Silent Bells and Howling Muslims: Auditory History and Christian–Muslim Relations in Felix Fabri’s Evagatorium

Abstract

Contacts and conflicts between Christians and Muslims in the Mediterranean region in the context of late medieval pilgrimage to Jerusalem and their depiction in the pilgrimage reports have already been extensively analysed from the perspective of medieval studies. Although it is a fact that the relation with “the other” is based on sensory perception, little attention has been paid to the senses, especially to the significance of the auditory dimension of the reception of Christian–Muslim relations during the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and of their depiction in the pilgrimage reports. Using the example of probably the best-known pilgrimage report of the late Middel Ages, the Evagatorium by Felix Fabri (1437/8–1502), the essay shows—firstly—that the monk from Ulm added a veritable “soundtrack” to his work. Secondly, the essay emphasises the methodological challenges of such an approach, because every form of pre-modern sound has faded or rather the pre-modern sound has—apart from sound artefacts—only survived in media that are actually silent. Nevertheless, the essay points out the potential of an auditory reading of Christian–Muslim relations in the Mediterranean region that allows conclusions to be drawn about the establishment, development, and the disruption of relations between Christians and Muslims.

1. Introduction

Immediately after the pilgrim galley landed in Jaffa, the Dominican monk Felix Fabri (1437/8–1502) who had travelled from Ulm in south-west Germany describes the first contact between the group of pilgrims and the inhabitants of the Holy Land as follows: The pilgrims were not only eyed critically by the Saracens but their names were also noted on a list. He criticised the way in which the Saracens pronounced his name, because et tamen nec exprimere nec scribere poterant, nisi praemisso quodam raro dyptongo et fractis in gutture syllabis, non Felix sed quoddam nomen michi inexprimibile loco eius ponebant (Fabri 2013b, p. 126), meaning “they could neither pronounce it or write it without putting some outlandish diphthong before it, and gurgling its syllables in their throats so as not to say ‘Felix,’ but some word which I cannot pronounce in the place thereof” (Fabri 1896a, p. 223). A little later—the pilgrims were still waiting in the so-called cellars of St Peter’s for an “entry clearance”—Fabri reports on another acoustic contact between travellers and locals, in the context of which he describes the voices of all Orientals as pessimas (“harsh”), nec possunt formare melodiam, sed cantus eorum est caprarum clamor et uitulorum (Fabri 2013b, p. 142), meaning “nor can they form any melody, but their singing is like the noise of goats or calves” (Fabri 1896a, p. 234).

Fabri’s comments fundamentally point to the fact that contacts between Christians and Muslims in Palestine were often and almost inevitably conflictual against the cultural, religious and linguisticly divers backgrounds. These contacts and conflicts in the context of late medieval journeys to Jerusalem and their depiction in the pilgrimage reports have already been extensively analysed from the perspective of medieval studies (cf. for an overview F. Reichert 2001; Schwab 2002; Classen 2013; F. Reichert 2014a; Pratt and Tieszen 2020; Thomas 2022). This also applies to aspects of verbal communication and the pilgrims’ use of foreign languages in their accounts. The significance of both for the Christian–Muslim relations in Palestine has often been emphasised (e.g., Ganz-Blättler 1997). Stefan Schröder (2009, p. 200) points out that alongside gender, age, skin and hair colour, origin, religion and behaviour language is one of the collective and externally identity categories and a key factor in Christian–Muslim relations within the framework of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and beyond. Furthermore, he describes the aforementioned as characteristics “perceived by the eye” (ibid.). Although this generally refers to the fact that the relation with “the other” is based on sensory perception, it literally makes us “prick up our ears”, because verbal utterances or religious practice, for example, are oral utterances or practices and therefore not primarily perceived through the eyes, but through the ears—and in the case of Felix Fabris’ report, their sound is thus described as “strange” (guttural) or “unpleasant” (unmelodic).

While the senses have already been addressed many times in the context of medieval religious practice (cf. for an overview Caseau 2014; Milner 2014), little attention has been paid to them as instruments of experience in the context of late medieval pilgrimages or pilgrimage reports. When research talks about the experience of travelling or even the experience of the world, it usually refers to the question of the manner and prerequisites for the cognitive formation of ideas about the (foreign) world (e.g., Simon 1991; Niehr 2001; F. Reichert 2001; Bleumer and Patzold 2003; Goetz 2013). If the sensory is made a topic at all, then the sense of sight or the eyewitnessing of the reporting subject is usually at the centre of the discussion. Eyewitnessing is assigned a central role in the authenticity and credibility of the pilgrimage accounts (cf. Esch 1994a; von Ertzdorff 2000; Ganz-Blättler 2006; Schröder 2009, pp. 139–46; Schröder 2020). Generally, the reproduction of visual perception is seen as a particular narrative strategy to ensure both the imagination of the (holy) places visited and the associated events in the history of salvation in the service of the reader’s understanding of the journey and the associated experience of salvation (cf. Lehmann-Brauns 2010; Fischer 2019). Felix Fabri himself justified his journey by saying that it was of the greatest benefit sub oculis conspectio locorum, in quibus quamquam per Christum facta, dicta, aut passa dietim aut legimus ipsi aut audiuimus, (Fabri 2013a, p. 140), meaning “to walk through the cites of those deeds, homilies and sufferings [of Jesus Christ] and to see them with one’s own eyes” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2013a, p. 140)1.

In research, the auditory has become of interest only when it comes to a concrete practice of hearing, namely that of ear-witnessing. This refers to the acquisition of knowledge about a foreign country through hearsay, in which pilgrims obtain information from other pilgrims, travelling companions, dragomans or the local population—also to demonstrate authenticity and credibility. On the other hand, there are already studies—such as those by Gesine Mierke (2025) and Antje Sablotny (forthcoming)—that use the example of the Evagatorium and Fabri’s spiritual pilgrimage, the Sionpilger, to examine the prominent role of singing and music as a motor of movement and narrative from the perspective of German studies (cf. also Fischer 2019). However, the significance of the acoustic dimension for the reception and depiction of Christian–Muslim relations during the pilgrimage to Jerusalem has not yet—with the exception of Gerhard Dohrn-van Rossum’s (2020) study on the contrast between campaniles and minarets in urban soundscapes—been “listened to”.

Both the statements by Fabri quoted at the beginning and the few existing studies on the acoustic coexistence and opposition of Christians and Muslims in Palestine (cf. ibid.), on the Iberian Peninsula (cf. Tolan 2008, chap. 10; Constable 2010; Emon 2012, chap. 3.5; Bueno Sánchez 2022; Stamper 2022; Escrivà-Llorca 2023; Jaspert 2023; Ruiz Jiménez 2023) and the acoustic coexistence and opposition of different ethnic and/or religious communities in East Asia and the Middle East (Frenkel 2018; Stoessel 2014; Kelber 2021; Sultanova 2023), likewise in the context of early modern expansion (cf. B. Smith 2001; Hacke and Musselwhite 2018; Hacke 2020) make such an approach appear promising. This is also true for trans-Mediterranean or transcultural contexts which was the focus of the conference “Between Ulm and Jerusalem. Sound and Hearing Cultures in Mutual Perception (500–1500)”2 (cf. Haug et al. forthcoming).

Even if Schröder (2009, p. 311) states that in his reports the monk “[gibt sich] immun gegenüber den Sinnenreizen, mit denen er während der Reise konfrontiert wurde”, I would like to give my attention to the Evagatorium, probably the best-known pilgrimage report of the late Middle Ages. The following remarks are intended to show by way of example that, firstly, Felix Fabri adds a veritable “soundtrack” to the descriptions of his travel experiences through the Mediterranean region in the Evagatorium3. Secondly, the potential of an auditory reading of Christian–Muslim relations in the Mediterranean region and the methodological challenges of such an approach will be emphasised. The latter are indeed considerable—and therefore possibly explain the long-lasting “silence” in the medievalist disciplines, even in the historical disciplines as a whole (cf. J. Müller 2011). For it is these disciplines that are confronted with a serious problem of tradition: sound is ephemeral and fades irretrievably in times before human kind invented the technical reproduction of sounds. In a first step I will therefore address questions of the tradition of medieval soundscapes and the associated methodological possibilities. As a result of the so called auditory turn in historical studies as a whole, the medieval studies’ “view” of the sense of hearing is now also beginning to change: hearing is thus no longer considered merely a mode of perception, but rather—as I would like to show in the second step using the example of Felix Fabri’s Evagatorium—an essential function of action and, above all, a culturally shaped category of knowledge (cf. Missfelder 2012; Netzwerk “Hörwissen im Wandel” 2017; Feld 2018). My thesis is that the description in the reports allows conclusions to be drawn about the establishment, development, and disruption of relations between Christians and Muslims. The conclusion will return to the added value of an auditory reading of Christian–Muslim relations.

2. Approaches to the Medieval World of Sound—Some Preliminary Remarks

In the chaos of a collision between two pilgrim galleys on the Mediterranean passage in direction back home, he describes in detail the associated noise—roaring sea, crashing masts, screaming people. He then notes, rather incidentally, that quam lamentabilis clamor ibi fuerit, mente gero, sed uerbis exprimere uel calamo exarare nescio (Fabri 2022, p. 32), meaning “still has all this in mind, but I am not able to put it into words and capture it with my pen.” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2022, p. 32) With this statement, the monk who travelled from very far away proves himself to be a well-read person, as the use of the term mens in combination with the processing of sensory impressions contains a direct reference to Augustine’s theory of memory (cf. Sears 1991, pp. 27–28). Within his theory, sensory perception as a medium for grasping the outside world takes on a central role for memoria; what is seen, heard and generally sensually perceived is not present as a concrete sensory impression, but rather abstracted in the form of an image that the particular sensory impression has left in the mind. According to medieval perception theory, however, these images are also the result of a processing procedure which was usually located in the frontal ventricle of the brain (cf. on medieval ideas about sensory/auditory perception Burnett 1991; Layher 2013, esp. pp. 14–20; Kügle 2023). With his remark, Fabri also touches on what is probably the greatest challenge in approaching medieval soundscapes: Contemporaries could only counter this volatility by transforming their specific auditory impression into visual writings, images or fine arts. Thus, sound has—apart from sound artefacts—only survived in media that are actually silent (cf. Samp 2020, esp. pp. 58–62; H. Müller 2023)4. The heraldic Braunschweig Lion on the Ebstorf world map, for example, can only open its mouth silently in order to make its distinctive roar; the inhabitants of the southern hemisphere can raise their hands to at least hint at verbal-oral communication.

However, it is not quite as dramatic as Fabri puts it; rather, he and his contemporaries found ways and means of depicting sound in its various forms and expressing it—despite a certain (and still valid) lack of acoustic vocabulary in European languages (cf. Fritz 2023, p. 77; for a detailed differentiation of Latin and Middle High German vocabulary used to describe sounds cf. Layher 2013; Hack 2020; Kügle 2023). So how can one convey the soundscape? There is a further obstacle: Fabri wrote the Evagatorium primarily for his fellow brothers of the Dominican order and probably hoped that it would be disseminated in the wider region around Ulm. It can therefore be assumed that the knowledge of “the world” of his target audience was predominantly limited to the area within the monastery walls, at most to the local and regional conditions of south-west Germany. But Fabri demonstrates great skills in conveying the acoustic impressions to his readers: Firstly, he makes use of the literary principle of comparison or ekphrasis, i.e., the sound is described in a visualising way (cf. Fritz 2023, p. 77; in relation to the description of visual impressions Esch 1994a). To give an example, he attempts to summarise the sound quality of the terrible disturbance of the sea and air perceived on the traverse of the Mediterranean Sea by means of a comparison: It was ac si molars de saltu accurrerent […] (Fabri 2013a, p. 212), meaning “as though millstones were being flung against her […]” (Fabri 1896a, p. 37). In turn, he describes the quantity of another natural force—namely the masses of snow coming down in an avalanche and taking rocks and masses of earth with them during the crossing of the Alps—as so loud ut ad duo uel tria miliaria audiatur fragor et sonitus (Fabri 2022, p. 370), meaning “that you could hear the crashing or thundering two or three miles away” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2022, p. 370). However, when it comes to describing the sounds of the unknown culture during his journey through Palestine, Fabri apparently only has the means of imitation through onomatopoeia, i.e., the literary principle of mimesis. He uses the onomatopoeic description of a sound to convey his impression of the Arabic language: Aliqui clamabant in eorum lingwa roy, roy; aliqui trica, trica; aliqui cabalca, cabalca […] (Fabri 2017a, p. 26), meaning “Some cried in their tongue Roq, roq! some Trica, trica! some Cabalca, cabalca!” (Fabri 1893a, p. 70) to encourage pilgrims and donkeys alike to set off after their rest. He also tries to capture the call of the muezzin onomatopoeically: Tunc enim soqui uel uecten turrim ascendit et […] hec uociferans: la yllaha hillallach Mehemmet erczullach (Fabri 2020, p. 348), meaning “The first prayer of the Saracens takes place at sunrise. Then the soqui or vectem climbs the tower […] and calls […]: ‘la yllahah illalach Mehemmet rezullach’” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2020, p. 348)5. For an even better “understanding”, Fabri also provides his readers with a translation into Latin and a description of the actions performed6.

At the same time, the transmission of medieval sounds is highly selective, to paraphrase Arnold Esch: in the area of sound-related tradition, the “Überlieferungs-Chance und Überlieferungs-Zufall” (Esch 1994b) have a particularly great influence. For as something commonplace, the auditory was only considered worthy of documentation in exceptional cases—if it was consciously perceived at all. The tradition of perceived soundscapes is therefore not only linguistically difficult, but also highly selective and above all dependent on the attention of the listener and the knowledge of his readers. Murray Schafer (2010, p. 117) also emphasises that it is primarily a change or even the disappearance of sounds that is consciously noticed and therefore also noted in the tradition. A statement by Felix Fabri is absolutely exemplary in this respect: during a stopover on Cyprus, the monk explained to his fellow travellers quod amplius non essemus audituri campanam aliquam usque ad reditum nostrum in cristianorum terras (Fabri 2013b, p. 76), meaning “that we should hear no more bells until we returned to Christendom […]” (Fabri 1896a, p. 198). And indeed, the report on the journey to the Holy Land is characterised by the absence of the sound of bells so typical of Christian Europe7.

Contexts of interpretation and, with them, benchmarks of evaluation of sounds differ according to time and culture; in the same way the schemes of interpretation used to describe them are socially and culturally predetermined. This is also illustrated by Fabri’s description of the sounds of crocodiles that he overheard on the Nile in Egypt. The monk came to Egypt, or more precisely to the Sinai Peninsula with the tomb of St Catherine, as part of his second trip to Jerusalem in 1483/4. For the pilgrim, the animals rolling in the water sound as if they are moaning or sighing underwater and belching or spitting8. Once they have seized a person, they mox super interfectum plorat et deploratum deuorat (Fabri 2020, p. 488), meaning “kills him and then laments loudly [or weeps] over the dead” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2020, p. 488) before devouring him. While the first description actually comes close to the sound of a crocodile, the loud wailing or weeping may confuse modern readers. In the background of the auditory impression described here, the allegorical interpretation of encylopedias of natural history—with partly ancient and partly medieval origin—resonates: These books postulate that the crocodile eats a human up to the head and then laments it first, before the rest is also devoured9. In contrast, an article of the magazine “Stern” from 2018 states: “Alligator will Weibchen anlocken—und klingt original wie ein laufender V8-Motor”10.

This brief example makes it clear that patterns of expectation and interpretation which are essential for the processing of sensory stimuli differ fundamentally depending on time, space and context—and must first be “decoded” within the context of medieval studies. Accordingly, a medievalist approach should be seen less as a sound history—i.e., a history of the sounds of the Middle Ages—and more as a history of selected and interpreted auditory impressions—i.e., an auditory history that focuses on listening as a process of perception and interpretation (cf. Missfelder 2012, esp. pp. 33–39; Layher 2013, esp. pp. 11–14; Clauss et al. 2020, esp. pp. 11–13). This also involves a relativisation: I am not able to show in this essay how the Middle Ages—to paraphrase Ranke’s words—have actually sounded. There are too many gaps (mainly due to tradition) to be able to reconstruct the medieval soundscapes in the sense of a re-creation or re-perception. The subject of the reconstruction can only be the written representations of the perceived environment. As early as 2012, Jan-Friedrich Missfelder (2012, p. 39) stated in his seminal essay for German-language (modern and pre-modern) Sound History that such a reconstruction “in letzter Konsequenz auf die Rekonstruktion eines Period Ear [zielen müsse], also auf die spezifischen ‘Hörbarkeitsregime’, welche die akustische Wahrnehmung einer Gesellschaft strukturieren”. Current publications (cf. Clauss et al. 2020; Clauss and Mierke 2022; Jaspert and Müller 2023) and research groups are thus also focusing “their ears” primarily on the socioculturally shaped patterns of interpretation inherent in the written medieval sounds and their socioculturally differentiated functionalisation for structuring social (dis)orders11. Both aspects are explained below using the production of sound described in the Evagatorium and the patterns of interpretation inscribed in it as examples.

3. The Soundtrack of the Felix Fabris Evagatorium: Silent Bells and Screaming Muslims

The Evagatorium is probably the best-known and also the best researched pilgrimage account of the (late) Middle Ages. It was written by the Dominican monk Felix Fabri who was probably born Felix Schmid in Zurich in 1437/38; he latinized his name later to become “Fabri” (cf. Hannemann 1980; Schröder 2009, pp. 50–57; Klinger 2012). He joined the Dominican convent in Basel as a teenager and he was sent to the order’s religious house in Ulm in 1474 at the latest to support the observant reform efforts. He remained there until he died on 14 March 1502 and held the offices of sub-prior, reading master and regionally renowned preacher general—even though he himself apparently did not attain any academic degrees. Fabri became known above all for his writings, which covered a wide range of topics. In addition to various “business trips” in the context of his duties for the order (Colmar, Aachen, Konstanz, Nürnberg, Venedig und Rom), he made two journeys to Jerusalem on his own initiative in 1480 and 1483/4. Those experiences were incorporated into the Evagatorium. Although this account is deeply rooted in the tradition of pilgrimage literature, it is not a conventional pilgrim’s guide. Rather, Fabri created a comprehensive compendium of salvation history, theology, history, philosophy and natural history—based on his travel notes and all the sources available to him—which was also enriched with personal anecdotes: the work does justice to the “digressions” announced in the title in every respect (Schröder 2009, pp. 57–76; Klinger 2012; Meyers and Tarayre 2013, pp. 11–61; von Ertzdorff 2000). The monk thus pursued a threefold intention, which he also explicitly announces in the Proemium (cf. Fabri 2013a, pp. 72–86; for Fabri’s audiences and the orientation of his writings towards it cf. Beebe 2014). Firstly, his confreres should be able to deepen their understanding of Holy Scripture by reading and visualising places and events in the history of salvation—i.e., without having to expose themselves to the sinful world—in order to be better equipped for their duties in the pastoral care. Secondly, Fabri wanted to enable those who remained at home to share in the journey and the salvation gained. In addition to this rather “religionspädagogische[n] Absicht” (Lehmann-Brauns 2010, p. 285), the monk thirdly ascribed an entertaining and moralising dimension to his text, in respect to which he includes various personal anecdotes, scholarly digressions, and descriptions of the “other” in his report. Overall, it can be stated (probably due to this causa scribendi) that in Fabri’s “Opus Magnum”, sensory or auditory perception plays an important role—and thus also a special role among the (late) medieval pilgrimage accounts.

3.1. Silent Bells: Sound Action in a Contested Space

From a Christian perspective the situation in the Holy Land at the end of the 15th century was one of crisis: Jerusalem and Palestine as a whole still formed the spiritual centre of Europe but were now outside the Christian–European sphere of control. Although the Christian pilgrims flocking to the Holy Land were tolerated there, the Christian “mastery” of Jerusalem had ended with the reconquest of Jerusalem by Saldin in the late 12th century (cf. F. Reichert 2014b). As already mentioned, this loss of sovereignty was already audibly heralded for the travelling group around Fabri on Cyprus, the last, but now also threatened, outpost of the Christians in the Mediterranean: The sound of the bell, the keynote in the soundscape of Christian Europe par excellence12, was no longer to be heard until their return. And Fabri was proved right, because postea in quattuor mensibus nullam audiui campanam (Fabri 2013b, pp. 76–78), meaning “for hereafter I heard no bell for a space of four months […]” (Fabri 1896a, p. 198). Thus, the monk reports on various occasions of churches converted into mosques and bells removed, if not destroyed. The humiliation and dishonour associated echoes in particular in the description of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, which was desecrated by the “infidels” [i]n ipsa autem furia (Fabri 2017b, p. 266), meaning “[i]n their frenzy” (Fabri 1893a, p. 342) during the reconquest of Jerusalem in 1187. Demum in turrim et campanile ascenderunt et campanas malleis confregerunt, et in uituperium christianorum sic confractas tenuerunt multo tempore […]. Sic ergo ab illo die usque ad praesens non est ampana audita in Ierusalem iam per trecentos annos (Fabri 2017b, pp. 266–68), meaning “At last they went up the bell tower and broke the bells with hammers. They kept them there broken for a long time as a reproach to the Christians […]. Wherefore from that day even until now no bell has been heard in Jerusalem for three hundred years” (Fabri 1893b, pp. 342–43). Fabri also refers to the lack of bells, small bells and jingles in the celebration of mass in the Church of Zion. Instead the Christians had to call for high mass with wooden planks13—sicut nos facimus feria VI parasceues (Fabri 2013b, p. 240), meaning “as we do on Good Friday” (Fabri 1896a, p. 288). The choral singing of the local Greek Christians was based on a different instrument, which Fabri describes as cimbali or tintinabula (Fabri 2019, pp. 450, 452) and compares in terms of sound with the chimes known from Europe14. Fabri’s particular attention to the (absent) sound of bells in contrast to the (present) call of the muezzin can simply be explained by his socio-cultural background: As a monk, his monastic daily routine was, in one hand, essentially characterised by the striking of the bell for the Liturgy of the Hours (cf. Breitenstein 2023); in the other hand he was also aware of the symbolism of both sounds the bell and the call to prayer, which were—and in some cases still are—regarded as competing signs of superiority (cf. Dohrn-van Rossum 2020).

He also explains to his readers the reason for the removal of the bells; non enim sustinent campanas pagani de ritu Machometi, quia in Alchorano eorum preceptum habent quod non utantur campanis ad Dei seruicium nec sustineant (Fabri 2014a, p. 180), meaning “because they have a commandment in their Alcoran not to use bells for the service of God, nor to suffer them to be so used” (Fabri 1896b, p. 426). This rule was based on the Prophet Muhammad’s request in order to avoid a conformity with both the Christians and the Jews, he had ordered, among other things, et quia christiani ad sua diuina conuocant populum campanis et ludei cornibus, ipse neutro uti uolens sacerdotum clamore conuocari populam mandauit (Fabri 2020, p. 348), meaning “Because the Christians call to their services with bells but the Jews with horns he wanted something in between and ordered that it be done with the human voice” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2020, p. 348). In this case, the acoustic is an essential element of a well-known, traditional argument in (late) medieval pilgrimage reports, which in one hand aims to portray Islam as a religious-historical offshoot of Judaism and Christianity and in the other hand seeks to expose Mohammed, as the originator of this heresy, as driven by personal motives and as a false prophet (cf. F. Reichert 2014d). In addition—and this is also part of the preconceptions they brought with them towards the other religion—the pilgrims regarded the Qur’an as a false doctrine and sought to confirm this fact by presenting it in their reports (cf. Schröder 2009, p. 279). Overall, the sound of Islam proves to be an effective element in the interreligious discourse which is not only perpetuated in Fabri’s but in all pilgrimage reports: tell me what you sound like and I will tell you who you are.

It has been recognised since Aristotle that sound does not simply exist but takes place in space (cf. Layher 2013, p. 16); it spreads out in a space and creates its own space and associated listening communities through its range. The close connection between space and sound is also emphasised by the relevant publications on the subject in German medieval studies which focus either on “Lautsphären” (Clauss et al. 2020, esp. pp. 7–9) or “Klangräume” (Jaspert and Müller 2023, esp. pp. 9–12) of the Middle Ages15. Analysing these soundscapes, it becomes clear that sound events—especially in the oral-aural world of the Middle Ages—in the one hand were (and still are) used to structure spaces and associated communities—sound and the church (e.g., S. Reichert 2020; Reitemeier 2020; Breitenstein 2023), law (e.g., Kümper 2023), the city (e.g., Hahn 2013; Reyerson 2014; Burke 2014; Monnet 2023) and courts (Demirbaş and Scharrer 2024)—and in the other hand to dominate spaces and their associated communities—sound and rulers (e.g., Mierke 2020; Grünbart 2023) and spaces of power (e.g., Demirbaş and Scharrer 2024; Kümper 2023; Jaspert 2023). This means that the right to produce sound in a certain space, to “set the tone” or, conversely, to prohibit the production of sound by others, to “silence” others, is also a manifestation of power in this very space and over its communities. Internal differentiation can occur in particular through the assertion of claims to such a sound space by different social groups and the vocalisation of conflicts in and around this space. Fritz Schlüter (2014) has analysed this for the modern urban soundscape and traced the formation of so-called acoustic territories by means of church bells and adhan. He has demonstrated the existence of specific acoustic regimes (cf. Atkinson 2012; LaBelle 2019), i.e., the symbolic categorisation of certain sounds as pure or impure, as well as the “Vorstellung von einem irgendwie schützenswerten, akustisch und soziokulturell homogenen Territorium, das von ‘anderen’ kulturellen Einflüssen freigehalten werden muss” (Schlüter 2014, p. 71)—which could be reflected in implicit taboos and explicit laws. Thus, even for (late) medieval pilgrims, the transition to the space of Muslim culture and Muslim sovereignity found audible expression in the acoustic rules of behaviour imposed on them. The loss of control over the sovereign space corresponded to a loss of control over the acoustic space: in Palestine sound could not be formally controlled by the Christians. Thus, they were not only forbidden the highly symbolic sound of bells which proclaimed majority. They were also subjected to the convention of free but silent religious practice in accordance with the normative regulations applicable to Dhimmīs (cf. Emon 2012, esp. chap. 3.5). Immediately after embarking in the harbour of Jaffa, the Franciscan companion and guide of the group of pilgrims explained the applicable sound regime: […] caueant peregrini quod non simul corrideant ambulantes in lerusalem per loca sancta, sed maturi sint et deuoti propter loca sancta et propter infidelium exemplum, et ne suspicentur quod eos derideamus, quod ualde egre ferunt (Fabri 2013b, p. 174), meaning “One should walk to the holy sites in an orderly manner and without noisy commotion, not laugh, be serious and devout, not show any cheerfulness, [among other things] in order to appear exemplary and not suspicious to the Muslims” (Fabri 1896a, p. 142).

In Fabri’s depiction, the group of pilgrims then created their space by singing their way through the Holy Land. The singing or generally sensually perceptible movement has already been characterised several times—and also for Fabri’s reports—as a decisive moment of narration and reception (cf. Fischer 2019; Mierke 2025; Sablotny forthcoming). The resulting “Sakralphonographie”, as Gesine Mierke (2025, p. 118) puts it, makes it possible to experience the journey while reading; even at home. However, I am primarily concerned here with the outlined action: According to Fabri, the acoustically staged pilgrimage liturgy took its course on the ship. Although everyone sang in their own language and in their own way at the first sight of the coast, he had never heard anything more beautiful than this diversity united in faith. The group of pilgrims sang the Te Deum and thus carried the praise of God audible into the uncontrolled or rather into the uncontrollable space—a space to which pilgrims lay claim (cf. Žak 1982). The procedure was repeated when entering the Holy Land in Jaffa and at the first sight of Jerusalem. Finally, Fabri describes a obviously sound production with a Christian connotation for each holy site on the way through Palestine—in each case the chants specified in the Prozessionale for the Jerusalem journey are intoned16—in combination with the movement of the pilgrims through the space. The action performed by the pilgrims is nothing other than a procession: an ordered, sonorous movement.

For processions, however, it has already been shown that these provide a temporally limited reinterpretation of the spaces walked through, namely their sensually perceptible form of sacralisation. The acoustic dimension plays a significant role in this reinterpretation, as Sabine Reichert (2020) have shown exemplarily. The dimension audibly fills the respective space with the praise of God in the form of liturgical chants and thus provides “eine konjunktive Anschauung des Inhalts qua Musik” (Wiesenfeldt 2014, p. 47). The sonorous approach to the final destination of the pilgrimage is therefore not only to be understood as a procession in a cross-spatial dimension. It simultaneously marks the Holy Land as a Christian sacred space and the group of pilgrims as an exclusive (because orthodox) and unified group. At the same time, these processions also echo an occupation of space, with the pilgrims singing to reclaim what—in their opinion—belongs to them. So far, forms of occupation of space in Jerusalem have been described primarily in architectural terms; the depiction in the Evagatorium points to the potential of an investigation of the sensual dimension in interreligiously contested or shared spaces (cf. Cuffel 2023).

3.2. Howling Muslims: Sound Interpretation in the Text

However, the actual acoustic demonstration of power only takes place after the return home, namely in the writing about the situation in Palestine as perceived by the ears. In addition to the aforementioned concrete acts of sound such as the removal of the bells and the resounding processions of Christians at the holy places, Fabri uses the description of what is (allegedly) heard to portray the vocalisations of the Muslim inhabitants of the Mediterranean region (whether secular or religious)17: as at least unwanted (cf. Keizer 2010), if not even disturbing (Samp 2020; H. Müller 2023), as a sound out of place (Pickering and Rice 2017)18. If Fabri is to be believed, shouting and similarly unformed and loud noises are constantly heard throughout the Holy Land—mostly at night, repeatedly on the way from one holy site to another, and above all during Christian services and Muslim prayers. Palestine seems to be drowning in noise, which disturbs both “everyday” coexistence and religious devotional practices.

On the occasion of a lunar eclipse in October 1483, the Saracens began to shout and howl at night, waking the pilgrims. The explanation for this behaviour follows immediately: Incipiente enim luna eclipsari altissimis uocibus pene in omnibus turribus clamabant et horribiliter ullulabant, suis supersticionibus uacantes et ad eas alias excitantes. Quamuis autem semper supersticiosi sint, praecipue tamen temporibus quibus uel sol aut luna eclipsantur (Fabri 2020, p. 306), meaning “Because at the beginning of a lunar eclipse, they scream from almost every tower in the highest tones and howl terribly, devoted to their superstition and inciting others to do the same. They are always superstitious, but especially when the sun or the moon are eclipsed […].” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2020, p. 306) From Fabri’s point of view, the fact of superstition or “false” belief applies in principle to all Orientals—regardless of whether they are Muslim or Christian (cf. Schröder 2009, p. 255). The depicted and presumably loud statements made by Muslims—shouting and howling—make this widely audible and also confirm the constructed cultural divide between knowing Occidentals and unknowing Saracens (cf. Schröder 2009, pp. 255–56). While Christians can explain the phenomenon of the lunar eclipse and are capable of appropriate and organised sound production, the latter ones panic and—as the screaming also expresses—are only capable of inappropriately loud and disorderly sounds. Screaming and howling also manifest their fundamental foolishness, simple-mindedness and (cultural) backwardness. Of course, this is a clear misrepresentation by Fabri: in fact, scientific and astronomical knowledge in the Islamic Near East was at least on a par with, if not superior to, that of 15th century Europe. However, the pilgrims do not only seem to have been woken by the clamour at night, but also constantly pursued or rather driven by it during the day. The departure of the travelling group in the morning, including the loading of the mules or camels, always seems to be associated with great confusion and consequently also great shouting—from both humans and animals. The Evagatorium also repeatedly tells us that the encounter between Christians and Muslims ends in quarrelling and shouting. The acoustic noise is usually a sign of the smouldering conflict between the two parties, sometimes even an expression of tangible danger, as the shouting hurled at the pilgrims is often followed by stones being thrown: […] nescio autem qua de causa quidam Sarracenus niger et seminudus in media uia se posuit, et lapides in cumulum congessit et, eleuatis lapidibus, in peregrinorum agmen iactare minabatur, si aliquis per uiam illam processerit. Ad suos autem clamores et minas totus exercitus substitit quasi ad dimidiam horam (Fabri 2014b, p. 224), meaning “but for what cause I know not, a black and half-naked Saracen placed himself in the middle of the way, piled stones into a heap, and, holding them up, threatened to cast them at the company of pilgrims should any one of them go along that road. At his shouts and threats the whole host halted for about half an hour […]” (Fabri 1893a, p. 3).

These forms, interpretations and functions of shouting are therefore entirely in line with the etymological origins of the modern term “noise”, which can be traced back to the 14th to 15th century in the Italian or French phrase all’arme/à l’armes and thus denotes a noise in the context of a (military) dangerous situation that calls to arms—“alarm” in its proper sense. In the 16th century the term “noise”—in Early New High German called lermen or lerma(n)19—took on a more general meaning and then also referred to crowds of people running up and down. Since the 17th century at the latest, shouting, together with noises, hubbub and roaring, has been considered a central component of the meaning of “noise” too (cf. Dommann 2006, pp. 135–36).

Both the conflict and the shouting can usually be quelled by paying a fare. This is the case with another clash between a group of pilgrims and a Saracen who tried to drive the travellers away from the spring of the Blessed Virgin Mary below Mount Zion and ascendit contra nos de profundo rapido cursu quidam Sarracenus seuus, cum magnis clamoribus stomachando mirabiliter, iram animi sui uoce, uultu, et brachiis ostentans […] (Fabri 2014a, p. 384), meaning “running swiftly up from the depths below, a fierce Saracen, raging wondrously with loud shouts, displaying his anger in his voice, countenance, and gesticulations […].” (Fabri 1896b, p. 523) Finally, some of the knights offered the Saracen some money ut maneret et a clamoribus cessaret et peregrino qui eum percusserat pacem promitteret (Fabri 2014a, p. 386), meaning “so that he leave off his noise, and promise to keep the peace with the pilgrim who had struck him” (Fabri 1896b, p. 524). Thus, uox blandior effecta, et mores mitigate […] (Fabri 2014a, p. 386), meaning “his voice sounded more gentle, his anger was appeased […]” (Fabri 1896b, p. 524). On another occasion, it is a clear acoustic disturbance when the impatiently waiting Saracens begin to bang on the door with stones behind which the pilgrims had retreated to listen to the Father Guardian’s speech. Some Saracens ascenderunt super domum et in curiam respexerunt ubi eramus, ridentes er clamantes. Nos uero ex hoc conturbati contra iuuenes illos seriosis uultibus respeximus, annuentes ut tacerent et descenderent (Fabri 2013b, p. 182), meaning “mounted upon the house-top and looked down upon the court where we were, laughing and shouting. But we, being disturbed thereby, looked in our turn at those youths with serious countenances, and signed to them to go down” (Fabri 1896a, p. 255).

Finally, Fabri presents the muezzin call as noise par excellence. The call to prayer which was clearly perceived by the Christians as a counterpart to the bell as acoustic emblem of Christian religion and culture and, thus, receives special attention in Fabri’s report. As already indicated, Fabri tries to capture this as accurately as possible and convey it linguistically with his readership in mind. For example, he describes the custom of the muezzin sounding five times a day from the minarets and the actions that Muslims perform while doing so, as well as the acoustic impression that the call leaves on his ears: The muezzin […] magno ullulatu sine omni melodia clamat […] (Fabri 2020, p. 348), meaning “calls loudly howling without any melody” (Translation by J. S. based on Vol. 8, S. 348). But not only does the call seem to him to be shouted, loud, howling and unmelodious, but because [h]ec exclamaciones in omnibus muschkearum turribus fiunt praefatis horis simul et semel, unde, Chayri, in illis horis, tantus clamor est quod audiens christianus turbatur […] (Fabri 2020, p. 350), meaning “these calls to prayer […] resound simultaneously and once from all the mosque towers at the designated hours, such a clamour arose at this time in Cairo that the Christian who hears it becomes afraid.” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2020, p. 350) In addition, the qualification as howling and unmelodic—emphasised by the onomatopoeic renditions of the individual cries—also implies an aesthetic “dissonance”. Such a (d)evaluation of the sounds thus emphasises the disbelief of the Muslims and fits in with the interpretation of the content of the shouting and howling from the towers: Thus, on the part of the pilgrims, there are multiple misinterpretations of the muezzin’s call. Fabri, for example, assumes that the howling “priests” were praising Mohammed and also cursing the Christians20. For other pilgrims, however, the call implied a call to fornication (cf. F. Reichert 2014c, p. 173). Either way, from a Christian perspective, it was considered indecent, even heretical. Furthermore, the interpretation of the muezzin’s call as howling also manifests an anthropological disqualification, because ultimately this attribution also results in the marginalisation of those “strangers” as not human: Howling is actually a vocalisation that is primarily attributed to animals. The howling community is explicitly placed on the same level as the animal. This corresponds to the fact that the monk generally refers to the Saracens as animals. In the dispute over the best place at a water pipe, for example, he claims: […] et multa litigia fuerunt ibi exorta inter nos et Sarracenos, quia ipsi stabant ante cannam ec sicut uacce bibebant, at nobis dare locum nolebant (Fabri 2017a, p. 24), meaning “[…] and many disputes arose there between us and the Saracens, because they themselves stood in front of the well-curb, and drank like cows, but would not give place to us.” (Fabri 1893a, p. 69.)

4. Conclusions

Apparently, Felix Fabri had consulted Jerome’s letters in preparation for his pilgrimage and—as he quotes the church father—expected to hear only silence or jubilant praise of God in the Holy Land, apart from the singing of psalms21. However, he perceived a different (acoustic) reality in Palestine at the end of the 15th century. Looking back on his journey, he had to realise that [m]ulto enim minus reperiet peregrinus in terra sancta quam intendat. Intendit enim euagari post greges sodalium Christi, sed non poterat. Vtinam cum pace et quiete post uestigia gregum sineretur incedere (Fabri 2013a, p. 104), meaning “the pilgrim will find much less in the Holy Land than he may have aspired to. He would like to go with the flocks of Christ’s companions. But he cannot. Yes, if only he could be allowed to follow them in peace and quiet” (translation by J. S. based on Fabri 2013a, p. 104)22. As so often in Fabri’s work, the absence of noise—indicated in this case by quies (“quiet”)—is closely related or rather associated with states of mind such as “to be at peace” or similar. This also indicates the polysemy of sound-related terms which in addition to an acoustic fact can also denote forms of social (dis)order. While clamor, strepitus or turba, etc., can also serve to semantically emphasise disturbances of the social order, tranquilitas or harmonia, etc., can underpin situations of social order (cf. Samp 2020; Jaspert and Müller 2023, p. 16).

After all, the Evagatorium is not simply a report of auditory impressions but of disappointed listening expectations and unfulfilled listening habits. Attributions of quality—as the lack of melody in the call to prayer and the unpleasant (guttural) sound of the voices of the oriental Christians—also serve to characterise the Christian–Muslim relations in the shared space of the Mediterranean region:

(1)

The comparative and onomatopoeic attempts to describe the auditory impression of Arabic and other languages reveal that the relationship between Christians and Muslims was particularly limited by the language barrier. Fabri’s account also contains various indications of failed communication, as illustrated in the following situation: Ille autem discordie ut in plurimum propter lingwarum confusionem erant. Nos enim causas eorum non intelleximus, nec ipsi nos et passionatis conclamacionibus offendimus nos inuicem (Fabri 2020, pp. 508–10), meaning “This discontent arose, as it often does, from the confusion of languages, for we did not understand their arguments, nor did they understand ours, and so we insulted each other with passionate loud shouting” (translation J. S. based on Fabri 2020, pp. 508–10). It is not without reason that the pilgrimage to Jerusalem is also perceived from the perspective of system theory as a special “Kontaktsystem” (Schröder 2009, p. 27) or “geschützter ‘Erlebnisraum’” (Ganz-Blättler 1997, p. 100) which—in comparison to other medieval forms of encounters—left travellers with few to no opportunities for local contacts. In addition to mutual misunderstanding, it must also be noted that the pilgrims likely reveal a wilful unwillingness to understand, especially since Muslims were “kaum als gleichberechtigte Gesprächspartner angesehen wurden.” (Schröder 2009, p. 203) This is further supported by the differing interpretations of the call to prayer and the descriptions of all Muslim vocal expressions as shouting or animal sounds.

(2)

Consequently, the design of relationships in acoustic terms is shaped by conflicts over control of the space traversed (Christians) or dominated (Muslims). Fabri’s statements about the absence of Christian bell ringing and the presence of excessive Muslim clamour should be read against this background. Especially the latter must necessarily appear “out of place” in the Mediterranean region from a Christian perspective. According to Tom Rice and Hugh Pickering, a sound is considered “out of place” when it is deemed inappropriate in a specific context—much like speaking loudly in a library—and/or conveys ambiguous messages that are not easily interpretable—similar to the nonspecific buzzing of an insect at night (cf. Pickering and Rice 2017). In particular, the call to prayer meets both criteria, as on one hand, bell sounds and psalm singing should prevail in the Holy Land from the Christians’ perspective, while on the other hand, they were obviously unable to grasp the “message” of that call both in content and symbolism.

(3)

The departure of the Christian travelling group finally ended with an acoustic threatening gesture: The pilgrim galley had sailed out of the harbour in Jaffa with its sails hoisted et cum bombardis contra turres loppe lapides miserunt et cum magnis clamoribus contra Sarracenos a portu recesserunt (Fabri 2017a, p. 82), meaning “shot stones out of their bombards at the towers of Joppa, and left the port with loud shouts of defiance to the Saracens” (Fabri 1893a, p. 99). Not only with the crashing of the bombards upon departure, but especially in writing about it, there ultimately occurs an (acoustic) breakup of relationships or rather: by describing the auditory impressions, Fabri also conducts an evaluation of the relationships. Clamor and ululatus, strepitus and tumultus do not only disturb sleep and devotion but also herald disturbed or nonexistent relationships between Christians and Muslims. The characterisation of the auditory impressions as unwanted and disruptive thus metaphorically draws social boundaries between pilgrims and locals, between humans and animals, and between Christians and Muslims which are difficult or even impossible to realise in other ways (cf. on the example of the humanistic approach to disturbing noises Samp 2020, p. 62–71).

After a long period of “silence”, the so-called auditory turn is now experiencing a significant upswing in German historical and medieval studies. It also becomes clear that the approach to the auditory dimension of history enables new perspectives in examining known source material and “old” topics. As well as that, the historical scholarship can be deepened by an important additional layer—ranging from confirmation and supplementation to the necessary correction of previous results and certainties. An investigation of what is heard and its transcription particularly aids in a deeper understanding of medial patterns on one hand and social practices on the other. The example of Felix Fabri’s Evagatorium illustrates that the medial representation of sensory perception is closely linked to writing intentions and is much more than just a stylistic device in the service of narrating his journey. At the same time, it becomes evident that sensory orders are an “integraler Bestandteil und notwendige Voraussetzung jeder sozialen Ordnung.” (Reckwitz 2015, p. 446) In addition, the systematic examination of sensory regimes allows for far-reaching conclusions regarding the formation of social distinction, integration, and segregation—in short: social orders (cf. for an overview Woolgar 2014; Atkinson 2014; Missfelder 2012; Jaspert and Müller 2023). Both Mark M. Smith (2003) and Jan-Friedrich Missfelder (2019) emphasise the value of sensory history for understanding social and political orders in their works. Missfelder even states that “[d]er Sinn der Sinne in der Sinnesgeschichte […] im sozialen Gebrauch des Sensoriums [liegt].” (Missfelder 2014, p. 463) However, it should not be overlooked that engaging with the senses in separation can only be the starting point for such approaches which ultimately should aim to encompass the entire sensorium, meaning they should reveal multi- or intersensory relations and perceptions perceived with the whole body (cf. ibid., p. 467); only in this way can an adequate reflection of the sensory complexity of human perception be achieved. In the Evagatorium of Fabri, the pleasant sound of Christian singing is generally accompanied by sweet scents, while the “noise” of Muslims and Oriental Christians is associated with stench and filth. Fabri notes this—to return to the situation described at the beginning—immediately upon entering the Holy Land in Jaffa: In the cellars of St Peter, his ears hear not only the unpleasant pronunciation of Arabic or the nightly disturbances caused by young Saracens but his nose and eyes also register dirt, waste and thus stench which were to prove loyal companions on his journey through Palestine23. As in the context of Fabri’s assessment of the astronomical knowledge, we are dealing here with one of many misrepresentations, or rather, with an instrumentalisation of the experiences described. Fabri himself emphasises elsewhere in the Evagatorium the exemplary cleanliness of Muslims with regard to keeping mosques clean or even bathing (cf. Schröder 2009, pp. 257f, esp. fn. 289), thus holding up an ethical and moral mirror to his fellow believers at home.