Encountering the Middle East

Catalogue Entry: Ottoman Jewish Tombstones

While Jewish cemeteries in the Muslim world have been documented and preserved by scholars and locals alike, not much research has been published on the artistic choices taken by these cemeteries. Looking at three women’s tombstones from the Ottoman Empire — two from Istanbul and one from Tekirdağ — may provide insight on why so many Jewish tombstones used Islamic iconography and what that meant for the Ottoman Jewish community.

The earliest Jewish settlements in Anatolia possibly date back to the 1^st century CE,[1] but most of the Jewish population there arrived much later. After the Spanish Inquisition in 1492, Sephardic Jews fled to the relatively more tolerant Ottoman Empire.[2] Jewish law (Heb.: halakha) dictates that Jews should only be buried with other Jews, and so the increased population led to an increase in Jewish cemeteries. In the 17^th century, fires decimated many old areas of Istanbul, damaging existing cemeteries and leading to an uptick in burials. In the following century, Istanbul suffered dozens of plagues.[3] This period’s higher rate of death may have led to a decline in tombstone decoration since resources had to be spread thin.

While the Empire was considered more religiously tolerant than Spain, Jewish-Muslim relations were not always friendly, even in the grave (no pun intended) context of cemeteries. In 1584, Muslim residents in Karım Paşa demanded the sultan remove Jewish residents’ tombstones because thieves were using them as hiding spots. The Kadı of Istanbul refused their request, but the mounting social pressure forced out Jewish residents anyway.[4] More recently, in 2022, Jewish graves in the 600-year-old Hasköy cemetery were vandalized.[5]

Taking care of cemeteries was an important task for the entire community (Heb.: kahal). For Ottoman Jews, disorder was a sign of poverty, and poverty was a sign of dishonor.[6] Expensive headstones symbolizing a family’s social status were also seen centuries before in Jewish communities of Al-Andalus. One Sephardic tradition maintained by Ottoman Jews was the leaving of stones on graves by family and friends to show respect to the dead.[7] The kahal was of utmost importance for mourning rituals, as the memory of a deceased person was contingent on them being remembered by their community.

As a religious minority, Jews were excluded from parts of Ottoman society, and therefore created their own concepts of honor separate from their Muslim neighbors. Honor (Heb.: kavod; Judeo-Spanish: onor) was strongly tied to the kahal. Unlike their Muslim neighbors, they did not differentiate between men’s and women’s honor, instead focusing on the difference between honorable behavior and honor as granted to another entity.[8]

Though Ottoman Jews didn’t outwardly differentiate between masculine and feminine honor, they did have different expectations for men and women. Women did not study the Torah, so they achieved honor in different ways, like dressing modestly and marrying into a respectable family. Marriage and motherhood were perceived as the epitome of respectability for women. This ideal is seen in the epitaphs of this exhibit’s tombstones, which identified women by their fathers, husbands, and children. They also relied on wealth and property, seen in the Judeo-Spanish adage, “Ay paras ay onor” (Where there is money, there is honor).[9]

As the Ottoman Empire conquered tribes, it also combined their pre-Islamic Turkic burial practices with Islamic ones, forging a culture of religious syncretism that would lend itself to the integration of Islamic iconography into Jewish tombstone art. Mongol, Syrian, and Egyptian traditions influenced the Ottomans’ so-called “gardens of the dead,” emphasizing grandeur and abundance. The size of one’s coffin was seen as a measure of one’s greatness, not unlike the Ottoman Jewish correlation of tombstone size with social status.[10] Tombstones were also laid flat on the ground, acting like prayer rugs (Turk.: seccadeler) for relatives of the deceased.[11]

For centuries, both Jewish and Muslim scholars recommended simple tombstones, symbolizing the equality of all social classes under G-d. In fact, earlier Islamic theologians like Al-Shafi’i recommended the egalitarian levelling of graves (Arab. tasqiyat al-qubur) to literally level the playing field.[12] In practice, this was rarely followed: people wanted to show their status, even after death, and so they aimed for the biggest, most intricately-carved tombstones. Even the location of the burial plot could indicate social status.[13] Jewish tombstones did not outwardly distinguish between men and women, again unlike those in Muslim cemeteries, which were polished and cut according to gender.[14]

All three tombstones in this exhibit have epitaphs detailing the deceased women’s names and death dates. As per Jewish tradition, the dead are buried as quickly as possible to comfort their souls, so the death dates are likely very close to the tombstones’ dates of creation. “Tombstone of a Rabbanit” dates to September 1, 1597; “Tombstone with Braided Belt” dates to February 14, 1693; and “Tombstone with Cypresses” dates to December 11, 1694.

Two of the tombstones are made from marble and one is made from shell stone. From the 16^th to 18^th century, marble became less expensive and more common for use in cemeteries. Isle of Marmara marble was a favorite, along with marble from local quarries, like Köfeke and Edirne. The shell stone, a cheaper option, most likely came from a quarry in Lala Paşa. Stonemasonry, calligraphy, and bookmaking were common occupations for Istanbul’s Jews, which may have influenced the community’s tombstone art.[15] The flowery frames and eye-catching calligraphy of Ottoman manuscripts were also present on Jewish tombstones, including rosettes, tulips, and hollowed-out letters.

“Tombstone of a Rabbanit” in the Karaite cemetery of Istanbul shows the grave of a rabbi’s widow (Heb.: rabbanit). Her name (מוקלי כווירא, transl. Muqali Kvira) suggests she was of Romaniote Jewish descent, a community which had been waning in the Ottoman Empire by the time of her death in 1597. As a rabbanit, this woman would have been expected to have a magnificent tombstone worthy of her husband’s honor as an interpreter of the Torah and leader of the community. Despite some wear and tear, the stone is still massive, almost seven feet long lengthwise. The epitaph is framed by a mihrab-shaped dome, which indicates the direction of Jerusalem, not Mecca, as in Islamic architecture.[16] Above the dome are two candleholders. Candleholders had both practical and artistic functions. Of course, visitors placed candles on them when paying respects to the deceased, but they also represented the light of G-d: G-d was seen as the star in the night, guiding believers with His light.[17] This motif was common on both Jewish and Muslim graves, seen even in distant, rural areas like the Gangar Mountains of Pakistan.[18]

Islamic iconography is used extensively on “Tombstone with Braided Belt” in Tekirdağ Cemetery. The hexagonal cover is similar to the unique, prismatic shape of Ottoman coffins.[19] The cover’s epitaph is split into four sections, recalling the quadripartite garden of Paradise as described in the Qur’an. Flowers like tulips and lotuses were common representations of Paradise.[20] Views on the afterlife in Judaism have varied depending on time and tradition and are too complex to be covered in the scope of this article; however, in general, Ottoman Jews did believe in an afterlife akin to the Garden of Eden before the fall of man. Each section of the epitaph has a mihrab-shaped frame, which, besides signaling the direction of Jerusalem, may have entreated visitors to pray for the soul of the deceased. A braided belt twists between the sections, indicating that the deceased was a woman who was engaged or married.[21] Symbols of engagement and marriage similarly show up on Muslim tombstones of the same era in the Gangar Mountains.[22] The Hebrew epitaph uses raised letters and is highly detailed.

“Tombstone with Cypresses” belongs to a woman identified as Channah Ashkenazi, wife of Shlomo. Her surname indicates she belonged to a family of Eastern European descent that had settled in an area with a non-Ashkenazi majority, possibly lending to the imagery on her tombstone. Like the previous two, her epitaph is framed by a mihrab. Two cypresses line both sides of the mihrab and an encircled Star of David is etched on top. The cypresses may be inspired by Ottoman gardens of the dead, which saw cypresses as the tallest trees in the garden and therefore the closest to heaven; cypresses carved into tombstones may indicate the deceased was close to G-d.[23]

Cultural exchange and assimilation, whether forced or voluntary, may have blurred the distinction between Jewish and Islamic art. This blur (or appropriation, or co-opting) extended beyond Anatolia: for example, Islamic muqarnas shows up on Jewish graves in Basatin, Egypt.[24] Jewish minorities in the Muslim world often had limited resources and may not have had Jewish stonemasons specializing in tombstones. They also may have faced societal pressure to assimilate into Ottoman Muslim society, even though they were technically protected by the state. Further, they may have simply liked the designs of their Muslim neighbors and used them for themselves, either maintaining or inventing meanings as their use evolved. Some symbols, like the candleholders, were more universal than, say, the Star of David. While the Ottoman Empire has ended, its Jewish community — and culture —  remains.

 

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