Beyond the Sayyid and Sharīf kīrim reading of the salsila: A surgical dissection[1]
by Nasser S. Sharief[2]
[Forgive the stiff-formality of the article which departs from my blog style. It is meant as a support for a more comprehensive research I've been preparing all along. To obtain a clean formatted PDF file, download it at academia.edu
― J.G. Farrell, The Siege of Krishnapur
Since the 1990s there has had been an upsurge among historians an interest on the study of the Sayyids and Sharīfs that goes beyond sporadic references in historical and anthropological studies. So much so, that establishing an overarching framework had been echoed by scholars as necessary for "a coherent understanding of sayyids and sharīfs as a whole through a synthesis of different local manifestations."[3] A first serious attempt to this end was the staging in 1998 of an international colloquium The Role of the Sâdât/Ašrâf in Muslim History and Civilization by Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti of Rome University. "This colloquium put together the studies on relevant cases 'from Morocco to Indonesia' for the first time."[4] Since then, writings on the sayyids and sharīfs from all quarters keep the reading public continually updated.
In Southeast Asia in general, and in the nusantara[5] in particular a study on the Sayyids and Sharīfs as they flowed into the region is important not only for hagiographic study but also in reconstructing the early social history and political setup of the region. As is manifest in the oral literature of Mindanao and Sulu, the coming of the Makhdums and Sharīfs plying the sea on "iron pots" and beached or shipwrecked on the estuaries of the islands, and meeting the local chief and eventually marrying into the elite had always been a recurring theme. Fused with mythical anecdotes, it is the "strange" coupling of these two entities that formed the building blocks upon which the polity that emerged finds justification to their rule.
In the past six months, I had been hounded by dozens or so requests on my take on some kīrim[6] scripts that deal with the genealogical underpinnings of the Šyarīfs or Sayyīds as they flowed their way into the literature of the Iranūn. But I was having second thoughts as they are not as yet my priority at this stage in my research and writings. Yet when I could no longer ignore the dozen or so inquiries and messages, I now am able (thanks to the onset of COVID-19) to eke out the time in my tight schedule.
The portion on the salsila (genealogy) on the descendants of ‘Abd al-Manāf bin Īmaam Qusay as it spilled into the gene pool of the Iranūn[7] in their kīrim scripts is— to say the least — tenuous as to be ambitious and comprehensive. It sought to integrate five desperate epochs in medieval history leading up to the period when five siblings from the legendary Darangĕn stumbled into a territory they went on to call pyagêma ā ragat (the Hidden Sea).[8] Beginning from the Quraish clan in desert Arabia, the narration veered into the institution of the Ummayad dynasty; then in an arching leap, it tackled the advent of the Ottoman empire; and then without as much hesitation, it cruised the circuitous straits of the nusantra region of what the ancients called Diyawa[9], and then, it convoluted back in time to the early part of the 12th century to the Hindu-Tantric-Sanskrit age of the Darangĕn starting with Āyā Devaki Mokom I (son of Artawan Gunavarman) to the golden age of the Calinan ā Běmbaran in what is now the greater part of northeast Mindanao (Cabadbaran and Butuan) and the southerly part of Samar-Leyte.
While admitting to minor variations, here, more or less, is the rundown as laid down by the ġuġudan[10]:
Osayan ko bangsa iphoon ko Abdul Manaf
Iphoon ko Abdul Manaf: (Magari) Abdul Sam; Abdul Hasim
Iphoon ko Abdul Sam: (Milapi-lapis): Ommaya; Abdul As; Hakim; Usman; Sultan sa Istambol; Sultan Morad Han; Sultan Solaiman Han; Sultan Mustapha Han; Sultan Mohammad Han; Sultan Abdul Han; Sharif Karsol Hilaliya; Sharif Motawakil; Sharif Abdara Dawia; Shiek sa Langawia; Shiek Abdul Kamal a Sultan nabi sa Komara Mantapoli
Iphoon ko Abdul Hasim: Abdul Mutalib
Iphoon ko Abdul Mutalib (Magari-ari): Abbas; Abuh Talib; Abdullah
Iphoon ko Abdullah: Nabi Mohammad (s.a.w.); Fatima Sohra
Ipoon ko Abbas: (Milapi-lapis): Abdul Fadel; Abdul Malik; Sultan Ali; Abdul Rashid; Shiek Haron (Ameril Mo’ominin); Sharief Auliya; Potre Paramisoli (Karoma o Sharief Maradia)
(Magari-ari): Tabonawan; Mamalo; Sarabanon
Iphoon ko Abuh Talib: Baguinda Ali (karoma niyan so Fatima Sohra a wata o nabi Mohammad (s.a.w.)
(Magari): Amir Hassan; Amir Husain
Ipoon ko Amir Husain
(Milapi-lapis): Sharif Ali Zainal Abedin; Sharif Mohammad Bakir; Sharif Japar o Sedik; Sharif Mosalhan; Sharif Ali Riban; Sharif Mohammad dil Awal; Sharif Aliol Hoda; Shiek Ali Hassan; Hassanol Mohdil; Shiek ya Hassan; Sharif Ahmad; Sharif Mohammad Akil; Sharif Alawi; Sharief Mohammad Sharifudin (Aya somiyorat ko Salsila)
(Magari): Ali Zainal Abedin (inibowat); Abdul Rahman[11]
At the get go, however, I am putting forth one caveat: In order not to preempt the forthcoming volume one of my Monsoon Riders series, I am not about to give spoilers on Sayyīd Muhammad Kebungsuan (Šyarīf Kabungsuwan) and other Sayyids like Šyarīf Berpaki (al-'Alawī Ba Faqih), Sayyid Isāak al-Zamzami b. al-Faqih Maulana al-Mindanawī and Sayyidina Mustafa III (Saydūna Mustapha) Al-Aydrus al-Ašrāf al-Ta'ifi (inibowat[12]; sufi patriarch of the Ampatuans and other major clans of Magindanao and Lanao), nor would I be broaching the provenance of MS. #3 of Najeeb Saleeby[13], the so-called Kudarangan manuscripts which provides a different avenue on the salsila of the Sayyids and Šyarīfs. At the same time I would not be broaching the Darangĕn episodes here. These putative descendants of the Prophet and the Darangĕn will be explored in the mentioned series in their full gore and glory, no holds barred — and that's a promise.
Even before going into the 'devil of the details' of these kirim scripts, one cursory glance, and we could readily discern the artificial construct on which these ġuġudan had been framed. From the end of the Ummayad dynasty, for instance, it spanned more than six centuries to get to the Ottoman Empire. How did these anomalies happen? The answer lies in that much of these kirim scripts came to us in less than ideal form. Some portions (bungkos) of these writings were recreated from withered copies. Others from memory by survivors when earlier extant copies had been destroyed or lost in wars, evacuations, natural calamities like the eruption of Palaw ā Magatorī (Makaturing) in 1765. However prodigious they may be, mnemonists' (salsilah orators) capacity for recall is taxed by the sheer amount of material to be internalized, and if passed from one generation to the next, some gaps tend to accrue as sizeable details pilfer in the process.
The zeal of Spanish priests to destroy local materials had been legendary. Frank Charles Laubach who had spent some time in Lanao, and even oversee the bilingual Lanao Progress (English and Maranao) in the 1930s, had this to say:
The early Spanish friars, sharing the opinion of their day that all pagan faiths were purely works of the devil, energetically destroyed all relics and writings which could remind the people of their former faiths. So thorough were they that very few specimens survive to the present day-much to the vexation of modem scholars. There must have been a very considerable literature, since one Spanish friar in Southern Luzon reported with pride that he had destroyed more than three hundred scrolls written in the native character.[14]
The southern part of the archipelagos did not fare better. When the Spaniards discovered that there were 'Moors' in the new islands they found, they had no qualms in imposing a continuation of the Reconquista in the Pacific. To justify their funding from the coffer of the King of Spain, governors and friars painted a glowing account of these Moros. Governor Francisco de Sande Picón's stern instructions to Don Esteban Figueroa in 1579 that all propagation of the Mohammedan religion must cease forthwith were a command to burn all literatures connected to it. Sulu being the constant object of Spaniards raids lost most of their manuscripts. In April 1628 Governor Tabora gave Don Cristobal a very unusual mission, perhaps whispered on him by a friar: He was to destroy the tomb of Sultan Šyarīf Ali, revered by the Sulog as holy of holies, and this was carried to the letter. These targeted raids took their toll not only on the livelihood of the people but also were meant to erase their social and cultural accoutrements. The order left no room for ambiguity: deface everything that would remind the natives of their faith and start from a clean slate.
The fate of Magindanao was no different. It started when after subduing Çubu (Sugbo), the Spaniards were counting on repeating their feat over Magindanao. The instructions given by de Sande to Gabriel de Ribera Miguel Godines left no room for ambiguity:
… you shall order them to admit no more such preachers of the sect of Mahoma. And if you can ascertain who they are, you shall try, to the best of your ability, to bring them here; and shall burn the edifice wherein the accursed doctrine was read and taught, and shall order that none other like it be built.[15]
On March 14, 1579 Ribera sailed up the Pulangi to entice the submission of Datu Dimasangkay ‘Ādil (Limsancay) [c.1546-1596] with a letter to enroll Magindanao to the protection of the Spanish king Felipe el Prudente II under a "Creator —who is three persons yet the one and only true God."[16] Cuius regio, eius religio—as the king, so the religion goes as the saying goes. But the ageing yet wise datu knew all too well the fate of Raja Bésar Tupaz — the cipher that he had been reduced to — as to fall for the trap. While his siblings, Kapitan Laut Buisan and Datu Sali (Gūgū Saricula) were abroad in Maluku being hosted by Babu’llah {Sultan of Ternate [r.1570 - 1583], known to the Iranūn as Datu Shah sa Karnaké[17]. They were there procuring weaponries and recruiting reinforcements. Dimasangḱay chose to uproot his royal court, his retinue, his household and his warriors to make a hasty strategic retreat inland up to Buayan where his father-in-law Raja Seproa (Srí Purua) by one of his wives hosted him for the duration of their flight. Simuay was then razed to the ground, their talibon (cherished positions) were looted and the "devil's strange scrolls" consumed by fire without any trace.
Many pioneering ethnologists had given up their research on the Philippines and shifted to other regions of Southeast Asia, concluding our past was irretrievable, and that further efforts would only be a waste of time. Paucity of materials to work on was pointed out as the usual culprit. But one might suspect it to be an alibi in a general reluctance on the majority population to uncover or explore their checkered Islamic past. Still some kindred spirits would not be deterred. One historian that readily comes to mind was William Henry Scott. His works defied the cookie-cut narrative that served as a template to portray the Filipino as a passive receptor of history.
The coming of the Americans relieved the Moro much of the pressure of the Jesuits in their zealot quest to Christianize them. Thanks to the inquisitive mind of Najeeb Mitry Saleeby, at last historians and researchers had their first peek into indigenous literature. Yet even the transcribed copies Saleeby had worked out with panditas like Datu Cali and of course, the main resource, Sardar Muḥammad Afḍal Khān II al-Afghānī (Aṕid sa Guimba) [c.1865-1920] were ultimately lost in the war during the American regime. And, more important, what he had wrought was taken from mediated sources only. Ditto with the manuscript on Sulu in possession of Hadji Butu Abdul Baqi, part of it written by his cousin Utu Abdur Rakman.[18] For all their shortcomings and state of retrieval, the works of Saleeby became the standard reference. It is the next best thing one can have to getting under the hood of these otherwise unreachable materials. Unfortunately, the work of Saleeby became the be-all-and-end-all of the historiography on the "Moro." It became the bible of most researchers and thesis of graduate students from the University of Canberra to the University of Madrid innocently — if uncritically — keeps quoting its contents with impunity.
The next best thing to have happened on Moro historiography was the works of Cesar Adib Majul. Like Saleeby, Majul had "caught the bug" and he had immersed most of his professional life in the endeavor. He expanded on Moro history by broaching hitherto previously little explored Western sources including Dutch. However, his effort was largely unidirectional in the sense that when it comes to indigenous sources, he had little to add to the works of Saleeby, and the best he had to offer was synthesizing them.
Past Majul and Saleeby, our historiography stagnated. Some Moro writers were so "married" and enamored with the sultanates that they would not analyze events beyond the royalist point of view. As such, they became parasitic to happenstances and intrigues triggered by colonialists' initiatives: war campaigns, treaties, negotiations, compromises and the like. Where such events (records) were wanting, everything is in a lull, nay, freezes in suspended animation. Others write "history" as if they were out to settle a score. Theirs is a panegyric to the blind bravery of their ancestors. From start to finish it would always be about raids, raids, counter-raids and more raids, and never allowing the poor reader to catch his breath. This disease is mirrored by the narratives predominating our school textbooks. One need only look at the regional histories within the country written by local historians to document how invariably they suffer from a parallel malady: No sooner than the name of the place had been identified as originating from the root word of a rare plant or a tree endemic of the place or a language misunderstanding (or a joke) between the natives and the Spaniards, when the inexorable process of reduction is initiated by the planting of the Cross. Then the tedious structuring of the town follows: the visitas, encomiendas, and the minute details of baptizing the natives as though this is the culmination of their dull waiting all these centuries. And there are hundreds of islands to contend with that the friars had to be hasty with each wrap up. As it transpired, it was always the irredeemably inferior native that needed to be civilized or saved, never the desperate and hungry interloper. This cookie-cut template replicates the monotony in most histories of the regions with just a few token variations thrown in here and there. No wonder with many local historians Philippine history ought (if they have their way) earnestly began in 1872 as professor Milagros C. Guerrero of the University of the Philippines had aptly quoted a famous historian,[19] never mind that it was even predated by the opening of the Suez Canal by three years!
Having rolled out all the attendant difficulties in leveraging these indigenous materials, we may ask: What are we to make of them? More bluntly: Why bother? Are we to resign ourselves to the amputation of history as espoused by Filipino writers? Should we just keep rehashing trivia on the Katipuneros, ad infinitum? If what we are looking for are the exactness of information that we take for granted in the 21st century, then surely these indigenous materials cannot live up to the expectations of modern-day scrutiny. In our day, an Olympic swimmer's laps would be noted down to the millisecond. The apparent ambiguity of indigenous sources on names, events, royal progeny or succession and precise dating must take into account the natives conception of time and setting, and the meaning they attach to events. For a modern writer like us, sitting in the comfort of an air-conditioned room, fingers feeling the tactile keyboard of the computer, it is easy to criticize these shriveled scrolls drawn with blood, sweat and tears.
Despite the immense destruction brought by the centuries' war with the Spaniards though, quite a number of scrolls in the hinterland of Lanao had somehow survived as opposed to the coastal areas of the Illana Bay, the Pulangi, and the islands of Sulu. These 18th to 19th century scripts were written in papers that bore Chinese markers identifying the makers as examined by the British library for a researcher of Sophia University in Tokyo, K. Midori, who did fieldwork on Maranao manuscripts in 2013.[20] Manuscripts like the Ta'bir Mimpi (Dream Interpretation)transcribed by the Qādī sa Binidayan, Tuan Muhammad Said in Hudaydah, Yemen in 1803 were written on this type of paper.[21]
Al-ʿAbbās bin Imaam 'Abd al-Muṭṭalib;'AbdAllah bin al-ʿAbbās [c. 618-687], born in Makkah, died in Taif; his mother was Lubaaba "Umm al-Fadhl" binte al-Haarith [c. 580-655];Alī ibn Abdullah ibn Jaafar;Muhammad al-Kamil bin Alī bin 'AbdAllah bin al-ʿAbbās [c. 674], born in Palestine;Abu Ja'afar Abdallah al-Mansūr ibn Muhammad al-Kamil {2nd Abbasid Caliph} [714-775], born in Syria and died in Makkah. His mother was Raithah al-Haritsiyyah;Muhammad al-Mahdī bin Abdallah al-Mansūr {3rd Abbasid Caliph} [744-785]. He was poisoned by his concubine. His mother was Shikla;Hārūn ar-Rashīd bin Muhammad al-Mahdī {5th Abbasid Caliph} [763-809], born in Rey, Tehran and buried in Humayd ibn Qahtaba Palace, Tūs, Razavi Khorasan, Isfahan. His mother was Al-Khayzuran binte Atta [?-789].
