Exploratory Notes on the Futuwwa and Its Several Incarnations
It is a privilege and a pleasure to participate in this volume in honor of Professor S. Kent Brown, who has been a major help to me at pivotal points in my career. I first went to the Middle East in a Jerusalem semester abroad group that he led during the first half of 1978. And then, when I returned to Egypt in the autumn of 1978 with my new bride, it was Kent Brown who met us at the Cairo airport and allowed us to stay with his family until we found housing of our own. He was also instrumental in setting the stage for my receiving a job offer at Brigham Young University and has remained a valued colleague, a friend, and a model of Christian living ever since.
These notes were first compiled in a 1981 graduate seminar at the American University in Cairo for Professor George Scanlan. Despite my intention of getting back to the subject, however, I had not. So, when I was invited to contribute to this volume in honor of a friend whom my wife and I will always associate with our time in Egypt, it seemed a good opportunity to resurrect something that I commenced there. My hope is either to pursue this topic further myself or, at least, to encourage some other researcher to look at it. Beyond minor mechanical changes (the paper was written on a typewriter), I have also made explicit some of the similarities that I perceive between the movements described here and the Gadianton robbers of the Book of Mormon—similarities that, for obvious reasons, I left unnoted in that first draft in Egypt.
A Connection to Mormon Studies
In her imaginative biography of Joseph Smith, No Man Knows My History, the late Fawn Brodie explained the Book of Mormon’s Gadianton robbers as a fictional echo of nineteenth-century Freemasonry.1 She has been followed in this by writers such as Robert Hullinger and Dan Vogel.2 Along with other Latter-day Saint scholars, however, I have objected to the explanation as simplistic, inaccurate, historically provincial, and, of course, wrong.3 There are, I contend, other parallels to the Gadianton robbers that are superior to the Freemasons and that pick up aspects of Gadiantonism—for example, its character as, first, ideologically motivated urban terrorism and then, frequently, as partisan or guerrilla warfare—that Freemasonry does not.4 In these notes, I consider a premodern Middle Eastern group (or group of groups) that, in my judgment, offers several analogies to the Gadianton robbers.
The Futuwwa Complex(ity)
The study of the movements in the Muslim world known under the general name of futuwwa (the term is variously transliterated in the secondary literature) is made very difficult, as the late Claude Cahen noted, by the fact that they have assumed extremely diverse forms in the course of their history. Consequently, the documentary evidence relating to them “often appears . . . to be irreconcilable . . . and, despite the advance that has been made in our knowledge of them, it cannot be said that even now we really know exactly what they were.” 5 The diversity appears in the very word itself: According to Hans Wehr’s standard Arabic/English dictionary, the term futuwwa refers secondarily to “Islamic brotherhoods of the Middle Ages, governed by chivalrous precepts,” but primarily to “youth” or “adolescence.” (Adherents of the futuwwa are called fityān [“young people,” “adolescents,” “juveniles”], whatever their age.) Most puzzlingly, futuwwa denotes both “the totality of the noble, chivalrous qualities of a man, noble manliness, magnanimity, generosity, nobleheartedness, chivalry,” and, in Egyptian colloquial, “bully, brawler, rowdy, tough; racketeer.” 6
Summarizing his findings on the situation in Nishapur between the fifth and eleventh centuries, Richard Bulliet concludes that “there is enough information to demonstrate the importance of the futūwa but not really enough to show what it was or what it did.” 7 “The futūwa and related groups,” laments Bulliet, “present a puzzle whenever and wherever they’re encountered. Upon certain points there is agreement: the membership consisted of young men, usually celibate; special ritual and dress were involved; and there was some sort of connection with Ṣūfism. But beyond these points there is disagreement and mystery. Associations have been sought with banditry, chivalry, the upper class, the lower class, artisan guilds, police, and so forth.” 8 “The term futuwwa,” writes Sawsan El-Messiri, “may refer to groups with basically religious orientation as well as to groups with a criminal or outlaw orientation. Generally, it has been applied to the masses but occasionally to members of the elite as well. In all cases,” she generalizes quite inaccurately, “the element of protection has been seminal to the role.” 9 It is difficult for a student of the Book of Mormon not to think, when facing so ambiguous a phenomenon, of the Gadianton robbers, who are perceived by their opponents as violent thugs (see, for example, Helaman 6:18; 11:25–27) but who regard themselves as pursuing a “good” cause according to patterns “of ancient date” (3 Nephi 3:9).
Cahen sees two “incompatible” types of fityān—communal (bachelor) mystics on the one hand, and violent ruffians on the other—while Bulliet is able to distinguish patrician, mystic, and artisan/populist components in the futuwwa.10 Elsewhere, Cahen has observed that the duality is so marked that “one might wonder whether it is one and the same organization that is being considered.” 11 It truly seems, at first glance, that the manifestations of the futuwwa are connected only by a common name.12
I suspect, however, that Helmut Ritter may have been more perceptive in noting the analogies between futuwwa and Freemasonry 13—analogies that merit further examination and that, as has already been alluded to, are comparable to those that have been confidently applied by some writers to the Gadianton robbers. To him, the fundamental characteristic of the futuwwa is the keeping of oaths and secrets.14 I would go further and suggest that it is the shared ritual itself that forms the common basis of futuwwa phenomena and that futuwwa ideology is essentially epiphenomenal.15 (I am influenced, in this suggestion, by “myth-and-ritual” theory, which sees in at least some ancient myths later explanations for ritual actions whose original signification had been lost.) It is, perhaps, significant that Christians, Jews, Muslims, and others have all participated, historically, in Masonic ritual because its theological content, while undeniably present, is sufficiently underdetermined as to allow adherents of quite different religious views to affirm it simultaneously. The opinions of scholars on the early futuwwa are various. The wonderful thing is that they may all be right.
Franz Taeschner, the doyen of futuwwa studies, views the futuwwa as having originated outside the realm of religion proper and as having adapted itself to Ṣūfism only later (albeit to such an extent that it was essentially absorbed by Ṣūfism).16 Yet the writings of the fityān themselves never fail to present futuwwa as a kind of quasi-religion 17 passed down from prophet to prophet in the Bible—we might justly say that it claims to be “of ancient date” —and arriving finally in the hands of Muḥammad.18 Corporate futuwwa identity was preserved and shared by means of rites that had been passed down, allegedly, from the founding of the order in earliest biblical times.19 It is, however, far beyond the scope of this paper to enter into a discussion of these fascinating rituals.20
In a somewhat comparable manner, Latter-day Saint scripture, too, assigns a very ancient origin to the Gadianton robbers and related “secret combinations”: “And behold, I am Giddianhi,” says one of the group’s leaders in the Book of Mormon, “and I am the governor of this the secret society of Gadianton; which society and the works thereof I know to be good; and they are of ancient date and they have been handed down unto us” (3 Nephi 3:9).
But the scriptural authors judge that origin and the movement itself to be evil, rather than good. “These abominations were had from Cain,” says the Book of Moses in the Pearl of Great Price, “for he rejected the greater counsel which was had from God.”
And Cain was wroth, and listened not any more to the voice of the Lord, neither to Abel, his brother, who walked in holiness before the Lord.
And Adam and his wife mourned before the Lord, because of Cain and his brethren.
And it came to pass that Cain took one of his brothers’ daughters to wife, and they loved Satan more than God.
And Satan said unto Cain: Swear unto me by thy throat, and if thou tell it thou shalt die; and swear thy brethren by their heads, and by the living God, that they tell it not; for if they tell it, they shall surely die; and this that thy father may not know it; and this day I will deliver thy brother Abel into thine hands.
And Satan sware unto Cain that he would do according to his commands. And all these things were done in secret.
And Cain said: Truly I am Mahan, the master of this great secret, that I may murder and get gain. Wherefore Cain was called Master Mahan, and he gloried in his wickedness. (Moses 5:25–31)
According to the Book of Mormon, such “secret combinations” took root in the Old World, but were brought from there into the New World via records carried across the sea by the earliest Jaredites. And, very early on, these strangely religious oath-bound conspiracies became intertwined with politics. The account of Ether, for example, tells of an overly ambitious prince, Jared, whose too-long wait for the throne had plunged him into dark depression. “Now the daughter of Jared was exceedingly fair. And it came to pass that she did talk with her father, and said unto him: Whereby hath my father so much sorrow? Hath he not read the record which our fathers brought across the great deep? Behold, is there not an account concerning them of old, that they by their secret plans did obtain kingdoms and great glory?” (Ether 8:9). Plotting together, Jared had his daughter dance for Akish, who then desired her for his wife. The condition Jared laid on that proposal was that Akish bring him the head of his father.
And it came to pass that Akish gathered in unto the house of Jared all his kinsfolk, and said unto them: Will ye swear unto me that ye will be faithful unto me in the thing which I shall desire of you?
And it came to pass that they all sware unto him, by the God of heaven, and also by the heavens, and also by the earth, and by their heads, that whoso should vary from the assistance which Akish desired should lose his head; and whoso should divulge whatsoever thing Akish made known unto them, the same should lose his life.
And it came to pass that thus they did agree with Akish. And Akish did administer unto them the oaths which were given by them of old who also sought power, which had been handed down even from Cain, who was a murderer from the beginning.
And they were kept up by the power of the devil to administer these oaths unto the people, to keep them in darkness, to help such as sought power to gain power, and to murder, and to plunder, and to lie, and to commit all manner of wickedness and whoredoms.
And it was the daughter of Jared who put it into his heart to search up these things of old; and Jared put it into the heart of Akish; wherefore, Akish administered it unto his kindred and friends, leading them away by fair promises to do whatsoever thing he desired.
And it came to pass that they formed a secret combination, even as they of old; which combination is most abominable and wicked above all, in the sight of God;
For the Lord worketh not in secret combinations, neither doth he will that man should shed blood, but in all things hath forbidden it, from the beginning of man.
And now I, Moroni, do not write the manner of their oaths and combinations, for it hath been made known unto me that they are had among all people, and they are had among the Lamanites.
And they have caused the destruction of this people of whom I am now speaking, and also the destruction of the people of Nephi. (Ether 8:13–21)
The Ideology of the Futuwwa
While Muḥammad appeared in the futuwwa genealogy, it is nonetheless true that ʿAlī is the actual patron of the movement, and ʿAlī is viewed by the fityān as the initiator of their traditions.21 ʿAlī is also, of course, the pivotal figure in Shiʿite Islam; the term Shiʿite derives from the Arabic phrase shiʿat ʿAlī, or “faction of ʿAlī.” Futuwwa handbooks—which date, admittedly, from generally later periods—invariably consist of page after page of quotations from, in this order, the Qurʾan, the hadith or authoritative sayings and precedents of Muḥammad and his “companions,” sayings of ʿAlī, and sayings of famous Ṣūfis.22
The fityān uniformly revere ʿAlī and invoke blessings upon him and upon his sons Ḥasan and the martyr Ḥusayn—which would ordinarily be taken as a sign of Shiʿi orientation. But they also call down blessings upon Abū Bakr amd ʿUmar, the first two of what Sunnis often call the “orthodox caliphs,” whom Shiʿis typically reject and often revile.23 ʿUthmān, the third of the four “orthodox caliphs” (ʿAlī is accepted by Sunnis as the fourth), is conspicuously absent from the list, which makes it no less puzzling. ʿAlī is said to have initiated the early Iranian Muslim Salmān al-Fārisī into the futuwwa—that is, to have “girded” him; the ritual involves special clothing—and the latter follows ʿAlī in the silsila (or chain of authorities) of the movement.24 Interestingly, Cahen describes Salmān as “the patron of Irano-Mesopotamian artisans.” 25 (In this context, one thinks of the less than obvious connection between “speculative Freemasonry,” a quasi-religious fraternal movement, and “practical Freemasonry,” a building trade.) It is difficult to know how seriously to take such isnāds or chains of transmitters, of course, and it is certainly easy to doubt them. Very likely, the construction of such exalted genealogies began only after the career of the Caliph al-Nāṣir, to whom we shall come presently.26
The term futuwwa seems to have been invented for the movements under discussion here in about the eighth century.27 Gustave von Grunebaum sees the futuwwa amalgamating with lower-class thugs known as ʿayyarūn by the ninth century.28 Yet by the eleventh century, in the view of Professor Cahen, the futuwwa is moving away from violence and the rabble toward a corporate, initiatory mysticism. It is at this point, he says, that intellectuals and the upper classes begin to join up.29 Marshall Hodgson, on the other hand, views the evolution of the futuwwa in a completely different manner. To him, the phenomenon is originally an upper-class one. After all, it was the upper class that first became Arabized in conquered lands, and we must initially look for the origin of the term futuwwa among the elite rather than among the inert peasant mass. Only later, in his opinion, does the futuwwa begin to gain acceptance among the lower classes.30
We do have one small area and one small fact on the earlier futuwwa that seems secure, although of uncertain significance: In his survey of eleventh-century Nishapur, Bulliet finds the fityān invariably belonging to the Shafiʿi madhab (or “school”) of Sunni Islamic law, never to the rival Hanafi madhab.31 Because of their veneration of ʿAlī, as described above, the fityān have frequently been viewed as Shiʿites—a fact that would not appear to tally with Bulliet’s identification of the Nishapuri fityān as devout Shafiʿis. They seem, in fact, to have adopted the efficient organization of the Ismaʿili Shiʿites. But this need not imply doctrinal borrowings. Indeed, we have at least one example (from Ibn Jubayr) of a violently anti-Ismaʿili group of Sunni fityān.32
Certainly the most famous phase of the futuwwa is that associated with its reform at the hands of the ʿAbbasid caliph al-Nāṣir li-Din Allah, who reigned in Baghdad from 1180 to 1225.33 In Cahen’s theory, as we have previously noted, the futuwwa had been considered “a popular oppositional organization”; 34 under al-Nāṣir it definitely ceased to be such, if it ever really was.35 What the caliph seems to have done was to consolidate divergent sects of futuwwa by systematizing their ritual and dusting off their rules.36 And, true to the nature of al-Nāṣir’s entire enterprise—which was intended to restore real power to the caliphate—the Grand Master of his New Futuwwa was the caliph himself.37 Also in the circle of al-Nāṣir, promoting futuwwa and seeming to act the role of court theologian, was the mystic and eventual martyr Suhrawardī (d. 1191).38 When one comes to study the essential nature of futuwwa itself, one is not surprised to learn that a caliph who was bent on strengthening the social fabric under his own patronage would support it.
Among the major aspects of the movement was the ideal of the absolute obedience of the futuwwa disciple, or ṣaghīr (the Arabic word means “small” or, derivatively, “young”), to his superior, who was, not unexpectedly, called the kabīr (the Arabic word means “large,” or derivatively, “old[er]”). The ṣaghīr was to be more obedient to his kabīr than the kabīr‘s shoe, and a better follower than the kabīr‘s shadow.39 Further, the fityān had an obligation to avenge one another.40 Futuwwa could even be called a cult of friendship, for the duty of the fityān to one another was held to be valid even in matters offensive to morality and ethics.41
Here again, the Book of Mormon offers a parallel. The Gadianton robbers, it says disapprovingly, had “covenants and . . . oaths, that they would protect and preserve one another in whatsoever difficult circumstances they should be placed, that they should not suffer for their murders, and their plunderings, and their stealings. And it came to pass that they did have their signs, yea, their secret signs, and their secret words; and this that they might distinguish a brother who had entered into the covenant, that whatsoever wickedness his brother should do he should not be injured by his brother, nor by those who did belong to his band, who had taken this covenant” (Helaman 6:21–22). Advocates of the identity of the Gadianton robbers with nineteenth-century American Freemasonry have tended to see such obligations of mutual assistance as plain and unique pointers to the Masons, but, manifestly, such things are not peculiar to the early American republic.
Moreover, the mixture of good (or purported good) and bad (or reputed bad) that is so characteristic of the Book of Mormon’s Gadianton robbers characterizes the futuwwa movement(s), as well. The chief futuwwa virtue was generosity, which included charity to the poor.42 This may be an echo of the Jāhilī fatā, the noble and generous youth of pre-Islamic or jāhiliyya Arabia famously celebrated in the figure of Ḥātim al-Ṭāʾī.43 In fact, the ideal of the fityān—which seems only fitfully attained in the historical records—was a kind of avowed poverty, a style of life that avoided contamination by riches and by association with the wealthy.44
Futuwwa and Government Power
If we are speaking in terms of the futuwwa of the proletariat, the futuwwa flourished in caliphal times during periods when the central government was weak.45 Likewise, with the decline of the Seljuqs during the thirteenth century in Anatolia, the fityān reappeared.46 The same was true of the so-called akhis, who, as we shall see, seem to represent an Irano-Anatolian variant of the popular futuwwa. In Iran, at the last of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century, fully one-third of the government’s budget was devoted to maintaining religious institutions—among them akhi lodges (zawiyas).47
This was the Golden Age of akhidom. The quasi-anarchic condition of pre-Ottoman Anatolia allowed the strict organization and rigid discipline of the akhis to show itself to full advantage. In fact, the “organization of the towns was . . . bound up with the organization of the akhis.” 48 Leaders of the movement, tending to disregard the admonitions to simplicity of life issuing incessantly from the futuwwa-theorists, came to form “a kind of bourgeois patrician class.” Indeed, in later writers the term akhi becomes synonymous with “patrician.” 49 They sometimes held actual political power, most notably in Ankara.50 On the other hand, when the rising power of the Ottoman dynasty reached Ankara (in the person of Murad I), akhi control there ceased,51 and the same was eventually true of all of Anatolia. In the reign of Murad II, we hear for the last time of any important political role being played by the akhis.52
In summary, Anatolian akhi lodges blossomed in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and were still to be found in the fifteenth century. Significantly, Turkish guilds, called futuvvet, begin to appear in the fifteenth century and then to bloom in the two centuries thereafter.53 In Syria, under the comparatively strong control of the Mamluks in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, futuwwa of the popular kind never developed at all.54
Similarly, in the Book of Mormon, the Gadianton robbers tend to rise and fall in inverse relation to the vigor and effectiveness of the central government. Moreover, the robbers seem to have been plainly aware of that fact, sometimes deliberately acting to weaken the government in order to secure freedom of action for themselves. The Gadianton movement first emerges among the Nephites with a political assassination, committed in roughly 52 BC during a time of division among the people and instability in the Nephite chief judgeship. Strong government actions, however, drive them from their original urban base into the wilderness, rendering them relatively invisible and ineffective (Helaman 1:1–12; 2:1–11). Roughly a quarter of a century later, however, their numbers surge in the wake of another pair of successful political assassinations, but, while they prosper among the Nephites, a vigorous Lamanite response eliminates them from Lamanite territory within a few years (Helaman 6:15–41). Again, around AD 15, social decay, contention, and political dissent again provide an opportunity for the Gadianton movement to rise to prominence (3 Nephi 2:11, 18). In AD 29–30, a Gadianton-style secret combination renders the central government impotent and eventually destroys it altogether, leaving Nephite society in a state of tribal anarchy that allows the conspirators to establish an independent kingdom of their own (3 Nephi 6:27–7:14). The Gadianton movement is invisible during the decades of stability and peace that follow the transformative visit of the resurrected Christ to the New World, but when, about AD 231, “there [is] a great division among the people,” they “spread over all the face of the land” (4 Nephi 1:35, 46). Thereafter, for the next century and a half, they play a crucial role in the decline and eventual death of Nephite civilization. “This Gadianton,” writes the prophet-chronicler Mormon, “did prove the overthrow, yea, almost the entire destruction of the people of Nephi” (Helaman 2:13).
It is quite possible, as we have seen above, to distinguish two distinct strains of futuwwa, if not more. Taeschner calls these the “courtly” (höfische) and the “bourgeois” (bürgerliche).55 In view of what we have seen above, and other evidence too vast to enumerate, we might actually be tempted to call the latter a “proletarian” futuwwa.
When the Mongol invasion obliterated the caliphate in Baghdad, the futuwwa experiment of al-Nāṣir was obliterated with it. Nevertheless, the courtly futuwwa was carried on in Cairo, where the Mamluk elite aspired to fill the vacancy created by the fall of the caliphate and even appointed a series of powerless puppet caliphs to give themselves credibility.56 What occurred there under the Mamluk sultan Baybars was very much an “official revival.” 57 This took place in 1261, and we know that the Mamluk rulers were still granting futuwwa-investment to prominent allies as late as 1293. But courtly futuwwa wanes in Egypt in the fourteenth century, lingering at the very latest into the fifteenth.58
This phenomenon is probably to be explained by the same reasoning with which we account for Baybars’s eagerness to have an ʿAbbasid caliph in Cairo: It gave him badly needed legitimacy. And, after all, futuwwa had been an important component in the caliphate of the prestigious al-Nāṣir, whose career was not so long before. It may have seemed to Baybars and his contemporaries that futuwwa was a part of the caliphate and that a claim by the new puppet caliph to futuwwa-lineage would go a long way toward validating his claim to the caliphal office as well.
Cahen asserts that al-Nāṣir’s futuwwa also found its continuation among the akhis of Anatolia.59 Taeschner, by contrast, claims that courtly futuwwa had existed in Anatolia under the Saljuqs of Rum, but denies any connection between it and the akhis.60 “The question of the origin of akhidom in Anatolia,” writes Taeschner with sublime understatement, “is a very complicated one.” 61 He suggests that the akhis were foreigners and notes that the word akhi is an East Turkic one whose connection with the Arabic Ṣūfi term akhi (“my brother”) is fortunate but, otherwise, purely fortuitous. Elsewhere, he posits an origin in ʿAyyubid Egypt (that is, circa the mid-twelfth to mid-thirteenth century).62 Bertold Spuler thinks it obvious that the futuwwa itself began along the Islamic frontier with the Byzantine Empire, among the “march warriors (Grenzkriegern), with their various Shiʿite tendencies.” 63 Analogously, the military character of the Gadianton robbers is obvious in the Book of Mormon, where they hide out in inaccessible areas and are frequently confronted by Nephite and even Lamanite armies. (The Book of Mormon implicitly recognizes them as a military rather than a merely criminal threat and expresses that recognition in a manner that, strikingly, appears to accord with ancient law.) 64
In still another place, Taeschner notes that akhidom can be traced earlier in Iran than in Anatolia, and, accordingly, that it probably traveled from the former to the latter.65 Ernst Werner is still more positive and informs us that the leader of the akhis entered Anatolia from Iran at the beginning of the thirteenth century.66 If we can accept Werner’s theory, we notice that it accords—just barely—with Cahen’s notion that “the organization of the akhis . . . was not clearly revealed in its full vigour until the Mongol regime and later, but . . . nevertheless was in existence before it.” 67 If Werner is correct, his akhi leaders arrived just in time. In fact, the first mention of the term akhi dates from 1068 to 1069 in Iran.68 And a number of akhis were prominent among the companions and disciples of Shaykh Ṣafī al-Dīn Ardabīlī (1252–1334), the ancestor of the Safavid shahs who ruled Iran or Persia from AD 1501 to 1722.69 Further evidence of Iranian origins is the fact that the Anatolian akhis of the fourteenth century adopted as their companion the figure of Abū Muslim, the Persian patriot.70
Still, there is the possibility—not to be entirely discounted—of a relationship between the akhis (ukhuwwa) and the famous “Brethren of Purity” or Ikhwan as-Safa, who flourished in Basra, in southern Mesopotamia, during the tenth century. The groups share the same tight organization. But no line of connection has been demonstrated, and the doctrine of the “Brethren” is distinctly lacking among the akhis.71
“This institution is of great interest,” writes Cahen of the akhis, “but also raises many problems.” 72 At least, says Taeschner, among all the confusion surrounding the akhis, there is no question that they belong to the phenomenon known generally as futuwwa.73 But whether fityān and akhis are identical is quite another matter.74 At one point, Taeschner confidently places the akhis among the futuwwa movements “decisively influenced” by al-Nāṣir.75 Yet elsewhere he is careful to distinguish between the courtly futuwwa of the caliph and the futuwwa of the court theologian (and futuwwa-promoter) Suhrawardī. And, in Taeschner’s view, the akhis are clearly to be associated with the theologian and not with the caliph.76
One characteristic of the akhi movement that undoubtedly adds to the difficulty of studying it today is the secrecy in which it functioned. The ideal was that nobody else would know that one was an akhi, and we have at least one example of an Anatolian Futüvvetnāme (or “futuwwa book”) that closes with the strict admonition that it not be shown to the uninitiated.77 Similarly, the Book of Mormon says, the practice of the Gadianton robbers was that “whosoever of those who belonged to their band should reveal unto the world of their wickedness and their abominations, should be tried, not according to the laws of their country, but according to the laws of their wickedness, which had been given by Gadianton and Kishkumen” (Helaman 6:24). Thus, at one point, when the Gadianton robbers were under intense military pressure, they “concealed their secret plans in the earth” (Helaman 11:10). (The reference here is, quite plainly, to written materials, perhaps even to secret books.) Unfortunately, only a few years later, when they had regained their strength and self-confidence, “they did search out all the secret plans of Gadianton” once again (Helaman 11:26).
If there is a difference between the akhis and the ordinary fityān, it is perhaps to be found in an increasingly craft-and-trade-centered focus among the former. Indisputably, though, in early modern history, the first craft guilds and trade unions in the Arab world referred to themselves as futuwwa. (One thinks, yet again, of the peculiar use of the construction term masonry to refer to a fraternal/ritual organization.) This is, however, otherwise an area of great controversy.78 But when we begin to examine the akhis closely, we are immediately aware of certain very familiar traits. The chief virtue of the akhis is said, for example, to be their hospitality.79 They venerate ʿAlī, but they also venerate Abū Bakr.80 Finally, their ritual and their hierarchy are virtually identical to those we have encountered earlier among the fityān. (The former includes, curiously, the shaving of a tonsure on the head of the initiate, which may well be a relic of Christian monasticism.) 81
Futuwwa and Mysticism
It is of interest to note that Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī, whom we have briefly met as a promoter and theorist of futuwwa with special ties to the akhis of Anatolia, was also a Ṣūfi.82 Thus we are not particularly surprised to learn that the treatises on the futuwwa—secret books, in at least some cases—written after Suhrawardī are themselves “semi-mystical.” 83 And, carrying further with our essential identification of fityān and akhis, we find, not unexpectedly, that the akhi movement is itself considered to be a part of the greater Ṣūfi phenomenon.84 Indeed, in Taeschner’s view, futuwwa and its related movements represent the vehicle by which Ṣūfism gained access to the bourgeois strata of Islamicate society.85
Interestingly, this seems to be the view of many of the akhi sources themselves, which explicitly link—and sometimes equate—futuwwa and taṣawwuf (Ṣūfism).86 One source relates that futuwwa and mysticism were originally synonymous at the time of their founding by Seth; it was only at the time of Abraham that futuwwa was distinguished as a mysticism for the weak.87
The most important literary source to come to us out of akhi circles, according to Taeschner, is a late fourteenth-century Futüvvetnāme by a certain Yaḥyā b. Khalīlī b. Jubān al-Burghāzī.88 Significantly, “the ethic which it portrays is a wholly normal mystic one, with the usual requirements of the moderate Ṣūfi ethics, without any kind of extravagance.” 89 Thus we are prepared when Taeschner suggests that akhidom survived, after its death among the dervishes, with a kind of bourgeois moderation.90 (Ritter attempts to counter such a suggestion by noting that, “among the mystics, it is sunna to shave the head, but this is not the case among the fityān.” 91 However, on the basis of evidence alluded to earlier, we know that he is quite simply wrong.)
Even in terms of its ritual, futuwwa can be recognized in later dervish practices. The futuwwa rank of naqīb, responsible for the shedd initiation ceremony, reappears with the same title and the same function in more than one dervish order to this day.92 And during that ceremony, the initiate makes a familiar promise to “dedicate [himself] zealously to the service of the poor and needy, to the extent of [his] ability.” 93
Akhis and Mevlevīs
In the second half of the thirteenth century, after the death of Zarkūb, the preeminent disciple of the great Persian mystic Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī was Ḥusām al-Dīn Çelebi, one of the principal akhi leaders in Konya. On Rūmī’s death, Çelebi became his successor (khalīfa).94 Taeschner argues that, by the beginning of the fourteenth century, the Mevleviyya—the mystical order of the disciples of Rūmī —was still concentrated in and about Konya and that the akhis elsewhere constituted a group of what we might term “fellow-travelers.” We know that the akhis danced at their meetings, and Taeschner is certain that we must here understand this to be the same as the famed cultic dance practiced by the Mevlevīs, the so-called “whirling dervishes.” 95 Taeschner further notes a certain baṭinī (or esoteric) character—secret doctrine, reserved for initiates—that he sees shared by both akhis and Mevlevīs. And, finally, he reminds us that Rūmī traced his genealogy back to Abū Bakr, a fact that would conceivably explain the akhis‘ notorious invocation of the first caliph as a saint along with the predictable ʿAlī.96
But there are problems with this connection. We know, for example, that the akhi leader Ahmad of Konya was disliked by Aflākī, the hagiographer of the Mevlevīs, as being insufficiently aristocratic and an enemy of Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī.97 And the feelings seem to have been mutual: Werner is able to detect hostility on the part of the lower- and middle-class akhis toward the “feudal aristocratic” Mevlevīs.98
Akhis and Bektāshīs
The well-known Turkish scholar M. F. Köprülüzade considered the akhis to be identical with the Bektāshī order of dervishes; he alleged that the term akhi died out at the coming of the title bektāshiyya.99 While Taeschner does not entirely agree with Köprülüzade on this point, he does permit substantial identification, noting that the founding fathers of the bektāshiyya included several prominent akhis.100 And again, the familiar ambiguity is present, for R. Tschudi comments of the Bektāshīs that, “in their secret doctrines, they are Shiʿis.” 101 One “Great Futuwwetname” of a decidedly Twelver Shiʿi character, written in the sixteenth century, is quoted in Bektāshī ceremonies.102 And the Bektāshīs, like the akhis, are secretive, a fact that has brought upon them accusations of all manner of immorality.103 Ironically, though, a small group of the Bektāshīs vow themselves to celibacy 104—as did a similar percentage of the akhis.105
We know that the Bektāshīs had acquired exclusive spiritual authority among the elite Ottoman military order of the Janissaries, the Yeniçeri, by the second half of the fifteenth century,106 and it is important in this regard to recall that the akhi-cap was identical to the headdress of the Yeniçeri.107 It seems, in fact, that the akhis were involved militarily on the side of the Ottoman dynasty from its very first days; there is some evidence that Murad I—the third of the thirty-six Ottoman sultans, who reigned from roughly 1360 to his death at the Battle of Kosovo in 1389—was a Grand Master of the akhis.108
However, there are problems in associating the akhis and the bektāshiyya, as one could, by now, have predicted that there would be. Ḥājī Bektāsh “was probably a disciple of Bābā Isḥāq. . . . The aristocratic entourage of the rival Mawlawiyya order later laid emphasis on this.” 109 (Werner, by the way, views the Babāʾī revolt as “an expression of the weakness of the central authority and the incipient feudal shattering of the sultanate” 110—familiar conditions.) But we know that the akhis of Sivas defended that city against Bābā Isḥāq’s siege.111
A final candidate for Dervish Continuator of the futuwwa is the order of the Naqshbandiyya. They too are known for esoterica and secrecy.112 They too trace their silsila back to both ʿAlī and Abū Bakr.113
It is widely agreed that at least some of the akhi tradition continued in the guilds of the Middle East,114 although the error of supposing that all futuwwa organizations were guilds from the very start should be avoided.115 Werner is reminded, in thinking of this question, of the two broad divisions of futuwwa to which we have repeatedly alluded. The quietistic mystics he sees represented in more recent times by the Ṣūfi orders, whereas the political activists find their more modern counterparts in the guilds.116
In fact, “the rise of the guilds was closely connected with the decline of the free futuwwa and akhi associations,” which took place in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.117 As the government came more and more to control the nascent trade associations, the futuwwa simply died out 118—central authority being, as ever, its nemesis. This occurred, at the latest, by the seventeenth century. The guild of tanners retained its akhi associations longest and in greatest purity, and was able thereby to achieve a remarkable ascendancy over the other guilds that lasted for a considerable length of time.119 However, by 1914 Paul Kahle was able to find only twenty-year old memories of the futuwwa shedd-initiation in the Cairo guild,120 and by 1927 “almost none of the traditional ceremonies remained” in the guilds of Damascus.121
Still, the futuwwa associations of the early guilds are instructive. They teach us, for example, to be wary of the provincial, twentieth-century secularism implicit in such statements as Raphaela Lewis’s remark that “throughout Ottoman Turkey, a man’s allegiances were, in order of priority, to his guild, to his religion and to the Sultan.” 122 It is doubtful that a medieval akhi or a later premodern guildsman would have distinguished between guild and religion.123
Likewise, as I have argued elsewhere, although the authors and editors of the Book of Mormon clearly suppress the religious character of the Gadianton robbers (as at Alma 37:27–32 and Ether 8:20), it is unlikely that the Gadiantons saw their efforts as purely secular, let alone as criminal murder and robbery. Although, at this late date and given the nature of our source materials, we can’t tell precisely what it was—in which respect, again, the futuwwa movements offer a kind of analogy—they were fighting for an alternate religious vision, one that many of the peoples of the Book of Mormon plainly saw, at various times, as quite attractive.124
Brodie, Hullinger, Vogel, and others who equate the secret combinations described in the Book of Mormon with the Masons of nineteenth-century America simply haven’t read widely enough. The similarities they adduce are neither unique to Freemasonry nor, sometimes, as compelling as are those in other movements. Parallels to the Gadianton robbers are easy to find, from antiquity through the medieval Near East to the mountains of today’s Tora Bora. “They are,” as the prophet Moroni wrote more than a millennium and a half ago, “had among all people” (Ether 8:20).
Daniel C. Peterson is professor of Islamic studies and Arabic at Brigham Young University
1. Fawn M. Brodie, No Man Knows My History: The Life of Joseph Smith, 2nd ed. (New York: Knopf, 1975), 63–65.
2. Robert N. Hullinger, Mormon Answer to Skepticism: Why Joseph Smith Wrote the Book of Mormon (St. Louis: Clayton, 1980), 114 nn. 30–31; Dan Vogel, “Mormonism’s ‘Anti-Masonick Bible,’ ” John Whitmer Historical Association Journal 9 (1989): 17–30.
3. See, among other things, Daniel C. Peterson, “Notes on ‘Gadianton Masonry,’ ” in Warfare in the Book of Mormon, ed. Stephen D. Ricks and William J. Hamblin (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book and FARMS, 1990), 174–224, which provides further references; Daniel C. Peterson, “ ’Secret Combinations’ Revisited,” Journal of Book of Mormon Studies 1/1 (1992): 184–88; reprinted in John W. Welch and Melvin J. Thorne, eds., Pressing Forward with the Book of Mormon: The FARMS Updates of the 1990s (Provo, UT: FARMS, 1999), 190–95; Paul Mouritsen, “Secret Combinations and Flaxen Cords: Anti-Masonic Rhetoric and the Book of Mormon,” Journal of Book of Mormon Studies 12/1 (2003): 64–77; Nathan Oman, “Secret Combinations: A Legal Analysis,” FARMS Review 16/1 (2004): 49–73.
4. See Daniel C. Peterson, “The Gadianton Robbers as Guerrilla Warriors,” in Warfare in the Book of Mormon, 146–73.
5. C. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” in Encyclopedia of Islam, new ed., vol. 3 (Leiden: Brill, 1960), 961–65, esp. 961.
6. Hans Wehr, A Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic, ed. J. Milton Cowan (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1971), s.v. futuwwa. Curiously, the word is even etymologically connected with the legal term fatwā. On the latter, see Daniel C. Peterson, “Fatwā,” in Encyclopedia of Islam and the Muslim World, ed. Richard C. Martin et al. (New York: Macmillan Reference USA, 2004), 1:255.
7. Richard W. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur: A Study in Medieval Islamic Social History (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1972), 43–44, esp. 44.
8. Bulliet, Patricians of Nishapur, 43. He overstates the agreement on celibacy.
9. Sawsan El-Messiri, “The Changing Role of the Futuwwa in the Social Structure of Cairo,” in Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies, ed. Ernest Gellner and John Waterbury (London: Duckworth, 1977), 239–53, esp. 239.
10. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 961; Bulliet, Patricians of Nishapur, 44; Paul Kahle, “Die Futuwwa-Bündnisse des Kalifen an-Nāṣir,” in Opera Minora (Leiden: Brill, 1956), 215–46; see 242, which cites a futuwwa exhortation to shun violence.
11. Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, trans. J. Jones-Williams (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1968), 339.
12. Thus Joseph Schacht, “Einige Kairiner Handschriften über furusīja und futūwa,” Der Islam 19 (1931): 49–52, esp. 50.
13. Helmut Ritter, “Zur Futuwwa,” Der Islam 10 (1920): 244–50. He is also reminded of medieval European student corporations; see 244.
14. Ritter, “Zur Futuwwa,” 249.
15. This is not the place to go into my reasoning on the matter. El-Messiri seems to assume a similar notion without realizing it; see El-Messiri, “Changing Role of the Futuwwa,” 240, when she posits a “futuwwa model” prior to the historical futuwwa itself, a kind of Ur-futuwwa or Platonic idea of futuwwa in which the fityān of the documents participate, to a greater or lesser degree. I take this seriously in historical terms. Nobody really knows the origin of the futuwwa: I am intrigued by the fact that the word tekmīl, which is used in connection with futuwwa initiation (Kahle, “Futuwwa-Bündnisse,” 226–27), is precisely equivalent, in meaning and function, to the Greek teleiosis, a term connected with initiation into the famed Eleusinian mysteries.
16. Franz Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien: Die Futuwwabünde in der Turkei und ihre Literatur,” Islamica 5 (1932): 285.
17. For example, Kahle, “Futuwwa-Bündnisse,” 244–45; see Bertold Spuler, Geschichte der islamischen Länder, part 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1952), 131.
18. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 298; Franz Taeschner, “Eine Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī über die Futūwa,” Oriens 15 (1962): 277–80, esp. 277–79; Ritter, “Zur Futuwwa,” 245. It was, however, possible for a non-Muslim to be a fatā. See Kahle, “Futuwwa-Bündnisse,” 231.
19. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 299–300.
20. Some notes on these can be found in Ritter, “Zur Futuwwa,” 246; Ziadeh, Urban Life in Syria, 167; Kahle, “Futuwwa-Bündnisse,” 226–27, 239–40; Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 328 (and n. 2). This listing is far, far from exhaustive.
21. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 260; Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 309.
22. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 292, 296.
23. See Kahle, “Futuwwa-Bündnisse,” 240–42. The Zaydi Shiʿites, a small minority faction now largely restricted to the northern mountains of remote Yemen, are the exception; though there are exceptions, they tend to respect Abū Bakr and ʿUmar. For information on the Zaydis, see the annotated online guide by Daniel C. Peterson, “Zaydi Bibliography” (Oxford University Press, forthcoming). Nicola A. Ziadeh, Urban Life in Syria under the Early Mamluks (Beirut: American Press, 1953), 253 n. 151, citing Al-Fakhri, Cairo, 1317: 287, likewise seems to link the futuwwa with Shiʿi Islam.
24. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 307 (and n. 3), 309.
25. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 964.
26. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 964.
27. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 964.
28. G. E. von Grunebaum, Classical Islam: A History 600–1258 (London: Allen and Unwin, 1970), esp. 104–5, 196. Cf. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 962, and Ernst Werner, Die Geburt einer Grossmacht—Die Osmanen (1300–1481), 2nd ed. (Vienna: Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1972), 76. The philosopher Al-Fārābī was killed by a gang of fityān in December of 950. See D. M. Dunlop, The Fuṣūl al-Madanī of al-Fārābī (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961), 14–15. Von Grunebaum suggests the German term Junker as an equivalent to fatā; see his Classical Islam, 104. A Junker was a member of the landed nobility of Prussia and eastern Germany, mostly associated with the old feudal aristocracy of the region, the Uradel.
29. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 963.
30. Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 126.
31. Bulliet, Patricians of Nishapur, 45.
32. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 311; von Grunebaum, Classical Islam, 196.
33. See Taeschner, “Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī,” 277.
34. According to El-Messiri, “Changing Role of the Futuwwa,” 249, this is essentially its role today. I don’t know that anyone has yet investigated what relationship, if any, obtains between the futuwwa and the Iuvenes, the semimilitary or athletic youth clubs of the early Roman Empire. On these, see E. Norman Gardiner, Athletics of the Ancient World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1930), 124–27.
35. C. Cahen, “The Body Politic,” in Unity and Variety in Muslim Civilization, ed. G. E. von Grunebaum (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955), 132–63, esp. 153.
36. Kahle, “Futuwwa-Bündnisse,” 217.
37. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 964.
38. Taeschner, “Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī,” 15. For Suhrawardī’s thought, see Yaḥyā b. Ḥabash al-Suhrawardī, The Philosophy of Illumination: A New Critical Edition of the Text of Ḥikmat al-ishrāq, with English translation, notes, commentary, and introduction by John Walbridge and Hossein Ziai (Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 1999).
39. Kahle, “Futuwwa-BŸndnisse,” 221; cf. 231.
40. Kahle, “Futuwwa-BŸndnisse,” 221.
41. Ritter, “Zur Futuwwa,” 245.
42. Taeschner, “Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī,” 279; El-Messiri, “Changing Role of the Futuwwa,” 244–45.
43. El-Messiri, “Changing Role of the Futuwwa,” 240. On Ḥātim al-Ṭāʾī, see Reynolds Nicholson, A Literary History of the Arabs, and, even, Edward Fitzgerald’s “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.”
44. Franz Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte der Achis in Anatolien (14.-15. Jht.),” Islamica 4/9 (1931): 1–47; R. M. Savory, “Communication,” Der Islam 38 (1962): 161–65; esp. 162.
45. El-Messiri, “Changing Role of the Futuwwa,” 240–41; Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 961–65.
46. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 49.
47. Bertold Spuler, Die Mongolen in Iran (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1968), 163 (and n. 2).
48. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 195.
49. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 10.
50. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 3, 28; Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 340.
51. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 3.
52. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 28.
53. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 289.
54. Ziadeh, Urban Life in Syria, 168.
55. Taeschner, “Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī,” 279.
56. Franz Taeschner, “Futuwwa,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 3:966–69, esp. 966.
57. Ziadeh, Urban Life in Syria, 167–68. Syedah F. Sadeque, Baybars I of Egypt and Syria (New York: AMS, 1980), 133, 163, 190, 197, offers several examples of futuwwa rites practiced under Baybars I.
58. Taeschner, “Futuwwa,” 966.
59. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 964.
60. Taeschner, “Futuwwa,” 964.
61. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 14–15.
62. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 19 (and n. 3); Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 308–9.
63. Spuler, Geschichte der islamischen Länder, 103.
64. See John W. Welch and Kelly Ward, “Thieves and Robbers,” in Reexploring the Book of Mormon, ed. John W. Welch (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book and FARMS, 1992), 248–49.
65. Taeschner, “Futuwwa,” 966–69.
66. Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht, 77.
67. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 195.
68. Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht, 72.
69. Taeschner, “Futuwwa,” 967.
70. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 340.
71. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 15, and Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 292 n. 5; 311 n. 1. See Taeschner “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 5–6, for data demonstrating that the Akhis were, in fact, an organization rather than an amorphous mass.
72. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 195.
73. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 27, and Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 289. The phrase akhiyyat al-fityān occurs in Ibn Baṭṭūta. See Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 2.
74. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 292.
75. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 308.
76. Taeschner, “Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī,” 279–80.
77. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 9.
78. Compare Ziadeh, Urban Life in Syria, 168, and Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht, 72, to Cahen, “Futuwwa,” 961.
79. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 8.
80. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 7, 19.
81. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 6–9.
82. He is not, however, to be confused with his fellow countryman and rough contemporary, ʿUmar Suhrawardī, the eponymous founder of an order of Ṣūfis. See Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 256.
83. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 350.
84. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 10.
85. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 285. Cf. the opinion of ʿAbbās Iqbāl, quoted in Savory, “Communication,” 161–62.
86. See, for example, Savory, “Communication,” 162–63; Kahle, “Futuwwa-BŸndnisse,” 229, 238; Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 291 (and n. 1).
87. Taeschner, “Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī,” 278. Seth is a very curious figure in biblical pseudepigrapha and gnostic literature, and his role here fairly cries out for study. Also significant in this religious view of futuwwa is the fact that at least one akhi rank bears as title an Uighur word signifying, elsewhere, a Buddhist priest. See Taeschner, “Schrift des Šihābaddīn Suhrawardī,” 292–94 (and 294 n. 2). Curiouser and curiouser.
88. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 4–5, 40, and Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 300 n. 1. It betrays, incidentally, not a trace of Shiʿism. And, since the book was intended to be secret, this cannot be rationalized as taqiyya-dissimulation. See Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 18.
89. Taeschner “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 9.
90. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 21–22.
91. Ritter, “Zur Futuwwa,” 247.
92. Paul Kahle, “Zur Organisation der Derwisch-orden in Egypten,” Der Islam 6 (1916): 149–69, esp. 164–66; Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 8; and Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 296, 326–35.
93. Kahle, “Zur Organisation der Derwisch-orden,” 162.
94. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 351.
95. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 16–17.
96. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 15–17 (and 17 n. 4).
97. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 351.
98. Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht, 75. Werner is a Marxist.
99. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 20, 24, 25.
100. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 23–24.
101. R. Tschudi “Bektashiyya,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed. (Leiden: Brill, 1960), 1:1161–63, esp. 11622.
102. Taeschner, “Futuwwa,” 967–68.
103. Hans Joachim Kissling, “Zur Frage der Anfänge des Bektašitums in Albanien,” Oriens 15 (1962): 281–86, esp. 285 n. 1. Compare the experiences of the Masons, the Mormons, the early Christians, etc.
104. Tschudi, “Bektashiyya,” 1162.
105. Taeschner “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 19 n. 4. See Kissling, “Zur Frage der Anfänge,” 286, on what he calls “Kryptochristianismus.”
106. Tschudi “Bektashiyya,” 1162.
107. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 25–26.
108. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 25–26; Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht, 99–102, 88.
109. Tschudi, “Bektashiyya,” 1161–62, notes that the rituals characteristic of the later bektāshiyya are not to be found in the writings of Ḥājī Bektāsh himself. My bet is that they are a later contribution, at least in part, of the akhis. Incidentally, adepts of the rasūl, Bābā Isḥāq, wore a cap like that of the illustrious Qizilbāsh. A special relationship exists, in fact, between the bektāshiyya and the Qizilbāsh (Tschudi, “Bektashiyya,” 1162).
110. Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht.
111. Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht.
112. Madelain Habib, “Some Notes on the Naqshbandi Order,” Muslim World 59/1 (1969): 40–49, esp. 45 (and n. 28), 47–48.
113. Habib, “Some Notes on the Naqshbandi Order,” 40–41; Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 17.
114. Taeschner, “Beiträge zur Geschichte,” 20; Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 301; Raphaela Lewis, Everyday Life in Ottoman Turkey (London: Batsford, 1971), 145.
115. Gabriel Baer, “Guilds in Middle Eastern History,” in Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East, ed. M. A. Cook (London: Oxford University Press, 1970), 11– 30, esp. 11.
116. Werner, Geburt einer Grossmacht, 75; El-Messiri, “Changing Role of the Futuwwa,” 240, is confused by the relationship of the two strands, as in Kahle (“Zur Organisation der Derwisch-orden,” 149), who ought to know better.
117. Baer, “Guilds in Middle Eastern History,” 29.
118. Baer, “Guilds in Middle Eastern History,” 18, 20.
119. Taeschner, “Futuwwa-Studien,” 301; Kahle, “Zur Organisation der Derwisch-orden,” 149 (and n. 2); Taeschner, “Futuwwa,” 968; Lewis, Everyday Life in Ottoman Turkey, 145.
120. Kahle, “Zur Organisation der Derwisch-orden,” 149 (and n. 2).
121. Baer, “Guilds in Middle Eastern History,” 23.
122. Lewis, Everyday Life in Ottoman Turkey, 145.
123. See Franz Taeschner, “Aufnahme in eine Zunft, dargestellt auf einer türkischen Miniatur,” Der Islam 6 (1916): 169–72. The article features a Turkish miniature which distinctly illustrates the futuwwa-religious character of reception into a guild.
124. Peterson, “Notes on ‘Gadianton Masonry.’ ”