Science and Islam_A History_Icon Science

by Ehsan Masood

  Science and Islam

  EHSAN MASOOD

  Science and Islam

  A HISTORY

  This edition published in the UK in 2017

  by Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus Business Centre,

  39–41 North Road, London N7 9DP

  email: info@iconbooks.com

  www.iconbooks.com

  Originally published in 2009 by Icon Books Ltd

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  by Faber & Faber Ltd, Bloomsbury House,

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  ISBN 978-178578-202-2

  Text copyright © 2009 Ehsan Masood

  Introduction copyright © 2017 Ehsan Masood

  The author has asserted his moral rights.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Typesetting in Plantin by Marie Doherty

  Printed and bound in the UK by

  Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  Contents

  Introduction to the second edition

  A note on language

  Prologue

  1 The Dark Age Myth

  Part I: The Islamic Quest

  2 The Coming of the Prophet

  3 Building Islam

  4 Baghdad’s Splendour

  5 The Caliph of Science

  6 The Flowering of Andalusia

  7 Beyond the Abbasids

  Part II: Branches of Learning

  8 The Best Gift From God

  9 Astronomy: The Structured Heaven

  10 Number: The Living Universe of Islam

  11 At Home in the Elements

  12 Ingenious Devices

  Part III: Second Thoughts

  13 An Endless Frontier

  14 One Chapter Closes, Another Begins

  15 Science and Islam: Lessons From History

  Timeline

  Acknowledgements

  Sources

  Index

  Ehsan Masood is a science writer based in London. Since 2009 he has been the Editor of the science policy magazine Research Fortnight, and he teaches science and innovation policy at Imperial College London. He presented ‘Islam and Science’, a three-part series for BBC Radio on science in today’s Islamic world. His other books include The Great Invention, on the story of how GDP became the world’s dominant economic indicator.

  For my parents, Shamsa and Hassan Masood

  1. Urban knowledge: Islam’s cities of science from the 8th to the 16th centuries housed hospitals, observatories, libraries, colleges and schools for translation, as well as much individual research.

  Introduction to the second edition

  In writing this introduction to the second edition of Science and Islam: A History, I am grateful to the many readers who read the first edition, to those who reviewed it; those who wrote with comments and criticisms, and to those who organised and attended talks and launch events at venues around the world.

  I am grateful especially to those of you who highlighted errors: errors of fact, errors of interpretation and errors of omission, many of which have been rectified in this second edition.

  Samar Abou Zeid, the editor of the Arabic language edition, deserves particular praise. Samar corrected a number of factual inaccuracies in the first English language edition and also re-checked my largely European language sources and expert interviews against primary Arabic and Persian language sources, including copies of manuscripts. This process has rendered this second edition much better than the first.

  A number of readers wrote to say that a book on such an expansive theme could have included the contributions of many more personalities. A notable absence for example is the great Ottoman architect, Sinan. It is true that Sinan gets the smallest of mentions in the timeline at the back of the book. Sinan, who achieved recognition by rescuing the collapsing dome of the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, rose to lead the Imperial school of architecture. He is responsible, more than any other architect, for Istanbul’s distinctive skyline.

  In thinking about Sinan, I am also conscious that more could have been said about the synthesis of humanities and science. Unlike today’s relatively isolated research fields, it was possible during Islamic times for the same individual to find fame as a scientist, medic, poet and more. However, I must say that in writing the first edition, I found this characteristic one of the more difficult aspects to penetrate.

  My struggles with Ibn Sina (Avicenna) are a case in point. Much has been written on his philosophy and equally on his medicine. However, those who study him today work in different parts of the academy. Nancy Siraisi is a superb guide to his medicine and Oliver Leaman his philosophy. But today these are two fields that don’t often talk to each other, let alone intersect.

  Areas of intersection between science and art include miniature paintings of astronomers working late into the night; the craftsmanship of scientific instruments; the chemistry of the cobalt blue that adorns so many buildings; paintings depicting scenes from natural history; the secrets of sacred geometry, and the carefully-calibrated medical images of the human body. All of this could well be material for a companion volume.

  *

  Some readers suggested that the book could have said more on how civilizations other than ancient Greece left their mark on Islamic science: indeed, that insufficient space is given to the transmission of ideas via Byzantium, China and India. This is undoubtedly true, though I was, and remain, at the mercy of the community of researchers who have written and published in these areas. And it is unfortunate that there are few academics today working to trace such transmission mechanisms.

  Others, in contrast, wrote to say there could have been more material on the transfer of Islamic science to the Latin world. Here, more work is being done and I am especially indebted to John Davies and the trustees of the Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution in England from whom I learnt about Adelaard of Bath.

  At a time when the first English universities at Oxford and Cambridge had yet to be created, this early 12th-century scholar travelled to Syria where he spent seven years learning at institutions which would have been regarded in Europe as being at the leading edge. On his return to England, Adelaard remarked how his Arabic teachers had considered ‘reason’ alongside tradition as a source of authority. He was also aware that such a view was seen as ultra-modern among some conservatives back on home turf. Mathematics, for example, was described by one of his contemporaries, the historian William of Malmesbury, as ‘dangerous Saracen magic’.

  One English institution that had no problem with appreciating new sources of knowledge was in fact the Royal Society of London. In 2011, Rim Turkmani of Imperial College London curated a remarkable exhibition at the Royal Society called ‘Arabick Roots’. Rim and the society’s then director of history of science, Peter Collins, helped unearth manuscripts from
some of the giants who had stood on Newton’s shoulders. These were the early Fellows of the society who had recognised the need to mine the scholarly tradition of Arabic and Persian-speaking scientists in their own work.

  Rim established that some 40 Fellows from the 17th and 18th centuries had an ‘Arabick’ interest in some way. They included the chemist Robert Boyle; Edmond Halley, the astronomer and one of the founders of actuarial science; and five professors of Arabic including Edmund Castell. Both Boyle and Halley felt they needed to study Arabic to avoid errors that can creep in when accessing secondary sources!

  *

  By far the most common question I have been asked by readers since the first edition’s publication is, ‘What about now?’

  Even though this is dealt with in the book’s final section, readers remained curious to know why the nations of the Islamic world, as a group, occupy the bottom of many indices of science and innovation today? Why, in spite of such a productive heritage, do these nations (many of them among the world’s richest) collectively spend less than half of one per cent of their national income on science? And could I please point to any current examples of leading-edge discovery and invention in the member states of the Organization of Islamic Countries (OIC).

  To help answer that last question, I worked with two stellar talents from the world of science policy: James Wilsdon and Natalie Day (then of the Royal Society in London), and together we helped launch the Atlas of Islamic World Science and Innovation. This was a multi-year project, backed by the OIC, the Royal Society, Nature and Canada’s science funding agency IDRC, to map science and innovation in today’s Islamic world.

  On our travels we discovered how Qatar was busy cementing its niche as the Gulf’s headquarters for world-class undergraduate higher education; how Abu Dhabi’s rulers were planning to build one of the world’s first zero carbon cities; how Iran had become a mini hub for nano-technology and Pakistan had created 50 new universities between 2002 and 2008.

  In the years since, I am pleased to learn that Athar Osama, a fellow science policy analyst and member of Pakistan’s Planning Commission, and the indefatigable Nidhal Guessoum, professor of physics at the American University of Sharjah, have together been working on important next steps: how to reform science education curricula so there is more experiential learning, more and better education in history and philosophy of science and more cross-fertilisation between the disciplines.

  *

  In the few years after this book’s first edition appeared in 2008, there was a window, a blink in historical terms, when it seemed that the Arab Revolutions would lead to a different world for the peoples of Arabic-speaking countries. Many readers will recall the waves of excited young people, occupying squares and marching in the streets of Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria, Bahrain, demanding basic freedoms; the kinds of freedoms that readers in Western countries take for granted every time we wake up in the morning.

  Millions were demanding their leaders give them more of a say in how they should be governed, and by whom. Teenage entrepreneurs dreamt of creating the next killer app in their parents’ garage. University researchers felt emboldened to critique state power, something that had been impossible before. One Egyptian academic likened the promise of his nation’s revolution to the philosopher Thomas Kuhn’s shifting paradigms: a passing of the old and embrace of the new. The Arab Revolutions were indeed a sign of a new dawn.

  For a short while that world did appear to be materialising. Long-serving dictators were being felled, including Saddam Hussein of Iraq, Tunisia’s Ben Ali, Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi and Egypt’s Hosni Mubarak. The richer Gulf monarchies nervously tried to buy off dissent with bigger perks for their citizens, and bigger investments in public services.

  One evening in 2012 in Egypt’s second city Alexandria, I witnessed something I hadn’t seen in two decades of reporting from the Middle East. I was in a packed hall in the city’s library. On the podium was a junior minister for science. The 200-strong audience was predominantly young people, and they didn’t hold back.

  ‘How come you still have a job?’ ‘What do you earn?’ ‘I want to do a PhD. What will you do to improve my job prospects?’ A few years ago, such an event might have resulted in arrests and torture, but now the tables were turned. The man from the ministry had to behave as a servant of the people and try to answer.

  There were no filters. No self-censorship. No one seemed to think, as they did before then, that the dictators would be back; that by speaking out they would once again risk prison, kidnap and torture. Egypt was changing and its young people felt at the vanguard of the revolution.

  How wrong we all were. As I write this, eight years after the first publication of Science and Islam, large parts of Libya, Syria and Yemen are under daily bombardment. Egypt has returned to autocracy. Thousands of its brave, freethinking men and women languish in its jails, many academics and students among them. Hundreds of thousands have fled their countries to seek refuge, as my own parents did, in the West. Although with the election of Donald Trump to the White House, that door, too, appears to be closing.

  Zia Sardar, my great friend, also one of my strongest critics, declared at a launch event at Asia House in London that this book is not so much a history of Islamic science as a history of Islamic science policy.

  The book is indeed a history of policy as much as a history of science, because it is policies that, among other things, drive the process and direction of discovery and invention. Policies enable scientists and other researchers to be properly supported, and it is policies, especially state policies, that give researchers that much-needed, and often rare commodity: protection from those who would wish to silence them.

  *

  This book is an account of the building of a civilization, and the inevitable passing of a scientific torch.

  The business of creating civilizations is often a global and inter-generational effort, a scientific relay if you will. There’s a pattern of sorts. Firstly, each contender for civilization status acquires a degree of military and political power. Secondly, it uses the proceeds of that power to enable the most talented among its citizens to become expert in all aspects of the known world. Citizenship is relatively open to outsiders who will use their access and privileges to further push boundaries in discovery and invention. Then, at some point, decades or centuries later, newer contenders will emerge, the pattern will be repeated and the baton of civilization will be passed.

  That is how the world of Islam acquired and then gave up the torch. It is what characterises the rise and fall of the many civilizations that came before it. The ascendancy of Western nations can also be explained in similar terms. And there will, at some point in the future, be a decline.

  No one wants to contemplate failure, which is partly why most of the great civilizations like to see their role in exceptional terms. We want to believe in our own inherent special-ness. We seek to claim, as the historian Kenneth Clark did in his landmark BBC series Civilization, that our achievements are unique to us. Such exceptionalism helps us to believe that our time will last for ever. Such an attitude makes the prospect of decline hard to come to terms with.

  Today, many in Muslim communities are resistant to change and innovation. Such a position, not unlike that of William of Malmesbury in 11th-century England, is a belief that all of the best ideas happened in a previous ‘golden age’. It reflects the idea that things will only get worse as humankind proceeds towards the end of the world, which is why many insist that we must preserve the best of the old.

  One problem with such an approach – apart from its denial of history – is that when decline sets in, it becomes hard to accept. If a different culture eclipses our own in its power to amaze, we remain unreconciled to our own loss. And that, to my mind, stops us picking ourselves up and moving ahead. This unrequited longing for a golden age diminishes the potential for discovery, invention and innovation today. It is difficult to move forward when all you’re doing
is looking in the rear-view mirror.

  I am extremely grateful to Duncan Heath and colleagues at Icon Books for bringing out this second edition, and I look forward to continuing the conversation with both new and existing readers. Those wishing to get in touch can do so via Twitter @EhsanMasood or by email: EhsanMasood@live.com

  Ehsan Masood

  London, February 2017

  A note on language

  A book on science during the Islamic empires presents some interesting challenges for the science writer of today writing in English, and at a time when a good deal of sensitivity surrounds the use of words and phrases on all things Islamic, or Muslim.

  Questions to do with God and religion are not mainstream to the process of how science is done, nor its many and varied products. Because of this, science writing (at least in English) has yet to develop a comprehensive vocabulary on the topic of science and religion.

  The publishers of Science and Islam: a History, however, couldn’t wait for a dictionary on science and belief. They needed a consistent short-hand phrase to describe the science that took place during the empires that followed the birth of Islam. And several candidates were shortlisted for the job.

  One option was to use ‘Muslim science’, except that not all of the scientists mentioned in the following pages were Muslims. Another option was to go for ‘Arab science’, except that many practitioners were not from the Arab world, even if they were Arabic-speaking.

  As so often happens with dilemmas in cultural relations, the best solution was to look for a compromise. The phrase that this book employs to describe science in Islamic times is ‘Islamic science’. It isn’t perfect by any means, but it comes closest to the mark.

  An explanation of why Islamic science was chosen is needed, because to many readers Islamic science will be as nonsensical as Jewish science, Christian science, or Hindu science. Science is a universal tool for knowing about the world we live in: the individual beliefs of scientists have no bearing on the nature of what it is that they are investigating. One of the best examples of this is the 1979 Nobel prize in physics: this was shared between Muhammad Abdus Salam, a devout believer, and Steven Weinberg, a devout atheist.