The lonely tooth


Has your tooth ever hurt? In earnest? Then you will realize that this illustration of an Ottoman manuscript, in which there is nothing else in the whole universe, but the painful tooth, in whose red-hot inside snakes and devils provoke hellish torments, and the unsympathetic cold space around it, is not a naive metaphor, but the most accurate representation of reality.


As many teeth, so many hellish pains. If you heroically browse through the medical manuscripts and loose illustrations of the small shops in the Istanbul book bazaar, you will wander through more circles of hell than Dante.

This tooth model, carved out of ivory, has a number of photos on the web, without a proper source reference. A seemingly reliable site regards it a Souther French work of around 1780. The date is probably correct, but the origin is rather Ottoman, since its manuscript models can be still found in the Istanbul book bazaar.

But where the need is greatest, the help is the closest. In fact, the above illustrations come from manuscripts, which, aftter presenting the severity of the problem, immediately offer cures and preventive procedures against it.


Islamic dentistry leads back its origins to Mohammad, who instructs the believers in a special hadith to wash their teeth at least twice or thrice a day. He is also referred by the great 10th-century Arabic physician, Ibn Sina or Avicenna, whose famous Al kanun fi al-tibb (The canon of medicine) gives instructions for treating teeth, drilling, pain relief, and fixing dentures with gold wire to the jaw.


Avicenna’s work was also the kanun, the basic reference of Ottoman physicians. One of the indispensable institutions of Ottoman cities was the hospital, darüşşifa, where also dental surgeries were performed. The surgeries needed professionals, and the professionals passed on their knowledge in manuals. The first Ottoman medical manuscripts, Bereket’s Tuhfe-i Mubrizi, Ahmadi’s Tarvih al-ervah and Hacı Paşa’s Müntehab al-şifa, all come from the 14th century, and they also deal with the treatment and anatomy of teeth.

In the 15th century, two important factors led to the boom of Ottoman dentistry. On the one hand, Sultan Mehmet II established a glorious court in Constantinople, occupied by him in 1453, which attracted qualified doctors from all over the empire. Here the first Ottoman surgical encyclopaedia and at the same time the first illustrated Ottoman medical work, Cerrâhiyyetüʿl-Hâniyye (Surgery of the Empire) was composed in 1465 by chief physician Şerefeddin Şabuncuoğlu. Among its pictures there are also many illustrations of dental surgeries.



On the other hand, the Ottoman praxis was further enriched by the knowledge brought to Constantinople by the Jewish doctors expelled from Spain in 1492. The first Ottoman dental monograph was written by the Sephardic Moses Hamon (Ibn Hamun) in the court of Sultan Suleiman. Its illustrations further develop those of Şabuncuoğlu.



Ibn Hamun’s knowledge and illustrations were taken over, expanded and varied by a number of further manuscripts, from Şemseddîn-i İtâkki’s medical compendium of 1632, which already includes the Renaissance anatomical charts of Andreas Vesalius’ De humani corporis fabrica of 1543, to the great Marifetname encyclopaedia, compiled in 1765 by the Sufi doctor İbrahim Hakkı, which was the crowning and last great creation of Ottoman medical science.


This manuscript literature flourished in many variants until the end of the 19th century, when European medicine and book printing gradually replaced it. To which of these works belonged the solitary teeth, suffering alone in the universe, with a little hell in their cavity? We do not know. These metaphors of disconsolate suffering are now sold by pages in the Istanbul book bazaar, torn away from  a thousand years of accumulated medical knowledge, which could help them.

En dolorida soledad


¿Alguna vez le han dolido de verdad, de verdad, las muelas? Entonces sabrá que esta ilustración procedente de un manuscrito otomano, donde todo el cuadro lo ocupa una muela en cuyo interior se agita un infierno de serpientes y diablos en llamas que atormentan más allá de lo imaginable, y abandonada, además, en un insondable universo frío y hostil, no es una ingenua metáfora, sino la representación de la realidad más cruda.


Tantas muelas tenemos como tribulaciones horribles nos acechan. Si uno se arma de valor y repasa los manuscritos médicos y las hojas sueltas ilustradas que se ofrecen en las pequeñas tiendas del bazar de libros de Estambul, cruzará más círculos infernales que Dante.

De este modelo de muela tallada en marfil hay varias fotos en la web sin una fuente de referencia clara. Un sitio aparentemente fiable lo considera una obra del sur de Francia, fechable hacia 1780. La fecha podría ser cierta pero el origen es más probablemente otomano, pues sus modelos manuscritos se ven en el bazar de libros de Estambul.

Pero allí donde la necesidad aprieta, el socorro está más cerca. De hecho, las ilustraciones anteriores obran en manuscritos que, después de hacernos bien patente la gravedad del problema, dan de inmediato remedios y procedimientos preventivos.


La odontología islámica remonta sus orígenes hasta el propio Mahoma, quien enseñó a los creyentes en un hadiz especial a lavarse los dientes al menos dos o tres veces al día. Lo mismo recomienda el gran médico árabe del siglo X Ibn Sina o Avicena, cuyo famoso Al kanun fi al-tibb (El canon de la medicina) instruye sobre el cuidado de los dientes y el tratamiento de las caries, ofrece recetas para aliviar del dolor y expone técnicas para la fijación de prótesis con alambre de oro.


El texto de Avicena era el kanun, la obra de referencia básica para los médicos otomanos. Una de las instituciones indispensables en la ciudad otomana era el hospital, darüşşifa, donde también se realizaban cirugías dentales. Las intervenciones exigían profesionales, y aquellos profesionales dejaban sus conocimientos anotados en manuales para los nuevos dentistas. Los primeros manuscritos médicos otomanos, el Tuhfe-i Mubrizi de Bereket, el Tarvih al-ervah de Ahmadi y el Müntehab al-şifa de Hacı Pasa, datan todos del siglo XIV y se ocupan también de la anatomía y del tratamiento general de los dientes.

En el siglo XV, dos factores importantes contribuyeron al auge de la odontología otomana. Por un lado, el sultán Mehmet II estableció una imponente corte en Constantinopla, que había ocupado en 1453, y atrajo a los médicos más cualificados de alrededor del Imperio. Allí se compuso la primera enciclopedia quirúrgica otomana y, al mismo tiempo, la primera obra médica otomana ilustrada, la Cerrâhiyyetü'l-Hâniyye (Cirugía del Imperio), elaborada en 1465 por el médico jefe Şerefeddin Şabuncuoğlu. Entre sus imágenes se encuentran muchas de cirugía dental.



Por otro lado, la praxis otomana pudo enriquecerse todavía más gracias a los conocimientos que trasladaron a Constantinopla los médicos judíos expulsados ​​de España en 1492. La primera monografía dental otomana fue escrita precisamente por un sefardita, Moses Hamon (Ibn Hamun), en la corte del sultán Solimán. Sus ilustraciones desarrollan con mayor detalle las de Şabuncuoğlu.



Los conocimientos e ilustraciones de Ibn Hamun fueron acumulándose, ampliados y variados luego en diversos manuscritos complementarios, desde el compendio médico de Şemseddîn-i İtâkki, de 1632, que ya incluye copias de las planchas anatómicas renacentistas del De humani corporis fabrica (1543) de Andreas Vesalius, hasta la gran enciclopedia del Marifetname, compilada en 1765 por el doctor sufí Ibrahim Hakkı, culminación y última gran creación de la ciencia médica otomana.


Todo este corpus de literatura manuscrita floreció con numerosas variantes hasta el final del siglo XIX, cuando la medicina europea y la impresión de libros lo fue reemplazando. ¿A cuál de aquellas obras pertenecía la muela solitaria que sufre su pequeño infierno interior en la espantosa soledad del cosmos? No lo sabemos. Estas conmovedoras metáforas del sufrimiento desconsolado ahora se venden sueltas en el bazar de libros de Estambul, arrancadas de siglos de sabiduría médica acumulada. Que quizá aún podrían ayudarnos.


A zoo in my luggage



I bought this miniature in the bazaar of Isfahan, in the dim workshop of an old miniature painter, who paints his traditional gold-leaf Persian figures on the pages of hundred-year-old notebooks discarded from the local theology. “Do you know who’s in the picture?” he asked me, scanning my face. “Of course, Nūh, Noah.” “Are you a Muslim?” he asked with happy surprise. “No, masihi am, I’m a Messiah-believer. But every one of us knows Noah.” “Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “since we all come from him.”


Mahsa Vahdat: از دل سلامت میکنم Az del salâmat mikonam (I greet you from my heart). A poem by Jalal ad-din Rumi (1207-1273). From the album امید خفته Âmid khafte (Serene hope) (2017)

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The Quran and the Hadith – the collected sayings of Prophet Mohammad – mention in several places Noah, his ark, and the flood once covering the whole earth, which surely embraced the imagination of the inhabitants of the desert. Noah – Nūh ibn Lamech ibn Methuselah –, just as in the Book of Genesis, was a righteous man, to whom God first entrusted prophesy against idolatry, which had become widespread on earth. After trying to convert mankind for nine hundred and fifty years with great patience, but without the slightest success, he finally resorted to Plan B, and brought only his own family and two of every kind of animal on the Ark as propagation material from the former Paradise.


The Quran is better informed than the Book of Genesis – or, as the unbelievers would say, it likes to embroider its sources –, inasmuch it also knows about a fourth son of Noah in addition to Shem, Cham and Yafet. This fourth son, Yam, was secretly an unbeliever, and so at the last moment he leapt from the ark to await the passing of the flood on a high mountain. It did not work. What’s more, Noah’s wife – whom the Quran does not name, but the exegetes know from a certain source that she was called Umzrah bint Barakil – was also a secret unbeliever, so she also missed the ark. In the Islamic exegesis, they are the usual examples to point to, that on the day of judgment everyone will go into the fire of Jahannam for their own sins, and coming from a distinguished or righteous family will not save them.

Hafiz-i Abru, Majma al-tawarikh (“Collection of Histories”). Herat (Iran), ca. 1425

The representation of Noah’s ark became popular after 1500 in Persian Safavid and Ottoman miniature painting. In these pictures, the ark is a lightweight, single-mast dhaw, whose holding capacity would be tested even by a lucky catch of fish, let alone two of each righteous animal on earth. Islamic exegesis, which only accepts literal interpretation, has a hard job of explaining the unexplainable. But Allah is great, and if on the Day of Judgment the righteous will pass over the sirat, the spiderweb bridge, while under the guilty ones even the iron bridge will collapse, so with His will the complete gene pool of the world can fit well in a single-mast shell.

In the Mogul version of Persian manuscripts, the ark is a much more serious construction, a kind of floating entertainment palace, like the ones on which the ruler and his courtiers often went to cruise on the backwaters of the great Indian rivers.

And the medieval European representations of the ark often depict it as a high-rise ocean cruiser. In the spirit of the ancient encyclopedic tradition, the animals are sitting in its infinitely many windows, like they do later on the branches of the tree of evolution.


The Persian-Ottoman manuscript tradition does not aim at this completeness. In the little shell, only a handful of animals exemplify the complete fauna of the world, the most common and the most exotic ones. In addition to the horse and the camel, the elephant and the giraffe – this latter being a symbol of Allah’s greatness – evoke the great world, their long neck and muzzle dazzling in one rhythm with the zoomorphic ship’s head and tail. Such animals were seen by the common folk even in Isfahan and Istambul only as a gift of embassies from remote lands. Like the giraffe sent forward in 1414 by the Sultan of Bengal from the gifts of the embassy of Malindi – today Kenya – to Emperor Yongle, and portrayed in an iconic work of ancient Chinese painting.


It is particularly interesting that Noah’s face is covered with a veil, and he also hides his hands in his robe. This is how Mohammed is usually depicted from the late Middle Ages on. In fact, according to the Quran, idolatry is the degeneration of the honor given to outstanding people, whose image usually becomes worshipped. This is why exactly the most excellent ones should not be depicted. This teaching obviously reflects the Christian image cult of the period, and it is telling that while on Eastern Christian icons the face and hands appear uncovered, on the portraits of Mohammed exactly these two parts are covered, as if indicating that only his robe is painted on the picture.

The prohibition of depiction, the face covered with a veil is sometimes transmitted to other great people, and at the Shiites also to the Imams. In the salon of Boroujerdi House in Iranian Kashan, even the late 19th-century Nasreddin Shah is represented in this way. The owner may have thereby suggested to the still very conservative merchants of Kashan, that in spite of all his devotion to the Shah, he will not fall into the sin of his worshiping.

Perhaps this is why Noah is also veiled on many pictures of the Ark. But there is also another possibility. Namely, that the veil refers to Mohammed. For among the sayings attributed to him by the Shiites is: “Behold, my house is like the ark of Noah. Those who embarked it, were saved, but those who turned away from it, perished.” In the Shiite interpretation, the house of Mohammed – Ahl al-Bayt – includes his daughter Fatima and his son-in-law Ali, as well as their sons, Hassan and Hussein, the first imams. That is, all those who were persecuted, killed, and even cast out of their holy tombs by the Sunnis, and whose throne has since been occupied by Sunni usurpers. This is the reason for such Persian pictures of the ark, where the sails have the names of the members of the House, and above them, that of Allah.


The extremely popular legendary collection Qisas al-Anbiya (“Stories of the Prophets”) tells a Shiite story, in which the angel Jebrail (Gabriel) brought 129 thousand nails to Noah for the preparation of the ark. Noah diligently drove them all in, until only five very bright nails were left, each with an unknown name on it. He asks about them one after the other, and Gabriel explains one by one, that the nails symbolize the five great forthcoming figures of the Ahl al-Bayt, from Mohammed to Hussein. The nail of this latter is covered with blood, foretelling his bloody martyr death suffered by the hand of the Sunnis in the Battle of Kerbala.


It is no coincidence, then, that Noah and his ark become popular in Persian miniature painting just after 1501, when the new Safavid dynasty introduces Shia as the state religion, and support the cult of images that elevate it above its Sunni counterpart. And thereby – just as we have seen before, in the symbol of the butterfly and the candle – they create the Oriental counterpart of a European emblem. This is the symbol of the ship, which surely advances even in the greatest storm, since a righteous man is sitting at its rudder, and the Lord is its protector.

George Wither, A Collection of Emblemes, 1635, Emblem 1.13.