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Arabic in Context
Studies in
Semitic Languages
and Linguistics
Editorial Board
A.D. Rubin and Ahmad Al-Jallad
volume 89
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ssl

Arabic in Context
Celebrating 400 Years of Arabic at Leiden University
Edited by
Ahmad Al-Jallad
leiden | boston
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Jallad, Ahmad, 1985- editor.

Title: Arabic in context : celebrating 400 years of Arabic at Leiden University /
edited by Ahmad Al-Jallad, Leiden University.
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2017. | Series: Studies in Semitic languages and
linguistics ; volume 89 | Papers presented at a colloquium held in November
2013 in Leiden on the theme of "Arabic in Context," organised on the occasion of
the 400th anniversary of Leiden's chair in Arabic. | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: lccn 2017009364 (print) | lccn 2017016711 (ebook) |
isbn 9789004343047 (E-book) | isbn 9789004343030 (hardback : alk. paper)
Subjects: lcsh: Arabic language–History–Congresses. | Arabic
language–Congresses.
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ddc 492.709–dc23
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Contents
Foreword vii
Preface x
List of Figures xiv
List of Abbreviations in Linguistic Glosses and Paradigms xv
List of Contributors xvi
What is Arabic?
1 Arabic in Its Semitic Context 3

John Huehnergard
2 How Conservative and How Innovating is Arabic? 35

Andrzej Zaborski
Arabic in Its Epigraphic Context
3 The ʿAyn ʿAbada Inscription Thirty Years Later: A Reassessment 53

Manfred Kropp
4 Aramaic or Arabic? The Nabataeo-Arabic Script and the Language

of the Inscriptions Written in This Script 75
Laïla Nehmé
5 Graeco-Arabica I: The Southern Levant 99

Ahmad Al-Jallad
Classical Arabic in Context
6 Traces of South Arabian Causative-Reflexive Verbal Stem in Arabic

Lexicon? 189
Daniele Mascitelli
7 Arabic allaḏī / illi as Subordinators: An Alternative Perspective 212

Lutz Edzard
vi contents
8 Raphelengius and the Yellow Cow (Q 2:69): Early Translations of

Hebrew ˀādōm into Arabic ˀaṣfar 227
Jordi Ferrer i Serra
9 Terminative-Adverbial and Locative-Adverbial Endings in Semitic

Languages: A Reassessment and Its Implications for Arabic 271
Francesco Grande
10 On the Middle Iranian Borrowings in Qurʾānic (and Pre-Islamic)

Arabic 317
Johnny Cheung
Qurʾānic Arabic in Context
11 Traces of Bilingualism/Multilingualism in Qurʾānic Arabic 337

Guillaume Dye
12 A Syriac Reading of the Qurʾān? The Case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar 372

Martin F.J. Baasten
Middle and Modern Arabic in Context
13 Orthography and Reading in Medieval Judaeo-Arabic 395

Geoffrey Khan
14 Linguistic History and the History of Arabic: A Speech Communities

Approach 405
Alexander Magidow
15 Digging Up Archaic Features: “Neo-Arabic” and Comparative Semitic

in the Quest for Proto Arabic 441
Naʿama Pat-El
16 The Arabic Strata in Awjila Berber 476

Marijn van Putten and Adam Benkato
Index of Qurʾānic Verses 503

Index of Languages and Subjects 504
Foreword
“As far as my knowledge extends, no other people is known to have expended

so much toil, effort and industry on refining their language.” So wrote Thomas
Erpenius (1584–1624), the professor of Arabic at Leiden University, in his inau-
gural lecture, ‘On the excellence and dignity of the Arabic language,’ delivered
in Leiden on 8 May 1613.1 It is to the efforts of mediaeval Arab scholars in gram-
mar, lexicography and linguistics that Erpenius refers here, continuing by stat-
ing that, “An almost countless number of their most distinguished men have
written grammar books and diverse grammatical tracts, some of which are in
verse and others in prose.”2 Erpenius himself would go on to make Herculean
contributions to the study of Arabic in Europe and therefore forms a perfect
connection between the theme of this volume and the occasion of the meet-
ing that gave rise to it.
The studies presented here represent papers delivered at a colloquium held
in November 2013 in Leiden on the theme of “Arabic in Context,” organised
on the occasion of the 400th anniversary of Leiden’s chair in Arabic. Bringing
together Arabicists, Semiticists, historians, epigraphists and papyrologists, the
conference focused on Arabic in its earliest stages. Connecting the study of the
history of Arabic to the long and varied Leiden tradition of scholarship on the
subject was timely, but the conference’s approach to the topic provided even
more relevant linkages.
In his lecture Erpenius emphasises that all students, medical doctors, geog-
raphers and scientists would do well to learn Arabic in order to be able to read
the books of the ancient Greeks and Romans only preserved in their Arabic
translations. The Arab achievement in prose and, especially, poetry provide
another reason. Most importantly therefore, he adds, scholars and students
will, through Arabic, have access to the texts produced in a language which has
“more important books on any sort of knowledge than can ever be found any-
where else.”3 In his scholarship and teaching, Erpenius offered a similar broad
and interdisciplinary perspective on Arabic language and culture.
1 He had been appointed extraordinary professor of Arabic on 9 February 1613 following a joint
decision by the university, the city of Leiden and the governors of the United Netherlands
Provinces to institute such a post in 1599. For Thomas Erpenius, see further Arnoud Vrolijk
and Richard van Leeuwen, Arabic Studies in the Netherlands. A Short History in Portraits, 1580–
1950 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 31–40.
2 Robert Jones (tr.), “Thomas Erpenius (1584–1624) On the Value of the Arabic Language,”
Manuscripts of the Middle East 1 (1986), 15–25, 19.
3 Jones, “Thomas Erpenius,” 19.
viii foreword
Erpenius’s grammar was the first of its kind for a European audience and
remained the standard for the next two centuries.4 He made editions of his-
torical and grammatical treatises, translated a collection of Arabic proverbs
and fables, and also produced a scholarly edition with Latin translations of a
Quranic chapter and an Arabic edition of the New Testament. Meanwhile, he
planned to produce an historical account of the Muslims, a geographical study,
and a linguistic and literary-cultural history of the Arabic language. Appointed
professor of Hebrew and other Semitic languages in 1620, he expanded his
domain by compiling grammars of Aramaic and Syriac, having planned a gram-
mar of Ethiopic as well. At the university he emphasised the importance of
studying Turkish next to Arabic to gain a better understanding of the Arabic-
speaking world which at his time was mostly under Ottoman rule.
Such extraordinary breadth in disciplinary mastery and scholarly energy can
hardly be matched by single scholars today. It is, however, the approach to the
Arabic-speaking world and the Arabic language through its various cultural and
linguistic dimensions that has been the guiding principle at Leiden University
ever since. Indeed, it is through communal scholarly effort, academic meetings
and joint projects that such multidisciplinary methodology can be realised.
Contextualizing Arabic studies within different disciplines—Semitics, epigra-
phy, papyrology, dialectology, history and archeology—the conference “Arabic
in Context” and the volume that resulted from it show what can be achieved in
this way.
Two trends can be observed in the field, one methodological, the other
chronological, and the essays presented here offer original insights and in
many cases new primary material to address them. Documentary sources in
the form of inscriptions, papyrus documents, archaeology and material finds
give us a fresh view on the development of the Arabic language and script
beyond reconstructions of internal developments and theoretical treatises.
Incorporating linguistic domains that are not generally studied in conjunction
with Arabic offers another “outsider” look.
Through the inspired contributions of a growing group of scholars, it is now
clear that Arabia has much more in the way of textual resources than was ever
expected, making it one of the most literate environments of antiquity. The
history of the Arabic language and script, it is now evident, long pre-dates
the rise of Islam, with which the language is most obviously connected. This
offers interesting perspectives on the way in which religion, ethnicity, language,
script, and politics coincided in this region in antiquity. It also shows that
4 Grammatica Arabica, Leiden 1613.

foreword ix
the appearance of Islam in seventh-century Arabia, while obviously having

important long-term effects also for the development of Arabic, should not
necessarily be considered a sudden watershed event in the history of the
ancient world. This volume shows how fruitful such a long-term view on the
history of the Arabic language within its historical and linguistic context is.
Ahmad Al-Jallad, the convenor of the conference and editor of this volume
should be congratulated on his vision to present the history of the Arabic
language in this light. The outcome is an important contribution to Leiden’s
long history in the field.
Petra Sijpesteijn
Preface
In celebration of Arabic’s 400 years of study at Leiden University, the Leiden

Institute for Area Studies and the Leiden Centre for Linguistics, with the sup-
port of Leids Universiteits Fonds, the Juynboll Foundation, and Stichting Oost-
ers Institute, have organized a conference to study Arabic in its broader his-
torical and linguistic context. The subject was inspired by the keynote address
of J. Huehnergard, entitled Arabic in its Semitic Context. The time for such a
volume had long been over due. Hebrew, Aramaic, and Akkadian have pre-
ceded and benefited from the consideration of their linguistic and philological
problems within a wider perspective.1 In the case of Arabic, the need for a
wider perspective has never been greater. Interest in Arabic’s linguistic past has
steadily been growing, with several recent monographs dedicated to this sub-
ject.2 At the same time, an awareness is spreading that the two-dimensional
narrative of a progression from Classical Arabic to the modern dialects is not
enough to capture the diversity of modern spoken varieties or the ancient epi-
graphic forms of Arabic. Nevertheless, historical Arabic linguistics has become
more isolated over the years, with some of its researchers regarding other fields
with suspicion or being wholly unaware of advances in other disciplines that
are relevant to the history of Arabic.3 The writing of Arabic’s linguistic history
is by definition an interdisciplinary effort, the result of collaboration between
historical linguists, epigraphists, dialectologists, and historians. The conference
and the present volume therefore seek to catalyse an interdisciplinary dialogue
between scholars who are interested in Arabic’s past and to illustrate how much
there is to be gained by looking beyond the traditional sources and methods.
1 For Biblical Hebrew, see Fassberg and Hurvitz (eds.) 2006; for Aramaic, Gzella and Folmer
(eds.) 2008, for Akkadian, Deutscher and Kowenberg (eds.) 2006.
2 Perhaps the most widely known is Owens 2006/9, but also the recent book of Wilmsen
2014. Diem 2014 concerns itself with the same issues as Wilmsen 2014, but employing a very
different approach. For comparative review of both books, see Souag 2016.
3 This is exemplified by Owens 2015. The isolation of traditional Arabic linguistics is perhaps
illustrated best in the contribution of El-Sharkawi to the online edition of Brill’s Encylope-
dia of Arabic Language and Linguistics on the subject of pre-Islamic Arabic. The lemma deals
almost exclusively with sources from the 8th and 9th centuries, over a century and a half after
the advent of Islam (!), and cavalierly dismisses the pre-Islamic epigraphic evidence as ‘not
forthcoming’, citing an article nearly twenty years old. Ignoring the epigraphic evidence for
pre-Islamic Arabic, which numbers in the thousands, is not justifiable in any approach, but
instead reflects persistence of the myth that Arabic was simply not frequently attested prior
to the rise of Islam.
preface xi
This book contains sixteen studies divided into five themes. The first What is
Arabic contains the keynote lecture of J. Huehnergard. This contribution seeks
a purely linguistic definition of Arabic. The linguistic definition of Arabic is a
necessary pre-requisite for drawing up ancient Arabia’s linguistic map based on
the epigraphic sources, as the identification of the language of an inscription
has often been impressionistic or based on non-linguistic criteria. The late
A. Zaborski engages with J. Huehnergard’s chapter on the position of Arabic in
the Semitic language family. He re-examines some of the features considered
to be Arabic isoglosses and makes a case that Arabic is far more archaic than
most scholars have admitted.
Arabic in Its Epigraphic Context contains studies devoted to the only true
witnesses to Arabic’s pre-Islamic past—the epigraphy. M. Kropp returns to the
ʿEn ʿAvdat inscription, one of the earliest, if not the earliest, examples of Ara-
bic literary composition. The meaning of this short poetic text, composed in
the Nabataean script, has eluded a consensus among scholars, but Kropp’s
original approach advances our understanding of its structure and purpose,
and provides a compelling new translation. L. Nehmé contributes an essential
study on the language of the latest phase of Nabataean writing, the so-called
Nabataeao-Arabic inscriptions. Her study attempts to tease apart the two lin-
guistic strata comprising these texts, establishing that Arabic had indeed grown
in usage during this latest period. A. Al-Jallad provides a comprehensive study
of the pre-Islamic Arabic of the southern Levant as preserved in Greek tran-
scriptions from the region. The picture emerging gives us our first true look at
pre-Islamic Arabic phonology, centuries earlier than the Arabic grammatical
tradition.
Classical Arabic is the variety of Arabic used most frequently in comparative
studies of Semitic grammar, owning to both its antiquity and readily available
descriptions of it. The studies in Classical Arabic in Context focus on the gram-
mar and lexicon of Classical Arabic, with a special focus on the less-studied
parts of its grammar and lexicon. L. Edzard’s chapter investigates subordinator
ʾallaḏī, a uniquely Arabic feature, and its modern dialectal equivalent illī, within
a comparative Semitics perspective. D. Mascitelli mines the Classical Arabic
lexica for evidence of South Arabian influence in the causative stem (IV) of the
verb, revealing the classical dictionaries to be an important source for evidence
of ancient language contact. F. Grande uses Classical Arabic, especially some
peripheral points of its grammar, as the basis for a far-reaching reconstruction
of the case system in Semitic. Both J. Ferrer i Serra and J. Cheung provide con-
tributions on the lexicon of Classical Arabic, but from different perspectives.
Cheung explores Middle Iranian borrowings into Qurʾānic Arabic, an impor-
tant source of evidence for cultural contacts and even for the interpretation of
xii preface
the text itself, while Ferrer i Serra undertakes an investigation of the semantics
of colors in Classical Arabic based on the early translations of Hebrew ʾdm into
the language.
A separate section is dedicated to the language of the Qurʾān, which is often
subsumed under the rubric of Classical Arabic. The two studies comprising
Qurʾānic Arabic in Context investigate Qurʾānic Arabic on its own terms. G. Dye
examines the vocabulary and grammar of the Qurʾānic texts to reconstruct the
multilingual milieu to which Qurʾānic Arabic originally belonged. M.F.J. Baas-
ten casts light on the enigmatic language of Sūrat al-Kawthar through a thor-
ough evaluation of the Luxenbergian hypothesis. Drawing on evidence from
Old (epigraphic) Arabic and other Semitic languages, Baasten advances a new
interpretation of the text, while also maintaining its Arabicness.
Middle and Modern Arabic in Context contains four studies on the post-
classical varieties of Arabic. G. Khan examines medieval Judaeo-Arabic on its
own terms, breaking with the tradition of viewing it as a substandard form of
Classical Arabic. His study outlines the basic linguistic facts of this indepen-
dent reading tradition. A. Magidow employs a ‘speech-communities’ approach
in an attempt to connect the linguistic history of Arabic with the history of
its speakers, an important contribution in the way of establishing an inter-
disciplinary program for the study of the history of Arabic. N. Pat-El makes
abundantly clear the distinction between absolute and relative chronology. Her
study identifies several features in the spoken dialects of Arabic that continue
older Semitic features lost in Classical Arabic, providing yet more evidence that
the modern Arabic dialects do not descend monogenetically from the Classi-
cal literary register. Finally, Van Putten and Benkato mine the modern Berber
language of Awjila for Arabic loans, some of which reflect a spoken dialect no
longer present, at least in the region.
The history of a language, the attestation of which spans nearly three thou-
sand years, cannot be written in a single volume. It is nevertheless hoped that
the studies contained herein will act as an important methodological interven-
tion, encouraging a shift in the way Arabic’s linguistic history is written.
Ahmad Al-Jallad
preface xiii
Bibliography
Deutscher, G. and N.J.C. Kowenberg (eds.) (2006). The Akkadian Language in its Semitic
Context. Studies in the Akkadian of the Third and Second Millennium bc, PIHANS
volume 106.
Diem, W. (2014) Negation in Arabic: A Study in Linguistic History. Wiesbaden.
Gzella, H. and M. Folmer (eds.) (2008). Aramaic in its Historical and Linguistic Setting.
VOK 50. Wiesbaden.
Fassberg, S. and A. Hurvitz. (2006). Biblical Hebrew in Its Northwest Semitic Setting:
Typological and Historical Perspectives. Jerusalem.
Owens, J. (2006/9) A linguistic history of Arabic. Oxford.
Owens, J. (2015) Reflections on Arabic and Semitic: Can proto-Semitic case be justified?
Kervan – International journal of Afro-Asiatic Studies 19: 159–172.
Souag, L. (2016). Book Review of Diem 2014 and Wilmsen 2014. Linguistics 54(1): 223–
229.
Wilmsen, D. (2014) Arabic Indefinites, Interrogatives, and Negators: A Linguistic History
of Western Dialects. Oxford.
List of Figures
1.1 Geography-based classification of the Semitic languages 8

1.2 Linguistic classification of the Semitic languages 9
1.3 Classification of Arabic 27
3.1 The stone bearing the inscription in situ 1993. Photograph by courtesy of
Abraham Negev 57
3.2 Drawing by Ada Yardeni (cf. Negev 1986: 56 + n.*, fig. 1; Yardeni 2000: 305) 58
3.3 Drawing of the ʿAyn ʿAbada inscription, courtesy of Mohammad Maraqten (in
Maraqten 2013: 29). 59
4.1 UJadh 330. The text reads {ḥrgz} ʾly / ʾlḥgr / p{ʾ}m.. {l/n}{y}{l/n} / {ʿš} 98
4.2 UJadh 293. The text reads dkyr ḥnny br yhwdʾ / bṭb w l-{k}y{r}dʾ 98
5.1 The southern Levant and North Arabia. Map: A. Al-Jallad and A. Emery 106
14.1 A glottometric diagram of the Torres-Bank Oceanic languages from François
(2015) 425
14.2 Levantine Arabic Dialects, based on Magidow (2013), in turn based on
Behnstedt (1985) 433
List of Abbreviations in Linguistic Glosses and
Paradigms
The following grammatical abbreviations are used in this book.
1 first person
2 second person
3 third person
acc accusative
adj adjective
adv adverb(ial)
def definite article
indef indefinite
loc locative
m masculine
n noun
nom nominative
obl oblique
par paradigm
pl plural
s singular
term terminative
List of Contributors
Ahmad Al-Jallad
Ph.D. (2012) Harvard University, is an Assistant Professor at Leiden University.
He has published on the comparative grammar of the Semitic languages, the
history of Arabic, and on the epigraphy of Ancient North Arabia. He is the
founding director of the Leiden Center for the Study of Ancient Arabia and is
co-director of the Landscapes of Survival Archaeological Project in Jordan and
the Thāj Aracheological Project in Saudi Arabia.
Martin F.J. Baasten

Ph.D. (2006) Leiden University, teaches Hebrew philology at Leiden University.
Adam Benkato
is a Humboldt Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Freie Universität Berlin,
where he is working on a description of the Arabic dialect of Benghazi and
teaching Libyan Arabic. He also has done work in Iranian philology.
Johnny Cheung
is trained as historical-comparative linguist and iranist at Leiden University
and at SOAS (London), and is currently holder of an endowed Chaire d’Excel-
lence, which is funded by the Université Sorbonne-Paris-Cité and hosted by the
National Institute of Oriental Languages and Civilisations (INALCO) in Paris. His
current research consists of collecting, analysing and interpreting the sacred
hymns of the Yezidis and the folktales of the Bakhtiaris that may shed more
light on the ancient, formative beliefs, world view and customs of these groups
with no written historical records of their own.
Guillaume Dye
is a professor of Islamic studies at the Free University of Brussels (Université
libre de Bruxelles, ULB). His main field of research is Qurʾānic and Early Islamic
studies. He is cofounder and co-director of The Early Islamic Studies Seminar:
International Scholarship on the Qurʾan and Islamic Origins, an academic group
of international specialists, working and sharing the results of Their research
in the field of Islamic origins. Among his publications: Figures bibliques and
Islam, etc. G. & F. Dye Nobilio (Bruxelles-Fernelmont, 2011). Partage du Sacré:
transferts, Devotions mixtes, rivalités interconfessionnelles etc. I. Depret &
G. Dye (Bruxelles-Fernelmont, 2012), Hérésies: une construction d’ identités
religieuses etc. C. Brouwer, G. Dye and A. van Rompaey (Bruxelles, 2015).
list of contributors xvii
Lutz Edzard
is professor of Arabic and Semitic linguistics at the University of Erlangen-
Nürnberg and professor of Semitic linguistics at the University of Oslo. His
research interests include comparative Semitic and Afroasiatic linguistics with
a focus on phonology, Arabic and Hebrew linguistics, and the history of diplo-
matic documents in Semitic languages. He is the editor, together with Rudolf
de Jong, of the Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics online at Brill,
and, with Stephan Guth, the editor of the online Journal of Arabic and Islamic
Studies. He serves as the Semitics editor for Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgen-
ländischen Gesellschaft and, with Stephan Guth, as the editor for the series
Porta Linguarum Orientalium at Harrassowitz.

(Ph.D., University of Uppsala) is Visiting Research Fellow at the Centre for
Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Lund. He focuses his research on
problems of linguistic, literary, and historical nature connected, in a wide sense,
to the world of the early Arabic poetical tradition. Currently he is conducting
studies in the colour system of early Arabic and the history of the kingdom of
al-Ḥīra.
Francesco Grande
(Ph.D. Pisa, 2011) is a Researcher in Arabic Language and Literature at Univer-
sità Ca’ Foscari, Venice. He has published articles on Arabic and linguistics,
and is author of Copula in the Arabic Noun Phrase: A Unified Analysis of Ara-
bic Adnominal Markers (Brill, 2013).
John Huehnergard
(Ph.D. 1979, Harvard University; D.H.L. 2014, University of Chicago) is Professor
of Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Texas at Austin, and Professor
of Semitic Philology, emeritus, at Harvard University. He has published books
and articles on the grammar of Akkadian, Hebrew, Ugaritic, and other Semitic
languages, and on historical and comparative Semitic linguistics.
Geoffrey Khan
is Regius Professor of Hebrew at the University of Cambridge. His current
research projects in the field of Hebrew include two volumes relating to Karaite
texts, an edition of texts on the Tiberian reading tradition of Hebrew, and a lin-
guistic analysis of Karaite Hebrew Bible manuscripts in Arabic transcription.
Aramaic research concentrates on the North-Eastern Neo-Aramaic dialects,
and current work includes a grammar of the Assyrian Christian dialect of Urmi.
xviii list of contributors
Arabic research concentrates on early Arabic documents, and including a cor-

pus of Arabic documents from Nubia datable to the Fatimid period. Some of
his honours include election as Fellow of the British Academy (1998), election
as Honorary Fellow of the Academy of the Hebrew Language (2011), election as
Fellow of Academia Europea (2014), election as Honorary Member of the Amer-
ican Oriental Society (2015), election as Extraordinary Professor (Honorary) by
the University of Stellenbosch (2016), the award of the Lidzbarski Gold Medal
for Semitic philology by the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft (2004)
and the award of an honorary doctorate by the Hebrew University of Jerusalem
(2017).
Manfred Kropp
Phil. Diss 1975, Kropp specializes in Ethiopian History and Literature and
Semitic epigraphy. He was professor of Semitic Languages (Lund University)
1990–1991, chair of Islamic and Semitic Studies (Mainz University) 1999–2010,
Director of the Orient-Institut Beirut (DGIA) 1999–2006, and Chair européenne
(then for Coranic Studies) at the Collège de France 2007–2008. Has published
on Ethiopian chronicles and the history of Ethiopia in the Middle Ages, on pre-
Islamic North Arabian and South Arabian epigraphy and on Qurʾānic Studies.
He is co-editor of the Oriens Christianus and on the scientific board for Journal
of Ethiopian Studies and Journal of Semitic Studies.
Alexander Magidow
is an Assistant Professor of Arabic at the University of Rhode Island. He re-
ceived his M.A. and Ph.D. in Arabic Studies from the University of Texas at
Austin, and has spent time in Syria, Jordan and Morocco. His work fo-
cuses on the history of Arabic, both the spoken dialects and the written lan-
guage. His research interests include the semantics of apparent “free” variation
in language, Arabic dialectology, and Arabic pedagogy. He has designed and
developed a website for collating Arabic dialect data, http://database-of-arabic
-dialects.org.
Daniele Mascitelli
Ph.D. University of Florence, is now researcher in Arabic Language and Liter-
ature at University of Pisa (Department of Civilizations and Forms of Knowl-
edge) since 2012. His main interests are pre-Islamic Arabian history and the
Arabic literature related to it. He also works as translator into Italian of Arabic
contemporary novels.
list of contributors xix
Laïla Nehmé
is a senior research fellow at Orient & Méditerranée, cnrs, Paris. She is the co-
director of the Madâin Sâlih Archaeological Project and works on the archae-
ology and epigraphy of the Nabataeans, from Syria to northern Arabia. She
has recently published a two-volume monography on the Nabataean tombs of
Madâin Sâlih (Les tombeaux nabatéens de Hégra).
Naʿama Pat-El
is an associate professor of Semitic languages and linguistics at the University
of Texas, Austin. She specializes in historical linguistics, especially syntax.
Marijn van Putten

did his Ph.D. research on the Awjila Berber language, and is currently a post-
doctoral researcher working on the linguistic history of early Islamic Arabic.
Andrzej Zaborski†
Dr. phil.habil., was Professor Ordinarius of the Jagiellonion University in Kra-
ków, where he held the Chair of Afro-Asiatic Linguistics and was head of the
Orientalist Committee of the Polish Academy of Sciences. He is the author of
The Verb in Cushitic (1975), Dialekt egipski języka arabskiego (1982), Morphology
of the Nominal Plural in Cushitic Language (1986), Handbook of the Oromo Lan-
guage (1990), Wspaniały świat Oceanu Indyjskiego (1998) and over a hundred
scholarly articles and reviews. He served as editor of Folia Orientalia for many
years. Professor Zaborski passed away on the 1st of October, 2014.
What is Arabic?
∵
chapter 1
Arabic in Its Semitic Context*

John Huehnergard
In Memory of Wolfhart Heinrichs
During the Enlightenment, some thinkers pondered the original language of

humanity, and decided that it must have been Hebrew.1 With the advent of
historical linguistics in the 19th century, Hebrew was, in a way, dethroned by
Arabic. On the one hand, the simple vowel system of classical Arabic, on the
other hand, its rich consonantal inventory, huge vocabulary, complex system
of tenses and moods, and seemingly complete system of derived verbs made
Arabic seem, to 19th-century European scholars, to be the most archaic and
conservative of all Semitic languages; indeed, the earliest comparative studies
almost treat Arabic as though it were, in fact, Proto-Semitic.2
But of course Arabic is not Proto-Semitic. The phonology of classical Ara-
bic is indeed very conservative, but there are other, more conservative Semitic
* My sincere thanks are due to Ahmad Al-Jallad for the invitation to participate in the con-
ference “Arabic in Context, Celebrating 400 Years of Arabic” at Leiden University, November
2013, at which the present paper was presented. An earlier version of this paper was read at
the 24th Annual Symposium on Arabic Linguistics at the University of Texas at Austin, April
2010, and I wish to thank Kristen Brustad for the invitation to discuss the relationship of Ara-
bic to the rest of the Semitic family at the Symposium. The present version has benefitted
greatly from many insights in Al-Jallad’s 2012 dissertation and in several important articles of
his, and I am also grateful to him for discussions of many points. I am indebted, too, to the
following individuals who offered suggestions for improvement and provided additional ref-
erences; none, of course, should be held responsible for the views expressed in this paper, or
for any remaining errors: Kristen Brustad, Lutz Edzard, Jo Ann Hackett, Michael Macdonald,
Alexander Magidow, Naʿama Pat-El, Jan Retsö, Andrzej Zaborski, Philip Zhakevich, and espe-
cially my late friend and colleague Wolfhart Heinrichs who, as he was always willing to do,
discussed many aspects of the paper and provided a wealth of suggestions and corrections.
1 See, e.g., Olender 1992; Eco 1995: 74–75. Note also Renan 1863, who considered Hebrew to be
the most archaic Semitic language.
2 E.g., Wright 1890: 8, citing de Goeje: “En dat van alle Semietische talen het Arabisch het naast
staat aan de moedertaal.” Further, Lindberg 1897: v; Müller 1887: 316–317; O’Leary 1923: 5, 16.
For Zimmern (1898: 5), Arabic and Ethiopic were the last languages to break away from the
common Semitic stock. See also the extended discussion in König 1901: 57–70.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_002

4 huehnergard
phonologies, such as the consonantal inventory of the Ancient South Arabian

languages. And Arabic has undergone any number of developments that dis-
tinguish it not only from other Semitic languages but, in a great many ways,
from the common ancestor of the Semitic languages as well.
This paper has several goals: to offer a view of what Arabic is as a Semitic lan-
guage; to review where Arabic stands within the Semitic family, what its closest
relatives are; and to review some of the features that uniquely characterize Ara-
bic. These goals will also, of necessity, involve the ongoing discussion of the
relationship between the modern forms of Arabic, the classical language, and
the various preclassical forms of the language.
That comparative Semitic philology could illuminate and explain aspects of
both classical and colloquial Arabic has of course long been known. Even in the
nineteenth century, no one really thought classical Arabic was identical with
Proto-Semitic. For example, it was recognized that Proto-Semitic had three
voiceless sibilants, as in Biblical Hebrew, and that Arabic had merged two of
those (*s or *s1 and *ts or *s3; see further below).3 It was also realized that
the classical Arabic relative allaðī had to be a secondary development.4 More
recent comparative Semitic study has provided other examples, such as the
following:
1. The preformative s of Arabic Form X, (i)stafʕala, makes sense when we

posit that s was the original—and only—causative marker in Semitic.
But an early sound rule that changed pre-vocalic s to h spread through-
out much of Semitic;5 thus the simple causative *yusapʕil became first
*yuhapʕil and then, with the further loss of the h in Arabic, yufʕil. In the
st form *yustapʕil, however, the s was not pre-vocalic, and so it did not
undergo the sound change. Arabic yastafʕil thus reflects a very old Semitic
form.
2. The original function of the preformative n in Form VII yanfaʕil is seen
in Akkadian *(y)ippaʕil, where the base of the form, *paʕil, is the verbal
adjective of the basic stem of the root, as is still the case for a few verbs
in Arabic, such as fariḥ ‘glad’. For transitive verbs in Akkadian, the verbal
adjective is passive resultative, so *paʕil would mean ‘done, made’. The n
preformative originally marked a form as ingressive or incohative: *ya-n-
paʕil meant ‘become, get done, made’.6
3 E.g., Brockelmann 1908: 128.

4 Wright 1890: 117.
5 Voigt 1987; Huehnergard 2006: 8–9.
6 Conti 1980: 103–107; Lieberman 1986; Huehnergard 1987: nn. 31, 62.
arabic in its semitic context 5
We call Arabic a Semitic language because it shares a wide range of features

in common with the other languages that we consider Semitic:7 a root structure
of three radicals for most content words; a common inventory of consonants
that includes pharyngeals and triads of stops and fricatives, each with a voiced,
a voiceless, and an “emphatic” member; a common lexicon; morphological
features such as contrasting suffix- and prefix-conjugations of the finite verbs;
derived verbal stems marked by prefixes related to the pronominal system, such
as n and t; nouns with two genders, three numbers, and three cases;8 unmarked
word order verb–subject–object; noun–noun modification by a special genitive
chain construction (ʔiḍāfa).
Those are some of the many ways Arabic is like other Semitic languages. But
we are more interested here in the ways in which Arabic is unlike other Semitic
languages. What features characterize Arabic within Semitic? Or, more simply,
What is Arabic?9 We could simply list features in which Arabic differs from
other Semitic languages:10 Arabic has broken plurals, Akkadian and Amharic
do not; Arabic has a derived verb stem with prefixed n, Aramaic and Ethiopic
do not;11 Arabic has pharyngealized consonants, Ethiopic and Akkadian do not;
7 Bateson 2003: 52–54. Edzard 2012 rightly notes that many of these common Semitic
features are attested in other language families. What is unique about Semitic, of course,
is the aggregation of these features.
8 Reconstructing Proto-Arabic with iʕrāb is required by the comparative method, pace
Owens 1998. Since Proto-Semitic and Proto-Central Semitic exhibit the same cases as clas-
sical Arabic, Proto-Arabic must likewise have exhibited those cases. This is not altered by
the fact that most modern forms of Arabic are caseless and probably descend from case-
less ancestors, or by the fact that there were undoubtedly very early, even pre-Islamic,
varieties of Arabic in which the case-system had been lost, such as Al-Jallad’s Ancient
Levantine Arabic (2012a: 340–343, 384). (Nor, of course, can we reconstruct two types of
Proto-Semitic, as Owens proposes, one with a case-system and one without.) The absence
of a case-system in the colloquials is clearly the result of loss after the Proto-Arabic period;
it may have happened in a single common ancestor, but more likely, it happened in sev-
eral early forms of Arabic (Blau 2006, esp. p. 80). Loss of the Proto-Semitic case system also
occurs over the history of Akkadian, and likewise accounts for various morphological fea-
tures in ancient Hebrew and Aramaic. See further Hasselbach 2013: 69–70; Versteegh 2010.
9 The same question is asked by Retsö (2013; see especially p. 436). I wish to thank Prof. Retsö
for sending me a copy of this paper prior to its publication. Some of the features proposed
by Retsö as specifically Arabic will be noted below.
10 See, e.g., Mascitelli 2006: 19. As noted by Retsö (2013), most of Mascitelli’s features are not
specific to Arabic.
11 Classical Ethiopic does have an N stem, as in ʔangargara ‘to roll’; but, although it is
probably related ultimately to the N of other Semitic languages (see above, n. 6), it no
longer had the same semantic force.
6 huehnergard
Arabic has compound tenses, like kāna yafʕalu, Hebrew and Akkadian do not.
But this approach is not terribly helpful.
As already noted, Arabic is not Proto-Semitic. But nor did it descend directly
from Proto-Semitic as its own discrete branch, any more than the other Semitic
languages did. Arabic is part of a set of ever-smaller, ever more restricted, sub-
groups of languages that share common ancestors among themselves, ances-
tors that are not shared with other members of the larger Semitic family. In
other words, there are intermediate stages or nodes, intermediate ancestors
that Arabic shares with only some of the other Semitic languages. To establish
what is specifically characteristic of Arabic, we have to look at its closest rel-
atives, and see how it differs from them; put another way, we have to look at
the features in which Arabic differs not from Proto-Semitic, but from its most
recent common ancestor. It is those features that uniquely characterize Ara-
bic.
But how do we establish which of the languages are more closely related to
each other? As we just saw, it is not simply a matter of collecting features in
common, or features that are different, and toting them up. For establishing
genetic relationships among members of a language family, only one type of
feature is diagnostic of a genetic relationship, and that is the “shared innova-
tion.” A shared innovation is a feature that a subgroup of languages exhibits in
common because it was inherited from a recent, or immediate, common ances-
tor in which that feature first arose. Shared innovations are the only features
that are significant for genetic subgrouping. As Alice Faber (1997:4) succinctly
put it: “The establishment of a linguistic subgroup requires the identification of
innovations that are shared among all and only the members of that subgroup.”
A clear example of a shared innovation is the use of the suffix-conjugation,
the Arabic perfect faʕala, as an active, past tense verb, replacing the earlier
Semitic past-tense form yafʕal. In Akkadian and Eblaite, and in the earliest-
attested form of ancient Egyptian,12 the form *samiʕtā ̆ meant not ‘you have
heard’ but rather ‘you are/were heard’; it was a kind of verbless clause, com-
prised of an adjective, *samiʕ- ‘heard’,13 plus an enclitic pronoun subject *-tā ̆
‘you’. The development of that form into an active, perfective verb meaning
‘you (have) heard’ was a profound change, a shared innovation that character-
izes all of the Semitic languages except Akkadian and Eblaite as a subgroup
within the Semitic family, a subgroup that is usually called “West Semitic.”
12 On the form and semantics of the Old Egyptian counterpart to Akkadian and Eblaite
*samiʕtā ̆, see most recently Allen 2013: 120–121.
13 As just noted, ḳatil ( faʕil) is the basic verbal adjective in Akkadian.
In most of the West Semitic languages, the original past tense use of yafʕal
survived, but only in restricted or secondary usage; in classical Arabic, for
example, we see it in lam(mā) yafʕal as a negative past tense.14 The originally
tenseless nature of the suffix-conjugation is also preserved in most of the West
Semitic languages as a secondary characteristic. In classical Arabic we find it
in forms such as optative raḥima ‘may he have mercy’ and epistemic ʕalima ‘he
knows’;15 similar uses continue into some of the modern colloquials.
Thus, shared innovations are the key. But shared features have several
sources and it can be difficult to establish which of those are shared innova-
tions. Some shared features are shared retentions, that is, features that two lan-
guages share because they were inherited from a still earlier ancestor, and these
tell us nothing about internal relationships within the family; examples include
most of the phonetic inventory of the family and the triradical system of roots.
Some shared features are the result of what is called “drift” or “parallel develop-
ment,” usually the result of systemic pressure or an “inner dynamic,”16 as in the
non-standard English brang, which arises in many unrelated speech communi-
ties as the result of the analogy of sing : sang. Another common phenomenon
that results in shared features is diffusion, the areal or wave-like spreading of
features as a result of contact between speakers of different dialects and lan-
guages.17 Not only individual lexical items, but also phonological features, mor-
phological forms, even whole grammatical categories and constructions may
be borrowed through language contact. Recent studies suggest that there are
very few linguistic features (if any) that may not be borrowed.18 Because many
of the Semitic languages were in frequent contact with one another, diffusion
of features is an extremely common phenomenon that we must always keep in
mind. Indeed, for a proper evaluation of the what is unique or specific about
the origin of Arabic, we must consider both shared innovations, which are the
result of a genetic relationship, and diffusion, which results from language con-
tact due to geographical proximity.
What, then, are Arabic’s closest relatives? The genetic position of Arabic
within Semitic has been the crux of the internal subgrouping of the Semitic
14 Also in its interchangeability with the perfect in both the protasis and the apodosis of a
conditional sentence; I wish to thank W. Heinrichs for reminding me of this.
15 W. Heinrichs and N. Pat-El remind me that non-past faʕala also appears in conditional
clauses.
16 Aikhenwald and Dixon 2001: 3.
17 See the recent study of Babel et al. 2013, who argue “diffusion plays a greater role in
language diversification than is usually recognized.”
18 See, e.g., Epps et al. 2013: 210.
8 huehnergard
family for several generations of Semitists.19 The prevailing view of the internal
subgrouping of the Semitic for much of the twentieth century was the following
(after Faber 1997):
figure 1.1 Geography-based classification of the Semitic languages
In this view, which was based partly on shared features and partly on geography,
there is a three-part division: Akkadian is the sole member of East or North-
east Semitic; the Canaanite languages—Hebrew, Phoenician, and a number of
other, sparsely attested, dialects—and Aramaic comprise Northwest Semitic;20
and Arabic, Ethiopian Semitic, the Ancient South Arabian languages, and the
Modern South Arabian languages comprise South or Southwest Semitic. The
most important features that were said to characterize this South or Southwest
branch were:
1. broken plurals;
2. the form III verb fāʕala; and
3. the change of Proto-Semitic stop *p to fricative f.
19 I do not agree with Retsö (2013: 444) that “The discussion whether Arabic should be
classified as Central Semitic or South Semitic is not very meaningful.” For reasons that
will, I trust, become clear in what follows, identifying the closest relatives of Arabic is
fundamentally important for any linguistically useful discussion of the specific features
that constitute Arabic.
20 For Northwest Semitic, see Hasselbach and Huehnergard 2007.
But the first and second of these are not shared innovations; they are shared
retentions. It has been shown that all of the Semitic languages exhibit at least
vestiges of broken plurals, and so they must be reconstructed as a feature of
Proto-Semitic. Their occurrence in Arabic, Ancient South Arabian, Modern
South Arabian, and Ethiopian Semitic is thus a retention from the proto-
language, not the result of an innovation in a common intermediate ancestor.
The same is true of the verb form with long first vowel, fāʕala;21 it appears,
again as a vestige, in Northwest Semitic, and, as Zaborski (1991: 371) has shown,
it appears outside of Semitic elsewhere in the larger Afro-Asiatic family, among
the Cushitic languages. So it, too, is a shared retention. The change of common
Semitic *p to f is almost certainly the result of diffusion, due to the proximity
of some of the other so-called South Semitic languages at various times in
the past; but as it is a very common change cross-linguistically, is not really
significant.22
Thus, this earlier view has for many Semitists been superseded by a different
model, one that was championed especially by the Semitist Robert Hetzron
in a number of articles and monographs in the 1970’s.23 This model shows the
following branching:
figure 1.2 Linguistic classification of the Semitic languages
21 On fāʕala, see Danks 2011 and the important review by Waltisberg 2012.
22 A similar change even appears in Northwest Semitic, as is well known, although there it is
a conditioned change.
23 E.g., Hetzron 1974, 1976.
10 huehnergard
Again, Proto-West Semitic first hives off from the common Semitic ancestor,
characterized by the new suffix-conjugation faʕala. But here, from Proto-West
Semitic, a branch called Central Semitic breaks off. Central Semitic is char-
acterized especially by a new form of the verb to express the imperfective
aspect, *yafʕalu, an innovation vis-à-vis the Proto-Semitic imperfective form
*yaḳattal that we find in Akkadian, Ethiopic, and the Modern South Arabian
languages.24 The languages in which the Proto-Semitic form has been aban-
doned and replaced by *yafʕalu must have shared a common ancestor, which
is labelled Central Semitic. (The remaining languages of West Semitic, which
did not replace yaḳattal with yafʕalu, and which exhibit shared retentions but
no significant new common innovations,25 constitute what in biological classi-
fication schemes would be termed a “paraphyletic” group, that is, a group that
contains its most recent common ancestor, but not all of the descendants of
that ancestor.)
This model is the consensus among the majority of Semitists today.26 In a
paper some years ago I reviewed some fifteen features that are shared by the
Central Semitic languages, and only by those languages.27 Of those fifteen, I
suggested that at least five could be considered shared innovations, the rest
being, probably, the result of diffusion or, less often, shared retentions.
This approach to subgrouping thus establishes that Arabic is part of Central
Semitic and that its closest genetic relatives are the Northwest Semitic lan-
guages and the Ancient South Arabian languages.28 In addition, the diffusion of
a number of other features, some of which will be considered below, indicates
that Arabic, or at least parts of the early Arabic dialect continuum (along with
Ancient South Arabian), also participated in two distinct linguistic areas (or
Sprachbunde), probably at different times: the first included some of the Cen-
tral Semitic languages spoken to the north of Arabic, especially southern forms
of Canaanite and of Aramaic (to account, e.g., for the syntax of the definite arti-
24 In highlighting this feature, Hetzron was preceded by V. Christian 1919–1920, 1944.

25 See, however, Kogan 2011b: 244–246, who argues that innovations in the lexicon of Ethio-
pian Semitic mark it as a distinctive genetic subgroup within Semitic.
26 See Rubin 2008 and Huehnergard and Rubin 2011 for surveys of classification schemes.
There are still some scholars who prefer the earlier model, for example, Corriente 2012:
1, who blithely dismisses four decades of scholarship that have swayed the majority of
Semitists as “a fad.”
27 Huehnergard 2005.
28 Hetzron did not originally include Ancient South Arabian in Central Semitic, but it has
since been established that Sabaic also has the yafʕalu form as its imperfective verb; see
Nebes 1994.
cle); the second included some of the nearby non-Central Semitic languages
to the south and east of Arabic, the ancestors of the Modern South Arabian
languages and of the Ethiopian languages (to account, e.g., for the diffusion of
certain broken plural patterns).29
It is from Central Semitic, then, that we will proceed in our attempt to
determine what is specifically characteristic of Arabic. In this approach, the
question “What is Arabic?” is the same as “What are the innovative features of
Proto-Arabic?” or, more explicitly, “What are the innovations vis-à-vis common
Central Semitic that are shared by all of, and only, what we call Arabic?”
But before we do proceed, we must decide what to count as Arabic. In partic-
ular, we must consider the status of the inscriptional varieties that are usually
lumped together under the label “Ancient North Arabian” (ANA).30 These have
long been very poorly understood. A real problem is that, although there are
tens of thousands of inscriptions, most of them are simple graffiti, names with a
patronymic or an epithet or a brief prayer. Thus, much of the grammar remains
unknown. But there has been some superb work on these dialects of late, espe-
cially by M. Macdonald, H. Hayajneh, and A. Al-Jallad. In a fundamental paper,
Macdonald (2000: 29–30) emphasizes that the Ancient North Arabian dialects
are not the same as Arabic: “it is now clear that Ancient North Arabian rep-
resents a linguistic strain which, while closely related to Arabic, was distinct
from it.” Hayajneh (2011: 760) refers to the northern Arabian peninsula during
the first millennium bce as a “linguistic area [with] several linguistic levels or
strata.” More recently, Al-Jallad goes still further, and questions “the validity of
ANA as a genetic category,” stating that “there are no shared innovations con-
necting the languages attested in the ANA scripts together against Arabic.”31
For now, therefore, the Ancient North Arabian material will be left out of con-
sideration as we explore what it is that makes Arabic distinct. We will return to
this question at the end of the paper.
Even leaving aside Ancient North Arabian, what do we include in the term
“Arabic”? It is by now well established that “Classical Arabic”—whatever we
include in that term—is just one of many forms of Arabic, and not the ancestor
of all of the others.32 Indeed, as is well known, even the grammar of the con-
29 For a more detailed study of the participation of Arabic in (micro) linguistic areas, see
Al-Jallad 2013.
30 We may also note here the various possible attestations of early forms of Arabic in texts
in other languages such as Akkadian and Northwest Semitic; see, e.g., Israel 2006.
31 Al-Jallad, this volume; similarly Al-Jallad 2014, esp. n. 12.
32 On the meaning of “Classical Arabic” see, multos inter alios, Retsö 2011, who suggests (783)
that the term be restricted to “the explicit system of rules established by the grammarians.
12 huehnergard
sonantal text of the Qurʔān (the rasm) differs from that of its vocalization;
both of those in turn exhibit features different from those of the various pre-
Islamic Arabic inscriptions, what Macdonald terms “Old Arabic.”33 And none
of those can be considered Proto-Arabic, that is, the ultimate ancestor of all the
other forms of Arabic.34 A reconstructed Proto-Arabic must, by definition, be
ancestral to all of these;35 it must also be ancestral to the many modern forms
of Arabic, which also exhibit several features in common that are not found in
the classical language.36
J. Owens rightly insists that we should try to reconstruct the ancestors of
the modern colloquial dialects without assuming that they are all descended
from the classical language.37 The idea is not unprecedented: there have been
similar efforts to reconstruct proto-forms of some of the modern Aramaic lan-
guages, none of which descends from any of the many written forms of Aramaic
at our disposal. Outside of Semitic, a very instructive parallel is offered by the
Romance languages. Historical linguists have been working on the reconstruc-
tion of Proto-Romance for over a century. And Proto-Romance is not the same
as Latin: it has a reduced case system,38 no neuter, a different verbal system.
Yet no one disputes that the Romance languages descend from Latin; it is just
Strictly speaking, Classical Arabic is then a variant within the Arabiyya”; “Classical Arabic,
or more properly the Arabiyya …, is thus a large complex with considerable variation
represented by the language of the old poetry, the Qurʾān, the Classical norm, and Modern
Standard Arabic.” W. Heinrichs (email of 22.05.2010) notes that “the classical language”
has several uses or meanings: “any non-colloquial fuṣḥā from the beginning of attested
literature up till today; (b) the counterpart of ‘pre-classical Arabic’ (Wolfdietrich Fischer),
the latter ruling from the beginnings roughly up to the end of the Umayyad period; (c) any
pre-modern fuṣḥā.”
33 Macdonald 2000: 61, 2007; Al-Jallad 2014.
34 And the various forms of “Middle Arabic,” whether we mean written Arabic that is
intended to be fuṣḥā but that exhibits intrusions of colloquial features, or simply writ-
ten medieval Arabic more generally. See Blau 2002: 49; Khan 2011: 817; Al-Jallad 2012a: 407.
35 Similarly Al-Jallad 2014, n. 9: “Proto-Arabic must exclusively refer to the reconstructed
ancestor of all the varieties of Arabic.”
36 See Larcher 2010; Watson 2011a.
37 Owens 2006: 8–13 and passim.
38 Old French, for example, preserves a two-case system (Pope 1934: 308–314; Cohen 1973:
111–112) which, of course, eventually disappears. On Late Latin and its development into
various Romance languages, see Vincent 1988; Posener 1996, especially 104–138. Many
modern Germanic languages do not inflect for case (except the genitive), while others do,
and yet we do not reconstruct two separate forms of Proto-Germanic, with and without
cases.
not the Latin of Cicero, but rather a continuum of spoken forms of Latin that
peek through the later stages of the written language. The modern colloquial
forms of Arabic likewise do not descend directly from the classical written lan-
guage. I cannot, however, agree with Owens that the colloquials derive from an
ancestor or ancestors that existed from the Proto-Semitic period alongside the
classical language.39 There are undoubtedly several Proto-Neo-Arabics along-
side the classical form of the language,40 in a dialect continuum in which—just
like today—those that were in contact influenced each other, and each was
influenced by, and had its influence on, the classical literary language. But stan-
dard comparative-linguistic methodology requires that all of these—the sev-
eral Proto-Neo-Arabic strains, the classical literary language, the pre-classical
poetic language, the forms of Middle Arabic—that all of these various forms of
Arabic do descend from a single entity that we can label Proto-Arabic, an entity
that itself is a unique descendant of Central Semitic.
(Also unlike Owens, I believe that in any reconstruction of Proto-Neo-Arabic,
we must also take substrate influence into account, even when we are not sure
what that substrate influence might have looked like. A parallel is offered by
Akkadian. There are what Assyriologists call peripheral dialects of Akkadian,
dialects that were written by individuals well outside the core area in which
Akkadian was originally spoken. Some of those may be purely written dialects,
but some of them were certainly spoken. But those dialects betray clear evi-
dence of their writers’ native languages, and any features they exhibit that
are not in the Mesopotamia dialects might be due to influence from those
linguistic substrates, at a much later date than the “proto” period. Thus, we
should not include those dialects in any first attempt to reconstruct Proto-
Akkadian. We should start, instead, with the dialects where Akkadian origi-
nated, in Mesopotamia. I believe that a similar approach will be most effective
in reconstructing Proto-Arabic, namely, to start with the dialects that are likely
to be those where Arabic first emerged as a distinct language; this will include
the Arabic of the peninsula, but equally, as Al-Jallad has convincingly shown,
what he terms Ancient Levantine Arabic.41 Even there one undoubtedly has
to contend with influence from contact with speakers of Aramaic, with speak-
39 Owens 2006: 115. See also above, n. 8.

40 Note, for example, Al-Jallad’s Ancient Levantine Arabic, which, although also later influ-
enced by both the literary language and other spoken dialects, may be considered ances-
tral to today’s Syro-Levantine dialects; see Al-Jallad 2012a: 379.
41 Al-Jallad (2012a: 379) persuasively argues that “Arabic has a long linguistic history in the
Levant prior to the Islamic period,” and that “Arabic moved into the Peninsula during the
first few centuries of the Common Era.”
14 huehnergard
ers of the various Ancient South Arabian languages, and with speakers of the
ancestors of Mehri and the like.42 But those influences are also possible in the
classical language, and are near the time period in which we would place our
Proto-Arabic.)
Before we can examine what this Proto-Arabic looks like, we must first review
some of the features that Arabic has inherited from common Central Semitic.43
For the most part, we need not consider features that derive from earlier nodes,
common West Semitic, and Proto-Semitic itself, features such as the broken
plurals and the fāʕala measure.
1. Tense-Mood-Aspect system. Not only the imperfective verb yafʕalu, but the
entire classical Arabic Tense-Mood-Aspect system, with jussive yafʕal, subjunc-
tive yafʕala, and energic forms yafʕalan(na), can be reconstructed to common
Central Semitic. All of the forms, and most of their functions, can be found in
Ugaritic, in the Canaanite-Akkadian texts from el-Amarna, and in early Bibli-
cal Hebrew (Sabaic, too, exhibits most of these forms). A feature that may be
characteristic specifically of Arabic is the function of yafʕala as a marked sub-
junctive form. Apart from the latter, however, the Tense-Mood-Aspect system
of the classical language is similar enough to what we reconstruct for Common
Central Semitic that it is undoubtedly also a feature of Proto-Arabic. The quite
different Tense-Mood-Aspect systems in the modern colloquials must there-
fore reflect later developments. Since they are so similar to one another, some
of those developments may have occurred in one or more common ancestors,
even though the actual morphological elements may differ in the individual
colloquials (for example, for the new imperfectives), and are therefore not nec-
essarily themselves part of those ancestors. (Alternatively, the similar arrange-
ment may be the result of diffusion.)
2. The first-common-plural independent pronoun *naḥnū ̆ ‘we’ is a Central

Semitic innovation. For Proto-Semitic we must reconstruct *niḥnū ̆ with i in the
first syllable. The final u of *naḥnū ̆ is inherited from Proto-Semitic, where the
42 See, e.g., Holes 2006. We might even add, perhaps, contact with speakers of Akkadian, if
the late Babylonian king Nabonidus (ruled ca. 556–539bce), who lived in Taymāʔ for a
time and who is mentioned in a few “North Arabian” inscriptions from Taymāʔ (Hayajneh
2001a, 2001b; Müller and al-Said 2002), still spoke Akkadian rather than Aramaic. Holes
2006: 31 also notes a number of possible Akkadian lexical vestiges in the Arabic of the
Gulf area.
43 The following paragraphs are a summary of Huehnergard 2005.
enclitic 1cp element, on the suffix-conjugation, also ended in -ū ̆ ; in other words,
the suffix-conjugation 1cp form in Proto-Semitic, and in Proto-Central Semitic,
was *samiʕnū ̆ . The accusative form of the 1cp element, on the other hand, had
final -ā ̆, as in *naθ̣ ara-nā ̆ ‘he watched us’. Most of the Semitic languages levelled
one or the other of these vowels through all cases: ā in Aramaic and Ethiopic,
ū in Canaanite. In classical Arabic, of course, ā was levelled everywhere except
the independent form naḥnu, while in the colloquial dialects, the levelling has
been taken to its conclusion, as in the other languages, so that the independent
form likewise usually has final a, as in nəḥna.44
3. In Proto-Semitic the endings of the suffix-conjugation in the first- and

second-persons were *-kū ̆ , *-tā ̆, *-tī;̆ it is likely that these were also endings
in common Central Semitic, although all of the descendant languages have
levelled either t or k throughout. The kaškaša dialects of Arabic are usually
thought to be due to contact with Ancient or Modern South Arabian languages.
Perhaps, however, Proto-Arabic, like Proto-Central Semitic, retained the het-
erogenous set of endings, and the levelling occurred as an areal phenomenon
across southern Arabic dialects and the other languages.
4. An interesting feature of Central Semitic is the phonotactics of the gem-

inate roots. Forms such as classical Arabic yaruddu ‘he returns’ reflect the
operation of a Proto-Central Semitic sound rule that metathesized the sec-
ond root consonant and the theme-vowel: *yardudu > yaruddu. The forms
with the geminated radical were levelled through most of the modern collo-
quials. Forms of the perfect with a diphthong or long vowel before the suffix,
like ḥaṭṭayna ‘we placed’ (Damascus), which are normative in many colloqui-
als, are already attested in pre-classical texts, and similar forms are found in
ancient Hebrew;45 the analogical source of these forms is fairly obvious (bánā
: banáyna :: ḥáṭṭa : X = ḥaṭṭáyna), however, so we should probably not rush to
assign them to common Central Semitic; they may well be parallel develop-
ments.46
44 As the form nǝḥna shows, some Arabic colloquials have forms with i, or a reflex of *i, in the
first syllable; these are probably the result of later sound changes, however; see Al-Jallad
2012a: 285–286.
45 E.g., tǝsubbeynā ‘they (f) were surrounding’ < *tatsubb-ay-nā ̆.
46 The opposite seems to have happened in Safaitic, where III-w/y roots are reanalyzed as
geminates in the D-stem, thus, ġzy but ġzz, qṣy but qṣṣ, ḥlw but ḥll, etc. (Al-Jallad 2015:
§ 5.6.1.b).
16 huehnergard
5. Another Proto-Central Semitic sound rule is the change of w to y after i.

This rule caused a number of roots that were originally III-w to exhibit forms
that were III-y; thus, e.g., we find raḍiya rather than the original *raḍiwa. Some
Central Semitic languages, such as Ugaritic and Sabaic, show much variability
in these roots; in Ugaritic, for example, in the verb that is cognate with Arabic
ʔatā ‘to come’, we find suffix-conjugation /ʾatawat/ ‘she arrived’, but prefix-
conjugation /taʔtiyū/ ‘they (m.) arrived’. In Arabic the conditioned alternation
of final root consonants was generally levelled through, leaving only remnants
of the original w; thus, raḍiya is consistently III-y, but has a maṣdar riḍwān. (In
some roots, the maṣdar also exhibits the y, as in ʔityān, though even here there
is a derived noun with w, ʔitāwa.) The colloquial dialects, again, have levelled
still further, to fewer types of III-weak root, as has also happened in Aramaic
and, to an even greater extent, in Hebrew.47
6. Proto-Central Semitic exhibited a characteristic distribution of vowels in the

prefixes of the prefix-conjugation of the G (Form I), known to Hebraists as the
Barth–Ginsberg Law: if the theme vowel was u or i, the prefix had a, whereas
if the theme vowel was a, the prefix had i: thus, yaktub, yaʔsir, but yirkab.48
Hebrew preserves this distribution only in a number of weak verb types (verbs
I-guttural, geminate verbs, and hollow verbs); otherwise, the prefix with i has
been levelled throughout the sound verb, as also happened in Aramaic. Only
in Arabic do we see the levelling of the a prefix, as in the classical language,
although even there we find a few vestiges of the earlier distribution, such
as ʔiḫālu ‘I think’ and variant dialectal forms of some I-w verbs, such is tījalu
‘you are afraid’; some modern colloquials, such as Najdi, also preserve this
distribution ( yaktib ‘he writes’ vs. yismaʕ ‘he hears’).49 And some early dialects
and many modern colloquials exhibit taltala, that is, levelling to i, as in yiktub,
like Hebrew and Aramaic.50
7. Internal reconstruction suggests that Proto-Central Semitic had the same

relative clause marker as Proto-Semitic. This was a form with the same shape
47 Macdonald (2000: 49, 2004: 509) notes that Safaitic preserves both the final radical of
III-weak verbs and, sometimes at least, the original distinction between III-w and III-y
verbs.
48 See Hasselbach 2004. More recently, however, Bar-Asher (2008) has argued that this
distribution goes back to Proto-Semitic, not to a Proto-Central Semitic innovation.
49 Bloch 1967; Ingham 1984: 20; Behnstedt and Woidich 2005: 13.
50 Rabin 1951: 61; Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 62; Grand’Henry 1990 (my thanks to A. Magidow
for the last reference).
and declension (in the singular) of the classical Arabic word ðū. Only in Arabic
does this word develop into a noun meaning ‘possessing, owner of’. But even
that development cannot be assigned to Proto-Arabic, because the grammari-
ans tell us that some of the early dialects preserved the form ðū or its genitive
ðī in its original function as a relative marker. The relative d of some modern
colloquials is probably also a reflex of this old form.51
The classical Arabic relative (a)llaðī was presumably a demonstrative pro-
noun originally, to judge by the parallel Hebrew form hallāz(e) ‘this/that’. The
unusual formation of these words in Arabic and Hebrew—the article plus the
asservative particle *la plus the old demonstrative base *ðv̄ —strongly suggests
that it is a Proto-Central Semitic innovation. Its use as a new relative particle,
however, is a specifically Arabic development, though perhaps not one that can
be assigned to Proto-Arabic, in view of the continued use of the earlier ðū in
some old (and perhaps modern) varieties of Arabic.52
8. One of the most intriguing developments of the Central Semitic languages

is the definite article. Since an article is lacking in Akkadian and in classical
Ethiopic, it is clear that Proto-Semitic did not have a definite article. And
since some of the Central Semitic languages, such as Ugaritic and the language
of the Deir ʕAllā inscription,53 also lack an article, we must conclude that
Proto-Central Semitic likewise had no definite article. In the Central Semitic
languages that do exhibit an article, it has a variety of shapes:
Hebrew: hab-bayit ‘the house’; b-ab-bayit ‘in the house’

Arabic: al-bayt ‘the house’; ar-rajul ‘the man’; li-r-rajul ‘to the man’
Aramaic: bayt-ā (earlier */bayt-aˀ/) ‘the house’
Ancient South Arabian: ⟨BYTN⟩ /bayt-ān/ ‘the house’
51 On ð- relatives in ancient and modern colloquials, see Behnstedt 1987: 84–85 (north
Yemen); Watson 2011a: 861, 865; Al-Jallad 2013: 235. Eksell 2009, however, suggests that d-
particles (as genitive exponents) in Syro-Mesopotamian Arabic dialects may be borrowed
from Aramaic. In expressions such as man ðā and mā ðā, too, the second element is prob-
ably a frozen form of the Semitic relative; see Huehnergard 2005: 186–189; Huehnergard
and Pat-El 2007.
52 Al-Jallad (p.c.) suggests that perhaps “the ˀallaḏī forms were typical of the Ḥiǧāzī forms of
Arabic, since the only ancient attestation comes from Dadān.”
53 Other Central Semitic languages without a definite article are the Northwest Semitic
language of the Zincirli inscriptions and, possibly, the Ancient North Arabian language
Hismaic. See Macdonald 2004: 518, Al-Jallad 2014.
18 huehnergard
But the article does have a remarkably consistent syntax, and recent studies
have made a good case that, despite that variety of forms, the article in those
languages descends from a common Proto-Central Semitic ancestor, a presen-
tative particle, probably with the byforms *hā- and *han-, that was originally
used to mark nominal attributives.54 Thus, although a definite article per se
is not a feature of Proto-Central Semitic, the presentative particle is, as is the
beginning of the process that led to an article in the various descendant lan-
guages.
We are now finally in a position to consider a number of features as possible

shared innovations of Proto-Arabic, features found throughout Arabic that are
not features of common Central Semitic, that is, that are innovative features
of Proto-Arabic vis-à-vis its most immediate ancestor. It should be emphasized
that this is not intended as a complete list.55 The features mentioned below are
found in the classical language, and usually in the modern colloquials as well,
though not in every case. We will then review a few features that are common
to the modern forms of Arabic but missing from the classical. The lexicon is
absent from both lists; I have not discussed the lexicon throughout this paper,
because vocabulary is so easily borrowed, and it is so difficult to establish the
lexicon of an ancestral language such as Proto-Central Semitic.56
1. Pronunciation of the emphatic consonants. There is an emerging consen-

sus that the emphatic consonants of early Semitic were not uvularized or
velarized,57 as in Arabic, but rather glottalic, as in Ethiopic, in the Modern
South Arabian languages, and probably also in Akkadian and early Northwest
Semitic.58 Thus, the pronunciation of these consonants in Arabic is atypical,
and undoubtedly the result of an innovation.59 Since it is common to nearly
all forms of Arabic,60 it can be labelled a Proto-Arabic feature. By the same
54 See especially Pat-El 2009; also Rubin 2005: 72–81; Huehnergard 2005; Hasselbach 2007.
55 Al-Jallad (2014 § 2), e.g., adds to this list “the development of the new subordinating
conjunction *tay and the form *ḥattay ‘until’.”
56 But see Kogan 2011b: 242–249 for a strong defense of incorporating the lexicon into the
calculus of classification.
57 For this depiction of the Arabic pronunciation of the emphatics, rather than pharyngeal-
ized, see Heinrichs 2012.
58 The most recent survey of the evidence is Kogan 2011a: 59–61.
59 See, e.g., Zemánek 1996.
60 W. Heinrichs (p.c.) kindly reminds me that the Arabic of the Ḫarga Oasis in Egypt exhibits
ejective [t’] and [q’]; see Behnstedt 1980: 243. In the peninsular dialect of Zabīd, q is
sometimes realized as [k’]; see Watson 2011b: 899.
token, the standard Arabic pronunciation of the reflex of the earlier Semitic
velar emphatic, *ḳ, as a voiceless uvular /q/ is also innovative.61 Further, as
W. Heinrichs (2012) has recently argued, the voiced pronunciation of q in
various modern colloquials, either as a uvular /G/ or, more often, as a velar
/g/ (i.e., gāf rather than qāf ), is also probably ancient, and to be explained as
simply an alternative development of earlier *ḳ when the emphatics became
uvularized (the presence or absence of voicing being subphonemic in the
pronunciation of these consonants).
2. The merger of Proto-Semitic *s and *ts (or *s1 and *s3) is also a feature of all
forms of Arabic.62 The same merger occurs in late Sabaic inscriptions (Sima
2001, 2004; Stein 2003: 26–27), however, and it is unclear whether these are
related phenomena.63 The merger is not found otherwise in the neighboring
Ancient South Arabian or Modern South Arabian languages.64
3. Central Semitic preserved two forms of the first singular pronoun from
Common Semitic, *ʔanā ̆ and *ʔanākū ̆ . A minor common Arabic feature is the
loss of the longer of those forms. This loss is shared with Aramaic, presumably
an independent development in each, unless the loss of the longer form in
Arabic is the result of contact with Aramaic.
4. The feminine singular demonstrative element t-, as in tilka, hātā, (ʔ)allatī, is

found almost nowhere else in Semitic.65 It may be a bizarre remnant from Afro-
Asiatic, since feminine demonstrative t occurs in ancient Egyptian. More likely,
however, it reflects a levelling and reanalysis of the feminine nominal ending
-(a)t,66 and is thus an interesting Arabic innovation.
61 On Arabic /q/ see Edzard 2008.

62 So also Mascitelli 2006: 19.
63 The merger of *s1 and *s3 also appears before the late period in the Amiritic (Haramic)
dialect of Sabaic, but there it is probably due to Arabic influence (Sima 2001; Stein 2013:
25–26, 42).
64 The same merger occurred in Safaitic as well as in most of the other Ancient North
Arabian dialects; see further below. Proto-Semitic *s and *ts also merged in Proto-Ethiopic,
a presumably independent development.
65 M. Macdonald points out (p.c.) that a relative particle t appears in late Sabaic inscriptions;
see also Stein 2004: 237; Al-Jallad 2013: 232.
66 Hasselbach 2007: 3; differently Al-Jallad 2012a: 316–317, who suggests that a form *tay was
derived by reanalysis from matay ‘when?’. As noted by Al-Jallad (2013: 235), the element tī
appears already in ʔallatī in an early Arabic inscription found at Dadān.
20 huehnergard
5. In both Akkadian and Sabaic, singular unbound nouns ended in *-m, that is,
have mimation, *baytum, while duals and external masculine plurals end in *-n.
The same distribution of endings undoubtedly obtained in both Proto-Semitic
and Proto-Central Semitic. The presence of nunation—tanwīn—on singular
nouns is unique to Arabic,67 and is presumably a levelling of the n of the dual
and the plural ending that was inherited from Central Semitic.68
6. In both Proto-Semitic and Proto-Central Semitic the feminine singular

marker on nouns had two partly unpredictable allomorphs, *-at and *-t;69 only
in Arabic to we find these allomorphs levelled to the former (with very few
exceptions, such as bin-t and ʔuḫ-t).70
7. In the perfect of the verb in Arabic, the 3rd feminine plural in -na, faʕalna,
is almost unique in Semitic, being found otherwise only in Qatabanic (Ancient
South Arabian). Most of the other Semitic languages preserve the original 3fp
ending *-ā. The source of Arabic -na is obvious, namely, analogy with the prefix-
conjugation forms: yafʕalū : yafʕalna :: faʕalū : X, so perhaps it should not be
assigned too much weight as a diagnostic feature. (The feminine plural is lost
in many modern colloquials, but it is preserved in rural and Bedouin dialects
across the Arabic-speaking world.71)
8. The specialization of the form mafʕūl as a passive participle is a specifically

Arabic development (and Safaitic; see further below). There are examples of
mafʕūl as a passive form elsewhere in Semitic, for example Hebrew maspūnîm,
‘treasures’ < ‘hidden things’, but its use as the paradigmatic passive participle is
unique to Arabic.
67 The final n of the definite article in Ancient South Arabian is unrelated to tanwīn.
68 Mascitelli (2006: 256) mentions the forms ʔibnum(un) and fam(un), which may also
preserve the old mimation. The very early Qaryat al-Fāw inscription (1st century bce?)
exhibits a few forms with final -m, at least one of which is almost certainly a vestige
of ancient mimation rather than an enclitic -m (as was argued by Beeston 1979). If the
inscription is indeed ancient Arabic, then the change to n would not quite be Proto-Arabic.
But Al-Jallad (2014) presents cogent arguments that the inscription exhibits no shared
innovations that characterize Arabic and, thus, that it should not be considered Arabic.
69 See, however, Steiner 2012, for a proposed historical development to account for the
distribution of these allomorphs.
70 Huehnergard 2005: 167–168; see also Al-Jallad this volume §5.2.
71 Diem 1973: 13; Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 119–120; Behnstedt and Woidich 2005: 43.
9. Arabic is also unique in not having a specific paradigmatic infinitive in the

basic stem (Form I),72 instead having a large set of maṣdars. Many of the forms
of the maṣdars are attested in the other Semitic languages, but the absence of
a paradigmatic form is an interesting development.
10. The G internal passive prefix-conjugation form yufʕal is also common Cen-
tral Semitic. But the vowel melody of the suffix-conjugation forms, u~i as in
fuʕila, ʔufʕila, etc., is specifically Arabic (vs. *ḳuttal in Northwest Semitic; note
also the verbal adjective patterns ḳatil/ḳattul in East Semitic).
11. The particle qad, as in qad faʕala, is probably a grammaticalized form of

the root qadama ‘to precede’.73 If we compare the classical Ethiopic tandem
verb construction ḳadama baṣḥa ‘he arrived first’, it is not difficult to see how
the first verb might be grammaticalized as a marked perfective or marked
preterite form.74 The semantic grammaticalization was accompanied, as is
often the case, by phonetic reduction of *qadama > qad.75 The qad faʕala
construction is common in early Arabic, of course; it is also found in a few
of the modern colloquials of the peninsula, such as Najdi gid/ǧid, and in
some Yemeni dialects.76 It also appears once in a Safaitic text (Al-Jallad 2015:
§ 5.1.2.b).
72 W. Heinrichs suggests (p.c.) that “one might perhaps say that faʕlun is the default infini-
tive. This is indicated by (a) the fact that faʕlun is normally used with 1st-form denomina-
tive verbs (kabadahū kabdan ‘he hit/wounded him in the liver’), and (2) the ism al-marra
of the 1st verb stem is faʕlatun (since with derived verb stems the ism al-marra is simply
formed by adding the feminine ending -atun to the infinitive [ibtisāmun ‘smiling’ vs. ibtisā-
matun ‘one smile’], faʕlatun points to an infinitve faʕlun).” If we accept this, the default
usage of faʕl would also be a development; the usual infinitive forms in other Central
Semitic languages are faʕāl (Hebrew, Ugaritic; also in Akkadian), fiʕl (Hebrew, Ugaritic),
fuʕ(u)l (Hebrew), though we may note also forms such as Hebrew ʔahăbā ‘to love’, a faʕlat
form; for Ugaritic, see Tropper 2012: 480–490.
73 Alternatively, as W. Heinrichs reminds me (p.c.), qad may derive from (accusative) qidman,
which appears in ancient texts in the same function as qad.
74 Similarly in Syriac, e.g., qaddem w-ḥawwi ‘he showed previously’, qaddemt ʔemret ‘I
said beforehand’ (Nöldeke 1898: 262 § 335, 264 § 337A); note also North-Eastern Neo-
Aramaic qǝm-qāṭǝl as a perfective past, with qǝm probably from qdam (Khan 2012: 224–
225).
75 This process was already suggested by de Lagarde 1889, but the grammaticalization aspect
is now much clearer.
76 Ingham 1984: 104–107; Holes 2006: 26–27.
22 huehnergard
12. As Mascitelli has pointed out (2006: 19), the preposition fī, presumably
derived from the noun ‘mouth’, is unique to Arabic (and Safaitic; see further
below).
13. Throughout Semitic the third-person pronouns are also used as anaphoric
or remote demonstratives, as in Akkadian šarrum šū or Hebrew hammélek
ha-hûʔ for ‘that king’. Indeed, it is likely that the anaphoric meaning is the
original. Only Arabic and the Modern South Arabian languages do not use
these pronouns for remote deixis.77 The non-use of 3rd-person pronouns in
this way thus seems to be a Proto-Arabic feature.78 The same feature in Modern
South Arabian may indicate an areal phenomenon, or a parallel development,
or influence from Arabic.
14. As shown by N. Pat-El (2014), Classical Arabic exhibits innovative morpho-

syntax in its relative clause constructions (as presented by the grammarians),
viz., rajulun raʔaytu(hū) and ar-rajulu llaðī raʔaytu vs. the common Semitic
patterns that would yield Arabic rajulu raʔaytu and rajulun allaðī raʔaytu (i.e.,
{construct plus clause} or {non-construct plus relative pronoun plus clause}).79
Two other typical Arabic features are the relative pronoun allaðī and the form
al- for the definite article.80 But neither of these can be assigned to Proto-
Arabic, since they are not found in all forms of Arabic. As noted earlier, reflexes
of the ancient Semitic relative *ðū persist in various ancient (and perhaps mod-
ern) forms of Arabic. And it is well known that the article in some Yemeni
dialects, both ancient and modern, is am- or an-.81 Further, the assimilation
77 Hasselbach 2007 also includes Aramaic and Ugaritic among the languages that do not use
the anaphoric pronouns for remote deixis; there are, however, examples in Ugaritic (Trop-
per 2012: 212–213 § 41.132), and, as she herself notes, examples in various Aramaic dialects.
78 Hasselbach 2007: 16 plausibly suggests that the use of the anaphoric pronoun to express
remote deixis is a later development than the use of forms that are based on the forms used
for near deixis (such as Arabic ðālika), because the latter are found vestigially in many
languages alongside the former. Nevertheless, the demonstrative use of the anaphoric
pronouns across all branches of Semitic indicates that it is also a feature of Proto-Semitic,
one that was lost in the languages that do not exhibit it.
79 There are exceptions, however, that conform to the common Semitic type; see Retsö 2006:
28. See also the paper of L. Edzard in this volume.
80 Also in Safaitic and, perhaps, Dadanitic; see Al-Jallad 2014. On Safaitic, see further below.
81 Rabin 1951: 34–36, 50–51; Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 121; Beeston 1981: 185–186; Behnstedt
1987: 85–87; Rubin 2005: 78; Al-Jallad 2014. My thanks to N. Pat-El for some of these
references.
of the l to the following consonant is not consistent: it assimilates to all conso-

nants in some dialects, not at all in some ancient dialects, and there are many
permutations between these extremes.82 Thus the form of the article in Proto-
Arabic may have been variable.83
As is well known, the modern Arabic colloquials share a number of fea-
tures that are not found in the classical language, or found only marginally, and
Arabists have discussed these features and their significance at some length.84
Some of the features that are shared by many of the colloquials may be inher-
ited from earlier Semitic,85 and thus they would also constitute part of Proto-
Arabic even though they do not appear in the classical language. A number of
these have already been mentioned, namely:
1. the taltala forms yifʕul;

2. the kaškaša dialects; and
3. forms such as ḥaṭṭayna.
Other possible examples are the following:
82 See, e.g., Behnstedt 1987: 85; Macdonald 2000: 51; Al-Jallad 2014 §2, this volume §5.5.
83 Another possible feature is the common Arabic negative mā, which is not regularly found
elsewhere in Semitic. It probably developed out of the interrogative mā that is found
throughout Central Semitic (and occasionally in Akkadian), although the precise path
of the development remains uncertain; see Rubin 2005: 50; Al-Jallad 2012b; Pat-El 2012
(pace Faber 1991, who considers mā to be a vestige of an Afro-Asiatic negative marker).
As these writers note, however, instances of negative mā(h) are also attested sporadically
in Northwest Semitic languages; thus, the development is a Central Semitic one, which
Arabic has simply expanded. A. Al-Jallad (email of 30.11.2013) also reports the occurrence
of negative m in a mixed Hismaic–Safaitic inscription (KRS 2543).
Still other specifically Arabic features are suggested by Retsö (2013: 439–440). Among
them he notes form IX ifʕalla as “found only within the Arabic complex”; there are, how-
ever, similar forms in Akkadian (the rare R stem) and in Biblical Hebrew (e.g., šaʔǎnan ‘to
be at ease’ and adjectives such as *ʔadumm- ‘red’), and so the form must be reconstructed
for Proto-Semitic. Similarly the more widespread use of the dual in classical Arabic (on
pronouns, adjectives, and verbs) is found not only in Ancient South Arabian languages, as
noted by Retsö, but also in Old Akkadian and in Ugaritic. (The discussion of this feature
in Watson 2011a: 861 must also be corrected; Classical Arabic forms mirror those of Old
Akkadian.) The negative mā is also attested in Safaitic (Al-Jallad 2015: 156).
84 See the summary in Watson 2011: 859–862.
85 See also the paper of N. Pat-El in this volume for additional features. The preservation
of earlier features in colloquials is a well-known phenomenon; cf. colloquial English ʾem
(as in We found ʾem), a vestige of Old/Middle English him/hem, as an alternative to the
standard them, which was borrowed from Norse; see Greenbaum 1996: 167.
24 huehnergard
4. Independent third person pronouns such as Bišmizzen huwwi, hiyyi and

Bīr Zēt hūte, hīte, which Al-Jallad (2012a: 283–285) has argued are reflexes
of ancient Semitic oblique forms of the pronouns (*suʔāti, *siʔāti).
5. The use of third person independent pronouns as copulas. This construc-
tion is possible in the classical language if the predicate is definite, as in
ʔulāʔika humu l-kāfirūna ‘those are the unbelievers’; but it does not seem
to be common in the classical language, whereas it is common in some
of the colloquials, as noted by Brustad (2000: 157–158), in sentences such
as (Egyptian Arabic) ʔana huwwa ʔinta ‘I am you’. Such constructions are
also common in Northwest Semitic languages and in Ethiopic, and their
frequency in the modern colloquials may reflect this earlier Semitic situ-
ation rather than an expansion of the classical usage.
6. In a number of colloquials, fī ‘in it’, originally fī-hi, is a particle that
expresses existence, ‘there is/are’.86 There are hints of these pseudo-verbs,
as Brustad (2000: 151–157) calls them, in classical and pre-classical texts,
but they have an exact analogue in classical Ethiopic, where bo or botu ‘in
it’ can even be construed with an accusative complement, like kāna. There
is also an Akkadian verb, bašûm, that means ‘to exist, be present’, a verb
without Semitic cognates unless we derive it from *ba-sū ̆ ‘in it’.87 Thus,
the use of ‘in it’ to express existence seems to be quite ancient in Semitic.
7. In some colloquials, the copula verb kān need not agree with its subject;88
similarly, some dialects allow a frozen 3ms pronoun to serve as a copula.
This may be an inner-Arabic development. But it is worth pointing out
that copula verbs elsewhere in Semitic, for example Hebrew (hāyā), Syriac
(ʔit-(h)wā), Sabaic (kwn), and Akkadian (ibašši ‘there is’), also tend to
occur as frozen 3ms forms regardless of the gender and number of their
subject.
8. Noun–noun modification by means of a genitive exponent. It is well
known that the Semitic languages are characterized by ʔiḍāfa, a con-
struct genitive chain for noun–noun modification. But a second construc-
tion for noun–noun modification must also be reconstructed for Proto-
Semitic, namely, the use of the bound form particle *ðū, as in *baytum ðū
baʕlim ‘the house of the lord’;89 in other words, in Proto-Semitic a noun
could fill the slot after *ðū as well as a clause. This construction is found
in every ancient Semitic language, and is preserved in classical Arabic in
86 Similarly in some Yemeni dialects, beh, boh (negative mā bīš/būš; Diem 1973: 17–18).
87 See, e.g., Rubin 2005: 45–46.
88 Brustad 2000: 260–261.
89 See Bar-Asher Siegal 2013, Pat-El 2014.
the use of ðū plus genitive in apposition to a preceding noun, imruʔun ðū

mālin ‘a man of wealth’, ar-rajulu ðū l-ḥilmi ‘the man of reason’.90 That con-
struction is not perceived as equivalent to the construct chain, however.
As is well known, many modern colloquials have a genitive exponent,91
and it may be that this common development reflects a successor to the
use of *ðū as such in earlier Semitic.
To conclude this paper, we return briefly to the inscriptional Ancient North

Arabian material, and ask whether there is any way to decide whether it, or
a subset of it, is part of Arabic, that is, whether any part of Ancient North
Arabian shares a common ancestor with Arabic, or instead constitutes a sep-
arate branch or set of branches of the Central Semitic group. As noted ear-
lier, what has been called Ancient North Arabian is in all likelihood a num-
ber of distinct languages that share the same script, but not necessarily any
genetic affiliation. According to Macdonald and Al-Jallad, several of these
languages—Taymanitic, Thamudic, and Dadanitic—exhibit various peculiar-
ities vis-à-vis Arabic; further study is needed to elucidate those features, and
we must, unfortunately, continue for now to leave them out of our considera-
tion of the parameters of what constitutes Arabic. But Safaitic, by far the most
commonly attested of these inscriptional languages, is becoming better under-
stood, and Al-Jallad notes that it does share a number of innovative features
with Arabic,92 namely:
1. the preposition f ‘in’;93

2. mfʕl as a frequent passive participle, though not as widespread as fʕl;94
90 Fischer 2006: 203 § 391a, 206 § 398.1.

91 See Eksell Harning 1980.
92 Al-Jallad (this volume) also notes that “Ḥismaic and Arabic share several interesting
isoglosses”; but he also points to a number of important differences, and so I have felt
it best to leave Ḥismaic out of consideration here.
93 Al-Jallad this volume.
94 Macdonald 2004: 517; Al-Jallad this volume. Note that the vocalization of the passive fʕl
adjective is sometimes /faʕīl/ and sometimes /faʕūl/ in early Greek transcriptions (see Al-
Jallad ibid. § 5.7); since the paradigmatic passive participle is *ḳatūl in Hebrew and *ḳatīl
in Aramaic, both forms must be reconstructed to Proto-Northwest Semitic; the Graeco-
Arabica forms indicate that both forms are to be reconstructed to Proto-Central Semitic
as well.
26 huehnergard
3. a feminine demonstrative element t;95

4. the use of lm yfʕl for past negation.96
These features are admittedly few in number, but they may suffice to indicate
that Safaitic shares a common ancestor with Arabic; that, in other words, it
is descendent from Proto-Arabic and may be considered a part of the Arabic
continuum.97 There are differences between Safaitic and the rest of Arabic,
however:98
1. Although the definite article in Safaitic is occasionally ʔl- or (with assim-

ilation of l) ʔ-, it is usually h-, as in other Ancient North Arabian lan-
guages.99
2. Safaitic exhibits 3ms perfects of middle-weak verbs that, curiously, exhibit
a medial w or y, such as ḥwr ‘he returned’ and myt ‘he died’.100
95 E.g., in ʔrḍ t ‘this land’ and tk h-gml ‘those are the camels’; for these and other examples,
see Al-Jallad 2015: § 4.9.
96 Note bġy l-ʔḫ-h f-lm yʕd ‘he sought his brother, but he did not return’ (Maʿani and Sadaqah
2002: 253, text 2; my thanks to A. Al-Jallad for this reference; on lm, see also Macdonald
2000: 49–50, 2004: 521); for another example, see Al-Jallad 2015: §8.1. While preterite
yafʕal is inherited from Central Semitic, the construction with lam is otherwise specific to
Arabic.
Note also the merger of Proto-Semitic *s (s1) and *ts (s3), which occurred in both
Arabic and Safaitic (Macdonald 2004: 499), but not, as noted above (n. 64), elsewhere
in Central Semitic. The same merger also occurred in most of the other Ancient North
Arabian languages (with the possible exception of Taymanitic, for which see Macdonald
1991, Müller and al-Said 2002).
97 The Safaitic analogues of the other innovative features of Arabic outlined above, such as
the particle qad, are unfortunately not yet attested.
98 Note that Safaitic also lacks the relative allaðī; see Al-Jallad 2013: 235.
99 See especially Al-Jallad 2014, § 3.1 (h). Macdonald (2000: 51; 2008: 471) suggests that the
texts in which ʔ(l)- appear are “Safaeo-Arabic mixed texts,” but Al-Jallad (ibid.; also this
volume, n. 28) argues that since “these texts all exhibit common Safaitic features” it is
preferable to see in them “a dialect of Safaitic which happens to use an ʔl- article.”
Livingstone (1997) has suggested that, in an Akkadian inscription of Tiglath-Pileser III
(ruled 744–727 bce), the writing SAL.ANŠE a-na-qa-a-te ‘she-camels’ exhibits a very early
example of the definite article; but even if correct, the form of the article is ambiguous,
either ha(n)-nāqāti or ʔan-nāqāti < ʔal-nāqāti. Further, Livingstone’s suggestion has been
disputed; see Hämeen-Anttila 2009.
100 Macdonald 2004: 509. According to Al-Jallad (this volume), these forms occur alongside
forms without the medial w or y, e.g., both myt and mt for ‘he died’. What is curious is
As Al-Jallad suggests, the most economical way to account for these facts is
to see the innovative features of either Safaitic or Classical Arabic as having
developed after the Proto-Arabic period.101 In other words, Safaitic would be
descendent from Proto-Arabic, but represent an early branching from the rest
of Arabic. The form of the definite article is not terribly significant, since, as we
have seen above, it was probably variable in Proto-Arabic.
In conclusion, we may suggest the following provisional branching for Cen-
tral Semitic, with Safaitic as an early offshoot from Proto-Arabic:
figure 1.3 Classification of Arabic
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pp. 851–896.
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pp. 897–908.
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chapter 2
How Conservative and How Innovating is Arabic?

Andrzej Zaborski †
As is well known, some 60 or 70 years ago the majority of Semitists was still con-
vinced that Classical Arabic was the most conservative or archaic and the most
typical or classical Semitic language. Then a pendulum effect took place—
Akkadian replaced Arabic and Arabic became classified as not conservative
and even the most innovating language among the Old Semitic languages. I
cannot present a history of the relevant research in this paper and I can only
emphasize that both rival interpretations of the relative chronology of the Old
Semitic have been developing simultaneously. Let me recall only some of the
most important historical events.
Edward Hincks, who was one of the first scholars to decipher the cuneiform
script and to read ‘Assyrian’ texts, called their language “Sanskrit of the Semitic
tongues” (Hincks 1866: 1). In 1878 Haupt (see also Haupt 1889: 252 and 262—at
that time Haupt was not quite convinced about the comparison with Sanskrit!)
proposed to identify the oldest verbal form in Semitic on the basis of the
Akkadian and Ethiopic ‘Present’ interpreted as iqátal and yěqátěl, i.e. with a
vowel after the first root consonant and without gemination of the second
root consonant since gemination was not always indicated in Akkadian (even
in D or qattala forms!) and it was left totally unmarked in Geʿez which was
known to 19th century Semitists mainly from written texts. It was Goetze (1942,
but see also 1936) who maintained that there had to be regular gemination
of the second root consonant in the Akkadian Present and this has been
finally accepted by von Soden in his authoritative ‘Grundzüge der akkadischen
Grammatik’ (1995, first edition in 1952) becoming one of the basic tenets not
only of Assyriology but of comparative Semitics in general. Also the main
tradition of reading Geʿez texts according to which gemination occurs regularly
in the Present/Imperfect of the G forms (for a later discussion see Voigt 1990)
has been generally accepted.
Haupt’s idea survived but for several different reasons (e.g. archaic phonol-
ogy and well preserved case system) Classical Arabic was considered to be the
most archaic or conservative Semitic language till about 1950 when gradually it
was dethroned under the impact of developments in Assyriology and in Hami-
tosemitic/Afroasiatic linguistics. The famous paper of 1950 by Otto Rössler
(who followed Christian 1919–1920 not to mention Marcel Cohen; Rössler was

36 zaborski
soon followed by Joseph Greenberg 1952) on the verb in ‘Semitohamitic’ (cf.

sharp but partially unjustified criticism by Klingenheben 1956) was among the
decisive influential publications which relegated Arabic, actually Classical Ara-
bic, to the position of ‘young Semitic’ (‘Jungsemitisch’) preceded in the rela-
tive chronology not only by Old Semitic Akkadian but also by the ‘first young
Semitic stage’ (‘Frühjungsemitisch’) represented, according to Christian and
Rössler (followed e.g. by Kienast 2001: 18–20), by Mehri and Geʿez. In the recent
big volume on the Semitic languages Weninger (2011) used Classical Arabic data
rather sparingly and did not mention Arabic among the Classical Semitic lan-
guages in his chapter entitled ‘Reconstructive morphology’ (p. 153) listing only
Akkadian, Hebrew, Aramaic and Geʿez although not only Aramaic, but also
Hebrew, even in its reconstructed pre-Masoretic version are less conservative
than Classical Arabic and both Biblical Hebrew and Aramaic with their inno-
vations are typologically closer to many innovating Neoarabic dialects.
It has to be emphasized also that since the beginning the fact the Akkadian
texts are by far the oldest records of a Semitic language has been used mainly by
philologically and historically oriented Assyriologists as a clear evidence that
Akkadian had to be the most archaic Semitic tongue. The fact that Akkadian
records are the oldest has been quite overestimated and it has been usually
neglected that the old age of records of any language does not automatically
mean that its structures are equally ancient. There are many examples of lan-
guages with very early records which are less conservative than their relatives
recorded much later, e.g. within the Afroasiatic or Hamitosemitic language
family Old Egyptian is definitely less archaic than Semitic, Berber and Cushitic
at least in the realm of verbal morphology since it must have lost the prefix con-
jugation.1 Very archaic languages and very innovating languages can coexist at
the same time so that today we have very innovating Neoaramaic and some
Neoethiosemitic (the latter with some notable archaisms!) and very conserva-
tive Modern Semitic of Southern Arabia (= MSSA, usually called ‘Modern South
Arabian’ which is misleading) and Ethiosemitic Tigre not to mention several
quite conservative modern dialects of Arabic—here I do not mention Mod-
ern Literary Arabic since for centuries it has been transmitted not in a natural
way, i.e. not as a spoken native language. In case of Indo-European very archaic
Lithuanian (especially conservative in its nominal morphology), Icelandic and
1 A hypothesis that prefix conjugations are an innovation of Semito-Berbero-Cushitic is less

probable especially when we realize that Egyptian has renewed its independent pronouns
and apart from the ‘Pseudoparticiple’ has largely lost second persons t and third persons y
morphemes.
how conservative and how innovating is arabic? 37
Slavonic languages coexist with Modern Scandinavian and Afrikaans, the latter
being the most analytic i.e. inflectionless Indo-European language.
The relative chronology of the verbal systems and their components has
been decisive in establishing the current idea of the archaism of Akkadian and
of the innovating character not only of Classical Arabic but also of Northwest
Semitic and ASSA. In this paper I am going to emphasize that Akkadian verbal
categories are not only conservative in some realms but also innovative to a
considerable extent and that in Classical Arabic there are forms which are
equally archaic or conservative. Both languages have retained different archaic
features and introduced different innovations.
Let us start with innovations: there can be no doubt that the limitation of the
Old Preterit (used also as Jussive) iprus/yaqtul to negative and conditional sen-
tences in Classical Arabic and elsewhere is an innovation in comparison with
Akkadian. In Akkadian the expansion of the iptaras Perfect resulting in the lim-
itation of the use of iprus Preterit and relegating it mainly to negative sentences
took place at a bit later stage (von Soden 1995: 129). Iptaras ‘(Present) Perfect’
has left a number of traces in Classical Arabic (Zaborski 2004a; cf. Kouwen-
berg 2010: 156 who rejects the idea because he demands full grammaticalization
of iptaras as Perfect which is unrealistic), e.g. iktataba means not only ‘to be
recorded, registered’ and ‘to enter one’s name’ but first of all ‘to write, to copy’
like kataba. In West Semitic iqtatala Present Perfect has never been fully gram-
maticalized and it was marginalized by the Perfect of the suffix conjugation.
The iptaras Perfect with prefixed t- (later infixed -t-) may be actually of Proto-
Afroasiatic origin since it occurs also in Cushitic Beja and in Berber (Voigt 1987
but cf. Kouwenberg 2010: 156; see also Kuryłowicz 1972: 61–62 on the relation
between Perfect iptaras and passive but cf. Kouwenberg 2010: 138–141 and 158–
159).
Now let us concentrate on Arabic archaisms. Classical Arabic (like some
other languages, first of all Ugaritic) has well preserved Modi Energici i.e. the
Energetics which have been greatly marginalized in Akkadian in which they
were used often, but not always, with verbs of motion (e.g. alk-am ‘come
here!’ is an Energetic Imperative) which gave assumption to the theory of the
alleged Akkadian ‘Ventive’ which is still widely promoted by Assyriologists
who rather unwillingly accept the connection with Energetic (Kouwenberg
2010: 243; Kogan 2012: 309, but cf. Hasselbach 2006) in spite of the justified
criticism of Landsberger (1924) already by Christian (1925). Energetic with -an/-
am can be even of Proto-Afroasiatic origin since there is a cognate in ʿAfar,
e.g. Imperfect Probable yaduur-ém takkeh ‘perhaps he may return’ (Zaborski
2004b).
38 zaborski
Classical Arabic has preserved the Subjunctive yaqtVl-a which survived

only in some remnants in Old Akkadian, although these remnants are either
questioned or passed over by many Assyriologists (Kouwenberg 2010: 224 and
590, but for a confirmation see Hasselbach 2012). That yaqtVl-a goes back to
Proto-Semitic is proven by its remnants as Volitive (different from Cohortative
which goes back to Proto-Semitic Energetic!) in Biblical Hebrew (Joüon and
Muraoka 2006: 353–354) and there are remnants in Amarna Canaanite (Moran
1960) and probably also in Ugaritic. Most probably it has a cognate in the -
a ending of the Negative Imperfect/Present in Old Cushitic, i.e. in Afar má
yaduur-a ‘he does not/will not return’ (Zaborski 2004b). That Presents and
Subjunctives can be diachronically related is widely known.
The so-called Subordinative (earlier misnamed ‘Subjunctive’) iprus-u of
Akkadian is still usually considered to be at the origin of the West Semitic
Imperfect, e.g. Classical Arabic yaqtVl-u but actually in Akkadian this is the
Proto-Semitic (and Proto-Afroasiatic!) Imperfect or ‘Present’ relegated to sub-
ordinate clauses in Akkadian by expanding iparras as explained already by
Kuryłowicz (1972: 54, 60; 1961: 52–53, 59–60, cf. Hasselbach 2009: 157 continuing
the opposite reconstruction) and recently accepted by Kouwenberg (2010: 228–
229). In many languages Present tenses are relegated to subordinate clauses but
an opposite ‘mutation’, i.e. a shift from subordinate to main clauses is very rare
at best. Actually the original ‘Present/Imperfect’ *yV-prVs-u has been ousted
from the main clauses when the syntactic order changed in Akkadian to S-OV
so that *yV-prVs-u lost its distinctive indicative -u ending before the final pause
and could not be distinguished from the *yVprVs (iprVs) Preterit. This was the
main reason of the Akkadian innovation. In Classical Arabic (and in Northwest
Semitic) there was no reason for Imperfect/Present basic i.e. G to be ousted by
another form and only later, i.e. in Neoarabic dialects preverbal particles were
introduced to reinforce the ‘present’ feature.
The ending -u of the indicative has been preserved in positions not before
the sentence final pause, i.e. in subordinate clauses. I do not think that Kuryłow-
icz was right when he said (1961: 60; 1972: 60) that after the final -u of yaqtul-
u/yaqtil-u had become a morph of the Akkadian Subordinative it was auto-
matically expulsed from the indicative *yaqattal- or that the disappearance of
-u in iparras-u was due only to a morphological distribution. Also iparras pre-
served its original -u in non-final positions and there can be no doubt that the
form *yV-parrVs-u was older (Zaborski 2009). Already before the change of the
syntactic group order the Old Present/Imperfect *yV-prVs-u must have had a
stylistic rival2 going back to Proto=Afroasiatic (see Kouwenberg 2010: 101–102
2 As far as coexistence of rival stylistic forms is concerned, I wish to emphasize that Corriente
on the coexistence of two ‘imperfective’ forms about which Kogan 2012: 315 is
sceptical; it should be emphasized that they do coexist in Berber), i.e. a more
expressive (thanks to gemination!) *ya/i-parrVs-u which took over in the sen-
tence final position losing its -u ending but being still well recognizable due
to its gemination and the -a- vowel after the first root consonant. The rela-
tion of this *ya/i-parrVs-u to the D (‘Multiplicating’, ‘Pluractional’ or ‘intensive’)
class forms with gemination but with different vocalization is only indirect (cf.
Rundgren 1959: 141–162; 1963 and see also Diakonoff 1988: 106; Stempel 1999:
127–128; Kogan 2008 and 2012: 317). Both yaqattal and uparris verbs had some
common features, mainly pluractional and hence iterative and durative fea-
tures but only uparris < *yuparris was causative/factitive so that semantically
they were differentiated quite well. It has been a frequent misunderstanding
that Akkadian iparras could go simply and directly to derived D or yuqattilu
form. It goes back to nominal stems with gemination, i.e. parras, parris, par-
rus (Kuryłowicz 1972: 57; Kouwenberg 2010: 283; cf. Rundgren 1959: 126–127) as
well as to corresponding West Semitic Perfect qattal-a and Assyrian (von Soden
1995: 143 and 13*) Stative parrus. Another naïve opinion: allegedly iparras disap-
peared in Classical Arabic and in other West Semitic languages because it was a
‘too similar’ to D or yuqattil(-u) derived forms (the idea repeated quite recently
by Porkhomovsky 2013: 182). We have to keep in mind that in so many languages
there are numerous examples of different grammatical forms which differ in
only one morpheme consisting of one phoneme and this does not necessar-
ily trigger a change. Akkadian G iparras differing from D uparras provides the
best proof not to mention forms like Arabic active yuqattil and passive yuqat-
tal! Actually the spread i.e. grammaticalization of Akkadian durative Present
with gemination and with vocalization different from D forms can be rather
a relative innovation due not only to association with gemination having iter-
ativity as one of its morphological features but also due to a possible shift of
stress back in sentence final position (see Diakonoff 1988: 106). Geʿez yǝqättǝl is
not really a direct cognate of Akkadian iparras because it goes back to *yuqat-
til (Rundgren 1959: 53, 129–162; Castellino 1962: 57; Stempel 1999: 133 and 112;
Kouwenberg 2010: 117–121) and not to *yaqattal since in Geʿez /a/ has remained
/a/!
The situation in Berber which lacks D forms with gemination (like Cushitic
since Beja Present with -nC- allegedly going back to -CC- is debatable) is differ-
(2006) followed by myself (2005b) has argued that clear remnants of iparras could be found
in Classical Arabic verbs having qattala forms with the same meaning as in the 1st or G class.
See Kouwenberg 2010: 101–102 on the coexistence of two ‘imperfective’ forms about which
Kogan 2012: 315 is skeptical; it should be emphasized that they do coexist in Berber.
40 zaborski
ent since it is not only gemination which makes Berber Intensive Aorist/Inten-
sive Imperfect (Zaborski 2005b: 16–18): there are actually several morphological
processes involved, i.e. gemination, prefixation of t/tt-, ablaut (underestimated
by Louali and Philippson 2004), and combinations of different morphological
processes, e.g. Tashelhit ‘to do’ sker: skar, ‘to speak’ sawel: sawal, ‘to sue’ serd:
srud; ‘to cover’ del: ddal; ‘to die’ mmet: ttemmtat; Tarifit ‘to overstep, to cross’
ssuref : ssuruf Kabyle: ‘change’ (Arabic) beddel: ttbeddil; ‘to laugh’ eDs: ttaDsa,
dess; ‘to let’ ejj: ttajja, tejj; ‘to give’ efk: ttak (< *tfak?) as well as many many irreg-
ular forms (Naït-Zerrad 2011: 41–42, 115–116, 185).
The alleged regularity of the gemination in the Akkadian iparras (for excep-
tions see Knudsen 1983–1986 who postulates the existence of two complemen-
tary Present formations, one with gemination and one without it, the latter con-
tinuing the Imperfect yaqtVl-u) is possible (in spite of the fact that it was not
always indicated in the cuneiform writing!) but nevertheless it is a bit strange.
In many languages innovations usually have some limits, e.g. in English the
innovative Present Continuous/Progressive cannot be formed from verbs refer-
ring mainly to mental and emotional aspects, like ‘to know’, ‘to want’, ‘to hate’
etc. Perhaps some Assyriologists might try to find some semantic (and other?)
constraints in texts in which gemination of the alleged iparras is not written.
But I repeat that the most important argument is that Akkadian seems to be
the only Hamitosemitic/Afroasiatic language in which the New Present with
geminated second root consonant seems to be so radically generalized.
It is taken for granted that the traditional pronunciation of the Geʿez ‘Imper-
fect’ with gemination is original and not due interference with Neoethiosemitic
languages. I think that a generalization of the geminated yǝqättǝl could have
taken place in Geʿez when it was still a living language but this generalization
could be an innovation of Geʿez (Hudson 1979: 103; 1994: 53–55; 2005 and per-
sonal communication in January 2014; cf. Rubio 2006: 126) and it is possible
that the situation in at least some Neoethiosemitic languages, where there is no
gemination in a group verbs in the Imperfect, is older than in Geʿez, i.e. archaic.
There is also a problem of L or qātala/yuqātilu class verbs in Geʿez. These
verbs are completely lexicalized in Geʿez and no common semantic function
can be ascribed to them. I think that there is a possibility that these L class
verbs which do not have correspondents in the basic G class not only provide
a proof that qattala and qātala had originally been variants3 but also that the
3 Many verbs occur only in D or only in L forms—on D-tantum verbs see Kouwenberg 1997:
312–317; von Soden 1995: 144; in Arabic, Geʿez etc. there are many L/qātala verbs having the
same meaning as D and G forms. In Semitic, Berber and Cushitic Beja there are verbs which
Present/Imperfect *yVqātVl-u played a role in the creation of the New Present

of a part of verbs as well, like in a part of verbs in MSSA and perhaps also in at
least a part of ASSA. Could Akkadian have possessed both iparras and *ipāras?
My conclusion: the generalization or the largely regular, almost exclusive use
of iparras in Akkadian is an innovation like, probably, the generalization of
yǝqättǝl in Geʿez where it was triggered by the loss of final vocalic endings and
the merger of /i/ and /u/.
The loss of L or qātala derived forms seems to be another important innova-

tion of Akkadian in comparison with Classical Arabic and several other West
Semitic languages. Actually von Soden (1995: 144) says that although Old Assyr-
ian lapputum ‘to write to someone’ (he compares it with Arabic kātaba) could
be read also as lāputum since gemination is not indicated in writing, neverthe-
less he says that it is not recommended to reconstruct a cognate of the “South
Semitic” (but there is qōtel also in Biblical Hebrew!) on the basis of this lone
verb (see Kouwenberg 2010: 88, footnote 1 supporting this view). Actually in the
Somali dialect of Merka there is only one verb continuing the Afroasiatic prefix-
conjugation (i.e. uwaad—in German ‘im Stande sein’, Lamberti 1986: 101) while
in other dialects of Somali there are more such archaic verbs but no more than
six. In Cushitic Dhaasanach there are only four prefix-conjugated verbs (Tosco
2001: 199–202). Therefore I think that even on a basis of one case a category
can or even must be accepted. Perhaps other examples of lexicalized L/qātala
derived forms could be discovered in Akkadian but it must be taken into con-
sideration that the meanings of the L/qātala forms in other Semitic languages
are very diversified and elusive so that semantics can be of a limited use in iden-
tifying possible remnants in Akkadian. In any case the L or qātala form is not
only Proto-Semitic but also Proto-Afroasiatic (pace Weninger 2011: 157) since it
is found also in Cushitic Beja where it has a multiplicative, iterative, frequenta-
tive meaning and pluractional (‘intensive’) forms are used not only with plural
objects like D forms in Akkadian and Arabic but also as regular plural of the
basic or G class in the Beja Present (Zaborski 1997b). As is well known, in MSSA
appear only in the ‘intensive’ class but have no ‘intensive’ or pluractional meaning. Also
this fact shows that there was no sharp frontier between G and D classes already in Proto-
Afroasiatic, the forms were partially derivational and partially inflectional. Rubio 2006: 132,
following Greenberg, says that: “In sum, the D stem was perhaps marked first by an /-a-/
infix denoting plurality, which caused the gemination of the following consonant in order
to preserve the stress and the vocalic morpheme itself. Eventually, this gemination would
have been reanalyzed as the real marker of verbal plurality”. I think that there was -ā- and
gemination allomorphs since prehistoric period.
42 zaborski
there is the Present/Imperfect of active verbs going back to qātala (e.g. Mehri
yǝtōbǝr ‘he breaks (something)’ (cf. yǝtbōr ‘it gets broken’) which proves that
qātala and qattala have originally been variants of the same multiplicative, iter-
ative, frequentative and ‘intensive’ form (Zaborski 2005b, cf. Huehnergard and
Rubin 2011: 261). In any case either the lack, i.e. the loss or the utmost limitation
of qātala in Akkadian is an Akkadian innovation.
Akkadian has also lost the internal passive which must be not only Proto-
Semitic (as postulated cautiously by Knudsen 1983–1986: 237–238 and footnote
20) but also Proto-Afroasiatic since it is found in Old Egyptian where śdm could
mean not only ‘he heard’ but also ‘it was heard’ (Schenkel 2012: 82, 224–226; Edel
1955–1964: 261, but cf. Reintges 1997) and probably also in Berber in which there
are hundreds (Chaker 1995: 65; Mettouchi 2004: 97) of ‘reversible’ or ‘double
valency’ verbs which have both transitive and passive or medium meaning;
e.g. ekrez means both ‘to plough’ and ‘to be ploughed’ and both yekrez and
yetwakrez mean ‘(the field) has been ploughed’ (Allaoua 2011: 440; Galand 2010:
291–294, Naït-Zerrad 2001: 106). With reversible verbs the agent is naturally not
mentioned when the verb is used intransitively, e.g. Kabyle teldi tawwurt ‘she
has opened the door’ (tawwurt being direct object) and teldi tewwurt ‘the door
is opened/the door opened’ (tewwurt being Subject); cf. Galand (2010: 294): iQn
ufrux tiflut ‘the boy closed the door’: tQn tflut ‘the door is closed’; cf. also verbs
like Kabyle enz and ţţuzenz ‘to be sold’.
Is the West Semitic Perfect an innovation, i.e. a development or ‘mutation’
of stative so that the Akkadian Stative (earlier dubbed ‘Permansive’) can be an
absolute archaism as is usually accepted (recently by David Cohen 2012: 203)?
From a theoretical point of view West Semitic Perfect qatal(a) could be inter-
preted as a secondary development of the Stative due to the well-known change
‘state > past action’ (Kuryłowicz 1972: 60; Kouwenberg 2010: 181, 191; Zaborski
2003; Vernet i Pons 2013a). There has been a long discussion among Egyptol-
ogists and some Semitists (Müller 1984 and 2003; Kammerzell 1990 and 1991;
Schenkel 1994 and 2012: 231–232; Satzinger 1999: 29; 2004: 498–499; Borghouts
2001; Oreal 2009 and 2010; Jenni 2007; Reintges 2011) whether the Old Egyp-
tian Pseudoparticiple (called also ‘Old Perfective’ and then renamed ‘Stative’ by
many scholars who wanted to emphasize the link with Akkadian) is not related
to West Semitic Perfect as well as to the Akkadian Stative or whether there were
actually two ‘Pseudoparticiples’ differing in vocalization, one stative, e.g. nfr-
ty ‘she is beautiful’, sfr-w ‘he/it is hot’, tni-kw ‘I have become old’ and another
one active, e.g. yry-kw ‘I made’, wd’-kw ‘I placed’, iy-kw ‘I came’ (Edel 1955–1964:
272). The discussion among Egyptologists is still going on but in my opinion
there is a good chance that the hypothesis about two Egyptian Pseudopartici-
ples as cognates of the Akkadian Stative and the West Semitic Perfect (Satzinger
2002; 2003 and forthcoming) can be accepted; pace Kouwenberg (2010: 191).
Indeed most probably there could be two ‘Pseudoparticiples’ with different
ablauts (that corresponding to the Akkadian Stative having also -ā- in the 1st
and 2nd persons before the pronominal suffixes, cf. Kouwenberg 2010: 183 on
the origin of this -ā-) but not well differentiated in writing4 and consequently
two ‘suffix conjugations’ should be reconstructed not only for Proto-Semitic
(Voigt 2002/2003 and 2013) but also for Proto-Afroasiatic. Theoretically even
if there had been only one ‘Pseudoparticiple’, it could combine the functions
and meanings of both the Akkadian Stative and the West Semitic Perfect so
that Akkadian and West Semitic continued only two different (slightly over-
lapping!) parts of this broader range of functions and meanings preserved in
the Egyptian category. In any case, the evidence from Egyptian (perhaps also
a Cushitic suffix ‘conjugation’ of stative verbs) most probably indicates that
the West Semitic Perfect is not an innovation of this group of the Semitic sub-
family but it goes back to the Proto-Afroasiatic dialect cluster. In such a situa-
tion, i.e. in an Afroasiatic perspective, the Akkadian Stative is not an ultimate
archaism but it is partially (due to a limitation of its range) an innovation con-
nected with a loss of the suffixed Perfect in Akkadian.
The personal endings of the Akkadian Stative, i.e. the mixed system 1 sing. -
ku, 2nd masc. -ta, 2nd fem. -ti etc. must be archaic as indicated by the evidence
of the Egyptian Pseudoparticiple(s). Classical Arabic loss of ʾan-ā-ku ‘I’ (but
ʾan-a variant is equally old since ʾa- occurs in the 1st sing. of the ‘prefix conju-
gations’) is an innovation which must have facilitated the analogical change of
its most probable prehistoric -ku ending of the 1st sing. resulting in, e.g. katab-
tu (< *katab-ku). But in a part of Pre-Classical dialects of Arabic there must
have been -ku in the first person singular and in some modern varieties, e.g. in
the dialect of Taʿizz there are different groups (‘conjugations’ in the sense of
the grammar of Greek, Latin, Romance languages etc.) of verbs: 1. a conjuga-
tion with -tu, -ta, -ti etc., 2. a conjugation with -ku, -ka, -ki etc., 3. a conjugation
with free variation of -ku/-tu, -ka/-ta, -ki/-ti etc. (Prochazka 1974). It is true that
the modern Arabic dialects with -ku, -ka, -ki etc. are spoken mainly in modern
Yemen but we cannot attribute this simply to an ASSA substrate, although this
substrate might have played a role to some extent. Since the Perfects with -kV
have survived for so many centuries after the death of ASSA in spite of the pro-
longed contact with modern Arabic dialects having -tV Perfect endings, this
4 Von Soden 1995: 122, 300: Akk. Stative 2nd m. sing. has not only -ā-ta but also -ā-ti (Old
Assyrian) and -ā-t (later also Neoassyrian -ā-ka); 2 fem. sing. not only -ā-ti but also -ā-t (later
Neoassyrian -ā-ki), 1st pl. not only -ā-nu but also -ā-ni (Old Assyrian) which may be relevant
for the explanation of Egyptian -j and -w. Cf. Depuydt 1995.
44 zaborski
means that processes of interference and borrowing of morphemes are not

easy and simple at all. This is confirmed by the fact that the Amiritic dialect
of Sabaic had -t(V) Perfect endings (Stein 2007: 24–25) in spite of prolonged
contact with varieties having -k(V) Perfect endings! Amiritic was a typical tran-
sitory or intermediate dialect. For different, partially sociolinguistic reasons,
there is sometimes a resistance to interference and to borrowing since speak-
ers of a language want to differ from neighbors who speak closely related,
partially mutually comprehensible languages, they want to preserve their lin-
guistic identity. Thus speakers of Mehri use -kV Perfect forms when they speak
Mehri but use only -tV Perfect forms when they speak a -tV Perfect variety or
varieties of Arabic although they must be aware of the relationship of both Per-
fects (Zaborski 1994: 407).
There are remnants of the stative use of the suffix conjugation in Classical
Arabic, e.g. niʿma ‘is good’ and biʾsa ‘is bad’, kafarū ‘they are unbelievers’, and
there are cases of the perfective/resultative use of Akkadian active stative forms
(Kouwenberg 2010: 168–176; Huehnergard 2005: 394–395; Vernet i Pons 2013: 463
and 465), e.g. wald-at ‘she has given birth to’, šami-ā-ta ‘you have heard’ etc.;
there are also Stative forms of the verbs of motion, e.g. Old Babylonian ālik-
at ‘she is going’, wāšib-āku ‘I am staying’ (von Soden 1995: 125) and kašd-āku ‘I
came’.
Finally it must be mentioned that dual forms of the verbs in Akkadian are
limited to third persons which means a loss, i.e. an innovation.
There are also several Akkadian innovations in the realm of nominal mor-
phology which I can mention only briefly. The most conspicuous innovation
is the virtually total (for a remnant see Huehnergard 1987) loss of internal plu-
rals which are not a South West Semitic innovation as they go back to Proto-
Afroasiatic. Dual of nouns was reduced in Akkadian very early (von Soden 1995:
93). There is also the loss of the diptote declension. Mimation in Akkadian has
largely lost its grammatical functions (see Rubio 2006: 136–137) while in Classi-
cal Arabic its cognate, i.e. nunation has partially preserved the original function
of the definite article (cf. also ASSA!) and still retains the morphological func-
tion as a secondary indefinite article.
My conclusions do not differ substantially from what I said in my 1997a and
1998 papers: it is impossible to consider the Akkadian verbal system as well as
its morphology in general as decisively more conservative than the system of
Classical Arabic—both systems present both archaisms and innovations. The
situation is similar to what we find in Indo-European: neither Vedic Sanskrit
nor Classical Sanskrit is tantamount to Proto-Indo-European and both the
older and the later varieties of Sanskrit have preserved different archaisms and
introduced different innovations. Akkadian and Arabic (first of all Classical
Arabic with very few archaisms preserved in other varieties) are the most
archaic Old Semitic languages and I think that Classical Arabic is per saldo even
a bit more conservative not only in its phonology (pace Mascitelli 2006; 51–52,
largely following Petráček 1981).
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Arabic in Its Epigraphic Context
∵
chapter 3
The ʿAyn ʿAbada Inscription Thirty Years Later:

A Reassessment
Manfred Kropp
Introduction: The Magic of Language(s) and Why Write It Down
Gang uz, Nesso, mi miun nessinchilinon,

uz fonna marge in deo adra, vonna den adrun in daz fleisk,
fonna demu fleiske in daz fel, fonna demo felle in diz tulli.
Don’t worry if you have not understood anything. It is the magic of language,
precisely said a magical, more precisely an iatromagical formula, against worms
to be found in a manuscript of the ninth century originating from the Tegernsee
monastery in Bavaria.1
I am sure that even German native speakers will not follow totally the
meaning of the text. Thus I may give an English translation:
Go out, worm, together with nine young other worms,

out of the marrow (of the wound) into the flesh,
out of the flesh into the skin, out of the skin into the hoof.
I will not insist on details of the magic rite probably to be performed while
reciting this formula—touching a sore wound with a hoof of an animal. We will
come back to worms during this lecture and thus elucidate the connection—
at least created by association—to the subject to be treated here, but for the
moment some general remarks will suffice.
The first written documents of many languages are either poetry or magical
formulas of the kind we heard some moments before. This is true for German.
Besides the famous oaths of Straßburg2—an oath is a kind of magical formula,
1 For rapid information see http://de.althochdeutsch.wikia.com/wiki/Wurmsegen. It is a pagan

relict written down in Old German as a marginalia in an otherwise Latin liturgical manuscript.
The text has made it, by the way, into modern pop music (Band: In Extremo); see http://www
.songtexte.com/songtext/in-extremo/pferdesegen-4bdcd7d2.html.
2 For a rapid overview see Wikipedia which offers in its different language versions inter-

54 kropp
it has to do with the magical power of language—there are the magical for-
mulas for healing of Merseburg and Wessobrunn.3 This is true for Italian: some
ritornelli—the indovinelli veronesi—written in vernacular on the margin of
classical Latin poetry are there the oldest known documents, just to name an
example.4 Poetry by form and function is intimately linked to magic and the
magical power of the language. Another fact is important and repetitive: these
first documents of a language hitherto not written down frequently creep, so
to say, in texts of another language. The other language functions as the offi-
cial written language of culture and tradition, but is different from the spoken
language of the actual scribe. This second language is no longer the spoken
language, or it never has been the spoken language. The first case is that of the
Romance languages: starting from already widely differentiated vulgar Latin
they developed till to a stage (between the 6th and 9th centuries roughly said)
when written Latin had to be learned as a foreign language and was virtually no
longer understandable to an illiterate native speaker. That is exactly the point
where a learned scribe or author feels the gap between the linguistic culture
of his mother tongue and the tradition of the written language. Writing means
to him simultaneous translation for creating new texts, describing the reality
of his time. In some very particular cases then he will interrupt this mental
translation and let his pen write down what he really has in mind: it comes to
the first written expressions of a language which cannot be but tentative with
respect to orthography and other details of the use of the scripture originally
conceived for another language.5
Let me add here that the described process strictly speaking is typical only
for alphabetic scriptures. A pictographic or better said ideographic script can
esting comparative insights in the given subjects demonstrating the national traditions in
scholarship: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oaths_of_Strasbourg; http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/
Serments_de_Strasbourg; http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Straßburger
_Eide.
3 See http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merseburger_Zaubersprüche; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
Merseburg_Incantations; http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wessobrunner_Gebet; http://en
.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wessobrunn_Prayer.
4 See http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indovinello_veronese; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
Veronese_Riddle; http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veroneser_Rätsel; Berschin, W. (1987). “Mittel-
lateinisch und Romanisch”. Zeitschrift für Romanische Philologie 103: 1–19.
5 This a simplification. Alphabetic scripts do more than render the phonemes of a given lan-
guage, they can demonstrate the morphological background of words and can preserve his-
torical stages; see e.g. Glück, H. (1987). Schrift und Schriftlichkeit. Eine sprach- und kulturwis-
senschaftliche Studie. Stuttgart.
the ʿayn ʿabada inscription thirty years later: a reassessment 55
well hide the phonetic and other changes in linguistic development for thou-
sands of years thus not even create the necessity to adapt to change in spoken
reality—the case of Chinese. The question may arise if a writing system of this
kind is not superior and better fit especially for modern times? In fact we live
a period of tremendous progress of visual communication to the detriment of
(alphabetic) text. A Semitist who in the core of his studies is treating the fasci-
nating history of the invention and development of the alphabet has no choice
for an answer: the general idea to represent by individual signs (graphemes)
has dominated since its first conception the history of Semitic-speaking peo-
ple and deeply influenced on every expression of their intellectual activities.
Greek, Latin, later European cultures in general adopted very early (8th/7th
century bc) the alphabet and is thus part of the same cultural main stream. Be
not afraid again, I will not depart for philosophical deliberations about if and
how a given writing system can actually influence the way of thinking, only say
that alphabetic writing most probably facilitates perceiving change and devel-
opment in the language, the first step towards historical linguistic science: but
then linguistics not only in the sense of cultural studies but as integral part of
general anthropology.6 Thus a Semitist cannot always defend himself from the
temptation of genuine iconoclasm—perhaps in perfect concordance with the
cultures of his studies.
After this long and somewhat polemical digression back to the argument,
the case of an Old German scribe is somewhat but only gradually different
from the discussed case of an Italian. Latin from the beginning is a foreign
language of enormous cultural and religious prestige. It has thus to be learned
for written expression, and this learning very early is accompanied by didac-
tic instruments: interlinear version, rudimentary vocabularies etc. But signif-
icantly enough, even in the sphere of Germanic languages the first preserved
original texts are pieces of poetry, magical formulas and traditions of custom-
ary law. This added the last important sphere where language has an important,
quasi-magical power. To be clear: I mean language in the sense of spoken lan-
guage “als das Wort lebendig Wort war, weil es ein gesprochen Wort war” to
quote Nietzsche. In all these spheres the spoken word is the performance of
an action: curse or benediction, praise or satire as their secular counterparts in
poetry, sentence in the law. Thus literacy means a deep change in the histor-
ical development. On the one hand it is meant as a subsidy for futile human
memory in the most important fields for the use of a language. On the other
hand during a long dialectic process literacy exactly undermines and finally
6 See e.g. Goody, J.R., ed. (1968) Literacy in Traditional Societies. Cambridge.
56 kropp
abolishes this magical power of the spoken word: law and sentence becomes
valid only when written and (today) published; the grace and benevolence of
the divine is assured by written talismans etc.
Changes promote reflection: since there are now in the modern world domi-
nated by pictures a lot and good indications that the text, the alphabet will lose
its dominant position as a means of communication in modern civilization the
mind is ready and sharpened to think over the dramatic change from orality to
literacy in history especially the history of our cultures. The following remarks
upon the oldest known Arabic text are meant to be a modest contribution to
this general reflection.
Whereas the Old German magic formulas are nearly incomprehensible to
a modern speaker of German, its Arabic counterpart has a good chance to be
understood directly in our times thanks to the remarkable phonetic stability of
Arabic and Semitic languages in general due to its very low morpheme decay
rate. Moreover, the pagan rituals involved in the German magic seems far away,
outdated and strange. The intense religious formula of the Arabic text still is
acceptable for a contemporary believer. To sum up: past and present could
easily meet today in a mosque or in a church and would communicate perfectly
well in all aspects:
fa-yafʿal lā fidā wa-lā-uṯārā!

fa-kun hunā yabġi-nā al-mawt—wa-lā abġā-h!
fa-kun hunā adāda ǧurḥ—wa-lā yudid-nā!
The Discovery
The inscription was found in 1979 by A. Roones, a member of the Ben-Gurion

University Institute for Desert Research at En Mureifiq / En Avdat / Sedeq Boqer
in the Negev.7 Afterwards A. Negev visited the place several times, once together
with J. Naveh. An adequate photograph, however, of the inscription was made
only in 1982.8 The published drawing was made by A. Yardeni.9 It is engraved
on a rock just above the gorge of ʿEn ʿAvdat, where the Naḥal Zin falls in a series
of steep waterfalls, forming the large wadi of Naḥal Zin. To the South and West
open and relatively flat valleys with remains of ancient agricultural terraces
7 X 81 in Wenning (1987).
8 I am most grateful to Prof. A. Negev who kindly sent me his slide and generously gave the
permission for reproduction.
9 Cf. Negev (1986: 56 n. *).
figure 3.1 The stone bearing the inscription in situ 1993

photograph by courtesy of abraham negev
may be seen. The site is 4.5km to the south of Oboda (ʿAvdat); the acropolis of
the city is visible from the spot. The large smooth rock, on which the inscription
was engraved projects only a little above the ground. The shallow letters were
engraved by a flat tool, perhaps a made out of flint, and have been slightly
damaged by streams of rainwater. In a later period a short Safaitic inscription
was engraved on the left side of the stone, without damaging the original
inscription. The measurements may be seen from Negev’s drawing; ca. 65 cm
in length, 45 in height, average length of the letters 8 cm.
Then the stone with the inscription has been cut out and transferred to
the Israel Antiquities Authority, Jerusalem where it is housed now under the
inventory no. 90–1256 in the basement and accessible only after transport by
forklift to be paid. According to Ambros, an excellent b/w photograph has been
made.10
Let us already state here that archaeology once more cannot answer one of
the important questions: did this inscription belong to a certain object like a
10 See Ambros (1994: 91). The photograph is available at the IAA, P.O. Box 586, Jerusalem
91004, Israel.
58 kropp
figure 3.2 drawing by ada yardeni (cf. negev 1986: 56

+ n.*, fig. 1; yardeni 2000: 305)
statue, and if so a statue of the god Obodas or, what is more likely according to
the ṣlm of a person?11 If this link was there, it naturally influenced the text.
There is a new drawing by Mohammed Maraqten based on Negev’s photo-
graph. I am wondering if a squeeze of the stone could be of some help. At least
a new drawing based on the better photograph is a desideratum.
Material and Palaeographic Observations
The text is written throughout in Nabataean script, but perhaps by two different
hands. The language is mixed: introductory formula and protocol—which, it
is true, could be understood as written in Arabic as well—are Nabataean; the
11 Ṣlm of a king in C 349; of king and god Obodas in C 354; of a nobleman in the temple in
C 164; of a (simple?) man in RES 2117. For statues or symbols of deities the words nṣyb or
msgd are more likely (RES 1088; RES 2051, 2052; C 161; RES 83). These objects are made (ʿbd)
or erected (hqym) or dedicated (qrb). The tablet with the respective text could be stored
in a special place (ʿrkt in RES 86; 411; C 354 mḏqnt?); all examples in Cantineau 1930.
figure 3.3 Drawing of the ʿAyn ʿAbada inscription

courtesy of mohammad maraqten (in
maraqten 2013: 29)
rest in line 4–5 is Arabic the variety of which remains to be defined. Till now
the disposition of the text in the irregular field offered by the naturally smooth
surface of the stone has not been object of consideration and analysis. This is,
though, essential for the interpretation.
A Signed Document
The Ayn Abada inscription is a signed document, and even signed twice as
well as with an authentication. Thus one has to interpret the last two words in
line 6. Ketab yadeh does not mean “he wrote it (the inscription) with his own
hand”—and thus there is no emendation to kataba bi-yadi-hi to be made—but
is a juridical term and formula often to be found in the Nahal Haver documents
where it appears after the signatures of testimonies meaning: personal signa-
ture, authenticated. We do not know what kind of document was intended here
to be signed by its author. Perhaps it has to do with the extraordinary charac-
ter of the Arabic text in an extraordinary place in Nabataean context. Perhaps
religious awe for the magical formula or incantation made the author sign. Any-
way, he signed twice as can be seen by the size and the shape in which his name
is written twice: first word of line 6 Garmallāhi, first words in line 3 Garmallāhi
60 kropp
bar Taymall(āhi). The use of two different hands already gives a hint to the com-
plex origin and execution of the text.
Composite Character of the Document
First some remarks on the script and disposition of lines and words. The
disposition of lines and texts is not well organized. The last word of line 1
is written slightly below the line and in a smaller shape. There are words in
interlinea between line 2 and 3. The last word of line 3 is written above in a
blank space of line 2 which ends in the middle of the line. As to my judgment
the Arabic text lines 4 und 5 is written more carefully, in slightly smaller letter
shapes. The name of the dedicant Garmallāhī (bar Taymallāhī) beginning line 3
and 5 visibly is written in larger letters than the rest of the text. According to
line 6 this is the personal signature of Garmallāhī in line 5, perhaps also in line 3.
To the rather careless disposition of the Nabataean (Aramaic) text in lines 1–
3 corresponds the not well and linear constructed syntax of the phrase. As one
possible hypothesis one could think of the following procedure; the argumen-
tation here has to be completed by the analysis of the text, translation and
commentary below. A first hand started the text and wrote till the name of the
dedicant (and scribe?) line 2 in the middle. Then another hand, Garmallāhī
himself (?) started a new line writing his signature. Then the Arabic text lines 4–
5, well organized and written, were added. Line 6 Garmallāhī signed again,
followed by the official document mark: ktb ydh, personal signature. This was
the moment line 3 had to be completed. Besides the fact that Garmallāhī had
written the text, one had to add now that the same person erected a statuette
(of himself?) before, in sight of (the sanctuary) of the god ʿAbadah (Obodas).
He did that rather clumsily by adding the verb ḥdṯ in linterlinea between line 2
and 3 and completing line 3 by adding “statuette before ʿAbadah the god”, where
the last word could only be written above at the end of line 2.
But this firsthand analysis could be refined and slightly adapted. For anyone
familiar with Nabataean and cognate inscriptions a first look at the stereotype
formulas contained in the ʿAyn ʿAbadah document give the right impression,
that not only the Arabic text is unusual, but the mixture of two text types in
one document.
First there is an inscription commemorating the erection of a statue(tte)
in sight of the sanctuary of god Obodas (ʿAbada). Its reconstructed stereotype
form should run like this: Dnh ṣlmʾ d-ḥdt Garmallāhī lqbl ʿAbadah allāhā “This is
the statue Garmallāhi erected before (in sight of) the god Obodas.” Eventually
the motif of this dedication could be given as well as the date.
The second text type is a commemorative inscription, a greeting or an

invocation for blessing and favour. This kind of text normally is introduced by
dkyr b-ṭb12 “may he be remembered in good”. The person mentioned is the one
who writes this formula or has it written. A second person can follow in the
general address w-dkyr b-ṭb mn qrʾ “and may whosoever would read (this text)
aloud be remembered for good …”
We find all the constitutive elements of these two text types in the inscrip-
tion, but in a rather surprising order and composition. Line 1 starts with the
commemorative formula but addressing first the person who in the future will
read and recite the text. The line seems to have ended by the word allāhā; the
following w-dkyr is clearly added later and slightly beneath the line. Line two
adds in second position what normally would stand at the beginning: mn ktb
“he who writes / made write”; the following letters are not quite clear; the name
Garmallāhi could have been written here.
The next consideration is quite speculative but eventually gives a plausible
explanation for the complex composition of the text.13 The beginning of the
text stresses in an extraordinary manner the role and importance of a recita-
tion. This may be explained by and refer to the equally extraordinary Arabic
text, the magic formula and incantation. Could it be that this text, i.e. lines 4 and
5 were written now directly after the not yet finished line 2? These lines are well
disposed and seemingly written in one go. The Arabic text stops and is finished
at about one third of space left in line 5, indicating clearly the end of the for-
mula. And now this core part of the text is signed by the initiator, the signature
even authenticated. Not enough, this person continues writing and hops back
starting line 3 with his signature, but leaving to complete the rest of the text
with a convenient adaptation of the other constituent passage, describing the
erection and dedication of the statue, quite difficult task for the scribe because
lack of space. He has only half of line 3 at his disposition and could make use of
some elements and space in line 2 not finished. First he completes the father’s
name Taymallāhi then continues with the principal issue of his text: ṣlm lqbl
ʿbdt “a statue before ʿAbadah”. The word ʾlhʾ “the god” has to be written above the
last word in line 3 thus appearing in the register of line 2, but clearly separated
by a blank space from the first words in this line. Rereading his phrase the scribe
realizes that a verb is required but has no other solution than to add it interlinea
above name and signature of the actor: ḥdt “he erected / inaugurated”.
12 Cf. Healey (1996).

13 There is another fine example for such a composite inscription in material “disorder”
which is to be read jumping between the different lines in Macdonald 2009.
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Preliminary Hermeneutical Considerations
The two Arabic lines certainly are a separate piece of text, most probably
a citation. It could represent a part of an Arabic liturgical chant in honour
of the deified king Obadas (ʿAbadah) as some scholars write in their studies
(Macdonald 2010; Bellamy 1990). It could be as well a popular formula invoking
divine protection against the dangers of death and wounding. Anyhow, both
versions would be of general character and chosen because fitting into the
scene and situation when Garmallāhi erects—probably his own—statuette in
view of the sanctuary of Obadas.
Thus there is no need for continuing the thread of contents in the Nabataean
passage. On the contrary, one should look for a separate but in itself coherent
unity as far as actors and actions are concerned. Thus introducing Garmallāhi
as an actor in the third person (first hemistich) and changing in the following
two ones to the first person singular, “I” for finite verbs and “me” for personal
suffixes (but there is clearly written -nā “us”!14) does not seem appropriate. The
principal actor of such a magic and protective formula is the invoked divin-
ity who is acting upon personified death or fate and on wounding. Protection
always is asked by and for generalised believers in form of “us”. If this presup-
position holds true, then there is no room as well for dividing the first Arabic
phrase from the following two as some scholars proposed. This last remark
entails for looking of semantic parallels for the two nouns fidā and aṯar in the
subsequent two—most probably conditional—periods.
Dating
As soon as the text in line 4 and 5—by the way one may add line 6 as well,
because the formula grmʾlhy ktb yd-h could well be Arabic or Aramaic—
revealed itself to be written in Arabic, exposing the article ʾl-, the importance
for the history of North Arabic became clear—a document written 200 years
before the inscription of en-Nemara. For several reasons which are not to be
explained here the dating is quite precise between 88 and 125 ad. These dates
derive from other Nabataean inscriptions that were found at ʿEn ʿAvdat. After a
break in the development of the town which encountered the downfall of the
Nabataean kingdom and the creation of the Roman province in this region,
14 Even if Sharon (1997: 193) interprets -nā “as in Aramaic to denote the first person, and not
the plural as in Arabic”.
there was a second flourish and building activity. But all the inscriptions of
this period—about 250ad—are in Greek (see Negev 1961 and 1986 for further
details).
There are palaeographical arguments for a possible dating. According to
several scholars the inscription could well be dated much later than its dis-
coverer Negev proposed. Third and even fourth century are proposed on the
basis of palaeographical reasons and comparison to the script of other (dated)
inscriptions. But there is another consideration to be made. Till when after
the downfall of the Nabataean kingdom and its annexion as a province of the
Roman Empire did the cult and veneration of the god Obodas continue? It
could well be that this cult disappeared rapidly giving place to other local but
more widespread cults, independent from political developments.
Latin and Arabic Transliteration
The material reading was not very controversially discussed, with exception of
the interlinea. Word division in this text can’t be deducted from the ligatures
according to the rules of Nabataean script; words are thus divided accord-
ing to translation and interpretation. Capitals stand for ambiguous letters in
Nabataean script: D = r /d; B (initial) = b/n (and similar to y); L (Final) = l/n.
Moreover every letter in the Arabic text is pure rasm i.e. can be read with or
without diacritical points; exceptions ‫ ت ج ح ف ق‬which are unambiguous
because of their distinct shape in Nabataean script. Text in bold is Arabic; some
choices for diacritical points, especially ‫ ع‬and ‫غ‬, as well as ‫د‬, ‫ ذ‬and ‫ ر‬are already
made and will be discussed below.
1. DkyD bṭb qDʾ qDm ʿbDt ʾlhʾ wDkyD ‫دكير بطب قرأ قدم عبدة ألها ودكير‬
2. mn ktb [ ]m ʾlhy ‫من كتب ] [م الهي‬
Interlinea:15
3. gDmʾlhy bD tymʾlhy ṣlm lqbl ʿbDt ḥDt (?) ‫جرم الهي بر تيم الهي صلم لقبل عبدة حدت )?( الها‬
ʾlhʾ
4. fyfʿl lʾ fDʾ w-lʾ ʾtDʾ fkn hnʾ ybʿnʾ ʾlmwt w-lʾ ‫فيفعل لا فدا ولا ا ثرا فكن هنا یبعنا الموت ولا‬
5. ʾbʿh fkn hnʾ ʾDD gDḥ w-lʾ yDDnʾ ‫ابعه فكن هنا ادد جرح ولا يددنا‬
6. gDmʾlhy ktb yDh ‫جرم الهي كتب يده‬
15 Negev (1986: 56) reads: mn (D) [… hqym] “he who … erected”; Lacerenza (2000: 111): m(n)
ʿbDt “da ʿAvdat”. For the reading ḥDt the last two letters are relatively clearly to be read—cf.
Lacerenza’s reading ʿbDt—: the verb ḥDt “renew; restore; dedicate; erect” (cf. CantNab II:
94b) fits well into the context and fives a required meaning.
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The Nabataean (Aramaic) Portion
Doubtful could be the form qrʾ “the one who recites” which seemingly lacks
the Alif for the status emphaticus.16 This could be a haplography, but as the
example ṣlm in line 3 shows, even there the Alif is lacking. But status absolutus
instead of emphaticus is not infrequent in Nabataean inscriptions.17 The main
difficulty lies with the interlinea and how to integrate it into the phrase. The till
nowadays only drawing in Negev 1986 (and repeated in the following articles) is
not very precise and reliable at this point. The photographs at hand are difficult
to read.
Practical Hints for Interpretation
1. The medium of the text is a votive tablet. Textual elements to be looked

for are: name of deity, name of dedicant, name of person to be favored,
requested or bestowed favor.
2. The placement of the tablet, perhaps beneath a statuette, 4.5 km south
in in view of the Acropolis and the temple of Obodas, whose name
and epithet is given in line 1 and 2; cf. the two Nabataean prepositions
(qdm/lqbl = ‘before, in front of’).
3. The very frequent personal Nabataean names Garmallāh and Taymallāh
have continuations in Muslim names. Garmallāh is the dedicant and signs
the document; the scribe probably was a second person.
4. The introductory formula dǝkīr (bǝ-ṭib) “be remembered (in good mem-
ory) = be blessed” is stereotype for votive or commemorative inscriptions.
5. ṣlm ‘statue(tte)’ (line 3) completes the interpretation of the Nabataean
text: a statue or an image has been dedicated to the god ʿAbadah.
6. Lines 4–5 are clearly separated from the rest of the text; none of the
constitutional Nabataean elements is to be found there. Repetition and
formal parallelisms leads to the working hypothesis of a formally bound
text (not necessarily poetry).
16 See CantNab (I 83).

17 Cf. CantNab (I 110): Sur des textes récents, peut-être sous l’influence de l’arabe, on trouve
des états absolus là où on attendait régulièrements des états emphatiques.
Synopsis of the Vocalized Arabic Texts Proposed in the Relevant

Articles
The main text is the reading proposed by me in this article; divergent readings
proposed are given in the notes followed by the bibliographical reference. In
several cases the vocalized reading is not explicit and has to be reconstructed
according the proposed translation.
fa-yafʿal18 lā fidā19 wa-lā uṯrā (āṯārā/aṯarā)20

fa-kun21 hunā22 yabġi-nā23 (ʾa)l-mawt24 wa-lā25 abġā-h26
fa-kun27 hunā28 adāda29 ǧurḥ30 wa-lā31 yudid-nā32
18 fa-yafʿalu: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993).

19 fidāʾan: Snir (1993); ( fārr(an)): Ambros (1994); li-ʾūfara: Testen (1996).
20 aṯaran: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); iṯrāʾan: Snir (1993); (ʾāṯir(an)): Ambros
(1994); wa-lā ʾūtara: Testen (1996).
21 fa-kin: Noja (1989); fa-kāna: Bellamy (1990); Beeston (1994); faʾin: Snir (1993); ke/in ← ka-ʾin:
Sharon (1997).
22 hinaʾ: Noja (1989); hanā: Snir (1993); fī kunhi-nā: Testen (1996).
23 yabġī-nā: Bellamy (1990).
24 al-mawt(u): Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993); Testen (1996).
25 lā: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993).
26 ubġā: Knauf (1989); abġi-hī: Snir (1993); Testen (1996).
27 fa-kin: Noja (1989); fa-kāna: Bellamy (1990); Beeston (1994); waʾin: Snir (1993); ke/in ← ka-
ʾin: Sharon (1997).
28 hinaʾ: Noja (1989); hanā: Snir (1993); fī kunhi-nā: Testen (1996).
29 arāda: Negev (1986); aruddu: Noja (1989); Testen (1996) (?); urid: Snir (1993); aridu: Beeston
(1994), Sharon (1997); aḏiru: Müller in Beeston (1994); aḏaru: Testen (1996) (?).
30 ǧarḥ(un): Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); ǧazḥ(an): Snir (1993); (ǧāriḥ / ǧarrāḥ:
Ambros 1994); ǧāriḥ(un): Testen (1996).
31 lā: Negev (1986); Noja (1989); Bellamy (1990); Snir (1993); Testen (1996).
32 yurid-nā: Negev (1986); Snir (1993); yaruddu-nā: Noja (1989); Testen (1996) (?); yurdī-nā:
Bellamy (1990); Beeston (1994); yaḏir-nā: Müller in Beeston (1994); yaḏaru-nā: Testen
(1996) (?); yarid-nā: Sharon (1997).
66 kropp
Cracking the Code: The Structure in the Arabic Text
Text fa-yafʿal lā fidā wa-lā uṯrā (āṯārā/aṯarā)

Translation may he make neither victims nor produce scars
Syllables 3 3 4 (5) = 10 (11)
Metrics ⏑–– –⏑– ⏑–––
Text fa-kun hunā yabġi-nā (ʾa)l-mawt wa-lā abġā-h

Translation be it here death claims us he will not allow his claim
Syllables 4 (5)33 4 (5) 4 = 12 (14)
Metrics ⏑–⏑– – ⏑ – (–) – ⏑–––
Text fa-kun hunā adāda ǧurḥ wa-lā yudid-nā

Translation be it here a wound festers he will not let us be eaten
by worms
Syllables 4 (5) 4 (5) 5 = 13 (15)
Metrics ⏑–⏑– ⏑–⏑– ⏑–⏑––
The text is a carefully constructed “Gesätz” consisting of three kola. The first
is a nominal and condensed form of what the next two explain in detail
and, formally, in conditional sentences (a kind of thema-rhema relationship,
topicalization). Thus fidā corresponds to mawt and, probably, uṯrā to ǧurḥ. The
conjuration of the god fa-yafʿal “thus he may do” is repeated twice by the even
more assertative fa-kun hunā “be it here that …”. In the same way fa- and lā
in the first kolon are echoed: fa- at the beginning of the following two kola;
the first lā already in the kolon itself, then each of these two in the respective
kolon.
The text abounds in formal and stylistic devices. There are several chiasms; e.
g. the position of the object-suffix -nā in line 2 and 3; the chiastic distribution of
the functional equivalent perfect and apocopate as in conditional sentences in
the same lines. Note, however, that the distribution of actors—destiny, god—is
linear. As there is clear paronomasy in line 2 for the verb baġā, it seems highly
probable to suppose the same for adāda in line 3.
Note as a correspondence between semantic and linguistic level that “we”
(the human beings) are always objects of divine or fatal acts, never actors.
33 One cannot exclude the reading fa-kāna as an optative perfect.

Grammatically fa-kun hunā … is a phrase of existence in the future (expressed

by the imperative) whose subject is a complete and complex sentence con-
sisting of a conditional clause without conjunction, better: fa-kun hunā is a
quasi-conjunction.
All this suggests a highly formal speech, as incantations indeed are. But at
the same time, in Aramaic as well as in Arabic tradition, there is no quantitative
metre for such literary expressions (as Bellamy 1990 tried to prove). One could
think of syllable counting parallel to Aramaic tradition, or /and at the same
time kola of a given number of accents, while the rest of the line is filled by
a varying number of unaccentuated syllables. No attempt has been made to
define these accents, which could be a word accent or a sentence accent (in
the last case only one per line) or a combination of both.
Use of Apocopate / Jussive without li or Simple Negative

Imperative / Jussive?
The verbal form yfʿl has been interpreted in several ways. First as an imperfect
present yafʿalu “he (Garmallāhi) makes …” Secondly as an apocopate function-
ing as a positive past: He (man or God?) made … The most simple way is to
take it as a jussive “he (the god) may or should make …” Such use without
introducing conjunction li- is not unheard of in Arabic, especially in poetry.34
But to recur to this poetic licence—quite natural in a piece of rhythmical and
rimed prose—is not even necessary, because the phrase in question is a nega-
tive imperative or jussive in rhetorical disguise. Its linear and normal form is:
fa-lā yafʿal fidā wa-lā aṯar(an), which is quite regular use of the apocopate. At
the same time the elegant rhetorical accent while choosing the absolute paral-
lel lā fidā–wa-lā aṯar(an) becomes evident.
Considerations on the Semantic Value of fidā and aṯar / uṯrā /

uṯārā
The most intriguing term is fidā which all too hastily has been interpreted as
“gift, favour, reward”. Now the basic sense of the word is “ransom” which fits
without too much contortion the requested meaning: from death or danger
of life a human being has to be saved = ransomed. What is asked for in the
34 Cf. Wright ArGr II, § 17, rem. a, p. 35s.

68 kropp
formula lā yafʿal fidā can be translated as “then may he not make /create
(necessity) of being ransomed (from death)”.
Choosing the Verb in Line 5
Line 4 contains a clear taǧnīs; the verb baġā in different derivations. This
makes highly probable that in line there is the same rhetoric device. ʾArāda as
a possible verb results in clumsy constructions; other possible candidates—
radā, warada, waḏara etc.—do the same. The root DWD has a number of
different stems attested in the same sense “to fester”. This makes acceptable
to postulate a causative form adāda “to let s.o. be eaten by worms” even if not
directly attested in the Arabic dictionaries.
Nabataean wawation or Waw Apodoseis / waw at-taʾkīd?
Nearly all scholars accept the reading al-mawt(w) at the end of line 4 and
ǧurḥ(w) on line 5. Now, as Ambros (1994: 91) rightly remarks, the ligatures,
themselves already not quite clear, between several letters do not coincide
with word units. Then the use and function of the Nabataean wawation which
continues in Classical Arabic for some diptote proper names is extremely
unclear. Suffice it to cite John Healey:35
Nabataean wawation
This phenomenon, the seemingly now superfluous waw suffix, reveals

itself to a remarkable degree in this inscription (i.e. JS 17). It is extremely
well attested in Nabataean inscriptions with personal names, but, this
inscription apart, only in a minute number of other nouns (cf. e.g. JS I8).
This cannot be the place to rehearse all the various theories concerning
Nabataean wawation, none of which in any case would appear to be
satisfactory. All one can add after an analysis of wawation in JS I7 is
that the phenomenon becomes even more mysterious. There is not ready
solution to the problem emerging from an investigation of JS I7, 38 but,
since the inscription is unique in the frequency of wawation, a list of its
appearances and the relevant circumstances would perhaps be useful.
35 Healey (1989: 82). The argument is not taken up again in Healey (2002).
l. 1 qbrw—qabrun, an indefinite noun with nunation, nominative case

kʿbw—Kaʿbu, personal name without nunation, nominative case
l. 3 ʿbdmnwtw—ʿAbdi Manāta, personal name without nunation,
genitive case
l. 4 ʾlhgrw—al-Hijri, place name with definite article, genitive case
l. 7 ʾlqbrw—al-qabra, noun with definite article, accusative case.
One has certainly to distinguish between Arabic words in a Nabataean context

and texts written in Arabic. In order not to render even more mysterious the
use and function of the Nabataean wawation I prefer to interpret wa- as a
conjunction opening the apodosis with a special rhetorical accent which agrees
perfectly with the general tenor of the text.
No Haplography and no Emendation in Line 6
Several scholars proposed the reading Garmallāhi kataba {bi}yadi-hī as an

Arabic verbals phrase. But this is a stereotype and recurring juridical Nabataean
(Aramaic) term kǝṯaḇ yaḏ ǝh “personal signature” as it is often found e.g. in the
Naḥal Ḥaver documents.
Proposed Translations
Detailed discussion of arguments for the translations is not given here, as well
as the many partial translations and proposals presented in the other indicated
works, and should be looked up in the respective articles.
Negev, A. (1986: 57)
1. May he who reads(?) be remembered in good (memory) before Obodas

the god, and may there be remernbered
2. who(ever) …
3. Garmallāhi son of Taymallāhi [set up] a statue before Obodas the god.
4. And he acts neither for benefit nor for favor. And if death claim us let me
not
5. be claimed. And if affliction seeks, let it not seek us.
6. Garmallāhi wrote this with his own hand.
70 kropp
Shifman (1988: 118)
И будет, если покусвтсн на нас

Смерть, пусть не добудет ero. И будет, если
захочет ранящий, пусть не ищет вас.
Noja (1989: 188, 192)
“Und er hat (das) weder zum Vorteil noch als Mahnung gemacht.”
Und so hier der Tod uns sucht, im Gegenteil suche ich ihn nicht.
Und so hier ich (die Verwundung) ablehne, im Gegenteil lehnt die
Verwundung uns nicht ab.
Bellamy (1990: 74)
4 For (Obodas) works without reward or favour, and he, when death
tried to claim us, did not
5 let it claim (us), for when a wound (of ours) festered, he did not let us
perish.
Noja (1993: 184–185)
And he did not do (this) either as an advantage or as a memorial And

thus: death seeks us, (on the contrary) I do not seek it;
And thus: I refuse (the wound), (on the contrary) the wound does not
refuse us.
Snir (1993: 116–120)
And he acts neither for preserving himself from misfortune nor for
willing to be rich.
If death wants me, I do not want it
And if I want any gain, it does not want me.
Kropp (1994: 171)
Thus may He not make victims of death nor produce scars (i.e. calamity,
illness etc.)!
Be it then that death claims us, He will not allow its claim!
Be it then that a wound festers (produces worms), He will not let us be
eaten by the worms!
Testen (1996: 292)
And may he act (and He acts) That I may (be made to prosper?) and not
(be deprived?)
At our proper time seeks us Death, but not I seek him
At our proper time I (repel? / let alone?) (my? Assailant?), but not he
(repels? / let alone?) us.
Sharon (1997: 192)
4. And he does (so) neither for compensation nor for honour. And if
here, the death will seek me/us,
5. I shall avoid it; and if here I come to the water, let no affliction befall
me/us.
Kropp (2002: 113)
Möge Er weder (tödliches) Opfer noch (schlimme) Spuren bewirken!

Sei es, daß der Tod uns erheischt, Er sein Erheischen nicht erfülle!
Sei es, daß eine Wunde in Würmern fault, Er uns nicht von diesen
Würmern fressen lasse!
Lacerenza (2009: 418)
Sia ben ricordato colui che legge innanzi al dio Oboda, e sia ricordato
colui che ha scritto, Ǧarmallahi, da ʿAvdat (?):
Ǧarmallahi, figlio di Taymallahi, (che) ha fatto il sacrificio per il dio
Oboda.
E non lo ha fatto per la ricompensa, né per la grazia;
e se la morte ci reclama, che non sia richiamato,
e se il dolore ci cerca, che non ci trovi.
Ǧarmallahi scrisse di suo pugno.
References and Articles on or Treating the Inscription of ʿAyn

ʿAbada (ʿEn ʿAvdat)
Negev, A. (1986). “Obodas the God”. Israel Exploration Journal 36: 56–60; pl. IIB.
Knauf, E.A. (1988). “Arabisch als vorliterarische Sprache”. Heidelberg (unpubl. type-
script of a public lecture). ʿEn ʿAvdat inscription pp. 24–25.
72 kropp
Shifman, I. Sh. (1988). “Novaja nabatejskaja dvyjazychnaja nadpis iz okrestnostej

Obody”. Epigrafija Vostoka. 24: 116–117.
Noja, S. (1989). “Über die älteste arabische Inschrift, die vor kurzem entdeckt wurde”.
In: ḤKMWT BNTH BYTH. Studia semitica necnon iranica. R. Macuch dedicata. Wies-
baden, pp. 187–194.
Bellamy, J.A. (1990). “Arabic Verses From The First/Second Century: The Inscription of
ʿEn ʿAvdat”. Journal of Semitic Studies 35: 73–79.
Hämeen-Anttila, J. (1991). “A note on the ʿEn ʿAvdat Inscription”. Studia Orientalia 67:
33–36.
Jastrow, O. (1993). “Briefliche Mitteilung über kān, kun etc. als (Konditional-)Konjunk-
tion im Arabischen” vom 13. 12. 1993.
Noja, S. (1993). “A Further Discussion of the Arabic Sentence of the 1st Century A.D. and
its Poetical Form”. In: Semitica. Serta philologica Constantino Tsereteli dicata. Torino,
pp. 183–188.
Snir, R. (1993). “The Inscription of ʿEn ʿAvdat: An Evolutionary Stage of Ancient Arabic
Poetry”. Abr Nahrain. 31: 110–125.
Ambros, A. (1994). “Zur Inschrift von ʿEn ʿAvdat—eine Mahnung zur Vorsicht”. Zeit-
schrift für Arabische Linguistik 27: 90–92.
Beeston, A.F.L. (1994). “Antecedents of Arabic Classical Verse?”. In: Festschrift Ewald
Wagner zum 65. Geburtstag. Bd. 1: Semitische Studien unter besonderer Berück-
sichtigung des Südsemitistik. (= Beiruter Texte und Studien 54.). Beirut, pp. 234–
243.
Kropp, M. (1994). “A Puzzle of Old Arabic Tenses and Syntax: The Inscription of ʿEn
ʿAvdat”. Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 24: 165–174.
Testen, D. (1996). “The Arabic of the ʿEn ʿAvdat Inscription”. Journal of Near Eastern
Studies 35: 281–292.
Sharon, M. (1997). Corpus inscriptionum arabicarum Palaestinae (CIAP). 1. (Handbuch
der Orientalistik / Handbook of oriental studies. Abt. 1. Der Nahe und der Mittlere
Osten / The Near and Middle East 30.) Leiden, New York, Cologne. ʿAvdat (ʿAbdah)
pp. 190–194; figg. 72 and 73.
Lacerenza, G. (2000). “Appunti sull’iscrizione nabateo-araba di ʿAyn ʿAvdat”. Studi Epi-
grafici e Linguistici 17: 105–114.
Yardeni, A. (2000). Documents from the Judaean Desert. Part 1: The Documents. Part 2:
The Jewish Cursive script. Appendix: The Nabataean script. Selected Bibliography.
Part III: Concordance. Jerusalem.
Kropp, M. (2002). “Iatromagie und der Beginn der arabischen Schriftsprache: die naba-
täisch-arabische Inschrift von ʿAyn ʿAbada”. Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph de
Beyrouth 55: 91–117.
Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2005). “Literacy in an Oral Environment”. In: Writing and
Ancient Near Eastern Society. Papers in Honour of Alan R. Millard. Ed. by P. Bienkow-
ski, C. Mee, and E. Slater. (The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 426.)
Bloomsbury: T&T Clark, pp. 49–118.
Mascitelli, Daniele (2006). L’Arabo in epoca preislamica: Formazione di una lingua. (=
Arabia Antiqua 4.) Rome. Iscrizione di GRMʾLHY pp. 119–129.
Lacerenza, Giancarlo (2009). “L’Arabia preislamica”. In: Storia d’Europa e del Mediterra-
neo 7, 3. L’Ecumene romana. L’impero tardoantico. Roma, pp. 387–424.
Macdonald, Michael C.A. “ARNA Nab 17 and the transition from the Nabataean to
the Arabic script” (2009). In: Philologisches und Historisches zwischen Anatolien und
Sokotra. Analecta Semitica in Memoriam Alexander Sima. Ed. by W. Arnold et al.
Macdonald, Michael C.A. (2010a). “Arabia and the Written Word”. In: The Development
of Arabic as a Written Language. Ed. by M.C.A. Macdonald. Oxford (Supplement to
the Proceedings of the Seminar of Arabian Studies 41), pp. 5–27.
Knauf, Ernst Axel (2010). “Arabo-Aramaic and ʿArabiyya: From Ancient Arabic to Early
Standard Arabic, 200ce–600ce”. In: The Qurʾan in Context. Historical and Literary
Investigations into the Qurʾānic Milieu. Ed. by A. Neuwirth, N. Sinai, and M. Marx.
(Texts and Studies on the Qurʾan 6.) Leiden: Brill, pp. 197–254.
Fiema, Zbigniew T., Ahmad Al-Jallad, Michael C.A. Macdonald, and Laïla Nehmé (2015).
“Provincia Arabia: Nabataea, the Emergence of Arabic as a Written Language, and
Graeco-Arabica” In: Arabs and Empires before Islam. Ed. by G. Fisher. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, pp. 373–433.
Additional Bibliography and Abbreviations
Beeston, A.F.L. (1984). Sabaic Grammar. Manchester.

Bösch, H. (1878). “Wundsegen”. Anzeiger für die Kunde der deutschen Vorzeit. N.F. 25: 67.
CantNab = Cantineau, J. (1930). Le nabatéen. 2 vols. Paris.
CIS = Corpus inscriptionum semiticarum.
CRAIBL = Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et des Belles Lettres.
Healey, J.F. (1996). “‘May he be remembered for good’: An Aramaic Formula”. In: Tar-
gumic and Cognate Studies. Essays in Honour of Martin McNamara. Ed. by Kevin
J. Cathcart and Michael Maher. (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament. Sup-
plement Series 230.) Sheffield, pp. 177–186.
Healey, J.F. (2002). “Nabataeo-Arabic: Jaussen-Savignac nab. 17 and 18”. In: Studies on
Arabia on Honour of Professor G. Rex Smith. Ed. by J.F. Healey and V. Porter. (Journal
of Semitic Studies Supplement. 14.) Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 81–90.
Healey, John F. and Rex G. Smith (1989). “Jaussen-Savignac 17—the earliest dated Arabic
document (A.D. 267)”. Al-Atlal 12: 77–84, pl. no. 46.
Ja = Altsüdarabische Inschriften mit den Siglen nach A. Jamme (vgl. Beeston, A.F.L.,
74 kropp
M.A. Ghul, W.W. Müller and J. Ryckmans (1982). Sabaic Dictionary. Louvain-la-
Neuve).
Kropp, M. (1992). “The Inscription Ghoneim AFO 27. 1980. Abb. 10: A Fortunate Error”.
Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 22: 55–67.
Kühn, Dieter (1987). Ich, Wolkenstein: eine Biographie. Frankfurt am Main. (= Insel-
Taschenbuch. 497.) Biographie des Dichters Oswald von Wolkenstein; Neubear-
beitung: Kühn, Dieter 2011 Ich Wolkenstein. Eine Biographie. Erweiterte Neufassung.
Frankfurt am Main.
Lane, E.W. (1863–1869). An Arabic-English Lexicon. London.
Lisān al-ʿArab of Ibn Manẓūr. (Several editions; the lemma is given).
Maraqṭen, M. (2013) “Al-ʿArab wa-l-ʿArabiyya: dirāsa fī al-ǧuḏūr at-taʾrīḫiyya li-l-muṣ-
ṭalaḥ “ʿArab” wa-l-“ʿArabiyya” fī ḍawʾ al-iktišāfāt al-ḥadīṯa.” ms. 2013. S. 29–31.
Negev, A. (1961). “Nabataean Inscriptions from ʿAvdat (Oboda)”. Israel Exploration Jour-
nal 11: 127–138; pll. 28–31; 13 (1963): 113–124; pll. 17–18.
O’Connor, M. (1986). “The Arabic Loanwords In Nabatean Aramaic”. Journal of Near
Eastern Studies 45: 213–229.
RCEA = Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe. 1 ss. Cairo, 1931 ss.
RÉS = Répertoire d’épigraphie sémitique.
Ṣalāḥ-ad-dīn Al-Munaǧǧid (1972). Dirāsāt fī tārīh- al-ḫaṭṭ al-ʿArabī. Bayrūt.
Wenning, R. (1987). Die Nabatäer—Denkmäler und Geschichte. Göttingen.
Wright ArGr = Wright, W. (1896–1898). A Grammar of the Arabic Language. 3rd ed. 2
vols. Cambridge (numerous reprints).
chapter 4
Aramaic or Arabic? The Nabataeo-Arabic Script

and the Language of the Inscriptions Written in
This Script*
Laïla Nehmé
The Nabataeo-Arabic inscriptions refer to a group of texts, dated or possibly

dated to the 4th and 5th centuries ad,1 the script of which is transitional
between the Nabataean script and the Arabic one. This group, which now
contains c. 110 texts, most of which come from northwest Arabia while twenty-
five were discovered in 2014 in the area of Ḥimā, c. 100 km northeast of Najrān in
southern Arabia,2 was initially labelled “transitional”, i.e. transitional between
Nabataean and Arabic (Nehmé 2010). Chr. Robin then suggested to label them
“Late Nabataean” (Robin 2008: 174), but these terminologies are confusing,
the latter because “Late Nabataean” (“tardo-nabatéen” in French) refers, for
archaeologists, to the late Nabataean period, i.e. the period immediately before
the Roman annexation of the Nabataean kingdom in ad 106 and therefore
an interval which includes the second half of the first century ad. As for the
former label, “transitional”, it is confusing because it cannot be understood
outside the specific context of the transition between Nabataean and Arabic.
“Nabataeo-Arabic” has the advantage of referring clearly to a script which is
* I would like to thank warmly Ahmad Al-Jallad for inviting me to present this material in
Leiden and for the very stimulating email correspondence which followed. Me being an
archaeologist and an epigraphist (not a linguist), he guided my steps into this field with great
patience and teaching skills. I have tried to acknowledge whatever comes from him which
I would not have worked out by myself, and I hope I have not introduced errors which, of
course, remain my own.
1 In this contribution, I have sometimes included in the tables texts from the 3rd century,
despite the fact that from the palaeographical point of view, I do not consider them as
being written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script. The inclusion of the 3rd century texts is jus-
tified by the fact that the first “evolved” characters appear already in them, see next para-
graph.
2 Robin et al. 2014, where some of the texts are labelled Palaeo-Arabic. A corpus of the Naba-
taeo-Arabic texts is desperately needed, especially since quite a few of them are still unpub-
lished. The author of the present contribution is working on it.

76 nehmé
neither Nabataean nor Arabic but somewhere on its way between the two,
whatever the period during which this process occurs.3
From a purely palaeographic point of view, it seems that one can divide
the texts dated to the interval between the 3rd and the 5th century into two
categories: pre-AD 275 ones (in fact pre-AD 267) and post-AD 275 ones.4 This
division is not arbitrary, it is based on the observation of all the formerly called
“transitional” texts, especially the dated ones. I have indeed noticed that in the
texts which are dated to before ad 275, half of which come from Sinai,5 only
a few letters or groups of letters show “evolved” features. These are the y, the
h, the ḥ and the g, to which should be added sequences of letters such as ʿny
in CIS II 963, lhy in Negev (1967: no. 1), ʿbw and lʿn in JSNab 17, kʿb in JSNab 18,
etc., all involving either a ʿ or a y.6 In these sequences, the “evolved” character of
the text is given not only by the letters themselves but also by the way they are
ligatured. The only occurrence of a possibly evolved ʾ and of a relatively evolved
š appear in JSNab 18, presumably dated to ad 267 because it was carved beside
JSNab 17 and because it mentions the “builders” of the tomb the epitaph of
which is JSNab 17. In this text, although most of the ʾ belong to the “calligraphic”
Nabataean form (a circle with a tail), the ʾ in ʾḥbrwhy, at the end of line 2, is
made of a vertical stroke (rather than a loop) terminated by a diagonal line
bending up to the right.
In the second group, post-AD 275, in which there are no more texts from
Sinai, the number and variety of the letters which are evolved grow consider-
ably. One text is a clear exception: the so-called Stiehl inscription from Madāʾin
Ṣāliḥ (Stiehl 1970), dated to ad 356. It shows “archaic” letter forms one would not
expect to find in a mid-fourth century text, along with some of the letters which
were identified as “evolved” in the first group of texts ( y, ḥ and the sequences of
letters ḥny, ḥg, ny).7 The main characteristics of this second group, the dating of
3 I first suggested to call them Nabataeo-Arabic in my Habilitation thesis in 2013 (see Nehmé
2013: 29–30).
4 For a complete list of texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century ad, see Nehmé (2010: 65).
5 Texts from Sinai: CIS II 963, 1491, 2666; Negev (1967: 250–252, no. 1 and 2, pl. 48A and B); Negev
(1981: 69, no. 9, pl. 10A). Texts from elsewhere: LPNab 41 (Umm al-Jimāl); JSNab 17 and JSNab
18 (Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ); Jaussen et al. (1905: 238, 240, no. 2, copy p. 239 (Avdat)); B 3, for which see
Nehmé (2010: 67–68 (Boṣrā)).
6 Photographs and facsimiles of these texts can be found in Nehmé 2010: fig. 23 (CIS II 963),
fig. 24 (JSNab 17), and fig. 25 (JSNab 18).
7 Unless otherwise specified, photos and facsimiles of the texts mentioned in this paragraph
appear in Nehmé 2010. When it is not the case, a photograph is provided in the present
contribution.
aramaic or arabic? 77
which extends from ad 275 to at least 475 or even a little later,8 are the follow-
ing: appearance of the ʾ made of a small vertical stroke and of a long diagonal
one (the vertical one tending to disappear), of the d with a cupped top, of the
circular medial m, of the transitional k, r, š and t, etc.9 Combinations of letters
such as m-ʾ in mʾt (line 6) and š-n-t (line 5) in UJadh 309, dated ad 295 or b-
ʾ and m-ʾ in line 4 of the Mābiyāt inscription dated to ad 280 (numbered M 1
in Nehmé 2010), are particularly evolved. Other combinations are also worth
drawing the attention to: ʿyn and lym in ARNA.Nab 17, lines 1 and 4, ʾntth and
mytt in M 1, the name ʿbydw in UJadh 109, etc. Of course, to these should be
added the letters which were already evolved in the first group, i.e. y, h, ḥ and
g. All in all, one can see that the number of evolved letters in the texts becomes
more important, if not an overwhelming majority. Of course, the description
of the two groups given above is very schematic, and should ideally be based
on a much larger number of texts. The conclusions drawn from it are therefore
given here as a working hypothesis and may turn out to be wrong when new
texts are discovered. The main issue, for the moment, is that I prefer, at least
provisionally, to restrict the use of the label “Nabataeo-Arabic” to texts which
belong to the second group, i.e. to the 4th and 5th centuries.
I have demonstrated, during a conference organized in Paris in 2012, the pub-
lication of which was unfortunately delayed, that although most of the letter
forms which occur in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts from northwest Arabia10 are
comparable or identical to the ones which appear in the pre-Islamic inscrip-
tions from Syria (Zebed, ad 512; Usays, ad 529; Ḥarrān, ad 569),11 some letters
are still reminiscent of their equivalent in calligraphic Nabataean or are still
‘on their way’ to Arabic. I have therefore suggested that one cannot really speak
of an Arabic script in the 5th century ad inscriptions from northwest Arabia,
in the sense of a well-defined and systematically used system of letters. These
inscriptions and the characters they show lack the standardisation which must
have taken place sometime between the end of the 5th century and the end of
the 6th century. The area where it occurred—or where it was done—has not
been determined yet, although hypotheses in favour of al-Ḥīra, the Naṣrid cap-
ital in lower Iraq, and a possible influence of Syriac, have been put forward
8 Because of the dating of the Nabataeo-Arabic inscription from Eilat recently published
in Avner et al. 2013, dated by Robin, on solid grounds, to the last quarter of the 5th
century.
9 A drawing of the evolved forms of the letters is given in Nehmé (2010: 64).
10 I use this as shorthand but it should be clear that I refer to the script in which these texts
are written.
11 For which see Robin (2006), Macdonald (2010b) and Macdonald in Fiema et al. (2015).
78 nehmé
(Robin 2002: 66). There is no doubt, however, that the initial development of
the Arabic script from the Nabataean one occurred in northwest Arabia in the
4th and 5th centuries ad, at a time when the political power stopped being in
the exclusive hands of Byzantium and started to be held by Arab “kings” who
were at the head of local principalities. The personnel of their administrations
were part of the elite of the oases in or near which most of the inscriptions
were discovered (Ḥegrā/al-Ḥijr, Dūmat al-Jandal/al-Jawf, Taymā, Tabūk, etc.),
and the development of the script was probably given an impulse by its use,
on soft material, in the chancellery of these princedoms. To understand the
problematic of the standardisation of the Arabic script, one should take into
account the fact that no inscription dated with certainty to the 6th century has
yet been discovered in northwest Arabia, while there is a relatively large num-
ber of inscriptions dated to the first century Hijra.12 On the other hand, three
texts from Syria are dated to the 6th century ad and only one to the first century
of the Hijra.13 In this context, it would be extremely useful to discover inscrip-
tions dated to the 6th century ad in northwest Arabia and to see whether these
texts, if they exist, are written in a more standardised form of the Arabic script
than the 5th century ones. If we assume that most of them at least were not
written by travellers coming from very far away,14 this would also show that
the use of writing was continuous in northwest Arabia down to the time of the
Prophet Muḥammad.
Considering that I have, until now, focused mainly on matters related to the
script of the Nabataeo-Arabic inscriptions, I would like, in this contribution, to
consider these texts from the point of view of the language in which they are
written: is it Nabataean Aramaic or Arabic?
In the first century ad, the Nabataeans wrote their inscriptions, such as the
legal texts carved on the façades of the monumental tombs at Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ,
ancient Ḥegrā, in the Aramaic language.15 It is probable, however, that some
or all of them, possibly in varying proportion depending on the region of the
Nabataean Kingdom where they lived, spoke Arabic. Arguments for this case
were put forward recently by M.C.A. Macdonald (2010a: 19–20). As pointed
out by him long ago, the ‘Arabic’ character of the Nabataean personal names
12 Twenty-three are known to Fr. Imbert, to whom I am grateful for sharing this information
with me. For published material, see al-Ghabban (2008).
13 Grohmann (1971: 73 no. 23 and fig. 51 p. 85).
14 The people who wrote the graffiti along the Darb al-Bakra seem to have been travelling
from Medina to the area of Tabūk, i.e. over a distance of 500km only.
15 These are usefully collected in Healey (1993).
should be excluded from them straightaway since one cannot deduce from the
etymological language of a name the language its bearer spoke (Macdonald
2003: 50). These arguments are summarised below:
1. The strongest one is given by the presence of Arabic loanwords in the legal
papyri from the late first and early second centuries ad found in Naḥal
Ḥever. In the Nabataean documents, Aramaic legal terms are followed
by their equivalents in Arabic.16 This could suggest that the Nabataeans
used Arabic in their legal proceedings, but recorded them in Aramaic.
As pointed out by A. Al-Jallad, this, as well as the Greek transcriptions of
Nabataean names, leads to consider that Arabic was more widely spoken
in the Nabataean kingdom than the distribution of the Arabic loanwords
in the Nabataean inscriptions had initially suggested.
2. In the inscription from ʿĒn ʿAvdat in the Negev,17 lines 1, 2, 3 and 6 are
in Nabataean Aramaic while lines 4 and 5 are in Arabic. The latter are in
a rhetorical style and Macdonald has suggested that they could be part
of the liturgy in praise of the deified Nabataean king Obodas.18 If this is
correct, it is probable that the author has simply transcribed in Nabataean
letters part of the liturgy which he usually heard in Arabic.19
3. In the late fourth century ad, Epiphanius records that the people in Petra
and Elusa sang hymns to their deities in Arabic.20
4. A. Al-Jallad has recently suggested (forthcoming) that there is more influ-
ence of Arabic on Nabataean Aramaic syntax and morphology. However,
this influence has not yet been the object of a close examination and the
material still needs to be collected.21
5. A recent and thorough study of the Nabataean names in Greek transcrip-
tion (Al-Jallad this volume) has revealed that the authors of the transcrip-
16 For example, in P. Yadin 2, lines 5–6, five Aramaic terms are followed by three Arabic
terms which translate or match three of the preceding Aramaic terms. See Yadin et al.
(2002: 220–222). The authors note [p. 222] that in the “Jewish papyri, additional, redundant
terms of reference were gleaned from the Jewish tradition to create an impression of
all-inclusiveness, whereas in the Nabataean papyri fairly synonymous Arabic terms were
added to create the same effect”.
17 Negev (1986); see most recently Macdonald in Fiema et al. (2015).
18 Macdonald (2005: 98–99).
19 This is not surprising if one considers, as Macdonald has pointed out, that religious
liturgies tend to be extremely conservative in language.
20 Panarion 51.22.11 (Epiphanius / F. Williams 1994: 51).
21 See Healey (1993: 61) and morphological Arabisms are mentioned in Yadin et al. (2002:
25). A PhD thesis, unfortunately unpublished, was devoted to Nabataean syntax by M. al-
80 nehmé
tions maintained in Greek an Arabic pronunciation of the names, which

suggests that they spoke Arabic. Also, several fields and orchards in the
vicinity of Petra mentioned in the Petra Papyri had Arabic names (Al-
Jallad et al. 2013: 29–48).
6. One last argument is the presence of Arabic loanwords in the Nabataean
inscriptions. In a recently but yet unpublished study I made of the Arabic
loanwords in Nabataean,22 I was able to show that the vast majority of the
Arabic loanwords occur in two regions of the Nabataean kingdom: north-
west Arabia and the Dead Sea region. Among the sixty-seven possible
Arabic loanwords in Nabataean that I have listed, thirty-seven appear only
in inscriptions, twenty-six appear only in the Naḥal Ḥever papyri, and
four appear in both.23 Moreover, among the thirty-seven loanwords which
appear in inscriptions, thirty-three appear in inscriptions from northwest
Arabia. Only ten loanwords appear in other areas of the Nabataean king-
dom: around Petra, in the Ḥismā and in the Ḥawrān. Thus, almost half of
the loanwords which were identified in Nabataean or Nabataeo-Arabic
inscriptions come from northwest Arabia.
Hamad (2005). In his conclusion, the author says that “Nabataean is similar, in its syntax,
to the other Aramaic dialects, with some Arabic influence on syntax and on terminol-
ogy appearing in some examples due to various factors”. M. al-Hamad notes, for example
(p. 198) that w is sometimes used, in the Nabataean inscriptions, as a conjunction intro-
ducing the apodosis, and since this is not attested in other Aramaic dialects, he assumes
it is the result of an Arabic influence. Al-Jallad has suggested to me (pers. comm.) that
this could be the case in the very common Nabataean expression dkyr w šlm, where, as
in Arabic, the w may introduce a result clause, to be translated by “so that”, and not be
simply the conjunction “and”. This would make sense if one considers that it is the deity
who remembers (dkyr) the author of the inscription, and it would be logical, therefore,
to assume that security results from the fact that the deity remembers him, i.e. “may So-
and-So be remembered so that he may be secure”. When šlm is used without dkyr, it would
simply mean “may he be secure”, and in that case, the Arabism would lie only in the use
of the suffix conjugation to express an optative force, which exists in Arabic but not in
Aramaic.
22 For a lecture entitled “Arabic loanwords in Nabataean Aramaic: a synthesis”, given in Berlin
in 2012 in the framework of the ANR-DFG project CORANICA.
23 A. Yardeni published in 2014 a list of the Arabic loanwords which occur in the Nabataean
papyri. I intend to do the same for those which appear in the inscriptions.
Considering that the Nabataeo-Arabic texts, which are almost exclusively

graffiti, have a very limited content if one excludes the proper names, it is
relatively easy to identify in them the Arabic loanwords. This is what I will
examine first.
– ʾṣḥbh, in an inscription from Sakākā dated ad 429 (S 1, Nehmé 2010: 71–72):

it is the broken plural of the Arabic word ṣāḥib, “a companion, an associate,
a comrade, etc.”,24 followed by the personal pronoun -h in the third person
masculine. A. Al-Jallad has drawn my attention to the fact that the second
letter of this word looks more like a š than like a ṣ, but if we consider the
shape of the other š in the text (in ʾl-ʿšrh, ʿšrh and šnt), it is probably better
to consider that it is an oddly written ṣ.
– ʾly, in one text from Umm Jadhāyidh, UJadh 330 (fig. 4.1 here Nehmé 2013,
vol. 2):25 it is the preposition, “to, toward”, known in Aramaic under the form
ʾl, while classical Arabic has ʾilā, with alif maqṣūrah. The form with final
y suggests that it was pronounced by an Arabic speaker as /ʾilay/, another
example of the Arabic dialect where the final diphthong had not collapsed.26
– the particle bly, “yes!”, is used in six Nabataeo-Arabic texts27 but also in a
large number of Nabataean ones (Nehmé 2005–2006: 196–197). It does not
occur in other epigraphic Northwest Semitic languages and it may be com-
pared to Arabic balā. The Nabataean orthography would simply express an
original pronunciation /balay/, where the diphthong is preserved. Another
particle, ʾy, is attested in one text only, ARNA.Nab 17, where it starts the
text. It has been interpreted by M.C.A. Macdonald (2009: 216) as an “assev-
erative particle” comparable to bly. Macdonald notes that it occurs only in
Nabataean inscriptions found in the Jawf area, in the expression bly w ʾy
(al-Muaikil and al-Theeb 1996: no. 2, 5 and 6,28 all written in ‘calligraphic’
24 Lane (1863–1893: 1653a).

25 This unpublished text is part of the Darb al-Bakra corpus of inscriptions, the commentary
on which was the object of my Habilitation thesis in 2013. The publication of the material
is in progress.
26 It is worth recalling, since final y has sometimes been interpreted as representing a long
ā (Robin 2006: 339), that in Safaitic and Hismaic, the equivalent for Classical Arabic banā
(with alif maqṣūrah), is bny (see Macdonald 2004: 501–502, with other examples, and Al-
Jallad this volume, § 5.1, and forthcoming), and since neither Safaitic nor Hismaic write
long vowels, y was a consonant, not a long ā. It is certainly the same here, the y in ʾly being
the mark of the diphthong and not a letter representing a long ā.
27 UJadh 3, UJadh 109, UJadh 309, UJadh 375, S 2, MSNab 45.2.
28 Note that the other examples of ʾy said to be attested in al-Muaikil and al-Theeb (1996,
82 nehmé
Nabataean). It apparently occurs also by itself, ʾy šlm … in an inscription from

Qāʿ al-Muʿtadil near al-ʿUlā (al-Theeb 2010, no. 470).
– the article ʾl-: when used in a Nabataean text, the ʾl- form of the definite arti-
cle is usually considered to be an Arabic loanword since the normal way of
expressing the article in Aramaic is the alif at the end of a word. The ʾl- form
of the article appears in a number of Nabataeo-Arabic inscriptions, either
in the toponym ʾl-ḥgr (UJadh 330, see fig. 1), as opposed to Aramaic ḥgrʾ,
or before substantives: ʾl-mlk, rather than mlkʾ, in ARNA.Nab 17 (Macdonald
2009) and in the Eilat inscription (Avner et al. 2013), also ʾl-ʿšrh in the text
from Sakākā (S 1, see above, ʾṣḥbh). A. Al-Jallad (2014) has rightly suggested
that because the ʾl- form of the definite article also occurs occasionally in
non-Arabic North Arabian languages such as Safaitic and Dadanitic, and is
absent in ancient and modern varieties of Arabic, it is linguistically better
to explain it as an areal feature. As such, its presence in a text would not be
enough to consider the text as Arabic. However, although this is true from
a strictly linguistic point of view, we may suggest that when it is used in
an inscription written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script, the author of which
is likely to have spoken some forms of either Aramaic or Arabic (unless he
was bilingual), it is likely that the ʾl- form of the article represents Arabic.
– l-: the preposition l-, which is used in both Aramaic and Arabic, occurs in
one text, UJadh 343 (Nehmé 2010: 60 and fig. 17), in a context where one
would not normally expect it in a Nabataean text,29 i.e. between dkyr and a
personal name: dkyr l-ʿmrw. If he was an Arabic speaker, he probably meant
“remembrance to”, in which case l- would probably be Arabic rather than
Aramaic. In another text, UJadh 293 (fig. 2),30 it is interesting to note that
we have dkyr PN br PN bṭb w l-PN, but in this case, as suggested to me by
Macdonald, the l- more likely represents “by” and indicates that the last PN
wrote the text.
One last possible loanword may be the verb šmʿt, which occurs in four Naba-
taeo-Arabic texts interpreted as prayers to the goddess al-ʿUzzā. These texts,
UJadh 313, 345 364, and 368, come from Umm Jadhāyidh and will be published
no. 17 and 22), are not certain because, as noted by Macdonald (2009: n. 30), the first one
is not visible on either the facsimile or the photo and the second is restored.
29 The construction passive participle + l- is common in Aramaic but not in this particular
context in Nabataean. al-Hamad (2005: 155 n. 504) gives two examples where l- is used
after šlm (CIS II 316 and 1358) but this is not exactly the same since šlm l- means simply
“Peace to”. In CIS II 316, the phrase is dkyr bṭb w šlm l-PN.
30 Unpublished text from the Darb al-Bakra (Nehmé 2013).
with the material from the Darb al-Bakra (see Nehmé 2013). In three of these
texts, the verb, which is at the beginning of the graffito, is followed by the prepo-
sition l-, “to”, introducing the name of the person the goddess is asked to listen
to or accept the prayer of.31 The root S-M-ʿ does not occur in any Nabataean
inscription. The formula šmʿt + divine name + l- + personal name is therefore,
to my knowledge, used only in texts written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script.
According to Fr. Imbert (pers. comm.), this invocation is not known in the
Arabic epigraphy either, it does not appear in the long list of invocations of
the early Islamic period written in Kufic. In fact, the root S-M-ʿ itself is almost
absent from them. Imbert knows of only one example, from ʿĒn ʿAvdat in the
Negev, dated to the first or second century Hijra,32 where the author asks God to
forgive the sins of So-and-So as well as those of the one who read and of the one
who listened. One should bear in mind that samiʿa in Arabic means “to listen” or
“to accept”, in some cases followed by the preposition li- (God accepts the praise
of).33 This meaning would fit very well the šmʿt of our texts, al-ʿUzzā being asked
to accept the prayer of the author. From the grammatical point of view, šmʿt can
be interpreted in two ways: a verb in the third person feminine perfect, “she lis-
tened/she accepted”, which could be either Aramaic or Arabic, or the same but
with an optative force, thus “may she listen/may she accept”. In the latter case,
šmʿt would be an Arabism because Aramaic suffix conjugation does not have
an optative force whereas the perfect in Arabic is constantly used in wishes,
prayers and curses with an optative meaning.34 Since these texts are considered
as prayers, the latter is more likely. Note that the root S-M-ʿ is probably used in
the perfect with an optative force in a Hismaic text published by G. King.35
These are the only possible loanwords which I could identify in the Naba-
taeo-Arabic texts and the evidence is therefore relatively scarce.
Another way of exploring a possible Arabic influence on the Nabataeo-
Arabic texts is to trace in them grammatical or phonological features which
are more characteristic of Arabic than of Nabataean Aramaic. I have already
31 For example, in UJadh 313, we have šmʿt ʾlʿzy l-mʿ{šr} ʾzm{ʾ} ktb. Note that in this text and
the three others, the name of the goddess al-ʿUzzā is written ʾlʿzy, with a final y, which
suggests that in the dialect spoken by the persons who wrote them, it was still pronounced
/ʿuzzay/.
32 Imbert (2011: P 18), with reference to previous publication of this graffito.
33 Lane (1863–1893: 1427c).
34 Wright (1896–1898, vol. II: 2–3).
35 King (1990: chapter 4, pp. 65–66 of the pdf version on-line, § on Invocations using s¹mʿt,
TIJ 312). I am grateful to M.C.A. Macdonald who drew my attention to this attestation in
Hismaic.
84 nehmé
alluded to some of these above (use of suffix conjugation with optative force;
use of broken plural in ʾṣḥb-h; w used as a conjunction introducing the apodosis;
orthography of ʾly and of ʾlʿzy, etc.) but following the stimulating reading of
A. Al-Jallad’s works, and a long correspondence with him, it occurred to me
that one other such feature could be the treatment of the feminine ending,
i.e. whether it is written -h or -t, relating this to the position of the word in
which it occurs (in pause or in construct). Indeed, in Nabataean Aramaic,
the feminine ending is always written -h in the absolute (ḥṭyʾh, ʾnth, mwhbh,
etc.) and always written -t in the construct.36 In the Qurʾānic consonantal
text (QCT), the feminine ending is written -h in all positions. In the Arabic
dialect which lies behind the QCT, this final -h was however not necessarily
pronounced /ah/ in all positions since, according to A. Al-Jallad (pers. comm.),
the sound change /at/ > /ah/, which results from a tendency for word final
consonants to weaken, occurred only in nouns which are not in construct
position (because those constitute a single stress unit with the following noun)
and in words other than verbs,37 i.e. just as in Aramaic.38 But, however the
feminine ending might have been pronounced, it was written -h, not -t, probably
as a result of an orthographic convention which, according to Al-Jallad (pers.
comm.), may have stemmed “from the desire to have a single orthography
across nouns”.39 The pronunciation of this letter as /at/ in the Arabic on which
Classical Arabic is based, made it eventually necessary to adapt the QCT to the
pronunciation of Classical Arabic, and hence to add the two dots over the -h of
the feminine ending, thus creating the tāʾ marbūṭah.
Thus, if one finds, in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts, a feminine word in construct
position where the ending is written -h instead of -t, this can be compared with
the way the original nominal ending [-at] was written in QCT, i.e. -ah in all
positions and not just in pause as in Classical Arabic. In order to try to find
one, I have collected, in the table below, all the words which show a feminine
ending in the texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century.40 They are ordered in
36 Examples in Cantineau (1930–1932, vol. 1: 91–92).

37 And probably, he adds, in some verbs which did not have an overt subject, and in which,
since the verb took stress, the sound change /at/ > /ah/ may have operated (on the
contrary, when they have overt subjects, they were proclitic and unstressed, causing the
/t/ to surface as a real /t/).
38 See Al-Jallad forthcoming, § on feminine ending.
39 This hypothesis can of course been debated, since it suggests a central authority control-
ling orthography, for which we have no evidence at this period.
40 I have deliberately included the 3rd century texts, which are however not considered as
Nabataeo-Arabic.
the Aramaic alphabetical order and by date. The feminine personal names are
not included in the table because they are irrelevant.41
Note that (df) means “(dating formula)”. The QCT is the Qurʾānic consonan-
tal text (rasm) which is the closest Arabic material to which the Nabataeo-
Arabic from northwest Arabia can be compared.
Word Context State Inscr. no. Provenance Date
ḥyrh ʾl-ḥyrh determined S1 Sakākā ad 428

mʾh šnt mʾh w šbʿyn (df) absolute ARNA.Nab 17
al-Jawf ad 276
mʾh šnt mʾh w šbʿyn w ḥmš (df) absolute M1 al-Mābiyāt ad 280
mʾh šnt mʾh w štyn w tryn (df) absolute JSNab 17
al-Ḥijr ad 267
mʾh šnt mʾh (df) absolute CIS II 963
Wādī Mukattab ad 206
(Sinai)
mʾt šnt mʾt w tšʿyn (df) absolute UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh ad 295
mʾ{t} št mʾ{t} w ʿšryn w ḥmš (df) absolute B3 Boṣrā ad 231
ʿšrh ʾṣḥbh ʾl-ʿšrh determined S 1 Sakākā ad 428
ʿšrh ywm ʿšrh w tmnh (df) absolute S1 Sakākā ad 428
šbʿh -ʿšryn w šbʿh (df) absolute? CIS II 333 al-ʿUlā > ad 300?
šnt šnt 99 (df) construct RÉS 528 ʿAvdat ad 204
šnt šnt 126 (df) construct CIS II 1491 ʿAvdat ad 236
šnt šnt mʾh w štyn w tryn (df) construct JSNab 17 al-Ḥijr ad 267
šnt šnt mʾh w šbʿyn (df) construct ARNA.Nab 17 al-Jawf ad 276
šnt šnt mʾh w šbʿyn w ḥmš (df) construct M1 al-Mābiyāt ad 280
šnt šnt mʾt w tšʿyn (df) construct UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh ad 295
šnt šnt mʾtyn w ʾḥdy (df) construct JSNab 386 al-ʿUlā ad 306
šnt šnt mʾtyn w ḥmšyn w ʾḥdy (df) construct Stiehl 1970 al-Ḥijr ad 356
šnt šnt 323 (df) construct S1 Sakākā ad 428
šth ywm ʿšryn w šth (df) absolute M1 al-Mābiyāt ad 280
tmnh ywm ʿšrh w tmnh (df) absolute S1 Sakākā ad 428
The table shows that in an overwhelming majority of cases, the feminine

ending in the texts written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script is consistent with
41 These are mwyh, in Stiehl (1970) with a re-reading of the name in Macdonald (2009: 214–
215) (ad 356), and rmnh, in M 1 (ad 280), both written with an evolved form of Nabataean
final h.
86 nehmé
Aramaic. The differences concern the lines which are highlighted in grey. In
UJadh 309, for example, we have šnt mʾt w tšʿyn where one would expect the
second word, which is not in construct, to be written with a final -h, both in
Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, not with a -t (here a Nabataean looped t).
The same is true, if the reading is correct, in the inscription from Boṣrā, B 3,
where we have št mʾ{t} w ʿšryn w ḥmš instead of šnt mʾh w ʿšryn w ḥmš.42 In
S 1, it is obviously normal, because of the use of the ʾl- form of the article,
to have ʾl-ʿšrh, and this is exactly what one would expect in Arabic, ʾṣḥbh
being a masculine plural referring to rational beings and ʿšrh being therefore
feminine in form. Had the text been written in Aramaic, we would simply
have had ʿšrtʾ. The last difference, in S 1 again, is that we have a form of the
numeral for “eight”, tmnh, which is neither exactly Nabataean, where only
tmwnʾ (CIS II 214 and 215) is attested,43 nor Arabic tmnyh (on this variation,
see below).
Thus, in total, the variations which have been identified in the Nabataeo-
Arabic texts regarding the feminine ending are variations from both Nabataean
Aramaic and Classical Arabic and, apart from ʾl-ʿšrh in S 1, are not particu-
larly indicative of an Arabic influence and do not provide evidence for the
emergence of the orthographic convention of writing the feminine ending
with -h. It should be noted, however, that all the words listed in the table
except one (ʾl-ḥyrh) appear in the dating formulas, i.e. in a context which
is anyway very conservative and which, in JSNab 17 for instance—written in
a mixture of Arabic and Nabataean—belongs to the Aramaic parts of the
text.
Before turning to another aspect of the Nabataeo-Arabic texts, I would like
to draw attention to the fact that the form of the final t varies from one text to
the other. It is either a calligraphic Nabataean t (sometimes with a loop on the
left stroke, as in JSNab 17), or a t which is the ancestor of the Arabic final t. Of
course, this variation does not affect the way the letter was pronounced, it only
reflects a stage in the development of the script. The distribution of Nabataean
calligraphic and Arabic ‘open’ t is given in the following table, in which the texts
are ordered chronologically.
Forms of final t in substantives and numerals in the texts dated to the interval
3rd–5th century:
42 It would be too speculative to draw conclusions from only two examples of a -t feminine
ending in pause, one of which (B 3) is not even certain.
43 Note that Aramaic has tmny.
Word State and context Inscr. no. Provenance Date Type of t
šnt dating formula, construct RÉS 528 ʿAvdat ad 204 Nabataean calligraphic
šnt dating formula, construct CIS II 963 Wādī Mukattab ad 206 Nabataean with a loop
(Sinai)
tltt construct CIS II 963 Wādī Mukattab ad 206 Nabataean with a loop
(Sinai)
mʾ{t} absolute B3 Boṣrā ad 231 Nabataean calligraphic
št construct B3 Boṣrā ad 231 Nabataean calligraphic
šnt dating formula, construct CIS II 1491 al-Ḥijr ad 232 Nabataean calligraphic
šnt dating formula, construct JSNab 17 al-Ḥijr ad 267 Nabataean with a loop
šnt dating formula, construct ARNA.Nab al-Jawf ad 276 Nabataean but closed
17 at the bottom
šnt dating formula, construct M1 al-Mābiyāt ad 280 ‘open’
šnt dating formula, construct UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh ad 295 ‘open’
mʾt dating formula, absolute UJadh 309 Umm Jadhāyidh ad 295 Nabataean with a loop
šnt dating formula, construct JSNab 386 al-ʿUlā ad 306 ‘open’
šnt dating formula, construct Stiehl 1970 al-Ḥijr ad 356 Nabataean with a loop
šnt dating formula, construct S1 Sakākā ad 428 ‘open’
What we can see is that the ‘open’ t appears in the texts only from ad 280
onwards and though the Nabataean looped form still occurs later, the majority
of the texts have an open t at the end of šnt. It is interesting to note that in
UJadh 309, three forms of t occur: ‘open’ in šnt, which is in construct, Nabataean
with a loop in mʾt, which is in pause, and ordinary Nabataean calligraphic in
other words (ktbʾ, ktb). There is no particular reason why the author should have
written šnt with an ‘open’ t. It may be a ‘mistake’ or reflect a hesitation between
the different graphemes he knew of to express /t/, but if it is intentional, we
may tentatively suggest that it reflects a desire to make a distinction between
the feminine ending in construct (šnt, ‘open’ t) and in pause (mʾt, Nabataean
t with a loop).44 However, as I have said above, one would normally expect, in
Nabataean Aramaic orthography, the word mʾh to be written with a final h.
It finally occurred to me that one last way (at least provisionally) of tracing
an Arabic influence on the syntax of the Nabataeo-Arabic texts would be the
44 But this would imply that the author was parsing his text as he carved it, which seems
unlikely.
88 nehmé
treatment of the numerals written in letters. Indeed, Nabataean Aramaic fol-

lows rules which are relatively systematic.45 They concern mainly the way the
numerals agree in gender with the noun they are attached to. I have therefore
collected in the table below the numerals which occur in the texts dated to the
interval between the 3rd and the 5th centuries. They are organised in chrono-
logical order.46
Inscr. no Date Numeral Remarks
CIS II 963 ad 206 šnt mʾh The formula (syntax and morphology) is identical to
the one it would be in Nabataean Aramaic and in
Arabic.
CIS II 963 ad 206 tltt qysryn Idem (Arabic *ṯlṯt qysryn).
B3 ad 231 št mʾ{t} w The word for “hundred”, mʾt, is written with a final t,
ʿšryn w ḥmš whereas one would expect, in Aramaic, mʾh w ʿšryn,
as in Arabic. In Arabic, the units would be written
before the tens, i.e. *snt mʾh w ẖms w ʿšryn.
JSNab 17 ad 267 šnt mʾh w In Arabic, one would have *snt mʾh w ʾṯntyn w styn.
štyn w tryn
ARNA.Nab 17 ad 276 šnt mʾh w The syntax and the morphology are identical to what
šbʿyn they would be in both Nabataean Aramaic and
Arabic.
M1 ad 280 ywm ʿšryn w The morphology is identical to what it would be in
šth Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, but in Arabic, the
units would be written before the tens, i.e. *ywm sth
w ʿšryn.
M1 ad 280 šnt mʾh w Idem (Arabic *snt mʾh w ẖms w sbʿyn).
šbʿyn w ḥmš
UJadh 309 ad 295 ywm ḥd The formula is typically Aramaic since in Arabic, one
would have something like al-yawm al-ʾawwal.47
UJadh 309 ad 295 šnt mʾt w The syntax is identical to what it would be in Arabic.
tšʿyn As in B 3, the word for “hundred”, mʾt, is written with
a final t whereas one would expect it, in both
Aramaic and Arabic, to be written with a final h.
45 Cantineau (1930–1932, vol. 1: 94–98).

46 I thank my colleague Georgine Ayyoub for her help in dealing with the Arabic numerals.
47 But cf. the name of the first day of the week in Arabic, yawm al-ʾaḥad.
Inscr. no Date Numeral Remarks
CIS II 333 >ad 300? ---ʿšryn w šbʿh The morphology is identical to what it would be in
Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, but in Arabic, the
units would be written before the tens, i.e. *sbʿh w
ʿšryn if the word before ʿšryn is masculine ( ywm?).
JSNab 386 ad 306 šnt mʾtyn w The formula (syntax and morphology) is identical to
ʾḥdy what one would expect in Arabic. The gender of
“one” is the same in Nabataean and in Arabic
(feminine), which is normal, but note the ending -y,
which is identical to that of Arabic ʾḥdy, probably
pronounced /iḥday/. In Nabataean, one would
expect ḥdh.
Stiehl 1970 ad 356 šnt mʾtyn w The morphology is identical to what it would be in
ḥmšyn w ʾḥdy Nabataean Aramaic and in Arabic, but in Arabic, the
units would be written before the tens, i.e. *snt mʾtyn
w ʾḥdy w ẖmsyn. As in JSNab 386 above, note the
spelling ʾḥdy for “one”.
Stiehl 1970 ad 356 brt šnyn tltyn brt šnyn is a peculiar way of giving a person’s age in
w tmny Aramaic, and it cannot be translated literally into
Arabic where one would presumably have *bnt ṯmny
w ṯlṯyn snh. Note also the form tmny, which is not
attested elsewhere in Nabataean, where we have
only tmwnʾ. It is a masculine form here.
S1 ad 428 ʾṣḥbh ʾl-ʿšrh The form ʾl-ʿšrh is Arabic, not Aramaic. In Aramaic,
one would of course have ʿšrtʾ. It is here in the
feminine, as in Classical Arabic.48
S1 ad 428 ywm ʿšrh w In Classical Arabic, the units would be written before
tmnh the tens, i.e. *ywm ṯmnyh ʿšr. Note also the form
tmnh in S 1, which is not attested elsewhere in
Nabataean.
48 Blachère (1975: 368): the rule according which the numerals from three to ten take the
opposite gender to the singular of the noun to which they refer also applies when the
numeral follows the noun.
90 nehmé
When the numerals contain tens and units, the texts which are listed in the
table preserve the Aramaic syntax, i.e. the units are written systematically after
the tens, whereas in Arabic, they would be written before them. In the cases
when the numerals contain only hundreds and tens, the syntax is the same in
Nabataean and in Arabic (e.g. šnt mʾh w tšʿyn) and therefore these numerals
are irrelevant for the question of a possible Arabic influence on the texts dated
to the interval 3rd–5th century. In other cases, finally, the numerals are clearly
Aramaic, for example ywm ḥdh, in UJadh 309.
In some cases, the form of the numerals in the texts is different from what
it would be in Nabataean texts. For example, mʾh is spelled twice mʾt whereas
one would expect mʾh (B 3 and UJadh 309) but this probably does not reflect an
Arabic influence; ḥdh, “one”, is spelled twice ʾḥdy (JSNab 386 and Stiehl 1970),
and this may be taken as the equivalent of Arabic ʾiḥdā < *ʾiḥday49 (with the
diphthong preserved, thus pronounced /iḥday/); finally, “eight” is spelled once
tmnh (S 1, ad 295) and once tmny (Stiehl 1970, ad 356) against Nabataean tmwnʾ.
I have asked myself whether this variation between tmnh and tmwnʾ was of
the same kind as the variation between the two spellings of the divine name
mntw and mnwtw, i.e. *manātū50 and manōtū51/manawatu.52 The variation in
mntw/mnwtw results from the monophthongization of original awa both to ā
(thus mntw) and to ō (thus mnwtw). In tmnh and tmny versus tmwnʾ, the vari-
ation does not result from the monophthongization of a triphthong, awa > ō
(the ā in *ṯamān does not result from a sound change) and therefore the two
cases are not exactly comparable. The orthography tmnh simply suggests that,
in S 1, it was possibly pronounced *ṯamānah, while tmny in the Stiehl 1970 text
suggests *ṯamānī or *ṯamānay, i.e. in the dialect both texts reflect, the ā was
preserved whereas in the other Nabataean texts, the second ā was probably
rounded to ō. It is interesting to note that in the texts dated to ad 295 and
ad 356, the orthography of the word for “eight” seems to be closer to the one it
would be in Arabic.53
49 Cantineau (1930–1932, vol. I: 95–96).

50 Since medial ās are not written in Nabataean orthography.
51 As proved by JSNab 17, where the name is written mnt in the Thamudic D summary and
mnwtw in the Nabataean text (where, as a consequence, the w cannot be a consonant).
52 It is possible that in other Nabataean inscriptions (other than JSNab 17), mnwtw reflects the
etymological form Manawatu (attested in the Latin inscription from Rumania, CIL III 7954,
where the name is spelled Manavatu), but that is impossible to say unless it appears in a
bilingual Nabataean/Ancient North Arabian inscription as mnwtw or in Greek. I am very
grateful to A. Al-Jallad for suggesting this to me and for explaining to me the matter of the
monophthongization.
53 But since it is also closer to Aramaic tmny than Nabataean tmwnh, it is difficult to be sure!
In total, the traces of a possible Arabic influence in the numerals are very
scarce and are limited to ʾl-ʿšrh instead of ʿšrtʾ in S 1 and possibly to the spelling
ʾḥdy for “one” and tmnh/tmny for “eight”. The conclusion is that the dating
formulas and the numerals in the texts dated to the interval 3rd–5th century
ad, written either in the Nabataean or in the Nabataeo-Arabic script, are for
the most part consistent with what they would be in Nabataean Aramaic.
The personal names which appear in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts have been
the object of a preliminary study only.54 The Darb al-Bakra corpus, which
includes sixty-seven such texts, contains 104 names. Out of these, eighty-one
appear only in texts written in that script while twenty-two appear both in
‘calligraphic’ Nabataean and in Nabataeo-Arabic. It is interesting to note that
among the eighty-one names which appear only in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts,
sixty-nine, i.e. the vast majority (c. 84%) are new to the Nabataean onomas-
ticon55 as known from A. Negev’s index (1991) with regular updating on my
part. On the contrary, among the names which appear in texts written in both
scripts, the proportion is reversed: out of these twenty-two names, eighteen
(c. 80%) are attested in Nabataean and four only are not. This means that most
of the names which appear in the texts written in the Nabataeo-Arabic script
are not known in the Nabataean onomasticon. This may point to the presence
in the area either of a new population (people who came from somewhere
else) or of people who did not make a great use of writing before the 3rd cen-
tury and who were therefore invisible to us. They would simply have started
writing, with this particular script, from the 3rd century onwards. Before the
names themselves are examined one by one, it is difficult to decide between
the two hypotheses. I intend to work on these names in the future, and deter-
mine whether they are found in Dadanitic, in other Ancient North Arabian
languages or in Arabic. What I can say for the moment is that half of the names
of Jewish character which I have identified in the Nabataean and Nabataeo-
Arabic inscriptions from the Darb al-Bakra are found only in the Nabataeo-
Arabic texts (ḥnny, ḥnnyh, yhwdʾ, ywsp, yʿqwb, nḥmy, ʿzrw).56 Indeed, two names
appear in both Nabataean and Nabataeo-Arabic and six are attested only in
texts written in Nabataean characters (ʾylyṣr, ḥzyrʾ, ḥnynʾ, ṭbyw, ʿzr, šwšnh). It
seems therefore that the distribution of the Jewish names according to the
script in which they are written is not particularly significant: the propor-
tion of Jewish names is more or less the same in both categories of script.
54 Nehmé (2013: 53–55).

55 For instance, names such as ʾbwʿmrw, ʾbwqṭnh, ʾzmh, ʾlgzz, ʾlʿyt, etc.
56 See Nehmé (2013: 60–66).
92 nehmé
Of course, from a statistical point of view, the sample is made of a relatively

small number of names and should be considered with caution.
Concerning the personal names, I would like to raise one final problem,
which is the spelling of the Arabic name Ṯaʿlaba as Ṭaʿlaba in UJadh 298 (for
which Nehmé 2010: 80 and fig. 46). The initial letter of the text is without doubt
a ṭ, not a t. The name Ṯaʿlaba, which has an Arabic etymology, is always spelled
in Arabic with an initial ṯ. The name does not occur elsewhere in the Nabataean
onomasticon but it is well known that the Arabic interdental fricative ṯ is
usually expressed by a t in Aramaic. In the newly published inscription from
Eilat (Avner et al. 2013), which is dated to the interval ad 475–500—and I
would not be surprised that UJadh 298 is also a text from the 5th century—
the name is written with a form of t which is close to the Arabic one. We
therefore have the name Ṯaʿlaba attested in two Nabataeo-Arabic texts, once
written with a t (Eilat) and once written with a ṭ (Umm Jadhāyidh). The first
one is in accordance with the way one would expect a name with etymological
ṯ to be written in the Nabataean script. The fact that the second is written with
a ṭ means that there was an inconsistency in the way the name was written
and this inconsistency may be indicative of the language the author of the text
was speaking. First, it is an argument in favour of the fact that the name was
pronounced according to Arabic phonology, i.e. with the interdental fricative
ṯ (otherwise it would have been written with a t in both cases). In UJadh 298,
however, the author of the text thought that the grapheme for ṭ was more suited
to render etymological ṯ than the grapheme for t. But since ʾl-ḥrt in the same
text, UJadh 298, is written with a t, it seems that the author was hesitating
between two graphemes to express the same phoneme. This may indicate that
he was an Arabic speaker trying (inconsistently) to adapt the script he was
using to the way his name was pronounced. As demonstrated by A. Al-Jallad
(this volume: §3.3 on Interdentals), this fluctuation is also attested in Greek,
where ṯ is occasionally spelled with tau instead of theta, particularly in the royal
name Ḥāriṯat. This would be explained, according to him, by the fact that “Near
Eastern Greek had no equivalent to Arabic [θ]. Thus, scribes were left to choose
between [th] = θ and [t] = τ to approximate this foreign sound”.
Apart from the Arabic loanwords and the personal names, the Nabataeo-
Arabic texts contain two other categories of words: 1) those which are clearly
Aramaic, and 2) those which could be either Arabic or Aramaic, and are there-
fore not diagnostic of the language in which the inscriptions were composed.
To the second category belong words such as šnt, ktb, yd-h, ywm, ḥyrh, ʿlm
in the expression l-ʿlm, “for ever” (the numerals have been dealt with above).
To the first category belong the demonstrative dnh but also dkyr, which cannot
be anything else than the Aramaic passive participle (qeṭīl), b-ṭb (in well-being,
ṭb being the Aramaic adjective “good”, used with the preposition b- to form an
adverbial expression),57 yrḥ, “month” in the dating formulas and, interestingly,
br, “son”, which, as pointed out a few years ago by M.C.A. Macdonald (2010 a:
20, n. 41), is still used in the sixth century instead of Arabic bn. The word khn is
also attested in the ad 276 text from al-Jawf and npš for “funerary stele/funerary
inscription” is used in ad 306 in JSNab 386. The expression mry ʿlmʾ, “the lord
of eternity”, in JSNab 17, is also Aramaic.
Concerning the use of šlm in the graffiti, it has been suggested above (n. 22)
that it may be an Arabism because the suffix conjugation does not have an
optative force in Aramaic, but šlm may also be a substantive meaning “peace”,
in which case it could be either Arabic or Aramaic. Thus, dkyr w šlm could either
be translated as “may he be remembered and peace” or “may he be remembered
so that he may be safe”.
The list of Aramaic words is relatively limited and most of them belong to
the very formulaic part of the text: the wish (dkyr, šlm, bṭb), the dating formula
( yrḥ), the kin word br and the divine epithet mry ʿlmʾ (in JSNab 17). Because
of their extremely widespread use in the Nabataean graffiti, these words, when
used in a Nabataeo-Arabic text, may be interpreted as “linguistic fossils used
as ideograms”, as suggested by Macdonald,58 and this interpretation is rein-
forced by the fact that the final m, in šlm and elsewhere, is the only letter which
does not develop in the Nabataeo-Arabic texts. It never gets closer to its Arabic
equivalent, as if the word was partly considered as a drawing and not as a suc-
cession of three letters.59 khn for “priest” in ARNA.Nab 17 (ad 276) and npš in
JSNab 386 (ad 306) are however Aramaic words which are not linguistic fossils.
The general impression we get from these texts is that we are dealing with
people who can be described as follows: they use a form of the script which is a
non-normalised form of the Arabic script but which in some places is already
a recognisable form of Arabic; they bear names the majority of which do not
appear in the Nabataean onomasticon; they use Aramaic words mainly in the
formulaic parts of their graffiti; the syntax, as far as it can be detected in such
short texts, shows a mixture of Arabic and Aramaic; they spoke a language
which was almost certainly Arabic, as shown by the traces of Arabic (loan-
words, syntax, morphology, phonology) I have tried to trace in their inscrip-
tions. The environment in which these people lived, in northwest Arabia, was
57 In the bilingual inscription from Wādī Mukattab in Sinai, CIS II 1044 the Greek equivalent
of this expression is ἐν ἀγαθοῖς.
58 Macdonald (2010a: 20).
59 It is true, however, that the initial š develops, but this may be precisely because it is the
first letter of the word.
94 nehmé
probably still characterised by a certain bilingualism and the Nabataean her-

itage was still noticeable, as shown also by the fact that Aramaic was still used
in the 4th century, in the ad 356 ‘Stiehl’ inscription. It is a great pity that we
do not (yet?) have any texts dated to the 6th c. ce from northwest Arabia.
There is indeed a gap of 170 years, possibly slightly less, between the latest
Nabataeo-Arabic pre-Islamic text, dated ad 475–500 (Avner et al. 2013), and the
earliest Islamic one in the Ḥijāz, dated ad 644 (al-Ghabban 2008). We there-
fore lack the process through which both the Arabic script and language went
in this essential period which probably witnessed the transformation of the
Nabataeo-Arabic script into what we think of as the Arabic script and, espe-
cially, the progressive use of this script to express only Arabic and, after the
conquests, Persian and other languages as well.
Sigla
ARNA.Nab Inscriptions published in Winnett, F.V., and W.L. Reed (1970).

Ancient Records from North Arabia. Toronto: University of Toronto
Press, pp. 139–163, pl. 26–33.
B Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in Boṣrā.
CIL III Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum. Volume III. Inscriptiones Asiae,
provinciarum Europae Graecarum Illyrici Latinae. (1873–1902). Bero-
lini: Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin/
Reimer.
CIS II Inscriptions published in Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum. Pars II
Inscriptiones Aramaicas continens. (1889–). Paris: Imprimerie Natio-
nale.
JSNab Nabataean inscriptions published in Jaussen, A., and R. Savignac
(1909–1922). Mission archéologique en Arabie (5 volumes). Paris: Ler-
oux/Geuthner (Publications de la Société Française des Fouilles
Archéologiques 2).
LPNab Nabataean inscriptions published in Littmann, E. (1914). Nabataean
Inscriptions from the Southern Hauran Publications of the Princeton
University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–1905 and 1909.
Division IV. Section A. Leiden: Brill.
M Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in al-Mābiyyāt.
MSNab Nabataean inscriptions from Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ recorded during the sur-
veys undertaken since 2002.
RÉS Répertoire d’épigraphie sémitique (8 volumes). (1900–1968). Paris:
Imprimerie Nationale.
S Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in Sakākā.

ThNUJ Inscriptions published in al-Theeb, S. (2002). Nuqūš jabal umm
jaḏāyiḏ al-nabaṭiyyah. al-Riyāḍ: maktabat al-malik fahd al-waṭa-
niyyah.
UJadh Siglum for the inscriptions discovered in Umm Jadhāyidh.
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98 nehmé
figure 4.1 UJadh 330. The text reads {ḥrgz} ʾly / ʾlḥgr / p{ʾ}m----{l/n}{y}{l/n} / {ʿš}.
figure 4.2 UJadh 293. The text reads dkyr ḥnny br yhwdʾ / bṭb w l-{k}y{r}dʾ.
chapter 5
Graeco-Arabica I: The Southern Levant*

Ahmad Al-Jallad
1 Introduction
This paper is the first installment of a series of four articles that will survey
the linguistic features of the Arabic material in Greek transcription in the
epigraphy and papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Near East.1 This present
study focuses on corpora from southern Syria (areas including the Lejā, i.e. Tra-
chonitis, Umm al-Jimāl, Boṣrā, and the Ḥawrān), central and southern Jordan
(including areas such as Moab, Edom, Petra, and the Ḥismā), and Israel (areas
in the Negev such as Beersheba, Elusa, and Nessana). Evidence for the use
of Arabic in these areas in the pre-Islamic period comes from several literary
and documentary sources. Even though contemporary writers often referred
to the Nabataeans, whose kingdom spanned these regions at various points in
its history, as Arabs,2 such labels offer us little insight into the language of its
population. The ethnicon “Arab” was used to refer to diverse peoples, many of
whom we know very well did not speak a variety of Arabic.3 It is the Nabataean
* This contribution owes much to my friend Michael C.A. Macdonald. Nearly every page has
benefited from his corrections and insightful comments, and so I thank him sincerely for his
careful attention to my work. I also owe many thanks to Prof. Jérôme Lentin for a stimulating
email correspondence between August 6th and August 27th, 2013. His vast knowledge of Ara-
bic dialectology and his uncanny attention to detail have helped improve many aspects of this
study. I also thank Holger Gzella, Maarten Kossmann, Adam Strich, and Guillaume Dye for
their helpful comments on an earlier draft of this paper from which I have benefited greatly.
I also sincerely thank Dr. Laïla Nehmé for the amount of work she put into typesetting this
long and complicated paper. This paper was originally going to appear in: Le contexte de nais-
sance de l’ écriture arabe. Écrit et écritures araméennes et arabes au 1 er millénaire après J.-C.,
Actes du colloque international du projet anr Syrab, edited by F. Briquel-Chatonnet, M. Debié,
and L. Nehmé. Louvain: Peeters (Orientalia Lovaniensa Analecta), but was withdrawn due to
extreme delays in the publication of that volume. All errors remain my own.
1 The other planned articles are Graeco-Arabica II: Palmyra; Graeco-Arabica III: Dura Europos,
Hatra, and Miscellaneous; Graeco-Arabica IV: the Damascus Psalm Fragment.
2 See Macdonald (2009b) and (2009c) for a discussion on the use of the term Arab by outside
authors, and especially (2009c: 280 f.) on its application to the Nabataeans.
3 For example, the inhabitants of the southwest corner of Arabia, the ancient Sabaeans, Min-

100 al-jallad
inscriptions and papyri, rather than the ethnographic accounts contained in lit-
erary sources, that provide unambiguous evidence for the use of Arabic in these
regions. While the Nabataeans used a form of Aramaic—written in a distinc-
tive cursive script—for official purposes, their particular dialect casts a clear
Arabic shadow. Scholars have identified a number of Arabic loanwords in the
Nabataean Aramaic material, and the Nabataean legal papyri at Naḥal Ḥever
have yielded a trove of Arabic legal vocabulary.4 Beyond the lexicon, some syn-
tactic peculiarities of Nabataean Aramaic betray an Arabic substratum, most
notably the optative use of the suffix conjugation.5 Finally, two important Ara-
bic inscriptions in the Nabataean script have been discovered. The first is a
votive inscription from ʿĒn ʿAvdat, which is undated but the content of which
situates it in the pagan era,6 and the second is the famous Namāra inscription,
dated to 328ce.7
In addition to the evidence furnished by Nabataean, tens of thousands of
graffiti written in two epigraphic scripts, Ḥismaic and Safaitic, cover the deserts
of southern Syria and various parts of present-day Jordan.8 The languages
inscribed in the ANA scripts are usually assumed to form a single linguistic
aeans, Qatabanians, and Hadramites, were called Arabs by Greek authors, even though they
did not self-identify as such and were speakers of various Ancient South Arabian languages,
not Arabic (Macdonald 2009b: 2).
4 On the Arabic loanwords into Nabataean, see O’Connor (1986), Greenfield (1992), Morgen-
stern (1999), and Beyer (2004: 23). As Macdonald (2010a: 19) pointed out, one of the most
significant aspects of the Naḥal Ḥever finding is that these papyri come from a Jewish com-
munity in central Jordan, rather than from Ḥegrā or the Sinai. This suggests that the use of
Arabic in Nabataea was not restricted to the southern domains of the kingdom, as the distri-
bution of Arabic loanwords in the inscriptions had previously suggested.
5 On this feature, see Gzella (2004: 242). For a good summary of the Arabic influence on the
Nabataean of Madāʾin Ṣāliḥ, see Healey (1993: 60–63).
6 The inscription contains what appears to be an Arabic hymn to the deified Nabataean king
Οβοδας; see Mascitelli (2006: 121–129) and Kropp (this volume), for a balanced discussion of
the various readings and interpretations of this inscription, and for references.
7 This is probably the most famous pre-Islamic Arabic inscription, and, as such, it has amassed
a considerable bibliography. For a selected bibliography, see Mascitelli (2006: 152).
8 There has been an unfortunate tendency to associate these scripts with specific languages and
even populations. Macdonald (2009a: 306–307) has convincingly argued that ethnic terms
such as “Safaïtes”, “Safaitic Bedouin”, and “Safaitic tribes” are completely baseless. Safaitic is
simply a modern term for a northern variety of the Arabian script. The script was used by
members of various social groups who occupied the Ḥarra of southern Syria and Jordan, and
there is little to suggest that they viewed themselves as belonging to a single, self-conscience
community, comparable to the Nabataeans. The same holds true for the authors of the
Ḥismaic inscriptions.
graeco-arabica i: the southern levant 101
sub-grouping, closely related to Arabic but distinct from it, termed Ancient
North Arabian9 (ANA) (Macdonald 2000: 29–30).10 The original basis for the
classification of the non-Northwest Semitic languages of North Arabia and
the southern Levant into two groups was simply the shape of the definite
article, h(n)- in contradistinction to ʾl.11 I have argued in several places re-
9 This is Macdonald’s term (2000: 29). Other terms can be found in the literature, most
commonly Epigraphic North Arabian, Frühnordarabisch, and Proto-Arabic. The last term
is the most misleading, as the languages attested in the North Arabian scripts are in no
way the common ancestor of Arabic.
10 Ancient North Arabian encompasses (1) Taymanitic (from the oasis town of Taymāʾ); (2)
Dadanitic (from the oasis of Dadan in the northwest Ḥijāz); (3) Dumaitic (from ancient
Dūmah at the southern edge of the Wādī Sirḥān); (4) Thamudic B–D (from the northern
Ḥijāz to the Najd); (5) Southern Thamudic (southern Saudi Arabia, around Nagrān); (6)
Dispersed Oasis North Arabian (texts from Mesopotamia and other places which cannot
be classified as Taymanitic, Dadanitic, and Dumaitic); (7) Ḥismaic (from southern Jordan
into Arabia) and (8) Safaitic; (9) Ḥasaitic (from al-Ḥaṣāʾ in East Arabia) (Macdonald 2000:
29, 2004: 490).
11 This is the most obvious difference between many of the texts written in ANA scripts and
Classical Arabic. While the article was recognised as a common feature of the languages
attested in the ANA epigraphy as early as Littmann (1904: 114–115), and probably earlier,
I believe it was Beeston (1981: 181–182) who first used it as a basis to group the non-
Ancient South Arabian languages of Arabia into two separate linguistic categories, the
h(n)-dialects and the (ʾ)l-dialects. He hypothesised that the h(n) article was native to
West Arabia while the ʾl article originated in the east, despite the fact that, as Beeston
himself acknowledged, there is no evidence for the ʾl article in East Arabia. The only major
corpus of texts from the eastern portion of the Peninsula are the tombstones from al-
Ḥaṣāʾ, and these consistently employ the article hn in personal names. While Beeston
suggested that the tombstones could belong to an immigrant group of west-Arabians,
without any secure attestations of ʾl in the east, this explanation is entirely circular. Besides
the article, no one has attempted to demonstrate the genetic unity of ANA against Arabic
through the identification of shared innovations. Instead, the linguistic unity of the h(n)-
dialects against Arabic has been taken as axiomatic, perhaps as an unintentional linguistic
holdover from the now abandoned hypothesis of “the unity of the Thamudic (read: North
Arabian) script”, see van den Branden (1957). In several places, Macdonald has pointed out
other differences between the languages attested in ANA scripts and Classical Arabic, such
as the reflex of III-weak verbs and the shape of the feminine singular relative pronoun
(Macdonald 2000: 49, 2009c: 312–313), in order to emphasise the linguistic autonomy
of the former and to caution against the overreliance on Classical Arabic sources for
the decipherment of these ancient texts. In fact, a careful reading of Macdonald’s 2004
overview of ANA clearly shows that there are no shared innovations connecting the
languages attested in ANA scripts together against Arabic. Moreover, almost all of the data
in his grammatical outline are drawn from Safaitic and Dadanitic. Macdonald recognizes
102 al-jallad
cently that this view is overly simplistic.12 The h- article is an areal feature
shared with Canaanite and, as such, cannot constitute a shared innovative
isogloss of a putative proto-Ancient North Arabian. In addition to h-, several
other articles are attested in these scripts, including ʾ, ʾl, hn, and perhaps hl,
and the varieties inscribed in the Ḥismaic script appear to lack a morphological
means of definition altogether (King 1990: §3, C.6).13
A dispassionate examination of the evidence reveals that the varieties writ-
ten in the Safaitic and Ḥismaic scripts, conventionally labelled “Safaitic” and
“Ḥismaic”, share far more in common with Arabic than the ANA language of
the oasis town, Taymāʾ, Taymanitic.14 This observation, I believe, calls into ques-
tion the validity of ANA as a genetic category. Even the short and often enig-
matic Thamudic inscriptions reveal a language rather distinct from the vari-
eties written in other ANA scripts.15 In contrast, Safaitic shares several impor-
that the paucity of data for ANA may be responsible for its homogeneous appearance
(2000: 31–32).
12 See Al-Jallad (forthcoming b) and Al-Jallad (2014; 2015).
13 Knauf (2010: 207) is certainly correct in stating that the two forms of the article “do not
constitute a genetic difference between the two languages or two language groups [Ara-
bic and ANA, my insertion]”, but I cannot agree with his assertion that ANA is Proto-Old
Arabic. Knauf does not demonstrate the genetic unity of ANA, but instead lists three fea-
tures: the merger of *s¹ and *s³, broken plurals, and the prepositive definite article—which
he claims demonstrate a “genetic” relationship between Arabic and the ANA languages.
These features are of course disputable as they do not constitute shared morphological
innovations, but even if we were to assume that they are suitable for genetic purposes,
they are not even common to all ANA languages. For example, Taymanitic does not merge
*s¹ and *s³ and Ḥismaic does not have a definite article.
14 Taymanitic is characterised by several features unparalleled in Safaitic, Ḥismaic, and
Dadanitic, which include the preservation of *s³ [ts] (see Macdonald 1991) or its merger
with *ṯ; the realisation of Proto-Semitic *binum as b, possibly suggesting the presence of a
syllabic ṇ, perhaps */bṇ/. The assimilation of /n/ is not attested in word boundary position
in other cases, for example mn “who” remains mn, and a C-stem verb ʾnkd preserves the /n/;
the merger of *ḏ and *z to z; the merger of Proto-Semitic *ṯ̣ with ṣ, both written with ṣ; and
the realization of word initial *w as y. In addition to these features, a sizable minority of
Taymanitic inscriptions have so far eluded decipherment. On the features of Taymanitic,
see Kootstra 2016.
15 Much more work is needed before a linguistic characterisation of the varieties written
in the Thamudic scripts is possible. However, even at our current state of knowledge,
some striking differences emerge. Unlike the rather phonologically conservative varieties
written in Safaitic, Ḥismaic, and Dadanitic, the language(s) written in Thamudic C seem(s)
to have merged the voiced interdental ḏ with z, as exemplified by the feminine singular
tant morphological innovations16 with what is traditionally considered Arabic,

including: (1) a G-passive participle mafʿūl; (2) negation with mā and lam; (3)
prepositions such as f */fī/ ‘in’,17 ʿnd */ʿend/ ‘at’; (4) a subjunctive verb ter-
minating in /a/ and its syntax (WH 135 f nngy ‘that we may be saved’); (5)
t-demonstratives; (6) the independent object pronoun y */(iy)yā/ (AWS 218 w-
yh brk ‘and may you bless him’); and (7) possible vestiges of nunation (KRS 1551
mḥltn for normal mḥlt ‘dearth of pasture’).18 Finally, the Safaitic inscriptions
sometimes exhibit the article ʾ(l), a shared areal isogloss with the Arabic sub-
strate of the Nabataean inscriptions.19 Many Safaitic inscriptions exhibit all of
the features typical of Arabic.20
demonstrative zt < *ḏāt-. Thamudic B attests a bizarre reflex of the dative particle, nm.
Since most of these texts are rather short, not much in terms of grammar can be said.
Nevertheless, the odd Classical Arabic-based translations given in many editions suggest
that the vocabulary is quite different from the Arabic contained in the classical lexicons.
For example, consider the unlikely interpretation of Eskoubi (1999: #284): bʾlh ʾbtr gzzt nm
ḫlṭt as “by the power of ʾlh ʾbtr (I) sheared off (the wool of the sheep). By Ḫlṭt” (Hayajneh
2011: 771). For a bird’s-eye view of Thamudic, see Macdonald (2004) and Hayajneh (2011:
770–772).
16 On the innovations of Arabic, see Huehnergard (this volume) and Al-Jallad (forthcoming
b).
17 For example, KRS 3291 reads: rʿy h- ʾbl f- h- nẖl “he pastured the camels in this valley”. This
sentence occurs very frequently in the Safaitic inscriptions, although in most cases, the
locative is expressed without a preposition: C 2670 rʿy h- ʾbl h- nẖl “he pastured the camels
in this valley”.
18 For a detailed discussion of these features in Safaitic and more, see Al-Jallad (2015).
19 These have been called “Old Arabic mixed texts” by Macdonald (2008: 471ff.), but since
Safaitic was never a literary language, it is hard to imagine a scenario which would lead
an “Arabic speaker” to try and “compose a text in a foreign (written) language [which in
our case would be “Safaitic”, my insertion] and filled the gaps in his knowledge with words
and phrases from his spoken language [Arabic, my insertion]” (ibid.: 471). This is especially
puzzling since the language of these inscriptions is usually identical in all other ways to
Safaitic inscriptions with the h- article. The notion of mixed texts assumes that there was
an actual dichotomy between “Safaitic” and “Arabic” based on the shape of the article. Al-
Jallad (2014) argues that ʾl was simply a rare variant of the article found throughout the
North Arabian epigraphy and cannot be used to delimit Arabic any more than h- can be
used to delimit Northwest Semitic.
20 Just to illustrate, consider HCH 194 …. s¹nt ʾs²rq rḍwt ʾl- hdy l- ym{n}t “… the year Rḍwt the
leader migrated southward” and KhNSJ 1 w g{l}s¹ mn ʾ- dmt s¹nt mt mlk nbṭ “and he halted
on account of the downpour the year the king of Nabataea died”, both my readings and
translations. For a complete grammatical outline of the Safaitic inscriptions and further
examples, see Al-Jallad (2015).
104 al-jallad
The Hismaic script was used to compose two long texts in what is essen-
tially an archaic stage of Arabic before the language acquired the definite
article.21 While most of the texts in this corpus are much shorter than their
Safaitic counterparts, they too show striking similarities with Arabic, for exam-
ple: (1) the quasi-suppletive22 form of the imperative ht */hāt/;23 (2) the real-
isation of III-w verbs with long ā (orthographically ∅), against preservation
of the glide in III-y verbs, an asymmetrical distribution paralleled in Qurʾānic
orthography, compare Ḥismaic dʿ */daʿā/ to Arabic ‫دعا‬, both from √dʿw, and
Ḥismaic bny */banaya/ to Arabic ‫بنی‬, both from √bny; (3) a subjunctive in -a
used in a result clause ( f ygzy nḏr -h ‘that he may fulfill his vow’ (Graf and
Zwettler 2004)); (4) the vocative forms of the divine names lh and lt, which
terminate in -m, h lhm “O Lh!” and h ltm “O Lt!”, cf. Arabic ʾallāhumma (King
1990: §3, C), and several other features outlined in Al-Jallad (forthcoming a).24
An important difference between later forms of Arabic and Safaitic/Ḥismaic
21 On these, see Graf and Zwettler (2004). See Al-Jallad (forthcoming a) for a new analysis
and discussion of these features in light of other Old Arabic evidence.
22 This label emerged from a fruitful email correspondence with Prof. Jérôme Lentin. As Prof.
Lentin pointed out to me, hāt is not exactly a suppletive imperative, even though it has
no indicative counterpart. The imperative form of the normal verb “to give” usually exists
alongside hāt. Its syntactic features also differ from the indicative verb. For example, in
the Levantine dialects, the verb ʿaṭā can take two direct objects while hāt cannot. Thus,
one can say hāt-li yya “give-to-me it” but not **hāt-ni yya “give-me it”, although ʿaṭī-ni yya
“give-me it” is possible. Hāt is attested across the modern Arabic dialects, and was equally
known to the medieval grammarians, e.g. Egyptian hāt is the imperative of the verb iddi
“give” (Hinds and Badawi 1986: 896); in Beirut, hāt is the imperative of ʿaṭā, and hāt is
widely attested in Yemen (Behnstedt 2006: 1252).
23 This feature occurs in an unambiguous context in KJC 46: (1) w m ḥll ḍyr -h (2) ht ʿs²w
w rs¹l (3) s¹mʿt ḏs²ry w ktby, “(1) and whosoever has washed his wounds (2) give an
[offering of] an evening meal and milk (3) that Ḏs²ry and Ktby may hear”. My reading
and translation of the first line differs from King (1990), who parses it as w m ḥll ḍy rh
“And whoever has encamped, whilst taking refuge, in the low-lying ground”. I, instead,
see ḍyr as a single word from the root √ḍyr “to injure” cf. Arabic ḍayr “harm” (Lane:
1812a), with a 3rd singular suffixed pronoun, and connect ḥll here with the sense of the
second form in Syriac, namely, “to wash” (Costaz 2002: 104), which is no doubt con-
nected to the basic sense of the root “to purify”. This translation seems more suitable in
the present context. Neither reading, however, affects the interpretation of lines 2 and
3.
24 These include the use of the subjunctive in the apodosis of conditional sentences and a
reflex of the form *tatafaʿʿala for the prefix conjugation of the tD stem, replacing original
*tatfaʿʿala. A full discussion of these here would take us too far afield, and therefore the
reader is referred to my forthcoming book.
is the reflex of original *āy and *āw sequences, which yield /āʾ/ in the former,
but y */āy/ and w */āw/ in the latter.25
This variation suggests that forms of Arabic exhibiting the ʾl article sat on
a continuum of Old Arabic dialects—some of which exhibit a h- article and
others no article at all—stretching from the Syrian Desert into the Transjor-
dan and the Negev, an area covered by our Greek epigraphy and papyri.26
Therefore, we can reasonably attribute the Arabic material in transcription
to the Arabic substratum of Nabataean and the varieties attested in the ANA
epigraphy of our region. I would propose collectively labelling the dialects
situated on this continuum “Old Arabic”, and using script-based terms such
as Safaitic and Ḥismaic as a convention to refer to the forms of Old Arabic
they usually express. In some cases, the linguistic features of a Greek tran-
scription allow us to identify it with a specific form of Old Arabic. For exam-
ple, Αβδομαχος (IGLS XIII 9265) transcribes the realisation of the Nabataean
name ‫ עבדמנכו‬in a dialect with n-assimilation. The same realisation is attested
in Safaitic as ʿbdmk = */ʿabdo-mak(k)/ (Zeinaddin 2000: #7). As we shall see,
when the evidence is available, the linguistic features usually agree with the
Arabic substratum of Nabataean against the varieties attested in the ANA epig-
raphy.27
Most of the Old Arabic material in transcription comes in the form of
anthroponyms from a non-Northwest Semitic etymological source. These are
found in the context of short Greek inscriptions on stelae and tombstones,
of which a sizable minority is dated. The Petra Papyri furnish us with many
microtoponyms and oikonyms of Arabic origin, and the non-literary papyri
from pre-conquest Nessana contain a good number of names and a single
Arabic phrase;28 both of these corpora are dated to the 6th century ce. The
Greek transcriptions of Arabic lexica offer two advantages that have yet
25 Compare Classical Arabic naǧāʾ with Ḥismaic ngy and ʿašāʾ with ʿs²w (King 1990: §3, C).
For a discussion of this phenomenon, see Al-Jallad (2014: 13–15).
26 It is possible, and perhaps likely, that this continuum stretched further south into the
northern Ḥijāz and included languages like Dadanitic. This connection, of course, remains
to be proven and does not influence the results of our findings here.
27 The reader will see this throughout the article, but to summarise quickly here: (1) the
article, when attested, is almost always αλ /ʾal/, as in Nabataean anthroponyms. As just
mentioned, this occurs in the ANA epigraphy of this region, but is significantly rarer there;
(2) The feminine ending in forms which have not been Hellenised is α /a/ as opposed to
the -t /at/ found in the Ḥismaic and Safaitic inscriptions, even in inscriptions containing
Arabic isoglosses. The reasons for this are unclear at the current moment.
28 See § 5.3.2.
106 al-jallad
figure 5.1 The southern Levant and North Arabia.

map: a. al-jallad and a. emery
to be fully exploited by scholars.29 The first is that Arabic anthroponyms were

surely not part of scribal training; thus, with the exception of a few cases,
their spellings do not reflect a fixed tradition.30 Instead, they are the result of
the attempts by scribes to approximate Arabic words, even though Hellenised,
29 The single monograph-length study of Arabic from the pre-Islamic period (Mascitelli
2006) made hardly any use of this material. Other discussions on Old Arabic tend to centre
on the material collected by the Arab grammarians, who were active in the 8th century ce
and later.
30 Although many have assumed that scribes employed conventions in their rendition of
Semitic lexica into Greek, I do not believe that this was the case. See n. 39 below for
arguments against this view.
phonetically from diction, and are therefore a much more reliable source
of contemporary pronunciation than the fixed orthographic conventions of
Semitic chancelleries. This point is brought into relief in bilingual inscriptions.
For example, consider the name Ουαβαλας in IGLS XXI/4 141, which is accompa-
nied by a Nabataean inscription in which the same name is spelled [w]hbʾlhy.
The archaic Nabataean spelling preserves both the glottal stop of the divine
name ʾlh and the final vowel of the genitive case. The name was probably
vocalised originally as */wahbu-ʾallāhi/, but the Greek shows that its contempo-
rary pronunciation was /wahb-(ʾ)al(l)āh/.31 Greek transcriptions can also shed
light on sound changes not otherwise apparent in the Nabataean script. Con-
sider the transcription of ‫ עבדחרתת‬as Αβδοαρθα (the genitive of Αβδοαρθας)
twice at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī (PTer 21 and 79). This spelling reveals not only that the
unstressed short *i in *ḥāriṯah was syncopated, but also that the sound change
*at > ah had operated in word final position (see § 5.2.1).
The second advantage comes from the Greek script itself. While Greek is ill-
equipped to express the range of Semitic consonantism, it is more than capable
of representing the vowel system of Arabic. Thus, Greek transcriptions offer
us our only clear view of the vocalism of Old Arabic.32 These facts combined
make the Graeco-Arabica an indispensable source for the pre-Islamic stages of
Arabic.
1.1 Previous Studies

No comprehensive edition of the onomastica from our region exists and so
the material is spread across several, sometimes overlapping, editions. An oft-
consulted study of the Semitic names in Greek transcription from the Near East
and Egypt is Wuthnow (1930), but this work is badly outdated, and must be
31 It is unlikely that the original ending i/ī was replaced by ας once the name was Hellenised.
In most of our material, Semitic names which terminate in a vowel or vowel + laryngeal
are Hellenised by the addition of the nominative -ς to the original v(H)# sequence, where
(H) = laryngeal, e.g. Αβδοοβδας < *ʿabdo-ʿobdah; Αρετας < *ḥāriṯah; Αβδουσαρης < *ʿabd-
ḏū-śarey = ḏs²ry, and, in a very similar environment, Ομαβις from ʾumm-ʾabī (Mordtmann
1894: 208). Had the name whbʾlhy terminated with a final vowel in actual speech, we would
expect a Hellenised form, Ουαβαλλαης, Ουαβαλλαις or something along those lines. The
failure to note gemination of the l is not uncommon, but most transcriptions of this name
contain two λ’s. There is no way to determine on the basis of the Greek whether or not the
glottal stop was preserved in this position.
32 Cuneiform transcriptions of Arabic material are also helpful, but the vocalic system of
the syllabary is not as robust. For instance, there is no unambiguous way of representing
diphthongs or the quality [o].
108 al-jallad
consulted with great caution on account of its many methodological shortcom-

ings.33 Negev’s 1991 book on the onomastica from the Nabataean realm makes
some use of Greek transcriptions, but that work is also undermined by its many
critical methodological problems.34
As of 2014, only three superficial studies devoted to the language of the
Arabic dialects in transcription exist. The first is Isserlin’s 1969 study of the
Arabic of the Nessana papyri. This short survey contains several useful insights,
but missing is a proper discussion on the phonology of the Greek of this
period and region, a prerequisite for the interpretation of the phonetics of
Arabic.35 The second is Westenholz’s 1990 study of the Arabic of the Princeton
University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria 1904–1905 and 1909, section
III.a. This short article does not go beyond a few obvious remarks on the
representation of Arabic phonemes in Greek. The author’s observations are
greatly limited too by his assumption that scribes were using conventional
spellings of Arabic names.36 Finally, the Arabic of the Petra Papyri was the
33 Wuthnow does not keep apart material from the pre-Islamic and Islamic periods or
different regions as far away as Egypt and Palmyra, nor does he separate names belonging
to different etymological strata. For a more detailed critique, see Altheim and Stiehl (1966:
48 f.).
34 For an excellent review article, see Macdonald 1999. Despite its analytical shortcomings,
the book is still useful for reference purposes.
35 Isserlin (1969: 19) gives a few broad remarks regarding some of the phonological devel-
opments of the Greek of this period. It must be stressed, though, that one should not
generalise developments which occur in one variety of Greek to all of the Greek from the
same period, cf. below n. 40.
36 This assumption is also held by Isserlin (1969). Westenholz (1990: 395) asserts several times
that the choice of Greek glyphs to render Semitic phonemes was completely conventional,
but does not attempt to demonstrate this or argue as to what kind of scribal training
would make this possible. I find it highly unlikely that Greek scribes were acquainted
with both the Aramaic and the various ANA scripts and the varieties they express to
the extent that they could identify the reflex of Proto-Semitic *ṯ̣ across these languages
and then devise conventions to represent its various reflexes with a single Greek glyph.
That *ṯ̣ is represented with τ in Aramaic transcriptions as well as in Safaitic-Greek and
Arabic-Greek bilinguals only means that τ was the best phonetic match for the reflex
of this phoneme in those languages, and not that there was some kind of convention
in use. Moreover, the multiple spellings of a given name in single document produced
by a single scribe point towards an ad-hoc process of transcription (see, for example,
the spelling of Ζοναιν /ẓ́onayn/ in the index of P.Ness. III). Isserlin (1969: 18) attempts to
support the idea that transcription conventions for Semitic consonants existed in Syria-
Palestine by comparing them to transcriptions in the papyri of Egypt from the Islamic
period. He explains the use of π and τ for Semitic /b/ and /d/ in Egyptian Greek against
subject of an article-length treatment by al-Ghul (2006).37 His study was based

largely on an incomplete preliminary analysis of the material and it has been
superseded by the study in the edition (Al-Jallad et al. 2013).38
2 Method and Scope
2.1 Identification of Arabic Material

Our first task is to isolate the Arabic stratum within the larger context of Semitic
material transcribed into Greek. While it is well known that there are many
difficulties involved with the use of personal names to diagnose the language
or mode of self-identification of their carrier,39 they, nevertheless, contain
important information about the language from which they were drawn. Many
of the linguistic features of the onomastica in our region indicates that they
stem from a non-Northwest Semitic language, which I will conventionally term
Arabic, unless more specific information is available to connect them with a
variety attested in the Nabataean, Ḥismaic, or Safaitic scripts.40
the representation of these sounds by β and δ, respectively, in pre-Islamic Syria-Palestine

by appealing to conventional spellings in the latter. To me, this simply suggests that the
voiced stops had become fricatives in Egyptian Greek while they remained stops in the
pre-Islamic administrative register of the Levant.
37 I have omitted Daniel (2001) since the article does not have, strictly speaking, a linguistic
focus.
38 This study contains a very limited linguistic discussion of the material in P. Petr. II 17, with
only the goal of justifying our interpretation of the Arabic material. The forthcoming Petra
Papyri V is planned to contain a full discussion of the linguistic features of the Arabic
material in all of the Petra Papyri.
39 I generally agree with this point, but I think it can be nuanced a bit. We can, for example,
learn that Arabic was not spoken natively by Turks based on the phonetic rendition of
names with Arabic etymologies by speakers of Turkish. While spelling conventions often
hide such variation, phonetic transcriptions in a foreign script can shed light on the way
such names were actually pronounced. Thus, the names Μαλεχαθη (PAES III.a 796.1) and
Μανεαθη (PAES III.a 109) were likely uttered by a speaker of a form of Arabic in which
unstressed short vowels in open syllables were not syncopated. Had a speaker of Aramaic,
and not Arabic, pronounced these names, we would expect **Μαλχαθη and **Μαναθη,
as his language would have triggered the deletion of the penultimate vowel. A similar
phenomenon is witnessed in modern dialects of Arabic which possess this exact rule. For
example, the Classical Arabic name /fāṭimah/ is rendered /fāṭme/ for the same reason.
The phonetic shape of the Arabic names in our corpora indicates that their original
pronunciation was maintained, suggesting that their bearers also spoke a form of Arabic.
40 Several of these features have been outlined by Israel (2006), including the preservation of
110 al-jallad
2.1.1 The Diminutive Patterns CuCayC and CuCayyvC

The apophonic diminutives are not productive in Northwest Semitic, and while
a few frozen forms can be found in Aramaic and Hebrew,41 as a whole, the sys-
tem has disappeared. Since diphthongs are not normally indicated in the North
Arabian scripts, ablaut diminutives are usually undetectable. The diminutive of
bi-radical nouns, however, clearly shows that the system was intact, e.g. ʾḫyt <
*ʾuḫayyat “little sister”42 in Safaitic. Both patterns are productive in Classical
and modern spoken forms of Arabic.
2.1.2 The Elative/ʾaCCaC Pattern

Like the diminutive, the pattern ʾafʿal is probably an older feature that survives
in Arabic but was lost in Northwest Semitic.43
2.1.3 The Relative-Determinative ḏū

The relative-determinative pronoun, *ḏū, *ḏī, *ḏā, etc., has been levelled in
Aramaic to *dī, while in Canaanite, it has been replaced by reflexes of *ʾaṯar
“place”.44 The few names containing this element in our corpora have an Arabic
origin.
2.1.4 The Article αλ or α

The definite article rarely appears on onomastica. When it does, a prenominal
ʾal, e.g. Αλαβδος (PAES III.a 275), points towards an Arabic origin. Two names
in our corpora exhibit a prenominal α, which could reflect the h- or ʾ- article
attested in the Safaitic inscriptions or perhaps even the ʾal- article with the
assimilation of the coda.45 Such forms can be considered Arabic if they occur
on nouns which differ in other significant ways from Northwest Semitic; other-
wise, one cannot rule out a Canaanite origin.
the initial waw, the article ‘al [sic], the diminutive pattern qutayl, and non-etymological
word final waw (wawation).
41 These are usually highlighted in the grammars, but see Wright (1955: §269, rem. c.) for
examples, such as Hebrew zʿêr “little” or plêṭâ “a band of fugitives” as they compare to
Arabic.
42 This occurs in C 893; see Macdonald (2004: 505) for discussion.
43 For relics, see Lipiński (2001: 215).
44 On the etymology of this form and a discussion of past opinions, see Huehnergard (2006).
I follow Huehnergard in viewing Hebrew šeC- and Phoenician š and ʾš as reduced forms of
ʾašer. For an important counter-argument, see Holmstedt (2007).
45 See Al-Jallad (forthcoming b) for the different forms of the article in both Arabic and the
languages written in the ANA scripts.
2.1.5 Word Final Vowels and Wawation

Since most of the anthroponyms in our corpora take Greek declensional end-
ings, it is often impossible to detect whether final short vowels were present.
Several compound names preserve a vowel between the first and second term.
Since the Northwest Semitic languages are thought to have lost final short vow-
els around 1000bce (Gzella 2011: 434), these names must have been drawn from
an Arabic source. This is especially true of Nabataean basileophoric names,
such as Αβδοοβδας /ʿabdo-ʿobdah/, which have a terminus post quem of the
reign of the Nabataean monarch on whom the name was based. In addition
to these cases, a few names which were not given Greek declensional end-
ings terminate with a vowel ω/ο, which transcribes the final ‫ ו‬of Nabataean
names.
2.1.6 The Shape of the Participle

The shape of onomastica derived from the C and D-stem participles can also
point to an Arabic source. Both stems in Aramaic have a ma prefix, C mak-
tẹb and D makattẹb, in contrast to Arabic muktib and mukatti/ab, e.g. Ara-
maic Μαζαββανος (PAES III.a 650) vs Arabic Μογεερος (PAES III.a 786.1).46 Even
though it is theoretically possible that names of this sort could go back to an
ancient Northwest Semitic stratum, it is easier, and more realistic, to explain
them by way of Arabic, especially if they contain roots that are unattested in
Northwest Semitic.
2.1.7 Phonological Features

Forms that exhibit a consonantal reflex of *ṣ́ (= ḍ), usually with σ or ζ, can
be interpreted as Arabic. The reflex of *ṣ́ was already realised as an emphatic
velar fricative in the Old Aramaic period, represented by q in Old Aramaic
orthography. Beyer (2004: 51) suggests that the merger of this sound with ʿ was
only completed by 200bce in Aramaic. Regardless of the exact chronology, the
transcription of this phoneme with σ would not have been appropriate for any
period of Aramaic.47 While names that transcribe the reflex of *ṣ́ with σ could,
in theory, have a Canaanite source, in many cases, this representation co-occurs
with non-Canaanite features, such as an Arabic derivational pattern or root
and the representation of *ā with α. In these cases, we can safely interpret the
name as Arabic. The diagnostic value of the consonantal representation of *ḫ
and *ġ on the other hand is unclear. These sounds remained distinct from their
46 Amorite seems to have had an u-class vowel in the m- prefix. No evidence for the shape of
this vowel in Ugaritic has yet come to light.
47 On this development, see Beyer (2004: 51).
112 al-jallad
pharyngeal counterparts until rather late and their representation is further

complicated by the phonology of the Greek of this period (see § 3.1 and 3.2).
Names preserving word initial *w, which shifted to y in Northwest Semitic, are
also interpreted as Arabic. The preservation of unstressed short vowels in open
syllables, the preservation of *a as a, rather than raising it to e, after a sibilant,
and the absence of any epenthesis can point towards an Arabic rather than a
Northwest Semitic source: compare Aramaic Ζεβινθου /zebīnt[ā]/ (PTer 146) to
Arabic Γαδιμαθος /gadīmat-/ (PAES III.a 283) (cf. n. 42).
2.1.8 Lexicon
While the lexicon is not considered a reliable source for language classifica-
tion/identification, it can, nevertheless, provide useful supporting evidence for
the isolation of Arabic material. Names based on roots which are not attested
in any of the Northwest Semitic languages and exhibit non-Northwest Semitic
morphology can be considered Arabic.
2.2 The Corpora

The present study will examine the Old Arabic material, as defined by the crite-
ria above, in transcription based on the following corpora, with due attention
to geographic and chronological variation. Below, I have only included collec-
tions with considerable Arabic material; other corpora will be cited normally
in the text.48
Eph I–III M. Lidzbarski, Ephemeris für Semitische Epigraphik (3 volumes),

New York.
GIN A. Negev, The Greek inscriptions from the Negev, Jerusalem (Stu-
dium biblicum franciscanum, collectio minor 25), 1981.
GIPT A. Alt, Die Griechischen Inschriften der Palaestina Tertia westlich
der ʿAraba, Berlin (Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen des
Deutsch-Türkischen Denkmalschutz-Kommandos 2), 1921.
GL W.K. Prentice, Greek and Latin Inscriptions, Part III of the Publi-
cations of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria 1899–
1900, New York, 1908.
IGLS XIII/1 M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 13, fascicule
1. Bostra, nº 9001 à 9472, Paris (Bibliothèque archéologique et
historique 113), 1982.
48 These include primarily Gatier (1998) from Khirbat as-Samrāʾ, Canova (1954) from Moab,
and part II of Meïmaris and Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou material from Third Palestine
(2008).
IGLS XIII/2 M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 13, fasci-

cule 2. Bostra (supplément) et la plaine de la Nuqrah, Paris (Bib-
liothèque archéologique et historique 194), 2011.
IGLS XV/2 A. Sartre-Fauriat and M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines
de la Syrie, t. 15, fascicule 1. Le plateau du Trachôn et ses bordures
(Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 194), 2014.
IGLS XXI/2 P.-L. Gatier, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 21.
Inscriptions de la Jordanie, fascicule 2. Région centrale (Amman,
Hesban, Madaba, Main, Dhiban), Paris (Bibliothèque archéolo-
gique et historique 114), 1986.
IGLS XXI/4 M. Sartre, Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, t. 21. Inscrip-
tions de la Jordanie, fascicule 4. Pétra et la Nabatène méridionale
du Wadi al-Hasa au golfe de ‘Aqaba, Paris (Bibliothèque archéo-
logique et historique 115), 1993.
PAES III.a E. Littmann, D. Magie, and D.R. Stuart, Publications of the Prince-
ton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–1905
and 1909, Division III. Greek and Latin Inscriptions in Syria, Sec-
tion A. Southern Syria, Leiden, 1907–1921.49
P.Ness. III C.J. Kraemer Jr., Excavations at Nessana, vol. 3. Non-Literary Pa-
pyri, Princeton, 1958.
P.Petr. I–IV The Petra Papyri, vol. I–IV, Amman (American Center of Oriental
Research publications 4–7), 2002–2013.
PTer Y.E. Meïmaris and K.I. Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou, Inscriptions
from Palaestina Tertia, vol. Ia. The Greek Inscriptions from Ghor
es-Safi (Byzantine Zoora), Athens (Meletīmata 41), 2005.
Wad P. Le Bas and W.H. Waddington, Inscriptions grecques et latines
de la Syrie recueillies et expliquées, Paris, 1870.
Wetzst J.G. Wetzstein, Ausgewählte griechische und lateinische Inschrift-
en, gesammelt auf Reisen in den Trachonen und um das Hau-
rângebirge, Berlin, 1864.
2.3 Presentation
The discussion of each feature is supported by a representative sample of data
from our corpora. When possible, a Greek transcription is accompanied by
its equivalent or approximate in Nabataean, which is transcribed in Aramaic
square letters, Safaitic (S), and/or Ḥismaic (H).50 Dates are also indicated when
49 This volume is subdivided into six parts: I: Southern Ḥawrān, II: Umm al-Jimāl (U. al-
Jimāl), III: Boṣrā, IV: Jabal Ḥawrān and Ḥawrān Plain (Ḥawrān J&P), V: Sīʿ, VI: Lejā.
50 For the sake of space, I have not given page number references for the Nabataean and
114 al-jallad
available. The normalised form of the Greek transcription is presented between

forward slashes. Phonemes which have no equivalent in the Greek script are
given in their etymological form: thus, word initial glottal stops are normalised
as /ʾ/ and the feminine ending, when transcribed in Greek by α, is normalised
as /ah/. Finally, the reflex of the diphthong *ay is conventionally normalised as
/ay/ when represented by αι and /ey/ when represented by ε, η, and ει; this is
explained in §4.2.4. For the sake of clarity, I have removed the Greek declen-
sional endings from normalised forms. When a Greek ending has replaced an
original word final vowel or vowel + laryngeal, I have restored it in the normal-
isation in square brackets, e.g. Αρετου, the genitive of Αρετας, is normalised as
/ḥareṯ[ah]/.
3 Phonology: Consonants
3.1 The Plain Stops *k and *t

The Greek transcription of Semitic names in the Roman Near East is charac-
terised by the regular use of the aspirated series χ, φ, θ to denote the plain
Semitic voiceless stops *k, *p, and *t in all positions, and by the use of the
unaspirated stops κ, τ for the Semitic emphatics *q and *ṭ. Scholars have inter-
preted this phenomenon in various ways.51 Altheim and Stiehl (1966: 39–58)
argued that the use of the aspirated series—which were realised as fricatives in
the literary Greek of this period—proves that the plain stops were pronounced
as fricatives in all positions in Aramaic. The fact that words of Arabic origin
were transcribed identically, e.g. Θαιμ = *taym, suggested to them that the Ara-
bic of these regions was largely Aramaicised, and its plain stops were also pro-
nounced as fricatives, Θαιμ = */ṯaym/.52
Safaitic names. I have drawn my data from Negev (1991), Harding (1971), King (1990),
and the Online Corpus of the Inscriptions of Ancient North Arabia. I thank Michael
Macdonald for allowing me access to the in-progress version of the OCIANA.
51 For a presentation and discussion of this practice in the context of NWS, see Kutscher
(1965), Altheim and Stiehl (1966), and Elitzur (2004). For a discussion of this phenomenon
at Palmyra, see Stark (1971). I am generally convinced by Kutscher’s interpretation.
52 Aramaic was an important literary language in many areas in which it has been assumed
that the majority of the population were Arabic speaking. This situation makes the direc-
tionality of influence proposed by Altheim and Stiehl unexpected. Instead, one would
expect the Aramaic of these regions to have become Arabicised, since it was an artificial
register used in official contexts. Indeed, the use of Arabic as a literary and legal language
among the Iranians and Turks did not lead to the Arabicisation of their phonology, but
Altheim and Stiehl’s theory, at least as it pertains to the transcription of Ara-

bic material, is easily refuted by Safaitic-Greek bilinguals, which demonstrate
that the Old Arabic stops were not pronounced as fricatives even though they
were transcribed by the Greek aspirated series.
(1) C 2823–2824 (+ Greek)53

l s²mt …
Μνησθῆ Σαμεθος …
Macdonald et al. 1996: 485
J1: l hnʾ bn lbʾt …
J2: Ενος Λοβαιαθου
Safaitic has separate glyphs for Proto-Semitic *ṯ and *t and there is no evidence
that they merged in the thousands of Safaitic inscriptions published so far.54
Thus, the transcription of s²mt as Σαμεθος proves that θ in this case transcribes
[t] or [th] and not [θ]. In light of the evidence from unambiguous bilinguals,
one clearly cannot infer from use of the Greek aspirated series to transcribe the
voiceless Semitic stops that the latter were realised as fricatives in all positions.
Kutscher (1965: 32ff.) provides an insightful historical interpretation of this
transcription practice. When the Greeks took over the Canaanite alphabet
(1000–900bce), they used the plain series ‫כ‬-‫פ‬-‫ ת‬to signify their unaspirated
stops, producing κ-π-τ. This fact indicates that the Semitic voiceless plain stops
were unaspirated in the Canaanite dialect from which the alphabet was drawn.
Sometime after this point, the Semitic plain stops became aspirated.55 Once
rather the opposite—Arabic was pronounced according to Persian or Turkish phonol-

ogy.
53 The Greek text was restored by Milik (1960: 96–98). For Dunand’s copy, see CIS V, pl. LXVI,
Dn 285.
54 It has been claimed in the past that Ḥismaic occasionally exhibits the use of ṯ for t;
however, each of these cases can be explained in other ways (Macdonald 1986: 135). On the
other hand, there is clear evidence for the occasional use of ḏ for d and d for ḏ, especially
in the divine name *ḏū-śaray (see King 1990: § 3, A.2). A single unpublished text in the
Ḥismaic script from Wādī Ramm exhibits the consistent merger of ḏ and d (Macdonald,
personal communication), but it contains no attestations of *ṯ, so it is impossible to
determine if the loss of interdentals affected the voiceless series as well, or whether only
*ḏ was lost, as in Ugaritic. Note, however, that these changes are in the opposite direction
of the one proposed by Altheim and Stiehl for Aramaic, *ṯ > t rather than *t > ṯ.
55 An interesting parallel is found in Mehri which preserves the glottalised realisation of the
emphatic series, as probably did the Northwest Semitic languages in this early period.
In these languages, Johnstone observes that aspiration of the voiceless plain consonants
116 al-jallad
this happened, Greek κ-π-τ were no longer a suitable match for Semitic ‫כ‬-‫פ‬-‫ת‬,
which were now realised as [kh], [ph], [th] in all positions. Thus, scribes turned
to the Greek aspirated series, χ-φ-θ, to transcribe the plain stops. Kutscher
claims that the exact realisation of the Greek aspirated series—whether as
aspirated stops or fricatives—would not have affected the situation, as the
motivation for this practice was the unsuitability of the unaspirated series κ-π-
τ for the transcription of the now aspirated Semitic stops. Al-Jallad et al. (2013)
argues this from another direction: the primary reason for the association of the
unaspirated Greek stops with the Arabic and, more generally, Semitic emphat-
ics was based on the absence of aspiration in both.56 The Semitic emphat-
ics were originally glottalic pressure sounds and, based on the comparative
evidence, unaspirated.57 Even after this feature was fronted to pharyngealisa-
tion/velarisation, there is no reason to assume that aspiration was introduced.
In fact, the Arabic pharyngealised stops also have an unaspirated realisation.
Since the voiceless unaspirated stops of Greek were interpreted as emphatics,
the aspirated series was associated with the plain stops on the basis of the per-
ceived absence of emphasis.
The question as to how χ, φ, θ were phonetically realised in the provincial
Greek of the Roman Near East remains open. Provincial dialects can be conser-
vative, and so it is entirely possible that the Greek of peripheral areas, such as
Palmyra, Dura, and Provincia Arabia, maintained an older realisation of these
consonants as compared to the more progressive mainland dialects.58 I think
plays an important role in distinguishing them from their emphatic counterparts (Rubin
2010: 14).
56 This interpretation could have been made by speakers of a Semitic language or Greek.
Semitic speakers would have judged the absence of aspiration in the Greek stops τ and κ
as a symptom of “emphasis” and equated those sounds with their glottalised stops, [k’] and
[t’]. If the opposite happened, Greek speakers would have interpreted the glottalised stops
as κ and τ because they lacked aspiration. A similar phenomenon is perhaps encountered
in modern loans into Arabic. For example, the English word “bus” is borrowed into Arabic
as /bāṣ/ = [bɔ:sˁ], with an emphatic ṣ. This is probably because of the proximity of English
[ʌ] to Arabic [ɔ], which is an allophone of [æ] in the vicinity of emphatic consonants. The
presence of this vowel quality in the loanword appears to have signalled to speakers of
Arabic the presence of an emphatic consonant.
57 For a balanced discussion on the realisation of the Proto-Semitic emphatic consonants,
see Kogan (2011: 59–61). There is a virtual consensus on the reconstruction of the emphat-
ics as glottalised consonants in Proto-Semitic. However, the implications of this recon-
struction on the realisation of the emphatic interdental *ṯ̣ and the emphatic lateral *ṣ́
remain a topic of discussion.
58 The chronology of the change of the aspirates to fricatives remains sketchy. Most assume
the evidence favours a stop rather than a fricative realisation of the Greek aspi-
rated series. This is because the distinction between dental and velar stops and
fricatives is phonemic in Semitic. Speakers of an Old Arabic dialect in which
these phonemes had not merged would more likely identify the stop-fricative
opposition in Greek as primary rather than the aspirated-unaspirated opposi-
tion, which was not directly phonemic in Semitic.59 Had the Greek aspirated
dental stop become an interdental fricative, the Semitic voiceless series would
have aligned perfectly with Greek, and we should expect to find the consistent
representation of Arabic *t = [t] with τ and *ṯ = [θ] with θ, as in the Damas-
cus Psalm Fragment. Instead, the nearly consistent transcription of Old Arabic
[t] and [k] with θ and χ strongly suggests that these sounds remained aspirated
stops in Greek and were probably aspirated in the Arabic varieties as well. I will
discuss the reflex of *p in §3.5.
For obvious reasons, it is impossible to say anything about the realization of
the voiced stops, as Greek only had a single voiced series, β-γ-δ.
3.2 *ḫ and *ġ
In two recent articles (2005 and 2007), R. Steiner has convincingly demon-
strated that the merger of the Proto-Semitic velar/uvular fricatives *ġ and *ḫ
with *ʿ and *ḥ did not occur uniformly in all varieties of Northwest Semitic, and
that this merger occurred much later than has been usually assumed. Through a
close analysis of materials in Greek transcription, Steiner (2005: 266) dated the
change *ḫ > ḥ to about 100bce, while the merger of *ġ with ʿ occurred much
earlier. The way scholars have gone about detecting these changes is to point
out variation in the transcription of words containing etymological *ḫ and *ġ in
Greek. The use of χ and γ for *ḫ and *ġ, respectively, indicates that the uvular
that this change occurred by the 1st century ce (Brixhe 2010: 235), but this is based on
the idea that fricativisation occurred simultaneously in the voiced and voiceless series,
and across the labial, dental, and velar stops. There is little evidence to suggest that the
aspirated stops were realised as fricatives in the Egyptian papyri (Gignac 1976: 98ff.), even
though it is clear that the voiced stops had already undergone the change b > β and g >
γ. Another significant way in which the Greek of the Near East differed from its mainland
counterpart is in the realisation of η. By the first centuries ce, η was realised as [i] in the
mainland koiné (Brixhe 2010: 232), while in the Near East, it retained its [e] quality well
into the 7th century. This is clearly indicated in the interchange of ε and η, even in the
rendition of Semitic anthroponyms: Ταννε (PAES III.a 628) for Ταννη.
59 By directly phonemic, I mean that no two phonemes are distinguished by aspiration
alone. However, since the glottalised stops were not aspirated, the presence of aspiration
indirectly signalled the phonemic distinction, plain vs emphatic, cf. n. 58.
118 al-jallad
fricatives were preserved, while the absence of any consonantal approxima-

tion implies that they had merged with the pharyngeal fricatives. Steiner (2005:
n. 154) applied this logic to Isserlin’s (1969: 23) observation regarding the repre-
sentation of *ḫ in the Nessana papyri, namely, that *ḫ was never represented
in the pre-conquest papyri while it was frequently, but not always, represented
by χ in the post-conquest documents, thus: Αλα̣φαλλου < *ḫalaf-allāh (P.Ness.
III 22, 28; 566ce) vs Χαλεδ < *ḫāled (P.Ness. III 60, 12; 674 ce). Isserlin explained
this difference by stating that in the post-conquest period ‫“ خ‬was now being
more noticeably pronounced than before”, but Steiner concluded instead that
“Nabataean Arabic” had lost *ḫ under the influence of Nabataean Aramaic.60
A single bilingual Safaitic-Greek graffito challenges this claim, in so far as it is
based on Greek transcriptions.
(2) C 2823–2824 (+ Greek)

l s²mt bn ḫlṣ bn ḥddn bn ʿn ḏʾl ḥg
Μνησθῆ̣ Σ̣ αμε̣θος Αλ̣ ιζο̣ υ τοῦ Α̣ δδ[ι]δανου Αγγ̣ ̣ ηνος
The Safaitic script distinguishes both *ḫ and *ḥ graphically and there is no

evidence for a merger of the two in the thousands of published inscriptions.
Moreover, since the Safaitic script was used purely for informal purposes,61
one cannot appeal to historical or etymological spellings. Instead, our author
simply judged Greek χ to be an unsuitable match for the phonetic realisation
of the phoneme ḫ. The same interpretation was probably behind the following
bilingual Greek-Nabataean inscription from Umm al-Jimāl (c. 250 ce).62
(3) PAES IV.a 41

‫… גדימת מלך תנוח‬
… Γαδιμαθου βασιλεὺς Θανουηνῶν
… Gadīmat king of Tanūḫ
60 Steiner (2005: n. 154) argues that the ∅ rendering of *ḫ dates back as early as 200–350 ce
based on the dating of a pre-Christian tombstone (by Negev 1991: 130) bearing the name
Αλολεφα. While the name could transcribe *al-ḫolayfah, one cannot rule out al-ḥolayfah,
based on the root √ḥlf, or even al-ʿolayfah.
61 On the nature of these inscriptions and literacy among the nomads of the Roman Near
East, see Macdonald 2009a.
62 See Littmann 1913: 4A.41.
We have no reason to believe that the /ḫ/ of Tanūḫ was ever realised as ḥ,
especially since it appears in transcription in scripts which distinguish between
the two as ḫ.63 This inscription indicates that Greek χ was again not used to
transcribe Arabic ḫ.
These facts require us to revisit two perhaps very simplified assumptions, to
borrow Steiner’s term, in the historical phonology of Greek and Semitic: the
phonetic realisation of Greek χ in the Roman and Byzantine Near East and
the phonetic realisation of *ḫ in Old Arabic. As I have argued above, it is not
necessary to assume that the Greek aspirated stops had become fricatives in
the periphery dialects of the Near East. In fact, if χ did indeed shift to [x], then
it is rather difficult to explain why our bilingual author chose not to represent
Safaitic /ḫ/ by means of it. This decision suggests that the author judged /ḫ/
closer to the spīritus asper of Greek, which is not noted in the epigraphy, instead
of the sound represented by χ. This choice strongly suggests that χ remained
an aspirated stop, [kh]. Additionally, I think it tells us something about the
realisation of *ḫ. The North Arabian epigraphic evidence only confirms that the
two phonemes *ḫ and *ḥ did not merge; this fact, however, does not necessitate
that *ḫ was realised as [χ]. While it is often asserted that the original point
of articulation of this phoneme was uvular on the basis of “Arabic”, many
Arabic dialects have a velar fricative reflex, as did the 8th century Arabic
described by Sibawayh.64 It is possible that *ḫ was realised as a front velar
fricative in our dialects, or perhaps even as a palatal fricative, [ç]. Either of these
sounds could have been judged closer to the spīritus asper than the velar stop
[kh].65
63 A Sabaic inscription (Sharaf 31) from Maʾrib contains the phrase ʾrḍ tnḫ “the land of Tnḫ”,
clearly indicating that the ḫ remained distinct from ḥ in this word; on this inscription, see
Müller (1974: 155–165). Nabataean ‫ ח‬was polyphonic, indicating both ḥ and ḫ, as it was in
other forms of Aramaic and Hebrew (see Steiner 2005: 231ff.).
64 From a structural perspective, one would expect these sounds to be velar rather than
uvular fricatives. This is because there was no uvular point of articulation in the phonology
of Proto-Semitic. The uvular stop, q, developed only after the loss of glottalisation. Thus,
just as Proto-Semitic had a dental stop, a dental fricative, and a glottalised dental stop, one
would also expect a velar stop, k, a velar fricative, ḫ, and a glottalised velar, k’.
65 It may seem curious that in Greek transcriptions of Aramaic, post-vocalic ‫ כ‬is consistently
transcribed with χ. If ‫ כ‬was spirantised, it is then strange that the sound was never
transcribed with zero, as in ḫlṣ = Αλιζου. This fact could imply several things. First, if we
maintain that the spirantisation of ‫ כ‬was universal, it could suggest, as I have already
stated, that *ḫ in the Old Arabic dialects of our region was not realised as [x], which would
be the value of a spirantised ‫כ‬, but as [ç] or something like that. However, Steiner (2007)
has brilliantly argued that there is no a priori reason to assume that the entire bgdkpt
120 al-jallad
The ad-hoc nature of the transcription of Semitic names into Greek, espe-
cially in individualised stelae and gravestones, allows for some variation in
the interpretation of Greek-Arabic equivalents by individual scribes.66 Indeed,
some scribes appear to have had the opposite judgment of the author of C 2823–
2824. Several names containing a reflex of Proto-Semitic *ḫ are transcribed by
χ (see below). It is difficult to draw any chronological or geographical conclu-
sions based on our data, as the vast majority of our attestations are undated,
unevenly distributed, and certainly the product of multiple scribes. As Isserlin
already pointed out, the pre-conquest Nessana documents do not transcribe
*ḫ, even though *ġ seems to be represented at least once by γ, Αλγεβ /al-ġebb/
(P.Ness. III 18, 6; 537 ce). Reflexes of both *ḫ and *ġ are attested once in the
Petra Papyri where they are transcribed with zero. There are no etymologically
transparent occurrences of these phonemes in the epigraphy from Petra.67 In
Edom, the phoneme is transcribed once with χ in the name Χαμσα /ḫamsah/
(IGLS XXI/4 129), but the inscription is undated. There are a few dated occur-
rences of χ-∅ variation in the names *ḫayr and *ḫayrān, but it is impossible
to base any firm conclusions on these. Arabic *ḫ is transcribed with χ in the
name Χαιρανο = *ḫayrān (PAES III.a 793.9) on a pre-Christian stele erected in
honor of the god ʿAwm in the Lejā, dated between 213 and 232 ce.68 A similar
name, Ηρανου (PAES III.a 61), is transcribed in an inscription from the southern
series underwent spirantisation at once. The velars were never spirantised in Samaritan
Hebrew, and, as he points out, the velars *g and *k are never transcribed as fricatives
in Armenian transcriptions of Syriac from the 5th century ce (ibid.: 57). It could very
well be the case that in a large majority of Greek transcriptions of Aramaic, post-vocalic
χ and γ simply transcribe Aramaic [kh] and [g]. Another curious piece of evidence for
the late stop realisation of the velars in all positions comes from Aramaic loans into
the Arabic dialect of the Qurʾān. Post-vocalic Aramaic *k is written with ‫ ك‬rather than
‫خ‬, as in ‫ ملـک‬from mlaḵ and ‫ مىكىل‬from mīḵāʾel (I thank my friend Adam Strich for
bringing these two anomalies to my attention). The latter name is re-borrowed at a later
point into Arabic as ‫ ميخائيل‬/mīḫāʾīl/. The Safaitic inscriptions also attest the presence of
an Aramaic without post-vocalic spirantisation. The Semitic name of Palmyra, Tadmur,
appears consistently in Safaitic as tdmr rather than tḏmr (see C 663, C 1649, C 1664 and
C 1665).
66 This could be compared to the way English speakers, who do not possess a velar or uvular
fricative, choose to realise Arabic ḫ. Thus ḫālid is approximated as /haled/ or /kaled/,
although the influence of orthography plays a larger role in the case of English.
67 The frequently occurring name Αλφιος and Ολφιος (see IGLS XXI/4, index) could go back
to either ḫlf or ḥlf, and could also reflect an Aramaic source rather than Arabic.
68 The stele is securely dated to the first half of the 3rd century. For a detailed discussion of
the dating, see PAES III.a: 405–406.
Ḥawrān dated to 327ce, but this could also be interpreted as a transcription

of the name ḥayrān, from the root √ḥyr, attested as ḥyrn and ḥrn in Safaitic.69
The short form, ḫayr, is attested even earlier, as the patronymic of a priest of
Dusares from Milāḥ iṣ-Ṣarrār (Ḥawrān J&P, see n. 52), Ναγιος Χαιρου, i.e. Nāgī
son of Ḫayr, dated to 164ce. This spelling occurs two other times in PAES III.a,
but they are undated. Wad 2200 records an undated inscription where the name
is spelled Χερο. By far the most common spelling of the short form is Ηρος,
attested eight times in PAES III.a, but unfortunately none of these is dated.70
Secure evidence for the rendition of *ḫ with χ in a Christian inscription comes
from the Lejā: Ὑιὸς Θ(ε)οῦ Χρ(ιστὀς) Ἰωάννου Χοδαμ (PAES III.a 793.7), where the
name Χοδαμ should be connected to the Arabic root *ḫdm, probably *ḫodām
or *ḫodam.71
The issue of Arabic versus Aramaic pronunciation should also be consid-
ered. One might suggest that the forms without χ reflect Aramaicised rendi-
tions of Arabic names containing this phoneme. At first glance, this appears
to be a compelling hypothesis, as both *ḫayr and *ḫayrān lack a plene spelling
of the diphthong when the χ is absent, correlating nicely with the reduction
of diphthongs in the Aramaic of this period.72 However, we find the name
spelled with the diphthong and without the χ in the compound name Αιρει-
ηλου /ḫayrī-ʾel/ in PAES III.a 674. The spellings Αιραν- and Αιρ- are also common
at Palmyra,73 and then there is Wad 2200 Χερο < *ḫayrō. These facts indicate
that the correlation between χ and the αι rending of the diphthong is simply
coincidence in Littmann’s corpus. Another important question to consider is:
how would an Aramaic speaker pronounce Arabic /ḫ/? If the Aramaic stops
had undergone spirantisation, then there is no reason to assume that ḫ could
not be pronounced authentically. If, on the other hand, spirantisation had not
yet spread to the velar stops, there is still no good reason to assume Arabic
/ḫ/ would have been borrowed/pronounced as /ḥ/. Phoenician, which also
69 The personal name ḥrn is attested in SIJ 550 and KRS 3167, while ḥyrn is attested once in
SIT 40. According to the medieval lexicographers, ḥayrān is a place in which water collects,
and ḥyr is a place of pasturage (Lane: 685a–b). It is impossible to determine on the basis
of Nabataean spellings which name was intended.
70 These are PAES III.a 330, 335, 365, 448, 459, 468, 487, 797.6, but they could also transcribe
ḥr = */ḥayr/.
71 WH 1020 ḫdm could be the same name.
72 I am aware that both αι and η were realised as [e] in the Greek of our period; however,
the plene spelling αι of the Arabian diphthong must be considered separately. See below,
§ 4.2.4.2.
73 See Wuthnow (1930: 15).
122 al-jallad
lacked ḫ, rendered Demotic ḫ and ẖ with ‫ כ‬instead of ‫ח‬,74 and the same would
have probably been true of an Aramaic with a similar phonological reper-
toire.
Given the distribution of the data, and bearing in mind the aforementioned
Safaitic and Nabataean-Greek bilinguals, it is impossible to determine with any
certainty if the transcription of /ḫ/ with χ is an older feature, signalling the
gradual weakening of this phoneme in our dialects, or simply a less common
choice made by some scribes in their attempt to approximate this foreign
sound in Greek.
The phoneme *ġ is also frequently left unrepresented in transcription. The
absence of some type of consonantal representation, again, does not require us
to assume a merger with *ʿ; however, we lack confirmation of this practice as no
known Safaitic- or Arabic-Greek bilingual inscription contains this consonant.
While the reflex of *ḫ was probably compatible with the spīritus asper in both
voicelessness and fricativisation, *ġ was voiced, and so scribes were more likely
to represent the sound with the voiced γ [g], despite the fact that Greek γ had
not yet become a fricative. That it was left unrepresented in many cases could
suggest that the Old Arabic reflex was realised as a velar approximant,75 rather
than a uvular fricative, and represented in transcription by a hiatus between
two vowels or zero in word initial position.
To conclude, the use of the Greek aspirated series rather than the unaspi-
rated series to represent the Arabic voiceless stops indicates that the Greek
aspirated stops were not yet fricatives and that the Arabic stops were probably
aspirated. The Greek script cannot enlighten us with regard to the pronuncia-
tion of the unemphatic voiced stop series, *g, *d, and *b. The non-notation of
the reflexes of *ġ and *ḫ does not constitute conclusive proof for their loss or
merger with *ḥ and *ʿ. On the contrary, the scattered representation of *ḫ with
χ and *ġ with γ in the epigraphy and papyri from all regions and time periods
does not support the idea that these sounds were lost.
74 For a discussion of this phenomenon in the context of spirantisation in Northwest Semitic,

see Steiner (2005: n. 5 and n. 153).
75 This sound is found, for example, in Spanish pagar.
Representation of *ḫ
Siglum Data Norm Prov Sem Date
IGLS XXI/4 129 Χαμσα /ḫamsah/ Edom P. – –

GL 432d Χαλιπος /ḫalīp(?)/ Ḥawrān ‫חליפו‬/ḫlf (S) –
PAES III.a 793.9 Χαιρανης /ḫayrān/ Lejā ḫrn (S) –
PAES III.a 706 Χαιρου /ḫayr/ Lejā ‫חיר‬/ḫr (S) 164ce
Wad 1967 Χαλδη /ḫaldē/ Ḥawrān ‫חלדי‬/ḫld (S) –
No representation of *ḫ
IGLS XIII/2 9574 Ηρανου76 /ḫeyrān/ S. Ḥawrān ḫrn (S) 327ce

PAES III.a 139 Αλδου /h̬ ald[ē]/ S. Ḥawrān ‫חלדי‬/ḫld (S) –
PAES III.a 757.6 Ηρος /ḫeyr/ Lejā ‫חיר‬/ḫr (S) –
P.Ness. III 22, 22 Αλαφαλλου /ḫalaf- Nessana ‫חלפאלהי‬/ḫlflh 566ce
all[āh]/ (S)
P.Petr. II 17.2, Αρβαθ- /ḫarbat/ Petra – 505–537ce
107–108
Representation of *ġ
Eph II 329.65 Γαυθος /ġawṯ/ Ḥawrān ‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S) –

IGLS XIII-2 9574 Γιη̣ ου /ġiyey/ S. Ḥawrān – 327ce
PAES III.a 211 Γεαρου /ġeyyār/ S. Ḥawrān ‫עיר‬/ġyr (S) –
PAES III.a 734 Μογεαιρος /moġeyyir/ Sīʿ mġyr (S) 386ce
PAES III.a 786.1 Μογεερος /moġeyyer/ Lejā mġyr (S) –
P.Ness. III 18, 6 Αλγεβ /al-ġebb/ Nessana ġb (S) 537 ce
76 When the etymological diphthong *ay is transcribed by Greek ε and η, I have normalised
it as /ey/. This is justified in § 4.2.4.
124 al-jallad
No representation of *ġ
PAES III.a 196 Ανεμος /ġānem/ S. Ḥawrān ‫ענם‬/ġnm (S) –

PAES III.a 197 Αυθου /ġawṯ/ S. Ḥawrān ‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S) 380ce
PAES III.a 504 Αυθαλλου /ġawṯall[ah]/ U. al-Jimāl ‫עותאלהי‬ –
PAES III.a 696 Μοεαρος77 /moġe(yy)ar/ Ḥawrān mġyr (S) 372ce
J&P
P.Petr. II 17.2, Αλεβους /ġāleb/ Petra ‫עלב‬/ġlb (S) 505–537ce
194–195
3.3 Interdentals
There is some indirect evidence for the preservation of the plain voiceless
interdental fricative: the occasional transcription of *ṯ with τ. Sartre (1985:
192–193) suggested that this practice reflected the loss of interdentals, but his
interpretation is based on the assumption that the Greek of the Near East
realised theta as [θ]. Even if Arabic ṯ shifted to t, one would still not expect
it to be represented by τ, which was usually reserved for the emphatic dental,
ṭ. The fact that *ṯ is sometimes written with τ makes complete sense in light of
the discussion in the previous section, namely, that Near Eastern Greek had no
equivalent to Arabic [θ]. Thus, scribes were left to choose between [th] = θ and
[t] = τ to approximate this foreign sound.
Eph II 329.65 Γαυθος78 /ġawθ/ Ḥawrān ‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S) –

Eph II 336 M Αουιτος /ġawīθ/ Ḥawrān – –
IGLS XIII/2 9527 Γαυτος /ġawθ/ Boṣrā ‫עותו‬/ġṯ (S) 334–335ce
PAES III.a 350 Αυιθου /ġawīθ/ U. al-Jimāl – –
77 This name could also transcribe mʿyr, which is attested eleven times in the Safaitic
inscriptions, as compared to the over one hundred attestations of mġyr. There is no reason
to assume an etymological connection between these two names; the former can be
derived from the root ʿyr “to journey” and the latter from ġyr “to change/exchange”.
78 The commonest rendition of this name is Αυθος, attested eleven times with this spelling
in PAES III.a, no. 159, 173, 197, 385, 387, 417, 481, 482, 483, 515, 516.
In contrast to the variation above, the representation of *ṯ with τ is dominate

in the transcription of the Nabataean royal name, ‫ חרתת‬/ḥāreṯat/. Variation is
encountered when ‫ חרתת‬is a component of a basileophoric name, compare
Aβδοαρθα (PTer 21) to Αβδαρετας (Eph II 334b). To complicate matters further,
several variants of this name are attested in the Safaitic inscriptions, ḥrṯt, ḥrtt,
and ḥrt. As already stated, even if we appeal to a merger of *ṯ and *t in some
dialects to t, which is suggested by the Safaitic spellings, its nearly consistent
notation with τ in Greek is unexpected.79
Cantineau (1978: 38) attributed the spelling of ‫ חרתת‬as Αρετας to folk-
etymologisation, but this is hard to believe. The name was Hellenised rather
early, as evidenced by Greek literary texts and coins dated to the 2nd and 1st
centuries bce (see below §5.1.2), and its consistent spelling probably reflects
a learned tradition, especially considering how popular the name was and its
regal background. Nevertheless, the choice to represent /ṯ/ with τ in the first
place points to a lack of [θ] in Greek.
3.4 The Problem of *p

The existence of an early /p/ in Arabic is suggested by the realisation of /p/
as /f/ in loanwords: e.g. *pars > fars; *παράδεισος > firdaws. Since foreign /p/
was borrowed in the historical period with /b/, the /f/ realisation in these loans
suggests that they entered Arabic before the *p > f sound change operated,
and, consequently, experienced the shift along with native vocabulary. Since
Greek φ was likely still [ph] in our region, it cannot be taken as proof for
the /f/ realisation of *p in transcriptions; word-initial *p in transcriptions of
Aramaic words is also given with φ. Moreover, Semitic speakers did not seem
to consider Greek π the equivalent of Semitic *p, as indicated by the fact that
Syriac scribes devised a new glyph to transcribe Greek words containing this
sound (Kutscher 1965: 31). The same, it seems, was true in Ethiopic, where
its unaspirated nature was realised as glottalisation, and the phoneme was
79 The presence of a final t in the Safaitic form cannot stand as exclusive evidence for the
realisation of the name as */ḥāreṯat/ instead of /ḥāreṯa(h)/ Nabataean. In a Nabataean-
Ḥismaic bilingual from southern Jordan, the name Zydw in the Nabataean portion is
transcribed as zydt in Ḥismaic (Hayajneh 2009: 210). One could hypothesise that some
varieties attested in the ANA scripts would sometimes augment words terminating in a
final vowel with t. At the same time, this interpretation would imply that the feminine
ending was realised as /ā/ rather than /ah/ in the dialect from which it was taken over.
The name ḥrt would likely reflect an Aramaic calque of Arabic ʾal-ḥāreṯ, perhaps */ḥārtā/,
and in this case, unaugmented by the t. The absence of spirantisation in the dental stops
of at least some varieties of Aramaic is clear from other loans into Safaitic; see n. 65.
126 al-jallad
represented by a glyph representing aglottalised [p’].80 Given that the Greek

φ was still likely [ph], it is impossible to say with certainty what the reflex of
Proto-Semitic *p was in Old Arabic. The curious transcription of the Nabataean
name ‫ חליפו‬as Χαλιπος (GL 432d) could indicate that the sound had already
become /f/, and scribes teetered between φ [ph] and π [p] to represent it,
analogous to the fluxuation in the representation of *ṯ. However, the fact that
representations of *p with π are much rarer than the representations of *ṯ with
τ could suggest that the Old Arabic reflex of *p found a transparent equivalent
in Greek φ [ph].
3.5 The Pharyngeal and Uvular Fricatives

The pharyngeal fricatives are probably never represented consonantally in
our material. Some scholars have interpreted Wad 2112 (bis)81 Χαρητος as a
rendition of the Nabataean royal name ‫חרתת‬. However, in addition to the
problematic representation of ḥ, the final vowel of this name is α(ς), reflecting
the final feminine ending -a(h), rather than ος.82 Even if one assumes that
this transcription reflects */ḥāreṯ/, without the feminine ending, the absence
of the article is unexpected. No consonantal representation of etymological
ʿ has been attested in our area. Very rarely an extra vowel appears where
there is an ʿ, e.g. IGLS XIII/2 9531b Θααμαρη for /taʿmar/. However, this name
is almost always attested as Θαμαρη,83 suggesting that the extra α reflects
an ultra-short vowel which emerged from the passage from ʿ to m, perhaps
something like /taʿămar/, rather than a convention devised to represent the
pharyngeal.
3.5.1 ḥ Transcribed by Ὑ
One instance of hypsilon is attested at Muʿarribeh, in the name Υφφαλ[ος] (IGLS
XIII/2 9698, Ḥawrān J&P), which is accompanied by a fragmented Nabataean
inscription: [‫חפל]ו בר[ תימ]ו‬. The Greek indicates that Nabataean ‫ חפלו‬had a
high vowel in the initial syllable, probably /ḥuffāl/. The spelling of *u with υ
rather than ο probably says little about the realization of the vowel. It seems,
instead, that the author wished to approximate consonantal ḥ with ὑ, despite
any qualitative mismatch in vowels.
80 The glottalized /p’/ occurs almost exclusively in Greek loanwords. See Kogan (2011: 80) for
a discussion of this phoneme.
81 = CIG 4595 = Wad 2114, Eph I p. 335 no. 96.
82 The name Αρετος, however, is known in the papyri of Egypt (Preisigke 1922: col. 506).
83 This spelling is attested six times in IGLS XIII/2, see index, p. 355.
Another attestation of the use of word-initial hypsilon for Arabic /ḥ/ is found
in P.Petr. III 23, 8 (544ce): Υναυ ελθα[ι]ς /ḥinaw el-tays/. The edition correctly
connects the first term to Arabic ḥinw- “the bending part of a valley” (Lane:
661b); however, the final /aw/ is left unexplained (on this, see § 4.2.7).84
3.6 *g
The transcription of *g exclusively with γ seems to point away from the Clas-
sical Arabic pronunciation ǧ [d͡ʒ], suggesting instead a velar stop [g] as in
some contemporary dialects of Arabic. While Greek lacked an exact equiva-
lent to Classical Arabic [d͡ʒ], one encounters several strategies in transcrip-
tions of the Islamic period to approximate this sound, e.g. Γιαφαρ85 */ǧaʿfar/
(Wuthnow 1930: 41); Κλουτζ */ḫlūǧ/ (ibid.: 64); Νεσζιδ */neǧīd/(?) (ibid.: 83).
However, the general absence of these types of digraphs makes this difference
less significant. From a phonetic perspective, γ, which was likely realised in
the Greek of our region and period as [g], is a rather unsuitable match for
both [d͡ʒ] and [ʒ]. Instead, just as σ stood for the palatal š [ʃ] in transcrip-
tions of Aramaic, one would expect ζ to signal [d͡ʒ] or [ʒ]. While the absence of
any special transcriptional conventions cannot stand as conclusive evidence
for the realisation of this phoneme as [g], without evidence to the contrary,
there is no reason to assume a change from the phoneme’s original value,
[g].
IGLS XIII/2 9601 Γοσ̣ αμος /gośam/ S. Ḥawrān ‫גשםו‬/gs²m (S) –

IGLS XXI/2 118 Αβγαρ /abgar/ Madaba ‫אבגר‬/ʾbgr (S) 108–109 ce
PAES III.a 711 Ζαγλος /zagl/ Ḥawrān zgl (S) 315 ce
J&P
P.Ness. III 24, 6 Αλαγραδ /al-ʾagrad/ Nessana ʾgrd (S) 569ce
P.Petr. II 17.2, Γανναθ- /gannat-/ Petra – 505–537ce
198–199
84 Note that the use of hypsilon does not necessarily imply that the vowel of the first syllable
was /u/ or /o/. Greek ü is equally distant from /i/ as it is from /u/.
85 The use of the ι following the γ was meant to signal the [j] allophone of the sound (Brixhe
2010: 235), which was probably the closest approximate to Arabic /ǧ/ in the Greek of Egypt.
128 al-jallad
3.7 The Emphatic Consonants

In addition to a voiced and voiceless series, the Semitic languages possess
a third series of consonants—traditionally termed emphatic—which were
glottalized. These consonants were by virtue of glottalisation unvoiced.
(4) Voiceless Voiced Glottalized (emphatic)
t d t’ = *ṭ
ṯ ḏ ṯ’ = *ṯ̣
ts dz ts’= *ṣ
ɬ l tɬ’ = *ṣ́
k g k’ = *q
It has been assumed that glottalisation was fronted in Arabic to what has been
termed variously in the literature pharyngealisation, uvularisation, or velarisa-
tion.86 While Greek transcriptions allow us to determine the voice features of
this series, it is impossible to decide whether they remained glottalised or if
they had already become pharyngealised.87 It is perhaps significant that vow-
els are not qualitatively affected by adjacent emphatics until the 6th century in
Petra. But this may equally indicate that vowels simply had not yet developed
lowered allophones, and does not rule out the existence of pharyngealisation.
The presence of lowering in the Petra Papyri, on the other hand, does seem to
point towards pharyngealisation. For the sake of neutrality, I will indicate the
86 Faber has argued that pharyngealisation was a common Central Semitic sound change,
based on Hebrew forms such as niṣṭaddāq, but Huehnergard (2005: 165–166) expresses
doubts. I will conventionally refer to the non-glottalised realisation of the emphatics as
“pharyngealisation” in this paper.
87 Knauf has argued that these consonants remained glottalised in Nabataean Arabic on the
supposed equivalence of Nabataean ‫ אלטמו‬with the Greek transcription Ελθεμος. Knauf
(1984: n. 15) interpreted the use of θ for Arabian ṭ as sign of glottalisation, but I find this
unlikely. As mentioned above with regard to Mehri, aspiration seems to be an important
feature of the non-emphatic consonants, meaning that the glottalised consonants were
characterised as being unaspirated. Moreover, there is no reason to assume a connection
between these two names in the first place. As Knauf states, the name ʾltm occurs in the
ANA epigraphy and is a more suitable match. Finally, even if such a connection is correct,
this would reflect a minority situation, as the reflex of Nabataean ‫ ט‬is almost always
represented by τ in transcription.
secondary point of articulation, when unclear, by a subscript dot rather than

making a choice between pharyngealisation and glottalisation.
3.7.1 *ṭ
The emphatic dental stop *ṭ is consistently represented by τ, indicating that
the sound was voiceless and unaspirated.
IGLS XIII/1 9215 Ατρη /ʾaṭr/ Boṣrā ‫אטרו‬ –

PAES III.a 94 Χασετος /kāseṭ/ S. Ḥawrān ks¹ṭ (S) –
PAES III.a 372 Ατισανου /ʿaṭīśān/ U. al-Jimāl ʿṭs²n (S) –
PAES III.a 399 Οταιτου /ḥoṭayṭ/ U. al-Jimāl ḥṭṭ (S) –
PAES III.a 785 Αμταρης /ʾamṭar/ Lejā – –
P.Ness. III 79, 67 Κοτεμου /qoṭeym/ Nessana – 601–625ce
GIN 488 Χασετου /kāseṭ/ Oboda ks¹ṭ (S) –
3.7.2 The Emphatic Sibilant/Affricate *ṣ

The reflex of *ṣ [ts’] is in all but one case represented by σ, indicating that the
sound was voiceless. The issue of affrication and the nature of its emphatic
realisation are more difficult to determine. Steiner is skeptical about the pos-
sibility of an affricated ṣ in early Arabic, but much of his reservations come
from a belief that Sibawayh’s description of the sound held true for all the spo-
ken varieties of his time and earlier.89 The material relevant for the realisation
of ṣ in the Islamic period has been assembled in Steiner (1982: 75–81). Of this,
the rendition of the name Nessāna is of special interest. Steiner (ibid.: 77–79)
noticed that the name was spelled Νεσσανα in the pre-conquest documents,
while by the late 7th century, its transcription changed to Νεστανα, correspond-
88 Negev connects this name with Nabataean ‫קשטו‬, but χ is only very rarely used for this
purpose.
89 Steiner (1982: 78–79) treats Sibawayh’s classification of the ‫ ص‬with sīn and zāy as evidence
for its realisation as a fricative. However, Sibawayh groups consonants together on the
basis of place rather than manner of articulation. For example, he groups ‫ ج‬with ‫ ش‬and
‫ ي‬in a single class, even though the first is an affricate, the second a fricative, and the
third an approximant. It could very well be the case that ‫ ص‬was an affricate in the Arabic
known to Sibawayh, and that his ‫“ الصاد التى كالسين‬the ṣād which is like the sīn” refers to a
deaffricated realisation of this phoneme rather than an “unemphatic” variant.
130 al-jallad
ing to ‫ نصان‬in the Arabic documents. Naturally, this seems to indicate that the
the indigenous Arabic dialect of the town did not possess an affricated reflex of
*ṣ while the dialect brought in by the Muslim conquerors did. Matters are com-
plicated, however, by the fact that σ is used to render affricates as well. Steiner
(ibid.: 60–65) demonstrates that Punic maintained an affricated realization of
this phoneme, but still the most common Greek transcription was σ, although
both τ and στ were occasionally used. Perhaps the absence of any variation of
this sort in our corpora suggests that the phoneme was deaffricated, especially
in light of the fact that the digraph στ was available.
Evidence for deaffrication might also be gleaned from the Safaitic inscrip-
tions. Authors of these texts render Greek and Latin [s] with both ṣ or s¹:
(5)90 KRS 1507 grgs¹ Γρηγόρης LP 653 grmnqṣ germanicus

KRS 1507 ʾqlds¹ claudius KRS 1023 grfṣ Ἀγρίππας
KRS 3160 tts¹ titus KRS 1024 hrdṣ Ἡρῴδης
AbaNS 656 mrṭs¹ Μύρτος KRS 1991 flfṣ Φίλιππος
This type of variation could suggest several things. The first possibility is that
ṣ and s¹ were essentially identical, with the exception of emphasis, a feature
with no counterpart in Greek. This would suggest that *ṣ was deaffricated, but
still does not rule out a glottalised secondary articulation, [s’] (see below). On
the other hand, it may be the case that s¹ represented a dental sibilant while
Greek sigma was realised as an apical s, [s̺], as it is in Modern Greek. This would
render neither s¹ nor ṣ the equivalent of plain [s]. As a result, authors fluctuated
between the plain and emphatic sibilants in their transcription of the sound.
This scenario, however, still admits the possibility that *ṣ was an affricate. The
point of articulation of the affricate may have been further back than the dental
sibilant, and therefore authors could approximate the sound through point and
sacrifice manner with ṣ or through manner and sacrifice point with s¹. That the
same variation is found in Latin loans suggests that a similar situation was true
of its voiceless sibilant. It is also possible that Latin names entered the Arabic
dialects of this region through Greek.
The nature of *ṣ’s emphatic feature is even more difficult to determine. If *ṣ
was deaffricated, it may have catalysed the development of pharyngealisation.
While glottalised s [s’] is attested, glottalised fricatives are rather rare cross-
linguistically. Deaffrication might have then fronted the secondary point of
90 I have excluded qṣr = Καῖσαρ as it is very possible that the term entered Safaitic via
Aramaic.
articulation to the pharynx or uvula, *[ts’] > *[s’] > *[sˁ]. Nevertheless, one
cannot rule out the realisation of this phoneme as a glottalised [s’].
The only instance of *ṣ transcribed with ζ occurs in a damaged context in the
aforementioned Safaitic-Greek bilingual, C 2823–2824 ḫlṣ = Αλιζο̣ υ. It is hard to
draw any conclusions based on a single example, but it could be the case that
some of the dialects inscribed in the Safaitic script possessed a voiced reflex
of this phoneme. One can rule out the transcription with ζ as an attempt to
represent an affricate with [zd], since this sound had long since become [z].91
IGLS XIII/1 Μοσβεος /moṣbeḥ/ Boṣrā mṣbḥ (S) –

p. 382
IGLS XIII/1 9260 Φοσεαθη /foṣeyyat/ Boṣrā ~ ‫פצי‬/ fṣyt (S) –
PAES III.a 64 Aλασσας /ḫalāṣah/ S. Ḥawrān ‫חלצת‬/ḫlṣt (S) –
P.Petr. II 17.1, 87 Φοσεα /foṣeyyah/ Petra ~ ‫פצי‬/ fṣyt (S) 505–537ce
P.Petr. II 17.l, 177 Ασαφιρ /ʿaṣāfīr/ Petra – 505–537ce
P.Ness. III 28, Αλασβι ̣ /al-ʿaṣbī/ Nessana ~ʿṣb (S) 572ce
Fr2
P.Ness. III 25, 6 Ολεσου̣ /ḫoleyṣ/ Nessana ‫חליצו‬ 569ce
To sum up, it seems that the only thing we can determine with certainty is that
*ṣ was voiceless. The absence of any attempt to represent affrication in tran-
scription seems to suggest, although not prove, that the sound was deaffricated.
This is further supported by transcriptions of Greek and Latin names in the
Safaitic script, which seems to suggest that s¹ = [s] and ṣ were realised identi-
cally with the exception of “emphasis”; however, other possibilities exist. It is
not possible to determine whether the sound was glottalised or pharyngealised.
3.7.3 *ṯ̣ = ẓ
In the vast majority of cases, *ṯ̣ is represented with τ, which indicates that the
sound was unaspirated and voiceless, probably [θ̣]. This value is attested in both
Safaitic-Greek and Arabic-Greek bilingual inscriptions.
91 The change to [z] seems to have already begun in the 4th century bc (Allen 1968: 56).
132 al-jallad
(6) Harran Inscription (Arabic-Greek bilingual)

Σαραηλος Ταλεμου = srḥyl br ṭlmw ‫* سرحىل ىر طلمو‬/śaraḥ(ʾ)el bar ṯạ̄ lemō/92
(7) WH 1860 (= Greek 2) (Safaitic-Greek bilingual)

Ουαβαλλας Ταννηλου = whblh bn ẓnʾl */wahballāh ṯạ nnʾel/
This equivalence is also abundantly attested in monolingual Greek epigraphy.
IGLS XIII/1 9348 Ναταμος /naṯạ m/ Boṣrā nẓm (S) –

PAES III.a 151 Ταβιαθη /ṯạ byat/ S. Ḥawrān – –
PAES III.a 316 Ιατουρος /yaṯụ̄ r/ U. al-Jimāl yẓr (S) –
PAES III.a 351 Ταβιαθη /ṯạ byat/ U. al-Jimāl ẓbyt (S) –
PAES III.a 628 Ταννε /ṯạ nn/ Ḥawrān ‫טננו‬/ẓn (S) –
J&P
Wetzst 152 Ναταμελου /naṯạ m-el/ Lejā nẓmʾl (S) –
3.7.3.1 *ṯ̣ Transcribed by ζ

In the Nessana papyri and the 6th-century epigraphy from the Negev (GIPT);
(GIN), *ṯ̣ seems to be consistently transcribed with ζ. The only etymologically
transparent case is the name Ζοναιν-, and variant spellings thereof, attested
in thirty-two documents in the pre-conquest material and abundantly in the
epigraphy. Ζοναιν- is the diminutive of the root √ṯṇ n, *ṯụ nayn, which is attested
across various scripts.93 The non-diminutive form is encountered once in a
post-conquest document (P.Ness. III 76, 81) as Ζαννος /ẓ́ann/, the equivalent of
southern Syrian Ταννος = /ṯạ nn/ (IGLS XIII/2 9815).
The consistency of this transcription suggests that *ṯ̣ had a different pho-
netic quality in the 6th-century Negev than it did in epigraphic material from
southern Syria and most of Jordan. The use of ζ makes it unlikely that the sound
was realised as [ðˁ], that is, the pharyngealised counterpart of *ḏ [ð], as in Clas-
sical Arabic. Such a sound would have surely been represented by δ, just as the
92 It is often suggested that br was used as an ideogram in the early Arabic inscriptions,
and was actually pronounced as (i)bin. For a recent discussion of this inscription and
bibliography, see Mascitelli (2006: 183–187).
93 I believe we owe this identification to Wuthnow.
plain interdental ḏ in these documents, e.g. P.Ness. III 24, 3 (569 ce) Αουιδου
= */ʿawīḏ/. Instead, ζ suggests another quality altogether, possibly a voiced
emphatic lateral fricative, which was probably pharyngealized, ẓ́ = [ɮˁ] or
affricate [d͡ɮˁ].
(8) The representation of *ṯ̣
Etymological Safaitic Nabataean S. Syria Nessana
*ṯṇ n ẓnn ‫טננו‬ Ταννος Ζαννος/Ζοναινος
*ṯụ nayn at Nessana and the Negev
GIN 19 Αζοναινη94 /aẓ́onayn/? Oboda see (8) 576ce

GIPT 20 Ζοναινος /ẓ́onayn/ Beersheba see (8) 543–544ce
GIPT 57 Αβου /ʾabū- Khalaṣa see (8) 565ce
Ζοναινου ẓ́onayn/
P.Ness. III 24, 2 Ζοναινος /ẓ́onayn/ Nessana see (8) 569ce
P.Petr. III 36, 113 possibly attests the transcription of this phoneme by ζ, if the
personal name Αχζαμος reflects the elative of the root √kṯm ̣ , /ʾakẓ́am/. While
this root is common in Arabic personal names, it is important to note that the
name kzm has appeared in Safaitic, so this connection is only tentative.95
3.7.4 *ṣ́
The traditional transcription of this phoneme in both Arabist and Semiticist
literature, ḍ, is regrettable. It has no basis in the phonological description of
Arabic by Sibawayh, but instead reflects an artificial medieval and modern
pronunciation.96 The Arabic glyph ‫ ض‬signals the reflex of *ṣ,́ the emphatic
94 The origin of the preformative α in this name, which is the feminine counterpart of Ζοναιν-,
is unclear.
95 See WH 2563.
96 Sibawayh describes the point of articulation of this sound as: ‫ل حافة اللسان وما‬ِ ‫م ِن بين أَّو‬
‫“ يلَيها من الأضراس‬between the front edge of the tongue and the adjacent molars”; see the
134 al-jallad
counterpart of the lateral *ś [ɬ], which was, according to most reconstructions,

either [ɬ’] or [t͡ɬ’].97 That its reflex in our dialects was voiceless and not a stop
or interdental is clear from its transcription with σ. There is no evidence for
the merger of this sound with *ṣ in any variety of Arabic. Therefore, it stands
to reason that it remained a voiceless emphatic lateral. Much of what was said
in our discussion of *ṣ holds true here. There is no evidence that this phoneme
included a dental occlusive onset in our transcriptions. If one adopts the view
that *ṣ was deaffricated and pharyngealised, then it is rather unlikely that *ṣ́
did not follow suit. In this case, one could tentatively posit the realization
[ɬˁ]. However, if pharyngealisation did not follow deaffrication, then [ɬ’] is also
possible, even though it is typologically rare. Whatever might be the case, the
realisation encountered here is distinct from the lateral described by Sibawayh
and the realisation of this phoneme in several older Arabic loanwords into
other languages.98
PAES III.a 308 Ρασαουαθος /raṣā́ wat/ U. al-Jimāl ‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S) –

PAES III.a 361 Ρασουα /raṣẃ āʾ/ U. al-Jimāl ‫רצוא‬/rḍw (S) –
Sibawayh Project http://sydney.edu.au/arts/research_projects/sibawiki/demo/bas565.txt

.htm.
97 The original lateral quality of this phoneme is not disputed; however, some scholars have
provided structural arguments as to why the phoneme should be reconstructed as a lateral
affricate, as glottalised laterals are typologically uncommon. For a balanced discussion of
the different viewpoints, see Kogan (2011: 71). Even if this is the case, affrication could not
have been phonemic, as it did not contrast with other laterals. Instead, it must be treated as
a consequence of glottalisation, which formed a minimal pair with its plain counterpart,
ś [ɬ].
98 In loans into Malay and Spanish, the Arabic reflex of *ṣ́ is borrowed as ld, dl, or sim-
ply l, perhaps signalling [d͡ɮ’] or [ɮʿ]; see Versteegh (2013). These nicely correspond with
the transcription of the deity *Rḍw in the cuneiform sources as ru-ul-da-a-u, probably
*/ruẓ́aw(u)/, where ẓ́ is a voiced emphatic lateral. This transcription reflects the pronun-
ciation of the deity’s name at ancient Dūmah, whence this idol, along with five others,
was captured by Sennacherib in the early 7th century bc. The transcription a-a-u could
reflect an attempt to represent the final diphthong /aw/ or /āw/, for which no orthographic
convention in neo-Assyrian existed.

PAES III.a 491 Ρασαουαθου /raṣā́ wat/ U. al-Jimāl ‫רצות‬/rḍwt (S) –
PAES III.a 569 Ρασουου /raṣw ́ [ā]/ Boṣrā ‫רצוא‬/rḍw (S) –
PAES III.a 643 Σοαιφαθη /ṣó ʿayfat-/ Ḥawrān ḍʿf (S) –
J&P
Eph II 330.78 Σαβετος /ṣā́ beṭ/ Ḥawrān ḍbṭ (S)99 –
While no true bilingual Safaitic-Greek inscriptions with a representation of

this phoneme have been discovered, it is encountered in a Greek inscription
authored by a man who bore a name which has, so far, only been attested
in the Safaitic script, Χεσεμαν = kḥs¹mn */keḥsemān/, and who calls himself
a Ḍayfite, a social group whose members have produced numerous Safaitic
inscriptions.100 Consistent with the above observations, this graffito Hellenises
the gentilic form of the tribe ḍf, ḍfy, as Σαιφηνος */śạ yf-/.
3.7.4.1 *ṣ́ as ζ at Nessana and Petra

It appears that the reflex of *ṣ́ at Nessana was represented by ζ, suggesting that it
had merged with the reflex of *ṯ.̣ This is found in the etymologically transparent
name Ζαβεου, which must be a reflex of the common name ḍbʿ and ḍbʿt, attested
so far eighty-six times in the Safaitic inscriptions.101 The second occurrence is
found in the tribal name Ζαμζαμα, if it should be connected with Ḍamḍam.102 A
single attestation at Petra confirms a similar realisation. The toponym Μαζεκα
likely reflects an underlying /maẓ́ēqah/ < *maṣī́ qah/, a noun of place derived
99 There is also a name, s¹bṭ, attested in the Safaitic inscriptions.

100 See Macdonald et al. (1996: 483).
101 This statistic comes from the Online Corpus of the Inscriptions of Ancient North Arabia,
which is currently in progress and will be published in the near future. I thank M.C.A. Mac-
donald for giving me access to the pre-published version. The partially published form
is available at: http://krcfm.orient.ox.ac.uk/fmi/webd#ociana. Consideration may also be
given to the name ẓby; however, since the Safaitic script does not indicate final vowels
of any length, this form must reflect a diminutive ẓobayy, which would appear as Ζοβε- or
Ζοβαι- in transcription. The detection of this name’s counterpart in Syria is difficult since it
would appear as Σαβα/ε-, which could also be interpreted as the name /ṣabāḥ/ or /ṣabeḥ/,
“morning”, or even /sabeʿ/ “lion”; see Sartre (1985: 233).
102 See Isserlin (1969: 22) and Kraemer (1958: 354).
136 al-jallad
from the root √ṣý q “narrow”. If P.Petr. III 36, 113 Αχζαμος contains a reflex of
the emphatic interdental, then it would appear that the two have merged at
Petra as well. Just as with the reflex of ṯ,̣ the use of ζ points towards a voiced
lateral realisation. Moreover, the vowel lowering triggered by this phoneme at
Petra in the 6th century suggests the presence of pharyngealisation, thus ẓ́ =
[ɮˁ].
Two curious Safaitic inscriptions spell the verb “to spend the dry season” qyẓ
as ʾyḍ, suggesting not only the merger of *ṯ̣ and *ṣ́ to *ṣ,́ but also the change of
*q to ʾ, although the latter development is so far unattested in Greek transcrip-
tion (Macdonald 2004: 498; Al-Jallad 215:53).103 While the merger of these two
phonemes is attested in nearly all modern forms of Arabic, the directionality
differs. In the modern Arabic varieties, *ṣ́ merges with *ṯ,̣ which is realised as a
voice interdental [ðˁ], and, in dialects which have lost interdentals, a pharyn-
gealised d, [dˁ]. The use of the lateral glyph ḍ agrees with the transcription by
ζ, indicating that a lateral quality, rather than an interdental, underlies this ʾyḍ.
Interestingly, Andalusian Arabic appears to exhibit the merger of both *ṣ́ and
*ṯ̣ to a lateral in the same word, nicayált and cayált “to spend the summer” from
*qāyaṯạ (Corriente 1989: 98).
P.Ness. III 28, 2 Ζαμζαμα /ẓ́amẓ́amah/ Nessana ḍm (S) 572ce

P.Ness. III 37, 30 Ζαβεου /ẓ́abeʿ/ Nessana ḍbʿ (S) 560–580ce
P.Petr. II 17 1,155 Μαζεκα /maẓ́ēqah/ Petra – 505–537ce
Regardless of how *ṣ́ and *ṯ̣ were realised phonetically, it is clear that in south-
ern Syria the two sounds had not merged and that they remained voiceless.
The evidence from Nessana, on the other hand, suggests that both reflexes were
voiced, and that they had possibly merged. This distribution most likely reflects
a geographic difference in the realisation of this phoneme, as the nearly con-
temporary Ḥarrān inscription (southern Syria, 568 ce) transcribes Arabic ‫ظ‬
with τ.
103 Curiously, in Mu 113 ʾyḍ < *√qyẓ occurs alongside qbll “reunion” in the same inscription.
This may suggest that q > ʾ was originally a conditioned sound change.
(9) Southern Syria Nessana (and possibly Petra) Classical Arabic
*ṣ́ Σ = *ṣ́ Ζ = *ẓ́ ‫[ = ض‬ɮˁ]

*ṯ̣ Τ = *ṯ̣ Ζ = *ẓ́ ‫[ = ظ‬ðˁ]
3.7.5 *q104
The reflex of *q = [k ́] is consistently represented with κ, indicating that the
sound was voiceless. While an unaspirated voiced uvular stop [g] could have
been intended by the use of κ, especially if γ were on its way to becoming
[γ], it is the rare representation of this sound with χ that confirms that it was
voiceless, for example, Χαυμος = /qawm/ (PAES III.a 419, U. al-Jimāl).105 Whether
the sound remained glottalised or had already shifted to a uvular stop is unclear.
There is no evidence for the shift of *q to ʾ, which is attested twice in the
Safaitic inscriptions (see §3.7.3), in the Greek epigraphy and papyri. There is
one possible case where γ is used in P.Petr. II 17, but other interpretations are
possible (see §3.7.4.1).
PAES III.a 642 Μοκιμος /moqīm/ Ḥawrān ‫מקיםו‬/mqm –

J&P (S)
PAES III.a 694 Ζαιδο- /zaydo-qīma/ Hawrān ‫זידקום‬/ zdqm 517 (?) ce
κιμα̣[ς] J&P (H)
P.Ness. III 21,6 Αλολκαιου /al-ʿolqay/ Nessana ʿlq (S) 562ce
P.Ness. III 79, 67 Κοτεμου /qoṭeym/ Nessana – 601–625ce
P.Petr. II 17.l, 166 Αλκεσεβ /al-qeṣeb/ Petra – 505–520ce
P.Petr. II 17.2, Αλκουαβελ /al-qowābel/ Petra – 505–520ce
96–97
104 I hope that the discussion in § 3.1, 3.2, and here has helped answer some of the questions
Rodinson (1970: 316–319) raises in his article on the “prononciation ancienne du qaf arabe”.
105 Littmann understood this name as ka-ʾumm-oh “like his mother”. However, this name is
unattested in the Semitic inscriptions of this region. It is better to understand it as a
rendition of /qawm/, which seems to be attested a few times in the Safaitic inscriptions
as qm and in Nabataean as ‫קומו‬.
138 al-jallad
3.7.5.1 Αλγασαγες in P.Petr. XVII

Al-Jallad et al. (2013: 37) give two possible interpretations for the microtoponym
αλ-Γασαγες in P.Petr. II (17.1, 185). The first is to consider it a broken plural of
qaṣqaṣ, “the breast of anything” (Lane: 2527b), which could refer to an elevated
area of land or hills. The second is to view it as the Arabic cognate of Ethio-
Semitic gwaṣāgwəṣ, which refers to a “rough or rugged (road)” (Leslau 1987: 206).
If the former is correct, then this is the single instance in the entire Graeco-
Arabic corpus from the southern Levant in which *q is represented by γ.
3.8 The Unemphatic Sibilants *s¹, *s² and *z

The reflexes of the voiceless sibilants, s = *s¹ and ś = *s², are represented with
σ and the voiced sibilant *z is consistently given with ζ.106 It is impossible to
determine whether the historic lateral maintained its lateral quality or whether
it shifted to an alveolo-palatal sibilant [ʃ], as in later forms of Arabic, on
the basis of transcription alone. Unlike the papyri from Egypt in the Islamic
period,107 digraphs were not used to distinguish [s] and [ʃ], as indicated by
unambiguous Northwest Semitic forms, i.e. Σεμισιααβος = ‫( שמשיהב‬Wuthnow
1930: 107). The Safaitic inscriptions, however, help complete the picture. As
Macdonald (2000: 46) has already observed, Aramaic [ʃ] is transcribed with
Safaitic s¹. This indicates that s² was not a suitable match for [ʃ]. There is no
reason then to assume that it was anything other than a lateral.
Macdonald also interpreted the use of s¹ for Aramaic š = [ʃ] as indicating
that the North Arabian realisation of this sound was also [ʃ]. I believe that the
evidence for this is too weak. The use of s¹ for Aramaic š only proves that s²
was not [ʃ], and that speakers/authors interpreted the sound represented by s¹
as the closest match to Aramaic š. Macdonald supported the equation s¹ = [ʃ]
further by pointing out that it was more common to represent Greek σ with
ṣ instead of s¹ in Safaitic. However, since 2000, several new attestations of σ
with s¹ have appeared (see §3.7.2), making this no longer the case. Thus, it is
rather uneconomical to assume that Proto-Semitic *s shifted to š at some point
in the history of Arabic and then back to s. Instead, the evidence favors the
interpretation of s¹ as [s] all along.
106 Proto-Semitic *z was probably an affricate but by this late period it was surely a sibilant.
107 Wuthnow (1930: 108) lists several Arabic names from this corpus in which Arabic š [ʃ] is
transcribed by the digraph σζ, e.g. Σζεειδ */šehīd/, Σζωειπ */šuʿayb/, etc.
*s¹ = [s]
IGLS XIII/1 9301 Σιθρο /sitrō/ Boṣrā s¹tr (S) –

IGLS XXI/4 129 Χαμσα /ḫamsah/ Edom P. – –
PAES III.a 67 Αυσαλλας /ʾawsallāh/ S. Ḥawrān (‫אושלה)י‬/ʾs¹lh –
(S)
PAES III.a 304 Αλαυσος /al-ʿaws/ U. Jimāl ‫אוש‬/ʾs¹ (S) –
P.Ness. III 16, 20 Σαδαλλου /saʿdall[āh]/ Nessana ‫שעדלהי‬/s¹ʿdlh 512ce
(S)
P.Petr. II 17. l, Αλσουλλαμ /al-sullam/ Petra – 505–538ce
103
PTer 99 Σεουδα108 /sewdā/ Ghōr ‫שודיו‬/s¹dy (S) 411 ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
P.Ness. III records an instance of *s¹ possibly transcribed with ζ, Ζουδανον

/zūdān/ (P.Ness. III 79, 47 601–625) < *sūdān(?), but this could be the result of
scribal error. It is also possible that this name was derived from the root √zwd.
*s² = ś
IGLS XIII/1 9292 Ουασειχα- /waśīkat/ Boṣrā ws²kt (S) –

θου
IGLS XIII/2 Θεμοδουσα- /teymo-dū- Boṣrā ‫תימדושרא‬/ –
9542b ρης śarey/ tmds²r (S)
PAES III.a 781 Σοραιχος /s²orayk/ Sīʿ s²rk (S) –
IGLS XV/2 319 Σαιαθη /śayʿat/ Lejā s²yʿ(S) 316–396 ce
P.Petr. IV 49, 16 Αλσαρκια /al- Petra s²rq (S) 6th cent.
śarqiyyah/ ce
108 This name is probably not Hellenised, as its context requires the genitive -ᾱς: Μνημῖον
Σεουδα … “the monument of Seouda”.
140 al-jallad
*z
Eph II 327.2 Ζαεδος /zāʾed/ Ḥawrān – –

IGLS XXI/4 126 Ζαιδος /zayd/ Edom ‫זיד‬/ zd (S) –
PAES III.a 711 Ζειεδος /zeyeyd/ Ḥawrān zyd (S) 315 ce
J&P
P.Ness. III 36,11 Ζαυανου /zawʿān/ Nessana zʿn (S) 6th cent.
ce
P.Petr. II 17.1, 185 Αλλουζα /al-lowzah/ Petra – 505–537ce
3.9 The Glides

Both glides are sometimes represented graphically, *w = ου and *y = ι, and other
times simply through the presence of a hiatus between two vowels. Gemination
of the glides is never indicated.
*w
IGLS XIII/1 9267 Ουαελος /wāʾel/ Boṣrā ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) –

PAES III.a 36 Σοουαιδ /sowayd/ S. Ḥawrān ‫שוד‬/s¹wd (S) –
PAES III.a 276 Ραουαου /rawāḥ/ U. al-Jimāl ‫רוחו‬/rwḥ (S) 223ce
PAES III.a 339 Αουιεδου /ʿawīḏ/ U. al-Jimāl ‫עוידו‬/ʿwḏ (S) –
IGLS XV/2 316 Αρουαδος /ʾarwad/ Lejā ʾrwd (S) –
GIN 13 Ουαελου /wāʾel/ ʿAvdat ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) 293/4ce
*y
IGLS XIII/1 9110 Μοαιερος /moġayyer/ Boṣrā ‫מעירו‬/mġyr –

(S)
IGLS XIII/1 9392 Τοβαιαθη /ṯọ bayyat/ Boṣrā ẓbyt (S) –
PAES III.a 184 Ομειαθη /ʾomeyyat/ S. Ḥawrān ‫אמית‬/ʾmyt (S) –
PAES III.a 342 Αειανου /ʿayyān/ U. al-Jimāl ʿyn (S) –
P.Petr. XVII l, 173 Αλαγιαθ /al-ḥag(i)yāt/ Petra – 505–537ce
*y and *w through hiatuses
IGLS XIII/1 9246 Ροεος /ro(w)eyḥ/ Boṣrā ‫רויחו‬/rwḥ (S) –

PAES III.a 183 Zοεδαθος /zo(w)eydat- S. Ḥawrān – –
/
PAES III.a 389 Μοεαρος /moġe(yy)ar/ U. al-Jimāl ‫מעירו‬/mġyr –
(S)
In an undated inscription from Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī, *y is represented by υ, Φοσευαθη

(PTer 301) /foṣeyyat-/, which probably points towards the confusion of ι and υ.
The name is usually spelled Φοσεαθη, although a single plene spelling is attested
at Khirbat as-Samrāʾ as Φοσαιαθη (Gatier 1998: no. 7).
3.9.1 A Note on the Names Γεανου and Μοφαα and the Confusion of
Glides
There are two possible instances in which the glides, *w and *y, were con-
fused, which sometimes happens in Safaitic. The name Γεανου (PAES III.a 611;
683) probably corresponds to Safaitic gʿn, “starving,” which is derived from the
root √gwʿ. The Greek transcription suggests a vocalisation along the lines of
/geyʿān/ rather than etymological *gawʿān. P.Petr. II 17 attests Αλμοφαα /al-
mowfaʿah/ which is probably a locative noun based on the root √wfʿ “elevated”,
thus “the elevated place, top of a hill”. This root is probably a by-form of the
more common √yfʿ, which gives us the word mayfaʿ “the place from which one
overlooks of a hill or mountain” (Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 44). The original /y/ is
preserved in the name of the ancient town at modern Umm ar-Raṣāṣ, south-
east of Madaba, called Κάστρον Μεφαα in mosaic inscriptions and Μηφααθ by
Eusebius.
3.10 Glottal Stop

There are no independent attempts to represent the glottal stop with an indi-
vidual Greek glyph. Spellings such as Βοαισαθη /bo_aysat-/ (PAES III.a 281) <
*buʾaysat- and Δοεβου /ḏo_eyb/ (PAES III.a 88) < *ḏuʾayb could equally suggest
the presence of a glottal stop or a glide. Perhaps less ambiguous are names be-
longing to the pattern *CāʾiC. While this pattern exists in both Aramaic and Ara-
bic, those beginning with /w/ must be traced back to an Arabian source. In none
of these cases is there an overt attempt to represent the glide with ι, suggesting
that the hiatus between the α and ε reflects the presence of a glottal stop.
142 al-jallad
Eph II 327.2 Ζαεδος /zāʾed/ Ḥawrān – –

IGLS XIII/1 9290 Αεδου /ʿāʾed/ Boṣrā ʿʾd (S) –
PAES III.a 183 Ουαελαθε /wāʾelat/ S. Ḥawrān ‫ואלת‬/wʾlt (S) 366ce
PAES III.a 276 Ουαελος /wāʾel/ U. al-Jimāl ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) 233ce
PAES III.a 748 Ουαελος /wāʾel/ Ḥawrān ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) –
J&P
The ε and η in the ultimate syllable of some III-ʾ names suggests the presence
of a short vowel, which could also indicate the presence of a glottal stop: Ανεου
(PAES III.a 741, Jabal Hawrān); Aνηου (PAES III.a 797.1, Sīʿ) = /hāneʾ/. However,
if the glottal stop were lost following the lowering of *i to /e/ in unstressed
syllables, these spellings could reflect something like /hānē/. The form Aνιου
(PAES III.a 291) could point towards /hāniʾ/, /hānī/, or even /hanīʾ/.
4 Phonology: Vowels
4.1 Short Vowels

4.1.1 Etymological *a
The unconditioned realisation of *a is [a], represented by α.
IGLS XIII 9265 Αβδομαχος /ʿabdo- Boṣrā ʿbdmk (H)109 –

mak(k)/
IGLS XIII 9350 Ογελαθη /ʿogeylat/ Boṣrā – –
IGLS XXI 12 Αναμου /ʾanʿam/ Petra ʾnʿm (S)
PAES III.a 275 Αλαβδος /al-ʿabd/ U. al-Jimāl ~‫עבדו‬/ʿbd (S) 208 ce
PAES III.a 291 Ραδνα /radnah/ U. al-Jimāl – –
109 This is a rare case in which we can confirm that a Greek transcription renders a Ḥismaic
form. The original Nabataean ‫ מנכו‬is presumably a dissimilated form of *malk. The
confusion of /n/ and /l/ is rather typical of borrowings into Arabic, cf. ṣlm to Ar. ṣanam
and pngl to Ar. fingān, although the l forms persist still in some dialects.
P.Petr. XVII 1, 50 Αλαχβαρ /al-ʾakbar/ Petra – 505–520ce

P.Ness. III 22, 22 Αλαφαλλου /ḫalafallāh/ Nessana ‫חלפאלהי‬/ḫlflh 566ce
(S)
PTer 82 Αβδαλγης /ʿabd al-gē/ Ghōr ‫עבדאלגיא‬/ 404ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī ʿbdlg (H)
4.1.1.1 *a > e
In some pretonic environments, *a is raised to [e], represented by ε. This sound
change does not occur evenly across our data, nor can it be explained by a
single sound rule. In the material from southern Syria, *a is raised to [e] in
unstressed pretonic syllables and only following the voiceless sibilant. This may
point towards areal influence from Aramaic. Unfortunately, only one example
is dated.
Siglum Data Norm Sem Date
IGLS XIII 425 Σεειρου /s²eʿīr/ < *s²aʿīr s²ʿr (S) –

PAES III.a 297 Σεουαδος /sewād/ < *sawād ‫שוד‬/s¹wd –
PAES III.a 519 Σεουαδος /sewād/ < *sawād ‫שוד‬/s¹wd
PTer 99.1–2 Σεουδα /sewdā/ < *sawday/āʾ ‫שודיו‬/s¹dy (S) 411 ce
At Nessana, the change is attested only once in the name Αβουειμιν̣/ʾabū-

yimīn/ (P.Ness. III 31, 24), which should probably be explained as the result of
regressive assimilation.110
Pre-tonic a-raising is relatively regular in P.Petr. II 17 (see Al-Jallad et al. 2013:
25), occurring in pretonic unemphatic environments, e.g. Αλμεναμ /al-menām/
110 The spelling ειμιν is curious, as one would expect ιεμεν for /yemīn/. This form might reflect
a mistake on the part of the scribe, or, since these names were probably produced from
diction without regard for word boundaries, it might be the case that the glide /y/ was
represented by the hiatus between αβου and ειμιν. In this case, ει would simply stand for
the /i/ vowel following the glide, thus abū(y)imīn.
144 al-jallad
< *al-manām (P.Petr. II 17.2, 126–127); Βενι /benī/ < *banī (P.Petr. II 17.1, 184).
A-raising may be a chronologically shallow development at Petra, given its
relative absence elsewhere.
4.1.1.2 Unstressed *a > o before a Labial

The Petra Papyri and in several cases at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī (PTer) sometimes attest
an /o/ reflex of unstressed *a when it precedes a labial consonant. This assim-
ilatory change seems to be restricted to the central Transjordan; however, the
time gap between the PTer material (mid-4th century and early 5th century ce)
and the Petra Papyri (early 6th century ce) is significant.
Siglum Data Norm Prov Date
P.Petr. II 17.1, 108 Αλαρομ /al-ʿarom/ < *ʿaram (?) Petra 505–537 ce
P.Petr. II 17.2, 8; Κουαβελ /qowābel/ < *qawābel Petra 505–537 ce
165
PTer 14 Ασλομου /ʾaslom/ < *ʾaslam Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī 355 ce
PTer 33 Ασλομου /ʾaslom/ < *ʾaslam Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī 373ce
PTer 141 Ασλομου /ʾaslom/ < *ʾaslam Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī 434 ce
4.1.2 Etymological *i
The commonest representation of etymological *i is with an e-class vowel, ε
and η, suggesting the realisation [e]. Its original quality [i], indicated by ι, is
also attested, but far less frequently and mostly in closed stressed syllables. In
very rare cases, unstressed *i is represented by ι, but this occurs too rarely—
only twice in PAES III.a nos. 661 and 801—to be of significance.
*i = [e]
IGLS XIII 9084 Ανεμος /ġānem/ Boṣrā ‫ענמו‬/ġnm –

IGLS XXI/2 148 Αλεσου /ḫāleṣ/ Madaba ‫חלצו‬/ḫlṣ (S) 179–180ce
PAES III.a 370 Εννη /ḥenn/ U. al-Jimāl ‫חן‬/ḥn (S) –
PAES III.a 800 Αμερος /ʿāmer/ Lejā ‫עמרו‬/ʿmr (S) –
P.Petr. II 17.1, 166 Κεσεβ /qeṣeb/ Petra – 505–537ce
*i = [i], in stressed closed syllables
IGLS XIII 9414 Σιθρο /sitrō/ Boṣrā ‫שתרו‬/s¹tr (S) –

PAES III.a 117 Ουιθρος /witr/ S. Ḥawrān ‫ותרו‬/wtr (S) –
PAES III.a 651.2 Ιννου /ḥinn/ Ḥawrān ḥn (S) –
J&P
4.1.3 Etymological *u
The most common realisation of short *u was [o], represented most frequently
by ο:
IGLS XXI/4 73 Οβοδ[ας] /ʿobodah/ Petra ‫עבדת‬/ʿbdt (S) –

PAES III.a 179 Οσνη /ḥosn/ S. Ḥawrān ḥs¹n (S) 318 ce
PAES III.a 119 Μοσλεμος /moslem/ S. Ḥawrān ms¹lm (S) –
PAES III.a 516 Ροδενα /rodeynah/ Boṣrā ‫רדנא‬ –
PAES III.a 789 Σοαδου /soʿād/ Lejā ‫שעד‬/s¹ʿd (S) –
P.Petr. II 17.2, Αλγοναιναθ /al-gonaynāt/ Petra – 505–520ce
160–161
P.Ness. III 21,6 Αλολκαιου /al-ʿolqay/ Nessana – 562ce
PTer 133 Οσνης /ḥosnē/ Ghōr ḥs¹n(?)(S) 430 ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
The [u] quality is sometimes found in stressed closed syllables:
IGLS XIII 9324 Ουσνος /ḥusn/ Boṣrā ‫חשנו‬/ḥsn (S) –

IGLS XIII-2 9513 Ουββος /ḥubb/ Boṣrā ‫חבו‬/ḥb (S) –
IGLS XIII-2 9652 Ουμαυατ /ʾum(m)- S. Ḥawrān – –
ġawwaθ/
146 al-jallad
(cont.)
PAES III.a 478 Λουβνη /lubn[ē]/ U. al-Jimāl ‫לבנא‬/lbn (S) –

P P.Petr. II 17. 1, Αλσουφλη /al-sufley/ Petra – 505–537ce
91
Twice pretonic *u is written with ου. Both of these inscriptions come from Boṣrā
and are undated:
IGLS XIII/2 9519 Αλουλαιφ /al-ḫulayf/ Boṣrā – –

IGLS XIII/2 9541 Νουμερος /Numeyr/ Boṣrā – –
4.1.3.1 u>i/y
Unstressed *u shifted to [i] before the glide y. This is a relatively rare phonetic
environment, and due to the nature of our data, it is only observable in the
diminutive of II-y roots, such as the diminutive of Taym, *tuyaym, and S²ayʿ,
*s²uyayʿ.111
PAES III.a 111 Θιαιμος /tiyaym/ S. Ḥawrān tym (S) –

PAES III.a 188 Σιηος /s²iyeyʿ/ S. Ḥawrān s²yʿ (S) 415 ce
PAES III.a 422 Θιημου /tiyeym/ U. al-Jimāl tym (S) –
PAES III.a 689 Θιεμο /tiyeym/ Ḥawrān tym (S) 372ce
J&P
PAES III.a 693 Θιεμου /tiyeym/ Ḥawrān tym (S) 387ce
J&P
PAES III.a 701 Θιεμου /tiyeym/ Ḥawrān tym (S) 330 ce
J&P
PAES III.a 711 Ζειεδος /zeyeyd/ Ḥawrān zyd (S) 315 ce
J&P
111 The Arab grammarians remark that the first /u/ vowel is sometimes pronounced as an /i/
when followed by a /y/ (Wright 1955: 270, rem. c.).
4.2 Long Vowels

4.2.1 Etymological *ā
Etymological *ā is represented by α, indicating that its quality was essentially
identical to its short counterpart.
IGLS XXI/2 120 Μοσαλεμου /mosālem/ Madaba ms¹lm (S) 179–180ce

PAES III.a 733 Ραγελου /rāgel/ Ḥawrān rgl (S) –
J&P
P.Petr. II 17.1, 75 Μαλ /māl/ Petra – 505–537ce
PTer 251 Μοσαλεμου /mosālem/ Ghōr ms¹lm (S) 498 ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
There is no unambiguous evidence for the shift of *ā to /ē/ or /ō/.
4.2.2 Etymological *ī
*ī is almost always represented by ι, and rarely by the qualitatively identical ει.
These spellings indicate that the long vowel was qualitatively distinct from its
short counterpart, [i:] as compared to [e].
IGLS XIII/1 9292 Ουασειχα- /waśīkat-/ Boṣrā ‫ושיכת‬/ws²kt –

θος (S)
PAES III.a 366 Αδιος /ʿādī/ U. al-Jimāl ‫עדיו‬/ʿdy (S) –
PAES III.a 642 Μοκιμος /moqīm/ Ḥawrān ‫מקיםו‬/mqm –
J&P (S)
PAES III.a 694 Μοκειμος /moqīm/ Ḥawrān ‫מקיםו‬/mqm 517ce (?)
J&P (S)
P.Petr. II 17.1, 57 αλ-Ραφιδα /al-rafīdah/ Petra – 505–537ce
PTer 123 Αβδαλμιθα- /ʿabd Ghōr ‫עבדאלמיתב‬ 434ce
βου al-mīṯab/ aṣ-Ṣāfī
Wad 2153 Μονιος /moġnī/ Ḥawrān mġny (S) –
148 al-jallad
4.2.3 Etymological *ū
As in the case of *ī, *ū appears to have been qualitatively distinct from its short
counterpart. In almost all cases, it is represented by ου suggesting an original
[u:] realisation, as against the realisation of *u as [o].
GIPT 57 Αβου /ʾabū/ Khalaṣa – 565ce

PAES III.a 52 Σαουδου /saʿūd/ S. Ḥawrān ‫שעודו‬/s¹ʿd (S) –
PAES III.a 314 Ζαβουδος /zabūd/ U. al-Jimāl zbd (S) –
PAES III.a 508 Δουσαρου /ḏū-sarey/ U. al-Jimāl ‫דושרא‬/ḏs²ry –
(H)
PTer 294 Αλουφαθη /ḫalūfat-/ Ghōr ḫlf (S) 5th cent.
aṣ-Ṣāfī ce
4.2.3.1 Lowering of Long Vowels at Petra

There is some evidence in the Petra Papyri for the lowering of stressed *ū and
*ī (Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 25–26). Similar lowering occurs in some of the modern
dialects from this region, especially in pause (Fischer and Jastrow 1980: 179–
180). This phenomenon is unknown in the epigraphy and in the Nessana papyri.
Siglum Data Norm
P.Petr. II 17.1, 152 Μεφωρ /meḥfōr/ < *maḥfūr

P.Petr. II 17.1, 155 Μαζεκα /maẓ́ēqah/ < *maẓ́īqah
And possibly in:
P.Petr. II 17.1, 152 Καλεβ /qalēb/ < *qalīb (?)
The fact that this change seems to occur around the emphatics, including /r/,
suggests pharyngealisation. Lowering does not prove that pharyngealisation
emerged in the 6th century, but only that vowels began to be affected by the
feature in this period. This may be related to the reduction of vowels in general
at Petra, which is also not generally witnessed elsewhere in our corpora.
4.2.4 Diphthongs
4.2.4.1 Etymological *aw
With the exception of one example from P.Petr. II 17, already discussed in 3.9.1,
etymological *aw is always represented by αυ, and never by ο or ω.112 Even if the
αυ had already become [av], its use for the diphthong proves that the sound
change *aw > ō did not operate in the Arabic of this region.113
IGLS XIII/1 9289 Λαυδανης /lawḏān/ Boṣrā ‫לודן‬/lḏn (S) –

PAES III.a 324 Αυσαλλας /ʾaws/ Ḥawrān ‫אושאלהי‬/ʾs¹lh 157ce
J&P (S)
PAES III.a 793 Αυμου /ʿawm/ Lejā ‫עום‬ 213ce
P.Ness. III 5, 3 Αυσω /ʾaws/ Nessana ‫אוש‬/ʾs¹ (S) 511ce
P.Ness. III 36, 11 Ζαυανου /zawʿān/ Nessana zʿn (S) 6th cent.
ce
4.2.4.2 Etymological *ay

The representation of *ay is far more difficult to interpret. Since the Greek
of this period had no equivalent to Arabic /ay/, it is impossible to determine
with absolute certainty whether this sound was also preserved in our dialects,
although the unambigious preservation of *aw would suggest so. There were
two general ways of transcribing the reflex of *ay in Greek. The first was the
use of an e-class vowel, either ε or η:
IGLS XXI/4 33 Οβεδου /ʿobeyd/ Petra ‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S) –

PAES III.a 92 Οβεβαθη /ḥobeybat-/ S. Ḥawrān ‫חביבה‬/ḥbbt –
(S)
PAES III.a 456 Θεμαλλας /teymallāh/ U. al-Jimāl ‫תמאלהי‬/tmlh –
(S)
112 The notation of *aw with ο in Μοφαα is probably related to the sound change a > o /_
C[+labial], which appears to have operated at Petra. This change would have rounded the
first mora of /aw/ to /o/, producing /ow/.
113 See Allen (1968: 76) on the historical realisation of αυ.
150 al-jallad
(cont.)
PAES III.a 521 Ονηνος /ḥoneyn/ U. al-Jimāl ‫חנינו‬/ḥnn (S) –

P.Ness. III 36, 16 Αλοβεδου /al-ʿobeyd/ Nessana ‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S) 6th cent.
ce
P.Petr. II 17.1, 98 Οσενα /ḥoseynah/ Petra ḥs¹nt (S) –
The second strategy seems to have been to parse the diphthong as a sequence
of vowel-glide, the former represented by α or ε and the latter by ι. This, in effect,
reintroduced a diphthongal value of the old digraph. The reason to think that αι
is not simply an attempt to indicate a monophthongised Arabic ē, as has been
previously claimed, is that the digraph is never used to transcribe the reflex of
*i = [e], while both ε and η are used interchangeably for this purpose. If the
diphthongs had indeed collapsed, and the digraph were used to represent [e],
then we should expect it to occur at least occasionally in the representation of
the qualitatively identical *i [e], especially since length was neutralised.
The occasional representation of the diphthong with ει seems to suggest that
the onset of the sequence was beginning to experience raising, perhaps under
the influence of the glide. It is tempting to view this situation as a progression
from αι [ai] > ει [ei] > ε/η [ē]; however, that these representations overlap
within documents produced by a single scribe suggests instead that they are
all attempts at approximating a sound absent in Greek. This is illustrated most
clearly in the Nessana corpus, where the name *ẓ́onayn is spelled Ζονινος (3.24
and 3.45), Ζονειννος (3.24) and Ζονενος (3.27). These exceptions perhaps prove
the rule, as the most common spelling by far is Ζοναινος, which is attested in
eighteen documents. Had the diphthong contracted to ē, one would not expect
this degree of variation, as the sound would have had a transparent equivalent
in Greek ε and η. On account of this, I would suggest that reflex of the diphthong
*ay had two allophones in free variation, *[ai] and *[ei], and the latter was
represented more often with the e-class vowels, ε and η, and occasionally with
the digraph ει.
IGLS XXI/2 49 Οβαιδος /ʿobayd/ Amman ‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S) –

Mus.
IGLS XXI/4 126 Ζαιδος /zayd/ Edom P. ‫זיד‬/zd (S) –
IGLS XIII/1 9218 Φαισανος /faysān-/ Boṣrā – –

IGLS XIII/1 9239 Οναιναθη /ḥonaynat-/ Boṣrā ~‫חנינו‬/ḥnnt (S) –
PAES III.a 204 Θαιμαλλας /taymallāh/ U. al-Jimāl ‫תמאלהי‬/ tmlh –
(S)
PAES III.a 706 Χαιρου /ḫayr/ Ḥawrān ‫חיר‬/ḫr (S) 164ce
J&P
P.Petr. II 17.1, 50 Βαιθ /bayt/ Petra – 505–537ce
P.Ness. III 38,4 Ωναινας /ḥonaynah/ Nessana ~‫חנינו‬/ḥnnt (S) 6th cent.
ce
These observations of course do not rule out the possibility that the *ay diph-
thong did collapse in some dialects and was transcribed with ε or η. Such might
have indeed been the case at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī, where ε is used consistently for *ay.
However, when these spellings are taken together with the fact that the *aw
diphthong was preserved almost everywhere, it becomes rather unlikely that
the change *ay > ē was a widespread phenomenon, if it occurred at all.
4.2.5 Vowel Syncope

There is limited evidence for the loss of unstressed penultimate vowels in an
open syllable when following two open syllables, thus: CvCvCvCv > CvCvCCv.
Sequences of this length are restricted to genitive constructions and broken
plurals.
IGLS XXI/4 36 Αβδοοβδας /ʿabdo- < *ʿabdo- Petra –

ʿobdah/ ʿobodah
P.Ness. III 21, 35 Αβιαθα̣λ̣βα /(abi < *ṯaʿālibah Nessana 562ce
a-)ṯaʿālbah/
P.Ness. III 21, 6 Θεμο- /teymo- < *taymo- Nessana 562ce
οβδ̣[ου] ʿobdah/ ʿobodah
PTer 21 Aβδοαρθα /ʿabdo- < *ʿabdo- Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī 361 ce
ḥārṯah/ ḥāriṯah
PTer 75 Aβδοαρθα /ʿabdo- < *ʿabdo- Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī 395 ce
ḥārṯah/ ḥāriṯah
152 al-jallad
It is reasonable to assume that the canonical pronunciation of the Naba-

taean basileophoric names was drawn from the dialects of central Jordan. The
basileophoric name Aβδοαρθα has a by-form spelled Αβδαρετας. Since the latter
form lacks the o-vowel between its two components, the conditioning environ-
ment is lost and no syncope takes place. The operation of this sound change
in the toponym Αβιαθαλβα at Nessana suggests that it was a local pronuncia-
tion.
4.2.6 Vowel Syncope in the Petra Papryri

Unstressed /i/ is syncopated once in an unstressed open syllable.
P.Petr. II 17.2 Αρβαθ /ḫarbat-/ < *ḫaribat Petra 505–520 ce

107–108
Unstressed /a/ in an open syllable is syncopated in P.Petr. III 30, 48 (579–580)

δαρ̣γ̣αθ /dargāt/, which is most likely derived from *daragāt “steps, terraces”.114
The same change is witnessed in Αγιαθ (P.Petr. II 17.1, 173), if it reflects *ḥagyāt
< *ḥagayāt “water pools”. In both cases, it is possible that /a/ was raised to /e/
in pretonic position before being syncopated. The syncope of high vowels in
unstressed open syllables could explain the spelling of the name *ʿobodah as
Οβδα (PAES III.a 353, at Umm al-Jimāl). The same name, however, is spelled
as Οβοδα at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī (PTer 63, 391ce), suggesting that Οβδα might reflect
a separate derivation, perhaps Nabataean ‫* עבדא‬/ʿobdāʾ/. None of the names
based on the active participle with the feminine ending, CāCeCat-, exhibits any
syncope, indicating that short high vowels in open, unstressed syllables were
generally stable.
4.2.7 Epenthesis and Prothesis

There is limited evidence for vowel epenthesis in the Petra Papyri, in the follow-
ing forms: Νααρ /nahar/ “rivulet” < *nahr and Κεσεβ /qeṣeb/ “irrigation chan-
nel” (?) < *qiṣb. For a more detailed discussion, see Al-Jallad et al. (2013: 26).
114 The edition did not explain this word, but the translation I provide is most likely, especially
in light of the microtoponym Αλσουλλαμ “the terrace” in P.Petr. 17.1 103, which derives
ultimately from “step”, “stair” (Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 48).
Epenthesis seems to be behind the form Υναυ in P.Petr. III 23, 8. If this reflects
the original etymon ḥinw, then the final cluster was resolved with an epenthetic
/a/, producing ḥinaw. Epenthesis may have been a relatively late development,
as there are no etymologically clear instances of the phenomenon in the epig-
raphy.
Only one possible example of prothesis seems to be attested in the transcrip-
tion of the Nabataean names ‫ אמראל‬in IGLS XV/2 180 Αμβριλιος and ‫ אמראלהי‬in
IGLS XIII/1 2207 Αμραλλας. The transcription of Arabic ʾmr suggests the vocal-
ization /ʾamr/, indicating that the prothetic syllable contained a genuine glottal
stop followed by an /a/ rather than /i/, as in later Arabic. On the other hand, it is
also possible that the Nabataean name reflects a combination of the root √ʾmr
“to command” or “to say” and the deity ʾl or ʾlh, in which case it would not an
example of prothesis.
5 Morphology
5.1 Word-Final *ay (the alif-maqṣūrah) and Triphthongs

Classical Arabic collapsed both original *ay in word final (non-construct) posi-
tion and the triphthongs *aya and *awa to ā. As I have argued in other places
(Al-Jallad 2014 and forthcoming b), this was by no means a Proto-Arabic devel-
opment. The spelling of the reflex of word final *ay and triphthong *aya in the
Qurʾānic Consonantal Text with the y glyph, ‫ى‬, e.g., ‫ على‬ʿly “upon” for Classical
Arabic /ʿalā/ and ‫ ىىىها‬bnyhʾ “he built it” for Classical Arabic /banā-hu/, indicates
that their quality was something other than /ā/. Evidence for the non-ā quality
of the word final diphthong is also found in the Jabal Usays inscription, which
attests ʿly for the preposition “on”.115 The Graeco-Arabica generally agrees with
Qurʾānic orthography.116
115 See Mascitelli (2006: 178) for a balanced discussion on the various readings of this inscrip-
tion and see Macdonald (2010b) for a new reading of the first line. One cannot explain this
y as a mater lectionis for ā by appealing to Arabic orthography. We have no reason to believe
that this was simply an orthographic convention at this early stage; indeed, orthographic
conventions are almost always rooted in an older stage of pronunciation. The Qurʾān itself
suggests otherwise, as ‫ ى‬does not rhyme with ‫ا‬.
116 Robin (2001) has suggested that both w and y can stand as matres lectionis for Arabic /ā/.
His arguments are, unfortunately, based on a series of misconceptions about historical
Arabic and Semitic phonology. See Al-Jallad (2014, n. 47) for a refutation.
154 al-jallad
5.1.1 The Word-Final Diphthong *ay

The few attestations of word final diphthongs in the Graeco-Arabica confirm a
non-ā reflex. These occur most frequently in the divine name Dusares = */ḏū-
śaray/, the reflex of which in Ḥismaic, and rarely in Safaitic, ḏs²ry, proves the
presence final *ay or triphthong *ayv. This form is consistently Hellenised with
the ending ης, that is ḏu:-śarei+s, rather than with ας. The latter ending is typical
of names which terminate in -a(h), Αρετας < */ḥāreṯah/, Οβοδας < */ʿobodah/,
etc. Its exact pronunciation, however, requires more discussion and will be
dealt with in 5.1.2.1. Forms based on the feminine elative, fuʿlay, also confirm
a non-ā reflex of this sequence.
IGLS XIII/1 9266 Αβδουσαρης /ʿabd-ḏū-s²arey/ Boṣrā –

PAES III.a 508 Θεμοδουσαρης /teymo-ḏū-s²arey/ U. al-Jimāl –
PAES III.a 706 Δουσαρεος /ḏū-śarey/ Ḥawrān J&P 164ce
P.Ness. III 21, 7 Αλολκαιου117 /al-ʿolqay/ Nessana 562ce
P.Petr. II 17.1, 91 Aλσουφλη /al-sufley/ Petra 505–520 ce
PTer 133 Οσνης /ḥosney/ Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī 430 ce
5.1.2 Dissimilation of *ay to ā

A few of the uninflected diminutive forms terminate in α, which could point
towards an underlying ‫ فعيلى‬pattern, in which case the final *ay would have
collapsed to ā. However, many of these have a Hellenised twin in which the
word final θ is present, e.g Ροδενα (PAES III.a 516, U. al-Jimāl) vs Ροδηναθη (PAES
III.a 76, S. Ḥawrān). This observation indicates that such forms go back to
a *fuʿaylat pattern rather than *fuʿaylay. Dissimilation of word final *ay to ā
following ay, however, can explain the spelling of the name Λελα in P.Petr. II 17,
leylā < *laylay.
5.1.2.1 The Divine Name Dusares and the Realisation of *ay#

While we can be fairly certain that the divine name Dusares originally termi-
nated in y, such a pronunciation seems to contradict the Nabataean spelling
‫דושרא‬. This spelling is employed even in clear bilingual contexts where tran-
117 This is probably related to Classical Arabic ‫ علقى‬/ʿalqā/ which is the name of a certain plant
with tough twigs (Lane: 2135b).
scriptions support a non-ā pronunciation. In an altar set up to Dusares at Umm

al-Jimāl containing a Greek-Nabataean inscription, ‫ דושרא‬is transcribed as Δου-
σαρει, the dative of Δουσαρης and not **Δουσαρας (see PAES III.a 238). It is
unlikely that the the sequence *ay collapsed to ā in Nabataean Arabic, as the
Petra Papyri attest the form Aλσουφλη instead of **Αλσουφλα. These observa-
tions seem to suggest that Nabataean ‫ א‬in this word does not signal [a:], in
which case it would seem that *ay# collapsed to something like [æ:]. Scribes,
then, must have felt that this sound was closer to ‫ א‬when the spelling con-
ventions of Nabataean were fixed. In Greek transcription, this sound was felt
to be closer to an e-class vowel, which drew the word into the first declen-
sion.
An Aramaic calque of the name might also be attested. In this case, the
final *ay, either [ey] or [æ], is lost, in line with the expected loss of final
long vowels. The Arabic relative pronoun ḏū is replaced by a reflex of Ara-
maic *dī. As Macdonald (2000: 48) already pointed out, both the native Ara-
bic form and an Aramaicised form are attested in Safaitic. Since Safaitic does
not indicate vowels of any length in any position, the two are distinguished
simply by the reflex of word initial *ḏ, which is written with d in the Ara-
maic form and ḏ in the Arabic form. In Ḥismaic, the matter is more compli-
cated. Some varieties written in the Ḥismaic script have merged the voiced
dental and interdental fricatives, thus *ḏ > d, and so it becomes impossible
to determine if any of these reflect an Aramaic form or simply the loss of
*ḏ.118
(10) Arabic: IGLS XIII/1 9266 Αβδουσαρης /ʿabd-ḏū-śarey/ ḏs²r (S)

Aramaic: IGLS XIII/1 9300 Αβδισαρ /ʿabddišar/ ds²r (S)119
Note also that in both of these names only one Δ is used to transcribe the
sequence d-d or d-ḏ at the boundary between ʿabd and ḏū/dī. This proba-
bly indicates that the gemination which was produced at the word boundary
was simplified on account of the impermissible cluster of three consonants:
/ʿabdḏū-śaray/ > /ʿabḏūśarey/, /ʿabdūśarey/ or /ʿabdīśar/. The Safaitic inscrip-
tions attest one instance of this name where the cluster was simplified to /d/,
118 In Ḥismaic, we have ds²r (AMJ 46, JSTham 658 bis, KJC 369); ds²ry (KJC 761 and 762), ḏs²r
(AMJ 145, KJB 93, KJC 260, TIJ 430, WA 10386) and ḏs²ry (AMJ 11, 124, 133, 143 and 144).
Clearly, the forms with the plain d are far rarer.
119 Macdonald (2000: 46) argues that in the Nabataean Aramaic of the Ḥawrān, ś did not yet
merge with s³ [= s]. For this reason, Safaitic transcribed this sound with s² rather than s¹,
as in the rendition of Aramaic bʿls¹mn.
156 al-jallad
ʿbds²r; however, it is impossible to tell which of the forms in Greek transcrip-

tions stands behind this example.
5.1.3 The Triphthong *aya (III-y Verbs) = III-y Verbs

A III-y verb is attested in a single, yet well-attested, name, pṣyʾl, which Stark
(1971: 109) parses as a verbal sentence containing the 3ms pṣy “to open, sep-
arate” and the divine name ʾl, “El has opened (the womb)”. Spellings such as
Φασαιελη suggest an underlying Arabic form faṣay-ʾel, congruent with both the
III-y verbs of North Arabian epigraphy and Qurʾānic spellings.120 The expected
Aramaic form, pəṣā-el, is encountered at Palmyra and another Aramaic vari-
ant is attested at Moab.121 Curiously, the Nabataean spelling of this name does
not reflect the final diphthong suggested by the Greek transcriptions; this is
probably to be explained in the same way as Dusares in 5.1.2.1. It is impossible
to determine how the Safaitic form was vocalised, but a faṣay-ʾel is certainly a
possibility.
IGLS XIII 9307 Φασηελη /phaṣey-el/ Boṣrā ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) –

PAES III.a 57 Φασηελη /phaṣey-el/ S. Ḥawrān ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) –
PAES III.a 178 Φασηηλη /phaṣey-el/ S. Ḥawrān ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) –
PAES III.a 210 Φασεελη /phaṣey-el/ S. Ḥawrān ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) –
PAES III.a 426 Φασηιλ /phaṣey-il/ U. al-Jimāl ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) –
PAES III.a 792.1 Φασαιελη /phaṣay-el/ Lejā ‫פצאל‬/ fṣʾl (S) ~543 ce
5.2 The Feminine Ending *-at

Huehnergard identified the levelling of the *-at allomorph of the feminine
ending to all environments as a Proto-Arabic innovation. In other Semitic lan-
guages, a -t allophone appears alongside -at, although with many of the epi-
graphic languages, it is impossible to determine whether a vowel was present
120 There is no reason to assume that III-weak verbs behaved abnormally in Proto-Semitic
and Proto-Central Semitic. Their collapse can be attributed to the areal sound changes,
*aya and *awa > ā (Huehnergard and Rubin 2011: 268).
121 The Aramaic calque is attested in Greek transcription at Palmyra, Φασαηλου /paṣā-el/,
yet curiously without the reduction of the first vowel. At Moab, we encounter the name
spelled as Φασιηλη /paṣī-el/, suggesting an Aramaic form going back to a CaCiya pattern.
For a list of variants and references, see Sartre (1985: 242).
before the t.122 There is no evidence for the simple *-t reflex in our material; the
feminine ending consistently appears as either -αθ- or -α.
IGLS XIII 9260 Φοσεαθη /foṣeyyat-/ Boṣrā ~‫פצי‬/ fṣyt (S) –

IGLS XIII 9361 Σαλεμαθος /sālemat-/ Boṣrā ‫שלמה‬/s¹lmt –
(S)
IGLS XXI/2 122 Αμερα /ʿāmerah/ Madaba ‫עמרת‬/ʿmrt (S) 179–180ce
PAES III.a 183 Ουαελαθε /wāʾelat-/ S. Ḥawrān ‫ואלת‬/wʾlt (S) 366ce
PAES III.a 330 Ουασεαθου /wāseʿat-/ U. al-Jimāl ws¹ʿt (S) –
PAES III.a 796 Μαλεχαθη /mālekat-/ Lejā ‫מלכת‬/mlkt (S) –
P.Ness. III 25, 4 Ναμλα̣ /namlah/ Nessana – 569ce
PTer 126 Μαλεχαθη /mālekat-/ Ghōr ‫מלכת‬/mlkt (S) 424ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
5.2.1 The Sound Change at > ah / _#

More complicated to interpret is the realisation of the feminine ending in the
unbound state. In so far as one can glean from the few inscriptions in the Arabic
script of this region, the sound change *at > ah appears to have operated in
unbound forms (i.e. non-construct position). In contrast, the North Arabian
inscriptions consistently exhibit a -t, regardless of state.123 Arabic loans into
Nabataean are mixed. Names such as ‫ חרתת‬and ‫ עבדת‬suggest that the final /t/
was pronounced when the orthography was fixed; however, loanwords often
exhibit a final ‫ה‬, e.g., Naḥal Ḥever 1, 17 ‫“ חליקה‬custom, practice” < Ar. *ḫalīqat-.
The evidence from Greek transcription suggests that the final t was lost even
in cases where it remained written in Nabataean; Οβοδας, for example, is never
written Οβοδαθος. The question then is: when did the sound change at > ah / _#
operate in the Arabic of our region?
In Nabataean Arabic, the change *at > ah must have operated quite early,
as the name of Aretas I (reigned 168bce) is mentioned in 2 Maccabees 5:8
(~124bce) as Αρετον, the accusative of Αρετας, which reflects an original
ḥāreṯah. Even on the official silver coins commissioned by Aretas III’s Dam-
122 On this sound change, see Huehnergard (2005: 167–168) and Huehnergard and Rubin (2011:
267–268).
123 See Macdonald (2004: 498).
158 al-jallad
ascus mint, the name is given as Αρετου, the genitive of Αρετας.124 Thus, we can
establish the second century bce as a terminus ante quem for the operation of
this sound change in the national dialect of the Nabataeans.
The earliest evidence for this change in the Graeco-Arabica comes from
the late 2nd century ce, see above (IGLS XXI/2 122). Most of the material in
transcription takes Greek inflectional endings, which are added to the full form
αθ, and only rarely to α. It may, then, be significant that the feminine ending is
consistently transcribed as α in forms which were not Hellenised. This would
suggest that the presence of the t is a symptom of the addition of the Greek
vocalic suffix. In other words, speakers interpreted the Greek endings along
the lines of other vocalic suffixes, such as the pronominal suffixes, and added
them to the construct form of the noun. Thus, this distribution suggests that
the sound change at > ah / _# operated generally in these dialects, at least in
nouns.125
On this basis, it would seem that this sound change constitutes an interesting
isogloss separating the Arabic dialects written by the nomads of the Ḥarrah
from the sedentary Arabic varieties transcribed in Greek in Ḥawrān proper, the
Edom Plateau, Petra, and the towns of the Negev.
IGLS XXI/2 122 Αμερα /ʿāmerah/ Madaba ‫עמרת‬/ʿmrt –

PAES III.a 80 Μοσεχα /moseykah/ S. Ḥawrān ms¹kt (S) –
PAES III.a 77 Οχεμα /ḥokeymah/ S. Ḥawrān ~ḥkm (S) –
PAES III.a 131 Αλασα /ḫalāṣah/ S. Ḥawrān ‫חלצת‬/ḫlṣt (S) –
PAES III.a 516 Ροδενα /rodeynah/ Boṣrā – –
P.Ness. III 25, 4 Ναμλα̣ /namlah/ Nessana – 569ce
P.Petr. II 17.2, Αλσιρα /al-ṣīrah/ Petra – 505–537ce
123
PTer 63 Οβοδα /ʿobodah/ Ghōr ‫עבדת‬/ʿbdt (H) 391 ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
124 This dates to 87–62bc and reads in full: ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΑΡΕΤΟΥ ΦΙΛΕΛΛΗΝΟΣ; see Meshorer
(1975).
125 There are no attestations of the 3fs suffix conjugation and so it is impossible to determine
if the sound change affected verbs as well.
5.3 Final Short Vowels and Case Inflection

The case endings in the Arabic of Nabataea were the subject of a close study by
Diem (1973), who concluded, based on the distribution of the endings ‫ ו‬and ‫י‬
on Arabic anthroponyms in Nabataean Aramaic inscriptions, that case had dis-
appeared by the first century bce.126 A single undated Arabic inscription from
ʿĒn ʿAvdat attests a functioning case system, but this may reflect a liturgical reg-
ister.127
Further evidence for the question of case is provided by the Graeco-Arabica.
Since Greek declensional endings were added to most nouns, it is difficult to
determine whether or not final short vowels were preserved on the basis of
transcription alone. However, there is no evidence for case inflection in the
transcribed Arabic phrases in the non-literary papyri from Petra and Nessana
(see §5.3.2). Most basileophoric names consist of a genitive compound and
exhibit an o-vowel on the first member of the phrase, i.e. Αβδο, Θαιμο, or
Ζαβδο, etc. This vowel is not likely epenthetic in nature as compound names of
other sorts do not exhibit this feature, for example: PTer 46 Ουμμαβιη /ʾumm-
ʾabī/ (Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī, 384ce); PAES III.a 48 Ουμαυατ /ʾumm-ġawwāṯ/ “mother
of Ġawwāṯ” (S. Ḥawrān), and see below §5.3.2. Thus, the most reasonable
interpretation of this vowel is as a survival of the nominative case ending
which was protected from apocope by its word-medial position. Its presence
can suggest one of two things about case: the first is to assume the Arabic
in which these names were formed generalised the nominative case on the
non-final member of genitive constructions, similar to the generalisation of
the accusative /a/ in Geʿez genitive compounds. Its presence, therefore, does
not necessitate the existence of a declensional system. On the other hand, the
o-vowel could equally reflect a living declensional system at the time these
names were coined. For the sake of neutrality, I will simply call these forms
“o-compounds.” Basileophoric names are especially helpful in the attempt to
locate a terminus post quem for the loss of this feature. Since basileophoric
names could not have been coined prior to the rule of the monarch’s name
on which they were based, we can establish the earliest possible date for the
use of o-compounds and, possibly, the latest absolute date for the survival
of case inflection. The basileophoric names attested in our corpora are as
follows:
126 See Blau (1977: 183) for an important counter-argument to Diem’s views.
127 Negev has dated this inscription, based on its archaeological context, to between 88 and
150 ce. For further discussion, see Mascitelli (2006: 121–128).
160 al-jallad
IGLS XIII 9406 Αβδοραββη- /ʿabdo-rabb- Boṣrā ‫עבדרבאל‬ –

λος ʾel/
PAES III.a 567 Αβδοοβδας /ʿabdo- Boṣrā ‫עבדעבדת‬ –
ʿobdah/
IGLS XXI/2 36 Αβδοοβδας /ʿabdo- Petra ‫עבדעבדת‬ –
ʿobdah/
GIN 10 Αβδομανχος /ʿabdo- Negev ‫עבדמנכו‬ 241ce
mank/
IGLS XV/2 149 Θαιμομαλε- /taymo- Lejā ‫תיממלך‬ –
χος mālek/
P.Ness III 21,5 Θεμοοβδ̣ου /teymo- Nessana ‫תימעבדת‬ 562ce
ʿobd[ah]/
PTer 21 Αβδοαρθα /ʿabdo- Ghōr ‫עבדחרתת‬ 361ce
ḥārṯah/ aṣ-Ṣāfī
Unfortunately, these names do not distinguish between the various Nabataean

monarchs with the same name. The attested basileophoric names could in
theory span the entire existence of the Nabataean kingdom, since Αβδοαρθας
could have been coined during or shortly following the rule of Nabataea’s first
king, Aretas I (169–121 bce), while Αβδοραββηλος could refer to Rabbel II Soter,
the final ruler of Nabataea before her fall to Rome. Based on this, we can
conclude that the o-compounds were operative as late as the mid-2nd century
bce. If Αβδοραββηλος refers to the last Nabataean monarch and reflects the
contemporary idiom, then these formations survived as late as the 2nd century
ce.
Supporting evidence for the existence of o-compounds this late comes from
a shift in the toponomy of the region around the same period. By the 2nd
century ce, toponyms based on genitive compounds begin to exhibit an o-
vowel on the first term, Βαιτο/Βετο and Βηρο. This phenomenon is unknown
from earlier periods (Elitzur 2004: 304). Both Jerome and the Madaba map
(second half of the 6th century ce) clearly indicate an awareness that such
forms were thought of as later pronunciations:
IGLS XXI/2 153–102: Βηρσαβεε ἡ νῦν Βηροσσαβα

Bersabee which is now Berossaba
Variants of Βηροσαβα, all exhibiting a medial o-vowel, are found in other

contemporary documents (Elitzur 2004: 100, n. 9). With regard to toponyms
containing the word bayt, the presence of the o-vowel also corresponds to the
irregular transcription of the word’s final t with τ, rather than the expected θ,
compare Βεθαβαρα to Βητοανναβα in the Madaba map (IGLS XXI/2 153). Elitzur
suggested very cautiously a connection with the rare biblical form ‫ ביתו‬or,
more likely in his view, that these forms are an imitation of Greek compounds
in which the first component bears an o-suffix.128 However, neither of these
explanations accounts for the rendition of *t with τ rather than θ. It seems that
one should not treat these forms separately from the Nabataean basileophoric
names discussed above. Given that the o-variants are later, it may be the case
that they reflect Arabic calques of earlier Canaanite place names. The rendition
of *t with τ could indicate that the sound was not spirantised in these forms,
in contrast to Hebrew and Aramaic.129 While probably true, this is an unhappy
explanation, as θ is used to represent Arabic /t/ in documents containing βετο
forms, P.Ness. III 79 (601–625ce) contains both Αλθουεθηλ /al-ṯoweytel/ (51)
and Βετομολαχο̣ν̣ (19). Another solution is to attribute the pronunciation to
sporadic pharyngealisation, of the sort that sometimes operates in the dialects
of this region today. For example, the demonstrative *hāḏā is realised in many
Palestinian and Jordanian varieties of Arabic, and elsewhere, as /hāḏ̣ ā/, with
the irregular emphaticisation of ḏ.130 A similar process could be at play here.131
It is difficult to determine when these calques were formed. According to
Elitzur, the earliest attestation of βετο is found in the Latin of Pliny’s Natural
History (V, 70), betholeptephenen. Interestingly, this form seems to exhibit
a spirantised/aspirated reflex of *t. Three o-compound forms are found in Euse-
bius’ Onomasticon (< 325ce), five in the Madaba Map (mid-late 6th century
ce), and a few other attestations scattered elsewhere.132 The form Βηροσαβα is
only known after the 4th century ce. However, this may simply indicate that it
128 The latter solution was suggested to him by Prof. Raanana Meridor (Elizur 2004: 340).
129 This would be consistent with Steiner (2007)’s discussion on the development of spiran-
tisation in the Aramaic and Hebrew of Palestine. He argues that the dentals and labials
underwent spirantisation before the velars.
130 See Fischer and Jastrow (1980: 189).
131 The same might explain the spellings of Edomite /t/ at Bostra in the names Κοσματανος
and Κουσνατανος (IGLS XIII/1 77). On the other hand, it may be the case that the reflex
of *t was unaspirated in Edomite and realised at Boṣrā with an Arabian pronunciation,
where unaspirated = emphatic. These names also indicate that o-compounding cannot
be attributed to an Edomite stratum.
132 See Elitzur (2004: 100) for a list and references.
162 al-jallad
took longer for the “new” pronunciation to eclipse the biblical form. Septuagint
spellings probably also played a role in preserving the original form in writing.
As Elitzur points out, there is no obvious geographic correlation between
the toponyms with the o-element. I would suggest that these reflect Arabisms,
and perhaps point towards a growing presence of Arabic in Judaea. This would
have been especially possible following the Jewish revolt of 135ce, where a large
part of the population was decimated and Jews no longer formed the majority
of the region’s inhabitants.133 It is unknown who repopulated the area, but if
such changes in the toponymy reflect linguistic changes, then it could be the
case that the new population came from Provincia Arabia. However, this route
is not necessary in all cases. The form Βηροσαβα could have originated during
the Nabataean occupation of the town, and then gained currency following the
Jewish revolt.
There are also a few theophoric names formed by o-compounding, but it is
impossible to determine when these names were coined.
Siglum Data Norm Prov Sem
IGLS XXI/2 183 Αβδοομανου /ʿabdo-ʿoman/ Ḏībān ‫עבדעמנו‬

PAES III.a 508 Θεμοδουσαρης /teymo-ḏū-śarey/ U. al-Jimāl ‫תימדושרא‬
PAES III.a 694 Ζαιδοκιμα̣[ς] /zaydo-qīmah/ Ḥawrān J&P ‫)?(זידקום‬
PAES III.a 723 Αβδοβαλου /ʿabdo-baʿl/ Ḥawrān J&P 134‫עבדאלבעלי‬
A single name, Θειμαδουσαρους = /teyma-ḏū-śarey/ (Eph II 333.20) attests an /a/

vowel in case position. Since this is the only instance known to me of this, it is
probably a mistake on the part of the scribe, who heard Old Arabic /o/ as [ɔ].
Interestingly, theophoric names based on the divine name Aλλας or Αλγα
never exhibit case endings. This distribution could suggest that the case vowel
was simply assimilated to the article αλ after it was no longer analyzable. The
notion that the αλ article appeared only after case endings were lost is dis-
133 I thank M.C.A. Macdonald for this excellent suggestion. On the Bar Kochba revolt, see
Eshel (2006).
134 The Nabataean inscriptions only attest a form of this name with the article, while such a
form is unknown in the Greek epigraphy. The form in transcription clearly reflects a variety
of Arabian often attested in the Ḥismaic script without the definite article. A parallel is
found in a Nabataean-Ḥismaic bilingual, where the Nabataean name ‫ עבדאלאיב‬is calqued
in Ḥismaic as ʿbdʾyb without the article (see Hayajneh 2009: 207).
proven by Nabataean spellings which contain a vestige of the genitive end-

ing, for example, ‫עבדאלבעלי‬, and, indeed, by the ʿĒn ʿAvdat inscription itself.
One could speculate that, unlike other theophoric and basileophoric names,
these names were subject to renewal as the article was always analysable.
Thus, their archaic pronunciation, still reflected in Nabataean orthography, was
sometimes replaced by a more contemporary idiom, and both show up in tran-
scription.135 This phenomenon is illustrated by the dual pronunciation, archaic
and contemporary, of the Nabataean theophoric name ‫עבדעמנו‬, as Αβδοομα-
νου /ʿabdo-ʿomān/ (IGLS XXI/2 183) at Ḏībān and Αβδομανου /ʿabd-ʿomān/ (IGLS
XXI/2 141) in the Ḥismā. Unfortunately, neither of these inscriptions is dated.
IGLS XIII 9266 Αβδουσαρης /ʿabd-ḏū-śarey/ Boṣrā ‫עבדדושרא‬

PAES III.a 56 Αβδαλγου /ʿabd-alg[ā]/ S. Ḥawrān ‫עבדאלגא‬
PAES III.a 67 Αυσαλλας /aws-allāh/ S. Ḥawrān ‫אושאלהי‬
PAES III.a 144 Αβδαλλας /ʿabd-allāh/ S. Ḥawrān ‫עבדאלהי‬
PAES III.a 504 Αυθαλλου /ġawṯ-allāh/ U. al-Jimāl ‫עותאלהי‬
PAES III.a 797.8 Αλαφαλλου /ḫalafall[āh]/ Lejā ‫חלפאלהי‬
P.Ness. III 16, 20 Σαδαλλου /saʿdall[āh]/ Nessana ‫שעדאלהי‬
A final issue to consider is the transcription of names containing a suffixed

pronoun. The name k-ʿm-h “like his grandfather”,136 which appears in Safaitic, is
attested with an -ος ending and there is no indication of a case vowel: Wad 2344
Χααμμος /ka-ʿamm-oh/ (Ḥawrān). If Littmann is correct in his interpretation of
{Β}εακκος (PAES III.a 74) as /be-ḥaqqoh/, then this counts as another instance
of the absence of case before pronominal suffixes. Neither of these inscriptions
is dated, and therefore do not inform our chronology of this feature.
The evidence we have surveyed is ambiguous and permits several different
interpretations. We can say with certainty that o-compounding was productive
135 Renewal is not an unexpected phenomenon, and renewed forms can co-exist with their
archaic antecedents. For example, the Lebanese terrorist organisation Hezbollah is some-
times called ḥizbullāh, according to Classical Arabic, ḥizbaḷḷāh, in Modern Standard Ara-
bic, and a renewed form according to the local dialect, ḥezebáḷḷa. All three can be heard
in Beirut today.
136 In the northern dialects, this word means “grandfather” and not “paternal uncle”; see
Cantineau (1978: 131).
164 al-jallad
as late as the 2nd century bce. This date can be pushed forward to the 2nd
century ce if we assume that the Arabised forms of Canaanite place names
originated in the period following the third Jewish revolt, but the occasional
attestation of such forms earlier also makes it possible that they are older and
simply gained traction following changes in demographics. Finally, compounds
containing the definite article on the second term never have an o-vowel
following the first term. This probably has to do with the fact that the article
was always analysable and speakers renewed these forms according to other
changes in the language. A phonological explanation is also possible. One could
assume that the onset of the article was lost intervocalically, producing the
contraction -oʾa- > a, */ʿabdo-ʾallāh/ > /ʿabdallāh/. Compound names from the
4th century do not exhibit the o-vowel, suggesting that the o-compounding was
lost by that period.
5.3.1 The Name Αβδαλμιθαβου and Αβδολμιθαβος at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī

A new compound name attested at Ghōr aṣ-Ṣāfī could suggest variation in case
with the definite article. The name is attested twice, once as Αβδαλμιθαβος (PTer
123, 424ce) and once as Αβδολμιθαβος (PTer 48, 385ce).137 The edition cau-
tiously suggests a connection with the Muslim name ʿabd al-muğīb (Meïmaris
and Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou 2005: 148), but I frankly cannot see any linguis-
tic justification for this. Instead, the second element probably transcribes an
underlying *mīṯab, a nomen instrumentalis of the root √wṯb, meaning “to sit”.
In this form, the word probably means “throne” and signifies the monarch or
deity through metonomy.138 The word mīṯab is attested in the Arabic dictionar-
ies, where it is said to mean “a sitter” in the dialect of Ḥimyar (Lane: 2920b). A
word for throne derived from this root in the Arabic dictionaries is wiṯāb, and
is also attributed to Ḥimyar (ibid.: 2920a).
In PTer 48, the vowel of the article is ο, perhaps indicating the elision
of the article’s onset and the assimilation of the vowel with the proceeding
nominative case vowel. With only one example, however, it is equally possible
that Arabic /a/ in this position was simply misheard as [o] by the scribe. At
first glance, the spelling of Beersheba in the Madaba Map as Βηροσσαβα eerily
resembles the modern Arabic pronunciation, with the assimilation of the coda
of the article to the following sibilant, and the contraction of the nominative
case vowel and the vowel of the article to o. While the name of the town
137 The Nabataean form of this name was found at Boṣrā, and is discussed in Nehmé 1998.
138 Mwtbʾ occurs as a divine name in Nabataean, apparently meaning “the throne” of Dusares
(Healey 2001: 158–159). I thank M.C.A. Macdonald for bringing this to my attention.
is spelled in very different ways in other documents,139 the Madaba Map is

the only one to register two sibilants. In this case, the simplest explanation is
dittography.
5.3.2 Case in the 6th Century

By the 6th century, there can be no doubt as to the loss of case inflection, at
least in Palaestina Tertia. This is indicated by the Arabic phrases transcribed in
Greek in the Petra Papyri and a single phrase found in P.Ness. III.
Petra Papyri:
P.Petr. III 23, 8 Μ̣αλ ε̣λ-Κουεσιρ = /māl el-qoweysir/

“Property of the Qaysarites”
P.Petr. III 31, 56 Αιν Μοελα = /ʿayn moweylah/
“Spring of Moweylah”
P.Petr. II 1, 90 Αραμ αλ-Ασαφιρ = /ārām al-ʿaṣāfīr/
“the land markers of the Usfurites”
P.Petr. II 1, 98 Μαθ Οσαινα = /māt ḥosaynah/
“the land of Hosaynah”
P.Petr. II 1, 140 Μαθ Λελα = /māt leylā/
“the land of Leylā”
P.Petr. II 1, 174 Μαλ Ορϲιατ = /māl Orsiat/
“the property of Orsiat”
P.Petr. II 1, 175 Μαλ Αμαρ Αλ Ϲαρουα = /māl ʿamar āl
“the property of ʿAmar, of the lineage of Sarwah/
āl Sarwah”
P.Petr. II 1, 177 Βερ [α]λ-Ασαφιρ = /be(ʾ)r al-ʿaṣāfīr/
“the well of the Usfurites”
P.Petr. II 1, 185 Μαθ αλ-Λουζα = /māt al-lūzā/
“the land of the almond tree”
P.Petr. II 2, 8 & 165 Αραμ αλ-Κουαβελ = /ārām al-qowābel/
“the boundary markers of the Qābelites”
P.Petr. II 2, 88–89 Αραμ αλ-Βηρ = /ārām al-be(ʾ)r/
“the boundary markers of the well”
139 In P.Ness. III, the town is spelled as Βηροσαβα, Βι[ρ]ο[σ]αβης, and Βεροσαβης.
166 al-jallad
(cont.)
P.Petr. II 2, 94–95 αλ-Βερα Μαλ Χαφφα[9]αρ = /al-berāḥ māl

“the tract of land belonging to/of Kaffa kaffa---------ar/
…”
P.Petr. II 2, 142–143 Χαφφαθ Μαθ Λελα = /kaffat māt leylā/
“the grain despository of the land of
Leylā”
P.Petr. II 2, 184–185 Χαφφαθ αλ-Αουαουερ = /kaffat al-ḥawāwer/
“the grain depository of the Hawarites”
P.Ness. III 89, 35 (576–625ce):
[ἀ]ν̣εκ[ομί]σαμεν ἀπὸ τιμῖς τοῦ καμαιλίου ωπερ ἔλαβα⟨ν⟩οἱ Σαρακενοὶ ὑοὶ

Ειαλωδεε̣ιδ Δ.
And we discounted the price of the camel which the Saracens, the sons of
Eialôdeeid, took, 4 (coins).
The name of the Saracen clan should probably be parsed as Ειαλ Ωδεειδ /ʿeyāl
ʿodeyyid/. The first term is the broken plural of *ʿāʾilah “family”, while the
second is probably a diminutive form of the root √ʿdd, probably ʿadīd. Names
belonging to this root are well-attested in Safaitic.
Another Arabic phrase, which also lacks case endings, was identified by
Littmann in his commentary on PAES III.a 48. The deceased female is identified
as Ουμαυατ, which Littmann parses as ʾumm-ʿawaḍ. However, in light of our dis-
cussion in §3.2, the second name should probably be understood as /ġawwāṯ/.
This finds a parallel in PAES III.a 493, where a certain Θαμαρ is identified as
μήτη(ρ) Ρασαουαθου, that is “mother of Raṣā́ wat”.
The absence of case endings is also encountered in compound names based
on “mother” found primarily in reflexes of the name /ʾumm-ʾabī/, probably
“grandmother”.140
140 On this form, see the commentary on PTer 34.

PAES III.a 95 Ομαβι ʾomm-ʾabī S. Ḥawrān – –

PTer 46 Ουμμαβιη ʾumm-ʾabī Ghōr – 384ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
PTer 242 Ουμμαβιη ʾumm-ʾabī Ghōr – 485 ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
5.4 Inflection of the Relative-Determinative Pronoun

The relative-determinate pronoun is attested in the name *ḏū-śaray and there
is no evidence for case declension, even in names which preserve the case
vowel in the antecedent form. This suggests that the relative-determinative
pronoun was frozen as ḏū in these forms.
IGLS XIII 9266 Αβδουσαρης141 /ʿabd-dū-śarey/ Boṣrā ‫עבדדושרא‬

Eph II 333.20 Θειμαδουσαρους /teyma-ḏū-śar[ey]/ Ḥawrān ‫תימדושרא‬
PAES III.a 508 Θεμοδουσαρης /teymo-ḏū-śarey/ U. al-Jimāl ‫תימדושרא‬
5.5 The Definite Article

There is no unambiguous evidence for the assimilation of the coda of the αλ
article to coronals.142 The status of the onset, whether beginning simply with
the vowel /a/ or the syllable /ʾa/, is more difficult to ascertain. That the defi-
nite article contained an original glottal stop, and not simply a prothetic vowel,
is clear from a Safaitic-Nabataean bilingual in which the Safaitic transcribes
the Nabataean name ‫ אמתאלעזא‬as ʾmtʾlʿz. Had the author simply chosen to
141 The fact that the name ʿabd-ḏū-śaray never occurs with a case vowel while the name
taymo-ḏū-śaray does simply suggests that the former was coined at a later date, following
the loss of case inflection.
142 The non-assimilating article was termed the “northern Old Arabic isogloss” by Macdonald
(2000: 51). Arguments against this which appeal to orthographic conventions or etymolog-
ical spellings are unconvincing. The coda of the article in this region remains unassimi-
lated in Greek transcription, and across Nabataean, Safaitic, and Ḥismaic scripts. A unified
spelling convention across all of these media and scripts seems incredibly unlikely.
168 al-jallad
calque Nabataean orthography, we would expect a final ʾ in the Safaitic as

well. Its absence confirms that a genuine glottal stop was present in the arti-
cle.143 At the same time, variation in the spelling of names containing the
article in Nabataean suggests that the consonantal onset was eventually lost.
Alongside archaic spellings which attest the shape ‫אל‬, innovative phonetic
spellings attest the article simply as ‫ל‬: ‫ עבדאלבעלי‬vs ‫עבדלבעלי‬. The same vari-
ation is also found in the Ḥismaic script: tmlḥwr vs ʿbdʾlʾḥwr (see King 1990:
§8, A). The Greek-Safaitic bilingual already mentioned (WH 1860 = Greek
2) indicates that the onset of the divine name Αλλας /allāh/ did not con-
tain a glottal stop in its spoken form: Ουαβαλλας = whblh. In the majority of
cases, it is impossible to say whether the article began with a glottal stop or a
vowel.
IGLS XIII/2 9519 Αλουλαιφ /al-ḫulaif/ Boṣrā – –

IGLS XXI/4 126 Αλολαιου /al-ʿolay/ P. Edom – –
PAES III.a 56 Αβδαλγου /ʿabd al-g[ā]/ S. Ḥawrān ‫עבדאלגא‬ –
PAES III.a 275 Αλαβδος /al-ʿabd/ U. al-Jimāl – 208ce
P.Ness. III 21,6 Αλολκαιου /al-ʿolqay/ Nessana – 562ce
P.Ness. III 79, 51 Αλθουεθηλ /al-ṯoweytel/ Nessana – 600–625ce
P.Petr. II 17.1, 186 Αλσαραμ /al-ṣaram/ Petra – 505–537ce
P.Petr. II 17.2, Αλσιρα /al-ṣīrah/ Petra – 505–537ce
122
P.Petr. II 17.1, 91 Αλσουφλη /al-suflē/ Petra – 505–537ce
P.Petr. II 17.2, Αλσουλλαμ /al-sullam/ Petra – 505–537ce
103
PTer 164 Aλολεφαθη /al-Holeyfat-/ Ghōr – 440 ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
5.5.1 The ελ Article

The article is frequently attested in P.Petr. II 17, which is dated between 505 ce
and 537 ce, but was probably produced before 520 ce. In this document, the
article has a single, invariable form, αλ, which agrees with its realization else-
where in the region. However, by 544ce the article is attested mostly as ελ in
143 On this text, see Macdonald (2009a: 348).

other documents, although αλ sometimes occurs. Based on this evidence, it

would seem that the 6th century witnessed the raising of /a/ to /e/ in the article
at Petra. This process is perhaps related to other pretonic raising phenomena
(see Al-Jallad et al. 2013: 25–26). Despite this change, the coda remained unas-
similated.144
P.Petr. III 23, 8 ε̣λκουεσιρ /el-qowesīr/ Petra – 544ce145

P.Petr. III 23, 8 ελθα[ι]ς /el-tays/ Petra – 544ce
P.Petr. III 30, 48 ελδαργ̣αθ̣ /el-dargāt/ Petra – 579–
580ce146
5.5.2 The Elision of the Onset

The onset and vowel of the article are not elided in any of the documents
published in volumes I–IV of the Petra Papyri (see above § 5.3.2), even following
vowels: Χαφφιαλογομ /kaffī al-ʿogom/ (P.Petr. II 17.1, 180). Inventory 98 of the
Petra Papyri, which is currently in preparation and will appear in volume V,
attests at least two toponyms which begin with a simple λ, suggesting that the
vowel had been elided almost completely, as in many contemporary dialects of
Arabic. One example cited in volume II is λασελει, which we have interpreted
as l-ʿaselī ‘honey-coloured’. This document is undated, but probably rather late.
Outside of the Petra Papyri, the only possible attestation of the elision of the
onset vowel of the article occurs in the name Αβδολμιθαβος /ʿabd-ol-mīṯab/
(PTer 048) and has already been discussed.
144 Inventory 98, which is currently in preparation and will appear in volume V of the
Petra Papyri, attests at least two toponyms which begin with a simple λ, suggesting
that the vowel had been elided almost completely, as in many contemporary dialects
of Arabic. One example cited in volume II is λασελει, which we have interpreted as l-
ʿaselī.
145 The edition did not provide an explanation of this toponym, but it seems to me to a plural
of /qayṣar/. We would expect a plural of a social group in this position, so probably the
qaysarites.
146 On the etymology of this term, see § 4.2.6.
170 al-jallad
5.5.3 The α Article

An article lacking the coda is attested in one ambiguous case at Nessana:
P.Ness. III 21, 35 Αβιαθα̣λ̣βα /(abi a-)ṯaʿālbah/ < * ṯaʿālibah Nessana 562ce
It is impossible to tell if this name should be normalised as */ʾabī ʾaṯ-ṯaʿālbah/,

*/ʾabī ʾa-ṯaʿālbah/, or even */ʾabī ha-ṯaʿālbah/.147
The h- or ʾ- article, both of which are attested in the Safaitic inscriptions, is
found once in the Greek inscription148 accompanying KRS 2420, which reads:
(11) ΑΝΑΜΟΣ ΣΑΔΟΥ ΤΟΥ ΘΑΙΜΑΛΛΟΥ ΑΜΜΑΣΙΧΗΝΟΣ
If this renders ʾnʿm bn sʿd bn tmlh h/ʾ-ms¹ky “ʾAnʿam son of Saʿd son of Taymallāh
the Ham-Masīkite”,149 then this confirms that the h/ʾ article triggered gemina-
tion of the following consonant. Considering the corpus as a whole, it is rather
surprising to find such little evidence for the use of the article h-. This suggests
that the dialect which stands behind the Old Arabic material in transcription
possessed an ʾal article rather than ha-. At Petra, where the article occurs in
non-onomastic contexts, this was most certainly the case, but the evidence
elsewhere is open to debate.
5.6 Diminutives
The diminutive pattern CuCayC(at) is abundantly attested, and there are two
attestations of the pattern CuCayyiC.
147 Another ambiguous attestation of the ʾa- or ha- article is found at Ḥimṣ, IGLS V 2321
Αβδασαμσος (Jalabert et al. 1959), probably vocalised as /ʿabd ha-śams/.
148 This text was originally published in Atallah and al-Jibour (1997), who did not take notice
of its most interesting linguistic aspect, the transcription of the article.
149 The name hms¹k, which is just the common name ms¹k with the h article, is attested some
eighty-six times in the Safaitic inscriptions, e.g. C 157, C 1560, C 1668, etc.
CuCayC(a)(t)
IGLS XIII 9260 Φοσεαθη /foṣeyyat-/ Boṣrā ~‫פצי‬ –

IGLS XXI/2 183 Ολε[φ]αθης /ḥoleyfat-/ Ḏībān ~‫חליפו‬ –
IGLS XXI/4 135 Χοθαιβος /kotayb/ Ḥismā – –
PAES III.a 80 Μοσεχα /moseykah/ S. Ḥawrān ms¹kt (S) –
PAES III.a 445 Γομεμου /gomeym/ U. al-Jimāl gmm (S) –
PAES III.a 681 Οβαιδος /ʿobayd/ Ḥawrān ‫עבידו‬/ʿbd (S) –
J&P
PAES III.a 781 Σοραιχος /śorayk/ Lejā s²rk (S) –
P.Petr. II 17 2, Γοναιναθ /gonaynāt/ Petra – 505–537ce
160–161
P.Ness. III 16, 3 Zοναινος /ẓ́onayn/ Nessana ẓnn (S) 512 ce
CuCayyiC
P.Petr. II 17 2, 105 Αλοραιεμ /al-ḫorayyem/ Petra 505–520ce

P.Ness. III 89, 35 Ωδεειδ /ʿodeyyid/ Nessana 576–625ce
5.7 The Pattern ʾafʿal and the Elative

The elative patterns *ʾafʿal and *fuʿlay are attested and both yield expected
forms.
ʾafʿal
IGLS XXI/2 118 Αβγαρ /ʾabgar/ Madaba ‫אבגר‬/ʾbgr (S) 108–109 ce

PAES III.a 199 Ασλαμου /ʾaslam/ S. Ḥawrān ʾs¹lm (S) –
PAES III.a 391 Ασουαδα /ʾaswad/ U. al-Jimāl ʾs¹wd (S) –
PAES III.a 801 Αρουαδος /ʾarwad/ Lejā ʾrwd (S) –
P.Ness. III 3, 24 Αλαγραδ /al-ʾagrad/ Nessana – 569ce
P.Petr. II 17 1, 50 Αχβαρ /ʾakbar/ Petra – 505–537ce
172 al-jallad
fuʿlay
P.Petr. II 17 1, 91 Αλσουφλη /al-sufley/ Petra – 505–537ce

PTer 133 Οσνης /ḥosney/ Ghōr ḥs¹n 430ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
The attestation of the elative of the geminate root, √wdd, indicates that at least
some varieties formed these in a similar way to the modern dialects of Arabic,
rather than the metathesised form found in Classical Arabic.
PAES III.a 71 Αυδαδου /ʾawdad/ S. Ḥawrān ʾwdd (S) –
5.8 Broken Plurals

Broken plurals are a rare find in our corpora of onomastica, but several are
found in the toponomy of the Petra Papyri and P.Ness. III furnishes a single
example.
*CiCāC
P.Petr. II 17 2, 28 Εβαδ /ʿebād/ Petra 505–520

P.Ness. III 89, 35 Ειαλ /ʿeyāl/ Nessana 576–625
*ʾaCCāC
P.Petr. II 17 l,90 Αραμ /ārām/ Petra 505–537

*CaCāCiC
P.Petr. II 17, 185 Γαϲαγες /gaṣāgeṣ/ Petra 505–537

P.Petr. II 17, 84–85 Αουαουερ /ḥawāwer/ Petra 505–537
*CaCāCīC > CaCaCīC (?)
P.Petr. II 17 1, 177 Ασαφιρ /ʿaṣafīr/ Petra 505–537ce

P.Petr. III 23, 8 Κουεσιρ /qowesīr/ Petra 6th cent. ce
The penultimate vowel of this form could have been reduced in Petra. The
spelling Κουεσιρ suggests as much, as short /a/ is raised in pretonic unstressed
environments while there is no evidence for the raising of /ā/. The presence of
the emphatic ṣ in Ασαφιρ /ʿaṣafīr/ perhaps blocked this change.
*CuCuC
P.Petr. II 17 1, 180 Ογομ /ʾogom/ Petra 505–537ce
*-āt
P.Petr. II 17 2, Γοναιναθ /gonaynāt/ Petra 505–537ce

160–161
P.Petr. II 17l, 173 Αλαγιαθ /al-ḥag(i)yāt/ Petra 505–537ce
5.9 Participle
G-stem
The active participle is abundantly attested in our material and has the ex-
pected forms, masculine singular CāCeC and feminine singular CāCeCa(t).
174 al-jallad
G-active
IGLS XIII 9084 Ανεμου /ġānem/ Boṣrā ġnm (S) –

PAES III.a 796 Μαλεχαθη /mālekat-/ Lejā ‫מלכת‬/mlkt (S) –
P.Ness. III 24, 6 Δαρεβου /dāreb/150 Nessana drb (S) 569ce
P.Petr. II 17 2, Αλεβους /ġāleb/ Petra ġlb (S) 505–537 ce
194–195
PTer 1 Αμηρος /ʿāmer/ Ghōr ʿmr (S) 309 ce
aṣ-Ṣāfī
G-active, II-weak
PAES III.a 183 Ουαελαθη /wāʾelat-/ S. Ḥawrān ‫ואלת‬/wʾlt (S) –

PAES III.a 276 Ουαελος /wāʾel/ U. al-Jimāl ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) –
PAES III.a 302 Καεμας /qāʾem/ U. al-Jimāl ‫קאם‬/qʾm –
PAES III.a 748 Ουαελος /wāʾel/ Ḥawrān ‫ואלו‬/wʾl (S) –
J&P
G-active, geminate
IGLS XIII 9392 Βανενη /bānen/ Boṣrā bnn (S) –

PAES III.a 778151 Τανενου /ṯạ̄ nen/ Sīʿ ‫טננו‬/ẓnn (S) –
150 The edition interpreted this as ḍārib- “striker”, but, as I have argued above, etymological *ṣ́
was rendered with Greek ζ at Nessana. Instead, I would rather connect this term to Arabic
dārib, which signifies an eagle accustomed to chase (Lane: 876a). The same root is attested
in Safaitic onomastica (see Harding 1971: s.v.).
151 Also no. 779 and 790.
G-active, III-y
PAES III.a 366 Αδιος /ʿādī/ U. al-Jimāl ‫עדיו‬/ʿd (S) –

PAES III.a 741 Βανι /bānī/ Ḥawrān ‫בניו‬ –
S&P
G-passive patterns: CaCīC, CaCūC, and MaCCūC
CaCīC
PAES III.a 283 Γαδιμαθος /gadīmat-/ U. al-Jimāl ‫גדימת‬/gdmt –

(S)
PAES III.a 733 Ουασιμαθου /wasīmat-/ Ḥawrān ws¹mt (S) –
J&P
PAES III.a 801.5 Μ[α]λιχα- /malīkat-/ Lejā ‫מליכת‬/mlkt (S) –
θος
CaCūC
PTer 17 Αβουβαθη /ḥabūbat/ Ghōr ḥbbt 358ce

aṣ-Ṣāfī
PTer 294 Aλουφαθη /halūfat-/ Ghōr ḫlf (S)? –
aṣ-Ṣāfī
MaCCūC
PAES III.a 514 Μακσου- /maqṣūrat-/ U. al-Jimāl – –

ραθη
P.Petr. II 17 1, 152 Μεφωρ /meḥfōr/ Petra – 505–537ce
176 al-jallad
5.9.1 Participles of the Derived Stems
D-stem
IGLS XIII 9003 Μοαινος /moʿayyin/ Boṣrā ‫מעינו‬/mʿyn (S) –

IGLS XIII 9110 Μοαιερος /moġayyer/ Boṣrā mġyr (S) –
PAES III.a 664 Μοζαιεδηνοι /mozayyed/ Ḥawrān – 214 ce
J&P
PAES III.a 734 Μογεαιρου /moġayyir/ Ḥawrān ‫מעירו‬/mġyr 386ce
J&P
C-stem
Eph II 330.76 Μουγδεου /mugdeʿ/ Namara – –

IGLS XIII/1 Μοσβεος /mosbeḥ/ – mṣbḥ (S) –
p. 362
IGLS XIII/1 9226 Μολεμος /moḥlem/ Boṣrā ‫מחלמו‬/mḥlm –
(S)
PAES III.a 661 Μονιμος /monʿim/ Ḥawrān ‫מנעמו‬/mnʿm 178ce
J&P (S)
II-w
PAES III.a 129 Μοιθος /moġīṯ/ S. Ḥawrān mġṯ (S) –

PAES III.a 642 Μοκιμος /moqīm/ Ḥawrān ‫מקימו‬/mqm –
J&P (S)
III-y
Wad 2153 Μονιος /moġnī/ S. Ḥawrān mġny (S) –

L-stem
PTer 251.4 Μοσαλεμος /mosālem/ Ghōr ‫משלמו‬/ms¹lm –

aṣ-Ṣāfī (S)
5.10 The Gentilic Adjective

The so-called nisba ending is given in the masculine with ι and in the feminine
with ια, Αλασβι ̣ /al-ʿaṣbī/ (P.Ness. III 28, Fr2, 572ce) and Αλμασια /al-Maʿṣiyyah/
in P.Petr. II.152 P.Petr. IV 49, 16 attests Αλσαρκια /al-śarqiyyah/.153
5.11 Verbal Inflection

There are several names which seem to be derived from prefix-conjugation
verbal forms, but their linguistic origins are debatable. It is perhaps significant
that the sound change *a > e in the preformative prefix does not seem to have
operated in many of these, perhaps ruling out an Aramaic origin.
3ms
PAES.a 162 Ιασλεμος /yaslem/ S. Ḥawrān ys¹lm (S) –

PAES III.a 19 Ιαλοδος /yaḫlod/ S. Ḥawrān yḫld (S) –
PAES III.a 494 Ιαμαρος /yaʿmar/ U. al-Jimāl ‫יעמרו‬/yʿmr (S) –
152 Al-Masia was the name of a slave mentioned in P.Petr. II 17. Al-Ghul (2006) interpreted
her name as a nisba adjective of the word diamond, almāz, but this seems highly unlikely.
Instead, we have proposed in the edition that the name should be explained as a nisba
adjective of the social group mʿṣ, attested several times in the Safaitic inscriptions; the
slave was then known simply as the Mʿṣ-ite (Koenen et al. 2013: 114).
153 I thank my friend Robert Daniel for looking this form up for me, as volume 4 was not
available in Leiden at the time.
178 al-jallad
3fs
PAES III.a 107 Θαμαρη /taʿmar/ S. Ḥawrān ‫תעמר‬/tʿmr (S) –

PAES III.a 142 Θοαυει /toʿāwī/ S. Ḥawrān – –
PAES III.a 495 Θοκιμη /toqīm/ U. al-Jimāl – –
Barth-Ginsberg’s law,154 where the vowel of the preformative prefix is /a/ when
the theme vowel of the verb is /i/ or /u/ and /e/ when the theme vowel is /a/
may be observed in the name Ιεφλαανου /yeflaḥ-ān/ (PAES III.a 382).155 The fact
that the preformative vowel remains /a/ in Ιαμαρος may suggest that this rule
was blocked when the first root consonant was a guttural.
Rarely, the preformative vowel /e/ is encountered in situations where /a/
is expected, e.g. Ιεκουμος (IGLS XIII 9414, Boṣrā). These forms are attested
significantly less frequently than their /a/ counterparts; therefore, any remarks
on the grammatical implications would be speculative at best. It is tempting to
view these as the beginning of a levelling process which would generalise the i-
class preformative prefixes for all categories of prefix conjugated verbs. On the
other hand, we may simply be dealing with Aramaic forms of these names.
5.12 Prepositions and Suffixed Pronouns

The prepositions Χα /ka/ and Βε /be/ are attested in our corpora:
PAES III.a 74 {Β}εακκος /be- S. Ḥawrān – –

ḥaqq[oh]/
Wad 2344 Χααμμος /ka-ʿamm- Ḥawrān kʿmh (S) –
[oh]/
154 Huehnergard and Rubin (2011: 271) consider the Barth-Ginsberg law to be a Proto-Central
Semitic innovation, while Akkadian probably preserved the Proto-Semitic situation.
155 On the afformative -ān, see Lipinski (1997: 221ff.). In this case, it is probably a diminutive
or hypocoristic suffix.
If the second declension nominative ending is indicative of a name ending

in a o-vowel or o-vowel+largyngeal, then it would seem that the 3rd masculine
singular clitic pronoun was realised as /oh/.
The 1cs pronoun is attested in the name Ουμμαβιη, which indicates that our
dialects maintained the form /ʾabī/, for “my father”, in contrast to many of the
modern dialects of this region, which have /ʾabūya/ and /ʾabūy/.
5.13 Wawation
The Nabataean termination ‫ ו‬is clearly reflected in two undeclined names
and perhaps a single declined name. In theory, this ending could be present
much more widely, yet hidden by the Greek masculine singular nominative
ending ος, which is the default ending for foreign onomastica in our region.
The undeclined forms confirm that wawation was not simply an orthographic
device, but was indeed realised vocalically.
IGLS XIII 9027 Αουαθω /ġawwāṯo/ Boṣrā ‫עותו‬ –

IGLS XIII 9301 Σιθρο /sitro/ Boṣrā ‫שתרו‬ –
PAES III.a 461 Αττρο156 /ʾaṭro/ U. al-Jimāl ‫אטרו‬ –
Sigla
AMJ Inscriptions in W. Jobling’s reports on the ʿAqaba-Maʿān survey.

AWS Safaitic inscriptions in Alolow (1996).
C Safaitic inscriptions published in Corpus Inscriptionum Semitica-
rum. Pars V. Inscriptiones Saracenicas continens, Tomus 1. Inscrip-
tiones Safaiticae (1950–1951). Paris.
CIS Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum.
HCH Safaitic inscriptions in Harding (1953).
JSTham Taymanitic, Ḥismaic, and Thamudic B, C, and D inscriptions in
Jaussen, A. and R. Savignac (1909–1922). Mission archéologique en
156 The spelling of this name with two τ’s is probably dittography. It is unlikely that the scribe
wanted to express “emphasis” by writing the letter twice.
180 al-jallad
Arabie, 5 vol., Paris (Publications de la Société Française des Fouilles

Archéologiques 2).
KhNSJ Safaitic inscriptions published in al-Khraysheh, F.H. (1995). “New
Safaitic Inscriptions from Jordan”. Syria 72: 401–414.
KJB Ḥismaic inscriptions from Wādī Judayyid Site B recorded by G.M.H.
King and published in King (1990).
KJC Ḥismaic inscriptions from Wādī Judayyid Site C recorded by G.M.H.
King and published in King (1990).
KRS Safaitic inscriptions recorded by G.M.H. King on the Basalt Desert
Rescue Survey and published on the Online Corpus of the Inscrip-
tions of Ancient North Arabia.
Lane Lane, E.W. (1863–1893), An Arabic-English Lexicon. Derived from the
Best and Most Copious Eastern Sources, 8 volumes. London.
SIJ Safaitic inscriptions published in Winnett, F.V. (1957). Safaitic In-
scriptions from Jordan, Toronto (Near and Middle East Series 2).
TIJ Hismaic inscriptions published in Harding, G.L. and E. Littmann
(1952). Some Thamudic Inscriptions from the Hashemite Kingdom of
Jordan, Leiden.
WA Inscriptions in Winnett, F.V. (1959). “Thamudic Inscriptions from the
Negev”. ʿAtiqot 2: 146–149, pl. 22.
WH Safaitic and Greek inscriptions in Winnett, F.V. and G.L. Harding
(1978). Inscriptions from Fifty Safaitic Cairns, Toronto (Near and Mid-
dle East Series 9).
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> ʿ) and Greek Translations (2Esdras and Judith)”. Journal of Biblical Literature 124
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Classical Arabic in Context
∵
chapter 6
Traces of South Arabian Causative-Reflexive Verbal

Stem in Arabic Lexicon?
Daniele Mascitelli
1 Introduction
There exists an obvious semantic relationship between some Classical Arabic

quadriliteral roots which have šīn or sīn as first radical and their twin triliteral
roots. This paper is a preliminary survey on these roots in order to explore
the possible linguistic phenomena that underlie this correspondence. The
working hypothesis is that some of these quadriradical roots may derivate from
triradical ones, by adding a s- (or š-) element, to produce a new root. This
process may have worked in Arabic in two ways: 1) denominative derivation,
when we deal with possible loanwords;1 2) verbal derivation, supposing that a
s- (or š-) verbal prefix was active and productive in some ancient stage of the
Arabic language, or in some of the ancient dialects which contributed to the
formation of Classical Arabic.
First, I have compiled a comprehensive list—given here in the appendix—
of quadriliteral Arabic roots beginning with šīn (list 1) and sīn (list 2) recorded
in Lisān al-ʿArab by Ibn Manẓūr (d.1311/711h)2 which have a twin triliteral root.
In these lists the corresponding triliteral roots of both Ancient South Ara-
bian (ASA) and Modern South Arabian (MSA) languages, if existing, have
been added for comparison. The choice to compare these Classical Arabic
roots with the same roots in ASA and MSA languages is suggested by the
following: a) at least since the 2nd century ad Arabic speakers are attested
in South Arabia, in those areas where ASA languages were consistently writ-
ten. It is also reasonable to assume that ancestors of MSA languages speak-
ers used to live in the same general area. This long term geographic contigu-
ity could have given rise to foci of language contact; b) many of both ASA
1 This type of process is not uncommon in Arabic throughout is long history, for example: ʿSKR,
from Persian laškar, that gives the verb ʿaskara and the substantive muʿaskar, until recent
TLFZ, from (French?) television, that gives the substantive tilfaz.
2 This choice of Lisān is partly casual, partly due to the need of putting a limit to this sur-
vey.

190 mascitelli
and MSA languages have a productive s1- prefix verbal stem (though with
different phonological realizations).3
As is known, in Classical Arabic the so-called causative stem of the verb (IV
stem) is characterized by prefix morpheme ʾa- and sukūn (zero-vowel) on the
first radical, while in Ancient South Arabian languages the very same stem is
characterized by the prefix s1- (all ASA languages except Sabaic which has h-). In
MSA, we find a causative-reflexive stem with a š-4 prefix morpheme, eventually
with different syllabic patterns šeCCùC (mainly with a passive meaning) and
šeCèCeC (reflexive, reciprocal),5 that is opposite to a causative h- stem in Mehri
and ʾ- in Jibbali.
This situation is the result of supposed morphological and phonetic evo-
lutions inside the different language families. A phonetic passage s > h > ʾ is
commonly reconstructed for Arabic morphemes, as well as a passage s1 > h in
Sabaic.6 In MSA languages these verbal morphemes coexist, each one with its
own specialization, though it is hazardous to draw conclusions from this, at the
moment.
Traces of s- (and also h-) verbal prefix have already been recognized in
some Arabic roots, either as a morphological productive element or possibly
in loans.7 By introducing the concept of zawāʾid or ḥurūf zāʾida (ziyāda) in
reconstructing the root of a word, Arab grammarians recognized the possi-
bility that a consonant in a quadriliteral root may be an “extension” of a tri-
3 A similar comparison with repertoires of other languages, such as Ethiopian or Akkadian,

may lead to relevant results as well, but at the moment such languages are not taken into
account.
4 In this paper, transcription of MSA languages is simplified and adapted to Arabic transcrip-
tion system, even though the real pronunciation of phonemes is quite different. For example:
instead of marking the long and short vowels, I just noted the accented ones; I used q for ḳ, š
for s᷉/ç, and so on.
5 See Johnstone ML p. XXXVII, LIX, and Johnstone JL p. XXI, XXV.
6 Such type of diachronic reconstructions presume an evolutionary scheme that takes Proto-
Semitic as starting point from which different languages moved in one or more direction
and then differentiated between themselves. Being the drawing of that scheme still dis-
puted, I prefer not to discuss this topic. Here I prefer to avoid the issue and just juxtapose
data.
7 The recent literature I found on this subject—for example A. Măcelaru in EALL, s.v. “Causa-
tive”; Lipiński (1997: 389), stating that this prefix is not productive in Arabic; Fleisch (1979:
vol. II, pp. 280–282) always quotes examples taken from Brockelmann 1908 (vol. I, p. 522) and
Mez (1906: 250–251). Note that all the examples given only concern roots beginning with sīn,
and are mainly focused on three consonantal roots resultant from two consonantal ones (e.g.
sabaqa, sakana, saḥaṭa, etc.).
traces of south arabian causative-reflexive verbal stem 191
radical one. The lexicographers often remark that on the nature of the fourth
consonant as a sort of extension, especially the second or the fourth radical
consonant, particularly raʾ, nūn, mīm, ʿayn, lām, and so on, but they never con-
sidered the possibility that a sīn or šīn in first position may be a zāʾida—nor,
of course, that it may come out from a derivative verbal stem of a cognate lan-
guage.
2 Methodology
Before examining the data, I will make a few remarks on the methodology and
sources for the compilation s/š-quadriliteral roots with triliteral twins.
– for Classical Arabic, beside the Lisān al-ʿArab, I used also the Tāǧ al-ʿarūs by
al-Zabīdī (d. 1790/1205h), as well as other more recent dictionaries, but the
pairs of roots selected in the lists are only the ones found in Lisān; several
other quadriliteral roots with a good semantic relationship with their three-
consonantal twin (e.g.: ŠRDQ, SLQY) have been excluded because they are
not recorded in Lisān al-ʿArab;
– for Ancient South Arabian: the Sabaic Dictionary by Beeston–Ghul–Müller–
Ryckmans, Copeland Biella’s Dictionary of Old South Arabian, Ricks’s Lexicon
of Epigraphic Qatabanian, and the Corpus of South Arabian Inscription
(CSAI) of DASI database for all the four languages (Hadramitic, Minaic,
Qatabanian, Sabaic);8
– for Modern South Arabian languages I used the Johnstone’s lexica for Mehri,
Jibbali, Harsusi, and Leslau’s Lexique for Soqotri, this last based mainly on
the texts collected by the Südarabische Expedition of the Wien Kaiserliche
Akademie der Wissenschaften.
From these two lists, I have excluded the following:
– roots which are the result of doubling a two-consonantal unit (e.g. šaršar);
– roots that are expressly said to come out of loanwords from other non-
Semitic languages (mainly from Persian);
– roots recorded only for personal names, such as Šanbal or Šanfara, which
may yet betray a South Arabian origin.
8 See http://dasi.humnet.unipi.it/index.php?id=42&prjId=1&corId=0&colId=0 (last checked

on January 25th 2014); though considering that CSAI is partially still a work in progress.
192 mascitelli
On the other hand roots without a visible semantic relation with their
three-consonantal twin, where the quadriliteralone may have originated from
different insertions or extensions, have been included, though marked with an
asterisk. There is indeed a good amount of roots in these lists where the second
or fourth consonant is lām or rāʾ or nūn, and this, in my view, points to the
possibility that these ones are true quadriliteral roots.
Based on this collection, the following observations are offered:
1. The first challenge in identifying correspondences is phonological. The cor-

respondence between Arabic and phonetic systems of the South Arabian lan-
guages is not always as clear cut as one might wish, in particular when we deal
with MSA languages. This means that, especially when dealing with loanwords,
Arabic may have taken over a given word based on its pronunciation rather
than its etymological source, and from multiple sources as well. This is appar-
ent when a word has two or more variants. Alternations of s/š and also ṣ are
common, as well as ẓ/ḍ, ʿ/ġ/h, q/ǧ, l/r/n, b/m and so on.9 In some cases a pair
with both š- and s- are attested. On the other hand some word listed in Ara-
bic repertoires are expressly defined as dialectal words (luġa), and these too
are presumed to suffer possibly phonetic shifts as well, since several alterna-
tion (s/š, ḍ/š and so on) have been recorded by Arab philologist as affecting
sibilants.
The question is complicated by the different values of voiceless sibilants
in these languages. Epigraphic South Arabian languages have three signs for
unemphatic voiceless sibilants (s1, s2, s3): different hypotheses—which cannot
be discussed in detail here10—have been proposed about their realization. It is
likely that one of them was a lateral (ś), yet in late antiquity, when only Sabaic
survived as a written language, the merger of s3 and s1 gradually occurs. Though
this feature happens at the very same time Arabic speakers increased their pres-
ence in South Arabian society, we cannot conclude definitively if this is the
result of Arabic influence. Classical Arabic has only two non-emphatic voice-
less sibilants (realized s and š at least since 8th century ad), and etymological
correspondences show that Arabic sīn covers ASA s1 and s3, and šīn corresponds
to ASA s2. Since the actual pronunciation of the ASA sibilants is unclear, we may
permit some variation in the phonological correspondences between ASA and
Arabic in loans.
9 See for example List 1 n°8, 41 and 43 ŠBRQ/ŠMRǦ/ŠMRQ; list 2 n°41 SLQM/SLǦM/SLʿM,
and 46 SMʿǦ/SMLǦ; list 1 n°28 and list 2 n° 25 and 41 ŠLǦM/SLǦM/SLĠM.
10 On this question see for example Beeston (1977); Marrassini (1978); Churchyard (1993);
Macdonald (2000); Mascitelli (2006: 198–211).
On the other hand in MSA languages the situation is the following: etymo-
logical s1 is realized š (or s̃), s2 is ś, s3 is[s], but significant variation in the
correspondences are attested.11
2. The given lists are distinct in roots beginning with šīn or sīn.
The first ones have much more probability to be (influenced by) loans from
South Arabian, but only if we suppose that MSA realization of etymological s1
(today closer to Arabic š) was effective in earlier times. If this is the case, the
second ones may represent an internal development of Arabic. But we must be
careful about this assumption, considering the unclear picture we have about
the phonetic realization of the sibilants in the ancient languages. Moreover, in
several cases, the lexicographers actually report both variants of the same root,
disputing on which one is correct.
In addition to this, we have quadriradical roots with a twin triradical that
is only attested in Arabic, rather than only in a South Arabian language. This
distribution may suggest that the word is a native Arabic one, in turn implying
that a verbal s- stem was actually effective in Arabic, possibly in an old stage of
its evolution or in some old forms of non-Classical Arabic.12
3. Even when a root is attested in both s-quadriliteral and triliteral roots, a

semantic connection that links them is not always apparent. This may be the
result of the different genres preserved in the epigraphic material and the Ara-
bic tradition. The Arab lexicographers usually rely on poetry, even ancient
poetry, as well as religious literature. On the opposite side, the available texts of
Ancient South Arabian languages are exclusively epigraphic ones and, though
being quite diverse in terms of genre, they cover only a narrow range of seman-
tic fields. For Modern South Arabian languages too, the lexical repertoires
we have at our disposal are the fruit of fieldwork among nomadic or semi-
nomadic communities, whose lexical richness is someway limited to the hori-
zons of their minority enclaves—as well as being under significant Arabic influ-
ence.
The poetic quality of the terms recorded by Arabian lexicographers is rather
evident in these lists. Sometimes we have the impression that even the lex-
icographers themselves did not really know the exact meaning of the word,
and this is the very case of the ġarāʾib (“strange words” used by poets) in
11 For example: for number 7 (etymologically beginning with s1) we find š in Jibbali, s in
Harsusi, h in Mehri (but š for 70!).
12 Evidence of a s- verbal prefix is of course inside the X stem (istafʿala), also attested in
Sabaic.
194 mascitelli
poetry. It is surprising, for example, as many words ascribed to these four-

consonantal roots are said to mean “tall” or “big” as a generic adjective for
humans or animals. This may point out to some adjectives found in poetry
whose meaning was not clear, or maybe it was interpreted just in a generic way,
so that we miss the actual meaning that eventually would link it to its triliteral
pair.
The significant chronological and contextual space between our corpora
allows for significant semantic developments to have occurred, and these will
be posulated when need to link some quadriliteral roots and their triliteral
twins.
3 Discussion of Key Entries
ŠNTQ (List 1, n° 56)

The word šuntuqa or šantuqa, as it is said in Lisān al-ʿArab, designates a piece of
cloth used by women to secure their veil on their heads. Tāǧ al-ʿarūs specifies
that it is like a net made of cotton. The word is supposed to derive from Persian,
like šandaq (but the reference is probably to the word-scheme). From the twin
triliteral root NTQ we have the verb nataqa, meaning “to shake, to stir, to beat”.
This is its meaning in the Qurʾān (sūra al-aʿrāf, VII 171) where God lifts Mount
Sinai and throws it. Other words come from this root, but nothing that could
be strictly related to the function of šantuqa.13
But in Mehri and Jibbali the same root NTQ takes more specific meaning.
The verb netòq means either “to greet” (with hand-shaking), but also “to spread”
a sheet or a cloth. Two š- verbal stem are given: šeniteq (“to greet each other”),
and šentéq (“to be spread out”). This latter meaning is related to the substantive
netqet or netéq which is a length of cloth or fabric.14
It is therefore possible that the term šuntuqa entered in Arabic with its very
specific use recorded by lexicographers, as a technical word (a network cloth
that women wear on their head), as a borrowing from a more generic meaning
“a [spread out] piece of cloth”, which is found in MSA.
13 For example: antaqa means “to marry a woman with many children”; nātiq is one of the
names of the month Ramaḍān.
14 Johnstone (ML) reports that this word in Mehri is used in poetry.
ŠʿNB (List 1 n° 3)
The meaning of the verb šaʿnaba from which a participle/adjective mušaʿnib
is derived, is reported to be related with the horns of ram (kabš) or ibex
(tays): it means “twisted, curly, tortuous, tortile” (multawī). Some says it refers
specifically to “a horn that is straight and curved at the end”. A twin triliteral root
ʿNB cannot be found in Modern South Arabian lexica we have, but of course this
may be a coincidence, as MSA speakers usually do not grow vines. The term is
found in Sabaic (and widespread in many Semitic languages) with a similar
meaning to Arabic ʿinab, that is “grapes”, and also “vine”. It is not difficult to
relate tendrils and vine-shoots (which are a common ornamental motives in
ancient iconography) to the horns of ram and ibex, these last also common
decorative figure in ancient South Arabia. I propose that the original meaning
of šaʿnaba should be something like “to be (or become) tendril-shaped”.15
ŠŠQL (List 1 n° 77)

The verb šašqala is quoted by Ibn Manẓūr as being a technical term of “Ḥim-
yarite origin in use among the money-changers of Iraq”; it means “to weigh or
measure dinars one by one”. In Classical Arabic, under the twin triliteral root
ŠQL, the very technical word šāqūl is recorded, that is the name of a pointed
stick used by farmers in Basra to measure land or to fix land-borders.16 Beside
this, the verb šaqala, meaning “to weigh” (specifically dīnārs), is obviously a
loanword because of its technical use and since it is not a productive root.
Actually the corresponding Arabic (and South Arabian) root is ṮQL—as is
also shown by the corresponding Aramaic root TQL. This meaning, however,
is not found in the South Arabian languages, but in Hebrew, where the mean-
ing of “weigh” is (secondarily) related to currency. If this is the case, šašqala
would represent a technical term, possibly from a Yemeni-Jewish dialect which
combine a Hebrew word with a South Arabian derivative verbal stem. It only
survived in the slang of Iraqi money-changers in Islamic times. Another expla-
nation would point to Akkadian substratum in Iraqi region, but this hypothesis
should find a plausible vehicle language that brought this word into medieval
Arabic—a language that Arab lexicographers considered to be related to Ḥim-
yarite.
15 Tāǧ reports a variant with ġayn (mušaġnib).

16 This may be too a loan from South Arabian: a term ṯqwl is found in Qatabanic inscription
RES 3856, probably meaning a kind of “land enclosure”.
196 mascitelli
ŠRFĠ (List 1 n° 70)

Ibn Manẓur says šurfuġ is a Yemeni word designating a “small frog”. Many
names for animals, especially insects or reptiles, are quadriliteral, just like the
generic term for frog (ḍafdaʿ). But the qualification of the word as “Yemeni”
points to a possible derivation from a causative-reflexive verbal stem from
a twin triliteral root RFĠ. No semantic relation with the twin triliteral root
RFĠ in Arabic can be identified, which covers the meaning of any “part of
the body in which dirt may concentrate”. We do, however, find in Mehri and
Jibbali the verbs ratfeġ and rotfeġ (from the root RFĠ) with the meaning of
“bump, trip, stumble over”, and also šerfàġ “to be tripped” and šèrèfeġ “to go
on kicking someone”. It can be assumed that these are later developments
from a wider semantic field “to jump” covered by this root in South Arabian,
or even in a Yemenite South Arabian dialect that is not attested. If this root
was simply related to the meaning of “jump”, an s1-verbal stem (s1rfġ), and its
derivative adjective, meaning “jumpy”, may be connected to frogs, possibly as
an epithet.
SLḤF (List 2 n° 34)

This case is similar to the one above: sulaḥfā and silaḥfā are the common
names for “turtle” (the female one). Compare these with the Arabic root LḤF,
which covers the meaning of “to cover”, “to wrap”, “to mantle”, we find the
word liḥāf, “mantle, coat, blanket”, and the verb laḥafa, with the corresponding
reflexive forms talaḥḥafa or iltaḥafa (V and VIII stems). It is possible that a
derivative verbal stem with s- prefix (salḥafa) with a reflexive meaning (“to
mantle oneself” in something) would be appropriated for turtles. If we are led
to think that the shell of the turtle is its “home”, it is not hard to imagine that
some may have considered it its mantle, with which the animal wraps itself to
take shelter. Looking at the corresponding Modern South Arabian root, we find
evidence for semantic shift. While in Harsusi the basic verb leḥòf is recorded by
Johnstone as to mean “to come up”, in Jibbali and Mehri the verb laḥàf means to
“snuggle up”, and this too is something that can be easily said about turtles; and
beside the derivative verb šelḥéf meaning “to cover something”, just like Arabic
laḥafa, it is also recorded the verb šelèḥef : “to keep creeping up to something or
near something”, and this too may be referred to the slow motion of turtles.17
Note that the MSA common word for turtle is totally different: ḥoms (male) and
ḥemesét (female).
17 Note that this second syllable pattern in MSA is strikingly close to the Arabic scheme of
the word sulaḥfā.
What is remarkable in this case is that we find in Arabic a s-prefix, instead

of š- as one would aspect in a loan. It may be assumed that it is not a loan,
but a more ancient word from a stage (or dialect) in which a s- prefix verbal
stem was still productive, that survived in Arabic. The other possibility is that
in the language from which Arabic took the loan the s1-prefix of this word was
pronounced in some way closer to a sīn than to a šīn in the ear of an Arabic
speaker.
SRǦḤ (List 2 n° 78)

This root occurs in repertories only quoting the expression: hum ʿalā surǧūḥatin
wāḥidatin (“they are on one or the same surǧūḥa”) meaning “they have simi-
lar or equivalent constitution” (istawat aḫlāqu-hum). To grasp the real sense
of the word surǧūḥa, the related root RǦḤ must be taken into consideration,
whose semantic sphere is related to the balance. The verb raǧaḥa denotes,
for example, the leaning of the balance, so it means “to weigh more, to be
more important”, but also “to weigh (in the hand)”; then we have the sub-
stantive raǧāḥa “balance, equilibrium, calmness”, and ruǧǧāḥa “swing or see-
saw”, also marǧūḥa, but also the synonymous urǧūḥa “swing” or “see-saw”; this
last is sometimes recorded in a quadriradical root ʾRǦḤ, from which the verb
taʾarǧaḥa “to swing” is derived.
Similar meanings are found in MSA languages, where a verb šergaḥ, meaning
“to swing”, is recorded in Jibbali together with šerègaḥ “to keep on swinging”,
while in Mehri we find hergeḥ “to dip, to go down”, said probably of the pan of
a balance, since the basic verbal stem means “to outweigh”.
Thus a surǧūḥa may be understood as a pan of balance, and “being on one
surǧūḥa” would mean that actually the weight of what is in one plate is equal
to what is in the other. The substantive in this case could come out from a verb
sarǧaḥa with a reflexive value (similar to the VIII stem irtaǧaḥa “to swing”)
meaning something like “to swing until reaching an equilibrium”, said of a
balance pan, which may be so designated as a surǧūḥa.
The other possibility is that surǧūḥa is merely a dialectal variant of urǧūḥa,
denoting the game, and the expression quoted in Lisān would means “they play
the same game”.
ŠRMḤ (List 1 n° 73)

The adjective šarmaḥ refers to a tall man (opposite to short); the feminine too
can refer to a tall slim and long-legged woman. The twin triliteral root RMḤ
gives rumḥ, that is the “spear” or “javelin”—the Arab weapon par excellence—
and the connected verb ramaḥa, “to throw”. The same root is found in Sabaic
and in Mehri (designating both spears and arrows), while in Jibbali the verb
198 mascitelli
rī[m]ḥ takes a slightly different meaning, “to kick”, with the reflexive stem
šermaḥ (actually passive in this case) meaning “to be kicked”, where the weapon
changes, but not the offensive semantic of the root. Assuming that the adjective
šarmaḥ derivates from a š-prefix verbal stem, its meaning can be either “as
tall and slim as a spear”, or perhaps “thrown up toward heights” and thus
“tall”.18
ŠMRḪ (List 1 n° 42)

Interpretation of this root may seem a bit contorted. The two words šimrāḫ
and šumrūḫ ascribed to this root, indeed, designate a ʿiṯkāl, that is a cluster or
bunch, or better a ʿidq, that is what Ibn Manẓūr says to be for the date palm
the same of the grape for the vine. But in the cluster called šimrāh the dates
are not ripened. No relation is to be found with the twin triliteral root MRḪ
either in Classical Arabic or in South Arabian, whose main meaning is “to oil”
or “to grease”, being murūḫ an “ointment”. But in Tāǧ al-ʿarūs the word murḫa is
recorded as a dialectal variant of rumḫa or rimḫa (with metathesis), in its turn
a luġā of Ṭayyiʾ tribe for the more common busra. This last thing is nothing but
a date cluster of a palm-tree that does not come to ripen.
Actually, it is not recorded to which tribe or dialect the variant murḫa (for
rumḫa) is to be ascribed, but the suspect is that it would be a dialect in which
a š- prefix was productive, giving a verb *šarmaḫa whose meaning was “not to
ripen” referred to a dates cluster, and then, with metathesis, the unique words
šimrāḫ and šumrūḫ.
SḤBL (List 2 n° 18)

The adjective saḥbal means “big” referred to the belly. It can be applied to
women (as in a verse by Himyān quoted by Ibn Manẓūr) as well as to men and
animals (just like in other anonymous verses); extensively it can be related to a
wādī, a bucket, etc. In South Arabian, just like in Arabic, the root ḤBL has a com-
pletely different semantic value: it is related to the idea of “binding” and “bond-
ing”, so we have Arabic ḥabl “rope” and ḥabala “to bind”. In Sabaic the same verb
means “to sign a pact” or “to make an alliance”, but the substantive also desig-
nates “a course of stones or bricks” in a wall (which are stuck together). In MSA
languages we find the word ḥòbel which in Harsusi means “hobble” for animals
(and then the verb ḥobel “to jump”, just like an animal with hobbled legs does),
18 A semantic parallelism is for example with Italian and French, where the adjective slan-
ciato and élancé (= “slender”) and the verbs lanciare and lancer (= “to throw”) come from
the same Latin word lancea (= “spear”).
while in Mehri it designates a “leather thong”, and in Soqotri a “leather rope”

used to climb on palm-trees; both Arabic ḥabl sirrī and Harsusi ḥebelèt desig-
nate also the umbilical cord.
Only in Classical Arabic we find the intransitive verb ḥabila meaning “to
become pregnant”, obviously referred to a woman. The hypothesis is that from
this verb a sort of reflexive verbal stem with the s- prefix could give the meaning
of “to have a big/full belly” because of pregnancy, and from this would derive
an adjective saḥbal literally “pot-bellied” that survived in poetry, not restricted
only to pregnant women.
SLḤB (List 2 n° 33)

The verb of this root is a derivative stem from the quadriliteral root: islaḥabba.
Ibn Manẓūr reports firstly the participle muslaḥibb meaning “straight” espe-
cially referred to a route; al-Zabīdī adds “flatten, plain, clear, extended”, always
referred to a route. No twin root is attested in South Arabian, but in Classical
Arabic the words laḥb and lāḥib means explicitly “clear route”, and the verb
laḥaba means “to open a path or a route”, beside “to leave a trace” (for exam-
ple as consequence of a spank, a scratch, etc.). Until a related root LḤB will be
attested in some South Arabian or else, this case too must be considered an
internal Arabic development from a productive s- prefix, in this case with an
active causative value.
ŠĠBR (List 1 n° 17)

This is a very speculative case: šaġbar is a name of the jackal (ibn āwā) and is
disputed whether the right word is šaġbar or šaġbaz; but the verb tašaġbara
is referred to a wind whirling or getting entangled (iltawat) when it blows. A
possible link with the twin triliteral root ĠBR is in the words ġabara and ġubār,
that is “dust” or “dust cloud”, since it is easy to figure that a whirling wind,
eventually a tornado, can lift up a dusty and sandy cloud. This explanation
would fit except for the prefix š- instead of s- which would point to a South
Arabian origin of this word. In fact the corresponding root ĠBR in South
Arabian has completely different meanings: attestations in Sabaic are rare and
not clear, while in MSA languages the main meaning is “to meet and greet”,
and “to give help to someone [with money or else]”, and the reflexive verb
šeġbor (in Mehri and Harsusi) and šġebér (in Jibbali) gives the meaning of
“to receive help”; the adjective ġeberèr “dusty brown”, “grey” found in Harsusi
is possibly an arabism from the word ġebàr “dust”. Nevertheless Johnstone
recorded in Jibbali also Ġebreʾ and Ġebrét as the names of an earth jinn (male
or female) who can take possession of the body of humans. One may speculate
that such jinns appeared as a dusty tornado coming out from earth to ravish
200 mascitelli
human bodies and minds. This image could be the link not only between the
Arabic verb tašaġbara and the Jibbali jinn name, but also with the epithet of
the jackal, since this animal is commonly connected with jinns in folklore.
4 Conclusion
In conclusion, it is noteworthy that lexicographers explicitly defined several of

these four-consonantal words as “Yemeni” or “Ḥimyari” luġāt. Whatever they
meant with such definitions, it is probably something they related to non-
purely Arabic dialects connected with the southern area of the Peninsula,
maybe in some way cognate with some form of Ancient or Modern South Ara-
bian. The first is indeed a clear geographical reference that points to Southern
Arabia, while the second is a tribal nisba whose exact meaning is someway
less precise. Although only a fraction of this tribe spread all over Arab world
during the first centuries of Islam, agreement is found among Arab scholars
about its Yemenite origin. Yet many of these scholars were aware of a sep-
arate Ḥimyarite dialect—considered non-Arabic—spoken in Yemen even in
medieval times. For example in al-Hamdānī (d. 945/334h) description of lin-
guistic Yemen we find not only reference to Ḥimyarite, but also to some “bar-
barous tongue”, like that of Mahra tribe (i.e. possibly the ancestors of modern
Mehri speakers) and that spoken in upper Maʿafir region (Southern Yemen).19
These definitions thus would point to a foreigner, or southern, character of
these words.
Beside the examples here analyzed, at least 30 % of the entries of both
lists (23 out of 78 in List 1; 28 out of 90 in List 2) find a suitable semantic
relationship between the two roots of the couple. And this, in my opinion,
suggests the possible existence of a s-prefix verbal stem in Arabic. In order to
state whether it is due to a foreign (South Arabian or else) interference or just an
archaic reminiscence survived in some ancient or medieval dialects, it would
be necessary to trace the origin, history and evolution of these Arabic words,
that is to say, to find them in clear textual context.
19 Ṣifa, pp. 134–135. The same al-Hamdānī, when tried to read ASA inscriptions, usually called
their language “ḥimyarite”, just like many others used to do.
References
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Louvain-la-Neuve—Beyrouth.
Brockelmann, C. (1908). Grundriss der vergleichenden Gramatik der Semitischen Spra-
chen. Berlin.
Churchyard, H. (1993). “Early Arabic siin and šiin in Light of the Proto-Semitic Fricative-
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Chicago.
EALL: Versteegh, Kees, ed. (2005–2009). Encyclopaedia of Arabic Language and Linguis-
tics. Leiden.
Fleisch, H. (1979). Traité de morphologie arabe. Beyrouth.
Lisān: Ibn Manẓūr. Lisān al-ʿArab. Bayrūt 1955–1956.
Johnstone HL: Johnstone, T.M. (1977). Harsusi Lexicon. Oxford.
Johnstone JL: Johnstone, T.M. (1981). Jibbali Lexicon. Oxford—New York.
Johnstone ML: Johnstone, T.M. (1987). Mehri Lexicon. London.
Leslau LS: Leslau W. (1938). Lexique Soqotri. Paris.
Macdonald, M.C.A. (2000). “Reflections on the linguistic map of pre-Islamic Arabia”.
Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 11: 28–79.
Marrassini, P. (1978). “Considerazioni sulle sibilanti semitiche: il caso della śin”. Egitto e
Vicino Oriente 1: 161–177.
Mascitelli, D. (2006). L’arabo in epoca preislamica—Formazione di una lingua. Roma.
Mez, A. (1906). “Über einege sekundäre Verba im Arabische”. In: Orientalischen Studien
Theodor Nöldeke, vol. 1. Gieszen, pp. 249–254.
Lipiński, E. (1997). Semitic Languages—Outline of a Comparative Grammar. Leuven.
Ricks, S.D. (1982). A Lexicon of Epigraphic Qatabanian. Ph.D. dissertation presented to
the Faculty of the Graduate Theological Union. Berkeley, CA.
Ṣifa: al-Hamdānī. Ṣifat ǧazirat al-ʿArab, ed. D.H. Müller. Leyden 1882.
Tāǧ: al-Zabīdī. Tāǧ al-ʿarūs min ǧawāhir al-qāmūs. al-Qahira 1888/1306h.
202 mascitelli
Appendix
table 6.1 Quadriliteral roots beginning with šīn
Quadriliteral root Twin or related triliteral root
Arabic South Arabian
1* ŠʿBD ʿBD ʿBD

šuʿbad, mušaʿbūd
2* ŠʿFR and ŠĠFR ʿFR ʿFR
ĠFR ĠFR
3 ŠʿNB ʿNB ʿNB (Sab.)
šaʿnab
4* ŠʿṢB ʿṢB ʿṢB
5* ŠBRḎ see ŠMRḎ / /
6* ŠBDʿ BDʿ BDʿ (Meh. Jib.)
šibdiʿ
7* ŠBRM BRM /
šubrum
8* ŠBRQ and ŠRBQ BRQ BRQ
see ŠMRQ and ŠMRǦ
9* ŠBRS BRS /
šibris
10* ŠBZQ BZQ BZQ (Meh.)
BṢQ
BZĠ
11 ŠFLḤ FLḤ FLḤ (Meh. Jib.)
šafallaḥ
12* ŠFLQ FLQ FLQ
šafallaqa
13* ŠFṢL FṢL FṢL (Meh. Jib.)
see ŠWṢL
14 ŠFTN FTN FTN
šaftana
15* ŠFTR FTR FTR (Meh. Jib.)
šaftara,
ištafarra
šaftara, mụštafir
16* ŠǦʿM ǦʿM /
17 ŠĠBR and ŠĠBZ ĠBR ĠBR

šaġbar
tašaġbara
18 ŠĠBZ / ĠZB (Meh.)
see ŠĠBR
19 ŠĠNB ĠNB /
see ŠʿNB
20* ŠHBR HBR /
šahbara, šahbar
21* ŠHDR HDR HDR
see ŠHḎR
22 ŠHḎR HḎR HḎR (Jib.)
šihḏāra
23 ŠHRB HRB HRB
šahrab
24* ŠHRZ HRZ /
25* ŠḤŠR ḤŠR ḤŠR
26* ŠḪDB ḪDB /
šuḫdub
27* ŠḪRB ḪRB ḪRB (Meh. Jib.)
šuḫārib
28* ŠLǦM LǦM LGM (Meh. Jib.)
šalǧam
see also SLǦM and SLĠM
in List 2
29* ŠLḪB LḪB /
30 ŠLḪF and ŠLĠF LḪF /
šillaḫf
šillaġf
see also SLḪF and SLʿF in
(List 2, 36 and 24)
31 ŠMʿD and ŠMʿṬ MʿD MʿD
išmaʿadda MĠD MʿṮ (Jib.) (?)
išmaʿaṭṭa MʿṬ
see also ŠMĠD MĠṬ
204 mascitelli
table 6.1 Quadriliteral roots beginning with šīn (cont.)
32* ŠMʿL see SMĠL (List 2, 49) / /

33 ŠMʿṬ see ŠMʿD MʿṬ /
MĠṬ
34* ŠMḎR MḎR /
see also ŠMRḎ
35 ŠMHD MHD /
šamhada
šamhad
see also SMHD (List 2, 48)
36 ŠMḤṬ MḤṬ /
šamḥāṭ, šamḥūṭ MʿṬ
see also ŠMʿD and ŠMʿṬ MĠṬ
37* ŠMḪR MḪR MḪR (Sab.)
šummaḫr
mušmaḫirr
38 ŠMLQ and ŠLMQ MLQ MLQ (Jib.)
šamlaq LMQ
39 ŠMRḎ see ŠBRḎ
40* ŠMRḌ MRḌ MRḌ
šamirḍ̣ aḍ
41 ŠMRǦ MRǦ /
šamraǧa
šamrūǧ
see also ŠMRQ
42 ŠMRḪ MRḪ /
šimrāḫ, šmrūḫ RMḪ
šamraḫa
43 ŠMRQ see ŠBRQ MRQ MRQ
44* ŠMŠL ṂŠL /
45* ŠMṢR MṢR MṢR
46* ŠMṬL MṬL /
47* ŠNʿB see ŠNḪB NʿB NʿB (Sab.)
48* ŠNʿF NʿF NʿF (Jib. Soq.)

šinʿāf
see also ŠNḪB
49* ŠNDF NDF NDF (Sab. Meh.)
šunduf
50* ŠNDḪ NDḪ NDḪ (Meh. Jib.)
51* ŠNḎR NḎR NḎR
šanḏar, šinḏār
šanḏara
52* ŠNḤṬ see ŠMḤṬ and ŠMʿṬ NḤṬ /
53 ŠNḪB and ŠNʿB and ŠNĠB NḪB /
šunḫuba, šinḫāb
šunūb
šunġub
see also ŠNẒB
54* ŠNĠB see ŠNḪB NĠB
55 ŠNQF NQF NQF
šunquf, šinqāf
56 ŠNTQ NTQ NTQ (Jib. Meh.)
šuntuqa
57* ŠNTR NTR /
58* ŠNZB NZB NZB (Meh.)
59* ŠNZR NZR /
šanzara
60 ŠNẒB NḌB NṬB (?) (Har.)
šunẓub
61* ŠQDʿ QDʿ /
62* ŠRʿB RʿB RʿB (Jib. Meh.)
see also SRʿB (List 2, 70)
63* ŠRǦʿ RǦʿ RGʿ (Meh. Jib.)
64* ŠRʿF RʿF RʿF (Jib. Meh.)
see also SRʿF (List 2, 71)
65* ŠRBQ see ŠBRQ RBQ RBQ
66* ŠRBṮ RBṮ RBṮ (Meh. Jib.)
206 mascitelli
table 6.1 Quadriliteral roots beginning with šīn (cont.)
67 ŠRDḤ and ŠRDḪ RDḤ /

širdaḥ, širdāḫ RDḪ
68* ŠRḎL RḎL RḎL (Meh. Jib.)
69 ŠRḎM and SRDM RḎM RḎM (Meh.)
širḏima RDM RDM (Jib.)
70 ŠRFĠ RFĠ RFĠ
71* ŠRḤF RḤF /
šarḥāf
72* ŠRǦB RǦB RGB
73 ŠRMḤ RMḤ RMḤ
šarmaḥ, šarmaḥi
74 ŠRNF RNF /
širnāf
75* ŠRNQ RNQ /
76* ŠRSF RSF /
77 ŠŠQL ŠQL /
šạšqala
78 ŠṢLB ṢLB ṢLB (Jib. Meh.)
šaṣlab
table 6.2 Quadriliteral roots beginning with sīn
1 SʿBQ ʿBQ /
sanaʿbuq NBQ /
2 SʿBR ʿBR ʿBR
saʿbar
3 SʿRM ʿRM ʿRM (Soq.)
4* SBʿR BʿR BʿR
5* SBĠL BĠL BĠL
6* SBHL BHL BHL

7* SBḤL BḤL /
8* SBKR BKR BKR
9* SBRǦ BRǦ BRG (Sab.)
10 SBRD BRD BRD
sabrada
11 SBRT BRT /
subrūt
12* SBTL BTL BTL
subtul
13 SBṬR BṬR BṬR
sabaṭra
sabṭarī
14* SFSQ FSQ /
15 SĠBL see SRBL / /
16* SǦHR ǦHR GHR (Jib. Meh.)
suǧahirr; isǧaharra
17* SHBL HBL HBL
sahbal
18 SḤBL ḤBL ḤBL
saḥbal
19* SḤFR ḤFR ḤFR
20* SḤǦL ḤǦL ḤGL
21* SḤTN ḤTN /
22* SḤṬR ḤṬR ḤṬR (Meh.)
23* SḪBR ḪBR ḪBR (Jib. Meh.)
24 SLʿF see ŠLḪF (List 1, 30) LʿF /
25 SLʿM see SLQM LʿM LʿM (Soq.)
26* SLʿN LʿN LʿN
27 SLǦM see SLQM LǦM LGM
28 SLĠD LĠD /
sillaġd
29 SLĠF LĠF /
salġafa
see also ŠLḪF (List 1, 30)
208 mascitelli
table 6.2 Quadriliteral roots beginning with sīn (cont.)
30 SLĠM see SLQM LĠM LĠM (Jib.)

31* SLHǦ LHǦ LHG (Sab.)
32 SLHM LHM LHM (Jib. Soq.)
islahamma
mushalimm
33 SLḤB LḤB /
muslaḥibb
34 SLḤF LḤF LḤF (Jib.)
sulaḥfā
35* SLḤT LḤT /
sulḥūt
36 SLḪF LḪF /
sillaḫf (also šillaḫf, sillaʿf ) LʿF
see also ŠLḪF (List 1, 30)
37* SLḪM LḪM LḪM
see also SLǦM and SLṬM
38 SLMḪ MLḪ MLḪ (Jib.)
samāliḫī
39* SLQʿ LQʿ /
40 SLMQ see ŠMLQ (List 1,
38)
41 SLQM LQM LQM (Meh. Jib.)
salqam (also salǧam, LǦM LGM (Meh. Jib.)
silʿām) LʿM LĠM (Meh.Jib)
silqima (also abu silʿām) LʿM (Soq)
42* SLTM LTM /
43* SLṬḤ LṬḤ /
44* SLṬM see SRṬM LṬM LṬM (Meh. Jib. Har.)
45* SMʾL MʾL /
46 SMʿǦ and SMLǦ MʿǦ /
samʿaǧ MLǦ
samlaǧ MHǦ
47* SMDʿ MDʿ /
48* SMHD MHD /
49 SMĠD MĠD
ismaġadda
see also ŠMʿD (List 1, 31)
50* SMĠL MĠL MĠL (Jib.)
51 SMHR MHR MHR
samharī
52* SMḤǦ MḤǦ /
53 SMḤQ MḤQ MḤQ
simḥāq MḤǦ
(?)
54 SMLQ see ŠMLQ (List 1, 38) MLQ MLQ
LMQ
55* SMRT MRT MRT
surmūt
56 SNBK NBK /
sunbuk
57* SNBT NBT NBT
58* SNDʾ NDʾ NDʾ (Sab.)
59 SNDB NDB NDB (Sab.)
sindāb
60* SNDL NDL /
61* SNDR NDR NDR (Meh. Jib. Soq.)
62* SNḤF and SNḪF NḤF NḤF (Meh. Jib.)
NḪF
63 SNMR NMR NMR (Sab. Qat.)
sinimmār
64 SNTʾ NTʾ /
musantaʾ
65* SNTB NTB NTB (Jib.)
66* SNṬB NṬB NṬB
67* SNṬḤ NṬḤ /
68* SNṬL NṬL NṬL
69* SQʿB QʿB QʾB (Meh.)
70 SQLB QLB
saqlaba
210 mascitelli
table 6.2 Quadriliteral roots beginning with sīn (cont.)
71 SRʿB RʿB RʿB (Jib. Meh.)

surʿub
72 SRʿF and SRHF RʿF RHF (Jib.)
sarʿafa, sarhafa RHF RʿF (Meh.)
surʿūf
surʿufa
73* SRBǦ RBǦ /
sarbaǧ
74 SRBḪ RBḪ /
sarbaḫ
75 SRBL RBL /
sarbala
sirbāl
76 SRDḤ RDḤ /
sirdāḥa
sardaḥ, sirdāḥ
77* SRHB and SLHB RHB LHB
LHB
78 SRǦḤ RǦḤ RGḤ (Meh. Jib.)
surǧūḥa
79* SRǦN RǦN /
see also SRQN
80* SRHD RHD /
musarhad
sarhad
81 SRHF see SRʿF RHF RHF
82 SRḤB RḤB RḤB
surḥūb
83* SRMD RMD RMD (Soq.)
84* SRND RND RND (Sab. Qat.)
85 SRNF see ŠRNF (List 1, 74)
86* SRQʿ RQʿ RQʿ (Meh. Jib)
serquʿ
87* SRQN RQN /

sirqīn
88* SRṬʿ RṬʿ /
89* SRṬL RṬL RṬL (Soq.)
90 SRṬM and SLṬM RṬM /
sarṭam
chapter 7
Arabic allaḏī / illi as Subordinators: An Alternative

Perspective*
Lutz Edzard
1 Introduction
It is, of course, a truism that phenomena in Arabic often can be better explained
in a wider Semitic or even Afroasiatic perspective, or, to quote the title of the
workshop for which this paper was written: “in context”. Previously, I have tried
to underline this point in an introductory chapter to the volume Semitic and
Afroasiatic. Challenges and Opportunities (Edzard 2012a), part of which also
found its way into a contribution to the Festschrift for Andrzej Zaborski (Edzard
2012b).
A number of scholars in the 20th and early 21st century, notably Anton Spi-
taler (1962), Manfred Woidich (1980 and 1989), Gideon Goldenberg (1994), and
Werner Diem (2007), have raised the issue that the Classical Arabic relativizer
allaḏī or the dialectal Arabic relativizer illi can function as subordinating par-
ticles in the sense of “that”/“for that” or even “because”, mainly in positive or
negative emotional context. Woidich (1989) plausibly also includes zayy illi ‘as
if’ in this context. The phenomenon itself had already caught the attention of
scholars like Carlo Comte de Landberg (1920–1942) and Meïr Bravmann (1953),
among others. The locus classicus for the phenomenon in question in Classical
Arabic is the following example (1):
(1) Example of subordinating allaḏī in Classical Arabic
َ ّ ‫ط م ِ َن ّا دِْره َمٌ فعَ َ َو‬

‫ضن َا ٱلل ّٰه ُدِين َار ًا‬ َ ‫ٱْلحم َ ْد ُ ل ِل ّٰه ِ ٱل ّذ ِى‬
َ َ ‫سق‬
al-ḥamdu li-llāhi llaḏī saqaṭa min-nā dirhamun fa-ʿawwaḍa-nā llāhu

dināran
* For pertinent comments after the oral presentation of this paper I am indebted to John
Huehergard, Naʿama Pat-El, Jérôme Lentin, and Bruno Herin. Responsibility for the content
remains with the author alone.

arabic allaḏī / illi as subordinators: an alternative perspective 213
‘Praise be to God for that we lost a dirham and God compensated us with
a dinar.’ (Brünnow and Fischer 2008: 20f.; Spitaler 1962: 97)
Already this example clearly demonstrates that it is inappropriate to interpret

allaḏī as a “relative pronoun”, especially as we are looking at a change of sub-
ject (see also below). If at all, allaḏī or its (rare) Biblical Hebrew morphological
equivalent hallå ̄zɛ could be labeled a “relative marker”. Better is the character-
ization as a demonstrative element (cf. already GCK 444, § 138). Indeed, adopt-
ing the informal German rendition of allaḏī as “von dem gilt” (“of whom/which
is true”), to which I first was introduced as a student, seems to solve most
of the hermeneutic problems in this context in that this (admittedly clumsy)
translation of allaḏī better reflects the original Semitic morpho-syntax. In the
following, I will present some data that illustrate the wider functional range of
mā and allaḏī in Arabic, without claiming any monocausality for this array of
functions. In principle, one should, however, not forget the following problem:
while a relative clause may appear unidiomatic in a European target language,
it may well be idiomatic in its Arabic source.
As Goldenberg (1994) has highlighted, the Qurʾān features at least three rel-
evant examples of an “infinitival” allaḏī, i.e. allaḏī in a function of introducing
a circumstance that could also be expressed by an Arabic maṣdar, in which
a anaphoric (resumptive) pronoun (ʿāʾid) is missing. One of these examples
(Q 9:69f.) is also regularly cited by the Arab grammarians (see item (3) below).
The relevant parts of the following ʾāyāt are marked in bold (2):
(2) Examples of “infinitival” allaḏī in the Qurʾān (Goldenberg 1994)
Q 9:69 ْ ‫شَّد م ِن ْك ُْم قوَُ ّة ً و َ َأ‬

‫كثرَ َ َأْمو َال ًا و َ َأْول َاد ًا ف َاْستَم ْتعَ ُوا ِبخ َل َاق ِه ِْم‬ َ ‫ك َال َ ّذ ِي‬
َ ‫ن م ِْن ق َب ْلـ ِك ُْم ك َانوُ ا َأ‬
ُ ‫ضت ُم ْ ك َال َ ّذ ِي خ َا‬
‫ضو ا‬ ْ ‫خ‬ َ ‫كم َا اْستَم ْت ََع ال َ ّذ ِي‬
ُ َ ‫ن م ِْن ق َب ْلـ ِك ُْم ِبخ َل َاق ِه ِْم و‬ َ ‫ف َاْست َم ْتعَ ْت ُم ْ ِبخ َل َاق ِك ُْم‬
َ ِ ‫خر َة ِ و َُأول َئ‬
َ‫ك ه ُم ُ اْلخا َس ِر ُون‬ ِ ‫ت َأعْم َال ُه ُْم ف ِي ال ُد ّن ْي َا و َاْلآ‬ َ ِ ‫ُأول َئ‬
َ ‫ك‬
ْ َ‫حب ِط‬
9:69a ka-llaḏīna min qabli-kum

9:69b kānū ʾašadda min-kum qūwatan wa-ʾakṯara ʾamwālan wa-ʾawlā-
dan
9:69c fa-stamtaʿū bi-ḫalāqi-him
9:69d fa-stamtaʿtum bi-ḫālaqi-kum
9:69e ka-mā stamtaʿa llaḏīna min qabli-kum bi-ḫalāqi-him
9:69f. wa-ḫuḍtum ka-llaḏī ḫāḍū ʾulāʾika
9:69g ḥabiṭat ʾaʿmālu-hum fī d-dunyā wa-l-ʾāḫirati
9:69h wa-ʾulāʾika humu l-ḫāsirūna
214 edzard
‘[You disbelievers are] like those before you; they were stronger than
you in power and more abundant in wealth and children. They enjoyed
their portion [of worldly enjoyment], and you have enjoyed your portion
as those before you enjoyed their portion, and you have engaged [in
vanities] like that in which they engaged. [It is] those whose deeds have
become worthless in this world and in the Hereafter, and it is they who
are the losers.’
Q 42:23 ِ ‫ل ل َا َأْس َألـ ُك ُْم ع َل َي ْه‬

ْ ُ‫تق‬
ِ َ ‫صاِلحا‬ َ ‫ك ال َ ّذ ِي ي ُب َش ِّر ُ ال َل ّه ُعِب َاد َه ُ ال َ ّذ ِي‬
ّ َ ‫ن آم َنوُ ا و َعمَ ِلوُ ا ال‬ َ ِ ‫ذال‬
ّ َ ‫سن ًا ِإ‬
ٌ ‫ن ال َل ّه َ غ َف ُور‬ ْ ‫ح‬
ُ ‫حسَنةَ ً نزَ ِْد ل َه ُ فيِ ه َا‬ ْ ِ َ‫جر ًا ِإ َلّا ال ْموَ َ َدّة َ ف ِي ال ْق ُر ْب َى و َم َْن يقَ ْ تر‬
َ ‫ف‬ ْ ‫َأ‬
ٌ ‫شكُور‬
َ
42:23a ḏālika llaḏī yubašširu llāhu ʿibāda-hū

42:23aR llaḏīna ʾāmanū wa-ʿamilū ṣ-ṣāliḥāti
42:23b qul
42:23c lā ʾasʾalu-kum ʿalay-hi ʾaǧran ʾil-lā l-mawaddata fī l-qurbā
42:23dP wa-man yaqtarif ḥasanatan
42:23d nazid la-hū fī-hā ḥusnan
42:23e ʾinna llāha ġafūrun šakūrun
‘It is that of which Allah gives good tidings to His servants who believe
and do righteous deeds. Say, [O Muhammad], “I do not ask you for this
message any payment [but] only good will through kinship.” And whoever
commits a good deed—We will increase for him good therein. Indeed,
Allah is Forgiving and Appreciative.’
Q 6:154 ً ‫يء ٍ و َه ُدًى و َر َْحم َة‬

ْ َ‫لش‬
ِ ّ ُ ‫صيل ًا ل ِّك‬
ِ ْ َ‫ن و َتف‬
َ َ‫حس‬
ْ ‫ب ت َم َام ًا ع َلىَ ال ّ َذ ِي َأ‬
َ َ‫ث ُم ّ َآت َي ْن َا م ُوس َى ال ْك ِتا‬
َ‫ل ّ َع َل ّ َه ُم ب ِل ِق َاء ِ ر َ ّبِه ِْم يؤُ ْم ِنوُ ن‬
6: 154a ṯumma ʾātaynā mūsā l-kitāba

tamāman ʿalā llaḏī ʾaḥsana wa-tafṣīlan li-kulli šayʾin
wa-hudan wa-raḥmatan
6: 154b laʿalla-hum bi-liqāʾi rabbi-him yuʾminūna
‘Then We gave Moses the Scripture, making complete [Our favor] upon
the one who did good and as a detailed explanation of all things and as
guidance and mercy that perhaps in [the matter of] the meeting with
their Lord they would believe.’
Among the grammarians’ examples of mā and allaḏī al-maṣdarīya that Gold-

enberg (1994) cites in this context are notably the following two. In both exam-
ples, the central point is that an anaphoric (resumptive) pronoun is missing
(or rather, in a non-normative sense: not present), as in the previous examples
from the Qurʾān (3):
(3) Sībawayhi and Ibn as-Sarrāǧ on the mā and allaḏī al-maṣdarīya

Sībawayhi (cf. Goldenberg 1994: 16)
‫ومن ذلك أيضا ًائتني بعد ما تفرغ فما وتفرغ بمنزلة الفراغ وتفرغ صلة وهي مبتدأة وهي بمنزلتها‬
‫ن الذي لا يعمل في شىء والأسماء‬
ّ ‫في الذي إذا قلت بعد الذي تفرغ فتفرغ في موضع مبتدإ لأ‬
.‫بعده مبتدأة‬
‘And to this [phenomenon] belongs also ʾti-nī baʿda-mā tafruġu [‘come

to me after you finish’], mā and tafruġu being in the position of al-farāġ
[‘the finishing’], and tafruġu is a [dependent] ṣila, which is mubtadaʾ
[ungoverned]; it has the same status as allaḏī when you say baʿda llaḏī
tafruġu [‘after he finishes’]; there, tafruġu is in the position of a mubtadaʾ
[ungoverned word], because allaḏī does not operate on anything and the
nouns after it are ungoverned.’
Kitāb, Paris, I: 364
Ibn as-Sarrāǧ (cf. Goldenberg 1994: 22f.)
‫ ما‬:‫ أعجبني ما تضرب أخاك تر يد‬:‫ أعجبني ما تصنع حسنا تر يد ما تصنعه حسنا وكذلك‬:‫وتقول‬
‫ الذي تضر به‬:‫ أعجبني الذي تضرب أخاك تر يد‬:‫تضر به أخاك فما وصلت ُها في معنى مصدر وكذلك‬
. […]‫ وما أكثر في هذا من الذي إذا جاءت بمعنى المصدر‬،‫أخاك‬
‫ أنت فينا الذي ترغب ووحدت الذي في‬:‫ فقلت‬،‫ فإن جعلت الذي مصدرا جاز‬:‫قالوا‬
‫ و يقولون على هذا‬،‫ كخوضهم‬:‫ ۞ وخضتم كالذي خاضوا ۞ ير يد‬:‫ قال عز وجل‬،‫التثنية والجمع‬
‫ وكذلك المؤنث‬،‫ أنت فينا الذي ترغب وأنتما فينا الذي ترغبان وأنتم فينا الذي ترغبون‬،‫القياس‬
.‫ك ولا ٺثنى الذي ولا تجمع ولا تؤنث‬
َ ُ ‫ أنت فينا رغبت‬:‫ت فينا الذي ترغبين تر يد‬
ِ ‫أن‬
‘You say: ʾaʿǧaba-nī mā taṣnaʿu ḥasanan [‘it has pleased me that you do
good’], intending: mā taṣnaʿu-hū ḥasanan, and likewise (saying) ʾaʿǧaba-
nī mā taḍribu ʾaḫā-ka [‘it has pleased me (or: induced me to wonder) that
216 edzard
you hit your brother’], you intend: mā taḍribu-hū ʾaḫā-ka, and mā and its
ṣila are in the meaning of a maṣdar; and like that: ʾaʿǧaba-nī llaḏī taḍribu
ʾaḫā-ka [‘it has pleased me (or: induced me to wonder) that you hit your
brother’], you intend allaḏī taḍribu-hū ʾaḫā-ka; and mā, when it occurs in
the meaning of a maṣdar, is more frequent in this usage than llaḏī […].’
ʾUṣūl II: 351
‘They said: but if you make allaḏī a maṣdar, it is permissible, so that you
say ʾanta fī-nā llaḏī tarġabu [‘it is us that you want’], and you make allaḏī
singular (when the personal pronoun and the verb are) in the dual or
plural. God, to Whom belong might and majesty, said: wa-ḫuḍtum ka-llaḏī
ḫāḍū [‘and you have plunged as they plunged’ (Q 9:69)], and they say in
analogy to this ʾanta fī-nā llaḏī tarġabu [‘it is us that you (m.sg.) want’] and
ʾantumā fī-nā llaḏī tarġabāni [‘it is us that you two want’], and ʾantum fī-nā
llaḏī tarġabūna [‘it is us that you (m.pl.) want’], and likewise the feminine:
ʾanti fī-nā llaḏī tarġabīna [‘it is us that you (f.sg.) want’] and you mean: ʾanti
fī-nā raġbatu-ki, and the allaḏī is not made dual nor plural nor feminine.’
ʾUṣūl II: 353 f.
The important matter here is the stability of allaḏī in the Classical Arabic
constructions. Therefore, one should not automatically consider a “frozen”
allaḏī a later (let alone “degenerated”) Middle Arabic feature.
Winding up this initial survey of non-standard use of allaḏī and returning to
the subordinating semantic type (1), one finds plenty of evidence in the mod-
ern Arabic dialects. Typical examples of subordinating illi in modern Arabic
dialects are the following (4):
(4) Examples of subordinating illi in modern Arabic dialects
Jerusalem Arabic
brāwo ʿalēk illi fakkart fīha!
‘Well done to you for having thought of it!’ (Elihay 2012: 226)
Cairo Arabic
da kwayyis illi mišyit liḥaddi hina
‘It is good that it [the car] came (“went”) up to here.’ (Woidich 2006: 392)
ana ġalṭān illi ṣariḥtik bi xuṭṭitna
‘It was a mistake of mine to have told you honestly about our plan.’
(Woidich 2006: 387)
2 Discussion
2.1 Summary of the Conventional Wisdom

The conventional wisdom regarding the question at hand is that “relative pro-
nouns” or “relative markers” in these examples are “re-interpreted” as subordi-
nating markers. An apt summary of this position is found in Diem 2007: 103f.,
where the hitherto most detailed analysis of the issue at hand is provided (5):
(5) Diem’s (2007) analysis
(a) Original expression containing relative clauses:

al-ḥamdu li-llāhi llaḏī ḥamidtu llāha llaḏī
“Praise be to God who” “I praised God who”
(b) Re-interpretation of allaḏī as a causal conjunction on the pattern of

parallel constructions with semantically explicit syntactic means, the
process being due to (a) the relative clause being non-restrictive, (b) verbs
such as “to praise” having an inherent complement indicating the cause of
praise, (c) the relative pronouns having been reduced to allaḏī, whereby
the connection of the relative clause to the head was weakened:
al-ḥamdu li-llāhi llaḏī ḥamidtu llāha llaḏī
“Praise be to God that” “I praised God that”
(c) Generalization of allaḏī for heads expressing positive emotions, by (op-

tional) replacement of ʾan(na) with allaḏī, while the syntactic restrictions
typical of (a)–(b) were retained:
malīḥ llaḏī (for malīḥ ʾanna) fariḥtu llaḏī (for fariḥtu ʾanna)
“It is nice that” “I was glad that”
(d) Generalization of allaḏī for heads expressing negative emotions ceteribus

paribus as in (c):
wayl la-ka llaḏī (for wayl la-ka ʾanna) taʾassaftu llaḏī (for taʾassaftu ʾanna)
“Woe is you that” “I regretted that”
(e) Generalization of allaḏī for heads not expressing emotions, with allaḏī
still having an affective value and retaining its original restrictions as in
(a)–(d):
ʾaʿlamtu-hū llaḏī
“I informed him (of the pleasant/regrettable) fact that”
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(f) Generalization of allaḏī as an unmarked conjunction “that” without syn-

tactic or semantic restrictions:
ʿṭāh il-ʿahid illi ma yšūf-hā-š
“He made a pledge that he would not see her.” (Tunisian Arabic)
While the internal logic of this careful analysis of re-interpretation and its
inherent hierarchical order is flawless in principle, I shall nevertheless en-
deavor to offer an alternative viewpoint towards the end of this paper. Before
doing so, three issues that are relevant in this context shall be commented
upon:
(i) the semantic (and, as we will see below, morphological) overlap between
relative markers and subordinating conjunctions in Semitic, which is also
typologically reflected in other language families;
(ii) the issue of allaḏī as a “relative pronoun” being a misnomer in Arabic and
Semitic in general; and
(iii) the whole issue in the light of comparative Semitic, including the phe-
nomenon of “cleft sentences”.
The following passages offer a short discussion of these issues.
2.2 Ad (i): Overlap between Relative Markers and Subordinating

Conjunctions in Semitic
As noted by Goldenberg (1994), Diem (2007), and others, one can maintain
that in certain cases semantic overlap exists in constructions that can be
translated in the target language(s) in both a relative and a subordinating sense.
Accordingly, one could speak of certain particles as “nominalizers”, in that
the clauses following one of the particles in question could be replaced by a
maṣdar. Goldenberg (1994) (cf. item (3) above) adduces the following example,
where mā ḍarabta ‘that you hit’ could be replaced by ḍarbu-ka ‘your hitting’
(6):
(6) An example of mā al-maṣdarīya (Goldenberg 1994)
‫أعجبني ما ضر بت ز يدا‬
ʾaʿǧaba-nī mā ḍarabta Zaydan

‘It induced me to wonder / pleased me that you struck Zayd.’
Again, the circumstance that mā ḍarabta could be replace here by ḍarbu-ka

stipulates the use of the term mā al-maṣdarīya.
The following Hebrew example from Exodus 18:10 shows the semantic over-
lap especially well, no wonder in principle in light of the equal subject (God)
(7):
(7) Example of subordinating ʾăšɛr in Biblical Hebrew
‫ֲאֶשׁר ִהִצּיל ֶאְתֶכם ִמ ַיּד ִמְצ ַר ִים וִּמ ַיּד ַפּ ְרעֹה‬, ‫ָבּרוְּך ְיה ָוה‬
bå ̄rūḵ YHWH ʾăšɛr hiṣṣīl ʾɛṯ-ḵɛm mi-yaḏ miṣrayim ū-miy-yaḏ parʿō(h)
‘Blessed be God who/for that he saved you from (the hand of) Egypt and
(the hand of) Pharaoh.’
Again, the last example once more illustrates the importance of not auto-
matically transferring to syntactic-semantic properties of the source language
(Hebrew) to the target language (here: English).
2.3 Ad (ii): “Relative Pronoun” being a Misnomer in Arabic and Semitic

As is well known, Semitic languages do not feature any real “relative pronouns”
(cf., e.g., Lipiński 2001: 522). Rather, the syntax of Semitic relative clauses gener-
ally follows the rules of nominal attribution (cf. notably Retsö 2009). As is well
known, the head noun + clause construction (relative clause) can also be of
the annexation-like type, e.g., yawma xalaqa s-samawāti wa-l-ʾarḍa ‘on the day
(that) he created the heaven and the earth’, where the asyndetic relative clause
xalaqa s-samawāti wa-l-ʾarḍa determines the head noun yawma (cf. also Reck-
endorf 1921: 390f. = §190), reminiscent of relative clauses like Akkadian bīt īpuš-
u ‘the house that he built’ (“house.CS he.built-REL”) or Biblical Hebrew qiryaṯ
ḥå ̄nå ̄(h) ḏå w
̄ īḏ ‘the town where David camped’ (“town.CS he.camped David”)
(Isa. 29:1). Exceptionally, a relative clause can also take the position of an adjec-
tive in an adjectival attributive construction (cf. Wright 1967 I, 269–270), e.g.,
mā ʾanta bi-l-ḥakami t-turḍā ḥukūmatu-hū ‘you are not the judge whose sen-
tence is approved’ (“DEF/REL-is.approved:FEM sentence-his”). In higher reg-
isters of Hebrew, a relative participle attached to an indefinite head noun is
governed by the definite article as well.
Specifically with regard to Arabic, Badawi, Carter, and Gully (2004: 498)
plausibly write oncerning this matter:
This element [allaḏī] is not a ‘relative pronoun’ in the English sense; that
function is performed by the referential pronoun. The purpose of the
220 edzard
allaḏī element is to make the whole clause definite, and it may thus be
thought of as a determiner, which completes the adjectival agreement
with the def[inite] head:
2.4 Ad (iii): Comparative Semitic Perspective

Diachronically and synchronically, the use of demonstrative or locative ele-
ments in a subordinative sense—elements which we at first glance associate
with a relativizing function—is nothing surprising in Semitic and even less sur-
prising in a comparative typological perspective (cf., e.g., Lipiński 2001: 536 and
Goldenberg 2013: 106). Here are a few examples extrapolated from Lipiński 2001
and Goldenberg 2013, demonstrating this morphological overlap, from Akka-
dian, Biblical Hebrew, ancient and modern Aramaic, modern South-Arabian
Mehri, as well as Ethio-Semitic Tigrinya (8):
(8) Demonstrative and locative elements in subordinating function in Se-

mitic
tammar ša … lā errub-u
‘You will see … that he will not enter.’ (Akkadian)
kī higgīḏ lå ̄-hɛm ʾăšɛr hū(ʾ) yəhūḏī

‘Because he had told them that he was a Jew.’ (Biblical Hebrew: Esther 3:4)
wə-hēn lå ̄ yəḏīʿ lɛhwē-lå ̄-ḵ malkå ̄ dī l-ēlå ̄hå ̄-ḵ lå ̄ ʾīṯå ̄-nå ̄ på ̄lḥīn
‘And also if not, be it known to you, king, that we will not serve your god.’
(Biblical Aramaic: Daniel 3:18)
ettawḥēṯ d-ʿeḇdēṯ ennōn

‘I regret that I made them’ (Syriac Aramaic)
ənə xzilij d əhə nəmumkin ijlə

‘I saw that it is impossible.’ (Neo-Aramaic–Urmi)
mirre ta daw gōra dīd ʾībe ʾāzil hēš kudyōm

‘He said to that man that he should go the everyday.’ (Neo-Aramaic–Zaxo)
ɣalōḳ δə-hē ɣayǧ berék bēt

‘He saw that the man was in the house.’ (Mehri)
mäsälä-tom ze-bəzəḫu məwsad

‘It seemed to them that they will receive something extra.’ (Tigrinya)
2.5 Cleft Sentences

Another relevant point in this context are Ethio-Semitic cleft sentences, where
exactly the same element is regularly encountered which otherwise serves as
genitive exponent and also is found in relative clauses: in the case of Amharic
yä- (e.g., man näw yä-mm-innaggär ‘it is who who speaks?’) and in the case of
Tigrinya zə- (e.g., män ʾəyyu zə-fäläṭä ‘who is he who knew?’). Here are a few
Amharic examples extracted from Appleyard (1995: 9):
(9) Relative clauses and cleft sentences in Amharic
yä-mäṭṭa-w ʾəbat-e näw / ʾəbat-e näw yä-mäṭṭa-w

‘It is my father who came.’ ≈ ‘My father came.’
man näw yä-mm-innaggär

‘It is who who speaks?’ ≈ ‘Who speaks?’
yä-mmə-tənor-äw ʾaddis ʾabäba näw / ʾaddis ʾabäba näw yä-mmə-tənor-äw

‘It is in Addis Ababa that you live.’ ≈ ‘You live in Addis Ababa.’
yä-säbbärk-äw bərčə̣ qqo-w-n näw / bərčə̣ qqo-w-n näw yä-säbbärk-äw

‘It is the glass that you broke.’ ≈ ‘You broke the glass.’
mäčẹ näw y-ayyäh-aččäw

‘When is it that you saw Him/Her?’ ≈ ‘You saw Him/Her when?’
tənantənna näw y-ayyähuw-aččäw

‘It is yesterday that I saw Him/Her.’ ≈ ‘I saw Him/Her yesterday.’
yä-tägänaññən b-ayroplan näw

‘It is on the airplane that we met.’ ≈ ‘We met on the airplane.’
səläzzih näw wädä ʾitəyoṗṗəya yä-mäṭṭahu-t

‘It is therefore I came to Ethiopia.’ ≈ ‘Therefore I came to Ethiopia.’
The examples clearly show the morpho-syntactic similarity of Ethio-Semitic

relative clauses to cleft sentences, whereby I am not claiming that the lat-
ter constitute a derivation from the former. Still, it is not my point to deny a
222 edzard
straightforward logical connection between these two types of clauses. Inter-

estingly, the wh-elements in cleft sentences have also been labeled “indefinite
deictics” in the linguistic literature (e.g., Miller 1996).
2.6 An Alternative Suggestion

It has, fortunately, become uncontroversial that Arabic dialects do not consti-
tute “degenerated” descendants of Classical Arabic. Rather, features occurring
in Arabic dialects can often be considered valuable evidence of Old Arabic
and even archaic Semitic features, as recently skillfully demonstrated by Pat-
El (2012) in connection with features such as the bayt al-muqaddas ‘the Holy
House’ construction, which is already attested in the Qurʾān: wa-mā kunta bi-
ǧānibi l-ġarbīyi ‘you were not at the Western side’ (Q 28:44). Already in Biblical
Hebrew, one finds opposing pairs such as ‫ ַהַשַּׁﬠר ַה ָדּרוֹם‬hå ̄š-šaʿar had-dărōm ‘the
south gate’ (Ezek. 40:28) vs. ‫ ַשַׁﬠר ָהֶﬠְליוֹן‬šaʿar hå ̄-ʿɛlyōn ‘the upper gate’ (Ezek.
9:2). Already Vollers (1906) had interpreted “deviant” phonological features
(e.g., assimilation and haplological syllable ellipsis) in the Qurʾān along these
lines.
What I propose in the following is that the Classical Arabic allaḏī or dialec-
tal illi constructions in the examples discussed above actually may represent
an archaic feature in Semitic, and not necessarily a “mittel- or neuarabisch”
one, the latter terms still being sometimes associated with linguistic “degener-
ation”. The comparative Semitic evidence supports this point, I think. As Aaron
Rubin (2005: 48ff.) has pointed out, the general direction in grammaticalization
processes tends to lead from demonstrative elements that also serve as subordi-
nators towards relative elements on the one hand, and from locative elements
to relative elements on the other (cf. also Huehnergard 2006). Here are some
well-known Semitic examples (10):
(10) Demonstrative/determinative markers and relative markers in Semitic
Demonstrative/determinative Relative
Akkadian šū (‘that’) ša
Hebrew zɛ zɛ (also in rare hallå ̄zɛ)
Aramaic zy > d(ī) d(ī)
Arabic δū/δā allaδī
Gəʿəz zə za
In a typological perspective, this kind of lexical-functional overlap is well-

attested. Various branches of Indo-European feature doublets such as the fol-
lowing (11):
(11) Demonstrative/determinative markers and relative markers in Indoeuro-

pean
Latin quod quod

English that that
French que que
Italian che che
etc. (Goldenberg 1994: 14)
The following chart illustrates the overlap between locative and relative ele-
ments in Semitic (12):
(12) Locative and relative elements in Semitic
Locative Relative
Akkadian ašru(m) ašar

Hebrew – ʾăšɛr > šɛ
A classical example, taken from the Gilgamesh epos, which illustrates this
point, is the following: imtaši ašar iwwald-u ‘he forgot where he was born’
(Gilgamesh OB, ii5). The original locative function of Hebrew ʾăšɛr can still be
seen as in examples such as ham-må ̄qōm ʾăšɛr ʿå ̄maḏ ‘the place where he had
stood’ (Genesis 19:27) (cf. Rubin 2005: 49).
Again, comparable doublets can also be found in Indo-European (cf. Rubin
2005: 50) (13):
(13) Locative and relative elements in Indo-European
Greek που που

Danish der der
Bavarian wo wo
224 edzard
In Scandinavian Germanic languages, overlap between subordinating ele-

ments and relativizers is found as well, for instance, as regards the particle som
that serves both as relativizer and as conjunction (14):
(14) Multi-functionality of the particle som in Norwegian

Norwegian den mannen som kom ‘the man who came’
and
som dere kan se forsøker jeg å argumentere for et nytt syns-
punkt
‘As you can see I am trying to argue for a new perspective.’
3 Conclusion
In conclusion I would like to argue that morphological overlap between deictic

subordinating particles on the one hand and relative markers on the other is an
age-old phenomenon in Semitic. In a typological perspective, what Goldenberg
(1994: 14) and others label “conjunctive pronouns” (i.e. pronominal elements
that can take on a subordinating function) are typologically quite wide-spread.
Typologically, one finds at least as much morphological overlap between deic-
tic elements and subordinators, cf., e.g., English that and German das/daß, as
between relativizers and subordinators. Taking into consideration that Semitic
relativizers typically emerge from deictic elements, one does therefore not nec-
essarily have to assume a directionality relative towards subordinating, as is the
prevalent position in the literature. Rather, I suggest that the subordinating (or
complementizing) function of the originally deictic elements is just as old as
the relativizing one.
References
Primary Literature
Ibn as-Sarrāǧ, ʾUṣūl = ʾAbū Bakr Muḥammad ibn as-Sarrāǧ, Kitāb al-ʾuṣūl fī n-naḥw, ed.
ʿAbd al-Ḥusayn al-Fatlī. 3 vols. 3rd ed. Beirut 1988.
Sībawayhi, Kitāb = ʾAbū Bišr ʿAmr ibn ʿUṯmān Sībawayhi, al-Kitāb, ed Hartwig Deren-
bourg. 2 vols. Paris 1881–1889 / ed.ʿAbd as-Salām Hārūn. 5 vols. Cairo 1966–1977.
Secondary Literature
Appleyard, David (1995). Colloquial Amharic. A Complete Languages Course. London/
New York: Routledge.
Badawi, Elsaid, Michael G. Carter, and Adrian Gully (2004). Modern Written Arabic. A
Comprehensive Grammar. London/New York: Routledge.
Bravmann, Meir (1953). Studies in Arabic and General Syntax. Cairo: Imprimerie de
l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale.
Brünnow, Rudolf and August Fischer (2008), 8th ed. by Lutz Edzard and Amund Bjørs-
nøs. Chrestomathy of Classical Arabic Prose Literature. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.
Diem, Werner (2007). “Arabic allaḏī as a conjunction. An old problem and a new
approach”. Approaches to Arabic Linguistics: Presented to Kees Versteegh on the Occa-
sion of his Sixtieth Birthday. Ed. by Everhard Ditters and Harald Motzki. Leiden/
Boston: Brill, pp. 67–112.
Edzard, Lutz (2012a). “Introduction: Semitic and Afroasiatic: Challenges and Opportu-
nities”. In: Semitic and Afroasiatic: Challenges and Opportunities. Ed. by Lutz Edzard.
Edzard, Lutz (2012b). “Genetische, typologische und religionsvermittelte Sprachver-
wandtschaft: das Arabische in einer vergleichenden linguistischen Perspektive”.
Folia Orientalia 49 (Festschrift for Andrzej Zaborski): 165–178.
Elihay, J[ean] (Yohanan) (2012). The Olive Tree Dictionary. Jerusalem: Minerva Publish-
ing.
Goldenberg, Gideon (1994). “allaḏī al-maṣdariyyah in Arab grammatical tradition”.
Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 28: 7–35.
Goldenberg, Gideon (2013). Semitic Languages. Features, Structures, Relations, Pro-
cesses. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Huehnergard, John (2006). “On the etymology of the Hebrew relative še-”. In: Biblical
Hebrew in its Northwest Semitic setting: Typological and historical perspectives. Ed.
by Steven E. Fassberg and Avi Hurvitz. Jerusalem: Magnes Press and Winona Lake:
Eisenbrauns, pp. 103–126.
Landberg, Carlo Comte de (1920–1942). Glossaire datînois. Leiden: Brill.
Lipiński, Edward (2001, 2nd edition). Semitic Languages. Outline of a Comparative
Grammar. Louvain: Peeters.
Miller, Jim (1996). “Clefts, particles and word order in languages of Europe”. Language
Sciences 18 (1–2): 111–125.
Pat-El, Naʿama (2012). “Digging up archaic features: Neo-Arabic and comparative Se-
mitic in the quest for proto-Arabic”. Oslo-Austin Workshop in Semitic Linguistics,
August 24, 2012, University of Oslo.
Reckendorf, Hermann (1921). Arabische Syntax. Heidelberg: Carl Winter’s Universitäts-
buchhandlung.
Retsö, Jan (2009). “Nominal attribution in Semitic: Typology and diachrony”. In: Relative
Clauses and Genitive Constructions in Semitic (Journal of Semitic Studies Supple-
ment Series 25). Ed. by Janet Watson and Jan Retsö. Manchester: Oxford University
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226 edzard
Rubin, Aaron D. (2005). Studies in Semitic Grammaticalization. Winona Lake, Indiana:

Eisenbrauns.
Spitaler, Anton (1962). “al-ḥamdu lillāḏī und Verwandtes. Ein Beitrag zur mittel- und
neuarabischen Syntax”. Oriens 15: 97–114.
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chapter 8
Raphelengius and the Yellow Cow (Q 2:69): Early

Translations of Hebrew ˀādōm into Arabic ˀaṣfar
The year Thomas Erpenius was installed in the chair of Arabic at Leiden,
another major event in the annals of Arabic studies took place just a few streets
away from the university building. Sixteen years after the death of Franciscus
Raphelengius, two of his sons, Frans and Joost, finally published their father’s
Lexicon Arabico-Latinum, the first Arabic-Latin dictionary ever to be printed.1
All considered, the dictionary was no small achievement. Raphelengius, who
was appointed professor of Hebrew in 1586, never came to master Arabic very
well, and the sources that were available in Leiden at the time were few and
in many ways inadequate for the task he had set before himself. The great ori-
ental dictionaries had not yet found their way to Europe, and like J.J. Scaliger,
W. Bedwell, and others who made similar efforts around this time, Raphe-
lengius had to make do with what he could scrounge up. First and foremost, he
based himself on the Mozarabic Latin-Arabic glossary now at the Leiden uni-
versity library (MS Leiden Or. 231), which he quotes more than two thousand
times in the published dictionary,2 and he also made frequent use of Pedro de
Alcalá’s Spanish-Andalusian Arabic dictionary printed in 1505.3 The benefit he
could draw from these sources was nevertheless limited in face of the richness
of the Arabic lexicon, and he was therefore compelled to also take recourse to
1 A. Hamilton (‘ “Nam tirones sumus”: Franciscus Raphelengius’ Lexicon Arabico-Latinum (Lei-

den 1613)’, in M. De Schepper and F. De Nave (eds), Ex officina Plantiniana: Studia in memo-
riam Christophori Plantini (ca. 1520–1589), Antwerp 1989, 557–589) offers a detailed account
of the background to the publication of this dictionary, from which I in this section of
my paper have benefited in more specifics than is practical to indicate in individual foot-
notes.
2 Raphelengius believed the glossary was from the eighth century. P.S. van Koningsveld (The
Latin-Arabic Glossary of the Leiden University Library: A Contribution to the Study of Mozarabic
Manuscripts and Literature, Leiden 1976, 65) dates it to the late twelfth century.
3 From time to time he also consulted the never-published dictionary Scaliger was compiling
in parallel with him at Leiden (MS Leiden Or. 212), which however, builds on largely the same
sources as his own.

228 ferrer i serra
various texts that were available both in Arabic and Latin (and in some cases
also Hebrew or Greek). The two most important of these were the Qurˀān and
Saˁadyah Gaon’s (d. 942) translation of the Torah, which had been printed in
the Constantinople polyglot (1546). The others were of considerably less impor-
tance, though mention should be made of the Genoa polyglot Psalter printed
in 1516, the Arabic gospels printed at the Medici press in Rome 1591, and in par-
ticular the Arabic text of Avicenna’s Canon (al-Qānūn fī al-ṭibb) printed there
in 1593. The dictionary thus grew into a virtual depository of information of
such different varieties of Arabic as the language of the Qurˀān, the Classical
Arabic of Ibn Sīna and Saˁadyah Gaon, and the Andalusian Arabic of Pedro
de Alcalá. More consistently documented, it could even have become a his-
torical dictionary of sorts, particularly if Raphelengius’ intention to include
quotations illustrating the usage of the words had been carried through in the
published edition. The project of producing a dictionary with these character-
istics nevertheless proved overwhelming, and though Raphelengius had begun
his work on it already in the early 1570s, he had not brought it to an end when
he died almost thirty years later. Scaliger does not seem to have been very keen
on taking over were he had left off, and the dictionary, like Scaliger’s own, was
therefore probably on the verge of passing into oblivion when Frans and Joost
decided to make it one of the last texts to be printed with their father’s Arabic
type.
When Erpenius in 1612 returned to Leiden from a long journey which had
brought him to England and France, where he had studied Arabic, and then
to Venice, where he had studied Turkish and collected oriental manuscripts,
the dictionary was already in the press. Time was running out, but Frans and
Joost, aware that their father’s dictionary in reality was not quite ready for pub-
lication, wanted to have him look it over for them before it was put out. The
soon-to-be professor of Arabic was well equipped for the task. Unlike Raphe-
lengius, he had a good command of the language, and among the manuscripts
he had brought back to Leiden was a copy of al-Qarāḥisārī’s Arabic-Turkish
dictionary al-ˀAxtarī (1545), which he now could use to correct Raphelengius’
text together with two other Arabic-Turkish lexicographical sources.4 The work
took Erpenius several months; when he finished, he had produced a body of
improvements—or ‘observations’, as he called them—which were printed in
an appendix to the dictionary running to almost seventy pages.
4 Erpenius’ copy of al-ˀAxtarī is now at Cambridge (MS Gg 6.41). Besides it he also used a copy
of Mirqāt al-luġa (Leiden MS Or. 237), the author of which is unknown, and a short, likewise
anonymous, Arabic-Turkish wordlist (Cambridge MS Gg 6.39).
raphelengius and the yellow cow (q 2:69) 229
Erpenius had with his observations made a major leap forward and, one
could say, thereby irrevocably changed the course of European Arabic lexicog-
raphy. As was to be expected, his successful employment of Arabic-Turkish
sources was soon followed by efforts to compile dictionaries based entirely
on Arabic/Turkish, Arabic/Persian, Arabic/Syriac, and monolingual Arabic lex-
ica. The first to achieve this was Antonio Giggeo (1632) later followed by Jacob
Golius (1653), Georg Freitag (1830–1837), and Edward Lane, whose monumental
compilation (1863–1893) still today is the standard bilingual reference for stu-
dents of Classical Arabic. At the same time, the role of textual attestation was
reduced to a minimum and did not make a come-back in any major lexico-
graphic project involving Arabic until in the late nineteenth century—though,
as all students of Classical Arabic are painfully aware, a historical dictionary
of the language based on actual attestations is still a long way from becoming
reality.
Raphelengius’ dictionary was due to this development naturally soon for-
gotten, and with it, the attestations on which it built. Today it is even regu-
larly overlooked in accounts of the history of European Arabic lexicography.
The reason I all the same return to it here is that it offers a convenient start-
ing point for discussing a small group of attestations of the colour term χṣfr
(ˀaṣfar/ṣafrāˀ/ṣufr),5 which Raphelengius, I will argue, correctly interpreted as
translations of Hebrew ‫( ָאד ֹם‬red, brown),6 but which Erpenius brushed aside
in correcting his definition of χṣfr. Scholars have ever since treated them in
a one-by-one perspective rather than as manifestations of one and the same
phenomenon, i.e. as translations of ‫אדם‬, and have therefore struggled to find
satisfactory explanations for them.
5 Classical Arabic colour terms of the form ˀafˁal/faˁlāˀ/fuˁl will for convenience henceforth be
referred to as χṣfr, χḥmr, etc.
6 The term ‫ ָאד ֹם‬spanned over red and brown both in Biblical and Mishnaic Hebrew, while
yellow (which is unattested in BH) at least in later periods was covered by ‫ ָירוֹק‬, a green-with-
yellow category. The most recent exhaustive of Biblical Hebrew colour terms is A. Brenner,
Colour Terms in the Old Testament, Sheffield 1982, but R. Gradwohl, Die Farben im Alten
Testament: Eine Terminologische Studie, Berlin 1969 continues to be useful. See also M. Bulakh,
‘Basic Color Terms of Biblical Hebrew in Diachronic Aspect’, Babel und Bibel 3 (2006), 182–216;
idem, ‘Basic Color Terms from Proto-Semitic to Old Ethiopic’ in R.E. MacLaury, G.V. Paramei,
and D. Dedrick (eds), Anthropology of Color: Interdisciplinary Multilevel Modeling, Amsterdam
2007, 255–256.
230 ferrer i serra
Classical Arabic χṣfr in Earlier Scholarship
Raphelengius must have thought he had very solid attestations in support of

his definition of χṣfr. Considering how closely he normally follows the Mozara-
bic glossary and Pedro de Alcalá’s dictionary, one would have expected him to
define this term as something like ‘decolor, pallidus’,7 but, as his definition—
fulvus (brown, tawny), rufus (red, tawny), citrinus (orange or yellow)—shows,8
in this case he chose to base himself entirely on textual evidence. Raphe-
lengius does not indicate his authorities for making this definition, but through
the catalogue Frans and Joost provide of the sources he used we can readily
identify the most important ones. The two that interest us the most here are
apparent translations from the Hebrew. The first is Q 2:69, where God orders
Moses to sacrifice a cow of a clear (intense? bright? unmixed?) χṣfr colour
(baqaratun ṣafrāˀu fāqiˁun lawnuhā).9 Raphelengius would naturally have iden-
7 The Mozarabic glossary translates ‘decolor’ as muṣfarr al-lawn (fol. 32a). The Arabic trans-
lation ˀaṣfar of the entry ‘fulvus, rufus, splendidus’ on folio 54b is a later addition (almost
certainly post-dating Raphelengius). Pedro de Alcalá gives ˀaṣfar (‘azfar’) for ‘amarillo’, a word
which appears to have retained the primary meaning of ‘pallid’ into the late Middle Ages
(see J. Corominas, Diccionario crítico etimológico castellano e hispánico, Madrid 1980–1991, s.v.
‘amarillo’). Andalusi Arabic χṣfr indeed seems to have been a very light colour. The glossary
attributed to Raimon Martí (C. Schiaparelli, Vocabulista in arabico, Florence 1871), defines ‘pal-
lidus’ as χṣfr (while ‘flavus’ is rendered as χšqr). F. Corriente translates it as ‘yellow’ (Dictionary
of Andalusi Arabic, Leiden 1997, s.v.). Scaliger’s definition of χṣfr: Leiden MS Or. 212, 200b.
8 J. André (Étude sur les termes de couleurs dans la langue latine, Paris 1949) analyses fulvus
as a reddish or brownish dark yellow (pp. 132–134), rufus as a yellowish red (pp. 80–83). The
medieval term citrinus, which Raphelengius almost certainly took directly from the transla-
tion of Avicenna (see below), does not simply mean lemon coloured (as the translation of Avi-
cenna shows). Bartholomeus Anglicus (De proprietatibus rerum: De accidentalibus) defines it
as puniceus, Thomas Aquinas (Sententia de sensu et sensato) identifies it with Aristotle’s ἁλουρ-
γόν, which normally is interpreted as purple (and sometimes red: Bartholomew, for instance,
has rubeus), and Roger Bacon (De sensu et sensatu) treats it as close to orange (he puts it
between glaucus and puniceus). Later authors define it as ‘orange’ and even ‘auburn’; see
E.R. Anderson, Folk-taxonomies in Early English, Cranbury 2003, 211 Sometimes, however, it
was unambiguously understood as yellow; see e.g. M. Stolberg, Die Harnschau: Eine Kultur-
und Alltagsgeschichte, Köln 2009, 48. The University of Michigan Middle English Dictionary
(http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med/) defines the closely related English citrine as ‘(a) red-
dish or brownish yellow; orange, amber [distinguished from yellow]; (b) orange or yellow’.
Old French citrin is poorly attested.
9 The precise meaning of the relatively rare term fāqiˁ is unclear, as is illustrated in the efforts
of the mufassirūn to explain Q 2:69; the early poets used it in reference to brownish and dark
reddish referents, but later, perhaps due to its collocation with the redefined χṣfr in Q 2:69,
tified the cow in this verse as the red heifer (‫ )ָפּ ָרה ֲא ֻדָמּה‬in Num 19:2 and
would thus have understood χṣfr as a translation of Hebrew ‫אדם‬. The second
is Saˁadyah Gaon’s rendering of Num 19:2 itself, where the cow is described as
baqara ṣafrā[ˀ] ṣaḥīḥa, which offered Raphelengius a direct confirmation that
there was nothing idiosyncratic about the way in which the Qurˀān speaks of
the colour of the red heifer. Raphelengius thus had two attestations, both trans-
lations from the Hebrew, directly evidencing that χṣfr could represent red or
brown (rufus, fulvus)—no doubt very reassuring for the Hebrew professor, who
made frequent reference to rabbinic sources in his dictionary.10 Even though
these two attestations represent our primary concern, however, it deserves to
be observed that this was not all. As it happens, the passage that most likely
convinced Raphelengius to include citrinus in his definition would also have
suggested to him that χṣfr could stretch deep into the red area. The passage
in question is Ibn Sīnā’s discussion of the variations in the colour of urine.
Ibn Sīnā arranges these along three chromatic scales, one of which runs from
straw yellow to saffron red. Raphelengius perhaps noted that Ibn Sīnā does
not explicitly designate the first three colours on this scale (al-tibnī, al-ˀutrujjī,
al-ˀašqar), as χṣfr, nor the pure red saffron colour (al-zaˁfarānīyu … wa-hwa
llaḏī yuqālu lahu l-ˀaḥmaru l-nāṣiˁ) at its end, but this should probably not be
given too much importance. A much more striking point, which he most prob-
ably did note, however, is that this passage appears to show that he regarded
the ‘fire coloured’ hue (al-nārī), ‘which looks like saffron dye’, and which lies
between orange (al-ˀaṣfar al-nāranjī) and the pure red saffron colour at the
end of the scale, as the deepest or strongest (mušbaˁ) example of χṣfr (Qānūn
68).11
it was used also of yellow referents. Qurˀān translators have often opted for ‘bright’,
‘vivid’, or ‘intense’ together with ‘yellow’ although these collocations give the cow a rather
unusual colour.
10 The Vulgate and Tremellius both have rufus in Num 19:2. Raphelengius defines ṣafrā[ˀ]
fāqiˁ as de colore fulvo (s.v. fāqiˁ).
11 Saffron is today often associated with yellow, and this is particularly true of saffron dye,
which, dependent on the mordant, is said to yield bright yellow, reddish and dull brownish
yellows, and orange. The present passage, however, offers evidence that saffron (or at least
zaˁfarān, which is not always to be identified with saffron) in Classical Arabic was thought
of as red not only in the abstract (which is both natural and easily documentable) but also
as a dye, to which we can lay e.g. ˀAṣmaˁīyāt 61/11 and al-Mutanabbī 1:252, where bloody
clothes are described as dyed with saffron. The explanation for this is perhaps that ‘saffron’
often was applied very thickly to the textile (and not intended to be permanent). The
lexicographers explain the term mujsad as applying to a garment that has been dyed so
thick with saffron that it stands up by itself; the resulting colour is that of a red camel (i.e.
232 ferrer i serra
Erpenius however, sticking to his Turkish sources, corrected Raphelengius’

definition to flavus (yellow, light brown).12 Exactly what this correction was
supposed to reflect is not entirely clear—the Latin terms involved were subject
to fluctuating definitions at the time, just as they to some extent still are—but
a look in the dictionaries of the period leaves little doubt that Erpenius wanted
to exclude the red and (darker) brown areas from the referential range of the
term.13 This definition quickly established itself as the standard translation of
χṣfr, perhaps not due as much to Erpenius’ correction of Raphelengius in itself
as to the influence Arabic-Turkish lexicography exerted on the first generations
of European Arabic lexicographers. Golius, in his Lexicon Arabico-Latinum
(1653), added croceus (saffron coloured) and pallidus (pale, pale yellow or
green) as possible translations, but these terms were dropped by Georg Freytag
in his Lexicon Arabico-Latinum (1830–1837). The modern consensus translation,
which is defined by Edward Lane’s monumental Arabic-English Lexicon (1863–
1893), is ‘yellow’.
The fact that an increasing number of authoritative monolingual and bilin-
gual lexicons were used for the compilation of these dictionaries would ide-
ally have put the issue on a much firmer basis than Raphelengius had been
able to do with his few attestations. A look at these sources, however, shows
that this hardly is the case. The authors of monolingual Arabic dictionaries,
who tend to treat the meaning of basic concepts such as colour terms as self-
evident, while simultaneously holding on to the idea of describing the increas-
ingly remote language of the desert Arabs around the coming of Islam, do not
define χṣfr in the way, say, the Oxford English Dictionary defines yellow as ‘the
colour of ripe lemons’. The author of the earliest Arabic dictionary, the Kitāb
al-ˁayn (c. 790), passes over the meaning of χṣfr in complete silence. And at the
other end of the Classical Arabic lexicological tradition, al-Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī
(d. 1791), the author of Tāj al-ˁarūs, describes it as ‘a well-known colour’ (indi-
cating that it needs no explanation) found in animals, plants, and other things,
and according to one authority, in water (manifesting the remoteness of its cor-
rect usage according to the norms of the poetical tradition, where stagnant
of a reddish brown colour, perhaps like the characteristic coppery tone of the modern
sāḥilī breed; Tāj s.vv. jsd and ḥmr).
12 Erpenius’ Turkish sources translate χṣfr with the terms ṣārūliq and ṣārū.
13 Precisely what Raphelengius and Erpenius meant by their respective terms, which get
somewhat fluctuating definitions in early modern (Latin/Dutch, Latin/German, etc.) dic-
tionaries, is of course uncertain, but it is fairly clear that flavus in comparison with fulvus
generally was understood as a lighter colour and that it was not thought of as having a
significant red component.
water frequently is described as χṣfr). Lane thus, despite having surveyed the
entire Arabic lexicographic tradition, had to content himself with quoting al-
Fayyūmī’s definition of χṣfr as ‘a certain colour, well known, less intense than
red [χḥmr]’, which is more suggestive of peripheral red, orange, pink, and per-
haps brown than of focal yellow. Such exceptional cases aside, the monolingual
dictionaries offer no more than indirect clues to the referential range of χṣfr.
al-Zabīdī, the most copious of the Arab lexicographers, thus mentions vari-
ous locutions and epithets through which it becomes clear that χṣfr can have
referents such as saffron, gold, raisins, bile, locusts after ovulation, and bows
of nabˁ wood. Reconstructing a colour term from random referents like these
is of course extremely dangerous from a principal point of view, and in this
case it is also highly debatable whether the referents indeed support defining
χṣfr as yellow. Saffron and gold perhaps seem pretty indicative of this colour,
but in Classical Arabic they are often associated with red, and al-Zabīdī in fact
includes the locution documenting them as possible referents for χṣfr (ˀahlaka
n-nisāˀa l-ˀaṣfarān) also under χḥmr, with the colour term substituted.14 This
locution is thus arguably more indicative of a term that covers orange (was it
from here Golius got croceus?) or (part of) red than one that stretches into yel-
low.
The bilingual dictionaries, on the other hand, offer explicit definitions which
in theory could provide important clues about the nature of χṣfr, but these
translations are in most cases too young to be of relevance for the early stages
of Arabic. And in the few cases they are not, they are difficult to interpret
since the colour terminologies of these historical stages of the involved lan-
guages are at least as understudied as the Arabic. The Syriac/Arabic lexical tra-
dition, which goes back to the ninth century and thus offers the most relevant
evidence, moreover presents the difficulty that it reflects a highly philologi-
cal approach to an inherited literary language, one very visible expression of
which is that the Syriac lexicographers approach the colour terms as a matter
of historical reconstruction and not as something intuitively available to them.
Yet another factor to take into consideration when dealing with this tradition
14 The question of whether the redness of saffron and gold is grounded in reality (which in
the case of saffron also depends on whether it was understood as the stigmata, a cosmetic,
a dye, or a food colorant and, in the case of gold, on the alloy) is only part of the issue here.
Equally, or more, important is the conceptual links between saffron and gold and redness;
cf. A. Wierzbicka’s discussion of the redness of fire (‘On the Semantics of Colour: A New
Paradigm’ in C.P. Biggham and C.J. Kay (eds), Progress in Colour Studies. Volume I: Language
and Culture, Amsterdam 2006, 1–24).
234 ferrer i serra
is that all the early lexica are Syriac-Arabic rather than Arabic-Syriac, which
means that they define the Syriac colour terms rather than the Arabic ones.
The closest we come to a Syriac basic colour term for yellow, judging among
other things by the evidence from Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, is among the
terms of the root yrq, which across the Semitic languages is associated with
paleness, greenness, and yellowness. The Syriac terms of this root, too, clearly
denote colours in this range, though the translations in modern standard lexica,
which reflect this insight, should be regarded as highly approximate. A study
dedicated to Syriac colour terminology is still wanting, and there are reasons to
suspect that the Syriac terms, in which paleness (and perhaps desaturation) is a
significant component, cannot be easily defined in Latin or English categories.
The terms in this group at any rate appear not to have been easily translated
into Arabic, judging by how their definitions fluctuate from author to author.
Bar ˁAli (ninth century), the author of the earliest extant Syriac-Arabic lexi-
ܵ
con, defines 焏‫ܪܩ‬熏ܼ‫ ܝ‬as covering both χṣfr and χxḍr (grue).15 Bar Bahlul (tenth
century), however, defines this word as χxḍr-χwrq,16 adding that Ḥunayn [ibn
ˀIsḥāq] defined it as χṣfr.17 According to some manuscript(s), Bar ˁAli more-
over defined the etymologically related term 焏‫ܼܘܩ‬犯‫ ܵܝ‬as a colour combining χṣfr
and darkness, adding that it according to some denoted χṣfr as such (al-lawnu
al-murakkabu mina l-sawādi wal-ṣufrati wa-yuqālu l-ṣufratu muṭlaqan),18 but,
again, Bar Bahlul defines this colour as χxḍr. Elias of Nisbis (Elya Bar Šinaya,
d. 1046–1047) defines yet another etymologically related term, 焏‫ܩ‬犯‫ܡܝ‬, as χṣfr.19
The picture that emerges from this is that the affinity Bar ˁAli apparently felt
existed between the √yrq terms and χṣfr at most can be translated into ambigu-
ous support for equalling χṣfr with yellow. Playing the devils advocate, one
could probably even make an equally strong case for gray.
The Syriac lexicographers nevertheless take recourse to χṣfr also to define
various other terms, from which the picture clears a little. Bar ˁAli, to begin
with, defines 焏‫ܼܘܥ‬犯‫ ܼܿܚ‬as χṣfr.20 This term is associated with safflower (焏‫ܥ‬犯‫)ܵܚ‬,
(Carthamus tinctorius), a (typically) orange flower from which two dyes can
15 Bar ˁAli, Syrisch-arabische Glossen, ed. G. Hoffmann, Kiel 1874, 169 (no. 4433).
16 The term χwrq, a near cognate of the √yrq terms, has the approximate meaning of grey: it
is the colour of the ring dove, the wolf, and milk diluted with water.
17 Bar Bahlul, Lexicon Syriacum, ed. R. Duval, 3 vols, Paris 1898–1901, s.v.
18 R. Payne Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus, 2 vols, Oxford 1879–1901, s.v. The word is not found in
Hoffmann’s edition.
19 The edition of Obizzino (Bar Šinaya, Thesaurus Arabico-Syro-Latinus, ed. T. Obizzino,
Rome 1636), which is plagued by errors, has ‫ܐ‬犯‫ܡܝܩ‬.
20 Bar ˁAli, Syrisch-arabische Glossen, 151 (no. 4046).
be extracted: one is a volatile water-soluble yellow dye, which washes away

in water and easily fades; the other is a more stable, alkaline-soluble red dye
(carthamin), which yields highly valued scarlets and pinks. Classical Arabic
sources typically compare textiles dyed with safflower to blood, dawn, the
setting sun, glowing embers, and the flower of the pomegranate (scarlet). The
most interesting aspect of Bar ˁAli’s entry on 焏‫ܘܥ‬犯‫ܚ‬, however, is that he
explains this colour as ‘a daqīq [Bar Bahlul: raqīq; Elias of Nisbis: raqīq] χṣfr
like straw coloured (tibnī) or lemon coloured (ˀutrujjī)’.21 A focal or near-focal
colour like that of lemons would thus in other words represent a pale or light
(non-focal) shade of χṣfr. Bar Bahlul, who reproduces all Bar Ali has to say on the
just-mentioned term, also translates two other terms as χṣfr: 焏‫ܙܪܕܩ‬, a Middle
Persian loan word (zardak), which also is a word for safflower, and 焏‫ܬܢܝ‬熏‫ܫܥ‬,
a term derived from ‫ܬܐ‬熏‫( ܫܥ‬wax), which appears to suggest a dull yellow or
dull (light) brown colour or perhaps just ‘waxen, pale, sallow’.
The standard Turkish translation sari(ǧ) can be traced back to Maḥmūd
al-Kāšġarī’s Diwān luġāt al-turk (1070s).22 Erpenius was probably right in think-
ing that al-Qarāḥisārī with this term meant something close to flavus (which
is how Megiser translated it), but it is less certain what al-Kāšġarī may have
understood by this term. Early attestations include references to gold, horses,
and apricots, which suggests an extended yellow-orange term.23 The earliest
extant Arabic-Persian dictionary is al-Zamaxsǎrī’s (d. 1144) Muqaddimat al-
ˀadab, where χṣfr is given the translation zard (s.v.),24 a term which at this
time no doubt lay close in meaning to yellow, but which in early periods may
have extended closer to red and brown than this translation suggests consid-
ering that it is etymologically related to the Middle Persian words zarr (gold),
zardālūg, (apricot), zardak (safflower), zardčōbag (turmeric; čōb=wood), and
zardag (egg yolk).25
21 The form 焏‫ܘܓ‬犯‫ܚ‬, which no doubt represents a corruption of the same word (see C. Brock-
elmann, Lexicon Syriacum, 2nd ed., Halle 1928, s.v.), is defined again in Bar ˁAli’s glosses
(no 4048) as a clear (nāṣiˁ) χṣfr such as straw or lemon colour (nāṣiˁ here has the sense of
‘light’); cf. Bar ˁAli’s definition of ‫ܐ‬焏‫ܢ‬熏‫( ܩ‬The Syriac Arabic Glosses. Part II, ed. R.J.H. Got-
theil, 2 vols, Rome 1908–1928, 2:330–331).
22 [Maḥmūd ibn al-Ḥusayn] al-Kāšġarī, Diwān luġāt al-turk, 3 vols, Constantinople 1333–1335
[1915–1917], 312.
23 G. Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth-Century Turkish, Oxford 1972, (s.v.
‘Dis. SRǦ’).
24 [ˀAbū al-Qāsim Maḥmūd ibn ˁUmar] al-Zamaxšarī, Muqaddimat al-ˀadab, ed. J.G. Wet-
zstein, Leipzig 1850 [Arabic title page: 1843], 248.
25 The term was originally a brightness term; see J. Pokorny, Indogermanisches etymologis-
ches Wörterbuch, 3 vols, Bern 1959, 2:429–432 (s.v. ‘ĝhel-’). For the Middle Persian meanings,
236 ferrer i serra
The few studies aiming to explore the colour terminology of Classical Arabic
that have been published over the years have unfortunately not made up for the
lack of a historical dictionary of the language. The only substantial effort in this
field is W. Fischer’s study of the colour lexicon of the early Arabic poets, which,
however, unfortunately takes its point of departure in the understanding of
χṣfr laid down by European Arabic lexicography. Fischer, it is true, takes the
issue a step forward in that he concludes that the semantic range of the term
at this stage was somewhat different from that of yellow.26 The problem is,
however, that he treats the assumption that χṣfr in essence was equal to yellow
(gelb) as an interpretive matrix into which he attempts to fit his attestations as
well as he can. Following this method, he concludes that the early poets had
something close to yellow in mind when speaking of most attestations of χṣfr,
despite finding no referents of an unequivocally near-focal yellow colour but
cases such as dawn, cosmetics, wine, angry faces, beards discoloured by smoke,
bows of nabˁ wood, and even the legs of the rutting ostrich (!). Fischer thus a
priori excludes the possibility that the referential range of χṣfr stretched into,
or even was centered in, red, pink, or brown. Consequently, he does not find
it necessary to seriously look into the problems posed by his attestions neither
from an objective point of view (what is (or was) the colour of dawn, cosmetics,
wine, etc?) nor from the point of view of the poetical tradition more generally
(how do the poets speak of dawn (cosmetics, wine, etc.), and what are they
describing in each individual poem?). He is somewhat more willing to accept
that χṣfr could have referents in the areas of the non-primary colours beige,
orange and yellowish brown (though not brown as such!), but an attentive
reading of his discussion reveals how he in various ways skews the perspective
back to the lighter part of this range and in particular to yellow.27 Take for
example his discussion of Q 2:69. Fischer prefers to suggest that Muḥammad
see D.N. MacKenzie, A Concise Pahlavi Dictionary, London 1971. W. Lentz (‘Die nordiranis-
chen Elemente in der neupersischen Literatursprache bei Firdosi’, Zeitschrift für Iranistik
und Indologie 4 (1926), 312) notes that Firdawsī uses zard in reference to blood.
26 W. Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen in der Sprache der altarabischen Dichtung, Wies-
baden 1965.
27 Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen, 358. Fischer’s skewing χṣfr back to yellow (as com-
pared to what he says in the above quotation) takes both direct and more subtle expres-
sions. The best example of the former is perhaps the figure on page 237 of his study; the
latter takes its most important expression in Fischer’s selection of attestations to discuss:
despite his inclusion of yellowish dark brown he gives no example of a dark brown refer-
ent. Instead, discussing the darker shades he gives examples such as ˀaṣfaru miṯlu l-warsi,
which he translates as ‘gelb wie die (orange) Safran’. Unsurprisingly, authors who have
accepted his analysis tend to understand χṣfr as a light colour: see e.g. D.J. Stewart, ‘Color
misinterpreted his source (ultimately Num 19:2) rather than considering that
the qurˀānic text speaks of a red, reddish brown, or even a plain brown cow,
and though he seems to think of the cow as brownish yellow, he qualifies it
simply as yellow. Few would probably feel convinced by Fischer’s explanation
(on which, more below), but at the background of how he describes χṣfr it is
not very surprising that most translators of the Qurˀān despite the insights his
study after all offers still have a yellow cow in this verse.
The study that has done most to perpetuate the conventional identifica-
tion of χṣfr with yellow in recent years, however, is probably Berlin and Kay’s
groundbreaking 1969 study on colour terms,28 which predicts that a language
with five basic colour terms will have a yellow category focused in a well-
defined area of the Munsell array (typically at C9). The conformity of Fischer’s
understanding of the colour terminology of early Arabic poetry with Berlin
and Kay’s model has most likely contributed greatly to convincing researchers
that it is essentially correct. Looking at the issue today, however, it is clear
that this conformity does not offer the incontestable support for Fischer’s
results as it once may have seemed to give. The scholarly consensus has after a
boom in the study of colour terminology now converged around the realisation
that although the Berlin-Kay sequence does have something to say about how
colour terminologies develop, individual languages not infrequently exhibit
unexpected idiosyncrasies with respect to it. The proponents of the Berlin-
Kay paradigm have moreover as a response to insights gained from field-work
repeatedly revised their theory, which in its later, significantly relaxed ver-
sions allows for scenarios that were not originally considered possible. Much
of the understanding that has been gained has direct consequences for how
the Classical Arabic colour terminology may have developed. Among the more
interesting examples in the present context is that researchers in the Berlin-
Kay tradition now accept that grey, brown, and purple may be encoded ‘out of
sequence’,29 and that field workers have documented languages where brown
appears as early as before the encoding of yellow (e.g. the Bantu Setswana
Terms in Egyptian Arabic’, in A. Borg (ed.) The Language of Color in the Mediterranean,
ed. Stockholm 1999, 105 (yellow/beige) and S. Procházka, ‘Color Terms’, in Encyclopedia of
Arabic Language and Linguistics, ed. K. Verseegh, Leiden 2006–2009 (yellow/light brown).
28 B. Berlin and P. Kay, Basic Color Terms: Their Universality and Evolution, Berkley 1969.
29 R. MacLaury and S. Stewart, ‘Simultaneous Sequences of Basic Color-Category Evolution’,
Paper presented at the 83rd Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Associa-
tion, Denver 1984; P. Kay, B. Berlin, and W. Merrifield, ‘Biocultural Implications of Systems
of Color Naming’, Journal of Linguistic Anthropology 1 (1991).
238 ferrer i serra
and the Nilo-Saharan Dholuo).30 Another is that languages may have two (or
more) basic (non-synonymous) red terms,31 often involving a category on the
long wavelength border.32 Chinantec offers an interesting example. This Mex-
ican language, which is documented in the World Colour Survey, has two basic
red terms (a dark red and light red) and what the authors call a basic yellow
term with the highest consensus in orange. Cakchiquel, a Guatemalan lan-
guage, perhaps has as many as three basic red terms (focal, light, and dark).
The Berlin-Kay sequence therefore cannot be used as a template to recon-
struct earlier stages in Classical Arabic colour taxonomy, and there is thus
more reason than ever to revisit the question of the historical semantics of
χṣfr.33
Erpenius was undeniably well-guided in leaning on his Turkish dictionaries
to correct Raphelengius, and from today’s perspective it appears quite obvi-
ous that his definition of χṣfr, if we are compelled to choose, works better
for the Arabic of most classical writers. The point I am making here, how-
ever, is that he—perhaps overly eager to replace Hebrew with Turkish as the
gateway to the study of Arabic—at the same time became the first to brush
aside or overlook a body of evidence strongly suggesting that Raphelengius’
definition could not simply be discarded crowned by three translations of
Hebrew ‫אדם‬. First of all, there were Raphelengius’ attestations, Q 2:69 and
Saˁadyah Gaon’s translation of Num 19:2, which, though not indicated in the
(printed edition of) dictionary must have been well-known to scholars at a
time when the Constantinople polyglot and the Qurˀān were the obvious places
for any aspiring Arabist to start learning the language (Raphelengius him-
30 I.R.L. Davies et al., ‘Color Terms in Setswana: A Linguistic and Perceptual Approach’,
Linguistics 30 (1992), 1065–1103; D.O. Okombo, ‘The Semantics of Dholuo Colour Terms’,
Afrikanistiche Arbeitspapiere 40 (1994), 1–38.
31 W. Schenkel (‘Color Terms in Ancient Egyptian and Coptic’, in R.E. MacLaury, G.V. Paramei
and D. Dedrick (eds), Anthropology of Color: Interdisciplinary Multilevel Modeling, Amster-
dam 2007, 211–228) proposes this for Coptic.
32 P. Kay, B. Berlin, L. Maffi, and W. Merrifield (‘Color Naming Across Languages’, in C.L. Har-
din and Luisa Maffi (eds), Color Categories in Thought and Language, 21–58, Cambridge
1997).
33 Since I presented this paper at the Leiden conference, I have made a detailed investigation
of χṣfr in the early Arabic poetry, the first results of which were presented as J. Ferrer i
Serra, ‘The Colour Terms in Early Arabic Poetry: The Case of ˀaṣfar’. Paper presented at the
27th Congress of Union Européenne des Arabisants et Islamisants (UEAI 27), Helsinki 2–
6 June 2014. The preliminary conclusion of this investigation at the moment of writing is
that χṣfr in this early layer of the language represented a term that is best described either
an extended red category or a brown category stretching into red.
self started with the polyglot). And Erpenius could ironically enough have
found evidence of a third translation of this type in al-Qarāḥisārī’s dictio-
nary, the very text he used for making his improvements of Raphelengius’
lexicon.34 The custom of referring to the Romans/Greeks as Banū al-ˀAṣfar
al-Qarāḥisārī there documents should not have been difficult to identify as
originating in the traditional Jewish identification of Rome with Esau/Edom
(‫)ֱאדוֹם‬, Jacob’s ruddy (‫ )ַא ְדמוֹ ִני‬elder brother, who sold his birthright for some
red (‫ )אדם‬pottage.35 Erpenius, however, either overlooked this or brushed it
aside, and Giggeo, Castell, and Golius later chose to also disregard the tradition
al-Fīrūzabādī’s reports in his al-Qāmūs that al-ˀAṣfar was a grandson of Esau
in favour of the etiological tale the lexicographer also documents, according
to which the origin of the appellation lay in the Arabs’ perception of the fair
complexion of the Romans/Greeks. The first to connect the two appellations
was probably d’Herbelot, but the name generally associated with this idea is
that of Silvestre de Sacy, who argued for it in more detail in two separate com-
munications.36 De Sacy’s explanation nevertheless met with rejection from
the scholarly community, mainly because it was deemed impossible that χṣfr
34 Erpenius, it deserves to be noted, also brushed away al-Qarāḥisārī’s quotations of two

Arabic authorities, one stating that χṣfr according to some was closer to black (χswd) than
to white (χbyḍ), i.e. a dark colour, and the other, that χṣfr sometimes or often (rubbamā)
means ‘black’. The latter assertion, which is repeated in most major Arabic dictionaries,
was for a while assimilated into European lexica (notably Golius and Lane), but more
recently it has lost ground, presumably because it has been felt that it is unlikely that a
yellow term also would include black; see e.g. A. Morabia, ‘Recherches sur quelques noms
de couleur en arabe classique’, Studia Islamica, 21 (1964), 75 and 78; Fischer, Farb- und
Formbezeichnungen, 363–364. See also e.g. E.M. Badawi and M. Abdel Haleem’s Arabic-
English Dictionary of Qurˀānic Usage, Leiden 2008, which does not reflect that some
mufassirūn interpreted χṣfr as black in Q 2:69 and 77:33. Composite terms joining black
and yellow are cross-culturally unattested.
35 The Jewish identification of Rome with Edom was well known to Christian scholars at
the time. The Valencian theologian Benet Perera (Pererius), to take one example, shows
acquaintance with it in his great Genesis commentary (Commentariorum et disputa-
tionum in Genesim, 1601), and Valentin Schindler mentions it in his Lexicon heptaglotton
(1612); Scaliger includes the intriguing entry ‘/ṣfr/: ‫ ֱאדוֹם‬Rubrum’ in his Thesaurus linguae
arabicae (Leiden MS Or. 212, fol. 200b).
36 B. d’ Herbelot de Molainville, Bibliothèque orientale, ou dictionnaire universel contenant
généralement tout ce qui regarde la connaissance des peuples de l’Orient, Paris 1697, s.v.
‘Edom’; A. Silvestre de Sacy, Notices et extraits des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Impériale 9
(1813), 437–438 note 1; idem, ‘Lettre à M. le rédacteur du Journal Asiatique, Paris 20 février
1836’, Journal Asiatique 1836, 94–96.
240 ferrer i serra
could be a translation of ‫אדם‬. The issue was debated for a while, some alterna-
tive explanations were presented, and the scholarly opinion finally settled on
reverting to explaining the appellation as a description of the skin colour of the
Romans/Greeks.
De Sacy’s failure to convince his colleagues was perhaps also partly due to
other reasons: he did not offer a very clear picture of the history of the identifi-
cation of Rome with Edom (he merely refers to Buxtorf, who mainly gives late
examples), and he only quoted a few late Arabic and Persian sources in support
of his argument. As time has gone by, however, the picture has cleared. Today
we know (1) that the Judaic tradition very early—in fact as early as in the imme-
diate aftermath of the destruction of the second temple, if not even earlier37—
associated the Romans with Edom and (2) that the redness of Edom/Rome con-
tinued to be a living concept in the rabbinic tradition, where Edom unequivo-
cally is described as red, possibly under the influence of the importance of this
colour (purpureus was primarily a red-crimson) in Roman culture and imperial
symbolism.38 Genesis Rabbah states that Esau’s skin colour was a sign that he
would be a shedder of blood and goes on to relate how Samuel on first seeing
David’s skin colour (which 1Sam 16:12 describes with the same word Gen 25:25
uses of Esau) thought he was a murderer (GenR 63:8). The same source also
describes Esau/Edom as red with regards to his person, his food, his warriors,
his clothes, his shields, and his avenger (GenR 63:12; also e.g. TanḥB Wayyišlaḥ
4). Considering how ubiquitous the appellation Edom for Rome was in the Jew-
ish tradition, one would almost expect it to have a reflex in Arabic. The Arabic
sources that gradually have become available since de Sacy’s days moreover
show that the Arabs themselves already early on connected the two appella-
tions. The earliest evidence of this (if genuine) is found in Kitāb al-tījān, tra-
ditionally ascribed to Wahb ibn Munabbih (d. around 730), which speaks of a
certain Roman king called Bāhān (or Māhān), whose rather fanciful genealogy
37 Rabbi Akiba is the first authority known to have unequivocally identified Edom with
Rome, but passages in 4 Ezra and the Book of Jubilees have also been advanced as evidence
that the identification may have preceded the destruction of the second temple. The
classic study about the identification Edom as Rome is G. Cohen ‘Esau as a Symbol in
Early Medieval Thought’ in Jewish Medieval and Renaissance Studies, ed. A. Altmann,
Harvard Press, 1967, 19–48. The point nevertheless continues to be discussed: see in
particular M. Hadas-Lebel, Jérusalem contre Rome, Paris 1990; L.H. Feldman, Josephus’s
Interpretation of the Bible, Berkeley 1998, 322–324.
38 L.B. Jensen, ‘Royal Purple of Tyre’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 22 (1963), 111. Pliny
describes the colour as that of congealed blood (Naturalis historia 9.62), which of course
is particularly suggestive in the present context.
stretches back to Esau (ˁĪṣ) al-ˀAṣġar ibn Yaˁqūb, where ‘al-ˀAṣġar’ apparently
is a corruption of ‘al-ˀAṣfar’ (Tījān 231).39 With the swelling literary output
a century later, the amount of evidence grows. al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 868) reports that
the skin colour of Esau (al-ˁĪṣ) gave rise to the custom of referring to the
Romans, his supposed progeny, as Banū al-ˀAṣfar (Burṣān 158),40 and the almost
contemporary poet al-Ḥusayn ibn al-Ḍaḥḥāk identifies the Romans/Greeks as
the offspring of Esau in a poem composed after the sack of Amorium in 838
(Tanbīh 170). Almost a century later, al-Ṭabarī (d. 923) invokes the authority
of a Jewish informant to offer essentially the same explanation as al-Jāḥiẓ (al-
ˀUmam wal-mulūk 1:317–319).41 The clearing picture notwithstanding, however,
de Sacy’s idea has not been reconsidered. Giorgio Levi Della Vida, who is the
latest author to offer a substantial discussion of the origin of the appellation,
instead dismisses the opinion of the Arab historians and explains the just-
mentioned passage in al-Ṭabarī as an attempt to ‘convey the impression’ that
χṣfr could translate ‫ אדם‬on the grounds that ‘it is difficult to understand why
“reddish” should have become “yellow.”’42
The current situation is thus that none of Q 2:69, Num 19:2, or the appellation
Banū al-ˀAṣfar according to a wide scholarly consensus could exemplify a
translation of Hebrew ‫ אדם‬into Arabic χṣfr. As a consequence of this, three
very difficult problems arise. Why is the cow in Q 2:69 yellow and not red?
What motivated Saˁadyah Gaon to give the heifer in Num 19:2 the same colour,
in direct contradiction to the Torah? And how do we explain that the Arabs
referred to the (emperors of) the Romans as ‘The Sons of the Yellow One’?
Q 2:69
The puzzling fact that the red heifer in Q 2:69 appears in the shape of a yellow
cow—if we are to believe the overwhelming majority of scholars and transla-
tors of the Qurˀān—would seem to be an interesting place to look for a clue to
39 The text thus, remarkably, makes Esau the son, and not the brother, of Jacob.
40 The question of whether Esau’s redness referred to his hair or his complexion was already
debated in early Hebrew midrashim; see Brenner, Color Terms in the Old Testament, 243,
note 4 (quoting Menachem Kasher’s Torah Šelemah/Complete Torah: Talmudic-Midrashic
Encyclopedia of the Pentateuch).
41 Compare, however, the baroque description Ibn Qutayba (d. 889) gives of the skin colour
of Esau’s son al-Rūm (Maˁārif 38).
42 G. Levi Della Vida, ‘The “Bronze Era” in Moslem Spain’, Journal of the American Oriental
Society 63 (1943), 190.
242 ferrer i serra
the relationship between the Qurˀān and the Judaeo-Christian tradition, but
almost complete silence reigns around this issue.43 To my knowledge only two
explanations have been suggested.
Fischer, who addresses the issue in his study of the colour terms of early
Arabic poetry, suggests that Muḥammad may have misinterpreted his source
as speaking of an antelope.44 The early Arab poets, he admits, do not describe
antelopes as χṣfr, but the terms with which they do describe them are according
to him hyponyms of χṣfr, and it must therefore have been linguistically accept-
able to qualify them with this superordinate term.
Fischer here appears to make an almost impossible reading of Q 2:69. The
main reason for this is that it is difficult to believe that the miscomprehen-
sion Fischer perceives behind it would have had the result that the colour of
the red heifer was changed (to accommodate for it being an antelope) while
the command that it should not have been used for tilling or drawing water,
which is completely alien to the nature of antelopes, was preserved in the text.
The great emphasis the qurˀānic narrative places on how the Children of Israel
repeatedly ask Moses for more specifications about the cow makes this inter-
pretation even more unlikely, because the answer they get when Moses tells
them it should not have been used for tilling and watering is completely mean-
ingless if we suppose that it involved an antelope.
Another major problem with Fischer’s reading is that it rests on the highly
questionable assumption that the Qurˀān was composed in a cultural setting
where (bovine) cattle were completely unknown (since the cow otherwise
hardly could have been mistaken for an antelope). The formative setting of
Islam scarcely fits this description, however, no matter if we want to think of
it as a commercial centre in Arabia engaged in long-distance trade between
Syria and Yemen, as the traditional account relates, or a community in Iraq or
near the Mediterranean, as some have suggested. Cattle were certainly raised
in Syria, the Fertile Crescent, and Abyssinia, and though probably not a very
frequent sight in sixth- and seventh-century Arabia as a whole, they no doubt
existed in some numbers in peripheral areas, particularly in eastern Arabia, the
Asir mountains, and southern Arabia, where they had been present since at
43 H. Speyer, Die biblischen Erzählungen im Qoran, 2nd ed., Hildesheim 1961, 345; D. Sidersky,
Les origines des légendes musulmanes dans le Coran et dans les vies des prophètes, Paris
1933, 98; H. Hirschfeld, New Researches into the Composition and Exegesis of the Qoran,
London 1902, 108. A.I. Katsh, Judaism and the Koran: Biblical and Talmudic Backgrounds of
the Koran and its Commentaries, New York 1962, 71–73.
44 Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen, 364.
least the late sixth millennium bc.45 Small populations of cows are moreover
likely to have been found locally in interior parts of Arabia, which once had
been the scene of large-scale cattle breeding.46 The reports by early travellers,
such as the Catalan adventurer Domènec Badia i Leblich (Ali Bey), Burckhardt,
Wallin, and others, show that cows were present in the Hijaz, and even in the
Najd, before the introduction of motorised transport on the peninsula (which
in the interior did not happen until in the final years of the 1920s, and then
only on a limited scale).47 The Qurˀān moreover reflects an environment where
agriculture was an important activity,48 and the cows mentioned in Q 6:144
together with sheep, goats, camels, and pigs can hardly be anything else than
domesticated cattle. The prophetic traditions,49 and occasionally other Muslim
sources, too,50 make reference to the presence of bovine cattle in the earliest
days of the Islamic community, which shows at the very least that the Muslims
already in the eighth century found it believable that cows were known to their
prophet and existed around him.
Fischer’s assertion that antelopes in early Arabic could be described as χṣfr
is also problematic. Fischer himself, as already mentioned, admits that χṣfr is
effectively unattested in reference to this group of species (except in a verse
conventionally referring to woman as a gazelle), but builds his case on the
contention that the terms χṣbh and χˁfr, which he documents are used to
describe antelopes in the early poetical corpus, are hyponyms of χṣfr. Neither
45 J. McCorriston and L. Martin, ‘Southern Arabia’s Early Pastoral Population History: Some
Recent Evidence’, in M.D. Petraglia and J.I. Rose (eds), The Evolution of Human Populations
in Arabia: Paleoenvironments, Prehistory, and Genetics, Dortrecht 2010, 247.
46 M. Rice, The Archaeology of the Arabian Gulf, London 1994, 77.
47 The Hijaz: Ali Bey, Travels of Ali Bey in Morocco, Tripoli, Cyprus, Egypt, Arabia, Syria, and
Turkey Between the Years 1803 and 1807, 2 vols, Philadelphia 1816, 2:117; J.L. Burckhardt, Trav-
els in Arabia, 2 vols, London 1829, 1:127. Northern Arabia (al-Jawf): G.A. Wallin, ‘Narrative
of a Journey from Cairo to Medina and Mecca’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1854),
148; A. Musil, Arabia Petraea: A Topographical Itinerary, New York 1927 (367; 473). Najd:
L. Pelly, Report on a Journey to Riyadh in Central Arabia, Cambridge 1978, 40 (Sadūs, 70km
NW of Riyadh, 1865); S.A. Sowayan, Nabati Poetry: The Oral Poetry of Arabia, Berkeley 1985,
117 (al-Šināna, 1904); P.M. Kurpershoek, Oral Poetry and Narratives from Central Arabia. 1:
The Story of a Desert Knight: The Legend of Šlēwīḥ al-ˁAṭāwī and Other ˁUtaybah Heroes,
Leiden 1995, 303; 309 (200 km south of ˁAfīf, early 1900s).
48 See in particular P. Crone, ‘How Did the Quranic Pagans Make a Living?’ Bulletin of the
School of Oriental and African Studies 68 (2005), 387–399.
49 A.J. Wensinck, Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, 8 vols, Leiden 1936–1988,
1:204–206; G.H.A. Juynboll, Encyclopedia of Canonical Ḥadīṯ, Leiden 2007, index.
50 See e.g. al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 2:282; al-ˀAzmina wal-ˀamkina 386.
244 ferrer i serra
of these terms, however, is attested to have any referents in common with χṣfr.51
The problem with Fischer’s method is here essentially the same as with his
classification of the terms χwrq, χṭḥl, χġbs, and χġṯr under χxḍr. Of these, the
first three are used of the wolf, and the last of the lion. Following Fischer’s
logic this would allow us to state, with no direct evidence, that these animals
in early Arabic could be described as χxḍr. The problem is, however, that this
type of reasoning rests solely on the theoretical colour system Fischer himself
has constructed.
Andrew Rippin and Bertram Schmitz have separately advanced a more
attractive idea. They propose that the cow in Q 2:69 could have got its colour
under the influence of the story of the golden calf in Exod 32.52 Rabbinic
sources in fact state that the red heifer was sacrificed in atonement for the
golden calf (NumR 19:8), and it is by no means impossible that this idea also
lies behind the qurˀānic text. The various passages in the Qurˀān mentioning
the golden calf, however, lends very little palpable support to this view, which
leaves us in the realm of conjecture. More seriously, however, there is a linguis-
tic problem with this explanation. The logic behind the identification of the red
heifer with the golden calf rests on the fact that gold in Hebrew and Aramaic
sources frequently is described as red. Now, early Arabic sources similarly qual-
ify gold as χḥmr,53 which makes it difficult to explain why the ‘translator’ would
have opted for a mismatch in terms of colour words. The only type of scenario
in which this seems likely is one in which the red heifer, so to say, became so
deeply coloured by the golden calf that its original identity was overshadowed
or forgotten, but this only makes it more puzzling that the Qurˀān does not
more visibly reflect this.
Num 19:2
Saˁadyah’s decision to give the heifer in Num 19:2 the same colour as the cow
in Q 2:69 has probably not been very widely known among Arabists during the
last two centuries. The question has nevertheless in recent years attracted some
attention from scholars who explain it as an expression of Saˁadyah’s depen-
51 Also note that al-Ṯaˁālibī (Fiqh al-luġa 118) reports that al-ˀAṣmaˁī and others defined ˁufr
as a kind of light red (χḥmr) gazelle (ẓaby).
52 A. Rippin, ‘Colors’, in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. J.D. McAuliffe, 6 vols, Leiden 2001–
2006, 1:363; B. Schmitz, Der Koran: Sure 2 Die Kuh: Ein religionshistorischer Kommentar,
Stuttgart 2009, 107.
53 Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen, 361, note 5. See also e.g. Ḥayawān 5:330.
dency on the Qurˀān.54 Most have understood this as a direct influence. David
Freidenreich, however, puts a particular twist to this idea.55 Saˁadyah, he pro-
poses, found the colour of the cow in Num 19:2 unnatural, and since this would
imply that God commanded the Israelites to sacrifice a cow that could not exist
in reality, he was moved to find another colour for it. The solution he found was
to follow al-Ṭabarī in understanding the colour of the cow of Q 2:69 as black (i.e.
interpreting χṣfr as black).
The idea that Saˁadyah changed the colour of the cow in Num 19:2 to a dif-
ferent one is nevertheless very difficult to believe. Shari Lowin, who is one of
its proponents, calls it a ‘shocking’ example of Islamic influence, but precisely
because it indeed would be shocking, it is difficult to imagine that it is accu-
rate.56 The head of the talmudic academy at Sura was no doubt, as a number of
scholars have pointed out, noticeably influenced by his Muslim environment,
but he could hardly be imagined to have tampered with the requirements for
the sacrificial animal to be used in one of the most important ritual purifica-
tions in Mosaic law. And that on the authority of the Qurˀān! Saˁadyah’s render-
ing of this verse, if perceived as a change in colour, would almost certainly have
given rise to polemic, but while his translation of the Torah quickly gained enor-
mous prestige, no such reaction seems to have occurred. Figures like Dunaš ben
Labraṭ and Abraham ibn ˁEzra, who sometimes were outspoken critics of his
translations, pass over his choice of colour term in Num 19:2 in silence.57 David
Alfasi and Jonah ibn Janāḥ do not mention χṣfr as a possible translation of ‫אדם‬
in their lexica, but neither of them on the other hand takes issue with Saˁadyah,
as one would have expected if his translation was thought to violate the mean-
ing of the law.58 The only near-contemporary to Saˁadyah I have found who
54 The first to observe the echoing of Q 2:69 in Saˁadyah’s translation seems to have been
J. Blau (‘Between Judaeo-Arabic and the Qurˀān’ [in Hebrew], Tarbiz 40 (1972), 512–
514). See also H. Lazarus-Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds: Medieval Islam and Bible Criticism,
Princeton 1992, 148.
55 D.M. Freidenreich, ‘The Use of Islamic Sources in Saˁadyah Gaon’s “Tafsīr” of the Torah’,
The Jewish Quarterly Review 93 (2003), 353–395.
56 S. Lowin, The Making of a Forefather: Abraham in Islamic and Jewish Exegetical Narratives
Islamic History and Civilization, Leiden 2006, 37–38.
57 [ˀAbū ˀIṣḥāq] Abraham ibn ˁEzra, Peruš R. Abraham ibn ˁEzra ˁal ha-Torah, ed. E. Lewin,
Jerusalem 1974; Dunaš ben Labraṭ, Sefer Tešubot Dunaš ha-Lewī ben Labraṭ ˁal Rab Seˁadyah
Gaʾon, ed. R. Schröter, Breslau 1866.
58 David ben Abraham al-Fāsī, The Hebrew-Arabic Dictionary of the Bible Known as Kitāb Jāmiˁ
al-Alfāẓ, ed. S.L. Skoss, 2 vols, New Haven 1936–1945; ˀAbū al-Walīd Marwān ibn Janāḥ,
Kitāb al-ˀuṣūl/The Book of Hebrew Roots, ed. Neubauer, Oxford, 1875.
246 ferrer i serra
directly criticises him on this point is Judah ibn Balˁam, who merely rectifies
him about the choice of colour term without entering into any theological or
juridical quarrel on the issue.59
Freidenreich’s attempt to show that Saˁadyah’s mistranslation is paralleled
by other examples where he relied on the Qurˀān and the Muslim tradition is
equally unconvincing. While he successfully illustrates that Saˁadyah was influ-
enced by his cultural setting and that his translations often echo of qurˀānic
vocabulary and phraseology, he mentions only a handful of cases where he
suspects him of relying ‘directly on Islamic sources for specific pieces of infor-
mation that he is unlikely to have learned simply by living in an Islamic environ-
ment, or that he is unlikely to have included in this translation simply because
they were well known by his audience’ (p. 372). The two examples where the
text of the Qurˀān in itself would have influenced Saˁadyah in this way, Gen 3:5
and Gen 39 (passim), moreover, do not come close to changing the colour of the
red heifer. Neither, first of all, is of any legal consequence. Second, Saˁadyah’s
translation of ‫ ֱאלוִֹהם‬in Gen 3:5 as malāˀika admittedly parallels Q 7:20 and his
rendering of ‫ ֶב ֶגד‬in Gen 39 as qamīṣ (in reference to Joseph’s garment) cer-
tainly brings Q 12 to mind, but neither is necessarily inspired specifically by the
Qurˀān in the way Freidenreich suggests. The translation of Gen 3:5 has, as Frei-
denreich himself points out, a direct parallel in Targum Pseudo-Jonathan and
was thus already part of the rabbinic tradition, and his choice to call Joseph’s
garment a qamīṣ could easily be explained as a general influence from the cul-
tural milieu in which he lived: the word is in fact used several times of Joseph’s
robe in the pre-Saˁadyan Torah translation represented by a manuscript at St
Catherine’s monastery (MS Sinai Arabic 2, copied in 939/40), which, Ronny Vol-
landt has pointed out,60 must have existed already in the second half of the
ninth century since it is quoted by Ibn Qutayba and al-Ṭabarī.
The reason why Saˁadyah would have chosen to give the heifer in Num
19:2 a colour that cannot be explained as a translation of ‫ אדם‬is difficult to
perceive. Freidenreich’s explanation that Saˁadyah found the colour of the
59 [ˀAbū Zakariyā Yaḥyā] Judah ibn Balˁam, Kitāb al-Tarjīḥ, see Jehuda ben Shmuel ibn
Balˁam, Commentary on Numbers and Deuteronomy, ed. and Hebrew trans. M. Perez, [MA
Thesis] Bar Ilan University 1970, 31.
60 M. Lindgren and R. Vollandt, ‘An Early Copy of the Pentateuch and the Book of Daniel
in Arabic (MS Sinai—Arabic 2): Preliminary Observations on Codicology, Text Types, and
Translation Technique’, Intellectual History of the Islamicate World 1 (2013), 49. See also
R.C. Steiner, A Biblical Translation in the Making: The Evolution and Impact of Saadia Gaon’s
Tafsīr, Cambridge [Mass.] 2010, 52–68.
cow in Num 19:2 unnatural is conceivable, but it is not very convincing.61

The number of cows that historically had been sacrificed in the way stip-
ulated by Numbers 19 (and thus fulfilled all the requirements stipulated in
the Torah) had not been many (nine, according to Tractate Parah 3:5) but at
least numerous enough to prove that such animals could be found in exis-
tence. More importantly, however, it is difficult to see why we should sup-
pose that Saˁadyah lacked the sensitivity to appreciate that Hebrew ‫ אדם‬not
only is the red of blood but also covers parts of brown—just like Arabic χḥmr
and χṣfr. Esau’s lentil soup was hardly bright red but brownish; the horses in
Zech. 1:8 (and 6:2) probably bay or chestnut; the face of the beloved in Can-
ticles 5:10, certainly not high red. The Talmud speaks of red gold (Yom 4:4)
and (in Aramaic) of peeled etrogs with the colour of a red date (Sukk 35b:
‫)אהינא סומקא‬. The same is true of Classical Arabic, where even cows, horses,
and camels can be χḥmr. al-Ṭabarī, to take one example, appears to have no
problems accepting that cows could be of either colour (al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk
1:213). A more plausible explanation is therefore that Saˁadyah in this instance
chose to translate ‫ אדם‬as χṣfr to stress that the stipulated colour was not
bright red but another, more natural, shade of the colour range covered by
‫אדם‬.
Freidenreich’s suggestion that Saˁadyah chose to make the heifer black is
particularly problematic first of all because this change stands in blatant con-
tradiction to the Mishnah (Parah 2:5), where it is stated that the presence of
two black or white hairs (‫ )שתי שערות שחורות או לבנות‬renders the animal unsuit-
able for the atonement ritual. Another problem is that it is very unlikely that
Saˁadyah—supposing for the sake of argument that he wanted to change the
colour of the heifer to black—would have chosen to convey this by using the
term χṣfr. The early poets, it is true, sometimes used χṣfr for very dark refer-
ents, but it is very doubtful that this is how Saˁadyah’s readers spontaneously
would have understood the term. al-Ṭabarī’s discussion of this possibility in
his commentary to Q 2:69 shows that a sizeable part of his Muslim readers
did not think of this as the most natural way of interpreting the verse. And
61 The fact that Saˁadyah translates ‫ אדם‬as χḥmr in other places, e.g. in Isa 1:18, hardly
shows that he cannot have meant that the heifer in Num 19:2 also was red (or brown),
as Freidenreich seems to suggest. Gen 25:30 and Isa. 63:2, which describe the colour of
Esau/Edom, may perhaps seem to pose something of a problem, but Saˁadyah had no
reason whatsoever to allude to the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar, since he was opposed to
the idea that Esau was the ancestor of the Romans/Greeks, which he explicitly dismisses
in his polemic against Ḥiwi al-Balkhi (see I. Davidson, Saadia’s Polemic against Hiwi al-
Balkhi, New York 1915, 76–77).
248 ferrer i serra
contrary to what Freidenreich asserts, al-Ṭabarī ends up dismissing it himself,

partly on the grounds that black cows, in contrast to camels, were not known
by him to be described by this term. Saˁadyah would thus have had to expect
his readers to accept his translation solely on the authority of certain Mus-
lim exegetes’ disputed opinion about the meaning of the colour term used in
reference to the cow in Q 2:69. Would Saˁadyah’s contemporaries even have
recognised this operation? Judah ibn Balˁam certainly does not seem to have
had a clue. Given that Saˁadyah expressly states that one of his goals was to
produce a clear and precisely formulated translation, it is particularly unlikely
that he would have opted for χṣfr. Haggai Ben-Shammai, who has compared
the translation Saˁadyah makes in the preserved parts of his commentary to
the Pentateuch and Isaiah with his separate translation, makes the interesting
point that Saˁadyah was more conservative in the latter (i.e. the one in question
here: Saˁadyah does not seem to have written a commentary to Numbers): ‘[i]t
seems that Saˁadyah considered the audience for whom the separate transla-
tion was edited less sophisticated, less suitable for innovations and innovative
thinking. Tradition as such was paramount’.62
Banū al-ˀAṣfar
Of the three attestations, the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar has created the most
debate. Silvestre de Sacy’s explanation was, as mentioned, soon rejected by
scholars who ruled out the possibility that χṣfr could be a translation of ‫אדם‬.
The first to raise objections was Franz von Erdmann, who suggested that the
appellation should be understood as a direct translation of the imperial cog-
nomen Flavius.63 The Italian linguist Graziadio Ascoli also dismissed the idea
that the appellation originated in a translation of the characteristic colour of
Esau/Edom, though he neither explains his doubts nor offers an alternative
explanation.64 Ascoli nevertheless made an indirect contribution to the prob-
lem by suggesting that the tradition reported by Ḥamza al-ˀIṣfahānī and other
62 H. Ben-Shammai, ‘Extra-Textual Considerations in Medieval Judaeo-Arabic Bible Trans-

lations: The Case of Saadya Gaon’, Atti del XVI Convegno internazionale dell’AISG (Gabicce
Mare, 1–3 ottobre 2002), Materia giudaica 8 (2003), 53.
63 F. von Erdmann, ‘Ueber die sonderbare Benennung der Europaer, Benu-l-asfar (Nachkom-
men des Gelben), von Seiten der Westasiaten’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen
Gesellschaft 2 (1848), 237–241.
64 G. Ascoli, ‘Ueber ‫’بنو الاصفر‬, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 15
(1861), 143–144.
(late) Arabic sources that the Romans descended from a grandson of Esau by
the name of *Ṣūfar (ṣwfr)/*Ṣafar (ṣfr)/al-ˀAṣfar originated as a corruption of
the name ‘Ṣěpō’ (Zepho),65 Esau’s grandson according to Gen 36:11. The origin
of the tradition itself was according to Ascoli connected to the legend retold
in the Book of Josippon, which narrates how Zepho accompanied Aeneas to
Italy (where he was made king, founded a dynasty, and later had a descendant
called Romulus, who founded the city of Rome), and the corruption gained
hold because the Romans already were known under the appellations Edom
and Banū al-ˀAṣfar. Goldziher, on the other hand, supported the explanation
that the appellation originated in the Arabs’ perception of the light skin colour
of the Romans/Greeks. (This explanation, as mentioned, was already that of
Golius, but it has become more closely associated with Goldiher’s name.66)
The tradition that the Romans/Greeks descended from Edom was in his view
a later etiological explanation based on the Septuagint reading Σωφαρ in Gen
36:11, which developed once the true origin of the appellation had been forgot-
ten. Giorgio Levi Della Vida, finally,67 suggests that the origin of the appellation
actually is to be sought in a textual corruption, though not in Josippon but in
the Septuagint reading of Gen 36:11, a reading, he points out, which must have
reached the Arabs through Christian sources (considering that the Septuagint
at an early date was abandoned by the Jews).
Erdmann’s suggestion that the origin of the appellation should be sought
in the Byzantine emperors’ traditional adoption of the honorific name Flav-
ius is more than anything a conjecture with little to recommend it, except that
Latin flavus could be translated as χṣfr. Flavius was indeed an imperial cog-
nomen from Constantine and onwards, and it also gained currency as a status
marker among the elite,68 but the mechanisms through which this would have
given rise to the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar, which seems to reflect a misunder-
standing of the nature of this name, are far from clear. At this background it is
65 MS Sinai Arabic 2, copied in 939/40, which, as mentioned earlier, goes back to a translation
that must have existed already in the second half of the ninth century (see below), reads
/ṣfr/ (image 59).
66 I. Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien, 2 vols, Halle 1889–1890, 1:268–269. Goldziher, it
should be noted, does not repeat this assertion in a later discussion of the question (‘Aṣfar’
in the Encyclopaedia of Islam).
67 G. Levi Della Vida, ‘The “Bronze Era” in Moslem Spain’, 190–191.
68 J.K. Keenan ‘The names Flavius and Aurelius as Status Designations in Later Roman Egypt’,
Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 11 (1973), 33–63; idem, ‘The Names Flavius and
Aurelius as Status Designations in Later Roman Egypt (ii)’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und
Epigraphik 13 (1974), 283–304.
250 ferrer i serra
a serious difficulty that al-ˀAṣfar is an unlikely translation for ‘Flavius’, which

as an anthroponym naturally would have been interpreted as meaning blond
(i.e. referring to hair colour) rather than yellow (i.e. referring to complexion).
Skin colour did not belong to the semiotic registers of the related colour word
flavus;69 human hair, on the other hand, has never belonged to the semiotic reg-
isters of χṣfr. ‘The sons of Flavius’ would therefore in a linguistically sensitive
translation rather have been rendered as ‘Banū al-ˀAṣhab’ or ‘Banū al-ˀAšqar’.
Explaining the origin of the appellation through a textual corruption of
‘Ṣěpō’ suffers from the weakness that the last, unmistakably Arabic, link in this
corruption chain (*Ṣafar or *Ṣūfar > al-ˀAṣfar), whether oral or scriptural, is very
unlikely to have occurred before the custom of referring to the Romans/Greeks
as Banū al-ˀAṣfar developed. The appellation is attested as early as in the
poetry of ˁAdī ibn Zayd (16/23) around 600 ad, and it was certainly in wide
use by the eighth century, when it crops up in prophetic traditions and other
historical material.70 Zepho was at this time in the Rabbinic (Hebrew-Aramaic)
tradition according to all available evidence no more than a name in Gen 36,
while in the Arabic tradition there probably did not even exist a text where
he was mentioned, except, perhaps, a version of Gen 36, but even that is
very doubtful.71 Zepho does not appear to have become associated with the
Romans before the tenth century, prior to which date both Jewish and Muslim
sources pass him over in conspicuous silence. Some of the most important
rabbinic sources follow the tradition traceable back to the Septuagint (Dan
11:30) of identifying Rome with the Kittīm (‫ ִכִּתּים‬mentioned among the progeny
of Japheth in Gen 10:4 (see e.g. Tg Onqelos (Num 24:24), Tg Ps-Jonathan (Num
24:24)); others identify them with Magdiel, another obscure figure mentioned
alongside Zepho in Gen 36 (GenR 83:4; PRE 38). The earliest Hebrew source
making Zepho the ancestor of the Romans seems to be the Book of Josippon,
69 E. Laughton, ‘Flavus pudor’, Classical Review 62 (1948), 109–111; idem, ‘Flavus Again’, Classi-
cal Review 64 (1950), 88–89; M. Bradley, Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome, Cambridge
2011, 1–12.
70 The frequency with with Banū al-ˀAṣfar occurs in apocalyptic contexts is remarkable con-
sidering that Esau/Edom plays a similar role in Rabbinic writings. The poetic attestations
should also be put in this context. ˁAdī ibn Zayd’s verse, though certainly not apocalyptic,
nevertheless concerns the destruction of the Roman emperors. ˀAbū Tammām’s invoca-
tion of the epithet in the final line of his Amorium qaṣīda could also be understood as
having an apocalyptic undertone if we understand it as alluding to the ultimate destruc-
tion of the Byzantines.
71 S.H. Griffith, The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the ‘People of the Book’, Princeton 2013,
111–112.
a work now generally dated to the first half of the tenth century (though not
later than 953).72 The case is not entirely clear, however. The dating of Josippon
is still the subject of some debate,73 and there is a passage in the Tanḥuma-
Yelammedenu relating how Zepho founded Rome which may predate the
Josippon,74 though this, too, is very uncertain, particularly since it is found
neither in the so-called ‘printed’ Tanḥuma nor Tanḥuma Buber. The Muslim
Arabic sources present a similar picture. The earliest authors, as we have seen,
identify al-ˀAṣfar with Esau himself or with a son of his called Rūm (Tījān 231;
Maˁārif 38; al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 1:317), and by the late ninth century another
genealogy tracing the Romans back to Esau crops up in the sources, where
Zepho/al-ˀAṣfar is missing altogether, while Rūm is four generations removed
from Esau (Taˀrīx al-Yaˁqūbī 1:164; Murūj 2:32; Muˁjam al-buldān 3:97). The
earliest authority to mention (a corrupted form of) Zepho in connection with
the ancestry of the Romans seems to be al-Masˁūdī (Murūj 2:32), the extant
version of whose world history dates from 947/8 ad,75 followed by Ḥamza al-
ˀIṣfahānī (Taˀrix sinī mulūk al-ˀarḍ 67), who completed his chronicle in 961. The
identification of Zepho with al-ˀAṣfar thus bears all the signs of being much
later than the appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar.
Levi Della Vida’s opinion that the origin of the appellation is to be sought
specifically in the Septuagint reading of Gen 36:11 meets with the additional
difficulty that the Christians do not seem to commonly have identified the
Romans with Esau/Edom. The dominant tendency among the Christians,
72 See primarily L.H. Feldman, Josephus and Modern Scholarship (1937–1980), Berlin 1984,
62–66 for a detailed overview of the research on Josippon (until 1980).
73 The dating of Josippon to the mid tenth century has more recently been challenged by
scholars advancing the idea that the standard text of the Hebrew Josippon (Dönitz) or
the Hebrew version as such (Sela) does not represent the oldest recension of the text; see
S. Dönitz, ‘Historiography among Byzantine Jews: The Case of Sefer Yosippon’, in R. Bonfil
et al. (eds), Jews in Byzantium: Dialectics of Minority and Majority Cultures, 951–968, Leiden
2011; Sh. Sela, Sefer Yosef ben Guryon ha-aravi, 2 vols, Jerusalem 2009; also S. Bowman,
‘Dates in Sepher Yosippon’, in J.C. Reeves and J. Kampen (eds), Pursuing the Text: Studies
in Honor of Ben Zion Wacholder on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, Sheffield 1994.
74 See e.g. L. Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, 6 vols, Philadelphia 1909–1928, 5:372. Cohen
(‘Esau as a Symbol’, 44) regards it as posterior to Josippon. The material in the Tanḥuma-
Yelammedenu complex is notoriously difficult to date; see e.g. C. Milikowsky, ‘The Status
Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature’, Journal of Jewish Studies 39 (1988), 201–
211. M. Bregman (The Tanhuma-Yelammedenu Literature: Studies in the Evolution of the
Versions, Piscataway [N.J.] 2003), represents a courageous attempt to address this problem.
75 T. Khalidi, Islamic Historiography: The Histories of Masˁūdī, Albany 1975, 155f. Note that
this predates Flusser’s dating of Josippon to 953.
252 ferrer i serra
beginning as early as Paul’s interpretation of the conflict between Jacob and

Esau in Rom. 9:6–13, was to identify the Jews with Esau, the older brother, and
the Church with Jacob, the younger one favoured by God, and the conversion
of Rome to Christianity in the fourth century hardly favoured the case for
identifying it with Esau.76
Goldziher’s explanation that the appellation originated in the Arabs’ percep-
tion of the skin colour of the Romans/Greeks seems immediately unlikely, since
‘The sons of …’, suggests that it originally referred to the offspring of a specific
individual. Apparently this was also the way the Arabic tradition understood
it, as we can observe in the earliest attestation of it we have, viz. the famous
verse by ˁAdī ibn Zayd (wa-banū l-ˀaṣfari l-mulūku mulūku l-rūmi / lam yabqa
minhumu maḏkūru, 16/23), where it designates the imperial house, down to the
identification of al-ˀAṣfar with Esau, Rūm, Zepho, or an Abyssinian slave (more
on all this below). Another problem in this context is that this explanation
presupposes that the racial stereotype behind the appellation somehow was
forgotten, or disconnected from it, even though the link theoretically should
have been fairly obvious to anyone who had the opportunity to see a Byzan-
tine. And this despite that the alternative explanations remained within the
realm of skin colour.
This leads us to the most serious problem with Goldziher’s explanation,
which is that the notion that the Arabs perceived the complexion of the Ro-
mans/Greeks as χṣfr is no more than an unfounded supposition.77 Contrary to
the assertions of Erdmann, Vollers, and Goldziher himself,78 it is quite clear that
76 G. Cohen ‘Esau as a Symbol’, 31 ff., though occasional counter-examples do exist: see e.g.
Jerome’s interpretation of Is 21:2 (Ginzberg, Legends, 5:272).
77 Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī (d. 1229), as far as I am aware the earliest author to explain the appella-
tion Banū al-ˀAṣfar as referring to their skin colour, represents this as his personal opinion.
Interestingly, too, he also finds it necessary to explain that al-šuqratu ˀiḏā ˀafraṭat ṣārat
ṣufra (Muˁjam al-buldān 3:98); the skin colour of the Romans/Greeks was apparently even
at this point in time not generally understood as χṣfr, even though the term here appears
to have shifted its range.
78 F. von Erdmann, loc. cit; I. Goldziher, loc. cit; K. Vollers, ‘Über Rassenfarben in der Ara-
bischen Literatur’, Centenario della Nascita di Michele Amari, 2 vols, Palermo 1910, 1:84–95.
Erdmann offers no evidence in support of his claim. Goldziher mainly refers to a pas-
sage in the ˀAġānī (5:170), which he erroneously interprets as referring to black (χswd) and
white (χṣfr) slave girls. (The correct interpretation is given below.) Vollers merely quotes
a passage from al-Ṭabarī’s history in which Muṣˁab ibn al-Zubayr insults his interlocutor
by describing his mother as a bitch whelping puppies of colours varying according to the
dogs that have mounted her (al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 6:154). Why χṣfr here would refer to
Byzantines is difficult to discern.
the skin colour described as χṣfr in the first centuries of Islam denoted a darker
complexion than that which the Arabs attributed to the Romans/Greeks. To
begin with, take Banū al-ˀAṣfar themselves. The report in al-Ṭabarī (al-ˀUmam
wal-mulūk 1:317–319) that their appellation originated as a reference to Esau’s
tawniness (ˀudma) already shows the erroneousness of Goldziher’s explana-
tion.79 The etiological tale connected to the designation Banū al-ˀAṣfar offers
another, something which strangely enough has escaped notice. There are two
versions of this tale. al-Fīrūzabādī explains that the designation came about
because an army of Abyssinians vanquished the Romans/Greeks and raped
their women, who as a result of this gave birth to χṣfr children (this is the
tale through which Golius lay the ground for the idea that the designation
originated in a racial stereotype). Another (probably late) version, which was
noted by Quatremère,80 has it that the designation refers to the offspring of a
child conceived through the union of a queen of the Rūm and an Abyssinian
slave, who was called al-ˀAṣfar on account of his for a Roman/Greek unusu-
ally dark skin colour. The continued misreading of these explanations from
Golius and on is quite astonishing, for neither story implies that the complex-
ion of the Romans/Greeks was χṣfr. Quite to the contrary they were clearly
fabricated to account for the puzzling fact that (the emperors of) such a rel-
atively fair-skinned people as the Byzantines were called Banū al-ˀAṣfar, which
led thoughts to a dark colour. An attentive reading of the final line of ˀAbū
Tammām’s Amorium qaṣida (ˀAbū Tammām 2/71) illustrates the same: ˀabqat
[al-ˀayyām] banī l-ˀaṣfari l-mimrāḍi ka-smihim / ṣufra l-wujūhi wa-jallat ˀawjuha
l-ˁarabi. The poet here speaks of the facial colour of the Banū al-ˀAṣfar, not as
a natural trait—it is only their name, not their normal appearance, that indi-
cates sickness—but as something that has been brought about by their defeat:
their faces have darkened (lost brilliance, ‘paled to dark’) by shame; those of the
Arabs, brightened with glory. The facial colour of the Byzantines is thus here no
79 The term χˀdm, when used in reference to people, unequivocally denotes darkness of
complexion, as can be verified in the lexicographers (note in particular Fiqh al-luġa 118)
and corroborated e.g. in al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 7:562; ˀAġānī 15:89 (compare 18:84); and
Maˁārif 126. (Note also al-ˀUmam wal-mulūk 8:99, where an Arab slave is described as
ˀaṣfar ˀilā al-ˀudma.) A caveat: the statement by al-Ṭabarī’s Jewish informant(s) that Esau
got the name Edom due to his ˀudma must also be understood at the background of
the common practice of using Arabic cognates in the translation of the Torah (on this
point see e.g. R. Vollandt, Arabic Versions of the Pentateuch: A Comparative Study of Jewish,
Christian, and Muslim Sources, Leiden 2015, 184 ff.).
80 E.M. Quatremère, ‘Mémoire sur l’ ouvrage intitulé Kitab al-agâni [sic] … c’est-à-dire
Receuil de chansons’, Journal Asiatique (sér 2, tome 16) 1835, 390–391.
254 ferrer i serra
different than that of the fallen Barmakides in the verses Yaḥyā ibn Xālid
directed to Hārūn al-Rašīd (ˁIqd 5:68). One could take this a step further. ˀAbū
Tammām starts his poem by mockingly comparing the failed prophesies of
the enemy astrologers to the ‘prophecy’ of the Muslim swords; the ending
therefore gains considerably in effect if we think of it as implying that the
victorious Muslim swords now had revealed the truth about the Byzantines’
puzzling appellation, or as it were, had fulfilled the enigmatic prophecy implied
in it.
The sources of the first Islamic centuries in fact typically associate χṣfr
with darker-skinned people, in particular Abyssinians. al-ˀIṣfahānī gives us a
number of illustrations of this. The Meccan singer Ibn Jāmiˁ (fl. late eighth
century), he reports, was inspired by his love for a certain slave girl to write
some verses comparing her χṣfr colour to the blackness of musk (ˀAġānī 18:70).
ˀAbū Ḥanaš, he narrates in another passage, addressed a poem to ˁInān, the
famous singing-girl who eventually was bought by Hārūn al-Rašīd, in which
he describes χṣfr as the colour of Abyssinian girls: ˀaḥabba l-milāḥa l-bīḍa
qalbī wa-rubbamā / ˀaḥabba l-milāḥa l-ṣufra min waladi l-ḥabaš (ˀAġānī 23:86).
The biography of Saˁīd ibn Misjaḥ offers a third example. al-ˀIṣfahānī reports
that this famous Meccan singer in the early Umayyad period was of black
(χswd) skin colour, but he also describes the tone of his skin more precisely
as χṣfr (ˀAġānī 3:276ff.). Several individuals of Arab descent are also described
as χṣfr (see Burṣān 154ff.); one is ˁAbdallah ibn ˁUmar ibn al-Xaṭṭāb (ˀAġānī
7:285), whom other sources unequivocally describe as being of dark (χˀdm)
complexion. People from Oman were according to Ibn Qutayba also typically of
χṣfr colour, which, though not very easily interpreted, at any rate hardly can be
taken to imply that they were thought to be as fair-skinned as Greeks or Romans
(Maˁārif 598). At this point it should be clear that Goldziher misinterpreted the
passage in which ˀIsḥāq ibn ˀIbrāhīm al-Mawṣilī gives witness to his father’s
role in developing the use of qiyān into a sophisticated institution (ˀAġānī
5:170). The point ˀIsḥāq is making, contrary to Goldziher’s interpretation, is that
before ˀIbrāhīm began instructing highly-priced slave girls in the art of singing
and entertaining, it was customary only to teach girls of darker skin colour
to sing (ˀinnamā kānū yuˁallimūnahu l-ṣufra wal-sūd), but afterwards (in the
Abbasid age) the more expensive white girls (often of Byzantine and Spanish
origin) came into higher demand as singers.81
81 The prices for white slaves appear generally to have been higher than those for black ones
during the centuries following the Islamic expansion, the difference in price increasing
somewhat over time due to the diminishing supply of whites; see e.g. E. Ashtor, Histoire
The association of χṣfr with a light skin tone belongs to later periods, when
χṣfr itself had become a yellow category. Even in an author as relatively late as
Ibn Sīnā, however, we find evidence that χṣfr was understood as referring to a
dark skin colour, something Raphelengius perhaps also took into consideration
(Qānūn 42). The moderate heat of spring, Ibn Sīnā explains, reddens the skin
(makes it χḥmr) by drawing blood to its surface, whereas the hotter tempera-
tures of summer disperses the blood and increases the bile, thus making it χṣfr.
The Galenic model of explanation aside, it is clear that Ibn Sīnā, though writing
as late as the tenth century, describes the deeper tan of the summer months as
χṣfr.
Survivals of the older taxonomy are rare in the modern dialects, but the Ger-
man explorer of Central and West Africa Gustav Nachtigal has given a valuable
account of the skin-colour taxonomy among Arabic speakers in eastern Sahara
and Sudan in the 1870s, which, even if it cannot be supposed to be identical with
the archaic taxonomy we are concerned with here, at least gives evidence of a
system where χṣfr denotes a dark skin colour.82 The Arabic speakers of these
areas, he reports, distinguished skin colour along a scale running, from lightest
to darkest, as follows: ˀabyaḍ /ˀaḥmar /ˀaṣfar /ˀasmar /ˀaxḍar /ˀazraq̱ /ˀaswad.83
The typical colour of Arabs and Berbers was ˀaḥmar, while the complexion of
darker Arabs, ‘very many Qoran, and even many Maba people and Karanga’ was
ˀaṣfar, ‘a dirty copper colour’.84
des prix et des salaires dans l’ Orient médiéval, Paris 1969, 58–59; A. Mez, The Renaissance
of Islam, 3rd ed., New Delhi 1995, 203–205.
82 S. Reichmuth’s description (‘Die Farbbezeichnungen im Sudanesich-Arabischen Dialek-
ten’, Zeitschrift ḟür Arabischen Linguistik 6 (1981), 59) of the lexical domain of skin colour
in Sudani Arabic in the late 1970s offers a picture that is more reminiscent of other mod-
ern variants of Arabic; note, however, that even here χṣfr represents a darker category than
χḥmr.
83 The χṣfr colour category that underlies the χṣfr skin-colour category seems also to have
been quite archaic, though it is unclear whether Nachtigal is referring to Arabic speakers
when he writes that ‘most individuals of the areas in question are at a total loss when hav-
ing to differentiate between the “yellow” of a quince, and a “saffron-yellow”, or become
unable to decide whether to call either of them, or both, “green” or “red”’; see B. Saunders,
(ed.), The Debate about Colour Naming in 19th Century German Philology: Selected Transla-
tions, Leuven 2007, 95–96. Kotelmann’s almost contemporary investigation of the colour
vision of 18 Arabic-speaking Nubians in Hamburg in 1879 confirms this. The χṣfr term that
can be glimpsed behind the responses of these test subjects seems to have stretched into
‘orange’, ‘brown’, and ‘violet’; ibid., 104. The Arabicness of this colour category could nev-
ertheless, just as with that of Nachtigal, be doubted.
84 G. Nachtigal, Sahara and Sudan, 4 vols, London 1971–1987, 4:170.
256 ferrer i serra
Concluding Remarks
The preceding sections have hopefully shown that our current knowledge of
the semantic history of χṣfr at best can be described as hazy and that the
three attestations of this colour term discussed above cannot be convincingly
explained except as translations of Hebrew ‫אדם‬. The detailed study of χṣfr
in early Arabic poetry on which I am working will hopefully leave no doubts
that this in certain contexts could be a perfectly natural translation. But in
anticipation of this I will in the remaining paragraphs of this paper make a few
preliminary reflections—in the spirit of Raphelengius, if you will—on what
our three attestations tell us about the semantic history of χṣfr, and vice versa.
The appellation Banū al-ˀAṣfar, as previously mentioned, is first attested in
the poetry of ˁAdī ibn Zayd (c. 600), but there is nothing to prevent us from
thinking that it could be significantly older. At ˁAdī’s time the Jewish identi-
fication of Edom with the Romans after all had a history of about five or six
centuries. The translation fossilised in the appellation thus potentially reflects
the signification of χṣfr in a layer of the language from which no other attes-
tations of this term have survived. The question is, therefore, what does χṣfr
stand for in this context? The later Arabic tradition gives no evidence that
Esau/Edom’s epithet ˀAṣfar was understood in any other terms than his skin
colour, but it would probably be a mistake to interpret the origin of the appel-
lation strictly in the light of a simple reading of Gen 25:25. The Jewish tradition,
as mentioned earlier, understood Esau/Edom’s colour very much in terms of
red, even the red of blood, and if this is not directly reflected in the classical
Arabic authors of the Muslim period, it is probably in the first hand because
the figure of Esau/Edom plays a very shady role in the Islamic tradition: even
someone like al-Ṭabarī, as mentioned, quotes a Jewish informant on this point.
The translation behind the colour of the cow in Q 2:69 presents a different
problem in that it probably is somewhat less likely to reflect an early stage of
the language, but again we are confronted with the problem of how ‫ אדם‬could
have been interpreted in this context. The rabbinic sources are curiously unin-
formative on this point: in Hebrew it is simply ‫אדם‬, in Aramaic ‫סמוק‬. Greek
Jewish sources seem to interpret the colour as a somewhat yellowish shade of
red. The Septuagint translates ‫ ָפּ ָרה ֲא ֻדָמּה‬as δάμαλιν πυρρὰν, thus preferring πυρ-
ρός over ἐρυθρός, which commonly is regarded as the ‘primary’ or ‘basic’ word
for red in Ancient Greek.85 The meaning of πυρρός, often translated as red or
85 H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, 2 vols, Oxford 1925–1940, s.v.; M. Plat-
nauer, ‘Greek Colour Perception’ The Classical Quarterly 15 (1921), 153–162; E. Irwin, Colour
Terms in Greek Poetry, Toronto 1974.
tawny, is uncertain, though its occasional collocation with such referents as

egg yolk and lions indicates that it extended into relatively close proximity to
yellow. Flavius Josephus’ translation is even more striking: he prefers ξαυθός
( Jewish Antiquities 4.6), which is regarded as the primary word for yellow in
Ancient Greek, although it is clear that it was a yellow which, as Liddell-Scott
puts it, frequently had a tinge of red and sometimes denoted ‘brown’ or ‘auburn’.
Josephus himself uses it both of David’s complexion ( Jewish Antiquities 2.2)
and the pottage for which Esau sold his birthright ( Jewish Antiquities 6.164).
The general rabbinic silence on this point, however, is probably more signifi-
cant than these translations, since it indicates that ‫( אדם‬and thus χṣfr) could
represent any colour common in cows, except white and black.
The most interesting aspect of Saˁadyah’s translation of Num 19:2 is that it
actualises the question of whether χṣfr could be an acceptable translation ‫אדם‬
even as late as in the tenth century. The referential range of χṣfr undeniably
came closer to that of yellow over time, and this process had by Saˁadyah’s
age clearly come far, as we can see in the fact that χṣfr at this point regularly
took focal or near-focal yellow referents.86 The preceding pages should on the
other hand on several occasions have suggested that his translation may not
have been quite as deviant from contemporary usage as it at first may seem.
Following the course of our discussion we have run into instances such as Ibn
Sīna’s discussion of the colour of urine, the explanation of the appellation Banū
al-ˀAṣfar a Jewish authority (rightly or wrongly) offered al-Ṭabarī, the Syriac
lexicographers’ definition of 焏‫ܘܥ‬犯‫ܚ‬, the employment of χṣfr in describing skin
colour in the first centuries of Islam, and the fact that Saˁadyah’s translation
of Num 19:2 met with no reaction until after a century (perhaps under the
influence of the Spanish-Arabic vernacular). Such instances show that we still
today have reason to look also at relatively late attestations of χṣfr with more
86 Evidence that χḥmr in later periods took orange referents is much scarcer. Stewart (‘Color
Terms in Egyptian Arabic’, 108), who believes that orange in Egyptian Arabic separated
from red, supports himself on a verse where al-Mutanabbī likens blood to oranges and
the (by him undocumented) assertion that oranges are termed χḥmr in Mauritanian
Ḥassāniya Arabic. The issue, however, is more complicated than this. A. Borg (‘Linguistic
and Ethnographic Observations on the Color Categories of the Negev Bedouin’, in idem
(ed.) The Language of Color in the Mediterranean, Stockholm 1999, 132) documents that
Negev Arabic normally has a yellow+orange category, and J. Watson (‘In Search of the
Green Donkey: Changing Colour Terminology in Sanˁani Arabic’, Estudios de dialectología
norteafricana y andalusí 8 (2004), 258) finds the same in the Arabic of Sanaʾa. As for
Mutanabbī and oranges, some varieties of blood orange have red peel that could be very
evocative of fallen enemies.
258 ferrer i serra
of Raphelengius’ mindset than usually is done. Saˁadyah’s employment of χṣfr

in translating other Biblical passages, which Freidenreich has dismissed as
irrelevant to the question of his translation of Num 19:2, offers a good example
of this, with which I will round off this paper.
Saˁadyah renders Job 16:16 (‫ ;ָפּ ַני ֳחַמ ְרְמרוּ ִמ ִנּי ֶבִכי ְוַﬠל ַﬠְפַﬠַפּי ַצְלָמ ֶות‬JPS: My
face is red with weeping, and on my eyelids is the shadow of death; NIV:
My face is red with weeping, dark shadows ring my eyes) as wa-ṣfarra wajhī
mina l-bukāˀi wa-ˁalā muqlatayya l-ġabas. The precise meaning of this verse
is debated, mainly because the meaning of ‫ ֳחַמ ְרְמרו‬is uncertain (as is ‫ַצְלָמ ֶות‬,
though this is of less importance here). The verb ‫ חַמרמר‬is by some interpreted
as cognate to the Arabic √ḥmr (to be red) while others connect it to √xmr
(to ferment, boil). And to make matters more complicated, LXX reflects a
somewhat different text: ἡ γαστήρ μον συνκέκαυται: (my belly is burned with
weeping). Saˁadyah’s interpretation of the verse is nevertheless clear inasmuch
as he understands the verb in the former way, although he prefers to translate
it with the verb iṣfarra rather than iḥmarra. Precisely what he wants to convey
with this is of course difficult to tell, but the answer must be sought within the
boundaries of how he is likely to have interpreted ‫ֳחַמ ְרְמרוּ‬. The possibility that
he wanted to express the idea that Job’s face is paling, in the sense of whitening
or yellowing, is therefore not very likely, because even though χḥmr does
refer to light-skinned people, becoming χḥmr is not an expression normally
used to describe paling. Classical Arabic χṣfr, it is true, can refer to a paling
(yellowing, whitening) face, for instance when the poets of the Abbasid age
describe the countenance of the lover in terms of the narcissus, the lemon,
or a wax candle.87 But the usage of χṣfr in reference to the paling of faces
(or vegetation) is not less ambiguous than the English ‘livid’ or ‘pale’. The
latter, as used in every-day parlance, refers both to a loss of colour (tone
or saturation) but also to the loss of brightness, which is why the setting
sun can be described as paling, though it actually gains in colour towards
its setting. The Arabic χṣfr, which functions as both a hue- and a paleness
term, can in a similar (though not identical) fashion also express the idea
of darkening (loss of brightness) of a person’s face, as in the verses of ˀAbū
Tammām or Yaḥyā ibn Xālid (both mentioned above), and this has probably
87 The lover’s paleness is a topos also in Graeco-Roman antiquity; it can be traced as far back
as Sappho. The pallor (iṣfirār) coming from religious devotion (K. Lewinstein, ‘Making and
Unmaking a Sect: The Heresiographers and the Ṣufriyya’, Studia Islamica (1992), 94–95)
may be different from that of the lover: the rabbinic tradition associates it with a darkening
of the face (A. Melamed, The Image of the Black in Jewish Culture: A History of the Other,
London 2003).
influenced Saˁadyah’s translation. Nobility, moral character, and beauty are in

Classical Arabic intimately connected to the image of having a brilliant face,
i.e. one radiating light, while lack of nobility or moral character alongside
with dejection, humiliation, and shame is connected to having a dark face,
i.e. one that does not radiate light. The latter is also true of grief and weeping
(Mufaḍḍalīyāt 67/30; Sīra 90; Q 3:106; Q 16:58; Q 39:60).88 The parallelism in Job
16:16 moreover seems to be synonymous rather than antithetical, and it is no
coincidence that practically every Bible translator who has understood ‫ֳחַמ ְרְמרוּ‬
in terms of colour has taken it to involve a reddening or darkening of the face.
Targum Job, which could have directly influenced Saˁadyah’s choice of words,
here reads ‫( אפיי טשטשין מן בכיתא‬lit: My face has been smeared over (muddied)
with weeping).
Saˁadyah’s employment of χṣfr in translating ‫ָבּ ֶרֶקת‬, one of the gemstones on
the priestly breastplate (Exod 28:17 and 39:10), is more difficult to interpret. The
following paragraphs should therefore not be taken as more than preliminary
observations. One thing, however, is clear: Saˁadyah’s translation can certainly
not be dismissed as a failed attempt to translate the name of a green stone.
The translation, ˀaṣfar, should almost certainly be understood as yāqūt ˀaṣfar,
which was described by al-Bīrūnī under the name of al-yāqūt al-muwarrad al-
ˀaṣfar in a passage which puts χṣfr on a scale that is remarkably similar to
that in Ibn Sīnā’s discussion of the colour of urine. The preferred kind of this
gemstone, he says, was the one that had such a strong (mušbaˁ) χṣfr colour that
it looked similar to the red yāqūt with its pomegranate colour, then came the
apricot coloured, then the etrog coloured, then the straw coloured, all the way
to white ( Jawāhir 74)̣. Saˁadyah could have had any of these shades in mind,
but it seems natural to think that it was one of the more appreciated, darker
varieties.
88 D.M. Goldenberg (The Curse of Ham: Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Christianity, and
Islam, Princeton 2003, 94) notes that having a dark face also in Hebrew and Aramaic texts
is associated with grief. Grief nevertheless according to Goldenberg (ibid. 281) belongs
to a range of physiological and psychological reactions (including hunger, illness, anger,
shame, etc.) which in these languages is associated both by a lightening and darkening
facial colour. The only example he gives specifically for grief (Symmachus’ Life of Abel
5), however, does not involve this emotion, but wrath (just like in the underlying Gen
4:5); he also offers no evidence for hunger. The meanings of some of the Hebrew and
Aramaic words behind these expressions also need to be revisited: note e.g. that ‫נתכרכם‬,
which generally is understood as involving paling, in CantR (1:4) unambiguously involves
a darkening of the skin and that the redness of the evening sky ‘pales’ (‫ )הכסיף‬to dark in
Šabb 34b.
260 ferrer i serra
The Hebrew does not help us much. The meaning of ‫ברקת‬, like most of the
other stones in the breastplate is far from clear, wherefore modern attempts to
identify it generally are based on the Septuagint (σμαραγδος)89 and the Vulgate
(zmaragdus), both being traditionally identified with the emerald. Saˁadyah,
however, clearly does not have a green (or blue) stone in mind, which perhaps
reflects that the order of the stones varied somewhat before the establishment
of the Masoretic text, as can be seen very clearly in the different order the
LXX and the Vulgate put the stones in the fourth row (Vulg. onychinus, berillus
against LXX βηρυλλιον, ονυχιον). The likeliest would then be that ‫ ברקת‬in reality
corresponds to ἄνθραξ (Vulg. carbunculus), a stone which was so called because
it appears like a burning coal (ἄνθραξ, carbunculus) when it is held up against
the sun, and which Epiphanius of Salamis informs us is of a bright scarlet
(puniceus) colour. The rabbinic tradition, which of course is more relevant to
the present problem than the original meaning of ‫ ברקת‬or the translations of
LXX and the Vulgate, likewise offers a confused picture of the stones in the
breastplate. Saˁadyah’s translations of the gem names nevertheless conform
well enough with it to allow us to make a fairly good guess at what he may
have had in mind when he translated ‫ברקת‬, though it has to be admitted that
his translations of some of the names of the more obscure and disputed stones
leave room for doubt about whether his translations indeed can be predicted
from the obvious places to look.
The targumim on a first look do not offer many useful clues. Onqelos has
‫ברקן‬, and Pseudo-Jonathan ‫ברקתא‬, which scarcely is easier to interpret than
their original Hebrew cognate. These and other Aramaic gemstone names of
the same root, not very surprisingly, are often identified as the emerald, which
does not tell us anything about what Saˁadyah had in mind, but it is well worth
noting that Bar Bahlul gives the meaning of 焏‫ܩ‬犯‫ ܵܒ‬as ‘the colour of lighten-
ing, which they claim is wine-coloured tending to χṣfr’ (al-xamrī ˀilā al-ṣufra)
and also as a name for the (brownish-red) carnelian (ˁaqīq).90 The targum to
Song of Songs (5:14) has ‫ברקן‬, but R.H. Melamed has in his edition based on
Yemenite manuscripts documented the gloss ‫( זעפראן‬saffron) and the read-
ings ‫ זעפראן‬and ‫ברקן זעפראן‬,91 which gives a clear indication that the stone in
question was thought to have been orange or deep red. The evidence from the
89 The traditional identification is with the emerald. J.A. Harrell (‘Old Testament Gemstones:
A Philological, Geological, and Archaeological Assessment of the Septuagint’, Bulletin for
Biblical Research 21 (2011), 141–172) identifies it as the turquoise or possibly the malachite.
90 Bar Bahlul, Lexicon Syriacum, s.v.
91 R.H. Melamed, ‘The Targum to Canticles According to Six Yemen MSS. Compared with the
“Textus Receptus” (ed. Lagarde)’, Jewish Quarterly Review N.S. 12 (1921–1921), 96.
midrashim offers more complex problems but could also have given Saˁadyah
reason to understand ‫ ברקת‬as red. Exodus Rabbah has ‫( דייקינתין‬jacinth). This
name is in modern usage applied to zircon, a beautiful reddish or deep amber
stone, but the authors of antiquity (e.g. Solenos, Pliny, Epiphanius) speak of
the jacinth as a blue or ‘purple’ (or red-crimson) gem, while mediaeval lapi-
daries speak more clearly of red jacinths. Marbodius, for instance, speaks of
pomegranate red; orange, tawny, or yellow (citrine); and water-coloured (evage)
jacinths. Saˁadyah himself is most likely to have understood the word in terms
of the Arabic yāqūt, with which it discernibly is etymologically related, and
we are thus back to al-Bīrūnī.92 Bar Bahlul notes that the Syriac ‫ܘܤ‬狏‫ܐܘܐܩܝܢ‬
(sometimes also ‫ܘܤ‬狏‫ )ܐܘܩܝܢ‬by some was understood as zumurrud, but he
prefers the translation yāqut, noting that this also was the opinion of Paul (of
Aegina). For the sake of exhaustiveness, Midrash Numbers Rabbah 2:7 should
also be mentioned here, though it probably is of marginal interest in this con-
text: here the colour of the stones is said to have corresponded to those of
the banners of the tribes of Israel; the third banner/stone is described banded
white, black, and red.
Saˁadyah’s rendering of Num 19:2 could on the other hand be based on an
earlier translation, which also would help explaining that his choice of term
to translate ‫ אדם‬was not a cause of polemics.93 Saˁadyah, we know, glanced
at earlier Arabic versions of the Pentateuch in making his own translations.94
92 The unlikely possibility that Saˁadyah understood ‫ דייקינתין‬in terms of the colour of the
hyacinth (flower) cannot be entirely excluded. The ‫ דייקינתין‬is not attested to be epony-
mous with the gemstone in Rabbinic Aramaic, but was at least so in Syriac
(‫ܘܤ‬狏‫)ܐܘܐܩܝܢ‬, which strangely enough is overlooked by I. Löw (Die Flora der Juden,
Wien/Leipzig 1924–1934, 2:164). The hyacinth of the ancient authors was of a deep red
colour, as can be expected from the myth that it grew up from the blood of a young man.
Virgil calls it ferrugineus and suave rubens; Ovid, purpureus. Bar Bahlul describes it as
deep red or purple (urjuwānī), noting that is sometimes was identified with ḥabb al-nīl, i.e.
the indigo plant (Lexicon Syriacum, s.v ‫ܘܤ‬狏‫)ܐܘܐܩܝܢ‬. The flower we today call hyacinth
still in the eighteenth century existed only in white, red, and blue varieties; see George
Voorhelm, Traité sur la jacinte, Harlem 1752.
93 When the earliest Arabic translation of the Hebrew Bible was made continues to be
a matter of dispute. Yosef Tobi thinks it probable that the first Jewish translation was
composed in the Arabian Peninsula before the advent of Islam, while S. Griffith on the
other hand believes that the earliest Christian translations of portions of the Bible were
made in the eighth century and the earliest Jewish ones early in the ninth; see Y. Tobi, ‘Early
Judeo-Arabic Biblical Translations’, Religion Compass 6 (2012): 225–235; S.H. Griffith, The
Bible in Arabic, 97–126.
94 The existence of Judaeo-Arabic versions of the Hebrew Old Testament prior to Saˁadyah’s
262 ferrer i serra
Evidence for this is nevertheless lacking in the case of Num 19:2. As far as I
know, no pre-Saˁadyan fragment with such a translation has yet turned up in
the material from the Cairo Geniza, and the already mentioned MS Sinai Arabic
2, to which Saˁadyah’s translation bears similarities, reads baqara ḥamrā.95
al-Ṭabarī’s discussion of Q 2:69 nevertheless suggests that Saˁadyah was not
the first to think of the colour of the cow in Num 19:2 as χṣfr. The reason we
have to believe this is that al-Ṭabarī mentions that some explained fāqiˁun
lawnuhā as signifying that the cow in Q 2:69 should have χṣfr horns and hooves
(in addition to its hide). Precisely how this tradition became associated with
Q 2:69 is difficult to tell, but there can be little doubt that it ultimately derives
from the mishnaic prescription that the horns and hooves of the heifer, if they
are black, must be cut off (Parah 2:2). The fact that a mishnaic prescription
could influence Muslim exegesis in this way can hardly be explained unless no
mismatch in colour was perceived between the cows in Q 2:69 and Num 19:2.
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Abbreviations of Rabbinic Sources
CantR Canticles Rabbah

GenR Genesis Rabbah
Ḥull Tract. Ḥullin
NumR Numbers Rabbah
PRE Pirqei de-Rabbi Eliˁezer
Šabb Tract. Šabbat.
Sukk Tract. Sukkah
TanḥB Tanḥuma Buber
Tg Ps-Jonathan Targum Pseudo-Jonathan
Tg Onqelos Targum Onqelos
Yom Tract. Yomah
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chapter 9
Terminative-Adverbial and Locative-Adverbial

Endings in Semitic Languages: A Reassessment and
Its Implications for Arabic
Francesco Grande
0 Introduction
This paper proposes a reassessment of the traditional account of the locative-

adverbial and terminative-adverbial endings, and argues for the hypothesis
that Pre-Classical Arabic attests to relics of locative-adverbial differing from
those already known in the literature, as well as to relics of terminative-adver-
bial, contrary to standard assumptions.1 Section 1 deals with Semitic end-
ings in general. Section 2 addresses the issue of the relation between case
endings and locative-/terminative-adverbial endings, and of their reconstruc-
tion in the earlier stages of Semitic languages. Section 3 offers an in-depth
treatment of the locative-/terminative-adverbial endings in historically docu-
mented Semitic languages—Arabic included—by focusing on their distribu-
tional and typological aspects, which have been researched very little. In Sec-
tion 4 a detailed reconstruction of the locative-/terminative-adverbial endings
is developed, also on the basis of the Arabic data and Section 5 provides the
main conclusions.
1 The Declensional Paradigms: Data, Analyses and Reassessment
1.1 Semitic Languages

The traditional description of the Semitic N distinguishes between two main
declensional paradigms: a three-case system (u/a/i) and a two-case system
(u/i), as illustrated in Moscati et al. (1964) and Hasselbach (2013), respectively.
1 In the writing of this paper I greatly benefited from the suggestions of the audience at the
Arabic in Context Congress at Leiden University (November 2013), as well as from the valuable
comments by John Huehnergard, Ahmad Al-Jallad and Andrzej Zaborski. I also thank Ahmad
Al-Jallad, who kindly suggested to me that Pre-Classical Arabic preserves a terminative-
adverbial ending. All the errors are mine.

272 grande
The sg and, whenever present, broken pl Ns fall into the former paradigm,
while the sound pl Ns fall into the latter—no matter their (grammatical)
gender and degree of definiteness. If we consider that broken pl Ns arise out
of (collective) sg Ns (see, among many others, Fleisch 1961: I, 309), the relevant
feature governing the N distribution within these paradigms is number.
Scholars widely agree that Akkadian and (pre-)classical Arabic2 are the his-
torically documented Semitic languages that have fully productive case sys-
tems along the aforementioned lines, while scholars cannot state with certainty
that Ugaritic and Old South Arabian belong to this category (see Owens 2006:
86 and the references therein). Accordingly, this paper will primarily discuss
the aforementioned declensional paradigms of Semitic languages with regard
to Akkadian and (P)CA. (P)CA is traditionally described (cp. Wright 1896) as
including a further declensional paradigm, which can be construed as a two-
case system (u/a instead of u/i) and encompasses several classes of Ns, inclu-
ding compounds (e.g., the toponym ḥaḍramawt ‘Ḥaḍramawt’). Though insuf-
ficient, a necessary feature governing the N distribution within this paradigm
is the presence or absence of nunation or a genitive phrase, in the sense that,
when co-occurring with these constituents, the Ns that generally take the u/a-
endings convert them into u/a/i-endings. Finally, according to the traditional
description (e.g., Wright 1896: I, 256ff., II, 239), a ‘singleton’ paradigm is found in
(P)CA, based on the a-ending, and is entered into by only a small set of Ns, the
defining character of which is the compound status, as sometimes diagnosed
by phonological reduction (e.g., ḫamsata-ʿašara, ‘fifteen’ and ʾaḥada-ʿašara or
ʾaḥada-ʿšara ‘eleven’). Akkadian’s traditional description does not assign it a
two-case system u/a but recognizes for it the same a-based and ‘compound-
sensitive’3 paradigm encountered in (P)CA, as exemplified by proper names,
2 The term pre-classical Arabic (PCA) refers to a language stage between 300 ad to 800 ad, with
the so-called Nemara inscription and the death dates of the first two attested grammarians
(Sībawayhi, d. 177/798; al-Ḫalīl, d. 175/791), which serve as terminus a quo and terminus ad
quem, respectively. It follows that the linguistic data gathered in the grammatical and/or
lexicographical work by Sībawayhi and al-Ḫalīl, as well as by subsequent grammarians and/or
lexicographers, who take extracts from such work (e.g., Lisān al-ʿArab), will be classified here
as instances of PCA. The vexata quaestio of the authenticity of pre-Islamic poetry has no
bearing on the validity of the PCA data used by the Arab grammarians and lexicographers,
who adduce poetic lines of the jāhiliyyah as further examples of data already known to them,
rather than as exclusive evidence (Rabin 1951: 15). Regarding the term Classical Arabic (CA),
it refers to a language stage documented from 800 ad to 1500ad, the death of the polymath
al-Suyūṭī (d. 911/1505) being arbitrarily taken here as terminus ad quem for the codification of
this language variety. Cp. Grande (2013: 16–19) for further details.
3 In Hasselbach’s (2013: 288) terminology, “two-element names”.
terminative-adverbial and locative-adverbial endings 273
such as DINGIR-bana, ‘god is beatiful’ (Hasselbach 2013: 37 ff., 288 ff. and the
references therein).
From an epistemological perspective, an illustrious tradition of describing
Semitic case systems has developed a well-established terminology that will,
however, not be used in this paper, as it seems to be saddled with some con-
ceptual ambiguities. Although the term ‘triptotic’ for the u/a/i-case system
works reasonably well, the term ‘diptotic’ fails to provide a clear-cut distinc-
tion between the semantic and phonological levels, as it can refer both to the
u/i- and u/a-case systems in the literature (cp. Hasselbach 2013, 16, 44) and thus
overlooks the fact that i and a have different phonemic realizations, despite
their shared functions. Similarly, when promiscuously employed to define both
forms (e.g., ḥaḍramawtu/a and qāḍin/qāḍiyan ‘judge’), ‘diptotic’ might confuse
the phonological and phonetic levels, despite the fact that the two-case system
of the latter form is a deceiving effect of some phonological transformations
that actually target a genuine u/a/i-case system, i.e., the underlying ‘triptotic’
paradigm qāḍiyun/qāḍiyan/qāḍiyin, as alluded to by Hasselbach (2013: 23). The
same remark carries over to the terms ‘monoptotic’ or ‘indeclinable’ when asso-
ciated with a ‘singleton’ paradigm (e.g., ʿaṣān ‘stick’), the underlying forms of
which actually are ʿaṣawun/ʿaṣawan/ʿaṣawin.4
On these grounds, the aforementioned u/a/i-, u/i-, u/a- and a-based para-
digms will be referred to in the remainder of this paper as A-PAR(ADIGM),
B-PAR, C-PAR, D-PAR, respectively, in contrast with the mainstream traditional
terminology and according instead to a criterion of increasing morphologi-
cal complexity, which is non-committal in terms of the diachronic primitivity,
synchronic centrality, etc., of one paradigm over another. For instance, the u/i-
based paradigm is more complex than its u/a-counterpart due to the length-
ening of u/i, as opposed to the unlengthened u/a. This paper also departs from
the mainstream traditional view by concentrating on PCA rather than on CA,
as it simply seems more methodologically sound to investigate the former lan-
guage stage than to investigate the latter. Although marginalized within the
traditional view, this approach is not novel. In fact, the philologically-oriented
research trend known as Arab linguistics (Carter 1988) has long noticed that,
from a diachronic perspective, the more archaic variety of Arabic that is
described by the first fully-fledged works of Arabic grammar and lexicography
4 Furthermore, the terms ‘monoptotic’ and ‘indeclinable’ sound quite odd in the collocations
‘monoptotic declension’ and ‘indeclinable declension’ that are sometimes encountered in
the literature, given that these collocations make no sense from an etymological perspective
(‘indeclinable’ = ‘having no declension’).
274 grande
(e.g., Sībawayhi and al-Ḫalīl) is not CA, but rather PCA, with its “unclassical-
looking forms” (Owens 2006: 39). In a similar vein, Alhawary’s textual research
(2003) has recently shown that both of these foundational figures did avail
themselves of mature field linguistics techniques (e.g., elicitation procedures)
in gathering their materials, which resulted in fairly reliable PCA data; in con-
trast, the CA data reported in later works are likely to be ad hoc examples
(Guillaume 2006).
Such a principled focus on PCA has crucial bearing on the definition of the
set of data labeled as A-, B-, C-, D-PARs, as it modifies these paradigms’ contents
in two main respects. First, none of them will include the du, given the ability
of the PCA du-ending ā to intervene between the N-stem and the case ending
u/a/i when combined with nunation (e.g., al-ḫalīl-ān-u/a/i ‘the two friends’
apud Fleisch 1961: I, 298). According to Greenberg, this distributional property
diagnoses a derivational rather than inflectional morpheme (cp. Greenberg’s
Universal #28: “If both the derivation and inflection follow the root […], the
derivation is always between the root and the inflection.”). In this regard, it
is also pertinent to mention that a paucal pl il-ān-ū/ī ‘some gods’ is found
in Akkadian (Moscati et al. 1964: 88), which makes use of the same ending ā
combined with nunation in the same derivational environment (cp. -ū/ī) and
has a quasi-du meaning, in the sense that the paucal pl cross-linguistically
denotes a set whose lower bound oscillates between two and three (Corbett
2000: 23).
Second, Reckendorf (1895: 194), Kuryłowicz (1950) and Fleisch (1961: I, 339)
observe that the syntactic-semantic environment forces the definite reading of
forms, such as yawman (= l-yawma ‘today’), in some PCA expressions, which
shows that nunation functioned as an indefinite and definite article in this lan-
guage stage, with the definite article l- having not totally superseded nunation
in its definite meaning.5 We should add that Akkadian mimation behaves in an
identical manner, as its definite or indefinite reading depends on the syntactic-
semantic environment within which it occurs (Dolgopolsky 1991).
The overall picture that can be drawn from the review of both the main-
stream and marginalized descriptions of the Arabic and Akkadian case sys-
tems, as provided by the traditional scholarship, involves four nominal para-
digms, as tabulated below in Table 9.1.6
5 Cp. also the CA relic Zaydun, where n functions as a definite article used pleonastically (as in
the English The Hague). Grande (2013: 220–221) proposes a syntactic-typological explanation
for the definite/indefinite status of nunation. Both nunation and mimation are etymologi-
cally related to pronominal stems (see, e.g., Dolgopolsky 1991: 329).
6 For the sake of completeness, we must also mention the PCA ‘singleton’ paradigm based
table 9.1 The Akkadian and PCA nominal paradigms
Akkadian
šarr, šarrat+ šarr+ šarrāt+ DINGIR-ban+

u m u: Dependent u m a –
a m i: Dependent i m
i m
PCA
muslim, muslimat, muslim+ muslimāt+ ḥaḍramawt+ ḫamsata-ʿašar+

buyūt+
u n u: na u n u – a –
a n i: na i n a –
i n
A-PAR B-PAR C-PAR D-PAR
1.2 Afroasiatic
The N’s ability of bearing case is a feature that Semitic languages share with
other non-Semitic branches of Afroasiatic, such as Berber and Cushitic.7 Under
traditional assumptions, this situation is the result of genetic rather than
contact-induced relationships,8 which prompts a reconstruction of the origi-
nal case system out of which the Semitic, Berber and Cushitic families have
developed their historical declensional paradigms. Space limitations prevent
a full outline of the Berber and Cushitic case systems and the formal and/or
semantic correspondences between them and their Semitic counterparts. The
interested reader should refer to Hasselbach (2013: 73–80) for details. It will
suffice to say here that, in order to express case, the non-Semitic branches of
on the i-ending, which is only entered into by the morphological pattern CaCāCi (cp. the
toponym ẓafāri ‘Ẓafār’). However, this paradigm is not relevant for the current study because
of its Old South Arabian origin (Rabin 1951: 156).
7 Some scholars also include Omotic languages among the non-Semitic branches of Afroasiatic
that share (traces of) declensional paradigms with Semitic languages. However, it is not
certain that Omotic languages are a branch of Afroasiatic (see e.g. Hasselbach 2013: 7), so
the language family in question and its related features can be left out of discussion here.
8 Recent typological studies confirm this traditional view: according to Matras (apud Grande
2013: 278), it is almost impossible for a natural language to borrow case endings from another.
276 grande
Afroasiatic deploy the same vocalic material u/a/i that Semitic language do,9
which has led authoritative scholars (e.g., Satzinger 1999, 2004 and subsequent
work) to reconstruct a three-case system u/a/i for Proto-Semitic, if not for its
Afroasiatic ancestor.
2 Further Consequences
Returning to Semitic languages, a more careful examination of the nominal

paradigms discussed in Sect. 1.1 reveals that some cells of the A-PAR (i.e., N-
un/in, um/im), and B-PAR (i.e., N-u:/i:), share the sequence u/iC, especially if we
consider that the long component : is functionally equivalent to a C, as shown
by the successful substitution test based on pairs such as Akkadian ḫiṭṭ-/ḫīṭ-
‘sin’ (Moscati et al. 1964: 65). Similarly, the C- and D-PAR share the sequence a#
(the symbol # stands for a word-boundary).
In Saussurean terms, the very fact that the aforementioned cells of the A-
and B-PARs, on the one hand, and of the C- and D-PARs, on the other, have
something in common on the level of form (technically speaking, an ‘associa-
tive relation’) defines such cells as ‘an associative family’ (‘rapport associatif,
famille associative’: Saussure 1916: 174), the diachronic behavior of which is
of particular interest in our study. In fact, Saussure (1916: 182) highlights that
the associative relation at the associative family’s core (i.e., in this case, the
sequence u/iC shared by the cells of the A- and B-PARs, N-um/n/:, im/n/:, or
its counterpart a# shared by the relevant cells of the C- and D-PARs) is—along
with the syntagmatic relation—a principle of order and regularity (‘motiva-
tion’) that a given community introduces at a certain language stage in order
to limit the sign’s arbitrariness.10 Therefore, the associative relations observed
in the Akkadian and PCA nominal paradigms bear witness that the cells of the
A- and B-PARs that share the sequence u/iC formed an independent and moti-
9 A more accurate definition would label the set u/a/i as ‘vocoidal’ material, as u/i can
function as glides in Berber (cp. Hasselbach 2013: 74 and the references therein).
10 Though the passage under discussion (“la langue repose sur le principe irrationnel de
l’ arbitraire du signe […] mais l’ esprit réussit à introduire un principe d’ordre et de régular-
ité”) does not make any explicit reference to the diachronic dimension in which the ‘asso-
ciative/syntagmatic’ principle of order operates, this dimension is nonetheless clear from
the context, as De Mauro (1967: 449) emphasizes in his critical edition of the Saussurean
Cours de Linguistique Générale (“paragrafo, così nitidamente delineante una visione stori-
cizzante della dinamica linguistica”).
vated system of signs (VHIGHC-paradigm henceforth11) at an archaic stage of

language, prior to Akkadian and PCA, which will be termed here ‘Early Semitic’
for convenience’s sake. The same formation occurred with the cells of the C-
and D-PARs that share the sequence a# (VLOW#-paradigm henceforth12), which
yields a sort of ‘dualist’ reconstruction for Early Semitic case endings. As a corol-
lary, the remaining cells of the A-, B-, C-, D-PARs, notably N-an/m (‘triptotic’ N)
and N-u (‘diptotic’ N), represent diachronically later developments. Whatever
the ultimate reason for their emergence, this discussion falls beyond the scope
of this paper.
In keeping with a Saussurean framework, it should be noted that the holistic
structural relations underlying the aforementioned ‘dualist’ reconstruction are
not confined to solidarities such as the associative relation between the cells
of the A- and B-PARs, N-um/n/:, im/n/:, via the shared sequence VHIGHC. This
state of affairs is shown by the maximum contrast that exists between VHIGHC
and its counterpart VLOW# on the level of form, in terms of both V-height
vs. V-lowness13 and the presence of C vs. its absence (i.e., #). Another contrast
intrinsic to a reconstruction of this kind holds on the level of meaning and
concerns the VHIGHC-paradigm, the binary nature of which (um/n/: vs. im/n/:)
indicates some kind of opposition between the semantic roles expressed by the
case endings—as is particularly clear from the opposition between u: and i: in
terms of subjecthood vs. non-subjecthood.
What emerges from the discussion above is a ‘dualist’ reconstruction of
the Early Semitic system of case endings that immediately raises a crucial
question from the perspective of the position of this language family within
the Afroasiatic macrofamily:
If, and to what extent, is a reconstruction along similar lines that is mainly
based on internal structural clues (a method of internal reconstruction) com-
patible with the reconstruction of the Early Semitic system of case endings, as
proposed by some authoritative scholars of Afroasiatic (cp. Satzinger 1999, 2004
and subsequent work), who instead rely on the comparison of the several lan-
guages of this macrofamily (a comparative method)? As illustrated in Sect. 1.2,
according to such an alternative reconstruction, Early Semitic had a single sys-
tem of three case endings u/a/i instead of the ‘dualist’ scenario advocated here
(VHIGHC-paradigm vs. VLOW#-paradigm), so prima facie we can find no aspect
of compatibility between these two reconstructions. However, a closer look
11 The notation VHIGH stands for both the high Vs u and i, as opposed to the low V a.
12 The notation VLOW stands for the low V a, as opposed to both the high Vs u and i.
13 Or, following an alternative terminology, V-closeness opposed to V-openness.
278 grande
at the single system reconstructed by Satzinger (u/a/i) shows that it can actu-
ally be split into two more basic systems, namely u/i (= VHIGH) and a (= VLOW),
which are opposed in terms of their morphosyntactic environment. According
to Satzinger, the a-ending (= VLOW) co-occurred in origin with more than one
lexical morpheme, i.e., a phrase,14 unlike the u/i-endings (= VHIGH), which were
combined instead with one lexical morpheme, e.g., a vocalized root, as much as
they do in the historical stages of Semitic. Therefore, contrary to first impres-
sion, the ‘dualist’ reconstruction sketched out in this section converges with
Satzinger’s in one pivotal aspect—a binary opposition of the Early Semitic sys-
tem of case endings in terms of V-height/lowness (cp. discussion immediately
above).
In addition to Satzinger’s (1999, 2004) reconstruction, the ‘dualist’ system of
Early Semitic case endings presented here partially dovetails also with the so-
called “Alte Nominalflexion” that Kienast reconstructs for the same language
stage (see Hasselbach 2013: 70–71 for detailed references and critical discus-
sion). Kienast argues that the historical declensional paradigms of Akkadian,
(P)CA, etc., developed out of a two-ending system u/i, which is highly reminis-
cent of the aforementioned VHIGHC-paradigm. However, it should be empha-
sized that Kienast, while sharing the comparative method with Satzinger (1999,
2004), focuses on some data that are touched on only briefly by the latter
scholar. This focus includes the system of two local endings that is historically
documented in Akkadian and is traditionally known as the locative-adverbial
(loc-adv) um and terminative-adverbial (term-adv) iš, where a pair of high
Vs u/i—if not a sequence VHIGHC—that is formally identical to what is observ-
able in the case-ending system is in effect palpable.
Thus, Kienast’s reconstruction suggests a thought-provoking (and still de-
bated: cp. Weninger 2011: 165) connection between the linguistic facts that are
traditionally labeled as ‘case endings’ and ‘locative/terminative-adverbial end-
ings’, which fundamentally affects the current reconstruction, as results from
the current investigation of the Akkadian and PCA declensional paradigms
through the lens of previously marginalized data (e.g., definite nunation) and
internal reconstruction tools (e.g., the Saussurean axiom of motivation). In fact,
Kienast’s proposed connection opens the possibility that the sequence VHIGHC
that Akkadian case endings and local endings share is but a fragment of a
pervading situation going back to Early Semitic, in which the presence of the
VHIGHC- and VLOW-paradigms, which we have thus far only reconstructed for
14 Rabin (1969: 201) advances a similar idea, but Satzinger (1999) apparently does not cite
him.
case endings, actually went beyond the latter to also encompass local endings.
In other words, a hypothesis of reconstruction along the aforementioned lines
calls for a thorough study of local endings, as they are historically documented
in Akkadian, PCA and, whenever relevant, in other Semitic languages. The fol-
lowing sections address this study.
3 The Terminative-Adverbial and Locative-Adverbial Endings: Data,

Analyses and Reassessment
3.1 Akkadian
The mainstream traditional designation of the Akkadian local endings um and
iš as loc-adv and term-adv, respectively, clearly indicates their core mean-
ings: one essentially denotes a place complement, and the other essentially
denotes a goal complement. Furthermore, such endings can also be defined
as an associative family because they share a common element on the level
of meaning, notably the expression of space—from which the umbrella term
‘local endings’ is adopted in this study.
If we extend the empirical picture of the Akkadian local endings to include
more marginalized data—as much as we did with the case endings in Sect.
2—, it seems plausible to ascribe to the same associative family the adverbial
ending a, which is found in the repetitive expression aḫa aḫa ‘side by side’
(Hasselbach 2013: 17), because of its spatially distributive meaning.15 In this
respect, it is worth observing that increasing the associative family um/iš with
a is totally expected from a Saussurean perspective, as an associative family
is by definition open-ended (Saussure 1916: 174). From the same perspective,
the associative family thus characterized should, in turn, be split into two
associative families based on the level of form that have at their core the
sequence VHIGHC (cp. um/iš) and VLOW# (cp. the a of aḫa aḫa). In fact, this is
a property of the associative family that had already attracted the attention of
Saussure (1916: 181), who recognized that the associative family of numbers is
itself decomposable into two smaller associative families in French, e.g., simple
(vingt) and compound (dix-neuf ) numbers.
15 As shown in the very translation ‘side by side’, spatially distributive expressions also
involve the repetition of the N in English. In addition, they insert a P (e.g., from, to, by)
before the first instance of the place and/or after the second: from coast to coast, face to
face, and the aforementioned side by side. See Haiman (1980: 533, fn. 17) on the interlocked
notions of distributiveness and repetition.
280 grande
When our investigation of the local endings um/iš/a moves from associa-
tive to syntagmatic relations, these endings appear to enter into a structural
interplay that is different from the associative family, and can be seen in expres-
sions such as kirīšum ‘into the orchard’ and annīšam ‘hither’ (von Soden 1995:
111–112), in which two local endings (iš and um, or iš and am) descriptively co-
occur with a given N, but only one sememe of space is encoded in it (the goal
complement). Thus, a synchronic situation of ‘doubling’ emerges, in which the
increase in form is not paralleled by an increase in meaning.16
From a diachronic perspective, this state of affairs points to a semantic
equivalence between the two morphemes involved in the doubling process,
which takes place in order to ensure that a given morpheme that has undergone
semantic weakening (in this case, iš: cp. its frequent usage as an adverbial
ending, as per Hasselbach 2013: 21) is reinforced by another morpheme that
conveys identical, yet unweakened, meaning, i.e., um and am or um and a—
setting aside mimation in the case of a, which represents a later innovation, as
shown in Sect. 2. This semantic characterization of the doubling process finds
its raison d’être in language-specific data, such as the Akkadian PP ina bītum ‘in
the house’ (Hasselbach 2013: 20), where the P ina ‘doubles’ the loc-adv iš, due
to the latter’s weakening (cp. its unproductivity already “at the earliest attested
stages of Akkadian”: Hasselbach 2013: 20). In passing, the typological fact that
the semantic equivalence under discussion manifests itself on the syntagmatic
axis as a doubling process triggered by semantic weakening provides evidence
that, whatever the exact date of its emergence in Akkadian, it must have been
preceded by a situation of no semantic weakening prior to Akkadian, such as a
given language stage of Early Semitic, in which iš, um, and a were prone neither
to doubling nor to concomitant semantic equivalence.
However, it would be too strong a simplification to claim that the ending
iš is semantically equivalent to um or a in the environment of a syntagmatic
relation, such as the doubling process. In fact, if we return to the associative
relation, it appears upon closer scrutiny that this environment also allows for
iš to be semantically equivalent to um or a.
To illustrate this phenomenon, let us consider first the semantic equivalence
between iš and um in word-like units šēpiššu and šēpuššu, which are tradi-
16 In kirīšum and annīšam the doubling process triggers the V-lengthening of i: the accumu-
lation of a with iš is conducive to the re-syllabification of the closed syllable Ciš as two
open syllables Ci + ša/um, with the subsequent re-accentuation and lengthening of i. In
passing, a clear distributional restriction underlies this accumulation: the endings a and
um separately follow the term-adv, not vice versa.
tionally referred to as ‘construct states’ (CS henceforth17) and analyzed as the

outputs of a word-juncture rule that also entails the regressive assimilation of
the m of um into š (šēpiš+šu > šēpiššu, šēpum+šu > šēpuššu, as per Hasselbach
2013: 21).18 Such endings effectively enter into an associative relation on the
level of meaning, based on the common term-adv value, in that, for šēpuššu,
the original loc-adv meaning of um (‘at his foot’) co-exists with an unexpected
term-adv meaning (‘to his foot’), which is also conveyed, as expected, by iš in
šēpiššu ‘id’ (von Soden 1995: 108).
However, the term-adv meaning underpinning the associative relation
between iš and um is but one aspect of commonality between šēpiššu and
šēpuššu. In short, when used synonymously in the sense of ‘to his foot’, both
word-like units share the whole content on the level of meaning (i.e., N + term-
adv + 3sg suffix-pronoun šu), and all content, except one sound (i.e., i vs. u),
on the level of form, so they fall exactly into the definition of a single form
that exhibits two free variants (cp. Crystal 2008: 198: “the substitutability of one
sound for another in a given environment, with no consequent change in the
word’s meaning […] called free variants”). This account of the pair šēpiššu and
šēpuššu implies a re-conceptualization in terms of a free allophonic variation,
which is generally described by linguists as involving two main factors, notably
an input-output process linking one variant to the other by means of a phonol-
ogical rule and the optional application of this phonological rule, depending
on the social or stylistic context in which the form potentially targeted by it
occurs (the so-called ‘variable-rule’: cp. Crystal 2008: 509).
In this interpretive scenario, the following hypothesis can be envisioned:
(I) the i of the input-form šēpiššu is converted into the u of the output-form
šēpuššu (cp. Gelb 1969, 90) by a process of regressive V-harmony,
(II) the presence or absence of which correlates with the presence or absence
of a given social or stylistic context—briefly, regressive V-harmony is a
variable rule.
To support the portion of hypothesis in (I), we should stress two properties

of šēpiššu: in this expression, the V i of the term-adv iš and the V u of the
suffix-pronoun šu that follows it (a) have the same VHIGH status and (b) belong
to the same word-internal domain, which are precisely the two conditions
17 See Benmamoun (2005) on the word-like status of the CS.

18 On this count, the m of the loc-adv um and that of the case-ending um differ in terms of
their retention vs. dropping, respectively, when followed by a suffix-pronoun in the CS.
282 grande
required for the application of V-harmony (Crystal 2008: 224–225). The portion
of the hypothesis in (II) receives confirmation from a stylistic property of
šēpuššu, namely its usage is restricted to the epic genre—‘hymnisch-epischer
Dialekt’ in von Soden’s (1995: 108) own terminology—, which explains the lack
of application of V-harmony outside this genre (i.e., the unaltered form šēpiššu)
as a consequence of its being a variable rule.
At this point, we are confronted with two analyses of šēpiššu and šēpuššu
that are centered on the phenomenon of associative relation. The traditional
analysis considers a relation of this sort as a function of the semantic equiv-
alence between the local endings iš and um in terms of term-adv and has
the advantage of also considering the loc-adv value of šēpuššu by interpret-
ing this expression as an assimilated variant of šēpumšu. That said, a major
limitation of such an analysis is that it says nothing about the semantic and
formal identity of the environment šēp … šu that surrounds both iš and um;
the opposite holds for the alternative analysis summarized in (I–II) above—
in particular, in construing šēpuššu as a vowel-harmonized variant of šēpiššu,
this analysis accounts solely for its term-adv value, while leaving its loc-adv
value unexplained.
In order to preserve their respective advantages and alleviate their respective
drawbacks, these analyses can be integrated through the conceptual mediation
of reanalysis, as follows: the input-form šēpiššu, with iš functioning as a term-
adv ending, undergoes a regressive V-harmony (cp. I–II above), which applies
to the word-internal domain iššu and gives rise to the sequence uššu (uš+šu
< iš+šu), from which the output-form šēpuššu conveys term-adv meaning;
later, the sequence uššu is reanalyzed as arisen from a word-internal domain
umšu that is targeted by regressive assimilation (cp. the traditional account)
rather than by regressive V-harmony, and is thereby related to the input-form
šēpumšu, in which um functions as a loc-adv. In short, reanalysis (on which,
see e.g., Esseesy 2008 and references therein) gives rise to the loc-adv mean-
ing of šēpuššu, which originally only conveys term-adv meaning.
The import that this investigation of the pair šēpiššu/šēpuššu has for the
semantic equivalence between the local endings iš and um is that the ultimate
factors responsible for it are the regressive V-harmony that converts the input-
form iš+šu into uššu and the reanalysis of the input-form into um+šu. On this
count, such a semantic equivalence diachronically originates in the environ-
ment of the 3sg suffix-pronoun šu and is subsequently generalized out of it due
to the frequent usage of the 3sg in natural languages, including Akkadian.
A further diachronic consideration concerning the semantic equivalence
between iš and um is that this is a relatively late development because the
šēpiššu/šēpuššu forms in which it originally took place exhibit the word-
juncture rule m+š > š+š, which is not a process that is operational in the early
stages of Akkadian, in terms of what can be ascertained from extant documen-
tation (cp. Hasselbach 2013: 21, fn. 20).
Having discussed the semantic equivalence holding between the local end-
ings iš and um in the environment of an associative relation, we can now turn
our attention to the same phenomenon when it affects the local endings iš and
a. This phenomenon occurs in the case in which iš—rather than having the
expected term-adv value—shares a spatially distributive meaning with the
local ending a, as can be gleaned from a comparison between the aforemen-
tioned expression aḫa aḫa ‘side by side’ and the expression ūmišam, which Gelb
(1969: 88) renders as ‘day by day’.
As discussed at the outset of this section, in aḫa aḫa the spatially distribu-
tive meaning is encoded in the local ending a# and diagnosed, inter alia, by
the repetition of the N with which this ending co-occurs. Turning to ūmišam,
an argument by exclusion would assign its spatially distributive meaning to the
non-nominal portion of this expression, i.e., išam.19 However, the distributional
fact that ūmišam parallels annīšam in terms of the kind of constituents and
their ordering (N + term-adv + am) justifies a semantic analysis of ūmišam
along the same lines of annīšam, which has been analyzed above as an instance
of doubling, with iš as the real locus of local meaning and a(m) as a late rein-
forcement of it. Given that the local meaning in question is spatially distribu-
tive in ūmišam, the iš of ūmišam proves to convey the same spatially distributive
meaning as the a# of aḫa aḫa.
In this regard, the semantic distance between the goal marker iš ‘to’ that is
traditionally described as term-adv and the marker iš that performs a spa-
tially distributive function, as attested in ūmiš(am), is less pronounced than it
appears at first sight, if we consider the fact that, besides the aforementioned
‘day by day’, another English equivalent of the Akkadian spatially distributive
expression ūmiš(am) occurs, i.e., ‘from day to day’, which instantiates precisely
the goal marker ‘to’ and allows the deletion of the source marker ‘from’ (cp. day-
to-day management). Accordingly, in the English day-to-day the spatially dis-
tributive semantics (‘from … to’) is expressed elliptically through a goal marker
(‘to’), as is indeed the case for the Akkadian ūmiš(am). The only difference is
that the Akkadian expression involves, with respect to its English counterpart,
a further derivational step, which consists of the deletion of the first instance
of the repeated N.
19 Cp. von Soden (1995: 112), who describes the sequence išam that occurs in expressions such
as ūmišam as endowed “mit distributiver Funktion”.
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In short, a compositional and cross-linguistic analysis of the expression

ūmiš(am) shows that the unexpected status of iš as a marker of spatially
distributive function can be rather easily re-conceptualized on cross-linguistic
grounds as a totally expected status of term-adv (or: goal-) marker, which co-
occurs with a deleted source marker. Therefore, the so-called ‘term-adv’ iš and
the ‘spatially distributive’ a# actually have an identical goal-marker meaning,
despite their different forms. Under standard assumptions (see e.g., Crystal
2008: 20), this amounts to saying that the semantic equivalence between the
local endings iš and a# boils down to a situation of allomorphy.
Putting the semantic equivalence between the thus defined iš and a# in
its diachronic context, this equivalence likely goes back to Early Semitic. On
the one hand, the local ending a of the expression aḫa aḫa that is involved
in this semantic equivalence co-occurs both with a lack of mimation and
a marked semantic role (i.e., a local function, as opposed to the unmarked
object function of the case ending a found in the A-, C-PARs); on the other,
the Akkadian and Eblaite theophoric names mentioned in Sect. 1.1, such as
DINGIR-bana, the relic-status of which turns out to “reflect older forms of
the language”, remarkably attest to the same pattern of co-occurrence: these
nouns end with the indeclinable ending a of the D-PAR that in effect both
lacks mimation and performs a marked semantic function that is traditionally
labeled as ‘predicative’ (Hasselbach 2013: 41, 320).20
We are now in a position to draw the following outline for Akkadian local
endings: besides the goal and locative markers iš and um, which are tradition-
ally known as term-adv and loc-adv, respectively, a third marker a occurs,
which performs a spatially distributive function. All of iš, um, and a end up
being semantically equivalent in Akkadian after establishing a syntagmatic
relation in a configuration of doubling that is triggered by their semantic weak-
ening, which entails, in typological terms, that in an archaic language stage
prior to Akkadian, such as Early Semitic, in which iš, um, and a were not
semantically weakened, neither doubling nor concomitant semantic equiv-
alence arguably occurred among them. The same holds for iš and um when
they are semantically equivalent after establishing an associative relation, if we
consider that a semantic equivalence of this sort implies a word-juncture rule
that was operational in relatively late stages of Akkadian. In contrast, we can
20 It should be stressed that lack of mimation (or nunation) is a necessary, though insuffi-
cient, condition for classifying a given Semitic form as archaic. When not co-occurring
with the ending a and its marked semantic function, this feature could point instead to
the recent character of a given Semitic form, as is the case for the Akkadian Ns from the
end of the Old Babylonian period onward (see e.g. Hasselbach 2013: 18).
plausibly project back into Early Semitic the semantic equivalence that results
from the associative relation between iš and a because the latter ending is
also part and parcel of a peculiar co-occurrence pattern that in the literature
has been ascribed to this language stage on independent grounds (theophoric
names). This semantic equivalence consists of the goal-marker status (‘to’)
shared by the two different forms iš and a (in which case goal markers iš and a
express the same spatially distributive meaning as their English counterpart to
in day-to-day) and can be accordingly classified as a situation of allomorphy.
In Sect. 2, structural and comparative arguments have substantiated a ‘dual-
ist’ hypothesis of reconstruction of the Early Semitic N, which reduces the
Semitic case endings to the VHIGHC- and VLOW-paradigms, whereas an extended
version of this hypothesis has been presented at the end of that section, which
subsumes the Semitic local endings under the same reconstruction but still
requires verification. In this respect, we may wonder whether the above out-
line of Akkadian local endings verifies such an extended hypothesis of ‘dualist’
reconstruction. Three observations can be made to answer this question:
First, according to the aforementioned outline of Akkadian local endings,
the term-adv iš and loc-adv um fit the ‘dualist’ reconstruction, due to their
sharing the sequence u/iC with the VHIGHC-paradigm—as already alluded to
at the end of Sect. 2—, and the ‘spatially distributive’ a also fits this recon-
struction, in that it shares the sequence a# with the VLOW-paradigm. Second,
the VHIGHC-paradigm, into which local endings iš and um fall, has been found
at the end of Sect. 2 to imply a semantic contrast, a situation that undoubt-
edly incorporates the opposition term-adv vs. loc-adv that is traditionally
ascribed to these endings but is clearly at odds with their semantic equivalence,
which is established via either a syntagmatic or an associative relation. How-
ever, the outline of the Akkadian local endings offered in this section dates this
kind of equivalence to a language stage later than Early Semitic, thus eliminat-
ing the falsifying power that such an equivalence might have for the ‘dualist’
reconstruction. Third, in defining iš and a as allomorphic, the current outline
of Akkadian local endings opposes them on the level of form rather than that
of meaning and thus converges with the ‘dualist’ reconstruction, according to
which iš and a, qua belonging to the VHIGHC- and VLOW#-paradigms, respectively,
enter a formal opposition, based on the contrast between the V-height or V-
lowness and the presence or absence of a C (cp. the beginning of Sect. 2).
To summarize, it seems safe to maintain that an in-depth study of Akkadian
local endings confirms the ‘dualist’ reconstruction developed in Sect. 2.
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3.2 Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew

The linguistic documentation available for Ugaritic local endings seemingly
converges with that available for their Biblical Hebrew counterparts in two
fundamental respects: on the one hand, the loc-adv is too scantily attested
to permit any robust generalization in both languages (Tropper 2000: 324–325,
Hasselbach 2013: 25, 34),21 and, on the other, the knowledge of their term-adv
is satisfying enough to have deserved the attention of Semitists until recent
times (cp. Tropper 2000: 320ff.).
Therefore, it is fairly well established among scholars that the goal comple-
ment can be expressed in Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew by the segment h, a state
of affairs that provides the empirical basis for its unified treatment as a term-
adv (see e.g., Speiser 1954 and Tropper 2000: 320 ff.). A practical advantage of
this unified treatment is that the vocalism that is associated with the term-
adv h can be inferred for Ugaritic—the writing of which merely consists of
a consonantal ductus—from Biblical Hebrew, which records Vs in its written
form thanks to Masoretes’ work. As a result, a more complete representation of
both languages’ term-adv is traditionally said to be ah: e.g., the Ugaritic arṣah
‘to the earth’ (Tropper 2000: 324).
In contrast, whether to analyze the segment h in ah as phonemic (a proper
h) or as graphemic (a mater lectionis standing for the long component :) is still
debatable. To illustrate, Speiser (1954: 110) presents arguments in favor of the
former interpretation, whereas Joüon (1947: 71, 222) subscribes to the latter.
However, a possible solution to this problem lies in reconstructing a diachronic
shift ah > a: for the Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew term-adv, which could
reconcile the two aforementioned interpretations by means of a phonological
rule h > :, as Tropper (2000: 217) suggests, for instance, for Ugaritic.
Raised by the Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew ah, a more serious problem
specifically concerns the ‘dualist’ reconstruction developed in Sect. 2 and
revolves around the relationship of this historical term-adv manifestation
with the reconstructed Early Semitic a# and with the Akkadian ‘distributive’
ending a#. It is unclear whether one form, which exhibits a C h after the V
a, can be harmonized with the other, which lacks this segment in the same
position. To solve this problem, the hypothesis is entertained that the term-
adv ah should be better understood as a sequence a#h, which is decompos-
able into a word-final, C-less ending a#—which indeed corresponds to the
term-adv a# that is reconstructed in Sect. 2 for Early Semitic and to the
21 See also fn. 30 below, which touches upon this kind of loc-adv and its implications for
the ‘dualist’ reconstruction advocated here.
Akkadian ‘distributive’ ending a#—and a phonologically reduced word con-

sisting of the segment h.
The diagnostic test of isolability is pertinent to proving such a hypothesis.
This test defines any portion of a given sequence that has the ability to occur
in isolation as a word (Bloomfield 1933: 178). For example, the (P)CA kalb ‘dog’
and Akkadian māt ‘earth’ arguably have an “analytical” character and can be
regarded as words, as Corriente (1971: 47–49) sharply remarks, due to their
ability to occur as isolated forms devoid of the case endings u/a/in when found
in pause (PCA) or in CS (Akkadian). In contrast, their Latin counterparts can-
‘dog’, terr- ‘earth’ instead behave as stems, given their inability to occur devoid
of the case endings is (canis/*can), a (terra/*terr), etc.22 Bearing this in mind,
let us consider the CS bty ‘to my house’, which Tropper (2000: 216) reports
for Ugaritic (e.g., lk bt-y ‘come to my home’) and which performs the goal
function typically associated with the term-adv, albeit lacking the segment
h:. According to Tropper, this situation makes it plausible to (partially) vocalize
the first member of the CS as bta, with the V a alone functioning as a term-
adv (cp. also Speiser 1954: 110 and Joüon 1947: 71 for similar analyses of Ugaritic
and Biblical Hebrew, respectively). In compliance with the aforementioned
hypothesis, the test of isolability forces us to interpret the sequence N-a as a
word, i.e., N-a#, due to its ability to occur as an isolated form compared with
the sequence N-ah, which should accordingly be re-conceptualized as N-a#h23
(i.e., arṣ-a#h instead of arṣah).24
22 For the sake of completeness, we have to mention that dropping the ending an of the PCA
A-PAR in isolation is infrequent, as a lengthened ā is found instead (Wright 1896: II, 369).
In other words, in the resulting pausal form, the N is not analytical, due to its fusion with ā
(N-ā#); without denying the validity of Corriente’s generalization, we should nonetheless
consider this instance of N as an exception to it—an issue to which we will return at the
end of this paper.
23 The same remarks made in connection with the PCA pausal form N-ā# carry over to the
Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew N-a#h (cp. fn. 22 above).
24 Pardee (2003/2004: 80–81) reconstructs a different vocalization for the term-adv h in
Ugaritic, notably a word-final ha (i.e., ha#). Again, in positing a sequence a#, Pardee’s
analysis is compatible with the reconstruction of the Early Semitic term-adv as a#, etc.,
defended here. As regards the h-less term-adv found in Ugaritic, Pardee (2003/2004: 81)
rejects its existence by assuming that it is better seen as an “accusative adverbial” a(#).
This criticism, however, seems to be a matter of terminology rather than of substance,
if we consider that Pardee (2003/2004: 190) himself affirms that “in Biblical Hebrew,
the use of the locative morpheme {-h} [= term-adv] and of the adverbial accusative
were in something approaching free variation”. In fact, under an accurate definition
of free variation (cp. Sect. 3.1), Pardee’s observation amounts to saying that the term-
288 grande
In this respect, it is instructive to note that, as far as we know, the Akkadian

term-adv iš cannot occur in isolation as i, so no word-boundary can be posited
between this kind of V and the segment š—a word-boundary, if any, must
instead intervene between the entire sequence iš and the N (i.e., N#is), given
the latter’s isolability discussed immediately above.25
However, the test of isolability solves one problem (the compatibility
between the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew term-adv ah and the reconstructed
Early Semitic term-adv a#) but creates another. The different manner in
which the Akkadian and Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew term-advs react to this
test (#iš vs. a#h) introduces a subtle—yet real—distributional asymmetry as
to the position of the word-boundary in their prosodic structure, which at first
sight conflicts with the symmetry traditionally ascribed to these endings that is
based on their segments š and h—specifically on the well-known synonymity
between these segments when they phonologically realize pronominal forms
(Speiser 1954: 112ff., and Weninger 2011: 168).
This symmetry cannot be dismissed so easily, for it has been grounded on
solid comparative correspondences š/h by traditional scholarship (Hasselbach
2013: 71). It is also implied to a certain degree by Tropper’s aforementioned
analysis of the goal-denoting form bt(a) that includes an h-less term-adv a.
if, in fact, as traditionally maintained, iš and ah prominently perform a term-
adv function (‘to’) and include the segments š and h that perform a pronominal
function, and the two functions at issue are not etymologically related, in the
absence of linguistic evidence to this effect;26 then, by exclusion, the pure
term-adv function must be performed by the remaining segment i in iš and a
in ah, which is precisely what Tropper argues for the a in ah on the basis of bt(a).
Moreover, this symmetry is difficult to dismiss because of its pervasiveness
adv ah and the putative ‘accusative adverbial’ are actually two variants in which the
substitution of one sound (zero C) for another (h) in a given environment (after a) on the
level of form, correlates with a shared meaning (goal marker), and, consequently, what
underlies the term-adv ending ah and the putative ‘accusative adverbial’ is semantic
unity (from which Tropper’s unified analysis of both as different manifestations of term-
adv springs), not semantic distinction (term-adv ending vs. ‘accusative adverbial’). The
latter is arguably a conceptually deceiving effect of the Greco-Latin model of grammar
that is imposed on Semitic languages.
25 The accumulation of these endings (cp. kirīšum, annīšam in Sect. 3.1) triggers resyllabifi-
cation, with concomitant re-accentuation and restructuring of their word-boundaries.
26 Speiser (1954: 113–114) assumes for h, š a shift from a pronominal to a term-adv function
via a grammaticalization process pronoun > postposition (“for ‘earth-towards’, or the
like, Semitic employed ‘earth-that’”), for which, though, he provides no Semitic or cross-
linguistic attestations. Speiser himself concedes that this connection is “speculative”.
in the system of local endings, which in effect instantiate a form-meaning

relation between their final C and their pronominal function that, far from
being confined to the term-adv, is also found in the loc-adv, as exemplified
by the m in the Akkadian loc-adv um (cp. the end of Sect. 1.1).
It can be readily gleaned from these considerations that, once deemed cor-
rect, the symmetry between iš and ah that is rooted in the correspondence š/h
improves our knowledge of the Semitic term-adv by reducing its Akkadian
manifestation iš to a single segment i, thereby realigning this instance of term-
adv with its other historical manifestations that exhibit the single segment a,
as in Akkadian, Ugaritic, and Biblical Hebrew (a result to which we will return
at the end of this section). It would thus be desirable to reconcile this kind of
symmetry between iš and ah with their asymmetry, as is palpable in the afore-
mentioned contrast #iš vs. a#h. To this end, it seems convenient to invoke the
structuralist distinction between ‘lexicon’ and ‘grammar’, which is intended as
the component responsible for the lexicon’s arrangement (see e.g., Bloomfield
1933: 162–164). Indeed, the architecture of language thus defined reduces the
symmetry between iš and ah to a matter of lexical symmetry (cp. the pronom-
inal etymology of š/h), which does not imply the same for grammar and thus
allows a structural asymmetry between them that involves a different arrange-
ment of their constituents relative to the word-boundary (#iš vs. a#h).
In pursuing this line of reasoning, we can find an additional structural
asymmetry between the Akkadian iš and the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew ah by
capitalizing on Gelb’s (1969: 91–93, cp. also Pardee 2003/2004: 81) observation
that they yield different results when subjected to a substitution test that tries
to replace them with case endings.
While iš has the ability to replace a case ending, as in the pair sēpim/sēpiš,
ah does not and instead co-occurs with a (relic-)case ending, as shown by the
Ugaritic šmm(a)h ‘to the heavens’ and the Biblical Hebrew kaśdīmah ‘to the
Caldeans’, in which ah follows the (relic-)case ending included in the mimated
pl. Gelb ascribes this structural asymmetry in the relative arrangement of iš
and ah to a lexical category-based opposition: iš shares a case-ending status
with um, while ah has a postposition status. For the time being, focusing on his
case-ending analysis of iš and um, the doubling process discussed in Sect. 3.1
partially undermines this analysis: if iš and um were case endings, the doubling
process would result in the accumulation of two case endings (cp. kirīšum in
Sect. 3.1), a phenomenon that is not attested to for Semitic languages and is
also unlikely from a typological perspective (Hasselbach 2013: 22, fn. 28).
However, the fact still remains that the case and local endings formally and
semantically overlap in Akkadian, especially insofar as their V is concerned,
as illustrated by the behavior of i in the pair ina bītim ‘in the house’ and ana
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table 9.2 The grammaticalization process: Adverb > Postposition
Language Structural description Environment
P N CASE(-L) PF = adverb α
German auf den Berg ∅27 hinauf
Akk ina bīt u m
Akk ana dār i š
BH ʾel ha-ṣṣāfwōn a h
N CASE(-L) PF = postposition β
German – den Berg ∅ hinauf
Akk – dār i š
N X CASE(-L) PF = adverb γ
Akk – kir īš u m
BH – kaśd īm a h
Akk = Akkadian, BH = Biblical Hebrew, Ug = Ugaritic, CASE(-L) = Case(-like)

ending, PF = Pronominal form, X = Adnominal Form
dāriš ‘for the eternity’ (cp. von Soden 1995: 111), which makes it possible to at
least treat the Vs of the local endings as distributionally equivalent to those of
the case endings, regardless of whether this phenomenon is an innovation or
a retention. The overlap at issue, combined with the aforementioned pronom-
inal origin of š, h, and m, sheds new light on the Akkadian type ana dāriš, ina
bītum, ina bītim etc. (cp. also the Biblical Hebrew counterpart ʾel-haṣṣāfwōnah
‘northward’: Joüon 1947: 224), by re-conceptualizing it as a construction: P + N
+ case(-like) ending + pronominal form, which, remarkably, is also instantiated
by the German type (Er stieg) auf den Berg hinauf ‘he climbed up on the hill’.
This construction is tabulated as Environment α in Table 9.2 above.
Heine (1997: 57–61) convincingly argues that such a construction is an envi-
ronment conducive to an adverb > postposition grammaticalization process
that targets the pronominal form, which makes it possible to better character-
ize the form in question as combining the pronominal with an original adver-
bial status, i.e., as a constituent close to ‘hither’ (cp. hinauf ). On these grounds,
the structure-final pronominal forms š, h, and m, in the type ana dāriš, etc., can
27 As opposed to the ending es in (des) Berges ‘of (the) mountain’ etc.

also all be classified as adverbs—a uniform behavior that enhances their lexical
symmetry.
Nonetheless, this state of affairs should not obscure the structural asymme-
try between iš and ah that is detected by Gelb’s substitution test, which brings
us back to his explanation in terms of an opposition case ending iš vs. post-
position ah. The adverb > postposition grammaticalization process studied by
Heine (1997) threatens the plausibility of the first member of Gelb’s opposition,
which—as we have just discussed—is re-assessed as an adverb š, but admits
the possibility that its second member is a postposition, to the extent that it
occurs in the appropriate grammaticalization environment. While the afore-
mentioned Environment α requires the pronominal form to function as an
adverb (‘hither’), the same environment minus the P (cp. the Environment β in
Table 9.2) requires the pronominal form to instead function as a postposition,
akin to ‘-ward’ in English (cp. hinauf in Er stieg den Berg hinauf ‘he climbed
up the hill’). It turns out that, thanks to the total match between the dāriš type
(‘for the eternity’: von Soden 1995: 111) and the Environment β, the pronominal
form š in iš strictly obeys this requirement to qualify as a postposition (in addi-
tion to qualifying as an adverb in the Environment α); however, the pronominal
form h in ah does not obey the requirement under scrutiny because ah’s pre-
cise ability, noted by Gelb, of following the adnominal form īm in kaśdīmah ‘to
the Chaldeans’, etc., results in a clear alteration of the Environment β, which is
caused by the insertion of īm in that environment. Therefore, an altered envi-
ronment, such as kaśdīmah (cp. the Environment γ in Table 9.2), indicates that
the pronominal form h in ah is an adverb that, unlike š, has not evolved into a
postposition.
Upon closer scrutiny, the ability of following an adnominal form goes
beyond ah to encompass um as well (e.g., the adnominal form iš in the N kirīšum
‘to the orchard’ that is mentioned in Sect. 3.1), permitting us to generalize Gelb’s
distributional observation, which was originally applied to the complex īm + ah
to hold for any adnominal form X followed by a local ending, and, consequently,
to assign an adverb rather than a postposition status to any pronominal form
that occurs in the altered Environment γ (cp. Table 9.2). By virtue of the afore-
mentioned generalization, the pronominal form m in um cannot be assigned
a postposition status due to its ability of following the adnominal form iš in
kirīšum, so an adverb analysis is the only available one for this pronominal
form.
In sum, the adverb > postposition grammaticalization process revisits Gelb’s
structural asymmetry between iš and ah relative to their co-occurrence with
an adnominal form to also consider their structural symmetry (cp. extending
his distributional observations about ah to um and the unified adverb analy-
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sis of the segments š, h, and m in iš, ah, and um). This process also reveals that
this asymmetry boils down to a structural contrast between (the lexically sym-
metric) adverbs š, on the one hand, and h and m, on the other, with respect to
the presence or absence of the possibility of functioning as a postposition. It
should be noted that nothing in a postpositional analysis of š along these lines
hinges on the controversial etymological link between the term-adv (i)š and
the (alleged?) P IŠ, first proposed by Gelb and criticized by Gensler (apud Has-
selbach 2013: 71). Nor does such an analysis assume the problematic existence
of an OV-order and related postpositional type for Early Semitic (see Hassel-
bach 2013: 179ff. for details and references), as, according to Dryer (2013), there
are at least 43 languages worldwide in which the VO-order (traditionally recon-
structed for Early Semitic) correlates with postpositions and in which such
postpositions, far from instantiating a single or predominant type, are “are as
common as prepositions”—as much as the postposition š co-existed with Ps in
Early Semitic.
Concretely, such a revisitation of the Gelbian comparison between the Akka-
dian iš and the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew ah significantly contributes to our
understanding of the formal or semantic behaviors of the Semitic term-adv in
these language stages. In terms of the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew manifestation
of the Semitic term-adv as a#h, and especially its semantics, we would stress
that the goal and pronominal adverb functions performed by a and h, respec-
tively, lead to a translation in quasi-English as ‘to X, hither’ (e.g., arṣa#h ‘to the
earth, hither’), which represents a well-known construction to typologists, in
which a given function (e.g., goal-function) is expressed twice with a dedicated
marker combined with the N and a pronominal form. Labeled by typologists as
a ‘double-marking type’, this construction comes as no surprise to Ugaritic and
Biblical Hebrew on comparative and typological grounds. First, in comparative
terms, Hasselbach (2013: 229) shows that the double-marking type is well doc-
umented for Syriac, a sister language of Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew: cp. w-ʿal
yešuʿ tuḇ hāḵanā kṯiḇ ʿl-aw(hy), lit. ‘and on Jesus further thus written, on him’,
i.e., ‘and of Jesus it is further thus written’. In fact, in this example, the con-
stituents w-ʿal yešuʿ and ʿl-aw(hy) parallel arṣa# and h, respectively, in terms of
their categorial status (N, pronoun), their arrangement in the linear order (N
preceding the pronoun), and shared semantics (the repeated complement of
the argument denoted by -ʿ(a)l).
Second, from a typological perspective, Hasselbach (2013: 242) finds that
the double-marking type in Semitic correlates with languages that display a
“reduced or no case system” and “that do not have a definite article”; in her
original formulation, the generalization in question applies to Syriac, but it can
be easily observed that Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew also possess both or one,
respectively, of the parameters that Hasselbach ascribes to the Semitic double-

marking type, so interpreting their sequence a#h as an instance of this pattern
(i.e., as a complex term-adv + pronominal adverb) is typologically sound.
From a typological perspective, it is equally sound that the Akkadian term-
adv i co-occurs with a pronominal form š that is capable of behaving as a
postposition and, as such, is capable of inhibiting the entire sequence iš from
functioning as a double-marking type. This state of affairs is totally expected in
the characterization of Akkadian as possessing parameters that are opposite
to those that correlate with the double-marking type, i.e., a full-fledged case
system and—according to Dolgopolsky (1991)—a definite article (cp. Sect. 2.1).
More accurately, the complex iš thus defined represents a reinforced construc-
tion (dāriš being translatable in quasi-English as ‘for the eternity for’), which
can be ‘cyclically’ reinforced by ana or um, in line with the doubling process
that is operational in Akkadian (cp. Sect. 3.1).
However, before proceeding, a word of caution is in order. The h-less coun-
terpart of arṣa#h ‘to the earth, hither’, e.g., bta, clearly does not fall into the
double-marking type and corresponds instead to (quasi-)English ‘to X’ (‘to
home’, etc.). This correspondence is not surprising in typological terms, due
to the transitional nature of the double-marking type, which always co-exists
with more stable and simpler types of marking. Without entering into details,
these non-doubly marked types can omit the pronominal form, as exemplified
by Syriac men besr(y) ‘from my flesh’ (Hasselbach 2013: 229), just as bta does.
Turning to the form of the Akkadian term-adv iš, the discussion on the
subject of the viability of the lexical symmetry between š and h has supported
an analysis of iš as a complex term-adv + pronominal form, which means
that a morpheme-boundary intervenes between i and š (i.e., #i-š). It is exactly
this formal behavior that explains the allomorphy between #i-š and a# that is
observed in Akkadian and, what is more, is reconstructed for Early Semitic, as
prosodically-conditioned, in that i is followed by a morpheme-boundary and a
is followed by a word-boundary. In turn, the rationale behind the allomorphy
in question appears to lie in the so-called ‘iconicity’, a principle of order that
seeks the maximum correspondence between form and meaning and, as such,
constitutes the intrasemiotic counterpart (i.e., it operates within a given sign)
of the intersemiotic axiom of motivation that is discussed in Sect. 2 (operating
instead among signs), as argued by Haiman (1980). In its aim of realigning form
and meaning, iconicity takes the semantic-syntactic cut (cp. Bloomfield 1933:
161) between an NP and an adverb ([arṣato the earth][hhither ], cp. also [den Berg∅]
[hinauf ]), as relevant, as opposed to the semantic-syntactic fusion of an NP
with a postposition into a single larger phrase (cp. the postpositional phrases
[dārifor the eternity š for ]), ([den Berg∅ hinauf ]) to reproduce, on the level of form,
294 grande
table 9.3 The Semitic term-adv: Historical manifestations
Type Structural description Language Examples
term-adv Right-side Environment Akk Ug BH PCA

#1 i AdvPF X iš
#2 i AdvPF +a(m) X X īša(m), īka
#3 i AdvPF +um X īšum
#4 a None X X X X a
#5 a AdvPF X X X ah
AdvPF = Pronominal form functioning as an adverb (š, h, k)
such a semantic-syntactic cut by means of a word-boundary, which essentially

‘cuts’ the NP and the adverb into two separate words (arṣa#h); likewise, to
reproduce, on the level of form, the aforementioned semantic-syntactic fusion
by means of a morpheme-boundary, which in effect fuses at least a part of the
NP, i.e., the case(-like) ending i, with the postposition into a single word (#i-š).28
To conclude, this section has developed an analysis of the morphosyntax of
the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew local ending a#h, which has mainly relied on tests
of isolability and substitution, to reveal that the a# found in it, along with the
#i found in its Akkadian counterpart iš, is a formally and semantically inde-
pendent unit, which should be identified with the real locus of term-adv, i.e.,
as a goal marker ‘to’ (cp. Sect. 3.1). This kind of result corroborates the ‘dualist’
reconstruction of the case and local endings of Early Semitic offered in Sect.
2, according to which the term-adv manifested itself as a# (along with iš) in
this language stage. Another result from this analysis is a distributional restric-
tion: the constituents right-adjacent to the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew term-
adv a# and the Akkadian #i must be pronominal (cp. š and h in #i-š and a#h,
respectively), although an identical lexical nature of this sort does not imply
their identical syntactic nature (š being a postposition and h a goal-adverb,
i.e., ‘hither’). Taken as a whole, such historical manifestations of the Semitic
term-adv yield the taxonomy summarized in the first six columns of Table 9.3
above (which abstracts away from its word-boundaries and postposition func-
tion).
28 Recall from Sect. 3.2 that the analytical character of the Semitic N tends to inhibit its fusion
with other adnominal forms.
3.3 Pre-Classical Arabic

According to the received view, (P)CA has retained the loc-adv to a very lim-
ited extent, in the form of a V u, while it bears no trace of the term-adv at
all (see e.g., Hasselbach 2013: 24). In spite of its philological orientation, this
view, which has been chiefly elaborated on in the modern Western tradition,
has tended to marginalize the textual sources produced by the medieval Arab
grammarians and lexicographers, due to a rather biased skepticism toward
them (cp. Sect. 1). In the wake of Edzard (2013), who argues for a renewed philo-
logical approach to Arabic that is capable of interacting with other linguistic
approaches (comparative Semitics, typology, etc.), this section will consider
this kind of primary sources in an effort to reassess the received description
of PCA local endings and check their reassessed description against the valid-
ity of the ‘dualist’ reconstruction of the Early Semitic case and local endings
presented in Sect. 2. Due to space limitations and practical considerations, not
all analyses, as originally articulated by the Arab grammarians and lexicogra-
phers, can be discussed here adequately, and a selective criterion will instead
be adopted to deal with them—a criterion that privileges distributional analy-
ses, especially those included in the earlier and original sources (as opposed to
the later and compilative ones).
Taking the loc-adv as the departure point for a reassessment of the tradi-
tional description of PCA local endings, it is traditionally said to be phonolog-
ically realized as u (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 501–502) and to occur in a word-final
position, immediately after the third root-C of triconsonantal forms that tend
to manifest themselves as CaCC. This generalization is implicit in the place-
or time-adverbs ending in u (e.g., qablu ‘before’), as listed by Wright (1896: I,
288) and Fleisch (1961: II, 465–466, 501), which instantiate CaCC in 10 out of 17
cases (59%). Among the forms that do not fit into this generalization, the most
notable is (min) ʿalu ‘(from) above’, as the biconsonantal nature of the ʿal form
seemingly co-occurs with the loc-adv u, but this exception is only apparent.
The u in ʿalu is in effect commutable with i (cp. the PCA form (min) ʿali: Fleisch
1961: II, 466, fn. 1) when preceded by the biconsonantal root ʿ(a)l, and, in doing
so, it instantiates a PCA alternation that is typical of an ‘unstable’ glide w/y
(cp. Rabin 1951: 89: ʿaṣautu/ʿaṣaitu ‘I stuck’, etc.), which precisely by virtue of its
instability, according to Fleisch (1961: II, 402–405, 466, fn. 1; cp. also Weninger
2011: 153), has the status of a radical suffix in the process of evolving into a third
root-C and then converting an originally biconsonantal root ʿ L into a triconso-
nantal root ʿ L W /Y.
Fleisch’s interpretation does not necessarily invalidate the more intuitive
hypothesis that the segments u and i co-occurring with ʿal might have origi-
nally been a loc-adv u and a term-adv i (for more details, see the end of
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Sect. 3.2). The point that we would like to make here is different: this radical-
like alternation u/i provides strong distributional evidence that the combina-
tion of the biconsonantal root with a local ending originally had a phonolog-
ical realization other than a bare u or i, and that a phonological realization
of this sort is instead the ‘by-product’ of a later reanalysis of the local ending
as a third root-C, itself part and parcel of an archaic, more general shift from
biconsonantal to triconsonantal morphology.29 Given that reanalysis by def-
inition never involves a drastic change on the segmental level (Esseesy 2008
and references therein) and that the root-morpheme output of reanalysis is a
C, there is good reason to think that among the pre-reanalysis properties of the
phonological realization of the loc-adv u and term-adv i is a (semi-)con-
sonantal status (w, y)—an issue to which we will return at the end of this
section.
Thus, the distributional behavior of ʿalu (/ʿali) in the historical stages of PCA
proves that it does not violate the generalization inferred from Wright’s and
Fleisch’s list of place- and time-adverbs, being an ‘indeclinable’ and tricon-
sonantal place-adverb [ʿalu] rather than a biconsonantal adverb ending in a
loc-adv [ʿal] [u]—as also explicitly stated by Fleisch (1961: II, 466).
However, the generalization that a segment u immediately follows the third
root-C of a form CaCC (CaCC_) does not appear to be whole of the matter in
terms of the PCA loc-adv. In fact, al-Ḫalīl also records a PCA form ladun
‘at’ (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 487–488 and Kitāb al-ʿAyn VIII, 40: ladun bi-maʿnà
ʿinda), which—on an intuitive level—looks like an association of the locative
meaning with a segment u that occurs immediately after the second root-C
(CaC_).
We can pursue this intuition by examining the distributional account of this
form that Sībawayhi (apud Baalbaki 2008: 155–156) provides, which offers the
following points:
(a) no u-to-i change (bināʾ) affects the u in ladun when the latter is preceded
by min, e.g., min ladun-hu, as shown in the Koran (IV, 40 et passim),
which leads Sībawayhi to rule out the interpretation of this instance of
u as a case ending; relying on this Koranic data, he also rejects dialectal
forms, such as ladan (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 501), in which u varies with a, as
ungrammatical;
29 This shift very likely dates back as far as Early Semitic: a similar place-adverb (/preposi-
tion) with a similar alternation is also found in Akkadian, namely elu/eli ‘on, above’ (von
Soden 1995: 206).
(b) the n in ladun is not dropped when followed by a suffix-pronoun in a CS

(cp. the above Koranic example), and therefore cannot be analyzed as an
instance of nunation; furthermore,
(c) the same segment is at once word-final and V-less (majzūm), a bipartite
condition that in Sībawayhi’s view instead points to its being a replacive
morph that stands for a dropped third root-C w/y (ʾiʿtaqaba l-nūnu wa-
ḥarfu l-ʿillati ʿalà hāḏihi l-lafẓah); although Sībawayhi does not explicitly
define such a bipartite condition as a replacive morph’s diagnostic crite-
rion, as he simply regards it as a facile principium (Baalbaki 2008: 173), this
criterion is inferred in his comparison of the n in ladun and the f-marker
of sanatun, which in pause has the same word-final and V-less form (i.e.,
h) as the n in question (cp. Lisān al-ʿArab V, 4023: qāla sībawayhi … kamā-
ʿtaqaba l-hāʾu wa-l-wāwu fī sanatin lāman).
We can make sense of these distributional considerations by placing them in

a broader comparative context. On the one hand, the sequence un behaves
exactly as the Akkadian loc-adv um in that it can be both preceded by a P
(cp. min ladun under (a) with ina bītum in Sect. 3.2) and not dropped when
followed by a suffix-pronoun in a CS (cp. ladun-hu under (b) with šēpuššu <
šēpumšu, and fn. 18 above). Therefore, in PCA, the relic-forms of loc-adv that
ended in u, such as qablu, co-existed with relic forms that ended in un, such as
ladun.
On the other hand, Sībawayhi’s claim that the n in ladun is a replacive
morph of a dropped third root-C is tantamount to saying, in modern terms,
that the remaining sequence lad constitutes an archaic biconsonantal form
CaC (cp. also yadun ‘hand’) because it has been long recognized, thanks to
comparisons between (P)CA and other Afroasiatic languages, that an analysis
of this kind is Arab grammarians’ attempt to ‘normalize’ biconsonantal words
and accommodate them within a triconsonantal morphological framework
(see e.g., Fleisch 1961: I, 254–256). There are three aspects that relate to a
reconsideration of the replacive morph n along these lines.
First, the n in ladun cannot be classified as a root-C, which means, via an
argument by exclusion, that it functions as an ending, which partially con-
firms the loc-adv analysis of un that has been developed above. Second, the
diachronic fact that a biconsonantal form represents an archaism, whereas its
triconsonantal counterpart represents an innovation, and the distributional
fact that the loc-adv un co-occurs with a biconsonantal form, whereas the
loc-adv u co-occurs with a triconsonantal form, show that the former kind
of loc-adv is older than the latter. Third, we can reformulate these two pat-
terns of co-occurrence as a generalization that the increase of the bicon-
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sonantal form by one C (CaC > CaCC) correlates with the decrease of its
ending by one C (uC > u)—a correlation that suggests the hypothesis that a
given element, i.e., a single C, has undergone a change in constituency. Origi-
nally, this element was part of the loc-adv—technically speaking, the source
constituent—and later became part of the biconsonantal form—the target
constituent.
Typologists refer to this process as a reanalysis subtype, the so-called
‘rebracketing’ (cp. Esseesy 2008), and impose on it a well-defined environment,
namely that the element undergoing the change in constituency occupies,
within the source constituent, a structural position adjacent to the target con-
stituent. For instance, in the Middle English expression a napron ‘a tablecloth’,
the C n originally belonged to the source constituent/N napron, in which it ful-
filled an initial position right-adjacent to the target constituent/article a: [a]
[napron]. Subsequently, it was such an adjacent environment that induced
Middle English speakers to conceive of the C n as fulfilling a final position
within the article a and to change its constituency: [an] [apron].
A direct cue for a similar analysis of the pair ladun/qablu (CaCuC → CaCCu)
is provided by the expression min ladni-hi, an accepted Koranic variant of min
ladun-hu (Baalbaki 2008: 156) that is characterized by an u-to-i change that
affects the u of the loc-adv, to which we will return shortly, and by a metathe-
sis of its n, which causes this C to be right-adjacent to the biconsonantal form
lad, thus creating the environment required for rebracketing. More specifically,
the latter provides the n in question, which originally was the initial C of the
source constituent/loc-adv ([lad] [nu] = [a] [napron]), with the new struc-
tural position of the final C of the target constituent/lad ([ladn] [u] = [an]
[apron]). Evidence to this effect comes from the aforementioned u-to-i change
that is triggered by the P min (cp. the pair l-baytu/min-a l-bayti ‘(from) the
house’): while the n belonging to the loc-adv does not tolerate a change of
this sort (cp. min ladun-hu), the n functioning as the third-root C of a triconso-
nantal form CaCC does (cp. bi-ʿayni-hi ‘by himself’).
Hence, to summarize, the pattern consisting of a C-less loc-adv u com-
bined with a triconsonantal form CaCC, which is already known to the tradi-
tional description, actually develops through metathesis and reanalysis out of
a pattern that consists of a loc-adv uC combined with a biconsonantal form
CaC, which also ensures that the entire pattern at issue dates back to Early
Semitic and, in doing so, validates this language stage’s ‘dualist’ reconstruc-
tion worked out in Sect. 2.1, which includes a loc-adv uC. In this regard, it
is worth observing that the received view is not totally unaware of this inter-
pretive scenario. On the one hand, a process of reanalysis has been dealt with
above in connection with (min) ʿalu, which owes much to Fleisch (1961) and,
at once, is highly reminiscent of the reanalysis undergone by ladun, as both

share the change of a loc-adv into a third root-C and an original biconso-
nantal environment; on the other hand, Hummel (1957: 88) and Fleisch (1961:
II, 61–63) have already proposed the decomposition of the core of the form
halumma ‘here’ into a biconsonantal form CaC (hal) and a mimated loc-adv
u that corresponds “to Akkadian -um” (Hummel 1957: 88), based on a com-
parison with Biblical Hebrew halom.30 In short, their analysis of halum(ma)
parallels that of ladun invoked here; thus, the former further substantiates the
latter.31
Having reassessed the received view on the PCA loc-adv, it is now time to
check primary sources against the traditional claim that no trace of the Semitic
term-adv has survived in this language, with the caveat that their use in the
following discussion will be informed by the selective criterion already stated in
connection with the re-examination of the PCA loc-adv. For reasons that will
become clear in due course, a reassessment of the assumed lack of term-adv
in PCA calls for a case study on the quite nebulous set of idiomatic expressions
that end in the sequence ayka, notably dawālayka, ḥaw(ā)layka, hajājayka, and
their related forms (e.g., dawālīka, ḥaw(ā)laka, hajāja, etc.).32
Dawālayka and the related form dawālīka have been an object of study since
the initial stages of Arabic lexicography. Ibn Buzurj, a contemporary33 of ʾAbū
l-Hayṯam (d. 226/840) reports (apud Lane 1863: III, 935) that such idiomatic
30 In passing, halom is among the relic forms that display a loc-adv in this language.
Remarkably, the ending at issue exhibits a u-colored V and a final C that comport well
with the Early Semitic reconstructed form um, as put forward in Sect. 2.
31 Even more so, if we consider that a word-boundary intervenes between hal and um(ma),
i.e., hal#um(ma), as much as it does between lad and u, i.e., lad#un, as shown by the ability
of hal to occur in isolation in PCA (cp. Fleisch 1961: II, 62–63). In this respect un and um
parallel iš (#iš). Regarding the sequence ma that follows halum, it arguably corresponds,
again, to the Akkadian ma (Hummel 1957: 88) and can be accordingly interpreted as an
emphatic marker that, in this case, represents the formal correlate of the exclamative
force that is associated with the entire expression halumma. Fleisch (1961: II, 62) contends
that the function of the imperative verb (‘come!’) that is ascribed to halumma in Arabic
lexicography is a late development that might have been favored precisely by this kind of
pragmatic property through reanalysis, with the subsequent loss of locative meaning, and
the emergence of verbal conjugation.
32 A good English summary of many of these interpretations can be found in Seidensticker
(2010: 295–296), who discusses an expression that shares with dawālayka, etc., the puz-
zling sequence ayka, i.e., labbayka. Cp. also Lane (1863) under the lemmas ḥawālayka,
dawālayka, and labbayka.
33 Cp. Lane (1863: I, xxx).
300 grande
expressions mean ‘with an affected inclining of the body from side to side’ in
PCA, either alone or in combination with the motion verb mašà34 ‘to walk’
( yamšī dawālayka/dawālīka).
Ḥawālayka and the related form ḥawlaka have been investigated by early
lexicographers al-Ḫalīl and ʾAbū l-Hayṯam (d. 226/840), who basically reduce
ḥawālayka to a CS formed by an N in the du (ay) and a 2sg suffix-pronoun
(ka), with the form ḥawlaka corresponding to the sg of ḥaw(ā)layka (wa-
ḥawālayka taṯniyatu ḥawlaka taqūlu l-nāsu ḥawlaka ḥawlayka wa-ḥawālayka:
Lisān al-ʿArab VI, 4615). Al-Ḫalīl also mentions an allomorph of the du-form
ḥawālay, which manifests itself as ḥawālà and occurs when the second member
of the CS is an N (e.g., ḥawālà l-dāri) instead of a 2sg suffix-pronoun (ka).
Interestingly, he glosses such expressions as ‘two sides’ (taqūlu ḥawālà l-dāri
ka-ʾanna-hā fī l-ʾaṣli ḥawālayni ka-qawlika jānibayni:35 Kitāb al-ʿAyn III, 298). Al-
ʾAzharī complements Al-Ḫalīl’s data by adding that the sequence ka can be
replaced by the sequence hu/hi in the forms ḥawālayka and ḥawlaka et similia:
wa-huwa ḥawlahu wa-ḥawlayhi wa-ḥawālayhi wa-ḥawālahu (Lisān al-ʿArab II,
1055).
Finally, the form hajājayka is paraphrased by the lexicographer al-ʾAsmaʿī
(d. 213/828) as a pl-form of the verb kaffa/yakuffu ʿan (taqūlu li-l-nāsi ʾiḏā
ʾaradta ʾan yakuffū ʿan-i l-šayʾi hajājayka wa-haḏāḏayka: Lisān al-ʿArab VI, 4615),
which conveys a (metaphorical) meaning of motion ‘to leave, to refrain from’ in
(P)CA (cp. Lane 1863: VIII, 3001). Moreover, an anonymous source (apud Lane
1863: VIII, 2879) informs us that the forms related to hajājayka are hajājayhi
and hajāja, which either replace the sequence ka with the sequence hi or drop
it; they also both co-occur with the verb rakiba (rakiba hajājayhi/hajāja) to
express the meaning of ‘to go at random’, an expression that arguably implies
by its own nature a motion from (at least) one place to another.36
34 In this paper, the symbol à transliterates the (P)CA grapheme ʾalif maqṣūrah.
35 In addition to Kitāb al-ʿAyn III, 298, the passage under discussion is also found in Lisān
al-ʿArab II, 1055, which incorporates it through the mediation of al-ʾAzharī’s (d. 370/981)
Tahḏīb, except for the phrase ka-qawlika jānibayni. The two modern critical editions of
Kitāb al-ʿAyn and Lisān al-ʿArab consulted here crucially differ regarding the vocalization
of the consonantal ductus ⟨ḥwāly⟩ occurring in this passage: the edited text of Lisān al-
ʿArab adopts ḥawālà, whereas that of Kitāb al-ʿAyn adopts ḥawālay. The former reading is
preferred here over the latter due to the philological principle of lectio difficilior potior, a
du-form ending with à being much less expected than one ending in ay.
36 The variant rakiba hajāji has been also transmitted by the same source, but it will not
be further discussed here due to the South Arabian origin of the morphological pattern
CaCāCi, after which hajāji is modeled. See fn. 6 above.
On the whole, one common semantic feature appears to cut across these
three interpretations of dawālayka, etc., ḥawālayka, etc., and hajājayka, etc.:
the idea of ‘motion from one point in space to another’, which is well-defined
in the interpretations of dawālayka, etc., and hajājayka, etc., as is inferred from
their glosses as ‘to walk from … to’ and ‘to go at random (from … to)’; this
idea is less specified in the case of ḥawālayka, etc., denoting only two points
in space with no reference to a related process of motion. More accurately,
the semantic feature under scrutiny underlies the sequences ay, ī, à, and a in
dawālayka, ḥawālayka, hajājayka and related forms, i.e., these forms minus the
sequences dawāl, ḥawāl, hajāj and ka, hu/hi, N (e.g., l-dāri), as the first group
of sequences is associated with different nuances of the idea of ‘motion from
one point in space to another’ (‘to walk’, ‘to go’ or none, respectively) in the
sources examined, and the second group of sequences is therein described as
an ‘unstable’ set of elements that alternate with each other in a structure-final
position (e.g., ḥawālay-ka/hi).
To determine whether the interpretations in question are reliable or not, it
is helpful to stress that the considerable convergence in results among them—
notably, the common idea of motion from one point in space to another—
is proof of their reliability because the result obtained by means of a given
interpretation is indirectly confirmed by the same result independently arrived
at by another interpretation, and vice versa. By this line of reasoning, the lack
of convergence of these sources relative to the correspondence between the
sequence ka on the level of form and the 2sg on the level of meaning—a result
that is confined to the interpretation of ḥawālayka and related forms—makes
such a correspondence highly questionable. The correspondence at issue is also
falsified by two counterexamples of distributional character. First, Ibn Buzurj
(apud Lane 1863: III, 935) describes dawālayka as capable of co-occurring with
the article l- (l-dawālayka), which implies that it cannot be parsed as a complex
dawālay+ka, i.e., as a CS-head marked for du, followed by a 2sg suffix-pronoun
ka, contrary to what the interpretation of ḥawālayka states; otherwise, the
CS-head in question would be ungrammatically combined with l-. Second, a
substitution test that the Arab grammarians (apud Fleisch 1961: II, 36) originally
formulated for the pronominal domain to determine which of the sequences
ka/kum denote a 2sg/pl and which do not yields the latter outcome when
applied to the ka that occurs in ḥawālayka.
For instance, the pronominal form ḏalika/kum ‘that’, which is traditionally
referred to as a distal deictic, does not tolerate the substitution of its structure-
final sequences ka/kum with an N, e.g., Zayd (ḏalika/kum → *ḏalizaydin/zay-
dīna), in sharp contrast with forms that display sequences ka/kum that function
as bona fide 2sg/pl in the same structural position (ḍarabtuka/kum ‘I hit you’
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→ ḍarabtu zaydan/zaydīna ‘I hit Z.’). By the same token, the form ḥawālayka
does not tolerate the substitution of its structure-final sequence ka with an
N such as dār, which instead requires the dedicated form ḥawālà (ḥawālay →
*ḥawālay l-dār). The attentive reader will have also noticed that the sequence
hi in ḥawālayhi parallels ka in terms of its ability to co-occur with the forms
ḥawālay in a structure-final position, so its replacement with an N results,
again, in an ungrammatical result (ḥawālayhi → *ḥawālà l-dār) that militates
against its analysis as a 3sg suffix-pronoun.
All in all, a survey of the lexicographical sources along the aforementioned
lines, which concentrates on the set of idiomatic expressions dawālayka,
ḥaw(ā)layka, hajājayka, etc., provides a negative definition of their sequences
ka, hu and hi (≠ 2/3sg suffix-pronoun), while revealing that a single sequence,
such as ay, ī, à, and a, on the level of form expresses two complementary ideas of
motion (‘from one place’ and ‘to another place’), which is a diagnostic property
of an ‘elliptical’ goal marker, as shown in Sect. 3.2 (cp. to in day-to-day). It fol-
lows that a sequence, such as ay, ī, à, and a, is a goal marker and, as a corollary,
that the sequence preceding it, such as dawāl, ḥawāl, and hajāj, is an N. That
said, the goal-marker status of the sequences ay, ī, à, and a is a necessary—
though insufficient—condition for identifying these sequences as instances of
term-adv. In fact, it has been clarified at the end of Sect. 3.2 that the other nec-
essary condition for positing a term-adv is that any constituent right-adjacent
to it is a pronominal form—specifically a postposition (cp. š) or a goal-adverb
(cp. h).
Now, the fact that the sequences ka, hu, and hi occupy exactly a right-
adjacent position relative to the goal markers ay, ī, and a suggests the hypothe-
sis that they are pronominal forms performing either a postpositional or adver-
bial function and that these goal markers are instances of term-adv. The
burden of proof for this hypothesis rests on an environment different from
the nominal forms dawālay, ḥaw(ā)lay, hajājay, etc., within which ka occurs,
notably the pronominal form ḏalika, which alternates in PCA with ḏalikum, as
alluded to above.
Although the received view assumes this alternation to be a function of the
opposition sg vs. pl endings a and um of the second-person suffix-pronoun,
we can hardly espouse this view, given that the aforementioned substitution
test ḏalika/kum → *ḏalizaydin/zaydīna falsifies the analysis of the sequences
ka/kum of ḏalika/kum as second-person suffix-pronouns. Instead, the fact that
these endings occur in a space-denoting environment (cp. the deictic meaning
of ḏalika/kum) highlights that they are local endings, which leads to equating
the a in (ḏalik)a with a term-adv and the u in (ḏalik)um with a loc-adv (to
which PCA also attests in the form halumma; see the beginning of this section).
In this light, in the forms ḏalika/kum, the segment a and the sequence um
are local endings that separately follow the segment k, very much as the local
endings a and um separately follow the pronominal goal-adverb š of the local
ending iš in the forms kirīšum and anīša(m) (cp. Sect. 3.1). Such a parallelism
supports an analysis of k as a pronominal goal-adverb,37 which has since been
reanalyzed, along with a/um, as a non-pausal form of the 2sg/pl suffix-pronoun
due to its formal identity with the latter and its obsolete meaning. In turn, this
distributional evidence means that the sequences ay, ī, and a that co-occur
with ka, and, by extension, with à, can be classified as instances of term-adv;
therefore, the traditional claim that (P)CA bears no trace of this local ending
should be reassessed accordingly.
There are three interesting aspects to this outcome. First, all the instances of
term-adv ay, ī, à, and a, as attested in dawālayka, etc., occur within 3 out the
5 environments historically documented for this local ending outside PCA (cp.
Table 9.3 above), with the notable exception of ay and à—which is explained in
the next section. Drawing on such a striking parallelism between the Akkadian,
etc., instances of term-adv and its PCA counterparts, the same considerations
made in terms of the former also carry over to the latter to validate the ‘dualist’
reconstruction of Early Semitic developed in Sect. 2.1, according to which this
language stage instantiates the term-adv endings iC and a#.
Second, because of their commutability with ka in the environments
ḥawālay and ḥawla, the sequences hu and hi can be interpreted in the same
manner and are thus amenable to a C-less, pronominal goal-adverb h (cp.
Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew) that has been reanalyzed as a 3sg suffix-pronoun
because of its obsolete meaning and its formal identity with the equally C-less
pausal form of the suffix-pronoun in question.
Lastly, the term-adv endings ay and à are in complementary distribution in
the related forms ḥawālay and ḥawālà, with one co-occurring with the hi that
results from reanalysis and the other with an N. However, it stands to reason
that no pattern of this sort existed prior to reanalysis and that these instances
of term-adv were instead in free variation because it can be hardly accepted
on semantic grounds that a pronominal adverb, such as h, could have entered
into an opposition with an N.
37 Cp. also Fleisch (1961: I, 67–68), who likens k to a pronominal adverb based on compar-
ative evidence, such as Biblical Hebrew kō ‘so’. When occurring within the distal deictic
ḏalika/kum, etc., the (reinforced) form k(a/um) ‘hither’ might arguably have contributed
to the distal meaning, not unlike da ‘there’ in the German deictic das da ‘that’: cp. Fleisch
(1961: II, 33 ff.).
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Even if this reconstruction of the free variation ay/à is mainly based on the
PCA forms ḥawālà\ay, other forms exist in PCA, such as ladà/laday ‘at’ and
ʿalà/ʿalay ‘over, against’, which—just as ḥawālà\ay do—strongly associate it
with a goal-function (cp. ʿalà/ʿalay) and/or assign it a pattern of complemen-
tary distribution through polarization (e.g., ʿalà + N/ʿalay-hi). Therefore, a case
can be made for interpreting the sequences ay/à in ladà/laday, ʿalà/ʿalay, etc.,
as instances of term-adv that occur within the environment of a biconsonan-
tal root lad, ʿal, etc., (for more, see the discussion about the PCA loc-adv),
i.e., as [lad] [ay/à], [ʿal] [ay/à], etc. This fact, combined with the fact that PCA
attests to pairs such as raddatu/raddaytu ‘I gave back’ (apud Rabin 1951: 163), in
which glide deletion plausibly targets the sequence ay (ay > a) in the environ-
ment CaCC, lends credibility to the following hypothesis:
The term-adv a that is found in the forms ḥaw(ā)la and hajāja is a prosod-
ically-conditioned allomorph of the term-adv ay and is associated with the
environment of a triconsonantal root, in the sense that the biconsonantal
environment of ay (e.g., CaC: lad), when expanded through a third root-C
(e.g., CaC(ā)C: ḥaw(ā)l, hajāj), undergoes some kind of resyllabification, which
in turn is conducive to the re-accentuation and concomitant phonological
reduction of ay into a, in the form of a glide deletion.
On this count, root morphology plays a crucial role in the diachronic devel-
opment of the term-adv—even more so, if we consider that the combination
of the term-adv ay, consisting of a single C, with the biconsonantal root that
diachronically correlates with it ([lad][ay]), results in a prosodic structure of
three Cs that, at a later stage, when the triconsonantal morphology emerges,
can be easily reanalyzed as a triconsonantal root ([laday]), with the aim of
realigning it to the new morphological trend. Language-internal evidence to
this effect comes from similar reanalysis processes that have been revealed at
the beginning of this section to affect the locative counterpart of the term-
adv, notably the loc-adv in ladun, (min) ʿalu. The investigation of the form
(min) ʿalu has also revealed that, prior to reanalysis, the biconsonantal root co-
occurred with a morpheme formally identical to a root-C, i.e., a glide alone,
instead of the sequence ay. At the current research stage, we can thus offer two
competing reconstructions for the form of the term-adv that co-occurs with
a biconsonantal root: either the aforementioned ay ([lad][ay]) or y ([lad][y]),
which both go back to Early Semitic (cp. fn. 29 above).
Be that as it may, it is evident from a reconstruction along the aforemen-
tioned lines that iconicity is the ultimate factor responsible for the glide’s
reanalysis as a third root-C, because a reanalysis of this sort places a word-
boundary between the N that ends in the term-adv ay or y and the adverb k
with which it co-occurs, to reproduce a semantic-syntactic ‘cut’ between them
on the level of form, as alluded to at the end of Sect. 3.2. It is also evident that the
problem of the fusion of an adnominal form, such as the term-adv (a)y, with
a Semitic N, in violation of the latter’s analytical character, as noted in the fnn.
22 and 23 above (N-y#k or N-ay#k instead of N#y-k or N#ay-k, etc.), evaporates
as soon as this kind of fusion proves to be the result of the aforementioned
reanalysis from a term-adv to a third root-C rather than the original condi-
tion of the N. After all, the fusion of a given root-C with a biconsonantal N-root
within the same word-domain (CC-C#) is a familiar phenomenon to Semiti-
cists and Arabists (cp. the (P)CA alternation damun ‘blood.sg-subj’/dumiyyun
‘blood.pl-subj’, with a Y added to the root D M).
More specifically, this process runs along the following lines: first, a biconso-
nantal N is combined with the term-adv y or ay and the related pronominal
adverb k, but the morpheme-boundary intervening between the term-adv
and its adverb k is non-iconic, as discussed at length in Sect. 3.2 ([CaC]N#ay-
k or [CaC]N#y-k); the term-adv is then reanalyzed as a third root-C because of
iconicity, with the word-boundary accordingly reshaped as intervening ‘icon-
ically’ between the term-adv and the pronominal adverb ([CaCay]N#k or
[CaCy]N#k); finally, when the triconsonantal N supersedes its biconsonantal
counterpart, it inherits the new prosodic property in a generalized manner
([CaCCay]N #) and also undergoes glide deletion, as alluded to above ([CaCCa]N
#).
The conclusion is a sobering one: a close examination of primary lexico-
graphic sources, which privileges earlier and/or distributional accounts, shows
that, contrary to the traditional view, PCA retains some relic forms of loc-adv
and term-adv that are either formally equivalent to those found in cognate
languages (cp. um in halum(ma), ḏalikum and a, ah in hajāja, ḥawlah(u)) or
language-specific (cp. the nunation, instead of mimation, in the un of ladun
and the term-adv endings ay and à). This examination also reveals the ances-
tors of these local endings, phonologically realized as w and y, and the role of
iconicity in violating the analytical character of the N.
Before proceeding to the next section, another remark is in order. Focusing
on a phonemic level rather than a graphemic level, the term-adv à in free
variation with ay will be transliterated henceforth as ya, in the vein of recent
textual research by Owens (2006: 199ff.), primarily based on al-Kitāb, which
identifies the PCA grapheme ʾalif maqṣūrah with an on-glide (i.e., falling) diph-
thong ya.
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4 Further Consequences
4.1 The Reconstruction of the Terminative-Adverbial

In the reassessment of Semitic local endings, we have made significant use of
some interpretive tools from language typology, which can be summarized in
the following form of simple implicational generalizations (‘if X, then Y’) to
further our knowledge of such endings behaviors in the reconstructed Early
Semitic stage. Given a Semitic language S,38
(1) if S manifests a marked construction, such as the double-marking type,

then S also manifests its non-doubly marked counterpart (cp. Ugaritic
bta(y) ‘to (my) house’ vs. arṣa#h ‘to the earth, hither’ in Sect. 3.2);
(2) if S does not manifest a case system or manifests a reduced case system,
then S will employ a double-marking type that features a pronominal
form (cp. the end of Sect. 3.2);
(3) if S manifests a local postposition, then S will also manifest a local adverb
that functions as a pronominal form in a double-marking type (cp. the
adverb > postposition grammaticalization pattern in Sect. 3.2);
(4) if S manifests a local postposition and a local adverb, then S will display
two different prosodic forms for them that iconically correspond to their
semantic functions, i.e., a morpheme-boundary and word-boundary (cp.
the end of Sect. 3.2).
By virtue of the generalization in (2), the three case endings u, a, and i that
are reconstructed for Early Semitic, and distributed into the binary VHIGHC-
paradigm and singleton VLOW#-paradigm formally constitute—whatever their
ultimate function—a case system that is reduced enough to imply a double-
marking type. Because of the reconstructed Early Semitic goal-postposition š,
the same type is also implied by the generalization in (3), with the caveat that
its goal-adverb could have not been phonologically realized as h, as Weninger
(2011: 168) convincingly argues that the pronominal h represents a later (e.g.,
North-West Semitic) innovation. It is at this point that the generalization in
(4) comes into play, by making the pronominal k that is attested in PCA (cp.
the case study in the forms ḥawla#ka, ḥaw(ā)lay#ka, etc., in Sect. 3.3) the most
suitable candidate for the role of the goal-adverb that correlates with š in
Early Semitic, in that the left-environment of k, notably the term-advs a# and
38 This condition is important: the generalizations below are not necessarily valid cross-
linguistically.
ay#—along with its free variant ya# (cp. the end of Sect. 3.3)—include a word-
boundary that is iconically opposed to the morpheme-boundary included in
the left-environment of š (i.e., the term-adv i-). This reconstruction gains
plausibility from a comparative consideration: the pronominal k, unlike its
counterpart h, can be traced back as far as Early Semitic (Weninger 2011: 169).
Last but not least, the generalization in (1) clarifies that the double-marking
type that manifests its pronominal form in the form of k, i.e., N-a/ay/ya#k
‘to N, hither’ (cp. arṣa#h ‘to the earth, hither’), should have co-existed with a
non-doubly-marked counterpart, in which no pronominal form occurred, i.e.,
N-a/ay/ya# (cp. bta(y) ‘to (my) house’).
As a first approximation, we can then reconstruct four developmental stages
for the Early Semitic term-adv:
Stage I: a biconsonantal morphology is still predominant, and the term-

advs ay, ya, or a rather puzzling y (cp. the two competing recon-
structions presented at the end of Sect. 3.3) occur, also along with
the pronominal form k, to form a doubly-marked type.
Stage II: in a transition from biconsonantal to triconsonantal morphology,
such endings undergo an ‘iconic’ reanalysis as a third root-C with
concomitant restructuring of their word-boundary, along the lines
described at the end of Sect. 3.3, with all other things being equal.
Stage III: a triconsonantal morphology takes over, and the term-adv a also
occurs, along the lines described at the end of Sect. 3.3, with all other
things being equal.
Stage IV: a sequence iš also occurs, made up of a term-adv i fused with a
pronominal š that (also) functions as a postposition.
In this diachronic development, a change k > š is observable, which can be

straightforwardly accounted for as a ‘by-product’ of the opposition word-
boundary vs. morpheme-boundary. While the former boundary blocks the
adjacency of a high vocoid i or y (on which, see fn. 9 above) with k, the
latter induces it, which produces the conditions for the palatalization of k
into š (cp. the PCA phenomenon of kaškašah: ki ‘you.f’ > ši ‘id.’: Rabin 1951:
126).
The diachronic development under scrutiny also includes the free variation
ay/ya discussed at the end of Sect. 3.3, the most salient property of which is
the ability of the V a to co-occur either before or after the glide y. Another key
property of this variation is its increasing sonority: the glide y simultaneously
occupies the highest rank in the sonority hierarchy (Clements 1990: 292) and a
word-final position (cp. the word-boundary immediately after it), which means
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that a root-C will always precede such a glide and will be always lower than the
glide in sonority (C<yay/ya#).
Interestingly, these two properties diagnose the output of a rule of sonorant-
epenthesis that was widespread across Semitic (Owens 2006: 110–111) and
inserted a V either before or after the second C (cp. the a in C<yay/ya) of a
CC-cluster endowed with increasing sonority (cp. C<yC in C<yay/ya) in order
to break it via resyllabification (CVC/C-CV), as exemplified by the pair kisr/ksir
‘break-ipfv’, as attested, e.g., in Iraqi Arabic (cp. also Owens 2006: 187ff.), where
the stem-V i qualifies as an epenthetic V relative to the s (isi) found in the
environment of increasing sonority represented by the CC-cluster ks.39 As a
consequence, it seems plausible to reconstruct the immediate ancestor of the
historically documented term-advs ay/ya in the form of a single, epenthe-
sized segment aya and to thereby reconcile the two competing reconstructions
presented in Sect. 3.3 for the two initial stages of the diachronic development
of the Early Semitic term-adv—what has been referred above as Stages I and
II. In Stage I, when reanalysis had not yet taken place and a word-boundary
accordingly intervened between the analytical N and the term-adv (cp. the
end of Sect. 3.3), the latter must have been phonologically realized as y because
the word-boundary inhibited the formation of any CC-cluster responsible for
sonorant epenthesis (CaC<y#y). In Stage II, reanalysis triggered the restructur-
ing of the word domain (CaC<y#y > CaC<y y#), thereby creating the environment
required for sonorant epenthesis (CaC<y y# > CaC<y aya#), the output of which,
namely aya, later underwent the phonologization in the form of the free vari-
ation ay/ya, etc. In short, the segment aya is sort of a ‘missing link’ between y
(its non-epenthesized, non-reanalyzed ancestor) and ay/ya (its epenthesized,
reanalyzed offshoots).
In addition to Stages I and II, sonorant epenthesis improves our understand-
ing of Stage IV. When the pronominal k shifts from an adverb into a postposi-
tion, the pre-existent forms CaCCay/ya/a#k (cp. Stage III above) are rejected as
non-iconic (cp. Sect. 3.2 and the end of Sect. 3.3) and re-built in such a way that
the default, language-specific rules of well-formedness are accompanied by
iconicity (cp. Haiman 1980: 516: “semantic change”, i.e., adverb > postposition,
may imply “restoration” of iconicity). In the case of Early Semitic, this recon-
struction means that the new forms instantiate by default an analytical N plus
a word-boundary plus a term-adv y (cp. Stage I), whereas iconicity proper
39 In these varieties, sonorant epenthesis becomes generalized, no matter the sonority envi-
ronment: e.g., ktib/kitb ‘write-ipfv’, in which kt follow a pattern of decreasing sonority
(Owens 2006: 187).
inserts a morpheme-boundary between the term-adv y and the postposition

k. The outcome of this process is a form CaCC#y-k, in which the relevant CC-
cluster occurs to the right of the word-boundary of the N and features a C
k lower in sonority than y (#y-k<y). An environment of decreasing sonority is
thus obtained for y, which does not constitute a condition for the application
of sonorant epenthesis; therefore, no epenthetic a is inserted before or after
the glide in question, and its resyllabification as i is very likely to occur instead.
In fact, Testen (1998: 127) reconstructs a resyllabification process of this sort
for an Early Semitic CC-cluster prosodically akin to #y-k<y, relying on Akkadian
data. For instance, the 3sg precative form liprus that has at its core the bona
fide prefix-conjugation form iprus, i.e., l#i-prus, arises out of a non-resyllabified
form l#y-prus that actually parallels the nominal form CaCC#y-k<y in terms of
the relevant portion #y-C<y (#y-p<y, #y-k<y). In this framework, #i-š is a palatal-
ized and resyllabified variant of the term-adv ay/ya#k.
In light of the foregoing, we can refine the above reconstruction of the
diachronic development of the Early Semitic term-adv as follows:
Stage I: a biconsonantal morphology is still predominant, and the term-

adv y occurs, also along with the pronominal form k, to form a
doubly-marked type (e.g., CaC#y/CaC#y-k: cp. the end of Sect. 3.3
and PCA dawalīka).
Stage II: in a transition from biconsonantal to triconsonantal morphology,
iconicity imposes reanalysis on the term-adv y as a third root-
C, with concomitant restructuring of its word-boundary, to make
its form correspond with its meaning (e.g., CaC#y-k > CaCy#k: cp.
the end of Sect. 3.3). In turn, such a process creates the conditions
for sonorant epenthesis. The resulting output is the epenthesized
term-adv aya (cp. its phonologized reflexes ay/ya in the PCA pair
ʿalay/ya), which can co-occur with the pronominal form k, to form
a doubly-marked type.
Stage III: a triconsonantal morphology takes over, and the N that co-occurs
with the epenthesized term-adv aya, or with its phonologized
manifestation in the form of a free variation ay/ya, undergoes gen-
eralized C-expansion (e.g., CaCay/ya# > CaC(ā)Cay/ya#, cp. PCA
ʿalay/ya, ḥawālay/ya), with concomitant re-accentuation, which
creates the conditions for glide deletion (e.g., CaCāCay > CaCāCa,
cp. PCA hajājay(hi), hajāja). The resulting output is the ‘pruned’
term-adv a, with all other things being equal.
Stage IV: the pronominal k that co-occurs with the epenthesized term-adv
aya undergoes grammaticalization from an adverb to a postposition,
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with the concomitant intervention of iconicity, which creates the

conditions for both palatalization and resyllabification. The resul-
ting output is the complex term-adv plus the postposition iš (cp.
Akkadian dāriš).
Adopting this reconstruction, we attain a better comprehension of the Early

Semitic (and Akkadian) prosodically-conditioned allomorphy that is observed
in the term-adv iš vs. a(k/h)—or, more abstractly, VHIGHC- vs. VLOW#-para-
digm—, which instantiates the double opposition VHIGH/LOW and ∅C/C (cp.
the end of Sects. 2 and 3.2). For starters, the apparent counterexample to
such a double opposition, which consists of the PCA term-adv pair ay/ya
(cp. the end of Sect. 3.3), is a less-severe problem than what appears at first
sight, after it is re-conceptualized as the phonologization of the epenthesized
glide aya, in line with Stage II. In fact, prior to sonorant epenthesis, the glide
is y and so possesses in nuce the same properties of height and single C-
status that are found in the VHIGHC-paradigm, including iš; similarly, after so-
norant epenthesis, the epenthetic V a possesses the same properties of lowness
and word-final status (cp. ya, in addition to ay) that are found in the VLOW#-
paradigm.
Moreover, the different prosodic environments that lie behind the allomor-
phy iš vs. ak/h (cp. the end of Sect. 3.3), namely #y-C and y#C, prove to be
the outcomes of their C/pronominal forms’ different reactions to a reanaly-
sis as a third root-C and to the subsequent rules of sonorant epenthesis and
glide deletion. In fact, while iconicity causes the application of reanalysis and
related rules to an original sequence #y-C/adverb to yield the environment
y#C/adverb (i.e., [CaC]N#y-k becomes [CaCy]N#k, etc.: cp. the end of Sect. 3.3),
the same principle causes their non-application by restoring the reanalyzed
sequence y#C/postposition to its original status, to yield the environment #y-
C/postposition.
This situation leads to the prediction that, due to its sharing of prosodic
and—to some extent—segmental material (cp. the VHIGHC-paradigm, and fn.
31 above) with iš, the local ending um/n and related prosodic environment
are subject to a manifestation of iconicity that, as is the case for iš, causes
no application of that instance of iconicity that triggers reanalysis, sonorant
epenthesis and glide deletion. This issue is addressed in the next section.
4.2 The Reconstruction of the Locative-Adverbial

If we apply the interpretive tools laid out in the previous section to the loc-
adv, we find its apparently anomalous behavior vis-à-vis some of the gener-
alizations in (1–5). In Akkadian and PCA and, by extension, Early Semitic, the
local ending um/n deviates from the generalization in (1) due to its morpheme-
boundary (#u-m/n), which fuses the loc-adv u with the pronominal m/n,
thereby preventing u and its combined N from occurring independently of m/n
in a non-doubly-marked type. For the same reason, the local ending um/n vio-
lates the generalization in (4), which would iconically insert a word-boundary,
rather than a morpheme-boundary, between the loc-adv u and the pronom-
inal m/n that functions as an adverb.
However, albeit anomalous for the local ending um/n, the prosodic structure
#u-m/n or, more accurately, C#w-m/n<w (cp. the discussion concerning (min)
ʿalu in Sect. 3.3) is totally expected for the case ending um/n of the A-PAR
(cp. the test of isolability mātum → māt, etc., at the beginning of Sect. 3.2). In
all likelihood, this state of affairs bears witness of an analogical process that
inhibits the iconicity-driven reanalysis of w as a third root-C in the prosodic
structure of the local ending C#w-m/n<w by insisting on its total formal identity
with the case ending’s prosodic structure. In other words, the local ending
um/n is immune to the iconicity-driven reanalysis of its u (w) as a third root-
C and related rules, as the case ending um/n is immune to it, which raises a
question about which factor determines the case ending’s resistance to this
kind of reanalysis, etc.
A plausible answer is that the factor in question is a manifestation of iconic-
ity. In fact, while the prosodic structure C#w-m/n<w is non-iconic in the case
of the local ending um/n, as noted above, it is nonetheless perfectly iconic
when manifesting itself in the formally identical case ending um/n, in which
the morpheme-boundary that links the portion of N u with the article m/n on
the level of form reproduces as much as possible the semantic-syntactic fusion
of an N with its article into a single larger phrase—the so-called ‘determiner
phrase’ (cp. English [the man]).40 Therefore, in line with the prediction made
at the end of the previous section, the iconicity that operates on um/n by means
of analogy (iconicity-um/n henceforth) parallels the iconicity that operates on
40 Recall from Sect. 3.2 that the analytical character of the Semitic N tends to inhibit its fusion
with other adnominal forms. Also, recall from Sect. 3.2 that the pausal form ā in PCA that
is associated with the an of the A-PAR strongly suggests an analysis of this ending as Ca#n
instead of C#a-n, which violates iconicity. However, it is instructive that PCA attests to
another sequence an that is found in an N, as shown by man ‘who’, the alternation of
which with mā (ma:) ‘what’ points to an analysis of it as ma#n. It is equally instructive
that the very alternation an/ā observed in this pair is identical to that involving the pausal
ā and the non-pausal an in the A-PAR, which makes it plausible to expound the latter’s
anomalous prosodic structure C#a-n as the result of an analogy with ma#n via the shared
alternation an/ā.
312 grande
iš without resorting to analogy (iconicity-iš) as to the ability of contrasting the

iconicity that operates on a#(k) by means of reanalysis, etc. (iconicity-a).
In this framework, a prosodic symmetry emerges between iš and um/n
(C#w-m/n<w, C#y-š <y = C#C GLIDE -C<GLIDE) that should not conceal an impor-
tant distributional asymmetry that opposes the former to the latter. While
iš is in allomorphic variation with (aya=)ay/ya/a, no allomorph of this sort,
i.e., (awa=)aw/wa/a, is associated with um/n. This state of affairs appears to
be a matter of ordering of rules: iconicity-um/n takes place before iconicity-
a, whereas iconicity-iš takes place after iconicity-a. In fact, on the one hand,
the Akkadian and PCA forms that display um/n are biconsonantal, which high-
lights their archaicity (ladun, halum(ma): cp. Sect. 3.3); on the other hand, the
adverb > postposition grammaticalization process means that the Akkadian
form that displays iš has passed through a developmental stage in which the
postposition š is an adverb and, as such, is subject to iconicity-a. In this regard,
iconicity-um/n behaves as a blocking rule (Crystal 2008: 57), which prevents
the emergence of a non-existent form that can be potentially generated by
iconicity-a (e.g., ladu#n), as the required meaning is already conveyed by a pre-
existent form (e.g., lad#un), whereas iconicity-iš behaves as a rewriting rule
(Crystal 2008: 416), which, on the contrary, replaces a pre-existent form, as gen-
erated by iconicity-a, (e.g., … Ca#h) with a thus far non-existent form (e.g., …
C#i-š).
Therefore, the following diachronic ordering of the manifestations of iconic-
ity and related rules is obtained for the loc-adv um/n (cp. also the four devel-
opmental stages of the term-adv in Sect. 4.1): iconicity-um/n > iconicity-a >
reanalysis > sonorant epenthesis > glide deletion > iconicity-iš. In this process,
um/n is not in allomorphic variation with (awa=)aw/wa/a, given that it—unlike
iš—does not pass through the rules of reanalysis, sonorant epenthesis and
glide deletion that would have potentially generated such allomorphs, along-
side the allomorphs (aya=)ay/ya/a of iš. Vice versa, because no total formal
identity links the oldest ancestor of the local ending iš, notably the sequence
i(:)k retained in PCA (cp. Stage I in Sect. 4.1), to the form im/n of the A-PAR, no
analogy along the lines of um/n can be assumed for them, which is capable of
blocking the generation of the aforementioned allomorphs aya, etc.
Abstracting away for the different roles that iconicity plays in them, the
prosodic symmetry arising between iš and um/n at a certain stage of Early
Semitic (in a simplified notation: #u-m/n, #i-š) clearly opposes them to the
prosodic structure of a (in a simplified notation: a#) to result, on a prosodic
level, in a ‘dualist’ system that, again, supports the ‘dualist’ system that has been
reconstructed for Early Semitic on a segmental level throughout this paper.
5 Conclusions
The main results attained in this paper, especially on the basis of the investiga-
tion of typological phenomena, such as doubling, grammaticalization, doubly-
marking type, iconicity, reanalysis, as well as of the use of distributional tools,
such as the tests of isolability and substitution, are the following:
– a ‘reductionist’ reconstruction of the Early Semitic case- and local-endings

in the form of a shared system, made of a VHIGHC- and VLOW#-paradigm;
– its compatibility, to a large extent, with the system of case-endings recon-
structed by Satzinger for Afroasiatic;
– the reduction of the distributive function of the reinforced Akkadian term-
adv i/īš-a(m) to an ‘elliptical’ goal-function (cp. from day to day → day-to-day
management);
– the analysis of the Akkadian term-adv iš and a in terms of a prosodically-
conditioned allomorphy: a term-adv proper i, a plus a morpheme- and
word-boundary, respectively (#i-š, a#);
– an analysis of the Akkadian and PCA (cp. halumma) loc-adv um parallel
to that of iš, i.e. #u-m;
– an analysis of the Ugaritic/Biblical Hebrew term-adv a(h) parallel to that
of the Akkadian a#, i.e. a#(h);
– the identification of the sequences un, um in the PCA relic-form ladun ‘at’,
ḏalikum ‘that’ with relic instances of loc-adv un, um older than their C-less
counterpart u, and akin to Akkadian um, i.e. #u-n etc.;
– the analysis of the segments š, h, m, n combined with the aforementioned
loc-adv and term-adv u, i, a as pronominal forms originally functioning
as adverbs (e.g., ‘hither’);
– the identification of the sequences ay, ī, à, a in the PCA relic forms
dawālayka, dawālīka, ḥawālayhi, ḥawālà, ḥawlaka, hajāja with instances of
term-adv formally akin to Akkadian, Ugaritic, Biblical Hebrew a#(h), i/īš-
a(m), i.e. ay#k-a, ī#k-a, ay#h, a#, and semantically akin to Akkadian i/īš-
a(m), i.e. performing a distributive function (‘from one point in space to
another’);
– the analysis of the PCA term-adv ay and a in terms of a prosodically-
conditioned allomorphy: ay as associated with a biconsonantal root (cp.
ʿalay ‘on’), a with its triconsonantal counterpart (cp. hajāja);
– a diachronic interpretation of such an allomorphy, according to which a
biconsonantal root becomes triconsonantal through C-expansion, thereby
undergoing re-accentuation and subsequent phonological reduction, which
results in a glide deletion converting the term-adv ay into a;
314 grande
– the analysis of the segments k, h combined with such relic forms of term-
adv in PCA as pronominal forms originally functioning as adverbs (cp. š, h,
m, n);
– a related analysis for (P)CA ḏalika, with k standing for a pronominal adverb,
and a/um as a term-adv/loc-adv reinforcing it, in parallel to Akkadian
(annī)ša(m), (kirī)šum;
– the interpretation of the segments k, š combined, respectively, with the
term-adv a (cp. PCA ḥawlaka) and i (cp. Akkadian iš) as etymologically
related, via an adverb > postposition grammaticalization process, further
subjected to iconicity, which reproduces on the level of form the semantic
difference adverb/postposition by introducing a difference in their prosodic
boundaries (word- vs. morpheme-boundary), which in turn results in the
development of palatalization (k > š via the adjacency created by the
morpheme-boundary);
– a typological interpretation of the postposition status of the segment š in iš
that does not imply a reconstructed OV-order, in that it relies, instead, on the
aforementioned adverb > postposition grammaticalization process;
– a typological interpretation of the instances of loc-adv and term-adv
combined with the pronominal adverbs k, h, m, n as doubly-marked types
(a phenomenon already documented for Semitic): e.g. arṣa#h ‘to the earth,
hither’.
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chapter 10
On the Middle Iranian Borrowings in Qurʾānic (and

Pre-Islamic) Arabic
Johnny Cheung
1 Introduction
It has long been recognized that the holy book of the Muslims, the Qurʾān, was
replete with religious concepts, imagery and allusions from outside the “pagan”
Arabian heartland in which many non-Arabic forms and expressions had found
their natural place. Many of the Muslim commentators on the Qurʾān had no
hesitation to consider a foreign provenance for especially those cases where
the strange morphology of the forms would not fit in any paradigm of Classical
Arabic grammar. It is only following the influential works of the pre-emininent
scholar, the Jewish convert Abū ʿUbaidah (728–825ce) from Basra and Imām al-
Shāfiʿ (767–820ce), the founder of one of the main Schools of the Fiqh, a fairly
dominant view took hold that the holy Qurʾān was free of foreign elements. This
view was based on Sūrah 41:44 primarily: wa law jaʿalnāhu qurʾānan aʿjamiyyan
la-qālū lawlā fuṣṣilat āyātu-hu aʿjamiyyun wa ʿarabiyyun qul hu wa lillaδīna
āmanū hudan wa šafāʾun ‘And if We had made it a non-Arabic Qurʾan [i.e. a
Qurʾān in ‘ajamiyya], they would have said, “Why are its verses not explained in
detail [in our language]? Is it a foreign [recitation] and an Arab [messenger]?”
Say, “It is, for those who believe, a guidance and cure.” ’.1
The argument was, of course, that the only way the Arabs could have under-
stood the Qurʾān, if it were in their native, Arabic tongue. Another argument
against the presence of foreign elements in the Qurʾān was that, as the Qurʾān
was the most perfect and final manifestation of divine revelations, God would
have naturally chosen the most perfect of languages, i.e. Arabic, which would
surely not be lacking vocabulary in expressing religious concepts. The reply
to the argument that the Qurʾān contains forms that are incomprehensible to
ordinary Arabic speakers, was simply that, because the Arabic language was so
rich and vast, a mere mortal being would not be able to grasp its entirety.
1 The English translation of all the quoted passages of the Qurʾān is from Sahih International,
www.quran.com.

318 cheung
Even so, the evidence of the early philologists was so strong, that for the
proponents of a “foreign free” Qurʾānic reading, the similarities between some
of the Arabic forms and their foreign counterparts were just coincidental, or
at least, Arabic happened to use those forms first in the Qurʾān, which is the
position of al-Ṭabarī in his famous Tafsīr of the Qurʾān.
The more pragmatic argument was later suggested by the Egyptian scholar
and Qurʾān exegete al-Suyūṭī (1445–1505ce), viz. that indeed the Qurʾān was
in plain Arabic, but the ancient Arabs merely assimilated words from other
civilisations in such a way they have become part (“perfected”) of the Arabic
language. Al-Suyūṭī also attempted to classify those originally non-Arabic ele-
ments of the Qurʾān in several groups, according to language, viz. borrowings
from Ethiopic, Persian, Greek, Indian, right down to “Zanji” and Berber. Many
of these assumptions were little more that guesses based on a certain resem-
blance in form or meaning.
It is only with better understanding and discoveries of those languages
among the European scholars that we are now able to assign a foreign prove-
nance on a firmer philological footing. A comprehensive overview of the mod-
ern researches on the foreign forms in Qurʾānic Arabic was published by Arthur
Jeffery in 1938 (repr. 2007): The Foreign Vocabulary Of The Qurʾān. It is from this
publication that I have collected my Qurʾānic forms of probable Iranian ori-
gin. Since Jeffery we now have at our disposal a panoply of relevant Middle
Iranian texts, which have been edited and published together with auxiliary
tools, such as dictionaries. I will therefore assess these forms from my back-
ground as an iranist. It must be emphasized though that the so-called “Iranian”
source is mainly from Middle Persian (as attested in Pahlavi and Central Asian
Manichean texts) and Parthian2 (chiefly preserved in Manichaean texts).
Not only from Jeffery, but also Ciancaglini’s most recent publication on
Iranian loanwords in Syriac (Ciancaglini 2008) will be extensively consulted
too.3
I have assessed the forms according to 3 main criteria:
1. Qurʾānic forms that have come from Iranian, via a different language,
most often from Aramaic.
2 It must be added that even after the downfall of the Parthian-speaking Arsacids, Parthian was
still extensively used in the Iranian realm under the successive, Persian oriented, Sassanian
dynasty.
3 Prof. Harry Stroomer points out that Iranian forms may also have entered Arabic via Ethiopia,
where Aramaic was used as a lingua franca as well (next to Classical Ethiopian).
on the middle iranian borrowings in qurʾānic arabic 319
2. Qurʾānic forms that have, probably, come directly from Iranian, either
because similar forms are not found in Aramaic or for phonetic reasons.
A subground consists of forms that were probably borrowed from an
Iranian source, but the Iranian form itself is clearly of non-Iranian origin.
3. The forms that somehow resemble vaguely an Iranian form, but whose
origin or analysis is obscure.
Most often, the list consists of items of a luxurious nature, such as fine cushions
and fabric, but remarkably enough, also a few, though important, religious
terms are featured as well. Due to the lack of time and space, the present
talk excludes several forms that will be discussed in a follow-up: “Further
observations of the Quranic loanwords from Iranian.” (forthcoming).
2 The Iranian Loanwords from Jeffery (1938)
-ibrīq ‘Water Jug’ (pl. abārīq) Term is Attested Once

This formation is found only in Sūrah 56:18, which describes a sumptious scene
from the blissful hereafter: bi akwābin wa abāriq wa kaʾsin min maʿīnin ‘with
vessels, pitchers and a cup from a flowing spring’. This Arabic form corresponds
closely to Syriac ʾbryqʾ /ābrēqā/.
Arabic ibrīq is generally considered a borrowing from Persian, from which
we can only find NP ābrēz ‘urn, water-pot (for pouring water over the head)’.
Etymologically related is the Zoroastrian festival of ābrēzagān “the pouring
of water”. As for the shortening of the vowel to Arabic i- in the postulated
first part *āb ‘water’, this seems to be frequent, as noted by Siddiqui (1919: 69),
except if it fits in a morphological Arabic paradigm. It has been postulated and
accepted most recently in Ciancaglini (2008: 98) that the formation is to be
derived from a slightly different compositional variant *āb-rēg, i.e. āb ‘water’ +?
*rēg ‘pour(ing), flow(ing)’ or ‘leaving’, which is however not attested in either
Middle Persian or later. In addition, the apparent adaption with final, voiceless
-q, also presupposes borrowing from Middle Persian (or Parthian), which still
has preserved final -g.4 Morphologically comparable forms with rēg are rare
in MP, perhaps only wirēg ‘escape, flight’ (+ pref. wi- ‘away, out’), derived from
the root *raič- ‘to leave behind, remain’. However, from the near-homonymous
root *raič ‘to pour, flow’, there is no evidence at all for a comparable, nominal
formation *raika-, with a velar stop, in the Iranian languages.
4 One of the diagnostic features that distinguishes New Persian from Middle Persian (or
Parthian) is the loss of postvocalic -g in non-monosyllabic forms.
320 cheung
Another possibility, which I will advocate here is that ibrīq has entered
Qurʾānic Arabic via an Aramaic intermediary. Syriac ʾbryqʾ and NP ābrēz are
undoubtedly connected.
NP ābrēz regularly derives from early MP *ābrēž < *āb-rēǰ (ultimately OP
*āp- ‘water’ + *raiča-). The modern dialect of the Central Iranian village of
Narāq seems to have preserved this formation as ōvrēja ‘waterfall’ (< *āp-raiča-
ka-, cf. Zoroastrian festival ābrēzagān) (Asatrian 2011: 609). This final voiced
sibilant, either *ž or *ǰ, is unknown in the Aramaic or Syriac phonological
inventory. The affricate *ǰ has usually been adapted as z in Syriac, e.g. zmg ‘cup’
(MP jāmag, cf. NP jāmah), hnzmn ‘assembly’ (MP hanjaman, cf. NP anjuman).
This *ž or *ǰ may have been substituted for the more familar velar, especially
sinds many Middle Persian formations with relational suffix *-ka have entered
Aramaic or Syriac as -g. A good example of such a substitution is Syr. kwʾgʾ
‘lord, master’, which is clearly a borrowing from NP xwājah. Ciancaglini, l.c.:
82 suggests that this kind of rendering in Syriac “represents an influence of
the Arabic-Persian script”, but his explanation is unproven, and actually, Syro-
Arabic ibrīq does indicate that the phonological substitution of Persian *ǰ with
a velar is really “sprachwirklich” in Syriac.
-arāʾik pl. of arīkah ‘Couches’, Attested 6 Times

All the passages with this term describe the luxurious reward for the faithful
in the hereafter. An Iranian origin has been suggested, cf. Pers. awrang ‘throne’,
despite the fact this is both phonologically and semantically not very convinc-
ing. The additional meaning ‘throne’, which is also cited by Arabic lexicogra-
phers, is absent in the Qurʾānic passages.
I would suggest that arāʾik is a borrowing from Greek, viz. léktron, (often) pl.
léktra ‘couch, bed’. This may have entered Arabic as follows: > *līkatr > al- rīkat
with prolepsis of r on account of the difficult consonant group -ktr-. Alterna-
tively, it cannot be excluded though that the semantically related verbal root
ʾariqa ‘to be sleepless, insomniac’ has influenced this rendering. Similarly, the
Greek word has probably also been borrowed into Urmiyah Syriac as laqṭīqin
‘litter, couch’ (with assimilation of awkward r > q?)
- istabraq ‘Silk, Brocade’, Attested 4 Times

It has long been recognized by Arab philologists that istabraq is a borrowing
from Persian, cf. Pers. istabrah. The formation looks like a borrowing from a
much older phase of Persian, viz. Middle Persian stabrag ‘shot silk’. On the
other hand, Arab. istabraq is perhaps not a direct borrowing, but, rather, it may
have entered Arabic via Syriac ʾestabr(a)gā ‘silk dress, brocade’. The time of the
borrowing istabraq (and ibrīq above) seems to have taken place after the Arabic
affricativisation of the voiced stop *g > j, thus rendering the voiced stop -g as -
q. It can be noted that in the modern Arabic dialects of the Persian Gulf region,
Classical q is regularly realized as voiced velar [g], e.g. Class. qadīm > Gulf dial.
gadīm.
-barzax ‘Barrier, Partition; [Lisān al-ʿArab] the Interval between the

Present Life and That Which is to Come’, [al-Ṣiḥāḥ, Asās Zamāxšarī]
‘from the Period of Death to the Resurrection’, (pl. barāzix)
This term is attested twice in the Qurʾān:
i. Sūrah 23:100 laʿallī aʿmalu ṣāliḥan fī-mā taraktu kallā innahā kalimatun
huwa qāiluhā wa-min wa rāyi-him barzaxun ilā yawmī yubʿaθūn
‘“… So that I may do good in that which I have left behind!” No! It is but a
word that he speaks, and behind them is Barzax until the Day when they
will be resurrected.’;
ii. Sūrah 55:20 bayna-humā barzaxun lā yabγiyāni
‘Between them is Barzax [so] neither of them transgresses.’
The connection with the traditional Iranian unit of distance, the parasang
(Persian farsax, Middle Persian frasang, etc.) is semantically not quite fitting,
as it does not explain how this mundane measurement could have acquired
these eschatological overtones.
Actually, the Arabic form barzax looks like a Parthian compound *bwrz-ʾxw
/burzaxw/ ‘the High, Exalted World, Existence’, mirroring the opposite term
dwj-ʾxw ‘hell’ (with pref. dōž- ‘dys-’). The concept ʾxw originally refers to an
existence beyond this world without being qualified as “bad” or “good”. Unfortu-
nately, *bwrz-ʾxw has not yet been found in our limited Parthian corpus of texts
and inscriptions, although bwrz and ʾxw are attested, separately, in Middle Per-
sian and Parthian. Of course, ʾxw does occur in compounded formations, e.g.
Man. MP rwšn’xw ‘world of light’ and Parth. dwj-ʾxw ‘hell’ (also borrowed into
NP duzāx). In Manichaean Middle Persian, burz is a Parthian loanword with
the figurative meaning of ‘exalted, lofty’, from which the denom. verb burzīdan
‘to praise, honour’ also derives. Incidently, Arabic barz,5 fem. barza with the
5 Barz is usually classified under the Arabic root b-r-z ‘to come, go out’ in lexicographical
works.
322 cheung
meaning ‘intelligent, respectable; dignified’ points to borrowing from Parthian

bwrz ‘high, lofty’, possibly via Persian.
Alternatively, especially in view of Sūrah 55:20, barzax could also reflect a
Parthian rendering *bwrzʾx(w) /burzāxw/ of Avestan barəzāhu loc pl. ‘in the
heights’, which is attested in the famous Yasht dedicated to the deity Mithra. In
the following passage, Yasht 10.45, the abode of Mithra, the deity that upholds
the contract, “is set in the material world as far as the earth extends, unre-
stricted in size, shining, reaching widely abroad, for whom on every height, in
every watchpost, eight servants sit as watchers of the contract”. This abode is a
place, “where is no night or darkness, no wind cold or hot, no deadly illness, no
defilement produced by evil gods”. (transl. Gershevitch 1967: 95 ff., 99).
Considering the fact that, in the Qurʾān, the meanings of barzax allude to
some sort of ‘(a means of) separation of two seas’ and also to an existential mat-
ter, Arabic barzax may reflect two, conflated, (near-)homonymous Parthian for-
mations, *bwrzʾx(w) ‘an unsur-mountable passage, height’ and ‘the Existence
beyond, Jenseits’, respectively.
-junāḥ ‘Guilt, Sin, Crime’, Attested 4 Times

There is little doubt that this technical form has been borrowed from Persian,
surprisingly enough, seemingly from New Persian gunāh. New Persian gunāh
first appears in the verses of the celebrated 9th century Samanid poet Rūdakī,
and it is the regular continuation of Middle Persian wināh ‘sin, guilt’ (< Old Per-
sian vināθa- caus. ‘to harm, injure’, from the root *nas ‘to perish, ruin’). Persian
gunāh must have developed, at the latest around 6th c. ce (cf. Hübschmann
1895: 162), i.e. prior to its appearance in the Qurʾān a century later. Actually,
this form gunāh is also mentioned in the late-Sassanian Pazand literary lan-
guage, which had been used solely for the exegesis of the holy Avestan texts.
The Pazand language often provides us with clues of the Persian chancellery
language that was spoken prior to the arrival of Islamic-Arabic dominance. One
can wonder whether it is possible to pinpoint more accurately when and, per-
haps, also where originally the development of *wi- > *gu- had occurred. In front
of certain consonants, this development already dates back to Middle Persian,
e.g. the formations prefixed with *wi- in gumēz- ‘to urinate’, gumān ‘doubt’ (in
front of -m), and forms with initial *wir° such as gurg ‘wolf’ (*wirka < *wṛka-),
gurdag ‘kidney’ (*wirta < *wṛt(k)a-). As the Manichaean texts from Central Asia,
in which we still find the Middle Persian form wnʾẖ, date back around 4–5th
cent. ce, we may postulate that the Persian form gunāh was borrowed into pre-
Islamic Arabic in the 5–6th cent. ce, notably in the Muʿallaqah of al-Ḥārith b.
Ḥiliza (o. 580 ce), in the bayt: aʿalaynā junāḥu kindata ʾan yaγnama γāzī-himu
wa minnā al-jazāʾu ‘Was it ours, say, the blame of it all, when Kindah took your
booths for a spoil, that of us you claim it?’ (transl. Blunt 1903: 48). Incidently,
the realisation of pharyngeal ḥ for Iranian h is not without examples, e.g. (non-
Qurʾānic) Arabic tabaḥbaḥa ‘to have it good, be prosperous’ (< Pers. bah bah
‘bravo!’), šāḥ (besides šāh) ‘(Persian) king’ < šāh (Eilers 1971: 610), perhaps on
account of a labial(ized) vowel?
-jund ‘Host, Army, Troop, Force’

This well attested Arabic form is considered to be a borrowing from Persian
gund, although it is well established in the Middle Aramaic dialects, e.g. Syr.
gwdʾ /guddā/, Mandaic gwndʾ, gwdʾ, Judeo-Babylonian Aramaic gwndʾ ‘troops’.
It is attested in a restricted number of apparently neighbouring languages: MP
gund, Parth. gwnd, Class. Arm. gund (< Parth.), also Byzantine Greek gounda.
The old connection with Sanskrit vṛnda- ‘host, group’, first postulated by the
German orientalist de Lagarde (1884), has been accepted by a number of promi-
nent iranists, such as Bailey (1955: 73), and, recently, Rossi (2002).
But there are few problems with the assumption of an Iranian or Indo-
Iranian origin of Arabic jund, Pers. gund, etc. as pointed out by Ciancaglini
(2008: 135). The Aramaic forms are both frequent and of an early date, which,
if they were of Iranian origin, would have gone back to an Imperial Aramaic
borrowing from Old Persian (or Arsacid Parthian). An Parthian or Old Persian
form *gunda- makes the proposed connection with Sanskrit vṛnda- impossible.
Skt. vṛnda- would have called for an Old Persian correspondence *vṛnda- or
*vunda- (with loss of vocalic ṛ, similar to kunav- pres. stem ‘make, do’ < *kṛnaw).
Not to mention, the sheer isolation of Middle Persian / Parthian gund within
the Iranian languages is rather suspicious.
Also postulating a Semitic origin, which was suggested by Szemerényi (1980:
232f.), from Semitic gunn, cf. Akkadian gunnu ‘elite troops’, is fraught with
phonological difficulties as well, as the suggested “hypercorrect dissimilation”
of *nn > *nd is without parallel in (Middle) Persian (or Parthian).
Finally, Rossi, l.c., still assumes an Iranian origin, but he considers the ‘host,
army’ meaning of gund to be secondary. The meaning would have developed
from older ‘globular, round mass’, and thus envisaging an Old Iranian term
*gunda-, cf. Avestan gunda- ‘lump of dough’, Khwarezmian γwndyk ‘ball’, Middle
Persian gund ‘testicle’ and in many other Iranian languages. The semantic shift
is comparable to the meaning of the English military term corps ‘an army unit’,
which has developed from, ultimately, Latin corpus ‘body; mass; flesh (of the
body, fruit)’.
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-ḥūr Beautiful Maidens in the Hereafter (Usually as ḥūr ʿīn in the

Qurʾān), Attested 4 Times
One of the enchanting aspects of the afterlife as described in the Qurʾān is
that the deceased righteous will be paired to beautiful ḥūr. The traditional
etymology is that ḥūr derives from ḥawira, ḥār, cf. Syriac ḥawwar ‘to whiten’,
Mand. ḥauar ‘id, wash (off)’, Hebr. ḥiwēr ‘to be white’.
It has long been recognized (cf. Haug 1872: LXI; Berthels 1924: 263ff.) though
that this Qurʾānic imagery clearly recalls the Zoroastrian depiction of the
righteous soul meeting a beautiful girl in paradise, provided that he has per-
formed good deeds during his life. This motif is well attested, notably, in two
ancient pre-Islamic Avestan texts, the fragmentary Haδōxt nask and the book
Vidēvdād:
i. Haδōxt nask 2:11 āat̰ he paiti.aoxta yā huua daēna, azəm bā tē ahmi yum
humanō huuacō hušiiaoθana hudaēna yā huua daēna xvaēpaiθe tanuuō,
cišca θuuąm cakana auua masanaca vaŋhānaca sraiianaca hubaoiδitaca
vərəθrająstaca paiti.duuaēšaiiaṇtaca yaθa yat̰ me saδaiiehi
‘Thus she, being his own vision [i.e. daēna, s.v. dīn], answers him: “I am
you, young, with good thoughts, good words, good deeds, and good reli-
gion, as I am your own vision. Everyone has loved you for that great-
ness, goodness, fairness, well-scentedness, victorious might and antidote
against hostility, in which you appear to me” ’;
ii. Vidēvdād 19.30 hāu srīra kərəta taxma huraoδa jasaiti spānauuaiti niu-
uauuaiti pasuuaiti yaoxštauuaiti hunarauuaiti …. hā ashāunąm uruuānō
tarasca harąm bərəzaitīm āsənaoiti tarō cinuuatō pərətūm vīδāraiieiti
haētō mainiiauuanąm ýazatanąm
‘there comes that beautiful one, strong, fair of form, accompanied by two
dogs at her sides. She comes over the high Hara and takes the souls of the
just over the Činvadbridge, to the ramparts of the spiritual yazatas’.
On the other hand, had the deceased person behaved badly during his life, he
would have seen the outcome in the appearance of an ugly hag.
Consequently, some scholars sought an Iranian origin for ḥūr, including Jef-
fery. None of the suggested Iranian connections are semantically or phonolog-
ically without problems. However, the connection with MP hū ̆ rust ‘well grown’
(preferred by Jeffery) is the most attractive. According to the 9th cent. Ardā
Wirāz Nāmag (the well-known Zoroastrian “Divina Commedia”), the maiden
in the afterlife is described as hū ̆ rust ‘well grown’, with frāz-pēstān ‘prominent
breasts’, dēr … angušt ‘long fingers’ and hū ̆ dōšagtar nigērišn abāyišnīgtar ‘a most
pleasing and fitting appearance’.
In Sūrah 78:33, we find a reference to kawāʿiba atrāban ‘full-breasted [com-
panions] of equal age’, which may describe those ḥūr. Even the “sweet smell”
that emanates from this maiden, which is mentioned in the Ardā Wirāz Nāmag
(and the Avestan texts), is also a trait of the Qurʾānic ḥūr, according to e.g. the
Hadith transmitter Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī 52: 53 wa law anna amratan min ahli al-
jannati aṭṭalaʿat ilā ahli al-arḍi lā ḍāʾat mā bayn-humā wa la malaʾt-hu rīḥan, wa
la naṣīfu-hā ʿalā raʾsi-hā xayr-min al-dunyā wa mā fī-hā. ‘And if a houri [in the
text: amratan] from Paradise appeared to the people of the earth, she would fill
the space between Heaven and the Earth with light and pleasant scent and her
head cover is better than the world and whatever is in it.’ (transl. Muhsin Khan,
http://sunnah.com/bukhari).
The meaning of ḥūr as “the White ones” might be considered a folk etymol-
ogy. However, if Arabic ḥūr were from Middle Persian hū ̆ rust, the final -st would
necessitate an explanation. The typical Qurʾānic expression ḥūr ʿīn may give
us a clue. This ʿīn is difficult to analyze within Arabic morphology, and many
Islamic Qurʾān exegetes have struggled to interpret this form, which seems like
a derivation of ʿayn ‘eye’. The plural forms of ʿayn are ʿuyūn and aʿyun. According
to the 13th c. lexicographer Ibn Manẓūr (Lisān al-ʿArab XIII: 302b), ʿīn would be
the plural of a putative feminine adjectival formation ‘aynā’ ‘large-eyed’, but the
interpretation appears to be contextual, rather than rooted in linguistic reality.
The form ʿīn is clearly the lectio difficilior, which would, no doubt, have been
“grammatically” corrected in profane texts, such as in the famous poem of the
Jahiliyya poet ʿAbīd b. al-Abraṣ (VI:24): wa awānisin miθli al-dumā ḥūri al-ʿuyūni
qad istabaynā ‘And many damsels fair as statues, with large black eyes, have we
taken captive’ (Lyall 1913: 29).
In short, the expression ḥūr ʿīn is probably one word. This formation *ḥūrʿīn
would go back to an Iranian exocentric compound *hūrōyīn/ m6 ‘of good growth’,
which is etymologically related to Middle Persian hū ̆ rust. This *hūrōyīn/ m is
perhaps the Middle Persian development of the learned Avestan term (acc. sg.)
*hūrauδīm, which has also been borrowed into Parthian, e.g. as the name of the
ruler ΥΡΩΔΗΣ /hūrōdēs/ (57–38bce), frequently attested on coins.
This expression appears as huraōim in the Zoroastrian catechism Pursišnīhā
‘Questions’, in Question 43. The spelling huraōim is considered to be “wrong”
by modern philologists, and has therefore been emendated to “correct” Aves-
6 The exact pronunciation of the final nasal is uncertain.

326 cheung
tan +huraoiδīm, as by Bartholomae in his Altiranisches Wörterbuch, and sub-

sequently accepted in the critical edition of Jamaspa-Humbach (1971: 64f.). In
fact, more likely, huraōim merely reflected the late (Middle) Persian pronunci-
ation, with its typical loss of old post-vocalic -d. Again, huraōim appears in the
context of maintaining the Good Religion (dēn).
In the whole borrowing process from MP to (pre-Islamic) Arabic, *hūrōyī
n/ m would have been rendered as *ḥūrūʿīn, to which secondarily a singular (col-
lective) formation *ḥūrʿīn was created, comparable to sec. sg. bayδaq, baydaq
‘pawn (in chess)’ (from bayādiq < MP payādag ‘on foot; foot-soldier’ = NP piyā-
dah).
As for remaining phonological peculiarities, the realisation of pharyngeal ḥ
for Ir. h is similar to junāḥ from gunāh, as discussed above. The appearance of
ʿayn in front of a high front vowel is somewhat surprising, but phonetically, not
without a precedent, viz. a secondary ʿayn can be observed in ʿīrāq, historically,
in reference to lower Mesopotamia, from early MP *ērak, (late) MP ērag ‘lower,
southern’ (the Arabic form with long -ā- is on account of the association
with īrān), and also ʿifrīt ‘demon’ < (early) MP āfrīd/t ‘created’, perhaps via
Aramaic/Syriac, and, of course, ʿĪsā Jesus < Syr. yešuʿ, Mand. ʿšu < Hebr. yēšūʿa
(cf. LW Gr. Iēsoũs, Sogd. yyšw).
-dīn ‘Religion, Profession of Faith’

Arabic dīn is mentioned in the Qurʾān numerous times. The term with this
meaning is clearly a loanword from Middle Iranian, either MP or Parthian
dēn, which itself is an old learned borrowing from Av. daēnā- f. ‘vision; belief’,
possibly via Aram., cf. Syr. d’yn, dyn. There is also the homonym dīn ‘debt’, which
is, however, of Semitic origin.
- rizq ‘Bounty, Provision’

The term rizq is very frequent in the Qurʾān and is often in the context of a
reward. This form is ultimately from early MP rōzīk ‘daily bread, sustenance’,
which was subsequently borrowed into Syriac as rwzyqʾ /roziqā/ ‘daily bread,
military ration’ (Ciancaglini 2008: 255). The Arabic formation appears to be
borrowed via Aramaic. In Arabic it may have been interpreted as a verbal
form *ruziqa ‘to be given in support, endowed’ and subsequently modeled after
rafada ‘to bestow, support’ (abstr. rifd ‘gif, support’).
-rauḍa ‘Well Watered Meadow’, (Later) ‘Luxurious Garden’, Attested

Twice
This form appears to be from Persian, and on account of the diphthong, it may
even be from Old Persian rautah- ‘river’. Eilers (1962: 205) postulated a Middle
Persian form *rōδaγ from which Arabic supposedly borrowed, does not exist
nor can it explain the diphthong in the Arabic form.
The voiced, emphatic -ḍ- needs an explanation though, the emphatic fea-
ture is perhaps on account of the preceding back vowel, cf. ḍubāra ‘(bundle of)
document(s)’ (related to dabīr ‘scribe’), or, this formation may show contami-
nation with Arab. arḍ ‘earth, land’?
-zarābī (pl.) ‘Rich Carpets’, (sg.) zirbiyyah, zarbiyyah, Attested Once

A Persian origin was first suggested by Georg Hoffman to Fraenkel (1886: 93) in
a letter, from zēr-pā ‘under the foot’ (= MP ēr-pāy), but, the suggested seman-
tic shift is difficult to explain. Jeffery adds that not zēr ‘under’, but rather
zar(r) ‘gold’ might be the first element. Indeed, in Iranian, we encounter Sogd.
zyrnpδʾk, NP zarrīnpāyah ‘golden-legged’, which, however, can hardly refer to a
carpet. Jeffery himself rather prefers the possibility that it has an Ethiopic ori-
gin, cf. Geʾez zarbet, which was entertained by Noeldeke (1910: 53), but both the
Geʾez and Arabic forms are isolated.
Rather, the term zarābī may be a qualifying adjective for a special type
of Persian carpets, used notably in trade, a zar(r)ābī ‘gold coloured (one),
with a golden sheen’, which was already suggested by Eilers (1962: 205). The
composition of this formation is comparable to sīm-ābī ‘silver-coloured’, as in
čādur-i sīmābī az rōy-i ʿarūs-i ʿālam barkašīdand ‘They lifted the silver-coloured
veil from the face of the world’s bride’ (Sindbād-nāmah).
-zūr ‘Falsehood’, Attested Four Times

Clearly a borrowing from MP zūr ‘falsehood, deceit’ (< OP zūra-), perhaps
directly as well. Although zūr is attested in Syriac, but it is only as part of a
rare compound zwlrgrd ‘falsified document’ (Ciancaglini 2008: 172 f.).
-sijjīl ‘Lumps of Baked Clay (?)’, Attested Three Times

The term refers to a punishment from God, viz. the precipitation that is coming
down on the town of Lūt and the army of the Elephant respectively. It has
traditionally been considered a foreign word, a borrowing from Persian sang
‘stone’ and gil ‘clay’.
Indeed, an idiomatic expression sang-u gil ‘stone and clay’ has found its
way in Classical Persian literature, notably in ghazal 48 of the famous 14th
century Shirāzi poet Ḥāfiẓ: sang-u gil-rā kunad az yumn-i naẓar laʿl-u ʿaqīq har
kih qadr-i nafs-i bād-i yamānī dānist ‘Everyone who has known the value of
the breath/soul of the Yemeni wind, will turn the stone and clay into ruby and
cornelian’. It is, however, both late and rarely found in other Classical works.
328 cheung
-sirāj ‘Lamp, Torch’, Attested Four Times in the Qurʾān

The Arabic form is clearly a loanword, ultimately from Parthian. Parthian čirāγ
has been widely borrowed, into: e.g. Arm. črag, MP čirāγ (> NP), Sogd. crʾγ, Syr.
šrāġā. The Arabic form may have come from Syriac (cf. Eilers 1962: 205). The
origin of the Iranian term, however, is unknown.
-surādiq ‘Awning, Tent Cover’, Attested Once

This term is mentioned in Sūrah 18:29, where it refers to the fire, “whose awning
shall enwrap” the wrongdoers. It has an Iranian origin, with its preservation of
intervocalic -d-, as it points to borrowing from (unattested) Parthian *srāδak/g,
rather then from Middle Persian srāy (NP sarāy). The Armenian loanword
srahak reflects Parthian *srāδak.
The Arabic formation is perhaps not a direct borrowing from Parthian, rather
via Aramaic, cf. Mandaic sradqa ‘canopy, awning’ (Drower and Macuch 1963:
336f.).
-sirbāl ‘Garment’, pl. sarābīl, Attested Three Times in the Qurʾān

According to the pre-Islamic sources, sirbāl would have meant a kind of body
garment, i.e. a shirt, a shirt of mail. It has generally been acknowledged that it
is connected to Pers. šalwār ‘trousers’ (= NP, MP). However, this cannot be the
direct source of the borrowing, but it suffices to point out that it has been widely
adopted in Aramaic, cf. Syriac šarbālā ‘wide trousers’, Mandaic šaruala ‘baggy
trousers’ (Drower and Macuch 1963: 446), Biblical Aramaic srbly-hwn ‘their
tunics’ (Daniel 3:21), and Hebrew ṣrblʾ ‘garment, cloak, trousers’. The source of
sirbāl needs therefore be sought in the Jewish tradition, as inferred also from
the similar imagery of the Day of Judgment in the Qurʾān and in the Bible,
cf.
i. Sūrah 14: 49–50 wa tarā al-mujrimīna yawma-iδin muqarranīna fī al-

aṣfādi sarābīlu-hum min qatirānin wa taγšā wujūha-humu al-nārun ‘And
you will see the criminals that Day bound together in shackles, their gar-
ments of liquid pitch and their faces covered by the Fire.’
ii. Daniel 3:21 ‘Then these great men were bound in their mantles, their
turbans, and and their [other] garments and clothes, and were cast into
the midst of the burning fiery furnace.’ Daniel 3:27 ‘[the entourage of
Nebuchadnezzar] … saw these great men, upon whom the flames had no
power, nor was a hair of their head singed, neither were their mantles
changed … ’
As for Persian šalwār, it is ultimately a borrowing from a “Scythian” source, cf.

Greek gloss sarábara “loose trousers worn by the Scythians” (e.g. in Antiphanes’
play The Scythians). For a recent discussion of sarábara, see Brust (2005: 584f.).
-sard ‘Chain Armour, Links of Armour’, Attested Once

The formation is attested in:
Sūrah 34:11 ani iʿmal sābiγātin wa qaddir fī al-sardi wa aʿmalū ṣāliḥan innī
bimā taʿmalūna baṣīrun ‘Make full coats of mail and calculate [precisely] the
links, and work [all of you] righteousness. Indeed I, of what you do, am Seeing’.
The term is no doubt identical to zarad ‘armour, cuirass’. The Qurʾānic
variant with s- arose from perseveration, due to the preceding sābiγātin ‘coats
of mail’. Arabic zarad is probably ultimately from Parthian *zrad (cf. Arm. LW
pl. zrah-kʿ, cognate to MP zrēh), perhaps via Aramaic, cf. Syriac zarδā, Talmudic-
Aram. zrdʾ.
-sundus ‘Fine Silk’, Attested Three Times

Although this word is a cultural Wanderwort, of ultimately non-Iranian origin,
it is remarkable that in the three Qurʾānic passages, 18:31, 44:53, 76:21, sundus is
mentioned together with istabraq.
The direct source of the Arabic form sundus must have been Iranian, being
absent in Aramaic. It is indeed attested in the Middle Iranian languages, viz.
Parth./MP sndws as a borrowing in a Manichaean Sogd. text. The ultimate
origin of this fabric is probably Anatolian, cf. Gr. sánduks ‘a Lydian red fabric; a
woman’s cloth’.
-ʿabqarī ‘a Kind of Rich Carpet’

This form is attested only once, in the same textual passage with ḥūr ʿīn:
Sūrah 55:76 muttakiʾīna ʿalā rafrafin xuẓrin wa ʿabqariyyin ḥisānin ‘reclining
on green cushions and beautiful fine carpets.’
The mediaeval philologists had the greatest difficulties explaining this for-
mation, it could be either a place of the Jinn where wonderful things were
taking place, or it would be merely an “Arab” approving term of something
excellent.
It was only in modern times, when the Assyrian scholar-priest Addai Sher
considered ʿabqarī of Iranian origin, viz. from a Persian compound āb-kār
‘something splendid’ (Sher 1908: 114), with āb ‘luster, splendour’ and kār ‘work,
deed’. As remarked by Jeffery, it is rather an artificial formation that can be
constructed ad hoc, not to mention, it is phonologically somewhat problematic.
A better explanation of the formation is to consider the segment -qarī as the
Persian productive agent suffix -gar ‘maker, doer’ and the relational suffix -ī,
330 cheung
whereas the part ʿab may reflect Middle Persian abdīh ‘wonder’: Middle Persian
*abdīgarī ‘that what is made by a wonder-maker’? The prothetic ʿayn of the
Arabic formation may betray the presence of a high vowel (see above), perhaps
an umlauted realization *eº?
-ʿifrīt ‘Demon, Created’ (Also Dialectical ʿafrīt)

This form is attested only once, in Sūrah 27:39 qāla ʿifrītun mina al-jinni anā
ʾātīka bihi qabla an taqūma min maqāmi-ka wa innī ʿalay-hi laqawiyyun amīnun
‘A powerful one from among the jinn said, “I will bring it to you before you rise
from your place, and indeed, I am for this [task] strong and trustworthy.” ’
It has generally been accepted since Karl Vollers (1896: 646) that ʿifrīt is of
Iranian origin, from a Middle Iranian past participle, Middle Persian/Parthian
āfrīd ‘created’. The apparent semantic shift of the Arabic form is curious though,
perhaps it may be elliptic for *dīw ʿafrīt ‘a demon created’?, cf. Eilers 1971: 620.
Considering the final, voiceless -t, the Arabic form may have been borrowed
from early MP or Parthian *āfrīt. The initial, prothetic, ʿayn of the Arabic form
is, similar to ʿabqarī above, indicative of an umlauted high vowel: [ēfrīt].
-firdaus, pl. firādīs ‘Paradise’, Attested Twice

The ultimate origin of this Arabic form is evidently Iranian, cf. Avestan pairi-
daēza- ‘enclosure’ Greek borrowing parádeisos, Parthian padišt, New Persian
palēz, etc. But from which immediate source? The Aramaic forms are: Syriac
pardaysā, Mandaic pardasa, pardisa, Biblical Aramaic prds, et al. Jeffrey seeks
a Christian origin, whence Syriac.
-namāriq ‘Cushions’, sg. numruq, Attested Once

This term is found in an early Sūrah 88:15 wa namāriqu maṣfūfatun ‘and cush-
ions lined up’ (in the description of paradise). As mentioned by Jeffery, the
famous 9th century philosopher al-Kindī noted it as a loanword from Persian,
although it was not considered as such by al-Jawālīqī or al-Suyūṭī. It is fairly fre-
quently mentioned in the early poetry as the cushion on a camel’s back. Similar
to zarābī, numruq is probably also a qualifying adjective, with the meaning ‘the
soft one’, cf. Persian narm ‘soft’. In this case, it may rather go back to an unat-
tested Parthian formation *namrag < Parth. namr ‘gentle, mild’, suffixed with
*-aka. There is also an exact correspondences in another (East) Iranian lan-
guage, Khwarezmian nmrk ‘soft’.
-wardah ‘Rose-Red’, Attested Once

The form wardah is in Sūrah 55:37 fa-iδā inšaqqati l-samāʾu fakānat wardatan
kal-dihāni ‘and when the heaven is split open and becomes rose-colored like
oil’. Wardah is no doubt an ancient loanword from Iranian, cf. Avestan varǝda-
‘rose’, Parthian wār (also Armenian borrowing vard).
The Arabic form cannot have been borrowed directly from Persian, which
has gul, but rather via Imperial Aramaic(?), cf. Syriac wardā, Talmudic Ara-
maic wrd, wrdʾ, Mandaic warda ‘rose, flower’. In addition (Middle, New) Per-
sian gul has also entered Arabic too, as the synonym jull (not attested in the
Qurʾān).
3 Conclusions
3.1 Assessment of the Iranian Material in the Qurʾān

The Iranian forms that can be found in the Qurʾān are not quite numerous, but
they have indeed a clear “presence”. Many of these forms may have entered Ara-
bic via an Aramaic intermediary (usually Syriac, but also via Imperial Aramaic):
ibrīq ‘water jug’ (Syriac ābrēqā), istabraq ‘silk, brocade’ (Syriac estabr(a)gā),
jund ‘host, army, troop’ (an Aramaic “dialect” (*)gund), dīn ‘religion, faith’ (via
Syriac dēn?), sirāj ‘lamp’ (via Syriac šrāġā?), surādiq ‘awning, tent cover’ (via
Mandaic sradqa?), sirbāl ‘garment’ (Biblical Aramaic srbly), sard ‘chain, links
of armour’ (via an Aramaic “dialect” zard), firdaus ‘paradise’ (via Syriac par-
daysā?), wardah ‘rose(-red)’ (via an Aramaic “dialect”).
On the other hand, several important terms do not have an Aramaic cor-
respondence, which suggests that they have been borrowed directly from an
Iranian source. These include forms such as barzax ‘barrier; interval between
between the present life and the hereafter’ (Parthian *barzāx), junāḥ ‘guilt,
sin’ (early New Persian gunāh), ḥūrʿīn ‘beautiful maidens in paradise’ (Middle
Persian (*)hūrōyīm/ n, inferred from the gloss huraōim), rauḍah ‘well watered
meadow; garden’ (Old Persian *rautah-?), zarābī ‘rich carpet’ (Persian
*zarrābī), zūr ‘falsehood’ (Middle Persian zūr), sundus ‘fine silk’ (Parthian/Mid-
dle Persian sndws), ʿifrīt ‘demon’ (early Parthian/Middle Persian *āfrīt),
namāriq/numruq ‘cushion’ (Parthian *namrag), ʿabqarī a kind of rich carpet
(Middle Persian abdīh + suff. -gar-ī).
Finally, arāʾik ‘couch’ may have a different origin altogether, viz. probably
from Greek léktron, pl. léktra.
Specific phonological criteria can be employed to assess the immediate
origin of these borrowings:
– Forms most likely from Parthian are: barzax (< Parth. barz ‘high’ vs. Persian
bālº), namāriq/numruq (< namr ‘soft’ vs. Persian narm), surādiq (< *srāda-
vs. Persian s(a)rāy)
332 cheung
– Forms most likely from (Middle) Persian are: junāḥ, ḥūrʿīn ((*)hūrōyīm/ n vs.
Parthian hūrōdº)
– Arabic forms with initial ʿayn is a prothetic development from an Iranian
high vowel in initial position (this high vowel can also reflect the umlauting
effect of the following -ī-), in the case of: ʿifrīt (early Middle Iranian *ēfrīt
< *āfrīt), ʿabqarī (< Middle Persian *ēbdīº < abdīhº), ḥūr ʿīn (< *ḥūrū īn <
Persian huraōim)
– Arabic forms with -q are either direct borrowings from Syriac, e.g. rizq,
ābrēqā, or from Middle Iranian with voiced g, e.g. istabraq, surādiq,
namāriq/numruq, ʿabqarī.
– Arabic forms with j from Iranian forms with g probably represented an older
layer of borrowing: e.g. junāḥ, jund.
– Iranian h, near to a labial vowel, can also be represented by pharyngeal ḥ in
Arabic, e.g. junāḥ, ḥūr.
3.2 The Social Context of the Iranian Borrowings

The Iranian forms in the Qurʾān are mainly from two semantic fields:
– items & products related to luxury and refinement, such as ibrīq, istabraq,
surādiq, sirbāl, sirāj, zarābī, sundus, ʿabqarī, namāriq/numruq;
– intangible (spritual, religious) ideas, such as barzax, dīn, ḥūr (ʿīn), junāḥ, zūr,
ʿifrīt, firdaus ‘paradise’.
We may conclude from the Iranian borrowings in the Qurʾān that the contacts
between the Jāhiliya Arabs and Iran at the eve of the Islamic era were fairly
shallow, being mostly limited to the trade of luxury products. It is well-known
that these Arabs were also enlisted as irregular or auxiliary troops to the Sas-
sanian armies, which is also confirmed by the borrowing of jund and sard into
Arabic. This occasional recrutement may explain their vague familiarity with
the religious and moral customs of their Iranian neighbours.
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schrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 50: 607–658.
Qurʾānic Arabic in Context
∵
chapter 11
Traces of Bilingualism/Multilingualism in Qurʾānic

Arabic*
Guillaume Dye
My aim in this paper is to collect and organize some of the data (most of them
well-known, but not always placed in the right perspective) about traces, or
evidence, of phenomena related to bilingualism or multilingualism in Qurʾānic
Arabic.1 These are, roughly, phenomena of interference. Except for reasons
of religious dogma (“the pure Arabic of the Qurʾān,” a meaningless formula
from a linguistic and historical point of view), there is no reason to dismiss
prima facie the idea that the audience—and even more the author(s)—of the
Qurʾān, were to some extant bilingual or multilingual (as was a good part of the
* I would like to express my gratitude to various friends and colleagues who read and com-
mented a first draft of this paper, namely Ahmad Al-Jallad, Emilio Gonzalez Ferrin, Edouard-
Marie Gallez, Pierre Larcher, Gabriel Said Reynolds, Carlos Segovia, Esma Tengour, and Tom-
maso Tesei. As usual, my greatest debt is to Manfred Kropp. I am of course responsible for any
mistakes which have remained in the text.
1 This topic got more attention these last years, with the publication of Christoph Luxenberg’s
The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran. A Contribution to the Decoding of the Language of the
Koran (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2007), originally in German, Die syro-aramäische Lesart
des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung der Koransprache (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler,
2004, 1st ed. 2000). The way this book has been received in the academic world seems to
me unsatisfactory. Luxenberg’s work has sometimes been enthusiastically praised, but also
fiercely dismissed, quite often on dogmatic grounds (for a good review of the book, see Daniel
King, “A Christian Qurʾān? A Study in the Syriac Background to the language of the Qurʾān as
presented in the work of Christoph Luxenberg,” Journal for Late Antique Religion and Culture
3 (2009), 44–71; see also my brief remarks in Guillaume Dye, “Le Coran et son contexte.
Remarques sur un ouvrage récent,” Oriens Christianus 95 (2011), 263–267). Clearly, Luxenberg’s
method is often faulty, especially because of its disregard of any historical and literary context
and, too frequently, its arbitrary use of linguistic evidence. However, Luxenberg offers many
suggestions and emendations which should be examined case by case. Some of them are
hasty, speculative, or unconvincing, but there are also very interesting and valuable insights
(several examples given here owe him much). So the question should rather be: what can be
extracted from the mass (and mess) of Luxenberg’s analyses, and be solid ground for a critical
examination of the nature of Qurʾānic Arabic?

338 dye
Near East at the time2), and especially had some command of (notably) Syriac
or another Aramaic dialect such as Christian or Jewish Palestinian Aramaic.3
Such languages were indeed well-known in “Syro-Arabia” (a rather vague label,
but it might aptly refer to the area—from the North of the Arabian peninsula
to Syria-Palestine—where the Qurʾān came into existence4), and the life of
Arab Christians in Late Antiquity was marked by a kind of diglossia: Arabic
for daily life, Syriac/Aramaic or Greek for liturgy (but Syriac/Aramaic also
worked as a lingua franca). Such a diglossia was obviously not limited to Arab
Christians, but it is a decisive element for the understanding of many aspects
of the Qurʾān. Moreover, Syriac was the language of religious exhortation in
many Eastern Churches, and it was the language of many religious writings,
such as sung rhymed homilies (madrāšē), recited rhymed homilies (memrē), or
religious dialogic poems (soḡiyāṯā)—all literary genres which have their close
counterparts in the Qurʾān.5
“Bilingualism” refers to the fact that the speakers, or some speakers, of a
given language, have a command (total or partial, active or passive—in this
case, one speaks of “receptive bilingualism”) of another language, generally
used in the same area, or in a neighboring one. This is not the same phe-
nomenon as the existence, in any given language, of words and syntactical
2 On bilingualism/multilingualism in Ancient societies, and especially the Near East, see for
example Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Word, ed. James
N. Adams, Mark Janse, and Simon Swain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).
3 For the Aramaic-speaking Christian communities of Sinai, Palestine or Trans-Jordan, Chris-
tian Palestinian Aramaic was the dominant language in local churches; for Syria and Mesopo-
tamia, it was rather Syriac. For reasons of convenience, my examples will be mainly related to
Syriac, which is better documented—but the corpus of Christian and Jewish Palestinian Ara-
maic undoubtedly deserves further study. There are also traces of other languages in Qurʾānic
Arabic, but most of my examples will concern Aramaic.
4 For some thoughts about the profiles and localisations of the so-called “editors” of the
Qurʾān, see Guillaume Dye, “Réflexions méthodologiques sur la ‘rhétorique coranique’,” in
Controverses sur les écritures canoniques de l’ islam, ed. Daniel de Smet & Mohammad Ali
Amir-Moezzi (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2014), 167–171 [147–176].
5 About the homiletic features of the Qurʾān, and especially its relations to the Syriac homiletic
tradition, see Gabriel Said Reynolds, The Qurʾān and its Biblical Subtext (London: Routledge,
2010), 232–253. About Q 19 as an Arabic soḡīṯā, see Manfred Kropp, “Résumé du cours 2007–
2008 (Chaire Européenne),” Annuaire du Collège de France. Résumé des cours et travaux, 108e
année (2008), 791–793; Guillaume Dye, “Lieux saints communs, partagés ou confisqués: aux
sources de quelques péricopes coraniques (Q 19: 16–33),” in Partage du sacré: transferts, dévo-
tions mixtes, rivalités interconfessionnelles, ed. Isabelle Dépret & Guillaume Dye (Bruxelles-
Fernelmont: EME, 2012), 64.
traces of bilingualism/multilingualism in qurʾānic arabic 339
structures, calqued or borrowed from another language. Speaking of bilingual-

ism in this last case would go too far, since a language used in a monolingual
context can exhibit linguistic features acquired in the past by contact with
another language. Nevertheless, when I refer here to traces of bilingualism, I
both mean some particular structures of the language involved (which should
be explained by phenomena of language contact and interference), and the
linguistic capabilities of some of its speakers.
Examination of external linguistic influence on Qurʾānic Arabic has often
focused on foreign vocabulary (namely, in most of the cases, loanwords6) and,
occasionally, on the use of parallel formulas. However, a loanword can have
been borrowed before the Qurʾān. It is not inevitably a sign of bilingualism
or language contact at the time when the Qurʾān was composed (even if it
sometimes may be). For example, most of the names of Biblical characters are
attested in pre-Islamic inscriptions (Arabic or Nabatean),7 and the numerous
Aramaic loanwords in Arabic are evidence for the deep penetration of Aramaic
culture in the pre-Islamic Arabian sphere.8
Concerning the use of parallel formulas (and the significance of the Syriac
background), let’s quote Sydney Griffith:
the more deeply one is familiar with the works of the major writers of
the classical period, especially the composers of liturgically significant,
homiletic texts such as those written by Ephraem the Syrian (c. 306–373),
Narsai of Edessa and Nisibis (c. 399–502), or Jacob of Serugh (c. 451–
6 See Arthur Jeffery, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾān (Baroda: Oriental Institute, 1938).
Alphonse Mingana’s seminal paper “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” Bulletin of
the John Rylands Library 11 (1927), 77–98, focuses also on loanwords. It studies proper names
(81–85), religious terms (85–87), and common words (87–90). There are a few remarks on
orthography (90–91), and more on historical references (94–98)—a topic which oversteps
the linguistic question of style. On the other hand, the section on constructions of sentences
(91–93) provides only four examples (two of them, incidentally, dealing more with vocabulary
than with syntax).
7 For a brief overview, see Guillaume Dye & Manfred Kropp, “Le nom de Jésus (ʿĪsā) dans
le Coran, et quelques autres noms bibliques: remarques sur l’onomastique coranique,” in
Figures bibliques en islam, ed. Guillaume Dye & Fabien Nobilio (Bruxelles-Fernelmont: EME,
2011), 175–176, 179–180.
8 See the classical study of Siegmund Fraenkel, Die aramäischen Fremdwörter im Arabischen
(Leiden: Brill, 1886). About the inscriptions of pre-Islamic Arabia (except South Arabia),
which comprise a good deal of “mixed texts” (Safaeo-Arabic, Nabateo-Arabic, Arameo-Arabic
…), see e.g. Michael C.A. MacDonald, “Reflections on the linguistic map of pre-Islamic Ara-
bia,” Arabian archeology and epigraphy 11 (2000), 28–79.
340 dye
521), the more one hears echoes of many of their standard themes and
characteristic turns of phrase at various points in the discourse of the
Arabic Qurʾān.9
Similar turns of phrases might be evidence of the bilingualism or multilingual-

ism of the author(s) of the Qurʾān (and they should be understood accordingly).
That they are evidence of a certain degree of bilingualism of the intended audi-
ence(s) is less assured, even if possible at times.
Before going to the heart of the matter, I would like to provide a few examples
(among many) of similar phraseology between, on one side, the Qurʾān, and on
the other side, Jewish or Christian liturgical and theological formulas. These
examples do not always tell much about the linguistic profile of the Qurʾānic
audience(s), but they may highlight the historical context, the sources, and
the meaning of some Qurʾānic verses (in a nutshell, they are good evidence
of Qurʾānic intertextuality).
Similar Phraseology (in Liturgical or Theological Context)
I won’t provide here any detailed argumentation, since these examples are
supposed to be well known and have been studied by other scholars.
Q 1:2: rabb al-ʿālamīn10
Rabb al-ʿālamīn is a calque of Jewish and Syriac liturgical formulas (Hebrew

rabūn ha-ʿolāmīm, Syriac le-ʿolam ʿolemīn). The initial meaning of Hebrew/Ara-
maic/Syriac ʿolam is temporal (“age, generation”) but Aramaic and Syriac add
also a spatial meaning (“world, universe”). This word is also attested in Palmyre-
nian and Nabatean inscriptions (for example, the Nabateo-Arabic inscription
JSNab 17, dated ad 267, found in Hegra, where one reads Nabatean mry ʿlmʾ
(*marī ʿālamā), “Lord of the World,” which is, incidentally, the epithet of the
god Beʿel Šemīn in Palmyrenian). Moreover, the plural ʿolamīn can also mean
“men, human people” (same meaning of al-ʿālamīn in some Arabic sources (e.g.
9 Sydney Griffith, “Christian Lore and the Arabic Qurʾān. The ‘Companions of the Cave’ in
Sūrat al-Kahf and in Syriac Christian Tradition,” in The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context, ed.
Gabriel Said Reynolds (London: Routledge, 2008), 109.
10 Alfred-Louis de Prémare, Les fondations de l’ islam. Entre écriture et histoire (Paris: Seuil,
2002), 437–438, n. 156; Arthur Jeffery, The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾān, 208–209.
in a poem by Labīd (d. circa 661), see Abū ʿUbayda, Maǧāz al-Qurʾān, I, 22)).
So one may wonder if rabb al-ʿālamīn means “Lord of the World(s)” or “Lord of
men.”
Q 2:255: allāhu lā ʾilāha ʾillā huwa l-ḥayyu l-qayyūm11
The formula “the Living, the Subsisting One” (al-ḥayy al-qayyūm) appears three
times in the Qurʾān (Q 2:255; 3:2; 20:111). It is a calque of an Aramaic formula
(an echo of Ps 121(120):4) found in the Aramaic Book of Daniel and also in the
Palestinian Targum of Ps-Jonathan (Tg. Ps-Jon. on Gen 16:6–16 and 24:62, “The
Living and the Subsisting One, who sees and is not seen”). Compare
Q 2:255: allāhu lā ʾilāha ʾillā huwa l-ḥayyu l-qayyūm, “God, no God except
Him, the Living, the Subsisting One”
Dan 6:27: dī huwa êlāhā ḥayyā w qayyām le ʿalēmīn, “this is He the God,
Living and Subsisting forever”
The Qurʾānic sentence is an almost verbatim translation of the verse in Daniel.

It is followed by another almost verbatim translation—of Ps 121(120):4:
Q 2:255: lā taʾḫuḏuhū sinatun wa-lā nawmun lahū, “Slumber does not

overtake Him, nor sleep” (construction per merismum, very common in
Semitic languages, which means: “He is definitely never subject to sleep”),
Ps 121(120):4: “He who keeps Israel will neither slumb nor sleep (lō yanūm
wǝlō yîšān).”
The Throne verse is thus partly made up of two almost literal translations of
Biblical verses.
Q 5:73: la-qad kafara llaḏīna qālū ʾinna llāha ṯāliṯu ṯalāṯatin12
11 Alfred-Louis de Prémare, “Les textes musulmans dans leur environnement,” Arabica 47-
3 (2000), 405–406. Most Qurʾānic translations are taken (sometimes with slight modi-
fications) from A.J. Droge, The Qurʾān. A New Annotated Translation (Sheffield, Bristol:
Equinox, 2013).
12 Sydney Griffith, “Syriacisms in the ‘Arabic Qurʾān’: Who were those who said ‘Allāh is
third of three’ according to al-Māʾida 73?,” in A Word fitly spoken. Studies in Mediaeval
Exegesis of the Hebrew Bible and the Qurʾān, presented to Haggai Ben-Shammai, ed. Meir
342 dye
“They have disbelieved, those who say that God is third of three” (or, better:
“those who say that God is one of three”). The context shows that the question
at stake is the divinity of Jesus. But where does this formula—ṯāliṯu ṯalāṯatin—
come from? Maybe the only idea that Jesus is one person in the Trinity is a suf-
ficient explanation. Yet Sydney Griffith has suggested that we might have here a
calque of Syriac ṯlīṯāyā, which means “third, threefold, triple,” and is often used
in Trinitarian contexts, for example ṯlīṯāy qnōmē, “triple of hypostases/persons,
three-personed,” or even better, ṯlīṯāyā d-Alāhā, “God’s own treble one” (refer-
ring to Christ, also called ṯlīṯāyā, “the trebled one”). In this case, a more accurate
translation would be “They have disbelieved, those who say that God is three-
fold.”
Q 96:1: ʾiqraʾ bi-smi rabbika13
One should understand here, not “Read/Recite [you, Muḥammad] in the name
of your Lord” (as is generally understood), but “Proclaim/Praise the name
of your Lord.” Compare Hebrew qrāḇ-šem Yahwē and parallel formulas (Ps
105(104):1; 116:13, 17) and Syriac qrā ḇ-šem māryā. There are good reasons to
see here a calque of such expressions. Other Qurʾānic formulas have a similar
meaning: sabbiḥ bi-smi rabbika (Q 56:74; 59:52), sabbiḥi sma rabbika (Q 87:1),
ʾuḏkur isma rabbika (Q 73:8; 76:25). From a grammatical point of view, the bāʾ
in bi-smi rabbika is a bāʾ zāʾida (therefore, ʾiqraʾ bi-smi rabbika = ʾiqraʾ ʾisma
rabbika). I consider the translation of this verse as a kind of shibboleth—a good
way to spot historico-critical translations and “traditional” ones.
I turn now to some of the linguistic phenomena which display the kind
of interference which is often met in bilingual/multilingual contexts. All the
examples, of course, may not have the same weight (and I provide here only a
brief selection). I leave aside the fields of phonology and orthography, which
deserve a whole paper on their own.
M. Bar-Asher, Simon Hopkins, Sarah Stroumsa and Bruno Chiesa (Jerusalem: The Ben-Zvi
Institute for the History of Jewish Communities in the East, Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and the
Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2007), 100–108 [83–110].
13 Among many references: Uri Rubin, “Iqraʾ bi-smi rabbika …! Some Notes on the Interpre-
tation of sūrat al-ʿalaq (vs. 1–5),” Israel Oriental Studies 12 (1993), 213–230.
Use of Foreign Words
Using foreign words is not the same as using loanwords. Of course, a loanword
begins its life as a foreign word; with time, it is integrated into the lexicon of the
new language. In other words, the use of a loanword is obviously not a case of
code-switching, whereas the use of a foreign word is. However, sometimes, the
border between loanwords and foreign words is not easy to draw. For example,
what should we say about ǧibt?
Q 4:51: ʾa-lam tara ʾilā llaḏīna ūtū naṣīban mina l-kitābi yuʾminūna bi-l-ǧibti
wa-l-ṭāġūti (“Didn’t you see those who have been given a portion of the
Book? They believe in al-ǧibt and al-ṭāġūt.”)
Al-ǧibt (a Qurʾānic hapax) comes from Geez gǝbt (amalǝktä gǝbt, “the new and
foreign gods”), but contrary to ṭāġūt, it never really entered Arabic language—
as far as I know, it has no plural in Arabic. About ṭāġūt, we certainly have
an arabization either of Ethiopian ṭāʿot (same sense as gǝbt, namely “new,
alien gods, idols”) or Western (Jewish) Palestinian Aramaic, ṭāʿūṯā (“idol”), with
the attraction from the root ṭ-ġ-y (“to oppress, to be a tyrant”).14 It is then
probably a kind of post-Qurʾānic misinterpretation (or reinterpretation) of a
foreign/loanwoard.
The most famous example of a foreign word may be:
Q 112:1: qul huwa llāhu ʾaḥad
Here aḥad seems ungrammatical. Compare Q 112:2: allāhu l-ṣamad, where the
epithet is definite. Aḥad is also peculiar for semantic reasons: it means “anyone”
(“no one, nobody,” in negative clauses, see Q 112:4), and the meaning “one,
unique” normally occurs with wāḥid (see ilāh wāḥid: Q 4:171; 5:73; 12:39, or
Allāh waḥdahū: Q 7:70). Variant readings of Q 112:1 even have allāhu l-wāḥid,
and this would fit Qurʾānic rhyme perfectly.15 A straightforward explanation
14 Manfred Kropp, “Beyond Single Words. Māʾida—Shayṭān—jibt and ṭāġūt. Mechanisms of

Transmission into the Ethiopic (Gǝʿǝz) Bible and the Qurʾānic Text,” in The Qurʾān in Its
Historical Context, 208–210.
15 In Middle Arabic (a dubious category, but in this paper I refer above all to the corpus of
Early Christian Palestinian Arabic, a kind of Arabic which is chronologically, geographi-
cally, and thematically very close to Qurʾānic Arabic), the differences between aḥad and
wāḥid have become blurred. See Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly
on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2 (Louvain: Peeters, CSCO Sub-
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is to read the Hebrew proper name e(ḥ)ḥād: see Deut 6:4 and the Shemaʿ
Israel (šǝmaʿ Yisrāʾēl, Yahweh elohē-nū Yahweh e(ḥ)ḥād), which could indeed be
behind this verse. Such a reading would solve problems of syntactical structure
and semantic meaning at once. This explanation is not new, but it has recently
been revived by Angelika Neuwirth and Manfred Kropp16—and when such
different and opposite scholars agree, maybe this means that there is a true
insight lurking behind.
There are similar cases elsewhere in the Qurʾān. Some imply a different
punctuation of the consonantal skeleton (rasm). Two promising examples of
this kind have been suggested by Manfred Kropp.17 Here is another one:
Q 38:3: kam ʾahlaknā min qablihim min qarnin fa-nādaw wa-lāta ḥīna
manāṣin (“How many a generation We have destroyed before them! They
called out, but there was no time for escape.”)
To say the least, lāta (another Qurʾānic hapax) is quite hard to explain inside
Arabic. It is sensible to see here Syriac layt, “there isn’t,” the alif of lāta being
a later addition (this is consonant with the orthography of ancient manu-
scripts).18
sidia 28, 1967), 375–376 (§ 255). The Qurʾānic uses of these words, however, do not display
such a blurring.
16 Angelika Neuwirth, Studien zur Komposition der mekkanischen Suren (Berlin: De Gruyter,
2nd ed., 2007), 26; Manfred Kropp, “Tripartite, but anti-Trinitarian formulas in the Qurʾānic
Corpus, possibly pre-Qurʾānic,” in New Perspectives on the Qurʾān. The Qurʾān in Its Histor-
ical Context 2, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds (London: Routledge, 2011), 250–251.
17 One concerns Q 72:3 (a parallel to Q 112), and a new punctuation of ǧadd, read as an Ara-
maic word, ḥad (“one, the one”), inside a tripartite anti-polytheistic and anti-Trinitarian
formula. See Manfred Kropp, “Tripartite, but anti-Trinitarian formulas in the Qurʾānic Cor-
pus, possibly pre-Qurʾānic,” 259–261. The other concerns Q 85:4 and the word al-uḫdūd,
which has no convincing explanation inside Arabic. It seems plausible to suppose some-
thing like the Aramaic *gdodā (not attested, but belonging to a root which means “to rise”
(about smoke, or flames), which could give ugdūd, to be understood as a “rising flame.”
Q 85:5 (an-nāri ḏāti l-waqūd, “a fire full of fuel”) is then convincingly seen as a gloss of a for-
eign expression. See Manfred Kropp, “Résumé du cours 2007–2008 (Chaire Européenne),”
786–787.
18 Alphonse Mingana, “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” 93. As Ahmad Al-Jallad
pointed me out, it is certainly the right place to remind that laysa has no internal explana-
tion in Arabic either. It is most certainly an Aramaic loan, which must have entered Arabic
at first through a dialect which did not have interdentals.
Lehnprägung (Loan Shifting), Lehnbedeutung (Loan Extension)
Lehnbedeutung usually refers to the idea that an existing native word or loan-
word gets the semantic value of a cognate foreign term. This is not a replace-
ment, but an extension of the original meaning of the word. It is generally the
result of close language contact. Sadly, this phenomenon is often overlooked
in the studies of the language of the Qurʾān. Here is one interesting exam-
ple:19
Q 20:33–34: kay nusabbiḥaka kaṯīran / wa-naḏkuraka kaṯīran
Translators understand kaṯīr as a usual Arabic word and translate accordingly:

“so that we may glorify You much and remember You much.” Bell and Droge
translate by “often.” Such translations are awkward at best. However, if kaṯīr is
understood in relation to a phenomenon of Lehnbedeutung, and in relation to
the Syriac homonym root k-t-r (which refers to quantity of time, not quantity in
general), then we have a much more convincing understanding of the passage:
“so that we may glorify You constantly and remember You constantly,” or “so that
we persevere in glorifying You and remembering You,” or even better, “so that
we do not cease to glorify You and remember You.” No wonder if the Syriac root
belongs to the lexicon of paraenesis, and especially refers to perseverance in
praying (a significant topic in the Qurʾān, usually expressed with the (Arabic)
word ṣabr: see e.g. Q 2:45, 153; 7:126; 103:3). The Pauline motto, “Pray without
ceasing” (1Thess 5:17) was taken seriously indeed by the Desert Fathers20 and,
of course, in the Syriac piety, which lies behind much of Qurʾānic piety.21
Perseverance in praying was thus called ku(t)tārā in Syriac—a word we find
also as kawṯar in the Qurʾān (Q 108:1).22 What is so significant here with kaṯīr is
19 Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 295.

20 One example, among many: “Flee vain glory and pray without ceasing. Sing psalms before
and after sleeping and learn by heart the precepts of the Scriptures” (Athanasius, Life
of Anthony, in Athanase d’ Alexandrie, Vie d’Antoine, ed. G.J.M. Bartelink (Paris: Éditions
du Cerf, SC 400, 1994), 55.3). On this topic, see e.g. John Wortley, “Prayer and the Desert
Fathers,” in The Coming of the Comforter: When, Where, and to Whom? Studies on the Rise of
Islam and Various Other Topics in Memory of John Wansbrough, ed. Carlos A. Segovia and
Basil Lourié (Piscataway NJ: The Gorgias Press, 2012), 109–129.
21 Tor Andrae, Les origines de l’ islam et le christianisme, trans. Jules Roches (Paris: Maison-
neuve & Larose, 1955), 130–161.
22 See Martin Baasten’s paper in this volume, refining and emending Luxenberg’s insights
(The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 292–298).
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that we do not have a borrowing, but a common Arabic word whose meaning
has been extended, or specified, in a given context, by the meaning of the
cognate Syriac root.
Another example:
Q 25:18: qālū subḥānaka mā kāna yanbaġī lanā ʾan nattaḫiḏa min dūnika
min ʾawliyāʾa wa-lākin mattaʿtahum wa-ābāʾahum ḥattā nasū l-ḏikra wa-
kānū qawman būran (“They will say: Glory to You! It was not fitting for
us to take any allies other than You, but You gave them and their fathers
enjoyment (of life), until they forgot the Reminder and became qawman
būran.”)
Q 48:12: bal ẓanantum ʾan lan yanqaliba l-rasūlu wa-l-muʾminūna ʾilā

ʿahlīhim ʾabadan wa-zuyyina ḏālika fī qulūbikum wa-ẓanantum ẓanna l-
sawʾi wa-kuntum qawman būran (“No! You thought that the messenger and
the believers would never return to their families, and that was made to
appear enticing in your hearts, and thought evil thoughts, and became
qawman būran.”)
What is the meaning of qawm būr here? Droge translates “ruined people” (note
the way kānū/kuntum is translated: “became,” not “were”). Other translators
suggest “a people in perdition” (Muhammad Habib Shakir), “a people (worth-
less and) lost” (Yusuf Ali), “become lost folk” (Pickthall), “became a lost peo-
ple” (Mohsin Khan). These translations seem to understand wa-kānū qawman
būran and wa-kuntum qawman būran as a consequence of the preceding words.
Besides, early commentators of the Qurʾān identified the meaning of būr with
that of fāsid (“corrupted”), saying that this is the meaning of this word in the
language of a specific tribe, the Azd of ʿUmān, whereas in the common speech
of the Arabs, būr means “nothing” (lā šayʾ).23
Clearly there is a problem here—the commentators and translators are
uneasy and try to guess or enlarge the meaning of būr in relation to its immedi-
ate context. Now it seems to me that all makes better sense if wa-kānū qawman
būran and wa-kuntum qawman būran are understood as explanations of the
behaviour of the people involved (it fits more the rhetoric of the verses), and if
23 Referring to dialectical uses is a cheap way to multiply the possible meanings of a word,
or rather to find (or guess) a meaning which would suit the context better. From a strictly
linguistic point of view, such an appeal to dialects, even if it can be justified in some cases,
should be considered with the highest suspicion.
the meaning of būr is identified with the meaning of Syriac bur, “stupid, igno-
rant,”24 according (once again) to a phenomenon of Lehnbedeutung. In other
words, what the Qurʾān tells us is: look at how these people behaved, and look
how stupid and ignorant they had to be to behave in such a way. Accordingly,
wa-kānū qawman būran and wa-kuntum qawman būran should be translated:
“Indeed, they were ignorant people,” “Indeed, you were ignorant people.”
Let’s look now at a further example:
Q 30:15: fa-ʾammā llaḏīna ʾāmanū wa-ʿamilū l-ṣāliḥāti fa-hum fī rawḍatin

yuḥbarūna (“As for those who have believed and done righteous deeds,
they will be made happy in a meadow.”)
Q 43:70: ʾudḫulū l-ǧannata ʾantum wa-ʾazwāǧukum tuḥbarūna (“Enter the

Garden, you and your wives, you will be made happy!”)
Translators understand the passive form of ḥabara as “to be made happy, to be

delighted.” This sounds a bit strange. Moreover, there is the Hebrew or Aramaic
ḥḇar, “congregate together, be together with, join,” and it gives a better meaning
in this context.25 Let’s consider those verses:
Q 30:14: wa-yawma taqūmu l-sāʿatu yawmaʾiḏin yatafarraqūna (“On the

Day when the Hour strikes, on that Day they [the unbelievers] will be
separated.”)
Q 43:67: al-ʾaḫillāʾu yawmaʾiḏin baʿḍuhum li-baʿḍin ʿaduwwun ʾillā l-mutta-

qīna (“Friends of that Day—some of them will be enemies to others,
except for those who guard (themselves).”)
The rhetoric is clear: the unbelievers will be enemies to each other (and sep-
arated from each other and from God), whereas the believers will be brought
together—with other believers, or with their wives.26 This is exactly what the
Ethpaʿel of the root means in Syriac (eṯḥabbar, “to be intimate, be a compan-
ion”). Here we have an Arabic word (an Arabic verb), inflected according to
the rules of Arabic—but the most plausible meaning is the meaning of (the
24 Alphonse Mingana, “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” 93.

25 Michael Schub, “The Buddha comes to China,”Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 29 (1995),
77–78; Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 253, n. 306.
26 The idea of “bringing together,” one way or another, is quite common in the eschatological
pericopes of the Qurʾān: see e.g. Q 56:7–16, 49–50, 88–91.
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Ethpaʿel of) the cognate root in Syriac and, more generally, Aramaic (it is not
an isolated nor unheard-of phenomenon, in the Qurʾān or elsewhere27). I may
add that such a meaning of the root ḥ-b-r is attested in various kinds of Ara-
maic (Nabatean, Aramaic of the Early Targumim, Palestinian Targumic Ara-
maic, Palmyrenian), and that there is at least one example of such a use in a
similar eschatological context in Late Jewish Literary Aramaic, namely Tg1Chr
4:18 (“who joined Israel to their father in heaven”).28
Here is another interesting example:
Q 60:11: wa-ʾin fātakum šayʾun min ʾazwāǧikum ilā l-kuffāri … (“If any of
your wives escape from you to the unbelievers …”)
Arabic šayʾ is normally supposed to refer to an inanimate being but not to

a human being. However, its Syriac equivalent, meddem, can also refer to a
human being.29 It seems then that šayʾ follows here the use of its closest Syriac
equivalent. However, it would be hasty to conclude that this is an example of a
clear influence from Syriac. Indeed, šī, in many modern dialects of Arabic—and
not only those with an Aramaic substrate, like Syrian Arabic—, can refer to an
inanimate as well to an animate being. So we might suppose, either that there
have been some independent similar innovations among the various Arabic
dialects or, rather, that šayʾ was already used with this wider meaning in “Old
27 In the Qurʾān: see Q 4:171 and lā taġlū fī dīnikum (“do not go too far in your religion”).
It might be read instead lā taʿlū fī dīnikum, and understood according to Syriac a ʿli
ḇ-ḏīnā, “to err in one’s judgment, to make a mistake.” Luxenberg (“Neudeutung der ara-
bischen Inschrift im Felsendom zu Jerusalem,” in Die dunklen Anfänge. Neue Forschun-
gen zur Enstehung und frühen Geschichte des Islam, ed. Karl-Heinz Ohlig & Gerd-Rüdiger
Puin (Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2005), 136–137) is probably right here. Elsewhere: see
the Nabateo-Arabic inscription JSNab 18 (roughly contemporary to JSNab 17, and writ-
ten next to it), whose third and fourth lines read: dkyr bnyʾ hnʾw w ʾḥbr{w}-/h d{y}
bn{w} qbrw ʾm kʿb{w} (“May the builders Hnʾw and his companions, who built the tomb
of the mother of Kʿbw, be remembered”). Here we have ʾḥbr{w}h, “his companions,”
according the semantics of the Aramaic root, but morphologically, it is an Arabic bro-
ken plural. On this inscription, see Laïla Nehmé, “A glimpse of the development of the
Nabataean Script into Arabic based on old and new epigraphic material,” in The devel-
opment of Arabic as a written language (Supplement to the Proceedings of the Semi-
nar for Arabian Studies), ed. Michael C.A. MacDonald (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2010), 69–
70.
28 More references on the Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon Project, available online (http://
cal.huc.edu).
29 Alphonse Mingana, “Syriac influence on the style of the Kurʾān,” 92.
neo-Arabic dialects” (viz., the Arabic dialects spoken in the Arabian Peninsula
and the Fertile Crescent before the Arab conquests).
The existence of such phenomena should make us open to another pos-
sibility—which I will not study here—, namely, the semantic calques, a phe-
nomenon akin to a translation technique, or a “mental translation,” where
words in the source language are assigned equivalents in the target language
on the basis of their most common meaning, while the word in the target lan-
guage is also used to translate the other meanings of its equivalent in the source
language.30
Syntactical Structures
Interference, however, is not limited to the meaning of isolated nouns or verbs.

It also concerns syntactical structures.
My favorite example pertains to the syntax of kull (a quite complicated
topic31), with the syriacism min kulli + singular indefinite noun, which means
“all kinds of”—see Syriac men kol, “any sort of”:
30 The most famous and striking example is Syriac šubḥā (“glory”), used to translate Greek
δόξα when it has this meaning, but also when δόξα means “opinion” (see Daniel King,
“A Christian Qurʾān?,” 53, n. 28). A possible candidate in the Qurʾān is Arabic faṣṣala vs.
Syriac praš/parreš. The Syriac root means “to separate, to select,” but also “to explain, to
interpret”—a meaning which suits perfectly the Arabic root f-ṣ-l in most of its Qurʾānic
contexts. Parallel semantic developments between Syriac and Arabic, however, are not
excluded, and are even a plausible explanation. Another example, with interesting theo-
logical consequences, could be Arabic yassara, possible calque of Syriac paššeq, “to make
easy or easier” but also “to explain, to annotate” and “to translate.” Luxenberg (The Syro-
Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 123–124) has some interesting suggestions, even if I am not
sure that the calque follows the meaning “to translate” and not “to explain.” Here again,
further analyses are needed. A promising example (since parallel semantic developments,
in this case, are implausible) is Arabic naqama vs. Syriac tḇaʿ (Q 85:8). See Manfred Kropp,
“Résumé du cours 2007–2008 (Chaire Européenne),” 787–788.
31 There is a recent paper on this topic by Thomas Bauer (“The Relevance of Early Arabic
Poetry for Qurʾanic Studies Including Observations on Kull and on Q 22:27, 26:225, and
52:31,” in The Qurʾān in Context. Historical and Literary Investigations into the Qurʾānic
Milieu, ed. Angelika Neuwirth, Nicolai Sinai, and Michael Marx (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 699–
732). This study provides some interesting parallels with pre-Islamic poetry, but it is
marred by useless polemics against Luxenberg—whereas Syriac lurks sometimes behind
the Qurʾānic syntax of kull.
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Q 31:10: wa-baṯṯa fīhā min kulli dābbatin (= Q 2:164) (“and [God] scattered
on it all kinds of animals”).
Q 17:89: wa-laqad ṣarrafnā li-l-nāsi fī hāḏā l-qurʾāni min kulli maṯalin (=

Q 18:54; 30:58; 39:27) (“We have displayed all sorts of parables (examples)
for men in this predication”).
There is another interesting, but far more complicated, case. Let’s look at these
two passages:
Q 3:52: qāla man ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi qāla l-ḥawāriyyūna naḥnu ʾanṣāru llāhi
(“He [Jesus] said: Who will be my ʾanṣār ʾilā llāh? The disciples said: We
will be the helpers of God”).
Q 61:14: qāla ʿīsā bnu maryama li-l-ḥawāriyyīna man ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi qāla l-
ḥawāriyyūna naḥnu ʾanṣāru llāhi (“Jesus, son of Mary, said to the disciples:
Who will be my ʾanṣār ʾilā llāh? The disciples said: We will be the helpers
of God”).
The syntax of ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi is awkward (why such a use of ilā?) and the
commentators generally understand “my helpers [in the path] of God” (Droge
translates quite literally, “my helpers to God”). Yet the answer of the disciples
does not follow the construction of the question. They only answer: we are, or
we will be, the helpers of God. If the question was supposed to be understood
as it usually is, we should read the following answer: naḥnu ʾanṣāruka ʾilā llāh,
“we are your helpers [in the path] of God.”
The underlying meaning of the question, addressed to the disciples, is cer-
tainly: who are my helpers and therefore the helpers of God? The sequel of
Q 61:14 confirms this interpretation: “One contingent of the Sons of Israel
believed [these are the helpers of God, also Jesus’ helpers], and (another) con-
tingent disbelieved [the Jews]. So We supported those who believed against
their enemy, and they were the ones who prevailed.” A pun with naṣāra, “Chris-
tians,” is not excluded. We might translate ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi by “my helpers of
God”—an expression which sounds a bit awkward, like in Arabic.
A structure *ʾanṣārī (A)llāh is not possible in Arabic, and a literal translation
of the underlying meaning of the question would be quite long, whereas the
Qurʾān clearly aims at concision in this context. However, it seems possible to
see here a kind of calque of a well-known structure expressing membership in
some neighboring Semitic languages, namely:
Noun 1- pronominal suffix 3rd pers. + particle-Noun 2
This is indeed the hypothesis of Manfred Kropp, who compares ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi
to a structure in Geez, with the particle lä (“to, toward, for, to the advantage of,
with regard to, according to”).32 For example: ardǝʾǝt-u lä-Ǝgziʾabǝḥeri: literally,
“helper-his to God = God’s helper,” bet-u lä-nǝgus: “the king’s house.”
The passage from lä to ilā is maybe not the most natural one (la was more
expected as a datival preposition), but it is not impossible. But there is a
significant difference: as far as I know, the Semitic structure I referred to works
with 3rd pers. There is thus a Qurʾānic innovation with ʾanṣār-ī (1st pers.).
There are, however, similar constructions in Levantine Arabic dialects with
Aramaic substrates, for example: bēt-o la-Yūsef, “Joseph’s house.”33 And this
is not surprising, since there is the same structure in Aramaic: bayteh d-X
(exactly as in Geez, except that the particle here is the demonstrative d-). For
example: Syriac bayteh d-Šemʿūn, “Peter’s house” (literally, “his house, that of
Peter”). A plural suffix is also possible: Allāh-hūn d-kristyānē, “the God of the
Christians.”
In some cases, bayteh d-X and bayta d-X are used interchangeably. However,
bayteh d-X has some specific uses. For example, it is never used when the second
member describes the first (ḥaṣā d-maškā, “loincloth (made) of skin,” but not
*ḥaṣeh d-maškā). Bayteh d-X is used only when “the referent of the first member
belongs in some way to the second.”34 So bayteh d-X is regular when the first
member refers to parts of the body, or members of the family, and it is frequent
too when the second member is a known individual.
If one understands ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi as a syntactical invention based on
a preexisting Semitic (foreign) structure, then we get what I believe is the
intended meaning: “my helpers and God’s helpers.” Of course, ʾanṣārī ʾilā llāhi
might be a spontaneous syntactical invention, without any influence from
neighboring languages, but an influence from Geez or Aramaic seems to me
more plausible.
32 Manfred Kropp, “Äthiopische Arabesken im Koran. Afroasiatische Perlen auf Band gereiht,
einzeln oder zu Paaren, diffus verteilt oder an Glanzpunkten konzentriert,” in Schlag-
lichter. Die beiden ersten islamischen Jahrhunderte, ed. Markus Groß & Karl-Heinz Ohlig
(Berlin: Verlag Hans Schiler, 2008), 403–405.
33 Manfred Kropp, “Äthiopische Arabesken im Koran. Afroasiatische Perlen auf Band gereiht,
einzeln oder zu Paaren, diffus verteilt oder an Glanzpunkten konzentriert,” 405, n. 26.
34 Jan Joosten, The Syriac language of the Peshitta and old Syriac versions of Matthew: syntactic
structure, inner-Syriac developments and translation technique (Kinderhook: Brill, 1996),
50.
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Another significant example concerns the formula Ibrāhīm ḥanīfan (Abra-

ham the ḥanīf ).
Q 4:125: wa-man ʾaḥsanu dīnan mimman ʾaslama waǧhahū li-llāhi wa-

huwa muḥsinun wa-ttabaʿa millata ʾibrāhīma ḥanīfan wa-ttaḫaḏa llāhu
ʾibrāhīma ḫalīlan (“Who is better in religion than one who submits his face
to God, and follow the creed of Abraham the hanif ? God took Abraham
as a friend.”)
There is a similar construction of Ibrāhīm ḥanīfan elsewhere (Q 2:135; 6:161).

Most of the time, translators (rightly) understand ḥanīf as an epithet, and not
as an accusative of state. Such an understanding is confirmed by the following
verse:
Q 3:95: qul ṣadaqa llāhu fa-ttabiʿū millata ʾibrāhīma ḥanīfan (“Say: God has
spoken the truth, so follow (plural) the creed of Abraham the hanif”).
If ḥanīfan is an accusative of state, then it should be in the plural. On the other

hand, if it is an epithet, it should have the definite article al-. Here Luxen-
berg’s explanation—one should not read ḥanīfan, an indefinite accusative, but
ḥanīfā, the final -ā being the mark of the emphatic case in Syriac—is certainly
insightful.35 Ibrāhīm ḥanīfā, or maybe rather millata Ibrāhīm ḥanīfā, appears
as a fixed formula calqued on Syriac. Syriac mellṯā, “word, covenant,” stays
behind Arabic milla; moreover, Arabic ḥanīf comes in all probability from Syr-
iac ḥanpā, which is normally a pejorative world (“pagan, idolater”)—but not
always! Indeed, in the Pəšīṭtā, it translates also sometimes Greek ἐθνικός (Mt
6:7; 10:5; 18:17; 1Co 5:1; 10:20; 12:2), or Ἕλλην (Mk 7:26; Jn 7:35; Ac 18:4; 18:17). In
short: Abraham is a Gentile, not bounded by the Jewish Law, but at the same
time, he is not an idolater (mušrik).
Are there other cases of the mark of the Syriac emphatic case later under-
stood as an Arabic indefinite accusative? According to Luxenberg, yes:
Q 6:161: qul ʾinnanī hadānī rabbī ʾilā ṣirāṭin mustaqīmin dīnan qiyaman
millata ʾibrāhīma ḥanīfan (“Surely my Lord has guided me to a straight
path, a right religion, the creed of Abraham the hanif.”)
35 Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 55–57; Devin J. Stewart,
“Notes on Medieval and Modern Emendations of the Qurʾān,” in The Qurʾān in its Historical
Context, 238–240.
As Nöldeke himself acknowledged,36 this construction is very strange. Since

dīnan qiyaman millata … cannot be accusative of state, it should be in the geni-
tive, following ilā, like ṣirāṭin mustaqīm. Luxenberg explains the Arabic ending
of dīn(an), qiyam(an), and so on, as a rendering of Syriac’s emphatic state (-ā),
which cannot be inflected.37 This is an interesting explanation, but certainly a
bit hazardous (and it implies more than the use of a fixed formula like Ibrāhīm
ḥanīfā). Anyway, the matter is complex (grammarians might appeal to various
devices, often far-fetched, to solve the problem), so I will not go into details
here.
Let’s note, however, that in Middle Arabic, nouns governed by prepositions
may terminate in -an,38 moreover, “in nouns governed by prepositions there is a
tendency to put the more remote members in the ‘accusative’.”39 So what looks
like incorrect Classical Arabic (a category maybe as unclear as Middle Arabic)
rather looks like, let’s say, “correct” or usual Middle Arabic.40
This reference to Middle Arabic makes an apt transition to my next point.
Q 7:160: wa-qaṭṭaʿnāhumu ṯnatay ʿašrata ʾasbāṭan (“We divided them into

twelve tribes”).
36 Theodor Nöldeke, Neue Beiträge zur Semitischen Sprachwissenschaft (Strasbourg: Trübner,

1910), 11.
37 Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 53–54.
38 Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from
the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 342 (§ 226.5). For example: fa-lammā raʾā Yasūʿ ilā ǧumuʿan
kaṯīratin maʿahu [Mt 8:18], “when Jesus saw great multitudes around him.”
39 Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts
from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 342–343 (§ 226.6). For example: ʿalā minbarin munīfin
mutaʿāliyan, “on a throne high and lifted up.”
40 Luxenberg’s motto is that we often have in the Qurʾān, not incorrect Arabic, but correct
Syro-Aramaic (The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 53), which is another point. There
is, of course, a vexing question: what does tanwīn alif represent in Middle Arabic texts,
and in such Qurʾānic verses—living usage (related or not to inference with Aramaic),
or pseudo-corrections? A detailed examination of this topic exceeds by far the limits
of this paper (but see Joshua Blau, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-
Arabic. A Study of the Origins of Middle Arabic (2nd ed., Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for
the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, 1981), 167–212). If one follows Luxenberg
about Q 6:161, it would be natural to translate: “Surely my Lord has guided me to a straight
path, the right religion, the creed of Abraham the hanif” (I do as if dīn and milla should
be translated as “religion” and “creed,” which is probably not the case, but this is not the
point here).
354 dye
According to the rules of Classical Arabic, one would except sibṭan. This is
indeed an exception in the Qurʾān—the agreement with numerals is almost
always regular. See for example, in the same verse:
fa-nbaǧasat minhu ṯnatā ʿašrata ʿaynan (“and there gushed forth from it
twelve springs”).
A second exception is:
Q 18:25: wa-labiṯū fī kahfihim ṯalāṯa miʾatin sinīna wa-zdādū tisʿan (“They

remainded in their cave for three hundred years and (some) add nine
(more)”).
Another example of irregular agreement, but not with numbers:
Q 2:31: wa-ʿallama ʾādama l-asmāʾa kullahā ṯumma ʿaraḍahum ʿalā l-ma-

lāʾikati (“And He taught Adam the names of all of them, then He showed
them [the beings] to the angels.”)
According to the rules of Classical Arabic, one should read ʿaraḍahā—as we

read kullahā a few words before. The agreement in ʿaraḍahum, “He showed
them (the beings, the animals),” on the other hand, would not be surprising in
Middle Arabic41 (nor in some pre-Qurʾānic inscriptions). The cases of irregular
agreement in number, gender or case (from the point of view of the grammar
of Classical Arabic) are indeed not exceptional in the Qurʾān (see e.g. Q 2:177;
4:162; 5:69; 11:69, 72; 20:63; 75:14). These considerations bring us to a new and
more general point, which is partly related to bilingualism, namely, the nature
of Qurʾānic Arabic.
41 Joshua Blau, Handbook of Early Middle Arabic (Jerusalem: Max Schloessinger Memorial
Foundation, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2002), 45 (§80); ibid., A Grammar of Chris-
tian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 278
(§ 177.2): “as a rule, the more remote a word referring to a collective noun be from the noun,
the more likely it is to stand in the plural.”
More General Thoughts
Scholars have noticed the many peculiarities of Qurʾānic style and grammar,
and even the possible linguistic errors.42 In fact, there may be three different
phenomena.
First: linguistic errors. What I mean is that there are some irregularities—
especially concerning iʿrāb—in the Qurʾān. In several cases, the best explana-
tion is to suppose a mistake at some point in the transmission of the text.43 The
early Arabic script is extremely ambiguous, and there are some good arguments
suggesting that the language represented by the consonantal skeleton (rasm) of
the Qurʾān had no iʿrāb.44 Thus, such errors are certainly “post-qurʾānic” (pos-
42 About linguistic errors, see John Burton, “Linguistic Errors in the Qurʾān,” Journal of
Semitic Studies 38-2 (1988), 181–196. About grammar and style, see e.g. Theodor Nöldeke,
Neue Beiträge zur Semitischen Sprachwissenschaft, 23–30, Rafael Talmon, “Grammar and
the Qurʾān,” Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, volume 2 (Leiden,
Boston: Brill, 2002), 345–369, Claude Gilliot and Pierre Larcher, “Language and Style of
the Qurʾān,” Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, volume 3 (Leiden,
Boston: Brill, 2003), 109–135, and also Karl Vollers, Volkssprache und Schriftsprache im
alten Arabien (Strasbourg: Tübner, 1906), especially 175–185. Marginal remark about the
history of Qurʾānic studies in the 20th Century: it is very surprising (and depressing) to
realize how some of the most insightful contributions of the early 20th Century—for
example Vollers’ book, Paul Casanova, Mohammed et la fin du monde (Paris: Geuthner,
1911–1924, 3 vol.), or Henri Lammens, “Qoran et tradition: comment fut composée la vie de
Mahomet,” Recherches de Science Religieuse 1 (1910), 25–61—, and also of the 19th Century
(Aloys Sprenger still remains a mine of insights), have so easily been dismissed (often with
quite weak arguments) or simply ignored by many scholars. The situation in the late 20th
Century was not really better.
43 Other explanations are also possible sometimes, see below. There may also be other kinds
of transmission mistakes, like errors in the adding of the diacritical dots and vowels,
which are placed correctly most of the time, but not always. In other words: there was
no oral tradition, at least not a sound and uninterrupted one, which could guarantee the
perfect transmission of the text. See Manfred Kropp, “Résumé du cours 2007–2008 (Chaire
Européenne),” 787, whose methodological reflections I share without reservation.
44 Here I side with Karl Vollers, and his stress on Volkssprache. Several works by Pierre
Larcher (“Arabe préislamique, arabe coranique, arabe classique: un continuum?,” in Die
dunklen Anfänge, 248–265; “Qu’est-ce que lʿarabe du Coran? Réflexions d’un linguiste,”
Cahiers de linguistique de l’INALCO 5 (2003–2005 [volume number year], published in
2008), Linguistique arabe, ed. Georgine Ayoub & Jérôme Lentin, 27–47) give additional
arguments for not “classicizing” Qurʾānic Arabic. Indeed, it is not Qurʾānic Arabic which
influenced the grammar of Classical Arabic (as is so often claimed): it is rather the
reverse, as Pierre Larcher aptly wrote me in a personal message (email, 23/01/2014):
356 dye
terior to the writing of the rasm), and were made by the scribes who added dots
and vowels to the consonantal skeleton.45 In other words, it does not seem nec-
essary to suppose pseudo-corrections (especially hypercorrections) at the level
of the composition of the text.
Second: grammatical specificities (here again, I leave out here phonology
and orthography, including, therefore, the famous question of the hamza). The
Arabic of the Qurʾān is certainly not identical with Classical Arabic (which
I take more as a socio-linguistic label than as a strictly historical one), and
some aspects of its grammar which strike us as a bit strange may simply
reveal linguistic usage, not always congruent with the later standardization of
Classical Arabic grammar (even if Qurʾānic Arabic, as we know it, is partly the
result of the standardization of the language represented by the rasm), in some
part of the Arabic-speaking world, at a particular time. Some instances of this
phenomenon are occasionally called, rightly or wrongly, “ḥiǧāzisms.”46
“C’ est la grammaire arabe qui a influencé la langue du Coran, en la classicisant [GD:
I would add, en la standardisant] au-delà de ce que le rasm autorise.” Another inci-
dental remark: it is sometimes thought that Nöldeke had a decisive, or at least strong
argument, against Vollers, with the absence of non-iʿrāb traces in the transmission of
the Qurʾān (Talmon, “Grammar and the Qurʾān,” 359). I am not convinced, for several
reasons. First, there are certainly traces of neo-Arabic in the Qurʾān. Second, even in
the complete absence of such traces, this argument would work only if the transmis-
sion of the Qurʾān, as we know it, had begun very early. This supposes, roughly, that
the Qurʾān was ready at the time of Muḥammad’s death, and that it was well-known
enough to be transmitted on a large scale—and it is surely sensible to doubt these two
points. Third, there is evidence of readings of the Qurʾān without case endings. See Paul
E. Kahle, The Cairo Geniza (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1959²), 141–149, 345–346; id., “The Ara-
bic Readers of the Koran,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 8–2 (1949), 65–71; and Jonathan
Owens, “Idġām al-Kabīr and history of the Arabic language,” in “Sprich doch mit deinen
Knechten Aramäisch, wir verstehen es!” 60 Beiträge zur Semitistik für Otto Jastrow zum 60.
Geburstag, ed. Werner Arnold & Hartmut Bobzin (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2002), 503–
520.
45 Among the few examples studied by Burton, see e.g. Q 2:177: wa-l-mūfūna bi-ʿahdihim
iḏā ʿāhadū wa-l-ṣābirīna fī l-baʾsāʾi wa-l-ḍarrāʾi (“and those who uphold their contract
when they have made one, and those who are patient under violence and hardship”). Al-
mūfūn is in the nominative and al-ṣābirīn is not, whereas both words are coordinated
by wa. However, sometimes, such anomalies could indicate, not a grammatical error,
but an interpolation. See my commentary about Q 9:31 and wa-l-masīḥa in The Qurʾan
Seminar Commentary / Le Qurʾan Seminar. A Collaborative Study of 50 Qurʾanic Passages
/ Commentaire collaboratif de 50 passages coraniques, ed. Mehdi Azaiez, Gabriel Said
Reynolds, Tommaso Tesei, and Hamza Zafer (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2016), 134.
46 Two examples, related to the grammar of negation: mā as a nominal negator (Q 12:31: mā
We should also remember that Qurʾānic Arabic may not necessarily be as

homogeneous as generally assumed—and this should be no surprise. Qurʾānic
Arabic, of course, is the Arabic of the Qurʾān—a tautology, which should
not hide, however, two significant points. First, there is a probable hiatus
between the language represented by the rasm (closer, at least in part, to the
vernacular), and the language represented by the qirāʾāt, which display the
influence of the poetic language. Moreover, the Qurʾān, strictly speaking, is not
a book, but a corpus, namely, the gathering of relatively independent texts,
which belong to various literary genres and are, in several ways, somewhat
heterogeneous (for example, the style and vocabulary—see the numerous
hapax legomena—of the many “oracular suras” at the end of the Qurʾānic
corpus are quite different from those of the other parts of the Qurʾān; more
generally, the literary and stylistic quality is uneven). And since I mentioned
Sprenger earlier, it is probably the right place to quote him:
Im Qoran kommen ungefähr 1700 Wurzeln vor, und es gibt schwerlich ein
Buch von selben Umfange [GD: even more since the Qurʾān is very repet-
itive] in irgend einer Sprache, welches eine so grosse Zahl verschiedener
Wörter enthält; das kommt daher, dass Moḥammad die Sucht hatte, nach
ungewöhnlichen Ausdrücken zu haschen. Viele hat er selbst gemacht,
viele hat er von verwendten Sprachen entlehnt.47
Muḥammad’s lexical creativity is a possible explanation at times, but the idea

of a collective work, spread over time (more than usually thought), with var-
ious layers, seems the most natural and straightforward account. Of course,
evidence from epigraphy, as well as from linguistic reconstructions of “old neo-
Arabic,” might be of some interest here.
Third: stylistic peculiarities. Here, the idiosyncrasies lie in the common use
of this kind of Arabic, and therefore in the linguistic habits and tastes of
the audience, but also, if not more, in the stylistic, rhetorical and linguistic
choices of the author(s) of the Qurʾān. For example, the Qurʾān is quite fond
of anacolutha. Moreover, it goes without saying that the constraints of the saǧʿ,
and the importance of pause and rhyme, explain many aspects of the text—but
not all.
hāḏā bašaran, “this is not a man”); ʾin as a negative particle (Q 11:51: ʾin ʾaǧriya ʾillā ʿalā llaḏī
faṭaranī, “my reward is not due except on the One who created me”).
47 “Review of Mohammad nach Talmud und Midrasch, nach J. Gastfreund,” Zeitschrift der
Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 28 (1875), 656–657.
358 dye
The frontiers between these phenomena are not always easy to draw (but a
blurred frontier does not mean no frontier at all).48 Yet I would like to ask the
following question: concerning the grammatical and stylistic peculiarities of
Qurʾānic Arabic, what can be explained within the parameters of interference
and language contact? Indeed, behind such peculiarities may lurk sometimes
phenomena of interference with other languages.
This is a huge topic which deserves much more than a single paper. Of
course, interference is only one of the possible explanations: it is not supposed
to explain everything, and at times, several competing explanations are more
or less plausible. So I have more questions than answers (as so often with the
Qurʾān). Let us look at a few examples.
1) There are many cases (around 600) in the Qurʾān where the subject
precedes its verbal predicate. This order is quite unusual in Arabic. It is much
more common in Biblical Hebrew (the “casus pendens,” or yiḥūd) or in Aramaic,
where the order of the words displays more freedom. Should we explain this
massive use of topicalisation49 by rhetorical and stylistic reasons, as evidence
for phenomena of interference (in living usage), or as a will to mimic the style
of Jewish or Christian religious works (in Hebrew or Syriac)?
2) In the same vein, the Qurʾān sometimes employs impersonal verb con-
structions. For example:
Q 27:17: wa-ḥušira li-sulaymāna ǧunūduhū mina l-ǧinni (“Solomon gath-

ered his armies of jinns”—literally, “his armies of jinns were gathered for
Solomon”).
This is quite unusual in Arabic (but not completely unheard-of). On the other
hand, such constructions are not rare in Aramaic, in the Pǝšiṭtā or by the
48 One example, with a famous verse. Q 20:63 reads, according to the majority (four) of
the seven canonical qirāʾāt: ʾinna hāḏāni la-sāḥirāni (“there are two magicians”). From
the point of view of the Classical Arabic grammar, this is simply incorrect: we should
have an accusative, hāḏayni, and not a nominative, following ʾinna (Abū ʿAmr’s reading
corrects accordingly). How should we interpret this anomaly? Does it reflect a living usage
where there are no more cases, at least in the dual? Is this a rhetorical and stylistic effect
highlighting an internal rhyme hāḏāni/sāḥirāni? Or does it pertain to a “linguistic error,” to
be understood either from an historical viewpoint (as evidence of an evolution under way)
or a socio-linguistic one (pseudo-correction)? See Pierre Larcher, “Arabe préislamique,
arabe coranique, arabe classique: un continuum?,” 257.
49 On this topic, see Yehudit Dror, “Topicalisation in the Qurʾān: A Study of ʾištiġāl,” Acta
Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hung. 65-1 (2012), 55–70.
Syriac Fathers.50 Could the ideas of style imitation or interference be good

explanations?
3) In a suggestive paper,51 Yehudit Dror has highlighted a specific function
of the particle bal in the Qurʾān. This particle has usually three functions. It
can rectify or amend a previous statement (e.g. Q 3:169); after an affirmative
proposition, or a command, it can denote turning away, or digressing, from the
previous statement (e.g. Q 2:259); it can also denote turning from one intention
or topic to another one (e.g. Q 23:62–63).
Dror suggests that in five Qurʾānic verses (Q 2:116; 4:49; 13:31; 34:27; 38:2), bal
is not used in any of these ways, but rather as an emphasis particle. Therefore,
it should be translated as “only” (Q 4:49; 34:27), or “indeed” (Q 2:116; 38:2).52 I
am not really convinced by the first two examples, where “but” seems a good
translation. But there is at least one example where Dror is clearly right:
Q 38:1–2: ṣ (ṣād) wa-l-qurʾāni ḏī l-ḏikri / bali llaḏīna kafarū fī ʿizzatin wa-

šiqāqin (“(ṣād) By the predication with the reminder / Indeed, those who
disbelieve are in false pride and defiance.”)
This emphatic usage of bal is similar to the cognate particle aval in Biblical
Hebrew, which means “but,” but has also an assertive use (“verily,” see for exam-
ple 1K 1:43). In her abstract, Dror says that “the idea that the particle bal in the
Qurʾān has also an emphatic usage came from the Biblical Hebrew, in which the
particle aval which is parallel to the Arabic particle bal has also this usage.”53
It is hard to tell if she only means that the examination of the uses of aval gave
her insights for her analysis of bal, or if she claims that the use of Qurʾānic bal is
sometimes influenced, or even deliberately modeled, on Biblical Hebrew. This
last claim seems to me doubtful, or at least unprovable. The meaning of such
particles fluctuates—much depends on contexts. Just one example, outside
Arabic: Syriac gēr has normally the meanings of Greek γάρ, “so, then, there-
fore,” but sometimes it should be translated by “but.”54 In short, the move from
adversative to assertive/emphatic use can go both ways. And, as Beck noticed,
50 See the examples given in Theodor Nöldeke, Compendious Syriac Grammar, trans. James
A. Chrichton (London: Williams & Norgate, 1904), 199–202 (§254).
51 “Some Notes about the Functions of the Particle bal in the Qurʾān,” Ancient Near Eastern
Studies 49 (2012), 176–183.
52 Q 13:31 can fall in either category.
53 Yehudit Dror, “Some Notes about the Functions of the Particle bal in the Qurʾān,” 176.
54 Edmund Beck, “Grammatisch-syntaktische Studien zur Sprache Ephräms des Syrers,”
Oriens Christianus 68 (1984), 9–12.
360 dye
“Man weiß von den alten Sprachen her, welche Schwierigkeiten das genaue
Erfassen des Sinnes kleiner Partikeln bereiten kann”55 … One should mention
here Nabatean bly, with an assertive meaning, “indeed, verily,” as well as Arabic
balā (same sense). Therefore, we probably have a case of parallel development.
4) I would like to conclude with a very interesting phenomenon, namely the
Qurʾānic use of the particle wa as start of an apodosis. Luxenberg devotes a
good deal of pages to this issue,56 and his insights should be pursued further.
There are several examples of such a use (Q 12:15; 18:47–48; 37:103–104; 85:6–
7—the list does not claim to be exhaustive). Here are two simple and salient
ones.
Q 12:15: fa-lammā ḏahabū bihī wa-ʾaǧmaʿū ʾan yaǧʿalūhu fī ġayābati l-

ǧubbi wa-ʾawḥaynā ʾilayhi (“When they had taken him [Joseph] away, and
agreed to put him in the bottom of the well, We inspired him”).
Protasis: fa-lammā ḏahabū bihī wa-ʾaǧmaʿū ʾan yaǧʿalūhu fī ġayābati l-
ǧubbi
Apodosis: wa-ʾawḥaynā ʾilayhi
Q 37:103–104: fa-lammā ʾaslamā wa-tallahū li-l-ǧabīni / wa-nādaynāhu ʾan

yā-ʾibrāhīmu (“When they both submitted, and he had laid him face dow,
/ We called out to him: ‘Abraham!’”)57
Protasis: fa-lammā ʾaslamā wa-tallahū li-l-ǧabīni
Apodosis: wa-nādaynāhu ʾan yā-ʾibrāhīmu
The particle wa is not required by Arabic syntax. It might even sound strange: it
often drives translators into misunderstandings because they do not recognize
a protasis/apodosis structure, or because they do not understand when the
apodosis begins (the two cases shown here are easy, but Q 18:47–48 is another
matter). How should we explain this use of wa?
In Biblical Hebrew, this particle is very often used at the start of apodoses.
In the Pǝšiṭtā, most of the time, it is not translated—no surprise, since Syriac
syntax does not normally require it. Yet, sometimes, it is also translated. One
may say that these are cases of Hebraisms in the Pǝšiṭtā, but as we will soon
see, things are a bit more complicated.
55 “Grammatisch-syntaktische Studien zur Sprache Ephräms des Syrers,” 1.

56 Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 153–157, 166–213.
57 I follow here the usual understanding of v. 103, but the meaning of some terms, especially
ʾaslamā, is not so clear—the root s-l-m being a good candidate for an analysis in terms of
loanshifting from Aramaic. Such questions, however, are besides my point here.
In what is certainly the most comprehensive review of Luxenberg’s book,

Daniel King has dismissed Luxenberg’s ideas on this topic: “Nöldeke has made
quite clear elsewhere (Grammar §339) that ‫ ܘ‬does not mark apodoses in Syriac
except in rare cases of Hebraisms in the Peshitta—it was not carried over
thence into Syriac literature and to find such a construction here in Arabic
is indeed a great leap of the imagination, and is certainly not proven by any
evidence Luxenberg adduces.”58
Maybe Luxenberg did not add enough evidence, but such a dismissal is
unduly dogmatic. First, at least in some Qurʾānic verses, reading wa as only
indicating the beginning of an apodosis (and so leaving it untranslated) makes
much sense. Second, there is evidence of such a use in Aramaic and Syriac—
and also in Arabic.
In fact, Nöldeke’s claim should be qualified. It seems that Syriac wē is more
used in popular writings (note the socio-linguistic factor!), as Nöldeke himself
acknowledges: “In volkstümlichen Schriften scheint dies‫ ܘ‬gern zu stehen.”59
The waw of apodosis is also not unheard of in other Aramaic dialects, for
example Egyptian Aramaic.60 Moreover, we have significant examples of wē as
a starting word in apodoses in the major Syriac writer, namely Ephraem, whose
style is a remarkable mix of high sophistication and, at the same time, popular
and accessible expression. The topic has been aptly studied by Edmund Beck,61
so it is not necessary to be too long here.
I need only to highlight a few points. Of course, Ephraem often does not use
wē at the beginning of apodoses (as expected, since it does not belong to the
regular construction), but sometimes, he uses it (there are tens of examples).
Moreover, apodoses beginning by wē appear in all kinds of literary genres—
in hymns as well as in prose. In a few cases, wē is used to provide the right
number of syllables between two periods, but most of the time, its use is not
constrained by metrical or syllabic reasons. In other words, wē is then certainly
used for rhetorical or stylistic reasons.62
58 Daniel King, “A Christian Qurʾān?”, 55.

59 “Review of Kalila und Dimna. Syrisch und Deutsch von Friedrich Schultheß,” Zeitschrift
der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 65 (1911), 579, n. 2 (Nöldeke provides a few
examples).
60 Takamitsu Muraoka and Bezalel Porten, A Grammar of Egyptian Aramaic (Leiden: Brill,
1998), 327 (§ 84r).
61 Edmund Beck, “Grammatisch-syntaktische Studien zur Sprache Ephräms des Syrers,” 16–
25.
62 Which reasons exactly is besides my point here: anacoluthon, congruence with popular
language, rhythm of the sentence? Maybe one of the uses of ‫ ܘ‬in the Pǝšiṭtā version of
362 dye
I did not check how far this grammatical construction is widespread in

Syriac literature, but Ephraem’s works were largely known, and his Hymns were
sung by all cantors and monks of Syriac culture in the Late Antique Near East.
Therefore, they were certainly well-known in the scribal milieu responsible for
at least a part of the composition of the Qurʾān.
Moreover, if such a use of wa is extremely unusual in Classical Arabic, it
is not rare at all in Middle Arabic. Blau provides many examples,63 which do
not pertain only to the introduction of a conditional clause. There are, indeed,
instances of anacoluthon; there are also cases where wa calks the particle καί
used in a Greek Vorlage; sometimes, such a use of wa marks a nuance like
suddenness.64 And this is not true only of Middle Arabic. Let’s consider the
two lines in Arabic (lines 4–5) in the famous bilingual inscription (Nabatean-
Arabic) of ʿAyn ʿAbada (usually dated between 88 and 125 ad). I follow the
reconstruction of Manfred Kropp:65
fa-kun hunā yubġinā l-mawtu wa-lā abġāh(ū) (“Be it then that death
claims us, He will not allow this claim!”)
fa-kun hunā adāda ǧurḥ(un) wa-lā yudidnā (“Be it then that a wound
festers, He will not let us be eaten by worms!”)
We read, in these two lines (which are an incantation, and display a highly for-
mal speech, which is however not poetry—it is rather similar to the style of a
soothsayer), a wa which introduces the apodosis, but should be left untrans-
lated.
In short: there are several Qurʾānic verses where is used a “wa apodosis,” a
syntactical construction which is exceptionally rare in Classical Arabic, but
the Psalms should be mentioned here: whereas the Hebrew Psalter normally juxtaposes
the two stichs of a verse, the Pǝšiṭtā Psalter often uses ‫ ܘ‬to coordinate them. See Ignacio
Carbajosa, The Character of the Syriac Version of Psalms. A Study of Psalms 90–150 in the
Peshitta (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 38.
63 Joshua Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from
the First Millennium, Fasc. 2, 450–454 (§ 346). For example: kullu-man lā yaʿmalu l-birr wa-
annahu laysa min Allāh (1 Jn 3:10): “whosoever does not do righteousness, is not of God.”
64 For example: wa-fīhā kuntu qāyim fī ṣallātī wa-haḏā l-raǧul Ǧibrīl ʾatānī (Dan 9:21): “and
while I was standing in prayer, that man Gabriel came to me” (Joshua Blau, A Grammar of
Christian Arabic based mainly on South Palestinian Texts from the First Millennium, Fasc. 2,
453 (§ 346.6)).
65 See his paper in this volume.
present in various stages of Arabic, before and after the Qurʾān. Even if the
ʿAyn ʿAbada inscription features a bilingual context, and if the examples in
Middle Arabic given above come from a (translation) corpus mostly written
by bilingual speakers, it would be too hasty to conclude that the wa apodosis is
a kind of syntactical loan from Aramaic: it is not so easy to recognize the “real
borrowings” between Aramaic and vernacular Arabic, since what looks like as
an “aramaism” in Arabic may often be understood as a parallel development.66
On the other hand, it would also be hasty to exclude a loan, given the antiquity
and depth of the contacts between Aramaic and Arabic.
When Luxenberg writes that wa apodosis constructions “should be under-
stood (…) syntactically on the basis of a sentence construction that is also
attested in part in the Syro-Aramaic translation of the Bible under the influ-
ence of Biblical Hebrew,”67 he is right, in a way—this is without a doubt how
some Qurʾānic verses should be understood and translated. However, it is far-
fetched to look for close or direct influences from Biblical Hebrew, or from the
few Hebraisms of the Pǝšiṭtā.
The explanation is more straightforward. Indeed, since it is rather implausi-
ble that the Qurʾān itself had any direct influence on Early (Christian) Middle
Arabic, and since the corpus of Middle Arabic referred to above is attested later
than the Qurʾān, we should suppose that the affinities (not limited, as we saw, to
this use of wa) between Qurʾānic Arabic (by which I mean, first and foremost,
the language represented by the rasm) and Middle Arabic have deeper roots—
and the most natural explanation is that they reflect aspects of some kind(s) or
register(s) of Arabic, as spoken roughly (with variants) in Syria, Palestine, Jor-
dan and the north of the Arabian Peninsula, in Late Antiquity (before and after
the conquests).
Which kinds and registers is another matter.68 Let us, however, highlight a
significant point, which could be a good beginning for further analyses. With
the wa apodosis, we have an instance of linguistic variation, namely a case when
66 Francisco del Río Sánchez, “Influences of Aramaic on dialectal Arabic,” in Archaism and
Innovation in the Semitic Languages. Selected Papers, ed. Juan Pedro Monferrer-Sala &
Wilfred G.E. Watson (Cordoba: CNERU—DTR, Oriens Academic, 2013), 129.
67 Christoph Luxenberg, The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran, 157.
68 Alan Jones has compared the Qurʾānic register to those of the ḫaṭīb, the kāhin, and the
qaṣṣ, hence putting the Qurʾān between the register of poetry and that of the dialects. See
e.g. Alan Jones, “The Oral and the Written: some thoughts about the Qurʾānic text,” The
Arabist. Budapest Studies in Arabic 17 (1996), 57–66. As far as one wants to highlight the
relations between the Qurʾān and Early Arabic literature, this seems to me a very sensible
approach.
364 dye
a linguistic item has alternate realizations which are linguistically, or gram-

matically, equivalent. In Classical Arabic, it is normally excluded to begin an
apodosis by wa—it is seen as a deviation from the norm, whereas in Qurʾānic
Arabic and in Middle Arabic (and in other kinds of Arabic too), it is perfectly
possible, but not mandatory. The choice of one variant form instead of another
can depend on many factors, and is not necessarily deliberate. Without fur-
ther precise information about the author(s) of the text, it is therefore futile to
suggest a precise explanation. All we can say is that such choices are related
to the verbal and phraseological repertoire of the author (not necessarily lim-
ited to Arabic), his stylistic taste, his spiritual and homiletic background and
intentions, and also the constraints of pragmatic communication with an audi-
ence.
The careful reader has certainly noticed two things. First: with the formula
“linguistic variation,” we enter the field of sociolinguistics, or rather historical
sociolinguistics (since we are dealing with written texts). Many traditional
studies of Qurʾānic Arabic, albeit insightful, are very descriptive and formal,
and pass over silence the social function(s) of Qurʾānic Arabic in the context
and life of the communities which used it. The problem, of course, is that the
more we go back in time, the less we know about such functions—and the main
jeopardy would be to retroject on the situation of the 7th Century what we
know about later times. Yet we need a more realistic view of Qurʾānic Arabic,
and we will not get it if we study it out of its social context.69
Second: I have regretted the absence of precise information about the au-
thor(s) of the text. This is not only because I think we know only very few things
about Muḥammad’s life. It is also because there are, to my mind, good reasons
to dismiss the idea that the Qurʾān is simply a record of Muḥammad’s ipsissima
verba, or the work of his only circle of scribes, whose profile does not match
enough the profile of the redactors of many suras.70 In other words, we should
69 Several interesting studies, examining Biblical, Classical or Qumran Hebrew with the
tools of historical sociolinguistics, have been published these last years. They could be
a good source of inspiration. See the pioneering studies of William M. Schniedewind,
“Qumran Hebrew as an Antilanguage,” Journal of Biblical Literature 118 (1999), 235–252, id.,
“Prolegomena for the Sociolinguistics of Classical Hebrew,” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures
5 (2004–2005), Article 6. Online: http://www.jhsonline.org/Articles/article_36.pdf [DOI:
10.5508/jhs.2004.v5.a6]. Recent and useful synthesis in Dong-Hyuk Kim, Early Biblical
Hebrew, Late Biblical Hebrew, and Linguistic Variability. A Sociolinguistic Evaluation of the
Linguistic Dating of Biblical Texts (Leiden: Brill, 2013), especially chapter 3.
70 For some references and arguments, see Guillaume Dye, “Réflexions méthodologiques sur
la ‘rhétorique coranique’,” particularly the concluding section; id., “Lieux saints communs,
acknowledge the role of scribes, or professional clerics—for some, working

after Muḥammad’s death—, in the composition and transmission of the Qurʾān,
and not only in a so-called “collection” (their work, of course, did not come out
of nothing, and could be based, in part, on preexisting prophetical logia and
liturgical texts).
Since we know much less about the historical background of the Qurʾān than
is generally thought, at least by traditionally-minded scholars (for example, I
do not see any convincing reason to stick to the Meccan/Medinan chronol-
ogy71), then we should proceed the other way around—namely, we should aptly
describe the nature of the texts under scrutiny and then draw the profile of their
authors. The topic is too large for this paper, but we can already notice some key
points.
From a literary point of view, we should talk of Qurʾānic Psalms, as well as
Qurʾānic madrāšē, memrē, and soḡiyāthā.72 I do not mean that the texts I am
inclined to call Qurʾānic Psalms, madrāšē, and so on, are a servile borrowing of
Syriac literary traditions—far from that: they are adapted, not without creativ-
ity, to the context of Arabic language and literature (e.g. Syriac verse is based on
syllabic count, contrary to Arabic poetry and Arabic saǧʿ). But—and this is cru-
cial—, they share compositional features with their Syriac/Aramaic homologs,
they draw from them a good part of their verbal, phraseological and thematic
repertoire, and, also, they play a similar role: they are suited for narrative or
paraenetic compositions, and they are used in homiletic or liturgical settings.
Indeed, a good number of Qurʾānic pericopes look like Arabic ingenious patch-
works of Biblical and para-Biblical texts, designed to comment passages or
aspects of the Scripture, whereas others look like Arabic translations of liturgi-
cal formulas.
This is not unexpected if we have in mind some Late Antique religious prac-
tices, namely the well-known fact that Christian Churches followed the Jewish
custom of reading publicly the Scriptures, according to the lectionary principle.
partagés ou confisqués: aux sources de quelques péricopes coraniques (Q 19: 16–33)”, 112–
113.
71 See Guillaume Dye, “Le Coran et son contexte,” 256–259.
72 See note 6 above concerning madrāšē, memrē, and soḡiyāthā. Concerning Qurʾānic
Psalms, one could mention Q 55 with its characteristic refrain, or Q 96, which owes so
much to Psalms 49 and 95 (see Michel Cuypers, “L’analyse rhétorique face à la critique
historique de J. Wansbrough et G. Lüling,” in The Coming of the Comforter, especially 363–
365). Concerning the Fātiḥa as shaped by the patterns of responsorial, antiphonal or
alternative-singing psalms, see Guillaume Dye, “Réflexions méthodologiques sur la ‘rhé-
torique coranique’,” 155–158.
366 dye
In other words, people did not read the whole of the Scripture to the assembly,
but lectionaries (Syriac qǝryānā, “reading of Scripture in Divine Service,” ety-
mon of Arabic qurʾān), containing selected passages of the Scripture, to be read
in the community. Therefore, many of the texts which constitute the Qurʾān
should not be seen (at least if we are interested in their original Sitz im Leben)
as substitutes for the (Jewish or Christian) Scripture, but rather as a (putatively
divinely inspired) commentary of Scripture.73 And since this Scripture was not
in Arabic, we understand better the role of the Qurʾān, and we also understand
better why it insists so much on Arabic (Q 12:2; 13:37; 14:41; 16:103; 26:195; 39:28;
41:3, 44; 42:7; 43:3; 46:12): stressing that there is an Arabic qurʾān supposes that
there might be non-Arabic scriptures.
These reflections, and all the examples studied above, suggest that we are
dealing with a language, or sociolect (i.e. Qurʾānic Arabic), which was spo-
ken and used in a multilingual context (with all the consequences of such a
situation), where Aramaic was a prevalent language (a fortiori in religious mat-
ters). Even more: the people behind the compositions of such Qurʾānic Psalms,
madrāšē, and so on (see for example suras 3, 5, 18, 19, 96 …), were certainly
scribes with a high literacy in Arabic and Aramaic.74 And since, as we saw, we
have in Qurʾānic Arabic many phenomena related to bilingualism, interference,
and language contact (and there are many more, a fortiori if we allow changes
in the punctuation of the rasm), that is to say, loanwords, Lehnprägung, Lehnbe-
deutung, semantic calques, uses of foreign words (namely, insertions), influence
of foreign syntactical structures (congruent lexicalization)75—in other words,
code-switching and code-mixing—, then it seems that studying such aspects of
the Qurʾān with the tools of translation technique may be very promising.
73 See e.g Jan M.F. Van Reeth, “Le Coran et ses scribes,” in Les scribes et la transmission du
savoir, ed. Christian Cannuyer, Antoon Schoors & René Lebrun, Acta Orientalia Belgica 19
(2006), 67–82.
74 Just one reminder: the source of Q 18:83–102 is a written Syriac text, the Alexander Legend,
composed in 629–630. See Kevin van Bladel, “The Alexander Legend in the Qurʾān 18:83–
102,” in The Qurʾān in Its Historical Context, 175–203; Tommaso Tesei, “The Prophecy of
Ḏū l-Qarnayn (Q 18:83–102) and the Origins of the Qurʾānic Corpus,” Miscellanea arabica
(2013–2014), 273–290.
75 There is still the last aspect of bilingual situations, namely alternance (shift from one
language to the other). There is no alternance in the Qurʾān, but there is certainly some
behind the original Sitz im Leben of some of its parts, as argued above.
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& Wilfred G.E. Watson, Cordoba, CNERU—DTR, Oriens Academic, pp. 129–136.
Rubin, U. (1993), “Iqraʾ bi-smi rabbika …! Some Notes on the Interpretation of sūrat al-
ʿalaq (vs. 1–5),” Israel Oriental Studies 12, pp. 213–230.
Schniedewind, W.M. (1999), “Qumran Hebrew as an Antilanguage,” Journal of Biblical
Literature 118, pp. 235–252.
Schniedewind, W.M. (2004–2005), “Prolegomena for the Sociolinguistics of Classical
Hebrew,” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 5, Article 6. Online: http://www.jhsonline.org/
Articles/article_36.pdf [DOI: 10.5508/jhs.2004.v5.a6].
Schub, M. (1995), “The Buddha comes to China,” Zeitschrift für Arabische Linguistik 29,
pp. 77–78.
Segovia C.A., and Lourie, B. (2012), The Coming of the Comforter: When, Where, and
to Whom? Studies on the Rise of Islam and Various Other Topics in Memory of John
Wansbrough, Piscataway NJ, The Gorgias Press.
Sprenger, A. (1875), “Review of Mohammad nach Talmud und Midrasch, nach J. Gastfre-
und,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 28, pp. 654–659.
Stewart, D.J. (2008), “Notes on Medieval and Modern Emendations of the Qurʾān,” in
The Qurʾān in its Historical Context, ed. G.S. Reynolds, London, Routledge, pp. 225–
248.
Talmon, R. (2002), “Grammar and the Qurʾān,” Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, ed. Jane
Dammen McAuliffe, volume 2, Leiden, Boston, Brill, pp. 345–369.
Tesei, T. (2013–2014), “The Prophecy of Ḏū l-Qarnayn (Q 18:83–102) and the Origins of
the Qurʾānic Corpus,” Miscellanea arabica, pp. 273–290.
Vollers, K. (1906), Volkssprache und Schriftsprache im alten Arabien, Strasbourg, Tübner.
Wortley, J. (2012), “Prayer and the Desert Fathers,” in The Coming of the Comforter: When,
Where, and to Whom? Studies on the Rise of Islam and Various Other Topics in Memory
of John Wansbrough, ed. C.A. Segovia and B. Lourié, Piscataway NJ, The Gorgias Press,
pp. 109–129.
Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon Project, available online (http://cal.huc.edu).

chapter 12
A Syriac Reading of the Qurʾān? The Case of Sūrat

al-Kawṯar*
Martin F.J. Baasten
1 Luxenberg’s Syriac Reading of the Qurʾān
The publication of Christoph Luxenberg’s study entitled Die syro-aramäische

Lesart des Koran1 provoked rather mixed reactions, ranging from uncritical
acclaim to scathing dismissal.2 The author indeed presented a rather unortho-
dox view on the early history of Islam, more specifically on the textual history of
the Qurʾān and its historical and linguistic context. He contends that the Qurʾān
originated as a Christian lectionary, and that it was written in a sort of Arabo-
Aramaic mixed language, that was soon misunderstood due to the fact that
the earliest manuscripts are unpointed, thus leaving considerable uncertainty
about the correct reading of many consonants and hence the basic meaning of
numerous words, phrases and passages.
Luxenberg’s far-reaching thesis concerning the original text and context
of the Qurʾān should obviously not be believed or ridiculed, but confirmed
or refuted on the basis of scholarly arguments. By far the most thorough,
instructive and balanced treatment of the Luxenberg hypothesis so far was
* I am grateful to Ahmad Al-Jallad, Henk Jan de Jonge, Paul Noorlander and Benjamin Suchard
for their critical remarks on an earlier draft of this article.
1 Chr. Luxenberg (ps.), Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur Entschlüsselung
der Koransprache (Berlin 2000), henceforth quoted as SLK. The book was translated into
English in a revised and enlarged edition as The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran. A Con-
tribution to the Decoding of the Language of the Koran (Berlin 2007), henceforth SRK. The
German adjective syro-aramäisch was possibly chosen to avoid the ambiguity of syrisch. In an
English context, however, ‘Syro-Aramaic’ is an unhappy choice; there is no reason to abstain
from the usual ‘Syriac’ (as against ‘Syrian’).
2 For a useful summary of scholarly reactions to Luxenberg’s book, cf. Daniel King 2009, esp.
72–74. In his discussion of my own review of SLK (published in Aramaic Studies 2/2 [2004]
268–272), however, King partly misrepresents my position as being supportive of ‘the litur-
gical reading of Sura 108’ (emphasis mine), whereas I merely stated that Luxenberg’s Syriac
reading ‘yields an understandable text, which would fit perfectly within the context of an
emerging religion’.

a syriac reading of the qurʾān? the case of sūrat al-kawṯar 373
written by Daniel King. On the basis of meticulous philological research he

concludes that Luxenberg’s method
is severely lacking in many areas, although he may on occasion have hit

upon a useful emendation. Thus although the hypothesis as a whole is
faulty, the individual textual suggestions ought to be treated on a case-
by-case basis.3
In other words, Luxenbergs sweeping and exceedingly self-confident state-

ments on the Qurʾan as having originated as a Christian lectionary and having
been written in an Arabo-Aramaic mixed language are largely unfounded and
his philological method contains many serious and demonstrable flaws—as we
shall also see below. Yet, in concrete cases he may have come up with valuable
ideas and suggestions for plausible readings of the text of the Qurʾān.
What is needed, therefore, is for each and every one of Luxenberg’s philolog-
ical proposals to be carefully examined and critically evaluated, to see whether
on closer consideration there is some value in them.4 The present paper offers
a detailed philological analysis of Luxenberg’s treatment of Sūrat al-Kawṯar,
pointing out strengths and weaknesses of his approach, with special attention
to the Qurʾānic context of this sūrah and the question to what extent a ‘Syriac
reading of the Qurʾān’ is a helpful concept.5
2 The Case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar
Sūrat al-Kawṯar as a whole is treated by Luxenberg in a separate chapter.6

The text as it is traditionally read is presented below, alongside the English
rendering by Bell:7
(٣) ُ َ‫ك ه ُو َ ٱۡلَأبتۡ ر‬

َ َ ِ‫شانئ‬ ّ َ ‫( ِإ‬٢) ۡ َ‫ك و َٱۡنحر‬
َ ‫ن‬ َ ِّ ‫ل لرِ َب‬ َ َ ‫( ف‬١) َ َ‫كو ۡثر‬
ِّ ‫ص‬ َ َٰ‫ِإ َن ّـآ َأۡعطَي ۡن‬
َ ۡ ‫ك ٱلـ‬
3 King 2009: 44.

4 An important contribution to the discussion is made by Guillaume Dye in the present volume,
pp. 337–371. Whereas King (2009: 55–61) negatively evaluates Luxenberg’s view on the waw of
apodosis in Qurʾānic Arabic, Dye actually makes a convincing case for its plausibility.
5 King (2009: 66) considers Luxenberg’s re-reading of Sūrat al-Kawṯar ‘not unappealing … It
deserves further consideration and research’.
6 SRK, 292–301; SLK, 271–275.
7 Bell 1939, II: 681.
374 baasten
1. innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar Verily, we have given thee abundance;

2. fa-ṣalli li-rabbika wa-nḥar So pray to thy Lord, and sacrifice.
3. inna šāniʾaka huwa l-abtar. Verily, it is he who hateth thee who is the
docked one.
It is fair to say that modern exegetes are just as much at a loss in making sense of
this short passage as their medieval fellows.8 In order to give an impression of
the problems and exegetical challenges that this texts presents, we shall quote
Bell’s concise commentary in full:
V. 1
al-kauthar, properly and adjective, ‘full’, ‘abundant’ (N.S., i, p. 92, note 4).
According to some, ‘much wealth’; according to others ‘many followers’.
It is sometimes said to be the name of a river in Paradise. Nöldeke sug-
gests that the beginning of the surah has been lost; it may possibly be a
fragment from somewhere else, but it is difficult to suggest a context.
V. 2
inḥar, ‘sacrifice’, only here in the Qurʾān; it seems improbable that

Muhammad would have taken part in the sacrifices of the Pilgrimage in
the Meccan period of his activity. Hence this exhortation is probably Med-
inan, at the introduction of the sacrifices of the ʾaḍḥā (?).
V. 3
shāniʾaka, ‘the one who hates you’, is interpreted as referring to a definite

individual who had called him ʾabtar, ‘mutilated’, ‘tailless’, i.e. having no
son; see N.S., i, p. 92 for the persons mentioned. It certainly looks as if
an individual were referred to, though other authorities interpret it as
referring to a class.9
8 For an overview of traditional exegesis of this sūrah, see Birkeland 1956: 1–140, esp. 55–99.
Birkeland concludes ‘that the legendary picture of Muhammed formed as early as in the
last quarter of the first century has prevented Muslim interpreters from a historically correct
understanding of Surah 108’ (p. 99).
9 Bell 1939 II, Surahs xxv–cvix, 591. The German translation by Paret (1979) equally reflects the
exegetical problems: ‘Im Namen des barmherzigen und gnädigen Gottes. 1. Wir haben dir
die Fülle gegeben. 2. Bete darum zu deinem Herrn und opfere! 3. (Ja) dein Hasser ist es, der
The main questions concerning the interpretation of these lines are to

what the ‘abundance’ is supposed to refer, how the act of sacrifice fits in the
social context of early Islam, why the enemy is called ‘the docked one’ and,
finally, what the connection between these elements could be so as to yield an
understandable text and Sitz im Leben of this particular sūrah.
2.1 Luxenberg’s Reading of Sūrat al-Kawṯar

In Luxenberg’s Syriac reading, however, the passage runs as follows:
1. innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar We have given you the (virtue of) constancy;
2. fa-ṣalli li-rabbika wa-nǧar so pray to your Lord and persevere (in
prayer);
3. inna šāniʾaka huwa l-abtar. your adversary (the devil) is (then) the loser.
Luxenberg’s conclusion is that most of the allegedly difficult words are actually
Syriac. Indeed, according to him, there is hardly a single genuinely Arabic word
to be found in this sūrah.10
It must be admitted that as for the general meaning and context of this
sūrah, Luxenberg’s reading is attractive. Nothing remains of the enigmatic,
opaque nature of the traditional text. In its new interpretation we are not
dealing with a fragment from somewhere else, but with a clear-cut passage
conveying a plausible message. The text seems to comprise a straightforward
exhortation to steadfastness in piety against the adversary, whose final defeat
is predicted. Such a passage, moreover, would fit rather well within the context
of an emerging religion. The question remains whether Luxenberg’s Syriac
reading will hold against close scrutiny.
2.2 ‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā ‘to Give’ as a Syriac Loanword

Concerning the expression aʿṭaynāka ‘we have given thee’ in verse 1, Luxen-
berg considers the Arabic verb ‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā ‘to give’ to be a dialectal, secondary
formation—by means of a shift from hamz to ʿayn and an ensuing emphatisa-
tion of ‫ ܬ‬t—from Syriac ‫ܝ‬狏‫ ܐܝ‬ayti ‘to make arrive, bring’: *ʾaʾtā > *ʾaʿtā > aʿṭā.11
As an additional argument for this etymology he adduces the fact that the root
‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā—which Luxenberg claims to have no cognate in any other Semitic
gestutzt (oder: schwanzlos, d.h. ohne Anhang(?) oder ohne Nachkommen?) ist. (Oder (als
Verwünschung): Wer dich haßt, soll gestutzt bzw. schwanzlos sein!)’. Cf. also Paret, 21977,
ad loc.
10 SRK, 298.
11 SRK, 298–299.
376 baasten
language—is used much less frequently in the Qurʾān than ‫ اتى‬atā, which, he
believes, is also derived from Syriac ‫ ܐܬܐ‬eṯā.
From a linguistic point of view, however, Luxenberg’s Syriac derivation of
‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā ‘to give’ is seriously flawed for several reasons. First of all, it requires
two ad hoc sound changes ʾ > ʿ and t > ṭ.12 The causative derivation of I-hamza
roots is commonly attested in Arabic without any sort of dissimilation: ‫آكل‬
ākala < *ʾaʾkala ‘to feed’, ‫ آتى‬ātā < *ʾaʾtā ‘to bring’. There is also no phonolog-
ical reason why pharyngealization should spread from ʿayn to adjacent non-
emphatic consonants: ‫ أعذب‬aʿḏab ‘more punishing’ (not *ʾaʿḏ̣ ab).
Secondly, it is not true that the root ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā is unique to Classical Arabic.
The verb is attested in Dadanitic (= Lihyanite) in the 5th–4th c. bce, a time
and place where it is hard to posit a strong Aramaic adstratum. The same root
is also known from Safaitic proper names. On these grounds, too, it is unlikely
that ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā should have been borrowed from Syriac.13
Thirdly, the mere fact that ‫ أتى‬atā is more frequent than ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā is in itself
no argument in favour of the alleged Syriac origin of the latter.14
In other words, there is no reason to doubt the ‘Arabicness’ of the verb ‫أعطى‬
aʿṭā ‘to give’ and hence there is just as little reason to assume any influence
from Syriac at this point in Sūrat al-Kawṯar. Since even Luxenberg’s interpre-
tation of ‫ أعطى‬aʿṭā as a Syriac loanword does not yield a better or indeed a
different meaning, it seems that the whole exercise is done just in order to
strengthen Luxenberg’s claim that hardly a word in Sūrat al-Kawṯar is genuinely
Arabic.
2.3 ‫ كوثر‬kawṯar ‘Constancy’

The enigmatic expression ‫ كوثر‬kawṯar is traditionally taken to be derived from
the root kṯr ‘numerous’ and translated as ‘abundance’ or, alternatively,
explained as a reference to one of the rivers in Paradise.15 Luxenberg, however,
identifies it with the Syriac noun ‫ܬܪܐ‬熏‫ ܟ‬kuttārā ‘awaiting, persistence, stabil-
ity, duration’. Also in the light of his re-reading of wa-nǧar in verse 2 (see below,
§2.5), this seems an excellent suggestion that yields a plausible meaning.
12 Fassberg (2005: 243–256, esp. 249–250) is critical of a general shift from glottal stop to ʿayin.
13 Needless to say, even if ‫ عطى‬ʿaṭā had been unique to Arabic, that still would not have been
a sufficient reason the deem it suspect. The well-attested Hebrew root ʿåśå ‘to do, make’ is
a case in point.
14 In addition, Luxenberg’s claim that Egyptian Arabic əddīnī ‘give me’ is also derived from
Syriac ayti, is equally unlikely. Iddī is most probably a denominal verb from the word id
‘hand’, as in hand me X = give me X.
15 See Birkeland 1956: 57–70.
The root ktr is well attested in Syriac, with derivations of nouns, adjectives
ܿ ܿ
and adverbs: ‫ܬܪܐ‬熏‫ ܟ‬kuttārā ‘staying, remaining’, ‫ܪ‬狏‫ ܟ‬kattar ‘to wait for, per-
ܿ ܿ
sist, remain’, ‫ܪ‬狏‫ ܐܬܟ‬eṯkattar ‘to remain, dwell’, ‫ܪܘܬܐ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵattruṯā ‘con-
ܿ ܿ
tinuance’, 焏‫ܪܢ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵattrānā ‘lasting, stable, enduring’, ‫ܬܐ‬熏‫ܪܢ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵat-
ܿ
trānūṯā ‘abiding, existence’, 狏‫ܝ‬焏‫ܪܢ‬狏‫ ܡܟ‬mḵattrānāʾiṯ ‘permanently’.16 More-
over, as Luxenberg pointed out, the same basic meaning of ‘constancy’ is
equally plausible in Q 20:33,34 ‫ كي نسب ّحك كثيرا ونذكرك كثيرا‬kay nusabbiḥaka kaṯīrā
wa-naḏkuraka kaṯīrā ‘that we may constantly glorify Thee and make constantly
remembrance of Thee’.17
The Arabic diphthong aw for Syriac u possibly has its origin in a graphic rein-
terpretation18 of the written form ‫كوثر‬, just as ‫توراة‬/‫ تورٮة‬tawrā most probably
derived from tōrā19 and ‫ قسورة‬qaswara in Q 74:51 might have come from a Syr-
iac form qāsōrā for ‫ܐ‬犯‫ܣ‬熏‫ ܩ‬qusrā ‘donkey’.20
On the other hand, one must count with the possibility that this Qurʾānic
lexeme did not come from Syriac, but from some other Arabic dialect strand.
Hence is it certainly possible, but not certain that ‫ كوثر‬kawṯar ‘constancy’ is a
Syriac loanword.
2.4 ‫ صل ّى‬ṣallā ‘to Pray‘

Luxenberg mentions in passing that the verb ‫ صل ّى‬ṣallā ‘to pray’ in verse 2 is a
Syriac loanword. This does not seem to be controversial or new.21
2.5 ‫ نجر‬naǧara ‘to Persevere’

For wa-nḥar in verse 3 Luxenberg proposes to read ‫ وانجر‬wa-nǧar—that is, a
single dot should be added to this rasm—and to take the verb ‫ نجر‬naḥara ‘to
persevere’ as a loanword from Syriac 犯‫ ܢܓ‬nḡar ‘to persevere, persist’. It is indeed
16 Sokoloff 2009: ss.vv.

17 SRK, 295. See also the contribution by Dye in the present volume.
18 Even though the oral tradition of the Qurʾānic text may prove to be less unreliable than
Luxenberg suggests (SRK, passim), there are strong indications for actual misreadings of a
written word in manuscripts. To mention only two examples: The form ‫ م ُع َّقبِ ٰت‬muʿaqqibāt
in Q. 13:12 appears in the Codex Ibn Masʿūd as ‫ م َعاَ قيِ ب‬maʿāqīb; both forms can be explained
as different readings of one and the same unpointed rasm ‫معڡٮٮ‬. The same is true
ِ َ ‫اي ٔ ۡـ‬
for Q 13: 31 ‫س‬ ْ َ ‫ ي‬yayʾasi, for which the Codex Ibn Masʿūd has ‫ ;يـَت َبيَ ّۡن‬both forms go
back to an unpointed rasm ‫ٮٮٮٮں‬. Cf. Jeffery 1937: 50–51. Much further research is needed
here.
19 SRK 85–88.
20 SRK, 60, 63.
21 SRK, 297. Cf. Jeffery 1938: 198–199.
378 baasten
attractive to read a form of ‘to persevere’ here, especially also in the light of ‫كوثر‬
kawṯar ‘constancy’ in verse 1.
However, even though the Syriac verb is unproblematic, it is not absolutely
necessary to assume a Syriac influence here either. As the root nǧr is attested in
Safaitic inscriptions, too, one may also assume linguistic influence from there.
Thus, in KRS 598 l ḥmy w ngr {ẓ}lm b- ḥm ‘By Ḥmy and he ngr miserably
by/in the heat’,22 it is conceivable that this verb should be translated as ‘and
he endured (suffered?) miserably in the heat’.
While Luxenberg’s interpretation of verse 2 deserves acclaim, the use of the
verb naǧara ‘to persevere’ does not necessarily support a Syriac provenance of
Sūrat al-Kawṯar.
2.6 ‫ شانئ‬šāniʾ ‘Adversary’

Luxenberg takes the phrase ‫ شانئك‬šāniʾaka ‘your adversary, the one who hates
you’ to be a ‘further adapted transcription form Syro-Aramaic ‫ܟ‬焏‫ ܣܢ‬sānāḵ’.
He further believes this to be a reference to Satan, since ‘[i]n the Christian Syr-
iac terminology, Satan is referred to, among other things, as a “misanthrope”—
hence and “adversary”—in contrast to God’.
Taking the phrase šāniʾaka as a transcription of Syriac, however, is prob-
lematic. Luxenberg forgets to explain why the Arabic form has retained the
etymologically correct š (i.e. /s2/), while Syriac has s due to the merger of both
phonemes in Aramaic. This makes a Syriac origin of the phrase unlikely.
Moreover, Luxenberg’s interpretation of šāniʾ ‘adversary’ specifically in the
sens of ‘Satan’ seems to be due to his exclusive interest in a Syriac Christian
origin of the Qurʾān and hence forms part of a circular argument: the idea
that šāniʾ should mean ‘Satan’ originates in his hypothesis of the Qurʾān as
a Christian lectionary, while at the same time it forms a confirmation of this
hypothesis. (See also §5 below.)
Furthermore, the interpretation of šāniʾ as ‘Satan’ is unnecessary in view
of the fact that the more general meaning ‘adversary, enemy’ is also clearly
attested in Biblical Hebrew ‫ שׂ ֵנא‬śoneʾ,23 as well as in Safaitic šnʾ.24 As we shall
see below (§3.3), there are good reasons to assume that šāniʾ in verse 2 has the
more general meaning of ‘adversary’.
Therefore, in this case, too, there is no reason to assume any specific influ-
ence from Syriac in Sūrat al-Kawṯar.
22 All Safaitic examples are quoted according to Al-Jallad 2015, ‘Appendix of inscriptions’.
23 Koehler and Baumgartner 1994–2000: s.v. ‫ שׂ ֵנא‬śoneʾ.
24 Al-Jallad 2015: ‘Dictionary’, s.v. s²nʾ.
2.7 ‫ أبتر‬abtar Derived from Syriac 犯‫ ܬܒ‬tḇar?

As regards the elative form ‫ أبتر‬abtar in verse 3 Luxenberg states that its Arabic
root ‫ بتر‬batara ‘to cut off, to amputate’ is derived from Syriac 犯‫ ܬܒ‬tḇar ‘to break’
through metathesis.25 Hence he reads al-abtar as ‘the loser’.
Even though Luxenberg’s interpretation of abtar admittedly yields an attrac-
tive meaning within the context of Sūrat al-Kawṯar, his linguistic analysis of
the form is highly implausible in view of the fact that the root btr, with the
basic meaning of ‘to cut’, is clearly attested in several Semitic languages. Bibli-
cal Hebrew has ‫ ָבַּתר‬båṯar ‘to cut in pieces’ and ‫ ֶבֶּתר‬bεṯεr ‘piece (of sacrificial
meat)’,26 in Geʿez we find በተረ batara ‘to cut, to hit’ and በትር batr ‘stick, rod’,27
and even in (Jewish Palestinian) Aramaic—though apparently not in Syriac—
one finds the noun ‫ בתר‬btr ‘portion’.28
In order to maintain that Arabic batara is derived from Syriac tḇar, Luxen-
berg would have to suppose that all Semitic languages concerned must have
borrowed this root from Aramaic,29 after which in each language metathesis
occurred independently—which is highly improbable. An alternative explana-
tion would be that the root tbr first became btr due to metathesis in Aramaic,
after which btr was borrowed in all languages concerned. In that case, however,
Luxenberg should explain, first, why the original Aramaic tbr remained in use
alongside the allegedly metathesised root btr and, secondly, why this metathe-
sised form subsequently all but disappeared from Aramaic. Yet Luxenberg does
not seem to be aware of the linguistic complications he has raised by his pro-
posal, or at least fails to account for them. We may conclude, therefore, that
there is no reason to assume Syriac or Aramaic influence in the case of Ara-
bic batara ‘to cut off’. As the root is attested in various other Semitic languages
as well, it can be considered genuinely Arabic; its meaning ‘to cut off’ is well-
established.30
25 SRK, 297–298: ‘Finally, the root ‫ بتر‬batara (to break off, to amputate) … is a metathesis of
the Syro-Aramaic 犯‫( ܬܒ‬tḇar)’.
26 Koehler and Baumgartner 1994. vol. I, p. 167b.
27 Dillman 1991: s.vv. batara and batr I. Cognate lexemes are found in various modern Ethio-
Semitic languages.
28 Sokoloff 199o: 116. The attested plural form ‫ ביתרין‬bytryn /bitrīn/, a nominal qiṭl pattern,
suggests that we are not dealing with a loanword from Hebrew in this case.
29 Obviously not from Syriac, since at least in the case of Biblical Hebrew this would be
chronologically impossible.
30 In addition to the traditional abtar ‘having the tail cut off’, Lane (1863–1893) also men-
tions the Arabic lexemes batara ‘to cut off’, inbatara ‘to become cut off’, bātir ‘sharp
sword’.
380 baasten
Since al-abtar in verse 3 is indeed problematic, we must assume that it is

not the root btr that is suspect, but the reading al-abtar is. Somewhat surpris-
ingly, Luxenberg does not suggest to actually read al-atbar—a possible alter-
native reading of the same unpointed rasm—thus taking the word as a direct
loan from Syriac tḇar and saving himself the trouble of explaining the alleged
metathesis of batara. This is all the more remarkable, as the root tabara is
attested elswhere in the Qurʾān: Q 71.29 tabār ‘destruction’, Q 25.41 tabbara
‘to break in pieces’, Q 17.7, 23.41 tatbīr ‘utter destruction’, Q 7.135 mutabbar
‘destroyed, broken up’.31
However, one reason why Syriac tḇar does not provide a good source for Lux-
enberg’s interpretation of our verse—‘your adversary is the one who loses’—is
that this verb does not simply mean ‘to lose’; its basic meaning is ‘to break’
in a transitive sense. The only evidence Luxenberg provides for the meaning
‘to lose’ is that in Mannā’s dictionary the verb tḇar in its second meaning is
rendered as ‫ انسحق‬insaḥaqa ‘to be crushed’, ‫ انكسر‬inkasara ‘to get broken, be
defeated’, and in its third meaning as ّ ‫ فر‬farra ‘to flee, escape’, ‫ انهزم‬inhazama
‘to be defeated’.32 But in Syriac the meaning ‘to lose’ could only be construed
from the use of this verb in passive stems (peʿil, etpeʿel or etpaʿʿal, as in ‫ܝ‬犯‫ܬܒܝ‬
焏‫ ܠܒ‬tḇiray lebbā ‘shattered of heart’). On the other hand, in view of the fact
that Lane also mentions an Arabic verb tabira ‘to perish’, the reading al-atbar
cannot be entirely excluded.33
A possibility that I propose here, is to read ‫ الأثبر‬al-aṯbar ‘the one who
loses’—a reading that also requires nothing other than repointing the tra-
ditional rasm. This yields the same meaning as Luxenberg proposed, but I
deem it linguistically more probable. The Arabic verb ‫ ثبر‬ṯabara does have a
basic intransitive meaning ‘to perish’34 an it is well-attested, also in the Qurʾān.
There is an adjectival participle ṯābir ‘suffering loss; erring; going astray; per-
ishing’, of which aṯbar would be the regular elative. In the Qurʾān we also find
ṯubūr ‘perdition, becoming lost’ (25:14–15) and maṯbūr ‘overcome, made to lose’
(17:104).35
31 Luxenberg surprisingly does not refer to Schall 1984–1986: 371–373, esp. 371–372, who
already suggested an Aramaic origin for mutabbar.
32 Mannā 1900: 829a. It is difficult to understand why Luxenberg does not mention Mannā’s
rendering of the first meaning of tḇar: ‫ تبر‬tabara ‘to destroy’, ‫ هلك‬halaka ‘to perish’, ‫فني‬
faniya ‘to perish’.
33 Lane 1863–1893, s.v.
34 Lane 1863–1893: 330b-c s.v. ‫ثبر‬. In addition, Lane mentions a transitive meaning: ‫ثبره‬
ṯabarahū ‘he caused him to fail of attaining his desire’.
35 On account of the expression ‫ ثا بر عليه‬ṯābara ʿalayhi ‘he applied himself perseveringly [!]
Further corroborative evidence supporting the reading al-aṯbar ‘the one

who perishes, loses’ may be gathered from the use of ṯbr in Safaitic, cf. NST 3
h-ṯbrn ‘the warriors (ṯabbārīn?)’.36
In conclusion, the traditional al-abtar in verse 3 is suspect. Even though the
reading al-atbar ‘the loser’ cannot be ruled out—in which case we would be
dealing with an Aramaic loanword—a more probable reading is possibly al-
aṯbar ‘the loser’. If this is correct, there is no reason to assume any influence
from Syriac in this case.
3 Qurʾānic Parallels to Sūrat al-Kawṯar
We may conclude that Luxenbergs proposal to interpret kawṯar ‘constancy’ as a

Syriac loanword is a good one (§2.3). The phrase wa-nǧar ‘and persevere’ should
indeed be interpreted as Luxenberg suggests, but even though an influence
from Syriac and nḡar ‘to persevere’ is possible, influence from Safaitic or the
possibility of a rare Arabic noun cannot be excluded (§ 2.5). The verb ṣallā
‘to pray’ is clearly a Syriac loanword (§2.4). In the case of aʿṭā ‘to give’ and
šāniʾ ‘adversary’, however, there is no reason whatsoever to assume any Syriac
influence (§§2.2, 2.6). Finally the form al-abtar should probably be read as al-
aṯbar, in which case no Syriac influence could be assumed, but it is possible
that the phrase should be read as al-atbar, in which case we are dealing with
a Syriac loanword. In sum, we then arrive at the following reading of Sūrat al-
Kawṯar:
(٣) ُ َ‫ك ه ُو َ ٱۡلَأثبۡ ر‬

َ َ ِ‫شانئ‬ ّ َ ‫( ِإ‬٢) ۡ َ‫ك و َٱۡنجر‬
َ ‫ن‬ َ ِّ ‫ل لرِ َب‬ َ َ ‫( ف‬١) َ َ‫كو ۡثر‬
ِّ ‫ص‬ َ َٰ‫ِإ َن ّـآ َأۡعطَي ۡن‬
َ ۡ ‫ك ٱلـ‬
1. innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar Verily, we have given thee constancy.

2. fa-ṣalli li-rabbika wa-nǧar So pray to thy Lord, and persevere.
3. inna šāniʾaka huwa l-aṯbar. Verily, it is thy adversary who will perish.
Our next task is to investigate to what extent the interpretation proposed

would fit within the wider context of the Qurʾān and whether it is possible
to find parallel passages conveying the same idea, both for single verses as for
to it’ mentioned by Lane, it is even possible that we are dealing with a subtle pun in our
sūrah: ‘then the enemy is the loser (and we’ll see who will last longest)’. But this latter point
is obviously mere speculation.
36 Cf. Al-Jallad 2015: ‘Dictionary’, s.v. ṯbr.
382 baasten
the whole sūrah. Even though in some isolated cases Luxenberg does refer to
Qurʾānic parallel verses,37 in this respect he could have done much better.
3.1 Qurʾānic Parallels to the First Verse

If understood in the sense proposed by Luxenberg, the first verse of Sūrat al-
Kawṯar, ‫ إن ّا أعطين ٰك الـكوثر‬innā aʿṭaynāka l-kawṯar, is to be translated as ‘Verily,
we have given thee (the virtue of) constancy/perseverance’. As such the verse
conveys the idea that it is God who bestows the virtue of endurance or perse-
verance upon the believers. This precise notion is demonstrably not foreign to
the Qurʾān, as it is also expressed—albeit in different words—in Q 7:126 ‫ر ب ّنا أفرغ‬
ً ‫ علينا صبرا‬rabbinā afriġ ʿalaynā ṣabran ‘O our Lord, pour out upon us patience’.
There can be little doubt that the noun ṣabr ‘patience’ is used here as a plain
Arabic synonym for the otherwise unattested expression kawṯar.38
3.2 Qurʾānic Parallels to the Second Verse

The second verse of Sūrat al-Kawṯar according to its new reading (‘So pray
to thy Lord and persevere’) shows a close connection between prayer and
endurance. This particular motif, too, is found elsewhere in the Qurʾān, e.g. 2:153
‫ يأّيها الذين ءامنوا استعينوا بالصبر والصلوة‬yā-ayyuhā llaḏīna āmanū staʿīnū bi-ṣ-ṣabri wa-
ṣ-ṣalāt ‘O ye who have believed, seek help in patience and the Prayer’. Again,
ṣabr ‘patience’ is used as a synonym for kawṯar. Three other close parallels to
verse 1, in which the close connection between acts of piety and endurance
become explicit, are already referred to by Luxenberg: Q 20:132 (Ṭāhā) ‫و َأ ۡم ُۡر‬
‫صطَبرِ ۡ ع َليَ ۡه َا‬
ۡ ‫صل َاة ِ و َٱ‬ َ َ ‫ َأه ۡل‬wa-ʾmur ahlaka bi-ṣ-ṣalāti wa-ṣṭabir ʿalayhā ‘Command
ّ َ ‫ك باِ ل‬
thy household to observe the prayer and endure patiently in it’; Qurʾān 19:65
(Maryam) ِ ‫صطَبرِ ۡ لعِ بِ َٰ د َت ِه‬ ۡ ‫ ف َٱۡعب ُۡده ُ و َٱ‬fa-ʿbudhu wa-ṣṭabir li-ʿibādatihī ‘So serve Him
and endure patiently in His service’; Q 70:22–23 (al-Maʿāriǧ) ‫ن ه ُۡم‬
َ ‫صل ِّينَ ٱل َ ّذ ِي‬
َ ُ ‫ِإ َلّا ٱل ۡم‬
َ َ‫ ع َلى‬illā l-muṣallīna llaḏīna hum ʿalā ṣalātihim dāʾimūn ‘Except those
َ‫صل َاتِہ ِۡم د َٓإِٮموُ ن‬
ٰ
who pray, those who at their prayer continue long’.
In view of these Qurʾānic parallels to verse 2, there are good reasons to
assume that Luxenbergs interpretation of this verse is the correct one.
37 Luxenberg himself does refer to Q 20:132, 19:65 and 70:22–23 quoted below (§3.2). The
other parallel passages I shall discuss in §§ 3.2–3.4 he does not mention.
38 On the relation between the two terms kawṯar and ṣabr, see below (§5).
3.3 Qurʾānic Parallels to the Third Verse

The first question to be asked in relation to our third verse is what the šāniʾ
‘adversary’ is actually aiming at within the context of Sūrat al-Kawṯar. An
instructive Qurʾānic passage is 5:2 (al-Māʾida):
‫ب‬
ِ ‫شدِيد ُ ٱل ۡع ِق َا‬ ّ َ ‫جدِ ٱۡلح َر َاِم … ِإ‬
َ َ ‫ن ٱل َل ّه‬ ِ ‫س‬ ِ َ ‫صُّدوك ُۡم ع‬
ۡ َ ‫ن ٱل ۡم‬ َ ٔ َ ‫شن‬
َ ‫انُ قوَ ٍۡم َأۡن‬ َ ‫يج ۡرِم َن ّك ُۡم‬
َ ‫و َل َا‬
wa-lā yaǧrimannakum šanaʾānu qawmin an ṣaddūkum ʿani l-masǧidi l-

ḥarāmi (…) inna llāha šadīdu l-ʿiqāb
And let not the hatred of a people,39 in that they have debarred you from
the Sacred Mosque, incite you to provoke hostility … Allah is severe in
punishment.
The use of the noun šanaʾān ‘hatred’ is especially enlightening. There can be
little doubt that šanaʾān denotes the emotion that the šāniʾ ‘adversary’ has. It
is expressed in an attempt to keep the faithful away from the mosque. This
forms an exact parallel to Sūrat al-Kawṯar, where the faithful are encouraged
to counter the adversary’s attempt by keeping on with their prayer (v. 2).
Another important parallel to verse 3 is Q 2:109 (al-Baqara):
ِ‫حسَدًا مّ ِۡن عِن ۡدِ َأنف ُس ِه ِم مّ ِۢن بعَ ۡد‬ ُ ‫ب لوَ ۡ يرَ ُ ُدّون َك ُم مّ ِۢن بعَ ۡدِ ِإ يم َٰن ِك ُۡم‬
َ ‫كَّفار ًا‬ ِ َٰ‫كت‬
ِ ۡ ‫ل ٱلـ‬ َ ّ‫و َ َد‬
ِ ۡ ‫كثيِ ر ٌ مّ ِۡن َأه‬
‫م َا ت َبيَ ّنَ ل َه ُم ُ ٱۡلح َُّق‬
wadda kaṯīrun min ahli l-kitābi law yaruddūnakum min baʿdi īmānikum
kuffāran, ḥasadan min ʿindi anfusihim min baʿdi mā tabayyana lahumu l-
ḥaqq
Many of the People of the Book would like if they might render you
unbelievers again after your having believed, because of envy on their part
after the truth has become clear to them.
Here, too, the enemy is described as trying to prevent the faithful from perform-
ing their acts of piety. The noun used to denote his emotion is ḥasad ‘hatred,
envy’, which should clearly be considered a synonym for šanaʾān in Q 5:2 quoted
39 Paret’s translation of this phrase (21977, ad loc.) as ‘der Haß, den ihr gegen (gewisse) Leute
hegt, …’, taking qawmin as a genitive of object, is probably incorrect. The reference is to
the hatred that the adversary feels towards Muslims.
384 baasten
above. In Q 113:5 (al-Falaq) the enemy is called ḥāsid, an active participle pre-
cisely parallel to šāniʾ ‘adversary’.
In other words, the content of verse 3 according to its new reading is con-
firmed by other Qurʾānic passages.
3.4 Qurʾānic Parallels to the Sūrah as a Whole

So far we have seen some parallels to separate verses of our sūrah according to
its new interpretation. In order to corroborate the plausibility of the gist of this
sūrah as a whole, it now remains to see whether it is possible to find Qurʾānic
parallels to the entire passage. Four different themes may be distinguished:
(a) the call to endurance and patience; (b) the expression of piety, especially
through prayer; (c) the presence of an adversary; (d) a prediction of victory or
defeat (‘we will win, they will lose’).
On closer consideration, the Qurʾān proves to contain at least six concise
passages that constitute precise parallels to these same four themes found
in Sūrat al-Kawṯar according to its new reading and hence have the same
gist:
A first parallel is found in Q 3:120 (Āl ʿImrān):
If, however, ye endure (taṣbirū) and act piously (tattaqū) their cunning
(kayduhum) will not harm you (lā yaḍurrukum) at all; verily Allah com-
prehendeth what they do (inna llāha bi-mā yaʿmalūna muḥīṭ).
In this passage the acts of piety are expressed by the verb tattaqū, which does
not necessarily imply prayer, but does denote a way of behaviour according
to Muslim rules. The adversary is present in the phrase kayduhum, and the
motif of victory and defeat fact that ‘we’ will win (lā yaḍurrukum) and ‘they’
will lose—that is, they will not escape their final punishment (inna llāha bi-mā
yaʿmalūna muḥīṭ)—is equally apparent.
The second Qurʾānic parallel appears in Q 7:126 (al-Aʿrāf ):
And thou takest vengeance upon us (tanqimu minnā) only because we

have believed in the signs of Our Lord (āmannā bi-āyāti rabbinā) when
they came to us; O our Lord, pour out upon us patience (afriġ ʿalaynā
ṣabran), and call us in (at our death) as Moslems (tawaffanā muslimīn).
In this case, the reference to endurance is present in the desire to be bestowed

with patience (afriġ ʿalaynā ṣabran; see also above, § 3.1), whereas the idea of
piety is expressed by the fact that Muslims have come to believe (āmannā bi-
āyāti rabbinā). The presence of the adversary is implicit in the call for
vengeance (tanqimu minnā) and the fact that ‘we’ will die still being Mus-
lims, clearly implies that the Muslims in the end will have succeeded in their
attempts to remain faithful (tawaffanā muslimīn).
The third Qurʾānic parallel to Sūrat al-Kawṯar that deserves to be mentioned
is Q 76:23–26 (al-Insān):
23Verily it is We who have sent down to thee the Qurʾān actually; 24so wait
patiently ( fa-ṣbir) for the decision of thy Lord (li-ḥukmi rabbika), and
obey not from amongst them any guilty or unbelieving one (āṯiman aw
kafūran); 25But remember the name of thy Lord, morning and evening,
And part of the night; 26do obeisance to Him ( fa-sǧud lahu), and by night
give glory to Him (sabbiḥhu) long.
The motif of perseverance is expressed by the phrase fa-ṣbir, a verb of the same
root as the noun ṣabr that we saw before. The theme of piety is clearly present
in two explicit references to prayer ( fa-sǧud lahu; sabbiḥhu). As for the ultimate
fate of the adversary (āṯiman aw kafūran), there can be little doubt concerning
the content of God’s final verdict (li-ḥukmi rabbika).
The fourth Qurʾānic parallel to Sūrat al-Kawṯar can be found in Q 52:45–49
(aṭ-Ṭūr):
45Leave them then ( fa-ḏarhum) until they meet their day on which they
will be stunned ( yuṣʿaqūn); 46The day when their stratagem will not
avail them (kayduhum) at all, and they will not be helped (wa-lā hum
yunṣarūn). 47For those who have done wrong is a punishment this side
of that, but most of them do not know. 48And endure patiently (wa-ṣbir)
till the decision of thy Lord (li-ḥukmi rabbika), for thou art under Our eyes
( fa-innaka bi-aʿyuninā), and give glory (wa-sabbiḥ bi-ḥamdi rabbika) with
praise of thy Lord when thou arisest. 49And during the night give glory to
Him ( fa-sabbiḥhu), and at the withdrawal of the stars.
In this case the exhortation to perseverance is not only expressed in a call for
patience (wa-ṣbir), but a further connotation of endurance is also mentioned:
one must not react violently ( fa-ḏarhum). Instead, one should rather stick to
prayer as an expression of piety (wa-sabbiḥ bi-ḥamdi rabbika; fa-sabbiḥhu).
Whereas the enemy (kayduhum) awaits a dire fate ( yuṣʿaqūn; wa-lā hum
yunṣarūn), the Muslims will ultimately be safe ( fa-innaka bi-aʿyuninā).
A fifth close parallel to the entire sūrah in its new reading may be found in
Q 2:109–110 (al-Baqarah):
386 baasten
Many of the People of the Book (kaṯīrun min ahli l-kitābi) would like
if they might render you unbelievers again after your having believed,
because of envy (ḥasadan) on their part after the truth has become
clear to them; so overlook and pay no attention ( fa-ʿfū wa-sfaḥū) until
Allah interveneth with His affair (bi-amrihī); verily Allah over every-thing
hath power. Observe the Prayer (wa-aqīmū ṣ-ṣalāta) and pay the Zakāt
(…).
The element of patience is expressed here in a similar way as in the previous

example: one should not react violently ( fa-ʿfū wa-sfaḥū). Not only are the
pious Muslims encouraged to persevere, but this perseverance now turns out
to also consist in refraining from a violent or aggressive reaction. Here, too,
the reference to prayer is explicit (wa-aqīmū ṣ-ṣalāta). The enemy (kaṯīrun min
ahli l-kitābi) cherishes hatred (ḥasadan; see also § 2.6) and will eventually be
punished in God’s verdict (bi-amrihī).
The sixth and final Qurʾānic parallel passage is Q 5:8–10 (al-Māʾida):
O ye who have believed, be steadfast (kūnū qawwāmīna) witnesses for

Allah in equity, and let not the hatred of a people (šanaʾānu qawmin)
incite you not to act fairly; act fairly that is nearer to piety; show piety
towards Allah (wa-ttaqū llāha), verily Allah is aware of what ye do. Allah
hath promised those who have believed and done the works of righteous-
ness (that) for them is forgiveness and a mighty hire (maġfiratun wa-
aǧrun ʿaẓīmun). But those who have disbelieved and counted Our signs
false (wa-llaḏīna kafarū wa-kaḏḏabū)—they are the people of the Hot
Place (asḥābu l-ǧaḥīm).
As we saw in the previous parallels, the Muslims are encouraged to persevere

(kūnū qawwāmīna) and remain pious (wa-ttaqū llāha). The enemy (wa-llaḏīna
kafarū wa-kaḏḏabū), who cherishes hatred (šanaʾānu qawmin), will ultimately
lose and be punished (maġfiratun wa-aǧrun ʿaẓīmun; asḥābu l-ǧaḥīm).
A systematic overview of the corresponding elements between Sūrat al-
Kawṯar and the six passages discussed above is found in the table on p. 387.
In conclusion, then, we may say that the general interpretation of Sūrat al-
Kawṯar as proposed by Luxenberg is plausible, since it is corroborated by the
text of the Qurʾān itself. When read in this new way, Sūrat al-Kawṯar turns out
to be a coherent text that fits well within the rest of the Qurʾān.
Perseverance Piety Adversary Victory & defeat
al-Kawṯar al-kawṯar; inǧar ṣalli li-rabbika šāniʾaka huwa l-aṯbar/atbar

(108:1–3)
Āl ʿImrān taṣbirū tattaqū kayduhum lā yaḍurrukum; Allāha
(3:120) … muḥīṭ
al-Aʿrāf ṣabran āmannā bi-āyāti tanqimu minnā tawaffanā muslimīn
(7:126) rabbinā
al-Insān iṣbir isǧud lahu; āṯiman aw kafūran li-ḥukmi rabbika
(76:23–26) sabbiḥhu
aṭ-Ṭūr fa-ḏarhum; iṣbir wa-sabbiḥ bi- kayduhum yuṣʿaqūn; wa-lā hum
(52:45–49) ḥamdi rabbika; yunṣarūn; li-ḥukmi
fa-sabbiḥhu rabbika; fa-innaka
bi-aʿyuninā
al-Baqara iʿfū wa-sfaḥū wa-aqīmū kaṯīrun min ahli bi-amrihi
(2:109–110) ṣ-ṣalāta l-kitābi; ḥasadan
al-Māʾida kūnū ittaqū llāha šanaʾānu qawmin; maġfiratun wa-aǧrun
(5:8–10) qawwāmīna allaḏīna kafarū ʿaẓīmun; aṣḥābu
wa-kaḏḏabū l-ǧaḥīm
4 A Development in Qurʾānic Phraseology?
The question that remains is why, for instance, next to the possible—but not
certainly so, cf. §§2.3, 2.5 above—Syriac loanwords kawṯar ‘endurance’ and
naǧara ‘to persevere’ purely Arabic synonyms such as ṣabr, ṣabara and dāma
were used, or, why next to rare words such as šāniʾ ‘adversary’ and šanaʾān
‘hatred’ we find ḥāsid ‘enemy’ and ḥasad ‘hatred’.
I would suggest that the Syriac loanwords reflect an earlier strand in Qurʾānic
liturgic phraseology, whereas the Arabic synonyms came to be used in a later
phase. Another possibility, of course, is that there is no chronological devel-
opment, but that we are dealing here with simultaneous different strands of
liturgy. A parallel may be found in early Christian religious terminology. Thus,
for instance, the originally Aramaic term ‫ משיחא‬məšīḥā ‘anointed one’ was
adopted as a loan word into Greek, the language of the new religion: Μεσσίας.
But since this expression lacked a literal meaning in Greek, the term was also
translated into genuine Greek as χριστός ‘anointed’ or ὁ Χριστός ‘the Anointed
One’.
388 baasten
The same phenomenon may have taken place in Qurʾānic phraseology,

where a loanword was used (either from Syriac or other languages, such as
Safaitic) or a less common Arabic root used as a calque (as in the case of šāniʾ,
see §2.6), which were later suppleted with more common Arabic terms, accord-
ing to the table below:
Christian phraseology
Origin Loanword Equivalent
‘anointed’ ‫משיחא‬ məšīḥā Μεσσίας ὁ Χριστός
Qurʾānic phraseology
Origin Loanword / calque Equivalent
‘constancy’ ‫ܬܪܐ‬熏‫ܟ‬ kuttārā kawṯar ṣabr

‘to persevere’ 犯‫ܢܓ‬ nḡar naǧara ṣabara, dāma
‘adversary’ 焏‫ܣܢ‬ sānē/ šnʾ šāniʾ ḥāsid
‘hatred’ šnʾn šānaʾān ḥasad
It may be pointed out that a similar argument could be valid for the Qurʾānic
technical term ‫ أوحى‬awḥā ‘to convey hidden knowledge’, which Luxenberg,
following a suggestion by C. Brockelmann, plausibly explains as a metathesis
of Syriac ‫ܝ‬熏‫ ܚ‬ḥawwi ‘to inform’.40 In that case awḥā would reflect the earlier use
of the loanword, whereas the genuinely Arabic terms nazzala or anzala were
subsequently used alongside it. This neatly concurs with Tilman’s findings, who
pointed out that the notion of ‘conveying knowledge from the hidden realm’ is
expressed by two roots, wḥy and nzl, while in the Meccan sūrahs the use of wḥy
is predominant.41
But if indeed the earlier terminology, such as kawṯar, naǧara and aṯbar/
atbar, was indeed so strange and rare, the question is legitimate why they
survived at all and why they were not replaced by less problematic terms, as
elsewhere in the Qurʾān? In the case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar the answer seems
40 SRK, 125. Cf. C. Brockelmann 1928: s.v., 220a.

41 Cf. Tilman 1996: 59–68, esp. 63.
obvious. These three problematic terms were all part of the end rhyme and
hence could not have been replaced without destroying the literary structure
of the text.
5 Christian Epistolary Literature in the Qurʾān?
After having presented his Syriac reading of Sūrat al-Kawṯar (see above, § 3.1),
in a separate section entitled ‘Christian Epistolary Literature in the Koran’42
Luxenberg resolutely states: ‘This brief Sura is based on the Christian Syriac
Liturgy’. From this sūrah, he informs us, ‘arises a clear reminiscence of the well-
known passage also used in the compline of the Roman Catholic canonical
hours of prayer, from the First Epistle General of Peter’ according to the Pšiṭṭa
version:
1Peter 5:8–9
8 Wake up (Brothers) and be vigilant, because your adversary, the devil,

as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: 9 Whom
resist steadfast in the faith.43
Luxenberg believes the parallel between Sūrat al-Kawṯar and this New Testa-
ment passage to be so strong as to warrant his speaking of the ‘first evidence of
Christian epistolary literature in the Koran’. Accordingly, he claims that this text
‘is without a doubt pre-Koranic’ and as such was part of the matrix out of which,
in his view, the Qurʾān was originally constituted as a Christian liturgical book.
In this case, however, Luxenberg seems to draw far-reaching conclusions on
the basis of extremely tenuous evidence. We are obviously not dealing with
a verbatim quotation from the New Testament in the Qurʾān, so in order to
demonstrate his claim of a Vorlage from the New Testament, Luxenberg should
have argued the supposed parallelism in detail.
However, as I have argued in §§2.6–7 above, the shāniʾ in verse 3 is probably
not a reference specifically to the devil; it should rather be understood as a
generic reference to the opponents of the newly-founded religion. Luxenberg’s
argument at this point is clearly circular:44 he first takes shāniʾaka in Q 108:3 as
42 SRK, 300–301.
43 SRK, 301 (italics by Luxenberg).
44 To be sure, a circular argument does not necessarily contain an false statement. The
390 baasten
a specific reference to the devil on no other ground than the fact that this is the
case in the Syriac Christian texts,45 and subsequently uses this alleged Qurʾānic
reference to the devil as proof of a parallelism between Q 108 and 1 Peter 5:8–9
in the Pšiṭṭa, where the devil is indeed referred to as ‘your adversary’.46
In other words, the New Testament passage quoted by Luxenberg is no par-
allel at all. The only common feature between this New Testament passage and
Sūrat al-Kawṯar is a call for steadfastness in faith against the enemy. What-
ever one’s stance on the possibility of pre-Qurʾānic passages in the Qurʾān,
the alleged parallel between 1Peter 5:8–9 and Sūrat al-Kawṯar is not specific
enough for this New Testament passage to be considered a textual Vorlage for
our sūrah.
Sūrat al-Kawṯar, therefore, is not necessarily a pre-Qurʾānic passage. Wheth-
er it was part of an originally Christian liturgical book, remains hypothetical. In
any case, Luxenberg’s firm conclusion that Sūrat al-Kawṯar constitutes the ‘first
evidence of Christian epistolary literature in the Koran’ is as yet unfounded.47
In §3 above we have seen that Sūrat al-Kawṯar, when interpreted according to
its new reading, has much more precise parallels within the Qurʾān itself.
6 Conclusion
On the basis of a comparison with other Qurʾanic passages, there is reason

to assume that Luxenberg’s general interpretation of Sūrat al-Kawṯar—with
some minor modifications I proposed in the foregoing—is probably the correct
one and he is to be credited for that achievement. Sūrat al-Kawṯar is not an
enigmatic or fragmentary text and it does not generate any problems pertaining
to its historical and religious context that could only be solved by assuming it
to be a later Medinan intrusion. It is a clear-cut adhortation to steadfastness
against the enemy and as such fits perfectly within the context of an emerging
religion and has the hallmarks of belonging to a genuine strand of the text of
the Qurʾān.
proposition that (parts of) the Qurʾān started off as a Christian lectionary is not necessarily
untrue, but the case cannot be argued in this way.
45 ‘In the Christian Syriac terminology, Satan is referred to (…) as a misanthrope—hence an
adversary’, SRK, 297 sub 3.
46 It may be pointed out that the Syriac phrase ‘your adversary’ in 1Peter 5:8 is not sānāḵ—
the cognate expression of šāniʾaka—but ‫ܢ‬熏‫ܒܒܟ‬煟‫ ܒܥܠ‬bʿeldḇāḇḵon.
47 King (2009: 66–67) comes to a similar negative evaluation of Luxenbergs claim of Sūrat
al-Kawthar having its origin in Christian liturgy.
As for the concept of a ‘Syriac reading of the Qurʾān’, however, things are
different. Luxenberg correctly pointed out that there is possibly more Aramaic
in Sūrat al-Kawṯar than was previously believed: kawṯar ‘constancy’, naǧara ‘to
persevere’. But at the same time our sūrah contains less Aramaic than Luxen-
berg claims. There is no reason to assume that Arabic aʿtā ‘to give’ and šāniʾ
‘adversary’ are derived from Syriac ayti ‘to bring, present’ and sāneʾ ‘adversary’
respectively. And even though the enigmatic abtar could be read as the Ara-
maic loanword atbar, it is more probably to be read as aṯbar, a genuinely Arabic
word, which proposal is possibly corroborated by Safaitic epigraphic texts.
Our conclusion, therefore, must be that Luxenberg has correctly understood
the gist of Sūrat al-Kawṯar, but there is no reason to speak of a specifically Syriac
reading of the Qurʾān.
Bibliography
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Bell, R. (1937–1939), The Qurʾān. Translated, with a Critical Re-arrangement of the Surahs.
2 vols. Edinburgh.
Bell, R. (1991). A Commentary on the Qurʾān II, Surahs xxv–cvix. (Journal of Semitic
Studies Monograph 14.) Manchester.
Birkeland, H. (1956) “The Lord Guideth. Studies on Primitive Islam”. In: Skrifter utgitt
av det Norske Videnskaps-Akademi i Oslo, II. Historisk-filosofisk klasse, 2. Bind. Oslo,
pp. 1–140.
Brockelmann, C. (1928). Lexicon Syriacum. Halle.
Dillman, A. (1865). Lexicon Linguae Aethiopicae. Leipzig.
Fassberg, S.E. (2005), “Lexical Investigations in Jewish Palestinian Aramaic: Is there a
Shift of ʾaleph to ʿayin?” (Hebr.) In: Samaritan, Hebrew and Aramaic Studies. Pre-
sented to Professor Abraham Tal. Ed. by Moshe Bar-Asher and Moshe Florentin.
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Jeffery, A. (1937). Materials for the History of the Text of the Qurʾān. The Old Codices.
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Jeffery, A. (1938). The Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾān. Baroda. (Repr. Leiden 2007).
King, D. (2009). “A Christian Qurʾān? A Study in the Syriac Background to the Language
of the Qurʾān as presented in the Work of Christoph Luxenberg”. Journal for Late
Antique Religion and Culture 3: 44–75.
Koehler, L., and W. Baumgartner (1994–2000). The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the
Old Testament (5 vols.; revised ed. by M.E.J. Richardson). Leiden.
Lane, W. (1863–1893), An Arabic-English Lexicon (8 vols.). Beirut.
Leslau, W. (1991). Comparative Dictionary of Geʿez (Classical Ethiopic). Wiesbaden.
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Luxenberg, Chr. (ps.) (2000). Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran. Ein Beitrag zur
Entschlüsselung der Koransprache. Berlin.
Luxenberg, Chr. (ps.) (2007). The Syro-Aramaic Reading of the Koran. A Contribution to
the Decoding of the Language of the Koran. Berlin.
Mannā, J.E. (1900). ‫عربي‬-‫ قاموس كلداني‬/ Vocabulaire chaldéen-arabe. Mossoul. (Repr. with
a new appendix by R.J. Bidawid, Beirut 1975.)
Paret, R. (²1977). Der Koran. Kommentar und Konkordanz. Stuttgart.
Paret, R. (1979). Der Koran. Übersetzung. Stuttgart.
Schall, A. (1984–1986). “Coranica”. Orientalia Suecana 33–35: 371–373.
Sokoloff, M. (1990), A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period.
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Sokoloff, M. (2009). A Syriac Lexicon (A Translation from the Latin, Correction, Expan-
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Tilman, N. (1996), “Medinensische Einschübe in mekkanischen Suren: ein Arbeits-
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Science. Texts and Studies, 27.) Leiden, pp. 59–68.
Middle and Modern Arabic in Context
∵
chapter 13
Orthography and Reading in Medieval

Judaeo-Arabic
Geoffrey Khan
Judaeo-Arabic texts from the pre-modern period constitute an important

source for the history of the Arabic language. Pre-modern written Judaeo-
Arabic is understood here to refer to Arabic written by Jews in Hebrew script.
Written Judaeo-Arabic has been investigated thoroughly in its medieval (Blau
1980; 1999; 2006; Wagner 2010) and post-medieval (B. Hary 1992; 2009; Khan
1991; 1992; 2006) manifestations. The vast majority of this philological work has
been based on unvocalized orthography without any access to the oral read-
ing of the texts. In the history of Muslim Arabic it is clear from the lack of
correspondence between the orthography of the Qurʾān and the oral recita-
tion of the Qurʾān in a number of linguistic details that orthography does not
necessarily reflect the way a text is read. At the time of the Islamic conquests
various dialectal differences existed among the Arabic speaking tribes of the
Arabian Peninsula, details of some of which were recorded in the writings of
the early grammarians. They largely consisted of differences in vocalic pat-
terns internal to the word and the pronunciation of hamza, most of which
would be invisible in unvocalized script. The phonological patterns standard-
ized for the recitation of the Qurʾān tended to conform to those of the dialect
group of Eastern Arabia more than that of Western Arabia (i.e. the Ḥijāz). There
were numerous different reading traditions (qirāʾāt) of the Qurʾān in the early
Islamic period. The diversity of these readings was reduced in the course of
time, due in particular to the activities of Ibn Mujāhid (d. 324/936). The fact
that the orthographic text of the Qurʾān has continued to be read in various
ways down to modern times reflects the inadequacy of the orthography as a
source for establishing details of phonology and morphology. Some of these
variations in reading may go back to ancient dialectal differences, e.g. the read-
ing mathulāt ‘exemplary punishments’ in Q 13.6 was identified by the early
scholars as Ḥijāzī whereas the variant muthlāt was said to be Tamīmi, and like-
wise for the variants ṣaduqāt and ṣudqāt ‘dowries’ in Q 4:4 (Talmon 2001). It is
not clear, however, whether the phonological and morphological profile of any
reading tradition corresponded fully to a vernacular spoken dialect of Arabic.
The purpose of the present paper is to examine a number of medieval Judaeo-

396 khan
Arabic manuscripts in which the scribes have added Hebrew vocalization signs
to reflect the way the texts were read. We shall investigate the background of
the reading tradition reflected by the vocalization and address the following
questions: (i) to what extent does the reading tradition reflect the vernacu-
lar spoken Arabic dialect of the scribe? (ii) Is this type of reading tradition of
a written text unique to Judaeo-Arabic or are there parallels with non-Jewish
traditions of reading Arabic? The main comparative sources that will be uti-
lized with regard to the second question include medieval Greek and Coptic
transcriptions of Arabic. The Greek transcription is that of the Arabic trans-
lation of Psalm 77 that was discovered in the Umayyad mosque in Damascus
and first published by Violet (1901). Most scholars have dated the manuscript
to the 2nd/8th century, but a paleographical analysis of recently rediscovered
photographs suggests a late 3rd/9th or early 4th/10th century date (Mavroudi
2008). This would be roughly contemporary in date with many of the vocalized
Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts. The Coptic transcription is the manuscript datable
to the 13th century published by Casanova (1901) and Sobhy (1926), and anal-
ysed by Blau (1979).
The vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts discussed here come from the
Cairo Genizah collections. These are datable to the High Middle Ages, as is
the case with the bulk of the Genizah manuscripts. They are vocalized with
Tiberian Hebrew vowel signs.1
The vocalized Judaeo-Arabic texts that are datable to the medieval period
are written with what has come to be known as ‘Classical Judaeo-Arabic orthog-
raphy’.2 This is a system of spelling that was the norm in Judaeo-Arabic manu-
scripts from the 10th century until the Mamluk period and so is the orthography
that is found in most of the Genizah material. It is characterized by a close
imitation of the orthography of Classical Arabic. A conspicuous feature that is
taken over from Arabic orthography is the regular spelling of the definite arti-
cle with aleph + lamedh even before ‘sun’ letters, to which the /l/ of the article
is assimilated in pronunciation, e.g.
(1) ‫‘ ַאלֲסְמ ַואתּ‬the heavens’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = assamawāt ‫)السموات‬
This imitation of Classical Arabic orthography of the definite article is also

found in the Greek transcription of the Violet fragment, e.g. ελσαμα ‘heaven’
1 For a description of the phonetic vowel of these signs in the Judaeo-Arabic texts see Khan
(2010).
2 See Blau and Hopkins (1984).
orthography and reading in medieval judaeo-arabic 397
(23, = CA as-samāʾi), ελραβ ‘the Lord’ (21, = CA ar-rabbu), Violet: οελναρ ‘and
fire’ (21, = CA wan-nāru).
Another distinctive feature of Classical Judaeo-Arabic is the spelling of ḍād
and ẓāʾ by a ṣadhe and a ṭeth with a superscribed dot, in imitation of the Arabic
letters ‫ ض‬and ‫ظ‬, e.g.
(2) ‫‘ וֻּתַפֿ ִ֗צְל ַנא‬you give preference to us’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = utufaḍḍilnā ‫)وتفضلنا‬
These features are not found in the earlier Judaeo-Arabic texts, which spell the
language phonetically according to a Hebrew and Aramaic type of orthogra-
phy.3 In these texts, which are unvocalized, the lamedh is not written in the
article if it is assimilated in pronunciation. The ḍād, furthermore, is represented
by daleth, this being felt to be the closest corresponding consonant phoneti-
cally, e.g.
(3) ‫‘ אשמס‬the sun’ = aššams (‫)الشمس‬
(4) ‫‘ אלארד‬the ground’ = alʾarḍ (‫)الارض‬
It does not follow that Judaeo-Arabic texts written with an orthography con-
forming to that of Classical Arabic were read with the phonological form
of Classical Arabic. This is clearly demonstrated by the vocalization of the
texts, which reflects numerous non-Classical features. Most of these features
are disguised by the orthography and so the vocalized texts are valuable in
demonstrating the gap between orthography and pronunciation of medieval
Judaeo-Arabic texts. In some cases the dialectal pronunciation conflicts with
the orthography. This applies to the 3ms. suffix, which is regularly pronounced
with its dialectal form -u although it is normally spelt with heh in imitation of
Classical Arabic, e.g.
(5) ‫‘ ]ג[לוֻּסה ְוִקַאֻמה ְוַמִסי ֻרה‬his sitting, his standing and his travelling’ (T-S Ar.
8.3, fol. 14V = julūsu waqiyāmu wamasīru)
(6) ‫‘ וַּבַﬠד ַמוֻּתה‬and after his death’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14v = CA wabaʿda mawtihi)
(7) ‫‘ ַמֻﬠה‬with him’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 15r = CA maʿahu)
3 See Blau and Hopkins (1984).

398 khan
In medieval Judaeo-Arabic texts this conflict between orthography and pro-

nunciation of the 3ms. suffix is occasionally resolved by spelling it with waw or
with a waw combined with the heh.4
In many cases the orthography is ambiguous with regard to the phonolog-
ical form and could in principle be read with that of Classical Arabic (hence-
forth CA) or with a phonological form that is characteristic of modern Arabic
dialects. The vocalization signs indeed reflect numerous features characteristic
of the dialects. Examples of this include the following.
The vocalization of most texts reflects a reading without the final short
vowels of CA, e.g.
(8) ‫‘ ַמא ַאְﬠַ֗טם ְוַאְכַבּר ְוַא ַגל ִמ ְנַהא‬what is mightier, greater and more majestic than
them’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = CA mā ʾaʿẓamu waʾakbaru waʾajallu minhā)
In a vocalized Judaeo-Arabic poetic text the lack of final short vowels is also
reflected by the quantitative poetic metre, e.g.
(9) ‫‘ ַט ְרֿף‬edge’ (T-S Ar.30.313, scanned as one syllable ṭarf = CA ṭarfa)
(10) ‫‘ ַאְלֻמְשַׁתַּהר‬famous’ (T-S Ar.30.313, scanned as – – ⏑ – almuštahar, = CA

almuštaharu).
The loss of final short vowels is reflected also in the transcription of the Violet
fragment, e.g. ελραβ ‘the Lord’ (21, = CA ar-rabbu); ρυγζ ‘anger’ (21, = CA rujzun),
ελσιχεβ ‘the clouds’ (23, = CA as-saḥāba accusative); ιεκ.διρ ‘he can’ (20, = CA
yaqdiru); λιδέλικ ‘therefore’ (21, = CA li-ḏālika). This is also the case in the Arabic
text in the Coptic transcription, e.g. wexarej ‘and he went out’ (= CA wa-ḵaraja,
Blau 1979: 224), yet’eharrek ‘it will move’ (= CA yataḥarraku, Blau 1979, 224),
belharek’et ‘by movements’ (= CA bi-l-ḥarakāti, Blau 1979: 224), fi eljebel ‘in the
mountains’ (= CA fi l-jibāli, Blau 1979: 235).
In the canonical reading traditions of the Qurʾān, the pronunciation of the
final short inflectional vowels (ʾiʿrāb) is obligatory. There are, however, early
traditions embedded in some of the surviving works on Qurʾān recitation
(tajwīd), attributed to the prophet and his companions, which exhort readers
to use ʾiʿrāb in their recitation. This has been interpreted by Kahle as evidence
that in the early Islamic period some people read the Qurʾān without ʾiʿrāb.5
4 Cf. Blau (1980: 59).

5 Kahle (1947: 79–84, 115–116; 1948). Similar traditions can be found in tajwīd manuals that are
In some cases the occurrence of a final vowel is not marked in the Classical
Judaeo-Arabic orthography but is indicated in the vocalization:
(11) ‫‘ ֻה ֵו‬he’ (T-S Ar. 3.1, r—CA huwa)
The pronominal suffixes have dialectal forms, which are invariable for case. In
addition to the 3ms. suffix -u, which is discussed above, note also:
(12) ‫‘ ִמן ַמ ְדַּחְךּ‬of your praise’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA min madḥika)
(13) ‫‘ ִפי ֻמְלַכּךּ‬in your kingdom’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA fī mulkika)
(14) ‫‘ ִמן ַי ְדֻּהם‬from their hand’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA min yadihim)
Dialectal forms of pronominal suffixes are reflected also in the Violet fragment,
e.g. βη κουετυ ‘by his strength’ (26, = CA bi-quwwatihi); φη οασατ γ.ασ.κερ.ὑμ ‘in
the midst of their camp’ (28, = CA fī wasaṭi ʿaskarihim); χαυλ χη.εμ.ὑμ ‘around
their tents’ (28, = CA ḥawla ḵiyāmihim). This is also reflected in the Coptic
transcription, e.g. befekrak ‘in your thought’ (= CA bi-fikrika, Blau 1979: 219),
men koddemak ‘in front of you’ (= CA min quddāmika, Blau 1979: 222), ieresadak
‘is lying in wait for you’ (= CA yurāṣiduka, Blau 1979: 222), fekroh ‘his mind’ (=
CA fikruhu, Blau 1979: 220), t’erek’oh ‘he left him’ (= CA tarakahu, Blau 1979:
224).
There are numerous reflections of the raising of a vowels by the process of
ʾimāla. This is found with long /ā/, e.g.
(15) ‫‘ ֲﬠֵלי ִﬠֵבּא ַדּךּ‬on your servants’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 16v = CA ʿalā ʿibādika)
(16) ‫‘ ְוַאלאעֵלא‬and the highest’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 16v = CA walʾaʿlā)
(17) ‫‘ ַאְל ֻד ְנ ֵיא‬the world’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 15r = CA addunyā)
It is also often found with short /a/, e.g.
(18) ‫‘ ְוֵלם‬and not’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 22v = CA wa-lam)
not mentioned by Kahle, e.g. al-Qurṭubī, ʾAbū ʿAbdillāh Muḥammad, al-Jāmiʿ li-ʾAḥkām al-
Qurʾān, ed. ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿAbd al-Muḥsin al-Zakī, Beirut: Al-Resalah, 2006: 41–46. I am grateful
to Shady Nasser for drawing my attention to these and other sources relating to Qurʾānic
reading traditions.
400 khan
It is especially common with the vowel of tāʾ marbūṭa in word final position,
which is prone to raising by ʾimāla in various Arabic dialects, e.g.
(19) ‫‘ ַאְלֲאִכֿי ֵרה‬final’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 12v = CA alʾaḵīra)
(20) ‫‘ ַאְלִחְכִּמה‬wisdom’ (T-S Ar. 53.12, fol. 1r = CA alḥikma)
(21) ‫‘ נהא ֵיה‬end’ (T-S NS 91.12, 1b = CA nihāya)
The occurrence of ʾimāla of long /ā/ and short /a/ is widely reflected in the
Violet fragment, e.g. φασέλετ ‘and it flowed’ (20, = CA fa-sālat), λιδέλικ ‘there-
fore’ (21, = CA li-ḏālika); ελσιχεβ ‘the clouds’ (23, = CA as-saḥāba accusative);
σεμιγ ‘he heard’ (59, = CA samiʿa), αφ.σέλ ‘he despised’ (59, = CA ʾafsala). This
is also reflected in the Coptic transcription, e.g. adeh ‘custom’ (= CA ʿāda, Blau
1979: 218), belharek’et ‘by the movements’ (= CA bilḥarakāt, Blau 1979: 219), seha
‘hour’ (= CA sāʿa, Blau 1979: 222), kit’ēl ‘fighting’ (= CA qitāl, Blau 1979: 222).
Various other type of vocalism characteristic of dialects are found in the
vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts, e.g.,
(22) ‫‘ ִי ְר ַגע‬he returns’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14v = CA yarjiʿu)
(23) ‫‘ ַחֵתּי ִיְפַתח‬until he opens’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 15v = CA ḥattā yaftaḥa)
The vocalization also reflects the interpretation of a form as having dialectal

morphology where the orthography is ambiguous between the dialectal and
the CA form. This applies, for example, to the reading of a CA 4th form verb as
a 1st form as in:
(24) ‫‘ ְוַתְחִסן ְל ַנא‬and you do good to us’ (T-S Ar. 8.3, fol. 14r = CA watuḥsinu lanā)
Some parallels are found in the Arabic text in Coptic transcription, e.g. iere-
sadak ‘is lying in wait for you’ (= CA yurāṣiduka, Blau 1979: 222)
It is important to note that the vocalization of these texts does not systemat-
ically reflect a purely dialectal form of Arabic. The extent to which they reflect
dialectal features varies across the texts. The vocalization of some manuscripts
reflects features that are unequivocally CA, such as the occurrence of final short
inflectional vowels, e.g.
(25) ‫‘ ]אל[חר ֻץ ראס אלַפְק ִרי‬covetousness is the root of poverty’ (T-S Ar.51.29v =
CA alḥirṣu raʾsu lfaqri)
(26) ‫‘ ַאַללֻה ַרֻבֵּך‬God your Lord’ (T-S Ar. 3.1r = CA allāhu rabbuka)
(27) ‫‘ ִמן אלִפַֿצִה ואלַֿדַהִבּ‬of silver and gold’ (T-S Ar. 3.1r = CA min al-fiḍḍati waḏḏa-
habi)
It is particularly significant that most texts, including those with a high degree
of dialectal features, exhibit pseudo-Classical features in the reading reflected
by the vocalization. A recurrent feature, for example, is the retention of a vowel
in an initial syllable with hamzatu al-waṣl after a word ending in a vowel. This
vowel is elided not only in dialectal Arabic but also in the standard reading of
CA. The retention of the vowel is attested, for example, in the definite article:
(28) ‫‘ ַפֲﬠֵלי ֵה ִדיה ַאלֻאמוּר‬and on these matters’ (T-S Ar. 8.3 fol. 14r = CA faʿalā
haḏihi lʾumūri)
(29) ‫‘ ִפי ַאלִחְכִּמה‬in wisdom’ (T-S Ar. 53.12 1v = CA fi lḥikmati)
This reflects the treatment of the hamza in the reading tradition as hamzatu
al-qaṭʿ rather than hamzatu l-waṣl, i.e. the syllable is not treated as prosthetic.
This occurrence of hamazatu l-qaṭʿ after a preceding vowel in contexts where
hamzatu l-waṣl is elided after a vowel in Classical Arabic is reflected in the Violet
fragment, e.g. οα αβ.τε.λευ ‘and they tested’ (56, = CA wa-btalaw), φα αν.κα.λε.βου
‘and they turned away’ (57, = CA fa-nqalabū), μαρ.μαροῦ ελίλέὑ ‘they became
bitter against God’ (56, = CA marmaru l-ʾilāha), βη κουετὑ ελ.γασιφ ‘by his might
the storm’ (26, i.e. bi-quwwatu ʾel-ʿāṣif = CA bi-quwwatihi l-ʿāṣif ). Note, however,
φιλ.βαχερ ‘among men’ (60, = CA fi l-bašari), where the hamza is elided.
The replacement of hamzatu l-waṣl by hamzatu l-qaṭʿ is found also in the 13th
century Arabic text in Coptic transcription, e.g. weest’aǵfer ‘and ask forgiveness’
(= CA wa-staġfir, Blau 1979: 235), fe. eshfi ‘and heal!’ (= CA fa-šfī, Blau 1979:
218), weazrab ‘and perform!’ (= CA wa-ḍrib, Blau 1979: 235), hede. eljebel ‘this
mountain’ (= CA hāḏa l-jabalu, Blau 1979: 235), fi eljebel ‘in the mountains’ (=
CA fi l-jibāli, Blau 1979: 235), hale eššeioux ‘to the elders’ (= CA ʿala š-šuyūḵi, Blau
1979: 235), When, however, a short particle containing one consonant precedes
the definite article, the transcription generally reflects elision of the hamza,
e.g. belhijar ‘with stones’ (= CA bi-l-ḥijāri, Blau 1979: 236), k’el=adeh ‘according
to custom’ (= CA ka-l-ʿādati, Blau 1979: 236).6
6 For similar phenomena reflected by the orthography of early Christian Arabic texts see Blau
(1966: para. 27.1.1.).
402 khan
The same phenomenon is reflected by vocalized Judaeo-Arabic texts from

later periods, such as the Genizah fragment T-S Ar. 54.63, which is datable to
the Ottoman period, e.g.
(30) ‫‘ וֵּאְסַמע‬and listen’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 2r = CA wasmaʿ)
(31) ‫‘ ַה ַדּא ֵאל ַכּאֵפר‬this disbeliever’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 1v = CA hāḏa lkāfir)
If the aleph is not written in the orthography, however, the hamzatu al-waṣl is
elided in this text and the two forms are also joined in the orthography, e.g.
(32) ‫‘ ֵבָה ֶדּל ָכַלאם‬with this speech’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 3v)
The lack of elision of hamzatu l-waṣl after vowels in phrases is heard in modern
educated spoken Arabic, e.g. hāza ʾal-kitāb ‘this book’ (Egyptian). It is not a
phenomenon that is documented in medieval manuals of Qurʾānic reading
(tajwīd), except as an unacceptable form of pause.7
Another phenomenon that may be considered a pseudo-classical feature is
the occurrence of an /a/ vowel in a number of contexts where CA has an /i/
without there being any clear dialectal background for the /a/. It appears that
the scribe is aware that CA has /a/ in many situations where vernacular dialects
have /i/ and in his attempt to give the language an appearance of CA substitutes
/a/ for /i/ by hypercorrection even where /i/ is the norm in CA. Examples:
(33) ‫‘ ַא ְנַמא‬only’ (T-S Ar. 8.3 fol. 16v = CA ʾinnamā)
(34) ‫‘ ַקד ַא ְנַכַּסר ַקְלִבּי‬my heart has been broken’ (T-S Ar. 8.3 fol. 16v = CA qad
inkasara qalbī)
(35) ‫‘ ַאְסַתּיק֗טת‬I woke up’ (T-S Ar. 54.11, fol. 1r = CA istayqaẓtu)
The same phenomenon in found in the Violet fragment, e.g. ανκαλεβου ‘they
turned away’ (57, = CA inqalabū). Where CA has hamzatu l-waṣl the hamza in
such cases is read has hamzatu l-qaṭʿ, as we have seen in examples such as φα
αν.κα.λε.βου ‘and they turned away’ (57, = CA fa-nqalabū), οα αβ.τε.λευ ‘and they
tested’ (56, = CA wa-btalaw).
7 E.g. al-Dānī, ʾAbū ʿAmr ʿUṯmān ibn Saʿīd, at-Taḥdīd fī al-ʾItqān wa-t-Tajwīd, ed. Ghānim Qad-
dūrī Ḥamad, Ammān: Dār ʿAmmān, 2000, p. 175.
Similar pseudo-Classical replacement of /i/ by /a/ is found in later vocalized

Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts, such as in T-S Ar. 54.63 from the Ottoman period:
(36) ‫‘ ַא ְנַסאן‬person’ (Ar. 54.63, fol. 2r = CA insān).
When case endings are indicated by the vocalization, they are sometimes not
given the correct CA form. In (30), for example, the accusative case is required
according to CA after the existential negator (lā linafyi ljins) but the word is
vocalized with the nominative:
(37) ֻ ‫‘ ְוֵלא ֻמִﬠין‬there is no helper’ (T-S Ar.30.313= CA lā muʿīna)
The conclusion that emerges is that the vocalized Judaeo-Arabic manuscripts

from the Middle Ages reflect a far more vernacular reading of a written text
than is found in the reading of Classical Arabic as preserved in the canon-
ical reading traditions of the Qurʾān. Some features of reading that deviate
from Classical Arabic, however, such as the replacement of hamzatu l-waṣl
by hamzatu l-qaṭʿ, do not have obvious correlations with vernacular dialects.
This profile of non-Classical Arabic reading is not unique to Judaeo-Arabic but
has close parallels to medieval Christian traditions of reading Arabic that are
reflected by Arabic texts transcribed into Greek and Coptic.
References
Blau, Joshua (1966). A Grammar of Christian Arabic, Based Mainly on South-Palestinian

Texts from the First Millennium. Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO.
Blau, Joshua (1979). “Some Observations on a Middle Arabic Egyptian Text in Coptic
Characters”. Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 1: 215–262.
Blau, Joshua (1980). A Grammar of Mediaeval Judaeo-Arabic. 2nd ed. Jerusalem:
Magnes.
Blau, Joshua (1999). The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-Arabic: A Study
of the Origins of Middle Arabic. 3rd ed. Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Inst.
Blau, Joshua (2006). Dictionary of Medieval Judaeo-Arabic Texts. Jerusalem: Academy of
Hebrew Language, Israel Academy of Science and Humanities.
Casanova, M.P. (1901). “Un Texte Arabe Transcrit En Caractères Coptes”. Bulletin de
l’Institut Français D’archéologie Orientale Au Caire, pp. 1–20.
Hary, Benjamin (1992). Multiglossia in Judeo-Arabic: With an Edition, Translation, and
Grammatical Study of the Cairene Purim Scroll. Études Sur Le Judaïsme Médiéval.
Leiden: Brill.
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Hary, Benjamin (2009). Translating Religion: Linguistic Analysis of Judeo-Arabic Sacred

Texts from Egypt. Leiden: Brill.
Kahle, Paul Ernst (1947). The Cairo Geniza. Schweich Lectures of the British Academy.
London: Cumberlege [for the British Academy].
Kahle, Paul Ernst (1948). “The Qurʾān and the ʿArabīya”. In: Ignac Goldziher Memorial
Volume. Ed. by Samuel Löwinger and Joseph Somogyi. Budapest: Globus, pp. 1: 161–
182.
Khan, Geoffrey (1991). “A Linguistic Analysis of the Judaeo-Arabic of Late Genizah
Documents and its Comparison with Classical Judaeo-Arabic”. Sefunot 20: 223–234.
Khan, Geoffrey (1992). “Notes on the Grammar of a Late Judaeo-Arabic Text”. Jerusalem
Studies in Arabic and Islam 15: 220–239.
Khan, Geoffrey (2006). “A Judaeo-Arabic Commercial Letter from Early Nineteenth
Century Egypt”. Ginzei Qedem 2: 37*–59*.
Khan, Geoffrey (2010). “Vocalised Judaeo-Arabic Manuscripts in the Cairo Genizah”. In:
“From a Sacred Source”: Genizah Studies in Honour of Professor Stefan C. Reif. Ed. by
Ben Outhwaite and Siam Bhayro. Leiden-Boston: Brill, pp. 201–218.
Mavroudi, Maria (2008). “Arabic Words in Greek Letters: The Violet Fragment and
More”. In: Moyen Arabe Et Variétés Mixtes De L’arabe À Travers L’histoire: Actes Du
Premier Colloque International (Louvain-La-Neuve, 10–14 Mai 2004). Ed. by Jérôme
Lentin and Jacques Grand’Henry. Louvain-la-Neuve: Université catholique de Lou-
vain, Institut orientaliste, pp. 321–354.
Sobhy, G.P.G. (1926). “Fragments of an Arabic MS in Coptic Script in the Metropolitan
Museum of Art”. In: The Monasteries of the Wâdi ʾn Natrûn, I, New Coptic Texts
from the Monastery of St. Marcus. Ed. by Hugh Gerard Evelyn White. New York:
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Talmon, Raphael (2001). “Dialects”. Encyclopedia of the Qurʾān. Brill.
Violet, Bruno (1901). “Ein Zweisprachiges Psalmfragment Aus Damaskus”. Orientalistis-
che Literaturzeitung 4: 384–403, 425–441, 475–488.
Wagner, Esther-Miriam (2010). Linguistic Variety of Judaeo-Arabic in Letters from the
Cairo Genizah. Leiden: Brill.
chapter 14
Linguistic History and the History of Arabic:

A Speech Communities Approach
Alexander Magidow
In trying to understand the history of Arabic, with its many dialects and vari-
ants, we are confronted by the difficulty of how exactly we deploy the tools of
historical reconstruction. A traditional, tree-based model of a ‘proto-language’
differentiating into distinct daughter languages is difficult to apply to a lan-
guage whose dialects have been in constant and complex contact for thousands
of years. Consider the dialects of the Levant. Ancient Levantine inscriptions,
such as the Namāra epitaph, suggest that the dialects of the Levant originally
had a feminine singular demonstrative tVː.1 Today, the dialects in this area
instead have significantly different feminine singular demonstratives (usually
of the form *haːðiː), and those forms have a significantly different develop-
ment history than the tVː demonstratives. This and other evidence suggests that
there was actually a process of population replacement, where speakers of the
tVː demonstrative dialects eventually shifted to using the *haːðiː-type dialects.
There are, however, traces of tVː demonstratives grammaticalized as relatives
(in Cypriot Arabic) or in frozen phrases (in a Lebanese dialect). The process,
then, was akin to two dialects merging together, probably over a long period of
time, but retaining aspects of the original underlying dialects, and undergoing
later innovations.2
How can we handle these dialects in a model where we understand lan-
guages as unitary entities which split and differentiate, but which rarely merge?
How can we model the processes of contact between these languages, which
clearly were so deep and significant that they became interwoven to a degree
where it is difficult to identify a ‘donor’ and ‘recipient’ language? Moreover, the
example above treats only a single variable—the ‘dialects’ that underwent this
change also had other innovations diffusing in different areas of their gram-
mar, whether from other Arabic dialects, or from other Semitic languages such
1 All linguistic forms are transcribed using IPA. Names of places and people are transliterated.
2 We will return to this particular example in greater detail below, but see also Magidow (2013)
for much more detail on the development of Arabic demonstratives.

406 magidow
as Aramaic.3 If we define languages in historical linguistics primarily by the

innovations that they undergo, how can we model and understand cases that
innovations would place into contradictory and cross-cutting groupings?
Another set of questions has to do with how we handle data which is not
strictly relevant to the enterprise of reconstructing the geneology of Arabic
dialects (or of any language). Take for example the papers by Dye (this volume)
and Baasten (this volume). Baasten’s paper shows convincingly that sūrat al-
kawṯar should be understood as containing a great deal more Syriac content
than was understood by Quranic exegetes. Dye’s talk shows the complex and
subtle influences that might be expected if the speech community which gave
rise to the Quran had strong proficiency in Aramaic and associated that lan-
guage with liturgical practice. Though these papers tell us very little about the
early linguistic forms of Arabic in the traditional sense of historical linguistics,
they tell us a great deal about the audience of the Quran. Surely this infor-
mation is relevant to the history of the Arabic language, if only to a specific
geographical and chronological part of its history.
Similarly, we might ask why we discard information on contact when recon-
structing languages. Contact is treated as noise which obscures the genetic
signal, as ‘areal spread,’ contrasted to ‘genetic inheritance,’ the true focus in
reconstructing a language’s history. Forms which are said to be shared via con-
tact or areal spread are excluded from consideration in most reconstructions
and are treated as categorically different than forms which are inherited genet-
ically (Al-Jallad 2012; Huehnergard 2011). For certain types of reconstruction,
this is a reasonable approach, but certainly this ‘noise,’ when viewed within the
right framework, can be its own signal, telling us a great deal about pre-historic
interrelations between languages.
The tools we normally employ for genetic reconstruction were not designed
for languages such as Arabic, with relatively shallow time-depth, a long history
of contact, and plentiful modern attestations.4 Moreover, we need to be able to
inquire into a specific historical period in the history of Arabic, that is to say
the era immediately prior to the Islamic conquests—one of the primary goals
of the Arabic in Context conference. The reconstruction of ultimate linguistic
ancestors is not, I will argue, an ideal framework to reconstruct this specific
historical moment in the development of Arabic.
3 See for example, Borg (2004; 2006) on Aramaic influence on Cypriot Arabic.
4 The same has been claimed for Nuclear Indo-European (Garrett 2006), for Indo-Aryan lan-
guages with an approximately 500 year time-depth (Toulmin 2009) and for several Oceanic
language continua (François 2011; 2015; Ross 1997).
linguistic history and the history of arabic 407
This article argues that we need to add to our conceptual categories and
vocabularies in order to understand the history of languages like Arabic. It
suggests an approach aimed at reconstructing detailed information about the
‘repertoires’ of chronologically, geographically and socially situated ‘speech
communities.’ This is not meant as a replacement, but as an addition to the
model current in historical linguistics of ‘sub-grouping’ attested ‘languages’
according to their ultimate ancestors. I will then give examples of how this
approach can be of great value for contextualizing the early history of the
Arabic language, and show that it can provide an excellent tool for synthesizing
the many different approaches to that history explored in the Arabic in Context
conference and in this volume.
1 Traditional Reconstruction and Subgrouping
It is helpful to begin by reviewing how subgrouping is traditionally performed

in historical linguistics. First, the object of analysis is typically a group of ‘lan-
guages’ or ‘dialects,’ idealized metaphorical units which subsume the linguis-
tic behavior of an idealized population past or present. Once it is established
that these languages are indeed related, a ‘proto-language’ ancestor is recon-
structed. The proto-language is generally assumed to have been essentially
homogeneous, with variant forms normally explained away as being historical
developments of one another, with varying degrees of evidence. In other words,
variation is only diachronic and little or no synchronic variation is allowed in
reconstructed proto-languages.
Once a proto-language is reconstructed, researchers can then begin sub-
grouping the languages used initially for the reconstruction. Forms which are
innovated vis-à-vis the proto-language, but which occur in a subset of the lan-
guages are seen as indicative of “a period of exclusively shared prehistory, dur-
ing which [dialects] are in close contact with one another, but not with the rest
of the [family]” (Hock 1991: 578–579). The languages descended from that pre-
historic period are then treated as cousins of the other languages which were
excluded from that period of contact.
The traditional approach to subgrouping has celebrated many successes
in understanding how languages are related to one another, but the method
has not been without controversy and a great deal of debate has focused on
how to address its shortcomings (recent literature on the subject includes
Croft 2000a; François 2015; Garrett 2006; Harrison 2003; Joseph and Janda 2003;
Magidow 2013). In this article, I take the view that traditional reconstruction
approaches tend to be most successful in specific circumstances, typically the
408 magidow
reconstruction of high focused languages to a deep-time depth, and in this

the approach is most similar to Garrett (2006). However, when it comes to
reconstructing diffuse languages to a short time depth, this article argues that
there are two issues with traditional approaches to subgrouping: First, the
metaphor of ‘language’ obscures heterogeneity and implies monolingualism,
and second, traditional reconstruction sometimes discards meaningful data
about contact between languages since it has no framework for modeling that
data.
2 Homogeneity and Heterogeneity
Human communication is varied, complex, and extremely difficult to model

coherently, since it is not necessarily cohesive. Speakers’ command over lin-
guistic resources are extremely variable from speaker to speaker and even at
different phases of their lifetimes. Communicative resources must be suffi-
ciently coherent between speakers that communication can be achieved, but
misunderstandings, misinterpretations of the same word, and other linguistic
breakdowns all point to the fundamentally complex nature of how communi-
cation happens.
2.1 Language as a Conceptual Metaphor

One of the most successful conceptual metaphors for abstracting away from
this complexity is that of a ‘language,’ a metaphorical unit of analysis which
could be defined loosely as the set of related communicative resources that
co-occur with one another within the communication of a single group or
community.5 This unit of analysis reflects speakers’ and researchers’ intuitions
about divisions between groups being reflected in language use, and indeed it
is extremely difficult to define ‘language’ without making some reference to a
specific group of people situated at a specific place and time. Bloomfield (1926:
155), for example, defines a language as ‘the totality of utterances that can be
made in a speech-community.’
However, the ‘language’ metaphor often becomes unmoored from the
speech communities used to define it. Instead, linguists normally treat a ‘lan-
5 Note that ‘language’ here is used in approximately the same meaning as the term ‘lect’
proposed (though not defined) by Ross (1997) to subsume the categories of both language
and dialect. However, throughout the text I will use both ‘language’ and ‘dialect’ according to
the conventions of the field—hence, French will be referred to as a ‘language’ while Arabic
consists of ‘dialects’ but my critique is aimed at both levels of analysis.
guage’ as a collection of systems which interact with one another, without

making explicit reference to the actions of speakers. Linguists make statements
along the lines of, ‘a language develops,’ ‘a language splits,’ ‘a change diffuses
throughout a language,’ ‘a language is a head-final language,’ ‘languages are
acquired by age 8.’ All of these are useful metaphors, though languages have no
true agency. It is human beings who, though they may be constrained by the
building blocks of language available to them, change their behavior in certain
ways.
‘Language’ can be an extremely valuable metaphor for abstracting away from
chaotic details to make broad statements about human communication. The
‘language’ metaphor productively allows us to speak about a certain type of lan-
guage (agglutinating, synthetic, left-branching, etc.) since by knowing only one
or two characteristics of that language, we can adduce a number of other char-
acteristics. Indeed, linguistic typology is a more productive field when focusing
on languages rather than on the social communities that make use of them.
Efforts to link community typology (large-scale industrial vs. hunter gatherer,
etc.) to linguistic typology have not revealed strong correlations between social
organization and linguistic behavior (Bowern et al. 2011; Bowern et al. 2011; Epps
et al. 2012).
On the other hand, the metaphor of ‘language’ carries with it strong assump-
tions of homogeneity and thus does a poor job of modeling speaker variation,
whether ‘internal’ variation in the use of a given language, or ‘external’ varia-
tion where speakers make use of multiple ‘languages.’ Languages are normally
seen as homogenous entities with perhaps some internal variation. They are
clearly distinguishable from other languages. These entities can come into ‘con-
tact’ with one another in varying degrees, but except in very rare cases, remain
the same entity in the mind of a linguist (and perhaps, to the speakers of that
language). To use the terminology of LePage and Tabouret-Keller (1985; as sum-
marized in Trudgill 1986: 85–86), languages are normally conceived of as being:
[O]f the focused type: the language is felt to be clearly distinct from other
languages; its ‘boundaries’ are clearly delineated; and members of the
speech community show a high level of agreement as to what does and
does not constitute ‘the language.’
However, many ‘languages’ (if they can even be called this) do not correspond
to this ideal:
In other parts of the world, however, this may not be so at all, and we
may have instead a relatively diffuse situation: speakers may have no very
410 magidow
clear idea about what language they are speaking; and what does and
does not constitute the language will be perceived as an issue of no great
importance.
The origin of the metaphor ‘language’ can be traced to the rise of nationalist
movements in European nations that sought to create a one-language, one-
nation link (see Makoni and Pennycook 2006 for many more references on this
subject).6 Nationalist ideologies and educational systems then further focused
those languages, so that boundaries of linguistic usage came to coincide with
European geopolitical borders, even porous ones (Auer 2002). In fields like
Semitic, where many of the attested languages are no longer spoken, it is also
easy to consider the relatively limited corpora of attestations found in inscrip-
tions and manuscripts as constituting a single ‘language,’ especially when the
language had a standardized scribal tradition.7 It is in these situations, where
we have a focused national language, or even better a closed corpus of textual
attestations, when the traditional notion of ‘language’ is most fruitful in inform-
ing our historical reconstructions.8
6 Note that the objection here to the ‘language’ metaphor is primarily practical and utilitarian,
not political. While the reification of languages was certainly a part of both colonial and
nationalistic projects, it hardly seems reasonable to abandon the valuable analyses that the
language metaphor makes possible simply because this tool has been abused. Moreover, the
association of the ‘language’ metaphor solely with modern colonial projects seems to ignore
other historical contexts. Most language communities make linguistic divisions between self
and other, and it is not a huge conceptual leap to speak of one large group’s way of speaking
against another’s (see esp. Mufwene 2004 for a critique of situating colonial practices solely in
“modernity”). As such, I consider ‘language’ a ‘convenient fiction’ for certain types of inquiry,
but the argument here is that there are other, more convenient fictions available for certain
types of inquiry.
7 The treatment of the product of a scribal tradition as representative of the entire reper-
toire of a community is the source of the endless debates in Arabic linguistics about the
diversification of the dialects from the apparently homogeneous Classical Arabic. Clearly the
attestations from Classical Arabic are extremely misleading as to the actual linguistic behav-
ior of speakers in the early Islamic era, as evidenced by papyri and Greek transcriptions of
Arabic words (Al-Jallad forthcoming; Hopkins 1984). Lüpke and Storch (2013: 48–49) warn
against assumptions of monographia, that there is a ‘one-to-one link between spoken and
written language,’ whereas there is often a complex language ecology involving multiple spo-
ken and written languages.
8 The ‘language’ metaphor also seems to capture native speaker intuitions that groups of
people can be classified according to their linguistic behavior. However, many cultures do
not actually have a term which corresponds to the level of analysis which ‘language’ tends
to delineate. Mühlhäusler (2000: 358) goes so far to state that “the notion of ‘a language’
These concerns are not simply philosophical in nature, but must be con-
fronted when conducting research on the history of languages. The compara-
tive method, and subgrouping procedures in particular, require linguistic input
which is sorted into distinct groupings, usually ‘languages.’ In the case of highly
focused European languages and languages with a closed corpus of attestation,
it is relatively straightforward to choose a unit of analysis, which is typically
equated with a ‘language.’ In this case, history, rather than the linguist, has cho-
sen what the input will be for the comparative method, though even in the case
of European languages, ongoing processes of erasure contribute to an illusion
of focus and homogeneity (Irvine and Gal 2000).
When languages are less focused, however, it is extremely difficult for a
researcher to choose a cohesive, focused grouping that could be called a ‘lan-
guage’ as a unit of linguistic analysis. This is particularly true in the case of Ara-
bic. Consider, for example, the complex and frankly bizarre Ethnologue codes
for Arabic, which are used for a variety of purposes but which contain many dif-
ferent and sometimes conflicting levels of analysis. Codes exist for North Lev-
antine Spoken Arabic (apc) and South Levantine Spoken Arabic (ajp) but not
for any of the more traditional divisions of urban versus rural versus Bedouin
Levantine varieties which crosscut some North-South divides.9 In contrast to
this broad and somewhat contradictory level of analysis, the Syrian dialect atlas
of Behnstedt (1997) includes nearly 500 data points, each representing a single
village. A researcher is therefore hard pressed to identify a ‘language’ as such
that could be used as input for any kind of linguistic analysis, but especially for
the comparative method.
is a recent culture-specific notion associated with the rise of European nation states [and]
the notion of ‘a language’ makes little sense in most traditional societies (cited in Makoni
and Pennycook 2006: 18).” This certainly seems to be true of Indonesian and many African
languages (Makoni and Pennycook 2006: 13–14) and in the Arabic grammatical tradition, the
term luġa originally referred to much smaller differences in speech (within what we could
call ‘Arabic’ today), not to significantly separate linguistic systems as such (Iványi 2011) (but
lisān existed as well, which referred to what were actually different languages, fārisī, rūmī,
etc.).
9 Indeed, the author recently received a questionnaire about numeral systems which asked
for information on any of the Arabic varieties which have an independent code in the
Ethnologue system, including several that arguably should be subsets of one another, such as
Algerian Spoken Arabic (arq) and Algerian Saharan Spoken Arabic (aao), Gulf Spoken Arabic
(afb) and Shihhi Spoken Arabic (ssh). These contradictory and confusing levels of analyses
must complicate significantly a typological project such as this, since two ‘independent
sample points’ could be quite close or quite far from one another, and the distance is difficult
to assess for a non-expert.
412 magidow
‘Proto-languages’ reconstructed through the comparative method are also

treated like monolingual, homogeneous entities. The reconstructed ‘proto-
language’ is defined as “a uniform language” (Bloomfield 1933), that is to say it
has none of the dialectal or social variation characteristic of all real languages.
While there has been some debate about whether it is absolutely necessary
for a proto-language to be viewed as uniform (Dyen 1969; Pulgram 1959; Pul-
gram 1961), the view held by Hockett (1958; quoted in Dyen 1969: 502) is often
reflected in practice:
When we wish to employ the comparative method we are forced to make

a potentially false working assumption: that the distinct languages which
we are comparing trace back not merely to a single parent language, but
to a single language free from dialect variation. (emphasis original).
For example, only if we assume a homogenous proto-language model would we

need to rely on tools like the ‘majority wins’ principle: given two forms which
could equally have been a part of the proto-language, we reconstruct only one,
the one mostly widely attested (Campbell 2004: 131–135). We only need to elim-
inate this variation if we require the proto-language to be uniform. Otherwise,
we could reconstruct both forms as existing side-by-side in the proto-language,
one part of the complex variation characteristic of all languages. For an exam-
ple from Semitic, Hasselbach (2007) feels obliged to reconstruct only a single
proto-form *ʔul- for the common Semitic plural demonstrative, though both
*ʔul- and *ʔil- forms are attested. However, the evidence for either of these
as the proto-form is extremely weak, and both are actually attested in Arabic,
which she uses as her ‘tie-breaker,’ treating it as a language only with *ʔul-. A
preferable explanation would be that both forms were present in the proto-
language, that is to say, not forcing ourselves into the untenable position that
proto-languages must be free of variation.
2.2 Language and Monolingualism

An assumption of monolingualism also accompanies the ‘language’ metaphor,
which may be due to the historical association of the ‘language’ metaphor
with highly focused language use, especially in a European context. Speakers of
these highly focused languages may have control over more than one language,
to whatever degree of proficiency, but these languages are still viewed by the
linguist (and perhaps the speaker) as separate from one another, even if they
were to co-mingle in a single utterance. One language is typically described
as dominant, acquired by the children directly from their parents and taking
precedence over any other languages learned.
However, this notion too breaks down in diffuse societies. In many African
countries, for example, speakers operate in a language ecology of radical multi-
lingualism where speakers acquire and reinforce complex linguistic repertoires
throughout their lifetimes none of which covers all or even the vast majority of
domains of use (Coetzee-Van Rooy 2012; Lüpke and Storch 2013).10 Language
acquisition can and does occur via peer groups, even at a young age, obscuring
the notion of ‘intergenerational language transmission’ that is central in many
theories of language acquisition and change (Lüpke and Storch 2013: 308). Nor
does the ‘language’ metaphor do a very good job of capturing and modeling
this kind of complex domain-divided multilingualism. Is a speaker or commu-
nity who uses some linguistic material only within a limited domain using that
‘language’ or only pieces of a ‘language,’ and how can we delineate those bound-
aries?
2.3 Languages, Boundaries and Change

Treating languages as separate, and clearly separable, entities can also obscure
the mechanisms of language change. The metaphor of ‘language’ creates an
artificial distinction between the ‘external’ diffusion of language material
between languages and the ‘internal’ diffusion of features ‘within’ a language.
The reality of language change is that groups of speakers, connected in vari-
ous ways, must adopt a ‘change’ for this change to ‘diffuse’ throughout their
community (see Croft 2000a; Enfield 2003; François 2015: sec. 3.1; Mufwene
2001: chap. 6). This change could circulate within a group of people who are
monolingual, speaking in a similar manner, or among extremely multilingual
communities who use a variety of languages. In some cases, even if speak-
ers are very sensitive to linguistic boundaries, changes will diffuse regardless.
In Amazonian speech communities which practice linguistic exogamy, there
are strong social constraints against code-mixing, but the languages which are
involved in that practice show strong signs of morphosyntactic convergence
(Aikhenvald 2003; Epps 2005). Dividing diffusion into ‘internal’ and ‘external’
change therefore obscures the underlying unity of process, whereby speakers’
decisions slowly accumulate to cause a change in their speech behavior.11
10 Lüpke and Storch (2013: 272) even argue that the notion of a single language which
functions in most domains, what might be called a community language, ‘should be
discarded for most African contexts […] where no language ever comes close to the
idealized, fully fledged prototype that only monolinguals can imagine.’
11 There are of course different probabilities of outcomes of this process depending on
the type of languages involved and how closely they resemble one another (see the
Journal of Language Contact vol. 6, 2013 devoted to the topic of contact between closely
414 magidow
3 From Language to Speech Communities
The ‘language’ metaphor, therefore, divorces researchers from the social real-
ities of language. The metaphor of ‘language’ carries with it assumptions of
homogeneity and monolingualism which do not match the realities of many
languages and which create artificial boundaries that may exist only in the
minds of linguists, not of speakers. I propose that we reconsider this metaphor,
and replace it with another, that of ‘speech communities.’ In doing so, we actu-
ally return full circle—as discussed previously, it is almost impossible to define
a language without some reference to an underlying speech community. From
Bloomfield’s definition of language as the “totality of utterances that can be
made in a speech-community,” we simply remove the abstracting layer of lan-
guage and return the focus to the group of speakers themselves. This approach
is very much in line with recent approaches to historical linguistics and contact
linguistics which seek to move away from essentializing approaches that apply
analytical metaphors to objects of inquiry; instead, these approaches call for
a shift in focus to the emergent properties of complex human systems (Croft
2000b; François 2015; Matras 2009; Ross 1997).12
The speech communities approach to historical linguistics has been pio-
neered by the Oceanist Malcolm Ross (1997; 2005) with some other researchers
making use of this approach in recent work (François 2015; François 2011; Toul-
min 2009) and others taking a less language-centric approach to reconstruc-
tion, even if they do not use the speech community model per se (Drinka 2013;
Garrett 2006). This represents an important and meaningful shift in how we are
conducting historical linguistics, but the analytical category of ‘speech commu-
nity’ is still in an early stage of development. This section of the paper seeks to
develop a strong, empirically sound model of the speech community.
Ross (1997: 214; 2005: 177) notes that speech community is rarely defined and
when it is, the definition is rarely satisfactory. However, he actually relies on a
fairly simplistic definition for speech communities from Grace (1996: 172):
related languages). However, it is largely accepted that there is no difference in possible

outcomes—generally speaking, the same types of contact-induced change may occur in
both closely and very distantly related languages, and this is because the same process
produces changes in both situations.
12 Of course, ‘speech communities’ itself is necessarily a metaphor and also somewhat essen-
tializing, but one which I hope is better situated within a strongly empirical literature on
how changes diffuse through linguistic communities, and which avoids many of the issues
which accompany the ‘language’ metaphor. For a considered analysis of the necessity for
essentializing analytical models, see Omoniyi (2006).
A speech community consists of those people who communicate with

one another or are connected to one another by chains of speakers who
communicate with one another.
This approach basically defines a speech community as groups of speakers

linked within a social network in the sense of the work by James and Leslie
Milroy (J. Milroy and Milroy 1985; J. Milroy 1992; L. Milroy 1980; L. Milroy 2008).
Certainly, strong sociolinguistic evidence has shown that the diffusion of lan-
guage change moves along social networks, and that different kinds of network
ties (more or less strong, more or less dense) do influence how changes diffuse.
However, humans are not simply dumb nodes in a network, and they do not act
as such. For example, Henderson (1996) discusses an African-American couple
which, though integrated into a middle-class, white social network, continued
to use a non-white realization of short /a/ since they felt that they were treated
both as different and inferior by their white colleagues. Clearly these speak-
ers were not simply the products of their network position, but active agents
whose linguistic behavior is moderated by their sense of belonging and com-
munity.13
Furthermore, while Ross’ definition avoids tying speech communities to a
particular language, or even a shared set of utterances (in contrast to Bloom-
field’s, where the members of a community must share the same understanding
of the utterances in their language), it does not model multilingualism in a prin-
cipled way, or really address it at all. If we want to get away from the metaphor
of language, we must develop a way to model the multiple codes used within a
multilingual community.14
13 A close reading of Ross (2005) shows that his actual analysis relies on at least some sense
of speaker belonging. He tries to reframe Andersen’s (1988) conception of endocentric
(bound by bonds of linguistic solidarity) vs. exocentric (less bound by solidarity) as
a reflection of network structure, but he is still forced to make regular reference to
speaker attitudes, and even this remapping of Andersen’s social dichotomy to a network
dichotomy is not, in this author’s view, entirely successful.
14 Mufwene 2001 (chap. 6) suggests an alternative to speech communities, treating language
like a biological species, and individual ideolects as members of that species. While an
interesting approach, it is not clear how easily we can model historical groups within that
approach. It also carries with it the risk of the biological metaphor obscuring the intended
referent, as cautioned by Enfield (2003).
416 magidow
3.1 Speech Communities Defined

We need a definition of speech communities which can handle the realities of
social networks while also providing for the individual agency of speakers, and
which includes a powerful model for understanding multilingual behavior. I
therefore offer the following definition for speech community, and I will show
support for this definition in the remainder of this section:
A speech community is a group of people bound by social network ties as

well as a sense of social allegiance, and having at least some part of their
linguistic repertoires in common.
3.1.1 Social Networks

Social networks tie together speakers who communicate with one another. The
ties between these speakers may be strong (i.e. frequent interaction) or they
may be weak, and a speaker may have many ties or may have few. The model
of a social network is basically identical to that treated in the work by the
Milroys discussed above, and extended in Ross’, both quoted above, and so it
is unnecessary to go into great detail.
Note that social networks have no defined size. Indeed, any social network
will have overlapping components of greater density, while a sufficiently per-
missive definition of ‘connected’ could include speakers who have many inter-
mediate connections, but who might never meet and communicate face to
face. Social networks are recursive as well, with anything but the smallest net-
work containing within itself other networks.
This may seem a weakness of the social network model, but it is actually
a strength. All of these same characteristics are also true of languages—there
are no straightforward ways to differentiate different sizes of language, from
register to dialect to language to language area, nor are these levels discrete
from one another with no overlap, as any dialect atlas will show. Social net-
works accurately model these properties of human language, and have strong
empirical support. Certainly, different sized groups have somewhat different
properties, and often allow for different research methods. Smaller groups,
often called communities of practice, tend to be analyzed via a participant-
observer approach (Meyerhoff 2004), while larger speech communities are
typically analyzed with random sampling extrapolated via statistical methods
(Patrick 2002).
In truth, since this article proposes that we use speech communities as a
unit of historical analysis, it is unlikely that any historical signal will be suffi-
ciently strong to mark out any group smaller than what would correspond to
a ‘dialect’ within the language metaphor framework. We can certainly pick out
larger groupings also—‘language areas’ certainly are detectable from historical

analysis and do reflect a large social network which has relatively clear external
boundaries, even if it might encompass an area as large as Europe (Haspel-
math 1998). The size of the speech communities which we are actually able
to reconstruct will depend ultimately on the ‘resolution’ of our data and our
analysis.
3.1.2 Allegiance
There is overwhelming evidence that a speaker’s allegiances influences their
linguistic behavior and influences long-term linguistic change, and thus this
is an essential component of any definition of a speech community. Individ-
ual speakers make, or fail to make, accommodation to their interlocutors. They
try to be part of the groups that surround them, and change their linguistic
behavior accordingly (Eckert 2000; Giles, Taylor, and Bourhis 1973; LePage and
Tabouret-Keller 1985). This influences how linguistic changes diffuse through-
out society—those groups which share allegiances with one another will adopt
a change as it comes through their social networks, while individuals and
groups which do not feel that allegiance are less likely to change (as in the
example from Henderson 1996 above). The accumulation of these changes will
eventually subsume larger and larger entities, creating a split between varieties
that are large enough to be detected by historical linguists.
Group boundaries are demarcated in many ways, but primarily through the
deployment of symbolic resources which mark group insiders in opposition to
outsiders. Almost any act or item can be “grist to the symbolic mill of cultural
distance” whether it is a matter of “dialect, dress, drinking or dying” (Cohen
1985: 118), and these symbols are often multiple or overlapping. In Eckert’s study
of Michigan high school students, both “dress” and “dialect” covary—the length
of students’ jeans correlates with their realizations of linguistic variables. These
are both of course simply convenient symbols—what kinds of jeans you wear
does not influence your vowel system (no matter how short, or how cold the
weather is in Michigan) but they both correlate with one another since they
are part of the symbolic demarcation of group boundaries. Using language to
mark one’s social position is what LePage and Tabouret-Keller (1985) refer to as
‘acts of identity.’
Speaker perceptions of group boundaries, and hence linguistic boundaries,
do not necessarily follow a linguist’s own perceptions of which groups speak
mutually intelligible languages. Wolff (1959) documents numerous examples
of language pairings where the speakers of those languages have significantly
different intuitions about intelligibility than (non-native) linguists working on
those languages. These intuitions are not always symmetrical either: One group
418 magidow
considers another’s language unintelligible, while the other group thinks both
of the languages are similar. Considering a language intelligible or unintelligi-
ble therefore seems to be more of a linguistic attitude than a fact of language
structure, though of course linguistic structure will influence the type and
degree of influence of languages on each other. Moreover, as long as speak-
ers view another language as opaque, they are unlikely to draw on its lin-
guistic material in any meaningful way. This has implications for historical
linguistics—simply because we, as researchers, conceive of languages as being
‘distinct’ that does not mean that they were distinct in the lived experience of
speakers of those languages.
Modern Arabic dialects provide an example of this phenomenon. Western
Arabic dialects are treated by speakers of eastern dialects of Arabic as unintel-
ligible, while Western Arabic dialect speakers are often expected to understand
a wide range of eastern dialects (Sʾhiri 2003). This is partly due to differences in
exposure to media, particularly Cairene media, but also do to extremely strong
linguistic ideologies which regard Western Arabic dialects as unintelligible and
difficult to understand (Hachimi 2013). Ideology seems to interpose itself and
prevent the kind of understanding that should occur given even a basic good
faith effort. Hachimi gives the example of ħalqi ˈmy throatˈ in Tunisian Arabic
(identical to the realization in Standard Arabic) not being understood by an
educated Egyptian interlocutor, who apparently requires ħalʔi instead (2013:
279). The communicative effort required to understand this variant is minimal,
especially given the congruence between the Tunisian and the Standard Arabic
form of the word—the misunderstanding seems to be due to ideology shaping
expectations of understanding, rather than linguistic distance (see also Pre-
ston 2013). Moreover, a researcher unfamiliar with the ideological background
might assume total mutual intelligibility in this instance.
This is not to say that every piece of linguistic material used by a speaker
is consciously symbolic of their identity. Labovian sociolinguistics (Labov 2001:
196–197) recognizes three levels of awareness of variables which begin as inter-
nal changes (“change from below”): ‘indicators’, used by particular social
groups, are below the level of social awareness. Once they acquire social recog-
nition they become ‘markers’ and are detectable in style shifting behaviour.
Finally, if they are sufficiently socially relevant they become ‘stereotypes’, the
topic of meta-linguistic comment and judgment. All three of these designa-
tions, however, presuppose some social association, that is to say even indica-
tors, though below the level of perceptual salience, are associated with some
group, that is to say that it marks out a speech community (in Labov’s research,
typically a social class). Therefore, at every stage in the diffusion of a feature,
conscious or unconscious notions of identity and group allegiance dictate the
uses of language by an individual speaker, and by the communities in which

they are embedded.
The crucial test of this theory is whether these micro-level variations and
markers of identity can cause larger-scale language change which fissures along
group identity lines. There is strong evidence for this from many different
areas. Sectarian differences are well known as lines of fissure in Arabic (Blanc
1964; Holes 1983). In the United States, African American ethnic groups have
maintained significantly different varieties of English than Anglo-Americans
(Wolfram 2003), whether on the level of a single family surrounded by white
speakers (as in Ocracoke, see p. 309), or on the level of large scale communities.
In Europe, even porous national boundaries have changed language behavior
(Auer 2002), and sociolinguistic studies are showing that speakers converge and
diverge with one another based on their allegiance to a particular nationality
(Llamas 2007; Llamas 2010; Watt, Llamas, and Johnson 2010). Growing political
divisions between Old Castillian Spanish and Medieval Portuguese speakers
were reflected in language through what Malkiel (1989) calls ‘excessive self-
assertion,’ i.e. the deliberate change of language through an accumulation of
acts of identity (see also Penny 2004: sec. 3.1.5ff.). In all of these cases, speakers
must have been connected with speakers of different varieties by close social
network ties. The barriers that arise are attitudinal, not breaks in the social
network.15 Speakers’ changing political, ethnic, religious divisions, or changes
in how important those divisions are, lead to relatively rapid linguistic change
that causes even closely related languages to split apart.
3.1.3 Repertoire
Speech communities, whether on the level of individual speakers or the larger
community, cannot be easily characterized as speaking a given language. One
language could potentially be dominant, but even in very monolingual commu-
nities there are often linguistic varieties or materials which diverge significantly
from everyday speech and which are linked to specific contexts. A language-
based model for discussing variation within a speech community is far too
simplistic:
[B]ilingualism is not in itself an adequate basis for a model or theory

of the interaction of language and social life […] Bilingualism is neither
a unitary phenomenon nor autonomous. The fact that two languages
15 Social network ties and attitude are not entirely independent variables, however. One’s
allegiances will often be reflected in one’s ties, and even a person’s available repertoire is
influenced by their social relations.
420 magidow
are present in a community or are part of a person’s communicative

competence is compatible with a variety of underlying functional (social)
relationships.
hymes 1972: 38
As an alternative model, Hymes suggests instead the idea of a ‘linguistic reper-

toire’ which encompasses all of the ways of speaking within a community.
Bilingualism or even multilingualism would therefore just be a “special, salient
case of the general phenomenon of linguistic repertoire” (ibid.). These ‘ways
of speaking’ could be anything from distinct languages to different codes to
simply different vocabularies associated with different events, and thus register
variation and code-switching can be seen as different ways of utilizing speaker
repertoires.
On an individual level, Blommaert (2014: 4) defines a repertoire as:
The collective resources available to anyone at any point in time […]

Repertoires are biographically emerging complexes of indexically or-
dered, therefore functionally organized resources. Repertoires include
every resource used in communication—linguistic ones, semiotic ones,
sociocultural ones.16
This is to say that repertoires include the entire set of communicative resources
available to a given speaker, and that they acquire these resources over their
lifespan. These resources are usually in a functional distribution, with a given
resource normally associated with a range of functionally appropriate uses.
A ‘community repertoire’ can be defined as the available communicative
resources deployed in a given speech community. Obviously, individuals within
a community will differ in terms of their individual repertoires, precisely
because repertoires are biographically emergent, but the overall community
will have common repertoires to which most members of that community will
have access. For example, in Coetzee-Van Rooy’s (2012) study on the complex
and diverse repertoires in a South African community, she finds that the lin-
guistic repertoires of Southern Sotho dominant and Zulu dominant speakers
differ in patterned ways (see esp. Tables 1–6), as do those of speakers who report
Southern Sotho or English as their strongest vs. their second strongest language.
This is to say that, though individuals within those communities report differ-
16 See Blommaert and Backus (2013) for an analysis of one individual’s repertoire and how it
is related to his biography.
ent language competencies, their general community repertoires are focused.

This is true even in a relatively ‘diffuse’ linguistic environment.
In order for speakers to be part of the same community, they must share
some aspect of their repertoires. This can shift rapidly over time, since reper-
toires are biographically emergent per Blommaert’s definition—two distinct
speech communities can come into contact, and the first generation raised in
that environment can acquire a larger repertoire than that of their parents.
Not having any repertoire in common makes it extremely difficult for linguistic
material to diffuse between the speech communities, so it is a prerequisite for
a speech community to be united.
How much command one must have over the material within their reper-
toire is both a social and linguistic consideration. In some communities, having
even the most basic command of a repertoire may allow for inclusion in that
community. For example, in Dorian’s (1982) work on communities with Gaelic-
English repertoires, even those speakers with little competence in Gaelic were
included socially as members of the speech community. In her words, “any defi-
nition of speech community which implied productive control of the language
in question would eliminate these apparent members of the East Sutherland
Gaelic speech community” (p. 31), which clearly runs counter to the emic defi-
nition of that speech community.
The repertoire view has the advantage over a language view in this respect,
with the former’s attendant assumptions of monolingualism, since the latter
more naturally handles shifts to larger repertoires. In contrast, the language
view often assumes that any merging of speech communities with different
‘languages’ will eventually lead to a shift. In studying the history of Arabic, al-
Sharkawi (2010) and Versteegh (1984) assume that two speech communities
coming into contact necessarily leads to a catastrophic speech event. For Ara-
bic, this is hardly evidenced from the linguistic outcomes of that contact and
there is little reason to think that speakers did not simply expand their reper-
toires when possible (Abboud-Haggar 2006; Diem 1979). Speakers of Coptic,
Aramaic and Berber may have followed the model in the West African exam-
ples from Lüpke and Storch (2013: 308), where child acquisition of language
is from peers more than from the previous generation (similar patterns have
been found in China, see Stanford 2008). Children socializing with one another,
or even working in trade, may well add significantly to their repertoires with-
out endangering the other components of that repertoire. This is certainly true
today in many Arab countries in tourist areas, and similar practices probably
existed in the early Islamic empires.
On the other hand, having, or lacking, access to a particular part of a com-
munity’s repertoire can result in exclusion from that speech community. In
422 magidow
some cases, control of that repertoire can be very high stakes, as in the abil-
ity to control the standard register—not having this ability can limit social and
economic opportunities, or risk social censure. In Classical Arabic literature,
there are numerous examples where incorrect production of correct fuṣḥā Ara-
bic resulted in ridicule, though in many Arabic speaking communities of that
same era, any productive control of fuṣḥā Arabic might have entirely lack-
ing.
Thus, speech communities must be defined as sharing some part of their
repertoire, but what ‘sharing’ entails exactly will be dependent on the context
in which those speech communities existed. It is the researcher’s job to deter-
mine exactly how the repertoire operated in the historical speech community
that they are reconstructing.
4 Chronology and Goals in Reconstruction
Traditional reconstruction and subgrouping is concerned with only the oldest

common ancestors of attested languages, i.e. proto-languages. Proto-languages
represent, in this model, Hock’s “period of exclusively shared prehistory.” Focus-
ing on the oldest ancestors is obviously essential to some reconstruction proj-
ects, particularly those that aim at great time depth or which are concerned
with large scale comparisons of language families (Campbell 2003; Garrett
2006).
However, focusing only on the oldest periods of shared history can lead
us to discard valuable evidence about the history of languages. Consider for
example the attempt at reconciling the so-called ‘tree’ versus ‘wave’ models in
Huehnergard (2011). In this article, he gives the isoglosses which argue, in his
view, for a Central Semitic branching (see Huehnergard 2005), and treats those
as genetic signals “arising in a shared common ancestor” (p. 265). The existence
of two other innovations (loss of feminine -t and reduction of tripthongs)
which link Hebrew, Phonecian, Aramaic and Arabic, however, “suggest an areal
diffusion according to a wave model.” (p. 268) How exactly this contrasts to the
process of innovations arising in a common ancestor is unclear. The attested
languages all had a period of ‘exclusively shared prehistory’ per Hock, excluding
Ugaritic and Sayhadic. That period simply occurred later than the period of
exclusively shared prehistory which gave rise to the Central Semitic grouping.
Privileging only the oldest period of shared history amounts to discarding some
of the most interesting information about pre-history that languages give us.
Why is it that these changes diffused among only those languages? How were
they linked, and what do those links tell us about the people of that era?
Indeed, overlapping periods of shared history may be the norm rather than
the exception, especially within short time depths. Languages becoming entire-
ly isolated from one another is extremely rare. Even when languages are literally
located on separate islands surrounded by ocean, there is still ongoing contact
between them, as in Oceania, and different languages may be in different
types of contact at different times in their histories. François (2015), working
on Oceanic languages, proposes an alternative model to the traditional tree
model. Instead of only representing the oldest periods of shared diffusion,
his model charts multiple overlapping innovations among language varieties
which have been long in contact with one another. The model, based on a
large database of innovations, produces a ‘glottometric diagram,’ shown in
Figure 14.1.17 Here, groups which are most cohesive and are most strongly
associated as a subgroup share the bright, thick lines, as for example the Hiw-
Ltg pairing. Even that pairing, which appears to have ‘branched’ from the other
languages at some point, continued to exchange linguistic materials across
what we would traditionally consider a ‘linguistic divide.’
A speech communities approach, in contrast to a ‘language’ approach, treats
all instances of diffusion as equally important data. Since any linguistic mate-
rial which diffuses must necessarily be constrained by speech community
boundaries, the extent of diffusion maps the contours of the speech communi-
ties involved. We can map the extent (temporal and geographic) of the spread
of a linguistic feature (what Toulmin 2009 calls a ‘propagation event’), and in
doing so we can reconstruct the temporal and geographic extent of a partic-
ular speech community.18 The sum total of the features in a dialect can give
17 The author would like to thank Alexandre François and Siva Kalyan for providing a high
quality copy of this figure and for providing the permission to use it.
18 Note that I avoid here the word ‘innovations.’ While innovations are more easily shown
to be diagnostic of speech communities, there is nothing in principle which excludes a
‘retention’ (the definition of which is hardly straightforward—retained relative to which
language state, exactly?) from acting as a marker of community. Consider the two vari-
ables which were mobilized in Martha’s Vineyard to mark social boundaries—AU and AI
(Labov 1963). One of the realizations of this variable was ‘retentive,’ attested to the 16th
century in England, while the other was an innovation. However, both were innovative
vis-à-vis the speech community on Martha’s Vineyard, showed by the age-grading of the
change, and both were equally implicated in the system of demarcating social bound-
aries. Moreover, innovations or retentions can propagate at multiple times. Consider the
propagation of the ha: prefix in demonstratives in Arabic dialects (Magidow 2013). There
are clearly multiple chronologies of propagation—among dialects of the interior Levant,
this prefix was attached to the demonstrative pronouns early, likely before the Islamic era.
In contrast, dialects which came into the Levant later, likely post-Islamically, lacked this
424 magidow
us a detailed map of its history of speech community membership. Instead of

asking only about the oldest reconstructable period where varieties exchanged
innovations, we ask instead about all of the speech communities that a mod-
ern speech community has belonged to over its history, as indicated by the scars
and wrinkles on its body linguistic. This changes reconstruction from an exer-
cise in subgrouping to one in forensic sociolinguistics, almost an archaeology
of pre-historic speech communities.
This approach allows us to contextualize the development of language, since
speech communities can be easily historically situated. In contrast, proto-
languages are notorious for including structures that developed at quite differ-
ent eras, combining older and newer features into a single structurally homoge-
neous but temporally heterogeneous whole. Andersen (1996: 184) summarizes
the situation for Proto-Slavic, though (Toulmin 2009: 28–30) makes a similar
statement about proto-Indo-Aryan:
Proto-Slavic […] cannot be correlated with a single point in time. […]

The substantival declension has a more archaic appearance than Proto-
Slavic [verb] conjugation […] and when we consider the lexicon, it is very
obvious that Proto-Slavic includes lexemes of widely different age.
Proto-languages correlate with no particular point in history, and are akin to a

“museum in which diet coke cans share with coats of chain mail a single vitrine
marked ‘Planet Earth. 1000–2000 Christian Era’ ” (Joseph and Janda 2003: 56).
The lack of a historically situated unit of analysis is at the heart of the long
debates over the origin of Arabic (summarized in Abboud-Haggar 2006). Clas-
sical Arabic has long been taken, conveniently, to represent the proto-language
which gave rise to the modern colloquial dialects, and which was historically
situated as the language of the Arabs prior to the Islamic expansions. It is now
clear that assumption is untenable, and the other papers in this volume as well
as volumes such as Owens (2006) argue strongly against it. However, the new
unit of analysis proposed by Owens, ‘pre-diaspora Arabic’ is also not detailed
enough to account for the complex chronology and geography of Arabic speak-
ers and their linguistic behavior prior to the Islamic expansions. Though his
model allows for diversity in the proto-language, it reconstructs variants with-
out a great deal of attention to their situation in space or time, in much the
prefix, and even in the modern dialects of Palmyra and Soukhne ha:-prefixed demonstra-
tives have not entirely diffused throughout the demonstrative paradigms. Thus, the same
‘innovation’ is diffusing in very different ways and at different times, and through different
processes.
figure 14.1
A glottometric diagram of the Torres-Bank Oceanic languages from
François (2015)
426 magidow
same way as a proto-language. A speech communities approach can help to

diagnose which speech communities existed in the pre-Islamic era and can
attempt to characterize their repertoires, both Arabic and non-Arabic. The
speech communities we reconstruct are not an undifferentiated ‘pre-diasporic
Arabic’ but communities which have unique and divergent repertoires and
relationships to other speech communities.
Speech communities also provide a principled way to link linguistic and
extra-linguistic data. Speech communities reflect communities, in their struc-
ture, in their geography, and in their allegiances. Political changes, shifting
patterns of domination and alliance, changes in trade-routes and directions
of contact are all extra-linguistic factors that have profound linguistic conse-
quences. By changing our unit of analysis from ‘language,’ which is abstracted
away from its context, back to ‘speech communities,’ we are forced to consider
the historical, social and political contexts in which language change occurred.
5 Contextualizing Arabic through Speech Communities
The foregoing discussion has been very theoretical and abstract, and it may be
difficult to see how exactly the speech communities approach can be applied.
One example we considered in the introduction was that of the repertoire
of the early Islamic speech community to which the Quran was addressed—
Dye and Baasten’s papers give us strong evidence for a community with a
multilingual repertoire that included considerable elements from Aramaic.
Indeed, a speech communities approach should be used to reframe the debate
about the extent of diglossia in the pre-Islamic community into a broader set
of questions about the repertoire of pre-Islamic speech communities.
More importantly, the speech communities approach can move beyond
simple questions of repertoire to address more complex questions about the
history and context of how Arabic developed. One of the major questions
in Arabic linguistics is what the linguistic features were of the Arabic of the
Islamic conquests, and how far we can trace these dialects back to pre-Islamic
communities. The speech communities approach links social and linguistic
history, and so provides an important tool for answering that question. In this
section, I will use the speech communities approach to link linguistic data from
modern Arabic dialects, particularly their demonstrative pronoun paradigms,
with data about the history of Arab migrations in order to demonstrate the
applicability of the speech communities approach.19
19 Arabic demonstratives are a particularly useful variable since they are paradigmatic (thus
First, it is important to understand how we are able to extrapolate any data

from modern dialects at all. Certainly, nearly 1500 years after the Islamic con-
quests, there must be sufficient population movement to erase any traces of
early speech communities. There are of course instances where this has hap-
pened, but as a general principle, linguistic practice tends to endure over time
except in exceptional circumstances. This is referred to by Labov (2001: 504)
as the ‘principle of first effective settlement,’ the notion that the initial set-
tlement in an area typically determines the cultural and linguistic practices
in that area.20 Other groups that move into that area are likely to shift to the
language of the initial populating group. Population density appears to be a
prime factor in linguistic vitality, with high density areas or groups more resis-
tant to shift than less densely populated areas (Buchheit 1988; Ostler 2005).21
Thus, in instances of extreme depopulation, the principle no longer holds, and
whatever group repopulates an area tends to act in turn as new ‘first effective
settlers,’ as seen in the depopulation and repopulation of North America, result-
ing in the extinction of many indigenous languages.
This principle allows us to link the Islamic conquests quite directly to mod-
ern dialect distributions, since the conquests are precisely when the first effec-
tive Arabic speaking settlements were established in many countries. Indeed,
the conquering armies were fastidious about establishing ʾamṣār, indepen-
dent autonomous settlements which were primarily settled by Arabic-speaking
military personnel and their families. These settlements provided a linguistic
changing in predictable ways), they are extremely diverse, and they can often preserve
previous language states, since many dialects will borrow only the most frequent demon-
stratives (either proximal or singular forms), preserving older demonstratives in some
parts of the paradigm. For non-Arabist readers, Arabic demonstrative pronouns also act as
demonstrative adjectives, they distinguish two distances (proximal and distal), two gen-
ders, and two (in Classical Arabic, three) numbers, singular, (dual) and plural. In many
dialects, distal demonstratives are derived directly from the singular by the addition of a
suffix -(a)k(a), so normally only the proximate forms are given in the discussion here. The
dialect of Chadian Shuwa Arabic provides a very simple example of Arabic demonstra-
tives: Proximal: m. sg. daː, f. sg. diː, m. pl. doːl, f. pl. deːl, Distal: m. sg. daːk, f. sg. diːk, m. pl.
doːla(ː)k, f. pl. deːla(ː)k (Kaye 1976). For more on Arabic demonstratives, see Fischer (1959)
and Magidow (2013: chap. 5, 6).
20 The principle was originally formulated in Zelinsky (1992); Magidow (2013: sec. 1.3.4, ff)
discusses this principle at greater length with regards to Arabic.
21 It is not clear, however, how this principle operates at deep time-depths, since many of the
most fertile and densely populated areas are also what Nichols (1992) refers to as ‘spread
zones,’ while less densely populated areas in difficult terrain tend to preserve linguistic
enclaves.
428 magidow
beachhead for Arabic speakers in these new territories, and any newcomers to
these financially and politically powerful cities would have been expected to
add Arabic to their repertoires in order to assimilate to local linguistic norms.
These settlements each grew into the primary major Arabo-Islamic centers in
their area, and were likely one of the major engines of Arabicization of the con-
quered territories.22
These principles would seem to imply that we could simply link the litera-
ture from the Arabic grammar of attributing linguistic variants to specific tribes
(Al-Jundī 1983; Rabin 1951), to the accounts of the early Islamic conquests which
reference the same tribes (Donner 1981). However, in many cases, this is not
tenable. Most of the tribal names found in the grammatical or even historical
tradition reference vast tribal confederations, which while they might share a
group allegiance, were probably not sufficiently linked into the same social net-
works to be considered a single speech community (see Magidow 2013: chap. 2).
In principle, a sufficiently small tribe should act as a self-contained speech
community, but in practice it is rare to find such a case.
Luckily, one such case does present itself. The dialect that has now become
Cairene Arabic, probably based on the original dialect of al-Fuṣṭāṭ, likely had
the following demonstratives originally: m. ðaː, f. ðiː m. pl. ðoːl f. pl. ðeːl.23 This
demonstrative set is almost unattested today outside of the Nile Valley and
points south, except in northern coastal Yemen in the city of al-Ḥudayda, and
it seems to have been largely erased in the surrounding hinterlands by a later
migration from a different dialect group (Magidow 2013: 385–386). At the same
time, historical sources report that one of the major colonizing groups of al-
Fuṣṭāṭ were members of the relatively small tribe of ʿAkk, whose territories
were said to include al-Ḥudayda in the pre-Islamic era (Caskel 2012; Kennedy
2007: 147). The numbers involved—we are told that the initial colonizing group
of ʿAkk members numbered around 4,000—are well within the size of a small
speech community, especially since they all come from a single geographical
area. Thus, we can with some confidence use the notion of speech community
to link linguistic and extra-linguistic data, and make a fairly strong claim about
22 Note that this works best for densely populated urban and rural areas. Areas with very low
population densities, such as steppe lands, are easily repopulated, and this is why Bedouin
dialects are often quite divergent from rural and urban dialects, since they represent
much more recent strata of settlement. Similarly, it is difficult to reconstruct the history
of countries like Tunisia which have been repeatedly resettled.
23 The feminine plural was likely lost due to contact with other urban areas that had no fem-
inine plural. It is preserved in Upper Egyptian and Chadian varieties of Arabic (Magidow
2013: sec. 6.3).
the Arabicization of Eygpt: A group of settlers, largely from the tribe of ʿAkk in
north-west Yemen, moved in the early seventh century into Egypt, where the
established the first effective Arabic settlement whose linguistic features are
still used today.
In contrast to the situation in Egypt, the Arabicization of the Levant is
significantly more complex, and requires a much more detailed account. In
contrast to Egypt, Iraq and Tunisia, there were a few ʾamṣār-type settlements
in the Levant, none of which were long-lasting (see Magidow 2013: 175–179).
The primary settlement pattern of Arabic speakers was to occupy the quarters
of conquered cities abandoned by refugees fleeing the war. Evidence from
sociolinguistics suggests that unless these settlers were able to maintain very
strict separation between themselves and their Aramaic speaking neighbors,
they would be in grave danger of shifting to Aramaic rather than maintaining
Arabic.24 Of course, we have strong evidence that Arabic was spoken earlier
and more widely in the Levant prior to Islam than previously believed (Al-Jallad
forthcoming b; Macdonald 2009), but there must still have been huge numbers
of Aramaic speakers in the Levant, particularly in the fertile valleys of the Oran
valley and in the major cities, i.e. those areas most resistant to language shift.
How then did Arabic speakers manage to impose their language on the Lev-
ant when they did not take the same steps towards linguistic success and vital-
ity that were taken in other regions? It seems the answer is simply that they
were in the right place at the right time. As discussed above, the advantage of
high population can be obviated if the original settling population (in this case
Aramaic speakers) suffer a massive depopulation, or are overwhelmed by an
incoming group “an order of magnitude greater than the extant population”
(Labov 2001: 504). The Arab conquests certainly do not fit that bill—if any-
thing, the conquering Arab populations must have been much smaller than
the resident, primarily Aramaic speaking population of the Levant. However,
a major depopulating event struck the Levant at the same time as important
Arabic-speaking populations moved into the area. Starting in 542 ce with the
Plague of Justinian, the Levant was wracked by plague. This of course precedes
the Islamic conquests by nearly 80 years, but plagues continued to strike the
Levant repeatedly until 749ce, which the final year of plague was also marked
by a massive earthquake (Conrad 1981; MacAdam 1994; Tsafrir and Foerster
1992).
24 That is not to say that they did not attempt to segregate themselves from their neighbors.
The Pact of ʿUmar appears to have been one attempt to do so, though it is not clear how
effective it was (Noth 2004; Tannous 2010).
430 magidow
It would seem that such traumatic, depopulating events must surely have
affected Arabic speakers as much as Aramaic speakers, but this is not the
case. As mentioned previously, Arabic speakers were primarily located at the
margins of fertiles areas of the Levant, many practicing nomadic pastoralism.
Plagues and earthquakes tend to impact high populous areas more heavily than
less populous areas, and pastoralists tend to escape relatively unscathed from
plagues. Plagues do open up agricultural lands to pastoralists dependent on
agricultural goods, and so they tend to settle on those lands as agricultural-
ists (Finkelstein and Perevolotsky 1990: 71). This suggests a scenario in which
formerly densely populated, Aramaic-speaking agricultural areas in the inte-
rior Levant were devastated by plague. The most likely group to repopulate
these areas would be resident Arabic-speaking nomadic or semi-nomadic pas-
toralists who would settle on the abandoned agricultural areas, and eventually
become the sedentary rural population of the Levant.
We thus have clear details on the communities which must have Arabicized
the Levant, but we would like to better understand them in terms of their
behavior as speech communities. By analyzing the distribution of dialects in this
region today, and combining it with our scenario for the Arabicization of the
Levant, we can start to understand the linguistic behavior of those pre-historic
speech communities.
As we can see in Figure 14.2, we can, based on the forms of the demonstra-
tive pronouns, distinguish two distinct groups of dialects in Syria, along with
one group of hybrid dialects. The two primary groups are what Magidow (2013:
chap. 5) refers to as the ‘haːk’ group of dialects, those dialects which initially
innovated a demonstrative of the type haːk for a common distal demonstrative,
and the (haː)ðoːla dialects, which innovated a form ðoːl in the plural proxi-
mal demonstrative. The haːk group of dialects was susceptible to a number of
possible analogical innovations, and these happened in many places in approx-
imately the same way (i.e. parallel development), but most of the dialects of
the inland Levant are ultimately traceable to this type. The (haː)ðoːla dialects,
in contrast, represent a clearly independent development, and have a closer
affinity to dialects in Egypt, Yemen, and the Arabian Peninsula. As for the
hybrid dialects, they were originally a subtype of haːk dialects which had com-
mon plural proximate demonstratives hawla ‘these’ and distal hawka ‘those.’
Through contact with dialects that had (haː)ðoːl as the common plural prox-
imate demonstrative, they innovated a new distal demonstrative haːdoːka via
four part analogy: hawla : hawka :: haːdoːla : X = haːdoːka.
These hybrid dialects force us to reconsider how the cities were Arabicized.
A priori, we do not expect the cities to have been colonized at the same time
as the countryside, since the plagues would not have given Arabic speakers any
advantage over the already resident Aramaic speakers. The hybrid city dialects
are clearly based on dialects of the haːk-speech community, the community
which originally colonized the countryside. Thus, the Arabicization of the cities
must have taken place in part by the urbanization of rural Arabic speakers,
but there must have been significant influence from the (haː)ðoːla speech
community, present now primarily in urban and steppe areas. The fact that
the haːk-speakers did not simply adopt the (haː)ðoːla forms wholesale also
may tell us something about their view of themselves relative to these later
newcomers—it suggests that they tried to preserve their linguistic (and hence
social) distinctiveness.25 Though it goes beyond the level of detail appropriate
to the discussion here, the underlying haːk dialects must have been at a stage
of development which is no longer generally attested in the Levant, suggesting
too that this hybridization process is quite old (Magidow 2013: sec. 5.4.4.1, 6.2.3).
A striking absence from this map are the dialects which have a reflex of
the feminine (epigraphic) ty demonstrative found in pre-Islamic inscriptions,
such as the Namāra epitaph, discussed briefly in the introduction to this arti-
cle.26 These dialects, what Magidow (2013) refers to as consonant-alternating
dialects since they mark gender distinctions via consonant alternations, are
found today almost exclusively in Yemen, but there are important traces of
these forms in some haːk type dialects in the Levant. Cypriot Arabic uses
taː as a relative marker and the Lebanese dialect of Baskinta preserves taː
with what appears to be traces of an original demonstrative meaning, though
it has relative uses (Abu-Haidar 1979: 80, 116; Borg 2004: 194). Some Pales-
tinian dialects show pronouns of the type huta and hita and these may be
derived from an original construction with a pronoun followed by a demonstra-
tive, similar to Classical Arabic (haː) huwa ðaː (Magidow 2013: 362; Shachmon
2013).
25 Note too that the influence goes the other way also—the (haː)ðoːla dialects are by and
large haːðoːla dialects, but clearly acquired the haː-prefix relatively late. The dialects of
Soukhne and Palmyra have clearly borrowed the haː-prefix from neighbouring dialects,
and are still slowly apply it to demonstratives throughout the paradigm. Even the dialect
of Damascus likely did not have the haː-prefix originally, as evidenced by nearby dialects
which still have no added the haː-prefix (Magidow 2013: sec. 6.3.3).
26 It is unclear exactly what the voweling of this word would be, whether tiy, tay(a), or
tiyya, all of which are possibilities, though primarily reflexes of tiyya are attested today,
a diminutive form of demonstratives of the type taː. If tay(a) underwent diphthong or
triphthong reduction to taː, then it would be equivalent to attested dialects with masculine
singular proximate ðaː, feminine taː (Al-Jallad 2012).
432 magidow
The fact that these dialects preserve many traces of the grammaticalization
process from demonstrative > relative suggests that they represent the origi-
nal layer of dialects, but with later borrowing of the primary demonstratives
from haːk dialects (for this principle, see Pat-El 2013).27 In terms of speech com-
munities, two speech communities, the consonant-alternating speech commu-
nity, and the haːk-using speech community came into contact. The consonant-
alternating speech community, whether under numerical or social pressure,
adopted aspects of the hawla community’s repertoire, including the entire
demonstrative paradigm. However, traces of the original demonstratives
remain both epigraphically and linguistically, give us a clue to the original
repertoire of the community.
We thus have a likely scenario based on the linguistic data in which a resi-
dent group in the Levant came under significant pressure from another group,
adopting significant aspects of the incoming group’s linguistic repertoire. We
can link this to the historical data also. There are reports of two major changes
in the ruling groups moving into the Levant according to the Arabo-Islamic his-
toriographic tradition. The first of these were the Ṣalīḥids, who moved into the
Levant ca. 400 ce, and century later, the Ghassanids, also said to be of Yemeni
origin, moved into the Levant, and became clients of Rome in 502 (Shahîd
2012a; 2012b). The Ghassanids seem the more likely candidates for bringing haːk
type dialects into the Levant, since Al-Jallad reports in his paper that in the early
sixth century ce we start to see words with a different realization of the definite
article than had previously been current in the Levant.28 Thus, both the linguis-
tic and historical evidence suggests that a new speech community moved into
the area at this time.
The speech communities approach thus allows us to develop an extremely
detailed understanding of the Arabicization of the Levant. Arabic speakers
using the consonant-alternating dialects were present in the area as early as
the fourth century, when the Namāra inscription was written. Another speech
community moved into the area in the sixth century, and we can suggest that
27 This same principle, that traces of a grammaticalization chain tend to occur in the inno-
vating, rather than borrowing, variety argues against (Al-Jallad 2013) argument that the
relative forms in taː in Hijazi dialects is borrowed from OSA. There are clear traces through
Arabic dialects of the change from demonstrative to relative for this form, whereas the
same traces are not as clear in OSA. The direction of borrowing, if any, is therefore more
likely from Arabic to OSA than the reverse.
28 Al-Jallad, Ahmad, The Spoken Arabic of the Muslim Conquests: Evidence from 7th and 8th
century Greek papyri.
figure 14.2 Levantine Arabic Dialects, based on Magidow (2013), in turn based on Behnstedt
(1985).
this was related to the historical movement of the Ghassanid’s into the Levant.
The late sixth century also brought with it plagues which continued through
the Islamic era. These plagues destroyed the early Islamic ʾamṣār settlements
in the Levant, but also opened the way for the Arabicization of the country-
side. The Arabic speakers who colonized the countryside spoke haːk-dialects
which still preserved some aspects of the earlier consonant alternating dialects.
These speakers must also have begun moving into the cities, but a later group of
speakers, probably entering the Levant post-Islamically, were the major colo-
nizing group of the cities. The two groups influenced one another significantly,
creating hybrid dialects that included elements from both repertoires.
This section has shown how the speech communities approach can be used
to leverage a variety of sources of information, whether they are linguistic
(demonstrative forms) or extra-linguistic (texts, archaeological finds, historical
accounts). Speech communities provide a natural unit of analysis for integrat-
ing this information, and provides a two-way communication between linguis-
tic and extra-linguistic arguments. In contrast to a language-centric approach,
a speech communities approach easily accommodates information about com-
434 magidow
plex repertoires, and this data can help us understand how speech communi-
ties interacted.
6 Conclusion
Language is, at its essence, a social tool, and if we hope to understand the
changes that language undergoes, we must understand the changes under-
gone by its users. This article has argued that the abstraction of ‘language,’
while useful in many contexts, can obscure the link between community and
communication. Instead, we suggest that to understand how some languages
developed, we must return our focus to the ‘speech community.’ Drawing on
a broad research base in sociolinguistics and historical linguistics, we defined
‘speech communities’ as networks of speakers linked by shared allegiances
and repertoires. Since any linguistic repertoire bears the marks of the many
speech communities which have used it over time, this article argues that we
should focus on the plurality of those memberships, rather than focusing only
on the most ancient as is typically done in historical linguistics. Finally, we
showed how the speech communities approach can be used to link linguistic
and extra-linguistic information to reconstruct the repertoires of several pre-
Islamic Arabic-speaking speech communities, and to show how their role in
the early Islamic conquests shaped the Arabic-speaking world today.
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chapter 15
Digging Up Archaic Features: “Neo-Arabic” and

Comparative Semitic in the Quest for Proto Arabic
Naʿama Pat-El
1 Introduction
As scholars of Semitic languages we are fortunate to have such a wealth of

material from various historical periods and various geographical areas.
Indeed, typically doing historical linguistics in Semitic involves looking at
and comparing features of “the big five”: Akkadian, Classical Arabic, Classical
Hebrew, Classical Ethiopic and Aramaic. This is problematic, as John Huehn-
ergard has noted. He suggested that we should work upward: reconstruct each
branch independently and then compare it to others.
For the purpose of reconstruction … one should first compare not all
attested languages, but rather only those that share an immediate com-
mon ancestor; then that intermediate ancestral language may be com-
pared with a language or branching with which it shares an immediate
ancestor still farther back.
huehnergard 1996: 160
So where do we start when we look at Arabic? Conventionally, we look for

clues in Classical Arabic. This dialect is considered conservative, that is pre-
serving archaic features and grammatical structures, primarily on the basis of
its consonantal inventory (Blau 1977). In fact, at least in the early days of histor-
ical Semitic linguistics, Arabic was assumed to be the closest language to proto
Semitic. Some, including many Arabists, still think so today.
But Classical Arabic is a very problematic entity, since it is standardized and
great efforts have been invested in order to preserve an idealized form of the
language. I am not the first to suggest that Classical Arabic is a normalized
and perhaps artificial language, a “construct” (Larcher 2010). Its standardization
included adapting an orthography, expanding the lexicon and developing a
stylistic standard; these were based on multiple linguistic sources (Versteegh
2001, 53). Classical Arabic is therefore a fusion of dialects. Many other related
dialects, however, were spoken over a vast area before the advent of Islam,

442 pat-el
but the written records are fairly limited (MacDonald 2006: 464–465). It is
unclear when and under which circumstances a standard Classical Arabic
has been formulated. Estimations vary from 6th–7th century (Fischer 2006)
to 9th–10th century (Owens 2003). Larcher (2010) suggests that as late as the
seventh century so-called “Neo-Arabic” (non-standard Arabic heretofore) was
still considered appropriate for writing specific genres, “an everyday vehicle of
oral and written communication (which is why we find the dialect variation
and the trace of the oral in the written)” (p. 109). The standardization had a
political motivation, as a language was needed to run the administration of the
sprawling empire (Versteegh 2001: 53).1 As with many forms of standardization,
prescriptive grammarians decided which dialectal forms they accept as part of
the standard language and which they reject. Overall, there was a conscious
attempt to formulate regular paradigms and avoid exceptions (Fischer 2006:
399). Thus, although there may have been a favored variety of Arabic at the
basis of the standardized language, even if imagined, there was still a careful
selection of features to be codified as part of an acceptable standard. The result
is an amalgam.
In this paper, I will look at some features in Arabic dialects, which are clearly
missing from the Classical variety, and therefore probably from the dialect(s)
on which it is based. I will argue, based on comparative evidence, that these
features belong to the Semitic inheritance of this branch. Their absence from
the Classical language is indicative of the dialect’s relative innovation. I further
suggest that other forms of Arabic, i.e. non-standard Arabic, including to a
certain extent, Middle Arabic, which are not normalized and do not attempt to
imitate a non-native variety, preserve a different set of archaic features at least
as well as the Classical Arabic sources. In order to prove that these features are
archaic and not a later development I will use comparative evidence. In the
following I will discuss and evaluate a series of features and will conclude with
some lessons regarding the effects of standardization.
The idea that non-Classical variants preserve archaisms was previously
noted by several scholars. For example, both Bloch (1967) and Schub (1974)
noted relics of Barth-Ginsberg Law, which are not attested in the Classical lan-
guage, where the prefix vowel is consistently -a-.2 Kaye (2007) also suggested
that archaic features are preserved in the dialects, and concludes that the Clas-
1 Fischer (2006: 398) suggests also a religious motivation, aiming to preserve the presumed
language in which the Qurʾān was delivered and to maintain a uniform linguistic form across
the Arab world. Classical Arabic, however, is not based on the language of the Qurʾān, so such
a claim is unsatisfactory.
2 For more features, see Huehnergard (this volume).
digging up archaic features 443
sical language cannot therefore be the linguistic source of the dialects. While
I agree with Kaye’s suggestion that Classical Arabic is not the ancestor of the
modern dialects, I disagree with his analysis of the data and his methodology.
Kaye first assumes a certain feature (the negation particle with a final glottal
stop lāʾ) is archaic and then sets out to prove it by selectively and unsystemat-
ically looking at comparative Semitic evidence, primarily Hebrew. Unsurpris-
ingly, he reaches a convenient but wrong conclusion (that the dialectal Arabic
form laʾ is Proto-Semitic).
The methodology used here is the opposite: I only treat features which have
been proven independently to be at least common Central Semitic. If these
features are attested in non-standard Arabic dialects, but not in Classical Ara-
bic, and cannot be attributed to a secondary development, then the conclusion
must be that Classical Arabic is not more archaic than some non-standard Ara-
bic dialects.
2 Archaisms in Non-Standard Arabic
The discussion concerning the difference between Old and Non-standard Ara-
bic has focused heavily on the nominal case system and the verbal modal sys-
tem, both of which are at least in part represented by final short vowels, which
are susceptible to reduction for phonological reasons and are not overtly repre-
sented in the consonantal orthography of Arabic. I would like to shift attention
to morphological and syntactic features which are less likely to be a direct cause
of phonological changes and where the orthography cannot inhibit interpreta-
tion of the evidence. The list of features suggested here, combined with the
archaic features noted in Huehnergard (this volume), is by no means exhaus-
tive; it is rather highly suggestive that the dialects have much to reveal about
the linguistic situation of early Arabic. The possibilities of such an inquiry are
yet to be fully developed.
The following discussion does not attempt to compare a single Non-standard
Arabic dialect or dialect group to Classical Arabic, but rather follow the evi-
dence of specific features.3 I hope that the following will serve as a contribution
to the discussion, if only for the abundance of evidence that Classical Arabic
could not have been the ancestor of the non-standard Arabic dialects.
3 See also Owens (2003), who correctly notes that “at this point in research on the Arabic
language one can reconstruct, even if only in approximate terms, the history of individual
features. The history of Arabic dialects, however, is a much broader task which has yet to be
embarked upon in a comprehensive way” (Owens 2003: 738).
444 pat-el
2.1 The Definite Article

The definite article is not a common Semitic feature and was developed at least
three times independently in Semitic. One of these times is attested in several
Central Semitic languages, though not in all of them. The relevant languages
are Arabic, Canaanite, Aramaic and Old South Arabian (or Epigraphic South
Arabian). The article is prefixed in Canaanite and Arabic, and suffixed in Ara-
maic and Ancient South Arabian. The syntax of the definite article is shared by
all Central Semitic languages, so it seems likely that despite the differences in
the position of the article, it has a single source. Note the following common
syntactic features (Huehnergard 2005; Pat-El 2009):
1. The article appears on the last member of a nominal dependency pattern

(‘construct’);
(1) rabb-u l-ʿālam-īn

master-nom def-world-obl.pl
‘The lord of worlds’
2. The article does not occur with nouns with pronominal suffixes;
3. Predicative adjectives are not marked with the article;
(2) al-walad-u ṣaġīr-u-n

def-boy-nom young-nom-indef
‘The boy is young’
4. Attributive adjectives agree in definiteness with the noun;
(3) al-yawm-u l-ʾāḫir-u

def-day.ms-nom def-final.ms-nom
‘The final day’
5. The article nominalizes adjectives.
(4) al-muʾmin-ūna
def-believing-mp
‘The believers’
The assumption in the literature is that the definite article originated from a
demonstrative. There are many problems with this assumption, but I would
like to particularly discuss item 4 above. Demonstratives normally are not
duplicated on the adjective, so there is an obvious redundancy here. Mostly

this was explained as a result of nominal agreement: the noun and the adjective
always agree, and if there’s a definite article on the noun, there should be one on
the adjective, and so the definite article moved from the noun to the adjective:
Dem-N Adj. > Dem-N Dem-Adj. So far so good. And indeed the Classical Arabic
evidence by and large does not refute this assumption. However, in several
unrelated Modern Arabic dialects, the article appears on the adjective and not
on the noun; the only region where this pattern is not attested in North Africa:4
(5) Levantine Arabic (Grotzfeld 2000)

a. bayt l-maḥruʾ
house def-burnt
‘The burnt house’
b. baṭṭīḫ əl-ʾaḫḍar
watermelon def-green
‘The green watermelon’
c. sūʾ əl-ʿatīʾ
market def-old
‘The old marketplace’
(6) Maltese (Borg 1989)

a. wied il-kbir
valley def-big
‘The great valley’
b. blata l-bajda
stone def-white
‘The white rock’
(7) Iraqi Arabic (Blanc 1964)

a. ʿīd le-kbīġ
holiday def-big
‘The great feast (Easter)’ (Christian Baghdadi)
4 Dickins (2010) notes that this is a possible pattern in Sudanese, which he interprets to
emphasize the adjective, but does not provide examples.
446 pat-el
b. dfāter el-ʿettaq
notebook.mp def-old.mp
‘The old notebooks’ (Jewish Baghdadi)
c. ʿenab l-aswad
grape def-black
‘The black grapes’ (Muslim Baghdadi)
(8) Omani Arabic (Rhodokanakis 1911)

a. aṣûl ez-ziyâni
origins.mp def-good.mp
‘The good origins’ (72:26)
b. siyûf es-senâni
sword.mp def-sharp.mp
‘The sharp swords’ (73:9)
c. tamr en-nesîb
date def-expensive
‘The expensive dates’ (76)
(9) Andalusi Arabic (Corriente 1977)

a. riḥá al-jidíd
mill.ms def-new.ms
‘The new mill’
b. masjíd al-axḍár
mosque.ms def-green.ms
‘The Green Mosque’
(10) Anatolian Arabic (Procházka 2002)

a. šayx l-əkbīr
sheikh def-great
‘The great sheikh’
b. bi-mayyat il-bērdi
in-water.fs.cnst def-cold.fs
‘In the cold water’
c. ʿarabāyt il-xaḍra
car.fs.cnst def-green.fs
‘The green car’
In various dialects, in such constructions, the substantive head assumes a

construct state (see example 10b above). Historically, these patterns could not
have been construct patterns, because the adjective is always in agreement
with the head noun, unlike real construct where the head noun does not
trigger agreement. Furthermore, semantically, these patterns are clearly N-Adj
combination; thus example 10b cannot be translated as ‘the water of the cold
one’.
Native speakers are quick to reject the pattern as a real feature of their
language. Several scholars have noted that speakers of Lebanese Arabic tend
to ‘correct’ this pattern in writing according to what they think is normative,
thus adding lam before the noun, while in speech the pattern is productive
(Grotzfeld 2000: 10). Borg (1989: 78, n. 19) quotes a local Maltese scholar explain-
ing a similar pattern in Maltese as an ‘orthographical abbreviation’. This atti-
tude may reflect the idea that the spoken language is somehow corrupt, which
is a notion implanted in the psyche of Arabic speakers through schooling
(though perhaps not so much in Malta).
So modern dialects attest to a rather wide spread syntax which is clearly
different than the standard and is not prescribed and only rarely mentioned
in traditional grammars. Those grammatical descriptions that do mention the
pattern, refer to it as colloquial. For example, al-Taʿālibī (2010: 264), who terms
the pattern ‘annexation of a thing to its modifier’ (ʾiḍāfat š-šayʾ ʾilā ṣifatihi),
seem to imply that it is not a standard variant.5 He provides several examples,
such as ṣalāt l-ʾūlā ‘the first prayer’, kitāb l-kāmil ‘the complete book’, yawm l-
ǧumʿa ‘Friday’ etc. The same term is used in Wright (1967: II 232–234, § 97(f)),
who argues that the adjective is nominalized, referring to an external noun, i.e.,
bayt l-muqaddas should be understood as ‘the house of the holy place’, yawm
s-sābiʿ ‘the day of the seventh night’, ṣalāt l-ʾūlā ‘the prayer of the first hour’ etc.
The same structure is attested in Christian and Jewish texts of the Middle
ages. In fact, This feature was noted by Blau (2002) as one of the characteristic
features of Middle Arabic. These texts reflect a language replete with colloquial
features that indicate that their writers were not committed to imitating clas-
sical norms of writings.
5 I am grateful to David Wilmsen for this reference.

448 pat-el
(11) Middle Arabic

a. ʾarḍ l-mūqaddisa
land def-holy
‘The holy land’ (Christian, Blau 1966: 356)
b. fī ṭarīqa l-mustaqīma
on path.fs def-correct.fs
‘On the straight path’ (Jewish, Blau 1995: 161)
c. wa-yawm ṯ-ṯānī
and-day def-second
‘The second day’ (Muslim, Hopkins 1984: 203)
As is clear from Blau (2000)’s discussion, the assumption is that this pattern is
an innovation, not something that is inherent to Arabic or very early. But this
simply goes against the evidence. Pre-Islamic Arabic written in Greek alphabet
found in Petra also contains an example of this pattern, which is I believe the
earliest attestation of it:
(12) βαιθ αλαχβαρ

bayt al-ʾakbar
house def-big
‘The very large apartment’ (Al-Jallad, Daniel, and al-Ghul 2013: 32–33)
Additionally a few examples are in fact attested in the Qurʾān, reflecting a pre-
grammatical tradition text.
(13) Qurʾānic Arabic

a. dār-u l-āḫirat-i
habitation-nom.cnst def-other-gen
‘The other world’ (Q. 12:109)
b. ḥaqq-u l-yaqīn-i
truth-nom.cnst def-certain-gen
‘The certain truth’ (Q. 56:95)
Thus, purely on internal evidence, this pattern should be considered a common

Arabic pattern. In fact, Blanc (1964: 128) cautiously suggests that the Jewish
and Christian Baghdadi dialects preserve traces of an older usage. Here is
where comparative evidence is so useful. This pattern is attested in other
Central Semitic languages as well (Lambert 1895; Lambdin 1971: 321; Sarfatti
1989; Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 260):
(14) Central Semitic

a. rūăḥ hā-rāʿā
spirit.fs def-bad.fs
‘The evil spirit’ (Biblical Hebrew, 1Sam. 16:23)
b. naʿarā ham-məʾōrāsā
maiden.fs def-engaged.fs
‘A betrothed maiden’ (Mishnaic Hebrew, San. 7:4)
c. ʾln-m h-qdš-m ʾl
god-mp def-holy-mp dem.mp
‘These holy gods’ (Phoenician, KAI 14:22)
d. hānnōn tlātā gabr-īn zaddīk-ē

dem.mp three man-mp.indef righteous-mp.def
‘These three righteous men’ (Syriac Aramaic, Aph. Fide 29:19–20)
Since the pattern is independently attested in several Central Semitic languages

and in many Arabic dialects, it is likely that it is shared. We can therefore safely
conclude that the non-Classical pattern is archaic, and that the Classical variety
probably hides the extent of the distribution of this pattern.
2.2 The Form of the Article

The Classical Arabic definite article is orthographically represented as ʾal, al-
though it is pronounced as ʾaC before half the consonantal inventory. For
example:
(15) The Arabic Definite Article

a. ʾaš-šams
def-sun
‘The sun’
b. ʾal-walad
def-child
‘The child’
450 pat-el
This grammatical description is problematic on several counts. First, the

classical orthography seems to indicate non assimilation, since the lam of the
article is always represented in writing, while in other cases of assimilation, e.g.,
I-w in VIII stem, the assimilated consonant is not represented in the orthog-
raphy. Additionally, /l/ does not normally assimilate in Arabic; n assimilation,
partial or full, is far more common, for example, in the Qurʾānic reading tra-
dition (Zemánek 2006) and with the preposition min. In several dialects there
is regular partial or full assimilation of nasals (Watson 1993: 8; 2007: 235–237).
Additionally, it has been repeatedly noted that outside the Classical language
assimilation does not follow the neat distribution prescribed by the grammars;
Ullendorff (1965) argues that there is no uniformity in the treatment of the defi-
nite article. For example, Sanʿani and Cairene Arabic differ in their treatment of
the article before velar plosives (Watson 2007: 217). The only consonants with
which the article is never assimilated in any dialect are the pharyngeals and the
laryngeals (Ullendorff 1965: 633), which is the case for the Canaanite languages
as well, which use an article with an underlying form *han.
Dialectal records, both ancient and modern, indicate, however, that there
was another article with a nasal coronal. Rabin (1951: 50–51) mentions ʾam in
Ḥimyar and Ṭayyi, but ʾan is also attested. Beeston (1981) notes that purely on
the basis of epigraphic material the han article is older than ʾal, since han is
attested some 200 years earlier. This is, however, a rather shaky argument given
the paucity of the evidence. Several modern Yemeni dialects have an article
with a nasal: im in north and north-western dialects, in Minnabih and some
parts of im-Ṭalḥ; an around the area of Ṣaʿda; in in Madīnat Jāwī, Banī Ḥḏēfeh
and Majz (Behnstedt 1987: 85). These nasalized articles cause gemination in all
environments, while al is much more restricted.
The origin of the Central Semitic definite article is much disputed. Arabic
is the only language which uses a liquid, while the other languages show a
nasal. Recently, Rubin (2005) suggested that the Arabic definite article devel-
oped from the plural demonstrative *ʾul-, while the article in other Central
Semitic languages developed from a demonstrative on the basis of *han-. Al-
Jallad (2012) correctly argues that there are three main problems with this
hypothesis: 1) the vowel does not fit well with the attested form in Arabic,
which is a; 2) /l/ does not normally assimilate in Arabic; and c) the hypothe-
sis that the origin of the article is a plural demonstrative makes the assump-
tion that originally there was at least number agreement between the article
and the noun (sg. *han, pl. *ʾul) and in Arabic the plural levelled. This sce-
nario has nothing to support it. Al-Jallad suggests that the nasal article, ʾan,
which he accepts as the original Arabic form, assimilated to a following coronal,
but dissimilated to an /l/ in all other environments. The article ʾal is therefore
a secondary form that was levelled, at the expense of the original nasal article.
Thus, dialects with a nasal article hark back to the Central Semitic article found
in Canaanite and Old South Arabian, *han. The solution of /l/ as the result of
a dissimilatory process has been suggested earlier by Ullendorff (1965), who,
however, suggested that /n/ is also a result of the same process, and in fact the
article is a suprasegmental feature and not a consonant (cf. Lambdin 1971).
While this is certainly a plausible scenario, especially given the lack of *hal
in Arabic inscriptional material and the lack of evidence of *hal as a definite
article outside Arabic, there are a couple of problems here too. First, /l/ is
very rarely attested as a result of dissimilation in Arabic (Zaborski 2006: 188).
Second, many Semitic languages have two variants of what became an article
in Central Semitic, one with final /l/ and one with final /n/. Since both were
independent particles, the former cannot be a result of dissimilation. Thus,
both /l/ and /n/ are attested independently as the final consonant of a particle
beginning with *ha-; see the list under 16 below.
(16) Semitic Presentatives

a. allû, annû (Akkadian)
b. hinnē, halô (Classical Hebrew)
c. hl, hn (Ugaritic)
d. hā, halū (Aramaic)
e. hal, ʾinna (Arabic)
In Pat-El (2009), I suggested that the article developed from a presentative

marker which is expressed as either *han or *hal in various Semitic languages.
It is expressed as *han in Aramaic, Canaanite and Old South Arabian, but as
a reflex of *hal in Arabic. The evidence in ancient dialects, particularly the
evidence discussed in Al-Jallad (2012), seems to indicate that the Arabic case
is more complex. It seems that in Arabic, both particles were used.6 Some
dialects, for example the Yemeni ones, generalized *han, as did the other sub-
branches of Central Semitic. Some generalized hal and some had both in some
distribution.7
The proposal that both particles were used in Arabic but later followed dif-
ferent paths of development explains the otherwise inexplicable distribution
6 Another example in Arabic of n/l alternation in the same paradigm is the Kwairiš (a gələt
dialect) near demonstrative: haḏōl (mp) vs. haḏinni (fp) (Watson 2011: 875).
7 In Ancient North-Arabian both hn and hl are attested, as well as just h, presumably reflecting
assimilation.
452 pat-el
of the han / hal articles in Arabia, which led several scholars to suggest a conver-
gence scenario, accounting for the disappearance of han (Beeston 1981, 185–186;
Edzard 2006, 491). The use of two variants within a single paradigm and the
spread of one of them thereafter is, of course, not rare. The variation of the ver-
bal pronominal suffixes k and t is well attested in Semitic, where even within
the same branch some languages generalize t (e.g., Arabic) and others k (e.g.,
Old South Arabian). If this is true for the article as well, we must assume, quite
reasonably, that there was an original differentiation between *hal and *han. I
would suggest, however, that given their interchangeability in languages lack-
ing a definite article, such as Akkadian and Ugaritic, that difference is lost on us.
2.3 Relative Clause

The Semitic languages have two relative clauses: a relative introduced by a
relative pronoun (examples 17a and 18a) and a relative which is syntactically
dependent on its head noun (examples 17b and 18b):
(17) Akkadian
a. Šarru-kīn šar māt-im šu Enlil māḫir-a lā
Sargon king.cnst land-gen rel.nom.ms Enlil rival-acc neg
iddin-u-šum
he.gave-sub-to him
‘Sargon, king of the land, to whom Enlil has given no rival’ (RIME
2.1.1.6.)
b. qišt-i šarr-um ana rēd-īm iddin-u

gift-gen.cnst king-nom to soldier-gen gave-subord
‘The gift the king gave to the soldier’ (Buccellati 1996: 489)
(18) Ethiopic
a. nabiy-āt ʾəlla tanabbay-u həyya
prophet-mpl rel.mpl prophesy.pf-3mpl here
‘The prophets who offer prophesies here’
b. ba-mawāʿəl-a yəkwennanu masāfənt

in-days-cnst rule judges
‘In the days in which the judges rule’ (Ruth 1:1)
Classical Arabic has a very strict distribution of the relative clause, where
definite head nouns take the pronominal relative (example 19a), and indefinite
head nouns take a relative without any overt marking (example 19b). Thus, the
definiteness of the antecedent is a conditioning factor.
(19) Classical Arabic

a. fa-ttaqū l-nār-a llatī
and-be.ware.imprt.2mp def-fire.fs-acc rel.fs
ʾuʿidd-at li-l-kāfir-īna
prepare.pf.pass-3fs to-def-heathen-mp.obl
‘Beware the fire which has been prepared for the disbelievers’ (Qurʾān
3:131)
b. kitāb-un fuṣṣil-at ʾāyāt-u-hu

book-nom.indef expound.pf.pass-3fs verses.fs-nom-his
‘A book whose verses are expounded’ (Qurʾān 41:3)
The problem with definiteness as a conditioning factor is that the category ‘def-
initeness’ is a relatively late feature in Semitic, while the relative clause is proto
Semitic; so the Classical distribution should have appeared problematic from
the get-go. Unfortunately, not only is it not the case, but rather many schol-
ars believe that the Classical Arabic distribution was the original distribution
in proto Semitic. Statements with this type of reasoning in many comparative
Semitic works can be found as early as Brockelmann and as late as Lipiński.
Furthermore, other languages do not have a similar distribution. Akkadian and
Ethiopic, see examples 17 and 18 above, did not develop a definite article, but
note the examples below from Hebrew, where in 20a the head noun is indefi-
nite and in 20b the head noun is definite and yet they both use the same relative
marker. This is an indication that the use of relative pronoun is not conditioned
by a definite head, and such a pronoun may occur with both definite and indef-
inite heads:
(20) Biblical Hebrew

a. hōdīʿū-nī derek zū ʾēlēk
inform-me path rel go.impf.1cs
‘Let me know which road I should take’ (Ps. 143:8)
b. hinnē ʾĕlōhē-nū ze qiwwinū l-ō

there god.p-our rel long.pf.1cp to-him
‘Here is our god, for whom we have waited’ (Isa. 25:9)
So comparative data indicate that definiteness was not a conditioning factor

for the choice of relative strategy, and that Arabic is possibly an innovation.8
8 For more arguments to that effect, see Pat-El (2014).

454 pat-el
Non-standard Arabic dialects support this conclusion. In these dialects the

definiteness of the head noun is not a conditioning factor, and the relative
pronoun may occur with both definite and indefinite heads, similar to the
Hebrew relatives in example 20 above:
(21) Moroccan Arabic

a. l-ḥūt lli mā kāyn-š ʿənd-u qīma
def-fish rel neg is.neg ext-his value
‘The fish that has no value’ (Brustad 2000: 92).
b. bġī-t ṭumubīl lli təmši məzyān

want.pf-1cs car rel come.impf.3fs well
‘I want a car that will run well’ (Harrell 1962: 165).
(22) Egyptian Arabic

a. ig-gīl illi ṭāliʿ ig-gidīd
def-generation rel growing def-new
‘The new generation that’s growing up’ (Brustad 2000: 92).
b. fī tamsiliyya illi kān-u bi-gibū-hu fi t-ilifiziyōn illi

ext series rel be.pf-3p pref-bring.3p-it on def-TV rel
hiyya bi-tʾūl
she pref-say.3fs
‘There’s a series that they used to show on TV that says …’ (Brustad 2000:
93).
(23) Kuwaiti Arabic

a. šillit-i mū hādi lli ʾabi ʾasāfir wiyyā-ha
group-my neg dem rel want.ptcl.ms to.travel with-her
‘This is not my group that I want to travel with’ (Brustad 2000: 92).
b. əndawwir-l-a bnayya lli tnāsib-l-a

search.impf.1cp-to-him girl rel suit-to-him
‘We are looking for a girl for him who will suit him’ (Brustad 2000: 95).
Brustad (2000) suggested that certain pragmatic factors are at play here, pri-
marily specificity, and that formal definiteness is not relevant, since formally
indefinite nouns can be specific. Furthermore, other non-Classical sources
show this pattern as well: Middle Arabic (example 24), but also, the Qurʾān
(example 25).
(24) lʾ ylsʿ-hw lʾ ʿqrb w-lʾ tʿbn ʾldy hw

neg bite.impf.3ms-him neg scorpion and-neg snake rel he
ʾl-yṣr hrʿ
def-inclinations bad
‘Neither scorpion nor snake which is the evil inclination shall bite him’
(Judeo Arabic, Blau 1995: 232).
(25) ka-maṯal-i l-ḥimāri yaḥmilu ʾasfār-an

as-likeness-gen.cnst def-donkey carry.impf.3ms books-acc.indef
‘Like the donkey which carries books.’ (Qurʾān 62:5)
We have to note, though, that definite heads followed by an unmarked relative

are very difficult to find, because these are easily interpreted as two indepen-
dent sentences, or as circumstantial clauses. So here too, the Classical innova-
tion is hiding what is essentially a common Semitic distribution and appears
in the dialects as well.
2.4 The Form of the Relative Pronoun

The Classical Arabic relative pronoun is a complex of three morphemes: the
definite article, an asseverate lam and a relative pronoun *ðū. Huehnergard
(2010; this volume) suggests that this pronoun is an innovation of Arabic and its
use as a relative pronoun is unique to it. Indeed, no other Semitic language uses
this relative pronoun. The relative pronoun in other Semitic languages is either
a reflex of the basic proto Semitic relative pronoun *ðū (or *θū in East Semitic),
or a lexical replacement (e.g., Hebrew ʾăšer; Huehnergard 2006). In Classical
Arabic, the original Semitic relative-determinative is attested only as a genitive
in very rare cases (see below, example 40b), but has otherwise disappeared.
The dialects show at least three different forms. Most dialects use a relative
pronoun which does not contain a reflex of the proto Semitic relative pronoun
*ðū, either because it is based on an innovation, or because the pronominal
element has eroded. Relative pronouns on the basis of -lv- are found in Egypt,
Mesopotamia, North Africa, Levantine and Gulf dialects (Retsö 2004: 265).
(26) Relative pronouns in the dialects

a. Levantine illi
b. Iraqi əlli
c. Maltese li
d. Saudi lli
e. Egyptian illi
456 pat-el
A minority shows a form similar to the Classical relative, allaði. This is a

sporadic phenomenon attested mostly in urban areas, for example in Ṣanʿa
(Watson 1993: 237) and Baghdad (Jewish Baghdadi; Mansour 1991).9 Most of
these dialects also have a more common variant on the basis of -lv-.
There are, however, some regions where the relative pronoun is remarkably
similar to the expected Arabic reflex of the proto Semitic relative pronoun *ðū.
Such a form is attested in some dialects in Yemen, North Africa and perhaps
Cyprus.
(27) Yemeni Arabic (Ṣaʿda)

im-raǧul ḏā gāʿid hinniyah
def-man rel sit.pres.ms here
‘The man who sits here’ (Behnstedt 1987: 84)
(28) Moroccan Arabic

a. qāl-l-u ʾā wlīd-i ntīna ḥsən mən hādəm d
say.pf.3ms-to-him oh son-my you better from those rel
ḥəžžu
do pilgrimage.pf.3mp
‘He said to him: son, you are better than those who go on a pilgrimage’
(Žbālā, Brustad 2000: 110)
b. ṛ-ṛažel d ma kan ʿand-u saʿd

def-man def neg be.pf.3ms with-him help
‘The man who had no luck’ (Muslim Tetuan, Heath 2002: 495)
c. nʿawd ʿala ḥimla di zat fi-na f-mille neuf

tell.impf.1cp about flood rel come.pf.3fs at-us at-1000 9
cent cinquante
100 50
‘I shall tell about the flood which overtook us in 1950’ (Jewish Sefrou,
Stillman 1988: 134)
9 Blau (1995: 237) enumerates a few more. See also Retsö (2004: 265, fn. 5).
(29) Cypriot Arabic (Kormakiti)10

aḏa o l-payt ta ritt taštri
dem.ms cop.ms def-house rel want.pf.1cs buy
‘This is the house I wanted to buy’ (Borg 1985: 145)
The Classical form allaðī is an innovation (Huehnergard, this volume), the

relationship of which to the common dialectal lli is unclear. Some scholars, e.g.,
Brockelmann (1908–1913: I, 324), believe that əlli is a shortened form of allaðī,
but the phonological process which underlies such a change is completely
ad hoc. Other scholars suggest other paths, either a direct derivation from
the demonstrative ʾullaʾi (Rabin 1951: 155) or a new formation on the basis
of the article and the pronominal element la (Grand’Henry 1972: 142). Both
explanations consider əlli an innovation. The relative particle in the examples
above cannot, however, be the result of sound change from the Classical form
allaðī. It, in fact, seems to be the expected reflex of ðū, the form used only as a
relatively rare analytic possessive marker.
This exact form is the etymon for relative pronoun in all the branches of
West Semitic, more specifically of the masculine singular noun (Huehnergard
2006).
(30) Relative pronouns in West Semitic

a. Ethiopic za
b. Mehri ḏa
c. OSA d
d. Ugaritic d
e. Aramaic zī / dī
f. Hebrew zû
The reflexes in some Non-standard Arabic dialects above are the expected
forms of a previous *ḏv pronoun, not of *al-ḏv. It is, therefore, quite plausible
that a similar form was used by various Arabic dialects, which did not take part
in the allaðī innovation and maintained the archaic Semitic formation.
10 The differentiation between the dental stops /t/ and /d/ was lost in Cypriot Arabic, except
when geminated (Borg 1985: 28); therefore ta can easily be reconstructed to proto Cypriot
*da < *ḏa. A similar though not quite as systematic phenomenon is attested in some NENA
dialects, e.g., Jewish Arbel, where voicing is neutralized in some positions and has resulted
in the relative particle being expressed as id or it (< Late Aramaic də), depending on the
following consonant (Khan 1999: 19, 386).
458 pat-el
2.5 Relative-Genitive Correspondence

Classical Arabic uses construct as its main strategy to mark nominal depen-
dency (example 31a). Rarely, however, a monosyllabic particle is used to mark
an ownership (example 31b).
(31) Genitive
a. rabb al-ʿalām-īn
master def-world-p.obl
‘The lord of the worlds’ (Qurʾān 1:2)
b. firʿawn-u ḏū l-ʾawtād-i
Pharaoh-nom rel def-stakes-gen
‘Pharaoh of the stakes’ (Qurʾān 38:12)
The analytic exponent of the genitive is the same element found in the relative
pronoun (see above, §2.4); however, in the Qurʾān the connection between the
relative and the genitive is rather remote, because of the innovation of allaðī,
which is restricted to mark relative clauses. Outside the canonical texts, the
connection between the genitive and relative is more transparent:
(32) The relative-genitive in early Arabic dialects

a. ḏw ʾsr ʾl-tǧ
rel bound def-crown
‘The one who bound the crown’ (Namāra, Line 1, following Zwettler
2006)
b. ʾḫlṣ ʾ- ḍʾn ḏ ʾl ḥlṣ

make safe.sc.3ms def- sheep rel.ms ʾāl-Ḥlṣ
‘He kept ʾāl-Ḥlṣ’s sheep safe’ (KRS 1964)11
Moreover, several Maghribi dialects use identical strategies to mark their geni-
tives and relatives (Marçais 1956):12
(33) Algir Arabic (Djidjeli)

a. əṛ-ṛažəl əddi ža
def-man rel come.pf.3ms
‘The man who came’
11 I thank Ahmad Al-Jallad for providing this example.

12 For a similar distribution in some Jewish dialects, see Stillman (1988).
b. l-ʾinīn ədd-uḫt-i
def-eyes rel-sister-my
‘My sister’s eyes’
(34) Moroccan Arabic (Sefriwi Judeo Arabic)13

a. r-rabban d-l-blad
def-rabbi rel-def-city
‘The rabbi of the city’ (Stillman 1988: 52)
b. f-ṭwifor di maysi d-s-saʾāfa

in-bowl rel isnot rel-def-pottery
‘A bowl that is not of pottery’ (Stillman 1988: 97)
The Maghribi distribution is exceptional, because it uses the old Arabic pro-
noun *ðū to mark both functions; however, except in the Maghrib, the identity
between relatives and genitives is based on the definite article:
(35) Levantine Arabic

a. sənt əž-žāyi
year def-coming
‘Next year’ (Retsö 2004: 266)
b. sənt əl-ṣār baṭrak

year def-become.pf.3ms patriarch
‘The year he became a patriarch’ (Retsö 2004: 266)
The Maghribi Arabic distribution is identical to virtually all other Semitic

branches, where the genitive and relative are regularly marked with the same
exponent.14
13 Heath (2002: 461–462, 585) also notes this pattern in Jewish Fes, but does not provide
examples.
14 Furthermore, this is also attested in Ancient Egyptian, which means that identity between
the marking of relatives and genitives is probably earlier than Proto-Semitic.
(1) Middle Egyptian

a. bw ntj ntr-w jm
place comp god-p there
‘A place where the gods are’ (apud Allen 2000: 132)
460 pat-el
(36) Akkadian
a. Šarru-kīn šar māt-im šu Enlil māḫir-a
Sargon king.ms.cnst land-gen rel.nom.ms Enlil rival-acc
lā iddin-u-šum …
neg he.gave-subj-to him
‘Sargon, king of the land, to whom Enlil has given no rival’ (RIME
2.1.1.6.)
b. ŠE ša Naṣirʾilī
barley rel.ms Naṣirʾilī
‘The barley of Naṣirʾilī’ (OAIC 6:9 Di, apud Hasselbach 2005: 163)
(37) Ugaritic
a. l pn ỉl mṣrm ḏt tġrn
to face.p.cnst gods.cnst Egypt rel.p.obl protect.ptcl.mp
npš špš
breath.cnst sun
‘Before the gods of Egypt who protect the life of the sun’ (CAT 2.23:21–
23)
b. ʿr d-qdm
city rel-east
‘The city of the east’ (CAT 1.100:62)
Even in Biblical Hebrew, where the relative marker has been replaced by a
noun, it still reflected initially the older syntax, where both relatives and gen-
itives are marked with the same marker (Pat-El 2010). It has been noted previ-
ously that the functional distribution of the relative marker in Maghribi Ara-
bic probably reflects an older state of the language (Retsö 2004). Kossmann
(2010) notes that the genitive-relative correspondence is quite wide-spread
geographically, attested in Jijel (eastern Algeria), Tlemcen (western Algeria),
Jbala (north-western Morocco) and several Jewish varieties, but not in other
Arabic variants. Kossmann suggests that this feature belongs to the earliest
stratum of the language, an early variety which is no longer attested, except in
relics. Kossmann regards this early variety as a simplified form of pre-Maghribi
b. mḫʾ-t tw n-t rʿ
scale-f dem.f rel-f Ra
‘That scale of Ra’ (apud Kramer 2012: 79).
Arabic (Level-0), as a result of a massive L2 influence. However, since Berber

does not have a unified strategy to mark genitives and relatives, I suggest that
this feature is proto-Arabic and is the common Semitic feature, which has been
eliminated in Classical Arabic, possibly due to the innovation of allaðī.
Identity between relative and genitive is not restricted to Maghribi Arabic.
Several Middle Arabic and modern dialects attest to a similar connection,
where the relative and the genitive are both marked as constructs:
(38) Syrian Arabic (Soukhne)

a. bī ʾāl-et tinxol ṭaḥīn
there.is machine-f.cnst sieve.impf.3fs flour
‘There is a machine which sieves the flour’ (Behnstedt 1994: 178)
b. kamkūm-t əṛ-ṛās
apex-f.cnst def-head
‘The top of the head’ (Behnstedt 1994: 177)
This is also identical to a common Semitic relativization strategy, where

attributes which cannot reflect agreement with their nominal head are marked
as dependent on it (Pat-El and Treiger 2008). This strategy is absent from Clas-
sical Arabic, except in relics (adverbial subordination; see Pat-El forthcoming)
and in some early poetry (Retsö 2004). One may, therefore, argue that this
strategy too is an inheritance from common Semitic. While this is certainly
a possibility, I hesitate to take this route since it is equally possible that this
is an accidental similarity as a result of a secondary development, where the
relative pronoun illi in its reduced form il became formally identical to the
definite article. The distribution of the construct relative in Middle Arabic is
identical to its distribution in Classical Arabic, i.e., after temporal nouns. Thus,
since there is no early evidence that construct relatives were marked with a
definite article and there is an alternative explanation to the modern pattern,
the Soukhne relative seems likely to be a local innovation rather than a relic of
Old Arabic.
2.6 Third Person Independent Pronouns

The set of Classical Arabic third person singular independent pronouns is ms
huwa and fs hiya, where the glide is probably determined by the quality of
the vowel. These are in accordance with other similar Semitic pronouns which
lay the basis for a reconstructed set *suʾa and *siʾa (Huehnergard 2002). The
situation in Non-standard Arabic is complex. Certainly there are dialects with
forms which appear to be reflexes of huwa and hiya, following regular sound
462 pat-el
changes. Many Syrian dialects, for example, show hū and hī, whose path of
change may be reconstructed thus:
(39) Ḥawrān (short set)

a. 3ms hū < *huw < huwa
b. 3fs hī < *hiy < hiya
But some dialects have curious forms with final -t, like the Palestinian dialect
of Bīr Zēt: ms hūte, fs hīte. These may be reconstructed as follows (following
Al-Jallad 2012):
(40) Palestinian Arabic (Bīr Zēt)

a. 3ms hūte < *huwti < *huwati
b. 3fs hīte < *hiyti < *hiyati
(41) Egyptian Arabic (Cairo)

ʾa huwwat
presentative pron.ms
‘There he is’ (Behnstedt and Woidich 1985)
Furthermore, some dialects with mono-syllabic forms, as the one noted in

example 39, have an additional set of bi-syllabic forms: like Ḥawrān hūwa and
hīya. The bi-syllabic set looks very much like the set in Classical Arabic, but
could not have been originally identical to it, because it is unlikely that after
a regular sound change, in this case a reduction of final short vowels, both
new and old paradigms will persist concurrently. Al-Jallad (2012) suggested that
since Ḥawrān hīye has the same synchronic form as mīye ‘hundred’, it probably
went through a similar phonological process, namely:
(42) Ḥawrān (long set)

a. ‘water’ mīye *miyye < *miyyeh < *miyeh < *miyet < *miyat < miʾatu
b. ‘she’ hīye*hiyye < *hiyyeh < *hiyeh < *hiyet < *hiyat < *hiʾati
Thus, there is internal Arabic evidence for the existence of another set of third
person independent pronouns with a -tV suffix in Arabic. Furthermore, this
set seems to have existed side by side with the short set in the same dialect.
Classical Arabic has no trace of two paradigms, of course.
Comparative evidence comes to our aid once again. Other Semitic languages
have two sets of third person independent pronouns with and without suffixal
-tV (Huehnergard 2002: 65).
(43) Pronouns with -tV in Semitic

a. Akkadian
i. 3ms šuʾāti
ii. 3fs šiʾāti
b. Classical Ethiopic
i. 3ms wəʾətu
ii. 3fs yəʾəti
c. Ugaritic
i. 3ms hwt
ii. 3fs hyt
Given the data in 43, one can safely reconstruct a dual third person paradigm
for proto Semitic:
(44) Proto-Semitic reconstruction

a. 3ms *suʾa / *suʾati
b. 3fs *siʾa / *siʾati
The distinction between the short and long forms in Semitic is unclear, but
one possibility is that the longer forms are oblique. Al-Jallad notes that several
Northern Syrian dialects and some Qəltu dialects use their longer set as oblique
pronouns (Al-Jallad 2012: 306). In any case, Non-standard Arabic seems to pre-
serve a morphological feature that is proto-Semitic and possibly even earlier,
while Classical Arabic shows no trace of it.
2.7 Wawation
Several kinship terms in Levantine Arabic have a final non-etymological -ū (Al-
Jallad 2012: 13):15
(45) Wawation in Levantine Arabic

a. sīdū ‘grandfather’ (<*siyd-ū)
b. sittū ‘grandmother’ (<*siyd-t-ū)
c. ḫālū ‘maternal uncle’ (<*ḥāl-ū)
d. etc …
15 The same phenomenon is recorded in Jordan, the West Bank and some dialects in the Gulf
(Phillip Stokes, personal communication).
464 pat-el
The same vowel is found on some names both in standard Arabic orthogra-
phy (ʿMRW ‘ʿAmr’), as well as in Biblical (Gašmū [Neh. 6:6]), Nabatean
(MDḤGW in the Namāra inscription) and Greek representation of Arabic
names (αβδοοβδας; Al-Jallad: this volume). Despite attempts to connect this
final waw to case endings, it does not, in fact, reflect nominative since its distri-
bution is indifferent to case; additionally, cases are not otherwise represented
orthographically (Larcher 2010: 107; contra Fischer 2006: 401).
Non-etymological final waw is additionally found in some colloquial phrases
in Lebanese Arabic, such as daḫīl ʿayn-ū, which synchronically do not have
a nominal reference. These frozen phrases occur primarily with body parts
(Mahmoud Al-Batal, personal communication). The same vowel is found in
Lebanese Zajal, an oral poetic form, performed in colloquial Arabic (Haydar
1989).
A final ū as a definite article is only attested in some Ethio-Semitic languages
and is well understood to be a reflex of a suffixed 3rd person masculine pro-
noun: Amharic, ləǧ-u ‘the boy’ < *walad-hū. Huehnergard and Pat-El (2012) have
shown that using this suffixed pronoun as a definite article is actually quite well
attested across the Semitic family, even in languages which have not developed
an article, and should therefore be reconstructed to proto Semitic:
(46) Early definite article in Semitic

a. ina ḫarp-ē-šu
in winter-gen-his
‘In the winter’ (Old Assyrian)
b. bə-ʿitt-ô
in-time-his
‘During the season’ (Classical Hebrew)
c. tamūz d-kawrān-aw
June of-drought-his
‘Hot June’ (Syriac)
d. yrḫ-h
month-his
‘The month’ (Ugaritic)
e. wrḫ-s¹ d-bs²mm
month-his PN
‘In the month Du-Bs²mm’ (Ancient South Arabian)
In all the Semitic languages, except Arabic, a reflex of proto Semitic *suʾa,
the origin of the possessive suffix, functions as both a third person independent
pronoun and a demonstrative. This pronoun does not have distinct oblique and
nominative forms, as the other pronouns do, thus the combination *bayt-V su
could have been interpreted in proto Semitic as either ‘this house’ or ‘his house’.
The first option is found as a relic in every branch, as is clear from 46 above
(for more examples, see Huehnergard and Pat-El 2012). It is almost nonexistent
in Classical and Quranic Arabic, except the following possible example in the
Qurʾān:
(47) Qurʾānic Arabic

l-mušrik-ūna najas-un fa-lā
def-idolator-mp.nom unclean.mp-nom.indef and-neg
yaqrabū l-masjid-a l-ḥarām-a baʿda
approach.subj.3mp def-mosque-acc def-holy-acc after
ʿām-i-him hāḏā
year.fs-gen-his dem.fs
‘The idolaters are unclean, therefore they should not approach the holy
mosque after this year’ (Qurʾān 9:28)
If the third person suffix is the basis of wawation in the modern Levantine
dialects, as Al-Jallad suggests, then we have early evidence for two archaic fea-
tures in Arabic: first a function, long gone in Classical, of the proto Semitic distal
demonstrative hū in its original indexical function. Note that in this function, it
is a postposed demonstrative, as is presumably the original proto Semitic order
(Pat-El 2009). A second feature is the extension of the demonstrative to mark
definiteness, a function that is reconstructible to proto Semitic. The modern
dialects preserve only relics of this function, which is non-transparent to speak-
ers, but earlier non-standard dialects reflect this ancient function of the third
person pronoun which is not attested in the Classical language but is common
Semitic.
3 Lack of Standardization as an Accidental Preservation Mechanism
Standardization is the imposition of uniformity (J. Milroy 2001); superficially, as

a socio-political phenomenon, it has no involvement in historical linguistics. Of
course, speakers must conform to a standard and that may cause change (Labov
1963; L. Milroy 2004). But standardization may inadvertently also preserve
untouched linguistic variants, not because they become standardized and thus
466 pat-el
fossilized, but because they are neglected and ignored, and therefore were
not forced to adjust. I suggest that such accidental preservation may happen
when speakers do not associate their language either with a standard, i.e., they
do not have or know of a standard, or when the colloquial is not recognized
synchronically as related to the standard, for example when the standard is a
learnt variety accessible only to the educated.
An illuminating example is the case of Muslim Pontic Greek, also known
as Romayka, spoken in the Trabzon region of Turkey. This dialect is a form of
Pontic Greek, but was spoken by Muslims, who not only associate themselves
as Turks, but also do not recognize their language as a form of Greek. Unlike
Christian speakers of Pontic Greek, they have no Greek cultural center nor
linguistic model, and no written variety or schooling in the language (Bortone
2009). Since speakers of Romayka have no contact with other speakers of
Greek, they did not participate in attempts to standardized Pontic Greek or
‘clean’ it up from alleged non-native material. Thus, on the one hand, this
variety is lexically innovative and open to massive lexical borrowing from
Turkish. On the other hand, Muslim speakers of Pontic Greek did not adhere to
a notion of ‘correct Greek’ and thus preserved features long lost from the Greek
standard. Bortone (2009: 83–86) provides a long list of archaic features in this
dialect, such as the preservation of the ancient imperative in -(s)om, preserving
the distinction between passive aorist and the perfect, which have merged in
Modern Greek, the modern Greek future particle θα has not developed there,
the infinitive is still used, while it has vanished in all forms of Greek etc. Clearly,
the preservation of these features is an accident and was not intentionally
engineered, unlike similar attempts to archaize the Modern Greek standard
(Joseph and Tserdanelis 2003).
Other examples of dialects preserving archaic features in virtue of their
disassociation with the standard are many Jewish varieties of Indo-European
languages, such as Judeo-Spanish (Bradley and Delforge 2006).
In cases of high levels of literacy, features may be spurned because of their
assumed unacceptable historical record. For many educated speakers, history
is used to legitimize a certain linguistic form (J. Milroy 2001: 550); whether
the form is indeed ancient is beside the point. This is particularly evident in
languages with an influential old body of literature, like Greek, Hebrew and
Arabic. In Modern Hebrew, for example, creating subordinating particles from
a preposition and relative marker, like bigəllal še ‘because’, were branded sub-
standard and rejected by prescriptivists. Dubnov and Mor (2012) argue that
the reason educated Israelis reject bigəllal še is that it is not attested in the
ancient sources, the Bible and Mishna, which serve as the model for Mod-
ern Hebrew usage, and therefore is considered an uneducated innovation.
They show, however, that bigəllal še was used in other varieties of Hebrew
of the time, like Qumran Hebrew. Furthermore, the combination of preposi-
tions and relative marker is itself known from the Bible. In other words, the
syntactic combination is ancient and the specific combination bigəllal še is
attested in the early sources, though not in those regarded as the model of
the language. The decision to reject this form is, therefore, not purely linguis-
tic.
Although dialects are normally mined for their innovative and divergent
features, they can also be conservative, while the standard may be counter-
conservative, that is: not innovative, but puristic, ideological and disdainful of
unfamiliar features regardless of their origin.
The Arabic case, presented here, is particularly interesting. Written Classi-
cal Arabic shows very little linguistic variation. Given that it was written over
such a vast area during a long period, we must assume that those writing the
language spoke different and changing forms of Arabic, even if we have no
direct evidence for it. The appearance of uniformity and rigidity was acquired
through standardization of the language, aided by the work of the Arab gram-
marians.
Standardization was imposed only on the written form (and today also on
official language), but the colloquial was not affected for the most part. The
result is that on the one hand there are few written records of dialects, but
on the other, dialects today, particularly outside urban centers, are a linguistic
treasure trove. The complete separation between the written variety and the
spoken variety, described as ‘diglossia’ (Ferguson 1959), continues to be prac-
ticed even today. The care and protection afforded the Classical language and
its modern variant, Modern Standard Arabic, were not given to the dialects.
The dialects are not perceived as a national or religious symbol to preserve
and elevate.16 Medieval grammarians were interested in dialects in so much
as they provided curious forms, but they were not described in full or codified
and none of their features prescribed. The standardization of Arabic codified a
linguistic variety and rejected any synchronic variability or diachronic chance,
which means that non-standard varieties continued to change while the Clas-
sical language did not. On the other hand, non-standard varieties, colloquial
or informal writing, were able to maintain features, which the standardization
of the Classical language erased. Thus the lack of intervention and linguis-
tic purism preserved archaic features which have been eliminated from the
16 Contra some German variants, like Austrian and Swiss German, whose speakers use local
variants as a sign of national identification (Clyne 1992: 138).
468 pat-el
standard language. Like Muslim Pontic Greek, non-standard Arabic is predom-

inantly without a written tradition. Arabic and Muslim Pontic Greek have not
been standardized for different reasons, but this fact and their lack of a model
to emulate enabled speakers to preserve important and unique features. Thus
the same standardization process, which made so much of the history of Arabic
invisible to modern scholarship, also assisted unwittingly in protecting some of
it.
4 Conclusions
The relationship between Classical Arabic and Non-standard Arabic is a con-

tentious issue. One influential approach is that the Modern dialects developed
from the classical language, or a language closely resembling it, and should be
studied in comparison to it (Fischer 1995; Corriente 2008). Another holds that
the classical language was not a spoken variant at all, and was either a fiction,
based on no contemporary model (Owens 2006) or a language used for spe-
cific literary usage (Brockelmann 1908–1913: 23). These views represent extreme
points and there is a variety of other views between assuming Classical Arabic
is the most ancient and perhaps purest form of Arabic and dismissing its value
as a real linguistic witness. The problem with dismissing the classical language
as a made-up language is that it does show features which are clearly real from
a comparative Semitic point of view, some of which are not attested in Non-
standard Arabic: the case system, the morphologically marked verbal modal
system, the dual, the complex negation system etc. All these are attested in
other languages. Thus, one must assume that the features found in Classical
Arabic reflect features of actual spoken variants, and are not the invention of
the Arab grammarians.
The data presented in this paper suggests a somewhat different state of
affairs. Unless we hold that Classical Arabic was the only dialect of Arabic in
existence at the time of the standardization, we should accept that the prede-
cessors of some Non-standard Arabic dialects must have been contemporane-
ous with it (Corriente 1973). But this is, of course, not commonly accepted. Blau
(1977) argues that the main changes in Non-standard Arabic, primarily the loss
of case endings, were the result of the conquests and the adoption of Arabic by
speakers of other languages, which did not have a case system (probably follow-
ing Ibn Khaldūn’s description in the Muqaddima).17 But if this were the case,
17 In a later paper, Blau suggests that Classical Arabic arose from the poetic language of some
then we would expect the Non-standard Arabic dialects to show either only
innovations or archaic features which are also attested in Classical Arabic.
Blau’s model does not allow for the possibility that these dialects would pre-
serve a linguistic state earlier than Old Arabic. But there is no other way to
interpret the evidence presented here: archaic features found in some Non-
standard Arabic dialects are absent from Classical Arabic.
There is no doubt that Classical Arabic preserves some archaic features, but
since it is a construct, a language at least partially engineered by the grammar-
ians, it quite feasibly lacks many archaic features which existed at the earli-
est forms of Arabic, but were missing from what was considered ʿArabbiya, or
were not considered genuine ʿArabiyya. One such example is the lack of con-
struct relatives in Classical Arabic, except in some relics as adverbial subordina-
tion (Pat-El forthcoming). Construct relatives, however, are found in very early
poetry (Reckendorf 1921), and in some Arabic dialects (Retsö 2004). It is quite
clear, therefore, that the feature is Arabic and was probably lost, or became
peripheral, in some dialects, as it did in other Central Semitic languages, like
Hebrew. It, therefore, did not fit into the grammatical picture orchestrated by
the grammarians. Another example is the use of the relative-genitive marker
ḏū which is sparsely attested in the Qurʾān (38:12), but appears in portmanteau
genitive constructions with a following preposition l in Maghribi, Anatolian,
Cypriot and some Syrian dialects, among others. These cannot all be explained
as a result of linguistic contact.
On the other hand, some of the modern dialects and to a certain degree
the Middle Arabic dialects, are outside the standard and their speakers are not
beholden to the prescribed linguistic model of the classical language. They are
free, therefore, to innovate, but also to preserve their original features without
interference. This is not the case for the classical language. The decision which
feature is accepted as part of the ideal linguistic system was not done on
the basis of historical comparative linguistics, but rather on the basis of a
grammatical theory. Some of the classical features are indeed archaic, but other
are innovative. In other words, Classical Arabic may be an artificially preserved
ancient dialect, but it is not necessarily conservative.
Beeston, who also objected to labelling Classical Arabic ‘conservative’, cor-
rectly notes in a review of Fischer’s Grundriss der Arabischen Philologie:
It is regrettable that we should here be presented with the outdated

notion that Arabic is the “altertümlichste und reinste semitische Sprache
pre-Islamic dialects, and that even in these dialects typical Non-standard Arabic features,
such as loss of case endings, took place (Blau 2006: 80).
470 pat-el
… innerhalb des West- und Sudsemitischen”. Those who used to espouse

this view allowed themselves to be hypnotized by the remarkable survival
of a fully functioning nominal case system, otherwise found only in the
very oldest Semitic languages (Ugaritic and Akkadian); yet in almost every
other respect Arabic is far from answering to this description, being on the
contrary decidedly innovatory.
beeston 1988: 303
The full evaluation of proto-Arabic features cannot be completed on the basis

of Classical Arabic alone. In order to decide which features are uniquely Arabic,
i.e. innovations, and which were inherited from a previous ancestor, i.e., reten-
tions, one must use comparative evidence. The existence of a certain feature in
Classical Arabic cannot by itself serve as a proof that it is archaic. The relative
archaism of a feature needs to be compared with evidence from other Semitic
languages.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank Ahmad Al-Jallad, Phillip Stokes, Daniel Birnstiel and David
Wilmsen for discussing many aspects of this paper with me. They are, of course,
not responsible for the content herein. I also wish to thank audiences in Oslo,
Portland, Austin, Leiden and Frankfurt for fruitful discussions.
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chapter 16
The Arabic Strata in Awjila Berber*

Marijn van Putten and Adam Benkato
1 Introduction
The Berber language family is a cluster of closely related languages spoken

across North Africa, which today share much of the same geographical space
as the Arabic dialects spoken there. This geographic overlap has led to massive
lexical and grammatical borrowing from Arabic into the Berber languages,
beginning already in the earliest period of contact between the two. As we will
show, this early contact has left traces in the Berber languages from stages or
varieties of the Arabic language that are not necessarily the Arabic varieties
spoken in North Africa today.
Scholars have previously devoted attention to the influence of Arabic dia-
lects on Berber varieties regarding lexicon and grammar, most recently Koss-
mann (2013a) and Souag (2009; 2015). However, a corollary of such work is to
study those Arabic strata in Berber more closely with the goal of illuminating
the history of Arabic in North Africa. This paper hopes to present an approach
to the Arabic material in Berber, as well as to develop a method of examin-
ing the dialectal features displayed by Arabic loans in Berber. To do so, this
paper will investigate features of the Arabic loans in the Berber language of
Awjila, spoken today only in an oasis in eastern Libya. The investigation will
be informed throughout by Arabic dialectological approaches as well as by
Berber comparative linguistics, with special reference to Eastern Berber lan-
guages.1
* We would like to thank Lameen Souag, Ahmad Al-Jallad, Maarten Kossmann and Simone
Mauri for commenting on early drafts of this paper.
1 The Awjila Berber material is based on Paradisi’s wordlist and texts (Paradisi 1960a, 1960b)
and the subsequent analysis of the material by van Putten (2014). The phonemic transcrip-
tion employed in this text is an adaptation of the phonemic transcription in van Putten (2014),
with the difference that the consonant ɣ is represented here as ġ, the long vowels a, i, u are
represented as ā, ī, ū, and the accent is marked with an acute accent in all cases. The ‘-’ sign
marks morpheme boundaries and the ‘=’ sign marks clitics. Eastern Libyan Arabic where cited
is from the materials of Adam Benkato. For Eastern Berber languages we consulted: Naumann

the arabic strata in awjila berber 477
1.1 Introduction to Awjila

Awjila is an oasis in eastern Libya, about 250 kilometers south of the coastal
city of Ajdabiya and about 400 kilometers west of the Berber-speaking oasis
of Siwa in western Egypt. The earliest mention of the oasis is in Herodotus
(Histories 4.172), and it appears frequently in the works of the Arab geographers
as noteworthy for its dates—for which it is famous even today (e.g. al-Yaʕqūbī,
Buldān, p. 44). It is the last remaining enclave where Berber is spoken in eastern
Libya, possibly representing what was once a wider Berber-speaking region.
Awjila has a population of fewer than 10,000, and an even smaller (though
currently unknown) number of people still speak Berber;2 the language of
Awjila should probably be considered endangered. Very little research has
been done on the Awjila language until now, the most comprehensive source
being Umberto Paradisi’s material (1960a, 1960b) collected in the late 1950s.
Recent fieldwork has not been possible due to the political situation in Libya.
Earlier material is often difficult to interpret and of questionable quality (most
notably Müller 1827, Zanon 1932–1933. Beguinot 1921, 1924, 1925 provides a
very small amount of lexical data that is of much better quality). All the
material published so far on Awjila has been collected and reanalyzed in van
Putten (2014), which is the source that the material in this paper is based
on.
1.2 Current Contact Situation of Awjila

To discuss the historical contact of Awjila Berber and Arabic, one also needs
to take the current contact situation into account. Libyan Arabic varieties are
to a certain extent quite similar, but generally Western and Eastern Libyan
Arabic dialects can be distinguished (WLA and ELA, respectively). The eastern
geographic location of Awjila obviously means that Eastern Libyan Arabic is
(n.p.) for Siwa, Paradisi (1963) for El-Foqaha, Sarnelli (1924) for Sokna, Beguinot (1942) for
Nefusa, and Lanfry (1973) for Ghadames.
2 The extent to which Awjila Berber is still spoken has become clearer in recent months. First
there is the (completely Arabic!) call for recognition of the Berber language of Awjila posted
to Youtube: http://youtu.be/ygyHs5rYk_U (accessed on 17 December 2013), which indicates
awareness and interest in the preservation of the language. There is also the Ashal-ennax
Facebook group on which natives of Awjila communicate with each other in Awjila Berber.
Many of the speakers on this page do not seem to speak the language fluently, nevertheless,
their knowledge of vocabulary is broad, and it is clear that older inhabitants of the oasis still
speak the language fluently. This material is discussed in more detail by Van Putten & Souag
(2015). When relevant to the discussion, some of the lexical data of this corpus will be cited
herein.
478 van putten and benkato
the primary contemporary influence on it. The variety of Arabic spoken in

Awjila specifically has not been studied, and so the extent to which it differs
from ELA is unknown, though it is assumed that the difference is minimal.
We will also refer to Benghazi Arabic (BA), which is the variety of ELA spoken
in Benghazi and that on which the most recent fieldwork has been done (cf.
Benkato 2014); for ELA we also refer to the material of Owens (1984), and
Panetta (1943),3 and for WLA to that of Pereira (2010).
Awjila obviously has a large amount of vocabulary borrowed from Arabic,
but it is not our intention to discuss or list all of the known borrowings. Many
borrowings simply reflect dialectal features of ELA (or in some cases WLA),
while others do not display any features that can be attributed to specific
dialects. Such words do not provide us with a glimpse of an earlier linguistic
situation. Instead, we focus on words which can shed interesting light on the
Arabic varieties from which they were borrowed.
2 Archaic Phonological Features
2.1 The Reflexes of qāf in Arabic and Berber

In Awjila, nearly all Arabic loans have the reflex q of qāf. This stands in sharp
contrast with all known modern varieties of Libyan Arabic, where the reflex
is consistently g. Of course, q is a well-known feature of ‘pre-Hilali’ dialects in
North Africa, a variety of which was the dialect of the Jews of Tripoli (cf. Yoda
2005: 292–297; it is no longer spoken in Tripoli). It is unknown whether other
‘pre-Hilali’ dialects were spoken in other parts of Libya. As Awjila phonology
has a phoneme g, there is no reason why Awjila would have borrowed the qāf
with a q if the dialect it borrowed from had g. Therefore, Awjila borrowings with
q must come from a variety of Arabic with a uvular qāf. Not a single variety of
Arabic spoken in Libya today retains this uvular pronunciation.4 The attested
borrowings with q from Arabic qāf are listed below:
3 Panetta’s material represents an older and slightly different stratum of BA (for a discussion
see Benkato 2014).
4 Indeed, the same is true for the Berber variety of Siwa in western Egypt, in which the majority
of Arabic loans have [q] and not [g], cf. Souag 2009: 54–55. In fact, q is the most common reflex
of qāf across all Berber languages (Kossmann 2013a: 189).
Awjila ELA
ənqə́ṣ ‘to be missing, to lack’ nigạṣ ‘to lack’

qərīb́ ‘to be near’, 3sg.m. greyb, gạrīb ‘near’
(stative verb)
yəqā ́rəb 3sg.m.pf. ‘to draw near’ īgạ̄ rub ‘to draw near’
ǝlḥə́qq ‘due, price’ ḥạgg ‘price’
ṣṣūndū ́ q ‘box’ ṣạndūg ‘box’
ǝlqā ́ḍī ‘judge’ gạ̄ ḍ̱ ī ‘judge’
́
tṣǝddǝqt=ī=ya itṣạddạg 2sg.m. ‘you
2sg.res. ‘you believe’
believe me’
qə́wī ‘strong’ gạwī ‘strong’
qəṭṭā ́ʕān ‘thieves’ unattested
ssū ́ q ‘market’ sūg ‘market’
ǝṛṛǝfǝqā ́(=nnǝs) ‘(his) friends’ urfagā ‘friend’
təbūqā ́lt ‘jar, vase’ būgāl ‘jar, vase’
āqə́l ‘to roast’ galā ‘to roast’
tzənə́qt ‘road’ zanga ‘alley, small road’
əlbəqīś ‘twinkle, glimmer’ bagis ‘twinkle’
A few words with the reflex g are attested. These are probably recent loans from
a modern Libyan Arabic variety such as ELA, but at the very least cannot be
loans from the same stratum as loans with q.
Awjila ELA
ǝlgǝdǝr(=ə́nnəs) ‘(his) cooking pot’ gidir ‘cooking pot’

ǝlgǝfā ́(=nnǝs) ‘back of (his) head’ gufạ̄ ‘back of the neck’
iṭū ́ g ‘to reach’ īṭugg ‘to reach’
2.2 The Reflex of ʕayn

In the majority of the borrowings from Arabic words that contain an ʕayn,
Awjila simply retains the ʕayn:
Awjila ELA
ssə́b(ə)ʕa ‘seven’ sabʕa ‘id.’

ʕə́dd ‘to go’ ʕạddī ‘id.’
ərfə́ʕ ‘to lift up; to take away’ yạrfạʕ ‘to raise’
ʕəryā ́n ‘to be naked’ ʕạryān ‘naked’
But there are a few nouns that apparently have lost the ʕayn. These forms are
discussed in more detail in sections 4.5 to 4.9.
ālə́gmət ‘friday’ Ar. ǧumʕa ELA žumʕa ‘id.’

lāfīt ‘well-being’ Ar. ʕāfiya ELA ʕāfiya ‘id.’
āmmī ‘uncle’ Ar. ʕamm ELA ʕạmm ‘id.’
təlā ́bā ‘wool garment’ Ar. ʕabāʔ ELA ʕabā ‘cloak, robe’
2.3 The Reflex of ǧīm

The reflex of ǧīm in Arabic loans in Awjila generally agrees with that of the
Maghrebi dialects, being reflected as a post-alveolar voiced fricative ž:
əddə́mləž ‘bracelet’ ELA dimliž ‘id.’

ālḥā ́žət ‘thing’ ELA ḥāža ‘id.’
əžžəḥīm ́ ‘hell’ ELA žihīm ‘id.’
But in the case of ālə́gmət ‘friday’ (from Ar. ǧumʕa ‘id.’), we find the unusual
reflex g for the ǧīm. This form will be discussed in more detail in section
4.5.
3 Arabic Verbs and Nouns in Awjila
3.1 The Arabic Verb in Awjila

While Arabic nouns generally undergo very little morphological incorporation
in Awjila, Arabic verbs are thoroughly incorporated into the verbal system. This
is undoubtedly related to the fact that, like in Arabic, verbs in Berber often have
three root consonants around which forms are built. A borrowed Arabic verb
such as y-ənšə́d ‘to ask’ conjugates identically to the native Berber verb y-ədyə́z
‘to sing’ (Van Putten 2014: 84).
pf. impf.
y-ədyə́z ī-də́yyəz ‘to sing’

y-ənšə́d ī-nə́ššəd ‘to ask’ ELA yinšad ‘id.’
Arabic verbs of other root types are also incorporated into their (more-or-less)
equivalent Berber verb type, for example final weak verbs are treated as verbs
with word-final ∅/a/i variation (Van Putten 2014: 84f.) e.g.:
impv. pf. impf.
āgə́z y-ə́gzā y-əgə́zzā ‘to cut’

āqə́l y-əqlā ́ y-əqəllā ́ ‘to roast’ ELA yiglī ‘id.’
3.2 Geminate (C2=C3) Verbs

While some verbs can be regularly nativized, there are several root types that
do not readily correspond to native verb types in Awjila, for example the Ara-
bic C2=C3 verbs (geminate verbs). This verb type has several unusual features.
Arabic C2=C3 verbs have a root vowel a in the perfective and a root vowel
a, i, or u in the imperfective. Berber languages have different strategies of
borrowing these types of verbs (see Kossmann 2013a: 246–252). As Awjila does
not retain a contrast in the short vowels, we might therefore expect that the
root vowel is simply ə. But instead we find that the root vowel is always a long
ū (Van Putten 2014: 93):
Awjila ELA / Ar.
pf. 3sg.m. yəmmū ́ dd ‘to extend’ īmidd/madd ‘id.’, Ar. yamuddu/madda

‘id.’
pf. 3sg.m. yəddū ́ gg ‘to knock’ īdugg/dạgg ‘id.’, Ar. yaduqqu/daqqa ‘id.’
pf. 3sg.m. īllū ́ ff ‘to wrap up’ īliff/laff ‘id.’, Ar. yaluffu/laffa ‘id.’
(cont.)
Awjila ELA / Ar.
res. 3sg.m. īssū ́ dd=ā, īssūddī(=dīk)=ā

́ īsidd/sadd ‘id.’, Ar. yasuddu/sadda ‘id.’
‘to be enough’
pf. 1sg. ḥūssīx́ ‘to feel’ īḥiss/ḥass ‘id.’, Ar. yaḥussu/ḥassa ‘id.’
pf. 3sg.m. īṭū ́ g ‘to reach’ īṭugg/ṭạgg ‘id.’, Ar. yaṭuqqu/ṭaqqa ‘id.’
́
pf. 3sg.m. yəffūkkī(=tət) ‘to untie, īfikk/fakk ‘to separate’, Ar.
solve’ yafukka/fakka ‘to untie’
pf. 3sg.m. īllū ́ m 2pl.m. təllūmā ́m, īlimm/lamm ‘id.’, Ar. yalummu/lamma
təllūmmā ́m ‘to gather’ ‘id.’
It would seem that this long root vowel ū in Awjila is based on the Arabic
imperfective root vowel u found in many of the verbs of this type. But if it is true
that this vowel is an attempt at rendering short vowel u,5 this must be an archaic
feature. Geminate verbs in ELA typically have an a vocalism in the perfective
and an i in the imperfective, as can be seen above. Nevertheless, there are
several geminate verbs in ELA that have a vowel u in the imperfective stem:
pf. impf.
3sg.m. xạšš īxušš ‘to enter’

ṭạgg īṭugg ‘to reach’
ṣạbb īṣubb ‘to pour’
ELA has a system of vowel harmony (cf. Owens 1984: 15–49) where the front
vowels i and a occur in front prosodic contexts, and their allophones are u and
ạ (a̱ in Owens’ transcription) in back prosodic contexts. For geminate verbs, the
distribution of i and u is thus entirely dependent on the frontness or backness
of the stem.6
5 A similar process is described for Classical Arabic loans in Tashelhiyt (van den Boogert 1997:
223–224), whose vowel length is neutralized: both the short and long vowels are borrowed as
plain vowels.
6 Not all consonants are always back or always front. g for example sometimes causes backing:
īdugg ‘to knock’ but īḥigg ‘to see’. The distribution of i and u particularly in geminate verbs is
discussed in more detail in Benkato 2017.
Another striking feature that can be seen in the examples above is that
many verbs of this type have an initial lengthened consonant in Awjila. This
lengthening of the initial consonant does not seem to occur in three verbs of
this type: the native word īšū ́ gg ‘to wait’,7 and the loanwords ḥūssīx́ and īṭū ́ g.
Verbs derived from Arabic stem II verbs also occasionally show the same initial
lengthening, for example:
impf. 3sg.m. īdəwwā ́r, 3pl.f. ddəwwā ́rnət ‘to look around; to ELA īdowwur ‘id.’
search’
pf. 1sg. kəmmə́lx 3sg.m. īkkə́mməl, yəkkə́mməl ‘to finish’ ELA īkammil ‘id.’
pf. 3sg.m. īrə́wwəḥ 3pl.m. rrəwwəḥən; impf. 3sg.m. īrə́wwāḥ ELA īrowwạḥ ‘id.’
‘to return home’
pf. 3sg.m. īssə́lləm; impf. 3pl.m. səllā ́mən ‘to greet’ ELA īsallim ‘id.’
But the majority of the verbs of this type lack this initial lengthening, among
which are:
pf. 3sg.m. īġəllə́b(=tən) ‘to best s.o., to defeat ELA īġạllib, yạġlib ‘to best s.o.’
s.o.’
fut. 3sg.m. ā=īsə́bbəḥ ‘to bathe’ ELA īsabbaḥ ‘to bathe’
imp. sg. sə́nnəṭ ‘to hear, listen’ ELA īṣạnnạt ‘to listen’
́
res. 2sg. tṣəddəqt(=ī)=yā ‘to believe’ ELA īṣạddig ‘to believe’
pf. 3sg.m. īwə́ddən; impf. 3sg.m. īwəddā ́n ‘to ELA īwaddin ‘to crow’
crow (of a rooster)’
One wonders whether there is an internal explanation for this lengthening. One
place where we find a similar variation between short and lengthening initial
consonants is in the causative derivation. Causatives in Berber have the prefix
ss-, which is shortened to s- in the imperative in several dialects. In Siwa Berber,
this variation in length has spread to verb types that have a root shape similar
to causative verbs (forms are taken from Naumann n.p.).8
7 īšū ́ gg ‘to wait’ is etymologically problematic, cf. El-Foqaha sū ́ ggəm, Nefusa sū ́ ggəm ‘id.’ Both
languages have a final consonant m which has been irregularly lost in Awjila.
8 We thank Lameen Souag for pointing us to this development in Siwa, and the suggestion that
it might explain the situation in Awjila.
Imperative Perfective
|s-əCCəC| səlməd yəssəlməd ‘to teach’ < lməd ‘to learn’

|CəCCəC| ḅəṛṭeṃ yəḅḅəṛṭeṃ ‘to grumble’
|s-əCːəC| səlləy yəssəlləy ‘to bend’ < lləy ‘to be bent’
|CəCːəC| kəmməl yəkkəmməl ‘to finish’
One might wonder if we might explain the length variation in Awjila in a sim-
ilar way. However, the causative prefix in Awjila is invariably a short š-, so the
origin of the lengthened initial consonants cannot be an internal development.
It can however be the result of these Arabic borrowings entering the language
through another Berber language that did have this morphological length vari-
ation, for example Siwa. This might explain the rather sporadic appearance of
lengthening of the initial consonant in stem II verbs, where those with length-
ening may have entered the language through a Berber dialect, while those
without entered the language directly from an Arabic dialect.
3.3 Structure of Arabic Nouns in Awjila

Like in other Berber languages, Arabic nouns in Awjila belong to a specific class
of nouns that differs from native nouns. The Arabic noun class always has the
Arabic definite article l-, əl- or āl-.9 The l assimilates as it does in Maghrebi
dialects (i.e. to the šamsī letters, including ǧīm). The Arabic definite article
is obligatory and does not express definiteness. The Arabic feminine suffix -a
(written tāʔ marbūṭa) nearly always has the form -ət; in only one attested case
(sána ‘year’) is the feminine -a taken over as -a.10 Arabic loanwords inherit their
plural formations from Arabic. Examples in Awjila include:
9 The allomorph āl- appears to be a retention of the vocalic value of the Arabic article al-.
Berber dialects of the Maghreb no longer have a reflex al- of the article. The distribution
of this allomorph is not clear.
10 The ending -ǝt in nouns borrowed from Arabic feminine nouns with -a is nearly ubiquitous
in Berber (Kossmann 2013a: 209 ff.); Indeed, the ending -ǝt can be considered part of the
loanword morphology in the same way as the otiose Arabic definite article. One may be
tempted to consider the -ət a retention, equivalent to the Classical Arabic feminine marker
-at. But as Kossmann points out, such a form is unattested in the Maghreb, and even
outside the Maghreb this form is extremely rare, therefore reconstructing it for an early
Maghrebi Arabic stratum raises as many questions as it answers.
əlbā ́b ‘door’ ELA bāb ‘id.’

əlbəḥr ‘sea’ ELA bəḥar (*baḥr) ‘id.’
əddəllā ́l ‘auctioneer’ ELA dallāl ‘id.’
ālīdā ́m ‘butter’ Mor. Ar. īdǟm ‘fatty substance’, Ar. ʔidām
‘bread seasoning’
lḥəbb pl. ləḥbū ́ b ‘date (mature)’ ELA ḥabb, əḥbūb ‘grain’
əlkətf pl. ləktūf ‘shoulder’ ELA kitif, iktūf ‘id.’
́
ssū q ‘market’ ELA sūg ‘id.’
əlʕā ́ləm pl. ‘scholar’ Ar. ʕālim pl. ʕulamāʔ ‘id.’
əlʕūlāmā ́
əžžəḥīm ́ ‘hell’ ELA z̆ iḥīm ‘id.’
əlḥəzmət ‘bundle’ ELA ḥizma ‘id.’
́
əlḥā žət ‘thing’ ELA ḥāz̆a ‘id.’
Some Arabic loanwords are integrated morphologically into Berber, receiving a

masculine a- or a feminine t- … -t marking. These integrated nouns have regular
Berber plural formations:
āḥṓlī pl. ḥōlā ́wən ‘lamb’ ELA ḥowlī ‘lamb’

tzənə́qt11 pl. tzənqīń ‘street’ ELA zanga ‘alley, small street’
Some Arabic loans in Awjila Berber have a syllable structure not found in
contemporary ELA. For example, əlbǝ́ḥr ‘sea’ shows a syllable structure of Cv́CC
(Paradisi records both elbáḥăr=ī and älbáḥr=ī, where the ă is epenthetic, see
van Putten 2014: 38). The corresponding word in ELA is il-bạḥạ́ r, which shows
a re-syllabified structure CvCv́C. Even if one supposes that short vowels in
open, unstressed syllables are deleted—which does not happen in ELA—the
resulting hypothetical structure *CCv́C would not have yielded the Awjila form.
Another example, ǝṛṛǝfǝqā ́(=nnǝs) ‘(his) friends’, differs by retaining ǝ for
both short vowels (cf. Ar. rafīq pl. rufaqāʔ ‘friend, companion’), which are
unstressed but not syncopated. While in today’s ELA this syllable structure is
11 The unusual syllabification of this word is probably a result of the nativization process.
After the removal of the Arabic feminine ending -a and the addition of the Berber
feminine marking t- … -t, the expected form would be *tzənqt. The cluster of three
consonants was regularly broken up to yield tzənə́qt.
acceptable in nativized Classical Arabic loans (ELA rufagā ‘friends’), in older

BA, it was not, as Panetta records rfīg pl. rfágā ‘companion’ (Panetta 1943: 78).
Differently, lǝḥkā ́yǝt ‘story’, reflects an Arabic prototype *l-ǝḥkāya, form of Ar.
ḥikāya ‘id.’ with a syncopated short vowel in an open syllable.
These two examples display differing treatments of unaccented short vow-
els, implying that they belonged to different strata of Arabic. Unfortunately
there is not yet enough data on Awjila to be able to draw further conclusions
about syllable structure in the Arabic strata which influenced Awjila.
4 Lexicon
The Arabic lexicon in Awjila attests to a long and sustained contact with
the Arabic dialects. Many of the loans, for example those with g rather than
q for qāf, are recent and are not immediately relevant in this study. Other
loans suggest that the distribution of languages and varieties in Libya was dif-
ferent in the recent past than it is today; for example words such as yerfə́ʕ
‘to take, carry’ and a=hlə́b-ən ‘(they would) pass’ are typical of present-day
WLA rather than ELA.12 In other cases we find words with slightly different
meanings than we find them in the modern dialects such as əlġə́bəš ‘morn-
ing’, which is clearly related to, but different in meaning than, for example,
ELA ġạbša ‘dawn’ and Ar. ġabaš ‘darkness or duskiness of the last part of the
night’.
What will be highlighted in this section are a selection of loanwords that are
important because they preserve traces of Arabic dialects that no longer exist in
North Africa in general and Libya in particular, or loanwords that indicate that
Awjila Berber was in contact with Arabic varieties from the earliest presence of
Arabic in North Africa.
4.1 ẓūm ‘to Fast’

One of the most obviously archaic Arabic loans in Awjila is ẓūm ‘to fast’,
which is certainly borrowed from Ar. ṣāma (impf. yaṣūm) ‘to fast’. The voiceless
emphatic fricative ṣ is not found in native Berber vocabulary as Berber origi-
nally only had a single emphatic fricative ẓ. In the vast majority of Arabic loans
in Berber with an original ṣ (for which see Kossmann 2013a: 184–189), the ṣ has
been borrowed along with the word. Only two words, ẓūm ‘to fast’ and ẓẓāll ‘to
12 WLA has yarfaʕ ‘to take, carry’ whereas ELA has īšīl ‘to carry’ (ELA yarfaʕ means ‘to lift’),
WLA has yǝhlǝb ‘to pass’ where ELA has īfūt ‘to pass’.
pray’, have ẓ in place of ṣ. This suggests that these words have been borrowed at
a stage where ṣ was not yet integrated into the phonemic system of Berber (note
that ẓẓāll ‘to pray’ is unattested in Awjila; for more on ẓūm and ẓẓāll see Koss-
mann 2013a: 82–83). The presence of this word in Awjila, and indeed in Berber
varieties in general, attests to the antiquity of Berber contact with Arabic. It
should be noted that these terms are religious terms, and very characteristic of
Islam. It stands to reason that religious vocabulary would be among the first
to be passed from the incoming Arabic-speaking Muslims to the indigenous
Berbers, and thus that these terms reflect the earliest stratum of Arabic loans
in Berber.
4.2 alū́ lī ‘dhuhr prayer’

alū ́ lī ‘midday, noon; dhuhr prayer’ is transparently a loanword from Arabic al-
ʔūlā ‘first, foremost (f.)’, and corresponds to Siwa luli ‘dhuhr prayer’. As shown
recently by Souag (2015: 361–362), aṣ-ṣalāt al-ʔūlā lit. ‘the first prayer’ was a
regular variant for ṣalāt aẓ-ẓuhr ‘noon prayer’ in early Islamic times. This word
is also attested in Songhay aluula and calqued into many Berber languages
using the root ZWR ‘to be first’: Tashelhiyt tizwarn, Zenaga tǝẕ̌baṛǝn, Tamasheq
tézzar (Souag 2015: 369–371; also Kossmann & van den Boogert 1997).
Of interest for our study is that the Arabic dialect which was the source of
this prayer name in Awjila and Siwa had a final ī where in Classical Arabic there
is ā (written with alif maqṣūrah). This may be a reflex of the Old Arabic semi-
vowel y in this word.13
Today, the more conventional name ẓuhr has displaced this early name in
most modern Arabic dialects. However, there appear to be some Moroccan
varieties that retain this word: luwli (f. luwla pl. -yen, lwala) ‘first; midday
prayer’ (Harrel 1966)14 and lūŭli (f. lūŭlīya pl. -īyīn) ‘first; the first call to the
midday prayer’ (Prémare 1993).15 The word in Moroccan Arabic is no longer
13 For a more in-depth discussion on the final diphthong *ay in Arabic see Al-Jallad (this
volume; sec. 5.1) who shows on the basis of Arabic words transcribed in Greek script that
*ay was presereved as a diphthong and not as ā. A substantial number of Arabic words
with original *-ay (alif maqṣūra in the written form) also appear in Siwi with final -i rather
than -a (Souag 2009: 55–56; 2013: 36). Siwi ššti ‘winter’ and ddwi ‘medicine’ correspond
to Arabic šitāʔ and dawāʔ. These also originally had a final consonant y, e.g. Safaitic s²ty
‘winter’ (Al-Jallad 2015: 345) and dwy ‘to be ill’ (Al-Jallad 2015: 311).
14 The feminine and plural forms listed by Harrell are unexpected. luwla is rather the regular
feminine of luwwel ‘first’ (< luwwel + -a), and luwliyen unexpectedly has a final short vowel
in the plural suffix rather than the long vowel suffix -in.
15 Andalusian Arabic may have also retained a reflex of this word: IQ awwalī GL awwaliyun
interpreted as a feminine counterpart to al-ʔawwal but rather as a masculine

form (with a univerbated article). luli appears to have been reinterpreted as
the regular reflex of *al-ʔawwal-ī whose Moroccan Arabic reflex luwli is almost
homophonous.16
4.3 ́ ‘Evening, Evening Prayer’

mnīšīw
mnīšīẃ ‘evening, evening prayer’ is not a direct loan from Arabic, but rather
appears to be a calque on the Ar. ṣalāt al-ʕišāʔ ‘nighttime prayer’ (lit. ‘prayer of
the night’). This term is often calqued in Berber dialects, as has been pointed
out by Kossmann (2013a: 78–79), some examples are:
Figuig ti-n-yiṭ (lit. ‘those of the night’)

Mzāb ti-nn-iḍəs (lit. ‘those of the sleep’)
As Souag (2015: 360–361, 363) points out, the name Ar. ṣalāt al-ʕišāʔ ‘nighttime
prayer’ was used in the early Islamic period in North Africa for the ‘Maghrib’
prayer as well. This may be explained due to a confusion of the two related
words ʕišāʔ ‘evening, evening prayer’ and ʕašāʔ ‘supper’, the distinction be-
tween which is neutralized in most Maghrebi dialects (though not in ELA).
It is not clear from Paradisi’s wordlist whether the word refers to the true
ʕišāʔ-prayer, or the Maghreb-called-ʕišāʔ prayer. The Ashal-ennax Facebook
group provides a confirmation that it indeed refers to the Maghreb prayer.17
As Souag (2015: 363) suggests, it seems likely that mnīšīẃ ‘evening, evening
prayer’ is a calque on this misinterpretation, because the word seems to be
derived from the preposition n ‘of’ combined with āmīšīẃ ‘supper’. A hypothet-
ical original phrase might have been *tī n āmīšīẃ ‘those of supper’, with loss of
the initial ā- prefix and metathesis of the n and m.
4.4 əlʕəqqā́ b(=i) ‘(in the) Evening’

The previous two words discussed are retentions of prayer names in Awjila
that have fallen out of use in the modern dialects of which we still have his-
AL avilí + ín ‘first born; principal; matins’ (Corriente 1997: 33). ‘Matins’ is a nighttime prayer
in the catholic Liturgy of the Hours. Alcalá (1883: 329) (= Corriente’s AL), however, equates
al avilĭ with Terce, the 9 a.m. prayer, a meaning not given by Corriente. This is the prayer
that precedes Sext (the 12 p.m. prayer) which is translated as a dóhar.
16 luwli in the meaning ‘first’ from *al-ʔawwalī is also attested in other Maghrebi dialects, e.g.
ELA lowwlī ‘first’.
17 ‫⟨ المغرب‬ʾlmġrb⟩ is translated as ‫⟨ امنيشيو‬ʾmnyšyw⟩, while ‫⟨ العشاء‬ʾlʕšʾʔ⟩ is translated as the
hitherto unattested word ‫⟨ امناشرق‬ʾmnʾšrq⟩ /(ə)mnāšrəq/ (?).
torical records. But it is of course possible that Awjila retains Arabic words
which have fallen out of use in the modern dialects, and of which no his-
torical record has been found. An example of such a retention seems to be
əlʕəqqā ́b(=ī) ‘(in the) evening’, which is transparently a faʕʕāl noun deriva-
tion of ʕaqaba ‘to follow’ (where =i is the Awjila locative clitic). The derivation
would mean something like ‘that which follows’, implying ‘that which follows
the day’. This is, of course, not an unlikely word to use to denote the evening,
but it is otherwise unattested. Awjila appears to reflect a stratum of Arabic
that did use this word to denote the evening, but of which all trace has been
lost. An interesting lead in this matter might be that in the Bedouin dialect
of the Marazig in southern Tunisia, the term ʕăgāb il-lēl means “the end (lit.
rest) of the night” (Ritt-Benmimoun 2014: 127). One could envision a paral-
lel hypothetical *ʕăgāb il-năhār “the end of the day”; nevertheless phonetic
difficulties (Awjili has qq where Marazig has g < *q) would need to be sur-
mounted.
4.5 ālə́ gmət ‘Friday’

ālə́gmət ‘Friday’ must be a loan of Arabic ǧumʕa ‘Friday’, but differs phoneti-
cally in several unusual ways. The first striking feature is the reflex of the Arabic
ǧīm as g, a pronunciation well-known from Egyptian Arabic, but absent in the
Maghreb where it generally ž.18 The other striking feature is the absence of a
reflex of ʕayn.19 These features point to an early borrowing from Arabic. Assum-
ing an early date of borrowing for this word seems likely, as Friday is obviously
an important day in both Islamic ritual practice and administration.
Reflexes of this early loan are only found in Eastern Berber languages:
Ghadames alǵāmat ‘id.’

Siwa ləžmət (Naumann n.p.), əlžmət (Souag 2013: 28) ‘id.’
Foqaha ləžmat ‘id.’
Nefusa ligmə́t ‘week’
Note that Ghadames and Nefusa, like Awjila, have a velar reflex of ǧīm, while
Siwa and Foqaha have a sibilant reflex. One might wonder whether the Siwa
and Foqaha forms may have replaced the g with a ğ on the basis of the current
18 In some dialects of North Africa, *ǧ is deaffricated to g in contact with other sibilants (cf.
Pereira 2011: 947).
19 The Ashal-ennax corpus confirms the absence of ʕayn: ‫⟨ القمت‬ʾlqmt⟩. Arabic loans in
Berber in general almost always retain the ʕayn, cf. Kossmann (2013a: 196).
dialectal Arabic form. However, it seems unlikely that these languages would
only borrow part of the word from the dialectal form and not also introduce
the ʕayn. Moreover, there is a phonetic reason why the ž in Siwa and Foqaha
does not seem to be a later introduction into the word. Both Siwa and Foqaha
assimilate the article to ž regularly as per the Arabic rule, even if this yields a
cluster of three consonants, e.g. Siwa əžžzirət ‘island’, əžžluda ‘hides’, however,
the article in this word did not undergo this assimilation.
As the sibilant reflex of the ǧīm in Siwa and Foqaha does not appear to
be a recent replacement of g, we must find a different explanation. In the
reconstruction of Proto-Berber, two sets of velar stops are reconstructed: a plain
velar set and a palatal-velar set (Kossmann 1999: 205–207). The palatal-velar set
merged with the velar set in some languages (among others, Awjila, Ghadames,
Nefusa and Tuareg), while it became a fricative š (or y) and ž in other languages
(among others, Siwa, Foqaha, Riffian and Zuwara). The distribution of the g
versus ž in this word corresponds to the expected reflex of the palatal-velars.
This suggests that at the time that this word was borrowed into (Eastern)
Berber, the velars and palatal-velars were still distinct, and that the word was
borrowed with a palatal-velar.
The fact that the Berber languages at the period of borrowing this word
employed their voiced palatal-velar *ǵ (= [ɟ]) as the means to represent the
Arabic ǧīm has implications for the phonology of the dialect of Arabic that
provided the loanword. It seems likely that the dialect had a reflex [ɟ],20 [gʸ]
or [ʤ] for ǧīm as in Classical Arabic rather than the Maghrebi ž [ʒ] or Egyptain
g [g].
One issue with the Eastern Berber word for ‘Friday’ is its syllabification. Siwa,
Foqaha and Nefusa do not allow short vowels in open syllables, and therefore
their forms are readily understood in a historical development that can be
represented as follows:
1. Source *al-ǵumʕa(t)
2. Borrowed with loss of ʕayn *al-ǵumat
3. Resyllabification *l-uǵmat
4. Loss of short vowel contrast *l-əǵmət
20 Sibawayh’s describes the pronunciation of the jīm as being in the same place as šīn and
yāʔ, and also describes it as a stop (like qāf, kāf, ṭāʔ, tāʔ, dāl and bāʔ), this seems to point to
a pronunciation [ɟ] (Sibawayh Chapter 565, http://sydney.edu.au/arts/research_projects/
sibawiki/demo/bas565.txt.htm accessed 29 May 2014).
But both Awjila and Ghadames have no objection to short vowels in open
syllables whatsoever, therefore we would not expect any resyllabification in
either language (Kossmann 2013b: 14, van Putten 2014: 37–38).
In Ghadames there is no resyllabification. But the form seems to point to an
original form *al-ǵamʕa(t),21 rather than the expected *al-ǵumʕa(t); the other
languages retain no contrast in the short vowel system and therefore cannot be
used as evidence one way or the other.
The Awjila form, however, also underwent resyllabification, for which there
is no obvious internal explanation. The most likely, but completely hypothet-
ical explanation is that the word was borrowed from a language that does
regularly undergo resyllabification. This could be an unattested Berber lan-
guage with resyllabification and no palatalization of *ǵ, or an unattested Arabic
dialect that underwent resyllabification.
4.6 əlgīnnət ‘Heaven’

Another word that has an archaic g reflex of ǧīm in Awjila Berber, attested
only on the Ashal-ennax Facebook group, is the noun for ‘heaven’. Its spelling
as ‫⟨ القينت‬ʾlqynt⟩ points to a pronunciation əlginnət. The fact that qāf is used
to represent what is the ancient ǧīm clearly indicates that it is pronounced
with a g (as the Libyan Arabic reflex of qāf is [g]) rather than the typical
pronunciation ž. No other Berber languages have a reflex g in this word. Several
have borrowed this term from Classical Arabic with an unassimilated article
and an affricate ǧ, e.g. Nefusa əlǧə́nnat; Siwa lǧənnət; Others have borrowed
from the local Arabic dialects, e.g. Tamazight žžənt, ǧǧənt (Taïfi 1993: s.v.).
4.7 lāfīt ‘Health’

Though unattested in Paradisi’s material, the Ashal-ennax Facebook group
gives evidence for yet another Arabic loan that lacks the ʕayn: lāfīt ‘well-being,
health’ often attested in the greeting əqqīm s=lāfīt ‫⟨ قيم سلافيت‬qym slʾfyt⟩22 lit.
‘stay with well-being’, which is clearly derived from Ar. al-ʕāfiya ‘well-being’.
An early borrowing is expected based on the lack of ʕayn. Indeed, it seems
reasonable for the word to be part of the earliest stratum of Islamic loanwords
into Berber, as a formula containing the word is attested frequently in the ḥadīṯ
literature:
21 The long vowel found in the modern Ghadames form alǵāmat is problematic, but as
Kossmann (2013b: 15) points out, the transcriptions of Lanfry often express uncertainty
about the distinction between a and ā. In several cases ā is written for an accented á. The
long vowel here therefore may also be understood as an accented short vowel á.
22 The Arabic spelling is ambiguous. The word may also be read as lāfəyət or lāfīyət.
lā tatamannaw liqāʔa l-ʕaduwwi, wa salū llāha l-ʕāfiyata “Do not long to

meet your enemy, and ask God for well-being.”
Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī 7237
qāla yā rasūla llāhi ʔayyu d-duʕāʔi ʔafḍalu? qāla sal rabba-ka l-ʕafwa wa l-
ʕāfiyata fī d-dunyā wa l-āxirati “(A man) said ‘O Messenger of God, what
supplication is best?’ (The Prophet) said ‘Ask your Lord for forgiveness
and well-being in this world and the hereafter.’ ”
Sunan Ibn Mājah 3848
salū llāha l-ʕafwa wa l-ʕāfiyata fa-ʔinna ʔaḥadan lam yuʕṭa baʕda l-yaqīni
xayran mina l-ʕāfiyati “Ask God for forgiveness and well-being; indeed,
beyond certainty, no one has been given anything better than well-being.”
Jāmiʕ at-Tirmiḏī 3558
4.8 ā́ mmī ‘Paternal Uncle’

Another word in Awjila that lacks the ʕayn is the word ā ́mmī ‘paternal uncle’,
no doubt from Arabic ʕamm(-ī) ‘(my) paternal uncle’.23 The ʕayn is represented
with a ⟨ʿ⟩ sign in Paradisi’s material, which may cause one to wonder whether
the absence of ʕayn is simply a printing error. But this word is attested several
times, in several different forms, which makes such an explanation improbable.
Below we find the attested forms in Paradisi in their original transcription:
1sg. ámmī ‘my paternal uncle’

2sg.m. ammî-k ‘your (m.) paternal uncle’
3sg. ammî-s ‘his/her paternal uncle’
On the Ashal-ennax Facebook group this word is also attested several times
without ʕayn, e.g. wəllī-s n=āmmī ‫⟨ وليس نمي‬wlys nmy⟩ ‘the daughter of my
uncle’. As all of these speakers are fluent in Arabic there is no reason why they
would fail to write an ʕayn if there was one. We thus must take the ʕayn-less
form as correct.
The previous two words that lack the original ʕayn are clearly relevant
in an Islamic context and thus can be attributed to the earliest stratum of
loanwords. At first glance, however, it does not seem that a kinship term such
23 Arabic kinship terms are generally borrowed into Berber with the 1sg. possessive suffix
because native Berber kinship terms have a default 1sg. possessive meaning when they
are unsuffixed, e.g. Awj. wərtnā ́ ‘my sister’, wərtnā ́-s ‘his sister’.
as ʕamm would necessarily belong to this stratum. Interestingly, studies of

marriage patterns show that the Islamization of a society as well as coming
under Arab-Islamic rule in the eighth-century is an extremely strong predictor
of the practice of patrilineal parallel-cousin marriage (Korotayev 2000: 400 f.).
Patrilineal parallel-cousin marriage (and thus the term ʕamm), while not an
Islamic practice per se, could be argued to have played an important role in
early Islamic society of North Africa during the time of the Islamic conquest.
4.9 təlā́ bā ‘Wool Garment’

A final word which seems to have lost the ʕayn is təlā ́bā ‘wool garment’, which
we suggest is derived from the Arabic word al-ʕabāʔ ‘wool garment’ (usually
ʕabāya in Maghrebi dialects). The word has kept the Arabic article l- but has
otherwise been nativized to Berber morphology with the feminine prefix tə-.
This word was interpreted as being grammatically feminine, because words
that end in a -ā in Berber are generally feminine; moreover, words that end in
-ā do not receive a word-final feminine marker -t.24
The word is attested in other Eastern Berber languages as well, and in all
cases without ʕayn: Foqaha talâba ‘wool garment’, Sokna tlâba ‘wool garment’,
Nefusa tlâba ‘wool garment’ (Provasi 1973: 528), Zwara tlabatt ‘jerd’ (Mitchell
2009: 266). A cognate is also attested in Kabyle talaba ‘piece of hand-woven
wool; clothes, covering’ (Dallet 1982).25
Above, we have shown that the lack of ʕayn appears to be a good indicator
of the early borrowing of a word into Berber, and that all such early loans are
closely associated with Islam. One thus wonders whether ʕabāʔ is similarly part
of the earliest layer of Islamic words. The earliest Islamic sources do mention
the ʕabāʔ as one of the garments used in that early period, but we have not
discovered any indication that this was, for example, a distinctive Muslim garb
during the early Muslim period in North Africa.26
4.10 ḥīd́ dān ‘Anyone’

́
The word ḥīddān ‘anyone’ has a complex and difficult to understand history. It
is clearly related to the common Maghrebi Arabic word ḥǝdd ‘anyone’ (e.g. ELA
24 Occasionally, a word-final long -ā is reinterpreted as the feminine ending -a, in which case
it is replaced by the Arabic loanword feminine marker -ət, e.g. ždā ́byət ‘Ajdabiya’ < Ar.
aždābiyā.
25 Kossmann (1999: 130) did not recognize this word as a loanword from Arabic.
26 See for example the Encyclopedia of Islam entry on Muslim dress: “Libās.” Encyclopaedia
of Islam, Second Edition. Edited by: P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel,
W.P. Heinrichs. Brill Online, 2014.
ḥạdd; WLA ḥǝdd in Pereira 2010: 293).27 However, the connection between the
two is not straightforward.
The first issue is the final -ān, reminiscent of the Arabic indefinite accusative
ending -an (i.e. tanwīn), but for which the long vowel ā is difficult to explain.
Other cases of Arabic short a are represented as ǝ in Awjila. The other issue
is the long vowel ī in place of the short vowel ǝ. As Awjila has a short vowel
ǝ, there is no obvious reason for replacing ǝ with ī in a loanword.28 On the
one hand, it is possible that the word is indeed a direct loan from an Arabic
construction with tanwīn, like *ḥadan ‘anyone’.29 If this is the case, we have to
account for the vowels in this word somehow. In section 3.2 we saw that in some
cases Arabic short vowels are borrowed with long vowels of the same quality
in Awjila. In that case Awjila ḥīddāń points to an original form *ḥidd-an. This
form is unattested in the Arabic dialects, but no internal explanation for the
vowel ī is forthcoming.
On the other hand, an approach that might explain the suffix -ān (but still
not the stem vowel ī) is found in the irregular behaviour of the accent of this
word. The Awjila accent can be formulated as follows (van Putten 2014: 44):30
1. A word has final accent if the final syllable ends in V̄ C(C) or ǝCC.
2. Otherwise the accent is penultimate.
́
The accent rules are violated in ḥīddān. Awjila has a phonemic accent, but most
cases of a non-default accent position can be attributed to grammatical moti-
vations in the verbal system, for example the phonemic stress that marks the
perfective verb is ultimate stress. Cases of penultimate accent where ultimate
accent is expected are extremely rare. Indeed, there is only one other case of
word final unstressed -ān: the Awjila native numeral ‘one’:
27 This term for ‘anyone’ is also very commonly borrowed in Berber languages, e.g. Figuig
ḥǝdd (Kossmann 1997), Nefusa ḥadd (Beguinot 1942); Siwa ḥǝdd (Souag 2013, passim);
Tamazight ḥǝdd (Taïfi 1993).
28 On the Ashal-ennax Facebook group the spelling of the word leaves little doubt about
the phonetic value of the vowels, e.g. ‫⟨ حيدا‬ḥydʾ⟩, ‫⟨ حيدان‬ḥydʾn⟩. The spelling with final -ʾ
should probably be understood as the tanwīn ʔalif, and not as representing a form without
final -n.
29 A form closely resembling this construction is found in Lebanese Arabic ḥadan (Al-Jallad
p.c.). Forms with tanwīn are also found in similar constructions Maghrebi dialects, e.g.
Algerian Arabic šāyǝn ‘nothing’ (Souag p.c.).
30 Incidentally, these rules are identical to Western Libyan Arabic, cf. Pereira 2010: 88–89.
́ iwīnān,
masc. iwīn, ́ iwinā ́n
fem. iwā ́t, iwā ́tān
For both the masculine and the feminine, the element -ān appears to be
optional; within the currently limited corpus of the language there seems to
be no distinction in meaning between these forms (van Putten 2014: 137). It is
striking that both the native Awjila word ‘one’ and the borrowed Arabic word
‘anyone’ are the only known forms that exhibit an unaccented final -ān. As
dialectal Ar. ḥǝdd (< *ʔaḥad ‘one’) has associations with the numeral ‘one’ and
indefiniteness, it may be possible that it received this Awjila-internal ending
́
in parallel with iwīnān. This hypothesis is attractive, but because the element
-ān is not yet understood it remains unclear if both words contain that same
element.
4.11 ṣə́ bəṭ ‘Yesterday’ and ṣbā́ ḥ ‘Tomorrow’

The words for ‘yesterday’ and ‘tomorrow’ in Awjila are both linked to Arabic by
Paradisi. Regarding ṣǝ́bǝṭ ‘yesterday’, an Arabic origin initially seems plausible,
though the word is not found in any attested variety of Arabic, since ṣ is not a
native sound of Berber and only occurs in Arabic loanwords. Yet on the Ashal-
ennax Facebook group we find that the word is almost always written as ‫سبط‬
⟨sbṭ⟩, so cases of ‫⟨ صبط‬ṣbṭ⟩ should probably be considered cases of emphasis
spreading rather than the original form. The one feature that makes this word
Arabic-like is therefore likely to be secondary. A Berber etymology however is
not forthcoming.
In contrast, the word ṣbā ́ḥ is undoubtedly of Arabic origin, and probably a
dialectal reflex of ṣabāḥ ‘morning’, but it consistently means ‘tomorrow’ in all
the attestations of the word (see van Putten 2014: 210–211):31
ṣbā ́ḥ ā=nnə-ʕǝ́dd sǝwānī=nn-āx

́ ‘tomorrow we will go to our garden’
nəġə́llī ā=nnə-ʕǝ́dd ṣbā ́ḥ ‘we want to go tomorrow’
ṣəbā ́ḥ āmǝklīẃ ‘tomorrow (I will have) lunch’
ṣbā ́ḥ īd=bǝ́ʕǝd ṣəbā ́ḥ ‘tomorrow and the day after tomorrow’
The expression ‘day after tomorrow’ appears to be a calque on the common

Arabic phrase (such as ELA) baʕd bukra ‘lit. after-tomorrow’, which further
suggests the meaning is ‘tomorrow’.
31 This word is also attested on the Ashal-ennax Facebook page: ‫⟨ اصباح‬ʾṣbʾḥ⟩ where it is
translated as Ar. ġad-an ‘tomorrow’.
A form of the word ṣabāḥ with the meaning ‘tomorrow’ does not appear in
any extant Arabic dialect and certainly could not have been borrowed from
a modern variety of LA, which all have dedicated and very different words
for ‘tomorrow’ (e.g. ELA bukra, WLA ġudwa). We would note, however, that
the semantic change from ‘morning’ to ‘tomorrow’ is not at all unlikely, and
a polysemy of these two words is known in the Germanic languages (cf. Dutch
and German morgen) and also in Arabic (bukra original meant ‘early morning’,
see Lisān al-ʕarab s.v. B-K-R). Nevertheless, in Berber languages the word for
‘tomorrow’ is well-attested and clearly distinct from the word for ‘morning’,
just as in Arabic (e.g. Figuig ayətša ‘tomorrow’, ṣṣbaḥ ‘morning’; Siwa tafyi
‘tomorrow’, sra ‘morning’; Mali Tuareg ašǝkka ‘tomorrow’, tifawt ‘morning’),
there is therefore no reason to assume that this shift of meaning is due to Berber
influence. It is therefore quite possible that the use of ṣabāḥ in the sense of
‘tomorrow’ is a dialectal feature of an unattested Arabic dialect.
4.12 dəššā́ ʕ ‘Mean, Inhospitable’

Paradisi (1960a: 160, s.v. avaro, inospitale) attributes this word to “Cyrenaican
Arabic”, but there is unfortunately no evidence for it in the available sources.
Nevertheless, the word is transparently related to the root ǦŠʕ ‘to be greedy’, for
which, however, the faʕʕāl form is not attested. Furthermore, the dissimilation
of *ǧ to d is unusual in a Libyan Arabic context. The dissimilation of *ǧ to d
(or in some dialects g) in front of a sibilant is very common in the Maghrebi
dialects, and ample evidence for this development is found in, for example,
Moroccan Arabic (Prémare 1993):32
dšīša ‘coarsely ground grain’ < Ar. ǧašīša ‘id.’

dăḥš, dǝḥš ‘foal’ < Ar. ǧaḥš ‘id.’
dāsǝṛ ‘impudent’ < Ar. ǧāsir ‘id.’
But this development is only sporadically attested in ELA. One has dišīša ‘wheat
bran’ (cf. Benkato 2014: 70), in contrast to:
žeyš ‘army’ < Ar. ǧayš ‘id.’ (cf. žēš ‘army’ in Panetta 1980: 209)
žaḥš ‘foal’ < Ar. ǧaḥš ‘id.’ (cf. žeḥš ‘foal’ in Panetta 1962: 279)
32 This same dissimilation is found in the Arabic stratum of Siwa Berber, e.g. əddēš ‘army’ <
*əžžayš (p.c. Souag). In Siwa we also find one example with metathesis of the post-alveolar
feature dibš < *žibs ‘gypsum’.
The attested dissimilation of *ǧ > d in dzîra ‘island’ (Panetta 1943: 22 n. 2) is

also irregular. Usually in ELA, when *ž occurs in the same word as z, it changes
to z:33
zạzzạ̄ r ‘butcher’ < Ar. ǧazzār ‘id.’

zināza ‘funeral’ < Ar. ǧināza ‘corpse’
This irregular variation seems to indicate retentions of dialectal stratification

within ELA itself. It does not seem possible to attribute dəššā ́ʕ to any attested
variety of ELA, but is in theory possible that the Awjila word was borrowed from
a currently unattested variety of ELA which preserved both the dissimilation of
*ǧ to d before š and the faʕʕāl formation of this word. The word *ǧaššāʕ is to
our knowledge not attested in other dialects.
4.13 tənə́ brət ‘Needle’

tənə́brət ‘needle’ is undoubtedly a borrowing from Arabic al-ʔibra ‘needle’,
nativized with the t- … -t feminine circumfix. But unlike other nativized loan-
words, it seems to have a reflex of the article with the unusual form ən-.
Beguinot (1921: 391) also noticed this and suggested that the form ən- is the
result of dissimilation of l to n in the vicinity of r. Dissimilations involving l,
n and r are indeed relatively common in Libyan Arabic and other dialects (e.g.
ELA neyn ~ leyn ‘until’, finžāl < finžān ‘cup’, leyt ~ reyt ‘saw’, cf. Benkato 2014:
70–71), but unknown in the word for ‘needle’ (ELA l-ibra). Furthermore, the
suggested dissimilation of the article el- to en- in the presence of an r later in
the word occurs in no other case in Awjila. Several examples of comparable
phonetic environments, all loanwords, are listed below:
təlābrə́st ‘lizard’ ~ Ar. burṣ, abū burayṣ ‘moorish wall gecko’34

əlbə́ḥ(ə)r ‘sea’ ELA il-bạḥạ́ r ‘sea’
əlbərā ́t ‘money’ ELA il-bạrạ̄ t ‘money’
Instead of assuming an irregular dissimilation, there is a possibility that this

word reflects an Arabic antecedent in which the definite article was in fact
an- rather than al-. This peculiarity is known from certain Yemeni dialects in
particular (cf. Behnstedt 2008: 111), but is not limited to southern Arabia and
33 For a more detailed discussion regarding the ‘chuintants’ š/ž and ‘sifflants’ s/z in ELA/BA,
see Benkato 2014: 69–70.
34 The Awjila form seems to be a different derivation of this root.
indeed may reflect a more archaic situation (cf. the Safaitic definite article
han-). Reflexes of the an- article appear sporadically in other Arabic dialects
as well, most prominently in the word for ‘yesterday’: Egyptian Arabic imbāriḥ
(Behnstedt & Woidich 1988, passim), Syrian Arabic mbāreḥ, mbārḥa ‘yesterday’
(Cowell 1964: 521), but not in ELA: il-bāriḥ ‘yesterday night’.
4.14 lləṣīq́ , āləṣīq́ pl. ləṣqā́wən ‘Oven’

Awjila preserves a word for ‘oven’ thus far unattested in other Berber and Arabic
varieties. There are two forms found: a non-nativized lləṣīq́ and a nativized form
́ which suggest the Arabic form to have been *laṣīq. Paradisi (1960a: 166
āləṣīq,
s.v. ‘forno’) suggested, without comment, a possible connection with the Arabic
verb laṣiqa ‘to stick’. A search of the available dialectological resources has not
turned up a plausible etymon with a meaning related to ovens. However, a
connection with the verb ‘to stick’ is sensible. With traditional ovens, such as
the tannūr, one ‘sticks’ the wet dough to the sides of the oven. As for the form,
laṣīq can mean both ‘sticky’ (as a quality) and ‘that which is stuck upon’ (see
Lisān al-ʕarab s.v. L-Ṣ-Q), the latter being a not unreasonable word for this type
of oven.
5 Conclusion
There are undoubtedly many more aspects of Awjila Berber that can be ex-
plored, not only with respect to its contact with Arabic but also its own devel-
opment within Berber, and more extensive documentation of the language is
urgently needed. We hope that this discussion has shown that even with the
scarce materials currently available to us, Awjila can shed some unique light
on the historical interaction of Arabic and Berber, and indeed on the history
of Arabic itself. The Arabic strata in Berber languages are an opportunity to
gain new insights into the complex history of Arabic, and further research ded-
icated to other dialects of Berber would undoubtedly contribute to advancing
the field of Arabic historical linguistics.35
To put it another way, we hope to have shown by the example of Awjila that
the Berber languages can be considered an important source from which we
can mine linguistic ‘fossils’ attesting older stages of the Arabic language. The
resulting picture is one for which the term ‘strata’ is best suited: we find in
Awjila, besides that of contemporary Libyan varieties, the influence of varieties
35 Souag (2009) is an example of a similar study of the Arabic strata in Siwa Berber.
that are unattested and no longer exist, and of varieties whose representatives
are now geographically nowhere near Awjila. While it is difficult with the
material we have to draw a true ‘stratigraphy’ of the dialect features, we find
clear elements of different stages, which cannot have come from a single
dialect.
There are, for example, only very few words that reflect the qāf with the typ-
ical Libyan Arabic g. The words that do show this reflex should be considered
to come from a stratum (or strata) more recent that those with q. But the loans
that have a uvular reflex of qāf, while not belonging to the g stratum, do not nec-
essarily belong to only a single stratum of Arabic themselves. Another feature
that points to a different stratum, in terms of phonetic archaism, is the reten-
tion of a reflex of the Arabic short vowel u, the reflex of which is still present in
WLA but is lost in ELA as a separate phoneme, and is rather the result of vowel
harmony.
In terms of vocabulary, it of course becomes even more difficult to stratify
the data available. But we notice several interesting tendencies. Quite a few
of the transparently Arabic loanwords discussed here are terms that refer to
times of day or are names of specific days. The Arabic formations of these words
are either lost in the modern dialects completely, or have developed a different
meaning.
One clear representation of stratification represented in both vocabulary
and phonetic features are Awjila words that lack the ʕayn. The words that we
discuss of this type all appear to be early loanwords that stem from a time
that the ʕayn was not yet integrated into the phoneme system of Berber. These
words seem to be related to Islamic practice, which one would expect to be
some of the earliest loanwords into Berber.36
All this serves to underline further that the stratification of the dialec-
tal Arabic features in Awjila both indicates the complexity of the historical
dialect situation of Arabic and clearly shows that the dialect situation of Ara-
bic was much less homogenous in the past than it is today. Awjila, other Berber
varieties, and other non-Arabic languages often preserve significant Arabic
material, and this material, for which collectively we propose the term “Xeno-
Arabic”, can help give us insights into earlier stages and varieties of the Arabic
language which may otherwise be no longer recoverable.
36 The lack of the ʕayn is a feature that also appears in a reasonable amount of nouns in Siwi
(Souag 2013: 38).
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Index of Qurʾānic Verses
1:2 340, 458 20:132 382

2:31 354 25:18 346
2:45 345 26:195 366
2:69 224 27:17 358
2:109 383 30:41 347
2:135 352 30:58 350
2:153 345, 382 37:103–104 360
2:255 341 38:1–2 359
3:2 341 38:12 458
3:52 350 31:10 350
3:95 353 31:14 350
3:120 383 39:27 350
4:51 343 39:28 366
4:125 352 41:43–44 366
4:171 343 42:7 366
5:2 383 42:23 214
5:8–10 386 43:3 366
5:73 341 43:67 347
6:154 214 46:12 366
6:161 352 48:12 346
7:70 343 52:45–49 385
7:126 345, 382, 383 56:74 342
9:28 465 56:95 448
9:69 213 59:52 342
12:2 366 60:11 348
12:15 360 62:5 455
12:39 343 70:22–23 382
12:109 448 73:8 342
13:12 377 76:24–26 385
13:37 366 76:25 342
14:41 366 85:8 349
16:103 366 87:1 342
17:89 350 96:1 342
18:25 354 103:3 345
18:54 350 108:3 374–375
19:65 382, 382 108:1 345
20:33 345 112:1 343
20:34 345 112:2 343
Index of Languages and Subjects
Afro-Asiatic 9, 19, 23 Neo-Aramaic (modern) 12, 220

Akkadian 4, 5, 6, 8, 10, 13, 14, 17, 20, 22–23, Urmi 220
26, 35–44, 178, 190, 195, 219–223, 272, Zaxo 220
274–280, 283–290, 292–294, 297, 299, Jewish Arbil 457
303, 309–314, 323, 441, 451–453, 460, 463, Arabic
470 Andalusi Arabic 227, 228, 230, 257, 446,
Amharic 5, 221, 464 487
Ancient South Arabian 4, 8, 9, 10, 14, Classical 3, 4, 5, 7, 11, 12, 14, 15, 17, 22,
17, 19–20, 23, 100–101, 189–193, 444, 23, 24, 25, 27, 35, 36–39, 41, 43–45,
464 68, 81, 84, 86, 89, 101, 103, 105, 127, 132,
Amiritic 19, 44 137, 153, 163, 172, 189, 190–193, 195,
Ḥaḍramitic 192 198, 199, 212, 216, 222, 228, 229, 230,
Ḥimyarite/Ḥimyaritic/Ḥimyar 164, 195, 232, 233, 235, 236–238, 247, 256, 258,
200, 450 259, 271, 272, 317, 353, 354, 355, 356,
Qatabanic/Qatabanian 20, 100, 191, 195 358, 362, 364, 376, 396, 397, 398, 401,
Sabaic 10, 14, 16, 19, 20, 24, 27, 44, 119, 190– 403, 410, 422, 424, 427, 431, 441–443,
193, 195, 197, 198, 199 445, 449, 453, 455, 458, 461, 462, 463,
Aramaic 5, 8, 10–19, 21–22, 25, 36, 62, 67, 467, 468, 469, 470, 482, 486–487, 490,
75, 80–86, 89, 90, 92–94, 100, 108– 491
115, 119–122, 125, 127, 130, 138, 141, 143, Pre-Classical 272–279, 287, 294–297,
155–156, 161, 177, 178, 195, 220, 244, 299–314
247, 250, 256, 259, 260, 318–320, 323, Judaeo- 245, 249, 261, 262, 395–397, 400,
326, 328–330, 338–341, 344, 347–348, 402–403
351, 358, 361, 363, 365–366, 372– Maltese 445, 447, 455
373, 376, 378–379, 381, 387, 391, 397, Middle 12, 13, 216, 343, 353, 354, 362,
406, 421, 422, 429–431, 441, 444, 451, 363, 364, 442, 447, 448, 454, 461,
457 469
Biblical 220, 328, 331 Nabataeo- 75–78, 80–86, 91–94
Christian Palestinian 338 Neo-Arabic 13, 349, 356, 357, 441, 442
Egyptian 361 Non-standard 442, 443, 454, 457, 461, 463,
Imperial 323, 331 468, 469
Jewish Babylonian 234, 323 Old 12, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 112, 115,
Jewish Palestinian 338, 343, 376 117, 119, 122, 126, 162, 170, 167, 222, 459,
Middle 323 461, 469, 487
Mandaic 328 Ḥismaic 17, 23, 25, 81, 83, 100–102, 104,
Nabataean 60, 64, 69, 78–80, 83, 84, 86– 105, 109, 115, 125, 142, 154, 155, 162, 165,
89, 91, 100, 118, 159, 348 168
Palmyrenian 348 Safaitic 15, 16, 19–27, 57, 81, 82, 100–
Old 111 105, 108–110, 113–115, 119–122, 125,
Rabbinic 261 130–133, 135–138, 141, 154–156, 163,
Syriac 21, 24, 77, 104, 120, 125, 220, 229, 166–168, 170, 174, 176, 376, 378, 381,
233, 234, 257, 292–293, 318–320, 324, 388, 391, 487, 498
326, 327, 328–332, 337–342, 344–349, Proto- 5, 11–15, 17–18, 20, 22–23, 26–27,
351–353, 358, 359–362, 365–366, 372, 101, 153, 156, 461, 470
373, 375, 376–381, 383, 385, 387–390, Qurʾānic 318, 320, 321, 337, 343, 355–358,
406, 449, 465 363–364, 366, 374, 448, 465
index of languages and subjects 505
Modern Standard 12, 163, 418, 467 119, 122, 125, 131, 132, 135, 154, 162, 167,
Modern Arabic Dialects 168, 182, 229, 332–333, 337–342, 354, 362,
Algerian 411, 494 363, 366, 419–420
Algerian Saharan 411 Borrowing 44, 142, 194, 317, 319–321, 323,
Anatolian 446, 469 326–332, 346, 363, 365, 432, 466, 476,
Cairo 216, 462 478, 479, 481, 484, 489, 490, 491, 493,
Cypriot 405, 406, 431, 457, 469 497
Djidjeli (Algerian) 458
Egyptian 24, 104, 237, 257, 376, 402, Case endings 5, 12, 35, 69, 159, 162, 166, 271,
428, 454, 455, 489, 498 274, 275, 277–279, 281, 284, 285, 287,
Gulf 14, 321, 411, 455, 463 289–291, 296, 306, 311, 313, 356, 403, 464,
Ḥawrān 462 468, 469
Iraqi 308, 445, 455 Canaanite 8, 10, 14, 15, 38, 102, 110, 111, 115, 161,
Jerusalem 216 164, 444, 450, 451
Jewish Baghdadi 446, 456 Central Semitic 5, 8, 10, 11, 13–21, 23, 25,
Kuwaiti 454 26–28, 128, 156, 178, 182, 422, 433, 444,
Levantine 104, 351, 411, 433, 445, 455, 449–451, 469
459, 463, 465 Cleft Sentence 218, 221–222
Lebanese 405, 431, 447, 464, 494 Code-switching 343, 366, 420
Libyan 477–479, 491, 494, 496–498 Comparative method 5, 227, 278, 411,
Maghrebi 480, 484, 486, 490, 493, 494, 412
496 Cushitic 9, 36, 39–41, 43, 275
Moroccan 454, 456, 459, 487–488,
496 Dadanitic = Lihyanite 22, 25, 82, 91, 101, 102,
Omani 446 105, 376
Ṣanʿani 450 Definite article 17, 18, 20, 22, 26–27, 44, 69,
Syrian 411, 461, 462463, 469, 498 82, 101, 102, 104, 110, 162, 164, 167, 219, 274,
Shihhi 411 292–293, 352, 396, 401, 432, 444–445,
Tunisian 218, 418 449–453, 455, 459, 461, 464, 473, 484,
Yemeni 21, 22, 24, 450, 451, 456, 497–498
497 Demonstrative 17, 19, 22, 26, 92, 103, 161, 213,
Arabicisation 114, 428–434 220, 222–223, 351, 405, 412, 423, 424,
Arabic script 77, 78, 82, 83, 85, 91, 93–94, 157, 426–428, 430–433, 436, 444, 450–451,
355 457, 465
Archaism/archaic 3, 35–37, 40–45, 76, 104,
107, 163, 168, 200, 222, 225, 255, 273, Eblaite 6, 284
277, 284, 296, 297, 312, 424, 441–443, Edomite 161
445, 447, 449, 451, 453, 455, 465, 466, Ethiopic (Old, Classical) = Geʿez/Gəʿəz/Geez
467, 469, 470, 478, 482, 486, 491, 498, 3, 5, 10, 15, 17–19, 21, 24, 35–36, 39–
499 41, 125, 159, 222, 229, 318, 327, 343,
Assimilation 22, 26, 27, 102, 105, 110, 143, 164, 351, 379, 441, 443, 452–453, 457,
167, 222, 281, 282, 320, 450, 451, 490 463
Berber 36, 37, 39, 40, 42, 275, 276, 318, 421, Feminine ending 21, 84–87, 105, 114, 125–126,
461, 476–499 152, 156–158, 485, 493
Berlin-Kay sequence 237–238
Biconsonantal 295–299, 304–305, 307, 309, Geʿez see Ethiopic
312–313 Genetic 6–7, 10–11, 25, 27, 101–102, 243, 275,
Bilingual(ism) 82, 90, 93, 94, 107, 108, 115, 118, 406, 422
506 index of languages and subjects
Ḥadīth 325 Jibbali 191, 193–194, 196–197, 199–200

Hebrew 3–6, 8, 14–17, 19, 21–25, 36, 38, 41, Harsusi 191, 193, 196, 198–199
110, 119–120–128, 161, 195, 213, 219– Soqotri 191, 199
220, 222–223, 227–231, 238, 241, 244– Multilingual(ism) 337, 342, 413, 415–416, 420,
247, 250–251, 256, 259–261, 286–290, 426
292, 294, 299, 303, 313, 328, 340–342,
344, 347, 354, 358–360, 362–364, Naḥal Ḥever 79–80, 100, 157
376, 378–379, 395–397, 422, 441, 443, Negator 356, 403
449, 451, 453–455, 457, 460, 464, 467, Northwest Semitic 8–12, 17–18, 21, 23–25, 27,
469 37–38, 81, 101, 103, 105, 109, 110–112, 115,
117, 122, 138
Imperative 67, 104, 299, 466, 483, 484 Nunation 20, 44, 69, 103, 272, 274, 278, 284,
Energic 37 297, 305
Innovation 6, 7, 9, 10, 14, 16–20, 36–44, 101–
103, 156, 178, 248, 280, 290, 297, 306, 348, Proto-language 405, 407, 412, 422, 424,
351, 363, 405–406, 422–424, 430, 442, 426
448, 453, 455, 457–458, 461, 466, 469, Proto-Semitic 3–6, 8–10, 13–17, 19–20, 22–24,
470 26, 38, 41–43, 102, 108, 115–117, 119, 120,
Inscriptions 126, 138, 156, 178, 190, 229, 276, 443, 459,
ʿEn ʿAvdat = ʿAyn ʿAbada 56, 60, 62, 71, 79, 463
83, 100, 159, 163 Poetic, poetry, poems, poets 12, 13, 27, 53–55,
Deir ʿAllā 17 64, 67, 193–194, 199, 230, 232, 236–238,
Ḥarrān (Old Arabic) 77, 132, 136 241–243, 247, 250, 253–254, 256, 258,
Madaba Map 160–161, 164–165 272, 322, 325, 327, 330, 338, 341, 349,
Namāra/en-Nemara (Old Arabic) 100, 357, 362, 363, 365, 398, 461, 464, 468,
405, 431–432, 458, 464 469
Jabal ʾUsays/Says (Old Arabic) 77,
153 Rasm = QCT 12, 63, 84, 85, 344, 355–357, 363,
Zebed 77 366, 377, 380
Relative-determinative 110, 167, 455
Language area 416–417 Relative clause 16, 22, 213, 217, 219, 221, 452–
Language contact 7, 189, 338–339, 345, 358, 453, 458
366
Late Antique 362, 365 Sibawayh 119, 129, 133–134, 215, 272, 274, 296–
Literacy 55–56, 118, 366, 466 297, 490
Loanword 79–83, 92–93, 100, 116, 125– Sub-grouping 101, 407
126, 134, 157, 189, 191–192, 195, 318– Subordinator /subordinating conjunction
319, 321, 326, 328, 330–331, 339, 343, 18, 212, 216–224, 466, 469
345, 366, 375–377, 379, 381, 387– Social network 415–417, 419, 428
388, 391, 483–487, 490–495, 497,
499 Taymanitic 25, 26, 101–102
Locative 103, 141, 220–223, 271, 278, 284, 287, Ṭayyiʾ 198, 450
296, 299, 304, 310, 489 Tigre 36
Tigrinya 220–221
Modern South Arabian = Modern Semitic of Typology/typological 36, 134, 218, 220,
Southern Arabia 8–11, 15, 18–19, 22, 36, 41, 223–224, 271, 274, 275, 280, 284, 289,
189, 191, 193, 195, 196, 200, 220 292, 293, 295, 298, 306, 313–314, 409,
Mehri 14, 36, 42, 44, 115, 128, 190–191, 193, 411
194, 196, 197, 199–200, 220, 457
index of languages and subjects 507
Ugaritic 14, 16–17, 21–23, 37–38, 111, 115, Ventive 37

272, 286–290, 292, 294, 303, 306,
313, 422, 451–452, 457, 460, 463–464, Wave model 422
470 Wawation 68–69, 110, 179, 463, 465

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Arabic in Context

A.D. Rubin and Ahmad Al-Jallad

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ssl

Names: Jallad, Ahmad, 1985- editor.

Copyright 2017 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

1 Arabic in Its Semitic Context 3

2 How Conservative and How Innovating is Arabic? 35

Arabic in Its Epigraphic Context

3 The ʿAyn ʿAbada Inscription Thirty Years Later: A Reassessment 53

4 Aramaic or Arabic? The Nabataeo-Arabic Script and the Language

5 Graeco-Arabica I: The Southern Levant 99

Classical Arabic in Context

6 Traces of South Arabian Causative-Reflexive Verbal Stem in Arabic

7 Arabic allaḏī / illi as Subordinators: An Alternative Perspective 212

8 Raphelengius and the Yellow Cow (Q 2:69): Early Translations of

9 Terminative-Adverbial and Locative-Adverbial Endings in Semitic

10 On the Middle Iranian Borrowings in Qurʾānic (and Pre-Islamic)

Qurʾānic Arabic in Context

11 Traces of Bilingualism/Multilingualism in Qurʾānic Arabic 337

12 A Syriac Reading of the Qurʾān? The Case of Sūrat al-Kawṯar 372

Middle and Modern Arabic in Context

13 Orthography and Reading in Medieval Judaeo-Arabic 395

14 Linguistic History and the History of Arabic: A Speech Communities

15 Digging Up Archaic Features: “Neo-Arabic” and Comparative Semitic

16 The Arabic Strata in Awjila Berber 476

Index of Qurʾānic Verses 503

“As far as my knowledge extends, no other people is known to have expended

4 Grammatica Arabica, Leiden 1613.

the appearance of Islam in seventh-century Arabia, while obviously having

In celebration of Arabic’s 400 years of study at Leiden University, the Leiden

1.1 Geography-based classification of the Semitic languages 8

The following grammatical abbreviations are used in this book.

Martin F.J. Baasten

Jordi Ferrer i Serra

Arabic research concentrates on early Arabic documents, and including a cor-

Marijn van Putten

Arabic in Its Semitic Context*

In Memory of Wolfhart Heinrichs

During the Enlightenment, some thinkers pondered the original language of

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi: 10.1163/9789004343047_002

phonologies, such as the consonantal inventory of the Ancient South Arabian

1. The preformative s of Arabic Form X, (i)stafʕala, makes sense when we

3 E.g., Brockelmann 1908: 128.

We call Arabic a Semitic language because it shares a wide range of features

figure 1.1 Geography-based classification of the Semitic languages

figure 1.2 Linguistic classification of the Semitic languages

24 In highlighting this feature, Hetzron was preceded by V. Christian 1919–1920, 1944.

39 Owens 2006: 115. See also above, n. 8.

2. The first-common-plural independent pronoun *naḥnū ̆ ‘we’ is a Central

3. In Proto-Semitic the endings of the suffix-conjugation in the first- and

4. An interesting feature of Central Semitic is the phonotactics of the gem-

5. Another Proto-Central Semitic sound rule is the change of w to y after i.

6. Proto-Central Semitic exhibited a characteristic distribution of vowels in the

7. Internal reconstruction suggests that Proto-Central Semitic had the same

8. One of the most intriguing developments of the Central Semitic languages

Hebrew: hab-bayit ‘the house’; b-ab-bayit ‘in the house’

We are now finally in a position to consider a number of features as possible

1. Pronunciation of the emphatic consonants. There is an emerging consen-

4. The feminine singular demonstrative element t-, as in tilka, hātā, (ʔ)allatī, is

61 On Arabic /q/ see Edzard 2008.

6. In both Proto-Semitic and Proto-Central Semitic the feminine singular

8. The specialization of the form mafʕūl as a passive participle is a specifically