VEILING DHIMMĪ, MAINTAINING HOPE: A COPTIC PROGRAM TO DO THE “UNTHINKABLE”

A comprehensive discussion of the production of Coptic medieval religious narratives, their subtext, and their context would be inadequate without considering the structures of power that inform their production. As I have already argued, these structures of power are not only external to Copts and their church (e.g., caliph, Islamic shariʿa), but they are also internal because governing members of the Coptic Church (e.g., patriarchs, clergy in general, and archons) sponsor certain narratives that, because they undergo a process of selection, maintain particular silences while advancing selective representations. These Copto-Arabic religious narratives bear what Michel-Rolph Trouillot calls the “marks of power” and for this reason ought to be considered significant components that contribute to the writing of a medieval history of Egypt. “History,” writes Trouillot, “is the fruit of power, but power itself is never so transparent that its analysis becomes superfluous. The ultimate mark of power may be its invisibility; the ultimate challenge, the exposition of its roots.”¹⁰

At the outset, I must clarify that I am not interested in Copto-Arabic religious narratives as objective representations of “what actually happened,” nor am I interested in precisely categorizing these narratives as either fictive or historical. Rather, this piece will work past that dichotomy of history vs. fiction, a dichotomy upon which Copto-Arabic religious narratives do not turn. Ultimately, I am interested in locating the “marks of power” (external and internal) borne by a particular religious narrative, the marks of which may be initially invisible—and perhaps purposefully veiled—but are evident upon closer observation.

The religious narrative that I discuss below implicitly addresses the delicate matter of Coptic dhimmī status by veiling its commentary on Coptic–Muslim relations in a seemingly celebratory narrative about a miraculous event. The religious narrative, found in the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion, is set in the late 10th century, just after the establishment of Cairo, in 969; however, there are no precise dates for the story's composition. The earliest known version may be found in the History of the Patriarchs,¹¹

in the section completed by Michael, bishop of Tinnis, in 1051. Next I provide a schematic summary of the story, followed by a detailed analysis.

Certain scheming Jewish enemies of the church convince Fatimid caliph al-Muʿizz li-Din Allah (969–75)¹²

to set an ultimatum before the leader of the Copts: move Muqattam Mountain by faith or be persecuted. The challenge is accepted by Coptic Pope Abraham ibn Zurʿah (975–78)¹³ to avoid persecution of his flock, which may have entailed anything from social discrimination, such as raising the jizya (poll tax incumbent upon dhimmī groups), to forced conversion or even death. After three days of fasting and prayer, the pope is led by the Virgin Mary to a nameless tanner whose pure faith makes him a suitable candidate to perform the miracle—the only way to alleviate the threat of persecution. The humble tanner agrees to accompany the pope on one condition: that he stand behind the pope and remain anonymous forever. The tanner, the people, and the pope pray, “Lord have mercy!” and with the congregation's every prostration and formidable faith, the mountain moves.

The miracle not only instills fear in the caliph's heart, but it also casts Copts as victors in an otherwise oppressive situation. In an attempt to appease the pope, the frightened caliph offers the Coptic leader money and promises to fulfill any request. The pope simply requests the restoration and building of Coptic churches. With the caliph's written approval, Copts in the narrative avoid persecution, forced conversion, or death and are ensured hope in a future where they may continue to be Christian and to worship in their churches. Thus the miracle displaces Coptic dhimmī status and produces the possibility of a hopeful future wherein faithful Copts will not be persecuted but may actually thrive.

The narrative's highly politicized commentary is almost entirely elided because of its emphasis on the “unthinkable.” “In the unthinkable of an epoch,” explains Pierre Bourdieu, “there is all that one cannot think for want of ethical or political inclinations that predispose to take it in account or in consideration, but also that which one cannot think for want of instruments of thought such as problematics, concepts, methods, techniques.”¹⁴

A Coptic religious reality having a scriptural Christian tradition of “concepts, methods, [and] techniques” to conceive of a world wherein the unthinkable occurs—mountains moved by faith, water turned into wine,¹⁵ the dead raised, and the sick healed—allows the miraculous to be the site that veils Coptic sentiments and sociopolitical commentary of an Islamized Egypt. “The unthinkable is that which one cannot conceive within the range of possible alternatives, that which perverts all answers because it defies the terms under which the questions were phrased.”¹⁶ Therefore, for a non-Christian, certain miracles may be deemed “unthinkable” because the possibility of moving a mountain by simple faith is outside the range of conceivable possibilities, but for a Christian it may be entirely “thinkable” because of its scriptural precedent. For the contemporary Copt, the historical event and its biannual commemorations further emphasize the possibility of an otherwise unthinkable occurrence.

As the Muqattam narrative celebrates what is “unthinkable” for a non-Christian audience (yet “thinkable” for a Christian one), I suggest that this narrative encompasses various implications of a medieval Coptic imagination: by veiling a sharp critique of Coptic dhimmī status in the “unthinkable” miracle of moving a mountain, the narrative responds to the transitioning of Egypt under Islam. Moreover, the miraculous narrative operates as a frame story, affording the author a type of “protective veil”¹⁷

that cloaks the underlying acerbic sentiment. Such a “protective veil” allows the sanctioning church body, which selects and authorizes these narratives, to render its dissatisfaction with Coptic dhimmī status by way of what merely appears to be a devotional tale about a simple tanner who moves a mountain.¹⁸

In addition to offering a veiled commentary, the Muqattam narrative also displaces Coptic social status from dhimmī to victor. The Copt is always portrayed as the victor in these narratives (as shown in the anecdote about the dog)—not the victim of Arab conquest or Islamic rule—and therefore, the narrative, ultimately, operates to maintain a sense of hope for its Coptic audience: a hope that Copts can continue being Christian and a hope that Copts will overcome persecution, especially forced conversion to Islam. Consequently, to consider the operative modes of the “unthinkable” and the displacement of dhimmī status in this religious narrative is to consider the “marks of power” in the narrative itself.

Although Copts had already been deemed dhimmī by the 10th century and had to contend with social and political pressures because of that status, they (and dhimmī groups in general) were not only shaped by Arabization and Islamization: they were also important actors in shaping, resisting, and responding to this process. The Copto-Arabic religious narrative, I suggest, is one way Copts represent that agential presence¹⁹

—by invoking miraculous action and the subsequent hope that is evoked through regular celebration of these selective religious narratives.

What follows is a brief historical overview of Fatimid Egypt expounding upon dhimmī (Coptic and Jewish) positions of authority within Fatimid administration. Not only does this historical overview paint a contextual backdrop against which the Muqattam narrative may be read, but it also offers an opportunity for comparison between representations of Coptic dhimmī status according to dominant sociohistorical narratives and those found in Copto-Arabic texts.

FATIMID EGYPT: AN HISTORICAL OVERVIEW

Upon conquering Egypt from the Ikshidis, Fatimid caliph al-Muʿizz li-Din Allah sent his general, Jawhar, to establish a princely city apart from the garrison city of Fustat. Al-Muʿizz made his triumphal entrance into the city in June 973 and was installed as Fatimid caliph at that time; this ceremony marked the official move of the Fatimid caliphate from Ifriqiya (present-day Tunisia) to the newly built city first called al-Muʿizziyya in honor of the caliph and later renamed al-Qahira (Cairo). Distant from the banks of the Nile, the life source of the country, al-Qahira was situated to the north of Fustat, with the Muqattam hills to the east, al-Khalij—the former course (offshoot) of the Nile—to the west, and the city of the dead (or Qarafa) spanning the northeast to the southeast side of the city, down to the Muqattam hills. As a princely city, al-Qahira was an intellectually vibrant and opulent complex of buildings and gardens, and Fustat, the older garrison city to the south (by this time referred to as Misr), was the main hub for transport and commerce.

André Raymond attributes intellectual and artistic flourishing to the expansive region over which Fatimid trade relations extended, the development of a burgeoning artistic and intellectual community in the city, and the caliphate's interaction with surrounding communities.²⁰

Marked by its Ismaʿili ceremonial tradition, which emphasized the caliph's divine character and his religious authority as imam (spiritual leader) of all believers, as well as by a thriving intellectual community, al-Qahira's grandeur grew alongside Fustat, which was inhabited by Egypt's indigenous population of Coptic Christians, Egyptian Jews, and most likely newly converted Muslims from these two groups.

The Fatimid period (969–1171) did not witness as many instances of forced conversions to Islam on the part of Christians and Jews²¹

because of a seeming willingness by most Fatimid caliphs²² to tolerate other religious communities in Egypt. Although categorized as dhimmī, Copts and Jews both played an important role in Fatimid administration: “Christians and Jews were massively employed in the Fatimid administration; in its various branches, and on different levels from low-ranking posts up to the rank of vizier.”²³ Some scholars speculate that Fatimid tolerance of a Coptic and Jewish presence, and in some cases dependence on Copts and Jews for administrative purposes, was because of the Fatimids' own heterodox status as Ismaʿilis within the Islamicate. Raymond argues that the “marginal position of Ismailism in the Muslim world probably accounts for its tolerant attitude toward the dhimmī. As a rule, when a minority group finds itself in power, it is generally accepting of other minorities. One symptom of Fatimid tolerance was the absence of any effort to convert Christians to Islam except during a brief period in Hakim's reign.”²⁴ Although Raymond's point²⁵ is well taken and perhaps Fatimid administration did sympathize—even empathize—with dhimmī communities in Egypt, we should not be too hasty to assume that Fatimid minority status in the “Muslim world” necessarily yielded a sense of solidarity and conscientiousness between Muslims and dhimmī groups or among dhimmī groups themselves. Nonetheless, Fatimid minority status within the larger Sunni world may have partly impacted the status of dhimmī communities in Egypt. The Fatimid period seemed to be an era of greater peace and intellectual and artistic growth for all inhabitants of Egypt than preceding eras and those that came in the wake of Fatimid decline. However, a close reading of the Muqattam story will expose a clear tension in the narrative between depicting this Fatimid tolerance and offering a veiled (negative) assessment of dhimmī status, which may even be equated with persecution. It is within this sociohistorical context that I set my discussion of the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion's Muqattam narrative.

MOVE A MOUNTAIN, BUILD A CHURCH: THE RELIGIOUS NARRATIVE OF MUQATTAM

I turn now to a specific religious narrative exemplifying the above discussion of veiled religious narratives and the “unthinkable.” It should be noted that there are several variants of the Muqattam narrative but, as I have already argued, the fact that the narrative is church sanctioned and bound to the Coptic calendar makes it a version worthy of close analysis. Thus, the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion's version distinguishes the narrative as a commemorative text that ensures a historical, contemporary, and future Coptic triumph but displaces dhimmī status through a celebration of the “unthinkable.” The version of the narrative that I discuss below has been taken from the Arabic edition of the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion, Kitab al-Siniksar,²⁶

currently used by the contemporary Coptic Church. Because this edition is in currency among Copts all over the world and informs contemporary responses to Coptic–Muslim conflicts in Egypt, it is an effective narrative that still impacts Coptic conceptions of the past. However, because the Muqattam narrative taken from Kitab al-Siniksar is almost identical to I. Forget's edition found in Synaxarium Alexandrinum²⁷ and R. Basset's version in Le Synaxaire arabe jacobite,²⁸ the following analysis can be applied to those recensions as well. Finally, even though the Muqattam story found in the History of the Patriarchs may be the earliest version of the narrative (which differs from the one found in the Synaxarion), it is not read in Coptic liturgical services and is therefore not bound to an annual commemoration of the miraculous event. It is not my task to offer a comparative reading of different Muqattam narratives; rather, this piece offers a close reading of the version in use today among Copts.

I begin by looking at the frame of the narrative. My reading focuses only on the second half of the Synaxarion entry wherein the miracle is recounted; however, I briefly consider the first half in order to point out details important to understanding the Muqattam story in the second half. The narrative²⁹

commemorates the repose of the sixty-second patriarch of the See of Alexandria, Pope Abraham, on the sixth day of the Coptic month of Kiyahk.³⁰ It should be noted here that the Synaxarion's date for the repose of Abraham is 970,³¹ and this is a significant detail because it may be historically inaccurate. If al-Qahira was established in 969 and al-Muʿizz was installed in 973,³² then according to the dating of the Synaxarion, Pope Abraham died before al-Muʿizz even came to Egypt. Other historical sources offer the date of 975–78 as the papal tenure of Abraham, which means that he was pope for a matter of months during al-Muʿizz's reign over Egypt (973–75).³³

Nonetheless, as items on a calendar, the precise date of Pope Abraham's repose is secondary to the annual commemoration of his repose; a date is more important than the date because, as Trouillot argues, “[a] date anchors the event in the present.”³⁴

The discrepancy between the date of Abraham's repose, as offered by the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion, and al-Muʿizz's reign does not change the efficacy of the story because the narrative does not depend on historical accuracy; thus, a date, perhaps even any date, succeeds in making the narrative a commemorative text. In addition, this narrative has not been written to commemorate an event, but rather the repose³⁵ of the sixty-second pope of the Coptic Church. The annual commemoration of the miracle that took place during Abraham's tenure serves to further a Coptic program to displace dhimmī status; a miracle associated with a pope becomes a much more effective means of heroizing the Coptic Church as an institution than a miracle associated with a lowly tanner.

The first part of the narrative, typical of patriarchal hagiographies, recounts the piety, knowledge, and righteousness of Abraham, and narrates how he came to be elected to the papacy.³⁶

As in most hagiographies, the elected resists this nomination and must be physically forced to accept the office. Abraham's affluence, which plays an important role in the second part of the narrative,³⁷ is also noteworthy. The first part of the narrative ends with a discussion of what the author calls Abraham's “achievements” (maءāthirihi),³⁸ and particular attention is paid to the patriarch's abolition of simony and concubinage.

Mention of the abolition of simony is here indicative of Abraham's piety. Although prior to the papacy he was a wealthy merchant, suggesting that he could have paid a bribe for an ecclesiastical rank, Abraham abolishes simony, selecting clerics based on their virtue rather than their wealth. Furthermore, this mention of simony and concubinage also points to a community of affluent clerics and archons who are able to disburse funds in such a manner. This may be an important representation of notable Copts and their misguided wealth during the Fatimid period; the abolition of concubinage, however, not only speaks to expendable wealth but also underscores the effects of Arabization and Islamization on Copts in Egypt. The taking of concubines is forbidden by the Orthodox Church in general; however, the Coptic Church formulated official canons forbidding concubinage in response to the great number of Coptic men taking concubines, practicing polygyny, and requesting divorces from the church beginning in the 10th century (with Pope Abraham). Regarding a later Mamluk period, el-Leithy explains that concubinage and polygyny among Coptic notables may have been because of their proximity to Muslim counterparts who also practiced concubinage, polygyny, and divorce.³⁹

An anecdote at the beginning of the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion entry about a Coptic archon unwilling to adhere to the patriarch's decree regarding the abolition of concubinage is further testament to Abraham's piety.⁴⁰

A Coptic notable, the narrative tells us, “did not repent of his evil ways and was not afraid lest God should destroy him,”⁴¹ nor did he repent, as did the rest of the Coptic archons, after the patriarch himself—in Christ-like fashion—went to his home to bring him back into the fold. Eventually, the pope had no choice but to excommunicate the man. Abraham's piety is underscored yet again when, after fulfilling his calling as a shepherd, the pope goes after the one sinner who was lost⁴² and stands at his door and knocks.⁴³ Nonetheless, when the archon deliberately ignores the voice of the good shepherd calling him to repentance, Pope Abraham, in an act of apostolic zeal,⁴⁴ shakes “off the dust from his sandals at the threshold of his [the archon] house,”⁴⁵ and the granite threshold at which he stands is split in two, signifying the archon's excommunication from the body of the church. The anecdote operates to illumine Abraham's piety in a twofold manner: by invoking biblical scripture, Abraham is likened to Christ—the good shepherd of souls who humbly awaits the return of sinners and yet displays a command and zeal that foretells the apocalyptic destruction of those who do not repent—and the anecdote reveals Abraham's piety by the final miracle of the splitting of the granite threshold and justifies that zeal in the eventual demise of the Coptic archon.

The second half of the entry⁴⁶

is a continuation of Pope Abraham's achievements; however, it also operates as a commentary on the sociopolitical position of Coptic Christians in Fatimid Egypt in relation to their Muslim and Jewish counterparts. The first introduction to the other dhimmī group is offered halfway through the entry, when the reader/listener is told that the caliph's Jewish vizier, Yaʿqub ibn Yusuf ibn Killis, “a Jew, who became a Muslim” (kāna yāhūdiyyan wa-aslama),⁴⁷ had a Jewish friend who regularly conversed with al-Muʿizz because of Ibn Killis's proximity to the caliph. Ibn Killis was an Iraqi Jew who, most likely, converted to Islam in order to gain the benefits that conversion would afford: the possibility of the vizierate. He was initially the minister of finances and then the caliph's vizier in 977.⁴⁸ Raymond describes Ibn Killis as a “masterly organizer of Fatimid finances”⁴⁹ and therefore an extremely influential persona in Fatimid administration and history.

The author of the narrative here has tried to create a correlation between Ibn Killis's past conversion to Islam (wa-aslama) and his present status as a high-ranking official, and by doing so makes an important commentary on conversion for the sake of “worldly” benefit. The act of conversion to Islam does have its benefits—as Ibn Killis's administrative authority and importance exemplify.⁵⁰

Mention of Ibn Killis's conversion and subsequent political benefit is here a commentary on the fact that even though worldly benefits may be gained from conversion, true benefit may be acquired only by those who are Christ-like. This commentary is not one for Jewish converts to Islam; rather, it is a commentary on conversion to Islam for Coptic Christians who may have been tempted to convert, as did Ibn Killis, for the sake of benefit. Here Coptic dhimmī status is displaced, not just by casting Copts as triumphant over enticements to convert to Islam, but also by displacing the very act of conversion onto their Jewish counterparts. Although there are several historical examples of Copts converting to Islam for the sake of political, economic, and social benefit, the author of the narrative chooses to use a Jew as an example. In general, narratives found in the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion as well as other church-sanctioned histories do not deal with the issue of Coptic conversion to Islam even though examples abound. The singular example of the converted Jew diverts attention away from the issue of Coptic conversion to Islam, and yet discussion of Ibn Killis's conversion still works to rebuke conversion to Islam for the sake of benefit while avoiding the problem in the Coptic context altogether.

The fact that Ibn Killis has a Jewish friend may even imply that he has not been ostracized by (the whole of) his Jewish community because of his conversion. Nonetheless, this convert and his Jewish friend take advantage of their privileges, and they begin to conspire against the Christians. One might expect that both dhimmī groups would regard each other's religious minority status and attempt to aid the other or at least unite against a common “enemy”; however, the narrative does not portray such an intra-dhimmī dynamic and offers a much more complex structure of relations between Jews and Copts so as to distinguish the two groups from each other. According to Mark Cohen, the Fatimids did distinguish between the two dhimmī groups, and Copts usually benefited more from the Fatimid rulers than did Jews. “This apparent discrimination in favor of the Copts is quite understandable when we recall that the Fatimids needed to worry about Coptic allegiance much more than Jewish, since Copts were coreligionists of foreign Christian powers whose potential enmity loomed large in the eyes of Muslim rulers of Egypt.”⁵¹

Cohen's discussion helps to explain a possible reason for the enmity between Jews and Christians depicted in the narrative. However, I also consider the long tradition of Christian church fathers who have argued that the Jews should be held accountable for the crucifixion of Jesus,⁵² while juxtaposing this with the first half of the narrative, which invokes a Christ-like representation of Pope Abraham. The Jews in the narrative (Ibn Killis and his friend) may be read as conspiring against the Christ-like figure, just as Jews have been depicted in a wider Christian tradition.

Ibn Killis and his friend wield their power to convince the caliph to have their debate with the Copts, and “it [the request] was permitted” (fa-kāna lahu dhālika).⁵³

Mention of permission is here significant, because at the end of the narrative, when Copts triumph over Jews and Muslims, they will be given an even greater permission: that of building and restoring churches. Once the debate is permitted and the pope is summoned by the caliph, there arises yet another disparaging representation of the Jewish debater as one who has an incomplete knowledge and understanding of his faith. Sawirus ibn al-Muqaffaʿ, a 10th-century theologian who had written several Christological treatises in Arabic, mastered the Arabic language, and called for the translation of Coptic theology into Arabic,⁵⁴ here becomes the Coptic spokesperson for Pope Abraham. The patriarch and the bishop are summoned into al-Muʿizz's court twice: the first time for a disputation and the second time for a challenge. At the disputation Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ insults the Jew's capacity to debate and his intelligence by citing a verse from the book of Isaiah: “God has declared by the mouth of the prophet, ‘The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master's crib: but Israel does not know.’”⁵⁵ By citing an Old Testament prophet, Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ uses the Jew's own tradition to invalidate his faith and ultimately, his legitimacy as a competent debater.

The narrative continues, “They [Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ and Pope Abraham] debated that Jew and shamed him with all the irrefutable arguments that prove the soundness of the Christian faith. Then they left al-Muʿizz with great honor.”⁵⁶

The honor of the Copts is not necessarily located in the defense of the faith alone but in the shaming of the Jew; in the process of proving the “soundness of the Christian faith,” the Jew who is not even afforded a voice in the debate is utterly shamed by Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ. Also significant is the situation of the figure of al-Muʿizz, a seemingly curious bystander between the Jews and the Copts, not necessarily interested in religion but rather a good debate.

Upon being confounded by the Coptic debaters, the Jews—in the same scheming light that they were depicted at the beginning of the narrative—are not able to bear such humiliation and plot to take revenge on the Christians and, again, wield their privileges with the caliph in order to challenge the Christians and their faith.⁵⁷

Whereas Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ confounds his Jewish debaters with an Old Testament verse, his Jewish opponents plot their revenge based on a New Testament verse: “If you have faith as a mustard seed, you shall say to this mountain, move from here to there, and it will move.”⁵⁸ Ibn Killis and his Jewish friend convince the caliph that the ultimate challenge for the Copts would be to require proof of such a verse, and they presume that moving a mountain will be impossible—“unthinkable”—and that they will thus assume a final victory in this debate. Here it should be noted that the characterization of the scheming Jews who convince the caliph to challenge the Christ-like figure in the narrative is parallel to the New Testament narrative of the Jews who convince the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, to crucify Jesus.⁵⁹

The Jews do not account for the possibility of a miracle, however, which casts them as being bound to a literal understanding of the verse, whereas the caliph is simply interested in the possibility of a bigger city: “The caliph thought to himself, 'If this saying of Christ is true, that would be of great benefit to us, for Muqattam Mountain is too close to Cairo. If Muqattam Mountain, which hedges upon Cairo, can be moved further from the city, the situation of the city will become greater than it is now. If the saying is not true, we will be justified in our persecution [iḍṭihādihim] of them [Christians].'”⁶⁰

The caliph, clearly interested in either expanding his princely city or persecuting Copts, agrees to challenge the Copts, and here emerges a very common trope of the persecuted Copts under Islamic rule. In response to this challenge Copts are depicted as a persecuted people with no other refuge or hope but God and His saints. The trope of the persecuted Copts is necessary at this point in the narrative because it is not through privileges or authority that the Copts in the narrative will be able to respond to the Jewish and Muslim challenge, but it is only through some type of “unthinkable” action that there may be a rejoinder.

At this point in the narrative al-Muʿizz takes on a central role, which is juxtaposed to that of the persecuted Copts, and the Jewish characters (Ibn Killis and his friend) no longer figure into the challenge. The shift in the narrative creates a new dynamic of persecuted/dominated Copt and persecuting/dominating Muslim. This shift is interesting in that it characterizes the Fatimid period during the reign of al-Muʿizz as one of persecution, which does not coincide with what most historians have written of the Fatimid rulers of Egypt and their seemingly tolerant posture toward dhimmī groups in general and Copts in particular.⁶¹

It is possible that this narrative was not written during the time of al-Muʿizz's reign over Egypt; that is, the narrative may be set during the reign of al-Muʿizz but may have been written at a later period when there was, in fact, persecution of Coptic Christians.⁶²

Regardless of the time period in which the narrative is situated, by displacing Coptic–Muslim conflict onto another dhimmī group (i.e., the scheming Jews who may be held accountable for the caliph's challenge) the narrative implicitly comments on the strictures to which Coptic dhimmī had to adhere, such as the poll tax, restrictions on dress, and benefits to those who converted to Islam. After the caliph makes the challenge, Pope Abraham requests three days to fast and pray, and this he does with the monks and bishops in the church of al-Muʿallaqa (in Fustat), outside the walls of the princely city.⁶³

I now consider the response of fasting and prayer. The verse that serves as a foundation for the caliph's challenge and possible gain is set within a scriptural context, which should be considered in order to understand its implications. A man brings his demon-possessed son to Jesus's disciples, and they are not able to exorcise the demon from the child, so the man goes to Jesus and his son is healed. When the disciples see this miracle, they ask Jesus, “Why could we not cast it out?” So Jesus said to them, “Because of your unbelief; for assuredly, I say to you, if you have faith as a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you. However, this kind does not go out except by prayer and fasting.”⁶⁴

Although it is significant that the caliph heeds his Jewish vizier and challenges the Copts regarding the validity of the verse, it is even more so that Pope Abraham accepts the challenge. Within the scriptural context of the verse it becomes evident why the caliph's challenge is accepted and why the pope does not try to convince al-Muʿizz that the request to move a mountain is unreasonable or to plead with him for mercy, for example. Jesus explains to his disciples why they were not able to cast out the demon, and these same words are likewise recalled by Pope Abraham; first, the disciples lacked faith, and second, they ought to have fasted and prayed in order to cast out the demon. If these two requisites are fulfilled, “‘nothing will be impossible.’” For this reason the Pope accepts the challenge posed by the caliph.

Thus the patriarch himself institutes a three-day fast in the church of al-Muʿallaqa, most likely accompanied by prayers, and at “the dawn of the third day”⁶⁵

the first miracle is made manifest. In an apparition, seen only by Pope Abraham, the “Mother of God appeared to him and told him that God would perform this miracle at the hands of a saintly man who was a tanner.”⁶⁶ Pope Abraham is presumably told where and how to find this saintly tanner. Most likely the pope would have gone to the fringes of the city, where tanners, because their trade was considered profane, were required to set up their shops.⁶⁷ Upon finding the tanner—and in a face-off of sorts, Copts versus the rest—the second “unthinkable” event of the narrative emerges: “The patriarch and the believers prayed and prostrated three times, and every time they prostrated, they said, ‘kyrie eleison,’ Lord have mercy. Whenever the patriarch and the people lifted up their heads after each prostration, the mountain would rise up and when they bowed down, the mountain was lowered down to the ground, and whenever they walked, the mountain moved before them.”⁶⁸ In a collective display of not only the tanner's faith but also that of “the people” (al-shaʿb), the miracle is performed and the Copts are, once again, justified and triumphant.

It is noteworthy that in this version of the narrative the tanner—an altogether marginal figure—has no name. We do not know anything about him except that he is a tanner and is divinely chosen to perform this miracle.⁶⁹

The nameless tanner may stand for any Copt who cooperates with the church, from the most destitute to the greatest. It is necessary, however, that all worked together against a common threat in a display of ritual action and faith to perform this miracle.

The miracle performed at the hand of the tanner incites fear in the heart of the caliph⁷⁰

and his entourage rather than faith (fa-waqaʿa al-ruʿb fi qalb al-khalīfa wa-qulūb ṣiḥābihi).⁷¹ Perhaps in an attempt to undo the previous challenge and threat, the caliph offers monetary compensation to the patriarch, which he refuses outright. “The patriarch refused to ask for anything, but when he [the caliph] insisted, he said to him, 'I want the building and restoration of the churches, especially the church of Saint Mercurius abu Sayfayn [of the two swords] which is in Old Cairo.' He [the caliph] wrote a decree permitting the building and the restoration of churches and he gave him a large sum of money from the treasury. The Patriarch thanked him and prayed for him, but he refused to take the money.⁷² As a result, al-Muʿizz revered and respected him more for his piety and righteousness.”⁷³

Herein lies the narrative's greatest miracle. If moving a mountain was considered impossible in medieval Egypt, then building or restoring a dhimmī establishment of prayer was even harder. The caliph's official decree permitting Copts to build and restore their houses of worship is a privilege that was not granted to dhimmī groups in general. Lev explains that “Muslim attitudes towards non-Muslim houses of worship, as embodied in the various versions of the Covenant of ʿUmar, can be summerised [sic] as follow[s]: no building of new houses of worship is permitted[;] neither is the restoration of the dilapidated ones.”⁷⁴

The restoration of dilapidated churches and the building of new ones in the narrative is here a veiled indication of the continued presence (and perhaps even growth) of Coptic Christians under Islamic rule.⁷⁵ This reading may seem a bit hyperbolic, for surely not all Muslim rulers persecuted Copts, and certainly many of them did not strictly enforce the Covenant of ʿUmar. However, the Copto-Arabic Synaxarion is not an objective history of the Coptic Church or of medieval Egypt. The Muqattam story is not a narrative that simply recounts historical events; rather, it is a critique of sociopolitical dealings between Copt and Muslim in medieval Egypt. Therefore, the narrative's mention of restoration of Coptic churches maintains the trope of the victorious Coptic Church and its triumph, through faith, over unjust Islamic rule. Abraham's very request for the restoration of Coptic churches suggests that such a request had been previously disallowed; it would require the unthinkable moving of a mountain and the written decree of the caliph to obtain such permission. Thus, the Muqattam narrative ultimately represents Copts as victors, not dhimmī, as faithful practitioners of Coptic Orthodoxy, not converts to Islam.

The narrative ends with the repose of the pious Pope Abraham and a list of the many churches he restored. However, no mention of our saintly tanner is made in this entry, nor is he mentioned again in the Synaxarion. It is a curious occurrence in the narrative that the tanner, the very vehicle by which the miracle is ultimately made possible, has no name and is not further described in his own hagiography; however, as I have already suggested, the miracle here is not the simple moving of a mountain, for anybody with the faith of a mustard seed can do that. The “unthinkable” event is the restoration and building of churches, which happened through Pope Abraham's facilitation. The nameless tanner along with his anonymous overseeing of the moving of a mountain serves as a veiled critique of regulations prohibiting dhimmī growth and maintenance. The narrative may be interpreted as a miracle performed at the hands of a lowly, anonymous tanner—standing in for any Coptic Christian living on the fringes of an increasingly Islamic Egyptian society—a holy and Christ-like patriarch, or the two coming together in ritual acts of fasting and prayer. What is important is that the narrative emerges not only as a commentary on the triumph of persecuted Copts, but also as a story of faith and hope in the possibility of a world where Copts may build their churches and continue being Christian regardless of prohibitions and sanctions.