by Paul Nurse
All the same, the City of Peace was no mere pleasure-place, for at its height Baghdad teemed with libraries, workshops, academies, a free public hospital and even an astronomical observatory for charting the stars. Law, medicine, mathematics, optics and astronomy were all studied and taught in Baghdadi academies. It was here that the mathematician Muhammad al-Khwarizimi wrote a book entitled Kitab al-Jabr wa l-Muquabala (The Book of Reduction and Comparison), giving the world both the word and the system known as “algebra.” Plato, Aristotle and other classical writers from Greece, Rome, Persia, India and even China were translated in the place where al-Khwarizimi worked, the Dar al-Hikma or “House of Wisdom”—essentially, Baghdad’s version of Alexandria’s great library—and their ideas assimilated into Islamic, and eventually western, thought.
Baghdad was not just the capital of a far-flung Muslim empire. For its time it was a revolutionarily cosmopolitan place, home not only to Muslims but to whosoever accepted Abbasid rule and subjected themselves to Islamic law. Merchants and travellers from as far afield as Spain and China congregated in the city to exchange trade goods, news, views and stories as pagans, Jews, Christians, Zoroastrians, Hindus and Buddhists found themselves part of one of the earliest and most culturally integrated cities on the planet—a kind of medieval Muslim New York.
The entire caliphate, in fact, reflected the diversity of peoples found within all the widespread political systems. For five centuries, the black-and-gold Abbasid banner fluttered over lands from Egypt to India, encompassing a host of cultures and resources and turning the caliphate into one of the most prosperous regimes of the period. It is no coincidence that the earliest prototypes of The Thousand and One Nights were set down and compiled in a land composed of so many different peoples. Arabian Nights’ tales concern not only Arabs and Persians but Indians, Chinese, Jews, Greeks (Alexander the Great, known as Iskander Dhoulkernein or “Alexander the Two-Horned,” figures in more than one story), Africans and even “Franks” (Europeans), reflecting a multi-ethnic culture presided over by a generally tolerant Muslim hierarchy.
In a society where much of the population was of mixed lineage, there was little tension caused by racial prejudice, and few rivalries born of creed or religious differences. Enjoying an elevated standard of living based on commercial importance and administrative efficiency, the Abbasid caliphate is the capital of Muslim heritage, a civilization centred in a marvel town that has assumed the status of a shining city in a golden time—one immortalized by the English poet James Thomson in his “Castle of Indolence”:
Such the gay Splendor, the luxurious State,
Of Caliphs old, who on the Tygris’ Shore,
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great,
Held their bright Court, where was of Ladies shore;
And Verse, Love, Music, still the Garland wore.
The analogy between Abbasid Baghdad and Camelot is not as unrealistic as it might seem, since the caliphate had its own version of King Arthur among its rulers—the fifth caliph, known as Haroun al-Rashid or “Aaron, the Righteous.” Like his legendary British counterpart, Haroun made such a strong impression on his age that he swiftly passed into myth. Thanks to numerous appearances in The Thousand and One Nights, he is today the most famous of the caliphs in the West, yet even during his own time his name was familiar to Europeans as a ruler of magnificent power and wealth.
The reign of the historical Haroun al-Rashid, from 786 until his death in 809, is still remembered as Islam’s greatest period. Muslim lore depicts him as a paragon among kings, one whose enlightened regard for his subjects superseded all other concerns. Chief among this caliph’s legendary exploits was his habit of disguising himself as a commoner to descend among his people and gauge their mood and temper. As Scheherazade remarks, Haroun would often go out “to solace himself in the city … and to see and hear what new thing was stirring,” often accompanied by his trusted vizier, Jafar. Haroun’s adventures among the lowly provided ample material for court storytellers to flatter the historical caliph by including him in tales designed to showcase his wisdom and righteousness.
From these nocturnal excursions come a number of Arabian Nights stories placing Haroun, Jafar or Haroun’s main wife, the lady Zubayda, at the centre of events. As both observer and participant in his subjects’ affairs, Haroun is generally shown to be wise, beneficent and even playful, as in “The Sleeper Awakened,” in which the caliph tricks a sleeping man into thinking he is the true Commander of the Faithful. Sometimes Haroun merely watches events unfold or hears a story from another party; on other occasions, he acts as a narrative deus ex machina, bringing matters to a just conclusion. Such was Haroun’s fame that his reign has become more closely identified with the setting of the Nights than any other era. Arabian Nights’ tales occur in many different times and places, but it is Haroun’s world—the Baghdad of the early Abbasid caliphate—that provides our imaginations with the work’s most common locale and period.
Nowhere is this better illustrated than in verse the young Alfred Tennyson included in his first volume of published poetry. Written to memorialize the delight of reading the Nights as a child—“the silken sail of infancy”—Tennyson’s fourteen-stanza “Recollections of the Arabian Nights” is a work of aching nostalgia for the era of al-Rashid, which he contrasts sharply with the depressing reality of the early Industrial Age. Envisioning himself a loyal caliphate subject travelling languidly along the Tigris, Tennyson tarries in exquisite gardens, gazes upon a beautiful Persian girl and finally beholds the great Haroun himself, enthroned beneath a golden canopy. “Thereon,” the poet writes, “his deep eye stirr’d / With merriment of kingly pride” as the caliph contemplates the sheer brilliance of his domain.
The historical Haroun is remembered as a diligent ruler who was an early exponent of realpolitik, maintaining cordial diplomatic relations with Imperial China while forging a political understanding with the Holy Roman Emperor, the mighty Frankish king, Charlemagne. As an example of Haroun’s methods, in return for Charlemagne harassing the breakaway Moors who were pressuring France from Spain, Haroun promised to politically badger the Byzantine Christians of the Near East, perpetual thorns in the side of Pope Leo III and the Holy Roman Empire. Although Haroun and Charlemagne never met, gifts and communications were exchanged as mutual respect was forged between two rulers seeking their respective national securities.
For all his virtues, however, Haroun’s reign is not spotless. His systematic and seemingly inexplicable destruction of the powerful Barmakid family—Persians who administered much of his kingdom (his vizier, Jafar, belonged to this family and died as a result)—“marks his reign with a stain of infamy, with a blot of blood never to be washed away.” This act was also a serious political blunder that left the Abbasids without their most important supporters and servants. Verdicts regarding such malicious acts are best left to history’s judgment, but within the world of the Arabian Nights, Haroun al-Rashid remains the benevolent overseer of a magnificent expanse, the personification of the glory that is the Muslim past. Such is the regard in which he is held both within and without Islam that each stanza of Lord Tennyson’s poem ends with fond variations of the lines—a kind of punctuation to the caliph’s historical age—“For it was in the golden prime / Of good Haroun Alrashid.”
The dynasty of Haroun and the other Abbasid monarchs did not survive—weakened over time by internal decay, invasion (Mongol hordes sacked Baghdad in 1258, murdering the last caliph) and the rise of the Seljuk Turks—but its importance to the history of civilization is secure. Besides the caliphate’s other myriad contributions to world culture, it is in this crucible of scientific inquiry, refinement and multi-ethnic interaction that the earliest versions of the story collection known in Arabic as Alf Laila wa Laila, or The Thousand Nights and One Night, were born.
Whatever the first Arabian Nights’ stories were, wherever and whenever they arose, many are products of the oral tradition as expressed through the art of stor
ytelling. Though words and speech never relate exactly the same way twice, storytellers portray episodes with distinct beginnings, middles and ends to form a comprehensive narrative arc, prompting listeners to fashion for themselves interior images of characters, settings and actions.
This is what happened with many of the earliest tales forming Alf Laila wa Laila. Travel and trade mean exchanges not only of goods but also of ideas and information. Although their exact provenance is unknown, based on such internal evidence as cultural references and terminology it is believed that many of the stories in the Nights originated with Indian, Arab, Persian, Greek, Roman and possibly Chinese travellers, merchants and soldiers plying travel routes stretching from the Balkans to the China Sea. Rest stops were spent around campfires or in the occasional caravanserai—walled hostels catering to travellers—dotting the roads. At these times, it was customary to swap stories to while away the restful hours before setting out again. The more popular tales were thus transferred from place to place while being continually modified according to regional customs and circumstances, much as a joke will assume local colour and familiar allusions for better comprehension.
Eventually, some of these stories were absorbed and maintained by professional storytellers called in Arabic al-hakawati*—often known popularly as rawi or “reciting storytellers”—who made their living by relating stories for paying customers. Somewhat like the Book People in Ray Bradbury’s classic Fahrenheit 451, the rawi either memorized stories wholesale from other storytellers or manuscripts, or read them from bought or borrowed copies. Since tales that were actually written down were deemed superior to simple verbal stories, it appears that many Alf Laila wa Laila tales were read from personal or loaned written copies, with the storyteller adding individual flourishes or alterations appropriate to the place or occasion of the recitation.
More than simple reciters, many rawi were akin to theatrical performers, employing props or costumes to assist their recitations or accompanying themselves on musical instruments to create a mood and maintain their audience’s attention. Alexander Russell, a British physician working in Ottoman Syria during the mid-eighteenth century, gives a vivid description of the working methods of these entertainers:
It is not merely a simple narrative; the story is animated by the manner, and action of the speaker. A variety of … story books … furnish material for the story teller, who by combining the incidents of different tales … gives them an air of novelty…. He recites walking to and fro, in the middle of the coffee room, stopping only now and then when the expression requires some emphatic attitude.
Frequently, Russell tells us, the storyteller will act like Scheherazade herself, when “in the midst of some interesting adventure, when the expectation of the audience is raised to the highest pitch, he breaks abruptly, and makes his escape from the room,” leaving the tale unfinished and forcing listeners to return the next day to hear the conclusion or next instalment.
Operating first in marketplaces, where they competed for audience attention with conjurors, jugglers, acrobats and shadow-players, most rawi eventually moved into the new coffee houses that began appearing in the Muslim world during the sixteenth century. On special occasions such as festivals or family celebrations, storytellers might also be invited inside palaces or private homes to ply their trade. But whatever the venue, for a few coins and the odd word of praise, the rawi enthralled listeners with all manner of stories, some taking many hours to relate. Although of low social status, over the centuries they nevertheless performed an invaluable service for the eastern community by providing not only entertainment but also moral lessons, social instruction and tutelage in Islamic beliefs for a mostly illiterate population.
As vital components of Muslim society, the rawi maintained their profession unchanged up to the twentieth century, and can still be found in a few select places, such as the famous Djemmaa al-Fna Square of Marrakech, Morocco, or parts of Iran. Today the linear progression from storyteller to modern Arab literati is direct and unbreakable, symbolized by an alliance of Arab-American writers that has assumed the title RAWI (for Radius of Arab American Writers Inc.). Contemporary eastern writers continue to employ concepts of storytelling in their work. In Naguib Mahfouz’s Arabian Nights and Days, Scheherazade’s stories are reconfigured into a narrative involving the havoc wrought on a town where Arabian Nights characters live and interact. In Tahar Ben Jelloun’s This Blinding Absence of Light, political prisoners languishing in a Moroccan jail maintain their sanity by repeating film scripts or tales from the Nights to one another. In Salman Rushdie’s children’s classic Haroun and the Sea of Stories, the novel’s crisis is prompted by the silencing of the protagonist’s storytelling father, Rashid Khalifa, and a threat to the actual ocean of tales from which storytellers draw their inspiration.
By the ceaseless oral process, proto–Arabian Nights stories that proved interesting enough to be transmitted from place to place were subsequently picked up by the rawi, floating perpetually on a sea of tongues until sometime before the tenth century CE, when they began to be put down on paper and compiled.
Not all the tales found within the Arabian Nights arose from the oral tradition, and it is a mistake to believe that classical Muslim story collections are the direct result of listening to the rawi and more or less transcribing what was heard. Some narrative elements derive from older tales found in ancient Egypt or other pre-existing written compilations, or may have been taken from jokes or anecdotes uttered by witty courtiers and the companions of sultans and caliphs. These literary antecedents were then added or adapted to the early Nights as desired, while other tales, such as Sindbad’s voyages, came much later, though they appeared in written form long before they were added to the body of the Nights.
It is also a mistake to think that The Thousand and One Nights formed a large share of the storyteller’s repertoire. Alf Laila wa Laila tales were only part of the rawi’s storehouse, and were by no means the most favoured. In places like Cairo, popular romantic and heroic epics—often a mixture of prose and poetry—were more commonly heard than stories from Alf Laila wa Laila. The Nights were known and loved, of course, but remained only a fragment of the endless streams of stories circulating among professional and amateur storytellers and their listeners in the classical Muslim world.
Even those tales set down directly from oral storytelling were often given a literary form by the scribes committing them to paper, with the conversion of recitation to the written word involving changes in both their shape and intent. For all these reasons, it seems best to describe the Arabic Nights as a hybrid book, blending oral stories with literary ones—both ancient and more recent—to form a complex, interlinked series of written tales. But such is the timeless appeal of the storyteller that even now, the spectre of the rawi hovers over the Nights like a protective sentinel, given symbolic form by the declaiming figure of Scheherazade.
No one knows the name of the first compiler of Alf Laila wa Laila tales, although some sources mistakenly identify him as the early tenth-century Abbasid bureaucrat and historian Muhammad al-Jahshiyari. It appears that al-Jahshiyari did begin to compile a work he envisioned as containing a full thousand stories assembled from various sources, and was able to collect 480 Nights before his death ended the project and the work was eventually lost. His Nights, however, look to have been separate, disconnected tales with no frame story to link them together—really, an anthology—and so the work cannot be considered a true Alf Laila compilation.
But it is known that by the latter part of the ninth century, a written prototype of the Nights was in circulation in the Middle East. Shortly after the Second World War, the University of Chicago scholar Nabia Abbott acquired from Egypt a fragment of handwritten paper consisting of two joined folios preserved by the desert’s dry air. Written on both sides, this scrap, known as the “Alf Laila (A Thousand Nights) Fragment,” indicates how old written forms of the Nights truly are. Besides being the oldest surviving ex
ample of an Arabian Nights book in existence (it resides today in the University of Chicago’s Oriental Institute Museum), this small piece—not quite the size of a foolscap sheet—is also, according to Abbott’s research, the oldest surviving evidence of a paper book found outside China. Thanks to some marginal material written by an owner named Ahmed ibn Mahfuz (who probably used it as scrap paper), it is possible to date this fragment to October 879 CE, about the same time as the Arabs were conquering Sicily.
One page of the folio contains the title A book of tales from a Thousand Nights / There is neither strength nor power except in God the Highest, the Mightiest. There follows the traditional bismillah, or invocation of God’s name (“In the name of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate”) followed by the word for “Night,” then succeeded by a request from Dinarzade that Scheherazade tell her a story, giving “examples of the excellencies and shortcomings, the cunning and stupidity, the generosity and avarice, and the courage and cowardice that are in man.” Scheherazade obliges, beginning “and Scheherazade related to her a tale of elegant beauty….” Five discontinuous lines follow before the leaf abruptly ends.
That’s it: the sum total of the Alf Laila Fragment. No stories, no frame tale involving Scheherazade and the sultan—nothing beyond the title, invocation, Dinarzade’s request and the beginning of Scheherazade’s recitation. It is impossible to say how things proceed, what story or stories are told, how large the full manuscript was or what differences exist between this manuscript and later versions. Still, the precise dating of this artifact is of tremendous importance in establishing that a prototype of the Arabian Nights was in circulation as early as the late 800s, just two centuries after the establishment of the Muslim empire. It was probably in circulation even earlier, since we do not know how old the Kitab Hadith Alf Laila (“A Book of Tales from a Thousand Nights”) book was when it came to be used as scrap. By that time, it seems that versions of the earliest Nights’ tales, as well as some semblance of Scheherazade’s frame story, had become sufficiently popular to be thought worthy to be set down on paper.
