Great cities, no less than small books, have their fates. Some are capable of self renewal from seemingly unsalvageable shards of their older phases, like Alexandria; some continue to add new rings to their girth, preserving alike the evidences of alternating greatness and mediocrity, like Cairo; some disappear entirely into memory and literature, like the Round City of al-Mansûr, which today has as little to do with its living descendant, Baghdâd, as do the City of Brass or Qur'ânic Iram. Despite an absolute dearth of archaeological spade-work on the site, and a correspondingly absolute dependence on written sources, the scholarly literature dealing wholly or in part with al-Mansûr's Baghdâd is by now fairly extensive. For the most part, this literature has restricted itself to discussion of technical and architectural problems, or to those of historical and social geography. This paper proposes to look into the symbology of the city's immediately striking plan, the cross within the circle, as another instance of the imago mundi, a fitting pattern for this capital of the world-bestriding 'Abbâsid Empire. In the course of investigation, some treatment, however summary, of a number of folkloric/literary motives was found requisite, all, it is to be hoped, tending toward the definition of a clear and plausible design.

Scholars have often been struck by the traditional and highly personal power relationships and manipulations that underlie the westernized and modernized forms of Iranian political machinery. Such analyses, stressing the continuity between traditional and modern Iran, are most enlightening, but they should not blind us to the very real changes in the power structure that have occurred in Iran between 1800 and the present. One can agree with analysts who stress traditional continuities that the change in power relationships has had rather little to do with the formal constitutionalist structure of Iranian politics since 1906. The real changes in the structure of power over the past century or more have been tied to social and economic changes that have reduced the power of certain social groups and classes while increasing that of others, and also of the central government. This essay will attempt a very brief and tentative analytic overview of the nature of these changes

Much of the meaning we commonly attach to the term ‘revolution’ grows out of our image of the French Revolution.1 The social upheavals we associate with the latter have been deeply etched in the history of thought by Taine's accounts of bloodshed and terror, and later generations have only broken the spell with difficulty.

If the Islamic Community was founded to constitute the nucleus or model of the ‘good society’ on earth, why has it so manifestly failed to do so? This is the problem which haunts all thinking Muslims, confronting them with an insistent, nagging, exasperating demand to which self-respect requires an answer. The simple Muslim answer, which points to the ideal, says that it is ‘because we, the Community, have ceased to live now for many centuries in faithful obedience to the Sharî'a and in conscious striving to live up to its ethic’. Another mocking Western answer points to practice in the world of Islam: ‘because you Muslims did not learn to control your inward violences you were forced to submit to tyranny in political life and allowed your social institutions to be ravaged by lust and greed’. For the true Muslim, however, neither answer is satisfactory. To the Westerner he reacts with a natural surge of hot and outraged pride: ‘What kind of social ideals do you imagine your practice holds out to the world? We at least have nothing to learn from atheists, infidels, hypocrites and Hollywood’, he says. But when he contemplates the simple Muslim answer, he becomes aware that here too something is wrong. Only the most simplehearted believer can continue to take the entire Sharî'a system on trust, although there are many Muslims who want no change because the existing system suits their interests.

On 15 June 1826, after some fierce though brief fighting in the streets of Istanbul, Sultan Mahmud II effectively crushed the last serious Janissary uprising in the history of the Ottoman Empire. Two days later the five-centuries-old Janissary corps, which had long resisted change and modernization, was declared legally abolished. In its place there was to be organized a modern army called the Trained Victorious Muslim Troops (Muallem Asâkir-i Mansâre-yi Muhammadiye), or the Victorious (Mansûre) for short.

The relationship between economic phenomena and revolution has intrigued political scientists from Aristotle2 to Zanzibar.3 As usual in political science, however, most studies of the matter have been limited to intuitive hypotheses, without any attempt at comparative empirical verification. As a result, a number of such hypothetical explanations have been proposed, each showing the persuasiveness of its own internal logic (as if convincing observers were the same thing as comprehending – let alone controlling – events) but none with any better claim on reality than the other.

The power of traditional popular Islam in the modern world is difficult to assess. At times, however, developments provide at least an indirect means of evaluation for specific Muslim populations. One such experience is provided by the relations of the British with the ‘Ulamâ’ in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan during the early years of the Condominium. These relations also provide a case study of British imperial attitudes toward Islam.

Machiavelli, in The Prince, compared the Ottoman Sultan's authority with that of the King of France and found the latter wanting.

All the Turkish monarchy is governed by one ruler, the others are his servants, and dividing his kingdom into ‘sangiacates’, he sends to them various administrators, and changes or recalls them at his pleasure. But the King of France is surrounded by a large number of ancient nobles, recognised as such by their subjects, and loved by them; they have their prerogatives, of which the king cannot deprive them without danger to himself.

The Arabian Peninsula has an area of about 1·2 million square miles but only some 11·5 million inhabitants—roughly 10 persons to the square mile.2 In absolute terms, this makes the Peninsula one of the least-populated regions in the world. However, as we will have occasion to indicate further on, the population is not sparse if account is taken of the scarcity of water, the niggardliness of nature except for oil, the low level of economic performance, and the narrow base of development.

Setting up an economic and financial mechanism for an internationalized Jerusalem, can undoubtedly be arranged, given an appropriate political climate. There are historic precedents for international or free cities and ports in which the currency exchange system, means of revenue raising, and maintenance of municipal functions and service have been worked out. Twenty years ago the United Nations examined the possibility and passed a resolution and statutes for administering an internationalized Jerusalem. Given the mandate and cooperation, an independent municipal government for Jerusalem can implement the flexible mechanisms devised for assuring an equitable exchange relationship between the Israeli pound and Jordanian dinar, or between these and an independent sector currency. The mechanism for carrying on trade and banking facilities and services can be worked out, if the parties involved are willing to cooperate. A permanent committee of economic and financial experts in the Finance Ministry would need to review the exchange rate and the banking and trade practice to determine whether the proposed mechanisms are actually working equitably for all concerned.

In Mount Lebanon, 1860 and the years immediately preceding it witnessed the turbulence of social and economic change. These were years of sporadic civil disorder culminating in a paroxysm of religious strife. These events and their antecedents have elicited enlightening studies from social scientists and historians.2 By comparison, the years immediately following 1860 were less disturbed, and might initially even appear less interesting. Under closer scrutiny, however, they provide revealing and instructive insights into the mechanics of change and the continuing history of the social and political formation of the specifically sectarian policy that is the core of the Lebanese fact.

The social and cultural composition of Turkey's provincial society is still poorly understood, not only in the West, but in Turkey itself. Because of this situation, contemporary accounts of Turkish society have a tendency to underestimate the variety of provincial life and to discount the importance of this variety for the nation as a whole. Some events in recent decades, it is true, have certainly eroded the diversity of provincial society. The population exchanges after World War I virtually removed the entire Christian population from Asia Minor. As well, the development of a national polity and the accompanying acceleration of westernization established a new national culture and society which has affected even the most remote areas of the country. Despite this trend toward a greater uniformity, local traditions and local loyalties still retain a vitality that is seldom fully appreciated.

If, as Ghazâlî presumes, the fact of creation can serve as evidence of the existence of God, and if, as he attempts to show, creation is the only binding, reasoned proof of God's existence, Ghazâlî must, to fulfill his program of reconstructing the intellectual basis of Islam, somehow find arguments adequate to prove that creation did in fact take place. He must disprove what was in his time the still vital claim that the Universe had not come to be but had existed forever differing in no essential way from the world we know today.

In antiquity and in the Middle Ages slavery played a significant role in the military, economic, political and social life of the Near East. Many studies have been made of these aspects of life, but little has been said in the context of Islam about the psychological bonds which, at least to some extent, characterize the relationship between slave or freedman and master. The institution of ‘mutual alliance’ also played an important part in Islamic history, and there were certain similarities between the relation of the ‘ally’ to the patron on the one hand, and of the freedman to the former master on the other. But it is the purpose of this discussion, in part, to point out some basic differences between the two relationships.

As Libya is the smallest in population of the four Magẖreb countries, so Libyan Jewry was less numerous than those of Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia. Jewish settlement in rural Tripolitania is quite old. A tombstone reportedly found near Tajura dating from the tenth century (Cazés 1890; Slouschz 1927: 11–12) and El-Bekri's eleventh century mention of the Jews of Jado in the Jebel Nefusa (El Bekri 1913: 25) are two of the earliest post-Islamic examples. The present discussion, however, focuses on the century before the mass migration of Tripolitanian Jewry to Israel, which began in 1949. At that time there were over 29,000 Jews living in Tripolitania (see Table 3), and somewhere between 4,000 and 6,000 living in Cyrenaica.