Devotion to the Administrative State: Religion and Social Order in Egypt 0691250650, 9780691250656

Citation preview

de vo t ion to t h e a dm i n ist r at i v e stat e

Devotion to the Administrative State r e l igion a n d soci a l or de r i n e g y p t

mona or a by

pr i nce­t on u n i v e r sit y pr e ss pr i nce­t on & ox for d

Copyright © 2024 by Prince­ton University Press Prince­ton University Press is committed to the protection of copyright and the intellectual property our authors entrust to us. Copyright promotes the pro­gress and integrity of knowledge. Thank you for supporting ­free speech and the global exchange of ideas by purchasing an authorized edition of this book. If you wish to reproduce or distribute any part of it in any form, please obtain permission. Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to permissions@press​.­princeton​.­edu Published by Prince­ton University Press 41 William Street, Prince­ton, New Jersey 08540 99 Banbury Road, Oxford OX2 6JX press​.­princeton​.­edu All Rights Reserved ISBN 978-0-691-25065-6 ISBN (pbk.) 978-0-691-23281-2 ISBN (e-­book) 978-0-691-25066-3 British Library Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data is available Editorial: Fred Appel and James Collier Production Editorial: Jill Harris Cover Design: Chris Ferrante Production: Erin Suydam Publicity: William Pagdatoon Cover images: Prayer hands by archivector / Shutterstock; Egyptian national ID card application, 2019. Collection of Mona Oraby. This book has been composed in Arno Printed on acid-­free paper. ∞ Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca 10 ​9 ​8 ​7 ​6 ​5 ​4 ​3 ​2 ​1

In a chaos of shifting impressions, each of us constructs a stable world in which objects have recognizable shapes, are located in depth, and have a permanence. In perceiving we are building, taking some cues and rejecting ­others. —­M a ry Dougl a s

Some degree of order and regularity must be assured if social life in any community is to be sustained. —­S i mon Robe rts

What we need are ­metaphors and stories that ­will help us imagine a world in which we ­really change yet ­really remain the same ­thing. — ­C a rol i n e Wa l k e r By n u m

c on t e n t s

List of Illustrations  ix Note on Translation, Transliteration, and Names  xiii Acknowl­edgments  xv Introduction

1

part i. ephemer a

31

Hosna’s Tattoo

33

Rauf ’s Strategy

39

Maher’s Testimony

45

Fadi’s Wish

51

part ii. inscriptions

55

1 Sealed in the Skin and on Paper: Locating the Self

57

2 Sealed in Administrative Court: The Order of Revelation

95

part iii. covenants

127

3 Divine Administration: Shoghi Effendi and the Bahá’í World Order

129

4 Obedience to Government Is Obedience to God: Bahá’í Televised Claims to Recognition

161

vii

viii  c o n t e n t s

part iv. ethics

187

5 A Christian Like Us: Coptic ­Lawyers at the Vanguard

189

6 The Bahá’í Youth Conference: World Building and Common Calling

213

Epilogue

246 Appendix  253 Bibliography  281 Index  299

i l lu s t r at ions

0.1. Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship of North Amer­ic­ a (Wilmette, Illinois), c. 2010

6

0.2. Exterior detail of the Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship of North Amer­i­ca (Wilmette, Illinois), c. 2010

7



1.1. Letter from the Church of the Martyrs Abu Seifayn and Dimyana, 2013

59

1.2. Birth certificate given ­free of charge for the first time, issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, 1989

80

1.3. Birth certificate given ­free of charge for the first time, issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, 2001

81

1.4. Copy of birth rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2011

82











1.5. Copy of marriage rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, n.d.

83

1.6. Copy of death rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2013

84

1.7. Copy of death rec­ord (blank) issued by the Ministry of Health and Housing, and the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019

85

1.8. Application (pages 1 and 4) for a national ID card pursuant to Law 143 of 1994, Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019

86–87

1.9. Application (pages 2 and 3) for a national ID card pursuant to Law 143 of 1994, Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019

88–89

ix

x  L i s t o f I l l u s t r a t ion s

1.10. Request (front) for a rec­ord, document, or deed (birth, death, marriage, divorce, military ­service, data confirmation), Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019

90

1.11. Request (back) for a rec­ord, document, or deed (birth, death, marriage, divorce, military ­service, data confirmation), Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019

91



2.1. National ID card issued to Imad Rauf Hindi on August 8, 2009, showing a “dash” on the back in the field reserved for religious affiliation

2.2. National ID card issued to Nancy Rauf Hindi on August 8, 2009, showing a “dash” on the back in the field reserved for religious affiliation

2.3. Certificate of return issued by the Coptic Orthodox Church, Cairo, 2011

2.4. Report on criminal rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Sector Administration of Public Security, General Directorate of Forensic Evidence Investigation, 2011

105

105 111

112

2.5. Certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al-­Azhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 1984

122

2.6. Certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al-­Azhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 2014

123



3.1. Map by Shoghi Effendi depicting the objectives of the Bahá’í World Crusade, 1952

132–133

3.2. Map by Shoghi Effendi depicting the pro­gress of the Bahá’í World Crusade, 1957

134–135

3.3. Certificate of incorporation of the Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the city of New York, pursuant to Section 193 of the Religious Corporations Law of New York State, 1932

3.4. Bulletin of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, no. 4 (­English), September 1928

3.5. Bulletin of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, no. 4 (Arabic), September 1928

147 152 153

L i s t o f I l l u s t r a t io n s   xi

3.6. Cover page of proposed Bahá’í personal status law agreed upon by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, 1932

155

3.7. Declaration of trust of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt (page 1 of 2), 1934

156

3.8. Declaration of trust of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt (page 2 of 2), 1934

157

6.1. Spring schedule leaflet (pages 1 and 4), Bahá’í Continental ­ House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012

219

6.2. Spring schedule leaflet (pages 2 and 3), Bahá’í Continental ­ House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012.

220

6.3. “Being a Bahá’í” leaflet (pages 1 and 4), Bahá’í Continental ­ House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012

221

6.4. “Being a Bahá’í” leaflet (pages 2 and 3), Bahá’í Continental ­ House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012

222

6.5. New enrollment and interest cards, Bahá’í National Review, published by the National Spiritual Assembly of the United States, November 1977

223

6.6. Residence of Bahá’u’lláh in Adrianople (Edirne), Turkey, 2002

236

6.7. Attendees, Bahá’í Youth Conference, Istanbul, Turkey, 2013

242



no t e on t r a ns l at ion, t r a ns l i t e r at ion, a n d n a m e s

all translations from Arabic are my own ­unless other­wise noted. When transliterating from Arabic texts, I largely ­adopted the International Journal of ­Middle East Studies (IJMES) transcription system. When transcribing from Egyptian colloquial Arabic, I modified the IJMES system slightly to better capture colloquial speech. All non-­English words are italicized except proper names (e.g., Shoghi Effendi), places (e.g., Haifa), terms (e.g., fatwa), and institutions (e.g., Majlis al-­Dawla) with common ­English spellings. I adhere to Bahá’í orthography in the following ways: when citing directly from sources that use this style, and in my spelling of the Bahá’í Faith, Bahá’u’lláh, and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá. My interlocutors always referred to the Bahá’í Faith as a proper noun in Arabic as al-­dīn al-­bahāʾī, a translation that I adopt as well. The names of my interlocutors are pseudonyms except if my interlocutors have personally appeared in and/or their l­egal cases w ­ ere covered in the media, and t­ hose materials—­ whether media or ­legal cases—­are referenced as sources in the book.

xiii

ac k now l­e d g m e n t s

a s­ enior scholar of American religion once commented publicly on a draft chapter of this book, saying aloud what I knew to be true: “You are standing on the shoulders of g­ iants.” One challenge of writing Devotion to the Administrative State was wrestling with the contributions of Talal Asad, Hussein Agrama, and Saba Mahmood, which, the discussant was keen to remind me, are influential well beyond the study of modern Egypt. The other challenge was staking out a place in the conversation on religion and modernity when its ­parameters seemed bound by the architecture they had built. This challenge was amplified by having engaged each of them in person—as a seminar student in New York, a dissertator in Chicago, and a research assistant in Cairo and Evanston. I am grateful for what they taught me during the formative years leading to the writing of this book. I especially appreciate being encouraged by Talal and Hussein to explore ideas I once feared would be met by harsh criticism. I have Hussein to thank for suggesting that my once glimmer of an idea, the relationship between freedom and ­inequality, was worth pursuing. My sense of myself as a scholar was first s­ haped by faculty at Northwestern University who, without fail, made time for conversation with an ­eager gradu­ ate student. I thank them all for their teaching. Mary Dietz and Bonnie Honig introduced me to a way of d­ oing critical theory that amplified rather than diminished my voice. Hannah Feldman was always honest that professors learn as much from students as the reverse. Elizabeth Shakman Hurd showed me that you cannot teach the intersection of religion, law, and politics effectively without putting anthropologists on the syllabus. Robert Orsi modeled how the person of the scholar is implicated in the questions she asks. When I droned on about administrative law and tried to articulate a research puzzle, Kristen Stilt asked simply, yet profoundly, What is this an example of? The day I became a duktūra, Jessica Winegar told me that my proj­ect was not about secularism. It took me years to figure out why. xv

xvi 

a c k n o w l­e d g m e n t s

As a gradu­ate student, my involvement in the Politics of Religious Freedom proj­ect, hosted jointly at Northwestern University and the University of California, Berkeley, was a second education. I had the rare opportunity over several years to be in the same room with scholars whose work I was reading. Many of ­these scholars have since become conversation partners, friends, and collaborators. For making ­these connections pos­si­ble, I thank the conveners of the proj­ect, Peter Danchin, Beth Hurd, Saba Mahmood, and Winnifred Fallers ­Sullivan. As editor of The Immanent Frame since 2017, I gained a third education that has indelibly ­shaped how I think and what I write. Devotion to the Administrative State is now published, but my education continues. I am still learning. Thank you to thousands of contributors and readers whose support of public scholarship on religion sustains this platform. The Immanent Frame has been my lifeline for creative and experimental thought in an other­wise rigid disciplinary world. I am especially grateful to ­every scholar whose writing I have touched. Working closely with scholars at all c­ areer stages to figure out what they want to say and how to say it better showed me that good writing happens through revision and collaboration—­not singular moments of epiphany. I would not be where I am ­today without the unfailing support of scholars whom I admire. Winni ­Sullivan has opened many doors, offered both swift and ­measured guidance, and encouraged bold thinking—­reminding me when to take care of myself and when to get back to work. This book is in many ways a small compendium of thinking prompted by our near-­decade of conversation. I hope I have made her proud. Kathryn Lofton’s gifts of song, books, and laughter are life-­affirming. I ­will never forget our lunch in the woods or her advice about medicinal writing. Whenever I feel lost, Katie shows me the way. Nathan Brown thought my ideas w ­ ere impor­tant long before I connected the dots. I thank Nathan for our many lively discussions about Egypt and the law, and for modeling a lifetime of serious thinking with such generosity. I am lucky that I get to call Febe Armanios a mentor and friend. For making time—­always—to offer guidance on questions big and small she ­will forever have my gratitude. Noah Salomon was the first reader of my work to ask whom I was arguing with. I thank Noah for answering this question for me and for explaining that a first book is exactly the place to make a strong argument, not to shy away from it. Research and writing for this book ­were made pos­si­ble with support from several institutions. Travel to Egypt was funded through the Henry R. Luce Initiative on International Affairs. Additional travel funding was provided by The Gradu­ate School and the Roberta Buffett Institute for Global Affairs at Northwestern University. The Center for Law, Society & Culture at Indiana U ­ niversity

a c k n o w l­e d g m e n t s 

xvii

Maurer School of Law, where I was a Jerome Hall fellow, was an ideal place to think about situating Devotion to the Administrative State across multiple scholarly conversations. A grant from the Amherst College Faculty Research Award Program allowed me to workshop the manuscript in its early stages. Peter van der Veer invited me to spend a summer at the Max Planck Institute for the Study of Religious and Ethnic Diversity in Göttingen, where conversations with him and researchers across the institute deeply enriched the argument of the book. Generous fellowship support from the Käte Hamburger Center for Advanced Study “Law as Culture” enabled me to conduct follow-up research in Cairo. Howard University granted course releases that gave me much-­needed time to complete revisions. I reserve enormous gratitude for my interlocutors. The documentary sources at the center of this book ­were gathered with help from interlocutors in Egypt who gave me access to their personal papers and ­family rec­ords. Many also shared ­legal petitions, judicial verdicts, and executive decrees. O ­ thers facilitated access to Egyptian registration documents, both current and out-­of-­ use. Most of t­ hese documents are technically public rec­ords, printed in the name of the Egyptian ­people, but are not publicly available in Egypt or elsewhere. Members of the activist community in Egypt and the diaspora additionally supported my research by sharing hard-­to-­find multimedia files. I thank my interlocutors across Egypt, Canada, the United Kingdom, and the United States for allowing me to be pre­sent in their lives—­for extending invitations to symposia, conferences, study sessions, dinners, and more, for always welcoming me warmly to their offices and homes, for their willingness to sometimes answer the same questions more than once, and for referring me to the right ­people when I asked questions whose answers they did not know. I am additionally thankful for librarians and archivists on both sides of the Atlantic. Librarians at the American University in Cairo helped me navigate the somewhat impenetrable world of Egyptian ­legal and legislative history through electronic databases. The U.S. National Bahá’í Archives maintain meticulous rec­ords of twentieth-­century Bahá’í communal life to which I was granted access. Special thanks to archivist Edward Sevcik who, at the eleventh hour, sourced recent images of the Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship in Wilmette, Illinois; the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States graciously allowed me to reproduce them in this book. The Bahá’í Universal ­House of Justice granted permission to reproduce vari­ous other illustrations and texts, providing valuable guidance on the provenance of par­tic­u­lar sources.

xviii 

a c k n o w l­e d g m e n t s

I was fortunate to have been invited to pre­sent early versions of this proj­ect to interdisciplinary audiences. I thank the conveners and participants at the following institutions for their engagement: Åbo Akademi University, American Bar Foundation, University of Amsterdam, University of California, Berkeley, University of Chicago, University of Florida, University of Giessen, Harvard Law School, Käte Hamburger Center for Advanced Study in the Humanities, Indiana University Maurer School of Law, Université Libre de Bruxelles, Max Planck Institute for the Study of Religious and Ethnic Diversity, University of Mas­sa­chu­setts, Amherst, Northwestern University, Ohio University, Simon Fraser University, Smith College, Washington and Lee University, and Yale Law School. I am grateful to Fred Appel at Prince­ton University Press for his early interest in this proj­ect and facilitating its review, and to his colleagues at the press who assisted at e­ very stage of production. Two anonymous readers provided many helpful suggestions for revision. The press’s faculty board also offered comments that prompted key changes to the book’s conceptual framework. It was my good fortune that the design of Devotion to the Administrative State was entrusted to Chris Ferrante, who beautifully captured the argument of the book in visual form. Jenn Backer lent a second pair of eyes during the final stretch; her tactful copyediting improved the text. A number of colleagues read the manuscript in w ­ hole or in part as it neared its final form. Thank you to Febe Armanios, Nathan Brown, Kenneth Cuno, Omnia El Shakry, Omid Ghaemmaghami, Angie Heo, Dina Rizk Khoury, Elizabeth Lhost, Miray Philips, and Noah Salomon for their incisive critiques. Jacob Boss, Constance Furey, Matt Graham, Rick Nance, and Winni ­Sullivan—­the law and religion reading group at Indiana University’s Religious Studies Department—­are a tough crowd. Their feedback on the book’s introduction gave me the confidence I needed to know that I was on to something. I thank the group for continuing to include me in their discussions since my postdoc year at IU. My thanks especially to Constance for our ongoing dialogue about teaching, reading, writing, and letting go. Ahmed Abdelnaby, Magda Boutros, Nate Mathews, Hafsa Oubou, and Ronke Olaleye make thinking seriously about community lighter and more consequential. Some w ­ ere early sounding boards on issues central to the book. ­Others read draft chapters. Two neither read nor commented on the book but accepted its place in my life all the same. Most importantly, they each keep me connected through bonds of friendship to worlds other than ­those I write about.

​ Introduction

hasan zengin, an Alevi citizen of Turkey, sought in 2001 to exempt his seventh-­grade d­ aughter, Eylem, from a compulsory religious culture and ethics class.1 When the Turkish Directorate of National Education and the administrative courts denied his requests and appeals, Zengin lodged an application with the E ­ uropean Court of H ­ uman Rights. The court’s 2007 decision in Zengin v. Turkey found ­there had been a violation of the petitioner’s right to education.2 That same year, this time in Malaysia, the Federal Court ruled that the National Registry Department had lawfully denied Lina Joy’s conversion from Islam to Chris­tian­ity.3 The court found that she had not fulfilled the bureaucratic procedures necessary to change her religious status, even as such procedures did not exist.4 Just two years ­later, the Supreme Court of the 1. On the history of Alevism and Alevis’ engagements with the Turkish state, see Dressler, Writing Religion and Tambar, The Reckoning of Pluralism. 2. Hasan and Eylem Zengin v. Turkey, no. 1448/04, ECHR 2007-­II. Turkey was found to have ­violated Article 2 of Protocol No. 1 of the ­European Convention on ­Human Rights, which reads: “No person ­shall be denied the right to education. In the exercise of any functions which it assumes in relation to education and to teaching, the State ­shall re­spect the right of parents to ensure such education and teaching in conformity with their own religious and philosophical convictions.” 3. Lina Joy v. Majlis Agama Islam Wilayah Persekutuan & Anor [2007] 4 MLJ 585. In the absence of an order from a Syariah court affirming Joy’s conversion to Chris­tian­ity, the National Registry Department refused her application. Joy appealed the agency’s refusal to remove “Islam” from her identity card through the civil courts rather than the religious courts. Though Joy did so on constitutional grounds, the case primarily concerned administrative law. 4. Remarkably, ­these procedures had never been instituted nor ­were they in the ­process of being instituted at the time of the judgment. For one of the earliest scholarly discussions of this case, including the Kafkaesque paradox therein, see Barry, “Apostasy, Marriage and Jurisdiction in Lina Joy.” 1

2  I n t r o du c t i on

United Kingdom upheld a lower court’s decision finding that the Jewish F ­ ree School, a recipient of public funding, had racially discriminated against M. M was an applicant to the school who did not conform to the definition of Judaism set forth by the Office of the Chief Rabbi.5 It was also in 2009 that Dr. Rauf Hindi, a Bahá’í citizen of Egypt, won his administrative appeal. Hindi had sued the Interior Ministry following its refusal to issue his ­children’s birth certificates with the word “Bahá’í” in the compulsory religion field. The Supreme Administrative Court upheld a lower court decision compelling the Ministry to issue vital rec­ords with a dash for Egyptians who had previously—­and mistakenly, in the court’s view—­been issued rec­ords identifying them as Bahá’í. ­These cases are among the many that feature in an interdisciplinary scholarship on the ­legal regulation of religion. To date, scholars have argued that the secularist law of states and the international community impedes religious flourishing, exacerbates the dilemmas it is intended to solve, and singles out for protection only t­ hose practices that are legible within state definitions of religion.6 This line of argument is undergirded by scholars’ suspicion of p­ olitical authority and a claim that the religious ways of ­people in the twenty-­first ­century cannot be adequately protected by law.7 Yet in the last d­ ecade alone, countless communities have codified their religious norms into ­family and criminal law.8 Still ­others have enshrined religious establishment clauses within constitutional frameworks.9 And in constitutionally secular socie­ties, the appeal to state law and courts for religious exemption continues unabated.10 This phenomenon is not specific to postcolonial or Muslim-­majority socie­ties.11 5. R (E) v. Governing Body of JFS and the Admissions Appeal Panel of JFS and others [2009] UKSC 15. 6. For representative examples of and variations on t­ hese claims, see Hurd, Beyond Religious Freedom; Mahmood, Religious Difference in a Secular Age; Moustafa, Constituting Religion; Schonthal, Buddhism, Politics, and the Limits of Law. 7. ­Sullivan, The Impossibility of Religious Freedom. 8. Such developments in Nigeria are examined in Eltantawi, Sharia on Trial; Kendhammer, “The Sharia Controversy in Northern Nigeria and the Politics of Islamic Law in New and Uncertain Democracies”; Lubeck, “Nigeria”; Vaughan, Religion and the Making of Nigeria; Weimann, “Divine Law and Local Custom in Northern Nigerian zinā ­Trials.” 9. For an overview of t­ hese movements in Islamic contexts, see, e.g., Brown and Revkin, “Islamic Law and Constitutions.” 10. Recent cases in U.S. law include Masterpiece Cakeshop, Ltd. v. Colorado Civil Rights Commission, 584 U.S.__(2018) and Burwell v. Hobby Lobby Stores, Inc., 573 U.S. 682 (2014). 11. Between the 1990s and the early 2000s, ­political parties in Greece battled over a privacy protection law that required the removal of religious affiliation from national identity cards.

I n t r o du c t i o n  

3

Nor is it ­limited to religion as a category of difference.12 Such demands for differential treatment based in the difference of status implicate ­every geography. I question the scholarly position which holds that minority communities cannot think outside the logics of the state, suggesting instead that scholars have not sufficiently addressed the inequalities to which minorities assent in their claims making. Hasan Zengin, the Alevi citizen of Turkey, did not argue against state-­mandated religious and ethics courses. Zengin argued, on the basis of his Alevi difference, for his right to choose the type of education that his ­daughter receives. Similarly, though much ink has been spilled on the jurisdictional issues in the case of Lina Joy, ­these analyses elide a crucial point: Joy did not contest the state regulation of religion.13 She mobilized the state’s administrative apparatus to sever her membership in a Muslim community, formalize her conversion to Chris­tian­ity, and establish her status as a Christian Malaysian. The 2018 case of Indira Gandhi, de­cided also in Malaysia, provides a helpful parallel.14 ­Legal scholars celebrated the decision for clarifying the p­ recedence of civil over shariʿa court jurisdiction.15 Left unexamined was Gandhi’s decision not to question w ­ hether the state should regulate citizens on the basis of religion. In the appeal filed in the United Kingdom, the petitioners did not argue that faith-­based criteria for school admission are unlawful or that Judaism should not be defined for purposes of law but that this school’s definition of Judaism was unlawfully restrictive.16 Dr. Rauf Hindi, the Bahá’í petitioner in Egypt, did not contest the legality of the state’s religion-­based civil status Compliance with the law would facilitate Greece’s integration within the ­European ­Union, yet one-­third of Greeks—­including historically marginalized communities such as Muslims and Jehovah’s Witnesses—­preferred to retain the religious affiliation criteria. See Fokas, “Religion in the Greek Public Sphere”; Makrides and Molokotos-­Liederman, “Religious Controversies in Con­temporary Orthodox Greece”; Molokotos-­Liederman, “Identity Crisis”; Molokotos-­ Liederman, “The Greek ID Card Controversy”; Molokotos-­Liederman, “Looking at Religion and Greek Identity from the Outside”; Stavrakakis, “Politics and Religion.” 12. ­These include language, ethnicity, sex, gender, and race, as well as religion. 13. On jurisdictional issues in the Lina Joy case, see, e.g., Hirschl, “Constitutional Courts as Religion-­Harnessing Agents.” 14. Indira Gandhi a/p Mutho v. Pengarah Jabatan Agama Islam Perak & Ors and other appeals [2018] 1 MLJ 545. 15. See, e.g., Neo, “A Contextual Approach to Unconstitutional Amendments.” 16. From the decision: “The dissatisfaction of E and M has not been with the policy of JFS in giving preference in admission to Jews, but with the application of Orthodox standards of conversion which has led to the OCR declining to recognise M as a Jew.” For a discussion of the case, see McCrudden, “Multiculturalism, Freedom of Religion, Equality, and the British Constitution.”

4  I n t r o du c t i on

regime. What is unlawful, he argued, is being compelled to affiliate with a religion not one’s own. This book is about the yearning for distinction. Bahá’ís and Coptic Orthodox in the early twenty-­first c­ entury stand at the forefront of l­ egal claims making against the Egyptian state. Yet they do not mobilize to deregulate religious difference in Egyptian administrative law. In Egypt, religion is a compulsory category on e­ very civil document—­w ith the exception of passports—­that substantiates l­egal personhood from birth to death. Rather than seek to remove religious affiliation from state probative documents or its privileged position in how civil status is determined, members of religious minority groups fight, instead, to situate Bahá’í and Coptic difference within the religious and ­legal landscape recognized by the nation-­state. They do so not with the ultimate aim to capture Egyptian state institutions—­whether ­political, legislative, or judicial—­but to expand existing definitions of law and religion in ways that include their difference and reinforce majoritarianism. Their activism encourages us to think differently about how membership as enshrined in public law coheres with membership rules specific to religious communities. Importantly, as I argue in this book, that coherence does not result from the nation-­state remaking communities in its image but reflects preexisting and mutually reinforcing norms. The regulation to which the marginalized assent shares a resemblance with the regulatory work done within their communities. The complainants at the center of this book, who are all members of minority religious communities, want their truth recognized and their status in a collective secured. The recognition they seek places them in a subordinate position vis-­à-­vis the nation-­state and the religious majority—­a stance that strikes many of us as curious. This book brings to light the extraordinary ways that seemingly marginal religious groups, through their demands to have their religious difference recognized, help us reimagine the relationship between law and religion. To seek recognition of one’s difference is to affirm belonging and to engage in a profoundly devotional activity. Difference is the necessary foundation for collective life. ——— This proj­ect began in 2010. That December and in the following weeks, Egyptians upended the decades-­long regime of Hosni Mubarak. If Mubarak succumbed to ­popular uprising, it was projected that Islamists would replace him. At stake was a delicate ­political order that secularist autocrats had instated in part to

I n t r o du c t i o n 

5

quell their Islamist adversaries.17 The demo­cratic effervescence of ­those early months gave way to state repression of dissident groups.18 Questions emerged about the fate of non-­Muslims in the post-­uprising ­Middle East. ­These questions carried par­tic­ul­ar salience in Egypt, where the largest populations of Christians in the region are estimated to live.19 While p­ opular and scholarly discourse at the time, in Arabic and E ­ nglish, was framed in terms of Muslim-­ Christian relations, I was drawn to scholarship that cast a wider lens on social ­organization.20 This was how I first came to know about the Bahá’í Faith, the tradition and its history in Egypt. The case of Dr. Rauf Hindi had been de­cided just a year e­ arlier. It took on renewed importance as Egyptians debated the conditions for citizenship ­after the January 25 uprising. I was struck by the participation of Bahá’ís in t­ hese debates: they insisted on their difference from Muslims and their belonging to the Egyptian national proj­ect. It so happens that the oldest Bahá’í ­House of Worship and the only one in North Amer­i­ca is located in Wilmette, Illinois, just three miles north of the city of Evanston and Northwestern University, where I was a gradu­ate student. During the first months of this research, I regularly rode the Chicago L four stops north on the Purple Line—­Foster to Linden—­and walked about two blocks east. Nestled on the edge of Lake Michigan, the majestic ­temple stands as if draped in white lace (figure 0.1). A perfect geometry magnifies its stature. The dome and an intricate facade, even the color, w ­ ere familiar, and feeling humbled before sacred presence was familiar, too. But its characteristics are assembled in a structure I had never quite seen before, a novelty most evident up close—­past the manicured gardens, fountains, and reflecting pools, and up 17. On the historic agreement forged between Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser and Coptic pope Kirollos VI, see Tadros, “Vicissitudes in the Entente between the Coptic Orthodox Church and the State in Egypt (1952–2007).” 18. For a far-­ranging account of the 2011 Egyptian Revolution and its defeat, see Armbrust, Martyrs and Tricksters. State vio­lence against Copts during this time is discussed in Guirguis, Copts and the Security State. For an account of Islamic giving in post-­revolutionary Egypt, see Mittermaier, Giving to God. 19. As of 2022, Egypt’s population exceeded 110 million; of that number, Christians are estimated at between 5 and 15 million, Bahá’ís in the low thousands, and Jews at about twenty nationwide, with as few as three in Cairo. The state collects data about religious affiliation on civil documents that substantiate l­ egal personhood from birth to death, but official numbers regarding the country’s religious topography are not publicly available. 20. See Cole, Modernity and Millennium; Pink, “A Post-­Qur’ānic Religion between Apostasy and Public Order”; Pink, “The Concept of Freedom of Belief and Its Bound­aries in Egypt”; Scott, The Challenge of ­Political Islam.

figure 0.1. Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship of North Amer­ic­ a (Wilmette, Illinois). Copyright © National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, circa 2010.

figure 0.2. Exterior detail of the Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship of North Amer­i­ca (Wilmette, Illinois). Copyright © National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, circa 2010. 7

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a flight of stairs. Pressed into the body of the t­ emple at its farthest edges, like the outer silk threads of a spider’s web, are stars and crescents and crosses ­ ese signs are all the same size, equidistant, and interwoven. (figure 0.2).21 Th Each one is ­etched expertly into the luminescent concrete and quartz. The ­temple is open to all p­ eople for assembly. It also ­houses one of the largest collections of Bahá’í writings in the world. ­There I found robust accounts of Bahá’í communal life in Egypt during the first half of the twentieth c­ entury. Some w ­ ere written by Egyptian Bahá’ís and relayed to the Bahá’í international community; ­others ­were written by Bahá’ís of dif­fer­ent nationalities reporting on the situation in Egypt—­the spread of the Faith and impediments to its growth. Accounts quickly drop off in the late 1950s and especially ­after 1960, when the national government forbid Bahá’í assembly and confiscated communal property, including libraries. When the archival trail went cold, I traveled to Cairo. Although I found no comparable centralized archive, I soon discovered that individual Bahá’í families maintained their own mini-collections. Each ­family’s story filled out the broader picture of communal transformation since the 1950s. Their stories ­were preserved between thin plastic sheets, tucked away in special drawers or chests, and always dated. ­These families have kept news clippings of events covered in multiple media outlets, highlighting the impor­tant parts, and o­ rganizing them by year. Papers curled at the edges where the plastic came up short. Other papers in ­these ­family collections, including birth certificates and old ID cards, w ­ ere worn from use. Pages came unhinged from staples like books with broken spines. Dirt was creased into their folds. Their outsides ­were stained with oil. My research began in Greater Cairo with Bahá’ís but quickly expanded, shedding its single-­community focus. I learned from ­lawyers that since the mid-1990s thousands of petitions had been filed by individuals whose requests to amend their religious affiliation on vital rec­ords had been denied by the Interior Ministry. Bahá’ís w ­ ere not the only ones suing the Egyptian government. Petitioners included born Muslim converts to Coptic Orthodoxy 21. Readers ­will note in figure 0.2 that swastikas are also pressed into the ­temple at Wilmette. The swastika is a Sans­krit word and ­popular icon in pan-­Indian aesthetics. Only in the nineteenth ­century was it appropriated to symbolize nationalist socialism and neofascism. For a history of the swastika and its changing meanings, see Thomas Wilson, The Swastika: The Earliest Known Symbol, and Its Migrations; With Observations on the Migration of Certain Industries in Prehistoric Times (Washington, DC: U.S. National Museum, 1894). The history of its use in Nazi ideology is discussed in Malcolm Quinn, The Swastika: Constructing the Symbol (London: Routledge, 1994).

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(mutanaṣerūn), born Coptic converts to Islam, reconverts to Coptic Orthodoxy (ʿāʾidūn li-­l-­misiḥiyya), and the ­children of reconverts to Coptic Orthodoxy (awlād al-­ʿāʾidūn). As I collected and analyzed a sampling of petitions and judicial decisions, and as I listened to ­these complainants and attorneys and observed their work, I came to understand that t­ hese disputes concerned the right to identification. Petitioners claimed the government had failed to recognize their true religious affiliation. They crafted elaborate arguments affirming that religious difference is essential to their civil identity and demanded that their government acknowledge this. Remarkably, in all cases, this claim was a request for subsidiary civil status. Since 1980, the Egyptian constitution has designated Islamic law the principal source of legislation, which in practice has meant that non-­Muslims face routine discrimination in public and private sector employment, eligibility for ­political office, entitlement to state allowances, marriage authorization, child custody decisions, admission to primary and secondary schools and universities, and eligibility to sit for certain exams, which affects entire work trajectories, housing opportunities, and so on. Petitioners who sought to align their self-­proclaimed and official religious affiliations could ­either convert to Islam or remain Muslim but routinely chose not to. My interlocutors went to ­great lengths, and incurred substantial costs—­financial and social—to align their self-­proclaimed and official religious affiliations through state l­egal procedures. They conveyed deeply affective attachments to the objects that substantiated their ­legal personhood. ­W hatever their generational location, class background, or level of education, they did not fully recognize themselves as Christians or Bahá’ís, or as belonging to a religious community, u­ ntil and ­unless the nation-­state identified them as such. Moreover, rather than advocate for indifference ­toward religion, they sought inclusion within the Egyptian republic—­not as Muslims but as Islam’s ­others. ­Those seemingly marginalized by the state w ­ ere among its most devoted subjects. This fidelity was puzzling in light of the revolutionary situation in Egypt at that time. Despite documented accounts of ongoing discrimination experienced by non-­Muslims at the hands of the state, no grassroots campaign to remove religion from Egyptian national ID cards has gained a mainstream following or resulted in policy change.22 No legislative momentum has 22. Local efforts mostly garnered national and international media attention within liberal circles. ­These campaigns include one o­ rganized by Sarah Carr and Aalam Wassef, titled “None of Your Business,” born out of Carr’s reporting on the vio­lence at St. Mark’s Cathedral and

10  I n t r o du c t i on

developed around this issue. My interlocutors never championed t­ hese initiatives although they face routine discrimination in housing, employment, education, marriage, inheritance, and divorce on the basis of their religion. And their devotion to the administrative state did not ebb a­ fter August 14, 2013, when Egyptian state police and the army undertook one of the world’s largest mass killings in a single day.23 They held in one palm the knowledge of state brutality and in the other a desire for state recognition. As did millions of ­others. Protestors in the years 2011–13 mobilized around criminal justice, social ­services, and civil liberties. The grievances included unlawful and inhumane detention, government corruption, low wages, emergency law, restrictions on speech and association, and high costs of living. Even as demonstrators held the Interior Ministry to account for many of ­these injustices, their demands for change did not mean total destruction of the social order. The Ministry’s civil administrative function survived each convulsion. It was hardly a target. Maspero. See Robert Mackey, “Antisectarian Campaign in Egypt Urges Citizens to Remove Religion from ID Cards,” New York Times, April 15, 2013, http://­thelede​.­blogs​.­nytimes​.­com​/­2013​/­04​ /­15​/­anti​-­sectarian​-­campaign​-­in​-­egypt​-­urges​-­citizens​-­to​-­remove​-­religion​-­from​-­i​-­d​-­cards​/­​.­ Just days a­ fter the “None of Your Business” campaign launched, a group called the Secularist Movement (ḥarakat ʿalmānīyūn) published its own video titled “Revoking the Religion Box . . . ​We Are All Egyptian” (ilghāʾ khānat al-­dīn . . . ​kulinā miṣriyyīn); see http://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​ =­tovVPHp5HMA​.­Months l­ ater, the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights produced a film called The Religion Box (khānat al-­dīn). The film depicts the ­process of vital rec­ord procurement and the discrimination that ensues from compulsory religious identification. See http://­www​.­youtube​ .­com​/­watch​?­v= ​w ­ mQKdDTNivc&feature​=c­ 4​-­overview&list​=U ­ UgZDy4S7286fKAjFIKv63oA​.­ The media campaigns produced in the years 2011–13 resonate with an e­ arlier campaign that brought national and international attention to the administrative predicaments faced by Egyptian Bahá’ís. In 2007 the Muslim Network for Bahá’í Rights (MNBR), a proj­ect of the international Mideast Youth advocacy ­organization, launched a YouTube video mimicking a well-­known ­television ad produced in E ­ nglish by the Egypt Tourism Authority. The MNBR campaign altered the original template at key moments in the video, for example replacing the opening statement “­Today, Egyptians offer you their most precious t­ reasure: the sun” with “­Today, Egyptians offer you their most precious ­treasure: their national ID card.” The MNBR video retained the use of ­English in the video to activate an international conversation about ­human rights. See http://­www​ .­bahairights​.­org. 23. An estimated one thousand ­people ­were killed in Rabʿa and al-­Nahda Squares, in Giza and Nasr City, where hundreds of Muslim Brotherhood supporters had o­ rganized sit-­ins to challenge the military takeover and demand the reinstatement of ousted president Mohamed Morsi. See ­Human Rights Watch, “All According to Plan: The Rabʿa Massacre and Mass Killings of Protestors in Egypt,” August 2014, https://­www​.­hrw​.­org​/­sites​/­default​/­files​/­reports​/­egypt​ 0814web​_­0​.­pdf.

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——— In this book, law is “a framework for ordered relationships” inclusive of ­those delimited by the nation-­state but not exclusive to them.24 My treatment of law thus challenges understandings that consider the nation-­state to be the sole progenitor and arbiter of ­legal normativity.25 The distinction often made between “formal law” and “informal law” is not one I invoke ­here, as it tends to valorize constitutions, statutes, and the like as “real law” compared to custom, for example, or uncodified norms.26 To avoid this prob­lem, I refer to all normative ­orders, including t­ hose outside the state system, as laws.27 I may call a statute a statute but do not see it as more ­legal than, say, the sacraments of the Coptic Orthodox tradition or the rules of the Bahá’í Faith that dictate membership in communal assemblies. ­Legal pluralism, a phenomenon whereby “two or more ­legal systems coexist in the same social field,”28 is ubiquitous in our world. I also understand ­legal pluralism as “a basic condition of social life,” an idea “that law does not emanate solely from the state, but that a multiplicity of normative ­orders—of the clan, religious or ethnic group, club, school, profession, commercial community, and corporation—­produce their own rules, enforcement mechanisms, and bodies for dispute resolution among group members.”29 ­These premises set an impor­tant baseline for the analy­sis herein.30 24. The phrase “a framework for ordered relationships” derives from Rosen, Law as Culture, 7. 25. ­There is a long tradition in ­legal studies that seeks to understand law as more expansive than a system imposed by sovereign nation-­states. Lon Fuller, for example, defines law as “the enterprise of subjecting ­human conduct to the governance of rules,” a view that “treats law as an activity and regards a l­ egal system as the product of a sustained purposive effort” (The Morality of Law, 106). Yet the field of ­legal studies tends generally to treat the nation-­state as superior in its capacity to generate, enforce, and arbitrate ­legal normativity. 26. The distinction between “formal” and “informal” law is elaborated by a number of sociolegal scholars. See, e.g., Black, The Be­hav­ior of Law. 27. I understand a “normative order” to be “any system of rules and shared expectations governing a par­tic­u­lar social situation . . . ​that [operates] to secure social order.” See “normative order,” Oxford Reference, https://­w ww​.­oxfordreference​.­com​/­v iew​/­10​.­1093​/­oi​/­authority​ .­20110803100238793. 28. Merry, “­Legal Pluralism,” 870. 29. Sharafi, Law and Identity in Colonial South Asia, 6. 30. I use the term “administrative law,” however, as ­legal scholars do: to refer to the laws and ­legal princi­ples that govern the creation and regulation of government agencies. The reason for this is specific to the argument I advance about the history and development of bureaucratic and judicial institutions in Egypt. See especially chapter 2 of this book.

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Administrative state in this book refers to the regulatory function performed by the nation-­state that is consequential to civil status.31 Nation-­ states are empowered to generate rules and procedures that accord with constitutional and statutory law, review the substantive rules and procedures that agencies make, and oversee the relationship between administrative agencies, other governmental bodies, and private persons. As this book shows, the regulatory work done by communal, member-­based ­organizations like the Coptic Orthodox Church is often simultaneous to, and sometimes in collaboration with, the national bureaucracy, judiciary, and legislature.32 At yet other times, the regulatory work done by ­these o­ rganizations, including the Coptic Church, prompts conflict over the limit or extent of each organization’s authority and jurisdiction. I thus imagine regulation in modern and con­temporary Egypt to include a wider set of activities, actors, and o­ rganizations beyond the national bureaucracy or what is called the “civilian bureaucratic state.”33 Readers ­will find in this book a challenge to vari­ous rubrics of church and state in modernity, rubrics that suggest the nation-­state replaced the church, that the church and the nation-­state thrive in inverse relation to the other, or that the church’s autonomy has been circumscribed by the nation-­state.34 I also challenge the pervasive notion that group membership in the modern and con­temporary world is arranged in “concentric loyalties,” whereby the nation-­state represents both the outer limit and condition of possibility for all other memberships.35 I engage recent scholarship that analyzes the history of cooperative governance between the nation-­state and what has been called its “sovereign avatars,”36 but show this plurality includes collaboration between multiple, member-­based ­organizations and their laws as well as take seriously the desire for the regulatory work they all do. This book revises a common narrative about how the Egyptian republic and the Coptic Orthodox Church relate. Most scholarly treatments consider 31. On the administrative character of the state, see Nettl, “The State as a Conceptual Variable,” 559–62. 32. I use “Coptic Orthodox Church,” “Coptic Church,” and “the Church” interchangeably in this book. 33. Hull, Government of Paper, 5. 34. The familiar story of church and state is one of initial complementarity or symbiosis and subsequent inversion. For a critique of this story, see Johnson, Klassen, and ­Sullivan, Ekklesia, 7. 35. I borrow the term “concentric loyalties” from Herzfeld, The Social Production of Indifference, 38. 36. ­Sullivan, Church State Corporation.

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the republic to have ceded some legislative sovereignty to the Church during the 1950s for the maintenance of communal affairs.37 By contrast, I treat both the Egyptian state and the Coptic Orthodox Church as member-­based regulatory ­organizations with at times complementary authority. When their authority collides, this conflict is less about the nation-­state’s encroachment on religious life than how belonging in multiple exclusive communities (e.g., the Egyptian nation and Coptic Orthodoxy) is determined. As we ­shall see, the Coptic Church enjoys standing in Egyptian law as an administrative body. This means that it is empowered to make decisions transformative of civil status. Take marriage. T ­ oday t­ here is no civil marriage option in Egypt for two Egyptian citizens wishing to marry. The Egyptian republic ­w ill only recognize a marriage between two Copts when the Coptic Church says that the two parties are in fact married. The marriage certificates held by Egyptian Copts, issued by the Interior Ministry, thus reflect the republic’s recognition of the Church’s authority to unite two persons in matrimony. The Ministry-­issued certificates are provided once the newlyweds pre­ sent evidence from the Church—­a Church-­issued marriage certificate—of the institution having officiated their ­union. When Egyptian Copts, following divorce, sue the Coptic Church for refusing to issue authorizations for remarriage, they do so in administrative court. The Coptic Church thus holds public power; its actions are subject to the oversight of the administrative judiciary whose mandate is to guard against abuses of precisely this type of power. Calling the Coptic Church a non-­state entity would fail to capture the full extent of its public role in Egyptian society, by which I mean the power vested in the Church to perform functions we often assume are within the sole purview of the nation-­state. If the Coptic Church ­were truly a non-­state entity, it could not have standing in administrative court. Egyptian citizens would not be able to name it as a respondent in an administrative suit, and it would not be liable to remedy harm as determined by the administrative judiciary. Conceptualizing the Coptic Church and the Egyptian republic as member-­based ­organizations with, at times, overlapping public authority, allows me to account for the counterintuitive preference of non-­Muslims to retain subsidiary civil status in a Muslim majoritarian context. The puzzle of this book is why non-­ Muslims engage in actions that, at first glance, would appear to entrench their 37. See, e.g., Ibrahim, The Copts of Egypt and Sezgin, ­Human Rights ­under State-­Enforced Religious ­Family Laws in Israel, Egypt and India.

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subjugation. By foregrounding the state’s administrative functions, we see that non-­Muslims are not actually acting counterintuitively. What marginalized religious communities are d­ oing when they lodge claims for recognition is assent to the regulatory capacity of the republic and their communal organizations. ——— One of the first attorneys I met in Cairo counseled Bahá’í complainants before the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR), a well-­known research and ­legal advocacy o­ rganization, was retained as their primary counsel. Ayoub Ramez welcomed me into his office ­after hours, when the ­legal secretaries had gone home and he was ­free to chat. He had risen to fame not through civil rights litigation but through entertainment law. His day job was attorney to the stars. Ayoub’s gold cufflinks caught the dim office light as his hands mapped out on an invisible board how ­these cases came to pass. A buzzing air conditioner made his tailored suit seem sensible in August. I wanted to know why he had taken on the Bahá’í cases, why he h­ adn’t used his p­ olitical and l­ egal clout to help deregulate religion in administrative law. It seemed to me at the time that the thorny bureaucratic disputes he and other attorneys negotiated could be nullified once amendment to religious affiliation was no longer a justiciable claim. “­Wouldn’t removing the religion box from ID cards solve the issue?” It was a naive question. “How ­will we know who we are?” he countered. Ayoub was concerned that if Bahá’ís ­were not properly accounted for, Coptic ­women would marry out of the denomination more easily. “When one of our ­women goes to marry and religion is no longer on the ID card, who’s to say she w ­ on’t marry a Bahá’í?” ­Here was an attorney who asserted a Coptic identity and advocated for the recognition of Bahá’í difference in order to ensure the continuity of Coptic Orthodoxy whose ­future he located in marriage understood as an exclusively intradenominational sacrament. In other words, a member of one marginalized group was advocating for members of another marginalized group so that each group could remain distinct and coherent. I left that meeting puzzled. Understanding found me ­later. I was confounded by Ayoub’s response b­ ecause of my proximity at the time to a par­tic­u­lar line of inquiry, one that had led me to believe that state regulation inhibits religious flourishing. My expectations had been s­ haped by scholars of religion, and of Islam specifically, who have taken the Foucauldian account of

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state power as a premise.38 But my research led me to conclude that this frame for understanding law’s interaction with religion in modernity has been a distraction. It has distracted us from an impor­tant story and the story that this book tells: recognition of difference is necessary for collective life. The cross-­disciplinary adoption of Foucauldian governmentality has fostered a deep-­seated skepticism ­toward p­ olitical authority.39 E ­ urope and Chris­tian­ity are not only privileged as a sort of origin story in this framing, writing also precedes knowledge, and states are assumed to discipline, coerce, and regulate through a universal ­will to know.40 Yet the regulation of persons and the expertise required therein are neither unique to the nation-­state nor coeval with modernity.41 Civil administration predates the nation-­state as a historical formation by several millennia. Censuses and other demographic tools typically associated with modern bureaucracies characterize regulatory practice only ­after 1800, when registration was administered by high state authority. Local systems like tax collection and civil administration—­the recording of birth, marriage, and death—­date to the ­Middle Ages and antiquity. ­These systems ­were ubiquitous though not always centralized.42 Local registers w ­ ere developed historically to address universal social prob­lems. They had a l­egal basis and effect, and typically regulated access to community-­based provisions, assistance, and benefit. The nineteenth-­century identification systems that we are most familiar with t­ oday “followed centuries of stabilization by usage and custom alone.”43 All such systems—­whether local or national, modern, or premodern—­fix a rec­ord in the memory of a collective. Civil administration is among the most extensive and significant of any information infrastructure in ­human history; it traverses time, locale, geography, and culture, remaining ubiquitous and largely invisible.44 A registration 38. See especially Agrama, Questioning Secularism; Asad, Formations of the Secular; Mahmood, Religious Difference in a Secular Age. 39. Foucault, Security, Territory, Population; Foucault, The Birth of Biopolitics; Goody, The Logic of Writing and the ­Organization of Society; ­Rose, Governing the Soul; Scott, Seeing Like a State. 40. Breckenridge and Szreter, introduction to Registration and Recognition, 1–36. 41. This claim holds w ­ hether scholars date modernity to the 1800s or to the Protestant Reformation. 42. C. A. Bayly, foreword to Registration and Recognition, ed. Breckenridge and Szreter, xi. 43. Caplan, “ ‘This or That Par­tic­u­lar Person,’ ” 54. 44. An infrastructure is characterized by its embeddedness, transparency, reach, or scope. It is learned as part of membership, links with conventions of practice, embodies standards, is built on an installed base, becomes vis­i­ble upon breakdown, and is fixed in modular increments ­whether at once or globally. See ­table 1.1 in Bowker and Star, Sorting ­Things Out, 35.

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order was instituted in pre­industrial China, Vietnam, and K ­ orea at least one millennium before the science of population developed in nineteenth-­ century ­Europe.45 ­W hether in East Asia or ­Europe, social historians suggest that civil registration had an “intrinsically religious character and function.”46 Although China’s ancient state model was introduced in Japan in the seventh ­century it was in the late sixteenth ­century that an administrative link between land and ­house­hold was forged.47 ­Under the Tokugawa shogunate, “a religious survey that had been started to stamp out Chris­tian­ity . . . ​took on two new functions: the government’s undertaking of periodical censuses and local administrations’ record-­keeping.”48 The early modern parish registers of E ­ ngland and Wales, first instituted in 1538, required the recording of ­every christening, wedding, and burial ceremony, and are often cited as among the most effective civil administrative systems ever developed.49 Their effectiveness is ­measured not only by durability and compliance but also by their capacity to alleviate poverty over several generations. The rec­ord of parish membership established reciprocal obligation t­ oward parishioners and the shared authority structure of the group. For the parents who registered the birth of their ­children, the inscription guaranteed each child “an entitlement for the rest of their life to a sufficient share of their parish’s collective wealth to be safe from destitution.”50 Civil administration in Egypt ­today encompasses many o­ rganizations and actors that exercise administrative functions, generating objects transformative of civil status. Th ­ ese “boundary objects” are created and maintained collaboratively by “communities of practice,” which comprises “­people 45. Woodside, Lost Modernities. The Chinese hukou ­house­hold registration system in con­ temporary usage was inaugurated in the mid-1950s to facilitate transition to a socialist economy and has been used to surveil the population, regulate internal migration, and quell p­ olitical dissidents. Yet hukou is not a uniquely modern innovation; it is the culmination of written population registers that date to the sixth c­ entury BCE. See Bray, Social Space and Governance in Urban China; Faure, Emperor and Ancestor; Kuhn, The Age of Confucian Rule; Lewis, The Construction of Space in Early China; Szonyi, Practicing Kinship. 46. Breckenridge and Szreter, introduction, 5. 47. Smith, The Agrarian Origins of Modern Japan; Ooms, Tokugawa Village Practice; Totman, Early Modern Japan. 48. Osamu Saito and Masahiro Sato, “Japan’s Civil Registration Systems before and ­after the Meiji Restoration,” in Registration and Recognition, ed. Breckenridge and Szreter, 117–18. 49. Tate, The Parish Chest. 50. Simon Szreter, “Registration of Identities in Early Modern ­English Parishes and amongst the ­English Overseas,” in Registration and Recognition, ed. Breckenridge and Szreter, 90.

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­doing ­things together.”51 As Geoffrey Bowker and Susan Star note, boundary objects “are ­those objects that both inhabit several communities of practice and satisfy the informational requirements of each of them. Boundary objects are thus both plastic enough to adapt to local needs and constraints of the several parties employing them, yet robust enough to maintain a common identity across sites. They are weakly structured in common use and become strongly structured in individual-site use. ­These objects may be abstract or concrete.”52 The boundary objects germane to this book are t­ hose that are produced and operate in contexts where empire, colonization, or war is not the primary driver of social classification. The objects include vital rec­ords, for example, that are recognizable across jurisdictions as well as other inscriptions like conversion certificates, community newsletters, and voluntary tattoos that signify ethnoreligious distinction. Thus the tattooed body is also a boundary object. Globally and historically, membership has been recorded on a variety of surfaces that include wax panels, parchment, paper, and h­ uman and nonhuman skin. This book affirms that the “creation and management of boundary objects is a key ­process in developing and maintaining coherence across intersecting communities,” each of which brings naturalized categories into vari­ous spheres of collaboration.53 All communities of practice depend on cooperative networks within and beyond their constituency.54 In the broader historiography of modern Egypt, governmentality remains a pervasive framing and explanatory device to name discontinuities generated by the colonial state. Timothy Mitchell’s landmark study of the military, built environment, and schooling in nineteenth-­century Egypt names ­these pro­cesses “nizam, order and discipline,” which he claims effected “a world that would now seem divided in two, into the material realm of ­things themselves . . . ​and an abstract realm of their order and structure.”55 Khaled Fahmy further develops this view through what he calls “inscribing reality.” He tracks the introduction of conscription registers and an internal passport regime that aimed to reor­ga­nize and 51. My thinking about group formation and membership is indebted to the sociology of science, groups, and collective action. I borrow the phrase “boundary objects” and its meaning from Bowker and Star, Sorting ­Things Out. I borrow the phrase “communities of practice” and its meaning from Lave and Wagner, Situated Learning. I borrow the phrase “­doing t­ hings together” and its meaning from Becker, ­Doing ­Things Together. 52. Bowker and Star, Sorting ­Things Out, 297. 53. Ibid. 54. Becker, Art Worlds. 55. Mitchell, Colonizing Egypt, 14.

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enhance the productivity of Egyptian society, including its military strength.56 Yet I contend it was in the context of another order, of the new world order, that the distinction between the material realm of ­things and the abstract realm of their order began to collapse. At mid-­twentieth ­century specific categories of social difference came to be understood as both intertwined and immutable. Religion became a distinctive feature of nationality, and necessary to national belonging—as in fact indigenous to it.57 What was new about the twentieth c­ entury, in other words, was not that religious difference became legally significant, as communities, guided by their membership rules, had long ascribed ­legal significance to religious difference; rather, the difference of one’s religion became intertwined with citizenship through top-­down and bottom-up efforts. Offering a corrective to the governmentality framing, W ­ ill Hanley notes that the importance of new regulatory technologies varied in the earliest years of their introduction as local ways of knowing persisted. Where registration practices did cohere, they reflect how well they served the interests of individuals and groups, not merely the governing authorities who sought to regiment society.58

Regulation of Religion Rather than treat regulation of religion as an encroachment on religious liberty or as a coercive technique of modern governance, I consider what minorities’ claims making evinces about the desire for state entanglement with religion ­today. In foregrounding the perspective of complainants, their actions and cosmologies, this book moves beyond two existing modes of explanation.

56. Fahmy, All the Pasha’s Men. 57. This phenomenon is not unique to Egypt. Nathaniel Roberts notes that while India is constitutionally secular, meaning that a state religion is not privileged in its constitutional framework, “the conversion of Dalits to e­ ither Chris­tian­ity or Islam—­both of which are commonly portrayed as ‘foreign’ religions—is treated in India as a m ­ atter of vital national concern” (To Be Cared For, 111). Writing on commonalties between Muslim nationalism and Zionism, Faisal Devji observes that “Islam in Pakistan has become, like Judaism in Israel, a national religion in such a strong sense as to take the place of citizenship” (Muslim Zion, 244). For a global and comparative approach that shows how religion and politics ­were not severed by modernity but brought into more intimate encounter, see van der Veer and Lehmann, Nation and Religion. Yet neither is religious nationalism a phenomenon merely imposed by the state. In her ethnography, Angie Heo notes that “the identity of Copts as foremost ‘Egyptians’ is grounded in their status as indigenous and native to the land” (The P ­ olitical Lives of Saints, 81). 58. Hanley, Identifying with Nationality.

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It moves beyond utilitarian and functionalist explanations that would suggest that complainants seek l­egal recourse to gain material or other benefits. I further contest explanations that hinge on false consciousness, which presume that complainants do not know that their claims making w ­ ill entrench a discriminatory ­legal regime. My approach challenges ­these explanations precisely ­because Egypt is a place where myriad social, ­legal, and ­political benefits accrue to the Muslim majority. An Egyptian citizen wishing to secure the most favorable rights, entitlements, and obligations would undoubtedly seek to establish a Muslim status.59 Non-­Muslims are known to experience routine discrimination in employment, housing, and education, among other public s­ ervices and provisions.60 Yet mass conversion to Islam is not a noted s­ ociological phenomenon in modern Egypt. Neither is crypto-­Christianity or crypto-­Judaism.61 This is despite the fact that Islamic shariʿa has been privileged as a source of law in the Egyptian constitution since 1971.62 Instead, members of non-­Muslim 59. Although the procurement of vital rec­ords often requires applicants to certify the veracity of the information provided therein, Egypt does not have an institutionalized social mores enforcement unit, such as religious police in places like Saudi Arabia, where public conduct is surveilled by authorities. In other words, one’s formal affiliation with the Muslim majority, even if disingenuous, does not get revoked by the state. For an overview of Saudi Arabia’s Committee for Promoting Virtue and Preventing Vice, including recent changes to its mandate, see Yasmine Farouk and Nathan J. Brown, “Saudi Arabia’s Religious Reforms Are Touching Nothing but Changing Every­thing,” Car­ne­gie Endowment for International Peace, June 7, 2021, https://­ carnegieendowment​.­org​/2­ 021​/0­ 6​/­07​/s­ audi​-a­ rabia​-­s-​ ­religious-​ ­reforms-​ a­ re-​ ­touching-​ ­nothing​ -­but​-­changing​-­everything​-­pub​-­84650. 60. No shortage of scholarly, media, and advocacy accounts have indicated this to be true. On the ongoing, fraught status of Coptic Orthodox Christians, see, e.g., Elsässer, The Coptic Question in the Mubarak Era. On the complex status of Jews in Egypt following World War II, see, e.g., Beinin, The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry. The Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights routinely publishes reports on religion-­based discrimination. See, e.g., “Closed on Security Grounds: Sectarian Tensions and Attacks Resulting from the Construction and Renovation of Churches,” November 2017, https://­eipr​.­org​/­sites​/­default​/­files​/­reports​/­pdf​/­closed​_­on​_­security​_­grounds​_­web​.­pdf and “A Death Foretold: The Law on the Construction and Renovation of Churches One Year ­Later,” December 2017, https://­eipr​.­org​/­sites​/­default​/­files​/­reports​/­pdf​/­as​_­you​_­were​.­pdf. 61. On the phenomenon of crypto-­Christianity and crypto-­Judaism in the region, see, e.g., Reinkowski, “Hidden Believers, Hidden Apostates.” Crypto-­Christianity among Coptic Orthodox in Mamluk Egypt is discussed in el-­Leithy, “Coptic Culture and Conversion in Medieval Cairo.” For an account of how Ottoman Christians and Muslims understood the practice of conversion to Islam from the fifteenth to the seventeenth c­ entury, see Krstić, Contested Conversions to Islam. 62. Article 2 of the Egyptian constitution reads: “Islam is the religion of the state and Arabic is its official language. The princi­ples of Islamic shariʿa are the principal source of legislation.”

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communities, among them the Coptic Orthodox, have lobbied for recognition of their difference in constitutional, administrative, and personal status law.63 Even when Bahá’ís and Copts secure a semblance of recognition, this status does not give them equal standing alongside Muslims but some equivalence as non-­Muslim groups—­although Christians affiliated with the Church retain a more privileged position, as discussed below. Bahá’í claims making further confounds the repertoire of existing explanations since, unlike Copts, Bahá’í presence is not seen within Egyptian historiography as foundational to the republic.64 Theologically, Bahá’í belief in continuous revelation also directly challenges the finality of Islam, a central tenet of state identity in Egypt. The Faith’s historic ties to Iran and Israel (formerly Persia, u­ nder the Qajar dynasty, and Palestine, u­ nder the Ottoman Empire) mirror Egypt’s ongoing animosity with its geopo­liti­cal neighbors. The combination of ­these ­factors renders Bahá’í claims to recognition even more puzzling. But t­ here are similarities between Coptic and Bahá’í claims making that are significant to address. Copts and Bahá’ís who lodged claims against the Egyptian state, for example, did not seek to subvert its administrative order or aim, as did p­ olitical parties such as the Muslim Brotherhood in the ­Middle East or Christian D ­ emocrats in E ­ urope, to hijack legislative, electoral, and judicial pro­cesses.65 Rather, Bahá’í and Coptic claims making supports the nation-­state’s regulatory system by seeking to improve its functioning. I recruit a dif­fer­ent material archive to explore developments other than ­those that occurred during two periods that predominate in the extant lit­er­a­ture on modern and con­temporary Egypt. The two periods that ­organize existing scholarship are the mid-­nineteenth c­ entury to the early twentieth c­ entury, typically ending with the promulgation of the 1923 constitution, and the Islamic revival of the 1970s and 1980s and its implications for Islamic piety movements beginning in the 1990s.66 I foreground instead ­legal and ­political 63. Coptic complainants have recently mobilized to secure recognition of Coptic inheritance rights, which, unlike Islamic norms of inheritance, permit gender parity between inheritors. See Ishak Ibrahim, “Personal Status of Copts: Crisis Made by Church and State,” Tahrir Institute for M ­ iddle East Policy, February 12, 2020, https://­timep​.­org​/­commentary​/­analysis​/­personal​ -­status​-­of​-­copts​-­crisis​-­made​-­by​-­state​-­and​-­church​/­​.­See also the epilogue to this book. 64. For an overview of the symbolic use of Coptic history in Egyptian nationalist discourse and the historiography of Egypt, see Sedra, “Class Cleavages and Ethnic Conflict.” 65. On Islamist politics in Egypt, see Masoud, Counting Islam; on Christian ­populism in ­Europe, see Marzouki, McDonnell, and Roy, Saving the ­People. 66. Agrama, Questioning Secularism; Hamdi, Our Bodies Belong to God; Mahmood, Politics of Piety.

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developments that date from roughly 1925 to 1955, illuminating both continuities and discontinuities with prior ­decades and ­decades subsequent to ­these.67 The primary sources from which my analy­sis emerges include administrative judicial decisions and the evidence considered therein, such as a range of certificates that w ­ ere required to substantiate the petitioners’ claims. Th ­ ese documents w ­ ere produced by the Coptic Orthodox Patriarchate, the Al-­Azhar Fatwa Council (lajnat al-­fatwā bi-­majmaʿ al-­buḥūth), and two units within the Ministry of Interior: the Civil Status O ­ rganization (maṣlaḥat al-­aḥwāl al-­madaniyya) and the Sector Administration of Public Security, General Directorate of Forensic Evidence Investigation (qitāʿ maṣlaḥat al-­amn al-­ʿām, al-­idara al-­ʿāmma li-­taḥqīq al-­adila al-­jināʾiyya). All of t­ hese institutions have standing as administrative agencies in Egyptian law. Several other material sources ­were never admitted into evidence but nevertheless revealed to me just how plural the regulatory field is in Egypt. ­These sources include correspondence between the patriarchate and Coptic advocacy o­ rganizations, letters issued by the Bahá’í Universal ­House of Justice, and certificates of incorporation filed by Bahá’ís in Egypt and the United States. Other primary sources include the administrative plans for the Bahá’í World Crusade (1953–63) and the writings of Bahá’u’lláh (the prophet-­founder of the Bahá’í Faith), ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá (the eldest son of Bahá’u’lláh and the successor of the Bahá’í Faith following Bahá’u’lláh’s death), and Shoghi Effendi (the grand­son of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá and the successor of the Bahá’í Faith following ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá’s death).

Recognition Scholarly arguments about ­whether members of minority groups in modern nation-­states should aspire to recognition (as Charles Taylor maintains)68 or acknowl­edgment (a more modest goal endorsed, for example, by Patchen Markell)69 miss the point. While scholars read public and jurisprudential debates on recognition through the lens of freedom and equality, equality is not necessarily what is at stake in ­these disputes. When individuals and groups 67. In ­doing so, I agree with a view advanced by Omnia El Shakry: “rather than interpret Egypt’s 1952 revolution as marking a fundamental disjuncture with the previous sociopo­liti­cal order . . . ​Egyptian history from the 1930s to the 1960s is best viewed as part of a single historical bloc” (The ­Great Social Laboratory, 198). 68. Taylor, “The Politics of Recognition,” 50. 69. Markell, Bound by Recognition.

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entrust their states to work well or better, they assent to deep-­seated ­inequality. Markell frames his inquiry on recognition as a prob­lem for thought with the questions: “Who are you? Who am I? Who are we?”70 By contrast, the question that inspires this book—­“How ­will we know who we are?”—­offers a dif­fer­ent starting point. ­Here, the person asking the question is always and already a member of a group who seeks to maintain its coherence over time. This question implicates method (how), futurity (­will), collective (we), recognition (know), distinction (who), collective (we), and being (are). It is a question preoccupied with what Caroline Walker Bynum calls “spatiotemporal continuity,” how we know t­ oday we are who we ­were yesterday and ­whether we w ­ ill be who we are ­today tomorrow.71 The first and second we in the question “How w ­ ill we know who we are” is the group pre­sent, past, and f­ uture—­changed over time yet recognizable to itself. Group affiliation, Bynum reminds us, is “a perduring issue.”72 I suspect her choice of adjective is deliberate. To perdure is to last forever.73 This frame for understanding the stakes of recognition coheres with what I saw, read, and heard during my research. I found that migration between categories of religious difference is a practice overseen by Copts like Ayoub. They know well that communal maintenance requires distinguishing Coptic Orthodoxy from other normative o­ rders and their collectives, including other Christian denominations and their members. Some borrowing across traditions is also entailed in this work. But it would be a ­mistake to attribute this work to l­ awyers alone. They travel in cir­cuits, the attorneys and their clients, a microcosm of Egyptian society, each person and group distinguishing themselves from o­ thers. The ethics that underlie ­lawyers’ advocacy—­the decisions they make about which claims to advance, whom to represent, and how best to negotiate bureaucratic obstinacy—­illumine why some memberships overlap (Christian and Egyptian, Muslim and Egyptian, Bahá’í and Egyptian) while other memberships remain distinct and exclusive (Bahá’í, not Copt; Copt, not Muslim; Muslim, not Copt; Copt, not Bahá’í). Angie Heo has rightly observed that “the religious lives of Egyptian Christians and Muslims

70. Ibid., 1. 71. Bynum, “Why All the Fuss about the Body?” 10–11. 72. Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity, 163. 73. The verb perdure is derived from the classical Latin perdurare, which was incorporated into the ­Middle French perdurer before being borrowed into ­Middle ­English. Its meaning stabilized in the fifteenth c­ entury. See “perdure, v.,” OED Online, June 2020, https://­www​-­oed​-­com​ .­ezproxy​.­amherst​.­edu​/­view​/­Entry​/­140660​?­redirectedFrom​=p­ erdure.

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t­ oday are largely carried out in entirely separate and distinct spheres,” but I challenge her claim that t­ hese spheres are “by governmental design.”74 Instead, the protagonists of this book, many of whom identify proudly as Copts, are ordinary ­people who, while seeking to resolve seemingly mundane administrative issues, ensure that Christians and Muslims remain distinct groups by law. Seeking recognition in Egypt is not therefore a liberal aspiration. When Egyptian religious minorities seek and secure recognition, they assent to a Muslim majoritarian ­legal system in which they can hold only subsidiary civil status. They further assent to being bound by the rules of their community—­ whether arbitrated by the Coptic Orthodox Church or the administrative order of the Bahá’í Faith. My interlocutors’ desire for recognition might be understood as a desire to inscribe their injury into law, an act that forecloses arguably more radical demo­cratic alternatives. Wendy Brown has addressed the dangers of advancing p­ olitical aims through state regulatory institutions, which, she argues, points to con­temporary inhibitions ­toward radical demo­ cratic politics. What Brown calls an “unemancipatory” ­political proj­ect is not simply misguided in its complicity with the rationalizing and disciplinary ele­ments of late modern culture; it is not simply naive with regard to the regulatory apparatus within which it operates. Rather, it is symptomatic of a feature of politicized identity’s desire within liberal-­bureaucratic regimes, its foreclosure of its own freedom, its impulse to inscribe in the law and in other ­political registers its historical and pre­sent pain rather than conjure an i­ magined ­future of power to make itself.75 But must complicity with what Brown calls “the rationalizing and disciplinary ele­ments of late modern culture” foreclose politicized identity’s own freedom? We might think of this question as one about survival. Judith Butler suggests that “to desire the conditions of one’s subordination is . . . ​required to persist as oneself ” wherein “to embrace the very form of power—­regulation, prohibition, suppression—­that threatens one with dissolution” is to affirm not only the subject’s dependence on power but also “that that formation is impossible without ­dependency.”76 Yet fidelity to regulation and its impoverished, rights-­based imagination— an unemancipatory proj­ect though it may be—­opens up possibilities for the 74. Heo, The ­Political Lives of Saints, 21. 75. Brown, States of Injury, 66. 76. Butler, The Psychic Life of Power, 9.

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subject’s freedom other­wise foreclosed in the absence of recognition. My interlocutors did not understand themselves as belonging to a religious community or to the nation ­until and ­unless the state identified them as such. The recognition of the subject’s difference in relation to o­ thers, the inscription of injury through law, enables the f­ ree expression of her subjectivity. Freedom, in this sense, entails recognition of one’s ­inequality in relation to ­others. I caution against understanding demands for recognition as exemplifying Lauren Berlant’s “cruel optimism,” a relation whereby “something you desire is actually an obstacle to your flourishing.”77 So long as freedom is understood by scholars to encompass abstract ideals to the exclusion of practical liberties, the desire for attachment exhibited by groups such as the ones featured in this book ­will appear strange. To understand why the nation-­state’s authority to decide what is religion/religious remains desirable, we need to reconceptualize the tight association between freedom and equality, take seriously the inequalities that ­people pursue when they are f­ ree, and imagine what social relations t­ hese inequalities assure within a specific milieu. This book names the attachments pursued by seemingly marginal groups not “fantasy,” as they would on Berlant’s reading or “subordination,” following Butler, but devotion.

Devotion to the Administrative State Devotion is the term I use to name iterative, relational actions in the ­service of a cosmology that are concerned with continuity between the pre­sent, past, and ­future. My use of the term denominates a practice that extends beyond t­ hose typically attributed to the pious or the devout or centered on material objects and rituals specific to religious traditions.78 This framing thus departs from how devotion is discussed in religious studies scholarship and aims to move this conversation in new directions. A rich body of work has explored Catholic ­popular piety,79 Christian understandings of salvation that undergird American environmentalism,80 lit­er­a­ture as a site of possibility for the devout subject,81

77. Berlant, Cruel Optimism, 1. 78. On the difference between worship and devotion, and that between worshippers and devotees, see the helpful discussion in Robert, Unbridled, 72. 79. Th ­ ere are many excellent studies of Catholic devotion in the United States, among them Maldonado-­Estrada, Lifeblood of the Parish and Orsi, Thank You, St. Jude. 80. Berry, Devoted to Nature. 81. Furey, Hammerschlag, and Hollywood, Devotion.

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African-­inspired and Catholic-­inflected praise in the C ­ aribbean,82 and gift-­ giving and sacrifice in con­temporary India.83 By contrast, I describe the Copts and the Bahá’ís who feature in this book not as devout prac­ti­tion­ers but as devoted to the states that secure their communal bound­aries. This is an impor­ tant analytic distinction. I never inquired into or sought to assess the nature, depth, or sincerity of my interlocutors’ faith, belief, or commitment. That my interlocutors always claimed affinity with a religious group, however, was something I repeatedly observed. My decision to focus on specific communities was prompted by their claims making, not the particularity of their situation as religious minorities. The rituals and material objects I explore in this book all center a concern with the continuity of status—­how it is to be secured amid religious and ­legal plurality. It is not coincidental that “state” and “status” share an etymological root. Administrative states regulate the status and social position of their members— however inefficiently and with the assent of t­ hose members even when said states partake in other actions potentially harmful to their constituencies.84 To understand why Copts and Bahá’ís in Egypt are devoted to the Egyptian state despite the systemic marginalization they experience, this book directs attention to how status distinction m ­ atters within the local milieu. What other explanations come into view when coercion, false consciousness, ­political ambition, and material gain are not privileged in our theorizing? Although scholars have suggested that states constrain our ability to imagine collective life differently, this claim fails to countenance the desire for regulation. We have not paid sufficient attention to what the subjects of our theorizing have demonstrated all along: recognition of difference in relation to ­others is necessary for collective life. The goal of state capture notwithstanding, what marginalized communities are ­doing when they lodge claims for recognition is seeking to establish and secure their belonging. A more global historical rec­ord is replete with stories of refuge in positivist law and administration, even u­ nder conditions of h­ uman bondage. Herman 82. Ochoa, A Party for Lazarus. 83. Copeman, Veins of Devotion. 84. Henry Sumner Maine famously wrote in Ancient Law that “the movement of the progressive socie­ties has hitherto been a movement from Status to Contract.” Yet con­temporary ­legal scholars have challenged this assertion. Not only does status endure as a regulatory tool; its effectiveness as such lies in the fact that “status determination gives the status holders and third parties that interact with them clarity about their rights and obligations.” Matsumura, “Breaking Down Status,” 674.

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Bennett shows that Africans and their descendants in sixteenth-­century colonial Mexico, enslaved and ­free, “shared and reproduced the ­legal consciousness that circulated between patricians and plebeians.”85 Caught in the jurisdictional conflict between the Catholic Church and the Spanish Crown—­and their conflicting status u­ nder t­ hose l­egal regimes as at once chattel, vassals, and Christians—­“persons of African descent modified their life circumstances, yet rarely, if ever, threatened to undermine Spanish rule.”86 Enslaved persons in colonial Lima, as Michelle McKinley shows, ­were aware that manumission was always subject to negotiation and revocation; they embraced a “fractional freedom” whereby they “adapted and even aspired to the condition of contingent liberty.”87 Compared to favorable judicial decisions, pretrial motions like censuras, threats of excommunication and ecclesiastical condemnation, “­were an equally compelling means of summoning witnesses, functioning as a sort of spiritual subpoena . . . ​that compelled courts to rectify wrongs and that recalibrated the equilibrium between enslaved ­peoples and their ­owners.”88 In his magisterial history of the San Domingo revolution, C.L.R. James recounts how, in 1788, fourteen enslaved persons brought an action ­under the French law of slavery, the Code Noir, against Le Jeune, a coffee planter who tortured several ­others in a heinous extortion campaign.89 Rebecca Scott and Jean Hébrard, in their multigenerational microhistory of the Vincent/Tinchant f­ amily across North Amer­i­ca, the ­Caribbean, and ­Europe, further challenge assumptions that ­free persons of color would seek to distance themselves completely from slavery’s administrative and l­egal architecture. “Across multiple generations,” they write, “members of this ­family had taken the unavoidable stigmatizing labels négresse, ‘natu­ral child,’ or ‘man of color’ and brought into being paper that could surround ­these words with other signs of continuity and recognition.”90 Social and ­legal historians as well as anthropologists of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries provide complementary accounts. They track not only 85. Bennett, Africans in Colonial Mexico, 2. 86. Ibid., 3. 87. McKinley, Fractional Freedoms, 11–12. 88. Ibid., 6. 89. James, The Black Jacobins, 22–23. 90. They further write, “At the same time, as they pulled away from the stigmas and ­stereotypes attributed to African ancestry in general, [­free persons of color] drew on their specific ancestry, repeating an ­uncle’s or an aunt’s name from generation to generation, naming Haiti as a birthplace, and, in the case of Éduoard [Tinchant] at this moment of p­ olitical prominence, declaring himself to be a ‘son of Africa’ ” (Freedom Papers, 172).

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fidelity to positivist law and institutions among marginalized communities but also convergences between positivist and communal norms of group membership wrought by individual and collective claims making. Mi­tra Sharafi examines the l­egal culture of an ethnoreligious minority community in India that was unusually invested in colonial law. She finds that “Parsi lobbyists, legislators, ­lawyers, judges, jurists, and litigants de-­Anglicized the law that controlled them by sinking deep into the colonial l­ egal system itself. . . . ​[T]he Parsis worked from within and through the colonial state, rather than from outside or against it” to ensure their collective life.91 Max Weiss shows that Lebanese society became sectarian ­under the French Mandate through a dialectic p­ rocess: ordinary ­people, local communities, and village councils demanded communal rights and recognition while French colonial authorities privileged strategic and subnational modes of identification.92 Shiʿi Muslims proved their loyalty to the Lebanese state and effected their institutional integration within it.93 In her study of post-­Soviet Jewry in Moscow, Sascha Goluboff finds that even as the Soviet state compelled the administrative identification of Jews as an extraterritorial minority and internal e­ nemy, “being a ­Russian Jew, Mountain Jew, Georgian Jew, or Bukharan Jew is intimately linked to the Jewish strug­gle to be valuable members of ­Russian society.”94 Maurice Samuels likewise challenges scholarly assertions that French universalism requires Jews to relinquish completely their communal ties to join the majority culture.95 Religious and ­political practice, among and beyond marginalized communities, is more reliant on states and their laws than critics of secularism and scholars critical of state regulation have allowed. Members of the twentieth-­ century U.S. “religio-­racial movements” examined by Judith Weisenfeld “felt deeply invested in the power of group naming to produce collective shame or 91. Sharafi, Law and Identity in Colonial South Asia, 5–6. 92. Weiss, In the Shadow of Sectarianism. 93. Writing on the French Mandate in Syria, Benjamin Thomas White finds that even as vari­ous communities including Yazidis, ʿAlawis, Ismaiʿlis, and Shiʿis “sought a degree of cooperation with the High Commission [they] ­were by no means passive tools of the French. . . . ​ Within each community, dif­fer­ent groups and individuals sought to use legislative reform in this area in order to redefine that community to their own advantage” (The Emergence of Minorities in the ­Middle East, 181). On the question of modernity, state formation, and communal identity in the Levant, see also Makdisi, The Culture of Sectarianism and Watenpaugh, Being Modern in the ­Middle East. 94. Goluboff, Jewish ­Russians, 5. 95. Samuels, The Right to Difference.

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foster pride,” so much so that for them, “misnaming black p­ eople collectively as well as individually had the dire religious consequences of cutting off access to divine knowledge and thwarting possibilities for a productive collective ­future.”96 Even as members of ­these movements criticized the U.S. racist dystopia, they expanded the race-­based classification that undergirded it. They sought identification as “Moors” rather than “Negroes,” “olive” rather than “black” or “colored.”97 To be identified as raced—on draft registration and membership lists, national ID cards they created and carried on their person, and other rec­ords—is coterminous with Moorish American belonging.98 The U.S. context also makes plain that once a convergence of membership norms is forged, some groups, and not necessarily minoritized ones, may experience threat when that convergence is challenged. As Mary Anne Case shows, American Protestants’ historical opposition to same-­sex marriage can be explained by “their comparative dependence on the state for the definition of marriage, its formation, and above all its dissolution.”99 Unlike Catholics and Jews, who understand marriage as a religious covenant and maintain their own annulment and divorce procedures, Protestants have historically understood marriage as a civil contract. ——— When scholars claim that religion is too plural a domain of h­ uman activity, that ­legal positivism is too inadequate to equitably delimit religious belonging, they reveal a specific liberal aversion to only some enforced rules of association. Our livelihoods—­access to education, health care, employment, and wealth—­ have always depended on the regulation of social categories, enforced by the nation-­state and other collectives to which we aspire for membership. It is the task of the scholar to explain why certain individuals and groups in some contexts revere par­tic­u­lar categories of association and empower states to arbitrate their material and conceptual limits. Why do complainants in Egypt

96. Weisenfeld, A New World A-­Coming, 15–16. 97. Turner, Islam in the African-­American Experience, 92. 98. Spencer Dew has recently suggested that what unifies the Aliites, followers of the religions of Noble Drew Ali (the Moors among them), is “engagement with the state and the state’s ­legal system in order to achieve recognition and to transform society” (The Aliites, 13). 99. Case, “The Peculiar Stake U.S. Protestants Have in the Question of State Recognition of Same-­Sex Marriages,” 312.

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and Malaysia entrench systems that regulate religious difference but similar systems in Turkey have under­gone significant revision?100 Why is race a meaningful administrative category of belonging in ­England, Canada, and United States but not in France?101 And why does sex-­and gender-­based regulation, as administrative requirement and personal aspiration, persist globally—­even in jurisdictions that recognize same-­sex marriage?102 Individuals and groups that seek recognition of their difference are invariably aware of the ­legal constraints within their milieu. They also routinely seek acknowl­edgment of what makes them distinctive often within a framework of national belonging. They willingly forfeit p­ olitical, economic, and social rewards afforded to the majority group by ­doing so. And they assign immutability to their difference. Even as this difference may change over their lifetime, the centrality of belonging to a group is continuously renewed through iterative actions. Though such practices appear counterintuitive, a closer look at how status m ­ atters to social cohesion, within and across groups, evidences the stakes of recognition. The regulation to which the marginalized assent shares a resemblance with the regulatory work done within their communities. When they seek recognition from the nation-­state, they seek not to be equal but to form attachments—to be bound to and within cosmological ­orders. In what follows, the first part is a collection of vignettes that capture fleeting moments of encounter. Each subsequent part consists of substantive chapters inspired by ­these moments. They point ultimately to enduring normative ­orders within and across communities as well as the role of law and l­ egal institutions to communal integrity. I refuse the unbridled novelty often attributed to the regulatory work done by nation-­states, instead situating this work within broader arenas of social ­organization. As Bruno Latour notes, “the modern world, like revolutions, permits scarcely anything more than small extensions of practices, slight accelerations, in the circulation of knowledge, a tiny extension of socie­ties, 100. On the Malaysian case, see Neo, “Malay Nationalism, Islamic Supremacy and the Constitutional Bargain in the Multi-­Ethnic Composition of Malaysia” and Stilt, “Contextualizing Constitutional Islam.” On the case of Turkey, see Özgül, “Legally Armenian.” 101. On racial classification in ­Great Britain, Canada, and the United States, see Thompson, The Schematic State. On the history and politics of what is often referred to as “French colorblindness,” see Simon, “The Choice of Ignorance.” For a comparative analy­sis of two states that developed divergent policies on race and racism, see Bleich, Race Politics in Britain and France. 102. For a discussion of the diminishing l­egal interests in binary gender regulation and an argument for nonbinary inclusion in U.S. law, see Clarke, “They, Them, Theirs.”

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minuscule increases in the number of actors, small modifications of old beliefs.”103 Each chapter heeds this orientation. Some chapters are more historical, o­ thers intimate, and yet o­ thers engage contexts well beyond Egypt. I intend through this stylistic choice to unsettle certainties about an au­then­tic past, one that predominates in the vari­ous lit­er­a­tures named herein. “We do have a f­ uture and a past,” Latour writes, “but the f­ uture takes the form of a circle expanding in all directions, and the past is not surpassed but revisited, repeated, surrounded, protected, recombined, reinterpreted and reshuffled.”104

103. Latour, We Have Never Been Modern, 48. 104. Ibid., 75.

part i

Ephemera

​ Hosna’s Tattoo

hassan marched in first, and Hosna followed. Their footsteps snapped the chatty receptionists to attention. The b­ rother and s­ ister w ­ ere clients of Fadi Ibrahim, a prominent Cairo-­based attorney and one of my key interlocutors. Conversion disputes are his specialty. I had been waiting for them to show up. Magdi, a staff attorney, was already ­there. That stifling September morning, the four of us spilled out of the office, down the elevator, onto the street, and into Hassan’s electric blue Mini Cooper. The Civil Status ­Organization (CSO) is an enormous Interior Ministry complex in Abbaseyya, one of the busiest districts in Cairo. It is flanked on one side by the First Cir­cuit Court of Northern Cairo and the Ministry of Electricity and Renewable Energy on the other. Abbaseyya is also home to St. Mark’s Coptic Orthodox Cathedral, the seat of the Coptic Orthodox pope. It was around 8:30 when we queued at the CSO’s main gate. The morning dust and fog lingered in a quiet haze. The security line was not long. Police officers waved us through. We w ­ ere met by old, run-­down, identical-­looking buildings. Plainclothed men loitered in doorways and in the courtyard, waiting and arguing, cigarettes hanging from their lips. Magdi led us into one building. Taped to its door was a white 8½ by 11 sheet of paper labeled “­Legal Affairs” (al-­shuʾūn al-­qānūniyya). We climbed a flight of stairs and entered a cramped office space thick with p­ eople. Three or four clerks sat at small desks b­ ehind old Dell desktops along the periphery. Shoddy fans oscillated above them, judiciously spreading dust everywhere. The clerks saw only one person at a time. The few airport-­style benches scattered around ­were full. ­There, men and ­women sat with chests forward, arms bent, chins resting in their hands. ­Others leaned against the wall or huddled on the floor in pairs. Every­one held papers in clear or colored vinyl folders: some blue, 33

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o­ thers yellow or green or purple. Citizens and non-­citizens fidgeted with their phones to pass the time. A few w ­ omen dressed in elaborate niqabs fanned themselves with their Yemeni passports, so blue they w ­ ere black. Bodies and papers wilted in the heat. Incense smoke filled what l­ ittle space was between us. We stumbled through the seating area. In the director’s office, an office within the office ­toward the back, Qurʾanic recitation played endlessly from some unidentifiable source. The incense smoke was thicker ­here. Th ­ ere was no waiting area this far back. Magdi cleared past the young officer at the door and approached the director, who was seated ­behind a large wooden desk. We followed: Hassan, then Hosna, then me. “Sir, I’m ­here with Hassan and Hosna. We have the certificate.” A man in his fifties, the director sported a black moustache as neat as his white police uniform. His eyes barely lifted from his desk. He told Magdi what to do next. Hosna hooked her arm into mine as we turned to leave. “Wait ­here,” Magdi said, motioning us to the bench seats at the entrance. He took Hassan downstairs to make a photocopy. Hosna slid into an empty spot and fumbled for an elastic, then an inhaler. She pulled her bleached and ironed hair into a tight ponytail. From where I stood, her overgrown roots w ­ ere now more noticeable. So was the dainty Latin cross resting sideways on her collar­bone. Sweat beads had collected on her forehead; some fell along her ­temple and slid into her thin white shirt. The curls at her nape surrendered to the moisture first. The inhaler blurred red between her index fin­ger and thumb, like a magic trick. Hosna raised her chin and inhaled deeply. Once, twice. She slipped her iPhone between her cheek and shoulder. The pink rhinestone Chanel case glimmered just for a moment. This was the third time her ­mother had called. Hosna stared anxiously at the entrance as she spoke. Magdi and Hassan returned maybe an hour ­later. Hosna again took my arm, and we crossed the courtyard to another building, scaling more flights: one, two, three, four. The Issuance Center (markaz al-­iṣdār) is just beyond a set of glass doors, the CSO seal split down the center of its two panels. The Issuance Center is where identity cards are generated. ­There are no seats h­ ere. Magdi flipped through the papers he brought from the office, handed a small stack to Hosna and Hassan, and pointed to a narrow hallway cordoned off by mirrored doors. He and I waited in the mostly empty lobby. Cigarette butts littered the floor. Magdi tilted his head, cupped his hands over a light,

H o s n a’s T a t t o o   35

and looked at me through wire-­rimmed glasses, the dark circles beneath his eyes dull as fresh bruises. He was much youn­ger than he looked. “Why ­didn’t you go with them?” “Legally, I ­can’t.” “Why not?” “Once someone turns sixteen, they ­can’t be accompanied by anyone e­ lse back ­there, not even their ­lawyer.” Hassan was seventeen at the time, Hosna ­eighteen. The siblings ­were requesting a name change and a religion change. This was their sixth visit to the Ministry. They had a new paper this time: a certificate from the Coptic Orthodox Church. It had been issued to their f­ ather. The certificate attested to his return to the denomination, that the Church had accepted his return. He was a Copt, again. Or, he never ­really left. He was never ­really Muslim. The paper, and his story, could be read both ways. It was 2014. By then, reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy from Islam was permissible, in administrative law and practice as well as Church law and practice, so long as the convert was born to a Coptic f­ ather formerly affiliated with the Church. How the c­ hildren of reconverts fare in all this is less clear. Hassan and Hosna’s parents married in the Coptic Church, but the siblings ­were born ­after their ­father converted to Islam. The parents never divorced. Although the state permits marriage between a Muslim man and a non-­Muslim ­woman, this arrangement is unusual. Attorneys say that most Copts convert to sever the marital bond, to marry to cover up an illicit sexual relationship, or to secure an inheritance or other material gain. They also say that even when Copts convert to Islam or to another denomination, they almost always return. Hassan and Hosna are two of four c­ hildren born to the same parents. Their siblings w ­ ere born a­ fter their f­ ather reconverted. Same parents, now both Coptic again, with four ­children: two Christians and two Muslims, on paper. Primary and secondary education had made Hassan and Hosna aware that remaining Muslim on paper would have lasting consequences, affecting which university exams they could sit for, what jobs they could hold, whom they could marry, and so on. They had waited their ­w hole lives to renounce the privileged status that burdened them. This was their chance to tell the truth and have it accepted. Since the Coptic Church and the Interior Ministry returned their ­father to Coptic Orthodoxy, the Church and the Ministry should do the same for them, the siblings reasoned, although they ­were not returning, like their ­father, but beginning. They had the support of the Church. One last hurdle remained.

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­ ere the siblings w Th ­ ere, trying to convince the Interior Ministry to let them give up their Muslim status, to accept the reconversion certificate belonging to their ­father as evidence of their truth. We are Coptic like our ­father. Their Coptic ­mother’s religious affiliation had no bearing on their status. One’s affiliation with a religious group in public law is conferred through patrilineal descent. Hassan and Hosna could only live their truth so long as their f­ ather’s truth was recognized. A few minutes ­later, the siblings walked out. Hassan’s eyes scanned the floor, searched for something in the ashes. Nadia was not in the office that day. She was the only one who could make the changes, he was told. We shuffled back to Legal Affairs. “Come back tomorrow,” the director suggested—­bored, chin down. “Nadia should be h­ ere then.” It was 3 p.m. ——— I went back to the CSO with Hosna and Hassan the next morning, this time with Ayman, too, lead staff attorney from the Ibrahim law office. Magdi was held back. Hassan updated Ayman on the day before as we zipped to the CSO. We ­didn’t bother with an appointment. “The papers w ­ ill be taken care of!” (hay nafidhu al-­awrāq yaʿnī hay nafidhūhum!) Ayman promised. We retraced our steps. Ayman took up all the space he could along the way. He laughed at traffic cops, scolded kids who did a shoddy parking job, and ignored low-­level bureaucrats who told us to wait our turn. He was unapologetic, never timid. Ayman buttoned and unbuttoned his collared shirt obsessively to reveal or occlude the Latin cross fastened with a box chain around his neck in heavy silver. The first “s” of the word j-­e -­s -­u -­s wrapped around the cross’s descending arm and held the two arms firmly together. On the street, Ayman, broad-­shouldered and tall, moved his weight around confidently. He slicked his black hair back and ­behind his ears, and spoke in rapid spitfire. In the Issuance Center lobby, Ayman and Hassan mouthed their next moves through smoke. It was the siblings this time who hustled ­behind Ayman into the narrow hallway offset by mirrored doors. They ­were passed off from

H o s n a’s T a t t o o   37

one office to the next along the corridor. Each time, papers ­were taken out, ruffled through, examined. The ­women bureaucrats inside, all clerks, ­were dressed in colorful long blouses and skirts and headscarves. The men wore the white uniforms of civil status officers; lines stitched into their epaulettes indicated rank—­their only distinguishing marks. Ayman, Hosna, and Hassan came out eventually, defeat again marred Hassan’s face. “What happened?” “He told me no. He said it c­ ouldn’t be done b­ ecause we are Muslim by origin” (mawludīn fī khalfiyya muslima). They ­were born to a Muslim ­father, the director of the Issuance Center reminded him, not a ­father who happened to be Muslim when they w ­ ere born. A Muslim is a Muslim forever. But a Copt is a Copt forever, the Church had written. More hours passed walking across the courtyard and climbing and descending stairs between the ­office of Legal Affairs and the Issuance Center. Hosna’s inhaler blurred red. Late in the day, the director of the Issuance Center fi­nally agreed to the change of religion. But t­ here was more to do. More waiting. More paperwork. More clearance. Hassan and Hosna had to procure a criminal rec­ord report, another Interior Ministry–­issued form. The director of the Issuance Center needed assurance that the siblings ­were not evading punishment for crimes they may have committed as Muslims. They ­were also required to surrender their ID cards before the new ones could be issued. To get the criminal reports printed, we left the CSO compound and dashed on foot across heavy traffic on the main thoroughfare and queued outside another building. Ayman was hopeful we’d get in before the Directorate of Forensic Evidence closed. But at some point the guards locked the gate and shooed us all away. As we loaded into the car that after­noon, we ­didn’t talk about when the eighth trip to the CSO would happen. Instead, Ayman shared the day’s news with Fadi over the phone. Then he made another call. “Hello, Abuna, it’s done” (alo, abūnā, khilsit). From the back seat I could hear the priest’s relief vibrate within the speakers, though he ­wasn’t on speakerphone. “Hassan, Abuna wants to congratulate you” (abūnā ʿayiz yibāriklak). Hassan took the phone with his right hand and steered the car with his left.

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Hosna was flush with excitement. Her sudden chattiness took me by surprise. “As soon as the papers are done I’m ­going to get the cross,” she said, turning to me. Her left thumb pressed the inside of her right wrist. “You should come with me,” she offered, seeing that I did not have the tattoo. “Where ­will you get it done?” “One of my cousins has a shop and he does tattoos.”

​ Rauf ’s Strategy

­ fter the usual formalities, Dr. Rauf Hindi explained his ­legal strategy a as he lit cigarette ­after cigarette, his eyes darting across the well-­appointed yet dusty living room. He wore a sports jacket for the occasion—­a ­couple sizes too large, but it lent a seriousness to our conversation. The administrative suit he filed in 2002 against the Egyptian Interior Ministry initially challenged the Ministry’s refusal to issue his son and ­daughter, minors at the time, birth certificates with the word “Bahá’í” in the compulsory religion field. Dr. Rauf was trained as an oral surgeon at Cairo University but had lived and practiced medicine in the Gulf before he returned with his ­family to Egypt in 2001. The need for new birth certificates for the kids’ school registration occasioned his encounter with the Ministry. Dr. Rauf modified his initial claim. The issue before the administrative courts became w ­ hether Bahá’ís have a right to obtain vital rec­ords without identifying as Muslim, Christian, or Jewish—­the only legally recognized religious affiliations in Egypt. He recalled the final verdict that was handed down in 2009. “Over the course of the seven-­year litigation period, the Ministry tried many times to give me the birth certificates with a dash (-),” he said, tilting his head down and raising his eyes above the brim of his glasses, as he watched for my reaction. Not getting one, he continued. “But I refused for the sake of changing public opinion (taghyīr al-­mafahīm).” I took notes, and he enjoyed this, slowing his speech at exactly the right moments so that I ­wouldn’t miss a word. “Changing public opinion is what is so impor­tant about this decision,” he went on, proudly. “We succeeded in one ­thing specifically.” By we he meant other Bahá’ís in his position: Bahá’ís in Egypt who wanted to be identified as Bahá’í and had argued it was their right to be identified this way. “Transforming 39

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the issue from an identity issue to a civil rights and ­human rights issue,” he explained. “In the law it is called an ‘amended complaint’ (taghyīr al-­matālib). ­There was no other way to approach the l­egal question. It is no one’s right to choose my religion for me. It is the government’s obligation to assure (tuwaffar ḍamān) freedom of thinking and choice.” ——— It was early September 2013, just one month a­ fter President Mohamed Morsi was deposed by the Egyptian military and two weeks a­ fter the interim government killed over one thousand pro-­Morsi demonstrators. The newspapers ­were still reporting on the arson of more than forty churches in the governorates of Minya, Asyut, Fayum, Giza, Suez, Sohag, Beni Suef, and North Sinai that occurred following the massacres. Egyptians quarreled in the streets about recent appointments to the Committee of 50 (lajnat al-­khamsīn), a body charged with amending the 2012 constitution. Dr. Rauf had invited me to attend a seminar, an invitation I accepted knowing ­little about the program. I found out l­ater that the seminar was titled “The ­Political Rights of Minorities in Egypt” (al-­ḥuqūq al-sīyāsiyya li-­l-­aqaliyāt fī miṣr) and sponsored by a well-­known rights ­organization called the Egyptian Center for Public Policy Studies (al-­markaz al-­miṣriyy li-­l-­dirāsāt al-sīyāsāt al-­ʿāmma). We met in downtown Cairo at midday and walked through a maze of side streets to avoid thicker crowds on the main road. Dr. Rauf had dyed his hair for the occasion. Remnants of the black pigment stained his ­temples. “How should I introduce you?” he shouted back. I hustled to catch up to him as he weaved in and out of the crowds. Strange. ­We’ve known each other over a year now. “Say that I’m a researcher,” I shouted ahead, not thinking much of it. Soon we arrived at the center’s headquarters, one of the colonial-­era buildings common in that area. A steady flow of civil society activists greeted him as we entered the building. He knew most of them. He asked about their families. One w ­ oman, Zeinab Taha, tall and with an infectious laugh, smiled widely at Dr. Rauf as they exchanged some banter. She soon fixed her attention on me, her smile now gone, prompting Dr. Rauf ’s introduction. Zeinab was not satisfied. “So is she . . . ​is she also Bahá’í?” Dr. Rauf searched my eyes for words. “Well yes, she is!” No. You know this.

R a u f ’s S t r a t e g y   41

It was too late. We ­were told to take our seats. ­There ­were about fifty p­ eople in the audience, mostly activists and journalists who ­were recording the event. At the head of the room was a seated panel of five ­people. The managing director of the center was seated ­there. He opened the symposium and introduced the four featured speakers, representatives from the World Amazigh ­Organization, the Egyptian Alliance for Minorities, the Jewish community in Egypt, and the F ­ ree Egyptians p­ olitical party. When Dr. Rauf ’s presence became known to the event ­organizers, he was introduced as a Bahá’í activist and also invited to offer comments. I realized then what Dr. Rauf was asking about. Every­one h­ ere had a religion, including the atheists. Over two hours the panelists took turns speaking on the symposium’s topic. Magda Haroun held the microphone with some surety. “In the w ­ hole republic, we number twenty p­ eople. . . . ​We are the minority of the minorities. . . . ​We are twenty ­people of ninety million. . . . ​But I’m not ­going to speak about my minority. I’m ­going to talk about all the minorities. Our wealth is our difference (tharwitnā ikhtilafnā).” She went on to talk about law, to suggest that law’s role was to mediate between religion and national belonging. “I wish,” she said, looking seriously at the audience, “that in the first article of the constitution it would be written ‘Religion is for God and the homeland is for all’ (al-­dīn li-llāh wa-­l-­watan li-­l-­gamīʿ) ­because we have Christians, Muslims, Jews.” Religion is for God and the homeland is for all was pop­u­lar­ized by Saʿd Zaghloul, the leader of the Wafd, a nationalist ­independence movement active during the 1919 Revolution. At that time, the slogan brought Egyptian Muslims and Christians together to fight against the British occupation, leading to Egypt’s nominal ­independence from colonial rule. ­Today it captures an idea of national unity that many nationalists harness. When used in everyday parlance, the saying offers a clue about someone’s generational location. “We have Bahá’ís,” Magda continued. “We have Shiʿa. A law need not o­ rganize my relationship with God. My relationship with God is between God and me. But my relationship with the nation is what the laws need to ­organize. . . . ​In terms of repre­sen­ta­tion, I d­ on’t aspire for repre­sen­ta­tion b­ ecause in Cairo we are just fourteen ­people and I’m arguably the youn­gest of them.” We are Egyptian Jews. . . . ​But we need to preserve our differences, and we need to re­spect and nurture them.” Magda abandons hope for Jewish repre­sen­ta­tion. If she had any hope for social harmony, it rested in the constitution, in a constitutional acknowl­ edgment of difference.

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It was Dr. Rauf’s turn. He told a story I’d hear many times—at similar forums and on national TV—or read about in national and international op-­eds. “I am Dr. Rauf Hindi, the complainant of the case concerning Egyptian Bahá’ís that occurred about eight or nine years ago. At the time, it was the first case filed by a minority concerning the procurement of birth certificates for my c­ hildren. This case stayed in the administrative judiciary for about seven years. It escalated in the media, it escalated in the law, and it escalated globally. But in all honesty, it had an effect on every­one in the society. In the end we pursued a judicial decision, an imperfect one, yet it was a step expressive of ­human rights in general. The truth is that we as Egyptian Bahá’ís suffer strongly from the procurement of our official documents, we suffer from incitement, we suffer from many, many ­things.” He had chosen his words carefully. The pauses, inserted at just the right moments, caused suspense and intrigue. He made eye contact with journalists in the audience. He delivered an exuberant testimony. Dr. Rauf segued to another familiar motif: social contract theory and the individual this theory presumes. “The constitution is a social contract, not a religious contract,” he explained. “It is not the duty of the state to choose beliefs or religions for its citizens. The state’s primary duty is to protect e­ very citizen, ­whatever his beliefs or thinking. That’s it. Not selecting religion. This is a very impor­tant point. Even if t­ here ­were one Buddhist in Egypt, one Buddhist, he must see himself in the constitution. . . . ​How? In all the constitutions of modern and quasi-­modern states, ­there are ­eighteen or nineteen articles that concern the freedoms that do not change in subsequent constitutions. . . . ​ If t­ hese articles are pre­sent, we ­will have no need for ­these dialogues.” ——— Two weeks ­after the Egyptian military deposed President Mohamed Morsi in July 2013, I met with Dr. Rauf who, like millions of other Egyptians, rejoiced in the downfall of the Muslim Brotherhood. Joy was not what I felt at the time. Shock was the better word. Anger, too. “It’s time to look to the past to figure out what’s needed for the ­future.” “And what is that?” I wondered, genuinely unsure. “A new constitution, one that is sophisticated (rāqī).” Soon a­ fter the military takeover, the president of the Supreme Constitutional Court and interim president, Adly Mansour, issued a constitutional declaration to replace the 2012 constitution promulgated ­under Morsi.

R a u f ’s S t r a t e g y   43

“­Couldn’t the 2012 constitution be amended instead of done away with?” Dr. Rauf looked at me with the confidence I had come to expect. “How do you amend a failed constitution, a dead constitution? Just like a doctor cannot revive a dead body, we cannot revive a dead constitution. Th ­ ere must be a new one. The protestors on 30 June chanted ‘The p­ eople demand the fall of the regime’ (al-­shaʿb yurīd isqāt al-­niẓām), meaning Morsi’s government and his constitution. The best ­thing is to separate religion and politics.” “How? How do you separate religion from politics?” ­There was no hesitation ­here. I’d walked right into the colloquy he had prepared. “By keeping religion in the home and places of worship, and not allowing the ­political parties based on religion. The Muslim Brotherhood failed to hold power ­because its authority intermixed religion, which ­doesn’t change (al-­dīn thābit), and politics, which changes constantly (al-sīyāsa tataghayyar).” He could tell I was captivated. He went on. “I am happy that the B ­ rothers took power b­ ecause they failed. Their slogan was ‘Islam is the solution’ (al-islām huwa al-ḥal) but in the end 30 June proved that”—­and ­here he invoked a well-­known Egyptian idiom—­“­every vocation has its specialists and religion has its place (kul farʿ li-rigālhu wa-l-dīn li-makānhu). We would watch ­television and listen to ­people ask shaykhs to give medical advice when they have no medical training whatsoever!” Dr. Rauf, himself a licensed medical practitioner, scoffed at the absurdity. “What business does a shaykh have giving medical advice?” He lit another cigarette. “You know, the West did not arrive at its position of advancement ­until it achieved one t­ hing.” “What is that?” I wondered out loud. “The separation of church and state.” ­Later during the same conversation, though, Dr. Rauf expressed his preference for reinstating the 1971 constitution. “But it maintains the supremacy of shariʿa in Article 2,” I pointed out, confused at his suggestion. “How would that improve the situation of religious minorities?” He did not hesitate. “You see, Mona, changes cannot happen all of a sudden (yigu sadma). They ­will take time. If you look at the interim government, you see that it is mostly composed of secular liberals. This is a good ­thing.” Parliament had been dominated by the Brotherhood ­under Morsi.

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“Getting rid of religion in the constitution ­will cause too ­great of a shock. And besides, I won my case according to shariʿa.” In his suit, Dr. Rauf petitioned the state not to compel him to affiliate with a religion that he does not identify with. Finding in his f­ avor, the Court of Administrative Justice ruled in 2008 that requiring citizens to affiliate with one of the Abrahamic traditions is contrary to public order and shariʿa. Since the Bahá’í Faith is not a religion but an ideology, the CAJ also ruled, the state is obligated to account for the existence of Bahá’ís in order to protect Muslims, Christians, and Jews from the ideology’s influence. Yet the innovation that was created as a result of Dr. Rauf ’s suit—­the dash (-) for Bahá’ís previously marked “Bahá’í” on their handwritten vital rec­ords— is only administered on a case-­by-­case basis. Dr. Rauf ’s ­father was born to a Coptic f­ ather and converted unofficially, without state recognition, to the Bahá’í Faith as an adult. And so Dr. Rauf ’s ­father remained Christian on his vital rec­ords; when Dr. Rauf was born, he was also marked Christian though he was raised Bahá’í. Dr. Rauf explained the Interior Ministry’s practice since 2010, just a­ fter he won his suit. “When a Bahá’í goes to apply for official documents he does so separately from other citizens. He ­doesn’t stand in the same line as the o­ thers. He goes up to a dif­fer­ent floor and a dif­fer­ent office, and must prove he is Bahá’í.” “But ­there’s no recognized administrative body that certifies membership in the Bahá’í community. How does one go about proving that one is Bahá’í?” “By showing that your relatives w ­ ere Bahá’í on their official documents. But of course, when I went to apply for my ID card I ­didn’t have this proof. I presented tapes of my ­television appearances instead.”

​ Maher’s Testimony

“the bahá’ís got their rights (khādhu huqūqhum). They changed their ID cards. But as converts to Chris­tian­ity (mutanaṣerūn) we have very difficult circumstances. For us it is not allowed.” “What’s not allowed?” “It’s not allowed for you to change your religion (ʿaqidtak) from Islam to Chris­tian­ity. That is a death sentence.” A strikingly tall, talkative man in his early sixties, Maher al-­Gohary ­nervously wiped the rim of his soda can before popping the lid. We sat in a crowded café in Nasr City, Maher’s choice of venue, though he was wary of onlookers. Maher is one of two Muslim-­born Egyptians who raised administrative suits seeking recognition of his conversion to Coptic Orthodoxy. The administrative judiciary, Majlis al-­Dawla, rejected the first suit and denied his, the second of the two. Both cases roused deep national controversy. It was bold to raise a suit in the first place, but even more so to raise one ­after a similar petition had already been struck down. The court in the first case was clear: the idea of an Egyptian born to a Muslim ­father leaving Islam is unthinkable. “Why did you file this suit given what happened to Muhammad Hegazy?” ­Here I meant not only the judicial reasoning, that Hegazy’s case was thrown out, but also the social consequences of his bringing the suit. Hegazy’s ­father had outed him, in a sense, to the media, and he was l­ ater brought u­ nder charges of inciting religious discord. Hegazy lost any semblance of a normal life when he announced his heresy by filing suit. “I ­don’t know much about what happened to Muhammad Hegazy. What I have lived is what dictated my path. I would have never ­imagined that I would, for example, raise a case. I lived twenty-­eight years of my life away from the 45

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limelight thinking I was protecting my f­ amily. But I found that my d­ aughter suffered and my siblings suffered and their ­children suffered.” Maher was alluding to the social marginalization that his ­daughter experienced at school and in her neighborhood when it became known that she, like her ­father, embraced Chris­tian­ity, and the scrutiny experienced by ­others of his ­family members on account of his decision. “ ‘That’s it,” he remembers telling himself, “ ‘I  will take what is actually owed to me from the state (akhudh ḥaqī bgad min al-­balad).’ That’s what got me to raise the suit. Not Muhammad Hegazy.” Still, it seemed to me like the chances of a ­legal victory had been obviously slim. And he had admitted that apostasy from Islam for a born Muslim was a death sentence. He meant this ­metaphorically, for the most part. Apostasy is not criminalized in Egypt but only Egyptians born to Coptic ­fathers can convert to Islam through official channels. As an Egyptian born to a Muslim ­father who was never affiliated with the Coptic Church, Maher’s decision to convert to Chris­tian­ity even as ­there is no ­legal route to d­ oing so and to seek recognition of the conversion all but assured his social death. The administrative suit he raised amounted to a public forfeiture of his Muslim status and all the privileges that came with it. This includes more favorable rights for marriage, employment, inheritance, and state allowances that are guaranteed to him as a Muslim man than to Egyptians of any other religious affiliation or gender. I wanted to know more about his motivation, why it was impor­tant for him to be recognized by the republic as a convert. His petition included a request not only to change religions but also to change his name. He wished to be a Copt in name and status. “What did you think would happen by raising this case?” “I was expecting to get a decision, not just a decision but a pre­ce­dent (sābiqa qaḍāʾiyya) for all mutanaṣerūn so that if any of them was in need one day they could say, ‘­Here, this guy got it, give it to me.’ That’s what I was trying to do. I ­wasn’t acting just for myself. And not just for the fate of a sliver (shariḥa) of the ­people of Egypt. ­People from all over the Arab world contacted me. ­People from Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Tunisia, and ­every corner of the world. They ­were following the case ­because they wanted a judicial pre­ce­dent for themselves.” This suit was about Maher’s truth. The republic’s administrative apparatus had compelled it by requiring that citizens tell the truth about who they are. But this apparatus, when he went about updating his vital rec­ords, rejected the truth that Maher told. He sought out an administrative judgment to compel the republic to accept his truth.

M a h e r’s T e s t i m o n y   47

Maher recalled his first appearance in court. “The court officer called out ‘Maher Ahmed al-­Muʿtassimbillah Gohary who has raised a suit against [Interior Minister] Habib al-­Adly.’ Every­one hates Habib al-­Adly so as I passed they wished me luck. But then when I went inside and ­people found out that I raised a case to change the information on the identity card from Muslim to Christian, the ­whole world changed. I found that all the attorneys who had cases on the docket registered their identity cards in solidarity with Habib al-­Adly to oppose me.” They requested permissive intervention on behalf of the defendants. Maher drummed up the scene in my head. I had seen news reports of the crowds gathered outside the judiciary, but now I i­magined t­ hose inside—­ stirred to action. Some inspired by Maher’s suit, ­others utterly baffled by it. “I found myself in a difficult situation. . . . ​The judge requested from me, from them you know” referring to his attorneys, “to bring a scientific certificate (shahāda maʿmaliyya). This of course put us in an impossible situation (ʿuʾda fī al-munshār). Who ­here would give me a certificate of baptism so that I can pre­sent it to [the judge]?” “When I went to get a baptism certificate from the Archbishop of Cyprus—at this time I was in Cyprus for a ­whole year—­I had left Egypt. [It was] an accredited certificate (shahāda muʿtamida). We got it and translated it and presented it to [the judge]. The [state’s] attorneys saw it and said ‘No, no! We want a certificate from Egypt!’ And I asked, ‘Why do you want a certificate from Egypt? H ­ ere’s a certificate. And ­here I am in front of you in person and I’m telling you I’m Christian. What certificate do you want?’ ‘I want to be sure (aḍman) of the other party’s a­ cceptance of you (qubūl al-­ṭaraf al-­akhar lak).’ ” ——— “I came to know Jesus (sayyidnā al-­masīḥ) when I was a student in the police acad­emy. It was my first year. Students came ­running at me, chastising me. ‘The only Christian student in the college is your roommate (gambak fī al-sirīr) and next to you in study hall (ḥiṣat al-­muzakra)!’ But the days passed and we became friends. We spent more time together than with our families. We became very good friends and I started defending him whenever someone got on his case. One day a­ fter curfew, when y­ ou’re supposed to be in your room and not talk to anyone, I saw him standing next to the bed. I figured he was praying. I ­didn’t talk to him.

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­ ere was a sergeant (shāwīsh) who has to memorize the 160 beds in the Th hall. He passed by. ‘Why are you standing like that?’ My friend ­didn’t answer. ‘Why are you standing like that?!’ screamed the sergeant in his face and swearing at him the way the police do (al-­shitīma al-­ʿaskariyya). I got out from ­under the covers. ‘Sergeant, he’s praying.’ ‘Mind your business!’ (winta mālak!) I went back ­under the blanket. L ­ ater another sergeant came around. ‘Why is this boy standing like that, sergeant?’ ‘Gohary said that he’s praying.’ ‘He’s praying? Standing like a ­horse? ­We’ll show him how to pray.’ They started teasing him. I got up from u­ nder the blanket. I looked at my friend and I saw that he was crying. This caused me ­great pain. I told myself, ‘Why are you telling him this? He’s praying, ­whatever he’s praying to, a rock, a moment of solitary peace, well he’s praying.’ ‘Give me your book, the Bible, so I can read it.’ ‘No, your ­father is an assistant!’ At the time my f­ ather was Liwa Ahmed al-­Muʿtassim, deputy police director (mudīr naʾib shurṭa) and became assistant to the minister (musaʿid wazīr). ‘Your f­ ather is the assistant to the Interior Minister. I’ll get into a lot of trou­ble.’ I ­didn’t know why he’d get into trou­ble. ‘I have a very extensive library,’ I told him. And in fact, I do. I have books on Islam and books on Marxism, on Jean-­Paul Sartre, on Judaism. I read a lot in Western culture (thaqāfat gharbiyya). ‘This is the easiest t­ hing to read ­because it’s one of God’s books. No one is ­going to see a book on religion and ask me what I’m reading.’ I convinced him and he brought me the book and I went home and opened it. I mean I took a shower and did ablutions first and put on my robe. I noticed that my f­ ather opened the door and entered. The book was a bit yellowed, like a book on magic (kitāb siḥr). ‘What is that ­you’re reading?’ ‘I’m reading the Bible (al-­kitāb al-­muqdas).’ ‘What?! Have you gone mad?’ ‘Why would I have gone mad?’ ‘­Don’t you know that book has a ­devil that ­will entice you (yigthibak)?’

M a h e r’s T e s t i m o n y   49

And then I found my older ­brother ­there and it turned into a ­little protest. My ­father asked, ‘Is this from a friend of yours at the college?’ The boy’s fears came true. ‘No, no this is someone with us in the sports club (nādī). A student with us in the police acad­emy club.’ This protest made me more determined (zadidnī iṣrār) to know what about this book terrifies them. I locked myself in my room a­ fter they went to sleep and I immersed myself in the book. I delved into it ­until I reached a section called the Lord’s Prayer (al-ṣalāt al-rabbiyya). It’s very impor­tant. I kept reading about it. And then I closed the book and put it on the nightstand. I turned off the light and went to sleep. I woke up around four in the morning to the sounds of pleasant church bells in my ears. I had never been to a church or seen a church or heard church bells except in foreign films. I figured the bells had to do with the book that I was reading. I opened up the book and I kept reading and found sayyidnā al-­masiḥ in front of me. I saw a light. A light. I saw the outline of hair and eyebrows, but as light. He was smiling. I saw this scene and I had a feeling that day I still ­can’t explain. A feeling of peace. What proved to me that I saw this light is my f­ ather knocking on the door. ‘What is that light?’ I told him it was nothing, that I was looking for something and that I would sleep. I want to tell you that paradise (al-­firdūs) is not streets filled with gold. Paradise is seeing sayyidnā al-­masīḥ. I felt at the time that I was in paradise, in peace, with love. At the time I was engaged to a very beautiful girl and my car was in the garage and in a college that many boys my age dreamed of. And I had a ­father who is the assistant to the Interior Minister. That was a secure f­ uture. All of that I totally forgot. I wanted to go with sayyidnā al-­masīḥ. I know that means death. Believe me. I returned to the acad­emy. The only person I could talk to about what happened to me was my Christian friend. I ­couldn’t talk to my siblings or my ­father or anyone. I kept looking for him at the acad­emy and ­people would tell me, ‘Your face is a strange color.’ This was proof to me that I had seen sayyidnā al-­masīḥ.

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Even the officers noticed. One of them said, ‘Your face is a strange color.’ He ­didn’t want to say that ­there was light. My friend, he was standing about three meters away. I dropped my bag. He looked at me, I looked at him. ‘You saw him ya Gohary! You saw him, right?’ ‘How did you know?’ ‘The grace (niʿma) shows on your face.’ We hugged each other and sat and cried. One day I found myself daydreaming, looking at a cross I had. A sergeant passed and saw the cross. ‘What’s your name? Get up! What’s your name?’ I got up. ‘Maher.’ ‘What’s your full name?’ I knew he would create a prob­lem. ‘Maher Ahmed al-­Muʿtassimbillah Gohary.’ ‘So ­you’re not a Shenouda!’ He took me to an office. He picked up the phone and called my f­ ather. He was ­doing him a ­favor, warning him before news reached the Interior Minister.” ——— “My case received acclaim throughout the world ­because I never cursed Islam,” Maher recalled, now looking blankly at the bottom of his empty soda can. “I never could have left Islam easily. All that I demand is my right in this life (ḥaqī fī-­l-­ḥayā). That’s all. I d­ on’t want more than this. Whenever a journalist comes to interview me I tell him not to ask why I left Islam but why I stay a Christian. That’s all. I never left Islam easily. I ­wasn’t happy to change my faith. But what happened was out of my hands. I d­ idn’t predict that I would see sayyidnā al-­ masiḥ. But something happened in front of me that I d­ idn’t expect. I gave up (tanāzalt) many t­ hings ­because I saw God. If I h­ adn’t seen him I could have never changed from Islam to Chris­tian­ity. I would have never i­magined that God would leave his place in the sky and come down and be beaten and crucified. I would have never accepted this. But this is what I saw.”

​ Fadi’s Wish

the law office was empty this early in the day, except for two young ­women, receptionists I ­hadn’t seen before. “Are you a new client?” “No,” I said, shaking my head, “but I have an appointment with Fadi Ibrahim.” They pointed across the reception desk. “Take a seat. Fadi’s on an errand.” It was ­midafternoon now. An hour had passed. I was still seated, holding a second cup of hot tea between my right thumb and index fin­ger. Droplets fell into a small, stainless steel saucer that I held in my left hand. It was too hot for tea. I scanned the office walls to refresh my memory of the place. Many familiar Orthodox icons hung above the entrance and above a side ­table next to the faux leather couch near me. A Coptic priest had been h­ ere the year before. Sitting right ­here. His long black robe folded into itself as he leaned over to whisper to the ­father and son who sat next to him. I wondered then what brought them to the office. I had a better idea now. ­There ­were several framed photo­graphs in the reception area, too. The largest one was of Ayman Ibrahim, Fadi’s son and his lead staff attorney, with the late Pope Shenouda. Ayman’s smile beamed. The pope did not smile. Framed newspaper articles covered the rest of the wall space at eye level. ­These celebrated the office’s l­egal victories. It seemed e­ very major Egyptian newspaper was represented. Many more stories had been added to the walls ­these last few months. Fadi, wearing his familiar navy pinstripe suit, brought the smell of sun and dust into the office and apologized to me, in passing. His words trailed off as he walked briskly ­toward his private office. I was escorted ­there a few minutes ­later, glad for the change of scenery. 51

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He sat ­behind his imposing wooden desk. I settled into the familiar seating arrangement set up for clients. Though mostly muffled, the street noises from the thoroughfare below and Cairo’s main railway station nearby reverberated across the large space. I noticed the wall of casebooks and ­legal treatises enclosed in floor-­to-­ ceiling glass cabinets had not been dusted for some time. I c­ ouldn’t picture him opening them. Every­thing Fadi knew he seemed to know by heart. I looked ahead at ­those cabinets anyway as we talked. A crucifix ­etched into their facade reminded me why I was ­there. This was one of the last times Fadi and I would meet. On many occasions before, he’d agreed to clarify what troubled my understanding of the conversion cases he litigated. At first, my confusions ­were about fine points of law, about administrative oversight and judicial review. Th ­ ese w ­ ere banal issues for him and they d­ idn’t take much time to address. But I gave him an audience and he was glad to impart his knowledge. As I put the pieces together of what I had seen and heard over several years, I still ­hadn’t figured out why he and ­others, attorneys and complainants, advocate fervently for civil administration based in religious difference. Why was it so impor­tant for them that the republic regulate communal bound­aries alongside the Coptic Church? Why did they support a definition of Coptic belonging rooted in patrilineal descent? Why did it m ­ atter to them that the Church and the republic recognize them as religious persons? Fadi fumbled with his tablet, read the day’s mail, smoked a waterpipe, and preferred to talk about life in the United States, where his grandchildren lived. But, hearing a silence that signaled it was his turn to reply, he fi­nally looked up at me. It seemed he was writing a speech in his head, or maybe drawing up words from a ready archive. “I hope that freedom of belief (ḥurriyyat al-­ʿaqīda) ­w ill be encouraged ­because the ­human, if he searches in the book (al-­kitāb) and realizes through thinking, he ­w ill arrive at the truth (al-­ḥaqīqa). And that freedom of belief becomes permissible in Egypt ­because ­there is no straight relationship between the person and God. The relationship between the person and God is conflictual (taʿṣubiyya) and conceding (tanāzuliyya).” His voice boomed. He varied his intonation. He emphasized concepts he wanted me to rec­ord like a ­great orator delivering a momentous speech. Fadi offered prose in standard Arabic as if giving an oral argument. I felt we ­were suddenly in court.

Fa di ’s W i s h   53

“A person ­today can err in God’s truth ­because he commits perjury, or he swears, or he lies. All of t­ hese ­things are errors that disconnect him from God. It’s pos­si­ble that he denies all of this and God embraces his denial so that he returns and believes. So it is not a fixed relationship (ʿilāqa laysat thābita). But the person should nurture it for his own good, between him and God, so that if he falls, he gets up. And if he errs, he corrects his errors. And if he deviates (inḥarafa), he adjusts (yuʿadil). But in a state that restricts (tuqayyid) freedom of belief, if he deviates, the state’s constraints (quyūd al-­dawla) prevent him from returning to the truth. I wish ­there could be freedom of belief. On the basis of it, the person ­will know the truth.” In this view, regulation does not inhibit freedom. To be f­ ree, religiously, is to be contained within a group. Only when administration aligns with a believer’s relationship to the truth can a Copt who errs by converting to Islam eventually return to Coptic Orthodoxy and resume her conflictual and conceding relationship with God.

part ii

Inscriptions

1 Sealed in the Skin and on Paper l o c at i ng t h e s e l f Now many Copts still point with pride to the crosses tattooed on the insides of their right wrists. Similarly, their names still often carry a testimony to their apostolic faith. This means that to this day, tattoo and name are the two distinguishing marks of the Coptic minority in the Nile Valley, w ­ hether they happen to be Orthodox, Catholic, or Evangelical Copts.1

in egypt ­today, many agents and o­ rganizations determine who belongs to a group. Boundary objects feature prominently in t­ hese deliberations and are sometimes dispositive of their outcome. Consider this letter, written by a Coptic Orthodox clergyman to one of my interlocutors, a civil society activist, wishing to help one of his parishioners (figure 1.1). The main person in question is ­Abanub, who was born to a Muslim ­father who had been born a Copt. The writer explains that Abanub’s f­ ather eventually sought reconversion through the Council for Apostolic Guidance (majlis al-­irshād al-­rasūliyy), a regulatory body within the Coptic Church. The ­father had satisfied the procedures for reestablishing membership in the denomination. ­After providing the Egyptian Interior Ministry evidence of this reac­cep­tance, he was permitted to change his civil status from Muslim to Christian. He became a Christian again, legally, in two senses: denominational membership and membership in a ­political community comprised of Egyptian citizens. This was pos­si­ble for Abanub’s ­father ­because his ­father, Abanub’s paternal grand­father, retained a Christian l­ egal status.

1. Meinardus, Two Thousand Years of Coptic Chris­tian­ity, 265. 57

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But Abanub, the son, is stuck in an administrative web. Although he was baptized and, like his ­father, observes the sacraments of penance, confession, and communion, Abanub, unlike his f­ ather, has no material objects that evidence his status as a Christian that would allow Abanub to partake in the other sacraments.2 The Church lacks procedures to generate such objects. Whereas the Church is empowered to return to Coptic Orthodoxy ­those born to Coptic ­fathers, it has no similar authority—­whether in canon law or the law of the republic—­over Egyptians born to Muslim ­fathers, men who hold Muslim civil status at the time of their ­children’s birth or who convert to Islam when their ­children are minors.3 In the latter scenario, the civil status of minor c­ hildren is automatically changed to Muslim on state probative documents when the f­ ather registers his embrace of Islam. Thus Abanub’s predicament: he is a Copt, almost. By foregrounding a discussion of Coptic seals, material and conceptual, this chapter explores how Coptic claims for recognition in Egypt ­today cohere with orthodox cosmologies that vest belonging within Coptic Orthodoxy through patrilineal descent; it further explains Copts’ seemingly counterintuitive pursuit of recognition that ultimately binds them to the regulatory logics of the Coptic Church and the Egyptian republic, both of which locate membership in the male line. Con­temporary claims for recognition in Egypt, when situated within a broader history of identification, show that what Caroline Walker Bynum calls “spatiotemporal continuity,” not “identity position,” is at stake in ­these claims.4 The impor­tant story is one of interlinked normative ­orders. Multiple regulatory regimes shape possibilities for status continuity over time; t­ hese possibilities converge ultimately in shared understandings that membership within a community of faith and within a p­ olitical community is passed from ­father to child. Understood as a boundary object, the letter captures this plurality precisely. Even as it narrates how Abanub’s status in the Church depends on state recognition, the subtext for this advocacy is conveyed through orthodox signs. Appearing in text and image is a hierarchical origin story or cosmology. The Coptic Orthodox four-­armed cross sits atop the hierarchy in the upper right-­hand corner, followed by the mention of the patriarchate of the Coptic Orthodox 2. The seven sacraments of the Coptic Orthodox tradition are anointing of the sick, baptism, chrismation, the Eucharist, marriage, penance, and the priesthood. 3. For an analy­sis of the administrative laws and jurisprudence that govern t­ hese dynamics, see chapter 2 of this book. 4. Bynum, “Why All the Fuss about the Body?”

figure 1.1. Letter from the Church of the Martyrs Abu Seifayn and Dimyana, 2013.

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Church, then the Church of the Martyrs Abu Seifayn and Dimyana—­from which the letter’s author writes. In the upper left corner are the well-­known icons of two beloved Coptic martyrs—­Dimyana and Abu Seifayn—­who give the church its name. It is no small irony that the parishioner on behalf of whom the clergyman advocates bears the name of another beloved Coptic holy figure: St. Abanub. All three saints, martyred as youths during Roman ­Emperor Diocletian’s era of persecution, are known for their unstinting devotion to their f­ athers.5 The parishioner, Abanub, by seeking to relinquish his Muslim status for status as a Christian in a Muslim-­majority state where Islamic law and Muslims are privileged, demonstrates like devotion—to his ­father, to the Church, and to the state. ——— The Coptic calendar begins from the rule of Diocletian at AD 284, when St. Mark, the founding apostle and first pope of the Coptic Orthodox Church, was martyred in Alexandria.6 This year prevails in Copts’ narratives of their origins rather than the year AD 451, when the Coptic Church dissented from the Council of Chalcedon and broke from the Byzantine Church.7 Even as the ­later date is treated by historians as more significant given the reason for the rupture—­ the Coptic Church refused to accept the Chalcedonian formula of Christ having two distinct natures, one h­ uman and another divine—­the significance of St. Mark to Coptic narratives of belonging should not be understated. While the Coptic Church developed i­ ndependent ecclesiastical institutions and remained strikingly autonomous within Christendom following the break at Chalcedon, “the Coptic Church is, foremost, an institution of martyrs.”8 Abanub’s situation, narrated above, thus reveals not only the Coptic Church’s regulatory structure but also how implied and explicit narratives of martyrdom inhere in its very form. Martyrdom, alongside sainthood and monasticism, is understood to comprise the foundations of the Coptic faith, one that historians have noted “is profoundly ritualistic.”9 Moreover, “hagiographies of martyrs (or martyrologies) exist as a familiar and living real­ity within the Coptic collective memory.”10 5. Armanios, Coptic Chris­tian­ity in Ottoman Egypt; Heo, “Imagining Holy Personhood.” 6. Atiya, “Saint Mark.” 7. Heo, The ­Political Lives of Saints, 37. 8. Ibid. 9. Armanios, Coptic Chris­tian­ity in Ottoman Egypt, 6. 10. Ibid.

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I turn to the hagiography of one beloved martyr, St. Dimyana, whose icon appears at the top of the letter that advocates for Abanub. Her story illumines how devotion articulates with the primary role of the Coptic Church in Egypt ­today, which is to “administer the seven holy ‘sacraments’ (al-­sirr, al-­asrār, also ‘mysteries’), the Eucharist holding the highest value among them as the ‘Crown of the Sacraments.’ ”11 The proper administration of t­ hese sacraments requires that ­those who receive them are recognized members of the Church; it also relies on the Church’s authority to arbitrate communal belonging based in a cosmology that orients members to the coherence of their community. Beyond alerting us to ­these signs, the letter names through the bishop’s description of Abanub’s predicament the central role played by the nation-­state in assuring the bound­aries of Coptic Orthodoxy. H ­ ere, the Church’s authority and that of the nation-­state, their simultaneous law-­making and law-­enforcing capacities, are complementary. Both the republic and the Church valorize membership based in patrilineal descent. Understood thus, it is not coincidental that Abanub forsakes his privileged status as a Muslim. By amending his probative documents to reflect a Christian affiliation, he would be relegated to a subordinate civil status in relation to Muslim Egyptians but would be permitted by the Church to partake in the mysteries. Once he is recognized as a Christian subject in the eyes of both the republic and the Church, he becomes bound to the rules of two member-­based ­organizations—­a Copt and an Egyptian citizen on paper. Moreover, Abanub’s striving to align his self-­proclaimed and official status—­and the bishop’s advocacy on his behalf for such an outcome—­ parallels a narrative unity that frames the letter. Below the icons of the beloved martyrs and the hierarchical order of Coptic Orthodox cosmology is one line, the prayer of the sign of the cross, inscribed on the letterhead. It reads: “In the name of the F ­ ather and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Theologically, the Trinitarian formula is a ritual blessing offered in the administration of sacraments. Yet the doctrinal unity it articulates is not exclusive to that meaning. The formula, invoked in the pre­sent with a request to unify the self with his community conceptually and materially and alongside the living memory of Coptic saints who ­were martyred as ­children for their devotion to their ­fathers and to Christ, is a subtle yet power­ful clue into the timelessness of the predicament faced by Abanub in the pre­sent. His situation may be complicated by administrative restrictions overseen by the Egyptian bureaucracy, but the question of belonging, continuity, and coherence entailed in group membership is a perduring one. 11. Heo, The ­Political Lives of Saints, 52.

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Dimyana was the only and beloved child of a Roman governor in the Nile Delta named Murqus. At fifteen years old, Dimyana insisted on forgoing marriage to live an ascetic life in s­ ervice of Christ. Murqus built for her a retreat beyond the city’s limits, as she requested. The palace was soon occupied by Dimyana and forty other virgin ­women who ­were her closest companions. Dimyana’s hagiography centers on the critical event of her f­ ather’s conversion. Promoted by Emperor Diocletian to the governorship of al-­Farama, a province in Lower Egypt, Murqus was soon asked by government officials to demonstrate his loyalty to the Roman gods by renouncing Chris­tian­ity. Murqus complied with the emperor’s request. Yet Dimyana and her companions traveled to the province when news arrived of Murqus’s betrayal, convincing him to retract the conversion. This effort was successful; Murqus returned to Chris­tian­ ity. Though Murqus subsequently criticized Diocletian for his pagan beliefs, the emperor was unpersuaded, seeking instead a proper punishment for Murqus’s disloyalty. At the suggestion of one of his viziers, who informed Diocletian of Dimyana’s role in Murqus’s return to Chris­tian­ity, Diocletion sent a military battalion to repeatedly torture Dimyana. According to the hagiography, she died multiple deaths only to be revived through divine intervention each time. Her resuscitations w ­ ere brought to a final end when she and her forty virgin companions, along with thousands of bystanders inspired by Dimyana’s example, ­were beheaded.12 One characteristic that sets Dimyana’s story apart from Diocletian-­era Coptic martyrologies is the language of its transmission; whereas ­others are available in Coptic or Greek, hers is only available in Arabic, and predominantly Egyptian colloquial.13 This hagiography is also distinctive ­because Dimyana’s devotion to her f­ ather and her devotion to Christ—­not her virginity—­are foregrounded. Febe Armanios names Dimyana’s predicament thus: “[Dimyana] questions Murqus’s betrayal b­ ecause she sees herself as Christ’s bride and messenger first and earthly d­ aughter as a close second. . . . ​For Dimyana, the ultimate sacrifice is to save her ­father from eternal doom by, in effect, persuading him to die for his Christian faith. This act is selfish in that Dimyana thinks only of her commitment to Chris­tian­ity but, at the same time, selfless in that she ­will soon lose her earthly ­father.”14

12. Armanios, Coptic Chris­tian­ity in Ottoman Egypt, 70–71. 13. Ibid., 71. 14. Ibid., 75–76.

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­ ese characteristics of Dimyana’s hagiography—­its accessibility in Egyptian Th colloquial Arabic and the conflict it foregrounds—­are significant to the modern and con­temporary context. The hagiography’s language of transmission, which enables wide and frequent circulation, and the example set by Dimyana help to explain the popularity of her cult t­ oday. Understood as a conceptual seal with normative limits, Dimyana’s story names a cosmology that orients Copts in con­temporary Egypt t­ oward specific understandings of one’s status in relation to ­others, within and beyond one’s community. Her story also importantly affirms that Chris­tian­ity, the truth, prevails. Dimyana not only is successful in bringing her ­father back into Chris­tian­ity’s fold despite the earthly consequences that the return conversion would have for her and her f­ ather; she also gains the kingdom of heaven through her martyrdom. Even as Dimyana is not named in the letter advocating for Abanub’s civil recognition as a Copt, his predicament is not unlike hers, thereby signaling its transtemporal quality. Of concern to the bishop and my interlocutors is not state encroachment on religious life but the maintenance of communal bound­ aries in the face of at times competing obligations and normative o­ rders. Dimyana’s hagiography names the subtext to con­temporary claims to recognition prompted by a Coptic f­ ather’s conversion to Islam. When Coptic ­fathers ­today convert to Islam, minor ­children depend on their ­father’s willingness to return to Chris­tian­ity as a condition of their own recognition as Copts, or, if their ­father remains a Muslim, his c­ hildren are challenged to persist in their devotion to Christ, the Church, and the state despite the break in the ­family’s Coptic self-­understanding that his transgression enacts. Multiple devotional relationships are contained in ­these circumstances: one between ­father and child, another between the child and God and the f­ ather and God, and yet another between the ­human and the administrative state that arbitrates and maintains status distinction. At stake in each devotional relationship is the continuity of bonds that thread together faith, ­family, and community—­pre­sent, past, and ­future. This scene from Dimyana’s hagiography, in which she confronts Murqus following news of his conversion, captures the simultaneity of ­these bonds: She said to him: “I heard that you have left the religion of Christ, the strong God who has created and raised you, and that you prayed to the blind idols which are not worthy: [­those] stones made by hands. . . . ​Look above, my ­father, and raise your gaze. Stare at the joy and the stars and at how the heavenly dome filled with divine wisdom exists without support and above

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which the hosts of angels [roam]. . . . ​How did it cross your heart to do this? Know my ­father, that if you continue in this state of being, then I ­shall be a stranger to you in this world and in the next world, on the Day of Judgment. I ­shall deny you in the Valley of Jehoshaphat in the midst of the dreaded judgment, and you ­will have no part nor share in the eternal birthright. This is my final word to you.” On hearing this, her f­ ather came to consciousness as if he had been drunk and revived. At once, he screamed and cried, saying, “I am a sinner for what I have done, for I made the stones as my yoke and in Satan’s ­house I prayed to them. Blessed be the hour that I saw you, my blessed ­daughter!”15 Although Armanios understands this passage as a m ­ easure of Christ dictating relations between ­family members, another interpretation is pos­si­ble. Dimyana’s admonishment of her ­father offers a clue into an alternative reading: she warns Murqus that if he does not return to Chris­tian­ity, she ­will be a stranger to him in this world and the next, that she ­will deny him on the Day of Judgment. The sin committed by Murqus is not merely his blasphemy, in my view, but also daring to sever his relationship with his ­daughter in the pre­sent and ­future. What comes more fully into view on this account is the relational aspect of Dimyana’s devotion to her ­father: even as her devotion to Christ holds more weight, her love for her ­father and for Christ compels her to bring about Murqus’s return conversion. In the devotional relationship between Dimyana and her ­father, her proximity to Christ endows the admonishment with urgency and authority despite Dimyana’s subordinate social status relative to her ­father. ——— Bodily inscription is one of the oldest ways that groups have marked their bound­aries.16 The practice among Coptic Orthodox in Egypt is particularly notable b­ ecause its endurance alerts us to how social o­ rders are maintained beyond and in collaboration with the state system. Inscribing difference on the body also challenges a distinction drawn in scholarly discourse between the material realm and the realm of its structure.17 To suggest that material rec­ords only convey the structure of an order, not the order itself, is to limit 15. Reproduced in ibid., 74–75. 16. Gell, Wrapping in Images. 17. For a discussion of this distinction, see, e.g., Mitchell, Colonizing Egypt.

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writing to a narrower constellation of activities than has been common in ­human history. L ­ egal anthropologists have also suggested that the shift from orality to text stifled pluralism.18 Yet by expanding what we consider text to include bodily inscription we “take seriously the world [a sign] presupposes and the life that world recommends.”19 The paper-­based regimes that ­today characterize regulation are the contemporaries of status markings and markers long ascribed and regulated by communities through their own normative ­orders. The meaning and materiality of Coptic belonging offer a productive challenge to a familiar story that attributes regulatory novelty to the nation-­state. Regulation begins with skin. It was only in the nineteenth ­century that the self and one’s place in a social order came to be located, cross-­culturally and globally, in material external to the body. Since ­humans wrote on skin before they wrote on paper, Coptic history and practice expand our understanding of regulation, its forms, meanings, and effects. The letter that advocates for Abanub, alongside the continuous practice of ritual scarification among Egypt’s Copts, captures a key tenet of Coptic cosmology: the personification of Christ’s two natures, the divine and the ­human, “mystically united in one, without confusion, corruption or change.”20 Embedded within the letter and implied in voluntary tattooing are icons that call up the orthodox tradition of holy suffering. This tradition reminds Copts of “the redemptive potential for humanity to become divine . . . ​through concrete techniques of the imagination.”21 Inscription practices, ­whether they seal the self in the skin or on paper, secure one’s status. They memorialize membership in a group. Devotion to the administrative state ensures narrative unity from one generation to the next. Administration through paper-­based technologies makes pos­si­ble, and for many more ­people on a massive scale, an intimate association between the ­human and the divine. Tattooing, the physical alteration of the body by puncturing the dermis using a sharp instrument and pigment, is a global phenomenon.22 Egypt has 18. Brinkley Messick observes “the par­tic­u­lar transition from speech to writing that occurred in the creation of l­egal documents carried a trace of the debilitating general stigma associated with the move from the divine to the ­human” (The Calligraphic State, 205). 19. Keane, “On Semiotic Ideology,” 83. 20. Van Doorn-­Harder and Vogt, introduction to Between Desert and City, 10, citing Atiya, A History of Eastern Chris­tian­ity, 27. 21. Heo, “Imagining Holy Personhood,” 84–85. 22. Hambly, The History of Tattooing and Its Significance; Richie and Buruma, The ­Japanese Tattoo; van Gulik, Irezumi.

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the longest known continuous history of tattooing in the world, spanning at least four thousand years, with physical evidence of the practice surviving from about 2000 BC.23 The ancient Greeks, who a­ dopted penal tattooing from the Persians, transmitted the practice to the Romans, who would l­ater refer to t­ hese inscriptions as stigma.24 For most of classical antiquity tattoos named the offense of the criminal or prisoner of war (­whether in abbreviated or long form), inscribed the name of the emperor who was offended by the crime (or, in the case of an enslaved person, the master’s mark), and indicated the punishment of the offender.25 Yet the meanings associated with ­these signs of disgrace in the Greco-­R oman period ­were fraught with ambivalence.26 Ancient Greek historians and Hellenistic poets report that when the Thracians, a ­people living in what is now central and southeastern ­Europe, ­were tattooed by rival tribes they further decorated their bodies with writing “in order to turn ‘the stamp of vio­lence and shame’ into an ornament.”27 A third kind of stigma had what scholars suggest was a religious significance.28 Tattooing in Egypt, suggest historians of antiquity, has served penal, decorative, and religious functions. If what is meant by penal tattooing are involuntary marks inscribed by a governing authority to denote criminal culpability or owner­ship, ­those date to the nineteenth c­ entury. In response to increasing rates of desertion among fellahin or peasants, the regime of then-­governor Mehmed Ali “resorted to tattooing some soldiers’ bodies in order to facilitate catching them in case they deserted. . . . (This was also done in the case of convicts sent to prison for life: their arms w ­ ere tattooed with the Arabic letter ‘Lām’ standing for ‘Liman’ which was the name of the infamous prison in Abū Qīr near 23. Capart, Primitive Art in Egypt; Keimer, Remarques sur le tatouage dans l’Égypte Ancienne; Tassie, “Identifying the Practice of Tattooing in Ancient Egypt and Nubia.” 24. Jones, “Stigma.” 25. Ibid. 26. “­There was a dissonance between the intent of the tattoo and the way in which it came to be understood in some circles. This, at least in part, gave rise to the adoption of another functional context for the tattoo, to the voluntary self-­application of tattoos as a badge of honour.” Gustafson, “The Tattoo in the ­Later Roman Empire and Beyond,” 18. 27. Jones, “Stigma,” 145. 28. It was Herodotus who first reported the practice of voluntary and sacred tattooing in the eastern Mediterranean, at a t­ emple of an Egyptian god named Heracles: “ ‘If a slave, whoever his master be, flees ­here and applies the sacred stigmata, giving himself to the god, it is forbidden to lay hold of him.’ ” The Assyrian satirist Lucian, describing the devotees of the Syrian goddess Atargatis at her sanctuary in Hierapolis, reports, “ ‘They are all tattooed, some on the wrist, some on the neck, and as a result all the Assyrians have tattoos.’ ” Ibid., 144.

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Alexandria).”29 Orientalist scholars traveling among and observing fellahin in Egypt during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries remarked on a custom known as dakk that consisted of “making indelible marks of a blue or greenish hue upon the face and other parts, or, at least, upon the front of the chin, and upon the back of the right hand, and often also upon the left hand, the right arm, or both arms, the feet, the m ­ iddle of the bosom, and the forehead.”30 Taken by observers to reflect personal taste and ornamentation, dakk is described by ­informants in a more ambivalent sense. According to some villa­gers, t­ hese same marks ­were inscribed voluntarily to remedy physical ailments and spirit possession, suggesting their connection to multiple cosmologies.31 Yet a neat distinction between penal, decorative, and religious tattooing is difficult to parse when we consider the voluntary tattooing practice among Coptic Orthodox in Egypt, historically and in the pre­sent. The equal-­armed cross typically inscribed in blue or black ink on the inside of Copts’ right wrist or on top of the hand between the right thumb and forefinger marks their ethnoreligious particularity.32 The tattoo has been described as conforming to one of several tropes. In the modern and con­temporary period, the cross is read by early observers as a sign of Copts’ inclusion within the nation (“Like the crosses in Akhmim textiles, the Copts are so thoroughly interwoven into the fabric of Egyptian society”)33 or precarity within it (“For any minority, its symbol is a badge in times of prosperity, a brand in times of trou­ble”);34 as 29. Fahmy, All the Pasha’s Men, 72. 30. For narrative descriptions and visual repre­sen­ta­tions of ­these practices, see Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, 14–15. 31. The early anthropologist of Egypt Winifred S. Blackman documented the tattooing practices of the peasants of Upper Egypt, mostly in the Asyut region, between 1922 and 1926. Blackman describes body markings and tattooing as akin to ornamentation, like jewelry. “I am assured that they have no special meaning, but are chosen according to individual taste and fancy” (The Fellahin of Upper Egypt, 52). 32. This bodily inscription has been remarked upon by early and some more con­temporary anthropologists and historians of modern Egypt but has generally escaped sustained attention. For some accounts, see Butler, “Copts”; Hassan, Christians versus Muslims in Modern Egypt; Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, 108; Loubser, “ ‘Gathering Jewels’ ”; Meinardus, “Tattoo and Name”; Meinardus, Christians in Egypt; Myers, “Contributions to Egyptian Anthropology”; Pennington, “The Copts in Modern Egypt”; van Doorn-­ Harder and Vogt, introduction to Between Desert and City; Wakin, A Lonely Minority; van Doorn-­Harder, “Copts”; Zibawi, Les Coptes. 33. Wakin, A Lonely Minority, 3. 34. Ibid., 5.

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a sign of perpetual suffering that takes multiple forms across generations (“The Coptic symbol of the cross always signifies suffering. Men and ­women wear crosses around their neck; in rural areas they tattoo it on the wrists of their ­children”);35 or a sign of distinction from other Christian denominations (“While the Copts share the cross with the rest of Chris­tian­ity, with no other group is its presence so obsessive”).36 ­Others read the cross as a sign of imminent salvation (“­There is a belief among some, if not all, of ­those Copts belonging to the fellahin class that the Abyssinians ­w ill one day conquer Egypt, and ­will kill all the Copts as well as the Muslims if they (the Copts) cannot show this sign on their wrists. The Copts ­will, it is said, hold up their hands, thus exposing to view the sign of their religion”).37 Still other historians associate the practice of voluntary inscription more directly with pilgrimage to Jerusalem.38 Orientalists have remarked on issues of social policing and detection, how Muslims perceive the Coptic cross as delineating a boundary that, when transgressed, contravenes local norms.39 Recent scholarship illumines how orthodox cosmologies, including narratives of martyrdom, are lived and contested amid ongoing social, p­ olitical, and economic marginalization experienced by Copts in Egypt.40 ­These accounts give texture to ­human rights and ­legal advocacy accounts that have chronicled a range of discriminatory practices affecting Copts since the early 2000s.41 In one recent ethnographic study, the author, a researcher who self-­identifies as 35. Ibid. 36. Ibid., 137. 37. Blackman, The Fellahin of Upper Egypt, 54. 38. Armanios, Coptic Chris­tian­ity in Ottoman Egypt, 114; Carswell, Coptic Tattoo Designs. 39. Edward Lane recounts: “I once saw a ­woman paraded through the streets of Cairo, and afterwards taken down to the Nile to be drowned, for having apostatized from the Faith of Mohammad, and having married a Christian. Unfortunately, she had tattooed a blue cross on her arm, which led to her detection by one of her former friends in a bath. She was mounted upon a high-­saddled ass, such as ladies in Egypt usually r­ ide, and very respectably dressed, attended by soldiers, and surrounded by a rabble, who, instead of commiserating, uttered loud imprecations against her” (An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, 108). 40. See, e.g., Philips, “ ‘ We love martyrdom, but we also love life.’ ” 41. The Cairo-­based EIPR is among the most prolific ­organizations that produces Arabic-­ and English-­language reports on the status of Copts in Egypt. The reports written by EIPR researchers cover defamation of religion charges brought against Copts, the failure of state law enforcement to protect social harmony and property, and administrative and security impediments to the renovation of churches, among other topics. See https://­eipr​.­org​/­en​/­publications​ ?­date​_­filter%5Bvalue%5D%5Byear%5D​=­&tid​_­i18n​=A ­ ll&tid​_­i18n​_­1​=6­ 87.

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a Copt, recounts his experience of seeking entry into St. Mark’s Coptic Orthodox Cathedral in Cairo in February 2022.42 He had last entered the cathedral ten years prior to commemorate the passing of Pope Shenouda III, noting that security ­measures for entry ­were heightened following the deadly December 2016 attacks on the Church of St. Peter and Paul, which adjoins the cathedral.43 A national identity card or a cross tattoo—­biṭāʾa aw ṣalīb—is what visitors are told they must show to security guards to be allowed on cathedral grounds. Remarking that he has both a cross tattoo and a national identity card, the researcher notes as well that once the lay Coptic attendant became aware of the researcher’s Coptic name, “my national I.D. card was my pass to get into the courtyard of the Cathedral for the first time since March 2012.”44 ­Here, the ID card and the tattooed body are boundary objects that demarcate difference from Muslims and inclusion within Coptic Orthodoxy over and against attempts to undermine Coptic communal life, like the deliberate arson of churches by Islamists and administrative refusal to renovate them. Th ­ ese objects, the ID card and the tattooed body, each signify a belonging to Coptic Orthodoxy that is not easily changed. The tattoo, while its sign is universal and inscribed on the bodies of many Copts, is also specific to the person on whose skin it appears. It marks that person as a member of the Coptic Church and therefore a Copt. The ID card, while also universal in that all Egyptians at sixteen years of age are required to procure one and carry it on their person, reflects information that is specific to the cardholder. The ID card, like the tattoo, denotes spatiotemporal continuity of who one is in relation to ­others ­because the card reflects the cardholder’s patrilineal genealogy: his first name, his f­ather’s name, his grand­father’s name, and his great-­grandfather’s name. All four names give a robust picture of patrilineal descent and how far back Coptic difference extends. For Copts, naming conventions memorialized on probative documents attest to a long history of persecution and ­resistance to it. The significance of the cross tattoo to Copts, though only rarely commented on in scholarship, has received some coverage in documentary film. Marina of the Zabbaleen, a 2008 film directed by Engi Wassef, follows a Coptic 42. Ibrahim, Identity, Marginalisation, Activism, and Victimhood in Egypt. 43. Sudarsan Raghavan and Heba Mahfouz, “Blast at Egyptian Coptic Cathedral Kills at Least 25,” Washington Post, December 11, 2016, https://­w ww​.­washingtonpost​.­com​/­world​ /­explosion​-­at​-­cairo​-­church​-­kills​-­at​-­least​-­20​-­injures​-­35​-­officials​-­say​/­2016​/­12​/­11​/­fa01d7c2​ -­7f2e​-­4a94​-­8612​-­fd6d5c7f4901​_­story​.­html. 44. Ibrahim, Identity, Marginalisation, Activism, and Victimhood in Egypt, 305.

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f­ amily who lives in Cairo’s Muqattam village.45 As mi­grants from rural Egypt, they move to Cairo to make a living by collecting and recycling garbage. The four young ­children are Romani, Mina, Marina, and Yousef—­all named ­after beloved saints, remarks the ­mother. Romani is named ­after St. George the Roman, patron saint of knights and soldiers; Mina ­after St. Mina the miracle worker; Marina ­after St. Marina of Antioch whose faith in Christ defeated the ­devil; and Yousef ­after St. Joseph the Carpenter. ­Toward the end of the documentary are scenes filmed outside the Church of St. Samaan in Muqattam Mountain, known also as the Cave Church, following s­ ervices. Marina recounts, “When I was l­ ittle, I got [the cross tattoo]. Yousef, when he got it, kept screaming and crying.” The viewer recalls ­here brief scenes ­earlier in the film that showed Marina’s tattoo and her ­mother’s tattoo as they ­were ­going about a regular day. The next shot is a close-up of a tattooer’s hands holding a scuffed-up machine with green and red and yellow trim, a white on-­off switch on one side, and ink markings all over—­its mechanical guts exposed, just like the white cord leading to an electric outlet. The adults gathered in the cramped space are jovial, though none are in full view of the camera. “Look! ­There’s a video being taken,” someone says, followed by laughter. Another person chimes in. “Pictures are 10 EGP!” ­There is more laughter. “In the name of God, in the name of God,” is said aloud. Initially, the viewer does not see anyone’s face. The tattooer preps the needle. As he holds the machine in both hands, an equal-­armed cross on his right hand, between the forefinger and thumb, becomes vis­i­ble to the viewer. The needle now firmly affixed to the machine, the tattooer, seated on an aluminum chair covered in wood, rests it on his right thigh. “­You’re a good girl!” says a reassuring voice. He grabs a swab of cotton and wipes a clear sheen from the up-­turned forearm of a young girl held by a w ­ oman wearing a black ʿabāya. It is unclear who this person is in relation to the child. “­You’re getting a picture of Jesus,” we hear in the background. With his left hand, the tattooer grips the small right hand of the child while his right hand holds the machine and the w ­ oman straightens the child’s arm firmly at her elbow. The tattooer double-­checks the needle and flips

45. Garbage collection and recycling by Cairo’s Zabbaleen has been the subject of two documentary films and much international media attention. The film Garbage Dreams (2009), directed by Mai Eskandar, follows three teenage boys also living in Muqattam village. Whereas the film by Wassef is more narrowly focused on the life of Marina and her f­ amily in the village, shedding light on Coptic communal life ­under dire economic constraints, the film by Eskandar spotlights how the Zabbaleen adapt their work when the city of Cairo begins to contract private companies to collect the city’s garbage.

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on the white switch. Voices of the gathered adults recede as the machine buzzes. Quickly and repeatedly, the tattooer dips the needle in a vessel of ink sitting on a metal tray to his right. “Do it good for her,” a ­woman says off screen. The girl begins to shriek. “All done! All done!” someone coos. With the exactitude of a medical specialist ­doing routine surgery, the tattooer applies the needle to the child’s skin and, about ten seconds ­later, lifts the machine to reveal a tiny cross. ­There’s now some disagreement between the adults. “We still need the date,” a voice declares. “No, just the cross,” the tattooer says. “No, the date, too,” says the voice again. “She has to have the date.” The machine is switched back on. Cotton is packed into the tattooer’s left hand, the one he uses to hold the girl’s hand steady. Now we see the child’s face grimaced in pain as she looks at her arm and wails. She is about four or five years old. “No, that’s not necessary,” someone says repeatedly. The girl turns her head away from her arm and ­toward the camera, back to her arm and then away from it. Her eyes are shut tightly, mouth completely open. She is grief-­stricken. “Enough! Enough!” Several ­people chime in to comfort the child. “It’s over, it’s over,” they say. “It ­doesn’t hurt, I swear. It just tickles. It’s over now.” The camera zooms out slightly. “Give her ­here,” a ­woman says. “Come ­here, baby,” the same voice says. The ­woman wearing a black ʿabāya releases the child into the arms of another w ­ oman, likely the girl’s m ­ other. Holding her on her right hip, the w ­ oman turns to her d­ aughter, face still scrunched in shock, “­Didn’t you want to tattoo a cross for Jesus?” she asks. “It’s okay. ­She’ll be okay now.” The tattooer at this point speaks directly to the camera. “In terms of the cross tattoo, its beginning dates to the Roman persecution of Christians. During this time the f­ ather and m ­ other could be martyred and the c­ hildren would grow up not knowing their identity—­whether t­ hey’re Christian, pagan, or ­whatever. The parents got the idea that they would leave something in case they are martyred so this small child would know their original religion. That was the idea of putting the cross on the arm. They would be reassured of this even if they are martyred.” The tattooer’s voice overlays a scene of another child he is prepping for the tattoo. This child is youn­ger than the other girl and held by what is likely a male relative. The scene is shot from the perspective of the tattooer. Affixed onto the red trim of the tattoo machine, just above the braided white electrical cord, is a red Roman cross. The machine is applied to the child’s arm with familiar precision, which elicits a familiar shriek. Wailing blends with a steady buzz and somber m ­ usic. Marina observes the scene from a close distance, directly ­behind the child getting tattooed. Slowly, the buzzing and the shrieking are drowned out by the somber ­music. The tattooer wipes

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the tiny cross that now appears on the child’s inner wrist. He places a clean cotton ball over the mark and secures it to the wrist with clear tape. The f­ ather takes his child away. The scene’s closing shot is of Marina, seemingly unfazed by what she has seen and heard. I narrate ­these scenes from Marina of the Zabbaleen in detail ­because they shed significant light on the material and conceptual limits of Coptic belonging. The impor­tant actors in this story are Coptic parents who demarcate the bound­aries of Coptic Orthodoxy on their ­children’s skin, assuring that they, like the beloved saints a­ fter whom many are named, continue the tradition of holy suffering—­the notion that all Copts are the c­ hildren of martyrs. It is not surprising that tattooing takes place on the grounds of a church. Orthodox sensibilities that uphold notions of Coptic belonging based in patrilineal descent buttress the regulatory logics of the Coptic Church. While the personification of Christ’s two natures, ­human and divine, is sealed in the skin through ritual scarification, it is also sealed on state-­i ssued probative documents. Both inscriptions memorialize group membership. When Copts ­today seek recognition of their difference from the Muslim majority, and for this difference to appear on material objects that substantiate l­egal personhood, their claims making parallels long-­ standing normative practices whereby social differentiation is understood to secure communal life over time. The administrative state likewise ensures narrative unity across generations. ——— Just as Coptic hagiography and ritual scarification offer clues into the material and conceptual limits of Coptic communal life, a broader history of inscription, regulation, and administration shows that locating the self in relation to ­others within and beyond one’s group involves interlinked normative o­ rders and the enmeshment of multiple regulatory regimes. Th ­ ese dynamics provide historical context for understanding minority claims making in the pre­sent. Identifying, registering, and interpreting the signs that alert ­others to one’s distinctiveness are techniques which preceded the material innovations that are ­today attributed exclusively to the nation-­state. Th ­ ese innovations attest to ­legal personhood and take specific forms: certificates, ID cards, and licenses. They also index a perduring question about how one relates to ­others similar and dissimilar to oneself. Coptic communities in Egypt t­ oday who seek recognition of their Christian status, even as this status situates them

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in a subordinate ­legal position to Muslims, affirm through recognition a ­desired boundedness to the rules of two member-­based o­ rganizations: the Coptic Church and the Egyptian republic. ­There was ­little need for a universal paper-­based identification regime in Egypt before the nineteenth ­century. Locals came to know one another through daily interactions. The monitoring of community members fell to the neighborhood shaykhs. Communal norms w ­ ere built on reputation, both within and beyond a specific locality. To avoid living in anonymity outside one’s immediate place of residence, one needed to secure a personal guarantee (ḍamān). A notable individual served as a guarantor of another’s actions. W ­ ill Hanley suggests that a documentary regime, consisting of protection certificates and other travel documents, was in wide circulation by the nineteenth ­century, although it was most useful to two classes of persons: t­ hose without established reputations in local communities and a small, elite minority who used certificates of consular registration to “exercise the advantages of foreignness.” Wealthy foreign nationals sought access to local institutions as they passed through port cities like Alexandria, though “the highly literate, as for the wealthy, identification documents w ­ ere often a less effective tool than other forms of social prestige that they possessed. For the illiterate, who often engage bureaucracy through the intermediacy of a scribe, t­ hese documents ­were typically more critical.” Th ­ ose whose status claims w ­ ere tenuous “employed documentary means most assiduously.”46 Hanley enumerates seven types of identification documents that circulated in Alexandria during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.47 Religion

46. Hanley, Identifying with Nationality, 71–86. 47. ­These documents are further categorized on the basis of their issuer, which he identifies as ­either state or non-­state. Of the state-­issued documents, ­there ­were five kinds: certificates of protection (for use within the b­ earer’s territory of residence); travel documents, including passports and passes (for use outside the issuer’s territorial jurisdiction); population-­registration documents (primarily for collecting demographic data bound for centralization, and secondarily for personal identification); warrants, death notices, and other documents issued by institutions of public order (for regulating custody and transferring ­humans); and documents attesting to the issuer’s employment status. The second set of identification documents was issued by authoritative figures such as rabbis, priests, and qadis within communal ­organizations and included certifications of birth, marriage, notoriety, death, and even poverty. Jews received gratis documents at a greater rate than non-­Jews, suggesting not higher rates of indigence compared to members of other communities but fluency in bureaucratic language and procedures since few documents contained the “gratis” label.

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appears as a compulsory category in only 17 ­percent of the documents surveyed. Religious difference was nevertheless captured by t­ hese documents in less direct ways depending on the circumstances. Though religious labels w ­ ere sometimes added when administrative protocols did not require them, Hanley suggests that “identification by religion was often tacit, ­either obvious b­ ecause of choice of venue or bureaucratically irrelevant. . . . ​[T]he shared sovereignties in Egypt favored implicit designation of jurisdiction. Therefore religion could be left unindicated, in order to defer conflict between authorities.”48 ­Every identification document, regardless of its issuer, required the b­ earer’s name. The names that appeared in the compulsory fields ­were not standardized; they revealed naming practices of specific localities. The physical description field was filled out based on the social class and gender of the b­ earer; it was left blank for elites and for most ­women. “One-­fifth of the documents,” Hanley observes, “contained a field for the b­ earer’s signature. Sometimes this space was signed; often it bore the print of a signet seal, a key tool to certify documents in the Arabic scribal tradition. Often this field was marked ‘illiterate’ or left blank. Literacy was itself a useful mark of class standing and bureaucratic fluency.”49 If one documentary regime in the nineteenth c­ entury primarily regulated foreigners and foreign travel, another regime developed u­ nder the reign of Mehmed Ali, the Ottoman governor of Egypt from 1805 to 1848. This internal passport regime was created to prevent peasant desertion from conscripted military s­ ervice and corvée l­ abor. By 1842, absconder registers and conscription registers marked the name of the conscript, his village, and his f­ ather’s name and title. It was also decreed that e­ very villa­ger, including shaykhs, should carry a stamped certificate or passport, known as a tezkere, bearing distinguishing features. Khaled Fahmy attributes this innovation to the r­ esistance that central authorities encountered from village shaykhs who did not reliably enforce Mehmed Ali’s conscription policy. Even as techniques w ­ ere developed to reduce the rate of desertion among conscripted peasants, they w ­ ere soon applied to nonconscripts. ­These innovations introduced what Fahmy terms a ­process of “inscribing real­ity,” by which “the starting point of managing p­ eople and ­things would be the place they occupied not in their natu­ral environment, but on paper, e.g., in the inventory list, the roll call, or the census.”50 48. Hanley, Identifying with Nationality, 87. 49. Ibid., 86. 50. “Unlike a soldier whose body had been tattooed by the authorities and whose desertion was discovered ­after he was found, a soldier whose name appeared in a village conscription register

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Yet other accounts suggest that the distinction Fahmy names, between real­ ity and its repre­sen­ta­tion, should not be generalized to Egyptian society as a ­w hole. That is to say, other regulatory systems—­other than t­ hose that ­organized a transnational elite and the military which ­were overseen by high state authority—­had long been in place. Within some communities t­ here was no distinction between real­ity and its repre­sen­ta­tion: the structure of an order revealed precisely the order’s nature. In her study of a collection of Maliki notarial documents from tenth-­century Cordoba, compiled by Ibn al-­Attar, Ma­ya Shatzmiller examines conversion practices of Jews and Christians in Egypt as well as the deliberations of local courts of this time. She recounts stories of an Egyptian Jew who converted to Islam and refused to divorce his wife when she remained Jewish; Karaites who converted to Islam and enjoyed close ties to imperial authorities; and other Jewish men who registered marriage contracts that committed large sums to their wives. ­There is also evidence that Coptic ­women—­mothers, wives, and ­daughters—­often did not follow male f­ amily members in converting to Islam. Shatzmiller notes “the certificates appear together with more than 500 notarial models that cover ­every pos­si­ble act and transaction, ­whether in ­family m ­ atters, commercial deals, or land cultivation. Ibn al-­Attar does not indicate in any way that conversion, of ­either men or w ­ omen, and its notarial authentication is anything but routine. On the contrary, he assures us that the form used for conversion of a Christian w ­ oman may be used without any changes for that of a Jewish ­woman’s.”51 When and why was a documentary regime developed to register inhabitants of a single territory, over and above existing documentary practices unique to specific communities, such as tattooing? What did t­ hese new forms of documentation evidence? When was identification meaningful for ­those who ­were identified? In what ways did the information captured within ­these rec­ords relate a truth about the individual? How was this truth related to the body? The paper identification regime introduced in Egypt during the first ­decades of the twentieth c­ entury offers some answers to t­ hese questions. It instituted an Egyptian passport that replaced the Ottoman passport, which had been in use u­ ntil around 1899. While the general trend was one of enumerating, recording, and registering more inhabitants, that trend did not translate to a widespread use would have his desertion detected even before he was found. Any missing item could only be truly missing if it did not show up in the list; other­wise it was still considered pre­sent albeit only in name (ismi var cismi yok.: lit. having a name but no body).” Fahmy, All the Pasha’s Men, 75. 51. Shatzmiller, “Marriage, ­Family, and the Faith.”

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of the identification documents. They w ­ ere not carried routinely on the person to whom they w ­ ere issued. Hanley’s research revealed some pristine documents, ­others with creases, folds, and makeshift attempts to retain the integrity of the paper through taping, suggesting that the “­whole material object was more valuable than the sum of its parts. . . . ​Personal identification documents had value as material symbols of protection, but they ­were also information containers. Document makers elicited this information from the document holders according to specific protocols of identification. . . . ​In late nineteenth-­ century Alexandria, both state institutions and the ­people using them learned to imitate and adapt ­these protocols in their own best interests.”52 By the late nineteenth ­century, demography in Egypt included population and health statistics.53 Within roughly the first two d­ ecades of the twentieth ­century, bodies living and dead w ­ ere identified as Egyptian nationals or foreign subjects.54 Local health bureaus l­ ater coordinated with civil registration offices of the Ministry of Interior and the Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS) to produce national vital statistics. The collection and registration of vital statistics would include a greater number of administrative agencies, increased coverage of rural areas, and additional demographic indicators such as marriage and divorce.55 During the routine registration of vital events, applicants became required to reveal information about themselves such as their religion, occupation, nationality, marital history, and age. For ­women, this included information regarding the number of live births over their lifetime. The state would thus regulate broader realms of social life as well as render their presumed unintelligibility coherent within discrete taxonomies. What resulted from t­ hese pro­cesses ­were the boundary objects familiar to us ­today: state-­issued birth, marriage, and death certificates, as well as forms for requesting documentation of the named events. Egyptian civil registration underwent three known phases of development over the course of the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries. Th ­ ese phases correspond to decrees issued in 1912 (Decree 23) and 1946 (Decree 130), as well as

52. Hanley, Identifying with Nationality, 76. 53. The compulsory registration of vital events in Egypt dates to at least 1839 and has primarily concerned the recording of live births and deaths. See El Shakry, The G ­ reat Social Laboratory. 54. Hanley, Identifying with Nationality, 71–72. 55. Outside of Cairo, births and deaths w ­ ere not registered systematically even by 1860. For a discussion of the relationship between law and medicine within the context of nineteenth-­ century Egyptian ­legal reform, see Fahmy, “The Anatomy of Justice.”

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1960 (Decree 260) and 1965 (Decree 11). In the first phase from 1912 to 1959, the registration of live births was the responsibility of the Ministry of Health. Following the promulgation of Decree 260 of 1960, the Department of Civil Registration established that year not only assumed the responsibility previously held by the Health Ministry but also began maintaining rec­ords for all vital events including birth and death as well as marriage and divorce. Founded in 1963 through a merger of the Statistical Department (established in 1911) and the Department of Public Mobilisation (established in 1953), CAPMAS continued to compile, tabulate, and publish vital statistics. The second phase between 1960 and 1964 is notable for its institutional reshuffling, which centralized the procedures for the notification of vital events on a national level. When the third phase began in 1965, CAPMAS significantly modified data collection procedures and channels of reporting that further consolidated the production of vital statistics. The forms introduced through Decree 11 served the health bureaus, civil registries, and statistical agencies, thereby generating a web of documentation whose sheer volume and content had no pre­ce­dent before 1965. Importantly, as late as 1948, the passbooks issued by the Ministry of L ­ abor, which w ­ ere mandated into circulation by law in 1944, contained fields for the authentication of employment status, f­amily size, physical health, and residence—­but not religion. Prior to the mid-­twentieth ­century religious difference was a category only occasionally attributed to non-­Egyptian nationals and only then a category that mattered in diplomatic affairs as concerned the right to travel across territories. It was Law 181 of 1955, which required Egyptians to procure national identity cards, that empowered the Interior Ministry to create an administrative field for religious affiliation on state-­issued vital rec­ords. Although Egyptian authorities had, prior to 1955, conducted countrywide censuses in which demographers asked about h­ ouse­hold religious composition, the law on personal cards was distinct from ­earlier data collection initiatives.56 The Ministry was also empowered to inaugurate a host of bureaucratic procedures for the authorization and authentication of membership in a religious group. It was only at mid-­century therefore, shortly ­after the republic’s founding, when administrative laws and institutions, all newly established, 56. The first two countrywide censuses ­were conducted in 1848 and 1882, both of which enumerated demographic information on religion. Surveys conducted at the village level in the interim years recorded “aggregate accounts of the population of each village section, broken down by age, sex, religion, f­ ree or slave status, and—­for men—­occupational category.” Cuno and Reimer, “The Census Registers of Nineteenth-­Century Egypt,” 209.

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could define and regulate religious difference as a function of republican statehood. The 1950s was a ­decade in which regulation of this kind became part of the nation-­state’s repertoire, adding to the plurality of normative ­orders then already in circulation. The centralization of civil administration procedures facilitated information-­ gathering across the health bureaus and civil registries. The forms introduced through Decree 11 of 1965 ­were designed to serve the purposes of health bureaus, civil registries, and statistical agencies si­mul­ta­neously. Applicants who sought to report a birth or a death became required to reveal information not only about the event but also about themselves in their capacity as reporting agents. For example, a ­couple wishing to report the birth of their child must indicate the child’s sex, the date of birth, attendance at delivery, the location of the birth, and, if the delivery resulted in multiple births, how many w ­ ere live born. Specific fields of information inquire about the m ­ other’s marital and childbearing history: the duration of married life with her pre­sent husband and with other men, as well as the number of ­children born alive from her pre­sent husband and with previous partners. The death notification form likewise requires the registering agent to indicate information about his identity as well as about the event. The requested characteristics of the registering agent include his national ID card number, place of usual residence, and relationship to the deceased. The requested characteristics of the deceased are age, sex, religion, occupation, nationality, place and date of death, date and place of birth, marital status, place of usual residence, national identification card number, and place of civil registration. The administrative state amplified its productivity over time, expanding the kinds of information it collected, procedures for determining the veracity of that information, and the forms through which data is presented (figures 1.2–1.11). President Gamal Abdel Nasser established the Egyptian ­Organization for Standards and Quality (al-­hayʾa al-­miṣriyya al-­ʿāmma li-­l-­muwāṣafāt wa-­l-­ jawda), or the EOS, in 1957 through presidential decree (no. 2 of 1957). This was the same year that Egypt obtained full membership in the International Organization for Standardization (ISO).57 Law 143 of 1962 subsequently established 57. The ISO describes itself as “a network of national standards bodies” whose members are “the foremost standards ­organizations in their countries.” ­Today the ISO consists of 163 members, of which 119 are member bodies, 40 are correspondent members, and 4 are subscriber members. As a member body, Egypt influences ISO standards development and strategy by participating and voting in ISO technical and policy meetings. For an explanation of the rights

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the Civil Status O ­ rganization (CSO) to oversee the production and procurement of civil documents including a wide range of certifications. President Anwar al-­Sadat, Nasser’s successor, thereafter issued a presidential decree in 1979 (no. 392 of 1979) that added a Quality Control Center to the EOS structure and designated it “the only official and competent authority entrusted with all ­matters related to standardization, quality control and metrology.” T ­ oday the EOS is responsible for the preparation and issuance of Egyptian standards, quality assurance and conformity assessments, and testing and industrial ­measurements in order to ensure the competitiveness of Egyptian products in national, regional, and international markets. A fourth phase of administrative innovation dates to the 1990s when computerization entrenched the bureaucratic encounter in the lives of ordinary Egyptians. ­Until then, administration relied primarily on paper-­based methods that lacked systematization, thus limiting the reach of the bureaucracy even as its vari­ous branches multiplied. Vital rec­ords took written form, which made the bureaucratic encounter personalistic and registration documents susceptible to forgery. It was in 1990, u­ nder the mandate of a new state proj­ect called the National Number Proj­ect (mashrūʿ al-­raqam al-­qawmī), that the CSO began to standardize and enter information on birth, marriage, and divorce and more extensive data on ­family lineage into a national database. ­Every citizen would be assigned a unique national identification number through this initiative. Seven years l­ ater, nationwide issuance centers ­were built to meet the demand for identity card ­services. In 1998, the first ID card factory capable of producing up to one million cards per month was equipped with technology consistent with international security ­measures. By 2010, when seventy million ID cards had been issued, the CSO possessed the only identity card production factory in the ­Middle East that could create vital documents using the latest plastics and security technology and in compliance with global standards. Egypt had seemingly perfected identity verification to such a degree that it became a model for other African states.58 The social history of registration and identification suggests that telling the truth about oneself was incorporated into public administration globally in and responsibilities afforded to each member type, see “ISO Members,” International ­Organization for Standardization, http://­www​.­iso​.­org​/­iso​/­home​/­about​/­iso​_­members​.­htm. 58. Transcript of a 2010 ­presentation made by General Moustafa Radi, former assistant minister of the Egyptian Interior Ministry and director of the Civil Status ­Organization, to members of the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa. Transcript on file with the author.

figure 1.2. Birth certificate given ­free of charge for the first time, issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, 1989.

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figure 1.3. Birth certificate given ­free of charge for the first time, issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, 2001. 81

figure 1.4. Copy of birth rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2011. 82

figure 1.5. Copy of marriage rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, n.d. 83

figure 1.6. Copy of death rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2013. 84

figure 1.7. Copy of death rec­ord (blank) issued by the Ministry of Health and Housing, and the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019. 85

figure 1.8. Application (pages 1 and 4) for a national ID card pursuant to Law 143 of 1994. Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019. 86

87

figure 1.9. Application (pages 2 and 3) for a national ID card pursuant to Law 143 of 1994. Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019. 88

89

figure 1.10. Request (front) for a rec­ord, document, or deed (birth, death, marriage, divorce, military ­service, data confirmation). Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019. 90

figure 1.11. Request (back) for a rec­ord, document, or deed (birth, death, marriage, divorce, military ­service, data confirmation). Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019. 91

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the twentieth ­century. Before then, a plurality of regulatory practices, based in distinguishing marks vis­i­ble on the skin and the body, attested to one’s status. Other m ­ easures w ­ ere generated to discern signs of authenticity. Historians have shown that prior to the twentieth ­century, individuals and communities did not see themselves in the identification documents they ­were compelled to carry. ­Until then, many such documents, which granted nationality, diplomatic status, and authorization to travel, ­were incompletely filled out, left in bureaucratic offices to gather dust. ­These categories of differentiation ­were thus not widely or uniformly understood to capture the truth of the self. Yet even as modernization brought into being materials on which the self would be inscribed, the provenance of ­these innovations should be engaged alongside older histories and practices of status distinction. Regulatory techniques born of modernization did not so much cause an unpre­ce­dented ­r upture in ­human sociality; ­these techniques ­were more continuous than discontinuous with the past. What is new about regulation in the modern and con­temporary world is the plurality of surfaces on which the distinctiveness of the self is memorialized. Recognition of one’s belonging within regulated social categories—­one’s ­inequality in relation to ­others—­also became necessary for who individuals understand themselves to be. Th ­ ese categories are regulated at once by local communities and high state authority, often si­mul­ta­neously and in complementary ways. Understood thus, state regulation joins extant normative o­ rders that emphasize the distinctiveness of the self as central to configuring and maintaining desired communal bound­aries. ——— When I traveled back and forth to the Civil Status ­Organization with Hassan and Hosna and their attorneys in the summer of 2013, I sought to understand how the siblings negotiated their relationship with the state ­after having been involuntarily ascribed a Muslim civil status following their f­ ather’s conversion to Islam. Why the Coptic Church’s recognition of their f­ ather’s conversion back to Chris­tian­ity was not sufficient to affirm their self-­understanding as Copts perplexed me. The pro­cesses through which religious affiliation is assigned and amended on civil rec­ords ­were also opaque. I learned how much in-­person negotiation, repetition, and perseverance ­were involved in t­ hese interlinked phenomena. The outcomes that my interlocutors desired ­were not predictable or guaranteed no ­matter the hours spent waiting in line. Procuring the requisite

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documents that substantiate ­legal personhood, within the Church and within the state, was only one part of a complex system that memorializes status: who one is in relation to blood relatives, to a community of faith, and to a national citizenry. Hassan and Hosna desired to forgo their Muslim status fully aware that Muslims experience preferential treatment in Egypt. During the idle time we spent in hallways and queuing for appointments, for instance, the siblings discussed openly the exams they could sit for and the work opportunities they could pursue if they de­cided not to correct their civil rec­ords—if they maintained their status on paper as Muslims. Hosna also revealed to me that she was aware that one way to evade some marriage restrictions placed on Muslim Egyptian ­women is to marry a foreigner—as dif­fer­ent rules govern ­these ­unions. Yet she was additionally cognizant that being recognized as Christian, by the Coptic Church and the state, was necessary for her to marry a Christian Egyptian man and retain membership in the Church. What Hassan and Hosna desired was to align their truth with the material objects that substantiate their ­legal personhood over and against the diminished civil status that would result from recognition. The Church-­issued certificate of reconversion given to their ­father was crucial to actualize this aim but not itself adequate to bring about the full alignment they sought. The certificate restored a continuity between their ­father and the Church and the broader Coptic Orthodox community. In order for this continuity to extend to them—­for them to be bound through their ­father to the Church, to other Copts, and to the nation—­they needed recognition from the administrative state. I was especially puzzled by Hosna’s position. Prior to the approval granted by the last officer we met, which allowed her to change her civil status from Muslim to Christian, Hosna had already marked her body’s affinity with Christ. What did the tattoo mean for Hosna that the dainty cross around her neck did not? If one of her cousins owned a tattoo shop, why had she waited to receive bureaucratic approval before getting the cross inscribed on her wrist? I thought through this puzzle amid crippling heat. Her desire for an accurate ID card was evident from many iterative actions—­walking up and down stairs, waiting hours to be seen, telling the story of her ­father’s conversion and reconversion multiple times to several bureaucrats, returning to the same offices only to be turned away. I watched Hosna fan herself with the papers she was given by the attorneys and wondered why it was only ­after being recognized as a Christian by the Egyptian bureaucracy that she felt moved to inscribe Coptic difference on her skin. I came to see administrative recognition and voluntary tattooing

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as analogous: unlike the cross that grazed her collar­bone, which could be removed and reattached and was somewhat generic, the identity card and the tattoo w ­ ere si­mul­ta­neously universal and par­tic­u­lar, linking her indelibly to broadly local communities through her person. Only she can be the lawful ­bearer of the card. The tattoo is inscribed onto her wrist. Permanence undergirds both seals. Both seals delineate material and conceptual limits. The lengths that the siblings went for recognition highlights their devotion to the administrative state. It also demonstrates their assent to the normative ­orders based in patrilineal descent that the Egyptian republic and Coptic Church regulate and assure. Although they went through trying and at times humiliating ordeals, Hassan and Hosna achieved a narrative unity continuous with orthodox cosmologies that traverse the pre­sent, past, and ­future. This unity encompasses some exclusive and yet other overlapping relations: to kin (their biological ­father), a religious community (the Coptic Church and other Copts), and a ­political community (the Egyptian nation and its citizens). Recognition brought into alignment the self, the ­father, the Church, and the republic.

2 Sealed in Administrative Court t h e or de r of r e v e l at ion Muhammad is not the ­father of any of your men, but is the Messenger of Allah and the seal of the prophets. And Allah has perfect knowledge of all ­things.1

when egyptian administrative agencies modernized civil data collection in the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries, concurrent developments in law and judicial institutions raised questions about w ­ hether and how communal belonging would be regulated in the newly sovereign republic. The category of religion, like the categories of gender and marital status, was ultimately given an administrative significance. Egyptian lawmakers de­cided a­ fter ­independence from British colonial rule in the 1950s that religious affiliation was necessary to civil status—­ that to be Egyptian one needed to have a religion and be recognized as a member of a religious community. One’s religious affiliation would be automatic based on the circumstances of one’s birth. This regulatory regime continues t­ oday. All Egyptians born to Muslim f­ athers are Muslim by default. All Egyptians born to Christian ­fathers are Christian by default. ­These affiliations are subject to verification throughout one’s lifetime—­namely, other circumstances that require registration such as marriage, divorce, inheritance, and death—­and determine the rights for which an individual and her heirs are eligible. It would be a ­mistake to attribute this regulatory environment, both its emergence and durability, to an inherently coercive interest by the nation-­ state. Questions that emerged in the wake of l­ egal and judicial reforms alert us to the claims that became justiciable u­ nder administrative law, yet the 1. Qurʾan 33:40. 95

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questions generally concern the scope of group formation, membership, and belonging—­issues hardly unique to the modern and con­temporary world. That judicial institutions are empowered to adjudicate ­these questions ­today confirms that group affiliation is a perduring issue. What is specific to the pre­ sent context is the extent of the normative plurality in which t­ hese questions find expression, as well as the range and kind of member-­based ­organizations that are authorized to decide them. Administrative law and judicial institutions amplify an existing normative pluralism that reflects long-­standing regulatory interests. When religious minorities appeal to administrative law and courts to resolve questions of status, this practice reveals not only the multiplicity of normative ­orders but also devotion to the state that upholds them. Litigation sustains a pluralistic regulatory environment. This chapter examines how Egypt’s administrative judiciary, called Majlis al-­Dawla, adjudicates ­legal questions for which t­ here is no legislative provision, or when t­ here are conflicting or unclear provisions.2 All three w ­ ere in play when, in the early 2000s, Majlis al-­Dawla began deciding ­whether administrative bodies had properly implemented Civil Status Law 134 of 1994.3 Article 47 (2) of the law stipulates that “changes or corrections in nationality, religion, or profession—or the civil status registers concerning marriage or its annulment, authentication, husband-­or wife-­initiated divorce, physical separation, or proof of parentage—­may be made on the authority of rulings or documents issued by the competent body (jihat al-­ikhtiṣāṣ) and do not require elicitation of a decision from the specified committee.”4 On its face, this stipulation provides 2. Majlis al-­Dawla was founded in 1946. In its pre­sent form, Majlis al-­Dawla consists of disciplinary courts, courts of first instance, the Court of Administrative Justice, and the Supreme Administrative Court. Majlis al-­Dawla has three main functions: review and consider the constitutionality of all draft laws originating from the executive branch before they are submitted to parliament; issue fatwas (advisory opinions) solicited by state ministries; and ensure through adjudication that administrative bodies comply with the law. The institution’s jurisdiction spans the entire state administrative apparatus, including disputes between low-­level bureaucrats, ministers, ministries, and the president of the republic. It also hears cases filed by ordinary individuals against administrative agencies and may compel the state to compensate individuals for wrongdoing as well as annul administrative decisions. 3. The law’s eighty-­one articles are ­organized into ten chapters: General Provisions, Births, Marriage and Divorce, Deaths, Failed Registration and Re-­registration, Correction of Civil Status Restrictions, Implementation of Civil Status ­Services for Citizens Living Abroad, Guarantees for the Protection of Citizens’ Rights, Sanctions, and Transitional and Final Provisions. 4. Legislators ­limited the jurisdiction of the committee specified in Article 46 of the Civil Status Law to settling requests to change or correct the civil status rec­ords contained in the

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a lawful route to amend formal religious identity.5 However, Article 47 (2) led to unpre­ce­dented administrative litigation and catapulted Majlis al-­Dawla into protracted debates about lawful and prohibited conversions. The repertoire of religious status litigation, what I call Article 47 cases, concerns three classes of persons who do not fit neatly into state categories of Muslim, Christian, or Jewish affiliation: Bahá’ís, born Coptic Christians who converted to Islam and then seek reconversion (ʿāʾidūn li-­l-­misiḥiyya), and born Muslims who convert to Coptic Orthodoxy (mutanaṣerūn).6 All three groups confound understandings of Islam as the final, most complete religion (khātim al-­adyān)—­a key tenet of Egyptian state identity. In what follows, I address two of the most significant questions that Majlis al-­Dawla has adjudicated. The first is w ­ hether the Civil Status O ­ rganization (CSO) has a ­legal obligation to list a religious affiliation on vital rec­ords that does not conform to one of the three state-­recognized religions. This question concerns the ­legal status of Bahá’ís who, although they acknowledge Judaism, Chris­ tian­ity, and Islam, are considered non-­Muslim and non-­dhimmi according to Egyptian law, and thereby pose a unique administrative challenge.7 Finding ultimately that the Bahá’í Faith is not a religion but an ideology distinct from birth, death, and f­ amily lineage registers and the requests of t­ hose omitted from birth and death registers due to facts that ­were not reported during the legally prescribed interval. 5. Although authorities in Egypt have collected information on religion through demographic surveys since at least the 1848 census, it was only in the 1950s that religious affiliation became an administrative field on state-­issued vital rec­ords for Egyptian citizens. Law 181 of 1955 was the first to mandate that all Egyptians obtain a national identity card at sixteen years of age and vested the Interior Ministry with the authority to specify the information that the identity cards would contain. The Ministry’s decision to create an administrative field for religious affiliation institutionalized the preexisting practice of collecting information on religion; it also inaugurated a host of bureaucratic procedures for the authorization and authentication of religious identity and communal belonging. 6. While Egypt was once home to thriving Jewish communities, t­ hese populations dwindled following the 1948 Arab-­Israeli War. ­Today, the two main administrative categories between which Egyptians navigate are Muslim and Christian. On the historical composition of Egyptian Jewish communities, their relationship to governing authority and role in public culture, and the catalysts for their emigration from Egypt, see Beinin, The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry. 7. Bahá’ís further challenge dhimmi status in Islamic law, which is reserved for ahl al-­kitāb (­Peoples of the Book), understood as Christians and Jews, and consists of ­legal protections for freedom of worship and ­legal autonomy to ­organize community affairs. Dhimmi designation, however, falls remarkably short of capturing the relationship between the Abrahamic traditions and Bahá’í theology. See Cole, Modernity and Millennium; Momen, The Bábí and Bahá’í Religions, 1844–1944; Smith, The Babi and Bahaʾi Religions.

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Islam and subversive to all Abrahamic religions, administrative judgments relegate Bahá’ís outside the republic’s procedures for proving one’s status in a religious community to which reconverts to Coptic Orthodoxy are subject. Bahá’ís, who also believe in continuous revelation, are excepted from t­ hese procedures largely ­because their cosmology exceeds a conception of religion that is enshrined in Egyptian law. When administrative judges affirm the right of Bahá’ís to procure probative documents that reflect the real­ity of their beliefs, they ensure the integrity of specific orthodox understandings of Chris­ tian­ity and Islam. ­These traditions are understood to be constituted by two distinct faith communities, overseen by regulatory institutions that hold public power, and in which membership is determined at birth and exclusive. The second question that Majlis al-­Dawla has adjudicated is ­whether the CSO has a l­ egal obligation to list a change of religion from Islam to Chris­tian­ ity. This question concerns the ­legal status of converts and reconverts to Coptic Orthodoxy. Whereas the majority of Article 47 cases concern ʿāʾidūn, only two mutanaṣerūn have sought to formalize their conversion on vital rec­ords since the establishment of Majlis al-­Dawla in 1946.8 ʿĀʾidūn and mutanaṣerūn are Muslim by law at the time of their suits, yet administrative judges distinguish between them as separate classes of ­legal persons. The judges articulate a distinction between who is and who is not a Muslim that contravenes the primary sources of the Islamic l­ egal tradition but remains consistent with majoritarian ­legal norms in the Egyptian context. Majlis al-­Dawla has taken an extraordinarily innovative position in allowing Christians who convert to Islam to subsequently return to Chris­tian­ity. Egypt is the only Muslim-­ majority state known to have authorized such a bold stance.9 8. ­These ­were widely publicized in Egyptian and international news media. See, for example, “Wālid miṣriyy yuhadid bi-­qatl ibnhu al-­ladhī iʿtanaq al-­misiḥiyya idhā lam yarjaʿ” [An Egyptian ­father whose son converted to Chris­tian­ity threatens him with death if he does not return], Al-­Arabiyya, January 26, 2008, http://­www​.­alarabiya​.­net​/­articles​/­2008​/­01​/­26​/­4 4732​.­html​.­ Al-­Gohary’s case likewise initiated a media firestorm. See, for example, Christopher Landau, “Egyptian Christian’s Recognition Strug­gle,” BBC, February 13, 2009, http://­news​.­bbc​.­co​.­uk​/­2​ /­hi​/­middle​_­east​/­7888193​.­stm. 9. What I call an “extraordinarily innovative position” pertains to modern and con­temporary judiciaries in Muslim-­majority countries, such as Malaysia, Pakistan, Indonesia, Turkey, and Egypt, where religious affiliation is a compulsory administrative category. And yet, the questions facing Majlis al-­Dawla are not unlike questions adjudicated in other jurisdictions where shariʿa has been not only codified but also enshrined alongside liberal rights within a nation’s constitutional framework. See Brown, Constitutions in a Nonconstitutional World; Hirschl,

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The jurisprudence that developed is remarkable for several reasons. First, whereas Majlis al-­Dawla’s jurisdiction over the bureaucracy is stipulated in statutes and constitutional provisions, the range of cases that fall within its purview is not specified in law.10 Moreover, while the sources of law in civil ­legal systems typically consist of and are o­ rganized hierarchically by legislation, regulations, and custom, administrative judges routinely rely in their reasoning on Article 2 of the constitution, which designates shariʿa the principal source of Egyptian law.11 Constitutional provisions are superseding statutes in the hierarchy of the sources of law and thereby making administrative law a domain in which constitutionalism is increasingly debated. Administrative judges further conjoin the concepts of public order (al-­niẓām al-­ʿām) and shariʿa to defend values that they deem essential to social cohesion and that they purport a majority of Egyptians hold.12 Although the conjoining of shariʿa and public order differs from one class of complainants to another, it Constitutional Theocracy; Lombardi and Brown, “Do Constitutions Requiring Adherence to Shari‘a Threaten ­Human Rights?”; Moustafa, Constituting Religion. In such contexts, shariʿa implementation often defines states’ identities, raises questions about the compliance of substantive laws with shariʿa establishment clauses, and provides a vocabulary that diverse social actors can use to compete for the power to adjudicate religious questions. See Hussin, The Politics of Islamic Law; Peletz, “Malaysia’s Syariah Judiciary as Global Assemblage”; Stilt, “Contextualizing Constitutional Islam”; Zeghal, “The Implicit Sharia.” 10. The jurisdiction of Majlis al-­Dawla has been articulated in Egypt’s constitution since 1956. The 1971 constitution significantly expanded the scope of state actions over which Majlis al-­ Dawla exercises jurisdiction, and subsequent constitutions have further elaborated on this scope. Law 47 of 1972 additionally governs the functions of Majlis al-­Dawla. 11. Article 1 of the Egyptian Civil Code outlines the interpretive sources to be used by judges in the event of a legislative lacuna. Shariʿa is the third source of law ­after the code itself and customary law, and yet Article 1 does not enumerate or explain which princi­ples of shariʿa are admissible in such circumstances. While shariʿa has been a source of law in the civil code since its promulgation in 1949, it became a source of legislation in the 1971 constitution and subsequently the principal source of legislation in 1980 following a constitutional amendment. 12. Public order as a ­legal concept originates in private international law and was incorporated into the domestic laws of vari­ous states in the late nineteenth c­ entury. See Mills, “The Private History of International Law.” As Maurits Berger has shown, judges in modern Egypt invoke public order to justify exceptions to l­egal norms like procedural fairness and equality ­under the law. See Berger, “Public Policy and Islamic Law”; Berger, “Apostasy and Public Policy in Con­temporary Egypt”; Berger, “Regulating Tolerance.” The public order doctrine in Egyptian law, which is derived from Article 6 of the French Civil Code, permits judges to dissolve a contractual obligation between two parties—­including one entered into between state agencies and ordinary citizens—if the judges determine that the motivation ­behind such an agreement

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is significant that ­these concepts are continually invoked, together, across the entire range of Article 47 jurisprudence. Their simultaneous invocation alerts us to the normative framework used by judges to resolve difficult l­egal questions. The order of revelation is used by administrative judges alongside the public order concept to both authorize the return of Muslim converts to Coptic Orthodoxy and refuse the conversion of born Muslims to Coptic Orthodoxy. Enshrined in the constitution of Egypt, this order holds that Chris­tian­ity supersedes Judaism, and Islam not only supersedes Judaism and Chris­tian­ity but is also the last and most perfect of the “revealed religions.” When the courts interpolate born Muslims as forever bound to their patrilineal descent, they ultimately rest their rulings in this normative order. Whereas administrative courts are categorically reticent to compel administrative bodies to permit conversion of born Muslims to Coptic Orthodoxy, t­ hese same courts nevertheless invoke the order of revelation when the complainant in question was not born to a Muslim f­ ather; they allow complainants born to Coptic f­ athers with prior affiliations with the Coptic Church to return to their original status and community. The order of revelation as enshrined in Egyptian national institutions is the prevailing framework for social ­organization. It remains largely unchanged in the con­temporary period—­sufficiently flexible to recognize Bahá’í difference but not enough to allow the possibility of religion beyond the Abrahamic traditions. ——— A Bahá’í ­couple, Husam Musa and Ranya Rushdi, filed an administrative suit in 2004 against the Interior Ministry a­ fter their passports and identity cards w ­ ere confiscated. The c­ ouple had applied to add the names of their three d­ aughters as dependents on their passports. The original complaint alleged that the confiscation ­violated constitutional provisions and international h­ uman rights protocols, but Musa and Rushdi l­ater pursued the case on dif­fer­ent grounds. They amended their complaint to stay the execution of the negative decision concerning the administrative body’s refusal to issue them and their d­ aughters identity cards with the word “Bahá’í” in the compulsory religion field and the refusal to issue birth certificates for their ­daughters that reflect the same. breaches public interests. Article 6 of the French Civil Code states, “Statutes relating to public order and morals may not be derogated from by private agreements.”

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On April 4, 2006, the Court of Administrative Justice (CAJ) annulled the negative administrative decision on account of its invalidity. The CAJ ordered the Civil Registry (al-sijil al-madaniyy) to issue the plaintiffs identity cards and birth certificates for their d­ aughters with the word “Bahá’í.” The judgment reasoned: Provisions of shariʿa require a disclosure that would allow [a distinction to be made] between the Muslim and non-­Muslim in the exercise of social life, so as to establish the range of the rights and obligations reserved to Muslims that ­others cannot avail [themselves] of, for ­these [rights and obligations] are inconsistent with their beliefs. Thus, the obligation prescribed by the Law of Civil Status no. 143 of 1994 concerning the issuance of an identity card to ­every Egyptian on which appears his name and religion and the same on birth certificates is a requirement of Islamic shariʿa. It is not inconsistent with Islamic tenets to mention the religion on a person’s card even though it may be a religion whose rites are not recognized for open practice, such as the Bahá’í Faith and the like. On the contrary, t­ hese [religions] must be indicated so that the status of its ­bearer is known and so he cannot enjoy a ­legal status to which his belief does not entitle him in a Muslim society. It is not for the Civil Registry to refrain from issuing identity cards or birth certificates to the followers of the Bahá’í Faith, nor is it up to such registry to leave out the mention of this religion on their identity cards.13 This argument establishes the administrative body’s l­egal obligation to issue vital rec­ords to all Egyptians, even if they are not Muslim. It further suggests that recording the presence of non-­Muslims enables the republic to lawfully deny them the status and privileges to which only Muslims, Christians, and Jews are entitled. No less significant in the ruling is an acknowl­edgment that allowing an applicant to indicate the affiliation that he or she professes bolsters state interest in the religious configuration of the population. The April 2006 CAJ ruling was ­later appealed. Attorneys for the state made three claims: (a) the judgment misappropriated the law and was based on insufficient l­ egal reasoning, (b) it was delivered u­ nder an abrogated civil status law which the 1994 Civil Status Law had replaced, and (c) it ignored the unan­ i­mous scholarship and formal opinions from leading religious authorities that the Bahá’í Faith is excluded from the “divine” or “heavenly religions” (al-­adyān al-­samāwiyya), which translates also as the “revealed religions” in reference to the ­monotheistic, Abrahamic traditions. While the Supreme Administrative 13. Court of Administrative Justice no. 24044, Judicial Year 45, April 4, 2006.

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Court (SAC) dismissed the first two claims, it did consider w ­ hether the CAJ had ignored the extent to which the practice of the Bahá’í Faith infringes on the established order of the state. To address this claim, the SAC relied on Articles 12 and 13 of the 1923 constitution wherein “the former stipulated that the freedom of belief is absolute, but the latter stated that the state protects the freedom of practicing the rites of religions and beliefs in accordance with the observed customs of Egypt, on condition that they do not violate the public order or morals.” The SAC discussed the historical provenance of t­ hese articles, finding that they w ­ ere established to protect Islam, Chris­tian­ity, and Judaism from the invention or introduction of any other religion into Egyptian society. Articles 12 and 13 of the 1923 constitution ­were ­later subsumed into Article 43 of the 1956 constitution, Article 34 of the 1964 constitution, and Article 46 of the 1971 constitution. The SAC concluded that the princi­ple of public order has been enshrined in each of Egypt’s constitutions. The SAC further considered the relationship between the two clauses—­the guarantees of freedom of belief and the freedom to practice religious rites—­ that comprise Article 46. It reasoned that while “­every ­human being has the right to believe in the religion or belief that satisfies his conscience and pleases his soul,” Article 46 protects the expression of religious rites only for adherents of Islam, Chris­tian­ity, and Judaism. The SAC concluded that Bahá’ís are entitled to maintain their beliefs privately but may not practice their rites publicly. ­Doing so, the court argued, would undermine the established social order and public morals: Other than [Islam, Chris­tian­ity, and Judaism] (such as the Bahá’í Faith or ­others), which the scholars ( fuqahāʾ) of the nation and the successive rulings of both the constitutional and administrative courts unanimously agreed are not among the heavenly religions, and which thus dissent from Islam as well as the religions of the book (Chris­tian­ity and Judaism), their recording in ­either the documents of the Civil Status ­Organization—[documents] which are mentioned in the Civil Status Law, including the documents u­ nder consideration—or in any other official documents issued by the government administration that requires the mention of religion—is not allowed.14 The court further found that conferring state recognition to the Bahá’í Faith would disturb public order “in a country whose foundation and origin are based on Islamic shariʿa.” On December 16, 2006, the SAC reversed the lower 14. Supreme Administrative Court nos. 16834 and 18971, Judicial Year 52, December 16, 2006.

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court’s April 2006 decision, finding that the Interior Ministry had no obligation to authorize the writing of “Bahá’í” on probative documents. Two other cases brought by Bahá’í complainants ­were being considered by Majlis al-­Dawla around the same time. Dr. Rauf Hindi was challenging the Interior Ministry’s refusal to issue his twin son and d­ aughter birth certificates that indicate “Bahá’í” in the religion field. Egyptian c­ hildren are prohibited from enrolling in public schools without birth certificates that conform to the computerized system introduced in the mid-1990s. Hindi was only able to obtain birth certificates in 1993 when the c­ hildren ­were born and when the old system allowed bureaucrats to handwrite “Other” or “Bahá’í” in the compulsory religion field. The other case against the Interior Ministry was brought by Hosni Nagib ʿAbdel Massih on behalf of his son, Hussein, a student in the Social Science Institute at the University of Suez. Hussein’s registration was suspended on account of his failure to pre­sent a national identity card to university authorities as needed to justify his continued enrollment. Although Hussein had attempted to procure an ID card, the CSO ignored his request. When in December 2006 the SAC found that the Interior Ministry had no ­legal obligation to issue identity documents stating a Bahá’í religious affiliation, Hindi and ʿAbdel Massih modified their claims in cooperation with EIPR attorneys. The issue before the CAJ became ­w hether Bahá’ís have a right to procure vital rec­ords without any stated religious affiliation. On January 29, 2008, the court handed down a decision on both suits using the same reasoning: In keeping with the princi­ple of not forcing any citizen to embrace a divine religion if his personal documents do not bear any mention of any of the three divine religions, issuing a national identity card with no space for religion or with a symbol indicating that he does not belong to any of the three divine religions for such a person would conform with the law and real­ity. The right to practice religious rites of such persons should be confined to the privacy of their homes with no right to have h­ ouses of worship considering that the ­legal building of ­houses of worship is ­limited to the believers of the three divine religions recognized by the state. This is especially so ­after the judgment of the Supreme Court on 1/3/1975 in case no. 7/2 J., which examined the constitutionality of Decree 263 of 1960 concerning the dissolution of Bahá’í assemblies. In that case the court concluded that the constitutional guarantee of freedom of belief is l­ imited to

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the followers of the three divine religions and that the exercise of Bahá’í rites is against the public order essentially based on Islamic shariʿa.15 The CAJ clarified that its judgment does not confer recognition to the Bahá’í Faith but rather offers a means to identify a distinct class of persons. Identifying Bahá’ís using a dash (-) in the administrative field reserved for religion serves two purposes, reasoned the court. The dash is a courtesy extended to a group of citizens who already possess vital rec­ords on which they w ­ ere mistakenly marked “Bahá’í.” In addition, “the law as it stands does not conflict with putting a dash in the space reserved for religion for ­those who previously had been issued documents without mention of religion.” This underscores the court’s finding that the Bahá’í Faith is not a religion. The administrative agency had allegedly erred in compelling Bahá’ís “to write down one of the divine religions” as d­ oing so “would pre­sent a grave prejudice to the religion that ­will be untruly recorded.” On March 16, 2009, the SAC upheld the 2008 CAJ decision. Interior Minister Habib al-­Adly thereafter issued a decree complying with the SAC ruling. The decree went into effect on April 14, 2009. It specified that Bahá’ís may obtain government documents without affiliating with one of the state-­ recognized religions. That summer, the first computerized ID cards with a dash in the religion field ­were issued to the Hindi twins (figures 2.1 and 2.2). Although the 2009 SAC decision was lauded as a victory for h­ uman rights, it has ­limited applicability. To date, only Bahá’ís previously marked as such in their probative documents or who can prove that a blood relative is Bahá’í are authorized to indicate a dash on their vital rec­ords. Even u­ nder favorable circumstances, such an inscription is highly contingent on bureaucratic compliance. Litigation over the right to indicate a religious affiliation that coheres with an individual’s self-­proclaimed identity has not resolved other administrative predicaments that Bahá’ís face. Chief among ­these is the republic’s ongoing refusal to recognize Bahá’í marriage as transformative of individual civil status. Just as ­there is an administrative field for religion on citizens’ probative documents, ­there is also a field for marital status (khānat al-ḥāla al-­ijtimāʿiyya). C ­ ouples who marry according to Bahá’í religious law are not considered husband and wife according to Egyptian law. The nonrecognition of Bahá’í marriage means that ­those who commence such ­unions are considered single in the eyes of the republic, even in the event of their dissolution, which carries additional social 15. Court of Administrative Justice no. 18354, Judicial Year 58, January 29, 2008; Court of Administrative Justice no. 12780, Judicial Year 61, January 29, 2008.

figure 2.1. National ID card issued to Imad Rauf Hindi on August 8, 2009, showing a “dash” on the back in the field reserved for religious affiliation. Source: Bahá’í World News ­Service.

figure 2.2. National ID card issued to Nancy Rauf Hindi on August 8, 2009, showing a “dash” on the back in the field reserved for religious affiliation. Source: Bahá’í World News ­Service.

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consequences especially for Bahá’í w ­ omen who bear c­ hildren during t­ hese ­unions. Parents of Bahá’í c­ hildren face administrative dilemmas when they seek to register births with the Health Ministry. Moreover, c­ hildren born to Bahá’í parents experience ongoing ­legal precarity in the domains of custody and inheritance.16 ——— Official conversion ­until 1994 was a one-­way street or, as l­ awyer Fadi Ibrahim explained, “a path that led but did not return (tarīq yiwadī may gibsh).” Copts who converted to Islam had no ­legal route to reconvert, and yet the number of individuals wishing to return to Coptic Orthodoxy was on the rise. In 1994, pursuant to instructions from the Coptic Orthodox Church, Fadi and other Coptic ­lawyers studied the Civil Status Law and suggested that Article 47 (2) could facilitate the lawful return to Coptic Orthodoxy. Article 47 (2) allows for citizens to change or correct their religious affiliation on vital rec­ords pursuant to “the authority of rulings or documents issued by the competent body (jihat al-­ikhtiṣāṣ).” ­After careful study of the law, Fadi interpreted Article 47 (2) to mean that the Coptic Church could serve as the “competent body.” The Church thereafter created a form called a certificate of return (shahādat ʿawda) that it would issue to t­ hose who sought formal reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy. Fadi proceeded to articulate the reconverts’ complaints as justiciable claims. The vast majority of Article 47 cases w ­ ere not de­cided ­until 2004 or l­ater. What accounts for the decade-­long lag between the implementation of the Civil Status Law and the first administrative court verdicts? A ­ fter all, paper identity cards had been in use at least since the 1940s, even if the ­legal route for reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy became pos­si­ble only in 1994. At the same time that Fadi and his circle of rights advocates negotiated the legality of reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy, the Egyptian government was switching to a computerized system of data collection and rec­ord production. This ­process included the digitization of national identity cards and birth certificates, among other vital rec­ords, and the assignment of a unique national number, called a raqam qawmī, to ­every Egyptian citizen. In light of ­these developments, 16. The significant barriers to civil registration that Bahá’ís continue to face are discussed in Chris Creech, Hope Modugno, and Raven Pitarra, “The Campaign to End Statelessness in Egypt,” Boston University School of Law International ­Human Rights Clinic, https://­www​.­bu​ .­edu​/­law​/­files​/­2022​/­07​/­Egypt​-­Report​_­Eng​.­​_­final​.­pdf.

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attorneys advised clients who anticipated filing administrative cases to first surrender their paper ID cards and to acquire computerized ones. A Coptic convert to Islam who held a paper ID card bearing a Muslim affiliation would surrender this card and instead obtain a computerized ID card that also bears a Muslim affiliation. The ­lawyers would then work to amend the information on ­these cards rather than the paper-­based ones. The period between 2004 and 2011 consisted of both judicial victories and reversals for ʿāʾidūn. The lower administrative court cases de­cided between 2004 and 2006 generally found in ­favor of the petitioners whereas ­those de­ cided between 2007 and 2008 generally found in ­favor of the state.17 In 2008, the SAC handed down a landmark ruling that reversed this trend. The ruling held that “recording a change in religious affiliation from Islam to Chris­tian­ity in the facts of a person’s identification card does not constitute an acknowledgment of what that person has done b­ ecause an apostate’s act is not to be ­acknowledged (lā yuqarr ʿalā riddatihi) according to the princi­ples of Islamic shariʿa. . . . ​R ather, this is in deference to the imperatives of the modern state, which require that each citizen possess a document establishing his civil status, including religious affiliation.” The court found that it is incumbent on the CSO to rec­ord a fact for which sufficient documentation establishing that fact has been provided by the competent bodies. The sufficient documentation to which the judgment refers is a certificate of return from the Coptic Orthodox Church attesting to the plaintiff ’s a­ cceptance “as a d­ aughter of the Christian religion.” According to this reasoning, a Church certificate is what establishes and brings about an individual’s ­legal status, not the administrative rec­ords produced by the Interior Ministry. The verdict likened the recording of a change of religious affiliation to recording the facts of marriage: “The rec­ord is not which brings about the l­egal status resulting from marriage . . . ​the fact of marriage may only be recorded if a marriage has in fact happened and the essential ele­ments of marriage have been completed.”18 Although the CSO argued that recording changes from Islam to Chris­tian­ity ­violated public order, the 2008 SAC ruling found instead that not recording information that expresses the a­ ctual status of the citizen is what constitutes a public-­order violation. The danger posed by misidentifying individual religious affiliation is especially grave, reasoned the court, “for it results in societal 17. For a h­ uman rights analy­sis of t­ hese cases, see Hamad, “­Legal Plurality and Legitimation of ­Human Rights Abuses” and El Fegiery, “Islamic Law and Freedom of Religion.” 18. Supreme Administrative Court nos. 12794 and 16766, Judicial Year 51, February 9, 2008.

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interactions with that person that are at odds with the religion he professes, whose rites he strives to perform.” The decision established that the information on a citizen’s ID card, including religious affiliation, is the basis of his or her civil status. The CSO must rec­ord the citizen’s religious affiliation and any change that occurs to it, provided the religion listed is one of the three recognized religions. The court ruled in ­favor of the petitioner, finding that the requirements for demonstrating the real­ity of her religious affiliation had been established. It compelled the CSO to rec­ord a Christian affiliation on the complainant’s identity card and birth certificate, and required that ­these documents display a reference to her prior adoption of Islam. As the SAC is the highest court in the Majlis al-­Dawla hierarchy, its 2008 decision was supposed to put an end to administrative litigation overʿāʾidūn amending their formal religious affiliation from Muslim to Christian. However, the 2008 SAC decision was only implemented in the case of the petitioner who filed the suit.19 Within a few weeks of the decision, a lower court, the CAJ, not only heard another suit on the same question but also invoked Article 29 of the Supreme Constitutional Court (SCC) Law 48 of 1979 to suspend and refer the suit to the SCC for an opinion on the constitutionality of Article 47 (2). The CAJ held that the petitioner’s reliance on Article 47 (2) to contest the Interior Ministry’s refusal to change his religious affiliation from Islam to Chris­tian­ity pointed to several defects that inhere in the Civil Status Law. The phrase “change of religious affiliation,” which appears in the absolute in Article 47 (2), was said to conflict with Article 2 of the constitution. Rather than address the constitutional significance attributed to Islam in relation to other guarantees of ­legal equality and religious freedom, the CAJ instead asserted that constitutional clauses “do not contradict, oppose, or conflict with one another; rather, they complement one another within a framework of organic unity that ­organizes them by reconciling their vari­ous provisions and aligning them with the higher values that the community, in its dif­fer­ent stages of development, believes in.”20

19. This ruling was one of several handed down by the SAC in February 2008. See, for example, Supreme Administrative Court nos. 13198 and 13496, Judicial Year 53, February 9, 2008. They collectively authorized more than forty ʿāʾidūn to rec­ord their reconversion on vital rec­ ords. Yet the ruling in each case was restricted to the petitioner and not applicable to ʿāʾidūn as a single ­legal class. 20. Court of Administrative Justice no. 444, Judicial Year 61, March 4, 2008.

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The court also took issue with the meaning of ­legal equality that was used to justify the petitioner’s right to change religious affiliation. It held that “the princi­ple of equality does not mean equivalence of all aspects of all individuals even when their l­ egal statuses differ, as in total equality of outcome (musāwā ḥisābiyya muṭlaqa); rather, this princi­ple means ­there is no discrimination or differentiation between individuals of a single group.” Insofar as the complainant declares his belief in Islam, reasoned the court, he must abide by the precepts of the Islamic faith, “foremost among them the prohibition of apostasy from this religion to another.” Whoever converts to Islam “is thus equal in his obligations to someone born Muslim of two Muslim parents who announces his apostasy from Islam.” The reasoning also rejected the petitioner’s reliance on the Universal Declaration of ­Human Rights “on the basis that, when the exigencies of the public order in the country—­which derives primarily from Islamic shariʿa—­dictate that adoption of religion be regulated in a certain manner, legislators are bound by this when regulating the adoption of religion.”21 We ­will recall that no statute on conversion exists to regulate change of religion; the SAC decision of just one month prior held that not recording a change of religion from Islam to Chris­tian­ity constitutes a public-­order violation. The reasoning in this case thus highlights deep disagreements within the administrative judiciary about what counts as lawful conversion and the extent to which the statutory right to amend religious status conflicts with the constitution’s Islamic establishment clause. The SCC Commissioners Authority, which consists of ­junior judges who submit advisory opinions on cases referred to the court, held a preparatory hearing in July 2008 concerning the constitutionality of Article 47 (2). Following the submission of advisory opinions from the Commissioners Authority, SCC judges w ­ ere expected to begin hearings on the ­matter l­ ater that year. To date, however, the SCC has not ruled on the constitutionality of Article 47 (2). By the end of 2008 administrative litigation reached a standstill and the enormous backlog of lawsuits against the Interior Ministry continued to grow.22 Majlis al-­Dawla waited ­until 2011 to offer a conclusive opinion on ­these cases 21. Among the international documents cited in this and other Article 47 cases are the Declaration on the Elimination of All Forms of Intolerance and of Discrimination Based on Religion or Belief, the Arab Charter on H ­ uman Rights, and the African Charter on H ­ uman and P ­ eoples’ Rights. 22. By September 2014, the law office of Fadi Ibrahim alone filed four thousand petitions challenging the Interior Ministry’s implementation of Article 47.

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despite the absence of a SCC decision. It was also in 2011 that the SAC compelled the Interior Ministry to find an administrative solution for the prob­lem of ʿāʾidūn as a single l­ egal class.23 The Interior Minister complied by issuing a decree to ease the p­ rocess of return. This decree diminished the role of the administrative courts—­effectively sidestepping them altogether—in addressing the legality of changes to religious affiliation from Islam to Chris­tian­ity for ­those born to Coptic f­ athers. Whereas Article 47 (2) allows citizens to amend their religious affiliation by pursuing a ruling from a competent court or documentation from a competent authority, the ministerial decree nullified ave­ nues for change of religion by means of administrative litigation. Reconverts to Coptic Orthodoxy no longer need to provide a court decision authorizing their return in order for the CSO to fulfill their requests. The change of religious affiliation from Islam to Chris­tian­ity for ʿāʾidūn is now contingent on procuring two documents (figures 2.3 and 2.4). One is the certificate of return from the Coptic Orthodox Church, which the ministerial decree refers to as the “competent religious authority” (al-­jiha al-­dīniyya al-­mukhtaṣa). This certificate attests to the applicant’s admittance to Church membership and is treated as sufficient proof of the applicant’s status. The other document is a report on criminal rec­ord (saḥifat ḥāla al-­jināʾiyya), which proves that the applicant neither committed a crime while holding a Muslim status nor is the subject of a criminal sentence. If the applicant is married to a Muslim w ­ oman, he is required to notify her of his intention to reconvert by way of a registered letter prior to filing his reconversion request. ­These documents are then submitted to the CSO, at which time a committee authorizes the modification of his papers or, as Fadi put it, “It returns him” (bit raggaʿhu). While the 2011 ministerial decree halted administrative litigation on changing religious affiliation from Islam to Chris­tian­ity for ʿāʾidūn, it has generated other administrative dilemmas for the ­children of ʿāʾidūn. Referred to in ­legal and ­popular discourse as awlād al-­ʿāʾidūn, their religious affiliation is automatically changed to Muslim following their f­ ather’s initial conversion, and they are put in a l­egal class dictated by that conversion. As shown in the case of Hosna and Hassan e­ arlier in this book, awlād al-­ʿāʾidūn are Muslim by law; ­there is no certificate that can attest to their belonging in the Coptic Orthodox denomination. Whereas a ­father’s certificate of return to Coptic Orthodoxy enables awlād al-­ʿāʾidūn to petition administrative bodies to change their affiliation from Muslim to Christian, the ability of ­these individuals to do so is 23. Supreme Administrative Court no. 5324, Judicial Year 54, July 3, 2011.

figure 2.3. Certificate of return issued by the Coptic Orthodox Church, Cairo, 2011.

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figure 2.4. Report on criminal rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Sector Administration of Public Security, General Directorate of Forensic Evidence Investigation, 2011.

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highly contingent on bureaucratic compliance and often requires retaining ­legal counsel.24 ——— Only two mutanaṣerūn have filed Article 47 cases: Muhammad Hegazy and Maher al-­Gohary.25 Hegazy was the first to challenge the Civil Registry’s refusal to issue him a new identity card bearing a Christian religious affiliation. Like petitioners seeking reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy, he argued that the refusal v­ iolated the provisions of the constitution establishing the princi­ples of equality between citizens and freedom of belief and practice of 24. Article 47 of the Civil Status Law also affects ­children of non-­Muslims who convert to Islam and remain Muslim. Like awlād al-ʿāʾidūn, c­ hildren of converts to Islam become legally Muslim. One example is the case of Andrew and Mario Ramses Labib, twin ­brothers born to Coptic Christian parents and whose ­father allegedly converted to Islam to divorce their ­mother in 1999. Although rules governing divorce in the Coptic Orthodox tradition have changed considerably with shifts in papal leadership, conversion to another denomination or religion has long remained a legitimate reason for divorce. The courts initially granted the f­ ather custody of the c­ hildren, but that decision was remarkably overturned on appeal (Egyptian courts typically grant custody to the Muslim parent). Nevertheless, the f­ ather’s conversion meant that at the age of sixteen the twins would be issued official documents, including birth certificates and national identity cards, bearing a Muslim religious affiliation—­despite the evidence that their ­mother presented in court to prove the twins’ Christian identity and request a change to their status. See Court of Administrative Justice no. 54471, Judicial Year 63, March 30, 2010. 25. The first complainant, Muhammad Hegazy, was arrested and detained in December 2013 on what most civil society groups suggest ­were bogus charges. When in 2008 the Court of Administrative Justice refused to accept Hegazy’s petition against the Interior Ministry, allegedly ­because of the lack of an administrative decision, Hegazy took up work as a journalist in Egypt for vari­ous Coptic satellite channels. He was arrested in 2013 on charges of spreading false news, endangering national security, and insulting religion, the latter of which is a crime u­ nder Article 98 (f) of the Egyptian Penal Code. When Hegazy was released from prison in July 2016, he announced through social media that he had returned to Islam. See “Ba‘d ithārat al-jadl bitaḥwīlhu li-l-misiḥiyya . . . ​Hijāzī yaʿūd li-l-islām” (­After the controversy raised by turning to Chris­tian­ity . . . ​Hegazy returns to Islam), Al-­Jazeera, August 6, 2016, http://­mubasher​.­aljazeera​ .­net​/­news​/­arabic​-­and​-­international​/­2016​/­08​/­201685181942969917​.­htm​.­Accusations of defaming religion sharply increased ­after the uprising on January 25, 2011. See Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, Besieging Freedom of Thought: Defamation of Religion Cases Two Years ­after the Revolution, August 2014, http://­eipr​.­org​/­sites​/­default​/­files​/­reports​/­pdf​/­besieging​_­freedom​ _­of​_­thought​_­0​.­pdf​.­Despite the punitive reactions, attorneys report that Muslim conversions to Coptic Orthodoxy are on the rise. In 2014 an attorney told me that upwards of six thousand mutanaṣerūn have sought his counsel even if they did not ultimately file administrative suits.

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religious rites.26 Hegazy further argued that the decision ­violated the Civil Status Law in addition to vari­ous ­human rights accords to which Egypt is a signatory. The CAJ ultimately ruled not to accept the suit, finding that the Civil Registry was not obligated to consider the plaintiff ’s request on account of the public order. The reasoning is significant for what it shows about the court’s understanding of revelation and its mutually reinforcing—­indeed, constitutive—­relationship to the public order. For example, the judgment held that “Islam, being the religion that a majority of the Egyptian ­people profess, is one whose precepts and princi­ples re­spect the right of the non-­Muslim to embrace any heavenly religion he wishes. Th ­ ose same precepts also forbid anyone who has entered Islam and practiced its rites from leaving the faith, given its status as the last of the heavenly religions. This has become a facet of the public order which we must re­spect.”27 The judgment ignores the twofold fact that religious affiliation, and therefore ­legal status, is conferred through ties of filiation in Egypt, and that only t­ hose not born to Muslim ­fathers are able to adopt Islam as a religious affiliation and a ­legal status. Egyptians born to Muslim ­fathers are marked as Muslim on their vital rec­ords regardless of their wishes. This 2008 CAJ judgment invokes the order of revelation to answer the question presented to it, asserting, “­Those who profess Judaism are invited to embrace the subsequently revealed Chris­tian­ity, and ­those who embrace Chris­tian­ity are invited to embrace Islam (the last of the religions). The opposite, in any case, is incorrect according to both the w ­ ill of God in his arrangement of the revelation of His heavenly religions and Egyptian public order and mores.” Non-­Muslims in this formulation are always aspiring ­toward Islam, whose wisdom born Muslims are said to inherit and to which they are eternally bound. As a general m ­ atter, then, judges who adjudicate Article 47 cases merge precepts of shariʿa and the concept of public order to restrict mobility between groups that undermines distributions of rights sanctioned by the state and, allegedly, by the divine. This judicial practice has developed despite the inconclusiveness within Islamic theology and the Islamic ­legal tradition on what the punishment for apostasy should be in this life.28 26. Court of Administrative Justice no. 35647, Judicial Year 61, January 29, 2008. 27. Ibid. 28. For a discussion of premodern and modern applications of Islamic prohibitions on apostasy, see An-­Na‘im, “The Islamic Law of Apostasy and Its Modern Applicability”; Johansen, “Apostasy as Objective and Depersonalized Fact”; Peters and De Vries, “Apostasy in Islam”; Saeed and Saeed, Freedom of Religion.

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In one of the boldest examples of how administrative judges have ascribed to themselves the role of guardians of the public order and qualified interpreters of shariʿa, the judgment in the Hegazy case acknowledged and si­mul­ta­ neously dismissed as irrelevant the fact that no statute on apostasy exists. The court further denied the relevance of an authoritative religious opinion on the ­matter, finding it sufficient that as a general fact apostasy is forbidden in Islam: While Islamic scholars differ on the required punishment—if any—­for apostasy, none deny the gravity of the apostate’s crime and assault on Islam ­after having entered the religion willingly. And while Egyptian legislation lacks a text that explic­itly outlines the act of and punishment for this crime, an administrative judge, on assuming his constitutional and legislative role of settling administrative disputes related to what an apostate claims is a right of his, need not stand about waiting for a cleric or religious o­ rganization to issue a fatwa no ­matter the religious nature of the case. Rather, it is his duty to concern himself with the public order, which is grievously wounded by the harm the sins of apostasy and deviation from Islamic precepts cause to the official national religion a majority of the Egyptian ­people has taken to heart—­especially when the apostate pre­sents himself to an administrative body requesting that it validate his malfeasance and corrupt tendencies.29 Notwithstanding the fact that Hegazy did not choose the Muslim religious affiliation to which he is legally bound, the court denied his motion to consider an opinion by the Egyptian state religious establishment on the question of apostasy. This opinion was delivered in July 2007, just one month before Hegazy filed his suit by the then g­ rand mufti of Egypt, Ali Gomaa. Gomaa offered his views on apostasy as part of the “On Faith” proj­ect of the Washington Post. The proj­ect hosted an online forum consisting of sixty leading scholars, politicians, and clerics from around the world who responded to a series of questions about the impact of religion on con­temporary affairs. Titled “Muslims Speak Out,” the online discussion held in collaboration with Georgetown University and the Pew Foundation on Religion and Public Life specifically asked Muslim authorities to clarify Islam’s views on vio­lence, ­human rights, and interfaith relations. In response to the question “Can a person who is Muslim choose a religion other than Islam?” Gomaa replied, “The answer is yes, they can, b­ ecause the Qurʾan says, ‘Unto you your religion, and unto me my religion,’ (Qurʾan, 109:6) and, ‘Whosoever ­will, let him believe, 29. Court of Administrative Justice no. 35647, Judicial Year 61, January 29, 2008.

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and whosoever ­will, let him disbelieve,’ (Qurʾan, 18:29) and, ‘­There is no compulsion in religion. The right direction is distinct from error’ (Qurʾan, 2:256).” Gomaa’s opinion suggests that ­there are sufficient sources within the Islamic ­legal tradition to justify an expansive reading of Article 47 (2). Such a reading would permit any Egyptian, regardless of religious affiliation at birth, to not only change this affiliation but also rec­ord it on vital documents. However, Article 47 (2) makes such an amendment conditional on rulings or documents issued by a competent court or religious authority. Legally changing one’s religious affiliation thus requires the complainant to furnish sufficient evidence that a change of religion has occurred. Hegazy’s suit failed to meet the full standard of proof as outlined in the law; he did not submit any documentation that attested to the fact of his conversion to Chris­tian­ity. Presumably, the Coptic Orthodox Church—­insofar as it has been recognized as competent to attest to an individual’s membership in the Church—­could have provided this documentation. The CAJ would consider the extent of this competence in Maher al-­Gohary’s case, just months following the dismissal of Hegazy’s suit. Maher al-­Gohary was born to two Muslim parents and informally converted to Coptic Orthodoxy in 1973. He brought his first suit in August 2008 on behalf of himself and in his capacity as the natu­ral guardian of his ­daughter. Al-­Gohary requested the court order a change in religious affiliation from Islam to Chris­ tian­ity—­pursuant to Article 47 (2)—on his and his ­daughter’s birth certificates and national ID cards. Al-­Gohary filed a second suit in February 2009 in which he requested the court revoke the CSO’s decision to refrain from taking steps to amend his name and religious affiliation from Maher Ahmad al-­Muʿtasim Billah al-­Gohary, Muslim, to Peter Athnasios ʿAbd al-­Masih, Christian. The CAJ ruled on both petitions in June 2009.30 Al-­Gohary’s statement drew heavi­ly on the judicial reasoning from the February 2008 SAC decision that compelled the CSO to rec­ord the change of religion from Muslim to Christian for ʿāʾidūn. He argued that previous SAC rulings affirmed the obligation of the administrative body to rec­ord any changes that occur to citizenship and religious affiliation, and that such a rec­ord is not considered in any way an admission or a­ cceptance of the information’s accuracy, nor does it establish l­ egal status; rather, it is a report of an undeniable real­ity, and to not rec­ord this fact conflicts with the public order. Drawing on the growing jurisprudence of Article 47 cases, attorneys for the complainant further argued that recording the change in religious affiliation from Islam to Chris­tian­ity on an identity card does not constitute an 30. Court of Administrative Justice nos. 53717 and 22566, Judicial Year 63, June 13, 2009.

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acknowl­edgment of the apostate’s act, for an apostate’s act is not to be acknowledged (lā yuqarr ʿalā riddatihi) according to the princi­ples of shariʿa. The court held that Article 47 (2) “included the absolute right to change one’s religious affiliation information, without legislators having specified any limitations.” Yet the court also said that legislators did require a set of procedures, conditions, rules, and documents that must be satisfied in order for the administrative body to take ­measures to issue a decision to change the stated religious affiliation and name on a birth certificate and national ID card. “­These conditions,” the court explained, “do not relate to establishing belief, which remains entirely between a worshipper and his Lord, and does not need to be established. However, the conditions do concern the requirements of l­ egal regulation for establishing the specified information in a citizen’s probative documents, due to it having ­legal repercussions when it comes to interacting with o­ thers in m ­ atters of ­family such as marriage, divorce, and inheritance, the effects of which differ depending on religion and sect.”31 The conditions enumerated in the ruling are as follows. First, an application for a change of religious affiliation must be presented to the competent civil ­registry department (qism al-sijil al-madaniyy).32 Second, the supporting documents for the application for a change of religious affiliation must be attached—­ either a ruling of a change of religious affiliation from the competent court or a certificate of change of religious affiliation by the competent body.33 Third, the competent civil registry department establishes the essence of the ruling made by the competent court or of the certificate issued by the competent body and then issues a decision to make the change and notifies the information department of the decision so that it may carry out the change. Lastly, the competent civil registry department is informed of the change to the information, and the application, along with the ruling or certificate and a notification of the change, is sent to the Civil Status Police for review.34 31. Ibid. 32. Pursuant to Article 47 (2) of the Civil Status Law and the First Section of Article 30 of the Executive Regulations and the Application for Name Change and Application for Change/ Correction to Rec­ord forms published as attachments to the Executive Regulations on pages 50 and 51 of al-Waqāʾiʿ al-Miṣriyya issue 50, appendix, February 27, 1995. 33. Pursuant to Article 47 (2) of the Civil Status Law and the first clause ­under the First Section and the first, third, and sixth clauses ­under the Second Section of Article 30 of the Executive Regulations. 34. Pursuant to Article 47 (2) of the law and the Second and Third Sections of Article 30 of the Executive Regulations.

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The court in al-­Gohary’s case examined the basis for establishing a change of religion, ­whether it derives from rulings issued by the competent court or from documents issued by the competent administrative body. The examination sought to determine the scope of regulation for rulings and documents, and the extent to which ­either is pre­sent in the case, in accordance with the prescribed formal, procedural, and substantive conditions for establishing ­either one of the two. The judgment held that “a close study of the positive legislation and the laws governing the regulation of issues of personal status for Muslims and non-­ Muslims . . . ​makes it clear that neither one contains any regulation of the issue of changing religions. It also makes clear that exclusive jurisdiction for this has been specified for the courts at all levels, with no one court singled out for jurisdiction to ruling on changes to religious affiliation.”35 Finding that the legislation did not recognize a court with jurisdiction over changes to religious affiliation and did not regulate the procedures for obtaining this change, the judgment stated that “the basis for realizing [a court ruling] is absent.” The court thereafter considered w ­ hether al-­Gohary had produced the certificate required by law to establish a change of religion. It held that religious belief “is a spiritual issue, one in which verdicts are based on verbal statements, and the seriousness, motives, or c­ auses of which a judge is not justified to examine.” But it also asserted that a change of religious affiliation always needs to be established “­under the system of the state, its legislated princi­ples, and the rights of ­others and the effects resulting from a change to the information in rec­ords of civil status.” The February 2008 SAC decision recognized the Coptic Orthodox Church as the competent body for issuing certification of reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy for ʿāʾidūn. To the extent that ʿāʾidūn and mutanaṣerūn are Muslim by law at the time of filing their suits, one might expect the Church’s competence to extend to both groups. However, the court held: The Patriarchate of the Church of St. Mark may be able to issue certificates stating the religious affairs of adherents of the Coptic Orthodox 35. The judgment refers to Law 1 of 2000 regulating certain conditions and procedures for litigating personal status issues, as well as the Personal Status Regulations of the Orthodox Copts, ­adopted by the General Congregation Council (al-­majlis al-millī al-­ʿām) in a session convened on May 9, 1938, in effect as of July 8, 1938, and amended by Decree of the Coptic Orthodox Patriarchate/General Congregation Council no. 1 of 2008. See al-­Waqāʾiʿ al-­Miṣriyya, issue 126, June 2, 2008. ­These regulations ­were further amended following a landmark Majlis al-­Dawla decision in 2008 requiring Pope Shenouda III, then patriarch of the Coptic Orthodox Church, to grant a divorced Orthodox Copt a license to remarry. See Bernard-­Maugiron, “Divorce and Remarriage of Orthodox Copts in Egypt.”

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denomination and which ones change from one denomination to another, but it is clearly not competent to take any ­measure of any kind that involves a Muslim changing his religious affiliation to Chris­tian­ity. Moreover, it is not competent to issue any certificates confirming that this change has occurred, as neither laws nor Church regulations have established any competency in this regard. Legislators, then, have not specified the body that is competent to issue a certificate of a change of religion from Islam to Chris­ tian­ity. . . . ​The patriarchate may have the authority of Church recognition for ­those who practice the religious rites . . . ​but when it comes to the l­ egal system, it has no authority to change a person’s religion by expelling him from ­whatever faith he has ­adopted, even in accordance to his wishes, and entering him into another faith for which the patriarchate is responsible so long as the law does not ascribe this competency to it.36 Two documents presented by the complainant as evidence of his conversion to Chris­tian­ity ­were thus found insufficient to effect a change of status. One was an unofficial certificate of baptism that the petitioner obtained from the Holy Church of St. John, part of the Holy Metropolis of Limassol in Cyprus. A second document was a written request to transfer from the Greek Orthodox denomination and be admitted into the Coptic Orthodox denomination signed by a priest from the Qalyubia governorate in Egypt. The court dismissed the l­egal admissibility of t­ hese documents by specifying that within the Coptic Orthodox Church, only the patriarch may confer membership in the Coptic Orthodox denomination. The court in the al-­Gohary case further addressed the applicability of a previous SAC ruling authorizing reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy for Copts who had converted to Islam.37 The reasoning found that insofar as the Coptic Church has ­limited competency u­ nder the law, it may not exercise its competency in the case of “a born Muslim who was originally and inherently Muslim at birth wishing to adopt Chris­tian­ity.”38 Reflecting on the judgment, one attorney for al-­Gohary put the decision another way: “[The judge] said that we

36. Court of Administrative Justice no. 53717, Judicial Year 62, June 13, 2009; Court of Administrative Justice no. 22566, Judicial Year 63, June 13, 2009. 37. See, for example, Supreme Administrative Court nos. 12794 and 16766, Judicial Year 51, February 9, 2008; Supreme Administrative Court nos. 13198 and 13496, Judicial Year 53, February 9, 2008. 38. Court of Administrative Justice no. 53717, Judicial Year 62, June 13, 2009; Court of Administrative Justice no. 22566, Judicial Year 63, June 13, 2009.

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have an Orthodox Church in Egypt and it is the right of the Church to accept or reject a new member. Maher presented what would demonstrate that he was accepted into the Orthodox Church. But Maher was a Muslim, and he did not pre­sent what would demonstrate that he exited from Islam, although t­ here is no entity in Egypt that can give him a certificate that he exited from Islam. Maher al-­Gohary is therefore still Muslim.” While the al-­Gohary ruling articulates at g­ reat length and in tremendous detail the l­egal conditions u­ nder which a change of religious affiliation is effected and recorded, it occludes a glaring asymmetry: the Fatwa Council of Al-­A zhar routinely certifies born Copts’ exit from Coptic Orthodoxy. Although conversion is not addressed explic­itly in constitutional or statutory law, the registration (tasjīl) and validation (tawthīq) of conversions to Islam are subject to internal regulations of the Justice Ministry.39 An individual intending to convert must be at least sixteen years old and must notify his or her local Security Directorate (mudīrīyyat al-­amn) of the Interior Ministry. The police thereafter arrange what is called an advice and guidance session (jalsat nusḥ wa-­l-­irshād) between the potential convert and a representative of the individual’s religious denomination. In many cases, this is a clergyman from the individual’s local church. The advice and guidance sessions are arranged to assess the intentions of the potential convert, to assure that he or she is not being coerced, and to afford the clergyman an opportunity to help the individual resolve the predicament that may have led to filing the application for conversion.40 If the potential convert changes his mind a­ fter the consultation, the application for change of religion is withdrawn. If, however, the 39. Ministry of Justice, Chapter on Validating Declarations of Islam (tawthīq ishhār al-­islām), Regulations of the Public Notary and Validation Authority (al-­lawāʾiḥ al-­khāṣa bi-­maṣlaḥat al-­shahr al-­ʿqārī), 3rd ed., 2001. 40. The advice and guidance sessions ­were unofficially suspended by Interior Minister Habib al-­Adly following the alleged forced conversion to Islam of Wafaa Constantine, the wife of a Coptic priest, in December 2004. For a discussion of this controversy, see Tadros, Copts at the Crossroads, 76–81. The policy suspension is significant insofar as the ­legal provision for the sessions falls u­ nder the jurisdiction of the Justice Ministry, not the Interior Ministry. Converting to Islam has become more contingent on the state intelligence apparatus such that an applicant may be authorized to convert without the Security Directorate notifying his local church or f­ amily. See, for example, Sarah Said, “Jubrāʾīl yutālib wazīr al-dākhliyya bi-iʿādat jalasāt ‘al-nusḥ wa-l-irshād’ li-l-mutaḥawalīn” ( Jobrail demands the interior minister to reinstate advice and guidance sessions for converts), Al-­Watan, October 14, 2014, http://­www​.­elwatannews​.­com​ /­news​/­details​/­575792​.­­There are also reports of other cases in which the Interior Ministry has actively advised Al-­A zhar not to authorize conversion to Islam. See, for example, Egyptian

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potential convert persists in his wish, then he receives security clearance to formalize the conversion at a local office of the public notary (maṣlaḥat al-­ shahr al-­ʿaqārī). Non-­Muslims establish a Muslim status through a document that certifies one’s embrace of Islam (shahāda bi-iʿtināq al-­dīn al-­islāmī), which is issued by the Al-­Azhar Fatwa Council (figures 2.5 and 2.6). The standardized document consists of the date and the person’s name, address, date of birth, and original religion. It also contains the shahādatayn or the two testimonies that constitute belief in Islam: “I testify that t­ here is no God but Allah, and I testify that Muhammad is His servant and messenger” (ashhadu an lā ilaha illā-llāh wa ashhadu an muhammadan ʿabdhu wa rasūlhu). The shahādatayn are extended to include an additional testimony, suggesting that most, if not all, Egyptians who declare their conversion to Islam are Christian: “I testify that Jesus is a servant of Allah and His messenger” (ashhadu an ʿīsa ʿabd allāh wa-rasūlhu). At the end of the form is a statement of the convert’s marital status, an indication of ­whether the convert de­cided to change his name, and a line that reads “This certification proves his Islam” (hathā al-­ishhār ithbātan li-islāmhu). The certificates are signed by the director of the Fatwa Council and stamped with its official seal. Many of ­these certificates additionally show one of two handwritten provisions at the top or bottom—­either “This proclamation does not authorize marriage u­ ntil it is registered with the public notary” (hathā al-ishhār lā yājūz al-zawāj minhu illā baʿd tasjīlhu fī al-shahr al-ʿaqārī) or “This certification is ­produced by the Fatwa Council for the one who announced his Islam in order to procure an identification card” (hatha ishhār sadr min lajnat al-­ fatwa li-­l-­mushahar islāmhu li-­istikhrāj al-­bitāqa). Samy Gerges, another ­lawyer ­representing al-­Gohary, recounted to me the exceptional nature of this practice: “­There is no law that says anything about someone wanting to become Muslim having to get a certificate that is stamped with an ­eagle from the Fatwa Council. ­Here Al-­A zhar is operating without a ­legal provision.” Yet in order forʿāʾidūn to submit an administrative request to return to Coptic Orthodoxy, their Muslim status had to have been established through this certificate.41 Initiative for Personal Rights, “Conversion and Freedom of Religion,” http://­www​.­eipr​.­org​/­en​ /­print​/r­ eport​/­2009​/1­ 2​/­0 6​/­261​/­269. 41. Law 70 of 1964 on Registration and Validation Fees exempts certificates of conversion to Islam from any fees. Attorneys who litigate Article 47 cases report that this is the only admin-

figure 2.5. Certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al-­Azhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 1984. 122

figure 2.6. Certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al-­Azhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 2014. 123

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——— Majlis al-­Dawla has articulated opinions on group affiliation and limitations on religious practice since the first ­decade of its founding. What has changed over time are the laws that govern Majlis al-­Dawla jurisdiction, the establishment or expansion of regulatory agencies, and the increasingly administrative functions of Al-­Azhar and the Coptic Orthodox Church. Whereas the Fatwa Department of Majlis al-­Dawla was particularly active from the 1950s to the 1980s, the passage of the 1994 Civil Status Law required the Judicial Department of Majlis al-­Dawla to adjudicate disputes at the intersection of bureaucratic accountability and individual affinity with or belonging to a specific group. Unlike jurists who issue fatwas, t­ hose who decide administrative suits face unique predicaments when seeking to constrain, on the one hand, abuses of public power while limiting, on the other hand, social practices that are feared to upend the social order. Religious conversion is one such practice.42 The ­process of authorizing religious conversion analyzed ­here challenges widely held views about Egypt’s administrative courts. Existing studies hold that since the early 1970s, Majlis al-­Dawla has served as a neutral arbiter of citizen-­initiated disputes against abuses of public power.43 They assert that while a power­ful administrative judiciary can only assess bureaucratic infractions against constitutional and statutory provisions, it nevertheless “renders authoritarianism a ­little more consistent and less personalistic.”44 It is further argued that an expansion of Majlis al-­Dawla jurisdiction to include a wider range of administrative acts resulted in a parallel expansion in the scope of civil rights protections. While the administrative judiciary has ­limited executive actions against personal freedoms as they relate to election procedures, arrest and imprisonment, and freedom of travel, this argument does not hold in the domain of religious liberty. Majlis al-­Dawla is far from a neutral arbiter. Jurisprudence analyzed in this chapter further brings to light how Islamic cosmology orients and informs administrative judgments, in contradistinction

istrative form that can be filed without cost to the applicant. 42. On the early history of Majlis al-­Dawla and its rulings regarding the amendment of religious affiliation on probative documents, see Oraby, “Authorizing Religious Conversion in Administrative Courts.” 43. Brown, The Rule of Law in the Arab World; El-­Ghobashy, “Taming Leviathan”; Moustafa, “Law and ­Resistance in Authoritarian States”; Rosberg, “Roads to the Rule of Law.” 44. Brown, “Arab Administrative Courts and Judicial Control of the Bureaucracy.”

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to claims advanced by the anthropological critique of secularism. This lit­er­a­ ture has long held that shariʿa was privatized as a result of nineteenth-­and twentieth-­century modernization. In his study of the Fatwa Council of Al-­ Azhar and the personal status courts of con­temporary Cairo, Hussein Ali Agrama claims that “personal status law, which concerns the private affairs of the f­ amily, is the only domain of law left in Egypt that is explic­itly regulated by rules of the Shari‘a.”45 He further claims that Egyptian administrative law “is not based in the Shari‘a,” which “­under law was largely confined to a domain of privacy, imbued with distinctively liberal sensibilities about privacy and intimacy, and highly circumscribed from policy-­making practices directed at the population.”46 Agrama argues that when the jurisdiction of shariʿa courts was confined to m ­ atters of personal status in the nineteenth c­ entury, shariʿa was excluded from civil law. “The reception of the civil law tradition in Egypt,” writes Agrama, “brought with it a number of effects that altogether had the consequence of reconstituting and narrowing the domains where the kind of moral inquiry characteristic of the Shari‘a could take place, and of reducing the importance of the par­tic­u­lar virtues it was meant to secure.”47 Far from having been “structured essentially as a set of l­egal rules defining personal status,”48 shariʿa provides a normative framework on which Egyptian public law relies. The constitution of Egypt references the stories of Moses and Mount Sinai and the Virgin Mary and Jesus, and describes the Prophet Muhammad as the Seal of the Messengers. This order of revelation—­whereby Judaism is understood to have preceded Chris­tian­ity and Chris­tian­ity to have preceded Islam, and in which Islam is the last and the most perfect of the “revealed religions”—­affords Jews and Christians a special place in Egypt: a Muslim-­ majority country where affiliation with one of ­these three groups is both compulsory and automatic, Islamic law and Muslim status are privileged, and Jews and Christians hold some legislative autonomy to o­ rganize their communal affairs even as all powers of adjudication rest with state courts. The belief that the Abrahamic traditions ­were revealed in succession and are irreversible in their truths remains a power­ful normative framework that judges use to decide administrative questions. The order of revelation is invoked by judges to reason that a Jew may embrace Chris­tian­ity and a Christian may embrace Islam but 45. Agrama, Questioning Secularism, 4. 46. Ibid., 22–23. 47. Ibid., 55. 48. Asad, Formations of the Secular, 227.

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not the reverse except when the petitioner is a Muslim who was born to a Christian ­father formerly affiliated with the Coptic Church. In the space of the administrative court, shariʿa morality is expressed by judges who, w ­ hether they find in f­ avor of or against reconverts or Bahá’ís, affirm the Egyptian bureaucracy’s role in maintaining bound­aries between communities that are understood by them and the petitioners to be distinct. Moreover, when judgments have authorized reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy from Islam, the theological prob­lem posed by a Muslim’s blasphemy is resolved by finding that the complainant was not in fact Muslim. This interpretation is aided by Church documentation that narrates Copts as Christians born to Christian ­fathers. The finding that a Coptic convert to Islam is not ­really Muslim alerts us to complementary rules—­those regulated by the republic and o­ thers overseen by the Orthodox Church—­that locate communal membership and citizenship in the male line. Article 47 cases thus bring to light an extant normative plurality whereby multiple exclusive, member-­based o­ rganizations maintain simultaneous regulatory interests that are assented to by marginalized groups.

part iii

Covenants

3 Divine Administration s ho g h i e f f e n di a n d t h e b a h á’í wor l d or de r This Administrative Order is fundamentally dif­fer­ent from anything that any Prophet has previously established, inasmuch as Bahá’u’lláh has Himself revealed its princi­ples, established its institutions, appointed the person to interpret His Word and conferred the necessary authority on the body designed to supplement and apply His legislative ordinances. Therein lies the secret of its strength, its fundamental distinction, and the guarantee against disintegration and schism.1

a pilgrim returning to Italy from Palestine in 1952 delivered to Ugo Giachery a map with inscriptions hand drawn by Shoghi Effendi. Giachery (1896–1989) was an Italian national of par­tic­u­lar distinction: he was among a select group of Bahá’ís known as the Hands of the Cause of God.2 Giachery had been appointed by Shoghi Effendi (1897–1957), the first and only Guardian of the Cause of God, to serve as his representative and instrument during the thirty-­ six years of his guardianship. On the map that Shoghi Effendi entrusted to Giachery are colorful shapes, lines, and arrows (figure 3.1). ­These correspond 1. Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh, 145. 2. The Hands of the Cause of God ­were first named in the ­Will and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-­ Bahá. This designation, though no longer conferred, once denominated a group of Bahá’ís judged to have shown extraordinary s­ ervice to the Bahá’í Faith. The Hands ­were to be appointed by the Guardian of the Cause, Shoghi Effendi, and they carried special dispensation to represent and propagate the Bahá’í Faith as well as to obey his command. 129

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to the four objectives and twenty-­seven subobjectives of the Bahá’í Ten Year Crusade.3 A crowning achievement of Shoghi Effendi’s guardianship, the crusade aimed in the years 1953–63 to develop the institutions of the Bahá’í World Centre in Haifa, consolidate twelve territories to serve as administrative bases for twelve National Plans, consolidate territories “already opened to the Faith,” and “[open] the remaining chief virgin territories on the planet.”4 The crusade would culminate in 1963 with the Most G ­ reat Jubilee—­a cele­bration honoring the centenary of the declaration of Bahá’u’lláh’s mission and commemorating Bahá’u’lláh’s ascension “to the Throne of His Sovereignty.”5 Giachery’s task was to find a printing com­pany to reproduce the map for a statistical booklet that Shoghi Effendi was compiling as he readied for the crusade.6 The booklet would be published in London and Wilmette, and disseminated at Bahá’í teaching conventions across Kampala, Chicago, Stockholm, and New Delhi, among other places.7 In his memoir, Giachery describes Shoghi Effendi affectionately: “Like a strategist, he used maps of two ­hemispheres, singling out continents, nations, regions, islands and localities to be conquered with the blessings of the Faith of Bahá’u’lláh, the Faith which he so nobly represented. He possessed unrivalled ingenuity in making advantageous use of t­ hese maps that presented the w ­ hole globe at a glance and, with the deep insight of a true leader, he would make his plans on them, marking them with a variety of symbols and colours to reveal at sight the world situation of the Cause of God. Nothing escaped him. Every­thing was accurately recorded with the precision of a research scientist.”8 A second map was also entrusted to Giachery (figure 3.2). It was drafted by Shoghi Effendi in the summer of 1957 and discovered in London the day ­after 3. The plan was called the Ten Year Crusade, the Global Crusade, or the World Crusade for short. The long title was the Ten Year Bahá’í International Teaching and Consolidation Plan. 4. Numbers-­wise this meant “establishing the Faith in one hundred thirty-­one new countries and territorial divisions; translation and publication of Bahá’í texts in ninety-­one new languages; construction of two new Bahá’í ­Houses of Worship and purchase of land for eleven ­f uture ­Temples; establishing forty-­eight additional National Spiritual Assemblies; and purchasing properties to be used as National Administrative Centers in forty-­nine cities of the Amer­i­cas, ­Europe, Asia, Africa and New Zealand.” The Bahá‘í World, 12:26. 5. Shoghi Effendi, Messages to the Bahá‘í World, 1950–1957, 43. 6. Shoghi Effendi, The Bahá’í Faith, 1844–1952: Information Statistical and Comparative. 7. The 1952 map was eventually published in volume 12 of The Bahá’í World, which reports that it was shown at Bahá’í conferences beginning in 1953. 8. Giachery, Shoghi Effendi, 43.

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his death that November. Giachery found the map among Shoghi Effendi’s familiar tools: colored pencils, pen, penknife, eraser, rulers, and compass. True to his exacting character, Giachery recalls, the statistical booklet Shoghi Effendi had prepared in 1953 was double the thickness by 1957.9 Shoghi Effendi had been so pleased with the outcome of the first four and a half years of the crusade that he convened five more intercontinental conferences for 1958, which had occasioned his drawing another map. Despite Shoghi Effendi’s passing, Giachery was again asked to have the map printed in Italy. It would be displayed and circulated ­there, and at the Most ­Great Jubilee. Recalling the remarkable legacy left by Shoghi Effendi, community members note the significant growth of the Bahá’í Faith over thirty years: a sevenfold increase in the number of countries “opened to the Faith,” the translation of Bahá’í publications into hundreds of languages, and the establishment of over fifty national spiritual assemblies and more than 4,500 local spiritual assemblies.10 This chapter examines the three d­ ecades that preceded the Bahá’í Ten Year Crusade. The years between 1921 and 1934 mark the start of Shoghi Effendi’s ministry and the incorporation of the National Spiritual Assembly of Egypt, respectively. ­These early years w ­ ere critical to the global crusade’s subsequent success. They set an institutional foundation that would be replicated many times around the world. The chapter oscillates between multiple geographies and scales of analy­sis—­from the local to the national and the international—to capture how the global expansion of the Bahá’í Faith developed alongside efforts at self-­constitution within specific Bahá’í communities. My archive consists primarily of Shoghi Effendi’s writings, such as correspondence, statistical reports, and monographs published during the nearly four d­ ecades of his ministry. Shoghi Effendi is considered the interpreter and executor of the charters of the Bahá’í Faith: the revelation of Bahá’u’lláh in the Kitab-­i-­Aqdas and his Tablet of Mount Carmel, as well as the W ­ ill and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá and his Divine Plan. Shoghi Effendi’s writings are the point of departure for this chapter b­ ecause of his lasting influence on the structure of con­temporary Bahá’í institutions, namely the 9. The Hands of the Cause published the statistical booklet, which included the 1957 map, following Shoghi Effendi’s death. See The Bahá’í Faith, 1844–1963. This map was also published in volume 13 of The Bahá’í World. 10. Helen Danesh, John Danesh, and Amelia Danesh, “The Life of Shoghi Effendi,” in Studying the Writings of Shoghi Effendi, ed. M. Bergsmo (Oxford: George Ronald, 1991), https://bahailibrary.com/danesh_life_shoghi_effendi.

figure 3.1. Map by Shoghi Effendi depicting the objectives of the Bahá’í World Crusade, 1952. The Bahá’í World, vol. 12 (April 1950–54) (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1956).

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figure 3.2. Map by Shoghi Effendi depicting the pro­gress of the Bahá’í World Crusade, 1957. The Bahá’í Faith, 1844–1963: Information Statistical and Comparative, Including the Achievements of the Ten Year International Bahá’í Teaching and Consolidation Plan, 1953–1963 (Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1963).

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local and national spiritual assemblies upon which the administrative order of the Bahá’í Faith is built. The story advanced ­here challenges a claim that echoes across critical ­legal studies and the academic study of religion: the rules that govern the religious person necessarily conflict with the rules of one’s government. Developed by Winnifred Fallers ­Sullivan in The Impossibility of Religious Freedom, this claim is undergirded by a belief that state law cannot encompass the religious life of ­people in the twenty-­first ­century.11 ­Sullivan writes: It is the peculiar nature of religion itself to restrict freedom. ­Those fiercely religious persons whom we admire, or despise, are t­ hose with an unbending devotion to the rules of their religion, as they understand them, ­whatever their source. They seem to live in a world that makes sense, a world in which one has a place and in which certain non-­negotiable t­ hings are demanded of one. At a very profound level, religion competes with law—­and also, perhaps more importantly, with science and a scientistic reading of law—­ for comprehensive explanation and control. Religion challenges the rule of law. To be religious is, for most ­people, to live without a certain amount of freedom. To be religious is not to be ­free, but to be faithful.12 S­ ullivan offers a perspicacious view of what makes a person religious. However, as I show in Devotion to the Administrative State, the rules that govern the religious person align with state law when one’s cosmology and one’s government maintain similar ideas about what it means to belong to a group. The protagonists of this book, all of whom are religious minorities, desire recognition so that they may seek attachments—to the nation-­state as members of a national citizenry and to the exclusive, member-­based ­organization that oversees their communal life. Understood thus, religion does not necessarily compete with law, as ­Sullivan argues.13 The institutions, procedures, and concepts typically associated with the 11. Even when scholars stop short of arguing against religious freedom as a v­ iable l­ egal framework tout court, they tend to adopt a posture advanced in Impossibility, one critical of religious establishment. See, e.g., McIvor, Representing God. For an alternative view, one that shows how minority religious communities thrive through state recognition, see Stolzenberg and Myers, American Shtetl. 12. ­Sullivan, The Impossibility of Religious Freedom, 155–56. 13. In work subsequent to Impossibility, ­Sullivan has shown the complementarity between positivist law and religious practice in the United States. However, she remains suspicious of this complementarity, tracking its exploitation by conservative religious persons ultimately seeking state capture. In her study of how chaplaincy works in the United States, for example,

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rule of law ensure communal coherence; they also explain why t­ hose ostensibly marginalized by the state remain faithful to it. Marginalized communities bring ­these dynamics fully into view. Their claims making, understood as a devotional activity, evidences a desire to bind oneself to the unfreedom required by a cosmology. Recognition advances rather than hinders that objective. In this chapter I consider the entanglement between Bahá’í ­organization and state law, pointing to the nuanced ways that marginalized p­ eople seek to preserve the contours of their community over time. The sources I read illumine a collaborative horizon between two normative o­ rders—­the administrative order of the nation-­state and the administrative order entailed in Bahá’í theology and practice. The Bahá’í administrative order offers a productive challenge to dominant scholarly narratives suspicious of religion-­state entanglement largely ­because administration in Bahá’í tenets is considered sacred; the nation-­state ­organizes society in ways that parallel how Bahá’í institutions ­organize their members. Together ­these normative ­orders facilitate the indirect democracy, embodied in local and national spiritual assemblies, that secures membership in Bahá’í collectives around the world. Positivist law and procedures—­such as claims making, the registration of trusts, and filing for incorporation—­enable Bahá’í groups locally, nationally, and transnationally to realize the idea of a Bahá’í world order. Furthermore, when Bahá’ís seek state recognition, they seek recognition of the distinctiveness of their cosmology relative to ­others. Recognition of one’s distinctiveness emancipates the individual to seek attachments, assuring the survival of her group over time. Far from merely conforming to a majority culture, minoritized communities like the Bahá’ís of Egypt rely on regimes of recognition for integration within an Islamic majoritarianism society and a broader network of coreligionists. ——— Bahá’u’lláh (1817–92) is the prophet-­founder of the Bahá’í Faith. He is considered the latest in a succession of Manifestations of God—­preceded by Abraham, she writes: “Christians have been able to be a better ‘religion’ when it suits them, when they feel the need of ­legal or ­political protections, and not a ‘religion’ when that is advantageous, when they wish to be aligned with ‘secular’ ­political and ­legal authorities against other religions; this capacity to engineer a win-­win situation by darting back and forth across the secular divide has allowed Christians to be the arbiter of what counts as good religion and what counts as bad religion for law.” ­Sullivan, A Ministry of Presence, 171.

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Moses, Krishna, the Bud­dha, Zoroaster, Christ, the Bab, and Muhammad—­all of whom are believed to have contributed to a singular p­ rocess of progressive revelation. This revelation is understood to support the eventual establishment of what Bahá’u’lláh named the “Most ­Great Peace”: the Kingdom of God on earth. Before Bahá’u’lláh gained ­acceptance as the leader of a distinct cosmology, he had announced his loyalty to the Bab (1819–50) and the Babi movement, whose origins date to nineteenth-­century Persia.14 A protracted period of violent rebellion against the ruling Qajar dynasty led to the eventual execution of the Bab and Babi leadership. Bahá’u’lláh was exiled to the Ottoman Empire, first as a ­free person and then as a prisoner in Baghdad, and subsequently confined to Akka in Ottoman Syria.15 While in exile he revived the remnants of the Babi movement, adherents of which w ­ ere recruited to support his claim to succession. It was in 1866 that Bahá’u’lláh referred to his followers as “the ­people of Baha.” His claim to be the promised one foretold by the Bab distinguished Bahá’u’lláh. He became the leader of a new, world-­encompassing movement rather than heir to the Babi movement, which had been composed predominately of Persian Shiʿi Muslims. In the ensuing years, he wrote to world leaders and monarchs announcing his station as the Manifestation of God for this age, advising them on vari­ous issues of rulership and diplomacy and entreating them to recognize his authority.16 When Bahá’u’lláh died in 1892, his eldest son, Abbas Effendi (1844–1921), known as ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, assumed leadership. Often referred to as the Master, ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá led Bahá’ís for twenty-­nine years, during which he authored several works that, alongside writings by the Bab and Bahá’u’lláh, comprise the scripture of the Faith.17 His Tablets of the Divine Plan, published as fourteen letters addressed to Bahá’ís in North Amer­i­ca and written between 1916 and 1917, is largely credited with laying the theological foundation of the Bahá’í administrative order. ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá was succeeded by his grand­son Shoghi Effendi, who assumed the title Guardian of the Faith, as designated by ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá in his ­will. 14. The Babi movement and the Bahá’í Faith are often referred to and compared as millennialist movements. See Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal; MacEoin, Rituals in Bábism and Bahá’ísm; Smith and Collins, “Bábi and Bahá’í Millennialism”; Smith, The Babi and Bahaʾi Religions. 15. Cole, Modernity and the Millennium. 16. Bahá’u’lláh wrote to Pope Pius IX, Napoleon III, Czar Alexander II, and Queen Victoria, among ­others. ­These letters are compiled in The Summons of the Lord of Hosts. 17. Moojan Momen, “Bahá’í Sacred Texts,” Discovering Sacred Texts, British Library, September 23, 2019, https://­www​.­bl​.­uk​/­sacred​-­texts​/­articles​/­bahai​-­sacred​-­texts.

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Shoghi Effendi would be the first and only person to hold this title.18 It was ­under his ministry that the sacred texts of the Faith ­were mobilized to establish the administrative institutions of the Bahá’í world order.19 What is known t­ oday as the administrative order of the Bahá’í Faith consists of local, national, regional, and international bodies and procedures that govern their conduct, regulate membership, resolve disputes, promote Bahá’í teachings, and generally ­organize collective life. The system of elected spiritual assemblies at the local and national level dates to the years 1922–23; ­those at the regional and international level (the International Bahá’í Council, the Hands of the Cause of God, and the Auxiliary Boards) date to the 1950s and early 1960s.20 Obligations of the spiritual assemblies include directing the teaching work, protecting the Faith from its enemies and detractors, promoting intracommunal accord, assisting the less fortunate and differently abled, promoting the material and spiritual enlightenment of youth and ­children, maintaining regular correspondence with Bahá’í centers throughout the world and sharing news of their work, stimulating the development of Bahá’í publications, reviewing Bahá’í publications and translations including their dissemination, and arranging regular local meetings among Bahá’ís. 18. It would fall into disuse following Shoghi Effendi’s death in 1957, partly due to the fact that he had no heirs. This decision was made ultimately by the International Bahá’í Council, which was the ­predecessor to the Universal ­House of Justice. 19. A timeline of the events outlined in this section and other events germane to the founding of the Bahá’í Faith is provided in Smith, A Concise Encyclopedia of the Bahá’í Faith, 1–10. 20. The establishment of a Universal H ­ ouse of Justice was ordained in the writings of Bahá’u’lláh. This institution, which sits at the top of the Bahá’í administrative order, is vested with the authority to interpret and safeguard the sacred writings of the three central figures of the Faith (the Bab, Bahá’u’lláh, and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá) and to oversee the functioning and advancement of the Bahá’í Faith globally. In 1963 the Universal ­House of Justice would supersede the International Bahá’í Council; the Hands of the Cause as an institution would cease to exist once the ­House was established. The ­House laid claim to its own authority as “the supreme institution” of the Bahá’í administrative order in its 1972 constitution. The Auxiliary Boards ­were created by Shoghi Effendi to assist the Hands of the Cause. First appointed in April 1954 and ­organized initially on a continental basis, the members of each board advised the Hands during the Ten Year Crusade. Whereas the first appointees to the Auxiliary Boards focused their efforts on teaching, ­those appointed in October 1957 w ­ ere responsible for protecting Bahá’ís from “covenant breakers” and non-­Bahá’í opponents. The responsibility of each member was ­organized geo­graph­i­cally, with each area governed by one member of the propagation and protection boards. In 1963, with the establishment of the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice, a division in Bahá’í administration was instituted. Auxiliary Board members, subsequently subsumed ­under the Continental Board of Counselors in 1968, would have responsibilities distinct from the administrative work of the local assemblies.

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Each body is constituted through elections at dif­fer­ent intervals. A local spiritual assembly is constituted where the number of Bahá’ís aged twenty-­one years and older meets or exceeds nine persons.21 Each local assembly convenes annually to elect its representatives via secret ballot. A separate vote is cast annually to elect delegates to a national convention where membership in a national spiritual assembly is de­cided. E ­ very five years, members of the national assemblies gather in Haifa, Israel, to elect via secret ballot the nine members of the Universal ­House of Justice. Local and national assemblies raise their own funds through voluntary contributions, establish committees to oversee community activities, and propagate the Faith. During Shoghi Effendi’s ministry, separate funds ­were allocated for international proj­ects: land acquisition, conferences, and subsidies to local and national assemblies with comparatively fewer resources. The Bahá’í Faith t­ oday claims over five million adherents and is found in nearly e­ very country, territory, and overseas department. It includes nearly two hundred national councils that oversee the work of local communities and more than three hundred training institutes, as well as many hundreds more social development initiatives, focused on delivering Bahá’í education. Its institutions include ten ­Houses of Worship, with several more in the planning phases; the Bahá’í International Community, which was registered in 1948 as a nongovernmental ­organization and holds consultative status at the United Nations; and the Bahá’í World Centre, the spiritual and administrative heart of the Bahá’í Faith, located in Haifa, that encompasses the shrine of Bahá’u’lláh and the Bab, the Universal ­House of Justice, the International Teaching Centre, the Centre for the Study of Texts, and the International Archives Building. Over one million Bahá’í are said to make pilgrimage to the World Centre ­every year.22 ——— Shoghi Effendi was born in Ottoman-­r uled Palestine and educated at the American University in Beirut. A ­ fter graduating with a bachelor of arts in 1918, he assisted his grand­father, ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, in Haifa with translation. Shoghi Effendi would leave just two years l­ater to study p­ olitical economy at the 21. Fifteen is considered the age of spiritual maturity, but one cannot participate in elections ­until age twenty-­one. 22. “Statistics,” Bahá’í World News ­Service, https://­news​.­bahai​.­org​/­media​-­information​ /­statistics​/­.

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University of Oxford. He was soon summoned back to Haifa following ‘Abdu’l-­ Bahá’s sudden death. At the age of twenty-­four, Shoghi Effendi was the addressee of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá’s ­Will and Testament, and designated successor. That year, in 1921, he took the title of Guardian of the Cause of God. Shoghi Effendi assumed leadership of the Faith at a critical time. Horace Holley, former Secretary of the National Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States and Canada, recalls the moment thus: “the passing of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá on November 28, 1921, created a prob­lem of religious administration unparalleled in the history of the world. . . . ​[A] community of faith containing representatives of ­every race, creed and class—­hundreds of thousands of believers—­united successively in devotion to the Báb, Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá and now suddenly bereft of that spiritual leadership and inspiration which had so long served as the foundation of their unity.”23 Shoghi Effendi assumed guardianship of the Faith during the interwar years, when the ­European balance of power system disintegrated and a new world order came into view.24 Lacking the charismatic authority and experience of Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, Shoghi Effendi developed a plan to consolidate existing Bahá’í communities. A letter he wrote to the Bahá’ís of North Amer­i­ca in 1923 was among his first appeals for Bahá’ís to endorse his leadership and vision. He invoked scripture to assert continuity between his guardianship and the leadership of his forebears—­the notion that his guardianship fulfills the vision laid out by Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá. This claim of continuity became a recurring motif in Shoghi Effendi’s correspondence with Bahá’ís. He wrote, “The sayings of our beloved Master have been noised abroad, His name has filled all regions, and the eyes of mankind are now turned ex­pec­tant ­towards His disciples who bear His name and profess His 23. Holley, introduction to Bahá’í Administration, vii. 24. The League of Nations, which aimed to foster international cooperation, security, and peace, was established at the end of World War I during the Paris Peace Conference via the Treaty of Versailles. Though initially proposed by President Woodrow Wilson, the United States never became a member. The League operated from Geneva, Switzerland, ­until its dissolution in 1946. It enjoyed support from the Entente Powers and was enacted with forty-­four signatories but strug­gled to secure global membership. At the height of its authority, the League addressed through its vari­ous bureaus, commissions, and bodies far-­ranging issues of w ­ omen’s rights, poverty, and statelessness. But the rise of fascism in ­Europe and the militaristic ambitions of vari­ous signatory states in the 1930s—­namely Germany, Italy, Japan, and the Soviet ­Union—­undermined the League’s commitment to global disarmament. The League is broadly viewed as having failed to prevent World War II.

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teachings. ­Shall we not by our daily life vindicate the high claims of His teachings, and prove by our s­ ervices the influence of His undying Spirit? This surely is our highest privilege, and our most sacred duty.”25 Shoghi Effendi names the global reach of the Faith and expectations for its continued growth. The way forward, he argues, is to realize the vision first i­ magined by ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, a proj­ect he would shepherd over the next two ­decades. In the same letter Shoghi Effendi lays the foundation for the spiritual assemblies on which the Bahá’í world order, then only nascent, would come to rest. For “the unity of the Cause of Bahá’u’lláh may remain secure and inviolate,” he writes, “it is of the utmost importance that in accordance with the explicit text of the Kitáb-­i-­Aqdas, the Most Holy Book, in ­every locality, be it city or hamlet where the number of adults (21 years and above) declared believers exceeds nine, a local ‘Spiritual Assembly’ be forthwith established. To it all local ­matters pertaining to the Cause must be directly and immediately referred for full consultation and decision. The importance, nay the absolute necessity of ­these local Assemblies is manifest when we realize that in the days to come they w ­ ill evolve into the local H ­ ouses of Justice, and at pre­sent provide the firm foundation on which the structure of the Master’s W ­ ill is to be reared in ­future.”26 The collective ­here is a member-­based ­organization that regulates and maintains the community, one that provides channels for conflict resolution, collaboration, and decision making. The assembly would in form and function unify collective life for generations. The “local ­Houses of Justice” referenced in the letter came to be known as local spiritual assemblies. What is referred to in other writings as “secondary ­Houses of Justice” became known as national spiritual assemblies. Membership in each body is de­cided through direct election of Bahá’ís in each locality and composed of nine members. The assemblies’ consultative function was envisioned by ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, who said that “it is incumbent upon e­ very one not to take any step without consulting the Spiritual Assembly, and they must as­ suredly obey with heart and soul its bidding and be submissive unto it, that ­things may be properly ordered and well arranged. Other­wise e­ very person ­will act in­de­pen­dently and a­ fter his own judgment, ­will follow his own desire,

25. Shoghi Effendi, Bahá’í Administration, 35. For a discussion of critics of the administrative order advanced by Shoghi Effendi and of his leadership, see Smith, The Babi and Bahaʾi Religions, 122–26. 26. Shoghi Effendi, Bahá’í Administration, 37.

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and do harm to the Cause.”27 ­These assemblies o­ rganize relations between and among community members, an expectation of mutual obligation, and mechanisms for resolving conflict whose primary mode is consultation.28 Assemblies also subordinate individual interests to the w ­ ill of the majority. It is said that “personalities should not be made centers around which the community may revolve but . . . ​they should be subordinated u­ nder all conditions and however g­ reat their merits to the properly constituted Assemblies.”29 The assembly, the body of elected representatives in e­ very locale, is understood therefore to be a divine institution that governs imperfect members. The system of annual elections affords members opportunities to remedy imperfections in the composition of the assemblies while retaining the structure of t­ hese assemblies year a­ fter year in perpetuity. Faith is vested primarily in the institutions of the administrative order, not its members.30 Membership carries with it a duty to participate in elections, to elect representatives annually, but more importantly to ensure that the institutional forum endures. The local assemblies ­were established “for the purpose of keeping order and unity and obedience to the law of God amongst the believers.” Spiritual assemblies, local and national, are “the chief sinews of Bahá’í society, as well as the ultimate foundation of its administrative structure.”31 The structure of the assembly was i­magined with enough flexibility to ensure continuity over time and adaptability to dif­fer­ent circumstances as the composition of a community changes. Shoghi Effendi often wrote about t­ hese dual characteristics, permanence and flexibility. He noted that “not only ­will the present-­day Spiritual Assemblies be styled differently in the ­future, but they ­will be enabled also to add to their pre­sent functions t­ hose powers, duties, and prerogatives necessitated by the recognition of the Faith of Bahá’u’lláh.” Assemblies thus featured centrally in plans for the Faith’s global expansion. Shoghi Effendi was ambitious. He did not wish only for the Bahá’í Faith to be recognized as a religion, or as he put it 27. ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, quoted in a letter dated March 5, 1922, written by Shoghi Effendi to the Bahá’ís of the United States and Canada, published in Bahá’í Administration, 21. 28. Kolstoe, Consultation. 29. Shoghi Effendi, This Decisive Hour, 6. 30. “Assemblies and not individuals constitute the bedrock on which the Administration is built. Every­thing ­else must be subordinated to, and be made to serve and advance the best interests of, ­these elected custodians and promoters of the Law of Bahá’u’lláh.” From a letter dated August 12, 1933, written on behalf of Shoghi Effendi to an individual believer, published in Princi­ ples of Bahá’í Administration, 19. 31. Shoghi Effendi, God Passes By, 525.

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“not merely as one of the recognized religious systems of the world.” He anticipated that the Bahá’í Faith would become “the State Religion of an ­independent and Sovereign Power.” When “the Bahá’í Faith permeates the masses of the ­peoples of East and West,” he wrote, “and its truth is embraced by the majority of the ­peoples of a number of the Sovereign States of the world, w ­ ill the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice attain the plentitude of its power, and exercise, as the supreme organ of the Bahá’í Commonwealth, all the rights, the duties, and responsibilities incumbent upon the world’s f­uture superstate.”32 Although a Bahá’í Commonwealth has not been realized, incremental recognition—­first local and then national and international—­was ­imagined by Shoghi Effendi as key to its founding. Moreover, what he envisaged relies on the state form. Shoghi Effendi saw the permanence of this form, including its institutions, like t­ hose of the Bahá’í administrative order, as flexible enough to accommodate an expansive membership. Not long ­after Shoghi Effendi addressed the Bahá’ís of North Amer­i­ca did members of the national assembly respond in kind. They wrote an article in the March 1923 issue of Star of the West, an official Bahá’í magazine published monthly in Chicago that circulated from 1910 to 1935. Following several pages that excerpt from Bahá’u’lláh’s and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá’s writings, the authors justify and support Shoghi Effendi’s guardianship. “The appointment, by Abdul Baha,” they write, “of Shoghi Effendi as Guardian of the Cause, the provision for the Universal ­House of Justice, and other vital Laws, give to ­organization a most eloquent and impressive majesty. The high goal of order and s­ ervice to which Shoghi Effendi now invites sincere souls, adds a new impressiveness to the Bahá’í order. One of the greatest features of Bahai ­organization is its fluidity, its universal adaptability to the pre­sent age, and to succeeding ages and cycles of the world. It is not exclusive. It inspires cooperation with the true, the beautiful and the good without as well as within its ranks.”33 The authors attribute to o­ rganization a divine essence, a characteristic named in the sacred scriptures of the Faith and amplified h­ ere for a wider Bahá’í public. In their view, o­ rganization enables cooperation among its members and with o­ thers who are members of other groups. All life is arranged through ­organization; goodness—­including order and ­service—is pos­si­ble through its forms. ­Organization’s essential functions are consistent with how 32. Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh, 7. 33. Gregory, Parsons, and Hanley, “Bahá’í ­Organization,” 326.

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all nature is arranged. “­Organization appears in every­thing that God has created,” the article states. “From the tiny atom that moves ­under molecular attraction to colossal suns that keep their balance with even and majestic tread,—­every­thing moves according to law and order. Even the body of man is ­organized. Pain, suffering and dissolution are the penalty it pays for revolt. ­Shall the Intelligence that ­organized the universe leave the Kingdom of God in man disor­ga­nized?”34 The authors compel Bahá’ís to trust and establish an order that ensures life, not just humanity. They ascribe to a notion of life as ­organized and orderly and therefore good. Bahá’ís in North Amer­ic­ a soon ­after made another pronouncement, this time declaring their self-­constitution. Published in the second volume of The Bahá’í World, a multivolume compendium of reports on Bahá’í activities globally, the 1926–27 National Spiritual Assembly of the United States and Canada announced their voluntary trust, “a species of corporation” that “gives proper substance and substantial character to the administrative pro­ cesses embodied in the Bahá’í Teachings.”35 Remarkably, the trust is modeled ­after the Mayflower compact, what the National Spiritual Assembly calls “the first ­legal document in American history.”36 The compact and the trust are said to share the same nature. Members of the National Spiritual Assembly found in the circumstances of the settlers of New Plymouth in 1620 an analog to their challenges and the blueprint for a more perfect order. Both documents identify a supreme lawmaker and the named collective’s obedience to this entity, an acknowl­edgment of the novelty of their founding, swear to one another and to a supreme authority to form one body that ­w ill advance the order of the collective, and vow to enact laws in the collective’s general interest. The settlers and the members of the National Spiritual Assembly, separated by more than three hundred years, bear witness to a similar covenant. The National Spiritual Assembly of the United States and Canada was the first Bahá’í national assembly to promulgate a constitution and bylaws, providing a blueprint that national assemblies around the world would emulate. The Local Spiritual Assembly of New York City was the first local assembly to 34. Ibid. 35. The Bahá’í World, 2:89–90. 36. Agreement between the Settlers at New Plymouth, 1620, https://­avalon​.­law​.­yale​.­edu​/­17th​ _­century​/­mayflower​.­asp.

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promulgate a constitution and bylaws. The universally applicable national spiritual assembly constitution and bylaws ­were published in 1928 and the equally universal local spiritual assembly constitution and bylaws w ­ ere published in 1934. In the intervening years, the Local Spiritual Assembly of New York City would incorporate (figure 3.3).37 Incorporation allowed the assembly to purchase and transfer property; it also meant that members of the assembly accepted New York State’s authority to maintain or dissolve their o­ rganization. The Local Spiritual Assembly further assented to the jurisdiction of New York City, its recognition of the Local Spiritual Assembly necessary for the assembly to be seen as an authoritative rule maker and interpreter by its immediate constituency, the Bahá’ís in the city of New York, and members of the global Bahá’í community. By incorporating ­under this statute, the Bahá’ís of New York City worked through local law to establish the basis for collective life within the Bahá’í Faith, ensuring the continuity of their group over time. This assembly became a node in a growing network of assemblies through which the Bahá’í Faith operates. The local and national assemblies of other jurisdictions around the world, using ­these documents as templates, followed suit.38

37. Section 193 of New York State’s Religious Corporations Law reads: “The presiding officer of such meeting and at least two other persons pre­sent and voting thereat, s­ hall execute and acknowledge a certificate of incorporation, setting forth the m ­ atters so determined at such meeting, the trustees elected thereat and the terms of office for which they w ­ ere respectively elected and the county, town, city or village in which its principal place of worship is or is intended to be located. On filing such certificate the members of such church and the persons qualified to vote at such meeting and who ­shall thereafter, from time to time, be qualified voters, at the corporate meetings thereof, ­shall be a corporation by the name stated in such certificate, and the persons therein stated to be elected trustees of such church ­shall be the trustees thereof, for the terms for which they ­were respectively so elected.” 38. Evidence of t­ hese actions is publicized in, among other places, the vari­ous volumes of The Bahá’í World—­dating from the first years that such incorporation was acknowledged and often reprinted in subsequent volumes of the same publication. As the ­fourteenth volume, which covers the years 1963–68, notes, “The Bahá’í Faith has been officially recognized by governments—­national, state, provincial, and municipal—in more than three hundred countries, significant territories and islands of the world. Previous volumes of The Bahá’í World have printed hundreds of facsimiles of certificates, proclamations, statutes and other documents attesting recognition of the Faith in a variety of aspects such as the incorporation of its administrative institutions, authority to conduct Bahá’í marriage ceremonies, and recognition of its Holy Days. As the Faith grows the volume of documentation increases to the point where it is no longer pos­si­ble to publish an exhaustive compilation of ­these documents.” The Bahá’í World, 14:392.

figure 3.3. Certificate of incorporation of the Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the city of New York, pursuant to Section 193 of the Religious Corporations Law of New York State, 1932. The Bahá’í World, vol. 7 (April 1936–38) (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1939), 362–63.

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——— As Shoghi Effendi sought to establish the administrative institutions envisaged in sacred texts, he was also concerned about the status of marginalized Bahá’ís globally who in light of local circumstances w ­ ere denied the self-­ constitution that Bahá’ís in the United States and Canada and elsewhere enjoyed. The status of the Bahá’ís of Egypt was often the subject of his correspondence to the global Bahá’í community. One par­tic­u­lar court case is discussed frequently by him. The facts of the m ­ atter ­were thus: In 1925, the Appellate Court of Beba in Beni Suef, Egypt, annulled three marriages between Muslim w ­ omen and their Bahá’í husbands. The court determined that the husbands, who had converted to the Bahá’í Faith from Islam, ­were heretics.39 The men had denied Islam’s finality. Finding that heresy is sufficient to dissolve an Islamic marriage, the court also de­cided that only the husbands’ repentance and reconversion to Islam could reinstate their marital u­ nions. In addition to the primary question posed to it, ­whether the marriage between a Muslim w ­ oman and a Bahá’í man is lawful, the court at Beba undertook a theological investigation to determine ­whether the Bahá’í Faith is a religion. On the first question, the court de­cided that a Muslim ­woman cannot be lawfully wedded to a Bahá’í man; on the second question, the court de­cided that the Bahá’í Faith is a religion distinct from Islam. The verdict on both questions hinged on the court’s exposition of Islamic sovereignty, prophethood, and messengership, and articulates what is called in Bahá’í accounts of the decision an “irreconcilable conflict.” This conflict hinges on yet another question: ­whether revelation is pos­si­ble a­ fter Islam. To arrive at its decision, the court compared Islamic tenets and their proofs to tenets foundational to the Bahá’í Faith and their proofs. The court found: The mission of the Prophets sent by God to man is necessary for their welfare in both worlds, this and the one to come; for the h­ uman intellect is incapable of comprehending what this welfare is. This is the law of God in His creation, followed without deviation ­until its consummation when God sent His Messenger and Prophet, Muhammad, as a blessing to the world. This blessing He put in the form of the religion of Islam, the last of the heavenly religions. It has abrogated all other religions and can be 39. The details of this court decision are relayed in the third volume of The Bahá’í World and reprinted in subsequent volumes of the publication.

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repealed by none, ­until the world ­shall perish. ­Because of its appropriateness for e­ very person, e­ very time and place, and b­ ecause Muhammad is the last of the Prophets, revelation s­ hall not descend upon any one a­ fter Him, ­until the end of the world. . . . ​So, if prophethood has ended, we can reasonably maintain that messengership, too, has ceased.40 For the end of the more inclusive ­will also be the end of the ­thing included. Thus, as Muhammad was the last of the Prophets, he was also the last of the Messengers. Muhammad said “­There is no prophet ­after me,” and the greatest miracle of the Prophet was the permanence of the Qu’ran, revealed to him in Arabic. Th ­ ere w ­ ill be no one, ­either from ­those who turn to the Qu’ran, or from t­ hose who may come ­after it, who ­will be able to repeal it. It is a revelation from the All-­Wise. “Say, if man and the genii should combine to produce one like this Qu’ran, they w ­ ill be unable to do so.”41 The court denied Bahá’u’lláh’s claim to have abrogated all preceding cosmologies, the Bahá’í notion that Muhammad is one among several Manifestations of God, all of whom contribute to a singular progressive revelation, and the possibility that the Qurʾan is not final and perfect, appropriate to all times and ­people forever.42 The court further asserted t­ here is no truth before, a­ fter, or in excess of the truth that was revealed to Muhammad.43 A truth in excess of Islam’s truth is, in other words, unthinkable. Following from this, the court determined that Bahá’í scriptures prove “the Bahá’í religion is a new religion, with an i­ndependent platform and laws and institutions peculiar to it, and show a dif­fer­ent and contradictory belief to the beliefs and laws and commandments of Islam. Nor can we state a Bahá’í to be a Muslim, or the reverse; as we cannot say of a Buddhist or a Brah­man or a Christian that he is a Muslim or the reverse.”44 The court distinguished the Bahá’í Faith from Islam and distinguished Bahá’ís from Muslims and members of other communities. One cannot maintain dual or multiple communal memberships, reasoned the court. Distinct cosmologies ipso facto entail distinct social groups. 40. Bahá’í theology claims that the Bab was a messenger, not a prophet, which would seem to avoid the charge that the Bahá’í Faith challenges the prophethood of Muhammad. However, the Bahá’í distinction between messengership and prophethood is rejected by the court. In the view of the court, the finality of Muhammad’s prophethood means t­ here w ­ ere no messengers a­ fter him. 41. The Bahá’í World, 3:48–49. 42. ­Here the court relies on Qurʾan 17:88. 43. ­Here the court relies on Sahih al-­Bukhari 3455. 44. The Bahá’í World, 3:49.

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This was a punitive decision. But it was also hailed “the first charter of liberty” by Shoghi Effendi. “The resident Bahá’ís of Egypt, originally belonging to the Muslim Faith,” he would soon write, “­will be placed in a most humiliating and embarrassing position. They however cannot but rejoice in the knowledge that whereas in vari­ous Muhammadan countries and particularly in Persia the overwhelming majority of the leaders of Islam are utterly opposed to any form of declaration that would facilitate the universal recognition of the Cause, the authorized heads of their co-­religionists in one of the most advanced communities in the Muhammadan world have, of their own initiative, published to the world a document that may justly be termed as the first charter of liberty emancipating the Bahá’í Faith from the fetters of orthodox Islam.”45 In this account, recognition of difference liberates one from an orthodoxy not one’s own. While the decision had adverse consequences for the parties to the marriages involved, Bahá’ís in Egypt ­were nevertheless recognized as adherents of a distinct cosmology rather than deviants from Islam. ­These distinctions—­ between Bahá’ís and Muslims and the Bahá’í Faith and Islam—­would ­later be rehearsed in Egyptian administrative courts (as discussed in chapter 2) and in public-­facing televised and documentary media appearances by Bahá’ís in con­ temporary Egypt (as discussed in chapter 4). Then as now, being recognized as other than Muslim and as adherents of a cosmology distinct from Islam does not oust Bahá’ís from social integration; rather, it clarifies their status in relation to ­others, creating a pathway for belonging based at once on difference from the majority religion and likeness to a majority culture. This capacity of law, to distinguish between two dissimilar groups, is what appeals to minoritized communities. For the Bahá’ís of Egypt and for Bahá’ís globally, recognition of distinctiveness is necessary to realize key tenets of their cosmology. The ­legal implications of the decision ­were complex. Finding that the Bahá’í Faith is a cosmology distinct from Islam meant that Bahá’ís would no longer hold favorable status in l­ egal disputes.46 When Bahá’í difference from Muslims and Islam was recognized by l­egal authorities, they ­were nevertheless able to begin, and ultimately succeed in, establishing community spaces that are 45. Shoghi Effendi, as quoted in The Bahá’í World, 2:32. Originally from a letter to the Bahá’ís of ­Europe and the United States dated February 12, 1927. 46. Unlike Christian and Jewish communities in twentieth-­century Egypt who maintained both law-­generating and adjudicative institutions pre-1955, Bahá’ís generally had standing as Muslims and resolved intracommunal disputes through shariʿa courts.

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constitutive of the Bahá’í administrative order like local assemblies, meeting ­houses, libraries, and a cemetery. Bahá’ís in Egypt w ­ ere soon a­ fter integrated within the transnational exchange of Bahá’í communal news and developments, one of the mechanisms being the publication of a monthly, bilingual bulletin. The first issue was published in June 1928.47 Each bulletin relays local and national news and evidences exchange between the National Spiritual Assembly and Bahá’ís globally. In the September 1928 issue (figures 3.4 and 3.5), the editors comment on pro­gress made on the building of the Bahá’í t­ emple in Wilmette, Illinois, the first such ­temple that would be built for the Faith. They report on the meetings of the National Spiritual Assembly in the Egyptian cities of Ismailia and Port Said. They relay the development of a teaching plan for local assemblies to adopt and implement programming for j­unior youth and adults. And they discuss the need to ­organize community ­service in each locality during the Nineteen Day Feasts.48 The bulletin also includes an exacting report from the National Spiritual Assembly ­treasurer attesting to the assembly’s cash receipts and disbursements.49 The history of the National Spiritual Assembly of Egypt is narrated in the July/August 1928 double issue. The editors report that the National Spiritual Assembly was first ­organized in 1925. This was preceded by consultations with Shoghi Effendi and a conference that was convened in Cairo at the close of 1924 attended by nineteen delegates from across Egypt who, it was said, unanimously 47. The first issue states an intention to publish the bulletin in three languages—­English, Arabic, and Persian—­but I have only seen issues in ­English and Arabic (source on file with the author). 48. Th ­ ese gatherings are held e­ very nineteen days on the first day of each month of the Bahá’í calendar, which consists of nineteen months. They are attended by Bahá’ís in ­every locality and intended to foster fellowship through sharing community news, tending to administrative ­matters, and engaging in consultation about individual and collective actions. 49. ­These include cash receipts from unspecified sources (31.22 LE), the sale of publications (4.70 LE), interest (1.33 LE), and donations from local (Ismailia, Alexandria, and Port Said) and foreign (Baghdad) spiritual assemblies (52.00 LE). The disbursements notably include the costs of renting an assembly hall in Cairo (18.00 LE), the purchase of a library case (2.15 LE), customs dues for a carpet that Shoghi Effendi gifted the spiritual assembly of Cairo (1.00 LE), a Roneo machine (known also as a spirit duplicator, the ­predecessor to the photocopier) (9.00 LE), furniture and electric light installation (4.47 LE), the cost of publications (6.50 LE), postage (1.23 LE), paper for publications (25.00 LE), and fees to two shaykhs for translation of “some Answered Questions” (10.00 LE). The disbursements that year totaled 77.36 LE, leaving a balance of 64.17 LE. Bulletin of the National Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, no. 4 (September 1928): 3 (source on file with the author).

figure 3.4. Bulletin of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, no. 4 (­English), September 1928.

152

figure 3.5. Bulletin of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, no. 4 (Arabic), September 1928.

153

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approved constituting the National Spiritual Assembly. It was also de­cided that the annual election of members to the National Spiritual Assembly would be held in April on the ninth day of the Ridvan feast. The editors report the slow pace of the assembly’s work in the years 1925–27 owing to the ­political situation in Egypt at the time, though no specific p­ olitical events are mentioned. The editors do, however, refer to the 1925 court decision: “Subsepuent [sic] to the final decisiou [sic] of the Highest Ecclesiastical Court, which has denied all previliges [sic] & rites to the Bahá’ís which they heretofore used to share with the Moslems, the National Assembly has undertaken to ­organize its scope of work to meet this difficult situation with the hope to approaeh [sic] the government for official recognition and to obtain formal franchisement.”50 Indeed, not long ­after, in 1932, the National Spiritual Assembly of Egypt petitioned for recognition of Bahá’í personal status law and successfully incorporated in 1934 (figures 3.6–3.8). Recognition from a court of general jurisdiction enabled Bahá’ís in Egypt to establish the National Spiritual Assembly of Egypt, which facilitated their subsequent participation in the administrative order of the Bahá’í Faith. ——— The 1925 court decision and the outcomes it yielded provide impor­tant context for Bahá’í claims making in con­temporary Egypt. While this decision might be understood by scholars as an example of a secular authority empowered to distinguish between what is and is not religion, I suggest a dif­fer­ent interpretation. The decision enabled the flourishing of the Bahá’í community in Egypt, an event that resulted not from a court’s dismissal of theological questions but from considering them seriously. Furthermore, recognition of Bahá’í difference was necessary for the establishment of Bahá’í communal structures in Egypt and the inclusion of Bahá’í Egyptians within a global Bahá’í community. The foundation of this global community would be built through local and national spiritual assemblies that depended on recognition of Bahá’í distinctiveness. Once a court in Egypt recognized Bahá’í difference from Muslims and the Bahá’í Faith as dif­fer­ent from Islam, Bahá’ís in Egypt ­were able to register their national assembly, own property, and publish and circulate communal bulletins. The 1925 decision might thus rightly be understood as 50. Bulletin of the National Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, nos. 2–3 ( July/August 1928): 2 (source on file with the author).

figure 3.6. Cover page of proposed Bahá’í personal status law agreed upon by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, 1932. The Bahá’í World, vol. 6 (April 1934–36) (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1937), 363. 155

figure 3.7. Declaration of trust of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt (page 1 of 2), 1934. The Bahá’í World, vol. 6 (April 1934–36) (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1937), 303–4. 156

figure 3.8. Declaration of trust of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt (page 2 of 2), 1934. The Bahá’í World, vol. 6 (April 1934–36) (Wilmette, IL: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1937), 303–4. 157

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liberatory even if it did not emancipate Bahá’ís from a status-­based regime. It liberated them from being misconstrued as Muslim heretics. One par­tic­u­lar Bahá’í theological concept provides additional context for understanding and comparing Bahá’í claims making in the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries: deference to p­ olitical authority. Deference to p­ olitical authority is discussed extensively in the sacred writings of the Faith. It is understood to require refraining from partisan politics, including seeking p­ olitical office, associating with the agendas of p­ olitical parties, and generally pursuing acts of ­political ambition. ­These activities are seen, on the one hand, to subvert the Bahá’í Faith as a force for global unity based in the oneness of humanity, and, on the other hand, to interfere with the loyalty to Bahá’u’lláh expected of the faithful. The expectation of nonpartisanship is illumined with par­tic­ul­ar acuity in the W ­ ill and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá. He declares that Bahá’ís “must obey and be the well-­w ishers of the governments of the land, regard disloyalty unto a just king as disloyalty to God Himself and wishing evil to the government a transgression of the Cause of God.”51 He states this view more adamantly just paragraphs l­ ater. “It is incumbent upon you,” he implores Bahá’ís, “to be submissive to all monarchs that are just and to show your fidelity to e­ very ­righteous king. Serve ye the sovereigns of the world with utmost truthfulness and loyalty. Show obedience unto them and be their well-­wishers. Without their leave and permission do not meddle with ­political affairs, for disloyalty to the just sovereign is disloyalty to God Himself. This is my counsel and the commandment of God unto you. Well is it with them that act accordingly.”52 Though it may be argued that the Egyptian republic’s discriminatory ­legal regime disqualifies its leadership from the virtues of justice and righ­teousness, and thereby renders the republic vulnerable to challenge by Bahá’ís, their claims to recognition through the apparatus that discriminates against them challenges this view. As we saw in chapter 2, by working within existing bureaucratic and ­legal institutions, Bahá’ís demonstrate that justice is pos­si­ble through the state. State law may function imperfectly, but it also offers opportunities for redress. Latent in Bahá’í actions is a belief that the state’s laws can work better, that they can be improved. Even more, Bahá’ís assent to a l­ egal regime whereby religious difference is consequential to civil status. This assent coheres with Bahá’í cosmological teachings that si­mul­ta­neously celebrate social difference and strive to realize the oneness of humanity. In this view, a ­legal 51. ʻAbdu’l-­Bahá, ­Will and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, 13. 52. Ibid., 31.

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regime that makes religious difference consequential to civil status is not inherently unjust. What is unjust is being compelled to affiliate with a group not one’s own. B ­ ecause the state affords mechanisms to remedy harm—­through bureaucratic institutions and courts, for example—­Bahá’ís are able to strive within state structures to bring about a more perfect social order. The complementarity between state regulation and Bahá’í cosmology is further expressed in Shoghi Effendi’s writing. In one letter, Shoghi Effendi reminds the faithful: Let ­there be no misgivings as to the animating purpose of the world-­wide Law of Bahá’u’lláh. Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-­changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system of national autonomy so essential if the evils of excessive centralization are to be avoided. It does not ignore, nor does it attempt to suppress, the diversity of ethnical origins, of climate, of history, of language and tradition, of thought and habit, that differentiate the ­peoples and nations of the world. It calls for a wider loyalty, for a larger aspiration than any that has animated the ­human race. It insists upon the subordination of national impulses and interests to the imperative claims of a unified world. It repudiates excessive centralization on the one hand, and disclaims all attempts at uniformity on the other. Its watchword is unity in diversity.53 Impor­tant h­ ere is that fidelity to the nation-­state is in line with, rather than antithetical to, the aims of the Bahá’í world order. Bahá’ís strive for social unity amid difference while expressing a love of country, what is understood as a “legitimate allegiance.” Only when nationalism supersedes the world-­building aims of the Bahá’í Faith is the “national impulse” subordinated, which is done through the consultative institutions of the Faith itself. ——— Attributing to state regulation a primarily coercive function, a view commonly advanced by scholars of religion and modernity, overlooks complementarity between the laws of minoritized communities like the Bahá’ís of Egypt and 53. Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh, 41–42.

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the laws of the state where they reside and to which they express devotion. Further, when the state is understood to impose its ­will on helpless or hapless subjects this view misses how social difference ­matters to communal coherence. To understand the fidelity to state institutions expressed by marginalized groups, scholars might consider complementarities that exist between or across multiple normative ­orders—­those maintained by the state and ­those maintained by communities. In con­temporary Egypt, religious affiliation is central to how social relations are built and maintained and is not a system sustained solely by the republic. Instead, who one is in relation to o­ thers—­and the distinctiveness of cosmology therein—­matters to how groups understand who they are. It may also be central to the fulfillment of their sacred duties. Doctrine does not necessarily translate into lived religion. I engage theological ideas and sources in this chapter aware of the possibility of this disjuncture. At the same time, I discuss specific tenets, recounting their entanglement with local and global histories, b­ ecause of the light they shed on Bahá’í practice in con­temporary Egypt—­the predicaments Bahá’ís face in relation to the state and how they navigate ­those predicaments. The founding narrative of the Bahá’í Faith (particularly the relationship between Bahá’u’lláh, ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, and Shoghi Effendi), the history of the Faith in Egypt, its distinctiveness from Islam, and the importance of difference for communal life are all themes that frequently recur among Egyptian Bahá’ís ­today when they communicate to national and international audiences.

4 Obedience to Government Is Obedience to God b a h á’í t e l e v i s e d c l a i m s t o   r e c o g n i t ion In the clash and confusion of sectarian prejudice, the Bahá’í Movement is impartial and sympathetic, offering a foundation upon which reconciliation can be firmly based. Amid the complex interrelations of governments, the Movement stands absolutely neutral as to ­political purposes and entirely obedient to all recognized authority. It ­will not be overlooked by the student that Bahá’u’lláh is the only religious teacher making obedience to just governments and rulers a definite spiritual command.1

for ­decades following their l­ egal incorporation in Egypt, Bahá’ís o­ rganized their communal activities mostly beyond the limelight, even more so starting in the 1960s following state-­imposed limitations on their assembly, the confiscation of their properties, and several waves of arrest and imprisonment. This changed in the early 2000s. Egyptian Bahá’ís began to appear in national media when they encountered new challenges during the routine procurement of state-­issued documents once changes to civil administration procedures w ­ ere implemented. The challenges stemmed from restrictions placed on how the compulsory religion field on t­ hese documents could be filled out. Seemingly overnight, options to self-­identify as Bahá’í became unavailable to Bahá’ís who, 1. Horace Holley, “A Statement on Present-­day Administration of the Bahá’í Cause,” in The Bahá’í World, 2:69. 161

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u­ nder the previous regime of paper-­based identification, had been able to negotiate with bureaucrats to satisfy t­ hose criteria. The modernization of civil registration significantly narrowed the scope for interpersonal negotiations between applicants and bureaucrats. Satisfying the compulsory religion criteria on civil documents now depended on w ­ hether information relayed on handwritten applications could be translated into language recognized by the newly computerized civil registration system. Much of the resultant national and international media coverage revolved around Egypt’s new National Number Proj­ect and the administrative suits that Bahá’ís and other petitioners filed.2 Televised debates addressed points of administrative law and the position of Bahá’ís in Egyptian society.3 Though the mediascape was largely polarized and polarizing, public debate tended not to question that social order in Egypt is o­ rganized around religious difference. Commentators took this fact for granted. What p­ eople did debate was w ­ hether Bahá’í difference should be recognized, ­whether such recognition contravenes the constitution, and ­w hether the Bahá’í Faith is a heavenly religion (dīn samāwī), a new religion, or a deviation from Islam. In the early 2000s when Bahá’ís appeared in the media, their language, like the language of their allies

2. See chapter 1 for a discussion of the modernization of civil registration in Egypt and chapter 2 for an analy­sis of administrative jurisprudence on the question of ­whether state agencies have a l­ egal obligation to issue probative documents with the word “Bahá’í” in the compulsory religion field. ­These issues ­were frequently summarized for a global, Arabic-­speaking ­television public. See, e.g., this feature on the show 90 daqīqa (90 minutes) featuring prominent Bahá’í activists Dr. Rauf Hindi and Dr. Basma Moussa: https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​ =­ICvL7RQPhCM; see also BBC News, “Al-mutaḥawūlūn dīniyyan fī miṣr: ṣirāʿ maʿ al-mujtamaʿ wa-l-qānūn” (Religious converts in Egypt: A conflict with society and the law), April 28, 2010, https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­pbHDSFzFIbk. 3. Numerous such t­ elevision episodes ­were aired on the Dream 2 satellite network, specifically on Al-­Haqiqah (The Truth) hosted by the late Wael Al-­Ebrashy, a veteran TV presenter and investigative journalist. See, e.g., https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=a­ WcjdRNIBaI&t​=3­ s, https://­ www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=O ­ rqvlYxjZ48&t​=3­ s, and https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=z­ o​ _­8K0y9VBI&t​=4­ s. In 2016, when MP Alaa Abdel Moneim proposed a draft bill to remove the compulsory religion field from state probative documents, Al-­Ebrashy hosted a discussion on the topic on his show 10 p.m. (ʿashara masāʾan). See https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­xSM29lc​ -­1Z0. Attempts by Egyptian lawmakers to remove religious status from national ID cards is discussed in Shahira Amin, “Egypt Looks to Remove Religion from ID Cards—­But Is It Too L ­ ittle Too Late?” Al-­Monitor, November 19, 2018, https://­www​.­al​-­monitor​.­com​/­originals​/­2018​/­11​ /­egypt​-­remove​-­religion​-­national​-­id​-­cards​-­coptic​-­christians​.­html#:~:text​=­Nasreddin%27s%20 proposition%20is%20not%20the,in%20the%20House%20of%20Representatives.

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and adversaries in and out of court, took the form of rights talk. Bahá’ís explained to ­television audiences the nature of their claims, including the requirement by law that they tell the truth on applications for state-­issued documents. Notably, Bahá’ís who appeared in the media at that time communicated views fully in line with state policy, whereby one’s civil status is tied inextricably to one’s religious affiliation and non-­affiliation is not an option. Bahá’ís went on air not to contest compulsory religious identification but to claim the right to affiliate with a religion that reflects the real­ity of who they are. This chapter examines select media appearances of Egyptian Bahá’ís during a five-­year period (2018–22). Although their initial engagement with the media was prompted by innovations in state law and policy, Bahá’ís continued to accept invitations from media outlets even ­after the landmark administrative judicial decision of 2008, which, finding in their f­ avor, compelled the Interior Ministry to recognize Bahá’í difference on probative documents.4 That Bahá’ís to this day engage the public through televisual mediums demonstrates their desire for social integration well beyond merely winning l­egal cases and asserting a right to identification; this desire includes expanding notions of what it means to belong within Egyptian society while affirming Muslim majoritarianism. Their recent televised commentaries situate Bahá’í difference within the national landscape in ways that emphasize Bahá’í commitment to the Egyptian state and obedience to government. Importantly, Bahá’ís engage the media with full awareness of their ongoing precarity; ­legal issues remain for Egyptian Bahá’ís, namely ­because Bahá’í marriage is still not recognized by the republic. Nevertheless devoted to the administrative state, they educate fellow Egyptians and a broader Arabic-­ speaking public about the Bahá’í Faith and its history in Egypt—­dispelling misconceptions and articulating a wish for social harmony. Following the Egyptian uprising of 2011, Bahá’ís have appeared in a variety of televised and documentary media. Th ­ ese include salon-­style conversations that are open to and attended by the Egyptian public, recorded, and circulated online. The appearances I analyze h­ ere take dif­fer­ent forms: a salon-­style conversation (2018), an interview (2021), and a documentary short (2022). Recurring patterns in the self-­presentation of Bahá’ís are evident across this five-­year period and ­these media formats that shed impor­tant light on how Bahá’ís in Egypt negotiate 4. This recognition was l­imited to t­ hose who had previously been identified as Bahá’í on paper-­based state-­issued rec­ords and ­those who could prove that their relatives had likewise been identified as Bahá’í on their probative documents. See chapter 2 for a fuller discussion of the jurisprudence.

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their relationship with the state, Egyptians more broadly, and Arabs across the world. I met nearly all of the Bahá’ís who appear in the televised shows and documentaries in person—at social events in Egypt, Turkey, the United Kingdom, and the United States. I analyze their testimonies for insight into how devotion is communicated beyond the state system—­petitions, administrative and attorneys’ offices, and courts. I further explore how Bahá’ís navigate challenges to social integration, highlighting the discourses to which they respond and the narratives they deploy to ­counter misinformation about the Bahá’í Faith. Egyptian Bahá’ís navigate complex issues of belonging and exclusion by toggling between distinction and similitude. They assert, for example, what makes the Bahá’í Faith dif­fer­ent from other normative traditions that predominate in Egypt and the M ­ iddle East while incorporating authoritative sources from t­ hose traditions, particularly Islam, in their speech. When Bahá’ís insert their knowledge of the Qurʾan in discussions of what makes the Bahá’í Faith distinct from Islam, they quell suspicions that Bahá’ís seek to subvert the Islamic identity of the Egyptian state. Another example is their assertion that belonging within the Bahá’í Faith does not follow hereditary rules, while also often mentioning that they are third-­or fourth-­generation Bahá’í. When Bahá’ís are able to claim continuity of religious affiliation with their forebears they affirm a social norm that predominates in Egypt which valorizes social continuity through the male line. A third example is the Arabizing of the Bahá’í Faith’s early history through subtle habits of speech, historical explanation, and comparison. Bahá’ís emphasize that the majority of the sacred texts of the Bahá’í Faith w ­ ere written in Arabic, use Arabic diction to pronounce the names of the Faith’s early leaders who w ­ ere Persian, narrate t­ hese leaders’ travels to Egypt, and historicize Haifa, the location of the Bahá’í World Centre, as originally a territory within the Ottoman Empire although it is currently located within the state of Israel—­all of which buck accusations that the Faith is a foreign, Zionist imposition. This toggling back and forth between distinction and similitude aims to normalize the Bahá’í Faith and create pathways for the integration of Bahá’ís within Egyptian society. ——— In 2018, EIPR hosted a public, salon-­style conversation with Dr. Sawsan Hosni and her son, Hatem el-­Hadi.5 The event was titled “A Biography of an Egyptian 5. https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=V ­ zOsUOQCkTI.

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Bahá’í ­Family.” Dr. Sawsan and Hatem are well-­known figures in the Bahá’í community locally and internationally—in Egypt as well as across the ­Middle East and around the world.6 Dr. Sawsan in par­tic­ul­ar, a gradu­ate of Al-­Azhar University and a specialist in Arabic-­language instruction, has risen to prominence in part ­because of her publications and ability to speak on a range of topics—­ from narrow theological questions to broader questions about comparative religion—­all of which make her a highly sought-­after commentator on the history of the Bahá’í Faith in the Arab world. As an Egyptian who holds UK citizenship, lives in ­England, and has done ­service work in China and New Zealand, Dr. Sawsan embodies a cosmopolitanism lauded by Bahá’ís. In fact, I first met Dr. Sawsan in Skokie, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, at the 2014 Arab American Conference, which is hosted annually by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States.7 ­There she spoke about coexistence in the writing of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá.8 She also discussed her first book, published in 2011, which was coauthored with her husband.9 As a representative of the Cairo Office of the Bahá’í International Community (BIC), a body that holds consultative status with the United Nations, and a citizen of the United Kingdom who now lives in Egypt, Hatem likewise leverages familiarity with multiple cultural contexts and dual-­language proficiency to engage numerous audiences.10 The conversation with Dr. Sawsan and Hatem was held in the Cairo offices of EIPR and moderated by Amr Ezzat, a researcher affiliated with the ­organization.11 6. I hereafter refer to Dr. Sawsan Hosni as Dr. Sawsan to parallel the form of address I used when speaking to her in person. This is the same form of address I used with Dr. Rauf Hindi, which is reflected in the book. My use of first names to address other interlocutors indicates similar proximity to them during fieldwork. 7. The official conference language is Arabic. In 2014, the conference focused thematically on ­human rights in Islam and the contributions of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá. The conference programs dating back to 2014 are archived online. See “Archives,” Arab American Conference, https:/​ /­arabamericanconference​.­com​/­archives​/­. 8. A nineteen-­minute recording of her contribution to the conference was uploaded to Soundcloud: https:​/­/­soundcloud​.­com​/­arab​-­american​-­conference​/­sawsan​-­hosni​-­elhadi​-­abbas. 9. The book is titled Truth’s Paradise (Jannat al-Kalima al-Ilahiyya). A comparative study of sacred texts from vari­ous traditions, it argues that the truth is divine no ­matter its source. 10. See Hatem el-­Hady and Saba Haddad, “In Conversation: Coexistence in the Arab Region,” Bahá’í World News S­ ervice, July 14, 2023, https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­ALP7c1XzZ30. See also “About Us,” Bahá’í International Community, https://­www​.­bic​.­org​/­about​/­about​-­us. 11. The Religion and Belief Program of EIPR and its focus on non-­Muslim groups was once led by Adel Ramadan, an attorney who litigated the case of Dr. Rauf Hindi. Since Adel Ramadan’s departure from EIPR, Amr Ezzat has taken up issues specific to the Bahá’ís of Egypt

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An hour-­long recording of the event was videotaped and l­ ater published online.12 The setting appears both educational and intimate. Filmed from dif­fer­ent ­angles, the recording includes footage of about twenty or thirty audience members seated in rows of chairs that directly face the speakers. Among the attendees are prominent activists who work on issues of freedom of religion and belief, relatives of Dr. Sawsan and Hatem including her husband and his f­ ather, and members of the Egyptian Bahá’í community. Dr. Sawsan and Hatem are seated side by side on a plush sofa. Ezzat is seated in a chair adjacent to them. Over the course of the hour, Ezzat asks Dr. Sawsan and Hatem a series of questions that they take turns answering. Sometimes one of them intervenes to add to the other’s response. Hatem occasionally lifts the microphone closer to his m ­ other’s mouth when it becomes difficult to hear her. The atmosphere in the room is jovial though all three are dressed somewhat formally—­Dr. Sawsan in an all-­ black ensemble and Ezzat and Hatem each wearing sport jackets sans ties. Distinction-­similitude emerges as a narrative frame early in the conversation when Dr. Sawsan starts to talk about her journey of becoming a Bahá’í. Hatem, who was six years old when his parents embraced the Bahá’í Faith, describes having witnessed their transformation. Although conversion might be understood as an event or ­process that inaugurates a break, it is interpreted by Dr. Sawsan as an incremental journey of enlightenment and learning inclusive of ruptures. “­There are two types of p­ eople (nawʿayn min al-­nās),” she explains to the gathered audience and the ­future viewing public. “One type of person chooses what he inherits and safety and peace (yakhtār ma warath wa yakhtār al-­imān wa-­l-­salām). Th ­ ere are o­ thers who wish to know the truth (al-­haqīqa).” Speaking for herself and her husband, she asserts “we de­cided to use reason (al-­ʿakl) in order to arrive at the truth—­the truth in our opinion. It is pos­si­ble that another person’s opinion ­will differ. But this is our opinion.” It is hard to miss Dr. Sawsan’s implicit reference to Islam and Muslims when she synonymizes inheritance, understood as religious affiliation that is passed through patrilineal descent, with safety and peace. In the Egyptian context, one born to a Muslim f­ ather automatically holds Muslim status in public and private law

alongside long-­time staff member Ishak Ibrahim, who specializes in the status of Christian communities and sectarian strife. Ezzat’s writing on the status of Bahá’ís following the landmark rulings of the early 2000s is accessible on the website of EIPR and the U.S.-­based Tahrir Institute for ­Middle East Policy. 12. EIPR has recorded and published a number of conversations on other topics in the same format. Videos are available on the ­organization’s YouTube channel: https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​ /­@EIPRChannel​/­videos.

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and per­sis­tence as a Muslim assures one’s f­ uture to a considerable extent.13 Dr. Sawsan contrasts the born Muslim with the truth-­seeker: one who is unable to s­ ettle for the security that patrilineal descent affords. What appears as a former Muslim distancing herself from a prior affinity soon becomes a more complex narrative. When asked to explain how and why she ultimately converted to the Bahá’í Faith, Dr. Sawsan describes searching for answers to questions within the Qurʾan. She found that God’s message is continuous (risālat allāh lā tanqataʿ). She then studied the Bahá’í Faith as a new religion suited to a new age. In other words, her searching within the Qurʾan led her to believe in the continuity of divine truth, not that Islam is false. The decision to affiliate with the Bahá’í Faith did pose a significant challenge (taḥadī kibīr giddan). At the ages of twenty-­seven and thirty-­three, she and her husband, respectively, who had three small ­children at the time, lost their jobs, certifications, and social status. And yet, Dr. Sawsan insists, they “desired closeness with God (taqārrub ilā allāh).” She is forthcoming about the difficulties that ensued. “I ­won’t say that the journey was easy or that the challenges ­were small but we believed in a verse,” she says. ­Here Dr. Sawsan recites parts of two verses from surat al-­talāq on divorce.14 The surah provides guidance to Muslims on how to sever the marital bond, provided that reconciliation is impossible, while also being mindful of Allah’s ­will. This choice of Qurʾanic reference is striking. The surah concerns both the dissolution of a sacred h­ uman bond and the strengthening of the faith one has in her creator. It is one of many reminders in the Qurʾan that Allah would not create unsurmountable obstacles for humankind and further that Allah is a guide. Dr. Sawsan’s solace in this surah amid the tribulations she and her f­ amily faced on account of becoming Bahá’í draws her nearer to Muslims. By embracing the Bahá’í Faith, she became more proximate to than distant from Islamic cosmology.15 13. U ­ nder conditions of authoritarian repression since 2013, Muslims as well as non-­Muslims in Egypt have been targeted for unlawful detention and other state-­based vio­lence. At the same time, insofar as this book is about civil status and one’s standing in a Muslim-­majority society where not only is religious affiliation compulsory by law but also the state privileges Islamic shariʿa, it is uncontroversial to say that Muslim Egyptians, as compared to Egyptians who hold or aspire to hold other religious affiliations, have greater access to education, employment, health care, marriage, and other public provisions and rights. 14. From Qurʾan 65:2 and Qurʾan 65:3. 15. Dr. Sawsan’s narrative, whereby she explains her embrace of the Bahá’í Faith as complementary to her solace in Islam, contrasts with pop­ul­ ar­ized accounts of the unofficial and illicit conversion of born Egyptian Muslims to Coptic Orthodoxy. In t­ hese accounts, the convert typically denigrates their Islamic upbringing as one discontinuous with their new, enlightened

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As Dr. Sawsan continues to tell her story, issues surrounding f­ amily and national belonging are understood within the discontinuity-­similitude frame. “In truth,” she says, “my ­father, God rest his soul, converted to the Bahá’í Faith. We are eight siblings. The ­family includes Muslims and ­others who became Bahá’í. As a ­family we celebrated Bahá’í holidays and Muslim holidays. During Ramadan, we would all go over to my ­father’s ­house to break the fast, and also during Bahá’í fasting days, we would all go ­there to break our fast.” This reference to her ­father ties interestingly to the comment Dr. Sawsan addresses ­earlier on: p­ eople’s claim that she chose an unfamiliar path. By referencing her ­father’s religious affiliation, she tempers that claim, as well as her own claim about seeking truth ­independent of patrilineal descent. Dr. Sawsan may be a truth-­seeker; she is also the ­daughter of a Bahá’í ­father. This continuity is significant in the Egyptian context b­ ecause it coheres with social conventions around religious affiliation based on patrilineal descent—­even if membership in the Bahá’í Faith is not automatic in this way. Yet Dr. Sawsan explains the significance of her ­family history differently. The multiplicity of religious affiliations within the f­ amily, she posits, mirrors an individual’s relationship with her god. “­Every person is f­ ree in this re­spect,” she says. “We should all live joyfully together. ­There is no favored path (laysa hunāka fadl). Each one of us worships God in his own way but the direction is singular and the goal is one.” Dr. Sawsan talks about the vari­ous accusations that w ­ ere made against her by f­ amily members when she became a Bahá’í, noting as well that many of t­ hese claims ­were abandoned through ongoing exchange (al-ʿishra). Some relatives eventually embraced then left the Bahá’í Faith, and returned. “We have now ­after forty years,” Dr. Sawsan beams, “reached a stage of total love (al-­maḥaba al-­kāmila) and we ­don’t have any challenges, thank God.” The discontinuity-­similitude frame is relevant to how communities make meaning beyond arranging details of their personal history for public audiences. For example, the frame is central to Hatem’s discussion of the precarity Bahá’ís across the ­Middle East face due to the fact that the Universal ­House of Justice—­ the administrative center of the Bahá’í Faith—­and the shrines of the Bab and Bahá’u’lláh are located in modern-­day Israel. “Bahá’ís are not just in Egypt, but in other Arab Muslim countries as well,” he says. “We have historically been accused of being connected to Israel and Zionism. But any educated person—­any Christian self—­culminating ultimately with the convert’s decision to emigrate from Egypt. See, e.g., Metwalli, Islam Encounters Christ.

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knowledgeable person—­now knows that the easiest accusation (tuhma) to make and the easiest way to generate hate in society is to label someone an ‘unbeliever (kāfir),’ ‘traitor (khāyin),’ ‘agent (ʿamīd),’ or ‘Zionist (suhyūnī).’ This accusation is now the hanger on which we hook any point of hatred or difference or the hatred of o­ thers.” Hatem likens Bahá’ís to o­ thers similarly targeted for exclusion. The specificity of who they are in a cosmological sense is less significant than the systemic, discursive ways through which they are excluded and experience marginalization. Accusing a person or group of having affinity with a ­political ­enemy shuts them firmly out of the conversation. The discontinuity-­similitude frame does not confine ­those who invoke its sense-­making horizon to total assimilation with nor total revocation of a majority culture. Instead, the frame allows considerable flexibility for understanding how ­people and communities relate to one another. It further accounts for the importance of knowing and continuing to assert what is both similar and dif­fer­ent across groups. It is a frame, in other words, that opens up ways of understanding how one and one’s group are the same or dif­fer­ent from another person and her group while also underlining that this work—­line-­drawing and comparison— is an ongoing ­process negotiated by ­people daily, a ­process not solely attributable to state power. Hatem, for example, invokes the discontinuity-­similitude frame when comparing Bahá’ís to Muslims and Christians and the sites located in Israel that are sacred to each of t­ hese communities. “Do we [Bahá’ís] look to Akka as a direction for our prayer (qibla)? Yes,” says Hatem. “Is Bahá’u’lláh buried in Akka and is this place sacred to us (muqaddas lanā)? Absolutely,” he continues. “Yet right now Israeli borders surround ­these sites. Does this mean we have a relationship with Israel? No. A thousand nos. Likewise, Muslims look to al-­Aqsa as a sacred place. Christians look to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre as a sacred place. We cannot say they are agents of Israel. Th ­ ese are holy places that are now within the bound­aries of Israel. Therefore, the accusation that Bahá’ís are Israeli agents or Zionists has no validity.” Hatem and Dr. Sawsan invoke the discontinuity-­similitude frame in ways that facilitate integration not by asserting total difference but on the basis of asserting what makes one both like and unlike o­ thers. In so d­ oing, the borders between groups—­b etween Bahá’ís and Muslims and Christians, for example—­appear both firm and flexible. The listener or viewer gleans from this conversation, in other words, that Bahá’ís and Muslims and Christians are distinct from one other in significant ways, as, for example, having dif­fer­ent sites that they each consider sacred. But Bahá’ís and Muslims and Christians share similarities in that some of their sacred sites are located in the same

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geographic area. By toggling between what makes them dif­fer­ent from and similar to members of other groups, Hatem and Dr. Sawsan also assert a view of the world consisting of religious groups—­that ­people are members of groups and ­these groups make up the diversity of humankind. This worldview coheres with how belonging is o­ rganized by Egyptian law, which automates membership in a religious group at birth through death. Seen from this perspective, the ­legal requirement to identify with a religious group complements how Bahá’ís understand the arrangement of h­ uman sociality even as the Egyptian state does not slot citizens into membership within the Bahá’í Faith as it does in the case of Islam and Chris­tian­ity for Egyptians born to Muslim ­fathers and Christian ­fathers. At a basic level, what is communicated by Hatem and Dr. Sawsan is a perspective in which ­there are ­people who maintain dif­fer­ent relations to a creator but also that the real­ity of this relationship—­ between the believer or practitioner or adherent of a cosmology and her god—is universal. All p­ eople, in other words, have a relation with a creator. It is a relationship central to what it means to be ­human. What varies from person to person, in their view, is how the relationship is cultivated. But membership within a group is always ­imagined to facilitate this pursuit. Dr. Sawsan follows Hatem’s lead, shedding light on a resonance between god and government. Whereas Hatem voices how groups are excluded from national belonging, Dr. Sawsan asserts that Bahá’ís belong to the nation. The systemic ­process of exclusion narrated by Hatem exists alongside communal assertions to belonging. “­There’s a very impor­tant point regarding the Bahá’í Faith,” she says, “and that is obedience to government (tāʿat al-­ḥukūma). Obedience to government is obedience to God (tāʿat allāh). ­W hatever the government (ayankān ­al-­ḥukūma). Why? B ­ ecause Bahá’ís are pacifists (duʿāt salām). If they are oppositional (muʿāridīn) or dissenting (mukhtalifīn) of the government they do not bring about peace (lam yuḥaqiku al-­salām). We obey (nuṭīʿ) the laws. If Bahá’ís engage with the government they obey the government. And if Bahá’ís have no engagement with the government, we still obey it.” Dr. Sawsan’s views are striking not least ­because she was among the forty-­nine Egyptian Bahá’ís arrested in 1985 on charges of allegedly o­ rganizing to overthrow the regime (tanzīm li-­qalb niẓām al-­ḥukm).16 Dr. Sawsan explains that she spent nine days in jail. Every­one was 16. The celebrated Egyptian artist Hussein Bicar was also among ­those apprehended. One of Egypt’s most prominent artists of the twentieth ­century, Bicar (1913–2002) continues to be celebrated by Egyptian cultural institutions often on the occasion of his birthday. Archival collections of his works are held at the American University in Cairo. See “Egyptian Society, Arts,

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eventually found innocent of the charges. One would expect that wrongful arrest and imprisonment might lead to alienation. Yet Dr. Sawsan asserts her loyalty to the Egyptian state. In ­doing so, she asserts her faith in God. The intertwining of faith and government is cast in the discontinuity-­ similitude frame such that Bahá’í difference becomes valuable to the Egyptian nation. “The Bahá’ís are Egyptians, a portion of all Egyptians,” Dr. Sawsan comments near the end of the conversation. “They participate, but in a way that is dif­fer­ent. Every­one has a role.” She offers the live audience and viewers of the recording a summary of activities undertaken by Egyptian Bahá’ís following the uprising on January 25, 2011. “The first activity was the letter that was issued four months a­ fter the revolution in April 2011. It’s a letter that has wonderful proposals and was widely circulated.”17 Dr. Sawsan explains that Bahá’ís’ civic engagement continued during the p­ olitical tumult that followed Hosni Mubarak’s removal from presidential office and Mohamed Morsi’s subsequent election to the presidency. She recalls: Egyptian Bahá’ís requested a meeting with the Committee of 50 (lajnāt al-­ khamsīn), which the committee agreed to.18 A meeting took place between a del­e­ga­tion of Bahá’ís and Amr Moussa and Muhammad Salmawi.19 We offered a series of proposals and t­ hese proposals w ­ ere general (ʿāmma). Indeed, Amr Moussa commented, “We thought you ­were coming to make requests for the Bahá’ís.” The requests that we proposed we made in the name of ninety million Egyptians. As Egyptians we asked for the right to citizenship, and Culture,” American University in Cairo, https://­library​.­aucegypt​.­edu​/­libraries​/­rbscl​ /­egyptian​-­society​-­arts​-­culture. 17. The full text of the letter is reproduced in the appendix. Indeed, this letter was seen by many Bahá’ís as so impor­tant that copies of it w ­ ere offered to me by dif­fer­ent Bahá’ís during my fieldwork across Egypt. When I started presenting this research at academic conferences in the United States, non-­Egyptian Bahá’ís in the audience would bring copies of the letter to my ­presentations. 18. The committee’s task and composition are discussed in Nathan J. Brown, “Egypt’s Daring Constitutional Gang of 50,” Car­ne­gie Endowment for International Peace, September 20, 2013, https://­carnegieendowment​.­org​/­2013​/­0 9​/­20​/­egypt​-­s​-­daring​-­constitutional​-­gang​-­of​-­50​-­pub​ -­53079. 19. Amr Moussa, a ­career politician and diplomat, was chosen by the Committee of 50 to serve as its chairman. He previously served as secretary-­general of the Arab League from 2001 to 2011 and minister of foreign affairs from 1991 to 2001 ­under President Hosni Mubarak. Muhammad Salmawi, a prominent writer, served as the Committee of 50’s spokesperson. He has held a number of leadership positions within some of Egypt’s most impor­tant cultural institutions including the Writers ­Union, the Ministry of Culture, and the newspaper Al-Masry Al-Youm.

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an end to discrimination, equality between men and ­women. . . . ​We offered a series of suggestions that he was surprised by b­ ecause they w ­ ere general. That was the point. We ­weren’t ­there to ask for an identity card or the dash (sharṭā). That’s not the situation. The situation right now [is] the rights of ninety million Egyptians of which we [Bahá’ís] are a part. We found that some of what we proposed pleased the committee or the committee had already considered but we felt that we fulfilled part of our duty as Egyptians and as Bahá’í citizens in Egypt.20 Over the course of one hour, Dr. Sawsan and Hatem at once assert what makes Bahá’ís dif­fer­ent from members of other religious groups and that the distinctiveness of the Bahá’í Faith is valuable to the Egyptian nation. The toggling evident in their language follows specific patterns. Th ­ ese include, for example, asserting that the Bahá’í Faith is a distinct cosmology while at the same time referencing the Qurʾan as an authoritative source for overcoming tribulations they experience as Bahá’ís; that belonging to the Bahá’í Faith does not follow conventions of patrilineal descent and si­mul­ta­neously tracing their multigenerational belonging to the Bahá’í Faith through the male line; and that some sacred sites of the Bahá’í Faith like t­ hose sacred to Islam and Chris­tian­ity are located within the geographic borders of Israel but Bahá’ís, unlike Muslims and Christians, are falsely accused of being Zionists. Importantly, the deft, discursive movement between discontinuity and similitude shows that membership in a religious group is necessary for belonging to the Egyptian nation, that this form of membership coheres with Bahá’í cosmological understandings of the arrangement of h­ uman sociality, and that the bound­aries between religious groups are at once flexible and rigid. ——— Over the past d­ ecade, the mediascape in Egypt has ballooned to include ­television programming that centers the topic of religious difference.21 Among 20. Attended by Dr. Sawsan Hosni, Hatem el-­Hadi, Dr. Rauf Hindi, Dr. Basma Moussa, and Dr. Labib Iskandar Hanna, this meeting was widely covered in the Egyptian media. See, e.g., Ali Ragab, “Amr Musa yustamiʿ li­-ruʾyat al-bahāʾiyyīn fī al-taʿdilāt al-dusturiyya,” (Amr Moussa listens to the opinions of Bahá’ís on constitutional amendments), Al-­Dustur, December 1, 2012, https://­www​.­dostor​.­org​/­293176. 21. On ­television as a site of anthropological inquiry, see Armbrust, Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt. Early contributions to the study of media and religion in Egypt include

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the most influential networks operating in this arena is Alhurra, which was launched in 2004. It has been called “the most ambitious United States government–­sponsored international media proj­ect since the Voice of Amer­i­ca began broadcasting in 1942.”22 Intended for an international, Arabic-­speaking viewership, Alhurra broadcasts via satellite to nearly two dozen countries in the ­Middle East and North Africa and has production centers across the region as well as in Washington, D.C. The channel launched a series of programs in 2018 that aimed to provide “in-­depth analy­sis focusing on topics not found in other Arab media outlets such as social, cultural and religious challenges.”23 One program in its portfolio is Debatable (mukhtalafun ʿalay), hosted by the well-­known Egyptian journalist Ibrahim Issa.24 Debatable regularly features investigative episodes on minority communities, like the Alawis, and broader topics, like the religious rituals of non-­Muslims. All episodes are highly produced and presented as educational. That Alhurra is an American channel with explicit aims of steering public debate in the M ­ iddle East in ways more favorable to the U.S. government is worth noting.25 Yet my purpose ­here is not to trace the contours of U.S. imperial formations.26 Instead, I explore how Egyptian Bahá’ís use t­ elevision programs such as Debatable as platforms to assert Abu-­Lughod, Dramas of Nationhood and Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape. For a discussion of how the advent of satellite technology created opportunities for programming beyond state-­ controlled terrestrial t­ elevision that “alternatively cohere, clash and contradict,” see Moll, “Islamic Televangelism,” 1. A global perspective on Arab media and communication is offered in Kraidy, Real­ity ­Television and Arab Politics. 22. Jim Rutenberg, “Coming Soon to Arab TV’s: U.S. Answer to Al Jazeera, Production Values and All,” New York Times, December 17, 2003, https://­www​.­nytimes​.­com​/­2003​/­12​/­17​ /­world​/­struggle​-­for​-­iraq​-­hearts​-­minds​-­coming​-­soon​-­arab​-­tv​-­s​-­us​-­answer​-­al​-­jazeera​.­html. 23. Alhurra is operated by the nonprofit corporation M ­ iddle East Broadcasting Network (MBN), which is headquartered in Springfield, V ­ irginia, and financed by the U.S. government through the U.S. Agency for Global Media. See “A New and Revitalized Alhurra TV Launches across the M ­ iddle East,” U.S. Agency for Global Media, November 3, 2018, https://­www​.­usagm​ .­gov​/­2018​/­11​/­03​/­a​-­new​-­and​-­revitalized​-­alhurra​-­tv​-­launches​-­across​-­the​-­middle​-­east​/­. 24. Issa was a long-­time opponent of Hosni Mubarak’s regime and is one among many opposition journalists who, following the 2011 uprising in Egypt, sought to advance freedom of the media by establishing new outlets for news and communication. See Mary Beth Sheridan, “In Egypt, a Tug-of War over the Freedom to Criticize,” Washington Post, June 24, 2011, https://­ www​.­washingtonpost​.­com​/­world​/­middle​-­east​/­in​-­egypt​-­a​-­tug​-­of​-­war​-­over​-­f reedom​-­to​ -­criticize​/­2011​/­0 6​/­21​/­AGcHo0iH​_­story​.­html. 25. For analyses of transnational television and journalism as they intersect with U.S. interests and Middle East politics, see Bishara, Back Stories; McAlister, Epic Encounters; Sakr, Satellite Realms. 26. On this topic, see McGranahan and Collins, Ethnographies of U.S. Empire.

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their place in a society that marginalizes them and yet to which they yearn to belong.27 In 2021, Debatable aired an episode on the Bahá’í Faith, which became one of its most viewed.28 This episode, like ­others in the show’s repertoire, comprises multiple segments that include prerecorded interviews, in-­studio conversations with featured guests, and montages of historical narrative in the style of PBS documentary. Issa sometimes speaks directly to the viewer from the ­television studio, which is arranged like a sitting room: two accent chairs on e­ ither side of a large, hexagonal coffee t­ able. It is as if the viewer is herself a guest of the show. When Issa speaks to the viewer, he does so didactically. This tone carries over to other show ele­ments. At the start of the episode, for example, footage cuts to Issa speaking to a gathered audience sitting in an expansive, staged café setting with vaulted ceilings; from h­ ere he lectures to ­those in attendance and to viewers of the show on the early history of the Babi movement and the Bahá’í Faith, noting their interconnections.29 Issa is clearly sympathetic to the Bahá’í Faith. He is also clearly critical of Salafi and Wahabi currents, often naming them as sources of religious intolerance in the ­Middle East. Issa blames Salafis for Bahá’í persecution. He claims that Salafism diminishes the flourishing of diverse faith traditions and impedes understanding of social difference, what he says is crucial to coexistence.30 Although Issa maintains a clear ideological view, the episode features prerecorded and some live segments with scholars of religion affiliated with institutions across Egypt, Tunisia, and Kurdistan, perhaps with the intention of tempering his position. Issa converses with them from the studio at vari­ous points during

27. By foregrounding the cosmological order ­toward which Egyptian Bahá’ís strive and the complementarity of this order with the status regime in Egypt, my analy­sis differs from recent work that suggests that when minorities have sought to represent their interests on a national scale, they entrench nationalist understandings of community rights and therefore perpetuate marginalization based in religious difference. For an example of this perspective, see Özkan, “Representing Religious Discrimination at the Margins.” 28. https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=8­ nCbMl​_­76Xo. 29. For an account of this history, see chapter 4 of this book. 30. As if speaking directly to Salafis and Wahabis, Issa says, “Lā mubariran itlāqan ilā ay khawf talama naḥnu naqbal bi-l-ikhtilāf. Al-khawf al­ḥaqīqī hīna naʿjaz ʿan fihm al-ikhtilāf. . . . ​Al-taʿāyush huwa muftāḥ al-ḥayā wa fahm al-ākhar huwa aham asbāb wa dawafuʿ al-taʿayush” (There is no reason at all for any fear so long as we accept difference. The real fear is when we can’t understand difference. . . . ​Coexistence is the key to life. Understanding the other is the most important reason and motive for coexistence).

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the program, asking them about certain tenets of the Bahá’í Faith including misconceptions lodged against its adherents, for example, and claims of association with the state of Israel and Zionism. Guests featured on the show include Shaykh Salem Abdel Galeel, former undersecretary of Egypt’s Ministry of Religious Endowments. Other featured speakers are identified as both scholars of religion and Bahá’í, including Dr. Sawsan. Hatem also appears in the prerecorded video alongside his ­family. As in the conversation with EIPR years ­earlier, for this show Hatem recounts the early history of the Bahá’í Faith in Egypt, and subsequently narrates a period of dormancy from 1960 to the 2000s due to the prohibition against Bahá’í communal activity decreed by President Gamal Abdel Nasser. ­Here I focus on Issa’s exchange with his only live in-­studio guest in this episode: Ghada Alaa, who is identified simply as a Bahá’í activist (nāshiṭa bahāʾiyya). Like the Bahá’ís who appear in other media discussed in this chapter, much of what Ghada does is explain the tenets of the Bahá’í Faith and historicize the presence of the Faith in Egypt all while providing examples from her life that ground both theology and history. Unlike the other guests, however, she delves deeply into the Bahá’í administrative order, narrating how and to what extent it orients the actions of Bahá’ís in their day-­to-­day lives. Although much of Ghada’s discourse adheres to the discontinuity-­similitude frame, I pre­sent and analyze ­here only a se­lection of the conversation between her and Issa, retaining the interview format of their dialogue, that touches on themes not discussed by other Bahá’ís who appeared recently in televised and documentary media. This se­lection follows from Ghada’s explication that truth-­seeking (taḥarī al-­ḥaqīqa) “is a key tenet of the Bahá’í Faith in all aspects of life, not just religion.” Ghada models what truth-­seeking entails: being well-­ read and fluent in the sources of several normative traditions, ­adept at thinking and reasoning comparatively, which requires knowledge of near and distant pasts, and posing questions of the sources one encounters through i­ ndependent investigation. Issa claims vaguely that not long ago, perhaps in the last fifty years, religious diversity in Egypt and the broader ­Middle East was accepted in a way that is no longer common, a change he attributes to the rise of Salafi and Wahabi thought. Ghada agrees with the first part of his assertion. She discusses ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá’s visits to Egypt between the years 1910 and 1913 and his amiable exchanges with prominent Egyptians at this time, including Muhammad Abduh, once the ­grand mufti of Al-­Azhar University. She notes that ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá’s visits w ­ ere covered in state media, a testament to the fact that social diversity was indeed

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celebrated a generation ago.31 Implicit as a contrast to ­these references are the years of marginalization that Bahá’ís in Egypt have experienced since the republic’s founding. Issa and Ghada valorize the twentieth ­century as a time when Egyptians and other Arabs ­were more tolerant of difference as compared to the twenty-­first ­century. Ghada then pivots to consider the circumstances that led from a climate of accepting the other to one that vilifies difference. She does so, however, without directly attributing this shift to what Issa ­later calls “Arab fanatical thought,” which he synonymizes with Islamic radicalism. Instead, Ghada speaks in broad terms about social change and in specific terms about the ways that ­service features in Bahá’í understandings of their purpose. In other words, even as she and Issa share concerns about intolerance in Arab society, Ghada does not wholly accept Issa’s explanation for this phenomenon. She uses her airtime instead to talk about tenets of the Bahá’í Faith that aim ultimately to celebrate and nurture h­ uman diversity, and to discuss how the administrative order of the Bahá’í Faith is central to that aim. ghada alaa (ga): What happened in the past few years? Why is ­there no longer space for ­acceptance of diversity (tanawwuʿ) and pluralism (taʿadud), not just in religion? Even in terms of thought in Egypt, we have many challenges. We now face new circumstances. But if we look to the roots or reasons for this, my opinion is that they are varied. Media plays a big role. Education plays a big role. ibrahim issa (ii): The Bahá’ís themselves, ­don’t they play a role? In terms of announcing themselves, expressing their ideas and education? Ignorance (ghumūd wa jahl) as it relates to the Bahá’í Faith—­which has many enemies (aʿdāʾha)—­and the myths (khurafāt) that are in­ven­ted surrounding it provide a large space for nourishing Arab fanatical thought. ga: This is true. . . . ​All Bahá’ís, wherever they are—in Egypt, in Arab countries, in non-­Arab countries—­are always engaged in social life (ḥayāt al-­mujtamaʿ) b­ ecause among Bahá’u’lláh’s princi­ples is that worship is accompanied by ­service (al-ʿibāda maqrūna bi-­l-­khidma). Worship alone—­that I practice rituals of prayer, supplication, and devotion (ṣalā wa ṣala wa duʿāʾ) without having a role in developing my society alongside my personal and spiritual development—­would 31. Abdu’l-Bahá’s visits to Egypt are chronicled in Sohrab, Abdul Baha in Egypt and Bushrui, ʿAbbās Affendī.

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not be the purpose of my existence as a ­human being (hadaf min wugūdi ka insān). Bahá’ís contribute and speak at national levels, local levels, and international levels. Bahá’ís are represented at the United Nations . . . ​and ­there is a global ­organization for Bahá’ís . . . ​32 ii: ­There’s a global ­organization for Bahá’ís? ga: Yes of course. We could also say that ­there is an administrative and spiritual authority (marjiʿ idārī wa rūḥānī), the Universal ­House of Justice, which is located in Haifa. The Universal ­House of Justice, we could say, assists Bahá’ís with how we can serve our socie­ties more and be promoters of peace and harmony (murawijīn li-­l-­salām wa-­l-­itiḥād). But peace and harmony in a way that appears dif­fer­ent or is dif­fer­ent conceptually. Some ­people hear “peace and harmony” and say that Bahá’ís want every­one to become Bahá’í or that [Bahá’ís] want to spread the faith so that ­there ­aren’t other religions. But that’s not the truth. Within the Bahá’í Faith, unity and diversity (al-­wiḥda wa-­l-­tanawwuʿ) is a foundational princi­ple (mabdaʾ assāsī). It’s the idea: How do we celebrate diversity (naḥtafī al-­tanawwuʿ) and understand our differences better? How do ­these differences contribute to our socie­ties more and more? We d­ on’t strive for homogeneity. ii: Does the Universal ­House of Justice offer fatwas and guidance or is the interpretation of religious texts left up to the individual? ga: This could be distinctive about the Bahá’í Faith. Bahá’u’lláh entrusted the administrative order to the Universal ­House of Justice. Before he died, Bahá’u’lláh left a personal ­will to a group of Bahá’ís whom he instructed to direct questions or the need for counsel to ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, his eldest son. Why ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá specifically? ­Because he was the closest to Bahá’u’lláh during the period of his banishment and imprisonment and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá was a personality that o­ thers saw as exemplary of generosity (karam), unity (itiḥād), and love (maḥaba). We could say that for us Bahá’ís he is the ideal we aspire to become. ­After ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá was his grand­son, Shoghi Effendi, who took over leadership of the Faith following ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá’s death, and ­after that, the Universal ­House of Justice. The administrative form of the Universal ­House of Justice was put in place by Bahá’u’lláh. In the Bahá’í Faith this is called a “covenant and charter” (ʿahd wa mithāq). That ­there is between us and Bahá’u’lláh 32. ­Here Ghada is referring to the UN Office of the BIC: https:/​/­www​.­bic​.­org​/o­ ffices​/u­ nited​ -­nations.

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a covenant and charter regarding rules about who succeeds him. The Universal ­House of Justice addresses messages to all Bahá’ís on holidays (aʿyād), occasions (munasabāt), and ordeals (mihan) that humanity experiences such as the one that ­we’re experiencing now. The Universal ­House of Justice has the power, as written by Bahá’u’lláh, to generate new teachings or ­orders. ii: Does this point to the presence of clergy (rigāl dīn)? ga: No, not in the typical sense ­because the Universal ­House of Justice does not interfere in Bahá’ís’ application of religious texts or in their engagement with Bahá’í laws that govern daily life (taṭbiqāt al-­bahāʾiyyīn fī kayfiyyāt taʿāmulhum bi-­l-­nas al-­dīnī aw kayfiyyāt taʿamulhum maʿ al-­sharāʾiʿ al-­bahāʾiyya al-­yawmiyya). We could say that the Universal ­House of Justice instructs (yurshid), encourages (yushaggaʿ), and directs (yuwaggih) Bahá’ís. Any Bahá’í anywhere in the world has the right to communicate with the Universal ­House of Justice for help understanding something specific. What the Universal ­House of Justice does is search in the books of Bahá’u’lláh, and the books of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, and all the books. . . . ii: And gives an answer. ga: And gives an answer. But to date, ­there ­hasn’t been a need to create new laws (tashrīʿ gadīd). Even though Bahá’u’lláh gave this right to the Universal ­House of Justice this has not yet happened. Ghada’s engagement with Issa adheres to the discontinuity-­similitude frame in ways both complementary to and distinct from the testimonies of Dr. Sawsan and Hatem excerpted e­ arlier in this chapter. On one hand, Ghada names what makes the Bahá’í Faith distinct theologically from other normative traditions: the absence of clergy, ­service as an essential component of faith, and administration as divine covenant between individual Bahá’ís and their prophet-­founder. She clarifies the specific role played by the Universal ­House of Justice in guiding the development of the Bahá’í community, noting that this role was divinely ordained by Bahá’u’lláh. At the same time, Ghada also throws light on the fact that Bahá’ís negotiate multiple normative ­orders that include ­those that operate in the specific contexts of their communities, in their interpretation of sacred texts, and in relation to a global Bahá’í community guided by the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice. Cutting across all t­ hese domains of sociality is the divine guidance of the Faith’s leadership and their exemplary character, ideally personified by ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá.

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——— A six-­minute documentary short titled A Bahá’í in Egypt: A Story of Three Generations (bahāʾī fī miṣr: ḥikāyat thalāthat ajyāl) aired in 2022 on Alsaha network ­television, an affiliate of the M ­ iddle East Broadcasting Network.33 To date the film has garnered over two million views. In Arabic, al-­saḥa means “the arena,” and the motto of the channel is “a space for every­one” (misaḥā li-­l-­kul), an etymology worth noting given the film’s subject and only narrator: Bahaa Ishaq Tawfiq, an Egyptian Bahá’í. “We are loyal to the country” (iḥna mukhliṣīn li-­l-­ balad), he says at the very beginning. The film, shot in what appears to be his or someone e­ lse’s home, shows Bahaa speaking in the direction of the camera, at times holding artifacts of Bahá’í communal life specific to Egypt, including ­family photos, or him praying. When he prays he sometimes stands on a rug, his hands stretched at right a­ ngles ­toward the ceiling. Other times he appears to read from the Bahá’í sacred text, the Kitab-­i-­Aqdas. When he is not shown in quiet contemplation, he is seated on a large, cushioned side chair wearing a blazer and white button-­down shirt, much the same style as Hatem el-­Hadi, speaking to an unidentified interviewer. On Bahaa’s right is a t­ able where two frames are propped up the way f­ amily photos are displayed on a mantel. One is a picture of Bahá’u’lláh and the other is of the Most ­Great Name.34 Bahaa’s speech is interwoven with historic photo­graphs of the National Spiritual Assembly of Egypt and the proposed personal status code of the Bahá’ís of Egypt dating to the 1930s.35 His rendition of history complements what other members of the community who appear in the media provide. This narrative recounts ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá’s visits to Egypt between 1910 and 1913 and cycles of arrest that Egyptian Bahá’ís experienced in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s but also emphasizes their love of country despite ­these and more recent experiences of marginalization. Bahaa conveys his­ devotion to the administrative state by articulating how the Bahá’í Faith is in 33. https:​//­ ­www​.­facebook​.­com​/­ElsahaEGAlHurra​/­videos​/­566147425028070​/?­​ ­extid​=­NS​ -­UNK​-­UNK​-­UNK​-­IOS​_­GK0T​-­GK1C. 34. The Most ­Great Name, known also as the Greatest Name, in Arabic is yā abha al-­abhāʾ. It is often rendered calligraphically and framed, inscribed on the ceilings of Bahá’í ­Houses of Worship, and used in ornamentation, such as jewelry. See, for example, “Colombia T ­ emple Nears Completion as Dome Is Adorned with Sacred Symbol,” Bahá’í World News S­ ervice, June 23, 2018, https://­news​.­bahai​.­org​/­story​/­1268​/­. 35. On this history and images of some of the documents that appear in the film, see chapter 3.

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line with state-­sanctioned understandings of the arrangement of Egyptian society and Bahá’í cosmological understandings of the arrangement of all humanity. He affirms that membership in a religious group whose affiliates are overseen by an exclusive, member-­based ­organization is one of the baseline criteria for belonging to the Egyptian nation. Moreover, Bahaa’s hope for inclusion, like Dr. Sawsan’s, is not shattered by the disparate treatment he has experienced in Egypt on account of his faith. Instead, this marginalization is understood to be a challenge of living with religious pluralism, a challenge to be overcome while also maintaining fidelity to one’s country. The lines between Muslims and Christians and Bahá’ís are both firm and flexible in the narrative Bahaa provides of who he is in relation to other Egyptians. “The Bahá’í Faith recognizes Islam, recognizes Chris­tian­ity, and recognizes Judaism. Like I told you, my name is Bahaa Ishaq Tawfiq Ghobrial Shenouda and I say ‘­There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah’ (lā ilāha illā-llāh wa muhammad rasūl allāh). This is something that surprised ­people when I said it.” Bahaa does two ­things ­here. First, by stating his full name, which, following naming conventions in Egypt, consists of his given name, his f­ ather’s given name, his grand­father’s given name, and his great-­ grandfather’s given name, he communicates that his f­ amily origins are Coptic. Second, by stating the shahāda or Islamic declaration of faith, he accepts the oneness of God as well as the singularity and finality of Muhammad’s prophethood. Without ever naming his Coptic heritage or that he observes key tenets of Islamic cosmology, Bahaa situates himself within, not outside, traditions of religious pluralism in Egypt. Bahaa provides additional biographical information that sheds more light on how Bahá’ís embody multiple traditions and yet affiliate with one group, an affiliation often traced through the male line. He repeats his name. He shares that he was born in Cairo in 1963, graduated from Cairo University’s College of Engineering Department of Architecture in 1986, and served two years as a reserve officer in the armed forces. As Bahaa talks about his grand­father, the viewer is shown a picture of his grand­father’s paper identity card, which is dated June 19, 1964.36 Bahaa says, “Truthfully, my grand­father, Tawfiq Ghobrial 36. The card shown by Bahaa is a ­family identity card (bitāqa ʿāʾliyya), issued to Egyptians who are married and have ­children. The card’s religion field is marked with a handwritten dash. Egypt maintained paper-­based identity cards, with dif­fer­ent cards for single and married Egyptians, that bureaucrats filled out by hand ­until the early 2000s when civil registration procedures ­were computerized. The state no longer issues dif­fer­ent cards for single and married Egyptians;

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Shenouda, was the first in his ­family who was Bahá’í. A ­ fter him was my ­father. I am arguably the third generation.” The camera then focuses on pictures of other male ­family members’ paper ID cards: one dated August 4, 1959, and another dated September 9, 1989. All of ­these snapshots of who Bahaa is establish his rootedness in Egypt as a geo­graph­i­cally bounded space, his love for Egypt as the country of his birth and to which he has shown fidelity by serving in its army, and his affection for patrilineal forebears as evidenced by the rec­ords of their personhood that he clearly holds dear. By referencing his position as third-­generation Bahá’í, Bahaa also implicitly addresses and dispels a stigma against the Bahá’í Faith—­that it is foreign to Egypt. Bahaa’s assertion of belonging to the land, that he is third-­generation Bahá’í, renders the tradition less foreign, more native or local and therefore familiar or approachable. ­These assertions of belonging based on nationalist and patrilineal norms are quickly followed by assertions of belonging based on difference or discontinuity from that normative order. “But I want to clarify that the Bahá’í Faith ­isn’t passed down through the ­family line (tawrīth),” Bahaa says, “which means that ­every person who belongs to the Bahá’í f­ amily must search (yabḥath) to uncover the truth (taḥarar al-­ḥāqīqa) and eradicate intolerance from within oneself (yuzīl min nafsu al-­taʿasub).” He mentions a key tenet of the Bahá’í Faith, which is that once someone reaches the age of fifteen, the age of maturity, that person alone must decide w ­ hether to be Bahá’í. As with other Bahá’ís who appear in the media and are second-­or third-­generation Bahá’í, like Dr. Sawsan, Bahaa toggles between asserting that membership in the Bahá’í Faith is not descent-­based and stating that his affinity with the Bahá’í Faith runs through the male line. That continuity resonates strongly with Egyptian formal and informal norms on social status.37 Also like Dr. Sawsan, Bahaa articulates that he embraced the Bahá’í Faith following his own search for truth. Each of them additionally narrates that becoming a Bahá’í destabilized their families for some time. “At first,” Bahaa says, “when my grand­father began instead, marital status appears on ­every card. If the cardholder is married, the name of their spouse is inscribed on the card. See chapter 2 of this book for a discussion of how and why Egyptian civil registration changed in the twenty-­first ­century, including what remains the same since ­these changes ­were implemented. 37. Formal in the sense that state documents that attest to one’s personhood require the articulation of one’s name along the conventions mentioned above (a person’s full name consists of four given first names drawn from the applicant’s male line); informal in the sense that when one is asked to provide one’s name or offers it up in conversation, this information almost invariably alerts the listener as to the speaker’s religious heritage.

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to believe in the Bahá’í Faith, of course this created division in the f­ amily. My grand­father developed a deep belief in the Bahá’í Faith (āman bi-­imānʿamīq bi-­l-­dīn al-­bahāʾī), which he transferred to us.” The story of the Bahá’í Faith in Bahaa’s ­family is a story of division and continuity, resolved ultimately in a way that buttressed rather than diminished his faith, which parallels his experience of exclusion within Egyptian society and why, we might also say, he is optimistic that this marginalization can be remedied. A parallel thus emerges between the challenges one f­ aces within one’s own ­family and the challenges one ­faces as a religious minority in a Muslim-­majority society. Bahaa sheds light on this duality: “When we became Bahá’í, the truth is ­people around us ­were surprised: one person in the m ­ iddle of a very large group is Bahá’í. . . . ​Of course, it becomes a prob­lem when you are one person in the ­middle of a very large group how you prove that you are at least on a path, not necessarily that you are right and ­others are wrong but that you prove you are convinced by your path.” Bahaa, like Dr. Sawsan and Hatem, understands humanity to comprise members of distinct groups. He at once asserts a vision of society consisting of distinct groups and acknowledges the challenges he has faced as a result of belonging to the Bahá’í Faith. “The challenges that I experienced in my life have affected me.” H ­ ere he describes being laid off b­ ecause he is Bahá’í and his experience being summoned by police in Luxor during his honeymoon since Bahá’í marriage is not recognized by the state. Nevertheless, Bahaa wishes to communicate to ­others his love for Egypt. “­These are all ­things that make the ­human more aware that ­people should know that we are not dangerous (mudhirīn) and that we are Egyptians and living in Egypt and loyal to the country (mukhliṣīn li-­l-­balad).” Bahaa also emphasizes that he and other Bahá’ís are Egyptians living in Egypt and loyal to the country. All of this relies on a discourse of origins: being original to the land and belonging to the land for multiple generations. They are not just Egyptians now; they have always been rooted in Egypt and do not imagine belonging elsewhere. “The truth is that as a f­ amily we have never considered emigrating outside of Egypt,” Bahaa says. “Maybe I travel for leisure, for example, but never to emigrate. We do not have a nationality (jinsiyya) other than the Egyptian nationality and we ­will not have another nationality. We ­were born in this country (hatha al-­balad) and our f­ athers and our grand­ fathers ­were born ­here and we are abiding (mustamirrīn) in it, God willing. I see the challenges we face as within the possibility of resolution (fī magalāt al-­ḥāl).” While acknowledging the challenges he ­faces, he also states his wish to live peacefully (silmiyyan) with o­ thers, that he is loving of o­ thers (muḥib

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li-­l-­ākharīn), that he serves ­others (bi-­yikhdim li-­l-­ākharīn). “How do I communicate this understanding,” he asks, “and not give the impression that I ­will flee? My dream is that we, all our c­ hildren, enjoy (yanʿāmhu) freedom, that ­there ­aren’t stresses on them, that ­there ­aren’t challenges—­the civil challenges (taḥadiyāt madaniyya) that we talked about before.” ­There is a sense of Bahaa being in relation with the state, working out issues, grappling with an imperfect structure. Part of the relationship is a working through and a belief that resolution is pos­si­ble. He and other Bahá’ís aim to live well with ­others despite challenging conditions in a country they love and is their home. ——— Not all Egyptian Bahá’ís claim a ­television or film credit. As readers are likely to infer, t­ hose who appear in national and international media—­both t­ elevision and film—­are proximate to centers of power and privilege even as they individually hold minoritized positions and face marginalization as a group. Th ­ ese sources include connections to journalists, t­ elevision personalities and network ­television producers, and researchers at local and international advocacy ­organizations, to name a few. It would be easy to characterize Bahá’ís who command a public audience and viewership as contributing to an elite discourse, one that homogenizes disparate views held by Bahá’ís and aims to render the Bahá’í Faith more agreeable to unfamiliar or antagonistic audiences—in Egypt and elsewhere in the Arab world. But I want to caution against this reading of what Bahá’ís are d­ oing when they appear on screen. The se­lections of digital media discussed in this chapter show some thematic commonalities across time within a single community; they also show that Bahá’ís have adapted what they say in and to the public in light of ­political and social changes in Egypt. Adaptability is what ­matters. Also impor­tant are the ele­ments that have remained continuous over the course of Bahá’í presence in the media. Before 2011, most Bahá’í media appearances centered around rights talk (the administrative cases and the right to amend probative documents) and paralleled ­legal discourse (­whether the Bahá’í Faith is a heavenly religion, w ­ hether it contravenes the public order, w ­ hether the Egyptian bureaucracy has a l­egal obligation to recognize Bahá’í difference). Since 2011, Bahá’ís who have appeared in the media have tended to speak about living with difference. They seek to educate a national and international Arabic-­speaking public about the history of the Bahá’í Faith, situating this history within an Arabist framework (downplaying the Persian background of Bahá’u’lláh, emphasizing that the

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majority of his writings, including the Most Holy Book, w ­ ere written in Arabic and that his shrine is located in Palestine, a former Ottoman territory). More than representing and circulating an elite discourse, Bahá’ís who appear in the media provide insight into how minoritized communities navigate living with difference. What we see h­ ere is an example of what Dr. Rauf Hindi described to me as a wish to change public opinion (taghyīr al-­mafahīm). Litigation is only one route for d­ oing so. The goal of Bahá’ís who appear in the media is ultimately to find ways to live well together. Th ­ is necessitates a way to live with difference. Litigation and public engagement through the media are ave­nues through which Bahá’ís communicate their devotion to the administrative state and their ontological commitments to a cosmology that values difference. An educational ele­ment underlies both. Coexistence includes teaching ­others about oneself, learning from o­ thers about who they are, and finding ways to work together to cultivate and realize a more just society. The foundation is difference. B ­ ecause Bahá’ís understand difference to be a necessary part of unity, recognition of what makes them distinctive coheres with a cosmology oriented t­ oward the ­future but also reliant on a history of origins. Difference is not an impediment to overcome but a necessary feature of humanity that should be recognized in order to realize unity. The oneness of humanity is emphasized. The generality of Egyptian citizenship is emphasized. What is also emphasized is that Egyptians belong to dif­fer­ent religious groups. Through their televised claims to recognition, Bahá’ís aim to expand notions of lawful belonging by expanding what counts as a religion and affirm Muslim majoritarianism. They want the difference of the Bahá’í Faith and their affinity with other Egyptians recognized: difference of religion and sameness of nationality. They work within a state framework of social ­organization not merely ­because it is dominant but b­ ecause it coheres with how Bahá’í cosmology is understood and practiced. The situation of Bahá’ís differs significantly from that of Muslim converts to Coptic Orthodoxy (mutanaṣerūn) and reconverts to Coptic Orthodoxy (ʿāʾidūn li-­l-­misiḥiyya). Now that reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy is pos­si­ble for c­ hildren born to Coptic f­ athers through state law and canon law, t­ hese routes to membership nullify a need to sway public opinion through televised appeals. Moreover, the founding narratives of the Egyptian republic rely on tropes of Muslim-­Christian unity. Egyptians broadly accept the centrality of Coptic Orthodoxy to the Egyptian nation even as Copts experience routine marginalization. Although mutanaṣerūn who ­were born to Muslim f­ athers that

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­ ere never members of the Coptic Church have no lawful way to formalize w their conversion, this attempt at status change is in any case taboo: it transgresses patrilineal norms of group membership valorized by the Coptic Church and by the Egyptian republic and operative within local communities. Administrative courts have affirmed this view, finding challenges to the finality of Islam by Maher al-­Gohary and Muhammad Hegazy to contravene both shariʿa and public order. ­These combined ­factors explain why al-­Gohary and Hegazy, though they appeared in national and international media at the time of their suits in the early 2000s, have not maintained a media presence since then. Nor have o­ thers wishing for a change of status from Muslim to Christian sought to do so through official channels.

part iv

Ethics

5 A Christian Like Us c op t ic ­l aw y e r s at t h e va ngua r d ­ ere is a very impor­tant rule in Islamic legislation that says “if the ­People Th of the Book (ahl al-­dhimma) come to you, judge them according to what they profess (aḥkum baynahum bi-­mā yadīnūn).” Meaning, it instructs the judge: if someone comes to you who is Christian or Jewish, decide his case based on what he professes. We have a prohibition against the remarriage of divorcees. So we request of the judiciary that it implement the Islamic shariʿa that says “judge among them on the basis of religion.” If we allowed divorcees to remarry, then the Christian ­family would cease to exist. Anyone who tires of his wife for any reason ­will divorce her and marry another. Who can accept this? I regret that a group of Christians, who do not belong fully to the religion (lā yantamūna ila al-­din tamāman), who appear Christian from the outside but their faith within is not right, support this state of affairs.1

the promulgation of Egyptian Civil Status Law 143 of 1994 was part of a government-­w ide campaign to modernize civil data collection and recordkeeping. The law entrusts the Civil Status ­Organization (CSO) of the Interior Ministry to regulate the application for and procurement of vital rec­ords. Article 47 (2) of the law, which provides for the amendment of religious affiliation on vital rec­ords, created a demand for ­lawyers who could interpret the 1. Pope Shenouda III comments during Sunday mass on the Supreme Administrative Court decision, issued on May 29, 2010, finding against the Coptic Church and requiring the Church to issue marriage licenses to Coptic divorcees, June 3, 2010, https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​ ?­v​=i­Nv4JHcPMnk. 189

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new regulations and mediate between ordinary citizens and administrative agencies. Only a handful of ­lawyers, many of whom previously worked as ­legal generalists, filled this jurisdictional vacancy.2 ­These ­lawyers diversified into three specializations over time.3 Some ­lawyers took on Bahá’í cases, o­ thers took on Muslim conversion to Coptic Orthodoxy cases, and still o­ thers took on cases of return to Coptic Orthodoxy. Their specializations correspond to the three types of Article 47 cases that are adjudicated by Majlis al-­Dawla and discussed in chapter 2. The fields of specialization are so distinct that no one attorney or law office has litigated each case type.4 By the summer of 2012, l­ awyers like Fadi Ibrahim w ­ ere mostly working outside of court. They sought to ensure that agencies ­were implementing a landmark administrative judicial decision and a Justice Ministry decree, both issued in 2011. The judgment provides for the treatment of ʿāʾidūn as a single class of ­legal persons distinct from mutanaṣerūn (born Muslim converts to Coptic Orthodoxy), whereas the decree established thatʿāʾidūn are no longer required to obtain a judicial decision in order to formalize their reconversion. ʿĀʾidūn instead procure a Certificate of Return from the Coptic Orthodox Church that attests to their reac­cep­tance by the patriarchate. Together with a report from the Interior Ministry verifying that the applicant did not commit any crimes as a Muslim, this certificate is in theory sufficient to establish one’s Christian civil status and amend the religious affiliation on vital rec­ords to reflect the same. Yet jurisprudence that compelled the state to honor the change of religion requests by ʿāʾidūn did not resolve their dilemmas. When I met Fadi in 2012, 2. I borrow the term “jurisdictional vacancy” from Andrew Abbott, who argues that professions develop when jurisdictions become vacant or when an existing profession takes over a vacant jurisdiction. Abbott, The Systems of Professions, 3. 3. A ­lawyer in one such law practice told me, and my field research confirmed, “­There are three or four offices that work on t­ hese same cases b­ ecause very few work on freedom of religion in Egypt. ­These three or four offices are known by name.” 4. Scholars familiar with the landscape of rights advocacy in Egypt might expect that EIPR would hold a mono­poly on all three specializations. However, that is not the case. EIPR has written or coauthored several reports on freedom of religion in general, including the right to amend religious affiliation on vital rec­ords in par­tic­u­lar, and served as counsel for the landmark Bahá’í case de­cided in 2009. See, for example, ­Human Rights Watch and EIPR, “Prohibited Identities: State Interference with Religious Freedom,” November 11, 2007, https://­www​.­hrw​ .­org​/­report​/­2007​/­11​/­11​/­prohibited​-­identities​/­state​-­interference​-­religious​-­freedom​.­In 2013, EIPR partnered with Handmade Studios to produce a documentary titled khānat al-­dīn, which examines the social and ­political implications of the compulsory religious affiliation criteria on Egyptian vital rec­ords. But the ­organization has not publicly represented ʿāʾidūn or mutanaṣerūn.

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he had by then filed four thousand petitions challenging the noncompliance of administrative agencies. This chapter examines how the administration of religious difference is sustained through ­lawyers’ work. It further explores the moral dilemmas negotiated by attorneys who advocate for members of their community even as the clients they retain challenge its bound­aries. At the same time, ­these attorneys, ­whatever their specialization and like the administrative judges whose verdicts are discussed in chapter 2, vest their faith in two member-­based o­ rganizations: the Coptic Church and the Egyptian republic. The administrative pro­cesses that each ­organization oversees are considered by ­these attorneys as central to maintaining Coptic Orthodoxy and the Egyptian nation. Normatively, they aspire to preserve Coptic Orthodoxy as a bounded, exclusive community. At the core of their devotional practices are two commitments: that membership within Coptic Orthodoxy and the Egyptian nation follows from patrilineal descent, and that both the Church and the republic should be empowered to regulate religious affiliation and national belonging through law. To negotiate status distinction effectively for their clients and for their broader, ideological proj­ect, they partake in devotional practices—­toward the state and the Church—­based in a belief that Chris­tian­ity is the only truth. Whereas attorneys by training are constrained by the logic of the law, their orthodox cosmologies also orient them to par­tic­u­lar understandings of what it means to belong to a group. In the two l­ egal specializations I consider ­here—­those concerning ʿāʾidūn and mutanaṣerūn—­attorneys actively delineate the l­ egal bound­aries of Coptic Orthodoxy. ­These specializations have come to be known as Coptic domains of practice, meaning that the attorneys who work in this field are Copts who advocate for members of their denomination.5 By collecting and analyzing Article 47 jurisprudence and meeting with ­legal prac­ti­tion­ers, I found that ­lawyers who take on t­ hese cases are Copts who assert a strong denominational identity. The contents of my interlocutors’ subjectivity ­were not ­things I inquired into. Instead, the significance of that subjectivity was frequently volunteered by them and evident through their discursive practices, the iconography that covered their office walls, the settings they chose for our meetings, and how they interpreted my motivations for undertaking research on conversion. 5. This was not obvious when I started researching the Civil Status Law and related litigation. In fact, during my earliest months of research, one attorney specializing in f­ amily law said to me, “I’m Muslim, so I ­won’t be much help.” He referred me to a law office specializing in administrative law staffed entirely by Coptic Orthodox Christians.

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The questions “Who is a Muslim?” and “Who is a Copt?” underlie the adjudication of Article 47 cases; they have also s­ haped the terrain of l­ egal advocacy in impor­tant ways. Migration from one Christian denomination to another—or to Islam—­often requires l­egal counsel. Complainants retain ­lawyers to navigate the administrative bound­aries of Coptic Orthodoxy and to negotiate their terms. The triumphalist Coptic subjectivity exhibited by the ­lawyers contrasts sharply with their clients’ circumstances. As this chapter explains, a Coptic ­legal ethics has developed among ­these attorneys, one that is s­ haped by and attentive to the limits of positivist and canon law as well as normative, local concerns about who counts as a member of a group. This ­legal ethics is concerned with the proper conduct of Coptic ­lawyers in relation to one another and to their clients, and with making judgments about the types of l­ egal dilemmas they o­ ught to resolve. Both considerations are deeply s­ haped by suspicion about strategic conversion, a suspicion whose main target is the convert—­not the institutions or systems that render strategic conversion pos­ si­ble and expedient.6 In fact, the state is seen by the attorneys to play a necessary role in vetting legitimate members of the Coptic community. I further address two related issues. One is the ­lawyers’ fidelity to the laws of the republic and the other is what this fidelity makes pos­si­ble for communal coherence. Even as rivalries emerged over how to compel bureaucratic compliance with Article 47, my interlocutors w ­ ere broadly committed to the regulation of religion. It is true that accepting law for the resolution of conflict is a basic tenet of the ­legal profession. Yet understanding Coptic ­lawyers’ commitment to positivist categories of social difference requires attending to how civil

6. In con­temporary contexts like Egypt—­Muslim-­majority states where Islamic law is the law of general jurisdiction and also where religious difference is a compulsory feature of civil status with effects in both private and public law—­strategic conversion is a practice whereby non-­Muslims, typically Christians and Jews, convert to Islam to secure more favorable l­egal outcomes than are pos­si­ble ­under their own communal laws. A historical antecedent to this practice is called forum shopping, which in the twentieth ­century consisted of Christians and Jews appealing to shariʿa courts, instead of non-­Muslim (millī) courts, to resolve their intracommunal disputes. For a discussion of the once common, yet controversial, practice of Jewish applications to Islamic courts, see Shaham, “Jews and the Sharī‘a Courts in Modern Egypt.” While rabbis issued injunctions against this practice b­ ecause it contravened Jewish law, they could do ­little to circumvent the preference by many Jews to resolve disputes according to Islamic law. For examples of a­ ctual cases in which Christian communities engaged in a similar practice, including its relation to broader debates about dissolving confessional courts, see Ziadeh, ­Lawyers, the Rule of Law, and Liberalism in Modern Egypt, 106–16.

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administration regulates practices understood as central to Coptic life—­ primarily marriage and divorce. For them, regulation ensures the essentially religious quality of the Coptic marital bond. ­Lawyers’ commitment to regulating difference through the republic’s laws dovetails significantly with the role played by the Coptic Orthodox Church in the administration of difference. In this domain of practice, where decisions about status are made and negotiated and contested in a highly plural ­legal environment, the republic’s norms of group membership (i.e., religious affiliation as necessary for civil status) and communal norms of group membership (i.e., recognition from the Coptic Church as necessary for belonging within Coptic Orthodoxy) align. Scholars have widely discussed the entanglements between conversion, marriage, and divorce as they affect and have been debated within the Coptic community in Egypt. Existing accounts consider high-­profile controversies around the alleged conversion to Islam of two Coptic ­women—­Wafaa Constantine and Camilia Shehata, the wives of Coptic priests—as examples of how the Coptic Church and the Egyptian republic constrain Coptic ­women’s options for dissolving the marital bond, fomenting conflict between Muslims and Christians.7 ­Others have foregrounded the ways that Copts seeking to remarry navigate the official position of the Coptic Church to secure marriage authorization.8 More recent attention has been paid to how Coptic communal law, unitary state law, and Islamic law overlap, and what the interplay of dif­fer­ent jurisdictions reveals about l­ egal pluralism in con­temporary Egypt.9 This chapter is distinctive in that it foregrounds the work that Coptic l­ awyers do to navigate the membership criteria overseen by both the Egyptian republic and the Coptic Church. The actions taken by Coptic ­lawyers working at the vanguard of l­ egal advocacy reveal an 7. See, e.g., Mariz Tadros, “­Behind Egypt’s Deep Red Lines,” ­Middle East Research and Information Proj­ect, October 13, 2010, http://­www​.­merip​.­org​/­mero​/­mero101310​.­See also Mahmood, Religious Difference in a Secular Age, 111–48. Whereas Mahmood explores how the Constantine and Shehata controversies gave rise to a global discourse on the kidnapping and enforced disappearance of Coptic ­women and girls, Tadros finds that in Egypt “the majority of gender-­related sectarian incidents are not related to married ­women or men but are cases of protest in response to the disappearance or conversion of young, sometimes underage, girls” (Copts at the Crossroads, 56–58). 8. Elsässer, “The Coptic Divorce Strug­gle in Con­temporary Egypt.” 9. See, e.g., Scott, “Islamic Law, Unitary State Law, and Communal Law.” For e­ arlier accounts of similar themes, see Berger, “Secularizing Interreligious Law in Egypt”; Bernard-­Maugiron, “Divorce and Remarriage of Orthodox Copts in Egypt”; Oraby, “Law, the State, and Public Order.”

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unexamined preference for setting and maintaining limits to communal membership. In what follows, I narrate developments in state and communal law that provide the backdrop in which l­awyers t­ oday operate. As discussed e­ arlier, religious affiliation has been a compulsory feature of civil status in Egypt—­ required by public law—­since the 1950s. All cases of conversion examined in this book are overseen by administrative courts, not f­ amily courts. At the same time, civil status is consequential to one’s standing in personal status law. In this light, the history offered in the next section foregrounds the public power of the Coptic Church—­its power to authorize marriage and remarriage, as well as the conflict between the Church and the administrative courts over the lawfulness of the Church’s denial of petitions for remarriage. Even as twentieth-­ century ­legal reforms constrained confessional authority, the Church was empowered by the state to determine w ­ hether marriage between two persons in the Coptic tradition had commenced. B ­ ecause t­ here is no civil marriage option in Egypt for two Egyptians wishing to marry, the Church’s role in recognizing the lawfulness of marital ­unions precedes and is necessary for any subsequent action by the state that recognizes individuals as married persons. ­Lawyers working to bring Copts back into the fold of Coptic Orthodoxy contend with this fraught, plural regulatory environment, whereby the state and the Church hold at times complementary and other times competing legislative and administrative powers. State courts, meanwhile, are si­mul­ta­neously empowered to review Church actions—­like the granting of marriage licenses—­ that have a public quality and effect. The Church has no analogous power of judicial review. ——— When the confessional courts w ­ ere brought u­ nder the jurisdiction of the national courts in 1955, so too was the domain of f­ amily law, which consists of rules for marriage, divorce, and custody.10 Non-­Muslim communities previously maintained legislative and judicial autonomy in t­ hese areas such that their community councils both generated and enforced distinct ­legal rules among their members; Nasser-­era ­legal reforms radically circumscribed 10. I use “national courts” and “state courts” interchangeably to refer to adjudicative institutions that interpret local and national statutes, constitutional law, and codified communal laws.

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communal authority.11 Community councils in Egypt t­ oday generate laws pertaining to marriage and divorce, but the interpretation of t­ hese laws falls ­under the jurisdiction of national courts. Secularly trained civil court judges apply a codified version of the religious laws of the litigants when adjudicating personal status disputes.12 Though the Coptic Orthodox tradition has recognized vari­ous bylaws on marriage and divorce over the course of its history, the wife’s adultery has been a long-­standing ground for legitimate divorce.13 Adultery remained the only ground for dissolving the marital bond u­ ntil the tenth ­century. From the eleventh to the thirteenth c­ entury, the conditions for divorce w ­ ere increased to twenty-­eight. This dramatic development was precipitated by Coptic social practices, such as men leaving their wives and marrying concubines, and an interest by the Coptic clergy to regulate practices that ­were performed beyond the purview of ecclesiastical authority.14 Additional ­causes of divorce, including an expansion of adultery to include actions of the husband as well as the wife, ­were adapted from sources external to Coptic law. Relying first on vari­ous civil and Byzantine codes, and ­later on Islamic ­legal treatises, Mikhail of Damietta and Al-­Safi ibn al-­ʿAssal inserted a lexicon of new terms and methodologies into Coptic ­legal tradition. By articulating social practices like concubinage within an ecclesiastical frame, the Coptic Church maintained a central role in 11. For an extended analy­sis of twentieth-­century ­legal reforms in Egypt, see Brown, The Rule of Law in the Arab World. The comparative implications of t­ hese reforms are discussed in Brown, “Citizenship, Religious Rights, and State Identity in Arab Constitutions.” 12. As in the pre-1955 period, personal status law t­ oday applies in the event that non-­Muslim litigants are of the same denomination (milla) and sect (ṭāʾifa). Where ­there is a discrepancy between the litigants’ denomination and sect, Muslim personal status law applies. See Berger, “Public Policy and Islamic Law,” 93. Rights to inheritance w ­ ere codified according to Islamic shariʿa. ­Until 2016, all Egyptians ­were subject to Islamic rules of inheritance regardless of religious affiliation. See Ayat Al Tawy, “Egyptian W ­ oman Wins Case against Islamic Inheritance Laws,” Ahram Online, November 26, 2019, http:/​/­english​.­ahram​.­org​.­eg​/­NewsContent​/­1​/­6 4​ /­356612​/­Egypt​/­Politics​-­/­Egyptian​-­woman​-­wins​-­case​-­against​-­Islamic​-­inheritan​.­aspx. 13. Based on a reading of Jacques Masson, Tamer el-­Leithy notes that like all Christian matrimonial law, “divorce laws [in the Coptic tradition] w ­ ere unevenly weighted by gender. A ­ fter establishing his wife’s adultery, a man could repudiate her and remarry. By contrast, a ­woman whose husband was convicted of adultery could secure a separation but did not have the right to divorce or remarry: the reasoning was that she should remain available in the event that the husband repented his sin and wished to return to her” (“Coptic Culture and Conversion in Medieval Cairo,” 423). See also Masson, Histoire des ­causes du divorce dans la tradition canonique copte. 14. El-­Leithy, “Coptic Culture and Conversion in Medieval Cairo,” 425–26.

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performing marriage rituals. The relaxation of divorce laws and the conditions for authorization of remarriage also assuaged concerns that banning divorcees from the Church would lead to an increase in conversions to Islam. The Church managed to retain the distinctiveness of its denomination by adapting to changed circumstances, within and beyond its constituency. Church leadership revised the rules of its membership enough to maintain the coherence and sanctity of the marriage sacrament. The conditions for marriage and divorce became subject to additional regulation when nationalist l­egal reforms reconfigured ecclesiastical authority in the mid-­twentieth ­century. Th ­ ese reforms generated questions about the civil or religious nature of marriage as well as the civil or religious effect of divorce. ­Until the twentieth ­century, the Coptic Orthodox communal courts based their decisions on al-­majmūʿ al-­ṣafawī completed by Ibn al-ʿAssal in 1238 and a code written in 1896 by Jirjis Filuthaʾus based on al-­majmūʿ.15 The Coptic Orthodox General Community Council (al-­majlis al-millī al-­ʿām) thereafter ­adopted the Coptic Personal Status Regulations (majmūʿat qawāʿid al-­aḥwāl al-­shakhsiyya li-­l-­aqbāṭ al-­urthūdhuks) in 1938. ­These regulations articulate nine conditions for the dissolution of marriage.16 A second collection of personal status regulations was ­adopted in 1955 ­after the abolition of the shariʿa courts and the withdrawal of the Community Council’s judicial competence. The extent to which the 1938 and 1955 regulations are legally binding has been an ongoing point of contention between the Coptic Church and the national courts. This conflict reflects a broader dispute about regulating the Coptic Orthodox community, one that stems from the reor­ga­ni­za­tion of confessional jurisdiction in the 1950s. Although Coptic authorities drafted both the 1938 and 1955 regulations, neither was a­ dopted by the Egyptian parliament. Nevertheless, the Court of Cassation elected to apply the 1938 regulations for 15. The code by Filuthaʾus is titled al-­khulāṣa al-­qānūniyya fī al-­aḥwāl al-­shakhṣiyya li-­kanīsat al-­aqbāṭ al-­urthūdhuks. Patriarch Cyril VI solicited this code when he was asked by the Egyptian Ministry of Justice in the 1890s to resubmit the personal status law of the Coptic Orthodox community. See Shaham, “Communal Identity, ­Political Islam and ­Family Law.” 16. The nine conditions are adultery of ­either spouse; change of religion by ­either spouse; absence from the marital home by ­either spouse for a period of five years with no sign of life; a sentence of hard ­labor or imprisonment for at least seven years of ­either spouse; insanity or incurable illness for at least three years of e­ ither spouse, or impotence of the husband for at least three years; one spouse threatening the life of the other; misconduct of e­ ither spouse; neglect of marital duties leading to separation for at least three years; or a spouse joining a monastic order. See Articles 50–58 of the 1938 Coptic Orthodox Personal Status Regulations.

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two reasons: t­ hese regulations ­were in use by the Coptic Orthodox Community Council before its juridical power was dissolved and ­because this collection had risen to the status of custom (ʿurf ) pursuant to the hierarchy of the sources of law in the civil code.17 The conflict between the Coptic Church and the national courts worsened following the ascension of Pope Shenouda, who led the Church from 1971 ­until his death in 2012. In the first year of his patriarchate, the pope issued a decree refusing to give effect to any pronouncement of divorce on grounds other than adultery.18 He invoked a literalist interpretation of the New Testament to proscribe the grounds for divorce that had been customarily recognized by the Church for over seven centuries.19 The national courts nevertheless continued to apply the 1938 regulations, which allow divorce as a consequence of one of the nine conditions, reasoning that t­ hese regulations are the only binding personal status laws for Orthodox Copts.20 Thousands of ­couples that obtained judicial divorces w ­ ere therefore considered married by the Church and ­were denied authorization to remarry.21 ­These ­couples w ­ ere divorced, in one sense, yet still married in another sense. To become eligible for marriage with another spouse, one party to an existing Coptic marriage where the ­couple shares a denomination and sect now typically converts to another denomination or sect of Chris­tian­ity or converts to Islam.22 Scholars have suggested that Pope Shenouda l­imited the grounds for divorce in order to strengthen the Coptic ­family, considered the basis of the 17. Article 1 of the Egyptian Civil Code requires civil judges to rule first according to statutory provisions. In the absence of such provisions, judges must apply custom and thereafter the shariʿa. 18. Pope Shenouda relied on the following verse to assert that the main source for Christian ­family law is the New Testament: “But I say unto you, That whosoever ­shall put away his wife, saving for the cause of fornication, causeth her to commit adultery: and whosoever ­shall marry her that is divorced committeth adultery” (Matt. 5:32). This verse has been interpreted to mean that a Coptic man who divorces his wife on grounds other than adultery compels the wife to commit adultery, and that a divorced man who marries her in effect commits adultery. 19. El-­Leithy, “Coptic Culture and Conversion in Medieval Cairo,” 427. 20. Court of Cassation no. 18, Judicial Year 39, May 10, 1972; Court of Cassation no. 4, Judicial Year 42, June 6, 1973. 21. Hatem, “The Pitfalls of the Nationalist Discourse on Citizenship in Egypt,” 55. 22. Disparate communal status between a man and a w ­ oman permits entering into a civil marriage contract officiated by the public notary (al-­shahr al-ʿaqārī) of the Justice Ministry. Marriage before the public notary is only pos­si­ble for non-­Muslims who do not share the same denomination, sect, or religion. This includes marriage between non-­Muslims and foreigners. See Bernard-­Maugiron, “Divorce and Remarriage of Orthodox Copts in Egypt.”

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Coptic community, by allegedly protecting it from the increasingly Islamic character of the republic and its laws.23 The pope’s decree was indeed issued the same year the Egyptian constitution was amended to designate shariʿa a primary source of legislation.24 ­W hatever Pope Shenouda’s intentions, the national courts’ unwillingness to implement his decree highlights, on the one hand, the consequences of the fragmentation of communal authority wrought by nationalist ­legal reforms, and how the Church hierarchy adapted to ­these reforms by instituting even narrower rules of communal membership, on the other. The Coptic Church, in retaining sole authority for issuing licenses to marry and remarry, ­limited rather than expanded criteria for group membership. The national courts, for their part, retained authority to dissolve through judicial divorce ­those marriages sanctioned by the Church, thereby challenging the Church-­imposed restrictions on membership. This contest over jurisdiction, about which communal norms to regulate and how to regulate them, is refracted through vari­ous institutions all concerned with the question of ­whether marriage and divorce are civil or religious. The related question of ­whether judicial divorce has civil and religious effects was brought to the national stage through administrative litigation. One of the best-­known cases was filed by ʿAtif Kirulus Yusif. He challenged the pope’s refusal to grant him a license to remarry, a refusal based in the non-­legality—­ according to Coptic law—of the judicial divorce.25 The Church, in other words, claimed that Yusif was still married and ineligible to marry again. Finding itself incompetent to rule on the case, the Cairo Court of First Instance referred it to Majlis al-­Dawla. The Court of Administrative Justice (CAJ) de­cided that the judicial divorce ruling did not deprive the complainant of the right to remarry. The CAJ further found that the Church’s refusal to issue a marriage authorization ­violated constitutional provisions on ­legal equality, individual freedom, and the right to form a ­family. Pope Shenouda subsequently appealed this decision, but the Supreme Administrative Court (SAC) upheld 23. Shaham, “Communal Identity, ­Political Islam and ­Family Law,” 41. 24. Though the Islamic identity of the Egyptian state had been articulated in Article 149 of the 1923 constitution, it was Article 2 of the 1971 constitution that first articulated a shariʿa source of law provision: “Islam is the religion of the state and Arabic its official language. Princi­ples of shariʿa are a principal source of legislation.” The second clause was amended in 1980 to designate shariʿa “the” source of legislation. 25. In 2002 the South Cairo Court of First Instance granted Yusif a judicial divorce pursuant to Article 57 of the 1938 regulations, which allows for the dissolution of marriage when one of the spouses (in this case, the wife) abandons marital duties for a period of at least three years.

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the lower court judgment requiring the Church to issue the marriage authorization.26 On its reading of Coptic law, the SAC ruled the pope competent to issue a marriage license only insofar as he exercises this authority in a manner that conforms to the rules enumerated in Coptic law. It is the duty of the judiciary, held the judgment, to investigate and ensure the legality of the refusal to issue a marriage authorization. It found that no administrative act is immune from judicial review. The Church objected, arguing that the court had interfered in ­matters beyond its jurisdiction. Judicial oversight of the Church’s authority, the court argued in turn, does not constitute interference in such authority but rather ensures the integrity of Coptic law. The court further explained that such oversight ensures that citizens’ constitutional and private rights remain equally protected. The confrontation between the Coptic Church and Majlis al-­Dawla escalated a­ fter the 2008 ruling. Pope Shenouda announced that divorce would only be allowed in the two instances sanctioned by the Gospel: adultery or change of religion. He further argued that the SAC ruling was not binding on the Church, which he claimed is not subject to guardianship by any individual or institution. Majlis al-­Dawla reiterated through a press release that its decision did not constitute interference in religious affairs and that it is both final and binding on all parties to the suit. Amid heightened public attention, the Coptic Community Council undertook a revision of the 1938 regulations.27 The council aimed to curb the escalating conflict between the Church and the judiciary. Articles 52 to 58 w ­ ere abrogated, leaving only Article 50 and 51 allowing divorce in the case of adultery and change of religion. However, the concept of adultery (khiyāna) was expanded beyond the initial definition of adultery caught in the act to include acts that merely indicate betrayal.28 The 2008 amendments w ­ ere thought to have ended the disagreement between the Coptic Church and the judiciary. However, the Church’s ongoing refusal to issue marriage authorizations to Copts who obtained judicial 26. Supreme Administrative Court no. 18698, Judicial Year 52, March 1, 2008. 27. While the 1938 regulations w ­ ere amended to conform to biblical teachings, the determination of adultery is still subject to the discretion of state courts. The Church cannot make such a determination ­because its ­legal competence does not extend to juridical ­matters. 28. Examples of acts that qualify as indicating betrayal are the presence of a strange man or ­woman with the spouse in a so-­called suspicious situation, or a husband who incites his wife to commit adultery or debauchery. Another major modification to the 1938 regulations pertains to authorization of remarriage, which provides an ave­nue of appeal directly to the pope rather than the courts. See Bernard-­Maugiron, “Divorce and Remarriage of Orthodox Copts in Egypt,” 370.

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divorces did not quell the tide of administrative litigation. In 2009 Majlis al-­ Dawla again considered the legality of the Church’s refusal to grant a divorced Copt a license to remarry. Th ­ ere w ­ ere two complainants in this case, Hani Wasfi and Magdy William. William was the former husband of actress Hala Sidqi, both of whom ­were members of the Coptic Orthodox Church at the time of the marriage. In 2001, Sidqi converted to the Syrian Orthodox denomination in order to divorce her husband. Since the spouses no longer shared the same denomination, Muslim personal status law applied to the dissolution of their marriage. The Cairo Court of First Instance granted Sidqi a khulʿ divorce in 2002, the first court to allow a Christian to benefit from Law 1 of 2000.29 Whereas the divorce in the Yusif case was granted ­after applying the 1938 regulations prior to their amendment, in the Sidqi case the marriage was dissolved through the application of Muslim personal status law. When William sought to remarry a few months l­ ater, the Coptic Orthodox Church refused to issue him a marriage license. William thereafter filed a suit before Majlis al-­Dawla, and the CAJ held in his ­favor. The Church appealed this ruling. On May 29, 2010, the SAC upheld the lower court decision according to the same reasoning as the 2008 case. The SAC found that the Church has a ­legal obligation to allow a divorced parishioner to remarry on the basis of the constitutional right to marry and form a ­family. Pope Shenouda announced the Church’s refusal to implement the court ruling ­because it ­violated the teachings of the Bible and the constitutional right to religion. In the meantime, Sidqi reconverted to Coptic Orthodoxy. In 2006 she was authorized to remarry in the Coptic Church despite her strategic conversion to Syrian Orthodoxy for the purposes of divorce. Pope Shenouda held a press conference ­after the SAC ruling and, just as in 2008, insisted that the Church is only bound to biblical teachings on legitimate divorce. Within months ­after Pope Shenouda appealed to President Hosni Mubarak for intervention, the Supreme Constitutional Court overruled the SAC verdict, deciding in the pope’s ­favor.

29. Law 1 of 2000 on personal status procedure allows a wife to end her marriage without obtaining her husband’s consent and without proving that she suffered harm. In order to qualify for this form of dissolution of marriage, the wife must comply with two conditions: she must renounce the financial entitlements she would have received had she filed for judicial divorce, and she must return the dower she received from her husband at the time of the marriage. For an analy­sis of how the khul‘ provision became known as a law for privileged ­women despite its widest use by ­women from the lower-­middle class, see Sonneveld, Khul‘ Divorce in Egypt.

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——— What are we to make of the simultaneous innovations in positivist and canon law—do they work at cross-­purposes? One reading would suggest so, that ­legal and judicial innovations wrought by centralization in the 1950s have constrained the terms of group membership even as confessional communities continue to exercise some legislative autonomy over marriage, divorce, and custody. The republic, on this reading, determines what counts as a l­egal religion—­what it means legally to have a religion for civil purposes. Confessional groups contend with the sovereignty of the republic, adjusting the terms of their membership as judiciaries interpret the codified laws of their community. When the Church wrestles with the republic, this conflict seems to fit squarely within scholarly critiques that suggest states hamper the flourishing of religious communities which once thrived beyond the reach of secular authority. But the lines are not so clear. The Coptic Church is an administrative agency. Majlis al-­Dawla is able to pronounce on Coptic norms of group membership precisely ­because the Church holds public power in a state that assigns to all Egyptians a religious affiliation based on patrilineal descent, makes this affiliation consequential to civil status, and privileges the Islamic order of revelation during status determinations. At the same time, since Chris­tian­ity falls within this conception of social order and Egyptians are understood not only to have religious affiliations but also to belong to religious groups, the Church is empowered by the state to grant or refuse to generate marriage authorization, which has a direct effect on individual civil status. This refusal also directly affects a Copt’s status within the denomination, as the Church is empowered to determine w ­ hether she can marry again or seek custody of her ­children, and so on. Majlis al-­Dawla’s power of judicial review constrains the public, administrative capacity and authority of the Church. By reviewing the Church’s administrative acts, Majlis al-­Dawla also fulfills its constitutional mandate to limit abuses of public power. When the judiciary finds against the Church, when it compels the Church to issue a marriage authorization, it has determined that a public agency has made an unlawful decision. The contest between Majlis al-­Dawla and the Coptic Church over the terms of group membership is one that si­mul­ta­neously affects who belongs to the nation and Coptic Orthodoxy. In some cases, Majlis al-­Dawla’s power to limit Church actions allows Copts to commence marital bonds that other­wise would not be pos­si­ble if the Coptic Church maintained its pre-1955 powers of adjudication, given that con­temporary Church leadership has narrowly confined legitimate

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divorce in the Coptic tradition to only two conditions: conversion or adultery. What, then, are we to make of the enduring fidelity to regimes of recognition, understood now as supporting the regulatory work of both the Egyptian republic and the Church? On the one hand, the jurisdictional conflict between the Coptic Church and the judiciary over ­whether marriage and divorce are civil or religious ­matters—­and ­whether judicial divorce has civil and religious effects—­spurred innovations in ecclesiastical law. Following the 2008 Majlis al-­Dawla decision, the Coptic Community Council amended the 1938 regulations to sanction divorce on grounds of adultery and change of religion. While the amendments w ­ ere intended to maintain the Church’s authority over its constituency, they have instead led to an increase in the number of strategic conversions to other Christian denominations and to Islam. In turn, ­people who convert are said to manipulate religion and the judicial system for personal gain. On the other hand, the question posed to Majlis al-­Dawla about ­whether administrative agencies must list a change of religion from Islam to Chris­tian­ity spurred innovations in positivist law. Perhaps the most significant of t­ hese innovations is when Majlis al-­Dawla found a Certificate of Return sufficient to establish one’s affiliation with Coptic Orthodoxy as well as one’s Christian civil status—­but only for ­those originally affiliated with the Church.30 ——— Most l­awyers who h­ andle Article 47 cases are committed to law as a mechanism for dispute resolution. They are also deeply suspicious of their clients’ 30. Among the consequences of this decision is heightened recourse to document forgery, which puts mutanaṣerūn at ­great risk for punitive ­measures by the state security apparatus. Finding no ­legal route to establish their Christian civil status or to commence a life within the Coptic Church, mutanaṣerūn ally with bureaucrats to obtain falsified rec­ords. The practice of falsifying vital rec­ords has become increasingly common among individuals seeking extrajudicial ways of altering their civil status. In 2013, an eight-­member f­ amily was found guilty of colluding with seven bureaucrats to amend the data on their birth certificates and identity cards. A criminal court determined that the ­mother, a Coptic convert to Islam, had planned the forgery between 2004 and 2006, ­after her Muslim husband passed away and when an opportunity to inherit from her Coptic ­family emerged. See Mohamed Khalif Amin, “Jināyāt Banī Swayf tuṣdar ḥukman fī qaḍiyyat tazwīr bitāqāt: al-sijn 15 ʿām li-afrād usra wa 5 aʿwām li-muwaẓafīn” (Beni Suef Criminal Court issues ruling in case of identity card forgery: 15-year prison sentence for family members and 5 years for state employees), Al-­Watan, January 12, 2013, http://­www​.­elwatannews​.­com​/­news​/­details​/­112241.

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reasons for converting. To some extent, finding that ­lawyers are committed to regulation is unsurprising since, as Pierre Bourdieu has argued, to join the juridical field is “to accept the law for the resolution of the conflict. . . . ​[It] is above all to recognize the specific requirements of the juridical construction of the issue.”31 But my interlocutors spoke of law in far more nuanced terms than simply as a tool for resolving conflict or as a vocation. It was the objects that states generate—­certificates, identity cards, and other attestations of belonging—to which they expressed their greatest attachment. The ­lawyers’ fidelity to law overlapped with the capacity of t­ hese objects to identify legitimate members of the Coptic Church. The state’s objects further ensure what the ­lawyers consider the essentially religious sacrament of marriage. For some attorneys, sincere belief is necessary for communal belonging, though most skirt the question of sincerity altogether. Significant to them, instead, is one’s birth designation—­one born in the Church, to a Coptic ­father, remains always a Copt. I met just one attorney among the Article 47 l­ awyers who has publicly challenged compulsory religious affiliation. Samy Murqos founded an ­independent ­legal aid ­organization in 1996 following the Court of Cassation’s ruling on the case of Nasr Hamed Abu Zayd.32 Although the o­ rganization is embedded in a global network of rights activism, Samy remains primarily invested in remedying social discrimination in Egypt. His o­ rganization also coordinates l­ egal education campaigns through publications, seminars, and workshops on religious freedom and minority rights. Samy is best known for representing Muhammad Hegazy, making him the first ­lawyer in Egypt to advocate for the rights of mutanaṣerūn. Well before he became famous for the Hegazy suit, from which he l­ ater withdrew a­ fter receiving death threats, he led a campaign against the system of compulsory identification. In 2002, Samy filed an administrative 31. Bourdieu, “The Force of Law,” 831. 32. Abu Zayd was a professor at Cairo University who in the 1990s was accused of publishing academic works contrary to Islam. A group of private citizens brought suit against him, alleging that he was an apostate and that his marriage should be annulled since a Muslim w ­ oman cannot be married to a non-­Muslim man. The complainants’ argumentation rested on the princi­ple of ḥisba, which is defined as “the commanding of the good when it is manifestly neglected, and forbidding of the evil when its practice is manifest.” Although this princi­ple was not stated in Egyptian law, the courts accepted its legitimacy for private litigation. In 1995 the Court of Cassation declared Abu Zayd an apostate and annulled his marriage. See Agrama, Questioning Secularism, 42–68. For a discussion of how changes in Islamic l­egal philosophy led to changes in Islamic thinking about ḥisba, see Lombardi and Cannon, “Transformations in Muslim Views about ‘Forbidding Wrong.’ ”

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suit requesting the removal of the religion field from national identity cards, arguing that this field forms the basis for discrimination between citizens. Samy’s suit was dismissed on a technicality. He raised another suit requesting that the religion field be made optional on ID cards, but, like similar civil society campaigns, this suit has been unsuccessful and largely unpop­u­lar among other ­lawyers shaping the ­legal bound­aries of Coptic Orthodoxy.33 My interlocutors more commonly discussed how l­ awyers should make decisions about taking on potential clients who wish to formalize their conversions or reconversions. Farid Mattias, who served as counsel for Maher al-­Gohary, the second born Muslim to seek recognition of his conversion to Coptic Orthodoxy, asserted that he and his co-­counsel Nabil George are most invested in the rights of Copts, mutanaṣerūn and ʿāʾidūn. This is so, Farid and Nabil insisted, ­because they select cases on the strength of the complainants’ convictions. Farid suggested that other attorneys take on cases that are filed by individuals who had ulterior motives, ones who converted to Islam or reconverted to Coptic Orthodoxy out of insincere conviction. No clear metrics for what makes a conversion sincere or insincere w ­ ere ever offered by the attorneys. Instead, they drew the distinction based on intuition. Farid, for example, described this type of complainant as akin to “someone who drinks whiskey or takes drugs and sobered up. Passed out and sobered up. And unfortunately, like you telling someone to give you a shot to drug you up, the fault is not on you but on the person who injected you. The fault is on who issued the proclamation certificate (shahādat ishhār al-­islām). ­There’s only one place to proclaim Islam.” Farid implied that Al-­Azhar routinely issues certificates that certify belief in Islam to Copts who have no real intention of commencing a Muslim life. ­Lawyers like Fadi often came u­ nder fire by Farid and Nabil, who perceived him as legitimating the practice of strategic conversion. This is so, they allege, ­because he has achieved notoriety for bringing ʿāʾidūn, ­whatever their initial ­motivations for converting to Islam, back into the fold of Coptic Orthodoxy. The four reasons relayed to me by Fadi that explain his clients’ conversions to Islam confirm ­these suspicions. First, conversion to Islam facilitates marriage to a Muslim man or w ­ oman. Egyptian law prohibits the marriage of a Muslim w ­ oman to a non-­Muslim man. Such a u­ nion is only pos­si­ble if the latter converts to Islam. Although Muslim men are not legally prohibited from marrying Coptic w ­ omen, ­these ­women often convert to Islam in order to ensure Islamic rights to custody

33. ­These campaigns are discussed in the introduction to this book.

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and inheritance in the event of the husband’s death or a divorce.34 Second, conversion to Islam is the most effective means to sever the bond of Coptic marriage. Both Coptic men and ­women formally embrace Islam to terminate unhappy marriages. Each circumvents Coptic divorce procedures and the possibility that their claims w ­ ill get stuck amid the jurisdictional conflict between the Church and Majlis al-­Dawla. Third, still other Copts convert to Islam to pursue work overseas, particularly in the Arab Gulf, where non-­Muslims are prohibited from certain employment opportunities. Fourth and fi­nally, genuine belief in Islam, Fadi recounted, motivates the fewest number of cases. Even as both men and ­women convert to resolve personal dilemmas, their ­lawyers partake in a highly gendered suspicion about their actions. Farid, for example, suggested that conversion occurs most commonly to remedy illicit sexual relations between Muslim ­women and Coptic men. He recounted to me what is an allegedly recurring scenario: When a Muslim ­family becomes aware of their d­ aughter’s relationship with a Coptic man, they often pressure him to convert and marry the d­ aughter. His conversion and the subsequent marriage are seen by the Muslim f­ amily as righting a wrong. But ­these motivations often expire, Farid noted, and when that happens, the man returns to Coptic Orthodoxy. Further drawing on this example, Farid explained that he does not represent w ­ omen over e­ ighteen years old ­because he finds “their cases are essentially about passion and sex (ʿātifa wa gins).” I was told by a number of attorneys and their clerical staff that most ­women who seek counsel on the issue of conversion are ­those who “made a ­mistake in their lives” (ghiltū fī ḥayāthum) and are seeking to remedy their transgression. Fadi put it another way: “Honor and generosity in Egypt are a high rank (martaba ʿulyā) and religion is higher than this rank. The girl who becomes Muslim (illatī tuʾaslim) is forsaken (tunbaz) by her ­family and the girl who becomes Christian (illatī tatanaṣar) is forsaken by her ­family. And so religious conversion is strange (ghayr maʿrūf) in Egypt.” Suspicion about clients’ under­lying motivations for migrating between denominations or between Chris­tian­ity and Islam remains a point of personal contention for ­lawyers. Several relayed to me that their concerns over strategic conversion have led them to parse personal ethics from professional obligations. 34. A Coptic w ­ oman who marries a Muslim man forfeits her membership in the Coptic Church. If she remains legally Christian when she marries a Muslim man and ­later divorces, she risks losing her right to custody since Egyptian courts place c­ hildren with the parent determined to have the better religion (al-­dīn al-­afdhal). In a mixed religious marriage, the Muslim parent is almost always awarded custody.

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Yunus Mikhail, a l­ awyer in the Ibrahim law office, estimated that about “ninety-­ five p­ ercent of t­ hese p­ eople [convert] not b­ ecause of being persuaded by thought (iqtināʿ bi-­fikr). Yes, ­there are ­people who are persuaded, but the percentage is low. It is for something ­else. And for this reason, I try not to ask about the reason. I regard him as a patient on paper. I ­don’t want to know what you did or what your thinking was so that I d­ on’t take a stand against you. If I take a stand against you, I ­won’t be able to work with you.” Yunus used the ­English word “rich” to describe his clients, comparing their access to resources to his own modest means. His ideas about legitimate conversion often conflict with the circumstances that lead clients to seek ­legal counsel in the first place. Navigating that dissonance is an ongoing feature of his work. Yunus eventually specified the kinds of circumstances that are problematic for him: “­Those who convert [to Islam] to gain an advantage or in order to divorce, for example. For interest (maṣlaḥa), not for persuasion. If you are my colleague and you are convinced by an idea and you become Muslim, I w ­ ill re­spect you. That is freedom of belief. But if you are Christian and you change your religion ­because, for example, you want to divorce your wife, y­ ou’re out for yourself (inta bitāʿ maṣlaḥa).” Yunus felt strongly that the higher the socioeconomic class of an individual the more likely this person w ­ ill use strategic conversion to solve personal dilemmas. As he reasoned, “The person, the more cultured he is or the more his education increases, the more he is engaged in thinking and trickery (taḥāyyul). I consider [strategic conversion] a kind of trickery b­ ecause he is not persuaded by an idea. I’m talking about the kind of person who is self-­interested. The idea to circumvent comes to him for a specific purpose (gharadh).” ­Lawyers who object to strategic conversion tout the individual freedom to amend religious affiliation, and yet very few of them represent mutanaṣerūn. In fact, only two such cases have been litigated. ­L awyers’ choice of specialization—­whether representing mutanaṣerūn,ʿāʾidūn, or both—­relates to their views not only about communal coherence but also about the kind of ­legal advocacy appropriate within Egypt’s broader l­ egal and institutional context. One attorney, Ayman Ibrahim, was annoyed at my suggestion that perhaps ­there was a way for ­lawyers to negotiate a route for mutanaṣerūn to convert in the same way they had negotiated a route for ʿāʾidūn to reconvert. Puzzled at my naivete, Ayman retorted, “We live in an Islamic state, not a secular state (iḥna fī dawla islāmiyya wa laysa dawla madaniyya)! Mutanaṣerūn ­can’t win their case ­because of Article 2 [of the constitution].” He reasoned along similar lines as the 2011 SAC decision on ʿāʾidūn. The court established that reconversion preserves rather than violates shariʿa and public order.ʿĀʾidūn are

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not truly Muslim, the court found, eliding the fact that they are legally Muslim at the time of their suits. In contrast, the conversion of born Muslims, Egyptians without a prior affiliation with the Coptic Church, away from Islam was found to contravene shariʿa and public order. Unlike ʿāʾidūn, mutanaṣerūn are essentially and always Muslim. Ayman reasserted that suits by mutanaṣerūn are an abuse of the law, language also resonant in the jurisprudence. The attorneys who file t­ hese cases, he insisted with implicit reference to Samy and Nabil, incite sedition as they seek fame and fortune. ­Lawyers at the vanguard of defining, negotiating, and enforcing the bound­ aries of Coptic Orthodoxy—­all of whom are Orthodox Copts and identify strongly with the Coptic Church—­are committed to the administration of religious difference. The objects generated by the state, namely certificates and identity cards, and the pro­cesses through which an application for their procurement get scrutinized are seen as essential features of Egyptian communal life. This view that membership in the denomination should be subject to certification affirms the finding by Majlis al-­Dawla that the Coptic Church is the only competent body to arbitrate true membership. Certified attestations of communal belonging issued by the Church vet the veracity of individual claims. The commitment to administration does not minimize the incidence of strategic conversion. It does, however, entrench the Church’s role in synonymizing communal membership with civil status. Even if the vast majority of Egyptians convert for strategic reasons, it is believed by ­lawyers working in this area that regulating religious difference through civil administration is effective and necessary for discerning lawful belonging. Administration ensures that born Muslims and born Copts remain two distinct communities by law.35 ­Lawyers are also committed to a conceptual distinction between the communal boundary-­drawing in which the Church partakes and the kind that 35. I emphasize the l­egal aspect of the stratification b­ ecause my claim is not that e­ ither Copts or Muslims are innately distinct in this way. As Paul Sedra has argued, the notion that Copts are “an undifferentiated, undivided mass” fails to “describe the agency and complexity of interests among [them]” (“Class Cleavages and Ethnic Conflict,” 220–21). Other historical accounts have since shed light on how incongruent distributions of communal authority mediate lay Copts’ fraught relationship to the Coptic Orthodox Church and to the Egyptian state. See, e.g., Ibrahim, The Copts of Egypt and Elsässer, The Coptic Question in the Mubarak Era. I mean to show instead that ecclesiastical rules of group membership and the republic’s administrative procedures together ensure that the possibilities for amending one’s civil status are always already determined by one’s religious affiliation at birth—­and that such an order is preferred by l­awyers working at the vanguard of ­legal advocacy.

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Al-­Azhar facilitates. When I suggested that the Coptic Church might play an analogous role as Al-­A zhar in issuing certificates to ­those who allegedly are not sincere in their belief, ­lawyers drew a line between the work done by the two institutions. They maintained that unlike Al-­A zhar, the Church’s main purpose is to centralize its authority over Egyptians who are essentially Coptic. Farid explained, “This is okay. The Church ­doesn’t deal with Muslims, it’s afraid of them. [The Church] gives the Christian who becomes Muslim and returns again a certificate of return ­because fundamentally he is a son of the Church.” Citing Al-­Azhar’s practice of issuing born Copts certificates of conversion to Islam, Coptic ­lawyers alleged that the institution betrays a strict ­legal and social separation between Copts and Muslims. Yet we might consider how the certificates issued by the Fatwa Council to non-Muslims and Copts in particular illuminate the intractability of the Islamic character of the republic. Non-­Muslims are i­ magined as always already on the path t­ oward Islam whereas born Muslims are seen as having arrived at and not permitted to deviate from its finality. By contrast, when the Church issues certificates of return, it does so within a normative framework that coheres with l­awyers’ understanding of Copticness as an inheritance passed automatically through patrilineal descent. Bringing born Copts back into the denominational fold reinstates a proper social order. My interlocutors do not see Church-­issued certifications as transgressive ­because ­these certificates are refused to born Muslims who seek belonging within Coptic Orthodoxy. The l­awyers I came to know spoke of their task as presenting and winning cases within a preexisting l­ egal structure. If my interlocutors disagreed with a par­tic­u­lar verdict or l­egal argument, they articulated their objection in terms of what they determined w ­ ere more adequate readings of the relevant law or procedure. When I asked ­whether removing religious affiliation from vital rec­ords might resolve the very dilemmas that lead to litigation, in the sense that removing the administrative category would render null the l­ egal basis of Article 47 cases, I was puzzled by the responses I received. Each attorney endorsed the continued collection of religious identity data by the state and argued for its necessity. They only disagreed on how this information should be displayed. Some attorneys suggested that the criteria should not be vis­i­ble on identity cards but rather encrypted into them. Since the visibility of the information is often the basis for discrimination, they argued, w ­ hether in the event of applying for a job or in an encounter with law enforcement, it should not appear on the card.

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I came to understand that state regulation ensures what ­these l­ awyers perceive as the religious essence of marriage, defined as a ritual that should not traverse what for them are distinct sacred traditions. Marriage, in other words, is understood to be sacred for both Muslims and Christians but is never ­imagined by the ­lawyers to occur between them. As Nabil explained: Marrying a Christian w ­ oman is a religious ritual (taqūs dīniyya). Marriage in Islam is also a religious ritual. Religiously it is not permissible for a Muslim ­woman to marry a Christian man, but the opposite is permissible. The Muslim man may take a Christian ­woman. But for us [Copts], that is not permissible. As in the ­family who has a girl [who marries a Muslim] cuts her off ­because she is considered to be living in sin (yuʿtabar hiyyaʿaysha fī al-ḥarām). She must live with someone like her—­a Christian. . . . ​This is the understanding of religion (mafhūm al-­dīn). It ­can’t work ­unless she lives with a believer (waḥid muʾmin) like us. . . . ​­We’re not talking about ­others being unbelievers, but a believer like us. A Christian like us. Following from this, the work that Nabil and ­others do to safeguard the bound­aries of Coptic Orthodoxy in administrative law is consequential to maintaining the boundedness of their community in personal status law as well. In other words, although their l­ egal practice is confined to administrative ­matters, they do this work with an awareness of its effects in other domains of law. Ideologically, they are motivated to act within the law’s framework to assure stratification between Muslims and Christians. This stratification is further assured by the administrative pro­cesses overseen by state agencies, including the Coptic Church. When l­awyers like Nabil express devotion to the state, this affect illumines not a strict conformity with state logics but a sophisticated understanding of regulation’s role in communal maintenance. Birth certificates are seen by l­ awyers as the ideal document on which to rec­ord and verify religious, and therefore communal, affiliation over time. Such certificates are preferable to identity cards b­ ecause, as the attorneys conveyed to me, they communicate personal information in more discrete ways. Birth certificates are not ­imagined as “public” in the same way that identity cards are, although the information printed on both is collected through bureaucratic means. Fadi explained how the contents of birth certificates ensure that contractual religious practices are done properly as well as ensure a m ­ easure of privacy: If I want to know your religion, I would ask you to pre­sent a document (mustanad) to prove (tuthbit) your belief (al-ʿaqīda) in the case of marriage

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and divorce, and other cases. This document that proves belief is the birth certificate. ­There should be a document for belief (mustanad li-­l-­ʿaqīda) in order to conduct contractual religious ceremonies (min agl igrāʾ marāsim ʿaqdaʾiyya) like polygyny (taʿadud al-­zawjāt), which requires one to be Muslim, for example. All of this is established in the birth certificate but should not manifest in society (lā yusal fī al-mujtamaʿ). ­ awyers who specialize in administrative law and work to secure the boundedL ness of Coptic Orthodoxy understand well that religious identification on state probative documents can lead state agents to discriminate against non-­ Muslims. Traffic stops, job applications, and hospital admissions are all circumstances in which Egyptians are routinely required to pre­sent evidence of ­legal personhood. During ­these moments of encounter, non-­Muslim Egyptians who are identified as such on state-­issued documents are especially vulnerable to discrimination on the basis of their religious difference, evident in situations of unlawful arrest and detention, lack of equal opportunity in employment, and refusal to provide medical care. Fadi’s view that religious affiliation should not appear on identity cards reflects a clear understanding of ­these practices. At the same time, by suggesting that religious difference is a difference that should nevertheless be collected and recorded by the state, Fadi provides insight into how deeply entrenched this category of social difference is within Egyptian society. His fidelity to the administrative state lies importantly in its assurance that membership in a religious and p­ olitical community depends on patrilineal descent. ——— Two ideas characterize Coptic l­awyers’ fidelity to administration: first, marriage is essentially a religious act that should occur exclusively within separate religious communities, and second, material evidence of religious affiliation is needed for the proper enactment of Coptic marriage. By endorsing the administrative judiciary’s finding that the Church is the only institution competent to certify Coptic belonging, ­lawyers ensure that Christians and Muslims remain two distinct communities by law. L ­ egal distinction encompasses two realities. One is how religious difference is reflected in administrative and f­ amily law—­ that is, Muslims and Christians are entitled to dif­fer­ent public and private rights depending on their religious affiliation. The second real­ity is how the difference of one’s religious affiliation is consequential to one’s social position in other

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regulatory spheres. For instance, state prohibitions on the marriage of Muslim ­women to non-­Muslim men only partially explain social stratification along religious lines. Coptic ­women who marry Muslim men, a right afforded to them by the republic, forfeit their status in the Coptic Church, according to Church rules on denominational membership. When Coptic ­lawyers advocate for the lawfulness of return conversion to Coptic Orthodoxy, for example, but not the elimination of public and private laws based in the difference of religious affiliation, they uphold a patrilineal vision of Egyptian society.36 It is impossible to parse the direction of causality, to argue convincingly that innovations in administrative law caused innovations in ecclesiastical law. As explained ­earlier in this chapter, laws of the Coptic Church have been amended as Coptic social practices changed, many of which are informed by what might be described as Muslim modes of sociality, among them polygyny. Moreover, the jurisdictional conflict between the Church and the administrative judiciary catalyzed innovation in the domains of ecclesiastical and administrative law but did not resolve the predicament that initiated such innovation in the first place. This predicament concerns the bifurcation of authority whereby religious communities legislate the rules that govern their constituencies whereas the state bureaucracy administers them. In the absence of a universally applicable civil marriage option in Egypt, Copts seeking to dissolve unhappy u­ nions find ave­ nues around the communal constraints on marriage and divorce. Innovations in both domains of law have rendered strategic conversion the quickest route to marital dissolution. ­Lawyers who specialize in administrative law navigate this plural ­legal environment convinced that Chris­tian­ity is the only truth. When I initially met Fadi Ibrahim and discussed the Article 47 cases analyzed in chapter 2, I perceived his work to consist of resolving l­egal disputes: filing suits, negotiating settlements, appearing in court. But I came to see that 36. This finding differs significantly from the conclusion reached by Saba Mahmood (Religious Difference in a Secular Age) in part ­because my research challenges baseline assumptions of her study. Mahmood holds that twentieth-­century l­ egal reform and state building relegated religion and the f­ amily to a domain of privacy and politics to a domain of publicity, and empowered the modern state to not only claim noninterference in the former domain but also ultimately assert sovereign power in both spheres. The history of administrative l­ egal development in Egypt, however, as shown in this book, nullifies the claim that religion and the ­family ­were privatized as suggested by Mahmood. Instead, religion and the ­family have, since the founding of the Egyptian republic, been compulsory features of civil status. They have also been regulated through personal status law. The analy­sis in this book therefore abandons Mahmood’s public-­ private distinction on empirical and theoretical grounds.

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his most significant role is ensuring that Coptic Orthodoxy remains a bounded, exclusive community of Christians born to Coptic ­fathers. To assure ­these limits, he and his staff attorneys actively distinguish between many pos­si­ble clients, taking on only ­those Christians who seek to return to Coptic Orthodoxy. For Fadi and other attorneys, freedom of belief is not freedom from constraint; freedom is the ability to pursue attachments. To be f­ ree, in their view, is to be bound within a group. That was the spirit of what Fadi articulated to me on a final visit, narrated at the start of this book, when he lamented state restrictions on freedom of belief that constrain the believer who errs in his truth from returning to it. The issue around which Coptic ­legal advocacy has centered, in other words, is not that the state differentiates between citizens on the basis of religion, that religious affiliation is consequential to civil status, but insufficient bureaucratic procedures for returning the Copt to the affiliation of his birth. The work that Coptic ­lawyers do to shape administrative law and jurisprudence includes aligning with the official Church position on what constitutes membership in the denomination; it also aims to reassert what they perceive as a necessary ­legal distinction between Christians and Muslims that their clients subvert when converting to Islam. They are guided by a strong suspicion of their clients’ motivations for leaving Coptic Orthodoxy rather than a suspicion of state regulation. State regulatory procedures, when properly implemented alongside Church conventions, can right a wrong perpetrated by Copts who have fallen off the true path. At the heart of this Coptic l­ egal ethics is an understanding that who one is and who one can be are always already determined by the circumstances of one’s birth, that religious affiliation is an essential feature of national belonging, and that documentary evidence is needed to substantiate ­legal personhood and status.

6 The Bahá’í Youth Conference wor l d bu i l di ng a n d c om mon c a l l i ng Let your vision be world-­embracing, rather than confined to your own self.1

in the early hours of August 22, 2013, about fifteen of us loaded into a midsize bus headed to Cairo International Airport. We’d link up t­ here with the rest of the Turkey-­bound Egypt delegates to the Bahá’í Youth Conference. The conference was one of 114 planned that summer and fall taking place synchronously all over the world.2 The one in Turkey convened Bahá’ís from the region.3 ­These conferences, part of the Bahá’í Five Year Plan (2011–16), ­were intended to renew and replenish among their attendees a commitment to ­service and unity.4 The 1. Bahá’u’lláh, Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, 94. 2. The Universal H ­ ouse of Justice, in a letter addressed to the Bahá’ís of the world, announced on February 8, 2013, the convocation of ninety-­five youth conferences to be held between July and August 2013. Several weeks l­ ater, nineteen additional conferences ­were added to the schedule to accommodate the overwhelmingly positive reception of the announcement. For the original letter addressed to the global Bahá’í community, see “Announcing the Convocation of 95 Youth Conferences around the World,” Universal H ­ ouse of Justice, February 8, 2013, https://­www​.­bahai​.­org​/­library​/­authoritative​-­texts​/­the​-­universal​-­house​-­of​-­justice​/­messages​ /­20130208​_­0 01​/­20130208​_­0 01​.­pdf. 3. Reports, photo­graphs, and video footage from each convening ­were subsequently compiled and published online. For information on the conference in Turkey, see “Istanbul Youth Conference,” Bahá’í International Community, https://­news​.­bahai​.­org​/­community​-­news​ /­youth​-­conferences​/­istanbul​.­html. 4. This plan was overseen by the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice and officially known as the third Five Year Plan of the Fifth Epoch of the Formative Age of the Faith. Its goal was “raising the total number of clusters in which a programme of growth was ­under way to 5,000,” where “clusters” 213

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mood on the bus was light, even optimistic. But the strangeness of the moment, of what we ­were ­doing, was not lost on me. We left Cairo as the city burned. Just weeks e­ arlier, the Egyptian military, with overwhelming p­ opular support, ousted then-­president Mohamed Morsi from office. Nearly one thousand of his supporters ­were killed in cold blood. Days ­later, when it was clear that Morsi would not be reinstated, o­ thers of his supporters retaliated by torching churches throughout the country. Christians ­were scapegoated, seen by Islamist factions as staunch supporters of the coup and the military establishment. Many pro-­Morsi sympathizers gathered in Ramses Square, in central Cairo, to protest Morsi’s removal. Confrontations between the demonstrators and Egyptian police quickly turned violent. Some demonstrators took refuge in Al-­Fath Mosque nearby. A gun ­battle ensued, between Morsi sympathizers and the Egyptian police and the army. Bodies piled up in the mosque. It became a temporary hospital, then a morgue. Nearly two hundred ­people ­were killed on August 16, the Day of Rage. Government agents eventually reclaimed the mosque, emptied it, and arrested some five hundred Morsi supporters. ­Those who ­were rounded up would face a bevy of criminal charges: desecrating the mosque; causing delays to prayers; murder; using the mosque for terrorist purposes; crowding; thuggish acts; destroying public and private property; assaulting security forces; possession of automatic weapons, pellets, bullets, and fireworks; causing delays to public transport; and compromising public safety. We ­were leaving Egypt in something of a ruin to replenish our spirits so that we could return more fervently committed to acts of ­service, to building a dif­fer­ent f­ uture for Cairo and other cities throughout the country. I was skeptical that such a t­ hing was pos­si­ble. That small acts of s­ ervice could repair the nation. The mosque’s minaret, the tallest in the city, was now a reminder of terror and bloodshed. It was hard to forget the trauma of t­ hose weeks. And when, on our way to the airport, the driver passed over the 6 October Bridge, our route took us into the heart of Ramses Square. I could see the minaret. The injuries the mosque sustained. The demonstrators had been quelled and police held back, but their presence, of what happened ­there, continued to be felt. The remnants of are understood to mean geographic areas where Bahá’í institutions operate and “programmes of growth” are understood to denominate a system of ­organizing activities within a cluster. For a report on the aims and outcomes of the plan, see “The Five Year Plan 2011–2016: Summary of Achievements and Learning,” Bahá’í World Centre, May 2017, https://­bahai​-­library​.­com​/­pdf​/­i​ /­itc​_­five​-­year​-­plan​_­2011​-­2016​_­summary​.­pdf.

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vio­lence still littered the streets. The hush of pain was audible. The country was riven with wounds, the deaths in Cairo the deepest among them. Many died and ­were killed in the summer of 2013. ­There had been many massacres since the January 25 uprising in 2011. In the forty minutes that it took to get to the airport, my mind wandered to the Cairo fire of 1952, known also as Black Saturday. Hundreds of buildings w ­ ere burned in the aftermath of the killing of fifty Egyptian auxiliary policemen in Ismailia by British forces, who refused to relinquish control over the Suez Canal. Though exactly what happened on that historic day, January 26, 1952, remains unknown, it continues to symbolize a b­ attle for Egypt’s f­ uture. ­Today, the b­ attle for the f­ uture of Egypt is not an anticolonial one. This ­battle is being fought among Egyptians. Dozens of microbuses with Minya license plates idled ahead of us once we queued in the departure lane at the airport. Tightly packed bodies unfurled from the narrow vehicles, shirts and trousers crumpled, skin moist from the morning heat. Few belongings w ­ ere tossed out alongside the passengers. Some ­people carried overnight bags tightly in their grip. Tattoos swelled u­ nder the weight hanging precariously from tired arms. Where ­these Copts ­were headed I ­wasn’t sure. Like us they ­were fleeing. ——— Whereas chapter 3 examined the divine origins of the administrative order of the Bahá’í Faith, including its vari­ous institutions that comprise its function, the current chapter considers how this order operates on the ground. Unlike the Coptic Church and Egyptian republic, the Bahá’í administrative order, as I came to find, has no permanent institutional presence in Egypt even as the public image of Egyptian Bahá’ís has improved over the past ­decade. Moreover, whereas the development of local and national spiritual assemblies in other geographies, such as North Amer­ic­ a, has been chronicled and maintained in official archives for several generations, this permanence, ­whether of established communal institutions or the membership registration procedures and objects they generate, has no obvious equivalent in Egypt t­ oday. Instead, the Bahá’í administrative order t­ here exists wherever Egyptian Bahá’ís are pre­sent together: in homes, classrooms, alleyways, storerooms, transnational conferences, and the like. The materiality of belonging can be seen in ­these intimate spaces, where Bahá’ís also gather to discuss and generate media to communicate with broader publics online.5 5. Among the digital platforms created by Egyptian Bahá’ís that chronicle the status of Bahá’ís in Egypt are “Bouquet of R ­ oses” and “Bahá’í Faith in Egypt.” Both websites archive

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Devotion—­the concept I use to name iterative, relational actions in the ­service of a cosmology that are concerned with continuity between the pre­sent, past, and f­ uture—­accepts regulation as a condition for its expression. This chapter thus centers iterative convenings for study, discussion, and reflection that operate within, not beyond, a regulatory framework. I mean this to include the rules and practices required to advance a Bahá’í understanding of ­human pro­gress, one that values pluralism and unity. A cosmology oriented ­toward the ­future works in tandem with a regulatory framework vested in difference as a social fact. Notably, the convenings examined h­ ere w ­ ere comprised of p­ eople from all walks of life, with variation evident in age, level of education, gender, marital status, occupation, and wealth. Beyond a shared nationality, what bound the participants to one another was a commitment to world building and common calling. Not all my interlocutors ­were involved in litigation. Bahá’í and Coptic complainants led me to see claims making as a devotional activity; t­ hose who did not file administrative suits outlined the broader contours of communal membership in Egypt. This chapter provides another entry point into my argument about the plurality and ubiquity of normative ­orders, including their mutual imbrication, and how regulation, far from being exclusive to the state, is shared by multiple member-­based ­organizations si­mul­ta­neously. I further give texture to what regulation entails beyond the coerciveness often ascribed to it, paying attention to the heterogeneity of practices that a single normative order encompasses. Regulation is by turns rigid and flexible; it facilitates and largely ensures communal continuity, including the material and conceptual limits that inhere therein. Regulation further includes rituals for remembering past members as well as pro­cesses, procedures, and expectations for t­ hose who aspire to inclusion—­ensuring that members of a community recognize themselves through their past. The elastic, yet bounded, conditions for belonging within the Bahá’í Faith mirror the constraints of belonging within the Egyptian nation, a parallel that explains why minoritized communities are devoted to a Muslim-­majority state that ostensibly marginalizes them. national and international news, commentary, and resources with a focus on Bahá’ís in Egypt. The former more often publishes Arabic-­language content, whereas the latter publishes content in Arabic and E ­ nglish. See https:/​/­basmagm​.­wordpress​.­com and http:​/­/­bahai​-­egypt​.­blogspot​ .­com​.­A new platform called “The Bahá’í Faith in Egypt” was launched in 2013 that describes itself as the official site of the community. As of January 18, 2023, content on this website is published only in Arabic. See https://­bahaieg​.­org.

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Egyptian Bahá’ís who w ­ ere not filing complaints, meeting with attorneys, or appearing in court experienced the landmark claims making of their coreligionists as active members of their administrative order. Th ­ ese Bahá’ís w ­ ere invested in the outcome of the claims making advanced by o­ thers but stood in their shadows. ­There ­were several reasons for this. Unlike ­those who took center stage in the administrative cases, Egyptian Bahá’ís beyond the limelight ­were typically recent Muslim converts to the Bahá’í Faith, meaning they ­were born to Muslim ­fathers and therefore first-­generation Bahá’í.6 Th ­ ose who lived openly as Bahá’í ­were often accused by neighbors, coworkers, and friends of committing apostasy; they strug­gled to resolve bureaucratic roadblocks but preferred not to publicize their dilemmas. Yet o­ thers did not make their conversions known to their families due to different circumstances. Some ­were young adults and not yet i­ ndependent of their parents. O ­ thers w ­ ere adult men who w ­ ere married to Muslim w ­ omen when they embraced the Faith and wished to stay married; public knowledge of their deviation from Islam would lead to the dissolution of their marriages and jeopardize the social and l­egal status of the wives and any c­ hildren born of ­these ­unions. First-­generation Bahá’í thus watched as ­others retained attorneys, stood before judges, spoke with the media, and gave nationally televised talks to a curious public. But they did not do so idly; instead, they advanced Bahá’í cosmology primarily through the teaching and ­service work ­organized by spiritual assemblies. ——— I did not know it then, but I was introduced to the Bahá’í administrative order in 2011 when I first visited the Bahá’í ­House of Worship in Wilmette, Illinois. The ­temple oversees many communal activities, of which worship is one part, and even then, the space is open to all ­people for assembly. Anyone can participate in the programming it convenes and advertises online and throughout its Welcome Center (figures 6.1 and 6.2). One leaflet, titled “Being a Bahá’í,” grabbed

6. As the introduction and chapter 2 explain, religious affiliation is a compulsory feature of civil status in Egypt and one’s membership in a religious group appears on nearly ­every state probative document that substantiates ­legal personhood. At the same time, no administrative body has the power in Egyptian law to authorize membership in the Bahá’í community. This community, unlike the Coptic Church, does not enjoy public power. Therefore, my mention of converts to the Bahá’í Faith refers not to a recognition of their membership by the Egyptian republic but the ­acceptance of their membership by the Bahá’í administrative order.

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my attention (figures 6.3 and 6.4). A section called “Joining the Worldwide Bahá’í Community” outlines the administrative p­ rocess required for enrollment, one that historically has involved registering with a national assembly (figure 6.5). Another section of the same leaflet, titled “Some Bahá’í Activities,” describes what enrolled members do. Although devotional meetings ­were one route to understanding the Bahá’í administrative order, when compared to the study circles the latter better illuminate the order’s framework and function. The devotional meetings I attended in Egypt ­were largely social activities during which many non-­Bahá’ís and Bahá’ís of other nationalities participate, often the foreign guests of Egyptian Bahá’ís traveling to Egypt for a l­imited time. Th ­ ese convenings offered opportunities for spiritual enrichment through the discussion of thematic topics, like gender equality and the relationship between science and religion, when attendees shared comparative perspectives drawn from the scriptural sources of vari­ous religious traditions. ­People who participated ­were not necessarily bound by a common proj­ect, like the teaching of ­children’s classes or realizing a s­ ervice mission. Instead, they came together more spontaneously to share in communion—­reading scripture, listening to recorded or live songs and prayers, and exchanging viewpoints. The study circles, by contrast, focus more centrally on the teaching work of the Bahá’í Faith. They require a routine commitment to studying educational materials as a group and to implementing Bahá’í teachings locally. They always comprised Egyptians living in the same geographic area with vested, long-­range interest in improving their communities. ­These study circles gave clearer insight into the relation between Bahá’í order, cosmology, and membership. Bahá’ís use a sequence of courses designed by the Ruhi Institute to o­ rganize their teaching and ­service work. Ruhi Institute materials foster a Bahá’í conception of social change through “two parallel pro­cesses,” nurturing individual transformation and creating structures to transform society.7 Published ­under the auspices of the National Spiritual Assembly of Colombia, Ruhi educational materials correspond to each of three sequences, all of which are 7. The institute further elaborates that “this continuous interaction, between the parallel pro­cesses of the spiritualization of the individual and the establishment of new social structures, describes the only dependable path of social change, one that avoids both complacency and vio­lence and does not perpetuate the cycles of oppression and illusory freedom that humanity has experienced in the past.” See “Statement of Purpose & Methods,” Instituto Ruhí, https://­ www​.­ruhi​.­org​/­en​/­statement​-­of​-­purpose​-­and​-m ­ ethods​/­.

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figure 6.1. Spring schedule leaflet (pages 1 and 4), Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012.

figure 6.2. Spring schedule leaflet (pages 2 and 3), Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012.

figure 6.3. “Being a Bahá’í” leaflet (pages 1 and 4), Bahá’í Continental H ­ ouse of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012.

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figure 6.4. “Being a Bahá’í” leaflet (pages 2 and 3), Bahá’í Continental H ­ ouse of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012.

figure 6.5. New enrollment and interest cards, Bahá’í National Review, published by the National Spiritual Assembly of the United States, November 1977.

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available in multiple languages for use globally.8 I studied the main sequence in Arabic with Egyptian Bahá’ís, first in Evanston and Chicago and subsequently across Cairo during fieldwork. Comprising fourteen volumes (although only seven have been published), the stated aim of this sequence is “to set the individual . . . ​‘on a path being defined by the accumulating experience of the community in its endeavor to open before humanity the vision of Bahá’u’lláh’s World Order.’ ”9 This order is articulated in the W ­ ill and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá and the Kitab-­i-­Aqdas written by Bahá’u’lláh. Shoghi Effendi describes Bahá’í administration as authoritative ­because it “unifies and correlates the princi­ples separately laid down by Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, and is indissolubly bound with the essential verities of the Faith.”10 He further writes that “to dissociate the administrative princi­ples of the Cause from the purely spiritual and humanitarian teachings would be tantamount to a mutilation of the body of the Cause, a separation that can only result in the disintegration of its component parts, and the extinction of the Faith itself.”11 When Bahá’ís utilize Ruhi materials in teaching, learning, and ­service work at the local and national levels, ­organizing this work through their spiritual assemblies, they harmonize the Faith’s “component parts,” as described by Shoghi Effendi. ­Because the proj­ect of social development is localized, participants in the study circles such as the ones I participated in typically share a national affiliation. In Cairo, they w ­ ere all Egyptian citizens; in Evanston, all ­were citizens of the United States. When and wherever Bahá’ís gather to further their spiritual growth and improve their communities, the state hovers in the background as a s­ ilent partner despite historic prohibitions against their community, in Egypt and elsewhere. Scenes from a culminating event bookend this chapter: a global conference convened in Turkey by the Bahá’í Universal ­House of Justice. I was able to participate in this August 2013 event ­because of my multiyear study of the Ruhi series with Bahá’ís in the United States and Egypt. In the intervening pages, I narrate my participation in a select number of Cairo-­based Ruhi study sessions leading up to that conference. Whereas my participation in ­these sessions 8. Th ­ ese include the main sequence, for t­ hose fifteen years and older; the j­ unior youth spiritual empowerment program aimed at youth between the ages of twelve and fifteen; and lessons for Bahá’í ­children’s classes, spanning first through fourth grade. 9. Instituto Ruhí homepage, https://­www​.­ruhi​.­org​/­en​/­. 10. The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh (1938). 11. Ibid.

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during the fateful months of summer 2013 was grounded in and around Greater Cairo, parallel convenings all over Egypt (and the world) w ­ ere taking place si­mul­ta­neously. The convenings I attended w ­ ere forums for belonging for ­those new to the Bahá’í Faith as well as ­others whose claim to membership in the community spans several generations. As observer and participant, I saw firsthand the boundedness and flexibility entailed in communal regulation. ———

June 22, 2013 (Ruhi 3, Session 1) At around 5:45 p.m., Haitham called with an invitation: to join him at a Ruhi 3 study circle. I was about to see an apartment for rent at the time, so I hesitated, but said yes anyway. Haitham called the convener to ask his permission and called me back to confirm that I was welcome to attend. ­After viewing the apartment, I met Haitham in front of the Soldier’s Hospital in Agouza, a suburb of Giza close to downtown Cairo on the western bank of the Nile. From ­there he drove us to the study circle. This would become a weekly ritual. In the car, Haitham handed me the Arabic version of Ruhi 3: photocopied pages between two clear plastic sheets held together by a dull red plastic strip. I flipped through the thin booklet as we idled in early e­ vening traffic. Each book in this series centers a theme. Its subsections outline specific directives for implementing the themes in their personal life and community. Th ­ ese books are intended to be studied in groups, not necessarily in sequential order but with the participation of multiple p­ eople who live in close proximity. The theme of Ruhi 3 is teaching c­ hildren’s classes; its three subsections include the princi­ples of Bahá’í education (baʿdh al-­mabādiʾal-­tarbiyya bahāʾiyya), lessons for c­ hildren’s classes (durūs l-­sufūf al-­aṭfāl), and conducting ­children’s classes (ʿaqd sufūf li-­l-­aṭfāl). Like other books in the series, the modules in this one initiate the reader to a par­tic­u­lar purpose, including the tenets of the Faith that undergird it. I read the first lessons to myself silently. I answered the true and false questions in my head: “The teaching of c­ hildren is an obligation and a duty in the Bahá’í Faith” (taʿlīm al-­aṭfāl fardh wa wājib fī al-­dīn al-­bahāʾī). True. “When we persist in teaching ­children we worship God” (ʿindamā nuqayyim ʿala taʿlīm al-­aṭfāl fa ʿindamā naʿbud allāh). True. I was ­nervous. It had been five months since I last saw Philip, the convener, and I had never met the ­others. At the same time, I was aware of the custom

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that dictated one should study with o­ thers nearby. If I was g­ oing to participate in a study group, this was the one. We w ­ ere seven altogether. Besides me, Haitham, and Philip, Philip’s wife, Ibtisam, was also t­ here, and Yousef, Hoda, and Ali. Yousef and Hoda looked to be about the same age and w ­ ere likely in their sixties; Ali was in his early twenties; Philip and Ibtisam and Haitham ­were all in their forties. I was closest in age to Ali. Haitham l­ ater told me over fish sandwiches at a nearby shop that Yousef, Hoda, and Ali are all converts. Himself a recent convert, Haitham speculated that although Yousef’s conversion had not yet been confirmed by the local and national spiritual assemblies, it was imminent. Hoda had converted in 2007, the same year as Haitham. Haitham, like me, was meeting Ali for the first time that night. Philip and Ibtisam w ­ ere second-­generation Bahá’í. Their f­ athers and families had been Copts. Every­one ­else was first-­generation Bahá’í born to Muslim ­fathers. ­Those new to the Faith strug­gled to maintain relationships with Muslim f­ amily members who w ­ ere critical of their decisions. Hoda, for example, often mentioned phone calls to her adult ­daughter that went unreturned. The study circle met at a residential building in what looked like an office specializing in c­ hildren’s animation. We all gathered around a large t­ able in the center of the room. I sat perplexed, wondering about the use of the space, but did not vocalize this question. Yousef offered us drinks of hot cinnamon and hibiscus. With two air conditioners quietly humming in the background, talk turned to the day’s politics. It seemed impossible to stay neutral or indifferent that summer. The stakes of ­political decisions—­local and national—­affected all Egyptians, my interlocutors among them. As a group, they speculated about what would happen on June 30, just eight days away. Calls for Morsi’s resignation had by then gained traction. Anti-­Morsi protests w ­ ere planned and the call for t­ hese protests drew widespread support from vari­ous loosely ­organized ­political co­ali­tions who, ultimately, would embolden the Egyptian army to depose Morsi. Haitham insisted that he would join the crowds. Hoda said she would show her solidarity from her balcony. “That’s exactly the prob­lem,” Haitham replied. “We need ­people out on the streets.” ­Here the generational difference between them came into view. Like other Egyptians who had lived entirely ­under Mubarak’s presidency, Haitham was e­ ager for p­ olitical change whereas Hoda, older than Haitham by about twenty years, was inured to authoritarianism, expressing her excitement in more tempered ways. Yet this difference dissipated when discussion turned to the Ruhi text. Fifteen or so minutes in, Philip started to introduce me but then ­stopped. “Why ­don’t you introduce yourself?”

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I gave the pro forma introduction I’d learned to deliver in ­these situations, paused, unsure of what ­others thought of my being ­there. “A doctorate in what?” Hoda probed. “­Political science.” She rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist. Her earrings shook with disapproval. Looped through distended lobes, the merged crosses and crescents ­were the iconic symbols of Muslim-­Christian solidarity in Egypt but I puzzled over their meaning ­here. I expected that interactions between Hoda and me would remain cold, but the ice thawed. I felt welcomed by her and the other participants, especially Philip, who asked that I read passages from the booklet and interpret them. The theme r­ unning through the nine or so sections we covered that day was the role that the Bahá’í teacher plays in educating youth. Philip returned frequently to the teacher’s duty to embody the characteristics she strives to instill in students. ­Children are not empty vessels to fill, he reminded us, but rough jewels that need molding and shaping. Motivating youn­ger generations to strive for closeness with God is a difficult p­ rocess, he went on to explain, but also worthwhile. “God would not give us insurmountable circumstances,” Philip offered. “­There’s a similar saying in the Qurʾan.”12 This was a common refrain among Egyptian Bahá’ís: referring to Islamic textual sources as a way to generalize about the universality of the ­human condition. When my interlocutors toggled effortlessly between Bahá’í and Islamic theology, they demonstrated that a capacious knowledge of multiple normative traditions is part of what it means to be Bahá’í. Two hours passed quickly. At the end of the session, Hoda turned to me and spoke in the third person. “Mona ­will be joining us next week, right?” Relieved, I left knowing I’d be welcomed back. In this initial meeting, the ­parameters of the group ­were set. Talk of politics and civic participation was permissible, but no one who attended the study circle was a member of a p­ olitical party or ran for p­ olitical office. At the same time, every­one who attended the study circle was expected to participate—by offering to read or interpret passages or dialogue with the other attendees about their meaning. One could not merely observe. Every­one’s opinion mattered. And every­one’s voice counted. It was understood that we would each 12. Several Qurʾanic chapters speak to the theme of triumph over adversity provided one has faith in God. They include Surat Maryam and Surat al-­Sharh.

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have dif­fer­ent interpretations. It was also understood that our knowledge of the text would be enhanced by sharing ­these views. From the first session, the text grounded our discussions. Attendees agreed implicitly to read and interpret together with the aim of implementing Bahá’í teachings in concrete ways. An awareness of what was happening in the p­ olitical arena was somewhat necessary to achieve this goal. To develop impactful community ­service proj­ects, one needed a firm grasp on broader social and ­political contexts that could facilitate or limit this work.

June 29, 2013 (Ruhi 3, Session 2) I met Haitham at our usual time in front of the Soldier’s Hospital. We drove to the Ruhi study session, parking in the same spot. As we ascended the stairs, Haitham mentioned to Philip having gone to Tahrir the night before, information I was not expecting Haitham to share. Haitham had told me months ago that on the eve of the two-­year anniversary of the January 25 uprising, other Bahá’ís had advised him against participating in the protests which, a­ fter ­eighteen days, led to Mubarak’s ouster. The sentiments among many Bahá’ís with whom I spoke are that they generally do not participate in collective actions against the republic. Hence my further surprise when Philip affirmed Haitham’s participation. They briefly discussed the number of ­people who took part in the demonstrations and how pleased Haitham was with the outcome. Yousef greeted us warmly and offered us drinks as we took our places around the ­table. The other attendees would arrive late. As we waited for them, the conversation dove into politics. The streets are emptier than I’ve ever seen, each of us agreed. Morsi and the Brotherhood w ­ ill fall, o­ thers speculated. Protests ­were planned for the next day. The longer I participated in the study circle, and the more conversations I had with Egyptian Bahá’ís beyond this circle, the more I understood my interlocutors’ initial trepidation about social unrest in 2011 and why, eventually, they came to support the pro-­democracy movement. By 2013, my interlocutors more frequently described this two-­year period of upheaval by referring to Bahá’í teachings about ­human pro­gress: Humanity is in a constant state of transformation; in order to bring about a more just and unified world, change would be needed and new social structures oriented t­ oward this purpose would emerge. Importantly, this narrative of transformation and development was also nationalist. When Bahá’ís hoped for a more just, unified, and cooperative ­future, they did so while also communicating a love of country.

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“Egyptian politics ­will get cleaned up in layers,” Haitham speculated, relaying a conversation he’d had with a customer at his family-­owned restaurant. “The Mubarak layer ­will go first, then the Muslim Brotherhood layer, and then the Salafi layer.” Philip concurred. “Egypt ­will be a model to the world in a ­matter of years. You w ­ on’t recognize this country in a few years. It w ­ ill change completely, but this ­will take time.” Opinions proliferated. A palpable intensity fueled the conversation. The air of uncertainty and hope and anticipation was high. Soon we turned to our booklets. Haitham initiated the session with a prayer. Hoda joined in. The passage on page ten sparked a debate about religion’s importance for humanity.13 When Philip opened the floor to comments on the passage, Hoda was the first to raise her hand. “From what I can tell of the advanced states (al-­diwal al-­mutaqadima), they are receiving the gifts of God absent any commitment to religion. This is a puzzle,” she said. “Do we need religion, do we need God, to live a good life? It seems that ­people in ­these countries have found a way to treat each other well without religious guidance. P ­ eople d­ on’t cheat one another, they live orderly lives in accordance with the law.” Philip nodded. “­There is reward and punishment (sawāb wa ʿiqāb),” he said. “If closeness to God and fear that you ­will not receive his gifts (khishyāt allāh) results in the development of good character, what can we say about ­those who live in advanced industrial socie­ties?” He named Switzerland and Norway as examples to illustrate his point. “Why is it that in t­ hese countries where every­ one is financially well-­off we find high rates of suicide? Why would anyone who finds himself in a stable material situation choose to end his own life?” The question lingered for a few moments before Philip ventured an answer. “­Because religion is missing,” Philip said. “Humanity cannot persist with scientific advancement alone; we also need religion, we need guidance, the confidence that ­these advances and our lives have meaning.” Admittedly, I was distracted. A few days before, on June 23, well-­known Shiʿi cleric Shaykh Hassan Shehata was murdered alongside three other men. They ­were killed in a village in Giza where several dozen Shiʿi families are known to reside. The night of the killing, two cele­brations ­were occurring si­ mul­ta­neously: the birthday of Imam al-­Mahdi (milād imām al-mahdī) and the 13. Attributed to Bahá’u’lláh, the passage reads: in khishyat allāh hiyya al-ḥifẓ al-mubīn wa-l-ḥuḍn al-matīn li-ʿumūm ahl al-ʿālam.

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fifteenth night of the month shaʿbān (laylāt nisf shaʿbān). The home where Shaykh Shehata was visiting belonged to Hag Farhad. That night, a man threatened to light Hag Farhad’s ­house on fire if Shaykh Shehata and the other guests did not leave. Though the man eventually went away, a mob then gathered in front of the ­house. Agitators eventually broke into the home and pulled Shaykh Shehata and o­ thers outside where the mob dragged them to death. When police officers arrived, they stood beyond the village limits, refusing to enter, allegedly due to the lack of official o­ rders to intervene. This was not the first time Shaykh Shehata visited the village but it was the first time he had ever been attacked. I was preoccupied with ­these events, with the hostility that festered between neighbors in Giza, with the failure of state security forces to resolve local disputes before they turned violent. Although the participants in the study session ­were aware of what was happening around them po­liti­cally, including the vio­ lence of ­those days, they oriented their views about ­these events ­toward a world-­ building proj­ect. It seemed to me that ­whatever the p­ olitical outcome of that summer—in terms of challenges to Morsi’s presidency—it would not change the proj­ect to which Bahá’ís had committed. The surety of this commitment appeared to temper their experience of ­political precarity. What we discussed in the initial minutes of our convenings, in other words, was not the main event nor did it discount the work of grappling with the lessons in Ruhi 3. Every­one who attended ­these meetings was alive to the momentousness of Egyptian politics, but this novelty was situated in a broader narrative than the one that framed my vision. My interlocutors renewed a commitment to one another and to their proj­ect during the weekly gathering. This was a forum for cultivating a shared sense of world building and common calling—­a concern oriented not exclusively to the pre­sent but on h­ uman pro­gress. They toggled constantly between pre­sent and past and f­ uture, which seemed to happen out of time: in some sense, the ­political situation in Egypt that summer was impor­tant but did not entirely determine Bahá’í communal life or relations with ­others in their milieu. It became clear that my interlocutors in the study circle and t­ hose who pursued litigation shared a purpose. Every­one was concerned with the continuity of the Bahá’í Faith, understood in a local and global sense. Each also occupied a dif­fer­ent position relative to this purpose given the strengths unique to their person as well as their individual circumstances, including ­whether their embrace of the Bahá’í Faith was known to their spouses, families, friends, coworkers, and ­others. It is not the case, then, that some Bahá’ís eschewed involvement with ­lawyers and courts whereas ­others embraced them. Or that one group was

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operating within the purview of the administrative state and another was not. Instead, multiple ­legal normativities oriented Bahá’í action. By moving between several spaces, including ­lawyer’s offices and study circles in residential homes, I saw how and when ­these normativities overlap, as when Bahá’ís, committed to their nation and their religious community, sought recognition of their difference as well as convened and attended Ruhi study circles in their neighborhoods. ­Those who stayed out of court and off the airwaves ­were no less concerned about recognition; neither did they value their ­service work more than litigation. Instead, each Bahá’í contributed and honed their individual strengths to fortify the world-­embracing cosmology of the Faith. At yet other times, the overlap between the administrative order of the Egyptian republic and the Bahá’í Faith was less noticeable or impactful, as when Bahá’ís gathered to study the Ruhi series in private residences with the aim of implementing its teachings locally. As mentioned ­earlier, the state hovers in the background as a s­ ilent partner to this work. The member-­based ­organization that regulated t­ hese convenings was not the Egyptian republic. Bahá’ís gathered ­under the auspices of their administrative order and its attendant princi­ples of consultation, assembly, and collaboration to bring about global unity. They understood this work to include the spiritual enrichment of e­ very Bahá’í, the Bahá’ís of Egypt as members of a national spiritual assembly, and also t­ hose friends of the Faith who live in proximity to them. In fact, the teaching work undertaken by the study circle participants with whom I engaged mostly benefited non-­Bahá’í Egyptian ­children.

July 6, 2013 (Ruhi 3, Session 3) Hoda hosted us this time. Seated in her formal living room, on beige Louis XIV sofas that had seen better days, we started reviewing the major concepts from the last meeting. We lingered on the meaning of khishyāt allāh and the duty of teachers to extract jewels from the ­children they teach, as in bringing to the surface their inner strengths. To succeed in helping to develop c­ hildren’s spiritual attributes (ṣifāt ruḥaniyya), teachers must embody t­ hese characteristics first. Teachers ­were to consider ­children like pencils in need of sharpening. “A pencil writes only if we sharpen it,” said Philip. We also discussed the notion of qābiliyya, or teaching c­ hildren to be receptive to new ideas, just as teachers should be open to learning from ­children. We considered how teachers might best guide ­children to memorize prayers (munagā). It was on the second page of a new lesson when we landed on the

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need to pre­sent short, understandable verses that c­ hildren can learn easily or with minimal instruction. This directive struck a chord with Ali, who had been raised in a strict Muslim ­house­hold. He recalled moments in his childhood when he was forced to memorize Qurʾanic verses whose meanings he found difficult to grasp. This experience resonated with Haitham, also a Bahá’í convert from Islam, who added that memorization did not make the meaning of the Qurʾan clear. A back and forth ensued, between Haitham and Ali, but also Philip, who insisted that ­children benefit from reading difficult passages even if they do not know their meanings immediately. “Such meanings,” he explained, “­will become clear in the ­future one day (yawm min al-­ayām ha yifhamū maʿānī al-­munagā).” Speaking to the ­others, Philip noted that “­every holy word has dif­fer­ent meanings based on the situation of the person [interpreting it]. Our purpose is not to philosophize but to focus on action-­based meaning (izāy ninafidh [al-­dīn] fī ḥayatnā). Religious training is not separate from communal advancement.” Our discussion shifted to focus on a passage from page three of this subsection. It reads: “Bahá’u’lláh wishes for the world to know that Bahá’ís are good, wise, and ­eager to extend a helping hand to ­others and to do so happily. Bahá’u’lláh wishes that we become guiding stars for humanity. For this reason, we ask of God to make us a rising star.”14 We discussed several ideas drawn from this passage. One was that teachers who adopt a pedagogy based in Bahá’í tenets support ­independent and creative thinking among ­children. Offering up an example of how he has implemented this lesson, Haitham shared a story about the group of ­children he teaches in his neighborhood in Old Cairo. “I once asked the ­children what they want to be when they grow up,” Haitham recalled. “The answers I got ­were typical (doctors, engineers, e­ tc.) with one exception. One boy said he wanted to be a scuba diver so that he could stop ­people from drowning in the ocean.” Every­one marveled at the child’s answer, how unusual it was given social expectations about certain c­ areer paths in medicine and engineering and yet, like t­ hose professions, the one named by the child is oriented ­toward helping ­others. Haitham’s face beamed with pride and satisfaction. “I’m constantly learning new t­ hings from the ­children I teach,” he shared. I was struck by the complementarity between what we w ­ ere learning from the booklet and how we w ­ ere learning in the study group. The iterative work that teachers are expected to undertake with c­ hildren was analogous to the iterative 14. Yurīd ḥaḍrat bahāʾullāh an uʿarraf al-ʿālam an al-bahāʾiyyin ṭayyibūn, ḥukamāʾ, wa yamidūn yad al-musaʿda li-l-ākharīn faraḥ surūr. Yūrīdnā ḥaḍrat bahāʾullāh an nakūn nijūman bāzgha tahdī al-ʿālam al-insānī. li-hathā naṭlub min allāh ijʿalnā nujman bāzgha.

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work we did as session participants. We w ­ ere both teachers and students in the study circle: each of us read, discussed, and formulated opinions about passages drawn from Bahá’í scripture. We also each learned from how o­ thers read, discussed, and formulated opinions about ­these passages. “The key to success is practice” (muftāḥ al-­nagāḥ huwa al-­tamrīn), Philip often said, reminding us of the phrase’s repetition in Ruhi 3 and the need for repetition in learning and teaching.

July 13, 2013 (Ruhi 3, Session 4) Cooperation (al-taʿāwun). Competition (al-­tanāfus). Th ­ ese two concepts w ­ ere engaged and juxtaposed throughout the session by Philip and o­ thers who ­were pre­sent. Known for his work facilitating ­children’s classes based on the Ruhi model, Philip took the lead in the day’s discussion. We w ­ ere nearing the end of Ruhi 3. Lessons began to pivot from Bahá’í theology on teaching ­children to practical steps for ­organizing and facilitating ­children’s classes. Philip brought out arts and crafts proj­ects that some of his students had made. We passed ­these around the room. The color-­rich paper cutouts ­were abstract interpretations of community ­service proj­ects like neighborhood clean-up and food donation initiatives that Philip had ­organized. His students’ artistic interpretations of ­these activities ­were meant to illustrate the meaning of platonic love (maḥaba), the kind of affection shared between a teacher and student and that provides the basis for friendship. Fostering love for o­ thers, especially love for one who is youn­ger than oneself, is a responsibility shouldered by ­those who are older than the ones they teach, explained Philip. What we saw when he passed around the students’ proj­ects, in other words, was the vibrancy of the relationship Philip shared with young learners. The care he took to teach them well was reciprocated in the care they took with their artistry. “It’s part of the teacher’s responsibility to prepare for each class,” he advised. “This preparation should include plans for students to creatively showcase their understanding of the lessons.” The day’s study circle was consistent with previous discussions on nurturing individuality within a framework of common calling. It centered the teacher’s role in drawing out unique attributes of a child’s character while orienting the child ­toward collaborative work. Multiple and multidirectional orientations are at play ­here: between the teacher and child, between Philip and ­others in the study session, and between all ­those who commit to what is understood to be the world-­embracing mission of the Bahá’í Faith. I was mindful that what we ­were learning was also being deliberated in countless study

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circles across Egypt and globally in ways specific to local contexts. In ­every group, learning from the Ruhi series and implementing Bahá’í teachings necessitated fellowship between participants, a fellowship that, ­after several weeks of collaborative and iterative study, grew more solid and allowed for an open exchange of ideas leading to consensus. We learned that day that while responsibility is shouldered by teachers who instruct ­children’s classes, every­one involved in Bahá’í ­service work is oriented ­toward the ­future, ­toward continuity between past and pre­sent, and fostering collaboration with o­ thers to ensure this continuity. “Our goal as teachers is to transform competitive games, like musical chairs, into cooperative ones that deemphasize winning and losing. We should encourage collaborative work (al-ʿamal al-­ijtimāʿī) among c­ hildren,” Philip advised. Part of orienting oneself ­toward a shared purpose meant eradicating the competition that undergirds activities done with ­others. Delving deeper into this point, a question emerged about ­whether the Olympic games ­will continue. The Olympics ­were seen as a paradigmatic example of a broadly participatory activity that depends on h­ uman difference and diversity but whose basis, given its competitive nature, does not ultimately foster collaboration or the kind of love entailed in fellowship. “They w ­ ill end (ha tintahī),” Philip opined. Ramy, a newcomer to the group and now the eldest of the attendees, was the only one who vocalized his disagreement. “What do you think of competition?” Philip asked him. Ramy answered matter-­of-­factly: “It’s a good ­thing (dī ḥaga kwayyisa).” Picking up on every­one’s surprised expressions, Ramy elaborated. “When I see someone excel, that encourages me to be and do better.” The o­ thers nodded, sharing similar impressions. Soon ­after, the conversation again jostled between the meaning and practice of cooperation and competition, on the one hand, to how ­human difference can be oriented ­toward collaborative work, on the other. Repeatedly, maḥaba, or platonic love, was named as a way to relate to o­ thers, particularly ­those more ­junior to oneself in age, that diminishes competitive impulses and expounds a willingness to strive ­after a shared purpose. ——— We stood in the arrival hall in Istanbul Atatürk Airport anxious for the journey ahead. It was August 14, 2013. Most of the delegates from Egypt had never left their governorates, let alone the country. Only a ­couple of us had dual

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nationality and traveled on our U.S. passports. Most every­one e­ lse procured passports for the first time for this trip. ­Those whose applications ­were denied or delayed ­were held back. It was a trip subsidized by the National Spiritual Assembly of Egypt, with assistance from the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice. At the airport I met friends I h­ adn’t seen in many months. O ­ thers I met for the first time whom I had only seen on ­television—as guests on primetime shows or figures in documentary films. If we ­hadn’t met before, I knew their parents or ­uncles or aunts from other social occasions. The del­e­ga­tion included Egyptians from all over the country, but also Bahá’ís of other nationalities who had lived in Egypt for several years, many I knew socially. We boarded a charter bus to Edirne as soon as we exited baggage claim. About two and half hours away from Istanbul, the city of Edirne fell into Ottoman control in the 1360s, serving as its administrative and commercial capital until 1453. We ­were traveling ­there to retrace the steps of Bahá’u’lláh’s banishment from Persia and the forty years he spent in exile, which correspond with the years of his ministry. Bahá’u’lláh was first imprisoned in 1852 in Tehran for his allegiance to the Bab. According to Bahá’í teachings, Bahá’u’lláh’s imprisonment catalyzed his reception of God’s revelation: that the Bahá’í Faith is a cosmology distinct from the Babi movement, to which Bahá’u’lláh had been a dedicated follower. When he was released from prison, Bahá’u’lláh was exiled to Baghdad where, ­after traveling between Baghdad and the mountains of Kurdistan, he announced in 1863 in the Garden of Ridvan along the banks of the Tigris River that he was God’s messenger. Bahá’u’lláh thus declared himself the Promised One for this age, fulfilling the eschatological prophecies of several traditions. The twelve days Bahá’u’lláh spent in the Garden of Ridvan are celebrated by Bahá’ís ­today as the festival of Ridvan. His declaration precipitated other banishments: from Baghdad, Constantinople (Istanbul), and Adrianople (Edirne) u­ ntil he arrived fi­nally at Akka, in Ottoman Palestine and now present-­day Israel, where he died in 1892. The Mansion of Bahji, a summer ­house in Akka, is known as the Shrine of Bahá’u’lláh and is a pilgrimage site visited alongside the nearby Universal ­House of Justice, the supreme administrative center of the Bahá’í Faith. Fatigued from the more than two-­hour drive and the flight that morning, we descended slowly from the bus and congregated around a h­ ouse that, like o­ thers nearby, looked modest (figure 6.6). It had a white exterior and burnt orange roof shingles; both features ­were pristine, as if freshly painted and newly scrubbed. Its doors ­were a gray-­blue, a shade much subtler than the true blue of the after­ noon sky. My eyes drifted from right to left and right again. They landed on

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figure 6.6. Residence of Bahá’u’lláh in Adrianople (Edirne), Turkey, 2002. © Bahá’í International Community.

flushed f­ aces and n­ ervous expressions whose tentativeness bloomed with anticipation. The boisterous conversations we’d had on the bus dissipated; young ­women and men whispered to each other now, their cautious banter commemorating our arrival at this special place. The h­ ouse we w ­ ere about to enter was modest in appearance but extraordinary in significance: this was where Bahá’u’lláh resided when he left Baghdad in 1863 and before he traveled several years l­ater to the prison-­city of Akka following a dispute with Ottoman and Persian authorities. We ­were given a tour of the ­house’s grounds before being invited inside. The manicured garden out back was filled with low-­lying shrubs arranged in circular patterns along the center and perimeter. Although we w ­ ere outside, the voices of my companions never increased beyond elevated whispers. Friends and relatives and neighbors, with hands over their mouths, leaned in to one another to comment on the history our guide relayed—of the city, the h­ ouse, and Bahá’u’lláh’s activities during the period of his residence. Some asked our guide questions. Most stood in idle reverence, plotting the vivid details conjured by our guide into an unseen story about the life that Bahá’u’lláh knew h­ ere. I

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listened intently. As my eyes traced the outlines of the ­house’s win­dows they ­were drawn upward ­toward four striking minarets, their tops pointy as newly sharpened pencils and just as narrow. The Selimiye Mosque, named ­after Selim II, the Ottoman sultan who commissioned it, was built in the sixteenth c­ entury by the famed architect Mimar Sinan. Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Selimiye Mosque Complex, which includes schools, a market, a clock ­house, an outer courtyard, and a library, is where Bahá’u’lláh was purported to have debated Mirza Yahya Nuri, an Azali Babi, about the successorship of the Babi movement. Between them, the bound­aries of two traditions—­the Babi movement and the Bahá’í Faith—­and their members ­were meted out. Even as the traditions and their members came to be seen as distinct, the Bab is nevertheless understood to have heralded the Bahá’í Faith. The sound of a door swinging open re­oriented me to my surroundings. I followed the ­others, removing my shoes before entering the h­ ouse. Immaculate area rugs covered nearly e­ very inch of floor space where we w ­ ere invited to sit in quiet reflection. Bahá’í lit­er­a­ture had been curated and arranged throughout the room. Many of us pulled from what was available as we sat cross-­legged, dispersed across the rugs. I chose a small book of Bahá’í prayers. Pairs of ­sisters and ­brothers huddled around copies of the Kitab-­i-­Aqdas. Hours seemed to pass. Tears streamed down flushed cheeks. ­Later, the tour of the h­ ouse now over, we talked t­ oward the city center in the direction of the Selimiye Mosque. ­There we began another hours-­long tour that included commemoration and reflection albeit truncated given the crowds. It was not lost on me that we w ­ ere paying tribute to a monument that had been built by the powers responsible for Bahá’u’lláh’s exile. Yet this piece of the Faith’s history was not top of mind for my companions. The grandeur of the Selimiye Mosque, its centrality to the life of vari­ous communities in Edirne, was instead celebrated as a place where all sorts of ­people convened, an orientation that accords with Bahá’í teachings on the unity of humanity. Over döner kebab and shawarma sandwiches in the courtyard, we chatted in the waning after­noon light about the ­house we had visited ­earlier, the magnificent interior of the mosque’s courtyard, and its resemblance to the Muhammad Ali Mosque in Cairo, built two hundred years ­after the Selimiye. I came to see how the early history of the Bahá’í Faith, t­ hose d­ ecades Bahá’u’lláh spent imprisoned by Persian and Ottoman authorities, m ­ atters to Egyptian Bahá’ís ­today. By retracing Bahá’u’lláh’s steps in Edirne, my interlocutors did more than pay re­spect to an exalted leader. They revived his legacy through movement and recollection and prayer. My interlocutors embodied

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a likeness between the tribulations Bahá’u’lláh faced in the nineteenth ­century and the ones Egyptian Bahá’ís presently endure. ­These challenges include the vilification of many within their neighborhoods and schools, the exclusion from travel and work opportunities, and the inability to procure probative documents that reflect the real­ity of who they are. In fact, Egyptian Bahá’ís who could travel to Turkey ­were relieved, as many ­were unsure ­whether they would receive the requisite bureaucratic clearance to do so. When we arrived in Cairo International Airport hours e­ arlier, many giddily compared their new passports aware that several of their friends, t­ hose we had left b­ ehind, had not been as lucky. Moreover, among all the sacred sites of the Bahá’í Faith located in the ­Middle East, the Edirne residence of Bahá’u’lláh is the only one truly accessible to Egyptian Bahá’ís who live permanently in Egypt.15 In 2013, the Most ­Great ­House (Bayt-­i-­Azam), a complex in Baghdad where Bahá’u’lláh and his ­family and his followers lived during the period of his banishment from Tehran, was destroyed.16 The shrine of the Bab and the shrine of Bahá’u’lláh, considered the holiest sites of the Bahá’í Faith, are both situated within the Bahá’í World Centre—­the Faith’s administrative complex—­atop Mount Carmel in Haifa. Despite the strategic alliance between Egypt and Israel that began with the Camp David Accords in 1978, anti-­Israeli and anti-­Zionist sentiment is widespread in Egypt.17 As mentioned in chapter 3, accusing someone of allying with Israel, as e­ ither a spy or Zionist sympathizer or both, destroys that person’s credibility and marginalizes them. In other words, although Haifa 15. I emphasize permanent residence in Egypt ­because Bahá’ís of Egyptian heritage who, for example, live abroad and maintain citizenship in countries like Australia, Canada, the United States, and the United Kingdom are not bound as tightly to an implicit prohibition against traveling to Israel. 16. “Sacred Site in Baghdad Destroyed,” Bahá’í News S­ ervice, June 28, 2013, https://­news​ .­bahai.​ ­org/​ s­ tory/​ 9­ 61/​ .­​ ­The status of the sacred site in Baghdad had been a topic of contestation for many ­decades. Following World War I, the Bahá’ís of Iraq petitioned the League of Nations to protect this site when the Iraqi government refused to acknowledge Bahá’u’lláh’s owner­ship of the property. See “The Case of Baha’u’llah’s ­House in Baghdad before the League of Nations,” Bahá’í International Community, https://­www​.­bic​.­org​/­statements​/­case​-­bahaullahs​-­house​ -­baghdad​-­league​-­nations. 17. Th ­ ere is an enormous lit­er­a­ture on the international relations of Egypt and Israel. For insight into how diplomatic relations between ­these states altered intercommunal dynamics in Egypt, see Beinin, The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry; Gershoni and Jankowski, Beyond the Nile; Hammad, Unknown Past; Shamir, “The Evolution of the Egyptian Nationality Laws and Their Application to the Jews in the Monarchy Period.”

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is geo­graph­ic­ ally proximate to Egypt, closer even than Edirne, Egyptian Bahá’ís forgo pilgrimage to the sacred sites now located within the territorial borders of the state of Israel. Aware that generations of Egyptian Bahá’ís have been falsely accused of colluding with Israel and advancing the Zionist proj­ect, Bahá’ís knew that choosing not to travel to Haifa deprives the Faith’s detractors of fodder they might use to further marginalize Bahá’ís in Egypt or to malign the Bahá’í Faith in general. Traveling to Edirne was thus a rare chance to nurture closeness with Bahá’u’lláh. ——— The “youth” in “Bahá’í Youth Conference” loosely meant any person engaged actively in imparting Bahá’í teachings to c­ hildren or adolescents. Attendees included p­ eople who w ­ ere married and unmarried, parents to school-­aged ­children, p­ eople who had once parented school-­aged c­ hildren, and teens and young adults. Over 250 p­ eople participated in the conference convened in Turkey alone. Thousands of o­ thers participated in similar conferences around the world. In Turkey, ­there ­were del­e­ga­tions—­groups of Bahá’ís—­from Egypt, Sudan, Yemen, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Tunisia, Morocco, Kurdistan, Iraq, and Algeria. Some country del­e­ga­tions at the conference w ­ ere much smaller than ­others. Syria and Palestine, at just two delegates each, w ­ ere among the smallest, and Morocco and Egypt, at about sixty and forty persons each, respectively, ­were among the largest. The Egyptians who participated varied remarkably in terms of age, occupation, economic position, and gender. Some had traveled extensively throughout Egypt, the region, and the world. ­These delegates tended to be in their thirties and forties, if not older, and held leadership positions in their local assemblies and w ­ ere more proximate to the inner workings of the National Spiritual Assembly of Egypt. Del­e­ga­tions did not act in a representative capacity; they w ­ ere not t­ here to represent the interests of Bahá’ís from their country. Instead, the people in these delegations had demonstrated commitment to the world-­embracing cosmology of the Bahá’í Faith. This was understood to mean having participated in Ruhi study circles, ­organized community ­service proj­ects, and generally showed active engagement with the teachings of the Faith. The state had facilitated all of our travel—­each of our passports tied us to rules on nationality and citizenship—­ yet the relevance of its administrative apparatus mattered less once we cleared border control at Atatürk Airport, boarded the bus to Edirne, and eventually made our way to the convention center. Its relevance further receded once we

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­ ere enmeshed in conference programming. The state mattered to the extent w that in Bahá’í teachings, one should orient her ­service work first to her local community, including her national community, with the goal of enacting ­service that benefits all of humanity. Yet an order o­ rganizes Bahá’í relations to o­ thers that is not oriented completely t­ oward nor completely dependent on the Egyptian republic. I saw how the administrative order of the Bahá’í Faith is lived, even ­under authoritarian rule. Arabic was our common language and the official language of the conference, although conference materials ­were published in Arabic and in ­English. They specified the purpose of the convening, which was then explored through scheduled activities. Participants ­were t­ here to build on the learning we gained from studying the Ruhi series by developing communal proj­ects inspired by its teachings. The p­ eople who would benefit from this planning would be t­ hose youn­ger than us. During the conference plenary a letter from the Universal ­House of Justice was read aloud, making this intention plain. Conference participants w ­ ere exalted “to refine their characters and prepare [them] to assume responsibility for the well-­being of their communities. As they enter adolescence, you are helping them to enhance their power of expression, as well as enabling a strong moral sensibility to take root within them.”18 As I had learned from studying the Ruhi series and this letter affirmed, individual enrichment was not itself sufficient to realize one’s purpose as a Bahá’í. One needed to think of personal development in tandem with social transformation. The former serves the latter; the latter is enriched by the former. The purpose of the conference was as clear as the methods that would be used to attain it. It was understood that all of us, every­one in attendance, had developed a foundation, knowledge of Bahá’í teachings and sensibilities oriented ­toward the ­future, necessary for the world building that lay ahead. The Universal H ­ ouse of Justice’s letter addressed to the conference attendees named characteristics that would supplement ­these prerequisites. “Faith and tenacity” ­were required for the “path of ­service” and this path should be shared with ­others. “Loving fellowship, mutual encouragement, and willingness to learn together,” stated the letter, “are natu­ral properties of any group of youth sincerely striving for the same ends, and should also characterize ­those essential relationships that bind together the components of society.” The bonds that would be cultivated at the conference ­were not unlike the bonds of fellowship that the study circles, across a multitude of local communities, fostered. ­These 18. The full text of the letter is available in the appendix.

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rituals ­were ­organized through local assemblies and the teaching and learning programs in which members ­were expected to participate. So effective had this work been that by the time I arrived in Turkey I felt fellowship with my interlocuters although I am not Bahá’í. Speaking in the first-­person plural, the Universal ­House of Justice bid us well: “We hope the bonds you develop through association with other conference participants ­w ill prove abiding. Indeed, long a­ fter the gatherings close, may t­ hese ties of friendship and common calling help keep your feet firm.” The Universal ­House of Justice names the social bonds between p­ eople who strive for a common cause as grounding the world-­building work of the Bahá’í Faith. Individual transformation is brought about through not only ­independent inquiry but also collective learning that situates the individual in a social group, making it pos­si­ble to strive together t­ oward the transformation of the world. At check-in, we ­were given tote bags, a program, and a lanyard with our name and the name of our country. A third of our time was spent as one large group in plenary sessions. Another third was spent in smaller sessions with delegates from a single country. During t­ hese sessions, t­ here w ­ ere breakout groups based on geographic proximity. ­Those living closest to one another worked through the conference materials together. This involved discussing the conference handbook, self-­reflection, and planning how the knowledge gained at the conference would be implemented back home. The point was to develop a community-­oriented plan or proj­ect to address and remedy social ailments specific to local contexts. The ailments ranged from poorly resourced schools to lack of waste disposal infrastructure to housing insecurity. ­There was a continuous back and forth between the breakout groups and the larger country del­e­ga­tion—­between groups from the Sohag and Giza governorates, for example, and Egyptian Bahá’ís as a w ­ hole. I was familiar with this arrangement. The gatherings to which Bahá’ís in Egypt most often invited me ­were ­those nearest to where I lived; I was also invited to gatherings where Bahá’ís from many parts of Egypt convened, but ­these gatherings ­were far less frequent than the ­others. In other words, consultation and cooperation in Turkey ­were o­ rganized according to the spiritual assembly model whereby t­ hose most proximate to one another would converse and deliberate before engaging a wider community. The last third of the conference included film screenings and unstructured social activities, some of which happened in a large theater in the convention center and o­ thers elsewhere in the surrounding area, giving attendees ample time to meet Bahá’ís from throughout the region. ­These opportunities ­were

figure 6.7. Attendees, Bahá’í Youth Conference, Istanbul, Turkey, 2013.

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especially welcome by my interlocutors who ­were traveling internationally for the first time. At some point during the first day, time was set aside for a group photo­ graph of all the conference attendees. Each of us had experienced this ritual before. Not in this place but d­ oing this t­ hing: si­mul­ta­neously memorializing an event, recording membership in a group, wearing our best clothes, and smiling for a camera. We ­were each given a copy (figure 6.7). It was like the photos of Bahá’ís I had found in the archives of the Bahá’í H ­ ouse of Worship in Wilmette, in vari­ous publications compiled by Bahá’ís over many ­decades, and in the private papers of my interlocutors in Egypt. One main difference distinguished this photo­graph from the ­others. In ­those pictographic rec­ords, a framed reproduction of the Most G ­ reat Name was always visibly displayed by one member of the group—on their lap if they ­were seated, at chest height if they ­were standing. If the frame was especially large it rested at the feet of ­those seated in the first row. The vast majority of p­ eople who participated in the conference in Turkey affiliated with the Bahá’í Faith. Several ­others ­were considered friends of the Bahá’ís. While the photo­graph we took together that after­noon commemorated Bahá’í membership, it was broadly inclusive of ­those who supported their vision for the ­future. ——— The day before the last day of the conference, Mazen, a member of the Egypt del­e­ga­tion, approached me at dinner mid-­bite. “Would you be willing to talk to the group about your experience?” he asked. By group he meant all two-­hundred-­ odd attendees. The entire conference. In the previous days I had seen many ­people do exactly what Mazen described, including ­women who wore the hijab. They walked on stage, took the microphone, and narrated their transformation. They testified to the renewed sense of hope that had been instilled in them. I’m sure my face went flush. I knew I did not want to do this. I said I would think about it. I needed time to figure out why my answer was no. Mazen and I overlapped several times in Cairo. I knew his wife. They both actively ­organized programming for c­ hildren and young adults in their neighborhood and I had been invited to their home where I initially met many of the Bahá’ís who traveled to Turkey. Every­one we knew in common looked up to them as role models. Mazen’s own place in the Bahá’í community was

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secured through testimonies, some of which he had shared on national ­television. As a first-­generation Bahá’í, he knew well the difficulties of being unable to procure probative documents with the word “Bahá’í” written in the compulsory religion field. He continued to face many administrative challenges due to having been born to a Muslim ­father. His marriage, for example, was not recognized by the state and both he and his wife, with whom he had two ­children, ­were both listed as single on their identity cards. His patrilineal history haunted ­every significant event of his adulthood—­from marrying to having ­children to enrolling his kids in school. Unwilling to recognize him as a Bahá’í Egyptian, the republic made it all but impossible for Mazen and his ­family to establish a multigenerational history of belonging to the Bahá’í Faith as Egyptian citizens. I should have been honored by Mazen asking me to testify to my transformation. H ­ ere was a celebrated and respected member of the community, one many of the youn­ger Bahá’ís looked up to and sought to emulate. Saying yes to his request would likely have enriched my research in a number of ways by giving me insight, for instance, into the election proceedings within Bahá’í assemblies, pro­cesses I had not yet observed as they ­were restricted to community members. Border agents are not confined to departments or ministries. E ­ very member of a group is a member of an o­ rganization and one of its agents. When my testimony was solicited, I was in effect asked by an agent w ­ hether I was committed to the group of which he is a member. And when I declined, my reply indicated what Mazen already knew: that my commitment to the Bahá’í Faith was not total. I was not a member. My interlocuters, the ­whole range of them mentioned in this book, asked me from time to time in explicit and not-­so-­explicit ways what group I belonged to. They assumed I had a religious affiliation, that I affiliated with a tradition and its group. I preferred to avoid the question ­because the claim to that membership was not one I wished to defend—it was not a membership I thought defined me. I was interested in why and how belonging was impor­tant for o­ thers. Although I never asked my interlocutors to claim membership in a group, they always narrated their social position in terms of a status they held in one religious group. It was impor­tant for them for me to know where they stood in religious terms. Their status was tied indelibly to affinities with which I maintained only tenuous ties: faith, ­family, nation. But when they insisted, when they wanted to know where I stood in relation to them, in a religious sense, I claimed an affiliation, reluctantly, but claimed one nonetheless, and it was a group that was not theirs. Seeing the tentativeness of my allegiance, they had held out hope that I would change my mind.

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My relations with Egyptian Bahá’ís I had come to know over many years changed gradually but decisively ­after the conference in Turkey. Perhaps this was inevitable. Mazen wanted to know ­whether ­after all ­these years ­doing research on the status of non-­Muslims in Egypt w ­ hether I was persuaded by what I learned about the Bahá’í Faith. I realized I had always been open to the possibility of its truth, the possibility of its truth for o­ thers, and the possibility of its truth for me but that ultimately it was not my truth. My commitment to understanding the Bahá’í order had been seen as a m ­ easure of my commitment to it, signaling some willingness on my part to change my affiliation—in the ­future. To become one of them. To be like them. I was thought to be searching for something that I never was: a group. I emphasized that I was t­ here to learn and to understand, not to belong. But this distinction d­ idn’t make sense in Egypt or to Egyptians I knew. I had participated in Bahá’í world building. Added to this, not having a religion was inconceivable within the social contexts I traversed. It made more sense that I was lost, equivocal, not observant, and searching for a group than to eschew belonging altogether.

​ Epilogue

“it is not ­really about inheritance, my f­ ather did not leave us millions of Egyptian pounds,” said Huda Nasrallah when asked about her motivation to get Coptic law applied in Egypt’s ­family courts. “I have the right to ask to be treated equally as my ­brothers.”1 For Nasrallah, an attorney with the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, a Cairo-­based research and advocacy o­ rganization, this case was personal. Her f­ ather had passed away the previous year. A former state clerk, he left his three c­ hildren—­a d­ aughter and two sons—­liquid assets as well as a four-­story apartment building in Cairo. Nasrallah brought a suit requesting that the heirs and their inheritance be determined according to Coptic law.2 A succession order had awarded her one-­half of the share allocated to her ­brothers, consistent with Egyptian statutes, which are based in Islamic rules that have general applicability in Egypt.3 Coptic law, on the other hand, provides for the equal distribution of an inheritance between male and female heirs and applies only to Copts. Nasrallah argued that the succession order issued to her on the basis of Islamic shariʿa contradicted constitutional and substantive law.4 On 1. Hoda Elhennawy, “Egyptian ­Woman Fights Unequal Islamic Inheritance Laws,” Associated Press, November  15, 2019, https://­apnews​.­com​/­article​/­religion​-­ap​-­top​-­news​-­laws​ -­international​-­news​-­islam​-­a115f4d4a86c4f9b8cdb0802ccf3e5e5​?­fbclid​=­IwAR0LrHiHJs6Cf7 LU22EqLCY25upHV9WQKLkVn6kCVcewbs4pAGLGGY9H660. 2. Article 245 of the 1938 Coptic Orthodox Personal Status Regulations provides for the equal distribution of inheritance between male and female heirs. 3. Article 875 of the 1948 Egyptian Civil Code establishes the rules of inheritance, including the determination of heirs, and requires that they adhere to Islamic shariʿa for all Egyptians—­ Muslim and non-­Muslim. Personal Status Law no. 77 of 1943 regulating inheritance likewise specifies that male ­children inherit twice the share awarded to female ­children. 4. Nasrallah’s argument hinged on two laws. Article 3 of the 2014 constitution holds that “the princi­ples of the laws of Egyptian Christians and Jews are the main source of laws regulating 246

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November 25, 2019, the Helwan F ­ amily Court of Appeal came to a decision: the original succession order was nullified and Coptic law was applied to distribute the inheritance equally among the Nasrallah siblings. Although Nasrallah’s case was not the first time that a ­family court in Egypt applied Coptic law to determine inheritance, her mobilization marks an impor­tant chapter in the development of Egyptian succession law and Coptic ­women’s rights. U ­ ntil the decision in this case, Coptic w ­ omen w ­ ere not empowered to invoke the laws of their community due to an absence of legislation that “activates the constitutional article” providing for the application of communal rules in personal status ­matters.5 Copts wishing to implement Coptic law on inheritance tended to do so informally. Nasrallah and her ­brothers could have chosen this route. Her motivation to compel Egyptian state courts to apply communal rules thus warrants attention. Amid the public debate about this case, both celebratory and critical, what has gone unremarked are features of Nasrallah’s claims making for which this book provides a useful frame. It is worth noting what Nasrallah’s argument and the verdict affirm, make pos­si­ble, and foreclose. Recognition of Coptic law, and the gender parity it affords, challenges the advantage that Coptic men, on account of their gender, enjoy when Islamic inheritance rules are applied. While Nasrallah’s argument could be understood to advance gender parity, her stance is more complex. She did not take a general position on nondiscrimination based in the difference of gender. She did not argue, in other words, that Islamic rules of inheritance are discriminatory to all ­women. What is unlawful, Nasrallah argued, is applying Islamic rules to resolve non-­Muslim intracommunal affairs. The movement underway in Egypt for a unified and universal Christian personal status law—­advanced by Orthodox Copts, Anglicans, and Catholics—­ further speaks to the desire of non-­Muslims to have their difference recognized.6 Importantly, this recognition would retain the ­legal distinction, in their personal status, religious affairs, and se­lection of spiritual leaders.” Article 1 of Law no. 25 (1944), known as the Inheritance Law, states that if the deceased is a non-­Muslim, the heirs have the right to apply canon law rather than Islamic shariʿa in the determination of inheritance. 5. “ ‘Christians in ID . . . ​Muslims in Inheritance’: A New Campaign from EIPR Calling for Christian ­Women’s Rights in Applying the Princi­ples of Their Law in Inheritance Shares Distribution,” Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, July 19, 2019, https://­eipr​.­org​/­en​/­press​/­2019​ /­07​/­christians​-­id​-­muslims​-­inheritance​-­new​-­campaign​-­eipr​-­calling​-­christian​-­women’s​-­rights. 6. Ishak Ibrahim, “Personal Status of Copts: Crisis Made by State and Church,” Tahrir Institute for ­Middle East Policy, February 12, 2020, https://­timep​.­org​/­commentary​/­analysis​ /­personal​-­status​-­of​-­copts​-­crisis​-­made​-­by​-­state​-­and​-­church​/­.

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positivist and communal law, between Muslims and Christians. This distinction is preferred by an overwhelming number of non-­Muslims.7 Nasrallah’s claims making is impor­tant for several reasons. First, her claim to equality could only follow from the fact of status equivalence. Justice among members of a group is pos­si­ble when the equivalence between groups is recognized—in this case the distinctiveness of Christian and Jewish communities in relation to the Muslim majority. Second, justice does not map easily onto a framework of liberal equality. It was the recognition of Nasrallah’s membership in the Coptic community—­a community that holds subsidiary status relative to Muslim Egyptians—­that made her claim for equal treatment alongside Coptic men a sound and compelling one. The just outcome derives from not only legislative and judicial recognition of the difference of groups and their members but also legislative and judicial recognition that the rules of other member-­ based o­ rganizations like the Coptic Church are l­ egal. Third, a proper accounting of the truth is what distinguishes a just from an unjust outcome. Justice is done when one is ­free to seek attachments based in the truth of one’s status. In scholarly parlance ­today, this case might be read as an example of the Egyptian state ceding l­ imited jurisdiction to communities. I challenge this view. The suit and its outcome evidence shared governance based in the memorialization of truth that multiple member-­based ­organizations do at the same time. ­Here, the Church is not merely an ecclesiastical institution that administers pastoral care. Like the nation-­state, the Church performs regulatory actions that are consequential to social status; some are unique to Copts (like baptism and burial rites) and ­others (like the determination of marriage and divorce and remarriage) are shared with the national bureaucracy and judiciary. The truth regulated by the nation-­state is critical to membership in a national, ­political community whereas the Church regulates membership based in cosmologies of the Coptic tradition. Both o­ rganizations venerate patrilineal descent. Each one recognizes the authority of the other on this basis. And yet the significance of paternity for status in the Coptic community and as an Egyptian citizen is not easily split along ­political and religious lines. What it means to be a Copt ­today is tied up with membership in a ­political community. And what it means to be an Egyptian t­ oday is tied up with membership in a community of faith. 7. “Egypt’s Orthodox, Evangelical, Catholic Sects Agree on Unified Personal Status Draft Law for Non-­Muslims,” Al-­Masry Al-­Youm, February 25, 2020, https://­www​.­egyptindependent​.­com​ /­egypts​-­orthodox​-­evangelical​-­catholic​-­sects​-­agree​-­on​-­unified​-­personal​-­status​-­draft​-­law​-­for​-­non​ -­muslims​/­.

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Non-­affiliation with a religious group, or seeking to migrate out of the religious group to which one is born, risks exclusion from both. By arguing for the application of Coptic law in Egyptian courts, Nasrallah assents to being bound by the rules of her community and the overlapping, regulatory systems of two member-­based ­organizations. Thinking of Nasrallah, and ­others similarly positioned, simply as liberal subjects motivated by a rights-­based framework and driven ultimately by an emancipatory ideal obfuscates this complexity. It overlooks their desire to be bound by a cosmology. It ignores the assent to paternalism that ensures collective life ­today and over time. Nasrallah worked through the nation-­state to ensure the coherence of relations to her kin in two senses: her immediate blood relations and Copts in Egypt more broadly, especially Coptic ­women. In d­ oing so, she forged a path for ­future members of her community, intimate and broadly local, to know who they are through their past. ——— Is the state good? I was asked this question by a colleague a­ fter he read the draft manuscript. He was asking for a bottom line, maybe even my bottom line. I think this is a fair question.8 But w ­ hether I think the state is good m ­ atters less than what I now understand about its function: to rec­ord and maintain rec­ords of who we are in relation to ­others over time. When states memorialize relations that groups understand to be central to their continuity, ­these states are seen as good even when they commit harms and even when they regulate inefficiently. What I have called devotion to the administrative state names the practice of seeking attachments based in the truth of one’s social position and that advance a cosmology. This truth does not originate from administrative states but one that they nevertheless arbitrate and secure. A Muslim does not understand himself to be a Muslim ­because the Egyptian republic says it is so. But the recognition of his status as a Muslim is necessary for his self-­understanding and for ­others in his community to view him as one of them, now and in the f­ uture. The state, as one kind of member-­based ­organization, does this regulatory work but so do multiple o­ thers, often si­mul­ta­neously, and this work is largely assented to. 8. I agree with Kathryn Lofton on this point: “The normative is buried in e­ very descriptive venture; defining the distinction between the two has been a tediously unrevelatory argumentative venture in the humanities. You may not like my normative turn. But in order to argue against it, your recourse w ­ ill not be to description. And so: we enter the inevitable and impor­tant naming of stakes” (Consuming Religion, 296n3).

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Reckoning with a misalignment between facts and theory prompted me to question the frameworks I had inherited and that predominate in the extant lit­er­a­ture on law and religion. In their drive to describe states as primarily coercive, claim that states are generative of unique sensibilities, find an alternative to secular liberalism, and imagine life outside the state, scholars who adopt a Foucauldian perspective on state power overlook the regulatory work that all groups do to maintain their borders. This work is not a consequence of modernity but fundamental to what it means to belong to a collective. Nation-­states, as this book shows, amplify the ­legal pluralism that exists wherever ­humans live in proximity to ­others. Even so, regulation as a phenomenon is not unique to the state, even as its capacity to regulate exceeds that of other o­ rganizations. Among the greatest testaments to this claim is the administration of birth, marriage, and death, which predates the nation-­state form by several millennia and is one of the most enduring information infrastructures in h­ uman history. Ritual scarification further gives the lie to the claim that social differentiation is a unique outcome of positivist law. While the category of religion is a technique of modern governance, status distinction based in the difference of one’s cosmology cannot be said to have a modern provenance. Questioning the frameworks that prevail in the study of law and religion also led me to question the position from which scholars argue. Although the state is routinely critiqued across fields and disciplines, scholars have not mobilized to revoke their citizenship or to abandon parental rights or rights to inherit or own property to protest state regulation. Yet we are told by scholars who at once criticize the state and benefit from its regimes of recognition to look beyond the state for justice. When scholars call for justice beyond the state, however, they envisage a world in which centralized governments are abolished and all normative traditions thrive. Real­ity upsets the scholars’ utopia. T ­ oday, in the twenty-­first c­ entury, ­those who are unattached from a state, who do not rely on its regulatory logics or provisions, are likely desperately poor or ultra-­rich. This is the situation of stateless ­people and ­those who are impoverished.9 Living voluntarily “off-­the-­grid” requires sufficient capital to build parallel infrastructure typically provided through public provision—­whether utilities, ground transport, housing, recreation, education, or space exploration.10 Few can afford this privilege. 9. Hunter, Undocumented Nationals. 10. Scott Yorko, “How to Set Up an Off-­the-­Grid Getaway,” Smithsonian Magazine, October 8, 2020, https://­www​.­smithsonianmag​.­com​/­innovation​/­how​-­set​-­grid​-­getaway​-­180976014​/­; Gina Bellafonte, “First They Fled the City; Now ­They’re Building $75,000 In-­Ground Pools,” New York Times, May 22, 2020, https://­www​.­nytimes​.­com​/­2020​/­05​/­22​/­nyregion​/­quarantine​-­rich​-­pools​

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The force with which scholars criticize the state is thus curious in light of the truths that it secures. My interlocutors’ claims making illumines how difference is as central to who they are as other widely accepted and regulated categories of filiation like parentage and marriage. The equitable regulation of religion through positivist law, complainants show, is pos­si­ble and necessary. The necessity derives from a desire for spatiotemporal continuity: to know who they are in the ­future. This is a desire that many of us express but have not named. Recognition of our difference is necessary for us to live as members of collectives, for collectives to live beyond our existence, and for the group to remain recognizable to its constituency over time—­even as the terms of membership and its members change. Perhaps precisely ­because we know ­these ­factors ­will change that recognition of difference is so necessary. To live collectively as distinct groups, we rely on administrative states to recognize what makes us distinctive, individually and as members of vari­ous groups. A ­great deal of vio­lence, invasions to privacy, and affronts to h­ uman dignity are involved in recognition. The desire for recognition persists alongside awareness of ­those harms. To make this story one about state coercion therefore misses the point. We know how that story plays out before we reach the end, before we know who all the characters are, before we are told where the story takes place.11 The prob­lem with this story is not its predictability—­although predictable it is. Instead, this received story evades the difficult work of thinking two facts together: states secure and destroy life. Scholarship that emphasizes the state’s coercive capacity over and against its capacity to ensure communal integrity has missed an urgent and complex real­ity, one that hinges neither on ­resistance nor on the subject of freedom ­imagined by liberal scholars. At stake is how best to identify and rec­ord difference. What I have called devotion to the administrative state offers a frame for understanding the yearning for conceptual .­html; Mary Jane Rubenstein and Jenna Supp Montgomerie, “Somewhere Out Th ­ ere: Corporate Utopias of Space and Sea,” Immanent Frame, April 30, 2021, https://­tif​.­ssrc​.­org​/­2021​/­0 4​/­30​ /­somewhere​-­out​-­there​/­. 11. It goes something like this: The nation-­state creates disciplinary techniques to make populations within its territory conform to certain social and ­political norms. As a result, prior ways of life are flattened and refashioned into socialities authorized by legislatures, bureaucracies, and judiciaries. Some populations fight this hegemony; they resist the refashioning of their normative traditions. Some succeed, and the nation-­state grants them ­limited sovereignty to regulate their communities. O ­ thers are not so fortunate. Their ways of life are lost. R ­ esistance underlies this narrative. ­Those being disciplined are expected to rebel. When they do not, they are said to have been hijacked by the nation-­state, becoming players for the wrong team. Worse, they are said to ventriloquize foreign discourse to the detriment of indigenous life.

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and material limits expressed by marginalized communities. This framing invites scholars to think differently about ­those who align with states to advance group interests. By spotlighting how minoritized p­ eople negotiate their relationship with the state, I challenge the scholarly view that sees ­these actors as merely conformers. I question the scholarly assumption that the state by definition vacates moral inquiry and criticism. Persons and groups that we might expect to contest regulation, ­those that exceed or traverse categories of social difference, desire recognition in t­ hose terms. I have argued for understanding ­these categories not as foreign impositions but as names for what p­ eople call themselves, the position they occupy or aspire to in a social order, and a cosmology that orients them to the ­future. Their desire for recognition is not based in the material benefits that accrue to ­those who are recognized but a striving for communal coherence and continuity over time. The mechanisms that scholars have argued flatten, refashion, and discipline social heterogeneity are precisely ones that ensure communal integrity. They do so b­ ecause t­ hese mechanisms secure our relations to o­ thers—­our kin and kindred, alive and dead, now and in the ­future. Where procedures for regulating religion have been introduced, t­ hese innovations respond to demands by affected communities for governments to recognize a broader spectrum of religious affiliations and to confine status in law. They agitate not for deregulating religious difference but for administrative states to regulate them better. They in turn keep administrative states honest. By showing how devotion works beyond courts and bureaucracies, I have further contested the story that would have us believe that the nation-­state c­ auses a rupture in ­human sociality, an irreparable incision into a more perfect fabric. I have identified and explained innovations attributable to the nation-­state, but more importantly situated them in a social context that shows status distinction as something that collectives strive for generally to ensure their coherence. The story told ­here is thus largely one of continuity. Groups adapt to breaks and fissures. They endure, or splinter, or adapt in some other way. ­Humans find ways to live together by distinguishing themselves from one another. When we refuse the nation-­state’s claim to total sovereignty, we see that normative plurality is a fact and feature of collective life everywhere. Like other member-­based o­ rganizations, the nation-­state lays claim to a normative order, regulates that order, and enforces its bound­aries. ­Those who we might imagine are marginalized by this arrangement buttress its endurance through a collective striving to be bound to kin and kindred and cosmology. Devotion aims to ensure the continuity between who we are already and who we ­will become. The group remains ultimately the primary form for collective life and the administrative state its guarantor.

a pp e n di x

Constitution of the Universal ­House of Justice (1972) Declaration of Trust In the name of God, the One, the Incomparable, the All-­Powerful, the All-­ Knowing, the All-­Wise. The light that is shed from the heaven of bounty, and the benediction that shineth from the dawning-­place of the w ­ ill of God, the Lord of the Kingdom of Names, rest upon Him Who is the Supreme Mediator, the Most Exalted Pen, Him Whom God hath made the dawning-­place of His most excellent names and the dayspring of His most exalted attributes. Through Him the light of unity hath shone forth above the horizon of the world, and the law of oneness hath been revealed amidst the nations, who, with radiant f­ aces, have turned t­ owards the Supreme Horizon, and acknowledged that which the Tongue of Utterance hath spoken in the Kingdom of His knowledge: “Earth and heaven, glory and dominion, are God’s, the Omnipotent, the Almighty, the Lord of grace abounding!” With joyous and thankful hearts we testify to the abundance of God’s Mercy, to the perfection of His Justice and to the fulfilment of His Ancient Promise. Bahá’u’lláh, the Revealer of God’s Word in this Day, the Source of Authority, the Fountainhead of Justice, the Creator of a new World Order, the Establisher of the Most G ­ reat Peace, the Inspirer and F ­ ounder of a world civilization, the Judge, the Lawgiver, the Unifier and Redeemer of all mankind, has proclaimed the advent of God’s Kingdom on earth, has formulated its laws and ordinances, enunciated its princi­ples, and ordained its institutions. To direct and canalize the forces released by His Revelation He instituted His Covenant, whose power has preserved the integrity of His Faith, maintained its unity and stimulated its world-­wide expansion throughout the successive ministries of ‘Abdu’l-­ Bahá and Shoghi Effendi. It continues to fulfil its life-­giving purpose through the agency of the Universal ­House of Justice whose fundamental object, as one of the twin successors of Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, is to ensure the 253

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continuity of that divinely-­appointed authority which flows from the Source of the Faith, to safeguard the unity of its followers, and to maintain the integrity and flexibility of its teachings. “The fundamental purpose animating the Faith of God and His Religion,” declares Bahá’u’lláh, “is to safeguard the interests and promote the unity of the ­human race, and to foster the spirit of love and fellowship amongst men. Suffer it not to become a source of dissension and discord, of hate and enmity. This is the straight Path, the fixed and immovable foundation. Whatsoever is raised on this foundation, the changes and chances of the world can never impair its strength, nor ­will the revolution of countless centuries undermine its structure.” “Unto the Most Holy Book”, ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá declares in His W ­ ill and Testament, “­every one must turn, and all that is not expressly recorded therein must be referred to the Universal ­House of Justice.” The provenance, the authority, the duties, the sphere of action of the Universal ­House of Justice all derive from the revealed Word of Bahá’u’lláh which, together with the interpretations and expositions of the Centre of the Covenant and of the Guardian of the Cause—­who, ­after ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, is the sole authority in the interpretation of Bahá’í Scripture—­constitute the binding terms of reference of the Universal ­House of Justice and are its bedrock foundation. The authority of ­these Texts is absolute and immutable ­until such time as Almighty God ­shall reveal His new Manifestation to Whom ­will belong all authority and power. ­There being no successor to Shoghi Effendi as Guardian of the Cause of God, the Universal ­House of Justice is the Head of the Faith and its supreme institution, to which all must turn, and on it rests the ultimate responsibility for ensuring the unity and pro­gress of the Cause of God. Further, ­there devolve upon it the duties of directing and coordinating the work of the Hands of the Cause, of ensuring the continuing discharge of the functions of protection and propagation vested in that institution, and of providing for the receipt and disbursement of the Ḥuqúqu’lláh. Among the powers and duties with which the Universal ­House of Justice has been invested are: To ensure the preservation of the Sacred Texts and to safeguard their inviolability; to analyse, classify, and coordinate the Writings; and to defend and protect the Cause of God and emancipate it from the fetters of repression and persecution; To advance the interests of the Faith of God; to proclaim, propagate and teach its Message; to expand and consolidate the institutions of its Administrative Order; to usher in the World Order of Bahá’u’lláh; to promote the attainment of ­those spiritual qualities which should characterize Bahá’í life individually

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and collectively; to do its utmost for the realization of greater cordiality and comity amongst the nations and for the attainment of universal peace; and to foster that which is conducive to the enlightenment and illumination of the souls of men and the advancement and betterment of the world; To enact laws and ordinances not expressly recorded in the Sacred Texts; to abrogate, according to the changes and requirements of the time, its own enactments; to deliberate and decide upon all prob­lems which have caused difference; to elucidate questions that are obscure; to safeguard the personal rights, freedom and initiative of individuals; and to give attention to the preservation of ­human honour, to the development of countries and the stability of states; To promulgate and apply the laws and princi­ples of the Faith; to safeguard and enforce that rectitude of conduct which the Law of God enjoins; to preserve and develop the Spiritual and Administrative Centre of the Bahá’í Faith, permanently fixed in the twin cities of ‘Akká and Haifa; to administer the affairs of the Bahá’í community throughout the world; to guide, ­organize, coordinate and unify its activities; to found institutions; to be responsible for ensuring that no body or institution within the Cause abuse its privileges or decline in the exercise of its rights and prerogatives; and to provide for the receipt, disposition, administration and safeguarding of the funds, endowments and other properties that are entrusted to its care; To adjudicate disputes falling within its purview; to give judgement in cases of violation of the laws of the Faith and to pronounce sanctions for such violations; to provide for the enforcement of its decisions; to provide for the arbitration and settlement of disputes arising between p­ eoples; and to be the exponent and guardian of that Divine Justice which can alone ensure the security of, and establish the reign of law and order in, the world. The members of the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice, designated by Bahá’u’lláh “the Men of Justice”, “the ­people of Bahá who have been mentioned in the Book of Names”, “the Trustees of God amongst His servants and the daysprings of authority in His countries”, ­shall in the discharge of their responsibilities ever bear in mind the following standards set forth by Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Cause of God: “In the conduct of the administrative affairs of the Faith, in the enactment of the legislation necessary to supplement the laws of the Kitáb-­i-­Aqdas, the members of the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice, it should be borne in mind, are not, as Bahá’u’lláh’s utterances clearly imply, responsible to t­ hose whom they represent, nor are they allowed to be governed by the feelings, the general opinion, and even the convictions of the mass of the Faithful, or of ­those who directly elect them. They are to follow, in a prayerful attitude, the dictates and

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promptings of their conscience. They may, indeed they must, acquaint themselves with the conditions prevailing among the community, must weigh dispassionately in their minds the merits of any case presented for their consideration, but must reserve for themselves the right of an unfettered decision. ‘God ­will verily inspire them with whatsoever He willeth’, is Bahá’u’lláh’s incontrovertible assurance. They, and not the body of ­those who ­either directly or indirectly elect them, have thus been made the recipients of the divine guidance which is at once the life-­blood and ultimate safeguard of this Revelation.” The Universal ­House of Justice was first elected on the first day of the Festival of Riḍván in the one hundred and twentieth year of the Bahá’í Era,1 when the members of the National Spiritual Assemblies, in accordance with the provisions of the ­Will and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, and in response to the summons of the Hands of the Cause of God, the Chief Stewards of Bahá’u’lláh’s embryonic World Commonwealth, brought into being this “crowning glory” of the administrative institutions of Bahá’u’lláh, the very “nucleus and forerunner” of His World Order. Now, therefore, in obedience to the Command of God and with entire reliance upon Him, we, the members of the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice, set our hands and its seal to this Declaration of Trust which, together with the By-­Laws hereto appended, form the Constitution of the Universal ­House of Justice. Hugh E. Chance Hushmand Fatheazam Amoz E. Gibson David Hofman H. Borrah Kavelin Ali Nakhjavani David S. Ruhe Ian C. Semple Charles Wolcott Signed in the City of Haifa on the fourth day of the month of Qawl in the one hundred and twenty-­ninth year of the Bahá’í Era, corresponding to the twenty-­sixth day of the month of November in the year 1972 according to the Gregorian calendar. 1. 21 April 1963 A.D.

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By-­Laws preamble The Universal H ­ ouse of Justice is the supreme institution of an Administrative Order whose salient features, whose authority and whose princi­ples of operation are clearly enunciated in the Sacred Writings of the Bahá’í Faith and their authorized interpretations. This Administrative Order consists, on the one hand, of a series of elected councils, universal, secondary and local, in which are vested legislative, executive and judicial powers over the Bahá’í community and, on the other, of eminent and devoted believers appointed for the specific purposes of protecting and propagating the Faith of Bahá’u’lláh ­under the guidance of the Head of that Faith. This Administrative Order is the nucleus and pattern of the World Order adumbrated by Bahá’u’lláh. In the course of its divinely propelled organic growth its institutions ­will expand, putting forth auxiliary branches and developing subordinate agencies, multiplying their activities and diversifying their functions, in consonance with the princi­ples and purposes revealed by Bahá’u’lláh for the pro­gress of the h­ uman race. i. member ship in the bahá’í communit y The Bahá’í Community ­shall consist of all persons recognized by the Universal ­House of Justice as possessing the qualifications of Bahá’í Faith and practice. 1. In order to be eligible to vote and hold elective office, a Bahá’í must have attained the age of twenty-­one years. 2. The rights, privileges and duties of individual Bahá’ís are as set forth in the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá and Shoghi Effendi and as laid down by the Universal ­House of Justice. ii. local spiritual assemblies Whenever in any locality the number of Bahá’ís resident therein who have attained the age of twenty-­one exceeds nine, t­ hese ­shall on the First Day of Riḍván convene and elect a local administrative body of nine members to be known as the Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of that locality. ­Every such Assembly ­shall be elected annually thereafter upon each successive First Day of Riḍván. The members ­shall hold office for the term of one year or u­ ntil their successors are elected. When, however, the number of Bahá’ís as aforesaid in

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any locality is exactly nine, ­these ­shall on the First Day of Riḍván constitute themselves the Local Spiritual Assembly by joint declaration. 1. The general powers and duties of a Local Spiritual Assembly are as set forth in the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá and Shoghi Effendi and as laid down by the Universal ­House of Justice. 2. A Local Spiritual Assembly ­shall exercise full jurisdiction over all Bahá’í activities and affairs within its locality, subject to the provisions of the Local Bahá’í Constitution.2 3. The area of jurisdiction of a Local Spiritual Assembly ­shall be de­cided by the National Spiritual Assembly in accordance with the princi­ple laid down for each country by the Universal ­House of Justice. iii. national spiritual assemblies Whenever it is de­cided by the Universal ­House of Justice to form in any country or region a National Spiritual Assembly, the voting members of the Bahá’í community of that country or region s­ hall, in a manner and at a time to be de­cided by the Universal ­House of Justice, elect their delegates to their National Convention. ­These delegates ­shall, in turn, elect in the manner provided in the National Bahá’í Constitution3 a body of nine members to be known as the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of that country or region. The members s­ hall continue in office for a period of one year or u­ ntil their successors ­shall be elected. 1. The general powers and duties of a National Spiritual Assembly are as set forth in the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá and Shoghi Effendi and as laid down by the Universal ­House of Justice. 2. The National Spiritual Assembly ­shall have exclusive jurisdiction and authority over all the activities and affairs of the Bahá’í Faith throughout its area. It ­shall endeavour to stimulate, unify and coordinate the manifold activities of the Local Spiritual Assemblies and of individual Bahá’ís in its area and by all pos­si­ble means assist them to promote the oneness of mankind. It ­shall furthermore represent its national Bahá’í community in relation to other national Bahá’í communities and to the Universal ­House of Justice. 2. By-­Laws of a Local Spiritual Assembly. 3. Declaration of Trust and By-­Laws of a National Spiritual Assembly.

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3. The area of jurisdiction of a National Spiritual Assembly ­shall be as defined by the Universal ­House of Justice. 4. The principal business of the National Convention ­shall be consultation on Bahá’í activities, plans and policies and the election of the members of the National Spiritual Assembly, as set forth in the National Bahá’í Constitution. a. If in any year the National Spiritual Assembly ­shall consider that it is impracticable or unwise to hold the National Convention, the said Assembly ­shall provide ways and means by which the annual election and the other essential business of the Convention may be conducted. b. Vacancies in the membership of the National Spiritual Assembly ­shall be filled by a vote of the delegates composing the Convention which elected the Assembly, the ballot to be taken by correspondence or in any other manner de­cided by the National Spiritual Assembly. iv. obligations of member s of spiritual assemblies Among the most outstanding and sacred duties incumbent upon t­ hose who have been called upon to initiate, direct and coordinate the affairs of the Cause of God as members of its Spiritual Assemblies are: to win by ­every means in their power the confidence and affection of t­ hose whom it is their privilege to serve; to investigate and acquaint themselves with the considered views, the prevailing sentiments and the personal convictions of ­those whose welfare it is their solemn obligation to promote; to purge their deliberations and the general conduct of their affairs of self-­contained aloofness, the suspicion of secrecy, the stifling atmosphere of dictatorial assertiveness and of ­every word and deed that may savour of partiality, self-­centredness and prejudice; and while retaining the sacred right of final decision in their hands, to invite discussion, ventilate grievances, welcome advice and foster the sense of interdependence and co-­partnership, of understanding and mutual confidence between themselves and all other Bahá’ís. v. the univer sal ­h ouse of justice The Universal ­House of Justice ­shall consist of nine men who have been elected from the Bahá’í community in the manner hereinafter provided.

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1. Election The members of the Universal ­House of Justice ­shall be elected by secret ballot by the members of all National Spiritual Assemblies at a meeting to be known as the International Bahá’í Convention. a. An election of the Universal ­House of Justice ­shall be held once ­every five years ­unless other­wise de­cided by the Universal ­House of Justice, and ­those elected ­shall continue in office ­until such time as their successors ­shall be elected and the first meeting of ­these successors is duly held. b. Upon receiving the call to Convention each National Spiritual Assembly ­shall submit to the Universal ­House of Justice a list of the names of its members. The recognition and seating of the delegates to the International Convention ­shall be vested in the Universal ­House of Justice. c. The principal business of the International Convention ­shall be to elect the members of the Universal ­House of Justice, to deliberate on the affairs of the Bahá’í Cause throughout the world, and to make recommendations and suggestions for the consideration of the Universal ­House of Justice. d. The sessions of the International Convention ­shall be conducted in such manner as the Universal ­House of Justice ­shall from time to time decide. e. The Universal ­House of Justice ­shall provide a procedure whereby ­those delegates who are unable to be pre­sent in person at the International Convention ­shall cast their ballots for the election of the members of the Universal ­House of Justice. f. If at the time of an election the Universal ­House of Justice ­shall consider that it is impracticable or unwise to hold the International Convention it s­ hall determine how the election ­shall take place. g. On the day of the election the ballots of all voters ­shall be scrutinized and counted and the result certified by tellers appointed in accordance with the instructions of the Universal ­House of Justice. h. If a member of a National Spiritual Assembly who has voted by mail ceases to be a member of that National Spiritual Assembly between the time of casting his ballot and the date of the counting of the ballots, his ballot ­shall nevertheless remain valid ­unless in the interval his successor ­shall have been elected and the ballot of such successor ­shall have been received by the tellers.

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i. In case by reason of a tie vote or votes the full membership of the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice is not determined on the first ballot, then one or more additional ballots ­shall be held on the persons tied ­until all members are elected. The electors in the case of additional ballots ­shall be the members of National Spiritual Assemblies in office at the time each subsequent vote is taken. 2. Vacancies in Membership A vacancy in the membership of the Universal ­House of Justice ­will occur upon the death of a member or in the following cases: a. Should any member of the Universal ­House of Justice commit a sin injurious to the common weal, he may be dismissed from membership by the Universal ­House of Justice. b. The Universal ­House of Justice may at its discretion declare a vacancy with re­spect to any member who in its judgement is unable to fulfil the functions of membership. c. A member may relinquish his membership on the Universal ­House of Justice only with the approval of the Universal ­House of Justice. 3. By-­Election If a vacancy in the membership of the Universal ­House of Justice occurs, the Universal ­House of Justice ­shall call a by-­election at the earliest pos­si­ble date ­unless such date, in the judgement of the Universal ­House of Justice, falls too close to the date of a regular election of the entire membership, in which case the Universal ­House of Justice may, at its discretion, defer the filling of the vacancy to the time of the regular election. If a by-­election is held, the voters ­shall be the members of the National Spiritual Assemblies in office at the time of the by-­election. 4. Meetings a. ­After the election of the Universal ­House of Justice the first meeting ­shall be called by the member elected by the highest number of votes or, in his absence or other incapacity, by the member elected by the next highest number of votes or, in case two or more members have received the same highest number of votes, then by the member selected by lot from among ­those members. Subsequent meetings ­shall be called in the manner de­cided by the Universal ­House of Justice. b. The Universal ­House of Justice has no officers. It ­shall provide for the conduct of its meetings and ­shall ­organize its activities in such manner as it ­shall from time to time decide.

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c. The business of the Universal ­House of Justice ­shall be conducted by the full membership in consultation, except that the Universal ­House of Justice may from time to time provide for quorums of less than the full membership for specified classes of business. 5. Signature The signature of the Universal ­House of Justice ­shall be the words “The Universal ­House of Justice” or in Persian “Baytu’l-’Adl-­i-­A’ẓam” written by hand by any one of its members upon authority of the Universal ­House of Justice, to which ­shall be affixed in each case the Seal of the Universal ­House of Justice. 6. Rec­ords The Universal ­House of Justice ­shall provide for the recording and verification of its decisions in such manner as it ­shall, from time to time, judge necessary. vi. bahá’í elections In order to preserve the spiritual character and purpose of Bahá’í elections the practices of nomination or electioneering, or any other procedure or activity detrimental to that character and purpose ­shall be eschewed. A ­silent and prayerful atmosphere s­ hall prevail during the election so that each elector may vote for none but t­ hose whom prayer and reflection inspire him to uphold. 1. All Bahá’í elections, except elections of officers of Local and National Spiritual Assemblies and committees, ­shall be by plurality vote taken by secret ballot. 2. Election of the officers of a Spiritual Assembly or committee ­shall be by majority vote of the Assembly or committee taken by secret ballot. 3. In case by reason of a tie vote or votes the full membership of an elected body is not determined on the first ballot, then one or more additional ballots ­shall be taken on the persons tied u­ ntil all members are elected. 4. The duties and rights of a Bahá’í elector may not be assigned nor may they be exercised by proxy. vii. the right of review The Universal H ­ ouse of Justice has the right to review any decision or action of any Spiritual Assembly, National or Local, and to approve, modify or reverse such decision or action. The Universal H ­ ouse of Justice also has the right to intervene in any ­matter in which a Spiritual Assembly is failing to take

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action or to reach a decision and, at its discretion, to require that action be taken, or itself to take action directly in the ­matter. viii. appeals The right of appeal exists in the circumstances, and ­shall be exercised according to the procedures, outlined below: a. Any member of a local Bahá’í community may appeal from a decision of his Local Spiritual Assembly to the National Spiritual Assembly which ­shall determine ­whether it ­shall take jurisdiction of the m ­ atter or refer it back to the Local Spiritual Assembly for reconsideration. If such an appeal concerns the membership of a person in the Bahá’í community, the National Spiritual Assembly is obliged to take jurisdiction of and decide the case. b. Any Bahá’í may appeal from a decision of his National Spiritual Assembly to the Universal ­House of Justice which ­shall determine ­whether it ­shall take jurisdiction of the ­matter or leave it within the final jurisdiction of the National Spiritual Assembly. c. If any differences arise between two or more Local Spiritual Assemblies and if t­ hese Assemblies are unable to resolve them, any one such Assembly may bring the ­matter to the National Spiritual Assembly which s­ hall thereupon take jurisdiction of the case. If the decision of the National Spiritual Assembly thereon is unsatisfactory to any of the Assemblies concerned, or if a Local Spiritual Assembly at any time has reason to believe that actions of its National Spiritual Assembly are affecting adversely the welfare and unity of that Local Assembly’s community, it ­shall, in ­either case, a­ fter seeking to compose its difference of opinion with the National Spiritual Assembly, have the right to appeal to the Universal ­House of Justice, which s­ hall determine ­whether it ­shall take jurisdiction of the ­matter or leave it within the final jurisdiction of the National Spiritual Assembly. 2. An appellant, ­whether institution or individual, ­shall in the first instance make appeal to the Assembly whose decision is questioned, ­either for reconsideration of the case by that Assembly or for submission to a higher body. In the latter case the Assembly is in duty bound to submit the appeal together with full particulars of the ­matter. If an Assembly refuses to submit the appeal, or fails to do so within a reasonable time, the appellant may take the case directly to the higher authority.

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ix. the boards of counsellor s The institution of the Boards of Counsellors was brought into being by the Universal ­House of Justice to extend into the f­ uture the specific functions of protection and propagation conferred upon the Hands of the Cause of God. The members of t­ hese boards are appointed by the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice. 1. The term of office of a Counsellor, the number of Counsellors on each Board, and the bound­aries of the zone in which each Board of Counsellors ­shall operate, ­shall be de­cided by the Universal ­House of Justice. 2. A Counsellor functions as such only within his zone and should he move his residence out of the zone for which he is appointed he automatically relinquishes his appointment. 3. The rank and specific duties of a Counsellor render him ineligible for ­service on local or national administrative bodies. If elected to the Universal ­House of Justice he ceases to be a Counsellor. x. the auxiliary boards In each zone t­ here s­ hall be two Auxiliary Boards, one for the protection and one for the propagation of the Faith, the numbers of whose members ­shall be set by the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice. The members of t­ hese Auxiliary Boards ­shall serve u­ nder the direction of the Continental Boards of Counsellors and ­shall act as their deputies, assistants and advisers. 1. The members of the Auxiliary Boards ­shall be appointed from among the believers of that zone by the Continental Board of Counsellors. 2. Each Auxiliary Board member ­shall be allotted a specific area in which to serve and, ­unless specifically deputized by the Counsellors, ­shall not function as a member of the Auxiliary Board outside that area. 3. An Auxiliary Board member is eligible for any elective office but if elected to an administrative post on a national or local level must decide ­whether to retain membership on the Board or accept the administrative post, since he may not serve in both capacities at the same time. If elected to the Universal ­House of Justice he ceases to be a member of the Auxiliary Board.

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xi. amendment This Constitution may be amended by decision of the Universal H ­ ouse of Justice when the full membership is pre­sent.

Letter from the Universal ­House of Justice to the Bahá’ís of Egypt (2006) 21 December 2006 To the Bahá’ís of Egypt Dearly loved Friends, We have received the distressing news that on 16 December, the Supreme Administrative Court in Cairo ruled against the decision of a lower court that permitted Bahá’ís to obtain officially issued identification cards. We wholly sympathize in your disappointment that justice was not served by a ruling that robs the members of your community of so critical a right of Egyptian citizens owing only to your beliefs. But you must stand firm and persevere in your effort to win affirmation of this right. To do less would be to deprive the authorities in Egypt of the opportunity to correct a wrong which has implications for many ­others, no less than for yourselves. Moreover, to relent would be to disregard the moral courage of ­those ­organizations, media, and persons of goodwill who have joined their voices to yours in the quest for a just solution to a serious inequity. In explaining the court’s decision to the press, the presiding judge stated that the Egyptian constitution recognizes only three religions: Islam, Chris­tian­ity, and Judaism. This argument misses the essence, obscures the issue. Surely you are not asking ­here for the Bahá’í Faith to be recognized. Like other Egyptian citizens, you simply wish to be f­ ree to carry out the requirement of the civil law that you must obtain identification cards without making a false statement about your religious beliefs. Possessing such a card is a common right to which ­every native-­born Egyptian is entitled. But how strange it is that the custodians of the law would themselves oblige you to violate a government policy that all citizens without

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exception are expected to observe! It is, of course, worthy of praise that the judges so publicly upheld the validity of three of the divine religions. As a community that believes that all God’s chosen Messengers are “seated upon the same throne, uttering the same speech, and proclaiming the same Faith”, the Bahá’ís of Egypt have no difficulty embracing the truths of the three religions mentioned. But to what purpose ­were their names invoked? Was it to justify the exclusion of certain citizens from exercising their civil rights? Would this not amount to a misuse of the authority of ­these Faiths to perpetrate an injustice that offends the high standard of justice to which they hold their adherents? But your interest is not in a theological tug-­of-­war with the Egyptian judiciary, despite its gross misrepre­sen­ta­tion of the Bahá’í Faith: it is in the application of the princi­ples of equity, fairness, and honesty that are so vital to ­those of all Faiths and no Faith. The ruling was unreasonable not only ­because it is contrary to prescriptions set forth in the International Covenant on Civil and P ­ olitical Rights, to which Egypt is a signatory, but more especially b­ ecause the sacred scriptures of Islam extol tolerance as a precept of social stability. This incident calls to mind the occasion more than eight ­decades ago when Egyptian judicial and ecclesiastical authorities considered the claims of our Faith, not in a sympathetic effort but with the intent to oppose. A case involving three Muslim men who had become Bahá’ís in a village prompted their interest. As a result, the appellate religious court of Beba delivered a verdict on 10 May 1925 that denounced the Bahá’í Faith and annulled the marriages of ­these men. Nevertheless, from the judges’ scrupulous study of Bahá’í scriptures, they arrived at the accurate conclusion that the Bahá’í Faith was “a new religion”, “entirely ­independent”, with “beliefs, princi­ples and laws” of its own. This verdict was sanctioned at the time by Egypt’s highest ecclesiastical authorities. If Egyptian magistrates ­were capable then of such clear perception, and ­others in a local court have so recently shown a similar awareness, it seems reasonable to trust that this capacity ­will in the ­future reassert itself positively at the highest level of authority in your country. Well beyond a c­ entury ago, during the lifetime of Bahá’u’lláh, His Faith took root in your homeland. Despite instances of

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opposition, it flourished in a climate of intellectual ferment. As early as 1934 your National Spiritual Assembly was incorporated, thus assuming a ­legal personality that enabled it to function according to Bahá’í procedures and to hold properties, including a National Center and a cemetery. Then suddenly in 1960, without forewarning, Presidential Decree no. 263 was issued, banning your national and local institutions and confiscating your properties and other assets. For nearly five ­decades now the members of your community have been subjected to humiliation of all kinds, including the harassment of police surveillance and false arrests. ­Until now no evidence has been adduced to prove that you have been unworthy of the public’s trust, while ­there is much to confirm that you made noteworthy contributions ­towards fostering the spiritual, intellectual, and cultural character of the Egyptian ­people. In this regard, we recall with deep emotion and pride the distinguished ­services to your country and community of your late Bahá’í compatriot Hussein Bikar, who, despite having received a presidential award honoring his outstanding achievements as an artist, was denied an Egyptian identification card up ­until the time of his death. This is no time, however, to dwell on a litany of the vexations your community has for so long sustained. It is, rather, an appropriate occasion for reflection on the broad context in which the recent action of the Supreme Administrative Court occurred, that from it you may derive an ever-­larger sense of meaning and purpose. Injustice is rife. Throughout the world it afflicts ­every department of life ­whether in the home, at the workplace, or in the public sphere as a consequence of the ill conduct of individuals, groups, or governments. Lamenting the horrors it breeds, Bahá’u’lláh made this poignant remark: “Justice is, in this day, bewailing its plight, and Equity groaneth beneath the yoke of oppression. The thick clouds of tyranny have darkened the face of the earth, and enveloped its ­peoples.” So grave a situation exists at a time of unpre­ce­dented change: opposite pro­cesses of chaos and of order interact in a spiral of turbulence that signals a transition in the spiritual and social agenda of the world as a ­whole.

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­ uman society has arrived at a stage in its evolution when H unity of the ­whole ­human race is imperative. To not appreciate this real­ity is to not grasp the meaning of the current crisis in world affairs. The princi­ple of the oneness of humankind identifies the code for resolving the far-­reaching issues involved. As Bahá’ís, you understand that this princi­ple implies not only the ultimate peaceful goal that it signifies but involves, as well, your participation in the painful tasks entailed in attaining it. Hence, you appreciate the global connotations of instances of oppression at home or abroad and accept the responsibility of striving, guided by the princi­ples of the Faith and in collaboration with ­others whenever pos­si­ble, to combat injustice, for the common good. ­Those groups supporting you in your current encounter are of a world-­embracing vision and are themselves prepared to withstand the harsh ­resistance to their selfless occupation, sustaining blows of injustice in the ­process. As the rise of justice ensures the appearance of unity in the world, all who take on the formidable challenges of struggling for it have indeed captured the spirit of the age epitomized in the princi­ple of oneness. To the extent that the fight for justice contributes to the establishment of a single global standard of ­human rights, the ­organizations in Egypt so engaged are working ­towards achieving the unification of their nation’s ­peoples. They are thus committing themselves in large ­measure to the vital task of reconciling the tensions that bedevil their society and delay the attainment of its unity. Such reconciliation should not be impossible to Egypt’s ­people, who can take pride in the celebrated enlightenment that in a glorious past ensured their unity in a flourishing society. Undoubtedly, Egypt ­will rise to participate, as befits its stature, in the fruition of that destiny of world peace and prosperity of which all nations dream. Be assured of our ardent prayers in the Holy Shrines on behalf of each and ­every one of the members of your community and for the pro­gress of all your compatriots in that land of ancient splendor. [signed: The Universal ­House of Justice]

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An Open Letter to the ­People of Egypt April 2011 Our fellow citizens: The events of recent months have provided us, the Bahá’ís of Egypt, with an opportunity we have never experienced before: to communicate directly with you, our ­brothers and s­ isters. Though small in number, we are privileged to belong to this land wherein, for more than a hundred years, we have endeavoured to live by the princi­ples enshrined in our Faith and striven to serve our country as upright citizens. This chance is one for which we have longed—­especially ­because we have wished to express our thanks to ­those countless fair-­minded, compassionate souls who supported our efforts in the last few years to obtain a m ­ easure of equality before the law. But we rejoice primarily in the fact that, at such a critical juncture in our nation’s history, we are able to make a ­humble contribution to the conversation which has now begun about its ­future and to share some perspectives, drawn from our own experience and that of Bahá’ís throughout the world, as to the prerequisites for walking the path ­towards lasting material and spiritual prosperity. ­W hatever directly motivated the rapid change that has occurred, the outcome demonstrates the collective desire of us all, the ­people of Egypt, to exercise greater control over our destiny. The freedom to do so is unfamiliar to us, having not previously enjoyed this degree of liberty. And our collective history, as Egyptians, Arabs, and Africans, has taught us that ­there is no shortage of self-­interested forces in the world that would prevent us from determining our own ­future or, alternatively, would invite us to voluntarily abdicate this responsibility. Colonialism, religious orthodoxy, authoritarian rule, and outright tyranny have all played their part in the past. ­Today, the “gentler” force of consumerism and the erosion of morality which it fosters are equally capable of holding us back, ­under the pretence of making us more f­ ree. The fact that, as a ­people, we have chosen to become actively involved in determining the direction of our nation is a public

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sign that our society has reached a new stage in its development. A planted seed grows gradually and organically, and evolves through stages of increasing strength ­until it attains to a state that is recognizably “mature”; ­human socie­ties share this trait too. At a certain time, dissatisfaction grows within a population at being held back from full participation in the pro­cesses that steer the course of a country, and the desire for more responsibility to be ceded to the citizens becomes overwhelming. Set in this context, the events that have taken place in Egypt can be seen as a response to forces that are, in fact, drawing the entire ­human race ­towards greater maturity and interdependence. One indication that humanity is advancing in this direction is that aspects of conduct which did not seem out of place in an e­ arlier age—­ behaviours that resulted in conflict, corruption, and ­inequality—­ are increasingly seen as incompatible with the values that underpin a just society. Over time, ­people everywhere are becoming bolder in rejecting the attitudes and systems that prevented their pro­gress ­towards maturity. The movement ­towards greater maturity is thus a global phenomenon. Still, it does not follow that all nations and p­ eoples advance along the path at a uniform speed. At certain points, circumstances may converge upon a historically significant moment wherein a par­tic­ul­ ar society can fundamentally re-­direct its course. At such times, an expression of collective ­will can have a decisive and abiding effect on the ­future of the country. Egypt has arrived at precisely such a moment. It ­will not last forever. At this juncture, then, we face the weighty question of what we seek to achieve with the opportunity we have acquired. What are the choices before us? Many models of collective living are on offer and being championed by vari­ous interested parties. Are we to move ­towards an individualistic, fragmented society, wherein all feel liberated to pursue their own interests, even at the expense of the common good? ­Will we be tempted by the lures of materialism and its beholden agent, consumerism? ­Will we opt for a system that feeds on religious ­fanaticism? Are we prepared to allow an elite to emerge that ­will be oblivious to our collective aspirations, and may even seek to manipulate our

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desire for change? Or, ­will the ­process of change be allowed to lose momentum, dissolve into factional squabbling, and crumble ­under the weight of institutional inertia? It might justly be argued that, looking across the Arab region—­and, indeed, beyond—­the world wants for an unquestionably successful model of society worthy of emulation. Thus, if no existing model proves to be satisfactory, we might well consider charting a dif­fer­ent course, and perhaps demonstrate to the community of nations that a new, truly progressive approach to the ­organization of society is pos­si­ble. Egypt’s stature in the international order—­its intellectual tradition, its history, its location—­means that an enlightened choice on its part could influence the course of ­human development in the entire region, and impact even the world. Too often, change brought about by ­popular protest eventually results in disappointment. This is not ­because the movement that provided the catalyst for change lacks unity—­ indeed, its ability to foster unity among disparate ­peoples and interests is the essential feature that ensured its success—­but rather ­because the realization quickly dawns that it is far easier to find common cause against the status quo than it is to agree upon what should replace it. That is why it is vital that we endeavour to achieve broad consensus on the operating princi­ ples that are to shape a new model for our society. Once agreement is reached, the policies that follow are far more likely to attract the support of the populations whom they affect. A natu­ral temptation, when considering how our nation should pro­gress, is to immediately seek to devise practical solutions to recognized grievances and acknowledged societal prob­lems. But even if worthy ideas ­were to emerge, they would not constitute in themselves a compelling vision of how we wish our country to develop. The essential merit of princi­ple is that, if it wins support, it induces an attitude, a dynamic, a ­will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical ­measures. Yet a discussion of princi­ples must be prepared to move beyond the level of abstraction. At the conceptual level, it may prove relatively easy to bring about agreement on a set of guiding princi­ples, but without an examination of their ramifications they may amount to l­ ittle

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more than empty slogans. An attempt to reach consensus should allow for the most searching exploration of the specific, and profound, implications that the adoption of a par­tic­ul­ ar princi­ ple would carry for our nation. It is in that spirit, then, that the following princi­ples are set out. ——— A mature society demonstrates one feature above all ­others: a recognition of the oneness of humanity. How fortunate, then, that the most abiding memory of recent months is not of religious divisions or ethnic conflict, but of differences being put aside in favour of a common cause. Our instinctive ability, as a ­people, to recognize the truth that we all belong to one ­human ­family served us well. Nevertheless, to develop institutions, agencies, and social structures that promote the oneness of humanity is an altogether greater challenge. Far from being an expression of vague and pious hope, this princi­ple informs the nature of ­those essential relationships that must bind all the states and nations as members of one ­human f­ amily. Its genesis lies in the recognition that we ­were all created out of the same substance by the one Creator, and therefore, it is indefensible for one person, tribe, or nation to claim superiority over another. Its ­acceptance would require an organic change in the structure of present-­day society, a change with far-­reaching consequences for ­every aspect of our collective life. And beyond its societal implications, it calls for a profound re-­examination of each of our own attitudes, values, and relationships with ­others—­ ultimately, for a transformation in the ­human heart. None of us are exempt from its exacting demands. The ramifications of this fundamental truth—­the oneness of humanity—­are so profound that many other vital princi­ples, essential for the ­future development of Egypt, can be derived from it. A prime example is the equality of men and ­women. Does anything retard pro­gress in our country more efficiently than the per­sis­tent exclusion of w ­ omen from full participation in the affairs of the nation? Redressing this balance ­will by itself bring about improvement in ­every aspect of Egyptian life:

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religious, cultural, social, economic, and ­political. Like the bird that cannot fly if one wing is weaker than the other, so humanity’s ability to scale the heights of real attainment are severely impeded so long as ­women are denied the opportunities afforded to men. Once the same prerogatives are accorded both sexes, they ­will both flourish, to the benefit of all. But beyond the m ­ atter of civil rights, the princi­ple of gender equality brings with it an attitude that must be extended to the home, to the workplace, to ­every social space, to the ­political sphere—­ ultimately, even to international relations. Nowhere could the equality of the sexes more helpfully be established than in education, which exists to enable men and ­women of e­ very background to fulfill their innate potential to contribute to the pro­gress of society. If it is to succeed, it must offer adequate preparation for participation in the economic life of the nation, but so, too, it must possess a robust moral dimension. Schools must impress upon their students the responsibilities inherent in being a citizen of Egypt and inculcate ­those values that tend ­toward the betterment of society and care for one’s fellow ­human beings. Education cannot be allowed to be the means whereby disunity and hatred of ­others are instilled into innocent minds. With the right approach, it can also become an effective instrument for protecting ­future generations from the insidious blight of corruption that so conspicuously afflicts present-­day Egypt. Furthermore, access to basic education must be universal, regardless of any distinctions based on gender, ethnicity, or means. Strategies for harnessing the resources of our nation—­our heritage, our agriculture, our industry—­will prove fruitless if we neglect the most impor­tant resource of all: our own God-­given spiritual and intellectual capacities. To prioritize improving the means by which we educate ourselves ­will yield an abundant harvest in the years to come. Related to the topic of education is the interaction between science and religion, twin sources of insight that humanity can draw upon as it seeks to achieve pro­gress. It is a blessing that Egyptian society, as a ­whole, does not assume that the two must be in conflict, a perception sadly commonplace elsewhere. Indeed, we possess a proud history of fostering a spirit of

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rational and scientific enquiry—­with admirable results in the areas of farming and medicine, to name but two—­while retaining a strong religious tradition and re­spect for the values promulgated by the world’s ­great faiths. ­There is nothing in such values that should incline us ­toward irrational thinking or ­fanaticism. All of us, especially our youn­ger generation, can be conscious that it is pos­si­ble for individuals to be imbued with sincere spirituality while actively labouring for the material pro­gress of their nation. Our nation is blessed by an abundance of youth. Some amongst us are in education; some are beginning ­careers or starting families; some, though older, remember what it was like to pass through ­those stages of life. Reform of the education system ­will go a long way ­towards ensuring that the potential of the youn­ger generation to contribute to the life of society is realized; however, by itself, that is not sufficient. Conditions must be nurtured so that opportunities for meaningful employment multiply, talent is harnessed, and possibilities to pro­gress are accessed on the basis of merit, not privilege. Disenchantment ­will grow if, ­because of per­sis­tent corruption, ­inequality, and neglect, the efforts youth make to improve the conditions of families, communities, and neighbourhoods are thwarted at ­every turn. The high aspirations of the young represent a trust that society as a ­whole—­indeed, the state itself—­cannot afford, ­either eco­nom­ically or morally, to ignore. This is not to say that youth are in need of special privileges. Much of the dissatisfaction that youn­ger adults have expressed in recent months comes from an acute awareness that they lack equality of opportunity, not preferential treatment. From the conditions faced by the youth and by so many ­others in our society it is clear that pre-­eminent among the princi­ples that should propel the renewal we seek is justice. Its far-­reaching implications are at the core of most of the issues on which we must, as a ­people, agree. And it is from the interplay of the two vital princi­ples of justice and the oneness of humanity that an impor­tant truth emerges: each individual comes into the world as a trust of the ­whole, and the collective resources of the ­human race should therefore be expended for the benefit of all, not just

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a fraction. Neglect of this ideal has a particularly destabilizing influence on society, as extremes of wealth and poverty exacerbate existing social tensions and provoke unrest. ­Measures to alleviate poverty cannot ignore the existence of extreme wealth, for where ­there are inordinate riches accumulated by the few, the many ­will not escape impoverishment. ——— Considered only in the abstract, perhaps few w ­ ill dispute the essential merit of the princi­ples discussed ­here. Yet, their implementation would have profound ­political, economic, social, and personal implications, which render them more challenging than they may appear at first. But regardless of the princi­ples to be ­adopted, their capacity to imprint themselves on our emerging society ­will depend in large m ­ easure on the degree to which Egyptians have embraced them. For to the extent that all can be enabled to participate in the consultative pro­cesses that affect us—so that we tread the path ­towards becoming protagonists of our own material and spiritual development—­will we avoid the risk of our society falling into the pattern of any of the existing models that see no advantage in empowering the ­people. The challenge before us, then, is to initiate a ­process of consultation about the princi­ples that are to inform the reshaping of our society. This is a painstaking task. To fashion from divergent conceptions a coherent set of princi­ples with the creative power to unify our population ­will be no small accomplishment. However, we can be confident that ­every sincere effort invested for this purpose w ­ ill be richly rewarded by the release, from our own selves, of a fresh ­measure of ­those constructive energies on which our f­ uture depends. In such a broadly based national conversation—­engaging p­ eople at all levels, in villages and in cities, in neighbourhoods and in the home, extending to the grassroots of society and drawing in ­every concerned citizen— it ­will be vital that the ­process not move too quickly to the pragmatic and the expedient, and not be reduced to the deals and decisions involved in the distribution of power among a new elite who would presume to become the arbiters of our ­future.

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The ongoing and wide-­scale involvement of the population in such a consultative ­process w ­ ill go a long way ­towards persuading the citizenry that policy-­makers have the creation of a just society at heart. Given the opportunity to participate in such a ­process, we ­will be confirmed in our newly awakened consciousness that we have owner­ship of our own ­future and come to realize the collective power we already possess to transform ourselves. The Bahá’ís of Egypt

Letter from the Universal ­House of Justice to the Participants in the Youth Conferences (2013) 1 July 2013 To the participants in the forthcoming 114 youth conferences throughout the world Dearly loved Friends, When the exalted figure of the Báb, aged just twenty-­five, arose to deliver His revolutionizing message to the world, many among ­those who accepted and spread His teachings ­were young, even youn­ger than the Báb Himself. Their heroism, immortalized in all its dazzling intensity in The Dawn-­Breakers, w ­ ill illumine the annals of ­human history for centuries to come. Thus began a pattern in which ­every generation of youth, drawing inspiration from the same divine impulse to cast the world anew, has seized the opportunity to contribute to the latest stage in the unfolding ­process that is to transform the life of humankind. It is a pattern that has suffered no interruption from the time of the Báb to this pre­sent hour. The lifelong exertion and sacrifice of your spiritual forebears did much to establish the Faith in diverse lands and to hasten the appearance of a global community of purpose. Though the tasks that lie before you are not the same as theirs, the responsibilities with which you are entrusted are no less vital. ­After many a ­decade, the world-­embracing ­labours of this far-­flung community to obtain a more adequate understanding of the Revelation of

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Bahá’u’lláh and to apply the princi­ples it enshrines have culminated in the emergence of a potent framework for action, refined through experience. You are fortunate to be familiar with its methods and approaches now so well established. Through perseverance in their implementation, many of you ­will already have seen for yourselves signs of the society-­building power of the divine teachings. At the conference you attend, you are being invited to consider the contribution that can be made by any young person who wishes to answer Bahá’u’lláh’s summons and help to release that power. To assist you, a number of themes have been identified for you to explore, beginning with looking at your current time of life. Across the world are to be gathered, in scores of youth conferences sharing the same aim, tens of thousands who have much in common. Although your realities are ­shaped by a broad diversity of circumstances, yet a desire to bring about constructive change and a capacity for meaningful ­service, both characteristic of your stage of life, are neither ­limited to any race or nationality, nor dependent upon material means. This bright period of youth you share is experienced by all—­but it is brief, and buffeted by numerous social forces. How impor­tant it is, then, to strive to be among t­ hose who, in the words of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá, “plucked the fruit of life”. With this in mind, we are delighted that so many of you are already engaged in s­ ervice by conducting community-­building activities, as well as by ­organizing, coordinating, or other­wise administering the efforts of ­others; in all of ­these endeavours you are taking an increasing level of responsibility upon your shoulders. Not surprisingly, it is your age group that is gaining the most experience at aiding ­junior youth, and ­children too, with their moral and spiritual development, fostering in them capacity for collective ­service and true friendship. ­After all, aware of the world which ­these young souls w ­ ill need to navigate, with its pitfalls and also its opportunities, you readily appreciate the importance of spiritual strengthening and preparation. Conscious, as you are, that Bahá’u’lláh came to transform both the inner life and external conditions of humanity, you are assisting ­those youn­ger than yourselves to

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refine their characters and prepare to assume responsibility for the well-­being of their communities. As they enter adolescence, you are helping them to enhance their power of expression, as well as enabling a strong moral sensibility to take root within them. In so d­ oing, your own sense of purpose is becoming more clearly defined as you heed Bahá’u’lláh’s injunction: “Let deeds, not words, be your adorning.” To follow a path of ­service, ­whatever form one’s activity assumes, requires faith and tenacity. In this connection, the benefit of walking that path in the com­pany of ­others is i­ mmense. Loving fellowship, mutual encouragement, and willingness to learn together are natu­ral properties of any group of youth sincerely striving for the same ends, and should also characterize ­those essential relationships that bind together the components of society. Given this, we hope the bonds you develop through association with other conference participants w ­ ill prove abiding. Indeed, long ­after the gatherings close, may ­these ties of friendship and common calling help keep your feet firm. The possibilities presented by collective action are especially evident in the work of community building, a ­process that is gaining momentum in many a cluster and in neighbourhoods and villages throughout the world that have become centres of intense activity. Youth are often at the forefront of the work in ­these settings—­not only Bahá’í youth, but t­ hose of like mind who can see the positive effects of what the Bahá’ís have initiated and grasp the under­lying vision of unity and spiritual transformation. In such places, the imperative to share the Revelation of Bahá’u’lláh with receptive hearts and explore the implications of His message for ­today’s world is keenly felt. When so much of society invites passivity and apathy or, worse still, encourages behaviour harmful to oneself and ­others, a con­spic­u­ous contrast is offered by ­those who are enhancing the capacity of a population to cultivate and sustain a spiritually enriching pattern of community life. Yet, although many admire your dynamism and ideals, the true significance of ­these endeavours is less apparent to the world at large. You, however, are aware of your part in a mighty, transforming ­process that ­will yield, in time, a global civilization

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reflecting the oneness of humankind. You know well that the habits of mind and spirit that you are nurturing in yourselves and ­others ­will endure, influencing decisions of consequence that relate to marriage, f­ amily, study, work, even where to live. Consciousness of this broad context helps to shatter the distorting looking glass in which everyday tests, difficulties, setbacks, and misunderstandings can seem insurmountable. And in the strug­ gles that are common to each individual’s spiritual growth, the ­will required to make pro­gress is more easily summoned when one’s energies are being channelled ­towards a higher goal—­the more so when one belongs to a community that is united in that goal. All ­these thoughts are openings to an inclusive and ever-­ expanding conversation that ­will extend through the conferences and well beyond them as you engage many ­others in earnest discussions that lift the heart and awaken the mind to the possibilities of what could be. Drawing upon your collective experience ­w ill further enrich your deliberations. At this propitious time, our hearts w ­ ill be with you, and as each conference concludes, we ­will eagerly look to see what ­will follow. For ­every gathering we ­w ill entreat the Almighty to bestow upon its participants a ­measure of His boundless grace, knowing, as you do, that divine assistance is promised to all ­those who arise to serve humankind in response to the galvanizing call of Bahá’u’lláh. [signed: The Universal ­House of Justice]

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I n de x

Page numbers indicating photo­graphs, documents, and maps are noted in italics. ʿāʾidūn: administrative solution for prob­lem as single ­legal class, 110, 113; awlād al-­ʿāʾidūn (­children of ʿāʾidūn), 110, 113, 113n24; change of religion contingent upon two documents, 111, 112; Coptic Church recognized as competent body for issuing certification of reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy for, 118; counsel for, 204–5; judicial decision not required to formalize reconversion, 190; as persons who do not fit neatly into state categories, 97; routes to conversion no longer dependent upon media appeals, 184–85. See also Coptic Orthodox Church ʿāʾidūn li-­l-­misiḥiyya. See ʿāʾidūn

administrative law, defined, 11n30 administrative state: devotion to, 9–10, 24–27, 63, 65, 94; how Bahá’ís communicate devotion to, 184; increases productivity, information, and forms over time, 78–79; introduction of computerization to, 79; regulates status and social position of members, 25 Alaa, Ghada, 175–78 al-­Attar, Ibn, 75 Al-­Azhar Fatwa Council: and born Copts’ exit from Coptic Orthodoxy, 120; certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al­Azhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 1984, 122; certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al-­A zhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 2014, 123; issuance of documents certifying embrace of Islam, 204; issuance of documents certifying embrace of Islam by, 121, 208 al-­Gohary, Maher, 45–50, 116–20, 185 Alhurra, 173 Ali, Mehmed, 66, 74 Alsaha, 179 amended complaint, 39–40 apostasy, 46, 109, 114–17 Article 47 (2): in facilitating lawful return to Coptic Orthodoxy, 106; as mechanism for social ­organization, 202–3; on persons who do not fit neatly into state categories, 97; question of conflict with Article 2 of

A Bahá’í in Egypt: A Story of Three Generations, 179  “A Biography of an Egyptian Bahá’í ­Family,” 164–72 Abanub, 57–61, 63, 65 ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá (Abbas Effendi): assumes leadership of Bahá’í Faith, 138; consultative function of assemblies envisioned by, 142–43; death of, 49, 177; Ghada Alaa discusses visits of, 175–76; passing of leadership to Shoghi Effendi from, 141; ­Will and Testament of, 131, 158. See also Bahá’í Faith; Effendi, Shoghi Abrahamic traditions, 44, 97n7, 100, 101, 125. See also order of revelation 299

300 i n de x Article 47 (2) (continued) constitution, 108; specifications allowing absolute right to change one’s religious affiliation information ­under, 117; suggestion of sufficient sources within Islamic ­legal tradition to justify expansive reading of, 116 Bab, the: Bahá’u’lláh proclaims loyalty to, 138, 235; as herald of Bahá’í Faith, 237; as Manifestation of God, 137–38; as messenger but not prophet, 149n40; as one of three central figures of Bahá’í Faith, 139n20; shrine of, 140, 168, 238 Babi movement, 138, 235, 237 Bahá’í Faith: 1925 court decision and impact on, 148–59; accusations of collusion with Israel ascribed to, 168–69, 175, 238–39; administrative order of, 215, 218, 224; Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship of North Amer­i­ca (Wilmette, Illinois), c. 2010, 5–8, 6; Bahá’í Ten Year Crusade, 130, 130n3; The Bahá’í World, 145; Bahá’í Youth Conference, 239–45, 242; “Being a Bahá’í” leaflet (pages 2 and 3), Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012, 222; “Being a Bahá’í” leaflet (pages 1 and 4), Bahá’í Continental H ­ ouse of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012, 221; Bulletin of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, no. 4 (Arabic), September 1928, 153; Bulletin of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, no. 4 (­English), September 1928, 152; certificate of incorporation of the Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the city of New York, pursuant to Section 193 of the Religious Corporations Law of New York State, 1932, 147; as challenge to tenets of Islam, 20; correspondence of Shoghi Effendi with members of, 141–42; cosmology of, 98, 137, 150, 172; cover page of

proposed Bahá’í personal status law agreed upon by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt, 1932, 155; daily challenges of, 238; destabilizing aspect of membership in, 167, 181–82; dissolution of marriage as consequence of conversion to, 217; efforts to normalize and create pathways for integration of, 164; exterior detail of the Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship of North Amer­ic­ a (Wilmette, Illinois), c. 2010, 7; ­family collections of, 8; as ideology, 46; incorporation of, 145–46; knowledge of Qurʾan as means to quell suspicions of subversion in, 164; ­legal claims against state by members of, 4; media appearances of members of, 163; membership and initiatives of, 139–40; membership as personal decision, 181; Muslim converts to, 217; must maintain beliefs in private, 102; new enrollment and interest cards, Bahá’í National Review, published by the National Spiritual Assembly of the United States, November 1977, 223; nonrecognition of marriages in, 104–6; obedience to ­political authority in, 158–59, 170–71; recognition of other religions, 180; requests to amend religious affiliation on vital rec­ords, 8–9; SAC finds no ­legal obligation to issue IDs with designation of, 103; sacred sites of, 238–39; seeking recognition of religious difference, 4, 29; spiritual assemblies of, 139–40, 142–43; spring schedule leaflet (pages 2 and 3), Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012, 220; spring schedule leaflet (pages 1 and 4), Bahá’í Continental ­House of Worship at Wilmette, Illinois, 2012, 219; strategy for changing religion on official documents, 2, 44; as theologically distinct from other normative traditions, 178; as unique administrative challenge, 20, 97–98; Universal ­House of Justice, 139n20; use of distinction-­similitude in discussions

i n de x   of belonging and exclusion in, 164, 166. See also “A Biography of an Egyptian Bahá’í ­Family”; ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá (Abbas Effendi); Bab, the; Bahá’u’lláh; Effendi, Shoghi; National Spiritual Assembly; religious difference; Ruhi Institute; Universal ­House of Justice Bahá’u’lláh: court denies theological claims of, 149; death of, 138; exile of, 138, 235, 237; as God’s messenger, 235; history as spiritual leader, 137–38; imprisonment of, 235, 237; as Manifestation of God, 137–38; and Most ­Great ­House (Bayt-­i-­Azam), 238; on obedience to just governments, 158, 161; residence of Bahá’u’lláh in Adrianople (Edirne), Turkey, 2002, 236; shrine of, 140, 235; on worship accompanied by ­service, 176–77. See also ‘Abdu’l-­ Bahá (Abbas Effendi); Bab, the; Bahá’í Faith baptism, 47, 58n2, 248 belonging: based on difference or discontinuity from normative order, 181; based on nationalist and patrilineal norms, 181; certified attestations by Church of communal, 207; challenges of Bahá’í Faith as posed in, 182; Church as only institution to certify Coptic, 210; determined by patrilineal descent in Coptic Church, 58; materiality of, 215; membership in religious group as baseline for national, 182; as ­organized by Egyptian law, 170; religious affiliation as essential feature of national, 212; state as generating attestations of, 203; tattooing and name as distinguishing marks of Coptic, 57, 65, 67–72 birth: birth certificate given ­free of charge for the first time, issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, 1989, 80; birth certificate given ­free of charge for the first time, issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, 2001, 81; case of Rauf Hindi on

301 his ­children’s certificates of, 103; certificate as verification of religious and communal affiliation, 209; copy of birth rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status O ­ rganization, 2011, 82; recording of live, 76; rec­ords incorporated into national database, 79; refusal to indicate “Bahá’í” as religion on certificates of, 100; required information about, 78 Black Saturday, 215 bodily inscription. See tattoos boundary objects, 16–17, 69, 76 Brown, Wendy, 23 Butler, Judith, 23 Bynum, Caroline Walker, 22, 58 CAJ (Court of Administrative Justice): on Church’s refusal to issue marriage authorization, 198–99; on identifying Bahá’ís by using dash in religious field, 104; rules Bahá’í Faith is ideology not religion, 44; rules state obligated to account for existence of Bahá’ís in order to protect Muslims, Christians, and Jews, 44; takes issue with meaning of ­legal equality and reliance on Universal Declaration of ­Human Rights, 108 CAPMAS (Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics), 76–77 Case, Mary Anne, 28 Catholic, 24–26, 28. See also Coptic Orthodox Church censuses, 15, 16 Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS). See CAPMAS (Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics) certificate of belief, 208 certificate of reconversion, 93 certificate of return, 110, 111, 190, 208 Chalcedonian formula, 60 China, 16 chrismation, 58n2 Christian ­Democrats, 20

302 i n de x Chris­tian­ity: Bahá’í acknowledgement of, 97; changing religion from Islam to, 45–46; and order of revelation, 100, 125–26; as religion of the book, 102; religious experience of, 48–50; renunciation of, 62; social marginalization caused by embracing, 46; during Tokugawa shogunate, 16. See also Coptic Orthodox Church church attacks, 40, 69 Church of St. Peter and Paul, 69 Church of St. Samaan, 70 civil administration, 15–17, 78, 95 civil registration, 77–79, 92, 162 Civil Status Law 143 of 1994, 101–2, 106, 124, 189–90 Civil Status ­Organization (CSO). See CSO (Civil Status ­Organization) Code Noir, 26 communion, 58 confession, 58 conscription registers, 74 Constantine, Wafaa, 120n40, 191–92 constitution, Egyptian: of 1923, 102; of 1956, 102; of 1964, 102; of 1971, 19, 102, 198n24 Coptic Orthodox Church: as administrative body, 13, 201; and adultery, 195, 197, 199, 202; authority of nation-­state and, 61; born Muslims wishing to adopt Chris­ tian­ity of, 119–20; boundary objects of, 69; certificate of return, 110, 111, 190, 208; change of religion to, 35–37; and concept of holy suffering, 65, 72; conflict between Majlis al-­Dawla and, 201–2; Coptic Personal Status Regulations of, 196; cosmology of, 65; cross, 58, 59, 67; devotional relationships within, 61–64; and divorce, 195–202; and equal distribution of inheritance, 246n2; government recognition of marriage in, 13; importance of cult of Dimyana to, 62–63; importance of martyrs to, 60–63, 72; and inheritance, 246; ­legal claims against state by members of, 4; ­legal ethics and, 191–92; letter from the Church of the Martyrs Abu Seifayn and

Dimyana, 2013, 59; marriage as religious ritual in, 209; marriage authorizations and social order, 201; member claims as supportive of nation-­state’s regulatory system, 20; members seeking recognition of religious difference, 29; notarial documents of conversion practices, 75; patrilineal descent determines belonging in, 58, 61; and prob­lem of Muslim patrilineal descent, 58; reconversion from Islam to, 35, 57, 110; refusal to accept two distinct natures of Christ, 60; remarriage in, 197–98; retaining membership in, 93; rights of ­women in, 247; sacraments of, 58, 58n2, 61; scapegoating of, 214; seeking recognition of religious difference, 4; social order restored by return of Copts to, 208; spousal notice of intention to reconvert, 110; tattoo and name as distinguishing marks of, 57, 65, 67–69, 70–72; and tradition of holy suffering, 65, 72; use of Article 47 (2) in facilitating lawful return to, 106. See also ʿāʾidūn; mutanaṣerūn; Shenouda III (pope) cosmology: of Babi movement, 138, 235; distinctive nature of Bahá’ís, 98, 137, 150, 172, 235; orienting of members to coherence of community in Coptic, 61; personification of Christ’s two natures in Coptic, 65; signs of Orthodox, 58–60, 59 Court of Administrative Justice (CAJ). See CAJ (Court of Administrative Justice) criminal rec­ord: to disprove evasion of punishment for crimes, 37, 110; historically represented by tattooing, 66; report on criminal rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Sector Administration of Public Security, General Directorate of Forensic Evidence Investigation, 2011, 112 CSO (Civil Status ­Organization): about, 33; creates national database, 79; modification of papers by, 110; required to rec­ord

i n de x   changes of religion, 107–8; responsibilities of, 189; on ­whether ­there is ­legal obligation to list change of religion from Islam to Chris­tian­ity, 98; on ­whether ­there is l­egal obligation to list religious affiliation that does not conform to state-­recognized religions, 97 dakk, 67 Day of Rage, 214 death: of ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá (Abbas Effendi), 49, 177; of Bahá’u’lláh, 138; certificates of, 15, 76; conversion and social, 45–46, 49; copy of death rec­ord (blank) issued by the Ministry of Health and Housing, and the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019, 85; copy of death rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2013, 84; of Hassan Shehata and companions, 230; Islamic rights to custody and inheritance ­after husband’s, 204–5; maintenance of rec­ords, 77; of Pope Shenouda, 197; required information about, 78; of Shoghi Effendi, 130–31; of St. Dimyana, 62 Debatable, 173–74 Decree 11, 77–78 Decree 23, 76 Decree 130, 76 Decree 260, 77 Decree 263, 103 desertion, military, 66, 74–75 devotion: to administrative state, 9–10, 24–28, 94; defined, 24, 216; devotional relationships, 61–64 Diocletian, 60, 62 discontinuity-­similitude frame, 168–72, 175–78 distinction-­similitude, Bahá’ís use of, 164, 166 divorce: in Coptic Church, 195–202; judicial divorce, 198; maintenance of rec­ords, 77; Muslim, 167; in Sidqi case, 200; standardization of rec­ords, 79 documentary regime, 73–76, 73n47

303 Effendi, Shoghi: ambitions of, 143–44; assumes leadership of Bahá’í Faith, 138–39, 141–42; correspondence with Bahá’ís, 141–42; creates spiritual assemblies, 142–44; death of, 130–31; drafting and printing maps of, 129–31; on fidelity to nation-­state, 159, 160; map by Shoghi Effendi depicting the objectives of the Bahá’í World Crusade, 1952, 132–33; map by Shoghi Effendi depicting the pro­gress of the Bahá’í World Crusade, 1957, 134–35; writings of, 131; youth of, 140–41. See also ‘Abdu’l-­Bahá (Abbas Effendi); Bahá’í Faith Egyptian Center for Public Policy Studies, 40 Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR), 14, 68n41 Egyptian law: administrative agencies of, 21; belonging as ­organized by, 170; nonrecognition of Bahá’í marriage in, 104–6; recognition of three religions by, 97, 100, 102; shariʿa as principal source of legislation in, 19, 99n11, 198n24 Egyptian state: Bahá’í commitment to, 163; Copts and Bahá’ís claims against, 20; devotion by Copts and Bahá’ís to, 25; function of, 249–52; groups that confound understanding of Islam as final, most complete religion in, 97; Islamic identity of, 164, 198n24; mass killings by police and army of, 10, 10n23; produces both communal integrity and division, 250; religion as compulsory field on all documents issued by, 36 el-­Hadi, Hatem, 164–66, 172n20 ­England, 16 Eucharist, the, 58n2, 61 Fahmy, Khaled, 17–18 Garden of Ridvan, 235 Giachery, Ugo, 129–31 Goluboff, Sascha, 27 Gomaa, Ali, 115–16

304 i n de x hagiographies, Coptic, 60–63, 72 Hands of the Cause of God, 129, 129n2, 139 Hasan and Eylem Zengin v. Turkey, 1n2 Hébrard, Jean, 26 Hegazy, Muhammad, 45–46, 113–14, 113n25, 115, 185 Heo, Angie, 22–23 Hindi, Rauf, 2, 44, 103 holy suffering, 65, 72 Hosni, Sawsan, 164–72 Ibrahim, Fadi, 33, 106, 190, 211–12 Indira Gandhi a/p Mutho v. Pengarah Jabatan Agama Islam Perak & Ors, 3n14 inscribing reality, 17–18 Interior Ministry: and Church certificates in determining individual ­legal status, 107; denial of lawsuits by, 8–9; forms issued by, 80–91; Hosni Nagib ʿAbdel Massih brings case against, 103; information on national ID cards specified by, 97n5; lawsuit of Husam Musa and Ranya Rushdi filed against, 100–101; lawsuit of Rauf Hindi filed against, 2, 44, 103; and procedures for membership in religious groups, 77–78; purported injustices by, 10. See also CSO (Civil Status ­Organization) Islam: ­acceptance of principal source of legislation as law of, 9–10; apostasy from, 46, 109, 114–17, 217; and certificate of belief, 208; certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al-­Azhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 1984, 122; certificate of embrace of Islam issued by Al-­Azhar, Research Center, Fatwa Council, 2014, 123; changing religion to Chris­tian­ity from, 45–46; dissolution of marriage as consequence of conversion from, 217; and freedom of belief, 53; khātim al-­adyān, 97; marriage as religious ritual in, 209; mutanaṣerūn, 97, 113–14, 185, 202n30, 204–5; right to choose religion other than, 115–16; and succession order, 246, 246n3, 247 Issa, Ibrahim, 173, 174–78

James, C.L.R., 26 Japan, 16 Jewish ­Free School, 2 Joy, Lina, 1, 3 Judaism/Jews, 28, 75, 100, 125–26 khātim al-­adyān, 97 Law 181 of 1955, 77, 97n5 Law of Civil Status no.143 of 1994, 101 Lina Joy v. Majlis Agama Islam Wilayah Persekutuan & Anor, 1n3 Majlis al-­Dawla (administrative judiciary): on allowing Christians to reconvert, 98; and Article 47 (2), 96–97; and case of Hosni Nagib ʿAbdel Massih, 103; and case of Rauf Hindi, 103; conflict between Majlis al-­Dawla and, 201–2; confrontation between Coptic Church and, 199; on impact of authorizing religious conversion, 124; and order of revelation, 100, 125–26; shariʿa as principal source of Egyptian law, 99–100, 99n11; structure of, 96n2 Marina of the Zabbaleen, 69–72 Markell, Patchen, 22 marriage: authorization, 9, 193, 198–99, 201; certificates of, 15, 76; copy of marriage rec­ord issued by the Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, n.d., 83; of Hala Sidqi and Magdy William, 200; license as issued by pope, 199; maintenance of rec­ords, 77; Muslim conversion to Bahá’í Faith and dissolution of, 217; rec­ords incorporated into national database, 79; as religious ritual, 209; ruling that Muslim ­woman and Bahá’í man cannot have lawful, 148–49; as sacrament of Coptic Orthodox Church, 58n2; state recognizes no ­legal option for civil, 194; state refusal to recognize Bahá’í marriage, 104–5 Mayflower compact, 145 Mazen, 243–45 Mitchell, Timothy, 17

i n de x   Morsi, Mohamed, 40, 214, 226 Most ­Great ­House (Bayt-­i-­Azam), 238 Most ­Great Name, 179, 179n34, 243 Mubarak, Hosni, 4, 200 Murqos, Samy, 203–4 Muslim Brotherhood, 20, 43 Muslim-­Christian relations, 47, 193 Muslims: favorable status of, 46, 93, 166–67; mutanaṣerūn, 97, 113–14, 185, 202n30, 204–5; personal status law of, 200; procedure for non-­Muslims to establish status of, 121; ­those wishing to adopt Chris­tian­ ity when born as, 119–20. See also Islam mutanaṣerūn: case of Maher al-­Gohary, 116–20; case of Muhammad Hegazy, 113–14; consequences of heightened recourse to document forgery for, 202n30; counsel for, 204–5; no way to formalize conversion for, 185. See also Coptic Orthodox Church Nasrallah, Huda, 246–49 Nasser, Gamal Abdel, 78, 175 national ID cards: application (pages 1 and 4) for a national ID card pursuant to Law 143 of 1994, Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019, 86–87; application (pages 2 and 3) for a national ID card pursuant to Law 143 of 1994, Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019, 88–89; campaigns to remove religion from, 9–10; in case of Hosni Nagib ʿAbdel Massih, 103; identifying Bahá’ís using dash in religious field, 104–6; national ID card issued to Imad Rauf Hindi on August 8, 2009, showing a “dash” on the back in the field reserved for religious affiliation, 105; national ID card issued to Nancy Rauf Hindi on August 8, 2009, showing a “dash” on the back in the field reserved for religious affiliation, 105; refusal of Interior Ministry to indicate “Bahá’í” as religion on, 100; switching from paper to computerized, 107; and tattooing of Coptic Orthodox, 69, 70–71

305 National Number Proj­ect, 79, 162 National Spiritual Assembly: administrative ­process of enrollment in, 218; Declaration of trust of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt (page 1 of 2), 1934, 156; Declaration of trust of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Egypt (page 2 of 2), 1934, 157; elections, 140, 154; publication of constitution and bylaws, 146; publication of monthly bilingual bulletin, 151, 152, 153; recognition of Bahá’í personal status law, 154, 155; self­constitution and incorporation of, 145 official rec­ords, documents, and deeds: certificate of belief, 208; certificate of reconversion, 93; certificate of return, 110, 111, 190, 208; conscription registers, 74; discrimination against non-­Muslims caused by religious identification on state documents, 209; document forgery, 202n30; documentary regime, 73–76, 73n47; national vital statistics, 76; notarial documents, 75; passports, 4, 36, 75–76; request (back) for a rec­ord, document, or deed (birth, death, marriage, divorce, military ­service, data confirmation), Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019, 91; request (front) for a rec­ord, document, or deed (birth, death, marriage, divorce, military ­service, data confirmation), Ministry of Interior, Civil Status ­Organization, 2019, 90. See also birth; criminal rec­ord; death; divorce; marriage; national ID cards order of revelation, 100, 125–26 patrilineal descent: and affiliation with religious groups, 36; Bahá’í Faith and conventions of, 172; and born Muslims, 100; central to Coptic Orthodox Church and Egyptian nation, 191, 248; and Coptic Church, 58; in ­matters of Coptic Church and Majlis al-­Dawla, 201; and state membership, 61

306 i n de x penance, 58, 58n2 personal status law: of Bahá’í Faith, 154, 155; differences in application between Muslim and non-­Muslim litigants, 195n12, 200; movement for unified and universal Christian, 247–48; as related to inheritance, 246n3; and the Shari‘a, 125; Sidqi marriage dissolved using Muslim, 200 positivist law: and desire for spatiotemporal continuity, 251; global historical rec­ord of, 25–27; innovations in, 202; just regulation of religion through, 136–37n13, 251; and realization of idea of Bahá’í world order, 137 priesthood, 58n2 Protestants, American, 28 Qurʾan, the: as authoritative source for overcoming tribulations, 172; court rejects statement that Qurʾan not final and perfect, 149; forced memorization of, 232; knowledge in Bahá’í Faith of, 164; on Muslims choosing religion other than, 115–16; Sawsan Hosni’s examination of, 167; states that Allah does not create unsurmountable obstacles for humankind, 167 Ramez, Ayoub, 14 religion, 18, 102–3, 109, 114–17, 181 religious affiliation: as administrative field on vital rec­ords, 77, 97n5; Article 47 (2) and vital rec­ords changes or corrections to, 106; as automatic based on circumstances of birth, 95; as basis of civil status, 95, 108; changes for ­children of ʿāʾidūn, 110–13; citizens born to Muslim ­fathers remain Muslim in, 114; discrimination against non-­Muslims ­because of vital rec­ords listing, 210; documents required to change from Islam to Chris­tian­ity in, 110; failure of government to recognize true, 9; favorable rights associated with Muslim, 46; findings on l­ egal obligation

to issue IDs stating Bahá’í, 103–4; material evidence of, 210–11; of ­mother, 36; must be one of three recognized religions, 108; petitions requesting amendments to, 8, 107; on question of removing vital rec­ords field which lists, 208 religious conversion, 62, 63, 64, 124, 205–6. See also ʿāʾidūn; mutanaṣerūn religious difference: administration of, 191; captured by documents, 74; as consequential to civil status, 158–59; ­lawyers committed to administration of, 207, 210–11; living with, 185; in media appearances, 164–72, 179–85; between Muslims and Coptic Orthodox, 72; prior to mid­twentieth ­century, 77–78; social order in Egypt o­ rganized around, 162; tattooing as mark of, 64–72, 93–94 religious experience, 48–50 religious freedom, 108, 136 religious pluralism, 180 religious rituals, 209 ritual scarification. See tattoos Ruhi Institute: about, 218; concepts of cooperation and competition, 233–34; educational materials, 224; ­organizing and facilitating ­children’s classes, 233–34; Ruhi 3, Session 1, 225–28; Ruhi 3, Session 2, 228–31; Ruhi 3, Session 3, 231–33; Ruhi 3, Session 4, 233–34; study sessions, 224–25; and teaching ­children’s classes, 225, 227, 231–32 SAC (Supreme Administrative Court): clarifies what constitutes public-­order violation on status of citizens, 107–9; decision that compelled CSO to rec­ord change of religion from Muslim to Christian for ʿāʾidūn, 116–17; examines historical provenance of constitutional articles in regard to Bahá’í Faith, 102; on finding administrative solution for prob­lem of ʿāʾidūn as single ­legal class, 110; finds no ­legal obligation to issue IDs

i n de x   with Bahá’í designation, 103; issuance of marriage licenses by pope subject to judicial review, 199; on issue of conferring religious status to Bahá’í Faith, 102–3; recognizes Coptic Church as competent body for issuing certification of reconversion to Coptic Orthodoxy for ʿāʾidūn, 118 sacraments, Coptic, 58, 58n2, 61 sacred sites, 169–70, 172, 238–39 Samuels, Maurice, 27 SCC (Supreme Constitutional Court), 109–10 Scott, Rebecca, 26 Selimiye Mosque, 237 Sharafi, Mi­tra, 27 Shehata, Camilia, 193 Shehata, Hassan, 229–30 Shenouda III (pope): confrontation between Coptic Church and Majlis al-­Dawla, 199; death of, 197; on grounds for divorce, 197–98, 199, 202; papacy of, 197; SAC rules pope’s issuance of marriage licenses subject to judicial review, 199; in Sidqi divorce case, 200. See also Coptic Orthodox Church Sidqi, Hala, 200 signet seal, 74 skin, symbolic significance of. See tattoos slavery, 26 social order: authorizing religious conversion as impacting, 124; conferring religious status on Bahá’í Faith as undermining, 102–3; efforts of Bahá’ís to bring about greater, 159; historical placement of self externally within, 65; marriage authorizations within conception of, 201; ­organized around religious difference, 162; returning Copts to denominational origin reinstates, 208 spatiotemporal continuity, 22, 69 St. Dimyana, 59, 60–64 St. George the Roman, 70 St. Marina of Antioch, 70

307 St. Mark, 63 Star of the West, 144 status equivalence, 248 stigma, 66 strategic conversion: and client motivations, 200, 202, 204–6; defined, 192n6; as route to marital dissolution, 205, 211; in Sidqi case, 200; suspicions about, 192, 204–5 succession order, 246–47 suicide, 229 ­Sullivan, Winnifred Fallers, 136 Supreme Administrative Court (SAC). See SAC (Supreme Administrative Court) Supreme Constitutional Court (SCC). See SCC (Supreme Constitutional Court) surah, the, 167 Tablets of the Divine Plan (‘Abdu’l-­Bahá), 138 tattoos, 64–72 Tawfiq, Bahaa Ishaq, 179–83 tax collection, 15 The Impossibility of Religious Freedom (­Sullivan), 136 Tokugawa shogunate, 16 Trinitarian formula, 61 UNESCO World Heritage Site, 237 Universal ­House of Justice, 139n20, 140 vital statistics, 76–79, 92. See also birth; Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS); death; divorce; marriage Voice of Amer­i­ca, 173 Wales, 16 Wasfi, Hani, 200 Weisenfeld, Judith, 27–28 Weiss, Max, 27 William, Magdy, 200 Zengin, Hasan and Eylem, 1, 1n2, 3

a no t e on t h e t y pe

This book has been composed in Arno, an Old-­style serif typeface in the classic Venetian tradition, designed by Robert Slimbach at Adobe.