From a long time I’ve neglected the topic of Sufism, yet somehow my instinct pushed me to read about a Sufi—someone not only relatable, but who I eventually found to be the best spiritual writer.

Introduction

What is taṣawwuf? In truth, it is hard to come up with an umbrella definition that includes its many differing, and sometimes seemingly contradictory, manifestations. Taṣawwuf is far from monolithic and for long the tendency has been to view it as Islam’s “mysticism.”

So what is mysticism? Who are mystics?

Sara Sviri has looked at the formative period of taṣawwuf and observed that, according to her definition of mysticism and mystic, some figures she identifies as mystics were not called ṣūfīs, and some figures who were called ṣūfīs cannot be identified as mystics. Hence we will avoid the English terms “mysticism” and “mystic” and instead use Sufism and Sufi in this article.

It is a historical reality that taṣawwuf was widely acknowledged as one of the legitimate religious sciences (ʿulūm in Arabic), on par with other fields of knowledge. One could be jurist, theologian, and Sufi at the same time – and indeed, in the realm of the Mamluks and the Ilkhanids, this increasingly became the rule rather than the exception.

The rise of the phenomenon of the Sufi order – still called ṭāʾifa (pl. ṭawāʾif) rather than ṭarīqa (pl. ṭuruq), the common designation nowadays, which actually means a Sufi genealogy (silsila) traced back to a renowned shaykh – was already widespread in Islam.

Sufism was, of course, affected by regional and historical context. To find a way in which what we have already discussed — az-Zuhd (Islamic way of life with low worldly desires) — can be compatible with Sufism, which is often associated with innovations, I dedicated myself to the study of a 'Hanbali Sufi' who was also part of Ibn Taymiyya’s circle. That circle had mostly Ḥanbalīs and Shāfiʿīs who belonged to the Ahl al-Ḥadīth, or “traditionalists,” a group historically represented most by the Ḥanbalī school, whose members exclusively base religion on the Qur’an, the Sunna, and the presumed consensus of the Muslim community; thus their Sufism would be a safer option for our study.

Being a follower of Imam Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal myself, I decided to study the life of this Sufi, not just because of his background but because of his immense desire to find a spiritual path and the long journeys he took before he embraced Ḥanbalī thought and became a traditionalist Sufi.

Whether intended or not, history hints at the prevalent notion that the Ḥanbalīs had a somewhat troubled relationship with taṣawwuf. Christopher Melchert has noted an overall “traditionalist suspicion of Sufism” and concluded that the piety of the traditionalists was “at odds” with that of the Sufis, the only reason being their fear that it opens a path to innovation.

Yet if there was some concrete opposition to proto-Sufism among early traditionalists, George Makdisi has gone as far as to allege that “the Hanbali School preserves Sufism in the spirit of the early Sufis who … belonged to the Ahl al-Ḥadīth.” Hence there were always Sufis residing in the traditionalist group of scholars. Unfortunately, there are but few examples of traditionalist Sufi shaykhs who left behind teachings in writing, which makes it difficult to study how they may have distinguished themselves from other trends of Sufism.

Henri Laoust concluded in 1939 that Ibn Taymiyya had a “frank intellectual affinity with the ethico-mystical tendencies of a moderate taṣawwuf.” He argued that, rather than attacking Sufism as a whole, the Ḥanbalī shaykh aimed his pen at specific deviant trends he recognized, such as monistic Sufism. Hence we can say his general aim was to purify Sufism of such sects.

But does this mean that Ibn Taymiyya himself also consciously practiced Sufism? Did he teach or preach Sufism? Was he a Sufi?

By the end of this article you will find the answer to this, but it will not surprise you that some scholars did consider him a Sufi — including George Makdisi, who concluded that he was a Sufi of the Qādiriyya, the order traced back to the aforementioned Ḥanbalī Sufi ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, whose book we have already discussed. For now, know that his exact personal relationship with Sufism remains somewhat shrouded in mystery.

This finally brings us back to al-Wāsiṭī, the Iraqi Sufi whom we shall now discuss: the companion of Ibn Taymiyya who put Sufism on a Ḥanbalī basis. As such, he is potentially an important source for our knowledge of the kind of Sufism that was practiced among the traditionalists, specifically in the circle of Ibn Taymiyya. Joseph Bell and Livnat Holtzman have both stated that al-Wāsiṭī was an important teacher of Ibn al-Qayyim, whose book on zuhd was the basis for my previous article. So let’s begin…

His Journeys

This article is divided into two parts reflecting the dual journeys described in al-Wāsiṭī’s writings: his riḥla, the physical quest for a spiritual guide, and his sulūk, the inward path of Sufi practice he later taught in Damascus. By examining how his external search shaped his internal spiritual framework, the study reveals the profound link between movement and meaning in his path to divine friendship (wilāya). Thanks to the efforts of Muḥammad Abū al-Faḍl al-Qūnawī and Walīd b. Muḥammad al-ʿAlī, many of al-Wāsiṭī’s treatises have been published, providing essential material for us.

This article looks at al-Wāsiṭī’s journey to find a spiritual teacher and how that shaped his ideas about “true” Sufism. It explores three key teachings: knowing the Prophet through the Muḥammadan Way, knowing God in a traditional way, and criticizing Sufi practices he saw as wrong. Later chapters explain how he believed people could reach closeness to God. The study also helps us understand different types of Sufism in his time, shows what Sufism looked like in Damascus, and adds new insights into how Sufism fit into the world of Ibn Taymiyya.

Al-Wāsiṭī’s autobiography traces his life through personal reflections found in his writings, especially a key forty-page treatise written in the early 14th century, likely soon after joining Ibn Taymiyya’s circle. Published recently under the editor-given title The Journey of Imam Ibn Shaykh al-Ḥazzāmiyyīn from Deviant Sufism to the Sufism of the Traditionalists, the work outlines his move away from misguided Sufi practices toward a form of Sufism rooted in traditional Islamic teachings. He wrote it to warn others about the errors of certain Sufi and legal groups and to present what he saw as the correct path of Sufism.

He says, “I wanted to describe the state of my journey (riḥlatī) during my spiritual search and what I have come across of groups (ṭawāʾif) that deviate from truth and rightness … so that it may provide insight and proof for the seeker of guidance in our age and become a stairway to knowledge (maʿrifa) of what God (T) desires from His servants regarding their religious requirements, beliefs (ʿuqūd), and spiritual states (aḥwāl).” [Rihla p. 15]

Al-Wāsiṭī’s decision to write his spiritual autobiography was sparked by reading the story of Salmān al-Fārisī, whose journey to Islam mirrored his own search for truth. His treatise follows the style of spiritual autobiographical writing, focusing on inner transformation and personal growth.

Basically, it’s possible that he reinterpreted his earlier experiences—especially with groups he once thought were good but later saw as mistaken—and rewrote his entire journey while in Damascus. However, his Riḥla remains silent with regard to the Ashʿarī creed to which he was in all likelihood exposed when studying Shāfiʿī jurisprudence as a youth, and that makes it easier for us to study it.

Historical Background of Wāsiṭ

The city was founded by al-Ḥajjāj ibn Yūsuf around 702 CE. Wāsiṭ was strategically located between Kufa and Basra—hence its name, which means “middle” in Arabic. It served as a military garrison and administrative center for the Umayyads. The city flourished as a commercial and shipbuilding hub due to its position on the Tigris River.

Despite this, the city was abandoned in the 15th century, likely due to repeated sieges and a shift in the Tigris River’s course, which undermined its strategic and economic viability.

On 10 February 1258, the Mongols led by Hülagü captured Baghdad. After taking Baghdad, Hülagü sent two generals—Köke-Ilge and Qara Boghā—to take over the rest of Mesopotamia (the land between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates). In April 1258, they captured the city of Wāsiṭ, killing around 40,000 people and destroying the eastern part of the city across the Tigris River.

Almost two years later, in November 1259, a boy named ʿImād al-Dīn Aḥmad al-Wāsiṭī was born in Wāsiṭ, the same city that had suffered so much. It is likely that he grew up in Ḥazzāmūn, a large quarter (maḥalla) in the east of Wāsiṭ, as several sources mention he was known as Ibn Shaykh al-Ḥazzāmiyyīn: the son of the shaykh of Ḥazzāmūn’s inhabitants.

In his autobiography al-Wāsiṭī describes it as follows: “I was born and raised among a group (ṭāʾifa) of the Aḥmadiyya [Rifāʿiyya], because my father—may God forgive him!—was one of their leaders and viziers (wuzarāʾ) of their shaykhs. He was obedient to them, maintaining a state of excessive service (nafʿ) by fulfilling the needs of people, feeding them, and warding off any personal desire, as is the way of the Aḥmadiyya fuqarāʾ.” [Rihla p. 17]

Al-Wāsiṭī’s father was a Sufi leader, and his brother also became one—possibly part of the Rifāʿiyya order. This suggests that their family held a respected position in Wāsiṭ and that Sufism was a big part of their lives. The Rifāʿī group especially had a strong influence on al-Wāsiṭī during his early years. However, as we will see, his later experiences led him to question how far Sufism should go. We’ll explore this more deeply later, along with a closer look at the Rifāʿiyya. But first, we need to understand the historical and social background of the first part of al-Wāsiṭī’s life to better follow his journey.

Despite the Mongol presence in Mesopotamia, the Ilkhanids maintained a relatively tolerant stance toward Sunni Muslims, allowing religious life to continue. Al-Wāsiṭī, living in Wāsiṭ, likely experienced little interference, especially given the apparent connection between the Mongols and the Rifāʿī Sufi order. Deeply rooted in the region, the Rifāʿiyya maintained a spiritual stronghold near Wāsiṭ, with their prominent convent located in Umm ʿUbayda, a village just a day’s journey away.

By the way, the Rifāʿī (or Rifa'i) order is a prominent, historically significant Sufi order within Sunni Islam, founded by the 12th-century mystic Sheikh Aḥmad al-Rifāʿī.

Ṣāliḥ al-Aḥmadī al-Rifāʿī, a Rifāʿī shaykh, was reportedly honored by the Mongol general Qutlughshāh during the early 14th-century campaign into Mamluk territory, even hosting him in his home according to Ibn Kathīr. Though not definitive, such accounts shed light on the Rifāʿiyya’s proximity to power and help explain al-Wāsiṭī’s later sharp tone in his autobiography when recalling his youthful experiences among them. After severely criticizing several of the practices he had seen among them, he concludes: “That is why it is only right that the Mongols (al-tatar) have come to rule their land and gained mastery over them! In fact, they are content having them in their country, because [the Mongols] believe in them and venerate them. … Perhaps the last caliphs of Baghdad only came to an end for the simple fact that they did not disavow these kinds of things [that the Rifāʿīs do]; for instead of changing this behavior, they preserved it for them – and that is why God brought them to an end!” [R. p. 19]

Although al-Wāsiṭī does not disclose much about his personal life during his time in Wāsiṭ, reading between the lines sometimes reveals the struggle of a young critical mind seeking the path he saw most fitting. He tells us: “One of the graces that God (T) bestowed upon me is that He created an instinct in me during my childhood (al-ḥāl al-ṭufūliyya) by which I used to know that they have no basis [for their practices], and that the truth is beyond that which they call to. I would hold fast to al-Qushayrī’s Risāla, the Kitāb al-Qūt, and the Iḥyāʾ. I was inherently aware of their falsehood, although it is practically impossible to bring it to light because they are in power [in the region] (al-dawla lahum). Thus, there is no possibility at all to expose it.” [R. p. 26]

Al-Wāsiṭī begins his critique of the Rifāʿiyya by highlighting their exalted view of the shaykh, whom they regard as possessing extraordinary, almost superhuman qualities. He suggests that the shaykh occupies a central, almost indispensable role in the spiritual and daily lives of his followers. He says: “Instead of worship, it is their shaykhs who are firmly settled in their hearts, so that they turn to them during calamities and invoke them during their mishaps. The shaykh is to his followers like a prophet – in fact, it may be that they venerate him more than they venerate the prophets! For instance, they lower their heads in prostration and uncover them when they are in his presence, seeking refuge from his anger and his spiritual and hidden punishments (ʿuqūbātihi al-bāṭiniyya al-ghaybiyya). They believe that he utters whatever he desires, that he can make the living die, heal the sick, and shoot his arrow at anyone he likes, thereby killing that person!” [R. p. 17]

Another aspect of al-Rifāʿī’s high spiritual rank that we find repeated in our Rifāʿī shaykhs’ works is his genealogical link to the family-line of the Prophet Muḥammad. Al-Fārūthī’s work Nafḥa has no other purpose but to demonstrate that al-Rifāʿī was part of the Prophetic genealogy.

In a story of the shaykh’s visit to Medina when performing his ḥajj, it is said that when he greeted the Prophet with the words “peace be upon you my grandfather,” the Prophet replied, saying “and peace be upon you my son.” When the Prophet then stretched out his hand from the grave, al-Rifāʿī kissed it. [al-Maʿārif al-Muḥammadiyya, p. 59]

Al-Wāsiṭī’s account of the Rifāʿiyya’s devotional practices at the mausoleum of Aḥmad al-Rifāʿī in Umm ʿUbayda reveals his deep unease with what he perceived as excessive veneration. He recalls, with youthful innocence, participating in rituals that included prostration at the mausoleum’s threshold, emotional supplication, and circumambulation of a column within the convent—acts he likens to pilgrimage rites. His pointed comparison to Shiʿi ziyāra practices, especially the pilgrimage to the grave of Ḥusayn, shows his concern that the Rifāʿiyya had elevated their shaykh’s tomb to a status rivaling, or even surpassing, that of the Kaʿba. [R. p. 20]

The Rifāʿī festival, known as al-mawsim al-Aḥmadī, was a major devotional event held in honor of Aḥmad al-Rifāʿī, beginning on Thursday evenings and marked by public samāʿ gatherings. Al-Fārūthī in his Irshād al-muslimīn (p. 90) recounts his childhood visit to Umm ʿUbayda in 622/1225, describing how the area transformed, with tents and huts erected by devoted followers (muḥibbūn). On Friday, the mausoleum of al-Rifāʿī was ceremonially opened, drawing thousands of pilgrims (zuwwār) who came to perform ziyāra (visitation).

Fritz Meier’s interpretation of samāʿ as musik hören (“listening to music”) captures its essence as a spiritually charged auditory experience. In the Rifāʿī tradition, as witnessed by our Iraqi Sufi during his youth, samāʿ gatherings were vibrant and inclusive, featuring both men and women. These congregations brought together Rifāʿī shaykhs, poetic reciters, singers, and banner bearers, all contributing to the event.

Al-Wāsiṭī describes how, during spiritual gatherings (samāʿ), women were placed around the circle of men so their faces could be seen in the background. He strongly criticizes this setup and brings up the issue of women in the Rifāʿī group several times in his autobiography. His main concern is the interaction between men and women—especially between women and shaykhs—which he believes threatens moral values.

He also included attractive young boys in this concern, especially regarding proper boundaries between the sexes. While some examples he gives seem minor—like women and boys sleeping in the same house as the shaykh or massaging his feet for blessings—he also shares more serious cases, including pregnancies resulting from forbidden sexual relations (zinā). [Rihla pp. 21–23]

Besides mentioning that there would be music and dancing (raqṣ), al-Wāsiṭī discloses little more about the actual rituals of the samāʿ. The actual raqṣ is something that al-Rifāʿī is said to have linked to the practice of a group of angels who dance and remember God under His Throne. Hence, the knowers of God dance during their remembrance as well. [al-Maʿārif al-Muḥammadiyya, p. 89]

The dance is certainly reprimanded by al-Wāsiṭī. He gives a vivid example: “When the samāʿ is being performed, those among them who reach a state of bewilderment turn to snakes, which lay prepared in bags. They pull them out and gnaw on them of their own free will (qaḍm al-khiyār), so that [the snake’s] blood streams around the corners of their mouths. They subsequently blow this out over the people, claiming that it transforms to saffron and fruit in their mouths! I have seen among them someone who eats frogs, which he puts in his pockets before the samāʿ. Then, when the ritual is in process, he pulls one out and nibbles on it! There is no one who reproaches them for this, neither among our jurists nor among our pious. Instead, we have come to view these innovations (bidaʿ) as a well-known custom and an evident trademark of the ṭāʾifa.” [R. p. 19]

It was not only the common people who attended such meetings of the Rifāʿiyya, but also reputable Muslim scholars. Men of knowledge, he argues, should actively fight such baseless innovations as practiced by the Rifāʿīs. But instead they actually support and participate in them. He refers by name to the most distinguished teacher he had in Wāsiṭ: “The great ḥadīth scholars among their followers and adherents, such as ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Fārūthī, attend their samāʿ gatherings. I [once] came to him when I was still an adolescent and said to him: ‘The Prophet (Ṣ) said that every newly invented thing is an innovation. Then what is the status of this samāʿ?’ It took him a while to answer me and this did not please him.” [R. p. 27]

He finishes his account with a conclusion that reiterates much of what we have already seen. He blames the Rifāʿīs for introducing the traveler on the Sufi path (al-sāʾir) to innovations such as relations with women and young boys, sleeping with them, grabbing live snakes, stepping into fire, and participating in samāʿ gatherings. Al-Wāsiṭī argues that the unusual practices found among the Rifāʿī group—like snake handling and fire walking—come from their roots in the marshlands (baṭāʾiḥ), where the shaykhs were mostly rural. He claims that when city people follow these peasant shaykhs, even if they are considered close to God (awliyāʾ), it leads to religious confusion and moral decline. He blames this on what he sees as a lack of wisdom among rural folk.

He insists that only trained scholars (ʿulamāʾ) can properly guide; hence al-Wāsiṭī eventually distanced himself from the Rifāʿī order and chose to focus on studying Islamic law instead, so that there would be an equilibrium between the science of jurisprudence (the outward dimension of Islam) and the science of Sufism (the inward dimension of Islam) in his life.

In matters of creed (iʿtiqād) we even find al-Rifāʿī taking a somewhat traditionalist stance, where he is quoted as follows by al-Ṣayyād: “The people closest to heresy are the would-be Sufis (mutaṣawwifa) who are distracted from worshipping God by entering into discussions (kalām) about the divine essence (dhāt) and the divine attributes (ṣifāt).” [al-Maʿārif al-Muḥammadiyya, p. 3]

Yet this did not survive long and nowadays this order is mostly followed by Ashʿaris.

Ibn Taymiyya, too, acknowledges that many innovations only entered the Rifāʿī order after the death of its founder. [Majmuʿ Fatawa, vol. 111, p. 494]

Hence Wāsiṭ desired to seek knowledge with the jurists and Sufis of Baghdad, which may have also played a role in his journey. It is through the Ḥanbalī biographer Ibn Rajab that we know he started studying Shāfiʿī fiqh in Wāsiṭ and then traveled to Baghdad to continue his studies under a group of Shāfiʿīs there. [Dhayl, vol. 4, p. 381]

Because al-Wāsiṭī’s father was a Shāfiʿī, it was only natural that he followed the same madhhab. Al-Wāsiṭī states in his autobiography that he mainly devoted himself to jurisprudence because he had become convinced of the necessity of having intimate knowledge of God’s laws. After all, he says, it is thereby that one knows which deeds lead to God’s reward and which deeds lead to His punishment. As he saw it, his switch to fiqh was “a light and a guide during dark times.” [R. p. 29]

Yet he soon found himself disappointed once more due to their sole occupation with jurisprudence. He says, “They are only concerned with fiqh, nothing else,” and he also sought: “I remained with them for a period of time, being confined like a bird in a cage, only getting a breath of fresh air from the books of the Sufis!” [R. p. 30]

It is doubtful that he did not study any basic text of Ashʿarī kalām with some of his shaykhs in fiqh. Most of them, if not all, ascribed to Ashʿarism when it came to creed. This is evidently implied in his autobiography where he states that he found them particularly fond of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī: “Among them are those who combine [the study of] the principles of jurisprudence (uṣūl al-fiqh) with the specialized vocabulary (iṣṭilāḥ) of [Fakhr al-Dīn] Ibn al-Khaṭīb [al-Rāzī], while venerating and magnifying him, affirming that he is the greatest Imam and one of the pillars of this religion.” [R. p. 29]

Reaching Baghdad

It is Baghdad, where al-Wāsiṭī entered a master–disciple relationship (ṣuḥba) amidst the aforementioned Sufis he calls muṭāwiʿat al-baghādida, which we may render as “obedient followers of the Baghdadi Sufis.”

We find proof for this in Qāʿida fī aṣnāf al-taʾalluh, another short work of al-Wāsiṭī: “The first path that I entered was the path of Sufism (taṣawwuf) according to the spiritual presence of Sufis (rūḥāniyyat al-ṣūfiyya) such as Junayd, Abū Saʿīd al-Kharrāz, and their contemporaries. This was after [I had taken] the path of jurisprudence (fiqh) according to the school of al-Shāfiʿī, by which the details of the religious obligations and the Sunna are known.”

So it can almost be said that the branch of Sufism he was exposed to after his study of jurisprudence was on the path of Junayd of Baghdad and al-Jīlānī.

He further described them: “They venerate the [Sufi] shaykhs (al-mashāyikh), though not like the first group [i.e. the Rifāʿiyya]. Nevertheless, there is among them a branch of that kind, who uncover their heads at the mausoleum of Ibn Idrīs and kiss its threshold — and I did this with them when I was a young man — although they do not fall into the same filthy deeds [that the Rifāʿiyya do].” [R. p. 32]

Without doubt, the Ibn Idrīs mentioned here is Abū al-Ḥasan ʿAlī Ibn Idrīs al-Rawḥāʾī al-Baʿqūbī, pupil of the renowned Baghdadi Sufi master, the Ḥanbalī shaykh ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī (d. 561/1166). To be noted: both Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Rajab relate that Ibn Idrīs once asked al-Jīlānī whether there has ever been a friend of God (walī) who followed a creed other than that of Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal, to which the shaykh replied: “there never was, and there never will.” [Dhayl, vol. 2, p. 200]

Also, al-Jīlānī was a staunch advocate of the traditionalist creed, as is clear from the section on the divine attributes in his Ghunya, where he also dismisses ʿilm al-kalām and Ashʿarism.

He states that the Baghdadi Sufis were “a thousand times better than the previous two groups.” [R. p. 31]

Al-Wāsiṭī still critiques them on the discrepancy between outward asceticism and inward indulgence. Though these individuals wore the symbolic garb of Sufis and followed practices that might lead to glimpses of the Divine (shuhūd), he saw their path as ultimately detached from the full spiritual reality — what he called al-amr al-kullī. In his view, they pursued the appearance of piety while remaining entangled in worldly desires, as the true purpose of the Sufi's journey is sincere transformation.

He says: “No one [among them] speaks of seeking arrival [unto God] (wuṣūl) at all, for this is a discipline that has diminished. … I associated with them, but their state did not please me. I knew through my instinct that the matter [I pursued] is superior to this, and I would only get a breath of fresh air from the books of the Sufis.” [R. p. 32]

It finally convinced him to leave Iraq in search of something better.

In Alexandria

Named after Alexander the Great, the city of Alexandria (al-Iskandariyya) had become part of the early Muslim empire under the second caliph, ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb. Almost seven centuries later, when al-Wāsiṭī reached the city, it was part of the Baḥrī Mamluk realm. The city was at the same time transforming into one of the most important centers of Sufism in Egypt. Al-Wāsiṭī would probably have spent most of his time outside the walls in the northern quarter of Alexandria, the city with unprosperous business. Udovitch’s reading of the Geniza has revealed that important transactions would take place in Cairo rather than Alexandria, so that the latter city served as a point of entry and departure, but not exchange. Prices were apparently higher in Alexandria as well, while commodities from Cairo appear to have generally been regarded as being of a higher quality.

Sufism already played an important role in the religious policy of the Ayyubids and continued to do so under the Mamluks. Both dynasties were favorably disposed towards organized Sufi groups and utilized the convents they sponsored to spread a sharīʿa-based spirituality. So many North African and Andalusi seekers of the spiritual path were undoubtedly attracted to Alexandria because of the renowned masters of the western Sufi tradition that lived there. There was a dominance of the Mālikī school and theologically the Ashʿarī school.

The Shādhiliyya whom our Iraqi Sufi would meet here were very concisely described by him. Al-Wāsiṭī makes it clear that what he found in Alexandria was a ṭāʾifa that identified itself with the name of Abū al-Ḥasan al-Shādhilī. He says: “But God (T) was kind to me, for I met a group (ṭāʾifa) in Alexandria who recognized my goal and my search, so that I found a little bit of intimacy (baʿḍ al-uns) among them.”

Interestingly, his autobiography does not once state the names of this ṭāʾifa’s members. Yet elsewhere — after describing his time among the Baghdadi Sufis in his Qāʿida fī aṣnāf al-taʾalluh (p. 151) — he says that he subsequently “turned to the way (ṭarīq) of the Shādhiliyya.”

He says about their doctrines: “One of them considers his own self-direction (tadbīr) and choice (ikhtiyār) to be among the greatest sins, so that he happily welcomes his Lord’s choice and trusts in it, relying on whatever his Lord has designated in His pre-eternity (fī azalihi) according to His divine wisdom and mercy. This comes to the point that it seems as if this one is in the presence of his Lord, seeing Him with the vision of his heart (yarāhu ʿiyānan bi-qalbihi). The signs of [God’s] majesty, love, and magnificence shine on his face and he submits to His decree (ḥukm). I found such signs among them and in their movements, their stillness, and the fluctuations of their hearts (taqallubāt).”

What is especially noticeable is how al-Wāsiṭī summarizes Shādhilī doctrine in the form of several core teachings found in the earliest Shādhilī writings, most notably those of Ibn ʿAṭāʾ Allāh. Ibn ʿAṭāʾ Allāh’s Kitāb al-Tanwīr fī Isqāṭ al-Tadbīr — “The Book of Illumination through the Elimination of Self-Direction” — teaches that whoever seeks to arrive unto God (al-wuṣūl ilā Allāh) must purify himself of self-direction. He states that the truest miracle (karāma) of the friend of God is when he lives by tafwīḍ, entrusting all affairs to God.

Now that we have identified the Alexandrian Shādhilīs al-Wāsiṭī joined as a distinct Sufi ṭāʾifa with its own particular doctrine, I do not want to go deep into their creed as it is not required for this article.

Finally, what we want to understand is what lay behind this successful group. It is clear from al-Wāsiṭī’s autobiography that he had never seen Sufis like those of the Shādhiliyya before. For al-Wāsiṭī, it must have been Najm al-Dīn in particular who inspired him; he reveres him as a “knower of God” (al-ʿārif) in his autobiography (Rihla p. 24).

Simplification of the Passage

Sinoky-style simplification (clear, complete, and faithful):

Al-Wāsiṭī deeply admired the Shādhiliyya Sufi order, mainly because of its sober and restrained approach to spirituality. This “sober Sufism” was shaped by the Malāmatī tradition from Nishapur, which emphasized keeping one’s religious devotion private and avoiding public displays of piety. Scholar Geoffroy adds that the Shādhiliyya spread rapidly because its teachings were expressed in language that was simple and accessible to people from all walks of life.

Al-Wāsiṭī liked the Shādhiliyya not just for its deep thinking but for its practical approach. Early Shādhilī leaders did not ask followers to wear special clothes. This differed from other Sufi groups in Alexandria — especially those influenced by the West, like Abū Madyan’s followers — who wore patched cloaks to display renunciation.

The Shādhilī way was also simple because it didn’t ask people to give up work or live in poverty. Ibn ʿAṭāʾ Allāh’s book explains how someone can follow Sufism while still working and earning a living.

However, some later Shādhilī leaders took the order in a new direction associated with the Akbarian school of Sufism and the teachings of Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn ʿArabī. This led to debates over whether the order remained true to its original principles; Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī (d. 911/1505) wrote to defend the early Shādhilī masters from such associations (Taʾyīd al-ḥaqīqa al-ʿaliyya).

Theological Concerns and Further Travels

In his Riḥla (p. 39), al-Wāsiṭī explains that one main reason he distanced himself from the Alexandrian Sufis was theological. He examined the highest spiritual level (dhirwa) claimed by the Shādhilīs and found they lacked awareness of the Prophet’s teachings (Sunna), the lives of his Companions, and their moral character.

Al-Wāsiṭī also noticed that their beliefs bore influence from the Jahmiyya school, which held controversial views about God’s attributes. Although they did not openly deny God’s qualities (taʿṭīl), they often avoided taking clear positions (wuqūf), resembling speculative theologians (mutakallimīn). He feared this led to a spiritual darkness.

In Qāʾida fī al-tajrīd (p. 256) he goes further, suggesting Ashʿarī theology was a core part of Shādhilī teaching. He reports advice from Najm al-Dīn about becoming absorbed in the meaning “God was and there was nothing with Him,” a formulation associated with kalām. Al-Wāsiṭī contrasts this with the traditionalist view that God is above His creation (fawqiyya) in a manner befitting His greatness.

These theological disagreements, and the Shādhilīs’ exaltation of spiritual leaders with titles like “the spiritual axis” (al-quṭb) and “the helper” (al-ghawth), troubled him. Some practices — imagining the shaykh present during dhikr, reliance on the shaykh’s “breaths” (anfās), and seeking kashf over textual proof — made him uneasy (R. p. 35).

Understanding that he could not be further guided in Alexandria, he moved on.

In Cairo

After about fifteen days of travel, al-Wāsiṭī arrived in Cairo. This city became a major turning point in his spiritual journey, eventually leading him to Damascus.

In his autobiography, al-Wāsiṭī describes two types of Sufis he met in Cairo’s convents. The first group, ṣūfiyyat al-rasm, followed outward customs but lacked deeper commitment. The second group were influenced by the teachings of Ibn ʿArabī and were known for mystical and monistic beliefs.

Cairo was full of Sufi activity. Many regarded Sufi shaykhs as holy men who brought blessings (baraka). After spending time with Sufis in Alexandria, al-Wāsiṭī moved into a convent (ribāṭ), called Saʿīd al-suʿadā (also mentioned in Talqīḥ al-afhām, p. 160). These institutions — khānqāh in Egypt — could host hundreds and were mainly for visiting Sufis, especially those of the Shāfiʿī-Ashʿarī tradition.

He criticized some Cairo Sufis who believed rulers were manifestations of God and recounts a shaykh telling the vice-regent al-Shujāʿī, “You are the supreme name of God.” Al-Wāsiṭī strongly disagreed. (R. p. 41)

Al-Wāsiṭī also observed that many Sufis prioritized outward appearance — marks of prostration, neat beards, fine clothing — over inner devotion. He noted strict convent customs and social pressures to conform to visible ritual practice (R. p. 37).

He warned that convents accepted anyone following outward Sufi customs, even if the person held monistic beliefs (ittiḥādiyya), allowing followers of Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qūnawī and Ibn ʿArabī to mix among them (R. p. 38–40). These teachings claimed that only God truly exists and that creation manifests God’s essence — a view al-Wāsiṭī rejected as dangerous for undermining sharīʿa and obscuring who is the worshipper and who is worshipped.

Arriving at Damascus

Al-Wāsiṭī arrived in Damascus towards the end of the seventh/thirteenth century and joined the city’s traditionalist community. Damascus was less open to Ibn ʿArabī’s school than Cairo. The popular Damascene spirituality was moralistic and ascetic — called zuhd — and the Ḥanbalīs were often wary of the label “Sufism” because of their strict rejection of innovation (bidʿa).

Public readings of religious texts and tales of pious individuals (akhbār al-ṣāliḥīn) contributed to Ḥanābila popularity across classes. Another Ḥanbalī-linked trend in Damascus involved the Banu Qudāma, though its exact nature is unclear. Ibn Taymiyya stated in a fatwa that it was forbidden to claim al-Jīlānī as the best of Sufi shaykhs and Ibn Ḥanbal the best of imams without proof, since such claims cause division (MF vol. 20, p. 291).

This suggests some Ḥanbalī–Qādirī affiliation existed in Damascus around the start of the eighth/fourteenth century.

In the Company of Ibn Taymiyya

Speaking of himself in the third person, al-Wāsiṭī sums up his life’s journey to Damascus and writes in his Mukhtaṣar sīrat Rasūl Allāh: “...Until he came to a point that he felt disgusted by his desperate resolution to deviate on the path of those who are shaykhs by outward appearance only among the people. But Allah (ST) was kind to him, for He made him meet a murshid who was a refuge of succor for him.”

This murshid was the Ḥanbalī shaykh al-Islām Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad Ibn Taymiyya. By then in his thirties and about four years younger than al-Wāsiṭī, Ibn Taymiyya’s fearless activism for the traditionalist creed convinced al-Wāsiṭī of his high rank as a reviver of the Sunna.

Al-Wāsiṭī argues that without theological foundations (qawāʿid) provided by Damascene shaykhs, the Sufi mode of being (al-kayfiyya al-ṣūfiyya) of his Shādhilī brethren remains incomplete and baseless. In the conclusion of his autobiography he prays: “I hope that, out of His kindness, God (T) will accommodate me to travel the path of these [Damascene] scholars with regard to the principles and articles of my religion (sulūk ṭarīq hāʾulāʾi al-ʿulamāʾ fī uṣūl dīnī waʿaqāʾidihā) and its outward works and inward states, and that He will bring me to spiritual realization through the realities of my Sufi brothers (wa-an yuḥaqqiqanī bi-ḥaqāʾiq ikhwānī al-ṣūfiyya).” (R. p. 52)

This is where al-Wāsiṭī’s autobiography ends. Ibn Rajab hints that al-Wāsiṭī eventually abandoned many Sufi ways and focused solely on the Prophet’s example (Dhayl, vol. 4, pp. 381).

The majority of al-Wāsiṭī’s works are pedagogical and describe stage-by-stage guidance on the spiritual path toward God. His corpus often reads like class notes or complementary study material for disciples. Ibn Taymiyya, in a letter dated 704/1304, calls him “our master (sayyidunā) Shaykh ʿImād al-Dīn.” (Majmūʿat al-rasāʾil vol. 1, p. 161)

Conclusion & Next Steps

This article ends here, having established the identity and life of ʿImād al-Dīn al-Wāsiṭī. In the next article we will examine his spiritual pathway and interpretation of Sufism.

This article was written based on my reading of The Journeys of a Taymiyyan Sufi by Arjan Post.

Allāh-hāfiz!