by Nilab Saeedi
Marinos Sariyannis is the Research Director and Department Coordinator of Ottoman History at the Institute for Mediterranean Studies in Rethymno, Greece. He spoke to the JHI Blog about his research on the role of magic and the supernatural in Ottoman history. By shedding light on how Sufi mysticism and orthodox scholarship shaped the worldview of the Ottoman elite, Sariyannis opens up new avenues for studying the delicate interplay between supernatural beliefs and emerging rationalism in the Ottoman Empire.
Nilab Saeedi: Your research as part of the GHOST project looks at the complex relationship between Ottoman occult sciences and the socio-cultural landscape of the Empire. Can you tell us about the differences in perceptions of supernatural practices between the Ottoman elite and the general population? Specifically, how did they differ in accepting and regulating supernatural practices? What was the evolution of these differences over the history of the Empire?
Marinos Sariyannis: Occult sciences are only one part of what we studied in the project, which deals with the whole spectrum of perceptions of nature, its boundaries, and what is beyond them, i.e., the supernatural. But you are correct in focusing on practices concerning the social landscape of the Ottoman Empire. The beliefs about the ways of the universe were more or less shared across social stratification, with the main difference being the degree to which they were elaborated. For instance, everyone believed more or less in astral influences, but scholars or other members of the elite had a much more complex description of these influences and their nature. Everyone believed that dreams often carried secret meanings and could bring one in contact with dead people, but learned Sufis theorized in much greater detail about the intermediate spheres of existence that made such contact possible. On the other hand, the history of magic and divination is a field where social diversity and its evolution can be clearly seen. In the sixteenth century, Ottoman beliefs in magic were strongly influenced by the previous turn of the Islamic world toward a worldview dominated by the significance of Arabic letters, whose properties could be used for magical activities. Complex magic squares and talismans were manufactured in great quantities, and such practices were common among both the elite and the more vernacular Sufi orders. However, while in the late sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries, many scholars preferred a more naturalistic approach to magic, i.e., based on the hierarchy and correspondence of earthly and astral entities, folk magic in both urban and rural settings followed either a continuation of demonic or ritual magic (mainly based on jinn invocations) or a set of lettrist techniques using talismans or alphanumeric calculations. Such techniques were still extensively used by the common folk, while many members of the elite seem to have been tempted by “disenchanted” visions of a non-supernatural world.
NS: Your research discusses a remarkable shift towards rationalism and skepticism in Ottoman society, particularly in response to Sufi claims of miracles. What were the key social and intellectual factors that contributed to the Ottoman Empire becoming increasingly “disenchanted” with the supernatural? How does this process compare with similar movements in the European Enlightenment?
MS: This was undoubtedly a complex and by no means linear process. While some segments of the Ottoman society were moving toward a “disenchanted” worldview, for others, the world became more “enchanted” than ever (to borrow Derin Terzioğlu’s words). After all, we know very well that the notion of disenchantment has been the subject of heavy criticism regarding the European world, where it was first applied. Still, I think that there were many signs indicating a shift toward rationalism and a “de-supernaturalization” of the world in some social strata of the Ottoman population from the seventeenth century onward, especially in the urban context. In my opinion—which, I am afraid, is not very popular among my fellow Ottomanists—a crucial factor in this process was the so-called Kadızadeli movement, a movement of fundamentalist or Salafist preachers who struggled against the “innovations” of certain Sufi orders throughout the seventeenth century. In this struggle, they had to deny the Sufi sheikhs their ability to perform miracles; so, they promoted a worldview with minimal divine intervention in everyday life. In the long run, even Sufi sheikhs preferred to speak of visions and illuminations rather than impressive miracles, which could be considered a violation of the order of things.
On the other hand, scholars such as Kâtib Çelebi, as well as intermediaries like the Greek Orthodox notables of Istanbul who studied in Italy, played a key role in the transfer of knowledge and ideas from seventeenth-century Europe to the Ottoman Empire. Finally, there are traces of some materialist or deistic ideas that recurred among some scholars as well as the common folk. All these factors can, in some ways, be compared with similar developments in European cultural and intellectual history: the Protestant pietism, the scientific revolution, and maybe also the early enlightenment of Spinoza. But perhaps it would be more productive to see this development as a social phenomenon, with the Kadızadelis or the introduction of European scientific knowledge being a result rather than a cause. I am referring to the dissolution of the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century feudal structures through extensive monetization, a process that brought about several changes associated with what we call early modernity. This may explain why this “disenchantment” remained only halfway through, never fully achieving something similar to the eighteenth-century Enlightenment or the Scientific Revolution with its mechanical and deterministic view of the universe. The dissolution of feudal structures in the Ottoman Empire was not followed by the growth of a significant capitalist sector or anything comparable to the accumulation of capital in European early modernity— at least not until the mid-nineteenth century, when Ottoman society and economy became fully integrated into the European and then global capitalist system.
NS: Your research findings suggest that within the Ottoman worldview, there was no direct linguistic equivalent to the European concept of the “supernatural.” How did this linguistic difference impact Ottoman intellectual approaches to beliefs such as magic, miracles, and divination? In addition, how were occult practices such as astrology and talismanic magic perceived and regulated by the Ottoman elite, including religious scholars and state officials? Can you identify any significant changes in their attitudes towards these practices in different periods of Ottoman history?
MS: Actually, the Ottomans did have a term for the supernatural: the ghayb or “unseen.” Of course, it emphasized the inability of the human intellect to understand this sphere rather than it being beyond the laws of nature. There were other terms for the latter concept: khariq al-ada, what “breaks the custom” of things—i.e., miracle; or aja’ib wa ghara’ib, the “marvels and wonders” that cannot be explained and cause perplexity. In any case, although I have tried to do my share of conceptual history, I think that society takes precedence over language and that concepts follow social developments, not the other way around. I do not believe that the limits of these terms and concepts set boundaries on how the Ottomans understood or tried to make sense of the universe. The development of ideas and perceptions pushed further—or contract, in some cases—the boundary between the natural and the supernatural, between what is understandable and what is not, what can be controlled and what cannot. On the other hand, during the medieval and early modern periods, Islamic cultures differed from Christian ones in believing that magic is not the work of the Devil, something inherently evil. As jinns and angels took the place of demons, and Arabic letters were granted power over the cosmos by Islamic theology, magic was more a way of coping with the elements of the world, of using its secret structure to one’s benefit. Shihr, which is often translated as “magic,” was condemned in the Qur’an and generally regarded as something reproachable and somehow pagan—but other forms such as simya or niranjat (equally translated as “magic”) could be practiced without conflicting with any theological precept.
Moreover, factors such as major violations of the existing religious order did not disrupt Ottoman social life in the same way as the rise of Lutheranism did in Christian Europe. Thus, we do not see systematic persecution of practitioners of folk or learned magic. Of course, there was a lively debate concerning astrology, but it concerned the concept of free will and whether human knowledge could accurately grasp the influence of thousands of astral entities, which were not denied per se. Ottoman authorities occasionally persecuted astrologers, sorcerers, geomancers, and the like—but this was because they were often swindlers and charlatans, leading good people astray, not because they practiced some prohibited knowledge or skills.
NS: In your classification of Ottoman divination methods, you identify three main approaches: direct contact with the ghayb (the unseen) through visions or miracles, occult sciences such as alphabetology, and more materialistic interpretations such as astrology. How did these different methods of divination interact in Ottoman society? To what extent did they reflect broader social shifts between spiritual and rational explanations of the unknown in the Ottoman Empire?
MS: Yes, I use this taxonomy to deal with the diversity of approaches to divination. It is based on two criteria. Some methods depend on a spiritual world vision, others on a mechanical or deterministic one; moreover, methods themselves can be of a spiritual or of a mechanical character. A spiritual worldview allows direct contact with the supernatural, whether through visions or invocations of supernatural entities like angels or jinn. But it also provides for a mechanical method using Arabic letters as levers to mobilize these supernatural powers. On the other hand, a more mechanical worldview would refer to the astral powers and their correspondence with material phenomena like flora or metals. Of course, this is a classification from the perspective of an outsider, which does not correspond to what the Ottomans perceived themselves as different methods. One can propose other, equally or more valid taxonomies. However, I prefer this classification because it helps us distinguish between more or less rationalistic explanations and approaches to nature.
All of these approaches are manifest in the Ottoman tradition. Earlier Islamic magic favored several combinations of the first and third approach; that is, ritual magic (summoning the jinn through incantations and magical seals, using spiritual methods to manipulate a spiritual world) and natural or astral magic, which presumably must have been more popular with the learned strata of society as it involved a highly elaborate system of interdependencies between the planets, the four elements, the plants, the metals, and so forth. The famous “Goal of the Sage” or Ghayat al-hakim, known in the West as Picatrix, is a good example of this latter system, which approaches a mechanical world vision, full of astral influences and terrestrial hierarchies, with mainly mechanical methods, i.e., trying to take advantage of these hierarchies and manipulate them without necessarily invoking supernatural entities such as spirits. The so-called lettrist approach, signs of which can be seen from quite early in the alchemy essays collected in the Jabirean corpus and in Ibn Arabi’s philosophy, gained precedence in the Islamic occult sciences after the thirteenth century when the works attributed to al-Buni spread the idea that Arabic letters are inherent in the structure of the universe, and therefore the universe can be manipulated through their combinations in magic squares or talismans. We must bear in mind that after the victory of the Ash’arite school over the Mu’tazilite theologians, the Qur’an was considered not a creation but a property or attribute of God. Consequently, its words and ultimately its letters were seen as an integral part of the cosmos, a building block of its structure connected with others, such as the four elements or the properties of matter. In my classification, this is a highly supernatural or spiritual view of the world, but the methods used are mechanical or even mathematical.
As we said earlier, all these approaches coexisted during the Ottoman times. Certainly, vernacular magic, more influenced by folk practices, tended to follow rituals aimed at summoning angels or jinn, while astral magic required more elaborate knowledge and indicated a higher social status. On the other hand, Lettrism became very popular and continued to thrive in a simplified form, focusing on alphanumerical calculations in the vernacular tradition long after the Ottoman elite had abandoned magic or preferred to glorify (but seldom practice) natural magic. Antagonism among those claiming direct access to the supernatural played its role; thus, we see Sufi sheikhs being adamant enemies of astrology since they wanted to promote their own visionary approach to foretelling the future. Some Sufi orders preferred dream interpretation, while others practiced lettrist methods, and so on. Thus, while we cannot connect such preferences to spiritual or mechanical methods with any general rationalizing tendencies, different social groups adopted different approaches. We can return to this question in a much more productive way when we answer a forgotten question: namely, how can we associate—if there is such an association, that is—Ottoman Sufi orders with specific social groups.
NS: You mention the rejection of Sufi miracles by the Kadızadeli movement in your discussion of the transition from enchantment to disenchantment in Ottoman intellectual culture. How did the perception of the supernatural in wider Ottoman society change as a result of this shift in religious thought? Furthermore, what parallels can be drawn between the Kadızadeli movement and the religious reformations taking place in other parts of the world at the same time?
MS: Now, this is a suggestion most of my colleagues find exaggerated. The Kadızadeli, or rather the debates they initiated, dominated Istanbul life for several decades in the mid-seventeenth century. However, is that enough to consider them a crucial factor in the intellectual paradigm shift? I would answer that even though Kadızadeli preachers exerted some direct influence in the Sultan’s palace for short periods, there is plenty of evidence suggesting that their ideas managed to dominate large segments of the Ottoman population, elite and non-elite alike (the term Kadızadeli is attested in Sarajevo in the late eighteenth century). The general pietistic and moralistic attitude prevalent in eighteenth-century intellectual life should be seen in this context, and the same is true of the change in views of even moderate Sufis against miracles, at least in some urban circles. Kadızadelis’ catechetical approach, which directly targeted a large portion of Sufi sheikhs, favored a disenchanted view of reality in which miracles had little place. In other words, the supernatural was pushed away from everyday life to the distant past or the rarity of truly extraordinary events. For many, salvation became a personal quest, the result of piety and orthopraxy that was independent of any direct blessing by saints, living or dead. This approach eventually prevailed over the course of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, as even Sufis belonging to the Ḫalvetī or the Mevlevī orders, the main opponents of Kadızadelis, gradually abandoned miracles that “break the custom of things,” considering them useful only to impress the common folk. Instead, they preferred to claim more esoteric miracles, such as visions, dreams, good deeds, or examples of a strong guide-disciple relationship.
Of course, since many of these views were also shared by various segments of Sufis, we may postulate that the Kadızadeli movement was a byproduct or symptom of this process rather than the driving factor. In any case, with the emergence of new legitimate sources of knowledge in the mid-seventeenth century, with the work of Kâtib Çelebi and the apparent emphasis on individual reasoning, the rejection of alleged Sufi miracles by the Kadızadelis in favor of a strict, scriptural understanding of religion were arguably steps toward what Max Weber would call a gradual (and partial) disenchantment of the Ottoman world. I have argued that the Kadizadeli spirit shares certain affinities with Puritanism, particularly the appeal to the merchant classes and skepticism toward metaphysics, favoring instead individual access to knowledge and discouraging traditional natural philosophy. Even if one does not support the idea of “Islamic enlightenment” promoted by the so-called Neo-Sufism of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Kadızadelis and the intellectual climate of “Sunna-minded” preachers ultimately promoted individual thought en masse—that is, not only the thought of certain authorities—as a legitimate way to the truth. The similarity to Protestant and Puritan ideas seems even stronger if we consider that the opponents of the Kadızadelis used arguments similar to those of the Jesuits during the early Counter-reformation, from defending the possibility of miracles in the present (by the seventeenth-century sheikhs) to the use of a casuistic morality (by Kâtib Çelebi). Thus, I believe that relevant parallels existed, but we have to be very careful in interpreting them; we have to clarify them first before attributing them to similar social changes, such as the rise of a merchant class, the Bürgertum—but this question is far from being answered.
NS: Your analysis of the intellectual life of the Ottoman elite explores the significance of lettrism and talismanic magic in the context of power and empire. How did the incorporation of lettrism affect the relationship between Ottoman rulers and the supernatural authority they believed to possess? What were its implications for governance and administration?
MS: Over the past decade, a widely accepted theory has emerged arguing for an “occultist turn” in the Islamic world after the thirteenth century. Apparently, the earlier naturalist view of astral influences through heat and movement gave way to an approach based on supernatural entities, in which lettrism had a very pronounced place. Matthew Melvin-Koushki, in particular, has spoken of a Neo-Pythagorian, mathematized perception of the universe, visible and invisible, and has argued that this occultist or lettrist turn functioned in tandem with the formation of the major Islamic empires of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries: the Mughals, Timurids, and, of course, the Ottomans. He speaks of an “occult-scientific imperialism,” in which lettrism-based occult approaches to the present and future were closely linked with an imperial vision that had claims to messianic missions. The late Cornell Fleischer emphasized the role of occultists, especially the geomancer Remmal Haydar, in shaping the eschatological and messianic aspirations of Suleyman the Magnificent. At the end of the sixteenth century, Murad III also took a keen interest in astrological predictions and firmly believed that he was God’s chosen one, constantly receiving sacred messages in the form of dreams and visions (these highly interesting notes have recently been studied and published by Özgen Felek). It seems that other occult sciences also flourished during his reign. Finally, highly elaborate talismanic shirts and designs preserved in various collections, museums, and libraries attest to the importance wealthy patrons gave to lettrist methods of protection and magic.
However, it seems to me that, at least in some respects, not only the “lettrist turn” but even the “occult turn” was more of an “occult moment” for the Ottomans: yes, they were indeed involved in a deeply occultist reading of the contemporaneous world, but this did not last much further than the end of the sixteenth century. The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were, in part, centuries of disenchantment. We keep finding more and more scholarly texts from this period speaking of occult sciences with contempt. From historical and political works applying the idea of historical laws to theological debates about human agency and its role in influencing history, and from moralist authors such as Nābī or Sünbülzāde Vehbī rejecting occultism, to Sufi sheikhs preferring “invisible” miracles such as visions, rather than “cosmic” ones like wondrous cures, the turn toward a disenchanted worldview is quite evident. One may say that the Ottomans also followed a global trend and compare them with European Puritans and the debates of Protestant scholars against Jesuits over miracles. Consequently, occultist preoccupations also lost their influence on power games and imperial policy after the late sixteenth century. While the office of chief astrologer (müneccimbaşı) was maintained in the palace until the end of the Ottoman Empire, it seems that the sultans in the late eighteenth century listened to their astrologers only for the sake of tradition. In 1848, even a professional astrologer was so severely disappointed by the lack of success of predictions about his own life that he expressed doubts about the discipline he had been practicing. On the other hand, all these cases may show a multiplication of “enlightened” takes, but by no means can we be sure that they became dominant. Belief in even a vague way of predicting the future through celestial observations persisted and was common in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.
NS: I would like to refer to Ethan Menchinger’s article on “Turkish Fatalism” from the second volume of Aca’ib, which discusses the tension between predestination and human agency. How did early modern Ottoman theology balance between divine omnipotence and individual moral responsibility? Further, did these theological debates influence political decisions and societal norms, especially during periods of crisis?
MS: Indeed, Ethan (a member of the GHOST team) has shown that the volume of works on the problem of divine and human will, starting from the seventeenth century, indicates the increased interest of Ottoman scholars in topics such as fate, divine intervention, free will, or the regularity of the universe. As Menchinger shows, Ottoman scholars developed their own vocabulary of causality. While using traditional notions such as “God’s custom” (ʿādat Allah) or its violation (khāriq al-ʿāda), Ottoman theologians also introduced new terms to describe events controlled by God (the “universal events” or ʿumūr-i külliyye), as opposed to those that could be manipulated by humans (the “particular events” or ʿumūr-i cüziyye). Thus, God’s will imposed theological constraints on the natural order but not on the operation of human will (irāde-i cüziyye). It is worth noting that the terminology and arguments behind this turn—namely, the concept of “particular will” that is under human control and complements the “universal will” in moving the universe—originated from Naḳşibendī circles, including ʿAbd al-Ġani al-Nābulusī (d. 1731), Muḥammad Saçaklızāde (d. 1732), and Isma’īl Gelenbevī (d. 1790, a noted scholar who introduced logarithms into Ottoman mathematics). The Naḳşibendīs, who allied with the Kadızadelis during the seventeenth-century debates, in the late eighteenth century emerged as allies of the Westernizing faction of the Ottoman apparatus, aiming to modernize the military. An interesting case of such a Sufi reformer is Ubeydullah Kuşmanī. With the support of Ottoman bureaucrats and young intellectuals, with possible Naḳşibendī affiliations, he sharply attacked the Janissary opponents of Selim III’s New Order and praised European military technology in a 1806 treatise. In this document, he rejects fatalism and points out the necessity of the “pursuit of the necessary efforts” (teşebbüs-i esbāb), while explaining that infidels are so adept at inventing new weapons and tools because they “are all oriented toward this world (sālik-i dünyā oldukları ecilden), [so] they always think of increasing their knowledge.” For instance, infidel artisans keep the apprentice until he proves that he can become a master by finding new knowledge or technique, while Muslims tend to neglect worldly affairs as transitory.
These debates about the extent to which humans can understand, predict, and control the world display a “disenchanted,” if not “secularized,” vision of reality that gradually emerged throughout the eighteenth century. Theology was only one of the fields in which this conflict took place; historiography, ethics, and, most importantly, political writing are of major importance in following these discussions. Yet, my impression is that it would be a gross exaggeration to see in Ottoman theological thought any radical transformation similar in any way to that undergone by Christian theology in the early modern era.
Nilab Saeedi is a researcher at the Institute for Habsburg and Balkan Studies at the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna, Austria. She is also pursuing her doctoral studies in history at İbn Haldun University in Istanbul, Turkey.
Edited by Artur Banaszewski
Featured Image: Zawba‘a, the demon king of Friday. From Kitab al-Bulhan, a composite astrology/astronomy/geomancy Arabic manuscript from the late fourteenth century, Bodleian Library MS. Bodl. Or. 133, via Wikimedia Commons.
