The Mamluk Sultanate of Egypt and Syria (1250–1517 ce) was based on a military-political elite of Eurasian Steppe provenance, brought to the Eastern Mediterranean as youths. In the early decades of the Sultanate, most of these were Qipchaq Turks, but additional groups of Turks, Mongols and others were also well represented. The impact of the Eurasian military tradition has been long noted by scholars. However, some other aspects of the Inner Asian legacy have not been fully explored. In this paper I will look at a few characteristics of this cultural heritage: names, daily language, drinking habits, sports, hunting, religious rituals, and cultural awareness. The question of identity of the ruling strata of the Dawlat al-Turk/al-Atrak (“The Dynasty/State of the Turks), as the Mamluk Sultanate was then known in Arabic, will be broached at the end of the paper.

In a memorial lecture for Charles Beckingham, David Morgan1 evoked one of this prolific travel literature scholar's astute observations: “[T]he study of travel narratives, especially travel narratives about a culture quite different from the traveller's own, can be very revealing, not only about the culture he observed, but about the culture to which he belonged”.2 This insight indeed undergirds my own approach to the descriptions of cities by both insiders and outsiders. Narratives of cities, indeed of any landscape, are but interpretative and hermeneutics texts which can be surely used to narrate the very landscape, but also as texts which may be used to understand the culture and perceptions of the narrator. Over the course of this paper, I examine two accounts (texts) of residents of Mamlūk provincial cities in al-Shām. These texts will be placed under the scrutiny of the data and the existing literature of those cities. In other words, the ‘conceptualised city’ as narrated by the sources will be compared with the ‘tangible city’. The latter we may unearth from various other sources (mostly texts) as well as the city's built environment. Thus, this chapter examines the ways in which Mamlūk cities of al-Shām were scripted and narrated by two local ‘storytellers’ and ‘image-makers’ of the city.3 In this context, ‘storyteller’ is an umbrella term for those who left us with a narrated legacy of their city. I decided to call them storytellers for the purpose of accentuating their inherent subjectivity. Informed and accurate as some of these narrators may have been, all of their experiences with and accounts of the urban landscape were guided by a personal understanding and their own cultural background. Since each of these texts is about spatial practices and spatial arrangement (landscape) of the city, the argument can be made that they all fall under the heading of travel writing.4 What is more, any narrative with a spatial dimension (Michel de Certeau would argue that there is no such thing as a narrative without one) is a story that organises space. Against this backdrop, the objective of this chapter, above and beyond presenting ‘spatial stories’ of cities of Syria, is to demonstrate the complexity of the reading landscape and particularly the ways landscape descriptions need always be taken as subjective, culture-based, culturally constructed, and a constant negotiation between the traveller/story-teller/source narration, the ‘actual’ built environment and the political context.

I write this article in the spirit of the Persian poetic tradition, in which an answer to an earlier work takes off from the original and charts its own course. I will suggest that Tamerlane's recreation of the Mongol Empire was symbolic, and was part of his successful creation of a regional state which was at once Turco-Mongolian and Perso-Islamic. His experiment was continued and elaborated by his successors, and the resulting state provided a highly useful model for later dynasties in the Middle East and Central Asia.

Through my long engagement with Mongols and Turks, David Morgan's influence and aid have been a constant advantage and his friendship a recurring pleasure. Our acquaintance began in 1987 with a kind letter he sent me after reading the manuscript for The Rise and Rule of Tamerlane for the Cambridge University Press. Since then I have profited from his scholarship, have used his two books to teach generations of students, and have called on him for uncountable letters of recommendation, always generously given. I also want to thank David for asking me to write the Mongol chapter for the New Cambridge History of Islam, and thus attracting me into the Mongol period. It may seem odd to express my gratitude by writing an answer to David's article which is not entirely in agreement with his conclusions. I trust in the well-known openness of his mind and assume that he will take this in the spirit in which it is offered, as the continuation of many years of discussion.

In the aftermath of the Mongol occupations of the largest and most populous societies of Eurasia, greater visibility of popular religion, more widespread vernacular language use, rising literacy, and fundamental shifts in the structure of rulership and the relationship of state and society could all be observed. Many historians have related these changes to a broader chronology of early modernity. This has been problematic in the case of Iran, whose eighteenth-century passage has not been adequately explored in recent scholarship. Our comparative review of ‘post-Mongol’ Iran and China suggests that this period marks as meaningful a break between a schematic medieval and schematic early modern history in Iran as it does in China. Here, we first consider both societies in the post-Mongol period as empires with secular rulerships and increasingly popular cultural trends, and look at the role of what Crossley has called “simultaneous rulership”—rulership in which the codes of legitimacy of civilisations recognised by the conquest authority are given distinct representation in the rulership — in marking the transition away from religious-endorsed rule to self-legitimating rule as a mark of comparative early modernity.

The present short study examines the problems encountered in the translation in England of Ottoman documents addressed from the Porte or from the North African Regencies to the English Crown in the latter part of the seventeenth century. In particular it studies in some detail the translations undertaken, and the problems faced by, the polymath scholar Thomas Hyde (1636-1702/3), Librarian of the Bodleian Library in the University of Oxford and translator of Oriental documents to the Crown, but reference is also made to translations undertaken by William Seaman (1606/7-1680) and his son, and by the Rev. William Hayley (c.1657-1715).

The poet, traveller, Arabist and campaigning anti-imperialist Wilfrid Blunt, who visited Gobineau in 1871, described him in his diary as follows: “Gobineau is a man of about 55, with grey hair and moustache, dark rather prominent eyes, sallow complexion, and tall figure with brisk almost jerky gait. In temperament he is nervous, energetic in manner, observant, but distrait, passing rapidly from thought to thought, a good talker but a bad listener. He is a savant, novelist, poet, sculptor, archaeologist, a man of taste, a man of the world”.1 On December 16 1904, Marcel Proust wrote to an old friend from schooldays, “Me voici gobinien. Je ne pense qu’à lui”.2 That old friend was Robert Dreyfus, the brother of the Jewish officer Alfred Dreyfus, and, together with Proust, one of the leading campaigners for Alfred's release from Devil's Island. (Alfred was only fully exonerated in 1906.) Proust, of course, skilfully worked the scandals and passions of the Dreyfus Affair into his great sequence of novels, À la recherche du temps perdu. As for Robert, he was to publish his Souvenirs sur Marcel Proust in 1926. But he had also published an admiring monograph entitled La vie et prophéties du Comte de Gobineau in 1909. All this may suggest that, though Count Joseph-Arthur de Gobineau (1816-82) was a racist, he may not have been a conventional one.

The friendship and enmity between Paul Wittek and Fuad Koprulu form one of the most interesting episodes in the development of Turcology. This contribution examines the ebb and flow of that relationship as well as some of the other victims who suffered on the sidelines.

Najaf has been the cradle of Shī῾ī learning for many centuries. According to Najaf tradition, it has been so ever since the prominent scholar Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Ṭūsī, called shaykh al-tā'ifa or “senior scholar of the the sect”, migrated there shortly after the Saljuq conquest of Baghdad in 447/1055.

We have very little information about the teaching system and curriculum in Najaf before the nineteenth century. In this essay, I will try to present the basic elements of a Najaf ḥawza education as they exist in contemporary Iraq and compare it with a Najaf curriculum of 1913. Quite remarkably, the curriculum, teaching methods and patronage networks have been remarkably stable over the last century. Politics and reform movements have, however, had their effects on the curriculum too, as I shall explain in the course of this essay.

This paper summarises an argument I make at much greater length in the forthcoming fourth volume of my book Al-Hind: The Making of the Indo-Islamic World. For more detail and extensive footnotes and references I refer to the longer version.

The aim of this summary is to provide an outline of a new account of the rise of Islam in Sindh and more broadly the Indus borderlands — the latter comprise Sindh, Baluchistan, the Afghan tribal areas and the Kabul wilayat, Kafiristan (the later Nuristan), the western Panjab, and, to the east and south of the northernmost curve of the Indus river, the Kashmir valley and its surrounding mountain zone. With the exception of about half of the Afghan tribal lands which are part of Afghanistan and the valley of Kashmir which is part of India today, this area is broadly coterminous with Pakistan minus Lahore.