Introduction
The Qarāmiṭa belonged to the Ismāʿīlī line of Shīʿa Islam and were active mainly in Iraq, Syria, eastern Arabia, Yemen, and Persia in the AH third/ninth CE century. They were a secretive organisation with political, religious, and messianic claims. In order to establish religious legitimacy and attract followers to their daʿwa,Footnote 1 the Qarāmiṭa employed a particular discourse in their propaganda and sermons centred on the idea of the Mahdī.Footnote 2 This discourse, and the Qarāmiṭa’s ideology in general, originated with religious slogans and justifications used by them in Syria in pursuit of converts.
This article examines the ideological roots of the Qarāmiṭa, with a particular focus on their religious origins within the Mahdīist discourse. This discourse refers to the discussion, interpretation, and political or ideological use of the Islamic belief in the Mahdī, a messianic figure who will appear to restore justice before the end of time. This speech is represented by their Gnostic Qur’anic verses and sermons through texts in various extant sources. The objective was to attract new affiliates in order to strengthen the daʿwa upon which the Qarāmiṭa state would be established. It is important to mention here that the Mahdīist speech of the Qarāmiṭa during the pre-Fāṭimid period was merely a part of the broader Ismāʿīlī doctrine and did not contain any new systems of thought.Footnote 3 However, it was following a split of the daʿwa circa 286/899 that we see the emergence of two different Ismāʿīlī dogmas, as represented by the Qarāmiṭa and the Fāṭimids.Footnote 4
The Mahdīist discourse was recorded in two sources: Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Ṭabarī’s (d. 310/923) Tārīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk (History of the prophets and kings) and Aḥmad b. Ibrāhīm al-Naysābūrī’s (d. late fourth/tenth century) Istitār al-Imām (How the imam was hidden), both of which present possible Christian elements in the discourse. Through this article, I will discuss the existence and practices of the Qarāmiṭa in Syria during the reign of their leader Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh (d. 290/903). The significance of this article lies in assessing how these features of the Mahdīist discourse within a Christian context contributed to the Qarāmiṭa’s daʿwa—the cornerstone on which the Qarāmiṭa’s scheme was based and launched across the neighbouring regions—as well as exploring the process of Islamicating Christian dialogues in early Islamic history.
The scholarship has barely discussed the Qarāmiṭa’s ideological discourses separately from the Ismāʿīlīs. For example, Michael de Goeje, Vladimir Ivanow, Wilferd Madelung, and Farhad Daftary mainly examine the general picture of the Ismāʿīlī dogma.Footnote 5 However, their contributions established a religious base for later authors, like Faizah Akbar, Kurt Franz, and Christine Baker, to further develop the notion of the Ismāʿīlī Mahdīist discourse, with a greater emphasis on the Qarāmiṭa in the Ismāʿīlī texts.Footnote 6 Despite Akbar’s, Franz’s, and Baker’s intensive surveys, they nonetheless left an academic gap—that of the conceptual roots of the Mahdīist element in the Qarāmiṭa’s emergence in Syria.
The article is divided into four main sections. First, I will provide a review of the Qarāmiṭa’s doctrine in the Syrian milieu, the beginning of their daʿwa and the Mahdīist discourse employed by the Qarāmiṭa during Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s period. Second, I will examine the problematic nature of the narratives concerning the messianism/Mahdīsm—where I assess the historiographical challenges surrounding the eschatological message of the Qarāmiṭa and the limitations and contradictions inherent in the surviving accounts.
Third, I will contextualise the narratives of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s Mahdīsm in which I analyse how the Mahdīist message was constructed, received, and adapted, paying particular attention to its pseudo-Christian characteristics, the parallelism of the imam with Jesus, and the symbolic relocation of sacred authority towards Jerusalem. Fourth, I will offer a synthesis by presenting a comparative analysis of al-Ṭabarī’s and al-Naysābūrī’s narratives, highlighting their similarities and divergences in depicting Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s Mahdīist discourse and the Qarāmiṭa mission in Syria.
The Qarāmiṭa’s daʿwa in Syria
The daʿwa was initially established in the sawād (fertile lowland plains) of Kūfa in the 260s/870s after Ḥamdān Qarmaṭ was converted by the Ismāʿīlī dāʿī Ḥusayn al-Ahwāzī, a close associate of ʿAbd Allāh, son of Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl.Footnote 7 According to Akhū Muḥsin (d. 375/985), following Ḥusayn al-Ahwāzī’s death (circa 260s/870s), Ḥamdān succeeded him as dāʿī al-duʿāt (head of the missionaries).Footnote 8 Under the guidance of the Ismāʿīlī leadership in Salamiyya (a town in western Syria),Footnote 9 Ḥamdān and ʿAbdān (Ḥamdān’s brother-in-law; d. circa 286/899) summoned people to the imamate of Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl (d. 193/809). They received instructions from Salamiyya to propagate their mission in the sawād of Kūfa and to convince people to take the oath of allegiance to Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl, the Mahdī who would guide the umma (Islamic community) to justice.Footnote 10
However, Ḥamdān noticed a shift in the directives from the movement’s headquarters in Salamiyya, so he sent ʿAbdān to investigate. It was then revealed that the new leader, ʿUbayd Allāh (d. 322/934), who would later establish the Fāṭimid Dynasty (297–567/909–1172), had proclaimed the imamate for himself, abandoning the previous recognition of Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl as the Mahdī. In response, Ḥamdān suspended the daʿwa around 286/899, marking the split between the Qarāmiṭa and the Fāṭimids.Footnote 11 On Ḥamdān’s suspension of the daʿwa, he went to Kalwāḍā, a town near Baghdad, where he disappeared (circa 286/899). Akhū Muḥsin stated that Ḥamdān and ʿAbdān had appointed Zikrawayh b. Mihrawayh to be the dāʿī of the sawād of Kūfa.Footnote 12 Meanwhile, Zikrawayh arranged the assassination of his masters, Ḥamdān and ʿAbdān. This was apparently on the orders of the central leadership of ʿUbayd Allāh, with the intention of taking over leadership of the Iraqi Ismaʿīlī groups for ʿUbayd Allāh.Footnote 13
Zikrawayh sent his sons—Yaḥyā, known as ṣāḥib al-nāqa (because he rode an unbridled she-camel, or nāqa),Footnote 14 and Ḥusayn, known as ṣāḥib al-ṣhāma (meaning ‘the one with a birthmark’)—to the Syrian Desert to convert the Bedouin tribes. They swiftly triumphed in securing the support of a variety of clans of the Kalb tribe, specifically the Banū al-ʿUlayṣ, who had adopted the Ismāʿīlī daʿwa, and Banū al-Aṣbagh, who called themselves Fāṭimīyūn (a reference to Fāṭima, the Prophet Muḥammad’s daughter).Footnote 15 More tribal groups made treaties with Yaḥyā—namely, Banū Mālik, Banū Muʿriḍ, Hujaynā, Fakhdāsh, and Hudhayl, who were mostly of Kalb stock.Footnote 16 All these factions had either adopted the Ismāʿīlī daʿwa or had political affiliations with the Qarāmiṭa under their tribal leaders.
After the reign of the energetic ʿAbbāsid Caliph al-Muʿtaḍid (r. 279–289/892–902)—who successfully suppressed three Qarāmiṭa revolts in southern Iraq between 287 and 289/901 and 903—the activities of Zikrawayh and his sons in Syria and Iraq rapidly expanded.Footnote 17 This effectively signalled the beginning of the military conflict between the Qarāmiṭa and the ʿAbbāsids, which would span the years 289–294/902–907. Indeed, this was the stage of the Qarāmiṭa’s radical and revolutionary dialogue spreading from Syria to their new members. However, before examining this dialogue in the sources, it is necessary to illustrate the social milieu of the Bedouin community.
According to al-Ṭabarī, Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh was sent to the Syrian Desert to attract the Bedouin to the daʿwa; alongside his title ṣāḥib al-nāqa, he was also referred to as al-Shaykh, which signifies a notable or, more specifically, a tribal chief (synonymous with the more typical term sayyid, which means ‘master’). Al-Ṭabarī mentioned that Yaḥyā proclaimed his name to be Muḥammad b. ʿAbdullāh b. Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl, thereby providing ʿAlīd (one who claims descent from the sacred heritage of the Prophet Muḥammad) legitimacy to his insurrections against the ʿAbbāsids.Footnote 18 In this regard, Paula Sanders discusses some of the symbolism of Ismāʿīlī ceremonies and links it to the concept of holiness, which was an important feature of the duʿāt at the initialisation stage of the daʿwa.Footnote 19 These symbols of the imam’s authority and purity, which were also projected onto his surrounding milieu, were thus gradually extended to his subordinates as distinctive marks of favour and status during the initial stage of the daʿwa.Footnote 20 Consequently, we may assume that the reason for Yaḥyā’s recognition in the Syrian Desert was that he acted as a soothsayer and that his stunted arm was a sign of being divinely gifted. Moreover, his nickname ṣāḥib al-nāqa was also a reason for him being accepted, for possessing a she-camel was seen as being sanctified by God and, thus, was believed to secure victory in battle.Footnote 21 Thus, Yaḥyā rapidly won the assistance of various clans of the Kalb, such as the Banū Mālik, Banū Muʿriḍ, Hujaynā, Fakhdāsh, and Hudhayl.
After Yaḥyā’s ascension to leadership, the joint tribal forces carried out an incursion into Syria in late 289/902, which led to the ruin of several towns and the siege of Damascus against the Ṭūlūnid governor, Ṭughj b. Juff.Footnote 22 The campaign was led politically and militarily by Yaḥyā, who exercised his power in various areas. In rapid succession, Yaḥyā seized several towns in Syria, including Ḥimṣ in western Syria (circa 289/902) and other towns that were under Ṭūlūnid control.Footnote 23 Following the capture of Ḥimṣ, most Syrian towns and cities fell under Qarāmiṭa’s control, at which point they progressed to a final form of the Mahdīist discourse with the emergence of the Mahdī. Yet when the Qarāmiṭa besieged Damascus in 290/903, Yaḥyā was beaten by Ṭughj and killed in battle.Footnote 24 Even though the rhetoric of opposition was still based on the ʿAlīds’ slogans, the Ṭūlūnids eventually took control of the battlefield. Later, Yaḥyā’s brother, Ḥusayn, led the Qarāmiṭa of Syria, and understanding that proclaiming his descent from the ʿAlīds was insufficient to attract the masses, he declared himself to be the Mahdī and Amīr al-muʾminīn (commander of the faithful). The scheme would ultimately fail.
In the following discussion, I will examine the impact of eschatology on the Mahdīist discourse, showing a possible link to Christian messianic discourse. A preliminary remark on the textual and contextual sources that portrayed the stage of implementation may help to highlight some doctrinal and historical models. This is represented in the narratives from which the image of the Mahdīist discourse developed during this radical and revolutionary phase.
The problematic nature of narratives on Messianism/Mahdīsm
The formation of the Mahdīist discourse was shaped mainly by traditional and social factors, thereby facilitating comprehension for new followers. In addition, the nature of the discourse developed along with the masses’ understanding of the Ismāʿīlī daʿwa, as they grasped a new embodiment of the eschatological term symbolised by the notion of the Mahdī.
This stage included presenting the daʿwa, in a lucid manner, in such a way as to facilitate the concept for the next stage of the discourse, which would emerge alongside the rise of the new followers. However, the nature of the formation of the Mahdīist discourse during the daʿwa stage is not evident from the existing sources. This Mahdīist discourse among the Qarāmiṭa has not been discussed in any great depth by historians, who have instead concentrated on the Qarāmiṭa’s actions in Syria without reflecting on their Mahdīsm. This may be because we are reliant on sources that were not written by the Qarāmiṭa themselves—indeed, there is a general dearth of sources on what shaped their Mahdīsm in Syria. The sources that depict this era are either lost in their original form or disordered. Nonetheless, several texts have been recorded, and I will analyse these from two perspectives: the pro-ʿAbbāsid perspective, represented in al-Ṭabarī’s (d. 310/923) Tārīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk, and the pro-Fāṭimid perspective, as symbolised by Istitār al-Imām, written by Aḥmad al-Naysābūrī (d. late fourth/tenth century). These texts were the main resources for later authors who covered the period of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh.
Each of these authors had strong rhetorical aims and sought to manipulate the movement of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh to craft greater master narratives about who held the right to lead the Islamic community.Footnote 25 Both al-Ṭabarī and al-Naysābūrī wrote within polemical contexts that sought to legitimise their own communities, as many historians are wont to do. As such, their attribution of ‘Christian-like’ elements to Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh may be questionable. This raises several methodological questions: Do the authors actually cite the sources for their information? How reliable are those sources that are cited? What are the authors trying to achieve in their narratives? How do the sections dedicated to Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s movement contribute to that? To answer these questions, I will analyse the social, intellectual, and historical contexts in which each author wrote to determine their biases and how this shaped their perspectives. Ultimately, this will lead to a much higher degree of historical accuracy when drawing conclusions.
There are major discrepancies in the sources on Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s movement as to whether Yaḥyā was Qarāmiṭī or not. Therefore, I will deal here only with the Mahdīist speech in the sources. The following debate will discuss the differences in the narrative styles of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s Mahdīsm in the aforementioned accounts. In doing so, I will also analyse the context that shaped the events that characterised the Mahdīist rhetoric and narrative traditions of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh.
The narratives of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s Mahdīsm
In dealing with accounts of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s Mahdīsm, both al-Ṭabarī and al-Naysābūrī highlighted the messianic, eschatological, and Mahdīist terms that were aimed at converting the deprived classes of the Syrian milieu. I will examine each narrative of the Mahdīist discourse in turn, beginning with the earliest.
Al-Ṭabarī’s narrative
Al-Ṭabarī’s method of writing can be placed within an auxiliary branch of religious study that seeks to determine the reliability of chains of transmission of traditions.Footnote 26 Al-Ṭabarī stated that historical knowledge is based on eyewitness accounts, and in his writings he often presented contradictory reports of the same event.Footnote 27 According to Boaz Shoshan, including multiple variants provided a veneer of authority, but ultimately these accounts were carefully arranged to project a version that al-Ṭabarī preferred.Footnote 28 Al-Ṭabarī’s Tārīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk explores the history of the ancient nations, the prophets, the rise of Islam, and the history of Islam down to the year 302/915, the year in which he finished his work.Footnote 29
The details of the period of the Qarāmiṭa’s uprisings were available to him in a limited number of histories of the ʿAbbāsid caliphs, which survive today only in the fragments preserved by him. Al-Ṭabarī favoured the ʿAbbāsids, who constantly sought to legitimise their authority and suppress any threats—that is, the ʿAlīd upheavals in the region and the rise of the Fāṭimids in the West—that endangered their pretensions to universal leadership of the Islamic world.Footnote 30 His narrative of the Qarāmiṭa encapsulates several of the challenges of Islamic historiography as it not only contains a wide range of accounts (for which he did not record the names) but also relies, remarkably, upon Muḥammad b. Dāwūd b. al-Jarrāḥ (d. 296/908), vizier, writer, poet, and a chief secretary under the ʿAbbāsids, thus making him sympathetic to the ʿAbbāsids.Footnote 31 Al-Jarrāḥ’s narrative in question purports to be mainly based on the accounts of witnesses and those who were imprisoned after raids.Footnote 32
The Mahdīist discourse in al-Ṭabarī’s texts stands apart from the other narratives because he recorded Zikrawayh’s sons as descendants of ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib (the Prophet Muḥammad’s son-in-law) and Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl, who would return as the Mahdī (in the Ismaʿīlīs’ belief) and bring about an age of justice.Footnote 33 In comparison, Muḥammad b. ʿAlī Ibn Rizām (d. late fourth/tenth century), a Sunnī polemicist whose narrative was also pro-ʿAbbāsid, concurred with the eschatological aspirations of Zikrawayh’s sons.Footnote 34 However, rather than naming all the imams who revolted, he mentioned only Yaḥyā.
Al-Ṭabarī recorded a speech recited by Muḥammad b. Dāwūd b. al-Jarrāḥ from Zikrawayh to his son Yaḥyā before his mission to the Bedouins in Syria circa 278/891 as follows:
Muḥammad b. Dāwūd b. al-Jarrāḥ was present, and he summoned a group of Qarāmiṭa from prison. He questioned them about Zikrawayh, after the latter had been killed, and about Qarmaṭ and his story. They then pointed to one of their elders and said to him, ‘This is the predecessor of Zikrawayh, and he is the most knowledgeable among us about his story; ask him whatever you wish.’ He questioned him, and the man related to him the following account. … In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. He says, al-Faraj b. ʿUthmān [Zikrawayh b. Mihrawayh himself] is from a village called Naṣrāna calling for Christ, who is Jesus, the Word, and he is the Mahdī, and he is Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya, who is Gabriel. And he mentioned that Christ appeared before him in the body of a human being and said to him that you are the preacher and that you are a proof and that you are a she-camel and that you are the animal and that you are the Holy Spirit and that you are Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā [referring to John the Baptist]. … The qibla [direction] was directed towards Jerusalem, and the pilgrimage was to Jerusalem.Footnote 35
Al-Ṭabarī reports that Muḥammad b. Dāwūd b. al-Jarrāḥ based his account on statements from witnesses and those who were imprisoned after the Qarāmiṭa’s raids in and around BaghdadFootnote 36 and that one of their elders recounted this story in response to his questioning. The account’s cohesive sequence of symbolic designations implies that it originated as a missionary address or doctrinal instruction, possibly composed by Zikrawayh himself for his son and successor, Yaḥyā. Even if this passage preserves material shaped within Qarāmiṭī circles, it reaches us only through later historiographical mediation; it therefore cannot be treated as clear access to Yaḥyā’s authorial voice but as evidence for how Qarāmiṭī discourse was transmitted and rendered intelligible in third-/ninth-century narrative traditions. This remarkable account is exclusive to al-Ṭabarī. It indicates the launching of the daʿwa from multiple religious designations, given to Yaḥyā in order to provide him with a sacred aura infused with a messianic aspect of both Islamic and Christian flavours.
First of all, the narrative begins in an unmistakably Islamic register. The formulaic invocation ‘In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful’ sets the account within the Qur’anic idiom, signalling divine revelation rather than heretical deviation. Likewise, the identification of the preacher as Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya evokes the line of the early Shīʿa Mahdī traditions, particularly those that associated the awaited redeemer with the family of ʿAlī. Indeed, the name Yaḥyā was a nom de guerre used by Zikrawayh’s son, who was also called Aḥmad. This dual identification corresponds to a broader Ismāʿīlī practice of employing both an exoteric and an esoteric name (al-ism al-ẓāhir wa-l-bāṭin) for leaders and missionaries.Footnote 37 The occurrence of the name Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya within al-Ṭabarī’s passage therefore reinforces the likelihood that the text was addressed to Yaḥyā himself under his ʿAlid name, Aḥmad. Such nomenclatural layering was typical of early Ismāʿīlī and Qarāmiṭī circles, where concealed identities and symbolic renaming served both doctrinal and security purposes. Paul Casanova demonstrates that this report turns the Qarāmiṭa into a sect that is quite unfamiliar to Ismāʿīlīsm since the latter group recognises a son of Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya (d. 81/700) as the imam.Footnote 38 Casanova’s hypothesis was accepted by later authors, including Bernard Lewis, who uses this theory to link the Qarāmiṭa’s origin to Ḥanafis.Footnote 39 In contrast, Wilferd Madelung views Casanova’s hypothesis as a clearly misinterpreted perspective because nothing is known of a son of Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya by the name Aḥmad.Footnote 40 According to Madelung, this means that we are not dealing with evidence of a sect founded in a succession dispute after the death of Muḥammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya.Footnote 41
Other Islamic terms—al-Mahdī, daʿīa, and ḥujja (meaning ‘proof’, refers to a figure who demands the people’s obedience to the hidden imam)—were also recorded in the Islamic context. To comprehend the nature of the Mahdīist discourse, it is necessary to explore the meaning of the term ḥujja and its role in the development of the doctrine. Besides ‘proof’, the word ḥujja means either ‘argument’ or ‘evidence’. In this regard, it is said in the Qur’an that ‘to God belongs the argument conclusive’ (6:149).Footnote 42 The Shīʿa, in general, claimed that the world could not exist without proof of God’s existence: in the absence of the Prophet, the proof was the imam. In particular, Jaʿfar b. Manṣūr al-Yaman (d. second half of fourth/tenth century) recorded in his Kitāb al-Kashf (The book of unveiling) that ‘the ḥujja in our time is our master and our shaykh, the lord of every believer, male or female’.Footnote 43 Jaʿfar transmitted this term to the early Ismāʿīlī daʿwa; thus, it also included the Qarāmiṭa. Michael Brett has further commented on the term ḥujja, noting that it was adopted by the Ismāʿīlīs before and after the split circa 286/899, which led to the divergence, or appearance, of the Qarāmiṭa and the Fāṭimids.Footnote 44
The account’s references to the nāqa (she-camel) and the dābba (beast) reflect a scriptural vocabulary firmly grounded in Qur’anic imagery and Islamic eschatology. In this context, the epithet ṣāḥib al-nāqa (master of the she-camel), which sources explicitly associate with Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh, acquires a deliberate symbolic resonance. The nāqa in Qur’anic tradition signifies a miraculous sign of divine testing and destruction, and its appropriation as a personal title suggests that Yaḥyā’s followers interpreted his mission within an apocalyptic framework.
Many of the figures that appear in al-Ṭabarī’s report belong to a repertoire that was jointly intelligible in both Islamic and Christian traditions, like Jesus, Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā (John the Baptist), the Archangel Gabriel, the Holy Spirit, and the Word. First, Jesus’s portrait could be a shared element in both Christianity and Islam. Jesus is the central figure of Christianity, and although Christian outlooks of Jesus vary, one may summarise by saying that he is Christ and the Son of God.Footnote 45 In Islam, as Corrie Block demonstrates, Jesus was always present and lively in the Muslims’ collective memory, especially in the Qur’an and the ḥadīth (pl. aḥadīth) literature (that is, what Muslims believe to be a record of the sayings and actions of the Prophet Muḥammad).Footnote 46 In the Qur’an, Jesus is mentioned by name no fewer than 34 times—26 times as Jesus and eight times as ‘the Messiah’. For example, the Qur’an states:
And We give to Moses the Book, and after him succeeding Messengers; and We gave Jesus son of Mary the clear signs, and confirmed him with the Holy Spirit; and whensoever there came to you a Messenger with that your souls had not desire for, did you become arrogant, and some cry lies to, and some slay? (2:87)Footnote 47
Elsewhere, it states:
And when Jesus perceived their unbelief, he said, ‘Who will be my helpers unto God?’ The Apostles said, ‘We will be helpers of God; we believe in God; witness thou our submission.’ (3:52)Footnote 48
Tarif Khalidi emphasises the importance of locating Jesus in the prophetic milieu. He places the sayings and stories of Jesus in their historical context, presenting how and why the gospel arose and the function it served within Muslim devotion. According to Khalidi’s analysis, the Jesus that emerges in the Qur’an is a compelling figure of deep and life-giving spirituality.Footnote 49 The sayings and stories, some 300 in number and placed in chronological order, illustrate how the picture of this Jesus evolved throughout a millennium of Islamic history.Footnote 50 In this regard, Gabriel Reynolds analyses various narratives among mufassirūn (‘interpreters’, which refers to exegeses, usually of the Qur’an) of the view of Jesus as an eschatological protagonist, which seems to elucidate their otherwise peculiar rejection of his death.Footnote 51 Reynolds also remarks that the Qur’anic language on Jesus is not eschatological per se. Still, the Qur’an alludes to Jesus’s place in the apocalyptic hour (that is, in the final judgement), not in the end times, the final era of human history, that will precede it. Certainly, none of the events that Jesus is said by the exegetes to achieve in the eschaton—killing al-Masīḥ al-Dajjāl (an evil figure in Islamic eschatology), leading believers in prayer, breaking crosses, slaying swine—are mentioned in the Qur’an or the ḥadīth literature.Footnote 52
The popular Muslim Jesus was the one whose stories and sayings were enshrined in numerous works on piety, adab (literature), and zuhd (asceticism). Here, and not in polemics, was the place in which the great majority of Muslims encountered Jesus—apart from, of course, their exposure to him in his circumscribed and essentially polemical appearance in the Qur’an or his essentially apocalyptic appearance in ḥadīth literature.
In terms of ḥadīth literature, the Prophet Muḥammad said:
By Him in Whose Hands my soul is, surely [Jesus], the son of Mary, will soon descend among you and will judge mankind justly [as a Just Ruler]; he will break the Cross and kill the pigs and there will be no jizya [i.e. taxation taken from non-Muslims]. Money will be in abundance so that nobody will accept it, and a single prostration to Allah [in prayer] will be better than the whole world and whatever is in it. Abū Hurayra [d. between 57/678 and 59/680; one of the companions of the Prophet Muhammad and the most prolific narrator of the ḥadīth] added ‘If you wish, you can recite [this verse of the Holy Book]: ‘And there is none of the people of the Scriptures [Jews and Christians] but must believe in him [i.e. Jesus as an Apostle of Allah and a human being] before his death. And on the Day of Judgement, He will be a witness against them’.Footnote 53
In a similar manner, the Prophet Muḥammad said:
There is no prophet between me and him—that is, Jesus. He will descend [to the earth]. When you see him, recognise him: a man of medium height, reddish fair, wearing two light yellow garments, looking as if drops were falling down from his head, though it will not be wet. He will fight the people for the cause of Islam. He will break the cross, kill swine, and abolish the jizya. Allah will perish all religions except Islam. He [Jesus] will destroy the Antichrist and will live on the earth for 40 years, and then he will die. The Muslims will pray over him.Footnote 54
Muslims respect and revere Jesus and, as part of their faith and beliefs, regard him as one of the greatest of God’s messengers to the world. We may argue that the Qarāmiṭa were concentrating on the meaning of both the Qur’an and ḥadīth literature held by the Muslims’ collective memory in that time.
Second, Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā (John the Baptist) likewise occupies an honoured place in the Qur’an as a divinely chosen prophet, as al-Ṭabarī mentions, while in Christianity, he functions as the forerunner of Christ. He is believed by Muslims to have been a witness to the Word of God and would herald the coming of Jesus.Footnote 55 The speech of the announcer by Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh is still present in a line of al-Ṭabarī’s narrative, notably regarding the representation of Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā, but it may also contain a Gnostic echo. Henry Corbin emphasises the influence of ‘Gnosticism’ (a compendium of ancient religious ideas and systems) in Ismāʿīlī dogma and their daʿwa, especially in relation to the Ismāʿīlī account of history from Creation until the Day of Judgement.Footnote 56 For example, the Mandaeans, a people who belong to a monotheistic and Gnostic religion in southern Iraq, proclaim John the Baptist as their chief prophet,Footnote 57 and it is possible that the announcer dialogue contains some motifs, like the sacred aura surrounding Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā in the minds of Mandaeans in southern Iraq, in order to attract new members to the Ismāʿīlī daʿwa. It is plausible that Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh first operated in southern Iraq, from where his father later dispatched him towards Syria. This would place his formative activity in a region where diverse sectarian and religious communities—among them the Mandaeans, who venerated Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā—were still present.
Third, Christians and Muslims believe the Archangel Gabriel to have foretold the births of John the Baptist and Jesus. In the Bible, the Archangel Gabriel pronounced to the Virgin Mary that she had been chosen to bear the Son of God (Luke 1:27–38). Additionally, the image of the Archangel Gabriel is primarily associated with Zakariyyā (Zechariah) and his son Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā (John the Baptist) in a missionary context. In Islam, Gabriel’s portrayal is analogous to that in Christianity. According to the Qur’an, Gabriel acts as intermediary between God and humans and as a carrier of revelation to the prophets (to the imams in the Ismāʿīlī tradition), mentioned by name in only a couple of verses of the Qur’an: ‘Whosoever is an enemy to Gabriel—he it was that brought it down upon thy heart by the leave of God, confirming what was before it, and for a guidance and good tidings to the believers. Whosoever is an enemy to God and His angels and His Messengers and Gabriel, and Michael—surely God is an enemy to the unbelievers’ (2:97–98).Footnote 58 Thus, Gabriel is a link to God, carrying the holy message from the upper world to the lower world.
Fourth, the Holy Spirit (al-rūḥ al-qudus) is another element shared by Christians and Muslims. In Islamic discourse, it most commonly denotes Gabriel or God’s empowering breath, whereas in Christian theology, it is the third hypostasis of the Trinity. In the Bible, described in the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 2:1–31), on the Pentecost, 50 days after Easter, the Holy Spirit descended and came upon the Apostles and other followers of Jesus as tongues of fire, as earlier promised by Jesus in his farewell discourse (John 14–16).Footnote 59 Called ‘the unveiled epiphany of God’, the Holy Spirit is the one who anoints the followers of Jesus with spiritual gifts and powers that permit the declaration of Jesus and bring conviction of faith.Footnote 60 This was used by Yaḥyā and the Qarāmiṭa in Syria (discussed below). In the Qur’an, however, the term ‘Holy Spirit’ is mentioned only four times, where it is an agent of divine action or communication.Footnote 61 The Muslim interpretation of the Holy Spirit is generally coherent with other interpretations based upon the Old and the New Testaments. On the basis of narrations in certain ḥadīth, some Muslims identify it with the Archangel Gabriel.
Fifth, the expression ‘the Word of God’ in the Bible (the New Testament) may refer to a divine message or a collection of messages, but it may also be used as a personal title for Jesus (Luke 11:28). Indeed, a proselytiser or missionary often stated that the messages they delivered were God’s word, something that is similar to what is found in Islamic law. For example, the Qur’an records, ‘Lo, God gives thee good news tidings of John, who shall confirm a Word of God, a chief, and chaste, a Prophet, righteous’ (3:39).Footnote 62 Further, according to the Qur’an: ‘And when Jesus son of Mary said, “Children of Israel, I am indeed the Messenger of God to you, confirming the Torah that is before me, and giving good tidings of a Messenger who shall come after me, whose name is Ahmad.” But when he brought them clear signs, they said, “This is a manifest sorcery”’ (61:6).Footnote 63 These verses recall the mission of Yaḥyā as a proselytiser, emphasising the miraculous appearance of āyāt (signs), such as his nāqa (she-camel), in order to clarify that he was being divinely gifted. Thus, Yaḥyā, in the above narrative, seems to be portrayed as a proselytiser or announcer to his community to declare his brother, Ḥusayn, as the successor to Yaḥyā in leading the Qarāmiṭa of Syria.
Yet within this Islamic framework, al-Ṭabarī’s account introduces a series of expressions that depart from Qur’anic usage and resonate instead with Christian theological language. The discussion of Jesus, Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā (John the Baptist), the Holy Spirit, Gabriel, and the Word, linking Christian and Islamic theology, employs terms that are individually Qurʾānic yet combined here in an un-Qur’anic and distinctly syncretic configuration. In al-Ṭabarī’s account, several elements stand out as distinctly Christian in tone and imagery. The statement that ‘Christ appeared before him in the body of a human being’ departs radically from Islamic conceptions of prophetic vision. Neither the Qur’an nor the ḥadīth tradition describes Christ as manifesting bodily to any person. The element of a divine or messianic figure appearing incarnate evokes the Christological notion of embodiment familiar from post-Nicene theology, in which divine revelation is made visible through corporeal form.Footnote 64 Within the Islamic framework, visionary experiences are commonly represented as spiritual or angelic rather than incarnational. The phrase therefore signals a deliberate Christianisation of prophetic experience and introduces a vocabulary of theophany that is foreign to mainstream Islamic discourse. This ‘Christianised’ register does not require us to posit direct borrowing from Christian texts; rather, it reflects either the Qarāmiṭa’s preaching method or a shared late-antique Syriac and Arabic vocabulary that possibly allowed the ʿAbbāsid historians to depict their heterodox opponents through familiar theological imagery. Whether such language reproduces fragments of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh’s own preaching or represents al-Ṭabarī’s polemical colouring, its structure suggests that the chronicler framed the Qarāmiṭa’s movement within a cross-confessional idiom of sanctified revelation.
The reorientation of the qibla towards Jerusalem moves this Christian colouring from doctrine to ritual space. In Islam, Jerusalem (Bayt al-Maqdis) served as the first qibla of the Muslims before being replaced by Mecca; reinstating it here resacralises the Christian holy city and overlays Islamic worship with the geography of Christian devotion. Early Christian communities in Syria and Palestine associated the eastward direction of prayer with their eschatological expectation that Christ would return from the East with ‘the sign of the Son of Man’ appearing in the eastern heavens (Matthew 24:30). The Qarāmiṭa’s emphasis on Jerusalem thus resonates with this symbolic orientation, turning the qibla, an Islamic ritual emblem, into a cross-confessional sign of messianic anticipation.
Al-Ṭabarī’s closing statement ‘the pilgrimage [ḥajj] was to Jerusalem’ intensifies this transformation by relocating the central Islamic rite from Mecca to a city sanctified above all in Christian consciousness as the site of the Crucifixion, Resurrection, and expected Parousia of Christ. In Islam, the ḥajj is the paradigmatic act of devotion centred on the Kaʿba, whereas Jerusalem is primarily a locus of blessing and prophetic memory. Redirecting both the qibla and the ḥajj towards Jerusalem symbolically displaces Mecca in favour of the Christian holy city, thereby inscribing the Qarāmiṭa’s mission into the topography of Christian salvation history. Far from being mere polemical exaggeration, this detail reflects the shared eschatological imagination of late-antique and early-Islamic Syria, where Jerusalem functioned as the cosmic axis of divine redemption across confessional lines. In Christian apocalyptic thought, it was the stage of the Second Coming, and in early Islamic expectation, it was the site of Jesus’s (ʿĪsā b. Maryam) descent and the final triumph of truth. By situating the Qarāmiṭa’s ḥajj within this horizon, al-Ṭabarī portrayed the movement as appropriating the Christian symbol of the ‘heavenly Jerusalem’, thereby merging it with Mahdīist hope.Footnote 65
At the same time, the recentring of pilgrimage may possibly carry a rhetorical function within ʿAbbāsid historiography. To abandon Mecca for Jerusalem inverts the prophetic order and aligns the Qarāmiṭa with the People of the Book rather than the Muslim community. Thus, the passage serves a double purpose: for al-Ṭabarī, it defines heresy and emphasises deviation; yet for the historian, it preserves an echo of the Qarāmiṭa’s cross-confessional appeal, a synthesis of Islamic messianism and Christian sacred geography that reflects the permeable religious world of third-/ninth-century Syria.
This raises significant questions: How were the Qarāmiṭa able to use and/or employ the Christian discourse within their daʿwa? To what extent was this Christian discourse genuine? By studying the miscellaneous writings, we will be able to more clearly understand the conflicts over political, religious, and ethnic identities against the ‘threat’ of the Qarāmiṭa’s Mahdīsm.
The mechanism of the daʿwa in the sawād of Kūfa was characterised by the call for the freedom of the peasants and slaves.Footnote 66 However, in Syria, the situation was different. The Qarāmiṭa’s missionary movement, notable in Syria, expanded swiftly through the duʿāt, who were sanctified by virtue of serving the imam, as well as blessing the new members, who paid their dependents and called them ‘apostles’.Footnote 67 Among the details in al-Ṭabarī’s account is the report that ‘Ḥamdān Qarmaṭ [dāʿī al-duʿāt] appointed 12 nuqabā [leaders] and said to them, “You are like the disciples of Jesus, son of Mary.”’Footnote 68 In Christian theology and ecclesiology, the ‘apostles’, also known as the Twelve Disciples (or simply the Twelve), were the primary adherents of Jesus. Later, this term came to be used for religious followers in general, and so here, ‘apostles’ is used in this way. While the Qur’an acknowledges the disciples (al-ḥawāriyyūn) of Jesus, it does not specify their number; the identification of 12 followers belongs instead to the Christian tradition. By integrating this number and by explicitly likening his envoys to Christ’s apostles, the narrative transcends the purely Qur’anic register and introduces a Christian apostolic typology. The analogy simultaneously recalls 12 nuqabā chosen by the Prophet during the pledge of al-ʿAqaba, suggesting a deliberate synthesis of Islamic revolutionary precedent and Christian missionary imagery.Footnote 69 Whether this detail reflects an authentic feature of the Qarāmiṭī daʿwa adapted to the religious environment of Syria or a rhetorical construction by al-Ṭabarī to emphasise heterodox imitation, its symbolism is unmistakably Christian in form. It is not possible to identify personal or community contacts and determine the position of early Qarāmiṭa in the religious domain.Footnote 70
Nonetheless, we may highlight one possible path of religious transmission. It is quite notable that the Bedouin tribe, who was the target of Yaḥyā’s propaganda and who did, indeed, share his religion, did not respond to his messianic pledge—if al-Ṭabarī is right. This is not surprising, as we do not know if they were Christians or adherents of Gnostic ideas by origin. The Arab conquests introduced demographic changes in Syria, revealing a much clearer sense of their differences with other populations.Footnote 71 Yet it is generally understood that many Syrian tribes were Christian due to the significant influence of this religion in that region. According to Suhayl Qāshā, who specialises in Christianity in early Islamic history during the third/ninth century, the Christian presence among the Syrian tribes was notable, especially among the Banū Taghlib, as well as the Tanūkh and the Banū Kalb, who mingled with the Muslim community.Footnote 72 While it is true that most of these tribes embraced Islam during that period, my argument does not rely on the assumption of direct missionary engagement with active Christian groups. Rather, it proposes that Christian eschatological motifs and language persisted within the broader cultural memory of Syrian society, even after formal conversion.Footnote 73 Indeed, the Christian elements in al-Ṭabarī’s and al-Naysābūrī’s accounts should therefore be understood not as evidence of explicit preaching to Christians but as literary and symbolic borrowings drawn from a milieu still shaped by shared religious traditions. These elements reflect the interconnected spiritual vocabulary of third-/ninth-century Syria, where boundaries between Islamic and Christian expressions of messianic hope often overlapped. This mingling would lead to intellectual quarrels between Christians and Muslims in the following centuries.Footnote 74
Al-Ṭabarī’s account further notes that among Zikrawayh’s followers in Iraq and Syria were individuals described as ‘ʿArab, mawla [client], and Nabāṭī’.Footnote 75 The inclusion of the Nabāṭī is particularly significant. In early Arabic historiography and geography, the term Nabāṭ did not solely denote the ancient Nabataeans of Petra but was often applied to the Aramaic-speaking rural populations of Mesopotamia and Syria—communities that were, by the third/ninth century, frequently Syriac Christians or Mandaeans preserving pre-Islamic agrarian and ritual traditions.Footnote 76 As later writers such as Aḥmad ibn ʿAlī Ibn Waḥshīya (d. 318/930) and ʿAlī ibn al-Ḥusayn al-Masʿūdī (d. 346/956) attest, the ‘Nabatean’ designation referred largely to the indigenous peasantry (ahl al-sawād), who maintained elements of Syriac culture and language under Islamic rule.Footnote 77 This background helps illuminate the heterogeneous constituency of Zikrawayh’s movement, which drew from ʿArab, clients, and Nabāṭī groups alike. The presence of Nabāṭīs among his followers thus implicitly links the Qarāmiṭa to a multiconfessional and bilingual milieu, one in which Christian and Syriac notions could circulate. Such linguistic and cultural overlap makes it more plausible that certain Christian expressions found in al-Ṭabarī’s narrative—namely, the line ‘Christ appeared before him in the body of a human being’ and the reorientation of pilgrimage towards Jerusalem—reflect a milieu that was possibly influenced by Syriac Christian religious vocabulary rather than purely Islamic innovation.
Furthermore, a possible evidence that spoken to Christians comes from Sīrat Jaʿfar written by Jaʿfar al-Ḥājib (d. late fourth/tenth century), which records that one of the local governors in Salamiyya, ʿAlī al-Quraymānī, ‘sent his wife, a Christian woman known as Umm ʿAlī, as a servant to the Mahdī’. The account adds that she remained in his household until her death and was remembered among ‘the attendants and followers of the Mahdī’.Footnote 78 This brief notice shows that Christians were possibly present even within the immediate circle of the Mahdī in Salamiyya, either as converts, clients, or dependents, and that cross-confessional contact was not merely theoretical but social and domestic.
Collectively, this evidence offers a small yet important corrective to the assumption that early Ismāʿīlī preaching was addressed solely to Muslims. It also supports the possibility that Christian motifs—namely, those appearing in al-Ṭabarī’s report of Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh—emerged within a pluralistic Syrian milieu where Christians, Muslims, and Ismāʿīlīs interacted closely.
Al-Ṭabarī’s account, when read in light of broader Qarāmiṭī proselytising methods, evokes a nuanced strategy. The Qarāmiṭa’s duʿāt were known to tailor their approach to different audiences, and in the case of Christian communities, they appear to have adopted language that resonated with lingering Christian memories. Indeed, both al-Ṭabarī and al-Naysābūrī concur that Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh carried with him certain texts or written materials into battle.Footnote 79 I would argue here that it is plausible that the discourse he delivered, especially to audiences in Syria, was not entirely extemporaneous. It may well have been a prepared text, incorporating phrases that drew upon Christian terminology precisely because certain groups, such as the Banū Taghlib, Tanūkh, and most of the Kalb, retained traces of their Christian heritage even after converting to Islam. In this way, the Qarāmiṭa’s duʿāt may have employed a Christianised rhetorical layer as a deliberate strategy to attract new followers who still resonated with Christian concepts.
The account preserved by Zaydī author Muḥammad b. Ḥasan al-Daylamī (d. 707/1308) provides a unique glimpse into the rhetorical methods attributed to the Ismāʿīlī duʿāt in their encounters with non-Muslims. In his refutation of Ismāʿīlīs, al-Daylamī quotes the following instructions for missionaries:
If he [the dāʿī] encounters a Christian, he should outwardly show approval of attacking both the Jews and the Muslims alike, and he should speak affirmatively of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. He should also venerate the Cross in their presence and praise the Holy Spirit, thereby gaining their sympathy and confidence.Footnote 80
This passage demonstrates a remarkably adaptive missionary strategy, one that seeks to appropriate elements of Christian symbolism, such as the cross and the figure of the Paraclete while reinterpreting them allegorically within an Ismāʿīlī eschatological framework. The technique exemplifies what might be called contextual persuasion, whereby religious language familiar to a target audience is retained but its meaning is transformed to support the Ismāʿīlī claim of a coming Mahdī. In this sense, the text offers a methodological precedent for the kind of pseudo-Christian discourse later attributed to Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh in al-Ṭabarī’s chronicle: both cases reveal how missionary rhetoric could strategically mirror Christian vocabulary—‘the Word’, ‘the Holy Spirit’, and regarding the Paraclete—to render its own message intelligible and persuasive within the religious landscape of late third-/ninth-century Syria.
Al-Ṭabarī’s account above states that Yaḥyā was a prophet of the Messiah, who has been identified as Jesus, the Logos; this is followed by various equivocal details on doctrine and ritual revealed to al-Faraj b. ʿUthmān (Zikrawayh b. Mihrawayh).Footnote 81 No matter how much of this account is true, it signifies the existence of syncretistic Christian-Ismāʿīlī ideas during this time—ideas that were not entirely Islamicised and remained sectarian. As such, this was the framework for initiating the radical discourse of Christian symbolism followed by tribalism—the idea that people are loyal to their social group above all else, based upon their unity as a tribe—that formed the bulk of the daʿwa.
However, al-Ṭabarī’s narrative was clearly confused given its various contradictions. On the one hand, his narrative illustrates a strong presence of Christian dialogue, but it is not evident how many Christians were among those targeted by the Qarāmiṭa. In contrast, this Christian dialogue may have been framed as a pseudo-Christian movement by al-Ṭabarī, or by his source Muḥammad b. Dāwūd b. al-Jarrāḥ, simply to delegitimise the Qarāmiṭa, proving it is not actually Islamic at all. For example, the village Naṣrāna (from naṣrānī, meaning ‘Christian’) in the above account is not mentioned in any geographical books. From its name, it would seem that al-Ṭabarī endeavoured to sketch Christian motifs.Footnote 82 Presumably, this was an appeal to his audience by defaming any upheaval based on the ʿAlīds’ claims. This strategy corresponds to a broader historiographical pattern in which ʿAbbāsid chroniclers used Christian and Jewish typologies to depict religious dissidents as mimetic impostors rather than authentic Muslim reformers.Footnote 83 In this sense, the Christian colouring in al-Ṭabarī’s account may have functioned as a rhetorical weapon: it both discredits the Qarāmiṭa theologically and distances the ʿAbbāsid Caliphate from the messianic ferment that surrounded the ʿAlīd claimants during that period.
Overall, we may draw a conclusion from al-Ṭabarī’s account that the narrative points to the Qarāmiṭa’s method in their daʿwa—something barely discussed apart from their actions. From here stems the value of al-Ṭabarī as a source: he was informed of exclusive information that has not been mentioned in any other sources except al-Naysābūrī’s, whose texts dealt with Yaḥyā’s Mahdīist discourse but in a different way. Building on al-Ṭabarī’s detailed historical account, al-Naysābūrī’s narrative shifts the focus towards a nuanced exploration of the messianic and eschatological elements, highlighting how these themes were strategically employed to appeal to the socioeconomically marginalised groups in the Syrian milieu.
Al-Naysābūrī’s narrative
Al-Naysābūrī (d. late fourth/tenth century) composed an official history of the Fāṭimids and their rise to power during the reigns of the Fāṭimid imams/caliphs al-ʿAzīz (r. 364–386/975–996) and al-Ḥākim (r. 386–411/996–1021). Al-Naysābūrī’s account, even though entitled Istitār al-Imām, concentrated more on the revolt of Zikrawayh’s sons than the journey of the Fāṭimid imam ʿUbayd Allāh.Footnote 84 Vladimir Ivanow comments that ‘in the Istitār we have precious crumbs of information about a period which is a lost world in history, information which cannot be found anywhere else’.Footnote 85 Another writer who dealt with the revolts of Zikrawayh’s sons was the chamberlain of the Fāṭimid imam ʿUbayd Allāh, Jaʿfar al-Ḥājib (d. late fourth/tenth century). His Sīrat Jaʿfar was composed in the first era of the Fāṭimids, when the survival of their state remained precarious—a period characterised by uprisings and the Ismāʿīlī split. Jaʿfar ignored any internal opposition to the establishment of ʿUbayd Allāh’s state, focusing on him as a rightful caliph who opposed the ʿAbbāsids.Footnote 86 Al-Naysābūrī’s account differs from Jaʿfar’s, and we may consider it a later Fāṭimid reinterpretation of their early formation constructed in order to create a coherent foundational narrative.
Al-Naysābūrī, in a style similar to al-Ṭabarī, also portrayed the Mahdīist discourse of Yaḥyā with the addition of messianic and Christian motifs. According to the Istitār al-Imām, before the siege of Damascus circa 290/903, Yaḥyā summoned the shaykhs of the Banū al-ʿUlayṣ and, pointing to his brother, Ḥusayn, announced,
This is my brother, who has just arrived. In the morning, I will gather all to attack the gate of al-Mazza [near Damascus]. So pledge allegiance to my brother for I shall ascend to heaven in the morning, where I shall remain for 40 days. I shall come back to you. Do not pledge allegiance to him but for 40 days.Footnote 87
Further, al-Naysābūrī states,
When they [Banū al-ʿUlayṣ and other followers] had come back, all combatants gathered and said, Our master [Yaḥyā] has gone to heaven and dispersed. Then their shaykh, Abū Muḥammad the dāʿī [the missionary], said to them, ‘We have pledged allegiance to his brother [Ḥusayn] for 40 days. If he descends, [all will be fine], and if not, it will be up to us to disperse.’ Therefore, they were patient for 40 days.Footnote 88
Kurt Franz examines the texts of al-Naysābūrī on the Bedouin and argues that the messianic discourse from the Qarāmiṭa’s daʿwa towards the Bedouin tribes appealed conveniently to the tribes’ desire for self-governance.Footnote 89 In contrast, Christine Baker, in her discussion of the conflicting accounts about Zikrawayh’s sons, argues that al-Naysābūrī did not refer to any messianic claim from the Qarāmiṭa; rather, she interpreted the revolts of Zikrawayh’s sons as the result of a personal quarrel with the Fāṭimid imam ʿUbayd Allāh. However, it could be argued that Franz’s approach is a more logical explanation—al-Naysābūrī did indeed record messianic motifs in the Qarāmiṭa’s daʿwa—and that Baker likely misinterpreted al-Naysābūrī’s texts, evidenced by her denial of clear messianic themes.Footnote 90 It is worth mentioning that al-Naysābūrī did not support his narratives with isnād (literally ‘supports’ but meaning ‘chains of authority’—that is, the line of transmitters of a particular saying) as al-Ṭabarī did. Nevertheless, his narration may still be regarded as valuable for this article since it provides a different perspective from the ʿAbbāsid narrative.
Ostensibly, Yaḥyā here proclaims to his supporters his ascension to heaven and future return; implicitly, however, the narrative asserts that he himself posed as the awaited Mahdī. This is achieved by juxtaposing his language and doctrinal thought, notably by showing a contrast between the sacred character of Yaḥyā’s address to his men and their earthly reaction. According to Franz, Yaḥyā’s followers believed in his ascension as the exact nature of his fate remained mysterious because his corpse was burned beyond recognition after his death during the siege of Damascus against the Ṭūlūnids circa 290/903.Footnote 91 However, the sole conclusion the supporters would have drawn is that Yaḥyā’s disappearance meant the end of their allegiance to him. Furthermore, as they had agreed to respect the mutual legal bond, they took the period of 40 days at face value, thereby demonstrating their ignorance of the eschatological meaning of this event. Yaḥyā’s undertaking appears all too likely to have been misunderstood by such a narrow-minded audience. Altogether, it shows that the narrative discredits both sides as well as their mutual alliance. In this way, it helps al-Naysābūrī to justify the policy of the then Ismāʿīlī leader—that of continuous concealment and a refusal to encourage such activities. In the end, it may be argued that it was quite reasonable of Yaḥyā not to rely on such Bedouin partisans as they would not have provided a reliable basis for power.
The ascension is linked to the pledge to return, as Yaḥyā states, ‘I shall come back to you.’ This vow represents a discerned element in the eschatology of prophetic religions—an element that is delivered in Christian theology as the ‘Second Coming’. In Christianity, the meaning of Jesus’s ascension is derived from adherents’ belief in the glorification and exaltation of Jesus following his death and Resurrection, as well as from the subject of His return to God the Father.Footnote 92 For example, the Bible mentions that after His Resurrection, Jesus repeatedly appeared to His disciples over a period of 40 days and then phenomenally ascended into the presence of God. The Bible states, ‘He was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight’ (Acts 1:9). Indeed, in Islam, the symbol of ascension is exclusively used to refer to the Prophet Muḥammad’s miʿrāj (Night Journey to heaven).Footnote 93 In both stories, the followers are told to wait for the leader’s return, showing faith and patience. Each narrative presents a messianic or saviour figure who connects heaven and earth, symbolising divine power and renewal. The 40-day period in both Christianity and Islam acts as a test of faith and a moment of spiritual transition. This suggests that al-Naysābūrī may have drawn on Christian ideas to make Yaḥyā’s story sound more sacred and meaningful, blending Islamic Mahdīist and Christian messianic symbols to express hope in the return of a divinely guided leader.
Franz comments on al-Naysābūrī’s account related to Yaḥyā’s ascension, and he emphasises the Parousia, which means the Second Coming of the Lord (a term given by Franz), applying it to Yaḥyā’s action. His reading relies upon the fact that there was a wide diversity of depictions in the apocryphal scriptures of different courses of events and periods of time. He goes into further detail regarding the eschatological thoughts outside and inside Islam to which the account of Yaḥyā’s messianic/Mahdīist discourse seems linked, as even a large number of similarities will suffice to prove its association in a strictly historical sense. Nonetheless, they should not be overlooked. Franz concludes that Yaḥyā’s discourse drew on eschatological and chiliastic elements of Babylonian, Judaeo-Christian, and probably Gnostic origin either directly or in their already Islamicised form. In this article, I have brought to the fore that the line of Franz’s work is related to Christian discourse, whether it be a true or a pseudo discourse. Yet he went so far as to root Yaḥyā’s action in Babylonian and Jewish origins—something that seems to be exaggerated.
Al-Naysābūrī’s account is unparalleled in Islamic history—the self-proclamation of the Mahdī coinciding with the declaration of his disappearance and subsequent return. The case is also extraordinary for practical reasons because it goes against the caution common among most Shīʿa. Besides, the identification of the Mahdī poses a further issue: Did Yaḥyā himself claim to be the Mahdī, and did he prompt the aggression of the tribal groups on his own behalf, as is insinuated by al-Naysābūrī? Several scholars believe this to be the case, including Farhad Daftary; however, Vladimir Ivanow and later Heinz Halm have demonstrated this to be a misrepresentation.Footnote 94 In contrast to Ivanow and Halm, al-Naysābūrī provides an inverse account of Yaḥyā being the assumed Mahdī and being against military considerations; he manages to dissociate the Qarāmiṭa’s movement from the Fāṭimid cause so that responsibility for the unfortunate and even counterproductive events in Syria could be denied, and the leader (i.e. Zikrawayh), exculpated.Footnote 95 The account of these elements harmonises well with analogous records of Yaḥyā’s special qualities and the Jesus/Mahdī manifestation in Yaḥyā. So one should look at whether there is an element of the narrative specific to al-Naysābūrī that makes the blame placed on Mahdīsm fit into the approved course of events and permits him to tell the story without any blatant inconsistencies.
Although al-Naysābūrī’s account lacks the overt Christian vocabulary that marks al-Ṭabarī’s narrative, its structure nevertheless reflects a recognisably Christian eschatological pattern. The sequence of death, ascent, and promised return after 40 days evokes the post-Resurrection interval and ascension motif found in the gospels. These thematic correspondences, though reframed in Islamic terms, indicate that both chroniclers drew upon a shared late-antique reservoir of messianic imagery, where Islamic and Christian expectations of salvation and return were closely intertwined.
The polemical tone of al-Naysābūrī’s narrative suggests that his account of the Qarāmiṭa was not merely descriptive but actively ideological. Writing during or shortly after the establishment of the Fāṭimid Imamate in Ifrīqiya (297/909), al-Naysābūrī was situated in a milieu in which the legitimacy of Ismāʿīlī claims was fiercely contested. His portrayal of the Qarāmiṭa as pseudo-Mahdīist and deceivers may thus reflect a broader attempt by pro-Fāṭimid circles to differentiate the ‘true’ Ismāʿīlī imam—caliph ʿUbayd Allāh al-Mahdī (d. 322/934), who would later establish the Fāṭimid Dynasty—from the aberrant, rebellious branches that had arisen in the East. Conversely, it may also be read as a reaction by anti-Fāṭimid writers within Khurāsān who sought to delegitimise both the Qarāmiṭa and the emerging Fāṭimid state by depicting them as heretical distortions of Islam. In either case, the eschatological vocabulary of his text—particularly the mock-messianic discourse and the motif of a false saviour—serves a clear polemical function: to undermine the moral and doctrinal credibility of heterodox movements claiming divine authority. As Halm notes, al-Naysābūrī’s narrative ‘stands at the intersection of Qarāmiṭī and Fāṭimid propaganda, where each side sought to monopolise the symbols of redemption and to brand the other as impostors’.Footnote 96 The fabrication or amplification of such accounts therefore operated as a literary weapon within the broader ideological contest of the early fourth/tenth century.
It is evident that al-Naysābūrī’s narrative and his Istitār al-Imām in general had considerable influence on many of his contemporaries but more notably on the dāʿī al-Muʾayyad fī-l-Dīn al-Shīrāzī (d. 470/1077).Footnote 97 Al-Naysābūrī’s narrative elucidates the intricate relationship between the Qarāmiṭa’s messianic aspirations and their political objectives, prompting a critical examination of how these themes converge within the broader context of Islamic and Christian theological discourse. This sets the stage for a synthesis of the diverse perspectives on the Mahdīist narrative and its implications within the Qarāmiṭa’s daʿwa.
Synthesis
While the hostile agendas of al-Ṭabarī and al-Naysābūrī may well have shaped the way these discourses were recorded, the convergence of their testimony with other indications suggests that a messianic/Mahdīist language was at least reasonable within the Qarāmiṭa milieu. The report of the distinct features of this discourse is in harmony with matching records of Yaḥyā’s marvellous characteristics. These narratives may have functioned as a means to appeal to new believers and facilitate their acceptance of the notion of the Mahdī by way of the parallels with the life of Jesus in the context of the Apocalypse. Franz did not try to identify this discourse as Christian, but he emphasised the Babylonian, Judaeo-Christian, and mostly Gnostic origins.Footnote 98 Yet the texts above draw upon both messianic (Christian) and Mahdīist (Islamic) aspects. As the texts proceed, they move cautiously from representations of how Yaḥyā’s role as either Mahdī or proselytiser—specifically, as regards his miracles—were prefigured in the Christian and Islamic traditions to the special relationship of descendants of the ʿAlīd family and then ultimately to a clearly Shīʿa message, with a variety of examples.
A brief but significant statement in al-Ṭabarī’s chronicle provides an important point of convergence with al-Naysābūrī’s later narrative. When describing the revolt of Ḥusayn b. Zikrawayh, who would succeed his brother, Yaḥyā, al-Ṭabarī notes that:
Ḥusayn b. Zikrawayh called to the same cause to which his brother [Yaḥyā] had called; and most of the desert dwellers and others among the people responded to him. His power increased, he became prominent, and he marched towards Damascus. Then he marched towards the outskirts of Ḥimṣ, gained control over it, and the Friday sermon was delivered in his name from its pulpits.Footnote 99
Although al-Ṭabarī does not repeat the Christological vocabulary associated with Yaḥyā’s earlier proclamation, this formula indicates that he perceived the two missions as ideologically continuous rather than as separate or unrelated. In al-Naysābūrī’s account, the subsequent uprising likewise carries a possible messianic colouring and reproduces the structure of a renewed daʿwa under a new leader. The recurrence of this narrative pattern, linking successive Qarāmiṭī uprisings through a shared Mahdīist discourse, suggests that both authors were drawing upon a common interpretive tradition that characterised the movement in terms of doctrinal succession and prophetic continuity. Thus, even where al-Ṭabarī compresses the theological content, the conceptual framework aligns closely with that preserved by al-Naysābūrī.
The divergence between al-Ṭabarī’s and al-Naysābūrī’s narratives may be explained by the distinct polemical purposes and intellectual contexts in which each historian was writing. Al-Ṭabarī’s account, composed in Baghdad in the early fourth/tenth century, reflects a particular interest in Ismāʿīlī daʿwa’s activity and the theological deviations associated with it. His focus is thus on the doctrinal dimension of Zikrawayh’s preaching and the alleged Christianising discourse that served to undermine the legitimacy of the movement within an ʿAbbāsid religious framework. In contrast, al-Naysābūrī, writing within a later Fāṭimid-oriented milieu, shows less concern for the missionary rhetoric of the Qarāmiṭa and more interest in their political and military rebellion—that is, in the actions of the seceded Ismāʿīlīs who had turned against the Fāṭimids in North Africa. Hence, each writer’s silence regarding the other’s episode is not accidental but rather indicative of selective historical framing: al-Ṭabarī constructs a heretical preaching scene, while al-Naysābūrī offers a record of armed defection. Together they reveal how pro-ʿAbbāsid and pro-Fāṭimid authors, respectively, shaped the memory of the Qarāmiṭa to serve opposing ideological aims.
From another perspective on the Christian dialogue, these narratives may be understood as serving a polemical purpose to illustrate the errors and mistakes of previous religious communities—notably those committed by the Jews against Jesus—and that those errors are continuing to be repeated by the current rulers. In this context, the reference is to the Islamic authorities (i.e. the ʿAbbāsids), who are portrayed as having failed to recognise the divinely sanctioned line of the imams that stems from the descendants of Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib (d. 61/680), a grandson of the Prophet Muḥammad on his daughter Fāṭima’s side, hence an extension of a prophetic lineage. The method of this advocacy—to include the Christian discourse and recall metaphors and parallels to make it accessible to the people—was one recognised by the early Ismāʿīlī duʿāt.Footnote 100 Although the context and message are fairly evident, pointing to the Syrian mission of Yaḥyā, the narratives themselves display the typical characteristics of Ismāʿīlī doctrinal writings, including terms, such as ḥujja for the ranks of the religious hierarchy, that appear in that literature and nowhere else. However, as it stands, it was designed for both internal daʿwa use (specifically for public preaching to an audience likely to have included the Islamic community or those who converted to Islam and still have a Christian memory) and for external use in preaching to the non-Muslim community (primarily Christians). Both the internal and external aspects were applied through polemical messages in al-Ṭabarī’s and al-Naysābūrī’s analyses. The principal aim of Yaḥyā’s discourse in the two narratives may be understood as the attempt to gain converts, seeking to draw the masses, whether Muslims or Christians, into the Ismāʿīlī fold. The accounts of al-Ṭabarī and al-Naysābūrī set out to compose an argument or discourse. They also have the feel of someone in the process of teaching or preaching orally, following and developing a subject. Accordingly, what we have is most likely not Yaḥyā’s sermons but records of his probable proselytising and of the techniques he employed to that end.
The texts of Yaḥyā’s messianic/Mahdīist discourse present an appeal to a broad audience, including Muslims not previously affiliated with the Islamic nature (that is, the Ismāʿīlīs). It thus commences with citations of several Christian elements and a series of historical incidents that prove the sacred position of Jesus—all of them commonly accepted reports about his reappearance. They then slowly introduce material to establish that Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh should be regarded as Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā (John the Baptist), thus making Yaḥyā b. Zikrawayh idiomatically synonymous with Yaḥyā b. Zakariyyā, eventually explaining that he had conveyed his message to his brother, Ḥusayn, who would lead the Qarāmiṭa of Syria later under his leadership. Eventually, al-Ṭabarī and al-Naysābūrī bring up the denial of the ʿAlīd succession by those whom Yaḥyā implies to be the Jewish rulers of the Islamic community and the subsequent violence directed by them against the ʿAlīd family. According to the widely held Shīʿa belief, the oppressors of the ʿAbbāsids continue to control the Muslims unjustly and perfidiously.
Moreover, Yaḥyā’s discourse (in both narratives) is an indication that the Qarāmiṭa continually targeted the ‘oppressed’ masses, represented by the Bedouins or rather the religious minorities in general that were frequently persecuted and undervalued by the authorities (e.g. the ʿAbbāsids). This view has been accepted and further explained by Paul Cobb, who examined the Bedouins in the third/ninth century in Syria. Cobb interprets the ʿAbbāsid persecution of the Syrian masses (the Bedouins and other minorities) as one of the roots of the conflict between the ʿAbbāsids and the remaining pro-Umayyads, as well as with the pro-ʿAlīds. However, Cobb argues that the Syrians also engaged in upheavals, factional fighting, and uprisings to make claims that had nothing to do with the Umayyad legacy or with that of the ʿAlīds.Footnote 101
Al-Ṭabarī’s narrative represents a discourse carefully crafted and argued by Zikrawayh or al-Ṭabarī himself, specifically intended for a loyal Ismāʿīlī audience and for the mixed sectarian milieu in Syrian lands, for whom both the technical language and terms of the daʿwa were certainly appropriate. In fact, their appearance here provides significant evidence of how early the Qarāmiṭa commonly applied and used polemical discourse in their daʿwa, notably the parallel dialogue of Christian–Islamic features. In a similar manner, al-Naysābūrī’s account also reflects this language of the Christian–Islamic discourse. However, al-Naysābūrī went beyond this by referring to the ascension to heaven, which is linked to the promise of return, as Yaḥyā says, ‘I shall come back to you.’Footnote 102 This vow shows a distinguished element in the eschatology of prophetic religions, a component that is rendered in Christian theology and Islamic law. Indeed, Yaḥyā’s function in al-Ṭabarī’s narrative seems to be more as a proselytiser than as a Mahdī. Whereas in al-Naysābūrī’s narrative, Yaḥyā surpasses the proselytiser’s role to fulfil the dual role of evangelist and the Mahdī.
Conclusion
The Mahdīist discourse initially contained Gnostic, Qur’anic, messianic, and apocalyptic characteristics, all of which were exercised by the social milieus in which they were spread. The discourse was articulated chiefly by traditional, social, and political factors, thereby simplifying its comprehension for the masses. In addition, the nature of the discourse developed along with the masses’ understanding of the Ismāʿīlī daʿwa. From the early teachings that were related either to previous prophets, such as Jesus, or to the early Islamic community, as represented by the Prophet Muḥammad and his companions, the imamate discourse extended to a new embodiment of eschatological concepts symbolised by the Mahdī. This Mahdīist dialogue was interwoven with pseudo-Christian discourse, which may be considered pseudo in two ways. First, it may be pseudo not only because it employed Christian imagery to attract non-Muslims, particularly Christians, but also because such imagery may have worked as a rhetorical construction rather than a reflection of a genuine doctrinal promise; that is, it could represent a strategic tool used by Qaramīṭa’s duʿāt to broaden their missionary appeal. For instance, the duʿāt sought to mobilise the Muslim masses in Syria through a polemical message by using Qur’anic language to draw a parallel between the Jewish rejection of Jesus and the ʿAbbāsid rulers’ failure to recognise the true Mahdī. Second, this pseudo quality may also lie in the sources themselves: such motifs could reflect hostile ʿAbbāsid/Fāṭimid narratives colouring designed to delegitimise the movement by linking it with heretical or syncretic imagery. In either case, whether internally crafted by the Qarāmiṭa for recruitment or externally imposed by polemical historiography, the overlap of these two strands illustrates that the discourse acknowledged Christian symbolic currency without necessarily embracing its theology. These two aspects thereby exhibit appropriation beyond a strictly Christian-discourse context, creating spurious connections that thereby qualify it as pseudo-Christian.
After establishing a strong basis for the daʿwa, the implementation phase followed, aiming to bring about a social integration of the Mahdīist discourse. During this phase, the Qarāmiṭa converted their rhetorical missionary efforts to physical acts, as represented in the radical and revolutionary dialogue. This radical and revolutionary dialogue is well established through its messianic and Mahdīist rhetoric, as examined in various accounts above.
The hostility of al-Ṭabarī and al-Naysābūrī towards the Qarāmiṭa does not in itself invalidate the possibility that their narratives preserve genuine traces of a messianic or Mahdīist discourse. Muslim authors sometimes added ‘Christian colour’ to the portrayal of their opponents in order to discredit them. Yet in these particular accounts, several features imply that we are not dealing with pure invention but with echoes of an ideological language circulating within the movement itself. The consistency of key motifs—namely, the manifestation of Jesus in human form, the identification of Yaḥyā with John the Baptist, and the redirection of both the qibla and the ḥajj towards Jerusalem—across independent and ideologically opposed sources strongly suggests a shared narrative substratum. Moreover, the sources (at least al-Ṭabarī) attribute the cited information to reports derived from within the Qarāmiṭa’s ranks, including interrogations of captured followers. These elements provide a plausible reason to push past the polemical surface of the texts and recover aspects of the discourse as it may have been articulated by the movement’s own spokesmen. In this sense, the Christianised idiom does not necessarily represent the historians’ distortion but may instead reflect the religious pluralism of the Syrian milieu in which the Qarāmiṭa’s message spread.
Eventually, the narratives above could be regarded as representing a simple way to appeal to new believers and facilitate their acceptance of the notion of the Mahdī due to the parallels with the life of Jesus. These narratives have a distinctly anti-Christian effect whereby Jesus, after descending to earth, will not only break all crosses and kill all swine but also, according to the above narratives, compel all Christians to become Muslims (specifically, to be Qarāmiṭa) under penalty of the sword. This suggests that eschatology became a ground on which Muslim–Christian competition was played out. Just as Jesus occupies the central eschatological role within Christian thought, so too the figure of the Mahdī functions as the primary eschatological redeemer in Islamic traditions.
To this end, the principal message of al-Ṭabarī’s and al-Naysābūrī’s narratives was the same (regarding the messianic/Mahdīist discourse), with both providing a number of explanatory interpretations based on the esoteric understanding of key scriptural passages. These accounts are especially important both for the Qarāmiṭa and for the technical terms and language they use, all strictly for the internal consumption of their daʿwa. Regardless of whether the historians distorted the strictly historical facts, the discursive facts are clear: both the rhetoric of the Qarāmiṭa’s preachers and the historiographical framing by their opponents, represented by al-Ṭabarī’s and al-Naysābūrī’s narratives, contributed to this discourse of a pseudo-Christian Mahdīist movement in Syria. This study does not claim full certainty regarding the ritual language used by the Qarāmiṭa in missionary settings; rather, it highlights the convergence of narrative structures and eschatological themes across two independent accounts, making a Christian-inflected discourse a historically plausible possibility. In doing so, the article contributes to a clearer understanding of how Islamic and Christian eschatological imaginations could intersect in late third-/ninth-century Syria.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to Professor Andrew Peacock (University of St Andrews) for reading an earlier draft of this article and offering valuable comments. I also thank the anonymous referees for their helpful observations.
Conflicts of interest
None.
