450

 MİNKĀRĪZĀDE YAHYĀ AND THE OTTOMAN SCHOLARLY
BUREAUCRACY IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

in the Seventeenth Century
This dissertation examines the life and career of Minkārīzāde Yahyā (1609–1678) in
the context of wider religious, administrative, political, and intellectual developments
of the seventeenth century. It contends that Minkārīzāde actively involved in
redefining critical aspects of Ottoman religio-legal dynamics on both institutional
and intellectual levels as a scholar-bureaucrat.
This study is composed of an introductory and four main chapters dealing
with distinct aspects of Minkārīzāde’s bureaucratic career and scholarly works.
While the introductory chapter lays out the dissertation’s main arguments and
analyzes the relevant literature, Chapter 2 explores the hitherto neglected early stages
of Minkārīzāde’s life, the scholars who taught him during his youth, and his
scholarly and bureaucratic career to trace the trajectory that advanced him to the
highest level of the Ottoman learned hierarchy. Chapter 3, on the other hand,
concentrates on Minkārīzāde’s scholarly works and scrutinizes his active
involvement in the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century. Looking closely
at Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the office of chief jurist and examining a number of
administrative developments he promoted, Chapter 4 discusses the new land regime
applied in Crete after its final conquest in 1669 in light of his fatwas. Lastly, Chapter
5 demonstrates that a wide range of scholars from different corners of the empire
established a close relationship with Minkārīzāde and benefitted from his scholarly
and intellectual patronage, resulting in the recognition of his seat as the “Threshold
of Minkārīzāde” (Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi).
v
ÖZET
Minkārīzāde Yahyā ve Onyedinci Yüzyıl
Osmanlı İlmiyesi
Bu tez Minkārīzāde Yahyā’nın (1609–1678) yaşamını ve kariyerini, onyedinci
yüzyılın daha geniş dini, idari, politik ve entelektüel gelişmeleri bağlamında
incelemektedir. Bu çalışma, bir alim-bürokrat olarak Minkārīzāde’nin, on yedinci
yüzyıl Osmanlı dini-hukuki dinamiklerinin kritik yönlerinin hem kurumsal hem de
entelektüel düzeyde yeniden tanımlanmasında güçlü ve aktif bir katılım gösterdiğini
iddia etmektedir.
Bu çalışma, Minkārīzāde’nin bürokratik kariyerini ve ilmi faaliyetlerinin
farklı yönlerini ele alan bir giriş ve dört ana bölümden oluşmaktadır. Giriş bölümü,
tezin ana argümanlarını ortaya koyup ilgili literatürü analiz ederken; 2. Bölüm,
Minkārīzāde’nin gençliği boyunca eğitim aldığı çeşitli alimlere ve onu Osmanlı
ilmiyesinin en tepesine taşıyan gidişatın izini sürmek adına ilmi ve bürokratik
kariyerine odaklanarak, hayatının şimdiye kadar ihmal edilmiş erken dönemlerini
araştırmaktadır. Öte yandan 3. Bölüm, Minkārīzāde’nin ilmi çalışmalarına
yoğunlaşarak, kendisinin 17. yüzyıl dini-hukuki tartışmalarına aktif katılımını
irdelemektedir. 4. Bölüm, şeyhülislamlığına genel bir bakış sağladıktan ve
uygulamada esas olarak kendisinin sorumlu olduğu bir dizi idari gelişmeyi
inceledikten sonra, 1669’daki son fethinin ardından Girit’te uygulanan yeni arazi
rejimini Minkārīzāde’nin fetvaları ışığı altında tartışmaktadır. Son olarak 5. Bölüm,
imparatorluğun farklı yerlerinden çok sayıda alimin Minkārīzāde ile yakın bir ilişki
kurup, makamının Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi olarak nitelenmesini sağlayan ilmi ve
entelektüel himayesinden faydalandığını ortaya koymaktadır.
vi
CURRICULUM VITAE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This dissertation was completed with the exceptional help of several individuals
whom I would like to thank. First and foremost, I would like to thank my advisor
Derin Terzioğlu, who has been an invaluable source of inspiration and generous
guidance during the process of writing this dissertation. I have always felt her
support in every stage of this study. Her scholarly erudition and nuanced
understanding of very complicated issues will always be instructive for my
scholarship in the future. I would also like to thank my committee members Çiğdem
Kafescioğlu, Abdurrahman Atçıl, Yavuz Aykan, and Akif Ercihan Yerlioğlu for
giving me extensive and insightful feedback and helping me improve my work. I
learned extensively from Çiğdem Kafescioğlu in her seminar and during the
dissertation writing process; her critical thinking expanded my vision and supported
my intellectual development. I am also indebted to Abdurrahman Atçıl for his
company and amicable conversations over the years. His works also helped me to
formulate my questions and crystalize my ideas more effectively. I have always felt
the support of Yavuz Aykan from the very beginning, which gave me invaluable
moral support throughout this process. I thank Akif Ercihan Yerlioğlu for his
comments on my draft and constructive contributions to my work. Lastly, I would
like to thank Meltem Toksöz for her generous help with the preparation of the draft
of my thesis proposal.
One of the most enjoyable parts of the dissertation process was my time at the
Center for Middle Eastern Studies at Harvard University during the 2018–2019
academic year as a visiting student. I owe lasting gratitude to Cemal Kafadar for
giving me this opportunity. I am grateful for the interest he showed in my research
ix
and for his guidance. He was also kind enough to let me audit his graduate seminar.
Although they were not directly involved in my dissertation research and writing, I
should also mention several former professors and mentors who have imbued me
with the necessary qualifications to understand better the different periods of
Ottoman history: Tülay Artan, Hülya Canbakal, Y. Hakan Erdem, Metin Kunt,
Özlem Çaykent, Aziz Nazmi Shakir, Zeynep Nevin Yelçe, Güçlü Tülüveli, Kayhan
Orbay, Selçuk Dursun, Ferdan Ergut, Yunus Emre Gürbüz, Birten Çelik, and Akile
Zorlu Durukan. I would also like to acknowledge the help of following scholars and
professors: Zeynep Altok, Muhammet Zahit Atçıl, Ayşe Tek Başaran, Yaşar Tolga
Cora, Çetin Çelik, Ramazan Ekinci, Boğaç Ergene, Ertuğrul Ökten, Himmet
Taşkömür, Kenan Yıldız, and Gülay Yılmaz.
I would never have been able to finish this dissertation without the financial
support of various institutions. I gratefully acknowledge the fellowships I received
from TÜBİTAK–BİDEB (2228–B National PhD Scholarship Programme for Senior
Graduate Students and 2214–A International Research Fellowship Programme for
PhD students) and BÜVAK (Boğaziçi University Foundation).
I have also enjoyed the company of friends who helped and supported me in
the past eight years in various ways. First of all, I would like to sincerely thank
Ahmet Kaylı who offered critical comments on various parts of this study. He also
helped me resolve a number of ambiguities in the text and refine the critical edition; I
cannot thank him enough. Abdullah Vahdi Kanatsız listened to me for hours and
restored my confidence in myself, for which I am grateful to him. I also would like to
thank Ali Atabey, who witnessed every stage of this long journey. He has
contributed to this dissertation much more than he is probably aware of. I would like
to especially thank Ramiz Üzümçeker and Damla Gürkan Anar for their friendships
x
in the most difficult times that we all shared during this process. I would like to
thank Sinan Kaya and Anıl Aşkın for their unforgettable friendship, especially in the
early stages of this journey. I have always felt the support of Cumhur Bekar. I greatly
appreciate his sincere friendship and unconditional support whenever needed. Özkan
Karabulut, Damla Özakay, Tuğrul Acar, and Hacı Osman “Ozzy” Gündüz deserve
special thanks for their warm friendship and company in Cambridge. I would also
like to extend my thanks here to Mehmet Yılmaz Akbulut, Ahmet Tahir Nur,
Mahmut Halef Cevrioğlu, Evren Sünnetçioğlu, Mustafa Oğuzhan Doğar, Mustafa
Altuğ Yayla, Sümeyye Hoşgör Büke, Mustafa Akay, Nihad Dostovic, Erdal Bilgiç,
Berna Kamay, İsa Uğurlu, Murat Yolun, Aykut Mustak, Güven Erten, Eyüp Murat
Kurt, Aytek Sever, and Ahmet Yusuf Yüksek. I would also like to especially thank
Uygar Aydemir, who provided me with moral support in the last phase of this
dissertation, which enabled me to finish it earlier. Lastly, I would like to thank
Michael Douglas Sheridan for his support in proofreading, which saved me from
many inexcusable mistakes. My graditude for his assistance with the final version of
this dissertation is indeed beyond expression.
My family, Ayla, Kenan, and Can, and extended family always have
supported my education; I am deeply grateful for the love and support that they have
shown throughout this journey. Last, but certainly not least, I am forever grateful to
my wife Çilem for being a fellow traveler in my life. Without her continuing belief in
me and her unconditional support, patience, and tolerance, I could have never made
it this far. I lovingly dedicate this dissertation to her constant presence.
xi
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 1
1.1 The Ottoman World during Minkārīzāde’s Age ........................................... 3
1.2 A Synopsis of the Seventeenth-century Ottoman Ulama ........................... 12
1.3 The Secondary Literature on Minkārīzāde ................................................. 18
1.4 Sources ........................................................................................................ 23
1.5 Structure of the Dissertation ....................................................................... 32
CHAPTER 2 THE CAREER OF A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY BUREAUCRAT
.................................................................................................................................... 36
2.1 Introduction ................................................................................................. 36
2.2 Family Background .................................................................................... 37
2.3 Early Education .......................................................................................... 44
2.4 Minkārīzāde’s Professional Career ............................................................. 60
2.5 Conclusion .................................................................................................. 78
CHAPTER 3 MİNKĀRĪZĀDE’S INVOLVEMENT IN THE RELIGIO-LEGAL
DEBATES OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY ................................................. 80
3.1 Introduction ................................................................................................. 80
3.2 How to Conceptualize the Religio-Legal Debates of the Seventeenth
Century ............................................................................................................. 82
3.3 Contextualizing Minkārīzāde’s Risāle-i Millet-i İbrāhīm within the Concept
of Şer‘u Men Kablenā ....................................................................................... 93
3.4 Minkārīzāde’s Rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s Commentary on et-Tarīkatü’l-
Muhammediye ................................................................................................. 114
3.5 Seeking the Correct Practice: The Treatise Risāle fī Vücūbī İstimā‘i’l-
Kur’ān ve’l-Hutbe and the Notion of Sunni Orthopraxy ................................ 134
3.6 Minkārīzāde’s Two Fatwas Regarding the Impermissibility of Raks,
Devrān, and Mevlevi Semā‘ ........................................................................... 142
xii
3.7 Conclusion ................................................................................................ 149
CHAPTER 4 THE WELL-ESTABLISHED SCHOLAR: FĀZIL-I KARĀR-DĀDE
MİNKĀRĪZĀDE ..................................................................................................... 151
4.1 Introduction ............................................................................................... 151
4.2 An Overview of Minkārīzāde’s Tenure in the Office of Chief Jurist ....... 154
4.3 Minkārīzāde as a “Fair-Minded Reformer” .............................................. 160
4.4 Reconsidering the Land Regime of Crete in the Light of Minkārīzāde’s
Fatwas ............................................................................................................. 166
4.5 Conclusion ................................................................................................ 187
CHAPTER 5 THE SCHOLARLY PATRONAGE OF MİNKĀRĪZĀDE .............. 189
5.1 Introduction ............................................................................................... 189
5.2 İjāzat vs. Mülāzemet ................................................................................. 190
5.3 The Decrees of 1636 and 1658: Changes in the Recruitment of Scholars?
........................................................................................................................ 202
5.4 Examiner of Ulama ................................................................................... 203
5.5 Minkārīzāde as a Leading Scholar in Patronizing High-Ranking Scholars
........................................................................................................................ 212
5.6 Scholarly Excellence: The Dāruʾl-hadīth of Süleymāniyye .................... 225
5.7 The Threshold (Āsitāne) of Minkārīzāde .................................................. 227
5.8 Intellectual Affinity .................................................................................. 234
5.9 Conclusion ................................................................................................ 246
CHAPTER 6 CONCLUSION .................................................................................. 248
APPENDIX A MINKĀRĪZĀDE’S FAMILY TREE .............................................. 252
APPENDIX B THE SCHOLARLY NETWORKS AROUND MINKĀRĪZĀDE .. 253
REFERENCES ......................................................................................................... 273
xiii
ABBREVIATIONS
Atâyî Hadâ’iku’l-Hakâ’ik fî Tekmileti’ş-Şakâ’ik
Keşfü’z-zunûn Keşfü’z-Zunûn ‘an Esâmi’l-Kütübi ve’l-Fünûn
Mîzânü’l-Hakk Mîzânü’l-Hakk fî İhtiyâri’l-Ehakk
Şakâ’ik Eş-Şakâ’iku’n-Nu‘mâniyye fî Ulemâi’d-Devleti’l-Osmâniyye
Şeyhî Vekâyi‘u’l-Fuzalâ
Târih-i Na‘îmâ Ravzatü’l-Hüseyn fî Hulâsati Ahbâri’l-Hâfikayn
TDVİA Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi
Uşşâkîzâde Zeyl-i Şakâ’ik
YEK Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi
xiv
NOTES ON SPELLING AND TRANSLATION
In this dissertation, a slightly modified version of the IJMES transliteration system is
followed for the Arabic texts and personal names. Macrons are included for vowels,
but diacritics are not used for consonants (eg., al-Baydāwī is preferred to al-Bayḍāwī
or ādāb al-bahth is used instead of ādāb al-baḥth). The texts and names of
individuals whose lives predominantly unfolded in an Ottoman context are rendered
using the Ottoman Turkish principles applied to Turkish words. Again, Macrons are
included for vowels, but diacritics are not used for consonants (eg., Minkārīzāde
Yahyā is preferred to Minḳārīzāde Yaḥyā or et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye is used
instead of al-Ṭarīqa al-muḥammadiyya). Terms that have entered regular English
usage are translated (madrasa, ulama, fatwa), but more technical terms are
maintained in transliterated and italicized forms (mülāzemet, mümeyyiz, āsitāne).
Major toponyms are rendered in their established anglicized form whenever possible.
All names and titles of works are fully translated with macrons and diacritics in the
footnotes and bibliography according to the transliteration principles governing the
language of that work. Dates are given in the Common Era unless the Hijri date is
essential for the particular discussion.
xv
CHRONOLOGY
The dates of important events in the
17th century Ottoman History
1603–1617: The reign of Ahmed I
1609: a)The appointment of Sheikh
‘Ömer as preceptor to the two sons of
Ahmed I, namely Osman and
Mehmed; b) The execution of Yūsuf
Pasha, the end of the first Celali
rebellions; c) The beginning of the
construction of Sultan Ahmed Mosque
1622: The execution of Osman II
1623–1640: The reign of Murad IV
1623–1639: The Ottoman–Safavid
War
1640–1648: The reign of İbrāhīm I
1645–1669: The siege of Crete
1648: The execution of İbrāhīm I
1648–1687: The reign of Mehmed IV
1651: The execution of Kösem Sultān
1655: Military Rebellion
1656: Vak‘a-i Vakvakıyye (plane-tree
incident)
1656–1661: The tenure of Köprülü
Mehmed
1656: The procession of Mehmed IV
to Edirne
1658–1659: The rebellion of Abaza
Hasan Pasha
1661–1676: The tenure of Fāzıl
Ahmed Pasha
1663–1665: Military campaign against
the Habsburgs
1665: The inauguration of New
Mosque
1669: The conquest of Candia
1672–1673: Military campaign against
Poland-Lithuania
1676: The death of Fāzıl Ahmed Pasha
1676–1683: The tenure of Merzifonlu
Kara Mustafā Pasha
The dates of important events in
Minkārīzāde’s life
1567: The death of Dede Cöngī
1609: The birth of Minkārīzāde
1624: The death of Minkārī ‘Ömer
1625: The death of Hocazāde Es‘ad
1628: The death of Mahmūd Hüdāyī
1647–1649: The tenure of Hoca
‘Abdu’r-rahīm at the office of chief
jurist
1648: Kürd Mollā completes his
commentary on Birgivī’s et-
Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye
1649–1652: The tenure of
Minkārīzāde in the judgeships of
Mecca
1658: Minkārīzāde’s appointment as
examiner (mümeyyiz)
1662–1674: The tenure of
Minkārīzāde at the office of chief
jurist
1663: Vānī Mehmed’s coming to
Istanbul
1674: Minkārīzāde’s withdrawal from
the office of chief jurist
1678: The death of Minkārīzāde
1
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
This dissertation examines the life and career of Minkārīzāde Yahyā (1609–1678) in
the context of the wider religio-legal, administrative, political, and intellectual
processes that shaped seventeenth-century Ottoman history. The main framework to
be followed throughout this dissertation is to investigate Minkārīzāde as a
seventeenth-century scholar-bureaucrat, who served in the Ottoman learned
hierarchy as a professor, judge, and chief jurist. In tandem with this, the focus
throughout this dissertation will be upon Minkārīzāde’s dual roles as scholar on the
one hand and bureaucrat on the other in shaping principal religious, administrative,
and intellectual trends of the Ottoman Empire during much of the seventeenth
century.1 More precisely, this dissertation presents a detailed examination of the
career of Minkārīzāde, whose impact and legacy in Ottoman learned hierarchy has
generally been ignored or downplayed and provides a critical analysis of the general
trends of seventeenth-century Ottoman history from various aspects by putting
Minkārīzāde at the center.
1 For an early use of the term “scholar-bureaucrat,” see Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, 16, 18. More
recently, Abdurrahman Atçıl has offered a more extensive discussion of this term by indicating its
distinctive character as it evolved through the sixteenth century. His key arguments are summarized in
the following excerpt: “Scholar-bureaucrats received education on the Qur’an and the Sunna and the
traditional knowledge derived from them. They served as professors, judges, or jurists. In other words,
they acquired the traditional qualifications of and fulfilled the usual functions of scholars. Thus, there
is nothing wrong in calling them scholars. At the same time, however, scholar-bureaucrats became
affiliated with the Ottoman government through an institutional framework that was protected by laws
and by established precedents. They pursued a lifetime career, accepting regular promotions to
progressively better hierarchically organized positions. As legal experts, they fulfilled judicial, scribal,
financial, and military tasks for the Ottoman government. This framework was not temporary but well
established and durable, making it possible for a large group of men in every generation to
professionally affiliate with the Ottoman government. Insofar as the nature of the relationship of these
scholars with the government was concerned, they differed from their predecessors and contemporary
nonbureaucratic scholars. As such, they appeared to be bureaucrats.” Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 6.
2
Minkārīzāde’s life, as well as his scholarly and bureaucratic career, make it
possible to investigate two different facets of seventeenth-century Ottoman history.
On the one hand, during the time period that he served as professor and judge, the
Ottoman state was witnessing institutional and structural transformations alongside
processes of rapid social, economic, and political change defined by, among other
things, intense power struggles between different social, political, and professional
groups and factions. On the other hand, Minkārīzāde’s tenure as chief jurist
coincided with the rule of the Köprülü viziers, which brought considerable stability
to the political scene between the years 1656 and 1683. It has been argued that one of
the developments that tied together these two periods—the first a period of crisis,
and the second a period of restoration—was the temporary undermining of the
dominance of top-ranking Ottoman ulama in religious and political life. Yet
Minkārīzāde’s illustrious career as a scholar and a bureaucrat puts this assumption
into question. As a scholar, Minkārīzāde participated in a number of the key religious
and legal debates of his time, while as a bureaucrat he helped rewrite the rules of
entry into and promotion within the Ottoman scholarly establishment in such a way
as to open it to elements beyond the “quasi-aristocracy” of the old Istanbul ulama
families.
Tracing careers of individuals like Minkārīzāde by exploring their lives and
works in a detailed way offer an opportunity to reveal the ways in which individual
scholarly trajectories interacted with broader political, religious, and intellectual
developments across time and space.2 A study on Minkārīzāde proves to be
important in terms of its ability to shed light on the general processes and trends that
dominated the seventeenth-century Ottoman social and intellectual world. Through
2 For Pierre Bourdieu’s critical remarks on the issue, see Bourdieu, “L'illusion Biographique,” 69–72.
3
an examination of the scholarly and bureaucratic career of Minkārīzāde and the
multiple roles he played in the religious, political, institutional, and intellectual
developments of the period, this dissertation sketches an in vivo3 panorama of
seventeenth-century Ottoman history.
1.1 The Ottoman world during Minkārīzāde’s age
Minkārīzāde was born in 1609, at a time when the Ottoman state was experiencing
intense change and transformation. It was such a turbulent period in the history of the
Ottoman state that, in addition to the state of the Ottoman ulama to which
Minkārīzāde and his father belonged, it might be useful to also briefly touch upon
other areas such as political, socio-economic, administrative, and intellectual life, in
order to better understand the level of change in these fields and situate Minkārīzāde
within a broader plane of the seventeenth-century Ottoman world.
There seems to be a consensus in the literature that the conquest of Istanbul
by the Ottomans in 1453 marked their transformation from an Anatolian principality
into an early modern empire. One of the distinctive characteristics of this new
political structure that distinguished it from its predecessor was the gradual
emergence of military-administrative and educational-judicial institutions, organized
around the central position of the Ottoman sultans as the locus of political power.
This institutional structure continued to evolve through the sixteenth and seventeenth
3 I borrow this term from Cornell Fleischer’s study on Mustafā Āli. The following passage from this
study is beneficial for revealing what is meant by this term: “The breadth of Ali’s experience and
acquaintance with the leading cultural and political figures of this crucial era, as well as the scope and
volume of his literary activity, make him at once a unique source for the history of the late sixteenth
century and an ideal subject for a study of the human realities of the Ottoman Empire. We shall study
the Empire from within, as an educated Ottoman experienced it. Furthermore, we shall study why he
experienced and described it as he did. My object is to create an in vivo portrait of Ottoman
intellectual and political life in the sixteenth century against which theory might be tested.” Fleischer,
Bureaucrat and Intellectual, 4.
4
centuries, and it stood out as a political organization mainly distinguished by its
patrimonial-bureaucratic features.
Where these concepts are concerned, the first thing that must come to mind is
Max Weber’s tripartite classification of authority into the rational, the traditional,
and the charismatic.4 Weber developed these concepts as ideal types and anticipated
that bureaucracy would historically prevail over patrimonial administration and
charismatic leadership. In other words, by presenting historical change from the
perspective of an evolutionary process, he asserted that traditional authority would
historically evolve into rational authority and patrimonial administration into
bureaucratic administration.5 Regarding these concepts, it can be briefly said that,
while the basic features of patrimonialism are “administration based on personal ties
to or dependence on rulers (kin, slaves, patronage), privatization of offices (sale of
offices and tax farming), and extreme forms of decentralization (local notables,
feudalism, and prebendalism),”6 bureaucracy is distinguished by hierarchical
organization, rational and written rules and regulations, and trained officials.7
Weber specifically utilized the extreme case of patrimonialism as the
sultanism operating in the Near East,8 but he also used the concept of “patrimonial
bureaucracy” (Patrimoinalbürokratie), which can be regarded as a mixture of
rational and irrational types of domination containing elements of both bureaucracy
4 Weber, Economy and Society, 212–301.
5 Rudolph and Rudolph, “Revisionist Interpretation,” 196 and Weber, Economy and Society, 1014.
6 Kiser and Sacks, “African Patrimonialism,” 130. Also see Delany, “Development and Decline,”
466–468.
7 Whimster, “Empires and Bureaucracy,” 437–441.
8 Weber, Economy and Society, 231, 1020. Halil İnalcık summarized the concept of sultanism as
follows; “Sultanism is characterized by complete reliance on military force and arbitrary power, or
despotism. There occurs a complete ‘differentiation between military and civil subjects,’ and
increasing professionalization of the army. The janissary and Mamluk armies, consisting of slaves,
were typical examples of such professional armies. They were made part and parcel of the ruler’s
household and served him with absolute loyalty.” İnalcık, “Comments on ‘Sultanism,” 49–50.
5
and patrimonialism.9 In this context, although contending arguments have been put
forward by different historians on the question of whether the bureaucratic character
of the Ottoman state prevailed over the patrimonial, the fact is that Ottoman
administration can be said to have carried both concepts within its administrative
structure, with these two characteristics co-existing through the early modern era,
albeit with some tension.10 On the other hand, whether it was the depersonalized
bureaucratic functions of state affairs or artificial ties of kinship that took on the
dominant character in defining the Ottoman state, the most distinct change in the
Ottoman political system in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries took place as part
of a process that made a clear-cut separation between the state and ruler more
apparent.11
As a matter of fact, this political change went hand in hand with socioeconomic
transformation in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In this
regard, the increasing application of tax farming (iltizām) as compared to fiefs
(tīmār) can be regarded as one of the most distinct changes in the Ottoman socioeconomic
structure.12 Whether the gradual transition from tīmār to iltizām resulted
from the military needs of the state13 or from competition for local political power in
a monetized economy,14 the most visible consequence of this process was that the
Ottoman state and provincial governors had to feed more infantry at the expense of
9 Weber generally utilized this term to depict the nature of China’s administrative system. For more
information on this topic, see Lai, “Chinese Law,” 40–58.
10 Karen Barkey analyzes this issue from a broader perspective and describes this process as “the
bureaucratization of patrimonial authority.” See Barkey, “Bureaucratization of Patrimonial
Authority,” 102–126.
11 İnalcık, “Comments on ‘Sultanism,” 49–73; Sariyannis, “Ruler and State,” 92–126; Abou-el-Haj,
Ottoman Empire; Cornell Fleischer, “The Lawgiver,” 159-177; Tezcan, “Second Ottoman Empire,”
556–572; and Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire.
12 For more information on this topic, see Rahman and Nagata, “Iltizâm System,” 169–94 and Darling,
Revenue-Raising.
13 İnalcık, “Military and Fiscal Transformation,” 283–337.
14 Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 141–145.
6
cavalry, which inevitably increased the employment of soldiers in standing armies
both in the capital and provinces. This process was one of the most decisive factors
giving considerable power to janissaries, as well as to provincial governors (ümerā)
and their irregular troops (sekbāns), who became actively involved in Ottoman
politics.15
While these political changes and socio-economic transformations were
taking place towards the end of the sixteenth century, the Ottomans were waging
military campaigns against the Safavids (1578–1590) in the east and the Habsburgs
(1593–1606) in the west, during which period they also had to deal with a series of
rebellions in the provinces, which were collectively known as the Celali rebellions or
revolts.16 This simultaneous struggle with states on both frontiers and rural rebellions
in Anatolia compelled state officials to keep a considerable number of soldiers ready,
which created a financial burden on the state treasury.17 In addition to these financial
problems, certain other socio-economic and demographic developments in the late
sixteenth century—such as population growth, a subsistence crisis, and climatic
change—also contributed to the worsening of an already turbulent situation in the
provinces.18
When Minkārīzāde was born in 1609, the first phase of the Celali rebellions
was coming to an end. A critical development in this regard was the suppression of
the rebellions of Karayazıcı ‘Abdü’l-halīm and his brother Deli Hasan by the grand
15 Kunt, Sultans’ Servants; Abou-El-Haj, Ottoman Empire; İnalcık, “Comments on ‘Sultanism,” 49–
73; Sariyannis, “Ruler and State,” 92–126; Cornell Fleischer, “The Lawgiver,” 159–177; Tezcan,
“Second Ottoman Empire,” 556–572; and Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire.
16 Akdağ, Celâli İsyanları; Griswold, Great Anatolian Rebellion; Barkey, Bandits and Bureaucrats;
Özel, “Population Changes,” 183–205; Özel, “Reign of Violence,” 184–202; and Özel, Collapse of
Rural Order.
17 Barkan, “Price Revolution,” 3–28; Pamuk, “Reconsidered,” 69–89; Tezcan, “Ottoman Monetary
Crisis,” 460–504; and Kafadar, “Prelude to Ottoman Decline,” 265–295.
18 White, Climate of Rebellion; İslamoğlu-İnan, State and Peasant; Cook, Population Pressure;
Jennings, “Urban Population,” 21–57; Erder and Faroqhi, “Population Rise and Fall,” 328–345; and
Özel, “Demographic Crisis Reconsidered,” 183–205.
7
vizier Kuyucu Murad Paşa in 1608. This came after a period called the Great Flight
(Büyük Kaçgun) between the years 1603 and 1606, during which time people left
their lands and migrated to cities or moved to places where they felt safe.19 The
suppression of these revolts, however, did not mean that banditry by Celali bands
was completely over. They continued their activities in the provinces and a number
of rebellions took place in subsequent years as well, the most serious of which was
led by Abaza Mehmed, who rebelled while serving as governor of Erzurum,
ostensibly to seek vengeance for the murder of Osman II in 1623.20
The increasing political tension in the countryside coincided with urban
revolts in major cities, especially Istanbul. The growing number of janissaries in the
cities and the financial difficulties that they faced prompted them to become more
involved in politics than ever before and to start to express their discontent in public
spaces.21 However, the seventeenth-century revolts were not all janissary rebellions.
Rebels could come from diverse backgrounds, and included among them cavalry
soldiers, artisans, religious figures, and common Istanbulites. It was to characterize
this unprecedentedly broad spectrum of participants in Ottoman politics that Baki
Tezcan wrote of “the expansion of the Ottoman political nation.”22
It was within this context that the office of chief jurist grew more influential
in politics and legal culture as a whole, which brings us to briefly look at
developments in the Ottoman ulama hierarchy throughout the sixteenth century.
Abdurrahman Atçıl has called the years 1530–1600 a period of consolidation for the
Ottoman ulama.23 Here, the term “consolidation” covers a number of developments
19 Akdağ, “Büyük Kaçgunluk,” 1–50; also see Andreasyan, “Celâlîlerden Kaçan,” 45–53.
20 For more information on his rebellion, see Piterberg, “Alleged Rebellion,” 13–24 and Piterberg,
Ottoman Tragedy, 165–176.
21 Kafadar, “Rebels Without a Cause,” 113–134 and Yılmaz, “Economic and Social Roles.”
22 Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 30, 48.
23 Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 117–211.
8
that became more apparent between these years. First of all, the establishment of new
madrasas and growing numbers of judicial posts across the empire throughout the
sixteenth century increased the number of positions scholar-bureaucrats could attain,
which in turn made it possible for them to become more specialized in educational
and judicial positions. This in turn brought about a bureaucratic specialization in the
Ottoman ulama hierarchy, which came to be conceptualized as a distinctive branch
of the imperial administration, the ‘ilmīye, alongside the seyfiyye (the military
administration), and the kalemiyye (the civil bureaucracy). This specialization
contributed to the formulation of relatively well-defined rules for the regulation of
the Ottoman ulama with the purpose of controlling appointments, promotions, and
entrance into the ulama hierarchy through the granting of mülāzemet.24 Taken
together, the bureaucratization of scholar-bureaucrats reached an unprecedented level
in the Ottoman Empire in the early modern period, and the career tracks of scholarbureaucrats
became more predictable. As a consequence of these developments,
scholar-bureacurats’ overall influence over state affairs increased, and they came to
play an increasingly important role in the formation of new rules and regulations.
Even though the organization of the Ottoman learned hierarchy reached
maturity towards the end of the sixteenth century, it was also heavily impacted by
certain socio-economic and demographic developments that emerged in the late
sixteenth century, such as population growth, a subsistence crisis, and climatic
change, all of which created difficulties for provincial madrasa graduates coming
from non-scholarly families with little opportunity to acquire employment in the
24 For additional information on mülāzemet, see Uzunçarşılı, İlmiye Teşkilâtı, 45–53; İpşirli,
“Mülâzemet,” 537–539; Klein, “Mülâzemet,” 83–105; İpşirli “Rumeli Kazaskeri,” 221–31; İpşirli,
“Osmanlı Devleti’nde Kazaskerlik,” 641–660; Beyazıt, “Şeyhülislamlığın Degişen Rolü,” 423–441;
Beyazıt, İlmiyye Mesleğinde İstihdam, 27–105; and Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 74–81, 102–113,
134–145.
9
Ottoman ulama, since there was a discrepancy between the available educational and
judicial posts and the growing number of eligible candidates for these posts across
the empire.25 This soon led to banditry by madrasa students (sūhte), which can be
regarded as the forerunner of the Celali rebellions.26 To put it differently, both the
unemployment of the increasing number of madrasa students and the economic
deterioration in rural areas led to widespread banditry and brigandage in the
countryside.27
It was within this context that the Ottoman writers of political advice
complained about certain problems with regard to the current situation of the
Ottoman ulama in accordance with the overall historical context of the late sixteenth
and early seventeenth centuries by concentrating on a wide range of relevant topics,
such as the lack of competence among members of Ottoman ulama, corruption in the
ranks of the ‘ilmīye and in appointment procedures, instability in high-ranking
offices, bribery, nepotism, poverty at the lower levels of the hierarchy, and problems
in the procedure for granting mülāzemet.28 In addition to these administrative
problems faced by the Ottoman ulama, some contemporary writers also criticized the
members of the ‘ilmīye on the ground that they failed to carry out the Quranic
injunction to enjoin the good and forbid the wrong.29 Other writers in both the
25 For various precautions, such as the limitation of tenure periods, the rotation system (nevbet), and
the introduction of a waiting period that made it possible to employ more officials in the ulama
hierarchy, see Atçıl, “Route to the Top,” 489–512.
26 Akdağ, Celalî İsyanları, 153–282 and Koç, “Suhte Olayları,” 147–159.
27 One of the leading scholars of socio-economic developments in the late sixteenth and early
seventeenth centuries is Mustafa Akdağ, who asserts two fundamental problems in his work: 1)
population growth, which led to an increase in the number of landless unmarried peasants in the
countryside, and 2) deterioration of economic conditions due to the monetary crisis and decrease in
agricultural production. See, especially, Akdağ, Celalî İsyanları.
28 For more information on these topics, see Majer, “Die Kritik,” 147–55 and İpşirli, “Osmanlı İlmiye
Mesleği,” 273–285. An atypical example, due to his ulama background, among these political writers
is Hasan Kāfī Akhisārī, who defended the Ottoman ulama within the overall structure of Ottoman
politics by saying that the rulers did not follow the words of the ulama and that this was not good for
the future of the state. See İpşirli, “Hasan Kâfî el-Akhisârî,” 239–278, at 256–259.
29 İpşirli, “Mustafa Selânikî,” 460–463. It should be recalled here that the Kadızadelis also criticized
the members of the Ottoman ulama on the same ground. See Zilfi, Politics of Piety.
10
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries complained of a supposed decline of interest in
the rational sciences.30 Still others claimed that many outsiders (ecnebīs)31 were
trying to be involved in the Ottoman ulama. This can be seen as a direct indication of
the process that increased chances at upward mobility for diverse groups and
individuals in a highly fluid political environment.32
Although historians no longer take the comments, criticisms, and complaints
of contemporary Ottoman political writers at face value by accepting their views as a
direct indication of the so-called “decline” of the Ottoman state,33 these views are
still fruitful for contemplating the common sentiments shared by Ottoman writers
about the current situation of the Ottoman ulama in the late sixteenth and early
seventeenth centuries.
While the Ottoman ulama were experiencing such problems in the late
sixteenth century, their ranks were continuing to expand thanks to territorial
expansion in both the east and the west and the incorporation of new judgeships from
these lands into the Ottoman system throughout the sixteenth century, which was a
critical development for the process that ultimately enabled scholar-bureaucrats to
potentially find more and more available positions in the hierarchy. At the same
30 This kind of notion was propounded by Taşköprizāde (d. 1560) and Kātib Çelebī (d. 1657). For
more imformation on this topic, see El-Rouayheb, “Triumph of Fanaticism,” 196–221.
31 Baki Tezcan provides a more extended definition of this term. According to him, ecnebīs “were not
themselves descendants of the emperor’s slaves but had bought their way into the imperial
administration from the ranks of commoners.” See Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 193. Here, I use
the term in a narrower sense, as Atāyī did in his biographical dictionary, referring to those who had
not received mülāzemet but tried to find a position in the Ottoman learned hierarchy nevertheless. See
Atâyî, 641. Also see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 140.
32 Although the term “infiltration of outsiders” was frequently used by contemporary writers, it might
be misleading to take it at face value because there were only a few scholars who did not receive
mülāzemet but still achieved employment in the Ottoman ulama hierarchy in the late sixteenth
century, when one can indeed talk about such progress, which, in fact, shows a countertrend that
someone who did not receive mülāzemet could hardly find a position in the Ottoman ulama. For this
point, see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans,” 139–144.
33 For some critics of this paradigm, see Owen, “Middle East,” 110–117; Kunt, Sultan’s Servants;
Abou-El-Haj, Ottoman Empire; Salzmann, “Ancien Régime Revisited,” 393–423; Hathaway,
“Problems of Periodization,” 25–31; Darling, Revenue-Raising; and Kafadar, “Question of Ottoman
Decline,” 30–75.
11
time, this process also accelerated the interaction between the Rum and Arab lands.
Although the relationship of Rumi scholars with scholars of other regions dates back
to earlier times, the Ottoman conquest of the Arab lands and the integration of the
judgeships of major cities like Cairo, Mecca, Medina, Baghdad, Aleppo, Damascus,
and Jerusalem into the Ottoman system considerably intensified intellectual,
religious, and social exchange between Rumi and Arab lands.34 As a corollary to this,
a considerable number of Ottoman jurists were employed in these regions, and
likewise many Arab scholars came to Istanbul.35
In such an intellectual environment, where interaction and exchanges were
intense, there was also much room for new forms of reading and teaching practices.
In this regard, the increase in the circulation of texts and a yet-to-be quantified
increase in literacy in the early modern period is another important topic that should
be emphasized. Briefly, it can be said that major Ottoman cities like Istanbul, Cairo,
and Damascus witnessed the appearance of a new reading public composed of people
from many segments of society, including soldiers, merchants, and craftsmen.36 This
process—which was fueled by such developments as urbanization, the growing
number of available madrasas, and an increase in the transmission of knowledge
between different regions—also encouraged the proliferation of texts written in
vernacular languages such as Turkish.37
34 Petry, “Travel Patterns,” 53–87; Ökten, “Scholars and Mobility,” 55–70; and Yıldız, “From Cairo to
Ayasuluk,” 263–297.
35 For different aspects of the relationships between Arab and Rumi scholars, see Pfeifer, “To Gather
Together”; Pfeifer, “Encounter after the Conquest,” 219–239; Burak, Second Formation; El-
Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History; and Shafir “Road from Damascus.”
36 Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 121–150; Kafadar, “Mütereddid bi Mutasavvıf,” 168–222; Terzioğlu,
“Man in the image of God,” 139–165; Terzioğlu, “Mecmûa-yı Şeyh Mısrî,” 291–321; Terzioğlu,
“Autobiography in Fragments,” 83–100; Terzioğlu, “Catechism,” 79–114; Hanna, In Praise of Books;
Hanna, “Literacy Among Artisans,” 319–331; Sajdi, Barber of Damascus; Neumann, “Üç Tarz-ı
Mütalaa,” 51–76; Değirmenci, “Osmanlı’da Okurlar,” 7–43; Değirmenci, “Söz Bir Nesnedir,” 634–
649; Quinn, “Ucuza Okumalar,” 146–169; Quinn, “Books and Their Readers”; and Aydınlı, “Unusual
Readers,” 109–31.
37 Terzioğlu, “Catechism,” 84–85 and Quinn, “Books and Their Readers,” 11–15, 149–151. Also see
Pollock, “Cosmopolitan Vernacular,” 6–37.
12
In other respects, this emergence of a new reading public is closely associated
with the learning process as well. Although informal educational practices in Muslim
societies had a much longer history than formal study in madrasas,38 the existing
channels of informal learning circles were expanded, multiplied, and formalized
during this period. Accordingly, through the active involvement of Sufi sheikhs,
mosque preachers (vāizān), and public lecturers (ders-i ‘ām) in the teaching and
learning process, informal circles of learning gained prominence in seventeenthcentury
Ottoman society.39 One of the direct consequences of this development was
the increasing prominence of self-educated intellectuals in Ottoman cities in the
seventeenth century.40 Such contemporary figures as Kātib Çelebi (d. 1657), Evliyā
Çelebi (d. 1685), Eremya Çelebi (d. 1695), and Hezārfen Hüseyin Çelebi (d. 1691)
all produced work in similar fields of learning, such as geography, history, and
languages.41 It was in such an intellectual atmosphere, between the years 1609 and
1678, that Minkārīzāde lived and carried out important tasks as a bureaucrat while
also writing a number of important treatises as a scholar.
1.2 A synopsis of the seventeenth-century Ottoman ulama
Until fairly recently, the institutional approach dominated studies of the Ottoman
ulama. One of the earliest studies in this regard was İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı’s
Osmanlı Devletinin İlmiye Teşkilatı.42 This study used biographical dictionaries,
chronicles, legal documents and other related sources to provide an institutional
38 Tibawi, “Origin and Character,” 225–238; Lapidus, Muslim Cities, 107–115; Berkey, Transmission
of Knowledge, esp. 21–43; Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice, 69–90; and Ephrat, Learned
Society.
39 For a recent treatment of this topic, see Gürbüzel, “Teachers of the Public.”
40 One of the important aspects of this process was private reading (mütāla‘a). For more information
on this topic, see El-Rouayheb “Deep Reading,” 201–224.
41 For a preliminary treatment of this topic, see Kafadar, “Sohbete Çelebi,” 43–52.
42 Uzunçarşılı, İlmiye Teşkilatı.
13
history specifically of the Ottoman ‘ilmīye, the learned establishment, rather than of
the ulama who filled its ranks. After Uzunçarşılı, many scholars continued to
examine the development of the Ottoman learned establishment, but limited their
focus to a specific institution or office. Richard Repp examined the development of
the office of the chief jurist from the early fifteenth century to the late sixteenth
century, while Mehmet İpşirli and Yasemin Beyazıt examined the new regulations
governing candidacy and promotion that were introduced into the religious
establishment during the sixteenth century.43 Other historians—among them Cahid
Baltacı, Mustafa Bilge, Fahri Unan, Mefail Hızlı, Yekta Demiralp, Ahmet Gül,
Selahattin Yıldırım, and Mehdin Çiftci—examined Ottoman educational institutions
like the madrasa, Dāruʾl-hadīth, and mekteb.44
Since the rise of Ottoman social history as a dynamic sub-field within Ottoman
studies, however, another group of historians have begun to examine the Ottoman
ulama as a social group using the approaches of prosopography. These studies have
relied mainly on Ottoman biographical dictionaries, and have used the information
found in these sources to try to provide a collective portrait of the Ottoman ulama.
They have also provided additional insights about the common characteristics of the
Ottoman ulama by taking into consideration the changing social and political
dynamics of the time.
An early, pioneering example of this kind of prosopographical study was done
by Suraiya Faroqhi.45 In an article published in the 1970s, Faroqhi investigated social
43 İpşirli “Rumeli Kazaskeri Mehmed,” 221–31; İpşirli, “İlmiye Mesleği Hakkında Gözlemler,” 273–
85; İpşirli, “Kazaskerlik,” 641–660; Beyazıt, “Efforts to Reform,” 201–218; and Beyazıt, İlmiyye
Mesleğinde İstihdam.
44 Repp, “Some Observations,” 17–32; Repp, Müfti of Istanbul; Baltacı, Osmanlı Medreseleri; Bilge,
İlk Osmanlı Medreseleri; Unan, Fâtih Külliyesi; Hızlı, Bursa Medreseleri; Demiralp, Erken Dönem
Osmanlı Medreseleri; Gül, Daru'l-Hadislerin Yeri; Yıldırım, Edirne Darulhadisi; and Çiftci,
Süleymaniye Darülhadisi.
45 Faroqhi, “Social Mobility,” 204–218. More information on this subject will be given in Chapter 5,
but suffice it to say here that prosopographical studies on members of Ottoman ulama have flourished
14
mobility among the Ottoman ulama in the last quarter of the sixteenth century by
focusing on patronage and family relationships. After a hiatus of more than a decade,
two subsequent studies applied the prosopographical approach to the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. One of these, by Ali Uğur, was a largely descriptive study
tabulating the information provided on members of the seventeenth-century Ottoman
ulama in Şeyhī’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā and re-organizing the biographical data found
therein.46 The second study, Madeline Zilfi’s The Politics of Piety, was by far the
most ambitious of these studies, and has proven very influential.47 Apart from being
one of the earliest attempts at prosopographical study of the Ottoman ulama, Zilfi’s
study shifted attention away from the so-called “classical” period of the Ottoman
Empire, the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, to the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. Moreover, Zilfi organized her study according to an overarching argument
about the transformation of the Ottoman ulama during this time period. Specifically,
she argued that while, by the end of the sixteenth century, the top ranks of the
Ottoman learned establishment had come to be dominated by a small number of
families, in the seventeenth century this quasi-aristocratic group came under attack
from a number of different directions, but was eventually able to recover and even
further consolidate its primacy in the eighteenth century.
Because Zilfi’s study is central for this dissertation, it is worth going over her
arguments about the seventeenth-century challenge to the top-ranking Ottoman
ulama aristocracy, or mevali, as they were called at the time. According to Zilfi, the
crises that the Ottoman state experienced in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth
in recent years thanks to works by Baki Tezcan, Denise Klein, Ertuğrul Ökten, and Abdurrahman
Atçıl. For these works, see Tezcan, “Ottoman Mevali,” 383–407; Klein, Die osmanischen; Ökten,
“Scholars and Mobility,” 55–70; Atçıl, “Route to the Top,” 489–512; and Atçıl, “Mobility of
Scholars,” 315–333.
46 Uğur, Ottoman ‘Ulemā.
47 Zilfi, Politics of Piety and Zilfi, “Elite Circulation,” 318–64.
15
centuries intensely affected the ulama hierarchy and led to corruption, frequent
dismissals, infiltration of “outsiders,” and sycophancy. All these factors, in addition
to career-related issues concerning privilege and rank, prevented seventeenth-century
members of the Ottoman ulama from involving in politics and taking collective
action. Besides these factors, Zilfi mentioned another possible obstacle preventing
members of the ulama from acting collectively and getting involved in politics in the
second half of the seventeenth century, stating that “the very heterogeneity of the late
seventeenth-century ulama militated against their ability to act as a cohesive body
even though the political climate and economic pressures would seem to have pushed
them in that direction.”48 Unfortunately, however, she presented this observation in a
generic sense, without specifying who these members of “the late seventeenthcentury
ulama” were, a point to which I will return later. Another difficulty that the
Ottoman ulama of the seventeenth century faced, in Zilfi’s view, was the ideological
challenge posed by the Kadızadelis.49 She argued that while, on the surface, the
target of the Kadızadelis was Sufi sheikhs, their ultimate opposition was against the
top-ranking ulama, whom they accused of having failed to protect Islamic orthodoxy.
Interestingly, again more than a decade passed before Zilfi’s arguments about the
Ottoman ulama were picked up, debated, and modified by subsequent scholars. Some
of these scholars responded to Zilfi’s arguments about the ideological conflict
between the ulama and the Kadızadelis by presenting a more nuanced understanding
of the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century in general.
Among these scholars, Derin Terzioğlu appreciated Zilfi’s attempt to put the
Kadızadelis into a social context from a wider perspective, but objected to Zilfi’s
ahistorical representation of the relationship between the members of the Ottoman
48 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 100.
49 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 81–129, 129–183. Also see Zilfi, “Discordant Revivalism,” 251–269.
16
ulama and the Sufi orders.50 By examining fatwas issued by Ottoman chief jurists
from the early sixteenth to the late seventeenth centuries on issues related to Sufis
and Sufism, Terzioğlu showed that the relationship between Sufis and the Ottoman
ulama elite underwent important changes from the time of Zenbīlli ‘Alī (d. 1525) to
that of Minkārīzāde.51 On this subject, she reached the following conclusion:
[I]n the late sixteenth and in the first half of the seventeenth century, topranking
members of the Ottoman learned establishment were not able to
articulate a full-fledged defense of the controversial Sufi beliefs and
practices, but tried in the main to restrict the religiolegal, and political,
grounds on which they could be attacked. Finally, after nearly half a century
of confrontation, the gap between the learned establishment and the salafī
reformists was considerably narrowed during the period of ascendancy of
Vānī.52
Some other studies have addressed more general and problematic observations
presented in Zilfi’s work, such as the abstention of the ulama from politics and the
Kadızadeli challenge. One of the leading figures in this regard is Baki Tezcan, who
posed a direct challenge to Zilfi’s stance concerning the supposed lack of interest of
the Ottoman ulama in politics. Although the primary focus of Tezcan’s study was
Ottoman politics rather than the ulama in particular, the latter still play a very
important role in his arguments.53 Specifically, Tezcan argued that after 1580, the
Ottoman “political nation” expanded significantly, and this expansion led to a
significant ideological and political struggle between two camps that he labeled as
“absolutists” and “constitutionalists.” In this scheme, the top-ranking ulama, or the
mevali—whom Tezcan calls “lords of the law”—were one of the foremost
contributors to the “constitutionalist” camp, while their main point of reference, the
sharia (which he renders as “jurists’s law”), served as the main ideological tool for
50 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 220–234.
51 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 220–234. Terzioğlu benefitted from two fatwa compilations of
Minkārīzāde: Süleymaniye YEK, MS Aşir Efendi 137 and MS Şehid Ali Paşa 1055.
52 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 233.
53 Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire.
17
constraining royal authority. In this respect, he notes that the consolidation of the
political power of jurists coincided with the process whereby the mevali evolved into
a kind of aristocracy, which enabled them to extend their networks and obtain a great
degree of power, and to use the political capital they thereby gained for the interest
of the camp they represented. According to Tezcan, the culmination of jurists’
political power at the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth
centuries made itself apparent especially in the case of Mustafā I’s enthronement by
the chief jurist of the time, Hocazāde Es‘ad, in 1617.
While Tezcan specifically focuses on the first quarter of the seventeenth century
in detailing his argument, he also makes some observations about the rest of the
seventeenth century. On this matter, Tezcan tended to see seventeenth-century
Ottoman history as a struggle between absolutists and constitutionalists which, in his
view, continued until the mid-1650s. However, the autocratic rule of the Köprülü
family in the years 1656–1683 brought considerable stability to the Ottoman polity,
and this left no room for potential opposition. In other words, the Köprülüs’ close
ties with the palace and strong alliance with the court kept the two camps silent on
the political scene during the period in question.54
Considering another point in Tezcan’s study—namely, the fact that the
mevali were closely involved in politics and, in most cases, were representatives of
the “constitutionalist” camp during much of the seventeenth century—it is legitimate
to ask the following question: Can one extend the involvement of the mevali in
politics to the rest of the seventeenth century? In order to properly answer this
question, however, another striking argument of Tezcan must first be mentioned.
Tezcan argues that Vānī Mehmed, together with Seyyid Feyzu’llāh, entered the
54 Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 213–224.
18
domain of jurists’ law and yet both belonged to the absolutist camp.55 The position of
the high-ranking ulama during the ascendancy of Vānī Mehmed within the scheme of
Tezcan’s narrative, on the other hand, becomes of secondary importance. As a
corollary to this, he tends to link the long tenures as chief jurist of Minkārīzāde
Yahyā and Çatalcalı ‘Alī in the years 1662–1686 to the absolutism of the Köprülü
viziers, which was strengthened by the puritanism of Mehmed Vānī, and he
represents these two chief jurists as “the last pillar of the Köprülü autocracy.”56 It
would be also beneficial to mention Zilfi’s comments in this context, as she stated
that “the very heterogeneity of the late seventeenth-century ulama militated against
their ability to act as a cohesive body even though the political climate and economic
pressures would seem to have pushed them in that direction.”57 Briefly, then, Tezcan
and Zilfi have similar stances regarding the role played by the high-ranking members
of the Ottoman ulama in the second half of the seventeenth century. In line with their
convictions, I also argue that Minkārīzāde mostly directed his attention to the affairs
of the learned hierarchy rather than becoming directly involved in politics and
policymaking.
1.3 The secondary literature on Minkārīzāde
Until very recently, the most cited works regarding Minkārīzāde and his works were
two brief entries in the Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, written by
Mehmet İpşirli and Mustafa Yayla, as well as an article by İpşirli.58 In addition to
these studies, there are also a couple of works which made partial use of
55 Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 28–30.
56 Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 216.
57 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 100.
58 İpşirli, “Minkārîzâde Yahyâ Efendi,” 114–115; Yayla, “Fetâvâ-yı Minkārîzâde,” 444–445; and
İpşirli, “Şeyhülislam Minkarîzade Yahya,” 229–249.
19
Minkārīzāde’s fatwas. Abdurrahman Atçıl, for example, utilized several of
Minkārīzāde’s fatwas in his study on the duties of judges in court procedures.59
Cengiz Şişman used a number of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas in discussing the conversion
of Sabbatai Sevi.60 Hülya Canbakal revealed, in the light of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas,
that the appearance of public oaths or vows (nezir) in Ottoman records first dated to
the second half of the seventeenth century.61 Kenan Yıldız is another scholar who
used a number of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas, which he did while examining the legal
status of churches and synagogues after the great fire of the 1660s.62 Similarly,
Joshua White benefitted from Minkārīzāde’s fatwa compilation in his investigation
of the legal dimension of piracy in the Ottoman Mediterranean.63 Some other studies
have also transliterated certain sections of Minkārīzāde’s fatwa compilation.64
The lack of scholarly attention to Minkārīzāde reflects the general state of
scholarship on the leading political, religious, and intellectual figures of Ottoman
society. There are only a few individuals whose lives and careers have been
examined in significant detail in the relevant secondary literature.65 Thankfully,
59 Atçıl, “Procedure.” He used the following compilation: MS Milli Kütüphane YZ A 3242.
60 Şişman, “Jewish Messiah,” 199–200. He depends on the fatwa compilation found in Süleymaniye
YEK, MS Hamidiye 610.
61 Canbakal, “Vows as Contract,” 85–115. Canbakal benefitted from both fatwa compilations prepared
by ‘Atā’ullah Mehmed and Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm. For these compilations, see Süleymaniye
YEK, MS H. Hüsnü Paşa 427 and Harvard Law School Library, HLS MS 1402.
62 Yıldız, 1660 İstanbul Yangını, 99, 225–226. Yıldız benefitted from the fatwa compilation found in
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hamidiye 610, the content of which is exactly the same as the compilation
prepared by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm.
63 White, Piracy and Law, 183–220. He benefitted from two compilations of Minkārīzāde prepared by
‘Atāu’l-lāh Mehmed. For these compilations, see Süleymaniye YEK, MS Pertevniyal 341; MS Esad
Efendi 1095.
64 Karadöl, “Şeyhü’l-İslâm Minkarîzâde Yahya”; Koç, “Şeyhu’l-İslâm Minkârizâde Yahya.” Both of
these studies use the following compilation: Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hamidiye 601. More recently,
Çelik has compared the siyar sections of the fatwa compilations of Minkārīzāde prepared by
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm and Hayr al-Dīn al-Ramlī. See Çelik, “Kitabü’s-Siyer.” He benefitted
from the following compilation: Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 2003.
65 Babinger, Mehmed the Conquerer; Meservey, “Feyzullah Efendi”; Imber, Ebu’s-Su’ud; Gel,
“Çivizâde Muhyiddin”; Nizri, Ottoman High; Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual; Dankoff,
Intimate Life; Stravridies, Sultan of the Viziers; Al-Tikriti, “Şehzade Korkud”; Atçıl, “State and
Government”; Ökten, “Jāmī”; Menchinger, Intellectual History; Markiewicz, Crisis of Kingship;
Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident”; Sirriyeh, Sufi Visionary; Akkach, Abd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi; Emre,
Ibrahim-i Gulshani; Akbulut, “Hekimoğlu Ali Paşa”; Arıcı and Arıkan, Taşradan Merkeze; and
20
interest in Minkārīzāde has grown in recent years and provided additional
information about Minkārīzāde and his works from various perspectives. The first
study that can be mentioned in this regard is Guy Burak’s The Second Formation of
Islamic Law, which situates Ottoman legal innovations within the broader context of
the transformation of Islamic law in the post-Mongol period. His study is important
insofar as, compared to previous literature which mainly concentrated on the tensions
between the Rumi and Arab ulama,66 Burak accords importance to the reciprocal
relationship between the scholars of these different regions.
However, the most distinctive feature of Burak’s work is that he brings the
doctrinal features of muftiship to the fore by examining imperial jurisprudential
texts, the tabaqāt literature, and mufti’s fatwas, all types of documents that had been
handled together by only a few studies. Especially significant for our study is the
chapter of Burak’s book entitled “Books of High Repute,” where he compares the
jurisprudential canons of two muftis, Minkārīzāde and Khayr al-Dīn al-Ramlī, the
latter of whom was one of the non-appointed Palestinian muftis of the seventeenth
century.67 In their fatwa compilations, Burak detected more than one hundred
jurisprudential texts that were consulted by both jurists. Specifying the similarities
and differences in their bibliographies, he also shows the exchanges that took place
between officially appointed muftis and their colleagues who did not hold a state
appointment.68 Burak’s inquiry is noteworthy for showing the different canonization
processes of jurisprudential texts among two muftis from quite different
Kalaycı and Tan, “Zeyrekzāde Emrullāh,” 1–90. For a general overview of the genre of biography and
its echoes in Ottoman historical writing, see Terzioğlu, “Tarihi İnsanlı Yazmak.” 284–296.
66 Rafeq, “Syrian ‘Ulamā,’” 9–32; Rafeq, “Opposition of the Azhar ‘Ulamā,” 43–54; Winter
“Ottoman Qadis in Damascus,” 87–109; and Meshal, “Antagonistic Sharī‘as,” 183–212.
67 Burak, Second Formation, 147–155.
68 The correspondence between Minkārīzāde and Khayr al-Dīn al-Ramlī will be examined in Chapter
3.
21
backgrounds, and for revealing different voices within the scholarly community that
operated in the empire’s multi-centered legal landscapes.69
In more recent years, several other historians have continued to investigate
the intellectual and religious exchanges between scholars of different regions in the
early modern Ottoman Empire, in which Minkārīzāde stood out as an important
scholar. Nir Shafir’s doctoral dissertation, for example, moves beyond the traditional
understanding of the integration of Arab provinces into the Ottoman Empire by
focusing on the reciprocal relationships between these two regions. He examines the
changing tenor of Islamic religiosity in the years 1620–1720 from the perspective of
material interactions, emphasizing continuous exchange, connectivity, and encounter
between the lands of the Rumi and Arabs. Shafir addresses Minkārīzāde’s treatise
about the millet-i İbrāhīm in two different parts of his dissertation. First, he discusses
Minkārīzāde’s treatise in the context of the materiality of pamphlets in the early
modern period. Second, he explores the phrase “millet-i İbrāhīm” with reference to
confessional Muslim identity.70 Shafir has also recently written a separate article on
the topic of Minkārīzāde’s treatise on millet-i İbrāhīm.71
Another notable example in this area is Khaled El-Rouayheb’s recent book, in
which he extends his previous arguments, which had provided preliminary findings
opposing the view that Ottoman scholars lost in interest in the rational sciences after
the 1600s.72 In his study, El-Rouayheb examines the intellectual productions of
scholars in a text-centered narrative in such a way as to reveal exchanges of ideas
69 For a comparison of the bibliographies of Minkārīzāde and al-Ramlī, see Burak, Second Formation,
231–244.
70 Shafir, “Road from Damascus,” 76–82, 120–137.
71 Shafir, “Vernacular Legalism,” 32–75. Cengiz Şişman is another scholar who has recently written
about the treatise on millet-i İbrāhīm. See Şişman, “Minkarizâde Yahya,” 404–410. Apart from these
two studies, the shorter version of the treatise has recently been translated into modern Turkish by
Mehmed Akif Alpaydın. See Alpaydın, Şeyhülislâm Minkârîzâde,” 58–71.
72 El-Rouayheb, “Myth of the Triumph,” 196–221.
22
and transmission of knowledge in the Ottoman Empire and North Africa in the
seventeenth century.73 In doing this, he looks at three interrelated developments in
the scholarly currents of these regions: 1) the westward movement of Kurdish and
Azeri scholars working on the science of dialectics, in which El-Rouayheb
emphasizes the notion of “deep reading”; 2) the eastward movement of scholars from
Maghreb to Egypt and Hejaz, where emphasis is placed on “verification” and the
study of rational theology and logic; and 3) the spread of Sufi orders from India and
Azerbaijan into the Arabic-speaking world, which led to the consolidation of the
influence of the idea of “the unity of existence.” Like other intellectual histories on
this topic, El-Rouayheb’s study widens our perspective by adopting a more inclusive
approach that goes beyond the traditional framework, which focuses solely on the
center at the expense of the provinces and provincial scholarly circles. What is
interesting and particularly relevant for our discussion here is that El-Rouayheb
traces Minkārīzāde’s scholarly genealogy and provides a firm ground for situating
him within the intellectual currents of the seventeenth century.74 The recent works of
these three historians—Burak, Shafir, and El-Rouayheb—are significant for this
study because they not only provide additional insights regarding Minkārīzāde, but
also show that Minkārīzāde was one of the most important religious figures of his
time and was actively involved in the main contemporary debates.
All this increasing interest in Minkārīzāde, however, has not yet produced
comprehensive analyses of his scholarly career in relation to the wider changes and
transformations occurring in the Ottoman learned hierarchy and to the shifting
religious dynamics of Ottoman society on the ground. As such, despite their
important contributions, some of which have greatly inspired the current study, the
73 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History.
74 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 43.
23
aforementioned works leave numerous questions about Minkārīzāde’s life
unanswered. In this respect, building upon the existing literature but with a keen
awareness of its problems and gaps, this dissertation proposes to examine
Minkārīzāde’s scholarly and bureaucratic career in such a way as to provide fresh
insights into seventeenth-century Ottoman religious and intellectual history. With
this general objective in mind, I seek to analyze Minkārīzāde as a seventeenthcentury
scholar-bureaucrat in relation to the broader political, religious, and
intellectual processes of his time.
1.4 Sources
Since this study attempts to examine Minkārīzāde’s life and writings in the light of
political, religious, and intellectual trends of the seventeenth century, it would be
beneficial to begin by introducing the writings of Minkārīzāde. Putting aside for the
moment his fatwa compilations, Minkārīzāde’s most popular work is the Risāle-i
Millet-i İbrāhīm (“The Treatise on the Religion of Abraham”), which was written in
two versions, one long and the other short.75 Although there is no indication in any
copies of this treatise regarding its exact date of composition, it is clear that
Minkārīzāde wrote it before 1656, since the treatise was discussed in Kātib Çelebi’s
Mīzānü’l-Hakk, which was written in that year.76 The treatise concerns itself with the
question of whether or not it is permissible for a Muslim to identify himself as a
member of the millet-i İbrāhīm. Making reference to several Quran commentaries
75 For the extant copies of these treatises, see Süleymaniye YEK, MS Fatih, 5379/18, ff. 265–271;
5435/12, ff. 118–123; MS Hacı Hayri Abdi Efendi, 147/2, ff. 265–267; MS Hacı Mahmud Efendi,
4685/2, ff. 1–25; 1349; 1168-2, ff. 123–126; MS Halet Efendi, 404/2, ff. 38–40; MS İbrahim Efendi,
871/8, ff. 216–220; 860-38, ff. 133–135; MS M Arif M Murad, 23; MS Mihrişah Sultan, 440/8, ff.
79–80; MS Yazma Bağışlar, 1438/16, ff. 103–116; 1438/17, ff. 117–119; 7354/3, ff. 129–137; MS Ali
Emiri, 282, ff. 2–4; 1291, ff. 35–38; MS Sütlüce Dergahı, 111, ff. 71–73; MS A Tekelioğlu, 810/3, ff.
10–12; and Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 4952/3, ff. 35–55.
76 Kātib Çelebi, Balance of Truth, 110–123.
24
and theological works, Minkārīzāde proposed that such an identification is not
permissible.
Another work of Minkārīzāde is his rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s commentary on
Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye. This work was also written during the 1650s.
During the Kadızadelis’ “second burst of influence,” there was a religious polemic
between the Kadızadelis and Kürd Mollā, who came to Istanbul in the midseventeenth
century and contacted ‘Abdu’l-ahad Nūrī, one of the leading Halveti
sheikhs of the time. This polemic arose from Kürd Mollā’s commentary (şerh) on
Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, which aimed to clarify the ambiguous
meanings of certain issues in Birgivī’s magnum opus.77 In doing so, Kürd Mollā also
targeted some members of the Ottoman ulama and Sufis on the ground that both
sides accepted Birgivī’s text according to their own stances.78 The interesting point
here is that some ulama wrote rebuttals (reddiye) of Kürd Mollā’s commentary, with
one of those texts being authored by Minkārīzāde. In his rebuttal, Minkārīzāde
argues that, since Kürd Mollā’s commentary was a worthless work, detailed criticism
of it would only make it more valuable in the eyes of the people.79 For this reason, he
preferred to compose a very short rebuttal aiming simply to refute certain points
advanced in Kürd Mollā’s commentary.
Another treatise in which Minkārīzāde discusses a popular but contested
practice of the time is the Risāle fī Vücūbī İstimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’l-Hutbe (“The
Necessity of Listening to the Quran and the Khutba”).80 The main issue in this
77 Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1434–37 and Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli Movement,” 134–42.
78 Martı, Et-Tarîkatü'l-Muhammediyye, 109–110.
79 Minkārīzāde, Suretu ma ketebehu fi ibtali şerhi't-Tarīkati'l-Muhammediyye, Köprülü YEK, MS
Hafız Ahmed 152/3, ff: 77a–79a; Kayseri Raşit Efendi YEK, MS Raşit Efendi 350, ff: 66b–68a; and
Ankara Üniversitesi İlahiyat Fakültesi 980 ff: 1b–2b.
80 For the extant copies of this treatise, see Süleymaniye YEK, MS İbrahim Efendi, 872/2, ff. 18–20;
MS Mihrişah Sultan, 439/7, ff. 54–62; MS Serez, 3876/3, ff. 7–9; MS Şehid Ali Paşa, 2834/17, ff.
119–134; MS Fazıl Ahmed Paşa, 216/2, ff. 106–108; and MS Esad Efendi, 3645/3, ff. 20–44.
25
treatise is the question of whether or not it is preferable for the Muslim community,
during the Friday sermon, to collectively utter the formulae “God bless him” or “God
be pleased with him” whenever the name of the Prophet is uttered. Minkārīzāde’s
position on this issue is that silence is obligatory during the Friday sermon, and that
all people must say these formulae silently to themselves.
The last work of Minkārīzāde that should be mentioned here is his Hāşiye
‘alā Hāşiye Mīr Ebū’l-Feth li Şerhi’l-Hanefī ‘alā’l-ādābu’l-adudiyye.81 As compared
to his other works, this work is not related to the religio-legal debates of the 1650s.
Rather, it is on the science of dialectics (ādāb al-bahth), and as such, it can be
considered part of a wider scholarly tradition that underwent an efflorescence among
Ottoman scholars over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The
most common handbooks regarding ādāb al-bahth until the mid-seventeenth century
had been al-Samarkanqī (d. 1303)’s treatise and al-Shirwānī (d. 1499)’s commentary
on it. From that time onwards, however, the treatise of ‘Adud al-Dīn al-Ījī (d. 1355),
together with the commentary of Mullā Hanafī al-Tabrīzī (d. 1516) and the gloss of
Mīr Abū al-Fath (d. 1568), began to circulate in scholarly circles. Many additional
glosses and superglosses were written during the period in question. One such work
was Minkārīzāde’s supergloss on Mīr Abū al-Fath’s gloss on the commentary of
Mullā Hanafī al-Tabrīzī on ‘Adud al-Dīn al-Ījī’s Risāla fī ādāb al-bahth. This is the
only work Minkārīzāde wrote in a field categorized under the rational sciences.82
81 The earliest extant copy of this work bears the date 1092 (1681/1682), Beyazıd YEK, MS Beyazıd
10697. For the extant copies of this work, see MSS Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hacı Beşir Ağa, 578; MS
Hamidiye, 1449/3, ff. 97–131; MS Laleli, 3044/3, ff. 31–70; 3047/1, ff. 1–34; 2944; 3028/4, ff. 123–
133; 3051/8, ff. 57–94; MS Nafız Paşa, 1351; MS Şehid Ali Paşa, 2311/3, 99–126; MS Yazma
Bağışlar, 1846/6, ff. 47–77; Beyazıd YEK, MS Beyazıd, 5946, ff. 34b–72a; Atıf Efendi YEK, MS
Atıf Efendi, 2797/11, ff. 82–101; Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 4484/1, ff. 1–60; and Hacı
Selim Ağa YEK, MS Kemankeş, 318/8, ff. 97–139.
82 Minkārīzāde also had a Qur’anic commentary on al-Baydāwī’s Anwār al-Tanzīl, which will not be
addressed within the scope of this study. See Süleymaniye YEK, MS Laleli 318 and Beyazıd YEK,
MS Beyazıd 643.
26
Apart from all these aforementioned works, however, Minkārīzāde’s most
widely consulted work was the compilation of his fatwas. ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed’s
introductory note in his compilation provides invaluable information about these
fatwas. From him we learn that Minkārīzāde’s fatwas were collected in a mecmū‘a
during his tenure as chief jurist, but this compilation was later damaged by water and
became unreadable. Subsequently, one of ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed’s fellows found many
fatwas carrying the signature of Minkārīzāde and compiled them anew. However,
‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed decided to re-compile these fatwas due to the possibility that the
copyist might have made mistakes in writing Minkārīzāde’s responses. Then, upon
encountering one of the descendants of Minkārīzāde, Çelebi Efendi, and receiving
his help, ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed compiled a mecmū‘a of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas.83 Since
this compilation was made by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed, it is also recorded as Fetāvā-yı
‘Atāu‘llāh in some catalogues.84
There are two main difficulties in the study of the fatwa compilations of
Minkārīzāde. The first is that the fatwa compilation hitherto known as Fetāvā-yı
Abdurrahīm was recorded under this title in some library catalogues but as Fetāvā-yı
83 ‘Atâu‘llâh Mehmed Efendi, Fetâvâ-yı ‘Atâu‘llâh. Süleymaniye YEK, Esad Efendi MS 1095, 1b–2a.
“Emmā ba’d, bu fakīr Atāullah Muhammed el-hakīr nice sāl-i ferhunde-fāl zīb-efzā-yı sadr-ı fetvā ve
zīnet-bahşā-yı makām-ı iftā olan meşāyıh-ı islām –eskenehumullāhu fī dārisselām—hazerātının,
fetāvā-yı şerīfe hidmetleriyle şerefyāb ve güzārende-i evkāt olup, siyyemā bu mecmūa hāviye olduğu
es’ileye cevāb-fermā olan, āric-i ma‘āric-i menzilet ve dāric-i medāric-i mağfiret Minkārizāde Yahyā
Efendi merhūmun zamān-ı şerīflerinde tesvīd-i suāl-i sāil ve tetebbu‘-i mesāilde şeb u rūz sa‘y u gūşiş
olunub merhūmun fetāvā-yı müşkilesi bir cerīdede rakamzede olmuş idi. Kazā-i ilāhī ile cerīde ābzede
olub kabūl-nākerde-i intifā‘ olmuş idi. Bazı hademe-i fetvānın mecmūalarına dahi bi-emrillah-i
teālā dayā‘ el virmekle merhūmun fetāvāsı ve asılların akāsī-i merātib-i nisyān olub bu ma‘nā gusseendāz-
ı bāl-i pürmelāl olmağla merhūmun fetāvāsını cem‘in tarafında tekāpūy vādī-i hayret-mebādī-i
fikret iken, ihvān-ı nādirü’l-akrāndan biri merhūmun imzā-yı savāb-ihtivāsı ile mümdāt fetāvā-yı
vāfire ve mesāil-i mütekāsireye zafer bulmağla bir cerīdeye fetāvā-yı sāire gibi tertīb-i kütüb ü ebvāb
ile cem‘ idüb lākin nāsihin bazı ecvibede hatāsı ihtimali cevelān-gīr-i bazı havātır olmağla bu vāhime
rağbet-şiken-i talebe-i fetāvā olmağın merhūmun hafīdi ve emsālinin vahīdi Çelebī Efendi bu ma‘nāyı
fakīre işrāb ve bu vāhimeyi ref‘e ilhāh u ishāb idüb bu esnāda leyālīnin birinde pister-nişīn-i hāb iken
merhūm ālem-i misālde izhār-ı cemāl ve bu cem‘a işāret u gūşimāl itmekle müsta‘īnen billahiteāla
şurū‘ ü āğāz olındı.”
84 For some copies of his compilation, see İstanbul Müftülüğü 144; Süleymaniye YEK, MS
Hekimoğlu 421; MS Laleli, 1264; MS Fatih, 2386; and MS Esad Efendi, 1095.
27
Minkārīzāde in others, though both have the same content. This confusion in the
library catalogues is presumably due to the first fatwa, which can be found in all
these compilations.85 The main problem here, however, is that it is clearly stated in
some compilations attributed to Minkārīzāde in library catalogues that this first fatwa
was issued by Minkārīzāde.86 This very likely led both the library cataloguers and
modern historians not to notice the equivalence of these compilations. This is why
the same compilations could be recorded under two different titles.87
However, this attribution is not completely groundless, because, even if we
set aside the compilations’ equivalence, the high degree of overlap between the two
compilations prepared by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed and Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm shows
more than just a simple circulation of some fatwas in both compilations. Rather, the
majority of the fatwas in Fetāvā-yı ‘Atāu‘llāh can also be found in Fetāvā-yı
‘Abdu’r-rahīm. Taking into consideration this high degree of overlap, it is legitimate
to ask the following question: Could it be that the fatwas of Minkārīzāde were also
edited by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, and his name was inscribed in the compilation
as the author? Bearing in mind ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed’s introductory note, where it is
implied that there was another compilation of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas, this question
seems like one that needs to be asked. In any case, there is always a possibility that
85 This first fatwa reads as follows: Zeyd-i mü’min bir emr-i zī-bāle şurū’ ettikde ne ile bed’ etmek
gerekdir ki mübārek ve kāmil ola? El-cevab: Bismillahirrahmānirrahīm ile bed’ edip, ba’dehū bilā
fasl El-hamdü li’llāhi Rabbi’l-ālemin ile bed’ etmek gerektir. (El-mevlā el-‘allāmetü’l-merhūm
şeyhülislam Yahyā Efendi eş-şehīr bi-Minkārīzāde tayyeballāhu serāhu ve ce‘ale’l cennete mesvāhu.)
86 For these compilations, see Minkārīzāde Yahyā. Fetâvâ. Süleymaniye YEK, MS Aşir Efendi MS
137; MS Hamidiye 610; Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 2001, 2002, 2003; and Harvard Law
School Library, HLS MS 1402.
87 For example, in an entry written by Mustafa Yayla regarding the Fetâvâ-yı Minkârīzâde in the
Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, there is a photo on the first page of Minkārīzāde’s fatwa
compilation found in Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hamidiye 610, which is exactly the same as that of the
compilations prepared by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm. See Yayla, “Fetâvâ-yı Minkârîzâde,” 444–445.
In his master’s thesis, Çelik also noticed this equivalence; see Çelik, “Kitabu’s-Siyer Örneği,” 5–6.
28
both ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed and Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm benefitted from the same
common source.
Accordingly, considering that Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm served as chief
jurist for only one and a half years, but his fatwa compilation contains more than
eleven thousand fatwas,88 it would be highly unlikely that he issued all the fatwas in
this compilation. Likewise, bearing in mind that there was a high degree of overlap
between the fatwa compilations prepared by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed and Menteşzāde
‘Abdu’r-rahīm, it would be more plausible to suggest that Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’rrahīm
compiled the fatwas belonging to Minkārīzāde.
Related to this, the most obvious problem regarding these two compilations is
this: What should we do about the fatwas that were not included in the compilation
of ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed, but can be found in the compilation of Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’rrahīm?
As we will see in the fatwas related to Crete in Chapter 4, it seems that, while
the fatwas compiled by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm contain the original fatwas of
Minkārīzāde, the compilation prepared by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed includes the fatwas of
Minkārīzāde in abstract forms. In other words, ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed’s fatwa
compilation seems to have gone through an editing process, which might be the main
reason why ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed did not include all the fatwas in Menteşzāde
‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s compilation. In light of all this, however, as far as the available
knowledge regarding both fatwa compilations is concerned, we can come to the
following conclusion: Minkārīzāde’s fatwas were compiled in two different fatwa
compilations, with one being compiled by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed and the other by
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm.89
88 Kallek, “Fetâvâ-yı Abdurrahîm,” 437.
89 Despite this, however, Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s compilation seems to be more organized in
terms of content.
29
The second difficulty is that some compilations of the fatwas of
Zekeriyyāzāde Yahyā are misattributed to Minkārīzāde in library catalogues. This
probably resulted from copyists’ confusion of the names of these two chief jurists, or
else from misreading by the cataloguers.90 On the other hand, if we take into account
another fact that the compilation of Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm also contains the
fatwas of Zekeriyyāzāde Yahyā, a more complicated picture appeared.91 A detailed
examination of these aforementioned fatwa compilations exceeds the limit of this
study, but in the light of available knowledge regarding both fatwa compilations, we
can come to the following conclusion: Minkārīzāde’s fatwas were compiled in two
different fatwa compilations, one compiled by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed and the other by
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm. However, a very legitimate question of whether each
fatwa in Fetāvā-yı ‘Abdu’r-rahīm belonged to Minkārīzāde is beyond the scope of
this study.92 However, the most reasonable way to judge the authenticity of
90 For example, see Konya YEK, MS Burdur İl Halk Kütüphanesi, 1980; Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS
Nuruosmaniye 2056; Süleymaniye YEK, MS Esad Efendi 1088; and Hacı Selim Ağa YEK, MS Hacı
Selim Ağa 449.
91 A possible reason why Fetāvā-yı ‘Abdu’r-rahīm included the fatwas of both Minkārīzāde Yahyā
and Zekeriyyāzāde Yahyā might have resulted from the fact that both chief jurists signed their fatwas
with the same signature as Ketebehū Yahyā el-fakīr ufiye anh, which might have led Menteşzāde
‘Abdu’r-rahīm not to identify which fatwa belongs to whom. For the comparision of their signatures,
see Şeyhülislam Fetvaları, 26–37; 50–63. For the comparision of Fetāvā-yı ‘Abdu’r-rahīm and
Fetāvā-yı Yahyā Efendi, I benefitted from Zekeriyyāzāde Yahyā’s fatwa compilation that can be
found in Süleymaniye YEK, MS Serez 1116.
92 There are some copyists’ note that might lead us to think that the fatwas that can be found in
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s compilation only belongs to Minkārīzāde. For this point, see Çelik,
“Minkârizâde Yahya,” 67–71. Despite these notes, however, there is another later note that has a
possibility to query this assumption which was written at the beginning of a specific fatwa
compilation found in Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 2037. Whoever wrote this critical note
asserts that those who can penetrate into the books of fikh by carefully examining them will realize
that this compilation also contains the fatwas signed by others. In light of this, one must be careful to
recall that not all the fatwas in the compilation of Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm actually belonged to
Minkārīzāde. However, this specific compilation is not complete, with many sub-sections missing.
Similarly, the number of fatwas varies in each section. Therefore, it is almost impossible to compare
which fatwas belong to Minkārīzāde and which to Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm based on this copy
alone. See Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 2037: “Bu nüsha-i celīle-i mu‘tebere ‘allāme-i
Rūm Minkārīzāde merhūm zamān-ı şerīflerinde imzā ve yed-i müsteftīye i‘tā buyurdukları tercüme-i
mesā’il-i fıkhiyyeyi hāvī mecmū‘a-i ğarrādır ki ba‘deh yine sadr-ı fetvā zāt-ı sütūde-sıfātlarına tefvīz
buyurılan fuhūl-ı ‘ulemā-yı ‘izām –nevverellāhu merkadehum—hazerātı zamān-ı sa‘ādetlerinde
ba‘de’t-tetebbu‘ ve’t-tedkīk imzā buyurdukları fetāvā-yı şerīfe zamm ve ilhāk olundığı ba‘de’n-nazar
ve’t-te’emmüli’l-enīk müteneffizān-ı sahāyif-i fıkh-ı şerīf olanlara hüveydādır. Allahumme Fakkihnī
30
Minkārīzāde’s fatwas is to trace every specific fatwa in each compilation and then
decide which fatwa belongs to him, a method that I will follow in Chapter 4.
In addition to Minkārīzāde’s writings, biographical works are also
indispensable sources for examining the Ottoman ulama in general. Although the
genre of biographical compendia (tabāqāt) was widely known in medieval Islam, it
emerged in Ottoman lands only in the middle of the sixteenth century, with the
works of Kemalpaşazāde and Kınalızāde ‘Alī Çelebi.93 At around the same time, a
new kind of biographical dictionary tradition also began to emerge: by including the
biographies of high-ranking scholars in the Ottoman learned establishment and
organizing their names according to the reign of Ottoman sultans, Taşköprizāde’s eşŞakā’iku’n-
Nu‘māniyye became the first example of its kind.94 In subsequent years,
several supplements (zeyl) were written on this text, three of which will be used in
this study to shed light on the biographies of the members of the seventeenth-century
Ottoman learned establishment in general and Minkārīzāde in particular. The first of
these is Hadā’iku’l-Hakā’ik fī Tekmileti’ş-Şakā’ik by Nev‘īzāde Atāyī, which
consists of the biographies of more than one thousand scholars who lived between
the years 1557 and 1633.95 The Zeyl-i Şakāik96 and Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā,97 written by
Uşşākīzāde es-Seyyid İbrāhīm Hasīb and Şeyhī Mehmed respectively, are
supplements to the Hadā’iku’l-Hakā’ik. While Uşşākīzāde’s work includes the
fi’d-dīn ve veffiknī fi’l-icrā’i ‘ale’l-yakīn, bi-hurmeti seyyidil-evvelīn ve’l-āhirīn, āmīn yā rabbe’l-
‘ālemīn.”
93 For a detailed examination of the tabāqāt genre in the Ottoman context, see Burak, Second
Formation, 65–94.
94 For a new attempt at recontextualizing Taşköprīzāde’s eş-Şakâ’iku’n-Nu‘mâniyye, see Burak,
Second Formation, 94–100; for another study on the same work, see Anooshahr, “Writing, Speech,”
43–62.
95 Atâyî. For a study of this work, see Niyazioğlu, “Ottoman Sufi Sheikhs” and Niyazioğlu, Dreams
and Lives.
96 For a transliteration of this work, see Uşşâkîzâde. For another of his works, see Uşşâkîzâde es-
Seyyid İbrâhîm Hasîb Efendi, Uşşâkîzâde Târihi.
97 Şeyhî. Ali Uğur’s study of Şeyhī's Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā tabulated the biographies of the Ottoman
ulama; see his Ali Uğur, Ottoman ‘Ulemā.
31
biographies of more than 500 sheikhs and ulama who lived between the years 1634
and 1695, Şeyhī’s work covers the period between 1633 and 1731 and incorporates
the biographies of more than 2000 such figures.98 As far as the biography of
Minkārīzāde is concerned, Şeyhī Mehmed’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā will be preferred
throughout this study, as Şeyhī Mehmed composed his supplement more carefully
and provided more details about Minkārīzāde.99 Lastly, for identifying the works of
various scholars, Kātib Çelebi’s bibliographical Keşfü’z-zunūn is also an
indispensable source.100
In addition to biographical dictionaries and bibliographical work, Ottoman
chronicles and travel accounts also represent important sources for producing a
coherent narrative of the seventeenth century. In this regard, Mustafā Naīmā’s
history, the Ravzatü’l-Hüseyn fī hulāsati ahbāri’l-hāfikayn, is the most
comprehensive account for the first half of the seventeenth century.101 In addition to
this, Kātib Çelebi’s two works, the Fezleke and Mīzānü’l-Hakk,102 as well as some
other chronicles,103 provide invaluable information about the period in question.
There are also a wide range of Ottoman chronicles depicting the second half of the
seventeenth century from different perspectives.104
98 For a comparison of these two works, see Ekinci, “Mukayesesi,” 25–48.
99 For a detailed biography of Minkārīzāde in these works, see Uşşâkizâde, 687–690; Şeyhî, II, 1128–
1132. A less detailed biography of Minkārīzāde can be found in these works: Muhibbī, Khulāsat alathar,
IV, 477–478; Mehmed Süreyyâ, Sicill-i Osmânî, V, 1673–1674 (IV–637); and Yıldırım,
“Müstakimzade,” 161–162.
100 Kâtib Çelebi, Keşfü’z-zunûn.
101 Târih-i Na‘îmâ.
102 Aycibin, Fezleke and Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth.
103 Oral, “Tarih-i Gilmanî”; Akkaya, “Vecihî”; Karaçelebizade Abdül’aziz, Ravzatü'l Ebrar; and
Lokmacı, “Solakzâde.”
104 Abdurrahman AbdÅ Paşa, Vekâym‘-nâme; Defterdar, Zübde-m Vekaymât; RaşÅd & ÇelebÅzâde,
Târîh-m Râşmd; Yılmazer, ‘Îsâzâde Târîhm; Mühürdar Hasan Ağa, Mühürdar; Arslantürk &
Kocaaslan, Rmsale-m Kürd Hatmb; Türkal, “Zeyl-m Fezleke”; Konuk, “Vânî Mehmed”; Gökçek,
“BehcetÅ SeyyÅd”; Boyraz, “Köprülüzâde Ahmet”; Yüksel, “FetÅh-nâme-Å KamanÅçe; Taçkın,
“TarÅh-Å KamanÅçe; Özkasap, “TarÅh-Å NÅhâdî.” This period also witnessed an increase in the
number of European travelers who visited Ottoman lands. For these works, see Rycaut, History of
the Turkish; Rycaut, Present State; D’Arvieux, Mémoires; Croix, Mémories; Vandal, Marquis de
32
1.5 Structure of the dissertation
This dissertation has four main chapters, each of which deals with a distinct aspect of
Minkārīzāde’s life, bureaucratic career, and scholarly output. Chapter 2 examines his
early life and professional career and sets the stage for the subsequent chapters.
Although Minkārīzāde’s tenure as chief jurist overshadowed his earlier career, it is
vital to have a good understanding of that early career in order to better situate him
within the wider context of the Ottoman ulama of the seventeenth century. With this
aim in mind, the first part of the chapter deals with Minkārīzāde’s family background
and his early education, paying special attention to the Sufi sheikhs, preachers, and
public lecturers (ders-i ‘ām) with whom Minkārīzāde studied. The second part of the
chapter analyzes the bureaucratic career of Minkārīzāde from the mid-1620s to the
beginning of his term in the office of chief jurist in 1662. It examines his teaching
career beginning with his obtaining mülāzemet from Hocazāde Es‘ad, and looks at
the madrasas where he taught. The remainder of the chapter then focuses on
Minkārīzāde’s somewhat unstable judicial career between 1649 and 1662, a period
strongly affected by the turbulent political situation of the mid-seventeenth century.
One of the main points that this chapter will emphasize is that Minkārīzāde’s overall
stance in the 1650s paved the way for his appointment as chief jurist in 1662 and his
ability to remain in that position for an exceptionally long time by seventeenthcentury
Ottoman standards.
Chapter 3 focuses on Minkārīzāde’s scholarly output and his involvement in
the religio-legal debates of the mid-seventeenth century. By examining
Minkārīzāde’s three treatises—the Risāle-i Millet-i İbrāhīm, his rebuttal to Kürd
Nointel; Bent, Early Voyages; Abbott, Under the Turk; Chardin, Journal; and Galland, Günlük
Hâtıralar.
33
Mollā’s commentary on Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, and the Risāle fī
Vücūbī İstimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’l-Hutbe—as well as his two fatwas regarding the
impermissibility of raks, devrān, and Mevlevi semā‘, this chapter questions the
commonly held view that the mevali were largely absent from these debates.
Through a discussion of Minkārīzāde’s involvement in these debates, I show that
high-ranking ulama not only took part, but even played leading roles in the religiolegal
debates of the seventeenth century. Even though Minkārīzāde’s stance in his
treatises seems to be largely in line with the views of the Kadızadelis, I argue in this
chapter that a scholar and bureaucrat of Minkārīzāde’s stature should be seen as a
proponent of a stricter interpretation of the Hanafi school of law, rather than as a
follower of the Kadızadelis.
Chapter 4 contextualizes Minkārīzāde’s role as the empire’s chief jurist and
situates him within the political and religious processes of the 1660s and 1670s.
After providing historical background for Minkārīzāde’s tenure and drawing
attention to the multiple centers of decision-making that existed during this period,
the chapter examines a number of the administrative and bureaucratic tasks for which
Minkārīzāde was responsible during his tenure as chief jurist; namely, the
reorganization of the judgeships in Rumelia and the elevation of the rank of the
judgeship of Mecca in the hierarchy. The last section of this chapter is devoted to
Minkārīzāde’s fatwas concerning the new land code that was implemented in Crete
after its conquest by the Ottomans in 1669, a land code which resembled earlier
Islamic fiscal practices more than it did the classical Ottoman land regime. As will
be discussed in detail, several historians have offered differing explanations
regarding the changes in the land system of Crete after its conquest: some have
emphasized the socio-economic dynamics particular to the place and time, while
34
others point to the purported “influence of the Kadızadelis,” without providing
concrete textual evidence. Remarkably, the role of the learned establishment, and
especially that of the chief jurist Minkārīzāde, in this process has not been examined
so far. This section also shows that the fatwa compilation hitherto known as Fetāvāyı
Abdurrahīm contains the fatwas belonging to Minkārīzāde.
Chapter 5, the last chapter of the dissertation, has two aims. In the first part of
the chapter, the practice of mülāzemet throughout the seventeenth century is
discussed in light of Minkārīzāde’s appointment as examiner (mümeyyiz) in 1658.
The second part investigates the scholars who were patronized by Minkārīzāde. By
focusing on the scholarly networks that formed around Minkārīzāde, the primary
purpose of this part is to reveal that he was a powerful patron who intervened and
used his influence in favor of a considerable number of scholars throughout his
lifetime. Since the majority of these scholars received mülāzemet from him, special
emphasis will be placed on them. It will be shown that Minkārīzāde granted
mülāzemet to candidates of diverse familial and regional backgrounds, and did not
exclusively privilege the sons of prominent scholars. It seems that what mattered for
Minkārīzāde in granting someone mülāzemet was their knowledge and competence.
Related to this, another argument advanced in this chapter is that the practice of
mülāzemet was not just a bureaucratic tool for entering the Ottoman ulama, but also
facilitated the transmission of knowledge among scholars and across scholarly
networks. Despite this, however, mülāzemet was not the only intellectual channel
that enabled scholars to become part of Minkārīzāde’s intellectual circle.
Minkārīzāde’s long tenure as chief jurist (1662–1674) was nearly coterminous with
the tenure in the grand vizierate of Fāzıl Ahmed (1661–1676), who was an exprofessor
and a leading patron of the period, and it was the combination of these two
35
factors that attracted scholars from all parts of the Islamic world to “the threshold of
Minkārīzāde” (Minkārīzāde āsitānesi).
36
CHAPTER 2
THE CAREER OF A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY BUREAUCRAT
2.1 Introduction
Minkārīzāde owes much of his fame to his tenure in the office of chief jurist between
the years 1662 and 1674. His twelve-year tenure in the highest office of the Ottoman
learned hierarchy was one of the longest in the seventeenth century. While
Minkārīzāde’s years in this office have received some scholarly attention, his early
life and bureaucratic career have largely been ignored or overlooked.
Notwithstanding this negligence, Minkārīzāde’s biography from his birth in 1609 to
his accession to the office of chief jurist in 1662 is crucial for the purposes of this
study, as it helps us better situate him within the framework of the political, social,
religious, and intellectual realities of his time. Equally, examining Minkārīzāde’s
earlier career is essential to understanding and tracing the trajectory that eventually
took him to the highest level of the Ottoman learned hierarchy.
The primary aim of this chapter is to give a detailed account of Minkārīzāde’s
early life and bureaucratic career to fill this gap in the relevant literature. In the first
part of the chapter, I will conduct an examination of his social milieu in order to
unveil a concrete portrait of his general position within the Ottoman learned
hierarchy and the networks of the esteemed scholars of his time, both of which had a
substantial influence on his subsequent career. In doing this, a special emphasis will
be placed on his family background and the scholars, pious men, and sheikhs from
whom he received his education during his youth. In this context, it is important to
note that while Minkārīzāde received formal education, who had served as a
professor and judge in the Ottoman learned hierarchy, he also participated in
37
informal learning circles where he took lessons from scholars of diverse
backgrounds. In addition, he entered into a common educational network and shared
similar teaching and learning practices with two important intellectual figures of
seventeenth-century Ottoman society; namely, Kātib Çelebi and Evliyā Çelebi. In the
second part of the chapter, Minkārīzāde’s bureaucratic career will be examined in
depth, with a specific focus on his teaching and judicial career.
With the above aims in mind, I will first provide a brief survey of
Minkārīzāde’s family background and his father Minkārī ‘Ömer’s bureaucratic
career, which will allow for a better evaluation of what Minkārīzāde inherited from
his predecessors and how this set the stage for his future career in the Ottoman
learned hierarchy.
2.2 Family background
Biographical dictionaries do not allow us to trace the family genealogy of
Minkārīzāde retrospectively, but there is still a prevalent story narrated in the
secondary literature. According to this, the ancestors of Minkārīzāde came from
Khorasan to the region known as Minkār in Basra.105 In the early sixteenth century,
the male members of this family were recruited into the Ottoman army during Sultān
Selīm I’s Egyptian campaign, and for their good service and success on the
battlefield were given as dirlik the region in ‘Alā’iyye (Alanya) known as İbradı.106 It
must be noted, however, that this story cannot be taken at face value, since it comes
105 The fact that there was a scholar by the name of Minkārī Yahyā living in these regions indicates
that there might be a strong connection between these regions and the name itself. See Özkan, “Yahyâ
el-Minkarî,” 269–270.
106 For these works, see Özkaynak, Akseki Kazası, 100–101; Selekler, Yarımasrın Arkasından, 82–83;
Sümbül, Evliyâ Çelebi gibi; Tuş, “Seyyahların Gözüyle Alanya,” 606; and Özdemir, Derebucak, 77.
38
mainly from oral testimonies of the descendants of the family rather than from
archival registers or documents.
However, there is another source that cannot be so summarily dismissed.107 In
his memoirs published in 1993, Tarık Minkari, a ninth-generation descendant of the
Minkārīzāde family, provided a detailed family tree going back to the sixteenth
century.108 Minkari’s account not only confirms the story mentioned above but also
gives additional information about his ancestors. According to this genealogy,
Minkārīzāde’s grandfather was Minkārī Oruç ‘Alī, who was born in Khorasan and
then migrated to Teke in southwestern Anatolia, where he finally settled in İbradı.
He had four sons: Kādī Mehmed (Fındık Kādī), Zekeriyyā Emīn Bayram, Minkārī
‘Alī, and Minkārī (zāde) ‘Ömer. Minkārī ‘Alī seems to have been the ancestor of
Tarık Minkari, while Kādī Mehmed had apparently been a judge and was buried in
Akşehir. There is, however, no specific information about Zekeriyyā Emīn Bayram.
The available evidence coincides with the information given in this family
tree for some of the family members. For instance, the appointment of Minkārī
‘Ömer to the judgeship of Mecca and his death in 1624, as well as the name of
Minkārīzāde Yahyā’s son ‘Abdul-lāh Efendi, were correctly recorded as confirmed
by the contemporary biographical sources. Similarly, the son of Minkārīzāde’s
cousin ‘Osmān Efendi, Minkārī Hācī ‘Alī wrote a book titled Şifā’ül-mu’minīn (The
Remedy of the Faithful) in 1654, presenting it to Mehmed IV.109 Also, this genealogy
recorded Kādī Abdu’r-rahmān, who was an important state official at the end of the
eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth centuries.110
107 Minkari, Bir Cerrahın Anıları, 13–19.
108 For the family tree of the Minkārīzādes, see Appendix A.
109 For his work, see Minkārī ‘Alī Halīfe, Şifā’al-Mü’min. Antalya Tekelioğlu İl Halk Kütüphanesi
397. For a brief evaluation of this work, see Shafir, “Moral Revolutions,” 606, 610–611. For another
work of Minkārī ‘Alī’s, see Bahadır, “Risale-i Sa’adet,” 622–636.
110 For additional information about him, see Uzunçarşılı, “Kadı Abdurrahman,” 369–451.
39
However, Atāyī’s description of Minkārī ‘Ömer in Hadā’iku’l-Hakā’ik
suggests another explanation for the origin of the nickname “Minkārī.”111 Atāyī
introduces Minkārī ‘Ömer with the following words: “He came from the rock-strewn
land of ‘Alā’iyye and became known by the nickname of “Minkārī” on account of
the beaky (aquiline) nose of the stone-cutter’s pick” (‘Alā’iyye sengistānından
külüng-i külengī ile āşikār ve “Minḳārī” laḳabı ile şöhret-şi‘ār olmış idi). The word
minkār ( مقنار ) has a double meaning: the first is “a bird’s bill or beak,” and the
second is “a stone-cutter’s pick,” both of which meanings are also echoed in the
words külüng and küleng.112 Hence, it seems plausible that Atāyī used the technique
of paronomasia (tevriye) to connect the nickname “Minkārī” to Minkārī ‘Ömer’s
physical appearance on the one hand and to his birthplace of ‘Alā’iyye on the other.
In light of the information given above, one can speculate that the nickname
“Minkārī” was first used for Minkārī ‘Ömer, but since over time this nickname came
to be most closely associated with him and his son Minkārīzāde Yahyā, it is also
possible that it was used retrospectively to refer to other members of the family as
well.
In relation to this, there is another point that should be clarified. Ahmet
Akgündüz has proposed that Minkārīzāde was the grandson of Dede Cöngī (d. 1567),
an Ottoman scholar who is best known for his Arabic work es-Siyāsetü’ş-şer‘iyye,
one of the best-known examples of the Ottoman siyāsetnāme tradition.113 Akgündüz
111 Atâyî, 1709–1710.
112 For the definition of the term minkārī, see Meniński, Thesaurus, 2010 and Sâmi, Kâmûs-ı Türkî,
1421.
113 For the biography of Dede Cöngī, see Atâyî, 503–505; Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnameleri, IV,
122–126; and Akgündüz, “Dede Cöngî,” 76–77. Meşrebzade Mehmed Arif (d. 1858)’s Turkish
translation of es-Siyāsetü’ş-şer‘iyye can be found in Akgündüz’s study; Akgündüz, Osmanlı
Kanunnameleri, IV: 127–173. For modern studies on Dede Cöngī and his es-Siyāsetü’ş-şer‘iyye, see
Heyd, Studies in Old, 198–204; Terzioğlu, “Bir Tercüme,” 247–275; Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined,
84–86; Aykan, “A Legal Concept,” 1–19; Sariyannis, Ottoman Political Thought, 104–109; and
Terzioğlu, “Ibn Taymiyya,” 101–154.
40
reached this conclusion based on the introductory passage of Seyyid Sebzī
Mehmed’s late seventeenth-century Turkish translation of the aforementioned text by
Dede Cöngī.114 Considering the fact that Seyyid Sebzī Mehmed (d. 1680) was a
contemporary of Minkārīzāde, his statement regarding the latter’s genealogy must be
taken seriously. Apart from that, in some manuscript catalogues Dede Cöngī’s full
name is registered as Kemale’d-dīn İbrāhīm b. Bahşī Minkārīzāde Kara Dede, thus
raising the possibility that Dede Cöngī was the grandfather of Minkārīzāde in the
paternal line.115 However, given the fact that Dede Cöngī and Minkārī ‘Ömer had
never been in the same region in any period of their lives, it would be almost
impossible to assume such a father-son relationship between them. Fortunately, this
mystery is solved by a note Minkārīzāde himself made in another work of Dede
Cöngī’s, the Hāşiye alā Şerhi’l-İzzī fi’t-tasrīf li’t-Teftāzānī. In his note, Minkārīzāde
reveals that he was actually the grandson of Dede Cöngī in the maternal line.116
Having thus provided a brief overview of Minkārīzāde’s family background,
we can now turn our attention to the bureaucratic career of his father Minkārī
‘Ömer.117 As stated, Minkārī ‘Ömer was born in ‘Alā’iyye, most probably around the
mid-sixteenth century, which we can speculate based on the 1557 date of death of el-
Mevlā Mehmed bin ‘Abdu’l-kerīm known as Zülfinigār, who was Minkārī ‘Ömer’s
first teacher at the madrasa of Hāce Hayre’d-dīn in İstanbul.118 While this shows that
114 “merhûm Dede Efendi eş-şehir cedd-i Minkarizâde” Quoted in Açık, “Mehmed Sebzî,” 8.
115 Kemale’d-dīn İbrāhīm b. Bahşi Minkārīzāde Kara Dede, Tercüme-i risale-i siyāset-i şer'iyye,
Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4982/1; Kemaleddin İbrahim b. Bahşi Minkārīzāde Kara
Dede, Dede Cöngī, Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4651.
116 Kara Dede Kemale’d-dīn, Dede Cönki. Murad Molla, 1734.
ھذه ح اش یة ج د الع بد الفقیر من طرف الأ م عل ى ح اش یة شرح ال زن ج اني لس عد الم لة و الدین ، و أنا المذن ب یح یى بن ع م ع في ع نھم ا
117 All information regarding the bureaucratic career of Minkārī ‘Ömer is based on his biography in
Atâyî, 1709–1710.
118 Atâyî, 274–275. Atāyī states that the biography of his father can be found in Taşköprizade’s eşŞakā’ik-
ı Nu‘māniyye. Accordingly, there are two possible scholars by the name of Abdu’l-kerīm.
One is Abdu’l-kerīm Efendi, who was a close friend of the vizier Mahmud Pasha and of İyas Efendi.
While the former had held the grand vizierate during the reign of Mehmed II, the latter was the
teacher of Mehmed II in his early years. For the biography of Abdu’l-kerīm Efendi, see Şakâ’ik, 262–
41
Minkārī ‘Ömer was already in Istanbul by the mid-sixteenth century, it is not clear
when he decided to enter the Ottoman learned hierarchy. However, two more pieces
of information help us to shed some further light on the career timeline of Minkārī
‘Ömer. First, we know that he received the status of novice (mülāzemet) from Kara
Çelebizāde Hüsām, who served as the chief judge of Rumelia in 1590 and died in
1598.119 Second, Minkārī ‘Ömer reached to the hāric level with his appointment to
the madrasa of Yūsuf Paşa in Istanbul in 1604. Based on this information, we can
safely assume that he began his teaching career towards the end of the sixteenth
century.
In 1607, Minkārī ‘Ömer was appointed as the mufti of Agrus (present-day
Atabey, near Lake Eğirdir in southwestern Anatolia) but he declined the
appointment.120 Within the same year, he was granted the madrasa of İbrāhīm Paşayı
Atīk in Üsküdar. He taught at this madrasa for nearly four years before being
appointed to the Mehmed Paşa madrasa in Üsküdar in 1611. For the next four years,
he continued his teaching career in the madrasas of Gazanfer Ağa and Sahn-ı
Semāniyye. Following his appointment at the Sahn, he next became a professor at
the Sultān Bāyezīd madrasa in Edirne before coming back to Istanbul with an
appointment to the Eyüp Madrasa in 1616. The last madrasa where he served as a
professor was the madrasa of Hākāniyye-i Vefā. With regards to Minkārī ‘Ömer’s
judicial career, it could have started with his assignment to the judgeship of Eyüp in
1618, but he declined this offer so that his judicial career did not start until 1619,
when he was appointed as the judge of Jerusalem, where he stayed nearly for two
265. For the biography of İyas Efendi, see Şakâ’ik, 284–286. The other possible person was the
Abdu’l-kerīm nicknamed el-Vizevī. For his biography, see Şakâ’ik, 794.
119 Atâyî, 1129–1131.
120 Sezen, Osmanlı Yer Adları, 62.
42
years. In 1623, he advanced to the judgeship of Mecca, a position which he held for
only for one year before dying in 1624.
Minkārī ‘Ömer’s judicial career was short compared to his teaching career,
but it would not be wrong to assert that he proceeded very quickly in judicial
positions. Although he declined his first assignment to the judgeship of Eyüp,
Minkārī ‘Ömer still managed to land one of the more prestigious judgeships in the
empire, Jerusalem, as his first formal judicial post. Similarly, considering that from
the 1540s onwards the judges of Mecca would be chosen from among high-level
scholar-bureaucrats, the speed of his advancement in the hierarchy is clear.121
How was it possible for a person from a provincial background like Minkārī
‘Ömer to enter the learned hierarchy and proceed to one of the more prestigious posts
in the judicial hierarchy? Of course, Minkārī ‘Ömer’s professional career and his
advancement in the learned hierarchy cannot be understood solely by looking at his
personal story. Instead, his professional career might best be regarded as a part of, or
rather the consequence of, the centuries-long process of consolidation of the Ottoman
scholarly bureaucracy. As Abdurrahman Atçıl’s recent work has revealed, the
massive territorial expansion of the sixteenth century meant, among other things, the
construction of new madrasas and the incorporation of new judgeships into the
empire, which in turn necessitated more and more scholars to fill educational and
judicial posts.122 For this reason, the centripetal movement of scholars to the
Ottoman center was also welcomed by the authorities. As a result of these processes,
by the end of the sixteenth century the scholarly bureaucracy had nearly completed
its consolidation and become self-sufficient.
121 Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 205.
122 Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 145–169.
43
One should emphasize, however, that there were also many other factors
influencing the migration of scholars to the Ottoman center. A lifelong career in the
scholarly bureaucracy, with its predictable and regular promotions, must have been
very attractive for those coming from provinces where job opportunities were very
limited and security concerns were paramount due to the Celali rebellions of the
second half of the sixteenth and the early decades of the seventeenth century.123
Whatever the factors that led Minkārī ‘Ömer to migrate to the Ottoman
center, he was certainly not alone: a brief overview of biographies in Nev‘īzāde
Atāyī’s Hadā'iku’l-Hakā'ik reveals that there were at least twenty-three scholars
from the region of ‘Alā’iyye and Manavgat, all of whom served in educational and
judicial positions in the learned hierarchy between the years 1557 and 1633.124 While
most of these scholars were unable to rise to top positions in the hierarchy, there
were some who managed to receive promotions and advance to the top.125 Each of
these scholars no doubt had a particular story that should be examined separately in
order to properly contextualize their degree of acceptance into the religious
bureaucracy; nevertheless, the relatively high level of representation of scholars from
this region and the fact that a few among them were able to rise to top positions in
123 Even after the suppression of the Celali revolts in the first decade of the seventeenth century, their
devastating impact continued to be felt; see Andreasyan, “Celâlîlerden Kaçan,” 45–53.
124 The names and page numbers of their biographies in Atāyī’s work are as follows: ‘Alā’e’d-dīn ‘Alī
el-Manavī (Ebü’l-ley ‘Alīsi), 479–481; Tāce’d-dīn İbrāhīm el-Manavī (Zervā Tāce’d-dīn, Hāfız-ı
Muhīt), 481–482; Seyyidī bin Halīl (Manav Seyyidī), 572–575; İhtiyār (Manav İhtiyār), 795; Bālī
(Manav Şems), 822; Seyfu’llāh (Manav Seyfī), 859–860; ‘İvaz (‘İvaz Efendi), 865–867; Tāce’d-dīn
(Manav Tāce’d-dīn), 1199–1200; Hasan (Manav Hasan), 1236; Mehmed (Seyyidīzāde), 1318;
‘Alā’e’d-dīn (Hevāncı ‘Alī el-Manavī), 1354–1355; Muslihi’d-dīn (Kātibzāde Mu‘īdī Manav
Muslihi’d-dīn), 1355; Halīl (Manav Halīl), 1457–1458; ‘Abdu’llāh (Manav Hasan Oğlı ‘Abdu’llāh
Çelebi), 1593–1594; Manav Hasan, 1594; ‘Abdu’l-bākī (Manav ‘Abdu’l-bākī), 1655; Mehmed Sādık
(Sıdkī Çelebi) {Sıdkī}, 1771–1772; Hidāyetu’llāh (Manav Hidāyet), 1786–1788; Halīl (Manav Halīl),
1797–1798; Süleymān (‘İvaz Efendi Süleymānı), 1106–1107; ‘Ubūdī (‘Ubūdī), 1189–1190; Bayram
(‘Iydī Efendi), 1316–1317; Mustafā (Bī-endām Muslihi’d-dīn), 1619–1620.
125 For example, ‘İvaz Efendi became the chief judge of Rumelia in 1581. For his biography, see
Şeyhî, I, 865–867.
44
the hierarchy suggest that Minkārī ‘Ömer’s advancement in the religious bureaucracy
owed something to his network.
The first thing worth noting this regard is that being a son-in-law of Dede
Cöngī must have helped Minkārī ‘Ömer to establish relatively close relations with
certain groups in learned circles. In addition, Minkārī ‘Ömer surely expanded his
network even further during his teaching career of more than fifteen years in
Istanbul. More importantly, though, Minkārī ‘Ömer seems to have been closely
affiliated with the chief jurist Hocazāde Es‘ad. In fact, it was during Hocazāde
Es‘ad’s tenure as chief jurist that Minkari Ömer’s appointments to the judgeships of
Jerusalem and Mecca took place. Last but not least, we learn from Atāyī’s account
that Minkārī ‘Ömer was also affiliated with pious men and sheikhs (sulehā vü
meşā’ihe mā’il), a factor that enlarged his network and must have had an effect on
Minkārīzāde Yahyā’s early years, a point to which I will return later.
2.3 Early education
Minkārīzāde Yahyā was born in 1609, when his father Minkārī ‘Ömer was professor
at the madrasa of İbrāhīm Paşa-yı Atīk in Üsküdar. Being the son of a scholar
serving within the learned hierarchy as a professor, Minkārīzāde received a religious
education as well. After receiving a proper madrasa education and obtaining the
status of novice, he entered the learned hierarchy and taught at a number of madrasas
in subsequent years. However, this should not mislead us into thinking that his
education was limited to the formal education that he received in Ottoman madrasas:
the intellectual life of the Ottoman world in the seventeenth century was rich and
diverse, and there were other sources that contributed to his intellectual development
as well. As has been mentioned before, one of the striking developments in the
45
social, religious, and political life of Ottoman society during the late sixteenth and
early seventeenth centuries was the increasing visibility and growing importance of
Sufi sheikhs, preachers, and public lecturers (ders-i ‘ām).
A prototypical example of this development can be seen in the fact that, when
Minkārīzāde was born in 1609, Sheikh ‘Ömer became the tutor of Sultan Ahmed I’s
sons Osman and Mehmed, after which the imam of the sultans and preachers seem to
have come to dominate the position of royal tutorage in the seventeenth century.126 In
light of this, it would be very unlikely that a phenomenon that played a crucial role
even in the education of Ottoman princes would not have influenced Minkārīzāde’s
educational background. As a matter of fact, Minkārīzāde did indeed benefit from
learning circles outside the learned hierarchy, receiving an education from a number
of scholars, pious men, and sheikhs of diverse backgrounds. The main figures
identified by biographers as having a role in Minkārīzāde’s education include
Mahmūd Hüdayī, Kiçi Mehmed, Semīn Velī, and Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, although the
biographers do not mention what specific roles they played. In any case, these
figures deserve a detailed examination in order to try to reconstruct and contextualize
their roles in shaping Minkārīzāde’s education as well as his religio-legal and
intellectual position.
The first person who can be named in this regard is Mahmūd Hüdayī (d.
1628), a well-known Sufi sheikh of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth
centuries.127 Born in Şereflikoçhisar in 1541, he received his initial training in
126 Although the sheikh ‘Ömer had held a teaching positions in Ottoman madrasas, he was better
known as a preacher. For more information about him, see Tezcan, “Searching for Osman,” 186–194
and Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 118–128. For the lists of royal preceptors, see Tezcan,
“Searching for Osman,” 373–374, footnotes 77 and 78.
127 For his life, see Tezeren, Seyyid Azîz Mahmûd; Beldiceanu, “Hüdâ’î,”” 538–539; Yılmaz, Azîz
Mahmûd Hüdâyî and Baskıcı, “Life between Piety and Politics.” It should be noted here that, thanks
to a recent finding by Derin Terzioğlu, we now know that some biographical information about
Hüdayî is wrong. For example, his attendance at the conversations of the Halveti sheikh Nūre’ddīnzâde
Muslihu’d-dīn at Küçük Ayasofya Mosque and his appointment to the post of sheikh of the
46
Sivrihisar, where he spent his childhood. After coming to Istanbul, Mahmūd Hüdayī
came under the patronage of Nāzırzāde Ramazan, from whom he received the status
of novice in 1570/71 and whom he accompanied on his tenure in the judgeships of
Egypt and Damascus. After completing this apprenticeship, Mahmūd Hüdayī
formally entered the learned hierarchy himself, being appointed simultaneously to
the madrasa of Ferhādiye in Bursa as professor and to the court of Cāmi-i Atīk as
nā’ib (deputy judge). After his teacher Nāzırzāde died, however, Mahmūd Hüdayī
left these official assignments and moved out of the learned hierarchy, attaching
himself to Muhyī’d-dīn Üftāde, who played an important part in the process of the
establishment of the Celveti Sufi order.
During this time, Mahmūd Hüdayī also served as a preacher in the Fatih
Mosque, where he gave lessons in hadith and Qur’anic commentary (tafsīr). After
the construction of his Sufi lodge in Üsküdar in 1595, he left his position at Fatih
Mosque and began to give Thursday sermons in the Mihrimah Sultan Mosque in
Üsküdar.128 However, even though he gave sermons in several mosques in Istanbul,
it was the lodge he established in Üsküdar that truly made it possible for him to reach
large masses of people.
To be more precise, the popularity of Mahmūd Hüdayī in the social and
political life of Ottoman Istanbul in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries
was, to a great extent, an outcome of the growing influence of Sufi sheikhs and
preachers in Ottoman society. This influence emerged as a consequence of the long
historical process of the institutionalization and domestication of Sufi groups in
same mosque are wrongly attributed to him when in fact this person was the Halveti sheikh known as
İbrāhīm-i Kırımī (d. 1593); see Terzioğlu, “Power, Patronage,” 154–164.
128 Yılmaz, Azîz Mahmûd Hüdâyî, 53 and Tezeren, Aziz Mahmud Hüdayi, 15–16.
47
Ottoman society over the centuries.129 In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the
Ottoman state and Sufis had had a very complicated relationship: while an esteemed
scholar and Sufi sheikh like Bedrü’d-dīn was executed for his revolt against the
nascent empire, several Sufi orders—among them the Zeynis, Bayramis, Halvetis,
and Naqshbandis—gained a considerable degree of autonomy in Ottoman lands
during the same period. In the sixteenth century, however, such orders’ already
intricate relationship with the state became even more convoluted as a result of the
latter’s institution of a more supervisory policy over Sufi orders, some of whose
beliefs and practices were seen as possibly antithetical to the state’s understanding of
the Sunni Hanafi tradition at that time. As a corollary of this, even though state
officials and learned men neither directly targeted nor outright forbade Sufi practices,
they did carefully inspect the controversial practices of some Sufi groups and
distanced themselves from these groups to a certain extent.130
This process overlapped with a period when a series of construction projects,
mainly educational and religious complexes, was becoming more visible across the
empire.131 More specifically, as far as seventeenth-century Istanbul is concerned, in
addition to the congregational mosques built by the sultans, members of the dynasty,
Ottoman royal women, and state officials, many neighborhood and congregational
mosques were also founded by wealthy individuals and supported by local residents,
each of which provided posts for a preacher (vā’iz), prayer leader (imām), orator
(khatib), Sufi sheikhs, and public lecturers (ders-i ‘ām), to the extent permitted by
the endowment deeds of these complexes.132 The existence of this wide variety of
129 Derin Terzioğlu has meticulously examined this intricate process in her article, “Sufis in the Age,”
86–99.
130 Terzioğlu, “Sufis in the Age,” 95–96.
131 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, 47–59.
132 For state officials’ attempt to control and incorporate many professorships into the official learned
hierarchy, see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 155–161.
48
positions could help learned men secure a considerable degree of moral and religious
legitimacy and thus widespread social and political power.133 At the same time, these
learned men’s ability to reach wider audiences provided a very convenient ground
for state officials to benefit from their growing role in society. As a result, a kind of
rapprochement took place towards the end of the century among state officials,
learned men, and Sufi groups.134
Mahmūd Hüdayī was one of the leading Sufi sheikhs and preachers who
emerged within this context, with his spiritual guidance attracting various social
groups and individuals over several generations, including everyone from Ottoman
sultans and state officials to ordinary Muslims. Two significant examples show the
particular sway he held over Ottoman sultans. First, when the Sultan Ahmed Mosque
was opened in 1616, it was Hüdayī who gave the first sermon there, and he went on
to read sermons on the first Monday of every month.135 Second, and more
importantly, it was Hüdayī who girded Murad IV’s sword during his enthronement
ceremony.136
It was probably in the 1610s, when the Celveti order had already begun to
flourish under the direction of Mahmūd Hüdayī, that Minkārīzāde attended his
Qur’an recitation sessions (‘ilm al-qirā’at) and learned from him how to read and
recite the Qur’an. Where the science of Qur’anic recitation is concerned, there are
three basic methods of receiving it: semā‘ (learning Qur’anic recitation by hearing
the teacher), müşāfehe (learning Qur’anic recitation by conversing face-to-face with
133 For the roles of preachers in medieval Mamluk Cairo, see Berkey, Popular Preaching.
134 For the growing importance of Sufis in Ottoman political thought in the sixteenth century, see
Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined.
135 Considering that the Sultan Ahmed Mosque was regarded as illegitimate by the religious
authorities of the time due to the fact that Ahmed had gained no victory against the Christians, the
importance of Hüdayī’s agreeing to give sermons there can be more easily appreciated. See
Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, 515.
136 Kafadar, “Eyüp’te Kılıç Kuşanma,” 59.
49
the teacher in close proximity), and arza (reciprocatively learning and uttering the
Qur’anic recitation along with a teacher); however, it is not known by which method
Minkārīzāde learned recitation from Hüdayī.137 Nonetheless, as indicated by the
word ibtidā (“as a beginning”) used by Şeyhī in his biographical dictionary,
Minkārīzāde seems more likely to have learned Qur’anic recitation by hearing.138 At
first glance, this variety of Qur’anic recitation can be regarded as the first step in
Minkārīzāde’s education. However, the fact that phonetic, phonological,
morphological, syntactic, and stylistic differences in the science of Qur’anic
recitation necessitate that it be studied in conjunction with several other fields—such
as the Arabic language, jurisprudence (fıqh), Qur’anic commentary (tafsīr), hadith,
theology (kalām), and Sufism—indicate that Minkārīzāde’s learning recitation from
such an esteemed Sufi sheikh should not be underestimated, because the variants of
Qur’anic recitation given by Hüdayī would be seminal knowledge that Minkārīzāde
might have utilized in subsequent years.
As has been mentioned, Minkārīzāde’s father Minkārī ‘Ömer was inclined to
sheikhs and pious men. This might be one main reason why Minkārīzāde himself
leaned toward learning Qur’anic recitation from the famed Celveti Sufi master in his
early years. Needless to say, as an esteemed public figure, Hüdayī’s recitations
attracted people from a variety of backgrounds, but it is likely that Minkārīzāde, as
the son of a professor, had an advantage when it came to actually entering the circles
of this well-connected and esteemed master. In light of all this, it is clear that Sufi
sheikhs and preachers, such as Hüdayī in this case, played a leading role not only by
delivering sermons in mosques, but also by providing informal education.
137 Birışık, “Kıraat,” 430–431.
138 “Üsküdarī Şeyḫ Maḥmūd Efendi ḥażretlerinden ḳırā’at-ı Ḳur’ān’-ı ‘aẓīmü’ş-şāna ibtidā müyesser
olmış idi.” Quoted in Şeyhî, II, 1128.
50
In addition to Mahmūd Hüdāyī, another figure from whom Minkārīzāde
received informal education was Kiçi Mehmed (d. 1644).139 Born in Albania, Kiçi
Mehmed was recruited into the palace school (Enderun-ı Humayun) as a devşirme,
most likely at the end of the sixteenth century or in the early of the seventeenth
century. He received his initial training in the palace, where he attended the lessons
of the preceptor at the Palace School (Saray Hācesi) Karamanī Efendi, after which
he left the palace to serve as a cavalry soldier (sipāhī) in the provinces. Although we
do not know where or how long he was assigned to this post, his subsequent career
took an unorthodox turn when he left his military career to become a public lecturer
(ders-i ‘ām) at Süleymaniye Mosque. It was also likely around this time that he was
appointed as a teacher of the small chamber (Küçük Oda Hacesi) at Topkapı Palace,
teaching the science of syntax using Ibn al-Hājib’s Al-Qāfiya.140 Kiçi Mehmed
served as a public lecturer for many years without entering the learned hierarchy, and
it was only toward the end of his life in the 1640s that he was appointed to the
madrasa that had been founded by Kemankeş Mustafā.
Kiçi Mehmed seems to have taught a considerable number of scholars
throughout his lifetime, two prominent figures among them being Evliyā Çelebi and
Kātib Çelebi. Evliyā Çelebi mentioned in his Seyāhatname, for instance, that Kiçi
Mehmed was the teacher of his Arabic lessons in the year 1634, when he was at
Topkapı Palace.141 Similarly, we learn from Kātib Çelebi’s Mīzānü’l-Hakk that he
attended Kiçi Mehmed’s lectures at Süleymaniye Mosque in the year 1640/41.142
While biographical dictionaries provide little information regarding Minkārīzāde’s
relationship with Kiçi Mehmed, it is quite likely that Minkārīzāde attended Kiçi
139 Şeyhî, I, 529–530.
140 For a brief information about this work, see Kılıç, “El-Kâfiye,” 153–154.
141 Evliyâ Çelebi, Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, I, 178.
142 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 139.
51
Mehmed’s lectures when the latter was a public lecturer at Süleymāniyye Mosque.
Considering that Minkārīzāde is thought to have received a formal madrasa
education, the importance of public lecturers in informal learning circles within
Ottoman society is an important issue that needs to be addressed.143
Public lecturers were given in mosques and madrasas across the empire.144
Although it is not known when the practice first appeared, references to the term in
sixteenth-century sources indicate that it had been in use for some time.145 The
existence of a considerable number of scholars serving as public lecturers in both
Atāyī and Şeyhī’s biographical dictionaries makes it evident that their roles in
Ottoman society increased throughout the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries. What is even more telling in this regard is that there are five scholars
recorded in Şeyhī’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā in connection with the term ders-i ‘ām.146
One of the important points to be emphasized about these lecturers is what
lessons they taught, but unfortunately not much is known about these lessons. Even
so, several pieces of information in contemporary sources provide some clues about
the content of these lectures. In addition to Kiçi Mehmed—who was an expert on
Arabic grammar, which he probably taught at Süleymaniye Mosque,147—there was
also for instance Kürd Abdullah, a public lecturer who was a master in transmitted
143 Despite public lecturers’ growing role in Ottoman society in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, however, this topic has not attracted a good deal of attention from Ottomanists. There are
only two relevant works can be named in this regard: İpşirli, “Dersiâm,” 185–186 and Akgündüz,
Osmanlı Dersîâmları.
144 It should be noted here that, while most of these public instructors gave their lectures at mosques
and madrasas, they were also occasionally assigned to libraries, lodges, and tombs. For example,
Şeyhü’l-Kurrā ‘Alī el-Mansūrī was appointed as public lecturer to the tomb of Köprülü Mehemmed
Paşa; see Şeyhî, IV, 3280–3281.
145 For example, Selānikī referred to this term in his work; see Selânikî, “Tarih-i Selânikî, II, 748.
146 These scholars are: Ders-i ‘ām Mehemmed Efendi (Ferā’izci Mehemmed), I, 843; Ders-i ‘ām Sālih
Efendi (Zihnī), II 1208–1210; Ders-i ‘ām Bıçakcı Mehemmed Efendi, II, 1261; Ders-i ‘ām Çelebi
(Mehemmed), II, 1405–1406; Ders-i ‘ām Benli Efendi (Mustafā), III, 2087–2088.
147 Kātib Çelebi’s comment on Kiçi Mehmed is interesting: “Mehmed Efendi was a consummate
Arabic scholar. Whenever he touched on the profane sciences, he would always say fairly, ‘If I don't
know a thing and someone else does, let him speak up.’ Unlike Qadizade, he did not disparage and
reject what he did not know.” Quoted in Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 139.
52
and rational sciences.148 Evliyā Çelebi also informs us that there were public
lecturers teaching the science of hadith in the city of Van.149 More examples can be
given in this regard,150 but what becomes clear in light of these examples is that these
scholars gave lectures in whatever topics they were experts in. In other words, they
did not follow an imperial or sultanic “syllabus” such as that thought to have been
followed by those who were employed as professors in Ottoman madrasas.151 From
this point of view, the public lecturer position can be regarded as a semi-official
scholarly post, which then raises the question of what their relationship with the
Ottoman learned hierarchy was.
At this point, one might start to ask where we can place their employments
within the learned hierarchy: were they employed in hierarchically organized
positions like professors at madrasas, or did they follow different career paths
existing outside the official hierarchy? Based on their biographies in Şeyhī’s
Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā, they seem not to have had established career paths of the kinds
followed by professors employed in Ottoman madrasas. After receiving a proper
education and proving their knowledge and competence, some of them did indeed
begin to teach in madrasas as public lecturers before passing into the hierarchy as
professors, but others remained in madrasas or mosques as public lecturers without
going on to enter the hierarchy.152
148 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 139.
149 Evliyâ Çelebi, Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, IV, 121.
150 For more examples, see Akgündüz, Osmanlı Dersîâmları, 50–52.
151 For this topic, see Ahmed and Filipovic, “Sultan’s Syllabus,” 183–218. Tunç Şen has recently
redressed this topic and come to the conclusion that “there were similar contemporary book lists
drawn up concerning the makeup of imperial madrasa collections that involve references to numerous
other texts not cited in the more famous 1565-6 register. Thus, it is no more tenable to view it or any
of these other registers as an imperial or sultanic ‘syllabus.’” Quoted in Şen “Sultan’s Syllabus
Revisited,” 220–221.
152 While, for example, Ders-i ‘ām Mehmed, Ders-i ‘ām Sālih and Ders-i ‘ām Çelebi entered the
Ottoman ulama after first serving as ders-i ‘ām, Ders-i ‘ām Bıçakcı did not entered the hierarchy after
serving in that capacity. Ders-i ‘ām Benli, on the other hand, first entered the hierarchy as a professor,
but subsequently left the standard career path of the Ottoman ulama and became ders-i ‘ām in a
number of mosques. For their biographies, see footnote 147.
53
More important than all this, however, is the fact that their period of
employment usually lasted longer than those who were employed in official
positions as professors, as well as the fact that the attendees of their lectures was not
necessarily limited to students of Ottoman madrasas. To put it differently, they had a
greater opportunity to reach a wider audience. These two special features are in fact
the most important characteristics of these public lecturers: it was what distinguished
them from other professors employed in the official hierarchy while also enabling
them to establish closer contact with the public, just as in the case of preachers.153 In
this regard, while it would be very wrong to claim that a person receiving a formal
education in Ottoman madrasas was limited to a formal education only, it would be
equally wrong to assert that someone who did not receive a formal madrasa
education lacked any opportunity to take lessons taught in Ottoman madrasas. It was
precisely these public lecturers who had a chance to instruct members of the public,
be they madrasa students or ordinary Muslims of diverse backgrounds.
In the end, it can be argued that Minkārīzāde’s teacher-student relationship
with both Mahmūd Hüdāyī and Kiçi Mehmed was made possible by the growing
importance of Sufi sheikhs, preachers, and public lecturers (ders-i ‘ām) in Ottoman
society at the end of the sixteenth and on into the seventeenth century. The fact that
Minkārīzāde received lessons from such figures also serves to highlight the growing
importance of informal educational opportunities beyond formal ones, a phenomenon
which considerably blurred the lines between institutional and public learning.
In addition to Mahmūd Hüdāyī and Kiçi Mehmed, another learned man from
whom Minkārīzāde received education was his brother-in-law, Semīn Velī (d.
153 It should be noted here that, although the topics of the informal transmission of knowledge and
informal learning circles have been well addressed in a recent study mainly focused on the growing
importance of preachers in the political public sphere in seventeenth-century Istanbul, references to
ders-i ‘ām is almost absent; see Gürbüzel, “Teachers of the Public,” 144.
54
1650).154 Originally from Bazarköyi in Maraş, Semīn Velī received mülāzemet from
Hācezāde ‘Abdu’l-lāh.155 After serving in a number of madrasas of 40-akçe level and
below, he reached the haric level in 1633, and in subsequent years served as
professor in several other madrasas, including one of those associated with the
Süleymaniye Mosque. He later entered the judicial branch and was appointed to the
judgeships of İzmir and Üsküdar in turn.
Biographical dictionaries are silent on when Minkārīzāde took lessons from
Semīn Velī. Considering, however, that Semīn Velī reached the haric level with his
appointment to the madrasa of Cezerī Kāsım Paşa in 1633, it is likely that
Minkārīzāde received some variety of informal education from him at an early age,
as was also the case with Mahmud Hüdayī and Kiçi Mehmed. The fact that Semīn
Velī was Minkārīzāde’s brother-in-law also indicates another crucial way of gaining
access to learning; namely, by way of immediate family members.
Another notable scholar who had a particular influence on Minkārīzāde’s
scholarly genealogy, and a particular role in linking his intellectual tradition to
Persian scholars of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, is Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm (d.
1656).156 He was born and raised in Adana, where he was educated by a number of
religious notables of the city; namely, Ahmad al-Munjalī, Husayn Khalkhālī, and
Sadru’d-Dīn Şirvānī. He likely came to Istanbul in the first quarter of the seventeenth
century and came under the patronage of Hocazāde ‘Abdü’l‘azīz, one of Sa’deddīn’s
sons.157 In turn, he became the teacher of Hocazāde ‘Abdü’l‘azīz’s son Bahāyī
Mehmed, who would go on to become the chief jurist in 1649–1651 and 1652–1654.
154 Şeyhî, I, 649–650.
155 Şeyhî, I, 251–253.
156 Şeyhî, I, 738–740.
157 More information about Sa’de’d-dīn’s family will be given later. For his biography, see Atâyî,
1582– 1584.
55
After receiving mülāzemet from Hocazāde ‘Abdü’l‘azīz, Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm started
his teaching career, serving in a number of madrasas between 1620 and 1634;
namely, Siyāvuş Paşa, Hāfız Paşa, Mustafā Ağa, the Sahn, Gevher Hān Sultān,
Ayasofya-i Kadīm, and Süleymāniyye between the years 1620–1634. He then passed
on to a judicial career with an appointment to the judgeship of Yenişehir in 1634. He
was appointed to a number of judgeships in subsequent years and rose to the position
of chief jurist between the years 1647 and 1649.
The most significant incident during his tenure in this office was the legal
opinion he gave regarding the dethronement and the execution of Sultān İbrahim in
1648.158 Although he had enough clout to issue such a momentous legal opinion, his
subsequent career seems to have taken a turn for the worse, as he was dismissed from
the office of chief jurist in 1649 and subsequently appointed to a number of
judgeships, including the judgeship of Belgrade, where he died in 1656. The most
prevalent and prominent aspect of his scholarly career is the large number of students
he educated, which resulted in his being termed Hāce/Hoca (master/teacher)
‘Abdu’r-rahīm.’159 Unfortunately, we lack information regarding when exactly
Minkārīzāde became Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s student. Considering, however, that
Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm held professorships throughout the 1620s, it is likely that
Minkārīzāde received a formal education from him.
Until recently, what we knew about Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm was mainly limited
to the career described above. However, thanks to the recent work of Khaled El-
Rouayheb, we have learned from a little-known treatise of Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s
158 Elmas, “Hal’ Fetvaları,” 111–119. It is interesting to note here that Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s son
Mehmed and Mehmed’s son Yahyā also played important roles in the depositions of Mehmed IV in
1687 and Mustafā II in 1703. See Abou-El-Haj, 1703 Rebellion, 28. Also see Tezcan, Second
Ottoman Empire, 220.
159 In addition to Minkārīzāde and Bahāyī Mehmed, another student of Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm who
became the chief jurist was Bolevī Mustafā (d. 1675).
56
that he traced his own scholarly genealogy back to Persian scholars of the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries who had written about the rational sciences, logic, grammar,
dialectic, rational theology, semantics, and rhetoric. This intellectual genealogy can
be seen in the Figure 1.160
Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm
Husayn Khalkhālī (d. 1604) Sadre’d-dīn Şirvānī (d. 1627)
Mīrzā Jān Bāghnavī (d. 1586) Mīr Ebū’l-Feth Husaynī (d. 1568)
Jamal al-Dīn Shīrāzī (d. 1554) Isām al-Dīn Isfarāyinī (d. 1537)
Jalāl al-Dīn Dawwānī (d. 1502)
Al-Sayyid Sharīf Jurjānī (d. 1413) Sa‘d al-Dīn Taftāzānī (d. 1390)
Fig. 1 The scholarly genealogy of Hoca ‘Abdu’rahīm
Although El-Rouayheb claimed that Minkārīzāde gave the same genealogy to the
Medinan scholar Ibrāhīm al-Khiyārī (d. 1672), who travelled from Medina to
Istanbul in 1669–1670,161 there is, in fact, a slight difference in his account. The
scholars in this version are as follows: Ahmed Minjal, Husayn al-Khalkhālī, Sadre’ddīn
Şirvānī, Sa‘d al-Dīn al-Taftāzānī, and al-Sayyid Sharīf al-Jurjānī.162 A quite
160 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 42–44, at 43.
161 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 43. For more information about him and his work, see
Alfaify, “Image of Turkey” and Masters, Arabs of the Ottoman Empire, passim.
162 İbrāhīm al-Khiyārī, Riḥlat al-Khiyārī, I, 310–311.
57
similar genealogy of Minkārīzāde is also given by the eighteenth-century scholar
Bandırmalı Küçük Hāmid Efendi (d. 1758/59), who had Minkārīzāde’s scholarly
lineage as follows: Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, Ahmed Minjal, Husayn al-Khalkhālī, Mīrzā
Jān al-Shīrāzī, Jamal al-Dīn Mahmūd al-Shīrāzī, Jalāl al-Dīn al-Dawwānī, and al-
Sayyid al-Sharīf al-Jurjānī.163 It would be also beneficial to remind in this context
that the renowned chief jurist of the late seventeenth century Feyzu’l-lāh (d. 1703)
gave a quite similar scholarly geneaology of his father-in-law Vānī Mehmed (d.
1685) as follows; Sayyid Nure’d-dīn Şirvānī, Sheikh Mehmed Refi’ Şirvānī, Husayn
al-Khalkhālī, and Mīrzā Jān al-Shīrāzī.164 Although there was slight differences
between these lineages, the importance of this genealogy, according to El-Rouayheb,
lies in the fact that both Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm and Minkārīzāde traced their scholarly
genealogies to the Persian scholars of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries rather than
linking themselves to highly esteemed Ottoman scholars like Mollā Fenarī, Ahmed
Hayalī, Kemalpaşazāde, Taşköprizāde, or Ebu’s-su‘ūd. In a sense, this finding
supports the conclusion of Ertuğrul Ökten, who examined the mobility of scholars
from the reign of Osman to that of Süleyman I by specifically emphasizing the role
of the students of Sa‘d al-Dīn al-Taftāzānī and Sayyid al-Sharīf al-Jurjānī in the
formation of the Ottoman learned hierarchy.165
In another respect, this scholarly genealogy also lends support to Khaled El-
Rouayheb’s own objections against the view that there was a decline in interest in the
rational sciences in the seventeenth-century Ottoman world.166 Contrary to the
prevalent views in the relevant literature, he argued instead that there was a group of
163 Bandırmalı Küçük Hâmid Efendi, Fehāris, 528–530.
164 Türek and Derin, “Hal Tercümesi, I,” 207.
165 Ökten, “Scholars and Mobility,” 55–70. See also Arıcı, “Seyyid Şerîf Cürcânî,” 61–95.
166 El-Rouayheb, “Triumph of Fanaticism,” 196–221 and El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History,
13–59.
58
scholars in the seventeenth century who specialized in the rational sciences; namely,
logic, philosophy, dialectic, and rational theology. These scholars not only produced
a considerable number of related works, but also gained a reputation as influential
teachers in those sciences. Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, for instance, was among those
scholars who hailed from the Kurdish regions of the Ottoman Empire.167
One of the direct outcomes of this concentration on rational sciences among
Ottoman scholars over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was a
growing interest in the field of ādāb al-bahth (the science of dialectics or
disputation). One example of such a work that has not attracted much attention in the
relevant literature is Minkārīzāde’s Hāşiye ‘alā Hāşiye Mīr Ebū’l-Feth li Şerhi’l-
Hanefī ‘alā’l-ādābu’l-adudiyye.168 While a detailed examination of this work
exceeds the limitations of this author and this study, it may nonetheless be useful in
this context to say a few words about the development of the field of dialectics in the
Islamic world.
The discipline of ādāb al-bahth derived from two methods used by early
Islamic theologians—namely, ‘ilm al-khilāf (the science of juristic differences) and
jadal (theological dialectic)—which in turn were based on the Aristotelian dialectics
set forth in Aristotle’s Topics.169 Whereas khilāf referred to differences of opinion
among scholars belonging either to one particular school of law or to different
167 Other scholars who can be named in this regard are Mullā Çelebī Āmidī (d. 1656), ʿUmar Çillī,
Muhammad Sharīf al-Kūrānī (d. 1676), and Haydar Husaynābādī (d. 1717). See El-Rouayheb,
“Triumph of Fanaticism,” 213–216. The relationship between Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm and Mulla Çelebī
Āmidī was recently examined by Hüseyin Örs. See Örs, “Taşradan Merkeze Sorular,” 257–298. See
also Kalaycı, “Bir Osmanlı Kelâmcısı,” 53–146.
168 Süleymaniye YEK; Hacı Beşir Ağa MS, 578; Hamidiye MS, 1449/3, ff. 97-131; Laleli MS,
3044/3, ff. 31-70; 3047/1, ff. 1-34; 2944; 3028/4, ff. 123-133; 3051/8, ff. 57-94; Nafız Paşa MS, 1351;
Şehid Ali Paşa MS, 2311/3, 99-126; Yazma Bağışlar MS, 1846/6, ff. 47-77. Beyazıd YEK, Beyazıd
MS, 5946, ff. 34b-72a; Atıf Efendi YEK, Atıf Efendi MS, 2797/11, ff. 82-101. Nuruosmaniye YEK,
Nuruosmaniye MS 4484/1, ff. 1-60. Hacı Selim Ağa YEK, Kemankeş MS, 318/8, ff. 97-139.
169 For more information about this topic, see Miller, “Islamic Disputation Theory”; Young,
Dialectical Forge, passim; Young, “Mulāzama,” 332–385; and Young, “Concomitance to Causation,”
205–282. For Aristotle’s Topics, see Aristotle and Smith, Topics. Also see Hill and Kagan,
“Aristotelian Dialectic,” 25–42.
59
schools of law, jadal was formalistically used in the process of analogy in the
verification of legal cause, demonstrating its consistency (tard) and convertibility
(‘aks).170 These two methods were early on regarded as essential components for
Islamic theology and jurisprudence, as well as for the teaching of legal sciences.
It was not until Shams al-Dīn Samarqandī’s (d. 1303) Risāla fī ādāb al-bahth
that previous rules of disputation were combined into a general theory of
argumentation that was applicable to all fields of knowledge as opposed to just
theology and jurisprudence.171 Samarqandī’s seminal work was so influential among
Muslim scholars that it became the point of reference for subsequent works, and a
number of glosses, super-glosses, and commentaries were written on it. The bestknown
scholars to write about ādāb al-bahth were ‘Adud al-Dīn al-Ījī (d. 1355),
Sayyid al-Sharīf al-Jurjānī (d. 1413), Kamāl al-Dīn Mas’ūd al-Rūmī al-Shirwānī (d.
1499), Mullā al-Tabrīzī (d. 1494), Tāşköprīzāde (d. 1561),172 Mīr Abū al-Fath al-
Ardabīlī (d. 1567), Saçaklızāde (d. 1737), and Ismā‘īl Gelenbevī (d. 1791).173
Among these works, Minkārīzāde’s aforementioned treatise was a supergloss
on Mīr Abū al-Fath al-Ardabīlī’s gloss, which itself was written upon the
commentary of Mullā Hanafī al-Tabrīzī on ‘Adud al-Dīn al-Ījī’s Risāla fī ādāb albahth.
174 Unfortunately, the extant copies of this work do not allow us to specify its
exact date of composition,175 but it can be speculated upon by taking into account the
fact that Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm had a distinct role in Minkārīzāde’s own inclination to
170 Makdisi, Rise of Colleges, 107–111 and El-Shamsy, “Wisdom of God’s Law,” 29–30. Also see
Makdisi‚ “Scholastic Method,” 640–61.
171 For more information about this work and its place in the post-classical period, see Karabela,
“Development of Dialectic,” 118–189. Also see Young, “Juridical Dialectic,” 62–128.
172
173 For more information about these scholars and their works, see Karabela, “Development of
Dialectic,” 139–189. Also see Belhaj, “Neglected Art,” 291–307.
174 Brockelman, Arabic Written Tradition, II, 231 (2/268). For information about ‘Adud al-Dīn al-Ījī,
see Altaş, Adudüddin el-Îcî.
175 Ther earliest copy that I have found bears the date 1681/1682. See Beyazıt YEK, Beyazıt MS
10697.
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the rational sciences. Given this, it is most likely the case that Minkārīzāde penned
his treatise as an extension of his interest in this field in the early stages of his life.
Although not thoroughly examined in this study, Minkārīzāde’s work on ādāb albahth
is crucial in acknowledging him as taking part in the larger intellectual trends
of the seventeenth-century Islamic world.176
Now that I have examined the scholars of various backgrounds from whom
Minkārīzāde received some variety of education in his early years, it is time to move
on to the years he spent as a bureaucrat in the Ottoman learned hierarchy.
2.4 Minkārīzāde’s professional career
As a member of the Ottoman learned hierarchy, Minkārīzāde can be perfectly fitted
into the category of scholar-bureaucrats, a topic that was previously addressed.
Although this term highlights the dual roles of the members of the Ottoman ulama,
these scholar-bureaucrats, as Tezcan rightly argues, “seem to have been legal
bureaucrats first and scholars second, as the ultimate aim of most of them seem to
have been the attainment of a judicial position.”177 This inference is also valid for
Minkārīzāde to an extent, as he was assigned to different teaching positions and
appointed to different Ottoman cities as a judge before coming to occupy the highest
level of the hierarchy. That is to say, Minkārīzāde spent much of his life as a
bureaucrat serving in various teaching and judicial positions.178 For this reason, his
176 We should not forget another important feature of Minkārīzāde: Several prominent late
seventeenth-century scholars–namely Fāzıl Kara Halīl, Tefsīrī Mehmed, Müneccimbaşı Ahmed, and
Fāzıl Süleymān, who had a teacher-student interaction with Minkārīzāde–wrote similar works in the
field of ādāb al-bahth. This topic will be further examined in the last part of this study. For the
biographies of these two scholars, see Şeyhî, III, 2506–2510 and 2124–2125. For Kara Halīl, see also
El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History,” 23–24, 122–125.
177 Tezcan, “Law School,” 252.
178 Rather than using the concept of bureaucracy in the Weberian sense, I tend to give more credibility
to its loose definition, which was eligibly defined by Crooks and Parsons as “routine administrative
activity delegated to office holders (who are often, but not always, professional career administrators),
conducted on the basis of records (though not always written records), with some differentiation and
61
bureaucratic career in both educational and judicial positions deserves special
consideration for the purposes of this study, and will now be examined in detail.
In general terms, the Ottoman learned hierarchy provided two main career
routes for those who constituted its membership. After their graduation from a
madrasa and attainment of the status of novice (mülāzemet), scholar-bureaucrats
would either follow the career track of ulama dignitaries (mevali) or become town
judges (kasabat kadı).179 In order to follow the former career path, however, one first
had to teach at various madrasas before moving onto a career in the judicial branch.
As the son of a high-ranking scholar, Minkārīzāde was expected to follow a career
pattern similar to that which his father had followed. Indeed, after attaining the status
of novice, Minkārīzāde taught at various madrasas before passing into the judicial
track, which was an indispensable step for him in order to follow the career path of
an mevali in his later career.
As the Ottoman learned hierarchy reached its maturity at the end of the
sixteenth century, it became almost impossible to enter the hierarchy without the
status of novice, a topic that will be examined in depth in the final chapter of this
study. Here it is sufficient to remember that obtaining novice status from a highly
esteemed scholar increased one’s chances of advancing within the hierarchy as
compared to those who did not. In this regard, since Minkārīzāde received the status
specialization of offices that are organized hierarchically and are reliant on systems of
communications.” Quoted in Crooks and Parsons, “Paradox of Power,” 17–18.
179 Atçıl meticulously summarized the different career paths in the Ottoman learned hierarchy as
follows: “Generally speaking, there were two broad avenues in the official hierarchy: the career track
of dignitaries (mevali) and that of town judges (kasabat kadıs). It is possible to identify four different
paths that led to, or were lanes within, these two broad avenues: (1) judgeships only, without the
status of dignitary, (2) professorships followed by judgeships but with no status of dignitary, (3) the
lower career track of dignitaries: professorships followed by judgeships with the status of dignitary
but the loss of the chance to reach the top, and (4) the upper career track of dignitaries: professorships
followed by judgeships with the status of dignitary and the opportunity to reach the hierarchy’s upper
echelons.” Quoted in Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 188–189.
62
of novice from Hocazāde Es‘ad (d. 1625), attention should first be paid to the latter’s
family background and role in Ottoman politics in the early seventeenth century.180
Hocazāde Es‘ad came from the family of Sa’ded-dīn, one of the prominent
ulama families of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Originally from Persia,
Sa’ded-dīn’s father Hasan Can became a courtier of Selim I before becoming
müteferrika (a kind of elite officer in the Ottoman palace) during the reign of
Süleyman I. Due to the networks that his father had built, Sa’ded-dīn was able to
attain novice status from the chief jurist of the time, Ebu’s-su‘ūd, in 1555/56. After
serving in a number of madrasas in different cities, he became the preceptor (hāce)
of Prince Murad in 1573, a position that he retained after Murad’s enthronement the
next year. Sa’ded-dīn maintained his power during the reign of the next sultan,
Mehmed III, and in 1598 he rose to the position of chief jurist.
Although he occupied this office for only one year, he established a mevali
dynasty of sorts during the years that he was an active figure in Ottoman politics.
One strong indicator of his power is the fact that all five of his sons received the
status of novice from him, with one of his sons, Hocazāde Es‘ad, becoming the judge
of Istanbul at only twenty-eight years old. Even more important is that two of his
sons— Hocazāde Mehmed (t. 1608–1615) and Hocazāde Es‘ad (t. 1615–1622,
1623–1625)—would go on to occupy the highest position in the Ottoman learned
hierarchy for much of the first quarter of the seventeenth century. This rise of the
mevali, or “lords of the law,” is one of the most important developments on which
Baki Tezcan based his The Second Ottoman Empire.181
In light of Tezcan’s arguments, it would not be wrong to argue that Hocazāde
Es‘ad’s power, together with that of his brother, stemmed from the political influence
180 For his biography, see Atâyî, 1704–1709.
181 Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 30–47.
63
that their father had accumulated, something which only became possible with the
increasing political importance of the law that they represented in Ottoman politics
over the years. In other words, Hocazāde Es‘ad’s power arose from both his familial
background and the political influence of his office as an ultimate outcome of the
political empowerment of jurists’ law and its practitioners during the late sixteenth
and early seventeenth centuries. More specifically, Hocazāde Es‘ad also became
involved in a number of controversial issues as both judge of Istanbul and chief
jurist, among them the vital role he played in the enthronement of Mustafā I.182 All
of these facts demonstrate that Hocazāde Es‘ad was no ordinary member of the upper
ranks of the Ottoman learned hierarchy, but rather the most important figure of the
period in which he lived.
How, then, was it possible for Minkārīzāde to receive novice status from such
a figure? In the absence of any affiliations with powerful figures, it was rare for a
candidate to receive novice status from the hierarchy’s upper echelons. As has been
mentioned, Minkārī ‘Ömer died in 1624 as the judge of Mecca, which makes it
possible to deem him a dignitary (mevali). It is therefore safe to argue that
Minkārīzāde’s father’s networks made it feasible for him to obtain his license from
such an important figure as Hocazāde Es‘ad. In this context, it should be recalled that
Minkārī ‘Ömer’s appointments to the prestigious judgeships of the empire—namely,
Jerusalem and Mecca—materialized during Hocazāde Es‘ad’s tenure as chief jurist.
Similarly, it is also worth remembering that Minkārī ‘Ömer was inclined to pious
men and sheikhs, and that Hocazāde Es‘ad was himself a disciple of Mahmūd
Hüdayī, which provides a possible ground for Minkārīzāde’s receiving the status of
182 For these issues, see Tezcan, “Ottoman Mewali,” 404–407. Tezcan treats this enthronement a kind
of constitutional act within the context of what he calls “The Second Empire.” See Tezcan, Second
Ottoman Empire, 76.
64
novice from Hocazāde Es‘ad. In short, Minkārī ‘Ömer’s networks and standing in the
learned hierarchy opened a path for Minkārīzāde to contact high-ranking officials in
Istanbul and made it possible for him to attain novice status from Hocazāde Es‘ad,
which in turn can be presumed to have given him a considerable advantage in his
subsequent career.183
Although we know that Minkārīzāde attained mülāzemet from Hocazāde
Es‘ad, we do not know when he received this status. Unfortunately, in general,
biographical dictionaries are silent about the exact date when the status of novice is
received. Neither Uşşākīzāde’s nor Şeyhī’s account of Minkārīzāde are informative
on this issue, nor have I come across any indications of the exact date of
Minkārīzāde’s reception of novice status from Hocazāde Es‘ad during my research
into the regular day registers (ruznamçe).184
Additionally, it is possible that Minkārīzāde did not receive the status of
novice from Hocazāde Es‘ad during the latter’s tenures in the office of chief jurist in
1615–22 or 1623–25, but considering that Minkārīzāde was born in 1609, it is likely
that he received this status towards Hocazāde Es‘ad’s final years. Either way, it
seems that Minkārīzāde must have completed his madrasa education by the mid-
1620s and received novice status by May 1625 at the latest, before Hocazāde Es‘ad’s
death.
Regarding the teaching career of Minkārīzāde, it would be beneficial to first
start with a list of the madrasas to which he was assigned and the length of his
tenures, which can be seen in the Table 1.
183 For the relationship between ulama dignitaries and their novices (mülazıms), see Atçıl, Scholars
and Sultans, 181–186.
184 For the list and brief information about the kazasker rūznāmçeleri, see Baltacı, “Kadî-asker
Rûznâmçelerinin,” 55–100 and Erünsal, “Kazasker Ruznamçeleri,” 401–447.
65
Table. 1 The list of madrasas to which Minkārīzāde was assigned
Madrasas Term of office185
Kürkcibaşı 1046 Şevvāl–1049 Şevvāl / February 1637–February 1640
Emre Hāce 1049 Şevvāl–1050 Zi’l-ka‘de / February 1640–March 1641
Hādım Hasan
Paşa
1050 Zi’l-ka‘de–1051 Rebīü’l-Evvel / March 1641–June 1641
Zekeriyyā
Efendi Ūlāsı
1051 Rebīü’l-Evvel–1053 Zi’l-ka‘de / June 1641–February
1644
Sahn-ı
Semāniye
1053 Zi’l-ka‘de–1054 Safer / February 1644–May 1644
Pīrī Paşa 1054 Safer–1055 Receb / May 1644–August 1645
Siyāvuş Paşa
Sultānı
1055 Receb–1056 Receb / August 1645–August 1646
Sultān Selīm-i
Kadīm
1056 Receb–1058 Muharrem / August 1646–January 1648
Medāris-i
Süleymāniyye
1058 Muharrem–1058 Zi’l-Hicce / January 1648–December
1648
Given that Minkārīzāde reached the haric level in 1637 with his appointment to the
professorship at Kürkcübaşı Madrasa,186 his teaching career must have begun a few
years earlier, as it was usual for a scholar to spend time in a waiting period after
receiving novice status and to teach in madrasas below the 40-akçe level (madrasas
were hierarchically organized according to the textbooks taught in them; namely, the
Tecrid, the Miftah, and the Telvih).187 This means Minkārīzāde must have spent at
least a couple of years in these madrasas before reaching the haric level.
However, since biographical dictionaries usually only introduce scholars’
teaching careers after they have reached the haric level, it is very difficult to use such
185 Since Şeyhī, in his biographical dictionary, did not specify on which day Minkārīzāde was
assigned to these madrasas, the equivalent dates of his appointments are given roughly in the
Gregorian calendar.
186 It should be noted here that Uşşākīzāde dated the appointment of Minkārīzāde to the Kürkcübaşı
Madrasa to the year 1634 instead of 1637. Given, however, that one of Şeyhī’s objectives in writing
his Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā was to correct the mistakes and shortcomings of an earlier book (with Şeyhī
presumably implying Uşşākīzāde’s Zeyl-i Şakā’ik), I have tended to regard the information given by
Şeyhī as more reliable. For a comparison of these two works, see Ekinci, “Mukayesesi,” 25–48.
187 For more information about the ranks of Ottoman madrasas, see Uzunçarşılı, İlmiye Teşkilatı, 11–
32. For the textbooks in question, see Topaloğlu, “Tecrîdü’l-i’tikâd,” 250–251; Benli, “Miftâhu’l-
Ulûm,” 20–21; and Özen, “Tenkîhu’l-Usûl,” 454–458.
66
sources to obtain sufficient information about a scholar’s teaching positions below
the haric level. As already mentioned, we lack information about the exact date
when Minkārīzāde received novice status, and even if Minkārīzāde obtained this
status from Hocazāde Es‘ad during the latter’s second tenure as chief jurist (1623–
1625), there is still a considerable time period between that date and Minkārīzāde’s
appointment to the haric level. In the absence of concrete evidence regarding
Minkārīzāde’s early teaching career, then, we can only speculate that after the deaths
of both his father and Hocazāde Es‘ad in 1624 and 1625 respectively, Minkārīzāde
may have lost access to important networks of patronage, resulting in his having to
wait for a significant period of time before an initial appointment as professor to one
of the lower madrasas.188
An interesting detail supporting the possibility that Minkārīzāde had
difficulties in finding an available position in the educational institutions is a note
that he recorded at the beginning of a short treatise, in which he wrote two superglosses
1) on a specific verse (Al-Isra 17: 88) in al-Baydāwī’s Anwār al-Tanzīl and
2) on the chapter Kitāb al-Aymān of Sadr al-Sharī‘a’s Sharh al-Wiqāya.189
Accordingly, Minkārīzāde asserted that he composed this treatise to present it to the
chief jurist of the time, who came from the great warfare (cihad-ı ekber) to Istanbul,
asking him to be appointed to a madrasa, so that he can be saved from the abyss of
pondering and gloom. Although he did not specify the name of the chief jurist, it is a
high possibility that Minkārīzāde penned these two treatises during the 1620s and
1630s.
188 Interestingly enough, the biographies of Hocazāde Es‘ad and Minkārī ‘Ömer were given one after
another in Atāyī’s Hadā'iku’l-Hakā'ik. See Atâyî, 1704–1709; 1709–1710.
189 Süleymaniye YEK, Reşid Efendi MS 215, ff: 176b–185b.
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The limited evidence in primary sources about the madrasas where
Minkārīzāde taught makes it quite difficult to fully contextualize these appointments
within his teaching career. However, based on what we do know, there are still
certain inferences that can be drawn. In this regard, Baki Tezcan’s recent survey
provides a convenient ground for better contextualizing Minkārīzāde’s teaching
career. In his study, Tezcan draws two important conclusions about the careers of
members of the Ottoman learned hierarchy, which he does by focusing on 159
scholars appointed to Sahn madrasas during the reigns of two sultans, Murad III (r.
1574–95) and Mehmed III (r. 1595–1603).190 First, Tezcan highlights how socially
privileged professors were able to attain professorships at Sahn madrasas at an earlier
age because they had started their teaching careers earlier as compared to those
lacking such privilege. Secondly, he emphasizes the tendency that enabled scholars
to be appointed to higher-ranking colleges after they had occupied a professorship at
the Sahn madrasas, which is in line with Abdurrahman Atçıl’s argument maintaining
that “teaching at the Sahn constituted a kind of threshold for the highest
positions.”191
In light of these findings, it can be inferred that as compared to his father,
who was probably not appointed to the Sahn madrasas until he was in his fifties,
Minkārīzāde seems to have reached a Sahn professorship relatively earlier in life, at
the age of 35. Considering, however, that Minkārīzāde received the status of novice
from a member of a very prominent ulama family, his appointment to the Sahn
cannot be considered as such. Tezcan’s findings, for instance, show that among the
scholars that he studied, six scholars who would eventually become chief jurist had
190 Tezcan, “Law School,” 237–282.
191 Atçıl, “Route to the Top,” 499.
68
been appointed to the Sahn at the ages of 20, 22, 28, 30, 31, and 46. The last among
these, Ebulmeyamin Mustafā, was the least privileged one.192
As previously mentioned, we have no knowledge about how many years
Minkārīzāde spent before reaching the haric level, which he attained in 1637 with his
appointment to the madrasa of Kürkcibaşı. We do know, however, that his remaining
teaching career lasted nearly twelve years, between 1637 and 1649. Of especial note
here is that, while it took seven years to be appointed to the Sahn madrasas,
Minkārīzāde was assigned to four different madrasas in the following years and was
promoted up through the hierarchy. In other words, just four years after his
appointment to the Sahn, Minkārīzāde would attain one of the highest-ranking and
most prestigious teaching positions in the hierarchy with his 1648 appointment to
professorship at one of the Süleymāniyye madrasas. In this regard, when we look at
Minkārīzāde’s later teaching career in the light of Tezcan’s second inference, we see
that he was appointed in turn to the madrasas of Pīrī Paşa, Siyāvuş Paşa Sultānı,
Sultān Selīm-i Kadīm, and Süleymāniyye, all of which ranked higher than the Sahn
in the hierarchy. This allows us to conclude that Minkārīzāde received regular
promotions and advanced steadily in the hierarchy in his later teaching career.193
Overall, it can be concluded that Minkārīzāde seemed to have initial difficulties in
reaching the Sahn madrasas as compared to his later teaching career, which would
take him to a top teaching position in a comparatively short span of time.
192 Tezcan, “Law School,” 246.
193 Şeyhī described Minkārīzāde’s appointment as follows; “Kürkcibaşı Medresesi ḫāricine ‘āric...;
Emre Ḫˇāce Medresesi’ne revnaḳ -baḫşā...; Ḫādım Ḫasan Paşa Medresesi’ne zīnet-efzā...; Şeyḫü’lİslām
Zekeriyyā Efendi Medresesi Ūlāsı’na müderris ve bünyān-ı feżā’ili mü’essis...; Ṣaḥn-ı
Semāniyye’nüñ birine sāye ṣalup...; …Pīrī Paşa…. ve Siyāvuş Paşa Sulṭānı Medreseleri’nde gevhernis̠ār-
ı fażl u efḍāl...; Sulṭān Selīm-i Ḳadīm Medresesi ile tekrīm...; Medāris-i Süleymāniyye’den
birinde murabba‘-nişīn-i mesned-i ta‘ẓīm olup...” Quoted in Şeyhî, II, 1129.
69
Another important detail regarding Minkārīzāde’s teaching career is the
geographical location of the madrasas where he taught. The following Figure 2
reveals these madrasas’ spatial distribution in Istanbul in a concrete way.
Fig. 2 The geographical location of the madrasas where Minkārīzāde taught
As the map makes apparent, all of Minkārīzāde’s appointments were to
madrasas located inside Istanbul’s city walls.194 Furthermore, except for the
madrasas of Kürkçübaşı and Hadım Hasan Paşa, all of the madrasas in question were
situated within a fairly small area. Given that there were also high-ranking madrasas
located in other major cities, with some professors receiving appointments to these
194 For more information about these madrasas, see Baltacı, Osmanlı Medreseleri; Kürkcibaşı; II,
540–542; Emre Hāce; I, 185–186; Hādım Hasan Paşa; I, 444–447, Şeyhü’l-İslām Zekeriyyā Efendi
Medresesi; II, 858; Sahn-ı Semāniyye; II, 611–672; Pīrī Paşa; II, 595–598; Siyāvuş Paşa; II, 685–687.
Sultān Selīm-i Ḳadīm; II, 816–822; Süleymaniye; II, 792–810. For detailed information about the
Sahn madrasas, see Unan, Fâtih Külliyesi.
70
madrasas, the significance of these particularly localized appointments in the
teaching career of Minkārīzāde can be more easily appreciated. Minkārīzāde’s
subsequent judicial career, however, would not progress as smoothly as his teaching
career did.
After spending nearly twelve years in professorships in madrasas that paid
more than 40 akçes, in 1649 Minkārīzāde moved into a career in judgeship. From
this point until his assignment to the office of chief jurist in 1662, he would not
receive regular promotions but instead faced frequent dismissals, and more than once
he had to wait for a significant period of time to be appointed to another post. More
importantly, after leaving the judgeship of Istanbul in 1659 he even retired and had
to sustain his life through several benefices (arpalık) until his appointment as the
chief judge of Rumelia in 1662. His judicial career thus witnessed both ups and
downs.
Minkārīzāde’s unstable career during the 1650s was by no means atypical.
From the execution of Sultan Ibrahim I in 1648 until Minkārīzāde’s appointment as
chief jurist in 1662, twelve different individuals held the office of chief jurist.195 In
the same period, 18 and 17 different appointments were made to each office of the
chief judges of Rumelia and Anatolia.196 Similarly, there were 29 different
195 Şeyhî, II, 1456–1457. The chief jurists are as follows; ‘Abdü’r-rahīm Efendi, Bahāyī Mehmed,
Kara Çelebizāde ‘Abdü’l‘azīz, Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed (2nd time), Bahāyī Mehmed (2nd time), Ebū Sa‘īd
Mehmed (3rd time), Hüsāmzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahmān, Memekzāde Mustafā, Hācezāde Mes‘ūd, Hanefī
Mehmed, Bālīzāde Mustafā, Bolevī Mustafā, Esīrī Mehmed, Sun‘īzāde Mehmed Emīn.
196 Şeyhî, II, 1457–1461. The chief judges of Rumelia are as follows: Mülakkab Mustafā, Kara
Çelebizāde ‘Abdü’l-‘azīz, Memekzāde Mustafā, Kabakulakzāde Ebu’l-irşād Mehmed, Kudsīzāde
Şeyh Mehmed, Hanefī Mehmed, Hüsāmzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahmān, Memekzāde Mustafā (2nd time),
Kudsīzāde Şeyh Mehmed (2nd time), Kemāl Efendizāde İbrāhīm, Şa‘bān Efendi, Bolevī Mustafā,
Sun‘īzāde Seyyid Mehmed Emīn, Bustānzāde Mehmed ‘Abdü’l-kerīm, ‘İsmetī Mehmed, Sun‘īzāde
Seyyid Mehmed Emīn (2nd time), Minkārīzāde Yahyā. The chief judges of Anatolia are as follows:
Memekzāde Mustafā, Kabakulakzāde Ebu’l-irşād Mehmed, Hüsāmzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahmān, Kudsīzāde
Şeyh Mehmed, Şa‘bān Efendi, Hācezāde Mes‘ūd, Bālīzāde Mustafā, Kemāl Efendizāde İbrāhīm,
İmāmzāde Şeyh Mehmed, Sun‘īzāde Seyyid Mehmed Emīn, Ankaravī Es‘ad, Bolevī Mustafā, ‘İsmetī
Mehmed, Esīrī Mehmed, ‘Abdü’r-rahīmzāde mihteri Mehmed, ‘Abdü’l-kādir Efendi, Şeyhīzāde
‘Abdu’r-rahmān.
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appointments to the position of judge of Istanbul.197 Nonetheless, it would be wrong
to assume that frequent dismissals and long waiting periods were limited to scholars
in the higher ranks of the learned hierarchy. Although it is difficult to show the
extent of this phenomenon within the lower ranks, one figure active in the midseventeenth
century, Kürd Mustafā, can provide additional insight into this matter.
Kürd Mustafā complained in a treatise that he had been waiting for twelve years to
be appointed as the judge of Bursa. Given that his treatise was probably written
around the mid–1660s, it allows us to see the difficulty of gaining appointments
more easily to judicial positions on the lower ranks of the hierarchy during the midseventeenth
century.198
Minkārīzāde received his own first judicial appointment with the position of
judge of Mecca in February 1649, just six months after the execution of Ibrahim I,
which sparked the first phase of the three revolts that took place in Istanbul between
the years 1648 and 1656.199 Considering the teacher-student relationship between
Minkārīzāde and the chief jurist of the time, Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, it is reasonable to
think that the former owed his Mecca appointment to the latter. After serving as
judge of Mecca for nearly three years, a fairly long period of time by contemporary
197 Şeyhî, II, 1463–1465. The judges of İstanbul are as follows; Muslihü’d-dīnzāde es-Seyyid
‘Abdu’llāh, Kemāl Efendizāde İbrāhīm, Sun‘īzāde Seyyid Mehmed, Hācezāde ‘Alī, Ankaravī Es‘ad,
Bustānzāde Mehmed ‘Abdü’l-kerīm, Beyāzī Hasan, ‘İsmetī Mehmed, Sa‘dīzāde Seyyid Seyfu’llāh,
Rahmetu’llāh Efendi, Fetvā-emīni Şeyh Mehmed, Bolevī Mustafā, Ebū Sa‘īdzāde Feyzu’llāh,
Necātīzāde Mehmed, Şeyhīzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahmān, Hasan Efendizāde Şeyh Mehmed, Esīrī Mehmed,
‘Abdü’r-rahīmzāde mihteri Mehmed, Kadrīzāde Seyyid Mehmed, Muharremzāde Ahmed, Şa‘rānīzāde
Ebu’s-su‘ūd, Altıbarmak ‘Abdü’l-fettāh, ‘Abdü’l-kādir Efendi, Minkārīzāde Yahyā, Sadrü’d-dīnzāde
Rūhu’llāh, Ḍıhkī Mustafā, ‘Abdü’l-kādir Efendi, Şeyhīzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahmān, Kec-dehān Dāmādı
‘Abdu’llāh.
198 Arslantürk and Kocaaslan, Risâle-i Kürd Hatîb, 51–53. The growing use of the term ziham-ı
mülāzımīn (“the crowd of novices”) in official documents also supports this point. For this term, see
Alan, “Kadılık Müessesesi,” 54. For more information about the material conditions of scholarship in
Istanbul, see Küçük, Science without Leisure, 55–107.
199 These revolts can be summarized as follows: 1a) the dethronement and the execution of Ibrahim I,
1b) the revolts of the iç oğlanları and sipāhīs (1648); 2a) the revolt of guildsmen, 2b) the execution of
Kösem Sultan (1651); 3) the revolt against the grand vizier İbşir Mustafā Pasha (1655); and 4) Çınar
Vak’ası, known as Vaka-i Vakvakiye (1656).
72
standards, Minkārīzāde left the position and had to wait for six months before his
next appointment, to the judgeship of Cairo in July 1652. This appointment,
however, led to objections from certain high-ranking scholars.
After the execution of Ibrahim I in 1648, Mehmed IV became the new sultan
at the age of only seven. The first three years of the new sultan’s reign were marked
by the power struggle between the senior queen mother, Kösem Sultān, and Mehmed
IV’s mother, Hatice Turhan, as well as the circles of power that developed around
them in state affairs. Although Kösem Sultān dominated the political scene during
this time, in 1651 she was assassinated by factions supported by Hatice Turhan.
Kösem Sultān’s death led to Hatice Turhan eliminating Kösem’s harem factions and
becoming a powerful political figure up until the appointment of Köprülü Mehmed
as Grand Vizier in 1656.200
Aware of her political power, some religious and political figures of the time
tried to ingratiate themselves with Hatice Turhan and her circles. One such figure
was Hocazāde Mes’ud (d. 1656), who was appointed as the chief judge of Anatolia
in September 1651, just a week after Kösem Sultān’s death. By siding with Hatice
Turhan, he began to gain political strength, and soon became one of the more
significant religious figures of the mid-seventeenth century.201 Hatice Turhan’s
confidence in Hocazāde Mes’ud was so high that she even rebuked Grand Vizier
Gürcü Mehmed for not acting in accordance with Hocazāde Mes’ud’s advice.
Subsequently, the judgeship appointments of 1652 were planned according to
Hocazāde Mes’ud’s consideration, but certain members of the learned hierarchy
raised objections against these assignments, which forced chief jurist Ebū Sa‘īd
Mehmed to delay the appointments to a later time. This postponement, however,
200 For the struggle between the two queen mothers, see Peirce, Imperial Harem.
201 For more information about him, see İpşirli, “Hocazâde,” 345–346.
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provoked Hocazāde Mes’ud to pen a report about bribery among certain scholars in
higher positions in the hierarchy.
In reaction to Hocazāde Mes’ud’s report, Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed introduced the
1652 silsile with some important changes. Minkārīzāde and Emīnī Mehmed202 were
appointed to the judgeships of Cairo and Filibe/Plovdiv respectively, while the
judgeships of Mecca and Bursa went to Hanımzāde Efendi and Kadrizāde Efendi.
Kasımpaşalı Abdullah Çelebi immediately opposed these appointments to complain
about his twenty-eight-month period of waiting for an appointment to an available
position. He also complained about Minkārīzāde’s appointment to the Cairo
judgeship by asking, “Why was Yahya, the son of Minkārī, who is like my son,
appointed to the judgeship of Egypt at the age of forty-four, after a waiting period of
only eight/nine months?”203 The complaints among the members of the learned
hierarchy were not limited to Abdullah Çelebi. For instance, İsmetī Mehmed, who
had been dismissed from the judgeship of Galata nearly two years earlier, demanded
the judgeship of Istanbul.204
While this controversy continued among high-ranking scholars, Hocazāde
Mes’ud expressed his discontent about the aforementioned appointments of
Minkārīzāde and Emīnī Mehmed, saying that, because some others had been waiting
for a new post for nearly two years, these appointments to these posts would be
inappropriate. In response to Hocazāde Mes’ud’s criticism about the appointments,
the chief jurist Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed affirmed his confidence in Minkārīzāde on
202 Atâyî, 552–553.
203 “Kasım Paşalı Abdullah Çelebi, ‘Ben Yenişehir’den ma’zul Mekke pâyesiyle yirmi sekiz aydır azl
çekerim. Cemî‘-i pâyelerde mukaddem iken üç ay bana Süleymaniye’de bana takaddüm etmekle Bursa
niçin Kadri’ye verildi. Çün anın üç ay zamanı adâlete evfak düştü, ya niçin sekiz dokuz ay azille
Minkârî-oğlu Yahya ki, benim oğlum yerinedir, ben dururken kırk dört yaşında adam Mısır’a oldu’
deyü muftî ile azîm bahs ü cidâl edip haddinden ziyâde itâle-i lisân ile küstahlık etti.” Quoted in
Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1409.
204 Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1411.
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account of his competence and knowledge. Despite this affirmation, however, we
should also not forget that he was the son of Hocazāde Es‘ad, who had granted
novice status to Minkārīzāde.205 There is thus a strong possibility that Minkārīzāde’s
Cairo appointment was at least partly the result of chief jurist’s acquaintance with
Minkārīzāde through his father.206
Contemporary sources do not indicate whether Minkārīzāde was personally
involved in these debates, but as the aforementioned evidence reveals, some
members of the learned hierarchy did not welcome Minkārīzāde's appointment to a
prestigious judgeship. Although it is hard to determine any solid polarization among
high-ranking scholars during this period, two opposing views seem to have appeared
among them. The first view, supported by chief jurist Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed, was that it
was not necessary to take into consideration the waiting period of scholars when
appointing them to available positions in the learned hierarchy. Instead, according to
this view, appointments should be made on the basis of the candidates’ knowledge
and competence. The second view, which prioritized the waiting period of scholars,
on the other hand, was brought forward by those who were suffering from a long
waiting period and lacking the sort of strong familial ties that Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed
had. In sum, it can be concluded that, although Minkārīzāde does not appear to have
personally participated in the disputes about the 1652 silsile, he nevertheless became
embroiled in them, since he had been promoted through the learned hierarchy more
quickly than most other scholars.
205 For the biography of Ebū Sa‘īd Mehemmed, see Şeyhî, I, 850–855.
206 Mes’ud Efendi answered as follows: “‘Evvelâ bir silsile ettiniz ekseri nâ-münâsib oldu. Hem
bizimle meşrevet buyurdunuz sonra hem hilâfı zâhir oldu. Minkârîzâde’ye Mısır ve Emînî’ye Filibe
bizim meşveretimiz ile mi oldu’ dedi. Molla, (Ebusaid Mehmet) ‘Minkârîzâde bir ehl-i ilm sâlih
çelebidir, biz ana Mısır’ı verdiğimiz için Hak Te‘âlâ’dan ecir ü sevab ricâsındayız’ dedikte Hocazâde
cevabında ‘İkişer yıllık müstehaklar var iken bir senelik adama mansıb verilmekde sevab tasavvur
olınmaz’ dedi. Çün Hocazâde kendisi ilm ü fazîletten behre-dâr değil idi, ana binâ’en istihkâk-ı zâtî
yanında mu’teber olmayıp fakat zamane i’tibârıyla eskisi takdîm olunmak gerektir’ deyü zâhir-i tarîka
nazar ederdi.” Quoted in Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1411.
75
Minkārīzāde remained judge of Cairo for nearly a year, leaving the office in
August 1653.207 He then had to wait for two-and-a-half years before being appointed
to the same position for the second time, in December 1655, this time with the rank
(paye) of Edirne. This waiting period would be the longest one in his entire judicial
career. Not coincidentally, this appointment took place after the military rebellion of
1655.
One of the series of mid-seventeenth century revolts was the rebellion against
Grand Vizier İbşīr Mustafā Pasha that occurred in 1655.208 İbşīr Pasha had been
raised by his maternal uncle Abaza Mehmed, one of the central political figures of
the 1620s, who revolted against the Ottoman state after the execution of Osman II.209
After Abaza Mehmed’s execution in 1634, İbşīr Pasha gained the patronage of
Kemankeş Mustafā Pasha.210 In his subsequent career, İbşīr Pasha advanced in the
state bureaucracy, holding the governorships of a number of provinces. He was the
governor of Aleppo when he was called to Istanbul to be the grand vizier in
December 1654.211 However, his brief tenure in the grand vizierate was perceived of
as so despotic that even his previous supporters in the cavalry disapproved of his
governance, rising up against him by uniting with the Janissary corps.
The participants in the revolt of 1655 not only demanded the execution of
İbşīr Pasha, but also of the chief jurist Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed, who was believed to have
played a key role in bringing Ibşīr Pasha to the grand vizierate. The rebels were
207 Although it is not certain whether it took place during Minkārīzāde’s tenure in Cairo, we learn
from al-Shurunbulālī’s al-Tahqīqāt that a military group was banished from Egypt in 1652 and reentered
the city upon the order of Mehmed IV. See Ayoub, “Sultān Says,” 257–258.
208 Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1607–1620.
209 For more information about Abaza Mehmed Pasha and his revolt, see Piterberg, Ottoman Tragedy,
165–176 and Piterberg, “Alleged Rebellion,” 13–24.
210 He occupied the grand vizierate between the years 1638 and 1644; see Özcan, “Kemankeş,” 248–
250.
211 When he was summoned to Istanbul, he brought nearly 20,000 cavalry (sipāhīs) from Anatolia to
Üsküdar to secure himself against possible discontent among the Janissaries by seeking to increase the
number of his supporters; see Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1582–1585.
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ultimately successful in executing İbşīr Paşa, and they had Kara Murad Pasha
appointed in his place. However, the execution of Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed was prevented
by the nakibü’l-eşraf Zeyrekzāde.212 Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed was instead banished from
the office and sent to Gelibolu, with Hüsam-zade ‘Abdu’r-rahmān stepping in as the
new chief jurist.213
Even so, some of the rebels were not satisfied with the execution of the grand
vizier and banishment of the chief jurist, and they demanded the execution of other
officials as well. Thereupon, a kind of delegation was formed by the order of Hatice
Turhan, with its members chosen from among the high-ranking scholars and
including Bolevī Mustafā, Es‘ad Efendi, İsmetī Mehmed, and Minkārīzāde.214
Although the narrator of this event, Mustafā Naīmā, is silent as to the content of the
meeting that occurred, the delegation appears to have been successful in dispelling
the crowd, and the rebellion of 1655 came to an end.
The most relevant point for our purposes here is that all of these scholars
would go on to advance in their careers in subsequent years. Es‘ad Efendi, Bolevī
Mustafā, and İsmetī Mehmed all succeeded each other in being appointed as military
judge of Anatolia over the next three years. In addition, Bolevī Mustafā became the
chief jurist in 1657, remaining in the office for nearly two years, which, while
perhaps not a long period, was still considerably longer than the combined tenures of
the five chief jurists who had been appointed during the previous two years. As has
already been mentioned, after the aforementioned rebellion Minkārīzāde’s nearly
212 Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1616.
213 Ebū Sa‘īd Mehmed’s library was looted by Janissaries and sipāhīs, see Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1612–
1613.
214 Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1618.
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two-and-a-half year waiting period ended with his appointment to the judgeship of
Cairo for the second time in December 1655.215
Just ten months after this appointment, however, in October 1656
Minkārīzāde was dismissed from the judgeship of Cairo, with Osmanzāde Mehmed
being appointed in his place. Although Minkārīzāde was removed from office, he did
not leave Cairo but remained in the city, staying at the home of Emīr Rıdvān, a
notable figure in Egyptian politics in the seventeenth century.216 This waiting period
lasted only six months, and on Osmanzāde Mehmed’s death in April 1657,
Minkārīzāde was appointed to the same position for a third time. An imperial decree
from this period makes it evident that this appointment was carried out upon the
suggestion of the chief jurist at the time, Balīzāde Mustafā.217 This time,
Minkārīzāde’s tenure lasted only eight months (April–November 1657), after which
he had to wait nearly a year to be appointed as examiner (mümeyyiz) by an imperial
decree in December 1658.218
After performing this duty for nearly five months, Minkārīzāde was next
assigned to the judgeship of Istanbul in April 1659, when Esirī Mehmed was serving
as chief jurist. He remained in this post for six months before retiring, and the
revenues of Menemen and Foçalar were given to him as benefice (arpalık) between
November 1659 and July 1660.219 For the two years following this, these benefices
215 Uzunçarşılı, İlmiye Teşkilâtı, 87–103; Unan, “Pâye’li Tâyinler,” 41–64.
216 This Rıdvān was probably the one who was active in Egypt politics between the years 1631 and
1656, holding the post of pilgrimage commander. For more information about him, see Muhibbī,
Khulāsat al-athar, II, 164–166; Holt, “Exalted Lineage,” 221–230; Faroqhi, Pilgrims and Sultans, 11,
115–19; and Raymond, Artisans et comerçants, 5–7, 264. According to Hathaway, Rıdvān Beg’s
house was in the vicinity of Birkat al-Fil, a town that was the center of elite residence at the time. See
Hathaway, Politics of Households, 133, also see 35.
217 Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi, Hat. 1446.
218 Minkārīzāde’s appointment as mümeyyiz and a detailed comparison of this decree with other
regulations and practices prevalent in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries will be further
examined in the last chapter of this study.
219 For more information about retirement in Ottoman bureaucracy, see İpşirli, “Tekaüt,” 340–341.
78
were replaced with those of Dimetoka and Tagardı.220 Following Köprülü Ahmed's
appointment as grand vizier in 1661, Minkārīzāde’s fate began to change once again:
he was made chief judge of Rumeli in February 1662, and in November 1662 he was
appointed as chief jurist, thus rising to the top position in the learned hierarchy.
2.5 Conclusion
This chapter has provided a detailed biography of Minkārīzāde in terms of his family
background, early education, and bureaucratic career as a professor and judge. As the
grandson of Dede Cöngī on the maternal side and as the son of Minkārī ‘Ömer, who
died while serving as the judge of Mecca in 1624, Minkārīzāde was born into a
religious and intellectual environment, which enabled him, among other things, to
attend Mahmūd Hüdayī’s Quran recitation sessions and to receive the status of
novice from Hocazāde Es‘ad in his early years.
Although Minkārīzāde received a proper madrasa education, he also attended
the lessons of scholars and pious men of diverse backgrounds, among them Kiçi
Mehmed, Semīn Velī, and Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm. Such scholars not only provided him
with an opportunity to begin his career from an advantageous position within the
learned hierarchy, but also allowed him to broaden his own worldview and fields of
interest. Minkārīzāde’s special interest in the rational sciences, for example—and
especially in the field of ādāb al-bahth—made him among the most important
scholars of his age, and not only did he write a treatise on this topic but he also, as
220 A brief examination of Şeyhī’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā reveals that these revenues were given to highranking
scholars in the learned hierarchy. For example, the arpalıks of Menemen and Foçalar were
given to Bosnevī ‘Īsā, whose final post had been as chief judge of Anatolia; see Şeyhî, II, 1241–1242.
Similarly, Bosnevī Şa‘bān, whose final post had been as chief judge of Rumelia, took the arpalıks of
Dimetoka and Tagardı after Minkārīzāde. See Şeyhî, I, 922–925.
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will be seen in the last chapter of this study, served as a patron for many scholars
interested in the same field.
Minkārīzāde’s judicial career between the years 1649 and 1662 saw both ups
and downs, being characterized by frequent dismissals and long waiting periods
between one post and another. Minkārīzāde’s unstable judicial career during the
1650s was not unique to him, as both the lower and the upper ranks of the Ottoman
learned hierarchy experienced something similar. In other respects, though, his close
involvement in politics by taking responsibility at a time of political turmoil and his
active involvement in the religio-legal debates of the mid-seventeenth century by
penning several treatises on relevant topics, contributed to his reputation as a
trustworthy statesman and as a point of reference for the ruling elite of the next
decade, which led to his appointment to the highest rank in the Ottoman learned
hierarchy in 1662. The next chapter will examine the treatises that Minkārīzāde
produced.
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CHAPTER 3
MİNKĀRĪZĀDE’S INVOLVEMENT IN THE RELIGIO-LEGAL DEBATES OF
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
3.1 Introduction
Having examined Minkārīzāde’s early life and professional career in the preceding
chapter, it is now time to analyze his involvement in the religious and legal debates
of his time. Before getting into the details of his involvement, we first need to briefly
explain the content and character of the debates in question. In the literature, these
debates are handled as a series of polemical issues between the Kadızadelis and their
Sufi adversaries, a majority of which have survived through the works of Mustafā
Naīmā and Kātib Çelebi.221 Nonetheless, the utilization of the term “religio-legal
debates of the seventeenth century” should not give the impression that these debates
appeared for the first time in the seventeenth century. According to Mustafā Naīmā,
for example, the contention between exoteric scholars (ulemā-i zāhir) and esoteric
scholars—that is to say, the practitioners of the path of Sufism (meslek-i sūfīyyeye
zāhib olan erbāb-ı tarīk)—would surface in every period with the desire of certain
people who wished to be famous.222
Needless to say, this contention, which can be also conceptualized as the
boundary between sunna (accepted practice) and bid‘a (innovation), had always been
more fluid than Naīmā presumed. As Jonathan Berkey succinctly points out, “over
221 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth and Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1705.
222 “Ma’lûm ola ki, meslek-i sûfiyyeye zâhib olan erbâb-ı tarîk ile ulemâ-i zâhir beyninde olan nizâ’ vü
cidâl katı eski olup Hulefâ-i Râşidîn asırlarından beri düvel-i sâbıka ve Bağdad ve Mısır ve bilâd-ı
sâ’irede nice def’a müşâcere ve muhâvereleri mukâtele vü muhârebeyye mü’eddî olmak rütbesine
eriştiği kütüb-i tevârîhde mestûrdur. Ve bu iki tâ’ifenin netîce-i müdde’âlarını muhakkıklar nizâ’-ı
lafzîye çıkarıp kelâmlarını tevfîk etmişken yine faysal bulmayıp her asırda baz’ı kimseler tahsîl-i
şöhret ve şan için emr-i ma’rûf ve nehy-i ani’l-münker sûretiyle zuhâr edip ba’zı mesâ’il-i muhtelife
ve bida’-ı meşhureye yapışıp eski kavgaları tahrîk edegelmişlerdir.” Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1704. A
similar point of view can also be seen in Niyāzī-ı Mısrī; see Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 268.
81
longer periods of time, particular phenomena could, in fact, pass from one category
to another, and that which was, to one generation, a popular custom, could become a
recognized tradition—for after all, Hobsbawm’s point is that ‘tradition’ can be
‘invented.’”223 For this reason, the Ottoman religio-legal debates of the seventeenth
century should be contextualized within their own historical context without
neglecting the larger historical framework.
One main similarity that these debates seem to share with similar ones from
previous centuries is that the parties involved in the controversies were not limited to
the Ottoman ulama, but included a wider pool of people from diverse social and
religious backgrounds.224 Despite this, however, modern scholarship has addressed
these debates with reference mainly to the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents.225
Unsurprisingly, then, the members of Ottoman ulama have also been neglected in
this regard, and accordingly Minkārīzāde’s involvement in these debates has not
been given enough attention.226
One of the ways to challenge this inclination in the literature is to direct our
attention to the scholarly outputs of individuals from diverse backgrounds. Although
the scholarly negligence makes it very difficult to ascertain to what extent other
members of the Ottoman ulama participated in these debates, Minkārīzāde and his
223 Berkey, “Tradition, Innovation,” 49. For more information about the specific genre dedicated to
eradicating innovations in society, see Fierro, “Treatises against Innovations,” 204–246.
224 Bulliet, Patricians of Nishapur, 3– 19; Berkey, Popular Preaching; Berkey, “Audience and
Authority,” 105–120; Heller, Islamic Piety, 66; El Shamsy, “Social Construction,” 112; and Hirschler,
“Traditions of Revivalism,” 195–214.
225 There are several exceptional studies that can be mentioned in this regard. For example, in the
relevant chapter of Derin Terzioğlu’s dissertation—namely, “The larger debate: Ḳāḏīzādelis, Sufis
and the debate over Sufism”—she studies the very complicated nature of the religious life of Ottoman
society in the seventeenth century by examining various religious groups of the time, including the
members of the ulama and the other Sufi circles in the empire. Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 190–
276. Also see Terzioğlu, “Sunna-minded Sufi,” 241–312; El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History;
Shafir, “Road from Damascus,”; Atiyas, “‘Sunna Minded Trend,’” 233–278; and Gürbüzel, “Teachers
of the Public.”
226 As will be mentioned, only recent works of Nir Shafir and Cengiz Şişman have partially filled this
lacuna in the relevant literature.
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works offer a crucial opportunity to transcend the widely accepted generalization in
the literature and pave the way for the investigation of new inquiries into heretofore
neglected issues. Below, I will examine the stance taken by Minkārīzāde in these
debates by focusing on his scholarly outputs. The works considered here are Risāle-i
Millet-i İbrāhīm, his rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s commentary on Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-
Muhammediye, Risāle fī Vücūbī İstimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’l-Hutbe, as well as two fatwas
regarding the impermissibility of raks, devrān, and Mevlevi semā‘. Before close
examination of these works, however, a brief overview of the relevant literature on
the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century is in order.
3.2 How to conceptualize the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century
Since the relevant literature’s focus has mainly been on the confrontations between
the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents, and since a wide range of literature has
already been accumulated over the decades regarding the Kadızadelis, it would be
more beneficial here to begin with an overview of these works. The Kadızadelis,
who took their name from the charismatic preacher Kādīzāde Mehmed (d. 1635), can
be regarded as a group of religious scholars and preachers, along with their lay
followers, who were active for a good part of the seventeenth century. The main
emphasis of the Kadızadelis was on the purification of the religious and social
practices of their time by getting rid of all “innovations” (bid‘ats) that did not
originate in the time of the Prophet. The innovations that they targeted comprised
both popular pastimes of recent provenance such as smoking and the frequenting of
coffeehouses, which had spread in Ottoman society in the sixteenth and early
seventeenth centuries respectively, and a great number of Sufi and Sufi-affiliated
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beliefs and practices, which had a much longer history going back to pre-Ottoman
times.
In line with this conviction, initial scholarly analyses considered the rise of
the Kadızadelis as an example of the phenomenon of the “triumph of fanaticism” and
the decline of rational sciences in the Ottoman Empire after the sixteenth century, a
view that was presented by Halil İnalcık in 1973 and remained influential up until the
early 1980s.227 In the following decade, some of the common views of the
Kadızadelis were reviewed by a new generation of scholars, providing detailed
examinations of the major debates that took place between the Kadızadelis and their
Sufi adversaries over the course of the seventeenth century.228
The work that really brought the Kadızadelis into the mainstream of
Ottomanist scholarship, however, was Madeline Zilfi’s book Politics of Piety.
According to her, the underlying reason behind the controversy lay in the social and
professional rivalry between the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents, who contested
with each other within an increasingly competitive religious hierarchy where
available job opportunities were limited. Zilfi also argued that while, on the surface,
the target of the Kadızadelis was the Sufi sheikhs, their ultimate opposition was
against the top-ranking ulama, whom they accused of failing to protect Islamic
orthodoxy.229
227 İnalcık, Classical Age, 179–185. A number of other historians had previously examined the
Kadızadelis, albeit in a more limited fashion. For these works, see Uzunçarşılı, Osmanlı Tarihi, III,
367–433; Gölpınarlı, Mevlânâ'dan Sonra Mevlevîlik, 158–168; and Shaw, Empire of the Gazis, 207–
21.
228 These studies either held the Kadızadelis responsible for introducing neo-Hanbali ideas to the
Ottoman religious sphere, or considered them to be followers and representatives of the Salafi school
of thought. For these works, see Şimşek, “La Bid’a en Turquie”; Ocak, “Kadızâdeliler Hareketi,”
208–226; Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy”; Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli Movement”; Unan, “Dinde
Tasfiyecilik,” 33–42, at 34; and Lekesiz, “Osmanlı İlmî Zihniyeti,” 20–31, at 24.
229 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 81–129, 129–183. Also see Zilfi, “Discordant Revivalism,” 251–269. Some
more recent studies have followed Zilfi’s example by examining the Kadızadelis within the specific
social and political context of the seventeenth century and by seeing the disputes between the
Kadızadelis and their adversaries as an extension of the conflict embedded in the social and political
conditions of the time. The works of Marc David Baer and Marinos Sariyannis can be regarded as two
84
Some more recent works, though, have offered novel ways of analyzing the
religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century. These revisionist works have
broadened our knowledge of the religious culture of seventeenth-century Ottoman
Empire considerably, not only providing a convenient ground to discuss these
debates beyond the context of the religious and political confrontations of the
seventeenth century, but also pointing to a larger shift in Ottoman religiosity in the
early modern period. Bernd Radtke, Derin Terzioğlu, and Khaled El-Rouayheb, for
example, have questioned and criticized some of the fundamental arguments and
assumptions of the previous scholarship on the Kadızadelis and argued that these
preachers shared many of the same ideals as both the Ottoman ulama and their own
Sufi opponents. In other words, these studies propose that the Kadızadelis cannot be
considered followers of the Hanbali school of thought, but were rather exponents of a
stricter interpretation of the Hanafi school of law.230
In the same area, some other historians have presented a more nuanced
understanding of the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century in general and
the Kadızadelis in particular. Derin Terzioğlu’s more recent studies, for example,
have extended the arguments proposed in her dissertation so as to examine these
notable examples of this. While Baer examines the various facets of Islamization during the reign of
Mehmed IV by attributing a central role to the personality of Vānī, Sariyannis seeks to find the social
base of the Kadızadelis by focusing on the case of the revolt of 1651. The shared point in these two
works is that they accord central importance to the social and political context without engaging in a
detailed analysis of the religio-legal literature of the seventeenth century and situating their topics
within a larger framework. These two studies follow Zilfi in that they, too, view the Kadızadelis as
using religion as a useful instrument to achieve their social and political objectives. For these works,
see Baer, Honored and Sariyannis, “Mercantile Ethic,” 263–289.
230 Radtke, “Birgiwīs Ṭarīqa Muḥammadiyya,” 159–174; Terzioğlu, “Bir Tercüme,” 261–2;
Terzioğlu, “Power, Patronage,” 149–186; El-Rouayheb, “From Ibn Ḥajar, 303–305; and El-Rouayheb,
Islamic Intellectual History, 14–26. While the criticisms and arguments of the revisionist scholarship
in question have widely been accepted, there are still studies that maintain the view that the
Kadızadelis shared the religious standpoints of Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim regarding the issue of
innovations and their opposition to several religious practices. For these studies, see Michot, Against
Smoking; Evstatiev, “Revival of Takfīr,” 213–43; Evstatiev, “Spread of Islamic Revivalism,” 3–34;
Sheikh, “Taymiyyan Influences,” 1–20; and Sheikh, Ottoman Puritanism.
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debates from a broader perspective by using the concept of confessionalization.231
The concept of confessionalization in the Ottoman context elucidates a long-term
alignment of the empire’s religious identity with the Hanafi school of law. The initial
interest in this concept focused mainly on inter-state rivalry, particularly within the
context of the increasing religio-political polarization between Sunni Ottomans and
Shi‘i Safavids,232 but more recent studies have concentrated on multiple agents from
diverse backgrounds in order to better analyze the multidirectional process of
confessionalization.233 In other words, these more recent scholarly efforts have tried
to investigate “various agents of ‘Sunnitization’ and emphasize the interplay among
personal, local, communal, and imperial agendas.”234
Krstić’s recent studies, on the other hand, put a greater emphasis on the
question of what correct beliefs (ī‘tiqād) constituted the Muslim community, which
she summarizes as follows: “The Ottoman Muslim community graduated … from
231 This term originally appeared in the European scholarship, and was first applied to the Ottoman
context by Tijana Krstić. For an overview of the historiography, see Headley, Hillerbrand, and
Papalas Confessionalization in Europe.
232 Krstić, Contested Conversions.
233 Derin Terzioğlu developed such an understanding from the very beginning. In one article, she
examines the Ottoman sunnitization process with reference to several factors besides the Ottoman-
Safavid conflicts throughout the sixteenth century. Her stance in this article is given succinctly in the
following excerpt: “Rather than being simply a politically-minded response to the rise of the Safavids
and their adaptation of Shiism, Ottoman sunnitization was also shaped by many other factors, among
them the spread of literacy and the acculturation of the ruling elites of the lands of Rum into the
norms and values of the learned elites of the Islamic heartlands, the consolidation of the Ottoman
learned establishment as an integral part of the imperial apparatus, and last but not least, statebuilding
and bureaucratization, which both created a need for and made it possible to impose a more
homogenized understanding of Sunni Islam and Hanafi law.” Terzioğlu, “How to Conceptualize,”
337–338. Also see Terzioğlu, “Catechism,” 79–114.
234 Quoted in Krstić, “Historicizing,” 16. The project OTTOCONFESSION, led by Tijana Krstić and
Derin Terzioğlu, aims to investigate different facets and the evolution of confessional discourses in
the Ottoman Empire. A very recent study edited by these two historians has brought together several
articles on the issue; see Krstić and Terzioğlu, Historicizing Sunni Islam. The works prepared within
the scope of this project is accessible at https://cems.ceu.edu/publications. It can be said that the
concept of confessionalization has dominated the field over the past ten years, and several other
historians have come to employ the term in their studies; see Antov, Wild West, 255–281; Karakaya-
Stump, Kızılbash/Alevis, 256–319; and Şahin, Empire and Power, 208–210. Despite these broad
interests, however, some criticisms of the term have also been raised in recent years. For these, see
Yıldırım, “Re-confessionalization,” 12–46; Yılmaz, “Quest for Order,” 90–120; Erginbaş, “Ahl al-
Baytism,” 614–646; Erginbaş, “Reading Ottoman Sunnism,” 451–478; and Tezcan, “Portrait of the
Preacher,” 187–249.
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the period when a simple profession of faith (shahāda) was sufficient to be
considered a Muslim to the era in which a more thorough knowledge of the tenets of
faith (ʿaqīda) was expected from each believer.”235 In a quite different context, by
adopting the notion of a “turn to piety,”236 Nir Shafir has claimed that every Muslim
subject in the empire had to practice individual morality, which, in turn, brought
one’s familial and private life under greater scrutiny. He conceptualizes this process
under the rubric of a “moral revolution.”237
Other recent studies on the Kadızadelis have utilized the Weberian concept of
the “disenchantment of the world” in their analyses.238 Although the concept was
first introduced into Ottoman scholarship by Derin Terzioğlu, she only used it in a
limited sense with reference to the enchanted world of Niyāzī-ı Mısrī, saying that
“…the temporal and the mundane entered Sufi personal narratives, as the Sufis
became progressively more integrated into the social, political and economic
structures of ‘this world.’ Significantly, however, this new tendency was not
accompanied by a ‘disenchantment of the world’ such as has been posited for early
modern Europe.”239 Compared to Terzioğlu’s approach, however, Sariyannis and
Tezcan’s more recent works advocate a broader application of this notion in relation
to the worldview of Kadızadelis in the early modern period.240 Both scholars share
235 Tijana Krstić, “From Shahāda to ‘Aqīda,” 297. Also see Krstić, “State and Religion,” 65–91; and
Krstić, “Redefinition,” 155–195.
236 The notion of a “turn to piety” was first used by Marc David Baer in a narrow sense to depict the
religious transformation of both Mehmed IV and the ruling circle’s beliefs and practices in the second
half of the seventeenth century. Terzioğlu, on the other hand, has expanded the term to indicate
broader religious change throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. For these works, see
Baer, Honored; 6–7, 12, 80, 110, 187; and Terzioğlu, “Catechism,” 85 (ft. 12).
237 Shafir, “Moral Revolutions,” 595–623. In this study, he mainly focused on the advice (nasīhat)
works of Seyyid Feyzu’llāh and Nābī.
238 For the usage of this term in the early modern period, see Gauchet, Disenchantment of the World;
Cascardi, Subject of Modernity, 16–71; Scribner, “Reformation, Popular Magic,” 475–494 and
Grosby, “Max Weber, Religion,” 301–310.
239 Terzioğlu, “Man in the Image,” 165.
240 For these studies, see Sariyannis, “Of Ottoman Ghosts,” 191–216; Tezcan, “Portrait of the
Preacher,” 187–249; Sariyannis, “Limits of going global,” 1–13; and Tezcan, “Rationalization of
Sunni Islam,” 67–69. Tezcan is likely to explore this notion more thoroughly in his two forthcoming
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the idea that the religious understanding of Kadızadelis was based on
“epistemological egalitarianism in a disenchanted world.”241
It should be clear by now that the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth
century in general, and the controversies between the Kadızadelis and their Sufi
opponents in particular, have been evaluated from many different perspectives in the
relevant literature, all of which have undoubtedly opened new avenues for discussing
a variety of issues while offering alternative conceptualizations for comparative
religious history. More recent conceptualizations in particular—such as
sunnitization, confessionalism and the turn to piety—can be said to be seminal for
the works of Minkārīzāde, allowing us to more precisely situate him within the wider
early modern context.
The present chapter, while acknowledging the importance of the diverse
approaches in the relevant literature and the benefits to be derived from them for
forming a wider framework, will primarily draw attention to opportunities for
examining the corpus of one individual member of the Ottoman ulama in relation to
the specific historical context of his works, as well as the evolution of his personal
trajectory in time and space. For this very reason, it is first necessary to ascertain the
common point in each of Minkārīzāde’s works, which will allow us to better evaluate
the underlying reasons behind their composition. In this regard, if there is a shared
theme across these works, it is ‘objection’ or ‘disapproval,’ which largely takes a
works, “A Canon of Disenchantment: Birgivi, Rumi, and Kadızade” and “The Disenchantment of
Sunni Islam: A populist Muslim reformation in the early modern Ottoman Empire.” For references to
these, see Tezcan, “Portrait of the Preacher,” 234–235 (ft. 261); 244–245 (ft. 286, 287). It should be
noted, however, that although Gottfried Hagen did not use this term in his study, he can be regarded
as one of the earliest scholars in Ottoman context to use the terms rationality, secularization, or
interiorization, which are quite close to the views evoked by the phrase “disenchantment of the
world”; see Hagen, “Afterword,” 244 –249.
241 Tezcan, “Portrait of the Preacher,” 241 and Sariyannis, “Limits of going global,” 8.
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reactionary form in these works.242 In his scholarly outputs, Minkārīzāde raised
objections to: 1) a Muslim’s identification of himself as a member of the prophet
Abraham’s religion (millet-i İbrāhīm); 2) the three points suggested by Kürd Mollā
in his commentary (Kitābu’t-tahkīk ve’t-tevfīk beyne Ehli’ş-şer’ ve Ehli’t-Tarīk) on
Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye; 3) the use of the expressions ‘the blessing and
peace of God be upon him’ (sallallāhu ‘aleyhi ve sellem) and ‘God be pleased with
him’ (radīyallahu ‘anh) when any of the Prophets or Companions are mentioned
during the Friday sermon (khutba); and 4) the permissibility of raks, devrān, and the
Mevlevi semā‘.
The main question that arises from his objections is whether Minkārīzāde’s
writings show a tendency to narrow the scope of Islamic tradition by reducing it to a
legalistic worldview—which in turn brings us to the notion of orthodoxy. Although
orthodoxy is a term that can be simply defined as ‘correct statements concerning
what is to be learned,’ it has a wide range of usages across different fields
(theological, legal, political, etc.). As such, it is difficult to attribute a standard
meaning to the term. Reflecting this difficulty and the rather complicated nature of
the term, the use of the notion of orthodoxy for analyzing Islamic societies has been
criticized on several grounds. Initial rejections took issue with the fact that the term
had originally been used in reference to the ecclesiastical hierarchy in Christianity
and, as such, did not correspond to any institutions in Muslim societies.243 Another
criticism, proposed by Alexander Knysh, highlighted the concept’s inability to
capture the “variegated and polyphonic” diversity of Muslim societies in terms of
242 For a proactive dimension of Ottoman sunnitization, see Terzioğlu, “Ottoman Sunnitization,” 313
and Terzioğlu, “Catechism,” 85–86.
243 I. Goldziher and W. M. Watt can be mentioned in this regard. For these works, see Goldziher,
Islamic Theology, 162–163 and Watt, Islamic Philosophy, 19. For the trajectory of the term
“orthodoxy” in Islamic studies, see Wilson, “Failure of Nomenclature,” 169–194.
89
theological and practical aspects.244 One can also add influential works by Thomas
Bauer and Shahab Ahmad to the critics of the term, as they draw attention to the
ambiguous nature of Islam in pre-modern Islamic societies. 245
Despite these criticisms, however, some historians have emphasized the
heuristic value of a more comprehensive version of the concept of orthodoxy, which
has led to a revival of the concept. Talal Asad’s reconceptualization of orthodoxy
around the notion of “discursive tradition” can be regarded as a noteworthy example
of this.246 According to him, orthodoxy “is not a mere body of opinion but a
distinctive relationship—a relationship of power to truth. Wherever Muslims have
the power to regulate, uphold, require, or adjust correct practices, and to condemn,
exclude, undermine, or replace incorrect ones, there is the domain of orthodoxy.”247
Similarly, the following remarks by Ahmad El Shamsy are useful for their ability to
capture the essence of the term orthodoxy:
Orthodoxy as a social phenomenon is not a “thing” but rather a process. For
theological doctrines to become established as orthodox, they must find a
place in the constantly changing net of social relations and institutions that
constitute society. This is a two-way process: ideas can reconfigure these
relations and institutions, but the social context also actively receives ideas
and promotes, channels and/or suppresses them. Thus the history of
orthodoxy cannot be simply a history of ideas, but a history of how, in
particular situations, claims to truth came to be enshrined in social practices,
such as rituals, and in institutions, such as the “community of scholars.”248
244 Knysh, “‘Orthodoxy’ and ‘Heresy,’” 64–65.
245 Ahmad, What is Islam? and Bauer, Culture of Ambiguity. For a detailed examination of these
works on a common ground, see Griffel, “Contradictions,” 1–21. Shahab Ahmad’s definition of
orthodoxy can also be illuminating in this context: “‘Orthodoxy’ connotes, most intrinsically, the
prescription and restriction of truth. While one can have pluralist orthodoxies—such as Islamic law,
which accepts a delimited range of differing, or even contradictory, positions on the same legal
question to be equally valid and true—the meaningfulness of the term ‘orthodoxy’ is diminished as
attitudes towards truth become less restrictive and prescriptive. Simply, the more pluralistic the
attitude to truth, the less the term ‘orthodoxy’ can help us in understanding that attitude to truth.”
Ahmad, What is Islam?, 273–274.
246 According to Asad, “an Islamic discursive tradition is simply a tradition of Muslim discourse that
addresses itself to conceptions of the Islamic past and future, with reference to a particular Islamic
practice in the present.” Asad, “Idea of anthropology,” 20. For an examination of Asad’s
conceptualization, see Anjum, “Talal Asad,” 656–672.
247 Quoted in Asad, “Anthropology of Islam,” 22.
248 El-Shamsy, “Social Construction,” 97.
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El Shamsy’s conceptualization of the term and his crucial emphasis on the place of
the “community of scholars” in the process of negotiating the constituents and
definition(s) of orthodoxy provides a useful analytical tool for examining
Minkārīzāde’s writings. In the context of seventeenth-century Ottoman religio-legal
debates in particular, it is of utmost importance to pay more attention to this
“community of scholars.” As one of the leading figures of this “community,”
Minkārīzāde contributed to the theological framework of orthodoxy by narrowing the
definitions of belief and popular practices, a tendency which is clearly visible in his
writings.
Related to this, certain studies need to be further singled out for their
importance in shaping and informing the conceptual framework of this chapter. In a
recent article, for example, Terzioğlu brought to the fore how:
confessionalism in the sixteenth-century Ottoman context was less the
straightforward implementation of religious ‘ideology’ from the top down,
and more the working out of a loose set of religio-political orientations whose
formulation (not to mention implementation) was mediated in practice by
power relations as well as by personal and group loyalties.249
Terzioğlu’s last point is remarkable for providing a fruitful direction for examining
the writings of Minkārīzāde as a member of the Ottoman ulama, which displayed a
high degree of personal and group loyalty. While the religious landscape of Anatolia
during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries seems to have been much more
complex,250 several sixteenth-century Ottoman scholars—namely, Mollā ‘Arab (d.
249 Terzioğlu, “Power, Patronage,” 186.
250 In this context, Cemal Kafadar introduced the notion of “metadoxy,” which refers to “a state of
being beyond doxies, a combination of being doxy-naive and not being doxy-minded, as well as the
absence of a state that was interested in rigorously defining and strictly enforcing an orthodoxy.”
Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, 76.
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1531),251 Ibrāhīm al-Halabī (d. 1549),252 Çivizāde Muhyīd-dīn (d. 1547),253 and
Birgivī Mehmed (d. 1573)254—can be comfortably regarded as having had an
orthodox mindset. In a sense, Minkārīzāde was also one of these “interpretative
actors” within the “wider indigenous tradition of Hanafi pietism.”255 Though
Minkārīzāde can be seen as a representative of this tradition in the seventeenth
century, it would be wrong to argue that he was a typical example. Other important
chief jurists from the seventeenth century—such as Zekeriyyāzāde Yahyā and
Bahāyī Mehmed—had more moderate stances on certain issues as compared to
Minkārīzāde.256 Their own individual trajectories may well have pushed them to act
in different ways. However, as far as the career of Minkārīzāde is concerned, he
seems to have experienced “the all-pervasive perception of rapid social change and
dislocation”257 rampant in the seventeenth century.
Accordingly, what is more important for this chapter is to locate the specific
historical context in which Minkārīzāde lived and composed his scholarly output. In
this regard, Shahab Ahmad offers an important conceptual framework that can be
applied to the analysis at hand, a framework which he bases on the terms “Text,”
251 Şakâ’ik, 652–657.
252 Has, “Study of Ibrāhīm Ḥalabī,”; Has, “Use of Multaqa’l-Abḥur,” 393–418; and Kaplan, “Ibrāhīm
al-Ḥalabī.”
253 Gel, “Şeyhülislam Çivizâde.”
254 Martı, Birgivi Mehmed Efendi; Arslan, İmam Birgivi; Lekesiz, “Birgivi Mehmed Efendi,” Kaylı,
“Critical Study”; and Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety.
255 The above statements in quotation are taken from different parts of Ivanyi’s dissertation. Ivanyi,
“Virtue, Piety and the Law,” 126, 287.
256 In this respect, the following excerpt from Karl Mannheim’s article can hardly be applicable to the
whole of the Ottoman ulama: “The fact of belonging to the same class, and that of belonging to the
same generation or age group, have this in common, that both endow the individuals sharing in them
with a common location in the social and historical process, and thereby limit them to a specific range
of potential experience, predisposing them for a certain characteristic mode of thought and experience,
and a characteristic type of historically relevant action. Any given location, then, excludes a large
number of possible modes of thought, experience, feeling, and action, and restricts the range of selfexpression
open to the individual to certain circumscribed possibilities. This negative delimination,
however, does not exhaust the matter. Inherent in a positive sense in every location is a tendency
pointing towards certain definite modes of behaviour, feeling, and thought.” Mannheim, “Problem of
Generations,” 276–322. For a critique of Mannheim’s generation theory, see McCourt, “Revisited,”
47–70.
257 Quoted in Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 125–126.
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“Pre-text,” and “Con-Text.” These terminologies, in his view, are related to
hermeneutical engagement with revelation.258 To put it concisely, while “Text” refers
to the Qur’an, “Pre-Text” is the Truth beyond the Text, and refers to all attempts by
Muslims, such as the Sufi tradition or Islamic philosophy, to access that Truth
beyond the Text. What is more important and particularly relevant to our discussion
in this chapter is the “Con-Text,” which is a combination of the first two categories;
namely, a “whole lexicon of meanings that is the product and outcome of previous
hermeneutical engagement with Revelation which are already present in the context
of a given time and place as Islam.”259 Ahmad also distinguished two categories of
Con-Text, which are summarized in his words like this:
[I]t is highly unlikely that the totality of the means and meanings of Con-Text
will be present in any given time or place—that is, it is unlikely that the
totality of Con-Text will be present in any given locale or context. Not all
elements of Con-Text make their way (equally) to or live on (equally) in all
times and places. Con-Text—the totality of meanings produced by
hermeneutical engagement—is, as a historical and social matter,
differentiatedly present in different contexts. Thus, having made the
distinction between context and Con-Text, we must now go on to make the
further distinction between Con-Text in toto, on the one hand, and such Con-
Text as is actively present in any given context—what we might call Con-
Text-in-context or Con-Text in loco, on the other hand.260
258 Ahmad, What is Islam?, 301–404.
259 Ahmad also goes on to say that Con-Text “includes the full encyclopaedia of epistemologies,
interpretations, identities, persons and places, structures of authority, textualities and intertexualities,
motifs, symbols, values, meaningful questions and meaningful answers, agreements and
disagreements, emotions and affinities and affects, aesthetics, modes of saying, doing and being, and
other truth-claims and components of existential exploration and meaning-making in terms of Islam
that Muslims acting as Muslims have produced, and to which Muslims acting as Muslims have
attached themselves in the process of hermeneutical engagement with Revelation.” Ahmad, What is
Islam?, 435.
260 Ahmad also exemplifies this difference as follows: “For example, the ideas of lbn Sīnā are an
important element of Con-Text in toto. But in a historical society of Muslims where the ideas of lbn
Sīnā are not read, studied and circulated as a part of meaning-making (such as in most contemporary
modern societies of Muslims), in that context, these ideas are not a part of Con-Text in loco.
However, in a historical society of Muslims where the ideas of lbn Sīnā are read, studied and
circulated as a part of meaning-making—such as in the historical societies of the Balkans-to-Bengal
complex where the writings of lbn Sīnā constituted a foundational element of the educational canon,
with the result that his ideas were a deeply-embedded part of the received and rehearsed vocabulary of
concepts and values—they are here present as Con-text in loco. Now, the point here is that where the
ideas of lbn Sīnā are present as Con-Text in loco/Con-Text-in-context, these will inevitably be
present, attendant and participant in the hermeneutical engagement with Revelation—that is, in
determining What is Islam? in that context.” Ahmad, What is Islam?, 361.
93
In line with this, concentrating on “Con-text in loco” is particularly crucial for
distinguishing Minkārīzāde and his writings from his predecessors and counterparts.
As has been rightly argued by Burak, “certain practices that had been condoned and
even actively approved by authoritative figures went on to be vociferously
denounced as signs of heresy or apostasy in later decades or centuries.”261 It is
important to emphasize for our purposes here that examples of such shifting
perceptions of practices can be found in the writings of Minkārīzāde, as is especially
evident in his treatise on the religion of Abraham, with its condemnation of
expressions widely used in Ottoman society for at least a hundred years.
Ultimately, I am inclined to believe that Minkārīzāde consciously participated
in the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century. The views of the contending
groups participating in these debates were so diverse and thus showed such potential
for creating disarray in society that Minkārīzāde seems to have thought that if he had
not been directly involved in these debates, “the carefully constructed edifice which
the ‘ulama’ had painstakingly developed through their consensus could be
undermined.”262 An examination of Minkārīzāde’s religo-legal writings will illustrate
this point further.
3.3 Contextualizing Minkārīzāde’s risāle-i millet-i ibrāhīm within the concept of
şer‘u men kablenā
The first study to be examined in this chapter will be the treatise that Minkārīzāde
wrote on millet-i İbrāhīm (the religion of Abraham).263 This treatise concerns itself
261 Burak, “Faith, law and empire,” 5.
262 Berkey, “Audience and Authority,” 111.
263 For the sake of clarity, it must be underlined here that the term millet-i İbrāhīm should be
translated as “the religion of Abraham” rather than as “the people of Abraham,” because the word
millet is different from the meaning that it denotes in the modern sense, referring to one’s belief, faith
or religion in the Qur’an. See Bosworth and Buhl, “Milla”; Şentürk, “Millet,” 64–66. However, one
exception that can be mentioned in this regard is al-Shahrastānī’s conceptualization of millet, which
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with the question of whether it is permissible for a Muslim to define himself as a
member of the millet-i İbrāhīm. Although Minkārīzāde penned the treatise in both a
long and a short version, here it is the former that will be primarily taken into
consideration. In doing this, special emphasis will be placed on the law of societies
under the guidance of the truthful prophets (şer‘u men kablenā)264 in order to
properly address the main line of argumentation that Minkārīzāde puts forward
throughout the treatise.
Islamic foundation narratives emphasize how Islam superseded both Judaism
and Christianity because the adherents of the latter two faiths had failed to maintain
the original content of the revelation, and thus their religious traditions had become
corrupted over time. Likewise, it was believed that their holy books had been
subjected to textual distortion (tahrīf), and that Muhammad was sent to the Arabs to
restore the pure form of monotheism.265 Although Muslim scholars agreed that Islam
superseded both Judaism and Christianity, there was much dispute with regard to
which laws of the previous prophets were still valid for Muslims and should be
accepted as the law of Muhammad. A substantial amount of literature on this
particular field of knowledge accumulated in Islamic legal theory over the centuries,
and within Islamic jurisprudence (usūl al-fıqh) there emerged a specific branch to
refer to the law of those who came before us; namely, şer‘u men kablenā.266
The general consensus among Muslim scholars was that, before the
revelation came to him, Muhammed followed the laws of the earlier period. What
refers to the basic principles and path on which a society is united. See Şehristânî, Milel ve Nihal, 51–
52.
264 Şer‘u men kablenā literally means” the law of those who came before us.”
265 Lazarus-Yafeh, “Taḥrīf.”
266 For the concept of şer‘u men kablenā, see Ekinci, İslâm Hukuku; Dönmez, “Şer‘u Men Kablena,”
15–19; Hıdır, “Şer‘u Men Kablena,” 83–98; Acar, “Peygamberlik Öncesi,” 7–32; Aslan, “Şâfiî
Mezhebinde,” 1035–1057; Taşkın, “Ga‘zzâlî,” 91–120; Taşkın, “Sahâbî Kavli”; Öztürk, “İlk Beş
Asır”; Öztaş, “İslâm Hukuk Usulünde”; Güner, “İbrahimî Dinlerdeki,” 155–188; and Toktaş,
“Kitâbü’l-Mille,” 247–273.
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was under dispute, however, was whether Muhammed followed the laws of the
earlier period after the revelation came to him. In a nutshell, it can be said that there
are three explanations in Islamic legal theory regarding the field of şer‘u men
kablenā. These can be summarized as follows: 1) We must follow the laws of an
earlier prophet by virtue of its being the law of an earlier prophet, unless it has been
abolished; 2) We must not follow the laws of an earlier prophet unless there is proof
that it still stands; and 3) We must follow the laws of an earlier prophet by virtue of
its being the law of our prophet. While the proponents of the first two explanations
were primarily followers of the Maliki, Shafi‘i and Hanbali madhhabs, the last
explanation was the widely accepted opinion among Hanafi scholars.267
Prophets were the main points of reference and the loci for those interested in
studying this specific branch of Islamic jurisprudence. There are many prophets
mentioned in both the Qur’an and other sacred books, but among these Abraham can
be regarded as the symbol of commonality of the three monotheistic religions and the
common heritage of Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike.268 Moreover, the presence
of Abraham before the first revelation came to Moses seems to be another reason
why the former was seen as the common figure of the three religions. As such, he
could be easily accepted as a conventional figure by subsequent monotheistic
religions of the same fundamental tradition.269
In recent years, in respect to the growing role of associating Abraham with
the three monotheistic religions, a kind of new conceptualization has begun to appear
in Western historiography aiming to give a common appellation to these three
267 For a detailed account of these three explanations, see Ekinci, İslâm Hukuku, 158–213.
268 Klinghoffer, Discovery of God.
269 Hughes, Abrahamic Religions, 15–33.
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religions.270 Namely, the phrase “Abrahamic religions” has been employed by a
number of twentieth-century scholars to either underline the historical commonality
of these monotheistic religions271 or to reinforce an interfaith dialogue between
them.272 Others, however, have been highly critical of the usage of this term,
pointing out certain pitfalls that may mask the very real differences between these
three religions.273 What is at stake is how the relevant literature has begun to use the
phrase “Abrahamic religions” as an analytical and academic term to examine the
commonalities among and the differences between these religions when seen from a
historical perspective.
It is interesting to note, however, that although there is a growing body of
literature in Western historiography exploring Abrahamic religions from different
perspectives, none of these studies seems to have explored the concept of şer‘u men
kablenā. However, if one wishes to examine the historical commonalities among or
differences between the three monotheistic religions from the viewpoint of Muslim
scholars, one must begin by examining this concept, because it enables one to
systematically examine and closely track over centuries the scholarly outputs of
Muslim scholars on the issue of the law of the former prophets.
Regarding the relationship between Abraham and his role in Muslim
tradition, there are several topics that were widely circulated in written and oral form
270 Stroumsa, “From Abraham’s Religion,” 11–22; Silk, “Abrahamic Religions as a Modern Concept,”
71–87; Nasir, “From Abraham”; Bakhos, Family of Abraham; and Silverstein and Stroumsa,
Abrahamic Religions.
271 It is striking that a number of Christian writers reconciled Islam with the millet-i İbrāhīm in
emphasizing that Islam was not actually a new religion and did not bring anything new to Christianity.
For this point, see Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 536–537.
272 Massignon, Les trois prières, 20–23; Gershon-Gottstein, “Abraham,” 165–183; Griffith, “Faith of
Abraham,” 193–210; Kuschel, Abraham; Todne, Malik and Wellman, New Directions; Langermann,
Monotheism and Ethics; Lovat and Crotty, Reconciling Islam; and Peters, Children of Abraham.
273 Brague, “Problems and Pitfalls,” 88–105; Hughes, Abrahamic Religions; Stroumsa, Late Antiquity;
and Levenson, Inheriting Abraham.
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among Muslims.274 Yet what is more important for our purposes here is the specific
reference to Abraham in the Qur’an, where he appears in various contexts and is
mentioned more than twenty times. Eight of these mentions are directly or indirectly
related to the phrase “the religion of Abraham,” which the present chapter will
primarily deal with.275
Before moving to the details of Minkārīzāde’s treatise, it would be beneficial
to first provide a brief overview of the early modern Ottoman sources that refer to
Abraham. Even though it is hard to figure out exactly when historical and literary
productions about Abraham emerged in the Ottoman territories, ‘Abdü’l-vāsi‘
Çelebi’s Halīlnāme would be a good starting point for our purposes here.276 This text
is a didactic account of Abraham written in verse during the Interregnum Period
(1402–1413). It can also be read as a political struggle between a just ruler
274 These topics can be summarized as follows: i) Arabs as the descendants of Ishmael, the son of
Abraham, who was married to a woman of the local tribe from whom Arabs were descended; ii)
Ishmael as the intended victim of the sacrifice; iii) The corruption of monotheism in Arabia after the
death of Ishmael’s descendants; iv) That God sent Abraham and Ishmael to Mecca to re-build the
Ka’ba, which had been damaged by the great flood in the time of Noah; and v) The equivalence of the
religion of Abraham with the status of Hanif, who was portrayed as a monotheist, rejecting idolatrous
polytheism. For a brief overview of these five points, see Hawting, “Religion of Abraham,” 475–501.
Also see Al-Rabghūzī, Stories of the Prophets, II, 92–140; Firestone, Journeys; Firestone,
“Abraham’s Association,” 365–93; Firestone, Abraham's Journey,” 5–24; Rubin, “Hanifiyya and
Ka’ba,” 85–112; and Athamina, “Abraham in Islamic Perspective,” 184–205.
275 The “religion of Abraham” appears in a number of verses in the Qur’an. The following verses are
just some examples: “Who but a fool would forsake the religion of Abraham? We have chosen him in
this world and he will rank among the righteous in the Hereafter.” (2:130); “They say, ‘Become Jews
or Christians, and you will be rightly guided.’ Say [Prophet], ‘No, [ours is] the religion of Abraham,
the upright, who did not worship any god besides God.’” (2:135); “[Prophet], say, ‘God speaks the
truth, so follow Abraham’s religion: he had true faith and he was never an idolater.’” (3:95); “Who
could be better in religion than those who direct themselves wholly to God, do good, and follow the
religion of Abraham, who was true in faith? God took Abraham as a friend.” (4:125); “Say, ‘My Lord
has guided me to a straight path, an upright religion, the faith of Abraham, a man of pure faith. He
was not an idolater.’” (6:161); “And I follow the faith of my forefathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”
(12:38); “Then We revealed to you [Muhammad], ‘Follow the creed of Abraham, a man of pure faith
who was not an idolater.’” (16:123); “Strive hard for God as is His due: He has chosen you and placed
no hardship in your religion, the faith of your forefather Abraham. God has called you Muslims
(devoted to God)–both in the past and in this [message]—so that the Messenger can bear witness
about you and so that you can bear witness about other people. So keep up the prayer, give the
prescribed alms, and seek refuge in God: He is your protector–an excellent protector and an excellent
helper.” (22:78) Quotations are taken from the following translation: Haleem, Qur’an. For another
important study on this topic, see Moubarac, Abraham dans le Coran.
276 Abdülvâsi Çelebi, Hâlilname.
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(Abraham) and a brutal tyrant (Nimrod), which reflects the succession struggle
among the Ottomans at the time to a considerable degree.277
Apart from this, as a recent study by Hüseyin Yılmaz shows, Sufi-inclined
scholars in Ottoman society throughout the sixteenth century fabricated a number of
lineages of the Ottoman dynasty that make reference to Abrahamic, Persian, and
Turko-Mongolian traditions. Within this context, Ali Dede (d. 1598), a Halveti
sheikh from Mostar, designated the Ottomans as the descendants of Kantura, who
was believed to be the concubine of Abraham, from whom he had a son, Turk. To
better understand and substantiate the perception and recognition of Abraham by Ali
Dede, it is worth quoting here Hüseyin Yılmaz’s comment on the matter:
[I]n Ali Dede’s exposition the House of Osman is portrayed to be an
Abrahamic dynasty, a close kin of Arabs, and a continuation of the Abbasids
in caliphate. With this new genealogy Ali Dede establishes one divinely
ordained lineage for the caliphate starting from Abraham and ending with al-
Mahdi, who was prophesied to come from the descendants of the Prophet
Muhammed.278
The initial usage of the term millet-i İbrāhīm in Ottoman sources can be dated to the
sixteenth century. One such source is the letters of Sheikh İbrāhīm-i Kırımī (d.
1593), who was affiliated with the Halveti sheikh Muslihu’d-dīn Nūreddīnzāde at the
lodge of Küçük Ayasofya. Terzioğlu has shown in a recent article that the letters
written to Murad III (r. 1574–1595) and erroneously attributed to Mahmud Hüdayī
(d. 1628) were actually penned by İbrāhīm-i Kırımī. One of the striking points in
Kırımī’s letters is his positive treatment of Judaic themes. He places special
emphasis on the importance of the previous prophets and even insists that Murad III
should take good care of Abraham’s tomb.279 In this regard, the most important point
of reference in these letters is the use of the Qur’anic verse al-Nahl 16/123: “Then
277 Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined, 230.
278 Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined, 274.
279 Terzioğlu, “Power, Patronage,” 181.
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We revealed to you [Muhammad], ‘Follow the creed of Abraham, a man of pure
faith who was not an idolater.’”280 Kırımī interpreted this verse, one of those related
to the idea of the millet-i İbrāhīm in the Qur’an, differently than Minkārīzāde did, as
will be shown later. He equates Abraham with Muhammad, saying that the former
was the origin and the ancestor of the latter.281 Considering that Kırımī himself was
named Abraham (İbrāhīm) and was deeply immersed in Ibn ‘Arabī’s writings, he
might well have regarded himself as an inheritor of Abrahamic sainthood in
accordance with Ibn ‘Arabī’s prophetological scheme, which regarded all evliyā
(“friends of God”) as inheritors of a particular prophetic station.282
A similar passage can be found in the hagiographical work of one of the most
prominent saints of Deliorman of the sixteenth century. This passage is found in the
Demir Baba Velāyetnāmesi, which is thought to have been written down in the
seventeenth century, in the following context:
The king (kıral) of Muscovy, having heard of Demir Baba’s exploits in
Bucak, suggests that he send an envoy to “the padişah of the Turks” (Türk
padişahına) to summon Demir Baba, but his advisors tell him that Demir is
of a special kind and that this “pehlivan” should be invited personally to help
“for the love of Ali” (Ali aşkına). When the king meets the saint and asks him
about the millet (confessional community) he belongs to, Demir Baba proudly
proclaims: “I am from the millet of Halil İbrahim.”283
Such references to the prophet Abraham and to the term millet-i İbrāhīm in the works
of ‘Abdü’l-vāsi‘ Çelebi, ‘Alī Dede, the letters of Kırımī, and the Demir Baba
280 Haleem, Qur’an, 174.
281 “Sual: Rasûl-u Ekrem (s.a.) İbrahim’den (a.s.) efdal ve ekmel iken millet-i İbrâhim’e ittiba’ ile
emrolundu. Cevab: İbrahim Rasûl-i Ekrem’in aslıdır ve ceddidir. Ve fenâ-yı fillah ve bakâ-yı billah
mukaddemen tekmîl edip, imâmü’l-kül, ebu’l-kül olmuştur. Seyr ü sülûk ve ilim ü irfân, şuhûd-ı
Rahmân, onda kalmıştır.” Quoted in Güven, “Çeşitli Yönleriyle,” 17.
282 Terzioğlu, “Power, Patronage,” 181–182. For Ibn ‘Arabī’s stances on earlier prophets, see
Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, 74–88. On Niyāzī-ı Mısrī’s prophetology, see Terzioğlu, “Man in the
Image of God,” 156–163.
283 Quoted in Antov, Ottoman Wild West, 233. The original conversation in Demir Baba
Velāyetnāmesi is as follows: “‘Safâ Geldün Pehlivân! Yol zahmetleriyle nicesün?’ diyüp âşinâlık kesb
eyledi. Eyitdi kim: ‘Pehlivân ‘ayb olmaya, ne milletdensün? Ne millet cemâlisün?’ diyü su’âl eyledi.
Timur Baba Sultân eydür kim: ‘Halîl İbrâhim Milletindenem.’” Quoted in Kılıç and Bülbül, Demir
Baba Velâyetnâmesi, 91.
100
Velāyetnāmesi make it evident that the Abrahamic tradition found resonance and
expression over time in the early modern Ottoman context. However, what is more
important and particularly relevant for our discussion here are two recent studies by
Tijana Krstić, who highlighs the formulation “millet-i İbrāhīm” in both Lütfi Paşa’s
Risāle-i Su’āl ve Cevap (The Question and Answer Treatise) and the anonymous
catechetical work known as the Cevāhirü’l-İslām.284 The appearance of the following
four questions in both works is very striking in the sense that, as Tijana Krstić
underlines, apart from these questions the contents of these two works are actually
quite different from each other:
If they ask: Whose offspring (zürriyet) are you?
Answer: I am the offspring of the Prophet Adam.
If they ask: Of whose religion (millet) are you?
Answer: I am of the Prophet Abraham’s religion.
If they ask you: Of whose community (ümmet) are you?
Answer: I am of the Prophet Muhammad’s community.
If they ask you: Whose doctrine (mezheb) do you follow?
Answer: I follow the Great Imam Abu Hanifa’s doctrine.285
As these formulations make evident, the expression “I am of the Prophet Abraham’s
religion” had been in use from at least the mid-sixteenth century. Given also that
Minkārīzāde wrote a very detailed treatise in response to the question of whether it is
permissible for a Muslim to define himself as a member of the millet-i İbrāhīm, we
have reason to assume that the usage of this term was at least in frequent circulation
among certain groups of people in mid-seventeenth century Ottoman society.
However, evaluating Minkārīzāde’s contention that it is not permissible to say “I am
of the Prophet Abraham’s religion” in the light of those two works and Tijana
Krstić’s argument, a very complicated picture emerges. While the expression of the
284 For more information about Lütfi Paşa’s scholarly works, see Köksal, “Bir İslâm Âlimi,” 29–72.
285 These four questions were taken from the following works: Krstić, “From Shahāda to ‘Aqīda,” 304
and Krstić, “State and Religion,” 80. It should be noted, however, that the term millet-i İbrāhīm in the
first work was translated as “Abraham’s people” instead of “Abraham’s religion.”
101
phrase millet-i İbrāhīm, which was used in two catechetical works in the midsixteenth
century as one of the constituent tenets of faith that “seek to define the
believer beyond the label of ‘Muslim,’”286 how could Minkārīzāde pen a treatise
nearly a century later that puts into question this formulation and asserts that it is not
permissible for Muslims to speak of themselves as belonging to the millet-i İbrāhīm?
In other words, how can one explain the different stances Minkārīzāde and the
writers of these works over a period of just a hundred years? One possible answer to
this question lies mainly in the mutability of legal judgements over the years.287
Before moving further, it would be helpful to review the available evidence
regarding the date of composition of the two versions of the treatise and the recent
scholarly interest in Minkārīzāde’s treatise on the millet-i İbrāhīm. Unfortunately, the
exact date of composition of these treatises is unknown to us. The earliest dated copy
of the longer treatise that I have identified bears the date 1665.288 The earliest dated
copy of the shorter treatise, on the other hand, is dated 1656.289 Based upon the fact
that Minkārīzāde’s longer treatise found a place in Kātib Çelebi’s Mīzānü’l-Hakk, it
would not be wrong to assert that he must have composed this treatise at least before
1656.290 Since very little is known beyond this, there is much room for speculation
regarding the exact date of composition of these treatises. In light of these findings,
however, we can speculate that it was probably written around the mid-seventeenth
century.
286 Krstić, “From Shahāda to ‘Aqīda,” 304.
287 In this context, it would be beneficial to recall Burak’s comment on the issue: “[C]ertain practices
that had been condoned and even actively approved by authoritative figures went on to be
vociferously denounced as signs of heresy or apostasy in later decades or centuries.” See Burak,
“Faith, Law and Empire,” 5. For more studies on the topic, see Reinhart, “When Women Went,” 116–
128; Hallaq, “Legal Change,” 166–235; and Katz, “‘Corruption of the Times,” 171–185. For a recent
discussion of the mutability of legal judgments via a specific debate about the permisibility of the
congregational performance of supererogatory prayers, see Terzioğlu, “Bid‘at, Custom,” 323–366.
288 Süleymaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4952 ff. 25b–54a.
289 İstanbul Üniversitesi Nadir Eserleri Kütüphanesi, MS T5917.
290 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth; Çelebi, Mîzânü'l–Hakk.
102
At this point, an important remark should made here regarding Minkārīzāde’s
treatise on this topic. At first glance, since the topic was discussed in Kātib Çelebi’s
Mīzānü’l-Hakk, one might wrongly assume that it was a part of the ongoing debates
between the Kadızadelis and their opponents. However, a careful examination of
both contemporary accounts and the corpora of the individuals involved in these
debates shows that no relevant works on the topic were written by the individuals in
question. For example, Mustafā Naīmā listed sixteen topics that were hotly debated
by them—but the millet-i İbrāhīm was not among these topics.291 Similarly, the
absence of any related works written either by the leading figures of the Kadızadelis
or by their opponents also supports this point.292 In other words, Minkārīzāde can be
named as the first scholar in the context of the religio-legal debates of the
seventeenth century who penned a treatise related to the concept of the millet-i
İbrāhīm, and he started a new debate by opening up a new venue for subsequent
works. This point is especially crucial because it allows us to question the commonly
held view that the main addressees in the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth
century were the Kadızadelis and their opponents.
Minkārīzāde’s treatise has attracted a good deal of attention from a number of
scholars in recent years. Nir Shafir, who addresses Minkārīzāde’s treatise in two
different parts of his dissertation,293 delves further into the topic, and in a recent
article he highlights two points related to the debate around the notion of the millet-i
İbrāhīm. First of all, Shafir relates this debate to the process of confessionalization in
291 Naîmâ Târih-i Na‘îmâ, 1705.
292 Necati Öztürk and Semiramis Çavuşoğlu listed the works of the leading Kadızadelis in their
dissertations, but none of them produced a treatise related to the topic of the millet-i İbrāhīm.
Compare their table of contents, Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy” and Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli
Movement.”
293 Shafir, “Road from Damascus,” 76–82, 120–137.
103
the early modern Ottoman Empire.294 Secondly and more importantly, he argued that
this debate provides important insights into popular or vernacular legalism in the
Ottoman Empire.295 Apart from making these points, Shafir’s study also examines a
number of the immediate responses written against Minkārīzāde’s treatise on the
millet-i İbrāhīm.296
Cengiz Şişman is another scholar who has recently written about the treatise
on the millet-i İbrāhīm.297 In an article, he claims that Minkārīzāde’s treatise can be
regarded as a rare example of the discourse developing around the status of non-
Muslims in the Islamic world, asserting that “although Minkarizāde does not mention
the Jews and the Christians or ahl al-kitāb and dhimmīs specifically, he preserves in
this treatise the classical Islamic and Ottoman attitudes towards non-Muslims,
specifically Jews and Christians.”298 Apart from these two studies, the shorter
version of the treatise has also been translated into modern Turkish by Mehmed Akif
Alpaydın.299
One common point for all these studies is their use of the shorter version of
Minkārīzāde’s treatise and the lack of attention paid to the treatise’s longer version.
The longer version is more important in that the three explanations regarding şer‘u
men kablenā mentioned above are absent in the shorter treatise, which means that the
shorter treatise makes it possible to miss the main framework that Minkārīzāde had
294 Shafir asserted that the debate around millet-i İbrāhīm “was internal to Ottoman Muslims and was
about the everyday practices that signified their religious belief.” Shafir, “Vernacular Legalism,” 33.
295According to Shafir, vernacular legalism “represents a social usage of the law that lies beyond its
formal functions and spaces such as judges presiding in courts, jurists issuing fatwas, professors
debating in madrasas, or councils reviewing appeals in divans.” Shafir, “Vernacular Legalism,” 34.
296 Shafir, “Vernacular Legalism,” 56–57.
297 Şişman, “Minkarizâde Yahya,” 404–410. An important point to note regarding Şişman’s article is
that it wrongly dates the composition of the treatise to the 1660s. If Şişman had looked at Kātib
Çelebi’s Mīzānü’l-Hakk, he could have avoided making such a mistake and seen that it must have
been written before 1656.
298 Şişman, “Minkarizâde Yahya,” 407.
299 Alpaydın, “Şeyhülislâm Minkârîzâde,” 58–71.
104
in mind while writing. Indeed, since neither of the aforementioned works on
Minkārīzāde’s millet-i İbrāhīm focus on his longer treatise, they fail to actually take
note of Minkārīzāde’s main line of argument on the issue. For that reason,
Minkārīzāde’s particular mode of reasoning and argumentation in proving that it is
not permissible to say “I am of the Prophet Abraham’s religion” should be
contextualized within the specific field of Islamic law known as şer‘u men kablenā.
On behalf of such an inquiry, the longer version of millet-i İbrāhīm will here be
taken into consideration in order to better comprehend and evaluate Minkārīzāde’s
point of view. Examining this treatise from this point of view is crucial in that it can
save us from the teleological explanations of contemporary historians. Needless to
say, examining the longer version of the treatise will also provide additional valuable
insights regarding the content of this work.
To begin with, the following excerpt by Jacob Olidortis a good starting point
to begin to examine Minkārīzāde’s long version of the Risāle-i Millet-i İbrāhīm in
the proper conceptual framework:
On the one hand, as with all the Abrahamic faiths, there existed an innate
need to describe Abraham as having lived according to the principles of that
faith. To establish that he was indeed a pious and exemplary figure for a
particular religion-based community, it was important to demonstrate that his
actions and rituals were a part of that same tradition. However, once the focus
shifts from historicising the figure of Abraham to historicising the religion,
that religion must be characterised by certain unique features in order to
distinguish it from other Abrahamic religions. In the case of Islam, the
historicisation of Abraham as an Islamic prophet who followed Islamic laws
naturally came into direct tension with the historicisation of Islam as an
Abrahamic faith. What is it that distinguished pre-Qur’ānic Islam from “post
Qur’ānic” Islam, if one may call it such?300
Despite the fact that a possible answer to this question was beyond the scope of
Olidort’s study, the difference between pre-Qur’ānic Islam and post-Qur’ānic Islam
300 Olidort, “Portraying Early Islam,” 333.
105
is directly related to the main framework that Minkārīzāde followed throughout his
longer treatise.301 Considering that Minkārīzāde established his argument around the
concept of şer‘u men kablenā (the law of those who came before us) and that the
prophet Abraham was also a respected figure among the members of the other
monotheistic religions, it can be argued that Minkārīzāde seems to have emphasized
the unique identity of Islam among the monotheistic religions by redefining the
confessional boundary between Muslims and non-Muslims through his objection to
the usage of the term millet-i Ibrāhīm.302
Minkārīzāde continues his longer treatise by explaining three possible
explanations in Islamic law regarding the concept of şer‘u men kablenā, and he
presents his way of reasoning as an example of the third approach. Here it is worth
recalling that the third explanation concerns itself with the contention that Muslims
must follow the laws of an earlier prophet by virtue of its being the law of our
prophet (that is, Muhammad). As previously mentioned, the phrase millet-i İbrāhīm
is mentioned several times in the Qur’an. Minkārīzāde, however, mainly pays
attention to two specific passages among these; namely, فَاتَّبِعُوا مِلَّةَ إِبْرَاھِیمَ (“follows
301 The following excerpt from Minkārīzāde’s long version of the Risāle-i Millet-i İbrāhīm succinctly
states what it is at stake: “Meselemiz ki, ümmet-i Muhammed ‘Aleyhisselām’dan bir kimesne Millet-i
İbrāhīmdenüm dimek cāiz midir deyu suāldir, cevabı budur ki, cāiz değildir. Zira Millet-i
İbrāhīmdenüm dimek zāhiri buna delālet ider ki, millet hālā Hazret-i İbrāhīm'in olub millet ile ‘amel
Hazret-i İbrāhīmin olmak üzerine ola. Mukaddem gelen nebīnin şerī‘ati ve milleti ile ‘amel bizim
nebīmizin şerī‘ati ve milleti olmak üzerine olub mukaddem gelen nebīnin şerī‘ati ve milleti olmak
üzerine olmadığına bir delil dahi Allāhu Te‘ālānın لِكُلٍّ جَعَلْنَا مِنْكُمْ شِرْعَةً وَمِنْھَاجًا kavl-i şerīfidir. Bu āyet-i
kerīme, her nebīnin getirdiği şerī‘at ve millet kendi ümmetine mahsūsa olmağı iktizā ider.”
Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4952, f. 26b–27a. For the verse in the text, see Haleem,
Qur’an, 72 (al-Ma’idah, 5:48: “We have assigned a law and a path to each of you”).
302 The following excerpt from Cemal Kafadar’s study is illuminating in this regard: “On yedinci
yüzyılın ortalarında İstanbul ahalisinin yaşadığı keskin kamplaşmadaki fay hatlarından birisi,
‘ümmet-i Muhammed'den’ olan kimselerin ‘millet-i İbrahim'denim’ demesinin caiz olup olmadığı
etrafında biçimlenmiştir. Kâtip Çelebi'ye göre ‘İbrahim milletindenim, halk arasında yayılmış ve
kökleşmiş biz sözdür.’ Bir yandan da, Müslümanların kendilerini bu şekilde tanımlamasına şiddetle
karşı çıkanlar vardır. Müslüman kimliğine sahip çıkarken, diğer semavi dinlerle bağını vurgulamayı
da seçebilirsiniz, sınırları tahkim etmeyi de.” Kafadar, Kim var imiş, 22. It was Minkārīzāde who
followed the second option.
106
Abraham’s religion”; 3:95) and مِّلَّةَ أَبِیكُمْ إِبْرَاھِیمَ (“the faith of your forefather
Abraham”; 22:78).303
By interpreting these passages apart from the literal meaning in the Qur’an,
Minkārīzāde argues that it is not permissible for a Muslim to define himself as being
of the prophet Abraham’s religion. He conceptualizes his particular mode of
reasoning and argumentation around the concept of inheritance (mevrūs).304
According to him, when the bequest passes to an heir, the former owner loses all
right over the heritage. Similarly, when Muhammad inherited the religion from
Abraham, he became the only inheritor and Abraham lost all connection from the
previous claims.305
Another important consideration in Minkārīzāde’s treatise is his stance on the
relationship between dīn, millet, and şerī‘at. Compared to Birgivī (d. 1573), who
separated dīn and millet from şerī‘at by claiming that dīn and millet correspond to
belief (i‘tikād) while şerī‘at refers to practice, Minkārīzāde asserts that dīn, millet,
and şerī‘at are one and the same.306 Interestingly, Minkārīzāde evaluates the stance
of Birgivī as follows: “[K]now that the words of Birgilī Efendi are the path of
303 Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4952, f. 26b and 27b.
304 As mentioned before, Minkārīzāde received education from a number of scholars, pious men and
sheikhs of diverse backgrounds during the early stages of his life, including Mahmūd Hüdâyî,
Hocazâde Es‘ad, Kiçi Mehmed, Semîn Velî and Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahîm. The last three of these are
worth mentioning here again because Minkārīzāde received knowledge of inheritance (mevrūs) from
these three scholars. It is quite possible that Minkārīzāde might have been influenced by these
scholars. Uşşâkizâde, 687–690 and Şeyhî, II, 1128–1132.
305 Referring to Sāhib-i Keşf and Sāhib-i Takrīr, Minkārīzāde supports his line of argument as follows:
“Bu şerī‘at hālen Hazret-i İbrāhīm milleti olmak mümteni‘ oldu. Öyle olıcak milleti olmak ne
ma‘nāyadır? Ol ma‘nāyadır ki bu şerī‘at Hazret-i İbrāhīm’in idi, hak olduğu halde bākī kalıp bizim
nebīmizin oldu, Hazret-i İbrāhīm’e izāfetten kaldı, māl-ı mevrūs gibi ki hālen vārise muzāf olup
mūrise muzāf olmaz demişlerdir.” Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4952, f. 28a. Sāhib-i Keşf
was by ‘Abd al-‘Azīz al-Buhārī (d. 1330), who wrote on a commentary on al-Pazdawī’s al-Usūl
known as Kasfh al-ashrār fī sharh Usūl al-Pazdawī. For more information on this scholar, see Attar,
“Abdülazîz El-Buhârî,” 186–187 and Ayran, “Abdülaziz Buhârî,” 141–154. Sāhib-i Takrīr was by
Akmal al-Dīn al-Bābartī (d. 1384), who wrote a commentary on al-Pazdawī’s Usūl known as al-
Taqrīr ‘alā ‘l-Usūl al-Pazdawī. For more information on this scholar, see Aytekin, “Bâbertî,” 377–
378 and Kahraman, “Ekmelüddin El-Bâbertî,” 1–20.
306 Birgili, Vasiyyet-name, 104.
107
zeccāc.”307 Here, we do not know exactly what Minkārīzāde was trying to say with
this expression. One possible explanation would be that Minkārīzāde was referring to
the expert on Arabic language and grammar named Ebū İshāk İbrāhīm (d. 923),
known as Zajjāj, in order to emphasize Birgivī’s linguistic conceptualization of these
terms.308 To support his stance, Minkārīzāde gives references to several prominent
scholars; namely, al-Rāghib al-Isfahānī, al-Baydāwī, al-Sayyid Sharīf al-Jurjānī,
Hayālī Çelebi, Mollā Hüsrev, Hasan Çelebi, Sa‘dī Efendi, and Ebu’s-su‘ūd.309 As
Minkārīzāde’s reference to these scholars makes evident, the equivalence of millet,
dīn, and şerī‘at does not represent a rupture from previous understanding. However,
Minkārīzāde’s conceptualization becomes all the more meaningful when one
considers the changes in Islamic religiosity throughout the seventeenth century,
which prioritized correct beliefs and practice, and the verbal confession of faith
(ikrār), which directly related to one’s holding the correct position in a particular
situation.310
307 “Eğer suāl olunursa ki, ‘Birgilī Muhammed Efendi merhum risālesinde dīn ve millet ile şerī’at
beynīni fark idüb, dīn ve millet birdir, hazret-i Muhammed'in Hakk te’ālā’dan getürdüğü şeylerdir,
i’tikāda müte’allik. Şerī’at a’māle müte’allik getürdüğüdür dimişdir. Eyle olıcak millet-i
ibrāhīmdenüz dimek cā’iz olur, i’tikāda müte’allik olan eşyāda enbiyā ‘aleyhimü’s-selām muhtalif
olmadıklarına bināen.’ dinilürse, evvelā bunu bil ki Birgilī Efendinin kelāmı zeccāc mesleğidir.”
Süleymaniye YEK, Yazma Bağışlar MS 1438, 11a. Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4952,
46b.
308 İşler, “Zeccâc,” 173–174.
309 “Millet ve dīn ve şerī‘at biz’z-zāt birdir ve bi’l-i‘tibār mugāyirdir dimişler. Bi’z-zāt birdir ki
cümlesi Allāhu Te‘ālānın enbiyāsı lisānı üzere meşrū‘a kıldığı eşyādan ibārettir... Bi’l-i‘tibār
mugāyirdir ki, millet tesmiyesi meb‘ūs olan nebī kimlere ba‘s olundu ise onlara imlā etmek
i‘tibārıyladır. Din tesmiyesi Allāhu Te‘ālāya anınla müdān yani itā‘at ve inkıyād olunduğu
i‘tibārıyladır. Şerī‘at tesmiyesi Allāhu Te‘ālānın zülāl-i rahmetine müte‘attış olanlara mevrid olması
i‘tibārıyladır. Böyle olacak akāid ve ʿamel’e şümūl iktiza ider.” Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye
MS 4952, f. 47a.
310 There are a considerable number of studies focused on the relationship between belief and
practices in Islamic thought. For these works, see Izutsu, Concept of Belief; Lewinstein,
“Heresiography,” 583–98; and Madelung, “Early Sunnī Doctrine,” 233–54; for the Ottoman context,
see Al-Tikriti, “Kalam,” 131–49 and Krstić, “You Must Know,” 155–195.
108
Another important point to be addressed in Minkārīzāde’s treatise is his way
of perceiving havāss (elite men) and ‘avāmm (common people).311 His ambivalent
attitude towards men of learning and common people is one of the more intricate
topics in his treatises. According to him, since the elite (havāss) are aware of how to
interpret the phrase “I am of the Prophet Abraham’s religion” apart from the literal
meaning in the Qur’an, they are allowed to use it. On the other hand, the common
people are inclined to understand it literally, so it is not permissible for them to say
“I am of the Prophet Abraham’s religion.”312
It is well known that a strong distinction between havāss and ‘avāmm was
omnipresent in the writings of prominent Muslims in pre-modern times. This
understanding probably resulted from scholars’ normative perception about social
hierarchy in society.313 Minkārīzāde, however, did not confine himself solely to
indicating this distinction. By shortening the longer treatise and conveying his
arguments in a simpler manner in the shorter treatise, he also aimed to directly reach
the common people. It was rare for a member of the Ottoman ulama to compose a
311 For the discussion around havāss and ‘avāmm in the medieval context, see Waldman, “Primitive
Mind/Modern Mind,” 91–105; Berkey, “Popular Culture,” 133–146; Shoshan, Popular Culture; and
Berkey, Popular Preaching.
312 The following excerpt from his longer treatise clearly represents his way of thinking: “Millet-i
İbrāhīm’denüz dimek zāhiri üzerine cāiz değildir. Zīrā bunun zāhiri millet hala Hazret-i İbrāhīm'in
olub millet ile ʿamel Hazret-i İbrāhīm’in olmak üzerine olmağa delālet ider. Böyle olacak bunu
‘avāmm söylemek cāiz değildir, zīrā anlar zāhirindir, bu tarafı bilmezler, ammā havāss zāhirin
değillerdir. İmdi bunlar hala millet-i Muhammed olub, millet-i İbrāhīm olmayıb, ancak aslında
Millet-i İbrāhīm olub, millet ile ‘amel Hazret-i Muhammed milleti olmak üzerine olub, Hazret-i
İbrāhīm milleti olmak üzerine olmamak mülāhazasıyla dimek cāizdir. Lākin diyen kimse zāhirinden
müstefād olanı i‘tikād tarīki ile dimeyub, bu mülāhazayı i‘tikād tarīkiyle dediğine karīne gerektir ki
istimā‘ edenler ol tarīk ile demeyip bu tarīk ile dediğini bileler. Zīrā zāhiri üzerine cāiz değildir. Ve
bunu bu üslūb üzerine havāss yine havāss yanında söyleyip, ‘avāmm yanında söylememek gerektir.
Zīrā işitmekle zāhirinden müstefād olanı i‘tikād tarīkiyle diyegiderler. Karīne ise herkese göre fāide
vermez ki ondan ne i‘tikād ile denilip ne i‘tikād ile denilmediğini bileler. Hāsıl-ı kelām her söz
zāhirine mahmūldür. İmdi şol söz ki onun zāhirinden müstefād olan i‘tikād bize cāiz olmaya, ol sözü
söylemek bize cāiz değildir, i‘tikād cāiz olur bir hāle komadıkça.” Nuruosmaniye YEK,
Nuruosmaniye MS 4952, f. 45b–46a. For Kātib Çelebi: “It would mean imposition of hardship to
declare ‘No, these words are wrong. The educated, who know the origin of them, may use them, but
the common people must not.’ No one would pay any attention anyway; it would mean irritating the
people and provoking them to contention, to no purpose.” Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 121.
313 Herzog, “Mamluk (Popular) Culture,” 131–58.
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religious treatise in plain Turkish, except for a few Quranic verses and short
quotations from other scholars.314 Bearing in mind that Minkārīzāde wrote these
treatises in Turkish in response to a question posed probably by a Turkish-speaking
individual, it can be presumed that the target audience of this treatise was Turkishspeaking
people, allowing him to convey his message to a broader public.315
There can be several reasons for scholars to produce abridgements
(mukhtasar).316 In our case, Minkārīzāde shortened his longer treatise so as to make
its content more accessible to lay readers.317 Although Minkārīzāde’s main
contention in his treatise is that it is not permissible for a Muslim to define himself as
a member of the millet-i İbrāhīm, the exceptional status of men of learning in saying
this phrase can only be meaningful when we understand that the purpose of
Minkārīzāde in writing this treatise was to correct and refine a controversial phrase
widely used in seventeenth-century Ottoman society. But the primary reason that led
Minkārīzāde to give the most reasonable argument in his shorter treatise without
going into the details of his argumentation, lay in the fact that lay readers, as
Terzioğlu mentions, “were a liability because, with their limited intellectual capacity
and educational level and their inflated self-esteem, they could easily be led into
314 For vernacularization, see Terzioğlu, “Catechism,” 84–85 and Gürbüzel, “Teachers of the Public,”
180–224; for a brief overview of vernacular readership, see Queen, “Books and their Readers,” 11–15,
149–151.
315 Christoph K. Neumann mentions three different types of writing aiming to reach a wider audience,
a specific community, or just a couple of people. In the light of Minkārīzāde's short treatise, it can be
argued that he quite likely aims to reach a broader public by writing in plain Turkish. Neumann, “Üç
Tarz-ı Mütalaa,” 51–76.
316 Kilpatrick, “Abridgements,” 23–24. Also see Fadel, “Social Logic of Taqlīd,” 193–233.
317 The following introductory note to his shorter treatise is illuminating in this regard: “Bu ‘abd-i
fakīr Minkārīzāde aslaha’llāhu sübhānehū ve te‘ālā me‘ādehū hālen beyne’l-enām Millet-i İbrāhīm
‘aleyhi’s-selām husūsında dā’ir olan su’āl cevābında ‘azīzü’l-menāl nīçe vecih takrīr ve bir risāle-i
bedī‘a tahrīr idüb lākin kesīretü’ş-şi‘ab olmağla mutāla‘asında te‘ab gelmesin diyu ihtisār olunub
kadr-i hācete iktisār olundu.” Harvard University Houghton Library, MS Arab 292 ff. 99a.
110
‘error and heresy.’”318 This argument is also valid for Minkārīzāde, for he aims to
redefine this widely used phrase and show the common people the right path.
Another important field of inquiry regarding Minkārīzāde’s treatise is its
reception in succeeding years and centuries. First of all, it should be noted that, in
terms of production and circulation, the shorter version of the treatise should be
considered differently than the longer one, as the latter has only two extant copies in
archives.319 The shorter version, on the other hand, has more than 30 copies in the
manuscript libraries of Istanbul alone.320 More copies of this treatise will likely come
to light through further research in manuscript libraries around the world, but even
considering only the extant copies of Minkārīzāde’s treatise, we can say that it was
widely read. However, the extant copies of the treatise reflect only one side of the
coin. To properly handle the reception of Minkārīzāde’s treatise in subsequent years,
one should look also at other texts in which the phrase millet-i İbrāhīm in general
and Minkārīzāde’s treatise in particular were mentioned.
To begin, given the fact that Kātib Çelebi allocated considerable space to
Minkārīzāde’s millet-i İbrāhīm in his work, it is clear that this treatise found an
immediate reception by one of the most important Ottoman intellectuals of the
seventeenth century. The millet-i İbrāhīm is among the twenty-one topics in Kātib
Çelebi’s Mīzānü’l-Hakk.321 As is the case in the rest of his book, in his chapter on
this topic Kātib Çelebi is also very careful in considering the opinions of both
contending sides. After summarizing the longer version of Minkārīzāde’s treatise and
318 Terzioğlu, “Catechism,” 84. A similar view is also observed in Kemalpaşazāde, who argued that
common people could easily misunderstand the texts and fall into heresy. See Öngören,
Osmanlılar’da Tasavvuf, 384–390.
319 These treatises can be found in Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4952 ff. 25b–54a and
Süleymaniye YEK, Yazma Bağışlar 1438 ff. 103–116.
320 Shafir, “Road from Damascus,” 135.
321 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 110–23 and Kâtib Çelebi, Mîzânü'l–Hakk, 77–85, 205–213.
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giving the counter argument of a certain sheikh named Mūjib, Kātib Çelebi offers the
most reasonable line of arguments on the issue. According to him, Minkārīzāde’s
argument cannot be refuted because he relates his arguments with proofs and
respects the rules of discussion. As for the treatise of Sheikh Mūjib, on the other
hand, no attention should be paid to it as he did not write his treatise in accordance
with the rules of disputation.
Even though Kātib Çelebi was not totally against Minkārīzāde’s treatise, he
still seems to have been critical against his lines of argument on the ground that
Minkārīzāde overlooks the widespread habits among peoples. In this regard, Kātib
Çelebi says that “it has become a widespread and regular habit among the people to
say simply ‘I belong to the religion of Abraham.’ Though eighty treatises be written
and the Government ban the use of this expression, it is no good; they will still say
it.”322 Kātib Çelebi’s criticism of Minkārīzāde’s treatise is very insightful in that it
enables us to hear a contemporary voice about a well-established expression among
the people of the time and also in that it reminds us of the importance of local custom
for examining the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century. In a sense, from
Kātib Çelebi’s point of view, we can read the phrase millet-i İbrāhīm as a new
chapter on the conflict between custom and sunna.323
In addition to Kātib Çelebi’s comment, Minkārīzāde’s treatise on millet-i
İbrāhīm also received both positive and negative treatments. On the positive side is
an illuminating passage in Üstüvānī Risālesi (The Treatise of Üstüvānī). Although
Üstüvānī Mehmed (d. 1661), who was known as the leader of the second wave of the
Kadızadelis, did not write this treatise himself, it consists of his sermons as brought
together by one of his pupils after his death. Referencing Minkārīzāde’s treatise,
322 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 121.
323 For similar conflicts in the medieval Islamic context, see Berkey, “Tradition, Innovation,” 38–65.
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Üstüvānī propounded that it is not permissible to say that we belong to the millet-i
İbrāhīm.324 Likewise, another important point of reference can be found in a fatwa
given by chief jurist Yenişehirli ‘Abdu’llāh (d. 1743). According to him, when one is
asked ‘what religion are you?’ he must say ‘I am of Muhammed's religion’ rather
than ‘I am of the religion of Abraham.’325 These two examples by two well-known
scholars of different backgrounds are particularly important for showing the
favorable reception of Minkārīzāde’s treatise on millet-i İbrāhīm.
Similarly, another important reference point is the omission of the term “I am
of the Prophet Abraham’s religion” from one of the most widespread catechetical
works in Ottoman society, Mızrāklı İlmihāl.326 While the exact date of composition
of Mızrāklı İlmihāl is unknown, it seems that it was written after the sixteenth
century, though the text’s popularization and widespread use was a later
development of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. For that reason, a further
examination of the extant copies of Mızrāklı İlmihāl is needed to ascertain whether
the omission of the phrase “millet-i İbrāhīm’denim” is a later development or not.
However, it is still significant for our purposes here to note the absence of this phrase
from Mızrāklı İlmihāl, which may show the positive reception of Minkārīzāde’s
reasoning to a certain degree.
On the other hand, it should also be noted that the formulation in Lütfi Paşa’s
treatise, which resembles the questions asked by Munkar and Nakir to each believer
324 “Minkari-zade Efendi, bu meseleden ötürü iki cüz mikdan bir risale telif itmüşdür. Anda tafsilen
beyan itmüşdür ve milletde Hazret-i İbrahim'e tabi’üz dimek caiz değildür; zira dinde bizim
peygamberimize tabi’üz, milletde sair peygambere tabi’üz dimek iki peygambere tabi’üz dimek olur;
bu ise caiz değildür.” Quoted in Yurdaydın, “Üstüvani Risalesi,” 74–75. Also see Doğmuş,
“Sosyolojik bir bakış,” 121.
325 “Müslim olan Zeyd’e ‘Ne millettensin’ deyu sual olundukda ‘Millet-i Muhammed sallallahu teâla
aleyhi ve sellemdenim’ demek mi gerekdir yoksa ‘Millet-i İbrâhîm aleyhi’s-selamdanım’ demek mi
gerek? El-cevab: ‘Millet-i Muhammed sallallahu teâla aleyhi ve sellemdenim’ demek gerekdir.”
Şeyhülislam Yenişehirli Abdullah Efendi, Behcetü’l-Fetâvâ, 25.
326 Kara, Mızraklı İlmihal.
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upon death, has been so influential that it is still taught in religious pre-schools in
today’s Turkey. Similarly, its reminiscence among many individuals who received
traditional education from these unofficial institutions is still lively today.327
Despite the aforementioned positive receptions, however, there were also a
number of short treatises in which Minkārīzāde’s treatise on millet-i İbrāhīm was
criticized. Nir Shafir has meticulously examined the unfavorable reception of
Minkārīzāde’s treatise on millet-i İbrāhīm. In his view, the main point shared by the
proponents of millet-i İbrāhīm is that, although millet means dīn, it cannot be equated
with sharia.328 He also summarized their arguments as follows: “The critics of
Minḳārīzāde state that anyone who declares that he belongs to the religion of
Abraham is actually saying that he belongs to the religion of Muhammad. All the
prophets belong to the same millet and by saying they are part of Abraham’s millet,
they are only demonstrating their appreciation of Abraham.”329
Last but not least, another promising field of inquiry is the method that
Minkārīzāde employed throughout the treatise. As previously mentioned, Kātib
Çelebi appreciated Minkārīzāde’s method because it was in accordance with the
rules of argumentation and disputation. Indeed, throughout the treatise Minkārīzāde
employs different question-answer statements (e.g., bu i‘tibār ile millet-i
İbrāhīmdenüz dimek cāiz olur dinilirse, ana cevap budur ki...)330 to indicate possible
objections and their refutations, as well as employing various ways of reasoning such
as istidlāl (inference) and kıyās (analogy).
327 Kara and Birinci, Mahalle/Sıbyan Mektepleri, 9. Despite this, however, caution should be
exercised, because we receive this piece of information from Ali Birinci and İsmail Kara. The latter
scholar retrospectively added the phrase “I am of Abraham’s religion” to his transliteration of the
Mızrāklı İlmihāl despite the fact that the phrase does not actually appear in the text.
328 Shafir detected the name of the respondents as follows: a certain Hasan Efendi, İzmīrī Hāfız
Efendi, ‘İsmā’il Efendi, and Ni‘metu’llāh Efendi. Shafir, “Vernacular Legalism,” 56–57.
329 Shafir, “Vernacular Legalism,” 57.
330 Nuruosmaniye YEK, Nuruosmaniye MS 4952, ff. 49a.
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As we know from the works of Khaled El-Rouayheb, the supposed decline of
interest in the rational sciences in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is a
myth.331 Similarly, it would be not wrong to argue that rational reasoning was not
monopolized by those who opposed the views of the Kadızadelis. On the contrary,
the Kadızadelis “were as prepared to support their arguments against innovation on
rational grounds as they were on scriptural grounds.”332 The same conclusion can
also be drawn for Minkārīzāde’s treatise on millet-i İbrāhīm. By employing various
instruments as means for reaching an argument rather than using them for its own
sake, Minkārīzāde intended to correct the verbal confession of faith about the term
the millet-i İbrāhīm, which had been in use in Ottoman society for at least a hundred
years.333 In other words, as Minkārīzāde’s treatise on millet-i İbrāhīm makes evident,
it is also possible to object to the contention that enabled a Muslim to define himself
as a member of the millet-i İbrāhīm on rational grounds. It is very interesting,
however, that we cannot follow a similar rational reasoning for Minkārīzāde’s
rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s commentary on et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, which will be
examined in the next section.
3.4 Minkārīzāde’s rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s commentary on et-Tarīkatü’l-
Muhammediye
This section will examine a very short treatise of Minkārīzāde, which he wrote as a
rebuttal to the commentary of Muhammed b. Mollā Ebū Bekr on Birgivī’s famous
work et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye. It would be appropriate to start this topic with
331 El-Rouayheb, “Triumph of Fanaticism,” 196–221 and El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History,
13–59.
332 Sheikh, Ottoman Puritanism, 115.
333 By the term “for its own sake”, I mean Minkārīzāde’s Hāşiye ‘alā Hāşiye Mīr Ebū'l-Feth li Şerhi'l-
Hanefī ‘alā’l-ādābu’l-adudiyye, in which he presents his way of reasoning through syllogistic
representations rather than using them to clarify a specific problem, as in the case of his treatise on
millet-i İbrāhīm.
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Birgivī and his work, because although it is widely accepted that the Kadızadelis
took their name from the famous preacher Kādīzāde Mehmed (d. 1635), a far more
important point of reference for them was the spiritual authority and the writings of
the sixteenth-century Ottoman scholar Birgivī, one of whose students had been a
teacher of Kādīzāde Mehmed himself. For this very reason, Birgivī’s life and the
reception of his works deserve special consideration for the purposes of this study.
Muhammed b. Pīr ‘Alī b. İskender el-Balıkesirī el-Birgivī, better known as
Birgivī Mehmed (1523–1573) was born in Balıkesir to an ulama family with Sufi
affiliations. He received his initial education from his father, from whom he learned
Arabic and the Qur’an, and he also took lessons in logic and the religious sciences.
He also attended the lessons of Küçük Şemse’d-dīn Ahmed Efendi el-Germiyanī (d.
1550–51) and Ahīzāde Mehmed b. Nūru’llāh Efendi (d. 1581) in Istanbul.334 After
receiving mülāzemet from Mollā ‘Abdü’l-rahmān, Birgivī taught in a number of
madrasas in Istanbul, though he probably did not hold a proper teaching position but
rather worked as an adjunct.335
Subsequently, with the appointment of Mollā ‘Abdü’l-rahmān as the chief
judge of Rumelia in 1551, he had the chance to become an inheritance apportioner
(kassām) in Edirne. In succeeding years, he kept himself away from bureaucratic
tasks for a while and entered the service of Karamānī ‘Abdu’llāh (d. 1564), who was
the sheikh of the Bayrami order. It is not known how long he stayed on the Sufi path,
but we know much about his subsequent career. Having established close contact
with ‘Atā’u’lllāh Ahmed, the tutor of Şehzade Selim between the years 1550 and
334 Ençakar, “Kifâyetü’l-Mübtedî,” 14–17.
335 Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety, 21.
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1571, and built a Dāruʾl-hadīth in Birgi, Birgivī became the professor of that
madrasa and spent the rest of his life there.336
Birgivī was a prolific writer and highly esteemed scholar who is said to have
authored more than 50 works on diverse topics, including grammar, logic, and piety.
However, a considerable number of these works have been shown to be
misattributions. As Ahmet Kaylı has demonstrated, there are only 35 works whose
authorship by Birgivī is established beyond doubt.337 There might be various reasons
behind these kinds of misattributions, but the most important among them for our
purposes here is undoubtedly “the controversies he was posthumously drawn into
and the authoritative position he was subsequently accorded.”338
In this regard, the reception of Birgivī’s corpus in general and the widespread
popularity of his two popular works—the Vasiyetnāme (Testament), also known as
Risāle-i Birgivī,339 and et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye (The Muhammadan Path)340—
are the key aspects of the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century because, as
Ivanyi rightly argues, “Birgivī’s work would prove to be both inspiring and
divisive.”341
The first of the aforementioned works is generally described as a catechetical
work (ilmihāl) written in plain Turkish and pertaining to both Islamic belief and
practices, though it does not proceed in question-and-answer format. The popularity
of this work owed much to its concise description and instruction of the basic Islamic
336 For the biography of Birgivī, see Atâyî, 631-634; Martı, Birgivi Mehmed; Arslan, İmam Birgivi;
and Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety, 17–25.
337 Kaylı, “Critical Study,” 31–125, also see 24–30.
338 According to Kaylı, “the abundancy of misattributions to Birgivi may be explained partly by
Islamic emphasis on humility, partly by the peculiarity of manuscript culture where every manuscript
was uniquely produced, partly by the ‘popular’ character of Birgivi, and, no doubt, partly by the
controversies he was posthumously drawn into and the authoritative position he was subsequently
accorded.” Kaylı, “Critical Study,” 36.
339 Duman, Vasiyyet-name.
340 For an examination of this work, see Martı, et-Tarîkatü’l-Muhammediyye and Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety.
341 Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety, 236.
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faith and tenets. The main theme of the second work, on the other hand, is related to
the question of “how to achieve everyday piety” that prioritized both the Islamic law
and the Sunna of the Prophet.342 It was written in Arabic like most of Birgivī’s
works, probably for a more educated audience than the Vasiyetnāme, and the sections
on ethics, exhortation, and advice are more detailed.
It would not be wrong to argue here that the increase in the popularity of
Birgivī’s works coincided with the emergence of the Kadızadelis onto the political
and religious scene of the Ottoman Empire in the first half of the seventeenth
century, which can be regarded as products of a piety-minded response to the crisis
of the early seventeenth century. The 1620s show a significant increase in the
production of manuscript copies of Birgivī’s works. For instance, while there were
only 17 copies of his works produced within 41 years after his death, within the eight
years after Kādīzāde Mehmed’s succession of Birgivī’s son Fazlu’llāh in Bāyezīd
Mosque as preacher in 1622, 26 copies of his works were copied.343 The time period
in question also witnessed the first employment of the term “Birgivī followers”
(Birgivī hulefāsı) in the fatwa compilation of Hocazāde Es‘ad, who held the office of
chief jurist between the years 1615–22 and 1623–25.344 We also know from İshāk b.
Hasan et-Tokadī’s Nazmu’l-‘Ulūm that Birgivī’s two works mentioned above were
342 The following excerpt from Ivanyi’s study would be helpful for understanding the essence of the
et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye: “The main gist of Birgivī’s exposition in al-Tarīqa al-muhammadiyya
centers on the question of how to achieve everyday piety. For Birgivī, piety in day-today life is
realized by way of the cultivation of virtue. On a fundamental level this is, of course, dependent upon
strict adherence to the Law, as we have already seen. However, it also goes beyond the Law itself,
involving the active training of man’s character in certain forms of behavior. Such training, directed at
the heart (qalb), and with a heavy emphasis on the idea of moderation (iqtisād), is to be carried out by
a number of spiritual exercises, centering on the remembrance of God and the ephemeral nature of life
in this world. Its aim is to eliminate man’s inherent evils or vices (āfāt), leading to a corresponding
‘embellishment’ (tahlīya) of the heart with virtues or praiseworthy character traits instead. The sunna
of God’s Prophet, as well as the Law more generally, which Birgivī devotes his attention to in both
the opening and closing chapters of the work, in fact act as a framing structure and support for
Birgivī’s instructions of how to establish virtue in everyday life, which lie at the core of the work in
their turn.” Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety, 117–118.
343 Kaylı, “Critical Study,” 187.
344 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident” 200.
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recommended to be taught in Ottoman madrasas under the subjects of Sufism and
ethics.345 Another two examples also show that Birgivī and his works were promoted
by tendencies identified with the Kadızadelis during the 1620s and 1630s. For
example, Kātib Çelebi informs us in his Mīzānü’l-Hakk that one of the books taught
by Kādīzāde Mehmed in his public lectures was Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-
Muhammediye.346 Similarly, there are also a good number of miscellanies in which
Birgivī’s Vasiyetnāme, Kādīzāde Mehmed’s Risāle-i Kadızāde and Akhisārī’s Risāle
are bound together, which shows a considerable overlap in the readership of these
works.347 All these examples show that, as the visibility of the Kadızādelis on the
political and religious scene increased, there was also observable growing interest in
Birgivī and his works.348
Nevertheless, the favorable reception of Birgivī’s works also led to a number
of refutations and lampoons in the mid-seventeenth century. In this regard, the
ongoing disputes between the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents through the
1630s and 1640s played an obvious role in the appearance of such works. In 1652–
53, for instance, when the Kadızadelis had built a powerful base among Istanbul’s
merchants and artisans as well as in palace circles,349 an important religious polemic
took place between the Kadızadelis and the Sufis. This confrontation was driven
mainly by the works of two Halveti-affiliated sheikhs—namely, Muhammed b.
Mollā Ebu Bekr, known as Kürd Mollā, and Tatar İmam—each of whom wrote a
commentary on Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye. Since Minkārīzāde only wrote
345 İzgi, Riyazi İlimler, 78.
346 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 136. Mustafā Naīmā also indicates that Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-
Muhammediye was read by the majority of Kadızadelis; see Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1434.
347 Michot, Against Smoking, 2.
348 However, as Ivanyi rightly argues in her study, “it is important to differentiate between his ideas
and the views of those who would later adopt and adapt his work for their own purposes, often under
radically changed social and political conditions.” Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety, 235.
349 For more information about this topic, see Sariyannis, “Mercantile Ethic,” 263–289.
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a rebuttal against the work of Kürd Mollā, particular attention will be given to this
work in the following lines.350
Nearly all of our knowledge about Muhammed b. Mollā Ebū Bekir b. Mollā
Muhammed b. Mollā Süleyman el-Kürdī es-Sehrānī el-Elmevānī, otherwise known
as Kürd Mollā (d. 1673), comes from Ottoman chronicles which, unfortunately, do
not present the kind of detailed information present in the biographical dictionaries
of the time. 351 We still know, however, that after coming to Istanbul towards the
mid-seventeenth century, Kürd Mollā established a close relationship with the
personal steward (Valide kethüdāsı) of the queen mother Kösem Sultān, Arslan Ağa,
which enabled him to acquire a position in the Enderūn-i Hümāyūn Mektebi
(Imperial Inner School) and to make contact with Halveti sheikhs, including ‘Abdü’lahad
Nūrī. Kürd Mollā then became ders-i ‘ām at the Süleymāniyye complex, where
in September/October 1648, with the encouragement of ‘Abdü’l-ahad Nūrī, he
completed his work entitled Kitābu’t-tahkīk ve’t-tevfīk beyne Ehli’ş-şer’ ve Ehli’t-
Tarīk.
In penning this commentary, Kürd Mollā aimed to clarify the ambiguous
meanings of certain issues presented by Birgivī Mehmed in his magnum opus, et-
Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye. In doing so, he also targeted some members of the ulama
and Sufis on the ground that they accepted Birgivī’s text according to their own
standpoints without taking into account the works of previous religious scholars. He
blamed both sides on the ground that they accepted Birgivī’s book as a mainstay to
350 For an examination of Tatar İmam’s commentary on et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, see Ürkmez,
“İdrâku’l-Hakîka.”
351 There are three historical accounts that narrate the debates revolving around this work, among
which Târih-i Na‘îmâ was the most detailed one. The following narratives will depend on these
works: Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1434–1437; Kātib Çelebi, Fezleke, II, 1057–1058; and Abdurrahman Abdi
Paşa, Vekâyi‘-nâme, 49–50. For an examination of this debate, see Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli
Movement,” 134–141 and Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 144–146. Also see Aynî, Türk Ahlakçıları, 105–106
and Martı, Et-Tarîkatü’l-Muhammediyye, 107–114.
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be either unquestionably defended or totally rejected.352 So, if one looks for the
reason behind the composition of the commentary from the perspective of Kürd
Mollā, it can clearly be inferred that Kürd Mollā was trying to defend a “moderate
way” between the two sides that had taken a position vis-à-vis et-Tarīkatü’l-
Muhammediye.
Influenced by the political and religious atmosphere of the time, some Halvetī
sheiks also contributed to the commentary’s dissemination among their followers.
The Kadızadelis, on the other hand, regarded Kürd Mollā’s commentary as a
sacrilegious book whose writer deserved to be punished. Some of the leading figures
of the Kadızadelis even asked the chief jurist Bahāyī Mehmed for the execution of
Kürd Mollā. Thereupon, Kürd Mollā appeared before Bahāyī Mehmed in order to
prove his innocence by asserting that he took his ideas from the words of religious
men, including Fakhr al-Dīn Rāzī, al-Ghazzālī, al-Rāghib al-Isfahānī, and Necm.353
The chief jurist Bahāyī Mehmed responded to Kürd Mollā as follows:
O Molla! Weren’t you able to find a verse pertaining to a safer subject in the
Ḳur’ān? Why did you choose to interpret one of the ambigious verses
(müteşābihāt) which is a difficult subject? True, great men have quoted these
words in their books. Profound matters which are based on keşf and şühūd
352 “Faziletli bir şeyh ve ilmiyle amel eden kâmil bir insan olan Muhammed Birgili'nin Tarîka’sını
inceledigimde, farz ve nafile ibadet çeşitlerini ve üstün ahlâk özelliklerini ihtiva eden haramlardan ve
çirkinliklerden uzak durmayı gerektiren davranışları öğreten, Peygamber’in (sav) sünnetlerini
açıklayan ve selefin ahlâkını bildirmeye yeten bir kitap olduğunu gördüm. Ancak iki grup, bu kitap
yüzünden doğru yoldan şaşmış, inada ve cevre düşmüşlerdir. Bunlardan birincisi; hayır ve şerri,
zarar ve faydayı birbirinden ayıramayan mukallit ulemâdır ki dîn-i metîn ve şer’-i mübîn sadece bu
kitaba münhasırdır zannederler. Bunun dışındakilerin, öze nispetle kabuk mesabesinde olduğunu
düşünürler. Ömrüme yemin olsun ki bu, doğru yoldan uzak, apaçık bir sapıklıktır. İnat sözüdür. İkinci
grup ise sûfîlerin cahillerinden meydana gelmiştir ki bu kimselerin şeriat ve Tarîkat ilminden nasibi
yoktur da, bu kitaptaki her şeyin bâtıl olduğunu zannederler. Bu da dalâlettir ve doğru olmayan bir
görüştür...Et-Tarîkatü'l-Muhammediyye’deki müşkil kısımları izah eden, anlaşılmayan ve rumuzla
ifade edilen yerleri açıklayan, ibarelerdeki kapalılıkları zâhir kılan, özellikle de ehl-i keşf ve keramet
olan sûfî, meşâyih ... ve diğer vecd ve hâl erbâbının karşı çıktığı yerleri açıklığa kavuşturan bir şerh
yazmak istedim. Bu çalışmamın, kâmil kişiler dışındakilerin muttali olamayacağı meseleleri beyan
eden bir şerh olmasına gayret ettim.” Quoted in Martı, Et-Tarîkatü'l-Muhammediyye, 109–110. Kürd
Mollā also criticized Birgivī’s use of Hadith on four main grounds, all of which were taken from Tatar
İmam’s commentary. For this point, see Ürkmez, “İdrâku’l-Hakîka” 20–22.
353 Unfortunately, Mustafā Na‘īmā does not allow us to identify Necm.
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however, are related to mystical pleasures. They concern the erbāb-i hāl, i.e.,
the Ṣūfīs. It is not permissible for the ‘ulemā’ to deal with such questions.354
After this conversation, Kürd Mollā renewed his faith, and he was pardoned by
Bahāyī Mehmed. Against the demands of the Kadızadelis for a death sentence, he
was sent to Bursa without any capital punishment. The Kadızadelis, however, were
unwilling to be appeased, and asked Bahāyī Mehmed for the execution of Tatar
Imam as well. Tatar Imam insisted on his arguments and challenged the Kadızadelis
to discuss publicly the controversial issues found in his commentary. The
Kadızadelis avoided open discussion with Tatar İmam and did not confront him.
Then, the Kadızadelis appealed to the Imperial Harem, intending to influence palace
circles. In the end, the sultan ordered the chief jurist Bahāyī Mehmed to refute the
commentary of Tatar Imam. Thereupon, several leading Ottoman ulama wrote
rebuttals (reddiye) against these commentaries, but none of them, unfortunately,
seems to have survived, excepting only Minkārīzāde’s rebuttal.355
In the following lines, I will try to contextualize the content of Minkārīzāde’s
short rebuttal from a broader historical perspective. First of all, it would be helpful to
specify the date of composition of Minkārīzāde’s rebuttal. There are only three
extant copies of this rebuttal in Turkish manuscript libraries, but there is no
information in any of these copies regarding the date of composition.356 Still, a
terminus post quem can be established for the work, since we know that Kürd Mollā
completed his commentary in September/October 1648, while serving as a ders-i ‘am
at Süleymāniyye. Interestingly, Minkārīzāde was also serving as professor at the
354 Quoted in Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli Movement,” 138. For the original passage, see Târih-i Na‘îmâ,
III, 1435–1436.
355 It should be noted, however, in connection the commentaries written during this period, Kātib
Çelebi and ‘Abdī Paşa only refer to the work of Kürd Mollā. Mustafā Na‘īmā, on the other hand,
mentions both works.
356 Minkārīzāde Yahyā Efendi, Suretu ma ketebehu fi ibtali şerhi't-Tarīkati'l-Muhammediyye, Köprülü
YEK, Hafız Ahmed Paşa MS 152/3, ff: 77a–79a; Kayseri Raşit Efendi YEK, Raşit Efendi MS, no:
350, vr: 66b–68a; Ankara Üniversitesi İlahiyat Fakültesi 980 ff: 1b–2b.
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same religious complex. It would be speculative, however, to assert that
Minkārīzāde, too, penned his rebuttal while holding the professorship of the
Süleymāniyye madrasas, which he left when appointed to the judgeship of Mecca at
the beginning of 1649, just two months after the completion of Kürd Mollā’s work.
The more probable scenario regarding the date of composition of Minkārīzāde’s
treatise would be the year 1652–53, when a heated debate between the Kadızadelis
and Kürd Mollā broke out.
As briefly mentioned before, Kürd Mollā was sent into exile at the end of this
confrontation, but Mustafā Naīmā does not give the exact date of this exile.
However, considering that the scholarly meeting, the participants of which reached
the decision that the aforementioned two commentaries should be refuted, was held
on 11 January 1653, it is likely that Kürd Mollā was exiled to Bursa after this
meeting was held. During this period of time, Minkārīzāde held the judgeship of
Cairo.357 He might have penned his rebuttal while serving as the judge of that city, or
else after he lost his judgeship in August 1653. Whether Minkārīzāde composed the
work shortly after this event or later, his harsh criticism of Kürd Mollā’s commentary
needs to be further investigated and should be evaluated by taking into account the
political and religious circumstances of the mid-seventeenth century, which
witnessed political turmoil and a number of successive revolts in which the social
base of the Kadızadelis were active participants.358
In his rebuttal, Minkārīzāde proposed that, since Kürd Mollā’s commentary
contains many unacceptable mistakes, a detailed criticism would only make that
commentary more valuable in the eyes of people. For this reason, he chose to
357 Minkārīzāde became the judge of Cairo in July/August 1652 and stayed in this position for nearly a
year.
358 Sariyannis, “Mercantile Ethic,” 263–289.
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compose a very short rebuttal attempting to refute three points made in Kürd Mollā’s
commentary that he saw as exemplary for revealing the commentary’s problematic
nature. According to Minkārīzāde, there were also many kinds of deviations
concerning Kürd Mollā and his work apart from these three points, but he found it
more proper not to handle them because rebutting or answering each such problem
would increase the importance of the book in the eyes of the people. The main
purpose of Minkārīzāde in writing this rebuttal, though, was to warn the weak
against the words of such deviant people by paying attention to the fact that “it is
imperative to clean the earth by doing what is necessary,”359 which is what he aimed
to do in his rebuttal.
The first and the most contentious point to which Minkārīzāde raised an
objection in his rebuttal is broadly related to creed and concerns itself with the
quiddity of divine attributes. To put it more clearly, Minkārīzāde objected to Kürd
Mollā’s attribution of a position to God in space. The personification of God known
as mujassima had been the subject of intense debate among Muslim scholars for a
long time.360 In particular, the anthropomorphic passages in the Quran created an
ongoing dispute among scholars based on whether or not these verses should be
interpreted literally.
Basically, there were three fundamental stances among Muslim scholars
regarding the anthropomorphic description of God.361 The first, which was the
standard traditionalist viewpoint,362 was to accept the anthropomorphic passages at
359 Köprülü YEK, Hafız Ahmed Paşa MS 152/3, ff: 78b.
360 Holtzman, “Anthropomorphism,” 46–55 and Holtzman, Challenge of Traditionalism.
361 Baljon, “Qur’anic Anthropomorphisms,” 119–127, at 119–120.
362 Although some Hanbalis argued that the meaning of the figurative passages in the Qur’an should
be entrusted to God, radical Hanbalis, like Ibn Taymiyya, advocated the apparent (zāhir) meaning of
these passages. See El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 276–277. Goldziher also points out the
similarities between the Zāhiris and some followers of the Hanbali school of law. See Goldziher,
Ẓāhirīs, 75.
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face value on the basis of the literal meaning of the relevant passages in the
Qur'an.363 The second opinion, defended by the rationalists, was to give theologically
and linguistically acceptable non-literal interpretations of these passages.364 In other
words, they perceived the anthropomorphic passages in the Qur’an as a way of
representing God’s actions and attributes.365 The proponents of the third approach,
however, supported the idea that spatial expressions may be used of God, but without
asking how (bi-lā kayf), leaving knowledge of these passages to God (tawfīd) and
thereby cementing the inconceivability of God.366 To put it more clearly, while the
last two opinions mentioned above were the two acceptable opinions regarding the
anthropomorphic passages in the Qur’an in the Sunni schools of law in the postclassical
period, what was unacceptable was the first opinion, which took those
passages literally.367
Considering Kürd Mollā’s close affiliation with Sufi circles, one would
expect that his stance on the matter of the personification of God might be parallel
with the aforementioned two acceptable ideas within the Hanafi-Maturidi tradition,
and contrary to the idea of the traditionalists, who defended the literal interpretation
of these passages without making any interpretation, a stance which one would
expect the Kadızadelis to embrace. However, what is interesting in Kürd Mollā's
commentary is that he tried to prove the authenticity of the traditionalists’ position
by defending the anthropomorphic passages in the Qur’an. The following passage,
363 Swartz, Medieval Critique, passim and Williams, “Ahmad Ibn Hanbal,” 441–463.
364 Lane, Traditional Mu'tazilite, 107–13, 141–45.
365 A number of standard handbooks of Ash‘ari theology, such as Sharh al-‘aqā’id by al-Taftāzānī,
Sharh al-Mawāqif by Sayyid al-Sharīf al-Jurjānī, Jawharat al-Tawhīd by İbrāhīm Laqānī, and the
credal works of Sanūsī, defend this point of view. See El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 276.
366 Abrahamov, “Bi-Lā Kayfa,” 365–379; Schmidtke, Muʻtazilite Creed, 16–26, at 16–18; and
Abrahamov, Anthropomorphism,” 6–7.
367 El-Rouayheb, “From Ibn Ḥajar,” 275.
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which was quoted by Minkārīzāde from Kürd Mollā’s commentary, well reflect the
latter’s stance on the issue:
When it is said that “God’s absence in space is proven with certain evidence,”
I would say: On the contrary, it is fixed with the devilish delusion that is
opposed to the holy books, prophetic practices, holy discoveries and
benevolent minds. Undoubtedly, the hearts of all creatures have been created
on the idea that God is in heaven (semā), and those who say the opposite
actually say the opposite of what they have in their tongues and hearts.368
In addition to this passage, Minkārīzāde also included another passage in his rebuttal
in which Kürd Mollā equated Birgivī’s stance with the position of the philosophers.
According to Kürd Mollā, Birgivī claimed that some of the ignorant Sufis did not
rectify their faith, and they believed that God is in heaven and has a form. Contrary
to Birgivī, Kürd Mollā defended his stance by arguing that his conviction was
accurate and in line with the views of the prophets and saints, as well as matching
what was found in holy books and prophetic knowledge. He also argued that the
notion opposed to his view only emerged in the Muslim community after the third
century, and that the proponents of this view clung to the skirts of the philosophers.
Minkārīzāde’s attitude towards Kürd Mollā’s interpretation was very harsh.
He castigated him as one who aimed to steer people away from the right path. For
this very reason, Minkārīzāde maintained that Kürd Mollā should be sentenced to
death even if he repented from these views. As far as the complexity of the different
positions taken by Birgivī and Kürd Mollā and Minkārīzāde’s stance against the
latter’s commentary on the anthropomorphic passages in the Quran is concerned,
further attention needs to be paid to the matter, because there is a certain need to
question the stance of a scholar with Sufi affiliations, in this case Kürd Mollā, that
368 Köprülü YEK, Hafız Ahmed Paşa MS 152/3, ff: 77a.
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was in line with the view of the traditionalists regarding the figurative interpretation
of anthropomorphisms in the Qur’an.
This is, in fact, hardly surprising, given that Ibn ‘Arabī and Ibn Taymiyya,
who both can be regarded as the archetypical figures of opposite poles in classical
Islamic thought, defended similar views on several topics, such as “the rejection of
rationalistically motivated figurative interpretations of apparent anthropomorphisms
in the Quran and hadith; the denigration of the discipline of rational theology; and
the rejection of mainstream Ash‘arī views on secondary causality and the creation of
human acts.”369 In light of the first commonality cited above, it should not be
surprising then that Kürd Mollā’s stance in his commentary regarding figurative
interpretations in the Qur’an were well grounded in the Sufi milieu.
One prominent figure who attempted to reconcile the positions of Ibn ‘Arabī
and Ibn Taymiyya on the anthropomorphic passages in the Qur’an was a Shafi‘i
scholar with Sufi affiliations, İbrāhīm al-Kūrānī (d. 1697).370 As argued by Khaled
El-Rouayheb, “al-Kūrānī reduced the position of Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim
on the anthropomorphic passages of the Qur’ān and Sunna to the perfectly
respectable position of tafwīḍ preferred by the salaf.”371 In parallel with this, Kürd
Mollā’s defense of anthropomorphic interpretations can be regarded as the precursor
to a wider development in Islamic intellectual history in the seventeenth and
369 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 275. Also see Hoover, Ibn Taymiyya, 46–48 and
Chittick, Sufi Path of Knowledge, 199–202.
370 For more information about İbrāhīm Kūrānī, see Guillaume, “Al-Kurānī,” 291–303; Nafi
“Taṣawwuf and Reform,” 307–355; Yılmaz, İbrahim Kûrânî; Johns, “al-Kūrānī,” 432–433; Cici, “el-
Kûrânî,” 426; and Dumairieh, “Intellectual Life.” Another scholar from the eighteenth century in this
regard is the Indian Naqshbandi Walīallāh al-Dihlawī (d. 1762); see El-Rouayheb, “From Ibn Ḥajar,”
302–303.
371 El-Rouayheb, “From Ibn Ḥajar,” 301. It should be noted that İbrāhīm Kūrānī was condemned as a
heretic by a contemporary Ash’ari scholar, Yahyā al-Shāwī, because of his corporalism and his
rehabilitation of Ibn Taymiyya. For this point, see El-Rouayheb, “From Ibn Ḥajar,” 302. For a general
evaluation of al-Kūrānī’s position on anthropomorphic attributes, see Dumairieh, “Intellectual Life,”
250–258.
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eighteenth centuries. In this regard, the following excerpt from El-Rouayheb’s article
can be insightful for an examination of Kürd Mollā’s commentary within this
particular framework:
In the eighteenth century, there seems to have been a marked rise in attacks
on the established tradition of jurisprudence and theology by scholars with
Sufi affiliations who called for an approach that was more directly based on
Hadith. Some of these Sufi critics of scholasticism found aspects of the
thought of Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim congenial, and adduced them in
their polemical writings without abandoning their positive view of Ibn
‘Arabī. It is perhaps ironic that seventeenth-and eighteenth-century Sufis
should have played this role in the rehabilitation of Ibn Taymiyya, given that
he has become an icon of modern movements that are aggressively opposed
to Sufism and that have to some extent been successful in putting it on the
defensive in the contemporary Sunni world.372
As this passage maintains, some hadith-oriented scholars with Sufi affiliations
played an important role in the rehabilitation of Ibn Taymiyya in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. By defending the anthropomorphic passages in the Qur’an in
his commentary, Kürd Mollā—together with al-Kūrānī, in fact—evokes this kind of
development in the seventeenth century. Needless to say, it would be rather
speculative to assert that Kürd Mollā defended the approach taken by the Hanbali
school of law simply because he was a follower of this school’s thought. It is more
likely, however, that Kürd Mollā had his own agenda, derived from a combination of
ideas originating in different traditions. This point becomes all the more meaningful
given that, in the face of the criticism raised by the Kadızadelis, the Halvetis tried to
base their discourses on other schools besides the Hanafis, and especially on the
Shafi‘is and Malikis, in order to expand the ground on which they could center their
stances in a manner compatible with the concept of the Ehl-i Sünnet (“followers of
Sunnah”).373 Related to this, an important detail regarding Kürd Mollā’s intellectual
372 El-Rouayheb, “From Ibn Ḥajar,” 303.
373 Kalaycı, “Birgivî Mirasının,” 431–455, at 449.
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background was that, before he came to Istanbul and wrote his commentary on
Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, he attended the gatherings of scholars from all
four Sunni schools of law from Arabia and Persia.374 There can be no doubt that
these scholars had some influence on the approach Kürd Mollā took in his works. As
such, it can be argued that, rather than constraining himself to the doctrine of a single
school of law, Kürd Mollā must have relied upon debatable opinions within or
outside the Hanafi-Maturidi tradition to protect their Sufi-affiliated ideological
stance with regard to the polemical issues being debated by Muslims in the
seventeenth-century Ottoman Empire.
Returning to the rebuttal written by Minkārīzāde, the second point of Kürd
Mollā’s that Minkārīzāde tried to disprove occupies less space in his rebuttal. This
second criticism is related to creed and concerns itself specifically with the veracity
of eschatological issues (sem‘iyyāt). Kürd Mollā argues that not believing in Heaven
and Hell, the Day of Judgement, or the book of one’s worldly deeds should not be
regarded as heresy. He argues that these concepts can be rejected through ta’wīl. The
interesting point here is that while Kürd Mollā opposed any interpretation regarding
the anthropomorphic passages in the Qur’an, he preferred to use ta’wīl in the area of
eschatology. Minkārīzāde, though, opposes Kürd Mollā’s argument on the ground
that ta’wīl comes into question when the apparent meaning of the truth cannot be
reached due to the absence of clear evidence. Just as with the first objection,
Minkārīzāde again asserts that Kürd Mollā should be sentenced to death due to his
opinions.
Finally, the third point to which Minkārīzāde objected concerns jurisprudence
(fıqh). Here, Minkārīzāde takes Kürd Mollā’s reply to Birgivī’s criticism of the
374 Kürd Mollā also claimed that he was mature enough to practice ijtihād (independent reasoning)
within the Hanafi school of law; see Martı, Et-Tarîkatü'l-Muhammediyye, 108.
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lenience of some Sufis concerning ta‘dīl-i erkān (the obligatory components and
observance of the prayer) to be laxity about religious rules and deviation from the
truth.375 According to Kürd Mollā, the internal reward (sevāb) of prayer is not
dependent on the duration of the prayer, but rather on whether or not it stems from
obedience to God. Likewise, he argued that prayer can be performed without being
compatible with the ta‘dīl-i erkān. According to Minkārīzāde, in this Kürd Mollā
tries to overthrow sound religious judgements and abandons the true path in order to
mislead Muslims. Even if he recants his statements, Minkārīzāde asserts, putting him
to death would be necessary because his primary intention was hypocrisy and
deception.
Based on these three polemical issues, it can be seen that Minkārīzāde wholly
rejected Kürd Mollā’s commentary, and even consistently argued for the latter’s
execution without delay.376 Minkārīzāde’s rebuttal also reproaches learned men
(fukahā) for their ignorance about imtinā-ı zarūrī (necessary avoidance). In this
regard, one of the issues that learned men do not take into account on the matter of
imtinā-ı zarūrī is the voluntary or enforced temporary avoidance of those who try to
foment corruption (fesād) and misbelief (fücūr) in the world, but who keep
themselves away from such actions in certain periods due to adverse conditions.
According to Minkārīzāde, if these people had the opportunity, “they would only
return to the very thing that was forbidden to them.” (Al-An‘am, 6:28)377
Minkārīzāde was also determined to assert that Kürd Mollā was the most suitable
375 Kahraman, “Ta‘dîl-i Erkân,” 366. For the conditions and components of salāt (prayer), see
Katz, Prayer, 20–28.
376 It is interesting to note here that Üstüvānī Mehmed, who was accepted as the leader of the
Kadızadelis, demanded the execution of Kürd Mollā as well. See Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1435.
377 Haleem, Qur’an, 82.
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person to be judged in accordance with this verse, as his aim in trying to mislead
Muslims was open and perceptible.378
We do not know the identity of the learned men or jurists (fukahā) to whom
Minkārīzāde was referring. It can be speculated, however, that in this Minkārīzāde
implied Bahāyī Mehmed, as the latter had exiled Kürd Mollā to Bursa without
subjecting him to capital punishment. But whoever these learned men might have
been, it is necessary to pay special attention to the difference in tone adopted by
Bahāyī Mehmed and Minkārīzāde towards Kürd Mollā’s commentary. Although it is
difficult to provide a full and substantial explanation of the different tones they
adopted, one possible explanation can be found in the diverse religious inclinations
among the members of the Ottoman ulama, which were shaped by a number of
factors. The first thing to consider vis-à-vis Bahāyī Mehmed’s moderate stance
towards Kürd Mollā’s commentary might be his affiliation with the Naqshbandi
order.379 Similarly, his fatwa declaring the permissibility of smoking can be used to
support this point as well.380 The situation becomes more complicated, however,
when one considers his fatwa ruling that raks and devrān are not permissible, which
makes it very difficult to clearly understand Bahāyī Mehmed’s moderate stance
towards Kürd Mollā.381 The most reasonable explanation, however, may be that
Bahāyī Mehmed—as the chief jurist of the Ottoman learned hierarchy—was trying
to find a middle ground between the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents in order to
avoid further conflict. Interestingly, Minkārīzāde’s longest period of waiting for a
378 It is interesting to observe here that, even though Minkārīzāde did not recognize Kürd Mollā as sā‘ī
bi’l-fesād (a spreader of corruption), whose execution would be valid if such acts became a perpetual
habit (ādet-i müstemirre), it was enough for Kürd Mollā to do such an act just once, which was
presented as a good reason to be executed. For this topic, see Aykan, “Legal Concept,” 1–19, at 13–
15.
379 İpşirli and Uzun, “Bahâî,” 463–364. For his biography, see Şeyhî, I, 690–704.
380 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 52, 56.
381 Târih-i Na‘îmâ, III, 1292.
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post, which lasted nearly two and a half years between 1653 and 1655, occurred after
this incident. It might then be speculated that Minkārīzāde’s harsh tone in his rebuttal
sparked a reaction among the members of the ulama at the time.
Even so, Minkārīzāde’s harsh stance towards Kürd Mollā’s commentary as
compared to that of Bahāyī Mehmed needs to be further explained. Here, it would be
beneficial to briefly touch upon the correspondence between Minkārīzāde and Khayr
al-Din al-Ramlī (1585–1671).382 This correspondence consists of a total of three
letters, two of which were written by Minkārīzāde, with the other by al-Ramlī.383 In
the first letter, dating to 14 January 1670 when Minkārīzāde and other state officials
were traveling, Minkārīzāde posed the following question to al-Ramlī: “[If someone
says,] ‘If I do this, I will become an apostate (kāfir),’ and he does it believing that he
will become an apostate, is there any way that he would not become an apostate for
doing it?” Minkārīzāde objected to the response of some previous muftis, who had
asserted that if the action was performed, the person that performed it would
inevitably become an apostate. Based on a passage in Fatāwā Qādīkhān,
Minkārīzāde listed three exceptional circumstances under which someone would not
382 Although it is beyond the scope of this study, one promising area would be to examine this
correspondence from the perspective of “the republic of letters.” The following excerpt from İlker
Evrim Binbaş’s work succinctly summarizes this conception: “In modern parlance, an informal
intellectual network is based on personal contact, communication, or correspondence between the
participants. The members of an informal network often share similar philosophical, political,
ideological, religious, and aesthetic sensibilities. The exchange of letters or pamphlets, the
commitment to a methodological principle or to the bonds of friendship and family ties, the occasional
attention of a particular patron, as well as not infrequent actual encounters among members kept such
networks together and functioning. Participants in these networks preferred to call themselves citizens
of a Republic of Letters, a term which has come to be an expression of the growing influence of
informal networks in early modern Europe. Such cases of informal networks, or a Republic of Letters
for that matter, are defined mainly by peer-to-peer relationships, hence displaying little or no
hierarchical stratification. They were interregional and not territorially bound, a feature that made
their participants true cosmopolitans. These informal networks were also important nodes for the
transmission of clandestine heretical, messianic, irreligious, or radical ideas, along with various
degrees of freethinking, and they often included people who openly challenged established religious
and political structures.” Binbaş, Intellectual Networks, 8–9. For more studies on this topic, see
Goodman, Republic of Letters; Goldgar, Impolite Learning; Hamilton, Boogert and Westerweel,
Republic of Letters; Fumaroli and Vergnaud, Republic of Letters; and Bevilacqua, Arabic Letters.
383 Süleymaniye YEK, Hekimoğlu MS 322, ff. 295b–297a; 297a–303b; 303b–306b.
132
automatically become an apostate for performing a specific action of this type: 1) If
he performed the action after learning that what he had previously said was actually
an oath (yamīn); 2) If he performed the action by forgetting what he had previously
said; and 3) If he believed in his heart when performing the action that the action was
not a sign of apostasy. By following a logical formula and suggesting these three
exceptions, Minkārīzāde seeks to receive an affirmation from al-Ramlī.
Adopting a different formulation than that which Minkārīzāde had employed,
al-Ramlī provided a detailed response where he quoted several passages from the
works of previous scholars on the issue at hand and provided nuanced explanations
to Minkārīzāde’s inferences. Minkārīzāde seems not to have been satisfied with al-
Ramlī’s response, and asked him to again elaborate on his thoughts in a still more
detailed way, but he was unable to reply owing to his death in 1671.
Although a detailed analysis of this correspondence exceeds the limits of this
study, Minkārīzāde’s use of a flexible definition of heresy permits us to conclude that
he did not advocate “for a more expansive definition of heresy.”384 For this reason,
Minkārīzāde’s harsh stance becomes more meaningful when one takes into account
the specific historical context in which Kürd Mollā’s book was written and
disseminated. The 1650s had witnessed a series of rebellions, and in this context the
fact that Minkārīzāde increasingly affiliated himself with the state bureaucracy in an
institutional manner by switching to a judicial career might well have led him to
compose a rebuttal to a work that attempted to convey highly debatable opinions to
the public.
384 Shafir, “Vernacular Legalism,” 56. Nir Shafir misinterpreted these correspondences in his studies.
Minkārīzāde, in fact, did not provide a strict definition of heresy, as Shafir assumed. On the contrary,
he brought forward a more flexible definition by proposing three possible cases that would not make
someone an apostate. Also see Shafir, “Road from Damascus,” 62–65. I would like to sincerely thank
Ahmet Kaylı for helping me clarify this point.
133
Related to this, one should also not underestimate the degree to which the
members of the Ottoman learned hierarchy were influenced by the religious
traditions of the empire’s Arab provinces while serving as judges in largely Arab
cities. As we also know from the correspondence, the relationship between
Minkārīzāde and al-Ramlī went back to an earlier period.385 Similarly, as will be
detailed in Chapter 5 of this study, Minkārīzāde received his license to transmit
hadith (ijāzat al-riwāya) from a Maliki scholar, ‘Alī al-Ujhūrī (d. 1656).386
Accordingly, given that the debate around the commentaries of Kürd Mollā and
Tatar İmam coincided with Minkārīzāde’s residency as judge in Mecca and Cairo for
more than three years all together, we should not underestimate the degree of
interaction and cross-fertilization between the well-established religious traditions in
these lands and the Ottoman center as represented by scholars like Minkārīzāde.387
Ultimately, it can be said that Minkārīzāde’s rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s
commentary clearly shows that a stricter interpretation of the Hanafi school of law
was not merely in the hands of a small social and religious group represented by
certain notable preachers. Similarly, Minkārīzāde’s rebuttal provides an opportunity
to question the subtle assumptions in the literature that the canonical authority of
Birgivī’s works was only really credited by the Kadızadelis. Although Minkārīzāde’s
primary aim in writing a rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s commentary was to oppose the
polemical issues in Kürd Mollā’s commentary, rather than simply defending
Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, it is still very interesting to see how Birgivī—
who had a significant impact on Ottoman scholarly traditions and whose works were
385 Süleymaniye YEK, Hekimoğlu MS 322, ff. 297a.
386 Çavuşoğlu, “Üchûrî,” 274–276.
387 Michael Winter argued that “despite the high position of the chief Ottoman qādī in Egypt, his
influence on that country’s religion and society was almost non-existent.” Winter, “Cultural Ties,”
193. Although there is some truth in this statement, it would be wrong to say that those who went to
Egypt as judges were not affected by the social, political, and religious dynamics of the region.
134
at the center of many important debates both during and after his time—was
regarded as a scholarly authority by proponents of different religious approaches. In
other words, the positive reception of this book by both the Kadızadelis and members
of the Ottoman ulama contributed, albeit in their own different ways, to the
“canonization” process of this book.
3.5 Seeking the correct practice: The treatise risāle fī vücūbī istimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’lhutbe
and the notion of Sunni orthopraxy
The next work of Minkārīzāde to be examined in this section is his treatise entitled
Risāle fī Vücūbī İstimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’l-Hutbe (The Necessity of Listening to the
Quran and the Khutba). The debate in this treatise is concerned with the use of the
expressions “the blessing and peace of God be upon him” (sallallāhu ‘aleyhi ve
sellem) and “God be pleased with him” (radīyallahu ‘anh)—respectively called
tasliye and tarziye—whenever any of the Prophets or Companions is mentioned.
More specifically, the main contention is directly related to preachers’ use of these
two expressions during sermons.388 The main subject that Minkārīzāde tackled in this
treatise also appeared in Kātib Çelebi’s Mīzānu’l-Hakk in the section entitled “The
Invoking of Blessings on Prophets and Companions.” 389 Here, Kātib Çelebi asserts
that being silent during sermons is preferable if one takes into account the specific
hadith related to this issue: “When the Imam is delivering the Khutba, and you ask
your companion to keep quiet and listen, then no doubt you have done an evil act.”390
However, Kātib Çelebi’s overall stance on this topic is not different from what he
propounded throughout his book. Accordingly, he continues that the banning of a
388 For more information on tasliye, see Mertoğlu, “Salâtüselâm,” 23–24; Monnot, “Salât”; and
Bozkurt, “Salvele,” 1725–1726.
389 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 47–49.
390 Az-Zubaidi, Translation, 273.
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practice that is widely used among people is futile, as can be explicitly seen in the
following excerpt:
As this is generally agreed, whereas there is some dispute about the
obligatory nature of such blessings, it is established that silence
during the Khutba is preferable.
But although the course favoured by common usage may be
based on mere partiality for one particular view, and may be wrong
and sinful, yet men having grown accustomed to certain practices and
having learned to regard them as obligatory will not abandon them.
Most things which have become usual and customary among the
generality of the people have arisen through choice, unquestioned by
young or old: therefore let them stand. Though they be “innovation”
and “sin,” to trouble oneself with the vain notion of stopping them
results only in demonstrating one’s stupidity and ignorance, for, as the
old saying goes, “He who does not recognize the usage of his
contemporaries is an ignoramus.”391
As the inclusion of this topic in Kātib Çelebi’s work shows, the invoking of blessings
on Prophets and Companions was a highly debatable practice in the seventeenth
century. In addition, the existence of several treatises addressing this issue reveals the
importance of this practice in the Ottoman society to a considerable degree, which
calls for us to briefly look at these before moving on to Minkārīzāde’s treatise.
The first work that can be named in this regard is, once again, Birgivī’s et-
Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye. Referring to the specific hadith mentioned above, he
states in the relevant part of this work that it is wrong to utter the tasliye during
sermons. Birgivī also supports this view with reference to several scholars, such as
Ibn Abbās (d. 687), Qādīkhān (d. 1196), and Burhān al-Dīn al-Marghīnānī (d.
1197).392 Beyond Birgivī, this topic remained a subject of intense and lively debate
among the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents in the course of the seventeenth
century, with the leaders of both contending sides tackling the issue in their treatises
from different perspectives.
391 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 47–48.
392 Birgivî, Tarîkat-i Muhammediyye, 379–381.
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To begin with, Kādīzāde Mehmed (d. 1635), considered the leader of the
Kadızadelis, discussed the topic in his work Irshād al-‘uqūl al-salīma (almustaqīma)
ilā ’l-usūl al-qawīma fī-ibtāl al-bid‘a al-saqīma.393 This work is divided
into four chapters, in each of which Kadızāde embraces certain controversial issues
such as semā‘ and raks, the faith of Pharaoh, visiting tombs, and piety (takwā). He
opposed the practice of invoking blessings on the Prophets and Companions by
preachers during Friday sermons. In his view, there is no supporting evidence in the
Qur’an, Sunna, or the works of jurists that would allow this practice. On the contrary,
he asserts that the practice of invoking such blessings during Friday sermons is
prohibited. To support this argument, he used the Qur’anic verse 7/204 (“So when
the Qur'an is recited listen and be quiet, so that you may be given mercy”),394 as well
as the work of several scholars, among them Mes‘ūd al-Ferrā al-Baghawī (d. 1122)
and Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūtī (d. 1505).395
On the other hand, Kādīzāde Mehmed’s opponent, the Halveti-Sivasi sheikh
‘Abdü’l-mecīd Sivāsī (d. 1635), asserts in his al-Nesāyih al-Mulūk that the formula
of the tasliye is a religious duty incumbent on all Muslims when the name of the
Prophet is mentioned. He cites a verse from Al-Ahzab (33:56): “God and His angels
bless the Prophet, so you who believe bless him too and give him greetings of
peace.”396 He also refers to several scholars to support his argument; namely, al-
Tahāwī (d. 933), al-Qurtubī (d. 1093), al-Zamakhsharī (d. 1144), Khwāharzādeh (d.
1090), and al-Sarakhsī (d. 1090). One of the interesting points in Sivāsī’s treatise is
that he also consulted a considerable number of hadith scholars, and relates specific
393 Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli Movement,” 73 and Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy,” 152–153.
394 Haleem, Qur’an, 108–109.
395 The works of these two scholars to which Kādīzāde made reference are Ma‘alim al-Tanzil and
Mukhtasar tafsīr al-Tanzīl.
396 Haleem, Qur’an, 270–271.
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events or stories from Abū Hurayra and Husayn.397 Although Sivāsī considers the
invoking of blessings on Prophets and Companions as farz-ı ‘ayn, he does not
specifically discuss whether this practice should be carried out during sermons, the
specific topic tackled by both Birgivī and Kādīzāde Mehmed.398
Another Sivasi sheikh, ‘Abdü’l-ahad Nūrī (d. 1651), mentions this issue in
his work Mev‘īze-i Hasene. This is a collection of sermons on a variety of topics and
is divided into twenty-five “assemblies” (majālis), in which he tries to explain a
number of controversial topics and interpret several Qur’anic verses.399 He states in
the work that invoking blessings on Prophets and Companions is necessary, but does
not specify when and where this should be done. Therefore, even though it is not
known exactly what ‘Abdü’l-ahad Nūrī really propounded regarding the content of
this controversy, it can be assumed in light of his overall writings that he is not
against this practice that had become common by his time.400
Lastly, in a treatise known as the Üstüvānī Risālesi, which was compiled by
one of his students, Üstüvānī Mehmed (d. 1661) designated this practice as an
innovation (bid‘at). Relating a specific event from the time of the Prophet, which he
quotes from Ibn al-Bazzāz al-Kardarī (d. 1424)’s al-Fatāwā al-Bazzāziyya, Üstüvānī
Mehmed states that this practice was a kind of innovation and against sharia, a
judgment shared by al-Fatāwā al-Tatārkhāniyya and Ibn Melek (d. after 1418).401 As
can be seen, the practice of invoking blessings on the Prophets and Companions
remained a subject of intense and lively debate among the Kadızadelis and their Sufi
397 The hadith scholars that Sivāsī cited as references in his work are as follows: Hākim al-Nīsābūrī, al-
Nasafī, al-Tirmidhī, Ibn Hayyān, Ebū Dāvūd, Ibn Māja, and al-Tabarānī.
398 Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli Movement,” 241–244.
399 For brief information about ‘Abdü’l-ahad Nūrī and his works, see Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy,”
232–233.
400 Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy,” 390.
401 Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli Movement,” 240–241.
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opponents throughout the course of the seventeenth century. While the Kadızadelis
expressed their concern regarding the practice of invoking such blessings, their Sufi
opponents can be regarded as in favor of this practice. In a sense, the discussion
around this practice may be seen as a part of the larger religio-legal debates of the
seventeenth century, in which one side accorded more importance to common
practice in the society while the other side opposed the practice by taking a more
literalist stance. In this regard, Minkārīzāde’s approach to the subject is critical for
showing his stance in the religio-legal debates of the seventeenth century.
Minkārīzāde’s position on this issue as expressed in his treatise is that being
silent is obligatory during sermons, and all people must only silently say “may God
bless him” or “may God be pleased with him.” The critical question raised in
Minkārīzāde’s treatise is related to two verses in the Qur’an, which were also quoted
by the contending sides, as mentioned above. These verses are as follows:
So when the Qur'an is recited listen and be quiet, so that you may be
given mercy. (Al-A’raf, 7:204)402
God and His angels bless the Prophet, so you who believe bless him too and
give him greetings of peace. (Al-Ahzab, 33:56)403
Making reference to a number of scholars who wrote on jurisprudence (fıqh), the
prophetic tradition (hadīth), theology (kalām), and Quranic commentary (tafsīr),
Minkārīzāde tries to outline the main topics emphasized by these scholars. The first
work to which Minkārīzāde refers in his treatise to support the statement that one
should be quiet while the Qur’an is recited is Qādīkhān (d. 1196)’s al-Fatāwā al-
Khāniyya, which reported the topic in question from Abu Yūsuf, one of Abū
Hanīfa’s students.404 Accordingly, it is stated as a shared opinion among Muslim
402 Haleem, Qur’an, 108–109.
403 Haleem, Qur’an, 270–271.
404 Brannon, “Abū Yūsuf.” Also see Schacht, Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudence, 301–306.
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scholars that when the Qur’an is recited, all Muslims should be quiet, and it is only
permissible for them to use the tasliye or tarziye in their soul (nefs), without speaking
at all. In the same vein, the compiler of al-Fatāwā‘l-Tatarkhāniyya, Ālim b. Alā (d.
1384), also defended a similar statement; namely, that being silent is obligatory and
one should avoid speaking while the Qur’an is recited, since it has a possibility to
interrupt listening to the recitation.405
In parallel with these arguments, Burhān al-Dīn al-Marghīnānī (d. 1197)’s al-
Hidāya, which is a commentary on the writer’s own book Bidāyat al-Mubtadī’,
maintains that it is obligatory for Muslims to listen to the sermon, but supposing that
the aforementioned verse 33:56 is read, one should express the tasliye and tarziye in
his soul instead of speaking them out loud.406 This last point is shared by one of the
oft-cited studies in Minkārīzāde’s treatise, Ibn al-Humām’s (d. 1457) renowned book
Fath al-Qādir, which was one of the most important glosses on al-Marghīnanī’s al-
Hidāya.407 Referring to al-Hidāya, Ibn al-Humām asserts that the sermon must be
silently listened to from beginning to end, even if the name of the Prophet is
mentioned therein.408 He goes on to say that, if someone speaks during a sermon, that
405 For more information on al-Fatāwā ‘l-Tatarkhāniyya, see Koca, “el-Fetâva’t-Tatarhâniyye,” 446–
447; Islam, “Al-Fatâwâ al-Tatârkhaniah,” 88–107; Özel, Hanefi Fıkıh Alimleri, 154–155; and Kâtip
Çelebi, Keşfu’z-zunûn, I, 254–255. The writer of al-Fatāwā ‘l-Tatarkhāniyya bases his ideas on Ebū
Abdu’l-lâh er-Rūmī (d. 1220)’s Yenābī‘ fī ma‘rifat al-usūl wal-tafarī, a gloss on al-Qudūrī’s al-
Mukhtasar and al-Farghānī (d. 1196)’s al-Hāniyya. For more information on these works and their
writers, see Kâtip Çelebi, Keşfü’z-zunûn, IV, 1302, 1304, 1646; Özel, “Kâdîhan,” 121–123; and Qāḍī
Khān, Fatawa-ı Kazee Khan.
406 Al-Marghīnanī, Hedaya or Guide. For brief information on this work, see Kallek, “el-Hidâye,”
471–473. For a detailed bibliographic list on this work, see Şimşek, “Hanefî Klasiği,” 279–321.
407 For more information on Ibn al-Humām and his works, see Özel, Hanefi Fıkıh Alimleri,” 183–185;
Arslan, İbnü’l-Hümâm,” 9–14; Şafak, “Sivaslı Kemaleddin,” 59–73; Özüdoğru, “Hadis Usûlü”;
Ravza Cihan, “Kitâbü’n-Nikâh Örneği”; Gündüz, “Mezhebe Muhalif Görüşleri”; Uysal, “Hadis
Metodolojisi”; and Uysal, “İbnü’l Hümâm’ın Tercihleri,” 29–52.
408 In a similar manner, another work to which Minkārīzāde refers is al-Muhīt. Unfortunately, since he
did not give the exact name of this work, it is very difficult to identify by whom this book was
actually written. There are two possible books identified by this name. The first one is Burhān el-Dīn
el-Bukhārī (d. 1219)’s al-Muhīt. Another is Serakhsī (d. 1176)’s Muhīt al-Radawī. For more
information on these works, see Uzunpostalcı, “El-Buhârî,” 435–437; Kâtip Çelebi, Keşfü’z-zunûn,
IV, 1291–1292; Özel, Hanefi Fıkıh Alimleri, 78–79, 97; and Özen, “Serahsî,” 542–544.
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person is not only prevented from listening to the sermon, but also prevents others
from listening to it. Another important consideration in Ibn al-Humām’s work is that
it is disapproved (mekrūh) to greet and receive salutations during the sermon, unless
it be taken in through the soul (nefs), due to the fact that it is possible to greet at
another time, but one cannot listen to the sermon another time.409
Another work referenced by Minkārīzāde is Bedre’d-dīn Simavī (d. 1420)’s
Cāmiu’l-Fusūleyn.410 According to Bedre’d-dīn, it is disapproved (mekrūh) to
receive greetings during sermons. He also stresses that, if one enters the mosque
while the sermon is being delivered, he should not perform one of the supererogatory
prayers at that moment, but listen to the sermon instead. Related to this topic,
Minkārīzāde also benefited from Yatīmat al-Dahr fī fatāwā al-‘asr, written by ‘Alā’
al-Dīn al-Tarjumānī (d. 1247), who maintained that if someone has already begun
this prayer before the call to prayer (ezān) is recited, he should interrupt himself in
order to perform this supererogatory prayer and listen to the prayer.411 The other two
scholars Minkārīzāde refers to in his treatise are al-Zayla‘ī (d. 1360) and Ibn al-Esīr
al-Jazarī (d. 1210), both of whom defended the idea that being silent is a necessary
act and should be obeyed.412 According to al-Zayla‘ī, for instance, the hadith
scholars asserted that, even if someone tells his friends to stay quiet during Friday
409 In the same vein, another three works that Minkārīzāde refers to and that are in line with the
stances mentioned in Fath al-Qadīr are al-Nisāb, al-Tajnīs, and al-Kubrā. Al-Nisāb al-Faqīh or al-
Nisāb was probably by ‘Abd al-Rashīd al-Bukhārī (1090–1147), who wrote Khulāsat al-Fatāwā by
summarizing it from al-Nisāb; see Özel, Hanefi Fıkıh Alimleri, 72 and Kâtip Çelebi, Keşfü’z-zunûn,
IV, 1565. Tajnīs wal-mazīd fī ’l-fatāwī was written by Burhān al-Dīn Marghīnānī; for more
information on this, see Koca, “Mergînânî, 182–183; Kātip Çelebi, Keşfü’z-zunûn, 1, 320; and Ahmet
Özel, Hanefi Alimleri, 86–88. Unfortunately, I could not exactly identify the writer of al-Kubrā, but it
may have been written by Sadr al-Shahīd al-Bukhārī (d. 1141). For his Kitāb al-Fatāwā ’l-Kubrâ, see
Özel, “Sadrüşşehîd,” 425–427.
410 Bedreddin, Câmiu’l-Fusûleyn.
411 For more information on this work, see Özel, Hanefi Fıkıh Alimleri, 104 and Çelebi, Keşfü'zzunûn,
IV, 1644.
412 For more information on these scholars and their works, see Zeylei, Nasbü’r Raye; Sifil, “Zeylaî,”
352–354; Acar, “Üç Hadisçi,” 77–99; El-Cezerî, Câmiu’l-Usûl; Imtiaz, “Ibn Al-Athir, 33–43; Çakan,
“Câmiu’l-Usûl,” 136; Koçkuzu, “İbnü’l-Esîr,” 28–29; Kâtip Çelebi, Keşfüz’z-zunûn, II, 455–456; and
Özel, Hanefi Fıkıh Alimleri, 601–603.
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prayer, this only becomes an empty expression. Al-Jazarī, on the other hand, divides
sinful acts into the degree to which such acts can be measured. Accordingly, if
someone is close to the pulpit and does not listen or remain silent, he would be
performing two sinful acts. On the other hand, if someone is too far away from the
pulpit to hear what is being said and does not keep himself silent, he would only be
performing one sinful act.
After summarizing all these scholars’ views on the subject, Minkārīzāde
clearly reveals the opinion to which he is closer. According to him, all these signify
that listening to the sermon (khutba) is a duty incumbent on every individual Muslim
(farz-ı ‘ayn), and the verse itself is evidence for this. Accordingly, the verse is
absolute and general, and so whenever the Qur’an is recited during the sermon or
elsewhere, it should be listened to and one must remain silent.
Finally, at the end of his treatise, Minkārīzāde asserts one of the most striking
points of all. Referring to the relevant part of Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye,
namely “speaking during sermons,”413 Minkārīzāde states that the significance of
what Birgivī says in his et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye about the preachers’ crying in
unison “God bless him” and “God be pleased with him” during the Friday sermon
becomes apparent. Thus, just as in Minkārīzāde’s rebuttal of Kürd Mollā’s
commentary on Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, Minkārīzāde firmly shows
once again in this treatise that Birgivī’s magnum opus was a venerable work.
In sum, it can be concluded that all the scholars to whom Minkārīzāde refers
in his treatise state that remaining silent is a behavior that must be obeyed during
sermons or when the Qur’an is recited.414 From a different point of view,
413 Birgivî, Tarîkat-i Muhammediyye, 379–381.
414 Today, the view that Minkārīzāde advocates in his treatise is still accepted by the Presidency of the
High Council of Religious Affairs in Turkey, which issues fatwas according to the principles of the
Hanafi school; see Din İşleri, Fetvalar, 185–186 (Fetva no: 282).
142
Minkārīzāde’s contention echoes Kemālpaşazāde’s disciplinary stances in his fatwas
about controlling the bodily and aural aspects of worship, and that “Sufis loudly
performing ẕikr while Quran reading and interpretation continued in the masjid were
to be warned and stopped.”415
As can be inferred, Minkārīzāde never mentions in his treatise what the
Kadızadelis or their Sufi opponents wrote about the subject at hand. This indicates
that Minkārīzāde might not have wanted to directly get involved in the ongoing
discussions between these two contending groups, and so tried to keep the content of
the treatise limited to Qur’anic commentary. However, by referring to what Birgivī
had said about the subject at the end of his work, Minkārīzāde clearly revealed to
which view he was closer.
3.6 Minkārīzāde’s two fatwas regarding the impermissibility of raks, devrān, and
Mevlevi semā‘
Having thoroughly examined Minkārīzāde’s three treatises, now it is time to look at
his two fatwas pertaining to the impermissibility of the Sufi practices of raks,
devrān, and Mevlevi semā‘, which were other hotly debated topics in the seventeenth
century. Although the dispute around these Sufi practices can be dated to the 3rd/9th
century in early Islamic history,416 the beginning of this controversy in the Ottoman
context dates to the sixteenth century and was sparked partly by the emergence of the
political and ideological threat of the Safavids and partly by the distant stance the
Ottoman state took towards several Sufi practices.417 Several treatises and fatwas
415 Quoted in Kafescioğlu, “Lives and Afterlives,” 91. For Kātib Çelebi’s stance on the bodily
dimension of Sufi rituals, see Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 38–46.
416 Gribetz, “Samâ’ Controversy,” 43–62.
417 It is interesting to observe in Kātib Çelebi’s Mīzānü’l-Hakk, for instance, that “the real purpose of
the Ulema’s prohibition is to protect the State, for in the past States have suffered much from the
Sufis: witness in particular the rise of the Safavids in Persia.” Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 42.
143
were composed by Sufis and scholars from diverse backgrounds throughout the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.418 The topic in question also became the subject
of intense and lively debates between the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents,419
which appeared in Kātib Çelebi’s Mīzānü’l-Hakk in the section entitled “Dancing
and Whirling.”420
Nevertheless, considering that Minkārīzāde issued his fatwas while serving as
chief jurist, it is more relevant and considerably more important for us to discuss the
attitudes of Ottoman chief jurists toward these Sufi practices. Numerous fatwas and
treatises both for and against the practice of raks and devrān were penned by
Ottoman scholars throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.421 There are
quite a few studies on this subject in the literature, but hardly any of these studies
have tried to historicize the very complicated and changing attitudes of Ottoman
chief jurists towards these practices over the course of time.422 One exception is a
study by Derin Terzioğlu.423 Examining the fatwas of several Ottoman chief jurists—
Zenbilli ‘Alī Cemalī (d. 1525), Kemalpaşazāde (d. 1534), Çivizāde Mehmed (d.
1547), Ebūssu‘ūd (d. 1573), Sun‘ullāh (d. 1612), Hocazāde Es‘ad (d. 1625),
Zekeriyāzāde Yahyā (d. 1644), Bahāyī Mehmed (d. 1654), and Minkārīzāde (d.
1678)—related to the Sufi practices of raks, devrān, and Mevlevi semā‘ throughout
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Terzioğlu investigates the intricate religious
418 For a general evaluation of this topic, see Koca, “Osmanlı Fakihlerinin,” 25–74 and Öngören,
“Semâ ve Devran,” 123–132.
419 Necati Öztürk and Semiramis Çavuşoğlu examined the writings of the Kadızadelis and their Sufi
opponents regarding the permissibility or impermissibility of the practice of raks and devrān in their
studies. See Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy,” 348–361 and Çavuşoğlu, “Ḳāḍīzādeli Movement,” 194–
207.
420 Kātib Chelebi, Balance of Truth, 42–46.
421 For these studies, see Bozbuğa, “Sünbül Sinan”; Kalaycı, “Er-Risâletü’t-Tahkîkiyye,” 601–611;
Kayaoğlu, “Raks ve Devran,” 291–302; İnanır, “Fi’d-deverân ve’r-raks,” 127–163; Çınar, “İsmail es-
Sivâsî,” 323–340; Polat, Amasya Müftüsü,” 597–612; Polat, “Risâle fi Raksi’l-Mutasavvıfe,” 131–
170; and Arıoğlu, “Ömer Fuâdî,” 147–167.
422 İnanır, “Risale fi Hakkı’d-Devrân,” 155–178; İnanır, “Semâ, Raks ve Devrân,” 237–269; İnanır,
“Mûsikî ve Meşrûiyeti,” 573–581; and Gürer, “İki Şeyhülislam Risalesi,” 1–23.
423 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 220–233.
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attitudes of these scholars over time while also considering the changing political
circumstances of the period. The following excerpt, which is a summary of her
overall arguments, can be illuminating for comprehending her remarks on the issue:
From ‘Alī Cemālī in the early sixteenth century to Minḳārīzāde in the late
seventeenth, then, the position taken by the Ottoman ulema elite on the
question of “innovations” in general and Sufi "innovations" in particular
underwent important changes. In the early sixteenth century, it was the
Ottoman ulema who raised their voice against such practices as devrān and
semā‘ who were the novelty and not those who condoned them. By the third
decade of the sixteenth century, however, such Ottoman jurists as
Kemālpaşazāde and Ebūssu‘ūd began to articulate a new understanding of
the Sunna, one which, in line with the state's needs in a changed political
terrain, excluded a number of Sufi elements from within the circle of the
People of Sunna and Community, while it kept others in check. While this
order-centered Ottoman Sunnism came under criticism from some members
of the Ottoman learned establishment already in the first half of the sixteenth
century, its final dissolution was in the late sixteenth century with the rise of
a salafī movement on the one hand and a new rapprochement between the
Ottoman ulema elite and the Sufi sheikhs on the other. In the late sixteenth
and in the first half of the seventeenth century, top-ranking members of the
Ottoman learned establishment were not able to articulate a full-fledged
defense of the controversial Sufi beliefs and practices, but tried in the main to
restrict the religiolegal, and political, grounds on which they could be
attacked. Finally, after nearly half a century of confrontation, the gap
between the learned establishment and the salafī reformists was considerably
narrowed during the period of ascendancy of Vānī.424
In reaching this conclusion, Terzioğlu benefited from Minkārīzāde’s two fatwas
regarding the impermissibility of raks, devrān, and Mevlevi semā‘.425 While the first
fatwa simply prohibited the Sufi practice of raks, if it is equivalent to devrān,426 the
second fatwa strictly forbade Sufi raks and Mevlevi semā‘ by specifying that the
424 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 232–233.
425 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 106–107; 231–232.
426 Hekimoğlu, 421, 50b: “Soru: Zamāne mutasavvıfasının devr nāmına itdükleri fi‘l-i şenī‘ helāl olur
mu? El-cevab: Raks olmağla harāmdır. Fukahādan hilline zāhib yokdur. Ol fi‘l-i şenī‘ zikrullāha
mukārin olmasa idenler dahi helāl diyemezler. Böyle olıcak zikrullāha mukārenet ile şenā‘at dahi
ziyāde olur, nice helāldir diyebilirler.” Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm recorded this fatwa quite similarly;
see Hamidiye 610, 63a: “Soru: Zamāne mutasavvıfasının hareket-i devriyye nāmına itdükleri fi‘l-i
şenī‘ helāl olur mu? El-cevab: Raks olmağla harāmdır. Fukahādan hilline zāhib yokdur. Ol fi‘l-i şenī‘
zikrullāha mukārin olmasa işleyenler helāldir diyemezler. Böyle olıcak zikrullāha mukārenet ile
şenā‘at dahi ziyāde olur, nice helāldir diyebilirler.”
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sultan had banned these evil acts (ef‘āl-ı şenī‘a).427 The point to be emphasized in
regard to these fatwas is that, while Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm included both of
these fatwas in his compilation, the compilation prepared by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed
incorporated only the former one. Here, it may be questioned whether or not the
second fatwa was promulgated by Minkārīzāde, as it was not included in ‘Atāu‘llāh
Mehmed’s compilation. However, we learn from another account that the first fatwa
was also given by Minkārīzāde.428 The reason why ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed did not
include the second fatwa in his compilation might be that this fatwa seems to be
more speculative, as Minkārīzāde gave reference to political authority, which made it
very difficult for him to give an explanation (nukūl) for this fatwa.
Nonetheless, taking into account the different contents of the two fatwas, it
can be argued that each fatwa was likely issued at different times.429 Indeed,
Minkārīzāde seems to have issued the first fatwa just after becoming chief jurist in
1662–63. In this regard, one source that provides information about the date of
Minkārīzāde’s fatwa is the Vākı‘āt-ı Niyazī-i Mısrī of İbrahim Rākım (d. 1749–
50).430 It is interesting to note here that, although the anti-Sufi policies prominent in
427 Hamidiye 610 63a–b: “Soru: Sūfiyye’nin ef‘āl u harekāt-ı müntazıme-i mevzū‘a ve evzā‘-ı
mütenāsibe-i masnū‘a ile devrān namında olan raksları ve Mevlevīlerin semā‘ namında olan
dönmeleri ve def u kudūm u ney çalmalarına mesāğ-ı şer‘ī var mıdır? El-cevab: Asla yoktur ve
mefāsidi gayet çoktur. Māhī’l-münker ve’l-harām hāmī-i beyzatü’l-islām bi bīzi’s samsām Padişāh-ı
sāhib-i ilhām hullide hilafetehu ilā sā‘atil-kıyām hazretleri bu makūle ef‘āl-ı şenī‘ayı men‘ ve ef‘āl-ı
fazī‘ayı kam‘ ile bedāyi’-i müberrāyı ve ravāyi-i mesūbātı cem‘ buyururlar. Tā’ife-i sūfiyyenin
zikrullāh iderlerken kıyāmları evzā‘-ı kabīha ve şenī‘aya mü’eddī olmağla kıyāmları dahi olmayub
oturdukları yerden ke-enne ‘alā rūūsihimu’t-tayr sālimeyn ‘an cemī‘i’l-asr ve’z-zayr ādāb-ı şerī‘at-i
şerīfeyi kemāl-ı riāyet ile zikrullāh idüb, taife-i mevlevīye dahi semā‘ namında olan devranlarını ve
ālāt-ı melāhīden olan def u kudūm u ney ist‘imallerin bi’l-külliye terk idüb ādāb-ı şerī‘at-ı
mutahharayı kemāl-i ri’āyet ile mesnevī hānın şurūtuyla hadīs-i şerīfin naklin ve sā‘ir va‘z u tezkīrin
istimā‘ itmek gerekdir.”
428 Kemikli, “Risale-i Devran ve Sema,” 443–460.
429 This point also attracts Terzioğlu’s attention. According to her, these two fatwas were respectively
issued in 1662–63 and 1666–67. See Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 106–107.
430 In fact, this source gives two different dates regarding Minkārīzāde’s fatwas: 1652–53 (h. 1063)
and 1662–63 (h. 1073). However, since he writes as if Minkārīzāde was already chief jurist in 1652–
53, one should be skeptical about the former date. See Beki, “İbrahim Râkım,” 18. For the original
passage, see Vâkı‘ât-ı Pîr-i Rûşen, 23–24.
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the 1660s and 1670s have generally been attributed to the influence of Vānī
Mehmed’s presence at the court, Minkārīzāde had already issued a fatwa regarding
the impermissibility of these Sufi practices even before Vānī came to Istanbul. In any
case, the second fatwa must have been issued after the prohibition of Mevlevi semā‘
by imperial edict in 1666/7, because in it Minkārīzāde directly refers to the sultan
who previously banned these acts. Unfortunately, since there are no surviving
mühimme registers for the years 1665–1678,431 we do not have any official document
concerning this prohibition, and all that we know about it comes from narrative
sources.432
Despite the fact that Minkārīzāde issued these fatwas, however, we are also
informed in Sākıb Mustafā Dede’s Sefīne-i Nefīse-i Mevleviyān that at the end of his
life Minkārīzāde regretted having given them.433 Minkārīzāde’s changing attitude on
the matter recalls that of two famous Ottoman chief jurists of the sixteenth century,
Ebu’s-su‘ūd and Kemalpaşazāde. While the fatwas they issued in the early periods of
their tenure are against raks and devrān, they developed more moderate and milder
stances towards the end of their lives.434 Needless to say, even though these pieces of
information do come from later Sufi hagiographies, they are still significant for
showing that later Sufi writers might have wanted to represent these chief jurists as
having undergone a change of heart.
Although the content of the fatwas issued by Minkārīzāde may show his
stance towards the relevant Sufi practices to a certain degree, his overall attitude
towards Sufis during his tenure as chief jurist was not limited to these fatwas.
431 For the lists of surviving mühimme registers, see Osmanlı Arşivi Rehberi, 9– 21, at 12.
432 Şeyhî, II, 1175; Rycaut, Present State, 138; and Sâkıb Mustafa Dede, Sefîne-i Nefîse-i Mevleviyân,
921.
433 Sâkıb Mustafa Dede, Sefîne-i Nefîse-i Mevleviyân, 2225.
434 Öngören, Osmanlılar’da Tasavvuf, 369–384.
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Although Mevlevi semā‘ was prohibited in 1666/67 via imperial order,435 and
Minkārīzāde’s fatwas indicate a similar stance of prohibition, what is especially
interesting for our purposes here is Minkārīzāde’s summoning of a certain sheikh to
the Ottoman learned hierarchy. As will be discussed later, this sheikh, Pārsā Mehmed
(Sābir), was a Mevlevi who succeeded to Ağazāde Mehmed’s post in Gallipoli in
1652. But whatever Pārsā Mehmed’s affiliation with the Mevlevi order was, he was
appointed to the Dagī Mehmed Efendi Madrasa in that region shortly after the
prohibition was enacted. As his biography in Şeyhī’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā shows, his
reliance on the “threshold” (āsitāne) of Minkārīzāde made it possible for him to be
appointed this post.436 In addition to Pārsā Mehmed, four other influential sheikhs
and preachers in the second half of the seventeenth century—‘Arabzāde ‘Abdü‘lvehhāb,
437 İspirī ‘Alī,438 Bolbolcızāde ‘Abdü’l-kerīm, and Fāzıl Süleymān—also
attended Minkārīzāde’s lectures and benefitted from his patronage.439 Likewise,
Minkārīzāde appointed the Halveti-Sünbüli sheikh Seyyid Hasan, who was known
for his sohbetnāme, to the Ferrūh Kethudā Lodge in 1664.440
Another point that needs to be addressed when considering Minkārīzāde’s
fatwas is whether or not there was general religious bias towards Sufi groups during
the 1660s and 1670s.441 To further examine this point, a quick look at some of the
435 See footnote 430.
436 For the biography of Pārsā Mehmed, see Şeyhî, II, 1174–1182. Also see Yoldaş, “Sâbir Pârsâ,”
125–134. Later Mevlevî biographers criticized Pārsā Mehmed’s entrance into the Ottoman learned
hierarchy; see Esrâr Dede, Teẕkire-i Şu’arā-yı Mevleviyye, 177 and ‘Alî Enver, Semâ‘-hâne-i Edeb,
130.
437 For more information on the members of the ‘Arabzāde family, see Güldöşüren, “Arabzadeler,”
27–79.
438 İspirī ‘Alī’s son İspirīzāde Ahmed, who was preacher at the Ayasofya Mosque between the years
1722 and 1730, is known as one of the main organizers of the 1730 rebellion. For more information
on him, see Karahasanoğlu, “Ayasofya Vaizi İspirîzâde,” 97–128.
439 For their biographies, see Uşşâkîzâde, 992–993; Şeyhî, III, 1979–1980, 1988–1990; IV, 3281–
3285.
440 Gökyay, “Sohbetnâme,” 56–64, at 58. For his biography, see Şeyhî, II, 1857–1860. For Cemal
Kafadar’s seminal study on Seyyid Hasan’s sohbetnāme, see Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 121–150.
441 For a recent discussion of this issue, see Çalışır, “Köprülü Sadrazamlar,” 793–802.
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correspondence in the Münşe’āt compiled by Vānī Mehmed can be illuminating.
Since this Münşe’āt also comprises the correspondence of state officials in addition
to those written by Vānī Mehmed, it can provide insight into the state’s attitude
towards Sufi groups. The correspondence contains a number of documents sent to
different Sufi sheikhs in different regions of the empire. For example, upon the
request of the sultan, Seyyid Mümin, Arıkzāde Mehmed, Mehmed Efendi, and
Hanyelioğlu Mehmed were invited to the court from Rum, Kars, Sivas, and
Diyarbakır respectively, owing to their reputation for religious knowledge.442 In
another piece of correspondence, Velī Efendi was invited to the court from Erzurum
to be a teacher in the Sarāy-ı ‘Āmire.443 Unfortunately, the name of the religious
order with which these individuals were affiliated is not recorded, but another
document allows us to discover the religious affiliation of the receiver. This
document was sent to Devātçızāde Sheikh Efendi after his previous letter, in which
he had mentioned his plan to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.444 We know that he was
the son of the Celveti sheikh Devati Mustafā, and replaced his father in his post in
1660.445 In addition, another letter was sent to Sheikh Muhyi’d-dīn, a Halveti sheikh
in Bursa.446 And in yet another letter, the court summoned Emir Sinanzāde in order
to hear a sermon from him.447
Since there was no record of authorship in these pieces of correspondence, we
cannot be sure who actually wrote them. However, the most striking thing here is not
the name of the authors, but rather the importance of these documents for showing
442 Konuk, “Vânî Mehmed,” 109.
443 Konuk, “Vânî Mehmed,” 131–132.
444 Upon receiving the letter from Devatçızāde, the court responded by asking for help from God for
his pilgrimage. See Konuk, “Vânî Mehmed,” 100.
445 For his biography, see Şeyhî, II, 1399–1401.
446 Konuk, “Vânî Mehmed,” 134. For his biography, see Şeyhî, II, 1403–1404.
447 Konuk, “Vânî Mehmed,” 134.
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the attitude of certain state officials towards the diverse Sufi groups. Whether or not
these documents were written by Vānī Mehmed, they explicitly show that Ottoman
state officials continued to respect certain Sufi groups during the so-called “third
stage” of the Kadızadelis. Apart from these, we also know that Vānī Mehmed’s harsh
stance was actually not directed against all Sufi groups, who were working with a
significantly narrower definition of Sufism,448 but rather to Sufis who “behaved as if
they were Sufis, which in reality they were not” (sūfī namında olan nā-sāfīler).449 In
light of Minkārīzāde’s two fatwas and his possibly milder attitude towards the
relevant Sufi practices towards the end of his life, it can be argued that, while state
officials did try to control some Sufi practices, they also patronized others so long as
they kept themselves away from performing these practices openly.
3.7 Conclusion
This chapter has examined three treatises by Minkārīzāde—the Risāle-i Millet-i
İbrāhīm, his rebuttal to Kürd Mollā’s commentary on Birgivī’s et-Tarīkatü’l-
Muhammediye, and the Risāle fī Vücūbī İstimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’l-Hutbe—as well as
two fatwas concerning the impermissibility of raks, devrān, and Mevlevi semā‘, in
order to demonstrate Minkārīzāde’s active participation in the religio-legal debates of
the seventeenth century. I have investigated Minkārīzāde’s religo-legal writings
within the wider context of changing Islamic religiosity by paying special attention
to both the different motives that informed his writings and to how he articulated
correct belief and practices. In doing this, emphasis has also been placed on the
specific historical context in which these works were written, without however
neglecting the fact that Minkārīzāde displayed a kind of personal and group loyalty
448 Terzioğlu, “Sufi and Dissident,” 213–214.
449 Köse, “Provincial Mufti,” 40, 44.
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to the Ottoman learned hierarchy. As my analysis has shown, Minkārīzāde wrote the
three aforementioned treatises with different motivations, despite their shared theme
of “objection” or “disapproval.” An awareness of these different motivations is
crucial, since they point to the multifaceted dimensions of the notion of orthodoxy on
the one hand and orthopraxy on the other. Regardless of the motives that informed
Minkārīzāde’s decision to compose these works, however, the importance of
Minkārīzāde’s treatises lies in the fact that they provide strong evidence to counter
the commonly held view that the mevali were largely absent from these debates.
Similarly, one initially finds the ideas presented in Minkārīzāde’s treatises to
be largely along the same lines as the ideas of the Kadızādelis. This might lead one
to the conclusion that there was an ideological overlap between Minkārīzāde and the
Kadızādelis in the mid-seventeenth century. In fact, this would not be an incorrect or
problematic observation, as long as we acknowledge that Minkārīzāde stated these
views not because he was a Kadızadeli follower, but rather because he was an
exponent of a strict interpretation of the Hanafi school of law. An emphasis on this
latter point provides a meaningful avenue for challenging the view that the religiolegal
debates of the seventeenth century were in the hands of small socio-religious
groups represented by a number of notable preachers and Sufi sheikhs with the
ability to influence the palace and certain sectors of Ottoman society in certain
periods. Such a challenge is important, since it calls for a departure from linear and
clear-cut categorization of the groups that took part in the religio-legal debates of the
seventeenth century into either Kadızadelis or Sufis, in favor of an approach that
pays more attention to potential points of convergence and divergen
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CHAPTER 4
THE WELL-ESTABLISHED SCHOLAR:
FĀZIL-I KARĀR-DĀDE MİNKĀRĪZĀDE
4.1 Introduction
One of several points of crisis experienced by the Ottoman state took place in the
mid-seventeenth century. This crisis was triggered by the Venetian blockade of the
Dardanelles and the drain on the treasury caused by the extended Cretan campaign.
The result was a series of rebellions and political instability in both the imperial
center and the provinces.450 There were at least four urban revolts between the years
1648 and 1656, during which Sultan İbrahim I and his mother Kösem Sultān were
executed, and numerous high-ranking state officials were dismissed from office,
including those holding the offices of grand vizier, chief admiral (Kapudan Paşa),
and chief jurist. These revolts were the work of not just the janissaries, but also other
actors, such as members of the ulama, sipāhīs, palace officials, artisans, and
tradesmen, and taken all together they had a more profound impact on Ottoman
politics in the mid-seventeenth century than is often realized.451 The last among these
rebellions, the so-called Vak‘a-i Vakvakıyye (The Plane-tree Incident) of 1656,452
frightened the Ottoman rulers so much that, in September 1656, Queen Mother
Hatice Turhan appointed Köprülü Mehmed as grand vizier on condition that nobody
would interfere with his decisions.453
450 Finkel, Osman’s Dream, 223–252; Kafadar, “Political and Cultural Climate,” 59–73; Yılmaz,
“Economic and Social Roles”; and Sariyannis, “Mercantile Ethic,” 263–289.
451 Kafadar, “Janissaries and Other Rifraff,” 113–134 and Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 213–224.
452 Andresyan and Derin, “Çınar Vak’ası” 57–83.
453 Kunt, “Köprülü Years,” 50–60; Peirce, Imperial Harem, 255–258; and Bekar, “Reconfiguration of
Vizierial Power” 67–78.
152
Indeed, after he became grand vizier in 1656, Köprülü Mehmed successfully
applied measures meant to crush all potential sources of opposition and reduce the
burgeoning alternative foci of power in the Ottoman realms. To this end, he expelled
the leading figures of the Kadızadelis—Üstüvānī Mehmed, Türk Ahmed, and Dīvāne
Mustafā—to Cyprus.454 He also had to cope with several internal and external
troubles; namely, dealing with breaking the Venetians’ blockade of the Dardanelles,
as well as the revolts of George Rackozy II and Abaza Hasan.455 Although he had to
overcome such problems in the first two years of his tenure in the office of grand
vizier, Köprülü Mehmed and his successors nevertheless managed to bring
considerable stability to the political scene, which lasted until at least 1683, when the
siege of Vienna failed. This period, covering the years 1656–1683, has generally
been called the Köprülü era in the relevant historiography. The primary reason
behind such a periodization lies in the fact that three Köprülü family members—
Köprülü Mehmed (t. 1656–1661), Fāzıl Ahmed (t. 1661–1676), and Kara Mustafā (t.
1676–1683)—dominated the grand vizierate during much of the second half of the
seventeenth century.
Following Fāzıl Ahmed’s appointment as grand vizier in 1661, the fate of
Minkārīzāde began to change. After serving as the chief judge of Rumelia from
February 1662 to November 1662, Minkārīzāde became chief jurist, and the entirety
of his 12-year tenure in this office, from 1662 to 1674, fell within the time when
Fāzıl Ahmed held the office of grand vizier, which he did from 1661 to 1676.456 In
this regard, it can be asserted that the longevity in terms of chief jurist tenures for
454 Târih-i Na‘îmâ, IV, 1710.
455 Kunt, “Köprülü Years,” 50–127 and Bekar, “Reconfiguration of Vizierial Power,” 79–104.
456 Minkārīzāde was appointed chief jurist in November 1662 in place of Sun‘īzāde Mehmed, who
was said to have been deposed by Grand Vizier Fazıl Ahmed because he had made a hasty judgment
regarding the execution of the Melami sheikh Sütçü Beşir Ağa in 1662. See Ocak, Zındıklar ve
Mülhidler, 359.
153
Minkārīzāde (1662–1674) and his successor Çatalcalı ‘Alī (1674–1686) reflected the
stability that the Köprülü administration brought to the political scene.457
More importantly, the overlap between Minkārīzāde’s tenure as chief jurist
and the tenure of Fāzıl Ahmed as grand vizier was not just a coincidence. The
appointment of Minkārīzāde as chief jurist by Fāzıl Ahmed himself seems to have
been a conscious decision, as the former was considered to be a competent and
knowledgeable scholar. A point that specifically supports this inference is the epithet
consciously chosen by Şeyhī in his biographical dictionary to describe Minkārīzāde;
namely, fāzıl-ı karār-dāde, which can be translated as either “the scholar who is
decided on” or “the well-established scholar.”458
I have argued that Minkārīzāde’s participation in the suppression of the 1655
rebellion and his active involvement in the religio-legal debates of the midseventeenth
century were two important factors that paved the way for his
appointment as the chief jurist of the Ottoman Empire. In these, Minkārīzāde
achieved two things. Firstly, by taking responsibility in a time of political turmoil, he
proved himself to be a trustworthy statesman. Secondly, by supporting the more
hardline and stringent side of contemporary religio-legal debates, he showed himself
to be in sync with a more particular set of dispositions of the ruling elite of the next
decade. Apart from these, his appointment as examiner (mümeyyiz) in 1658, during
the tenure of Köprülü Mehmed, also contributed substantially to his image as a
competent and knowledgeable scholar. Thus, it can be said that all these factors
457 Baki Tezcan summarizes the political structure during the rule of the Köprülüs as follows: “[T]he
absolutist alliance between the Köprülü family and Mehmed IV’s court was supported by a
charismatic puritan preacher who gathered popular support behind the Köprülü autocracy and by two
jurists who were sympathetic both to the political agenda of the Köprülüs and the socioreligious
agenda of their preacher.” Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 217.
458 Şeyhī employs the expression karār-dāde as an epithet nineteen times in total in his work, and uses
all but one of them to refer to Minkārīzāde. This shows that Şeyhī specifically and deliberately chose
this term to describe Minkārīzāde. Other than Minkārīzāde, the only scholar for whom Şeyhī used this
expression is Ganīzāde Nādirī Mehmed, see Şeyhî, II, 1143.
154
helped Minkārīzāde to become distinguished among his peers, such as Bolevī
Mustafā, İsmetī Mehmed, and Esīrī Mehmed, who were all either dismissed from the
office because of political strife or who did not advance further in the hierarchy due
to a lack of patronage ties.
This chapter examines Minkārīzāde’s role as the empire’s chief jurist within
the political and administrative environment of the 1660s and 1670s. For this
purpose, three topics will be discussed in this chapter. First of all, after providing a
general overview of Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the office of chief jurist, emphasis will
be placed upon two administrative developments for whose implementation
Minkārīzāde was primarily responsible; namely, the reorganization of judgeships in
Rumelia and the elevation of the rank of the judgeship of Mecca in the Ottoman
learned hierarchy. Next, the new land regime implemented in Crete after its final
conquest in 1669 will be examined in the light of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas. The final
topic will involve showing that the fatwa compilation known as Fetāvā-yı ‘Abdu’rrahīm,
which has been thought to have belonged to Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, in
fact contains the fatwas issued by Minkārīzāde.
4.2 An overview of Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the office of chief jurist
As far as the tenure of Minkārīzāde as Ottoman chief jurist is concerned, the field has
been largely dominated by two important events, which have generally been
addressed in the relevant literature by two interrelated terms; namely, Islamization
and conversion. One of the important events to be mentioned in this regard is the
inauguration of the Yeni Valide Mosque on October 31, 1665. The construction of
this mosque had already begun in 1597 on the order of Safiye Sultan, the wife of
Sultan Murad III, but it was Hatice Turhan’s who made this mosque’s completion
155
possible. The second phase of this mosque is closely related to the debate that can be
described as “the Islamization of the Eminönü district,” which occurred after the
great fire of 1660. The conversion of churches and synagogues into mosques and the
removal of non-Muslim populations from the Eminönü district were two intertwined
aspects of this debate.459 In other respects, the overall change in the physical
landscape of Istanbul and the relocation of the non-Muslim population were directly
related on the one hand to the increasing concern to draw spatial confessional
boundaries between the communities, and on the other hand to the communitybuilding
process.460
At the same time, the conversion of Sabbatai Sevi (1626–1676) can be
regarded as the most striking event to occur during Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the office
of chief jurist.461 Born in Izmir to a wealthy Jew, Sevi claimed to be the Messiah and
gathered thousands of adherents in only a very short period of time. These messianic
claims created tension, and Sevi was brought from Izmir first to Istanbul and then to
Edirne, where he was put on trial in 1666. As a result of the trial, he converted to
Islam and adopted a Muslim name, ‘Azīz Mehmed, and so he was not executed but
rather exiled to Gallipoli. While contemporary accounts featured only the role that
459 Thys-Şenocak, “Yeni Valide Mosque,” 58–70; Thys-Şenocak, Ottoman Women Builders, 195–
203; Baer, Honored by the Glory, 81–104; and Baer, “Great Fire of 1660,” 159–181. Until recently,
the common inclination among historians was to emphasize Vānī Mehmed’s influence over the ruling
elites behind these processes. Kenan Yıldız, however, has recently shown that the relocation policy
had already been put into effect earlier than Vānī’s arrival in Istanbul. See, Yıldız, 1660 İstanbul
Yangını, 180–237. In contrast to the views of Thys-Şenocak and Baer, Yıldız has also argued that the
conversion of churches and synagogues into mosques after the fire of 1660 conformed with previous
practice.
460 For a recent treatment of this issue in the context of seventeenth-century Galata’s physical and
sociocultural landscape, see Atabey, “Ottoman Galata,” 203–328. In a similar manner, another study
has meticulously examined Minkārīzāde’s fatwas pertaining to inter-confessional matters. See İdil,
“Confessionalization of Space,” 128–135. İdil benefitted from a copy found in Süleymaniye YEK,
MS Laleli 1264.
461 Scholem, Sabbatai Ṣevi; Freely, Lost Messiah; Hathaway, “False Messiah,” 665–671; Afyoncu,
Sahte Mesih; and Şişman, Burden of Silence.
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Vānī Mehmed played in the trial, Minkārīzāde and the kā’im-makām Mustafā Pasha
also attended the trial, and Sabbatai Sevi was interrogated by them as well.462
While acknowledging the importance of all these events for the second half
of the seventeenth-century Ottoman Empire, certain broader political and
administrative realities of the time need to be further elucidated in order to better
contextualize Minkārīzāde’s tenure. Related to this, special attention will be paid to
the tripartite character of the state bureaucracy due to the mobility of the court and
successive military campaigns, as well as to the fragmentary nature of the relevant
historical sources.
In connection with this first point, it is necessary here to first focus on the
pivotal changes that occurred in the Ottoman state bureaucracy in the second half of
the seventeenth century. First and foremost, the most important thing to be noted in
this context is the preference on the part of Sultan Mehmed IV and his successors to
stay in Edirne, except for occasional visits to Istanbul, throughout the second half of
the seventeenth century and up until the 1703 rebellion.463 An equally important
development that consolidated this distinction was the successive military campaigns
undertaken by Fāzıl Ahmed during his tenure as grand vizier between the years 1661
and 1676. He conducted a number of military campaigns against the Habsburgs
(1663–64),464 the Venetians in Crete (1667–1669),465 and the Poles (1672 and
1673),466 all of which he himself led.467 As a result of these military campaigns, the
Ottoman Empire conquered three castles—Érsekújvár, Candia, and Kamaniecz—and
462 Abdurrahman Abdi Paşa, Vekâyi‘-nâme, 247.
463 Here it should be recalled that the Ottoman sultans’ preference for staying in Edirne is said to have
been one of the reasons behind the 1703 rebellion. See Abou-El-Haj, 1703 Rebellion, 4.
464 For an examination of this war from the perspective of the Military Revolution Debate, see Kolçak,
“1660–64 Osmanlı–Avusturya Savaşları.”
465 Gülsoy, Girit’in Fethi and Greene, Shared World, 13–45.
466 İnbaşı, Kamaniçe Seferi.
467 Fāzıl Ahmed was said to have continued his father’s policy of keeping imperial soldiers in action
in order to avert possible military mutinies in Istanbul. See Rycaut, Present State, 49.
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reached the greatest extent of its territorial expansion. Although these military
expeditions were important for demonstrating the capacity of the Ottoman military in
the second half of the seventeenth century, they also made their presence even more
distinctly felt in the Ottoman administrative structure.
Both the long sojourn of the Ottoman court in Edirne and the successive
campaigns of the Ottomans led to a tripartite court and bureaucracy in the second
half of the seventeenth century. The three centers of the imperial administration at
this time were the offices of the grand vizierate, who led the Ottoman army on the
battlefield; the Istanbul kā’im-makām; and the rikāb-ı hümayun kā’im-makām
(deputy of the imperial stirrup) in Edirne.468
This division in the Ottoman administration is also well reflected in the
mühimme registers, which explicitly show the multiplicity of administrative centers
in the empire at the time. From this period onwards, these records began to be
categorized according to the places where they were written. As a result, what we
have in hand are three different types of mühimme registers: the registers for the
army (ordu mühimmesi), for the royal court (rikāb mühimmesi), and for the office of
the deputy grand vizier in Istanbul (İstanbul kā’im-makāmlık mühimmesi).469 In light
of these, it can be asserted that there was no single decision-making center during the
time in which Minkārīzāde served as chief jurist. In other words, the decision-
468 Rhoads Murphey summarizes this development as follows: “[T]he court and state bureaucracy was
by necessity often divided into three parts, each assigned a particular function. This division of
function applied with particular force during years when military campaigning led by the grand vizier
was in prospect. One part accompanied the grand vizier leading the army in the field, a second part
remained behind in Istanbul, where the grand vizier’s first deputy, known as the Istanbul
kaimmekamı, took communications with the front. […] But when the sultan undertook excursions for
the hunt or for regular seasonal relocations, the royal household was further split, and it became
necessary for a third official, called the rikab-i hümayun kaim-mekamı (deputy of the royal stirrup), to
be appointed to liaise with both the grand vizier and his chief deputy, the principal kaim-mekam, who
remained in Istanbul unless expressly summoned.” See Murphey, Exploring Ottoman Sovereignty,
213.
469 Soyer, “Mühimme Defterleri,” especially see 73–77.
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making processes were shared by several state officials.
Related to this point, contemporary sources provide significant insights into
the active role of these and other state officials. For example, the destruction of the
shrine of the Bektashi sheikh known as Kanber Baba in 1668 has been generally
attributed to Vānī Mehmed.470 However, we learn from Abdī Paşa’s account that an
imperial telhīs had already come from the kā’im-makām suggesting the demolishing
of this tomb.471 Considering this, it can be safely argued that, although the influence
of Vānī on Mehmed IV’s decision might be questioned, it is also clear that there was
another state official who saw eye to eye with Vānī on the same issue. A similar
inference is valid in the case of Lārī Mehmed, who was executed on the order of the
Istanbul kā’im-makām and with the permission of the judge of Istanbul,
Merhabāzāde Ahmed, in 1665.472 Finally, in the mühimme registers dating to the first
years of Fāzıl Ahmed’s tenure as grand vizier, we see that a couple of restriction
orders were sent to various judges by the Istanbul kā’im-makām.473 Although all of
these cases seem to reflect specific cases and not necessarily general policy, they do
clearly show that, due to this division in the administrative apparatus, not all orders
originated from a single center. On another note, one important thing that should be
kept in mind regarding the imperial prohibitions on smoking, taverns, or
coffeehouses is that such imperial edicts might well have been issued upon the
470 Baer, Honored, 114 and Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 149.
471 “[B]uyurdukları kelâm-ı şâhânelerinün tamâmında Kā’im-makām Paşa kullarından telhîs gelüp ol
ziyâretgâhun tahrîb olunmas arz eyledüğü manzûr-ı hümâyûnları olıcak buyurdılar ki:
‘Sübhâne’allâh! Şimdi ben dahi bu husûs içün ber-vech-i mahsûs bir hatt-ı şerîf yazup kendüye
göndersem gerek idi. Yâ Rabbi! Sen benüm vükelâ-yı devletümi her umûrumda böyle ittihâd ittifâk
üzre eyle!’” Abdurrahman Abdi Paşa, Vekâyi‘-nâme, 267–268.
472 Abdurrahman Abdi Paşa, Vekâyi‘-nâme, 177.
473 Karaca, “94 Numaralı,” 15/65, 17/75, 20/87, 20/89, 21/92.
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request of local scholars, virtuous people, sheikhs, and ordinary Muslims of a
specific town.474
This administrative disunity in the second half of the seventeenth century is
also well reflected in the primary sources.475 Leaving aside retrospective accounts for
the time being,476 as all of these are unfortunately too removed in time from the
events they recount,477 other historical narratives were either written as gazavātnāme
depicting events on the battlefield, or else they only featured events occurring around
or in relation to the sultan.478
Given all the above, where can we locate Minkārīzāde’s overall stance within
this political and administrative landscape? One of the research topics to be
discussed in this context in order to better substantiate the details of Minkārīzāde’s
tenure as chief jurist is the question of whether or not high-ranking members of the
ulama were involved in high politics, as had been the case in the first half of the
seventeenth century. As mentioned in the introduction, Baki Tezcan and Madeline
Zilfi have similar stances regarding the role played by high-ranking Ottoman ulama
in the second half of the seventeenth century.479 In line with this, I also argue that
474 Karaca, “94 Numaralı,” 44/221. There are a number of studies about “political activity from the
bottom up.” For these works, see Faroqhi, “Political Activity,” 1–39 and Baldwin, “Petitioning,” 499–
524.
475 For a general evaluation of the changes in seventeenth-century Ottoman historical writing, see Baer
“Manliness, Male Virtue,” 128–148. The following observation by Murphey is also quite helpful in
examining these sources: “One of the significant developments in seventeenth-century Ottoman
historiography is the shift away from history written exclusively from the perspective of members of
the outer state service, such as finance department and chancery secretaries, that is kâtibs of the
financial (maliye) and chancellery (asafiye) branches of government service, to a new sort of history
written by members of the sultan’s personal household service, and intimates of the court.” Murphey,
“Ottoman Historical Writing,” 281.
476 For these retrospective works, see Raşid and Çelebizâde, Târîh-i Râşid; Türkal, “Zeyl-i Fezleke”;
Özcan, Zübde-i Vekayiât; and Yılmazer, ‘Îsâzâde Târîhi.
477 For these works, see Târih-i Na‘îmâ; Aycibin, Fezleke; Akkaya, “Vecihî”; and Kara Çelebizâde
Abdülaziz Efendi, Ravzatü’l-Ebrâr Zeyli.
478 For these works, see Ünlütaş, “Tarih-i Sultan Mehmed”; Taçkın, “Ali Efendi”; Poyraz,
“Köprülüzâde Ahmet”; Gökçek, “Tarih-i Sülale-i Köprülü”; Yüksel, “Gazavât-nâmeler”; Yılmaz,
“Mustafa Zühdi”; and Abdurrahman Abdi Paşa, Vekâyi‘-nâme.
479 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 100 and Tezcan, Second Ottoman Empire, 213–224.
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Minkārīzāde mostly directed his attention to the affairs of the learned hierarchy
rather than being directly involved in politics and policymaking.
Having thus provided some background information about the administrative
realities of the time, it is now time to analyze the specific role that Minkārīzāde
played in the administrative and bureaucratic spheres for which he was responsible.
In the following section, emphasis will be placed on two administrative
developments that occurred during the tenure of Minkārīzāde, who was primarily
responsible for implementing these regulations due to his position as a leading
bureaucrat of the Ottoman learned hierarchy; the two developments in question are
the reorganization of the judgeships in Rumelia and the elevation of the rank of the
judgeship of Mecca in the hierarchy.
4.3 Minkārīzāde as a “fair-minded reformer”
Madeline Zilfi’s overall judgment regarding the members of the Ottoman ulama
hierarchy in the second half of the seventeenth century is a good starting point for
inquiry into the topic at hand. She asserts in her Politics of Piety that “with Vani
Efendi’s emergence as the regime’s clerical cynosure, the ulama leadership was more
confined to the problems of the career. The frantic politicking over security of tenure
and state affairs for a time subsided.”480 In this same context, she goes on to say that
Minkārīzāde “acquired a reputation as a fair-minded reformer.”481 In reaching this
conclusion, she refers to a study by Ahmet Refik Altınay,482 but without examining it
in detail. As far as Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the office of chief jurist is concerned,
Zilfi’s inference seems to be quite accurate, as there were two important
480 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 204.
481 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 204–205.
482 Altınay, Hoca Nüfuzu, 140–141.
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administrative developments regarding the Ottoman learned hierarchy that occurred
during his tenure.
The most salient of these administrative developments was the reorganization
of the judgeships of Rumelia. Until recently, all that was known about this
development came from Kemal Özergin’s article on the matter.483 According to a
document transliterated in that article, Minkārīzāde asked the chief judge of Rumelia,
‘Abdü’l-kādir Efendi, to organize the posts in the region in the year 1667–68.
Accordingly, he gathered high-ranking judges (eşrāf-ı kudāt) to revise the existing
judgeships and form a new list that comprised 361 judgeships, divided into twelve
categories according to the level of revenue. An important detail regarding this
regulation is that the number of posts in Rumelia seems to have decreased due to the
insufficient revenues of certain judgeships, and most probably these were combined
in order to increase their revenue level. Furthermore, it is striking to see that this
regulation was put into effect just when there was a growing use of the term “the
crowd of novices” (zihām-ı mülāzımīn).484
Scholarly interest in the rankings of the judgeships in general and in this
regulation in particular has been growing in recent years, and a number of historians
have shed light on regulations relating to the seventeenth century. Ercan Alan, for
example, concentrates on judge miscellanies (kādī mecmū‘aları) and notebooks
compiled by judges, and examines a number of different manuscripts related to the
regulation of judgeships in Rumelia in the seventeenth century.485 Similarly, a recent
study by Ahmet Önal and Levent Kuru suggests that the reorganization of judgeships
during the tenure of Minkārīzāde was not limited to the judgeships of Rumelia, but
483 Özergin, “Rumeli Kadılıklarında,” 251–309. Also see İnalcık, “Ruznamçe Registers,” 262.
484 Alan, “Kadılık Müessesesi,” 54.
485 Alan, “Kadılık Rütbeleri,” 337–366; Alan, “Kaza Teşkilatı ve Kadılar,” 53–97; Alan, “Anadolu
Kadılıkları ve Rütbeleri,” 59–100; and Alan, “Kadı Mecmuası,” 37–96.
162
also affected Anatolia and Egypt as well.486 By examining a number of judge
miscellanies, they come to the conclusion that the regulation of 1667–68 also
regulated the judgeships in Anatolia and Egypt. However, the criticism addressed by
Ercan Alan towards the work of these two historians, who came to this conclusion
from a list assembled from the same judge miscellanies, seems to be quite reasonable
because, as Alan rightly argues, there is no surviving original document related to
these regulations, all of which have come down to us via later compilations.487
Another important administrative development during the tenure of
Minkārīzāde is related to the rank of the judgeship of Mecca in the hierarchy. The
judgeship of Mecca—together with the other judgeships in the Arab lands, such as
Cairo, Medina, Aleppo, Damascus, and Baghdad—was ranked below the judgeships
of Edirne, Bursa, and Istanbul at the end of the sixteenth century.488 However, the
new arrangement, which went into force as of 1667, elevated the judgeship of Mecca
to the second highest rank after Istanbul. In other words, the Mecca judgeship’s place
in the Ottoman learned hierarchy was ranked above the judgeships of Bursa and
Edirne, and of the other prestigious judgeships in the Arab lands mentioned above.489
The available evidence makes it very difficult to answer the question of why
Minkārīzāde made this arrangement. Perhaps judges were expected to fulfill the duty
of pilgrimage before they reached the judgeship of Istanbul, which was often the last
step before promotion to one of the chief judges of the empire. The case of Fāzıl
486 Önal and Kuru, Osmanlı Kaza Teşkilatı. Also see Kuru and Önal, “Değerlendirme,” 183–196.
487 Alan, “Kitabın Tanıtımı,” 119–127. Apart from this, another important development related to the
Ottoman ulama should be mentioned here. Although it would be wrong to assert that the first Anadolu
Kazasker Rūznāmçesi (day register of the kādī-asker of Anatolia) began to be kept in separate folios
during Minkārīzāde’s tenure as chief jurist, the fact is that the earliest extant example of its kind dates
to 1665, and was recorded by the chief judge of Rumelia of the time, ‘Abdu’r-rahmān Efendi. For an
examination of the Anadolu Kazasker Rūznāmçeleri of the seventeenth century, see Kılıç, İstihdam ve
Kariyer.
488 For the status of the judgeship of Mecca in the hierarchy, see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 200–201.
489 Şeyhî, I, 947. Also see Uzunçarşılı, Mekke-i Mükerreme Emirleri, 63 and Atçıl, “Procedure,” 7–8.
163
Müfettiş Süleymān, who in January 1667 became the first judge appointed to Mecca
after the new arrangement was enacted, supports this point well. Since he did not
perform his pilgrimage duty, he was called to Istanbul right after his appointment,
and he died in the same year.490
An interesting field of inquiry related to this topic would be how the
experiences gained by judges serving in, for example, Arab lands caused them to
change. In other words, to what extent did local customs and religious and scholarly
traditions, or encounters with Muslims from other parts of the world, influence the
opinions of the judges?491 Considering that Mecca and Medina are known to have
been, in the eighteenth century, considered places where renowned scholars from
different parts of the Islamic world could come together to form common intellectual
trends of fundamentalist or revivalist Islam,492 in what ways and to what extent did
the arrangement enacted by Minkārīzāde augment the relationship between Rumī and
Arab lands in the long term? This is a promising question that needs to be paid
further attention.493
490 “Ol es̠nāda Şeyḫü’l-İslām-ı vaḳt olan ṣadru’l-ifāde Minḳārī-zāde Efendi merḥūm telḫīṣi ile bilād-ı
S̠elās̠eden ṣoñra Mekke -i Mükerreme ḳāḍīsi olmaduḳca İstanbul ḳażāsı tevcīh olınmamaḳ bābında
ḫaṭṭ-ı şerīf ṣādır olduḳda ber-muḳteżā-yı ḫaṭṭ-ı hümāyūn-ı sa‘ādet-maḳrūn yetmiş yedi Receb’inde
sene-i ātiye Muḥarremü’l-ḥarāmı ġurresi tevḳītiyle Ḳāmetī-zāde Meḥemmed Efendi yirine ḳażā-yı
Ümmü’l-ḳurrā’ya ibtidā bunlar naḳl ü tebdīl ve yirleriyle selef-i sālifleri Esīrī Birāderi Muṣṭafā
Efendi tebcīl ḳılındı. Lākin ber-muḳteżā-yı beşeriyyet neyl-i maṭlaba müsāra‘at olmaġın ba‘de edā’i’l-
ḥac mücāveret itmeyüp yetmiş sekiz Rebī‘ü’l-evvel’inde ḥuccāc-ı müslimīn ile şehr-i İstanbul’a vāṣıl
ve selāmet ile ḫānelerine dāḫil oldılar.” Şeyhî, I, 946–948. Related to this arrangement, a glance at the
career paths of the judges who were appointed to this city just after this arrangement was put into
effect reveals the tendency for their subsequent appointments to be made to the judgeship of Istanbul,
expect for those who did not get that appointment due to death. For the list of judges of Mecca, see
Şeyhî, II, 1468–1471.
491 It is interesting to note here that Beyāzīzāde Ahmed, who is best known for his harsh punishment
of an alleged case of inter-religious adultery in 1680, previously held the judgeship of Mecca in the
years 1673–1674. Baer, “Death in the Hippodrome,” 61–91. For the biography of Beyāzīzāde Ahmed,
see Şeyhî, II, 1305–1307.
492 There are a number of studies related to this topic. For these works, see Voll, “Intellectual Group,”
32–39; Voll, “Sudanese Mahdī,” 145–166; and Voll, “Hadith Scholars,” 264–273. For a treatment of
pilgrimage as material landscape, see Shafir, “Road from Damascus,” 165–228. For the importance of
Damascus as a gateway to the pilgrimage allowing for a set of encounters, see Shafir, “Ottoman Holy
Land,” 1–36.
493 Voll’s approach has attracted serious criticism. The following remarks by Dallal are illuminating in
this regard: “The ‘intellectual family-trees’ of students and teachers cannot serve as evidence for
164
Nonetheless, all the aforementioned developments should not make us think
that Minkārīzāde remained completely aloof from high politics during his tenure as
chief jurist. While it is true that, as compared to the chief jurists of the first half of
the seventeenth century, Minkārīzāde was less involved in politics during his tenure,
he nevertheless did occasionally interfere with affairs of state. One such intervention
took place during the siege of Candia. The Candia campaign, led by the grand vizier
Fāzıl Ahmed during the years 1667–1669, was the final stage of the war between the
Ottomans and Venetians over Crete, which had been ongoing for more than twenty
years. As the correspondence between different state officials during this siege
makes evident, Fāzıl Ahmed constantly tried to keep diplomatic channels open with
the Venetian ambassador.494 At a certain point during the siege, however, Fāzıl
Ahmed lost control over the channels of negotiation, because the Venetians sent the
new ambassador directly to the sultan, likely aiming at continuing the peace talks on
different grounds. The indecisive attitude of Sultan Mehmed IV, who could well
have put the course of the siege at risk, worried the grand vizier exceedingly, and so
the latter decided to send private letters to certain high-ranking state officials;
namely, the kā’im-makām Mustafā Pasha, Minkārīzāde, Silahdar Kız Hüseyin Ağa,
Musahib Mustafā Pasha, and Mehmed Vānī. Fāzıl Ahmed probably sent these letters
in the hope that these officials would help convince the sultan not to withdraw from
the ongoing siege without gaining any substantial success.
common origins; education acquired from the same teacher could be, and indeed was, put to
completely different uses by different students, and the commonality of the source does not prove that
the outcome is identical or even similar. The only information that can be safely derived from such
evidence relates to the pool of prominent teachers of the time with whom a serious student might
study.” Dallal, “Origins and Objectives,” 342. Also see Dallal, Islam without Europe.
494 There are numerous extant correspondences conducted during the siege of Candia, a considerable
amount of which can be found in the account of Mühürdar Hasan Ağa, Cevâhirü’t-Tevârih.
165
It is clear from the account of Mühürdar Hasan Ağa that the Venetian
ambassador met with Minkārīzāde and the kā’im-makām Mustafā Pasha in order to
discuss (mükāleme) continuing the peace negotiation.495 What is more important and
particularly relevant for our discussion, though, is the stance taken by Minkārīzāde
during the ongoing negotiations. Abdī Paşa’s account shows us that Minkārīzāde and
certain other state officials sided with the party that was willing to come to an
agreement with the Venetians. Minkārīzāde expressed his opinion that the Ottomans
should lift the siege and come to an agreement with the Venetians.496 However, the
stance of the kā’im-makām Mustafā Pasha prevailed over Minkārīzāde and his side,
and so the siege continued.
Overall, however, neither the two administrative developments for which
Minkārīzāde was responsible nor his partial involvement in high politics fully
capture the significance of Minkārīzāde’s role as the empire’s chief jurist. Rather
than simply collecting information from contemporary or retrospective accounts
about Minkārīzāde’s tenure, a more robust way to qualify him as “the chief source of
authority in the Empire”497 is to closely examine his hitherto neglected fatwa
compilations, which provide a wealth of information about his ideas and positions
regarding key aspects of Ottoman administrative, fiscal, and religious policies. With
this aim in mind, I will now focus in particular on the fatwas that Minkārīzāde issued
regarding the new land regime implemented in Crete after its conquest by the
Ottomans in 1669 as a case study, which has been claimed to resemble earlier
Islamic fiscal practices more than the classical Ottoman land regime.
495 Mühürdar Hasan Ağa, Cevâhirü’t-Tevârih, 360.
496 “Şeyhü’l-İslâm Efendi ve gayrılar kal‘a-i mezbûreden ferâgat ve musâlaha tarafını tasrîh ve tercîh
eyledükce aslâ müsâ‘ade-i hümâyûn buyrul[may]up bi-eyyi vechin kân feth olunmasıyçün ızhâr-ı
metânet ve Kā’im-makām Paşa dahi re’y-i âlem-ârâ-yı Pâdişâhîye sıdk ile muvâfakat itmiş idi.”
Abdurrahman Abdi Paşa, Vekâyi‘-nâme, 332.
497 Quoted in Imber, Ebu’s-su‘ud, 7.
166
4.4 Reconsidering the land regime of Crete in the light of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas
This section provides fresh insights regarding the new land regime that was
implemented in Crete after its conquest in 1669, using Minkārīzāde’s fatwas as a
source. Considering the fact that he was the chief jurist at that time, his fatwas in
relation to this regime become all the more important for examining the issue at hand
from an alternative point of view. Interestingly, although there have been many
historians who have advanced various explanations regarding the changes in the land
system of this island after its conquest, none of them have tried to examine the fatwa
compilations of Minkārīzāde in connection thereto.498
The land regime implemented in Crete is at the very center of two particular
historiographical debates, which have so far been discussed on different grounds.
One of these debates revolves around the question of whether the sharia prevailed
over Ottoman kānūn in the course of the seventeenth century. The other debate,
which has been addressed in the literature on the land regime in the Arab lands
during the late Mamluk and early Ottoman periods, is the discussion that can be
summarized as “the death of the proprietors.” Before moving on to the relevant
fatwas of Minkārīzāde, it would be beneficial to first introduce the different land
regimes in Ottoman lands in order to better ground the inquiry into the topic at hand.
4.4.1 Ottoman land tenures and the literature on the land regime of Crete
Despite the fact that Ebu’s-su‘ūd was not the first Ottoman scholar to give an
explanation of the prevailing Ottoman system of land tenure and taxation, he was
498 One noteworthy exception that can be mentioned in this regard is Eugenia Kermeli’s article, in
which she uses a series of fatwas issued or collected by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm. As we shall see,
however, these fatwas had actually been issued by Minkārīzāde. See Kermeli, “Caught in between,”
1–32, at 25–29.
167
regarded as the leading figure attempting to outline the existing land system in a
detailed way.499 In fact, Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s first attempt to explain the existing Ottoman
land systems can be dated back to the land regime that was prepared for Buda in
1542, which was later modified and came to be used as a reference for subsequent
land laws and later fatwa compilations.500 The following selected passages from the
register of Skopje and Salonica (1568),501 prepared in consideration of several of
Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s previous fatwas, succinctly sum up the existing land system in the
Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century.502
At the outset it is to be explicity stated that, in accordance with the sacred
Sharî’a, there are three categories of land in the Islamic territories. The first is
tithe land (‘öşrî) which are granted to the Muslims as their private property
(mülk). It is legally their freehold property, to dispose of as they wish in the
same manner as the rest of their properties … The second category is harâcî
lands, those which were left in the hands of the unbelievers at the time of the
conquest. They are recognized as their freehold property (temlîk). Tithe is
imposed on these lands at the rate of one-tenth, one-eighth, one-seventh or onesixth,
up to one-half, depending on the fertility of the soil. This is called haracı
mukâseme. In addition, they are subject to pay annually a fixed amount of
money which is called harac-ı muvaddaf. This category of lands, too, is
considered the legal freehold property (mülk) of their possessors, which they
may sell and purchase, or dispose of in any kind of transaction … There is a
third category of land which is neither ‘öşrî nor harâcî of the type explained
above. This is called ard-i memleke. Originally it, too, was harâcî, but its
dominium eminens (rakaba) is retained for the public treasury (beytü'l-mâl-i
müslimîn) because, were it to be granted as private property to its possessors, it
would be divided among his heirs, and since a small part would devolve on
each one, it would be extremely difficult, perhaps impossible, to determine the
share of harâc tax to be paid by each in proportion to the land in his
possession. Therefore, such lands are given to the peasants on a lease (‘âriye).
It is ordered that they cultivate them as fields, or make them into vineyards,
499 In this regard, as Snjezana Buzov rightly asserts, “Ebus’s-su’ūd issued a number of fetvas which
did not revisit the historical conditions of the Ottoman conquest, but rather offered a general definition
of this category of land in the context of the available legal knowledge.” Buzov, “Lawgiver,” 82.
500 For the transliteration of this kānūnnāme, see Barkan, Ziraî Ekonominin Hukukî, 296–297.
501 The transliteration of this kānūnnāme can be found in Barkan, Ziraî Ekonominin Hukukî, 297–300.
502 Similar descriptions regarding the different land tenures in Ottoman lands can also be found in the
Sivas Kānūnnāmesi; see Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri, VIII, 425–428. For similar passages in
the Kānūnnâme-i Cedid, see Karagöz, “Evolution of Kânûnnâme,” 218–219 (article 2); 219–221
(article 3); 222–223 (article 6); 224–225 (article 8); 227–230 (article 11); 333–334 (article 274). For
Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s two specific fatwas on this topic, see Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri, I, 141–142.
168
orchards or vegetable gardens, and render harâc-ı mukâseme and harâc-ı
muvaddaf out of the harvest.503
In light of this register, it can be concluded that there were three types in the land
system; namely, ‘öşrī, harācī, and arz-ı memleket.504 The most distinct feature of
these three types of lands within the boundaries of the Ottoman state is that, while
the ‘öşrī and harācī lands were granted as private property, the essence of the “state
land” (arz-ı memleket) belongs to the public treasury and only the usufruct rights
(tasarruf) were given to cultivators. Similarly, since this state land belonged to the
public treasury, cultivators could not inherit it, sell it, or endow it as waqf.505
As far as the land tenure in the Ottoman Empire is concerned, only a small
portion of lands can be regarded as having been freehold (mülk) assigned by the
sultans to various people and groups in return for their services.506 Many more
belonged to waqf organizations, whose revenues are devoted to charitable
activities.507 The majority of lands, however, belonged to the public treasury and
503 Quoted in İnalcık, “Islamization of Ottoman Laws,” 157–158. The Turkish transliteration of the
relevant passages is as follows: “Bir kısmı arz-ı öşrîyedir ki hîn-i fetihde ehl-i İslama temlik
olunmuşdır, sahîh mülkleridir, sâyir malları gibi nice dilerlerse tasarruf iderler.” … “Bir kısmı dahi
arz-ı haraciyedir ki hîn-i fetihde keferenin ellerinde mukarrer kılınub kendülere temlîk oiumib
üzerlerine hasıllarından öşür yahud sümün yahuds subu‘ yahud südüs nısfa değin, arzın tahammülüne
göre haracı mukaseme vaz‘ olunub yılda bir mikdar akçe dahi haracı muvazzaf vaz‘ olunmuşdur. Bu
kısım dahi sahihlerinin mük-i sahihleridir Bey‘a ve şirâya va sâir envâ‘-ı tasarrufâta kadirlerdir.” …
“Bir kısım dahi vardır ki ne öşriyedir ne vech i mezbur üzerine haraciyedir. Ana arz-ı memleket dirler.
Aslı haraciyedir, lâkin sahiblerine temlîk olunduğı takdirce fevt olub verese-i kesîre mâbeynlerinde
taksim olunub her birine bir cüz’î kıt‘a değüb her birinin hissesine göre haraçları tevzî‘ ve ta‘yin
olunmakda kemâl-i su‘ûbet ve işkâl olub belki ‘âdeten muhal olmağın rakabe-i arazi Beytülmal i
müslimîn içün alıkonulub reayaya ‘âriyet tarikiyle virilüb ziraat ve hıraset idüb ve bağ ve bağçe ve
bostan idüb hasıl olandan harac-ı mukasemesin ve harac-ı muvazzafın virmek emr olunmuşdur.”
Quoted in Barkan, Ziraî Ekonominin Hukukî, 298–299.
504 It should be noted here, however, that in addition to these three types of land system in the
Ottoman Empire, there was another called Malikâne-Divânī, which can be seen as a
combination of both mülk and mīrī lands. Barkan, “Malikâne-Divânî Sistemi,” 151–208;
İnalcık, “State, Land and Peasant,” 126–131; and Genç, “Mâlikâne-Divanî,” 518–519.
505 For more information on the state ownership of the land and land possession outside the mīrī
system, see İnalcık, “State, Land and Peasant,” 103–131. For a succinct evaluation for “the
relationship between land’s status and ownership” in the Ottoman context, see Punar, “Kanun and
Sharia,” 23–32.
506 Barkan, “Mülk Topraklar,” 157–176; Barkan, “Vakıfların Hususiyeti,” 906–942; and İnalcık,
“State, Land and Peasant,” 120–126.
507 Barkan, “İstila Devirlerinin Kolonizatör,” 279–386.
169
were known as arz-ı memleket, the revenues of which were assigned to cavalrymen.
What Ebu’s-su‘ūd actually attempted to clarify in his fatwas was the status of these
lands of the arz-ı memleket type.508 Here, an interesting detail regarding Ebu’ssu‘
ūd’s classification is that he categorized arz-ı memleket lands under the category
of harācī by stating that the essence of these lands was originally harācī. This
conceptualization of Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s has led some historians to conclude that he was
attempting to reconcile Ottoman and Islamic traditions on one common ground.509
Having thus briefly provided some background information concerning the
different existing land regimes in Ottoman lands, now we may make an overview of
the relevant literature on the status of lands on Crete. Ömer Lütfi Barkan can be
regarded as the first scholar who noticed the exceptional status of the land regime
that was implemented in Crete after the promulgation of its kānūnnāme in 1669. He
proposed that the registration of the lands in Crete as harācī represented a significant
departure from the Ottoman mīrī land regime, which had been formalized by Ebu’ssu‘
ūd in the previous century. Barkan also claimed that certain taxes (resm-i tapu and
resm-i çift) and terms (otlak, kışlak, ispenç, kovan, cürüm) were totally superseded in
the kānūnnāme of Crete. These changes in the land law of Crete were said to have
been implemented with reference to the sharia, which, in Barkan’s view, can be
regarded as a deviation from previous practice. In doing this, he actually questioned
the sharia origins of the Ottoman mīrī land regime.510
508 Whether the origin of the arz-ı memleke came from Byzantine or Seljukid practices became an
important venue for discussion among historians. See Köprülü, Bizans Müesseselerinin, 94–130;
Barkan, Toplu Eserler, 125–149; Barkan, Zirai Ekonominin Hukukî, LXIX-LXXI; İnalcık, “Raiyyet
Rüsûmu,” 575–608; and Imber, Ebu’s-su’ud, 115–138.
509 İnalcık, “Islamization of Ottoman Laws,” 159. Ömer Lütfi Barkan and Colin Imber tend to see this
attempt of Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s as legal fiction. Barkan, Ziraî Ekonominin Hukukî, XL-XLI and Imber,
Ebu’s-su’ud, 136.
510 Barkan, Ziraî Ekonominin, XIX (fn. 5), XLI-XLII, LXIX.
170
Ahmed Akgündüz, however, opposed Barkan’s argument by saying that the
implementation of mülk harācī in Crete was not in contradiction with the
interpretation of the mīrī land regime as formalized by Ebu’s-su‘ūd.511 He recalled
the fact that, by Islamic law, the legal status of a specific piece of land is determined
according to the method by which it was initially conquered.512 According to
Akgündüz, since Crete had been taken peacefully, the lands on the island were left as
harācī to the local people.513 He also maintained that the lands conquered by force
and formulated by Ebu’s-su‘ūd as mīrī were originally harācī, which depended on
the views of jurists who were followers of other schools of law than the Hanafi
school. Briefly, Akgündüz asserted that, since the status of mīrī lands was equivalent
to that of harācī lands, both the Ottoman mīrī land regime and the definition of the
lands of Crete as harācī should be evaluated within the framework of Islamic
jurisprudence.514
In addition to these two historians, Gilles Veinstein emphasized the Salafi
influence of the Kadızadelis in the preparation of the land regime of Crete by
concentrating on Vānī Mehmed’s proximity to the top ruling elites of the time.515
511 Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri, VIII, 425.
512 A piece of land could be acquired in four ways: “[I]t could be conquered by force, its inhabitants
could capitulate on treaty terms without resistance, they could voluntarily accept Islam, or they could
flee, abandoning the land.” Cuno, “Was the Land,” 123.
513 It should be recalled here, however, that although the castle of Candia was taken by peaceful
means in 1669, there were a number of other lands on the island which were conquered by force.
Minkārīzāde’s fatwas will provide us a glimpse on this topic. For this reason, it would be wrong to
assume that the whole island was taken by peaceful means.
514 Akgündüz’s comment on the issue is as follows: “[T]he miri [state-owned] land [in qanun
terminology] is kharāj [land acquired through conquest in the fiqh terminology] […] The taxes
collected from these types of lands, which were called rüsum-ı şerʿiyye in Ottoman law, were assigned
and collected according to the prescription in Islamic books of fiqh. The tax that is called öşür [in the
Ottoman context] is [fiqh-based] kharāj al-muqāsama and [the tax called] çift akçesi is really kharāj
al-muwazzaf […]. All directives in Ottoman qanunnames pertaining to öşür and çift akçesi are
consistent with what we find in the [fiqh] texts.” The translated passage is taken from Boğaç Ergene’s
study. See Ergene, “Qanun and Sharia,” 117. For the original passage, see Akgündüz, Osmanlı
Kanunnâmeleri, I, 67.
515 Veinstein, “Çiftlik Debate,” 35–53; Veinstein, “Le Législateur Ottoman,” 103–106; and Veinstein,
“Les règlements fiscaux,” 3–16.
171
Molly Greene, on the other hand, examined the underlying factors behind the
changes in the land regime of Crete by adopting a more inclusive approach. In her
view, the combination of certain factors—such as Islamic principles, Latin
administrative practice, and general Ottoman trends of the time—played a significant
role in giving final form to the 1669 kānūnnāme of Crete.516 She also discussed the
same topic in a later book where she paid special attention to the activities of the
Köprülü family on the island. Here, Greene argued that the new land policy in Crete
was the achievement of the Köprülü family, who owned a significant number of
estates on the island.517
Apart from these studies, an article by Eugenia Kermeli can be regarded as
the most elaborate work on the Ottoman land system of Crete. By comparing the two
land laws of Crete promulgated in 1650 and 1670, giving examples from court
records, and examining a number of fatwas, she saw the Cretan example as a kind of
experiment by which the Ottomans transformed the local custom of Crete in
accordance with their need to increase the chances of profiting from cultivation while
simultaneously adhering to their own tradition by making use of Islamic
terminology.518
The most relevant aspect of Kermeli’s article for this study is the authenticity
of the fatwas that were used. Specifically, she benefitted from the fatwa compilation
of Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm by giving credit to the possibility that he might have
collected these fatwas from a previous period.519 However, as will be shown later,
these fatwas were actually issued by Minkārīzāde. Establishing that the fatwas
related to Crete in Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s fatwa compilation were issued by
516 Greene, “Islamic Experiment,” 60–78.
517 Greene, Shared World.
518 Kermeli, “Caught in between,” 1–32.
519 Kermeli, “Caught in between,” 25, fn. 121.
172
Minkārīzāde during his tenure as chief jurist is crucial for determining the specific
historical context within which these fatwas were promulgated.
In the discussion regarding the fatwa compilations of Minkārīzāde in the
introduction to this study, I reached the conclusion that there were two different
fatwa compilations prepared by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm and ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed,
both of which contain fatwas belonging to Minkārīzāde. Nonetheless, we should
always keep in mind the possibility that Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm might have also
compiled the fatwas of other chief jurists as well.520 Nevertheless, to the extent that is
permitted by the available knowledge, the most reasonable way to judge the
authenticity of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas in both compilations is to determine the specific
historical context within which these fatwas were written, and then compare similar
fatwas in both compilations. As far as Minkārīzāde’s fatwas relating to Crete are
concerned, it is plausible to argue that the Crete-related fatwas in the compilation of
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm were actually issued by Minkārīzāde, and most of them
can also be found in the compilation prepared by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed.
However, there is a striking difference in some of the fatwas included in the
two compilations. It seems that while the fatwa compilation prepared by Menteşzāde
‘Abdu’r-rahīm consisted of Minkārīzāde’s original fatwas, ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed’s
compilation went through an editing process that removed the historical context and
put the fatwas into an abstract form. If there is any truth in this contention, the
following two exemplary fatwas from each compilation in the Table 2 would help
elucidate the distinction between these two compilations.521
520 See discussion on pages 26–30.
521 Throughout this chapter, since we know that the fatwas in ‘Atāu‘llāh’s compilation belong to
Minkārīzāde and that the fatwas in Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm’s compilation were previously used by
Eugenia Kermeli in her article, I prefer to make reference to the fatwas found in ‘Atāu‘llāh’s
compilation. For this, I have relied on a compilation copied in 1725 and found in Süleymaniye YEK,
MS Hekimoğlu 421 (hereafter Hekimoğlu 421). As to Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, I benefitted from a
173
Table. 2 Comparison of Fetāvā-yı ‘Abdu’r-rahīm and Fetāvā-yı ‘Atāu‘llāh
Fetāvā-yı ‘Abdu’r-rahīm Fetāvā-yı ‘Atāu‘llāh
Question: When the island of Crete was
conquered and authorized serdars and
defterdārs gave some of the lands
belonging to state land (arz-ı memleket) to
some people by proxy (vekāleten), but if
they sold them below their market price
(gabn-i fāhiş), can the lands sold below
their market price be taken from the hands
of the buyers and be sold at market value
(semen-i misilleriyle) by an imperial order?
Answer: Yes, they can.522
Question: If the defterdār gave some of
the lands belonging to state land (arz-ı
memleket) to some people by proxy
(vekāleten), and if they were sold below
their market price, can the lands be taken
from the hands of the buyers and be sold
at market value (semeni misilleriyle) by
an imperial order? Answer: Yes, they
can.523
Question: After the conquest of the island
of Crete, some lands from the state lands
(arz-ı memleket) were prepared and given
to certain people to cultivate them, who
were to give the harāc to those entitled to
it. However, although they had the usufruct
rights (tasarruflarına) of the lands, they
were not given the essence (rakabe) of the
land. If they have been cultivating the land
for many years and they have paid their
harāc, is it still permissible to remove the
land from their hands by an imperial order
and give it to those who offer to pay
harāc-ı muvazzaf and harāc-ı mukāseme or
the amount of harāc as rent (icāre)?
Answer: Yes, it is.524
Question: If some lands from the state
lands (arz-ı memleket) were prepared and
given to certain people without giving the
ownership of the land, to cultivate them,
who were to give the harāc to those
entitled to it, is it still permissible to
remove the land from their hands by an
imperial order and give it to those who
offered to pay harāc-ı muvazzaf and
harāc-ı mukāseme or the amount of
harāc as rent (icāre)? Answer: Yes, it
is.525
copy found in Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hamidiye 610 (hereafter Hamidiye 610), which was recorded
in the library catalogues as if it belonged to Minkārīzāde but is the same in terms of content as that of
the printed edition of the Fetāvā-yı Abdürrahīm. Since some fatwas were only included in the copy
compiled by ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, I refer to them only when necessary. For the printed edition of the
Fetāvā-yı Abdürrahīm, see Menteşzāde Abdurrahīm Efendi, Fetāvā-yı Abdürrahīm.
522 Hamidiye 610, 32b: “Soru: Girid cezīresi feth-u teshīr olundukda beytü’l-māl içün i‘dād olunub
arz-ı memleket olan arāzīnin ba‘zını serdār ve defterdār me’mūr olmalarıyla vekāleten bazı
kimesnelere bey‘ idüb lākin gabn-i fāhiş ile bey‘ etmiş olsalar ol gabn-i fāhiş ile bey‘ olan arāzī
müşterī yedlerinden nez‘ olunub semen-i misilleriyle bey‘ olunmak üzere emr-i sultānī vārid olmağla
nez‘ olunub semen-i misilleriyle bey‘ olunur mu? El-cevab: Olunur.”
523 Hekimoğlu 421, 25b: “Soru: Arz-ı memleketden bir mikdār arāzīyi defterdār vekāletle bey‘ ider
oldukda semen mislinden noksan fāhişe bey‘ eylese ol arāzī müşterīlerden alunub semen-i misilleriyle
bey‘ olunmağa emr-i sultānī vārid olmağla semeni misilleriyle bey‘ olunur mu? El-Cevab: Olunur.”
524 Hamidiye 610, 32b: “Soru: Girid Cezīresi feth-u teshīr olundukda beytü’l-māl içün i‘dād olunub
arz-ı memleket olan arāzīsi bazı kimesneler ekib biçüb harācını ta‘yīn olunan erbābına vermeleri
üzere virilüb ancak bu vech üzere tasarruflarına izin verilmiş olub ol arāzīnin rakabeleri temlīk
olunmamış olsa ol kimesneler dahi nice sene zabt u tasarruf idüb eküb biçüb me’mūr oldukları üzere
harācını vermiş olsalar hālā emr-i sultānī ile yedlerinden nez‘ olunub harāc-ı muvazzaf ve mukāseme
yāhūd harāc miktarı icāre ile taleb idenlere virilmek cā’iz olur mu? El-cevab: Olur.”
525 Hekimoğlu 421, 26a: “Soru: Arāzī-yi memleket b‘azı kimesnelere ekib biçüb ta‘yīn olunan harācını
erbābına virmeleri üzere virilüb temlīk olunmamış olsa hālā emr-i sultānī ile yedlerinden alunub
harāc-ı muvazzaf ve mukāseme yahud harāc miktarı icāre ile tālib olanlara virilmek cā’iz olur mu?
El-Cevab: Olur.”
174
These fatwas enable us to correct an inaccurate generalization in the literature
regarding the harācī status of the land in Crete. This point is crucial in the sense that
defining the land system of Crete as harācī in its kānūnnāme has been seen as a
radical departure from the previous kānūn-based taxes, and thus a sort of final
victory of the sharia over kānūn. However, as these two fatwas of Minkārīzāde’s
make evident, there were also some lands in Crete which were not granted as harācī
but instead procured as state land (arz-ı memleket). Because it is explicitly stated in
the 1670 kānūnnāme that “since the land which is in the possession of the infidels of
this island is harācī land, let it stay and continue in their hands,”526 most historians
have taken this register at face value, without elaborating on the actual practice on
the island.527 However, the above two fatwas of Minkārīzāde’s, together with the
following one, which is only available in the compilation prepared by Menteşzāde
‘Abdu’r-rahīm, make it clear that this assumption might be only partially true.528
Question: When the island of Crete was conquered, some lands were not
given to the possession of anybody, but were procured as state land (arz-ı
memleket). Some people were given permission to have the usufruct,
provided that they paid a certain amount of akçes to the public treasury to pay
their harāc to those entitled to it. If these people have the usufruct rights for
an extended period of time, and they have paid their akçes to the public
treasury in full, is it permissible to remove the land from their hands with an
imperial order and give it to infidels who accept the duty of tribute (zimmet)
to pay an estimated harāc-ı mukāseme and harāc-ı muvazzaf, or can public
treasury give these lands to applicants by way of sharecropping (müzāra‘a)?
Answer: Yes.529
526 “Cezîre-i mezbūre keferesinin tasarrufinin bulunan arazi arazi-yi hariciye olmak üzere yedlerinde
mükerrer ve ibka kalanıb.” Quoted in Greene, “Islamic Experiment,” 64, fn. 16. This part is not
legible in the text published by Barkan.
527 Despite the fact that Eugenia Kermeli incorporated these three fatwas into her study, she did not
put much emphasis on the difference between harācī and arz-ı memleket lands as far as these fatwas
are concerned. Furthermore, she tackles the coexistence of two lands regime in Crete only with
reference to the Cretan court records. Kermeli, “Caught in between,” 13–18.
528 The absence of the following fatwa in the compilation of ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed, however, might have
resulted from its similarity with the previous fatwa, which probably led ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed to choose
not to include it in his compilation.
529 Hamidiye 610, 32b: “Soru: Girid Cezīresi feth-u teshīr olundukda ba‘zı arāzīsi kimesneye temlīk
olunmayub arz-ı memleket ittihāz olunmağla ba‘zı kimesnelerin beytü’l-māl içün bir mikdār akçeleri
alunub ol arāzīnin harācını ta‘yīn olunan yerlere virmeleri üzere tasarruflarına izin verilmiş olsa
ba‘dehū ol kimesneler ol arāzīyi zāman-ı medīd tasarruf idüb beytü’l-māl içün verdikleri akçeyi istīfā
etmiş olsalar, ol arāzī yedlerinden emr-i sultānī ile nez’ olunub zimmet kabul eden kefereye harāc-ı
175
In a similar vein, it is equally erroneous to assert that the land regime implemented in
Crete before the promulgation of the land regime of 1669 was the only mīrī. Related
to this point, it is necessary to indicate that the 1670 kānūnnāme was not, in fact, the
first one of its kind promulgated on this island. Although the Ottomans conquered
Crete’s largest city, Candia, in 1669, the beginning of the siege of Crete goes back to
1645. Between these dates, Chania and certain castles—Rethymno, Granbosa,
Kisaamos, and Apokorano—were taken from the Venetians.530 As a result of the
capturing of these lands by the Ottomans, an earlier kānūnnāme had already been
issued in 1650, in which the classical land system of the Ottoman Empire was
followed, allocating tīmār and ze’āmet to soldiers.531 Anyone who took this land
regime as a reference might think that the classical land tenure was applied in Crete
as well. However, as Kermeli has demonstrated based on court records from Crete,
there were also harācī lands even before the promulgation of the land regime of
Crete in 1669.532
The coexistence of harācī and arz-ı memleket lands both before and after the
promulgation of the new land regime of Crete in 1669 puts in question the widely
accepted assumption that the status of lands in Crete was only harācī.533 In other
muvazzaf ve mukāseme takdīri ile virilüb yāhūd beytü’l-māl tarafından tālib olanlara muzāra‘a
tarīkīyle virilmek cā’iz olur mu? El-Cevab: Olur.”
530 Greene, Shared World and Gülsoy, Girit’in Fethi.
531 Gülsoy, “Osmanlı Tahrir Geleneğinde,” 183–203.
532 Kermeli, “Caught in between,” 13–18. Also see Adıyeke, “Temlik/Mülk Köyler,” 97–110. The
imposing of harāc tax on people before the promulgation of the new land regime of Crete in 1669 can
also be confirmed by another contemporary source: “Anların kefereleri Venedik ile yigirmi beş
seneden beri bozuşalı, hem bize birez harb öciyle harâc verirler idi ve hem kâfire harâc virüb imdâd
iderler idi. Şimdi bi-hamdi’llâhi Te’âlâ kal’a feth olub küffâr ile sulh u salâh olalı ola da kefereleri
cümle harâcını berüye virüb, küffâr el çekmek üzere ahz olunmuştur.” Zayıf Mustafa, Tarih-i Sefer,
144.
533 Another important topic to be addressed regarding Minkārīzāde’s fatwas is the question of to
whom the revenues of arz-ı memleket were allocated. A tangible answer to this question can hardly be
found in the fatwas themselves, but it is highly likely that these revenues were given to the
commanders and guards of the forts. According to Gülsoy, the lands belonging to tīmār holders were
abolished after the promulgation of the 1670 kānūnnāme. Instead, all the tīmārs and ze’āmets were
given to the soldiers employed in the castles of Candia, Chania, Rethymno, Kissamos, and Lerapetra.
176
respects, there is also not enough reason to describe the harācī status of the land in
Crete as unique, because the Ottomans did not change the land tenure of certain other
frontier territories, such as Basra and Lesbos, allowing private ownership of land.534
Additionally, the coexistence of harācī and arz-ı memleket lands permits
further inquiry into the space given by Minkārīzāde to dynastic law, which brings us
to the relationship between kānūn and sharia.535 The following two fatwas are quite
interesting for further examination of this point:
Question: If, after the infidels invade a land in the Abode of Islam and pillage
the neighbouring land, those who make use of the land flee, and then, if the
Muslims become victorious a couple of years later, are the previous owners
of the land allowed to possess the land? Answer: If there is an imperial order,
they can.536
Question: If, after the infidels invade a land in the Abode of Islam and the
inhabitants disperse, and if then the land is included in the territory of Islam
peacefully, and if the imperial treasurer wishes to give the land with a title
deed, can those who previously occupied (mutasarrıf) the land prevent this
and hold it once again? Answer: No, not unless they have an imperial order
[that allows them to do this].537
From the same, but more detailed, fatwas found in the compilation prepared by
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, we understand that the status of the lands mentioned in
these fatwas was arz-ı memleket.538 Related to this, a critical point in these fatwas is
Gülsoy, Girit’in Fethi, 303–310. For more information about the process that enabled the
commanders and guards of forts to be given military fiefs, see Kolçak, “Yeniçeriler,” 217–251, at
241–245.
534 Khoury, “Administrative Practice,” 318; Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri, XI, 515–520; and
Barkan, Ziraî Ekonominin, 332–338.
535 The relationship between kānūn and sharia remains a subject of intense and lively debate among
scholars. For a general evaluation of the topic, see Ergene, “Qanun and Sharia,” 109–120
536 Hekimoğlu 421, 21a: “Soru: Dārü’l-İslāmdan bir diyāra harbī kefere müstevlī olup nehb ü gāret
itmekle kurbunde olan arāzīnin mutasarrıfları perīşān olub ba‘dehū bir kaç seneden sonra ehl-i İslām
gālib olmağla ashābı gelseler ol arāzīyi zabta kādir olur mu? El-cevab: Emr-i ‘āli öyle oluncak
olurlar.”
537 Hekimoğlu 421, 21a–b: “Soru: Dāru’l-İslām'dan bir beldeye harbī kefere müstevlī olub ahālīsi
perīşān oldukdan sonra ol belde sulhla havza-ı İslāma dāhil olsa emīn-i beytü’l-māl arāzīsini tapuyla
virmek murād itdükde mukaddemā mutasarrıflarının biz zabt iderüz deyu men’a kādir olurlar mı? El-
Cevab: Emr-i ‘āli olmadıkça olmazlar.”
538 Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm recorded this fatwa as follows (Hekimoğlu 610, 32a): “Soru: Dāru’lİslām’dan
bir diyāra harbī kefere müstevlī olup nehb ü gāret itmekle kurbunde olan arāzī-yi
emīrīye’nin mutasarrıfları olanlar taraf-ı memālik perişān olub ba‘dehū ol diyarda harbī kefere havfī
yirmi seneden mütecāviz zamān mütemādī olmağla ol arāzī hāliya ve mu‘attala kalub asla bir
tarafından zirā‘āt ve hirāset olunmayub, ba‘dehū harbīler ehl-i İslāmla musālaha etdüklerinde havf u
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that the lands mentioned in both fatwas were taken by peaceful means. In such cases,
the political authority had limited options, because lands acquired peacefully should
be given to the local people as freehold (mülk). However, the situation was rather
different if the land was conquered by force. As such, as the following fatwas show,
Minkārīzāde stated his legal opinion without reference to political authority when the
land had been conquered by force and was given as tīmār, which left no room for
freehold:
Question: Some of the lands in a region conquered by force were attached to
a tīmār and given to Amr, who gave some part of the land to Bekr by tapu.
Then, the enemy Bişr returned with a pardon. If he agreed to pay tribute and
claimed that the land had belonged to his father before the conquest, can the
enemy Bişr take the land back? Answer: No.539
In light of all the above fatwas, it can be argued that Minkārīzāde provided as large a
space for the political authority to manoeuver as Islamic law permitted.540 What is
more, as these two fatwas make evident, there was no contention between Islamic
law and Ottoman kānūn (or “secular law,” as some historians have called it),541
which have generally been depicted in the relevant literature as two distinct
spheres.542 Instead, more recent interpretations of the relationship between Ottoman
haşyet mürtefi‘ olmağla ashābı gelüb ol arāzīyi ke’l-evvel zabt ve tasarrufa kādir olurlar mı? El-
Cevab: Emr-i ‘āli oluncak olurlar.”; Hekimoğlu 610, 32a: “Soru: Dāru’l-İslām olub arāzīsi emīrīye
olan bir memlekete harbī kefere müstevlī olmağla ahālīsi bi’l küllīyye perīşān olub yirmi seneden
mütecāviz hāli ve mu‘attal olub ba‘dehū ol memleket sulhla havza-i İslām’a dāhil olsa hālen emīn-i
beytü’l-māl ol arāzī-yi mu‘attalayı ibtidāen tālib olanlara virmek murād itdükde, kable’l-istīlā
mutasarrıfları gelüb, mukaddemen bizim tapu ile tasarrufumuzda olmağla biz zabt u tasarruf ideriz
demeğe kādir olurlar mı? El-Cevab: Emr-i ‘āli olmadıkça kādir olamazlar.”
539 Hekimoğlu 421, 23a: “Soru: Bir diyār ‘anveten feth ba‘dehū arāzīsinden bir mikdārı tīmār
bağlayub ‘Amr’a tevcīh olunub ‘Amr ol arāzīden bir mikdārını tapuyla Bekr’e virdükden sonra Bişr-i
harbī emān ile gelüb zimmet kabūl eylese, Bişr ‘Kable’l feth ol arāzī babamın tasarrufunda idi’ diyüb
ol arāzīyi zabta kādir olur mu? El-Cevab: Olmaz.” Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm recorded this fatwa as
follows (Hamidiye 610, 32a): “Soru: Bir diyār ‘anveten feth olunub ba‘dehū arāzīsinden bir mikdārı
tīmār bağlayub ‘Amr'a tevcīh olunub ‘Amr ol arāzīden bir mikdārını Bekr’e tapu ile virdükten sonra
Bişr-i harbī emān ile gelüb zimmet kabul eylese, hālā Bişr-i mezbūr ‘Kable’l feth ol arāzī müteveffā
babam tasarrufunda idi’ diyüb ol arāzīyi Bekr’den almağa kādir olur mu? El-Cevab: Olmaz.”
540 In this regard, Samy Ayoub’s recent study evaluates the Ottoman sultan’s legislative role in the
law-making process in late Hanafi jurisprudence by challenging the view that Islamic law distanced
itself from the state interference. See Ayoub, Law, Empire.
541 İnalcık, “Ḳānūn,” 559–62; Repp, “Qanun and Shari‘a,” 124–45, at 124; and Imber, Ebu’s-suʿud,
40.
542 Heyd, Ḳānūn and Sharî‘a,” 1–18.
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kānūn and Islamic law have employed approaches indicating that “the shariʿa and the
kanun were part of the same legal domain in which the main beneficiaries of the
economic and political system did not necessarily consider them to work in
dichotomy.” 543 Minkārīzāde’s fatwas are important indicators in confirmation of
this.
Despite all this, though there were some lands that could not be defined as
harācī, the fact remains that some parts of the lands on Crete were granted as
freehold (mülk), which brings us to the second topic to be discussed in this section;
namely, the idea of “the death of the proprietors.”
4.4.2 The rebirth of the proprietors?
To begin with, the locus classicus on this topic is be Baber Johansen’s The Islamic
Law on Land Tax and Rent, in which he meticulously examines the changing
classical Hanafi view of land tenure in the Arab lands during the late Mamluk and
early Ottoman periods.544 In light of the writings of Ibn al-Humām (1388–1457) and
Ibn Nujaym (1520–1563), who attempted to define the land tax and rent system of
their time, Johansen introduced the notion of “the death of the proprietors” to
543 Quoted in Tuğ, Politics of Honor, 59. Dror Ze’evi had previously asserted a similar approach:
“[F]rom the sixteenth century onward, the şeriat and the kanun were amalgamated, or came very close
to amalgamation, into one legal system in the empire. Most kanun experts describe the effort to make
the two systems compatible, but their basic assumption is that they remained too distant from each
other to form one whole. Our new understanding of the dynamic nature of law making in the Muslim
world, coupled with a better comprehension of the şeriat as a set of premises rather than a legal code,
have supplied us with sufficient contradictory evidence to doubt the veracity of the old ‘dual-system’
view. I suggest a different concept here, according to which the sultanic law and the şeriat did, in fact,
come to form one compatible system. The kanun was interwoven with the şeriat with painstaking care
within the sphere that legal experts of the time could have accepted as Islamic, inside the boundaries
of örf and siyāset.” Ze’evi, Producing Desire, 69. For more earlier attempts to examine the judicial
practice in Ottoman courts in terms of sharia, kānūn and örf, see Jennings, “Legal Procedure,” 133–
172; Jennings, “Judicial Power,” 151–184; and Gerber, “Sharia, Kanun and Custom,” 131–147. Also
see Heyd, Studies in Old Ottoman, 167–207; Marcus, Aleppo in the Eighteenth Century, 104–105;
Gerber, State, Society, and Law; al-Qattan, “Documenting Justice,” 63–76; Khoury, “Administrative
Practice,” 305–330; Ergene, Local Court; and Peirce, Morality Tales.
544 Johansen, Islamic Law on Land.
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emphasize the loss of peasants’ proprietary rights and their transformation from
landowners into renters who used the land through contracts of sharecropping
(muzāra‘a) and tenancy (ijāra).545 The common point in the writings of these
scholars regarding harāc is that a tribute paid by peasants was not a harāc, which in
the classical period was a tax collected on privately owned property, but was instead
a kind of rent paid for the right of usufruct of the land.546
The basis of this discussion centers around the term ard al-hawz
(sequestrated lands, or sequestered land, as Kenneth M. Cuno has called it547), which
can be defined as land which has lost its status as freehold (mülk) and been seized by
the public treasury on the ground that it had been deserted or fallen idle, or that the
cultivators were unable to pay the harāc.548 According to most Hanafi jurists, there is
a distinction between land known as ard al-hawz and lands belonging to the public
treasury. Accordingly, while ard al-hawz could not be sold but could be leased, land
belonging to the treasury was permitted to be given to new owners. Muhammed al-
Haskafī (1616–1677), however, used these two terms interchangeably in his writings,
which, according to Johansen, was a strong indication that the idea of “the death of
the proprietors” was accepted by Hanafi scholars.549
Nonetheless, Johansen’s contention that the devolution of peasants’ lands into
public treasury lands was accepted by later Hanafi scholars in Egypt and Syria has
been criticized by Kenneth Cuno.550 Cuno draws a more complicated picture of the
land system in Ottoman Syria from the seventeenth through the early nineteenth
545 Johansen, Islamic Law on Land, 80–97.
546 One of the most important reference books regarding the classical Hanafi interpretation of land
tenure is Ebu Yūsuf’s Kitāb al-Kharāj. See Ebu Yûsuf, Kitâbü’l-Haraç.
547 Cuno, “Was the Land,” 121–152.
548 Johansen, Islamic Law on Land, 103–107; Cuno, “Was the Land,” 124; and Joseph, “Analysis of
Khayr Al-Din Al-Ramli,” 112–27.
549 Cuno, “Was the Land,” 125.
550 Cuno, “Was the Land,” 121–152.
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centuries based on the writings of Khayr al-Dīn al-Ramlī (1585–1671) and Ibn
‘Ābidīn (1784–1836), who both defended the interests of the notables in their
localities by opposing the mainstream Hanafi view that lands sold by the state belong
to the public treasury. It would be misleading to think, however, that the objection to
this understanding of land tenure came only from scholars in the Arab provinces of
the Ottoman Empire. In his et-Tarīkatü’l-Muhammediye, for instance, Birgivī also
raised a criticism against Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s conceptualization of land tenure, especially
with his rejection of the tapu fee, which, according to him, was illegal and should be
regarded as a bribe.551
Johansen and Cuno were successful in interpreting scholars’ stances
regarding the system of land tenure in the Mamluk and Ottoman periods, but neither
of them comprehensively examined the legal status of cultivators, a gap that was
later filled by studies done by Martha Mundy and Richard Saumarez Smith, and
Sabrina Joseph.552 All of these studies have contributed to our understanding of the
social, economic, and political dynamics of the time periods on which they focus.
What is relevant in all these studies in relation to the topic at hand is the process that
witnessed the devolution of private ownership into the public treasury. This,
however, seems to be in contradiction with the designation of the lands of Crete as
harācī with the new land regime promulgated in 1669, because these lands were
given as freehold (mülk).
As a matter of fact, the difference between harācī and arz-ı memleket lands
had already been formulated by Ebu’s-su‘ūd in the previous century. However, what
551 Mundy and Smith, Governing Property, 16–19, 24; Ivanyi, “Question of Lands,” 137–147; and
Ivanyi, Virtue, Piety, 222–232.
552 Mundy and Smith, Governing Property and Joseph, Islamic Law on Peasant. Also worth
mentioning are two other articles of Martha Mundy in this context; see Mundy, “Ownership or
Office,” 142–165 and Mundy, “Legal Status of the Cultivator,” 399–419. Also see Taylor, “Keeping
Usufruct,” 429–43 and Taylor, “Forcing the Wealthy,” 35–66.
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Ebu’s-su‘ūd was actually trying to clarify in his fatwas on this matter was the status
of lands regarded as arz-ı memleket. For this very reason, most of the answers that he
gave on this topic were related to problems in lands owned by the public treasury.
However, since the land regime implemented in Crete seems to be an uncommon
practice in Ottoman history, the harācī status of the lands appears to have needed
some explanation in the eyes of the people, and this was precisely what was clarified
by Minkārīzāde’s fatwas. The following two fatwas issued by Minkārīzāde explicitly
show that landowners were the de facto owners of the harācī lands in their
possession.
Question: A land in the Abode of War was taken by force and the land in the
hands of the re‘āyā was confirmed; cizye was imposed on their heads and
harāc on their lands. Is this land a valid property (mülk-i sarīh), like the rest
of the [re‘āyā’s] properties? Answer: Yes.553
Question: On this issue, if the harāc-ı muvazzaf and the harāc-ı mukāseme of
this land have been assigned as fiefs (tīmār) to some people, and the owners
of this land die, can the possessors of the fiefs not allow the heirs of these
people to take possession of these lands, but [instead] give them by title deed
(tapu)? Answer: No, they cannot.554
Considering these two fatwas, it can be asserted that the landowners on the harācī
lands were not only guaranteed the ownership rights of their lands, but were also
allowed to transmit their ownership rights from one generation to the next.
According to Minkārīzāde, even if the revenues were allocated as the source of
553 Hekimoğlu 421, 21a: “Soru: Dārü’l-harbden bir diyār ‘anveten feth olundukda arāzīsi re‘āyāsı
yedlerinde takrīr olunub ru’ūslarına cizye ve arāzīlerine harāc vaz’ olunsa ol arāzī mezburların sā’īr
emlākı gibi mülk-i sarīhleri olur mu? El-cevab: Olur.” Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm recorded this fatwa
as follows (Hamidiye 610, 32a): “Soru: Dārü’l-harbden bir diyār ‘anveten feth olundukda re‘āyāsı
yedlerinde olan arāzīsinde takrīr olunub ru’ūslarına cizye arāzīlere harāc vaz’ olunsa ol arāzī ol
re‘āyānın sā’īr emlākı gibi mülk-i sarīhleri olur mu? El-Cevab: Olur.”
554 Hekimoğlu 421, 21a: “Soru: Bu sūretde ol arāzīnin harāc-ı muvazzaf ve mukāsemeleri ba‘zı
kimesnelere tīmār bağlanmış olsa ol arāzīye mālik olanlar fevt olduklarından tasarruflarında bulunan
arāzīyi erbāb-ı tīmār veresesine zabt etdürmeyüb tapu ile vermeğe kādir olur mu? El-cevab:
Olmazlar.” Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm recorded this fatwa as follows (Hamidiye 610, 32a): “Soru: Bu
sūretde ol arāzīnin harāc-ı muvazzaf ve mukāsemeleri ba‘zı kimesnelere tīmār bağlanmış olsa ol
arāzīye mālik olanlardan ba‘zı fevt oldukda tasarruflarında bulunan arāzīyi erbāb-ı tīmār veresesine
zabt etdürmeyüb tapu ile vermeğe kādir olurlar mı? El-Cevab: Olmazlar.”
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livelihood for the holders of the military fiefs, these soldiers were not permitted to
give these harācī lands to anyone other than the heirs of the landowners.
In addition to the two fatwas above, the following fatwa shows that the
ownership rights of those who had a poll tax (jizya) imposed on themselves and
harāc on their lands are so certainly guaranteed that Minkārīzāde gave the legal
opinion that the right of usufruct granted by sipāhīs should be abolished and the
lands given to the previous owners:
Question: A territory in the Abode of War was taken by force and the land in
the hands of the reaya was confirmed; cizye was imposed on their heads and
harāc on their lands. Afterwards, after they have died and their lands have
passed to their descendants, who were scattered with the invasion of
oppressors, if the sipahi gives the land to some people through icāre by tapu,
is it permissible for those who formerly held these lands to remove those who
took these lands through icāre subsequently? Answer: Yes, it is.555
Even putting aside the issues highlighted above, it would be plausible to argue that
the main concern for the Ottoman administration in determining the status of lands in
Crete was to acquire as much income as possible. In a sense, this can be explained by
a principle that was conceptualized by Mehmet Genç as “fiscalism.”556 The
following fatwa is a good example that supports the point that Ottoman officials did
not necessarily intend to designate the lands in Crete as harācī even if it was
conquered by force.
Question: When Crete was in the hands of the infidels, the army of Islam
invaded and conquered by force (‘anveten) some castles. Some of the infidels
555 Hekimoğlu 421, 21a: “Soru: Dārü’l-harbden bir diyār ‘anveten feth olundukda reāyāsı yedlerinde
olan arāzīde takrīr olunub ru’ūslarına cizye ve arāzīlerine harāc vaz‘ olunub bā‘dehū mezbūrlar fevt
olub vārislerine intikāl itdükden sonra zāleme istilāsıyla perīşān olduklarından sipāhī icāre tapusuyla
virse hālā geldiklerinde mezbūrlar āhardan alub zabta kādir olurlar mı? El-Cevab: Olurlar.”
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm recorded this fatwa as follows (Hamidiye 610, 31b): “Soru: Dārü’lharbden
bir diyār ‘anveten feth olundukda re‘āyāsı yedlerinde olan arāzīlerinde takrīr olunub
ru’ūslarına cizye ve arāzīlerine harāc vaz‘ olunub bā‘dehū murūru ‘avāmm ile ol arāzī batrīk
Alārş/İlarş? hālā mutasarrıfları olan re‘āyāya intikāl itdükden sonra ba‘zı zāleme istīlāsıyla ol re‘āyā
etrāfa perīşān olub üç sene zirā‘at olunmamağla karyelerinin sipāhīleri tapu nāmına ehl-i islām’dan
ba‘zı kimesnelerin birer mikdār akçelerini alub ol arāzīyi ol kimesnelere virmiş olsalar hālā re‘āyā
istimālet virilmekle yerlerine geldiklerinde ol arāzīlerini mülk-i mevrūsları olmağla vāzı‘ül yed
olanlardan alub kel’evvel zapta ve tasarrufa kādir olurlar mı? El-Cevab: Olurlar.”
556 Genç, “Dünya Görüşünün İlkeleri,” 182–185.
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residing in these castles refused to agree to become zimmis and fled to the
Abode of War. The defterdār, who was in charge, took their lands away and
gave them, in return for a number of akçes, to some people on condition that
they cultivate the land and pay the tax on produce (‘öşr) to the sāhib-i arz. If
they [the cultivators] were not given the ownership of the lands (temlīk
etmemiş olsa), could the representative of the treasury with an imperial order
still give away the aforementioned lands to those offering to pay harāc-ı
muvazzaf and mukāseme or the amount of the harāc by icāre? Is it
permissible? Answer: Yes.557
Ijāra (Turkish icāre) or “tenancy” refers to transferring the use of lands from the
possessor to the tenant in return for payment of the rent. According to Baber
Johansen, “the most important legal institution that contributes towards transforming
the possession of arable lands into rent-yielding property is the contract of tenancy
(ijāra).”558 What Minkārīzāde states in this fatwa is that it is legally possible to grant
this land either as harācī or through ijāra. In other words, the land can be given as
freehold, or it can be rented. As previously mentioned, since the land in question was
taken by force, Islamic law allows the political authority to make use of it in either
way.
In other respects, if there is something different from the Ottoman classical
arrangements concerning Crete that might have affected subsequent developments, it
concerned new registration practices. Kolovos, focusing specifically on the Ottoman
surveys of 1670–71 for Crete and smaller Aegean islands, asserts that the Ottomans
adopted new registration practices in the second half of the seventeenth century,
transforming the classic tahrir registers. They developed more elaborate survey
557 Hamidiye 610 33a: “Soru: Cezīre-i Girid harbī kefere yedinde iken ‘asker-i İslām müstevlī olub
ba‘zı kılā’anı ‘anveten feth itdüklerinde ol kılā’a tābi‘ olan keferenin ba‘zı zimmet kabul itmeyüb
dārü’l-harbe firār itmekle arāzīlerini defterdār olan kimesne me’mūr olmağla bazı kimesnelerin
beytü’l-māl içün bir mikdār akçelerini alub ol kimesneler ol arāzīyi eküb biçüb ‘öşr-ü mahsūlünü
ta‘yīn olunan yirlere edā’ itmek üzere ol kimesnelere virüb lākin temlīk etmemiş olsa ba‘dehū ol
kimesneler hāla emīn-i beytü’l-māl emr-i sultānī ile ol yerleri mezbūrlarlardan alub harāc-ı muvazzaf
ve mukāseme ile yāhūd harāc mikdārı icāre ile tālib olanlara virmeğe kādir olur mu? El-cevab:
Olur.”
558 Johansen, Islamic Law on Land, 25.
184
practices in order to better calculate expected revenues from registered areas.559 One
of the distinct features of this survey as compared to its predecessors is that Ottoman
officials recorded the name of the village first, and only after that tabulated the
names of the landholders.
Kolovos’s inference becomes all the more meaningful when one also takes
into account the fact that Ottoman officials applied the same strategy in the Edirne
register of 1670,560 in the Aegean islands in 1670/1671,561 in Morea in 1716, and in
Smederevo in 1741, which clearly shows “the fictivity of the entries of products.”562
Related to this, the following two fatwas are a good starting point for examining the
conjectural aspect of the land register in Crete.
Question: When the island of Crete was conquered and its land was
registered, but the harāc was drawn up at a low rate, if an imperial order
(emr-i sultanī) was issued to determine the harāc-ı muvazzaf according to the
prescriptions of [the Caliph] Umar (may God be pleased with him) and the
harāc-ı mukāseme was to be determined as 1/2 or 1/3 or 1/4 or 1/5 of the crop,
can the taxes still be determined in the manner explained? Answer: Yes.563
Question: When the island of Crete was in the hands of infidels, the army of
Islam invaded and conquered some castles by force. Some of the infidels in
these castles did not accept zimmet of their lands and fled to the land of the
enemy. The commander of the soldiers gave their lands as mülk to certain
Muslims, whose annual ‘öşr was made into a maktu of a certain amount of
akçes, and they were given imperial letters patent (berat). However, if the
revenue of the maktu was much less than the ‘öşr, can the trustee of the royal
559 Gülsoy, “Osmanlı Tahrir Geleneğinde,” 194 and Kolovos, “Preliminary Assessment,” 201–235.
560 Parveva, “Rural Agrarian,” 11-60; Parveva, “Villages, Peasants,” 15–34; Karagedikli, “Study on
Rural Space,” 53–212; and Karagedı̇klı̇, “Edirne Tahriri,” 7–28.
561 Balta, “Ottoman Surveys of Siphnos,” 51–69 and Parveva, “Agrarian Land,” 61–110.
562 Pavlovic, “Postclassical Defterology,” 72. It should be noted, however, that the classical land
survey also continued to be applied in some regions like Podolia; see Kołodziejczyk, Ottoman Survey
Register.
563 Hekimoğlu 421, 25b: “Soru: Girid cezīresi feth-u teshīr olunub arāzīsini tahrīr itdükde harācını az
tahrīr itmekle hālā harāc-ı muvazzaf Hazret-i ‘Ömer radiyallāhu anh tevzīfī mikdārı ve harāc-ı
mukāsemesi mahsūlün ya nısfı, ya sulüsü, ya rub‘u ya humusu mikdārı vaz‘ olunmak üzere emr-i
sultānī sādr olsa vech-i meşrūh üzere vaz‘ meşrūh olur mu? El-Cevab: Olur.” Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’rrahīm
recorded this fatwa as follows (Hamidiye 610, 32b): “Soru: Girid cezīresi feth-u teshīr olunub
arāzīsini muharrir tahrīr etdükde harācı az tahrīr etmiş olmağla hālā harāc-ı muvazzaf Hazret-i
‘Ömer radiyallāhu anh tevzīfī mikdārı ve harāc-ı mukāseme hāric ve hāsılın ya nısfı, ya sülüsü, ya
rub’u ya humusu mikdārı vaz‘ olunmak üzere emr-i sultānī sādr olsa vech-i meşrūh üzere vaz‘ olunur
mu? El-Cevab: Olunur.”
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treasury refuse to take the maktu and demand ‘öşr by an imperial order?
Answer: Yes, he can.564
For the first fatwa, it is beneficial to recall that there were two kinds of harāc;
namely, harāc-ı muvazzaf and harāc-ı mukāseme. While the first was collected once
a year in cash, the second was imposed on yielded crop in a proportion of 1/10 or 1/8,
to the extent that the land permitted. The rate of harāc-ı mukāseme was lawful to a
proportion of 1/2 if the supply of the land was good.565 Although the rate of harāc to
be collected is not specified in this fatwa, we know from the kānūnnāme of Crete that
the harāc-ı mukāseme was determined as 1/5 of the crop.566 Despite this, however,
Minkārīzāde stated that collecting the harāc-ı mukāseme tax up to the rate of half is
lawful in accordance with Islamic principles.
An amendment made to the kānūnnāme of 1670 in 1675 indicated that, since
the lands on Crete were unproductive and mountainous, and since people could no
longer farm and the land remained vacant, the harāc taxes would be reduced to 1/7
instead of 1/5 in order to encourage people to cultivate the land.567 All these processes
show that the local law was prepared with consideration of the interaction between
local demands and the preferences of the central administration, as well as through a
process of negotiation among the multiple parties who took part in the preparation of
these laws.568
564 Hamidiye 610, 32b–33a: “Soru: Cezīre-i Girid kefere yedinde iken ‘asker-i İslām müstevlī olub
bā‘zı kılā‘ını ‘anveten feth etdükleri ol kılā‘a tabi’ keferenin bā‘zı zimmet kabūl itmeyüb dārü’l-harbe
firār itmekle arāzīlerini serdār-ı ‘asker-i İslām bazı müslümānlara mülkiyet üzere ‘öşr-i mahsūlünden
bedel senede şu kadar akçeye maktū‘ mezbūr ‘öşr mahsūlünden noksan-ı fāhiş ile nāks olsa hālā emri
sultānī ile emīn-i beytü’l-māl maktū‘ almayıb ol arāzīden ‘öşr-i mahsūl almağa kādir olur mu? Elcevab:
Olur.”
565 For more information about these taxes, see Pakalın, Osmanlı Tarih Deyimleri, 734–736; Bilmen,
Hukuk-u İslamiyye, IV, 75, 82–83; Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri, I, 169–181; Kallek, “Haraç,”
71–88; DIA, “Haraç,” 88–90; and Orhonlu, “K̲ h̲arādj,” 1053–1055.
566 Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri, X, 940; Barkan, Ziraî Ekonominin Hukukî, 351; and Gülsoy,
“Tahrir Geleneğinde,” 201.
567 Despite this, however, this change was not actually implemented in practice. See Adıyeke and
Adıyeke, “Girit’in “Hakk ve Adl,” 223, appendix.
568 For a similar approach on this topic, see Atçıl, “Mısır’da Adlî Teşkilât,” 89–12.
186
Taking into consideration how the questions asked in these fatwas
corresponded to practical implication, one might think that the Ottomans did not
follow a consistent land regime policy on Crete, which has led some historians to
label the Cretan case an “experiment.”569 However, rather than comparing the
different land regimes implemented in Crete with previous practices, a more
promising field of inquiry would be to examine how the Cretan example became the
precursor to the change that occurred in Ottoman fiscal and financial administration
in the following decades.570
In this regard, it is beneficial to recall that the Ottomans abolished the old
system of the poll tax (jizya) in 1691 by imposing a standard rate according to the
three classes (poor, middle, and rich), a system which had already been applied in
Crete and the Aegean islands in 1670.571 Likewise, to what extent the taxation
method implemented in Crete contributed to the decision of Ottoman officials to
initiate a new fiscal practice by introducing the lifetime revenue tax farm (mālikāne)
in 1695 is another question that should be asked in relation to this topic.572
As has been rightly argued by Khaled Abou El Fadl, “the fact that Islamic
law is divine in origin should not conceal the fact that it creatively responds to the
socio-political dynamics of society placed within a specific historical context.”573 For
this very reason, determining that the fatwa compilation prepared by Menteşzāde
‘Abdur-rahīm in fact includes the fatwas issued by Minkārīzāde, as has been shown
in this section, is an important step in investigating his fatwa compilations in their
569 Greene, “Islamic Experiment,” 60–78 and Kermeli, “Caught in between,” 1–32.
570 It should be mentioned in this context that Abu Yusuf (d. 798)’s Kitāb al-Khāraj was translated by
Rodosizāde Mehmed into Turkish during the tenure of Kara Mustafā Pasha. See Atiyas, “‘Sunna
Minded Trend,’” 268.
571 Sariyannis, “Poll-Tax Reforms,” 39–61.
572 For more information about Genç, “Malikâne Sistemi,” 231–296; Suceska, “Malikâne,” 273–282;
Genç, “Malikane,” 516–518; Salzmann, “Ancien Règime,” 393–423; and Özvar, Malikâne
Uygulaması.
573 El Fadl, Rebellion and Violence, 322.
187
proper historical context, and opens a new purview for seventeenth-century Ottoman
historians.
4.5 Conclusion
Although Minkārīzāde was one of the empire’s longest-serving chief jurists in
the seventeenth century, the role he played in this position has been largely
neglected or downplayed in the literature. The dominance of the Kadızadelis
on the seventeenth-century religious scene, as well as the portrayal of Vānī
Mehmed as the leader of the third wave of this movement, undoubtedly
contributed to this neglect. As a result, if the role of Vānī Mehmed in high
politics is well appreciated, the position of the chief jurist seems, misleadingly,
to become of secondary importance.
This chapter has contextualized Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the office of
chief jurist between the years 1662 and 1674 in order to better appreciate the
role that he played as the head of the Ottoman learned hierarchy. For this
purpose, after briefly providing some historical background and a summary of
important events during the tenure of Minkārīzāde, special emphasis has been
placed on the tripartite character of the state bureaucracy due to the mobility of
the court and successive military campaigns, as well as the fragmentary nature
of the relevant historical sources. Subsequently, the chapter examined two
administrative and bureaucratic tasks for which Minkārīzāde, as chief jurist,
was responsible; namely, the reorganization of judgeships in Rumelia and the
elevation of the rank of the judgeship of Mecca in the hierarchy. Finally, I have
closely investigated Minkārīzāde’s fatwas relating to the land regimes
implemented in Crete after its final conquest in 1669 in relation to two
188
historiographical debates; namely, the question of whether the sharia prevailed
over Ottoman kānūn during the seventeenth century, and the issue of “the
death of the proprietors.” One important contribution of this chapter to the
literature is to show, using evidence, that the fatwas in the fatwa compilation of
Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm in fact belong to Minkārīzāde. Undoubtedly, a
more thorough and systematic examination of Minkārīzāde’s two fatwa
compilations, prepared by Atāu‘llāh Mehmed and Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm,
would allow for further appreciation of Minkārīzāde’s overall role on Ottoman
administrative, fiscal, and religious scenes in the second half of the seventeenth
century.
189
CHAPTER 5
THE SCHOLARLY PATRONAGE OF MİNKĀRĪZĀDE
5.1 Introduction
Minkārīzāde’s long tenure in the office of chief jurist in the years 1662–1674 gave
him an enormous opportunity to offer scholarly patronage to a great number of
scholars of diverse backgrounds, and indeed many scholars did cultivate a
relationship with Minkārīzāde and benefit from his patronage. A close investigation
of Şeyhī’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā reveals that more than one hundred scholars who
established close contact with Minkārīzāde. Of these, nearly 85 received mülāzemet
(novice status) from him. However, the granting of mülāzemet was not the only way
in which scholars developed a relationship with Minkārīzāde: more than 20 scholars,
though not directly granted mülāzemet by Minkārīzāde, had attended his lectures and
served him as teaching assistants or as fatwa emīni. While a considerable number of
the scholars associated with Minkārīzāde had a chance to reach top positions in the
hierarchy, others served in various educational and judicial positions across the
empire. In light of this, it can be safely argued that the presence of formal and
informal scholarly networks around Minkārīzāde is a key point for understanding his
tenure in the office of chief jurist, which entitled his seat to be called the “Threshold
of Minkārīzāde” (Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi). Rather than individually examining these
scholars in a limited fashion, it would be more useful to use the Minkārīzāde
Āsitānesi to more comprehensively scrutinize a large number of scholars who
established a close relationship with Minkārīzāde and benefited from his scholarly
and intellectual patronage.574 The importance of Minkārīzāde’s patronage lies in the
574 For the scholarly networks around Minkārīzāde, see Appendix B
190
fact that it points to the least studied and most neglected aspect of patronage in the
early modern period; namely, scholarly patronage.575
This chapter examines the scholarly networks around Minkārīzāde by
highlighting the scholars who came into contact with him in various ways throughout
his lifetime. After briefly outlining the emergence and changing nature of mülāzemet
in the Ottoman Empire through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, I will address
Minkārīzāde’s appointment as examiner (mümeyyiz) by imperial decree in 1658. This
decree, together with other documents, will give us critical insight regarding how
mülāzemet was viewed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the second
part of the chapter, I will examine the careers of scholars who received mülāzemet
from Minkārīzāde in an attempt to show that what mattered for Minkārīzāde in
granting mülāzemet was one’s knowledge and competence. Lastly, in the final part of
the chapter, I will show that mülāzemet played a crucial role in the transmission of
knowledge among scholars by emphasizing how it was not just a required
bureaucratic tool for entering the Ottoman learned hierarchy, but also a significant
indicator of common intellectual inclinations among teachers and students.
5.2 İjāzat vs. mülāzemet
It might be useful to begin by comparing the practice of mülāzemet with the ijāzat altadris
wa’l-iftā (authorization to teach law and issue legal opinions) in order to better
comprehend the close relationship between these two terms.576 For this, George
575 For example, Peter Burke has identified five types of patronage: 1) the household system, 2) the
made-to-measure system, 3) the market system, 4) the academy system, and 5) the subvention system.
In his view, the last two types had not yet emerged by the time of the Italian Renaissance. See Burke,
Italian Renaissance, 88.
576 For a recent treatment of the development and function of the ijāzat, see Davidson, Carrying on the
Tradition, 108–151.
191
Makdisi’s seminal study The Rise of Colleges serves as a good starting point.577
Focusing on madrasas in eleventh-century Baghdad, he meticulously examines the
organization, instruction, and scholastic community of these establishments and
compares them with European counterparts.578 He succinctly conceptualizes
madrasas in this work in the following words: “Muslim institutionalized education
was religious, privately organized, and open to all Muslims who sought it. It was
based on the waqf, or charitable trust. It was in essence privately supported. A
private individual, the founder, instituted as waqf his own privately owned property
for a public purpose, that of educating a segment of Muslim society, which he chose,
in one or more of the religious sciences and their ancillaries.”579 He also emphasized
the importance of ijāzats in granting permission to teach and issue legal opinions in
these institutions.
Taking into account Makdisi’s main points, we can see that institutionalized
religious education and the granting of certificates were two fundamental notions in
the transmission of knowledge in medieval Islam. His approach, however, has
received criticism on the ground that the teacher-student relationship, rather than the
formal education in madrasas, was especially important in the transmission of
knowledge. In other words, by downplaying the institutionalized aspect of madrasas
and questioning the supremacy of the certificates, scholars critical of Makdisi have
577 Makdisi, Rise of Colleges.
578 In a sense, this book can be regarded as an extension of Makdisi’s previous work. For these works,
see Makdisi, “Muslim Institutions of Learning in Eleventh-Century Baghdad,” 1–56; Makdisi,
“Madrasa and University in The Middle Ages,” 255–264; Makdisi, “The Scholastic Method in
Medieval Education,” 640–661; and Makdisi, “On the Origin” 26–50.
579 Makdisi, The Rise of Colleges, 281–282. Makdisi basically assumes that madrasas were founded
principally for instruction in Islamic jurisprudence. Other fields of knowledge, according to him, were
taught outside of these institutions. His remark on this topic is as follows: “But Muslim education was
not all there was to education in Islam. Institutionalized learning was not all the learning available.
Philosophy, philosophical or rationalist kalam-theology, mathematics, medicine, and the natural
sciences, that is those sciences referred to as the ancient, or foreign sciences, as well as all fields not
falling under the category of the Islamic sciences and their ancillaries, were sought outside of these
institutions, in the homes of scholars, in the hospitals, in the regular institutions, under the cover of
other fields such as hadith or medicine.”
192
instead emphasized the personal and informal transmission of knowledge.580 Thanks
to all these works, we see that ijāzat as a practice long predated the madrasa, and that
it could be granted both within and outside the madrasa system. Similarly, even after
the rise of madrasas, ijāzat continued to be granted in many different contexts.
Ahmed El-Shamsy, for instance, argues that “it was also not uncommon for teachers
to award ijāzats in response to well-phrased letters of request, or to bestow ijāzats on
the children of friends, colleagues and notables, even if the ‘student’ was still an
infant or indeed unborn.”581 While ijāzats could show genuine intellectual affiliation,
the transmission of knowledge could also signify a complex web of social and even
ritual connections, a process termed “the ritualization of knowledge” by
Chamberlain.582
Despite all these studies, however, some historians have continued to
emphasize the significance of the madrasa and of certificates in the learning process.
Devin Stewart, for example, meticulously and carefully questioned the relevant
literature in the light of the works of Qalqashandī, Idfuwī, and Ibn Qādī Shuhbah.
Confirming the findings of Makdisi, he reached the conclusion that the ijāzat was an
actual written document and was institutionalized as part of madrasa education in
Mamluk Syria and Egypt in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.583 One of the
main conclusions to be drawn from this literature would be that the professors from
whom one received one’s education played a significant role in the transmission of
knowledge during the Islamic Middle Ages. In other words, the relationship between
580 Tibawi, “Origin and Character,” 225–238; Lapidus, Muslim Cities, 107–115; Berkey, Transmission
of Knowledge, 21–43; Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice, 69–90; and Ephrat, Learned
Society.
581 El-Shamsy, “Social Construction,” 99.
582 Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice, 125–130.
583 Stewart, “Doctorate of Islamic Law,” 45–91. Also see Gilbert, “Ulama of Medieval Damascus”;
Gilbert, “Institutionalization of Muslim Scholarship,” 105–134; and Humphreys, “Politics and
Architectural Patronage,” 151–174.
193
a professor and student was the most important means of receiving bodies of
knowledge.
Although ijāzat has been discussed in great detail in the context of the
educational institutions of the medieval Islamic world,584 it has not been properly
addressed in the Ottoman context.585 Likewise, Ottoman historiography has remained
silent on the extent to which certificates played a role in receiving an educational
position in Ottoman lands. Apart from these, what is especially important is to
examine how the ijāzat contributed to the transmission of knowledge among
scholars, as well as to their mobility through different regions. A noteworthy
exception to the general silence on these issues is Judith Pfeiffer’s study focusing on
the circulation of knowledge between Persia and the Ottoman Empire, specifically on
the relationship between Jalāl al-Dīn al-Dawwānī and Mü’eyyedzāde ‘Abdu’l-
Rahmān, who studied with and received an ijāzat from the former and returned to
Ottoman lands where he held several teaching and administrative positions.586
Other Ottoman historians have also directed their attention to this topic in
recent years. Baki Tezcan, for example, uncovered new information about Kādīzāde
Mehmed (d. 1635) through two autobiographies written by him, revealing that he
was granted both oral and written licenses from Ebu’s-su‘ūd Kudsī and İbrāhīm al-
Laqānī (d. 1632).587 Helen Pfeifer has also recently evaluated the development of
licenses to transmit hadith (ijāzat al-riwāya) in the sixteenth-century Ottoman
context in the light of the ijāzat issued in 1570 by Badr al-Dīn al-Ghazzī (d. 1577) to
584 Schmidtke, “Source for the Twelver Shi‘i,” 64–85; Pourjavady and Schmidtke, “The Quṭb al-Dīn
al-Shīrāzī,” 15–55; Witkam, “Human Element,” 89–102; and Schmidtke, “Forms and Functions,” 95–
127.
585 For example, while one of the oft-cited encyclopedic entries regarding ijāzat completely
concentrates on its use in the early Islamic context, another article on the madrasas of Fatih and
Süleymāniyye and their icāzetnames largely focuses on the nineteenth century. For these works, see
Akpınar, “İcâzet,” 393–400 and Atay, “Fatih-Süleymaniye Medreseleri,” 171–235.
586 Pfeiffer, “Teaching the Learned,” 284–332.
587 Tezcan, “Portrait of the Preacher,” 202.
194
the Ottoman scholar Çivizāde Mehmed (d. 1587), who was the chief judge of
Damascus at the time and later held the office of chief jurist between 1582 and
1587.588
What is more important and particularly relevant for the purposes of this
study is that Minkārīzāde also received ijāzat al-riwāya from a Maliki scholar, ‘Alī
al-Ujhūrī (d. 1656).589 Al-Ujhūrī was born in the 1560s in the province of
Qalyūbiyya in Cairo. He received education from several scholars—among them
Badr al-Dīn al-Qarāfī, Shams al-Dīn al-Ramlī, and Ibn Qāsım al-‘Abbādī in Arabic
language, hadīth, Qur’anic exegesis, Islamic jurisprudence, rhetoric, logic, and
Sufism. He became known with his work entitled Mukhtasar Khalīl, a commentary
on al-Jundī (d. 1374)’s al-Mukhtasar. Al-Ujhūrī’s commentary opened a new avenue
for subsequent works, which were collectively named Ecāhire.590
Although not clearly stated in the sources, al-Ujhūrī probably gave lectures at
al-Azhar Mosque, where he established a learning circle and taught until the final
years of his life. As a result, he trained many students coming from diverse
backgrounds, such as Muhammed b. ‘Abd al-Bāqī al-Zurqānī, ‘Abd al-Bāqī b. Yūsuf
al-Zurqānī, Muhammed b. ‘Abdalllāh al-Khrashī, Ahmed b. Muhammed al-Hamawī,
al-‘Ayyashī, al-Shabrāmallisī, and Ahmed b. Muhammed al-Bannā’. It was most
probably during Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the judgeship of Cairo during the 1650s that
he attended al-Ujhūrī’s lectures and received an ijāzat from him.591 Unfortunately,
we have limited information about Minkārīzāde’s relationship with al-Ujhūrī, but it
588 Pfeifer, “New Hadith Culture,” 31–61.
589 For more information about al-Ujhūrī, see Çavuşoğlu, “Üchûrî” and Muhibbī, Khulāsat al-athar,
III, 157–160.
590 Kaya, “el-Muhtasar,” 71–74. Al-Ujhūrī also penned a treatise about the permissibility of smoking;
see Dalen, Doubt, Scholarship, 154–187.
591 Bandırmalı Küçük Hamîd Efendi, Fehâris, 529.
195
would be promising field to examine scholars who travelled to Cairo, Damascus, and
the Hejaz to receive ijāzat al-riwāya.592
There is undoubtedly a need for further studies to explore the extent of the
importance of ijāzat in finding a position in Ottoman educational institutions and in
the transmission of knowledge, but based on studies by Guy Burak and
Abdurrahman Atçıl, we can speculate that it was only after the Ottoman ulama had
reached a particular degree of consolidation and the self-perception of scholars had
accordingly changed that members of the Ottoman dynasty began to accord
importance to the construction of a well-ordered narrative of its scholars, along with
biographical dictionaries and intellectual genealogies.593
In this regard, there seems to be a consensus among historians that certain
institutional developments in the Ottoman learned establishment throughout the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries paved the way for the consolidation of the Ottoman
religious establishment as a distinct bureaucratic and religious body under the
Ottoman state.594 One of the most salient practices during this period was the
emergence and the changing nature of mülāzemet.
To put it briefly, mülāzemet refers to the status of a candidate awaiting a
judgeship or professorship in the Ottoman ulama after graduation from the madrasa
system. Occasionally, the term was also used to refer to the waiting period between
592 It is also very striking to see that several scholars–among them Ebū Bakr Ibn Bahrām, ‘Alā’ al-Dīn
Haskafī, ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Baghdādī, ‘Abd al-Bāqī Ibn al-Sammān, ‘Abd al-latīf Ibn Bahā’ al-Dīn al-
Bahā’ī, Yahyā al-Shāwī, Muhammed Ibn Suleymān al-Rūdānī, and Ibn ‘Abd al-Hādī al-‘Umarī came
to Istanbul and Edirne, where they benefitted from the patronage of Fāzıl Ahmed Pasha. In the light of
this, it can be safely argued that the relationship between Rumī and Arab lands was reciprocal. For the
relationship between the Köprülüs and Arab scholars, see Ayaz “İcâzet ve Kütüphane,” 307–340.
593 Burak, Second Formation, 71–72 and Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans.
594 For such works, see Repp, “Some Observations,” 17–32; Repp, Müfti of Istanbul, 27–72; İpşirli,
“Osmanlı İlmiye Mesleği,” 273–85; Uzunçarşılı, İlmiye Teşkilâtı; Beyazıt, İlmiyye Mesleğinde
İstihdam; and Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans.
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two positions, whether scholarly posts or judgeships.595 The term mülāzemet derives
from the Arabic root l-z-m (lazima, Form I of the verb), literally meaning “a being
inseparable.”596 According to George Makdisi, lazima and its synonymous verb
sahiba had similar connotations in the medieval Islamic context, “denoting the
notion of following or adhering to a master in a constant and exclusive way, devoting
themselves to working under his direction.”597 These notions, in fact, refer to more
than that. According to Konrad Hirschler, for example, “…ṣuḥba/mulāzama bonds
were social links between two individuals, which tended to be hierarchical,
formalized, exclusive and advantageous. They constituted a central aspect of the
social contexts of individuals.”598
Needless to say, the meaning of a word across time and space is too vivid and
dynamic to be reduced solely to its original meaning. In this respect, the same
inference will also be valid for the term mülāzemet and its usage in the Ottoman
context, though it is obvious that the term does evoke a master-pupil relationship in
that context as well.599 Despite all this, however, it is generally acknowledged that
mülāzemet was different from ijāzat. Atçıl succinctly summarizes this difference:
595 Throughout this study, the former meaning will be implied unless otherwise noted. For additional
information about mülāzemet, see Uzunçarşılı, İlmiye Teşkilâtı, 45–53; İpşirli, “Mülâzemet,” 537–
539; Klein, “Mülâzemet,” 83–105; İpşirli “Rumeli Kazaskeri,” 221–31; İpşirli, “Osmanlı Devleti’nde
Kazaskerlik,” 641–660; Beyazıt, “Şeyhülislamlığın Degişen Rolü,” 423–441; Beyazıt, İlmiyye
Mesleğinde İstihdam, 27–105; and Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 74–81, 102–113, 134–145.
596 It also refers to “an adherent and the one to whom he is attached”; see Redhouse, Lexicon, 1618.
597 According to Makdisi, “Suhba, fellowship, is a concept that goes as far back in Islam as Islam's
founder, the Prophet, whose disciples were called sahib (pl. ashab, sahaba), disciple, associate,
companion, fellow. As old as Islam itself, the institution of fellowship antedates the college system in
Islam. The relationship between master and disciple supersedes in importance the locale where
teaching took place; the master’s home, the master’s shop, some merchant’s shop, a hostel, a hospital,
the outdoors–the locales changed with the changing times, but the master–disciple relationship
remained. Without the institution of the suhba it would be difficult to understand how the educational
activity was carried on in the early period.” See Makdisi, Rise of Colleges, 128. Also see Makdisi,
“Suhba et riyasa,” 207–21; Berkey, Transmission of Knowledge, 34–35; and Chamberlain,
Knowledge and Social Practice, 119–122.
598 Quoted in Hirschler, Medieval Arabic Historiography, 20.
599 İpşirli, “Osmanlı Devleti’nde Kazaskerlik,” 642. According to Madeline Zilfi, the mülāzemet
system “reaffirmed the personalized Ottoman educational system in which the individual professor
rather than his medrese acted as the certifying institution.” Quoted in Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 58.
197
Mülazemet was the status of novice conferring the right to seek employment
in government-controlled positions. Although it resembled the certificate
authorizing knowledge and skills (icazet), mülazemet and icazet differed.
Mülazemet was official and brought rights before the government, while
icazet was personal and depended on the authority of the scholar who gave it.
In other words, not all of those who held icazet had the status of mülazım.600
That is to say, by receiving mülāzemet, Ottoman scholars became eligible to teach
specific texts in Ottoman madrasas as professors, or were considered to have gained
the legal expertise necessary to execute sharia law as judges. However, the
biographical dictionaries do not note in which madrasa scholars were educated:
rather, what was more important for the writers of these dictionaries was the name of
the scholars from whom an individual had lessons and received mülāzemet. This fact
directs our attention to the close ties that existed between scholars and their students
around the practice of mülāzemet, as in the case of ijāzat.
It should be noted, however, that there was an important difference between
mülāzemet and ijāzat. Due to this difference, mülāzemet could be used for controlling
and restricting the entrance of candidates to the Ottoman learned hierarchy. At the
same time, it allowed notable scholars to determine which students would be suitable
candidates for entering into the hierarchy. For these reasons, mülāzemet became an
increasingly important bureaucratic process for Ottoman ulama, for it brought about
the procedure that closed other ways of entering the hierarchy.
While it can be safely argued that mülāzemet played a crucial role in
controlling judicial and scholarly appointments and promotions in the hierarchy, it is
difficult to ascertain when it first came into effect. The term “new novice” (yeni
mülāzım) appears in the Kānūnnāme of Mehmed II, but since the earliest extant
manuscript copies of this law book date from the early seventeenth century and it has
600 Quoted in Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 75.
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been shown that certain alterations were made to the text after it was first
composed,601 it would be hasty to conclude that mülāzemet was already in use in the
second half of the fifteenth century.602 Even if we assume that the term “new novice”
did exist already in the version of the text that was drafted during Mehmed II’s reign,
it likely denoted a different meaning compared to the procedure that would come to
exist during the sixteenth century, because in Mehmed II’s time the Ottoman ulama
was still lacking in formal procedures and rules, and the acceptance of scholars into
the hierarchy was still determined to a considerable extent by the consent of the
sultan himself.603 Subsequently, mülāzemet evolved along a different path and the
role of prominent scholars in the process of granting novitiate status became
increasingly visible over the course of the sixteenth century.
Until recently, the beginning of the practice of registering scholars who had
received mülāzemet was dated to Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s tenure as the chief judge of Rumelia
in the years 1537–1545.604 This dating likely originated from the details given in
Nev‘īzāde Atāyī’s Hadā’ik’ul-Hakā’ik regarding the biography of Ebu’s-su‘ūd, that
the oldest extant Mülāzım Rūznāmçesi dated to the last year of Ebu’s-su‘ūd’s tenure
as the chief judge of Rumelia (1545).605 As the anecdote given by Atāyī regarding
Ebu’s-su‘ūd makes evident, the main purpose of the Mülāzım Rūznāmçesi register
601 Although some scholars, such as Ali Himmet Berkī, regard this document as a forgery, some
others—namely, Konrad Dilger and Cornell Fleischer—have persuasively shown that the
seventeenth-century texts contain various clauses that could not have existed in the fifteenth century,
and the final or extant version of the text must have been prepared in the late sixteenth century,
despite the fact that there must have been an original form of it which has not yet been found. Berkî,
İstanbul Fâtihi Sultan, 142–148; Dilger, Untersuchungen, 5–37; and Fleischer, Bureaucrat and
Intellectual, 199–200.
602Özcan, Kanūnnâme-i Âl-i Osman, 11. For a detailed discussion of the term mülāzım in the Fatih
Kānūnnāmesi, see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 70–74.
603 Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 75.
604 İpşirli “Rumeli Kazaskeri,” 221–223; İpşirli, “Osmanlı Devleti’nde Kazaskerlik,” 641–645; and
Beyazıt, “Şeyhülislamlığın Değişen Rolü,” 425–430.
605 For the earliest example of the mülāzım rūznāmçesi, see Meşihat Arşivi, Rumeli Kazasker
Ruznamçesi, 178/1.
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was to control the employment of “outsiders” (ecnebīs) in the hierarchy by allowing
prominent scholars to assign a specific number of novices.606
However, recent studies have argued that dating the emergence of mülāzemet
to the time specified above would be misleading, for it only shows the practice that
promoted scholars who granted mülāzemet. In other words, mülāzemet must have
already been in force for a while, at least before the 1540s. Indeed, two documents
dated to 1506 and 1523 show that mülāzemet was in use from at least the beginning
of the sixteenth century.607 Although the majority of the scholar-bureaucrats in
government service did not have mülāzemet in the first quarter of the sixteenth
century, these documents provide strong evidence that the mevali gradually increased
their power on granting mülāzemets to candidates.608
It can be argued that the consolidation of Ottoman rule over the newly
conquered Arab lands during the first half of the sixteenth century, together with the
building of new madrasas and the incorporation of judgeships there, considerably
increased the number of both educational and judicial positions in the Ottoman
ulama across the empire.609 In parallel with these developments, the growing role of
high-ranking scholars in the administration of the Ottoman ulama and the beginning
606 “It is reported that until the tenure of this scholar [Ebussuud] as the chief judge [of Rumeli; 1537–
45], there had been no special attention given to the registration of those with the status of novice, so
that everybody could find a way to enter the hierarchy. His peer [the military judge of Anatolia]
Çivizade Efendi [Mehmed bin ˙Ilyas; d. 1547] had prevented all outsiders (ecnebis) from attendance
[in his court to request an appointment]. They came together and submitted a petition to the . . .
imperial stirrup (rikab-i sultani) [the sultan], who gave it to this scholar [Ebussuud] and asked him to
solve the problems of these outsiders. Considering that their deprival would not be suitable to the
honor of the sultanate (şayeste-i namus-i saltanat), he appeased each of them with a position.
However, he established a special register for novices. In addition, he submitted a petition suggesting
that the number of novices that scholars [dignitaries] of each rank could invest be determined and that
there be a general occasion for the investment of novices (nevbet) every seven years. This petition was
approved.” Quoted in Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 140.
607 For these documents, see Alan and Atçıl, Ulema Defterleri, 35–59, 119–219.
608 Atçıl’s recent book makes it apparent that among the 720 incumbents and dismissed scholars in
Anatolia, Syria, and Egypt around 1523, only 264 of them were granted mülāzemet; see Atçıl,
Scholars and Sultans, 107–108 (Table 5.2).
609 Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 145–169.
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of the recording of scholarly appointments in the regular day registers (rūznāmçe)
after the 1540s paved the way for prominent scholars to have a considerable degree
of control over the granting of mülāzemets. In this regard, it can be noted that, as
Atçıl has shown via statistical analysis, nearly 56 percent of the officials who
reached the highest level of the hierarchy after the 1550s received mülāzemet from
Ebu’s-su‘ūd.610
As it became harder to enter the Ottoman ulama without mülāzemet in the
second half of the sixteenth century, many tried to find a way to acquire mülāzemets
in different ways.611 These people, commonly known as “outsiders” (ecnebīs), were
frequently mentioned as a cause of concern in Ottoman nasīhatnāmes written at the
end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth century.612 In this regard,
the decree of 1598 can be regarded as an attempt to restrict the entry of outsiders to
the Ottoman ulama.613
In summary, over the first half of the sixteenth century, receiving mülāzemet
gradually became an advantage for those who wanted to enter the Ottoman learned
hierarchy. Likewise, the role of mevali in granting mülāzemet to candidates
considerably increased during the same period. By the end of the century, entering
610 Regarding this point, one might wonder whether his long tenures in the offices of chief judge of
Rumelia and chief jurist between the years 1537 and 1574 played a role in the emergence of this
situation. According to Atçıl, however, the situation cannot be solely understood by his long tenures,
because “the number of those who received mulazemet from other grandees must have exceeded the
number of those who took mulazemet from Ebussuud Efendi.” See Atçıl, “Route to the Top,” 497–
498.
611 For these loopholes, see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 142–144.
612 Majer, “Die Kritik,” 147–55 and İpşirli, “İlmiye Mesleği,” 273–285.
613 At this point, Yasemin Beyazıt’s comment on this decree would be helpful for seeing whether or
not this decree was effective in the short run. By examining the ruznāmçe of Hoca Mehmed Efendi
covering the years 1599–1601, she reached the conclusion that, although the increased rate of entrance
into the hierarchy by way of tashrif and tutorship shows the growing role of prominent scholars in
granting mülāzemet to candidates, a considerable decrease in the number of candidates entering or
waiting to enter the hierarchy reveals the effectiveness of the imperial decree of 1598, at least to a
certain degree. Beyazıt, “Efforts to Reform,” 213–215. Also see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 142–143,
184–185. For the transliteration of this decree, see Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnâmeleri, VIII, 633–
638.
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the hierarchy without mülāzemet had become almost impossible, and receiving
novitiate status from privileged scholars increased candidates’ chances to reach top
positions in the Ottoman ulama.
As the above summary of the existing literature makes clear, the scholarship
on the practice of mülāzemet throughout the sixteenth century is vast, but historians
of the field have largely neglected its implementation in the seventeenth century.
Two imperial decrees recorded in rūznāmçes (day registers) and dating to 1636 and
1658 can provide some insight into the practice of mülāzemet in the seventeenth
century. These decrees will be examined in detail further below, but first it would be
beneficial to look at one of the most salient regulations of the eighteenth century
regarding the practice of mülāzemet, as this regulation will provide a convenient
ground for a more thorough discussion of these two decrees.614
This regulation, known as the decree of 1715, consisted of two imperial
decrees issued by Ahmed III.615 The first decree concerns the proper implementation
of mülāzemet. Specifically, candidates waiting to enter the hierarchy were asked to
specify their age, as well as what subjects and with whom they had studied. The most
interesting detail in this decree is the statement that it is enough for the sons of ulama
to indicate whose sons they are.616 According to Madeline Zilfi, who tends to see the
Ottoman ulama of the eighteenth century as a privileged group, this regulation
“singled out the worst abuses of the novitiate regulations.”617
614 These two imperial decrees were recently transliterated by İsmail Erünsal and Ercan Alan; see
Erünsal, “Kazasker Ruznamçeleri,” 407–410 and Alan, “Kadılık Müessesesi,” 303–306. For the
original documents, see Nuruosmaniye Kütüphanesi, Rumeli Kazasker Ruznamçeleri, 5193/6, 1b and
Meşihat Arşivi, Rumeli Kazasker Ruznamçeleri, 190/13, 66–69.
615 For these two imperial decrees, see Râşid Mehmed Efendi and Çelebizâde Âsım İsmaîl Efendi,
Târîh-i Râşid, 901–903.
616 For this statement, see Râşid Mehmed Efendi and Çelebizâde Âsım İsmaîl Efendi, Târîh-i Râşid,
901; “…mülâzemet arz olunan ulemâzâdeden ise ancak kimin oğlu olduğu arz olunmak kifâyet eder,
kaç yaşında olup ve ne okuduğunu i’lâma hâcet yokdur.”
617 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 57. Under the section entitled as “The Institutionalization of Privilege,” Zilfi
highlightes three developments that led to ulama privileges in the eighteenth century: “The ulema’s
202
The second decree in the 1715 regulation concerns the number of novices that
each scholar could introduce into the hierarchy. For this task, the chief jurist Mīrzā
Mustafā, who was a student of Minkārīzāde and had received mülāzemet from him,
was charged with preparing a report that specified the quota of mevali in giving
mülāzemets to candidates.618 According to this decree, the chief jurist, the chief
judges of Rumelia and Anatolia, the judges of Mecca and Jerusalem, the nakībü’leşrāf,
the hekīmbaşı, the tutor of the sultan, and some other prominent scholars
would introduce specific numbers of novices according to their ranks in the
hierarchy. Ahmed III, however, found the quota too high and ordered a reduction in
the number of novices that each dignitary could introduce. Thus, the quotas were
decreased to about one-third of what they had originally been.
5.3 The decrees of 1636 and 1658: Changes in the recruitment of scholars?
Addressed to the chief judge of Rumelia, Nuh Efendi,619 the decree was issued to
appoint the judge of Istanbul Ahmed Efendi as mümeyyiz in 1636, with reference
being made to his knowledge and fairness.620 The reason behind his appointment for
rise to aristocracy resulted from three interrelated and nearly simultaneous developments. One of
these, making consistent headway through the seventeenth century, sorted out the kinds of rewards, as
distinct from traditional emoluments, that members of the ulema would receive. Another, also a
product of the seventeenth century although along a rougher course, tended to ‘objectify’ these
rewards by establishing that they were automatically due any holder of certain ulema ranks. A third
development, largely a product of the late seventeenth century and early eighteenth, served to confirm
aristocracy by all but guaranteeing those ranks–and thus the set of special privileges attached to them–
to the sons of leading ulema.” Quoted in Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 55.
618 For this report, see Râşid Mehmed Efendi and Çelebizâde Âsım İsmaîl Efendi, Târîh-i Râşid, 902.
619 Şeyhî, I, 509–511.
620 Even though no further information is given about Ahmed Efendi in this decree, his identification
as the judge of Istanbul when this decree was issued in 1636 enables us to identify him as Mu’īd
Ahmed (d. 1647). We do not know how long he maintained this duty, but we learn from biographical
dictionaries that he was appointed as chief judge of Anatolia in 1637. However, he was dismissed
from the office only one year later and became the judge and mufti of Belgrade. In 1640, he became
chief judge of Anatolia for the second time, and was promoted to the office of chief judge of Rumelia
the following year. After staying in this office for nearly three years, he retired in 1644, but the next
year he returned to judicial service and was appointed as chief jurist, with his term lasting nearly one
and a half years. In short, in the light of this information regarding the professional career of Mu’īd
Ahmed, we can see that he became chief jurist nearly nine years after his appointment as mümeyyiz,
203
this task is that he was expected to choose which candidates would be suitable to
enter the learned hierarchy. Accordingly, Ahmed Efendi was asked to examine
candidates to ensure their knowledge and competence before they were accepted as
dānişmend by scholars. According to the decree, only those who had succeeded in
the exam and received a certificate from Ahmed Efendi would have a chance to be
assigned to educational posts.
Similarly, Ahmed Efendi was also made responsible for determining the
knowledge and competence of scholars who were waiting for an appointment from a
40-akçe madrasa to the hāric level. If they failed to prove their competence, they
could only be appointed to kenar medreseleri (madrasas in peripheral cities).
Another important detail in this imperial decree is that even the mollāzādes were
expected to take an examination from Ahmed Efendi and verify their competence in
front of him. This last point—together with the decree of 1658, as we shall see
later—is the most important and distinguishing feature as compared to the regulation
of 1715.
5.4 Examiner of ulama
Until recently, all that was known about the appointment of Minkārīzāde as
mümeyyiz in 1658 was based on the limited information found in biographical
dictionaries. Thankfully, the imperial decree issued in December 1658 provides
significant detail about his duties in this task.621 It was specifically with this decree
that Minkārīzāde was appointed as mümeyyiz and tasked with investigating the
eligibility of candidates to enter the hierarchy.
and his tenure in the office of chief judge ended within two years. For his biography, see Şeyhî, I,
509–511 and İpşirli, “Muîd Ahmed,” 87–88.
621 For this imperial decree, see Meşihat Arşivi, Rumeli Kazaskerliği Ruznamçesi, 190/13, 67–69 and
Alan, “Kadılık Müessesesi,” 305–306.
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In a sense, this decree can be regarded as a continuation of an imperial decree
issued in the name of Sultan Mehmed IV to the chief judge of Rumelia, ‘Abdü’lkerīm
Mehmed, in June 1658.622 The reason behind the issuing of this former decree
is stated as follows. It had previously been permitted by imperial decree that the right
to grant mülāzemet should not be given in abundance. However, this led eligible
people to fail to enter the hierarchy and provided an opportunity for ignorant and
uneducated people to enter the hierarchy. Similarly, outsiders (ecnebīs) had found a
way to enter the hierarchy in the place of deceased scholars. For these reasons, the
decree demands that henceforth mülāzemet should be in force in accordance with
“ancient law” (kānūn-ı kadīm).
Parallel to this, the decree also specified the number of novices who could be
introduced by mevali, with the number varying according to rank in the hierarchy.
Accordingly, the chief jurist would be able to introduce four people of novitiate
status every year. Additionally, he had the right to grant novitiate status to seven
other people by way of fatwa teşrīfi.623 The two chief judges of Rumelia and
Anatolia, and the judges of Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem, could each sponsor four
novices. Apart from these mevali, professors teaching at the madrasas of Sahn and
Süleymāniyye had the right to promote one student for novitiate status. By the terms
of this decree, it became impermissible to grant mülāzemet through services in the
military administration or any other capacity. Nearly six months after this imperial
decree, another decree was issued appointing Minkārīzāde as mümeyyiz, with Bolevī
Mustafā being the chief jurist at the time.
622 For this imperial decree, see Meşihat Arşivi, Rumeli Kazaskerliği Ruznamçesi, 190/13, 66–67 and
Alan, “Kadılık Müessesesi,” 303–304.
623 When scholars serving in teaching and judicial positions received a promotion and were appointed
to high-level positions, or also when they attended the military campaigns and when a sultan’s child
was born, they were entitled to the right to give mülāzemet by way of teşrīf (exalting honor or rank).
205
It should be stated from the outset that there are three main reasons for
addressing the appointment of Minkārīzāde as mümeyyiz in this study. Firstly, his
appointment deserves special attention because it gives detailed information about
the duty to which Minkārīzāde was appointed. Secondly, it prepares the ground for
discussion of the major principles behind the practice of mülāzemet in the
seventeenth century. Lastly, there seems to be a high degree of parallelism between
the set of criteria specified in the 1658 decree and Minkārīzāde’s priorities and
preferences in giving mülāzemet to candidates.
By the terms of this decree, two important procedures—namely, the
advancement of both students and professors in madrasas and the number of people
given novitiate status by professors in the madrasas—were detailed and planned to
be put into effect. Firstly, it was expected that candidates waiting to enter the
hierarchy would take an exam in front of Minkārīzāde. If they succeeded, they would
be accepted into the hierarchy and become dānişmend. After then studying for one
year, they could reach a Sahn madrasa. After spending a year each in a Sahn madrasa
and a 60-akçe madrasa, they could then pass on to Süleymāniyye. Then, if they
wanted to enter into the service of a mollā, another year should pass. The most
striking aspect of this decree, however, is that the mollāzādes were not exempted
from this procedure, as had also been previously ordered by the decree of 1636: they
too had to take an examination in front of Minkārīzāde, with entrance into the
hierarchy disallowed unless they succeeded.624 Additionally, professors could assign
competent students as mu’īds (tutors for madrasa students), and when these
professors moved to higher positions in the hierarchy, these mu’īds would have a
624 “…mollazâdeler dahi tarik-i ilme sülûk eyledükde evvel varub senden ders okuyub istihkâk ve
isti‘dâdları tamâm zâhir ve ma‘lûm olduktan sonra kânûn-i kadîm ve nehc-i müstakîm üzere hareket
idüb bu kânûn üzere hareket itmeyenler mülâzım defterine kayd olunmayub…” Quoted in Alan,
“Kadılık Müessesesi,” 305.
206
chance to receive mülāzemet—but first they had to prove their knowledge and
competence in front of Minkārīzāde.
The procedure that applied after a candidate received mülāzemet was also
specified in the second decree of 1658. Novices were supposed to wait for two years
after receiving novice status, and those who proved themselves competent were to be
appointed to içil medreseleri (the madrasas in the central cities of Istanbul, Bursa,
and Edirne), whereas others would be assigned only to kenar medreseleri (madrasas
in peripheral cities). Likewise, while the professors in the içil medreseleri would
reach the hāric level at the end of eight years, professors who were dismissed
(ma‘zūl) from 40-akçe madrasas would reach the same position within six years.
In addition to these two procedures regarding the advancement of students
and professors in the madrasas, the number of novices that professors could
introduce into the hierarchy was also specified. During the time that they spent
advancing from dahil madrasas to the Süleymāniyye madrasas, professors could
introduce no more than four novices. However, those who were not promoted to
higher positions but stayed at the same rank did not have the chance to introduce
novices. Similarly, while the judges of Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem were allowed
to introduce novices, professors at the hāric level and those who held positions as
arpalıks could not initiate any novices into the hierarchy. Apart from these scholars,
no other scholars in the hierarchy were allowed to grant mülāzemet to candidates.
Another important point regarding this imperial decree is that, considering
the close relationship between the chief jurist Bolevī Mustafā and Köprülü Mehmed,
the decree can be seen as one of the earliest signs of Köprülü Mehmed’s involvement
in the Ottoman learned bureaucracy.625 When Köprülü Mehmed came to power in
625 For the relationship between Bolevī Mustafā and Köprülü Mehmed, see İpşirli, “Bolevî,” 295–296.
207
1656, Istanbul had already witnessed a series of urban revolts. One of the
precautionary measures he took given this situation was to remove Mehmed IV from
the chaotic atmosphere of the capital.626 To this end, in 1656 Mehmed IV proceeded
to Edirne together with the great majority of the state bureaucracy. The geographical
proximity of Edirne to the Balkans should have allowed state officials to take a
greater active interest in the issues of that region. Indeed, if we look at the
composition date of the imperial decree appointing Minkārīzāde as mümeyyiz, we see
that it was promulgated in December 1658, just two months after the return of the
grand vizier from campaign in Transylvania. At first glance, Köprülü Mehmed’s
involvement may be considered speculative, but such a claim is not entirely
groundless because, when we take into account the fact that ‘İsmā‘īl Paşa and
Kudsīzāde Mehmed were appointed as imperial inspectors to distinguish true sādāt
(descendants of the Prophet Muhammed) from impostors in Anatolia and Rumelia,
respectively, in 1658–1659, then Köprülü’s taking part in preparing this imperial
decree appears to be a very high possibility that should not be underestimated.627
These attempts were very similar in content to those of a series of orders sent by the
court to the Balkans in 1702/3 to examine professors, preachers, and other religious
personnel in order to ensure that their knowledge and competence were enough to
enable them to teach the essential knowledge of Islamic faith and practice to people
in the region.628
If we now turn to how the imperial decrees of 1636 and 1658 shed light on
the practice of mülāzemet in the seventeenth century, the most salient aspect of these
two decrees as compared to the later regulation of 1715 is the change of privileges
626 For the political atmosphere of the 1650s, see Kafadar, “Rålamb Visited,” 58–73.
627 Canbakal, “Descendants of the Prophet,” 549.
628 Göcen, “Attempt at Confessionalization,” 86–150.
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accorded to the mollāzādes. While ulemazādes were made exempt from examination
in 1715, the decrees of 1636 and 1658 clearly state that even mollāzādes must take
an examination from the mümeyyiz. Put differently, no privilege was given even to
the sons of mevali—let alone the sons of ordinary ulema—and so according to these
two decrees they too had to prove their knowledge and competence in front of
examiners. If state officials were not careless using the terms mollāzāde and
ulemazāde interchangeably in these decrees, then it is clear that the strict merit-based
regulations of the seventeenth century, to the extent that these decrees make it
evident, provided no privileges to the sons of ulama, with even the sons of mevali
being subject to this regulation. Despite all these regulations, however, it remains
open to question to what degree the Ottoman kānūnnāmes and imperial decrees were
actually implemented in practice. Nevertheless, it is still important that the
seventeenth-century imperial decrees prioritized merit over birth, compared to the
1715 regulation and practices prevalent in the eighteenth century.
Related to this, a direct indication of Minkārīzāde’s priority in measuring the
competency of scholars or candidates was his authority to test them in the
examination. From contemporary biographical dictionaries, it is possible to trace a
considerable number of public examinations held in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries as tests of the competence of candidates for service in the Ottoman ulama.
One such public examination was held at the Kogacı Mosque in January/February
1666, when Minkārīzāde held the office of chief jurist. We do not exactly know how
many candidates attended this examination, but it is clear that several scholars were
examined.
Ebū İshāk ‘İsmā‘īl (d. 1725), for example, who would hold the office of chief
jurist in 1716–1718 and who was the founder of the ‘İsmā‘īlağa Mosque in Istanbul’s
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Fatih district, was one of those who succeeded in the Kogacı Mosque examination,
after which he was granted the madrasa of Yūsuf Paşa.629 Another scholar who took
part in the examination was Tevfīkīzāde Mustafā, who reached the hāric level after
succeeding in the exam.630 The son of Şa‘rānīzāde Mehmed, Ramazān, also passed
the examination.631 Rodosī Ahmed succeeded in the examination by giving a specific
lecture on Qur’anic commentary.632
In addition to this public examination, Minkārīzāde also administered
individual examinations to test scholars’ knowledge and competence. For instance,
Derzīzāde Mehmed petitioned Minkārīzāde to be granted novice status, whereupon
Minkārīzāde gave him an examination and appointed him as teaching assistant
(mu’īd) to Erzurūmī Mehmed, who would go on to give Derzīzāde the mülāzemet
that allowed him to enter the hierarchy.633 Yüsrī Ahmed was another scholar who
took an examination before Minkārīzāde, which he did after receiving mülāzemet
from Kara Çelebizāde Mahmūd and reaching the hāric level.634 Minkārīzāde also
gave an examination on Qur’anic commentary to the nakībü’l-eşrāf Nefeszāde es-
Seyyid ‘Abdu’r-rahmān.635
A detailed examination of the practice of mülāzemet and its implementation
in the seventeenth century is beyond the scope of the current study. However, as far
as the scholars who received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde are concerned, it can be
safely argued that he would grant mülāzemet to scholars only after ensuring their
knowledge and competence. In a sense, this seventeenth-century emphasis on merit
629 Şeyhî, IV, 3121–3126.
630 Şeyhî, II, 960.
631 Uşşâkîzâde, 432.
632 “Ḥattā Şeyḫü’l-İslām Minḳārī-zāde Efendi zamānında vāḳi‘ imtiḫān-ı ‘āmmede tefsīr-i şerīfden bir
ders taḳrīr idüp pesendīde-i cumhūr olmış idi.” Quoted in Uşşâkîzâde, 793–794.
633 Şeyhî, III, 2070–2071.
634 Şeyhî, III, 1966–1968.
635 Şeyhî, III, 2060–2063.
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can be seen as a confirmation of Zilfi’s observation on the seventeenth-century
Ottoman ulama, that “the presence of such ‘new men’ in the highest posts probably
owed more to new modes of entry than to wider traditional recruitment practices or
to the workings of seniority.”636
Zilfi’s observation is also important in the sense that she was one of the first
scholars to argue that the higher echelons of the Ottoman ulama of the second half of
the seventeenth century witnessed unusual career paths.637 For instance, three chief
jurists—Bolevī Mustafā, Ankaravī Mehmed Emin, and Debbağzāde Mehmed—were
the sons of merchants.638 Thus, even though their families were not affiliated with
the Ottoman ulama, they were nonetheless able reach the highest rank in the
hierarchy.639
Among those historians who have provided more precise data backing Zilfi’s
preliminary observations about the seventeenth century ulama, Denise Klein has
examined the 994 biographies in Şeyhī’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā in order to investigate
social and professional mobility among the low-and middle-ranking members of the
Ottoman ulama between the years 1630 and 1703.640 In parallel with Zilfi’s findings,
she argues that, during this period, the top positions in the hierarchy were relatively
more open to those coming from outside the ulama hierarchy, with the role of
Istanbul-born ulama in reaching top positions less dominant as compared to the late
sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries.
636 Madeline Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 97.
637 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 51 (footnote 15, p. 76).
638 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 76, footnote 15.
639 Needless to say, there are similar cases from earlier periods as well. Two examples that come to
mind in this regard are Kemalpaşazāde and Ebu’s-su‘ūd. While the former was the son of an askerī,
the latter was the son of a Sufi sheikh. The point to be emphasized here is that they had made their
career before the consolidation of the Ottoman ulama had reached a certain level of maturity.
640 Klein, Die Osmanischen.
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According to Klein’s findings, only 28 percent of the biographies found in
the first six chapters of Şeyhī’s biographical dictionary came from Istanbul’s ulama
families.641 Her observations are, in fact, quite opposite to the tendencies prevalent in
members of the Ottoman ulama in the eighteenth century, which were shown by the
Zilfi’s studies.642 However, there are significant differences between Klein’s findings
and those of Baki Tezcan, who revealed that the highest positions in the Ottoman
ulama were in the hands of several families at the end of the sixteenth and beginning
of the seventeenth centuries. In this respect, Tezcan asserts that the top-ranking
ulama (that is, the mevali) constituted a privileged social and religious group
between the years 1550 and 1650. Accordingly, he tends to regard these groups as a
kind of nobility whose members could pass their status on to their sons.643
From biographical dictionaries, we cannot reach the conclusion that
Minkārīzāde specifically offered patronage to scholars from a specific region. As
such, it can be argued that the geographical origin of the scholars receiving
mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde are homogeneously distributed across the empire.
However, the distinctive character of Edirne in the second half of the seventeenth
century, which resulted from the fact that the administrative center of the empire was
settled in that city between the years 1656 and 1703, should nevertheless be
emphasized: eight of the scholars who received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde were
originally from Edirne. These scholars are as follows: Arıkzāde Mehmed,644
Kavukcızāde ‘Abdullah,645 Müsellim ‘Abdurrahmān,646 Na’lburzāde Mehmed,647
641 Klein, Die Osmanischen, 92.
642 Zilfi, “Elite Circulation,” 318–64 and Zilfi, Politics of Piety, 183–227.
643 Tezcan, “Ottoman Mevali,” 383–407.
644 Şeyhî, III, 2203–2204.
645 Şeyhî, III, 2536–2537.
646 Şeyhî, III, 2594–2595.
647 Şeyhî, III, 2613–2614.
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Çukacızāde İbrāhim,648 Celeb Halīl,649 Berberzāde İbrahīm,650 and Cerrāhzāde
‘Abdül-fettāh.651 Perhaps a more interesting detail regarding these scholars is that the
majority of them were the sons of craftsmen and shopkeepers, and thus came from
outside of the Ottoman ulama.652 In the light of these facts, it can be asserted that the
presence of the court and of the chief jurist in Edirne in the second half of the
seventeenth century enabled the inhabitants of that city to reach Minkārīzāde more
easily.
5.5 Minkārīzāde as a leading scholar in patronizing high-ranking scholars
The primary aim in the rest of this section is to show that, in the second half of the
seventeenth century, Minkārīzāde was the most important figure in paving the way
for those who secured mülāzemet from him to advance to top positions in the
Ottoman ulama. In other words, the chief objective is to emphasize how Minkārīzāde
stood out through the patronage he offered to a considerable number of scholars of
diverse backgrounds. In this regard, one must first ask how many scholars who
secured mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde were able to reach top positions in the
Ottoman ulama. Six scholars who received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde went on to
become chief jurist at the end of the seventeenth and in the early eighteenth
centuries: Cānbolādzāde İmāmı Mehmed (t. 1695, 1703–1704), Yek-Çeşm Hüseyn
(t. 1703), Ebezāde ‘Abdu’llāh (t. 1708–1710, 1712–1713), ‘Atā’u’llāh Mehmed (t.
648 Şeyhî, III, 2631–2632.
649 Şeyhî, III, 2654–2656.
650 Şeyhî, III, 2670–2671.
651 Şeyhî, IV, 2992–2993.
652 In addition to the scholars mentioned above, there are also many whose fathers came from outside
ulama circles; namely, Sirkecizāde ‘Abdu’llāh (2065–2066), Sandalcızāde ‘Alī (2416–1427), and
Debbāğzāde Sun‘u’llāh (1815–1816), the brother of the chief jurist Debbağzāde Mehmed.
213
1713), Mīrzā Mustafā (t. 1714–1715) and Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm (t. 1715–
1716).653
It has been argued that securing mülāzemet from a leading scholar might have
increased one’s chance of advancing in the Ottoman ulama and reaching top
positions. As Atçıl claims for the sixteenth century context, “gaining mulazemet from
Ebussuud Efendi meant more than a simple initiation to the ilmiye path.”654 This
inference is also valid for Minkārīzāde as an esteemed scholar of his age and one
who held the office of chief jurist between 1662 and 1674. However, this should not
lead us to think that receiving mülāzemet from an esteemed scholar was the only
determining factor in one’s chance of advancing in the hierarchy. In addition to
patronage networks, one’s own skills, knowledge, competence, economic resources,
and geographical origins also played a fundamental role in determining one’s level of
success in the Ottoman ulama.655 Likewise, considering that the six scholars listed
above only became chief jurist after Minkārīzāde’s death, one can certainly raise
doubt about Minkārīzāde’s direct influence on these scholars’ trajectories in their
later careers. That is to say, these scholars did not reach the top position in the
Ottoman ulama solely due to having received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde.
Nevertheless, any scholar’s intimacy with the most influential figure of the period by
way of mülāzemet would have remained a useful privilege for him to carry for the
rest of his life.656 In the following lines, I will briefly introduce the bureaucratic
career of these scholars.
653 The other scholars who became chief jurist during the same period are the following: Debbağzāde
Mehmed (t. 1687–1688, 1688–1690); Ebūsaidzāde Feyzu’llāh (t. 1690–1692, 1692–1694); Sādık
Mehmed (t. 1694–1695); İmām Mahmūd (t. 1713–1714). For their biographies, see Şeyhî, III, 2189–
2193, 2105–2111, 2473–2476, 2698–2701.
654 Atçıl, “Route to the Top,” 498.
655 For more information about this topic, see Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 170–187.
656 According to Atçıl, “It seems that mulazemet marked not only initiation to the ilmiye, but also a
process of establishing strategic contacts with its powerful members. In most cases, these contacts
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The first scholar who can be named in this regard is İmām-ı Sultānī Mehmed
(d. 1728) from the district of Ladik, Amasya, who is known as Cānbolādzāde İmāmı
because he was Cānbolādzāde Hüseyin Paşa’s imam (prayer leader).657 After
securing mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde, he was appointed as the third and second
prayer leader of the sultan (imām-ı sālis-i sultānī and imām-ı sānī-i sultānī) while
continuing to teach in a number of madrasas. His subsequent judicial career went
through ups and downs, as many arpalıks (stipends) rather than assigned judgeship
posts were given to him. Nevertheless, he was appointed as chief jurist in 1695,
though he was only able to stay in the position for two months. Sometime after the
dismissal and subsequent execution of Seyyid Feyzu’llāh, he was again appointed to
the same position for the second time, staying there for five months.
Another scholar who secured mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde and later became
chief jurist is Yek-Çeşm Hüseyin (d. 1704).658 Originally from the province of
Hamīd, he attached himself to the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi and received mülāzemet
from him, subsequently beginning his career as professor and being appointed to a
number of madrasas. In 1690, when he was teaching at the Sahn, he became the
judge of the army (ordu kādīsı) when he joined the military campaign led by the
grand vizier Köprülüzāde Mustafā Paşa against the Habsburgs. After the Edirne
Incident in 1703, Yek-Çeşm Hüseyin was appointed as the chief jurist to replace
Seyyid Feyzu’llāh, though he remained in the post for only three days before being
replaced by aforementioned İmām-ı Sultānī Mehmed. Considering the fact that these
two scholars both became the chief jurist after the Edirne Incident, it is plausible to
argue that the political realities of the time closely affected the appointments of highseem
to have been very significant for advancement in the hierarchy. A prominent member of the
ilmiye could always help his protégés to progress.” Atçıl, “Route to the Top,” 497.
657 Şeyhî, IV, 3231–3235 and Özcan, “İmâm-ı Sultânî,” 453–454.
658 Şeyhî, III, 2347–2349.
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ranking scholars, and both İmām-ı Sultānī Mehmed and Yek-Çeşm Hüseyin were
affected by these conditions.
Another mülāzım of Minkārīzāde was Ebezāde ‘Abdu’llāh (d. 1714), whose
father had been a judge in Anatolia but later contented himself with performing the
duty of prayer leadership (imāmet) in the district of Balçık, Varna.659 Ebezāde
‘Abdu’llāh’s mother was a midwife who helped with the birth of Mehmed IV’s child
during the Kamaniecz campaign.660 It was probably Ebezāde ‘Abdu’llāh’s
acquaintance with the ruling elites in that region that allowed him to move to
Istanbul, where he received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde via serving as teaching
assistant in the madrasa of the Sultān Bāyezīd (medrese-i Sultān Bāyezīd
i‘ādesinden). After teaching in a number of madrasas, he transitioned to a judicial
career, serving as judge in cities such as Aleppo, Cairo, Edirne, and Mecca between
the years 1685 and 1695. Even though he rose as far as the chief judgeships of
Anatolia and Rumelia in the next few years, he fell into disfavor during Seyyid
Feyzu’llāh’s tenure in the office of chief jurist. Nevertheless, he managed to reach
the highest position in the hierarchy between 1708 and 1710 and again in 1712–
1713.
Another scholar who secured mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde and became chief
jurist was ‘Atā’u’llāh Mehmed (d. 1715). He was born in Simav when his father
Eyyūbī İbrāhīm was serving as the judge of that district.661 He then moved to
Istanbul, where he attached himself to the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi and carried out the
duty of mektūbcılık (private secretary), after which he secured mülāzemet from
Minkārīzāde. He began his teaching career with an appointment to the madrasa of
659 Şeyhî, III, 2604–2607 and İpşirli, “Ebezâde,” 98.
660 This child was probably Prince Ahmed (1673–1736), who was born during the Kamaniecz
campaign; see Yıldırım, “Müstakimzade Süleyman,” 174–175.
661 Şeyhî, III, 2617–2621 and İpşirli, “Atâullah,” 46–47.
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Monlā Kırımī in 1667 and received his last teaching appointment to one of the
Süleymāniyye madrasas in 1685. He then switched to a judicial career and was
appointed to a number of judgeships, including Yenişehir, Aleppo, and Istanbul.
While carrying out these duties, he was also appointed as fatwa emīni three times
between the years 1682 and 1692. In the following years, Atā’u’llāh Mehmed was
unable to obtain regular promotions and only received temporary stipends (arpalıks).
After being appointed as the chief judge of Rumelia on two occasions, in 1706 and
1712, he reached the top position in the hierarchy in 1713 in place of Ebezāde
Abdullah, though he stayed there for only two months.
Mīrzā Mustafā (d. 1722) and Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm (d. 1716) are the last
two scholars who can be mentioned in this context. Mīrzā Mustafā was born in the
early 1630s in Batum, the son of a certain ‘Abdü’r-ra’ūf.662 Coming to Istanbul in
1646, he entered the palace of Galata as a gılmān (page in the sultan’s palace), where
he received education from İmām-ı Sultānī Şāmī Hüseyin and Kiçi Mehmed and
attended Minkārīzāde’s lessons. During the reign of Sultan Ibrahim I, he entered the
small chamber (küçük oda), and later became assistant (halīfe) in the large chamber
(büyük oda). He even became the chief assistant (ser-halīfe) in the palace pantry
(kīlār odası). After receiving mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde independently
(müstakillen) on the order of Mehmed IV, 663 Mīrzā Mustafā left the palace and
began his teaching career around the years 1661–1662, continuing as a teacher for
nearly ten years. He received his first judicial appointment with the judgeship of
Kamaniecz with the grade (pāye) of Aleppo. His subsequent judicial career,
however, had both ups and downs. Although he was appointed as the chief judge of
662 Şeyhî, IV, 3009–3015.
663 Although Şeyhī did not specifically write that Mīrzā Mustafā secured mülāzemet from
Minkārīzāde, he stated in the preface of his el-Fevāidü’l-Mekkiyye ale’l-Hāşiyeti’l-‘İsāmiyye that he
received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde; see Sümertaş and Bayer, “Batumlu Mirzâ,” 67–85, at 80.
217
Rumelia three times—in 1695, 1698, and 1709—he was frequently dismissed. He
nevertheless managed to become chief jurist at the end of the year 1714, though he
stayed there for less than a year before being replaced by Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm.
The most distinguishing feature of Mīrzā Mustafā as compared to his predecessors
was that he was the first scholar educated in the palace school (Enderūn-ı Hümāyūn)
to become the chief jurist in the history of the Ottoman Empire.
The last of the six scholars who received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde and
went on to serve as chief jurist was Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm (d. 1716), originally
from Bursa.664 He was the son of Kürd Mehmed, who had died in 1653 as the scribe
(kātib) at the court of Bursa.665 Abdü’r-rahīm’s patronym, however, came from his
father-in-law, Menteşzāde Mahmūd.666 After receiving his initial education in Bursa,
‘Abdü’r-rahīm moved to Istanbul, where he “looked for good fortune” in the
Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi (ka‘betü’l-ikbāl-i āsitānelerinde) and eventually secured
mülāzemet from him. In 1671, he reached to the hāric level and then proceeded to
the top teaching position in the Ottoman ulama with his appointment to the Dāruʾlhadīth
madrasa of Süleymāniyye in 1688. Although he was appointed to a number of
judgeships such as Yenişehir, Edirne, Üsküdar, and Cairo at the beginning of his
judicial career, he spent most of the subsequent years receiving stipends (arpalık) in
the form of judicial offices; namely, İslimiyye, Kirmastı, Kili, Bāzārköyü, Atranos,
Mar’aş, Sabanca, Bolı, Edincik, and Mihalic. In later years, however, Menteşzāde
‘Abdü’r-rahīm seems to have advanced regularly, being appointed to the judgeship
of Istanbul in 1705 and the office of chief judge of Anatolia in 1708. He also served
as the chief judge of Rumelia on three occasions—in 1711, 1713, and 1715—before
664 Şeyhî, III, 2662–2666 and İpşirli, “Menteşzâde,” 289–290.
665 Şeyhî, I, 681.
666 Şeyhî, I, 704–705.
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being appointed to the office of chief jurist in 1715, where he stayed for one and a
half years.
There are also a number of scholars who reached the top position in the
Ottoman ulama and, though they did not receive mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde, were
nonetheless in contact with him in various ways. These scholars are as follows;
Çatalcalı ‘Alī (d. 1692), Ankaravī Mehmed (d. 1687), Ebū İshāk ‘İsmā‘īl (d. 1725),
Başmakcızāde es-Seyyid ‘Alī (d. 1712), Seyyid Feyzu’llāh (d. 1703).
The first scholar who can be named in this regard is Çatalcalı ‘Alī (d. 1692),
who held the office of chief jurist between the years 1674 and 1686, after
Minkārīzāde’s tenure.667 His father was Sheikh Mehmed, originally from ‘Alā’iyye
and the son of a certain Kādī Hasan. Sheikh Mehmed then migrated to Istanbul,
where he became dānişmend of an unknown scholar, from whom he received
mülāzemet. Later, he attached himself to the āsitāne of ‘Ömer Efendi, the Halvetī
sheikh at the Tercemān lodge, and was appointed as deputy (halīfe) in a sufi lodge in
Çatalca/Yenişehir in Bursa, where Çatalcalı ‘Alī was born and received his initial
education.
It can be said that Çatalcalı ‘Alī’s career was, in a way, destined for success
from his early years. When Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm became the judge of Yenişehir in
1634, he visited Çatalcalı ‘Alī’s father’s sufi lodge in the city, where he made a
promise to give mülāzemet to Çatalcalı ‘Alī. Indeed, when Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm
became the chief jurist in 1647, Çatalcalı ‘Alī received mülāzemet from him with
honor (teşrīfen). Considering, however, that Çatalcalı ‘Alī was only three years old
when Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm initially made this promise, it can only have been ‘Alī’s
father’s intimacy with Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm that paved the way for this mülāzemet.
667 Şeyhî, III, 1932–1935.
219
Çatalcalı ‘Alī’s subsequent career, however, proceeded hand in hand with
Minkārīzāde to a certain extent, as he attached himself to the Minkārīzāde Āsītanesi
and became his nā’ib (regent) when the latter was appointed as the judge of Cairo in
1652. He had the same duty during Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the judgeship of Istanbul
in 1659. During Minkārīzāde’s tenure in the office of chief jurist during the 1660s,
on the other hand, Çatalcali ‘Alī was holding professorships in a number of
madrasas. At the same time, he was also appointed as judge of the army (ordu kādīsı)
during two military campaigns in the 1660s—namely, the Habsburg war of 1663–
1664 and the siege of Candia of 1667–1669—during which time he seems to have
earned trust of Fāzıl Ahmed, who made Çatalcalı ‘Alī the next chief jurist,
succeeding Minkārīzāde in 1674.668
Although there was no student-teacher relationship between Minkārīzāde and
Ankaravī Mehmed, the latter should also be mentioned here due to the fact that he
was the fatwa emīni of Minkārīzāde.669 Ankaravī Mehmed was born in Ankara in
1619, the son of a merchant named Hüseyin Efendi, and he received mülāzemet from
Zekeriyyāzāde Yahyā.670 After teaching in a number of madrasas, he served in
various judicial positions during the 1660s, during which he also performed the duty
of fatwa emīni. At the beginning of the 1670s, he was appointed in turn as the judge
of Istanbul, the chief judge of Anatolia, and the chief judge of Rumelia. He even
acted as regent (nā’ib) for Minkārīzāde for nearly eight months, during which time
668 According to Şem’dānīzāde, the reason behind Çatalcalı ‘Alī’s appointment as chief jurist in 1674
lay in Minkārīzāde’s advice to Mehmed IV; see Öksüz, “Şem’dânîzâde, 220: “…pâdişâh “Yahyâ
Efendi kimi münâsib görür ise müftî ol olsun” buyurulmağla Yahyâ Efendi’den istifsâr olundukda
“bizim Molla ‘Alî münâsib” deyicek Yahyâ Efendi yevmî bin akçe vazîfe ile mütekâ‘id olup yerine
mezbûr Çatalcalı ‘Alî Efendi şeyhülislâm oldu.”
669 For more information about Ankaravī and his fatwa compilation, see Şeyhî, II, 1321–1324 and
Özcan, “Ankaravî,” 461–462.
670 Ankaravī Mehmed was one of the three sons of merchants among the nineteen chief jurists from
the second half of the seventeenth century.
220
he was in charge of issuing fatwas. In 1686, he became the chief jurist after Çatalcalı
‘Alī, remaining in the post for nearly one and a half years.
Another scholar who was in contact with Minkārīzāde is Ebū İshāk ‘İsmā‘īl
(d. 1725),671 the son of Kara İbrāhīm from ‘Alā’iyye.672 He was born in Çarşamba in
1645. After receiving lessons from Fāzıl Uzun ‘Alī, Sarı Osmān, Börekcizāde Hasan,
and the public lecturer (ders-i ‘ām) Mehmed, he secured mülāzemet from Kadrī
Efendi before being appointed to a 40-akçe madrasa in 1663. Ebū İshāk ‘İsmā‘īl was
one of the scholars who succeeded in the Koğacı Mosque examination held in 1666
under the guidance of Minkārīzāde, after which he carried out the duty of mektūbcılık
(private secretary) before reaching the hāric level with an appointment to the
madrasa of Yūsuf Paşa. He seems to have continued his teaching career for quite a
long time, during which he taught at a number of madrasas, including the
professorship of the Dāruʾl-hadīth of Süleymāniyye. In 1692, he received his first
judicial appointment as judge of Aleppo. He was later appointed as the judge of
Cairo, Mecca, and Istanbul, and then in turn as the chief judge of Anatolia and that of
Rumelia. Finally, he became chief jurist in 1716 in place of Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’rrahīm,
remaining in this post for one and a half years.
Another scholar who can be named in this regard is Başmakcızāde es-Seyyid
‘Alī (d. 1712), who was born in 1639.673 He was the son of Mehmed Efendi, who
died in 1682 while serving as the judge of Üsküdar.674 At first, Başmakcızāde ‘Alī
was affiliated with Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, securing mülāzemet from him after the latter
became chief jurist in 1647. Later, he became the pupil of the public lecturer (ders-i
671 Şeyhî, IV, 3121–3126 and Doğan, “Ebûishak,” 278–279.
672 For his biography, see Şeyhî, I, 780.
673 Şeyhî, III, 2522–2530.
674 His father Başmakcızāde Mehmed also secured mülāzemet from Hocazāde Es‘ad. For his
biography, see Şeyhî, I, 721–723.
221
‘ām) Sālih and Cevherīzāde Mehmed, after which he took lessons from Minkārīzāde.
He reached the hāric level with an appointment to the Mehemmed Ağa Dersiyyesi in
1657, where he served for quite a long time, nearly ten years. Considering, however,
that he continued to teach in a number of madrasas until 1687—meaning that, all
together, he spent more than thirty years in teaching positions—it can be concluded
that he remained in Istanbul voluntarily. He eventually passed on to a judicial career
with an appointment to the judgeship of Jerusalem in 1687, and three years later he
was appointed to as the representative of the descendants of the prophet Muhammad
(nakībü’l-eşrāf). After being appointed as the chief judge of Rumelia twice, in 1692
and 1700, he went on to become chief jurist three times (1703, 1704–1707, and
1710–1712).
Last but not least, the most notable person among the scholars in contact with
Minkārīzāde was Seyyid Feyzu’llāh (d. 1703).675 He was born in Erzurum in 1639,
the son of Seyyid Mehmed, the mufti of that city. He received his initial education
from a number of scholars, including his father-in-law Vānī Mehmed (d. 1685), who
had been invited to Istanbul first and then to Edirne at the beginning of the 1660s by
Fāzıl Ahmed Paşa, with whom Vānī Mehmed had become acquainted when Fāzıl
Ahmed held the office of beylerbeği (governor general) of Erzurum between the
years 1659 and 1661. After he had come to Edirne, Fāzıl Ahmed recommended Vānī
Efendi to Sultan Mehmed IV, who was impressed by his knowledge and expertise.
These connections provided him with a number of prestigious posts over a very short
period of time.
In 1664, Vānī Mehmed invited his former student Feyzu’llāh to Edirne,
where the sultan’s court had been relocated. Just three years later, Minkārīzāde
675 Şeyhî, III, 2332–3335.
222
encouraged Feyzu’llāh to enter the Ottoman learned hierarchy by offering him
mülāzemet independently (müstakillen), permitting him to teach in a 40-akçe
madrasa. However, this proposal was rejected by Vānī Mehmed on the ground that
entering the Ottoman ulama led one to be appointed to high-ranking judgeships,
which made proper application of sharia law difficult.676 After rejecting the offer,
Feyzu’llāh decided to make the pilgrimage to Mecca in 1667. Upon returning to
Edirne, he was appointed as tutor (hoca) to Prince Mustafa in 1669, a duty that he
would carry out for the next 17 years. But the real turning point in Feyzu’llāh’s
career was his entrance into the Ottoman learned hierarchy. As mentioned above,
Feyzu’llāh had rejected Minkārīzāde’s offer in 1667, but now he accepted the offer
made by Mehmed IV, with mülāzemet being given to him independently
(müstakillen) upon the order of the sultan himself.
After securing mülāzemet, Feyzu’llāh was appointed to the following
madrasas over the next three and a half years (1670–1673): Haydarpaşa, Mihrimāh
Sultan in Üsküdar, the Sahn, Ayasofya-i Kebīr, and the Dāruʾl-hadīth of
Süleymāniyye with the honorary rank (pāye) of judge of Istanbul. Feyzu’llāh’s quick
advance to the top teaching position in the Ottoman learned hierarchy was
undoubtedly related to the patronage that Mehmed IV provided to him. In addition to
this, however, Minkārīzāde’s critical role in Feyzu’llāh’s rapid advancement up the
rungs of the hierarchy should also be emphasized, as he specifically stated in his
autobiography that all the madrasas to which he was appointed in these years took
place when Minkārīzāde held the office of chief jurist, which clearly shows
Minkārīzāde’s patronage to Feyzu’llāh.677
676 According to Şeyhī, Vānī Mehmed said the following to Feyzu’llāh: “Bu ṭarīḳuñ netīcesi
mevleviyyete mü’eddī olur, emr-I ḳażāda ḫod şerī‘at-ı muṭahharayı ṣıyānet bir emr-i müşkildür.”
Şeyhî, III, 2333.
677 Türek and Derin, “Hal Tercümesi,” 217.
223
In subsequent years, Feyzu’llāh continued his quick advancement in his
judicial career. In 1678, he was appointed as tutor to Prince Ahmed III with the
honorary rank (pāye) of chief judge of Rumelia. Then, he was given the position of
representative of the descendants of the prophet Muhammad (nakībü’l-eşrāf) in
1686. He became chief jurist in 1688, but only 17 days later he was dismissed from
the office and sent into exile to Erzurum, where he remained for nearly seven years.
His second tenure in the office of chief jurist began shortly after Sultan Mustafa II
ascended to the throne in 1695, and this time Feyzu’llāh remained in the position
until his execution in the Edirne Incident in 1703.678
To what extent Feyzu’llāh’s power and the extensive households he founded
created hostility among various social groups, all of which led to his dismissal and
subsequent execution, is beyond the scope of the current study, but what is
interesting for our purpose here is that Feyzu’llāh was at the very center of the high
political circles of the court and primarily responsible for controlling the
appointments of high-ranking officials. In this regard, it can be said that the power
Feyzu’llāh accumulated during his tenure was so great that he was able to play a
direct role in affecting the individual trajectories of his counterparts. As such,
Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm, ‘Atā’u’llāh Mehmed, and Başmakcızāde es-Seyyid ‘Alī
were all considered by Michael Nizri to be clients of Feyzu’llāh, with all of them
receiving appointments to high-ranking positions during his tenure as chief jurist.679
Nizri also emphasized that some of the other aforementioned scholars—namely,
678 Abou-El-Haj, 1703 Rebellion.
679 Nizri, Ottoman High Politics, 96.
224
Cānbolādzāde İmāmı Mehmed, Ebezāde ‘Abdu’llāh, and Mīrzā Mustafā—were
rivals of Feyzu’llāh trying to eliminate potential threats to his authority.680
To better comprehend to what extent the eleven scholars detailed above
entered into the highest cadres of the Ottoman learned hierarchy in the late
seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, it would be helpful to make use of
statistical inference. Between 1674 and 1718, from the end of Minkārīzāde’s tenure
to the appointment of Yenişehirli ‘Abdu’l-lāh, 24 appointments were made to the
office chief jurist, with 17 of these 24 appointments being given to the scholars
mentioned above. In terms of individuals rather than appointments, 15 different
scholars were appointed as chief jurist during this period, of whom 11 were scholars
who had a close relationship with Minkārīzāde. In light of this, it can be argued that
Minkārīzāde was the central figure in the Ottoman learned hierarchy in the second
half of the seventeenth century, one whose web of patronage would go on to form the
upper tier of the Ottoman ulama for almost the next 50 years.681 The following
Figure 3 shows these 11 scholars and the way in which how they developed a
relationship with Minkārīzāde.
680 According to Nizri, another rival of Feyzu’llāh was Hekīmbaşızāde Yahyā, who also secured
mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde. Nizri, Ottoman High Politics, 98–101. For the biography of
Hekīmbaşızāde Yahyā, see Şeyhî, III, 2371–2374.
681 As previously mentioned, the other scholars who became chief jurists during the same period are
the following: Debbağzāde Mehmed (t. 1687–1688, 1688–1690); Ebūsaidzāde Feyzu’llāh (t. 1690–
1692, 1692–1694); Sādık Mehmed (t. 1694-1695); and İmām Mahmūd (t. 1713–1714). For their
biographies, see Şeyhî, III, 2189–2193, 2105–2111, 2473–2476, 2698–2701.
225
Fig. 3 The relationship of 11 scholars with Minkārīzāde
5.6 Scholarly excellence: The dāruʾl-hadīth of Süleymāniyye
Another important area of research regarding the scholars who secured mülāzemet
from Minkārīzāde is how many of them reached the highest teaching position in the
Ottoman learned hierarchy; namely, the professorship at the Dāruʾl-hadīth of
Süleymāniyye.682 Although their ranks in the hierarchy were not clear initially, the
madrasas in the Süleymāniyye complex—namely, the Hareket-i Altmışlı, the Mūsılai
Süleymāniyye, the Hāmise-i Süleymāniyye, the Süleymāniyye, and the Dāruʾlhadīth—
gradually became the most prestigious teaching positions in Ottoman lands,
with the Dāruʾl-hadīth of Süleymāniyye being the highest.
Seven scholars who secured mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde rose to the
professorship of this madrasa between the years 1678 and 1691. These scholars are
as follows: Bosnevī Kassām Mehmed,683 Nakībü’l-eşrāf Nefeszāde es-Seyyid
682 Çiftçi, Süleymaniye Dârülhadisi.
683 Şeyhî, III, 1946–1947.
226
‘Abdu’r-rahmān,684 Kilisī Dāmādı Hıfzī Mustafā,685 Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm,686
Fāzıl Kara Halīl,687 Güzelhisārī Ahmed,688 and Begler Hācesi Ahmed.689 Among
these scholars, only one, Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm, became the chief jurist, while
the others advanced in the hierarchy and reached mevleviyet judgeships such as those
of Mecca, Aleppo, Bursa, and Istanbul, as well as the chief judgeships of Rumelia
and Anatolia.
Given the scholarly excellence that they achieved, there is nonetheless an
important question: did these scholars reach the top teaching position in the Ottoman
learned hierarchy simply because they received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde, or
were their knowledge and competence sufficient for Minkārīzāde to grant them
mülāzemet? At this point, it would not be wrong to assert that these two assumptions
are not mutually exclusive, as Atçıl rightly argues that “the assumption was that there
existed a correspondence between the place of a scholar-bureaucrat in the hierarchy
and his knowledge. For this reason, the level of knowledge that individual scholarbureaucrats
possessed could play a critical role in their preferment and promotion in
the hierarchy, especially in cases when several eligible men of comparable skills
competed for the same position.”690
One of the main lines of argument throughout this chapter is to acknowledge
that Minkārīzāde sponsored capable scholars by giving them mülāzemet. Related to
this, and considering the fact that all these scholars were appointed as professor of
the Dāruʾl-hadīth of Süleymāniyye after the death of Minkārīzāde and between the
684 Şeyhî, III, 2060–2063.
685 Şeyhî, II, 1816–1817.
686 Şeyhî, III, 2662–2666.
687 Şeyhî, III, 2506–2510.
688 Şeyhî, III, 2100–2101.
689 Şeyhî, III, 2398–2400
690 Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 172.
227
years 1678 and 1691, their knowledge and competence seem to have also been
welcomed by high-ranking officials during this period of time.
On the other hand, in order to qualify the importance of the number of
scholars who secured mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde and reached the highest teaching
position in the hierarchy, one has to compare other scholars from whom they secured
mülāzemet throughout the years. In this regard, the number of scholars who received
mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde and reached the professorship at the Dāruʾl-hadīth of
Süleymāniyye can only be compared with those who had secured mülāzemet from
Hoca Sa’deddīn. Eight scholars who received mülāzemet from Hoca Sa’ded-dīn, one
of them his son Hocazāde ‘Abdü’l-azīz, reached the highest teaching position in the
hierarchy.691 Considering the immense power he had and that he was known as
hāce/hoca because he trained many students, it is not surprising to see that Hoca
Sa’deddīn sponsored so many scholars. What is lacking in the current literature,
though, is analysis of Minkārīzāde’s role in patronizing so many scholars who
reached the highest level of the teaching and judicial hierarchies.
At this point, one might wonder whether it was mainly Minkārīzāde’s long
tenure in the office of chief jurist that enabled him to sponsor such a large number of
scholars. While there is no doubt that his twelve years of service provided him with a
unique opportunity to be in contact with many scholars, Minkārīzāde did much more
than that, establishing his seat as the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi, which will be detailed in
the following section.
5.7 The threshold (āsitāne) of Minkārīzāde
691 For the list of the professors in that medrese, see Çiftçi, Süleymaniye Dârülhadisi, 206–208.
228
As discussed in the previous chapter, the long tenure of Minkārīzāde in the office of
chief jurist between the years 1662 and 1674 was closely related to the stability that
the members of the Köprülü family brought to the political scene in the second half
of the seventeenth century. Related to this, one of the important reasons why
Minkārīzāde was in contact with so many scholars from various parts of the empire
was that the members of the Köprülü family held the most critical positions in the
state government. For this reason, special attention should first be paid to the
Köprülü household.
Although it cannot be strictly defined, in the Ottoman context the term
“household” generally refers to a group of people well connected with each other
through reciprocal ties of clientage or kinship under a founding figure.692 There is no
doubt that the sultan’s household was the most grandiose and commanding one, but
high-ranking viziers and provincial governors also recruited considerable manpower
into their services, and their households gradually became alternative loci of power.
This was one of the significant changes that affected Ottoman political structure in
the second half of the sixteenth and in the seventeenth centuries.693 Among these
powerful new households, the Köprülü family can be regarded as one of the most
potent vizier households of the seventeenth century, as they came to dominate the
grand vizierate during much of the second half of the century and accumulated vast
wealth and property by founding numerous waqfs across the empire.694
692 Hathaway, Politics of Households, 17–27 and Hathaway, “Household,” 57–66.
693 For this development, see Abou-El-Haj, “Ottoman Vezir,” 438–447; Kunt, “Kulların Kulları,” 27–
42; Abou-El-Haj, “Patrimonial Household,” 227–35; Kunt, Sultan’s Servants; Hathaway, Politics of
Households; Findley, “Political Culture,” 65–80; Faroqhi, “Age of Political Households,” 366–410;
and Kunt, “Royal and Other Households,” 103–116.
694 For studies on the Köprülü family, see Altınay, Köprülüler; Kunt, “Köprülü Years”; Çabuk,
Köprülüler; Yılmaz, “Road to Vienna,”; Yılmaz, “Grand Vizieral Authority,” 21–42; Bekar,
“Reconfiguration of Vizierial Power”; Kunt, “Public Policy,” 189–98; and Topçu, Gücün Mimariye
Yansıması.
229
While the majority of studies have focused on the political, administrative,
and economic activities of the members of this family, more recent studies have
shown that the Köprülü viziers, especially Fāzıl Ahmed Paşa, were also leading
patrons of the arts, scholarly translations, literary works, and the sciences, giving
support to several scholars, poets, artisans, and Sufis.695 The presence of such leading
patrons during Minkārīzāde’s uninterrupted twelve-year tenure in the office of chief
jurist provided a suitable ground for Minkārīzāde to have additional opportunities for
offering patronage himself. Some scholars, for example, received mülāzemet from
Minkārīzāde through their affiliation with the Köprülü household. These included
Bosnevī Kassām Mehmed,696 Vālide Kethudāsı İmāmı Süleymān,697 Kara İbrāhīm
Paşa İmāmı Hāfız Mustafā,698 and Şehzāde Hācesi Seyyid.699 What is more
important than this, however, is that Minkārīzāde independently established his seat
as the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi, to which a considerable number of scholars attached
themselves (intisāb) in various ways.
Āsitāne, a word of Persian origin, had a number of connotations in Ottoman
usage, referring to the threshold of a door, a main dervish convent, the sultan’s court,
and Istanbul.700 In his biographical dictionary, Şeyhī used a variety of similar yet
subtly different verb collocations with the term “āsitāne”—“to be connected”
(āsitānesine müntesib olmağın), “to be included in” (āsitānesine dāhil olup), “being
attached to” (āsitānesine intisāb ile), “entering into” (āsitānesine duhūl idüp),
“leaning upon” (āsitānesine istinād ile), “being in contact with” (āsitānesine ittisāl
695 Çalışır, “Virtuous Grand Vizier,” 119–168; Ayaz “İcâzet ve Kütüphane,” 307–340; and Çalışır,
“Sûfî Çevreler,” 793–802. For an earlier examination of the cultural and intellectual milieu during the
time of Hezârfen Hüseyin, see Wurm, Der Osmanische Historiker.
696 Şeyhî, III, 1946–1947.
697 Şeyhî, II, 1274–1275.
698 Şeyhî, II, 1253.
699 Şeyhî, II, 982.
700 Redhouse, Lexicon, 88. Also see Koçu, “Asitâne,” 1108; Tanman, “Âsitâne,” 485–487; and
Sakaoğlu, “Âsitane,” 344.
230
itmekle), “arriving” (āsitānesine vāsıl olup)—in such a way as to attribute to the term
a specific meaning referring to the place or locality of an esteemed person, to which
one attached himself in many ways. Şeyhī specified twelve scholars who in one way
or another attached themselves to the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi.
In a sense, examining the “threshold” of Minkārīzāde is especially important
in that he seems to have combined two interrelated processes that are said to be
different from each other. El-Rouayheb, for example, asserts that the emergence of
the practice of mülāzemet led to a process in which the scholar from whom students
received mülāzemet and the scholar from whom they took lessons were no longer the
same.701 However, the patronage offered by Minkārīzāde to scholars via mülāzemet
on the one hand and through teaching on the other hand leads us to conclude that
these two processes were combined in the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi.
In the following lines, emphasis will be placed on those scholars who
attached themselves to the threshold of Minkārīzāde. Two of these scholars, namely
Yekçeşm Hüseyin (t. 1703) and Menteşzāde ‘Abdü’r-rahīm (t. 1715–1716), reached
the top position in the Ottoman learned hierarchy, that of chief jurist. Another is
Şāmī ‘Abdü’l-latīf, who was born in Damascus and then migrated to Ba‘lbek, where
he studied Arabic philology before coming to Istanbul and attaching himself to
Minkārīzāde. After receiving mülāzemet from him, Şāmī ‘Abdü’l-latīf’s subsequent
career seems to have followed an uncommon path, as he started his career with
judgeship positions without first holding any teaching position. Despite this,
however, both Şeyhī and Uşşākīzāde incorporated Şāmī ‘Abdü’l-latīf’s biography
into their biographical dictionaries, which was a rare case, since these authors rarely
paid attention to those who had started their career with judicial positions.702
701 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 125–128, at 127.
702 Şeyhî, II, 1019 and Uşşâkîzâde, 671.
231
A more important and interesting detail regarding Şāmī ‘Abdü’l-latīf is that
he received the first two appointments to dignitary judgeships; namely, Tripoli
(1664) and Belgrade (1667–1668). Considering that there were only a few scholars
who started their career with judgeship positions and were then able to reach
positions with a mevleviyet,703 Şāmī ‘Abdü’l-latīf’s rise in the hierarchy seems to be
quite an exception, one probably related to the fact that he received mülāzemet from
Minkārīzāde and that, when these appointments took place, Minkārīzāde held the
office of chief jurist.
Another figure who attached himself to Minkārīzāde’s Āsitāne was the
Mevlevi Pārsā Mehmed, who succeeded to Ağazāde Mehmed’s post in Gallipoli in
1652. The Mevlevi semā‘ ritual was prohibited in 1665/66 via imperial order, with
two of Minkārīzāde’s fatwas supporting the prohibition. But no matter what Pārsā
Mehmed’s affiliation with the Mevlevi order may have been, he was accepted by
Minkārīzāde into the hierarchy, and the madrasa of Dağī Mehmed Efendi in Gallipoli
was given to him shortly after the prohibition was put into effect. As his biography in
Şeyhī’s Vekāyi‘u’l-Fuzalā shows, it was Pārsā Mehmed’s reliance on Minkārīzāde’s
Āsitāne that made it possible for him to be appointed to this post. The most striking
detail regarding his acceptance into the hierarchy is that, although Minkārīzāde did
not actually give mülāzemet to Pārsā Mehmed, he was welcomed into the hierarchy,
which was a very rare practice in the seventeenth-century Ottoman learned hierarchy.
Another scholar who had personal ties with Minkārīzāde was Bursalı
İlāhīzāde Mehmed, whose father, İlāhīzāde Ya‘kūb, was a Naqshbandi sheikh in
Bursa.704 Although İlāhīzāde Mehmed received mülāzemet from someone else in the
Ottoman ulama and held professorships at a number of madrasas in Bursa, it was
703 Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans, 189–191.
704 For the biography of his father, see Atâyî, 1007–1008.
232
only in 1672, after he had attached himself to Minkārīzāde’s Āsitāne, that he was
appointed to the madrasa of Selīmiyye in Edirne, with the rank of re’īsü’l-müderrisīn
(head professor).705 Another scholar patronized by Minkārīzāde was Nāsırzāde
Mehmed (d. 1687).706 The son of a sheikh from Diyārbekir, Nāsırzāde secured
mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde and taught in a number of madrasas, including the
Dāruʾl-hadīth of Çivizāde, Koğacı Dede, and Karabaş Mustafā Ağa. His first and
only service as a judge was the judgeship of Erzurum.
Another figure who attached himself to the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi was
Sandalcızāde ‘Alī (d. 1706), who had a background as a commoner, being the son of
a boatman.707 After receiving mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde, he taught at a number of
madrasas before switching to the judiciary. In 1706, he was granted the judgeship of
Baghdad, and he died in the same year. Another scholar, Arıkzāde Mehmed (d.
1703), originally from Edirne, attached himself to the Minkārīzāde Āsitānesi and
took up the duty of mektūbcılık (private secretary), upon which he received
mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde.708 The top position in Arıkzāde Mehmed’s teaching
career was the professorship at the Dāruʾl-hadīth madrasa in Edirne. In subsequent
years, he served in a number of judgeships, including at Medina, Bursa, and
Jerusalem. Another scholar from Edirne was Müsellim ‘Abdu’r-rahmān (d. 1714),
who secured mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde and reached the professorship at the
Dāruʾl-hadīth in Edirne.709 His judicial career was very short, and he only served in
the judgeships of Sofya and Filibe. Two other scholars, Rodosī Kūsec Ebū Bekr (d.
705 Şeyhî, II, 1093–1094.
706 Şeyhî, II, 1313.
707 Şeyhî, III, 2416–2417.
708 Şeyhî, III, 2203–2204.
709 Şeyhî, III, 2594–2595
233
1703)710 and Keşfī ‘Abdu’llāh (d. 1705),711 attached themselves to Minkārīzāde and
secured mülāzemet from him. Both were able to attain a teaching position at the
Süleymāniyye madrasas as the highest position in their teaching career, while their
highest posts in the judicial hierarchy were the judgeships of Mecca and Jerusalem,
respectively. The final person to be mentioned here is Çalkandızāde ‘Abdu’lāh (d.
1713),712 from the district of Kastamonu. After receiving mülāzemet from
Minkārīzāde, Çalkandızāde taught in a number of madrasas before transitioning to a
judicial career. The last position he held before he died was the judgeship of Mecca.
In addition to the scholars who attached themselves to the Minkārīzāde
Āsitānesi, one of the other direct indications that Minkārīzāde gave mülāzemet to as
many scholars as he could was his assignment of mülāzemet via serving as teaching
assistant in the madrasa of the Sultān Bāyezīd (medrese-i Sultān Bāyezīd
i‘ādesinden).713 Minkārīzāde granted mülāzemet to nine candidates in this way. At
first glance, one might think that Minkārīzāde gave these mülāzemets when he was
teaching in that madrasa, but he was never in fact appointed there. The exceptional
status of the madrasa of Sultān Bāyezīd can be found in its endowment deed.714
According to this, the chief jurist of the time was supposed to occupy the
professorship in this madrasa while serving in this position. This status made this
madrasa unique, and provided chief jurists with additional opportunities for granting
mülāzemet. We know, for example, that Ebu’s-su‘ūd periodically gave mülāzemet to
710 Şeyhî, III, 2337–2339.
711 Şeyhî, III, 2370–2371.
712 Şeyhî, III, 2575–2576.
713 The words i‘āde and mu’īd derive from the same root ع)اد ) and denote the following meanings: a
repeating; a reiterating; a renewing; a reproducing; to give back; to return. It can be said in light of
this that the term Medrese-i Sultān Bāyezīd i‘ādesinden refers to one who granted mülāzemet because
he was the mu’īd (tutor for madrasa students) in that madrasa. Beyazıt, İlmiyye Mesleğinde İstihdam,
52–53.
714 Uzunçarşılı, İlmiye Teşkilâtı, 50–51, 176, 205 and Baltacı, Osmanlı Medreseleri, 165.
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his teaching assistants in this madrasa.715 The striking point as far as Şeyhī’s
biographical dictionary is concerned is that Minkārīzāde seems to have used this
method of granting mülāzemet to an unprecedented level as compared to other
Ottoman chief jurists, who rarely used this opportunity that was reserved for them.716
Among the nine scholars whom Minkārīzāde gave mülāzemet in this manner,
only Ebezāde ‘Abdu’llāh managed to reach the top position in the hierarchy, holding
the office of chief jurist between the years 1708 and 1710 and again in 1712–1713.717
Two others, Begler Hācesi Ahmed and Fāzıl Kara Halīl, held the professorship at the
Dāruʾl-hadīth madrasa of Süleymāniyye. ‘Arabzāde Mehmed was appointed as the
chief astrologer (müneccimbaşı) three times, in 1687, 1694, and 1706.718 Five other
scholars—Mincel Ahmed,719 Kırımī ‘Abdü’l-halīm (Tatar ‘Abdü’l-halīm),720 Gergerī
Ahmed,721 Uzunīzāde Süleymān,722 and Madrūb Yūsuf723—also secured mülāzemet
from Minkārīzāde in this way and became part of the Ottoman learned hierarchy.
5.8 Intellectual affinity
At the beginning of this chapter, the similarity between mülāzemet and ijāzat was
highlighted. The most important reason for doing this was to draw attention to the
possibility of common intellectual inclinations and scholarly outputs between
teachers and students. The scholarly network around Minkārīzāde provides a fertile
ground to verify this inference from various perspectives. Minkārīzāde’s office, as
715 Atçıl, “Route to the Top,” 498.
716 The chief jurists who did make use of this opportunity, eleven times in total, were Hocazāde Es‘ad,
Bahāyī Mehmed, Çatalcalı ‘Alī, Sun‘īzāde es-Seyyid Mehmed, Ebezāde ‘Abdu’llāh, Debbāğzāde
Mehmed, and Feyzu’llāh.
717 Şeyhî, III, 2604–2607.
718 Şeyhî, III, 2483–2485.
719 Şeyhî, III, 2076–2077,
720 Şeyhî, III, 2121–2122.
721 Şeyhî, III, 2206–2207.
722 Şeyhî, III, 2419–2420.
723 Şeyhî, III, 2479–2480.
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outlined above, became a main hub of patronage and scholarly exchange for learned
men from different parts of the empire, a circle where books were discussed, and
from which issued a considerable number of scholarly works. In this regard, as far as
Minkārīzāde’s scholarly patronage is concerned, an important thing to consider is the
reciprocal aspect of this relationship.724 Minkārīzāde and his students had very
similar interests and wrote on similar topics, and these will be examined in this
section. To examine this bond between Minkārīzāde and his students, it is first
necessary to identify the subjects in which Minkārīzāde was interested and on which
he wrote. These were as follows: the rational sciences, such as logic and ādāb albahth
(the science of dialectics); Quranic exegesis; and religio-legal opinions in the
form of fatwa compilations.
Beginning with the rational sciences, Minkārīzāde can be regarded as a
leading figure, after Hoca ‘Abdu’r-rahīm, in patronizing scholars from across the
empire who dealt with these sciences, as well as in including them into the Ottoman
learned hierarchy. Minkārīzāde’s interest in the rational sciences was well enough
known that a certain ‘Umar Chillī wrote a book on ādāb al-bahth and dedicated it to
Minkārīzāde.725
One interesting scholar with an intellectual affiliation with Minkārīzāde was
Fāzıl Kara Halīl of Birgi.726 After receiving mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde via serving
as teaching assistant in the madrasa of the Sultān Bāyezīd (medrese-i Sultān Bāyezīd
i‘ādesinden), he reached the hāric level in 1680 with an appointment to the madrasa
of Ken‘ān Paşa. By 1690, just ten years after this initial appointment, he had already
724 Sharon Kettering, for example, named patron-client exchange as involving obligatory reciprocity,
“which was its definitive characteristic, creating expectations, an assured alliance, gratitude, and a
bond of trust and loyalty occasionally deepening into what Roland Mousnier has called ‘fidelity.’”
Kettering, “Patronage in Early Modern France,” 839–862, at 844.
725 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 75.
726 Şeyhî, III, 2506–2510.
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proceeded to the post of professor at the Dāruʾl-hadīth of Süleymāniyye, the top
teaching position in the Ottoman learned hierarchy. He then passed to a judicial
career, and in 1706 and again in 1707 he rose as far as appointment to the office of
chief judge of Anatolia.727 Fāzıl Kara Halīl can be regarded as a prolific scholar,
since he produced a considerable number of works on topics ranging from dialectic
to philosophy.728
However, as the recent work of Khaled El-Rouayheb makes evident, Kara
Halīl was best known for the works he wrote on the rational sciences, such as logic
and dialectic.729 It was probably Kara Halīl’s interest in the rational sciences that
attracted Minkārīzāde’s attention and prompted him to grant him novice status. Kara
Halil’s works in these fields include the following: 1) a supergloss on Mīr Zāhid
Abu al-Fath al-Sa‘īdī’s gloss on al-Dawwanī’s commentary on al-Taftāzānī’s Sharh
‘alā Tahdhīb al-mantiq wal-kalām;730 2) a supergloss on Kul Ahmed (d.1543)’s gloss
(Hāşiye alā'l-Fevā'idi'l-Fenārīye) on Mollā Fenārī’s el-Fevāʾidü’l-Fenāriyye, which
was written as a commentary on Athīr al-Dīn al-Abharī’s Īsāghūjī ;731 3) a gloss on
Taşköprīzāde’s Şerh ‘alā Risāle fī ‘İlmi Ādābü’l-bahs ve’l-münāzara;732 and 4) a
supergloss on Kara Dāvud İzmitī’s Hāşiye ʿalā Şerhi Metāliʿi’l-envār, which was
727 In 1708, Uzuncaova Hāsköyi was given to him as arpalık (stipend), with the grade of Rūmili
sadāreti pāyesi (chief judge of Rumelia), but he did not actually hold this position.
728 Şeyhī listed the works of Fāzıl Kara Halīl as follows: “As̠ār-ı celīlelerinden ādābda Ṭaşköprī
üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve Ādāb-ı Mīrī üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve cihet-i vaḥdetde Ṣadrü’d-dīn-zāde üzerine
hāşiyeleri ve manṭıḳda Ḳul Aḥmed üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve Ḳara Dāvūd üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve yine
manṭıḳda Tehẕīb-i Mīrī üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve Fenārī üzerine olan Burhān’a ḥāşiyeleri ve ḥikmetde
Lārī üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve Şerḥu Ḥikmeti’l-‘ayn üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve ‘aḳā’idden Monlā Celāl üzerine
ḥāşiyeleri ve İs̠bāt-ı Vācib üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve Muḫtaṣar-ı Müntehā üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve Ṭavāli‘-i
Iṣfahānī üzerine ḥāşiyeleri ve tefsīr-i şerīfden Aḥḳāb Risālesi ve تَبَارَكَ الَّذ۪ي بِیَدِهِ الْمُلْكُۘ (Al-Mulk: 67/1,
Blessed is the One in Whose Hands rests all authority) āyet-i kerīmesi üzerine risāleleri ve بِیَدِكَ الْخَیْرُۜ
اِنَّكَ عَٰلى كُلِّ شَيْءٍ قَد۪یر (Ali ‘İmran: 3/26, Blessed is the One in Whose Hands rests all authority) āyet-i
kerīmesine risāleleri ve fıḳhda Hidāye ve Dürer’üñ ba‘ż-ı maḥallerine risāleleri olduġından mā‘adā
tedrīs itdükleri kütübü. eks̠er-i maḥallerine bī-ḥad risāleleri vardur.” Quoted in Şeyhî, III, 2509–2510.
729 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 22–24, 38–39, 64, 122–125.
730 Tiryaki, “Tehzîbü’l-mantık,” 129–167.
731 Kuşlu, “Fenârî Haşiyesi,” 479–491 and Akdeniz, “Molla Fenari.”
732 Güzel, “‘Âdâb el-Bahs,” 203–214; Taşköprîzâde, Mantık Risaleleri; Kepekci, “Münâzara İlmi,”
121–156; and Arif, “Art of Debate,” 187–216.
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written as a gloss on Shams al-Dīn Mahmūd b. ‘Abd al-Rahmān al-Isfahānī’s
commentary on Sirāj al-Dīn al-Urmawī’s Matāli‘ al-anwār.733 In the light of all
these, it can be argued that Fāzıl Kara Halīl benefited from Minkārīzāde’s patronage,
as both were intellectually inclined to the rational sciences and wrote in the same
field.
Another scholar with an intellectual affinity with Minkārīzāde is Mevlevi
Pārsā Mehmed, whose biography was given above and who wrote a commentary on
Īsāghūjī, a well-known book in the field of logic.734 This is probably why
Minkārīzāde patronized Pārsā Mehmed and allowed him to teach in Ottoman
madrasas.735 Likewise, Mīrzā Mustafā, who became chief jurist between 1714 and
1715, wrote a gloss on a work entitled Şāh Hüseyn, also known as el-Risāletü’l-
Hüseyniyye, written by Şerīf Hüseyin Adanavī (d. 1640).736 In addition to the
Turkish translation of the Qur’an which will be examined below, Tefsīrī Mehmed (d.
1699) also wrote several works related to Minkārīzāde’s interest in the rational
sciences. For example, just as Minkārīzāde was writing on the same subject, Tefsīrī
Mehmed also composed a similar work by writing a supergloss on Mīr Abu al-Fath’s
gloss on ‘Adud al-Dīn Ījī’s Risāla fī ādāb al-bahth. Similarly, he also wrote a brief
treatise on logic, known as the Risāle fi’l Mantık. All these works of Tefsīrī
Mehmed’s show a common intellectual affinity with Minkārīzāde. Similarly, one of
the most renowned chief astrologers in the history of the Ottoman Empire,
Müneccimbaşı Ahmed Dede (d. 1702), who attended Minkārīzāde’s lectures in the
presence of the sultan (huzūr dersleri), penned two treatises on the rational sciences;
733 Arpaguş, “İzmitî,” 359–360.
734 Bingöl, “Îsâgûcî,” 488–489.
735 For the biography of Pārsā Mehmed, see Şeyhî, II, 1174–1182.
736 El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 74–85 and Çelik, “Hüseyin Şah Çelebi,” 375–380. This
work has been wrongly attributed to Hüseyin Şah Çelebi en-Niksārī el-Āmāsī; see for example, Kaya,
“Şah Hüseyin Çelebi,” 363–374.
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namely, Vesīletü’l-vüsūl ilā maʿrifeti’l-hamli ve’l-mahmūl and Tertīb-i Akyise-i
İbāre-i Īsāgūcī.737 Lastly, Fāzıl Süleymān, whose biography will be given below,
also wrote two treatises on the rational sciences; namely, Şerhu’l-Ādābu’l-Adudiyye
and Şerhu (Ḥāşiyetü) Tehzībi’l-(mantık) ve’l-kelām.738
Secondly, if we turn to examining the relevant scholars who produced work
on Qur’anic exegesis, Minkārīzāde’s weekly lessons will serve as a good starting
point. Lectures given in the presence of the sultan (huzūr dersleri) were another way
by which a considerable number of scholars gained an opportunity to contact
Minkārīzāde and benefit from his knowledge.739 At first glance, these lectures,
delivered on a weekly basis in the presence of Sultan Mehmed IV and under
Minkārīzāde’s guidance, might not quite be huzūr dersleri as they were formally
instituted in the eighteenth century, but they can still be regarded as the forerunner of
this tradition, which had not been practiced since the time of Sultan Mehmed II. In
that sense, it can be said that these lessons paved the way for the remembrance of a
forgotten tradition, one which contributed to the peculiar weekly sultanic lectures
that were regularly held in the eighteenth century.740 The general consensus in the
relevant literature is that only al-Baydāwī’s Anwār al-Tanzīl was followed during
lessons held under the guidance of Minkārīzāde. However, a detail in Şeyhī’s
biographical dictionary informs us that in addition to this work by al-Baydāwī, Ibn
al-Hājib’s Mukhtasar al-Muntehā was also read during these gatherings.741
737 Ağırakça, “Müneccimbaşı,” 4–6. Ahmed Dede was appointed as chief astrologer by Minkārīzāde,
see Mîrzâ-zâde, “Tezkiretü’ş-Şu‘arâ,” 107.
738 Şeyhî, IV, 3281–3285 and Hatiboğlu, “Süleyman Fâzıl,” 86–87.
739 For more information about these lessons, see Mardin, Huzûr Dersleri; İpşirli, “Huzur Dersleri,”
441–444; Zilfi, “Medrese for the Palace,” 184–91; and Kara, Huzur Dersleri.
740Abdurrahman Abdi Paşa, Vekâyi-nâme, 324, 344.
741 Şeyhî, IV, 3282. A number of other books were also referenced in the huzur dersleri throughout the
eighteenth century; see Arpa, “Huzur Dersleri,” 91–152.
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As a direct outcome of these scholarly gatherings, Minkārīzāde composed a
gloss on al-Baydāwī’s Anwār al-Tanzīl.742 A more relevant point for the purpose of
this study is that many scholars came to Istanbul to attend these lectures, which
provided them with a unique opportunity to contact Minkārīzāde personally. One of
the leading scholars to attend the lectures was Ayıntābī Mehmed, better known as
Tefsīrī Mehmed.743 A prominent feature distinguishing him from other scholars is
that he composed the first translation of the Qur’an744 into Turkish, on the
encouragement of Mehmed IV himself.745 Likewise, Müneccimbaşı Ahmed Dede
penned a Qur’an commentary entitled Hāşiyetü’t-Tefsīri’l-Beyzāvī, which was
written as a gloss on Sadre’ddīnzāde Şirvānī’s gloss on al-Baydāwī. Similarly,
Kevākibīzāde Ahmed (d. 1712), who received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde, wrote a
Qur’anic commentary on al-Baydāwī’s Anwār al-Tanzīl.746 The last scholar who can
be named in this regard is Yahyā al-Shāwī, who attended Minkārīzāde’s weekly
lectures and penned a number of treatises on various topics.747
We also know that Minkārīzāde was closely interested in the books taught by
the scholars to whom he had given mülāzemet. For instance, the nickname of Yūsuf
bin Halīl, Karabāğī Yūsuf, was given by Minkārīzāde himself, as he, for the most
742 Süleymaniye YEK, MS Laleli 318; Beyazıd YEK, MS Beyazıd 643. The relevant Qur’anic
chapters are the following: Bakara, Āl-i İmrān, Yūnus, Hūd, Ra‘d, İbrāhīm, Hicr, Kehf, İsrā, Nahl,
Enbiyā, Ankebūt, Neml, Rūm, Ahzāb, Mu’minūn, Sāffāt, Sād, Zumer, Duhān, Nebe, Nāzi‘āt, Abese,
İnfitār, Mutaffifīn, İnşikāk, Burūc, Tārık, A‘lā, Gāşiye, Fecr, Beled, Leyl, Duhā, İnşirāh, Tīn, Kalem,
Kadr, Beyyine. See Alpaydın, “Şeyhülislâm Minkârîzâde,” 58–71, at 59 (footnote 5).
743 For more information about him, see Arpa, “Ayintâbî”; İyibilgin, “Tercüme-i Tibyan; Arpa,
“Te’lîf,” 55–96; and Arpa, “Muteber Kitaplar,” 241–304.
744 Although Tefsirî’s is the first full translation of the Qur’an into Turkish, there was also a longstanding
tradition of interlinear Qur’anic translations; see Sağol, Khwarazm Turkish; Karabacak, Old
Anatolian Turkish; Kök, “Karahanlı Türkçesi”; Ünlü, “İlk Türkçe Kur’an,” 9–56; Küçük, Eski
Anadolu Türkçesi; and Topaloğlu, Satırarası Kur'ân Tercümesi.
745 Ayıntabi, Kurân-ı Kerîm. He also wrote a supergloss on al-Jurjānī’s gloss on ‘Adud al-Dīn al-Ījī’s
commentary on Ibn al-Hājib’s Mukhtasar al-Muntehā, which was taught by Minkārīzāde during his
weekly lectures.
746 Şeyhî, III, 2542.
747 For more information about his life and works, see El-Rouayheb, Islamic Intellectual History, 157–
160.
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part, taught Yūsuf el-Karabāğī’s gloss on Jalāl al-Dīn al-Dawwānī’s commentary
(Sharh al-‘Aqā’id al-‘Adudiyya) on ‘Adud al-Dīn al-Ījī’s ‘Aqā’id al-‘Adudiyya.748
Another important scholar who received both mülāzemet and intellectual support
from Minkārīzāde was Fāzıl Süleymān.749 He was born in 1650 in Istanbul, where he
received his preliminary education from a number of scholars; namely, Şeyhü’l-kurrā
Nişāncı Paşa İmāmı Mehmed, Kebeci Mustafā, and ‘Arabzāde ‘Abdü’l-vehhāb. He
then undertook the pilgrimage to Mecca with Köprülüzāde Mustafā Paşa, the brother
of Fāzıl Ahmed and Amcazāde Hüseyin Paşa, a nephew of Kara Mustafā Paşa,
which provided him with a unique opportunity to get in contact with scholars in Arab
lands studying the Qur’anic sciences, hadith, and jurisprudence, and he even received
ijāzat from them.750 After returning to the core Ottoman lands, he attended
Minkārīzāde’s lessons on the Mukhtasar al-Muntehā and Tafsīr al-Baydāwī and
received mülāzemet from him with honor (teşrīfen).751
One striking detail regarding the teaching career of Fāzıl Süleymān is that,
although he received mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde, he followed an uncommon path
in his subsequent career, being appointed to various mosques as a preacher (vāiz)
rather than obtaining teaching positions in Ottoman madrasas. Şeyhī specifically
indicated that he obtained consent for a certificate (izn ü icāzet) from Minkārīzāde,
allowing him to be employed in mosques as a preacher.752 In this regard, Fāzıl
748 Şeyhî, III, 2084–2085: “Eks̠eriyā Celāl Ḥāşiyesi Ḳarabāġī tedrīsiyle meşġūl olduḳları ecilden
Minḳārī-zāde Efendi ‘Yūsuf Efendi, sen Ḳarabāġī olmışsın.’ buyurmalarıyla ‘Ḳarabāġī Yūsuf Efendi’
dimekle şehīr ve bu ‘unvānla ma‘lūm-ı ṣaġīr ü kebīr olmışlar idi.”
749 Şeyhî, IV, 3281–3285 and Hatiboğlu, “Süleyman Fâzıl,” 86–87.
750 Şeyhī listed the scholars from whom Fāzıl Süleymān received scholarly training as follows: Sheikh
Muhammed al-Balabānī, Sheikh Nūraddīn ‘Alī b. ‘Alī al-Shabrāmallisī, Sheikh Husayn al-‘Ajamī,
Sheikh ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Safūrī, Sheikh Muhammed b. Suleymān al-Maghribī, Sheikh Ibrāhīm al-
Kurdī, Sheikh ‘Abdallāh b. Sālim al-Basrī, Sheikh ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Maqdisī, and Sheikh Hayr al-Dīn
Ramlī. See Şeyhî, IV, 3282.
751 The reason why Minkārīzāde gave mülāzemet to Fāzıl Süleymān in this way was that Mehmed IV
personally attended the campaign of Kamaniecz in 1672, which was one of the accepted ways of
granting mülāzemet to candidates.
752 This anecdote actually provides interesting details about the Ottoman learned hierarchy. While it
was enough for scholars to have received mülāzemet in order to teach in madrasas, receiving a
241
Süleymān seems to have specialized in teaching a considerable number of canonical
texts.753 His acquaintance with members of the Köprülü family also undoubtedly
provided him with an excellent opportunity for receiving education from scholars in
various fields, but it was Minkārīzāde’s particular support and patronage that gave
him the impetus to advance in his later career until he became the preacher at
Ayasofya Mosque, the summit of a preacher’s career.
Apart from works in the spheres of the rational sciences and Qur’anic
commentary, another common field in which both Minkārīzāde and his students
produced similar works is their legal writings in the form of fatwa collections. As
previously mentioned, Minkārīzāde’s fatwas were compiled by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed
and Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm. These two scholars thus have a direct connection
with the fatwas promulgated by Minkārīzāde. An important point to be noted about
‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed is that, in addition to compiling the fatwas of Minkārīzāde, he
also collected the opinions of several eminent Hanefī scholars into a specific fatwa
compilation, the Mecmūa-i Atāiyye (Fetāvā-yı Atāullah), where he gave reference to
their works, such as al-Mabsūt, al-Muhīt, Khassāf, Qādīkhān, al-Zahīriyya,
Muhkhtasar al-Tahāwī, Muhkhtasar al-Karkhī, al-Isbījābī, al-Hidāya, al-Badā‘ī, and
al-Ikhtiyār.754 Although Ottoman fatwas are usually articulated as a yes/no question,
the Mecmūa-i Atāiyye is organized in the form of a compilation of topics related to
current issues and quoting from reliable texts on jurisprudence, Qur’anic
certificate in related fields seems also to have been required for those who were appointed as preacher
to mosques.
753 Şeyhī presented these texts as follows: “Mollā Cāmī ’nüñ Kāfiye Şerḥ’ni on iki def‘a tedrīs idüp ve
Telḫīṣ Şerḥi Muṭavvel’i daḫı on iki def‘a ve Muḫtaṣar’ı daḫı on def‘a ve Telvīḥ ü Tavżīḥ’ı dört def‘a
ve Şerḥ-i Mevāḳıf ve Şerḥ-i Meḳāṣıd’ı daḫı defe‘ātle tedrīs itdüklerinden mā‘adā Tefsīr-i Beyżāvī ’yi
daḫı bir def‘a meclis-i derslerinde ve bir def‘a meclis-i va‘ẓlarında ḫatm müyesser olup fenn-i ḥadīs̠ -i
şerīfden Ṣaḥīḥ-i Buḫārī daḫı bir def‘a Dirāye ve bir def‘a Rivāye tedrīs idüp ve Meṣābiḥ-i Şerīf ’i ve
Meşāriḳ-ı Şerīf ’i ve Şifā-yı Ḳāḍī ‘İyāż’ı daḫı kirāren ve mirāren tedrīs itmişler idi.” Quoted in Şeyhî,
IV, 3284–3285.
754 For more information about this compilation, see Özen, “Fetva Literatürü,” 366–367 and Erdoğan,
“Mecmûa-i Atâiyye.”
242
commentaries, and fatwa compilations.755 This compilation can therefore be
categorized as müftā bih, which means acknowledging a specific argument among
different views within a particular madhhab or Islamic school of jurisprudence.756
In addition to these two scholars and their fatwa compilations, there are also
four other fatwa compilations from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth
centuries whose compilers remained in close contact with Minkārīzāde. The first
scholar who can be named in this regard is Ankaravī Mehmed, whose fatwa
compilation is known as the Fetāvā-yı Ankaravī.757 Ankaravī was the fatwa emīni of
Minkārīzāde and thus responsible for considering and verifying the fatwas delivered
in the name of the chief jurist in the 1660s. More importantly, when Minkārīzāde
suffered a stroke that left him paralyzed in 1674, Ankaravī acted as Minkārīzāde’s
deputy for nearly eight months, during which time he was in charge of promulgating
fatwas. He therefore played a significant role in giving legal opinions even while
Minkārīzāde held the office of chief jurist. As in the case of ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed’s
Mecmūa-i Atāiyye, Ankaravī’s fatwa compilation can be considered under the
category of müftā bih.
Another scholar to be mentioned in this connection is Çatalcalı ‘Alī, who
became chief jurist after Minkārīzāde, serving between the years 1674 and 1686 and
again in 1692.758 His fatwa compilation, known as the Fetāvā-yı ‘Alī, is one of the
most frequently cited fatwa compilations.759 Additionally, although not as well
755 For a general evaluation of the concept of reliable books in the Ottoman context, see Burak,
Second Formation, 122–165 and Burak, “Reliable Books,” 14–33.
756 For more information about this topic, see Düzenlı̇, “Müftâ Bih,” 9–78 and Erdoğan, “Atâullah
Mehmed,” 28–146.
757 For more information about Ankaravī and his fatwa compilation, see Şeyhî, II, 1321–1324; Özcan,
“Ankaravî,” 461–462; and Akgündüz, “Fetâvâ-yı Ankaravî,” 438–439.
758 Şeyhî, III, 1932–1935; İpşirli, “Çatalcalı,” 234–235; Kallek, “Fetâvâ-yı ‘Alî,” 438; Şeyhülislâm
Çatalcalı Ali Efendi, Fetâvâ-yı Ali; and Kılavuz, “Fıkıh Düşüncesi.”
759 Here, it would be helpful to cite the comment of the eighteenth-century Ottoman historian
Şem‘dānīzāde Süleyman (d. 1779) concerning the importance of the fatwa compilations of
Minkārīzāde, Çatalcalı ‘Alī, and Ankaravī Mehmed: “Meşâyıh-ı İslâm dimekle bu zâtlar ya‘nî
243
known as the other compilers mentioned above, Grebneşī Mustafā is another scholar
who was connected to Minkārīzāde and who produced a fatwa compilation. After
receiving mülāzemet from Minkārīzāde, he had been appointed to the madrasa of
Bāzirgānbaşı as professor in 1669. In the same year, he was made the mufti of
Hezargrad. It must have been Grebneşī’s competence in the field of giving legal
opinions (iftā) that brought him to the office of fatwa emīni, which he gained in
1670. As a result of his expertise in the field, he was able to collect fatwas, compiled
under the title, Mecmātü’l-fıkhiyye.760 Lastly, Seyyid Feyzu’llāh also produced a
fatwa compilation, which was known by his name as the Fetāva-yı Feyziyye.761 In his
recent article, Guy Burak has drawn attention to the proliferation of the provincial
fatwa compilations over the course of the eighteenth century in the Ottoman
Empire.762 As far as the aforementioned fatwa compilations are concerned, it can be
argued that a similar tendency is seen at the imperial level as well and Minkārīzāde
and his students were at the very center of this process.
5.9 Family Members
Needless to say, being given mülāzemet by Minkārīzāde and participating in his
lectures do not fully explain the advancement of these scholars in their careers. Their
knowledge, competence, family ties, patronage relations, affiliation with the mevali,
and political stances were also significant factors in their advancement. As such, the
professional careers of Minkārīzāde’s descendants can serve as good examples to
Minkarîzâde Yahyâ Efendi ve anın yerine olan mezbûr ‘Alî Efendi ve anın yerine olan iş bu Ankaravî
Efendi şâyeste ve şâyandırlar. Hâlâ ulemâ vü kuzât yedlerinde mütedâvil olan Yahyâ Efendi Fetâvâsı
ve ‘Alî Efendi Fetâvâsı ve Arabî Ankaravî Fetvâsı bunlarındır. Velhâsıl birbirini mü[te]‘âkıb üç dâne
müftî-yi fâzıl-ı bî-nazîrlerin her birinin biri birinden mu‘teber te'lîfâtları diyâr-ı Rum'a münteşir olup
ibâdullâhın müşkilleri anlardan hal olmağla müşârun ileyhim hayrât-ı câriye ashâbı olmalarıyla
ervâhları şâd olmakdadır.” Öksüz, “Şem’dânîzâde,” 233–234.
760 Şeyhî, II, 1239–1241 and Özen, “Fetva Literatürü,” 363–364.
761 Şeyhülislam Feyzullah Efendi, Fetâvâ-yı Feyziye and Öğüt, “Fetâva-yı Feyziyye,” 443.
762 Burak, “Rise of Provincial,” 377–403, at 391–396.
244
show the importance of family bonds within the mevali. In this section, two
noteworthy descendants of Minkārīzāde who served in important positions in the
Ottoman ulama will be addressed. Minkārīzāde’s son, Minkārīzāde ‘Abdu’llāh, is the
first person who deserves mention in this regard.763 After receiving mülāzemet from
his father, he reached the hāric level with an appointment to the madrasa of Rūm
Mehmed Paşa in 1668. His next two appointments were to the madrasas of Gazanfer
Ağa and the Sahn, in 1668 and 1669 respectively. However, he was dismissed from
these positions after only a very short time so that other members of the Ottoman
ulama would not have difficulties (erbāb-ı tarīka mezāhim olmamak içün). Instead,
he was granted a pension from the public treasury (beytü’l-māl). The limited
information provided by biographical dictionaries makes it very difficult to grasp
what the difficulties (mezāhim) might have been for members of the Ottoman ulama
at that time, but we can speculate that Minkārīzāde ‘Abdu’llāh’s rapid advancement
to prestigious teaching positions only a year after his appointment to the hāric level
must have displeased some of the eligible scholars competing for the same position.
In 1672, Minkārīzāde ‘Abdu’llāh was appointed as professor to the madrasa of
Vālide Sultān, which was the last teaching position he held.
He then transitioned to a judicial career, with the judgeship of Salonica being
given to him in 1672. In the following year, he was dismissed from this office with
the honorary rank of the judge of Istanbul. After only a couple of months, he was
next appointed as the judge of Bursa, where he served almost a year. Between the
years 1674 and 1683, no judgeship was given to him, but he did receive income as an
unemployment subsidy in the form of arpalıks (Edremid, Bayındır, and Begbāzārı).
He was appointed as the chief judge of Anatolia in 1683 but dismissed from the
763 For his biography, see Şeyhî, II, 1795–1796.
245
office in the next year, at which time the judgeship of Ankara was given to him as
arpalık. In the remaining years of his life, he seems to have fallen into disfavor, and
in 1687 he was exiled to Cyprus due to a dispute with a sergeant (çāvuş) sent to him
by the kā’im-makām Recep Paşa. The execution of Recep Paşa put a stop to his exile
to Cyprus, but he had to survive for the rest of his life on the income from a number
of arpalıks. Minkārīzāde Abdu’llāh died in 1688 and was buried near his father in
Üsküdar.
In addition to Minkārīzāde Abdu’llāh, another noteworthy scholarly relation
of Minkārīzāde was his son-in-law, Mustafā Rāsih (d. 1675). Originally from
Çankırı, Mustafā Rāsih attached himself to the re’īsü’l-küttāb Şāmīzāde Mehmed
and secured mülāzemet from Kara Çelebizāde Mahmūd.764 He reached hāric level in
1649 and continued to teach in a number of madrasas until 1662. The subsequent
beginning of Mustafā Rāsih’s judicial career corresponded to Minkārīzāde’s tenure
in the office of chief jurist. He therefore advanced very quickly in his subsequent
career, being appointed, in succession, to the judgeships of Salonica, Bursa, Cairo,
Mecca, and Istanbul; to the office of chief judge of Anatolia; and finally to the
judgeship of Eyüp with the honorary rank of chief judge of Rumelia, all between the
years 1662 and 1672. In the remainder of his life, he received several arpalıks, and
died in 1675. The descendants of Mustafā Rāsih would become renowned as the
damadzādeler (“children of the son-in-law”) in the eighteenth century. His son and
the grandson of Minkārīzāde, for example, was Damadzāde Ebulhayr Ahmed (d.
1741), who became chief jurist between 1732 and 1733.765 Likewise, Damadzāde
Ahmed’s son Damadzāde Feyzu’llāh became chief jurist twice in the 1750s.766
764 Şeyhî, II, 1267–1269.
765 İpşirli, “Damadzâde Ahmed,” 449–450.
766 İpşirli, “Feyzullah Efendi,” 525–526.
246
Finally, the last person deserving of mention here is Damadzāde Feyzu’llāh’s son,
Damadzāde Mehmed Murad, better known as Murad Mollā.767 Although he was
renowned for the library that he founded in Istanbul, he also reached the second
highest position in the Ottoman ulama, becoming the chief judge of Rumelia in 1777.
The relationship between the library founded by Murad Mollā and Minkārīzāde is
that 425 books belonging to Minkārīzāde’s son ‘Abdu’llāh, which were recorded in
an endowment deed (dated to 14 July 1688),768 were later annexed into the collection
of the Murad Mollā library after its foundation at the end of the eighteenth
century.769
5.9 Conclusion
The purpose of this chapter has been to ascertain the scholarly network surrounding
Minkārīzāde. His twelve years of service as chief jurist between the years 1662 and
1674 provided him with an enormous opportunity to contact numerous scholars of
diverse backgrounds, which is why his seat can rightly be labeled the Minkārīzāde
Āsitānesi (threshold of Minkārīzāde). Detailed examination of Şeyhī’s biographical
dictionary makes it apparent that more than a hundred scholars were in contact with
Minkārīzāde in a variety of ways. The majority of these scholars were granted
mülāzemet by him, while the rest attended his lectures and served in various fields
under his patronage. The existence of a large number of scholars affiliated with
Minkārīzāde shows that he was an important patron of scholarly activities in the
second half of the seventeenth century. All of this enables us to conclude not only
767 Gökman, Murat Molla; Gökman, Murat Molla Kütüphanesi; Tanman, “Murad Molla Tekkesi,”
516–518; Tanman, “Murad Molla Külliyesi,” 187–188; Erünsal, “Murad Molla Kütüphanesi,” 188;
and Özdil, “Murad Molla Tekkesi,” 609–636.
768 For this document, see Evkāf-ı Hümāyun Müfettişliği Mahkemesi, 74: 185–191.
769 Gökman, Murat Molla, 15–16.
247
that Minkārīzāde shaped the upper tier of the Ottoman ulama for approximately the
next 50 years after his time, but also that his office became a main hub of patronage
and scholarly exchange for learned men from different parts of the empire.
248
CHAPTER 6
CONCLUSION
Since more detailed summaries of each chapter are given in the introduction to the
dissertation, I would like to use this conclusion as an opportunity to raise several
issues that my dissertation has not addressed, and to summarize the general
conclusions that I have drawn throughout the study. First, it should be reminded that
although this study has focused on the life and career of Minkārīzāde, it cannot be
called a full-fledged biography of him as one of the indispensable parts of such an
examination should include a chapter on his perception and legacy after his death.
Related to this, one of the important contributions of this dissertation to the field is to
ascertain that the fatwas in the compilation prepared by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm,
in fact, include the fatwas given by Minkārīzāde. Although there is further need to
attest whether each fatwa in the compilation prepared by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm
belongs to Minkārīzāde, the following question is still valid: How was it possible that
Minkārīzāde’s fatwas came down to the present as if they belonged to Menteşzāde
‘Abdu’r-rahīm? This is a seminal question that researchers studying, especially,
Minkārīzāde’s reception after his death should definitely ask. Such an inquiry will
certainly open a new avenue for the studies of the second half of the seventeenth
century.
Other than this, the first conclusion relates to the growing importance of
informal educational opportunities beyond formal ones in seventeenth-century
Ottoman society. At first glance, Minkārīzāde can be imagined as destined to receive
a formal education, being the son of Minkārī ‘Ömer, who died while serving as the
judge of Mecca in 1624, thus making Minkārīzāde a second-generation member of
249
the Ottoman religio-legal hierarchy. Indeed, Minkārīzāde did receive a formal
education in Ottoman madrasas, after which he went on to serve in several
educational positions as a professor. However, Minkārīzāde’s early career also
makes it very evident that there were many alternative sites of learning beyond
institutional ones, a phenomenon which considerably blurred the lines between
institutional and public learning.
Secondly, despite some noteworthy studies on the matter, the religio-legal
debates of the seventeenth century have generally been examined as if the only
contending sides were the Kadızadelis and their Sufi opponents. As the writings of
Minkārīzāde reveal, we also need to examine the writings of other actors actively
participating in the debates of the time. Minkārīzāde’s writings and active
involvement in these debates provide a unique opportunity for gaining fresh insights
into the more intricate aspects of these debates. Similarly, this study has also shown
that examining the corpus of a scholar can reveal the multifaceted dimensions of the
notion of orthodoxy on the one hand and orthopraxy on the other. In light of
Minkārīzāde’s writings, it would not be wrong to argue that Hanafi pietism was not
only in the hands of Kadızadelis and Sunna-minded Sufis, but certain members of the
Ottoman ulama also advocated a strong Hanafi traditionalism in the seventeenth
century.
One of the growing fields of inquiry among historians is to examine the
reciprocal relationship between Arab and Rumi lands from different perspectives as
evident also in the recent scholarly interest in Minkārīzāde’s life and career. In this
regard, Minkārīzāde’s 1) interest in rational science especially in the field of ādāb albahth
(the science of dialectics or disputation), 2) his obtainment of the license to
transmit hadith (ijāzat al-riwāya) from a Maliki scholar ‘Alī al-Ujhūrī, and 3) the
250
correspondence between Minkārīzāde and Khayr al-Din al-Ramlī provide alternative
ways to analyze and understand this relationship from different aspects. In light of
these, it is safe to conclude that the degree of informal interactions between these
two regions had a more substantial impact on Ottoman scholar-bureaucrats than
generally assumed.
Another important topic discussed in this dissertation is the general state of
the Ottoman learned hierarchy in the seventeenth century. There has been a common
inclination among historians to emphasize how the top ranks of the Ottoman learned
hierarchy were dominated by several mevali families from the late sixteenth century
through to much of the eighteenth century. Of course, it would be unlikely for the
overall political, economic, and administrative transformations that the Ottoman
Empire underwent in the early modern period not to affect the ranks of the Ottoman
learned hierarchy. In connection to this, it can be argued that the Ottoman learned
hierarchy seems to have adapted itself to changing circumstances based on a process
that prioritized the re-organization of the ulama ranks with reference to one’s
knowledge and competence. Indeed, if we look at the familial backgrounds of many
high-ranking scholars in the second half of the seventeenth century, we see unusual
career paths taken by individuals whose families were not affiliated with the
Ottoman ulama. As the decree appointing Minkārīzāde as mümeyyiz in 1658 and
Minkārīzāde’s priorities and preferences in granting mülāzemet to candidates show,
the seventeenth-century Ottoman ulama was redesigned on the basis of one’s
knowledge and competence, resulting in a meritocratic system open to more scholars
not descended from the Ottoman mevali.
Another notable conclusion that can be drawn from this study relates to the
importance of the scholarly patronage of the members of the Ottoman learned
251
hierarchy. Thus far, scholarly attention has been focused on the patronage offered by
Ottoman sultans, high-ranking state officials, and members of the Ottoman palace.
As this study reveals, more than one hundred scholars established close contact with
Minkārīzāde, and his office became the main hub of patronage and scholarly
exchange for learned men from different parts of the empire. Examining scholarly
patronage with such facts in mind helps to reveal common intellectual inclinations
and scholarly outputs on the part of teachers and students, which in turn shows the
reciprocal aspect of the teacher-student relationship.
This dissertation contributes to recent scholarly attempts in examining
seventeenth-century Ottoman religious and intellectual history in light of
Minkārīzāde’s life and career in relation to the broader political, religious, and
intellectual processes of his time. As it becomes clear from the brief overview
presented in this chapter and the lengthier assessment provided throughout the
dissertation, Minkārīzāde as a scholar-bureaucrat was far from being a minor player
of his time. On the contrary, he played an indispensable role in shaping the principal
religious, administrative, and intellectual trends of the seventeenth century. By
revealing that Minkārīzāde was actively involved in redefining critical aspects of
seventeenth-century Ottoman history on both institutional and intellectual levels and
shedding light on Minkarizade’s contributions in these spheres, this dissertation
seeks to fill an important lacuna in the scholarship regarding his life and career as
well as to provide fresh insights into seventeenth-century Ottoman history.
252
APPENDIX A
MINKĀRĪZĀDE’S FAMILY TREE
Source: Minkari, Bir Cerrahın Anıları, 14–15.
253
APPENDIX B
THE SCHOLARLY NETWORKS AROUND MINKĀRĪZĀDE
Name [his
father]
Affiliation
with
Minkārīzāde
Birth place Tutors/patronag
e
Employment
in madrasas
(last
appointment)
Employmen
t in
judgeships
(highest
degree)
Additional
data
Sourc
e
1
Kara
Dede/Dede
Cöngī (d.
1567)
His
grandfather Amāsıyye Süleymāniyye
-i İznīk
The mūftī of
Kefe (1558–
1665)
Atâyî,
503–
505
2
Minkārī
‘Ömer (d.
1624)
[Minkārī ‘Alī]
His father ‘Alā’iyye
Zülfinigār; Kara
Çelebizāde
Hüsām
(Mülāzemet)
Hākāniyye-i
Vefā Mecca
Atâyî,
1709–
1710
3 Semīn Velī (d.
1650)
His brother in
law
Maraş,
Bāzārköyi Süleymāniyye Üsküdar
Şeyhî,
I,
649–
650
4
Mü’ezzinzāde
Şeyh Mehmed
(d. 1664)
[Mü’ezzinzāde
‘Abdü’l-kādir]
His student A‘rec Mustafā Sultān Selīm-i
Kadīm Cairo
Şeyhî,
II,
865–
866
254
5
Mahdūm-ı
Kemāl
Efendizāde
Ahmed (d.
1666) [Kemāl
Efendizāde
İbrāhīm]
His student Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye Aleppo
Şeyhî,
II,
917–
918
6
Şehzāde
Hācesi Seyyid
Mehmed (d.
1670)
Mülāzemet Merzifon Merzifonī Kara
Mustafā Paşa
Sahn-ı
Semāniyye
The Hāce of
prince
Mustafā
Şeyhî,
II, 982
7
Küçük Bolevī
Mustafā (d.
1670)
His Fetva
Emīni Bolu
Kiçi Mehmed,
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Bolevī
Mustafā
Şāh Sultān
Şeyhî,
II,
997–
998
8
Hayrü’d-dīn
er-Remli (d.
1671)
Remle
Şeyhî,
II,
1007–
1008
9
Karamanī
Yūsuf (d.
1671)
His student Karaman Ayasofya
Şeyhî,
II,
1016–
1017
10 Şāmī ‘Abdü’llatīf
(d. 1671) Mülāzemet Damascus 40 asper Belgrade
Şeyhî,
II,
1019–
1020
255
11
Kabakulakzād
e Mehmed (d.
1671 )
[Çāvuşbaşı
Nūru’llāh
Ağa]
Attended his
lectures Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
II,
1041–
1043
12
Muharremzād
e ‘Abdu’llāh
(d. 1674) [
Muharremzād
e Ahmed]
Attended his
lectures Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhī,
II,
1068–
1070
13
Burusalı
İlāhīzāde (d.
1675)
[İlāhīzāde
Şeyh Ya‘kūb]
Āsitāne Bursa Edirne
Selīmiyye İzmir re’īsü’lmüderrisīn
Şeyhî,
II,
1093–
1094
14
Dendānī
İbrāhīm (d.
1675)
Mülāzemet Sahn-ı
Semāniyye
Şeyhî,
II,
1099
15
Sahhāf
Mehmed (d.
1678)
Mülāzemet ‘Alā’iyye Murād Paşa-yı
‘Atīk His kethudā
Şeyhî,
II,
1134–
1135
16
Şeyhü’l-İslām
‘Alī Efendi
Birāderi Ebū
Bekr (d. 1678)
Mülāzemet Yenişehir,
Çatalca Süleymāniyye Selanik
Şeyhî,
II,
1145–
1146
256
17
Sarāy Hācesi
Celeb İbrāhīm
(d. 1678)
Mülāzemet Üsküdar Şeyhü’l-İslām
Mu‘īd Ahmed gılmānān-ı
şehinşāhī
Şeyhî,
II,
1146
18 Pārsā Mehmed
(d. 1680) Āsitāne Gelibolu Mevlevī Şeyhī
Mehmed Cāmi‘-i ‘Atīk
Şeyhî,
II,
1174–
1182
19 Tavīl Ahmed
(d. 1681) Mülāzemet Vilāyet-i
Anatolı
Kara İbrāhīm
Paşa
Sinān Paşa
Dārü’l-hadīsi İmam
Şeyhî,
II,
1206–
1207
20
Elmās Aga
Hācesi ‘Alī (d.
1681)
Mülāzemet Vilāyet-i
‘Anatolı Siyāvuş Paşa
Sultānı
Şeyhî,
II,
1222–
1223
21
Resūl Efendi
Birāderzādesi
Seyyid
Mehmed
Reşīd (d.
1681)
Mülāzemet Kastamonu Muharrem
Aga
Şeyhî,
II,
1223
22
Çeşmīzāde
Mehmed (d.
1682)
[Çeşmīzāde
‘Abdü’rrahīm]
Mülāzemet Hasan
Efendi
Şeyhî,
II,
1236
257
23
Grebneşī
Mustafā (d.
1682)
Mülāzemet Grebneş Ders-i ‘Am
Sālih Süleymāniyye Cairo Fetva emīni
Şeyhî,
II,
1239–
1241
24
Kara İbrāhīm
Paşa İmāmı
Hāfız Mustafā
(d. 1683)
Mülāzemet Gürciyyü’l
-asl
kā’im-makām
Kara İbrāhīm
Paşa
Yarhisār
Şeyhî,
II,
1253
25
Trabzonī
İbrāhīm (d.
1684) [şeyh
Receb Efendi]
Attended his
lectures Trabzon
Hüsāmzāde
Şeyh
Mehmed, Kuds
Müftīsi Seyyid
‘Abdü’r-rahīm
Mehmed Paşa
(Kadırga) İstanbul
Şeyhî,
II,
1259–
1260
26
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Minkārīzāde
Dāmādı
Mustafā (d.
1684)
His son-inlaw
Çankırı
Re’īsü’l-küttāb
Şāmīzāde
Mehmed
Medāris-i
Süleymāniyye
Eyyūb (with
the pāye of
Rumelia)
Şeyhî,
II,
1267
–
1269
27
Vālide
Kethudāsı
İmāmı
Süleymān (d.
1684)
Mülāzemet Bosnia
Vālide Sultān
Kethudāsı
Mustafā
İbrāhīm Paşayı
Cedīd
Şeyhî,
II,
1274–
1275
28
Mü’minzāde
İbrāhīm (d.
1686)
[‘Abdü’lmü’min
Efendi]
Mülāzemet
Ders-i ‘Am
Benli
Mustafā,
Nefeszāde es-
Seyyid ‘Abdu’rrahmān
Fudayliyye
Şeyhî,
II,
1292
258
29
‘Atā Efendi
Birāderi
‘Abdu’rrahmān
(d.
1686)
Mülāzemet
The brother of
Şeyhü’l-İslām
‘Atā’u’llāh
Mehmed
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Debbāgzāde
Mehmed
Şeyhî,
II,
1297
30 Bekrīzāde ‘Alī
(d. 1687) Mülāzemet Damascus İbrāhīm Paşayı
Cedīd
Şeyhî,
II,
1301–
1302
31 Dürrī Mehmed
(d. 1687) Mülāzemet Bolu Musāhib
Mustafā Paşa Süleymāniyye
Şeyhî,
II,
1302–
1303
32
Nāsırzāde
Mehmed (d.
1687) [Şeyh
Nāsır]
Mülāzemet Diyarbakır Karabaş
Mustafā Aga Erzurum
Şeyhî,
II,
1313
33
Vānī Dāmādı
Mustafā (d.
1687)
Mülāzemet Erzurum
Sultāniyye
Medresesi
(Bursa)
Şeyhî,
II,
1313–
1314
34
Esīrī Birāderi
Mustafā (d.
1687)
Attended his
lectures
Mu‘īdzāde
Mehmed,
Şeyhü’l-İslām
‘Abdü’r-rahīm
Süleymāniyye Rumelia
Şeyhî,
II,
1314–
1316
259
35
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Ankaravī
Mehmed
(d.1687) [a
certain
Hüseyin,
Merchant)
His Fetva
Emīni Ankara Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1686–
1687)
Şeyhî,
II,
1321–
1324
36
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Ebū Sa‘īdzāde
Mahdūmı
Mehmed
Reşīd (d.
1687)
[Şeyhü’l-İslām
Ebū Sa‘īdzāde
Feyzu’llāh]
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye
Şeyhî,
II,
1788–
1789
37
Minkārīzāde
‘Abdu’llāh
(d.1688)
[Minkārīzāde
Yahyā]
His son,
Mülāzemet Vālide Sultān Anatolia
Şeyhî,
II,
1795–
1796
38 Sarı Ahmed
(d. 1688) Mülāzemet Skopje Rüstem Paşa
Şeyhî,
II,
1797–
1798
260
39
Debbāgzāde
Sun‘u’llāh (d.
1688)
[Şeyhü’l-İslām
Debbāgzāde
Mehmed]
Mülāzemet Mūsıla-i
Süleymāniyye
Şeyhî,
II,
1815–
1816
40
Kilisī Dāmādı
Hıfzī Mustafā
(d. 1688)
Mülāzemet Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye Damascus
Şeyhî,
II,
1816–
1817
41 Şāmī Hüseyn
(d. 1689)
Attended his
lectures Damascus Kāsım Paşa
Evkaf
müfettişi of
Çatalcalı ‘Alī
Şeyhî,
II,
1823–
1824
42
‘Īsāzāde
Mehmed
‘Azīz (d.
1689)
[Bosnevī ‘Īsā]
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye
Selanik (
with pāye of
Bursa)
Şeyhî,
II,
1824–
1825
43
‘İmādzāde
Seyyid
Mehmed (d.
1689) [Seyyid
‘Abdü’l-hay]
Mülāzemet
Galata Sarāyı
Medresesi
Ūlāsı
Ankara
(with the
pāye of
Bursa)
Şeyhî,
II,
1830-
1831
44
Dāvūdzāde
Mehmed (d.
1691) [Mūsā
Paşa İmāmı
Ahmed]
Mülāzemet
Galata Sarāyı
Medresesi
Ūlāsı
Şeyhî,
II,
1853–
1854
261
45
Şeyhü’l-İslām
‘Alī (d. 1692)
[Şeyh
Mehmed
Efendi]
Āsitāne
İstanbul,
his father
from
‘Alā’iyye
Gazanfer Aga
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1674–
1684, 1688)
Şeyhî,
III,
1932–
1935
46
Bosnevī
Kassām
Mehmed
(d.1693)
Mülāzemet Bosnia Merzifonī Kara
Mustafā Paşa
Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymān
iyye
Mecca Kassām
Şeyhî,
III,
1946–
1947
47
Yüsrī Ahmed
(d. 1694)
[Bosnevī
Mustafā Aga]
He took
examination
Kürd
‘Abdu’llāh,
Ders-i ‘Am
Sālih
Gevher Hān
Sultān Damascus
Şeyhî,
III,
1966–
1968
48 eş-Şeyh İspirī
‘Alī (d. 1692)
Attended his
lessons Erzurum
Karamanī
Hüseyn, Uzun
Hasan, Kara
Süleymān
Preacher at
Ayasofya-i
Kebīr Cāmi‘-i
Şerīf
Şeyhî,
III,
1979–
1980
49
Bolbolcızāde
Şeyh ‘Abdü’lkerīm
(d.
1694)
Attended his
lessons Karaman
Sālih İmām
Dāmādı
Mehmed, Fāzıl
Süleymān,
‘Abdü’l-ahad
en-Nūrī
Preacher at
Ayasofya-i
Kebīr Cāmi‘-i
Şerīf
Şeyhî,
III,
1988–
1990
50
Kadrīzāde
Ahmed (d.
1695)
[‘Abdü’l-kādir
Efendi]
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye Jerusalem
Şeyhî,
III,
2047–
2048
262
51
Nakībü’l-eşrāf
Nefeszāde es-
Seyyid
‘Abdu’rrahmān
(d.
1696) [a
certain imam]
Mülāzemet Ankara Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye
Balıkesir
and
Edremid as
arpalıks
(with the
pāye of
Rūmelia)
Nakībü’l-
Eşrāf
Şeyhî,
III,
2060–
2063
52
Konya Müftīsi
Seyyid Ahmed
(d. 1696)
Mülāzemet Karaman 40-akçe
medrese
Sinob, with
pāye of
Diyarbekir
Şeyhî,
III,
2064–
2065
53
Sirkecizāde
‘Abdu’llāh (d.
1696) [a
certain sirkeci]
Mülāzemet Kasımpaşa
Ūlā-yı Sarāy-ı
Galata
Medresesi
Şeyhî,
III,
2065–
2066
54 Subhī Ahmed
(d. 1696) Mülāzemet Tekfurdağ Papasoglı
Şeyhî,
III,
2069
55
Derzīzāde
Mehmed (d.
1696) [A
certain İmam
called
Derzīzāde]
He took
examination İstanbul
Hāce
Hayrü’d-dīn
dārü’l-ifādesi
Şeyhî,
III,
2070–
2071
56
Mincel
Ahmed (d.
1697)
Mülāzemet Aydonat Gazanfer Aga
Şeyhî,
III,
2076–
2077
263
57
Karabāgī
Yūsuf
(d.1697 )
Mülāzemet ‘Ayntāb Bayram Paşa Medina
Şeyhî,
III,
2084–
2085
58
Güzelhisārī
Ahmed (d.
1697)
Mülāzemet Aydın,
Güzelhisār
Köprilizāde
Ahmed Paşa
Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye Bursa
Şeyhî,
III,
2100–
2101
59
Murād Paşa
İmāmı YekÇeşm
Ahmed
(d. 1698/1699)
Mülāzemet ‘Alā’iyye Sadr-ı a‘zam
Murād Paşa Pīrī Paşa Eyyūb Murād Paşa
İmāmı
Şeyhî,
III,
2114–
2115
60
Kırımī
‘Abdü’l-halīm
(d. 1699)
Mülāzemet Crimea Süleymāniyye Cairo
Müfettiş of
Haremeynü’şŞerīfeyn
Şeyhî,
III,
2121–
2122
61
A‘reczāde
‘Abdu’llāh (d.
1699) [A‘rec
‘Ömer]
Mülāzemet Dāmād Efendi
Şeyhî,
III,
2122
62
Tefsīrī
Mehmed (d.
1699)
Attended his
lessons ‘Ayntāb
Gürānī ‘Alī,
Zeynü’l-
‘Ābidīn, Şeyh
Ebi’z-ziyā
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Debbāgzāde
Mehmed, with
pāye the of
Süleymāniyye
Şeyhî,
III,
2124–
2125
63
Erzincānī es-
Seyyid ‘Alī (d.
1700)
Mülāzemet Erzurūm,
Gercanis Medāris-i
Süleymāniyye Rumelia
Şeyhî,
III,
2161–
2163
264
64
Minkārīzāde
Efendi Tābi‘i
‘Ömer (d.
1703)
Mülāzemet Malātıyye
Muharrem
Efendi ve
‘Abdu’r-rahmān
Efendi
Kalenderhane
Şeyhî,
III,
2199–
2200
65
Arıkzāde
Mehmed (d.
1703)
Mülāzemet Edirne Edrine Dārü’lhadīsi
Bursa mektubcu
Şeyhî,
III,
2203–
2204
66
Gergerī
Ahmed (d.
1703)
Mülāzemet Gerger,
Damascus mūsıla-i Sahn Bosnia
Şeyhî,
III,
2206–
2207
67
Müneccimbaşı
Şeyh Ahmed
Dede (d.
1702)
Attended his
lessons Karaman
Ders-i ‘am
Sālih; Şeyh
Ahmed Efendi
Müneccimbaşı
Şeyhî,
III,
2229–
2331
68
Şeyhü’l-İslām
es-Seyyid
Feyzu’llāh (d.
1703)
Patronage Erzurum Dārü’l-hadīs
Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1688;
1695–1703)
Şeyhî,
III,
2332–
2335
69
Rodosī Kūsec
Ebū Bekr (d.
1703)
Mülāzemet Rhodes Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
III,
2337–
2339
70 Kellā Halīl (d.
1703) Mülāzemet Kütahya
Bıçakcı
Mehmed, Ders-i
‘am Sālih
Sinān Paşa
Şeyhî,
III,
2339–
2340
265
71
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Yek-Çeşm
Hüseyn (d.
1704)
Mülāzemet Diyar-ı
hamid Sahn
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1703)
Şeyhî,
III,
2347–
2349
72
Keşfī
‘Abdu’llāh (d.
1705)
Mülāzemet Bolu Süleymāniyye Jerusalem
Şeyhî,
III,
2370–
2371
73
Hekīmbaşızād
e Yahyā (d.
1705)
[Re’īsü’letibbā
Sālih]
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye
Rumelia
Şeyhî,
III,
2371–
2374
74 Kara Ebū Bekr
(d. 1706) Mülāzemet Aydın,
Güzelhisar Süleymāniyye Anatolia
Şeyhî,
III,
2391–
2393
75 Ra‘dī Mustafā
(d. 1706) Mülāzemet Iznik Vālide Sultān
Medresesi Medina
Şeyhî,
III,
2395–
2396
76
Begler Hācesi
Ahmed (d.
1706)
Mülāzemet Karaman
Merzifonī Kara
Mustafā
Paşa
Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye Istanbul
Şeyhî,
III,
2398–
2400
77 Sandalcızāde
‘Alī (d. 1706) Mülāzemet İstanbul Şāh Sultān Baghdad
Şeyhî,
III,
2416–
2417
266
78
Uzunīzāde
Süleymān (d.
1707)
Mülāzemet Bosnia Hāsekī Sultān
Medresesi
Şeyhî,
III,
2419–
2420
79
La‘līzāde Şeyh
Mehmed (d.
1707)
[İbrāhīm
Efendi]
Attended his
lessons
Ders-i ‘Am
Sālih, Bıçakcı
Mehmed, Uzun
‘Alī, Şeyhü’lİslām
‘Abdü’rrahīm
Süleymāniyye Anatolia
Şeyhî,
III,
2422–
2425
80
İmām-ı
Sultānī Kaba
Halīl (d. 1708)
Mülāzemet İznik Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
III,
2438–
2439
81
Kadrī
Efendizāde
‘Abdu’llāh (d.
1708) [Kadrī
Efendi]
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
III,
2445–
2446
82 Nīfī İbrāhīm
(d. 1709) Mülāzemet Nīf, İzmir Ūlā-yı Sarāy-ı
İbrāhîm Paşa Galata
Şeyhî,
III,
2453–
2455
83 Madrūb Yūsuf
(d. 1709) Mülāzemet Kütahya Şāh Sultān Baghdad
Şeyhî,
III,
2479–
2480
267
84
Müneccimbaşı
‘Arabzāde
Mehmed (d.
1710) [Şāmī
Muhyī’d-dīn]
Mülāzemet Istanbul
Üsküdar
(with pāye
of Madina)
Müneccimbaşı
, 3 times
Şeyhî,
III,
2483-
2485
85
Resūlzāde
Ahmed (d.
1710) [Sahhāf
Resūl]
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye
Selanik
(with pāye
of Bursa)
Şeyhî,
III,
2494–
2495
86
İmām Dāmādı
Kādī Karyeli
Celeb Hasan
(d. 1711)
Mülāzemet Safranbolu İmām-ı Sultānī
İbrāhīm
Sultān Selīm-i
Kadīm Cairo
Şeyhî,
III,
2500–
2502
87 Fāzıl Kara
Halīl (d. 1711) Mülāzemet Birgi Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye Rumelia
Şeyhî,
III,
2506–
2510
88
Nīfī Dāmādı
Hamdī Ahmed
(d. 1711)
Mülāzemet Turgutlu Süleymāniyye
Şeyhî,
III,
2510–
2511
89
Fethiyyeli
Mehmed Emīn
(d. 1712)
[Es‘ad
Efendi]
Mülāzemet Istanbul Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
III,
2516–
2518
268
90
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Başmakcızāde
es-Seyyid ‘Alī
(d. 1712)
[Başmakcızād
e Mehmed]
Attended his
lessons Istanbul
Ders-i ‘am
Sālih,
Cevherīzāde
Mehmed
Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1703;
1704–1707;
1710–1712)
Şeyhî,
III,
2522–
2530
91
Seyyid
‘Abdü’lmecīdzāde
Seyyid Ahmed
(d. 1712)
[Bahā’ü’ddīnzāde
es-
Seyyid
‘Abdü’lmecīd]
Mülāzemet Kayseri Lālā Şāhīn
Paşa
Lefkoşa
(with pāye
of Manisa)
Şeyhî,
III,
2553
92
Kavukcızāde
‘Abdu’llāh (d.
1712) [Tācī
İbrāhīm]
Mülāzemet Edirne Kādī ‘Abdī Anatolia
Şeyhî,
III,
2536–
2537
93
Kevākibīzāde
Ahmed (d.
1712)
[Kevākibīzāde
Mehmed]
Mülāzemet Aleppo
Husreviyye
(with the pāye
of
Süleymaniyye
)
Trablus-ı
Şām
The müfti f
Aleppo
Şeyhî,
III,
2542
94
Çalkandızāde
‘Abdu’llāh (d.
1713)
Mülāzemet Kastamonu Sinān Paşa
Tokat (with
rank of
mevleviyyet)
Şeyhî,
III,
2575–
2576
269
95
‘Acemzāde
Hācesi
Mustafā (d.
1713)
Mülāzemet Kastamonu Kılıç ‘Alī
Paşa Damascus
Şeyhî,
III,
2577–
2578
96
Müsellim
‘Abdu’rrahmān
(d.
1714)
Mülāzemet Edirne Edirne Dārü’lhadīsi
Plovdiv
Şeyhî,
III,
2594–
2595
97
‘Abdü’rrahīmzāde
Yahyā (d.
1714)
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye Rumelia
Şeyhî,
III,
2599–
2601
98
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Ebezāde
‘Abdu’llāh (d.
1714)
Mülāzemet Balçık,
Varna Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(d.
1708–1710;
1710–1713)
His mother
was a midwife
of Mehmed
IV’s children
Şeyhî,
III,
2604–
2607;
99
Na‘lburzāde
Mehmed (d.
1715)
Mülāzemet Edirne Sultān Selīm-i
Cedīd
Şeyhî,
III,
2613–
2614
10
0
Şeyhü’l-İslām
‘Atā’u’llāh
Mehmed (d.
1715) [Eyyūbī
İbrāhīm]
Mülāzemet Simav Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1713)
Şeyhî,
III,
2617–
2621
270
10
1
Pür-
Kalemzāde
Hācesi
Mehmed (d.
1715)
Mülāzemet Balıkesir Hazret-i
Emīr
Şeyhī,
III,
2625–
2626
10
2
Edrineli
Çukacızāde
İbrāhīm (d.
1716)
[Çukacızāde
Mehmed]
Mülāzemet Edirne ‘A’işe
Sultān Eyyüb
Şeyhî,
III,
2631–
2632
10
3
Celeb Halīl (d.
1716) Mülāzemet Edirne Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
III,
2654–
2656
10
4
Mekkīzāde
Tāhir Mehmed
(d. 1716)
[Mekkī
Mehmed]
Mülāzemet Sultān Ahmed
Hān Jerusalem
Şeyhî,
III,
2656–
2658
10
5
Menteşzāde
‘Abdü’r-rahīm
(d. 1716)
[Kurd
Mehmed]
Mülāzemet Bursa Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1715–
1716)
Şeyhî,
III,
2662–
2666
10
6
Edrineli
Berberzāde
İbrāhīm (d.
(1717)
Mülāzemet Edirne
Taşlık (with
pāye of
Medīne-i
Münevvere)
Şeyhî,
III,
2670–
2671
271
10
7
Tezkireci
Hüseyn
Efendizāde
Mustafā (d.
1721)
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
IV,
2980–
2982
10
8
‘Abdü’lkerīmzāde
Refdī
Mehmed (d.
1722) [Sāmi‘ī
‘Abdü’lkerīm]
Mülāzemet Süleymāniyye Mecca
Şeyhî,
IV,
2988–
2992
10
9
Edrineli
Cerrāhzāde
‘Abdü’l-fettāh
(d. 1722)
Mülāzemet Edirne Sultān
Bāyezīd Hān
Şeyhî,
IV,
2992–
2993
11
0
Mīrzā Mustafā
(d. 1722)
[‘Abdü’rra’ūf]
Mülāzemet
(through the
way of
müstakillen,
independently
)
Batum
İmām-ı
Sultānī Şāmī
Hüseyn, Kiçi
Mehmed,
Nişāncı
Paşa-yı ‘Atīk
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1714–
1715)
He entered the
Palace of
Galata as
gılmān
Şeyhî,
IV,
3009–
3015
11
1
Ebū İshāk
İsmā‘īl (d.
1725) [Kara
İbrāhīm from
‘Alā’iyye]
mektūbcılık
(private
secretary)
İstanbul
Fāzıl Uzun ‘Alī,
Sarı Osmān,
Börekcizāde
Hasan, Ders-i
‘Ām
Mehemmmed
Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1716–
1717)
Şeyhî,
IV,
3121–
3126
272
11
2
Yahyāzāde
Ahmed (d.
1725)
Mülāzemet Edirne Kalender-hāne Anatolia
Şeyhî,
IV,
3135–
3139
11
3
Şeyhü’l-İslām
Mehmed (d.
1728).
Mülāzemet Amāsiyye Cānbolādzāde
Hüseyn Paşa Süleymāniyye
Şeyhü’lİslām
(1695;
1703–1704)
Şeyhî,
IV,
3231–
3235
11
4
eş-Şeyh el-
Fāzıl
Süleymān (d.
1722) [Ahmed
Efendi]
attended his
Muhtasar-ı
Müntehā and
Tefsīr-i
Beyzāvī
lessons
İstanbul
Şeyhü’l-Kurrā
Nişāncı Paşa
İmāmı Mehmed,
Kebeci Mustafā,
Şeyh ‘Arabzāde
‘Abdü’l-vehhāb,
Fāzıl Mustafā
Paşa, Amcazāde
Hüseyin Paşa
Dārü’l-hadīs-i
Amcazāde
Hüseyin Paşa
Teacher at
Sarāy-ı Cedīdi
Sultanī, vāiz
at Ayasofya
Şeyhî,
IV,
3281–
3285
273
REFERENCES
MINKĀRĪZĀDE’S WORKS
Risāle-yi millet-i İbrāhīm (longer version)
Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 4952/3, ff. 35-55.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Yazma Bağışlar 1438/16, ff. 103-116.
Risāle-yi millet-i İbrāhīm (shorter version)
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Fatih 5379/18, ff. 265-271; 5435/12, ff. 118-123.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hacı Hayri Abdi Efendi 147/2, ff. 265-267.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hacı Mahmud Efendi 4685/2, ff. 1-25; 1349; 1168/2,
ff. 123-126.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Halet Efendi 404/2, ff. 38-40.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS İbrahim Efendi 871/8, ff. 216-220; 860/38, ff. 133-
135.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS M Arif M Murad 23.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Mihrişah Sultan 440/8, ff. 79-80.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Yazma Bağışlar 1438/17, ff. 117-119; 7354/3, ff. 129-
137.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Sütlüce Dergahı 111, ff. 71-73.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS A Tekelioğlu 810/3, ff. 10-12.
Millet Kütüphanesi YEK, MS Ali Emiri 282, ff. 2-4; 1291, ff. 35-38.
İstanbul Üniversitesi, MS Nadir Eserler Kütüphanesi T5917.
Harvard University Houghton Library, MS Arab 292, ff. 99a-101a.
Sūretu ma ketebehu Yahyā Efendi el-marūf Minkārīzāde fi ibtāl şerhi’t-Tarīkati’l-
Muhammediye
Köprülü YEK, MS Hacı Ahmed Paşa 152/3, ff. 77-79.
Ankara Üniversitesi İlahiyat Fakültesi 980 ff: 1b-2b.
Kayseri Raşit Efendi YEK, MS Raşit Efendi 350, ff: 66b-68a.
Risāle fī vücūbī istimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’l-hutbe (longer version)
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Esad Efendi 3645/3, ff. 20-44.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Şehid Ali Paşa 2834/17, ff. 119-134.
Risāle fī vücūbī istimā‘i’l-Kur’ān ve’l-hutbe (shorter version)
Süleymaniye YEK, MS İbrahim Efendi 872/2, ff. 18-20.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Mihrişah Sultan 439/7, ff. 54-62.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Serez 3876/3, ff. 7-9.
Köprülü YEK, MS Fazıl Ahmed Paşa 216/2, ff. 106-108.
274
Fetāvā-yı Minkārīzāde (compiled by ‘Atāu‘llāh Mehmed)
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hekimoğlu 421; 422.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Carullah Efendi 954.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Esad Efendi 1095.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Fatih 2386.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hafid Efendi 102.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hamidiye 600.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Şehid Ali Paşa 1055.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS H. Hüsnü Paşa 427.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Kasidecizade 275.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Laleli 1264.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS M. Hilmi- M. Fehmi 59; 78.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Pertevniyal 341; 342.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Süleymaniye 663.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Yazma Bağışlar 7471.
Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 2005; 2006.
Atıf Efendi YEK, MS Atıf Efendi 1140.
Murad Molla YEK, MS Murad Molla 1145.
İstanbul Müftülüğü 144.
Fetāvā-yı Minkārīzāde (compiled by Menteşzāde ‘Abdu’r-rahīm)
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Aşir Efendi 137.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hamidiye 610.
Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 2001; 2002; 2003; 2037.
Harvard Law School Library, HLS MS 1402.
Hāşiye ‘alā hāşiye Mīr Ebū’l-Feth li şerhi’l-Hanefī ‘alā’l-ādābu’l-adudiyye
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hacı Beşir Ağa 578.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Hamidiye 1449/3, ff. 97-131.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Laleli 3044/3, ff. 31-70; 3047/1, ff. 1-34; 2944;
3028/4, ff. 123-133; 3051/8, ff. 57-94.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Nafız Paşa 1351.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Şehid Ali Paşa 2311/3, 99-126.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Yazma Bağışlar 1846/6, ff. 47-77.
Nuruosmaniye YEK, MS Nuruosmaniye 4484/1, ff. 1-60.
Hacı Selim Ağa YEK, MS Kemankeş 318/8, ff. 97-139.
Beyazıt YEK, MS Beyazıt 5946, ff. 34b-72a.
Atıf Efendi YEK, MS Atıf Efendi 2797/11, ff. 82-101.
Beyazıt YEK, MS Beyazıt 10697.
Ta‘līkāt ‘alā Tefsīri’l-Beydāvī
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Laleli 318.
Süleymaniye YEK, MS Şehid Ali Paşa 327.
275
Correspondences between Minkārīzāde and al-Ramlī
Süleymaniye YEK, Hekimoğlu MS 322, ff. 295b-297a; 297a-303b; 303b-
306b.
His two super-glosses 1) on a specific verse (Al-Isra 17:88) in al-Baydāwī’s Anwār
al-Tanzīl and 2) on the chapter Kitāb al-Aymān of Sadr al-Sharī‘a’s Sharh al-Wiqāya
Süleymaniye YEK, Reşid Efendi MS 215, ff: 176b-185b.
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