Medieval discrimination against Jewish doctors

Medieval Christians often feared that Jews were not bound by the same moral rules as Christians. Their helplessness in the face of disease or medical hocus-pocus made them suspicious that their medicine might be poison.

Leprosy had already established medicine as an adjunct of the legal profession: there were court battles over whether a man did or did not have leprosy, because if he was certified to have it, he had to die legally. The city enforced his writing a will and vanishing from society. Some men hired their own doctors and took the city to court. Sometimes juries had to decide if they could trust the word of a Jewish doctor who disagreed with Christian doctors.

All medieval doctors were liable to being sued for malpractice. Doctors were frequently fined, and sometimes they were condemned to banishment or even death. Jewish doctors were not more liable than others, but when they were found guilty, it reinforced Christian suspicions against their whole community. When fines were too heavy for an individual doctor to pay, the Jewish community often helped because paying the fine made the talk settle down.

Jews avoided working as pharmacists, since that was the quickest way to be accused of maliciously compounding a poison. If a Christian did the compounding, then the Jewish doctor at least did not bear responsibility if he could prove that his prescription was reasonable. After the plague of 1347-50 sharpened Christian fears that some disease was deliberate Jewish poisoning, Jewish doctors were required to taste their medicinal wines before administering them—and the wine not being kosher was excluded as an excuse.

But the basic problem was that upper-middle-class and middle-class people began to expect that doctors should care for them, too, and there was a shortage of Christian doctors. University education was very expensive, and the Church forbade its priests and monks from studying medicine. But Jewish families had an advantage in using family networks to get medical training. The number of Jewish doctors was rising and demand remained high, so authorities were reluctant to cut off this source of supply.

But, eventually, some rulers forbade Jews to practice medicine. A number of doctors had been accused of poisoning their patients; those convicted were hanged. Moreover, Christians heard rumors going back to to the 12th century that suggested Jews liked to dig up dead Christian bodies. Supposedly, the Jews would make potions out of their ground-up bones, adding Hebrew spells that invoked Satan. These rumors turned the tide against Jewish doctors.

The Duchy of Provence forbade Jews to practice medicine, or Christians to consult them, in 1306. Sicily did the same in 1310. In 1337, the Pope at Avignon spelled out rules forbidding Christians to consult Jewish doctors unless the patients was at death’s door and nobody else was reachable. But it was no good; Jewish doctors were needed. Provence had to revoke its decree a few years later, as did the Pope.

For the next few centuries, this pattern continued. A ruler would forbid Jewish doctors, but everyone would circumvent and complain against these laws. Sometimes the decrees were repealed, other times both the Church and secular officials just ignored them and continued to call in Jewish doctors. The situation got worse after the plague, when all professions, including doctors, ran short, but social prejudice and fears still ran high. In the early 1400s, Italian cities that had public hospitals were confronted with firing their Jewish doctors or losing patients. Still, Christians really never stopped consulting their favorite Jewish doctors.

By this time, medicine was widely taught among Jewish families. It was a life-preserver; in countless cases, a Jewish man’s ability to treat a sick ruler preserved his family’s life in a time of crisis. It became standard for Jewish boys to learn a basic curriculum of herbal medicine.

 

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My son, the Jewish doctor!

During the Middle Ages, Jews became prominent as doctors, but it took a few centuries for this to happen. There was no real Jewish medical tradition, apart from common sense patient care.

The first step toward Jewish medicine was that Jews in the Arabic world began translating books into Hebrew, so that Jews in Europe could read them. In 800, the Caliph of Baghdad had ordered his new House of Books to buy and translate every book they could find. This project became the main way that a lot of Greek literature was preserved when its original cities were sacked or burned. We have Euclid’s Geometry only as translated back out of Arabic into Greek and Latin.

During the 11th and 12th centuries, enterprising Jewish scholars who spoke Arabic as a first language were involved with Christian efforts to translate Arabic medical books into Latin. Naturally, they also produced Hebrew renditions.  Toledo was a center of this translation activity, because Spain had such a large Jewish community that spoke Arabic as a mother tongue, learned Hebrew at home and synagogue, and studied Latin in school. Maimonides’ medical books in Hebrew were primary sources for Jewish study.

The most prestigious doctors held the “laurea” degree from universities, but these schools did not admit Jews during most of the medieval period. All doctors, university-trained or privately schooled, had to pass licensing exams. Each city had a medical examining board composed of two or three Christians. Aspiring physicians had to give lectures and explanations of material in medical textbooks and answer other questions. They could be licensed with limitations if the board was uncertain of their skill; for example, a Jewish doctor with a limited license might be required to practice in partnership with a Christian, or a young doctor with an older, more experienced one, or the license might specify the areas of medicine in which the board felt the holder was competent.

A licensing process like this was personally biased against Jews, but it also was reasonably objective. If a man studied privately with an established doctor, the board did not discriminate against this education if he could pass their exam. That’s where it all came together for Jewish doctors, because their distant relations in the Arabic world could provide them with textbooks, and their families could arrange mentoring, sometimes through marriage to a doctor’s daughter. Medicine became a sort of family dynastic practice.

Outstanding Jewish doctors were richly rewarded by Christian city or national rulers. They were paid a lot, of course. Additionally, they could be given special exemptions from taxes or rules imposed on other Jews. Some got permission not to wear weird pointy yellow hats or other distinctive clothing. In some cases, the secular rulers sent word to synagogues stating that the favored doctor should be given precedence in the service. There’s no question that “My son, the doctor” became an exceptionally important bragging point.

 

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Avicenna

Avicenna was one of the first medieval scholarly medical doctors. “Avicenna” is how his name came into Latin, the way al-Khwarismi came to us as algorithm. It’s a shortening of Ibn Sina, son of Sina, which was actually his family’s more-or-less surname since Sina had lived many generations previously. Wikipedia tells me his full name was Abū ʿAlī al-Ḥusayn ibn ʿAbdillāh ibn al-Ḥasan ibn ʿAlī ibn Sīnā. His personal name was Husayn, and the names after that are a listing of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather—-while the “Abu Ali” part means his son was probably named Ali. “Ibn Sina” is how his works were signed.

Born around 980, Avicenna grew up near Bukhara, the capital of the Saminid Iranian dynasty. In theory, the Caliph in Baghdad ruled over all, but in practice, independent Sultans ruled small Persian and Turkish kingdoms from Afghanistan to Syria. Bukhara was a great imperial capital with income from the Silk Road trade. The Sultan funded scholarship, which was a nucleus of early university activity.

Young Husayn Avicenna began normal Islamic education with the Quran, but he was a prodigy who quickly moved on to mathematics, medicine and philosophy. By age 18, he was counted as a medical doctor in his own right, and he had extensively read the works of Aristotle and Islamic law. For four years, around the year 1000, he was chief doctor to the Sultan of Bukhara, until his father had died and the dynasty was overthrown. Then he moved westward through Iran by stages, serving as the Sultan’s doctor wherever he was.

He appears to have written as many as 450 books on topics of theology, philosophy, mathematics, astronomy and astrology, alchemy (early chemistry) and of course medicine. His five-volume medical encyclopedia became the primary book of its time, translated and copied widely. It was originally written in Arabic, although the Sultans in Iran at that time were encouraging scholars to return to writing in Persian, as they had done in pre-Islamic times. It was translated into Latin, probably in Cordoba during its Golden Age, but it was also translated into Irish, as we know from a fragment found last year.

Avicenna’s medicine isn’t going to impress us; he taught the four humors of the body as did everyone at the time. He had some interesting ideas in other fields, for example, he thought that light had a speed, as we now know it does. He posited that heat was generated from motion. All in all, he was one of history’s most impressive men for the sheer volume of ideas he gathered and generated in his 58 years.

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Dr. Maimonides, 1138-1204

When the Almohad Berber dynasty conquered most of Muslim Spain, their puritanical, tough-nomad attitudes brought persecution on religious minorities. They ended the practice of “dhimmi” minorities as a protected class paying a higher tax. Now, Christians and Jews had to convert, leave, or die. Many left, and the family of Maimon ben Joseph was among them.

Maimon had two sons, David and Moses. Moses studied Torah in Hebrew and Greek philosophy in Arabic, while David was a merchant. After the family resettled in Morocco, then in Egypt, David died in a shipwreck. Moses ben Maimon needed to support both his own family and his brother’s. He became a doctor, probably building on studies begun in Cordoba. We know he also trained in medicine in Fez. In Egypt, his family settled in Fustat where there was a Jewish community and synagogue. He became their doctor.

Fustat was very close to the new city of Cairo, built by the Fatimid dynasty, but now home to Saladin—of Crusades fame. Moses’s reputation reached Saladin, who called him in to consult on his maladies that included asthma. Moses split his time between the royal court in Cairo and his Jewish neighborhood in Fustat for many years. He worked extremely long hours, seeing patients at all hours. Somehow, he managed to write books at the same time.

We know Moses as “Maimonides” in English because when his books were translated into Latin, his Hebrew name “ben Maimon” became “Maimonides.” He is also known in Hebrew as the Rambam, an acronym for “Rabbi Moses Ben Maimon.” Maimonides wrote treatises on Jewish law, theology, and philosophy; he really was very prolific. His most famous title is “Guide for the Perplexed.”

And of course he wrote about medicine. By writing in Hebrew, he made the medical lore of Greece and Rome easily accessible to other Jewish doctors. But he added to it, in fact warning other doctors not to accept anything they read in a book, but always to impose their own empirical testing on ideas. In addition to the theories of the four humors that were typical of his time, he recommended some ideas that still are right to modern eyes. For example, he recommended whole wheat bread and avoiding a lot of meat fat, vigorous aerobic exercise, avoidance of city pollution, and attentiveness to helping patients avoid depression. His medical titles include treatises on hemorrhoids, asthma, poison, and fertility. His fertility book is “On Cohabitation,” and it gives aphrodisiac prescriptions.

 

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Book includes medieval language samples!

This exciting student work/textbook explains how English changed through the medieval period. It even has a section with simple Anglo-Saxon man-on-the-street interviews so you can follow along and hear it spoken. A whole chapter each on the Danish migration and the Norman Conquest!

Excavating English (Digital Download)

 

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Sing the Brain Song!

Ellen’s Basement Workshop song to learn the parts of the brain!

 

“The Brain Song” (Digital Download)

 

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Thaw, feed, serve: very old worms come back to life!

Worms are amazing creatures!

These worms in Siberia were frozen thousands of years ago. In 2018, scientists took over 300 specimens and began carefully thawing them. Two of them came back to life! They began moving and looking for something to eat. Researchers think they are both females, making them the oldest living “women” in the world.

How do worms do it? We really don’t know, but we study worms to try to learn their secrets. They’re just simple enough to be a tantalizing goal, but they’re never as simple as we think.

You can learn the characteristics and classification of 24 types of worms with this game, Worm Farm. It’s a FREE DOWNLOAD with instructions to make and play two games. perfect for teachers! “Worm Zoo”

Want to study the anatomy of a planaria? Here’s a FREE download about planaria that lets you make a front side/inside worm with cardstock, print it yourself!

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Coda: The Map of Piri Reis, 1517 to 1929

In 1929, the Ottoman Empire was dissolved and the new nation of Turkey was going through painful rapid social changes under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. Most importantly, they were changing their writing system from Arabic script to Latin. They were also removing Muslim clergy from positions of power and forcing men to shave beards and women to take off veils. And in the middle of all this, the Topkapı Palace was preparing to become a public museum.

In a corner of its library, they found some rolls of parchment and crumbling old books. One of the rolls of parchment turned out to be a sensation: it was a MAP signed by Piri Reis (Captain Piri), a famous Muslim navigator. The map was dated 1513 and Piri’s notes claimed that he had consulted many even older maps. It had been given to Sultan Selim in 1517, probably not long after he’d made the eastern Mediterranean into a Muslim lake again. (or we might say he made the eastern Mediterranean into an Ottoman Bey…)

The map’s parchment leather was the skin of a gazelle, suggesting it had been made in one of the ports of North Africa. In 1517, it may have been 90 cm by 65 cm, at its largest (modern) estimate. By 1929, only about one-third of the map remained, but this included the legend and notes by Piri Reis himself.

He used colored ink to make compass roses and the “windrose lines” that fan out from the compass in a classic portolan map. This map was developed for ship navigation; it showed coastal shapes very accurately, but sometimes its proportions or other measurements were off by modern standards. Still, the portolan map was the first really accurate, useful kind of map, from which our modern projections developed.

The map shows the west coast of Africa and the east coast of South America, with the Atlantic and Caribbean Islands. It’s really beautifully done, too, with little paintings of tall-masted ships and sketches of native animals on the land. The parts that are filled in with accuracy and confidence look quite a lot like a modern map, for example, the coast of Brazil is pretty good. At the margins of knowledge, of course, the coast line goes wonky, which has led some people to speculate that aliens helped the ancients map Antarctica and Piri Reis got to see the last remaining copy. It’s more likely that nobody was sure what the remotest coast of South America was actually like; it was easy then to mistake a cape for a peninsula, if you didn’t go beyond it.

What drew the most attention when the map was identified in 1929 was that Reis’s notes claim that he used at least 20 earlier, older maps. He bought maps from the Portuguese showing the Indian Ocean and South America, and of course he used Arabic and Greek maps dating back to the Hellenic period. His most sensational claim was that he used a map from Qulunbu, that is, Columbus. It’s the kind of detail that we might consider a forgery if there weren’t so many other reasons to consider the map authentic.

The discovery set off a search in the Palace and other buildings to see if a map by Christopher Columbus had made its way to Turkey. So far, nothing has been found. It’s more likely that Piri consulted the map in North Africa, used it for some details, but never had it in his possession for long.

In some ways, the map sums up the whole panorama of history that I’ve been writing about: from Mohammed’s successors who set out to conquer the known world, to a Turkish or Moorish sea captain who could consult maps in four or five languages and create a map that’s almost good enough to use today, through its preservation in a Muslim palace in the former Christian capital to its discovery by a German philologist after the Allies had defeated both Germany and the Ottomans in one big final showdown, ending the Muslim empire. And at the end of it all, there’s this fabulous gazelle skin with graceful ships skimming across its leather, heading to the New World with Arabic notes.

 

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The End of Mamluk Egypt, 1492-1517

1492 was a very bad year in Egypt. It was a particularly bad plague visitation year, in a place with a large aging elite class. The only thing worse than thousands of geezers who still control everything and have all the money piled up is having most of them die within a few months, causing chaos. 200,000 people died in Cairo, and the survivors heard rumors of evil Jinns and visions of the Prophet, both portending disaster and destruction. There were food riots and the Mamluk king, who was about 80, was badly injured in a fall from a horse.

The Mamluk system had been falling apart in the last few decades, which is why they were so dependent on veterans for leadership and even active military duty. Economic hardship had made it more difficult for them to defend their northern territories. They barely held onto Aleppo and Damascus against the Ottomans, but the effort left the treasury drained. The Ottomans now held the lands farther north where Mamluk slaves had been purchased, so in addition to running short on money, they also ran short on slave supply (no doubt driving up the prices). The descendants of Mamluks had always been barred from becoming Mamluks themselves, but they lived in Cairo off their grandparents’ trust funds. There was probably more wealth among individuals than in the treasury. The Mamluks ran so short on soldier recruits that they actually did form some units of Mamluk descendants, but just as they’d predicted, it wasn’t the same.

The gunpowder arms race was another huge issue for them. Mamluk training had traditionally emphasized archery, which took years to learn. At this point in small arms development, bows were actually more effective than arquebuses and early muskets. They didn’t create clouds of smoke, they could be fired more rapidly (and farther), and they probably had much better aim. But it was the large artillery that traditional weapons couldn’t compete with, as we saw in the fall of Constantinople. Field guns light enough to be portable, but heavy enough to be lethal, were impossible to fight back with arrows and swords. A few of them wouldn’t be enough, since they had to be cooled down between shots, but they were very expensive.

There were two ways to obtain large artillery: make it or buy it. Making it meant getting enough bronze or iron, in addition to all the components of gunpowder. Some of these things could not be obtained within Egypt or its remaining territories, so they had to buy even the materials from rivals and enemies. It’s possible, too, that Muslim countries were at first disadvantaged in casting cannon because they had never learned to cast bells, as Christians had done. Early Mamluk do-it-yourself experiments exploded in all the wrongs ways, so for a while they just had to buy imported guns—probably from sellers who didn’t want them to get the best stuff (just as it is today).

The Ottomans had begun to learn these things about two generations earlier, since it was the only way to keep up with the European armies that were pioneering such inventions. Also, the Ottomans were in the stage of vigorous expansion, as the Mamluks had been once. They could afford anything, as they kept conquering more territory. They had a solid tax base and an expanding supply of replacement soldiers. So their armies typically numbered close to 100,000 with large units of field artillery, and even after a crushing defeat, they could quickly replace 10,000 or 20,000 soldiers. By contrast, the Mamluks near the end were doing really well to come up with a few thousand.

The old Sultan was dying, and the jousting to replace him had begun, when Vasco da Gama invaded the Indian Ocean. If it was any empire’s responsibility to fight him away from the ports of East Africa, it was Egypt’s. When the “new Sultan roulette” had finally stopped at an aging mediocrity named al-Ghawri, the Portuguese were harder to dislodge. The Mamluks fortified Jedda and began fighting to regain their ports south of the Horn of Africa. Interestingly, the Ottoman Sultan helped; he sent men and materials for the Jihad. Hindsight makes this much less surprising; whoever “helps” also has men on the ground when the tide turns, and makes the takeover power transition much easier.

Last week we were talking about whether the Portuguese end-run around Africa really made a difference to the vast Muslim empires. Here’s a few lines out of The Knights of Islam: Wars of the Mamluks by James Waterson. He’s quoting Ibn Ayas, a chronicler of the time:

“The prefect of Jeddah collected from the Indian merchants a tenth of their income, an act discouraging them from entering the port at all—which thus fell idle. Their goods became scarce in Egypt, and the town was deserted. Similarly, the ports of Alexandria and Damietta were abandoned because Frankish merchants ceased entering them. European merchandise also disappeared.”

In addition to the Portuguese sea route, Venice had settled a truce with the Ottomans and returned to trading through Constantinople, so merchants could take a northern Silk Road route. Egypt suffered most as the Red Sea passage became irrelevant.

Meanwhile, just as the Ottomans and Mamluks had settled a truce in the region of Syria, where the Mamluks still held onto a few cities, new pressures came from the boy Shah of Iran. In the years before the Ottomans beat him so badly at Chaldiran, the newly energized Shi’ite Turkish tribesmen were raiding those cities. Then the Mamluk Sultan learned that the boy Shah was sending messages to the kings of Europe, seeking alliances against the Ottomans—and the Mamluks. The Shi’ite Shah wiped out the last Khan of the Crimean Tatars and, Waterson says, he even sent the Khan’s skull as a drinking vessel to Egypt for a “what about an alliance?” gift. The new Iranian kingdom was pretty flexible at that point, ready to ally with anyone who could contribute to its growth or fight anyone who couldn’t.

Egypt’s last Mamluk years, 1511 through 1516, were continually more miserable. The shrinking fighting corps was hardly paid and hardly fed. Any money went into the gunpowder arms race, and the other Mamluks resented that. They kept having near-uprisings and riots. Nobody knew if the army would follow the Sultan into battle—the aging Mamluks had found it harder and harder to leave Cairo, for decades now—-and when the final showdown came, fewer than a thousand Royal Mamluks (the really elite ones) could be mustered.

After the boy Shah was wounded and the Shi’ites’ confidence in his and their invincibility was shaken, apparently the Mamluk Sultan had the poor judgment to send messengers to seek a defensive alliance against the Ottomans—with whom Egypt had a truce. He also rode to his Syrian territories to muster an army (perhaps the smallest force the Mamluks had fielded). If the Ottomans had gone back to Tabriz to finish off the Shi’ite Shah, Egypt might have  been okay. But with the Mamluk forces massed on the border, looking ready to break the truce, Sultan Selim turned aside.

In the decisive battle just north of Aleppo, summer 1516, the Mamluks at first did surprisingly well. Even as veterans and retirees, they still had great discipline and skill. But when the battle began to turn against them, the Sultan had a stroke and fell from his horse. Then it all disintegrated. Aleppo and Damascus both surrendered to the Ottomans.

The Mamluks crowned one last king, but he presided in Cairo only long enough for the Ottoman army to invade. In January 1517, the last Mamluk Sultan placed all the field artillery they had managed to obtain in the front lines to stop the advancing Turks. But he didn’t have sufficient number of guns to keep a steady fire, since they had to be cooled between shots. The Ottoman Sultan entered Cairo in triumph. There was one last battle among the pyramids at Giza, when the Turks mopped up and captured the last Mamluk king. He was carried back to Cairo, where he expected negotiated surrender. Instead, he was publicly hanged, with other Mamluk emirs.

Some Mamluks remained at large and continued to harry the Ottoman conquerors, while some were re-appointed to administrative roles. During their waning years, they started to become legends in their own time. Ottoman students started reading about Mamluks as heros, now that the legacy of Egypt had been adopted. Mamluks were Islam’s answer to Europe’s knights and heros. But while its former glories were bruited abroad, Egypt remained under Ottoman centralized authority, turning into just a province, until Napoleon disrupted the quiet flow of time in the desert.

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Christian Egypt under Mamluk rule, 1382-1517

In earlier entries, you read about how the Mamluks, slaves raised to fight, became a ruling class with a complete bureaucracy as well as attempts to normalize into a hereditary monarchy. The Kipchak Turk Mamluks had their “Mafia” structure in power from about 1250 to 1382. In 1382, a competing Mamluk network took over, probably the finalization of a process that had been going on for a while. These new Mamluks were Circassians who, like the Kipchak Turks, favored their own ethnic group in spite of the official doctrine that Mamluks had no ethnicity.

There’s another storyline that’s important to notice; if we focus only on the rulers, we miss many other stories. At the start of the Mamluk period, Egyptian Muslims were probably still a minority, though a large one. Between the initial Muslim conquest and the end of Mamluk rule in 1517, about 900 years passed. That’s longer than Americans can easily imagine. At the beginning, and for maybe two centuries, the daily language of Egypt was what we now call Coptic, but it was really just the language of the Pharaohs (all languages change over time). During Greek rule, the Greek alphabet and some symbols derived from hieroglyphics were used to write the Coptic language. However, by the time the Mamluks fell to Ottoman conquest (spoiler, sorry!), Christians had become the minority. The Mamluk period oversaw the key flip in majority/minority roles.

The Muslim conquerors had never set out to convert their new subjects, since they were mainly interested in tribute being paid fully and on time. The tribute rate was set much lower—in fact it was a mere tax—for Muslims. In some periods, life was made easy for the majority Christians and minority Jews. But they were always subject to rules that could be suddenly made much more restrictive, and in certain periods, that’s what happened. One of the basic rules was that houses of worship needed approval from the secular governor to be built or repaired. In restrictive times the Muslim rulers just refused, and the churches and synagogues fell apart. There were constant pressures like this to just suddenly see the light of Mohammed’s truth and join the ruling religion. In very restrictive times, the pressure became more than some could bear and there were waves of conversion.

The Mamluk period was one of the more difficult times. Apparently, there was a Muslim jurist named Ibn Taymiyya (1263-1328) who left many books and precedents. He was so important that he was known as the Elder of Islam, the Sheikh al-Islam. He was educated in Damascus in the most traditional (i.e. least friendly to modernizing) Sunni schools, the Hanbali. He made his first mark at age 30 when he led a party that insisted on the execution of a Christian man who had “insulted Mohammed.” His Hanbali school was anti-wine, anti-music, and pro-jihad. Islam has always had this strain present in its culture; in our time it’s the Wahhabis, in that time it was the Hanbalis. They are all Salafis, followers of the Salaf (first 3 generations of Muslim believers).

Ibn Taymiyya and the Salafis interpreted the Mongol invasions as punishment from Allah for being too soft on unbelievers. Ibn Taymiyya ruled that Muslim governors had no obligation to give building/repair permits to any Christians or Jews, and if their houses of worship ceased to be, so much the better. He was controversial; other schools of Islam sometimes had him imprisoned or put on trial. But he left a strong influence, as we might say today, he shifted the Overton Window of acceptable discourse. Whenever life could be made more difficult for Christians and Jews, that’s what should be done. Obviously.

Coptic monasteries and churches continued to function, but they were smaller and had less funds. They could copy books to keep old manuscripts from dying out, but the effort to write theology and history in Coptic stopped. Coptic clergy did not have good relationships with Mamluk rulers, who were mostly first-generation converts and eager to win the approval of the Salafis. In 1354, the rulers seized a huge amount of land endowment from the Church, following three days of riots against Christians.

During the Burji period (1382-1517), Egypt was struck by many calamities, starting with the plague that kept returning (as in Europe). The effects of the plague peaked around the time the Burjis came to power; in Europe, there were peasant uprisings as finally the plague began to cause labor shortages in the countryside to bring in the harvest. Egypt must have seen similar developments. The people in the countryside were more likely to be Coptic farmers. Over the century of Burji Mamluk rule, the Copts not only became a minority as all but the most stalwart believers converted to Islam, they also became the scapegoat for all woes. Riots targeted Coptic churches in cities and towns.

There was a wave of martyrdom. Unlike in the Roman period, when Christians were directly persecuted, the Burji era martyrs were usually converts to Islam who were stricken by conscience and chose to go back. Now they were not just Copts, they were Muslim apostates. Some chose to do this in a very public way, making the announcement in public knowing that they would swiftly be executed. Others did it privately or retreated to monasteries where they were less likely to be hunted down.

By the close of the Burji Mamluk rule, Egypt was the land of mosques and Arabic language that we know today. Its local variant of Arabic was loaded with Old Egyptian words that persisted as borrowings. Its remaining churches were the largest ones in the big cities, where bishops sat, and the smallest ones in the farm villages where they had little to lose. The in-between layer disappeared.

with thanks to chapter by Maged S. A. Mikhail in The Coptic Christian Heritage, ed. Lois M. Farag.

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