up in 1926 of a “Committee for Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong,” populated by scholars and notables, to control the thuggish behavior of Bedouin enforcers towards the lucrative foreign pilgrims. Prayer-discipline, alcohol, smoking and segregation of women were major preoccupations. Similar committees were established throughout the kingdom, and their influence has endured. Cook concludes by reflecting on the effective strangulation, by bureaucratization, of what began as “a strongly apolitical and individual doctrine” (192).
In the pages that follow, readers will encounter for themselves the most convincing exemplar of that tradition, who has done as much as any other human, after the Prophet and his Companions, to shape the central characteristics of Sunni Islam as we see it lived today.
Garth Fowden
Sultan Qaboos Professor of Abrahamic Faiths,University of Cambridge
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My greatest debt of gratitude is to Dr. ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAbd al-Muḥsin al-Turkī, who has produced two annotated critical editions of this work. In the course of preparing this edition, I have had recourse to several manuscripts of the Manāqib, but found only a few places where I think the best reading may be different from the one Dr. al-Turkī has adopted. On every page I have benefited from his careful lists of variants, his voweling of unusual names, and his explanatory notes and references. I have also been impressed with his scholarly integrity and self-restraint, as proven—among other things—by his inclusion of reports that advocate positions he disagrees with.
A full account of the manuscript tradition appears in the note on the text. I am very grateful to Jeremy Farrell, who obtained a copy of the Dār al-Kutub manuscript and solved the technical problems associated with sending me a digital copy. It is a pleasure to thank Saud AlSarhan for obtaining a copy of the Ẓāhiriyyah manuscript from Imam Muḥammad ibn Saʿūd Islamic University, and to thank Bernard Haykel for mailing it to me. I would also like to thank Sinéad Ward and Frances Narkiewicz of the Chester Beatty Library for sending me their manuscript of the Manāqib.
I am also indebted to Mr. Farrell and to Albert Johns for kindly agreeing to take on the job of translating almost all of the isnāds. Though busy with their own work, Jeremy and Albert cheerfully and speedily produced an enormous amount of remarkably accurate English text just when I needed it most. Emily Selove did equally good work with one of the long lists of names. I could never have finished this project without their help.
As always when I translate, I learn once again to appreciate my friends for how much my friends know and how generous they are in sharing it. My project editor, Tahera Qutbuddin, made many suggestions and corrections, all of them judicious and kindly conveyed. It is not general practice to thank project editors for their help in particular instances, and most of Tahera’s emendations have indeed been incorporated silently, but in several cases her astuteness in solving an utterly vexing conundrum so merits recognition that I have credited her in defiance of custom. Our colleagues at the Library—notably Joseph Lowry, James Montgomery, Devin Stewart, and Shawkat Toorawa—also solved a number of seemingly intractable problems, and our managing editor, Chip Rossetti, was also an unfailing source of good counsel. I am grateful to Stuart Brown for his inspired typography, and to Allison Brown and Alia Soliman for carefully proofreading the text. Jamal Ali, Muhammad Habib, Stefan Heidemann, Nuha Khoury, Peter Pormann, Nasser Rabbat, and Dwight Reynolds all responded to queries in their various areas of expertise. Charles Perry supplied generous answers to many questions about food and cookery. I am equally grateful to master chef Brigitte Caland, whose Abbasid-inspired luncheons allowed me to taste the dishes that Ibn Ḥanbal ate (or more usually, did not eat).
I am delighted to acknowledge the help of Christopher Melchert, who answered many queries, and made several helpful comments in his review of the first edition; Faisal Abdallah, who carefully read through the first volume of the first edition and brought a number of errors to my attention; and Kyle Gamble, who brilliantly corrected a bad mistake in 61.2. I also thank Marcia Lynx Qualey for the insightful questions she posed in two interviews published in her blog. I thank my friends in Malta, especially Annabel Mallia, David Mallia, Olvin Vella, and the people of Senglea, for showing me that some of Ibn Ḥanbal’s language still survives in the most unexpected of places. I am grateful to my wife, Mahsa Maleki, not only for putting up with my many late nights at the office, but also for her help with the name-lists (which proved that pre-modern people were quite right about the helpfulness of reading aloud). Finally, I am indebted to our general editor, Philip Kennedy, for envisioning a project as ambitious as the Library of Arabic Literature, and for generously allowing me to take part in it.
INTRODUCTION
Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, who died in the 241st year of the Muslim calendar, 855 according to the Christian one, is probably one of the most famous Muslims in history. Thanks to him, many came to believe that the only right religion was the one practiced at the time of the Prophet Muḥammad. To keep their community together in this world and gain salvation in the next, Muslims needed to live as the Prophet and his Companions had lived: to eat what they ate, wear what they wore, buy and sell only as they had done. “Is there anything I’m doing wrong?” one of Ibn Ḥanbal’s wives asked him a few days after they were married. “No,” he answered, “except that those sandals you’re wearing didn’t exist at the time of the Prophet” (62.7).
To live as the first Muslims had lived, it was necessary to know as much as possible about them. Reports of their words and deeds were repeated by one believer to another, along with the names of those who had passed these reports on. By Ibn Ḥanbal’s time, a proper report—called a Hadith—was expected to include a list of names beginning with the speaker’s source and ending with the person who had seen the Prophet or a Companion doing or saying whatever it was that one wished to know. After Ibn Ḥanbal was arrested during the Abbasid Inquisition, a well-wisher counseled him by citing the following Hadith:
We heard al-Layth ibn Saʿd report, citing Muḥammad ibn ʿAjlān, citing Abū l-Zinād, citing al-Aʿraj, citing Abū Hurayrah, that the Prophet, God bless and keep him, said: “If any ask you to disobey God, heed him not” (68.4).
What if a seeker could find no Hadith report about a particular question? In that case he might apply his own reasoning to the problem. Yet the scope for undisciplined individual effort was small and growing smaller. In Ibn Ḥanbal’s time, most Muslims no longer believed that they could simply judge as they thought best. For many, it was necessary to take into consideration all related Qurʾanic verses and Hadith reports, and then—using an increasingly complex system of legal reasoning—come up with a rule that seemed best to approximate God’s will. Yet Ibn Ḥanbal himself could not accept this approach. The solution, in his view, was to learn more Hadith reports, in the hope that one or another report would supply the information needed. In practice, however, this solution placed great demands on the learner. For one thing, the people who happened to know a particular report might be living anywhere in the lands settled by Muslims, and it was necessary to seek them out. On his return from a Hadith-gathering mission to the town of Kufa, Ibn Ḥanbal was accosted by a friend who reproached him for overdoing it:
“Today it’s Kufa; tomorrow it’ll be Basra again! How much longer can you keep this up? You’ve already copied thirty thousand reports! Isn’t that enough?”
[Aḥmad] said nothing.
“What if you reach sixty thousand?”
He was still silent.
“A hundred thousand?”
“At that point,” he replied, “a man might claim to know something” (4.20).
Another
