Salman the Persian, or the quest for the perfect master
The story of Salman al-Farisi (the Persian) occupies a place apart in the Life of the Prophet assembled by Ibn Ishaq (d. 767) and taken up by Ibn Hisham (d. 833). One would have expected to find it just after the Hegira, at the moment when Salman met the Prophet. Yet it precedes by a little the account of the first revelation received by Muhammad, just before the mention of four Qurayshites who, shortly before the advent of Islam, renounced the worship of idols to return to the religion of Abraham. Two reasons explain this choice: on the one hand, Salman’s story, like that of Zayd, one of the four Qurayshites, contains the announcement by a Christian monk or priest of the imminent arrival of a prophet in Arabia; on the other, Salman and these four figures pursue the same goal: to worship God as a hanif. This term designates in the Qur’an the attitude of Abraham, who broke his people’s idols, then turned away from every partial manifestation of the divine light to orient himself at last towards the sole light of the Essence (Qur’an VI, 74-79). The Qur’anic Revelation and the Muhammadan mission present themselves as the restoration of the hanifiyya, the primordial religion and tradition of Abraham.
Zayd dies on the road back before the advent of Islam, and the Prophet, questioned about him later, would say of him that ‘he will be resurrected as a community unto himself’. Salman, for his part, reaches the Prophet at the end of a journey that leads him first from his original religion, Zoroastrianism, to Christianity. Salman embraces the religion of Christ in order to find the Truth he knows to be embodied in a man, the best of his time. After a first experience, unfortunate yet revealing, of a false or outward spirituality, Salman attaches himself successively to four masters. The first is a bishop; nothing is said of the others, but one may suppose they belong to the clergy. They are designated, indeed, not by their names but by their towns, as if they were identified with spiritual centres. They reside at Damascus, Mosul, Nisibis and Amorium: Syria, Upper Mesopotamia and Asia Minor, three hearths of Near Eastern Christian spirituality.
We have thought it important to respect, in translation, the deliberately repetitive character of the text. These masters pass away one after another. When Salman asks them on their deathbed who their successor will be, they all answer in more or less the same way: ‘There is no one left who is according to what I was, unless it be a man at…’ The expression ‘who is according to…’ encompasses doctrine and practice, and hence a way of worship and knowledge. The ‘unless it be a man at…’ suggests the transmission of a function and the upholding, by a small number of men, of a tradition. In his requests, Salman always uses the same verb, translated here by ‘recommend’ (awsa), meaning more precisely ‘to bequeath’ or ‘to give a piece of advice’. Salman, the perfect disciple, gathers in the master’s inheritance and teaching, while knowing that his own wayfaring is far from finished.
A second stage begins with the fourth master’s death. It leads Salman towards a new form, one that restores the tradition of Abraham. In one variant of the story, it is Jesus himself who announces it to Salman, and it is Muhammad who makes him realise that what he was seeking was precisely that tradition, the hanifiyya. Henceforth Salman will live it fully beside the best of masters. He will also transmit it, for he is one of the companions from whom the initiatic chains (silsila) of the spiritual ways of Sufism go back. From Zoroastrianism to Islam, Salman pursued but a single goal: the quest for the Truth and for its living representative on earth.
Salman’s own account of his journey
I was born in Persia, in the region of Isfahan, in a village called Jayy of which my father was the chief. I was the being he cherished most in the world; my father loved me so much that he kept me shut up at home, like a young girl. I was strongly drawn to spirituality and I practised Zoroastrianism, the religion of my ancestors, with such fervour that I became keeper of the fire: it was my responsibility not to let the flame in the temple go out for a single instant.
My father owned a large farm outside the village. One day, being much occupied with an important task, he asked me to go to the farm to check that everything was in good order. He added: ‘Whatever you do, don’t dawdle on the way, for your presence at my side is far dearer to me than my farm and all my affairs!’
I left the house and took the road to the farm. On the way, I passed a church and heard, for the first time, prayers recited by Christians. Their voices captivated me and I resolved to enter the church. Contact with these believers filled me with joy and I felt strongly drawn to them. I could not tear myself away until sunset, and so gave up going to my father’s farm. I ended up asking them where the origin of their religion lay. ‘In Syria!’ they answered. When night had fallen, I went back to my father’s, who had already sent men out in search of me. He was so worried about me that he could attend to nothing else. When I returned, he asked me: ‘My son, wherever were you? Had I not entrusted you with a very specific task?’ I then told him of the encounter I had had. ‘My son,’ he replied, ‘there is no good in that religion; your religion, which is that of your ancestors, is far better!’ I tried to gainsay him, but he would hear nothing of it. To bring me back to reason, he decided to put an iron shackle on my foot and imprison me in the house.
Despite these new obstacles, I managed to get a message to my Christian friends, asking them to warn me if travellers coming from Syria should pass through the village. Some time later, I was told that Christian merchants from Syria were passing through to do some trading. I managed to free myself of my shackle and escape, to leave with them secretly for Syria. Once there, I asked to be presented to the one who had the best knowledge of the religion. I then offered my services to the bishop, who accepted my offer. Living at his side, I realised that he exhorted his faithful to give alms, but did not distribute it to the poor and kept the money for himself, so that he had amassed seven great jars full of gold and silver. Seeing him act thus, I conceived a deep aversion for him. At his death, I revealed to the Christian faithful come to bury him the place where the jars full of gold and silver were hidden. Seeing this, they decided not to bury the bishop and to stone him instead.
A new bishop was appointed, with whom I chose to stay. Never had I seen a man so detached from this world, so desirous of the hereafter and so fervent day and night as he. I sought to remain in his company for as long as possible. When his death drew near, I said to him: ‘I have stayed at your side and loved you as no one before you. You are now on the verge of the divine decree. Can you tell me to whom I should turn after your death?’ ‘My son,’ he answered, ‘I know of no one left today who is according to what I was. Men are heading for perdition; they have changed and abandoned most of their tradition, save a man at Mosul who is according to what I was. Join him!’
When the bishop was dead and buried, I made my way to the man of Mosul, who invited me to stay with him. I found in him the best of men, like the one who had recommended him to me. But he too was not long in dying. In his last moments, I came to gather his final instructions. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘I know of no man who is according to what we were, unless it be a man at Nisibis, in Kurdistan. Go to him, then!’
When the man of Mosul was dead and buried, I made my way to the man of Nisibis and told him my story. He proposed that I stay with him, and I found him comparable to my former companion. He was the best of men. But death was not long in coming. When he was on the point of breathing his last, he answered my request for a recommendation: ‘My son, I no longer know anyone who follows our way and to whom I could send you, unless it be a man at Amorium, in the land of the Byzantines. He is according to what we were. If you wish, go and find him!’
When the man of Nisibis was dead and buried, I joined the man of Amorium and told him my story. He proposed that I stay with him, and I lived beside the best of men, following his companions’ way. I was beginning to earn a good living and acquired some cows and sheep. Then came the divine decree and, when my guide was on the point of breathing his last, I asked him for his final counsels. ‘My son,’ he answered, ‘I know of no one today who is according to what we were and to whom I could bid you go. But the time of a new prophet is near. He will be sent to spread the religion of Abraham. He will come from Arabia and will emigrate to a land planted with palm trees, situated between two lava flows. He will be recognised by manifest signs: he eats of what is brought to him as a gift, but not as alms; between his shoulders lies the seal of prophecy. If you can join him in that land, do so!’
The man of Amorium died and was buried. I stayed there for some time, until Arab merchants of the tribe of Kalb came passing by. I offered them to take me to Arabia in exchange for my cows and sheep. They agreed and took me with them. But, once arrived at Wadi al-Qura, they broke their commitment and sold me as a mere slave to a rich Jew. At the sight of the region’s palm trees, I hoped this town might be the one the man of Amorium had described to me, but certain signs of recognition were missing. A cousin of my owner, belonging to the Banu Qurayza clan of Medina, came to visit him. He decided to buy me and take me home to Medina.
As soon as I saw this new town, I at once recognised the description my last guide in the way had given me. It was at the time when Muhammad had already received his prophetic mission and was residing at Mecca. For my part, I was bound to servile tasks and heard nothing of the new prophet. One day, I was up one of my owner’s palm trees, busy at some work. He was sitting beside the tree when one of his cousins arrived and declared: ‘The members of the Banu Qayla are gathered at Quba’ around a man come today from Mecca; they claim he is a prophet!’ When I heard this, I was seized by such a trembling that I feared I might fall on my owner. I climbed feverishly down from the palm tree and asked his cousin for particulars. My master then flew into a rage, gave me a violent punch and ordered me back to work.
A few days later, I had managed to put aside some food. In the evening, I went to Quba’ to bring it to the man who had come from Mecca. I was admitted to his presence and declared: ‘I have learned that you are a holy man and that you have with you companions who are strangers and in need. I had this at home to give away as alms and I considered that you had more right to it than anyone.’ I presented the food to him and he then asked his companions to eat. He himself ate nothing of what I had brought. On leaving the interview, I said to myself that the first sign of recognition had been manifested.
A few days later, I gathered some food once more. In the meantime, Muhammad had settled at Medina. I went to his new dwelling and said to him: ‘I observe that you do not eat what is brought to you as alms. Here is an offering in your honour!’ This time, he chose to eat and invited his companions to share the meal with him. I then said to myself that the second sign of recognition had been manifested.
A third time, I went to see Muhammad while he was at the cemetery of Medina. He had taken part in the funeral cortege of one of his companions and sat among them. I greeted him, then slipped behind him in the hope of catching a glimpse of the seal that my last spiritual guide had described to me. When he saw me pass behind him, he understood that I was seeking to verify something precise. He then slightly lowered his outer garment, so that I could distinctly see the seal of prophecy. Bursting into tears, I rushed to the messenger of God to embrace him warmly. He invited me to sit beside him so that I might tell him my story. Muhammad insisted that his companions hear it too. He advised me, notably, to negotiate a contract of manumission with my owner.
I followed the messenger of God’s advice and my owner accepted the proposal, in exchange for forty ounces of gold and the planting of three hundred palm trees. When he heard the news, Muhammad asked his companions to help me gather the required number of palms. Each brought me saplings to the measure of what he owned, so that the three hundred palm saplings were brought together. The messenger of God said to me: ‘O Salman, go and dig the earth! When you have finished, come and find me, for it is I who will plant them with my own hand.’ I set about digging the holes with the help of my companions and, the work done, I informed the Prophet. We presented each sapling to him, which he put in the earth down to the last, and not one sapling died thereafter.
I had thus discharged the palms, but I still had to find the gold. One day, a nugget the size of a hen’s egg was brought to the messenger of God. He then asked: ‘Where is the Persian who is undergoing manumission?’ I was called and Muhammad offered me the nugget. I was bewildered before the scale of such an offering, which I dared not seize. ‘Take it,’ he insisted, ‘for with this God will pay what you owe!’ I took the nugget and went to have it assessed: it weighed exactly forty ounces of gold. I paid what I owed to my master and I was definitively set free.
His servile condition had previously prevented Salman from taking part in the battles of Badr and Uhud beside the messenger of God, but he took part in the battle of the Ditch as a free man and remained beside the Prophet to the end of his earthly mission.
Introduction and translation by Denis Gril.
