If translation is the art of transmitting to interested readers texts that would otherwise be inaccessible to them, thus opening up fresh opportunities for learning and understanding, it is also an intellectual adventure for the translator, who spends years communing with the author. After a patient inner and outer journey, Ghulam Shams-ur-Rehman has reached the shores of publication, where his book will soon begin its own voyage. Before the reader, in his turn, travels with Aḥmad Zarrūq, I would like to draw his attention to the innovative writing style of this contemporary of the polymaths ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Jāmī and Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī. As the new translation before us makes clear, an important feature of the Qawāʿid al-Ṭaṣawwuf is the creative use of metaphor, symbol and analogy. To serve his theory of juridical Sufism (uṣūlī ṭaṣawwuf), which fused legal rectitude and Sufi devotion, Zarrūq formulated in rhymed prose (sajʿ) a series of maxims modelled on the legal genre known as al-qawāʿid al-fiqhiyya. He enlivened these adages, infusing them with Sufi narrative flavour drawn from hagiographic and speculative traditions, mostly associated with the Shādhiliyya path.
However, as a rigorous jurist, the Moroccan Sufi remains wary of the delights of rhetoric and poetry, for he knows that subtle parables and well-turned verses can lead listeners astray. A major weakness of poetry is its fundamental ambiguity. On p. 136 we read, “… when a verse has multiple possible meanings, the actual sense may be determined either by assessing the intention of its composer in principle or through the intuition of the one who hears it. Hence, the spiritual or intellectual state of all those listening to poetry may be determined by questioning them about its meaning. Attributing an inferior interpretation to an exemplary individual is morally unacceptable, and claiming that a second-rate person has proposed a distinguished explanation is harmful to the spiritual condition of the hearers.” Even worse, “… reciting love poetry, lamenting, gesticulating and flailing about only indicate one’s distance from true witnessing. A consciousness of Divine Majesty obviates the self-praise that is so common in poetry.” (p. 139) For these reasons, Aḥmad Zarrūq goes on to say, “… small is the corpus of poetry left behind by those who have seen clearly; that is, from the great saints such as al-Junayd, Shaykh Abū Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Qādir [al-Jilānī], al-Shādhilī, and their like…. [Indeed,] they did not quote poetry in the context of spiritual teaching for, even though poetry does encompass spiritual realities, understanding depends upon the capacity of the listener.” (ibid.) The specious, overly emotional aspect of the poet’s craft is what Zarrūq sought to avoid in his treatise, while retaining the evocative power of narrative verse.
Even more troublesome than the interpretive difficulties poetry presents are the weaknesses it is prone to exploit in both composers and listeners. Zarrūq acknowledges in chapter 15 that “… narratives have a stronger impact on the hearer than does expository speech. Hence, it has been said that stories of past events are like soldiers of God’s army who strengthen the hearts of gnostics.” Yet, “… poetry has been likened to a psychic force which serves only to strengthen the ego. If it is recited before an honourable and praiseworthy soul, it strengthens good qualities; otherwise, it only serves the orator in achieving his intentions.” This double-edged linguistic sword requires that the Sufi author make judicious use of his literary skills. He is cognizant that “…equal attention should be directed to finding the precise meaning of words (in order to understand a passage in its entirety) and to a thorough comprehension of the passage so that the correct words to convey it may be selected.” Just as he balances the impulses of mysticism with the rules of law, compensating for the firmness of the latter with the flexibility of the former, in a constant quest for both physical and spiritual temperance, Zarrūq carefully weighs the different rhetorical forces in his treatise in order to control his own pen and its effects on the reader. It is hardly surprising, then, that the first metaphorical or analogical regime in his writing relates to the body and corporality.
The very first chapter states that “… there can be no Sufism without understanding of the law; similarly, there is no jurisprudence without Sufism…. It follows that both jurisprudence and Sufism are necessary because they are inextricably connected, in the same way that the spirit is attached to the body. Bodies cannot survive without spirits, nor can spirits manifest without bodies.” Zarrūq seems to associate mysticism with the spirit and the law with the body, suggesting the pre-eminence of Sufism, but insisting above all on their inseparable nature. He asserts that existence can only occur through the incarnation of the spirit or the spiritualisation of the body, reinforcing the corporal metaphor by invoking medical science. In the following chapter, Sufism is defined as “… a science aimed at the rectification of hearts by devoting solely to God at the expense of what is other than Him … like jurisprudence for correcting actions…like theology for realising creedal beliefs … like medicine for curing bodily ailments, and like grammar for improving speech, so is Sufism intended for the correction of the heart.” The series of analogies alludes to therapeutic treatment of the heart as a subtle form of gnosis practised by Sufi ‘healers’.
In the same chapter, the medical cure also represents the knowledge of jurisprudence that it is necessary to acquire before performing any act, just as taking prescribed medication must precede any healing process: “It is improper to practise a thing until one knows the legal ruling pertaining to it and understands its dimensions. Therefore, saying ‘I will not undertake this discipline until I put it to practice’ is like declaring ‘I will not take medication until my illness goes away.’ Such a person neither takes the cure nor does his illness go away.” Later in the chapter, the author states that spiritual knowledge and correct mystical experience cannot be beneficial without the other, comparing “this dual requirement to textbook-knowledge of medicine that is of little use without practical experience, or vice-versa.” By analogy with medical science, Zarrūq emphasises that juridical Sufism is as much a theory as a practice. The rectification of hearts obeys an intellectual and experiential discipline.
A second range of symbols, perhaps intended to create a calming reading atmosphere, concerns the elements of nature, in particular water and freshness. On p. 106, in a discussion on Sufi livelihood with reference to al-Ghazālī, we read that “wealth is like water, for God created it lawful just as He created the water pure.” This image of the purity of water brought into being by God is also associated with considerations of greater import than mere material goods. In the words of our author, fresh water defines the purity of devotional practice and even that of mystical experience. In a touching scene reported on p. 66, “a teacher said to his disciple: ‘O my son! Cool down the water you drink, for if you drink cool water, you praise God with all your heart. If you drink it hot, you praise God with an unbecoming dryness of soul’.” The contrast between the prayer that refreshes and the ego that desiccates is even clearer in the following quotation (p. 121): “For this reason, prayers upon the Messenger of God (God bless him and grant him peace) have been prescribed to accompany the invocations, because these prayers resemble cooling water that strengthens the soul and removes the incandescence of its nature.” To the classic imagery of mystical fire, Zarrūq prefers that of the invigorating water. He writes: “Once the light of God (al-ḥaqq) has shone upon the heart, there remains no place in it for others, because the experience of Divine reality is more delightful than the coolest water.”
This dialectic of hot and cold, dry and wet, is not just a question of naturalistic metaphor; it is also a phenomenology of Sufi experience, as this extract on p. 176 shows: “A kind of coolness and expansion of the heart comes after getting a thought from a divine source, whereas dryness and contraction of the heart occur from ideation that originates in the mind. Divine thoughts are like the sunrise, which does not intensify except in clarity, whereas egocentric ideas might be compared to a stone pillar which remains unaltered until it is broken down.” In other words, while the egocentric mind dries up and closes in on itself, the heart of the gnostic swells and fills with the fluids of the divine source. This is why the spiritual quest is likened to the search for watering holes in the desert of existence. Digging a well sums up all initiatory efforts (p. 111): “He who gives up on his chosen method before attaining spiritual realisation is like a man who tries to dig a well by removing a few shovelfuls of earth in various locations, or another who thinks he can make a well by pouring drops of water on the dry earth.”
Last but not least, Aḥmad Zarrūq brings the symbolism of the animal world into play with the aim of illustrating his points. In Islam, the dog traditionally represents all that is evil, especially Satan. The author turns this argument around, pointing out that it is better to appeal to its master, i.e. God, to get rid of the devil rather than trying to fight him (p. 169): “Satan is like a dog; if you try to fight it, it will shred whatever you put before it and tear your clothes. But if you turn instead to its master, he will obligingly command it to leave you.” Another dangerous beast, the snake, is mentioned on p. 164: “the temporal world is like a snake that we have not to kill, but to capture alive.” Again, the Sufi must not be mistaken about his target, for his goal is not to deny the temporal world but to render it unattractive, hence harmless. A final animal reference on p. 90 is more positive: “Wisdom is the long-cherished desire of the believer, for which he searches tirelessly. This believer may be compared to a honey bee that visits every flower but returns to its own hive at night—otherwise, no benefit would be gained from its honey.” Bees are mentioned in the Qurʾān (sūra 16:68–69, entitled “Bee”; al-naḥl) and are admired by the Prophet, who considered them among God’s marvellous, hardworking creatures, to be emulated by the Muslim community. In Sufism, the bee foraging among flowers and collecting honey has been identified with the aspirant in search of the right path. In a similar vein, honey symbolises the divine truth and the bee a gnostic seeking the divine truth. Zarrūq extends this metaphor, reminding the Sufi that he must finally enter into himself in order to benefit from gnosis.
These few remarks do not, of course, do justice to the stylistic and intellectual strength of the Qawāʿid al-Ṭaṣawwuf or to the achievements of the present translation. My sole purpose is to invite readers to take a closer look at a work that is unique in its genre.