Freas
OTTOMAN REFORM, ISLAM,
AND PALESTINE’’S PEASANTRY
Erik Eliav Freas
When considering the situation of the Arab peasantry in nineteenth-century Ottoman Syria (inclusive of present-day Palestine),1 a “self-evident” truth
seems to have developed that rural peasants were exploited and oppressed
by local elites—both urban notables and rural shaykhs. Yet was it really as
simple as that? In the period before incentives generated by global market
forces that were brought about by increased European economic activity
came to define economic relations between the two—likewise, before the
Ottoman Tanzimat reforms saw the establishment of formalized administrative structures—a case could be made that the authority of urban notables and rural shaykhs was, to a significant degree, dependent on its tacit
acceptance by the peasantry, such that the latter was not entirely without
leverage.2 One might even argue that this authority was something that had,
in a sense, to be earned, that the peasantry expected urban notables and
rural shaykhs to behave in a manner worthy of their authority. Particularly
in the case of the latter, the fact that there often existed rival claimants for
the loyalty of constituents would seem to lend support to this thesis.3
Erik Freas is Assistant Professor of History in the Department of Social Sciences at City
University-Borough of Manhattan Community College.
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Although it must be conceded that global market forces and increased administrative centralization did indeed have a negative effect on the peasants’ circumstances, I challenge the prevailing idea that it was largely a
matter of exacerbating a pre-existing situation.4 Rather, these factors effected a transformation in what was hitherto a relatively more equitable
relationship between the peasantry and local elites. I take my lead from
Beshara Doumani’s pioneering study, 5 in which he addresses socio-economic factors related to the region’s integration into the global economy
during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and how they impacted
Nablus and its environs. In so doing, he paints a much more nuanced picture of the situation of Palestine’s peasantry than that generally provided
by historians dealing with nineteenth-century Syria and Palestine. Too
often, the tendency has been to skim over the state of affairs prior to the
intensification of European economic penetration and the advent of the
Tanzimat reforms. Inasmuch as I take my lead from Doumani, I would
acknowledge historical distinctions between the Nablusi region and other
parts of Palestine. Nonetheless, given that what follows in this article is
intended primarily as a first step in a reexamination of peasant-elite relations during the period in question, and that there did exist at the time a
sense of Palestine as constituting a distinct and coherent geographical entity, 6 I believe it is legitimate to speak of that region as a whole with respect
to the aforementioned thesis.
As a corollary to this thesis, I argue that changes in the nature of the
relationship between the traditional elite and the peasantry altered the
way in which most Muslim peasants understood their religious identity, in
connection with a gradual formalization of Islamic practice. Prior to
changes that took place over the course of the nineteenth century, the authority of notables largely manifested itself in their collective role as mediators between formal Islamic institutions and the peasantry.
Correspondingly, religious identity among the peasantry was generally
conceived of in a relatively informal manner. Most peasants had limited
direct affiliation or interaction with formal Islamic institutions; correspondingly, their understanding of Islam largely conformed to what were
more or less vaguely defined notions as to what constituted proper Islamic
behavior—a set of values often reflective of cultural norms or broadly conceived ideas about social justice. For most peasants, authority figures such
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as rural shaykhs were in a very real sense the “face” of the Islamic authority represented by urban-based institutions, likewise in terms of what constituted proper Islamic practice. Together with urban notables, these
shaykhs mediated between the peasantry and the more formal Islamic institutions of the urban milieu,7 and it was their ability to do this that to no
small extent earned them their positions of authority. Related to this, said
authority was very much dependent on its tacit acceptance by the peasantry, something, it is argued, that was in turn dependent on whether
these local elites were seen as warranting the peasants’ respect. While the
measure of elites’ worthiness in this sense might be understood in terms
of whether they were “good” Muslims, the peasantry did not reckon such
things in a formalistic way. Certainly relevant, especially with respect to
urban notables, was whether one held a position within an Islamic institution and/or carried a reputation as a learned and pious Muslim. More important, however, was the degree to which one behaved in what would
have been considered by the peasantry as an appropriately “Islamic” manner—that is, whether they were generous, hospitable, fair, and honest,
among other traits. Formal practice and training would not have constituted the only estimation, indeed, probably not even the most important
one by which one’s worth as a Muslim was measured.
This was particularly true of rural shaykhs, a category inclusive of
both nahiya and village shaykhs. The former were powerful local shaykhs,
whose jurisdictions corresponded to administrative sub-districts known
as nahiya.8 As of the beginning of the nineteenth century, in general, the
nahiya shaykhs were responsible for collecting taxes, maintaining law and
order, and dispensing justice. In turn, each village in the nahiye had a village shaykh responsible for running local affairs.9 Even where technically
appointed by the Ottoman government, however, it was usually only with
the general consent of those under their authority that the shaykhs were
able to maintain their respective positions—as the American missionary
Elihu Grant put it, their positions were confirmed “by acclamation or by
general consent.”10 Based on the aforementioned “Islamic” criteria, rural
shaykhs were expected to be fair when meting out justice, resolute when
confronting adversity, pious in their own personal behavior, and generous
with peasants experiencing hard times. Put in more technical terms, their
actions “were circumscribed by social and cultural boundaries that de-
fined ideals for accepted behavior, notions of justice, and levels of accountability to the collective community.”11
For urban notables, the case was somewhat different, and more formal
Islamic credentials—one’s knowledge of the Qur’an, or how many times one
had made pilgrimage—did in fact carry considerable weight. Nonetheless,
expectations similar to those applying to rural shaykhs applied to urbanites
as well, both when dealing with non-elites in the towns (i.e., townsfolk),
and, perhaps more importantly for our purposes, with respect to town-village relations, where “[g]enerosity and cooperation from the notability created bonds of loyalty between urban and rural sectors.”12 In sum, then, both
urban and rural notables were expected to represent the interests of the
larger community when dealing with the Ottoman authorities.13 In this respect, it should also be noted that, at least until the middle of the nineteenth
century, the distinction between elite and non-elite was arguably not as
rigid as it would later become. To begin with, both elites and non-elites were
understood as integral to the society as a whole—the social gap between the
leaders and the larger population was small, and as noted by ‘Adel Manna‘,
“between the apex and the base of the social pyramid [there was] limited
salience, particularly in rural society, which constituted the demographic
majority.”14 Indeed, particularly in the countryside, the delineation between
elites and non-elites—that is, between shaykhs and peasants—was not always clear; nor, for that matter, was it clear among the peasant themselves,
many of whom were semi-nomadic and occupied a social space between
the more purely nomadic Bedouin tribes and more land-rooted peasantry,
or fallahin. To put it another way, social categories, much like religious ones,
were relatively fluid and individuals could, up to a point, move between
them. This was soon to change.
As the nineteenth century progressed, the interests of both urban notables and rural shaykhs became increasingly tied to external economic
forces. Their political authority became embedded in formal administrative
structures, such that they became beholden first and foremost to the
Ottoman center in Istanbul. Correspondingly, the amount of leverage peasants had in their relationships to them greatly diminished. Perhaps more
importantly, social categories began to crystallize and the division between
local elites and the peasantry widened. In connection with the new economic opportunities brought about by European economic penetration, the
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former increasingly used their collective position of authority to exploit a
peasantry with whom they felt fewer ties. Rural shaykhs, now in the guise of
absentee landlords, along with urban-based creditors, were increasingly
driven by commercial considerations. Correspondingly, the criterion determining elite status came to be one based almost entirely on wealth, particularly wealth acquired through commerce. The old rules of patronage and
mediation no longer applied, and the relationship between local elites and the
peasantry became one wherein the latter was exploited by the former. In sum,
These developments also saw a growing intrusion among the peasantry of
formal urban institutions, inclusive of Islamic ones, in support of notable
interests; for their part, as peasants became less able to negotiate their situation directly with urban notables and rural shaykhs, they found it increasingly necessary to seek recourse in formal Islamic institutions, in the
hope of achieving a modicum of justice. All of these factors had the effect
of formalizing the peasantry’s sense of religious identity. As elaborated
below, Islam, until then largely understood on the basis of local folk practices,16 became more formalized over time: As a consequence, peasants
came to conceive of their identity on the basis of a more orthodox understanding of Islam.17 Not surprisingly, perceptions of the notable class
among the peasantry became increasingly negative—alongside the formalization of Islamic practice among the peasantry, notables came to
present a point of contrast, and there would be a growing perception that
their behavior was something decidedly un-Islamic. This point will be
taken up in more detail below.
Before proceeding further, a word is needed concerning the sources
used in this study. Simply put, historians seeking to reconstruct the situation of the peasantry in Palestine during the Ottoman period have had
limited sources with which to work.18 Probably the most important type,
and one which historians have indeed put to great use, has been the sijillat,
or shari‘a court records. Yet apart from the fact that they have constituted
an important primary source for some of the secondary sources referenced here, I do not directly utilize them here. In part, this choice reflects
the uneven and inconsistent use that the peasantry made of the shari‘a
courts in Palestine. Doumani observes that in Nablus, up to 1830, there is
a virtual absence of court cases involving the peasantry. Significantly, after
that date—and in keeping with the changes discussed here—the number
of peasant-related cases appearing in the court records in Nablus rose considerably; by the late 1850s, peasant involvement in legal proceedings had
“turn[ed] into a flood that showed no signs of abating, hence signaling the
culmination of the hinterland’s integration into urban legal and cultural
spheres.”19 Judith Tucker observes that during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the notable class was over-represented in the sijillat.20
Dror Ze’evi notes the problematic nature of the sijillat as a source for social
history, inasmuch as they provide few clues as to how representative they
are of the society at large, especially regarding certain segments of the
population.21 In a similar vein, Colette Establet and Jean-Paul Pascual,
with respect to their survey of Damascene society around the year 1700,
likewise note the difficulty in knowing what percentage of the population
is actually represented in the court records, and the likelihood that certain
groups are in fact under-represented.22
This is certainly not to maintain that further investigation of the sijillat would not prove fruitful with an eye to better ascertaining the degree
to which the peasantry took recourse to the shari‘a courts during the period in question. Additionally, based on the different local histories of different communities in Palestine, there is compelling reason to believe that
there existed a good deal of regional variation regarding peasant attitudes
towards the shari‘a courts. While the studies of Nablus conducted by
Doumani and Tucker suggest that during the early part of the nineteenth
century the peasantry of Jabal Nablus was reluctant to seek recourse in the
shari‘a courts, Amy Singer’s conclusions with respect to sixteenth- and
seventeenth-century Jerusalem and its environs suggest that this was not
the case everywhere. While no doubt much had changed between the seventeenth century, on the one hand, and the eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries (the period we are interested in here), on the other, it
would seem that, based on Singer’s study, such factors as village proximity
and security (or lack thereof) of travel were not entirely irrelevant.23
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[t]he new social elite had economic and political interests that differed
from those of the traditional leaders…. [Therefore, it] was not to be
expected that the new elite would [challenge the Ottoman] authorities
that had been responsible for its rise, enabling it to consolidate its economic position as part of the Tanzimat and modernization policies.15
Freas
As such, and with an eye toward ascertaining the nature of relations between the peasantry and formal Islamic institutions, I have focused primarily on the accounts of European and North American travelers on the subject of Palestine’s peasants. While indicative of a source type inherently
problematic—inasmuch as they are largely impressionistic and are certainly
reflective of Western biases—such accounts nevertheless have value, even if
too often consideration of them has been limited to studies aimed at exposing their “Orientalist” character.24 If used judiciously, such accounts can
provide certain insights not readily available from other sources. Westerners,
for instance, were fascinated by Palestine’s peasantry (in many cases because of a tendency to conflate them with peasants depicted in the Bible25)
to a much greater degree than was the case with Ottoman subjects.26 In this
respect, Western travelogues and the like arguably fill a gap left by other
source types. For instance, the sijillat, even when dealing with cases involving peasants, demonstrate little interest regarding questions of motivation
and background.27 By contrast, it was not uncommon for Western travelers
and pilgrims to devote entire sections, articles, and even stand-alone volumes to the topic of Palestine’s peasantry,28 and while sometimes these were
only too obviously reflective of religiously derived preconceptions, as often
as not, they were written with the purpose of correcting some of the biases
and prejudices commonly held by Westerners.29
Town and Village
As of the beginning of the nineteenth century, Islam as practiced by the
peasantry was of a relatively informal nature, defined more by local, traditional practices than by textual legalism. Among other things, this reflected the nature of the relationship between the peasantry and local elites
(urban notables and rural shaykhs), wherein the latter acted as mediators
between formal Islamic institutions and the peasantry. The seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries had been a period marked by increasing Ottoman
decentralization,30 a time during which the Porte was no longer able to
directly exert its authority over the outer provinces, and local elites became the principle administrators of the Empire, particularly in the Arab
provinces.31 Inasmuch as there existed little by way of formal Ottoman
institutions or mechanisms during this period by which local elites’
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collective position might be guaranteed, their ability to exercise authority
was to a large degree dependent on the compliance of the peasantry and
townsfolk. Notably, that support was also a means by which local elites
were able to resist the occasional attempt by the Ottoman center to reassert
its authority. A good example of this is the rebellion that took place in
1824-1826, which saw Palestine’s peasantry—under the leadership of local
elites—successfully resist the attempt of the recently appointed governor
of Damascus to impose a levy on taxes.32 By the same token, both urban
notables and rural shaykhs occasionally found themselves under pressure
from below to resist government authority. This was certainly the case
during the time of Ibrahim Pasha’s occupation of Palestine; when called
upon by the pasha’s representative to defend Jerusalem against a peasant
uprising, the notables replied that “it was not a wise policy for them to
fight against the fellaheen [sic] and … pleaded all kinds of excuses, but especially the lack of arms.”33 Peasant support was especially critical with
respect to the strong internal rivalries that often existed between different
notables and rural shaykhs. Each sought to attract as many supporters as
possible; correspondingly, a great deal of effort was devoted to cultivating
good relations with members of the peasantry in order to solicit their
backing, often via patronage.34 It also meant arming them.35 To a large
extent, then, the peasantry expected local elites to look out for their interests as well as maintain harmony among the members. With respect to the
latter, this mostly meant settling disputes, and in doing so local elites generally exhibited a great deal of flexibility in their application of Islamic law.
This was particularly true in the countryside, where rural shaykhs were in
fact more likely to base their rulings on local custom than shari‘a.
This is not to say that formal Islamic institutions were of little importance. Within the cities and larger towns, the individuals charged with
upholding law and order during this period were generally members of the
‘ulama, a group which in many respects overlapped with the urban notable
class.36 Significantly, the holding of religious positions and the ability to
provide patronage were strongly interrelated. Thus, for instance, through
their control of pilgrim hostels, notables were often able to provide various
forms of assistance to low-paid religious functionaries.37 Related to this,
relations between elites and non-elites tended to be very personalized. Even
where exploitative, it was important that interactions between the two at
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least appear amicable and intimate.38 Particularly if acting in the role of
qadi—Islamic judge—it was also expected that the urban notable in question should behave fairly; this was especially the case if he was acting as an
arbiter between members of the peasantry and government officials.39
In many respects, the same expectations defined relations between
town and countryside, and indeed, through the early part of the nineteenth century, a fairly equitable relationship existed between the various
urban centers in Palestine and their respective “satellite” villages.
Depending on the town, it was not unusual that the surrounding villages
had the upper hand. Hebron, for instance, was often subjected to attack by
forces from the neighboring villages.40 Likewise, Jerusalem often found
itself at the mercy of militias made up of neighboring villagers under the
leadership of the Abu Ghawsh family, who during much of the nineteenth
century controlled the main avenues from the coast to Jerusalem.41
Palestinian natives commented to the American missionary Elihu Grant
at the beginning of the twentieth century that “half a century or more
ago…the fellahin were often in the ascendancy and the city people glad to
treat with them.”42 Yet even by the middle of the nineteenth century, in
connection with certain transformations taking place related to the growing European economic penetration of the region, villages were increasingly coming to be dominated by neighboring urban centers. These changes would see the urban notable class transformed into a merchant-dominated
elite, one driven primarily by commercial considerations and rooted in
newly created administrative institutions. While this new elite (new in the
sense of having a different basis) would eventually come to include the
more powerful of the rural shaykhs (treated more fully below), I first consider how these changes impacted the urban notable class.
In Palestine, European economic penetration began with the coastal
areas43 and was initially mostly based on the cultivation of cotton for export to Europe, primarily France, as well as to Egypt and Damascus.44 The
same period also saw an increase in European demand for various cereals,
particularly in Britain following the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846.45 In
effect, this constituted the first step toward the region’s integration into
the world economy and initiated socioeconomic changes associated with
the related intensification of commercial agriculture.46 Externally, this
meant a growing dependency on world markets; internally, it meant
peasant differentiation, the commoditization of land, and the expansion
of money-lending practices.47 At the same time, the coastal area was subjected to an influx of European manufactured goods, primarily textiles, 48
against which local production found it difficult to compete.49 Though the
interior was able to resist European penetration for a while by concentrating on production aimed at local markets as well as trade related to the
hajj—the northern route to Mecca passed nearby50 —it too was inevitably
drawn into the global economy.51 Thus, as market relations intensified between the coastal areas and the interior, a snowball effect ensued, as production increasingly shifted from local to export markets. This process
was accelerated by the increased importation of European manufactured
goods, which served to undercut respective local production.52 Economic
activity in the interior increasingly turned to the production of cash crops,
and merchants in the interior soon began acting as middlemen for merchants along the coast, in effect becoming their agents for infiltrating the
interior. This process was augmented by the attempt on the part of coastal
merchants to cut out intermediaries and deal directly with the local peasantry through the provision of profit-related incentives.53
During the same period in which these economic changes were taking
place, the Ottoman Porte initiated the Tanzimat reforms, inspired in large
part by a desire to modernize along European lines. Ibrahim Pasha, following Egypt’s temporary takeover of those territories between 1832 and
1841, had earlier initiated efforts at modernization in Syria and Palestine.
After reasserting its authority, the Ottoman government continued and
even extended those reforms. In concert with the changes brought about
by increased European-related economic activity, 54 these reforms, which
were both political and economic in nature, inevitably undermined the
existing criterion determining elite status—that is, one’s position with respect to Islamic institutions and one’s reputation defined largely in Islamic
terms—in favor of a new one derived largely of commercial success.55
Members of the notable class were able on the basis of their positions under the old order to take advantage of the new economic opportunities
that now presented themselves.
In large part this shift reflected the generally capital-intensive nature
of such opportunities, whereby only established individuals and families
(that is, the urban notable class) were able to take advantage of them. Yet
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even when not having direct access to capital, members of the notable
class had certain advantages. Many urban notables were able, for example,
through their monopolization of the management of waqfs and dominant
positions in the shari‘a courts, to acquire waqf properties for revenuegenerating purposes.56 Additionally, most urban notables (and rural
shaykhs) had over the course of time established extensive, socially based
commercial networks, which they were now able to exploit in competing
with outside merchants for the rural surpluses of cash crops, most notably
grain and cotton.57 Finally, and perhaps most significantly, this developing
new elite were able to co-opt what were newly created political structures.
In short, they were able to adapt, and while the basis of their elite status
might have changed—likewise, their exact place in the pecking order—the
same notable families might, by and large, still be found among the upper
elite. As Doumani notes, the old ruling political families were transformed
into a “new merchant-dominated elite[, one based on a]...fluid alliance between influential members of the merchant community, key ruling families (both urban and rural), and the top religious leaders.”58
Probably the most significant new political structures created in connection with the Tanzimat reforms were the advisory councils, introduced
in 184059 with the objective of giving local communities a consultative role
in local administration. Redesignated as administrative councils, or majalis al-idara, 60 with the Provincial Regulation of 1858, these were essentially
established in order to better enable the Ottoman center to maintain control of the outer provinces. In actual fact, they became a means by which
the local elite was able to consolidate its authority at the local level. 61 The
purpose of these councils was to reduce the autonomous powers of the
provincial governors, 62 and while in theory they were nonetheless answerable to them, almost from the start, their ability to participate in administrative decisions and challenge gubernatorial authority proved far-reaching.63 This was even more the case given that governors were generally
appointed for fairly short terms, and thus often remained relatively unfamiliar with local conditions until just prior to leaving.64 As such, the councils were able to exert a strong influence over them. The great majority of
those sitting on the councils came from urban notable families,65 and while
in theory they were supposed to represent the interests of the people at large,
it quickly became apparent that their primary concern was with their own.66
Functioning as they did as intermediaries between the appointed governors and the local population, it was often only with the assistance of urban notables that other Tanzimat reforms could be implemented. 67 It was
fairly easy, then, to ensure that such reforms were carried out in such way
as to serve the notables’ own interests.68 Through the administrative councils, for example, they were able to gain control of the allocation of tax
collecting duties, a particularly lucrative function and traditionally the
prerogative of the more powerful rural shaykhs, 69 in their role as tax farmers.70 Following the Vilayet Law (Law of the Provinces) of 1864, tax farms
were allocated by the majalis al-idara to the highest bidders, who inevitably were drawn from their own members.71 Ottoman authorities in
Istanbul quickly recognized that the councils were actually blocking reforms—hence the Provincial Law of 1858 which sought, among other
things, to concentrate power once again in the hands of the governors.72
The point of the new law was to ensure that the majalis al-idara coordinated more effectively with the local governors. Nonetheless, the councils
continued to prove an effective means by which urban notables were able
to control the pace and nature of reform.73
Prior to the Tanzimat period, villages had been largely self-sustaining
and had not depended on the larger towns for their livelihood.74 But economic integration together with the urban notables’ appropriation of the
new Ottoman administrative structures—the majalis al-idara, in particular—quickly undermined whatever leverage the peasant class had.75
Whereas a notable or shaykh’s ability to exert influence among the peasantry had in large part depended on his ability to provide patronage, as
well as the respect he enjoyed as a pious Muslim, it was now increasingly
defined within the context of the new administrative structures. Once
having appropriated control of these structures, urban notables (as well as
those rural shaykhs incorporated within this new merchant-dominated
elite) no longer needed the support of townsfolk or the peasantry, whether
tacit or overt. This tendency was further reinforced by the fact that, as urban notables living in the same urban centers found common interest in
competing with merchants from rival ones (not to mention foreign merchants based in the coastal cities), the internal rivalries between them
quickly diminished. What rivalries did remain increasingly played out in
the majalis al-idara, of which most local elites—not only urban notables,
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but the more important rural shaykhs as well—were now members.76 As
the possibility of violent confrontation between rival local elites became
more remote,77 their relative status became less dependent on their ability
to employ actual physical force. Consequently, they found it less necessary
to solicit the support of non-elites for the purpose of creating militias,
something that had usually involved a certain degree of largesse. The position of the urban notables was further institutionalized by the creation of
the Ottoman Parliament; from among its ranks were drawn representatives
who were thus better able to promote their collective interests in Istanbul.78
The majalis al-idara also provided an effective mechanism by which
urban notables were able to extend their authority over their respective
hinterlands, significantly, in a manner that circumvented the intermediary role of rural shaykhs.79 The various commercial networks established
under the old order as discussed above constituted an additional factor in
this process. In much the same manner that they facilitated their exploitation, they provided the framework through which the various hinterlands
were eventually absorbed into the political, economic, and social nexuses
of their respective urban centers. 80 This process would prove especially important with respect to the towns of the interior. Through existing networks, for example, the urban notables of Nablus were able to integrate the
surrounding villages fully within that city’s rapidly expanding soap industry during the latter part of the nineteenth century. 81 The corresponding
commercialization of agriculture along with the growing pervasiveness of
money lending, 82 on the basis of which town merchants had greater access
to ever increasing crop surpluses, only served to facilitate the consolidation of notables’ control over the surrounding villages. 83 Added to this,
mechanisms such as the salam contract—which allowed notables to charge
peasants a disguised interest84—further served to institutionalize elitepeasant relations while integrating satellite villages within respective urban legal and political spheres.
The exploitation of the peasantry took other forms as well, not least
the expropriation of their land. As already noted, control of the majalis
al-idara enabled the urban notables to influence the manner in which
other reforms were implemented, for instance, those related to tax collection. In like manner notables took advantage of those reforms dealing
with land registration. Thus, the Ottoman Land Code of 1858, enacted
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with the purpose of giving the Ottoman government greater control over
miri, or state, land so as to better check the growth of large private-land
ownership, actually had the opposite effect. Fearful of taxation and conscription, peasants with long-standing traditional rights allowed members
of the urban and rural elite to register large areas of land on their behalf,
with the consequence that they became, in effect, the latter’s personal
properties 85 (though this would seem to have been more of a problem in
the lowland areas than in the hill regions, where small plots and individual ownership and/or usufruct was more common86). This factor, combined
with the corruption and ineptitude of Ottoman administrators, contributed to a tendency for land to accumulate in the hands of wealthy urban
notables, a process further facilitated by their control of the majalis alidara.87 This also had the effect of depriving the peasantry of much of their
land usage rights, with many peasants being converted into sharecroppers
and hired laborers.88 Compounding the problem was the fact that, too often, peasants found themselves unable to pay their taxes. As a result, they
were often forced to borrow money, and eventually, under the burden of
tax and debt, to sell their land to wealthy notables. 89
Rural Shaykhs
Not surprisingly, all of this saw a diminution of the power of the rural
shaykhs, who since at least the sixteenth century had exercised a good deal
of authority within their respective nahiya and villages,90 by collecting
taxes and ensuring peasant production, but also by representing villagers’
interests vis-à-vis Ottoman authorities and neighboring cities and towns.
The latter role was reflected in the common title of ra’is al-fallahin, literally
“head of the peasants.”91 These were men who, by virtue of their age, experience, and local prominence, had come to represent their fellow villagers
before the Ottoman authorities.92 Significantly, while publicly confirmed
by the authorities,93 all indications are that shaykhs were essentially chosen by their fellow villagers, and were only able to maintain their status so
long as they continued to enjoy their support.94 While they would, by the
nineteenth century, lose the title, both their function and the nature of
their status would remain in many respects the same, even if the basis
underlying their role as tax collectors would eventually be greatly altered.95
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In any case, the authority enjoyed by the rural shaykhs, whether at the
nahiya or village level, was sufficiently dependent on the support of the
peasantry, such that the former might reasonably be expected to keep the
latter’s interests at heart. Relevant in this respect is that rural shaykhs enjoyed a certain degree of leverage vis-à-vis the urban notables, something
often enough reflected in what were generally equitable relations between
the rural peasantry and those residing in nearby towns.96 Over the course
of the nineteenth century, this situation was to change in two important
respects. First, for reasons already noted, the role of the rural shaykhs as
intermediaries between town and village was significantly undermined.
Second, their authority within the villages themselves was directly diluted
by the Tanzimat reforms, more specifically, by the Vilayet Law of 1864,
which abolished the offices of both nahiya shaykh and village shaykh in
terms of allocating them any specific function.
We might at this point consider what was probably the chief function
of rural shaykhs—at least from the perspective of the Ottoman government prior to the period of reform. Since at least the seventeenth century,
government revenues had been collected largely through tax farms, or iltizamat. Essentially, the government “farmed” out the right to collect taxes
by selling the privilege, the price paid being equivalent to the revenue estimated by the government as corresponding to the territory in question.
Any revenue the tax farmer collected beyond that constituted a profit.97
Prior to the period of reform, tax farming had largely been the prerogative
of rural shaykhs,98 individuals who, inasmuch as their authority was
somewhat dependent on the support of the peasantry, were unlikely to
abuse the privilege. By the mid-nineteenth century, however, as already
noted above, the urban elite was increasingly taking on this role.
Significantly, their authority, unlike that of the rural shaykhs, was not tied
to the peasantry, but rather depended almost solely on the institutions of
provincial government—in particular, the majalis al-idara—created
through the Tanzimat reforms.99 In addition to opening the peasantry to
abuse by individuals minimally beholden to them,100 the new situation saw
a diminution in the ability (and incentive) of rural shaykhs to serve as
mediators between the peasantry and the urban-based notables. Some did
continue to carry out this function, but these generally shifted their base
of operations to the larger towns, effectively becoming part of the new
urban-based merchant elite.101 Added to this, many rural shaykhs took advantage of the 1858 Ottoman Land Code to acquire large estates. Too often,
such individuals came to be absentee landlords, effectively severing whatever personal connections they had with the peasantry. The less powerful
village shaykhs, for their part, were stripped of their judicial powers and
converted into government-appointed mukhtars. As such, their positions
were entirely dependent on the Ottoman government. Whether through
the one process or the other, the rural shaykhs were effectively incorporated into the Ottoman bureaucratic system.102
At this point, we might examine more closely the manner in which the
role of the rural shaykh changed, as this perhaps best exemplifies the process considered until now—that is, the process whereby the relationship
between local elites and the peasantry was radically altered. Even more
than the writ of urban notables, prior to the changes discussed above, the
authority of rural shaykhs was to a great extent dependent on the peasantry’s support. We might start by considering the actual living conditions of the peasantry. Well into the latter half of the nineteenth century, it
was arguably the case that the oft-used phrase “downtrodden peasant”
was something of an overstatement.103 Indeed, numerous Westerners—exactly those one might expect to take for granted the truth underlying the
cliché of a destitute and oppressed peasantry104—described the situation of
the peasantry as anything but deprived. Elizabeth Anne Finn, the wife of
a British consul stationed in Palestine during the first half of the nineteenth century, characterized the peasantry of the interior as “sturdy
mountaineers [who] had never been subjected to the iron hand of despotism by their Turkish rulers.”105 The British traveler Laurence Oliphant,
who visited Palestine during the 1870s, characterized the peasantry as “an
energetic and very stalwart race, with immense powers of endurance,”106
while another Western traveler, who visited Palestine during roughly the
same period, described them as “scarcely less wild and lawless than the
Bedawin [sic]…[as] a rough, athletic, and turbulent race—mostly armed
with gun and dirk.”107 The latter went on to describe them “[as] robust and
rigorous, [noting that] much might be hoped for from them if they were
brought under the influence of liberal institutions, and if they had examples around them of the industry and enterprise of Western Europe.”108
Such descriptions would seem borne out by the fierce resistance elicited
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from the peasantry by the Egyptian subjugation of Palestine beginning in
1832; Palestine’s peasants greatly resented Egyptian reforms aimed at centralizing authority, imposing conscription, and granting political equality
to non-Muslims.109 Particularly relevant to our discussion is that this resistance eventually evolved into a coordinated rebellion under the leadership
of the urban notables and rural shaykhs, both of whom were fearful that the
reforms initiated by the Egyptians would inevitably see their positions of
authority greatly undermined. More than simply enjoying strong peasant
support in this, it was arguably the case that local elites were compelled by
the peasantry to revolt, and this in spite of the fact that many of the reforms
the Egyptians sought to implement would likely have benefited them.110
A missionary visiting during the middle part of the century described
the inhabitants of one village as “industrious and thriving” and went on to
describe the surrounding country as “filled up with their flourishing orchards…[a] thousand reapers, gleaners, and carriers were abroad…the
children at play, or watching the flocks and herds, which were allowed to
follow the gleaners. But no description can reproduce such a tableau. It
must be seen, heard, and enjoyed to be appreciated.”111 Certainly it was not
uncommon to hear a town or village described as “flourishing,”112 or to
find depictions such as those of one mid-nineteenth century traveler, who,
on approaching Nablus, noted the vales “clad with olives, full of gardens
and orange groves with palm-trees, and watered by plenteous rills.”113 This
is not to say that there were not peasants who were less prosperous, though
often these resided in areas dominated by semi-inhabited abandoned villages;114 as such, they may well have reflected more situations of transition
than evidence of overall decline and destitution, though certainly at times
it also reflected the fact that areas still subject to Bedouin harassment
tended not to have more fully developed settlements.115 Relevant also in
this respect were the circumstances at the time of visiting—thus,
Napoleon’s invasion of Palestine at the beginning of the nineteenth century devastated the countryside, as did that of Ibrahim Pasha several decades later.116 In any event, to the extent that semi-inhabited villages were an
indication that the country was underpopulated, this was not always a bad
thing for the peasantry. John Lewis Burckhardt, while visiting Syria and
Palestine during the early part of the nineteenth century, commented that
there was often more land than people who required it, as a consequence of
which, the peasantry often took to “roping off ” large plots of land for their
own personal use.117
It was often the case that the peasantry, as represented by different
clans, were feuding with one another, usually in support of rival shaykhs118
or that neighboring villages were compelled to form coalitions in order to
better protect themselves against Bedouin tribes.119 The need to form militias was often paramount; more important from the standpoint of the welfare of the peasantry, it usually entailed the provision of substantial patronage. As noted by Moshe Ma’oz, a typical militia might consist of as
many as 200,000 armed peasants.120 Indeed, the history of Palestine during much of the seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth centuries
was defined by constant struggle between various peasant factions.121 A
notable example of this was in the period following the expulsion of the
Egyptians in 1841, which temporarily resulted in a power vacuum, one
that saw a fierce struggle between various notables and shaykhs.
Correspondingly, respective families found it necessary to mobilize peasant militias for support.122 As a consequence, peasants were generally individually armed, usually with a gun in addition to a short sword.123 The very
fact of a widely armed peasantry would certainly have acted as a constraint
on the authority of rural shaykhs. Tellingly, when Ibrahim Pasha called
upon the rural shaykhs to disarm the peasantry following Egypt’s invasion of Syria and Palestine, it was an imperative they were quite reluctant
to carry out.124 We might add here that urban notables were often under
pressure to enter into alliances with the more powerful rural shaykhs,
something which served to strengthen the latter’s position—likewise, that
of the peasantry vis-à-vis urban dwellers.125
Rural shaykhs were expected to look after the welfare of the peasantry,
both in mediating between the villages and neighboring urban centers
and in maintaining law and order within the villages themselves. Of
course, as already discussed, they were also responsible for collecting taxes, yet even in this respect the peasantry was not without leverage. Evasion
of payment, for instance, was often not such a difficult matter, especially to
the extent that shaykhs lacked backing from the Ottoman center.126 If the
situation were sufficiently dire, a member of the peasantry might rightfully seek the protection of his shaykh. If such a course proved ill advised,
the peasant might alternatively abandon him and seek the protection of
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another shaykh;127 indeed, it was not entirely uncommon for peasants to
abandon their farms, sometimes even entire villages, for the mountains,
towns, or even neighboring countries, such as Egypt.128 In many respects,
the relationship between shaykh and peasant was one of mutual obligation. Certainly this was evident in the expectation that shaykhs behave
hospitably, particularly in their dealings with travelers.129 Likewise, they
were expected to look out for the welfare of those peasants in their charge,
helping them out during difficult times, for instance, by providing seed
following a bad harvest or making good on a peasant’s debt when he was
unable to.130 A particularly interesting responsibility often expected of rural shaykhs was the provision of a kind of assurance with respect to commercial and political dealings involving peasants; in effect, they would
adopt the role of surety, or kafl, guaranteeing that the terms of a commercial contract or negotiated truce were carried out, if necessary, at their own
expense. Importantly, the ability of a shaykh to take on this role depended
in no small part on his reputation for honor and honesty.131 Another similar obligation of shaykhs with respect to peasants—and one that also reflected strongly on their sense of honor—was that represented by the practice of dakhal, or the taking of sanctuary, whereby a peasant under threat
might verbally evoke the protection of an individual of influence and rank.
If said peasant were to be slain, the shaykh whose protection had been
evoked would be obligated to avenge him.132 Characterizing the situation
then as simply one wherein the peasantry was at the mercy of local elites
would constitute something of a misrepresentation. Particularly during
periods when the Ottoman center was unable to make its presence felt in
the outer provinces, rural shaykhs were, in many respects, on their own.
As a visiting missionary put it (and this during the latter part of the nineteenth century, when in many places, this was arguably no longer the case),
rural shaykhs had “no other authority over [their charges] than such as a
Bedouin Sheikh exercise[d] over his tribe,”133 which was another way of
indicating authority of a very limited kind.
As with the urban notables, the trust and respect accorded rural
shaykhs had, in many ways, a religious dimension, defined on the basis of
the aforementioned “Islamic” virtues—that the shaykh should be pious,
considered to be fair and just, and so forth. Such virtues were linked to
Islam, but it was an Islam of the most informal kind, defined
more by tradition and recognized practice than legalism, and often enough
incorporating folk religious practices. In most villages, for instance, one
was more likely to find a shrine (maqam) dedicated to saints (wali) than a
proper mosque.134 This is not to say that religion was not important. As
observed by the missionary Elihu Grant, “Eastern life simply [could not]
be understood apart from religion. And yet, the natives of the country
[were] not, strictly speaking, theological in their way of thinking.”135
While such a characterization no doubt reflected something of an
Orientalist outlook—that is, one that over-emphasized the supposed centrality of Islam—it was also indicative of the fact that for most peasants,
Islam in many ways constituted an extremely fluid framework inclusive of
a range of societal and cultural values. Put another way, “Islamic” was
what was good and correct and proper; as Elizabeth Anne Finn observed,
most peasants in Palestine were largely ignorant of the Qur’an, and most
of what they knew about Islam, they picked up from their shaykhs.136
In terms of its content, Islam—as understood by the peasantry—consisted primarily of a set of legal and cultural norms, perhaps best defined
by the term ‘urf, which mostly drew on local social practices. For the most
part, it was these norms that provided the legal framework by which the
peasantry lived, and more often then not, legal disputes were decided by
the shaykhs.137 They ruled largely according to a code of unwritten traditional laws, some of which could be traced to the Qur’an (shari‘at
Muhammad), but more often, to regional codes of little known origin.
Thus, in the south of Palestine, cases were often judged under the “Law of
Abraham” (shari‘at Khalil), which was “thoroughly well known, and…
held in the highest veneration,” and was believed to reflect a legal code that
could be traced back to the patriarch himself.138 Qur’anic law was generally associated with cities and it was noted that the “peasantry always
prefer[red] the law of Abraham to that of the Koran, [moreover, that] it
[should be] administered by the shaykh and the elder.”139
Often, legal codes drew upon what were considered purely Bedouin
social norms. Thus, in the area around Bethlehem, Elizabeth Finn noted
that in certain cases shaykhs found it necessary to resort to “Bedawy or
wild Arab code.”140 The ability to draw upon different codes of law allowed
the rural shaykhs a certain degree of flexibility in discharging their responsibilities, particularly those of a judicial nature.141 The actual judicial
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arrangements were also based on rural custom, and trials were generally
held before the shaykhs.142 While in principle the option existed, peasants
rarely took recourse to the formal Islamic courts, either with respect to
commercial transactions, or issues related to personal status.143 As noted
by French scholar Philip J. Baldensberger, who was visiting Palestine at the
time, peasants preferred to “settle their disputes so far as possible without
resort to the government.”144 Indeed, among many of the peasantry, it was
considered that “going to accuse in towns show[ed] a decadence of their
independence.”145 Added to that was a general distrust of any kind of government official. As one missionary put it, the government was seen as
“gloves for the hand that is stretched out for more of the means of the villager,” as a consequence of which “[t]he peasants look[ed] suspiciously on
every movement of every officer, refusing to believe that any government
representative [could] have good intentions or do worthy actions.”146 Indeed,
whenever it proved necessary to deal with a government figure, villagers
usually turned to the local village shaykh to intervene on their behalf.147
The importance of shaykhs’ reputations vis-à-vis the peasantry was
perhaps nowhere more evident than in the great pride they took in being
sought after and respected in connection with their ability to dispense
justice wisely.148 Moreover, members of the peasantry were often quite
likely to resist an arbitrary application of the law by any given shaykh.
Again quoting Finn, “should he utter a decision or express an opinion contrary to the traditionary [sic] code, he is liable to be corrected, and to have
his sentence questioned by the merest child.”149 Where there existed any
concern about the possible fairness of a shaykh’s ruling, a peasant might
seek recourse in a shaykh other than his or her own. Thus, sometimes a
shaykh would acquire a reputation for being particularly knowledgeable
and just; “[c]ases from all the countryside [were] brought to such a man,
and his sentence [was] generally accepted as binding.”150
A New Elite
As long as the interests of rural elites coincided with those of their respective charges, the system worked reasonably well. The institution of the
Tanzimat, however, very quickly eroded the status of rural shaykhs as mediators between town and village.151 Correspondingly, their authority
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became based less on whatever personal qualities might have earned them
the respect of the peasant class, and more on their political positions as
defined within the rapidly consolidating Ottoman hierarchy. They were
transformed into servants of the state and appendages of the urban elite.152
Those able to take advantage of new commercial opportunities soon found
their interests aligned with those of the developing merchant class in the
neighboring urban centers. What remaining status they enjoyed vis-à-vis
the peasantry became the basis for the latter’s exploitation.153 In an effort
to compete with other merchants in gaining access to the surplus crops
needed for the manufacture of various goods, textiles or soap, rural
shaykhs often sought to use their position of authority in the villages and
the relationships they had cultivated to their own advantage. Moreover, as
with their urban counterparts, rural shaykhs (particularly the more powerful of the nahiya shaykhs) increasingly sought to define their right of
exploitation as one of legal prerogative. In many respects, they became an
extension of the urban elite—in some cases, physically a part of that group,
as many relocated to the larger towns and cities where they became absentee landlords. This made their ability to exploit the peasantry that much
easier, as together with urban notables they were able to consolidate their
control of the various legal and administrative institutions. Butrus Abu
Manneh notes that, during the nineteenth century, “the traditional and
‘natural’ leaders of the peasantry were destroyed or lost their military and
political power, [as a consequence of which], the countryside, leaderless,
was laid open to the influence and domination of the city.”154 He might
have added that a fair number of these “natural” leaders of the peasantry
were effectively co-opted by their respective city or town, as they became a
part of the urban elite.
In short, a new elite had come into being which, though consisting of
many of the same notable families as before, was now defined on the basis
of a different criterion; whereas previously it was one’s position in, and
reputation with respect to, certain Islamic institutions that determined
elite status—or in the case of rural shaykhs, one’s reputation as a generous,
hospitable, and just “Muslim”—it was now based to a much greater degree
on wealth, particularly that derived from commerce. Not surprisingly, urban notables still found it useful and preferable to identify their status in
connection with the former. Many were uncomfortable with the new basis
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of their elite status. Too great a focus on commerce was considered unseemly and notables still tended to define their elite status either by holding positions within Islamic institutions or at the very least, maintaining
reputations as pious Muslims.155 More than a question of sensibilities,
however, in many respects their reputations were also imperative to their
success as merchants. For one thing, it was a means of acquiring waqf
property.156 Perhaps more importantly, in connection with the aforementioned networks, it was important for maintaining a certain degree of legitimacy among the peasantry. The surest way of doing this was through the
cultivation of religious status.157 A good example of this can be seen in the
Husayni family’s appropriation of the Nabi Musa festival, the control of
which provided a means for demonstrating notable generosity (in the form
of public meals) as well as claiming a socio-religious community status.158
Nevertheless, affiliation with Islamic institutions was no longer the
sole basis of elite status; instead, it became a means of legitimizing status
after the fact—it provided a veneer of respectability.159 The core determinant of elite status had become commercial success. These developments
had a particularly negative impact on the peasantry. Certainly, it had always been the case that notable authority constituted something of a balancing act, between the legitimacy conferred by the Ottoman government
and that given by those over whom authority was exercised. As Albert
Hourani put it when describing the typical notable elite, “It is because he
has access to authority that he can act as leader, and it is because he has a
separate power of his own in society that [the higher] authority needs him
and must give him access.”160 What was changing was that the balance was
shifting in favor of the former. Previously, the authority of urban notables
and rural shaykhs had depended in equal part on the support they enjoyed
among the peasantry, something determined in no small measure by their
ability to respond to the latter’s needs, as well as provide patronage. The
peasantry had at least some leverage.
Under the new order the authority enjoyed by urban notables—and
likewise, that of a fair number of rural shaykhs—was no longer dependent
on peasant support. A new basis for elite status had been created, one no
longer tied to the peasantry, but rather dependent on one’s relationship to
the global market and control of administrative institutions. In more concrete terms, their authority was now tied to institutions reflective of a
218
greater degree of Ottoman centralization, their fortunes, to changed economic circumstances. Most important with respect to the former was the
majalis al-idara, control of which facilitated the ability of elites to access
tax revenue, promote policies that facilitated their acquisition of local industries and factories, control the movement of commodities, and minimize state interference where it clashed with their own political and economic interests. The fact that they were no longer dependent on the
peasantry’s support as one basis of their authority meant that they were
better able to exploit them, among other things, in the acquisition of surplus cash crops such as were valued by foreign markets.161
The Formalization of Religious Identity
No longer able to rely on local elites for justice, the peasantry increasingly
found it necessary to take recourse in the formal judiciary institutions of the
Islamic courts in the larger urban centers. The problem was that, too often,
these courts were under the control of the very notables who were trying to
exploit them. Peasants, in fact, increasingly found themselves brought into
court at the notables’ behest. Merchants, for instance, might take to court
peasants with whom they had salam contracts if they felt the latter had somehow been remiss in fulfilling their contractual obligations. Such contracts
generally constituted what were quite sophisticated commercial arrangements, the enforcement of which often depended on court backing. This was
particularly the case when involving individuals—that is, peasants on one
side and merchants on the other—coming from different towns (an increasing occurrence) inasmuch as there were no other ties linking the two parties.
Such contracts then only served to augment the role of the courts in the lives
of the peasantry, and notably, there was a pronounced rise in the number of
cases appearing in the Islamic courts during this period.162 This process extended beyond mere court visits; Islamic law increasingly came to provide
guidelines with respect to business practices, the resolution of social conflicts, and the defining of social roles (for instance, on the basis of gender).163
At the same time, folk practices were increasingly coming under attack by
religious reformers. Mosques preaching Islamic orthodoxy replaced maqams
(saints’ shrines) as centers of village worship, and peasants were increasingly
educated as to which practices were perceived to be authentically Islamic.164
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The end result was that the Islam practiced by the peasantry was becoming
increasingly formalized and tied to Islamic institutions. At the same time,
there was a growing sentiment among the peasantry that the exploitative
practices of this newly developed merchant class were something decidedly
“un-Islamic.” Many were anything but generous, hospitable, fair, and honest,
and increasingly they seemed disinclined to look out for the interests of the
peasantry, whether vis-à-vis their own commercial interests or with respect
to Ottoman authority figures. Worse was that the merchant class’s Muslim
members seemed willing to exploit their control of formal Islamic institutions, particularly the courts, to better serve their own commercial interests.
For many peasants, such unscrupulous behavior seemed entirely unworthy
of Muslim notables, the elite status of whom had previously been based
largely on their reputations as “good” Muslims. Given their decidedly unIslamic behavior, then, it was not surprising to Muslim peasants that this
new merchant elite should be open to non-Muslims; correspondingly, there
was a growing tendency for members of the peasantry to see Muslim and
Christian merchants as constituting a single interest group.165
In connection with other changes than taking place, the peasantry
was becoming increasingly conscious of their identity as an Islamic one in
a radically new way. Islam, previously recognized as an inherent aspect of
a traditional mode of living now took on a new dimension; it was an identity less defined by practice and more by ideal, an Islam defined less by
tradition and more in connection with its institutions, among them, legal
ones. The extent to which any particular practice was considered “Islamic”
had been more a factor of to what degree it reflected local social and cultural norms, directly pertained to one’s day-to-day circumstances, and
was in some manner efficacious. That it should be theologically rooted in
Islamic scripture was, at best, of secondary importance. This was perhaps
nowhere more evident than in the practice of saint worship: tellingly, in
Palestine, Muslims and Christian peasants often worshipped the same
saints, with little regard for whether the saint in question was in fact either
Muslim or Christian.166 This, too, was changing. Religious practice was
becoming rooted in what Doumani refers to as an “orthodox or urban
Islam”167—an Islam within which there was a right practice and wrong
practice, based no longer on utility but more on archetypes. It was an
Islam rooted in a proper theological interpretation of Islamic scripture, a
scripture, moreover, uniformly recognized throughout the Muslim world.
Significantly, as such, it provided the basis of a definable shared Islamic
identity,168 one that might be set in opposition to other identities, as the
particulars of what the former should entail—as far as proper Islamic behavior and beliefs—became more and more rigidly defined.
For a large majority of the peasantry, their sense of Islamic self-identity had, by the latter part of the nineteenth century, become more particularistic and more pronounced. In this sense, it was also more susceptible
to being appropriated by certain leaders of the national movement at the
time of the British Mandate, leaders of a certain religious qualification.
Exemplary in this respect is the 1930s militant-reformist Shaykh ‘Izz alDin al-Qassam, who stood outside the traditional elite and was able by
evoking a religious criterion to effectively challenge their authority, particularly given that many of the elite could count themselves as such on the
basis of little other than their wealth. Given the perceptions held by the
peasantry with respect to this newly developed merchant class, as discussed above, it would prove an effective means of challenging the latter’s
authority.169
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1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
ENDNOTES
Geographically speaking, Palestine is a term encompassing the region between the
Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River, and inclusive of the modern state of Israel and
the Israeli-occupied Palestinian territories. In actual fact, during the Ottoman period,
there was no corresponding administrative unit known as Palestine. For most of the
roughly three and a half centuries of Ottoman rule, with only minor variation, what is
today known as Palestine consisted of roughly four districts, known as sanjaqs.
See, for instance, Jane Hathaway, with contributions by Karl K. Barbir, The Arab Lands
Under Ottoman Rule, 1516-1800 (Pearson Longman: Harlow, England, 2008), 175.
See, for instance, Laurence Oliphant, Haifa or Life in Modern Palestine (New York:
Harper and Brothers, 1887), 194.
See, for instance, Karl Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus, 1708-1758 (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1980); Gad G. Gilbar, “The Growing Economic
Involvement of Palestine with the West, 1865-1914,” in David Kushner, ed., Palestine
in the Late Ottoman Period: Political Social and Economic Transformation (Jerusalem
Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1986), 188-210; Ruth Kark, “The Rise and Decline of Coastal
Towns in Palestine,” in Gad G. Gilbar, ed., Ottoman Palestine, 1800-1914: Studies in
Economic and Social History (Leiden: Brill, 1990), 69-89; Haim Gerber, Ottoman Rule
in Jerusalem, 1890-1914 (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1985); and Gabriel Baer, “The
Impact of Economic Change on Traditional Society in Nineteenth-Century
Palestine,” in Moshe Ma’oz, ed., Studies on Palestine During the Ottoman Period
(Jerusalem Magnes Press, 1975), 495-498.
Beshara Doumani, Rediscovering Palestine: The Merchants and Peasants of Jabal
Nablus, 1700-1900 (Berkeley, CA University of California Press, 1995).
See Yehoshua Porath, “The Political Awakening of the Palestinian Arabs and Their
Leadership Towards the End of the Ottoman Period,” in Ma’oz, Studies on Palestine,
355 360; and Haim Gerber, “‘Palestine’ and Other Territorial Concepts in the
Seventeenth Century,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 30 (1998), 563
572.
In addition to muftis and qadis, possible positions included imams, the leaders of public
prayer in mosques, khatibs, who were in charge of public oration, mu’adhdhins, who
were in charge of summoning the faithful to prayer, and religious instructors for the
general population. Particularly lucrative positions were those related to the supervision
of religious endowments. See Stanford J. Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and
Modern Turkey, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 138.
This in effect constitutes a second-level subdivision of a first-level division (such as
the sanjaq), and usually inclusive of a number of villages and sometimes an urban
center. The nahiya in turn was subdivided into mahallas, which constituted the
smallest Ottoman administrative subdivisions.
Abu Manneh, “Jerusalem in the Tanzimat Period,” 4-5.
Elihu Grant, The People of Palestine (Westport, CT: Hyperion, 1976 [1921]), 150. See
also John Lewis Burckhardt, Travels in Syria and the Holy Land (London: Darf
Publishers, Ltd. [The Association for Promoting the Discovery of the Interior Parts of
Africa], 1992 [1882]), 349; also Burckhardt, Travels in Syria and the Holy Land, 382.
Doumani, 35.
Divine, 39.
Dick Douwes, The Ottomans in Syria: A History of Justice and Oppression (London: I.
B. Tauris, 2000), 167; see also ‘Adel Manna‘, “Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century
222
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
Rebellions in Palestine,” Journal of Palestine Studies 24, no. 1 (Autumn 1994), 63;
Albert Hourani, “The Fertile Crescent in the Eighteenth Century,” Studia Islamica 8
(1957); and Muhammad Adnan Salamah Bakhit, The Ottoman Province of Damascus
in the Sixteenth Century, Ph.D. dissertation, School of Oriental and African Studies,
February, 1972, 210.
Manna‘, 63.
Ibid., 59.
That is, local traditions and customs not rooted in official religious doctrine.
This was by no means a phenomenon limited to Palestine and its environs. Throughout
the Ottoman Empire, the Tanzimat reforms would act to restrict the administrative role
of the clerical establishment, thus heightening the emphasis placed on its religious
function. As noted by Mardin, Islam “had stopped being something that was lived and
not questioned. Secularizing reforms had made Islam become more ‘Islamic.’” Serif
Mardin, Religion and Social Change in Modern Turkey: The Case of Bediüzzaman Said
Nursi (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1989), 117-118.
See, for instance, Hathaway, 172-174.
Doumani, 152.
Judith Tucker, “Ties that Bound: Women and Family in Eighteenth- and NineteenthCentury Nablus,” in Nikki Keddie and Beth Baron, eds., Women in Middle Eastern
History: Shifting Boundaries in Sex and Gender (New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 1991), 236.
Dror Ze’evi, “The Use of Ottoman Shari’a Court Records as a Source for Middle
Eastern Social History: A Reappraisal,” Islamic Law and Society 5, no. 1 (1998), 39-40.
Colette Establet and Jean-Paul Pascual, Familles et fortunes à Damas 450 Foyers
Damascains en 1700 (Damascus, 1994), cited in Ze’evi, “The Use of Ottoman Shari’a
Court Records,” 44.
Amy Singer, Palestinian Peasants and Ottoman Officials: Rural Administration
Around Sixteenth-Century Jerusalem (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994),
21. See also Hathaway, 174. Though it should be noted that even during the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries, it seems that peasants were reluctant to appear in court,
and often were compelled to do so, usually by an official Ottoman escort. Whenever
possible, they preferred to settle disputes in their respective village. Singer, 21, 27.
This was not unique to Palestine. See, for instance, Galal H. El-Nahal, Judicial
Administration in Ottoman Egypt in the Seventeenth Century: A Study Based on the
Shari’ah Court Registers, Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago, 1978, 25-26.
See Erik Freas, “Muslim Women in the Missionary World,” Muslim World 88, no. 2
(April 1998), 141-164.
Yehuda Karmon, “Changes in the Urban Geography of Hebron during the
Nineteenth Century,” in Ma’oz, Studies on Palestine, 80.
Thus, Bakhit notes that during the sixteenth century, Syrian writers, although
providing plenty of information about life in the cities, were little concerned with
what transpired in the countryside; likewise, biographical treatises rarely dealt with
rural shaykhs. Bakhit, 223.
Though this reflected in large part the procedural focus of most sijill records, and not
necessarily any prejudice against peasants versus individuals of different backgrounds. Ze’evi, 48.
See, for instance, Elihu Grant, The Peasantry of Palestine: The Life, Manners and
Customs of the Village (New York: Pilgrim Press, 1907); Elizabeth Anne Finn,
223
Freas
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
Palestine Peasantry: Notes on Their Clans, Warfare, Religion, and Laws (London:
Marshall Brothers, 1923); William McClure Thomson, Land and the Book, or, Biblical
Illustrations Drawn from the Manners and Customs, the Scenes, and Scenery of the
Holy Land (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1954); T. C. Wilson, Peasant Life
in the Holy Land (London: John Murray, 1906); Oliphant, Haifa; F. A. Klein, “Life,
Habits, and Customs of the Fellahin of Palestine,” Palestine Exploration Fund
Quarterly Statement (1883), 41-48; Samuel Bergheim, “Land Tenure in Palestine,”
Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement (1894), 191-199; George E. Post,
“Essays on the Sects and Nationalities of Syria and Palestine, Essay 2, Introduction,”
Palestine Exploration Fund, Quarterly Statement (1891), 99-147.
A notable example in this respect is Cyrus Hamlin, Among the Turks (New York:
American Tract Society, 1877).
Until recently, conventional scholarly opinion held that, during the period in
question, the Ottoman Empire was in a state of decline, a framework historians have
since largely rejected. Nonetheless, it is fair to say that by the eighteenth century the
central government in Istanbul was finding it difficult to exert direct authority over
the outer provinces. See Hathaway, 7-8.
Shaw, 165; also M. Sükrü Hanioglu, A Brief History of the Late Ottoman Empire
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008), 6-7; and Hathaway, 8, 79-82.
Manna‘, 33-35; also S. N. Spyridon, trans., extracts from Annals of Palestine
1821-1841, a manuscript by Monk Neophitos of Cyprus (Jerusalem Ariel Publishing
House, September 1979), Journal of Palestine Oriental Society 18 (1938), 73-83. A
similar successful rebellion took place in Palestine in 1703-1705. This revolt was
known as the naqib al-ashraf rebellion, in consideration of the role played by the
naqib al-ashraf, or head of the association of shurafa’, the descendants of the prophet.
Notably, in both cases, the notable leaders of the rebellion were careful to reward
those peasants who had participated, primarily by exempting them from having to
pay certain taxes. Ibid., 52, 54, 58-59. See also Bakhit, 250.
Spyridon, 91-92. Also Bakhit, 94.
See Ma’oz, Ottoman Reform, 115; also Roger Owen, The Middle East in the World
Economy, 1800-1914 (London: Methuen, 1981), 173; Bakhit, 270-271; and Doumani,
26, 34-44, concerning the area around Nablus. Regarding rivalries in the region of
the Judean Hills and around Hebron and Jerusalem, see Ma’oz, 119-121. Concerning
peasant warfare in general, see ibid., 131, and Abdul-Rahim Abu-Husayn, Provincial
Leaderships in Syria, 1575-1650 (Beirut: American University of Beirut, 1985),
161-198.
Uriel Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine, 1552-1615: A Study of the Firman
According to the Mühimme Defteri (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1960), 63, 80, 79,
inclusive of the firman to Mehemmed Beg, Beg of Safad, identified as vol. 14, no. 99,
Muharrem (?) 979 (May/June 1571).
Abu-Husayn, 161-198; Hourani, “The Fertile Crescent in the Eighteenth Century,” 27.
Though to be sure, not all provincial elites in the Arab provinces were, strictly
speaking, members of the ‘ulama.
Abu Manneh, 22.
Ted Swedenburg, “The Role of the Palestinian Peasantry in the Great Revolt
(1936-1939),” in Edmund Burke III and Ira Lapidus, eds., Islam, Politics, and Social
Movements (Berkeley, CA University of California Press, 1988), 172.
Singer, 21, 27, 29.
224
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
57.
58.
59.
60.
61.
62.
Karmon, 80.
Mordechai Abir, “Local Leadership and Early Reforms in Palestine, 1800-1834,” in
Ma’oz, Studies on Palestine, 290.
Grant, The People of Palestine, 225. This was equally so during the late sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. See Singer, Palestinian Peasants and Ottoman Officials, 37,
90-91; also vol. 69, no. 25, 9 Receb 1001 (11 April 1595), in Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine, 50.
Owen, The Middle East, 176; also Kark, “The Rise and Fall of Coastal Towns,” 70.
Shmuel Avitsur, “The Influence of Western Technology on the Economy of Palestine
during the Nineteenth Century,” in Ma’oz, Studies on Palestine, 485; Owen, The
Middle East, 86, 178; and Omer Celal Sarç, “‘Tanzimat ve Sanayimiz’ (The Tanzimat
and Our Industry),” in Tanzimat (Istanbul, 1941), reproduced in Charles Issawi, ed.,
The Economic History of the Middle East 1800-1914: A Book of Readings (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1966), 49.
Thus, trade in cotton was later eclipsed by other commodities such as wheat, barley,
sesame seeds, olive oil, and, later, oranges. Owen, 86, 178, 167, 177; also Doumani,
105.
See, for instance, Owen, 29-30, 51-53.
A. Granott, The Land System in Palestine: History and Structure (London: Eyre and
Spottiswoode, 1952), 58-77.
Ma’oz, Ottoman Reform, 177-178; Kark, 70, 82-83; and Haim Gerber, “Modernization
in Nineteenth-Century Palestine: The Role of Foreign Trade,” Middle Eastern Studies
18, no. 3 (July 1982), 251; also Sarç, “Tanzimat ve Sanayimiz,” 49 50.
Gilbar, 199.
Concerning the pilgrimage and its impact on the Nablus economy, see Owen, The
Middle East, 24; also Barbir, 124.
Doumani, 14, 33, 97, 237; Owen, 124.
Doumani, 184.
Ibid., 129-130, 141-142, 165.
Particularly following the trade convention of Balta Limanı signed with Britain in
1838. For the actual document, see Issawi, Economic History, 39-40.
What Doumani refers to as a “shared material base characterized by… moneylending,
land ownership, urban real estate, trade, and … manufacturing.” Doumani, 129, 241.
A waqf is an Islamic foundation, whereby a given property is designated for a specific
purpose. Though in theory eternal and inalienable, certain mechanisms did exist
which could establish private rights and assets over waqf property. See Gabriel Baer,
“The Dismemberment of Awqaf in Early Nineteenth-Century Jerusalem,” in Gilbar,
Ottoman Palestine, 299-300, 306-308, 314-316.
Owen, 90, 175; also Doumani, 93, 117-118.
Ibid., 135. See also Butros Abu Manneh, “Aspects of Socio-Political Transformation
in Palestine in the Tanzimat Period (1841-1876),” paper presented at “Turks and
Palestine: A Thousand Years of Relations,” Jerusalem, 22 24 June 2004.
In essence, a carryover of the majlis al-shura, initiated by Ibrahim Pasha during the
time of the Egyptian occupation.
Singular, Majlis al-Idara.
Hourani, “Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables,” 62.
Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel Kural Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern
Turkey, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 84-85.
225
Freas
63.
64.
65.
66.
67.
68.
69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74.
75.
76.
77.
78.
79.
Among their powers, the advisory councils were allowed to ask for information from
the governors on all matters, to register complaints concerning their administration
with the Grand Vezir in Istanbul, to testify to the Vezir’s representatives when they
came on inspection, to hear appeals from the religious courts where the decisions
involved large amounts of money, and to discuss not only current problems but also
measures that might be taken to improve the welfare and security of the state. Ibid., 87.
In some cases, they were not even able to speak the local dialect. James Finn, Stirring
Times: Or Records from Jerusalem Consular Chronicles of 1853 to 1856, vol. 1
(London: C. Kegan Paul and Company, 1878), 163.
Membership in the majlis al-idara was confined to candidates who paid a direct tax
of no less than 500 piasters per year. As the majority of village dwellers could not
afford this, the management of their internal affairs was effectively left in the hands
of what was a rising group of wealthy urban notables. Doumani, 235; also Abu
Manneh, “Jerusalem in the Tanzimat Period,” 12.
See Doumani, 129-130, 238-239.
Hourani, “Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables,” 62; see also Philip Mattar,
The Mufti of JerusalEM: Hajj Amin al-Husayni and the Palestinian National
Movement (New York: Columbia Press, 1988), 4.
As Doumani puts it, “local merchants use[d] their recent access to political office (the
majalis al-idara) in order to adjust the politics of ‘free trade’ in their favor.” Doumani,
97; Hourani, “Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables,” 64; Shaw and Shaw, 86;
and Porath, 364.
Concerning the different ranks of rural shaykhs, see Abu Manneh, “Jerusalem in the
Tanzimat Period,” 4-5.
Kenneth W. Stein, The Land Question in Palestine, 1917-1939 (Chapel Hill, NC:
University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 7. Concerning reforms with respect to tax
farming during this period, see also Hanioglu, 88, 90.
Porath, 365.
Shaw and Shaw, 88.
See, for instance, Laurence Oliphant, The Land of Gilead with Excursions in the
Lebanon (Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons, 1881), 129; ibid., 128; and
Hourani, “Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables,” 63.
Abu Manneh, “Jerusalem in the Tanzimat Period,” 4.
See, for instance, Mattar, 4.
Owen, The Middle East, 174.
Something the gradual strengthening of Ottoman authority in the outer provinces
following the ousting of Ibrahim Pasha went a long way toward diminishing as well.
Abu Manneh, “Jerusalem in the Tanzimat Period,” 23-35.
The members of the first Parliament, which convened in March 1877, were
determined by the majalis al-idara rather than popular suffrage—hence it was the
majalis al-idara that controlled who was actually sent as a representative. Robert
Devereux, The First Ottoman Constitutional Period: A Study of the Midhat
Constitution and Parliament (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1964),
124.
Hourani, “Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables,” 62; also Abu Manneh,
“Jerusalem in the Tanzimat Period,” 37. The majalis al-idara were granted authority over
matters pertaining to the surrounding countryside previously considered outside their
jurisdiction, but which now strengthened their authority over it. Ibid., 13.
226
80.
81.
82.
83.
84.
85.
86.
87.
88.
89.
90.
91.
92.
93.
94.
95.
96.
97.
98.
99.
100.
101.
102.
103.
Swedenburg, 109, 182.
Doumani, 14. By the end of the nineteenth century, soap manufacture had in fact
become the dominant economic activity in Nablus. Ibid., 183-184, 238-239.
Gilbar, 205; and Swedenburg, 174. See also Grant, The Peasantry of Palestine, 149.
Doumani, 239, 103.
Essentially, a salam contract allowed for immediate payment by the buyer in
anticipation of goods to be delivered at a later date. A typical salam contract might
take the form of a loan, whereby a merchant paid the taxes of a village in return for a
specified amount of produce, to be delivered at the time of its harvest. Significantly,
the salam contract usually had a calculated rate of interest disguised as an artificially
low price, hence guaranteeing a profitable return when the lender sold the related
good on the open market. Doumani, 135-144.
Granott, The Land System in Palestine, 72-77.
Rashid Khalidi, Palestinian Identity: The Construction of Modern National
Consciousness (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 94.
Swedenburg, 173; also Hourani, “Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables,” 64.
Swedenburg, 173.
Post, “Essays on the Sects and Nationalities,” 105; also Granott, 58-65.
See, for instance, Ermete Pierotti, Customs and Traditions of Palestine, Illustrating
the Manners of the Ancient Hebrews, trans. T. G. Bonney (Cambridge: Deighton, Bell,
and Company, 1864), 201-202. In some cases, it had been considered that they held
paramount power in the rural areas. Abu Manneh, 5, 23-24; also Singer, 32.
Singer, 24, and Hathaway, 174.
Singer, 32.
This practice would continue even as of the late nineteenth century. B. A. Macalister
and E. W. G. Masterman, “Occasional Papers on the Modern Inhabitants of
Palestine,” Part I, Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement (1905), 334,
345-346.
Singer, 34-37.
Hathaway, 175.
Grant, The People of Palestine, 225. See also Abu-Husayn, 9.
Hathaway, 170-171; see also Hanioglu, 21.
See, for instance, Porath, 361.
Increasingly, it was the case as well that the multazim, or tax farmer, was accompanied by government soldiers when collecting taxes. Post, “Essays on the Sects and
Nationalities,” 106.
See, for example, Bergheim, 197-199; also Oliphant, 120.
Swedenburg, 173. See also Doumani, 135, 208.
This was through the Vilayet Law of 1864, which abolished the offices of nahiya
shaykh and village shaykh as far as allocating them any specific function went. Abu
Manneh, “Jerusalem in the Tanzimat Period,” 36. See also Porath, 22-23.
Though this is by no means to suggest that their situation was free of hardships; often
enough, however, whatever problems they faced reflected circumstances particular to
time and place. Thus, for instance, those residing further to the east did suffer harassment from Bedouin tribes more frequently than those residing in the more
mountainous interior. See, for instance, Burckhardt, Travels in Syria and the Holy
Land, 299-303. Interestingly enough, Oliphant suggested that the dangers posed by
“marauding Bedouins” were very much exaggerated, even east of the Jordan River.
227
Freas
Oliphant, The Land of Gilead, 26, 288, 310.
104. Certainly, a fair number did, though often it seems that in such cases, little
investigation was actually made to ascertain the truth of first impressions or
accepted wisdom. It might be added as well that such descriptions seemed to become
more commonplace toward the end of the nineteenth century, by which time—in
keeping with the changes discussed above—their situation had indeed worsened. See,
for example, Oliphant, Haifa, 178.
105. Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 22.
106. Oliphant, The Land of Gilead, 297.
107. John Murray, Handbook for Travellers in Syria and Palestine, Including an Account of the
Geography, History, Antiquities, and Inhabitants of These Countries, the Peninsula of Sinai,
Edom, and the Syrian Desert, with Detailed Descriptions of Jerusalem, Petra, Damascus,
and Palmyra (London: Murray, 1875), 213. See also Oliphant, The Land of Gilead, 321.
108. Murray, Handbook for Travellers, 202. See also Oliphant, The Land of Gilead, 298;
Murray, 350, 505, 513; Thomson, Land and the Book, 338, 345, 525, 526, 538; Sobhi M.
Bekawi, English Travel Literature Dealing with Palestine: From 1800-1850 (Cairo: The
Associated Institution, 1978), 36; Ma’oz,165.
109. Abir, 309-310; also Manna’, 58-59; Finn, 15; and Spyridon, 90-91. The Egyptians
would be forced out of Syria and Palestine less than ten years later, though this
almost certainly had more to do with European pressure bought to bear on Egypt
than any internal resistance.
110. Abir, 309-310.
111. Thomson, 526, 538.
112. For instance, H. B. Tristram, The Land of Israel: A Journal of Travels in Palestine
Undertaken with Special Reference to Its Physical Character (London: Society for
Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1865), 131, 134.
113. Ibid., 137.
114. Tristram, 130. [Eliminated the ‘for example’ for this and next two endnotes]
115. Ibid., 421-422.
116. Karmon, 80- 82; C. G. Smith, “The Geography and Natural Resources of Palestine as
Seen by British Writers in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” in Ma’oz,
Studies on Palestine, 88; and Issawi, Economic History, 206.
117. Granott, 35. See also ibid., 56-57.
118. Finn, 24.
119. Karmon, 79; also Abir, 286.
120. Ma’oz, Ottoman Reform, 115. See also Tristram, The Land of Israel, 467; Charles
Leonard Irby and James Mangles, Travels in Egypt and Nubia, Syria, and Asia Minor
During the Years 1817 and 1818 (London: T. White and Company, 1823), 368, 395;
Spyridon, 108; and Owen, The Middle East, 173.
121. See, for instance, FO 78/836, Finn to Rose, Safad, 31 October, enclosed in Rose to
Palmerston, no. 48, Beirut, 3 November 1850; FO 78/962, Finn to Palmerston, no. 15,
Jerusalem, 29 August 1853; Burckhardt, Travels in Syria and the Holy Land, 342;
Tristram, The Land of Israel, 477-80; and Irby and Mangles, Travels in Egypt and
Nubia, Syria, and Asia Minor, 366. It would seem, in fact, that such rivalries in the
countryside were fairly evident in Palestine as early as the sixteenth century, if not
sooner. See Abu-Husayn, 161-198.
122. Manna‘, 51-66, 61. The need to garner support from the peasantry would still
constitute a factor in elite-peasant relations even as late as the British Mandate
228
123.
124.
125.
126.
127.
128.
129.
130.
131.
132.
133.
134.
135.
136.
137.
138.
139.
140.
141.
142.
143.
144.
period, though by then it was more in connection with notable politics. Ya’akov
Firestone, “Crop-Sharing Economics in Mandatory Palestine, Part II,” Middle
Eastern Studies 11, no. 2 (May 1975), 185.
See Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 30; Murray, Handbook for Travellers, 213; also Abir,
286.
See Spyridon, 112-114, and Doumani, 46.
Abu Manneh, 23-35.
FO 78/447, Werry to Ponsonby, no. 6, Damascus, 10 June 1841; also Ma’oz, Ottoman
Reforms, 161; also Oliphant, The Land of Gilead, 120, 128.
FO 78/1398, General Report on Aleppo, enclosed in Skene to Malmesbury, no. 25,
Aleppo, 17 June 1858; and FO 78/872, Wood to Canning, enclosed in Wood to
Palmerston, no. 17, Damascus, 29 May 1851.
See, for example, C. F. Volney, Travels Through Syria and Egypt in the Years 1783, 1784,
and 1785, vol. 1 (London: G. G. J. and J. Robinson, 1805), 382; and Tristram, The Land
of Israel, 487-488. See also Ya’akov Firestone, “Crop-Sharing Economics in Mandatory
Palestine, Part I,” in Middle Eastern Studies 11, no. 1 (January 1975), 12; and Ma’oz, 164.
See, for instance, Kelly, 440; also Tristram, 468-469; Bonar, 351-353; Post, “Essays on
the Sects and Nationalities,” 139; and Florence Mary Fitch, The Daughter of Abd Salam:
The Story of a Peasant Woman of Palestine (Boston: Bruce Humphries, 1934), 22-23.
It is interesting to consider that, as of the time of the British mandate, the same ideals
continued to inform relations between elites (here represented by landlords) and
peasants (in this case, often enough those working on their respective properties).
Thus, even though the basis of their relationship was quite different in many respects,
landlords might still be expected to provide their farmers free housing, greater
security of tenure, lower rents, and even larger shares of the crop being cultivated
then was their due. Villagers, for their part, often characterized the working
relationship between them and their respective landlords in idealized terms of justice
and trust. Firestone, “Crop-Sharing Economics, Part II,” 183-185.
Finn, 38.
Ibid., 34-36.
Burckhardt, 349; also ibid., 382.
Grant, The Peasantry of Palestine, 111, 117; also Kelly, 19-20; and Finn, Stirring Times,
216. See also Swedenberg, 172; and Doumani, 167.
Grant, The Peasantry of Palestine, 110.
Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 19, 45. Finn even went so far as to characterize most
peasants as being only nominally Muslim.
Ibid., 89.
Ibid., 54.
Ibid., 20-21, 24. See also Finn, Stirring Times, 216; Pierotti, Customs and Traditions of
Palestine, 201 202; and Philip J. Baldensperger, “The Immovable East,” Palestine
Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement (1906), 15. See also Baer, “The Office and
Functions of the Village Mukhtar,” 120-121; and Doumani, 28, 152.
Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 24. See also Doumani, 28.
Baer, “The Office and Functions of the Village Mukhtar,” 120.
Pierotti, Customs and Traditions of Palestine, 208-209.
Grant, The Peasantry of Palestine, 229; and Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 89; also
Doumani, 28.
Grant, The People of Palestine, 227; also Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 89.
229
Freas
145. Philip J. Baldensperger, “Morals of the Fellahin (Answers to Questions),” Palestine
Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement (1897), 124, 127-128. See also Grant, The
Peasantry of Palestine, 226-227, 229; and Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 32.
146. Grant, The People of Palestine, 226; also ibid, 227; and Oliphant, The Land of Gilead,
128-129.
147. Grant, The Peasantry of Palestine, 229; also Oliphant, The Land of Gilead, 120.
148. Finn, Palestine Peasantry, 13.
149. Ibid., 21.
150. Ibid., 89.
151. Doumani, 179; also Porath, 362.
152. Rural shaykhs had become in effect government-sponsored tax collectors and rural
administrators; their authority now stemmed entirely from the urban center. See
Doumani, 170.
153. Owen, The Middle East, 175.
154. Abu Manneh, 37.
155. Of course, money could facilitate both, whether through exerting influence in
obtaining a desirable post, marrying into a family of religious scholars, providing
charity, or financing an infinite number of pilgrimages to Mecca. See Doumani, 66.
156. Consider, for instance, the case of the Khalidi family of Jerusalem, who, in exchange
for performing certain religious functions, were awarded the rights and assets related
to certain waqf properties. Baer, “The Dismemberment of Awqaf,” 309.
157. As expressed by Swedenburg, “the notables had to ‘work on’ pre-capitalist ideologies
of hierarchy, so as to reinforce the peasants’ attitude of deference.” Swedenburg, 176.
See also Johnson, 15; and Firestone, “Crop-Sharing Economics, Part II,” 183-185.
158. Swedenburg, 176. See also Johnson, Islam and the Politics of Meaning, 15; and Porath,
“The Political Awakening of the Palestinian Arabs,” 366.
159. See, for instance, Hourani, “The Fertile Crescent in the Eighteenth Century,” 27. The
Jerusalem-based post of naqib al-ashraf (“head of the descendants of the Prophet”)
provides a good example of this; a mostly symbolic position, it granted the individual
so designated certain social and legal prerogatives over other individuals and
families claiming descent from the Prophet. See Abu Manneh, 18-19.
160. Hourani, 46. See also Barbir, 9, 70-71; Doumani, 242; and Divine, 39.
161. Doumani, 129-130, 238-239.
162. As expressed by Doumani, for many peasants the “best of hope of carving out a
political space for themselves lay in involving the state and appealing to its sense of
justice.” Ibid., 152, 175. This certainly represented a change from the situation
described above, whereby “villagers [sought] to settle their disputes so far as possible
without resort to the government.” Grant, The People of Palestine, 227.
163. Doumani, 180.
164. Swedenburg, 177.
165. Gilbar, “The Growing Economic Involvement,” 188-210. See also Swedenburg, 174;
and Doumani, 141, 166-168, and 291, fn 32.
166. Derek Hopwood, The Russian Presence in Syria and Palestine, 1843-1914: Church and
Politics in the Near East (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969), 30; and Swedenburg, 172, 177.
167. Doumani, 167.
168. As expressed by Doumani, “Islamic law offer[ed] a common denominator or…a set of
shared reference points that made it an appealing framework at a time when market
relations were carving an ever-larger space in the hinterlands of the interiors.” Ibid.
169. Such an emphasis on Islam, in addition to drawing what was an increasingly literate
and politically aware lower social strata into the national movement, also provided a
shared identity between them and what was a growing professional class, many of
whom were attracted to a salafi Arab nationalism that stressed the relationship
between Arab identity and Islam. See Yehoshua Porath, The Palestinian Arab
National Movement: From Riots to Rebellion, 1929-1939, vol. 2 (London: Frank Cass
and Company, 1977), 137.
230
231