Echoes of the First Encounters - Syriac Testimonies on Islam’s Emergence (EFE) - I - The Account of 637: First Impressions of the Arab Conquests
The Account of 637: First Impressions of the Arab Conquests
The earliest, certainly one of the most dramatic, and arguably the most frustratingly fragmentary Syriac reference to the rise of Islam dates to the year 637 CE. In the margins of a well-used Bible—on what was once the blank recto of the first folio of a sixth-century gospel manuscript—a lone hand recorded a few terse lines. The manuscript, now catalogued as British Library Additional 14,461, contains a Syriac translation of the Gospels of Matthew and Mark in the Peshitta tradition. Its opening page had been left blank, as was common practice, especially for commemorative annotations. On this flyleaf, someone jotted down a hurried account of events he claimed to have witnessed firsthand.
Over time, the manuscript's cover was lost, and with it, the flyleaf was left vulnerable to damage. Much of the ink has faded or been rubbed away, and the page is now heavily worn. Yet, despite its condition, this five-by-nine-inch fragment remains one of the most consequential early testimonies to the Arab conquests—and perhaps the earliest surviving reference to Muhammad in a non-Muslim source. The text, now known as The Account of 637, briefly but dramatically chronicles a regional upheaval that shook the late antique world: the Battle of Yarmūk, where Arab forces dealt a decisive blow to the Romans in August 636.
The author’s voice flickers briefly through the damage. He writes of Arabs attacking towns, of cities surrendering, of massive Roman casualties, and of a new and unstoppable force appearing seemingly out of nowhere. In a compelling moment, the chronicler even slips into the first person, stating that “we saw…”, offering the powerful suggestion of eyewitness testimony. Given that the note refers to the year following the battle, and uses the Seleucid calendar (year 947 = 636 CE), most scholars date the writing to circa 637.
Despite its brevity, The Account of 637 is invaluable. It not only mentions Muhammad and the Arabs but also records early Christian perceptions of a rising Islamic polity at a moment before it was fully understood or conceptualized as a new religious movement. The tone is urgent and observational rather than interpretive, reflecting confusion, fear, and immediacy more than theological reflection.
Indeed, this short marginal note serves as a microcosm of the Syriac Christian experience in the seventh century: caught between empires, clinging to texts, and suddenly confronted with a force that would transform their world. As Michael Philip Penn notes, this fragment is “a vivid example of how the rise of Islam directly affected the content of a Syriac manuscript.” The presence of these lines—inserted hurriedly into sacred space—speaks volumes about the spiritual and political shockwaves rippling across the region.
In this post, we examine the surviving lines of The Account of 637, contextualizing them within their manuscript setting, the historical events they likely describe, and the theological silence they initially preserve. Through this small but potent window, we witness the birth of an encounter between Syriac Christianity and early Islam that would echo through the centuries.
Commentary on the Syriac Note of 637
“. . . Muhammad . . . priest, Mār Elijah . . .” — A Syriac Glimpse into a New Age
This partial line from the Syriac chronicle preserved in British Library Add. 14,461 is perhaps the earliest known Syriac Christian mention of Muhammad by name, and though fragmentary, its placement next to a revered Christian figure—Mār Elijah (Saint Elijah)—is profoundly evocative. Let's unpack why this juxtaposition matters.
1. A Fragment, But Not Insignificant
While the phrase is broken, its preserved elements are enough to suggest that the chronicler is dealing with figures of major religious import—one Christian, one Arab. The sentence reads as if Muhammad and Mār Elijah were part of the same thought or narrative. Even if their association is unclear, the very inclusion of Muhammad in a Syriac chronicle so soon after his lifetime (within a decade or so of his death) is telling. It suggests that Muhammad’s name and movement were already known and influential beyond the Arabian Peninsula, and that Syriac-speaking Christians were beginning to process the meaning of his rise.
2. Mār Elijah: The Ascetic Ideal
Mār Elijah was a Christian ascetic and wonderworker, venerated in Eastern Christianity as a model of piety. He represents the ideal of Christian holiness and spiritual resistance. Placing his name in proximity to Muhammad’s may have served one of several rhetorical functions:
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A contrast between the holy ascetic and the Arab leader of a violent new movement (as seen in the rest of the text, which speaks of villages being destroyed).
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A comparison—intended or unconscious—suggesting that Muhammad, too, was seen as a religious figure with his own sort of spiritual or prophetic aura.
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A sign that the author was grappling with categories: Was Muhammad a warlord? A prophet? A false teacher? A new Elijah? The chronicler doesn’t say, but the pairing hints at confusion or caution.
3. Syriac Worldview: Apocalyptic Anxiety and Religious Upheaval
In Syriac Christian literature, the rise of Islam was often seen through an apocalyptic or providential lens. The association of Muhammad with a holy figure might reflect a theological attempt to categorize him within known prophetic or saintly archetypes—Elijah being one of the most significant.
Elijah in biblical and Syriac tradition is:
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A prophet who opposes idolatry (1 Kings 18)
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A figure associated with divine judgment and purging
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One who is expected to return before the end of days
Could this line reflect a confused or symbolic reading of Muhammad as a kind of end-times disruptor—a bringer of divine wrath or purgation? Perhaps. To Christians reeling from the fall of Roman Syria, the Arab conquests must have felt like divine punishment or at least a profound upheaval.
4. Muhammad as a Religious Identifier
It’s also key that the rest of the text refers to “the Arabs of Muhammad”, not to Muhammad as a living actor. That shift supports the idea that Muhammad is being evoked as a symbolic or foundational figure, not as a contemporary. This reflects a stage in Syriac understanding where:
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Muhammad was no longer seen as a present threat, but as the originator of a new force.
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His name had become a label for a movement, much like Christians refer to “Christians” long after Jesus’ time.
“and they came . . . and . . . and from . . . strong . . . month . . . and the Romans fled . . .” — The Early Shock of Invasion
1. Fragment as Eyewitness
This broken sentence likely records the initial Arab advance into Roman Syria, perhaps late 635 or early 636 CE, just before the Battle of Yarmūk. Its breathless, broken style reflects the urgency and confusion of a witness trying to document events as they unfolded.
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“They came”: The identity is unstated, but the broader context makes it clear—it refers to the Arabs, who are associated in other parts of the note with Muhammad. The use of the simple third-person plural emphasizes fear and immediacy, as if their identity was so well-known and terrifying that it didn’t need clarification.
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This is the tone of a besieged community, scribbling down history in real time.
2. “Strong . . . month” — Dating the Disaster
The phrase “strong . . . month” might sound vague, but it's loaded with interpretive possibilities:
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The ambiguity may also reflect the corruption of the manuscript or the author’s uncertain memory during chaotic times.
3. “The Romans fled” — A Telling Collapse
This simple phrase — “the Romans fled” — echoes throughout seventh-century sources, both Christian and Muslim:
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It’s more than a tactical note; it’s a symbolic admission that the centuries-old Roman order was unraveling.
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In Syriac Christian terms, “Romans” meant not just soldiers, but the imperial Christian world—the Orthodox state that had persecuted Miaphysite Christians. So the phrase may carry a hint of grim irony: those who once oppressed Syrian Christians are now themselves overrun.
Syriac texts often reflect ambivalence about the fall of the Romans. While terrifying, it was also seen by some as divine punishment for imperial impiety or heresy. In that sense, “the Romans fled” could carry both trauma and theological vindication.
4. Before January 636: Setting the Stage
Given that the following line dates January events (specifically Emesa’s surrender), this fragment must refer to events before January 636, perhaps:
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The Arab advances through the Decapolis and into the Beqaa' and Hauran, during late 635.
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The fall of Damascus in September 635 may also be reflected here.
“And in January the people of Emesa received assurances for their lives” — A Surrender Echoed Across Worlds
This understated line in the Syriac flyleaf captures what was, in reality, one of the most dramatic turning points of the early Arab conquests: the fall of Emesa (Ḥimṣ). Dated to January 636 CE in the Seleucid reckoning (Muslim sources place the event in the winter of 15 AH / 636–637 CE), the Syriac chronicler simply notes that the city’s people were granted “assurances for their lives.” But when we place this line alongside Islamic sources such as Ibn Kathīr and Ibn al-Athīr, the picture becomes dramatically fuller.
According to both Muslim historians, the siege of Emesa was prolonged and brutal, taking place in the depths of winter. Abū ʿUbayda ibn al-Jarrāḥ and Khālid ibn al-Walīd led the Muslim forces, encircling the city in freezing conditions. Ibn Kathīr writes that the cold was so severe that Roman soldiers had their feet amputated by frostbite, while the lightly equipped Muslim troops endured without serious injury — a detail meant to emphasize both their piety and divine favor. The Romans, awaiting help from Heraclius, were encouraged by messengers and priests to hold out, but ultimately the miraculous terror attributed to the Muslims’ cries — their takbīr (Allāhu Akbar) — caused walls to crack and houses to collapse, shaking morale and prompting Emesa’s elders to plead for peace.
The terms, according to both historians, matched those previously agreed upon in Damascus:
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Safety for lives and property
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Payment of jizya (head tax) and kharāj (land tax)
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In return, the Muslims would guarantee security, allow Christian worship, and even station troops in the city.
These events, layered with theological meaning in Islamic sources, appear in the Syriac text as a bare and battered fact: “they received assurances for their lives.” But the term used in the Arabic historiography—‘amān—has its mirror in this Syriac phrasing. To the local Christians, this agreement must have been both a mercy and a humiliation: salvation from death, but at the cost of acknowledging a new ruling power, one outside the imperial-Christian order they had known for centuries.
“Many villages were destroyed through the killing by the Arabs of Muhammad, and many people were killed” — Violence and the Legacy of Prophecy
This stark statement reflects a perception of catastrophe, recorded from the viewpoint of a contemporary non-Muslim observer. Although Muhammad had died by the time these events occurred (in 632 CE), the chronicler attributes the violence to “the Arabs of Muhammad” — a phrase rich in historical implication. It suggests that Muhammad’s name had already become emblematic of the new Arab religious-political force sweeping across the region.
The choice of words collapses the distance between Muhammad's life and the conquests of his followers, making him the symbolic leader of a movement that continued long after his death. This is not unusual in the writings of the time; religious and political figures often became metonyms for the empires or movements they inspired. Just as “Caesar” could mean “Rome,” so too did “Muhammad” begin to mean “Islam” — and the armies that came in its name.
For the Syriac chronicler, this moment marks a sharp escalation of violence. The phrase “many villages were destroyed” is blunt, and likely reflects real suffering and dislocation caused by the rapid expansion of Arab-Muslim rule into the Levant and Mesopotamia. These were not merely skirmishes or isolated incidents — they were region-shaping upheavals, with villages burned, cities besieged, and populations displaced.
What’s equally telling is the absence of theological interpretation in this line. There is no mention of divine punishment, martyrdom, or apocalyptic expectation — just destruction and death. This underlines the chronicler’s grief, and perhaps his bewilderment, as familiar worlds collapsed under the pressure of a new and foreign power, one rooted in a prophet few in his community would have understood at the time.
“And captives were taken from the Galilee to Bēt . . .” — Displacement in the Wake of Conquest
This short sentence preserves a glimpse of mass human displacement during the early Islamic conquests in Syria and northern Palestine. The phrase, found in a Syriac chronicle, suggests that the Arab raids reached well into the Galilee, a region with deep roots in both Jewish and Christian communities. The capture of civilians and their transport south or east reflects a recurring feature of late antique warfare: the taking of captives not just as spoils, but as tools of population control and labor exploitation.
The incomplete place name — “Bēt . . .” — leaves us to speculate about the captives' destination. Possible readings include:
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Bēt Sheʾān (Scythopolis): a city along the Jordan Valley, strategically placed and culturally diverse.
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Bēt Jibrīn (Eleutheropolis): a major settlement southwest of Jerusalem, with Christian monastic ties.
Each location signals a different axis of Arab activity — from local redistribution of populations to long-distance deportations, possibly as part of military or economic strategies.
In late antiquity, captivity was not incidental. It was systemic, brutal, and deeply traumatic. Captives could be:
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Ransomed by families or religious communities
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Sold into slavery
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Resettled in garrison towns or rural hinterlands to serve agricultural or domestic roles
The Galilee, traditionally a crossroads of cultures, was now a zone of extraction. What had once been imperial borderland under Rome became a frontier of a new Islamic order, one still undefined and expanding by trial and conquest.
Also important is the literary framing: this sentence comes not from a Muslim chronicle, but a Syriac Christian source. Its tone is not triumphant, but mournful. The chronicler sees the world changing through the lens of captivity and loss, not conversion or negotiation.
Encampment and Encounter: Arabs at Damascus and the Human Face of Conquest
The line “Those Arabs camped by Damascus” offers a precise geographic and political clue. It likely refers to the period immediately following the siege and fall of Damascus (circa 635–636 CE). Far from a mere passing campaign, this was a moment of consolidation: the Arabs weren’t just raiding — they were settling, observing, and provisioning near one of Syria’s most important cities.
This detail aligns closely with Muslim historical accounts. Ibn Kathīr, citing multiple sources such as Ibn Ishaq, Ibn Lahiʿa, and Ibn ʿAsākir, places the fall of Damascus in 15 AH (636 CE), shortly before or after the famous Battle of Yarmūk. The chronicler notes that Muslim armies were spread across Syria, and when Roman forces massed to confront them, Caliph Abū Bakr ordered the unification of the Muslim armies under Khalid ibn al-Walīd — a turning point that led to the consolidation of Arab control over Greater Syria.
The second fragment, “We saw . . . everywhere . . . and the olive oil that they had brought and . . . them,” adds a rare first-person voice to this historical moment. Most chronicles speak from a detached, third-person perspective, but this interjection — “we saw” — signals something immediate, personal, and perhaps traumatic. The speaker was a contemporary eyewitness, observing the presence of Arabs, their goods, their captives, or their provisions, scattered across the landscape. The mention of olive oil, a staple of the Levantine economy and diet, might seem mundane — but in context, it evokes the infiltration of war into daily life. Was the oil looted, transported, traded? Either way, the material fabric of the region was being transformed.
Together, these phrases expose two layers of conquest:
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Strategic presence — as seen in the Arab encampment near Damascus after its fall, a sign of political and military control
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Personal disruption — revealed in the fragmented memories of local observers, witnessing a new order settle in, not with fire and sword alone, but with olive oil, soldiers, and the eerie normalcy of displacement
Muslim historians such as Ibn Kathīr confirm that the Arab forces, despite their relatively small numbers (he notes 21,000 men, plus 6,000 with ʿIkrimah), were highly mobile and motivated by both faith and survival. Roman commanders, including the Emperor Heraclius, recognized this — he reportedly advised peace and tribute payments, acknowledging the Arabs as "a people of a new religion" who could not be defeated by conventional means. His warning went unheeded.
In that sense, the Syriac chronicler’s “We saw . . . everywhere . . . and the {olive oil} that they {had brought} and . . . them.” is the voice of everyday Syria — caught between empires, watching the collapse of the old and the murky arrival of the new.
“On the twenty-sixth of May, the sacellarius went . . . from Emesa. The Romans pursued them . . .”
This cryptic line alludes to the movements of Theodore the Sacellarius, a high-ranking treasury official. In the Late Roman system, a sacellarius was not merely a financial bureaucrat but often played significant roles in military logistics and imperial diplomacy. By late May 636, Theodore was part of a large Roman force attempting to stem the Arab advance into Syria.
Theophanes recounts that Theodore and the general Baanes (i.e., Vahan) were sent with a vast army to Hims (Emesa), where they confronted a large Arab force, reportedly defeating and pushing them back as far as Damascus.
Ibn Kathir, citing Sayf ibn ʿUmar and others, dates this event to the lead-up to the Battle of Yarmūk. He records that news of the Arab advance terrified the Roman leadership. Heraclius, then possibly in Emesa or Jerusalem, advised diplomacy, urging his commanders to make peace. But the Romans rejected this counsel and instead concentrated their armies, sending leading generals—including Theodore the Sacellarius, Vahan, and others—southward to confront the Muslims. Ibn Kathir notes that Heraclius deployed large detachments to confront each of the Muslim commanders.
Thus, this seemingly minor date—May 26th—signals a major turning point: the mobilization of Roman forces in Syria under imperial leadership, a failed Roman attempt to push south and suppress Khalid’s incursion, and perhaps the last coordinated offensive before the catastrophic defeat at Yarmūk. The “pursuit” mentioned in the fragment may represent an aggressive maneuver by Theodore’s forces southward toward Damascus—one that quickly unraveled, as later sources depict the Roman army being routed and Emesa (Ḥimṣ) falling shortly thereafter.
“On the tenth of August . . . the Romans fled from Damascus . . . many, about ten thousand.”
At first glance, this entry seems to describe a panicked retreat—but the date and context suggest otherwise. August 10th, 636 falls just five days before the Battle of Yarmūk, making it more plausible that this refers to a strategic withdrawal or southward redeployment of Roman forces rather than a post-defeat flight.
By this point, Roman commanders, following Heraclius’s orders, were concentrating their troops for a final stand in the Yarmūk valley. Ibn Kathir and other Muslim sources describe how Vahan, Theodore the Sacellarius and other commanders gathered in the Jordanian plateau with forces ranging from 60,000 to over 100,000.
The movement “from Damascus” was likely part of this redeployment: troops stationed in the city or nearby garrisons pulling back to join the main army assembling to the south. The number “ten thousand” may reflect the contingent size or simply serve as a round estimate for a large body of troops on the march.
Rather than a collapse, this entry captures a critical moment of concentration and reorganization, as the Romans vacated key urban centers to bolster their defenses along the Yarmūk—a final attempt to halt the Muslim advance. Ironically, what appeared to be strategic preparation would soon turn into catastrophe, as the Battle of Yarmūk (15–20 August 636) ended in a decisive Muslim victory and shattered Roman power in Syria.
“The following year, the Romans came. On the twentieth of August in the year nine hundred and forty-seven [636 CE] there assembled in Gabitha ... the Romans and many people were killed, from the Romans about fifty thousand.”
This is the most precise chronological entry in the document, and it aligns closely with the Battle of Yarmūk, traditionally dated to Rajab 15, 15 AH / August 20, 636 CE. The Seleucid year 947 confirms this alignment, making this one of the earliest independent sources to corroborate the Islamic conquest chronologies from Arabic accounts.
The reference to Gabitha almost certainly points to Jābiya, a Roman administrative and military hub near the Golan Heights, and known in Arabic sources as the staging ground for the army under Vahan. From there, they marched east to the Yarmūk plain. This entry, therefore, captures the climactic mobilization and subsequent devastating loss of the Roman army in Syria.
The figure of “fifty thousand” Roman casualties, while likely symbolic or approximate, reflects a deep sense of massive and irreparable loss. Arabic sources, such as al-Waqidi and Sayf ibn ʿUmar, often report similar or even higher figures. While Arabic historiography includes competing dates—Sayf placing the battle in 13 AH, while others such as Ibn Ishaq, Ibn Lahiʿa, and Khalifah ibn Khayyat assert it occurred in 15 AH, post-Damascus—this Syriac chronicle clearly sides with the latter and better-attested tradition.
In this light, the chronicler’s perspective is not merely one of reporting a battle—it’s an expression of witnessing a catastrophic upheaval: the collapse of Roman Syria, the emergence of an unknown new force from Arabia, and a power vacuum now being filled by “Tayyāyē” invaders. The passage stands as a raw, contemporary account—not yet filtered through the theological or polemical lenses of later centuries.
“In the year nine hundred and forty-eight . . .”
This final entry begins, but never finishes. The year 948 Seleucid / 637 CE marked the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Yarmūk, a time of rapid disintegration for Roman authority across Syria. Cities like Damascus, Homs, and Emesa were falling one after another. Heraclius, unable to mount a response, is said to have retreated from Antioch and uttered his famous farewell: “Peace unto you, O Syria—what a beautiful land you will be for your enemies.”
The chronicle’s author seems to have reached a breaking point. The line trails off into silence, as if the weight of events — the military disaster, the collapse of Roman rule, the unfamiliar new rulers flooding in from Arabia — was too much to process or record. We are left with a historical ellipsis, a moment where narration gives way to stunned silence.
This unfinished entry serves as an eerie mirror to the times. It’s not just a scribal accident or textual gap — it reads like a moment of emotional rupture, as though the chronicler’s world had changed too fast, too completely, for him to continue. In a text otherwise spare and terse, this sudden loss of narrative voice is haunting, underscoring the trauma of witnessing an empire's fall in real time.
The Chronicle of 640 offers us not a grand narrative but a fragmented window into one of history’s great turning points. Through sparse entries—some precise, others cryptic—it records the unraveling of Roman Syria, a land ruled by the empire since Pompey’s conquest in 63 BC.
For nearly seven centuries, Roman banners flew over Antioch and Damascus, and the rhythm of imperial administration shaped the life of the region. Yet within a few short years—between 636 and 640 CE—that world collapsed. The Battle of Yarmūk was not just a military defeat; it was a civilizational break. City by city, Rome’s presence vanished, and a new order, shaped by the armies of Islam, took its place.
The chronicler’s final line, trailing off in the year 948 Anno Graecorum (637 CE), captures this rupture better than any flourish of prose. In that unfinished sentence, we feel the weight of an era ending—not with fanfare, but with silence. It is as if, after centuries of empire, the land itself fell quiet. And history, stunned, could not go on.
THE END
Works Cited
Primary Sources
Ibn al-Athir, ʿIzz al-Dīn. The Complete History (al-Kāmil fī al-Tārīkh). Beirut: Dār al-Kitāb al-ʿArabī, 1997 CE / 1417 AH. 10 vols.
Ibn Kathīr, Ismāʿīl ibn ʿUmar. Al-Bidāyah wa al-Nihāyah. Edited by ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAbd al-Muḥsin al-Turkī. Cairo: Dār Hajar, 1997.
Ṭabarī, Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad ibn Jarīr. The History of al-Ṭabarī (Taʾrīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk). Translated by various scholars. Albany: SUNY Press, 1985–1999.
Theophilus of Edessa. The Chronicle of Theophilus of Edessa and the Circulation of Historical Knowledge in Late Antiquity and Early Islam. Translated by Robert G. Hoyland. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011.
Secondary Sources
Anthony, Sean W. Muhammad and the Empires of Faith: The Making of the Prophet of Islam. Oakland: University of California Press, 2020.
Donner, Fred M. The Early Islamic Conquests. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981.
Hoyland, Robert G. Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam. Princeton: Darwin Press, 1997.
Kaegi, Walter E. Byzantium and the Early Islamic Conquests. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992.
Palmer, Andrew, trans., with Sebastian Brock and Robert Hoyland. The Seventh Century in the West-Syrian Chronicles. Translated Texts for Historians, Vol. 15. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1993.
Penn, Michael Philip. Envisioning Islam: Syriac Christians and the Early Muslim World. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015.
---. “Monks, Manuscripts, and Muslims: Syriac Textual Changes in Reaction to the Rise of Islam.” Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, vol. 12, no. 2, 2009, pp. 235–257.
---. When Christians First Met Muslims: A Sourcebook of the Earliest Syriac Writings on Islam. Oakland: University of California Press, 2015.
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