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A Thousand Years of Discarded Writing From One Synagogue Storeroom

Cairo Geniza

Jewish law forbids destroying a text that carries the name of God, so one Cairo congregation put its worn-out books in a room and left them there for a millennium — and the room turned out to hold the Hebrew of Ben Sira, a lost sectarian rule book, and the shopping lists of the medieval Mediterranean.

Type
A collection, not a single object: mostly paper and parchment fragments, many of them single leaves or scraps
Language
Hebrew, Judaeo-Arabic, Aramaic, Arabic, and Greek in the palimpsests
Contents
Roughly 193,000 fragments at Cambridge alone, out of a worldwide total for which the best available count is about 400,000 — a figure its own author says rests on no agreed method of counting. Bibles, prayer books and legal codes, and alongside them letters, accounts, marriage contracts, medical books and amulets. Among the biblical finds: the Hebrew of Ben Sira, the Damascus Document, Palestinian and Babylonian vocalisation, and palimpsests of Origen's Hexapla and Aquila of Sinope's Greek
Written
Deposited from at least the early eleventh century onwards; a few undertexts in the palimpsests are much older Traditional dating
Origin
Fustat, Old Cairo, and the wider medieval Mediterranean world its documents came from
Found at
The genizah chamber of the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Fustat, Old Cairo
Found in
1896-1897 for the Cambridge removal; material had been leaving Cairo genizot for decades before that
Found by
A. S. Lewis and M. D. Gibson brought back the fragments that started it; S. Schechter identified the Ben Sira leaf and travelled to Cairo, funded by Charles Taylor, Master of St John's College
Now held at
Cambridge University Library holds the Taylor-Schechter, Mosseri and (with the Bodleian) Lewis-Gibson collections; the rest is dispersed among many other libraries, among them the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, the Bodleian Library and the John Rylands Library. No reliable count of how many institutions hold Genizah material was found
Shelfmark
Cambridge University Library, T-S; the Ben Sira leaf Schechter identified is Or.1102
Facsimile
View the manuscript

A Room You Put Things In and Do Not Take Out

A genizah is a storeroom for writing that may not be destroyed. Cambridge University Library, which holds most of this one, sets out the reasoning: "According to rabbinic law (see, for instance, Mishna Shabbat 16:1), once a holy book can no longer be used (because it is too old, or because its text is no longer relevant) it cannot be destroyed or casually discarded: texts containing the name of God should be buried or, if burial is not possible, placed in a genizah." The congregation of the Ben Ezra Synagogue in Fustat, Old Cairo, had such a room, and "at least from the early 11th century" they filled it. What makes this one extraordinary is that they were not fussy about what counted. Cambridge's own list: "not only the expected religious works, such as Bibles, prayer books and compendia of Jewish law, but also what we would regard as secular works and everyday documents: shopping lists, marriage contracts, divorce deeds, pages from Arabic fables, works of Sufi and Shi'ite philosophy, medical books, magical amulets, business letters and accounts, and hundreds of letters."

It came to Cambridge through a chain that does not begin where the name suggests. The twin sisters A. S. Lewis and M. D. Gibson bought manuscripts in Egypt on their way to and from Saint Catherine's monastery in Sinai, and — in the library's own account — "On their return home to Cambridge, their friend Solomon Schechter was able to identify one of their purchases as the lost Hebrew original of the book of Ben Sira (known in the Christian tradition as Ecclesiasticus), a momentous discovery. He travelled to Cairo to find the source of the manuscripts, uncovering the remarkable hoard known as the Cairo Genizah." Schechter's own note to Lewis announcing the identification, dated 13 May 1896, is still in the library under the same shelfmark as the leaf itself. He went out with money from Charles Taylor, Master of St John's College, and "received permission from the Jewish community of Egypt to take away what he liked (explaining later, 'I liked all')" — a line the library still prints with affection, and one the third section of this article comes back to. The collection named after the two of them holds 193,000 fragments — a figure Cambridge gives on one page while another of its own pages says 200,000, which is a fair indication of how soft any count of this material is.

What Came Out of the Room

Three finds changed the study of Scripture. The first was Ben Sira: the Hebrew of a book that had survived for two thousand years only in Greek, turning up on paper in a Cairo storeroom. The second was a rule book of a Jewish sect nobody could identify, which Schechter published in 1910 as a Zadokite work — and which turned out, when the Dead Sea Scrolls appeared forty years later, to be the Damascus Document, a composition the Qumran caves also held. The Genizah had produced a sectarian text from the Second Temple period and nobody had been able to place it. The third is a set of Greek palimpsests: leaves whose original writing was scraped off and reused for Hebrew liturgical poetry, and whose undertext preserves columns of Origen's Hexapla on Psalm 22 and stretches of Aquila of Sinope's Greek translation of Kings — the sixth-century remains of texts otherwise almost entirely lost.

The Hebrew Bible material matters for a subtler reason. Before the Tiberian pointing became standard there were other systems of marking vowels, and the Genizah is where they survive: Cambridge's own project on the subject describes the Palestinian system as "less complete, less uniform, and more 'popular' in character than the dominant Tiberian system," and notes that it "is found only in manuscripts from the Cairo Genizah." Babylonian pointing turns up too, on a Mishnah manuscript whose colophon dates it to the year 1152 of the Seleucid era — 840 or 841 — which makes it, on Cambridge's account, not only the earliest dated manuscript of the Mishnah but the earliest medieval Hebrew book dated by a scribal colophon at all. And then there is everything else — the letters, the accounts, the court records that let a historian reconstruct an entire medieval society from the inside. Cambridge has put more than 21,000 fragments online with high-resolution images, and adds hundreds a month.

Who Tells This Story

The story as normally told has one hero and a passive local community, and that version has been coming apart for some years. R. Jefferson's work — which could only be read here at one remove, through a scholar summarising it, and that limit belongs in the sentence rather than in a footnote — argues that both halves of the phrase "the Cairo Genizah" mislead: there were several genizot in Cairo, material had been leaving them for decades before 1896, and — in her words, as reported by a scholar reviewing her argument — the singular label "can preclude us from truly appreciating the breadth of Jewish material culture in Cairo in all its varied manifestations over time." She puts the point about our own habits sharply: "Learning about the history of the documents we use is as useful as it is interesting, because the web of commitments that built the archives continues to have an impact on our conception of the past." N. Posegay, who works at Cambridge, writes of the period that "foreign 'collectors' acquired most of these manuscripts for European libraries in the second half of the nineteenth century" — the quotation marks are his.

The larger question follows from that, and Y. Meital states it plainly: "the race for the extraction of historical material, whether it is the remains of pharaonic temples and artifacts or worn-out fragments from genizot, and their transfer to public or private domains in Europe and North America, need to be studied in the context of colonialism... The removal of hundreds of thousands of genizah fragments from Cairo was accomplished in the high days of the British rule in Egypt." It is worth saying what that argument is and is not. Schechter had the Cairo community's permission for what he took, and Cambridge writes it into its own account. Other removals in the same decades did not go through that door, which is part of R. Jefferson's point. Nor is the case for having preserved it a weak one — the collection has been conserved, catalogued and, for more than twenty-one thousand fragments so far, photographed and published free to anyone, which is not what would have happened to it in the room. But permission granted by a community under an imperial administration is not the same transaction as permission granted between equals, and the two are worth keeping apart. The library's own telling has already moved: its current account of the Lewis-Gibson collection puts the sisters first and Schechter second, which is the order in which things actually happened.

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Reflect

A thousand years of one community's paper survived because nobody was willing to throw away a page with God's name on it. What do you treat that carefully?

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