When the islamists are classified into groups, the first group is the
one associated with the Young Turks and known as the
governmental islamists. The main uniting point of this modernist,
statist wing of the islamists was its opposition to absolutism and
Abdulhamid. It was best represented by Musa Kazım who advocated
importing only knowledge, science and technology from the West.22
Said Halim Pasha (1863-1921), who eventually became Prime
Minister, also advocated caution in borrowing from the West. He
was, however, a modernist islamist and increasingly is being viewed
as the voice of the moderate democratic Islam of his time.23
On the other side of the islamist spectrum stood the conservative
monarchists. Allied with the country notables, they were the pillars
of the opposition Ahrar and Hurriyet ve İtilaf parties. Probably the
best representative of this group was Mustafa Sabri (1869-1954),
born in Tokat and educated in a medrese. He established the review
Beyanul-Hak (Declaration of Rights) in September 1908 and in its
first issue thanked the Young Turks and the army for ending
Abdulhamid’s absolutism.
Disturbed by the demise of the old ilmiye and the government’s
‘secularization’ policy, Sabri founded the Cemiyet-i İlmiyye-i İslamiye
(Society of Islamic Ulema), which became a bitter opponent of the
Union and Progress, and he was also among the founders of the
İtilaf party. He fled the country after the coup of 1913 but returned
in 1918 following the Ottoman defeat in World War I to serve twice
as şeyhülislam in the Damat Ferit governments. He also endorsed
the Sèvres Treaty of 1920 and was critical of the Kemalist resistance
movement. In 1922 Sabri fled Turkey again, never to return, even
after an amnesty pardoned the so-called 150, mainly religious
opponents of Atatürk.24
The radical militant wing of islamism was represented by the
İttihad-i Muhammedi (Muslim Union) and its head Vahdedi. Publisher
of the paper Volkan, Vahdedi instigated the reaction of March 1909.
The basic contention of this group was that the state must be Islamic
and enforce the şeriat in transactions and in punishment of criminal
acts.25
The group known as the Turkist-Islamists—moderate secular
nationalists—included many prominent personalities, among them
Ziya Gökalp and a number of literary figures, as well as émigrés from
Russia such as Ahmet Agayev (Ağaoğlu).26 These committed
modernists were nationalists who wanted material progress and
considered Islam a cultural or moral substratum of society rather
than a guiding legal system.
From the viewpoint of this paper, however, the most important
group of islamists in the Young Turks era was associated with the
review Sirat-ı Mustakim (Straight Path), which later took the name
38 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Sebilul-Reşad (Path of Righteousness). It included the largest number
of moderate, modernist islamists, many of whom were from the
countryside and had been educated in both the traditional and
modern schools or solely in the modern ones.
The longevity of the review indicates that it had a substantial
number of readers. Many of them probably did not regard
themselves as islamists, but simply as Muslims. The review saw Islam
as the faith of a social body or a community, and it looked upon the
state as a regulatory agency that should not intervene, either
positively or negatively, in religious affairs. As long as the
government left the community free to practise its faith the review
did not question its other acts on religious grounds.
Although the Sebilul-Reşad never formulated a well-defined
doctrine, its prevailing view was that the government could take
measures to strengthen society and in this way, benefit the faith. For
the same reason, a fairly large number of educated Muslims
acquiesced to Abdulhamid’s development policies while only a
handful supported his absolutism.
Writers for the review did not reject the West or condemn the
westernists. On the contrary, they regarded the West as having
updated and perfected science and technology, which presumably
were of Islamic origin. They believed that renewal was both material
and spiritual and it could be achieved by being open to science and
the world yet remaining bound to Islam. They regarded the
constitutional regime as being in accord with the şeriat, for they did
not see the state charged with the duty to enforce the şeriat, but only
to let the community conduct its religious life through its own
representatives and institutions. To the utter dismay of radical
islamists, after 1922 especially, some accepted that the state and
society were Turkish. In other words, they accepted the living reality
of a national state. Other islamists, by contrast, denied both the
Parliament’s and the sultan’s legislative powers; as late as 1909 some
of them even had demanded a return to the fıkh.
The Sebilul-Reşad took an Ottomanist, as opposed to a Turkist,
stand. The term ‘Ottoman’, however, had national rather than
Islamic connotation. At first, prominent writers, including Ahmed
Naim and Süleyman Nazif, regarded Ottomanism as close to Islam
and bitterly criticized Turkism. Later, the followers of Sebilul-Reşad
changed their thinking as a result of their debates with the Turkists,
who, as Berkes aptly put it, ‘turned the discussion [of] the
secularization of the state into the secularization of religion.’27
In sum, the group of islamists writing for the Sebilul-Reşad
gradually accepted both the primacy of the community-nation and
that entity’s right to follow its faith while rejuvenating itself with
science and technology. Whether all this contains the seeds of
 Politics and Islam 39
secularization is open to debate. The more important point is that a
powerful Islamic continuity, extending from the Ottoman Empire
into Republican Turkey, was achieved through a collaboration
between the moderate national islamists of the Sebilul-Reşad and the
Republican government. Although it must be emphasized that these
islamist collaborators did not speak on behalf of all the islamists and
represented just one layer of Islamic thinking in Turkey, they enjoyed
the advantage of having state power behind them. Through the
state’s power and its control of the educational system the Islam of
the moderate modernist wing of the Sebilul-Reşad became the faith of
most of the country’s inhabitants.
The first to achieve a consensus between the continuity of Islam
and the Kemalist regime was Ahmet Hamdi Akseki (1887-1951).
Born in the village of Güzelce in the Akseki area, he studied in the
local mekteb and then in the medrese of Karamanlı Süleyman Efendi
in Ödemiş. After Akseki came to Istanbul in 1905 and received his
icazet (diploma) from Bayındırlı Muhammed Şükrü Efendi, he
enrolled in the Istanbul Darül-fünun and graduated in 1918, with a
specialization in philosophy and kelam–theology. Meanwhile, from
1908 on, he had been one of the most active writers for the Sebilul-
Reşad and had taught in various schools. Having participated in the
War of Liberation, Akseki was charged with reforming the teaching
programmes of the medreses, which were abolished in 1924. The
following year, he was tried (and acquitted) for membership of the
Tarikat-ı Salahıye (Path of Salvation) Society.
In 1939 Akseki became vice-director of the Diyanet Office,
serving under Şerafettin Yaltkaya (1887-1949), another very
important modernist islamist. Actually from 1939 until his death, the
Diyanet was under the direction of Akseki who was instrumental in
shaping its current philosophy. He knew Arabic, Persian and English
and wrote numerous books, including Islam Dini (Muslim Faith),
which reportedly sold an unprecedented total of 1.5 million copies.
He also wrote the Askere Din Dersleri (Religious Teaching for
Soldiers) of 1925, which went through several editions. Clearly,
Akseki played a crucial role in shaping the structure and philosophy
of the Diyanet and the government’s policy towards Islam in Turkey.
Also instrumental in changing the Republican government’s rigid
secularism towards an accommodation with Islam was M. Şemseddin
Günaltay. He was born in Kemaliye in the province of Erzincan, the
son of a local müderris, İbrahim Efendi. He studied in the İdadi,
then went to the teachers’ college and finally to the University of
Lausanne, where he studied physics. Upon his return, he wrote for
the Sebilul-Reşad while teaching the history of religions at Istanbul
University. In 1913 he published the Islam Mecmuası and joined the
Islamist-Turkist group. In the next year he became the dean of
40 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Istanbul University’s Divinity School. Beginning in 1923 he was
elected to the National Assembly on the slate of the ruling
Republican People’s Party, and from 15 January 1949 to 22 May
1950 Günaltay served as Prime Minister. In that period the teaching
of Islam was liberalized, and a variety of other measures were taken
to harmonize the government’s policy with the belief system and
Islamic practices of society. For example, the original imam hatip
schools were established as part of this policy of reaching a
consensus with Islam.
Other islamists, such as İsmail Hakkı İzmirli (1868-1946) and
Mehmet Ali Aynı (1868-1945) wrote for the Sırat-ı Mustakım and
Sebilul-Reşad and played critical roles in creating today’s official Islam
in Turkey. The examples of Akseki and Günaltay, however, amply
illustrate how a drastically changed form of Ottoman Islam
continued in modern Turkey and how a new national, semi-
secularized ilmiye emerged. As in Ottoman times, there are still large
groups of islamists, including many popular sufi orders, outside the
Diyanet ’s jurisdiction, but relations between the representatives of
the official Islam and non-official Islam are reportedly good. That is
to say the Ottoman policy of mutual tolerance among various
appointed and self-declared representatives of Islam continues as
well.

Notes
1 There is a rising demand to revise the negative image of the old medrese. Yaşar
Sarıkaya, ‘Osmanlı Medreselerinin Gerilemesi Meselesi: Eleştirel bir Değerlendirme
Denemesi’, İslam Araştırmaları Dergisi 3 (1999), 23-40.
2 R.C. Repp, The Mufti of Istanbul: A Study in the Development of the Ottoman Learned
Hierarchy (London, 1986), 300.
3 Uriel Heyd, ‘The Ottoman Ulema and Westernization in the Time of Selim III
and Mahmud II’, Studies in Islamic History and Civilization, ed. Uriel Heyd (Jerusalem,
1961), 63-96 and David Kushner, ‘The Place of the Ulema in the Ottoman Empire
During the Age of Reform (1839-1918)’, Turcica 19 (1987): 51-74. İlmiye Salnamesi, a
voluminous work of about 750 pages, deserves special mention. It was undertaken
by the Istanbul şeyhülislamate in order to rehabilitate the prestige of the ilmiye,
tarnished since the Young Turk revolution and its ‘secularist’ policies. Prepared
under the direction of Mustafa Hayrı Efendi, şeyhülislam and Minister of Justice, it
consists of three parts, including numerous relevant fetvas covering the entire
structure of the time as well as biographies of some 124 ulema who lived in the
earlier periods. It is a source of primary importance for any study of education (it
has a section on the medreses) and social groups in the Ottoman times. An edition
in the Latin alphabet was published in 1998.
 Politics and Islam 41

4 Madeline C. Zilfi, ‘Elite Circulation in the Ottoman Empire: Great Mollas of the
Eighteenth Century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 26:3 (1983),
361.
5 Seyfettin Erşahin, ‘The Ottoman Ulema and the Reforms of Mahmud II’,
Hamdard Islamicus 22:2 (1999), 19-40.
6 Butrus Abu-Manneh, ‘Şhaykh Ahmad Ziya’uddin El-Gümüshanevi and Ziya-i-
Khalidi Suborder’, Shi’a, Sects and Sufism, ed. F. de Jong (Utrecht, 1992), 104-17.
7 David Dean Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria
(New York, 1990).
8 See Kemal H. Karpat, The Politicization of Islam: Reconstructing Identity, State, Faith
and Community (New York, 2001), Ch. 4 on ‘The New Middle Classes and the
Nakşbandia’, 89-116.
9 Similarly, Qasim al-Halaf (1806-67) of Damascus left his trade as a barber,
studied to become an alim and served as preacher and imam. His position and
status were inherited by his son and his grandson, Jemaluddin (d. 1914), whose
own descendants returned to lay professions. The Qasimis not only compiled a
dictionary of Damascus crafts and occupations, but also denounced millers,
bakers, grain suppliers, tax farmers and rich men for their greed and adulterated
foods. David Commins, ‘Social Criticism and Reformist Ulema of Damascus’,
Studia Islamica 78 (1993), 169-80.
10 Roderic Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 1856-1876 (Princeton, 1963) and
‘Turkish Attitudes Concerning Christian-Muslim Equality in the Nineteenth
Century’, American Historical Review 59:4 (1954), 844-64.
11 The minutes are in Başvekalet Arşivi (B.A.), Yıldız Collection sec. 18, folder 39.
See also Karpat, 76-7.
12 Karpat, 74.
13 After serving for a short period as şeyhülislam under the Young Turks,
Cemaleddin went to Egypt and criticized them bitterly. See his memoirs, Siyasi
Hatıralarım (Istanbul, 1920 & 1990). The best source on şeyhülislams is the
voluminous İlmiye Salnamesi (Istanbul, 1916).
14 Karpat, 104-6.
15 Niyazi Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (Montreal, 1964), 70, 74.
16 Cemil Meriç, Cevdet Paşa’nın Toplum ve Devlet Görüşü (Istanbul, 1992) is a mere
beginning.
17 Karpat, 157-8.
18 Benjamin C. Fortna, Imperial Classroom: Islam, the State, and Education in the Late
Ottoman Empire (New York, 2002), 110, 138.
19 The by-laws ‘tevcih-i cihat nizamnamesi’ concerning the certification of the vaizan
and related correspondence are in B.A., Sadaret, Mabeyn-i Humayun, Yıldız,
Sadaret Resmi Mevzuatı, No. 41/34.
20 For the two ranking lists of 5 and 12 July 1891 see B.A., Sadaret, Yıldız Resmi
Maruzatı No. 55/46.
21 Türk Yurdu 3 (1913); Taha Parla, The Social and Political Thought of Ziya Gökalp,
1876-1924 (Leiden, 1985).
22 Musa Kazım, Devr-i İstibdat Ahvali ve Musebbileri (Istanbul, 1911); Berkes, 259.
23 Sait Halım (Pasha) Buhranlarımız (Istanbul, 1911).
24 Mustafa Sabri remained a bitter enemy of Atatürk. See his Hilafet ve Kemalizm
(Istanbul, 1991) republished by Sadık Albayrak. Abdullah Dürrizade, the
şeyhülislam who issued the fetva denouncing the Kemalists as outlaws, had been
Sabri’s deputy. Probably personal ambition, rather than loyalty to ideology, shaped
Sabri’s career. He had been elected deputy from Tokat and wanted to become
Sadrazam – Premier.
42 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

25 Berkes, 341.
26 Ahmet Ağaoğlu deserves a more detailed study than accorded here. For a recent
publication, see Fahri Sakal, Ağaoğlu Ahmed Bey (Ankara, 1999).
27 Berkes, 377.
 From Kadı to Naib: Reorganization of the Ottoman
Sharia Judiciary in the Tanzimat Period
Jun Akiba

Historians dealing with the sharia courts in the late Ottoman Empire
have long been aware of the fact that it was always the naib, not the
kadı (qadi), who presided over the court.1 ‘Naib’ literally means a
deputy kadı. Why then was the sharia judge in the late Ottoman
period generally called naib? This paper focuses on the process of
the shift in the title of judges during the Tanzimat period: from that
of kadı to naib. But it was not merely the title that changed. This
shift was in fact a replacement of one system by a new one and
represents an extensive reorganization of the sharia judiciary under
the Tanzimat. So far the development of the naibship system has not
been examined. Research on the nineteenth-century Ottoman ulema2
usually paid little attention to the institutional aspect and studies on
the Tanzimat reforms have had little interest in what happened to
the ‘traditional’ sharia courts. It is true that the Ottoman sharia
courts in the nineteenth century were overshadowed by the
enactment of a series of secular legal codes and the formation of a
new secular court system, which eventually reduced the scope of the
sharia jurisdiction more or less to matters concerning personal status
and waqf. However, the Ottoman judicial reforms comprised from
the beginning the reorganization of the institution of the sharia court
and judiciary, which profoundly affected the whole hierarchy of the
ulema, as well as the daily practice of local sharia courts. Recent
studies using the sharia court registers are more concerned with how
individuals managed to use the court and how the court dispensed
justice, thus turning to the examination of the way the court records
reconstructed the ‘reality’. This trend necessitates more careful
attention to the institutional background against which the court
records were produced. The diversity of court practice over time and
space is also brought into focus in this context.3 Changes during the
nineteenth century are no doubt especially significant in the history
of the Ottoman sharia court. The purpose of this paper is to
illustrate the reorganization of the sharia judiciary in the Tanzimat
period and also to examine the underlying logic of the reforms.
44 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Naibs in the Pre-Tanzimat Period

The main characteristic of the Ottoman sharia judiciary was the

integration of the kadıs’ offices into the Empire’s ruling institutions
and its hierarchical organization. This organization was established
during the mid-sixteenth century, and developed through the
following centuries. As a precondition for understanding the
reforms, the situation of the Ottoman sharia judiciary in the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries must be understood, since
naibs were already prevalent by that period.4
There were two types of the kadıship: mansıb and mevleviyet. Most
of the offices of the kadı (sing., kaza, which also meant the district
under kadı’s jurisdiction) were in the former category. Mansıbs were
divided into three according to geographic area (Rumeli, Anadolu
and Mısır5) with each line organized into a hierarchical order. These
career lines were collectively called ‘the hierarchy of kadıship’ (tarik-i
kaza). Kadıs of the mansıbs in Rumeli were appointed by the
Kazasker of Rumeli and those in Anadolu and Mısır by the Kazasker
of Anadolu.
Mevleviyet, which meant the office of the molla (senior judge), was
a kadıship of the Empire’s main cities. Cities such as Edirne, Bursa,
Damascus or Jerusalem were included in this category.6 These offices
were given only to those ascending from the career line of the
professorship (müderrislik) in Istanbul. Above the mevleviyets came
the kadıships of Mecca and Medina, the kadıship of Istanbul, the
offices of two Kazaskers, and finally the office of Şeyhülislam. This
hierarchy beginning from the professorships to the Şeyhülislamate at
the top, was called ‘the hierarchy of professorship’ (tarik-i tedris). It
was the Şeyhülislam who had the authority to appoint the mollas.
The two hierarchies, of kadıship and professorship, constituted
the two pillars of the ilmiye hierarchy. The actual operation of the
system was, however, not so simple. The kadıs often delegated their
duties to deputies and they themselves did not actually serve as
judges. This phenomenon could be explained through the existence
of two factors: the fee-collection system and the increase in the
number of candidates for kadıships.
Judges were not salaried. They earned their income from court
fees collected in return for their legal, notarial and administrative
services. The post of judgeship could bring in large profits so long as
the judge tried to collect as much fees as possible during his tenure.
The authority of the kadı to collect fees facilitated the transfer of this
right to another person, just as in tax farming.
The lucrativeness of kadıships attracted many ulema to this
profession, which eventually led to the over-abundance of
candidates. In fact, an elaborate and strict hierarchy of judgeship was
 Politics and Islam 45
originally developed to control the number of candidates and impose
order on the distribution of the right to collect fees. The short tenure
ranging from one to two years was a device to prevent one person
from monopolizing the office, and to provide as many candidates as
possible with equal opportunities.7 But excessive competition led to
abuses such as bribery and favouritism on the one hand, and led to
the domination of several prominent ulema families of the higher
offices of the ilmiye hierarchy, on the other. Since vested interests of
members of the ilmiye hierarchy could not be easily infringed, even
unqualified ulema would retain their offices. This situation
necessitated the delegation of their duties to deputy judges.
Especially serious were the problems in the hierarchy of kadıship.
The foremost among them was overpopulation. It was said that
there were 5,000 to 6,000 members belonging to the hierarchy of
kadıship during the reign of Selim III,8 despite the number of
kadıship posts in the whole Empire being around one thousand at
most. According to a firman of Selim III, many ‘incompetent’ (na-
ehl ) individuals infiltrated into the hierarchy through favouritism,
personal connections and bribery, or by taking the place of dead
kadıs.9 It was also said that many personal followers or servants of
certain high-ranking ulema had acquired the membership of the
hierarchy through their favour,10 certainly not all of whom were
qualified. Many of them sent naibs to their places of duty.
The inflation in the number of judges resulted in other
consequences. Candidates had to wait a long time before they were
appointed. While on the waiting list, they were allowed to serve as a
naib at the sharia court, a measure to enable them to make a living.
The hierarchy of professorship was also oversized and many stayed
for a long period in the offices of the lower professorships. The
naibship was a remunerative occupation for lower-ranking
professors who were seeking an additional income.11 In
consequence, we can find many naibs holding the title of kadı or
müderris.
Some of the characteristics of the Ottoman sharia judiciary
explained above were most obvious in the practice of arpalık, which
was a nominal judgeship given as a stipend to the holders of
honorary ranks.12 In principle, judges of the mevleviyet posts
(mollas) as well as kadıs of Mecca, Medina and Istanbul assumed
their original duties. However, due to the inflation in the number of
applicants at every level of professorship and mevleviyet, honorary
ranks (sing., paye-i mücerred ) of the mevleviyets and other higher judge
posts were created for candidates. To provide the holders of
honorary ranks with income, they were granted judgeships as
arpalıks. The holders of these judgeships would farm out their duties
to naibs so that they could receive their income from court fees
46 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
collected by the naibs. In the same manner, judgeships known as
maişet were given to high-ranking professors to supplement their
incomes.
Another type of naib was found in nahiyes or sub-districts under
the kazas. The judges of kazas sent their naibs to the nahiyes under
their jurisdiction. In fact, the problem of naibs in the sixteenth
century concerned this type of naibs.13 But later, larger kazas such as
provincial centres absorbed neighbouring smaller kazas relegating
them to nahiye status, so that judges of the larger kazas would
appoint naibs to the adjacent kazas, which allowed them to transfer
the income of these smaller kazas to themselves. This kind of
annexation was more widespread in the provinces farther from the
centre. For example, Nablus, itself a large town and administratively
a sancak (region or sub-province), was a nahiye of Jerusalem in the
ilmiye terminology, that is, the kadı (molla) of Jerusalem appointed
his naib to Nablus.14
Overall, the influx of the number of candidates, the existence of
unqualified kadı title-holders, the assignment of arpalıks and the
integration of smaller kazas into the larger ones all contributed to the
proliferation of naib appointments, which entailed two main
problems: First, since naibs were appointed by kadıs themselves (or
arpalık holders), the centre could not check the qualifications of
naibs. Second, since naibs had to pay the kadıs, they usually tried to
collect as much as possible in fees and thus they tended to abuse
their office.
Selim III issued several firmans to prohibit kadıs from delegating
their duties to naibs.15 But since the decrees allowed sick and aged
kadıs to appoint naibs, they seemed to have little effect. Later
Mahmud II was more concerned about the issue of court fees and
the appointment of proper naibs.16 The İlmiye Penal Code enacted in
1838 dealt mainly with the naib problem.17 It tried to determine the
qualifications of naibs, and officially approved the delegation of
judgeship to naibs regardless of kadıs’ condition.

The Early-Tanzimat Period

Immediately after the promulgation of the Gülhane Rescript in

November 1839, the reorganization of the sharia judiciary was
undertaken as part of the Tanzimat reforms in the provincial
administration and the tax system. Just as the initial reform projects
of the Tanzimat resulted in failure in the first two years, the attempt
to pay salaries to naibs was also unsuccessful mainly because of the
financial crisis.18
But it did not mean a total reversion to the pre-Tanzimat practice.
The most important result of the judiciary reforms during these years
 Politics and Islam 47
was the separation of naibs from kadıs. Naibs were no longer
dependent on kadıs in the sense that they did not need to pay
monthly to kadıs, who would now receive pensions from the state19
and that naibs would not be appointed by kadıs. It became a
principle that the appointment of naibs should be administered by
the Şeyhülislam.20
In actual practice, the nomination of naibs was determined by
informal personal relationships and by one’s position in the
patrimonial ilmiye hierarchy. Reputation among the elite ulema
circles in Istanbul was a main criterion of appointment. ‘Ma‘lumü’l-
ehliye’ (‘whose competence is known’) or ‘ehliyeti ve haysiyeti nümayan’
(‘whose competence and dignity is evident’) was a common phrase
used by the Şeyhülislam.21 Holding a rank of the ilmiye itself meant
that he was known and competent. On the contrary, the phrase
‘mechulü’l-ahval ’ (‘whose quality is unknown’) was usually associated
with incompetence and abuse.22 On the other hand, especially for
naib posts in the remote provinces for which applicants usually did
not appear in the capital, personal relationships with the provincial
governors or reputation among the provincial notables was
important. The İlmiye Penal Code of 1838 had laid down the
examination requirement for those applicants whose quality was
unknown.23 Several archival documents indicate the implementation
of this rule, although it is not clear whether it was applied regularly.24
It seems that the examination was only one of the criteria for the
nomination of judges.
Altogether, a regular system of naib appointment did not exist.
The Şeyhülislam Ârif Hikmet Beyefendi (1846-54) seemed frustrated
at the lack of information about the naibs when it became obvious
that the corruption of naibs concerning court fees continued to be a
serious problem. On one occasion when the unlawful charge of
court fees by a naib again came to light in 1848, the Şeyhülislam
proposed that naibs with unknown competence should find sureties
(küfelâ) on their appointment.25 He openly admitted that the
unknown naibs infiltrated into the judiciary and he attributed all the
troubles to them. Presumably they were without rank, that is, outside
the ilmiye hierarchy and most probably coming from the provinces
to the capital seeking posts. However, Ârif Hikmet Beyefendi’s
proposal about the surety never materialized.

The Reforms of 1855

An Order of 1855

The next Şeyhülislam Meşrebzade Mehmed Arif Efendi (1854-8), a

leading member of the reformist ulema, launched a series of reforms
48 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
in the sharia judiciary. In April 1855 an order was issued concerning
the conduct and fees of kadıs and naibs,26 which mentioned the
question of excessive fee collection in the preamble and pointed to
two reasons for the problem. First, the order acknowledged that
most of the corrupt judges were judges of nahiyes whose posts were
farmed out (iltizam) by the judges of larger kazas. They purportedly
committed unlawful acts in order to collect the sum they owed. The
second reason was that since some of the naibs were appointed
directly by the holders of mansıb and maişet, these ‘unknown’ naibs
were apt to charge illegal fees. Here again, being unknown is
associated with injustice.
As regards the first point, the order stipulated that the judge of a
kaza should not farm out the judgeship of a nahiye at a fixed price
but should appoint by way of ‘trust’ (emanet ), leaving to the naib one
fourth, one third or a half of the net amount of the court revenue.
As for the second problem, the order prescribed that the
appointment letters should be given to naibs not by the original
holders of mansıb or maişet, but by the Kazaskers of Rumeli and
Anadolu. By this measure, naibs were to be formally appointed by
Kazaskers and thus nominal title-holders were officially excluded
from the appointment procedure. Its implementation can be seen in
appointment letters recorded in the sharia court registers.
Appointment letters after 1855 were written in the name of the
Kazasker, whereas previously they were usually sent by the original
title-holders.27
The Regulations for Naibship of 1855

A more serious step towards the reorganization of the sharia

judiciary was taken by the regulations for naibship28 which passed the
new reform organ Meclis-i Tanzimat in April 1855 together with the
regulations for kadıship.29
The main point of the regulations for naibship of 1855 was the
introduction of the five-grade system to the naibship. In this system,
judges as well as judicial posts were arranged into five categories and
the judge would be appointed (in principle) only to the post
corresponding to his grade (sınıf ) (art. 1). The posts of judges were
classified according to the importance and scale of each kaza (art. 4).
Edirne, Selanik, and İzmir, for example, became first grade kazas.
For the categorization of the judges, rank, reputation and the results
of examination constituted the main criteria. High-ranking judges
would be given the first grade automatically. Along with judges of
lower ranks in the hierarchy of professorship (mevali-i devriye and
müderrisin), judges who had higher ranks in the hierarchy of kadıship
and whose qualifications were well known would be granted the
 Politics and Islam 49
second grade. Those who held the ranks of mevleviyet or müderris
but having no experience of actual service could attain the third
grade after passing the examination (art. 2). Judges without ranks
were obliged to take examinations to acquire the naibship grades (art.
11). Article 11 of the regulations applied a strict selection criterion to
those naibs of an unknown quality. Whereas naibs holding ilmiye
ranks were treated favourably, the regulations were severe to naibs
without ranks. Even if they had certificates (tezkireler) for judgeships,
these documents were deemed suspicious. Naibs who had already
taken an examination and thus got certificates should take the
examination again to get the naibship grades. To conduct
examinations and arrange the appointment of judges, the Committee
for Selection of Sharia Judges (Meclis-i İntihab-ı Hükkâmü’ş-Şer‘) was
created in the Şeyhülislam’s Office.
While experienced judges might possibly be weeded out through
strict examinations, a new way for recruiting judges was intended to
be a formal apprenticeship in the courts in Istanbul, which the
Şeyhülislam’s Office could keep under its control. According to
article 12, a new candidate should do his apprenticeship in one of the
courts in Istanbul serving as a court scribe until getting the certificate
to be admitted in the examination. But this project soon turned out
to be unrealistic because of a shortage of the scribal posts. Then a
school for training judges called Mu‘allimhane-i Nüvvab was created in
Istanbul in August 1855.30 Graduates of this school would be granted
the third to fifth grades of naibship upon graduation. Thus the
Şeyhülislam, while applying a strict selection criterion to experienced
judges, adopted a new recruitment policy based on a merit system in
which judges were to be trained in the professional school
administered by his office. Whereas judges with ilmiye ranks
continued to be treated favourably, the introduction of the grade
system nonetheless laid the foundation for a rational appointment
system based on grade and not on rank. In other words, the élite
ulema, confronted with challenges from the outside, aimed to defend
the privileged status of their organization by redefining the
membership.
The creation of the grade system was highly significant, because it
was a new order different from the existent ilmiye hierarchy and
special to the naibship, promoting it to an official and independent
institution. This arrangement was in a sense an official declaration of
the replacement of kadıship by naibship. The regulations for
naibship of 1855 allowed original holders of mansıbs in the hierarchy
of kadıship to actually serve in their own kazas, but only on
conditions stipulated in the 6th article of the regulations, the
inclusion of which suggests that the actual services by kadıs
themselves were unusual. Exceptionally, ten mevleviyet posts (Cairo,
50 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Damascus, Jerusalem, Aleppo, Kurdistan [Van], Trabzon, Crete,
Baghdad, Tripoli of Libya, Beirut) besides the kadıships of Istanbul,
Mecca and Medina were reserved for the original title-holders
(mollas or kadıs).31 To all the other judge posts including several
mevleviyet posts (Edirne, Bursa, etc.), naibs were appointed in
principle.

Nominal Kadıship
One may wonder why the Ottomans did not try to restore the
kadıship to its original function. This is mainly because the state was
not willing to infringe the vested interests of the kadı title-holders.
Restructuring of the kadıship would have necessitated the dismissal
of many ulema who depended on the revenue accruing from their
titles. The Ottoman bureaucracy preferred to leave the kadı system
untouched and instead built a new institution of naibship.
The kadıship survived, but it eventually became a nominal
institution, composed of title-holders receiving monthly stipends.
The 1855 regulations of mansıbs in the hierarchy of kadıship32 only
articulated the appointment procedures in detail but were not
concerned with the duties of appointees. Registers in the Meşihat
Archives of the Istanbul Mufti’s Office reveal that later in the 1870s
only those who had little or no other income could hold the nominal
kadı titles to receive their stipend. For example, a hizmetkâr (servant)
Selim Efendi was entitled to the Harput kazası (nominal kadıship of
Harput),33 while a certain es-Seyyid Mustafa Salim Efendi was
deprived of his title of ‘kadı’ because he was a clerk in a government
office (tarik-i kalemiyede müstahdem).34 Most probably their own
occupations had nothing to do with judgeship.
Bereketzade İsmail Hakkı, a medrese student in the 1860s attests
that it was medrese students who were the main beneficiaries of the
nominal kadıship. In a sense, the kadıship became a kind of
fellowship for medrese students.

This was a nominal hierarchy of kadıship, in which nominal

kazas were assigned to those who entered the career (tarik)
once in every one or two years by seniority and by fortune as
far as I remembered. The first assigned kaza [would bring in] a
twelve-month [stipend], and the kazas assigned next and much
later [would bring in] stipends continuing for eighteen months.
At the beginning of the career, stipends were very little but as
one attained seniority the amount of stipend rose higher and
higher…. As is evident from my remarks here, the kadıship of
the tarik [-i kaza] was in itself not such a significant thing.
Students, however, deemed it very important because they
 Politics and Islam 51
would enter an intelligence competition (zekâ yarışı) in the
examinations and thus it increased their eagerness rather than
hampered [their] study…35

We can find in the personnel records of the late Ottoman ulema

examples of naibs who entered the hierarchy of kadıship in their
student years. As Bereketzade İsmail Hakkı said, the amount of the
first stipend was as small as 29 or 30 guruş. It usually ended up with
100 to 200 guruş.36 The highest amount seen in the records was 480
guruş,37 but it was exceptional. The value of these stipends was very
low if we compare with the salaries of fifth-grade naibs after the
provincial reform (about 500 to 1500 guruş).
With restricted membership and the small amount of stipends, the
hierarchy of kadıship lost its importance. In the end, when the old
regime was dissolved in 1908, the new government pursuing a
rational system should have seen no value in the existence of this
nominal kadı system. In March 1909, the hierarchy of kadıship was
officially abolished and kadıs disappeared both nominally and
virtually.38

Limited Centralization

As mentioned above, the reorganization of naibship in 1855

established the grade system and centralized the appointment
procedure. The reformed personnel administration was visible in two
registers of naibs, of Rumeli and Anadolu, found in the Meşihat
Archives.39 These registers covering the period from 1855 to the
early 1870s, list names and appointment dates of naibs under the
heading of each kaza. Kazas are arranged in alphabetical order after
the five-grade classification. From these registers we can see not only
the achievements of the reforms but also their limitations. The
registers do not contain records of significant numbers of kazas
belonging to the Arab and Southeast Anatolian provinces. Not only
tiny kazas, but some administrative centres of sancaks such as
Nablus, Sulaimaniya or Mardin are also absent. This under-
representation means that these kazas remained outside the control
of the Şeyhülislam’s Office. Naibs of these kazas were appointed by
the judges of central kazas to which they were attached as nahiyes.
In fact this situation had practical reasons, since the Şeyhülislam’s
Office often had a great difficulty in finding judges for the posts of
smaller kazas in the remote regions. In the naib registers, notes such
as ‘as there is no naib of the grade who would go [to the post]’ (sınıfta
gider naib bulunmadığından) appear repeatedly. In such cases a naib
‘outside the grade’ (sınıfta gayri dahil ) would be appointed. In other
cases, judges were selected from among the ulema originating or
52 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
living in the kaza in question (yerli, ol tarafta sakin), even though there
was a customary rule of avoiding the appointment of locals.40 There
were also cases where provincial governors or local administrative
councils requested the appointment of their candidates by official
letters. Since these kazas were not expected to yield sufficient
revenues to make up for the travel and living expenses, and because
of a basic principle of appointment on application, few naibs would
wish to go to such places. For example, in Palu (near Harput)
Hüseyin Hamid Efendi, a former naib of Palu, returned to the post
in January 1854 at the request of the local administrator and the local
council. After serving in Palu for more than four years, he was
dismissed on the ground that he was a local and had stayed in office
longer than the prescribed period (two years). But as there was no
applicant holding the grade, an Ali Rıza Efendi, again from the local
inhabitants and without the naibship grade was appointed in May
1858. Then in November of the same year, a complaint was brought
against Ali Rıza, and the local administrator and the local council
again requested the appointment of Hüseyin Hamdi, who was living
there. But this time, before the appointment letter for Hüseyin
Hamdi arrived in Palu an applicant with the naibship grade appeared
in Istanbul and eventually he became the naib of Palu.41
The Şeyhülislam was aware of these circumstances. In July 1855 in
his report to the Grand Vizier,42 using a familiar cliché he lamented
that these provincially nominated judges were ‘unknown’ and
therefore incompetent. Then he proposed the application of an
examination in each provincial centre to nominate the judges for
nahiyes or smaller kazas in each province. Examination in the
provinces was implemented at least in some places.43

Provincial Reform and the Establishment of Naibship

Integration of the Judicial System into the Provincial System

As the judicial system was an essential part of the provincial

administration, it was the provincial reforms beginning in 1864 that
brought more fundamental changes to the sharia judiciary. Whereas
the reforms in 1855 were carried out on the initiative of the
Şeyhülislam’s Office, these series of reforms were initiated by the
Sublime Porte.
The provincial reforms were first undertaken in the Tuna province
(with the capital in Rusçuk [Ruse]) in 1864 under the governorship
of the famous Midhat Pasha. In the following years the new
administrative system was extended to most of the provinces in the
Empire.44 The Provincial Reform Law45 was intended to lay a
centralized and uniform administrative system over the Empire,
 Politics and Islam 53
reorganizing provincial units into three hierarchical levels: vilayet
(province), sancak/liva (region) and kaza (district). Accordingly, each
of the administrative units would have one sharia court with a sharia
judge appointed by the centre. Naibs nominated by the Şeyhülislam
would preside over the kaza and sancak courts. (In actual practice,
they were nominated by the Committee for Selection of Sharia
Judges and appointed in the name of the Kazasker of Rumeli or
Anadolu). To the centre of each vilayet, the inspector of judges
(müfettiş-i hükkâm) would be nominated by the Şeyhülislam and
appointed by the Sultan. The inspector of judges would check the
decisions of the sharia courts in the vilayet, supervise the conduct of
naibs under his jurisdiction and at the same time hear cases at the
sharia court of the provincial centre in his capacity as the sharia
judge.46 Thus the law integrated the judicial institution into the
provincial administration system. Before, the hierarchy of the sharia
judiciary had not corresponded to that of local administration. For
an extreme example, the naib of Muş in the province of Erzurum,
had been appointed by the molla of Kurdistan, that is the judge of
Van, which was the centre of another province.47 By the
implementation of the Provincial Reform Law this kind of
inconsistency disappeared and judges of all the kazas in the Empire
began to be officially appointed directly from Istanbul, although
certainly not all the naibs were sent from Istanbul but still nominated
in the provincial centres to be approved by the Şeyhülislam’s
Office.48
Another important innovation the provincial reform introduced to
the sharia judiciary was the salary system.49 Salaries were assigned to
the judges of kaza level and above, according to the grade of the
judicial post. The introduction of the salary system enabled the
government to get hold of the court revenues and it expected that
this would prevent corruption in the collection of fees.

Creation of the Nizamiye Court System

The scope of the provincial reform encompassed a much wider

design, which actually transformed the Ottoman judicial system
fundamentally. The organization of secular courts called mahakim-i
nizamiye was created to hear cases according to state law, apart from
the existing sharia courts.50 In this new order, sharia judges assumed
a new duty: the office of the chief judge of the secular court. The
inspector of judges would serve as the chief judge of the high court
(divan-ı temyiz) in the provincial centre and the provincial criminal
court (meclis-i cinayet). The naibs of sancaks and kazas would also
serve as the chief judges of the new secular courts (meclis-i temyiz and
meclis-i de‘avi respectively).
54 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
The establishment of the nizamiye court system was an important
part of provincial reform. The official statement51 published on the
occasion of the promulgation of the Provincial Reform Law, stated
that the confusion in the local administrative councils had been
caused by the fact that administrative, civil and criminal cases were
all discussed in the same place. It was to avoid this confusion, the
statement follows, that the administrative and judicial functions of
the local councils should be separated. To this end, the judicial
function became independent of the duties of the local councils and
was taken over by these new courts. This new court was to consist of
one chief judge and a certain number of members elected from
among the local population both muslim and non-muslim.
As mentioned above, the chief judge of the new court was the
judge of the sharia court. But this arrangement is conceivable when
one considers that the secular court was developed from the local
council, in which the sharia judge had been performing judicial
services as its ex officio member. Therefore the existence of a sharia-
cum-secular judge was not a mere expedient in the transitional
period but a natural form extended from long experience in the local
council.52
Establishment of the Naib System

The provincial reforms beginning in 1864 underwent several

modifications. In the judicial sphere, first in June 1869, due to the
overload of the inspector of judges, another naib called merkez naibi
was appointed to the provincial centre to serve as the judge of the
sharia court and the chief judge of the higher court of the central
sancak.53 As usual in Ottoman reform attempts, financial problem
restricted the achievement of the judicial reorganization project.
Salaries were cut at least twice between 1866 and 1872.54
In November 1871, to reduce the financial burden, the offices of
the inspector of judges and the merkez naibi in the provincial centre
were abolished and replaced by the single office of the naib called
merkez-i liva naibi (later renamed vilayet merkez naibi).55 At this stage, a
universal system of naibship was finally established. This meant that
to every sharia court in each vilayet, sancak and kaza a naib would be
appointed by the Şeyhülislam’s Office.56 Only five judicial offices
were exceptions: three kadıships in Istanbul (Istanbul, Galata and
Eyüp), two kadıships of the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, and the
kadıship of Cairo.
As seen above, the system of naibship was a by-product of the
provincial reform. The reform established a centralized judicial
organization, in which one sharia court and one secular court were
set up in each administrative unit in parallel, and one judge was
 Politics and Islam 55
appointed by the centre to preside over both of the courts. The
Sublime Porte at first seems to have intended to be involved in the
appointment of all the judges.57 But in consequence, after the
abolition of the office of the inspector of judges, the authority to
appoint all the judges at the kaza level and above was concentrated
in the Şeyhülislam’s Office.58
Now the Şeyhülislam’s Office would administer the appointment
of naibs according to grade. One effect of this can be seen in the
case of mevleviyet. As a result of the establishment of the naib
system, all the mevleviyet posts except Galata, Eyüp and Cairo
ceased to be actual judge posts. Since the mevleviyet posts were
integrated in the ilmiye hierarchy, kadıs (mollas) had been appointed
to these offices according to seniority in the hierarchy for a term of
one year. But after the extension of the naib system to these posts
(Damascus, Jerusalem and others mentioned above), appointments
began to be made not according to rank, but to grade, which was
unique to, and the basis of, the naibship.
Conclusion

The Ottoman efforts to cope with the disorganization of the sharia

judiciary resulted in the transition from kadıship to naibship in 1871.
The establishment of the naib system achieved the Şeyhülislam’s
direct administration over the whole sharia judiciary. Under the new
system, the naib became the judge of both the sharia and the new
secular courts. But during the following decades the naib’s position
as the judge of the secular court would face continuing challenges
from the Ministry of Justice.59 The new law for the nizamiye court
system of 1879 divided the courts at the vilayet and sancak levels
into civil and criminal sections and in consequence the Ministry of
Justice began to appoint judges of the criminal courts directly. The
law also introduced the new procedure of recruitment and
appointment of nizamiye court judges. While it was never fully
realized, the law provided that an official from the Ministry of Justice
should be present at the Committee for Selection of the Sharia
Judges to check the naibs’ qualifications for serving at the nizamiye
courts.60 In spite of these pressures, the naibs’ double role continued
until the end of the Empire.61
The reorganization of the sharia judiciary also brought about a
change in the character of the naibs. In the preceding period, naibs
had always run the risk of failure in recouping their expenses with
court fees. Because of this, holding the office of naib involved a
certain degree of speculation. At the same time, their appointment
had been highly dependent upon personal connections. But after the
salary and grade systems were introduced to the naibship as a result
56 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
of the reforms, naibs began to resemble modern civil officials. A new
identity as a professional group gradually grew among the naibs, and
this probably prepared the ground for the revival of their title in
1913: back from naib to kadı.62

Notes
I am indebted to Halil İbrahim Erbay, Yücel Terzibaşoğlu and Iris Agmon for
reading the earlier version of this paper. I also thank all the participants at the
session of the 15th CIEPO symposium, July 2002, for their helpful comments and
suggestions. This Research was partially supported by a Grant-in-Aid for Scientific
Research from the Japanese Ministry of Education. Support for my research in
Turkey from 1998 to 2000 was provided by the Heiwa Nakajima Foundation.
1 See, e.g., Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed. (hereafter cited as EI2), s.v. ‘Mahkama, 2.
The Ottoman Era,’ by H. İnalcık and C. V. Findley, 6:6.
2 In fact not many studies have been done on the Ottoman ulema during the
Tanzimat period. See for example, David Kushner, ‘The Place of the Ulema in the
Ottoman Empire During the Age of Reform (1839-1918),’ Turcica 29 (1987), 51-
74; Richard L. Chambers, ‘The Ottoman Ulema and the Tanzimat,’ in Scholars,
Saints and Sufis: Muslim Religious Institutions in the Middle East since 1500, ed. Nikki R.
Keddie (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1972), 33-46.
3 I am thinking here of the works of Iris Agmon, Beshara Doumani, Boğaç A.
Ergene, Leslie Peirce and Najwa Al-Qattan, to name only a few. Especially
relevant here is Iris Agmon’s study on the family and the court in late Ottoman
Haifa and Jaffa, in which she examines the implementation of the judicial reforms
in the provinces. See Iris Agmon, ‘Text, Court, and Family in Late-Nineteenth-
Century Palestine,’ in Family History in the Middle East: Household, Property, and Gender,
ed. Beshara Doumani (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003), 201-28;
idem, ‘Social Biography of a Late Ottoman Shari‘a Judge.’ New Perspectives on Turkey,
Spring 2004 (forthcoming).
4 For the general description of the Ottoman ilmiye hierarchy, see İsmail Hakkı
Uzunçarşılı, Osmanlı Devletinin İlmiye Teşkilâtı (Ankara: TTK, 1965); EI2, s.v.
‘Ilmiyye,’ by U. Heyd and E. Kuran, 3: 1152-1154; Madeline C. Zilfi, ‘Elite
Circulation in the Ottoman Empire: Great Mollas of the Eighteenth Century,’
Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient 26 (1983), 318-64. Especially for the
classical Ottoman sharia judiciary, see also İlber Ortaylı, Hukuk ve İdare Adamı
Olarak Osmanlı Devletinde Kadı (Ankara: Turhan, 1994); Feda Şamil Arık,
‘Osmanlılar’da Kadılık Müessesesi,’ OTAM 8 (1997), 1-72.
5 Since Egypt achieved de facto independence from the Ottoman Empire in the
19th century, judges in Egypt are outside the scope of this article. For the sharia
judiciary in Ottoman Egypt, see Galal H. El-Nahal, The Judicial Administration of
Ottoman Egypt in the Seventeenth Century (Minneapolis and Chicago: Bibliotheca
Islamica, 1979), 12-17; Nelly Hanna, ‘The Administration of Courts in Ottoman
Cairo,’ in The State and its Servants: Administration in Egypt from Ottoman Times to the
Present, ed. Nelly Hanna (Cairo: The American Univ. of Cairo Press, 1995), 44-59;
A. Chris Eccel, Egypt, Islam, and Social Change: Al-Azhar in Conflict and Accommodation
(Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1984), 20-3, 78-93.
6 There was another branch of mevleviyet called devriye mevleviyetleri, which included
the kadıships of Bosna, Baghdad, Diyarbakır and others. In principle, only those
who came through the posts of (titular) professorships in Bursa and Edirne were
 Politics and Islam 57

appointed to these offices and they would not be promoted to the main mevleviyet
posts.
7 It also had an object to prevent judges from getting rooted in local societies. See
Halil İnalcık, ‘Rūznāmče Registers of the Kadıasker of Rumeli as Preserved in the
Istanbul Müftülük Archıves,’ Turcica 20 (1988), 264; idem, ‘Centralization and
Decentralization in Ottoman Administration’, in Studies in Eighteenth Century Islamic
History, ed. Thomas Naff and Roger Owen (Carbondale and Edwardsville:
Southern Illinois Univ. Press, 1977), 30.
8 Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (hereafter cited as BOA), HH (Hatt-ı Hümayun)
3708, copy of firman, evahir Şaban 1207/Apr. 1793.
9 Ibid. copy of firman, evahir Şevval 1209/May 1795; Cevdet Adliye 4271, report
of Kazaskers, 11 Rebiülahir 1213/22 Sept. 1798. Cf. Uzunçarşılı, 255-9.
10 [Tatarcık Abdullah], ‘Sultan Selim-i Salis Devrinde Nizam-ı Devlet hakkında
Mutala‘at,’ pt. 1, Tarih-i Osmani Encümeni Mecmu‘ası 7, no. 41 (1332), 274; Ahmed
Lûtfi, Tarih-i Lûtfi, 8 vols. (Istanbul: Matba‘a-i Âmire, 1290-1328), 1:194-5.
11 Madeline C. Zilfi, ‘Diary of a Müderris: A New Source for Ottoman Biography,’
Journal of Turkish Studies 1 (1977), 170.
12 For arpalık, see İbnülemin Mahmud Kemal, ‘Arpalık,’ Türk Tarih Encümeni
Mecmu‘ası 16, no. 17 (94) (1926), 276-83; Uzunçarşılı, 118-21; Zilfi, ‘Elite
Circulation,’ 353-4; idem, The Politics of Piety: The Ottoman Ulema in the Postclassical
Age (1600-1800) (Minneapolis: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1988), 66-70.
13 Halil İnalcık, ‘Adâletnâmeler,’ Belgeler 2, no. 3-4 (1965), 76-77; Gilles Veinstein,
‘Sur les nâ’ib ottomans (XVème-XVIème siècles),’ Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and
Islam 25 (2001), 247-67.
14 Beshara Doumani, Rediscovering Palestine: Merchants and Peasants in Jabal Nablus,
1700-1900 (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1995), 249-50.
15 BOA, Cevdet Adliye 717, copy of firman, evahir Ramazan 1203/June 1789; HH
3708, copy of firman, evasıt Receb 1213/Dec. 1798; Cevdet Adliye 6366, draft of
firman, evahir Safer 1217/June 1802. See also Uzunçarşılı, 255-60.
16 For example, BOA, Cevdet Adliye 1712, 13 reports of judges on receipt of the
firman (Vidin, Tırnova, Rusçuk etc.), Ramazan-Şevval 1239/May-June 1824;
Takvim-i Vekayi (hereafter cited as TV) 76 (13 Ramazan 1249/24 Jan. 1834), 1; 93
(23 Şaban 1250/25 Dec. 1834), 1-2.
17 ‘Tarik-i İlmî’ye dair Ceza Kanunnamesi,’ reprinted in Musa Çadırcı, ‘Tanzimat’ın
İlanı Sıralarında Osmanlı İmparatorluğunda Kadılık Kurumu ve 1838 Tarihli
‘Tarîk-i İlmiyye’ye Dâir Ceza Kânunname’si’,’ Tarih Araştırmaları Dergsi 14, no. 25
(1981-82), 139-61.
18 Halil İnalcık, ‘Tanzimat’ın Uygulanması ve Sosyal Tepkileri,’ Belleten 28, no. 112
(1964), 639.
19 BOA, İrade Dahiliye 285, 1 Zilhicce 1255/5 Feb. 1840; İrade Dahiliye 440, 14
Muharrem 1256/18 March 1840.
20 BOA, MAD (Maliye’den Müdevver Defterler) 9061, 22, circular of the Ministry
of Finance, 3 Şaban 1257/19 Sept. 1841; İnalcık, ‘Tanzimat’ın Uygulanması,’ 686.
21 See, e.g., BOA, A.MKT (Sadaret Mektubî Kalemi) 82/14, Şeyhülislam to Grand
Vizier, 5 Cümadelahir 1263/20 May 1847; A.MKT 116/41, Şeyhülislam to Grand
Vizier, Feb.-March 1848; A.MKT 143/6, Şeyhülislam to Grand Vizier, 5 Ramazan
1264/6 Aug. 1848.
22 The preface of the İlmiye Penal Code of 1838 openly stated that most of naibs
were of an unknown quality (mechulü’l-ahval) and that their unsuitable deeds
(uygunsuz harekâtı) were evident. Çadırcı, ‘Kadılık Kurumu,’ 148.
23 Ibid. 150-1.
24 For example, a former naib of Behişte (near Bitola) İsmail Efendi petitioned for
the appointment complaining that he was still out of office although he had taken
58 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

an examination in Istanbul and acquired the certificate. BOA, A.MKT.NZD

(Sadaret Mektubî Kalemi Nezaret ve Devair) 7/15, Grand Vizier to Şeyhülislam,
28 Cümadelahir 1266/5 May 1850. See for other documents referring to the
naibship examinations, e.g., A.MKT 131/121, 29 Cümadelahir 1264/2 June 1848;
A.MKT 159/49, 26 Zilhicce 1264/24 Nov. 1848; A.MKT.NZD 8/26, 21 Receb
1266/2 June 1850; A.MKT.NZD 12/92, 13 Şevval 1266/22 Aug. 1850. The
grading as stipulated in the law (Çadırcı, ‘Kadılık Kurumu,’ 151-2) was not
mentioned in the sources.
25 BOA, A.MKT 116/41, Şeyhülislam to Grand Vizier, Feb.-March 1848.
26 ‘Kuzat ve Nüvvabın Suret-i Hareket ve Rüsumatına Da’ir ba-İrade-i Seniyye
Karargir Olan Usulü Şamil Tenbihat,’ TV 521 (18 Receb 1271/6 Apr. 1855), 2-4.
27 For example, the sender of the appointment letter to the naib of Varna dated 1
Ramazan 1268 (19 June 1852) was the holder of the mansıb of Varna, while another
letter dated 1 Rebiülevvel 1272 (12 Nov. 1855) was given by the Kazasker of
Rumeli. Istanbul Mufti’s Office, Sharia Court Record Archives (İstanbul
Müftülüğü Şer’î Siciller Arşivi), Bilâd-ı Metrûke Defterleri, Varna sharia court
registers, 13/5, fol. 1b; 13/6, fol. 52b.
28 ‘Nüvvab Hakkında Nizamname,’ 17 Receb 1271/5 Apr. 1855, Düstur, 1st ser., 4
vols. and 4 suppls. (Istanbul: Matba‘a-i Âmire, 1289-1302) (hereafter cited as
Düstur1), 1:321-324, TV 522 (5 Şaban 1271/22 Apr. 1855), 4.
29 ‘Tevcihat-ı Menasıb-ı Kaza Nizamnamesi,’ 17 Receb 1271, Düstur1, 1:315-20, TV
522 (5 Şaban 1271), 2-4.
30 For details, see Jun Akiba, ‘A New School for Qadis: Education of the Sharia
Judges in the Late Ottoman Empire,’ Turcica 65 (forthcoming).
31 Istanbul Mufti’s Office, Meşihat Archives (İstanbul Müftülüğü Meşihat Arşivi,
hereafter cited as IMMA), Register belonging to the Meşihat Archives but located
in the Sharia Court Record Archives (hereafter cited as D/I), 143, Register of
naibs (Anadolu), fols. 92b-93b. I am indebted to Bilgin Aydın and İlhami
Yurdakul, who showed me the draft of the Meşihat Archives’ catalogue they were
preparing and gave me many helpful suggestions about the sources. My special
thanks are also due to Ömer Özkan, Abdullah Coşkun, Murat Al and Hüsnü Atam
among the staff of the archives.
32 ‘Tevcihat-ı Menasıb-ı Kaza Nizamnamesi,’ see n.29 above.
33 IMMA, Register no.1999, Register of Committee for Selection, fol. 27a, #7/229,
22 Receb 1290/15 Sept. 1873.
34 Ibid. fol. 6a, #16/1, 24 Muharrem 1290/23 March 1873. These measures were
in conformity with article 24 of the regulations for kadıship.
35 Bereketzade İsmail Hakkı, Yâd-ı Mâzî (Istanbul: Sebilü’r-Reşad Kütübhanesi,
Tevsi‘-i Tıba‘at Matbaası, 1332), 30-1.
36 See, e.g., IMMA, Sicill-i Ahval Dosyaları, #1892 (Zileli Osman Hayri), #2573
(Libhovalı Abdülhalim), #2687 (Elbistanlı Abdurrahman Nafiz). See also Sadık
Albayrak, Son Devir Osmanlı Uleması, 2nd ed., 5 vols. (Istanbul: İstanbul Büyük
Belediyesi, 1996), 1:101 (Abdurrahman Nafiz Efendi, Elbistanlı), 1:168 (Ahmet
Efendi, Tirebolulu).
37 IMMA, Sicill-i Ahval Dosyaları, #2538 (İbradılı İsmail Hakkı).
38 IMMA, Sicill-i Ahval Dosyaları, #3755 (Ardanoçlu Süleyman Sami), curriculum
vitae. I wish to thank Halil İbrahim Erbay for drawing my attention to this record.
39 IMMA, D/I 143, Register of naibs (Anadolu), D/I 144, Register of naibs
(Rumeli).
40 EI2, s.v. ‘Mahkama, 2,’ 6:4. Yücel Özkaya, XVIII. Yüzyılda Osmanlı Kurumları ve
Osmanlı Toplum Yaşantısı (Ankara: Kültür ve Türizm Bakanlığı, 1985), 211.
41 IMMA, D/I 143, fol. 50b.
42 BOA, İrade Dahiliye 21189, Şeyhülislam to Grand Vizier, 19 Şevval 1271/4 July
 Politics and Islam 59

1855.
43 For example a naib of Erzurum, appointed in December 1856, abolished the
practice of farming out the nahiye naibships according to the order of 1855
mentioned above, and then applied the examination to nominate the nahiye
judges. As this arrangement worked well, the naibships of the sancaks of Bayezid
and Çıldır were also integrated under the jurisdiction of the Erzurum judge.
Before, no one in the capital applied to the judgeships of these sancaks, since they
were too far and yielded little revenues. Because of this, blank appointment letters
(açık mürasele) had been sent to these places and judges had been selected locally
(yerlüsünden mahallince tensib). BOA, A.MKT.NZD 219/46, report of special agent to
Erzurum, 22 Cümadelahir 1273/18 Feb. 1857; Şeyhülislam to Grand Vizier, 9
Şaban 1273/4 Apr. 1857. Cf. IMMA, D/I 143, fols. 8b, 50a, 53b.
44 For the provincial reforms, see İlber Ortaylı, Tanzimattan Sonra Mahalli İdareler
(1840-1878) (Ankara: Türkiye ve Orta Doğu Amme İdaresi Enstitüsü, 1974), 42-
104; Carter V. Findley, ‘The Evolution of the System of Provincial Administration
as Viewed from the Center,’ in Palestine in the Late Ottoman Period: Political, Social and
Economic Transformation, ed. David Kushner (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, Leiden:
E. J. Brill, 1986), 3-29; Stanford J. Shaw, ‘Local Administration in the Tanzimat,’ in
150. Yılında Tanzimat, ed. Hakkı Dursun Yıldız (Ankara: TTK, 1992), 33-49.
45 The Provincial Reform Law was first promulgated in 1864 and then modified in
1867 for general application. ‘Tuna Vilayeti Namıyla Bu Kere Teşkil Olunan…
Nizamnamedir,’ 7 Cümadelahir 1281/7 Nov. 1864, Düstur (Istanbul: Matba‘a-i
Âmire, 1282), 517-536, TV 773 (7 Cümadelahir 1281), 2-5; ‘Vilayet Nizamnamesi,’
[1867], Düstur1, 1: 608-24
46 At first the offices of müfettiş-i hükkâm and the judge of the provincial capital
were separate. But because of the financial problem (see below), after November
1866 these offices were given to a single person and an assistant judge (bab naibi)
was appointed to help him. BOA, İrade Meclis-i Mahsus 1348, 19 Receb 1283/27
Nov. 1866.
47 Salname-i Devlet, 12 (1274): 75; 21 (1283): 76.
48 In the registers of naibs cited above, appointments of judges after the provincial
reforms are recorded in separate pages. IMMA, D/I 143, fols. 80a-90b; D/I 144,
fols. 47b-75a. We can find, for example, the names of the naibs appointed to kazas
in the Suriye province (including the Jerusalem sancak) during several years
following the application of the provincial reforms (D/I 144, fols. 62b-66a). Most
of those kazas do not appear in the original section of the register.
49 In the Tuna province, naibs of sancaks would be given a monthly salary of 6000
guruş, while naibs of the first, second, third, fourth and fifth grade kazas would be
given 4000, 3000, 2500, 2000 and 1500 guruş respectively. BOA, MAD 13635, 2,
#5, Ministry of Finance to Şeyhülislam, 22 Cümadelahir 1281/22 Nov. 1864;
IMMA, D/I 144, fol. 50b. For the implementation in the Tuna and other
provinces, see BOA, MAD 13635, 13547, 13419, Registers of reports from
Ministry of Finance to Şeyhülislam, 1864-8.
50 See EI2, s.v. ‘Mahkama, 2,’ 6:7-11; Sedat Bingöl, ‘Nizamiye Mahkemelerinin
Kuruluşu ve İşleyişi, 1840-1876’ (doctoral thesis, Akdeniz Üniversitesi, 1998).
51 ‘Beyanname,’ TV 773 (7 Cümadelahir 1281), 1-2, Düstur (Istanbul, 1282), 516.
52 For the local council during the Tanzimat period, see Ortaylı, Mahalli İdareler, 13-
29; Stanford J. Shaw, ‘The Origins of Representative Government in the Ottoman
Empire: An Introduction to the Provincial Councils, 1839-1876,’ in idem, Studies in
Ottoman and Turkish history: Life with the Ottomans (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2000), 183-
231, first published in Near Eastern Round Table, 1967-68, ed. R. Bayly Winder (New
York: New York Univ. Press, 1969), 53-142; Musa Çadırcı, ‘Osmanlı
İmparatorluğunda Eyalet ve Sancaklarda Meclislerin Oluşturulması (1840-1864)’, in
60 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Yusuf Hikmet Bayur’a Armağan (Ankara: TTK, 1985), 257-77; Doumani, 172-8, 241-
3.
53 BOA, İrade Dahiliye 41397, 9 Rebiülevvel 1286/19 June 1869; Ayniyat Defteri,
Meşihat 1076, p. 88, 15 Rebiülevvel 1286/14 Haziran 1285/26 June 1869. Before
the appointment of the merkez naibi, an assistant judge (bab naibi) was serving under
the direction of the inspector of judges.
54 BOA, İrade Meclis-i Mahsus 1317, 18 Rebiülahir 1283/29 Aug. 1866; BOA,
MAD 13419, pp. 2-3, #11, Ministry of Finance to the Şeyhülislam’s Office, 21
Muharrem 1284/25 May 1867; MAD 9431, Register of financial instructions to
Edirne, 22 #78, 28 Mart 1288/9 Apr. 1872; MAD 9433, Register of financial
instructions to Selânik, pp. 26-27, #43, 27 Temmuz 1285/8 Aug. 1869; 84-93,
#317, 14 Rebiülahir 1289/20 June 1872.
55 BOA, İrade Dahiliye 44621, 8 Ramazan 1288/20 Nov. 1871; MAD 9431, 23,
#82, 22 Mart 1288/3 Apr. 1871; MAD 9433, 70, #240.
56 Its implementation can be seen in the Ottoman state and provincial yearbooks
(salname). Since the functions of the naib were almost equal to those of the kadı,
the naib was popularly known as kadı. An Ottoman dictionary of Şemseddin Sami
gives ‘a kadı in general (ale’l-ıtlak kadı)’ for the third meaning of a naib. Şemseddin
Sami, Kamus-ı Türkî, 2 vols. (Istanbul: İkdam Matba‘ası, 1317-18; repr. Istanbul:
Enderun Kitabevi, 1989), 2:1453.
57 In the first provincial reform law of the Tuna province, all the judges were
designed to be nominated by the Şeyhülislam and appointed by the Sultan. As the
Sultan’s order would be issued in the form of irade, this process required the
Sublime Porte’s approval. But the later law in 1867 stipulated that only the
inspector of judges should be appointed by the Sultan. ‘Tuna Vilayeti Namıyla Bu
Kere Teşkil Olunan … Nizamnamedir,’ art. 16, 39, 54; ‘Vilayet Nizamnamesi,’ art.
16, 37, 50. See n.45 above.
58 The new system was confirmed by the regulations for sharia judges of 1873.
‘Hükkâm-ı Şer‘iyye Nizamnamesi,’ 13 Muharrem 1290/12 March 1873, Düstur,
2:721-5.
59 For details see Akiba, ‘New School for Qadis,’ forthcoming.
60 ‘Mahakim-i Nizamiyenin Teşkilât Kanun-ı Muvakkatıdır,’ 27 Cümadelahir
1296/5 Haziran 1295/17 June 1879, Düstur1, 4:245-260, esp. art. 1, 43-53 and an
additional article.
61 See the Ottoman state and provincial yearbooks and also EI2, s.v. ‘Mahkama, 2,’
6:9; Kushner, ‘Place of the Ulema,’ 61-2.
62 ‘Hükkâm-ı Şer‘ ve Me’murin-i Şer‘iyye hakkında Kanun-ı Muvakkat,’ 19
Cümadelula 1331/26 Apr. 1913, Düstur, 2nd ser., 12 vols. (Istanbul: Matba‘a-i
Osmaniye, 1329-1927), 5: 352-61, art. 3.
 2
___________________________________

ECONOMY AND TAXATION

The Role of the Sarrafs in Ottoman Finance and Economy

in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries

Yavuz Cezar

It is well known that ‘bankers’ called sarrafs occupied an important

place in the Ottoman economy, and so deserve a special attention.
In the years between the 1750s and the 1850s the role of the
sarrafs changed and became very important in the financial system of
the Ottoman empire in comparison with the previous centuries,
playing a crucial role solving the new problems caused by the
monetization of the economy1. In the second half of the nineteenth
century, however, their role and importance diminished and real
banks took their place in the Ottoman financial system.2
The aim of this short article is to focus on their role in the
Ottoman financial system, but first it is necessary to give some
information about their identities, jobs and status as professional
money-dealers.
Sarraf is a word still used in Turkish, today meaning a person who
practises the job of exchanging precious coins; in other words a
sarraf is a person who trades gold or silver coins. In today’s banking
and monetary system, the activities and as a result the effects of the
sarrafs on money trade are naturally limited, but in a traditional
economic system, like that of the Ottoman empire, based on
precious metal standard and without banks, they played an important
role in monetary and financial history.
Before the eighteenth century sarraf meant much the same as it
does today: money-changer or goldsmith, but, during the eighteenth
century the definition of a sarraf began to change. From that century
62 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
the sarrafs were no longer the ordinary goldsmiths of a traditional
society, but rather they became important agents of the official
establishment. The question therefore is why and how the role of the
sarrafs changed in the Ottoman economy, and what was their new
importance in the Ottoman financial system?
Ottoman sarrafs cannot be classified as a single category. When
we talk about the ‘ordinary sarrafs’, these should be classified as
artisans. In Ottoman documents they are called artisans: sarraf esnafı.
They had a separate guild and they practised their trade according
the rules of that guild. To open a shop and to practise the job
without the permission of the guild was forbidden. Each sarraf had
to be a member of the guild and get a gedik or a permit. As a result
the number of sarrafs and shops were limited. Without special
permission, entry to the profession was possible only in a case of
death. When this happened, the free gedik was sold to whoever who
paid the maximum amount of licence fee, 3 but in practice, in many
cases, under a secret gentlemanly agreement, the son of the ex-sarraf
received his father’s gedik.4 At the head of the guild as a director,
was a senior called sarraflar kethudası or sometimes sarraflar kahyası. As
in the other guilds, the sarraf’s guild also had a supervisor called
yiğitbaşı and a kind of board called ihtiyarlar heyeti.5
According to a document dated 1714 the number of the sarrafs
registered in the guild’s records was 40, and besides these, the
artisans called gümüşçü (silver artisans) were also registered. So the
total number of the members of the guild was 50.6 In another
document dated 1761 the total number of sarraf and gümüşçü of
Istanbul is seen as 137 (only 72 of them were sarrafs). The same
document also shows that all of them are zimmi which means that
they were non-Muslims7.
Another document dated 1 October 1763 shows that in that year a
new regulation was put into effect for both sarrafs and gümüşçüs.
The analysis of the text of this new regulation allows us to learn
many details about the sarrafs. The number of the sarrafs registered
in the guild’s record is 73; there are also 13 gümüşçüs as members of
the guild8.
In fact, the sarrafs defined as artisans are not directly the subject
of this article. This category of sarrafs dealt mainly with the exchange
of real coins and had close relations with the imperial mint. Research
on them would lead us to research the monetary history of the
Ottoman empire rather than the financial history, whereas our goal
here is to focus our attention on the financial system of the empire.
The sarrafs who had close relations with the Imperial Central
Treasury (Hazine-i Amire), more than or instead of the Imperial Mint
(Darbhane-i Amire), formed another category of sarrafs. They were
called hazine sarrafi and defined as bazirgan sarraf in Ottoman
 Economy and Taxation 63
documents. As a social group they were classified in tüccar taifesi
(merchants). The sarrafs in this category possessed bigger capital
sums than those in the first group and, as a result, were richer and
more influential in Ottoman society. Besides practising money-
changing they were also involved in activities such as lending, trade
and acting as the guarantor of tax-farming operations. The merchant
sarrafs, other than their shops (dükkan) situated in the city’s shopping
centre (mostly in Kapalıçarşı/covered bazaar), had another room or
office in different hans (caravanserails serving as commercial centres)
of the city.9
These sarrafs kept a ledger in their office called sarraf defteri, where
they had to register all transactions which they were involved in. In
any case of disagreement or controversy, especially in cases such as
the death of the sarraf himself or his client/customer, these books
were consulted by government officials or judges in order to clarify
the situation and resolve any problem10.
Since sarrafs in this category are classified bazirgan or tüccar
(merchant), it seems that they were not dependent directly on the
rules of the guild. This group of sarrafs, as members of the private
sector, practised their business freely and safely under the rules of
the Ottoman commercial and financial law. The most important
document for them in their business was the official or special
agreement signed mutually with the state or the client. In case of
dispute this document was taken as a base to solve the problem.
It is clear then that for the sarrafs of the second category the
terms ‘merchant-banker’ or ‘merchant-financier’ fit better than the
term ‘goldsmith’.
Sarrafs of all kinds were most numerous in Istanbul. Alongside the
registered sarrafs, there were other money-changers who practised
the business illegally with whom officers of the sarraf guild and the
government were always at loggerheads in an attempt to keep the
money market in their control. However, not all sarrafs were
established in the capital: local sarrafs also carried on their business
in different cities of the empire, especially in the big centres. The
total number of sarrafs in the empire would seem to be around 200.
The number of sarrafs listed in all kinds of documents for a given
period easily amount to that number.
A number of interesting points also arise from a scrutiny of their
names and surnames. Appendix 1, prepared from the original
Ottoman archival documents, contains the names or surnames of
more than 200 sarrafs.11 However before drawing any conclusions
from the list, I wish to draw your attention to the problems that arise
from the nature of Arabic letters used in Ottoman documents.
Sometimes the same name is written with different spellings and
furthermore, Ottoman handwriting does not allow us read proper
64 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
names easily. Preparing such a name list is for this reason somewhat
hazardous, since, it is possible for two or sometimes three different
types of writing to be used for the same person. How therefore can
we know whether or not it refers to another sarraf? In preparing
such a list we should be conscious that such duplications are
inevitable and that we have to make the necessary reduction for
similar names. When we scan our name list, some interesting points
emerge:
1. There are only four Muslim names, from which we can
conclude that the ratio of Muslim sarrafs was very low. 98% are
non-Muslims.
2. Among the non-Muslim names it seems that Jewish and
Armenian names are in majority, while the Greek or Orthodox
names are few. The reason for this must firstly be the date of the
documents used in the list. In a different list based on documents of
the previous centuries the situation could be different. We know that
wars and revolts in the Balkans, and especially Greek independence,
decreased the number of the Orthodox sarrafs in the Ottoman
Empire. In the time of Mahmud II the sarraf of the imperial mint
was an Armenian called Kazaz Artin. He was one of the favourites
of the sultan.
In a Turco-Muslim society, the high ratio of non-Muslim sarrafs
was not seen as an oddity either by the government or by the
people12. My research has turned up very few examples of popular
complaint that the sarrafs are non-Muslims. In examples from the
years 1194/1780, 1239/1823 and 1265/1848, we find the people of
only a few cities such as Damascus (Şam), Sayda and Jerusalem
(Kudüs) complaining that the sarrafs of their cities were Jews or
Christians, while they would prefer Muslims13.
3. It is not always possible to determine the ethnic origin of a
sarraf from his name alone. However another surname, an
explanation or a qualification sometimes accompanies the name itself
(for example, Yahud taifesinden Şapçı Bohor sarraf, zimmi Rafael ). This
supplementary information is helpful but is not enough to prepare
long lists on the basis of ethnicity, since names are mostly chosen
according to religion and not according to ethnicity.
Before the nineteenth century, the Ottoman government did not
intervene in religious or sectarian affairs, with the result that
reciprocal confidence was established between the government and
minorities. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, however, this
situation changed, when Catholic propaganda became widespread in
the Ottoman Empire. This affected Christian sarrafs, especially the
Armenians some of whom converted to Catholicism14. This new
situation created new political problems, and was something which
the Ottoman government could not accept with tolerance. Anyone
 Economy and Taxation 65
preaching the Catholic faith suffered serious punishment and some
Catholic sarrafs were condemned to death, although their
punishment was later changed to exile15.
It was unusual in traditional Ottoman law, to execute a sarraf and,
we must emphasise that, in demanding such a severe punishment,
members of the same ethnic community played a major role. The
Catholic movement had divided Ottoman Armenians. The most
powerful members of each religious group within the same ethnic
community were sarrafs and a fierce competition began between the
partisans of the big sarraf families in order to keep their safe position
in society and especially their relations with the government. We may
therefore conclude that, during these events, each group intrigued
with the Ottoman government, claiming that the other group should
be severely punished.
4. From the name list, and with the help of some other
documents, we can see that the profession of sarraf was traditional in
some Jewish and Armenian families. In our list we can find sarrafs
with the same family names, such as Tıngıroğlu, Gelgeloğlu,
Düzoğlu. A family could remain in the profession for as long as a
century.
The first Ottoman bank did not open until 1863.16 This was late
not only in comparison with western economies but late too for the
conditions of Ottoman economy itself. Banks in the Ottoman
Empire should, in my view, have opened a century earlier, because
the state financial system and the economy in general had needed
them since the second half of the eighteenth century. The vacuum
was filled by other official institutions and by sarrafs, making the
period between 1750 and 1850 the golden age for the sarrafs of the
Ottoman Empire. In that period their importance in the economy
and in the financial system reached its peak.
Although sarrafs had always been important in the Ottoman
economy, their importance increased greatly in the eighteenth
century when they started to play a very big role in economic life.
The question is what happened at that period and why did they
become so important?
The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were an age of
transformation for the Ottoman Empire. One development of the
period that was especially relevant was the levy of some new taxes in
cash, resulting in the increase of money in circulation. However, the
traditional Ottoman financial institution was not yet ready for the bill
of exchange, to transfer sums of money from one place to another,
and so, while on the one hand they started to reform the financial
institution,17 on the other hand they tried to find fast and practical
solutions for these new problems. Because of their experience in
financial operations the sarrafs seemed to Ottoman rulers to be
66 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
useful for exchange transactions and so began to play big role in
both Ottoman society and in state finance. In the same period,
besides their involvement in official financial operations, the sarrafs
engaged in private transactions; indeed at that period almost every
wealthy ottoman had his own sarraf. Sometimes, a statesman’s
official sarraf acted for him privately. The main job of a big sarraf
was to lend money or to play the role of guarantor in financial and
commercial operations in the Ottoman economy. They in fact acted
as ordinary merchant-bankers in any kind of economy, and their goal
was no doubt to sell money at the highest price and take the
maximum profit.
In Ottoman society, therefore, the death of a sarraf was not an
ordinary event since it involved other people. The same was true of
the death of an important person. In these cases, the examination of
the sarraf’s records to determine who were creditors or debtors was
a crucial matter. The tereke defterleri (estate registers) tell us much
about the lending operations of the sarrafs and indicate that
borrowing from them was a very common practice18.
A 20-page defter written in siyakat and preserved in the Ottoman
Archives in Istanbul provides an example19. In it are registered the
debts of 435 persons who died between 1230-49/1814-33. The total
amount of the debt is 22,856,224 guruş, giving an annual average of
over than one million guruş. Before going into the details, we should
note how high and impressive these numbers are.
The 435 persons are from all social categories and their debts are
to different places or persons such as other ordinary people, artisans,
merchants, sarrafs, officials, the central treasury and other
institutions of state. The amount each person’s debt naturally differs.
Some are indeed modest.
If however, we ignore the small debts and focus our attention on
the large ones the results are interesting. Among the 435 people who
died we find 45 with debts of over 100,000 guruş. Of these, if we
eliminate the ones who were not indebted to a sarraf their number
drops to 16. The remaining 29 are indebted to a sarraf. Many of the
other 435 persons were also indebted to a sarraf, but the total
amounts are under the limit of 100, 000 guruş.
Appendix 2 lists these 29 persons.20 The first column shows their
rank in the original document, the second column their names and
surnames. The third column gives the total amount of each person’s
debt, the fourth the name of the sarraf concerned, and the last one
the amount of debt to the sarraf. What can we deduce from that
table? Here are some results:
1. For each person, in the total amount of his debt the share of
his sarraf occupies the first rank. The percentage of the share
of the sarraf is in general over 90%.
 Economy and Taxation 67
2. Among the names, bureaucrats or officials form a majority.
Only 3 names belongs to non-Muslims.
3. For some persons, the total amount is very striking,
sometimes over a million.
The results are very impressive. The large sums involved suggests
that these persons were ultra rich when they were alive, otherwise
they could not have had such a high credits. This conclusion is not
however, entirely valid, because their debts to a sarraf did not
necessarily result directly from their private or personal relations. It
is very likely that, these very high amounts of debt relate indirectly to
their official duties, because, in similar examples from other sources
we see that the sums owed by Ottoman officials to the sarrafs are
indeed very high. For example, in the time of Mahmud II, the total
amount owed by six Ottoman officials to a Jewish sarraf called Şapçı
Bohor was over 8.5 million guruş. More than 5.5 million guruş of
that amount belonged to one official, the governor of Aleppo
(Halep), Serezli Yusuf Pasha.21
The question then arises of why these officials, on their way to
eternal life left such large debts? The answer is complex and what
follows is a summary.
From the second half of the eighteenth century the Ottoman
financial system began to be centralised. At the same time, the use of
money as the method of exchange in the economy increased. The
Ottoman financial organisation was not yet ready with its own
resources to collect and manage the new taxes. At the same time,
after the financial reforms of Selim III, the management of mukataas
and also timars seized by the central treasury (İrad-ı Cedid Hazinesi’nce
zabt olunan mukataat ve timarat) brought new problems. The
government therefore tried to solve some of the problems by
introducing other actors on to the stage. Especially in tax-farming
operations, local governors assumed heavy duties and
responsibilities. To carry out these operations a supposedly skilful
assistant called kapu kethüdası was appointed to each one to help
them in financial matters. However only some of these assistants
were really capable and the others asked the help of the sarrafs in
financial operations. At the same time, local governors themselves
also preferred the assistance of the sarraf to that of their kapu
kethüdası. Thus, a new trio of vizier, kapu kethüdası and sarraf begun
to play an important role in the Ottoman financial system.22
Furthermore, it seems that the central government preferred to
approach the sarrafs directly instead of the local governors. This is
because, in many cases, the claims of the central treasury could be
paid in advance by the sarrafs. In brief therefore, a combination of
the needs of the central treasury and the incapacity of the kapu
kethüdasıs and viziers resulted in the extraordinary rise of sarrafs in
68 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
the Ottoman empire.23 The members of this profession automatically
took their place in the financial system to fill the vacancy.
To sum up, the most important and confidential information and
operations of the state were entrusted to the sarrafs. At the same
time, many persons in Ottoman society and especially the high
bureaucrats in their private or personal relations always asked the
help of sarrafs. In this period of time, there was no discrimination on
the basis of religion.
It seems clear that by the beginning of the nineteenth century the
time had come for the Ottoman empire to found a central bank in
Istanbul and to let entrepreneurs found private banks in the
provinces with their own capital. The sarrafs, as private/individual
bankers benefited from the absence of institutional banks and in that
period they made large profits and became the richest group in the
Ottoman society.
 Economy and Taxation 69

Appendix 1

A Selection of Sarrafs’ Names Randomly Selected

from Various Archival Sources

Name of the Sarraf Source Date

ABDURRAHMAN (Birecik gümr.) CM 21003 Ş 1120
ABDÜLBAKİ CM 10 107 2 L 1176
ABRAHAM CM 12 993 1220
ACI DAVİD CM 29 407 12 C 1215
AGOP CM 2 175 3 C 1254
AGOP CM 15 195 17 M 1220
AGOP Cev.Darb. 255 23 C 1181
AGOP (Erzurum) Cdarb. 446 7 Za 1212
AGOP (son of Mihail) CM 23 557 15 Ra 1198
AGOPYAN CM 15 459 27 M 1262
ALYON BAZİRGAN CM 9 428 10 C 1265
APOSTOL PAPA HH 5815C 1218
ARAM ve BOGOZ(Barsra gümr.) CM 16 801 12 S 1191
ARSLANOĞLU MANOK CM 21 249 Ş 1267
ARTİN CM 15 941 CA 1237
ARTİN HH 11 657; 1204-1205
HH 11 551
ARTİN CM 13 657 11 M 1256
ARTİN Dah.İra. 1 161 4 N 1256
ARTİN CM 1 858 21 Z 1229
ARTİN (Mısır sarrafı) HH 16 049 1205
ARTİN (Mısır sarrafı) CM 28 894 19 z 1204
ARZAN HH 24 510 1225
ASTOR CM 22 069 C 1215
AVADİS CM 22 641 6 C 1204
AVANES Cev.Darb. 255 23 C 1181
AVANİS Cev.Darb.208 15 Za 1176
AVANNES Meclis-i Vâlâ 522 2 Za 1257
AVANS(Filibeli İloğlu karatik) CM 396 15 CA 1258
AVRAM Dah.İr. 3161 C 1258
BAĞDAR(Goncegüloğlu) CM 15 002 5 Ra 1232
BAĞDASAR Dah.İra.3924 5 Ş 1259
BAĞDASAR Melis-i Vâlâ 608 23 M 1258
BALTACI BAZİRGAN CM 9 428 and 10 C 1265/
13 560 12 S 1261
BEDROS CM 22 485 no date
BEDROS CM 26 79 1 S 1205
BEDROS HH 9 950 1205
70 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Appendix 1 cont.
BEDROS (Darbhane sarrafı) CM 30 604 26 Ş 1200
BEDROS (Seraki) Cdarb. 167 no date
BEDROSUN ANTON Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
BOGOS CM 121 19 S 1234
BOĞOS Meclis-i Vâlâ 618 3 S 1258
BUHUR CM 2 320 7 R 1231
CANİK (Sarraflar kethüdası) CM 16 748 12 S 1255
CANİK BAZİRGAN CM 2 560 5 M 1261
CANİK veled-i SİMON CM 2 085; 13 B 1239
CM 2 084
CEZAYİRLİOĞLU MIGIRDIÇ CM 18 302 R 1254
CEZAYİRLİOĞLU MIGIRDIÇ CD 5 623 9 C 1259
CEZAYİRLİOĞLU MIGIRDIÇ CM 1 413 25 Ra 1269
DANİYEL CM 12 862 1258
DAVİD CM 12 795 1232
DAVİDOĞLU EVSEK CM 20 332 L 1259
DAVUDOĞLU BEDROS Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
DEMİR CD 3 490 Ra 1260
DİMİTRAKİ (Moralı) CM 2 085 13 B 1239
DİMİTRİ CM 12 799 1237
DİMİTRİ (Sakızlı) CM 26 041 25 M 1203
DÜZOĞLU CDARB. 671 19 M 1235
DÜZOĞLU CDARB. 672 29 C 1235
EBRENİ(Sultan's sarraf in Paris) CM 24 171 Ş 1281
EMREZE CD 5 646 8 Za 1237
ETRİBAS AliEmiri 218 1230
GASPAR Cev.Darb.418 25 Za 1258
GELGELOĞLU MAD 5 990,P 85 1259
GELGELOĞLU CM 10535 19 R 1261
GELGELOĞLU CD 1486 Ra 1260
GELGELOĞLU CM 12 776 R 1263
GELGELOĞLU ARTİN CM 20 144 28 Za 1252
GELGELOĞLU ARTİN CM 25 734 3 Z 1266
GELGELOĞLU ONİK Meclis-i Vâlâ 516 24 L 1257
GONCEGÜLOĞLU BAĞDASAR Dah.İra. 1 064 7 Ş 1256
GÜLGÜLOĞLU ARTİN CM 1 685 9 Ş 1260
GÜLGÜLOĞLU BOĞOS HH 16 350 1236
GÜLLABİOĞLU Belleten 151, s.412 1221
GÜZELİOĞLU ARTİN Meclis-i Vâlâ 28 Za 1259
İr. 1 029
GÜZELOĞLU ARTİN Tezakir, I, p 73
HAMİYUS CD 7 699 C 1161
HANİM CM 19 944 14 R 1255
HARLAMBO(Kıbrıs sandık sar.) CM 21 122 11M1266
HARON CM 6 789 19 L 1198
 Economy and Taxation 71
Appendix 1 cont.
HASFİL (Bağdadlı) CM 2 084 12 B 1239
HASKİYELİ HH 24 510 1225
HAYIM CD 4 469 21 Ca 1197
HAYİM Meclis-i Vâlâ 710 13 R 1258
HAYİM CM 21 429 Z 1246
HAZAR CM 1 577 After TANZİMAT
HOCA AGOP CM 15 120 27 R 1237
HOCA AVANS CD 1 348 17 B 1222
HOCA HARKAL CM 2 484 NO DATE
HOCA MAKSUT (bazirgan) CM 192 17 B 1246
HOCA MİKAİL CM 15 794 5 Z 1259
HOCA MİKAİL CM 13 560 12 S 1261
HOCA OHANNES Cevdet Adliye 4 802 1266
HOCA OSEB CM 24 253 R 1241
HOCA OSEP CD 639 23 Ra 1239
HOCADUR/HACADUR CM 16 225 22 Ra 1232
HOCE KEVORK Dah.İra.3849 22 C1259
HÜDAVERDİĞLU CM 12 580 5 Ş 1232
HÜDAVERDİĞLU NEZARET CM 31 312 R 1239
HÜDAVERDİOĞLU ABRAHAM CM 12 787 5 C 1258
HÜDAVERDİOĞLU MANNİK CM 26 846 S 1255
İSPİRDAKİ (Mısır sarrafı) HH 16 035
İSTEFAN Cev.Darb. 259 4 Z 1173
İSTEFAN HH 15 430 1204
İSTEFAN (Edirne) CM 10 820 13 R 1215
İSTEPANOĞLU BEDROS CM 12 218 28 Ş 1246
KALEF CM 22 532 4 S 1221
KALICIOĞLU VİÇİN Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
KARABET (Sarraflar kethüdası) CM 4 622 27 S 1229
KARABET(Sarraflar kethüdası) CM 11 078 19 1234
KARAKAŞ CM 31 228 Ş 1192
KASABAR CM 25 047 N 1230
KASPAR CD 1 348 17 B 1222
KAZAZ ARTİN Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
KILCIOĞLU ANDON CM 14 722 7 R 1234
KILCIOĞLU ANTON MAD 9 722, 372 27 C 1210
KILCIOĞLU KİRKOR CM 1 508 1246
KİRKOR CM 1461 1260
KİRKOR Meclis-i Vâlâ 370 4 Ca 1257
KİRKOR Cev.Darb. 255 23 C 1181
KİRKOR İSTEFAN Cev.Darb. 384 9 Ra 1217
KİRKOR(Köloğlu/Güloğlu) CM 14 698 No date
KOKAS CM 17 077 N 1268
KOKAS Meclis-i Vâlâ 646 28 S 1258
KONORTA CM 12 365 5 M 1220
72 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Appendix 1 cont.
LAMBO CM 18 009 21 Za 1231
LOHMANOĞLU CM 22 248 3 N 1233
MANİK CM 19 822 23 Z 1227
MANİK CM 12 365 and 12 5 M 1220/4 S 1224
410
MANİK HÜDAVERDİOĞLU CM 2 320 7 R 1231
MARDİROS CM 9 456 3 C 1265
MARDİROS(Sarraflar kethüdası) CM 15 192 12 S 1220
MARKAR CM 9 456 3 C 1265
MARKAROĞLU BOĞOZ CD 2 627 R 1236
MARKOS Cevdet Adliye 6 358 4 Ra 1183
MEHMED CM 10 107 2 L 1176
MENDİS Cev.Darb. 255 23 C 1181
MIGIRDIÇ CM 11 639 3 L 1222
MIGIRDIÇ CM 10557 7 ZA 1250
MIGIRDIÇ Meclis-i Vâlâ İr. 965 21 Ca 1259
MIGIRDIÇ CM 25 056 21 Ra 1269
MIGIRDIÇ Meclis-i Vâlâ 559 Za 1257
MİHAİL CM 23 557 15 Ra 1198
MİKAİL CM 1 383 1253
MİNAS Cev.Darb.208 15 Za 1176
MİNAS CM 31 330 C 1192
MİNAS (sarraflar kethüdası) CM 23 921 3 B 1208
MİNOS (sarraflar kethüdası) CM 10575 9Z 1210
MİSAK CM 2 919 11 M 1264
MİSAK (Bazirgan) CM 26 006 1267
MİSAK (Bazirgan) CM 9 420 1267
MURAD CM 1 784 24 S 1233
MURAD CM 14 042 12 N 1231
MURADOĞLU RAFAEL CM 2 522 17 M1216
MUSA CM 21 915 20 Za 1256
MUSA ŞAPÇI CM 30 368 15 R 1220
NAZRET (HÜDAVERDİOĞLU) CM 21 236 9 R 1234
NESİM CM 31 030 21 Ş 1247
NESİMACİ CM 22 539 1144
NURİ EFENDİ (gümrükte) CM 10 830 17 L 1255
OHAN CM 10 979 and 13 4 ZA 1244/25 M
462 1246
OHAN CM 23 733 1204
OHANNES CM 13 816 4 M 1251
OHANNES CM 21 915 20 Za 1256
OHANNES Maclis-I Vâlâ 707 10 R 1258
(Tanferoğlu?/Tıngıroğlu)
OHANNNES (Balıkpanlı) CM 24 913 19 Ca 1258
OSBEK CM 23 009 R 1215
 Economy and Taxation 73
Appendix 1 cont.
OSEB Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
OVANS CM 10557 7 ZA 1250
OVANS CM 3 538 8 B 1233
OVSEB (Pekmezoğlu) CM 16 235 22 S 1267
PASKAL CM 11 371 M 1236
PENKANLI AVANNES Meclis-i Vâlâ 202 24 L 1256
PETRAKİ ZİMMİ CM 24 910 20 S 1192
RAFAEL CM 19 213 Ş 1261
RAFAEL CM 19 213 Ş 1261
SAĞAM CM 31 740 M 1223
SAKAOĞLU MARDİROS Dah.İra. 3560 6 M 1259
SAKAOĞLU MARDİROS CM 13 138 and 13 210 15 N 1246/1207
SASKAL CM 21 984 18 B 1228
SAVİDOGLU OSEB CM 18 294 C 1227
SERGİS CM 12 745 4 R 1251
SERGİZ CM 12 544 Za 1250
SERGİZ CM 11 369 6 N 1230
SİMON CM 2 305 Za 1213
SİMYON Cev.Darb.208 15 Za 1176
ŞALCI MUSA CM 22 447 B 1201
ŞAMANTO CD 824 and CM 13 244 no date/1208
ŞAMANTO CD 824 No date
ŞAPÇI BOHOR MAD 8250 1242-1249
ŞAPÇI BOHOR Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
ŞAPÇI BOHOR HH 16 352 1235
TINGIROĞLU AGOP CM 20 164 R 1217
TINGIROĞLU AGOP CM 19 538 Ş 1205
TINGIROĞLU AGOP CM 16 226 and 20 764 6 M 1232/29 Z 1228
TINGIROĞLU AGOP Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
TINGIROĞLU ARTİN CD 1253 B 1253
TINGIROĞLU ARTİN CM 1 097 B 1253
TINGIROĞLU KİRKOR Tarih-i Lütfi 1242
TINGIROĞLU SİMON CM 20 348 B 1263
TINGIROĞLU SİMON CM 13 841 8 L 1208
YABIK CD 5 776 L 1229
YAZICI KİRKOR Cev.Darb.261 15 Za 1235
YENİŞEHİRLİ SABETAY CM 12 705 7 B 1237
YORGAKİ (Kıbrıs tercümanı) CM 16 468 14 B 1226
YORGAKİ (Semurkaş) CM 13 761 16 Za 1208
YORGİ CM 16 642 15 R 1232
74 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Appendix 2

The Share of the Sarrafs’ Credits in the

Total Debt of Some Persons

I II III IV V
Between 1230-1246
4 Kuşadası muhafızı İlyas 166 460 Ovannes 166 460
Ağa
14 Şam valisi elhac Ali Pasha 922 209 Patrik(?) 579 236
17 Zihne ayanı elhac Ali Ağa 841 245 Gelgeloğlu Boğos 837 945
21 Vezir Mehmed Selim Pasha 288 717 Boğos 226 396,5
49 Berkofçalı Yusuf Pasha 116 985 Artin 113 929,5
61 Hüseyin Pasha, Köstence 237 835,5 Matris/Patris(?) 109 894,5
muhafızı Varkasan 18 821
113 Yenişehir mutasarrıfı 262 773 Markar 165 000
İsmail Pasha
115 Hasan Pasha 1 103 330,5 Mığıroğlu Agop 840 000
Miran 80 578,5
119 Reşid Pasha 727 860,5 Patrik(?) 616 125
122 Salih Pasha 199 426,5 Maksur 182 926,5
125 Şam valisi Salih Pasha 1 050 939 Tıngıroğlu Kirkor 1 020 000
126 Maraşlı Ali Pasha 376 810 Ohan
141 Ahmed Ağa ,Darbhane 479 306,5 A sarraf 24 000
Nazırı (no name)
144 Tırhala valisi 237 067 Tıngınoğlu Oseb 236 567
Boşnak Süleyman Pasha
146 Tepdelenli Ali Pasha, Veli 792 948,5 Kirkor 309 500
Pasha, Muhtar Pasha
151 Süleyman ağa, Menlik ayanı 147 000 Hocador 140 000
197 Motafıni zimmi 105 759 Hatem yahudi 42 000
202 Mihal/Mican(?) zimmi 2 254 682,5 Matros 214 571
Çıfıt yehud 800 000
Şapçı Bohor 1 161 220
Patrik(?) 78 833
223 Maraşlı Ali Pasha 244 182 Tıngıroğlu Agop 160 183,5
valde sultan kethüdası
226 ….? zimmi 108 743 Bohor 45 000
266 Süleyman Pasha, Şam valisi 301 718 Şapçı Bohor 135 000
271 Lütfullah Pasha 377 333 Ağop ve Artin(?) 365 308
281 Ahmed Pasha, sadr-ı sabık 128 696,5 Manok 72 627,5
 Economy and Taxation 75

I II III IV V
Between 1247-1249
II/16 Halil Efendi 317,753 Sarraf…? 317,753
II/18 Hafız Ali Pasha 342,523 …?oğlu Ağop ve diğerleri 342,523
II/21 Hafız Ali Pasha 170,481 Ohan ve diğerleri 170,481
II/56 Ahmed Ağa 308,522.5 Gelgeoğlu Artın ve 308,522.5
diğerleri

Notes
1 For the monetization of the Ottoman economy and financial system see Yavuz
Cezar, ‘18 ve 19. Yüzyıllarda Osmanlı Taşrasında Oluşan Yeni Malî Sektörün
Mahiyet ve Büyüklüğü üzerine’, Dünü ve Bugünüyle Toplum ve Ekonomi, sayı 9, Nisan
1996, 89-143. Yavuz Cezar, ‘Comments on the Financial History of the Ottoman
Provinces in the eighteenth century: A Macro Analysis’, in Essays on Ottoman
Civilization (Prague, 1998), 85-92
2 For a general view of Ottoman financial history, see: Osmanlıdan Günümüze Türk
Finans Tarihi (İstanbul Menkul Kıymetler Borsası Yayını, İstanbul, 1999). For the
bankers of the late Ottoman period see Haydar Kazgan, Galata Bankerleri, İstanbul
1991 (published by Türk Ekonomi Bankası); Ionna Pepelasis Minoglu, ‘Ethnic
Minority Groups in International Banking: Greek Diaspora banker of
Constantinople and Ottoman State Finances, 1840-81’, Financial History Review 9
(2002), 125-46.
3 BOAD (Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşiv Dairesi=Ottoman Archives Administration),
Cevdet Darbhâne, no 321, 5 Ş 1216/11 December 1801.
4 BOAD, Cevdet Maliye, no 2 176, 13 Ra 1195 /9 Mars 1781; Cevdet Dahiliye, no
4 469, 21 Ca 1197/24 April 1783; Cevdet Maliye, no 23 557 (15 Ra 1198/7
February 1784); Cevdet Darbhâne, no 328, N 1216/1801; Cevdet Maliye, no 3 384,
11 Ca 1218/29 August 1803.
5 BOAD, Cevdet Maliye, no 10 575, no 15 192, no 4 622, no 11 078, no 16 748, no
2 560, no 15 147
6 BOAD, MAD, no 1 763, 186-8, 205-6.
7 Ahmet Refik, Onikinci Asr-ı Hicrîde İstanbul Hayatı, 193 see the document no 234
8 BOAD, Cevdet Darbhâne, no 193
9 BOAD, Cevdet Maliye, no 23 557, no 16 068, no 10 648, no 2 522, no 19 973,
no 14 944, no 24 913, no 17 077, no 28 894; Cevdet Darbhâne, no 255; MAD, no
9 722, p 185; MAD, no 9 730, p 46; MAD, no 8 151, vrk 7-8 (in that defter dated
1835-6 the adresses of their offices and the names of 75 sarrafs are listed). For the
hans and shopping centres of Ottoman Istanbul see Mustafa Cezar, Typical
Commercial Buildings of the Ottoman Classical Period and the Ottoman Construction System,
(Türkiye İş Bankası, İstanbul, 1983) (A revised editon in Turkish was published by
Mimar Sinan Üniversitesi in 1985: Tipik Yapılarıyla Osmanlı Şehirciliğinde Çarşı ve
Klasik Dönem İmar Sistemi). Ceyhan Güran, Türk Hanlarının Gelişimi ve İstanbul
Hanları Mimarisi (Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü yayını, İstanbul, 1977).
10 BOAD, Cevdet Darbhâne, no 453, 21 N 1220/13 December 1805; MAD, no 9
722, passim.
76 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

11 I must underline that this list is not exhaustive. Sarrafs’ names are randomly
selected from various sources.
12 For example among the 27 clients of a non-Muslim sarraf Kılcıoğlu Artin the
majority were Muslim and only the 10 of them were Armenian. BOAD, Cevdet
Maliye, no 1508, 1246.
13 BOAD, Cevdet Maliye, no 27 328, 16 139 and 6 658
14 Ahmed Refik, 12. Asr-ı Hicride İstanbul Hayatı, 21-2, 35, 160-3
15 Lütfi Tarihi, I , 272-4, 276; II, 188; III, 163-4.
16 Edhem Eldem, Osmanlı Bankası Tarihi, İstanbul 1999 (published by Tarih Vakfı)
17 Y.Cezar, ‘Osmanlı Geleneksel Mali Örgütünde Çözülme Yılları: Tanzimat
Öncesinde Bâb-ı Defterî’, Dünü ve Bugünüyle Toplum ve Ekonomi, 7 (İstanbul, 1994).
18 In the Ottoman Archives among many others especially the following defter is
rich in exemples of this kind: MAD, no 9 722
19 BOAD, Cevdet Maliye, no 17 129
20 See appendix 2
21 Tarih-i Lütfi, I, 245-6.
22 Yavuz Cezar, Osmanlı Maliyesinde Bunalım ve Değişim Dönemi, 242
23 A document kept in BOAD (Hatt-ı Hümayun, no 12 968, date: 1211) shows
dramatically how the viziers and their kethüdas were financially weak in their
relations with the sarrafs.
 The Poll-Tax and Population in the Ottoman Balkans

Nenad Moačanin

Authors dealing with various aspects of Ottoman taxation usually

state that the poll-tax was levied on a household basis (per hane) until
the reform of 1691.1 Some say ‘predominantly’, while others
occasionally mention the per head basis as if it were generally applied
without engaging in discussion over the striking contradiction with
the opposite statement. It is accepted that before the difficulties in
the late sixteenth century the rates oscillated between 40 and 70
akçes, sometimes less, sometimes more, with occasional ‘exceptions’
(Albania, Anatolia). In addition, the fact that the rate (probably per
head) of 30 akçes in general seems to be the only available overall
estimation for decades in the sixteenth century, seems not to have
provoked any raised eyebrows thus far.2 It seems that a need for the
revision of such generalizations, and of the ‘per hane’ article of faith
in particular, has become urgent. Indeed, there is enough evidence in
favour of the personal nature of the poll-tax for most of the sixteenth
century, at least for the large areas of the Empire including Bosnia,
Serbia and even northwest Bulgaria. We read in the Mühimme 7,
entry nr. 448 (1567):

Order to the governor of Temeşvar: The collectors of the haraç

have found that many reaya in Semendire, Alaca Hisar, İzvornik
and Vidin are missing. When questions were raised, it was
reported that when the vilayet of Temeşvar was surveyed, its
haraç was put on houses (hane başına) and, because of that they
(i.e. the reaya) have moved and gone over there. Now it is
forbidden for the reaya from the Empire to go there to the
detriment of the haraç. [I have commanded...] Let the reaya
who go over there be charged with the head-tax (baş haracı), not
with the house-tax (hane haracı).

The underlying idea is that to the south of Sava and Danube the
haraç was collected from all adult males. Nr. 449 is still more explicit:
78 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Order to the timar defterdarı of Temeşvar, the surveyor of the
vilayet, Muharrem Çelebi: Since Gyula was conquered, the reaya
of Semendire, Izvornik and Alaca Hisar hid themselves and
went across the Danube to Temeşvar. Some might well have
left because of lawlessness, yet the real cause is that in those
provinces the poll-tax (cizye) and the land-tax (ispence) are
incumbent on heads, while in the vilayet of Temeşvar they
depend on households, and are paid (only) once, no matter how
many unbelievers are dwelling in one house.
Again, entry nr. 519 emphasizes the wish of the reaya in
Semendire to settle in Temeşvar, Segedin, Sirem and Pojega because
there the unbelievers pay only one filori even when there are ten of
them in one household.3
Some passages in the kanunnames for Semendire, Izvornik, and
Hersek, as well as the Kuripečič travelogue (Bosnia), when examined
in the light of the decrees we have quoted above, point clearly to the
same principle, that is, to taxation per head. Since the first mention
comes from a kanunname for Herzegovina written in 1530, it is quite
possible that the change had occured about that year or a bit earlier.
So in some areas the shift toward introducing the ‘more canonical’
cizye had actually happened.4
Closer examination of data for 1489-91 offered by Todorov and
Velkov reveals that in most north-western districts, including
Albania, high rates are nearly absent.5 In a few places the rate was
around 50 akçes, 40-6 was more common (Bosnia and north-eastern
Herzegovina), and often the rate was low or very low (36 for Vidin,
30 for Alaca Hisar, 28 for Albanian districts and 16 for
Smederevo/Semendire.) Clearly the amount of the tax reflected
adjustments of the principles of Ottoman taxation to local
circumstances (meaning to the productivity and financial capacity of
local people rather than to the ‘old custom’.) We may suppose that
the main reason for predominantly low rates was the fact that in
these places the nuclear household was only a part of a traditional
collective of two and more families. It is also possible that a single
such household had insufficient arable land or, in the case of
pastoralists, had only a secondary interest in cultivating the land. The
whole area corresponds well to the predominant Balkan family
pattern of the early modern age.6 Since this Balkan family pattern
presupposes complex, multiple family collectives, the actual rate for
a hypothetical nuclear family may well have been 10 or 5 akçes or
less! On a per capita basis for all the working members of a collective,
it might have amounted to next to nothing.
Let us stop here and anticipate a little. Although the survey from
1489-91 uses the word cizye, it is obvious that at the same time those
 Economy and Taxation 79
moneys represented simply a tribute. Anyway, the jurists had a very
appropriate term for it, which I here reintroduce as a historian’s
terminus technicus: harac-ı muvazzaf (‘the obligatory haraç’) as distinct
from the harac-ı mukaseme. Since the character of the tax had not been
strictly defined, personal taste might be the reason for the frequent
interchange of the terms haraç and cizye in the same document.
Hopefully I can demonstrate how during the period down to the
reform of 1691 there was a long series of shifts from the harac-ı
muvazzaf of the fifteenth century to a tax closer in nature to the
canonical cizye in the sixteenth century, and then back again in the
seventeenth century !
Whereas the rate of the per household haraç for the European
part of the Ottoman ‘core area’ (50-60 akçes) must have been more
than enough to match the average number of adult males in most
nuclear households,7 by contrast in the north-west with its complex
multiple hanes this was not so before 1530. In the north-west,
although the state did not really want filoricis and çiftlikçis to take
control of arable land, in the early phases it was hardly possible to
stop them. In Bosnia in the sixteenth century there were hundreds of
çiftliks on land abandoned and devastated by war yielding only a
lump sum. Apart from large groups of sheep- and cattle-breeders
that paid only one filori, a significant number of Vlachs in Serbia,
Herzegovina and Dalmatia joined the remnants of the older
sedentary population in performing some limited agricultural
activities. Most of the population had to serve the government at
least occasionally as auxiliaries. It seems that when a Vlach
household, regardless of its size, ceased to be a simple filori-payer, it
nevertheless continued to pay almost the same amount as before,
with the only difference that part of it was in kind. Thus the 83 akçes
collected from filoricis became a 16-akçe haraç + 25 to 50 akçes of
ispence + minor taxes in kind and cash after they became ‘ordinary’
reayas. Despite this, they tried to escape as soon as the opportunity
arose. The only explanation for this must be that the new régime did
not respect a traditional large collectivity of, say, 9, 11, or 15 persons
each, but instead counted only nuclear families. Perhaps the new tax
burden was not very heavy, yet subjectively it was still two-or three
times more than what had prevailed before. The case is most
obvious in Serbia, where both Vlach groups constituted the majority
of the population. In Herzegovina in 1477 the rate of the haraç was
apparently higher, 45 akçes, but no ispence is mentioned in the early
sources.8 We can therefore imagine that it is included, together with a
poll-tax at a low rate, into the tribute as a kind of the harac-ı
muvazzaf. In Bosnia the remaining older agricultural population
living in complex collectives had been put under the pressure of
paying both the haraç (40-50 akçes) and the ispence (25-50 akçes)
80 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
plus the tithes.9 This circumstance must have been one of the main
motives for conversion to Islam, probably the main one.
After the Empire had pushed its frontiers far to the north, all the
Christian population along with the majority of the Vlachs, became
burdened with the triple poll-tax (in Herzegovina, 30-25-20 akçes)
most of them at the lowest rate. For the Vlachs this was a hard
blow, and for old Bosnians a further stimulus for finding radical
solutions. In some areas Islamization progressed more quickly, while
many chose other ways. Some tried—successfully—to present
several baştines as single units, while others simply hid behind a
Muslim tapu holder, either a relative, or a buyer from outside. That is
why the Bosnian tahrirs are even less reliable for demographic
research than the poll-tax records. Curiously enough, it was more
advantageous to convert in the Balkans, where the per household
resm-i çift, also a kind of harac-ı muvazzaf, was only 22 akçes, than it
was to convert in Anatolia with its much higher rates (36 to 53
akçes). Could the latter rates possibly reflect a merging of former
Christian head and land tax? There is an explanatory note in a copy
of the general kanunname from the beginning of the Süleymanic era
referring to the vilayet of Rum which may support such a
speculation.10
As for the the Vlachs, they started long distance migrations.
Waves of migrants left the central Adriatic hinterland around 1535
heading for parts of the Middle Danube region, not fully under
anyone’s control. Some of them had returned by the early 1560s
following the reestablishment of the status of filoricis which took
place around 1540.11 But in Semendire/Smederevo this did not
happen, and there the attrition continued well into the seventeenth
century.
Having outlined the essentials of developments in the north-west,
we may use the information as a tool for a better understanding of
what was happening in Rumelia to the south. I had only limited
access to relevant sources, but I would like to point out that there are
no clear and unambiguous statements on this subject in the more
recent literature. One can read (sometimes in the same work) about a
general rate of 30, 50, or 50-60 akçes (for some places 75 akçes),
allegedly levied sometimes on individuals and sometimes on hanes.
Allowance is made for the existence of the three-class per head cizye,
but this is confined to an insignificant number of ‘exceptional’ cases,
such as town-dwellers and other privileged groups.
Here I propose to test a hypothesis. Let us first ask whether the
haraç in 1490 and later in 1530 or 1550 could possibly have
consisted of more parts than simply the zimmi’s canonical obligation,
however vaguely conceived that may be? In 1530 the haraç for
Herzegovina was a sum (56 akçes) which was probably a compound
 Economy and Taxation 81
of the poll-tax (i.e. cizye) plus the ispence. In Montenegro/Karadağ,
which had the status of sultanic hass, the resm-i filori in 1523 was a
compound made up of a 33 akçe poll-tax, a 20 akçe ispence and 2
akçes for the collector (again practically the same amount).12 We may
also hypothesize that in Herzegovina in 1477 the average of 46 akçes
was a compound of 19 akçe (the same cizye as in Serbia?) plus a 25
akçe ispence plus 2 akçes for the collector’s fee. Occasionally it
seems that the sheep-tax (koyun hakkı, adet-i ağnam) was included. In
the 1489/91 record the resm-i filori occasionally appears. This
means that this tax was also a kind of harac-ı muvazzaf, comprising
equivalents for the poll-tax, ispence and agricultural taxes. The
Vlachs were in no way different from the ordinary reaya as payers of
the harac-ı muvazzaf, but they did not pay the harac-ı mukaseme.
Therefore, it is safe to assume that around 1490, at least in some
places, rates higher than the expected 40, 50, or 60 akçes can be
explained by the presence of imperial or governor’s estates (hass),
where ispence and/or sheep-tax was added on top of the poll-tax.
We may therefore speculate that the period up to 1530 could
rightly be called the epoch of the harac-ı muvazzaf, a tax which does
not depend in the first place on the productivity of the land. Bearing
this in mind, we may guess that the contradiction between two
important reports from the fifteenth century, that of Promontorio de
Campis and Konstantin Mihajlović, can be explained away by
supposing that the first source speaks of a haraç (poll tax) which
includes an ispence of 70 akçes, while the second report intends only
the poll-tax.
We may also ask whether per head taxation was levied in the area
of the Balkan collective family in the same way as it was levied per
household throughout most of Ottoman Europe. The key question
is whether or not the per head haraç was an obligation on every
healthy male over 15? In the aforementioned decrees the affected
provinces are designated as belonging to the ‘inland’ (‘iç ilinden firar
etmeyeler’). The haraç in those provinces was not the hane haracı
(household tax), which prevailed in Hungary, but the baş haracı (poll
tax), which was characteristic of the iç il. Consequently, if there
existed a hane haracı further south, then the reaya would flee south
as well, to Thrace, Thessaly etc. I think that the riddle is resolved if
we accept that the so-called baş haracı for most of Rumelia have
meant practically the same thing as the hane haracı . But here hane
does not stand for any kind of household. Because of the clear
predominance of nuclear households, only a biological family of 5 or
so would have been the basic taxation unit. Larger units were, faute de
mieux, treated as exceptions, and when possible disregarded.
Conversely, the imposition of the per head poll-tax in the north-west
was aimed at the large (and sometimes very large) Balkan collective
82 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
family households. Many kanunnames are silent or seemingly
ambiguous in this matter, probably because such a principle seemed
self-evident to Ottoman bureaucrats. The widespread practice of
registering unmarried sons speaks in favour of their having counted
such persons as subject not just to the ispence but also liable to the
poll-tax, without any lowering of the rate.
Let us here propose an unorthodox approach to the core area
cizye rate of 55-60 akçes. How can an ‘overall’ rate of 30 akçes be
reconciled with that? Is it not likely that the authorities were
worrying about leaving a significant number of older male
adolescents, just about to separate from their father’s household,
untaxed? The kanunname for Herzegovina of 1530 says that the
rates of 30, 25 and 20 akçes are paid by the ordinary haraçgüzar.
When the ispence is added, it makes some 50 akçes. It seems likely
that where a rate of 56 akçe is given, there was in many areas of
Rumelia a tacit burdening of possibly more than one person.
When a purely personal tax, such as the ispence, is concerned,
legal stipulations are more expressive. Here may lie the cause for
apparent inconsistencies in the literature. To conclude, we may say
that haraç was collected first on both a per head basis (a hair-splitter
would say ‘close-to-per head’) and also on a purely formal household
basis, but in the latter case only in frontier areas, either with large
units, or close to the border with all the insecurity that entailed. After
1530 the per head basis became universal except for pure pastoralists
(Vlachs and others), and on land conquered in Hungary. Since in the
overwhelming majority of cases, tax-liable adult males corresponded
to the number of heads of nuclear households, the ‘per hane’
principle, which owed more to scribal convenience than to the
complex reality, made its way into scholarship. Thus the poll-tax was
not, or not very much at odds with the sacred law regarding the size
of taxation units. The only big difference was the real rate of the
haraç, meaning a burden distributed per capita.
The most striking feature of the seventeenth-century cizye records
(the bureaucracy used the word haraç less frequently) is the
comparatively low number of taxation units in comparison with the
old tapu tahrirs. From this some have concluded that there was a
dramatic diminution of the Balkan Christian population, due to
biological, climatic or other natural factors, or to socio-political
phenomena, such as Islamization. Others have warned against hasty
conclusions, drawing attention to changes of status (for example,
new vakıf villages). Thus the proportions of the ‘demographic
catastrophe’ may have diminished, yet considerable losses in general
are still believed to have actually happened.13
I have made extensive use source materials for Slavonia and
Srijem/Sirem and, to certain extent, for Bosnia. Although the
 Economy and Taxation 83
findings may not be mechanically applicable to the rest of Ottoman
Europe, I believe that the emerging patterns of a new approach to
taxation by Ottoman authorities in those northerly places must have
had much in common with what was happening farther south. One
great advantage of this material is that Ottoman documents can be
examined in the light of non-Ottoman sources, not just travellers’
reports, but also for instance the Habsburg surveys made for
taxation purposes around 1700. The second survey from 1702 is
generally richer in information than the first from 1698. Among
other questions, the peasants were asked what, when and how they
paid taxes to their masters before the Habsburg conquest. After
revision, and, I hope, by refining the argumentation offered in the
main text of my book on Ottoman Slavonia (see endnote 18 below),
the result of the investigation can be summarized as follows:
Before c 1590, the indigenous inhabitants of Slavonia were mostly
still obliged to pay one gold coin per hane. Newcomers from the
‘Vlach’ South, who were more numerous than the older population,
were charged with 383, later with 394 akçe per hane (or rather per
taxable unit!) Since they were expected to be living in complex
households, they were accordingly burdened with two gold coins.
Three mufassals and several icmals exist for the newcomers, with slight
variations in numbers. Here and there names of older inhabitants
appear among the new. The destination of their cizye was the
provincial treasury in Kanizsa. No record devoted solely to the older
settlers has been found as yet. The survival of this first group is
manifest only in the Habsburg survey. The total of hanes for Požega
in the existing Ottoman records is around 4,500, while the Venetian
spy report from 1625 gives nearly twice as large a figure.14 The
Hofkammer record then reports that four gold coins were requested
from those who possessed a plough, or who had a ‘full-sized farm’
(sessio integra). We may therefore conclude that in contrast to the
sixteenth century records, a more realistic, flexible hane had been
established, a kind of tevzi hane indeed! The reaya were stimulated to
mutual help and joint work in order to come to terms with a new
kind of taxation (this is confirmed by the poem of a local poet in
1773, who mentions exactly this cooperative way of land
cultivation).15 Thus only some 60% of the actual households may
have entered Ottoman records, while the personal names in the
mufassals (from the thirties) probably represent the very numerous
newcomers. This development has much in common with the
assessment of the avarız (a kind of extraordinary tax, now in cash.)
The rates of the cizye were close to those canonicaly prescribed, and,
what is more, in this particular matter no complaints about over-
taxation were expected.
84 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
It is perhaps worth applying the same approach to Rumelia as a
whole. We can, for a start, agree that many categories of the former
taxable population, such as unmarried sons and widows (and, it
seems, those with little or no land) do not appear in the poll-tax
records of the seventeenth century. It used to be thought that the
cizye did not keep pace with the rate of inflation, and that the total
tax burden had considerably increased.16 Now it seems that this
belief should be partly corrected. True, the value of the akçe became
relatively stable at about 120 or 150 akçes per gold coin, but that was
for relatively short periods and only at the strictly official level. The
most usual exchange rate was 200-50 akçes for a ducat. The reaya
had to pay more, but that was on the account of the collector’s fee.
The half-legal extraordinary taxes collected on behalf of the
provincial authorities (tekalif-i şakka), plus increased and often
unpunished plain extortions were a very heavy burden.
In any case to enregister fewer units but with more people per unit
would be a very rational procedure. Therefore the extreme ‘losses’ of
hanes may be explained satisfactorily, especially in cases when no
Islamization, no expansion of pious endowments, and no migrations
or natural disasters are indicated.17
In brief, in many areas of Ottoman Europe (if not everywhere) in
the seventeenth century the method of assessing and collecting the
cizye was ‘avariz-ized’, but that fact becomes visible only in judicial
records or in certain sources of a specific nature, like the
Hofkammer surveys and some other rare reports.18 It is very
probable that the new system was not mechanically applied: in
regions where the poll-tax unit was paying, for example, 150 akçes,
the basis for collection was still one nuclear household. If we allow
for the maaş and gulamiye,19 we can propose that the threshold
between zones of predominantly one nuclear household and zones
of predominantly more than one nuclear household lay somewhere
around 200-50 akçes collected per unit, with a margin of some 100
akçes. Let us speculate a little. A unit paying 400 akçes may represent
a complex family in the western Balkans, while in the eastern and
southern regions it may consist of one 300 akçe payer plus one who
can afford only 100, plus another one who is short of cash
altogether, but lives and works with the first two on the same
çiftlik/baştine, the title-deed being in the hands of the wealthiest
taxpayer. Some prosperous heads of households really were able to
pay a yearly rate of 350 akçes or more, and even the avarız on top of
that, while at the same time it could be difficult for several very poor
families to produce a sum of 150 akçes among themselves. By taking
these inequalities into account, the apparent population decrease of
one third or so can be substantially reduced, if not nullified, and, at
 Economy and Taxation 85
the same time, the danger of multiplying grand totals mechanically
by three or so is avoided.
A source from 1687 (sancak of Sirem) speaks:

Der-i devlet mekine carz-i dayi-i kemine budur ki: Gırgurofça

kazası recayasından olan Radinçe karyesi ve İsteyanofça karyesi
ahalisi meclis-i şerce gelüb dediler ki haliya kazamuz İrig kazası
mülhakatından olmağın cizyemüz Budun cizyesi defterinde olub
ve be-her karye ikişer cizye hanesi olub ve İrig kasabasında
tevzic ü taksim olunub lakin ziyade zacyıf ve perakende ve
perişan olmalarından naşi olmikdar haneyi edaya iktidarları
olmayub Radinçe karyesi bir hane ve İsteyanofça karyesi buçuk
hane olmak (...).20

Thus these reayas wanted to pay their cizye as one, namely as a

half-household (buçuk hane)! Both settlements had previously
amounted to just two hanes, but that was now too much for them.
The document states that ‘the inhabitants of the two villages’
(meaning in practice some elders representing the whole population),
have come to the court so there is no possibility that this entry
stands for ‘half a person’. In the late sixties of the sixteenth century
there were 34 houses in the two villages. A decrease of 98% is not
credible. Furthermore, the expression tevzic ve taksim (by the kadi of
Irig) used to describe the assessment of the poll-tax points clearly to
a procedure similar to the collection of the avarız (collected mostly
per units of more than one nuclear household.) The fact that this
was happening in a peripheral area harassed by war has no great
significance, because the ‘normal’ wish would have been to pay a
lump sum (maktuc), and not to form an ‘exotic’ half a hane. As we
can see from the example for Ilača in the Hofkammer record,21 there
the collectors took twenty forints as a single ‘household or head
tax’—i.e., a haraç - from five houses which together were able to pay
the prescribed amount of 20 forints (ten ducats). Per household it
was four forints, which approximately equalled the rate of 373 akçe.
But since the size of the average sixteenth century hane was already
7.5 persons, and since now the trend was probably upwards, we can
say that individually adult male peasants were paying about one ducat
each. This means that around 1680 there were probably ten heads of
complex households as tapu-holders, which is to say ‘two haraçes’ in
each village totalling the full amount of cizye, but with the possible
presence of a certain number of other less fortunate inhabitants. War
caused the number of local poll-tax units in Radinci to sink to five or
four, together constituting one hane, and in Stejanovci to three or
two, constituting a half hane. This happened as the result of
impoverishment and the loss of some inhabitants (‘zayıf ve perakende
86 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
ve perişan olmalarından’). Indeed, the yield from the seventeenth
century unit of five four-forint holdings approximately equals ten
sixteenth century ‘simple’ units paying one filori (two forints) each.
Therefore two ‘Sirem cizye hanes’ in 1687 may stand for 20 nuclear
families. To this an unknown number of tenants may be added. The
ilam says that the size of both villages was the same before the war,
just as it was in the late sixteenth century. It is therefore not
impossible that one sank from 17 complex households (making 34 in
the tahrir) to probably 10, and then to five on one full-sized baştine,
while the other, more drastically, sank from 17 to ten to two and
one half. 22
Michael Ursinus has found that in the district of Bitola/Manastir
there were some 3,000 hanes of poll-tax payers in 1683, while in
1690 the number of adult males (now expressed in evrak) was about
5,000. The author thinks that the difference of some 2,000 could be
explained if it represented the co-resident unmarried sons of the first
group, but the earlier and smaller number reappears again in 1711,
1720/1, 1723/4 and 1737/8, also under the heading ‘cizye evraks’(!).
The larger number (which is obtained by separating the Manastir
part from the group of several kazas) also reappears in the same
period. Both the first and the second (larger) group show an upward
tendency, so that the apparent ‘surplus’ persists. Ursinus is inclined
to interpret this fact as a consequence of the possible earlier practice
of registering only better off persons. Consequently, the extra two
thousand ‘persons’ (or at least some of them) could be legitimately
imagined as households of the less fortunate.23
Down to the beginnings of the demographical transition at the
end of the eighteenth century, mortality was the most unstable
variable, with a decisive influence on the dynamics of population
growth. To the contrary, natality was rather stable staying at a level
of about 40 per thousand. Before the nineteenth century neither
natality nor mortality fell below 30 per thousand, a marker
considered to be the divide between the first and second phase of
demographic transition. When the level of mortality was less than
the rate of natality, there was population growth, and in the opposite
case there was a decline in population. Therefore we can posit that in
the seventeenth century the natality rate was stable at about 40 per
thousand, while mortality was unstable, though not falling below the
lower limit of 30 per thousand.
If the supposed decrease of the Balkan population from 8 millions
to 5 millions ever really occurred, it could be explained only by rising
mortality. Deliberate diminishing of the family size by marrying later
is a specific Western phenomenon, and has never played a
prominent role east of the St.Petersburg-Trieste line.24 This line
divides Austria in two parts, leaving the nearest Rumelian district at a
 Economy and Taxation 87
distance of some 700 kilometres. For a sharp decrease of population
size over three generations (1580-1650), we would need an average
age for the first-time mother of 23.3 years), which would require an
uninterrupted period of high-mortality to trigger it. Then the average
of births might fall from 4 to 3.5 children, of whom only half are
supposed to reach the age of 18, which would in turn eventually
produce the eight to five million decrease.
In the heart of the Balkans there was no war in the seventeenth
century. Plagues were usual, but not more violent or more
widespread than in other epochs. What is left is famine, probably
connected with factors such as the side-effects of wars fought
elsewhere, rising prices, and diseases caused by malnutrition. Yet
such phenomena were prominent only in some periods, not
continuously. For the period under examination, it can be accepted
only for the first two decades, and perhaps again in the 1620s. For
the rest of the period, conditions were not that bad. Thus in the first
years of the seventeenth century the total population might have
sunk to 7 millions or slighty less, provided mortality had caused the
birthrate to fall to 3.5 per thousand. Then in the next generation the
response to that deficit could have been in theory simply to maintain
a new level of 4 births per nuclear family. A new drop might produce
the loss of another million, the trend finally stopping at six millions.
Thus, in the worst case we have a loss of 25%. On the other hand,
the birthrate after each decline could well be more than four, making
up for all losses, re-establishing and then maintaining the initial size
of the population; or both the ‘four’ and ‘more than four’ births
scenarios could change places, producing at the end a loss of some
10-15%. According to what we stated earlier, case number two
seems the most likely, with some possibility left for case three. In
fact disturbances that led to a spread of famine attested by the
sources, a factor that provoked higher mortality, occurred during the
long Cretan war of 1645-69. Yet it was in the second half of the
seventeenth century that a number of the cizye records seem to
show some recovery!
Then the average of births might fall from slightly over 4
(stagnation) to 3.6 children, of whom only half are supposed to reach
the age of 18, the numberof the survivors being furthr reduced by
some 2-3%, for various reasons (only one child, no chance to marry,
entering a monastery). This eventually produce the eight to five
million decrease. Let us demonstrate more closely the effect of
hypothetical birth rates (only linear progression, disregarding the
unknown ups and downs): at a number of births of 8 per nuclear
family after the peak in 1580 (eight millions) we should have 15.2
millions in 1603, 28.9 in 1626 and the incredible 54.8 in 1650. At the
rate of 4.22, there would be stagnation (eight millions). The
88 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
supposed catastrophe appears only at 3.6 (6.8 – 5.78 – 5). And, at 2,
the number of souls is halved after each interval: 3.8 – 1.8 – 0.9.
In conclusion I would suggest that we need very much more
thorough investigation into seventeenth century marriage practices,
and into mortality and birth-rates in various regions of the Balkans.
In some cases perhaps exploring graveyards would help more than
struggling with the puzzling cizye and avarız hane figures. At the
present it seems to me that the overall decrease in the seventeenth
century Balkan population—if any—could only have been moderate.

Notes
1 I do not intend to compile a (long) list of authors who have discussed our topic
in the last half a century. There are some articles where all important contributions
are mentioned and commented on at length. For example, Machiel Kiel, ‘Remarks
on the administration of the poll tax (cizye) in the Ottoman Balkans and value of
poll tax registers (cizye defterleri) for demographic research’, (Etudes Balkaniques, 4,
Sofia 1990, 71). Here and in his other writings on issues of cizye and avarız, the
author cites a good deal of relevant literature. Other very important contributions
are two recent articles by Oktay Özel: ‘Population changes in Ottoman Anatolia
during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries: the ‘demographic crisis’
reconsidered’ (forthcoming in IJMES), and ‘Osmanlı Demografi Tarihi Açısından
Avarız ve Cizye Defterleri’, in Evgeni Radushev (ed.), Balkan Identities
(forthcoming, but see his nearly identical article in Halil İnalcik and Şevket Pamuk
(ed.), Osmanlı Devleti'nde Bilgi ve İstatistik, Ankara: DİE Yayını, 2001).
2Halil İnalcik and Donald Quataert ed., The Economic and Social History of the Ottoman
Empire 1300-1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1994), 70.
3 7 Numaralı mühimme defteri no. 7 ( ed. Murat Şener et al.), Ankara, 1997.
4 Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi, Istanbul, TT 167 for Herzegovina from 1530,
kanunname. Branislav Đurđev et al., Kanuni i kanun-name za Bosanski, Hercegovački,
Zvornički, Kliški, Crnogorski i Skadarski sandžak, Sarajevo 1957, 100. Dušanka
Bojanić, Turski zakonski propisi iz XV i XVI veka za smederevsku, kruševačku i vidinsku
oblast, Beograd, 1974, 47. Srećko M. Džaja and Jozo Džambo (ed.), Benedikt
Kuripešić, Itinerarium der Gesandtschaft König Ferdinand I. von Ungarn nach Konstantinopel
1530, Bochum 1983.
5 Nikolaj Todorov and Asparuh Velkov, Situation démographique de la Péninsule
balkanique (fin du XVe—début du XVIe s.), Sofia 1988.
6 Karl Kaser, Familie und Verwandtschaft auf dem Balkan. Analyse einer untergehenden
Kultur, Wien-Köln-Weimar, 1994.
7 The sum could perhaps consist of a 25 or 30 akçe tax for the head of the
household, plus the same amount for land. This was the case in Bosnia.
8 In 1477 it was not a part of sipahi’s revenue. Cf. Ahmed Aličić, Poimenični popis
sandžaka vilajeta Hercegovina, Sarajevo 1985 (passim). On the sultanic and the
governor’s hasses it was levied together with the cizye (see TT 167).
9 Kuripečič, Itinerarium, 22 speaks of the taxes to the ‘Turk’ before and in 1530
(‘von iren erpawten gründen kein andern zyns dann jaerlich einen ungerischen
gulden das ist fünfftzig Asper von einem haus zu gebenn schuldig gewest... ’ ‘Zum
andern nimpt er jaerlich von allen personen jung und alt einen sondern zins ye
dreyssig oder viertzig Aspern von einer person’).
 Economy and Taxation 89

10 Hamid Hadžibegić, Kanun-nama sultana Sulejmana Zakonodavca, Glasnik

Zemaljskog muzeja u Sarajevu, nova serija IV-V, Sarajevo 1950, 338, footnote 177.
11 Orijentalni Institut Sarajevu, manuscript of Abdulah Polimac, signature I/2
129-2 from the year 972 (1564/65).
12 Đurđev et al., idem. 156-7.
13 Kiel, ‘Remarks’, 91. Also Özel, Population changes, with an extensive presentation
and discussion in historiography on controversies about ‘population pressure’,
‘pull’ factors and the like.
14 Rački, Franjo, Prilozi za geografsko-statistički opis bosanskoga pašalika, Starine XIV,
Zagreb 1882, 179.
15 Tomo Matić, Djela Matije Antuna Reļkovića, Stari pisci hrvatski XXIII, Zagreb,
1916, 126, 50.
16 Linda Darling, The Ottoman Finance Department and the Assessment and Collection of the
cizye and avarız Taxes 1560-1660 (Ph. D. Diss., University of Chicago, 1990), 149. I
think Darling is right when she says that cizye was not increased save for the
amount of the collector’ s fee.
17 Moreover, the purchase of cizye defters became a widespread abuse for a long
while, and the ‘iltizam-like’ practice may also contributed to the emergence of a
new system of registration.
18 Tadija Smičiklas, Dvijestogodišnjica oslobođenja Slavonije, Zagreb, 1891. Ive Mažuran,
Popis naselja i stanovništva u Slavoniji iz 1698. godine, Osijek, 1988.
19 Darling, idem, 202. She argues that the the collector’s fees constitute most of
the increase in the rate of the poll-tax, because the rise in the amount of the cizye
did not exceed the rate of inflation by very much. This may be correct, but does
not alter the fact that the tax burden has become twofold, threefold or even
heavier.
20 Aleksandar Fotić, ‘Dva priloga iz istorije Srema 1687. godine’, Zbornik za
orijentalne studije 1, Beograd 1992, 139-46.
21 Mažuran, Popis, 54.
22 Nenad Moačanin, Slavonija i Srijem u razdoblju osmanske vladavine, Slavonski Brod
2001, 33.
23 Michael Ursinus, ‘Mutafçı Ahmed, und seinesgleichen: zur Bedeutung des
dercuhdecilik in Manastir im 18. Jahrhundert’ in Studia in honorem Professoris Verae
Mutafčieva, Sofia, 2001, 360-2.
24 In this respect the only data from a non-Ottoman source about the seventeenth
century I could find is a missionary report about Balkan Catholics from 1647. In
Albanian Catholic villages in Kosovo girls were supposed to marry at any age
between 15 and 23 years. Jačov, idem., 152-3.
 The Practice of Tax Farming in the
Province of Baghdad in the 1830s
Keiko Kiyotaki

Tax farming was the major method of tax collection by the

provincial government in Baghdad, applying to most taxes on
economic activities and agricultural production. Basically, a private
tax collector paid the government a deposit in advance, and was then
responsible for collecting and paying the tax of his farm. He retained
the difference between his share of revenue and the promised
amount of tax to the government as a profit. The tax farm was, in
principle, sold to the highest bidder at public auction, but it was
frequently assigned to private individuals or officials without
competitive auction. The terms of the contract, such as the length of
tax-farming period, the amount of levy in advance, and the method
of payment differed from time to time, depending on the tax
administration and policies of the local regime. The government in
Baghdad, for example, employed a system of lifetime tax farming as
a major method until the collapse of the quasi-independent military
regime in 1831. The new government under the Ottoman governor,
Ali Riza Pasha, tightened the conditions of the contract on renewing
or in transfer of new farms. It eventually changed the basic scheme
of taxation from lifetime contracts to a shorter period of from one
to three years, under direct supervision of the imperial treasury in
Istanbul. Although the government modified tax administration in
the decade after the collapse of the local military regime, it did not
bring to an end the application of tax farming itself. The system of
tax farming never ceased to operate, and kept its influence on
provincial administration throughout the nineteenth century. The
purpose of this paper is to describe the local practice of tax farming
in Baghdad, in relation to its administrative, social, and economic
roles. This may clarify the effect of the Ottoman tax system and the
character of fiscal administration in the region.
The tax-farming procedures used in this region help to understand
how tax-farming practice generated tax revenues for the
government. Ottoman tax administration has attracted wide
attention from scholars interested in the political, social and
92 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
economic consequences of taxation by an administratively weak
government. Those who consider tax farming a necessary evil of
weak government focus on the unequal distribution of tax resources
due to over-collection by the tax farmer. An important contribution
of this weak government hypothesis was to highlight the
transformation of urban society and the political regionalism that
developed as a result of the system of the lifetime tax farm prevailing
during the eighteenth century.1 Systematic analysis of tax farming in
respect to public finance and administration was not given serious
consideration, except in the works of Yavuz Cezar and Mehmet
Genç that I shall discuss shortly.2 In the traditional conception, tax
farming was often misrepresented as an inefficient method of
taxation and interpreted as a cause of failure in Ottoman tax
administration. The social and political logic that emphasised
unequal distribution of revenue resources is a one-dimensional
approach from the perspective of provincial history. There were,
more often than not, economic rationales that explained why the
government of Baghdad employed tax farming for revenue
collection and fiscal administration. The suggestion that tax-farming
practice gave an exploitative advantage to the tax farmer is not
consistent with historical evidence concerning the province of
Baghdad from the 1830s onwards.
This paper maintains that the local practice of tax farming was not
always inefficient, and had positive effects on the public finance of
the Baghdad government. Abundant primary sources show the
depth of the contemporary government’s interests in tax farming as a
method of public finance and rural administration. One of the most
important sources in this period is the survey of tax farms in
1247/1831. It was carried out by the local office of finance (baş-
muhasebe) in the treasury after the collapse of the quasi-independent
military regime in Baghdad.3 It is a best-case survey of the socio-
geographic distribution of the tax farms. The records were inclusive
of the details of the contract, the size of the farm, the location, and
the year of purchase. Although the survey records do not allow a
comprehensive analysis of tax farming, they are sufficient to allow an
overview of contemporary taxation, showing both the advantages of
tax farming and its flaws. Based on the survey, this paper explains
how tax farming operated as an economic institution and played a
role in stabilising the tax and fiscal administration for the
government in the province of Baghdad.

Local Practice of Tax Farming in Baghdad

Although the local history of the province of Baghdad during our

period is not well known, the survey indicates that in the system of
 Economy and Taxation 93
local administration there was continuity with earlier Ottoman
practice. With regards to taxation, the Ottomans traditionally raised
revenue through two types of tax farm: one was a limited term of
contract, usually one to three years and the other was a contract for
the tax farmer’s lifetime. Tax farming with a limited-term contract
originated in the fifteenth century, while the lifetime tax-farming
contract became the predominant method of taxation in the
eighteenth. A prominent characteristic of tax farming contracts
found in the records was that the year of contract initiation dated
from well before the survey, often from before the farmer’s lifetime.
Such old farms were termed as ‘lifetime tax farms (malikâne)’, but
their holders were apparently heirs to the previous holders, or
received the contract by transfer, either by sale, gift, or reward.
A characteristic of the lifetime tax-farming system is its combined
role of tax collecting and bond finance for the government. The new
system began during the period of the Ottoman-Habsburg War of
1683-99, when the government instituted the new system for the
purpose of raising ready cash for financing extraordinary wartime
expenditures. Different from the usual contract of the tax farm for a
time-limited period, according to Genç the tax farmer had to pay
into the treasury a larger deposit, determined by auction. The price
was usually settled between at two to eight times the annual profits
of the farm, a figure that the treasury determined by subtracting the
tax amount from the estimated annual revenue of the farm. The tax
amount was fixed in the contract, and paid into the treasury by the
farmer yearly or in instalments for the farmer’s lifetime.4 In those
cases when the amount of the tax was fixed at lower than the
estimated annual profit, the system clearly illustrates the use of tax
farming as government finance by selling bonds, or more specifically,
selling an annuity contract to the tax farmer. The initial payment was
a government debt that the creditor or the tax farmer was entitled to
recover from the profit of tax farms. The tax farmer would receive
the interest payment as the profit throughout his lifetime. This
principle was particularly applicable when the government divided
the tax-collecting right in the farm into shares, and sold them to
private individuals at auction. This method allowed wide
subscription to the shares with smaller amounts of initial payment
than for the lifetime tax farm from the subscriber. The purchaser of
the share received the annuity from the profit of the farm for his
lifetime according to the portion of the share.
Local custom might differ from the general practice of the lifetime
tax farm that Genç studied. As he suggested, the whole process was
performed locally, under nominal authorisation of the central
government. According to contemporary documents prepared in
Baghdad, the prospective purchaser of the farm submitted an
94 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
application to the governor’s office (divan) for initiating the tax-
farming contract. Based on his application, the local treasury
prepared an official memorandum on the terms of contract. The
memorandum was sent to the central authority applying for the
Sultan’s authorisation to finalise the contract. But the local treasury
often did not follow the formal procedure. Based on the
memorandum, the governor of Baghdad issued an authorisation
(divan-ı tezkire) of the contract. The farmer made a partnership
contract with his agent (kefil ) registered with the Islamic court upon
payment of a deposit as requested by the contract. The procedure
was official, but in many cases, deficient. The letter of authorisation
was not precise in prescribing the details of contract, and caused
many confusing disputes with the local treasury after the collapse of
the local quasi-independent regime in 1831.5 Indeed, both the
problems and virtues of the traditional method of tax farming are
observed in the official correspondence between the provincial and
central governments at the time of the governmental change in the
1830s.
The grass-roots practice of tax farming at the time of Ali Riza
Pasha’s takeover in 1831 was problematic for two reasons: one was
the often deficient procedure of the contract and the other arose
from the wide application of tax farming in this region. The problem
of the confused procedure of local tax farming, indeed, turned out to
be serious when the new government confiscated the tax farms of
the military officials, administrators, and notables, who had
supported the previous government. The treasurer, Arif Efendi was
entrusted to perform an auction sale of their properties, and in cases
of tax farms, to transfer them to another tax farmer. As a result of
lack of experience in local tax administration, he transferred the tax
farm to the relatives of the governor and his retinues, high officials,
and notables in Baghdad without the required payment or issue of
authorisation. Because of the maladministration of tax farming, the
treasurer himself was discharged and replaced by a financial official
from the imperial treasury in Istanbul in 1837. The rights of the tax
farmer illegally transferred were cancelled, auctioned again, and
properly recorded by the new treasurer in official account books
under the titles of malikâne kalemi and başmuhasebe kalemi. The details
of the auction sales were reported to the imperial treasury in
Istanbul, and the letter of authorisation was issued after their receipt
of the report and required payment (resm-ı kasr-ı yedi and harac-ı
aklam).6 However, the tax farm was still often granted to those who
bribed the governor, treasurer, and the members of the
administrative council. The amount of the tax itself was discounted,
without the required payments in advance, which resulted in a drain
on the tax revenues due to the Baghdad treasury.
 Economy and Taxation 95
Another problem arose when the government of Ali Riza Pasha
was instructed to cancel the lifetime tax farms, and auction the new
contracts. In reality, as shown in a voluminous correspondence with
the central authority, the government was hardly able to perform the
renewal of the contracts, or where necessary, the auction sale under
new conditions, as a result of lack of experienced tax officials. The
new system of tax farming required by the central authority shows
substantial modification from the old one. In the local practice, as
was often the case in the sale of lifetime tax farms, the government
sold the tax farm to the person who offered the highest deposit. The
annual amount of the tax was fixed in the contract. In the new
system, the government auctioned off the tax due from the tax
farmer based on the tax revenues in the previous years, instead of
the payment of a deposit based on the estimated profit of the tax
farm. The amount of deposit decreased as a consequence, and the
tax increased rapidly year by year after the reform. Public auctions
took place at the administrative council, which had been set up in
Baghdad under the supervision of the Baghdad governor, instead of
at the local treasury where the auction of the lifetime tax farms had
taken place. As military commander-in-chief of the Irak ve Arabistan
Army, Ali Riza Pasha, could not supervise fiscal and tax
administration. It was not until the penetration of Tanzimat
principles in the 1850s that the government could carry out the new
system of tax farming in the province with less confusion in the
procedure.7
The new regime in Baghdad after 1831, on the other hand,
benefited from taking over the prevailing system of tax farming,
without encountering many political and administrative difficulties
arising from the breakdown of the existing local regime. The
economic significance of tax farming may provide reasons for the
new government’s willingness to preserve the traditional taxation
method. Tax revenues were achieved with a minimum cost of tax
collection, because the administrative costs were borne by the tax
farmer. The government could, moreover, transfer the risk of
decrease in tax revenues to the tax farmer, by receiving the payment
in advance at a fixed amount. The payment in advance served as
domestic borrowing by the government from the tax farmer, at the
cost of reduced opportunities for increasing tax revenues in the
future. Given the lack of employment and business opportunities for
many people, the tax farming system became the largest employer
and yielded money at various stages of tax collection. The tax
farmers who won the periodical auctions had good relations with the
peasant cultivators in the fields. Historical evidence and an
illustrative analysis of the survey records in Baghdad may help us to
96 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
understand the advantages of tax farming and the extent of its
impact on the local economy and society.

Distribution of Tax Farms in Baghdad

The survey of tax farms in 1831 was recorded in two registers

belonging to the başmuhasebe kalemi in Baghdad. One was the
record of tax farms called mukataa in the fiscal year of 1247/1831-2.
It was a duplicate copy of the survey record made locally in Baghdad
and sent to the central authority. It listed tax farms which were
transferred by sale (ihale), assigned (der-uhde), or put under direct
collection (emanet), including the name of the tax farmer and the
amount of tax in cash and in kind. The total number of farms in this
record was 73, whose unit of taxation was large compared to farms
in the entry list in another register. There were several farms for
which nobody bid for the purchase and which were put under direct
supervision of the government as emanet. The rest of the farms were
located in the cities of Baghdad and Basra, and in agricultural areas
along rivers, canals, and mountain streams. The tax farms in the
cities were established on various taxable items such as customs
duties, boat bridges over the Tigris River, the poll tax charged on
non-Muslim residents, transit duties, bakery, sugar factories, dues on
the issue of domestic passports, and stamp duties. The tax collected
by the tax farmer was paid into the provincial treasury in cash. The
tax farmers of such profit-bearing tax farms were, more or less,
closely associated with the governor Ali Riza Pasha, as his retinue, as
administrative or military officials, or as local notables in Baghdad.
In addition to the tax farms in the city, there were numerous tax
farms called mukataa-ı miriye (or mukataa), in agricultural areas. (See
Table 1) These were largely located in the basins of the three major
rivers in the province, the Diyala, the Tigris, and the Euphrates,
along major canals fed from the rivers, in towns and villages, or in
areas near perennial marshes. They were within a day trip from the
city of Baghdad, or nearby major towns in which the government
established the district administration. Compared to the tax farms in
the urban area, the unit of the tax farm in agricultural areas was not
uniform, and conditions were complicated due to the entrenched
interests of the tax farmer. Much difficulty originated in the taken-
for-granted privilege of the tax farmer established over the land and
produce through the long history of the tax-farming practice in the
province.
Another register was described as the record of rivers and villages
inside tax farms (mukataa) which were assigned to persons and
which were incorporated into tax farms. They were registered with
the land registry office (defterhane) in Baghdad. It was in fact an entry
 Economy and Taxation 97
list of tax farms called maktua, which were located outside the larger
tax farms, or formed parts of the larger tax farm. They were mostly
smaller units of tax farming, such as villages or portions of villages,
rain-fed fields, irrigated fields along streams, canals, springs, wells,
and marshes. In many places the tax farmer received only a portion
of a canal or stream, or a part of agricultural fields. In addition to the
location of the farm, the record includes the details of the contract
such as the name of the farmer, the date of transfer, the amount of
tax, the grant of tax-exempt privilege, if any, and the other
conditions of transfer in each farm. The farmers under the contract
were of various origins and included military men (asker),
government officials (kalemiye), notables (ayan), men of religion
(ulema), dervishes (derviş), and tribesmen (aşiret ). The military men
mentioned in the document were beg, çavus, ağa, and paşa. The
officials of the government were designated efendi, katib-i hazine, katib,
emin, mir-i cemaat, muhasebeci, and halife. Titles of employees of
religious institutions were müderris, imam, hatib, müfti, and mulla. The
notables were recognised by the name of haci, zade, karisi, hatun,
sayyid, and varid. Those who had no distinguishing epithets were reaya
(Ottoman subjects), but in consideration of their wealth, which was
large enough to purchase the tax-farming right, they may be
classified as notables. Members of mystic orders are designated şeyh
and derviş in the record. Besides them, this category includes entries
on the tekkes of the Nakşbendi and Bektaşi orders, to which the
government assigned the tax farms. Tribes are listed under the name
of the tribal sheikh, and can be distinguished by the size of tax farm
and its location.
A summary of the records of the survey in the second register is
shown in Tables 2 to 6. The tables indicate farms held under a
system of share-holding. In the record, there are a large number of
farms in which shareholders were entitled to partake in the right of
tax collection. The shareholders are recognised by their title
according to the classification above, but in the following tables, they
are entered as share-holding (hisse) to make clear the type of farm.8
Analysis of the record according to the location of the farm and the
social and political status of the tax farmer recognised in the survey
record helps identify characteristic features of tax farming in this
region.
There were 456 tax farms entered in the survey record, which
were inclusive of five timar holdings. Two of five timars were
merged into the tax farm in the Zengibad district; two turned into
the farms with share-holding; and one was farmed out to the military
official for tax collection. The total area of tax farming was not
recorded but the area assigned for taxation was known. The area of a
farm was small, mostly one or two feddan (a local unit of
98 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
measurement equivalent to dönüm [approximately 0.25 hectare]), not
more than five to eight feddan. Table 2 shows that a large number of
farms, 171 farms, were situated in the Hilla region on the Middle
Euphrates River. Another 198 farms were located on the Diyala
River basin, or in Mahrut, Khorasan, Khanaqin, and Khalis. 34 farms
were farmed out in the mountain area in Mandali and Jisan, and 53
farms were in Dujail in the north-west of Baghdad along the right
bank of the Tigris River. The notables entered into contracts for
more than one-third of the tax farms, many of which were located in
the irrigated areas on the basin of the Middle Euphrates River. The
rest of the farms were distributed equally among six different
categories of tax farm. The farm was either held under a single name
or by two to four different names jointly. In the case of the joint
holding, the farmers were mostly from among the notables. For
example, the notables jointly held 45 farms out of the total number
of 60 joint farms. The holders of the rest of the farms were military
officials (11 farms), men of religion (2 farms) and mystic orders (2
farms). A few farms of the notables had the names of ulema jointly,
but in this region there was no farm held by a combination of
military men and notables.
It is not evident from the record whether the tax farmer was an
official tax collector formally authorised by the government, or a tax-
collecting agent of the larger farm, mukataa. Documents of petition
(arzhal ), the deed of authorisation (divan-ı tezkire), or the deed
issued by the Islamic court (ilam) give a clue to the status of the tax
farm listed in the record. For example, the petition of the tax farmer
(der-uhdeci ) claiming the farm along the canal of Abu Jedid in Mahrut
shows that the farmer (ayan) purchased the tax-collecting right from
the government, not from the tax farmer of the larger tax farm in the
secondary market. He entered into the contract for his lifetime,
paying the initial payment and fees requested by the government.
The tax assigned to him was paid to the tax-collecting official of
Mahrut in which his farm was located.9 This is an obvious case of a
legitimate holding of a tax farm authorised by the government. The
survey record includes numbers of farms in which the right of tax
collection was obscure. In the case of the farms located along the
irrigated canals, for example, the government partitioned part of the
large tax farm (mukataa), and granted the tax-collecting right of the
separated farms to different farmers. Their taxes were paid to the tax
farmer of the large tax farm. The farmers were functionally the
taxmen of the tax farmer of the large farm, but apparently, they
entered into the tax-farming contract with the government.
According to a document dated after the survey, the government
terminated an assignment of a farm separate from the large tax farm
to a dervish lodge (tekke), or its members (derviş). Instead, it paid
 Economy and Taxation 99
monthly stipends from the local treasury in compensation.10 This
incident indicates that the government perhaps remained a party to
the tax-farming contract and retained the power of authorisation in
any transfer of the farm.
The year of purchase of many farms dates back to well before the
tax farmer’s lifetime. The oldest year of transfer in the record was
1639, referring to a farm located in Hilla. The year of purchase in the
record varied from 1639 to the year of survey, mostly between 100
to 10 years before the survey. The contract for the farm could be
renewable by way of inheritance or by sale, or purchased by the same
family for generations. Otherwise, the farms were merged into the
larger units, mukataas. For example, 60 farms in the eighteenth
century, 5 farms after the nineteenth century, and 36 farms in
unknown years are listed in the record as mahlul; that is, they were
merged into larger tax farms in the district.11 Many of them were
located in irrigated areas along the canals in Hilla, Khalis, and
Khorasan, which were largely farmed by the notables. (See Table 3)
After deduction of all merged farms from the list, the total
number of farms is 355, of which 147 were located on the Diyala
River basin, 125 on the Euphrates River basin, 51 farms on the
Tigris River basin, and 32 in mountain areas along the Ottoman-
Persian border. (See Table 4) They were subject to tax payment, but
in reality only two-fifths of the farmers paid taxes into the treasury,
while nearly three-fifths received the privilege of tax exemption and
the other tax benefits (muaf ). The tax was in cash, grain, or both,
depending on the location of the farm. Generally speaking, the tax
on rain-fed fields in villages and their vicinity, lands irrigated by
streams, springs and branch canals, whose productivity could be
estimated, was paid in kind. The tax on highly productive farms was
paid in cash. The farms of high tax value were located in Khalis,
where nearly a half of the farms in the villages were charged the
payment of the tax in cash, zolota kuruş. (Polish silver coins). The
farmer paid the tax to the tax-collecting official (emin) in the district,
the tax farmer (mültezim) of the large tax farm who often served as
the district administrator as well, or paid directly into the local office
of administration (divan). There were a few farmers who divided the
tax into two portions and paid to the tax collector and the
administration office respectively. There were several other farmers
who paid the tax in cash to the treasury in Baghdad directly.
Military officials played the role of tax collectors more often than
of beneficiaries of taxation. Notables were major tax payers
according to the list, for they might have purchased the right in a tax
farm without the privilege of tax exemption. Besides military men
and notables, the farms subject to share-holding were also tax
paying. (See Table 5) The share-holders were notables, women, or
100 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
government officials who were granted the share as salaries (halife-i
mukabele). Women held three shares, and the rest belonged to
officials or notables. The year of transfer of shares differed by share
even within the same farm. The share-holder’s lands were cultivated
fields near the city of Baghdad in which production was stable and
less risky. Irrigated land was less regarded for the sale of share,
except for farms of high productivity along the major canals.
The farms with tax benefits were scattered throughout the
agricultural area in the province. (See Table 6) The tax farmers
obtained the privilege of tax exemption by putting down a larger
initial payment on purchase, or as a grant that the government paid
as a premium for service or as a privilege, reward, or stipend. Indeed,
one of purposes of the survey of 1831 was to screen out the farms
which had been exempted from taxation by the previous military
regime. Looking into the record, the number of tax-exempt farms
was large, about three-fifths of the total. In the Dujail district, in
particular, all except six farms raked off state money, with the excuse
of tax privilege. Above the sub-heading in the record of the Dujail
mukataa, we can find a note stating that all privileges were void.
Another important piece of evidence is provided by the recipients of
the privilege. Almost all tribal sheikhs, many of the ulema and
dervişes were among the recipients of such tax privileges, alongside
military men and government officials.12 It is not clear from the
contemporary documents on what conditions the government
allocated tribal lands as tax farms without the obligation of tax
payment. Entries in the register concerning several tribal farms tie up
the grant of the tax farm with an acknowledgement of the tribal
sheikh upon his selection to the tribal sheikhship. In the same way,
public facilities such as menzilhanes, mosques, and their employees
had the use of tax revenues for stipends, salaries, or as operating
costs of their facilities and institutes.

The Political and Economic Implications of Tax Farming

The local government in Baghdad arranged and implemented an

elaborate scheme of taxation based on the Ottoman system of tax
farming. The survey record shows that there was a predominance of
small tax farms in different locations throughout urban and
agricultural areas. The number of tax farmers was large, and their
social backgrounds were very various. A number of factors might
have produced this pattern. Social and geographic features such as
the distance from government offices, complicated farming practice,
imperfect markets for agricultural produce, weak political will in
exercising supervision over the actual process of revenue collection
might all have affected the contract of tax farming. In particular,
 Economy and Taxation 101
Ottoman historians have suggested that politically weak government
was one of the most influential factors in the evolution of this
unique pattern. My study of the record, however, shows that this was
not the case. The monopolistic control of tax farming by powerful
lifetime tax farmers—an important political effect of weak
governmental control—was not always existent. In contrast, there
were numerous farms where the local government exercised active
control over farming, for example in assigning tax farms as a
substitute for salary payments, special rewards, stipends, and
subsidies. Some farmers purchased the tax-exempt privilege by
paying a large deposit, which could usefully meet the government’s
demand for debt finance. The farmers who revived land for
cultivation received the tax-collection right on the land. Workers in
public facilities, government employees, or military men, even
religious establishments had the right to tax farms as salaries,
stipends, or to pay operational costs. The transfer of the right on the
less competitive auction market did not undermine the government’s
ability to monitor the execution of tax farming. It was not always
true that tax farming had been an inefficient system of taxation, and
a disadvantage to the Ottoman central authority. In this respect, the
hypothesis of weak government does not explain many important
aspects of the local practice of tax farming in the province of
Baghdad.
Furthermore, the record demonstrates the political role of tax
farming as a means of provincial administration. An important
example of this was the government’s use of tax farming as a
measure of tribal administration. The tribesmen in the province
claimed large areas of agricultural land as their tribal domain (called
dira), and engaged in agricultural production for tribal use and
income. Their lands were mainly located in agricultural areas along
the major rivers and canals in the central and southern regions of the
province, and yielded large quantities of agricultural produce.
Administrative incorporation of the tribesmen into the government
system was a key to the economic and political stability of any regime
in Baghdad. The list of a number of tribal sheikhs in the Hilla district
on the Middle Euphrates River portrays a benign acceptance of
governmental authority by the tribal sheikhs as a result of the
political use of tax farming. As recorded in the register, the tribal
sheikh was appointed as tax farmer of his tribal land, contingent on
being acknowledged as the tribal sheikh by the government. Most tax
farms awarded to the sheikh were exempt from the actual payment
of the tax in return for his service to the government. The area of tax
farms was large, with low turnover and re-sale of the farms. Another
use of tax farming as a political tool was the grant of tax farms to
military commanders and officials who were Ottomans, or recruited
102 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
locally from among the tribal chiefs in the area. The tax farms of the
military men were scattered in all districts, in particular, in the tribal
areas on the basin of the Middle Euphrates River and in Khanaqin
near the Ottoman and Persian borders. Most of their holdings were
tax exempt, so that they could supplement the cost of military
campaigns and provide an incentive for their military service.
In conclusion, the survey record of 1831 gives a hint of the
enduring problems of tax farming as well as its functional benefits
that social and political historians have previously underestimated. A
few serious problems arose in the early period of the new Ottoman
regime under Ali Riza Pasha in Baghdad. These were mainly related
to legal disputes over the agreement of the tax farmer with the
previous quasi-independent military regime, and to the provisions of
new regulations on the method of transfer. On the other hand, the
economic and political advantages of tax farming made its
continuation worthwhile. The local practice was administratively
serviceable at a time of governmental change when inexperienced
administrators had little information on agricultural sites and native
farming practices. Operated by the local government, tax farming
provided an opportunity for new government officials to gain access
to agricultural production. In the process of centralisation, the
government withheld the transfer of lifetime tax farms, and
moreover, tried to exercise tight political control over the abuse of
tax farmers by implementing periodical auctions of the tax-farming
right. The assignment of tax revenues for collection could economise
on scarce administrative resources and provide a police force for the
central authority. Another merit of tax farming was its function as an
economic institution. The tax farmer was expected to encourage
profitable activities on the farm, supervise agricultural production,
improve the maintenance of natural resources such as irrigation
canals, drainage, and the recruitment of peasant workers. The tax
farmers were also often actively involved in agricultural practice as
seed owners or supervisors of farm management. Because of their
active role in local administration and production, the Ottoman
government in Baghdad aptly incorporated tax farming, despite its
shortcomings, into the centralised system of administration in the
Tanzimat period.
 Economy and Taxation 103

Table 1. Tax Farms (Mukataas) in Agricultural Areas

Wheat
(tagar)

(tagar)

(tagar)
Barley
River Tax

Grain
Tax Farm Farmer
Basin (kuruş)
Diyala Khorasan Notable 60,000 100 600
Mahrut Ulema
40,000 80 370
(Hatib)
Shehriban Ulema
60,000
(Hatib)
Khalis Military
160,000 200 1,100
(Ağa)
Alibad, Official 25,000
Humeyr (Katib)
Tigris Tikrit Military 25,000
(zabitlik) (Beğ)
Euphrates Abu Ghraib Notable 400 400 200
Musaib Notable 200,000 300 300
Tribe
Iskandariya 150 130
(Şeyh)
Mahawil Notable 600 300 100
Tribe
Radwaniya 200 200
(Şeyh)
Tribe
Mahmudiya 50 50
(Şeyh)
Nil,
Notable 150,000
Kandiya
Basiya Notable 60 40
Huriya Notable 120
Hilla Notable 560,000 2,100 2,100 556
Nahr Shah Notable 800 250 150
Hindiya Notable 1,000,000
Shifate Notable 30,000
Zengibad Military
Kifr 60,000
(Ağa)
Mandali Mandali Notable 450,000
Military
Kazaniya 140,000 150
(Ağa)
Badr, Jisan Notable 16,000

Sources: Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (BA), Bâb-ı Defterî Başmuhasebe Kalemi

(D. BŞM.), Bağdat Hazinesi, 16748, 1247 A.H.
104 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Table 2. Tax Farms in Total

(Kalemiye

Unknown
Religion

(Derviş)
Notable

(Ulema)
Military

(Aşiret)
Official
(Asker)

(Hisse)
(Ayan)

Mystic

Share
Tribe

Total
Khanaqin 17 9 21 6 3 1 6 3 66
Mahrut 2 1 7 1 3 14
Khorasan 4 2 13 2 1 1 11 14 48
Khalis 12 8 22 3 2 1 10 12 70
Hilla 16 7 68 14 6 44 10 6 171
Dujail 1 2 29 3 2 10 1 48
Tigris 3 1 1 5
Mandali 4 13 9 4 2 2 34
Total 59 30 174 38 18 59 40 38 456

Sources: BA, D. BŞM. BGH, 16749, 1247 A.H.

Table 3. Tax Farms (Merged)

Tribe (Aşiret)

Share (Hisse)
(Kalemiye)

Unknown
Religion

(Derviş)
Notable

(Ulema)
Military

Official
(Asker)

(Ayan)

Mystic

Total

Khanaqin 3 3 6
Mahrut 1 1 3 5
Khorasan 5 13 18
Khalis 4 5 1 12 22
Hilla 2 30 2 1 5 6 47
Dujail 1 1
Tigris 1 1
Mandali 2 2
Total 9 2 44 2 1 6 37 101

Sources: BA, D. BŞM., Bağdat Hazinesi, 16749.

 Economy and Taxation 105

Table 4. Tax Farms under Contract

Tribe (Aşiret)

Share (Hisse)
(Kalemiye)

Unknown
Religion

(Derviş)
Notable

(Ulema)
Military

Official
(Asker)

(Ayan)

Mystic

Total
Khanaqin 14 9 21 6 3 1 6 60
Mahrut 2 6 1 9
Khorasan 4 2 8 2 1 1 11 1 30
Khalis 8 8 17 3 2 10 48
Hilla 14 7 38 12 5 39 10 125
Dujail 1 2 28 3 2 10 1 47
Tigris 3 1 4
Mandali 4 11 9 4 2 2 32
Total 50 28 130 36 17 53 40 1 355

Sources: BA, D. BŞM., Bağdat Hazinesi, 16749.

Table 5. Tax Farms (Tax Paid)

Tribe (Aşiret)

Share (Hisse)
(Kalemiye)

Unknown
Religion

(Derviş)
Notable

(Ulema)
Military

Official
(Asker)

(Ayan)

Mystic

Total
Khanaqin 6 3 13 1 1 5 29
Mahrut 2 1 3
Khorasan 2 2 5 1 6 16
Khalis 8 4 12 1 7 32
Hilla 13 4 20 5 3 5 50
Dujail 5 1 6
Tigris 2 1 3
Mandali 2 5 1 8
Total 35 13 62 7 2 4 24 147

Sources: BA, D. BŞM., Bağdat Hazinesi, 16749.

106 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Table 6. Tax Farms with Tax Benefits

Tribe (Aşiret)

Share (Hisse)
(Kalemiye)

Unknown
Religion

(Derviş)
Notable

(Ulema)
Military

Official
(Asker)

(Ayan)

Mystic

Total
Khanaqin 8 6 8 5 2 1 1 31
Mahrut 5 1 6
Khorasan 2 3 2 1 5 1 14
Khalis 4 5 3 1 2 16
Hilla 1 3 18 7 5 36 5 75
Dujail 1 2 23 2 2 10 1 41
Tigris 1 1
Mandali 2 6 9 4 2 1 24
Total 15 15 68 29 15 49 15 1 208

Sources: BA, D. BŞM, Bağdat Hazinesi, 16749.

Notes
I am grateful to Yavuz Cezar, Roger Feldman, and particularly, Colin Imber for
reading this paper.
1 Suraiya Faroqhi, ‘Crisis and Change’ in Halil İnalcık (ed.), An Economic and Social
History of the Ottoman Empire, 2 vols. (Cambridge, 1994), ii, 537-8; Ariel Salzman,
‘Ancien Regime Revisited: ‘Privatization’ and Political Economy in the Eighteenth-
Century Ottoman Empire’ Politics and Society, 21/4 (1993), 393-423; Margaret L.
Meriwether, ‘Urban Notables and Rural Resources in Aleppo, 1770-1830’
International Journal of Turkish Studies, 4/1 (1987), 55-73.
2Yavuz Cezar, Osmanlı Maliyesinde Bunalım ve Değişim Dönemi (Istanbul, 1986), 169-
74, 242; Mehmet Genç, ‘Osmanlı Maliyesinde Malikane Sistemi’, in Ünal
Nalbantoğlu and Osman Okyar (eds.), Türkiye Iktisat Semineri (Ankara, 1975), 231-
96.
3 Turkey, Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (BA), Bâb-ı Defteri Başmuhasebe Kalemi,
Bağdat Hazinesi, 16748, 1247 A.H. and 16749, 1247 A.H.
4 Faroqhi, ‘Crisis and Change’, 537-8; Genç, ‘Malikane Sistemi’, 236-42.
5 BA, Muallim Cevdet Tasnifi (CT) Maliye 9618, 28 Zilkade 1252; BA, CT Maliye
19794, 12 Rebiyulâhir 1250; BA. Irâde (I), Mesâil-i Mühimme 2044, 19 Receb
1262; Dahiliye 2133.
6 The National Archives of the UK (TNA): Public Record Office (PRO). FO
195/113, No.26, 16 Apri1 1832; No.56, 27 July 1832; No.65, 29July 1833; No.67, 5
September 1833; BA. I, Dahiliye 2133, 21 Receb 1257; J .B. Rousseau, Description
du Pachalik de Bagdad (Paris, 1809), 25-8.
7 BA, I. Meclis-i Vâlâ 5488, 20 Zilkade 1266; BA, CT Maliye 19034, 20
Rebiyülevvel l228; İnalcık, An Economic and Social History, i, 64-6; Abdul Rahim and
 Economy and Taxation 107

Yuzo Nagata, ‘The Iltizam System in Egypt and Turkey’, Journal of Asian and African
Studies, 14 (1977), 179-83; Ahmet Tabakoğlu, Gerileme Dönemine Girerken Osmanlı
Maliyesi (Istanbul, 1985), 122-35.
8 BA, CT Maliye 1622, 24 Cemaziyelevvel 1250; Cezar, Değişim Dönemi, 79, 242;
Mehmet Genç, ‘Esham’, Islam Ansiklopedisi, XI, 376-80.
9 BA. I, Mesâil-i Mïhimme 2037, 17 Cemaziyelevvel 1260; Dahiliye 2932, 12
Rebiyülevvel 1258; BA. I, Mesâil-i Mühimme 2038, 4 Cemaziyelâhir 1260; TNA:
PRO. FO 195/113, No.14, 1835.
10 BA, CT Maliye 9258, 17 Cemaziyelevvel 1250; CT Evkaf 27168, 11
Cemaziyelevvel 1250; CT Evkaf 1185, 27 Cemaziyelâhir 1260.
11 BA, CT Maliye 18883, 14 Safer 1244.
12 BA, CT Maliye 18883, 9258; CT Evkaf 27168.
 3
___________________________________

THE DEVELOPMENT
OF OTTOMAN TOWNS

The City of Adilcevaz in the Late Middle

Ages and the Early Ottoman Period

Tom Sinclair

The subject of this paper is the city of Adilcevaz, whose remains lie
on a tall rock and adjacent parts of the plain on the north-west shore
of Lake Van. The paper is concerned with the settlement which
those remains now represent, both as the settlement was in the late
Middle Ages after the demise of the Il-Khanid empire, and in the
early Ottoman occupation up to A.D. 1600. By ‘settlement’ we mean
a series of buildings, including defensive walls, standing on certain
parts of the terrain, a population, and the relation between buildings
and population. Some attention has already been given to the
question of the nature of Adilcevaz as a settlement in the sixteenth
century.1 However the account in question has more to do with the
buildings and certain characteristics of the population as revealed by
the sixteenth century Ottoman documents, than with the position of
those buildings on the site and the position of the population in
relation to those buildings. Moreover an examination of the
evidence, of whatever sort, pertaining merely to the sixteenth century
is insufficient. The state of the city in the first century or so of
Ottoman rule is impossible to understand without an estimate of the
equivalent in the late Middle Ages.
110 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Site

The city’s site lies on the present shore (the shoreline has retreated
owing to a rise in the level of the lake) on a plain at the mouth of a
broad valley. The valley, only about 5 km. long, has a flat floor more
than a kilometre in width, and this broadens at the approach to the
lake. The valley’s floor, irrigated by a river, is at present covered with
orchards and gardens, among which houses are interspersed. The
nature of the outlying groups of houses to the north-west (away
from the lake) of the citadel on its rock cannot have been much
different in the late Middle Ages and the early Ottoman period from
what it is now: a kind of farming suburb.2
The city’s medieval walled area stood on the isolated rock, which
now descends into the lake on the one side and is precipitous on the
opposite side (facing inland). The citadel, in the strict military sense
of the word, occupies the very top of the rock: a narrow spine only
about 80 m. long. The citadel takes the form of a thin box of walls
defended by a few towers on either side.3
The walls descend from either end of the tiny citadel, diverging
from one another at first, and enclosing an apron of steeply-sloping
ground. As we shall argue below, in the late Middle Ages the walled
enclosure on the front face of the rock certainly contained a civilian
population and may have accommodated military personnel too.
One indication is the mosque, of late medieval construction, within
the enclosure. At present the walls are cut off by the lake—they
descend straight into it—providing further indications of a rise in the
level of the lake.4 We know, moreover, from Evliya Çelebi’s mid-
seventeenth century description that a wall ran along the base of the
front apron of the citadel rock, protecting it from attack on the side
of the lake.5 A further locus of population, at any rate in the eleventh
century A.D., was an island in the lake somewhere in front of the
rock. (The evidence for the former existence of this island and for its
submerging by the lake’s rising waters is presented below.)
To the east of the citadel rock, near the shore, is the sixteenth-
century mosque known as the Zal Paşa Camii.6 This was probably
built soon after 963/1556, the date of a tahrir defter in which other
mosques and a medrese are mentioned and in which one would
therefore expect a mention of this mosque too: the same year,
moreover, is the date when Zal Pasha’s work on the new Ottoman
citadel at Ahlat commenced.7 The mosque, however, is now
completely isolated. We shall argue that population and houses
moved, in the late Middle Ages and possibly during the early years of
Ottoman rule, from the island to the walled enclosure and to some
extent to the land around the mosque; there was probably also a
transfer of population from the island to the flat and fertile land west
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 111
of the rock. In the sixteenth century, we shall argue, population
shifted again, this time from the walled enclosure on the front face
of the rock to the easterly suburb around the Zal Paşa mosque and
to the other suburb west of the rock. In a final series of moves in the
19th century people abandoned the easterly suburb round the Zal
Paşa mosque, the westerly suburb and the walled area on the rock.
Essentially the population moved to the present site of the town or
else dispersed to villages.
The Late Middle Ages

The Il-Khanid period in this region lasts until around 751/1350.8

During the Il-Khanid period, at least until c. 736/1335, the region’s
dominant cities were Ahlat, a day’s walk from Adilcevaz on the lake’s
west shore, and Erciş, several days’ walk to the east and towards the
lake’s north-easterly finger. Ahlat was an Il-Khanid provincial capital
with a pronounced Muslim element in its population, whereas Erciş
was very much a Christian centre.9
In the period from the end of the Il-Khanid empire to the
beginning of the Ottoman occupation, it is convenient to take only
the period of Kara Koyunlu control over the region, which lasts
from some time in the 1360s to 1468.10 Information on Adilcevaz is
lacking for the Ak Koyunlu and Safavid occupations, which are not
long enough to provide a coherent picture by themselves anyway.
The Kara Koyunlu directly administered a band of territory
comprising the north shore of the lake, including Adilcevaz and
Erciş, and other plains to north and east (Malazgirt,
Bargiri/Muradiye etc.).11 During the period of Kara Koyunlu control,
Ahlat, on an open site and with a tiny and somewhat vulnerable
walled area, was fast emptying and the population transferring to the
much better protected city of Bitlis, a day’s walk away from the lake’s
south-west corner down a narrow valley.12 Moreover Ahlat was not
directly controlled by the Kara Koyunlu: it was in the hands of the
Bitlis princes, admittedly themselves vassals of the Kara Koyunlu.13
Erciş, too, declined, despite its reputation as a favoured city of the
Kara Koyunlu, especially under the blows of successive invasions
and counter-attacks by the Kara Koyunlu. The reconstruction work
undertaken by the Kara Koyunlu could not compensate for the
openness and exposure of the site. The small citadel lay on an
artificial mound in a plain; the walled area, if there was one, seems to
have been limited in extent.14 Further south the territory, including
the key city of Van, was controlled by the local Kurdish
principalities.
If the region contained a city which suited the Kara Koyunlu as an
administrative centre, it was Adilcevaz. The city lay within the band
112 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
of territory north and north-east of the lake which was directly
administered by the Kara Koyunlu. Its rock, with walled area and
citadel, made it highly secure.15 Kara Koyunlu administration was in
fact based here rather than at Erciş. There seems to have been a
governorship, based at Adilcevaz, of the whole district of the north
shore and the Malazgirt plain.16 The city population itself had a
secular leader, apparently something not far different from a mayor,
as well as a bishop.17
What, then, did Adilcevaz amount to as a city in the Kara
Koyunlu period?
During one of the Turkish raids on Asia Minor in the mid-
eleventh century A.D., the city was attacked by Tughrul Beg. From a
description of the attack it becomes clear that the main body of the
city lay on the island. The walled area on the front face of the rock
was merely a citadel, into which the population withdrew.18
But from the description of a Kara Koyunlu attack on the city in
the early fifteenth century it emerges that the walled area on the rock
is no longer merely the citadel but, precisely, the walled area of the
city—its heart.19 There is some evidence, independent of this, that
the walls enclosing the whole area were well maintained. An
inscription of Jahan Shah, Kara Koyunlu sultan from 1438 to 1467,
has been found in the walls, which proves at least Kara Koyunlu
interest in the city.20 The mosque inside the walls would most
credibly date from the Kara Koyunlu period.
If the city’s walled area was that on the front face of the citadel
rock, where were the suburbs? No island is mentioned in the early
fifteenth century. This does not by itself mean that there was no
island. However the process of transfer from the island to the walled
enclosure on the rock, to the land east of the rock around the
present Zal Paşa Camii and, perhaps, to the west of the citadel rock
may have started and may even have finished. By the mid-
seventeenth century the descriptions of Evliya Çelebi and Katib
Çelebi make it more than likely that the island had disappeared by
then.21 When the move from the island took place depends on an
unknown: the point or points at which a rise in the lake’s level took
place sufficient to submerge the island or at least waterlog it and so
make it uninhabitable.
Summing up, the settlement of the late Middle Ages must have
been of some size: not only do we have evidence of the existence of
an institution resembling that of a mayor, which would suggest a
substantial body of population, but the city was the centre of an
extensive administrative district and presented, in the circumstances
of the time, many advantages over the neighbouring city sites: the
easily defensible apron of land, fortified by walls, and the citadel,
admittedly tiny, but difficult or impossible of approach, because
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 113
surrounded, along different stretches, either by cliffs or by steep
slopes. The city, therefore, consisted of the walled enclosure on the
rock and the small citadel above, together, probably, with a
developing suburb to the east and perhaps one to the west too.

The Ottoman Period: 1534 to 1600

From 1534 onwards Adilcevaz was a sanjak capital in the huge eyalet
of Amid, whose capital was the city then of that name, now
Diyarbakır, in the upper Tigris basin to the south-west.22 Until that
date the Kurdish principalities of Bitlis, Hakkari and Hizan all
belonged to the same vilayet [sic], though only on a nominal basis.23
From the date of its capture by the Ottomans the significance of the
sanjak of Adilcevaz was precisely that it was not a Kurdish
principality; it was, moreover, the easternmost city and sanjak on the
lake’s north shore permanently in Ottoman hands: Erciş and Van
were held by the Safavid empire. In these circumstances one might
have expected greater Ottoman investment in the city; and this
would probably have taken place if the Ottoman empire had not
progressively tightened its hold on the region, conquering the eastern
cities (Erciş, Van) and grafting the sanjak system on to the hereditary
Kurdish principalities.
However the Ottoman and Safavid empires’ territorial holdings
within the region did change; so did the régime under which the
Kurdish principalities co-operated with the Ottoman authorities; and
the city and sanjak of Adilcevaz lost much of their significance
within the Ottoman defensive and administrative arrangements for
the region.24 The princes of Bitlis, which in the period to 1535
represented the front line of territory administered by states or other
entities loyal to the Ottoman empire, were thrown out, precisely, in
1535, and the principality converted into a sanjak of more standard
style.25 (In 1578 the prince, son of that expelled in 1535, was invited
back, and was reinstated as sanjak bey of Bitlis and Muş, though with
many of the rights and privileges of a hereditary prince; in effect he
regained his principality, though under a somewhat different
status.)26 In 1548 Van was captured and turned into the centre of an
eyalet effectively encompassing the Van region and, after 1578, the
land descending towards Lake Urmia.27 Besides Bitlis, the other
Kurdish principalities were given a similar status; they retained much
of their former status, both under the Ottomans and before, but the
Ottoman empire imposed certain duties such as the raising of
troops.28 After bitter fighting between 1548 and 1553 Erciş was
finally captured.29 An immense effort was put into fortifying the
city,30 and it became the first line of defence against an enemy
114 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
approaching from the east along the track from Khoy. Adilcevaz
therefore lost its former front-line position.
Given the city’s reduced importance within the Van region, what,
in terms of built form and of population, did Adilcevaz amount to in
the sixteenth century?
The description by Evliya Çelebi, though relating to a date half a
century later than our period, is much the best we have of the city’s
physical layout in the Ottoman period, and his description should be
borne in mind in the attempt to interpret the evidence we have
which strictly pertains to the sixteenth century. According to Evliya
there was an iç kale, with mosque, arms stores, grain stores,
defterdarhane etc., and below the iç kale another kale. The lakeside
walls of the latter are specifically mentioned by Evliya—these were
later submerged, as we said above. He mentions many cannon, some
of which pointed towards the harbour: the latter, judging by the
evenly shelving shore to the west, probably lay to the east, not far
from the Zal Paşa Camii. In the lower kale Evliya mentions 300
bağsız bahçesiz houses (houses without orchards or gardens): the
houses were apparently so closely jammed together that, in contrast
to those in the suburbs, certainly the northerly and westerly, there
was no room for gardens. Evliya also mentions a han or
caravansaray.31
Evliya’s iç kale may be the tiny citadel atop the rock, though it
would be hard to find space for a mosque there, and my own
inspection of the ruined buildings inside the citadel’s walls did not
reveal a mosque. More likely, perhaps, his iç kale was delimited by a
cross-wall on the citadel rock’s front face, running between each arm
of the defensive walls. The mosque in question would then be the
late medieval one within the walls. Below the cross-wall were
Evliya’s 300 civilian houses.
Evliya is describing a situation 100 years after the mid-sixteenth
century, the period to which most of our direct evidence pertains,
and about 50 years after the end of the sixteenth century. However,
for the sixteenth century we have little direct evidence as regards the
layout of the walls. The model with which Evliya presents us is
useful in interpreting the evidence we do possess.
A tahrir defter of 963/1556 tells us that in that year there were 25
Christian households der nefs-i şehir-i Adilcevaz and 283 Christian
households in the şehir-i Adilcevaz.32 Normally the phrase ‘der nefs-i
şehir-i …’ or ‘der nefs-i …’ means ‘in the town of …’ (i.e. ‘in…
itself’). But here the nefs is contrasted with the şehir; the latter means
what nefs normally means in the documents, i.e. the town as a
whole, except that part of the town is distinguished as the nefs.
Probably the population of the nefs is the civilian population of the
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 115
walled area on the front face of the citadel rock. It is unclear if in the
mid- or late sixteenth century there was a cross-wall.
Concerning the Muslim population the defter makes no equivalent
distinction; the phrase ‘nefs-i Adilcevaz’ is used for the whole
Muslim population of 283 households.33 This does not mean that no
Muslims lived in the walled area on the rock; it means merely that
the document fails to make the relevant distinction in their case. This
is because before the Ottoman conquest the Christians of the walled
area had been assigned as hass to the kadı and two of his brothers.34
Besides the nefs (in this case the walled area on the rock) the
document of 1556 mentions a Great Mosque with a substantial
vakıf.35 Evliya does not mention a Great Mosque, but does mention
the Zal Paşa Camii, and the Zal Paşa Camii that we have now may
well be a completely new construction (modelled on the Üç Şerefeli
Camii at Edirne) on the same site.36 Zal Pasha started the building of
the Ottoman citadel at Ahlat (by then part of the sanjak of
Adilcevaz) in the same year, 963/1555-6, finishing it in 965/1557-8.37
The construction of the present Zal Paşa Camii at Adilcevaz could
well fall sometime after the date of the defter.
The defter also mentions the vakıf of the Hatuniye Medresesi, the
position of which cannot be located now: the identification,
proposed by some, with the late medieval mosque in the walled area
on the rock is most unlikely, since that building contains no spaces
or other features, such as cells for students or for the müderris,
characteristic of medreses.38 Although the defter of 1556 does not
divide the town into mahalles, by the time of Evliya Çelebi’s visit
there were eight: a mixture of mescits and churches served them.39 In
the defter reference is made to a Cihanşah Mescidi (not necessarily
founded by the Kara Koyunlu sultan; reputation attracts attribution)
and a Hızır Mescidi, which must mean in practice that two Muslim
mahalles existed.40 Given the size of the Christian population there
must have been several churches.
So far the existence of the Zal Paşa Camii, whose position we
know, and of the two mescits and the Christian element of the
population, which must have worshipped in churches, has been
established. Where, apart from the walled enclosure on the rock, did
the population live? Certainly some lived to the east, on the ground
where the Zal Pasha Camii stands, inland from the harbour. But
Evliya indicates the existence of housing to the west of the rock,
where he mentions palaces, re‘aya evleri and bağ evleri (houses of the
subject, tax-paying population, and houses with orchards). This
should not be taken to mean that there were no orchards or gardens
at all to the east of the rock, and in fact Evliya does mention gardens
with pools and şadırvans in that area.41 Likewise ‘re‘aya evleri’ is an
odd phrase, considering that the civilian population, both Muslim
116 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
and Christian, was re‘aya in any case. But Evliya may be implying
simply that the market area was to the east near the Zal Paşa Camii.
We should not take his words too literally and suppose him to be
implying that there were no re‘aya to the east of the rock. He merely
finds the absence of any market to the west an appropriate reason
for mentioning the existence of re‘aya in that district. The true
impression to be gained from Evliya’s short description is that the
housing on the rock’s west side was more scattered and interspersed
with orchards and other greenery—the irrigation was better—
whereas the housing to the east was more close-packed and less
relieved by greenery. There must also have been houses to the north
of the rock, among orchards, as there are now. It is hard to make any
judgements as to the relative concentrations of Christians and
Muslims in the town: probably their mahalles lay on both sides of
the rock without any noticeable preponderance of one or the other
element in either area.
Finally let us pass to the problem of total numbers. Evliya says
there were in all 1,100 houses outside and 300 within the walled area,
whereas the defter implies exactly 500 in all, of whom 25 are
explicitly identified as being der nefs-i şehir.42 As we saw above, the
phrase describes the Christian population of the walled area on the
rock; however it does not preclude the presence of Muslims within
that area.
The difference between Evliya’s and the defter’s totals may arise
in part from exaggeration by Evliya’s informants. But it is possible
that the town genuinely grew in the century which separates the one
source from the other. The rapid expansion of the silk trade between
Europe and Iran along the line between Tabriz and Aleppo in the
second half of the sixteenth century and, in particular, in the first
two decades of the seventeenth, might well have added to the
demand for services to travellers in the town and so brought in more
population.43 The han mentioned by Evliya in the walled area seems
not to have existed in the mid-sixteenth century.
Whatever the truth about the total number of inhabitants in
Evliya’s time, if we apply his proportions (300 inside, 1,100 outside)
to the defter’s total, we can say that in the mid-sixteenth century the
number of houses inside the walled area was perhaps about 107,
which implies 82 Muslim households in addition to the 25 Christian
ones the defter explicitly mentions.
As a coda to the above, let us explain the reason why the shore
wall of the enclosure on the rock has disappeared and why
population has left both that enclosure and the districts east and west
of the rock. These are due to a subsequent rise or rises in the lake’s
level. The principal episode during which the lake’s waters rose was
probably that of 1838-41, which caused the population of Erciş to
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 117
abandon the old site for the present one and submerged the shore
wall of the Ottoman citadel at Ahlat. Another rise of the lake’s level
took place in the two decades or so leading up to 1898, and the
effects of that were compounded by an earthquake which shook the
town of Adilcevaz shortly before 1890. As a result of these last two
events the population finally abandoned the former suburbs east of
the rock, around the Zal Pasha Camii, and west of the rock, as well
as the walled enclosure on the rock itself.44
Summary

Let us summarise the contentions of this paper as follows. In the late

Middle Ages the city had a substantial population overall, owing to
the defensibility of the site and to its administrative function. The
walled enclosure on the rock was the city’s kernel, and very likely the
tiny citadel at the very top of the rock was in existence. Previously
the walled enclosure on the front face of the rock had been merely
the citadel, while the main body of population lived on the island. By
the late Middle Ages the island had either been submerged or had at
any rate been so affected by the rising waters of the lake that the
population had abandoned it, either wholly or else substantially.
Probably there were suburbs to east and west of the rock.
In the sixteenth century the town was of less importance, because
despite a brief period as a front-line outpost this role was taken over
in the mid-century by other cities further east, particularly Erciş.
Nevertheless Adilcevaz was a sanjak capital.
In a citadel at the top of the rock was housed much of the
apparatus of civilian and military administration, though it is not
clear whether the citadel in question was the tiny, narrow one at the
very top of the rock or a larger one defined and cut off by a cross-
wall further down. The authorities had probably driven out of the
whole walled area a number of civilian households. The result was
that only a small number (perhaps of the order of seventy) of
households remained in the walled enclosure on the rock. The bulk
of the population had again moved, this time out of the walled area
on the rock rather than into it. The main concentrations of housing
and population were to east and west of the rock. To the east, near
the present Zal Paşa Camii and above the harbour, there was a
limited market area, and around this the housing was more compact
than on the west side. To the west the housing was less dense and
was to a greater extent scattered among orchards and gardens. To
the north the housing must have been equally thinly spread among
orchards. The total civilian population in the mid-sixteenth century
118 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
was 500 houses, which implies a total of 2,500 to 3,000 inhabitants.
However the boom in the Aleppo silk trade may well have led to an
increase in the population of Adilcevaz during the second half of the
sixteenth century, and the increase no doubt continued in the early
seventeenth century. The total of 1,400 households implied by Evliya
may have been, at the time, only a slight exaggeration, if an
exaggeration at all.
In respect both of the late Middle Ages and of the early Ottoman
period it would be wrong to think of a compact city primarily
depending on urban functions, those of industry and trade. Primarily
Adilcevaz was a farming city, in which the houses lay either among
gardens and orchards or else not far from them and from fields
where other elements of the population’s livelihood were earned.45
The Development of Ottoman Towns 119
120 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Notes
1
O.Kılıç, XVI. Yüzyılda Adilcevaz ve Ahlat (1534-1605) (Ankara, 1999), 85-106.
2
On the plain and orchards etc. to the north of the citadel rock, T.A.Sinclair,
Eastern Turkey: An Architectural and Archaeological Survey, 4 vols. (London,
1987-90), I.275.
3
Ibid. I.275.
4
Ibid. I.275. On the walls and mosque, ibid. I. 275-6.
5
See n.21 below.
6
Sinclair, Eastern Turkey I.276; G.Goodwin, A History of Ottoman Architecture
(Lon-don, 1971, repr. 1987), 308.
7
Below, nn. 35-7.
8
The Cambridge History of Iran, 7 vols. (Cambridge, 1969-91), V.415-16. The last
known Il-Khanid coin minted at Ahlat dates to 746/1346 (American Numismatic
Society Collection, New York–hereinafter ‘ANS’–, 1922.216.344 (Arm.)). But this
is because the Bitlis princes then took the city, rather than because all Il-Khanid
claims to the region had been withdrawn. The Bitlis princes were in possession of
it by 750/1349 (Cahen, ‘Diyar Bakr (14 c.)’, 78, cf. 89; but even at this stage they
may have been vassals of the Il-Khan. A coin of Anushiravan (ANS 1992.26.351)
was minted at Vostan in the same year, 750/1349.
9
On Ahlat, F.Sümer, Selçuklular Devrinde Doğu Anadolu’da Türk Beylikleri
(Ankara, 1990), Ch.III, sects. 8, 9. On the extensive Muslim cemetery at Ahlat,
B.Kara-mağaralı, Ahlat Mezartaşları (Ankara, 1972). On Muslim ‘alīms,
astronomers etc., at Ahlat in the period, R.Tekin, Ahlat Tarihi (Istanbul, 2000),
172-3; O. Turan, Doğu Anadolu Türk Devletleri Tarihi (Istanbul, 1973), 121; Fadl
Allāh Rashīd al-Dīn, Jāmi‘ al-Tavārīkh, eds. A.A.Romaskeviča, A.A.Khetegurova,
A.A.Ali-Zade. 3rd vol. tr. A.A.Arendsa, 3 vols. (Baku, 1957-80), 67. On Erciş, A.
Mat‘evosyan, ŽG dari hiša-takaranner (Erevan, 1984), 600-1, 666-7, 685 for three
different churches; D.Kra-wulsky, Īrān das Reich der Īlhāne: eine topographisch-
historische Studie (Wiesbaden, 1978: TAVO B/17), 419 for the rebuilding of the
walls in the early fourteenth century; Collection of Forschungstelle für Islamische
Numismatik, Tübingen University (hereinafter ‘Tübingen’), ANS and
M.A.Seïfeddini, Monetnoe Delo i Denežnoe Obraš-čenie v Azerbaïdžane, XII-
XIV vv., 2 vols. (Baku 1981) for the coins. On the manu-scripts produced in the
city and district in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, A.Taylor,
‘Armenian Illumination under Georgian, Turkish and Mongol Rule. The
Thirteenth, Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries’ in T.F.Mathews & R.S.Wieck
(eds.), Treasures in Heaven: Armenian Illustrated Manuscripts (New York, 1994),
84-103, 94-7; P.Soucek, ‘Armenian and Islamic Manuscript Painting: A Visual
Dialogue’, in T.F.Mathews & R.S.Wieck (eds.), Treasures in Heaven: Armenian
Art, Religion and Society (New York, 1998), 113-31, pp.116, 123-4.
10
For an indication of events in the region during the Kara Koyunlu period,
A.Abdulkadiroğlu et al. (eds), Van Kütüğü (Van 1992: Yüzüncü Yıl Üniversitesi
Yayın no. 8), 93-117. Kara Koyunlu control of the region was partial to begin with.
The Bitlis dynasty was very probably subject to the Kara Koyunlu when it helped
them at the siege of Mosul in 770/1369: F.Sümer, Kara Koyunlular, vol. I.
(Ankara, 1967), 42. However the Hakkari dynasty (south-east of the lake) appears
from the coin evidence to have recognised only the Jalayirids, a Mongol successor
dynasty, until the Kara Koyunlu subjugated them in 1406 or soon after. See ANS
1921.999.113 (Arm.); A.A.Markov’, Katalog’ Dželairidskix’ Monet’ (St. Petersburg,
1897: Sobranie vostočnyx’ monet’ Imparatorskovsago Ermitaža), 23, no. 100; 27,
no.123; 38, no.167; Tübingen HB9 E4-E6, F1, F2. On the subjugation, T‘ovma
Mecobec‘i, Patmut‘iwn Lank-T‘amuray ew yajordac‘ iwroc‘, ed. K.Šahnazarean
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 121

‘Tho-mas of Metsop, ed. Shahnazarean’ below), Paris 1860, 70. On the flight of
the last Kara Koyunlu sultan, Hasan Ali, to Hamadan (meaning the abandonment
of Azerbayjan and the Van region to the Ak Koyunlu), Cambridge History of Iran
VI, 115-17, 173-4.
11
See n.16 below.
12
The production of coins was cut dramatically in the early 740s/1340s, after
which only ten coins are known (see ANS; Tübingen; Seyfeddini, Monetnoe Delo).
The sequence of remarkable gravestones in the Muslim cemetery comes to an end
in the mid-730s/1330s: after this, only a few are known (Karamağaralı, Ahlat
Mezartaşları, esp. 238-54). In 1471 an Italian ambassador to the Ak Koyunlu court,
Barbaro, reported only 1000 houses (Travels to Tana and Persia, by Barbaro and
Contarini, tr. W.Thomas & E.Roy [second part of book, with separate pagination,
is A Narrative of Italian Travels in Persia in the 15th and 16th Centuries, tr. & ed.
C.Grey] (London 1873), 85). On the site of Ahlat, H.F.B.Lynch, Armenia. Travels
and Studies, 2 vols. (London 1901, repr. Beirut 1965, New York 1990), I.284-92;
İ.Kafesoğlu, ‘Ahlat ve Çevresinde 1945’de Yapılan Tarihi ve Arkeoloji Teknik
Seyahatı Raporu’, Tarih Dergisi 1 (1949), 171-2. On the growth of Bitlis, (a)
extensive coin evidence of a mint which started activity in the early fourteenth
century and became particularly active in the fifteenth; (b) Muslim monuments
were erected here beginning only in the fifteenth century (M.O.Arık, Bitlis
Yapılarında Selçuklu Rönensansı (Ankara, 1971), 17-19, 27-8, 35-6, 64, 65-6; (c)
gravestones are known beginning only in the fourteenth century (K.Pektaş, Bitlis
Tarihî Mezarlıkları ve Mezartaşları (Ankara 2001: T.C. Kültür Bakanlığı Yayınları,
2610), 21-3, 25-8, 32-3; (d) a number of Armenian monasteries were founded here
in the early and mid-fifteenth century L.S.Xačikyan, XV dari hayerēn jeragreri
hišatakaranner vol. I (Erevan 1955), no. 69a, 63-4, no. 168, 165; H.Oskian,
Vaspurakan-Vani vank‘erë, vol. III (Vienna, 1947), 914. On the site, Sinclair,
Eastern Turkey I.297.
13
C.Cahen, ‘Contribution à l’histoire du Diyar Bakr au XVe siècle’, Journal
Asiatique 69 (1955), 65-100 (summary of Arabic manuscript on history of Ayyubid
dynasty of Hisn Kayfa), 78, cf. 89.
14
The production of coins drops off dramatically in the mid-fourteenth century
after the reign of Sulayman (last coin 744/1343-4): see principally Tübingen and
Seyfeddini, Monetnoe Delo. Attacks on the city: Thomas of Metsop, ed. Shah-
nazarean (n.10 above), 47, 49, 88-9 (cf., for the date, 85-6, and Sümer, Kara
Koyunlular 130); V.A.Hakobyan (ed.), Manr Žamanakrgut‘yunner, XIII-XVIII
DD. [Minor Chronicles of the 13th to 18th c.], 2 vols. (Erevan 1951, 1956), I.143
(Anon. Chron.). Reconstruction: Thomas of Metsop, ed. Shahnazarean, 49, 58-9;
Minor Chronicles, ed. Hakobyan, I.143 (Anon. Chron.); Sümer, Kara Koyunlular,
112. On the site, Lynch, Armenia II.27-9.
15
It was even used as a prison: see Sümer, Kara Koyunlular, 79.
16
The governorship. (a) In Timur’s campaign of 1387, Sahand, the ‘išxan’ (‘prince’)
of the city of Adilcevaz, was given the district of Erciş too (Thomas of Metsop, ed.
Shahnazarean, 29). The account as a whole suggests Sahand was responsible for
the district as well as the city of Adilcevaz. (b) In 1467, Mahmud the mihmandār
was Jahan Shah’s vālī in Adilcevaz (presumably the whole district): see Abū Bakr
Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, haz. N.Lugal & F.Sümer. 2 vols. (Ankara 1962),
II.461. (c) In the short reign of Hasan Ali, the last Kara Koyunlu sultan (n.12
above), a vilāyat of ‘Adīljavāz and Avnīk is known (Kitab-i Diyarbakriyya II.461).
This would include the Malazgirt plain. For Malazgirt under Kara Koyunlu
administration, Minor Chronicles, ed. Hakobyan, I.143 (Anon. Chron.). The exam-
ples cited in the next footnote, particularly the first, are likely also to be governors
of the district of Adilcevaz.
122 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

17
In the late fifteenth century a Yovhannēs was made jeŕnawor of the city and
hramanat (‘man in authority’) of the district (Thomas of Metsop, 112-3). Examples
of Muslim governors of the city who may also have been responsible for the
district are known: ‘Salt‘in’ [Salāh al-Dīn], ‘tēr k‘ałakin’, ‘k‘ałak‘apet’, ‘city-head’, in
1495 (Thomas of Metsop, 112): however Thomas of Metsop’s information here
may in reality relate to the previously known Sahand of a century earlier: see
previous footnote.
It is perhaps surprising, given the importance of the town, that it did not be-come
a more productive mint. From the Kara Koyunlu period it seems only two coins
are known: Tübingen HE7 B2 (cf. S.Album, ‘A hoard of silver coins from the time
of Iskandar Qara Qoyunlu’, Numismatic Chronicle 16 (1976), 109-57, p.139, no.
26), a silver coin of the rebel Aspan (on whom ibid. 139-40), and Tübingen HE
7C2 (cf. Album, ‘Lake Van hoard’, 144, no. 46), a tanka of Iskender. Minting had
started under the late Il-Khans: Tübingen GF1 D2, GF9 B6 (Uljaytu); GH4 D1,
GH8 C4, GH4 D2 (Abu Said). For a brief period of minting in the early sixteenth
century, before the final Ottoman annexation but during a brief period of nominal
subjection to the Ottoman empire, below n.22.
18
Aristakes of Lastivert, Patmut‘iwn Aristakeay vardapeti Lastivertc‘woy, Venice
1909, 84-5. For the events described, see R.Grousset, Histoire de l’Arménie des
origines à 1071 (Paris, 1949, repr. 1973), 600 and for the date, 596. Cf. also
H.Hübschmann, Die altarmenischen Ortsnamen (Strasbourg, 1904, repr.
Amsterdam 1969), 328 n.3, quoting a different edition of Aristakes.
19
Thomas of Metsop 89; cf. T.Sinclair, ‘Two Problems Concerning the Van
Region: Arakel of Tabriz on the Earthquakes of 1646 and the Evidence for the
Rise in the Level of the Lake’, in E.Zachariadou (ed.), Natural Disasters in the
Ottoman Empire (Rethymnon, 1999), 212-13.
20
Kafesoğlu, ‘Ahlat ve Çevresi’ 186. Note that after Timur’s ravaging of the city
and district in 1387, repairs were carried out on the buildings affected (Thomas of
Metsop 30).
21
Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, cild I-VI, ed. A.Cevdet, Istanbul H. 1314-18,
IV.142-4; Katib Çelebi, Cihānnüma, translation in Chéréf-ouddine, Prince de Bidlis
…, Chéréfname ou Fastes de la Nation Kurde, trans. F.B.Charmoy, 2 vols. (St.
Petersburg 1869-75), 166. Katib Çelebi says that the town is on the summit of a
hill, which, however ill-informed, means he conceives of the city as centred on the
rock. He then, however, states that the town is in the middle of the lake. The latter
cannot mean that Katib Çelebi supposes the city lies on an island; since he has just
pointed out its position on the rock, his remarks must be a way of saying that the
rock justs out into the lake. See Sinclair, ‘Two Problems’ 213. There is some
evidence for a submerged island off Adilcevaz. A sonar survey carried out in the
1970s revealed humps in the lake’s bed: E.T.Degens & F.Kurtman (eds.), The
Geology of Lake Van, Ankara 1978 (Maden Tetkik ve Arama Enstitüsü
Yayınlarından, 169), 13-14, 136.
22
On the final conquest by the Ottomans, Târih-i Peçevî, 2 vols. (Istanbul, 1281/
1864-65), 176; Μ.Τayyib Gökbilgin, ‘Arz ve raporlarına göre İbrahim Paşa’nın
Irakeyn seferindeki ilk tadbirleri ve fütûhatı’, Belleten XXX/82 (1957), 449-82,
p.454; cf. Kılıç, Adilcevaz ve Ahlat 9. But Adilcevaz may have fallen temporarily
into Safavid hands again, as it seems to have been recaptured in 955/1548:
Sharafnāma, ed. V.Véliaminoff-Zerkov, 2 vols. (St. Petersburg 1860), 1862, II.199.
On Adil-cevaz as a sanjak in the province of Amid, A. Akgündüz, Osmanlı
Kanunnâmeleri ve Hukukî Tahlilleri. V. Kitap, Kanunî Sultan Süleyman Devri
Kanunnâmeleri. II. Kısım, Kanunî Devri Eyâlet Kanunnâmeleri (Istanbul, 1992),
437.
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 123

That coins were minted in 924/1518 and 926/1520 in the names respectively of
Selim I and Süleyman I (N.Kabaklarlı, ‘Mangır’. Osmanlı İmparatorluğu Bakır
Para-ları/Copper Coins of [the] Ottoman Empire, 1299-1808 (Istanbul, 1998),
245, 277) evidently means that an unknown local ruler temporarily acknowledged
the Ot-toman sultans at the time.
23
The document of 933/1527, Topkapı D.5246, most conveniently quoted in
I.M.Kunt, The Sultan’s Servants. The Transformation of Ottoman Provincial
Government, 1550-1650 (New York, 1983), 108 & fig.6 (cf. 103), shows Bitlis,
Hakkari and Hizan as Ottoman vassals. On the Mahmudi, who never permanently
joined the Ottoman fold until 1554, J.J.Reid, ‘Mahmûdî Order and Clan, 1500-
1606’, Lekolîn (Berlin) 7 (2000), 29-52, pp.32-6. On the initial declaration of
allegiance by the three princes, Hoca Sadettin Efendi, Tacüt-Tevarih, 5 vols., ed.
İ.Parmaksızoğlu (Ankara, 1992), IV.245-7, 248-9, and M.Van Bruinessen &
H.Boeschoten, Evliya Çelebi in Diyarbekir. The relevant section of the
Seyahatname. Edited with translation, commentary and introduction (Leiden etc.,
1988), 14-15 and n.4 on 15.
24
On the sanjak beys of Adilcevaz in the sixteenth century, Kılıç, Adilcevaz ve
Ahlat, 47-56. On the janissaries and other personnel stationed there, ibid. 56-9, 63-
6, 67-79.
25
Sharafnama I.437-44, 354. Cf., among other evidence for the treatment of the
sanjak, Başbakanlık Arşivi, Tahrir Defter (‘TD’ below) nos. 189 and 208 (both
early icmal defters), and no. 413 (a mufassal defter, probably but not certainly
compiled a few years after the first two). Eventually the sanjak was split into two,
those of Bitlis and Muş.
26
Sharafnama I.454-5. On the status, ibid. I.455-6; Başbakanlık Arşivi, Mühimme
Defteri (‘MD’ below) 32, no. 506, p. 276; no. 543, p.297.
27
On the capture of Van, Peçevi 273-4: Solak Zâde Tarihi, 2 vols. (Istanbul 1296/
1879), II.210; Sharafnama II.199; cf. F.Sümer, Safevî Devletinin Kuruluşu ve
Gelişmesinde Anadolu Türklerinin Rolü (Şah İsmail ile Halefleri ve Anadolu
Türkler) (Ankara 1992), 66. On the province, Van Kütüğü 106-7. The border was
fixed by the treaty of Amasya in 1555 (J. De Hammer, Histoire de l’ empire ottman
depuis son origine jusqu’à nos jours, tr. J.-J.Hellert, 2nd ed. (Istanbul, 1996), VI.39-
40). On its expansion in this sector in 1578 (Khoy, Salmas etc.), B.Kütükoğlu,
Osmanlı-İran Siyâsî Münasebetleri (1578-1612) (Istanbul, 1993), 43-4.
28
On the status of the princes as hükümets, Ayn-ı Ali Efendi, Kavânin-i Âl-i
Osman der Hülâsa-i Mezânin-i Defter-i Dîvân (Istanbul 1280/1863-64, repr.
Istanbul 1979), 29; discussed Kılıç, Van 135-42; however the present author’s
research shows that the picture as presented by these two authors needs much
qualification. On the Mahmudi’s behaviour in the second half of the sixteenth
century, Reid, ‘Mahmudi Order and Clan’ 35-8, 42-8. On the Hakkari’s behaviour,
N.Sevgen, Doğu ve Güney-Doğu Anadolu’da Türk Beylikleri (Ankara, 1982), 142-
8.
29
See in particular Peçevi 296-7; A Chronicle of the Early Safawîs, being the
Ahsanu’t-Tawārīkh of Hasan-i Rumlu, vol. I (Persian Text), ed. C.N.Seddon
(Baroda, 1931), 367-70; Sharafnama II.205; cf. Sümer, Safevi devletinin kuruluşu
66, 67.
30
MD 6, no. 1029, of 972/1564-5.
31
Kılıç, Adilcevaz ve Ahlat 87, quoting the Topkapı MS fol. 242 r. Note that the
walls were eventually repaired in 982/1574-5 (MD 24, no. 910, p.332); the
difference with Erciş was the speed, urgency and great concentration of workmen
with which that city’s defences were repaired. A grain store is referred to in
968/1560-61: MD 3, no. 1557, p.674. The enclosure probably accommodated
124 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

more than 300 houses: its terrain lacked the springs which would have made
gardens possible.
32
TD 297, 7-11.
33
TD 297, 5-7.
34
TD 297, 7. But, after the Ottoman conquest, on the death of one of the
brothers, his share—nine of the households—was assigned to the Ottoman sultan.
35
TD 297, 68; Kılıç (Adilcevaz ve Ahlat 88-96) quotes also the Kuyûd-i Kadîme
(in the Tapu Kadastro Genel Müdürlüğü Arşivi, Ankara) 202, f. 520, of 1571.
36
Evliya,Topkapı MS, fol. 242 r, apud Kılıç 96 and n.13. On the imitation,
Goodwin, History of Ottoman Architecture 308. The text of the defter runs
‘cāmi‘-i şerīf-i nefs-i ‘Ādi’l-Cevāz’. It does not look as though the same distinction
as before (‘nefs-i şehir-i ‘Ādi’l-Cevāz’ versus ‘şehir-i ‘Ādi’l-Cevāz’) underlies the
phrase ‘nefs-i ‘Ādi’l-Cevāz’. The latter seems to refer here to the built-up area,
considered as an administrative unit.
37
On the start of the construction work, MD 2, no. 18, p.164 and the other
documents quoted by Kılıç, 108-10. On the end date, Evliya, Istanbul ed. IV.137-
8, and Topkapı MS fol. 240 r, quoted Kılıç 108 n. 14.
38
TD 297, 68-9; Kuyûd-i Kadîme 202, fol. 52 r, apud Kılıç 96-8. Identification
with mosque on rock: Kafesoğlu, ‘Ahlat ve Çevresi’ 187, quoted at least without
disagreement by Kılıç, 96, n.15. The text of the defter again runs ‘medrese-i
Hātūnīye der nefs-i ‘Ādi’l-Cevāz’: on the phrase ‘nefs-i ‘Ādi’l-Cevāz’ as referring to
the whole built-up area, n. 37 above. Excavation should clear up the problem,
which would apply to many aspects of construction history in the town. Note,
however, that a medrese called the Hatuniye Medresesi was functioning in the first
decade of the twentieth century: see Van Kütüğü 204. Since the walled enclosure
on the rock and the two suburbs on the coast to east and west had already been
abandoned by this stage (see below), the Hatuniye Medresesi may well have been
in the northerly suburb. Alternatively the information which suggests that the
whole site was abandoned shortly before 1890 (that of de A.P. De Cholet, Voyage
en Turquie d’Asie, Kurdistan et Mésopotamie (Paris, 1892), 216), may be
somewhat mistaken: a presence was after all maintained on the citadel rock, and
the late medieval mosque functioned, in the early twentieth century at least, as a
medrese, known at this stage as the Hatuniye Medresesi. But the mosque could not
have been built as a medrese, nor would the Hatuniye Camii of the sixteenth-
century defter have been located in the walled enclosure’s late medieval mosque.
39
Evliya, Topkapı MS fol. 242 r, apud Kılıç, Adilcevaz ve Ahlat 88 and n.8. But
TD 297, 69, does mention a Kilise Mahallesi: so the town had very likely been
divided into mahalles.
40
Cihanşah Mescidi: TD 297, 69; Kuyûd-i Kadîme 202, fol. 53 o, apud Kılıç,
Adilcevaz ve Ahlat 102. Hızır Mescidi: Kuyûd-i Kadîme 202, fol. 53 o, apud Kılıç
102-3.
41
Evliya, Topkapı MS fol. 242 r (see previous note). Cf. the mention of orchards
in TD 297, 68; Kuyûd-i Kadîme 202 fol. 52 o & r (previous note).
42
Nn. 31 & 32 above.
43
On the increase in the volume of silk exports, E.Herzig, ‘The volume of Iranian
raw silk ex-ports in the Safavid Period’, Iranian Studies 25 (1992), 64, 65, 69. On
the first two decades of the seventeenth century, R.Davis, ‘English Imports from
the Middle East, 1580-1780’, in M.A.Cook (ed.), Studies in the Economic History
of the Middle East (London, 1979), 193-206. On the 16th-century trade in general,
R.P.Matthee, The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran. Silk for Silver, 1600-1730,
(Cambridge, 1999), 19-26, and on both centuries, H. İnalcık & D.Quataert (eds.),
An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, 1800-1914 (Cambridge,
1994), 243-4, 338-40, 343-4, 351, 499-500.
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 125

44
On 1838-41, at Erciş, see Lynch, Armenia, I.29-30. At Ahlat the same increase in
level seems to have submerged the shore wall of the Ottoman citadel: cf. the
contrast between Brant’s account of the walls in 1838 (J.Brant, ‘Notes of a Journey
through part of Kurdistan’, Journal of the Royal Geographical Society 10 (1840),
341-432, p. 407) and Lynch’s of the citadel in 1893 (Armenia II.287-8). On the late
nineteenth-century increase in the lake’s level, F.Oswald, A Treatise on the
Geology of Armenia (Beeston, Notts. 1906), 104, 105. On the earthquake and final
aban-donment, De Cholet, Voyage, 216. Cf. Sinclair, ‘Two Problems’ 213-14.
45
The two zaviyes mentioned in the tahrir defters as being near the city probably
lay within what for our purposes counts as the city’s inhabited area. For the
zaviyes, Kılıç, Adilcevaz ve Ahlat, 101, 102.
 The Town of Çankiri: Its Population
and Development

M. Mehdi İlhan

Although there are fourteen registers on the Ottoman province of

Çankırı (Kengiri) in the Başbakanlık (Prime Ministerial) Archives
(BA) of Istanbul, five in Tapu Kadastro Genel Müdürlüğü Kuyud-i
Kadime Archives of Ankara (TKGM) and two in Istanbul Belediye
(Municipality) Library, I made use only of those registers that had
information on the population and economy of the town. Two of
these registers were detailed (mufassal ) ones. The one in Istanbul
[BA, TD (Tahrir Defter) No. 100] is dated 927/1521 and the other
one in Ankara (TKGM TD No. 81) is dated 986/1578. Both of
these registers have detailed information on the quarters of Çankırı.
However, there is a third register that also has information on the
quarters. This third one, the so called muhasebe defteri (summarised
account register) is already published in facsimile.1 Although this
third register stored in Başbakanlık Archives of Istanbul (TD No.
438), is dated 937/1530 a study of it shows that it is a synopsis of the
mufassal register dated 1521. First, the hane (household) and mücerred
(bachelor) entries were the same for almost all the quarters with
some minor exceptions. These exceptions were either due to some
minor changes that were actually recorded by the register or they
were due to scribal errors. The second case is more likely for there is
no doubt that the 1530 register is actually a summarised account of
the 1521 register.
In all three registers there are fairly good records of tax-exempts.
In particular, religious personages, particularly imams and muezzins,
appear to be fully recorded. We can classify these tax-exempts under
three categories:
1. Religious personages such as imam, muezzin, hatib (preacher),
müderris, sermahfil (chorus head), hafız, şeyh, kayyum and kadı (judge).
2. Non-clerical officials such as kethuda, muhassil (tax collector),
mütevelli (administrator, trustee of an endowment), emir, mülazım
(lieutenant).
3. Disabled personages such as mecnun (crazy, mad) divane (insane),
a‘ma (blind), kötürüm (paralysed) and ma‘lul (disabled).
128 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Quite a number of poor (fakir, six according to 1521 register) were
also recorded as tax-exempts. Two blind and one disabled were also
recorded as poor. Only one person was recorded as missing (ğayib).
The status of the disabled and poor was determined in the court
before witnesses.2

Education
The personal names recorded in the 1521 register seem to reflect a
town with strong religious inclination. Most of the names used by
the inhabitants are either the names of the Prophet and his
companions or of the other prophets. The most common of these
names are Muhammed, Ahmed, Mahmud, Mustafa, Hamza, ‘Ali and
Hüseyin on the one hand, and Musa, ‘Isa and Yusuf on the other.
Such names are not an indication of ethnic groups, but rather point
to an Islamic religious community. Such a community could also be
considered educated.
The basic units of education in the Ottoman Empire were medreses
and schools, but at the same time the mosques and other religious
foundations such as zaviyes served equally as bases of both religious
and secular education. Many learned men such as müderrises, imams,
muezzins and hafizes employed in these institutions were not only
highly educated, but served as educators to the community. In a
study I found that about 2% of the adult males in the province of
Anatolia were educators in one way or another.3 This ratio is very
high considering that the whole population including the inhabitants
of villages was taken into account. The ratio in the towns was most
probably higher. However, we cannot say the same for the town of
Çankırı, for my calculation shows that only 1% of the population
were educators. There were 24 quarters in the town of Çankırı
according to the 1521 and 1530 registers, and 22 (plus an empty
quarter) according to the 1578 register. There was almost one imam
in every quarter and perhaps an equal number of muezzins, although
5 in 1521 and 12 in 1578 register were recorded. Adding to these
numbers hatips (preachers), sermahfil, hafizes and şeyhs we arrive at
a figure of 1% of the population of the town as educators. A
müderris and a kadı are registered only in the 1578 register. We know
that Ebu’su‘ud Mehmed Efendi was offered the post of müderris at
the medrese of Çankırı in 1516. However, it is debatable whether he
accepted the post or not.4 Also according to the Ottoman
administration there was a kadı and a müfti in Çankırı as well as kadıs
in its kazas and nahiyes such as Çerkeş, Kurşunlu, Tosya and Tohte.5
There were 35 men of religion in 1521 and 36 in 1578. That is one
man of religion per 12 or 13 households.
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 129
Quarters

There were 24 quarters recorded in 1521 and 1530, and 23 in 1578.6

There is no record of Tohte quarter in 1578 and Şeyh Hünkar Hacı
Bahaeddin quarter is recorded as empty (hali). It is possible that its
inhabitants moved to other quarters. Some quarters had an increase
in the number of households whereas almost half had a decrease.
Karataş quarter had the highest increase in the number of
households while Cami‘ quarter had the most noticeable decrease.
The population decrease in Cami‘ quarter was most probably due to
the construction of the Sultan Süleyman Mosque that started in 1552
and ended in 1558. According to the sources Sultan Süleyman I
ordered the construction of the mosque during his 1548 Persian
campaign. It is probable that this mosque was constructed to replace
an old Seljukid mosque built over the ruins of a church. There are
still two Byzantine columns on the sides of the entrance to the
mosque’s garden.
The quarters of Çankırı, as in any other town, were named after a
mosque or a distinguished man. All the names are either of Turkish
or Islamic origin. Apart from perhaps Karataş-ı Kayser, there is no
other quarter that has its origin in from before the Turkish conquest.
The quarters named after Şeyh Hünkar Hacı Bahaeddin, Umur
Fakih, and Şeyh ‘Osman, the companions of Karatekin in the
conquest of Çankırı, most probably originate from Seljukid period.7
The quarter of Mescid-i Havace Kasım might have had its roots in
the period of the Isfendiyarid principality since Kasım Bey, son of
Isfendiyar Bey, had a mosque, ‘imaret, zaviye and a medrese8 built in
the town. The Candarid Kasım Bey also had a mosque called ‘Imaret
built in 1397 on the present day ‘Imaret Street.9 It is possible
therefore, that the ‘Imaret quarter originated from the Candarids.
Unfortunately, I was unable to find a good map to work out the
boundaries of the quarters. Most of the names have changed and the
map, drawn by the municipality, had the names of only a few
quarters and of the new streets. A close study of this map shows that
the boundaries of the old town have been preserved since Ottoman
days. More houses were certainly built from seventeenth up to
twentieth century, but the boundaries remained almost the same. In
other words, the old town stretched along the foot of the hill on the
northern side of the modern town. The castle10 was built on this hill,
where the tomb of Karatekin, the conqueror of Çankırı in 475/1082,
also stands. The Karatekin quarter that stretches immediately along
the foot of the hill after the cemetery is recorded in both registers
under the name Mir-i Ahur. Taş Mescid, the hospital section of
which was built by Çankırı Atabeyi Cemaleddin Ferruh in 633/1235
during the reign of the Seljukid Sultan Alaaddin Keykubad I, son of
130 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Keyhüsrev, is recorded in both registers as Bimarhane. A medrese
was added to the hospital in 640/1242. I have worked out in an
unpublished article on Amasya that the Seljukids built their own
quarters and did not infiltrate into the Christian quarters. For
instance Torumtay Medrese, Gök Medrese and Bimarhane, with
quarters grown around them in Amasya, are on the outskirts of the
ancient town. Likewise Taş Mescid is also on the outskirts of the
ancient town of Çankırı. Karatekin, also a Seljukid quarter, is at the
northern periphery.
The quarter of Cami‘ (Cami‘-i Sultan Süleyman), originally a
Seljukid quarter, is called Mimar Sinan, although the mosque was
built by Sadık Kalfa, Mimar Sinan’s assistant master. The boundaries
of present day Mimar Sinan quarter reach as far as the upper
boundaries of the foot of the hill.11 The lower boundaries of the
Ottoman quarters excluding Taş Mescid were most probably the
present day Orgeneral Haluk Karadayı Street stretching from
northwest and continuing with Atatürk Bulvarı in the south. The
north-western boundary was most probably the cemetery. Karataş
quarter12 is situated at the north-western end of the old town.
There were twenty-four inhabited quarters in 1521 and twenty-
two in 1578 within a small area that stretched half a kilometre from
south to north and a kilometre and half from west to east. They were
very small quarters both in 1521 and 1578 with an average of about 9
to 10 household. Dividing the town into small quarters was perhaps
a matter of convenience for both registrars and administrators. This,
with some exceptions, was generally the case with most registers. For
instance, there were only four quarters of Amid named after four
gates in the walls of the town in 1518 register, carried out in a period
of a year or so, but in 1540 they were increased to 42, all named after
mosques.13
The number and the names of the quarters continued almost
unchanged at the end of seventeenth century. There are seventeen
quarters recorded in the documents of court registers of Çankırı14
with only the Yoğurtçu quarter as an addition. The quarter of Cami‘
is recorded in one place as ‘Cami‘-i Kebir’15 and as the Hıdırlık
quarter in another.16 There is a mention of Şeyh ‘Osman quarter on a
gravestone inscription dated 1277/1860-1. The inscription runs as
follows:
Huve’l-Baki
Dem çeker ez durr (ezder?) misali
Yeniçerinin erleri
Dilerim Bari’ Huda’dan
Cennet olsun yerleri
Şeyh Osman mahallesinden
El-Seyyidi (?) Kul Muhammed Ağa
Fatiha Sene 1277
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 131
Population

A close study of the quarters and comparison of the registers invites

some observations. There are no major differences between the 1521
and 1530 registers, although there are some discrepancies that were
most probably due to the carelessness of the scribe. Both in 1521
and 1530 there were 409 households and 215 (214 in 1530)
bachelors. It is difficult to believe that the number of households
went up from 409 in 1521 to only 417 in 1578 and the number of
bachelors from 215 to 217, an increase of 8 and 2 respectively for a
period of 57 years. The number of bachelors is unusually high when
compared with the registers of some other provinces such as Amid17
and Şehrizol.18 The number of blind 5, and crippled 1, were the same
in 1521 and 1578.

The Quarters of Çankiri in 1521 and 1578

Quarter Population*
1521 1578
Mescid-i Hatib 101 108
Karataş-ı Kayser 202 252
Şeyh Osman 93 76
Haci Musa 115 205
Imaret 127 169
Mescid-i Halil Ağa 152 179
Mescid-i Havace Kasım 103 47
Pürdedar Gazi 80 93
Cami’ (Sultan Süleyman) 62 42
Tohte 31 0
Küçük Menare 155 104
Alaca Mescid 139 137
Emir-i Ahur 111 123
Hıdırlık 29 64
Mescid-i Haci Mü’minin 123 112
Havace Bahşayiş 46 108
Şeyh Hankah-i Haci 30 0
Bahaeddin
Kadi 94 53
Bimarhane 83 112
Çukur 22 64
Umur Fakih (Havace 141 125
Elvan)
Çetince 114 40
Havace İbrahim 60 98
Kara Taş 148 216
TOTAL 2361 2527

*Figures for population are found by hane x 5 + mücerreds

132 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
The reason behind the low population of Çankırı in both 1521
and 1578 and the very low rate of increase in 57 years might be due
to certain events that took place in the sixteenth century. An
earthquake lasting 45 days shook Anatolia in 1509. Çankırı was one
of the towns affected and many lives were lost. Quite a number of
revolts took place that had negative effects on both the 1521 and
1578 surveys. A timar holder called Kızılbaş Celal of Bozok, a
Turcoman from the town of Turhal near Amasya declared himself as
Mahdi and started a revolt with twenty thousand followers just
before the 1521 survey of Çankırı started. The revolt was backed up
by Shah Isma‘il. Şehsuvar Ali Bey, the governor of Elbistan, defeated
the rebels in 1518. Although Kızılbaş Celal managed to escape, he
was caught near Erzincan and was beheaded.19 A famine broke out in
Çankırı in 1574 and lasted three years20 coinciding with the time or
about a year or two before the start of survey for the province of
Çankırı that was completed in 1578. Most important of all, about a
decade before the start of the survey a series of suhte (theological
student), kurbet (stranger/exile; wretched; hermit) and çingan (gypsy)
movements took place, and according to the Mühimme documents
lasted at least two decades. These movements must have played a
great role not only in the depopulation of the province of Çankırı
and its surroundings, but must also have hampered the process of
carrying out the surveys.
A Mühimme decree addressed to the beys and kadis of all the
sancaks in the provinces of Anadolu, Karaman, Dhu’l-Kadirlu,
Aleppo and Diyarbekir orders them to suppress the kurbet and
çingan groups who were causing havoc throughout Asia Minor. They
were lawbreakers committing all kinds of atrocities: travelling from
one province to another, stopping at crowded market and meeting
places in the cities, towns and villages in order to pervert men with
their musical instruments of entertainment and prostitutes, and
whenever they were alone with anyone they would kill and rob. They
were also highway robbers.21
In 1566, according to some other Mühimme documents, the
brigands called Kara Kader, Cafer, Kirmani and Şah with fifteen
horsemen were holding up people and robbing them in the
mountain passes in Çorum and Çankırı provinces.22 Likewise some
kurbet and suhte groups were killing and plundering people in
Çankırı, Bolu and Kastamonu provinces in the same year.23 These
suhte and kurbet movements appear to have continued for at least
two decades. Bahattin Ayhan24 mentions another suhte and kurbet
movement that took place in 1576, about the same time that officials
started to carry out the survey in the province of Çankırı that was
concluded in 1578. There are also Muhimme documents ranging
from 1581 to 1588 that give full details on these suhte and kurbet
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 133
movements. According to these decrees addressed to the beys and
kadis of Çankırı, Kastamonu and Bolu certain groups of suhte,
kurbet and other bandits under the leadership of rebels such as Çalık
Veliyuddin, Ekmekoğlu, Arpacıoğlu, Kılıçoğlu, and Fakihoğlu were
raiding towns and villages, and were waylaying highways. They were
collecting ‘alms’ (zekat) from people in excessive cash and injuring
those who did not comply. They were carrying away with them
‘smooth-faced young boys’ and young girls. They beat and robbed
people. Most important of all, these criminals were sheltered by both
officials and inhabitants in the provinces.25
The Ottoman government issued decrees ordering the officials to
catch these criminals, imprison them and send them to the Porte.
However, there were cases where they deceived officials such as
sekbans and janissaries sent to investigate and catch them.26 Some
even managed to escape after they were arrested and brought to
Istanbul.27 These suhte and kurbet movements usually took place
whenever there were military campaigns. In fact, in one of the
Mühimme decrees it is specifically mentioned that these suhte
movements had been going on since the start of Eastern Campaign.28
The population of Çankırı grew rapidly in the seventeenth century.
According to one of the Court register documents there were sixteen
quarters with 34 avarız hanes in Çankırı29. Avarız hanes can vary
between 3 to 10 hanes and may even reach 20 depending on the
economic conditions of the region. It is however unlikely that all the
quarters were included in these avarız hanes which makes it very
difficult to calculate or even estimate the population of the town
based on these avarız hanes. However, if we assume that there were
only sixteen quarters in Çankırı and the hanes for one avarız hane
were as many as 20, then we could say that there were about 680
hanes in Çankırı; which multiplied by five gives us 3,400 as the
population of Çankırı at the end of the seventeenth century, a figure
more than those recorded in both the 1521 and 1578 registers.
According to Evliya Çelebi (died c. 1095/1684), there were 4,000
houses in Çankırı30. This means a population of 20,000 which sounds
like an exaggeration, for according to other sources, mentioned
below, the population of Çankırı was 12,000 in 1831 and 15,000 at
the end of the nineteenth century. Both these figures and the one I
calculated from avarız hanes for the end of seventeenth century are
below that of Evliya Çelebi and fit an average growth.
The total number of households recorded by the scribe did not
always correspond to the actual household entries. I therefore did
my own calculation and included such tax-exempts as imams,
muezzins and a‘mas assuming that they also had families. The
population of the quarters and that of the town were then worked
out. The 10% military as suggested by Ö. L. Barkan was excluded, as
134 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
my purpose was to work out the distribution of population to the
quarters. The quarter with the highest population both in 1521 and
1578 was Karataş-ı Kayser, perhaps one of the oldest quarters of the
town. The quarter with the lowest population in 1521 was Çukur
with only 4 household and 2 bachelors, and in 1578 it was Cami‘-i
Sultan Süleyman that was simply called Cami‘ in 1521. The quarter of
Tohte with 6 households and 1 bachelor in 1521 was not recorded in
1578. Another quarter with low population was Şeyh Hünkar
Bahaeddin with 5 households and 5 bachelors in 1521. This quarter
is recorded as empty (hali) in 1578. There are virtually no traces of
Christian quarters. It is believed that shortly after the Turkish
conquest in 1082 most of the inhabitants, perhaps almost all
gradually converted to Islam and the chief-bishopric was moved
from Çankırı to Amasra.31 It is also possible that those who did not
convert emigrated to Amasra and other neighbouring towns.
The population of the town of Çankırı was 2,361 in 1521 and
2,527 in 1578. There was an increase of only about 7% in 57 years, a
very insignificant growth each year (about 10 out of 10,000 in one
year). The population of the town grew to 3,400 by 1698 according
to the Court Register. Its population was 12,203 in 1831 according to
the census carried out by Silahşoran-ı Hassa Süleyman Bey.32 Charles
Texier, French archaeologist and traveller, estimates it as 16,000 with
only 40 Greek families at the end of the first half of the nineteenth
century.33 But then it is not possible to explain the figures given by
Tshichatsheff (1839) who estimates that there were 1,800 (when
multiplied by 5 giving us a population of 9,000) households in
Çankırı of which 40 were non-Muslims.34 On the other hand the
population of the town according to the 1869 Salname was 16,605
Muslims, 207 Greeks and 70 Armenians.35 Here at least the non-
Muslim population can be verified with figures for 1882 quoted by
Bahattin Ayhan who gives no source. The non-Muslim population of
Çankırı was 758 Greeks and 298 Armenians. According to Ali
Cevad’s census (1898) there were 969 Greeks and 959 Armenians in
Çankırı.36 Furthermore, Cuinet’s (1894-6) figure is 15,632 for the
population of Çankırı. Of this 780 were Greeks and 472 were
Armenians.37 These figures may sound well, but it is difficult to
understand why the town’s population should fall to 11,200
according to 1899 Salname of Kastamonu.38 Out of this population
476 were Greek men, 415 Greek women, 186 Armenian men and
179 Armenian women.39 During the First World War and the War of
Independence the population of the town must have fallen
drastically, for the population of the town in 1927 was 8,847 and in
1940 was 10,235. In 1960 the town’s population doubled, that is
increased to 20,047 and in 1990 increased again to 45,496, a figure
more than double.40 The population figures given for the Republican
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 135
period are most probably reliable and can be explained with natural
growth such as birth rate. But the figures for the Ottoman period
show a considerable variation and at times unreliability. However, a
close study of the graphics at least gives us an idea of what the
population of the town was for each century starting from 1521. The
sources on the non-Muslim population figures are also inconsistent
and at times exaggerated. However, it appears that there was a steady
rise, most probably due to immigration rather than to natural
growth.
Economy

The information on the economic activities in the town of Çankırı is

derived from several registers. The information is scattered.
The basic income in the town was from the mumhane (candle
factory), the bozahane (boza factory, beverage made of fermented
millet) and salt. The income for the first two cannot be calculated
because it is cited along with the taxes which include sheep tax, oxen
tax as well as taxes taken from fruit, pastures, mezra‘as (arable fields),
vineyards and orchards. The total income from all these was 15,000
akçes in 1521 and 16,000 akçes in 1578 and went to mir-i liva.41 The
income from salt according to both the 1521 and 1578 registers was
considerably higher. In 1521 it was 55,000 akçes plus an income of
5,000 akçes from base (a chemical substance capable of combining
with an acid to form salt) which increased to 71,667 akçes in 1578.42
The income from salt went to the Imperial Hass. According to the
1530 icmal (synopsis) register the total income of the Imperial Hass
from the nahiye of Kengiri was 225,000 akçes. Of this 60,000 akçes
was from rice, 80,000 akçes from [illegible word in document],
55,000 akçes from salt work and 30,000 akçes from mevkufat (vacant
fief-holdings). The total income for the mir-i liva was 216,000 akçes.
His income was from the bozahane and the candle factory
mentioned above as well as from some villages and yaylaks (summer
pastures).43
The 1521 register also has valuable information on agriculture,
husbandry and stockbreeding. However the income from these is
low. Çift tax (resm-i çift) is only 112 akçes. The income from wheat,
barley, orchards and beehives is equally low. The income from all
amounted to only 924 akçes. There are quite a number of orchards
and pastures around the town. However, the income from them
varies between 4 and 25 akçes. The description given of these
orchards and pastures gives us pretty good idea of where they are
scattered. At least we know that they were scattered around places
such as Karataş, Acı Su, Bimarhane and Tabbağlar.44
136 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
The income from casual taxes (bad-i hava ve cürm ve cinayet ve resm-i
arusane) in 1578 was 60,775 akçes. The income from sheep tax
(excluding that of Yörügan) according to the 1578 register was
150,000 akçes, from mevkufat-i yava (capturing runaways) 30,000
akçes, capitation tax (cizye-i nefs-i Kengiri), perhaps from some
Christians living near or in town, was 5,000 akçes and ihtisab 4,300
akçes.45
Although it is not possible to come to a definite conclusion from
the information given in these two registers on the education,
population and economy of the city, it cannot be denied that the
material is rich enough to at least gain an idea about the population
of the town and its distribution among the quarters, the social strata
of the town and the sources of income for the town and its
inhabitants.

Notes
I would like to thank the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara and Dr. Roger
Matthews, the former Director of the Institute, for the financial help in carrying
out the field work for this paper.
1
438 Numaralı Muhasebe-i Vilayet-i Anadolu Defteri (937/1530) II (Ankara 1994). For
the province of Çankırı see index and 703 ff.
2
According to a document of the court registers of Çankırı dated 11 Ramazan
1109/23 March 1698 Mehmed bin Yusuf of Alaca Mescid quarter was recorded as
meczub (insane). See Çankırı Şer’iyye Sicils, Defter No. 5, Document 46, quoted
from Kezban Kaya, 5 Numaralı Şer’iyye Sicillerine Göre XVII. Yüzyıl Sonlarında (H.
1109-1110/M. 1697-1698) Çankırı Sancağı, M.A. thesis present at the Institute of
Social Sciences at Ankara University, Ankara 2001, 39. Hereafter as K. Kaya,
document no./page number). Hasan, an inhabitant of the village of Kavra declared
himself as bankrupt on 6 Zilhicce 1109/15 June 1698, K. Kaya, 86/219.
3
M. Mehdi İlhan, ‘The Ottoman Province of Anatolia: Introducing ‘438 Numaralı
Muhasebe-i Vilayet-i Anadolu Defteri (937/1530)’ Kütahya, Kara-hisar-ı Sahib, Sultan-önü,
Hamid ve Ankara Livaları (Ankara 1993). XXI+92+212 pages+6 maps’, Al-
Manarah, vol. I, No. 1, Mafraq (Jordan 1996), 128.
4
According to Bahattin Ayhan, Çankırı Tarihi (Ankara 1998), 156, hereafter B.
Ayhan) and İ. Hakkı Uzunçarşılı Osmanlı Tarihi, vol. II, 677, he accepted, while
according to M. Cavid Baysun (‘Ebussu‘ud Efendi’, İslam Ansiklopedisi), he rejected
and was sent to İshak Paşa Medrese in İne-Göl.
5
MD 6, 537, 22 December 1564; MD 6, 890, 25 March 1565; MD 6, 1347, 6 July
1565; MD 71, 55, 6 October 1593; MD 82, 48, 11 December 1617. The numbers
following MD (Mühimme Defter) refer to volumes and document numbers
respectively. The Hicri dates are converted to A.D.
6
B. Ayhan, 152, records only 15 quarters in 1530. All these quarters with the
exception of the quarter of Hamam are same as those of the registers.
7
Umur Fakih was conqueror of Ilgaz. B. Ayhan, 99, 105.
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 137

8
Kalecik and Sarayköy villages were vakıf holdings of these institutions according
to their vakfiyes dated 1451 and 1463 respectively. See B. Ayhan, 130.
9
B. Ayhan, 130-1.
10
B. Ayhan, 105, states that the castle was a crowded quarter until 1847. With the
outbreak of cholera its inhabitants moved down to the foot of the hill. Quoting
Flotwell, he also says that the castle was in ruins in 1893.
11
B. Ayhan, 156.
12
A Mühimme decree (MD 71, 55, 6 October 1593) regarding this quarter gives
valuable information not only on this quarter but also on the town itself:
‘Order to the Sancak Bey of Kangiri and its Mufti and Kadi:
A person named Ramazan Çavuş had the mosque (mescid) and the teacher’s school
(mu‘allimhane) pulled down and (then) had a stable (ahır) and a barn built in their
place. He also had houses built on the town’s drinking water conduit. Geese and
hens dirty the water that people use for drinking and cooking. He is also hurting
the learned and righteous men who do not obey him. The situation should be
investigated in accordance with the Shari‘a, and if the complaints are true it should
be prevented’.
13
M. Mehdi İlhan, ‘XVI. Yüzyılın ilk yarısında Diyarbakır şehrinin nüfusu ve
vakıfları: 1518 ve 1540 tarihli tapu tahrir defterlerinden notlar’, Tarih Araştırmaları
Dergisi, 1992-4, vol. XVI, no. 27, (Ankara 1994), 57-8.
14
K. Kaya, 38 (20-1)/17; 42(25)/29-30; 47(30)/39-40; 59/51-2; 78/72; 97(67)/86-
7; 135/117-18; 152/133; 211/194-5; 236/200-1.
15
K. Kaya, 136(97)/230.
16
K. Kaya, 106(73)/223.
17
M. Mehdi İlhan, Amid (Diyarbakır) (Ankara, 2000), 152 ff.
18
M. Mehdi İlhan, ‘XVI. Yüzyılda Şehrizol Sancağı’, OTAM 4 (Ankara, 1993), 169.
19
I. Hakki Uzunçarşılı, Osmanli Tarihi, vol. II (Ankara, 1998), 297.
20
B. Ayhan, 159.
21
MD 6, 206, 6 October 1564.
22
MD 5, 1224, 12 March 1566.
23
MD 5, 1301, 24 March 1566; MD 5, 1582, 11 May 1566.
24
B. Ayhan, 149-50, 159.
25
MD 46, 64, 27 July 1581; MD 52, 617, 29 January 1584; MD 53, 700, 7 January
1585; MD 60, 586, 9 May 1586; MD 61, 43, 23 June 1586; MD 64, 382, 15
October 1588.
26
MD 53, 730, 12 February 1585.
27
MD 62, 59, 13 March 1587.
28
MD 60, 640, 24 May 1586; MD 64, 382, 15 October 1588.
29
According to the document dated 4 Muharrem 1110/13 July 1698 Mustafa Ağa
collected the so-called tax ‘avarız and bedel-i nüzul’. See K. Kaya, 97(67)/86-7.
The quarters with ‘avarız hane entries were the following: Mahalle-i Karataş: hane
4; Mahalle-i Kayser Beğ: hane 3; Mahalle-i Dabbağlar: hane 1.5; Mahalle-i ‘İmaret:
hane 3; Mahalle-i Yoğurtçu: hane 1.5; Mahalle-i Mirahor: hane 1.5; Mahalle-i Halil
Ağa: hane 4; Mahalle-i Çukur: hane 2; Mahalle-i Şeyh ‘Osman: hane 1; Mahalle-i
Taş Mescid: hane 0.5; Mahalle-i Çetince: hane 1.5; Mahalle-i Hoca Elvan: hane 3;
Mahalle-i Pürdedar: hane 1; Mahalle-i Alaca Mescid: hane 2; Mahalle-i Hoca
Bahşayiş: hane 3.5; Mahalle-i Hoca İbrahim: hane 1.
30
Flotwell, most probably deriving his information from Evliya Çelebi, also says
there were 4,000 households with 32 quarters in 1893 in Çankırı (B. Ayhan, 202,
but cf. p. 187 where the date is given as 1827).
31
B. Ayhan, 100.
32
B. Ayhan, 188.
138 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

33
B. Ayhan, 177. Charles Texier (1802-71) had published a book entitled Description
de L’Asie Mineure, Paris 1839-49
34
B. Ayhan, 193.
35
B. Ayhan, 196.
36
B. Ayhan, 199 and 203.
37
B. Ayhan, 203; V. Cuinet, La Turquie d’Asie Mineure (Paris, 1894), IV, 551 ff.
38
J.H. Mordtmann, ‘Çankırı’, Encyclopaedia of Islam, second edition
39
In 1913 there were 1,337 Greeks and 482 Armenians in Çankırı, B. Ayhan, 202,
204 and 209.
40
İlhan Şahin, ‘Çankırı’, TDV İslam Ansiklopedisi (İstanbul, 1993).
41
Başbakanlık Archives (BA) Tapu Tahrir Defteri (TD) No. 100, 88; Tapu
Kadastro Genel Müdürlüğü, Kuyud-i Kadime Archives (KK), TD 81, fol. 10b. BA,
TD No. 375 is also a summary of 1521 register and therefore has the same figures.
42
BA, TD 100, p. 87 and KK, TD 81, fol. 11b.
43
BA, TD No. 375, 242-3.
44
KK, TD No. 81, fols. 9b-11b.
45
KK, TD No. 81, fol. 11b.
 Defending the Cult of Saints in Seventeenth–Century
Kastamonu: Ömer El-Fu’âdî’s Contribution to
Religious Debate in Ottoman Society

John J. Curry

On the northwest side of the modern town of Kastamonu in the

Black Sea region, behind the hilltop fortifications that once guarded
this strategic route through northern Anatolia, there lies the tomb
and shrine of the great Halveti saint Şa‘bân-ı Veli Efendi. It remains
an important spiritual and historical landmark in the city of
Kastamonu right down to the present day. He is best known for
founding one of the major branches of the Halveti tarikat, which
came to be known as the Şa‘bâniyye. In the second half of the
seventeenth century, under the guidance of such key figures as
Karabâş ‘Ali Veli and Nasûhî Efendi, this branch of the Halveti
tarikat would come to be one of the most powerful and influential
Sufi orders in the Ottoman Empire, capable of influencing even the
Sultan himself.1
The Halveti order had originated in the area of western Iran and
Azerbaijan during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, most
notably through the activities of the Baku-based Şeyh Yahyâ-yı
Şirvânî (d. 1464-5).2 Yahyâ’s spiritual descendants, of whom there
would be many (one account claims more than 10,000)3, spread
throughout the Ottoman Empire in the two centuries after his death,
most notably in Egypt, Anatolia, and large parts of the Balkans.4
Even before the rise of the Safavids under Şâh Ismâ’îl at the end of
the fifteenth century that would spark an exodus of learned figures
into the growing Ottoman domains, individuals from various parts
of Anatolia were travelling to places like Tabriz, Baku, and other
centres of learning to study with Yahyâ and his followers. According
to Şeyh Şa‘bân’s silsile, he was the spiritual grandson of one of the
most important of these figures, Cemâl el-Halveti, also known in the
biographical compilations as ‘Çelebi Halife.’5 Cemâl el-Halveti was a
pivotal figure who established the Halveti tarikat in Istanbul through
his close links with Sultan Bayezid II, both before and after his
accession to the sultanate in 1481. He is best known today as the
teacher of Sünbül Sinân Efendi (d. 1529), founder of the Sünbüliyye
140 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
branch of the order, which based itself at the Kocamustafa Pasha
mosque and tomb complex in south-western Istanbul, and is still
considered a holy place today. 6
Unfortunately, Şa‘bân’s early life is not nearly as well-documented
as that of some of his predecessors and contemporaries. He was
born in a small village close to the town of Taşköprü, which lies to
the east of Kastamonu, near the end of the fifteenth century.
Supposedly, his mother and father died when he was very young,
leaving him to be brought up by a generous woman who saw to his
early education, which included lessons with local scholars in
Kastamonu in addition to his hometown of Taşköprü. She
reportedly even helped him to go to Istanbul to continue his studies,
but died shortly thereafter.7 Like most of the great Sufis of his era,
despite his growing knowledge of the exoteric aspects of the Islamic
sciences, he felt dissatisfied, and began to search among the Sufi
orders for a mystical guide. But most of the Sufi masters that he
sought out in Istanbul did not appeal to him.8
In fact, there is some confusion in the historical sources about
who Şa‘ban’s şeyh actually was. The generally accepted personality
among Şa‘ban’s successors was Hayreddin Tokâdî (d. 1525), a
successor to Cemâl el-Halveti. However, Nev‘izâde ‘Atâ’î (d. 1635)
provides contradictory information about Şa‘bân’s place in the
Halveti chain of transmission. At one point, he concurs with the
standard account and names Hayreddin Tokâdî, but in another part
of the work devoted to the biography of Şa‘bân himself, he claims
that Şa‘bân’s şeyh was in fact Konrapalı Muslihuddin Efendi. In the
narrative of Ömer el-Fu’âdî’s Menâkıb, on the other hand, this
individual was a contemporary follower of Hayreddin Tokâdî
alongside Şa‘bân.9 To complicate matters further, when Şa‘bân was
sent back to his home region of Kastamonu by his teacher, he
established himself at the Seyyid Sünnetî mosque on the present site
of his tomb complex. Seyyid Sünnetî, whose biography is included in
Fu’âdî’s work and placed in a separate section just before that of
Şa‘bân himself, was reportedly a follower of Yahyâ-yı Şirvânî.
Unfortunately, his post in Kastamonu had fallen vacant after his
death, and no one seemed to have replaced him until Şa‘bân arrived
during the 1520s and inserted himself into the position.10 After his
arrival, Şa‘bân settled in Kastamonu to guide the local people there,
persevering in various locations until he died in the year 1569.
Yet aside from Nev‘izâde ‘Atâ’î’s brief mention, it is clear that
almost all of our knowledge about Şa‘bân-ı Veli and his life that I
have just outlined comes almost exclusively from the afore-
mentioned work of Ömer el-Fu’âdî (d. 1636). Ömer was the fifth of
a series of successors to head the Şa’baniyye tarikat in Kastamonu,
having been trained by his predecessors ‘Abdülbâkî Efendi (d. 1589)
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 141
and Muhyîüddin Efendi (d. 1604). He was born in the year 1560 in
Kastamonu, and had known the great saint Şa‘bân Efendi in his
youth, as his father, Himmet Dede, had been one of the şeyh’s
followers. However, the şeyh had died when he was only nine years
old.11 In the hopes of acquiring a lucrative position as part of the
ilmiye hierarchy in his home town of Kastamonu, he studied in the
local medreses and learned Arabic and Persian, in addition to his
native language of Turkish.12 But doubt overcame him, and he
withdrew from the company of his fellow men and the pursuit of
worldly goals, and began to keep the company of a number of local
şeyhs in the area of Kastamonu. He wanted to entrust himself for
guidance to ‘Abdülbâkî Efendi, but since he was in İskilip (near to
Çorum) at the time, he was not able to do so until ‘Abdülbâkî
returned to Kastamonu towards the end of his life. As a result, Ömer
had to complete his training with ‘Abdülbâkî’s successor
Muhyîüddin, before succeeding himself to the head of the order in
1604 upon Muhyîüddin’s death.13
It is the contention of this article that this marked a turning point
in the development of the Şa‘bâniyye branch of the Halveti tarikat.
Ömer el-Fu’âdî differed from his predecessors in a key respect,
which was that he was a prolific writer and an activist for the wider
Halveti cause in the Ottoman society of his time, despite being a
provincial Kastamonu scholar for the duration of his life. He
maintained his position at the head of the Şa‘bân-ı Veli complex in
Kastamonu for 33 years, until his death at the age of 76 in the year
1636.14 This makes him an unusual figure worthy of our attention, as
he stands out in contrast to the multitude of big-city denizens that
normally make up the ranks of ulema authors in archival card
catalogues.
Interestingly enough, the biographical dictionaries produced by
Istanbul-based ulema contemporaries like Nev‘îzâde ‘Atâ’î make little
mention of Ömer el-Fu’âdî. ‘Atâ’î makes only a desultory reference
to him as the keeper of Şa‘bân’s tomb at the time he was composing
the work, and borrows a small snippet of his poetry to round out his
already brief entry on Şa‘bân-ı Veli himself.15 A later copy of Sünbül
Sinân Efendi’s Risâlatu’l-tahqîqiyyah also extends the silsile chain of
the Halveti order included in the original text of the work (composed
circa 1528) up into the time of Fu’âdî’s successor, Çorumlu Şeyh
İsmâ‘îl Efendi (d. 1644).16 In fact, these two authors seemed to be
more generous than most. Many works dealing with the various
notables of the Halveti tarikat ignored the Şa‘bâniyye branch of the
order altogether, focusing their attention only on the Istanbul-based
Sünbüliyye and Sivasiyye, along with the Egyptian-based Gülşeniyye
branches of the Halveti order.17
At first glance, it is not entirely clear why this should be so. One
142 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
could, arguably, suggest an Ottoman intellectual bias against
provincials not from the religious establishments of the big three
cities of Istanbul, Edirne, and Bursa, at least in the case of someone
like ‘Atâ’î. Yet this does not explain the case of someone like
Mahmûd Celâleddin Hulvî, whose work is littered with şeyhs from
such centers of civilization as Cavdar, Şeyhlû, and Hayrebolu, to
name but a few. The fact that Şa‘bân’s spiritual descent did not pass
through the more notable successors to Yahyâ-yı Şirvânî and Cemâl
el-Halveti, as discussed previously, may also have caused some to
dismiss the Şa‘bâniyye as unimportant or outsiders.
However, it is also possible that up until the time of Ömer el-
Fu’âdî, the followers of Şa‘bân-ı Veli may have had a dubious
reputation among the wider Halveti community. During the şehzâde-
governorship of Murad III in the sancak of Manisa, a Şa‘bâniyye
dervish by the name of Şeyh Şücâ‘, reportedly of Albanian origins,
was patronized by Râziye Hatun, Murad’s sister. After he interpreted
some of the odd dreams that Murad had been having upon Râziye’s
suggestion, Murad also became attached to him as one of his
devotees.18 This relationship continued into Murad’s accession to
the sultanate in 1574, and the şeyh became a powerful and influential
member of the court up until his death in 1580. This was not viewed
positively by many Ottoman notables, and Gelibolulu Mustafa ‘Ali in
particular argued that this was one of the factors which led to the
failure of Murad’s reign and the subsequent weakness of the
Ottoman state.19 Even Sinâneddin Yûsuf b. Ya‘kûb, author of one
of the first extended hagiographical-historical works of the Halveti
order, a copy of which was presented to Murad III himself,
contented himself solely with noting Şa‘bân-ı Veli’s existence
through the chain of authority passing through Cemâl el-Halveti and
Hayreddin Tokâdî. He then added that ‘the Şeyh Şücâ‘ that came
with the Sultan [from Manisa] is from the silsile of Şa‘bân Efendi.’20
This seems out of place with the level of influence that Şeyh Şücâ‘
had attained by 1576-7 when this particular work was submitted, and
may reflect the ambivalence of an established leader of the
Sünbüliyye about the political success achieved by a member of an
upstart of questionable character.
The problems that the tomb complex of Şa‘bân-ı Veli suffered in
the aftermath of Murad’s reign may also reflect the political fallout
from the enemies made by the upstart Şücâ‘. It is clear that before
his death, Şücâ‘ had been funnelling resources into the renovation of
the complex that had been associated with his master. An inscription
over the door of the mosque in Kastamonu reads ‘Şücâ‘ Efendi,
spiritual guide to Sultan Murad * Renovated the building and made it
into a mosque full of light * Dervish Ömer Fu’âdî recited a
chronogram for the renovation * Şa‘bân Dede made the mosque
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 143
more prosperous * 984 H. (1576)’.21 This inscription poses a major
problem, as the date does not correspond with the period in which
Ömer el-Fu’âdî was active at the complex, unless we accept that the
second half of the inscription was added considerably later during
Fu’âdî’s overseeing of the building of additional structures. If so, this
would demonstrate that Ömer el-Fu’âdî, during his completion of
this construction and dedication of the tomb complex in 1611, took
the step of renaming the mosque after Şa‘bân Efendi, in place of
Şücâ‘.22 In other words, this chronogram represents a potential slight
against Şücâ’s legacy.
Fu’âdî’s insistence on the change may have something to do with
the history of the construction of the tomb structure over the graves
of Şa‘bân and his followers. After Fu’âdî took over as head of the
Şa‘bâniyye in Kastamonu in 1604, he managed to secure the
assistance of a kethüdâ of Sultan Ahmed I’s grand vizier Murad Pasha
by the name of Ömer. Unfortunately, catastrophe struck, as Murad
Pasha died in Diyarbekir, and his kethüdâ Ömer was subsequently
imprisoned and then murdered by a rival, Nâsûh Pasha.23 All of
Ömer’s wealth was immediately impounded by the state, and even
his inheritors were not able to move quickly enough to lay a claim to
some of it. As a result, the tomb was left half finished and began to
fall into a ruined state after some time due to lack of progress.24 It is
instructive, however, that when approached by some of the notables
and scholars of the region who wanted to press a claim to the
deceased Ömer’s wealth to allow for the completion of the tomb,
Fu’âdî’s response was rather pointed:

No! In our path there is no asking, laying claims, or requesting

favours from anyone. From Şa‘bân Efendi in particular there
was never any demand or claim in worldly matters by
requesting or asking from anyone else throughout his entire life.
He never chose [to accept] the services of a pious foundation.
In his human needs and livelihood he entrusted himself to God,
saying ‘the sustenance is God’s affair.’ This poor one [meaning
Fu’âdî] seated on his prayer-rug follows his example, albeit with
weakness and defects. Previously, we didn’t ask Ömer Kethüdâ
for the building of the tomb. He began this job himself with the
permission of God. This time also we commend it to God most
High, with assistance from spiritual power of [Şa‘bân Efendi].25

Such a model is in stark contrast to that of Şeyh Şücâ‘, who regularly

sought favours from Sultan Murad III.26 This perhaps indicates an
insistence on the part of Fu’âdî towards abandoning the legacy of
previous Şa‘bâniyye supporters of the tomb complex.
However, other even more troubling problems began to arise.
144 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Observing the problems that the tomb construction had
encountered, certain people began to mutter accusations that Ömer
Kethüdâ’s death was caused by Şa‘bân Efendi himself from beyond
the grave, due to his anger at the building of the tomb. More
critically, other people whom Fu’âdî refers to as ‘censurers, fanatics,
and ignorant people’ began to criticize the project and its backers.
They confronted Fu’âdî and his followers and said:
Building tombs over the graves of the people of God and the
şeyhs, and burning candles and lamps in the tombs is not
appropriate. It is a waste of resources and it is unlawful. And it
is not appropriate to build it with the money of the Sultan, the
viziers, or the administrators [either].27

The language of this criticism is indicative of the rhetoric employed

by the Kadızâdeli (or more accurately in this case, proto-Kadızâdeli )
movement, which has already been the subject of several articles and
monographs in the scholarly literature.28 Fu’âdî found these
criticisms sufficiently threatening that he insisted on including a fetvâ
from the şeyhülislâm of that era, Sa‘deddin Efendi, in addition to
advancing his own arguments refuting each part of his opponent’s
claims in turn.29 But this proto-Kadızâdeli faction had put Fu’âdî into
a bind. If the tomb construction remained in limbo, this would be
interpreted by the local community as being a de facto sign from God
and Şa‘bân Efendi himself, a sign indicating a potential rejection of
the practices and institutions associated with the cult of saints. But at
the same time, Fu’âdî had ideologically boxed himself into a corner
by forbidding any request for money or support from the men of the
state, one of the few areas in which he concurred with his critics.
Nevertheless, the solution was to come in part through the agency
of representatives of the Ottoman government in Istanbul. Mehmed
Ağa, the head of the palace guard in Istanbul, and Hibetullah Efendi,
a kadı, came to assess the situation of the tomb. Fu’âdî explained the
problem to them, and once again rejected their attempts to act as
intermediaries to free up money from Istanbul to complete the
project. But then the two men suggested that if they were to
contribute funds of their own free will, they would merely be
following in the steps of Ömer Kethüdâ, and would not contravene
Fu’âdî’s prohibition. So a sum of gold coins was submitted by each,
and then a remarkable thing happened. Following the example of
the two notables from Istanbul, the notables of Kastamonu sensed
their opportunity and began to contribute to the sum already raised
to the extent they were able. Some of Ömer Kethüdâ’s old followers
then got word of the new developments, and began to contribute as
well. Soon the project raised enough money for its final completion,
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 145
with Fu’âdî acting as overseer for the funds, which were recorded in
a defter.30 It seems that once the local community in Kastamonu
received a positive sign from the circles of power in the capital, they
rapidly moved to make the project their own.
The hagiography that Fu’âdî wrote to describe this and other
events played a critical role in all of this. The first part of Fu’âdî’s
hagiography, which mostly described the life of Şa‘bân Efendi and
Fu’âdî’s immediate predecessors, was completed in the year 1608 and
dedicated to Sultan Ahmed I. However, it was written at the request
of his contemporaries, who complained that many other saints had
such a menakıbnâme work, while their hometown hero Şa‘bân Efendi
did not.31 This would have been during the period when the tomb
complex was looking to strengthen itself, and probably aimed to play
a direct role in securing the support of the community in defending
Şa‘bân’s legacy.
But the second half of the work, known as the Türbenâme, was
actually added more than a decade later, as its dedication to Sultan
Osman II (r. 1618-22) indicates.32 As the audience can probably
sense from the aforementioned narrative, its tone is considerably
more defensive and troubled than the chronologically-earlier parts,
and it reads more like an apologetic than a hagiography, despite
being considered a part of the overall Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân-ı Veli as a sort
of appendix. One gets the distinct feeling that the reign of Osman II
was viewed with some misgivings by Fu’âdî, as he also fired off
another tract entitled Risâletü’l-müsellesât as an advisory letter to the
Sultan. Building on a story about the Prophet and his companions,
where they each relate in turn the three things they love most, Fu’âdî
demonstrated for the Sultan what values the leaders of the Muslim
community should emulate. He then concludes by warning the
Sultan to emulate the Prophet and his successors in wielding ‘both
the manifest and the spiritual sword,’ and not just the former. Even
more cryptically, he also alludes to events at the time by saying that
‘it is not a good thing to kill some of the men of the state, the edifice
of God will collapse.’33
Unfortunately, this short paper cannot hope to fully pursue all of
the complexity of these issues. But it is clear that Ömer el-Fu'âdî
played a critical role in reviving the cult of Şa‘bân Efendi, through
his creation of a literature that could be utilized for the purpose of
defending his tarikat against the growing anti-Sufism polemic that
marked the early 17th-century milieu in which he lived. He also
sought to refine the ideological stance of the tarikat’s followers by
avoiding abuses and clarifying confusing issues, partially by
translating and simplifying existing materials into a more simple form
of Turkish.34 The first chapter of the Menâkıb speaks for itself—it is
in fact not an anecdotal biography at all, but is instead summed up
146 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
with the pointed title ‘Who is a Real Saint?’35 His activism and his
legacy were to transform the subsequent followers of the Şa‘bâniyye,
and for the Ottoman historian, his works are invaluable in assessing
the provincial context of Ottoman cultural and political life.

Notes
1
Nasûhî Efendi and his works have been the subject of a recent monograph, see
Kemal Edib Kürkçüoğlu, Şeyh Muhammed Nasûhî: Hayatı, Eserleri, Divanı, Mektupları
(Istanbul: Alem Tic. Yayıncılık, 1996). Basic information on the lives, works, and
tarikat successors of both figures are also given in the recent monumental work of
Necdet Yılmaz, Osmanlı Toplumunda Tasavvuf: Sufiler, Devlet ve Ulema (XVII. Yüzyıl)
(Istanbul: Osmanlı Araştırma Vakfı, 2001), 102-23. The Kadızadeli leader Vani
Mehmed Efendi found Karabâş ‘Ali Veli dangerous enough to force his exile for
four years from Istanbul, see Fahri Getin Derin, Abdurrahman Abdî Pasha
Vekâyi‘nâme’si: Tahlil ve Metin Tenkidi (1058-1093/1648-1682) (Istanbul:
unpublished Ph.D. Diss., Istanbul University, 1993), 420.
2
For a good short history of the Halveti tarikat and its origins, see B.G. Martin, ‘A
Short History of the Halveti Order of Dervishes,’ Saints, Scholars and Sufis: Muslim
Religious Institutions in the Middle East Since 1500, ed. Nikki R. Keddie (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1972), 275-305.
3
Hâcî ‘Ali (d. after 1074 H.), Tühfetü’l-Mucâhidîn (Istanbul: Nuruosmaniye Ktp. MS
#2293), fols. 526a-527a.
4
The spread of the order in the Balkans in particular has been well-documented by
Nathalie Clayer, Mystiques, État et Société: Les Halvetis dans l’aire Balkanique de la fin du
XVe siecle à nos jours (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994).
5
See the silsile document of the Şa‘bâniyye tarikat presented and photographed in
Musa Seyfi Cihangir, Şeyh Şa‘bân-ı Veli Hazretleri’nin Hayatı ve Manevi Silsilesi
(Kastamonu, 1997). The original document is found in the museum on the
grounds of the Şa‘bân-ı Veli complex in Kastamonu, 13. See also Reşat Öngören,
Osmanlılar’da Tasavvuf: Anadolu’da Sufiler, Devlet ve Ulema (XVI. Yüzyıl) (Istanbul: İz
Yayıncılık, 2000), 81.
6
An account of Cemâl el-Halveti’s life and career first appeared in Lâmi‘i Çelebi’s
16th-century attachment to the tabaqat-genre work of Abdurrahman Câmî, see
Süleyman Uludağ and Mustafa Kara, ed., Nefahâtü’l-Üns: Evliya Menkıbeleri, 2nd ed.
(Istanbul: Marifet Yayınları, 1998), 706-10. This account was followed by a
commentary of Lâmi‘i Çelebi’s that attacked the critics of the order. A more
extensive hagiographical account of Cemâl el-Halveti’s life appears in the
important Halveti hagiographical work by Sinâneddin Yûsuf b. Ya‘kûb el-
Germiyânî (d. 1581?), Tezkiretü’l-Halvetiyye (Istanbul: Süleymaniye Ktp. MS Es’ad
Efendi #1761/2), fols. 10a-18a.
7
Abdulkerim Abdulkadiroğlu, Halvetilik’in Şa‘baniyye Kolu: Şeyh Şa‘ban-ı Veli ve
Külliyesi (Ankara: Türk Hava Kurumu Basimevi, 1991), 37. The hagiographer,
Ömer el-Fu’âdî, stresses here that Şa‘bân’s being an orphan, and therefore
dependent on the kindness of others, put him in the same situation as the Prophet
Muhammad. Ömer el-Fu’âdî (d. 1636), Menâkıb-ı Şeyh Şa‘bân-ı Veli ve Türbenâme
(Kastamonu, 1277 H.), 37 (hereafter referred to as Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân). This work
also exists in a passable modern Turkish translation sold on-site at the tomb
complex in Kastamonu, see Muhammed Safi, ed., Menâkıb-ı Şeyh Şa‘bân-ı Veli ve
Türbenâme (Kastamonu: Şa‘bân-ı Veli Kültür Vakfı, 1998).
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 147

8
Şa‘bân’s dissatisfaction with ‘ilm-i zâhir and his search for a proper mürşid fall
squarely into a hagiographical trope that guides the lives of most Halveti şeyhs.
See, for example, the mind-numbing regularity of this pattern for the early Halveti
figures up through Cemâl el-Halveti and his Sünbüliyye tarikat successors in the
17th-century biographical encyclopedia of Halveti şeyhs in Hâcî ‘Ali, fols. 517b-
550a.
9
The two contradicting references can be found in Nev‘izâde ‘Atâ’î, Hadâ’ikü’l-
hakâ’ik fî tekmiletü’l-şekâ’ik (also known as the Zeyl-i Şekâ’ik) (Istanbul: Cağrı
Yayınları, 1989), Vol. II, 62 and 199. For a laudable attempt to resolve the
confusion in the sources, which also included information found in the early
twentieth-century work of Hüseyin Vassaf, the Sefîne-i Evliyâ, see Öngören, 80-1.
10
See Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân, pp. 35-36. Since Ömer el- Fu’âdî’s other writings
demonstrate a strong devotion to the continuance of the Halveti tradition as laid
down by Yahya-yı Şirvânî, this is perhaps a significant point worth considering.
11
Abdulkadiroğlu, 61.
12
See Yılmaz, 94. Fu’âdî’s noted works include at least two written in Arabic that
have survived, the Makalat at-tawashshaqiyyah wa risâlat at-tawhîdiyyah (Istanbul:
Atatürk Kitaplığı MS Osman Ergin #1514 being the best preserved of a number
of copies), and the Risâlatu’l-hayatiyyah (Istanbul: Süleymaniye Ktp. MS Haci
Mahmud Efendi #2287/11). In addition, the stated motivation for much of his
work was to translate Arabic and Persian works into Turkish so his compatriots
could better understand them.
13
Ömer el-Fu’âdî, Risâle-i Silsilenâme (Istanbul: Süleymaniye Ktp. MS Hacı Mahmud
Efendi #2287/13), fols. 258b-259a.
14
Yılmaz, 95.
15
‘Atâ’î, v. 2, 199.
16
Sünbül Sinân Efendi (d. 1529), Risâlat at-tahqîqiyyah (Istanbul: Süleymaniye Ktp.
MS Kasidecizâde #340), fol. 30a-b.
17
See for example Mahmûd Celâleddin Hulvî, Lemezât-ı Hulviyye ez-lema‘at-ı ‘ulviyye,
ed. Mehmet Serhan Tayşi (Istanbul: Marmara Üniversitesi İlahiyat Fakültesi Vakfı
Yayınları, 1993), who presents the Halveti order as being a combination of the
Sünbüliyye and Gülşeniyye branches only, and Hâcî ‘Ali, fols. 517b-608a, who
presents a number of various Halvetis from their inception up through the same
branches as Hulvî, and also adding the Sivâsiyye along with several unaffiliated
Halvetis, while completely ignoring the existence of the Şa‘bâniyye branch despite
being of provincial background himself (based in Szigetvár in Hungary).
18
For a brief description of the development of these connections from the point
of view of a Halveti dervish from the İmrâhor tekke, who later compiled Murad
III’s correspondence with Şeyh Şücâ‘, see Sultan Murad III, Kitâb-ı Manâmât
(Istanbul: Nuruosmaniye Ktp. MS #2599), fols. 2a-b (hereafter referred to as
Manâmât).
19
See the observations in Cornell Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman
Empire: Gelibolulu Mustafa Ali (1541-1600) (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 1986), 296. There seems to be some substance to the complaints that
Mustafa ‘Ali makes, as Murad III’s correspondence with his şeyh in the Kitâb-ı
Manâmât frequently reflects tensions over Şücâ‘’s attempts to place his followers
into state positions, see note 26 below.
20
Sinâneddin Yûsuf b. Ya'kûb el-Germiyânî (d. 1581), Tezkiretü’l-Halvetiyye
(Istanbul: Süleymaniye Ktp. MS Es’ad Efendi #1372/1), fol. 17a. For more
information on the structure and importance of this work for the development of
Halveti hagiographical literature, see John Curry, ‘The Growth of Turkish
Hagiographical Literature Within the Halveti Order in the 16th and 17th Centuries,’
The Turks, ed. Hasan Celal Güzel (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2002), Vol. III, 912-20,
148 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

or in Turkish, John Curry, ‘XVI. ve XVII. Yüzyıllarda Halveti Tarikatı İçindeki

Türkçe Menakıb Edebiyatının Gelişmesi,’ Türkler (Ankara: Yeni Turkiye, 2002),
Vol. XI, 815-22.
21
This is found over the entrance to the mosque just across from the tomb of
Şa‘bân and his successors. For a reproduction of the inscriptions found in the
mosque and tomb complex, see Ziya Demircioğlu, Şeyh Şa‘bân-ı Veli ve Postnişinleri
(Kastamonu: Azim Matbaası, 1997), insert between page 18 and 19.
22
This would also explain why the mosque is known by both names in some
works, see for example Abdulkadiroğlu, 101-2.
23
Prof. William Griswold, however, has informed me that Ömer Kethüdâ in fact
probably died of old age, and that the myth of the murder had more to do with
popular dislike of Nâsûh Pasha’s fearsome reputation than reality. See William J.
Griswold, The Great Anatolian Rebellion (1000-1020/1591-1611) (Berlin: K. Schwarz
Verlag, 1983), 210-1, esp. n. 3, 8, and 9. I thank Prof. Griswold for sharing these
insights with me.
24
Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân, 149-50.
25
Ibid. 150.
26
In his correspondence with his şeyh, Murad III frequently makes reference to
his inability to fulfill Şücâ‘’s demands at the present time, and begs his indulgence
in delaying the request. See for example, Manâmât, fols. 158a, 159a-b, 160b, and
165b-166a, among others.
27
Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân, 153.
28
See for example Madeline C. Zilfi, The Politics of Piety: The Ottoman Ulema in the
Postclassical Age (Minneapolis: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1988), and another more recent
article that more or less echoes Zilfi’s views, Hüseyin Akkaya, ‘XVII. Yüzyıl
Osmanlı Devleti’nde Görülen Fikir Hareketlerinde Kadizadeliler–Sivasîler
Tartışması,’ Osmanlı, Vol. VII (Düşünce), 170-5.
29
Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân, 162-3. The fetvâ demands that the person guilty of advancing
such arguments either repent of their actions or face potential execution.
30
Ibid. 166-7.
31
Ibid. 4-5.
32
Ibid. 144.
33
Ömer el-Fu’âdî, Risaletü’l-müsellesât er-reşâdî (Istanbul: Süleymaniye Ktp. MS Hacı
Mahmud Efendi #2287), fols. 282b-283a. Fu’âdî does not explicitly state what he
is referring to here, but the overtone of what had happened to Ömer Kethüdâ in
the previous decade might be inferred.
34
Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân, 5-6. Fu’âdî mentions here that he had originally written a
longer text, but on account of most people not being able to understand or benefit
from it, he abridged it and converted it into a simpler form of Turkish. The
original, more extensive text has not survived. It may not have ever been
completed in the first place, due to its poor reception. See Abdulkadiroğlu, 64.
35
Menâkıb-ı Şa‘bân, 8.
 A Developing Village in the Middle
of the Nineteenth Century: Salihli

Nejdet Bilgi

Introduction

Entries in tahrir surveys1 from the early sixteenth century indicate

that Salihli, a village in the kaza of Sart in the sancak of Aydın, was
established by Turkish settlers after their capture of the area. These
surveys record the name of the village as Veled-i Salih.2 In the
nineteenth century it became known as Salihli. After the declaration
of the Tanzimat in 1839, Sart together with Salihli, was annexed to
the sancak of Saruhan. According to the census records, in 1842
Salihli was one of seven districts3 in Sart. In the salnâme (government
yearbook) of 1857 it was again shown in Saruhan4 as Sart ma’a Salihli.
In 1867, with the introduction of new administrative regulations Sart
became a township in the kaza of Adala. In 1872 Sart’s name was
altered to Salihli but remained in the sancak of Saruhan until the end
of the Ottoman era.5
In short, when Sart lost its importance in the nineteenth century,
Salihli became the centre of the district and finally gave its name to
the district itself. Salihli had been a village until the beginning of the
nineteenth century; it developed to become a small kasaba (town)
around the middle of the century; and it has been a developing kaza
since the 1890s.
In this study, I analyze the social and economic structures
underlying this development, using mainly the temettüat defters
(records of profits) of 1844-5 from the Prime Ministry Archives in
Istanbul.6 I used two of these. The first (no. 4612) has 39 pages and
records Turks/Muslims, reaya (non-Muslim Ottoman subjects)/Rum
(Ottoman Greeks), Aşiret-i İfraz-ı Ceridi (‘the tribe of İfraz-ı Ceridi),
and Aşiret-i Saçlı Ceridi (‘the tribe of Saçlı Ceridi).7 The second (no.
2498) has 25 pages, with the records of the Aşiret-i Elçi-i Karahızırlı
and Aşiret-i Çakal.8
150 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Population

According to the tahrir defter of 1528 the village of Veled-i Salih had
14 households; according to the tahrir defter of 1574 it had 17
soldiers and 9 households.9 In his book published in 1828, the
traveller Arundel states that there were 13 Greek and 35 Turkish
households in the village when he passed through in 1826.10
However, in his book published in Paris in 1834, Arundel reported
that there were 50 households and that only one of them was
Greek.11
According to the results of the census of 1831, published by Karal
and Karpat, ‘Sard ma’a Salihli’ had a population of 501 males of
whom 381 were Turkish and 120 were Greek.12 Of these 120 Greeks,
29 lived in the village of Salihli. Of these 11 were heads of
households while 18 were bachelors.13 All these figures approximate
to the numbers given by Arundel. At the beginning of the Tanzimat
era Sart was annexed to the sancak of Saruhan. According to the
census records of 1842, there were 52 households with 87 male
subjects in the village of Salihli.14

Table 1. Communities in Salihli15 and their Populations and Households in 1845

Communities Households Household x 4.5 = Approx. pop.

Resident Muslim/Turk 52 234
Reaya/Greek 33 148
Aşiret-i İfraz-ı Ceridi 60 270
Aşiret-i Saçlı Ceridi 9 41
Elçi Aşireti/ Karahızırlı 115 517
Aşiret-i Çakal 9 41
Total 278 1,251

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

In temettüat defters, for 1845, populational data is quite different

from the census results of 1842. According to these defters there
were 278 households with a population of 1,251.16 The Greek
population was 148 persons in 33 households. Records of 1845
indicate that there was not much change in the resident Turkish
population but that the main change was because of the settlement
of tribes. The temettüat defters for four different tribes show 193
households. This corresponds to 70% of the population in
proportion to the total number of households. The Greek
population made up 12% of the general population, and the Turkish
population 88% (Table 1). The peculiarity of the Greek population
has to be underlined here: the defter records show that 17 of 33
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 151
Greek households had come to Salihli from other places: 8
households from Rhodes, 3 from Kasaba (Turgutlu), 2 from
Akşehir, and one each from Yanya, Mihailli, Dereköy and Adala.
When this is taken into consideration, the population is
approximately the same as the numbers given by Arundel.
The salnames from the last years of the nineteenth century also
show the population of Salihli. In 1890, as the centre of the kaza,
Salihli had a population of 3,091 in 510 households.17 This
population was made up of 1,410 females and 1,681 males. This
included 665 non-Muslim subjects, but how many of them lived in
the kasaba of Salihli is not certain18. However, according to the
salname of 1908 3,002 Muslims, 1,139 Greeks, 215 Jews, and 85
Armenians—4,441 people in total—were living in the kasaba.19 The
proportion of Greeks in the kasaba was 12% in 1845, 20% in 1890,
and 25.6% in 1908.

Cultivating Lands

According to the temettü records the village of Salihli had 6,046.5

dönüms of cultivated land (1 dönüm = 1,160.4 m²).20 In addition there
were 187 walnut trees. The resident Turks possessed 2,701.5 dönüms
of land. 39 Turkish households out of 52, or about 75% had
agricultural lands, an average of 69 dönüms (Table 2). Only 4 Greek
households out of 33, or 12% had cultivated fields, totalling 59
dönüms of land, suggesting that the Greek settlement was relatively
recent.
The Aşiret-i İfraz-ı Ceridi, a newly settled tribe in Salihli, made up
of 60 households, had 1,081 dönüms of land. 51 of these 60 families,
or 85%, had an average of 21 dönüms of land, marking a distinct
break with the tribe’s originally nomadic nature. Saçlı Ceridi, another
tribal settlement in Salihli, had 191 dönüms of land. 5 households, or
55.5% of the tribe, owned an average of 38 dönüms each. Elçi
Aşireti, the most populous tribal settlement in Salihli, had 1,747
dönüms of land, divided between only 28.5% of households with an
average of 59 dönüms each. The relatively small number of
households possessing land suggests that the Elçi, in contrast to
other tribes settled in Salihli, had not entirely lost their nomadic way
of life. Another tribal settlement in Salihli was Çakal Aşireti, made up
of 9 households, 3 of which had 90 dönüms of land, giving an
average of 30 dönüms each.
The average of amount of land owned by residents of Salihli was
21.75 dönüms. However, since almost half of the households had no
land at all, the average holding among the 135 households that had
some land is actually 44.8 dönüms. The biggest land-holding group
152 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

consisted of 58 people with 11–25 dönüms each. The second largest

group had 26–50 dönüms each (Table 3).

Table 2. The Cultivated Lands of the Village of Salihli

and Its Communities (in dönüms)

Percentage (%)
Non-Muslim/

Aşiret-i İfraz-ı
Communities

Çakal Aşireti
Aşiret-i Saçlı

Elçi Aşireti/
Karahızırlı
Resident
Turkish

Greek

Ceridi

Ceridi

Total
households 52 33 60 9 115 9 278 -
sown fields* 2,115 230 826 170 1,271 90 4,702 77.36
fallow* 427 6 216 20 394 - 1,063 17.58
let out on lease* 125 52 177 2.92
vineyard* 2.5 39 1 42.5 0.7
pasture* 30 30 0.5
forage fields* 1 1 0.02
rented lands* 31 31 0.52
total* 2,701.5 236 1,081 191 1,747 90 6,046.5 100
walnut trees (unit) 11 143 33 187 -

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

Table 3. Distribution of Cultivated Fields among Households

Dönüms Households Percentage(%)

0 143 51.4
1–5 11 3.9
6 – 10 13 4.7
11 – 25 58 20.9
26 – 50 20 7.2
51 – 75 13 4.7
76 – 100 3 1.1
101 – 150 9 3.2
151+ 8 2.9
Total 278 100

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

Agricultural Products

According to temettüat records, different communities in Salihli

engaged in different types of agricultural production, and there is a
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 153
relationship between land-holding and cultivation type. The Greek
community had the smallest amount of land and the smallest crop.
Of the 6 communities that lived in Salihli, all 6 cultivated wheat,
barley, and maize (Table 4) whereas, among 9 products, only one
community cultivated grapes.

Table 4. The Tithes on Communities’ Agricultural Products in Salihli in 1844

Tobacco**

Grapes**

Cotton**
Sesame*

Walnut*
Barley*

Maize*

maize*
Communities
Wheat

Sand-
Resident Turkish 93.5 168 75 16 119 8 1 59
Non-Muslim 12 5 20 1 25 8
Subjects/Greek
Aşiret-i İfraz-ı 19 47.5 88.57 4.5 511.5 5
Ceridi
Aşiret-i Saçlı 8 19 5 3 32 1
Ceridi
Aşiret-i Elçi/ 53.5 138.5 10 87 8 140
Karahızırlı
Aşiret-i Çakal 3 6 4
Total 189 384 100 30 355.57 20.5 511.5 7 207

* Çeki (a çeki = kile = 20 kıyye x 1.283 kgs. = 25.66 kgs.)

** Kıyye (a kıyye = okka = 1.283 kgs.)

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

There were only 9 agricultural products recorded in Salihli. These

were in order of amount: barley, maize, wheat, sesame, grapes, sand-
maize (kumdarı), cotton, walnut, and tobacco. In the order of value,
tobacco, the least cultivated product, has fifth place (Tables 5-6).
Gross agricultural earnings, estimated according to the values of
tithes, amounted to 69,089,430 piasters in 1844. With the deduction
of the tithe at 10%, the agricultural income of Salihli’s townspeople
amounted to 62,180,487 piasters, or 28.3% of the total income of
Salihli in 1844.
The wheat crop amounted to 48,497 kg yearly, and of maize to
91,239 kg. Given a population of 1,251, every person consumed on
average 111.7 kg of wheat and maize.21 However, since average
wheat consumption is 190 – 235 kg per person when his/her diet is
based mainly upon cereal,22 Salihli needed 237,690 kg of wheat per
annum, assuming a person consumes at least 190 kg wheat a year.
Only 20%, therefore, of its cereal need was grown in Salihli. When
agricultural produce is sorted according to amount, wheat had the
154 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

third place from the top. Maize, which was another major source of
nutrition, had the second place. When maize is taken into account
with wheat, only 59% of the demand for wheat and maize was
cultivated by the townspeople of Salihli. For the rest, they had to buy
from the market.

Table 5. Total of Agricultural Products of Salihli in 1844

Product Çeki* Kıyye x 10** In kilograms

Barley 384 3,840 98,534,400
Maize 355.57 3,555.7 91,239,262
Wheat 189 1,890 48,497,400
Sesame 30 300 7,698,000
Grape - 511.5 5,115 6,562,545
Sand-maize (Kumdarı) 20.5 205 5,260,300
Cotton - 207 2,070 2,655,810
Walnuts 7 70 1,796,200
Tobacco - 100 1,000 1,283,000

* In the temettüat defters, a çeki is actually a kile.

** Ten times the tithe equals the whole crop because the tithe percentage was 10%.

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

Table 6. The Value of Agricultural Products in Salihli in 1844

Product amount x price of a unit* value in piasters

Maize 3,555.7 x 5.25 18,667,425
Wheat 1,890 x 9 17,010,000
Barley 3,840 x 4 15,360,000
Sesame 300 x 20 6,000,000
Tobacco 1,000 x 5 5,000,000
Cotton 2,070 x 1.875 3,881,250
Grapes 5,115 x 0.3 1,534,500
Sand-maize (Kumdarı) 205 x 5.25 1,076,250
Walnuts 70 x 8 560,000
Total 69,089,430

* The values are calculated from the tithe records in temettüat defters.

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

The prices for agricultural products in Salihli differed slightly from

those in other districts in the sancak of Saruhan: a çeki of maize was
5.25 piasters, a çeki of wheat was 9 piasters, a çeki of barley was 4
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 155
piasters, a çeki of sesame was 20 piasters, a kıyye of tobacco was 5
piasters, a kıyye of cotton was 75 para, a kıyye of grapes was 12 para,
and a çeki of walnut was 8 piasters.

Occupations

When heads of the families are categorized according to occupation,

78 were labourers, 47 were farmers, and 32 were shepherds. This is
peculiar because, although tribesmen formed an important part of
the village’s population, the majority of the occupations have a
settled nature such as café owner, grocer, blacksmith, baker,
innkeeper, soap seller, or farrier (Table 7).
113 people either from outside Salihli or seeking a second source
of income were sharecroppers. Greek-Ottoman subjects were mostly
artisans and tradesmen rather than farmers, but they also engaged in
stockbreeding.

Livestock Count

The people of Salihli altogether most commonly owned milch goats,

1,060 head in all. They also owned 782 sheep, 566 rams, and 425
milch cows. The different communities tended to specialise in
different typees of livestock: the Greeks and the Aşiret of Elçi had
mostly sheep; İfraz-ı Ceridi and Aşiret of Elçi had mostly goats and
cows (Table 8).
The aşirets owned most of the riding animals, with the aşirets of
Elçi and İfraz-ı Ceridi owning most of the saddle horses and
donkeys. Not all of the animals had a commercial value. Some of the
livestock were bred for their flesh, milk, or as draught animals. They
were also used for transportation.
Salihli had 4,702 dönüms of cultivated land, and its farmers
possessed 84 oxen and 37 buffalos as draught animals, a single
animal working 39 dönüms of land in average. This average was 31.5
in Marmara, 29 in Saruhanlı, 19 in Uncuboz. Apparently, therefore,
the farmers of Salihli were short of draught animals, although horses
or mules could also be put to work.

Income

Most of the income in Salihli was gained from services, trade and
artisanship, amounting to 91,580 piasters 39.5% of general income.
The second commonest source of income was farming with
74,275.75 piasters, or 32%. The next source was livestock breeding,
 156 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Table 7. Occupations in Salihli and Communities

Communities

Non-Muslim

İfraz-ı Ceridi

Çakal aşireti
Saçlı Ceridi
Elçi aşireti
resident
Turkish

/Greek

Total
labourer 11 1 14 43 5 4 78
farmer 17 17* 9 3 1 47
shepherd 9 8 14 1 32
servant 4 1 6 11
farm labourer 2 2 1 5
gardener 1 1
orphan 9 9
old, handicapped, insane, etc. 2 4 5 11
carpenter 1 1
cafe owner 4 4
grocer 3 3
blacksmith 3 3
imam/priest 1 1 2
helva maker 1 1
tobacco labourer 2 2
teacher 1 1
baker 6 6
builder 4 4
herdsman 1 1
police officer 1 1
potter 3 3
primary school teacher 1 1 2
horseshoer 1 1
poultryman 1 1
oil dealer 2 2
innkeeper 1 1
soap seller 1 1
tradesman 7
miller 4
woodsman 3
camel raiser 1
soldier 1
mounted yeoman 1
vet 1
tribe leader 1 1
elder of a tribe 1
sharecropper 8 12
other sharecroppers ** 47 9 23 26 6 2 113
*2 family heads were recorded as ‘unskilled’ but added here according to their jobs.
** Sharecroppers from out of Salihli or those whose second job was sharecropping.
Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.
 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies 157
amounting to 54,472 piasters, or 23.5%. The townspeople also
earned 11,360 piasters from rents, that is 5% of general income. The
total income was 231,687.8 piasters altogether, including tax
deductions. This amount is the average for the two years, 1844 and
1845.
Service jobs, trade and artisanship were major occupations in
Salihli. It is peculiar that there were more tradesmen and artisans
than farmers, as this does not correspond with the characteristics of
a village. Economically, in fact, Salihli turns out to have been a town,
and not a mere village. Not only was there a large group of
labourers, tradesmen and artisans but also the 5% of income derived
from rented premises such as shops and stores, unlike any other
village.
Agriculture and livestock breeding altogether made up 55.5% of
the total income while it comprised 77% in Marmara, a centre of a
kaza in the sancak of Saruhan. At the same time, while Marmara’s
townspeople earned 8% of their income from livestock, in Salihli this
is 23.5%, evidently because the aşirets of Salihli had not entirely cast
off their nomadic nature.
From income for the years 1844 and 1845 and the arithmetic
mean of these values, it is possible to calculate the approximate
annual income in Salihli. In fact, in the two years only agricultural
income varied, while the other sources of income stayed at the same
level, at least in according to the temettü defters (Table 10). The
average annual income of Salihli was 231,687 piasters; 219,592
piasters in 1844, 243,782 piasters in 1845.
The average annual income, divided by 278, the number of
households, equals 833.4 piasters. In the kasaba of Marmara this
figure is 1,934 piasters, and in Saruhanlı 1,782 piasters23. Apparently,
therefore, the townspeople of Salihli had low incomes.

Taxes

The tax collected in Salihli in 1844 amounted to 52,028 piasters:

23,781 piasters for virgü-yi mahsusa, 18,118 piasters for mirisi (a special
tax collected from aşirets only), 6,720 piasters for tithe, and 3,409
piasters for various taxes and tariffs. In 1844 the people in Salihli had
to pay 19.2% of their income as taxes. If annually calculated it is
18.3% of general income. These figures are higher by 3-4% than the
percentages in Saruhan.24 This difference must have been because of
income sources other than farming and somewhat higher taxes on
these sources.
The person who paid the highest tax gave 44% of his income. The
second highest taxpayer however paid 24% of his income, while the
 158 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Table 8. The Communities in Salihli and Their Livestock (head)

Communities

Non-Muslim

İfraz-ı Ceridi

Çakal aşireti

Saçlı Ceridi
Elçi aşireti
resident
Turkish

/Greek

Total
milch cow 25 5 79 19 9 288 425
cow 26 5 8 130 169
female calf 20 16 10 46
male calf 18 4 24 5 7 106 164
heifer 8 3 5 7 5 147 175
younger calf 7 7
yoke buffalo 31 6 37
milch buffalo 33 1 1 4 39
barren buffalo 1 1 2
buffalo heifer 3 3
buffalo calf 1 1
younger buffalo calf 8 2 10
ox 17 29 7 3 28 84
bullock 1 7 16 24
mare 9 3 24 6 4 125 171
foal 4 3 9 1 1 55 73
horse 1 10 11
baggage horse 16 7 13 3 3 19 61
mule 2 2
ass 24 5 39 13 14 130 225
donkey foal 3 2 5
camel 4 4 9 17
milch goat 631 65 67 297 1,060
male goat 17 3 33 53
kid 10 10
ram 403 145 5 13 566
milch sheep 5 405 16 356 782
lamb 10 4 14
beehive 16 231 2 21 122 392

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies 159

Table 9a. Source of Income of Communities in Salihli

(in piasters, estimated average of 1844 and 1845)

Turkish resident
Communities

Non-Muslim

İfraz-ı Ceridi

Çakal aşireti
Saçlı Ceridi

Elçi aşireti
/Greek

Total
sown field 19,117.75 1,517.25 8,528.75 2,244.5 660.5 1,5419.5 47,488.25
rented land 286 160 446
fields taken 3,836.25 3,836.25
on lease
grapevines 42. 1,324 50 1,416.75
rental money 60 60
from forage
sharecropping 7,800.5 1,981.5 2,585 926.5 311 6,783.5 20,388
walnut trees 63 577.5 640.5
milk buffalo 3,100 100 100 400 3,700
milk cow 1,450 250 4,000 950 300 15,150 22,100
milk sheep / 60 6,412 1,440 60 198 4,302 12,472
sheep
milk and male 5,960 597 603 2,826 9,986
goat
camel 1,000 2,050 3,050
shares of oil 1,000 1,000
mills
oil manufacture 1,250 1,250
builder 2,400 2,400
payment to head 1,600 7,500 9,100
of an aşiret
shepherd 250 2,700 2,950
woodman 500 500
farming 900 150 300 1,350
miller 4,700 4,700
renting of soap 300 450 750
shops
renting of barber 100 100
shops
poultry 550 550
trade 9,700 9,700
mounted 800 800
yeoman
 160 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Table 9b. Source of Income of Communities in Salihli

(in piasters, estimated average of 1844 and 1845)

Turkish resident
Communities

Non-Muslim

İfraz-ı Ceridi

Çakal aşireti
Saçlı Ceridi

Elçi aşireti
/Greek

Total
vet of horses 300 300
carpenter 950 950
zuhurat 250 250
bunch maker 1,350 1,350
herdsman 500 500
police officer 500 500
primary school 550 550
teacher
imamship 200 400 1,000 1,600
grocery 2,750 2,750
inn keeping 1,500 1,500
gardener 350 350
renting of inns 80 80
renting of shops 120 120
reting of saddle 180 180
shops
blacksmith 1,000 1,000
renting of 150 150
greengrocer’s
renting of oil 410 410
shop
Soap ma- 2,000 2,000
nufacture
dessert selling 900 900
baker 5,450 5,450
renting of 300 350 650
baker’s
renting of 80 80
gardener’s
renting of 30 30
coppers-mith
renting of cafes 300 300
renting of shops 50 50
 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies 161

Table 9c. Source of Income of Communities in Salihli

(in piasters, estimated average of 1844 and 1845)

Turkish resident
Communities

Non-Muslim

İfraz-ı Ceridi

Çakal aşireti
Saçlı Ceridi

Elçi aşireti
/Greek

Total
barber’s 150 150
renting of 3,800 3,800
mill
renting of 3,550 100 3,650
stores
workman 5,000 500 2,750 1,400 1,300 16,000 26,950
renting of 100 100
horse-
shoer’s
horse- 700 700
shoeing
café 4,000 4,000
owning
renting of 510 510
store-
houses
renting of 250 250
pie shops
beehives 128 2,020 16 56 944 3,164
servants 2880 750 2,050 5,680
total
annual 64,344.25 34,850.75 32,185.25 6,244.00 5,978.50 88,085.00 231,687.80
income

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

 162 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Table 10 Taxes Collected in Salihli in 1844 (in piasters)

Aşiret-i İfraz-ı Ceridi

Non-Muslim/Greek

Aşiret-i Saçlı Ceridi

Turkish resident
Communities

Çakal aşireti
Elçi aşireti

Total
virgü-yi
mahsusa 16,830.00 5,279.50 196.00 500 525.00 450.00 23,781.00
mirisi 2,674.00 945 14,139.30 360.00 18,118.30
yaylak ve
kışlak 998.00 115 1,113.00
tithe 2,976.75 394.25 1,040.50 449 1,787.75 72.00 6,720.25
tithe on
walnut 15.00 15.00
tithe on
melon field 205.00 30.00 75.00 310.00
tithe on
beehive 5.25 5.25
grape tax 4.50 4.50
fixed tax 1,200.00 1,200.00
tax on wool 401.00 401.00
tax for the
poor 360.50 360.50
total 20,016.25 7,665.25 4,923.50 2,009 16,527.00 887.25 52,028.25

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies 163
Table 11. Income Types in Salihli

Income type 1844 1845 Average

Piasters Percentage Piasters Percentage Piasters Percentage
Service, trade, 91,580 41.7% 91,580 37.6% 91,580 39.5%
artisanship
Farming 62,180 28.3% 86,370 35.4% 74,275 32%
Livestock 54,472 24.8% 54,472 22.3% 54,472 23.5%
Rental income 11,360 5.2% 11,360 4.7% 11,360 5%
Total 219,592 100% 243,782 100% 231,687 100%

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

Table 12. Comparison of Income and Tax by Communities

Communities House no. Tax Income Total Percentage

Maximum
Non-Muslim/Greek 8/17 1,615 2,000 3,615 44.67%
Turkish resident 6/13 1,317 3,961 5,278 24.95%
Turkish resident 17/29 1,063 919.25 1,982.25 53.62%
Minimum
Çakal aşireti 5/6 20a 300 320 6.25%
Elçi aşireti 49/61 23b 450 473 4.86%
Aşiret-i İfraz-ı Ceridi 9/11 25c 286 311 8.03%
Average
Elçi aşireti 75/94 190d 1650 1,840 10.32%
Asiret-i İfraz-ı Ceridi 53/75 187.5 1,423.25 1,610.75 11.64%
Turkish resident 13/25 185 600 785 23.56%
a Paid by one of the two families.
b Paid by one of the three families.
c Paid by one of the four families.
d Paid by one of the four families.

Source: BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498 and 4612.

third highest had to pay 53%, more than half of his profits.
Seemingly there was no equitable tax policy.
Among the lowest taxpayers, there were still differences of 4% to
8%. Even if the differences seem to be small one cannot assume that
there was a fair tax system.
The percentages of taxes in proportion to the income of a family
differed from one household to the other, for example 10% to 23%.
This indicates the failure of one of the main goals of the Tanzimat
reforms: fair taxation.
 164 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Conclusion

In the mid- nineteenth century, Salihli was the biggest village of the
kaza of Sart in the sancak of Saruhan. With the settlement of Greeks
and tribesmen, it was being transformed into a kasaba, with services,
commerce and artisanship flourishing by the 1840s. Its population
was 1,251 distributed among 278 households: more crowded than a
typical village but socially and economically not yet as advanced,
balanced, or harmonized as a modern kasaba.
Salihli’s sources of income were service, commerce and
artisanship; agriculture; livestock; and rents. These sources of income
were as various as those of some of the kaza centres of the sancak,
but much lower in amount. Taxes however were higher in
proportion and badly organized although one of most important
goals of the Tanzimat was a well-balanced taxation.
The temettüat defters allow us to see that, around the middle of
the nineteenth century, the village of Salihli had developed the
characteristics of a kasaba. Originally an average-sized village in the
kaza of Sart, Salihli had grown sufficiently itself to become the centre
of a kaza in 1872.

Notes
1 Muhasebe-i Vilâyet-i Anadolu Defteri No.166 (937/1530), Ankara 1995, 467.
2 Füsun Baykal, Salihli Kent Coğrafyası, Izmir 1988, 37; Teoman Ergül, Antik
Uygarlıkların Mirasçısı Bir Kentin Özgün Tarihi (Türkleşen Anadolu’da Sardes.Ve Salihli)
(Izmir, 1992), 42-3.
3 Nejdet Bilgi, ‘1842 Yılında Saruhan Sancağı’nın Nüfusu ve İdari Bölünüşü’,
Manisa Araştırmaları, Volume 1, Manisa 2001, 102. Baykal and Ergül writes that
Sart had been one of the kazas of the sancak of Aydın until 1867 (Baykal, 1988, 39;
Ergül, 1992, 108).
4 Tuncer Baykara, Anadolu’nun Tarihî Coğrafyasına Giriş I Anadolu’nun İdari Taksimatı
(Ankara, 2000), 226.
5 Nejdet Bilgi et al, Manisa 2000, Izmir 2000, 99.
6 For temettüat records, see Mübahat S. Kütükoğlu, ‘Osmanlı Sosyal ve İktisadi
Tarihi Kaynaklarından Temettü Defterleri’, Belleten, CLIX/225 (August 1995),
Ankara 1995, 395-412+6 panels; Mustafa Serin, ‘Osmanlı Arşivi’nde Bulunan
Temettuat Defterleri’, I. Milli Arşiv Şurası (Tebliğler -Tartışmalar), 20-21 Nisan 1998
Ankara (Ankara, 1998), 717-28.
7 Prime Ministry Ottoman Archives (BOA), Maliye Nezareti Temettüat Defterleri (ML
VRD TMT), no.4612.
8 BOA, ML VRD TMT, no. 2498.
9 Baykal, 38; Ergül, 42-3.
10 Ergül, 50.
11 Ergül, 47; Baykal, 40.
 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies 165

12 Kemal H. Karpat, Ottoman Population 1830-1914; Demographic and Social

Characteristics, Wisconsin 1985, 111; Enver Ziya Karal, Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nda İlk
Nüfus Sayımı 1831 (Ankara, 1997), 126,131.
13 Karal, 131.
14 Bilgi, ‘1842...’, 102.
15 In temettüat defters records were titled by the names of the communities. These
communities are, in the original order: Karye-i Salihli (Resident Muslim/Turk),
Yerlü Reaya in Salihli (Greek), Aşiret-i İfraz-ı Ceridi, Aşiret-i Saçlı Ceridi, Nefs-i
Salihlü Aşiret-i Elçi-i Karahızırlı, Tâbi-i Salihli Aşiret-i Çakal.
16 The census of 1842 recorded only males. However, assuming an equal number
of women, we multiplied the figure by two and divided the result by the number of
the households. The average household population seems to be 4.36. As a round
number we used 4.5 which gives a figure close to the figure in the census of 1845
(cf. Bilgi, ‘1842...’, 93).
17 İ. Cavid, Aydın Vilâyetine Mahsus Salnâme Sene-i Hicri 1308-sene-i Mâli 1307, Cild-i
sâni, 480.
18 İ. Cavid, Aydın..., II, 582.
19 Salnâme-i Vilâyet-i Aydın 1326 Sene-i Hicriyesine Mahsus, Defa 25, Vilâyet Matbaası,
632.
20 1 dönüm was 1,160.4 m² in Anatolia but 701.9 m² in Istanbul. However it
equalled 2,062.9 m² in Egypt, Iraq and Iran. See Feridun Emecen, ‘Dönüm’,
Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, v. 9 (Istanbul, 1994), 521.
21 This figure in the village of Uncuboz, today a region in Manisa, was 377 kg
(Nejdet Bilgi, ‘Temettüat Kayıtlarına Göre Manisa Uncuboz Köyü ve Tarihi
Gelişmesi’, E. Ü. Edebiyat Fakültesi Tarih İncelemeleri Dergisi, XIII, İzmir 1998), 133,
971 kg in Saruhanlı (Bilgi, ‘Tanzimat Döneminin Başlarında Saruhanlı -Manisa’da
Bir Ova Köyünün Sosyo-Ekonomik Yapısı’, Uluslararası Osmanlı Tarihi Sempozyumu
(İzmir 8-10 Nisan 1999) Bildirileri, (ed). Turan Gökçe, (İzmir, 2000), 434), was 270
kg in the center of the kaza of Marmara.
22 Tevfik Güran, 19. Yüzyıl Osmanlı Tarımı Üzerine Araştırmalar (İstanbul, 1998), 93.
23 Bilgi, ‘Saruhanlı’, 425, 429 and 437.
24 This percentage in 1844 in the kasaba of Marmara was 15%, in the village of
Saruhanlı, it was 14% (Bilgi, ‘Saruhanlı’, 437-8).
 The Urban Fabric of Damascus in the Middle of the
Nineteenth Century: A Study of the Tax Register
(Rüsum Defteri) of 1852

Tomoki Okawara

The purpose of this paper is to reconsider the urban fabric of

Damascus, using a tax register (rüsum defteri) established in the middle
of the nineteenth century. Studying the urban fabric of cities in the
Middle East has been a recurrent theme, since Max Weber defined a
normative ‘European city’ as a self-governing commune whose
inhabitants possessed a distinct sense of collective identity on the one
hand and a normative ‘Islamic and other non-European city’ as
lacking the defining tradition of civic culture.1
The concept of the ‘Islamic city’ came into being as a topic of
discussion among Orientalists who were involved in the study of the
Arab regions during the period of colonial rule. They produced an
imagery of the ‘Islamic city’ which possessed a landscape and culture
quite different to those of European cities. Gustave E. von
Grunebaum summed up the concept and stated that unlike Greek and
medieval Western European cities, which enjoyed a political
autonomy, represented by the famous ‘communes’ as Max Weber
characterized them, Islamic cities allowed the free entry and exit of
people of different occupations and social classes, and no concept of
citizenship emerged. The townspeople lived in guilds and quarters
isolated from each other according to religion, origin and occupation,
with no system in place for political integration, but with integration
coming rather by religious ideology alone.2
A few Orientalists have, since the 1850s, laid the foundations for
the study of the urban fabric of Damascus. The earliest example is
Alfred von Kremer, an Austrian Orientalist who wrote Topographie von
Damaskus (Wien, 1855), based on a land survey and field study of
historical monuments. His topographic work was further developed
during World War I by two German researchers, Karl Wulzinger and
Carl Watzinger, and crystallized in the 1930s by Jean Sauvaget, a
French Orientalist who used a highly detailed land survey, conducted
under the French mandate.3 Sauvaget, studying Aleppo and Damascus,
asserted dogmatically that the residential quarters performed the role
168 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
of self-governing communities and they were ‘mosaic societies’
without any sense of integration with the city as a whole.4 We will
discuss his argument critically in the section three.
Studies criticizing the ‘Islamic city’ started in the 1970s, particularly
in the field of urban studies in the Ottoman period, where researchers
could use new historical sources to produce detailed urban studies at
definite periods, using sharia court records (şer‘iyye sicilleri), registers of
the Imperial Council (mühimme defterleri) and the land survey records
(tapu tahrir defterleri). According to Toru Miura, these sources made it
possible for researchers to (i) make topographical reconstructions of
particular localities and concrete investigations of the structure and
function of religious institutions and waqf properties in the cities and
of the role of governors, merchants and the ‘ulama’ in urban
development, (ii) examine the city administration and its relationship
to the central government, and (iii) describe the social and economic
conditions of townspeople in terms of private houses and commercial
facilities. They used primary materials to paint a vivid picture of the
multiple relationships and historical change in specific societies, and
so provide concrete counter-evidence against the stereotyped view of
the ‘Islamic city’.5
As to studies on Damascus, historians, exploiting these precious
sources, examined in detail previously hidden aspects of social ‘reality’
in the city; e.g. ‘Abdul-Karim Rafeq’s study on the social and
economic structure of the Bab al-Musalla quarter; Jean-Paul Pascual’s
study of the urban expansion of Damascus at the end of the sixteenth
century; Brigitte Marino’s study on al-Midan district; Toru Miura’s
study on the Salihiyya quarter and ‘Abd al-Razzaq Moaz’s study on the
urban fabric of the Saruja quarter. These studies are based primarily on
sharia court records.6
However, there is little comprehensive work on Damascus based
on primary sources. This is because sharia court records are not well
suited to such work. As each register is compiled from fragmentary
documents of various kinds, each of which reflects some aspects of
social ‘reality’, it is almost impossible for a single person to accumulate
all the data necessary for an analysis of macro-urbanism, meaning the
fabric of the city as a whole.7 We are firmly convinced that the tax
register of 1852 could provide a solution to the problem.

The Tax Register (Rüsum Defteri) of 1852

Since the early 1840s, at least, the city of Damascus had been divided
into eight administrative districts (thumns). The register was arranged
according to that order, that is, the districts of Qanawat, Midan
Tahtani and Midan Fawqani in a suburb south westward from the city
centre, then the districts of Shaghur, Qaymariyya and ‘Amara in the
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 169
walled city, and the districts of Suq Saruja and Salihiyya in a suburb
north westward. Each district was composed of a number of quarters
(mahallas), and district administration was under the charge of its
council. The district council of ‘Amara, for example, had seven
members: a chairman (ra’is majlis thumn), a deputy (mu‘awin), an imam,
and the headmen (mukhtars) of the four quarters of al-‘Amara
al-Juwwaniyya, Bab al-Barid, Mazz al-Qasab, and al-‘Amara
al-Barraniyya.8
Aghas of the district (aghawat al-thumn) provided for public security
and law enforcement. These aghas were originally commanders or
officers of various military troops, for example, the Janissary corps
stationed in the province of Damascus. After these troops were
abolished by the sultan Mahmud II, the aghas banded closely together
from ties of mutual interest, that is to say, anti-reform, and they
formed a social group of aghas in the latter half of the 1820s.9 At the
beginning of the Tanzimat period, dominant aghas, who had
succeeded in solidifying a power base around their residential area,
were incorporated into the Ottoman administrative institutions as
local security authorities. A commander of these aghas was elected in
each district by agreement of the aghas and appointed officially by the
provincial council of Damascus (majlis shura wilaya al-Sham). For
example, upon the death in 1842 of Hasan Haydar Agha, agha of the
district of Suq Saruja, sixteen aghas of the district elected Sa‘id Agha
Rimahi as a new commander, and the provincial council gave its
official approval. These aghas were also engaged in collecting taxes
and weapons in the district.10
The tax register of Damascus was drawn up in 1852 for the purpose
of new taxation, and contains 25,602 entries of data about all taxable
real estate in Damascus and its suburbs in the 1850s, e.g. shops,
warehouses, workshops, residences, orchards. The register was
arranged by the provincial council, based on each district council’s
assessment of property. This register is of great size (75.5 x 17.5 cm)
and volume (482 pages). Almost every part of the register consists of a
list of taxable establishments, its first part showing the shops
(dukkans), belonging to the market of Darwishiyya in the district of
Qanawat. Here we find 5 wood turners’ (kharrat) shops, 2 cafés, 2
shops for Persian tobacco (tunbakji), an oven for roasting coffee beans
(mahmas qahwa), a dairy product (ghalla halib) shop, and a vegetable
(khudari) shop.11 This market is at the centre of the city, a crossing
point of the main north-south and east-west streets, and thus places of
information exchange and social intercourse such as cafés and public
baths were more likely to be concentrated there.
The last few pages are damaged due to humidity. On the last page
important information, such as the provincial council’s report
addressed to the central government in Istanbul, is mostly unreadable.
170 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
This report supposedly contains information about tax assessment
and problems. Fortunately the date of the report is clear and shows
when the register was established, that is, around 4 Rabi‘ al-Awwal
1269/16 December 1852.12
The register’s content is arranged by district, and each district is
divided into an agricultural, industrial and commercial area (maghaliq)13
and a residential area (buyut). This theoretically covers all real estate
except tax-exempt property such as mosques, madrasas, churches,
synagogues, law courts, public offices etc.
The most problematic point relates to the historical background of
why the real estate survey was conducted in Damascus in the 1850s.
According to the catalogue of the Maliyeden Müdevver Tasnifi, to
which the register now belongs, the purpose of the register is to collect
a fixed assets tax every year from shops, houses, cafés, public baths,
workshops, orchards and farms, located at places, main streets, routes
and so on, in order to extend the water system running under the
citadel of Damascus.14
According to a contemporary chronicle by al-shaykh Muhammad
Sa‘id al-Ustuwani, published recently in Damascus, and some
documents preserved in Istanbul,15 the water system running under
the Umayyad Mosque (the same system as under the citadel) was
surely repaired and extended at this time. It is not a new idea that the
Ottoman Empire levied taxes for repairing water systems. For
example, in the city of Aleppo at the beginning of the nineteenth
century, a tax named salyan was collected every six months from each
quarter for repairing the water system, and in 1819 the Aleppines
revolted against the tax. 16 The introduction of this salyan tax to
Damascus was tried twice, at the end of the 1820s and in 1831, but
both attempts were in vain due to revolts by Damascenes.17
In the Ottoman Empire, townspeople traditionally pay two taxes:
ihtisab, a tax on industrial and commercial activities, and avarızhane, a
tax on housing. Since the beginning of the nineteenth century,
however, the taxation system had changed slightly, because the central
government suffered permanently from a lack of fiscal resources.
Under the sultan Mahmud II, collection of ihtisab was transferred to
the newly established Ministry of İhtisab in 1826.18
The tax of 1852 was apparently different from the ihtisab of 1827-8;
ihtisab tax was levied on industrial and commercial establishments
only, but the tax of 1852 applied to all real estate, including farm lands
and houses. Also, the total tax ran up to 1,051,600 qursh, far greater
than the tax of 1827-8.19 What is the exact name of the tax, rüsum or
another name? A contemporary French source reported that a new tax
named werko was introduced to Aleppo and that the tax rate was 11
qursh 26 para per 100 qursh of yearly rental fee (tax rate: 11.65%). As
the date of introduction, content, and tax rate of rüsum are just the
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 171
same to this werko tax,20 we can understand that the exact tax name
was werko, vergü or vergi, not rüsum, and thus reasonably conclude that
the register name is also vergü defteri or vergi defteri, not rüsum
defteri.
Although the tax rate is clear, we do not know how the yearly rental
fee was evaluated. That the tax fee of real estate designated as waqf
property is relatively lower than for milk property suggests a potential
tax cut for the former. The highest yearly rental fee is 12,000 qursh,
levied on an orchard (bustan) in the district of Salihiyya. There are 22
cases of yearly rental fees of more than 8,000 qursh: 7 orchards, 6
public baths, 5 mills (tahuns), 2 khans, an oil mill (ma‘sara) and a
house.21
Sauvaget’s Model of a Quarter Reconsidered

Sauvaget’s quarter model, as it appears in his article about the

developmental pattern of the city of Damascus, is one of the most
famous in the field of Islamic urban studies. Although he did not use
the term ‘Islamic’, researchers tended to cite his model as an example
of a quarter model for the ‘Islamic city’.22 He explained the pattern of
the historical development of Damascus chronologically:

(i) the primitive city originated as an Aramean colony,

(ii) the Greco-Roman city,
(iii) the Umayyad period,
(iv) the medieval city, where he indicated the quarter model,
(v) the Atabeg and Ayyubid period,
(vi) the Mamluk period,
(vii) the Ottoman period, and
(viii) the modern city.23

He described his quarter model as follows:

La ville se présente désormais sous l’aspect d’une juxtaposition

de quartiers (hāra) formant autant de compartiments étanches,
vivant chacun de leur vie particulière à l’écart de leurs voisins.
Chacun de ces quartiers est comme une ville en miniature, ayant
sa mosquée, son dispositif d’adduction d’eau, son bain public,
son petit bazar (sweyqa) où l’on trouve les denrées et objets de
première nécessité...; il a son chef responsable (cheykh) et sa
police (le veilleur qui, la nuit, reconnait ceux qui se présentent),
jusqu’à ses fortifications (les portes) et son armée (ahdāt; les
hommes appartenant à la milice corporative).24

He stated that as a result of wars and social disorders, the city of

172 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Damascus in medieval times became divided by quarters, distinct
from each other, and every quarter was as if ‘a city in miniature’ (that is,
a small city), with a mosque, a water system, a public bath and a small
market where inhabitants could find food and other necessities. Such
a quarter was under the responsibility of a shaykh and protected by
quarter gates and a popular militia. Apparently his argument is
influenced by the model of the commune of medieval Europe, and he
considered the guilds and the residential quarters as being responsible
for self-government in the ‘Islamic city’.25
Although his model of a quarter in medieval Damascus seems to
have considerable persuasive power, a methodological issue can be
raised here. He adopted historical terms like shaykh, ahdath or hara
from historical sources in medieval times and adopted the public bath,
mosque, small market, bakery, fountain and hundred houses from the
field survey of the 1930s, and then he combined them in one model
despite the approximately one-thousand-year gap between them. To
the Orientalist, ‘an immobilized or unproductive quality’ in Oriental
societies is a major premise, where ‘the very possibility of
development, transformation, human movement—in the deepest
sense of the word—is denied the Orient and the Oriental’,26 but we
cannot accept such a premise.
Sauvaget adopted a quarter (hara) at the city centre (Al-Naqqashat,
east of the Grand Umayyad Mosque) in the 1930s as a model of a
quarter in medieval times. According to this model, there are two
quarter entrances to the northeast and southwest (he does not clearly
indicate any quarter gate). There is also a public bath, a mosque, a
small market, a bakery and a fountain, as well as about one hundred
houses, all of whose doors faced a quarter path inside instead of a
main street outside. The facilities in his model seem to have existed in
the 1930s, but until now no one has confirmed how long each type of
facility had existed there. Note the difference between the Naqqashat
quarter recorded in the register of 1852 and that of the 1930s indicated
in Sauvaget’s model. In the first register, we cannot find the public
bath at the north end. We may conclude that in the Naqqashat quarter
a public bath did not exist until 1917 or later, because Wulzinger and
Watzinger record the same building as the mausoleum of al-shaykh
Salih al-Dasuqi in 1917. 27 Our observation is supported by the
distribution of public baths in Damascus, because their number was
fixed at 58 throughout the nineteenth century and they were located
along the line of the main streets where the water systems also ran. In
general, it is difficult to suppose any public bath inside a closed quarter
in point of water supply, repair and maintenance of water pipes.
Our observations fit not only the public bath but also the other
facilities, except for the mosque and fountain. A bakery and a small
market are not recorded in the register, even though those facilities are
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 173
to be found outside the quarter; near to the north-east end of the
quarter was the market of Qaymariyya street where there were 4
bakeries and 11 shops offering foodstuffs, with 192 shops that offered
various commodities and services. Most important, no shop is found
in the Naqqashat quarter, because it was regarded as a residential area,
neither commercial nor residential-commercial.28
We can hardly get any information about mosques or fountains in
the register, because both were tax-exempt facilities. According to
Wulzinger and Watzinger, in 1917 Sauvaget’s ‘mosque’ was a
mausoleum, and the location of the fountain is slightly different. But
these facilities seem to be necessary to the people for daily life, even
though the quarter is very near the Grand Umayyad Mosque. Here we
can stop and confirm that no public bath, bakery, or small market
existed in that quarter in the middle of the nineteenth century. It is
worth mentioning, in passing, that these facilities nowadays no longer
exist. Sauvaget’s quarter model may well be reconsidered not only as a
model for quarters in the medieval period, but as a provisional
conclusion, at least, it should be reconsidered critically and should not
be adopted as a model for the Ottoman period. Although some
historians have adopted his model as a quarter model for the Ottoman
period, its adoption requires circumspection.29
It may be stated as a conclusion that quarters in late Ottoman
Damascus from the nineteenth century to the end of Ottoman rule,
were not cities in miniature, but rather complicated entities intricately
intertwined with the other quarters. Each quarter was enclosed as
private residential space, equipped with a mosque and a fountain.
Each kept a community spirit not only for the sake of a social life on
the occasion of ceremonies such as marriages and funerals, but also to
maintain an administrative unit for purposes like taxation.
Management of the quarter, however, had already been transferred
from a shaykh to a mukhtar and an imam, both lowly positions in the
administrative sense. 30 The military organization of medieval
communes like ahdath or zu‘r had disappeared in days long gone, and
the military and police system was the responsibility of the aghas of
the district, whose jurisdiction covered the entire district, beyond each
quarter. People of each quarter went out of the quarter gate towards a
market on the main street to get food and other essentials. It was not a
commune but a quarter in the terminal position in the municipal
hierarchy, that is, city - district - quarter.31

Agricultural, Industrial and Commercial Areas

in Late Ottoman Damascus

Here we would like to consider the geographical distribution of

agricultural, industrial and commercial areas in late Ottoman
174 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Damascus. According to previous studies, the social and economic
structure of Ottoman Damascus can, to some extent, be characterized
in terms of districts. The northwest area of the intramural part was the
commercial heart of the city, because a custom-house and markets
dealing in precious metals like gold and silver, valuables, and textile
goods were concentrated there. The khans (caravansaries) were
particularly regarded as symbolic of this area, because about 75% of
them were concentrated there. 32 This area overlapped with the
commercial areas of both the ‘Amara and Shaghur districts. The
eastern area of the intramural part was regarded as a residential area,
where Christians and Jews lived and no distinct industry or commerce
existed. This area overlapped with the district of Qaymariyya.33 Near
to the northwest and western area of the intramural part, outside the
citadel, were markets dealing in harnesses, arms, horses and fresh
foods, as well as many residences of military officers and high-ranking
officials dispatched from the central government. This area
overlapped with the districts of Suq Saruja and Qanawat.34 The south
of the city was regarded as an area for supplying grain and meat,
because it was connected with a grain- and meat-producing hinterland,
the Hawran plain. This area was characterized by a grain warehouse
named ba’ika,35 and overlapped with the districts of Midan Tahtani
and Midan Fawqani. There were houses of peasants and Bedouins
migrating from neighbouring areas, and residences of aghas who
controlled the grain trade of the city.36 The district of Salihiyya, located
at the foot of Mount Qasiyun, was regarded as a town of Islamic
scholars. Here also, no particular industry or commerce has been
observed.37
Although the agricultural, industrial and commercial pattern in
nineteenth century Damascus, as outlined above, seems very plausible,
we must be careful not to create stereotypes. So, here we will first take
a bird's-eye view of agricultural, industrial and commercial activities by
district and then reconsider the industrial structure as a whole by
focusing on khans, cribs, mills, and grain warehouses.
From this perspective, all data in the register can be classified under
four divisions:

(i) Agriculture
(ii) Manufacturing industries
(iii) Wholesale and retail trade
(iv) Others

They are divided into eighteen categories: (a) crops and (b) livestock
and animal specialties under Agriculture; (c) food, (d) tobacco, coffee
and beverages, (e) textile, (f) lumber and wood, (g) chemicals and allied
products, (h) leather and leather goods, (i) stone, clay, glass and bricks,
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 175
(j) metal products, (k) accessory, and (l ) miscellaneous manufacturing
under Manufacturing Industries; (m) foodstuffs, (n) miscellaneous
goods, and (o) unclassifiable products under Wholesale and Retail
Trade; and (p) banking, (q) miscellaneous services, and (r)
unclassifiable establishments under Others. (See Tables 1-3)
Some entries classified under the division of the Manufacturing
Industries involve retail trades as well. For example, many producers
of damask (alaja), which was one of the most famous products of the
textile mills in Damascus at that time, were also engaged in its trade.
The total of entries recorded is 11,412.38 ‘Amara and Shaghur have
the largest numbers, 2,175 and 2,170 each, followed by Qaymariyya
(1,675). 68.6% of crop production took place in Salihiyya and Shaghur,
and 51.3% of livestock and animal specialties in Midan Fawqani and
Qaymariyya. Characteristic figures are observed in tobacco, coffee and
beverages in Suq Saruja (22.9%), textile mill products in Qaymariyya
(32.1%), lumber and wood products in ‘Amara (46.3%), chemicals and
allied products in Qanawat (51.1%), leather and leather goods in
‘Amara (36.1%) and Suq Saruja (30.3%). 44.3% of stone, clay, glass
and brick production took place in Suq Saruja and ‘Amara. Also metal
products were specialised in Suq Saruja (39.9%), accessories in ‘Amara
(98.9%), miscellaneous manufacturing in Shaghur (61.4%), wholesale
and retail trade of foodstuffs in Salihiyya (19.6%), miscellaneous
goods in Suq Saruja (30.1%). 74.8% of wholesale and retail trade of
unclassifiable products and 87.5% of banking are concentrated in
Shaghur and ‘Amara.
The largest share of Qaymariyya in textiles shows that this district
was the centre of textile manufacturing. The banking business and
wholesale and retail trade of unclassifiable products were oligopolistic
in Shaghur and ‘Amara. Salihiyya had more than 40% of crops and
many entries related to wholesale and retail trade of foodstuffs. 39
‘Amara and Suq Saruja had four characteristic categories, (lumber and
wood products, leather and leather goods, stone, clay, glass and bricks,
and miscellaneous services). Also ‘Amara was distinguished in the
category of accessories, and Suq Saruja in metal products. Over half of
chemicals and allied industries were characteristically located in
Qanawat.
Next we examine what categories were dominant inside each
district (See Tables 1 and 3). Almost all districts had many entries
related to textiles, foods, and foodstuffs. Even in Midan Fawqani,
almost half of the entries related to textiles (30.7%) and food (17.3%)
products, which means that economic activities inside Midan Fawqani
were actually specialized. The only exception is Salihiyya, where
entries engaged in textile productions were few, and crops and
wholesale and retail trade of foodstuffs were high.
Next we examine some aspects of the social and economic
176 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
structure by focusing on khans, cribs, mills, and grain warehouses. The
number of khans recorded in the register was 182, among which khans
located in the northwest area of the intramural part was only 28,
indicating that the ratio of khans in the central area was actually 15%,
not 75%. We should treat the term ‘khan’ carefully, however, because
khan did not always mean caravansary, but covered wider institutions
such as cribs (khan marbat dawabb) or textile factories equipped with
looms (anwal). If we exclude cribs and factories from those khans and
regard the rest as caravansaries, the number was 68, among which
khans located in the northwest area of the intramural part were 24.
Even in this case, the percentage is 35%, far lower than the 75% of the
previous study, even though khans located in the central area were
relatively large scale. Generally speaking, khans can be classified as
caravansaries, textile factories, or cribs. Caravansaries were most likely
to be in ‘Amara, Shaghur, and Suq Saruja. In the district of
Qaymariyya, apparently there was a concentration of textile factories
instead of caravansaries. Surprisingly, khans used as cribs were
concentrated in Qaymariyya and Suq Saruja, rather than Midan
Tahtani and Midan Fawqani. The total number of cribs, including the
other small ones, was 275. The number of cribs in Qaymariyya (69)
and in Midan Fawqani (72) was about same. As cribs of the former
were more likely to be large scale, we see that the role Qaymariyya
played in the category of livestock and animal specialties was more
important than that of Midan, contrary to the conclusions of the
previous study.
A mill at that time was a place where wheat was ground into flour,
and mills had an intermediate position in the circulation of bread.
They were located beside rivers for the power supply. According to
the register, the city had 75 mills, among them 22 in the district of
‘Amara and 26 in Salihiyya. The Barada River runs through the former,
and the rivers of Yazid and Thawra through the latter. Those two
districts played an important role in the circulation of bread. In
addition, dye houses (masbaghas) and tanneries (dibaghas) were
concentrated in ‘Amara.
As mentioned above, a typical grain warehouse of Damascus is
called ba’ika, which originally meant a fat female camel, on account of
its shape being similar to a sitting camel.40 The register shows the city
with 708 of such buildings, among them 222 in the district of Salihiyya.
This supports the conclusion that Salihiyya was heavily engaged in
agriculture and the wholesale and retail trade of foodstuffs. The
reason Salihiyya had the majority of such warehouses was not only
that this area had a lot of mills, but also that it was at a carry-in
entrance for grain from the Biqa‘ high plain. Small-scale warehouses
rather than large-scale khans or granaries (makhzans) seem to have
been preferred, because this area was on a slope.
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 177
All these findings raise questions about the role of the Midan area in
the circulation of grain, because there were only 139 warehouses
located in Midan Tahtani and Midan Fawqani. Salihiyya reasonably
played a greater role than Midan in production, stock, and milling.
Contrary to common belief,41 Salihiyya was important to Damascus’s
food supply.

The Geographical Distribution of Residential Areas

in Late Ottoman Damascus

Let us now discuss the geographical distribution of residential areas.

The city of Damascus in 1852 was composed of 189 quarters, with
14,869 houses.42 On average, a quarter had about 80 houses. The
number of houses differed by quarters, ranging from 8 to 537 per
quarter.43
Average rent value also differed greatly: the minimum was the
Akrad quarter of Salihiyya, 40 qursh, and the maximum was the
Tali‘ al-Fidda quarter of Qaymariyya, 1,053 qursh. The difference
seems related to the accessibility of the city centre and large markets,
floor space, or water facilities. The Akrad quarter was located on a
slope and farthest from the city centre. An imbalance between the
number of houses (537) and the size of the neighbouring market (25)
also seems to have affected the value. The market was composed of 2
shoemakers (surmayati, jazmati), 2 animal doctors (baytar), a vegetable
shop, a fruit shop (fakihani), a butcher (lahham), a seller of raisins
(zabib), a perfumer/druggist (‘attar), 11 other shops, 2 oil presses and 3
storehouses. There was no bakery or public bath. On the other hand,
the Tali‘ al-Fidda quarter was in the intramural area and was a safe
place. Water was adequate because of the Qanawat River, and a public
bath was reasonably near. In addition, the quarter is located at a
crossing of two main commercial streets, Bab Tuma and Bab Sharqi.
These factors seem to have increased the average rent. Of course,
there were a few exceptions. For example, the Naqqashat quarter was
in the city centre and accessible to large markets and public baths, yet
its average rent was only 201 qursh. Possibly water supply and floor
space affected its value. The rent of the Jura quarter of Qaymariyya
was also relatively low, supposedly due to a bad smell and poor water
quality, both caused by dye houses and tanneries.
Let us consider a general aspect of residential distribution of the city
by classifying quarters into four classes according to average rent: (1)
less than 250 qursh, (2) more than 250 and less than 500, (3) more than
500 and less than 1,000, (4) more than 1,000.
At first, the average rent in the intramural quarters tended to be
higher. Security, accessibility to the city centre and large markets and
water facilities seem to have affected it, as in the case of the
178 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Tali‘ al-Fidda quarter. Even at that time, the city wall had some
importance; for example, average rents in the intramural quarters of
‘Amara and Shaghur were higher than average rents in the extramural
quarters of both districts. The remoter a quarter was from the city
centre, the cheaper its average rent tended to be. Some quarters can be
grouped together around a core quarter by rent fee. For example, a
group of quarters, whose core was the quarters of Mufti and Jawza
al-Hudaba of Suq Saruja, is of this type, in which the average rent fee
of the two quarters was higher than that of the surrounding quarters.
This was also the case for the quarters of Tali‘ al-Fidda of Qaymariyya,
Mahmas of Midan Tahtani, and Na‘ir of Midan Fawqani.
These findings indicate that, in the mid-nineteenth century,
although the walls no longer served as fortifications, the average rent
in intramural quarters was apparently higher than that in extramural
quarters. This seems to have been the situation until the end of the
century when a new civic centre was formed around the Marja square
to the west of the citadel and modern or European city planning
started from there. Thus, we can say that geographical distribution of
residential areas at that time indicates the final state of the ‘traditional
city’ before the modern urbanization.

Concluding Remarks

About seventy years ago, Sauvaget presented a model, which made a

strong impression on historians, who accepted it as an ‘Islamic’
quarter model, in the same way that they accepted von Grunebaum’s
‘Islamic’ city model. Both models gained a wide acceptance and have
been treated as authoritative. However, our observations of the 1852
register allow us to criticize Sauvaget’s model. Basically public and
commercial facilities were distributed along by the main streets and/or
streets of secondary importance. As a historical phenomenon, the
nature of, and changes in the quarters in the city of Damascus is a
highly complicated issue, and we should proceed cautiously.
These findings demonstrate that we must once again consider the
social and economic structure of Damascus from primary sources. In
particular, the register of 1852 is an important source for this
re-evaluation. We have first of all confirmed that the basic industries
of Damascus in the middle of the nineteenth century were still textile
mill products, food products and foodstuffs. Secondly, we recovered
the unknown role of Salihiyya in Damascus’ food supply. Detailed
analysis of economic activities will provide a better understanding of
agricultural, industrial and commercial structures in the city.44
We should notice that our analyses are provisional and rigidly
applicable to the urban fabric of Damascus in the middle of
nineteenth century only. A full understanding of its historic fabric
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 179
awaits more detailed analyses of its urban fabric in different periods
and more careful comparative studies. Particularly the urban
development of Damascus since the last quarter of the nineteenth
century and its change under the French rule need further
examination.
Table 1. Number of Economic Establishments in Damascus in 1852

Category/District Qanawat Midan Midan Shaghur Qaymariyya ‘Amara Suq Salihiyya Total
Tahtani Fawqani Saruja
Agriculture Crops 111 1 187 1 109 2 301 712
Livestock & 8 34 72 22 69 28 31 11 275
Animal pecialities
Manufacturing Food 192 170 122 145 188 147 221 115 1300
Industries Tobacco, Coffee 67 37 14 45 34 62 83 20 362
& Beverages
Textiles 108 185 217 356 599 221 164 15 1865
Lumber & Wood 38 39 16 31 17 169 45 10 365
Chemicals & 23 3 9 4 4 2 45
Allied Products
Leather & 46 126 17 42 2 274 230 21 758
Leather Goods
Stone, Clay, 9 23 8 12 11 28 30 10 131
Glass & Bricks
Metals Products 32 45 13 14 14 23 97 5 243
Accessories 88 1 89
Miscellaneous 3 9 3 215 2 66 45 7 350
Wholesale & Foodstuffs 155 137 92 154 167 205 139 255 1304
Retail Trade Miscellaneous 2 19 7 13 14 6 28 4 93
Unclassifiable 50 91 15 620 106 517 118 2 1519
Others Banking 7 7 2 16
Miscellaneous 44 34 22 34 30 58 72 21 315
Unclassifiable 271 313 89 264 417 163 66 87 1670
Total 1159 1266 707 2170 1675 2175 1375 885 11412

Source: BOA, MAD no.22733

Table 2. Distribution of Economic Establishments by Districts in Damascus in 1852 (percent)

Category/District Qanawat Midan Midan Shaghur Qaymariyya ‘Amara Suq Salihiyya Total
Tahtani Fawqani Saruja
Agriculture Crops 15.6 0.1 26.3 0.1 15.3 0.3 42.3 100
Livestock & 2.9 12.4 2.2 8.0 25.1 10.2 11.3 4.0 100
Animal specialities
Manufacturing Food 14.8 13.1 9.4 11.2 14.5 11.3 17.0 8.8 100
Industries Tobacco, Coffee & 18.5 10.2 3.9 12.4 9.4 17.1 22.9 5.5 100
Beverages
Textiles 5.8 9.9 11.6 19.1 32.1 11.8 8.8 0.8 100
Lumber & Wood 10.4 10.7 4.4 8.5 4.7 46.3 12.3 2.7 100
Chemicals & Allied 51.1 6.7 20.0 8.9 8.9 4.4 100
Products
Leather & 6.1 16.6 2.2 5.5 0.3 36.1 30.3 2.8 100
Leather Goods
Stone, Clay, 6.9 17.6 6.1 9.2 8.4 21.4 22.9 7.6 100
Glass & Bricks
Metals Products 13.2 18.5 5.3 5.8 5.8 9.5 39.9 2.1 100
Accessories 98.9 1.1 100
Miscellaneous 0.9 2.6 0.9 61.4 0.6 18.9 12.9 2.0 100
Wholesale & Foodstuffs 11.9 10.5 7.1 11.8 12.8 15.7 10.7 19.6 100
Retail Trade Miscellaneous 2.2 20.4 7.5 14.0 15.1 6.5 30.1 4.3 100
Unclassifiable 3.3 6.0 1.0 40.8 7.0 34.0 7.8 0.1 100
Others Banking 43.8 43.8 12.5 100
Miscellaneous 14.0 10.8 7.0 10.8 9.5 18.4 22.9 6.7 100
Unclassifiable 16.3 18.8 5.4 15.9 25.1 9.8 4.0 5.2 100
Total 10.2 11.1 6.2 19.0 14.7 19.1 12.0 7.8 100

Source: BOA, MAD no.22733

Table 3. Distribution of Economic Establishments in Each District in Damascus in 1852 (percent)

Category/District Qanawat Midan Midan Shaghur Qaymariyya ‘Amara Suq Salihiyya Total
Tahtani Fawqani Saruja
Agriculture Crops 9.6 0.1 8.6 0.1 5.0 0.1 34.0 6.2
Livestock & 0.7 2.7 10.2 1.0 4.1 1.3 2.3 1.2 2.4
Animal specialities
Manufacturing Food 16.6 13.4 17.3 6.7 11.2 6.8 16.1 13.0 11.4
Industries Tobacco, Coffee 5.8 2.9 2.0 2.1 2.0 2.9 6.0 2.3 3.2
& Beverages
Textiles 9.3 14.6 30.7 16.4 35.8 10.2 11.9 1.7 16.3
Lumber & Wood 3.3 3.1 2.3 1.4 1.0 7.8 3.3 1.1 3.2
Chemicals & Allied 2.0 0.2 0.4 0.2 0.2 0.1 0.4
Products
Leather & 4.0 10.0 2.4 1.9 0.1 12.6 16.7 2.4 6.6
Leather Goods
Stone, Clay, 0.8 1.8 1.1 0.6 0.7 1.3 2.2 1.1 1.1
Glass & Bricks
Metals Products 2.8 3.6 1.8 0.6 0.8 1.1 7.1 0.6 2.1
Accessories 4.0 0.1 0.8
Miscellaneous 0.3 0.7 0.4 9.9 0.1 3.0 3.3 0.8 3.1
Wholesale & Foodstuffs 13.4 10.8 13.0 7.1 10.0 9.4 10.1 28.8 11.4
Retail Trade Miscellaneous 0.2 1.5 1.0 0.6 0.8 0.3 2.0 0.5 0.8
Unclassifiable 4.3 7.2 2.1 28.6 6.3 23.8 8.6 0.2 13.3
Others Banking 0.3 0.3 0.1 0.1
Miscellaneous 3.8 2.7 3.1 1.6 1.8 2.7 5.2 2.4 2.8
Unclassifiable 23.4 24.7 12.6 12.2 24.9 7.5 4.8 9.8 14.6
Total 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100

Source: BOA, MAD no.22733

 The Development of Ottoman Towns 183

Notes
1 Eldem, E., D. Goffman and B. Masters, The Ottoman city between east and west
(Cambridge, 1999), 1.
2 Haneda, M. and T. Miura (eds.), Islamic urban studies: Historical review and perspectives
(London, 1994), 3, 84, 88.
3 Kremer, A. V., Topographie von Damaskus (Wien, 1855). Wulzinger, K. and C.
Watzinger, Damaskus, Die islamische Stadt, Berlin, 1924. Sauvaget, J. ‘Esquisse d’une
histoire de la ville de Damas,’ Revue des Études Islamiques, 8 (1934), 421-80.
4 Ibid. 87-8.
5 Ibid. 91.
6 Rafeq, A-K., ‘The social and economic structure of Bab-al-Musalla (al-Midan),
Damascus, 1825-1875,’ in Arab civilization: Challenges and responses, ed. G. N. Atiyeh
and I. M. Oweiss, (New York, 1988), 272-311. Marino, B., Le faubourg du Midan à
Damas à l’époque ottomane: Espace urbain, société et habitat (1742-1830) (Damas, 1997).
Miura, T., ‘Formality and reality in shari‘a court records: Socio-economic relations in
the Salihiyya quarter of nineteenth century Damascus’, The Memoirs of the Toyo Bunko,
59 (2001), 109-41. Moaz, ‘A., ‘The urban fabric of an extramural quarter in
19th-century Damascus’, in ed. Philipp, T. and B. Schaebler, The Syrian land: Processes
of integration and fragmentation: Bilad al-Sham from the 18th to the 20th century, (Stuttgart,
1998), 165-83.
7 Regarding possibilities and limitations of sharia court records, see Ze’evi, D., ‘The
use of Ottoman shari‘a court records as a source for Middle Eastern social history: A
reappraisal’, Islamic Law and Society, 5-1 (1998), 35-56.
8 Markaz al-Watha’iq al-Tarikhiyya [MWT], Mahakim Shar‘iyya [MSh], Dimashq 525,
1.
9 Regarding aghas as a social group, see Okawara, T. ‘Formation of the Aghawat
stratum in Damascus,’ Annals of Japan Association of Middle East Studies (AJAMES), 7
(1992), 39-84 (in Japanese). Schilcher, L. S., Families in politics (Stuttgart, 1985).
10 MWT, Awamir Sultaniyya [AS], Dimashq 5, 249 no.309. Many examples of the
aghas’ engagement in collecting taxes are found in a minute of the district council of
‘Amara. MWT, MSh, Dimashq 525.
11 The register is now preserved in the Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arişvi [BOA] in
Istanbul, Turkey and classified in Maliyeden Müdevver [MAD] no.22733. From a
comparative viewpoint, there are also important studies done by Pascual who
studied commercial facilities in Damascus using the ihtisab tax register of 1827-8.
Pascual, J.-P. 2001. ‘Boutiques, ateliers et corps de métiers à Damas d’après un
dénombrement effectué en 1827-28,’ in Études sur les villes du Proche-orient XVIe-XIXe
siècle, Damas, 177-99.
12 BOA, MAD no, 22733, 482.
13 The term ‘maghaliq (sin. mughlaq)’ means locked places.
14 BOA, MAD Defter Kataloğu.
15 Al-Ustuwani, M. S., Mashahid wa ahdath dimashqiyya fi muntasaf al-qarn al-tasi‘a ‘ashara
1256-1277.AH./1840-1861.AD. (Dimashq, 1994), 155-8. BOA, Irade, Dahiliye
16969.
16 Regarding the revolt, see Kuroki, H., ‘Social relations in an urban disturbance:
Aleppo, 1819-20,’ AJAMES, 3-1(1993), 1-59 (in Japanese).
17 Regarding the process, see Anonymous, Mudhakkirat tarikhiyya ‘an hamla Ibrahim
Basha ‘ala Suriya, ed. A. Gh. Sabbanu, (Dimashq, n.d.), 22-40.
18 The salyan tax is possibly same as ihtisab tax, because both taxes were levied on
commercial facilities. Kazıcı, Z., Osmanlılarda Ihtisab Müessesesi (İstanbul, 1987),
188-92.
184 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

19 According to Pascual, the total amount of ihtisab tax in 1827-28 was 21,549 para,
which is equivalent to 538 qursh 29 para only, however the ihtisab tax of 1828
registered in sharia court records preserved in MWT is 19,741 qursh. MWT, AS 4,
no.4.
20 Rafeq, A.K., ‘The impact of Europe on a traditional economy: The case of
Damascus, 1840-1870,’ in J. L. Bacqué-Grammont and P. Dumont (eds.), Économie et
sociétés dans l’émpire ottoman (fin du XVIIIe-début du XXe siècle) (Paris, 1983), 430.
21 BOA, MAD 22733, 16-18, 126, 181, 200, 244, 286, 336-7, 343, 389, 440-1. It may
be said in passing that the house was a residence of the ‘Azms, the most eminent
notable family in Damascus.
22 The notion of the ‘Islamic city’ came into use when von Grunebaum published
‘The structure of the Muslim town.’ He stated that, unlike ancient Greek and
medieval Western European cities, which were—as Max Weber pointed
out—integrated politically by the self-government of the citizens themselves,
Islamic cities allowed the free entry and exit of people of different occupations and
social classes, and a specified form of citizenship did not emerge. Islam is the
‘religion of the townspeople,’ and only in towns with a congregational Friday
mosque (jami‘) could the religious duties of a Muslim and Islamic social ideas be
completely fulfilled. We can find earlier studies related to the concept of the ‘Islamic
city’ that influenced von Grunebaum’s thesis. Sauvaget’s argument of a mosaic
society also contributed to the theory to some extent; that is, the quarters and guilds
were communes but the city as a whole lacked unity.
Scholars from various fields, including geography, sociology, cultural
anthropology and architecture, have had heated discussions about the ‘Islamic city.’
Japanese scholars also contributed with a symposium held in Tokyo in 1989,
‘Urbanism in Islam.’ Scholars nowadays, however, prefer to use terms such as ‘Arab
city,’ ‘Syrian city,’ or ‘Ottoman city.’ For example, A. Raymond concludes in his
article reviewing ‘Islamic urban studies,’ as follows; ‘For the time being, it is wise to
resort to the notion of a traditional city marked by ‘regional’ aspects (Arab in the
Mediterranean domain, Irano-Afghan and Turkish), but naturally fashioned in depth
by the Muslim population that organized it and lived in it (with its beliefs,
institutions, and customs, all profoundly impregnated with Islam): it is the most
prudent approach we can suggest.’ See Raymond, A. ‘Islamic city, Arab city:
Orientalist myths and recent views,’ in British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 21-1
(1994), 18.
23 Sauvaget, op.cit.
24 Sauvaget, op.cit. 230.
25 Ibid. 87-8.
26 Said, E., Orientalism (New York, 1979), 208.
27 Wulzinger and Watzinger, op.cit. 127-8. Sack also ignores Sauvaget’s public bath.
Sack, op.cit. 19.
28 Also to judge from the circulation of bread in Damascus, his opinion that a bakery
was located inside the quarter is very curious. Abdel Nour, A., Introduction à l’histoire
urbaine de la Syrie ottomane (XVIe-XVIIIe siècle), Beirouth, 1982, 232-9.
29 For example, H. A. R. Gibb and H. Bowen described a city in the Ottoman period
as follows: ‘the urban area was subdivided into a large number of separate quarters,
called hara, each self-contained, with its own communal buildings (mosque, bath,
market) and its own gates, by which it asserted and maintained its separate
existence.’ See Gibb, H. A. R. and H. Bowen, Islamic society and the west, vol.1, part 1,
London, 1950, 279. Another example is a study of the urban fabric of Cairo, which
uses Sauvaget’s quarter model as a hara model in eighteenth-century Cairo and
stated that each hara formed a self-contained small world. Hayashi, T., Politics and
societies in the modern Arab world (Tokyo, 1974), 152-62 (in Japanese).
 The Development of Ottoman Towns 185

30 The introduction of the mukhtar system is apparently related to the ihtisab tax.
Shaw stated ‘(s)oon afterward, as part of the new census structure that Mahmut (II)
was building up for tax and conscription purpose, local mayors (muhtar) or
lieutenants (kâhya) were appointed in every Muslim or non-Muslim quarter of every
city of the empire, under the authority of the ihtisap ağası in Istanbul, at first to count
the people and later to enforce the clothing regulations’. Shaw, S. and E. K. Shaw,
History of the Ottoman Empire and modern Turkey, Cambridge, 1987 (rep. of 1977), 46-7.
31 ‘Allaf, A., Dimashq fi matla‘ al-qarn al- ‘ishrin, ed. ‘A. J. Nu‘aysa (Dimashq, 2nd ed.,
1983), 41-3.
32 Schilcher, op.cit. 12-14.
33 Schilcher, op.cit. 8.
34 Schilcher named this area ‘the Ottoman area.’ Schilcher, op.cit. 14-16.
35 Qasimi, S., Qamus al-sina‘at al-shamiyya, ed. Z. al-Qasimi, (Dimashq, 1988), 54.
36 Schilcher named this area ‘the localist area’. Schilcher, op.cit. 16-19.
37 Schilcher, op.cit. 12-20.
38 Although the total number of entries recorded in the register is 25,482, the
number was revised. For example, a datum recorded as ‘dukkan wa makhzan’ is
regarded as 2 establishments. In order to revise lost entries of the first part of the
district of Qanawat, 120 supposed entries had been inserted as nonclassifiable
establishments. Residential establishments (14,869) are also excluded from these
data.
39 Shaghur had 26.3% of establishments in the category of crops, where agricultural
lands were irrigated by the Qanawat River.
40 Qasimi, op.cit., 54. Such a building was sometimes used as a crib.
41 Rafeq, op.cit. 1988, 287-90. Nu‘aysa, Y. J. Mujtama‘ madina Dimashq (Dimashq,
1986), 226-9.
42 As smaller residential units (e.g. oda, tabaq) are contained in this category, the actual
total number of houses was smaller than this figure.
43 The minimum number was that of the Nuriyya quarter of Midan, and the
maximum was the Akrad quarter.
44 This paper is a part of my research project, ‘Family history study in the Middle
East based on sharia court records: Damascus from the nineteenth century to the
beginning of twentieth century,’ by a grant from the Japan Society for Promotion of
Science (JSPS).
 4
___________________________________

ARAB AND JEWISH COMMUNITIES

Cultural Ties between Istanbul and Ottoman Egypt

Michael Winter

The Mamluk Background and the Ottoman Conquest

When Egypt was the centre of the Mamluk Empire (1250-1517) its
population—predominantly Arabic-speaking—was ruled by a
Turcophone military elite. Since the end of the fourteenth century,
most of the Mamluks were Circassians. Since they spoke Turkish—
they learned that language in Egypt and Syria, as it was not their
native language—and were called by Turkish names, they were called
‘Atrak’ (Turks) in the Arabic chronicles of the time.1 Their
Turkishness was a means to mark them off from the native people
of Egypt and Syria whom they ruled. The Mamluks were devoted
Sunni Muslims and were introduced and trained in their adopted
faith by the local ‘‘ulama’, the religious scholars of Islam. Some
members of the ruling Mamluk elite were attracted to Sufi mystics of
Syria and Egypt and supported them, either because they genuinely
believed in their holiness, or because they realized that the common
people believed in them, and they manipulated these sentiments to
their political advantage. The administration in the Mamluk state was
conducted in Arabic. So the culture of Mamluk Empire was Arabic
and Islamic, in spite of the Turkish identity of the military rulers.
With the conquest of Syria and Egypt by Yavuz Selīm, the
Ottoman Sultan, in summer 1516 and early 1517, the Turkish
presence in Egypt and Syria increased dramatically. Now the former
Mamluk lands became provinces of the Ottoman Empire.2 After the
first governors in Syria and Egypt who were Mamluks, all the vâlîs
(provincial governors) were pashas who came from the centre. The
188 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
higher military command, the chief judges, the ranking bureaucrats,
the various regiments of the Ottoman garrison in Egypt—all were
Turkish- speaking men. Now Ottoman Turkish became the language
of the administration. In sheer numbers, the presence of the Turkish
speakers in Ottoman Egypt became more discernible than it had
been under the Mamluks. In the early sixteenth century, several Sufi
shaykhs arrived in Egypt from the Turkish regions, such as the well-
known mystics of the Khalwati order, Ibrāhīm Gülşenî (d.
940/1534) and Demirdāsh al-Muhammadī (d. 929/1522 or 1523).3
It is the purpose of this paper to make a general assessment of the
cultural ties and influences between the Ottoman centre (Istanbul)
and Egypt (mainly Cairo). Of course, the term ‘culture’ is too broad
and complex, and the period under discussion—from the early
sixteenth century through the eighteenth century—is too long for
generalizations. Moreover, in spite the important research that has
been done during the last decades, much more is to be learned about
the sub-field of Ottoman Egypt generally and its cultural
developments in particular. I will limit my discussion here to
language, the all-important aspects of religion, some remarks about
architecture, and questions of cultural identities in Ottoman Egypt.

Languages: Turkish and Arabic

Shams al-Din Muhammad ibn Tūlūn, the Damascene ‘ālim and

author of many important historical works about the last decades of
Mamluk rule in Syria (primarily Damascus) and the first decades of
Damascus under the Ottomans, tells that immediately after the
Ottoman conquest of Damascus, he entered the Ottoman camp
hoping to talk with his Ottoman colleagues. He was disappointed,
however, since the language barrier made any communication
impossible.4 This is understandable, despite the fact that any
educated ‘ālim must have known how to read the Arabic religious
texts. Naturally, having a conversation in Arabic was another matter.
A similar situation must have existed in Egypt, and it is possible that
language barriers caused some Egyptians, like the chronicler Ibn
Iyās, Ibn Tūlūn’s Cairene contemporary, to describe the Ottoman
qādīsas ignorant. He calls an Ottoman qādī’l-‘askar ‘more ignorant
than an ass, who does not know anything in the matters of the
Islamic law’.5
Ibn Tūlūn’s complaint is an isolated case, however. After a
while—certainly a long while—many Ottomans learned to speak and
write Arabic, in some cases on a level that won the admiration of
Arab chroniclers and biographers.6 Many Egyptians and Syrians
learned to speak Turkish. They had to—it was their masters’
language. The sources are full of information about men who
 Arab and Jewish Communities 189
travelled to Istanbul from the Syrian towns or from Cairo to make
contacts with influential men in the Ottoman capital in order to gain
a nomination (berāt, in Arabic barā’a) for a position in their own
hometown.7 In addition, as indicated above, the administration,
financial, judicial and other, was conducted in Turkish. This
necessitated the employment of personnel with good knowledge of
Turkish in Egypt, as well as in other Ottoman provinces. The
bureaucrats in the service of the Ottoman governor, the military
administration, the qādī’asker, the defterdār, and the like, knew Turkish
and very often were bilingual, with at least some knowledge of
Arabic. It is important to note that the Ottoman personnel in Egypt
resided in that country for life, especially from the seventeenth
century on. They raised families in Egypt and must have contributed
to the spread of Turkish language and culture. They were of course
loyal Ottoman subjects, but identified with Egypt, where they lived
and which they considered as their homeland, watan. A good
example is a treatise written in Turkish in the seventeenth century by
one ‘Ali Efendi, a clerk in the service of an emir, praising the
Egyptian army as devoted and well behaved while criticizing the
morality and religiosity of the kapıkulları.8
In her study of eighteenth century chronicles in Egypt, Jane
Hathaway, writes of ‘… the existence of a group of men of letters—
spearheaded, perhaps, by the children of Turkish officials on the
spot—who functioned with some facility in both languages and who
were therefore able to achieve cross-fertilization between the two
languages and the two literary traditions.’9 This is certainly
convincing as far as a certain genre of chronicles is concerned. I
would add, however, that this definition does not cover the most
important chroniclers of the eighteenth century, Ahmad Shalabī
(Çelebî) ibn ‘Abd al-Ghanī and ‘Abd al-Rahmān al-Jabartī, or before
them, Ibn Abī’l-Surūr al-Bakrī al-Siddīqī, the most important
chronicler of the seventeenth century, whose knowledge of Turkish
was very limited, and whose milieu was anything but bilingual.
Generally speaking, in Cairo there were relatively (and perhaps
even absolutely) fewer people who were bilingual than in Ottoman
Damascus or Aleppo. The matter warrants a thorough research, but
this is the impression from studying the excellent Damascene
biographical dictionaries of al-Ghazzī (for the sixteenth and the first
third of the seventeenth century), al-Muhibbī (for the seventeenth
century) and al-Murādī (for the eighteenth century).10 A not
insignificant number of the Damascus élite, definitely including not
only bureaucrats, but ‘ulama as well, were fluent both in Arabic and
Turkish. The best examples were the above-mentioned biographers
themselves, who travelled several times to Istanbul and seem to have
had frequent contacts with the governors and the qādīs of their town
190 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
and province. This kind of linguistic proficiency and the close
relations of ‘ulamā with the Ottoman ruler is not absent from
Cairo—Hasan al-Jabartī, the historian’s father, is one notable
example to show that such men could be found in Egypt as well.11
Al-Sayyid Murtadā al-Zabīdī, the famous scholar and linguist, is
another.12 (Both knew also Persian). Yet such people were very few.
The reason for this difference between Cairo and Damascus (and
Aleppo as well) lies primarily in the size of Cairo. This great city was
home to many communities of various backgrounds and it seems
that the Turkish minority in Cairo was the largest one for the reasons
that have been mentioned above. Evliyâ Çelebî, the famous traveller
who visited Egypt during the 1670s, is perhaps the best source for
the various Turkish enclaves in Cairo, but the Arabic chronicles,
particularly al-Jabartī’s ‘Ajā’ib al-āthār also provides evidence to the
same effect, although less directly13. Evliyâ, who was very much
interested in his countrymen in Cairo, and who frequently compared
Cairo to Istanbul, describes the mosques and tekkes (Sufi lodges) of
Cairo. He describes many such institutions as having Turkish
congregations (Arvām kavmı, jamā‘at-ı Arvām). He makes such
references to the mosques of al-Mardānī, Altı Parmak, the Gülşenî
tekke and others.14 The Mu’ayyadī mosque, that had been built under
the Mamluk Sultan al-Malik al-Mu’ayyad, also had an exclusively
Turkish congregation. Muhammad Bey Abū al-Dhahab founded a
lodge for Turkish Sufis.15 Evliyâ Çelebî, the prejudiced observer,
often mentions that only members of the educated Turkish élite
(khawwās al-khāss) entered this or that mosque and none of the Arabs
(Evlād-i ‘Arab) or fellāhīn (Egyptian peasants), or common people
(‘awāmm) went there.16 The students at al-Azhar great mosque-
madrasa lived and studied at least a part of their lessons within the
framework of hostels (arwiqa, sing. riwāq), most of which were
organized by ethnic groups or places of origin groups, Maghribis,
Syrians, Turks and others. There is evidence that at least some
teaching even at the al-Azhar was conducted in Turkish; this was
done in the Turkish hostel (riwāq) at al-Azhar.17 It can be safely
assumed that the Turkish students at al-Azhar were more proficient
in Arabic than most other Turkish residents of Cairo.
There are several references to Turkish or Turkish-speaking
preachers (sing. wā‘iz) who spoke before Turkish audiences. One
popular preacher delivered his sermons in both languages at once;
there is little wonder that his audience consisted of both Turks and
Arabs.18 Al-Jabartī tells that his father taught in both languages,
holding separate classes for Arabs and others for Turks and Persians.
He names his father’s assistants, each for the natives of one
language.19
 Arab and Jewish Communities 191
The Mamluks who lived in Egypt, or were born there (and as such
by definition could not be Mamluks; but who identified with the
Mamluk society) had better Arabic than the Mamluks in the old
Sultanate. Nevertheless, they were primarily Turcophone. To Evliyâ
Çelebî, their Turkish sounded heavily arabized. In an interesting
passage Evliyâ Çelebî provides a short glossary of the Mamluks’
vocabulary, that consisted of Turkish auxiliary verbs and Arabic
nouns used in Egypt, instead the Turkish words he was accustomed
to.20
Despite the Mamluks ‘Egyptian’ identity, the Mamluk emirs and
other military officers as well had also an ethnic or racial awareness
that distinguished them from the Arabic-speaking Egyptian
population. It is noteworthy that al-Jabartī, with his keen social and
cultural insights, did not fail to observe this divide. In his obituaries
of several Turkish preachers (wuā‘z, singular wāi‘z), including one
Bosnian, al-Jabartī always notes that the man was popular with the
emirs by dint of his ethnicity, or racial affinity (li’l-jinsiyya).21
There are indications that there was a negative attitude toward the
Turkish language (and by extension toward the Turks) that could
have been widespread. Let us repeat again that such attitudes, where
they existed, were by no means political, or expressions of Arab or
Egyptian nationalism. That would be vastly anachronistic. I will cite
only a few examples out of many to demonstrate the point.
In a lengthy obituary dedicated to an Egyptian poet named
‘Abdallāh ibn ‘Abdallāh ibn Salāma al-Idkāwī (d. 1184/1771), Al-
Jabartī recounts a literary dispute he had with a certain Turkish man
of letters who recited to him a chronogram verse (ta’rīkh) containing
six dates, asserting that Arabic poets were not adept at such things.
Idkawi composed verses of his own to prove him wrong.22
Ahmad Shalabi indulges in ethnic slurs against the Turks. He
refers to a preacher (wā‘iz) of the race of the Turks who did not
distinguish between mīn and nūn’.23 In the aftermath of Jazā’irli
Hasan’s invasion of Egypt in 1202/1786 to drive the Mamluk emirs
out of power, an imperial order was read in the presence of the
notables. Shaykh al-‘Arūsī, the Shaykh al-Azhar at the time, snapped
impatiently: ‘Come to the crux of the matter, we do not understand
Turkish’. When the order was translated to him, he criticized the
decision as causing unnecessary suffering to the civilian population.24
Perhaps the most telling evidence is the following reference by
Evliyâ Çelebî concerning a certain Azhari shaykh named al-‘Ayyāshī:
‘Since he speaks a few Turkish words, the other ‘ulama are jealous,
saying ‘he associates with the Ottomans.’ Yet he is a patient,
moderate and quiet man’. ‘Lisān-i Türki kelimāt etdiğinden, sāyir ulema:
‘Osmanlı ihtilāt ider’ deyu hased iderler. Ammā bir hamūl ve mutedil sākin
ademdir’.25
192 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Ottoman Rulers and Egyptian Culture

Speaking of cultural ties between Istanbul and Cairo, we ought to

mention the interest shown occasionally by Sultans or viziers in
outstanding Egyptian scholars.
The reputation of Egypt as a centre of Islamic and Arabic learning
was very high.26 Even the prejudiced Evliyâ Çelebî shows respect
toward the al-Azhar mosque and its scholars.27 Al-Jabartī tells that
the emirs came to listen to Murtadā al-Zabīdī’s classes. He was
invited to visit Istanbul but declined the offer, yet accepted an
allowance from Egypt’s treasury. The Reîs Efendi, the most
important Ottoman bureaucrat, came to Egypt to receive from al-
Zabīdī an ijāza (a teacher’s licence to teach some text that his student
has studied under his supervision). The Reîs Efendi was interested in
the classical Arabic literary masterpiece Maqāmāt al-Harīrī.28 Another
Azhari ‘ālim, named ‘Umar al-Tahlawī, travelled to Istanbul to
arrange a few things for Egyptian emirs there. He taught Hadīth at
the Aya Sofiya mosque; many important Ottoman ‘ulama reportedly
attended his lessons. After his return to Cairo, he came to the pasha
every Friday to teach him Hadīth. Several governors of Egypt
studied Qur’an and Hadīth with Cairo ‘ulama. Some even bothered
to obtain ijāzāt. These basic texts, easier for a non-‘ālim layman than
fiqh treatises, were popular.29
According to ‘Abd al-Rahmān al-Jabartī, his father excelled in
disciplines for which Egypt did not have a good reputation. In
1160/1747, Kur Ahmet Pasha, a new governor of Egypt, met with
the leading shaykhs of al-Azhar, and was disappointed that none of
them was able to discuss the mathematical sciences with him. Finally,
they mentioned to him Hasan al-Jabartī. A meeting was arranged and
al-Jabartī impressed the pasha with his knowledge and afterwards
they met regularly to talk about mathematics and astronomy. Hasan
al-Jabartī made several sundials for him.30 Al-Jabartī’s reputation
reached Istanbul, and the Sultan sent him Persian books from his
library. Hasan maintained scholarly relations with three enlightened
governors of Egypt: ‘Alī Pasha ibn al-Hakim, and the above-
mentioned Ahmet Pasha al-Kur, and Rāghib Mehmet Pasha.31 The
latter was an educated man. He is the author of a work entitled
Safinat al-Rāghib, a collection of essays on various topics, mostly
dealing with theology, Qur’an interpretation, Islamic sects,
mysticism, and the like. The book is not well organized and is not
original.32 Yet that an Ottoman pasha bothered to put together such
a big volume written mostly in Arabic, with a few passages in
Persian, is in itself interesting. Rāghib was Reîsülküttab (chief clerk in
the foreign service); this explains his education and interest in
learning.
 Arab and Jewish Communities 193
Ottoman ‘Ulama and Qādīs

The Ottomans were careful to refrain from interfering unnecessarily

in Egypt’s religious life. After a rough beginning immediately after
the conquest, the Ottomans and Egyptians adjusted to each other
without much friction. The Ottomans held all the positions that
were related to the business of ruling the province, that is, all the
military and administrative posts, including the chief and several of
his Hanafī deputies (with time, the number of Egyptian qādīs
increased at the expense of the Turkish ones, yet the chief judge,
(qādī‘asker), was always Turkish-speaking and Hanafi.33 It is
important to notice that despite the qādī‘asker’s high position, his
impact on Egypt’s religious and social life was extremely limited, as I
hope to demonstrate below. This applies also to other Ottoman
‘ulama. The number of Turkish ‘ulama in Ottoman Egypt was very
small. Evliyâ Çelebî, who carefully notes all the important Turks in
Egypt, mentions only a few names. In the Arabic chronicles of
Ottoman Egypt, there are almost no references to such persons.
Again, a notice by Evliyâ illustrates this situation. Evliyâ tells about
Boluvî Mustafa Efendi who settled in Egypt. In fact, the Grand
Vizier Köprülü exiled Boluvî, a former Şeihülislam, to Egypt for
refusing to issue a fatwa authorizing a death sentence against a
military commander accused of inefficiency in the campaign to
conquer Crete. Boluvî was given the district (qaza) of Giza as a fief
(arpalık) in order to support him. He was meant to be the chief
Hanafi mufti in Egypt. Yet Evliyâ sourly notes that no one there
needed his fatwas, since for a mere pittance one could go to al-Azhar
and get a fatwa from one of the many ‘ulama in that institution. Ever
critical, Evliyâ adds that there is no way one could get justice in
Egypt. (Mısır diyarında ihqaq-i haq olmaq ihtimali yoktur).34
As already indicated above, despite the high position of the chief
Ottoman qādī in Egypt, his influence on that country’s religion and
society was almost non-existent. First, there are only very few
references to the qādī‘askers in the chronicles and the biographies of
the period. Again, it is in striking contrast to the situation in
Damascus, where the sources abound with biographies and
references to the qādīs who had served a period in that city. The
biographers often wrote their obituaries even when the qādī died
outside Damascus, as usually was the case. The few obituaries of
qādī‘askers in the Egyptian sources are very short and do not provide
much information. Moreover, when the sources do mention the
chief Ottoman qādī of Egypt, it is clear that he was of little relevance
for the country’s religious life, his high judicial and administrative
position notwithstanding. A few examples may illustrate my point.
194 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Ahmad Shalabi tells of a newly appointed qādī who arrogantly
declared upon his arrival in Egypt in 1133/1720 that he would
‘renovate’ (i.e., reform—tajdīd al-dīn, being a well known idea, based
on a famous Hadith that in the beginning of each century a man will
appear for the Muslim community and will renovate its Islam).
During that qādī’s term, he accomplished nothing, and was
dismissed by the central government amidst accusations of financial
scandals and political intrigues. The Egyptians ridiculed him for his
presumption.35
In another serious incident that happened in 1123/1711, a
religious confrontation in Cairo between a Turkish crowd and the
Egyptians shows again the irrelevance of the qādī‘asker, supposedly
the highest Islamic authority in Egypt. The incident is well known to
students of Ottoman Egypt, but will be described here briefly, since
it throws light on several religious and social aspects of life in
Ottoman Cairo. The riot was started by a man identified only as ‘the
Turkish preacher’ (al-wā‘iz al-Rūmī) in the Arabic chronicles, and the
softa (the student of religion) in a Turkish chronicle. The man
preached in the month of Ramadan before the audience of the
Mu’ayyadī mosque, an exclusively Turkish centre at the time. The
preacher, who was influenced by the purist and fundamentalist
teaching of the sixteenth century writer, Birgili Mehmet, put out a list
of ‘blameworthy innovations’ (bida‘) and incited his audience to
denounce and remove them. The beliefs and practices were related
to Egyptian Sufism, such as the dervishes’ custom of performing
dhikr near the Zuwayla Gate during the nights of Ramadan. (It was
believed that it was the seat of the unseen Qutb, or Axis, the master
of the saints). He also attacked ideas from the writings of ‘Abd al-
Wahhāb al-Sha‘rānī, the popular sixteenth century Cairo mystic and
saint. It is noteworthy that the preacher also called to close down the
Turkish dervish centres of the Gülşenîs, Mevlevîs and Bektaşîs, and
convert them into madrasas. The crowd attacked the Sufis at the
Zuwayla Gate with swords and cudgels. The Sufis complained to the
leading ‘ulama at al-Azhar and obtained from them legal opinions
fully justifying the Egyptian Sufis. When the Turkish preacher was
shown the written fatwas, he dismissed them, claiming that they had
issued by ‘your Arab ‘ulama (awlād al-‘Arab)’. Another version says:
‘the ‘ulama of your country (‘ulama’ baladikum)’. The crowd then
marched to the residence of the qādī‘asker in order to obtain a fatwa
that would counter the Azharis’ fatwas. The alarmed qādī escaped to
his private rooms (harīm). His deputy was forced to write as the mob
demanded. Now the issue had become not only a confrontation
between orthodoxy, or rather fundamentalism, and Sufism, and
between Turks and Egyptian Arabs, but also principally a matter of
law and order. The Turkish preacher was exiled, and his admirers
 Arab and Jewish Communities 195
were ejected from the Mu’ayyadi mosque where they had been
staying. This incident, that rightly drew the attention of modern
researchers, sheds light on several aspects. In the present context, it
also illustrates the insignificance of the qādī‘asker.36 Again, it is
inconceivable that if a dispute of this kind had happened in
Damascus, the qādī would sit out in such a case.
Another struggle, this time over the position of Shaykh al-Azhar,
the ‘rector of al-Azhar,’ that took place in 1192/1778, can again
serve as indication to the qādī‘asker’s lack of public influence in the
affairs of the most important religious institution of the Islamic
world. Shaykh ‘Abd al- Rahmān al-‘Arīshī, an unusually ambitious
Hanafi ‘ālim from al-‘Arish struggled hard, by all his means, some of
them fraudulent, to rise to that position. He enlisted to his side the
Mamluk emirs, several ‘ulama of al-Azhar, and Shaykh al-Sadat, head
of a vastly influential Sufi family-order, although of course, he did
not belong to the al-Azhar establishment. Al-‘Arīshī’s rivals
protested that al-‘Arīshī was not qualified for the post, claiming that
‘this is the land of al-Imam al-Shāfi‘ī’ (who is buried in Old Cairo
and whose madhhab had by far more adherents than the other legal
schools) and that there had been no precedent that a Hanafi had
been appointed to that office. Besides, al-‘Arīshī was an outsider
from Syria (al-Sham). The emirs retorted that a Hanafi should not be
disqualified, since the Sultan, the pasha, the chief qādī and the emirs
themselves were Hanafis. Also, the Hanafi madhhab was the earliest
in Islam. The opposition did not give up, and united behind Shaykh
al-‘Arusī, a Shafi‘ī candidate. They also won over supporters in and
outside al-Azhar, including Shaykh al-Bakrī, Shaykh al-Sadat’s rival in
the Egyptian Sufi society. The continuation of the strife ended with
the total victory of the Shāfi‘īs, owing to impressive rallying at the
sepulchre of al-Imam al-Shāfi‘ī, the symbol of Egyptian Islam, and
owing to quite stupid mistakes made by al-‘Arīshī.37 The details need
not concern us here. It is highly significant that no one of the parties
in that strife turned to enlist the support of the chief Ottoman qādī
of Egypt. (Also the pasha, the governor, was left out). Of course, it
was the deliberate (and wise) policy of the Ottomans to refrain from
interfering in the internal affairs of al-Azhar.38 Still, the fact is that
the Ottomans had no involvement in Egypt’s religious matters.
Al-Jabartī writes the biography of al-Sayyid Najm al-Din ibn Salih
al-Timurtashi al-Ghazzi (d. 1200/1786), an ‘Ottomanized’ ‘ālim who
travelled to Istanbul and succeeded in enrolling in the cadre of the
Ottoman judiciary. It is important to note that he was a Hanafi
which facilitated his appointment. Upon his return to Egypt, he was
named the na’ib (provincial qādī) of the town of Abyar. Al-Jabartī
disapprovingly reports that al-Ghazzi ‘innovated’ unjust practices,
such as conducting investigations into the documents of persons
196 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
who were in control of old wqfs or dilapidated mosques, thereby
extorting money and enriching himself. Finally, he achieved an
appointment of deputy judge in Cairo itself. He also introduced the
strange innovation of swearing in witnesses. Al-Jabartī says that al-
Ghazzi persuaded Jaza’irli Hasan Pasha to invade Egypt.39
We see that the image of the Ottoman qādīs in Egypt was
negative, although the vitriolic attacks that Ibn Iyās had heaped on
them right after the conquest were not repeated; attitudes were
reserved if not hostile. Once again, the comparison with attitudes of
the Damascene historians and biographers can be helpful. Although
several qādīs who served in Damascus are described as being greedy
and corrupt, many receive warm praise for their honesty, justice,
charitable treatment of the people, and love of learning, sometimes
including Arabic learning.40 One qādī is described as interceding with
the authorities for the people of Damascus with a successful effort
to reduce their extraordinary taxes (avariz).41 Another qādī, named
Ibrāhīm al-Izniki, acted diplomatically to stop the siege of the city by
‘Ali Janbulat, a notorious rebel leader from the north of Syria in
1015/1606 and worked hard to alleviate the people’s special dues to
the government.42 Another did not think it beneath his honour to act
personally as a muhtsib, or market inspector checking the weights and
measures.43 I have not come across anything similar in Egypt. Again,
the huge difference in size between these two major Ottoman Arab
towns can explain the difference in attitudes, but fact remains that
the Egyptians never considered the qādī as someone who could be
on their side.

Egyptian Sufism and the Ottomans

The very limited impact of the Ottomans on Egypt’s religious

culture is evident also in Sufism. Egyptian Sufi practices and beliefs
owe almost nothing Ottoman influences. ‘Abd al-Wahhāb al-
Sha‘rānī, (d. 973/1565) the most important religious writer in
sixteenth century Egypt, who was a mystic and an historian of
Sufism, was of course fully aware of the status of Egypt as an
Ottoman province. He lived during the reign of Qānuni Sultan
Süleyman, and as a timid Sufi had nothing but the loftiest praises to
him, once referring to him as ‘the visible Axis’ (al-qutb al-zahir), the
earthly parallel to the mystical head of the invisible saints. At the
same time, he was repulsed by the Khalwatiyya, which was in his
time a branch of a Turkish highly unorthodox order. Moreover,
there are hints in his writings that his attitude toward the Ottoman
regime was ambiguous at best. In one passage he quotes cryptically
one of his shaykhs as saying that from the beginning of the year 923,
knowledge has left people’s hearts. The solution to al-Sha‘rāni’s
 Arab and Jewish Communities 197
riddle is not difficult: The Ottoman conquest of Egypt took place on
1 Muharram 923/1 January 1517.44
Even Ibn Abi’l-Surur al-Bakri al-Siddiqi, the most important
chronicler of Egypt in the seventeenth century, who happened to be
a member of an aristocratic Sufi family-order and was extremely
loyal to the Ottomans, did not have any affinity to Turkish Islam.
Later writers, however, were much more outspoken about how they
felt about the Ottoman version of Sufism, which as we have seen,
was represented in Egypt among the Turkish enclaves in Cairo. Al-
Jabartī in particular is repulsed by what he saw as the ways of the
Turkish dervishes. At the same time, he also condemned in the
strongest terms the vulgar forms of Egyptian Sufism. The advent of
the reformed Khalwāti order is the most important development in
eighteenth century Egypt. The strict al-Jabartī is full of praise for the
Khalwatiyya, whose dhikr is consistent with the first Shahada (‘la ilaha
illa Allah’), the best phrase a Muslim can utter, says Jabarti.45
Reformed Sufism, made more compatible with Islamic orthodoxy in
the eighteenth century in many parts of the Muslim world, was
expressed in Egypt through the Khalwatiyya. A Syrian named
Mustafa ibn Kamal al-Din al-Bakri (d. 1162/1749) transformed the
order into a pillar of orthodoxy.46 His chief deputy (khalifa) in Egypt
was Muhammad al-Hifni, who was to rise to become Shaykh al-
Azhār (his incumbency lasted from 1171/1757 until 1181/1767). It
is remarkable that the tariqa became the dominant order of the
leading ‘ulama, including nearly all those who held the position of
Shaykh al-Azhar. Although al-Hifni paid token respect to the
sepulchres of the sixteenth century Turkish Khalwātis, the new
Khalwatiyya did not resemble the old version. Yet it is noteworthy
that Mustafa al-Bakri propagated the Sufism of the line of a Turkish
Shaykh called ‘Ali Efendi Qarabash. Nevertheless, al-Jabartī, who
was without any doubt a true representative of attitudes of the
educated Azharis, frequently voices his criticism not just against
unorthodox Sufism, but also against Turkish Sufism, which he
regarded as both wrong and foreign. Al-Jabartī often writes: ‘They
(the Turks), incline to this kind (of unruly dervishism)’.47 Speaking of
a certain Sufi from Ta’if who visited Cairo, al-Jabartī says: ‘He was
inclined to believe in incarnation and monism (hulul and ittihad, the
mystical doctrines of Ibnal-Farid and Ibn ‘Arabi, respectively, both
famous thirteenth century mystics). Our masters the Maghribis do
not approve of these things, as they adhere strictly to the external
words of the Shari‘a law. Yet the Turks (ahl al-Rum) strongly believe
in this Sufi (and his doctrines).’48 Other expressions used by al-Jabartī
like: ‘Knowledge according to their country’ (al-‘ilm ‘ala tariqāt
biladihim), are typical of his rejection of their kind of Islam.49 It
should be noted that Muhyī al-Din Ibn al-‘Arabi’s monistic doctrines
198 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
were always much more popular among the Turks than among the
Arabs, who are culturally less inclined to extreme mysticism. It
should be recalled that it was Sultan Selim I who built a mosque on
Ibn al-‘Arabi’s grave in Damascus before returning to Istanbul after
the conquest of Syria and Egypt.50 Sultan Süleyman was also said to
be also a strong believer in that Andalusian mystic, and qādīs who
did not share his views could be dismissed.51
It is illuminating to see how much al-Jabartī despised the Turkish
dervishes. It comes through in his recounting of two Turkish
swindlers, one who tried to be appointed as Egypt’s Naqib al-Ashrāf
and the other who renovated the dilapidated Bektashi tekke. Both
crooks took advantage of the Ottomans’ proclivity to Sufism. The
renovator of the Bektashi cloister was a man who had served as a
sarraj, one of the notorious bodyguards of some Egyptian amirs. He
dressed up as a dervish, thereby convincing Hasan Pasha, ‘since they
are inclined to this kind’. He rebuilt the tekke (monastery or hospice
for Turkish Sufis) from the funds that he had taken as bribes from
the custom officials so he would intercede for them with Hasan
Pasha.52
Yusuf Efendi, the Naqib al-Ashrāf hopeful, was originally a seller
of metal wares and fruit in the Khan al-Khalili market. ‘He was also
one of those Turkish Sufis who read aloud and preach in their
language’. He was the director of the Turkish riwaq (hostel) at al-
Azhar, where he embezzled some funds. He succeeded in obtaining
a letter appointing him as Naqib al-Ashraf, presenting himself as a
scholar. Finally he was found out and dismissed.53
Speaking of the post of Naqib al-Ashraf, it was an old position in
the history of Islam that had existed also under the Mamluks. The
Ottomans continued this post, to which they appointed a man from
Istanbul. The Ottoman appointees were officially ranking notables,
but they had very small effect on the social and religious life of
Egypt. During the eighteenth century, the office passed to the heads
two distinguished Sufi families of Egypt, the Bakris and the al-Sadat
al-Wafā’iyya, both believed to be of Sharifi descent. The two families
fulfilled various public roles, and contested for the post of the Naqib
al-Ashrāf. In our context it is important to note only that when that
post passed from the Istanbul appointees to the aristocratic Egyptian
families it acquired public and religious importance and power.54

Architecture

Finally, for another aspect of cultural ties and influences between

Istanbul and Cairo, I would like to make a few observations about
the Ottoman architecture of Cairo, relying mainly on the book
Egypt’s Adjustment to Ottoman Rule by Doris Behrens-Abouseif.
 Arab and Jewish Communities 199
When Evliyâ Çelebî was touring the streets of Cairo, he was
constantly looking for things that would remind him of Istanbul; he
must have been really homesick. Several mosques reminded him of
those in Istanbul. In particular, those that had been built by
governors during the sixteenth century struck him as being built after
the style of Turkey (Rum tarzi), or as having a Turkish minaret (Rum
mināresi). Dukakin Mehmet Pasha’s Mosque, one of Qanuni’s viziers,
resembled Rüstem Pasha’s mosque in Istanbul. The mosque of
Mahmut Pasha, yet another sixteenth century governor (who was
assassinated by a soldier) is described by Evliyâ as ‘a tall mosque in
the Turkish style, with an Istanbul style minaret’.55 Yet these are a
traveller’s impressions.
Behrens-Abouseif, who has studied the buildings thoroughly,
analyzes the architecture of the mosques grouped into the types of
plan by which they were built. Here I will quote some of her main
conclusions that are relevant to the present paper. I quote from page
222 in her book: ‘Unlike Aleppo and Damascus, where the
governors erected buildings with predominantly Ottoman features
and with a tendency towards a monumentality that these cities had
not witnessed before in their Mamluk history, the mosques erected
in Cairo by the pashas were, with a few exceptions of a local non-
monumental style, and without the decoration and creative
innovations that made the charm of Mamluk mosques. Very few
buildings—and only outside the urban core—recall the Ottoman
style, and even these are a compromise between Ottoman and
Cairene traditions. Only the minarets, pencil-shaped but rather squat,
pointed to the fact that a shift of power had taken place…’ Further,
on page 223: ‘…why Ottoman architecture had such little influence
on Cairo’s appearance’. And more, on page 227: ‘The Ottomans’
contribution to Cairo’s architecture lays therefore in preservation
and restoration rather than innovation or in the transfer of imperial
art.’ Finally, a quotation from the summary (p.273): ‘The Mamluks
had energetically replaced old buildings with new ones. The
Ottomans simply restored and maintained the Mamluk architecture
they inherited. The most persistent aspect of Mamluk culture
throughout the Ottoman period proved to be its architectural style.
Only four mosques in two centuries were built using an Ottoman
plan, and even in those the style is otherwise not purely Ottoman’.56
A group of distinguished researchers who wrote a comprehensive
study about palaces and houses in Ottoman Cairo arrived at similar
conclusions.57
It can be cautiously suggested that in architecture as in other
spheres of culture, Egypt’s strong cultural personality and heritage,
as well as Cairo’s size and importance, may account for the
differences between the Ottoman cultural impact on Syria to that of
200 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Cairo. With their famous pragmatism, the Ottomans realized the
special characteristics and status of Egypt, their largest province. As
a consequence, they respected this heritage and culture and acted
accordingly. My paper was an attempt to show that the important
and obvious influences of the Ottoman system on Egypt in many
spheres—the political, social, and economic—notwithstanding, we
are looking at one empire, one civilization, a shared religion, but at
two distinct cultures—Turkish and Ottoman vis-à-vis Egyptian and
Arabic.

Notes
1
See, for example, Muhammad ibn Ahmad ibn Iyās, Badā’i‘ al-Zuhūr fī waqā’i‘ al-
duhūr, Muhammad Mustafa (ed.), (Cairo, second edition, 1961, 5 vols.), passim;
Muhammad Shams al-Din Ibn Tūlūn, Mufākahāt al-khullān fi hawādith al-zamān,
Muhammad Mustafa (ed.) (Cairo, 1961, 2 volumes), passim.
2
For the general historical background, see P. M. Holt, Egypt and the Fertile Crescent
1516-1522: A Political History (Ithaca and London, 1966), chapters 1-7. On the
Ottoman occupation of Egypt and Egypt in the sixteenth century, see my chapters
‘The Ottoman Occupation’, in Carl F. Petry (ed.), The Cambridge History of Egypt:
vol. I, Islamic Egypt, 640-1517, (Cambridge, 1998), 490-516; and ‘Ottoman Egypt,
1525-1609’, in M. W. Daly (ed.), The Cambridge History of Egypt: vol. II, Modern Egypt,
from 1517 to the end of the twentieth century (Cambridge, 1998), 1-33.
3
On Ibrāhīm Gülşeni, see J. S. Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford,
1971), 76-7. On the Khalwatiyya in the sixteenth century, see my Society and Religion
in Early Ottoman Egypt: Studies in the Writings of ‘Abd al-Wahhāb al-Sha‘rānī (New
Brunswick and London, 1982), 105-12. See also Ibn G. Martin, ‘A Short History of
the Khalwati Order of Dervishes’, in N. R. Keddie (ed.), Scholars, Saints and Sufis
(Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1972), 290-305.
4
Ibn Tūlūn, Mufākahat al-khullān, 2: 31.
5
Ibn Iyās, 5: 467.
6
See, for example, Najm al-Din al-Ghazzī, Lutf al-samar wa-qatf al-thamar min tarājim
a‘yān al-tabāqa al-ūlā min al-qarn al-hādī ‘ashar, Mahmūd al-Shaykh, ed. (Damascus,
1981-82, 2 vols.), 102-6, and ibid., 607-10, where the author mentions two Turks
whose Arabic was even better than that of Kamal Efendi Taşköprüzade, the
subject of that obituary.
7
See, for example, ibid.1: 26-9; Muhammad Khalīl al-Murādī,, Silk al-durar fi a‘yān
al-qarn al-thānī ‘ashar (4 vols in 2, Baghdad, 1966), 1: 205-6; 4: 28; Muhammad
Amin al-Muhibbi, Khulāsat al-āthār fi a‘yān al-qarn al-hādi ‘ashar, (Beirut, 1966, 4
vols), 3: 308; ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Jabartī, ‘Ajā’ib al-āthār fī’l-tarājim wa’l-akhbār (4
volumes, Cairo, Bulaq, 1297/1880), 1: 288; 2: 127-8.
8
See my ‘Ali Efendi’s “Anatolian Campaign Book”: a Defence of the Egyptian
Army in the Seventeenth Century’, Turcica 15 (1983), 267-309.
9
Jane Hathaway, ‘Sultans, Pashas, Taqwims, and Mühimmes: A Reconsideration of
Chronicle-Writing in Eighteenth Century Ottoman Egypt’, in Daniel Crecelius, ed.,
Eighteenth Century Egypt: The Arabic Manuscript Sources, (Los Angeles, 1990), 73.
 Arab and Jewish Communities 201

10
Najm al-Din Muhammad al-Ghazzi, al-Kawākib al-sā’ira bi-a‘yān al-mi’a al-‘āshira
(Beirut, Jounieh and Harissa, Lebanon, 1945-59, 3 vols); idem. Lutf al-samar (see
note 6 above); Muhammad Amīn al-Muhibbi, Khulāsat al-āthār fi a‘yān al-qarn al-hādi
‘ashar, (Beirut, 1966, 4 vols); Muhammad Khalil al-Muradi, Silk al-durar fi a‘yān al-
qarn al-thānī ‘ashar (4 vols in 2, Baghdad, 1966).
11
‘Abd al-Rahman a-Jabartī, ‘Ajā’ib al-āthār fi’l-tarājim wa’l-akhbar (4 volumes, Cairo,
Bulaq, 1297/1880), 1: 398.
12
Ibid., 2:199.
13
Ibid., 1: 163; 2: 248-9.
14
See, for example, Evliyâ Çelebî, Seyahatname, vol. X (Istanbul, 1938), 216, 218,
235, 239, 467.
15
See Jabarti, 1: 418.
16
Evliyâ Çelebî, Seyahatname, vol. X, 195, 467.
17
Jabartī, 2: 248-9.
18
Ibid. It is worth noting that also in Damascus ‘a preacher for the Turks’, is
mentioned. Al-Ghazzi, Lutf al-samar, 341-2.
19
Jabartī, 1: 398.
20
Evliyâ Çelebî, Seyahatname, vol. X, 159-60.
21
Jabartī, 2: 210, 2:248-9.
22
Ibid.,1: 352-7.
23
Ahmad Shalabi ibn ‘Abd al-Ghanī, Awdāh al-ishārāt fiman tawallā Misr wa’l-Qāhira
min al-wuzāra’ wa’l-bashāt al-mullaqab bi-Ta’rikh al-‘Aynī, ed. ‘Abd al-Rahim ‘Abd al-
Rahman ‘Abd al-Rahim (Cairo, 1978), 253.
24
Jabartī, 2: 158.
25
Evliyâ Çelebî, Seyahatname, X, 530.
26
Egypt was considered in Istanbul as ‘the spring of virtues and scientific
knowledge’ Jabarti, 1: 187, cited in H. A. R. Gibb and Harold Bowen, Islamic Society
and the West (London, 1957), Volume One, Part II, 100.
27
Evliyâ Çelebî, Seyahatname, X,195 ff.
28
Jabartī, 2: 198.
29
Ibid. 1: 176-7, 288.
30
Ibid. 1: 187-8.
31
Ibid. 1: 395.
32
Rāghib Mehmed Pasha, Safīnat al-Rāghib (Cairo, 1282/1866).
33
See G.N. El-Nahal, The Judicial Administration of Ottoman Egypt in the Seventeenth
Century (Minneapolis and Chicago, 1979), 14.
34
Evliyâ Çelebî, Seyahatname, X, 527, 530.
35
Ahmad Shalabi ibn ‘Abd al-Ghanī, Awdah al-ishārāt, 305, 315.
36
On this conflict, see my Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 157-9, citing Arabic
and Turkish sources and modern scholars’ analyses.
37
Jabartī, 2: 52-4.
38
Gibb and Bowen write: ‘It speaks eloquently of the independence of the
Egyptian ‘ulema’ that although the Hanefi rite was officially adopted by the
Ottoman Sultans, no Hanefi Sheikh held the coveted post of Sheikh al-Azhar until
the French occupation, and that it was monopolized during the greater part of the
eighteenth century by the Shāfi‘īs.’ Gibb and Bowen, Islamic Society and the West, II,
100.
39
Jabartī, 1: 176-7.
40
See, for example, al-Muradi, Silk al-durar, 3:257 f.; al-Ghazzī, al-Kawākib al-sā’ira,
2: 27-9; idem. Lutf al-samar, 1: 102-6; ibid. 2: 661-2.
41
Al-Muhibbī, Khulāsāt al-āthār, 1: 172-3; al-Ghazzi, Lutf al-samār, 1: 296-300.
42
Al-Ghazzī, Lutf al-samār, 1: 231-40; al-Muhibbī, Khulāsāt al-āthār, 1: 31-2.
202 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

43
See Ahmad Budayrī al-Hallāq, Hawādith Dimāshq al-yawmīyya, 1154-1175/ 1741-
1762, Ahmad ‘Izzat ‘Abd al-Karīm (ed.) (second edition, Cairo, 1418/1997), 260.
44
On al-Sha‘rani’s attitudes to Ottoman rule, see my Society and Religion in Early
Ottoman Egypt, 60-68, 262-72.
45
Jabartī, 1: 294-5.
46
See his biography in ibid. 1: 165-6.
47
Ibid. 2: 144, 238.
48
Ibid. 2: 238.
49
Ibid. 2: 210.
50
Ibn Tūlūn, Mufakahat al-Khillan, 2: 68, 79, 80.
51
Al-Ghazzī, al-Kawākib al-sā’ira, 2: 28.
52
Jabartī, 2: 144.
53
Ibid., 3: 203-4.
54
See my Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 192-8.
55
Evliyâ Çelebî, Seyahatname, Vol. X, 205, 207, 218-20, 293, 325.
56
Doris Behrens-Abouseif, Egypt’s Adjustment to the Ottoman Rule: Institutions, Waqf
and Architecture in Cairo (16th and 17th Centuries), (Leiden, 1994).
57
B. Maury, A. Raymond, J.Revault and M. Zakarya, Palais et maisons du Caire. II
Epoque Ottomane (XVIe- VIIIe siècles) (Paris, 1983), for example, 97.
 The Evlâd-i ‘Arab (‘Sons of the Arabs’)
1
in
Ottoman Egypt: A Rereading

Jane Hathaway

Around the middle of the seventeenth century, the Ottoman

governor of Egypt issued a series of orders (buyruldu) directing the
officers of Egypt’s seven regiments of Ottoman soldiery to expel a
group of people known as evlâd-i ‘Arab/awlād al-‘Arab (literally, ‘sons
of the Arabs’). This essay reopens the question of just who these
evlâd-i ‘Arab, as depicted in Arabic and Ottoman Turkish chronicles
of pre-nineteenth-century Egypt, were. The overriding tendency
among scholars of Ottoman Egypt has been to interpret this
expression at face value and, moreover, in accordance with the
modern meaning of the word ‘Arab. To uncover the evlâd-i ‘Arab’s
identity, I contend, we must subvert the prevailing historiography by
restoring the expression to its pre-nation-state context.
Representative of the conventional historiography of Ottoman
Egypt is Michael Winter’s Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517-
1798, in which the author claims that ‘In the seventeenth
century,...Arabs flooded the regiments,’ a development that he
credits with inciting the ‘anti-Arab’ campaign of Rıdvan Bey, later
known as al-Faqārī, and his ally Ali Bey, governor of the Upper
Egyptian super-province of Jirja.2
Winter’s source for this assertion is a passage in the Tārih-i Mısr-ı
Kāhire of Mehmed b. Yusuf Al-Hallāq (to 1127/1715)3, in which the
chronicler quotes verbatim a buyruldu of 10 Şaban 1057/10
September 1647 from the governor of Egypt to the regimental
officers:

Yedi bölüğün içinde ne kadar evlâd-i ‘Arab varsa, eğer Mısırlı ve

eğer Şamlı ve eğer Halebli, eğer Baġdadî, eğer ‘Acem, eğer Özbek,
cümlesi Bayram mevâcibine değin ‘ulûfeleri ferâġat idüp, satan
satsun, varsa satmıyup kalursa, bi’l-kullīye ref’ olunsun (f. 109r-
v, emphasis mine).

However many evlâd-i ‘Arab there are in the seven regiments—

be they Cairene, Damascene, Aleppine, Baghdadi, ‘Acem,
204 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Özbek—their stipends must be ceded and sold before the
Bayram payday [the bonus payday at the end of Ramazan]; any
remaining unsold will be cancelled.

Al-Hallāq’s narrative continues:

Yeniçeri taifesi ekseri evlâd-i ‘Arab olmaġın, haber gönderdiler

ki ‘Evlâd-i ‘Arab çıkarsak, lâzim gelen hidmet-i Padişahî’ye kim
gider?’ dinledikde, ‘Ali Bey eyitdi, ‘Bende Rūm oğlanı sekban
çokdur; onların yerine çırağ iderim.’
Since the Janissary corps was mostly evlâd-i ‘Arab, [the officers]
responded, ‘If we expel the evlâd-i ‘Arab, who will go to
perform the necessary sultanic service?’ Overhearing this, Ali
Bey replied, ‘I have many Rūm oğlanı sekbans. I will promote
them instead of [the evlâd-i ‘Arab].’

Winter is able to adduce this episode as proof of anti-Arab

sentiment among Egypt’s military leadership because he understands
evlâd-i ‘Arab as a reference to ethnic Arabs in the modern sense. The
problem with this interpretation lies with the last two groups
included under this rubric. ‘Acem and Özbek could conceivably refer
to Arab populations in Central Asia,4 but to make this interpretation,
we would have to assume that ‘Arab normally referred to an ethnic
Arab, and this was not the case during the seventeenth century.
Meanwhile, ‘Acem during the Ottoman period typically means
‘Persian’ or, more broadly, ‘foreign’, as in ‘Acemî Oğlan, the ‘sons of
foreigners’, or ‘foreign boys’—almost all of them, ironically,
Anatolian and Balkan Christians—who were removed from their
families in the devşirme and taken into Ottoman service.5 In the case
of what the Ottomans knew as ‘the two Iraqs’ (‘Irakeyn), moreover,
the word is used to differentiate eastern, Persophone ‘Irak-i ‘Acem
(that is, modern-day Iran) from western, Arabophone ‘Irak-i Arab.
Özbek, for its part, refers to the Central Asian Turkic population
known in English as Uzbeks. In Central Asian historiography and
ethnography, they constitute the population of the countryside,
whose nomadic Turkishness is contrasted with the Persianate culture
of the urban-dwelling Tajiks and the sedentarization of the Turki-
speaking Sarts.6 Therefore, in this particular instance, evlâd-i ‘Arab
cannot refer to, or at least cannot refer solely to, ethnic Arabs.
To identify a more likely meaning for evlâd-i ‘Arab, we must
address three issues: (i) the common element linking the adjectives
included in the buyruldu quoted by al-Hallāq, (ii) the context within
which this passage appears in al-Hallāq’s chronicle and in roughly
contemporary chronicles, (iii) the implications of evlâd.
 Arab and Jewish Communities 205
Mısırlı, Şamlı, Halebli, Baġdadî, ‘Acem, Özbek

The adjectives listed in the buyruldu refer first to major cities in the
Ottoman Arab provinces, then to two almost unequivocally non-
Arab ethnic groupings. Whom would all these adjectives describe—
or, more appropriately, what group would they describe? In the
context of the order, such a group would have to consist of soldiers,
or at least potential soldiers. In the case of Cairo, Damascus, Aleppo,
and Baghdad, the reference could be to Janissaries, regardless of
ethnicity or provenance, stationed in these provincial cities and
perhaps operating or seeking to operate in Cairo as free agents. The
example of the sarrāj (literally ‘saddler’), a mercenary soldier who
also, at least in Ottoman Egypt, seemed to perform the services of a
security guard or watchman, suggests that this kind of free agency
was fairly common in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century
Ottoman provinces. In Egypt during the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, an individual sarrāj could evidently negotiate his service to
a particular grandee patron.7 In light of this consideration, ‘Acem
and Özbek might perhaps refer to soldiers in the Safavid (‘Persian’)
and Shaybanid (Özbek) armies who sought similar free agency
through desertion. Indeed, the Safavid argument is especially
compelling in view of the Safavid Shah Abbas I’s (r. 1588-1629)
attempts to displace the Kızılbaş, the Turkoman tribesmen who had
brought the Safavids to power and formed the backbone of their
armies. Likewise, the movement and upheavals among the Turkic
and Mongol populations of Central Asia in the early seventeenth
century would have made it more likely that members of these
groups could have spun off into Ottoman service.8

Evlâd-i ‘Arab in the Chronicles

If, however, we evaluate Al-Hallāq’s passage in light of its position

within the chronicle, we must take into account the implicit
opposition between evlâd-i ‘Arab and Rūm oğlanı. For whenever
the evlâd-i ‘Arab are mentioned, they appear to be contrasted,
implicitly or explicitly, with Rūm oğlanı. In the passage cited above,
Ali Bey, the governor of Jirja and ally of the famous Rıdvan Bey al-
Faqārī, proposes replacing the evlâd-i ‘Arab with Rūm oğlanı
sekbans, or mercenaries. From succeeding narrated events, however,
it is clear that the expulsion of evlâd-i ‘Arab and their replacement
with (Rūmî) sekbans constitute part of the triumph of Rıdvan and Ali
Beys over their enemies, Qansuh and Memi (Mamay) Beys: while the
latter employed evlâd-i ‘Arab, the former patronized Rūmî sekbans.9
Some ten folios and ten years later, al-Hallāq reports that during
the governorate of Kapudan Mustafa Pasha (1066-7/1655-6), forty
206 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Cairene and forty Damascene evlâd-i ‘Arab were expelled from the
regiments and their salary rights sold (‘evlâd-i ‘Arab kısmı kırk Mısırlı
ve kırk Şamlı bölüklerden çıkarup, ‘ulûfelerini satdırdılar’).10 This incident is
presented simply as one of the events of Mustafa Pasha’s tenure. But
in an anonymous chronicle evidently composed in the 1680s and
bearing the title Kitāb-i Tevārih-i Mısrı Kahire [Hattı Hasan Paşa], the
episode unfolds in a much broader context:
1066 māh-i Zilka‘de zuhūr iden zorba-i Mustahfizāndan Bayram
nām kimesne başbuğ ve kendüye bir alay adam uyarup, alet-i
harbiye pur-silah dīvāne çıkup, ‘Elbet evlâd-i ‘Arab ‘ulūfeleri
kat‘, yerlerine yarāk adamlar tahrir olunsun’ (f. 67v).

In Zilkade 1066/August 1655, someone named Bayram from

the rebels of the Mustahfizan (Janissaries) [proclaimed himself]
commander, rallied a troop of men to himself, and went up to
the governor’s council loaded with weapons of war. [He
declared,] ‘The stipends of the evlâd-i ‘Arab absolutely must be
cut off, and useful men appointed in their places.’

They managed to have the Janissary ağa deposed, after which:

Ve zümre-i evlâd-i ‘Arabın ‘ulûfeleri kat’ olunup, zümre-i

zorbadan çok kimesne ‘ulûfe sahibi oldu. Ol gün Çavuşlar
arzuhal idüp, ‘Aramızda olan evlâd ve Qutbi ve Şamî ve Halabî
olanların ‘ulûfeleri ref’ oluna’ (f. 67v-68r).
And the gang of evlâd-i ‘Arab’s salaries were cut off, and many
people from the gang of zorbas acquired salaries. That day, the
Çavuş regiment sent a petition [saying], ‘The salaries of the
evlâd and Copts and Damascenes and Aleppines among us
should be suspended.’

Soldiers called zorba or some variation thereon appear in a number

of chronicles of Egypt as troops from the imperial centre who wreak
havoc in Cairo during the 1660s.11
In several chronicles, as in the anonymous chronicle just cited, the
chief patron of these zorbas is Mehmed Bey, the mamluk of Ali Bey
who succeeded his patron as governor of Jirja on the latter’s death.
Mehmed Bey went farther than his master in attempting to turn Jirja
into a fiefdom of his own; consequently, the Ottoman governor of
Egypt ordered an expedition against him, which defeated and killed
him in 1659.12 What seems to be occurring in these accounts, then, is
an intense struggle for positions in the regiments, with their
attendant salaries, between Anatolian and Balkan mercenaries, on the
 Arab and Jewish Communities 207
one hand, and evlâd-i ‘Arab, on the other. A parallel struggle is
played out among the grandees, typically beys, who patronize these
different groups of mercenaries. The identity of the evlâd-i ‘Arab in
the chronicles seems rather diffuse: in one passage, the term appears
to encompass Persians and Özbeks; in another it seems to include
Coptic Christians. In general, the term seems commonly to be
associated with specific Arab provincial capitals. In all instances, the
evlâd-i ‘Arab stand in contradistinction to Anatolian and Balkan
populations.
The expression evlâd-i ‘Arab appears in as early a source as
Mustafa Ali’s famous 1599 Description of Cairo. Here, the opposition
between this population and that of Rūm is only implicit, although
the implication is unmistakable since Mustafa Ali constantly
compares conditions in Cairo to those of Rūm, almost exclusively to
the benefit of the latter. Discussing Egypt’s military classes, he
mentions a population of soldiers ‘under the name evlâd-i ‘Arab who
have the ugliest features’ (evlâd-i ‘Arab namında ki çirkîn-i şamâ’il ).13
The wording implies that he is not completely sure what kind of
people these are; he simply knows that they are called evlâd-i ‘Arab.
For bedouin tribes, in contrast, he typically employs the plural
c
urbân.14 The singular ‘Arab, on the other hand, seems to refer to a
sub-Saharan African.15 Notwithstanding, his wording implies that the
evlâd-i ‘Arab are highly localised: that is, they belong to the
established Cairene population and thus qualify as beledî.16
Muhammad ‘Abd al-Mu‘ti al-Ishaqi, the Egyptian chronicler who
composed his brief Kitāb Akhbār al-Uwal in 1623, notes that Hasan
Pasha al-Khādim (‘The Eunuch’, 988-91/1580-2) ‘confiscated [the
wealth] of some of the grandees of Egypt from evlâd-i ‘Arab’.17 His
terse account, unfortunately, does not divulge the specific grandees
to whom he refers; hence, there is no way to ascertain what the term
might connote in this instance. The chronicler later mentions a
military rebellion during the tenure of Uveys Pasha (995-9/1586-91)
that resulted in the evlâd-i ‘Arab being prohibited from joining the
Ottoman soldiery or dressing as they did.18 Mustafa Ali may vaguely
refer to this incident when he notes that ‘if one of the notables of
Cairo dresses his local servant as a Rūmî, they [the cundis, or soldiers]
forbid him to do so.’19

‘Arab vs. Rūm

The tension between evlâd-i ‘Arab and Rūm oğlanı stems at least in
part, of course, from the disparate meanings of ‘Arab and Rūm.
Before the nineteenth century, ‘Arab was typically used to designate
the nomadic bedouin or, more broadly, nomads in general, including
those who might not be Arabic-speaking or ethnically Arab.20 We
208 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
have already noted Mustafa Ali’s tendency to use the word to
designate a sub-Saharan African, which, indeed, seems to have been
widespread among Turcophone Ottomans.21
Rūm, on the other hand, derives from ‘Rome,’ and in the pre-
Ottoman period was more or less synonymous with ‘Byzantine,’
insofar as the Byzantine, or Eastern Roman, Empire was the eastern
successor of the Roman Empire that had dominated the
Mediterranean during the early centuries of the Common Era. Used
more broadly, the word denoted those who spoke Greek and
followed the Orthodox Christianity that became the Byzantine state
religion following the Council of Chalcedon in 451 C.E.22 There is
also a geographical connotation to Rūm in the pre-Ottoman period:
it refers to Asia Minor, as opposed to the Greek ‘heartland’ of the
Peloponnese, which usually goes by Yunān (‘Ionia’).23 In the Ottoman
era, however, the meaning of Rūm becomes somewhat more
ambiguous. It can still mean ‘Greek’ in the broadest sense, yet its
territorial meaning has shifted from Asia Minor as a whole to the
central Ottoman territory, centred on Istanbul but also including the
Ottoman Balkan territories that comprised Rūmelia. This is
unquestionably the sense in which Mustafa Ali uses the word.24
Likewise, the Ottomans are not infrequently termed Rūmîs by
Arabophone and Turcophone chroniclers alike, and their sultan
sultān ar-Rūm.25
In contrasting ‘Arab and Rūm, I would argue, Al-Hallāq is tapping
into a dichotomy that is primarily geographical. Rūm denotes the
western Ottoman territories: the Balkans and western Anatolia,
including Istanbul. In contrast, the place names and ethnic groups
associated in the above-cited passages with evlâd-i ‘Arab all refer to
regions in the Asiatic provinces of the empire, as well as beyond the
eastern borders of the empire, in Iran and Central Asia.
This difference between western, European populations in
Ottoman service and eastern, Asiatic populations would have
resonated in 1646, when the order was issued. As Metin Kunt has
pointed out, the tension between ‘eastern’ and ‘western’ ethnic
groups was particularly acute in the seventeenth century, above all
between soldiery and palace functionaries of Balkan origin and those
from the Caucasus Mountains, notably Circassians and Abkhazians.26
There was, moreover, a reason for this tension in the seventeenth
century that went beyond what modern-day news media like to call
‘ancient ethnic hatreds’. Balkan and western Anatolian Christian
populations had historically supplied the devşirme, the levy of village
boys who were removed from their families, converted to Islam, and
trained either as Janissaries or as palace pages. Even as the devşirme
began to fall into disuse, the kullar—that is, the ‘sultan’s servants,’
comprising Janissaries, palace soldiery, and palace functionaries—
 Arab and Jewish Communities 209
were of overwhelmingly ‘western’ origin well into the seventeenth
century. With the conquest of the Arab lands, however, and as a
result of continuous warfare against the Safavids in Iran, an
alternative source of manpower (and woman power) presented itself:
the various peoples of the Caucasus and far eastern Anatolia, who
had long been exploited by the Mamluk sultanate and who were
beginning to dominate the Safavid armies and administration. Since
almost all of these populations lived outside of the Ottoman
domains, they had to be imported through the slave trade, although
some offered themselves as mercenaries and others were captured in
warfare, particularly warfare against the Safavids. Thus, these new
populations represented what we might call a mamluk alternative to
the devşirme recruits. It is important to note, however, that the
system of recruitment was no great differentiator between the two
pools of potential recruits. The only real difference between a
mamluk and a devşirme recruit was that the former was imported
from outside Ottoman territory while the latter was an Ottoman
Christian subject. Otherwise, the personal status of the two types
after recruitment was virtually identical; indeed, Ottoman chroniclers
not infrequently refer to devşirme recruits as mamluks and to
mamluks as kuls.27 The term kul, in any case, applies to all of them.
The competition between these two pools of kuls taps into a
deep-seated ambivalence, if not antagonism, between the Ottoman
Empire’s two principal sources of manpower at the far north-
western and far north-eastern edges of the empire. The wars
between the Ottoman Empire and the Mamluk sultanate in the late
fifteenth century,28 followed by Sultan Selim I’s conquest of the
Mamluk domains in 1516-7, provided the first opportunity for
sustained contact between Balkan and Caucasian populations. It is
fair to say that the Ottoman soldiers, mostly of Balkan and Anatolian
origin, were predisposed to regard the Mamluk armies with disgust,
if not contempt, owing to the tenor of Ottoman propaganda as
reflected in fethnames, Selimnames, and early chronicles of Ottoman
Egypt. In such works, the Mamluks are habitually labelled Çerâkise-i
nâkise (‘loathsome Circassians’); their sultans are derided as slaves
and sons of slaves, in contrast to Selim, ‘sultan, son of sultan, son of
sultan.’29
It is difficult today to imagine the shock of the initial encounter
between the Rūmî kullar and the various Caucasian mamluks who
began to enter Ottoman palace and provincial service in significant
numbers during the seventeenth century. (Indeed, the Ottoman
Empire itself provided a degree of unity among these disparate
populations.) Although the homelands and, in some cases, religions
of the Balkans and the Caucasus shared key features, the languages
and customs of the two regions differed radically. While the Balkan
210 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
populations, with the key exception of the Bosnians, were
overwhelmingly Christian and were organized in villages, the basic
economic unit of which was the çifthane, or family farm,30 numerous
Caucasian populations were still ‘pagan,’ or animist, and still
functioned as tribes. Visitors to the Caucasus, not least the famous
seventeenth-century Ottoman traveller Evliya Çelebi, give an
impression of peoples who were still somewhat ‘wild’ and
unpredictable. Thus, Evliya describes the Mingrelians and
Abkhazians as ‘warlike’ and ‘riotous’ peoples who steal each other’s
children for the slave trade.31 Although Evliya was himself
Abkhazian on his mother’s side, his careful reproduction of samples
of various Caucasian languages excites curiosity precisely because
these languages are so very different from Ottoman Turkish or,
indeed, from any language with which Ottoman subjects would have
been familiar, including the languages of the Balkans.32
To a remarkable extent, furthermore, the Caucasian populations
retained their distinctiveness, never assimilating fully with the
indigenous populations of the various Ottoman territories, for all
that many of them would become the sultan’s servants. Through his
own patron, Melek Ahmed Pasha, Evliya became acquainted with
the Circassian and Abkhazian custom known as the ataliqate,
whereby a young boy was sent away to be raised by ‘strangers’ so as
to prevent his being raised a weakling by the women of the family
household.33 As an Abkhazian born in Ottoman territory, the young
Melek Ahmed had been sent back to his ancestral homeland for such
an upbringing. Referring to this custom in his description of the
Mingrelian tribe of Kamış, Evliya notes, ‘Among these people of
Kamış, the children of the Abaza are sent from Istanbul and Cairo.’34
Given the scale on which mamluks were imported into the empire
from the Caucasus, this arrangement must surely have resulted from
some sort of agreement between the Ottoman administration and
the people of the region in question.

Evlâd and Oğlan

Even if ‘Arab does not refer to Caucasian populations specifically,
there is clearly a prevailing tension between the ‘eastern’ populations
whom it does denote in Ottoman usage and the Rūm, or westerners.
Why, then, do the chroniclers speak of Rūm oğlanı and evlâd-i
‘Arab? Why not simply Rūm and ‘Arab? Could this be simply a
stylistic device? ‘Son of’ in many languages can be an intentionally
degrading term. Even when used with the name of the legitimate
father or mother, it can imply a diminution of stature relative to the
parent.35 In an Ottoman context, used with a generalized collective
such as Rūm or ‘Arab, it calls to mind the rhetoric of the anti-
 Arab and Jewish Communities 211
Mamluk fethnames: the laudatory ‘sultan, son of sultan’ versus the
derogatory ‘slave, son of slave’. At the same time, the Arabic
rendering awlād al-‘Arab is reminiscent of nothing so much as the
designation awlād al-nās (literally, ‘sons of the people’) in the
Mamluk sultanate. The awlād al-nās were the sons of mamluks who,
according to the military culture observed by the Mamluk sultanate,
were forbidden to join the sultanate’s armed forces.36 Here, the
extremely vague term nās (people) would seem to apply to the
mamluks themselves rather than to the population of Egypt or Cairo
at large. The phrase, then, serves to underline the contrasting
statuses of the two generations although it also connotes the
‘localisation’ of the second generation: they are no longer literal
outsiders but ‘of the people’.
By the same token, evlâd-i ‘Arab and Rūm oğlanı could signify
generational difference. Thus, the evlâd-i ‘Arab may not necessarily
be Arabs themselves but the children of Arabs, with all that this
implies. If we take ‘Arab here to mean a nomadic or semi-nomadic
population from the Asiatic provinces of the Ottoman Empire, or
from the Empire’s Asiatic peripheries, then perhaps the implication
is that of being only a generation removed from the ‘barbarous’
nomads, such as the wild Circassians who leap into the Ottoman
ships—or, for that matter, the Arab bedouin. By this reasoning, Rūm
oğlanı would perhaps imply a population only a generation removed
from the Christians of the Balkans and Anatolia. Semantically, this
construction makes a certain amount of sense, for it was the young
sons of these established populations who would be uprooted from
their birth cultures and transformed into the sultan’s soldiers—
absorbed into state military service just as the sons of the Mamluks
had been debarred from it.

Kul vs. Ümerâ’

A final consideration that is not immediately apparent has to do with
political circumstances in the Ottoman Empire at the time at which
this animus against the evlâd-i ‘Arab manifested itself. It is no
coincidence, I believe, that an order to expel the evlâd-i ‘Arab from
Egypt’s regiments was issued in the 1640s. At this point, the Empire
was only twenty years past the regicide of Sultan Osman II (‘Genç
Osman’), who in 1622 was murdered by Janissaries and palace kullar
who feared his scheme of displacing the Janissaries with troops
recruited from the Empire’s Asiatic provinces, while moving the
capital to Asia.37 The Genç Osman affair pointed up as never before
the tension between the kullar of Balkan and western Anatolian
origin, who dominated palace service, and the mercenaries, or
sekbans, recruited from both European and Asian territory, who
212 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
served the governors of the Ottoman provinces. Genç Osman’s
murder proved a victory for the kullar, but it fuelled a rebellious
streak among key provincial governors (ümerâ’). Abaza Mehmed
Pasha, the governor of ErzuRūm in northeastern Anatolia, marched
toward Istanbul with an army of sekbans, intent, he claimed, on
avenging Osman II’s murder and carrying through his scheme of
disempowering the kullar. His cause was evidently joined by the
governor of the southeastern Anatolian province of Diyarbakır.38
The fact that Mehmed Pasha himself was Abaza, or Abkhazian, is
not insignificant in this context. Writ large, his rebellion can be read
as the revolt of the Asiatic evlâd-i ‘Arab, patronized by provincial
ümerâ’, against the hegemony of the Rūm oğlanı.
A similar scene would play out some three decades later, when
Abaza Hasan Pasha, the governor of Aleppo, rebelled against the
centralizing policies of the Albanian grand vizier Köprülü Mehmed
Pasha in 1658-9. Intent on quelling the revolt at all costs, Köprülü
sent Melek Ahmed Pasha, the patron of Evliya Çelebi, with a
punitive expedition to Aleppo. However, he was sensitive to the
ethno-regional tensions and reportedly asked Melek Ahmed if he
were willing to undertake the command, given that the rebel was a
fellow Abkhazian.39
The central-provincial/east-west antagonism that informed the
Genç Osman affair and its aftermath certainly contributed to the
milieu within which the expulsions of evlâd-i ‘Arab occurred.
Nonetheless, the expulsions seem to have resulted not from a
conflict of interests between (Rūmî) kullar and (Asiatic) sekbans but
from competition between two conflicting ethnic pools of sekbans:
Rūmîs and evlâd-i ‘Arab. The Rūmî sekbans may well have included
former kullar in their ranks since, as I have noted elsewhere, the
boundary between Janissary and mercenary during this chaotic
period was quite blurry.40 I would tend to doubt, however, that the
evlâd-i ‘Arab included Caucasian mamluks. The term’s usage in the
various contexts that we have examined implies localised, even
integrated, elements; indeed, as noted above, this is a key implication
of evlâd. Hence, the expression is probably restricted to Asiatic
sekbans of various kinds.

Conclusion

It appears from this discussion that the terms Rūm oğlanı and evlâd-i
‘Arab were, perhaps deliberately, vague; they represented not so
much specific ethno-geographic designations as broad ethno-
geographic categories that could include different varieties of
peoples. Their respective meanings derived in large part from the
contrast between the two groups they represented: Rūm oğlanı were
 Arab and Jewish Communities 213
‘western’, ‘European’, Balkan, Rūmelian, whereas evlâd-i ‘Arab were
‘eastern’, Asiatic, of the Arab provinces. In most of the contexts in
which we have observed it, moreover, evlâd-i ‘Arab is, at least
implicitly, a pejorative term implying inferiority to the contrasting
Rūm oğlanı, even though the Rūm oğlanı are implicitly associated
with rebels (zorbalar).
I would hesitate to assert that Rūm oğlanı and evlâd-i ‘Arab are
simply bywords for the Balkan-Caucasian divide pointed out by
Metin Kunt or the kul-ümerâ’ antagonism examined by Gabriel
Piterberg. The two phrases might encompass both these rivalries,
but they seem broad and flexible enough to go well beyond the
populations considered by the aforementioned two scholars.
Furthermore, the generational element implied by oğlan and evlâd
seems significant, given Mustafa Ali’s references to ‘locals’ and the
repeated associations in later chronicles with specific Arab provincial
cities. Evlâd-i ‘Arab may indeed be the offspring of nomadic tribal
levies of various kinds, or mamluks or mercenaries of various Asiatic
provenances, who settled in the large provincial cities, perhaps
married local Arabophone (or Persophone or Turcophone) women,
and passed their profession on to their sons. In this sense, evlâd-i
‘Arab might have similar negative overtones to the expression ‘first
generation off the farm’ in the modern United States: these are the
children of bedouin or Turkic nomads, or Caucasian mamluks, or
perhaps even long-established locals, settled in large cities with
Ottoman garrisons and worming their way into these garrisons. In so
doing, they have usurped the place of the children of the long-
established Balkan and Anatolian peasant population, who have
historically formed the backbone of the Ottoman armies.
In this context, a much later occurrence of the expression is
notable: in the infamous 1711 incident in which a ‘Rūmî’ mosque
preacher (vâciz) incited a band of Ottoman soldiers to attack Cairo’s
sufis, the soldiers insult the Cairene ulema by calling them evlâd-i
‘Arab—perhaps an evolution of the term to refer to descendants of
Asiatic nomads or, more specifically, bedouin, regardless of
profession. The soldiers themselves, however, are not labelled Rūmî
but are instead condemned by the chronicler, Ahmed Çelebi, as min
jins al-atrāk alladīna lam yafriqū bayna mīm wa-nūn (‘of the race of Turks
who did not distinguish between mīm and nūn’), an allusion to the
sexual dissoluteness of Anatolian ‘hillbillies’.41
Rapid demographic change of the sort that the entire Ottoman
Empire experienced in the early seventeenth century, with its
accompanying conflicts of interest, cannot help but breed negative
stereotypes and derogatory labels. The challenge to historians is to
interpret these labels in the context of the times in which they were
invented and used, rather than anachronistically assigning modern
214 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
nationalist meanings to them. Although it remains unclear just who
the evlâd-i ‘Arab were—and perhaps that was part of the point of
this vague label—it is clear that they were not simply Arabs.

Notes
1
The current version of the paper benefits from the comments of participants in
the conference ‘Chronicle’s Text, Rebel’s Voice,’ University of Leiden, Leiden,
Netherlands, January 2002.
2
Michael Winter, Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517-1798 (London and
New York, 1992), 55; see also 54, 56.
3
Mehmed b. Yusuf Al-Hallāq, Tārih-i Mısr-ı Kāhire, Istanbul University Library,
T.Y. 628.
4
I am grateful to Erik Jan Zürcher for this insight.
5
Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. ‘Adjamī Oghlān’ (Harold Bowen).
6
Svat Soucek, A History of Inner Asia (Cambridge, 2000), 31-4, 186-7.
7
Jane Hathaway, The Politics of Households in Ottoman Egypt: The Rise of the
Qazdağlıs (Cambridge, 1997), 55 and n. 13; 57 and n. 22; 58; 63 and n. 44.
8
For an example of desertion from the Ottoman to the Safavid army (if not vice
versa), see Ahmed Kâhya cAzeban al-Damūrdāshī, Al-Durra al-musāna fī akhbār al-
Kināna, British Library, MS Or. 1073-1074, 56-7. On Shah Abbas, see Iskandar
Munshī, The History of Shah cAbbas the Great, trans. Roger M. Savory, 3 vols.
(Boulder, CO, 1978). On the Shaybanids, see Soucek, History of Inner Asia, 149-66,
177-87.
9
Al-Hallāq, Tārih-i Mısr-ı Kāhire, f. 150v-153v; see also anonymous, Kitāb-i Tārih-i
Mısr-ı Kāhire [Hatti Hasan Pasha] (to 1094/1683), Süleymaniye Library, MS Haci
Mahmud Efendi 4877, f. 57v-59r.
10
Al-Hallaq, Tārih-i Mısr-ı Kāhire, f. 158v.
11
Anonymous, Akhbār al-nuwwāb min dawlat Āl cUthmān min hīn istawla calayhā al-
sultān Salīm Khān, Topkapı Palace Library, MS Hazine 1623, f. 29v ff.; Ahmed
Çelebi b. cAbd al-Ghani, Awdah al-ishārāt fī man tawalla Misr al-Qāhira min al-wuzarā’
wa’l-bāshāt, ed. A.A. cAbd al-Rahīm (Cairo, 1978), 162; cAbdülkerim b.
cAbdurrahman, Tarih-i Mısır, Süleymaniye Library, MS Hekimoğlu Ali Pasha 705,
f. 80v-84v; Al-Hallāq, Tārih-i Mısr-ı Kāhire, f. 139-44 (where no label is applied to
the soldiers). See also Hathaway, Politics of Households, 62 and n. 42.
12
Al-Hallāq, Tārih-i Mısr-ı Kāhire, f. 160v ff.
13
Mustafa Ali, Hālāt al-Qāhira min al-cadāt al-zāhira, Süleymaniye Library, MS Fatih
5427/14, f. 47r; MS Esad Efendi 2407, f. 14r. See also Andreas Tietze, ed. and
trans., Mustafa Ali’s Description of Cairo of 1599 (Vienna, 1975), 40 and Plate XXIV
(MS Haci Selim 757, f. 61r).
14
For example, Tietze, ed., Mustafa Ali’s Description, Plate XLVI (MS Haci Selim, f.
72r).
15
Ibid. Plates XXVIII, XXXII (MS Haci Selim, f. 63r, 65r). Furthermore, the black
eunuch Kafūr, who ruled Egypt at the end of the Ikshidid dynasty, is described as
an cArab: MS Fatih 5427/14, f. 58r.
16
MS Fatih 5427/14, fos. 54r (evlâd-i cArab’dan bir beledî piyâde hidmetkâr: ‘a local
footsoldier-servant from the evlâd-i cArab’); Tietze, ed., Mustafa Ali’s Description of
Cairo, Plate XLIII (MS Haci Selim, f. 70v).
17
Muhammad cAbd al-Mucti al-Ishāqī, Kitāb Akhbār al-uwal fī man tasarrafa fī Misr
 Arab and Jewish Communities 215

min arbāb al-duwal (Bulaq, 1304/1887), 156: ‘musādarāt li-baczi akābir Misr min awlād
al-cArab.’
18
Ibid. 157.
19
Tietze, ed., Mustafa Ali’s Description of Cairo, Plate XLIII (MS Haci Selim, f. 70v):
‘Acyân-i Mısır’dan biri beledî olan hidmetkârine Rūmî libâs giydirse, mânic olur.’
20
Reinhart Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes, 2 vols. (Leiden, 1927).
21
This meaning, or the more general ‘Negro,’ is also adduced in Sir James W.
Redhouse, ed., A Turkish and English Lexicon, 7th ed. (Istanbul, 1978), 1292.
22
See, for example, cAbdallāh Muhammad b. Ibrāhīm b. Battūta, Rihla Ibn Batūta,
intro. by Karam al-Bustānī (Beirut, 1964), 290, 356; see also 344-5, where he refers
to Turks and Rūmī Christians in the same locale.
23
For example, ibid. 283.
24
See, for example, Tietze, ed., Mustafa Ali’s Description of Cairo, 32, 35, 36, 39-44,
46, 47, 49, 54, 57.
25
See, for example, Süheylî Efendi, Tevārih-i Mısīr-ı [sic] ül-Kadīm, Süleymaniye
Library, MS Fatih 4229, f. 92v. For an intriguing discussion of the evolution of the
term among Portuguese warriors and statesmen in the sixteenth century, see Salih
Özbaran, ‘Ottomans as “Rūmes” in Portuguese Sources in the Sixteenth Century’,
Portuguese Studies 17 (2001): 64-74.
26
İbrahim Metin Kunt, ‘Ethnic-Regional (Cins) Solidarity in the Seventeenth-
Century Ottoman Establishment’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 5 (1974):
233-9, esp. 237-8.
27
See, for example, Al-Hallāq, Tārh-i Mısr-ı Kāhire, f. 158v.
28
Carl Petry, Twilight of Majesty: The Reigns of the Mamlūk Sultans al-Ashraf Qāytbāy
and Qānsūh al-Ghawrī in Egypt (Seattle, 1993), 88-103.
29
For example, Keşfî Mehmed Çelebi, Selimname, Süleymaniye Library, MS Esad
Efendi 2147, f. 69r, 78v; Rıdvan Paşazade, Tārih-i Mısır, Süleymaniye Library, MS
Fatih 4362, f. 128v; see also f. 94r, 134r, which implicitly contrast the Mamluk
sultan Barquq’s (1382-1399) slave status with the lengthy genealogy of the
Ottoman dynasty.
30
Halil İnalcık, Part 1 of İnalcık, with Donald Quataert, ed., An Economic and Social
History of the Ottoman Empire (Cambridge, 1994), chapter 6.
31
Evliya Çelebi, Evliya Çelebi Seyahatnamesi, ed. Ahmed Cevdet, vol. II (Istanbul,
1314 A.H.), 98, 102-9. See also Jean de Chardin (1643-1713), The Travels of Sir John
Chardin into Persia and the East Indies…, published simultaneously in French and
English, Early English Books, 1641-1700 (London, 1691), vol. I, 76-8.
32
Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, vol. II, 109-10.
33
EI2, s.v. ‘Čerkes’ (Charles Quelquejay); s.v. ‘Čerkes: Ottoman Period’ (Halil
İnalcık); George Leighton Ditson, Circassia, or a Tour to the Caucasus (New York and
London, 1850), 416.
34
Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, vol. II, 104.
35
Even in the Book of Isaiah in the Hebrew Bible, King Pekah of Israel is referred
to as ‘son of Remaliah’ so as rhetorically to diminish his stature (Isaiah 7:4; see also
1 Samuel 10:11).
36
David Ayalon, ‘Studies on the Structure of the Mamluk Army’, Part 2, reprinted
in Studies on the Mamluks of Egypt (1250-1517) (London, 1977).
37
Gabriel Piterberg, ‘The Alleged Rebellion of Abaza Mehmed Pasha:
Historiography and the Ottoman State in the Seventeenth Century’, in Jane
Hathaway, ed. Mutiny and Rebellion in the Ottoman Empire (Madison, WI, 2002), 14-
15.
38
Ibid. 18-9; Baki Tezcan, ‘The 1622 Military Rebellion in Istanbul: A
Historiographical Journey’, in Hathaway, ed., Mutiny and Rebellion in the Ottoman
216 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Empire, 33.
39
Kunt, ‘Ethnic-Regional (Cins) Solidarity’, 239; P.M. Holt, Egypt and the Fertile
Crescent: A Political History, 1516-1922 (Ithaca and London, 1966), 105.
40
Hathaway, Politics of Households, 62.
41
The expression refers to homoeroticism and/or bestiality. I owe this
interpretation to Dr. Jan Schmidt of the University of Leiden Library. For the
incident, see Al-Hallāq, Tārih-i Mısr-ı Kāhire, f. 296r-301r; Ahmed Çelebi, Awdah,
251-5. See also Barbara Flemming, ‘Die Vorwahhabitische Fitna im osmanischen
Kairo, 1711’, in İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı’ya Armağan (Ankara, 1976); Rudolph
Peters, ‘The Battered Dervishes of Bāb Zuwayla: A Religious Riot in Eighteenth-
Century Cairo’, in Nehemia Levtzion and John O. Voll, eds., Eighteenth-Century
Renewal and Reform in Islam (Syracuse, 1987).
 The Young Turks and the Arab Press

Caesar E. Farah

This paper deals with the remarkable transformation of attitudes in

the post-Hamidian era towards the press in general, and the Arabic
in particular.1 Up until the revolution by the Young Turks,
Abdülhamid (1876-1909) pursued a policy of watchful patience
interfering only when he found it in the interest of the Ottoman state
to stop publications injurious to his policy of combating foreign
encroachments, which the Arab press in general still deemed an act
of tyranny on his part. His official censors (mektupçus) kept him
informed on the seditious writings of authors influenced by the
negativism current in the Western press whose mission it was to
counter what they termed a potential showdown with a potentially
insurgent Islam.
Ottoman newspaper editors found succour in the French liberal
writers who had inherited a campaign against the tyranny of rule
from their revolution, in which now liberal Ottoman authors found a
good model to emulate. They joined the eastern chorus in
denouncing what they termed the tyranny of their ruler. They spoke
out in all ardour for a reform of their state of affairs, demanding first
and foremost the freedom to express their opinions, regardless of
the consequences for their society, by further inviting and
encouraging diatribes of the Western press against Islam and its
values.
Ottoman reformers dubbed such diatribes liberal, echoing them as
if they had received the blessing of their Western supporters to
criticize their own society, their Sultan ruler, and the elements within
it which they alluded to as reactionaries, thus simplifying the struggle
as one between traditional Islamic reaction and European notions of
liberalism, guided by unbridled freedom of expression and all the
criticism they could muster with but a superficial knowledge of what
freedom to speak out entailed. Some writers were mere opportunists,
believing that the Sultan would buy their silence by grants of money
or appointments. They anticipated rewards in lieu of earned
punishment for preaching treason and sedition.
218 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Within a year after the Young Turks assumed the reins of
government, they launched a vicious campaign against the Ottoman
and Arab press for daring to criticize their own policies, which had
quickly convinced the public that it was based on self-service and
personal gain. Arab Muslims soon saw through the acts of betrayal
on the part of Young Turk leaders who, by the way, were not of
Turkic or Arab background, being Jewish, Bulgarian, Armenian and
of other minorities who had enlisted Arab support only to betray
their cause at the earliest opportunity, thus driving them to turn
against the new régime and revolt against it, contributing to its
demise in World War I.
Battling the Hostile Press Prior to 1909

As the press in the Arab provinces, especially in Egypt, shifted into

high gear to denounce the alleged tyranny of the Ottoman censor
(mektupçu) who managed to censor the articles being written up in
the Arabic newspapers when they increased publication in the
1870s,2 the Sultan‘s agent sought to curb their negativism either by
bribery or by shutting down their publications for a period of time
and fining the publishers. Reports from Washington by Ali Ferruh
Bey, the Ottoman ambassador, spoke of his having to resort to the
court system three times to put an end to the vicious attacks
launched by one paper whose owner was imprisoned in the end for
treason and the preaching of sedition. The American courts ruled in
favour of the Ottoman government, and the paper was abolished.
The name of both the paper and its editor was not given in the
report to Istanbul.3 Another detailed report to Tahsin, the Sultan’s
first secretary, accused Ibrāhīm Nu‘mān Ma‘lūf of Zahlé of
emulating his father in insulting the Sultan. He sought permission to
prevent the dissemination of his publication al-Ayyām, which he did
not believe was difficult to do since both had little money to
continue publishing.4
A draft report to the grand vizier’s müstaşarlık accuses the Syrian
Khalīl Ayyūb of the Ottoman translation bureau of being involved in
a sedition in Syria/Lebanon aimed at gaining independence for the
country as Egypt had. He had been exiled from Syria, but now was
permitted to return there to settle his own affairs. The grand vizier
instructed the vali of the province to keep a close eye on Khalīl, who
had denied there was any truth to the rumours spread by the foreign
press that Syrians wanted to be attached to Egypt. The report stated
that most Syrians were Muslims and were loyal to the caliphate.
What they wanted were tamyīz (cassation) courts to hear the backlog
of complaints. In Damascus, there was only one court per ten
 Arab and Jewish Communities 219
thousand inhabitants. People were arrested and held without the
benefit of a hearing.
The other problem of which they complained was the lack of
knowledge of Arabic by the authorities, which meant hearings had to
be translated. This accounted for additional delays. Orders to
conduct secret inquiries, leading to detention and interrogation only
led to creating a negative image of the state, and contributed to
arousing unnecessary discontent. Such a situation applied in most
cases to journalists and their newspapers.5
Most of the hostile press operated out of European capitals
prompting the Sultan to dispatch his own men to track them down
and report on their editors and supporters. Dissident members of
the Ottoman government had already fled to conduct their agitation
against the government abroad, where censorship did not apply.
Mahmud Pasha (brother-in-law of the Sultan), Ahmed Cevdet
(Ottoman author), and the Young Turk group supporting them were
shuttling back and forth between Brussels, Paris and London. Abu
al-Diyā’ (Ziya) Tevfik, who was dispatched to keep an eye on them,
complained of the expenses involved, asking for an increased
allocation from the Sultan. The hostile newspaper Istiqbāl was printed
in Naples and attracted much Ottoman attention for its vicious
attacks on the Sultan.6
Mehmed Ali Bey was appointed to the bureau of ‘Référendaires’
of the Imperial Council of the Sultan on 7 October 1890 after having
served with distinction as the mektupçu of the grand vizier and
whom the Sultan held in high esteem. Munir Bey, a mektupçu of the
Ottoman Foreign Ministry and director of the bureau of the Press
returned from Paris by the Orient Express on October 8 1890 where
he had undergone a similar mission of checking up on the activities
and writings in the European press of Ottoman dissidents.7
Another report from the Ottoman embassy in Paris claimed that
the newspaper Tan was inflaming both Muslims and non-Muslims
and agitating against the imperial government. The Ottoman Foreign
Ministry submitted a copy of the inflammatory article submitted to
the Sultan seeking his response.8
So determined was the Sultan in banning hostile foreign journals
from entry that on 22 February 1902 he ordered the Foreign
Ministry to issue such an order to the embassy in Vienna, which it
did by telegram two days later, relaying instructions of the Sultan to
notify foreign embassies to enforce the ban.9
The Ottoman Foreign Ministry was on the alert for publications
prepared in an Ottoman province and sent to a European capital to
be shipped into Ottoman lands. On 11 June 1902 the embassy
dispatched the translation of an article appearing in the newspaper
Khilafat.10 The Foreign Ministry’s copy came from Basra and
220 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
instructions went out to notify the Ottoman Commission in Cairo to
take all necessary steps to prevent the dispatch of this newspaper by
British mail. Foreign Minister Tevfik issued orders to the embassy to
lodge a formal complaint with the British Foreign Ministry and
demand that it prevent the distribution of the newspaper through its
mail. It could not prevent its being published in London but it could
prevent it from reaching Ottoman provinces to corrupt the thinking
of Muslims. Meanwhile the death penalty was issued against
Hindīyah, who was a resident of London at the time. An imperial
ferman was issued on 24 Safer 1320/4 May 1902 to prevent the
publication from being disseminated.11
The Young Turks and the Arab Press

Abdülhamid had managed to appease and neutralize the attacks of

the press and editors with hopes he would buy their silence if not
reverse their attitudes towards him, but the same could not be said
of the Young Turks, who earned the enmity of the Arabs from the
outset with their narrow policies based on Turkism rather than
Ottomanism as advocated by the majority of subjects, who were
Arab and Muslim at the time of the revolution against the Sultan. In
an article appearing in al-Muqtabas, a leading newspaper published by
Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali in Damascus, the editor replies to a political
correspondence article appearing in Vienna stating that eighty four
Arab delegates (actually sixty) of the Chamber of Deputies would
not accept being called ‘Turk’.
Speaking on behalf of the Arab Society formed in Istanbul, the
deputies wanted the Ottoman sultan to be called ‘Emperor of the
East’ and demanded the appointment of two Arab ministers on
grounds that Muslim Arabs constitute the majority of citizens and
were more numerous than their Turkish counterparts. The article
stated that the Arab deputies would not participate in the meetings
of the Society of Union and Progress (CUP) because they wished to
pursue an independent course that would attract more Arabs to their
ranks. The Turkish newspaper Sabah, organ of the CUP, denounced
al-Muqtabas, accusing it of seeking to drive a wedge between Arab
and Turk and create a rift. It emphasized the common interest of
both elements in resisting tyranny and denounced the handful of
pro-British Arabs in Egypt, home of the Arab press, who called for
an Arab caliphate, as harmful to the common heritage of both Arab
and Turk. The Muqtabas reminded Sabah that in Syria there is no
adherence to the idea of an Arab caliphate and pointed out that the
Syrians were first to volunteer for Ottoman military service. It
defended the Society for Arab-Ottoman Brotherhood of Istanbul as
an organization with no political aims, dedicated only to safeguarding
 Arab and Jewish Communities 221
the constitution and to spreading education and commerce among
Arabs. False rumours reaching the European press were allegedly
misrepresenting the common objective of Arab and Turk.12
Disenchantment with the CUP’s agenda induced opponents led by
Prince Sabahuddin to call for decentralization, or granting the
provinces more say over their own affairs. The grand vizier Kamil
Pasha was reportedly of the old school. He believed in absolutism
and was not capable of following the new trend as the editor of al-
Muqtabas proclaimed in the article ‘Our Ahrār (Freedom Party) and
Our Constitution’.13 In a separate article entitled ‘The Arab
Question’, the editor claims that those of our leaders who call for
separatism must realize that the day this happens ‘we are doomed’, as
no nation divided survives. All Ottomans are one (entity).
The paper alleged that a few years earlier two representatives from
France came to the Emir of Nejd, Ibn Sa‘ūd, promising him money
if he would help invade Syria and take over. His reply: ‘it would be
an easy matter for my men, but then what guarantee would I have
that some foreign power would not step in. There are too many
foreign ambitious [powers] against us. We cannot divide!’14
The paper strongly criticized dissidents writing abroad for sowing
dissension in Ottoman ranks. Under the title ‘What are these corrupt
trends, or our response to the sons of al-Mutrān?’ In Cairo, Rafīq al-
‘Azüm attacked the founders of the ‘Syrian Unity Society’ in Paris,
which was attributed to Nakhlah Pasha al-Mutrān and Rashīd Beg al-
Mutrān for preaching Syrian independence when in his view
Ottoman unity was the only source of strength and survival.15

The Arab Caliphate and its Critics

The British-inspired preaching for an Arab caliphate was essentially a

political manoeuvre designed to split the Arabs from the Young
Turks and to fan their hostility towards them. The subject occupied
much space in the Arab press as the call for such a caliphate struck a
responsive cord among those who became convinced that the party
they had supported into power in the hope of undoing what they
termed the tyranny of the previous régime turned out more
tyrannical than its predecessor. This was particularly evident in the
Arab press of the United States. Under the title ‘The Arab Caliphate
and the Reactionary Party or a Treatise on the Independence of
Syria’, Yūsuf Jirjis Zakhm wrote that there were 100,000 Syrians in
the United States who were divided over the question into three
groups. The first consisted of followers of Nakhlah and his
compatriots from Ba‘albak, with two newspapers: Mir’āt al-Gharb
(Mirror of the West) and al-Huda (The Guidance) serving as their
organ. The Mirror publicizes Nakhlah’s ideas among simpletons
222 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
urging their support of the Freedom Party (Ahrār)16 when it is known
that he had been the most notorious of government spies. Al-Huda
defends him and his position while claiming to be non-political.
Owners of both newspapers advocate the return of the caliphate to
its rightful owners, the Arabs.
The second group, adherents of the Syrian Unity Society, also
founded by Nakhlah a few months after he came to the United
States, had 120 members, mostly in New York, led by Dr. Rizk
Efendi Haddad. The third group consisted of the rest of the Syrians,
all excited over Nakhlah and his preaching, including al-Jāmi‘ah,17
which allegedly supported Nakhlah’s personal aims. On the other
hand the newspaper al-Dalīl (The Guide) attacked ‘this pasha’ and
demanded that he repent his sins and foul deeds, and his association
with other reactionaries who came to America like ‘Izzet al-‘Ābid,
Abu‘l-Huda al-Sayyādi (both of Syrian origin and key members of
the deposed sultan’s personal entourage and advisers), who came to
America after the revolution (1909) to deceive Syrians claiming they
were among the leading opponents of tyranny.18 Exposed by al-
Jāmi‘ah, Nakhlah goes to Paris to continue his foul work’ hoping to
gain the attention of the Committee of Union and Progress and a
position in their government; but he is rejected; so he turns to
preaching an Arab caliphate and Syrian independence through the
Society of Syrian Unity. ‘Izzet allegedly came secretly to Paris to
consult with Nakhlah, proof that the reactionary party works for the
overthrow of a free state supported by 100,000 Syrian Christians in
America. None of these emigrants have the right to preach an Arab
caliphate, which right belongs to Muslims only.19

Criminal Behaviour of the CUP Towards

the Arab-Islamic Press

Shortly after the deposition of Sultan Abdülhamid II, those who

opposed the arbitrary and repressive methods of the CUP launched
the Muhammadīyah movement in order to preserve the primacy of
the sharī‘ah. This soon led to strong demonstrations against the new
régime and its organizers who were mostly converts from Jewish
backgrounds. The CUP launched concerted efforts throughout the
Arab provinces to extirpate members of the Muhammadīyah who
quickly came to number over 30,000. Within a month following their
assumption of power, the Young Turks ordered the arrest of its
leaders and its members in Damascus, confining them to prison both
in the citadel of the city and in the government centre.20
Judging from the daily arrests, trial, and execution of army officers
high and low throughout the country for allegedly rising against the
CUP-led coup, their counter-coup would have failed in 1909 were it
 Arab and Jewish Communities 223
not for the bold initiative of Mahmud Şevket and the rapid
deployment of the Macedonia-based army in the capital. The Sultan
had far greater army support there and in the ranks. He could have
chosen to put down Mahmud’s army, but as Abdülhamid wrote later,
he did not want to shed the blood of his ‘children’, contrary to what
CUP propaganda would have us believe. It is ironical how viciously
al-Muqtabas attacked the Sultan in support of the CUP only to find
itself under fire when its leaders got the upper hand and ignored the
support of its editor, whom they arrested on shallow pretexts, and
suspended his paper, relying on the testimony rumourmongers,
unascertained facts, and granting no benefit of the doubt to those
who had ardently supported them to power.
Another report in al-Muqtabas of 21 June 1909 stated that Murad
Beg, the owner of the newspaper Mizan was transferred from the
Ministry of War to the prison for officers in the capital, then
condemned to life imprisonment, and later exiled to Rhodes. He was
accused of spending allegedly millions in gold to entice the army to
rise and demand rule by the sharī‘ah; and that had he succeeded,
members of the Freedom party and the constitutionalists would have
been slaughtered in a bloodbath worse than that of the French
Revolution.21The physician Hussein Remzi, owner of the newspaper
Miqyās was condemned to six years in prison.
The martial court condemned al-Hajj ‘Ākif to life imprisonment
for distributing harmful papers among the ‘rebellious’ troops and
inciting them to defend the shari‘ah. Other newspapers accused of
supporting restoration of the Sharī‘ah, closed down and their
editors/owners arrested included Volkan, the main organ of the
Muhammadan Society, Izmir, Serbesti and the Independent. The
Muqtabas claimed it was their journalistic duty to demand
investigation of the ill intentions of the Muhammadan Society in
Syria and its close ties to Nazım Pasha, the vali, especially when the
list of members was burned after it was abolished from the capital.
Citing an article in the English Daily Telegraph under the title
‘Beginning of the Republic’s Pains’, it registered abhorrence at the
assertion of the editor that western authors who claim that the
Ottoman state should return to basic Islamic principles, which are
democratic in conception and freedom-promoting, in order to
acquire a guiding ideology. The newspaper quoted Le Chatelier, a
Professor of Islamic Studies at the Collège de France and a critic of
pan-Islam, who alleged that the new order has exchanged one
dictator (Abdülhamid) for two hundred (Chamber of Deputies), each
pulling in a different direction.22
The hunt was on in Syria. Some 400 members of the Society were
arrested and the CUP government was after another 1,000
individuals who had scattered. The paper compared Mahmud Şevket
224 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
to Napoleon and claimed that he deserved the Nobel prize.
Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali, owner and publisher of al-Muqtabas, wrote
that the greatest evil inflicted on the empire was to permit the
exercise of religious and political authority to men of religion—
Muslim, Jewish and Christian.23 It appears he bore a special hatred
for ‘Izzet Pasha al-‘Ābid, a fellow Damascene who had served as the
second secretary and confidant of the late sultan, whom members of
the Freedom Party considered the chief architect of Abdülhamid’s
tyrannical rule. They tended to refer to him as the ‘Second Sultan’ on
account of his loyal services and main liaison with the Arabs. They
alleged that ‘Izzet flattered Abdülhamid and induced him to enforce
policies that were harmful to the opposition by claiming that
Muslims knew no other leader than him. The end result was that the
nation awakened to his false policy of agitating Muslims and giving
rise to the Muhammadan Society as the organ of reaction aimed at
uniting subjects on the basis of their common religion, or Islam, thus
ending his reign on 14 April 1909.24
The paper delighted in reporting that ‘Izzet’s property in the
capital was seized, including his own residence, which was leased out
to Halīl Pasha Hamādah, Minister of Awqāf. Reporting on the basis
of what was published in the newspaper Ittihad in Istanbul, Kurd ‘Ali
wrote that the martial court retrieved the medals from forty-three
‘spies of the Hamidian era’ and ordered their arrest; two of whom
were relatives of Abu ‘l-Huda.25 Three days later the paper reported
that orders were issued not to employ muftis, judges and heads of
the Ashrāf (descendants of the Prophet) in any of the councils of
administration.26
An uproar was raised in the Egyptian press when the appeals
court condemned Shaykh ‘Abd al-‘Azīz Jāwīsh, chief editor of the
Islamic newspaper al-Liwā’ to three months of imprisonment for his
attack on the prime minister. The press speculated that the recently
enacted law by the Chamber of Deputies against insulting or casting
aspersion on members of government might not have influenced the
decision of courts in Egypt.27
Yet in spite of the loyal support by al-Muqtabas for the new
government, it was to fall into disgrace within months, and one has
to question whether its publishing an open letter addressed to the
Chamber of Deputies by ‘Abdallah Mukhlis of Haifa calling attention
to the opening up of Palestine to Jewish immigration following the
CUP’s taking over the reins of government was a principal factor.
The new finance minister Hussein Javid, a Jew, had been
encouraging stepped-up Jewish immigration to Palestine while Arab
deputies were oblivious to its danger. Jewish purchases at inflated
prices of land and businesses in Palestine, hiring only Jews, buying
only from Jews even if it meant traveling for miles to do so, all were
 Arab and Jewish Communities 225
deemed reasons for alert. As Mukhlis naively wrote ‘we do not fear
Palestine becoming Israel, that is impossible, but our government
seems to be indifferent while as finance minister Javid tacitly
encourages this trend. They could not have done so under the
previous régime (Abdülhamid’s).’28
Downgrading the role of religion constituted another cause of
complaint, especially by Ibrāhīm Mashāqah who defended the
programme of religious instruction in the American College of
Beirut, which in keeping with the provisions of its statutes for forty
years had offered such instruction according to the Evangelical
Church’s teaching. He rejected the complaints of students, declaring
in his written retort ‘let Muslims and Jews each have their own
college.’29
The rift with the CUP was growing noticeably in the next years.
The Syrian newspaper Barada attacked its leaders—Javid, Talaat and
Hakk—accusing them of selling Tripolitania to the Italians who for
over thirty years had been manoeuvring to take possession of it. The
paper also took them to task for manipulating elections in Baghdad
to ensure the election of their candidate and threatening those who
did not vote for him.30
The vali of Basra reported to the Interior Ministry the need to bar
the publication and dissemination of the pamphlets and other tracts
of the National Reform Society, which were deemed harmful to the
state. The Naqīb Sayyid Jālib Beg was distributing al-Muqtabas in
Basra, which he claimed was seeking to incite the public against the
state because it alleged CUP policies only encouraged more foreign
encroachments.
The governor demanded that al-Muqtabas must cease publication
in keeping with article 23 of the Law of Publications, and its editor
tried for sedition.31 The beyannamé of the Society was delivered to the
vali of Basra by the chief of the Banu Sālim tribe, Sālim al-Khayyūn,
and another copy by the chief of the Muntafiqah tribe, Mansūr al-
‘Ajami. It was reproduced in part in al-Dustūr. The vali ordered the
immediate translation of the Arabic original of sixteen pages, which
had apparently come from al-Muqtabas into Ottoman.32 In his
response of 14 Zilhicce 1331/14 November 1913 the Minister of
Justice ordered suspension of the newspaper and ordered its
publisher imprisoned for one month.33 The mutasarrif of ‘Amārah
dispatched an enciphered report to the Interior asking permission to
suspend al-Dustūr which had published the suspension of al-Muqtabas
and the imprisonment of its publisher.34
The counsellor of the grand vizier reported to the Interior
Ministry disturbing news out of Egypt, namely that Rafīq al-‘Azm of
Damascene origin had published an article in the Islamic newspaper
al-Mu’ayyad calling on Syrians not to be duped by the government’s
226 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
appointing a commission to look into reforms for Syria stating ‘how
can we trust these people who have given so many concessions to
foreigners in order to raise money for promoting their own aims!’35
The minister of interior Talaat dispatched a telegram to the vali
ordering him to ban the issue of 17 February 1328/2 March 1912 of
al-Mu’ayyad from entering Syria.36 The grand vizier had issued
instructions to all vilayets and subdivisions on 31 August 1325/13
September 1910 following the recommendations of valis and
mutasarrifs to ban the dissemination of the newspapers al-Mu’ayyad
37
and Nahdat al-‘Arab for their anti-government policies, also issues
of al-Muqattam—all published in Egypt. Notification of the ban went
out to Hijaz, Yemen, Tripolitania, Ben Ghazi, and ‘Asīr mutasarrifliks
and the muhafaza of Medina as well.
An enciphered telegram from vali Refik of Aleppo to the Ministry
of the Interior of 23 October 1911 recommended closing down al-
Taqaddum (Progress)of Aleppo for its reporting Ottoman military
reversals, deaths and loss of military equipment and other unpleasant
military matters with the aim of stirring up upheavals. He also
recommended remanding to trial its publisher, as well as the
publisher of al-Muqtabas, whose agitation he claimed, was harmful to
the people and the state. The minister, however noted on the back of
the report that closing the paper was illegal and that any decision to
try must be awaited.38 The administration of the martial court
recommended to the Interior Ministry closing down the journal
Tasvir-i Efkar, known also as Tafsir-i Efkar, and Tabhij-i Efkar for its
‘disturbing minds’, as well as banning Abu ‘l-Diyā’s press and closing
down his establishment. The order was signed by the first army’s
commander-in-chief’s deputy and the muhafiz of Istanbul on 31
December 1328/10 January 1910. Talaat responded on the same
date saying that the basic law does not permit the administration to
interfere in such a matter.39
One paper that escaped the axe of the censore was al-Ra’y al-‘Āmm
(Public Opinion) of Taha Mudawwar Efendi. It had offended the
French consulate general by its language. The French demanded a
retraction but vali Nureddin rejected the French demand, and so
informed minister of the interior Talaat, claiming that no offence
had taken place; indeed, he praised Mudawwar for his loyal support
of the régime.40 To deflect from criticism of the press, Ghālib, the
governor of Syria, sent an enciphered dispatch41urging emendation
of the law on publication given the sensitive situation in Syria and
the importance of the province in order to be more flexible if the
situation decrees it, and the opposite if the situation should demand
it.42 According to the reply received, the current session of the
Chamber of Deputies did not allow for emendation of the law on
publications. It only permitted that reporting in newspapers of
 Arab and Jewish Communities 227
conspiracies and devious entries harmful to the state should be in
clear language.43
Silencing the press’s criticism of the Young Turk régime did not
succeed, and it soon became obvious more stringent counter-
measures were in order. This was particularly obvious when talks of
an Arab caliphate increased in the Arab press. The publisher of
Barada overstepped his boundaries when he published the article
‘Tyranny against Freedom’ severely attacking the Young Turk
government. The vali of Syria recommended, the Minister of Justice
obliged, and both the Interior Ministry and Grand Vizier’s Office
approved life exile for its publisher Muhammad Fihmi al-Ghazzi.
Fihmi’s appeal by telegram to the grand vizier was rejected and the
sentence formerly passed on 12 June 1328/26 June 1910 stood. 44
The grand vizier Gazi Ahmed Mehmed informed the minister of
the interior on 4 July 1912 that reports from the Arab provinces,
especially Egypt, indicated mounting attacks on the CUP. Threats of
a general uprising appeared in the making against their rule. There
was an increase in negative publication against CUP leaders and
government officials. The negative press was secretly distributed to
all parts of Arabia and Syria. The grand vizier asked that the
Ottoman commissariat in Egypt be instructed to take counter
measures. In another notice to the Interior three weeks later the
Grand vizier warned that the talk of an Arab caliphate was yielding
results in the formation of special committees in all the provinces to
propagate the appeal for it. Men of bad intentions are seeking to
agitate the Arabs and it is imperative that they be tracked down and
remanded to the courts, wrote the grand vizier.45
The American Arab press was no less critical. Nāsir Shatīla, owner
of al-Fajr in Rio de Janeiro accused Mehmed Reşad, the sultan-
caliph, and his ministers of cowardice in criticizing the reverses in
the war against the Italians in Tripolitania. ‘Your Ottoman
ancestors’, wrote Shatīla ‘would have been in the forefront of the
battlefield. We thought Abdülhamid was a tyrant and a despot and
hoped for better days. Then members of the CUP take over and all
they have wanted to do is to monopolize rule, appointing all
ministers from their own ranks. They denied Yemen local rule and
not one fulfilled Islam’s injunctions towards other races’. He berates
these Turks, stating in verse form: ‘you were given the reigns of
governing for 650 years—and all who do not rule justly [are] to be
deposed.’46 The recommendation of vali Kazim of Syria and vali
Edhem of Beirut to the Interior Ministry on 22 and 24 November
1911 to the government was for the Foreign Ministry to issue
instructions barring entry of the newspaper into the Arab
provinces.47
228 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
The negative attitude of the press in Syria towards the government
and the harsh response of the CUP stemmed in part from the Italian
bombardment of Beirut during the war over Tripolitania. When
matters calmed down, the War Ministry informed the Interior
Ministry on 30 October 1911 that there was no more need for a
martial court in Beirut and in Hawran. Vali Edhem of Beirut had
recommended its abolition a week earlier to the minister of interior
Talaat, and both the Council of Ministers and Sultan Mehmed Reşad
had approved the recommendation authorizing abolition of local
administration of court procedures. A petition for abolition had
come also from the notables of Beirut, who argued that to keep such
a court was to serve the aims of the CUP.48 The powerful Senusi
leader of Cyrenaica had criticized the CUP policy towards the
Italians, and had vowed to oppose any peace concluded by its leaders
and Italy, which had offended the honour of the Islamic Ottoman
state. He reflected thus the views of the Arabs of both Tripolitania
and Cyrenaica.
The CUP government found support in the newspaper Filistīn. Its
owner ‘Īsa Dā’ūd al-Īsa in his lead article entitled ‘A cry in the
wilderness’ attacks the ministers led by former grand vizier Kâmil
Pasha who when they were in command betrayed the principles of
the CUP by granting pardon to those formerly condemned officials
who had served the ‘tyrant’ Abdülhamid and all they got in return for
faith in the constitution was the abolition of the present chamber
and an attempt to reconstitute its membership to serve the interest
of the present membership and secure pardon for ‘Izzet Pasha. The
author asks: ‘what has happened to the original program of the
Unionists?’ alleging that ‘the next chamber will make sure to bring
down this present one.’ The article was translated into Ottoman.
Accompanied by a French summary, it was dispatched to grand
vizier Muhtâr Pasha.49
The Divan of War, however, was not ready to quit yet. It had
recommended the suspension of the Beirut Jesuit publication al-
Bashīr and the French-protected ‘Le Revue’ in keeping with the law
on publications because they had published a map of the Bosphorus
in non-detailed form. France complained to the Ottoman Foreign
Ministry that the map was designed for Gotha’s Mitteilung of the
Geographical Society’s collection of some 179 pages; so why punish
the Revue for contributing to it! The suspension of La Revue was then
rescinded. 50
The minister of the interior Talaat had issued strict orders to keep
a close watch over the ‘Umm al-Qura’ (the reference is to Mecca)
Society in Syria and its implications for an Arab awakening; indeed
already there were a Nahdah (Awakening), al-Nahdah al-Sūrīyah (The
Syrian Awakening), Nahdat al-‘Arab (Arab Awakening), and Umm al-
 Arab and Jewish Communities 229
Qura (Mother of Towns)51 Societies in both Damascus and Beirut, as
well as a number of secret groupings in the Arab provinces
preaching the return of the caliphate to the Arabs and publishing
articles to that effect in a number of journals in both Egypt and
Syria, deprecating the treachery of the Young Turk government and
criticizing generally both Turks and Turkish rule. It was alarming to
the authorities because such negative publications reached as far
south as Yemen and Hodeidah. They recommended that they be
stopped.52 Al-Muqtabas was named as the leading culprit. When its
publisher Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali fled, his brother Ahmad took over
the editorship of the paper, continuing in this capacity until it was
ordered to cease publication and Ahmad remanded to trial by the
martial court in Istanbul.53

The Trial by Military Courts

We have the court records of two investigative trials, that of

Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali of al-Muqtabas and Muhammad al-Bāqir,
editor-publisher of al-Balāgh, a paper which al-Bāqir claimed was
‘dedicated to political and social reform and to the service of Islamic
unity.’54 Both men were arrested and sent to Istanbul for trial before
a martial court on accusation that al-Bāqir published a poem by al-
Uskūbi and Kurd ‘Ali had reproduced it in his newspaper. Al-Uskūbi
was the instructor of the Prophet’s school in Medina and had been
disturbed by the lack of serious reaction on part of the central
government to Italy’s invasion of Tripolitania. He was unaware of
the fact that CUP leaders had practically sold the province to Italy,
hence their anger at his rebuking and chiding them for inaction. The
poem was cast in an Islamic tone, considering an Islamic reaction
appropriate and reminding the present régime that Europe did not
intervene because it was aware of what Ottoman ancestors had done
to them and that they were not going to miss an opportunity to
strike back at them. 55
Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali had fled Damascus to the Hijaz to escape
arrest and trial. There apparently, he met secretly with Hasan
Awliyā’, Abu Bakr Daghistāni, Muhamman Hammūdah, and ‘Abd al-
Rahmān Ilyās purportedly to discuss means to reconstitute the Arab
caliphate.56 The muhafiz of Medina reported to the governor of Syria
that the four had conducted conspiratorial talks for several nights at
the ‘Dār al-Surūr’ hotel and were planning to publish articles
deprecating the rule of the Ottomans and derogatory to the present
sultan’s government.57 The immediate cause for shutting down both
al-Balāgh and al-Muqtabas was their publishing al-Uskūbi’s poem
entitled ‘Nahmu wa ‘l-Gharb’ (We and the West), more to alert the
Ottoman government of the western plan to end their rule than to
230 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
attack them. Perhaps he hit a sensitive nerve of the Young Turk
leadership, which was already aware of the rising anti-CUP
sentiments among Arab Muslims, who suspected their loyalty to
Islam, especially after they had launched a systematic policy to
abolish the Muhammadan movement, arrest its leaders and remand
them to trial. Since Muhammad had fled after turning over the
editorship of the paper to his brother his trial was in absentia. The
recommendation for the trial of al-Muqtabas and al-Balāgh for
publishing the poem ‘We and the West’ was submitted by the
colonel in charge of the martial court. It claimed that the poem,
which al-Muqtabas published under the heading ‘Yā Āl ‘Uthmān’
deprecated the ‘great [Ottoman] caliphate’.58
From his place of imprisonment Ahmad protested the
recommendation to trial alleging what he published was not intended
to attack or deprecate the sultanate.59 But Talaat did not see it that
way in recommending to minister of war Mahmud Şevket the trial of
both publishers for having suggested that the caliphate be
transferred to a descendant of Quraysh.60 Shutting down both
newspapers was based on the recommendation of the governor
general of the Syrian vilayet, who had accompanied his
recommendation with a list of particulars, fifty-seven in all, which
reflected an Islamic sentiment when any publication of this nature
was considered anathema to the Young Turk government.61

Transcript of the Pre-Trial Inquiry of the Owner of al-Balāgh

I reproduce hereunder nearly verbatim the transcript of the

investigation conducted by the officer of the martial court prior to
official trial. The nature of the inquiry and questions asked casts light
on how the Young Turks in their frantic attempts to head off
criticism went about terrorizing their victims, often by willfully
distorting the responses, more out of ignorance of the Arabic
language nuances than deliberateness.

Q: Your name, profession and place of residence?

A: Muhammad al-Bāqir, son of Mirza al-Bāqir, resident of Beirut,
owner of the newspaper al-Balāgh, 25 years of age, know Arabic well
and write in it well.

Q: Were you ever subjected to trial before and were you successful?
A: No.

Q: Are you the responsible director of the newspaper al-Balāgh?

A: Yes.
 Arab and Jewish Communities 231
Q: The poem ‘We and the West’ appearing on page 8 of issue 39,
who composed it and where is he now?
A: The composer is an instructor of the Prophet’s Haram in Medina,
and his name is Ibrāhīm Efendi al-Uskūbi and he sent the poem
through the aegis of my representative in Medina and asked that I
publish it. He told me that the person is respected in that town and I
published it even though its expressions are weak, and its meanings
are of no importance. My representative also told me that by
publishing it the newspaper would gain followers. He who reads it
will notice that the composer urges the Ottomans particularly and
the Muslims generally to follow their religion’s teachings and to
restore it to its earlier glory, and that the abandonment of the faith is
what encouraged the foreigners to take advantage to lay their hands
on their country, most recently Italy. In his composition he
employed the critical approach to call attention to their current
situation using the words ‘Oh Ottomans, had you not abandoned the
faith you would have been in the highest of heights’ and I believe
that this method encourages the nation to progress.
Q: What is the name of your representative who sent you this poem;
for how long has he been in Medina, and do you have with you now
the letter he sent you; also, do you know Ibrāhīm Efendi al-Uskūbi
personally?
A: His name is Mahmud Wāqif ‘Ali Shuwayl. I believe he is a
resident of Medina. I have known him since the appearance of the
newspaper as he sent me a letter asking to buy every issue that comes
out at half price in his capacity as its representative. I answered that
if he finds many other subscribers I would not charge any money.
And so it was; he did send me the names of many other new
subscribers. From that time on he has been its representative in
Medina, looking after the affairs of the newspaper remitting the
funds. The letter in which he suggests publishing the poem is with
me and here I produce it for you. As for Ibrāhīm al-Uskūbi, I have
no knowledge of him whatsoever. He is, however, a subscriber of
the newspaper. I do not know if the representative has any special
relations (with him), other than his serving as representative for
newspapers (generally).

[The Arabic letter is produced. It is dated 23 Ra 1330/11 March

1912. The last thirteen lines bear the signature of Shuwayl]

Q: The poem published in your journal, was it in the (hand) writing

of your representative Murād Wāqif or in that of its composer al-
Uskūbi?
232 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
A: It is written in the handwriting of my representative in Medina
and was included in the papers sent from the vilayet of Beirut to that
of Syria.

Q: Has it been customary for Uskūbi to send you, directly or

through some mediator, poems or articles in this manner to publish?
A: No, it has not been his custom, nor did I know he composed
poetry until my representative sent it.
Q: After you read the poem and its prolegomena addressing the
Ottoman sultanate with threats and warning, what induced you to
print it when the meaning was clear to you?
A: There is no attack in the poem on the Sultan’s family; if there was
any, I would have been the first to defend it (the family). I started the
newspaper al-Balāgh for only one reason: to tie all Muslims to the
centre of the Ottoman caliphate, which is evident to anyone who
reads the paper from the first issue to the present one containing the
poem. I was the one to call upon Muslims to defend the voice of the
caliphate, and he who has this as a principle cannot permit attacks on
the head of the sultanate’s family. The composer intended by his use
of the word ‘Al ‘Uthmān’ Ottomans in general, as he understands it;
this is evident in the trend of the poem. Nevertheless, I could not
discern the meaning of his words as I do not know what the author
intended. The meaning, as they say, is in the heart of the poet. The
composer utilized the Arabic mode of prosody; that is he addressed
the Ottomans then changed over to Muslims, then to Arabs, then to
previous dynasties, and then to Europeans. The caliphate was not
always the property of the Ottomans, and I believe the composer did
not intend to attack them; rather, to urge Muslims to resist foreign
encroachments and to eject them, especially the Italians. That is what
induced me to publish it. The responsibility for its intended meaning
rests with the composer. My policy has been to defend Muslim
interests, the Ottoman state, and to resist foreign aggression.

Q: [quotes several verses wherein there are warnings to the

Ottomans concerning the designs of the foreign powers on Ottoman
lands and urges them not to be oblivious to them.]
A: [repeats defence of Islam and the caliphate citing entries from all
previous issues to that effect and expressing hope that Sultan-Caliph
Mehmed Reşad would serve as honorary leader of Muslims
(everywhere). He concludes by asserting his loyalty and support for
the Ottoman caliphate, appealing to all Muslims to rally behind it,
and emphasizes the point that the printing of the poem was only out
of good intentions and his being convinced no insult or deprecation
 Arab and Jewish Communities 233
of the sultanate was intended by the author. He concludes by asking
to be absolved, indeed even rewarded for his loyalty.]

Q: Do you have anything else to add?

A: What I mentioned before is sufficient.
There follows an affidavit dated 10 April 1328/1912 from Uskūbi
himself, sent by the muhafiz of Medina in which he answers the
investigator’s questions, as follows:
Q: Your name and profession?
A: Ibrāhīm Uskūbi, son of Hasan Uskūbi. I am a lecturer and teacher
in the Prophet’s Haram school. My ancestors came to Medina over a
hundred years ago and settled there.

Q: What other writings have you done?

A: I authored works on prayer, religious beliefs connected with the
requirements of the imam [title given] ‘The Ultimate Quest for what
the Imam Needs’.

Q: Do you preoccupy yourself with composing poetry?

A: No, because I am preoccupied with teaching matters and official
work, which provide little time for other pursuits.

Q: The poem ‘We and the West’ that appeared in al-Balāgh and then
in al-Muqtabas, did you compose it?
A: I have composed ten thousand verses [sic].

Q: Who composed this poem, and what was the purpose behind it?
A: I composed it in the month of Dhu ‘l-Qa‘dah after I heard that
the Italians had landed troops in Tripolitania in 1330/1912 and my
purpose, which God inspired me, was to appeal to the rest of the
Muslim Ottoman nation not to be oblivious to their enemies’
intentions, and to be alert in striving to acquire useful knowledge so
they could move forward and progress; to become enlightened and
to abandon innovations that might hinder their progress; to restore
their old honour, and not to depend on other than their creator by
following the light of the Qur’ān, which is the remedy for every
ailment that had led to their decline. I did not intend to be specific as
concerns individuals, families or the imperial state. I concluded with
an appeal that we be taught the use of modern weapons as we are
ignorant of their manufacture; also to prevent innovations that
hinder us, waste our money uselessly, and not to listen to the
speeches of hypocrites and those with diabolical aims who claim that
if the Ottomans learn how to manufacture weapons they would
cause problems for you, etc.
234 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Q: How did this poem reach the two newspapers, al-Balāgh and al-
Muqtabas? Did you send it? How was it done?
A: As concerns its reaching al-Balāgh, I have no real idea; as for its
reaching al-Muqtabas, one day I was in the market of Medina and
some dignitary said [the representative of] al-Muqtabas wanted to visit
me, but I strongly excused myself. He then suggested I visit him for
an hour and I did. The newspaper al-Balāgh with the poem in it had
reached Medina by then and I noticed there were many changes,
including additions and distortions, in the published form. So I went
with that person to his house and met with al-Muqtabas [sic]62 and we
exchanged views concerning how publishers distort publications a
lot and I showed him what had happened to my poem in this regard,
then we parted.

Q: The man who called for the meeting with the owner of al-
Muqtabas, who is he; and the owner of al-Muqtabas, what is his name,
and have you had previous knowledge of him prior to the meeting?
A: His name is Abu Bakr Daghistāni Efendi; as for the owner, I do
not know his name but I do not believe he engages in harmful
writings; nor do I wish to meet with him. My meeting with him was
not on purpose, and Abu Bakr Efendi is an Imam Khatīb (sermon
giver) in the Prophet’s Noble Sanctuary and the deputy
representative for appeals of the honorable treasury.

Q: We have heard that this owner of al-Muqtabas whenever he comes

to Medina, he stays in the house of Abu Bakr Efendi Daghistāni and
does not part from him when he is staying there; do you have any
information on this?
A: I have no knowledge of this, nor do I wish to know.

Q: The owner of al-Muqtabas says that you gave him a copy of al-
Balāgh in which the poem appears and urged him to publish it in his
newspaper; is there truth to this?
A: Absolutely not; had I wished to have him publish it, I would have
contacted somebody else.

Q: If you did not intend to have it published, then what is the

benefit of composing it?
A: I composed it with the view of submitting it to someone whose
advice I value and to consult on whether there is something critical
in it so I could desist from offering it.

Q: There is in Medina a man who calls himself Muhammad Efendi

‘Ali al-Shuwayl; who is he; do you know him?
 Arab and Jewish Communities 235
A: I know him by appearance not by association. He is one of the
students of ‘ilm (theological knowledge) in Medina.

Q: Did you show the said Muhammad Efendi this poem?

A: Absolutely not. I do not know who did.
Q: No doubt someone who wished to have it published in al-Balāgh
did.
A: I do not know how it was copied; nor do I know who copied it.
Q: This poem reached the newspaper al-Balāgh through the aegis of
Mahmūd Efendi ‘Ali al-Shuwayl; how did it reach the afore-
mentioned Mahmūd Efendi?
A: I do not know from where he copied it, nor do I know how he
got to it.

Q: You said in your previous answer that your aim in composing it

was to alert the entire Ottoman Muslim community, but you did not
employ in your address ‘O family of ‘Uthmān’; what is the reason for
this omission?
A: I did not intend in the use of ‘Āl’ other than the entire Ottoman
citizenry; you have books on language, why don’t you consult them!

Q: Do you mean by ‘Ottoman citizenry’ all contemporaries or the

ancestors; also, do you mean by such an expression all Ottomans
regardless of their religions?
A: Yes I meant by the use of ‘Āl-‘Uthmān’ every Ottoman,
regardless of faith, who has love of this citizenship.

Q: Among what you say in your poem is the expression

‘you conquered by means of the Book of God their lands’; if this is
so, then do you include all Ottomans regardless of their religions,
that is Christians and Jews, among the conquerors; how is that?
A: I meant essentially Muslims and their followers among other
sects. They all pass into the general descent of the conquering
ancestors, so the absent gets a free passage with the present [ones].

Q: [He cites a couplet from the poem which the prosecutor claims
applies to the ruling family’s luxurious living while citizens at large
are wanting in basics.]
A: I meant in this couplet he who wastes his time in luxury then is
impoverished so he can discover the need to unite with other of the
faithful, as the Lord said he had bought the souls and possessions of
the faithful. As concerns your question that my reference is to
members of the ruling family, God forbid; I did not intend any of
236 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
them, only every wasteful Ottoman. These expressions are poetic
only.

Q: [He cites verse 57 and alleges only men of the state are intended
by it, and seeks clarification.]
A: This couplet was intended to render wise advice not to criticize;
calling for teaching us to use modern weapons was to enable us to be
partners when and if attacked by the enemy. Perhaps there was a
misunderstanding in rendering advice but I do not see in it reasons
for blame because I am not familiar with current politics.
Q: Defence of country and its existence is one of the duties of the
state, and our state has one of the greatest and well-armed armies
with complete up-to-date weapons, so why do you ask for arming all
Turks and Arabs and teaching them the manufacture of weapons;
what is the purpose of that?
A: As for your words in defence of the country and preserving it
forever, I say may it be granted strength and a glorious victory. My
aim was not to say that it is incapable of repelling its enemy, but
rather that its Muslim subjects be prepared to defend it when the
enemy attacks, and to be prepared when our country calls upon us to
do so. This is an appeal on my part, and may God be witness to my
good intentions.

Q: You said in your previous answers that you were a teacher and
lecturer, responsible for a number of obligations; this means you
have many commitments, then you said that you have no knowledge
of political matters; if this is the case, what propels you [to compose],
and how did you find time to compose this poem?
A: What propelled me to do so is my dedication to my country, and
learning that the Italians had occupied Tripolitania. I wanted to be
among the first to express concern. Poetry is the greatest stimulant
for enlivening cooperation and strengthening the bond (of Muslims)
for as the Prophet (pbuh) proclaimed: the faithful constitute one
edifice, each part supports and strengthens the other; so I composed
it little by little until it grew.

Q: What do you mean by your words ‘yā li’l-rijāl ’ ‘oh for men’, which
men do you intend by this?
A: I mean those who are able to teach us and improve our
knowledge of wars and how to face our enemies.

End of inquiry, signed by the investigator and the defendant.63

 Arab and Jewish Communities 237
The tenor of the trial of the publishers of al-Muqtabas and al-Balāgh,
indicates clearly that the officer conducting the inquiry was not an
Arabic speaker, nor did he understand Arabic, if at all, well. This
would explain why he hung on to expressions without understanding
their contextual meaning, or the nuances of Arabic prosody. Such
lack of informed knowledge characterized the whole approach of
Ottoman censors, especially during the Young Turk era as being
hasty in judging, condemning, and abolishing newspapers that once
were among their most faithful supporters, as in the case of the two
newspapers for which we have records of trial. This would also
explain how the Young Turks succeeded in completely alienating the
Arabs after they captured the reins of government. Had the Young
Ottoman movement prevailed with its stress on reform and
modernization for all citizens, the Young Turks with their limited
and chauvinistic goals would not have been able to succeed them
and bring about the break with the Arab component of the
movement, nor the sad consequences thereof during the course of
World War I when the Arabs rose in revolt against them.

Notes
1
For the best account of this critical period affecting Arab-Turkish relations see
Hasan Kayali, Arabs and Young Turks: Ottomanism, Arabism and Islamism in the
Ottoman Empire, 1908-1918 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).
2
A pamphlet published in Egypt by Salīm Sarkīs entitled ‘Ajāib al-Maktūbji details
incidents where the censor not knowing the Arabic language decimated articles
being submitted to his review prior to being allowed to appear in newspapers. For
a study of this process see my ‘Censorship and Freedom of Expression in
Ottoman Syria and Egypt’ in W. Ochsenwald & W. Haddad’s Nationalism in a Non-
National State (Columbus: Ohio State University Press), 152-94.
3
Ali Ferruh Bey’s No. 87 (telegram) to Tahsin, first secretary of the Sultan.
Imperial Turkey [sic] Legation, Washington, 24 November 1898. Başbakanlık
Arşivi. Yıldız Esâs Evrâkı (henceforth YEE) 136/302
4
No. 88 from Washington of 29 November 1898. YEE 136/251-6.
5
No date or signature, presumed to be the vali’s discreet report (he was to report
back on the movements of Ayyūb only orally. YEE 35/553-210.
6
See YEE 15/74/21 for details.
7
See article in La Turquie, 24th year. No. 230, 9 October 1890/24 S 1308.
8
Mütenevvi Maruat. Dosya 171. No, 43 of 11.8.1315/1897.
9
Sultan’s order dated 15 Z 1319/23 February 1902. Foreign Ministry, Hususiye 742.
Yıldız Mütenevvi 226/69.
10
In issue no. 120 accompanied with an Arabic letter by the editor Najīb Hindīyah,
prepared in Cairo by his brother then sent to London for publication and
distribution by British mail.
11
Imperial ferman relayed by Tevfik (No. 1). Summary translation from London
[no.2]. Yıldız Mütenevvi 231/111.
238 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

12
Title of the article in al-Muqtabas of 8 Z 1326/31 December 1908, no. 14 of the
first year: ‘Turks and Arabs’.
13
Issue of 7 Z 1326/30 December 1908. No. 13 of the first year.
14
Issue of 20 Z 1326/19 January 1909. No. 20 of the first year.
15
Article in al-Muqtabas, year 1, No. 31 of 4 M 1327/25 January 1909.
16
When the revolution was over and the Deputies were allowed to form parties,
the first to appear was the Freedom Party headed by Prince Sabahuddin, Ismail
Kemal Beg, and former grand vizier Kamil Pasha, and Ali Kemal Beg, which
opposed the CUP’s policy of centralization versus decentralization. Editor-in-chief
of the newspaper Iqdam demanded that the CUP withdraw from government
because its policy was going to encourage separatism and independence through its
appointment and removal of officials opposed to decentralization. See Shākir al-
Hanbali of al-Qunaytarah’s article ‘al-Āsitānah ba ‘d al-Dustūr: al-Firaq al-
Siyāsīyah’, in al-Muqtabas, year 1, no. 94 of 18 Ra 1327/8 April 1909.
17
Founded by Farah Antūn in Cairo but transferred to New York when Farah was
compelled to emigrate under strong criticism by its critics, led by followers of
Muhammad ‘Abduh, rector of al-Azhar, notably Rashīd Rida, himself an emigrant
from Farah’s own city, Tripoli [Lebanon] .
18
For ‘Izzet’s role under Sultan Abdülhamid II see my ‘Arab Supporters of
Abdülhamid II’ Archivum Ottomanicum, 15 (1997), 189-219.
19
A lengthy discourse on the subject in al-Muqtabas, year 1, no. 63 of 11 S 1327/3
March 1909.
20
Specifically they were ‘Abdallah Pasha al-Asani, ‘Abd al-Qadir Efendi Manjak,
Tawfiq Efendi al-Qudsi, and Salih Efendi al-’Arjawi. They were accused of
organizing the Muhammadan Society. See al-Muqtabas, no. 138 of 11Ca 1327/30
May 1909.
21
No.157 of 30 C 1327/21 June 1909.
22
No. 128 of 28 R 1327/18 May 1909.
23
Reference here is to the Ottoman millet system, dating back to over four
hundred years.
24
No. 124 of 23 R1327/13 May 1909.
25
One was his son Khālid, the other his brother ‘Abd al-Razzāq, and among the
rest: Ibrāhīm Qadri—inspector of internal publications, Haqqi ‘Abdallah Tahīr, a
member of the Ma‘ārif ; Rif ‘at ,son of the Imām of the Kağıthane, Hacci Nâzim,
mirliva of Yemen,and Commissar Sokollu, one of the spies of Fahim (the notorious
head spies), ‘Izzet, director of the Mabeyn (Sultan’s private entourage), Kara
Mustafa, one of the cipher writers, and Habīb Muqīm, the physician; all of whom
were arrested at the behest of the Ministry of Interior. No. 209 of 5 B 1327/21
August 1909.
26
No. 218 of 15 B 1327/31 August 1909.
27
Ibid. Governments of foreign countries apparently notified Turkish
ambassadors that they were displeased with the nationalistic course being adopted
by the Young Turk government.
28
The open letter was the lead article in No. 318 of 4 Ra 1328/15 March 1910.
Kurd ‘Ali followed up with another in the next issue continuing the urgent appeal
of Mukhlis to the Deputies under the title ‘Zionist colonization of Palestine’
raising the alarm flag over the Zionist agenda. See page 1 of the al-Muqtabas, No.
319 of 5 Ra 1328/16 March 1910.
29
No. 224 of 22 B 1327/7 September 1909.
30
Issue of 10 R 1330/28 March 1912 owned and published by Muhammad Fahmi
al-Ghazzi.
31
Basra’s wakīl’s annex of 24 L 1331/26 September 1911 announces dispatching
sixty-nine copies he had confiscated to the Ministry of the Interior and seeks
 Arab and Jewish Communities 239

instructions to belie the allegations raised in issue of 13 L 1321 of al-Muqtabas.

Dispatch in cipher dated 10 September 1329/23 September 1911.
32
Incl. 18 in Dahiliye Siyasiye 117/2.
33
See Ibid. for additional details.
34
Ibid.
35
Copy of the Arabic article (Incl. no. 2) sent on to the Ministry of the Interior.
See Dahiliye Siyasiye 52-2.
36
Incl. 5 in Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-2.
37
In defence of Arab views, the publisher of al-Mu’ayyad issued a lengthy treatise
entitled ‘an exposé of al-Mu‘ayyad’s policy towards the Ottoman state’ on 14 C
1327/2 June 1909. Dahiliye Siyasiye 58/3.
38
Reply to the vali by cipher dated 26 October 1911. Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-2/36.
39
Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-2/43.
40
Enciphered message from the Nureddin, the vali of Beirut dated 12 October
1911. Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-1/5.
41
No. 112 of 20 April 1327 4 May 1909.
42
No.1 ( in cipher) to the Dahiliye of 25 April 1327/9 May 1909. Dahiliye Siyasiye
64/25.
43
Ibid.
44
For relevant dispatches from and to Syria see nos. 20, 13, 8 and the Grand
vizier’s request for an Ottoman translation of the article from the vali; see
correspondence to the vali of 17 L 1330/30 September 1910. Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-
2/55.
45
No.41 in Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-2.
46
From the lead article of year 2, issue of 1 December 1912. Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-
2/46
47
Copies of the newspaper were intercepted with only a few reaching Syria and the
mutasarrifiya of Mount Lebanon. Dahiliye Siyasiye 57-2/46.
48
The petitions (nos. 47-8) dispatched by telegram to Nazım Pasha, Minister of
War dated 20 July 1328/2 August 1911 War Ministry’s notification to the Interior
Ministry dated 19 Z 1330/1 October 1912. Dahiliye Siyasiye 58/5.
49
See Filistin, year 2, nos. 161-2 of 14 August 1912.
50
Ibid.
51
It became the subject of a book-size publication later by Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali
detailing his vision of an Arab caliphate based on Mecca, the mother town of
Islam.
52
Report from the correspondence bureau to the Minister of the Interior
enclosing copies of al-Muqtabas and al-Mufid wherein derogatory language was
used. No. 71 addressed the government as being led by Tatars, descendants of
Cingiz Khan and Hulagu, the Mongol Khans who destroyed Arab civilization and
shed innocent blood. See No. 43 of al-Muqtabas, wherein reference to an Arab
caliphate is made. See also all issues for the year 1325/1909. No. 41/1 in Dahiliye
Siyasiye 58/6.
53
Vali of Syria to the head of the martial court of the Divan-i Harb of 16 Ca
1330/3 May 1912. No. 41/1 in Dahiliye Siyasiye 58/6.
54
Description used by the publisher.
55
For the full Arabic text of the poem see al-Balāgh, No. 39 of 28 March 1912, 8.
56
The offending issue of al-Balāgh, No. 39 of 10 R 1330/28 March 1912 and of al-
Muqtabas, No. 955 of 27 R 1330/14 April 1912. Dahiliye Siyasiye 58/6.
57
For a summary of his report see No. 4 from Medina to the vilayet of Syria in
Dahiliye Siyasiye 58/6 no. 38.
58
Divan-i urf to the Minister of War. No. 368 of 23 May 1328/5 June 1912. Dahiliye
Siyasiye 58/6. No. 3.
240 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

59
Formal petition to the head of the martial court of 17 May 1328/30 May 1912.
Dahiliye Siyasiye 58/6. No. 10.
60
No. 196 of 8 Ca 130/25 April 1912. Dahiliye Siyasiye 58/6. No. 50.
61
For an itemization, see the vali’s report of 15 Ca 1330/2 June 12912 to the
Interior relaying the report and particulars drafted by the muhafiz of Medina in
cipher dated 4 April 1328/27 April 1912. Dahiliye Siyasisye No. 58/6. No. 40/1.
62
Presumably the reference is to the owner Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali, a frequenter of
the Hijaz.
63
For the full transcript of this and Ahmad Kurd ‘Ali’s investigation and all
relevant correspondences from Medina to Beirut and then to Istanbul and the
martial court see Dahililye Siyasiye 58/6 and enclosures.
 Secular and Jewish Studies among Jewish Scholars of the
Ottoman Empire in the Sixteenth Century

Shaul Regev

In attempting to evaluate the influence of general culture and

philosophy on Jewish thinkers during a particular period, one needs
only to examine their use made of philosophical literature. Through
such an examination it is possible to determine the degree of
involvement of Jewish scholars in the non-Jewish culture, as well as
their attitude to—and use of—this literature. Jewish scholars wrote
the majority of their works in Hebrew, whereas the general literature
was not written in that language. One needs to examine the use by
Jewish thinkers of books by non-Jewish authors, whether expressed
in the writing of entire tracts or in the use of this literature and its
incorporation within the Hebrew text.1 On the other hand, this may
be accomplished by examining the libraries of these scholars and the
presence of such books within their libraries,2 particularly if they
troubled to disseminate them in a new form, by translation or by
writing a commentary. The works of the Greek philosophers,
particularly those of Aristotle, are frequently mentioned in the
writings and sermons of these thinkers, and one must examine
whether such quotations are taken from a primary source or are
second- or third-hand. However, in those cases in which the author
himself translated or wrote a commentary on such a book, it is clear
that one is dealing with a primary source.3 Sixteenth-century
literature already reflects the influence of printing, and the manner of
distribution of books at that time was different than during the
period preceding the invention of printing.4
The invention of printing caused the dissemination of books in
numerous copies, but at the same time caused the loss of numerous
other books. Prior to the invention of printing, books were hand-
copied in several copies and distributed in manuscript form. Printing
led to a situation in which those books that were not printed for any
number of reasons—not necessarily related to quality or contents, or
the author’s fame—were generally put away and lost. From this
point on, the printing of books became a function of initiative and
242 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
financial wherewithal, and was not indicative of the quality or nature
of the printed book.
In the present discussion, I shall attempt to examine the attitude
of various scholars, mostly sixteenth-century, to philosophy, based
upon the use they made of this literature and the writings and
printing of this literature by themselves or their relatives.
One of many examples, for illustrative purposes, is the printing of
R. Moses Almosnino’s book Ma’amaz Koah.5 This book incorporates
twenty-eight sermons that were gathered from a larger collection of
sermons.6 In his introduction,7 Almosnino states that the initiative
for the printing of the book was not his own, but that of the printer
and of various friends who wished to publish these sermons.
The request by the printer and friends referring to Almosnino’s
method, is evidently referring, not to that of his sermons, but to his
philosophical method. To this end, Almosnino chose fourteen from
among all his sermons which seemed to him most significant for
clarifying his approach to various philosophical issues.8 After
choosing the first group of fourteen sermons, he added an equal
number of sermons dealing with similar issues, thereby bringing the
total number of sermons to twenty-eight.
Other contemporary authors occasionally refer the reader to one
or another of their books that are not extant, and of which we know
nothing apart from this reference. On occasion, such a book may be
mentioned by another scholar of the period, giving evidence that the
book existed and was distributed in several copies, but no other
detail relating to the book is known.9 Some of these books remained
as isolated manuscripts, whereas the majority has disappeared
completely. Upon inspection, we find that the vast majority of those
books that were lost were of a philosophical nature. As a rule, these
were commentaries written by the author of a philosophical work,
whether on one of Aristotle’s works or of some other author, from
among those books which were in common use among the scholars
of the period. Among the unpublished works of R. Moses
Almosnino, for example, was a commentary on Aristotle’s Ethics
entitled P’nei Moshe.10 Indeed, this was not the only book of
Almosnino that was not printed. By way of elimination, all those
books by Almosnino that were printed dealt with Jewish thought,
homilies and exegesis, rather than with philosophical literature.
R. Shmuel ibn Shuaib, son of R. Joel ibn Shuaib, copied his
father’s book Nora’ Tehillot11 evidently printing it thereafter. From the
words of the son and from Ibn Shuaib’s other book, Olat Shabbat,12
we learn of a number of other books by R. Joel ibn Shuaib in the
area of philosophy. He mentions, for example, that he wrote a
commentary to Aristotle’s Ethics13 and a commentary on Al-Ghazali’s
 Arab and Jewish Communities 243
tractate De Naturis.14 He wrote ‘other commentaries regarding
external wisdom [i.e. philosophy], too numerous to count’.15
R. Moshe Albelda16 wrote various books, several of which were
published by his sons after his death. The published volumes were
books of his sermons and two other books which also dealt with
subjects related to Judaism,17 while those two books which were not
published and did not even remain in manuscript form were his
commentaries on works by Aristotle: a commentary on Physics, and a
commentary on Ethics.18
R. Abraham ibn Migash was evidently one of the most prolific
writers and thinkers of the sixteenth century, but only one of his
philosophical-religious works, Kevod Elohim, is extant.19 In this work,
Ibn Migash mentions the other books that he wrote which were not
published, and which did not even remain in manuscript form.
These books include a commentary on Aristotle’s Physics; Sefer Birkat
Avraham, a work on medicine, which was evidently composed of
several volumes; a work on astronomy, called Avodat Halevi; and Sefer
Emek Hashedim, which ‘is called thus because it expounds upon the
nature of demons (shedim), how they are and what they are and from
what they are made, with clear proofs based on the knowledge of
scholars and some of the great philosophers, and philosophical and
Rabbinical proofs’.20 Magen Avraham is similar in format to Kevod
Elohim, its contents being of a philosophical-religious nature. Derush
Nishmat Adam is a sermon, evidently dealing with psychology. None
of this literature is extant, and even Kevod Elohim would not have
been published had it not been for his wife’s initiative, who wished
to perpetuate his name, as they were childless.
We learn more about the situation of religious and philosophical
enlightenment during this period from the case of R. Shlomo Almoli,
than from any other description. R. Shlomo Almoli is less well
known than other scholars of his time,21 due to the fact that he did
not leave behind many books in writing. Almoli did not find any
Talmudic scholars of stature with whom he could also study
philosophy in addition to Torah studies.
Almoli arrived at the decision to study philosophy indirectly. He
decided to study medicine in order to make a living from this
profession. Once he began to study medicine he decided that he also
needed to study other subjects, and in this way covered all of the
philosophical disciplines. However he observes several problems
that he encountered along the way.

1. The small number of people dealing in philosophy and in

secular studies. Almoli had unique demands: he wanted a
teacher who would be expert in both philosophy and sciences
and in Jewish religious literature. Had Almoli been willing to
244 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
study philosophy from a secular or Christian approach, he
almost certainly would not have encountered any difficulty in
finding such teachers. Even though these may have been more
plentiful outside of the Ottoman Empire—in Italy for example,
or in Christian countries generally—it seems unlikely that he
would have had a problem finding such teachers within the
empire. But Almoli did not want a teacher of this type, because
they were one-sided and not comprehensive. He felt it
important to have a combination of the two sources of
knowledge or of the two cultures.
2. The large number of books that say nothing new. In
examining the philosophical sources that served the thinkers of
his period, we find that the choice is limited and almost
uniform. They all use almost the identical literature and quote
the same books by Aristotle. Unlike the greater variety that
existed in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the choice
becomes narrower in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. One
even feels that the authors did not see these books and made
use of them via a secondary or tertiary source. This is
particularly true regarding those who mention philosophical
literature in their writings, but not of those who interpret the
literature. The latter certainly used the original book (in its
Hebrew translation, of course) and were not satisfied with
quoting from secondary sources. Very few of these scholars
mention more specialized books, such as the writings of Seneca,
Ovid and others that were not so widespread during the
preceding generation. This is perhaps one of the characteristics
of the Renaissance in the Jewish world.

3. The dissemination of the material. As we have seen,

philosophical literature was not readily available to all. Books
concerning classical philosophy, such as the works of Aristotle
or Averroes’ commentaries on these works, were not printed in
Hebrew translations. Those books that are extant were
evidently remnants of the period preceding the expulsion from
Spain,22 and not new acquisitions. The number of copies was
limited, and generally speaking those books that did survive
were of a more practical genre. After he was expelled from
Spain and had settled in Italy, R. Isaac Abravanel testified that
he was unable to find philosophical books in his new venue,
but only halakhic works, that were ubiquitous23. Sermoneta
likewise notes that there were several basic books in philosophy
that were used by every preacher, while others were not
 Arab and Jewish Communities 245
touched at all. Among the books most widely cited was
Aristotle’s Ethics.24 None of these books was ever printed.

This dismal situation, in which philosophical books or commentaries

on philosophical tracts were scarcely published or printed, coupled
with the small number of people involved in this area of learning
implied by Almoli’s testimony, is in inverse relation to what we have
found regarding those writings that were printed, whether books of
Biblical exegesis or homilies and other writings. In these books we
find extensive reference to, and use of, philosophical literature to
help understand passages from the Bible or midrash, even on the
part of those scholars who did not themselves write exegesis to
philosophical literature. The central question confronting the study
of homiletic literature is the use of philosophical literature by Jewish
scholars and its status.
The issue of Jewish thinkers’ attitude toward philosophy in
sixteenth-century Jewish thought has already been discussed in many
studies.25 R. Saadya Gaon already discussed this question during the
Middle Ages, as did Maimonides after him26. There are two aspects
to this question. On the one hand, there is the issue of the attitude
towards what might be called practical sciences. Here the issue is less
serious, because Jewish scholars did not hesitate to make use of
these sciences and to utilize them for various purposes, and even
developed approaches which were thereafter accepted among the
Gentiles as well. This is true not only of such sciences as medicine,
but even of astronomy and other sciences. On the other hand, there
was no uniform view with regard to philosophical studies. Can it
serve as a tool for understanding the Torah, or does it only harm the
study of Torah and upset the pure belief in it?
In summary we have to mention two points:

1. That the greatest importance must be attributed to the

central thing—the Torah—and less to the decoration and
addition, which is philosophy.
2. In terms of the order of study, the traditional order of study
must be preserved: first of all the basis of the house—the
Torah, and only thereafter the upper story, the philosophical
addition.

By its nature, such a discussion brings us to an examination of the

exegesis of the books of wisdom, in which the various realms of
philosophy find expression. The Book of Job presents the problem
of Divine Providence and ethical problems, while the books of
Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are intended to guide the reader through
the mazes of philosophy. The exegetes give their own interpretation
246 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
to these texts, each one according to his own personal background.
Some are based upon ethical problems and ethical and political
guidance, while others added various aspects of exegesis based upon
rabbinic dicta, Kabbalah, and even philosophy. Even those whose
interpretations were based upon Aristotelian philosophy could not
refrain from presenting the confrontation between philosophy as
one source of knowledge as opposed to Torah and revelation as an
alternative source of knowledge. Once the problem had been
formulated thus, they could not refrain from taking a position.
During the sixteenth century, we find hardly any purely
philosophical commentaries on Proverbs or Ecclesiastes. Alongside
the Aristotelian and Scholastic philosophical sources incorporated
within the commentaries, we also find rabbinic exegesis, Kabbalah,
and philological and grammatical explanations. The most widely-
used philosophical texts were Aristotle’s Ethics, the Organon
(concerned with logic), and Politics. These three areas also correspond
to the contents of the books of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes, the
exegete usually contrasting the Aristotelian system of ethics with the
Torah and commandments, which are a system of ethics unique to
the Jewish people. These two books were written by King Solomon,
who was called ‘the wisest of men.’ This title in itself creates a
certain problem vis-à-vis the status of Moses, who reached a higher
level of perfection than any other member of the human species, and
attained the highest level of prophecy.
The difficulty involved in the title generally attributed to King
Solomon, ‘the wisest of all men,’ as opposed to the high level of
Moses, to whom no such title was attributed, is explained by R.
Shlomo Duran (sixteenth century) in terms of the difference
between wisdom that is the product of human intellect and that
which is the result of Divine intellect.
Solomon’s wisdom was a human wisdom, and as such he was the
wisest of all men, but he was unable to attain Moses’ level of
prophecy by means of this wisdom. In terms of prophecy, Moses
was the ‘father of the prophets’, a divine level not attained by
Solomon. Solomon’s wisdom was a human philosophical wisdom,
while that of Moses was divine wisdom. Therefore, Moses’ wisdom
was superior to that of Solomon’s in terms of what was created as a
result, whereas in terms of human attainment Solomon reached a
higher level of perfection, and in this sense was on a higher human
level than Moses.
Duran goes on to explain the relationship between prophecy and
human knowledge. Human knowledge is limited, and due to the
limitations of human intellect, is unable to fully ascertain the truth.
Prophecy is a kind of divine grace completing that which is lacking
in human wisdom and which it can never succeed in attaining. This
 Arab and Jewish Communities 247
aspect of completion enables man to arrive at human perfection, so
that he may encompass all knowledge.
R. Shlomo le-Beit ha-Levi27 places the Torah above all other
perfection, as it includes the entire wisdom. This inclusiveness of the
Torah does not originate on only one plane, but is the result of
inquiry and searching out of different layers of the Torah. The literal
meaning of the Torah teaches us on one literal level, which parallels
philosophical ethical teaching. This is ethical guidance but, as in
philosophy, this guidance is neither the essence of Torah nor the
essence of philosophical guidance. It is well known that ethical
doctrine is no more than an anticipatory form of guidance which
accompanies the one studying it throughout the process of
examination, and not an independent area of study as an end in
itself. On the second level, we find in the Torah theoretical
intellectual guidance. This is the level parallel to philosophical study,
whose purpose is to give us theoretical knowledge. According to the
rationalistic philosophical approach, this knowledge can bring the
one engaged in reflection thereupon to attachment to the Active
Intellect. But according to R. Shlomo, such knowledge is insufficient
to bring one to the purpose of intellect and to attachment. To this
end, one must attain a further level, the divine level unique to Torah,
in which are revealed the secrets of existence, and with whose help
the universe exists.
It means that man’s true perfection lies in the ability to attach
himself to God or the possibility of unique prophecy for those
engaged in the inner secrets of the Torah. It follows that it is unique
to the Jewish people and is not the heritage of the Gentiles. This,
notwithstanding the fact that R. Shlomo le-Beit ha-Levi notes
elsewhere the parallel between the wisdom of the Gentiles and that
of Israel, and that the ideas found among Jewish sages find parallels
in the wisdom of the Gentiles.
It is interesting to note that R. Shlomo le-Beit ha-Levi does not
attempt to draw a link between these two orientations. Each
orientation receives its knowledge from different sources unique to
it. On the one hand, there is the Torah orientation represented by
the Sages, whose words are adduced in the midrash, and on the
other hand, Ovid and others of the philosophical orientation. These
two orientations received their knowledge independently, and are not
influenced by one another. The identification of these identical
theories in both the Sages and in Ovid as Platonic theories does not
elicit any surprise, and is intended to demonstrate R. Shlomo le-Beit
ha-Levi’s expertise in external philosophical literature. The
philosopher of a later period finds before him two traditions,
different in their sources but identical in their contents, and attempts
to find a common denominator between them. What may elicit
248 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
surprise is his understanding of the sources of this knowledge. The
source for the rabbis is the tradition, that is, the tradition given to
Moses at Sinai as Oral Torah. And if external sources arrived at the
same evident outlooks, R. Shlomo says that these too had such
traditional knowledge that caused them to arrive at the same
conclusion or the same conjecture.
Jewish scholars, on the other hand, could not accept such views,
as they contradict the entire doctrine of individual reward and
punishment, just as they were unable to accept the approach of
inclusiveness, as here too we confront the same problem of reward
and punishment. Generally speaking, in Jewish thought, as
Maimonides claimed, happiness and eternity are identified with
reward, and loss with punishment. While it is true that the source of
this reward is in knowledge, the fulfillment of the commandments
also plays a significant role in human success. The commandments,
as already taught by Maimonides, are only the framework for
implanting knowledge among the common people within the Jewish
nation, and not an end in themselves. This argument is similar to the
claim of the philosophers from Aristotle’s time onwards, that
character and ethics are necessary surrounding conditions for
bringing about success, but are not a part of bringing about
intellectual perfection per se.
R. Joseph ibn Yahya devotes the first part of his book Torah Or 28
to various views on this subject. He cites the view of the Greek
philosophers, but this path cannot be correct, as according to it only
isolated individuals may reach perfection, and it is not suitable to the
general run of people.
Therefore, the literature of the sixteenth century, whether
homiletic or Biblical exegetical literature, and particularly the exegesis
of the Books of Wisdom, is filled with philosophical material, based
upon both first, second and third hand sources. Even those scholars
and exegetes whose general orientation may be described as
Kabbalistic rather than as philosophical, made use of philosophical
treatises and methods. Nevertheless, hardly any books were printed
whose main concern was with exegesis of the writings of Aristotle or
with general philosophical issues in Hebrew dress. Hence, we need
to distinguish between the use of these writings and their printing
and publication. The conditions of printing of the period were such
that the printing of a book was financed entirely by its author, and
generally speaking such books were not sold on the open market but
to those people in the author’s immediate circle or to those who
took an interest in it. In one case we even know of the establishment
of a printing house for the specific purpose of publishing a certain
book—in this special case, the widow used the money of the
inheritance for the publication of the book.29 At times the sale of a
 Arab and Jewish Communities 249
book occurred even before its printing, the money being in practice
contributed by the purchasers for the publication of the book, in
which case it was necessary to ascertain that the publication would
be covered or at least justify itself. Thus, when the authors
themselves or their sons decided to publish writings, they preferred
those subjects that seemed to them more acceptable to the buying
public and possibly more important. Hence they did not publish
commentaries on philosophical texts, but preferred printing books
which were more pertinent to religious life and to the study of
Torah, such as responsa or books of sermons. The philosophical
intellectual who wished to engage specifically in philosophical
matters would certainly find the way to acquire these books in the
libraries of other intellectuals like him.

Notes
1 J. B. Sermoneta, ‘Scholastic Philosophic Literature in R. Joseph Taitazak’s Sefer
Porat Yosef’ (Hebrew), Sefunot 11 (1971-78), 137-85.
2 M. Idel, ‘R. Johanan Allemanno’s Order of Study’ (Hebrew), Tarbiz 48 (1979),
303-31.
3 H. A. Wolfson, ‘The Classification of Science in Medieval Jewish Philosophy’,
Hebrew Union College Jubilee Volume, 1925, 263-315.
4 S. Baruchson, Sefarim ve-Qor’im, (Ramat Gan, 1993), 19-59.
5 See on him now M. Z. Benayah, Moshe Almosnino Ish Salonica - Po’alo ve-yezirato
(Tel Aviv, 1996).
6 The sermons gathered in this book would seem not to be original, but are
combined from several sermons pertaining to a particular topic. The choice was
made according to subject, and not according to any other criterion; hence there is
no particular chronological order to the sermons. Nor were they selected on the
basis of a common denominator of place where delivered or occasion. This
collection differs in its structure from other sermon collections of Almosnino
extant in manuscript.
7 R. Moses Almosnino, Ma’amaz Koah (Venice, 1588), Introduction.
8 The sermons deal with such matters as: Divine Providence, Providence and the
stellar system, the nature of the soul, the perfection of the soul, human perfection,
creatio ex nihilo, miracles, union with and love of God, etc.
9 For example, Almosnino mentions R. Eliyahu Mizrahi’s commentary to
Algazali’s Kavvanot ha-Filosofim, and even quotes from it (see Ma’amaz Koah,
Fifteenth Sermon), but this book is not known to us from any other source.
10 This book is extant in a single manuscript, on which see N. Ben-Menahem, ‘The
Writings of R. Moshe Almosnino’ (Hebrew), Sinai 19 (1946), 282. The manuscript
is incomplete, and large sections are missing.
11 R. Joel ibn Shuaib, Nora Tehillot (Salonica, 1569).
12 R. Joel ibn Shuaib,`Olat Shabbat (Venice, 1576).
13 R. Joel ibn Shuaib,`Olat Shabbat, Parashat Vayeze, fol. 22b.
14 Ibid. Miqez, fol. 38a.
15 Nora Tehillot, ibid., Introduction by the author’s son. It is interesting to note that
Ibn Shuaib did not give his writings to his son, but distributed them among his
250 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

disciples, and only two of these works came into his son’s hands later on, after
they had gone from Spain to Egypt, and from there to Turkey, where his son
found them. It may be that the son was young at the time of the Expulsion and
therefore his father did not rely upon him to preserve the books, and thus gave
them to his disciples, whom he thought would know how to value them and
preserve them properly. In fact, the opposite was the case: the disciples did not
preserve them, while the son reconstructed and copied and even published his
father’s works.
16 On him, see Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. 2, 529.
17 His published works are: Reshit Daat (Venice, 1583); Sha`arei demah (Venice,
1586); ‘Olat Tamid (Venice, 1600); Darash Moshe (Venice, 1603).
18 These two commentaries are mentioned several times in his Reshit Da’at.
19 R. Abraham ibn Migash, Kevod Elohim (Constantinople, 1585; reprinted:
Jerusalem, 1977). On him, see the introduction, ibid., 7-37.
20 Kevod Elohim, 67a.
21 See on him: H. Yallon, ‘On the Life of R. S. Almoli’ (Hebrew), in S. Almoli,
Halikhot Sheva, ed. H. Yallon (Jerusalem, 1945), 79-85; S. Regev, ‘Redemption and
Enlightenment in the Thought of R. Shlomo Almoli’ (Hebrew), Proceedings of the
Tenth Congress of Jewish Studies (Jerusalem, 1990), Section C, I: 345-52. Wolfson, op.
cit. n. 3.
22 Z. Baruchson, ‘The Dissemination of Books—Holy Writings and Classic
Literature in the Libraries of Jews in Renaissance Italy’ (Hebrew), Italia 8 (1989),
87-99.
23 I. Abravanel, Shee’lot le-Rabbi Shaul Ha-kohen, Venice, 1574, 15b, 20b.
24 J. B. Sermoneta, op. cit. (n. 1), 138.
25 See, for example: S. Regev, ‘Studies of Philosophy in 15th Century Jewish
Thought: R. Joseph ibn Shem Tov and R. Abraham Bibago’ (Hebrew), Da’at 16
(1986), 57-85; J. Hacker, ‘R. Abraham Bibago and the Controversy about The
Study of Philosophy’ (Hebrew), Proceedings of the Fifth World Congress of Jewish Studies
(Jerusalem, 1969), 151-8; idem., ‘The Polemic Against Philosophy in Sixteenth
Century Istanbul’ (Hebrew), in Mehqarim be-Qabbalah, be-Filosofiyah... [Tishby
Festschrift], ed. J. Dan & J. Hacker (Jerusalem, 1986), 507-36; J. B. Sermoneta,
‘Scholastic Philosophical Literature’ (op. cit. n. 1); A. L. Ivry, ‘Remnants of Jewish
Averroism in the Renaissance,’ in Jewish Thought in the Sixteenth Century, ed. B. D.
Cooperman (Cambridge, Mass., 1983), 243-65; H. Davidson, ‘Medieval Jewish
Philosophy in the Sixteenth Century,’ in Jewish Thought, ibid. 106-45.
26 S. Pines, Introduction to his English translation of Maimonides’ The Guide to the
Perplexed, Chicago, 1964; ‘Scholasticism after Thomas Aquinas and the Teachings
of Hasdai Crescas and his Predecessors’, Proceedings of the Israel Academy of
Arts and Sciences, 1:10, Jerusalem, 1967. Reprint in idem, Studies in the History of
Jewish Philosophy (Hebrew), Jerusalem, 1977, 178-222.
27 See on him S. Rosanes, Qorot ha-Yehudim be-Turqiya ve-Arzot Qedem (Sofia, 1937),
Vol. II, 108-110. Cf. J. Hacker, ‘Israel among the Nations as Described by R.
Shlomo le-Beit ha-Levi of Salonica’ (Hebrew), Zion 34 (1969), 43-89; idem.
‘Despair of Redemption and the Messianic Hope in the Writings of R. Shlomo le-
Beit ha-Levi’ (Hebrew), Tarbiz 39 (1970), 195-213.
28 R. Joseph ibn Yahya, Torah Or (Bologna, 1525).
29 R. Abraham Ibn Migash, Kevod Elohim (op. cit. n. 19), Introduction, 7, and n. 3
there.
 The Importance of the Archive of the Hakham Bashi in
Istanbul for the History of Ottoman Jewry

Yaron Harel

In recent years various articles have appeared evaluating the

importance of various Ottoman archives for the history of the Jews
of the Empire.1 Consequently I do not need to reiterate the great
importance of the archival material for historical research. Indeed,
the archival sources are not the only sources available to the
historian. History, and in particular modern history, may be written
without resorting to archives. The historian of Jewish communities
in the Middle East in modern times would seem to have an
abundance of other sources of information available to him. Among
them we should mention rabbinical literature of various kinds,
travellers’ accounts of their visits, periodicals, biographies and
autobiographies. This list of sources creates a sense of abundant
knowledge, which enables us to write historical monographs, based
on relatively reliable sources. In fact, the information in these
sources is fragmented and partial. Dr. Alexander Bein, who served as
director of the Central Zionist Archives in Jerusalem and was the
first state archivist of Israel stated:
Anyone who wishes to follow and describe the performance of
individuals and public institutions in detail and in depth, to
discern their motives with clarity, combining both personal-
psychological factors and material ones, rational and irrational,
substantive and subjective–and to describe this life faithfully,
cannot do so without the most intimate material of public and
private archives.2
The archive I wish to discuss in this paper is that of the Hakham
Bashi in Istanbul, the Chief Rabbi of the Ottoman Empire. The
discovery of the existence of this complete archive is a very
significant landmark in the study of the history of the Jews in the
Ottoman Empire in modern times. For many years the archive was
thought to have been lost. Rumours regarding its having been burnt,
stolen or hidden away passed by word of mouth for years. To the
252 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
best of my knowledge only two or three studies on Ottoman Jewry
have made use of documents from this archive.3 At any rate this
archive, which is still not yet open to the scholarly world, was
photographed in the early 1970s, and since then—for over 25
years—the photos have lain dormant without exposure to a scholarly
eye. One of the reasons for this was the assumption, which in the
end turned out to be completely wrong, that most of the material in
the archive concerns matters of marital status. Ms. Hadassah
Assouline, director of the Central Archive for the History of the
Jewish People at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, revealed the
existence of the photos to me. Their importance became apparent
only after I examined the various documents.
Avigdor Levy, showed that for the Jewish community of Istanbul
the office of the Hakham Bashi was not of great importance until
1860. Until that year the appointees to the office did not come from
the first echelon of the élite rabbis of the capital, and consequently
the position was mostly representative and ceremonial. According to
Levy, if the Hakham Bashi in those years also served as a liaison
between the community and the authorities, he did so only in a
limited way. Only from 1860 were leading rabbis appointed to the
office, such as Rabbi Jacob Avigdor (1860-3) and Rabbi Yaqir Giron
(1863-72) and the stature of the office increased as a result. Two
offices were combined, for example, Hakham Bashi and Rav
Hakolel, into one office.4 At the same time, every major community
throughout the Middle East was entitled to elect its own Hakham
Bashi and to manage its own affairs with total autonomy.
In fact, the Hakham Bashi in Istanbul was recognized officially by
the authorities as the head of the Jewish community (millet)
throughout the empire, and he represented the Jewish millet at
imperial ceremonies. However, he actually had no hierarchal
superiority with respect to chief rabbis of other communities in the
empire, nor did he have any authority to interfere in their internal
affairs. Until the 1870s chief rabbis in the major cities of the empire
were appointed at the behest of the Hakham Bashi of Istanbul, but
this was only a formality, usually only a rubber stamp, certifying the
will of the local community.
Nevertheless the other Jewish communities recognized the
Hakham Bashi in Istanbul as the liaison between them and the
Sublime Porte. In times of trouble or danger in which communities
felt the need to appeal to the central authorities, they did so through
the intervention of the Hakham Bashi in the capital.5 Since he was
the chief Jewish figure in the Ottoman Empire, the Hakham Bashi
was referred to in these documents with royal epithets, such as ‘the
king sitting on the throne’ or ‘king of the Jews.’ Thus the primary
importance of the archive of the Hakham Bashi of Istanbul is that it
 Arab and Jewish Communities 253
is a Jewish archive. Such an archive provides testimony and direct
information on the internal life of the Jews, on their communal
organization, national and international, from the point of view of
the Jews themselves. Anyone who has perused the national archives
of European countries—which do not have separate files on Jews
alone – and have material only on the relations between the Jews and
their surroundings, almost always from an external point of view—
appreciates the great advantage of a corpus of documents written by
Jews about themselves and from their own point of view, and not
reflecting them from an external vantage point.6
A Jewish archival source, most of which is not written in Hebrew,
is the archive of the Alliance Israélite Universelle in Paris. It is
difficult to overestimate the importance of this archive for the
history of communities in the Near East. Emissaries of the AIU,
who operated in nearly all of the large communities of the area, sent
back detailed written reports about these communities. These
reports dealt with spiritual and cultural life, matters of leadership and
communal organization, relations with the authorities and the
surrounding society, the economic situation and even matters such
as the beating up of a Jew in the streets. Nevertheless, as in the case
of various national archives, the writers were delegates of the AIU,
not local people, and described what they saw subjectively and from
the point of view of the AIU’s agenda. Their devotion to the ideas of
the AIU often led the emissaries to paint the situation in dark
colours.7
Consequently the correspondence found in the archive of the
Hakham Bashi in Istanbul has the greatest importance. It enables us
to see how these communities and their activities appeared to their
own people. This archival material includes about 10,000 pages, most
of them well preserved. The main subject of the correspondence is
appeals to the Hakham Bashi regarding relations with the authorities
and internal relations within the communities. It also contains
discussions of matters of administration, finance, religion, the
rabbinate, leadership, communal organization, taxation, law,
education, marital status and more. Most of the documents were
written in Hebrew in semi-cursive script. Not a small part of them
were written in Ladino, Ottoman Turkish and French. There are also
some documents in other languages including English, Russian,
Bulgarian, Italian and Yiddish.
The archive includes numerous documents from between 1837
and 1872, but most of the documents are from the period of the two
chief rabbis who served after that. The first was Hakham Bashi
Moshe Halevy (1872-1908). His term was a significant turning point
in the involvement of the Hakham Bashi of Istanbul in the internal
affairs of the various communities. Indeed his term of service was
254 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
described recently as a period of ‘darkness’, during which
conservative forces within Jewish society in Istanbul once again took
over communal institutions.8 Nevertheless, the term of Rabbi Moshe
Halevy was characterized by the penetration of modernization into
various communities, modern education for increasing numbers of
Jewish children, changes of life style in the home, the street, society,
economy and government. The increase in disagreements within the
communities regarding leadership and communal rule led to an
increase in appeals to the head of the millet in Istanbul, asking him
to use his influence in the halls of power in order to advance the
cause of the disputing parties. This may explain why there are so
many documents from this period.
The second Hakham Bashi from whose term there are many
documents is Rabbi Haim Nahum, who served as Hakham Bashi
after the Young Turk revolution in 1908. Letters addressed to him as
late as 1919 may be found in the archive. This important period in
Istanbul, has already been described by Esther Benbassa9 using
documents about Rabbi Nahum that are found mainly in the archive
of the AIU, but also in other archives, from the rabbi’s point of
view. A number of documents from the archive of the chief
rabbinate of Istanbul also reached Prof. Benbassa. Nevertheless the
documents in the archive of Haim Nahum himself draw a much
fuller picture of the situation at the time, when the Hakham Bashi of
Istanbul sought to expand his areas of influence on the internal
affairs of other communities in the Empire. Many documents deal
with requests for Rabbi Nahum to involve himself in disputes within
the rabbinates of other communities, and in particular the rabbinate
of Jerusalem. For example, Dr. Abraham Haim, published a single
document the importance of which derives from its being the only
primary source known on the correspondence between Istanbul and
Jerusalem concerning this famous dispute over the rabbinate of
Jerusalem.10 However, in the archive of the Hakham Bashi of
Istanbul there are dozens of letters that were sent to Rabbi Haim
Nahum on this matter by all of the sects and parties in Jerusalem.
The archive has extraordinary importance for the history of Jewish
settlement in the Land of Israel, both traditional settlement and
Zionist, and for the history of Zionism.
Naturally it would be even better if we had originals or copies of
the responses by the Hakham Bashi to these requests. However,
some of these responses are available in other archives, such as that
of Rabbi Jacob Shaul Elyashar, in the Department of Manuscripts at
the Jewish National and University Library, Jerusalem.
Thus the archive is the largest single collection of documents that
deal exclusively with the Jewish communities of the Ottoman
Empire. These documents shed light on the communities and on
 Arab and Jewish Communities 255
unknown episodes in their history, provide new information
regarding matters that were already discussed and verify or refute
scholarly assumptions. An examination of these documents gives us
the opportunity to encounter key figures in the communities and
enriches our knowledge and understanding of how they operated.
Among the communities within the Empire and outside it who
wrote to the Hakham Bashi of Istanbul, and whose appeals are
found in the archive, we can point out: Damascus, Gaziantep,
Diyarbakir, Aleppo, Antioch, Sida, Beirut, Alexandria, Cairo,
Helwan, Port Said, Ankara, Smyrna, the Dardanelles, Adrianople,
Gallipoli, Bursa, Asmara (in Ethiopia), Arta, Thessalonica, Ioanina,
Crete, Rhodes, Drama, Corfu, Athens, Malta, Calcutta, Mosul,
Baghdad, Basra, Benghazi, Tripoli, Sofia, Bucharest, Budapest,
Sanaa, Bukhara, Kokand, Tashkent, Kermanshah, Tlemcen, Tunis,
Jerba, Tangiers and many more. From the communities in the area
of present-day Israel we find letters from Tiberias, Safed, Jerusalem,
Acre, Jaffa, Haifa, Rishon le-Zion, Rosh Pinah, Yesod Hama`alah,
Kefar Saba, Menahemiah, Zikhron Ya`aqov. In addition to appeals
from communities in the Near East and from nearby communities in
the Empire, there are collections of letters addressed to the Hakham
Bashi of Istanbul from Eastern and Western Europe and the
Americas, including: Amsterdam, Antwerp, Brussels, Paris,
Bordeaux, Grenoble, Nice, Marseilles, London, Manchester, Rome,
Livorno, Pisarro, Florence, Padua, Trieste, Berlin, Frankfurt,
Hamburg, Munich, Lucerne, Vienna, Horodenka, Warsaw, Cracow,
Radom, Vilna, Riga, Minsk, Pinsk, Brisk, Byalistok, Brest-Litovsk,
New York, Baltimore, Cincinnati, Buenos Aries, Rio de Janeiro and
more.
Professor Jacob M. Landau ended his article on sources for the
history of the Jews of Egypt and Turkey with the words:

If we do not quickly make use of the sources on the last

generations, some of these written sources will be lost, and the
potential informants will pass away. The solution for this urgent
task is to operate teams that will work on one country, or one
period, or one discipline, in a concerted effort to examine and
collect all the sources for the history of the Jews in the East, in
order to prepare them for scientific research.11

The academic committee of the Ben-Zvi Institute approved my

proposal to carry out a basic study of this archive in the framework
of the ‘Oriens Judaicus’ Project. The Israel Academy for Science and
Humanities has agreed to support this project and granted a budget
for research for four years. The research will also be conducted
under the auspices of the Department of Jewish History at Bar Ilan
256 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
University and of the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish
People, Jerusalem.
The purposes of the project are:

1. To catalogue the documents according to community.

This stage was completed over two years ago.
2. To transcribe and translate selected documents.
3. To publish a critical version of documents that are of
particular interest together with an introduction to each
document and notes.
4. To create an index to be made available both on computer
and in printed form of all of the documents according to
place, name and topic.

The importance of this basic research project is to provide scholars

access to a corpus of documents from an enormous archive that
deals primarily with the Jewish communities of the Ottoman
Empire. As a result scholars will be able to improve our knowledge
and understanding of the way of life of most of the Jewish
communities in the Eastern Mediterranean area at the end of the
Ottoman period. Likewise our understanding of inter-communal ties
will increase, especially of the relations of the centre in Istanbul with
communities in the periphery and with various Jewish communities
throughout the world.
 Arab and Jewish Communities 257
Documents

Below I present two documents from the archive of the Hakham

Bashi in Istanbul. The first document is from the heads of the
‘Society for the Support of Jews engaged in Agriculture and Crafts in
Syria and the Land of Israel’ to Hakham Bashi Haim Nahum, 1910.
In the Central Archive for the History of the Jewish People,
Jerusalem, it is document no. TR/Is-64, Microfilm no. HM2/8644.
Chief Rabbi Nahum, who had a centralistic attitude, made a tour
of four months in communities of the Empire, among them the
communities in Israel. During his stay in Israel he visited many
settlements and met with representatives of various groups, among
them residents of the moshavot. At the same time Rabbi Nahum was
active in helping the Zionist leadership to remove the limitations that
the Ottoman authorities had put on Jewish settlement in Israel. To
sum up his visit the heads of the aforementioned society sent him a
letter in which they expressed their feelings and their expectations
from him.
The second document is from the heads of the community of
Mosul to Hakham Bashi Haim Nahum, with regards to Jewish
soldiers in the Ottoman army at the outbreak of the First World
War. Its number in the Central Archive for the History of the Jewish
People, Jerusalem, is TR/Is-168, microfilm no. HM2/9071.2.
One of the primary subjects that troubled Jewish communities
throughout the Ottoman Empire after the revolution of the Young
Turks was the question of the draft of young Jews, and respect for
their religious rights during their military service. In conformity with
the principles of the revolution, soldiers from non-Muslim minorities
were entitled to practise their religion freely during their service.
Nevertheless, the obligation of military service that began in the
summer of 1909 caused a wave of emigration and flight among many
young men, Jews and Christians alike, from the Arab provinces of
the Empire to the West. With the outbreak of the First World War
the Ottoman regime increased the pressure to draft young men into
the military and did not take care to ensure the religious rights of
minority soldiers. As a result of this situation the heads of the
community of Mosul sent their letter to Rabbi Haim Nahum.
258 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Document No. 1

The Executive Committee in the Holy Land

of the Society for the Support of Jews
engaged in Agriculture and Crafts
in Syria and the Land of Israel
Jaffa
To the Chief Rabbi of all the Jews in Turkey, the great Rabbi Haim
Nahum, Shalom (Peace) and Berakha (Blessing).

Your excellency the Rabbi!

We see that you came to the Land of Israel not only in order to
grace its dust, but also to see the life that is developing here, not only
to visit the ruins and the holy graves of our people, but also to see
the new, living and vibrant Hebrew settlement. After the great effort
that you made in the holy city in order to make peace between its
different parties,12 you allowed yourself, with every right, to enjoy a
rest of the spirit in the Hebrew settlements (moshavot), in a place
where our brethren Israelites live normal lives, lives of health for
both the body and the mind, lives of unity and fraternity. We hope
that during the two first days that you passed in the settlements you
already noticed that our Hebrew brethren in the land of our
forefathers are capable of not only receiving charity, but also of
enjoying the fruits of their own labour; you saw the divine garden of
Eden, which they created in this forsaken land by the sweat of their
brows and their undaunted spirit. And we are certain that the
Sabbath that you first spent in a Hebrew settlement in the Land of
Israel,13 will be a Sabbath of Sabbaths in your life that will always
arouse in your soul the warmest and most pleasant feelings, the most
Hebrew feelings.
Our noble Rabbi! You will yet visit and see Hebrew settlements
flourishing in the Holy Land, and you will see and appreciate what
our brethren have done in the land with their blood, sweat and great
efforts. It would be difficult for any of us to tell you all the work and
difficulty that these our brethren have suffered in their work and all
the sacrifices they have made on the altar of this temple of theirs.
God in heaven is our witness, the pure skies of our land are
witnesses, and the Land that has absorbed their drops of sweat and
blood, and in which those of our brethren who collapsed dead in the
middle of their holy and pure toil have found eternal rest. They will
give testimony without speech or words, and you in your Hebrew
soul will absorb and feel all of this.
However all the work of the pioneers of the new Hebrew yishuv
(settlement) in the Land of Israel might have been in vain, if helpers
 Arab and Jewish Communities 259
and supporters had not come to them from outside. The first to aid
them was the association Hovevei Zion (‘Lovers of Zion’);14 next
came our distinguished brother, Baron Rothschild,15 and after him
other organizations came quickly,16 who are working today for the
benefit of the Jewish settlement in the Land of Israel.
As the officers of the Hovevei Zion Association we shall allow
ourselves to relate to you briefly the history of the work of our
society in the Land of Israel and the way it works today.
Already thirty years ago, when the first Hebrew settlements for
cultivating the Land of Israel were established, many of our brethren
in Russia were aroused and came together to found the Hovevei Zion
Association, whose object was to help the farmers in the Land of
Israel both materially and spiritually. In their work the Hovevim in
Russia joined the Hovevim of settlement in the Land of Israel in other
countries, and would help from time to time, particularly the
settlements Gedera, Petakh Tiqva and Yesod Hama‘alah.
In 1890 the Hovevim in Russia received a licence from the
government to establish a society for the support of Jews cultivating
the land and engaged in crafts in Syria and the Land of Israel,17 and
in this way the work of the Hovevim became more permanent and
organized.18 In the first years the work of the society in the Land of
Israel helped to establish and maintain the moshava (settlement)
Qastina. During the crisis in the settlement of moshavot between 1900
and 1903, when hundreds of Hebrew workers remained
unemployed,19 our society founded a special fund for workers and
thus tens of families of workers settled on the land. Recently the
workers’ farms ‘Ein Ganim and Beer Ya‘aqov have been established
with its help. According to the annual budget enclosed herein, the
honourable rabbi will see that our society cannot set up new moshavot
with its minimal funds, but it tries to help as best it can some of the
existing settlements in matters that a new settlement can never
handle on its own in the first years of its existence: guarding the
settlement, the verqa tax,20 maintaining a ritual slaughterer, medical
aid and in particular maintaining schools. These settlers in the cities
of the Land of Israel benefit from the work of the society, which
participates together with other societies in founding hamalveh (cheap
credit), support for hospitals and workshops in Jaffa, kindergartens
and schools. In its work for the benefit of the schools the society is
notably active in Jaffa. Here it has built a wonderful house for the
girls’ school that serves four hundred girls. With its minimal material
aid, but with its mainly moral support, it has set up and maintained
the Hebrew Gymansium, and also helped the Orthodox Tahqemoni
school to the best of its ability. Our society supplies a Hebrew
teacher to the Bezalel school in Jerusalem and also helps to pay the
260 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Hebrew language teacher in the schools of the Alliance Israélite
Universelle in Beirut, Haifa and Tiberias.
Our society is aware that with its limited resources it cannot
supply much material aid to the Hebrew yishuv; for that there exist
larger and wealthier societies. However our society knows the great
value of educating children as a primary means for deepening their
roots and strengthening their ties to the Land and the value of the
Hebrew language as the only national language that can unite all the
parts of our people here, so that they understand one another and
help one another in material and spiritual life in order to settle and
develop in the Land.
And in one more respect our society aids the settlers in the Land
of Israel. A great number have suffered in previous years because
those who wished to settle in the Land of Israel did not have the
right information regarding what transpires in this land, and even
when they came to the Land, they were like the blind groping in the
dark. And now our society has established information offices in
Odessa, Istanbul, Haifa, Jaffa and Jerusalem. The offices provide
accurate information to all who request it regarding the conditions
whereby they can settle in Turkey in general and in the Land of Israel
in particular, and help with advice and knowledge of the place for
those who have already arrived as settlers, especially if they need to
make a living from work and crafts. That is the work of our society
using its meagre resources.
Our noble rabbi! The compassionate mother, who accompanies
her beloved son when he travels far away worries about him in her
heart and blesses him with the hope that God will send his angel
before him in the form of generous people who will take him close
to them and guide him with good advice in the new land in which he
lives. The central committee of our society in Odessa accompanies
with concern all of our brethren, who are forced to seek material and
spiritual refuge beyond the sea. The first city for these migrants on
their way is Istanbul,21 the capital of Turkey. There you preside in
glory as the official head of the Jews of Turkey, and your influence is
great in the highest levels of the government. Please be a merciful
father to those who come to devote the best of their material and
spiritual powers to productive and useful lives for themselves and
for others, guide them with good advice and be for them a help and
a source of support at all times when they turn to you.
Please try to remove the ugly stain from them, the ‘red note,’22
which casts them, and together with them all the Jews of Turkey,
into disgrace and defamation before the other peoples among us.
And when enemies rise up against them from among other peoples
and religions, accusing them falsely for their own purposes, please be
their defender, proving their innocence and make their justice as
 Arab and Jewish Communities 261
clear as sunlight. When you are here with them where they live, you
may see for yourself, that while providing sustenance for their
families, they are beneficial to their land and to their neighbouring
peoples as honest and diligent citizens. By increasing the crop yield
of the land they increase the government’s income; in the vicinity of
the settlements many peasant villages have developed and grown
wealthier, and also in the cities they improve the material and
spiritual situation with their diligent labour. Please make all of this
clear to the noble government, to the mighty of the kingdom, and to
all the best of the people, since it is not easy to find such beneficial
citizens as they are, who settle the barren land, build its ruins for
their own happiness and that of the general public. The hearts of
those returning from the Diaspora are full of longing for the land of
the fathers and great love for their old-new homeland, in which they
hope to find rest for their weary souls from the hands of their
oppressors, in which under the flag of freedom and the symbol of
innocence and hope they wish to develop naturally both materially
and spiritually and to become the chosen people among the other
neighbouring peoples in the great, united and progressive Ottoman
Empire.
Most noble rabbi! Many before you have been Hakham Bashi of
Togarma,23 but none of them saw an obligation to visit the Holy
Land. Who knows if it was not for this purpose that you reached the
greatness of head of the Jews of Turkey, for this mission, to be the
father of those of our brethren who sought to restore the stones and
the earth of the land of the Patriarchs? Who knows if it will not be
written in the history of our people that during the period of the
Chief Rabbi of Turkey, Rabbi Haim Nahum, he knew how to
maintain the highest level of his office?
We have done our part, please do your part, and the Lord of Israel
will do his part, its strength since antiquity. We are sure that together
with us, all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem from all over the
Diaspora send you a blessing at this hour, all the healers of its
injury24 and all those who dream of the return of the Exiles.
Peace be upon you, our brother and our head,25 a blessing from the
depths of our heart, may you succeed in your path reaching old age.

On behalf of the society ‘for the Support of Jews engaged in

Agriculture and Crafts in Syria and the Land of Israel,’

Dr. H. Hisin26 M. Shenkin27 Jaffa, Sunday, 19 Sivan 5670

(26 June 1910)
262 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Document No. 2

…Dear Sir!
It is well known that ever since the creation of liberty in the
government of Turkey, may it be exalted, it drafts both Jews and the
uncircumcised28 as soldiers just as it takes Ishmaelites,29 and all of the
people offer their sons with great love to do this service willingly.
And out of the love of the exalted government for the soldiers, it
decreed saying that the Jews may rest on their Sabbath days and be
exempt from any service on those days. However since the wars and
these great upheavals, because of which twenty to forty-five-year
olds have become soldiers, they have started to make them work on
Sabbaths and Holidays, and the cry of the people breaks out and
rises to the heart of the heavens and there is no grace and no mercy!
And since the Days of Awe, the days of Rosh Hashana and the awe-
inspiring Yom Kippur are approaching, we fear that they may make
them work on them as well, God forbid. Therefore we have come to
knock on the gates of your mercy, and have cast our eyes up to you,
our father… so that you would speak on their behalf to whoever has
the authority to allow them total rest on these Days of Awe, and
especially the awe-inspiring Yom Kippur to refrain from work as
required because at this time more than one thousand five hundred
Jewish souls work here in this city as soldiers, and are not allowed to
rest on the Sabbath day.
We trust that because of your love and compassion for your
people you will make every effort to see that the decree of Berat
apply to the aforementioned Days of Awe since it is a great
commandment, incomparable, and might shield those who observe
it like a thousand shields and all that belong to them.
Spoken by your servants the directors and leaders of the
Community of Yeshurun, here in the city of Mosul, may God
protect it, who sign with tears in their eyes and in their hearts.
The young Eliyahu b. Moshe Barazani, may his end be good.
The young Moshe Shim`on Eliyah, may God sustain and preserve
him.

The young Suleiman b. Hakham Eliyahu Barazani.

The young Zemah Suleiman Reuven
Zalah Aharon Sasson
 Arab and Jewish Communities 263
Notes
1 See for example A. Cohen, ‘Ottoman Sources for the History of Ottoman Jews:
How Important?’, in A. Levi ed., The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, Princeton 1994,
687-704; H. İnalcık, ‘Ottoman Archival Materials on Millets’, in B. Braude & B.
Lewis ed., Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 1 (London, New York
1982), 437 ff.
2 A. Bein, ‘Al Atido shel Avareinu – Matsavam veGoralam shel ha’Arkhiyonim ha’Yehudim
baTefutsot uvArets’, Arkhion, 4 (1990), 30-1 (in Hebrew)
3 See for example Y. Ratsabi, ‘Igrot Yehudei Teman leRabbi Haim Nahum’, Sinai, 72
(1973), 147-60. (in Hebrew). As far as I know, Prof. Ratsabi did not see the whole
archive. He received only some photocopies of some documents about the Jews of
Yemen. My colleague Prof. E. Benbassa informed me that she also saw some
documents from the archives at the time she was writing her books (Un grand
rabbin sépharade en politique, 1892-1923, Paris 1990; and HaYahadut haOthmanit ben
Hitma’arevut leTsiyonot, Jerusalem 1996 (in Hebrew).
4 A. Levi, ‘The Creation and Development of the Institution of ‘Hakham Bashi’ in
the Ottoman Empire’, Pe’amim, 55 (1993), 38-56 (in Hebrew).
5 Questions concerning the Jewish religious law were sent to the high religious
court (Bet Din) in Jerusalem
6
On European and Ottoman archives and their importance to the history of the
Jews of the Ottoman Empire see for example M. Eliav, Under Imperial Austrian
Protection—Selected Documents from the Archives of the Austrian Consulate in Jerusalem
1849-1917, Jerusalem 1985 (In Hebrew); E. Bashan, The Taragano Family—Jewish
Diplomats in the Dardanelles 1699-1817, Jerusalem 1999 (In Hebrew); B. Lewis,
‘HaArkhiyonim haOthmanim keMakor leToldot haYehudim beErets Yisrael’, in B. Lewis,
On History – Collected Studies, Jerusalem 1988, 111-28 (In Hebrew); B. Lewis,
‘HaArkhiyonim haOthmanim keMakor leToldot haYehudim, op.cit. 235-45; A.M.
Hyamson, ed., The British Consulate in Jerusalem, 2 Vols. (London, 1939-41)
7 See A. Rodrigue, De l’instruction à l’émancipation (France, 1989), 75-7; P. Dumont,
‘Jewish Communities in Turkey during the Last Decades of the Ninteenth Century
in the Light of the Archives of the Alliance Israélite Universelle,’ in B. Braude & B.
Lewis ed., Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 1 (New York, London
1982), 210-16.
8 E. Benbassa, in her study Le Judaisme ottoman entre occidentalisation et sionisme 1908-
1920, Paris 1990, 25. On the other hand Prof. Avigdor Levy described the same
term as the best years of Ottoman Jewry in modern times. A. Levy ed., The Jews of
the Ottoman Empire (Princeton, 1994), 121.
9 E. Benbassa, Un grand Rabbin sépharade en politique 1892-1923, …
10 A. Haim, ‘The Hakham Bashi of Istanbul and the ‘War of the Rabbinate’ in
Jerusalem,’ Pe´amim 12 (1982), 105-113 (in Hebrew).
11 J.M. Landau, ‘The Sources for Research of the Jews of Egypt and the Jews of
Turkey in the Last Generations’, Pe´amim, 23 (1985), 110
12 By this they refer to the disagreement over the Rabbinate in Jerusalem.
13 Rabbi Haim Nahum spent one Sabbath in Rishon Le-Zion
14 A movement founded in the wake of the publication of Dr. Leon Pinsker’s
Auto-Emancipation in 1881. Its members intended to emigrate to the Land of Israel
and settle it. The name of the movement, which had many branches in Eastern
Europe and elsewhere, was given it in June 1887 in the second convention of
Hovevei Zion in Russia, which met at Drosgenik. See below.
15 Edmond James Rothschild (1845-1934), who was called Hanadiv Ha-yadu`a (the
well-know philanthropist).
16 e.g. IKA, founded by Baron Maurice de Hirsch.
264 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
17 The Odessa Committee, founded by the efforts of A. Cederbaum, editor of
Hamelitz.
18 The following addition appears in the margins of the page: ‘Besides the
settlements mentioned, it helped the settlements Rehovot, Hedera, Mishmar etc’.
19 In these years, the IKA, hoping to improve the economic status of the moshavot,
conducted a policy of preferring cheap Arab workers to expensive Jewish workers.
Many Jewish workers were fired and needed help
20 Land tax.
21 The text reads Qushta, i.e. Constantinople, as the city was called by the Jews at
the time.
22 The tizqara. From 1901, in order to prevent any immigration to Israel, every Jew
entering the land was required to submit his passport to the Ottoman authorities
and receive instead a temporary resident licence for three months. Because of its
red colour, the licence was called by contemporaries ‘the red note’.
23 As the Ottoman Empire was called by Jews, after the expression in Genesis
10:3.
24Cf. Nahum 3:19.
25 cf. Genesis 46:21.
26 Mir 1865 – Tel Aviv 1932. Member of the first group of Bilu immigrants. Hisin
studied medicine in Switzerland. From 1905 he was the representative of ‘the
Odessa Committee in Jaffa’. During World War I Hisin served as a military
physician in the Turkish army.
27 Ula (Belarus) 1871 – Chicago 1924. One of the leading communal workers of
the yishuv in many areas. Among other things he served as a member of the Zionist
Executive Committee, head of the Aliyah Office and the Information Office of
Hovevei Zion in Jaffa
28 Christians
29 Muslims.
 Jewish Entrepreneurship in Salonica during the Final
Decades of the Ottoman Regime in Macedonia
(1881-1912)

Orly C. Meron

Introduction

During the final decades of Ottoman rule in Macedonia the area

experienced a boom of entrepreneurial activity. Several scholars
including Paul Dumont,1 and Donald Quataert2 commented on the
spectacular industrial and commercial development and its impact on
the indigenous population. They emphasized the significant role of
Jewish individuals, e.g. Allatini, Modiano and Mizrahi, in Salonica at
the turn of twentieth century. Quataert, who documented and
analysed the industrial development of the entire Empire,3 stated that
Salonica was unique in the sense that its industrial promoters were
Jews.4
The present study focuses on the economic activity of Jewish
entrepreneurs at the close of the twentieth century. Adopting the
methodological stance introduced by Simon Kuznets, we will focus
not only on ‘the exceptional individual case’ but on the ‘mass of
small and medium business that determine the group function’.5 In
order to assess Jewish entrepreneurial activity, I will examine the
entrepreneurial activity of this group as a minority in the plural
Ottoman society,6 from a comparative inter-ethnic perspective.7
According to a methodological framework for the study of
entrepreneurship of minorities in general, and of Jewish minorities in
particular, I assume that the magnitude and strategies of Jewish
entrepreneurship in Salonica derived from the interaction between
the group characteristics and the structure of available
opportunities.8 The latter element includes market conditions and the
ease of access to business opportunities and is highly dependent on
the level of inter-ethnic competition and state policies (Section I).
The first element includes the group’s reaction to the changing
conditions in Ottoman society and its ability to mobilize ethnic
resources to promote its business interests (Section II).
266 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
The aim of this paper, which presents and interprets findings of
an empirical study based on official Austro-Hungarian data,9 is to
offer a quantitative analysis of the entire scope of Jewish business
entrepreneurship from a comparative inter-ethnic perspective of the
entrepreneurial activity of Ottoman Macedonia on the eve of the
Greek annexation. The empirical study, based upon a complete list
of firms operating in the province of Salonica, systematically
illuminating the entrepreneurial patterns and strategies of the Jewish
entrepreneurs as an integral part of the Jewish community. More
specifically, this article demonstrates how the Jewish minority of
Salonica became a surrogate for the Ottoman bourgeoisie during the
semi-colonial phase of Ottoman Macedonia.
I: European Semi-Colonialism in Ottoman Macedonia:
A New Opportunity Structure

The legal liberal reforms initiated by the Ottoman Empire not only
removed the obstacles to capital accumulation faced by
entrepreneurs, but also encouraged foreign investment in Ottoman
territories. The enlightened Ottoman legislation provided equal legal
status to foreigners and non-Muslims (1839, 1856, 1869, 1876).
Reforms included protection of private assets of Ottoman subjects
from arbitrary confiscation, cancellation of the prohibition on sale of
realty to foreigners (1856), including consent to foreign ownership of
realty (1867), and tax shields and benefits to foreigners stipulated in
the Capitulation agreements, designed to encourage foreign
investments in the infrastructure.10 The equalitarian legal framework
thus granted foreigners and non-Muslim minorities access to new
entrepreneurial opportunities.11
The abolition of the trade monopolies of the Ottoman Empire
and the establishment of free trade zones (1838) effectively
transferred control of imports from the Ottoman authorities and
guilds to European hands.12 The formation of the Ottoman Public
Debt Administration (1881) laid the foundation for European semi-
colonialism based on a division of authority between economic
(European) and political legislative (Ottoman) spheres.13 The
institutionalisation of the foreign financial sector led to substantial
changes in the modes of production (e.g. new agricultural
technologies), trade and consumerism, which in turn created new
socio-economic conditions for the masses in Macedonia. Historians
such as Stavrianos have observed that from 1878 onwards,
concurrent with the incursion of European imperialism into the
region,14 substantial changes in the socio-economic existence of
Balkan citizens occurred.
 Arab and Jewish Communities 267
Foreign investments in Macedonian infrastructure promoted the
consolidation of a single ‘economic unit’, 15 comprised of the city of
Salonica and its hinterland area. Recurring fire damage in Salonica
during the 1890s stimulated the city’s development as the
Macedonian metropolis, both as an administrative capital and as a
casern for Ottoman troops.
The present discussion is limited to the geographical boundaries
of the Ottoman Salonica Province (vilayet), roughly the area of Greek
Macedonia (from November 1912), identified as the historical
geopolitical framework relevant to the transition from Ottoman
Empire to modern economic units that are states. Economic growth,
driven by both regional and world markets created new
opportunities for entrepreneurs in this region, where the majority
(87%) of the Macedonian Jewish population was concentrated.16
II: The Jewish Minority: A Demotic Ethnic
Community in Transformation

The new economic conditions and the new liberal legislation for the
non-Muslims in the late nineteenth century impacted the
demographic development of the entire Jewish minority and
stimulated changes in its internal structure. Since the first half of the
nineteenth century, the Salonican Jewish minority had been
perceived as a deep-seated demotic ethnic-religious community of
Ottoman Jews,17 impoverished and lacking modern education and
skills.18 Within this larger community, however, a tiny, favoured
Jewish elite comprised of both ‘foreign’ and Ottoman Jews holding
berats, enjoyed privileged commercial conditions embodied in the
Capitulations. This privileged élite acquired capital, as well as
linguistic and commercial skills, as economic intermediaries in
international trade in the Mediterranean.19
A comparison of official Ottoman data (1893, 1906) published by
Karpat, indicates a 40% increase in the province’s Jewish population
at the turn of the twentieth century, in contrast to a decline of about
7% in the total population of the province.20 The latter was due
primarily to casualties of the military conflict in Macedonia and the
emigration of peasants to the New World while the demographic
growth of the Macedonian Jewish population was pronounced due
to the compact nature of its historically urban spatial distribution.21
The mass of the Jewish population was concentrated in the central
sub-district of Salonica, and became the dominant demographic
ethnic component in the city. According to official data (1905/6),
the Jewish element constituted the majority in the city (55%), larger
than either the ruling Muslim segment (ca. 31%) or the Greek
minority (ca. 13%).22
268 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Population growth was a response to the attraction the
Macedonian metropolis held for Jewish immigrants, both Ottoman
subjects and foreign citizens. The Jewish population of Salonica,
similarly to other Jewish communities in Ottoman territories,23 was
comprised of a numerically dominant, indigenous core, together with
‘recently arrived’ immigrants. The former included refugees from
Ottoman areas lost to the Empire, especially the new national Balkan
states,24 while the latter, usually from Italy, were attracted by the
favourable economic conditions facilitated by the Capitulation
regime.25 The Italian Jews became an integral part of the group’s
collective economic action. This élite utilized their accumulated
financial and human capital, to stimulate the adaptation of the entire
Jewish community to modern Western civilization. Solidarity
between Jewish local élites and their local masses, and also with their
counterparts in other European states, was renewed as a result of a
combination of events: the new economic opportunities, which
required an injection of loyal local labour, on one hand and anti-
Semitic incidents, both in Europe and the Ottoman Empire, which
functioned as ‘reactive ethnic resources’ by regenerating solidarity,26
on the other hand. Jewish philanthropic associations, the most
prominent being the Alliance Israélite Universelle, contributed to
this growing sense of group identification by bolstering the weak
community institutions with investments in education and welfare.27
In this formative era of the new national states of the Balkans, the
historical reputation of the Jewish community as a loyal religious
millet was reinforced. The Jewish Ottoman citizens, lacking in
political and territorial aspirations, became favourites of the
Ottoman élites. The political behaviour of the Jewish community
remained faithful and pro-Turkish, even in the brief period under the
Young Turks’ régime.28 Thus, with its dominant demographic
presence, its political loyalty and repository of suitable skills, the Jews
were uniquely positioned to fulfil functions, which were beyond the
abilities or desires of the demographically or politically Ottoman
dominating class.

III: Data and Variables

The empirical study reported herein is based on an official,

undisclosed, 200-page report (1915) in German, compiled and issued
by the Museum of Commerce, by order of the Austro-Hungarian
authorities.29 Since it was not issued or used for propaganda
purposes, I assume that the report is not biased.
The data, derived primarily from previous Austrian Consular
Reports (1904-14), have been thoroughly researched by scholars,
including Donald Quataert, in relation to the industrialization in the
 Arab and Jewish Communities 269
Empire at the turn of twentieth century.30 The list of firms operating
in Salonica, which appears at the end of the report, apparently
derived from Annuaire Oriental 1913 (Ottoman year-book), however,
has not been quantitatively analysed to date.
This list includes firms located in the city of Salonica and its
surrounding countryside. Due the unsystematic recording of the
data, recurring firms’ names caused statistical dependency in the
original list. In order to generate an independent sample suitable for
statistical analysis, I classified the firms by two variables:
1. ‘Ethnic origin’, based on a name criterion, following a method
used by several scholars, including B. Lewis and C. Issawi.31
Categories were Jewish, Greek, Turkish and ‘others’. The latter
included Slavic, European or anonymous firms as well as multi-
ethnic partnerships. Attribution of ethnic origin by names, using
onomastic methods, is supported by the fact that 96% of the firms
were privately owned.
2. ‘Branch’ of economic activity, based on sub-divisions of the
following sectors appearing in the Greek census (1928): industry,
commerce, finance and brokerage. Each firm was attributed to a
single branch, based on its primary activity. Thus, the list effectively
provides a ‘natural sample’ composed of commercial and industrial
enterprises for the final year of Ottoman rule in Salonica (1912) (see
Appendix). The resulting frequency distribution by ‘ethnic origin’
and ‘branch’ supports an empirical, inter-ethnic comparative analysis
of entrepreneurship.
The list, which excludes peddlers and petty artisans, serves as a
reliable source for analysing the significant economic activity in the
urban business sector, in which the majority of Jewish labour was
involved. According to a report by the Union des Associations Israélites
delegation, which visited the city in January 1913, 23,955, of a total
24,385 Jewish workers were employed in commerce, industry and
services (transportation).32

IV: Economic Conditions and Firm Ethnicity

The distribution of firms by branch (see Fig.1) points to a structure

of economic opportunities, which emerged as a result of the
legislative and economic developments accompanying the European
semi-colonialism in Ottoman Macedonia.
270 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
Fig. 1: Distribution of Firms by Branch (N=931) (Salonica, 1912)

Number % of
No. Branch of Firms Total
1 Food and beverages 100 10.7
2 Chemicals 28 3.0
3 Construction materials 49 5.3
4 Energy and public utilities 16 1.7
5 Metal 42 4.5
6 Wood 29 3.1
7 Hides, leather and footwear 57 6.1
8 Textiles 50 5.4
9 Clothing 98 10.5
10 Printing, paper and office equipment 52 5.6
11 Tobacco 18 1.9
12 Domestic wares and furniture 41 4.4
13 Trade in agricultural products (incl. grain) 135 14.5
14 General wholesale and retail 39 4.2
15 Finance and commission trade 177 19.0
Total sum 931 100.0

Source: Adapted from the Appendix.

Specifically, we note the emergence of three types of opportunities:

1. A demand for primary exports from the district of Salonica to

European states, including agricultural raw material (tobacco, opium
and wool) and mining products, based on a budding world demand;
2. A demand for imported industrial products, including
machinery (for agriculture, spinning and sewing); materials for
industry (yarn for weaving, fabrics for clothing) and luxury products
(jewellery, pharmaceutics), based on new domestic demand, and;
3. A demand for local craft ware and manufacturing products,
including furniture, clothing, construction materials (bricks, cement,
glass plates) and printing, also supported by domestic demand.

Segmentation of the firms by ‘ethnic origin’ (see Fig. 2) highlights

the dominant share of the Jewish enterprises in the Salonican
economy. The high percentage of Jewish enterprises (58%)
compared with the small share of Turkish enterprises (8%), is
basically explained by the different settlement types of the Salonican
Jewish and Turkish populations. In contrast to the Turkish majority
dispersed throughout the Macedonian countryside, the Jewish
minority was concentrated in the Macedonian metropolis, consistent
 Arab and Jewish Communities 271
with their ‘urban economic heritage’. This traditional preference
necessitated by the Jewish communal lifestyle explains Jewish density
in urban occupations (commerce and industry).

Fig.2: Firms by Ethnic Origin (4) (N=931) (Salonica, 1912)

Ethnic Origin Frequency %

Jewish 538 57.8
Greek 164 17.6
Turkish 76 8.2
Others 153 16.4
Total 931 100

Source: Adapted from the Appendix

V: Ethnic Representation in the Business Sector

As equal conditions are a necessity in order to quantify the ethnic

distribution in business, I therefore calculated the representation of
ethnic enterprises exclusively in proportion to the corresponding
ethnic segments of the city population (that is, urban occupations
among urban populations). This calculation is based on the Greek
census (1913), conducted in the city by the Greek governor
immediately following the invasion.33 Of all available data, this source
reflects the smallest proportion (39%) of the Jewish element in the
total population, i.e. 61,439 of the total population of 157,889 (see
Fig. 3).
The smallest value found for ‘Turkish’ in contrast to the highest
value found for ‘others’ illuminates the economic nature of the
prevailing semi-colonialism in the region. The absence of state
initiative was the raison d’être for the intensive economic activity by
foreign entrepreneurs, especially in establishing infrastructure for
utilities where the lack of state involvement was especially
prominent.34
The results show an over-representation of ‘Jewish’ and ‘others’ in
the Salonican business sector, in contrast to the under-representation
of ‘Turkish’ and ‘Greek’ enterprises. The relatively high proportion
of Jewish enterprises stemmed from the effective exclusion of Jews
from public sector activities, as well as this minority’s preference for
economic activity in the competitive private sector. Even after the
establishment of the new bureaucracy, the politically dominant
Turkish majority prevented the entry of Jews and other non-Muslim
minorities into the ranks of the public sector.35 Moreover, the élites’
traditional inclination for government and the military resulted in an
absence of a business tradition of their own. Finally, the delayed
272 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Fig.3: Ethnic Representation Index

2.5

1.5

0.5

0
Jewish Greek Turkish Others
ERI 1.481 0.7 0.285 2.088

Source: See Fig. 1

Note: Ethnic Representation Index =ERI; ERI = Ej/Pj
When Ej = percentage of the total sum of the enterprises of a given ethnic group
(j) out of the total sum of the whole enterprises constituting the sample. Pj=
percentage of the given ethnic group (j) out of the total city population. For the
population data by the ethnic groups see below note 33. ERI values of ‘others’
include Multi-ethnic groups. The ERI value is greater than 0.

development of a modern, public education system led to a shortage

in Western business and linguistic skills, essential for the politically
dominant masses’ access to the newly emerging opportunities. In this
lacuna, Jewish entrepreneurs were well-equipped to pervade the new
niches, by virtue of their commercial skills, available labour and
political loyalty. Greeks and Armenians, who served as consul
dragomans and clerks, were rejected by the Ottomans due to their
collective Russian patronage and nationalist aspirations,36 yet
‘foreign’ Jews, although no more than a minor element in the total
Jewish population,37 enjoyed the confidence of both European
interests which they even represented as consuls38 and of the
Ottoman élites, owing to their affiliation to the mass of the loyal
Jewish community. The loyalty of the local majority of the Jewish
population to the Ottoman Empire and the absence of any local
territorial aspirations of their own is highlighted by the lack of any
official connection to the Central Zionist Organization prior to the
Greek Occupation (1912).39 Thus, Ottoman Jews, as favoured co-
 Arab and Jewish Communities 273
citizens and trustees of the old Ottoman élites, and ‘foreign’ Jews, as
representatives of European economic semi-colonialism, cooperated
in assuming a key role in the local economy. By virtue of its
competitive advantages over the Ottoman majority and over other
minorities, the Jewish community in the Macedonian metropolis was
able to fulfil functions that the indigenous majority was unable or
unwilling to provide.
Despite the increasingly intense political struggle in Macedonia
during the last decades of the Ottoman régime, there is merit to the
argument that the antithetical aims and aspirations of the various
ethnic elements in Ottoman Macedonia promoted pragmatic adhoc
co-operation with the Jewish intermediaries in the rural region.40 For
example, political rivalry between Greeks and Bulgarians, and
between Greeks and Turks, on one hand, added to historically-
rooted competition between Jewish traders and Greek rivals on the
other side,41 enabled Jews to assume a role of intermediates for both
Slavic peasants and Muslim large-estates (çiftlik) owners.42
In addition to the business climate, influenced both by inter-
ethnic relations as well as intra-ethnic relations, the ethnic
demographic compositions of local consumer markets was a crucial
factor for Jewish initiative activity. The demographic dominance of
the Turkish element in rural Macedonia,43 in addition to the
demographic superiority of the Jews in the Macedonian metropolis,
ensured stable markets, both rural and urban, for Jewish commercial
initiatives.

VI: Ethnic Entrepreneurial Concentration by Branch

Jewish enterprises were scattered in all 15 branches, highlighting the

absence of concentration in any particular sector. In 14 out of the 15
branches, Jewish enterprises comprised no less than one half of the
total industry enterprises; in 9 industries, the proportion of Jewish
enterprises exceeded their proportion in the total sample (58%). In
contrast, 30% of the 76 Turkish enterprises were concentrated in
labour-intensive textiles, characteristically associated with minorities
and immigrants.
The Entrepreneurial Concentration Index validates these findings.
The values of this global index range from 0 (for total equal
dispersion) to 1 (not including 1). The greater the index value, the
greater the concentration of the group’s enterprises, i.e. dispersion in
a small number of branches (see Fig.4). The lowest index of the
Jewish group (0.111) shows that this ethnic group behaved as a
majority, while the highest index (0.628) of the Turkish group,
influenced by their high concentration in the ‘clothing’ branch,
indicates an entrepreneurial pattern characteristic of minorities.
274 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
The ethnic distribution by branch contradicts the existence of an
ethnic division of entrepreneurship, and demonstrates both vertical
and lateral involvement of Jews in the city’s economy. Furthermore,
the above findings support the argument that the interaction
between the demographic size of the Jewish minority, its
geographical concentration and its ‘economic heritage’44 influence
the extent of the minority’s distribution throughout the industries in
the economy.
Fig. 4: Entrepreneurial Concentration Index

0.8

0.6

0.4

0.2

0
Jewish Greek Turkish Others
Concentration 0.111 0.371 0.628 0.349
Index

Source: See Fig.1

15
Note: Entrepreneurial Concentration Index= ECIj = ∑i =1
1 − Iij *Wi
Iij=Oij/Ei when Oij = percentage of the enterprises in branch (i) out of the total
sum of enterprises of a given ethnic group (j) ; E i = percentage of the enterprises
in branch (i) out of the total sum of enterprises in the whole sample. Wi = The
relative portion (Wi < 1) of branch (i) in the whole sample (ΣΣA ij) , when ΣA ij =
Distribution of the firms of a given ethnic group (j) by branch (i). This index refers
to the whole sample and assumes that the total number of firms is not distributed
equally between the 15 branches. This index is the weighted average of the
absolute representational disparity (1-I) in the various branches of a given ethnic
group. An hierarchic version of this index was used in ethnic research focused on
on Israeli society, conducted by sociologists including S.N.Eisenstadt and Moshe
Lissak. The index was introduced by Yaacov Nahon. See: Yaacov Nahon, Trends
in the Occupational Status: The Ethnic Dimension 1958-1981, (Jerusalem: The Jerusalem
Institute for Israel Studies, 1984), (in Hebrew with an introduction in English).
 Arab and Jewish Communities 275

VII: Jewish Areas of Specialty

Despite their overall dispersion in the economy, Jewish enterprises

were found to dominate specific sub-branches. Those niches
controlled by the Jews reflect their preference for entering the new,
relatively high-growth sectors, which offered profitable opportunities
for entrepreneurs (see Figure 1).45 For example, Jewish merchants
were active in the export of opium, being a new commercial branch
which emerged in response to world market forces, driven by the
development of the pharmaceutical industry, especially morphine.46
The Jewish specialties comprise three main groups, based on their
economic activity type (see Fig.5).

Fig. 5: ‘Jewish’ Sub-Branches (Salonica, 1912)

Total Jewish firms % Jewish Firms

Sub-branch firms (N) (N) out of the total
Grain and flour 34 29 85.3
Banking 39 33 84.6
Silkworms & cocoons 13 11 84.6
Opium 10 7 70
Pharmaceutics 13 9 69.2
Watches & valuable articles 19 17 89.5
Colonial commodities 47 38 80.9
Bones & rags 5 5 100
Cotton yarn (Trade) 7 7 100
Wood coal 8 8 100
Glass, plates & metals 17 16 94.5
Leather 8 7 87.5
Ropes & jute sacks 15 12 80
Wool, yarn & fabrics 14 10 71.4

Source: See Fig.1

The first group includes finance, banking and the organization of

primary exports. The absence of Ottoman banking and credit
institutions able to finance the growing Macedonian economy, left
this niche open for local and foreign non-Muslim élites, most of
which were Jews (85%). Jewish banks, with capital accumulated from
previous foreign trade activity,47 an ability to mobilize additional
capital through networks of co-religionists or co-citizens in
European states or the new Balkan states,48 and an economic
tradition in banking and money lending, functioned as a source of
276 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
local credit.49 By virtue of their dominance in the finance sector, and
the political support they enjoyed from the Ottoman élites, Jewish
businessmen wielded an advantage over their Greek competitors,50
and supported the finance of large-scale trade. This included primary
agricultural exports to European states and imports of semi-raw
material and manufacturing products from Western states to
Macedonia. Jewish merchants’ ability to finance costs of storage,
transportation and shipping and insurance, all necessary for
supplying valuable agricultural products (e.g. opium, silk cocoon) to
the Western monopolies, facilitated their vertical penetration into the
entire chain of international commerce. In the nationalist
Macedonian hinterland, fraught with terror, ‘Ottoman’ Jewish
traders’ mobility and access enabled them to serve as loyal, skilled
middlemen between the rural cultivators and the officials of Public
Debt Administration in Salonica Province. Business networks
between co-religionists, which included both officials at the port of
Salonica and intermediaries at ports of destination, ensured efficient
handling of the vulnerable and expensive raw materials. Finally,
favourable international connections ensured immediate profit
realization by Salonican Jewish merchants from sales of raw
materials to western industrialists.
The second group of Jewish specializations (see Fig. 5) includes
wholesale distribution to retailers of ‘colonial commodities’ (sugar,
coffee, rice), the main import to Salonica at the time.51 Jewish
dominance in this field may be attributed to the economic heritage
of those Jewish merchants of Spanish origin.52 Their traditional
presence in this field was enhanced by their financing ability and by
their international networks. Jewish domination in the sub-branch of
‘watches and valuable articles’,53 emphasized the strong preference of
Jewish merchants to invest in portable valuables, reflecting the
instability of their minority status. Further, the highest level of over-
representation of Jewish enterprises is found in the entire sector of
‘furniture and domestic appliances’ which included the sub-branch
‘watches and valuable articles’. This confirms the tendency of
minorities to prefer trade in final consumer goods sold directly in
competitive markets to individual consumers.54 In Salonica,
especially, convenient market conditions prevailed in the city and
country, compensating for the heavy competition with Greek
traders.
The third group of Jewish specializations (see Fig 5) reflects
Jewish control of trade in semi-raw materials and highlights the
nature of Jewish manufacturing vis-à-vis Greek competition in
Salonica Province (where local industry was comprised of light,
metal industries, primarily, mechanical repair, blacksmith and
ironsmith). At the end of the Ottoman era in Salonica, Jewish
 Arab and Jewish Communities 277
manufacturers showed a strong preference for importing semi-raw
manufacturing inputs, limiting integration of production to the final
stage of the process, close to both the traders and the end
consumers. For example, Jewish merchants in the flourishing cotton
industry controlled 100% of ‘trade in [imported] cotton yarn,’ while
Greek entrepreneurs dominated (78%) ‘cotton spinning and
weaving’.55 Failure of the technologically obsolete Jewish spinning
mills in the city in face of countryside-based Greek competition56
diverted Jewish urban entrepreneurs to the manufacture of cotton
socks based on imported cotton yarn in small plants. Thus, Jewish
entrepreneurs shifted competition from production of industrial
inputs towards production of finished garments for the individual
consumer, competing with clothing producers in European states
rather than with Greek locals, who benefited from low production
costs. This was the optimal solution, which maximized profits by
exploiting favourable international affiliations to obtain imported
high quality semi-raw materials, in lieu of intense long-term capital
investments. Costs were reduced through a combination of
imported, refined cotton threads produced in Italy, England and
Austria, by new technology not yet introduced in Salonica, 57 and the
utilization of an inexpensive, local, co-ethnic labour force. As a
result, the locally produced imitations satisfied local taste at a
cheaper price,58 and sold side by side with imported original
products.
In-depth analysis of the detailed activity in the significantly
‘Jewish’ niches reveals intra-dependency within those sub-branches
and interdependency between them. For example, Jewish control in
‘grain and flour’ involved both importation of wheat flour and grain
from Romania, Serbia, Bulgaria and Russia for local consumption,
and the exportation of low quality local grain, including flour, to
Albania and Ottoman markets.59 ‘Foreign’ and Ottoman Jews
holding berats financed the wholesale purchase, transport and
storage of the grain. They engaged sub-intermediate Ottoman Jews,
who had the linguistic skills and the contacts necessary to
communicate personally and developed trust with Ottoman estate
holders and their managers throughout the Macedonian hinterland.60
Jewish entrepreneurs’ vertical control of the grain and flour industry
included milling,61 wholesale distribution of wheat flour to retailers
and control of raw materials for the food industry. This also explains
Jewish involvement in the production of macaroni, bakery and beer
brewing.62
The vertical integration strategy appears to be confirmed by the
prevalence of family firms, the ‘ethnic mode of production’, and may
be explained by the formation of family cartels e.g. the Allatini
concern, which embraced extensive businesses through marital
278 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies
relationships with the Fernandez, Mizrahi and Torres families.63 In
addition, Jewish intra-dependency deepened owing to increasing
competition between Jewish traders and artisans with their Greek
rivals.
The vertical integration of the Jewish participation in these
industries also demonstrates the dependence of the industrialist
consumers in European states upon the Jewish middlemen. For
example, the ‘opium’ sub-industry included ‘export of opium’ to
America, Germany, Austria and Italy,64 through the ‘import of
pharmaceutics and photographic materials’. Their vertical
connections were vital in supporting the commercial chain, from the
purchase of raw materials to the distribution of end products in the
Macedonian market. This dependency was described by a teacher of
the Alliance Israélite Universelle (1909):

No significant business can be carried out without one of these

brokers [in Salonica] as an intermediary agent. It happens that
almost all of these brokers are Jews. They are rather well-off;
often they advance funds to the merchants and they almost
always act as guarantors for their clients in their dealings with
the large commercial enterprises. Even the banks sometimes
grant credit to the merchants only because of the
recommendation and the guarantee of the brokers.65

VIII: Conclusion

The present paper illustrates how Jewish entrepreneurship stimulated

and bolstered industrial and commercial growth in semi-colonial
Ottoman Macedonia during the final decades of the Ottoman rule, at
the end of the nineteenth century and beginning of the twentieth
century. Excluding European companies, which developed public
infrastructure projects as substitutes for the Ottoman state, Jewish
firms filled the lacuna of entrepreneurship in the diminished middle
class of the dominant population. Similar to other minorities in
colonial regions, including the Chinese in South-East Asia at the turn
of nineteenth – twentieth century; the Pakistanis and Indians in East
Africa; the Lebanese in West Africa prior to the 1960s,66 Jewish
entrepreneurs offered a viable economic alternative, primarily to the
Ottoman petite bourgeoisie, but no less to entrepreneurs who
developed large-scale businesses. These entrepreneurs functioned as
a bridging population, mediating between Macedonian cultivators
and European industrialists. Jewish entrepreneurs made an essential
economic contribution through their remarkable bi-directional mode
of entrepreneurship, engaging in primary exports to the Western
states (mining products and agriculture cash crops), as well as in the
 Arab and Jewish Communities 279
distribution of European imported manufactured products to local
Macedonian consumers.67 The empirical study, based on a list of
business firms, enabled a systematic trace of the entrepreneurial
behaviour of the Jewish minority from a comparative inter-ethnic
perspective. The entrepreneurial strategies adopted by the Jewish
group were influenced by both the political and economic system in
which they operated, as well as the internal community structure.
The combination of the inherent characteristics of the Jewish
Salonican population; the new profitable opportunities created in
semi-colonial Ottoman Macedonia; Ottoman state policy and the
inter-ethnic competition explain the entrepreneurship strategies
adopted by the Jewish minority during the last decades of Ottoman
rule over Macedonia. Ottoman anxiety in face of impending Greek
domination through local Greek co-religionists worked in the Jewish
minority’s favour. Their privileged position as a loyal millet facilitated
their access to the new opportunities. With their newly adapted skills,
they were instrumental in establishing and developing economic
relationships linking the interdependent regions.
European semi-colonialism in Ottoman Macedonia offered a
haven for Jewish entrepreneurs. In the vast world market, stateless
Jewish middlemen exploited their cohesive international network and
functioned as ‘Israélites du Levant’.68 However, the transition to an
autarchic national economy highlighted their civil inferiority. De-
colonization processes culminating in the annexation of the
Salonican province (1912) into the Greek national state, signified the
extreme transition to Balkanisation, that is, separate, non-cooperative
national economies, ultimately preventing the realization of mutual
advantages. These geopolitical changes would have an adverse affect
on the Salonica Jewish minority, which henceforth relinquished its
unique role in the Salonican economy.
280 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Appendix

Firms (N=931) in Salonica (1912) by

Ethnic Origin (4) and by Branch (15)

Ethnic origin of firms in a Total

given branch sum of
firms
in
Branch Jewish Greek Turkish Other branch
Food and beverages 61 27 6 6 100
Chemicals 17 5 1 5 28
Construction materials 31 11 1 6 49
Energy and public utilities 8 1 1 6 16
Metal 15 5 5 17 42
Wood 20 5 3 1 29
Hides, leather and footwear 28 18 3 8 57
Textiles 34 8 5 3 50
Clothing 48 10 23 17 98
Printing, paper and
26 8 4 14 52
office equipment
Tobacco 10 2 4 2 18
Domestic wares and furniture 30 3 2 6 41
Trade in agricultural products 77 34 4 20 135
General wholesale and retail 24 2 6 7 39
Finance and commission trade 109 25 8 35 177
Total number of firms per an
538 164 76 153 931
ethnic group

Source: Adapted from Austrian Report, 1915, pp.138-84.

 Arab and Jewish Communities 281

Notes
1
Paul Dumont, ‘The social structure of the Jewish Community of Salonica at the
End of the Nineteenth Century’, Southeastern Europe 5 (2) (1979), 33-72.
2
See Donald Quataert ‘Premiéres fumées d’usines’, in G. Veinstein (ed.), Salonique,
1850-1918: La ville des juifs et le réveil des Balkans (Paris: Éditions Autrement, 1993),
177-94.
3
Donald Quataert, Ottoman Manufacturing in the Age of the Industrial Revolution
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Donald Quataert, Ottoman
Manufacturing in the Nineteenth Century, in id., Manufacturing in the Ottoman Empire
and Turkey, 1500-1950 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), 87-122;
Donald Quataert, ‘The workers of Salonica, 1850-1912’, in D. Quataert, and E.J.
Zürcher (eds.). Workers and the Working class in the Ottoman Empire and the Turkish
Republic 1839-1950 (London and New York: Tauris Academic Studies), 1995, 59-
74; 171-3.
4
Quataert, ‘Premiéres fumées d’usines’, 189.
5
Simon Kuznets, ‘Economic Structure and Life of the Jews’, in L. Finkelstein
(ed.), The Jews, Their History Culture and Religion, Vol. II (New York: Harper &
Brothers Publishers, 1960), 1624.
6
The original concept of a ‘plural society’ was formulated by Furnivall (1948) for
societies observed in South Asia. According to a refined version presented by M.
G. Smith (1960) the ‘plural society’ is a multi-ethnic society characterized by the
existence of separate institutions (family, religion etc.) for various ethnic segments
and a common government for all ethnic segments. As a result, structural
pluralism or cultural pluralism are merely different points on the continuum of
societies with plural structures. For an exhaustive discussion, R.A. Schermerhorn,
Comparative Ethnic Relations: A Framework for Theory and Research (New York:
Random House, 1970), 122-58.
Adapting this concept, Braude and Lewis held that ‘The Ottoman Empire was
a classic example of the plural society’. Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis,
‘Introduction’, in B. Braude and B. Lewis (Eds.) Christians and Jews in the Ottoman
Empire. Vol. I. (New York: Holmes & Meier Publishers, 1982), 1.
7
Nachum Gross, ‘Introduction: On Jewish Entrepreneurship’, in R. Aaronsohn
and Shaul Stamper (eds.), Jewish Entrepreneurship in Modern Times: East Europe and
Eretz Isrsael (Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, Magnes Press, 2000), 17-24. (in
Hebrew).
8
On the methodology of ethnic entrepreneurship, Howard Aldrich and Roger
Waldinger ‘Ethnicity and Entrepreneurship’, Annual Review of Sociology 16 (1990),
111-35; R. Waldinger, ‘The Two Sides of Ethnic Entrepreneurship’, International
Migration Review, 7 (1993), 692-701. For methodological framework of Jewish
entrepreneueship in modern times till the Second World War, Kuznets, ‘Economic
Structure and Life of the Jews’; Arcadius Kahan, ‘Economic History – Modern
Period’, Encyclopaedia Judaica, Supplementary Entries, (Jerusalem: Keter, 1972),
1311-24; idem, ‘Notes on Jewish Entrepreneurship in Tsarist Russia,’ in R.W.
Weiss (ed.), Essays in Jewish Social and Economic History (Chicago and London:
Chicago University Press, 1986), 82-100.
9
K Und K. Österreichisches Handelsmuseum, (Dezember, 1915) Salonik,
Topographisch - Statistische Übersichten, Wien (II.41.821) (hereafter: Austrian Report,
1915). I would like to thank the Bibliothek des Österreichisches Staatarchivs for
lending the document to Bar Ilan University.
10
Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel Kural Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern
Turkey Vol. II (London, New York and Melbourne: Cambridge University Press,
1979), Ch.2.
282 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

11
Charles Issawi, ‘The Transformation of the Economic Position of the Millets in
the Nineteenth Century’ in B. Braude and B. Lewis (eds.), Christians and Jews in the
Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a Plural Society, Vol. I (New York and London:
Holmes & Meier, 1982), 262-85.
12
Charles Issawi (ed.), The Economic History of Turkey, 1800-1914 (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1980), 82; Şevket Pamuk, ‘The Ottoman Empire in
the ‘Great Depression’ of 1873-1896’, The Journal of Economic History XLIV(1)
(1984), 107-18; Ezel Kural Shaw, ‘Integrity and Integration: Assumptions and
Expectations Behind Nineteenth-Century Decision Making’, in C.E. Farah (ed.),
Decision Making and Change in the Ottoman Empire (Northeast Missouri State
University: The Thomas Jefferson University Press, 1993), 39-52.
13
The ‘semi-colonial situation’ characterised by the absence of direct European
political control, e.g. Thailand, from the middle of the nineteenth century until
1932 (establishment of the modern state), is a typical example of a semi-colonial
situation. See Gary G. Hamilton and Tony Waters, ‘Ethnicity and Capitalist
Development: The Changing Role of the Chinese in Thailand’, in Daniel Chirot
and Anthony Reid (eds.), Essential Outsiders - Chinese and Jews in the Modern
Transformation of Southeast Asia and Central Europe (Seattle and London: Washington
University Press, 1997), 258-84.
14
L.S Stavrianos, The Balkans, 1815-1914 (U.S.A: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc.,
1963), 72-86; See also Meropy Anastassiadou, Salonique, 1830-19l2 (Leiden, New
York and Koln: Brill, 1997), 97-103.
15
Alexandra Yerolympos and Vassilis Colonas, ‘Un urbanisme cosmopolite’, in G.
Veinstein (ed.), Salonique, 1850-1918: La ville des juifs et le réveil des Balkans (Paris:
Éditions Autrement, 1993), 158-76; Anastassiadou, Salonique, Ch.8 and 421-6.
16
According to the Ottoman census, which was completed in 1893, the total
number of Jews in the Salonica Province was 42,714. My calculations are based on
the data published by Kemal H. Karpat, Ottoman Population, 1830-1914: Demographic
and Social Characteristics (Wisconsin: Wisconsin University Press, 1985), Tab I.8A,
133-7; 140-1; 144-5.
17
An ‘ethnic community’ encompasses established institutions, which function as
an internal framework for the economic activities of members of the ethnic
minority. On the definitions of ‘ethnic minority’ see, for example, Ernest Krausz,
Ethnic Minorities in Britain (London: MacGibbon and Kee, 1971), 10; On ‘ethnic
community’ Anthony David Smith, ‘The problem of national identity: ancient,
medieval and modern?’, Ethnic and Racial Studies 17(3) (1994), 383. According to
A.D. Smith’s typology, ‘Demotic/vertical ethnic-community’, in contrast with
‘aristocratic/lateral ethnic community’, refers to the diffusion of solidarity
throughout the social strata of an ethnic community and emphasizes intra-group
endogamy. Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Oxford: Blackwell,
1986), 79-89.
18
For the report of Dr. Moise Allatini on the state of the Jewish community of
Salonica in the middle of the nineteenth century, see Y. Barnai, ‘Sources’, in History
of the Jews in the Islamic Countries, Vol. III (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for
Jewish History, 1986), 108. See also Bernard Lewis, The Jews of Islam (Princeton,
New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1984), 171.
19
Minna Rozen, ‘Contest and Rivalry in Mediterranean Maritime Commerce in the
First Half of the Eighteenth Century: The Jews of Salonica and the European
Presence’, in M. Rozen, In the Mediterranean Routes (Tel Aviv University: Chair for
the History and Culture of the Jews of Salonica and Greece, 1993), 65-113 (in
Hebrew).
 Arab and Jewish Communities 283

20
The calculations are based on data published by Kemal H. Karpat, Ottoman
Population, 1830-1914. For 1893, Tab.I.8.A., 134-7; for 1896, Tab.I.12, 158-9; for
1897, Tab.I.13, 160-1; for 1906, Tab.I.16.A, 166-7.
21
Justin McCarthy, ‘Jewish Population in the Late Ottoman Period’ in Avigdor
Levi (ed.), The Jews of the Ottoman Empire (Princeton, New Jersey: The Darwin Press,
Inc, 1994), 378.
22
Anastassiadou, Salonique, 1830-1912, 95.
23
Justin McCarthy, ‘Jewish Population in the Late Ottoman Period’ in Avigdor
Levi (ed.), The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, 375-97.
24
Stanford J. Shaw, The Jews of the Ottoman Empire and the Turkish Republic (New
York: New York University Press, 1991), 193, 204; Yitzchak Kerem, ‘The
Influence of Anti-Semitism on Jewish Immigration Patterns from Greece to the
Ottoman Empire in the Nineteenth Century’, in C. E. Farah (ed.), Decision Making
and Change in the Ottoman Empire (Northeast Missouri State University: The Thomas
Jefferson University Press, 1993), 305-14; Justin McCarthy, ‘Jewish Population in
the Late Ottoman Period’, 379.
25
Attilio Milano, Storia degli Ebrei Italiani nel Levante ( Firenze: Casa Editrice Israel,
1949) , 185-9; Edgar Morin, Vidal et les siens ( Paris: Éditions du Seuil,1989), 24-6.
26
On the distinction between ‘orthodox’ and ‘reactive’ components in ‘ethnic
resources’, see Ivan Light, ‘Immigrant and Ethnic Enterprise in North America’,
Ethnic and Racial Studies 7 (2)(April, 1984), 195-216.
27
Georges Weill, ‘The Alliance Israélite Universelle and the Emancipation of the
Jewish Communities in the Mediterranean’, The Jewish Journal of Sociology 24 (1982),
117-34; Esther Benbassa, ‘Associational Strategies in Ottoman Jewish Society in
the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries’, in Avigdor Levi (ed.), The Jews of the
Ottoman Empire (Princeton, New Jersey: The Darwin Press, Inc, 1994), 457-84;
Rena Molho, ‘Education in the Jewish community of Salonica at the beginning of
the Twentieth century’, in Proceedings of the Eleventh World Congress of Jewish Studies,
Jerusalem, June 22-29,1993, Division B, Vol. III (Jerusalem: The World Union of
Jewish Studies, 1994), 179-86.
28
Feroz Ahmad, ‘Unionist Relations with the Greek, Armenian and Jewish
Communities of the Ottoman Empire, 1908–1914’, in B. Braude and B. Lewis
(eds.), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, Vol. I (New York: Holmes & Meier
Publishers, 1982), 401-34; Rena Molho, ‘The Jewish Community of Salonika and
its incorporation into the Greek state (1912-1919)’, Middle Eastern Studies 24 (4)
(1988), 391-403.
29
See above note 9.
30
See above note 3.
31
For example, Charles Issawi (ed.), The Economic History of Turkey, 13-14; Bernard
Lewis, The Jews of Islam (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1984),
64.
32
American Jewish Year Book, 1913-1914, (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication),
203.
33
The census data was first published by Vassilis Dimitriadis, ‘The Population of
Salonica and its Greek Community in 1913’, Makedonika 23 (1983), 88-116 (in
Greek). According to the census, distribution was as follows: Jews (39%); Greeks
(25%); Turks (29%); Bulgars (4%) and foreigners (3%). In the present study,
Bulgars and foreigners are classified within a single category of ‘others’ (7%).
34
The category of ‘Electricity, Gas and Water’, a sub-branch of ‘Energy and
Public Utilities’ (branch no. 4, Figure 1), was exclusively comprised of European
firms.
284 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

35
Carter V. Findley, ‘The Acid Test of Ottomanism: The Acceptance of Non-
Muslims in the Late Ottoman Bureaucracy’, in Braude and Lewis, Christian and Jews,
339-68.
36
Feroz Ahmad, ‘Unionist Relations’; Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis,
‘Introduction’, 1-34; Roderic H.Davison, ‘The Millets as Agents of Change in the
Nineteenth-Century Ottoman Empire’, in Braude and Lewis, Christian and Jews,
319-37; Charles Issawi, ‘The Transformation of the Economic Position of the
Millets in the Nineteenth Century’. in Braude and Lewis, Christian and Jews, 262-85;
Lewis, The Jews of Islam, 61; Ezel Kural Shaw, ‘Integrity and Integration’.
37
2.8% of the entire Salonican Jewish population (1914). See Risal (pseudonym of
Joseph Nehama), La ville convoitée, Salonique (Paris: Perrin et Cie, 1917), 255.
38
Jews, Greeks and Armenians served as Dragomans and High Secretaries in the
consular representations of the following states: Austro-Hungary, Germany,
Persia, Britain, France, Belgium, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Denmark and U.S.A.
Austrian Report, 1915, 194-8.
39
Rena Molho, ‘The Jewish Community of Salonika’.
40
For testimonies of contemporaries, Leon Sciaky, Farewell to Salonica: Portrait of an
Era (New York: Current Books, Inc, 1946), 157; Y. Uziel, Salonica Mother City of
Israel, (Tel-Aviv: Saloniki Research Center, 1967), 54-5 (in Hebrew). See also, Mark
Mazower, ‘Salonica between East and West 1860-1912’, Dialogos 1 (1994), 104-27.
41
Traian Stoianovich, ‘The Conquering Balkan Orthodox Merchant’, Journal of
Economic History 20 (1960), 244-8. On manifestations of Greek incitement rooted in
economic nationalism against Jewish traders and craftsmen from the end of the
nineteenth century until the Greek annexation (1912), Dumont, ‘The Jewish
Community of Salonica’, 62-9. For contemporary testimony e.g. Shaw,. The Jews of
the Ottoman Empire, 203-6.
42
For contemporary testimony, Leon Sciaky, Farewell to Salonica.
43
According to the official data published by Karpat, at the beginning of the era
(1893) the Greek component in Salonica villayet contained only (28%) compared
to the Turkish (45%) and the Bulgarian (22%) elements. In 1906 these proportions
changed but the majority was still Turks (45%) compared with Greeks (31%) and
Bulgarians (17%). Adapted from Karpat, Ottoman Population, Tab I.8.A, 134-7;
1906/7: I.16.A.,166-7.
44
‘Economic heritage’ is defined as a form of accumulated human capital, that
plays an important role in the initial routine of immigrants’ occupational selection.
Yehuda Don, ‘Economic Behaviour of Jews in Central Europe Before World War
II’, in E. Aerts and F.M.L. Thompson (eds.), Ethnic Minority Groups in Town and
Countryside and Their Effects on Economic Development (1850-1940) (Leuven: Leuven
University Press, 1990), 116.
45
For similar conclusions on Jewish minorities, see above notes 7, 8, 44.
46
On the increasing demand in opium used in the developing pharmaceutical
industry (morphine) in USA, Germany and France, see General Report on the
Industrial and Economic Situation in Greece,1923, London: His Majesty’s Stationery
Office. Opium exports (1912) totalled 7,500,000 FF, i.e. half of the tobacco export
value of 16,800,000 FF. See Austrian Report, 1915, 78. The total value of silkworm
cocoon exports from Salonica reached 3,400,000 FF, a quarter of the tobacco
exports. See Austrian Report, 1915, 79.
47
See for example, Jean Pierre Filippini, ‘Le Rôle des Négociants et des Banquiers
Juifs de Livourne dans le Grand Commerce International en Méditerranée au
XVIII Siècle,’ in A. Toaff and S. Schwarzfuchs (eds.), The Mediterranean and the Jews
(Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 1989), 123-50.
48
For examples of Jewish networks including co-religionists from Salonica,
London, and Sarajevo see Edgar Morin, Vidal et les siens, 52-3. Correspondences
 Arab and Jewish Communities 285

between Salonican Jewish firms and their representatives scattered abroad are
found in archives such as ‘Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People’
in Jerusalem.
49
The primary Jewish financial institution Banque de Salonique was established
(1888) by Allatini brothers in cooperation with the Austrian Länderbank and the
French Comptoir d’Escompte. See Austrian Report, 1915, 127.
50
The Ottoman Authorities prevented activities by the Greek National Bank,
which represented Greek national elites active in the Ottoman territories. See
Stavros Theophanides, ‘The Economic Development of Greek Macedonia after
1912’, in M. B. Sakellariou (ed.), Macedonia – 4000 Years of Greek History and
Civilization (Athens: Ekdotike Athenon S.A, 1991), 509-27. At the same time,
Jewish financiers refused to give Greek entrepreneurs credit. See Aron Rodrigue,
Images of Sephardi and Eastern Jewries in Transition: The Teachers of the Alliance Israélite
Universelle, 1860-1939 (Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 1993),
235.
51
Total value (1913) of sugar from Hungary, 2,691,026 FF, ranks it as the highest
value import. Rice from Hungary totalled 318,682 FF and coffee, 355,652 FF.
Austrian Report: 25.
52
Nachum Gross (ed.), Economic History of the Jews (Jerusalem: Keter Publishing
House, 1975), 275-6.
53
For testimony of a contemporary, e.g. Hayim Toledano, ‘Hayehudim behayey
hamis-har ve-hata-asiya shel Saloniki’, in David Recanati (ed.), Zikhron Saloniki (Tel
Aviv, 1986), Vol.II, 203. (in Hebrew). On the exclusivity of the Jews in the
jewellery trade, Saloniki Research Center, Salonica Mother City of Israel, 1967, 237.(in
Hebrew).
54
Yehuda Don, ‘Economic Behaviour of Jews’, 121-3.
55
According to the sample 7 out of 9 cotton spinning and weaving mills were
Greek.
56
Production costs in the city’s mills exceeded competitors’ costs in the
countryside, due the following reasons: 1. Energy costs, especially coal, compared
to hydro-energy in interior Macedonia; 2. Higher land values in the city; 3. Higher
labour costs (1913) in the city, which were as much as three times higher than
labour costs in the countryside, especially as a result of the booming tobacco
industry, and; 4. The mills in the countryside added lines of productions (grinding
flour; weaving cotton) that increased their incomes. See Quataert, ‘The workers of
Salonica’, 64.
57
Imported cotton-yarn was valued at (1913) 912,403 FF, and ranked third in value
of imports, after sugar and flour. (Austrian Report 1915, 85)
58
See, for example, Quataert, ‘The workers of Salonica’, 63.
59
On the degeneration of the çiftliks, that contained the granaries of the Salonica
province, which left little surplus in quality and quantity, see John R. Lampe &
Marvin R. Jackson, Balkan Economic History 1550-1950: From Imperial Borderlands to
Developing Nations (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1982), 280-4. The
export (1912) of cereals from Salonica to England, Germany, Austro-Hungary and
France, Greece and Asiatic Turkey was valued at (1912) 3,300,000 FF (Austrian
Report, 1915, 78). The export of flour from Salonica (1912) to Albania and Turkey
was valued at (1912) 1,200,000 FF (Austrian Report,1915, 82-3). Import of flour
(1913) was valued at 1,394,941 FF and became the second largest import after
sugar (Austrian Report,1915, 85).
60
See, for example, Leon Sciaky, Farewell to Salonica.
61
In Salonica, as in other Ottoman towns, most of the flour mills were owned by
grain merchants. See Quataert, Ottoman Manufacturing, 189.
286 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

62
The brewing industry developed after transfer of control (1881) to the PDA. See
in Stanford J. Shaw, ‘The Nineteenth-Century Ottoman Tax Reforms and
Revenue System’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 6 (1975), 443.
63
On the Allatini Brothers, see Austrian Report 1915, 48-50; Sam Levy, ‘Les grandes
familles Séphardites: Les Allatini’, Le Judaisme Sephardi 51 (1937), 24-5; 58-9.
64
Austrian Report, 1915, 78.
65
From the letter of the teacher M. Benghiat , Salonica, 1 December 1909, cited
in Aron Rodrigue, Images of Sephardi,. 235.
66
For the so called Middleman Minorities in colonial frameworks, Karl A.
Yambert, ‘Alien Traders and Ruling Elites: The overseas Chinese in Southeast Asia
and the Indians in East Africa’, Ethnic Groups 3 (1981), 173-98; Vincent Cable, ‘The
Asians of Kenya’, in A.M. Rose and C.B. Rose (Eds.), Minority Problems (New
York: Harper and Row, 1972), 103-11; Parakash C. Jain, ‘Towards Class Analysis
of Race Relations - Overseas Indians in Colonial/Post-Colonial Societies’, Economic
and Political Weekly, 23 (1988), 95-103; Leighton, Neil O., ‘The Political Economy
of a Stranger Population’, in William A. Shack, and Elliot Skinner, (Eds.) Strangers
in African Societie. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979), 85-103.
67
For similar conclusion, Issawi, ‘The Transformation of the Economic Position
of the Millets’.
68
See Edgar Morin, Vidal et les siens, 88; 114.
 Contributors

Jun Akiba: Division of Historical Studies, Chiba University

Nejdet Bilgi: Department of History, Celal Bayar University

Yavuz Cezar: Department of Economics, Yıldız Teknik University

John J. Curry: Department of History, Ohio State University

Caesar E. Farah: Department of Afro-American & African Studies, University of

Minnesota

Yaron Harel: Department of Jewish History, Bar Ilan University

Jane Hathaway: Department of History, Ohio State University

M. Mehdi İlhan: Centre for Arab & Islamic Studies, Australian National University

Kemal H. Karpat: Professor, Department of History, University of Wisconsin-

Madison

Keiko Kiyotaki: Department of Economic History, The London School of

Economics and Political Science

Orly C. Meron: Department of Jewish History, Bar Ilan University

Nenad Moačanin: Department of History, University of Zagreb

Rhoads Murphey: School of Historical Studies, University of Birmingham

Tomoki Okawara: Graduate School of International Cultural Studies,

Tohoku University

Shaul Regev: Department of Jewish History, Bar Ilan University

Tom Sinclair: Department of Turkish Studies, University of Cyprus

Michael Winter: Department of Middle Eastern & African History, Tel Aviv
University
 Index

Abdülbâkî Efendi, 141 askeriye, military, 35

Abdülhamid II, 30-1, 33-8, 217, 220, astronomy, 243-5
222-5, 227-8 and Avodat Halevi 243
Acem, 204, 207 Sefer Emek Hashedim 245
Adilcevaz, 109, 111-15, 117-18; Atatürk, Kemal, 37
citadel in, 110-15, 117 avarız, 83-5, 88
Agriculture, 151-8 Averroes, 244
land, 151-2 ayan, 97, 103-6;
products, 152-5 council, 34
livestock, 155 Aydın, 149
occupation, 155-6 Aynı, Mehmet Ali, 40
income, 155-7 Azerbaijan, 139
Ahlat, 110-1, 116 Al-‘Azüm, Rafīq, 221, 225
Ahmed I, 143
Ak Koyunlu, 111, 121n Baghdad, 91-102
Akseki, Ahmet Hamdi, 39 Baku, 139
Albania, 77-8 Balkan, 78, 80-82, 84, 86-7, 88n,
Aleppo, 67, 117, 132, 189, 199 139, 209, 267-8, 275
Ali Bey, Mehmed, 219 fethname, 209
Ali Bey, Şehsuvar, 132 Selimname, 209
Ali Riza Pasha, 91, 94-5 banker, 61, 63, 66, 68
alim, 34-5 baş haracı, 77
Almosnino, R. Moses, 242; baş-muhasebe, 92
and Ma’amaz Koah, 242 baştine, 80
Alliance Israélite Universelle, 253, Bayezid II, 139
260, 268, 278 Bektaşi, 26, 97
Amasya, 132 Beyefendi, Ârif Hikmet, 47
Anatolia, 77, 80, 132, 139, 208 see also şeyhülislam
anecdote (menkibe), 145 biographers, 188-9, 193, 196
and Mustafa Safi, 5, 7-9, 11, 15, biographical dictionaries, 141, 195
19, 21-22 of Nev‘izâde ‘Atâ’î, 141
architecture, 199-200 of al-Ghazzī, 195
Aristotle, 241-8 Bitlis, 113, 121n
and Ethics, 242 Black Sea, 139
arpalık, 45-6 Bosnia, 77-80, 82
Atâ’î, Nev‘izâde, 140 Bulgaria, 77
Atrak, 187 bureaucracy, 25-6, 30, 35-6
Austria, 86 Bursa, 44, 50
Arif Efendi, Meşrebzade Mehmed,
47 caliph, 33, 36
see also şeyhülislam padişah-, 33
Armenians, 64-5 caravansaray, 114
asker, 97, 103-6 Catholic, 64-5
290 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Caucasus, 208 Diyanet, 25-6, 28, 37, 39

Abkhazians, 208-10, 212 Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığı, 25;
Circassians, 208-10, 212 jurisdiction of, 40
Cedid Hazinesi, 67-8
Cemaleddin Efendi, 34 Edirne, 9, 10, 19, 22, 48, 50, 57n
see also şeyhülislam and Safi’s anecdote, 15
cemetery, 127 education, 128
Cemiyet-i İlmiyye-i İslamiye, 37; Egypt, 139
see also Society of Islamic Ulema emanet, 96
censor, see mektupçu Europe, 33-5, 81-4
census; see tahrir defter Christian, 33
Cevdet Pasha, Ahmed, 34, 219 England, 33
see also Minister of Vakıfs and France, 33
Justice and modernity, 31, 34-5
chronicle, 187, 189-90, 193-4, 206-9 and Tanzimat, 33
Ottoman Egypt, 206, 209 Evkaf Nezareti, 29
chronicler, 188-9, 197 evlâd-i ‘Arab, 203-8, 210-13
Ibn Iyās, 188 Evliya Çelebi, 110, 112, 114-15,
Ibn Tūlūn, 188 190-1, 210
al-Jabartī, 190-2, 195-8 and Melek Ahmed Pasha, 210-2
Ajā’ib al-āthār, 190-2 Esad Efendi, Uryanizade Ahmed,
cizye, 77-82, 84-6, 136 34-5
coins, 61-2, 83-4, 120n, 121n, 122n
Coptic Christians, 207 factories,135, 173-5
Council of Higher Education, 25 bozahane, 135
Council of Ministers, 35 mumhane, 135
court records, see şer‘iyye sicilleri salt, 135
Cretan War of 1645-69, 16, 45-69, textile, 173-5
87 dye houses, 174-5
Crimean War (1853-6), 32-3 tanneries, 174-5
criminal court, 53 Ferruh Bey, Ali, 218, 237
Çankırı (Kengiri), 125-9, 130-3 fıkh, 38
Çerkeş, 126 firman, 45-6
çiftlik, 79, 84, 273, 285n Fu’âdî, Ömer, 140-1, 145
çiftlikçi, 79
çingan (gypsy), 132 Gaon, R. Saadya, 245
gedik, 62
Dalmatia, 79 al-Ghazali, 242
Damascus, 44, 50, 55, 64, 167-85, Gökalp, Ziya, 36-7
187, 189, 199, 218, 220, 222, 229 Greek philosophers, 241, 248
Danube, 78 guild, 61
Darul-Islam, 32 sarraflar kethudası of, 62
Darul-Harb, 32 and yiğitbaşı, 62
Darül-fünun, 26 board of, 62
Declaration of Rights, 37 permit of, 62
defterdar, 189 see also gedik
defterdarhane,114 Gülhane Rescript of 1839, 46
derviş, 97 gümüşçü, 62
devşirme, 204-8 Gümüşhanevi, Ziauddin, 31, 35
Dhu’l-Kadirlu, 132 Günaltay, M. Şemseddin, 26, 39
Diyarbekir, 113, 132, 143
diniyat, 26 Habsburg, 19, 83
din ü devlet, 31, 34; peace treaty with, 19
theoretical concept of, 31 hagiography, see menakıbnâme and
 Index 291

türbenâme Iran, 139

Hakham Bashi, 251-61 Islam, 25-40, 80, 82, 84, 217, 224,
in Istanbul, 251-5, 257, 261 227, 230, 232
Hakkari, 113 system, 25
Halevy, Moshe, 253-4 teaching, 26
Halidiyya-Ziyayya, 35 orthodoxy of, 27
Halife, Çelebi, 139 in Turkey, 27, 39, 40
Halim Pasha, Said, 37 Islamic court, 94, 98
al-Hallāq, Mehmed b. Yusuf, 203 Islamic identity, 35
Halveti, 139-42 Islamization, 80, 82, 84
chain of transmission, 140 İsmâ‘îl Efendi, Çorumlu Şeyh, 140
el-Halveti, Cemâl, 26, 139 İsmail Hakkı, İzmirli, 40
han, 63 ispence, 78-9, 81-2
hane, 77-86, 125-9, 131-2 Israel, 251, 254-5, 257-61
hane haracı, 77 Israélites du Levant, 279
haraç, 77, 79-82, 85 Istanbul, 44, 45, 47, 49-50, 52-4
harac-ı mukaseme, 79, 81 İttihad-i Muhammedi, see Muslim
harac-ı muvazzaf, 79, 81 Union
Hasan Pasha, 207 Izmir, 48
hatip, 25, 125 Izvornik, 78
Hazine-i Amire, 62, 94 Izzet Pasha, 224, 228
and hazine sarrafi 63
see also Cedid Hazinesi al-Jabartī, ‘Abd al-Rahmān, 192
Hersek, 78 Jerusalem, 44, 50, 55, 64
Herzegovina, 79-80, 82 Jewish settlement, 254, 257, 259
Hoca Saadeddin, 6; Jewish scholars, 241, 245, 248
and ‘Crown of Histories’, 6
Hofkammer surveys, 83-5 kadı, 43-56, 125-6, 193-6
hospital, 127-8 and mansıb, 44
household, see hane and mevleviyet, 44, 55
Hungary, 81-2 of Istanbul, 44, 54
of Jerusalem 55
ibn ‘Abd al-Ghanī, Ahmad Shalabī Kadiri, 26
(Çelebî), 189 kalemiye, secretarial, 35, 97, 103-6
Ibn Khaldun, 34 kanunnâme, 78
ibn Migash, R. Abraham, 243 kapıkulları, 189
Ibn Sa‘ūd, Emir of Nejd, 221 Kara Koyunlu, 111-12, 115, 120n,
idadi school, 35 121n
ibn Shuaib, R. Shmuel, 242 Karabâş ‘Ali Veli, 139
and Olat Shabbat, 242 Karaman, 132
ifta, 33 Karatekin, 127, 129
Il-Khanid, 109, 111 kasaba, 149, 151, 157, 162
İlahiyat, 25-6 Kastamonu, 139
ilam, 86, 97 Katib Çelebi, 123n
ilmiye, 25-7, 29-37, 40, 44-9, 55, 141 kaza, 149, 151, 157, 162
and hierarchy 45,47,49, 55-6 kazasker, 34-5, 188-9
Penal Code of 1838, 46-7, 57n of Rumili and Anatolia, 34
imam, 25, 125-6, 131 Kazim of Syria, governor, 227
imam hatip schools, 26, 40 Khalwati order, 188, 197;
Imperial Central Treasury, see Gülşenî, Ibrāhīm, 188
Hazine-i Amire al-Muhammadī, Demirdāsh, 188
Imperial Council of the Sultan, 219 ibn, Tūlūn, Shams al-Din
Interior Ministry, 225-8 Muhammad, 188
Irak ve Arabistan Army, 95 Kızılbaş Celal, 132
292 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

King Solomon, 246 mescit, 115-6

kurbet, 132 Sultan Süleyman, 127
Kurdish principalities, 111, 113 Grand Umayyad Mosque, 170-1
Kuripečič travelogue (Bosnia), 78 Mu’ayyad, 195
Kocamustafa Pasha, 140
Lake Van, 109 Seyyid Sünnetî, 140
land registry office, 97 Murad III, 8, 143
land-tax, see ispence Murad Pasha, 143
Murad Pasha, Kuyucu, 9, 14, 21
Macedonia, 36, 263-70, 273, 275-9 Muslim Union, 37
foreign investments, 266-7 Mustafa Ali, 6
infrastructure, 266-7, 271, 278 and ‘Essence of Knowledge’, 6
Mahmud II, 29, 64, 67 Mustafa Ali, 206-7
Mahmud Pasha, Khalīl Ayyūb, 19 Description of Cairo, 207
Maimonides Kabbalah, 246 Mustafa Pasha, Kapudan, 205-6
Mamluk sultanate, 187, 209 Mustafa Safi, 5-24
Caucasians, 209 and Annals of Sultan Ahmed 5
kul, 209 see also Zübdet’ül Tevarih
Manastir, 86 mufti, chief, 25, 126
Mecca, 16, 44-5, 50, 54 muhassıl, 125
Kaaba in, 16 Muhyîüddin Efendi, 141
meclis-i cinayet , see criminal court mukataa, 67
medicine, 243, 245 Muş, 113
Medina, 44-5, 50, 54 müderrislik, 44, 115, 125-6
medrese, 31, 110, 115, 128-30, 141 müezzin, 125-6
Mehmed III, 6, 8 mülkiye, 35
Mehmed Pasha, Gazi Ahmed, 227 mültezim, 97
Mehmed Pasha, Köprülü, 193, 212 mütevelli, 125
Mehmed Reşad, sultan-caliph, 227-8,
232 Nahum, Haim, Rabbi, 254, 257-8,
mekteb, 31 261
mektupçu, 217, 219, 237 naib, 43-56, 57n
menâkıb, 140, 145-7 Nakhlah Pasha, al-Mutran, 221
Ömer el-Fu’âdî, 140 Nakşbendi, 26, 97
Şa‘bân-ı Veli, 145 Fetullacı, 27
menakıbnâme, 145 Nurcu, 27
menzilhane, 100 Süleymancı, 27
meşihat, 25, 35 Şeyh Halid, 27
see also şeyhülislam Nâsûh Pasha, 143
mevleviyet, 44, 45, 49, 50, 55 Nasûhî Efendi, 139
Midhat Efendi, Ahmet, 34 nation, 28, 36, 39
Midhat Pasha, 52 see also millet
millet 36, 252, 254, 268, 279 non-Muslims, see zimmi
see also nation notable, see ayan
Minister of Vakıfs and Justice, 34 Nu‘mān, Ibrāhīm, Ma‘lūf of Zahlé,
see also Cevdet Pasha, Ahmed 218
Ministry of Justice, 55
modernism, Islamic, 34, 36 Osman II, 145
molla, 44-6, 50, 53, 55 Özbek, 204, 207
money-changer, 61-3
Montenegro (Karadağ), 81 Pan-Islamism, 33, 223
mosque: Path of Righteousness, 38-9, 40
Zal Pasha, 110-12, 114-17 Path of Salvation Society, 39
Üç Şerefeli, 115 philosophers, 241, 243, 247-8
 Index 293

philosophical literature, 241-2, Selim I, 7, 209

244-5, 247 Selim III, 45-6, 67
poll-tax, see cizye, baş haracı Seljukids, 127-8, 129-30
population, 109, 114-7, 131-5, 150-1, Semendire, 78, 80
155, 162 Serbia, 77, 79, 81
demography, 87; Sèvres, Treaty of 1920, 37
birthrate, 87-8; sharia, see şeriat
Muslim, 114-7, 131-5; al-Siddiqi, Ibn Abī’l-Surur al-Bakrī,
Christian, 116; 189
registers of, 125-9, 130-3; Sirem, 78
Armenians, 134; Slavonia, 82-3
Greeks, 134; Society of Islamic Ulema, 37
tahrir, 150; see also Cemiyet-i İlmiyye-i İslamiye
salnâme, 151; Society of Union and Progress, 220
Salonica 279 sufi orders 26, 35, 40, 139
preacher, 33, 35; see also vaizan see also Bektaşi, Halveti,
Provincial Reform Law, 53 Kadiri, Nakşbendi, and tarikat
Public Debt Administration, 266, Sufism, 196-8
276 Süleyman, the Magnificent, 6
Süleyman Efendi, Karamanlı, 39
R. Shlomo Almoli, 243-5 Sünbül Sinân Efendi, 140
R. Shlomo le-Beit ha-Levi, 247-8 Sünbüliyye, 140
Rabbi, Chief, 251-4, 257-8, 261 Syria, 187
Rashīd Beg, al-Mutran, 221 Syrian Unity Society, 221-2
reaya, 77-9, 81, 83-5, 97, 116 Şa‘bân-ı Veli Efendi, 13-41
Référendaires, bureau of, 219 şeriat, 38, 43-6, 48-9, 52-5
Republican People’s Party, 26, 40 courts, 43, 53
resm-i filori, 81 şer‘iyye sicilleri, 166
Revolution of 1908, 36 Şevket Pasha, Mahmud, 230
Rida, Rashid, 36; şeyhülislam, 28-31, 33-7, 44, 47, 49,
Risale of Ayn Ali, 5 51-5;
Rūm oğlanı, 204-5, 207, 210-12 şeyhülislamate, 21, 31, 35, 40n
Rumelia, 80-2, 84, 86 Yasincizade Abdulwahhab, 29
ruşdiye school, 35 Musa Kazım, 29
rüsum defteri, 165-8 Cemaleddin Efendi, 34
Şükrü Efendi, Bayındırlı
sadr-ı Rumeli-Anadolu payesi, 35 Muhammed, 39
Safavids, 19-20, 111, 113, 139, 204-5, Şirvânî, Yahyâ-yı, Şeyh, 139-40
208; Mustafa Efendi, Boluvî, 193
Shah Isma‘il of, 132, 139;
Shah Abbas I of, 205 Tabriz, 116, 139
Salihli, 149-64 tahrir, 82;
Salonica, 48, 265-70, 275-80, 283n of Bosnia, 82;
sancak, 149-50, 154, 157,162 defter, 110, 114
sarraf, 61-8; Tanzimat, 27, 34, 43-4, 46, 48, 95,
of imperial mint, 62; 103, 149, 163, 167
bazirgan, 63; tapu, 80, 82;
and goldsmith, 63; tahrir defterleri, 66, 166
Orthodox, 64 tarikat, 26, 140
Sebilul-Reşad, see Path of Tarikat-ı Salahıye, see Path of
Righteousness Salvation Society
secular courts: meclis-i temyiz 53; taxes, 77-8, 81-3, 157-8
meclis-i de‘avi 53 avarız, 83
Segedin, 78 cizye, 83
294 Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

collection, 91, 95-8 War of Liberation, 39

kasr-ı yedi, 94
harac-ı aklam, 94 Yaltkaya, Şerafettin, 39
exempt, 99, 125-6, 131 Young Turks, 36-7, 41n, 217-8,
çift, 133 220-3, 230, 237, 268
casual, 135 Yusuf Pasha, Serezli, 67
ihtisab, 136
sheep, 136 al-Zahrawi, Abdulhamid, 36
mirisi, 157 zaviye, 126-7
virgü-yi mahsusa, 157 zimmi, 62, 80
avarızhane, 168 Zionism, 254
ihtisab, 168 Zionist, 251, 254, 257, 264n
salyan, 168 Zübdet’ül Tevarih, 5
tax collector, see muhassil Mustafa Safi’s history, 5, 23
tax farm, 91-100 kingly virtues in, 5, 7
malikâne, 93, 95, 98 and Quintessence, 6
hisse, 97
tax farmer, see mültezim
tax farming, 44, 98-102, 104-8
tax register, see rüsum defteri
tekke, 97, 99, 190, 198
Temeşvar, 77-8
temettüat defter, 149
Tevfik, Abu al-Diyā’ (Ziya), 219-20
timar, 67, 98, 130
Tokâdî, Hayreddin, 140, 142
tomb, 137-43
tribe, 97, 101, 149, 151
Tughrul Beg, 112
Tuna, 52
Turcoman, 132
Turhal, 132
Turkish newspaper, 219-10, 220-6,
229-37
Istiqbāl, 219
al-Muqtabas, 210, 221, 223-6, 229-
30, 233-4, 237
Sabah, 220-1
Türbenâme, 145
ulema, 97, 103-6, 141, 193-6
al-Zabīdī, Al-Sayyid Murtaza, 190
al-Jabartī, Hasan, 191
Union des Associations Israélites,
269
al-Ustuwani, Muhammad Sa‘id, 168
Uveys Pasha, 207
vaizan, 33, 35
vakıf, 82, 166, 169
Van, 113
Vidin, 77-8
Vlach, 80