Adapting Gender and Development to Local Religious Contexts: A Decolonial Approach to Domestic Violence in Ethiopia 9780367366087, 9781003006992

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Romina Istratii’s book is a refreshingly comprehensive exploration of the link between religious beliefs and practices and intimate partner violence. Her work is ambitious in scope, impressive in its breadth and depth, and an important contribution to any nuanced understanding of the impact of religion or abusive relationships in a local context. The myriad challenges she experiences in the execution of the research are thoughtfully discussed and her engagement with the relevant academic literature is noteworthy. As a result, her research will be useful to scholars in many fields. Nancy Nason-Clark, Professor Emerita, Department of Sociology, University of New Brunswick, Canada In this theoretically sophisticated and ethnographically grounded ­monograph – that focuses on Ethiopia – Romina Istratii questions “the idea of treating popular gender theories as globally relevant” because they fail to view gender realities as “nuanced, complex and non-uniform”, as well as to consider how the “non-secular” plays a role in shaping gender subjectivities and relations. This book is an important contribution to a growing field of studies that seeks to problematise the dominant secular Gender and Development paradigm, where it seeks to understand and transform gender relations, to eradicate social ills such as domestic violence, yet is underpinned by Euro-centric assumptions that are rarely addressed. Emma Tomalin, Professor in the School of Philosophy, Religion and History of Science, Leeds University, UK

Adapting Gender and Development to Local Religious Contexts

This book provides a critical and decolonial analysis of gender and development theory and practice in religious societies through the presentation of a detailed ethnographic study of conjugal violence in Ethiopia. Responding to recent consensus that gender mainstreaming approaches have failed to produce their intended structural changes, Romina Istratii explains that gender and development analytical and theoretical frameworks are often constructed through western Euro-centric lenses ill-equipped to understand gender-related realities and human behaviour in non-western religious contexts and knowledge systems. Instead, Istratii argues for an approach to gender-sensitive research and practice which is embedded in insiders’ conceptual understandings as a basis to theorise about gender, assess the possible gendered underpinnings of local issues and design appropriate alleviation strategies. Drawing on a detailed study of conjugal abuse realities and attitudes in two villages and the city of Aksum in Northern Ethiopia, she demonstrates how religious knowledge can be engaged in the design and implementation of remedial interventions. This book carefully evidences the importance of integrating religious traditions and spirituality in current discussions of sustainable development in Africa, and speaks to researchers and practitioners of gender, religion and development in Africa, scholars of non-western Christianities and Ethiopian studies, and domestic violence researchers and practitioners. Romina Istratii is currently Research Associate at the Department of Development Studies and the Centre of World Christianity, SOAS University of London, UK. She previously served as Senior Teaching Fellow in the School of History, Religions and Philosophies. She has been an active member of the Decolonising SOAS Working Group, initiating the Decolonising Research Initiative on behalf of the SOAS Research Directorate. She is co-founder of Decolonial Subversions.

Routledge Research in Religion and Development Series Editors: Matthew Clarke Deakin University, Australia

Emma Tomalin

University of Leeds, UK

Nathan Loewen

University of Alabama, USA

The Routledge Research in Religion and Development series focuses on the diverse ways in which religious values, teachings and practices interact with international development. While religious traditions and faith-based movements have long served as forces for social innovation, it has only been within the last ten years that researchers have begun to seriously explore the religious dimensions of international development. However, recognising and analysing the role of religion in the development domain is vital for a nuanced understanding of this field. This interdisciplinary series examines the intersection between these two areas, focusing on a range of contexts and religious traditions. Editorial board: Carole Rakodi, University of Birmingham, UK Gurharpal Singh, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, UK

Ideological and Cultural Encounters Edited by Kathryn Kraft and Olivia J. Wilkinson Adapting Gender and Development to Local Religious Contexts A Decolonial Approach to Domestic Violence in Ethiopia Romina Istratii

Adapting Gender and Development to Local Religious Contexts A Decolonial Approach to Domestic Violence in Ethiopia Romina Istratii

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 Romina Istratii The right of Romina Istratii to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-367-36608-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-00699-2 (ebk) Typeset in Goudy by Wearset Ltd, Boldon, Tyne and Wear

Contents



Prefaceviii Acknowledgementsxiii

  1 Introduction: the metaphysics of gender and development1   2 Linguistic and cosmological translation

40

  3 Intimate partner violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia

72

  4 The Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo tradition and the conjugal relationship

93

  5 Conjugal abuse conceptualisations and attitudes

126

  6 Marriage in the local normative framework

146

  7 Responses to conjugal abuse in the local institutional framework166   8 Faith, culture and social norms

187

  9 Faith, marriage and gendered expressions

207

10 The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse

224



Conclusion: beyond western ways

244



Appendix258 Index261

Preface

In 2012, graduating from my BA programme in the United States, I embarked on a year­-​­long Watson Fellowship in Ghana, Ethiopia, Rwanda and Tanzania. Having spent the two previous years supporting the Faculty of Economics at Bates College in researching African agricultural development, I had encountered no direct testimonies of small­-scale ​­ African farmers presenting their realities in their own words. I was therefore hoping to understand how gender relations were explained through local people’s discourses and how these could be related to agricultural development. In the one year that I spent on the African continent, I passed through 60 or more rural and urban communities and I spoke with about 300 female and male farmers and local residents in their farms and homes and an equally large number of non­-​ governmental organisations, government officials and other stakeholders. ­ These discussions and living with hosts of diverse backgrounds and life situations made it clear to me that gender realities were considerably more nuanced, complex and non­-​­uniform than they were being portrayed in the gender­-​­sensitive development literature on Africa. Moreover, I found that aspects of vernacular life had been entirely neglected, the most important being non­-secular ​­ local belief and knowledge systems and their influence on human thinking and behaviour, which evidenced a deeply secularised development sector that still antagonised religious belief. In 2015, I secured a scholarship to study an MA in Gender and Development at the Institute of Development Studies (IDS) in the UK, a research and policy centre that many agricultural development practitioners in Africa had cited in their interviews. I had thought it strange that a UK­-​­based institute had so much influence in setting gender and development standards locally, and wished to understand the paradigm where it was being mainstreamed. Studying at IDS evidenced to me that gender mainstreaming was a political project, and like any political project, it was mainly concerned about the change it wanted to enact. While I sought to engage openly with western feminist pleas for gender­-sensitive ​­ development and equality, the dominant mentality I encountered was off­-putting ​­ and exclusionary. The majority of instructors and peers seemed to unquestionably accept theories of gender that portrayed all women as victims, denying historical and contextual particularities. When I

Preface  ix cited egalitarian gender practices in the African countries I had visited and from my home regions, Eastern and Southern Europe, I encountered silence. What I said did not match the generalising narratives upheld and, hence, voices such as mine had to be de­-​­legitimised. By being treated as ‘too intelligent’ or idiosyncratic, and in some cases with open antagonism, I was effectively ‘subalternised’. At IDS, my fellow classmates and I were taught a conceptualisation of gender that was grounded in western European philosophies of gender according to the branch favoured by the different instructors. Issues of positionality and differences in gender conceptualisations in the world were not considered at all, even as the MA programme covered feminist epistemologies that supposedly affirmed the situatedness of all knowledge production. Western European understandings and ideals of gender were treated as normative, best exemplified in the typical gender exercises that were delivered to us as a method to use with local communities in our ‘doing gender’ work. These invited participants to attribute a number of specified gender and sex characteristics to the categories ‘female’ and ‘male’ with the aim of leading them to realise that gender should be conceived preferably as a continuum. Through this exercise, a gender theory origi­nating in a secular logic and social constructionist feminist metaphysics was presented as authoritative, while non­-​­secular, non­-​­materialist worldviews espoused by some of us were deemed unintelligible. That this clearly violated our right to an understanding of the world based on our preferred belief system was simply ignored. Like my instructors, many gender and development practitioners consider it their mission to ‘change’ local worldviews and realities, accepting that there is something inherently wrong with local socio­-​­cultural systems. I consider this mentality to have its roots in imperialist and colonial legacies perpetuated by unreflexive privileged writers and practitioners in academic, research­ -​ ­intensive and techno­-​­scientific institutions, often perpetuated by their elite counterparts in local societies. While most Gender and Development proponents have now admitted the flaws of gender main­streaming, they have yet to address the fundamental epistemological question: Who has and continues to define the concept of gender? Have local communities been allowed to articulate gender according to their own conceptual repertoires and worldviews? For the most part, mainstream theories and analytical frameworks continue to be based on the conceptual repertoires of influential voices, usually affiliated with western institutions that secure them research funding, authority and credibility. The book aims to achieve wider recognition of the fact that such conceptual and theoretical constructs have been historically embedded in western feminist metaphysics of humanity and gender as these emanated from and evolved in western Christian, Enlightenment and post­-Enlightenment ​­ thinking and are indivisible from the process of secularisation itself. On the basis of this epistemological situatedness, I argue that these are unequipped to

x  Preface provide a complete understanding of gender­-related ​­ issues in belief and knowledge systems that fall outside of western epistemology and experience, but especially in societies of non­-​­western religious or other worldviews. The more fundamental aim of the book is to problematise the underlying disconnect between theory and lived experience and to stress that only when gender analysis is embedded in local worldviews and embodied realities can useful theory emerge that can inform appropriate alleviation strategies. This necessitates engaging with the discourses of local communities and penetrating their worldviews by speaking their languages and substantively immersing in their vernacular realities. I have sought to demonstrate this through a multi­ -​ ­dimensional ethnographic study in one religious society of Ethiopia. I do not claim that this approach is ideal or without important limitations, but I consider it humbler in its assumptions and more focused on human experience. The objectives of this book are undoubtedly informed by my own worldview and background. Born in Moldova, my family and I immigrated to Greece after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Both these societies have differentiated themselves from western modernity by ascribing historically to an Eastern Orthodox worldview. They also belong to a region that experienced hundreds of years of Ottoman occupation. While this cannot compare to the exceptionally dehumanising experience of colonialism, this historical legacy has made me deeply sympathetic to all peoples and communities who have experienced military, economic and cultural impositions. I have developed the approach described in the book from the point of view that every people should be allowed to define themselves, exemplified in my decision to let my research participants speak as much as possible in their own terminology. This explains also my choice to engage with theory­-​­making only minimally in the ethnographic chapters. As an ‘outsider’, I do not consider it my task to theorise my findings for ‘improving’ the discipline of Ethiopian gender studies, which local researchers are more equipped to undertake. However, as a relative ‘insider’ to the local religious tradition, I have been keen to ensure that Eastern Christian traditions are explored within their proper theological and historical contexts and are leveraged in the alleviation of gender­-​­related issues as appropriate and feasible in each society. It follows from this that I did not choose to conduct my study in Ethiopia as an academic project, continuing the widely affirmed trend of objectifying Africa to promote career progression purposes as propagated within western academic culture. Northern Ethiopia simply felt closer to home because of religio­-​­cultural and historical commonalities. Having eschewed total colonisation but having lived through an Italian occupation as Greece did, Ethiopia has been especially defined by a fierce protectiveness of its local religio­-​­cultural traditions, historical memories and vernacular norms and practices. Through this case­-study, ​­ I have sought to demonstrate the ethical imperative for the various stakeholders and actors of international development to engage closely with local historical memories and identities and to work to identify locally sensible interventions – if they must. Like all

Preface  xi projects that aim to speak to broader audiences, the book has lost some of its specialised language and analysis, but it is hoped that the accessibility it has gained will grant it more impact in the sector. As reflected best in the Sustainable Development Goals, gender and development paradigms continue to be transposed internationally. This trend is most noticeable in the field of ‘gender­-​­based violence’ that this book is preoccupied with. In countries such as Ethiopia, many a western and local researcher assumes the relevance of this terminology without problematising whether the underlying aetiology is satisfactorily comprehensive and reflexive of local realities. By default, the terminology implies that gender parameters are prioritised over other vectors of human identity and personhood, while being conceptualised and theorised almost invariably in reference to western understandings of gender and ideals of gender relations. In practice, psychological, spiritual, interactional or other material factors have been neglected, even as many prominent scholars ascribe to an ecological model of violence. By presenting a study of intimate partner violence in one indigenous religious society, I have sought to render visible the epistemological and practical limitations of this popular aetiology and the interventions it dictates, calling for a reform of thinking and practice in this field. Nowadays, a researcher who has personally experienced domestic violence is generally considered to be better positioned to undertake relevant research than somebody who has never experienced it, even if this might lead them to explain domestic violence in ways disproportionately informed by their personal ordeal. However, if a religious scholar or anthropologist is also a believer or a theologian, suddenly the fear for confessionalist bias prevails. This fear is stronger than any concern that an ‘outsider’ or secular researcher might entirely misconstrue the local religious tradition and experience. As should become evident from the analysis in this book, these attitudes emanate from western experiences and interactions with the subject matter of ‘religion’, which inevitably inform contemporary ‘scientific’ standards. This book should demonstrate that research committed to epistemological reflexivity need not deny the worldview of the researcher and their subjective investment in the research process and can be achieved transparently for the benefit of improving understanding of domestic violence in different contexts. Moreover, I write as somebody who has been personally exposed to different facets of domestic violence growing up. Yet, I have not let these experiences determine my research  – these have rather fuelled my passion for exploring realistic, people­ -centred ​­ and context­ -​ ­specific alleviation approaches. The narrative I have shared so far should help to evidence that this is a project written from the margins of western epistemology and historical experience. I decided to describe it as a decolonial project, but this needs to be taken with a grain of salt. The African scholars and many other critical thinkers to whose work I am deeply indebted to and cite in this project did not necessarily speak in these terms and I do not wish to identify this

xii  Preface project’s approach with decolonial thinkers or paradigms of thinking, as this is not how they or I arrived at it. Beyond Edward Said’s brilliant dissection of Orientalism and Arturo Escobar’s excellent critique of development discourse, both of which I encountered as an MA student after I arrived in the UK, I had not read either Anibal Quijano’s or Walter Mignolo’s writings on coloniality/modernity/decoloniality until late in my PhD when I was co­ -authoring ​­ with Monika Hirmer our Editorial II for Decolonisation in Praxis. I remember telling Monika at the time that I spoke from my lived experience and that no theory was needed to validate my personal narrative. After submitting my PhD, however, and as Monika and I delineated the contours of our latest project Decolonial Subversions, I became more exposed to this literature. Having since read some of the canonical writers, I find that my argument for a gender­ -sensitive ​­ theory and praxis that is contextualised within local conceptual repertoires and embodied experiences to guide local approaches resonates with a decolonial emphasis on praxical theory. As long as it is understood that terminological choices can never fully capture multidimensional human intentions, experiences and realities, I find no harm in suggesting an overlap with the decolonial project, insofar as this is truly open to pluriversalism as it claims to be. As the reader will notice, I have structured the book in a manner that engages with larger debates in the field of gender and development, while remaining grounded in the ethnographic experience, which is laid out without disruption after the initial theoretical discussion. The concluding chapter returns to reiterate and refine the theoretical issues raised earlier in the book. The structure reflects, essentially, the co­-​­substantiality of the theoretical argument and the fieldwork experience: the research praxis is the reflection of my decolonial thinking, which is enforced by my fieldwork experience. In the original PhD, all interview excerpts with members of the clergy and laity were anonymised and coded. To economise on words, I have not provided the codes in the book as these are available almost in identical order in the PhD, which will be published open access after the embargo period. I have preserved them only where I refer to consultations with local specialists, with the full list of names provided in the appendix, unless they chose to remain anonymous. In an effort to make the process of translation more transparent I have preserved some of the original script in Amharic and Tigrigna. Transliteration broadly follows the system outlined in Encyclopaedia Aethiopica. It should be stressed that this publication has been intended primarily for the mainstream Anglophone gender and development sector, outside and inside Ethiopia, which informed the selection of the current publisher. It is my hope that the book can soon be made available at a locally affordable price by a local publisher in the relevant languages so as to be accessed and appraised critically by those immediately affected. This, I believe, would make it practically decolonial. Romina Istratii, London

Acknowledgements

This book finds its roots in 2012–2013 and my Thomas J. Watson Fellowship in sub­-​­Saharan Africa. I would have been unable to compete for this fellowship without a previous scholarship to study for my BA degree at Bates College in Maine, USA. I therefore want to acknowledge the generosity of my alma mater and the academics, deans and professional staff whose support was invaluable in the preparation of my fellowship application. I cannot name all the people who marked my days at Bates, but I do want to mention Jason Scheideman, Margaret Maurer­-​­Fazzio and Steve Mortimer, who were not only mentors to me but families away from home. I also want to acknowledge the Thomas J. Watson Foundation for providing me with the unique opportunity to travel to Africa. The defining experience that motivated this project took place at the University of Sussex while I was studying for my MA in Gender and Development at the Institute of Development Studies (IDS). My studies would have been impossible if the University of Sussex had not awarded me a SYLFF Fellowship funded by the Tokyo Foundation. The Tokyo Foundation awarded me also a SYLFF Leadership Initiatives grant, which enabled my MA fieldwork in Senegal. It was in Senegal, while working with a Fulani community in the Futa Toro, that I increased my understanding of my topic and concretised the conceptual and methodological approach presented in this book. While my MA programme challenged and frustrated me as already discussed, I am indebted to the University of Sussex for giving me the chance to engage with Anglophone epistemology directly. I would also like to acknowledge Jane Shelley in Brighton for being a most wonderful host and patient listener. The Tokyo Foundation also enabled my PhD fieldwork in Ethiopia by granting me a SYLFF Research Abroad grant. Additional fieldwork funding was provided by SOAS University of London and the French Centre for Ethiopian Studies (CFEE) based in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. During the PhD programme, SOAS also provided me with two language acquisition funding awards that enabled me to acquire linguistic training in Ge’ez and secure tutorial support in Tigrigna, and a conference award that enabled me to travel to Ethiopia to present my research. I am hugely indebted for this

xiv  Acknowledgements invaluable funding and training, without which my PhD experience would have not been the same. In the same breath, I must acknowledge the excellent tutorial services of Dr Ralph Lee and Berhane Woldegabriel. At SOAS, I would like to acknowledge the excellent guidance of my primary supervisor, Dr Erica C. D. Hunter, who supported this project from the moment of its inception. Coming from a low­-​­income family and being a non­-​­local student in London, I faced constant financial insecurity during the PhD programme. Without Erica’s encouragement, I may have halted it in the face of what seemed like a helpless situation. I am equally indebted to Dr Jörg Haustein, who provided unrelenting guidance at all stages of the project, but especially during the data analysis and the write­-up ​­ process. He undoubtedly incentivised a deeper scrutiny of myself and the research experience that has led to the more profound insights of this study. I am also deeply thankful to Dr Colette Harris for her early advice on safety and ethical concerns to consider in domestic violence research of this type. In Ethiopia, I would like to acknowledge Addisu Meseret, at the time Head of the Department of Sociology at Addis Ababa University (AAU). The AAU was from the beginning very willing to establish an affiliation and did their utmost to support me. I also thank the AAU International Office for providing me with office space and Tesfaselassie Mezgebe and Aytenne Birhanie at the Peace and Development Centre for allowing me to use the organisation’s offices during the final stages of the project. I am also absolutely indebted to my instructor of Tigrigna at AAU, Haile (whose family name I never penned down), for letting me join his class and for being an exceptionally passionate and inspirational instructor. Frezer Benti, a graduate of the Holy Trinity Theological College, deserves acknowledgement for putting me in touch with numerous Church scholars, historians and theologians. In Aksum, I thank Dr Mulugeta Berihu, at the time Director of Research at Aksum University, for facilitating many logistical aspects of the research. Faculty and students in Addis Ababa and Aksum University who supported me as research assistants, translators and transcribers deserve huge acknowledgement: Abrehet Gebremedihin, Kbra Negash, Fitsumte, Redae, Leul Mekonnen, Haben Goitom, Teklu Cherkose, Esete Kebede and Rahwa Yemane. Many thanks are also due to the theologians, Church scholars and domestic violence practitioners listed in the appendix, the Church administrative office in Aksum, the Women’s Affairs Office in Aksum and the coordinating members of the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan in Addis Ababa and Aksum. I am most thankful for the patience and openness of all the residents in the study villages and in the city of Aksum. I am deeply indebted to my best friend in Ethiopia since November 2012, Daniel Hluf Desta, for offering material and emotional support, nourishment and his parents’ house as a home base. I am profoundly grateful to the entire Desta family and their relatives in Meqele, who provided me with lodging in times when funding was short and treated me as their own family member. I also want to thank the numerous families who hosted me in

Acknowledgements  xv Aksum and included me in their lives, but which I cannot acknowledge by their names as they were part of the research sample. To all these hosts and amazingly generous and kind individuals, from the bottom of my heart, እግዚአብሔር ይስትልኝ። Undoubtedly, I am most indebted to my mother Larisa, my father Ilie and my brother Denis, and our extended family, for sustaining me materially and emotionally throughout the very difficult years of my MA and PhD study. This research would have been impossible without their personal sacrifices and the hardships they have had to undergo for me. I also want to thank the Eldress Macrina and all the beloved nuns at the Monastery of Saint Macrina in Kiveri, Greece, with whom I spent ten days in 2014, prior to beginning my MA in the UK. Their thoughts and prayers followed me everywhere I went and strengthened me in difficult times. I’d like to end this section by thanking the editorial team at Routledge, but especially Helena Hurd for encouraging a book proposal even as I was starting my PhD and for her directions thereafter, and Matt Shobbrook for his wonderful and meticulous guidance in the process of manuscript preparation. I also wish to thank the publishers who gave me permission to re­-​ publish previous papers in this monograph: Jacob Islary, Editor of The ­ Journal of Development Practice, for allowing me to re­-​­use the paper “Mainstream Gender and Development Concepts and Theories at the Interface with Local Knowledge Systems: Some Theoretical Reflections” (2017), reproduced in large part in the Introduction; Robert Parkin, Editor of the Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford Online, for giving permission to republish and use excerpts from the paper “Epistemological reflexivity and labyrinthine ethnography: insights from a gender­-​­sensitive study of conjugal abuse in a religious society” (2019), parts of which appear in Chapter 2 and in most ethnographic chapters; and Marie Bridonneau, the Director of Centre Français des Études Éthiopiennes (CFEE), who granted permission to re­-​­use parts of my article “Contextualising conjugal abuse in religio­-​­cultural worldviews and material realities: A decolonial, ethnographic approach from Aksum, Northern Ethiopia”, forthcoming in Annales d’Éthiopie, volume 33.

1 Introduction The metaphysics of gender and development

The concept of ‘gender’ found its way in the field of development studies through Marxist discourse at a time when development practitioners started to preoccupy themselves with the exclusion of women from economic advancement.1 Steadily, attention was transferred from capitalism and colonialism as forces of human oppression to women’s disadvantaged status in society, biased ideas of femininity and masculinity and women’s inferior social valuation under ‘patriarchal’ systems.2 The incorporation of gender concerns within development studies evolved in different phases, with milestones being the well­-​­known Women in Development (WID) and Women and Development (WAD) paradigms.3 These were later criticised for instrumentalising women for the purposes of development and failing to challenge more structural gender inequalities. They were also critiqued by non­-​­western writers for presenting all women as ‘oppressed’ and ‘patriarchy’ as the defining parameter of all women’s social status, ignoring the historical and socio­-​­cultural particularities of different women around the world.4 The more recent paradigm of Gender and Development (GAD) was mainstreamed globally following the Fourth World Conference on Women held in 1995 in Beijing, China.5 This paradigm has continued to assume that female subordination is universally pertinent and has directly sought to redress unequal gender relations through interventions that aim to ‘empower’ women and other minority groups conceptualised as oppressed, placing more emphasis on masculinities, which were neglected in previous paradigms.6 Because gender inequalities have been understood as intrinsic to structures, institutions and relations, advocates have emphasised the need for ‘transformative’ empowerment.7 The notion of ‘consciousness­-​ raising’ has been central in these discussions: women should be led to ­ recognise deeply internalised pernicious beliefs and norms and their collective power to reverse them.8 In other words, gender relations are assumed to be structurally unequal, established gender norms are viewed suspiciously, and women’s experiences are used as a point of reference for “(re)­-​­imagining” women under a feminist ideal, demonstrating the influence of a feminist standpoint epistemology.

2  Introduction: gender and development theory The effectiveness of the gender and development paradigm has been highly debated since its mainstreaming in the 1990s. Many prominent writers have affirmed that ‘gender’ has been extensively depoliticised, misunderstood, or co­ -​­ opted and have detailed illuminating genealogies on how ‘gender’, ‘gender mainstreaming’ and the associated concept of ‘empowerment’ have been deployed by bureaucrats, organisational staff, and practitioners over time to result in ‘development speak’ stripped of its original theoretical implications.9 Two Gender and Development issues in 2005 and 2012 dedicated to gender mainstreaming confirmed these problematic patterns.10 This extensive analysis on gender discourse at the institutional, organisational and methodological levels11 is striking when compared to the limited discussion of the epistemological implications of transposing mainstream gender discourse to non­-​­western contexts. In parallel to assuming the relevance of promoting gender equality internationally, no serious discussion emerged around how gender practitioners should account for local belief and knowledge systems in gender analysis, theorisation and sensitisation cross­-​­culturally. The political urgency of the gender and development project seems to have overshadowed important ethical and practical questions around pursuing and achieving such an objective in diverse religio­-​­cultural contexts. In most cases, gender inequalities have been assumed on the basis of generic theoretical frameworks, with local cultural or religious institutions being portrayed as loci of female subordination that must be subverted.12 Scrutinising gender and development paradigms and current approaches to gender mainstreaming in relation to diverse non­-​­western contexts, but, especially, non­-​­secular societies, is particularly urgent in our times. In the aforementioned Gender and Development issues a few authors suggested a degree of incommensurability between the gender ideals of the Beijing agenda and the gender realities, norms, expectations and constraints of men and women in non­-​­western local societies, most of them religious.13 While religious parameters have been increasingly integrated in gender and development studies in many nuanced ways, the relevant studies and their insights do not appear to have caused a shift in mainstream theory and practice.14 The gender mainstreaming literature includes cases of local women and men who found ‘gender’ to be alien to their language and culture and threatening to their religious beliefs.15 After assessing the reasons behind the hesitation of some non­ -​­ governmental organisations (NGOs) in Africa to engage with gender equality discourse, Senorina Wendoh and Tina Wallace noted that “[r]eligious faith and traditional cultural values are important in communities” but “these are not easily reconciled with the current concepts of gender equality imported from international agencies and donors”.16 In their detailed study of the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW) domestication process in Nigeria, Oluwafunmilayo Para­-Mallam ​­ and co­-​­authors interviewed men and women who expressed objections to

Introduction: gender and development theory   3 the ideal of gender equality, citing religio­ -​­ cultural alternatives.17 Similar objections were recorded in relation to gender trainings in the Francophone world.18 At a more recent series of conferences organised to examine the engagement of faith actors in the formulation of the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), at least a few participants noted tensions between the language of SDG 5 and local understandings of normative gender identity, sexuality and gender­-​­related aspects of life.19 The case of the CEDAW domestication process in Nigeria, which was analysed extensively in a study by the Religions and Development (RaD) programme of the University of Birmingham, offers a closer examination.20 The report makes evident that the language of gender equality in the CEDAW document was perceived to contradict religio­ -​­ cultural gender norms, such as those related to marriage among Muslim believers, or normative values exemplified in the opposition to abortion among Christian believers. Considerable objections were also raised by women and men who valued theological understandings of gender and believed in the potential of their religious traditions to promote human dignity without resorting to imported concepts or the language of human rights. A participant named Ruth, for example, questioned the need for western ideals of equality on the premise of theology that grounded man­-​­woman equality in the divine creation.21 Objections to CEDAW motivated by androcentric or ideological interests to secure the continuation of girls’ and women’s oppression or abuse should never be justified and were rightly contested, but it is important that less hostile reservations citing religio­-cultural ​­ worldviews be given careful consideration. This is because they may very well point to fundamental incompatibilities between local gender understandings and values and the gender metaphysics assumed in the field. My use of metaphysics in this book is etymological and pertains to fundamental conceptualisations and aetiologies of gender, agency and other aspects of humanity that remain partially speculative to the human mind and cannot be conclusively known by mere observation. While much gender theory invokes sociological phenomena to justify its premises, there should be no doubt that the conceptualisation and aetiology of gender largely relies on feminist philosophical contemplations. Consequently, gender paradigms have been disproportionately grounded in western metaphysics of human individuality and gender, which evolved together with the secularisation of what were previously western Christian beliefs and knowledge systems dominant in these societies. It is this fundamental epistemological ‘situatedness’ of the concept of gender and its cognate terms that leads me to doubt the relevance of gender theory internationally and which, I believe, explains some of the defensive reactions by communities and individuals who have no historical reasons to espouse the same philosophical thinking. These connections begin to become more visible with a closer look at the genealogical progression of western feminist thinking in relation to the concept of gender.

4  Introduction: gender and development theory

A brief genealogy of feminist thought around gender Where an examination of western feminist literature should begin is a debated matter, not least because of a diversity of thought around how ‘feminism’ should be defined.22 Historians have established that female writers in Italy, Spain, France and Britain addressed negative representations about women in scholarship as early as the fifteenth century,23 long before the feminist movement became politically active in the nineteenth century. While feminist scholarship and praxis throughout the centuries is characterised by a common concern to address social and cultural sexism, the ways in which prominent advocates pursued this goal evolved over time. Hence, while religious beliefs were still potent in western society and human thinking, feminist writers tended to invoke religious idiom to counter what they saw as distorted ideas about women perpetuated in male discourses.24 Similarly, conceptualisations of humanity and gender identity and relations were appraised in relation to theological knowledge, which was steadily opened to critique through intellectual reasoning. An illustrative example is Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), in which she was keen to demonstrate that reason was not reserved only for males, and that women could equally think and develop ‘virtues’ if allowed to be educated. However, she did so not by evading references to religious knowledge, but by questioning conventional biblical understandings as set out by male authors, such as Rousseau (e.g. in relation to God’s intentions for humanity, including the female sex).25 Over time, invocations of religious idiom in feminist writings became more critical and in some cases blatantly hostile. Whereas earlier female writers spoke respectfully and invoked religious knowledge authoritatively not to offend the sentiments of the wider society, with the gradual secularisation of philosophical thinking many became more outspoken in their critique of religious and political ‘patriarchy’ (see Chapter 2). This is evident in the works of feminist writers who were preoccupied with the critique of representations and the treatment of women in biblical traditions, such as ­Elizabeth Cady Stanton (1815–1902), Mary Daly (1928–2010) and Rosemary Radford Ruether (1936–). Examining the writings of Mary Daly, for example, evidences that she (like other feminists in this and subsequent eras) was concerned about pronouncing women’s positive attributes and characteristics to reverse a historical devaluation of female traits in men’s writings, including theological texts.26 As Linda Alcoff has noted, the problem for such early writers was not so much female essence (which was to be problematised later), but masculinity itself and even “male biology”.27 Increasingly, however, social sexism was intertwined with ideas of natural sex, which shifted feminist writers’ attention to ‘denaturalising’ sex difference.28 The second­ -​­ wave feminist movement introduced ‘gender’ in its lexicon precisely to shift attention to socially constructed understandings and valuations of women under what had been unequal power relations

Introduction: gender and development theory   5 between men and women.29 Since the 1920s, the term gender – beyond its grammatical designation in French – had been employed by western psycho­-​ ­analysts specialising in trans­-​­sexuality to denote what was at the time perceived as the “psychological sex”, or one’s internal gender identification.30 By appropriating the concept of ‘gender’, feminists reversed the implicit understanding that internal gender identification was more important than biology, causing a departure from the early conceptualisation of gender as immutable psychological feeling to mutable social aspects.31 On the other hand, ‘sex’ was relegated to the biological or ‘natural’ immutable realm, with the implication that gender was ‘founded’ on sex. This seminal reversal of meaning resulted in a widely affirmed dichotomisation of human existence into natural and social realms. For example, in 1975, Gayle Rubin referred to the ‘gender/sex system’ which she conceived as “a set of arrangements by which a society transforms biological sexuality into products of human activity, and in which these transformed sexual needs are satisfied”.32 This summarised her perception that female oppression is a product of a pre­-​­existing normative framework, perpetuated in kinship systems, which gendered people by their sexed bodies. By recourse to psychology, Rubin was also the one to integrate more explicitly sexuality into gender, linking heteronormativity to a pre­-​­existing patriarchal status quo. She called for ‘a genderless (but not sexless) society’ in which individuals would continue to be seen as anatomically different, but this anatomy would not determine their sexuality, identities, positions, and behaviours in society. In 1983, Moira Gatens undertook the critical exercise to evaluate the sex/gender dichotomy and to ascertain whether it was a valid distinction.33 Gatens responded to liberal feminist positions that favoured re­-​ ­education, arguing that these presented the body and the psyche as tabula rasa that could be re­-​­socialised in ways desirable for social transformation. She reasoned that under this paradigm, gender was made an issue of the mind and the effect of internalising social ‘lessons’, while the body was seen to serve only as the passive recipient of these ‘inscriptions’. Gatens’ proposition was that the body should not be seen as a neutral surface and that the connection between femininity and masculinity with regard to the female and male body should not be considered arbitrary. Since male and female bodies were given different social values, subjective consciousness was anticipated to form according to these different significances. In 1994, Linda Nicholson also criticised second­-​­wave theories on the premise that they assumed biology­-​­founded conceptualisations of women, what she referred to as “biological foundationalism”.34 Nicholson’s argument was that such persistent conceptualisations of gender hindered efforts to understand differences among men and women and the cause of this distinction cross­ -​­ culturally. In order to deem the analytical construct of gender relevant to all societies, she proposed to appraise

6  Introduction: gender and development theory social variations in the male/female distinction as related to differences that go “all the way down”, that is, as tied not just to the limited phenomena associated typically with gender (i.e. cultural stereotypes of personality and behaviour), but also to culturally variable understandings of the body and more fundamental meanings of womanhood/ manhood.35 In other words, it would be necessary to conduct a more in­-​­depth analysis that considered how sex difference was understood within the societal framework overall. Also in the 1990s, Judith Butler took a step further in denaturalising conceptualisations of gender by problematising the very category of sex.36 Butler advanced a conceptualisation of gender that was different from previous theories, locating it neither within the body nor outside of it, but identified it with the very locus of the subject’s coming into being and its becoming socially intelligible.37 She reasoned that even though sex had always been considered dimorphic, if gender was the cultural meaning of the sexed body (following Gatens’ thinking), it was not necessary for gender to manifest exclusively in a binary form. If the immutability of sex was questioned and understood as culturally constructed, then perhaps it could be suggested that sex had been gender all along. Butler’s subversion of the western humanist ‘metaphysics of substance’ that had historically assumed some innate quality to sex and gender was enforced by other theorists who were preoccupied with how classifications and language determined body intelligibility and the metaphysical edifice that had traditionally sustained binary sex. For example, Anne Fausto­-​­Sterling observed in 1993 that while multiple sexes and intersexuality existed in nature, in medical and social classifications the sexes had been conventionally limited to two.38 She, thus, stressed the power of classification in determining ‘nature’, shaking irrevocably the understanding of sex as biologically dyadic. Contradicting post­ -​­ structuralist definitions of gender that radically relegated its replication to discursive­-​­psychical processes, Linda Alcoff proposed an alternative understanding of gender invoking the concept of ‘positionality’.39 She advanced what she believed to be a non­ -​­ essentialist conceptualisation, but one that could still enable women to be treated as a uniform category, facilitating feminist politics. According to her reasoning, a woman’s identity was shaped multi­-​­dimensionally by various elements in her surroundings, which she summarised in the concept of positionality. She argued that this theorisation “should not imply that the concept of ‘woman’ is determined solely by external elements and that the woman herself is merely a passive recipient of an identity created by these forces” but that the woman “actively contributes to the context within which her position can be delineated”.40 Hence, positionality was not to be studied to discover meaning, but rather to uncover how women used “their positional perspective as a place from which values are interpreted and constructed”.41

Introduction: gender and development theory   7 More recently, Raia Prokhnovik,42 engaging critically with post­-​­structuralist theorists, set to bridge the cognitive with the corporeal and to overcome the implicit mind/body and reason/emotion bifurcations implied in the gender/sex dichotomy.43 It is important to note that feminist debates and theorisations evolved under the heightened recognition of ethnocentric representations of women in the world talking privileged white women’s conditions as their point of reference.44 Black feminist thinkers and activists in North America drew important attention to the fact that white women’s theorisations could not capture black women’s multiple oppressions, that is to say, the implications of race in the construction of gender subjectivities and relations.45 In her deconstruction of ‘gender’ in the Igbo society on Nigeria, Ifi Amadiume seminally criticised the rigid gender binary in western feminist theory by drawing on the social categories of ‘male daughters’ and ‘female husbands’ in Igbo society.46 Although her use of the concept of gender to advance her argument has been subsequently problematised by Nkiru Uwechia Nzegwu,47 Amadiume effectively demonstrated that women were not subordinated in the Igbo society by default of their sex identity, weakening western feminist assumptions. In 1997, Nigerian anthropologist Oyèrónkéẹ́ ̣ Oyěwùmí insightfully traced the problematic ‘bio­-​­logic’ in gender theory to western epistemology, arguing that this inherently assumed a body­-​­mind bifurcation and prioritised visual indicators over holistic ‘world­-​­sense’.48 She argued that if gender were to be defined as socially constructed, as prominent western theorists proposed, gender would need to be dissociated from anatomy and be granted diversity across time, space and cultural context.49 By this she meant to say that gender should not be essentialised on the basis of a bodily or biological division, since the division alone does not communicate anything substantive about gender relations if alienated from the local matrix of meanings and embodied practices. In 2006, Nzegwu addressed full force the fact that western feminist understandings have stubbornly assumed within the concept of gender an inherent hierarchical relationship between female and male, reflecting a fundamental inculpation of sex difference in western thought (the ‘mono­-​­sex system’).50 She laboriously juxtaposed this to the Onitsa dual­-​­sex system to demonstrate an alternative system that openly admitted and embraced sexual difference but ensured that women and men had their respective powers and responsibilities to shape society and life. Subsequently, building on the concept of ‘intersectionality’,51 western feminist thinkers enlarged their analytical dimensions to consider other lines of difference and vectors of human identity, such as race and ethnicity.52 In parallel, mainstream feminist thought has invariably adopted the position that gender is socially constructed, but “which social practices construct gender, what social construction is and what being of a certain gender amounts to are major feminist controversies”.53 This reflects a more profound inconclusiveness around human metaphysics and a divergence in

8  Introduction: gender and development theory feminist thinking around how bodies intertwine with cognitive and emotional consciousness and how they may be conceptualised in relation to social categories and historical processes without either essentialising or nullifying the individual subject. Gender theory as a reflection of deeper metaphysics of humanity and gender The theoretical thinking reviewed here is not exhaustive, but offers a sufficient window into the evolution of feminist thinking around gender and sex for the purposes of this discussion. These theories have been informed by and have internalised a historical social sexism that women in western societies experienced, resulting in a genealogy of thinking that evolved and shifted multiple times but without ever eschewing the assumption of a fundamental hierarchy between men and women. This hierarchy has been predicated on a variety of different parameters favoured by different theorists in different eras, including: sexed traits, sexed ideals (social ­femininities/ masculinities), sex­-marked ​­ bodies (based on anatomical/biological ‘sex’), and sexuality norms (socially reproduced heteronormative systems). More importantly, these conceptualisations of gender inequality have not been disconnected from more profound western understandings of humanity and the human personhood. As Linda Nicholson hinted in her very insightful analysis of gender theory developments from the sixteenth to the twentieth century, when the Church and theology still held authority in western societies, the human person/nature and gender/sexual identity tended to be theologically explained.54 Perhaps this is why it was easier to locate gender identity internally in early psychological theories or to speak in terms of ‘essential’ female or male traits in feminist critiques of biblical scholarship. With the Bible losing its authoritative grip on western society, human individuality was inevitably opened to scientific explorations. In the twentieth century, human personalities were increasingly conceptualised as reflective of social processes, but they did not eschew assumptions that “biology is the site of character formation”.55 Humanist tendencies to consider the human self as essential were reflected in gender theorisations that placed the aetiology of gender in the topography of the sexed body, resulting in a sort of ‘biological foundationalism’. As anti­-​­Enlightenment/anti­-​­humanist critiques expanded, such positions started to be questioned and gender and sex were problematised and reconceptualised as socially constructed. Thenceforth, feminist theory of gender became preoccupied with liberating itself from ‘biological foundationalism’ and focused on understanding how men and women could be explained as socially constituted in view of anatomical differences, but not limited to those  – hence the shift from speaking of human individuals to human subjects. The rise of post­-​­modernist theorisations promoted a total replacement of biology­-​­based ontologies with an

Introduction: gender and development theory   9 “ontology of social things, relations, and non­-​­substantive (and often normative) kinds”.56 While western feminists could have worked to reverse pernicious attitudes about women in their societies by cultivating a more egalitarian value system, they opted to theorise sex difference as the foundation of gender inequality, subsequently appraising with suspicion any conceptualisations of gender that tended to reinforce historical ‘essentialist’ understandings of women, gender and more fundamentally, humanity. It is this reactionary type of thinking that I consider unhelpful in cross­-​­cultural gender studies. These tactics seem to assume that western women’s experiences with religious authorities and theology have been shared by all women in the world, disregarding cross­-​­cultural differences in how communities and individuals understand humanity and gender ontology, but also the different configurations between religious traditions and gender ideas and realities encountered in different local contexts. As the earlier analysis of CEDAW demonstrated, many non­-​­western societies continue to uphold potent religious traditions that define and influence how people understand their gender identities and formulate gender standards, and these have not been perceived always or necessarily in pernicious ways. A feminist thinking that remains deeply western Euro­-​­centric in its understanding of gender relations and religious beliefs cannot possibly accommodate this complex reality, a limitation that becomes crucial in gender and development theory and practice.

Western Euro­-​­centrism in the paradigm of gender and development While no single discipline, theory or paradigm has shaped the variegated gender and development landscape, the latter has visibly borrowed theoretical constructs from feminist theory in North America and Western Europe, absorbing also its more implicit metaphysical assumptions. Parallels are seen in conventional gender analytical and gender planning frameworks typically employed in the field in the 1980s and 1990s, which sought to evaluate gender relations on the basis of division of labour, access to resources or distribution of decision­-​­making authority between female and male persons.57 Reflecting the tacitly accepted notions of ‘biological foundationalism’ in feminist theory, judgements about gender relations were almost automatically predicated on how sex­-​­marked bodies shared labour, livelihoods, assets, decision­-​­making, etc., while the lived subjectivities and beliefs, internal perceptions and attitudes that sex­-​­marked individuals displayed toward each other were broadly ignored. This not only failed to consider that gender relations could not be studied on the basis of visible markers, but also evidenced fundamental premises in feminist theory that considered gender roles and responsibilities predicated on ‘natural’ sex difference as fundamentally pernicious.

10  Introduction: gender and development theory The related terms of ‘gender equality’ and ‘empowerment’ display similar limitations for having remained embedded in western Euro­-​­centric assumptions and ideals. The gender and development sector conventionally tended toward “universalist and non­-​­discriminatory”58 definitions of gender equality predicated on ideals of sameness: same opportunities and valuations for all genders, as exemplified in the CEDAW document.59 However, in some societies these ideals can create tensions where the realities of men and women are materially different, requiring rather complex processes and considerable time to motivate shifts in attitudes or norms. More recently, gender equality in some GAD discourse has been equated to ideals of gender fluidity invoking Butlerean theory.60 These advocates have not reflected, however, on the fact that gender ideals sought in western contexts can be ethically problematic and counterproductive where gender difference is explained on the basis of gender ontologies informed by potent religious traditions or other indigenous worldviews. Moreover, despite Butler’s quest to criticise and to subvert universalisms about ‘women’ and gender identity by raising awareness about the exclusionary implications of such discourse, her very rigid theoretical stance appears to exclude propositions or interpretations on gender ontology and social constructiveness that prescribe any sort of gender/sexual normativity.61 Butler is very explicit that “as a transcendental claim, sexual difference should be rigorously opposed” because she argues that such claims result inevitably in the impermissibility of some gender identities and sexual arrangements.62 Her affirmed sympathy for religious beliefs and faith notwithstanding,63 this intransigent position on normative gender/sexuality cannot be expected to resonate or be accommodating to communities that adhere to more prescriptive understandings of sexual difference, including many members of religious communities. Paralleling feminist theory progressions, the concept of intersectionality has been increasingly mainstreamed in gender and development, but this has tended to simplification, pertaining to multiple “inequalities”, “lines of discrimination”, or “identities” that intersect “to produce disadvantage”.64 Paul Cramer has eloquently observed that in gender and development discourse intersectionality usually “forms knowledge around ‘authentic victimhoods’ ”, essentialising the oppressed subject.65 As has been noted before by feminist writers, not all divisions need be axes of discrimination – some can be cultural differences.66 The gender and development scholarship has generally neglected to consider and to demonstrate in practice how differences that result from exclusionary practices can be distinguished from differences that reflect individual preferences grounded in culture­-​ ­specific worldviews. More importantly, within the analytic, social divisions have been generally preconceived (gender, race and class being the most potent examples), and these have been theorised in accordance with the dominant epistemology. Will these social divisions be equally relevant in non­-​­western religious systems? Will social divisions be theorised on the

Introduction: gender and development theory   11 basis of social/material processes alone, or will beliefs about the spiritual realm be equally or more salient? Reflecting the unresolved feminist debates around social constructionism, some crucial questions around gender analysis were never satisfactorily addressed in this field. For example, how should a GAD practitioner investigate a socially constructed gender where they have no previous understanding of gender subjectivities and relations in a given local society (as is usually the case)? Prior to deciding whether gender is an important parameter for understanding human relations locally, should not practitioners investigate how different individuals exist and relate to each other and conceptualise gender and judge its importance for local relations on the basis of these understandings? Given diverse systems and understandings, is it ethical or accurate to presume that local ideas of ‘natural’ gender or gender norms are automatically pernicious and should be subverted? Such tendencies do not only result from what Oyěwùmí described as a bio­-​­logic in feminist theory and the western sciences, but reflects a more profound western metaphysics of humanity and gender as elaborated earlier  – a humanity historically viewed through a social/biological binary lens whereby sexual difference (no matter how defined) has been integral to conceptualisations of gender inequality. On the basis of these observations, can GAD theory and praxis accommodate understandings that lie outside of western epistemology and that are based on some essence­-​­based or other ontological but not necessarily hierarchical conceptualisations of humanity and gender? Many GAD writers label religious beliefs as ‘ideologies’ or fundamentalist expressions if they are invoked to oppose gender equality agendas and initiatives.67 It is rarely considered, however, that in some instances such oppositions can arise as a reaction to a perceived imposition of gender meta­physics that are alien to local beliefs and value systems, a reaction that can be amplified by colonial histories and legacies. It must be entertained that when religious communities or individuals fail to resonate with a programme that aims to promote ‘gender equality’, as expressed for example in the language of the Sustainable Development Goal 5, they may not be opposing the idea of more egalitarian gender relations per se, but the metaphysical connotations that the concept has within western epistemology and experience and the neo­-​­colonial act of transposing this onto their societies as if they should be considered normative.68 As the case of CEWAD domestication indicated, these connotations do not go unnoticed by communities and can offend them, which raises urgent ethical and practical questions about gender and development approaches in these contexts. Religion in gender and development discourse What is considered development was undoubtedly catalysed by western Christian values and could not be disassociated from the ‘civilising project’ of western Christian administrators and missionaries in colonial times.69

12  Introduction: gender and development theory In western societies, secularisation gradually led to a marginalisation of religion to the private sphere, which then infiltrated also paradigms of development and conceptualisations of ‘religion’.70 Western societies’ systematic efforts to liberate ‘reason’ from a political religious authority begot movements not only to ostracise ‘religion’ from public culture but also to develop secular philosophical and scientific approaches to the study of the world previously viewed through the prism of an all­-​­encompassing theology. Saudi Arabian anthropologist Talal Asad has pertinently observed that it was the unique product of western modernity and secularism to perceive religious discourse in the public arena as a disguise for power, which needed to be banished from public culture.71 This same experience of secularisation fuelled the emergence of the concept of religion in the nineteenth century. The idea of ‘religion’ was explored in a series of philosophical, ethnological, philological and sociological propositions by (predominantly male) elite scholars concomitantly with the development of civilisations as western societies interacted with other peoples in a quest for self­-​­understanding and imperialist interests.72 While Christian theology still held sway, it was used as a prism to analyse other religious systems in reference to a superior western Christianity. Different thinkers engaged with ‘religion’ in ways that resonated with the stage of the secularisation, fostering also different epistemologies for the study of ‘religion’, such as analysing ‘religion’ as a natural phenomenon, as a transcendental thing­-​­in­-​­itself (sui generis), or as a symbolic system.73 In contemporary times, the confessionalist impartialities in early paradigms of ‘religion’ have fostered a discernible suspicion of theology, with scholars placing emphasis on improving rigour and reflexivity by prioritising the study of embodied experiences and lived faith.74 Reflecting these and other historical and political processes, for the second half of the twentieth century the development scholarship paid very little attention to religious beliefs and knowledge in the world. For the most part, international development regarded religious belief either as a hindrance or as irrelevant to development practice.75 Gender and development was not immune to these trends. With the exception of a rare volume that appeared in 1983 on the nexus gender, development and religion that made an attempt to explore how different religious traditions spoke about women,76 gender and development was equally secularised, neglecting the religious sphere almost entirely. A volume titled Gender, Religion and Spirituality was published by Oxfam in 1998 to note and address this historical marginalisation. In addition to neglecting religion, GAD writers typically dismissed it as a locus of female subordination for reasons that will be discussed in Chapter 2.77 Recent decades have been defined by a ‘turn to religion’, a shift within the development sector toward closer engagement with religious actors for the sake of promoting development interests and objectives.78 In parallel, gender studies that engage with religious beliefs have multiplied within

Introduction: gender and development theory   13 international development scholarship, adding important nuances to the intersection of religious and gender parameters.79 Still, this increased attention does not appear to have altered the theoretical premises within much GAD scholarship.80 The premise that gender identity is hierarchical and that religion is a contributing factor persists, although the need for engagement with religious actors is more often acknowledged now.81 Moreover, conceptualisations of religion continue to be influenced by a western epistemology of religion, evident in persistent demarcations between secular and religious, belief and reason, or private and public,82 and in the rarity of GAD studies that integrate theology­-informed ​­ perspectives engaging substantively and openly with local exegetical traditions.83 In recent years, religion and development scholars have pronounced the importance for interpretative approaches centring on the perceptions and discourses of the believers themselves.84 However, the field still lacks a conceptualisation of ‘religion’ at an epistemological level. I generally share Gloria Ladson­-Billings’ ​­ understanding that epistemology is linked to a specific worldview, which enables specific modes of reasoning.85 An epistemological system determines the criteria that individuals employ to define and to generate valid knowledge and to reason out their realities, not least being their gender subjectivities and gender relations. Saba Mahmood has implied this in her discussion of self­-​­reflexivity, which she traced to the discursive matrix that enables and defines the possibilities, modes and forms of subject formation.86 While an epistemology need not be static or exist in isolation and individuals can be exposed to multiple epistemological systems, it should be clear that all individuals are ‘epistemologically situated’, which means that they are closely linked to some belief and knowledge system that they have reasons to value the most and which influences their thinking. Some of these modes of reasoning can very well be embedded within religious or other indigenous belief systems that may conceptualise the human personhood, gender and other aspects of human existence in reference to transcendental or non­-​­discursive dimensions.87 Numerous African scholars, for example, have referred to gender conceptualisations and ideals in their societies by invoking non­-​­secular beliefs systems, premised on indigenous metaphysics of humanity, the human psyche, or agentival capacity.88 For example, in a discussion of gender relations within a local indigenous ­African system, Obioma Nnaemeka invoked local metaphysics of the psyche as god­-​­man and as essentially genderless to demonstrate fundamental equality between all human individuals.89 In previous gender­-​­sensitive research with a Sufi community of Fulani descent in Senegal, I found that men and women generally rationalised gender relations in reference to an authoritative Islamic worldview, which seemed to perpetuate a gendered organisation of life whereby women were expected to care for the house and men for livelihoods outside.90 Similarly, Eastern Orthodox believers would generally appraise human ontology and gender through a theology­-informed ​­ prism

14  Introduction: gender and development theory that stipulates a normative male­-female ​­ order and equality in oneness, without denying however the possibility of a non­-​­normative gender or sexuality.91 There is a need for theoretical frameworks that explain gender realities within local worldviews as inseparable from religious traditions to achieve a better understanding of gender relations and embodiments in societies located outside of western experience. Northern Ethiopia, for example, where the present study was conducted, largely adheres to an ancient civilisation and a pre­-​­Chalcedon Christian faith formally adopted by the rulers of the flourishing Kingdom of Aksum in the fourth century. Western ­European influences from the sixteenth century onwards did not leave the religious tradition unaffected, but Ethiopian responses have shown a wariness to preserve the indigenous religio­-cultural ​­ heritage, as evidenced in the expulsion of the Jesuits in the seventeenth century.92 Moreover, Ethiopia was never colonised by western European powers, with the exception of a short occupation it experienced following the second Ethio­ -​­ Italian war (1935–1937). This ancient Christian faith that developed intimately with the socio­-​­cultural surroundings and political history of wider Ethiopia reflected in how Tigrayan people in Aksum and the surrounding areas lived their lives, processed their social experiences and understood humanity and the human personhood. In contrast, GAD theorists and practitioners have been epistemologically situated in a predominantly secular epistemology. This observation needs to be appraised concomitantly with the fact that much production of knowledge in higher education still lacks reflexivity around the epistemological situatedness of the theorist. Theory taught in Gender and Development courses, as seen in the case of IDS, is rarely based on an intimate engagement with local contexts and local conceptual frameworks of gender. Western Euro­-​­centric theories produced in academic or research institutes are then popularised through the work of intermediary epistemic communities that establish paradigms of development, such as think tanks, policy institutes and the international techno­-​­scientific non­-​­governmental (INGO) sector. Non­-​­western theorists in higher education do not eschew the problems generated by this system because western epistemology is not limited to western universities but extends to many non­-​­western counterparts.93 On the other hand, local gender practitioners may hesitate to raise objections in order to be hired by NGOs and development agencies espousing the mainstream paradigms of the donors funding them.94 As an alternative and on the basis of my overall experience and this specific study from Ethiopia, I propose that gender­ -​­ sensitive research and practice must be based on theoretical constructs emanating from local discourses, which should then guide practical interventions on the ground. Adopting such an approach requires epistemological reflexivity on behalf of theorists and practitioners and a suspension or reflexive questioning of assumptions that do not emanate from local experience. It also raises the

Introduction: gender and development theory   15 need for more training (linguistic, historical, theological, etc.) to achieve a more substantive engagement with local communities. This approach is anticipated to reveal more complex relationships and realities that can deem conventional GAD approaches and language inappropriate and impractical in some contexts, while pointing to locally resourceful strategies for addressing gender­-related ​­ issues.

Domestic violence in gender and development and public health theory The extensive discussion on Gender and Development and engagements with local belief and knowledge systems was given as a prelude to problematising domestic violence approaches in international development and public health practice followed in non­ -western ​­ societies. Within these fields, the fundamental thesis that violence affecting women and girls  – including intimate partner violence (IPV)  – has gendered motivations, has been widely assumed, as indicated in the popular terminologies of Violence against Women (VAW), Gender­-​­based Violence (GBV), gender violence or gendered violence  – used with different theoretical connotations that are rarely made explicit.95 Sally Engle Merry, who has offered a closer conceptual analysis, has defined gender violence “as violence whose meaning depends on the gendered identities of the parties”96 and “violence that is comprehensible because of the gender of the interaction”.97 Interestingly, these terminologies have been assumed and transposed even as most writers ascribe to an ecological model of violence,98 which should offer a broader aetiology of abusive behaviour in reference to multiple analytical levels: individual, family, societal and systemic.99 Favouring feminist, social or cultural aetiologies of violence,100 the sector has historically neglected ontogenetic (related to biological growth), psychological (personality disorders, intergenerational trauma, etc.) and relational factors (situational violence, couple dynamics) that the IPV scholarship from North America and western Europe has more extensively drawn attention to.101 These ideological inclinations have fostered a discernible double standard whereby in low­-​­and middle­-​­income and traditional societies emphasis has been placed on feminist sociological aetiologies, while studies in industrialised societies have paid equal attention to family studies and psychological theories. This stubborn emphasis on cultural or sociological explanations in IPV studies cannot possibly be disassociated from historical racist beliefs in Anglo­-American ​­ thinking about less ‘civilised’ cultures.102 More contextualised studies from local societies have captured complex psychological, environmental, religious/spiritual and socio­ -​­ cultural parameters underpinning the manifestation of the problem cross­-​­culturally, with some supporting and others rejecting a gender­-​­based aetiology of violence.103 Yet, the field has assumed the GBV aetiology uncritically and has not generally

16  Introduction: gender and development theory made the effort to demonstrate why this aetiology is relevant and analytically useful in reference to a specific ethnographic context. While the possible gendered dimensions of IPV are not denied, these need to be empirically demonstrated and not simply assumed. In addition, the field has historically prioritised women as the prevalent victims, marginalising or essentialising men as perpetrators.104 While the discourse of ‘masculinities’ has made men more central in GBV discourse and alleviation strategies in recent years, the more individual/psychological and interpersonal parameters defining male abusiveness in relation to locally identified risks factors have yet to be substantively accounted for.105 Importantly, the GBV aetiology of violence has not eschewed the epistemological limitations that were raised about the underlying GAD paradigm. Reflecting western feminist thinking, these aetiologies have invoked ‘patriarchal’ relations to justify violence, without providing a comprehensive argument as to why a theory of hierarchical relations applies or is relevant locally, or without providing a rigorous theorisation of patriarchy, which has been one of the most problematised concepts in feminist theory.106 Similarly to the wider GAD field, the influence of the epistemological locus of the theorist/researcher in the analysis and theorisation of IPV and the possible limitations have been rarely considered explicitly or transparently. Reflecting a western epistemology, these theoretical aetiologies have tended to be underpinned by a general suspicion toward what are perceived to be authoritative cultural or religious institutions. Hence, intervention strategies have tended toward liberal or laboratory feminist interventions, predicating the alleviation of gender violence to a subversion of the status quo, but especially of the religious systems that sustain the latter. Since the alleviation of partner violence has been historically equated to a subversion of the status quo, very little research has been dedicated to exploring alleviation strategies within and leveraging on indigenous cosmologies, including religious idiom. Some faith­-​­based initiatives for the alleviation of violence affecting women and girls have been taken by what could be called faith­-​­based organisations (FBOs),107 but these approaches have not eschewed assumptions about the gendered nature of violence tending toward reductionism. Moreover, the literature capturing such initiatives has focused repeatedly on faith leaders and their interactions with local communities,108 considering less the influence of religious worldviews, beliefs and values on structures, norms, attitudes and human behaviour more holistically. I submit that such tendencies can impede understanding and leveraging on the contextual and nuanced mechanisms that determine IPV attitudes and realities in worldviews that lie outside of western epistemology, and especially those embedded in authoritative religious traditions that are less understood in western Europe and North America. This is regrettable because many of the societies targeted by development and public health interventions are embedded in religious belief and knowledge systems that underpin human socialisation, rationalisations and

Introduction: gender and development theory   17 behaviour in multi­ -​­ dimensional ways. These societies may have fewer public resources or the infrastructure in place to address IPV and other forms of violence through systems established in industrialised societies, such as the provision of organised psychosocial services to perpetrators or referral services to victims. This makes it especially urgent to investigate how to avert and to alleviate the problem through local resources, including by leveraging on religious institutions and idiom where this is appropriate and feasible. A closer look at the epistemological premises of gender­-​­based violence research The limitations identified here extend beyond the recognised problem of under­-​­theorised deployment of GBV language globally, as has been previously observed by other scholars. Hilde Jakobsen is one practitioner who has reflected carefully on the tendency of the international development sector to conceptualise violence as gendered without empirical demonstration, attempting to redress this in her own qualitative work with women and men in Tanzania.109 While her study is exceptionally reflexive, it does not eschew the deeper epistemological limitations that I discern in most GBV research in low­ -​­and middle­ -​­ income countries, meriting a closer look. Contrary to the much under­-​­theorised GBV scholarship, Jakobsen made the effort to demonstrate why she believed that wife­-​­beating in her study context was gendered and why western theoretical frameworks could prove relevant or useful in analysing the situation locally. She provided a long discussion to show how she cautioned using both imperialist and relativist theoretical approaches to sociological theory in the African context. She also paid considerable attention to her use and choice of methodology in order to overcome inevitable power imbalances between a white privileged researcher and the local research participants. According to Jakobsen’s rationale, her ‘outsider’ identity excluded any likelihood that she could obtain from focus groups participants their genuine or private thoughts about IPV. She thus explored local “discursive resources for justifying wife­-​­beating”,110 or how wife­-beating ​­ was justified and discussed among the participants, opting to pose evocative questions to local focus groups and leaving the room until the discussion had ended. The collected empirical data was analysed with inductive use of gender theory with the aim to discover “the respondents’ own logic around wife­-​­beating”111 and to explore associations with social norms. Having conducted her investigations, Jakobsen found that local people spoke both of a “good” and a “bad” beating, with the good beating being justified and the bad being undeserved, such as a beating out of drunkenness, a beating that exceeded offence or one that caused damage that needed medical attention. In the focus groups, most men expressed belief in male

18  Introduction: gender and development theory headship and that women were expected to be under male rule. Hence, Jakobsen employed the concept of ‘hegemonic masculinity’ to suggest that wife­-​­beating sustained male headship and that violence correlated to a threatened masculine identity that could potentially alter the social order. Her interpretation was reinforced by that fact that women were expected to appear feminine and not to behave in ways that were considered inappropriate, a norm that women themselves appeared to approve of and to enforce. This, in turn, led Jakobsen to draw from the concept of ‘emphasised femininity’, which she proposed was directly associated with the female sex. She argued that the gender beliefs that she identified were not limited to the symbolic realm, but affected the home, food distribution, marriage wealth, and farm production. She thus concluded that gender norms supported violence, which in the local discursive framework gender was related to sex, and that wife­-​­beating was gendered because by doing violence men ‘did’ gender. Jakobsen argued that post­ -​­ colonial critiques should not exclude the possibility of employing theoretical concepts developed within a western epistemological framework to promote understanding in non­-western ​­ contexts as long as this is done on the basis of empirical findings. The sensibility of this rationale notwithstanding, I have my reservations for two reasons: first because the relevance of theoretical constructs is usually assessed on the basis of selective or limited discourses and observations regarding the local society and do not entirely ‘shed’ western metaphysics of gender and the human self. Secondly, because existing theoretical constructs may not capture parameters that emanate from the local belief and knowledge system and embodied experiences previously unsuspected by the theorist, especially non­-​­discursive realms. Despite its unusual reflexivity and cautionary approach, Jakobsen’s research did not provide a comprehensive analysis of how her interlocutors’ pronouncements of wife­-​­hitting could be located in the local cosmological framework. Moreover, this cosmological system was clearly intertwined with local religious traditions and value systems, but these intertwinements were not properly explored. More specifically, in her study Jakobsen did not reveal the mechanisms by which the local system sustained the norms she described and whether these aligned with the interlocutors’ publicly stated understandings and attitudes. Early in her work she reported being drawn to Tanzania because of the general understanding that this was a non­-​­violent country where social harmony was valued and preserved.112 Yet, she did not provide a discussion on how this ideal of social harmony related to the favourable attitudes to wife­ -​­ beating that were expressed. Moreover, while she mentioned that many of her participants adhered to the Christian or Muslim faith, citing religious affiliation next to research participant testimonies, she did not elaborate on the implications of this connection for her interlocutors’ attitudes about wife­-​­beating. Why is it that some men did not participate in the performative replication of social norms, for example the “good” beating, since they existed within the same context with their male peers who did?

Introduction: gender and development theory   19 Were they not ‘men’ enough? How might have gender been embodied and performed by this group who did not condone or enact violence, if violence was so deeply intertwined with ‘doing’ gender? More insights could be granted through a comprehensive study of how local people conceptualised a “good man” and a “good woman” in general and not only within discourses of domestic violence in the public setting. It is also notable that Jakobsen continued the western liberal tradition of conceptualising agency through the dual typology of ‘coercion’ or ‘complicity’, relying on Antonio Gramsci’s notions of hegemony to suggest “how the dominated become complicit in their own domination by sharing the ideas legitimating it”.113 Such conceptualisations of agency have fostered tendencies in international development literature to associate agency with the subversion of gender norms and institutions that are perceived to sustain them, resulting in a preoccupation with ‘changing’ norms. As Saba Mahmood convincingly demonstrated (see below), these conceptualisations are deeply embedded in western philosophies and understandings and can misguide research in religious societies espousing different understandings of human personhood and agency.114 Jakobsen cited testimonies by women who thought of wife­-​­beating under certain conditions permitted and justifiable, but these rationalisations need not be assessed necessarily through the lenses of coercion and domination. They could result from a combination of Christian, Muslim or other beliefs co­-​­acting with psychological, cognitive­-​ ­affective and other pragmatic reasons in complex ways requiring closer study. Social norms and public health approaches In more recent paradigms, public health scholarship on IPV has transferred attention to trans­-​­disciplinary social norms theories in an attempt to develop more nuanced theorisations of the intersections between gender ‘ideologies’, social norms and personal attitudes conducive to IPV.115 While these have considered empirical data from local societies and have engaged more directly with men, they have not eschewed problematic epistemological underpinnings that limit their application in non­-​­western religious contexts. In their theorisation of social norms and human behaviour, for example, Garry Mackie and co­-​­authors differentiated between social, moral and legal norms. Social norms were predicated on what the reference group approved, moral norms were traced to the individual’s “inner sense” of what was right or wrong, and legal norms were associated with the state. Religious norms were distinguished from other norms on the basis that these invoked the divine as the source of command, although religious norms could interweave with or manifest as social, moral or legal norms.116 While well­ -​ ­reasoned, the authors’ decision to distinguish religious norms from other norms and to associate moral norms with an “inner” sense of right and wrong suggests the strong influence of a western epistemology of religion. As I observed earlier, within paradigmatic thought, the social/public and

20  Introduction: gender and development theory religious/private were dichotomised, with religion being relegated to private experience. Moreover, for much of its history religion was treated as sui generis, which echoes also in the authors’ presumption of an “inner” moral sense. Elsewhere, Cristina Bicchieri and colleagues distinguished moral preferences from social expectations, considering the former to be non­-​­social or personal.117 This again suggests a conceptualisation of morality that is privatised. As was argued earlier, such conceptual boundaries or dichotomies may be irrelevant to communities where religious idiom underpins wider cosmologies and social ideals. Some recent attempts have been made to refine social norms theories by evaluating their ability to shed light on the empirical realities sustaining IPV, especially in relation to discriminatory gender norms, such as Karima Manji’s research in urban Tanzania.118 Contrary to other theorists, Manji recognised the intertwinement of religious parameters with the gender norms she studied and captured the importance of religious idiom in sustaining normative frameworks, captured in what she suggested to be faith­-​ ­based gender ‘schemas’ or gender ideals. She provided a nuanced analysis grounded in local people’s beliefs and discourses, evidencing that religious idiom mediated both social norms and private behaviour and that a separation between religious and social norms made little sense.119 However, while she mentioned instances where her research participants invoked Christian or Muslim texts and traditions to justify their rationalisations and personal judgements, she did not study closely the relationships between religious discourses and lived experience.120 Moreover, while a few participants invoked their faith in order to condemn gender asymmetries, such as against the expectation that a woman should do all the chores,121 in her conclusion Manji focused more on the role of religious parameters in the preservation of rigid or pernicious gender norms.122 It is not unlikely that deeply entrenched assumptions about the role of ‘religion’ in IPV has hindered GAD and public health researchers from capturing the multiple effects of religious experience, including the more positive aspects of religious beliefs, values and embodiments on either victims or perpetrators. A more specialised literature focusing on religious communities indicates, rather, that relationships between religious worldviews, gender norms and attitudes about IPV vary and depend on the specific religious tradition and how theologies develop and are articulated and embodied historically in different contexts and geographies. In general, in societies where religious systems are prominent, IPV experience cannot be appraised outside the boundaries of religious idiom. Accounting better for religious systems and the interface with human behaviour Available studies from religious communities around the world demonstrate linkages between individual rationalisations and positive attitudes

Introduction: gender and development theory   21 about IPV and religious systems of socialisation, as well as the potential of religious values and spiritual living to deter or to alleviate abuse. For example, some abusive men may have distorted understandings of religious teachings, not unrelated to the family environment they grew up in, which could make it easier for them to justify their abusiveness.123 On the other hand, religious women who experience husband abuse might tend to endure and to forgive it, often as a direct result of how they understand and embody their vernacular religious traditions.124 These trends have been reported in works from Catholic, Protestant and Evangelical Christian communities, but also from Muslim societies.125 In Eastern Orthodox societies, historical and political reasons may have limited the exposure of the laity to dogmatic theology. For example, referring to Russian Orthodox populations, Elisabeth Gassin has observed that [a]lthough these cultures may be considered traditionally Orthodox, given the modern history of these lands  – which includes domination by Islamic and Communist forces that often did not allow the Church to educate its children fully  – one may question how deeply an Orthodox ethos has penetrated such societies.126 Moreover, Eastern Orthodox societies place equal importance on lived ecclesiastical experience, which has been preserved invoking authenticity of belief, even if the Orthodox traditions they follow might have mingled with non­-​­Christian elements over time. In such contexts, rationalisations and attitudes around IPV and responses to it may be less attuned to Orthodox faith and more influenced by socio­-​­cultural standards (couched or not in religious idiom), such as the urgency to preserve the honour of the family or to meet standards of proper female behaviour.127 Local attitudes about IPV could reflect thus a lack of theological literacy in the community of adherents, or place emphasis on values that appear also to be prioritised within the faith (such as the family, marriage or female virginity). In parallel, some studies have found that female victims may, in fact, resort to religious beliefs to condemn the abuse and that through their ordeals victims may acquire a more justice­-oriented ​­ understanding of their faith, helping them to address the harmful situation.128 Moreover, in societies where religious traditions were preceded by local belief systems, biblical influences often co­-​­exist with other beliefs about the spiritual world, which can deter or incite violent behaviour with one’s intimate partner in intricate ways, as highlighted best in Laura McClusky’s work with a Mayan community in Belize that adhered to Roman Catholic teachings.129 As was suggested, such acculturation effects have been stronger in Eastern Orthodox communities due to the historically accommodating nature of the faith with local belief systems, which were subsequently often subsumed or redefined by religious teachings fully or partially.130

22  Introduction: gender and development theory The scholarship on religion and IPV has also demonstrated the significant role of the clergy in conjugal abuse. In general, victimised women in religious communities will tend to share their family ordeals with clergy, although they might minimise the seriousness of the situation because of shame or guilt or for other reasons.131 However, the clergy’s responses may be inappropriate and could contribute to a perpetuation of the harmful situation.132 This may arise from the clergy’s limited exposure to IPV and how best to respond, reflecting their insufficient seminary training, their own attitudes that might lead to the minimisation of the problem, their heightened sense of responsibility to preserve marriage, or their inability to apply religious teachings to either advise the victimised party or counsel the abuser.133 On the other hand, it has been demonstrated that faith leaders and clergy can be positively influential and that the majority do try to support victimised parties, albeit often acting in ways that can be counterproductive.134 There is also a rising scholarship in North America that focuses specifically on the role of faith­-​­based values and spirituality in romantic relationships. This is primarily premised on attachment theory, which holds that early childhood relations with parents mediate how children create relationships with peers and intimate partners later in life.135 Adult attachment profiles are often classified as secure and insecure, with insecurity presenting both fearful/anxious and avoidant types. Individuals with anxious attachment types are generally insecure about losing the attachment figure, while individuals with avoidant attachment types consider attachment futile, downplay the importance of intimacy and prioritise their independence.136 Attachment insecurity has been increasingly related to the development of personality disorders characterised by borderline traits and/or anti­-social ​­ behaviour.137 Similarly, it has been related to a reduced sense of empathy, which refers to the capacity to understand emotions (such as distress or pain) felt by others and to adapt to those appropriately.138 The evidence base includes a study that found an association, mediated by some personality disorder, between avoidant attachment and psychological and physical violence and a direct relationship between anxious attachment and psychological violence.139 Importantly, such attachment models may be influenced by faith, which means that the latter could relate to the manifestation or deterrence of aggression. Two studies have suggested that individual reliance on and appraisal of God as an attachment figure is probably not unrelated to attachment models that individuals develop through relationships with other humans in their life.140 According to these studies, individuals who have developed secure internal working models (IWMs) through their relationships with caregivers will tend to display more secure relationships to God as well. Another study found correlation between a weaker religious commitment and higher attachment avoidance in romantic relationships.141 If higher attachment insecurity is related to psychological and physical violence and the latter is not unrelated to religious commitment, a weaker faith in

Introduction: gender and development theory   23 God may mediate some manifestation of IPV. This could point to a potential faith­-​­based deterrence mechanism with some groups of perpetrators. Monolithic aetiologies of IPV favouring gender­ -​­ based explanations exclusively or neglecting religious parameters would not capture the aforementioned complexities or suffice to explain the complexity of IPV in religious societies. Where religious idiom is prominent in vernacular realities and where clergy or other religious figures are authoritative, religious parameters are likely to undergird human thinking in non­-uniform ​­ and multi­-​ dimensional ways, being juxtaposed in variable ways to culture­ ­ -​­ specific widely upheld understandings and norms. I submit that these complexities can be captured better if IPV is theorised on the basis of local conceptual and experiential repertoires following a multi­ -​­ dimensional ethnographic approach as undertaken in this study.

Conducting gender­-​­sensitive research within local religious societies To avoid superimposing metaphysical assumptions, gender analysis could be predicated on a more comprehensive investigation of human and gender understandings by studying cosmological systems more comprehensively. This should provide the language and concepts to theorise gender identity in reference to the local conceptual repertoires – faith­-​­based or not – and to achieve a better understanding both of gender subjectivities and local attitudes about gender­-​­related matters. This suggestion does not constitute a radical departure from feminist theoretical pronouncements that have suggested enlarging the analytical lens to look at more fundamental systems of valuation from the historical locus or positionality of the individual consciousness.142 It also parallels anthropological approaches that have been proposed in gender­-sensitive ​­ religion and development studies. For example, Tamsin Bradley, echoing Ruth Pearson and Emma Tomalin,143 has proposed that: A gendered perspective on religion and development simultaneously draws out the aspects of religion that are problematic for women while also pointing to its importance in many of their lives. Specifically, by revealing the patriarchal of many, if not all, religious traditions, a gendered perspective can highlight the ways in which women find themselves disadvantaged and marginalised. Also, observing religion from a gendered perspective allows us to see how women draw on aspects of their tradition to fight the injustices they experience.144 Importantly, Bradley departed from essentialist conceptualisations of ‘religion’ and proposed that the latter should be approached as a system of values and understandings that shape everyday life.145 She recognised that religious beliefs, faith and faith­-​­based understandings can affect individuals

24  Introduction: gender and development theory in multiple ways and that these need to be explored through women’s perspectives anthropologically. However, her remark also evidenced that the concept of gender continued to be premised on an assumption of a fundamental patriarchal system and as an analytic for disadvantage. In addition, religious effects seemed to be still broadly appraised through a binary: as either structurally pernicious or as personally important to women. The approach that is proposed here shares Bradley’s call for more anthropological sensitivity, but it avoids presupposing a monolithically non­ -​­ egalitarian valuation of gendered individuals. It furthermore understands religious parameters as inextricable from broader belief and knowledge systems whose effects, expressions and embodiments are diverse and need to be explored through a people­-​­centred investigation. It is worth returning to some of the seminal critical studies from Africa that were mentioned earlier. In her 1997 study Oyěwùmí approached the analysis of Oyo­-​ ­Yorùbá gender relations by looking closely at the world­-​­sense of the society she investigated and conducting a study of social relations at the level of language, lineage, the institution of marriage and the market. According to her investigations, [t]he Yorùbá case … shows that the human body need not be constituted as gendered or be seen as evidence for social classification at all times. In pre­-​­colonial Yorùbá society body­-​­type was not the basis of social hierarchy: males and females were not ranked according to anatomic distinction.146 Subsequently, Oyěwùmí argued for a cultural, context­-​­dependent interpretation of social reality, “detailing and describing indigenous African cultures from the inside out, not from the outside in”.147 This should reveal the kinds of classification that might exist locally, the ideologies that might foster this organisation and how these might influence gender relations. However, while Oyěwùmí provided her readers with some idea as to why Oyo­-​­Yorùbá cultural and social systems did not align with western worldviews, she did not present a full reconstruction of local gender understandings premised on people’s every­-​­day experience. In this sense, Bibi Bakere­-​­Yusuf was correct to point out that there is a difference between the normative framework and how this is embodied by living people.148 This limitation appears to have been overcome in another study from the African region, Saba Mahmood’s ethnographic account of a women’s ­ mosque movement in Egypt.149 Mahmood also attempted to address limitations in mainstreamed gender theorisations, focusing on assumptions about human agency. While she condoned Judith Butler’s decoupling of agency from humanist essentialisms in the post­-​­structuralist paradigm, she suggested that limiting agency to “those operations that resist the dominating and subvertigating modes of power”150 obscured many other states of being and activity that could imply ‘agentival capacity’ for reasons that emanated

Introduction: gender and development theory   25 from the specific cultural matrix. She further clarified that “[t]he kind of agency I am exploring here does not belong to the women themselves, but is a product of the historically contingent discursive traditions in which they are located.”151 Mahmood’s important departure from Oyěwùmí’s approach is that she located the cultivation of norms within the human consciousness, which was not isolated from its historical context. Her close interactions with women and observations of their religious experience showed that the mosque participants did not regard authorised models of behaviour as an external social imposition that constrained the individual. Rather they viewed socially prescribed forms of conduct as the potentialities, the “scaffolding”, if you will, through which the self realized.152 She concluded that the “ritual worship for the women I worked with, was both enacted through, and productive of, intentionality, volitional behaviour, and sentiments”.153 She found useful, instead, to employ an Aristotelian “analytical language of ethical formation to describe the process of moral cultivation”.154 While Mahmood located the logic of ‘agentival capacity’ in powerful traditions, by centring her analysis on the women’s embodied piety she was able to see that the discursive perpetuation of tradition did not exclude deviations from or new imparting of meaning in embodied practice. In sum, Oyěwùmí’s work suggests that a better alternative might be to explore local cosmologies and systems holistically from within, paying attention to whether and why local beliefs have different implications for male and female individuals and understanding how this difference is perceived, justified and embodied by local communities. Mahmood’s study, on the other hand, demonstrates the need to focus on understanding modes of agency and human behaviour as these emanate from within people’s articulated worldviews and values. Evidently, such objectives cannot be met without a comprehensive anthropological study that centres on the embodied individual consciousness but is also reflexive to suspend assumptions alien to local conceptual repertoires and experiences that emanate from the epistemological situatedness of the researcher/theorist. These premises informed and confirmed the decolonial approach of this study, which is described next. The study in Aksum and its approach According to statistical evidence, about one in three women in Ethiopia have experienced some form of spousal abuse in their lifetime.155 In the last three Ethiopian Demographic and Health surveys significant numbers of men and women across the country were reported to ‘justify’ wife­-hitting ​­ in certain situations, although percentages have declined over time.156 While

26  Introduction: gender and development theory conjugal abuse is pervasive and affects most societies in the world and ­Ethiopia,157 the extent of wife­-​­hitting and the asserted tolerant attitudes arouse curiosity for the region of Tigray for context­-​­specific reasons. The indigenous Orthodox Täwahәdo Christianity of Ethiopia was formally embraced in the ancient capital Aksum, where the majority still adheres to this faith.158 Whilst being a complex and eclectic tradition, it has, theologically speaking, upheld the dignity of men and women alike159 and has aspired to the cultivation of loving relationships following divine commandments.160 Additionally, Tigray served as the headquarters of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) in the civil war against the Derg regime,161 in the context of which Tigrayan women were enabled to fight alongside men. It is generally agreed that this resulted in Ethiopian women’s improved social status.162 This religio­ -​­ historical matrix would rather anticipate more disapproval of conjugal abuse in the region. Domestic violence studies from Ethiopia offer important directions, but they have not attempted to contextualise IPV in the religio­-​­cultural worldviews and the material realities of the affected populations in ways that would help to make sense of the attitudes mentioned and to understand the mechanisms of their perpetuation in specific societies of Ethiopia. Paralleling the wider gender and development field, many of the existing studies invoke GBV explanations that consider culture or wider social norms responsible for deeming women vulnerable to men’s abuse. However, they have not generally addressed the ethnographic evidence that suggests nuanced gender realities in different societies of Ethiopia, nor have they demonstrated why or how IPV is gendered (along the lines of Jakobsen’s study). More importantly, many of these studies make assertive statements about the negative influence of ‘religion’ despite a­-​­theological analyses that fail to be grounded sufficiently in human experience. In general, authors have not considered it necessary to reflect on how their own beliefs and biases might have informed their theoretical assumptions and to make these transparent in the research process. In response to the attitudes and the lacunae in the mainstream scholarship (discussed in detail in Chapter 3), the current study employed a decolonial approach to chart the salience of gender parameters in conjugal violence in the Orthodox Täwahәdo community around Aksum in Northern E ­ thiopia, while approaching gender and conjugal abuse through the local religio­ -​ ­cultural framework. The specific aims of the study were to: (i) identify local people’s understandings and aetiologies of conjugal abuse, (ii) explore their attitudes about conjugal abuse, and (iii) examine how these realities and attitudes related to the local material conditions and religio­-​­cultural matrix, indicating possible linkages with Church theology, clergy discourses and embodied faith. In view of the epistemological issues that were raised, I combined reflexive and participatory ethnography with the study of theology from an insider’s experiential perspective – a methodological approach that emerges from eight years of working with rural communities of Africa.

Introduction: gender and development theory   27 Insofar as I speak of a decolonial approach, I refer to a people­-​­centred, multi­-​­dimensional and context­-​­specific analytical and theoretical approach that pays due attention to local conceptual repertoires, while making transparent to the greatest extent possible the subjectivity of the researcher in the research process. As I briefly discussed in the preface, the term decolonial signals to me the emphasis on dewesternising epistemology informed by lived praxis. However, I do not easily identify with what might be presented as decolonial discourses that assume a liberatory gender metaphysics as normative for the world.163 Assuming unreflexively that critiques of heteronormativity necessarily agree with or materialise a decolonial project, assumes that gender binarism is a western construct par excellence, ignoring societies that uphold gender dimorphism due to their own indigenous belief systems not inherited from the West. More importantly, it ignores that any metaphysics of gender or humanity can continue colonial practices via their normativising deployment cross­-​­culturally. As demonstrated best in Judith Butler’s analysis of the use of homosexuality in western European naturalisation processes,164 the language of non­ -​­ normativity itself can become normativising (and thus exclusionary and colonial) through totalitarian deployment, as reproduced in gender and development practice described earlier. As long as mainstreamed gender metaphysics (such as via the paradigm of Gender and Development and the Sustainable Development Goals) deny the possibility of conceptualising gender equality without demonising a notion of gender ontology or essential humanness, which some cosmologies have historically espoused, it rather furthers the coloniality that Anibal Quijano discerned within the discourse of modernity.165 Building on the critical works from Africa that were reviewed, the gender­-​­sensitive ethnographic process employed in this study was rather premised on a concerted investigation of the local belief system to extrapolate how womanhood/manhood was accommodated within this metaphysical framework and to ascertain whether and how these perceptions became relevant to discourses of conjugal abuse. Attention was paid to how interlocutors spoke about, explained and described human individuality in their society, whether they conscientiously differentiated human individuals and on what grounds, how they perceived the relations between females and males, what normative understandings and ideals they associated with each, and where interlocutors drew their understandings and beliefs from. Prime importance was placed on individual experience and articulation to achieve an analysis of local realities emanating from the conceptual repertoire and experiential remit of the research participants. Under similar epistemological motivations, the study suspended presuming a generic typology or definition of conjugal abuse and explored local conceptualisations, rationalisations and aetiologies engaging closely with both men and women as and where feasible. The study included intimate partner relationships that had a formal status in the local society (marriage unions regardless of the type of marriage) and those that were

28  Introduction: gender and development theory publicly acknowledged but were not formalised. Furthermore, rather than approaching males as perpetrators and females as victims, the study acknowledged different forms of violence, including mutual violence arising from the relationship dynamics. In view of the existing statistical data indicating women to be the predominant victimised parties, however, extreme caution was given to designing the research methodology and conducting the research prioritising women’s safety. A cosmology­-​­sensitive and people­-​­centred approach was also followed to approximate the local Church tradition and faith. It was already suggested that religious traditions develop contextually and interweave with local belief systems and socio­-​­cultural realities in complex ways. This raises the need for understanding what counts as theology locally and the conditions that have defined the repertoire of theological and exegetical possibilities within a given context through an informed insider’s perspective. Within the Eastern Orthodox and the so­-​­called Oriental Orthodox Churches, orally and vernacularly transmitted ecclesiastical practice has been valued and upheld alongside holy texts. Thus, the study of canonical texts and other materials from the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo Church was combined with consultations with local scholars and informed insiders and an ethnographic immersion in the vernacular religious life of the community to obtain a better understanding of its embodiments in and effects on social life.

Concluding thoughts The theoretical discussions of this chapter in combination with the methodological chapter that follows and the ethnographic experience presented in the rest of book aim to raise reflexivity about the epistemological limitations of cross­-​­cultural knowledge production, but especially within gender and development which has had a deeply political character. By drawing attention to the influence of religious worldviews in partner violence experience and attitudes towards it, I do not aim to suggest that religious parameters are primary or always influential in human thinking and behaviour and relevant to understanding of IPV. Nor do I deny the existence of more secularised expressions and individual expressions in religious contexts (mentioned in parts of the book). My aim, rather, is to reverse the problematic ways in which the intersection of religious and gender parameters have been represented in much mainstream scholarship due to western Euro­-centric ​­ assumptions and sentiments and to demonstrate what can be a more reflexive and appropriate approach to employ in societies where religious idiom is pervasive. Moreover, while I stress the epistemological situatedness of all theory, I am not against theoretical exchanges and borrowings. I rather seek to promote a context­-​­specific approach to theory that proceeds from within local conceptual repertoires for the purpose of understanding and addressing local issues, in contrast to perpetuating universal or general theory­-​­making for its own sake.

Introduction: gender and development theory   29

Notes   1 E. Boserup, Woman’s Role in Economic Development (London: George Allen  & Unwin, 1970); N. Kabeer, Reversed Realities (London: Verso, 1994), 23, 50.    2 A. Whitehead, “Some Preliminary Notes on the Subordination of Women”, IDS Bulletin 37, no. 4(2006 [1979]): 24–27; Kabeer, Reversed Realities, 65.   3 C. Moser, Gender Planning and Development: Theory, Practice and Training (London and New York: Routledge, 1993).    4 C. T. Mohanty, A. Russo and L. Torres, Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991); A. Escobar, Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World (New Jersey and Sussex: Princeton University Press, 1995), 177–182; E. I. Njiro, “Women’s Empowerment and the Anthropology of Participatory Development”, in The Feminization of Development Processes in Africa: Current and Future Perspectives, edited by V. U. James and J. S. Etim (Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers, 1999), 47–48; S. Arndt, “African Gender Trouble and Womanism: An Interview with Chikwenye Ogunyemi and Wanjira Muthoni”, Signs 25, no. 30(2000): 709–726.   5 S. Baden and A. Goetz, “Who Needs [Sex] When You Can Have [Gender]: Conflicting Discourses on Gender at Beijing”, in Feminist Visions of Development: Gender Analysis and Policy, edited by C. Jackson and R. Pearson (London: Routledge, 1998), 19–38; UN Women, “Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action”, 1995, www.un.org/womenwatch/daw/beijing/pdf/BDPfA%20E.pdf.   6 Moser, Gender Planning; Kabeer, Reversed Realities; C. Sardenberg, “Liberal vs. Liberating Empowerment: A Latin American Feminist Perspective on Conceptualising Women’s Empowerment”, IDS Bulletin 39, no. 6(2008): 18–27; A. Cornwall, “Women’s Empowerment: What Works?” Journal of International Development 28(2016): 342–359.    7 S. Batliwala, “The Meaning of Women’s Empowerment: New Concepts from Action”, in Population Policies Reconsidered: Health, Empowerment and Rights, edited by G. Sen, A. Germain and L. C. Chen (Boston: Harvard University Press, 1994), 127–138; S. Batliwala, “Taking the Power out of Empowerment – An Experiential Account”, in Deconstructing Development Discourse: Buzzwords and Fuzzwords, edited by A. Cornwall and D. Eade (Warwickshire: Practical Action Publishing and Oxfam GB, 2010), 111–122); Kabeer, Reversed Realities, 92; N. Kabeer, “Resources, Agency, Achievements: Reflections on the Measurement of Women’s Empowerment”, Development and Chance 30(1999): 435–464; J. L. Parpart, S. M. Rai and K. Staudt, eds., Rethinking Empowerment: Gender and Development in a Global/Local World (London and New York: Routledge, 2002).    8 Cornwall, “Women’s Empowerment”.   9 A. Cornwall, E. Harrison and A. Whitehead, eds., Feminisms in Development: Contradictions, Contestations and Challenges (New York and London: Zed Books, 2007); M. Mukhopadhyay and F. Wong, eds., Revisiting Gender Training: The Making and Remaking of Gender Knowledge, A Global Sourcebook (The ­Netherlands: KIT; Oxford: Oxfam GB, 2007); E. Bryan and J. Varat, “Strategies for Promoting Gender Equity in Developing Countries: Lessons, Challenges, and Opportunities”, Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, 2008; I.  Smyth, “Talking of Gender: Words and Meanings in Development Organisations”, in Deconstructing Development Discourse: Buzzwords and Fuzzwords, edited by A. Cornwall and D. Eade (Warwickshire: Practical Action Publishing and Oxfam GB, 2010), 142–152; Batliwala, “Taking the Power out of Empowerment”; C. Moser, “Gender Planning and Development: Revisiting, Deconstructing and Reflecting”, DPU60 Working Paper Series: Reflections no. 165/60, 2014.

30  Introduction: gender and development theory   10 F. Porter and C. Sweetman, “Editorial”, Gender & Development 14, no. 2(2005): 171–179; J. Mannell, “It’s Just Been Such a Horrible Experience. Perceptions of Gender Mainstreaming by Practitioners in South African Organisations”, Gender & Development 20, no. 3(2012): 423–434, doi.org/10.1080/13552074.2012.​ 731753; J. Sandler and A. Rao, “The Elephant in the Room and the Dragons at the Gate: Strategising for Gender Equality in the 21st Century”, Gender  & Development 20, no. 3(2012): 547–562; C. Moser and A. Moser, “Gender Mainstreaming Since Beijing: A Review of Success and Limitations in International Institutions”, Gender & Development 13, no. 2(2005): 11–22, doi/abs/10.1080/13 552070512331332283.   11 Mukhopadhyay and Wong, Revisiting Gender Training, 12.  12 Whitehead, “Some Preliminary Notes on the Subordination of Women”; Moser, Gender Planning; Baden and Goetz, “Who Needs [Sex] When You Can Have [Gender]”; J. Momsen, Gender and Development (London and New York: Routledge, 2004).   13 Porter and Sweetman, “Editorial”, 4; S. Wendoh and T. Wallace, “Re­-thinking ​­ Gender Mainstreaming in African NGOs and Communities”. Gender & Development 13, no. 2(2005): 70–79, doi/abs/10.1080/13552070512331332288.  14 For an overview and the latest literature see E. Tomalin, “Gender Studies Approaches to the Relationships between Religion and Development”, Working Paper, University of Birmingham: Birmingham, 2007; E. Tomalin, ed., Gender, Faith and Development (Oxford: Practical Action Publishing. Oxfam and Rugby, 2011); E. Tomalin, ed., The Routledge Handbook of Religions and Global Development (Oxford and New York: Routledge, 2015).  15 L. Abu­-​­Habib, “Changing the Unchangeable: Reflections on Selected Experiences in Gender Training in the Machreb/Maghreb Region”, in Revisiting Gender Training: The Making and Remaking of Gender Knowledge, A Global Sourcebook, edited by M. Mukhopadhyay and F. Wong (The Netherlands: KIT; Oxford: Oxfam GB, 2007), 55; C. Vouhé, “Gender and Development Training in the Francophone World: Making Up Ground Without Repeating Mistakes?” in Revisiting Gender Training: The Making and Remaking of Gender Knowledge, A Global Sourcebook, edited by M. Mukhopadhyay and F. Wong (The Netherlands: KIT; Oxford: Oxfam GB, 2007), 64; O. J. Para­-​­Mallam, B. Lanre­-​ ­Abass, F.  Adamu and A. Ajala, “The Role of Religion in Women’s Movements: The Campaign for the Domestication of CEDAW in Nigeria”, Working Paper 59, 2011.   16 Wendoh and Wallace, “Re­-​­thinking Gender Mainstreaming”, 76.   17 Para­-​­Mallam et al., “The Role of Religion”.   18 Vouhé, “Gender and Development Training”, 64.  19 E. Tomalin, J. Haustein and S. Kidy, “Religion and the Sustainable Development Goals”, Cambridge Institute on Religion and International Studies, 2018; J. Haustein and E. Tomalin, “Keeping Faith in 2030: Religions and the Sustainable Development Goals  – Findings and Recommendations”, University of Leeds, 2019.   20 Para­-​­Mallam et al., “The Role of Religion”.   21 Para­-​­Mallam et al., “The Role of Religion”, 18.   22 J. Kelly, “Early Feminist Theory and the ‘Querelle des Femmes’, 1400–1789”, Signs 8, no. 1(1982): 4–28; T. Harvey, “Feminist Theory in Seventeenth­-​­Century America”, Early American Literature 44, no. 2(2009): 411–416.   23 Kelly, “Early Feminist Theory”.   24 Kelly, “Early Feminist Theory”, 20.  25 M. Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (Jonathan Bennett, (2017 [1792]), 8, 13, 18, 20, 25, 31, 54.

Introduction: gender and development theory   31   26 M. Daly, Beyond God the Father: Toward a Philosophy of Women’s Liberation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1973).   27 L. Alcoff, “Cultural Feminism versus Post­-​­Structuralism: The Identity Crisis in Feminist Theory”. Signs 13, no. 3(1988): 408.   28 C. Delphy, “Rethinking Sex and Gender”, in Feminism in the Study of Religion: A Reader, edited by D. Juschka (New York: Continuum, 2001), 418.  29 L. Nicholson, “Interpreting Gender”. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 20, no. 1(1994): 79–105; A. Friedman, “Unintended Consequences of the Feminist Sex/Gender Distinction”, Gender Online Journal 43(2006).   30 Friedman, “Unintended Consequences”, 2.   31 Friedman, “Unintended Consequences”.   32 G. Rubin, “The Traffic in Women: Notes on the ‘Political Economy’ of Sex”, in Toward an Anthropology of Women, edited by R. Reiter (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1975), 159.   33 M. Gatens, “A Critique of the Gender/Sex Distinction”, in Beyond Marxism? Interventions after Marx, edited by J. Allen and P. Patton (Sydney: Intervention Publications, 1983), 142–161.   34 Nicholson, “Interpreting Gender”.   35 Nicholson, “Interpreting Gender”, 83.   36 J. Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London: Routledge, 1990); J. Butler, Bodies that Matter (London: Routledge, 1993).  37 Butler, Bodies that Matter, 7.   38 A. Fausto­-​­Sterling, “The Five Sexes: Why Male and Female Are Not Enough”, The Sciences (March/April), New York Academy of Sciences, 1993.  39 L. Alcoff, Visible Identities: Race, Gender, and the Self (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006).   40 Alcoff, “Cultural Feminism”, 434.   41 Alcoff, “Cultural Feminism”, 434.   42 R. Prokhnovik, Rational Woman: A Feminist Critique of Dichotomy (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012).   43 Despite their more critical tone and the different positionalities of the last two authors, I include their works in the discussion of genealogical thought in western feminist theory both because they have influenced feminist discourse and because of their preoccupation with issues of ‘essentialism’, which have defined western feminist debates.  44 I. Amadiume, Male Daughters, Female Husbands: Gender and Sex in African Society (London and New Jersey: Zed Books Ltd, 1987); C. T. Mohanty, “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses”, Feminist Review 30(1988): 61–88; K. Crenshaw, “Demarginalising the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Anti­-​­discrimination Doctrine”, The University of Chicago Legal Forum 1, no. 8(1989); M. E. M. Kolawole, Womanism and African Consciousness (Africa World Press Inc., 1997); O. Oyěwùmí, The Invention of Women: Making an African Sense of Western Gender Discourses (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997); O. Nnaemeka, Sisterhood, Feminisms and Power: From Africa to the Diaspora (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press Inc., 1998); Ogunyemi in Arndt, “African Gender Trouble and Womanism”.   45 Crenshaw, “Demarginalising the Intersection”; Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness and the Politics of Empowerment (Boston: Unwin Hyman, 1990).  46 Amadiume, Male Daughters.  47 N. U. Nzegwu, Structures of Equality, in Family matters: Feminist Concepts in African Philosophy of Culture (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006), 228.

32  Introduction: gender and development theory  48 Oyěwùmí, The Invention of Women.  49 O. Oyěwùmí, ed., African Gender Studies: A Reader (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 11.  50 Nzegwu, Structures of Equality.   51 A. Carastathis, “The Concept of Intersectionality in Feminist Theory”, Philosophy Compass 9, no. 5(2014): 304.   52 S. Haslanger, Resisting Reality: Social Construction and Social Critique (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).   53 M. Mikkola, “Feminist Perspectives on Sex and Gender”, in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by E. N. Zalta (Spring 2016 Edition), http://plato. stanford.edu/archives/spr2016/entries/feminism­-​­gender.   54 Nicholson, “Interpreting Gender”.   55 Nicholson, “Interpreting Gender”, 81.   56 S. Haslanger and Ásta, “Feminist Metaphysics. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy”, edited by Edward N. Zalta (Fall 2017 Edition), https://plato. stanford.​edu/archives/fall2017/entries/feminism­-​­metaphysics.   57 C. Overholt, K. Cloud, M. B. Anderson and J. E. Austin, “Women in Development: A Project for Gender Analysis”, in Gender Roles in Development Projects, edited by C. Overholt, K. Cloud, M. B. Anderson and J. E. Austin (Connecticut: Kumarian Press, 1985), 3–15; R. Parker, “Another Point of View: A Manual on Gender Analysis Training for Grassroots Workers”, UNIFEM, 1993; Moser, Gender Planning; Z. Oxaal and S. Baden, “Gender and Empowerment: Definitions, Approaches and Implications for Policy”, BRIDGE Report No. 40, 1997; N. Kabeer, “From Feminist Insights to an Analytical Framework: An Institutional Perspective on Gender Inequality”, in Institutions, Relations and Outcomes, edited by N. Kabeer and R. Subrahmanian (New Delhi: Kali for Women, 1999); C. March, I. Smyth and M. Mukhopadhyay, A Guide to Gender­-​­Analysis Frameworks (Oxfam, 2009); UNDP, “Gender in Development Programme Information and Learning Pack”, 2001, www.undp. org/content/dam/undp/library/gender/Institutional%20Development/TLG​EN1.6%​ 20UNDP%​20GenderAnalysis%20toolkit.pdf; UN. “Gender Mainstreaming: An Overview”, New York: UN, 2002, www.un.org/womenwatch/osagi/ pdf/e65237.pdf; Mukhopadhyay and Wong Revisiting Gender Training, 18. While some of these frameworks precede the mainstreaming of the GAD approach, many of their assumptions and methods persisted within the latter paradigm.  58 N. Jabbra, “Women and Development: The Middle East and Northern Africa”, in Women and Development in Africa: Comparative Perspectives, edited by J. L. Parpart (Boston and London: University Press of America Inc., 1988), 115–138.  59 H. Reeves and S. Baden, “Gender and Development: Concepts and Definitions”, BRIDGE Report no. 55(2000): 2; Cornwall, “Women’s Empowerment”.   60 Cornwall, “Women’s Empowerment”, 76; J. Edström, “The Male Order Development Encounter”, in Undressing Patriarchy: Men and Structural Violence, edited by J. Edström, A. Das and C. Dolan, IDS Bulletin 45, no. 1(2014): 111–123.  61 D. Schep, “A Critique of Hegemony in Gender Theory”, Hypatia 27, no. 4(2012): 864–880.   62 J. Butler, “Competing Universalities”, in Contingency, Hegemony, Universality, edited by J. Butler, E. Laclau and S. Žižek (London; New York: Verso Books, 2000), 148.   63 J. Butler, E. Laclau and S. Žižek, Contingency, Hegemony, Universality (London; New York: Verso Books, 2000); J. Butler, “Sexual Politics, Torture and Secular Times”, The British Journal of Sociology 59, no. 1(2008): 1–23.

Introduction: gender and development theory   33   64 See for example, the 2015 issue of Gender & Development issue and P. Cramer, “Moving Beyond Intersectionality in Development Studies”, St Antony’s International Review 10, no. 2(2015): 170–172.   65 Cramer, “Moving Beyond Intersectionality”, 172.  66 Harding cited in N. Yuval­ -​­ Davis, “Intersectionality and Feminist Politics”, European Journal of Women’s Studies 13, no. 3(2006): 199.  67 J. M. Vaggione, “Shared Insights: Women’s Rights Activists Define Religious Fundamen­ta­lisms”, Toronto: Association of Women’s Rights in Development, November 2008; C. Balchin, “Ten Myths about Religious Fundamentalisms”, Toronto: Association of Women’s Rights in Development, November 2008; AWID, “Key Learnings from Feminists on the Frontline: Summaries of Case Studies on Persisting and Challenging Fundamentalisms”, Toronto, Association of Women’s Rights in Development, 2011; J. Horn, “Not as Simple as ABC: Christian Fundamentalisms and HIV and AIDS Responses in Africa”, Toronto: Association of Women’s Rights in Development, 2012; Sandler and Rao, “The Elephant in the Room”.   68 This is best illustrated in R. Eves, “Resisting Global AIDS Knowledges: Born­-​ ­Again Christian Narratives of the Epidemic from Papua New Guinea”, Medical Anthropology: Cross­-​­Cultural Studies in Health and Illness 31, no. 1(2012): 61–76.  69 N. Etherington, ed., Missions and Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); J. Haustein and E. Tomalin, “Religion and Development in Africa and Asia”, in Routledge Handbook of Africa–Asia Relations, edited by P. M. de Medeires Carvalho, D. Arase and S. Cornelissen (London: Routledge, 2017), 76–93, doi/10.4324/9781315689067.   70 S. Deneulin and C. Rakodi, “Revisiting Religion: Development Studies Thirty Years On”, World Development 39, no. 1(2011): 45–54, doi:10.1016/j. worlddev.2010.05.007.   71 T. Asad, Genealogies of Religion, Discipline and Reason of Power in Christianity and Islam (London; Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993).   72 W. Capps, Religious Studies: The Making of a Discipline (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995); T. Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, or, How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005); T. H. Eriksen and F. S. Nielsen, A History of Anthropology (London: Pluto Press, 2013).  73 Capps, Religious Studies.   74 R. T. McCutcheon, Critics not Caretakers: Redescribing the Public Study of Religion (Albany, USA: State University of New York Press, 2001); S. J. Sutcliffe, ed., Religion: Empirical Studies. A Collection to Mark the 50th Anniversary of the British Association for the Study of Religions (UK and USA: Ashgate, 2004); D.  Saliers, J.  Burkhalter Flueckiger, D. S. Diakité and D. Seeman, “Ethnography and Theology: A Critical Round Table Discussion”, Practical Matters 3(2010).   75 K. A. VerBeek, “Spirituality: A Development Taboo”, Development in Practice 10, no. 1(2000): 31–43, doi/abs/10.1080/09614520052484; Deneulin and Rakodi, “Revisiting Religion”; B. Jones and M. J. Petersen, “Instrumental, Narrow, Normative? Reviewing Recent Work on Religion and Development”, Third World Quarterly 32, no. 7(2011), 1291–1306.   76 T. C. Foster, Women, Religion, and Development in the Third World (New York: Praeger, 1983).   77 In general, if religion was considered, this was usually in “a negative way”. See Berkley Center for Religion, Peace and World Affairs, “Challenges of Change: Faith, Gender, and Development”, 2008, 21.  78 C. Rakodi, “Inspirational, Inhibiting, Institutionalised: Exploring the Links between Religion and Development”, RAD Research Programme Working

34  Introduction: gender and development theory Paper 66, 2011; Deneulin and Rakodi, “Revisiting Religion”; Tomalin, Haustein, and Kidy, “Religion and the Sustainable Development Goals”, 5.  79 C. Sweetman, ed., Gender, Religion and Spirituality. Oxfam Focus on Gender (Oxfam UK, 1998); J. Bayes and N. E. Tohidi, eds., Globalization, Religion and Gender: The Politics of Women’s Rights in Catholic and Muslim Context (New York; Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2001); K. Greany, ed., “Working with Faith­-​ ­Based Communities”, Gender & Development 14, no. 3(2006): 341–350; M. Marshall and N. Taylor, “Tackling HIV and AIDS with Faith­-​­Based Communities: Learning from Attitudes on Gender Relations and Sexual Rights within Local Evangelical Churches in Burkina Faso, Zimbabwe, and South Africa”, Gender and Development 14, no. 3(2006): 363–374, doi/abs/10.1080/13552070600980344; E. Tomalin, “The Thai Bhikkhuni Movement and Women’s Empowerment”, Gender  & Development 14, no. 3(2006): 385–397, doi/abs/10.1080/1355​ 2070​ 600980492; A. Ghatak, “Faith, Work, and Women in a Changing World: The Influence of Religion in the Lives of Beedi Rollers in West Bengal”, Gender and Development 14, no. 3(2006): 375–383; A. Hopkins and K. Patel, “Reflecting on Gender Equality in Muslim Contexts in Oxfam GB”, Gender & Development 14, no. 3(2006): 423–435, doi.org/10.1080/13552070600980922; O. J. Para­-​­Mallam, “Faith, Gender and Development Agendas in Nigeria: Conflicts, Challenges, and Opportunities”, Gender  & Development 14, no. 3(2006): 409–421, doi/abs/​ 10.​ 1080/13552070600980898; K. Marshall, “Development, Religion, and Women’s Roles in Contemporary Societies”, The Review of Faith & International Affairs 8, no. 4(2010): 35–42. DOI: 10.1080/15570274.2010.528970; Tomalin, Gender, Faith and Development; M. Tadros, ed., “Gender, Rights and Religion at the Crossroads”, IDS Bulletin 42, no. 1(2011): 1–9; T. Bradley, Religion and Gender in the Developing World: Faith­-​­based Organisations and Feminism in India (London and New York: I.B. Tauris  & Co. Ltd., 2011); J. DeTemple, “Imagining Development: Religious Studies in the Context of International Economic Development”, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 81, no. 1(2012): 107–129, https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/lfs093; H. Hoodfar, “Women, Religion and the ‘Afghan Education Movement’ in Iran”, Journal of Development Studies 43, no. 2(2012): 265–293; Tomalin, The Routledge Handbook of Religions.   80 Tomalin, “Gender Studies Approaches”, 1.  81 Greany, “Working with Faith­ -​­ Based Communities”, 349; E. Le Roux, N.  Kramm, N. Scott, M. Sandilands, L. Loots, J. Olivier, D. Arango and V.  O’Sullivan, “Getting Dirty: Working with Faith Leaders to Prevent and Respond to Gender­-​­Based Violence”, The Review of Faith and International Affairs 14, no. 3(2016): 22–35.  82 Rakodi, “Inspirational, Inhibiting, Institutionalised”; Deneulin and Rakodi, “Revisiting Religion”.  83 Examples include Tomalin, “The Thai Bhikkhuni Movement” and Bradley, Religion and Gender.   84 Deneulin and Rakodi, “Revisiting Religion”.  85 G. Ladson­ -​­ Billings, “Racialised Discourses and Ethnic Epistemologies”, in Handbook of Qualitative Research. Second Edition, edited by N. Denzin and Y. Lincoln (California, London, New Delhi: SAGE Publications, 2000), 258.  86 S. Mahmood, Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), 32.  87 G. Mikell, African Feminism: The Politics of Survival in Sub­ -​­ Saharan Africa (University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997); Nnaemeka, Sisterhood, Feminisms and Power, 53; O. Olajubu, “Gender and Religion: Gender and African Religious Traditions”, http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:nv6BbUu mJ5wJ:https://unilorin.edu.ng/publications/olademoo/oyeronke%​2520olajubu22.​

Introduction: gender and development theory   35 dot+​&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=uk; S. Tamale, ed., African Sexualities: A Reader (Oxford: Pambazuka Press, 2011);  88 Kolawole, Womanism; Nnaemeka, Sisterhood.  89 Nnaemeka, Sisterhood, 53.  90 R. Istratii, “Sensitising Gender to Local Cosmology: A Participatory Ethnographic Research Approach for Development from a Muslim Community in Senegal”, Journal of Development Practice 4(2018): 8–23.   91 R. Istratii, “Beyond a Feminist ‘Hermeneutics of Suspicion’: Reading St John Chrysostom’s Commentaries on Man­-​­Woman Relations, Marriage and Conjugal Abuse through the Orthodox Phronema” The SOAS Journal of Postgraduate Research 11(2018): 25.   92 M. Salvadore, “The Jesuit Mission to Ethiopia (1555–1634) and the Death of Prester John”, in World­-​­Building and the Early Modern Imagination, edited by A. B. Kavey (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010); J. Binns, Orthodox Church of Ethiopia: A History (London and New York: I.D. Tauris, 2017), 146–153.  93 A. J. Mbembe, “Decolonizing the University: New Directions” Arts and Humanities in Higher Education 15, no. 1(2016): 29–45.  94 A. A. Ampofo and S. Arnfred, African Feminist Knowledge: Tensions, Challenges, Possibilities (Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 2009).  95 Center for Women’s Global Leadership, “Gender Violence and Women’s Human Rights in Africa”, New Jersey: Rutgers, 1994; L. Heise, “Violence against Women: An Integrated, Ecological Framework”, Violence against Women 4(1998): 262–290; D. Green, Gender Violence in Africa: African Women’s Response (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1999); N. Sokoloff and C. Pratt, eds., Domestic Violence at the Margins (Piscataway, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2005); UN Study on Violence against Women, “In­-​­Depth Study on All Forms of Violence against Women”, 61st Session of the General Assembly Item 60(A) on Advancement of Women, 2005www.un.org/womenwatch/daw/ vaw/violenceagainstwomenstudydoc.pdf; G. Terry and J. Hoare, eds. Gender­-​ ­Based Violence (Oxford: Oxfam GB, 2007); S. E. Merry, Gender Violence: A Cultural Perspective (Oxford and Massachusetts: Wiley Blackwell, 2009); L. Heise, “What Works to Prevent Partner Violence: An Evidence Review”, EGM/ PVAWG/EP.6 (2012):1–32; United Nations Population Fund, “Gender­-​­based Violence”, www.unfpa.org/gender­-​­based­-​­violence; World Health Organisation, “Violence Against Women”, www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs239/en/; Le Roux et al., “Getting Dirty: Working with Faith Leaders”.  96 Merry, Gender Violence, 3.  97 Merry, Gender Violence, 179.   98 Heise, “Violence against Women”.  99 D. Lawson, Family Violence: Explanations and Evidence­-​­based Clinical Practice (Alexandria, VA: American Counseling Association, 2013). 100 C. G. Bowman, “Theories of Domestic Abuse in the African Context”, Journal of Gender, Social Policy and the Law 11, no. 2(2003): 847–863. 101 Lawson, Family Violence, 17. 102 U. Narayan, “Cross­-​­Cultural Connections, Border­-​­Crossings and ‘Death by Culture’: Thinking about Dowry­-​­Murders in India and Domestic Violence in the United States”, in Theorizing Feminisms, edited by E. Hackett and S. ­Haslanger (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 62–77; L. Vlopp, “Feminism Versus Multiculturalism”, Columbia Law Review 101, no. 5(2005): 1181–1218. 103 R. LeVine, “Gusii Sex Offenses: A Study in Social Control”, American Anthropologist 61(1959): 965–990; D. Levinson, Family violence in Cross­-​­cultural Perspective (SAGE Publications Inc., 1989); D. A. Counts, J. K. Brown and J. C. Campbell, eds., Sanctions and Sanctuary: Cultural Perspectives on the Beating

36  Introduction: gender and development theory of Wives (Boulder, Oxford: Westview Press, 1992); W. J. Kalu, “Battered Spouse as a Social Concern in Work with Families in Two Semi­-​­Rural Communities of Nigeria”, Journal of Family Violence 8, no. 4(1993): 361–373; L. McClusky, Here, Our Culture Is Hard: Stories of Domestic Violence from a Mayan Community in Belize (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001). 104 G. Sen, P. Östlin and A. George, “Unequal, Unfair, Ineffective and Inefficient Gender Inequity in Health: Why it exists and how we can change it”, 2007, www.who.int/social_determinants/resources/csdh_media/wgekn_final_report_​07.​ pdf; R. Jewkes, M. Flood and J. Lang, “From Work with Men and Boys to Changes of Social Norms and Reduction of Inequities in Gender Relations: A Conceptual Shift in Prevention of Violence against Women and Gils”, The Lancet 385, no. 9977(2014): 1580–1589. 105 Jewkes, Flood and Lang, “From Work with Men”, 5. 106 A. Wilson, “Patriarchy: Feminist Theory”, in Routledge International Encyclopaedia of Women, edited by C. Kramarae and D. Spender (New York: Routledge, 2000), 1493–1497. 107 Tearfund, “Working on the Margins. The Unexpected Church­ -​­ based Responses to HIV”, 2008, http://tilz.tearfund.org/~/media/Files/TILZ/HIV/ Working%20on%20the%20margins_english.pdf; B. Herstad, “The Role of Religious Communities in Addressing Gender­ -​­ based. Violence and HIV”, Washington, DC: Futures Group, Health Policy Initiative, Task Order 1, 2009; Tearfund, “Silent No More. The Untapped Potential of the Worldwide Church in Addressing Sexual Violence”, 2013, www.unaids.org/sites/default/files/en/ media/unaids/contentassets/documents/document/2011/20110321_Silent_no_ more.pdf; Christian Aid, “Of the Same Flesh: Exploring a Theology of Gender”, 2014, www.christianaid.org.uk/images/of­-​­the­-​­same­-​­flesh­-​­gender­-​­theology­-​ ­report.pdf. 108 Le Roux et al., “Getting Dirty: Working with Faith Leaders”. 109 H. Jakobsen, “What is Gendered about Gender­-​­based Violence? An Empirically Grounded Theoretical Explanation from Tanzania”, Gender & Society 28, no. 4(2014): 537–561. DOI: 10.1177/0891243214532311; H. Jakobsen, “The Good Beating: Social Norms Supporting Men’s Partner Violence in Tanzania” (PhD Dissertation, University of Bergen, 2015). 110 Jakobsen, “The Good Beating”, 71. 111 Jakobsen, “What is Gendered”, 10. 112 Jakobsen, “What is Gendered”, 4. 113 Jakobsen, “What is Gendered”, 6. 114 Mahmood, Politics of Piety. 115 World Health Organisation, “Changing Cultural and Social Norms that Support Violence”, 2009, www.who.int/violence_injury_prevention/violence/norms.pdf; E. L. Paluck and L. Ball, “Social Norms Marketing Aimed at Gender Based Violence: A Literature Review and Critical Assessment”, New York: International Rescue Committee, 2010; R. Marcus and C. Harper, “Gender Justice and Social Norms – Processes of Change for Adolescent Girls: Towards a Conceptual Framework”, 2, 2014, www.odi.org/sites/odi.org.uk/files/odi­ -​­ assets/ publications­-​­opinion­-​­files/8831.pdf; C. Bicchieri, T. Jiang and J. W. Lindemans, “A Social Norms Perspective on Child Marriage: The General Framework”, UNICEF, 2014; M. Alexander­-​­Scott, E. Bell and J. Holden, “Shifting Norms to Tackle Violence against Women and Girls (VAWG)”, DFID Guidance Notes, 2015; G. Mackie, F. Moneti, H. Shakya and E. Denn, “What Are Social Norms? How Are They Measured”, 2015, www.unicef.org/protection/files/4_09_30_ Whole_What_are_Social_Norms.pdf; K. Manji, “Articulating the Role of Social Norms in Sustaining Intimate Partner Violence in Mwanza, Tanzania” (PhD thesis, School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine, 2018).

Introduction: gender and development theory   37 116 Mackie et al., “What are Social Norms?”, 35. 117 Bicchieri, Jiang and Lindemans, “A Social Norms Perspective”, 13. 118 Manji, “Articulating the Role”. 119 Manji, “Articulating the Role”, 115, 214. 120 Manji, “Articulating the Role”, 115, 122. 121 Manji, “Articulating the Role”, 137. 122 Manji, “Articulating the Role”, 214, 220. 123 A. J. Johnson, ed., Religion and Men’s Violence against Women (Springer: New York, 2015), 5; N. Nason­ -​­ Clark, B. Fisher­ -​­ Townsend, C. Holtmann and S. McMullin, Religion and Intimate Partner Violence: Understanding the Challenges and Proposing Solutions (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), chapter 3. 124 S. Shaikh, “A Tasfir of Praxis: Gender, Marital Violence, and Resistance in a South African Muslim Community”, in Violence against Women in Contemporary World Religions: Roots and Cures, edited by D. Maguire and S. Shaikh (Ohio: Pilgrim Press, 2007), 66–89; Merry, Gender Violence, 68; Johnson, Religion and Men’s Violence; Nason­-​­Clark et al., Religion and Intimate Partner Violence, chapter 2. 125 McClusky, Here, Our Culture Is Hard; D. Marsden, “Okay, Now you Can Turn It Off. The New Zealand”, Journal of Christian Thought & Practice 21, no. 3(2014): 4–13; Nason­-​­Clark et al., Religion and Intimate Partner Violence, chapter 2. 126 E. Gassin, “Eastern Orthodox Christianity and Men’s Violence against Women”, in Religion and Men’s Violence against Women, edited by A. J. Johnson (Springer: New York, 2015), 165. 127 P. Geanacopoulos, “Domestic Violence: A Training Manual for the Greek Orthodox Community”, New York: Greek Orthodox Ladies Philoptochos Society, Inc., 1999; Gassin, “Eastern Orthodox Christianity”. 128 Johnson, Religion and Men’s Violence. 129 McClusky, Here, Our Culture Is Hard. 130 Gassin, “Eastern Orthodox Christianity”, 167. 131 R. M. Hamid and K. Jayakar, “Consultation and Educational Programming”, in Religion and Men’s Violence against Women, edited by A. J. Johnson (Springer: New York, 2015), 411; Nason­ -​­ Clark et al., Religion and Intimate Partner Violence, 36. 132 Shaikh, “A Tasfir of Praxis”; Nason­-​­Clark et al., Religion and Intimate Partner Violence, 39–40. 133 Johnson, Religion and Men’s Violence, x. 134 Nason­-​­Clark et al., Religion and Intimate Partner Violence. 135 J. Bowlby, Attachment. Attachment and Loss: Vol. 1 (New York: Basic Books, 1969); M. D. S. Ainsworth, M. C. Blehar, E. Waters and S. Wall, Patterns of Attachment: A Psychological Study of the Strange Situation (Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum, 1978); J. Bowlby, Loss: Sadness and Depression. Attachment and Loss. Vol. 3 (London: Hogarth Press, 1980); K. E. Grossman, K. Grossman and E. Waters, eds., Attachment from Infancy to Adulthood: The Major Longitudinal Studies (New York: The Guilford Press, 2005); J. A. Simpson and W. S. Rholes, eds., Attachment Theory and Research: New Directions and Emerging Trends (New York: The Guilford Press, 2015). 136 T. Li and D. Chan, “How Anxious and Avoidant Attachment Affect Romantic Relationship Quality Differently: A Meta­-​­Analytic Review”, European Journal of Social Psychology 42, no. 4(2012): 406–419, doi/abs/10.1002/ejsp. 1842. 137 D. Dutton and K. White, “Attachment Insecurity and Intimate Partner Violence”, Aggression and Violent Behavior 17, no. 5(2012): 475–481; M. Cameranesi, “Battering Typologies, Attachment Insecurity, and Personality Disorders: A Comprehensive Literature Review”, Aggression and Violent Behavior 28(2016): 29–46. 138 M. Schaffer, S. Clark and E. L. Jeglic, “The Role of Empathy and Parenting Style in the Development of Antisocial Behaviors”, Crime  & Delinquency 55,

38  Introduction: gender and development theory no. 4(2009): 586–599; D. Howe, Empathy: What It Is and Why It Matters (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 13–14. 139 A. M. Mauricio, J. Tein and F. G. Lopez, “Borderline and Antisocial Personality Scores as Mediators between Attachment and Intimate Partner Violence”, Violence and Victims 22, no. 2(2007): 139–157. 140 A. Birgegard and P. Granqvist, “The Correspondence between Attachment to Parents and God: Three Experiments Using Subliminal Separation Cues”, Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 30, no. 9(2004): 1122–1135; T. W. Hall, A. Fujikawa, S. R. Halcrow, P. C. Hill and H. Delaney, “Attachment to God and Implicit Spirituality: Clarifying Correspondence and Compensation Models”, Journal of Psychology and Theology 37, no. 4(2009): 227–242. 141 S. E. Pollard, S. A. Riggs and J. N. Hook, “Mutual Influences in Adult Romantic Attachment, Religious Coping, and Marital Adjustment”, Journal of Family Psychology 28, no. 5(2004): 615–624. 142 Alcoff, Visible Identities. 143 R. Pearson and E. Tomalin, “Intelligent Design? A Gender­-​­sensitive Interrogation of Religion and Development”, in Development, Civil Society and Faith­-​ ­Based Organisations: Bridging the Sacred and the Secular, edited by G. Clarke, M. Jennings and T. Shaw (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 46–71. 144 Bradley, Religion and Gender, 36. 145 Bradley, Religion and Gender, 47. 146 Bradley, Religion and Gender, xii. 147 Oyěwùmí, The Invention of Women, 21. 148 B. Bakere­ -​­ Yusuf, “  ‘Yoruba’s Don’t Do Gender’: A Critical Review of Oyeronke Oyewumi’s The Invention of Women: Making an African Sense of Western Gender Discourses”, www.codesria.org/IMG/…/BAKERE_YUSUF.pdf. 149 Mahmood, Politics of Piety. 150 Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 14. 151 Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 32. 152 Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 148. 153 Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 131. 154 Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 152. 155 Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia and the DHS Program ICF, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2016”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA, 305. 156 Central Statistical Agency of Ethiopia, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2005”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA; Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia and ICF International, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2011”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA. 157 A. Berhane, “Ending Domestic Violence against Women in Ethiopia”, E ­ thiopian Journal of Health Development 18, no. 3(2005): 131–132; Federal Demographic Republic of Ethiopia, “Summary and Statistical Report of the 2007 Population and Housing Census”, Population Census Committee, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; Ministry of Women, Children and Youth Affairs, “Assessment of Conditions of Violence against Women in Ethiopia”. November, 2013, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”. 158 According to available statistics, 95 per cent of the Tigrayan population adheres to this faith (FDRE, “Summary and Statistical Report of the 2007 Population and Housing Census”, 111). 159 G. Egziabher, “Divine Plan and Gender Equality”. Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church Sunday School Department  – Mahibere Kidusan, 2015, www. eotcmk.org/site­-​­en/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=159&Ite mid=1; H. Cherinet, Women and Donkeys in Ethiopia: Gender and Christian Perspective (Addis Ababa: Graphic Printers, 2015).

Introduction: gender and development theory   39 160 A. Wondmagegnehu and J. Motovu, eds., The Ethiopian Orthodox Church (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia: Berhanena Selam H.S.I. Printing Press, 1970), 108–109. 161 H. Marcus, A History of Ethiopia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975), http://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.374.313&rep =rep1&type=pdf; J. Young, Peasant Revolution in Ethiopia: the Tigray People’s Liberation Front, 1975–1991 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 162 J. Hammond, Sweeter than Honey: Testimonies of Tigrayan Women (Oxford, London and Newcastle: Third World First, 1989); T. Berhane­-​­Selassie, ed., “Gender Issues in Ethiopia”, Institute of Ethiopian Studies Addis Ababa University, 1991; M. Adugna, “Women and Warfare in Ethiopia”, Gender Issue Research Report Series 13, Organization for Social Science Research in Eastern and Southern Africa, 2001; T. Mjaaland, “ ‘Ane Suqh’ Ile. I Keep Quiet’. Focusing on Women’s Agency in Western Tigray, North­-​­Ethiopia” (Polit. Thesis, University of Bergen, 2004); A. Berhe, “The Origins of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front”, African Affairs 103, no. 413(2004): 569–592. DOI: 10.1093/afraf/adh024; G. Burgess, “A Hidden History: Women’s Activism in Ethiopia”, Journal of International Women’s Study 14, no. 3(2013): 96–107. 163 W. Mignolo and A. Escobar, Globalization and the Decolonial Option (Oxon and New York: Routledge, 2010); W. Mignolo and C. E. Walsh, On Decoloniality: Concepts, Analytics, Praxis (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018). 164 Butler, “Sexual Politics, Torture and Secular Times”. 165 A. Quijano, “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America”, Nepantla: Views from the South 1, no.3(2000): 549–554.

2 Linguistic and cosmological translation

Since the 1970s, development practitioners have steadily embraced participatory and community­-​­centred methods of analysis, influenced by various forms of activist research, the penetration of anthropology in development practice and the emergence of rapid rural appraisal methods for the identification and alleviation of local issues.1 This proliferation of more critical and inclusive approaches notwithstanding, epistemological issues problematised in this book do not appear to have declined in development studies, and especially within the field of gender and development. Development discourse still lacks recognition for the epistemic power of the theorist/ practitioner and pays limited attention to the role of epistemological positionality in theory, analysis and practice.2 The highly political nature of gender and development has meant that much research has been based on assumptions of pervasive gender inequality, with less urgency being given to the development of research methodologies that seek to explore human relations from within local discourse. Subsequently, most interventions have naturally aimed to subvert the status quo, typically associated with female oppression. The political nature of gender and development has been especially problematic in research on violence affecting girls and women. As a result, more emphasis has been placed on building the evidence base around the prevalence and attitudes of violence, typically through standardised population studies and cross­-​­sectional surveys, than on capturing local conceptualisations of violence with recognition of the intricacies of the task. A multi­-​­country survey on intimate partner violence published by the World Health Organisation (WHO) in 2005 helps to highlight some of these overlooked complexities.3 The particular study included a core team of international researchers, coordinating with and being supported by national research teams in the participating countries. These national teams of researchers, supervisors and enumerators helped to translate and to finalise the questionnaires to ensure that the terminology used and the phrasing of the questions considered culture­-​­specific needs and sensibilities.4 However, this book should help to demonstrate that the process of framing research and translating ‘data’ is both linguistic and cosmological and entails many

Linguistic and cosmological translation   41 subjective judgements and interpretations along the way. While the report authors broadly acknowledge this, the subjective judgements made at the national and local levels in the process of communication and translation were not made transparent in the presentation of the findings. My aim here is not to suggest that population studies are not useful, but to stress that methodologies within development practice have tended to be informed by specific political objectives, limiting their capacity to accommodate exploratory questions. More importantly, not being sufficiently grounded in local conceptual repertoires and realities, such studies have neglected the crucial process of ‘cosmological translation’.5 Despite featuring centrally in the relevant fields of anthropology, gender and religious studies,6 the process of translating worldviews and ways of living has been generally neglected in development analysis and practice. The field of development is dominated by studies and projects that fail to acknowledge the inevitable subjectivity­-​­grounded nature of research and omit to discuss hermeneutics in the research process and data analysis.7 Equally problematic is a tendency in the field to approach research participants’ discourses naively, not considering that local communities are informed by their own perceptions of and experiences with western interventions (colonial or development­-​­led) and vested interests defined in local socio­-​­cultural and political realities, which affect their responses to externally driven projects. As complex psychological entities, both researchers and research participants are characterised by prejudices, motivations, interests, concerns, fears and objectives that cumulatively determine how they engage with the research process. It is imperative that the subjectivity­-​­dependent nature of all research be given sufficient recognition and be treated as crucial to the research process. More critical or reflexive anthropological gender­-sensitive ​­ works have not eschewed this problem entirely, by failing to discuss sufficiently the process of cosmological translation.8 Conceptualisations of gender and gender relations cannot be disconnected from the understandings, experiences and predispositions of the researchers themselves, and these understandings need to be made transparent in the research process.9 It is largely in response to this epistemological situatedness and the underlying complexities of cosmological translation that Filomina Chioma Steady proposed about a decade ago that gender­-​­sensitive research in Africa should incorporate “a historical perspective, a holistic perspective, multidimensionality, multiple time frames, multiple levels of analysis, multiple identities and realities, relational and dynamic contexts, comparative methods, oral history, life history and so forth”.10 Such a multidimensional approach aims to contextualise sociological realities in their historical context and to engage substantively with local belief and knowledge systems, institutions, relations and subjectivities interdependently and multi­-​­vocally to overcome some of the implicit biases of knowledge production. Such an analysis must be combined with a commitment on the part of the researcher to refrain from assuming demarcations, definitions

42  Linguistic and cosmological translation or ontologies dictated by post­-​­Enlightenment thinking or any other cosmology they might espouse. Under these motivations, the project presented here combined a theology­-​­informed study of the local religious tradition with ethnographic research that integrated participatory research methodologies as a novel approach. The mainstream epistemology of ‘religion’, which inevitably reflects western societies’ experience with western Christianity, capitalism and secularism, made it necessary to reconceptualise religious studies in non­-​­western contexts, but especially the field’s relation to theology. While some religious scholars and anthropologists have now recognised that a substantive engagement with religious communities cannot neglect interacting closely with theological and exegetical traditions, there has been no common understanding as to how such integration might be achieved in a fruitful manner.11 Moreover, most of the available studies have focused on western Christian traditions and have reflected less on the particularities and experiential modes of Eastern Christianities. Conversely, the imperialist underpinnings of anthropology, a discipline that was shaped by western European quests for self­-​­definition vis­-​­à­-​­vis what different thinkers defined as other ‘cultures’, ‘religions’ or ‘peoples’,12 raised the need for a research approach that rendered the ethnographic process more reflexive of the researcher’s epistemological locus and subjectivity in the field. Having a personal point of view and identity is inevitable, but is should not preclude an insightful analysis insofar as the ways in which one’s subjectivity informs research is made transparent to oneself and others and is monitored throughout the research process and writing. Furthermore, there are ways to integrate local communities better in the analysis of local issues by combining ethnographic investigations with more dialogical and interactive research methods. The current study employed dialogical workshops, which were developed over time in gender­-​­sensitive work with religious communities of Africa.13 These followed Socratic dialogical principles and sought to provide research participants with concrete opportunities to refine the research questions and to participate in the conceptualisation, analysis and data interpretation, as a counterpoise to top­-​ ­down, highly individualised interpretativist ethnographic approaches. I also took a gender­-​­sensitive approach, but I refrained from making assumptions about pervasive female oppression and categorical statements that did not seem to reflect the nuanced gender realities in the scholarship on Ethiopia (see Chapter 3), which I myself had witnessed when researching agricultural livelihoods in different regions of Ethiopia.14 My decision to suspend definitions of gender, religion or conjugal abuse reflected a more fundamental problematisation of the implicit, but pervasive, western ‘logic’ dictating the production of universal definitions and theories. If the aim of theory is to understand issues in their local manifestations and to help to redress these, and given that each local context is uniquely configured and requires its own analytical framework (without suggesting that non­-​­local

Linguistic and cosmological translation   43 forces are at play), the need for universal theory seems to become secondary. This is not to oppose cross­ -​­ cultural theoretical exchanges or comparative studies from diverse contexts, but to redirect attention away from theory as uninterrogated assumption or telos in itself, to theory as a means to an end that acquires substance in relation to a specific context and an objective informed by practical needs.

Revisiting feminist epistemologies in cross­-​­cultural gender studies As was suggested in the Introduction, methodologies and approaches to empower women and other perceived marginalised groups in gender and development have been influenced by feminist epistemologies.15 These feminist approaches to research with women emerged from debates that trace at least to the 1980s.16 Their starting point has been that knowers, as gendered individuals, are “situated” and therefore “what is known, and the way that it is known, thereby reflects the situation or perspective of the knower”.17 Having come into existence as a reaction to proclaimed historical androcentrism in knowledge­-​­making,18 they steadily expanded to incorporate debates over the meaning of knowledge, objectivity, the sex/ gender dichotomy, and implicitly the human mind. Their argument is that for the world to be known in relatively more objective terms, women must be engaged as “subjects of knowledge”,19 with objectivity being defined by some advocates in terms of representation.20 In addition to proposing an alternative research methodology, feminist epistemologies are thus a political strategy for the empowerment of the ‘oppressed’.21 Insofar as feminist epistemologists recognise that scientific knowledge production is always informed by the socially constituted subjectivity of the researcher/theorist and aim to make this transparent in knowledge production and to reverse androcentric patterns where these may exist, there is no reason to contradict them. What I take issue with is the assumption that women the world over have been and should be portrayed as oppressed, which does not take into consideration the unique conditions of Eastern and Southern European societies that constituted me, for example. I also see no reason why all historical knowledge production should be hypothesised as androcentric, sexist or misogynistic in ‘likeness’ to western societies’ experience, especially prior to conducting locally grounded investigations that scrutinise temporal, geographical and vernacular specificities. The assumption of an inherent gender hierarchy, as others have already demonstrated,22 reflects an influential gender epistemology whereby the female has been consistently theorised as the “other” of the male and femininity and femaleness as represented through androcentric lenses.23 Contrary to “starting through from the lives of marginalized peoples” to achieve some sort of reflexive objectivity,24 I am inclined toward an understanding of objective research that does not need to rigidly define who the marginalised are or

44  Linguistic and cosmological translation what the nature of asymmetries may be locally but is still cautious of likely differentials and hierarchies for informing justice­-oriented ​­ interventions. My aim here is not to deny asymmetries between women and men where these exist, but to discontinue a genealogy of thought around gender and humanity informed by western feminists’ interpretation of their particular histories of social sexism. As was demonstrated, feminist epistemologies have been motivated by and sought to react to a specific metaphysics of gender and human nature as it emerged and evolved in western Christian, Enlightenment and post­-​­Enlightenment thought. Prominent feminist epistemologists have pointed out that enlightenment­-​­based conceptualisations of human nature have hindered western male epistemologists from perceiving the subjectivity­-​­based nature of knowledge production and have lost credibility in feminist thought.25 The problem with this position is that ideas of human nature or natural gender become almost entirely equated to western humanism and its sexist deployment in western discourse. This is problematic in view of the fact that many non­-western ​­ societies have espoused understandings of an ontological or intrinsic human nature and they have not all or necessarily experienced the same ideological deployments and vernacular embodiments of gender difference in society, fuelling the kind of social sexism and women’s oppression witnessed in western histories. While it is not my intention to do so, it is possible to argue that it was not necessarily due to conceptualising humanity as essential, intrinsic or universal that was at fault within western experience, but the fact that such ontologies and discourses were deployed with a sexist mentality. This is best highlighted in Mary Wollstonecraft’s critical appraisal of Rousseau’s invocations of human nature to enforce women’s lesser status in society, which she largely debunked by means of a theological anthropology.26 Insofar as feminist epistemologies stubbornly refuse to engage open­-​­mindedly with discourses that invoke a human nature, or, by extension, a natural gender – a discourse that has been indigenous to many non­-western ​­ worldviews and societies – they remain stubbornly ethnocentric. A closer look at gender and religious studies As a result of the presuppositions already mentioned, the focus of feminist scholars in gender and religious studies has been to reinterpret sacred texts to address biases in male­-​­and elite­-​­dominated scholarship and tradition.27 Scholars have worked to show and to illustrate how religious texts have contributed to women’s inferiorisation, to unearth women’s faith experiences and even to recreate religious systems in accordance to feminist ideals. Especially influential has been Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza’s feminist exegetical approach that advocated for a paradigm shift from understanding the bible as ‘archetypal myth’ to conceiving it as a ‘historical prototype’.28 As this historical context was conceptualised as androcentric and biased towards women, a ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’ was deemed

Linguistic and cosmological translation   45 necessary to detect and ‘correct’ the ideological underpinnings and distortions. While this critical scholarship has made important contributions to western theology, it can become problematic when such views are monolithically assumed to be representative of all (western) women’s experiences,29 or when they are transposed cross­-​­culturally in ways unreflexive of local exegetical traditions, historical particularities and vernacular religious experiences. Using such an analytical prism, prominent feminist scholars in gender and theology/religion(s) studies have already displayed essentialising tendencies that present all ‘Christian theology’ as ‘patriarchal’ or ‘sexist’, being almost entirely unreflexive of their limited positionality as western women, which should inevitably delimit their ability to define the meaning and sociological effects of diverse theological traditions on communities and contexts outside of their geographical remit. Fiorenza, although careful not to “reify texts and traditions as oppressive or as emancipatory” nonetheless extended her critique cross­-​­culturally, saying that “in most societies and religions wo/men have been excluded from the authoritative traditions and classic texts not just by historical accident but by laws and custom”.30 Similar tendencies are found in Rosemary Radford Ruether’s work, where she stated uniformly about Christian traditions that “[a]ll of these traditions are sexist”.31 These situated assumptions and interpretations seem to have multiplied in recent years through the works of prominent writers showing limited reflexivity of historical and theological differences across traditions and geographies. For example, in the seminal volume Feminism in the Study of Religion, Darlene Juschka cited Mary Daly’s critical writings against patriarchal Christianity and suggested that the latter was inherently androcentric without nuancing this statement in consideration of different faith experiences.32 While Juschka appeared to be conscious of ethnocentric feminist interpretations and representations of traditions such as Islam, citing the seminal critiques of Leila Ahmed and Fatima Mernissi, in her references to Christian traditions she did not show a similar awareness of possible epistemological bias. The discussion was limited to western Christian traditions and no recognition was given to the fact that Eastern Christianities have an ancient history that is independent from western Christian expressions, and have displayed unique theological, ecclesiastical, liturgical and socio­ -​ ­cultural characteristics. Even works that have been critical of the influence of western theorists’ epistemologies in their scholarship have failed to recognise the historical plurality of Christian traditions and to qualify their statements accordingly.33 Such essentialist and reductionist tendencies appear to have been especially amplified via the ‘world religions’ paradigm in religious studies. For example, Kari Elisabeth Børresen in an article that undertook a comparative exercise to appraise world religions under a feminist gaze, proposed inter alia that “Christian theology” is “redemptive”, “sexophobic”

46  Linguistic and cosmological translation and more accessible than “Islam” to scientific analysis.34 Such characterisations are inaccurate, not only because there is no such thing as ‘Christianity’ or ‘Islam’, but because her analysis only superficially captured the unique exegetical, doctrinal and vernacular premises of the non­-​­western Christian traditions she examined. Eastern Orthodoxy, like the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo tradition examined in this book, has aimed at human edification and ‘perfection’ through the establishment of a personal relationship to God and the embodiment of God’s commandments in everyday living. The word ‘therapy’ would describe better the objective of the soteriological faith. Moreover, in this tradition many adherents become monks and nuns after having lived a full physical life. It is not a phobia of sex that makes ascetics particularly aversive to the topic, but a concern that such thoughts might trigger desires and temptations that can distance them from the path of continence and purity they have decided to follow. Moreover, as far as the Eastern Orthodox tradition is concerned, theology and scientific analysis are not placed on the same axis and have no reason to contradict each other.35 As opposed to the historical Roman Catholic tradition that placed emphasis on the intellect, Orthodox theology has always been attributed to the nous (the rational aspect of the soul), with the latter informing but not dictating intellectual activity.36 What is important to recognise is that the widespread suspicion toward religious systems and thinking in western feminist scholarship reflects, at least in part, a deep internalisation of negative experiences with repressive and authoritarian religious authorities. As Jone Salomonsen has observed: Hegemonic feminist politics in Western society are derived from a deep humanist desire for self­-​­determination and freedom from oppressive institutions, traditions and religious authorities. From this viewpoint a moral act is only moral if it is the product of the critical faculty of individual reason, not the result of social coercion, habituated virtue or subordination to a divine will. Consequently, religious bodies are regarded as prototypical examples of oppressed subjectivity which sometimes comes to consciousness and seeks freedom by means of subversive acts or carefully constructed exit strategies.37 In recent years, feminist theory has gone further to question and to subvert humanist, enlightenment­ -​­ based understandings of humanity and gender. Despite this progression, feminist thinking has retained a deeply antagonistic attitude toward religious belief that is the legacy of the same Enlightenment­ -​­ based experience. Susanne Heine, in problematising the stubbornly negative interpretations of the Bible in the works of western feminist writers, has suggested that these may be projecting the authors’ personal feelings and experiences onto the Bible and Biblical men.38 It is not surprising, then, that feminist hermeneutics have been inclined to think of most religious traditions, but especially those of a Christian

Linguistic and cosmological translation   47 theology, as patriarchal. In the feminist writings reviewed for the purposes of this book, conceptualisations of patriarchy invoke hierarchical and sexist attitudes perpetuated by rulers, clergies and male relatives (especially husbands) and are often aligned with patrilineal succession and inheritance laws. Since Christian theology and experience evolved differently outside the western context, there is no reason why religious figures or symbolisms should have tended to the same repressive interpretations as described for historical western Christianity. Political events that started as early as the eight century in the Roman West had led the Western Church to steadily differentiate itself from its Eastern counterpart, fostering an eventual schism in the eleventh century.39 In the Roman East, or Romanίa, the philosophy of the ancient Greek philosophers was soon replaced by the noetic theology of the Early Church Fathers, developing an entirely different exegetical tradition and ecclesiastical experience. Through multiple historical fermentations and translations, works of Early Church Fathers reached Ethiopia, as well as other Churches in the East. Many western feminist writers have expressed issues with a ‘male’ God or an all­-​­male clergy, for example. However, these apparent ‘patriarchal’ tendencies need to be placed and appraised in their proper epistemological framework and theology. Regarding the Orthodox tradition, it is understood that the designation ‘Father’ is not an effort to ascribe anthropomorphic/​ androgenic qualities to God, which would be considered heretical, but rather to denote that He alone is the Cause in the Trinity. On the other hand, the priestly order follows Christ (or the ‘New Adam’) who is considered the Archpriest of the Church. Similarly, in much western feminist thought, St Paul and Early Church Fathers, such as St John Chrysostom, have been frequently described as misogynists (‘haters of women’).40 However, both St Paul and St John Chrysostom belonged to an eastern epistemology and societal experience and the meanings of their works should be properly contextualised. Within the experience of Orthodox communities, such as those located in Eastern or Southern Europe, their works have generally been associated with the promotion of women’s dignity and the welfare of marriage.41 On the other hand, male headship in marriage as taught in this tradition, and pertinently also in the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo Church, has been predicated on the husband’s sacrificial servanthood to his wife (see Chapter 4). While these theological teachings should not be equated simplistically to the vernacular religious experience of the clergy and laity (which is more problematic), it is important to recognise their different exegetical premises, as well as the historical context of their development which enabled different kinds of discourses, embodiments and possible distortions in their respective contexts. In 2004, Tina Beattie and Ursula King cautioned that feminist critical thinking should be applied in ways that consider context­-​­specificity and allow for the possibility that religious experience can have empowering dimensions for adherents.42 In the same volume, Rita Gross found a “division of labour

48  Linguistic and cosmological translation between women’s studies in religion and feminist critiques to be crucial, especially in cross­-​­cultural studies”.43 Gross called for a “suspension of judgement at first, until one is thoroughly familiar with the situation being studied”,44 while Tina Beattie argued that researchers need to make their own religious positionality evident and to reflect openly on how their own experiences or biases might influence their research representations.45 Both Gross and Beattie seemed to suggest an approach reminiscent of phenomenological principles as employed in religious studies, but they also drew from feminist critiques to emphasise the need of ‘gendering’ research with sensitivity to context. The phenomenological paradigm in religious studies emerged in response to ethnocentric and reductionist approaches, being borrowed from the philosophical work of Edmund Husserl who himself reacted to naturalist theories of knowing in his time.46 Under this paradigm, the study of religions has been marked by a general commitment to suspend judgements about ‘religious truths’, a bracketing known as epoché, and to prioritise the experience of the believers by emphasising ‘empathy’.47 Katherine Young, in her careful consideration of the relationship between phenomenology and the highly political feminist project, proposed that: To bridge these two quite different orientations, we could consider them sequentially. First would come “thick phenomenological description,” instigated by gender­-​­sensitive questions about both women’s and men’s experiences and careful use of epoché of all values, including feminist ones, and empathy with the subject. Then would come critical evaluation of the information gathered, which would detect problems. Finally would come problem solving. As long as each stage were done with scholarly integrity and carefully marked, the various orientations and their respective methods could benefit the overall project.48 Young argued that researchers and theorists must be reflexive of how their own realities and experiences inform their analytical lenses and must recognise that these should not pre­-define ​­ the boundaries of the research process before a substantive engagement with local communities and the subject matter has been achieved. A more exploratory, empirically grounded approach should then indicate practical strategies to address local issues. While I generally agree with this, I would caution that a ‘suspension’ of bias is probably unrealistic since human beings exist and act on the very basis of stereotypes and generalisations. Rather, it may be wiser to recognise these biases and to actively reflect on or challenge them throughout the research process. In other words, the necessary ingredient should be self­-​­awareness, which can then foster more self­-​­reflexivity. Engaging substantively with religious understandings and experiences outside of western epistemology requires an intimate and exploratory, but simultaneously, critical engagement with local exegetical traditions and vernacular experiences. The extent

Linguistic and cosmological translation   49 to which this can be achieved through the phenomenological approach, however, is something to be explored.

Integrating theology in religious studies Despite the variability in approach and method across the works of known phenomenologists, the common thread in phenomenological religious studies appears to be their comparative approach, guided by what seems to be a commitment to uncover the ‘essences’ or ‘resemblances’ of religious phenomena and manifestations across space and time, by intuiting general categories and typologies. This paradigm eventually received criticism, not least due to failing to eschew the confessionalist and ethnocentric tendencies discerned in paradigms that had preceded it. Critics have argued that phenomenologists have visibly projected “values, norms, theories and classifications of [Western] Christian theology and Western metaphysics” onto the religious traditions they studied.49 This finds support in cases where phenomenologists openly declared (western) Christianity superior to other religious traditions and appraised the latter in reference to the former.50 Other scholars have argued that the phenomenological school has conventionally given prominence to the subjects’ testimonies and accounts, under the mantra that the believers are always right, and has failed to be sufficiently critical in the analysis of these testimonies.51 While it has been necessary to expose the epistemological limitations of the phenomenological paradigm, my sense is that the widespread critique of the approach has unwittingly contributed to a marginalisation of theology that has characterised the study of religions in contemporary times, especially in the UK. The neglect of theology in religious studies triggered by fears of confessionalism has not only failed to raise reflexivity around epistemological situatedness in the study of religions, but seems to have continued the cycle of western Euro­-centricity, ​­ reducing the relevance of religious studies internationally. The idea that a believer or theologian cannot conduct objective or rigorous social scientific research due to their personal adherence to a single faith/tradition is clearly ethnocentric because it presumes that all believers and theologians would behave in the same way as their western predecessors in the study of religious systems. It disregards the fact that many of the ethnocentric or essentialist views perpetuated in the Anglophone study of religions were enabled be the unique experience of western colonialism and imperialism. As I argued earlier, reasoning and self­-awareness ​­ are socially constituted biological functions; subsequently, the boundaries of self­-​­reflexivity will vary across communities, reflecting the different matrices of histories, beliefs and knowledge defining individual socialisation. The aim of drawing attention to limitations in the critique of phenomenological paradigm is not equivalent to defending it either. Although the main approach of the phenomenologist is to achieve an eidetic understanding of

50  Linguistic and cosmological translation underlying meanings through emic observation, in most cases it is not made clear how the testimonies of the believers are used to develop this understanding of lived faith. If religious scholars were to replicate the exercise that Husserl laid out in his Ideas, they would focus on intuiting eidetically the structures and mechanisms of the individual religious consciousness. The question would then have to be: How does faith operate within the structures of human consciousness? To pursue this exercise, the scholar would need to identify the language, concepts and analytical framework through which to describe how faith is experienced in human perception, what compartments of consciousness it affects, and how it manifests in conscious thinking, rational­-​­emotional decision­-​­making and bodily practice. Instead of doing this at a universal/abstract level, they would ideally apply this to specific communities of adherents. However, such an exercise is unachievable for human individuals, who cannot possibly access another individual’s full personhood or consciousness. As a result, the scholar would be forced to ‘come up’ with their own broad schematic, informed by their own personal experience with religious belief and spirituality. It is not surprising that prominent phenomenologists focused on observable or categorisable things, such as ‘myths’ or ‘rituals’, that were comprehensible to them, ignoring or not thinking too much of that which they did not know a priori or might have been unable to comprehend. Hermeneutical approaches that emerged in response to such phenomenological impositions do not resolve this problem either. Anthropologist ­Clifford Geertz, for instance, proposed that ‘religion’ should be approached as a cultural system comprised of symbolisms and meanings that need to be discovered.52 Beyond the problematic connotations that the conceptualisation of ‘culture’ has had in western thought,53 such interpretative approaches seem to remain grounded in a western epistemological framework and historico­-​­political experience of religion.54 Essentially, such hermeneutical or interpretative approaches are not immune to limitations emanating from the epistemological positionality of the theorist. Ontologies or realms beyond their familiar conceptual framework can be missed, especially if these are not alluded to in the discourses of the local communities. More importantly, I see Geertz’s attempt to contribute to definitions of ‘religion’ – a western conceptual category  – as evidence of a persistent western epistemology that deems general or universal theory­-​­making a telos in itself. For many non­-​­western religious expressions, an engagement with local exegetical traditions approached from a historical lens that pays due attention to invocations of authoritative texts and practices by different individuals offers a more appropriate methodology and analytical approach.55 I find Talal Asad’s critique of western anthropological approaches to Islam pertinent to this discussion: If one wants to write an anthropology of Islam one should begin, as Muslims do, from the concept of a discursive tradition that includes

Linguistic and cosmological translation   51 and relates itself to the founding texts of the Qur’an and the Hadith. Islam is neither a distinctive social structure nor a heterogeneous collection of beliefs, artifacts, customs, and morals. It is a tradition.56 This conceptualisation is important because it stresses the need for approaching religious traditions in reference to the experience of the believers and the texts or traditions they invoke in their vernacular embodiments. Moreover, it opens the idea of ‘tradition’ to contemporary adaptation and remaking. Expanding Asad’s conceptualisation, Saba Mahmood placed emphasis on the performative reproduction of Islamic traditions (as specific to Egyptian society and the female proponents of the da’wa movement she worked with) by invoking an Aristotelian approach to ethics. She found that “while certain continuities with earlier practices were evident, it was also clear that the modern adaptations of classical Islamic notions did not mirror their historical precedents, but were modulated by, and refracted through, contemporary social and historical conditions.”57 In other words, the ‘tradition’ was always in conversation with contemporary conditions and discourses, which became conducive to adaptations and citations that enforced and preserved its authoritativeness. These conceptualisations offer a useful starting point, but the distinct characteristics of Eastern Christianities require some additional specifications. Like the Muslim adherents Asad referred to, Orthodox Christians consider holy texts to be a crucial point of reference for how they should think about life and how they should live it and invoke these in vernacular experience. However, these texts have been understood through the lens of discursively perpetuated ecclesiastical traditions as preserved and exemplified in the lives and writings of prophets, apostles and saints. Laities are not deeply or always versed in this embodied theology, but they are familiar with the key concepts and standards of the faith reproduced in ecclesiastical life and sermons, religious books or other communications that address the lay public. Moreover, due to the emphasis placed on authentic and immutable truth/belief, combined with a long history of theological controversies, adherents in these traditions tend to be very cautious of any deviation from traditional knowledge and practice that could be considered heretical. Simultaneously, due to their soteriological objectives, such traditions have shown a historical tendency to be accommodating to pre­-​­Christian worldviews and norms for the sake of not alienating possible adherents or creating unnecessary hostility. This means that they have generally co­ -​­ existed with local cosmological frameworks that do not originate in theology. Moreover, some practices may have been innovated in the discursive perpetuation of folklore life, but they may be still identified with authoritative religious tradition and heritage for complex and context­ -​ specific reasons. As a roadmap for conducting research in such com­ munities, the lived theologies that have defined these traditions must be

52  Linguistic and cosmological translation understood contextually in a manner that does not sequester such study from the historical context of their development and articulation by ecclesiastical authorities, nor equates them to the vernacular embodiments of adherents. Theology­-​­informed investigations in Ethiopia To achieve such a multi­-​­layered contextualisation in Aksum, I combined a study of Church history and theology with ethnographic investigations in the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo community. The first year entailed desk reviews working with at least five different bodies of literature relevant to the project, including canonical books and ecclesiastical materials with a close look at teachings on marriage, gender relations and domestic violence. The second year was dedicated to ethnographic investigations. Interviews were held with scholars of the faith in traditional Church education schools, monasteries and churches and modern theological colleges in Addis Ababa, Meqele and Aksum to ascertain the fundamental dogmatics of the local religious tradition and to achieve a more contextualised understanding of the historical development of local ecclesiastical discourses. In parallel, new religious sources were studied as they emerged in these local conversations, while texts that were studied prior to fieldwork were revisited with a new perspective. For the analysis, works by outsiders were used where it was found that these were careful in their assumptions and rigorous in their commitment to understand the tradition from the insiders’ perspectives. On the other hand, interviews were held with clergy, which provided some understanding of local vernacular practices around marriage and religious life, as well as the clergy’s marriage­-​­related discourses and attitudes towards conjugal violence. Having established relations with the Church administrative office, I conducted many subsequent interviews and group discussions with priests at the office premises. In addition to visiting local churches and monasteries around the countryside to talk to priests and monks, I met many members of the clergy during car rides between the village communities. These provided opportunities for meeting new priests and for spontaneous conversations, providing an additional window into the local clergy’s level of theological knowledge and confirmed some of the most problematic aspects of the life of the clergy, exemplified by the occasional inebriated priest returning from some religious gathering (maḥbär; ማኅበር). Participating in the religious gatherings, which were convened in the name of saints and for other religious celebrations, offered another space for meeting clergy and church scholars and provided also a rich exposure to local religious practice and life. The immersion in local life allowed a closer exploration into how the local clergy delivered sermons, if these made reference to married life and relevant problems, what authoritative sources or Church Fathers they cited

Linguistic and cosmological translation   53 (if any) and what other social norms, realities and considerations underpinned these public discourses and pastoral activities, especially in relation to marriage and conjugal problems. It also revealed better how lay people understood and embodied their religious tradition, the extent to which these discourses were attuned to theology­-​­informed discourses of Church scholars and theologians and where points of divergence emerged with crucial implications for the issue under study  – marriage and conjugal abuse. The overall aim was to achieve a historical reconstruction of ecclesiastical discourses as these progressed within the local Church and to develop a better understanding of how local clergy had influenced such shifts and how these reflected or were informed by the discourses of the laity. It is important to recognise that I pursued these activities as an Eastern Orthodox woman and believer with knowledge of Orthodox theology, which I always made it a point to communicate to my interlocutors first thing. In general, I explained my motivations in reference to my faith, expressing interest in understanding better marriage problems in Orthodox communities and to help toward addressing them. I was also cautious to mention that there existed historical differences between the Eastern Orthodox and Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo Church (EOTC) tradition, although this did not seem to preoccupy my interlocutors. The majority of clergy and monks, in fact, cited Greek Church Fathers and were happy to hear about my origins. In other cases I emphasised my Moldovan background and my exposure to Russian Orthodoxy growing up, which some interlocutors had familiarity with. Most crucial, however, was my knowledge of Orthodox theology and the works of prominent Church Fathers. This was generally appreciated and many clergy and theologians often sought my advice about dogmatic and theological issues in their Church. In such conversations I only spoke of the EOTC tradition insofar as my study’s findings and consultations with local scholars allowed me to. At times, I invoked my more intimate knowledge of Eastern Orthodoxy, letting my interlocutors know that the traditions should not be equated and encouraging them to speak to their trusted Church teachers. Most of the consultations I had with theologians and clergy were simultaneously debates around theology as understood in the Eastern Orthodox and Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo traditions. These were never polemical, but rather honest interrogations of the deeper meanings of the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo tradition. My interlocutors were generally very curious to explore with me differences and similarities and often traced EOTC teachings to Greek­ -​­ speaking Church Fathers with pride to indicate the ancient roots and relationships between our geographies. As I explain in a subsequent chapter, being grounded in an eastern epistemology provided me with a point of reference to access the cosmological framework of my interlocutors to some extent, but it also biased me in ways that I tied to be cognizant about and to challenge through the research process, as I discuss in Chapter 4. These issues should underline again the integral role that the

54  Linguistic and cosmological translation epistemological background and positionality of the researcher has in the research process and that this needs to be navigated with reflexivity and a humble self­-awareness ​­ at all times.

Researching intimate partner violence in a safe and inclusive manner The decision to conduct an ethnographic study of the realities of conjugal abuse and attitudes towards it was informed by the epistemological concerns already outlined, but also the recognition of the particular forms of domestic violence locally and the intricacy of human abusiveness, requiring a multi­-​­dimensional look into cosmological, institutional, interpersonal and individual parameters.58 The study approach was especially influenced by Laura McClusky’s investigation of conjugal abuse among a Mayan community in Belize.59 At the time of writing, McClusky had felt that most domestic violence research had been clinical or sociological and had focused solely on the experience of violence, often approaching the phenomenon in a “peopleless manner” – the same problem I observed in much sociological gender and development and public health violence research. In response, McClusky decided to focus on the emotions, desires, motivations and personal experiences of living women more holistically without being limited to their experiences as victims of domestic violence. Following the contours of McClusky’s work, I took a ‘people­ -centred’ ​­ ethnographic approach to explore local understandings and attitudes of conjugal abuse through the worldview and embodied experiences of the research participants. My aim was to conduct research in a way that constantly considered possible interlinkages between the cosmological and institutional, interpersonal and individual parameters of intimate partner violence. As a departure from McClusky’s project, my study engaged with both men and women to achieve a more inclusive analysis. My ethnographic work took place in two villages outside of Aksum city. I was permanently based at one of the two villages, where I rented a room in the compound of a well­-​­connected woman who worked at the local seed house and whose husband had left to work in another city. On non­-work ​­ days, the landlady braided hair and this meant that she had regular visits from female clients from all over the village unit (ṭabәya). This provided ample opportunities to talk to women from diverse social, educational and marital backgrounds and to explore research questions in a comfortable, gender­-​­exclusive context. Often, group discussions were held with multiple women waiting for their hair to be braided and these explored men’s and women’s societal conditions, marriage and conjugal problems in the local society. Many of my landlady’s clients agreed to come back on another day to conduct more personal interviews. As opposed to spontaneous group conversations about marriage and other aspects of life in the local society, the interviews were private and confidential. To further ensure that the

Linguistic and cosmological translation   55 identities of the women remained secret, I did not interview husbands or other men related to the women whom I previously interviewed, which required becoming familiar with local family trees and relationships prior to engaging men in research. Moreover, women might not want or not be able to keep their participation secret from their husbands, and I wanted to give no reason for conflict or disagreement between spouses. It was also not advisable since it could cause these women’s husbands stress or embarrassment if they thought that their wives had divulged personal information to a stranger. Despite these precautions, exceptions existed in which both spouses were interviewed (each at different times) because both insisted to participate after hearing about my research. Drinking coffee in this society has been a deeply­-​­ingrained tradition and women have boiled coffee routinely. The traditional coffee ceremony involves women roasting the coffee beans, grinding them manually in a traditional gourd and boiling the ground coffee in the traditional jar. The coffee is boiled three times, which means that those who participate in the coffee ceremony are served three times. Needless to say, the coffee ceremony was an invaluable tool for creating time for personal conversations and I made it a priority to become skilful in it and to boil coffee for all the visitors who arrived to my landlady’s home or my own compound as a proper host would do. The coffee ceremony typically lasted from 45 minutes to 1.5 hours, depending on the intensity of the fire (whether I used firewood or animal dung, the velocity of the wind, etc.) and the patience levels of my interlocutors. There were days when I boiled coffee three or more times, in addition to participating in my neighbours’ coffee ceremony, on some days spending up to six hours of the day drinking coffee and chatting with neighbours. When sitting to have coffee with a new visitor, I always introduced my background and research topic first to ensure that my interlocutors knew who I was and to caution them that our discussion might inform my research. Due to the centrality of the coffee ceremony, this was incorporated also into the participatory workshops held with women. While the opportunities to build relationships with women were profuse, it was more challenging to find men to talk to in the village, especially during certain periods of the year. Concurrent with the existing literature on gender relations from Ethiopia (see Chapter 3), this community of research emerged as being gender­-​­segregated in terms of livelihoods, which meant that women spent most of their time at home rearing children and taking care of other home­-​­related activities, while men worked mostly away from the house in paid daily work or farming. While it was easy to invite women to drink coffee at my compound throughout the day by moving around the village and entering into conversation with them, it was not possible to do the same with men as effectively both for culture­-​­specific and practical reasons. In general, married men drank coffee in their own homes boiled by their spouses, as culturally appropriate. For single or very old research participants, coffee was offered when they agreed, but they seemed

56  Linguistic and cosmological translation unwilling to remain for the entire length of the ceremony. Due to the heavy working schedules, the majority of male interviewees were recruited on non­-​­work days, during important celebrations, during Lent and in evenings after they returned from work. I was considerably more challenged in the second village that I worked in, which I visited regularly. There, two public introductions had been made, one by the local administrative officer and one by the most learned member of the clergy after Sunday liturgy, which had been necessary to avoid misunderstandings about my presence in the local community and to ensure that local residents apprehended my visits. Given the safety issues involved, in such public introductions I neutralised the research topic as much as possible, stressing the relationship between marriage and faith and especially the extensive problem of divorces in the local societies. This generally sufficed and both men and women appeared comfortable to have me around, talk to me, share stories about marriage and divorce and generally associate with me without fear or suspicion. My approach in this community was to visit prospective participants at their home. If the female of the house was alone and wanted to engage with the research, I asked to hold an interview. If I was told that both spouses were present, I promised to return on another day. These conversations happened always at the gate, and it was usually the case that a child or the woman of the house opened the door. Women were given sufficient information to decide if they felt safe to have me in the home and if they refused, I did not insist and did not return again to the same house. As another measure, I approached first the homes of women who were known to be divorced or widowed, then married women and then men, after acquiring some familiarity with the community to avoid very serious cases of abuse that might exist. The personal life­-​­based interviews that I held with men and women in both places offered the means for more reflective discussions that were vital for exploring individual conceptualisations and rationalisations of conjugal abuse in conjunction with individual life experience, situation and temperament. As a general strategy, I tried to prompt discussion about the conjugal relationship in the local society more generally and I strictly avoided asking about personal experiences. However, most participants shared these nonetheless. After obtaining informed consent, in which I let participants know that the conversation would touch on the sensitive issue of conjugal abuse, I prompted general discussion about marriage by referring to the high rates of divorce reported locally. In most cases, my interlocutors discussed conjugal problems that were most relevant to their realities and they often shared their own marriage and divorce stories. At this stage, I invited them to explain how they understood ideal/healthy and harmful/abusive conjugal relationships. This conversation usually raised questions about normative attitudes and standard behaviour in marriage. I would typically use this opportunity to ask my interlocutors about their conceptualisations of gender equality and why they thought like this. As a

Linguistic and cosmological translation   57 final theme, we discussed the role of religious teachings and faith in married life, the stance of the Church on marriage and conjugal violence as articulated by local clergy, as well as their understandings and possible experience with pastoral teachings and mediating practices. This semi­ -​ ­structured but life­-​­based approach helped to obtain a more intimate and comprehensive insight into personal understandings, rationalisations and attitudes of conjugal abuse and to explore simultaneously the links with society­-​­wide social norms, religio­-​­cultural beliefs and institutional practices. The commitment to engage both men and women raised, of course, important safety and ethical concerns.60 Given the ethnographic context in which this research proceeded, I was challenged to determine how to follow general domestic violence standards, while simultaneously responding to the epistemological concerns I raise in this book. For example, specialised articles of domestic violence tend to advise domestic violence researchers to be discreet about their research topic for the sake of reducing the likelihood that women with abusive partners will be put at risk.61 The Code of Ethics of the Association of Social Anthropologists, on the other hand, states that researchers should be overt when seeking permissions for research from local governments, communities, or ‘gatekeepers’.62 The expectation to be open and transparent about my research was amplified by the decolonial commitments of my project. Moreover, influential domestic violence researchers would discourage domestic violence research with both men and women in the same context because men might become aggressive with their partners as a result of feeling threatened by the research questions (and the risk of disclosure), or as retaliation against the wife for participating.63 This raised challenges because it was important for this research to engage with male perspectives, but also to depart from essentialist presentations of men as perpetrators. Simultaneously, I was very aware of the safety risks for the predominant female victims and wanted to devise strategies that considered the needs of victims and perpetrators alike, whoever they might be. During the institutional ethical review process at SOAS, it was suggested that I could engage with women in one community and with men in another. While I was keen to explore this option (thus looking to identify early on two village communities for study), I anticipated that neither secrecy nor gender­-​­exclusive tactics would do in the local society. Indeed, numerous discussions with Ethiopian gender violence scholars and practitioners in Addis Ababa,64 representatives from the Women’s Affairs Office in Aksum city, local officers in the village communities and women in the resident population led to the conclusion that men would become suspicious and hostile if they were dismissed from any research project with women. I found in the field that men wanted to understand the aims of the research, asking curiously about it. Moreover, if I did not invest the time to explicate the research questions and aims to both men and women in

58  Linguistic and cosmological translation public, people tended to misunderstand and to assume that there was a hidden motive behind the research, which created unnecessary suspicion. Furthermore, conducting research with women without engaging the men in the same community could result in men feeling threatened or frustrated, which could create problems both for their spouses and this study. If dismissed, husbands could simply advise or discourage their wives from talking to me. A woman on good terms with her husband would not risk conflict with him in order to participate in the study, especially in a society with high divorce levels. To conduct interviews in private with women only did not resolve this problem because women would hesitate to initiate contact with me in the first place if their husbands expressed suspicion. Of course, whilst it was possible to engage only female research participants and to obtain the approval of husbands and male relatives to reduce stress and tensions, this solution was not practically feasible. Such gender­ -​ ­exclusive ways were generally not received well in the local society, with men and women insisting that issues of marriage were pertinent to both genders and that both needed to be consulted, which I could not and did not want to disagree with. The alternative was to neutralise the research in my public presentations and to explore conjugal abuse only in private and only to the extent that each interlocutor volunteered and considered appropriate. As I mentioned, I generally introduced the research in broader terms as a study of marriage and conjugal problems in relation to the local people’s much valued Orthodox Täwahәdo faith, letting people know that I was a religious scholar and that I was interested in marital life and its challenges. I first communicated the research in these terms to local ‘gatekeepers’, such as local administrators, police and court workers, women’s associations’ representatives, health agents and other parties that could reassure the public. As the fieldwork proceeded, relations were established with the Church administrators responsible for the countryside located at the ecclesiastical office (betä kәhәnät; ቤተ ክህነት) in Aksum city. This facilitated building trust with the local clergy and subsequently with the laity in the rural communities.

Addressing the epistemological issues As I discussed in earlier sections, the inevitable epistemological situatedness of research means that the researcher might either impose subjective ontological beliefs and theoretical assumptions onto others or might miss experiential dimensions that are unique to (or uniquely experienced by) the research participants.65 I proposed that these issues may be contained through research approaches that are multi­ -​­ dimensional, reflexive and more centred on the discourses and embodiments of the research participants. Moreover, the research process should proceed and make transparent at all times the role of the researcher in the conceptualisation, interpretation and presentation of the research experience. On the basis of these

Linguistic and cosmological translation   59 premises, I employed a composite methodology, combining ethnographic investigations with participatory methods, rendering transparent the process of data collection in relation to my identity and personhood in the research process as feasible. In the final section of this chapter, I outline some of the methodological and practical steps I took for my ethnographic investigations to enable readers to assess the study better and in the hope that it can serve as didactic material for researchers and practitioners of development. Learning local languages Nobody would deny that learning local languages is useful in cross­-​­cultural development research and practice, and yet very few in development theory and practice have advocated for linguistic training as a prerequisite for development research and work. There are many reasons why this may be the case, which is not my intention to analyse here. However, it is important to recognise that hiring local translators or working with native speakers  – as per conventional practice in the sector  –overcomes neither colonial legacies expressed in power hierarchies, nor epistemological issues emanating from the respective positionalities of translators and local research assistants and foreign researchers. Learning and engaging with local languages does not nullify the need for local support with translation or transcription either, but it grants the researcher some autonomy and the necessary tools to access local conceptual repertoires. As somebody who was raised speaking two languages and has been trained in six more, I would argue that speaking a language is both a linguistic and a cultural experience. A language provides a window into a people’s worldviews reflected in grammatical constructions, terminological differences and implicit meanings attached to words. Speaking a common language can, thus, become a bridge for comprehending different ways of being and perspectives on life, no matter how limitedly. Moreover, judging from my experience working in numerous African communities, making a genuine effort to learn a community’s language can demonstrate to local people a true commitment to explore and to discover their folklore traditions, inspiring their respect and trust. Whilst learning a language does not grant automatic understanding of human attitudes or behaviour, it provides the means to have important conversations. In my experience, it is when we cross linguistic spheres and are able to exchange views openly and transparently that we truly engage with each other and learn from each other. Subsequently, for this project, I dedicated considerable time and effort to learn the relevant local languages in order to obtain access to the written theological tradition of the local community and for communication in fieldwork. Prior to fieldwork, I spent one year learning intensive Amharic at SOAS University of London and one summer learning Ge’ez with a tutor in Cambridge. Tigrigna, an Afroasiatic language of the Semitic family, had

60  Linguistic and cosmological translation not been available at SOAS, but this did not discourage me from learning Amharic and getting some exposure to Ge’ez, which were equally important. Ge’ez comprises the ancient ecclesiastical language of the indigenous ­Ethiopian Church. Amharic is the official language of E ­ thiopia and while regional languages are preferred and prioritised within regions, most ­Ethiopians who have primary schooling speak Amharic. In addition, the exegetical tradition of the Church has been read in Amharic since its reported translation from Ge’ez, which made Amharic an essential resource for obtaining a more profound grasp of the theology. Subsequently, most teachers and monks interviewed for this project were fluent in Amharic, which I used during interviews. This was also the case with most rural men who had been to school. Needless to say, urban populations generally spoke Amharic. However, this did not make Tigrigna less important to learn since most adult rural women spoke only Tigrigna because they had not been to governmental/secular school. In addition, Tigrigna proved to be the main language of the majority of clergy members in the villages, who generally had not been to secular school but had been trained to become priests at local churches and monasteries where communication was primarily in the regional language.66 The exposure to Ge’ez the summer prior to fieldwork facilitated considerably the acquisition of Tigrigna in the field. Upon arrival, I joined an intensive Tigrigna class taught by a native instructor at Addis Ababa University to another student. Our group of three met every day for about two hours for one month. In this phase, training was achieved on the foundations of the language. After one month of classes, I was versed in the basic tenses to conjugate verbs, was able to communicate my research and I could understand some of the speech of Tigrayan acquaintances in Addis Ababa (with whom I lived). Achieving a working proficiency in the language was therefore primarily a matter of practice. To create these opportunities for practice, I travelled to Tigray immediately after. In the city of Aksum most people knew Amharic and I was tempted to use it, impeding progression with learning Tigrigna. I therefore moved to the village after about a month in Aksum to force myself to learn faster. At the village, the daily coffee ceremony provided a context for chatting and practising. Moreover, I offered to teach Amharic to the 12­-​­year­-​­old daughter of a village neighbour by means of a trilingual (English­-​­Tigrigna­-​ ­Amharic) dictionary that I had purchased in Addis Ababa.67 My student and I came up with examples for each word we read in the equivalent languages we spoke well and this helped mutual improvement. It should be mentioned that female interlocutors at the villages appreciated the importance of speaking Amharic very much, which could increase their chance of finding a paid job. Children and women in the village thus frequently asked me to produce the equivalent Amharic for many Tigrigna words they used. This not only improved my understanding of Tigrigna, but also helped me to refine my Amharic.

Linguistic and cosmological translation   61 I was generally comfortable with communicating autonomously by the second month in the village, by which time key terms were pronounced accurately, even as my grammar presented flaws. In addition, Tigrigna has absorbed many Italian words and this made comprehension and usage on my part easier. During the initial stage of fieldwork, Aksum University students helped to translate my Amharic into Tigrigna during workshops with women and some initial interviews that I conducted with female interlocutors. The assistants themselves were female. They generally did not speak English (although they had some understanding of it), so I communicated my questions/comments to them in Amharic and they translated to research participants in Tigrigna. The answers in Tigrigna were translated by the assistants back to me in Amharic in situ. This ensured that I had real­-​ ­time understanding and that I responded to the interlocutor’s pronouncements directly. No translators were used after about 1.5 months in the field. This allowed me to have more spontaneous and confidential conversations, which I transferred to my fieldwork diary directly into English. Consent to use the notes from these conversations was always asked of participants either during or after these conversations had taken place. On the other hand, the recorded interviews and workshops needed to be transcribed and translated. The majority were in Tigrigna, a smaller number were in Amharic and some employed a combination of both languages since often interlocutors spoke both languages and either I or they alternated languages during the interview to convey our thoughts better. These materials were transcribed and translated with the help of native Tigray and Amhara students in Aksum and Addis Ababa (all acknowledged in the PhD study and this book). While transcription was a straightforward but tedious activity (in most cases, transcriptions were first completed on paper by an assistant, and then typed by me in fidäl into my computer), translating required much attention and care to ensure that the interviews were translated in ways that revealed the initial intentions and meanings of the speakers as much as possible. Since Tigrigna is a malleable language and most words can be used in multiple ways and meanings according to context, there was often no exact equivalent in English, but multiple possibilities from which to select according to the intention of the speaker. During the final month in Aksum, I met regularly with two local assistants (one of whom spoke English very well) to translate from Tigrigna into Amharic. For the rest of the transcripts that were either in Amharic or Tigrigna and could not be translated in the field, I analysed transcripts in the original, writing English translations under those sentences that were pertinent and substantive. The transcripts were then shared with assistants in Addis Ababa who checked my translations and approved or suggested better renditions. During the final write­-​­up year a Tigrigna tutor and expert linguist was hired at SOAS to finalise some translations. On various occasions, Tigrigna recordings and field notes were revisited to clarify the speakers’ intentions. All in all, translating was a reiterative process, with each

62  Linguistic and cosmological translation side offering comments and feedback until I felt confident that the meaning and intention I had experienced in my interactions with my interlocutors had been captured well enough. Making the ‘I’ visible in the research process To improve transparency and to keep track of how I influenced the research process, I kept a thorough fieldwork diary in which I included descriptions of my ethnographic encounters almost daily. These provided details about the context in which a discussion had occurred, the dynamics of a discussion, the formulation of questions and responses, emotional charge and other elements that could influence how information was shared and received. Since translation is so intrinsically grounded in a distinct local cosmology and socio­-​­cultural reality which shapes meanings and adds connotations to a language, as far as possible my notes employed local terms, which were explained with reference to their discursive deployment by my local interlocutors on the specific occasions.68 Due to word restrictions in this book and for the sake of making the project more accessible, some of this terminological analysis has been omitted from the book, but it should be underlined that interpretation was always simultaneously linguistic and cosmological. Still, suspending a priori assumptions and recognising my central role in the research process did not predict or resolve the host of other communicative and analytical challenges that emerged in fieldwork and the stage of data interpretation analysis. Identifying appropriate ways to ask questions that could elicit more genuine replies was a reiterative trial and error process. Moreover, my interlocutors turned out to be more strategic about what they divulged and in what form, sometimes evading questions by generously giving less pertinent information, sometimes by providing rushed answers that felt superficial, and sometimes by answering with silence or pensive perplexity, which left me wondering whether the question had made little sense to them; whether it had touched a chord, leaving my interlocutors feeling silenced by their own thoughts; whether they had little to say about what had been asked; or whether they had too much to say but this was just not the time, the place or the right person to say it to. I found myself constantly trying to decipher both the communication strategies and the responses of my research participants. These issues made it very challenging for me to analyse the plethora of interviews and material that I collected. Despite having trained in the respective languages in order to be able to conduct this research, acquiring relative working proficiency in two of them, I was challenged to grasp the linguistic manipulations, nuances and implicit connotations of the local language(s) as deployed by my interlocutors, embedded as they were in the tacit politics that governed communication locally. Moreover, participants were considerably more strategic in their discussions with me, which meant

Linguistic and cosmological translation   63 that the meanings of their words were rarely straightforward and could be interpreted in various ways. I do not mean to suggest that it was impossible to substantiate research insights, but to underscore that the process was considerably more labyrinthine and tentative. As such, more effort was required to piece together the information gathered in a way that did justice to the multidimensional realities on the ground and that considered transparently the ways in which I influenced the research and the analysis of these realities. These terminological challenges and decisions are discussed in various parts of the book. Integrating dialogical research methods In 2014–2015, I employed for the first time an innovative method for data collection and cultural analysis for my Master’s fieldwork in a Fulani community of Sufi adherents in Senegal to achieve a cosmology­ -​­ informed gender analysis in that context.69 This was based on Socratic dialogical principles of suspending assumptions about local realities and facilitating exploratory discussion among participants, allowing them to become analysts of their own realities. Within that experience, the participatory methodology helped to delineate together with the participants the contours of local socio­-​­cultural realities, capturing also some variation in local opinions and understandings.70 Echoing other scholars, such participatory research methods were particularly useful in identifying local standards or general beliefs, norms and practices that could be easily articulated in public, providing also insights into local power politics and socio­-​­cultural configurations that influenced communication in the public space.71 Hence, I decided to employ dialogical workshops in this study as a complementary method to tease out societal norms and standards about gender relations, married life, conjugal problems in the research population and, if at all possible, attitudes about conjugal abuse. While these could be replaced with focus group discussions (FGDs), which they resemble,72 I believe that they have additional strengths if used reflexively. For FGDs to be successful the process of information­-sharing ​­ must be democratic and inclusive so that debates and arguments naturally arise and become instructive.73 More applied forms of focus groups may often make use of visual materials, charts, mapping exercises or other techniques as entry points to further encourage interactive group discussions.74 Similar to FGDs, the workshops I held with the community were interactive and included group activities and dialogue.75 The semi­ -​­ structured format of the workshop aimed to create a platform for reflective and interactive knowledge generation in comfortable conditions for the participants. However, while FGDs come in many forms and shapes, they tend to be most effective when they are focused on one issue or cultural domain.76 In this study, I was more interested in discovering relationships between the local religio­-​­cultural cosmology and socio­-​­cultural realities with conjugal

64  Linguistic and cosmological translation abuse, so drawing any preconceived demarcations or focusing on areas of priority would be inappropriate. Furthermore, the aim of FGDs has been to maximise the diversity of the data collected by hand­-​­picking participants from a priori determined groups dictated by the interests and the aims of the research.77 Sampling is therefore very important and representativeness is an issue for many researchers who use this method.78 The dialogical workshops employed here were not premised on strictly determined sampling and while they revealed variability in opinions among participants, they were employed primarily to identify shared language, concepts, ideas and norms in the local society. Richard Krueger and David Morgan have argued that FGDs present the additional benefit that the researcher can directly ask participants about the reasons behind their differing opinions, as opposed to resorting to speculation.79 I maximised this advantage in my use of dialogical workshops by employing them also for more analytical purposes as the research progressed. Workshop participants were not merely sharing descriptive knowledge, but applied their own interpretative lens to make sense of research observations that I shared with them from the field. My approach was to leverage on their interpretations in order to obtain a more insightful picture of the society of research and to present it in its multifarious complexity to readers subsequently. While I shared fieldwork observations with interlocutors also during the life­-​­based interviews that I conducted, the workshops more effectively revealed overlaps and differentiations between individual and group interpretations. In FGDs, issues of privacy are salient given that participants say things in confidentiality which they know will not be attributed to them. Therefore, participants can share very personal things which later they may regret, or they may refer to experiences that can expose others, disturb local relations or generate levels of stress for the participants out of the ordinary.80 These are important ethical considerations, but they were less pertinent to dialogical workshops, which did not ask participants to share personal experiences but to explore and assess widely held social norms and standards of conduct. Therefore, over­-​­disclosure was less of an issue, although stress effects could be relevant since the themes explored were not typically talked about in the local society. To minimise potential stress, I ensured that participation was voluntary, letting participants know what to expect from the discussion and that they could refuse to participate or could leave the workshop without any repercussions or hard feelings. Workshops can serve as a platform for identifying local factors of negotiation (social status, identity, gender, other) and how these may underpin convergence/divergence in local linguistic and conceptual discourses and perceptions. Juxtaposing the workshop discussions to the life­-based ​­ interviews offered a more nuanced view of informal norms governing the local society and how people privately thought about these norms and responded to them, especially in view of their spiritual life and subjective

Linguistic and cosmological translation   65 understandings and desires. However, just as FGDs depend on the skills of the facilitators, the effectiveness of the workshops depended on my level of reflexivity and my ability to manoeuvre local socio­-cultural ​­ configurations that silenced some people and privileged others. In total, six workshops were held: two with women and two with men in the respective village communities and two with male and female members of the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan in the city of Aksum. These were organised progressively, holding workshops with women in the village communities first and at a later stage with men in the villages and lastly with Maḫәbärä Qәdusan members in the city. In general, participatory workshops were completed before the majority of the individual interviews. By ordering them in this way, my aim was to use the workshops as an entry point to women’s and men’s social worlds prior to delving into more personal attitudes and perspectives. The workshops held with Maḫәbärä Qәdusan members at a later stage in fieldwork displayed the highest degree of analytical discussion. Workshops were held separately with women and men in view of local gender sensibilities. In addition, it was hoped that the discussions with women would culminate in the airing of issues of conjugal abuse in the local society and that a mixed workshop with men and women would raise serious safety concerns. The workshops’ duration varied, with the shortest being about 1.5  hours and the longest approximating four hours. For all workshops a topic guide was used to ensure that the relevant themes were explored. Often topics were sacrificed to create time for issues/debates that arose but contributed unique insights to the study. For two workshops with women, I invited the participants to help me hold the coffee ceremony during the discussions. Women were generally excited and cooperative, enjoyed drinking coffee and eating popped corn and this created a vibrant atmosphere for discussion. Holding the coffee ceremony meant that women were given a reason to stay longer without becoming restless, thus prolonging the workshops. A similar strategy with men was not possible for two primary reasons: men were always unwilling to stay long enough, and it was difficult to make the appropriate arrangements for the coffee ceremony while respecting cultural norms (men did not generally boil coffee, tended to drink at home, etc.). The workshops with the women were planned beforehand and were convened by reaching out to local women or the secretaries of the associations directly. The workshops with the men were held on Sundays, when men gathered in village centres for weekly meetings and trainings. Male administrative officers had to mediate to help me in recruiting men due to men’s conflicting engagements on Sundays (e.g. attending agricultural training). In workshops with women, the female secretaries were not discouraged from being part of the discussions, but in workshops with men, the male administrator was not invited to attend. Given the power hierarchies and antagonisms among members of the women’s associations that were

66  Linguistic and cosmological translation encountered (see Chapter 7), there were various dynamics in these sessions that interfered with what participants shared. However, workshops were overall effective for identifying common understandings and issues that people felt comfortable with in terms of articulating and speaking about them in front of others. By the time that workshops were organised with the men in the two villages, I was able to communicate with confidence the research topics and questions in Tigrigna. Nonetheless, I decided to hire a male Aksum University student to support both workshops. While all the men I encountered in Tigray seemed to have no issues interacting with women, a couple of them were hesitant to address me directly during workshops. The presence of a male assistant could put men more at ease, knowing that there was a man on the receiving end. In addition, the male assistant often invoked his personal experience as a man raised in Aksum to trigger conversation and this helped participants to share their thoughts more easily. In general, gender­-​­related constraints were rarely an issue, with the majority of men welcoming conversations with me and some disclosing very intimate stories, which I present in the following chapters.

Notes  1 P. Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed (New York: The Seabury Press, 1968); R. Chambers, “Rural Rural Appraisal: Repertoire and Rationale”, IDS Discussion Paper 155, 1981; R. Chambers, “Rural Appraisal: Rapid, Relaxed and Participatory”, IDS Discussion Paper 311, 1992; R. Chambers, “Participatory Rural Appraisal (PRA): Analysis of Experience”, World Development 22, no. 9(1994): 1253–1268; R. Slocum, L. Witchhart, D. Rocheleau and B. Thomas­-​­Slayter, Power, Process and Participation: Tools for Change (London: Practical Action, 1995); P. ­Sillitoe, “The Development of Indigenous Knowledge: A New Applied Anthropology”, Current Anthropology 39, no. 2(1998): 223–235. DOI: 10.1086/204722; N.  Kabeer and R. Subrahmanian, eds., Institutions, Relations and Outcomes (New Delhi: Kali for Women, 1999); N. Slocum, “Participatory Methods Toolkit: A practitioner’s Manual”, UNU/CRIS, 2003; N. K. Denzin, Y. S. Lincoln and L.  T.  Smith, eds., Handbook of Critical and Indigenous Methodologies, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 2008).   2 I. Kapoor, “Hyper­-​­Self­-​­Reflexive Development? Spivak on Representing the Third World ‘Other’ ”. Third World Quarterly 25, no. 4(2004): 635–636, doi/abs/10.​ 1080/01436590410001678898.   3 C. Garcίa­-​­Moreno, H. Jansen, M. Ellsberg, L. Heise and C. Watts, “WHO Multi­-​ ­country Study on Women’s Health and Domestic Violence against Women: Initial Results on Prevalence, Health Outcomes and Women’s Responses”. Geneva, SUI: World Health Organisation, 2005.  4 Garcίa­-​­Moreno et al., “WHO Multi­-​­country Study”, 17.   5 Western anthropologists would typically speak of the process of ‘cultural translation’. I prefer to speak in terms of ‘cosmological translation’ to eschew the problematic meanings and connotations that ‘culture’ has acquired over time in Anglo­-​­American epistemology, but especially to overcome any implied differentiations from ‘religion’. In my usage, cosmology pertains to a holistic knowledge system and is interchangeable with ‘worldview’ (which incorporates both perceptions and senses).

Linguistic and cosmological translation   67   6 J. Clifford, “Introduction: Partial Truths”, in Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, edited by J. Clifford and G. Marcus (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1986), 1–26; R. M. Keesing, M. Crick, B. Frankel, J. Friedman, E. Hatch, J. Oosten, R. Pinxten, J. Rousseau and M. Strathern, “Anthropology as Interpretive Quest [and Comments and Reply]”, Current Anthropology 28, no. 2(1987): 161–176; U. Narayan, “Essence of Culture and a Sense of History: A Feminist Critique of Cultural Essentialism”, Hypatia 13, no. 2(1998): 86–106; J. Spickard and S. Landres, “Introduction: Whither Ethnography? Transforming the Social­-​­scientific Study of Religion”, in Personal Knowledge and Beyond: Reshaping the Ethnography of Religion, edited by J.  Spickard, S. Landres and M. B. McGuire (New York: New York University Press, 2002), 1–14.   7 A. Escobar, Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World (New Jersey and Sussex: Princeton University Press, 1995); Kapoor, “Hyper­-​­Self­-​­Reflexive Development?”.   8 T. Bradley, Religion and Gender in the Developing World: Faith­-​­based Organisations and Feminism in India (London and New York: I.B. Tauris  & Co. Ltd., 2011); W. Urban­-​­Mead, The Gender of Piety: Family, Faith, and Colonial Rule in Matabeleland, Zimbabwe (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2015).   9 S. Arnfred, Sexuality and Gender Politics in Mozambique: Rethinking Gender in Africa (Woodbridge, UK: James Currey, 2011), 21. 10 F. C. Steady, “An Investigative Framework for Gender Research in Africa in the New Millennium”, in African Gender Studies. A Reader, edited by O. Oyěwùmí (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 321. 11 D. Saliers, B. Joyce, D. S. Flueckiger, D. Diakité and D. Seeman, “Ethnography and Theology: A Critical Round Table Discussion”, Practical Matters 3, 2010; J. D. Lemons, Theologically Engaged Anthropology: Social Anthropology and Theology in Conversation (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018). 12 C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (London: Fontana Press, 1973); J. ­Clifford and G. Marcus, eds., Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (­Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1986); Keesing et al., “Anthropology as Interpretive Quest”; W. Capps, Religious Studies: The Making of a Discipline (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995); Spickard and Landres, “Introduction: Whither Ethnography?”; T. Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, or, How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005); T. H. Eriksen and F. S. Nielsen, A History of Anthropology. London: Pluto Press, 2013). 13 R. Istratii, “Gender through the Lens of Religion: An Ethnographic Study from a Muslim Community of Senegal” (MA Dissertation, University of Sussex, Institute of Development Studies, 2015); R. Istratii, “Using Traditional Patriarchal Institutions to Address Women’s Problems”, Voices from the Sylff Community. The Tokyo Foundation, 2015, www.sylff.org/news_voices/16277/; R.  Istratii, “Sensitising Gender to Local Cosmology: A Participatory Ethnographic Research Approach for Development from a Muslim Community in Senegal”, Journal of Development Practice 4(2018): 8–23. 14 R. Istratii, “Undernutrition Post­-​­2015: An Illustrative Discussion on Integrating Agriculture and Nutrition in Ethiopia in a Gender­ -​­ sensitive and Culture­ -​ ­relevant Way”, MA Gender and Development, Final Paper, Nutrition, 2015. 15 L. Alcoff and E. Potter, Feminist Epistemologies (New York and London: Routledge, 1993); Denzin et al., Handbook of Critical and Indigenous Methodologies. 16 D. Haraway, “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspectives”, Feminist Studies 14, no. 3(1988): 575–599; Alcoff and Potter, Feminist Epistemologies; A. Gouws, “Feminist Epistemology and Representation: The Impact of Postmodernism and Post­ -​­ Colonialism”,

68  Linguistic and cosmological translation Transformation 30(1996): 65–82; O. Oyěwùmí, The Invention of Women: Making an African Sense of Western Gender Discourses (Minneapolis: University of ­Minnesota Press, 1997); S. Harding, ed., The Feminist Standpoint Theory Reader: Intellectual and Political Controversies (London: Routledge, 2004); O. Oyěwùmí, ed., African Gender Studies: A Reader (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). 17 E. Anderson. “Feminist Epistemology and Philosophy of Science”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by E. N. Zalta (Fall 2012 Edition), http://plato. stanford.edu/archives/fall2012/entries/feminism­-​­epistemology/. 18 C. McKinnon, Toward a Feminist Theory of the State (London: Harvard University Press,1989), xi; Harding, The Feminist Standpoint, 3. 19 Harding, The Feminist Standpoint, 4. 20 S. Harding, Whose Science Whose knowledge? Thinking from Women’s Lives (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), 142. 21 Harding, The Feminist Standpoint, 2. 22 C. T. Mohanty, “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses”, Feminist Review 30(1998): 61–88; N. U. Nzegwu, Structures of Equality, in Family Matters: Feminist concepts in African Philosophy of Culture (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006); Arnfred, Sexuality and Gender Politics. 23 S. Harding, “Rethinking Standpoint Epistemology: ‘What is Strong Objectivity?’ ”, in Feminist Epistemologies, edited by L. Alcoff and E. Potter (New York and London: Routledge, 1993), 49–82; Arnfred, Sexuality and Gender Politics. 24 Harding, “Rethinking Standpoint Epistemology”. 25 Alcoff and Potter, Feminist Epistemologies. 26 M. Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman ( Jonathan Bennett, 2017 [1792]), 8, 13, 18, 20, 25, 31, 54. 27 D. Juschka, ed., Feminism in the Study of Religion: A Reader (New York: Continuum, 2001). 28 E. S. Fiorenza, Bread Not Stone: The Challenge of Feminist Biblical Interpretation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1984). 29 S. Heine, Women and Early Christianity: Are the Feminist Scholars Right? (London: SCM Press Ltd, 1986). 30 E. S. Fiorenza, “Method in Women’s Studies in Religion: A Critical Feminist Hermeneutics”, in Methodology in Religious Studies: The Interface with Women’s Studies, edited by A. Sharma (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002), 224, 226. 31 R. R. Ruether, Sexism and God­-​­talk: Toward a Feminist Theology (Boston: Beacon Press, 1983), 22. 32 Juschka, Feminism, 163. 33 Arnfred, Sexuality and Gender Politics. 34 K. E. Børresen, “Gender, Religion and Human Rights in Europe”, in Pieties and Gender, edited by L. Sjørup and H. R. Christensen (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009), 55–64. 35 R. Istratii, “Beyond a Feminist ‘Hermeneutics of Suspicion’: Reading St John Chrysostom’s Commentaries on Man­-​­Woman Relations, Marriage and Conjugal Abuse through the Orthodox Phronema”, The SOAS Journal of Postgraduate Research 11(2018): 16–47. 36 Istratii, “Beyond a Feminist ‘Hermeneutics of Suspicion’ ”. 37 J. Salomonsen, “The Power and Ambiguity of Symbols: Contemporary Religion and the Search for a Feminine Divine”, in Pieties and Gender, edited by L. Sjørup and H. R. Christensen (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009), 205. 38 Heine, Women and Early Christianity. 39 J. Romanides, Romiosini, Romania, Roumeli (Thessaloniki: Pournaras, 1975) [in Greek].

Linguistic and cosmological translation   69 40 Heine, Women and Early Christianity; D. C. Ford, Women and Men in the Early Church: The Full Views of St. Chrysostom (South Canaan, PA: St. Tikhon’s Seminary Press, 1996). 41 Istratii, “Beyond a Feminist ‘Hermeneutics of Suspicion’ ”. 42 U. King and T. Beattie, eds., Gender, Religion and Diversity: Cross­-​­cultural Perspectives (New York: Continuum, 2004), 4–9. 43 R. Gross, “Where Have We Been? Where Do We Need To Go? Women’s Studies and Gender in Religion and Feminist Theology”, in Gender, Religion and Diversity: Cross­-​­cultural Perspectives, edited by U. King and T. Beattie (New York: Continuum, 2004), 22. 44 R. Gross, “Where Have We Been?”. 45 T. Beattie, “Religious Identity and the Ethics of Representation: The Study of Religion and Gender in the Secular Academy”, in Gender, Religion and Diversity: Cross­-​ ­cultural Perspectives, edited by U. King and T. Beattie (New York: Continuum, 2004), 65–78. 46 J. Cox, An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion (London; New York: Continuum, 2010). 47 K. Young, “From the Phenomenology of Religion to Feminism and Women’s Studies”, in Methodology in Religious Studies: The Interface with Women’s Studies, edited by A. Sharma (SUNY Series, McGill Studies in the History of Religions, 2002), 20. 48 Young, “From the Phenomenology of Religion”, 36. 49 Young, “From the Phenomenology of Religion”, 21. 50 See Cox, An Introduction. 51 R. T. McCutcheon, Critics not Caretakers: Redescribing the Public Study of Religion (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2001). 52 Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures. 53 R. Istratii and M. Hirmer, “Editorial: Cross­-cultural ​­ Engagements in Decolonial Times: Subverting Euro­ -​­ centric Structures, Epistemologies and Ontologies”, Decolonial Subversions 1(2020). 54 T. Asad, Genealogies of Religion, Discipline and Reason of Power in Christianity and Islam (London; Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993). 55 T. Asad, “The Idea of an Anthropology of Islam”, Occasional Papers Series, Center for Contemporary Arab Studies, Georgetown University, 1986; S. Mahmood, Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005). 56 Asad, “The Idea”, 14. 57 Mahmood, Politics of Piety, 117. 58 R. LeVine, “Gusii Sex Offenses: A Study in Social Control”, American Anthropologist 61(1959): 965–990; D. Levinson, Family Violence in Cross­-​­cultural Perspective (SAGE Publications Inc., 1989); D. A. Counts, J. K. Brown, J. C. Campbell, eds., Sanctions and Sanctuary: Cultural Perspectives on the Beating of Wives (Boulder, Oxford: Westview Press, 1992); W. J. Kalu, “Battered Spouse as a Social Concern in Work with Families in Two Semi­-​­Rural Communities of Nigeria”, Journal of Family Violence 8, no. 4(1993): 361–373; L. McClusky, Here, our Culture is Hard: Stories of Domestic Violence from a Mayan Community in Belize (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001); S. Shaikh, “A Tasfir of Praxis: Gender, Marital Violence, and Resistance in a South African Muslim Community”, in Violence against Women in Contemporary World Religions: Roots and Cures, edited by D. Maguire and S. Shaikh (Ohio: Pilgrim Press, 2007), 66–89. 59 McClusky, Here, our Culture is Hard. 60 L. A. Fontes, “Ethics in Family Violence Research: Cross­-​­cultural Issues”, Family Relations 47(1998): 53–61; M. Ellsberg, L. Heise, R. Peña, S. Agurto and A. Winkvist, “Researching Domestic Violence against Women: Methodological

70  Linguistic and cosmological translation and Ethical Considerations”, Studies in Family Planning 32, no. 1(2001): 1–16; World Health Organisation, “Putting Women First: Ethical and Safety Recommendations for Research on Domestic Violence against Women”, Department of Gender and Women’s Health Family and Community Health, World Health Organization, Geneva, Switzerland, 2001; M. Ellsberg and L. Heise, “Bearing Witness: Ethics in Domestic Violence Research”, Lancet 359(2002): 1599–1604; L. A. Fontes, “Ethics in Violence against Women Research: The Sensitive, the Dangerous, and the Overlooked”, Ethics and Behavior 14, no. 2(2004): 141–174; M. Ellsberg, and L. Heise, “Researching Violence against Women: A Practical Guide for Researchers and Activists”, Washington, DC: World Health Organization, PATH, 2005; R. Wiles, G. Crow, H. Sue and V. Charles, “Informed Consent in Social Research: A Literature Review”, ESRC National Centre for Research Methods. NCRM Methods Review Papers. NCRM/001, 2005; I. Ruiz­ -​­ Pérez, J. Plazaola­-​­Castaño and C. Vives­-​­Cases, “Methodological Issues in the Study of Violence Against Women”, Journal of Epidemiological Community Health 61(2007): 26–31. DOI: 10.1136/jech.2007.059907; R. Wiles, G. Crow, V. Charles and S. Heath, “Informed Consent and the Research Process: Following Rules or Striking Balances?” Sociological Research Online 12, no. 2(2007), doi.org/10.5153/ sro.1208; UN Women, “Steps for Conducting Interviews”, 2012, www.endvaw​now. org/en/articles/1139­-​­steps­-​­for­-​­conducting­-​­interviews.html; K.  Kelmendi, “Violence against Women: Methodological and Ethical Issues”, Psychology 4, no. 7(2013): 559–565, 10.4236/psych.2013.47080; J. Downes, L. Kelly and N.  ­ Westmarland, “Ethics in Violence and Abuse Research  – A Positive Empowerment Approach”, Sociological Research Online 19, no. 1(2014): 29–41, doi.org/10.5153/ sro.3140. 61 Ellsberg et al., “Researching Domestic Violence”; WHO, “Putting Women First”; Ellsberg and Heise, “Bearing Witness”, 1600; Fontes, “Ethics in Family Violence Research” is among the few publications that draw attention to the need for cross­-​ ­cultural sensitivity in domestic violence research. 62 Association of Social Anthropologists of the UK and the Commonwealth, 2011. Ethical Guidelines for Good Research Practice, 2, www.theasa.org/downloads/ ASA%20ethics%20guidelines%202011.pdf. 63 Ellsberg et al., “Researching Domestic Violence”; WHO, “Putting Women First”; Ellsberg and Heise, “Bearing Witness”; Fontes, “Ethics in Violence”. 64 IDVE1; IDVE2; IDVE3; IDVE4. 65 Such epistemological superimpositions are explained for example in Oyěwùmí, The Invention of Women; Narayan, “Essence of Culture”; A. Mafeje, Anthropology in Post­-​­Independence Africa: End of an Era and the Problem of Self­-​­Redefinition, African Social Scientists Reflections Part 1, Heinrich Böll Foundation, 2001; R. Devisch, and F. B. Nyamnjoh, The Postcolonial Turn. Re­-​­Imagining Anthropology and Africa (Bamenda, Cameroon: Langaa RPCIG, 2011). 66 Clergy were initially opposed to secular education, which also circumvented their ability to learn Amharic. See next chapter. 67 B. Kahasy, ሜጋ እንግሊዝኛ­-አ ​­ ማርኛ­-​­ትግርኛ መዝገበ ቃላት. Mega English­-​­Amharic­-​­Tigrgigna Dictionary (Addis Ababa: Mega Publishing & Distribution PLC, 2008 EC). 68 In the PhD thesis, I added also dictionary references to achieve the rigour required for the qualification. I have omitted these here because my concern is in conveying local usage, except for instances where I am interested in the etymology of the words. 69 Istratii, “Gender through the Lens of Religion”. 70 Istratii, “Sensitising Gender”. 71 N. Price and K. Hawkins, “Researching Sexual and Reproductive Behaviour: A Peer Ethnographic Approach”, Social Science and Medicine 55(2002): 1358; J. Bergold and S. Thomas, “Participatory Research Methods: A Methodological

Linguistic and cosmological translation   71 Approach in Motion”, Forum: Qualitative Social Research 13, no. 1(2012), http:// nbn­-​­resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:0114­-​­fqs1201302; K. Elmusharaf, E. Byrne, M.  ­Manandhar, J. Hemmings and D. O’Donovan, “Participatory Ethnographic Evaluation and Research: Reflections on the Research Approach Used to Understand the Complexity of Maternal Health Issues in South Sudan”, Qualitative Health Research 27, no. 9(2017): 1345–1358. 72 R. Krueger and M. A. Casey, Focus Groups: A Practical Guide for Applied Research (New Delhi: Sage Publications Asia­-​­Pacific Pte. Ltd, 2015). 73 D. Morgan, “Focus Groups”, Annual Review of Sociology 22(1996): 139; J. Kitzinger, “The Methodology of Focus Groups: The Importance of Interaction between Research Participants”, Sociology of Health and Illness 16, no. 1(1994): 105, doi. org/10.1111/1467­-​­9566.ep11347023. 74 J. J. Schensul, Enhanced Ethnographic Methods: Audiovisual Techniques, Focused Group Interviews, and Elicitation Techniques (Walnut Creek, CA; London: Altamira Press, 1999). 75 These exercises were designed for this study, but they were premised on mapping techniques widely used in participatory research methodologies within development (e.g. Slocum et al., Power, Process). 76 Schensul, Enhanced, 63. 77 D. Morgan, The Focus Group Guidebook (Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications, 1997). 78 Schensul, Enhanced, 65–70. 79 Krueger and Morgan (1993) cited in Morgan, “Focus Groups”, 139. 80 Morgan, The Focus Group, 91–92.

3 Intimate partner violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia

According to statistical evidence, about one in three women in Ethiopia has experienced some form of spousal abuse in her lifetime.1 In the last three Demographic and Health surveys (DHS) significant numbers of men and women across the country were reported to ‘justify’ wife­-​­hitting in certain situations, although percentages have declined over time.2 Other studies have found that the problem of conjugal abuse may be underreported and that victimised parties may avoid resorting to formal institutions, opting to mediate the situations through informal parties, such as families, elders, neighbours and priests.3 Domestic violence studies from Ethiopia have primarily focused on investigating the scope of the phenomenon and the affected groups, risk factors, causes and health­ -related ​­ consequences, relying on population studies, household surveys, interviews, focus groups or a combination of qualitative and quantitative methods.4 In line with the wider gender­ -​­ based violence (GBV) scholarship, the majority of the authors have tended toward aetiologies that consider violence to be the outcome of an oppressive culture amplified by material constraints faced by women.5 However, in most cases, studies lack the empirical evidence to demonstrate the causal connection between violence and socio­-cultural ​­ norms, or what ‘culture’ might represent to local people. While it is not denied that women and girls in Ethiopia have historically faced profound forms of oppression, injustice and exploitation,6 these cannot be generalised or portrayed with a single brush due to a host of complex factors that have shaped women’s lives and conditions in diverse societies of Ethiopia.7 To achieve any sort of assessment of the relationship between socio­ -​­ cultural systems, gender norms and domestic violence, a multi­-​­dimensional, history­-​­informed, ethnographic and people­-​­centred approach is necessary. Moreover, the pervasive religious character of most Ethiopian societies raises the need to contextualise such an analysis in location­-​­specific vernacular religious experience. Only a few studies, so far, have acknowledged the relevance of religious parameters, and most have been a­-​­theological and a­-​­contextual, with little or no attention being given to the historicity of both ecclesiastical discourses and the embodied religious experience of the laity.8

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   73 It is also problematic that most of the existing domestic violence studies did not pay more attention to research participants’ terminological choices in speaking about intimate partner violence. For example, in a qualitative study in Debre Tabor town, Amhara, Achenef Muche and colleagues employed the term ‘gender­ -​­ based violence’ throughout their article and even translated some of the research participants’ references to abuse using this term, but without being explicit about the participants’ word choice in the original language.9 In my research context, no interlocutors in the villages and only a couple of urban residents ever used the term ‘gender violence’ (Amh.: ṣotawi ṭqat; ጾታዊ ጥቃት), which leads me to suspect that the authors might have unreflexively adopted the foreign term to introduce the question or to translate the equivalent local expressions. Insofar as it is recognised that terminology is never stripped of theoretical premises, using foreign terms can superimpose theoretical assumptions not intended by the research participants. On the other hand, generic typologies of violence can obscure local conceptualisations, rationalisations and aetiologies of domestic violence. Many of the available studies adopted the questionnaire and terminology used by the World Health Organisation (WHO) to investigate violence affecting women in different societies of Ethiopia, without accounting for the fact that this limited their ability to engage substantively with conceptualisations specific to local societies. As I hope to demonstrate in this book, how individuals conceptualise intimate partner violence is closely related to how they understand and explain it; hence, engaging with research participants’ own terminological choices can allow a more nuanced understanding of mechanisms and norms that maintain attitudes and situations favourable to its continuation. Moreover, as Tagbar Yigzaw and colleagues showed in their study in Gondar, Amhara, variability in how local people speak about different forms of conjugal abuse can reveal different attitudes.10 In this chapter I examine the most relevant domestic violence literature from Ethiopia to problematise some of the implicit assumptions and terminology used, as well as to identify useful directions and unanswered questions that guided this study. I combine the assessment with a closer look at relevant ethnographic studies from Ethiopia, focusing on predominantly Christian Orthodox areas of Ethiopia, primarily Amhara and Tigray, as relevant to this research context.

Directions in the scholarship and unaddressed questions The Ethiopian Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) conducted in 2016 offers an extensive summary of domestic violence­-​­related statistics. The survey included questions about spousal violence and other family relative or stranger violence, attitudes about spousal abuse and other data in relation to domestic violence. It categorised violence under emotional, physical and sexual violence, finding that 33.8 per cent of Ethiopian women in

74  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia the age range 15–49 had experienced some form of abuse by their current or most recent husband or partner.11 In Tigray, the equivalent percentage was 33.4 per cent, with 24.7 per cent of female respondents reporting physical or sexual violence and 26.7 per cent reporting emotional violence.12 Other available studies from Ethiopia reported physical and sexual abuse incurred by women by their intimate partners/husbands, although sexual abuse was found to be less often communicated than was physical violence.13 The EDHS reports from 2005, 2011 and 2016 also reported attitudes of men and women toward wife­-​­hitting.14 Enumerators asked if a husband was ‘justified’ to hit his wife on five different occasions: when she burns the food, when she argues with him, when she goes out without telling him, when she neglects the children, and when she refuses to have sexual intercourse. In 2011, among women aged 15–49, 68.4 per cent agreed with at least one justification, the neglect of children by women and burning the food achieving the highest scores. In Tigray, the percentage of women agreeing with at least one of the pretexts was 67.1. According to the responses of men aged 15–49, 44.9 per cent agreed that hitting a wife is ‘justified’ at least in one of the five specified occasions. The equivalent percentage from Tigray was 46 per cent. Neglecting the children and arguing with the husband achieved the highest scores. In 2016, the percentages generally decreased, with 63 per cent of women and 27.6 per cent of men agreeing with at least one scenario.15 Both men and women gave neglecting the children and going out without telling the husband the highest scores. This convergence seems to suggest that expectations around motherhood might have changed more slowly than have spousal expectations (i.e. regarding cooking on behalf of women). The percentage of women ‘justifying’ abuse on at least one occasion decreased with the level of education and the level of wealth, although the transition from no education to more than secondary education was more substantive than the transition from lower to higher wealth categories. As was the case for women, the likelihood that men agreed with at least one reason fell with education and wealth, and substantively more with education. Another interesting statistic reported both for 2011 and 2016 was that divorced, separated and widowed men tended to ‘justify’ wife­-beating ​­ on more occasions than men who were never married or living with a woman.16 This was especially pronounced for men in EDHS 2016. The percentage of men agreeing with at least one justification was 40.9 per cent for divorced/ widowed men, versus 28.2 per cent for never married and 26.7 per cent for currently married. For women the difference in percentage for never married and divorced/widowed was smaller (53.7 per cent versus 63.6 per cent). In presenting these results, I have placed the word ‘justify’ in quotation marks because it is not clear to me how this verb was intended by the survey developers or how it was understood by the survey participants. Various authors appear to have interpreted ‘to justify’ to mean ‘to accept’ and not­-​­to­-​­justify to mean ‘to oppose’. However, justifying the use of

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   75 violence in any of the given situations could mean that respondents were able to rationalise (i.e. explain) why the perpetrator used violence in reference to local expectations and standards, without, however necessarily condoning it. To justify or to explain the use of violence need not mean to accept it, while not justifying need not mean to oppose: one can still make sense of and anticipate a type of human behaviour without necessarily excusing it or considering it to be morally right, as I will elaborate in detail in the analysis of my research participants’ discourses. In 2015, Agumasie Semahegn and Bezatu Mengistie reviewed 15 studies, including two demographic surveys, conducted in Ethiopia between the years 2000 and 2014.17 The majority had taken place in Amhara, Oromiya and the Southern Nations, Nationalities and People’s regions, although some incorporated Tigray. Overall, the percentages of abuse experienced by sampled women in their lifetime ranged between 20 and 78 per cent. Physical abuse was reported in the range of 31.0–76.5 percent, while sexual abuse in the range of 19.0–51.7 per cent. Abuse was found to correlate with husband “alcohol consumption, khat chewing, family history of violence, occupation, religion, educational status, residence and decision making power”.18 Women’s literacy levels, occupation and having extra partners were associated with abuse. Women who had a controlling partner were also more likely to have experienced sexual abuse, which was reported more for housewives than for working women. Approximately four out of 10 women did not divulge the violence or seek help from the police, the courts, health agencies or other legal entity. Most research participants cited fear for the consequences, with fewer justifying their silence on the premise that abuse was “normal” or “not serious”.19 The authors, in turn, observed that “[i]n Ethiopia, housewives more likely kept silent … as part of family life, show of love and economic dependency on the husband”.20 Women who chose to speak out were more likely to report to their families, local elders, leaders and spiritual fathers. The tendency among Ethiopian women to keep silent about conjugal abuse, but especially sexual violence, is affirmed in most available studies. In a 2004 study, Amanuel Gessessew and Mengiste Mesfin examined the magnitude of rape, associated factors and health­-​­related problems at the Adigrat Zonal Hospital in Tigray, not very far from Aksum where this study took place. In the period of three years, 181 cases of rape were reported to the gynaecological section of the hospital,21 of which 22.1 per cent were committed by current boyfriends, 5.6 by ex­-​­husband, and 8.3 by ex­-​­boyfriend.22 Despite previous reports suggesting its existence, no rapes committed by husbands appear to have been reported by the women, which could reflect the fact that marital rape has not been considered a crime in the country (see below). The authors reasoned that [i]n the context of Ethiopian culture where forced sex is sometimes tolerated due to cultural influences and a majority of women are

76  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia economically dependent on their husbands, much less proportion of the incidents might be reported to the police and health institutions.23 Importantly, that 22.1 per cent of women reported violence by boyfriends evidenced that these women had been sexually active before an official marital relationship was established. This observation begins to reveal a relatively flexible Christian society allowing non­-formal ​­ cohabitations, as was encountered in Aksum. Annabel Erulkar’s statistical analysis of a population­-​­based survey conducted between 2009 and 2010 in seven regions of Ethiopia, including Tigray, provides additional insights.24 She investigated the relationship between age of marriage and forced first sexual intercourse with husband, and intimate partner violence. In the sample, 17 per cent had been married before the age of 15, and 30 per cent between 15 and 17. The majority of the girls who married before 18 had never been to school. Furthermore, having some education meant that it was less likely for the girl not to know her husband at the time of marriage. The author found that “early marriage was associated with having experienced forced first sex with one’s husband, and marginally associated with having been hit or beaten in the last three months.”25 About 32 per cent of the younger brides had experienced forced sex by their husbands, and 7 per cent were more likely to have recently experienced violence by an intimate partner. Erulkar also found that only 15 per cent of the girls that were married before 15 had communicated with their husband about “the number of children to have, HIV/AIDS, marital fidelity and use of maternal and child health services”.26 The same correlation between age of marriage and conjugal abuse was made in a study of intimate partner violence during pregnancy conducted in Shire Endaselassie town, located about 30 minutes away, by car, from the city of Aksum.27 Although not referring to Tigray or Christian Orthodox Täwahәdo populations, the study of Abbi Kedir and Lul Admasachew from 2010 is pertinent. The authors interviewed 14 victims and survivors in Addis Ababa, who included one housewife, four housemaids and nine sex workers. This study’s authors also affirmed that local culture was blameful for keeping women oppressed and submissive, contributing to their abuse.28 However, the researchers found that “except for a handful of outliers, most of the women did not blame culture. Many did not believe that men could be violent and that they expected women to be subservient as a result of ­Ethiopian culture.”29 In other words, while the authors considered the gender normative framework to be blameful, most of the interlocutors seemed to have a different perception on the matter and did not suggest a direct link between culture­-​­specific socialisation and the motivations of abuse. One of the few qualitative studies of intimate partner violence in Tigray was conducted by Mary Allen and Ní Raghallaigh, which was comprised of

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   77 focus groups and intimate discussions with women.30 The study showed that participants perceived physical and sexual violence to be commonplace in their society. The latter was associated with a culture­-​­specific expectation for wives to cater to their husbands’ needs at all times. The authors also observed that their interlocutors did not refer directly to their experiences of sexual abuse, but to those of their neighbours. On the other hand, when they referred to physical abuse, they spoke of their personal cases. This difference could suggest that admitting sexual abuse was still a taboo for most women. Abusive attitudes were linked to perceptions of male superiority, a ‘culture’ that women affirmed “has been there for long, and it is still part of us”.31 Participants proposed various causes for the different forms of violence that they faced, including poverty, inequality and lack of education for women. Economic interests emerged as being the most crucial factor with women frequently entering relationships with men as a way out of poverty. Additionally, “poverty, fear, or social and family pressures or religious beliefs”32 were some of the justifications for why women remained in abusive marriages. A more recent report by the Overseas Development Institute, which took place in Amhara region, echoed Allen and Raghallaigh in observing that “domestic abuse thrives in relationships where the wife has no access to an independent income, and becomes socially isolated due to economic reliance on her partner”.33 It also found, however, that “there was a general view that domestic violence has decreased, and moreover that more egalitarian decision­ -​­ making is increasingly the mark of a ‘good husband’ ”.34 Together the last two studies seem to suggest that material conditions might have become a more prominent factor of vulnerability than gender norms, which appear to have been changing in recent years. In 2010, Tagbar Yigzaw and colleagues published one of the more exceptional studies that explored how local people conceptualised conjugal abuse in their own terms, as well as their perceptions and attitudes around the issues they raised.35 Their study took place in Gondar, Amhara, and engaged a diverse group of Christian and Muslim research participants, including male elders and family conflict arbitrators. The authors found variability in how people thought about what constitutes abuse in marriage and a grey area between what was considered to be permissible and unacceptable abusive behaviour. While physical violence was generally condemned as unnecessary, participants seemed to be more lenient about cases where spousal conflict escalated to physical violence but did not cause serious harm to the woman. Opinions about sexual coercion were also variable, but the influence of a normalised idea that women had to have sex with their husbands any time they requested it was visible. Importantly, some participants invoked religious idiom, namely man and woman becoming one flesh in marriage, to enforce opinions that a husband and wife should not withhold themselves from each other.

78  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia All the studies examined above affirmed a relationship between cultural ideas governing man­-​­woman relations and marriage and various forms of violence. However, not all research participants made direct connections to culture and some seemed to think differently about the deeper reasons of abuse, often treating catalysts as causes. The domestic violence scholarship has neither sufficiently investigated the reported pernicious cultural attitudes, nor has it paid attention to testimonies that reject such a connection. What is understood by ‘culture’ when participants refer to it? And why might some victimised women not hold wider socio­-​­cultural systems liable for their abuse? Could it be that their understanding of ‘culture’ differs from that often held by researchers and the more ‘educated’ class? Moreover, while most of the authors of the studies mentioned adopted feminist aetiologies of violence, improvements in attitudes and shifts in gender norms toward more egalitarian standards have been reported, but these have not been well­-​­accounted for in these discussions. Moreover, some of the studies’ participants mentioned religious beliefs or ideas, but authors did not seek to relate them to Church teachings and vernacular religious experience. For example, some conjugal problems emanated from a failure to procreate and certain forms of abuse were associated with early marriage. How might conjugal problems due to childlessness be associated with religious teachings that place emphasis on procreation (see Chapter 4)? On the other hand, the extensiveness of early marriage generates questions about the role of the Church. If, as has been reported in other studies,36 female virginity is a socio­-​­cultural standard in many societies of Ethiopia, could religious beliefs and clergy discourses have facilitated the perpetuation of early marriage? Similarly, how might religious discourse relate to attitudes about sexual coercion given the reported invocations of ‘oneness in flesh’ for spouses? Have the clergy generally condemned sexual abuse or have they ascribed to the wider norms, ignoring the problem? And how might their personal attitudes compare to official Church discourse and teachings? The overall observations point to the need for more nuanced depictions of local socio­-​­cultural systems to account for variable understandings and dynamic gender relations in society. More rigorous investigations are also needed to understand the historical role and position of the Church and clergy in matters of marriage and gender relations. In the following section, I take a closer look at some of the ethnographic literature available to explore these relationships in a more contextualised manner.

Women’s status in Ethiopia historically and in post­-​­revolution Tigray Whilst it is not denied that women across Ethiopia have seen profound forms of oppression, injustice and exploitation – as have women in many other societies of the world  – these cannot be generalised or portrayed

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   79 with a single brush due to a host of complex factors that have shaped women’s lives and conditions across Ethiopia’s variegated socio­-​­cultural and religious landscape. Edward Ullendorff, writing before the liberation war of the twentieth century, had already hinted at the need for more nuanced analytical frameworks when he observed that “women in traditional [Ethiopian] society occupy a subordinate, though by no means oppressed or underprivileged, place”.37 Ethiopian women, for example, have a long history of participation in warfare. This history is not limited to the few exceptional female figures in Ethiopian political history,38 but can be claimed by the general population, as Minale Adugna suggests in a unique collection of essays based on interviews with elders.39 The compiled materials make evident that women had been crucial in military affairs over the centuries, whether they fought in the battlefields with men, stayed behind at home or were camp­ -​ ­followers. Moreover, when women lost their husbands to war, they often continued the fight to avenge them and to protect their land. A decree issued by a Yeju guardian of the puppet kings of Gondar in the nineteenth century is particularly illustrative, calling men and women to fight with the following warning: “[O]ne who does not join the army of Gugsa, man and woman, will lose his genital and her breast respectively.”40 The way in which this was articulated suggests that women and men were treated at some level with equality, each threatened with losing body parts that were considered quintessential to their gender identity. Furthermore, women had the power to patronise men, in the sense that men were afraid of ­women’s derision if they showed cowardice or failed to fight well.41 A compilation of stories involving Tigrayan women’s participation in the liberation struggle by Jenny Hammond provides a gloomier picture of women’s conditions prior to the liberation struggle, although with variations across regional and religious groups. Women’s status prior to the liberation was explained on the basis of an oppressive feudal system, which relegated women to the lowest rank in society. In this generally oppressive and unequal system, girls and boys were treated and raised differently, which affected married life. According to one of the narrators, Mahta, prior to the war women were unable to eat together with men as equals; girls were less valued than boys and women’s sexuality had been rigidly controlled.42 Another woman, Besserat, spoke about the widespread norm of girls being married at eight, nine or 10 years old to men who could be their fathers, and affirmed the problem of wife­ -​­ hitting among some ‘macho’ men.43 Mahta was one of the few who also referred to the dominant Church, affirming that “[r]eligion and the priests had an important influence on women’s oppression. They wanted women to accept it.”44 Other women mentioned restrictions around menstruation, which women themselves enforced habitually. The overall testimonies confirmed, however, a significant transition to increased awareness about class struggle and women’s oppression and the need for equality during the liberation struggle. All the

80  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia narrators had been TPLF fighters who had received ‘class consciousness’ training and most had become exposed to other societies, such as the UK and Sudan. While many women could have felt suppressed by the norms and practices described by the TPLF fighters, it is anticipated that not all women understood and experienced the traditional rural lifestyle in the same way. Moreover, the interpretations given to the actions of women or priests could be nuanced to capture a diversity of other motivations. It could be entertained that not all priests necessarily intended women to accept their inferior position, but that they encouraged women to endure in order to secure their marriages, reflecting the importance of the spousal union in this Church tradition (see Chapter 4). Elsewhere women spoke about difference in the number of ululations when a boy or a girl was born, but these could reflect the fact that a boy would become a breadwinner and have access to land, bringing more security to the household. Helen Pankhurst’s study from Menz, Amhara, offers perhaps one of the most comprehensive ethnographic accounts of women’s realities in a specific society of Ethiopia.45 Although she did not deny women’s “oppression”, her understanding was that women did “take control” where and when they could. She also reported the widespread problem of conjugal abuse and women’s endurance of it, although women tended to eventually break their marriages and to return home or remarry, often multiple times. Among the female respondents she cited, one reported that her husband “was the hitting type”, another that “he would hit me and there was forced intercourse”, and yet another that “once he came back and was abusive and I decided to go”.46 This abusiveness was generally associated with the consumption of alcohol, while causes of divorce pertained to early marriage and large age differences between the spouses. Anger, not having offspring, falling in love with a third person, poverty, the close association with ­women’s inability to run effectively the home finances and relations with parents­-​­in­-​­law were some of women’s justifications for divorce. Like Mahta had reported to Hammond, Pankhurst asserted that the Church encouraged the “subordination” of women by placing authority in the hands of men, although she observed that marriage and divorce procedures were more egalitarian.47 In parallel, she evidenced that the local religious tradition played an influential role in the lives of women, who were often guided by their faith and who found “support and explanations of their world in Christian terms”.48 However, the prevalent faith co­-​­existed with culture­-​­specific spirit beliefs, which she described to be almost “in opposition to the dominant Church­-​­based ideology”,49 serving as outlets of frustration for women’s material grievances.50 Her overall analysis left no doubt that the Church was influential at the societal level, but it made it less clear how the laity understood and embodied their religious vernacular tradition, or how women’s embodiment of religious teachings informed their experiences of conjugal abuse or their responses to it.

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   81 Thera Mjaaland, who investigated the role of women’s agency in ­ igray’s liberation struggle, painted a similarly complex picture in terms T of gender relations, and an equally close intertwinement of women’s lives with religious beliefs.51 Her study was driven by a curiosity to understand if women’s empowerment to join the liberation war as fighters had been “a unique historical possibility to escape a traditionally oppressed position as women” or “if this was an act partly made possible by this very socio­-​­historical context, where it has been reported as costmary [sic] for women to take part in war expeditions as camp­-​­followers at least from the seventeenth century onwards”.52 This puzzle was amplified by the fact that many women resumed their ordinary roles as mothers and wives after the liberation war ended.53 While many parameters probably contributed to this outcome, not least being the lower literacy levels for women TPLF fighters which allowed fewer to be absorbed in non­ -​ ­traditional professions, Mjaaland seemed to suggest the possibility of self­-​ ­directed actions as women negotiated possibilities that were defined in the local normative landscape. Mjaaland’s study suggested also some important associations between religious beliefs and folklore attitudes towards conjugal abuse.54 One of her interlocutors, Abeba, narrated a personal experience of conjugal violence interfacing beliefs about the spiritual world and the woman’s response to conjugal abuse. Abeba’s first­-​­ever assault by her husband had been unexpected and occurred for no apparent reason. Throughout her ordeal, which lasted a couple of hours, Abeba remained quiet and endured the beating partly because she reasoned that her husband had been possessed by Satan and was not in charge of his own senses and that it was better to remain quiet until the violence de­-escalated. ​­ Mjaaland noted: She is also aware that her husband’s beating could have been caused by envy or jealousy, possibly generated by her husband’s acquaintances mocking him about the fact that she is richer than he is. Such “bad” feelings are seen as creating a possibility for evil spirits to enter a body and take hold of the person.55 In other words, Abeba acted according to her beliefs and understandings about the effect of evil spiritual forces acting on human behaviour, which she tried to appease through silent endurance. While these beliefs were not necessarily identified with the prevalent religious faith, they were clearly not disconnected from a broader Christian theology of satanic interference in human life. Gender­-​­specific socialisation and the influence of the clergy While it is hard to make categorical statements about women’s status historically and women’s agentival capacity in Tigray, education, socialisation and

82  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia livelihoods across Ethiopia have been generally organised according to gender­-​­specific principles. One study that explored the socialisation of boys and girls prior to the liberation war was Donald Levine’s in Amhara.56 Echoing the TPLF fighters cited earlier, Levine’s investigations showed that boys and girls were raised differently and assumed their respective roles and responsibilities from an early age according to their capacity, so that a smooth transition could be secured from childhood to adolescence to adulthood. Girls spent most of the time with their mothers and boys with their fathers to learn the respective arts and chores. Both girls’ and boys’ responsibilities increased as they grew up, so that each became equipped to fulfil their roles when they came of marital age. In Amhara, this could be at 12 or 13 years of age for the girl and late teens or early twenties for boys. A more recent study confirmed this, suggesting that Ethiopian girls and boys, regardless of ethnicity and religion, have tended to grow up with a different set of understandings and expectations.57 According to the study, in many socio­-​­cultural contexts of Ethiopia what is suitable for boys may not be considered suitable for girls. For example, girls may not be allowed to play outside after school, as opposed to boys, who can return home at dusk. While this could reflect parents’ concerns to keep girls safe, it could also be amplified by culture­-​­specific expectations to secure girls’ modesty. Moreover, the study affirmed that in most rural areas, girls and boys have been granted different access to education because of gender­-specific ​­ expectations associated with their future, for boys to become financially independent and take a wife, and for girls to marry. In his work from Amhara, Levine also found different standards in relation to sexuality, reporting that boys engaged in sexual relationships earlier than the age of marriage, apparently in order to prove their masculinity to their peers.58 He explained that “the unwed girl, by contrast, must remain a virgin at all costs”.59 This is both because virginity in a girl was a prerequisite for an honourable marriage according to social and religious standards and because “the Amhara male cherishes the sense of ‘conquering’ his woman”.60 If the girl was found not to be a virgin, the male was entitled to beat her or even return her to her parents, which was a veritable disgrace. This could result in abusive behaviour toward the girl from her family and others. The extent to which such gender standards have been enforced with the help of religious discourse is not straightforward. A report published in 1994 that addressed early marriage in Ethiopia noted that the Church formally discouraged early marriage and other harmful practices, but that some local priests might have perpetuated these nonetheless.61 While most of the laypeople interviewed for that study did not associate early marriage with Church teachings, some priests prioritised virginity and sought to marry young girls themselves.62 Whether this emphasis on virginity reflects Church injunctions or pre­ -Christian ​­ or other customary standards that might have been absorbed through the priests’ own socialisation in the local societies is, however, questionable.

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   83 In her work from Menz, Pankhurst often invoked the Church as a monolithic and influential entity, but she recognised that it was the priests who interacted with the people and shaped the vernacular religious tradition. However, she did not find priests to have a central role in non­-​­church marriages, where they usually performed the mere role of scribes.63 In contrast, the Church was involved “in the k’urban marriages [church marriages], and in enforcing the rule against marriage within seven degrees of kinship and advocating against polygamy”.64 Various insights led her to conclude that: The only credible explanation is that marriages are too unstable for the Church to wish to get involved, or for the population to wish to sanctify unions. Where the Church has tried to regulate practices, it has had little success. It has attempted to prohibit polygamy, yet the practice is far from abandoned. It has imposed its own form of indissoluble marriage for priests, yet many are those who fail, and there are numerous accounts of trainee priests giving up a future in the Church because their marriage, avowed until death, breaks up well before.65 Pankhurst’s explanation, regardless of its accuracy, suggests that the situation on the ground was not something that the Church could easily control, not least because both the laity and the clergy had their own minds and were sometimes unable or unwilling to meet the standards of the Church. This enforces the need for an analytical approach that neither separates ecclesiastical discourse from clergy teachings and practices and vernacular realities, nor conflates them.

The legal framework on domestic violence and reported cultural influences In response to historical gender symmetries, the post­ -​­ revolutionary ­Ethiopian state has taken active steps to improve women’s conditions and to enforce their dignity within the marital relationship. The state appears to have prioritised the promotion of women’s status through various strategies, including the establishment of women’s affairs offices at regional level (as encountered in Aksum city), the introduction of affirmative policies, and the alignment of its national policies on women with international conventions for gender equality, including the Beijing Platform for Action.66 In terms of national legislation, a Proclamation attached to the 1960 Civil Code led to the re­-​­articulation of what were previously explicitly patriarchal family laws. The wider agreement is that the first Civil Code was founded on values emanating from the indigenous Christian faith, exemplified in Fәtḥa Nägäś ̣t (ፍትሐ ነገሥት), the main Canonical book of the Church.67 One of the most indicative elements of the Civil Code was found in Chapter 5, in article 635, titled “Head of the family”, which specified the following two provisions: (1) “The husband is the head of the family”; and

84  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia (2) “Unless otherwise expressly provided by this Code, the wife owes him obedience in all lawful things which he orders.”68 This was followed by article 637 on the “Management of family”, which stated: “The spouses shall co­-​­operate, under the guidance of the husband in the interest of the family, to ensure the moral and material direction of the family, to bring up the children and to prepare for their establishment.” This provision on headship was entirely omitted in the Revised Family Law (2000), while the “Management of the Family” was rearticulated under the principles of equality. The provisions under the latter are expressed as follows: (1) “The spouses shall have equal rights in the management of the family”; and (2) “The spouses shall in all cases, co­-​­operate, to protect the security and interest of the family to bring up and ensure the good behaviour and education of the children in order to make them responsible citizens.”69 The Ethiopian Constitution (1992) also includes regulations to redress “the historical legacy of inequality and discrimination suffered by women in Ethiopia” through affirmative measures. Article 35 is dedicated to the “Rights of Women” with the third provision stating that the purpose of such measures shall be to provide special attention to women so as to enable them [to] compete and participate on the basis of equality with men in political, social and economic life as well as in public and private institutions.70 The legal framework, in general, stipulates fundamental human rights that also protect from violence committed against women. Article 35 of the Constitution refers to the state’s obligation to protect women and to eliminate harmful customary practices and that “[l]aws, customs and practices that oppress or cause bodily or mental harm to women are prohibited”.71 The Criminal Code (2004) in its “Book V” dedicated to the individual and family includes a section on crimes that are committed through harmful practices. Article 564 stipulates: The relevant provision of this Code (Arts. 555–560) shall apply to a person who, by doing violence to a marriage partner or a person cohabiting in an irregular union, causes grave or common injury to his/her physical or mental health.72 However, as one writer has argued, including this stipulation under harmful practices might have “minimised the response of the criminal justice in that harmful practices entail very high sentences and the responses lied (sic) more on educating the public rather than punishment”.73 There is no explicit reference to sexual offences in the conjugal relationship, although this could be implied in Article 625 of the Criminal Code against “Taking Advantage of the Distress or Dependence of a Woman”.74 According to one writer, “[t]he reasons attributed to such omission were the

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   85 resistance from the law making [sic] bodies as a result of cultural considerations and partly as a result of denial of the problem.”75 A representative from the Ethiopian Women Lawyers Association (EWLA) also alluded to such tolerant attitudes when she discussed psychological and emotional abuse, commenting that “[m]ost Ethiopians, men and women, accept and justify verbal and psychological abuse”.76 She furthermore explained that if cases of domestic violence occurred, victims must provide evidence that can be hard to acquire. Even if the evidence is available, a concrete codified law about evidence assessment has been lacking at the local level. Additionally, civil remedies for intimate partner violence victims, such as “as right to obtain protection order, monetary/compensation relief, custody, order, residence order, shelter or medical benefits” do not appear to have been introduced yet in the Ethiopian legal framework.77 The general opinion among local specialists seems to be that the legal framework in Ethiopia reflects a lingering influence of historical attitudes of partial acceptance or tolerance of intimate partner violence. This acceptance is often exemplified in folklore sayings and aphorisms that condone or justify the use of violence against women, such as the following two: “[W]omen and donkeys love the heavy stick” and “[i]f you [female pronoun] were willing to be pushed around the first time; you shouldn’t be annoyed if you get kicked to the ground later”.78 This postulated tolerance could reflect in part the effect of pre­-​­Christian customary norms and understandings, which were in effect before the introduction of Fәtḥa Nägäśt and did not disappear afterwards.79 After the Civil Code was introduced, creating a universal Code for all the peoples of Ethiopia, customary laws continued to function and might have been absorbed and institutionalised through the very provisions of the new Code.80 The current legal framework has not entirely departed from the earlier Code, which means that some influences may linger today. It is, of course, not unlikely that in religious communities of Ethiopia, some spousal abuse could have been perpetuated through misunderstandings of religious teachings or the deployment of religious language for the perpetuation of folklore attitudes.81 However, whilst Christian perspectives on marriage, for example, may have facilitated the perpetuation rigidly patriarchal structures, this should not indict religious beliefs, Church teachings or all the clergy uniformly. It is important to distinguish formal Church teachings from the vernacular discourses of the clergy, recognising the plurality in the clergy’s pronouncements and practices, but also possible differentials in the influences they have had on the laity. These observations underscore the need to shed more light on how these perceived religious beliefs and values have interacted with customary or folklore gender norms and ideals to maintain, subvert or diversify pernicious attitudes associated with conjugal abuse and its tolerance. Overall, the scholarship examined raises deeper questions that require developing a better understanding of: (i) Church teachings on gender

86  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia relations and marriage­ -​­ related issues; (ii) the nature of the vernacular religious tradition and its interface with socio­-​­cultural norms; (iii) local standards and ideals governing marriage and spousal behaviour and their possible gendered underpinnings; (iv) clergy discourses about marriage and conjugal abuse and the possible interface with the local socio­ -​­ cultural matrix; and (v)  the embodiment of religious beliefs and socio­ -​­ cultural norms by the laity as relating to conjugal abuse attitudes. These aspects would need to be investigated within specific contexts and societies of Ethiopia and with recognition of their dynamic nature. Such premises ­ guided the study that was completed in Northern Ethiopia.

Research timeline and study areas For the fieldwork approximately three months were spent in research activities with Ethiopian Orthodox Churches in London82 and 10 months were spent in Ethiopia, with six months residing in Aksum and the surrounding countryside. Fieldwork in Ethiopia took place between December 2016 and September 2017. The initial two months were spent in Addis Ababa to obtain a better understanding of the theological tradition and the state of domestic violence in the country. In this period, I: (i) read and analysed the Ge’ez original and Amharic commentary on biblical verses referring to marriage and the spousal relationship with a competent assistant studying theology; (ii) sought consultations on domestic violence in Ethiopia with leading academics at the University of Addis Ababa, representatives at EWLA and other stakeholders; (iii) held numerous interviews and consultations with theologians at the Holy Trinity Theological College, St Paul’s Theological College, members of the Church Council of Scholars, and Church historians and Ge’ez experts; (iv) examined theses, dissertations and other research materials held on the main campus of the Addis Ababa University (AAU); and (v) participated in intensive Tigrigna language courses at AAU. In January, I travelled to Meqele, the capital of Tigray region, where I spent a week to hold more consultations with theologians at the established St Frumentius Theological College. The aim was to obtain a better understanding of the curriculum of the traditional Church education and priests’ exposure to Church theology and marriage teachings to understand what their knowledge might have been historically. I then travelled to Aksum city, where I lived initially with a local family who were introduced to me through an acquaintance in Addis Abba. The family was comprised of husband, wife and one child (with two other adult children in university) who made a living by selling oil at the local market. While residing with this family and practising my Tigrigna by spending my evenings with them watching the Tigray news channel, I used the first three weeks to visit the surrounding villages seeking to identify a research site. I first consulted with staff members at the La’әlay May Č̣äw wäräda (ላዕላይ ማይ ጨው ወረዳ) office in Aksum city and on the basis of the information, I

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   87 identified five out of 16 villages for visits. The final selection was informed by research­-​­related questions, such as the situation of domestic violence locally, availability of local churches and monasteries, and more practical factors, such as distance from the city, accessibility and transportation, availability of electricity and water, terrain and availability of cumulative and sex­-​­disaggregated demographics. During these visits, I held consultations with local administrators, court workers, police officers, health personnel and some priests to obtain a sense of the conjugal problems in the communities. As will be explained, neither the Women’s Affairs Office located in Aksum city, nor the local social courts and police units registered cases under a strict ‘conjugal abuse’ category. The final selection of a research site was based on cases reported to the local social courts and the Appeals Court located in Aksum city, as well as informal testimonies by different stakeholders in the local communities. I also visited some local monasteries and churches to speak with priests about conjugal problems that they encountered most frequently as spiritual fathers. From February to July, I spent my time immersing in rural life. At the end of February, I moved permanently to the first village community, which was located about 17 kilometres away from the city of Aksum. I also selected a second community about three kilometres from Aksum city, first in an effort to respond to the safety and ethical concerns that were discussed in relation to domestic violence research, and secondly to capture more diverse perspectives and realities anticipating that distance from the city and urbanisation would affect how conjugal abuse was understood and discussed in the villages. I have not reported the names of the specific communities to reduce the likelihood of participant disclosure. It can be noted, however, that the first community was one among the largest ṭabәya units (village communities) in the wäräda with a population of about 8,000 and the second was smaller with a population of over 5,000. Both had a fairly balanced female to male ratio. Local livelihoods consisted in farming teff, although in the second community fewer households owned viable land and more men worked in driving, construction and day work in the city of Aksum, Adwa and the surroundings. The second community, however, displayed a high ratio of non­-​­local residents, including many soldiers, while the first village community was comprised primarily of native Aksumites. In addition, the two village communities presented slightly different conditions in terms of conjugal problems. One community emerged as being fairly typical, with primary problems being disputes over child maintenance and divorce settlements of an economic nature. The other community had reported a murder case resulting from conjugal conflict just the year prior to this research. While stationed at one of the two villages of study, I frequently travelled to the city to buy provisions that were not available in the countryside. Many weekends were spent with different urban families, discussing my research and observing living patterns and relationship dynamics in these

88  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia diverse contexts. In addition, frequent visits were made to the Church administrative office in Aksum, where numerous local theologians and experts were interviewed. I also used these occasions to talk to female and male teachers at the St Yared traditional religious school in Aksum. Living permanently in the village and commuting through the city evidenced that many things were changing in terms of livelihoods, religious life, gender norms and intimate relationships. Such changes were more discernible in the city of Aksum and I decided to dedicate the last 1.5 months of research in the urban context. The alteration between urban and rural context evidenced that there was no clear divide between ‘old’ and ‘new’ mentalities and lifestyles between countryside and the city with change being pervasive in all contexts and taking various forms. The exposure to multiple sites provided a more nuanced picture of how people’s attitudes and behaviour varied and changed. Most people in the city that I met had been born or had lived part of their lives in the countryside around Aksum, Adwa and the surroundings and were able to offer comparative comments. In addition, they displayed or continued rural practices and attitudes observed in the villages, which evidenced again that simplistic descriptions of rural as ‘traditional’ and urban as ‘modern’ would be inappropriate and misguiding. During the final stay in Aksum city, a few weeks were spent living with a middle­-​­aged couple with four children. They were wealthier than most families in Aksum and displayed more urbanised lifestyles, but they still preserved customs around marriage encountered in the villages. About six weeks or longer were spent in yet another compound with three neighbours. Two of them were recently married couples who had city jobs and displayed newer understandings and positions regarding gender relations. The third was a recently divorced mother who happened to be the daughter of a priest and seemed to have much in common with rural interlocutors. These different contexts provided opportunities for ethnographic observations of married and divorced men and women, enriching the study considerably. Additional interviews were held with university students, shop owners, drivers, waiters and waitresses, professionals from all walks of life, clergy, monks and visitors of all types. In this period, I also attended teaching sessions offered by the Church and the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan (ማኅበረ ቅዱሳን), the All­-​­Saints Association under the Sunday School Department of the Church that has been at the forefront of re­-​­invigorating the traditional faith in recent years, especially among younger and learned generations. In total, the study involved about 244 informants, with an equal percentage of male and female participants, albeit engaged using different research methods.83 The last two months of the fieldwork year were spent in Addis Ababa working with assistants on transcriptions and some translations. I also took this time to discuss the study’s main insights with various experts at the theological colleges, domestic violence researchers and other stakeholders involved in the research. These brainstorming sessions helped to refine my

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   89 thinking and to obtain more comparative insights as well as to challenge any interpretations that were not sufficiently nuanced. I can confidently state that the research proceeded in a dialogical manner with diverse interlocutors, without whom this study would have been simply impossible.

Notes  1 Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia and the DHS Program ICF, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2016”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA, 305.  2 Central Statistical Agency of Ethiopia, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2005”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA; Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia and ICF International, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2011”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA.   3 A. Gessessew and M. Mesfin, “Rape and Related Health Problems in Adigrat Zonal Hospital, Tigray Region, Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 18, no. 3(2004): 140–144; T. Yigzaw, A. Yibric and Y. Kebede, “Domestic Violence around Gondar in Northwest Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 18, no. 3(2004): 133–139. DOI: 10.4314/ejhd.v18i3.9846; A. ­Semahegn and B. Mengistie, “Domestic Violence against Women and Associated Factors in Ethiopia. Systematic Review”, Reproductive Health 12, no. 1(2015): 78. DOI: 10.1186/s12978­-​­015­-​­0072­-​­1; CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”, 313.  4 Gessessew and Mesfin, “Rape and Related Health Problems”; A. Berhane, “Ending domestic Violence against Women in Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 18, no. 3(2005): 131–132; A. Kedir and L. Admasachew, “Violence against Women in Ethiopia”, Gender, Place and Culture 17, no. 4(2010): 437–452, doi.org/10.1080/0966369X.2010.485832; M. Allen and M. N. Raghallaigh, “Women’s Experiences of Gender­ -​­ based Violence in Tigray, Ethiopia”, Summary Report, UCD School of Applied Social Science, 2012; ­ M. Allen and M. N. Raghallaigh, “Domestic Violence in a Developing Context: The Perspectives of Women in Northern Ethiopia”, Journal of Women and Social Work 28, no. 3(2013): 256–272; M. T. Malaju and G. D. Alene, “Women’s Expectation of Partner’s Violence on HIV Disclosure for Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission of HIV in North West Ethiopia”, BMC Research Notes 6, no. 96(2013), doi.org/10.1186/1756­-​­0500­-​­6­-​­96; Ministry of Women, Children and Youth Affairs (MoWCYA), Assessment of Conditions of Violence against Women in Ethiopia, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, 2013; A. Erulkar, “Early Marriage, Marital Relations and Intimate Partner Violence in Ethiopia”, International Perspectives on Sexual and Reproductive Health 39, no. 1(2013): 6–13. DOI: 10.1363/390061; Semahegn and Mengistie, “Domestic Violence”.   5 I am referring here to the scholarship published in English. Studies on domestic violence in Amharic or other languages of Ethiopia may exist that I was not exposed to, but this does not change the fact that the mainstream scholarship and thought tends to a certain ideological stance.  6 J. Hammond, Sweeter than Honey: Testimonies of Tigrayan Women (Oxford, London and Newcastle: Third World First, 1989); E. Dibabu, ተባእታይ ኣገዛዝ በኢትዮጵያ: ችግኡና የምፍትሄዉ መንገድ። ኣዲስ ኣበባ [Patriarchy in Ethiopia: The Problem and the Way to Solution] (Addis Ababa, 1997, EC); H. Cherinet and E. Mulugeta, “Towards Gender Equality in Ethiopia”, SIDA, 2003; Ministry of Women’s Affairs (MOWA), “National Action Plan for Gender Equality (NAP­-​­GE) 2006–2010”, Addis Ababa, 2006.   7 For a similar argument see G. Burgess, “A Hidden History: Women’s Activism in Ethiopia”, Journal of International Women’s Study 14, no. 3(2013): 96–107.

90  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia  8 Panos Ethiopia and HBF, “Reflections: Documentation of the Forum on Gender”, No. 7, 2002; G. Megerssa, “The Role of Religion in Violence against Women”, in Reflections, Documentation of the Forum on Gender, edited by Panos and HBF, No. 7, 2002; T. K. Jemberu, “Women’s Experience of Wife Abuse in Dobenna and Beressa Districts of Meskan Woreda of the Guraghe Zone” (Masters of Arts thesis, Addis Ababa University School of Graduate Studies, 2008), 15–17; Kedir and Admasachew, “Violence against Women”; Semahegn and Mengistie, “Domestic Violence”, 2; H. Beyene, “Final Report National Assessment: Ethiopia Gender Equality and the Knowledge Society”, WISAT, 2015, 33–34; E. Gurmu and S. Endale, “Wife Beating Refusal among Women of Reproductive Age in Urban and Rural Ethiopia”, BMC International Health  & Human Rights 17, no. 6(2017). DOI: 10.1186/s12914­-​­017­-​­0115­-​­5;  9 A. Muche, A.O. Adekunle and A.O. Arowojolu, “Gender­ -​­ Based Violence among Married Women in Debre Tabor Town, Northwest Ethiopia: A Qualitative Study”, African Journal of Reproductive Health, 21, no. 4(2017):105. DOI: 10.29063/ajrh2017/v21i4.11. 10 T. Yigzaw, Y. Berhane, N. Deyessa, M. Kaba, “Perceptions and Attitude towards Violence against Women by their Spouses: A Qualitative Study in Northwest Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 24, no. 1(2010): 39–45. DOI: 10.4314/ejhd.v24i1.62943. 11 CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”, 305. 12 CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”, 306. 13 Yigzaw, Yibrie and Kebede, “Domestic Violence around Gondar”; Yigzaw et al., “Perceptions and Attitude”; Semahegn and Mengistie, “Domestic Violence”; Allen and Raghallaigh, “Women’s Experiences”; Allen and Raghallaigh, “Domestic Violence”. 14 CSAE, “EDHS 2005”; CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2011”; CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”. 15 CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”, 283–284. 16 CSAE and ICF (2012: 259) and CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”, 283–284. 17 Semahegn and Mengistie, “Domestic Violence”. 18 Semahegn and Mengistie, “Domestic Violence”, 4. 19 Semahegn and Mengistie, “Domestic Violence”, 9. 20 Semahegn and Mengistie, “Domestic Violence”, 9. 21 Gessessew and Mesfin, “Rape”. 22 Gessessew and Mesfin, “Rape”, 142. 23 Gessessew and Mesfin, “Rape”, 143. 24 Erulkar, “Early Marriage”. 25 Erulkar, “Early Marriage”, 11. 26 Erulkar, “Early Marriage”, 9. 27 B. H. Gebrezgi, M. B. Badi, E. A. Cherkose and N. B. Weldehaweria, “Factors Associated with Intimate Partner Physical Violence among Women Attending Antenatal Care in Shire Endaselassie Town, Tigray, Northern Ethiopia: A Cross­-​­Sectional Study, July 2015”, Reproductive Health 14, no. 1(2017): 76. DOI: 10.1186/s12978­-​­017­-​­0337­-​­y. 28 Kedir and Admasachew, “Violence against Women”, 443. 29 Kedir and Admasachew, “Violence against Women”, 447. 30 Allen and Raghallaigh, “Domestic Violence”. 31 Allen and Raghallaigh, “Domestic Violence”, 267. 32 Allen and Raghallaigh, “Domestic Violence”, 269. 33 Allen and Raghallaigh, “Domestic Violence”, 269. 34 N. Jones, T. Bekele, J. Stephenson, T. Gupta and P. Pereznieto with G. Emire, B. Gebre and K. Gezhegne, “Early Marriage and Education: The Complex Role

Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia   91 of Social Norms in Shaping Ethiopian Adolescent Girls’ Lives”, Country Report, Overseas Development Institute, 2014, 33. 35 Yigzaw et al., “Perceptions and Attitude”. 36 T. Mjaaland, “ ‘Ane Suqh’ Ile. I Keep Quiet’. Focusing on Women’s Agency in Western Tigray, North­-​­Ethiopia” (Polit. Thesis, University of Bergen, 2004): 110; E. Isaac, The Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahädo Church (Trenton, NJ: The Red Sea Press, 2012), 174; M. T. Kebede, P. K. Hilden and A.­-​­L. Middelthon, “Negotiated Silence: The Management of the Self as a Moral Subject in Young E ­ thiopian Women’s Discourse about Sexuality”, Sex Education: Sexuality, Society and Learning 14, no. 6(2014): 666–678, doi.org/10.1080/14681811.2014.924918. 37 E. Ullendorff, The Ethiopians: An Introduction to Country and People (London: Oxford University Press., 1960), 180. 38 H. Rubinkowska, “Women in Power Élite of the Ethiopian Empire”, Hemispheres 22(2007): 87–97. 39 M. Adugna, “Women and Warfare in Ethiopia”, Gender Issue Research Report Series 13, Organization for Social Science Research in Eastern and Southern Africa, 2001. 40 Adugna, “Women and Warfare”, 4. 41 Adugna, “Women and Warfare”, 7, 19, 20, and 25. 42 Hammond, Sweeter than Honey, 39–40. 43 Hammond, Sweeter than Honey, 38. 44 Hammond, Sweeter than Honey, 40. 45 H. Pankhurst, Gender, Development and Identity: An Ethiopian Study (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1992). 46 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 116–117. 47 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 6. 48 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 148. 49 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 148. 50 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 167. 51 Mjaaland, “Ane Suqh’ Ile”, 13. 52 Mjaaland, “Ane Suqh’ Ile”, 13. 53 Mjaaland, “Ane Suqh’ Ile”, 14. 54 Mjaaland, “Ane Suqh’ Ile”. 55 Mjaaland, “Ane Suqh’ Ile”, 96. 56 D. Levine, Wax and Gold: Tradition and Innovation in Ethiopian Culture (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1965). 57 E. Poluha, “The World of Girls and Boys in Rural and Urban Ethiopia”, Forum for Social Studies, Save the Children, 2007. 58 Levine, Wax and Gold, 99–100. 59 Levine, Wax and Gold, 99–100. 60 Levine, Wax and Gold, 99–100. 61 H. G. Dagne, “Early Marriage in Northern Ethiopia”, Reproductive Health Matters 2, no. 4(1994): 35–38, doi.org/10.1016/0968­-​­8080(94)90006­-​­X.37). 62 Jones et al., “Early Marriage”, 37. 63 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 119. 64 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 119. 65 Pankhurst, Gender, Development, 104. 66 These measures have been summarised in detail in A. Blystad, H. Haukanes and M. Zenebe, “Mediating Development? Exchanges on Gender Policies and Development Practices in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia”, Africa Today 60, no. 4(2014): 25–45. See also MOWA, “National Action Plan”. 67 N. J. Singer, “Modernization and Law in Ethiopia: A Study in Process and Personal Values”, Harvard International Law Journal 11, no. 1(1970): 73–125.

92  Violence, gender and faith in Ethiopia 68 “Civil Code Proclamation No. 165/1960”, Negarit Gazeta Extraordinary Issue, www.ilo.org/dyn/natlex/docs/ELECTRONIC/52399/110940/F­-​­1626221611/ETH523​ 99%20Eng.pdf. 69 “The Revised Family Law 2000. Federal Negarit Gazetta of the Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia”, www.refworld.org/pdfid/4c0ccc052.pdf. 70 “Constitution of the Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia”, article 35, www.wipo.int/edocs/lexdocs/laws/en/et/et007en.pdf. 71 “Constitution”, article 35. 72 “The Criminal Code of the Democratic Republic of Ethiopia Proclamation No. 414/2004”, www.wipo.int/edocs/lexdocs/laws/en/et/et011en.pdf. 73 T. G. Moges, “Legal Response to Domestic Violence in Ethiopia: A Comparative Analysis” (LLM Human Rights thesis, Central European University, 2009), 61. 74 “The Criminal Code”. 75 Moges, “Legal Response”, 60. 76 IDVE1. 77 M. D. Fite, “The Ethiopia’s Legal Framework on Domestic Violence against Women: A Critical Perspective”, International Journal of Gender and Women’s Studies 2, no. 1(2014): 49–60. DOI: 2333­-​­603X.55. 78 Moges, “Legal Response”, 40. 79 Singer, “Modernization”. 80 Singer, “Modernization”, 114. 81 Panos and HBF, “Reflections”. 82 This stage in research was not planned, but resulted from visa complications. During the three months, I engaged with the Ethiopian community in London by a) attending weekly liturgies, teaching sessions and choir practices in two London churches, b) conducting some life­-​­based interviews with primarily Tigrayan men and women, and c) holding consultations with some clergy. These generally explored community views on gender norms and relations, marriage, the conjugal relationship and thoughts on conjugal violence in reference to home and host country conditions. 83 A summary table of all the research methods used and the number of research participants is provided in the Appendix.

4 The Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo tradition and the conjugal relationship

Many books have been written about the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo Church (EOTC), whose development has been inextricable from the history of the Aksumite Kingdom and Abyssinia. However, studies that weave the theological, historical and vernacular dimensions together have been rare. A multi­-​­dimensional analysis is necessary to achieve a nuanced and more realistic understanding of this Church tradition and its development, its historical interface with socio­-​­cultural realities, but especially the laity’s and the clergy’s relationship to Church teachings and folklore beliefs and practices. The evidence collected for the purposes of this study allows for such a reconstruction, but this is by no means exhaustive or conclusive. Theologically speaking, the tradition has been under­ -​­ studied and it is increasingly recognised among Ethiopian Orthodox theologians that its rich exegetical material merits better understanding. The overview of Church teachings on marriage, the conjugal relationship and domestic violence provided in this chapter makes a modest contribution toward this effort. I have tried to do so by contextualising Church canons and practices into an understanding of basic Church dogmatics and exegetical and patristic tradition reconstructed through a close engagement with local texts and the discourses of informed ‘insiders’. As an outsider but not entirely alien to this Christian tradition, my engagement with the EOTC has been a process of constantly questioning and challenging assumptions informed by my Eastern Orthodox socialisation and religious experience. To illustrate this, initially I had decided to study the works of St John Chrysostom, a prolific homilist on issues of marriage and a popular figure in Ethiopian dogmatics, anticipating that he would have inevitably influenced the EOTC’s marriage theology. However, after studying Chrysostomic texts that were reported to have been available in Ethiopia1 (excepting recent translations of works from English into Amharic2) and juxtaposing these to EOTC canonical teachings on marriage, I concluded that the influence of this Church Father has been less than that of other Alexandrian Church Fathers. Throughout my engagement with this tradition I inevitably observed important differences and similarities with Eastern Orthodoxy, but I constantly reflected on my own epistemological

94  The church and the conjugal relationship situatedness and challenged my presuppositions until I felt that I described not what I thought I knew but what I was told and experienced locally. The analysis I offer here is the product of this journey and reflects my understanding of this unique and eclectic Church tradition as it stands today, which is by no means conclusive. While I have reduced some of the historical and theological material for the purposes of the book to deem it more accessible to non­-​­specialist audiences in the gender and development sector, I have preserved the nuances of the original analysis. My objective for this book is to reverse tendencies within the development field that have consistently simplified or failed to engage with complex realities, instead relying on general theories to guide practice. As I argued profusely in Chapter 2, development interventions need to be informed by multi­-​­dimensional studies that engage with as many realms of local life as possible to capture the intricate mechanisms and relationships that shape human norms and behaviour. Moreover, as was discussed, having an understanding of the local theological tradition from the perspective of informed insiders’ is important for making a better sense of the local religio­-​­cultural worldview and putting into context the clergy and laity discourses on the ground. Toward this objective, I have chosen to highlight in this chapter aspects of theology and Church history that are most pertinent to the vernacular religious life presented in the subsequent chapters.

A historical overview of the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo Church The epic narrative Kәbrä Nägäśt (ከብረ ነገሥት) or “Glory of Kings”, which creates a bridge between Ethiopia and the Holy Land some 1,400 years prior to the Christianisation of the country, provides the foundation stone from which many Ethiopian people and the Church trace their Christian origins. The Kәbrä Nägäśt is a mixture of Old Testament books, Jewish and Islamic texts and Patristic works, and as Donald Levine has observed, establishes an identity for the Ethiopians as the new chosen people of God.3 Semere Habtemariam has more recently also commented that [t]he national epic, the Kebra Nagast, Glory of Kings, has played an important role in shaping the identity of Abyssinians and how they view their own past, present, and future history. It is the repository of their national and religious feelings.4 Whilst the narrative of the Kәbrä Nägäśt is deeply rooted in a Judaic matrix, the implanting of Christianity in the first millennium ad has come by various routes. One tradition maintains that Christianity was introduced in Ethiopia in ad 43 after the Evangelist Philip met an Ethiopian eunuch along his way and baptised him, who then brought the faith to his country.5

The church and the conjugal relationship   95 The early trajectory of Christianity is unclear, but there is unequivocal evidence of its establishment in the Kingdom of Aksum among the Semitic­-​ ­speakers of Tigray during the fourth century, after two Syrian Christian boys from the port city of Tyre, Aedesius and Frumentius, were brought to the court of Emperor Ella Amida following a shipwreck.6 Through their aegis, the imperial family was introduced to Christianity, with Emperor Ezana then proceeding to establish the faith as official ‘state religion’. ­Frumentius (Friminaṭos; ፍሪሚ ናጦስ) became the first archbishop of Ethiopia, after being consecrated in Alexandria.7 Christianity is said to have been consolidated again in the fifth century when monks with a Syrian and Roman background, known as the ‘Nine Saints’, arrived in Ethiopia.8 These monks are associated with the establishment of monastic life in Ethiopia, but also the translation of the Bible in Ge’ez (working primarily from the Septuagint version).9 With Ethiopia’s indigenous Christianity being introduced by the ruling class of Aksum, naturally, “it first took roots in the urban, commercial, and political centres, and then moved outwards to the rural areas”.10 The commonly held belief is that Christianity was disseminated during the second evangelisation that occurred in Ethiopia.11 Prior to this event, as Habtemariam has put it, local people “were worshipping the serpent and practicing all sorts of magic and sorcery”.12 According to Donald Levine, since the arrival of the monks, Christianity “became a central component of the ethnic identity of the Aksumites and their descendants the Tigreans. By the end of the first millennium groups of Amhara were also beginning to embrace Christianity”.13 Through this process, the Semitic element was added to the Cushitic indigenous substructure, resulting in the eclectic expressions encountered today. While it is rarely appreciated by the laity, the close relationship between the Aksumite Kingdom and the Roman Empire in the early centuries, and especially following the latter’s Christianisation, was influential in the spread of Christianity.14 Sergew Hable Selassie has observed that “­Christianity was certainly known in Ethiopia before the time of Frumentius, being the faith practised by many of the merchants from the Roman Empire settled in the Aksumite region.”15 Habtemariam has confirmed that “Hellenised elites of Axum had frequent contacts with Roman merchants; and consequently were the first to be introduced to Christianity.”16 Echoing the patterns of the Eastern Roman polity, the Ethiopian Emperor became the head of the Church, convening councils and arbitrating over important theological issues when these arose.17 Thus, the Emperors’ preferences and interests influenced the wider society, but also affected the articulation of Church doctrine and theology.18 Some of these imperial arbitrations may have contributed to preserve the Hebraic element in this tradition.19 Later, in the nineteenth century when Ethiopia was engulfed by internal wars among different princes (Zämänä Mäśafәnt; ዘመነ መሣፍንት), missionary activity generated doubt and division among local literate clergy.20 This resulted in an

96  The church and the conjugal relationship internal controversy about the anointment of Jesus Christ emerging among Ethiopian monks and scholars after the Jesuits were expelled.21 These theological debates were again shaped by the political struggles among the regional warlords of the time.22 The Ethiopian Church and tradition had also been shaped by a sequence of military events that were considered responsible for a weakening or distortion of the faith. In the tenth century the Jewish leader Judith attacked the Church; in the sixteenth century the invasions of Muslim leader Ahmed Ibn Ibrahim el Ghazi (or Graň, the left­-​­handed) wrought much devastation.23 These interludes typically saw the destruction of holy books, churches and monasteries and the extermination of clergy.24 Within local perceptions these, and especially the Muslim proselytisation, are held responsible for the enforcement of some non­-egalitarian ​­ laws and norms among the Ethiopian Orthodox and the introduction of cultural practices such as polygamy.25 Tadesse Tamrat has commented that while many chose to die for their faith, “the large majority of the Christian peasants acquiesced to at least a nominal acceptance of Islam”.26 Alongside these, the migrations of the Oromo people toward the North, which started also in the sixteenth century, were cited as further instances of acculturation and were associated among local scholars and theologians with the introduction of illegal marriages and childbearing into the Northern populations.27 Interestingly, very few theologians and Church scholars spoke about the effects of the Derg regime, which enacted important structural and economic constraints on the Church institution.28 Another important element that Ethiopian scholars consider to have defined the development of the Church was its historical connections with the Coptic Church of Alexandria. The consecration of archbishops of the Ethiopian Church from within the ranks of the Coptic Church raised multiple issues over the years. There were periods during which the seat would be empty because of the Copts’ failure to ordain a patriarch.29 On other occasions, Muslim rulers in Cairo interfered with the process of ordination.30 The lack of knowledge of local languages and cultures by the Coptic Bishops had all sorts of implications since this placed them outside of local politics and realities affecting the Church.31 Thus, until the EOTC acquired the status of autocephaly with the enthronement of Patriarch Basilios in 1959, it had existed mostly as a decentralised institution with its theological activity being led by learned monks (’әč ̣äge; እጨጌ) in leading local monasteries.32 Some of these monks did not eschew the influence of local politics, some cooperating with regional leaders, kings or emperors to promote their monastic centre and theological authority.33 In more recent years, the EOTC has been defined in response to rapid urbanisation, the expansion of secular education, the dissemination of technology and the steady expansion of non­-​­Orthodox Christian denominations, such as the Ethiopian Täḥaddәso (ተሐድሶ)34 group and the global Pentecostal movement. It is in the midst of such changes that the Maḫәbärä

The church and the conjugal relationship   97 Qәdusan, the ‘Association of All the Saints’ which belongs to the Sunday School Department of the Church, has acquired salience in Ethiopian society and Orthodox theological circles. Various accounts reported that the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan was established at the end of the Derg regime, with one Church scholar explaining that initially groups were organised to venerate saints at the local level as a maḫbär, later uniting under the association of the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan with the blessings of Abuna Gorgorios, Archbishop of Shewa.35 The activities of its highly literate members, most of them young university students, appear to have been motivated by the objective to strengthen the religious awareness of the Orthodox Täwahәdo believers in the country by making central doctrines and the Church Fathers’ writings more accessible and comprehensible to the average layperson. Its members may also commit 2 per cent of their salary to contribute regularly to the Church “for strengthening commentaries schools, supporting monasteries, replenishing priests and teachers’ salaries and providing school material and other resources for traditional religious students (yäqolo tämari; የቆሎ ተማሪ)”.36 In Aksum, the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan met for prayers and teaching sessions every Friday evening and some of its members attended daily teaching sessions in church. Learned members of the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan could also train religious personnel studying to become priests or theologians and to take on other roles in the Church.37 As some theologians suggested, the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan has been particularly appealing to the general population because contrary to the other new religious expressions whose aims have been to reform or to challenge the mainstream religious tradition, it has worked to preserve the Apostolic Faith by revisiting and strengthening the work of established Church Fathers.38 While the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan was considered to be Orthodox by both theologians and laypeople in urban centres, it has existed nonetheless at some tension with the hierarchy of the Church for both historical and contemporary reasons, not least for challenging theological deviations and institutional pathologies within the Church hierarchy.39 As opposed to an often perceived apathetic Church Council, the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan has been very active and engaged with the public, paying due attention to contemporary issues affecting the faith community, including gender relations and marriage, as will be discussed.

Doctrinal and theological foundations of the Church The EOTC belongs to the family of Oriental Churches that separated from the rest of the Christian world following the fourth Ecumenical Council of Chalcedon in ad 451. It is believed that the monks who introduced asceticism in Ethiopia and translated many Christian books in Ge’ez found refuge in Ethiopia after being exiled by the Council of Chalcedon.40 The EOTC conformed to the decision of the Council of Chalcedon which condemned

98  The church and the conjugal relationship Eutyches, who had formulated the doctrine of a single nature, but regarded Dioscorus, who was condemned by the Council (admittedly not on theological but rather canonical grounds), as a saint.41 In recent discourses the Church has insisted on the self­-​­identification ‘miaphysite’ to signify that it never spoke of one single nature for Jesus Christ (‘mono’ from ‘μόνο’ = only) but of one composite nature (‘mia’ from ‘μία’ = one), summarised also in the word ‘täwahdo’ (ተዋሕዶ).42 The EOTC Christological position reads “one united Divine­-​­Human nature, will and energy in the same Christ”.43 The Ethiopian Church had not attended the Council, but espoused the stance of its Mother Church in Alexandria. The integral place of Alexandrian theologians in this tradition emerged in conversations with teachers at Meqele’s Frumentius Theological College (’Abba Sälama Käśate Bәrhanä Mänfäsawi Koleǧ; አባ ሰላማ ከሣቴ ብርሃን መንፈሳዊ ኮሌጅ), where students have been taught, inter alia, lectures in Patrology compiled by Father Tadros Y.  Malaty of the Coptic Church.44 However, this proximity with Coptic Christianity, some of which may be attributed to recent developments, cannot fully explain the EOTC’s theological and liturgical tradition, which is distinctive. While Church Fathers, such as St Cyril and St Athanasius, have been influential in both Churches, the Coptic bishops who served Ethiopia did not generally speak the national and regional languages,45 which limited the influence they could have on local theological centres. As was said earlier, prior to Chalcedon, the Aksumite Kingdom had existed in proximity to the Roman East. It needs to be considered that Frumentius had come from the (ancient) Syrian city of Tyre and reputedly “translated the Scriptures from Syriac, Hebrew and Greek to Ge’ez” and “changed the order of the Sabaean letters and arranged the writing and reading from left to right”.46 The ‘Nine Saints’ are described by the Church to have had Roman (Hellenised) and Syrian origins and they are believed to have translated many biblical works and introduced monastic life into Ethiopia.47 At the more ecclesiastical and liturgical level, the majority of the 14 Anaphoras of the EOTC for Holy Communion are attributed to Greek and Syrian Fathers, including John Chrysostom, Basil the Great, Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory the Second (Nazianzen), Epiphanius, Ephrem the Syrian and Jacob of Serough.48 Levine has previously observed that “Syriac forms are prominent in the liturgy, devotional music, religious terminology and ancient church architecture of Ethiopic Christianity.”49 Keon­-​­Sang An in a discussion of Ethiopian Church sermons has also pointed to strong Syriac influences exemplified in the use of symbolism as seen in St Ephrem’s work.50 Ralph Lee has provided another meticulous analysis demonstrating how Syriac imagery shaped Ethiopian traditions.51 Whilst the strong input of Greek and Syriac writers located within the Byzantine Empire has been universally acknowledged, theologians and local scholars also recognise that the Church did not evade Roman Catholic influences.52 The proximity to the Coptic Church, which itself absorbed western theological elements, and the Italian Occupation in the twentieth

The church and the conjugal relationship   99 century meant more interactions with Roman Catholicism.53 One theologian additionally remarked: In the 19th century the Coptic Church was influenced by Western forms of Christianity, which then carried into the EOTC. Also, under Haile Selassie, many theologians were sent to be trained abroad, then coming back and bringing with them theological baggage.54 Theologians and learned clergy interviewed for this study pronounced these variable aspects in the ecclesiastical history of Ethiopia to stress that this is a distinct tradition not without internal ambiguities. As one theologian proposed, it may be necessary to “make a new category for this tradition and then try to understand it through this new lens”.55

The EOTC’s Judeo­-​­Christian character Doctrinally, the EOTC recognises both the Old and New Testaments (although the list of Canon books has not been strictly defined56). However, an Old Testament heritage and orientation is perhaps most salient. The Church considers canonical a number of Old Testament books that are considered pseudepigraphical or apocryphal in other Christian Churches, including the Book of Enoch and the Book of Jubilees.57 A Judaic influence is also evident in gender differences in the Sacrament of Baptism, with girls being baptised at 80 days and boys at 40 days. It is furthermore visible in theological understandings concerning the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony, the end of which is invariably identified as procreation in reference to the story of Genesis,58 an interpretation that was historically reiterated in Roman Catholic teachings.59 The observation of the Sabbath has been traditionally theologically upheld. It is equally noteworthy that the origins of Christianity in Ethiopia were delineated in the aforementioned epic Kәbrä Nägäśt, a book that the Church seems to have accepted without question.60 The Judeo­-Christian ​­ character of the EOTC can be related to the indigenous context in which the Church developed. Abba Melaku of the ­Frumentius Theological College in Meqele remarked: “Here in Ethiopia the Old Testament gets more emphasis because it’s the tradition and because there are not many people who go through the training so the teaching of the Fathers is not well known.”61 Indeed, some of the most prominent traditional religious centres in Ethiopia  – Aksum, Godjiam, Wello and Gondar – are known as centres of the Old Testament.62 However, theologians insisted that this had not been necessarily intended and was probably the inevitable effect of the indigenous Hebraic context that favoured Old Testament understandings and norms. This pronounced Old Testament orientation has combined with an ambiguous integration of New Testament teachings, some of which should have deemed certain Old Testament rules obsolete. As Edward Ullendorff’s

100  The church and the conjugal relationship work highlighted,63 the Church has recognised that circumcision was necessary in the Old Testament era and that it was replaced by Baptism in the New Covenant.64 However, this has not displaced many believers’ conviction that circumcising their male children is a religious duty, which became evident also in interviews conducted for this study. Ephraim Isaac has made the pertinent comment that the EOTC has been grounded in the Old Testament and has upheld Pauline teachings somehow superficially. According to his articulation, Ethiopia, like most Christian nations, accepts, respects, and follows the teachings of St Paul in principle, but de facto rejects the traditional doctrine of Pauline thought that biblical law lost its binding force at the coming of Jesus. In this regard, the Church agrees more with the teachings that faith must be combined with good works of the Epistle of James.65 While it was not possible to ascertain historical Church discourses on the matter, in recent years theologians who self­-​­affiliate with the EOTC have openly acknowledged apostolic teachings, such as Likegubae Abba Abera Bekele, who has written: The ancient followers of Judaism taught that salvation could be possible only by doing the deeds ordered by the Law (given to Moses) and as a result strongly opposed the Gospel teachings of St Paul. God has prepared a way in which man can be saved and become righteous by his faith in God because man could not do what the Law orders and because the Law could not save man. As a result, it became that man is saved by God’s love and grace and his faith in Jesus Christ.66 Here the author recognised that the laws of Moses were deemed insufficient to secure salvation, and that such salvation could only be achieved through faith in Christ, as exemplified in Paul’s apostolic work. Citing John Chrysostom he further explained: John Chrysostom, the Golden Mouth, teaches “Faith is the base, and the others are the buildings and walls,” telling us that faith comes before doing good deeds. As the base supports the walls and the building, faith is the base for the good deeds. A building cannot stand without its base. Good deeds cannot also exist without faith.67 This unattributed quotation could be paraphrasing sections from Homily 9 from John Chrysostom’s commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews. Abba Bekele proceeded to explain that faith that moves mountains is not sufficient to absolve one from the Judgment of God if the faith is not grounded in love for fellow human beings and is not accompanied by deeds to materialise this love (such as giving alms).68

The church and the conjugal relationship   101 Nominally, the EOTC has been premised on a theology of healing, as highlighted in many local clergy’s references to Jesus Christ as redeemer and the faith as remedy/medicine (mädḫanit; መድኃኒት).69 The EOTC accepts the Orthodox worldview that God created the world all ‘very good’ and humanity in His likeness.70 According to its teachings, the disobedience of the first­-​­fashioned couple Adam and Eve resulted in the fall from paradise and the corruption of their human nature. It is taught that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, was born of Virgin Mary for the salvation of the world, defined as the “restoration of the world to its direct and unimpeded relation with God”.71 Following the incarnation, those baptised in the name of Christ are called to establish communion with God by participating in the Sacraments and by following the Church commandments in all realms of life. These prescriptions have been summarised as follows: loving one’s Lord and keeping all His commandments; loving one’s neighbour; loving one’s Christian brothers and sisters; loving one’s enemies; and doing one’s duties to all men and women whether ill­ -​­ disposed or friendly.72 When believers follow these commandments, participate in the Sacraments and do deeds of love it is understood that the Holy Spirit dwells in them. In recent years, some Ethiopian theologians have started to expound the process of establishing and living in communion with God. Just after this research was completed, the Association of Theologians in Addis Ababa, comprised of graduates from the modern Orthodox theological schools, organised a seminar with the title ’Әgziabhern Mämsäl ’Ortodoksawi Tәmhәrt Däḫnät (እግዚአብሔርን መምሰል: ኦርቶዶክሳዊ ትምህርት ደኅነት) which was also translated in English as “Theosis: An Orthodox Soteriology”. Theosis represents the Greek patristic term for ‘deification’ and pertains to the fundamental aim of the Orthodox faith to heal humanity by achieving full unity with the grace of God.73 However, it is important to note that within the Eastern Orthodox tradition, where the concept hales from, every adherent is called to theosis whether married or living an ascetic life.74 Within the EOTC there has been a clearer distinction historically between what one can achieve in worldly life and what one can do as a monk/nun. One teacher of the Holy Trinity Theological College explained: “The monastic example is used as a yardstick … [however] all emphasis is put on the body and on the sinful nature of man. There is little understanding of the notion of divinisation (theosis).”75 Father Serapim of Aksum also admitted that laypeople do not generally know that they can achieve sainthood in ordinary life.76 While healing oneself from sin and passions is asked of all believers, the process of achieving likeness with God has been pronounced less, as evidenced in its rare invocation during fieldwork.

The EOTC’s variegated Patristic tradition Within the EOTC, recognised Church Fathers are considered authoritative sources for biblical exegesis. According to local theologians, the works of

102  The church and the conjugal relationship the Fathers are studied because they “make plain the interpretation of the Old and New Testament, and there is in them reproof and counsel which are of much profit to the faithful”.77 These doctors of the faith are considered to “have received the Holy Spirit, in whom Christ dwells” and are trusted as teachers after the Apostles and the prophets.78 Regarding the Patristic line followed, the Alexandrian tradition appears to have been preferred over the Antiochian tradition, which was associated with many heretical authors, notably Nestorius, who espoused the theology of Theodore of Mopsuestia and Isidore of Tarsus.79 A member of the Liqawәnt Guba’e (ሊቃውንት ጉባኤ), the Church’s Council of Scholars, made the following observation: “[T]he EOTC was influenced by the A ­ lexandrian/ Antiochian divide. I see most recent Fathers of the Church quote from the Alexandrian Fathers.”80 The Dean of the Frumentius Theological College also confirmed that the Ethiopian Church has followed primarily “the ­Alexandrian method”.81 This Alexandrian influence is evident in that ­Cyril’s articulation of Christology had a strong impact on the EOTC at the time of Chalcedon. His works have also comprised important learning material in the school of interpretation of the traditional religious educational system.82 Origen of Alexandria also, while not considered a Doctor of the Faith within the EOTC, and by some is even associated with heretical teachings,83 also probably influenced the Church’s theological tradition.84 Nonetheless, the Antiochian Fathers have also held some sway. John Chrysostom, who was associated with the Antiochian school, has been ­ venerated in the EOTC as a great saint and theologian.85 Theodore of Mopsuestia’s commentaries also appear to have found their way into ­ EOTC’s theological tradition,86 despite him being from Antioch and formulating the theology which ­Nestorius adopted. The incorporation of such different Patristic influences suggests that this tradition was probably defined by contingencies and conditions not captured in an Alexandrian/Antiochian typology, not least because of the shortfalls of the typology itself.87 Many of the works of the known Church Fathers reached Ethiopia primarily through Syrian writers. Some, such as Ibn­-​­al Tayyib (d. 1043) and Išo’dad of Merv (d. 852), who both belonged to the East Syrian ‘Church of the East’ (typically known as the Nestorian Church), and Mose bar Kepha (d. 903), who was West Syrian, were not Orthodox in the Christological definitions adopted by the Council of Chalcedon.88 These developments are symptomatic of a fertile cultural milieu that saw the “considerable interaction between the East and West Syrian exegetical traditions”.89 Many of their works were translated from either Greek or Syriac into Arabic and then into Ge’ez and integrated in the Church’s exegetical tradition.90 Roger Cowley in his comprehensive study of this tradition concluded that the influence of Ibn­-al ​­ Tayyib in particular was pervasive.91 Although primarily serving as translators, these writers did not eschew including commentaries or alterations that digressed from the original resources they used.92

The church and the conjugal relationship   103 The line of Church Fathers who have influenced the EOTC was probably shaped in terms of the accessibility and reach of works (conditioned on the existence of translations) as long as these resonated with the EOTC doctrines at the early times of its formation and consolidation.93 Of course, the invasions of Graň resulted in the destruction of churches and monasteries, with collateral cultural damage, the extent of which will never be ascertained. It is also probable that some works may have never reached ­Ethiopia. As was said earlier, the complete homilies of John Chrysostom (Yoḥannәs ’Afäwärq; ዮሐንስ አፈወርቅ) are limited in this tradition and come in the form of two books known as Dәrsan (ድርሳን) and Tägsaś ̣ (ተግሳፅ). This excludes excerpts of his commentaries included in canonical texts such as the Haymanotä ’Abbäw (ሃይማኖተ አበው) of “Faith of the Fathers”, or more recent translations from English.94 A teacher at the St Paul Theological College quoted a local expert who had stated previously that the translations of John Chrysostom in the EOTC were only a drop of water in the ocean.95 A teacher of the Holy Trinity Theological College in turn observed that “John Chrysostom has been potent in the Ethiopian Orthodox tradition, but it is doubtful to what extent he has been understood properly.”96

The EOTC’s exegetical tradition The works of the Church Fathers are appreciated and studied, but the main exegetical tradition of the EOTC known as ’andәmta (አንድምታ) commentary has conventionally been given prioritisation. A member of the Liqawәnt Guba’e explained that in the traditional religious educational system students are first introduced and master the ’andәmta on the Gospels and only then when they are exposed to the Old and New Testament interpretation do they study the Church Fathers. He explained: We learn the commentary of the Fathers and quote from the Fathers to ensure that we are in line with the tradition/creed. In fact, we are not even allowed (OR encouraged) to learn the Fathers before we learn the interpretation of the Gospels.97 The ’andәmta has been described by one author as “a translation and clarification of the Ge’ez texts of Biblical, certain patristic and liturgical books”.98 The commentators employ multiple exegetical methods, including story­-​­telling, direct quotations, explanation and conditional “if” sentences in order to clarify the original Ge’ez meanings.99 For example, in the Book of Genesis that was studied for this research, the Ge’ez is followed by Amharic headings (direct translation) and then by the commentary or explanation (ḥatäta; ሐተታ).100 One interpretation may be followed by others, with the introduction of ’andәm. The Amharic ’andәmta on the original Ge’ez texts of the New and Old Testament, Book of the Scholars and Book of the Monks is generally unattributed,101 although it was explained by

104  The church and the conjugal relationship theologians that some of the Ge’ez commentary on which the Amharic was premised included references to named Church Fathers.102 The origins of the exegetical tradition have not been concretised and current explanations are rather hypothetical.103 According to theologians who were interviewed, the ’andәmta has been based on the teachings of the Church Fathers who participated in the early Ecumenical Councils, and some subsequent works of Orthodox theologians, such as Basil the Great and John Chrysostom.104 The commentaries, however, were composed and organised by Ethiopian scholars and clergy over the period of many centuries.105 Most scholars who were interviewed believed that those who formulated the ’andәmta did so in prayer and fasting to ensure that their work remained in line with the teachings of the Nicene Council.106 According to one teacher at the St Paul Theological College in Addis Ababa, “Our ’andәmta has no references, no names. We attribute it thus to the Holy Spirit so that no one can then reject the ’andәmta because of a certain name or Father.”107 It is perhaps as a result of this attribution to the Holy Spirit that the ’andәmta is considered unalterable by scholars regardless of their level of understanding and experience. Mersha Alehegne has observed that “the ’andәmta commentary has been moulded into its own specific form and feature and it is still in our days being taught in the traditional way.”108 Dawit Berhanu, a teacher in interpretation with over 33 years of studies, told Christine Chaillot that: “For one verse you may find more than ten levels of interpretation. But there is a permanent interpretation of the text beyond which no one can pass, because to do so is to deviate and to become a heretic.”109 Cowley’s analysis confirmed that the commentator may say up to 16 times ‘and one’ and that these have been strictly interpreted so that no new ones could be added.110 Neither theologians nor laypeople would be expected to contradict the established hermeneutics. Haile Gabriel Dagne has observed that even at the highest level of Church education where students are exposed to the interpretation of holy books, emphasis is put on memorisation and not on the students’ critical comprehension of the material.111 Habtemariam has, in turn, noted that “Tewahdos are expected and required to know the written and unwritten traditions of their faith and abide by what the Church teaches. Individual and personal interpretations should not supersede what the [C]hurch teaches.”112 A fundamental immutability is true, but admittedly theological discourses and approaches have diversified in recent years. According to a teacher at St Paul Theological College, 30 years ago it was difficult for anyone to publish religious materials.113 If the Church’s Council of Scholars thought that the book included heretical content, they rejected it. In contrast, he explained, in recent years there have been multiple independent publishers, and this has made it more difficult to distinguish Orthodox from non­-​­Orthodox content. One theology graduate in Addis

The church and the conjugal relationship   105 Ababa reasoned that Protestant theologians reference directly from the Gospel to support various interpretations, and this has made Orthodox Täwahәdo believers more demanding with their own clergy.114 Therefore, theologians may feel compelled to circumvent the traditional ’andәmta. It needs to be recognised, however, that even works which are considered to align with the stance of the Church do not remain confined to it, but quote more widely, even outside the local Patristic line, provided this does not oppose Church dogmatics.115

The traditional Church education and exposure of clergy to theology The context­-​­specific character of this tradition has also defined the boundaries of religious education, which has come with various challenges for the clergy. Until Haile Selassie introduced the modern educational system, education in Orthodox Täwahәdo populations was the exclusive responsibility of the Church. Habtemariam has observed that “Tewahdo children between the ages of four and 10 are required to attend church school”, although historically this was not always practised, contributing to persistent illiteracy rates.116 Theoretically, both girls and boys could attend the Church schools, but girls were most often hindered to do so due to gender­-​ ­specific norms that reserved women for the exclusive role of housewives and limited opportunities for work inside the Church.117 On the antipode, the fact that women were not able to hold a job in church, made it more likely for those women who received an education to progress into the school of interpretation to become teachers. Therefore, female scholars have existed and work actively in this tradition.118 Two women were interviewed at the St Yared traditional religious school in Aksum, one of whom was a known teacher of New Testament exegesis.119 The general structure of the traditional Church education was best described by one teacher in Aksum as follows: It begins with learning the letters and reading which is called Nәbab Bet (ንባብ ቤት) then [proceeds] on to Zema (ዜማ), then to ’Aqʷaqʷam (አቋቋም), which are in the same house. While Zema is done only by chanting, ’Aqʷaqʷam is done by standing and with the help of sistrums (sistra) and drums. Then it progresses to Tәrgʷame Bet (ትርጓሜ ቤት) or commentary house, in which first, the literal reading (in the Ge’ez original) will be studied, then the meaning will be studied through different interpretations. In this house a person can begin by studying the New or the Old Testament as his choice may be. And also under Zena ’Abbäw (ዜና አበው) one can learn about the fathers/patriarchs like Abraham, Jacob, Isaac and the rest. On the other hand, Church Fathers like, Cyril, Basil the Great, John Chrysostom and the like are studied under Scholars of the Church.120

106  The church and the conjugal relationship The religious training depended on the role that the candidate wanted to hold in the Church. The key roles were identified as deacon (diyaqon; ዲያቆን), priest (qes; ቄስ), reader (’Anagnosṭis; አናግኖስጢስ), däbtära (ደብተራ), märigeta (መሪጌታ) or mäzämmәr (መዘምር) and church teacher (mämhәr; መምህር). The märigeta could be described as the chief of däbtära­-c​­ antors,121 who are unique to this Church tradition. Däbtäras are non­-​­ordained specialists in ecclesiastical hymns, dancing and poetry,122 but some traditionally undertook training also in spiritual healing, becoming involved in non­ -​ ­permissible prayers and the black arts.123 In general, deacons would learn three to five years to acquire knowledge in liturgical prayers, such as Qәddase (ቅዳሴ), Kidan (ኪዳን), Wәddase Mariam, (ውደሴ ማርያም), Sä’atat (ሰዓታት) and Liṭon (ሊጦን),124 to be ordained as priests. A deacon or priest could also study hymnology, such as Mә’әraf (ምዕራፍ), Ṣomä Dәggʷa (ጾመ ድጓ), Zәmmare (ዝማሬ), Mäwasә’әt (መዋሥእት); poetry (Qәne; ቅኔ); and spiritual dancing (’Aqʷaqʷam; አቋቋም). In general, those who specialised in hymnology (other than Qedasse and Sä’atat reserved for priests) were traditionally the däbtära.125 Those who desired to learn more could enrol in specialised schools/departments in order to become teachers in their domains, such as in Qәne, Mäşḥaf Tärgum (ምጽሐፍ ተርጉም) or Zema. The entire cycle of education would require theoretically between 24 and 30 years,126 with the most demanding being the training required for aspiring teachers of interpretation.127 The curriculum of the highest school of interpretation features the 14 books of the Qәddase, the Praises of Mary (Wәddase Maryam), Fәtha Nägäśt, a collection of homilies, anathemas and testimonies by Church Fathers (Haymanotä ’Abbäw), works by Cyril of Alexandria (Qәrәllos; ቄርሎስ) and John Chrysostom, and the books of the monks.128 To the list of Church Fathers can be added Athanasius of ­Alexandria, Basil the Great, Gregory Nazianzus, Gregory of Nyssa, Ephrem the Syriac, Severus of Antioch and Mar Isaac of Nineveh.129 Both theologians and clergy posited that the level of training of each member of the clergy depended on their own skills/talents, commitment and practical possibilities. However, it was generally agreed that most priests were unlikely to achieve theological training, for reasons that were associated both with the Church educational system and the material conditions of the students.130 Traditionally, students have had to rely on the public’s almsgiving to secure their daily sustenance.131 This societal sponsorship would often not suffice to sustain all students. In addition, students might face health issues, hardship and other scarcities that could interfere with their capacity to learn.132 Existing reports and this research suggest that at least a portion of those who start a religious education must give it up or discontinue it because of the hardships experienced or other interferences. Only those who attain higher levels of training, such as in interpretation of holy books, may receive some allowance for teaching others.133 Furthermore, students have faced challenges to dedicate their time exclusively to studying because they have been expected to support their families

The church and the conjugal relationship   107 in farming and other livelihood activities.134 Additionally, finding teachers in a specific department at one’s hometown may have not always been possible.135 Many students must leave their hometowns to go to other learning centres where they can study with no distractions, and this may be associated with more hardships since students are far from home.136 Overall, students have had few means to progress with their training to reach the highest level of religious education provided in the Mäşḥaf Bet.137 For practical matters, students would be prone to complete the minimum necessary training to enter the service and access a salary. It was also noted by a number of interlocutors in the field that this weak level of training in interpretation might have been fostered by a loose enforcement of canonical regulations about ordination.138 Traditionally priests were qualified to be ordained as long as they knew the liturgical material and “as a result the clergy in Ethiopia have usually achieved only a basic level of education”.139 While ideally a priest should know interpretation of the New Testament prior to being ordained, this qualification was not always met.140 A member of the Council of Scholars confirmed that this is a violation of canonical rules and provided additional explanations: The practice was for clergy to come, generally on foot, from all parts of Ethiopia to Aksum in order to be ordained. Imagine someone walking from Shewa, here in Addis Ababa, to Aksum. How could anyone refuse him? Who would check his background and credentials? How to send him back after walking so long?141 Mass ordinations were described for the sixteenth century in Portuguese documentation.142 Loose canonical enforcement was also acknowledged by local clergy during fieldwork, with one church teacher asserting: “There used to be no ordination of clergy. It’s a convention nowadays [to ordain clergy].”143 Once priests were ordained, continuing their training became more difficult due to their multiple duties as pastors, husbands and fathers. In the EOTC deacons must marry before becoming priests, which means that priests have to cater to the needs of both their brethren and their families. They might simply not have the time and capacity to continue their studies under such conditions.144 Responsibilities at home, such as the need to plough one’s farm, and the need to provide pastoral support curtail the ability of the priest to study.145 In recent years, even fewer students have gone to the traditional religious schools, due to the emergence of secular education. Haile Gabriel Dagne has observed: One of the main reasons for this change is that the graduates of the church schools have lost their traditional elite status in the social order, which today, particularly in the modern sector, is being occupied by those who have a modern Western type of education.146

108  The church and the conjugal relationship In other words, more students choose to pursue what they consider to be more viable alternatives.147 Interestingly, secular education was originally condemned by the clergy as sinful, which some interlocutors thought had contributed to preserving the clergy’s low literacy levels.148 Reportedly, the Church Council had not issued an official decision on the matter,149 which suggests that the clergy acted on their own discretion. Regardless of the factors that inhibited the acquisition of advanced training among religious students historically, this was believed to have had repercussions for the laity. One learned member of the clergy in Aksum explained that “because most teachers and those who serve in the Church do not enter or finish the Mäşḥaf Bet they are not able to teach or improve the understanding of the people”.150 A church teacher in Aksum was convinced that many priests did not have training in interpretation and could not teach the rest of the society with their example.151 Another interlocutor reasoned that it could happen that the member who had profound knowledge had no capacity to speak in public and to preach.152 In addition, some interlocutors believed that without exegetical knowledge the local clergy tended toward acculturated understandings, which contributed to perpetuate local norms and folklore understandings. One English­ -​­ speaking church teacher serving at the Church of Mary of Zion in Aksum distinguished ‘faith’ from ‘tradition’ and argued that many members of the clergy who lacked or had limited training would be challenged to differentiate between the two.153 Alongside these problems of acculturation, some spoke of shortfalls among the clergy to embody the teachings of the faith, with one teacher of the St Paul Theological College opining that many priests were materialistic or corrupt.154 The analysis evidences that the Church is currently in transitional times and that these changing conditions might have implications for the discourses and influence of the clergy in the local societies.

Teachings on man­-​­woman relations, marriage and the conjugal relationship In order to capture the multiplicity of theological influences and historical forces that fermented and shaped this Church tradition a wide range of old and new materials were studied relevant to these themes, including canonical and liturgical books, sections of the ’andәmta, official materials published by the Church and independent theologians and more recent writings by the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan, as well as books available in the E ­ thiopian market for public consumption.155 These were supplemented by consultations with modern and traditional Church scholars and theologians. An official text that was prioritised was the Fәtha Nägäśt, which is believed to have had historical centrality in this tradition. This book was reportedly compiled by Egyptian writer Abu­-l​­ Fada’il Ibn al­-Asal ​­ at the time of Cyril III of Alexandria (1235–1243) and elucidates religious issues

The church and the conjugal relationship   109 (ecclesiastical, liturgical, monastic, lived faith) and themes that would be expected to preoccupy a Christian Church and society.156 The English translation produced by Abba Paulos Tzadua and Peter Strauss states that Fәtha Nägäśt draws from apostolic texts, the canon of the early ecumenical councils, writings of Early Church Fathers, laws established by Byzantine emperors and Syro­-​­Roman and Judaic texts and laws.157 There are different theories that explain how the document reached Ethiopia and in what form, including that it was compiled in its current form by an Egyptian author.158 Tzadua and Strauss seemed convinced that the Church in Ethiopia had largely observed its provisions, mentioning that the book had been kept in monasteries and important churches where “[i]t was conserved and available for consultation”.159 During fieldwork, scholars and theologians referred to Fәtha Nägäśt as the main Canon of the Church, but some observed that the Church has been increasingly attuning to secular legislation, such as concerning the age of marriage. One Holy Trinity Theological College graduate in Addis Ababa remarked: Fәtha Nägäśt has been the primary book the Church has worked with. Priests and preachers have conventionally used it widely. Now, we ignore the secular section and we look at the religious section. But because we know it was compiled by an Egyptian, we also criticise things in the religious section.160 Moreover, it is important to consider that despite its existence and postulated influence, it did not displace other customary rules and norms that had existed in the country.161 Man­-​­woman relations Both the study of official texts and the consultations with local theologians indicated unanimously that the EOTC has accepted and taught a fundamental equality between men and women. Abba Melaku at the Frumentius Theological College in Meqele summarised the stance of the Church as follows: Our faith teaches that men and women are equal and are one body. You can’t find anywhere in the Holy Bible or in any religious place a teaching that says women are less than men. The teachings are [that] they are equal.162 Citing the story of Genesis, he furthermore explained: It [Genesis] also says: God created man in His image. This means both man and woman are created in the image of God. And because they are created in the image of God they are one and have one image. They

110  The church and the conjugal relationship have the image of God. They are no different, there is no higher or lower. When it said “He created man in his image” it used one word “Man” for both to be called by it. Hence the teaching of our faith, first, God created both in His image.163 Abba Melaku understood the generic ‘man’ to communicate that both male and female were created alike. The ’andәmta on Genesis uses the plural third person pronoun to refer to the first­-​­fashioned couple.164 The biblical verses on their fashioning are explained in the commentary section: “Man and woman He created them. (Explanation) At this time Eve had not yet been created, it was later that (he) said that he (Adam) knew her. Another one says thus, that she is in Adam’s nature/make.”165 In addition, it is said that man and woman were given equal authority to govern over the created world.166 Father Serapim of Aksum confirmed this theology: “The woman is not created above the man or the man above the woman; they both are created equally and are both the image and likeness of God.”167 He suggested that this fundamental equality extended to marriage in the context of which he understood the spouses as being one: “Equality in the teachings of the Church means oneness of the two. The Church teaches that there is no way that the one is better than the other; they are one and equal.”168 In general, theologians recognised that male and female individuals presented some distinctive biological and psychological characteristics, but they did not in any way think that this had any impact on the fact that man and woman were fundamentally created equals.169 This is an important point to be stressed in view of more critical works from Ethiopia that have portrayed the Judeo­-​­Christian tradition as inegalitarian.170 This is not to deny that the Church has preserved certain practices with gender dimensions, such as the aforementioned baptismal differentials. Theologians I spoke to traced such gender asymmetries to the Old Testament heritage of the tradition and not to inherent beliefs about females and males being unequal.171 Nonetheless, practices of the Church that continue to display gendered patterns have increasingly attracted attention in Ethiopia, to which Church associates have attempted to respond, although it is less clear if this has led to a change in clergy practices. A recent Maḫәbärä Qәdusan post composed by Deacon Gebre Egziabher Jr addressed some of these concerns, echoing more formal Church positions. His essay explained that God created Humanity as female and male; the two were of the Human who was made in likeness to God, therefore of the same nature and equal to each other.172 However, Adam was created prior to Eve and Eve came from Adam, symbolised in the convention of baptising male infants at 40  days and female infants at 80 days. The deacon underscored that this was not meant to suggest some inequality between the genders since in His incarnation God honoured the woman, having His Son being born through the Virgin Mary. Similarly, he stressed that the different authorities for

The church and the conjugal relationship   111 wives and husbands in marriage reflect not inherent inequalities, but God’s Providence as a means to secure harmony and balance in the relationship. Deacon Gebre Egziabher addressed also the tradition of discouraging women from entering the Church during menstruation. Invoking theology, he explained that neither men nor women were allowed inside the Church when there was any type of blood flow on the premise that the blood of Christ (Eucharist) should be the only blood offered. Still, while the rule is not gender­-​­specific, the Fәtha Nägäśt seems to have placed special emphasis on keeping women out of the Church. At one instance, priests are threatened with deposition should they allow women in their menses to enter the church.173 Following this pattern, funeral practices that I witnessed in Aksum prohibited women from entering the place inside the church compound where a male was buried. Heregewoin Cherinet, a female theology graduate, in an unprecedented book that raises awareness about “folklore attitudes” toward women in the Church has also confirmed that the rule regarding blood flow applies to all.174 She also traced these practices to the Old Testament, but instead of treating this as heritage to be preserved, she affirmed that all these prohibitions had been undone in the New ­Testament, citing John Chrysostom: “The Church teaches as that the great Church Father John Chrysostom strongly opposed the people who were prepared to stone a woman who had entered the [c]hurch during menstruation.”175 The fact that these prohibitions have continued suggests either a lack of knowledge of New Testament theology or its marginalisation by stronger Hebraic cultural elements. Marriage and divorce The EOTC’s official dogma considers marriage to be honourable and within God’s intention: “Marriage is pure and undefiled, and not unclean, for God created Adam and Eve that they might multiply people. Hence flesh is not impure, for He did not repudiate the body.”176 A Maḫәbärä Qәdusan blog post cited the Creed of the Apostles to make the same point: “Marriage and propagation of children are pure and undefiled, ‘because God created Adam and Eve to multiply’.”177 The Fәtha Nägäśt quoted primarily verses from Paul’s Epistle to the Corinthians to explain that marriage is in accordance with God’s plan, that every man must take one woman for his life and stay united with her and that in marriage one becomes the owner of the other. In the Order and Canon of Marriage (1976) it was stated that marriage “was instituted from the very beginning along with other commands which God first gave to Adam”.178 The Fәtha Nägäśt echoed Paul in stating that it is good for men if they can avoid marriage and devote themselves to God, but if they cannot, they should take a wife as their own.179 Ephraim Isaac has expressed the opinion that historically the Church avoided prioritising monastic over married life.180 In addition, he noted that monasticism may be a virginal life but it is

112  The church and the conjugal relationship not preserved only for virgins: “Many men and women become monks and nuns after having fully participated in normal physical life, and the extreme mysticism and wholesale renunciation of the physical associated with ­Egyptian and Syrian monasticism are alien to Ethiopian thinking.”181 Even as asceticism was admired and life in chastity considered superior, the EOTC appears to have viewed marriage, and specifically the monogamous couple, as the basic unit of society.182 Marriage is recognised as one of the Seven Sacraments in the EOTC and must be sanctified in church to be holy, accompanied by the Holy Communion.183 However, traditionally to perform the Holy Matrimony, a number of stringent preconditions needed to be met. The prohibition of pre­-​­marital sexual relations has been especially pronounced and has applied equally to men and women.184 According to Church Canon, the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony or täklil (ተክሊል), which literally means “crowning”,185 is performed only for virginal couples.186 The Sacrament is comprised of three mysteries: the crowns (’aklil; አክሊል) and rings (qäläbät; ቀለበት); the anointment (meron; ሜሮን); and the Holy Communion (Qᵂәrban; ቍርባን). Scholars in Aksum explained that it is the Holy Communion which unites the two spiritually, which is the crucial objective of the Sacrament, echoing the Canon Book of the Church.187 Father Serapim in Aksum was outspoken about the fact that “the täklil is verification, honour and prize of those who kept their virginity”.188 He described the Matrimony as a “reward” (šәllәmat; ሽልማት)189 for those who keep the laws of the Church. In addition to the precondition of physical chastity, Holy Matrimony has been considered indissoluble. These two preconditions may comprise part of the reason why the Church has tolerated non­-​­church marriages historically.190 Ephraim Isaac, in turn, has written that the EOTC “expects the few who are married in the Church to uphold an indissoluble union; yet because of this strictness, it gives freedom to, and even encourages, its members to have secular or civil marriage, which it blesses”.191 Canonically speaking, priests are not allowed to perform marriages outside of the Church and they may be stripped of their profession if they are found to be doing so. Nominally, non­-​­virgins and those who marry a second time are also able to marry in the Church. However, these marriages have a strictly penitential character and are only allowed as Providence of God to avoid fornication, with Fәtha Nägäśt including this stipulation under “Widows”.192 This more penitential marriage can be performed also for those who start premarital relations and later decide to marry by Church procedures. According to this process, the couple must first undergo confession in communication with their spiritual father and must be taught the Orthodox Täwahәdo laws on marriage. After confessing their sins, the couple may need to commit to fasting for a designated amount of time, alms­-giving ​­ or other works. Then, on another day, they will go into the church to take Holy Communion together, which will seal their marriage. The prayers said

The church and the conjugal relationship   113 in this case differ and there should be no crowning. According to Fәtha Nägäśt, this is the prayer of absolution known as Fәtḥät Zäwäld (ፍትሐት ዘወልድ).193 While a penitential marriage should conclude with the couple taking the Holy Eucharist together, in practice priests have reportedly hesitated to grant these couples Holy Communion, which may not be unrelated to the historical emphasis placed on bodily virginity as affirmed earlier. In the Order of Marriage and Social Ethics Merahi described a church marriage which he had attended and had not involved communion. The author noted that “[n]ormally the decree of the [C]hurch does not allow Christian marriages to be celebrated without [H]oly [C]ommunion”,194 but obviously this standard was not followed by all priests. Merahi’s commentary also seemed to suggest that couples had some room for choice. While the practices of local parish priests should not be taken as a springboard for appraising the official discourses of the Church, historical reasons offer grounds to think that the Church might have contributed to this outcome by refusing Holy Communion to those who were sexually active. Two historians who have looked at the evidence have observed: The marriage customs of Abyssinia have never been brought into conformity with canon law. Divorce is extremely easy, being permitted for causes stipulated in the marriage contract and being punished only by the payment of damages by the deserting partner. Concubinage is also a regular practice. What the attitude of the Church was in early times is not known, but since the Middle Ages it has, under the inspiration of Alexandria, set its face against these abuses, refusing communion to all who were according to its canon living in sin.195 These early interventions could underpin the present practice of unmarried, sexually active people abstaining from Holy Communion. It is not impossible that such historical rulings also left their mark on the clergy in subsequent centuries, enforcing more exclusivist tactics regarding the penitential marriage. Regarding the age of marriage, Fәtha Nägäśt traditionally specified as majority age for males, 20 or 25, and for females 12 and 15 (depending on wealth class).196 In most recent publications, the Church stipulates: “[A] virgin (girl) from 15 years and above; a virgin (boy) from 18 and above”,197 with virginity being an ideal to be met by both. The aims of marriage have been defined as: (1) Preservation and growth of mankind; (2) Mutual help between husband and wife; and (3) that marriage might help to keep man and woman from the temptation of carnal lusts.198 In Fәtha Nägäśt the purposes of marriage are identified with “the procreation of offspring, in order to preserve the lineage” and secondly “satisfaction of the desire for carnal union wherefrom come offspring”.199 According to Merahi, “[w]hen we think of the basic aim of marriage, we come across the first word

114  The church and the conjugal relationship of God which was given to our fore­-​­fathers: ‘be fertile and multiply’.”200 An online webpage dedicated to the EOTC, reportedly set up by the North American diocese, directs its page on the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony to the Coptic Church’s website.201 The latter, however, lists the three aims of marriage in a different order as: (1) Cooperation between man and woman; (2) Procreation; (3) Protection against adultery and fornication. A note is included that “Christianity does not make reproduction the main aim of marriage, but the second aim after cooperation between the married couple.”202 This echoes John Chrysostom’s teaching as outlined in his ­Pauline commentaries, who explicitly shifted from speaking of procreation to emphasising the apostolic teaching of marriage as serving the achievement of mutual holiness.203 One theologian explained that the EOTC has been embedded in an Old Testament cosmology, suggesting that Paul’s teachings regarding marriage would not have been substantively integrated.204 The official doctrine of the EOTC also condemns divorce, except for cases of adultery or perhaps impotence. Offenders of adultery are barred from the Eucharist. Levirate marriage or concubines are not tolerated and the rule applies equally both to the laity and the Emperor.205 Fәtha Nägäśt did not make a clear differentiation between marriage annulment and divorce, but included all provisions under the section “The marriage which may be dissolved”.206 There it was written that marriage could be annulled in the following three cases: (1) if husband and wife choose a religious life (to be in a monastery); (2) if one of the partners refuses to the other partner the marital union (with one reason being absence from home); or, (3) if the third end of marriage for mutual help is not fulfilled (because of adultery which brings many pains into the family, and spousal abuse).207 These dissolutions could be initiated by both men and women. In the Notes on the Teachings of the Abyssinian Church (1936) it was also stated that divorce was unacceptable, citing Paul: It was said, He who divorces his wife, let him give her a writing of her divorce; but I say unto you, everyone who divorces his wife, except for the cause of sexual misconduct, makes her an adulteress and he who married her who is divorced commits adultery.208 Whereas previously a man could issue a writ and easily divorce his wife, in the New Testament this was prohibited. The Fәtha Nägäśt also includes the response that Christ gave when asked about the annulment of the laws of Moses that had permitted divorce, stating that this was done in response to “human hardness” but it was not intended by God.209 In Ethiopic Didascalia adultery was condemned, importantly, not merely as a physical act but as intention in the mind.210 The author underscored that committing such adultery was equivalent to a curse. Merahi in his book went as far as to argue that “inability to live in agreement with the law of God which says, ‘One man to one woman’ results in two types of punishment”.211

The church and the conjugal relationship   115 Those who committed adultery would be punished with “general diseases” such as AIDS, a perception that is not unusual for Christian communities.212 Still, as has been seen, polygamy and divorces in the Christian societies of Ethiopia have been frequent. Ephraim Isaac has made the pertinent comment that the EOTC “forbids polygamy, but it does not look down on divorce”.213 In other words, despite the formal teaching against divorce, clergy might have enforced this stipulation very loosely with their brethren, with the fieldwork in Aksum supporting this view. The conjugal relationship The Ethiopic Didascalia was explicit about the fact that husbands must be patient and loving with their wives: Bear patiently with one another y[ou] sons of God. And let the husband also bear patiently with his wife, and not be haughty or false; but let him be merciful and upright, and cherish her alone in love and humility.214 In Fәtha Nägäśt Paul is cited to establish that husbands “owe” love to their wives, and that wives owe “obedience” to their husbands.215 Fәtha Nägäśt also cited the admonition of Peter in Didascalia: “O men, servants of God, every man among you shall bear the weight of his woman. He must not be haughty, not deceitful, but shall be merciful and upright, one who hastens to do that which pleases his wife.”216 In the Order and Canon of Marriage male headship was predicated on the husband’s responsibility for the wife’s welfare.217 In response to my suggestion that the teaching of male headship might have been used locally to dismiss or to oppress women, Father Serapim of Aksum commented: Yes that is a misunderstanding. On the contrary, this teaching proves their oneness and equality because the head will not manage without the body and the body will not manage without the head. But the two exist together in oneness. In a like manner so are the husband and the wife. That is what St Paul thought. Since God created Eve from Adam’s body she is his body, which means they are one body. This is a mystery to be known through the eyes of faith it; is not one to be verified through a laboratory test. Christ also taught the equality and oneness of the two in the Gospel of St Matthew.218 Abba Melaku provided a similar reply, but he invoked the context in which the apostles taught, highlighting the contextual exegetical basis of this tradition: It is said the man is the head of the woman, but one should ask what the reason is for it, why it is said so. One should notice the type of culture in

116  The church and the conjugal relationship the East at the time. This was written for Corinthians. And Paul was the one who wrote it. What was the attitude of the Greeks toward women at the time? Many women got married and the pagan religion at the time did not give a lot of room for women. So Paul thought man and woman are equal, but in administering their house the man is the head. For example, the prime minister of a certain country is its leader, but that does not mean to say he is smarter and cleverer than all the scientists and the doctors in that country. Accordingly, leading does not mean being better. […] In a particular office there might be employees who are better than the head. So this order of administration is from the divine not from human intellect. For example, a head of a family is the one who leads, guides and takes responsibility, this is what headship means.219 Abba Melaku also added that this organisation in marriage may have been in part a response to a society that was already organised in a patriarchal way, a status quo that could not be simply reversed. However, while the ancient Greek or Jewish societies had historically denied women equal status to men, the Orthodox notion of male headship attempted to rectify this. It is important to note that despite the gender­-​­based distribution of authority, rigid gender roles in terms of work allocation have not been given the weight of doctrine in this Church. The openness of this tradition is also visible in the fact that sexual relations are acceptable within the conjugal relationship. Ephraim Isaac has characterised the attitude of the Church toward sex as “liberal and natural”, affirming that the EOTC faces little or no special difficulties in coming to grips with the progressive sex ethics. Individual families may have rigid views of sex of their own choice, but the Church itself regards sex as a normal condition and a natural basis of life.220 Still, sexuality should be contained even within marriage to accommodate a religious lifestyle. Merahi mentioned in his work that the couple is expected not to have intercourse on the following four occasions: (1) In time of pregnancy; (2) On the Baptizing Day; (3) During Main Fasting Days, Main Holidays and Sabbath; (4) During Menstrual Time. Considering ­Ethiopia’s regular fasts and religious holidays, abstinence from sexual intercourse cannot be considered an easily achievable task. While the Church has not articulated formal teachings regarding birth control, the Fәtha Nägäśt cited a prohibition on “shedding the seed outside the uterus of the woman” and “avoiding the natural fruit”.221 In his Maḫәbärä Qәdusan post, Deacon Gebre Egziabher spoke of the sinfulness of abortion, echoing the general Church stance.222 Considerably less has been written about domestic violence within the Church, although references and initiatives have existed. The Fәtha Nägäśt

The church and the conjugal relationship   117 cited as one of the reasons to end a marriage a spouse suffering damage by the other. The justification was that the third end of marriage  – mutual help – was not fulfilled. The stipulations stated: “[If there is] damage to the life of one of the couple by the other, and their quarrel results in bitter violence involving enmity [the marriage is dissolved].”223 The translator’s footnote to this passage explained that enmity was used for the original term “rebellion” and referred to hostility between the families of the spouses.224 In the same section it was also mentioned that adultery was prohibited “lest the killing of one of the partners or indeed of the seducer be occasioned by jealousy, or lest the killing of the one who devises the marriage of one of the adulterers happen”.225 These articulations seem to underscore the Church’s central tenet that marriage should be a peaceful affair, which was also echoed in the teachings of the local clergy in the villages of Aksum as will be discussed. In her book, Cherinet referred to a more recent effort made by ­Ethiopian Church scholars to create a manual against gender violence based on the Gospel. This was published in 2009 with the title Developmental Bible (Yälәmat Wängel; የልማት ወንጌል) and took a clear stance to condemn any violence or maltreatment of women as un­ -Orthodox, ​­ calling everyone to “follow God’s will … to protect women from suffering”.226 Deacon Gebre Egziabher in the post that was analysed earlier referred also to conjugal abuse. He seemed to attribute this to changes in the gender realm that disturbed spousal dynamics: “The biblical position is clear, each have their own role and order, and if this divine order is not followed for the home or for that matter even the larger family, meaning nation, then disaster occurs and peace lost.”227 He furthermore drew examples of abusive relationships from the Old Testament times and explained these as the outcome of the fall from heaven and a failure to follow God’s commandments. Examples included a wife’s pressure on her husband to commit adultery (Sarah and Abraham), a husband’s neglect for his wife (King Solomon) and crime that is motivated by sexual lust (King David). As a remedy he called believers to depart from the vices of the flesh, calling women specifically to overcome their love for adornment and be modest and profess Godliness in good works.

An eclectic tradition with internal tensions Approaching the Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo faith from the perspective of learned Church scholars and theologians suggests a theological tradition that teaches self­-​­healing through faith and deeds, attributes fundamental equality to male and female individuals in reference to their divine fashioning, and values the salvation of both. An attempt to contextualise the Church in its historical conditions evidences that the Church and faith expanded within a Semitic­-​­Cushitic cultural underlayer and political structures and events that interfered and influenced the Church’s existence,

118  The church and the conjugal relationship discourses and practices. The various tensions mentioned in this chapter appear to have resulted in the preservation of Church elements oriented to Judaic times that rather affirm the folklore culture even when this is at odds with New Testament theology. Hence, the Church upholds some tenets very rigidly, such as the precondition of bodily virginity in marriage, but enforces other tenets quite loosely, such as the prohibition of divorce, most likely responding to a society where bodily virginity was historically pronounced and where divorces have been frequent and marriage unstable. While gendered differentials have not been articulated in pernicious ways within Church theology, the historically limited exegetical training of the clergy in conjunction with a society’s predisposition to yield more authority to men could have resulted in understandings that have achieved the contradiction of Church theology. It is precisely such internal tensions that were identified and encountered in the vernacular experience of the clergy and the laity in Aksum, which I unravel in subsequent chapters. These same tensions appeared to become crucial for understanding better (but not fully explain) the perpetuation of certain social norms and gender ideals associated with some forms of conjugal abuse.

Notes   1 Anonymous, ድርሳን፡ ዝቅዱስ ዮሐንስ አፈወርቅ። አዲስ አበባ：ግብረ ሥላሴ ማተሚያ ቤት፣ ፲፱፻፹፯ ዓ.ም. The Homilies of St John Chrysostom (Addis Ababa: Gebre Silassie Printing Press, 1987 EC); Anonymous ተግሣፅ፡ ዝቅዱስ ዮሓንስ አፈወር። አዲስ አበባ：ግብረ ሥላሴ ማተሚያ ቤት፣፲፱፻፹፯ ዓ.ም. The Admonitions of St John Chrysostom (Addis Ababa: Gebre Silassie Printing Press, 1987 EC).   2 S. Mergiya, የትዳር አንደምታው: እንደ ቅዱስ ዮሐንስ አፈወርቅ አስተምሮ [The Commentaries on Married Life: As Taught by St John Chrysostom] (Addis Ababa, pb. 2004 EC); H.  Mersha, የሐዋርያዉ የቅድስ ጳዉሎስ መልእክት ወደ ፈልጵስዩስ ሰዎች ቅዱስ ዮሐንስ አፈወርቅ እንዳስተማረዉ ተርጓሜ：በኀይለኢየሱስ መርሻ ። አዲስ አበባ： ማህበረ ቅዱሳን፣ ፳፻፰ ዓ.ም [The Epistle of the Apostle St Paul to the Philippians as Interpreted by St John Chrysostom] (Addis Ababa: Mahibere Kidusan, 2008 EC); H. Mersha, ኹለተኛዉ የሐዋርያዉ የቅዱስ ጳዉሎስ መክእክት ወደ ጢሞቴዎስ በቅዱስ ዮሐንስ አፈወርቅ ተተረጐመ： በኀይለኢየሱስ መርሻ ። አዲስ አበባ： ኅይስ ኢየሱስ መርሻ ወልደ ሥላሴ፣ ፳፻፱ ዓ.ም [The Second Epistle of St Paul the Apostle to Timothy as Interpreted by St John Chrysostom] (Addis Ababa, 2009 EC).   3 D. Levine, Greater Ethiopia: The Evolution of a Multiethnic Society (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1974).    4 S. T. Habtemariam, Reflections on the History of the Abyssinian Orthodox Tewahedo Church (Trenton, NJ: African World Press, 2017), 61.   5 J. Binns, The Orthodox Church of Ethiopia: A History (London and New York: I.D. Tauris, 2017), 2.   6 Binns, The Orthodox, 41–43.   7 Binns, The Orthodox, 43; ICE14.    8 There seems to be no agreement as to the exact date. For instance, a local scholar cited ad 480 (ICE4), while John Binns in a more recent history of the Church cited ad  457 (see Binns, The Orthodox, 2). Other authors cite the sixth century.   9 E. Isaac, The Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahädo Church (Trenton, NJ: The Red Sea Press, 2012), 21.  10 Habtemariam, Reflections, 123.  11 ICE9.

The church and the conjugal relationship   119  12 Habtemariam, Reflections, 132.  13 Levine, Greater Ethiopia, 32.   14 H. Marcus, A History of Ethiopia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975), 6, http://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.374.313&rep=rep1&​ type=pdf; E. Zacharopoulos, “Η Χριστιανική αυτοκρατορία της Ρωμαϊκης Ανατολής και το Βασίλειο του Αξούμ, από τον Μ. Κωνσταντίνο ως τον Ιουστινιανό, Μεταπτυχιακό” [The Christian Empire of the Roman East and the Kingdom of Aksum, from Constantine the Great to Justinian] (PhD thesis, 2008), 22.   15 S. H. Selassie, “The Establishment of the Ethiopian Church”, in The Church of Ethiopia: A Panorama of History and Spiritual Life (Addis Ababa, Ethiopian Orthodox Church, 1970), 3.  16 Habtemariam, Reflections, 95.   17 L. Melaku, History of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church: From the Reign of Emperor Caleb to the End of Zagwe Dynasty and from the Classical (Golden) Age of the Present. Part Two and Three (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, 2010), 60.  18 ICE3.  19 Two such imperial mediations may be mentioned in brief. One theological controversy was caused by Jesuit missionaries who criticised the practice of male circumcision in Ethiopia. Emperor Geladewos issued in response a Confession of the Faith, which defended circumcision as a cultural practice. Another instance was an internal controversy over the observance of the Sabbath, which was historically upheld in Ethiopia. Emperor Zara Yaqob settled the controversy by deciding in favour of the practice.  20 Melaku, History, 134.  21 For a discussion of this that honours the insiders’ historical conscience see Binns, The Orthodox, 146–153.  22 Melaku, History, 145.  23 Melaku, History, 31–34, 101–110.   24 ICE4, ICE9; Melaku, History, 20, 101–107.   25 ICE4, ICE9.   26 T. Tamrat, “Persecution and Religious Controversies”, in The Church of ­Ethiopia: A Panorama of History and Spiritual Life (Addis Ababa, Ethiopian Orthodox Church, 1970), 28.   27 ICE2, ICE9.   28 H. M. Larebo, “The Ethiopian Orthodox Church and Politics in the Twentieth Century: Part II”, Northeast African Studies 10, no. 1(1988): 1–23.  29 Melaku, History, 28.  30 Melaku, History, 39; Binns, The Orthodox, 44.  31 ICE19.   32 ICE3; Habtemariam, Reflections, 195; A. F. Matthew, Notes on the Teachings of the Abyssinian Church: As set Forth by the Doctors of the Same (London: The Faith Press, 1936), 60.  33 Melaku, History, 56.   34 Means ‘rejuvenation, refresher’ (T. Kane, Amharic­-​­English Dictionary, Volume 1 (Otto Harrassowitz; Wiesbaden, 1990), 955.  35 IDCE1.  36 ICE20.  37 IDCE1.  38 ICE2.   39 ICE2; ICE20; Binns, The Orthodox, 243.  40 Marcus, A History of Ethiopia, 7; Zacharopoulos, “Η Χριστιανική αυτοκρατορία”, 27.   41 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 20.   42 Means ‘to be united/to be made one’ [W. Leslau, Concise Amharic Dictionary (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1976), 166].

120  The church and the conjugal relationship  43 Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church: Faith, Order of Worship and Ecumenical Relations. Second Edition (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia: Tensae Publishing House, 1996), 143.  44 ICE8.   45 A. H. M. Jones and E. Monroe, A History of Ethiopia (London: Oxford University Press, 1935), 51.  46 Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian, 117.  47 Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian, 129; Habtemariam, Reflections, 134; S. H. ­Selassie, “The Expansion and Consolidation of Christianity”, in The Church of Ethiopia: A Panorama of History and Spiritual Life (Addis Ababa: ­Ethiopian Orthodox Church, 1970), 7.  48 Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian, 84–85; R. Lee, “Symbolic Interpretations in Ethiopic and Early Syriac Literature” (PhD thesis, SOAS University of London, 2011), 77.  49 Levine, Greater Ethiopia, 32.   50 A. Keon­-​­Sang, An Ethiopian Reading of the Bible: Biblical Interpretation of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahido Church (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2015), 157–217.   51 Lee, “Symbolic Interpretations”.  52 ICE3.  53 ICE3.  54 ICE3.  55 ICE3.   56 A. A. Bruk, “A Millennium Translation Based on the Ge’ez and LXX: A New Bible Translation in the Ethiopian Church and its Controversy”, The Bible Translator 65, no. 1(2014): 61–63.   57 This is listed on a website dedicated to the EOTC, which does not appear to have been established by the Church in Ethiopia (EOTC, “The Bible”, 2003, http:// ethiopianorthodox.org/english/canonical/books.html). Moreover, the Church might not have always considered these books canonical (email communication with Ralph Lee, 5 May 2016).  58 EOTC, “The Sacrament of Matrimony”, 2003, www.ethiopianorthodox.org/ english/dogma/sacramatrimony.html.   59 T. C. Foster, Women, Religion, and Development in the Third World (New York: Praeger, 1983), 174; Bougatsos, Κεφάλαιο V: Η Ετερόδοξη Θεολογία για τους Σκοπούς του Γάμου: Ρωμαιοκαθολική Εκκλησία. [Chapter 5: The Heterodox Theology for the Aims of Marriage: The Catholic Church] (Μυριόβιβλος, 1989).  60 Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian, 6.  61 ICE10.  62 ICE4.  63 Ε. Ullendorff, Ethiopia and the Bible (Ely House, London: Oxford University Press, 1968).  64 Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian, 36.  65 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 28.   66 A. A. Bekele, “Christian Doctrine and Living: Introduction to Christianity”, www.eotcmk.org/site­-​­en/images/stories/pdfs/chiristiandoctrineandliving.pdf.   67 Bekele, “Christian Doctrine”.   68 Bekele, “Christian Doctrine”.   69 Translates as: ‘remedy, cure, medicine, medicament, drug, poison; Redeemer (Jesus)’ (Kane, Amharic­-​­English, 321).   70 A. Wondmagegnehu and J. Motovu, eds. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia: Berhanena Selam H.S.I. Printing Press, 1970), 108–109.   71 EOTC, “The Faith of the Church”, 2003, www.ethiopianorthodox.org/english/ faith.html.

The church and the conjugal relationship   121   72 Wondmagegnehu and Motovu, The Ethiopian, 108–109.  73 θέωσις (n) translates as ‘becoming God’ or as ‘deification’. See ‘deification’ in F. L. Cross and E. A. Livingstone, eds., The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church (Third Revised Edition), Oxford Reference, www.oxfordreference.com/ view/10.1093/acref/9780192802903.001.0001/acref­-​­9780192802903.   74 R. Istratii, “Beyond a Feminist ‘Hermeneutics of Suspicion’: Reading St John Chrysostom’s Commentaries on Man­-​­Woman Relations, Marriage and Conjugal Abuse through the Orthodox Phronema”, The SOAS Journal of Postgraduate Research 11(2018): 16–47.  75 ICE3.  76 ICE14.  77 Matthew, Notes, 63.  78 Matthew, Notes, 65.  79 In general, scholars define these two schools according to the exegetical approach they took regarding Christology, with Alexandrians being associated with a more allegorical approach  – reportedly influenced by the works of Origen – that emphasised the ontological unity of Christ’s divinity and humanity, and Antiochians being viewed as more ‘history­-​­grounded’ and tending to a distinction between the Logos and the incarnate Christ. As another writer has observed, these two schools should not be considered homogeneous and reflective of the work of those Fathers who are associated with each, but as a system of organisation that tends toward gross generalisations (M. C. ­Steenberg, “ ‘Two Schools’: Alexandria and Antioch: Categories, Classification, and Converging Christological Visions”, Monachos.net, www.monachos.net/ library/index.php/patristics/themes/244­-​­two­-​­schools­-​­alexandria­-​­and­-​­antioch.  80 ICE7.  81 ICE8.   82 R. W. Cowley, “Patristic Introduction in the Ethiopian Andəmta Commentary Tradition”, Ostkirchliche Studien 29(1980): 39.  83 For example, in Lule Melaku’s history of the Church it is written about St George of Gassicha that he wrote books “refuting the heretical teachings if Seballius, Arius, and Nestorius, Photius, Origen, Eutyches, and others” (Melaku, History, 94).  84 ICE14.  85 ICE8.   86 R. W. Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation: A Study in Exegetical Tradition and Hermeneutics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 375, 378; Lee, “Symbolic Interpretations”, 49–50.   87 Steenberg, “ ‘Two Schools’ ”.   88 These names are all mentioned throughout Roger Cowley’s analysis of EOTC exegetical works (Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical).   89 S. Brock, A Brief Outline of Syriac Literature (Kottayam, India: St Ephrem Ecumenical Research Institute, 1997), 94; J. Faultless, “The Two Recensions of the Prologue to John in Iban Al­-​­Tayyib’s Commentary on the Gospels”, in Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ’Abbasid Iraq, Volume 1, edited by D. Thomas (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2003), 178.   90 Lee, “Symbolic Interpretations”, 49–52.  91 Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical, 378; Tilly (1990) cited in R. Pearse, “BBKL Article on Ibn Al­-T ​­ ayyib”, January 9, 2009, www.roger­-​­pearse.com/weblog/2010/01/​ 09/bbkl­-​­article­-​­on­-​­ibn­-​­al­-​­tayyib/.   92 Faultless, “The Two Recensions”, 180; G. Troupeau, “Le Rôle des Syriaques Dans la Transmission et l’Exploitation du Patrimoine Philosophique et Scientifique Grec” [The Role of the Syrians in the Transmission and Exploitation of the Greek Philosophical and Scientific Heritage], Arabica 38, no. 10(1991): 7.

122  The church and the conjugal relationship  93 This appears to be the general understanding currently among experts (Personal communication with Ralph Lee, 12 April 2016).  94 For Chrysostomic influences in the tradition see Lee, “Symbolic Interpretations”, 44–46.  95 ICE6.  96 ICE3.  97 ICE7.  98 Alehegne, “Features of Andәmta: The Ethiopian Hermeneutics in Amharic”, Journal of Ethiopian Church Studies 2 (August 2012), 115.   99 Alehegne, “Features of Andәmta”, 114–124. 100 Anonymous መጻሕፍተ ብሉያት እሉ እሙንቱ ኦሪት ዘፍጥረት ኦሪት ዘፀአት፣ አንድምታ ትርጓሜ። አዲስ አበባ: ትንሣኤ ማሳተሚያ ድርጀት፣ ፣ ፲፱፻፺፱ ዓ.ም [The Book of the Old Testament, Genesis and Exodus: Commentary and Interpretation] (Addis Ababa: Tinsae Printing Press, 1999 EC). 101 Cowley, “Patristic Introduction”, 39. 102 ICE7; Lee, “Symbolic Interpretations”, 42–43. 103 Alehegne, “Features of Andәmta”, 116. 104 ICE14. 105 ICE3; Lee, “Symbolic Interpretations”, 42–43. 106 ICE14. 107 ICE6. 108 Alehegne, “Features of Andәmta”, 116. 109 C. Chaillot, The Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church Tradition (Paris: Inter­-​ ­Orthodox Dialogue Orthdruk, 2002), 93. 110 R. Cowley, “Old Testament Introduction in the Andemta Commentary Tradition”, Journal of Ethiopian Studies 12, no. 1(1974): 170. 111 H. G. Dagne, “The Ethiopian Orthodox Church School System”, in The Church of Ethiopia: A Panorama of History and Spiritual Life (Addis Ababa: E ­ thiopian Orthodox Church, 1970), 96. 112 Habtemariam, Reflections, 181. 113 FIELDNOTES, 11 January 2017. 114 FIEDLNOTES, 17 January 2017. 115 H. Cherinet, ሴትና አህያ … ። አዲስ አበባ： ሐረገወያን ችርነት። [Woman and Donkey] (Addis Ababa: Heregewoin Cherinet, 2005 EC); H. Cherinet, Women and Donkeys in Ethiopia: Gender and Christian Perspective (Addis Ababa: Graphic Printers, 2015). 116 Habtemariam, Reflections, 159. 117 Dagne, “The Ethiopian”, 83; ICE6. 118 A. I. Kalewold, Traditional Ethiopian Church Education (New York: Teachers College Press, Columbia University, 1970), 30. 119 ICE16, 17. 120 ICE18. 121 Kane, Amharic­-​­English, 196. 122 Melaku, History, 21. 123 See, for example, A. B. Negwo, A Century of Magico­-​­religious Healing: The African, Ethiopian Case (1900–1980s) (Trenton, NJ: The Red Sea Press, Inc., 2015). 124 These were mentioned by numerous priests in the field. Lule Melaku mentions Qәdasse and Sä’atat as the faculty of Church hymns reserved for priests and deacons (Melaku, History, 21). 125 Melaku, History, 21. 126 Kalewold, Traditional, 1–2. 127 ICE10. 128 Kalewold, Traditional, 31; Cowley, “Patristic Introduction”, 39. 129 Kalewold, Traditional, 31; ICE2, ICE6, ICE7, ICE8, ICE18.

The church and the conjugal relationship   123 130 ICE2, ICE4. 131 ICE19. 132 Kalewold, Traditional, 19. 133 ICE19; Kalewold, Traditional, 30. 134 Melaku, History, 74. 135 Melaku, History, 74. 136 ICE19. 137 ICE10. 138 ICE7, ICE19, IC89. 139 Binns, The Orthodox, 172. 140 ICE19. 141 ICE7. 142 Jones and Monroe, The History, 75–76. 143 IC89. 144 ICE10. 145 IDC8, IDC10. 146 Dagne, “The Ethiopian”, 91. 147 ICE19. 148 ICE7, ICE22. 149 IM15. 150 ICE13. 151 IDC10. 152 FIELDNOTES, 13 June 2017. 153 ICE13. 154 ICE6. 155 Anonymous, The Ethiopic Didascalia, trans. J. M. Harden, Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge (London and New York: Macmillan, 1920); Matthew, Notes; Anonymous, trans. P. Tzadua, The Fәtha Nägäśt (Laws of the Kings), edited by P. L. Strauss (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia: Central Printing Press, 1968); L.  Mandelfro, Order and Canon Law of Marriage of the Ethiopian Tewahedo Church (Council of the Learned Men of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, 1976); K. K. Merahi, The Order of Marriage and Social Ethics (Organization for Social Services for AIDS, 1990); Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian Orthodox; K. K. Merahi, The Spiritual and Social Life of Christian Women (Addis Ababa: Kessis Kefyalew Merahi, 1998); Anonymous, መጻሕፍተ ብሉያት; Anonymous, መጽሐፍ ቅዱስ የብሉይና የሐዲስ ኪዳን መጻሕፋት። የኢትዮጵያ መጽሐፍ ቅዱስ ማኅበር፣ ፳፻ ዓ.ም [The Bible, the Old and New Testament Books] (Addis Ababa: The Bible Society of Ethiopia, 2000 EC); Anonymous, የቅዱስ ጳዉሎስ መጽሐፍ፣ ንባቡ ከነትፍጓሜዉ። አዲስ አበባ፣ ፳፻፯ ዓ.ም [The Book of St Paul, Reading and Interpretation] (Addis Ababa: Tinsae Printing Press, 2007 EC); Anonymous, መጽሐፍ ክስርትና፡ መጽሐፍ ተክሊል፡ መጽሐፍ ቀንዲል። አዲስ አበባ: በትንሣኤ ዘጉባኤ ማተሚያ ቤት፣ ፳፻፰ ዓ.ም [The Book of Baptism, Holy Matrimony and Unction] (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia: Tinsae Gubae Press, 2008 EC; EOTC, “The Bible”; EOTC, “The Sacrament of Matrimony”; EOTC, “The Faith of the Church”; Mergiya, የትዳር አንደምታው; Mersha, የሐዋርያዉ የቅድስ; Mersha, ኹለተኛዉ የሐዋርያዉ; Samuel, ቆሞስ ሳሙኤል። ትዳርና ኑሮዉ። አሲስ አበባ [Married Life] (Addis Ababa, 2008 EC); Bekele, “Christian Doctrine”; G. Egziabher, “Divine Plan and Gender Equality”, Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church Sunday School Department­-M ​­ ahibere Kidusan, www.eotcmk.org/site­-​­en/index.php?option=​ com_​content&task=view&id=159&Itemid=1; Cherinet, ሴትና አህያ; Cherinet, Women. 156 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, xv. 157 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, xv. 158 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, xix. 159 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, xix.

124  The church and the conjugal relationship 160 FIELDNOTES, 13 December 2016. 161 This seemed to be suggested in Norman Singer’s analysis of the introduction of Ethiopia’s first Civil Code (1930) and the interaction with FN and customary laws. As the author demonstrated, those who drafted the Civil Code were overly concerned to show the continuities with the Canon book; however, in certain instances the drafting Commission was at opposition with FN and at times favoured local custom. See N. J. Singer, “Modernization and Law in Ethiopia: A Study in Process and Personal Values”, Harvard International Law Journal 11, no. 1(1970): 74 (footnote 2), 83, 90. 162 ICE10. 163 ICE10. 164 Anonymous, መጻሕፍተ ብሉያት, 19–20. 165 Anonymous, መጻሕፍተ ብሉያት, 19. See also the slightly different translation given by Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical, 217). 166 Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical, 219. 167 ICE13. 168 ICE13. 169 ICE10. 170 See, for example, G. Megerssa, “The Role of Religion in Violence against Women”, in Reflections, Documentation of the Forum on Gender, Panos and HBF, eds., No. 7, 2002. 171 Mekarios et al., The Ethiopian, 36. 172 Egziabher, “Divine Plan”. 173 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 46. 174 Cherinet, Women, 272–273. 175 Cherinet, Women, 273. 176 “Doctrine of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church”, www.dskmariam. org/artsandlitreature/litreature/pdf/doctorinoftheethiopianorthodoxchurch.pdf. 177 A. ZeEyessus, “Questions and Answers Concerning the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahido Church (EOTC)”, Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church Sunday School Department­-​­Mahibere Kidusan, 2009, www.eotcmk.org/site­-​­en/index. php?option=com_content&task=view&id=63&Itemid=37. 178 Mandelfro, Order, 1. 179 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 130. 180 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 171. 181 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 171. 182 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 172. 183 “Doctrine of the Ethiopian”. 184 M. T. Kebede, P. K. Hilden and A.­-​­L. Middelthon, “Negotiated Silence: The Management of The Self as a Moral Subject in Young Ethiopian Women’s Discourse about Sexuality”, Sex Education: Sexuality, Society and Learning 14, no. 6(2014): 669. 185 From the verb kälälä (ከለለ). See Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 142. 186 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 142. 187 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 142. 188 ICE13. 189 Kane, Amharic­-​­English, 605. 190 D. Buxton, The Abyssinians (London: Thames and Hudson, 1970), 71; H.  Pankhurst, Gender, Development and Identity: An Ethiopian Study (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1992), 11; Isaac, The Ethiopian, 58. 191 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 172. 192 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 85. 193 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 143. 194 Merahi, The Order, 46–47.

The church and the conjugal relationship   125 195 Jones and Monroe, The History, 52. 196 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 140. 197 Anonymous, መጽሐፍ ክስርትና, 75. 198 EOTC, “The Sacrament of Matrimony”. 199 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 130. 200 Merahi, The Order, 21. 201 EOTC, “The Sacrament of Matrimony”. 202 The Coptic Church, “Sacrament of Matrimony”, www.copticchurch.net/ topics/thecopticchurch/sacraments/6_matrimony.html. 203 J. Chrysostom, De Virginitate, Paragraph 19, http://khazarzar.skeptik.net/pgm/ PG_Migne/John%20Chrysostom_PG%2047­-​­64/. 204 ICE11. 205 “Doctrine of the Ethiopian”, 11. 206 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 148. 207 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 148. 208 Matthew, Notes, 57. 209 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 143. 210 Anonymous, The Ethiopic Didascalia, 4–5. 211 Merahi, The Order, 4. 212 R. Eves, “Resisting Global AIDS Knowledges: Born­-​­Again Christian Narratives of the Epidemic from Papua New Guinea”, Medical Anthropology: Cross­-​ ­Cultural Studies in Health and Illness 31, no. 1(2012): 61–76. 213 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 174. 214 Anonymous, The Ethiopic Didascalia, 4–5. 215 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 80. 216 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 148. 217 Mandefro, Order, 6–7. 218 ICE13. 219 ICE10. 220 Isaac, The Ethiopian, 172. 221 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 146–147. 222 Egziabher, “Divine Plan”. 223 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 149. 224 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 149. 225 Anonymous, The Fәtha Nägäśt, 149. 226 Cherinet, Women, 66. 227 Egziabher, “Divine Plan”.

5 Conjugal abuse conceptualisations and attitudes

Within the domestic violence scholarship from Ethiopia intimate partner violence has been described in physical, psychological, sexual, emotional and economic terms. These are typically suggested by the researchers, and when research participants refer to intimate partner violence, it is not made clear what terminologies they originally used. The more exceptional study by Tagbar Yigzaw and colleagues explored their research participants’ own conceptualisations and found both variability in opinions and a grey area in people’s understandings of abusive behaviour, evidencing the limitations of generic definitions and classifications.1 Still as per convention in the Anglophone field, the authors did not present the original terminology used by the participants in the respective local languages. I propose that it is imperative to make linguistic analysis more central and transparent in research not only because terminology is crucial in the process of ‘cosmological translation’ but also because translation always entails a degree of subjective judgement that ought to be rendered visible. To embody these principles and to achieve a more exploratory and transparent study, I made a committed attempt in this study to investigate my interlocutors’ understandings without assuming or suggesting a definition or typology for conjugal abuse. I only specified that I was interested in abusiveness affecting the conjugal relationship, which incorporated also ‘irregular unions’ – unions that were not officiated in the church, culturally or legally, but which were publicly known. The aim of this approach was to explore the extent to which conjugal abuse was identified as an issue in the first place and how prepared local people were to speak about different forms of abuse. Simultaneously, I was concerned to introduce the topic in ways that did not cause stress or discomfort to my interlocutors in view of the possibility that any of them could be experiencing some form of abuse or could be acting abusively with their intimate partners, which I could not know a priori given the ethnographic context I was in. Subsequently, I invited my interlocutors to speak about marriage problems in the local society more generally (nay ḥadar șägämat; ናይ ሓዳር ጸገማት), on the basis of which I then explored more personal conceptualisations of conjugal abuse where participants were willing to have this conversation. This interviewing

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   127 approach was effective in introducing interlocutors to the topic gradually, minimising the risk of triggering defensiveness on behalf of possible perpetrators or anxiety or trauma in possible victims. Due to the gradual approach I took in my interviews, my interlocutors did not isolate the discussion of conjugal abuse from problems that affected the conjugal relationship, or they spoke directly of conjugal problems without clarifying if they considered these within their definition of abuse. Choosing a proper lexicon to make further enquiries was hindered not only by my unfamiliarity with existing local terminologies for conjugal abuse (since discovering this was one of the objectives of my investigation), but also by what emerged as a fluid discursive repertoire emanating from the fact that my interlocutors did not share a typology or an all­-encompassing ​­ definition. As would be expected in any other context of the world, my interlocutors’ understandings were highly subjective and informed primarily by their life experiences or experiences of neighbours and friends. The query was additionally challenged by communicational parameters due to the sensitivity of the topic, local politics of communication, and my foreignness, which cumulatively made research participants especially cautious with their responses. In view of these challenges, any compilation of conceptualisations, rationalisations and attitudes regarding conjugal abuse provided in this chapter can only be received as a modest and imperfect attempt. While I use the term ‘conjugal abuse’ as an umbrella term in multiple places in this book, I have avoided it in direct quotations unless research participants used it in their responses to me. The overall analysis of the chapter demonstrates the importance of paying attention to linguistic choices and begins to evidence why individual conceptualisations, including silence around certain forms of conjugal abuse, are important to pay attention to for making a better sense of attitudes about it.

Researching conjugal abuse without a predefined terminology The gradual and exploratory interviewing approach that I employed in the field was generally effective in motivating interlocutors to speak about both positive and negative aspects of married life. In the context of these discussions, my interlocutors did not generally use abstract or theoretical conceptualisations for abuse, but multiple context­ -​­ specific terms for hitting/­ striking, hurting, the beating stick, arguing, fighting, misbehaving, or other. One popular term that seemed to be more encompassing and not limited to physical or verbal/emotional abuse was the Tigrigna verb ‘to hurt’ or ‘to offend/do wrong’ (bädälä; በደለ). The term bätәri (በትሪ), for the beating stick, was used symbolically by female interlocutors to represent physical abuse. Male interlocutors tended to invoke the heavier stick or staff (dula; ዱላ). If I referred to either bätәri or dula, my interlocutors understood immediately

128  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes that the question concerned physical abuse. However, asking the question this narrowly, limited the attention to physical abuse only, while the aim of the study was to explore how interlocutors conceptualised abuse more generally. Moreover, in the cases where research participants mentioned some forms of problematic behaviour in marriage, I needed to establish if they considered these to be abusive and more generally how they conceptualised conjugal abuse, which necessitated a more comprehensive term. For the purpose of asking, I tested first the dictionary term for ‘abuse’ or ‘assault’ (Tigr.: ṭәqә’at (ጥቕዓት); Amh.: ṭәqat ጥቃት).2 Consultations with a Tigrayan linguist suggested that ṭәqә’at had existed in the local vocabulary but that the meaning of ‘abuse’ was reintroduced from Amharic, causing alterations to the conventional definition in Tigrigna.3 The word was often used by interlocutors preceded by adjectives such as ‘physical’ (’akalawi; አካላዊ) or ‘sexual’ (naywäsib; ናይ ወሲብ) to denote different types of abuse. While many of my interlocutors gave direct answers and seemed to understand it as any form of harmful situation that was salient in their minds, some were more perplexed, and there were a few times when my interlocutors did not seem to understand the question at all. Subsequently, I used multiple ways to ask the same question to ensure that the enquiry was not limited by the usage of a single terminology. Asking my interlocutors how they understood conjugal abuse or inviting them to explain how they defined an unhealthy/ healthy relationship or harmful/beneficial married life proved to be generally effective. Another format was to ask how they defined harmful situations or behavioural patterns in marriage.4 This was not without challenges for both linguistic and analytical reasons. In the early days of research the difficulty was overwhelmingly linguistic, since I could not pronounce ṭәqә’at in the authentic Tigrayan way, being challenged by palatalised consonants and variants. For example, my pronunciation of the ‘qa’（ቓ）as ‘qa’（ቃ）altered the sound of the word slightly, seemingly making it unintelligible to some people. In such cases I needed to paraphrase creatively, asking more general questions about problems in married life in society, reasons behind them and aetiologies that my interlocutors could give for them. The versatility of the Tigrigna language created additional challenges. Some of the terms used referred to easily identifiable actions, situations or human behaviour, but other terminological choices were more versatile or ambiguous. Particularly prevalent was the verb ‘to disturb’ or ‘to upset’ (räbbäšä; ረበሸ), which was deployed ubiquitously, at times with a humorous connotation to suggest that someone was naughty or annoying, or more solemnly to suggest that a person was troublesome or even aggressive. Interlocutors used it when they spoke about drunken men picking fights with other men, a husband’s difficult behaviour with a wife, youngsters’ harassment of tourists, a child’s disobedience or naughtiness, or other situations. A similarly versatile term was sәdәnät (ስድነት), which pertains to misbehaviour or vulgarity. Again, interlocutors could use it across numerous contexts, including the conjugal

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   129 relationship. The versatility of this and other terms meant that it was not always possible to pin down with certitude an equivalent English translation and that it was not made immediately evident if interlocutors considered the situations they referred to as abusive. Analytical challenges furthermore interfered with the exploration of local conceptualisations of conjugal abuse. Most of the rural residents I interacted with did not generally speak about conjugal abuse in abstract or theoretical ways, but exposed their perceptions and rationalisations contextually by reference to real­-​­life situations. Many of my interlocutors spoke of problematic behaviour, situations or contexts in the generic third person or through the stories of unnamed friends. Sometimes they used the first person to speak hypothetically, such as in the expression “if I, for example  …”. More direct declarations of conjugal abuse were made by some battered women whom I met in the field. However, in the local close society where people guarded all private information very carefully, even these open declarations could be questioned for their unusual veracity. Regardless of the causes, my interlocutors’ cautious strategies to communicate their views presented the study with important challenges. Moreover, the contextual examples that were described to me needed to be organised somehow without losing the nuances. The most formidable limitation to the investigation of local understandings of abuse, however, was the fact that very few interlocutors referred to sexual abuse, which had been extensively reported for Ethiopia, including Tigray.5 On the basis of the literature review that suggested women were ashamed to discuss this openly, I made an effort to explore my interlocutors’ views on conjugal sex and sexuality more generally where it was appropriate to ask. On some occasions, I managed to ask my interlocutors if they thought it was right and acceptable for a husband to pressure his wife to have sex with him when she did not wish to. Virtually all respondents said that this was not right and some agreed that it was indeed a form of abuse if I asked them directly. This demonstrated not only that the way in which the question was asked mattered and probably incited my interlocutors’ admissions, but also that volunteered definitions or examples of conjugal abuse should not be treated as comprehensive.

Data on conjugal abuse Data on conjugal abuse was first sought at the Women’s Affairs office in Aksum city and the social courts located in the city of Aksum and the countryside. These conversations revealed that there was no systematised recording system for the category of ‘conjugal abuse’. This was true both for the village courts, which have inherent power to adjudicate family matters, and the Appeals Court in Aksum city that was responsible for the countryside and resolved cases appealed at the local social courts. In general, when physical abuse within the conjugal relationship was reported,

130  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes this was effected under the category of physical assault and was treated under the criminal code. Staff at the Women’s Affairs Office were also able to point me only to a survey that had been compiled for the last six months of 2016 for the La’әlay May Č̣äw wäräda, which examined also women’s issues and institutions they resorted to approaching.6 In this, I saw no reference to conjugal abuse per se, but I read that when women faced “abuses”, they did not generally know the state laws, and when they did, they did not know how to take advantage of them.7 Examining records on conjugal matters brought to the Appeals Court in Aksum evidenced that virtually all the cases that local staff had registered regarding the conjugal relationship referred to child custody, child maintenance and property division issues at the time of divorce, which emerged as being extensive in the local society. A list of marriage­-​­related cases for the year 2015–2016 showed that there had been 45 appealed cases of this nature. Table 5.1 indicates the type and number of cases that originated in each of the 16 rural administrative units. A staff member at the Appeals Court headquarters in Aksum mentioned also that in the same year five criminal cases had been appealed, which included three rape cases by strangers, one case of conjugal murder and one case of infant abuse. The criminal cases in that year had included no physical assault. This led the Appeals Court worker to observe that conjugal Table 5.1 All marriage­-​­related cases appealed to the Appeals Court of the La’әlay May Č̣äw wäräda, 2015–2016 No.

Name of village or tabәya (ጣብያ)

 1.  2.  3.

Dura (ዱራ) Däbräqal (ደብረቃል) Mahәbärä Sälam (ማህበረ ሰላም) Adi Ś ̣әḥafi (አዲ ፅሓፊ) May Wäyәni (ማይ ወይኒ) Miḥa (ሚሓ) Haś ̣ibo (ሓፂቦ) Läsalәso (ለሳልሶ) Wäläl (ወለል) Däbrä Bәrhan (ደብረ ብርሃን) ’Әdaga ’Arbi (ዕዳጋ ዓርቢ) Kätäma Dego (ከተማ ዴጎ) ’Awulä’o (ኣዉለዖ) Säglamen (ሰግላሜን) Natka Bla’ә (ናትካ ብላዕ) Mädägo (መደጎ)

 4.  5.  6.  7.  8.  9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. Total

Number of Number of maintenance property division cases cases

Number of child custody cases

0 3 2

0 1 3

0 0 0

5 1 0 1 2 1 1 0 2 2 0 0 4 24

1 2 0 1 3 2 2 0 4 0 0 0 1 20

0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   131 abuse, including physical assault, was most probably not reported or addressed through the court system. It could also be that these cases were resolved by the village courts through social pressure and never made it to appeal. According to the Appeals Court worker, who wanted to remain anonymous, “[i]t is possible to conclude that most cases of conjugal violence are unreported, being silenced by the community or its culture”. The reports of the local social court officers seemed to confirm this. In one of the village communities where research was conducted, for the six months between 30 July 2016 and 30 January 2017, a court worker reported that 153 new cases had been registered and 15 were crimes. The officer also reported that there were in the community about 85 women who had been abandoned by men, many of them being non­-​­local soldiers, and that many had had children whom they could not provide for. Consequently, about 55 cases were child maintenance disputes. In the other village community, for the six­-​­month period 22 August 2016 to 7 February 2017, the court worker noted 600 cases of which 50 were crimes. Of the full number of cases 30 were cases of child maintenance. Again, no specific statistics were kept about conjugal abuse, which seemed to reinforce the general view that conjugal abuse of less than a criminal nature was either unreported or reported as a different conjugal problem at the time of divorce. It is also notable that while court workers registered cases in notebooks, the reports provided above were compiled in situ by the local officers. During the stay at the villages (February–July 2017), I encountered and interviewed, some multiple times, five self­-​­reported female victims of physical violence, and, in addition, enquired about at least two crimes of a conjugal nature known to have occurred prior to my fieldwork or while I was in the field. One was the murder of a wife by her husband and another was an attempted murder by a couple who together tried to kill the ex­-​­husband of the woman. These cases had gone to court and the perpetrators had been on trial or were waiting to hear sentence. The conjugal murder in the one­-year ​­ period that was provided by the Appeals Court worker referred to one of these two crimes. The second crime had occurred recently, falling outside of the time period for which data were provided. At one occasion, I also encountered an elderly woman who had come to the police station of the village administrative centre where I resided to report her husband for assault. The woman had walked about two hours to seek help. She had previously been to the police unit and the local hospital again, following the use of violence by her husband, at which time the man had been in custody for 24 hours. After letting her tell me her story, which she seemed eager to do, I took the woman to the police officer to file a report. As she took her seat, I discreetly asked the police officer what could be done to help her. His brief comment prior to me leaving the scene was that many women reported such cases, but very few times was it proven that there was conjugal abuse. This seemed to confirm the perception that

132  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes women’s reports were written down under different conjugal problems, with no proper follow­-​­up actions always being taken to end the abuse.

Participants’ discourses of harmful conjugal behaviour and situations In my interlocutors’ discourses of marriage problems, not all situations were identified as tәqә’at, while some were explicitly described as such. The reasons for marriage problems and extensive divorces that were reported match generally those identified in the available scholarship and include poverty and material stresses, failure to procreate, family interference, spousal incompatibilities, changes in gender dynamics, and pernicious husband behaviour, such as drinking, committing adultery and long absence from home.8 The situations or behavioural patterns that participants did discuss as explicitly abusive were not disconnected from these wider problems and stresses that affected the conjugal relationship in the local society. Situational or interactional abuse Much of the abuse that my interlocutors referred to emanated from the dynamics of the conjugal relationship: ‘argument’ or ‘quarrel’ [Amh.: č ̣әqәč ̣č ̣әq (ጭቅጭቅ)], ‘disagreement’ or ‘lack of understanding’ [Tigr.: zäymәsmәma’ (ዘይምስምማዕ); Amh.: ’alämäsmamat (አለመስማማት)], and ‘to hurt’ or ‘to offend’ [Tigr.: bädälä] were frequently invoked to describe what could be grouped as situational or interactional abuse. Moreover, echoing family studies scholars in North America, many of my interlocutors described conjugal abuse as incremental and in some cases mutual, albeit with different implications for men and women. For instance, one female interlocutor answered that “abuse means problems” and one male respondent stated: “Abuse for me is when there is no peace, no love and lots of argument in a marriage.” The large majority described situations in which arguments emerged and led to different degrees of abuse, as highlighted in Table 5.2. These responses evidence a general pattern in people’s discourses whereby conjugal abuse was identified with harmful situations or behaviour that could reach different degrees of harmfulness to result even in physical assault, usually by the husband against his wife. The various situations described followed gender lines, with primary catalysts being men’s failure to act as breadwinners, men’s drinking habits and spending money on alcohol, or men being critical and cantankerous with their wives when they returned home inebriated. Arguments were usually amplified by a widely reported shortage of money and poverty, as highlighted in this woman’s comment: “When there is shortage of money, argument surfaces.” Another female interlocutor explained: “It’s argument. Poverty, shortage of money;

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   133 Table 5.2  Conceptualisations of conjugal abuse expressed by the laity in Aksum This (abuse) means […] eh, simply quarrelling, conflict, when he drinks, or fast quarrelling. People are different in their behaviour. When a man comes from his work, when he is pleasant she becomes happy. Even [regarding] cooking the food. He can say [to his wife]: “You will do this in a few minutes, now take a seat. Take some water.” She then becomes happy. This is a good relationship, healthy. But bad relationship is when the man comes from the work, when she says something and she quarrels by simple manner, for no reason, and he gets a temper. He may even beat her. –Male, married, 30s They are arguing inside their marriage. Because there is no agreement within their married life they always argue. If there is hitting, they may divorce and things improve. The reason for this is that the wife when her husband returns drunk interrogates him: “Why did you drink until now? Why did you waste money?” She talks to him like this. So he replies to her by asking: “Why do you speak to me like this?” Then he may even hit her. This is violence against the wife. For this reason, he begins arguments with her. –Female, married, 30s When the husband returns from wherever he’s been, the wife asks him where he was because she wants to make sure he didn’t come empty­-​­handed and he is the provider of the house. And when he comes empty­-​­handed, they might argue and he might get angry and hit her. This is called abuse. –Female, separated, 40s Abuse is not allowed, but due to poverty, abuse can emerge. Additionally, if there is incompatibility of characters, that is to say, if she says something argumentative/ confrontational, [abuse] is also possible. Some people drink a lot and can hit; for this reason this results in abuse. –Female, widowed, 30 years old [T]here are some men who argue with their woman when they come home. In this time, there may be even physical or psychological assault. –Male, married, 30s Abuse means if it is serious it results in physical injury. If he makes it difficult for me to run the house (if he does not provide as a breadwinner), it is abuse. Argument is abuse. –Female interlocutor, married, 30s The kind of abuse that exists in this society is mainly money shortage that interferes with women’s cooking/running the house. For example, around here the young men spend the day in downtown city drinking ṭäla (traditional beer), beer and other alcohol and at night when they return drunk they tell to their wives: “Why didn’t you cook food? Why did you not serve me food?” It leads to argument; there is also hitting. So, this is abuse. So, when she tells him: “Give me money” (for groceries), he says: “What money do I have?” This is abuse. –Female, married, 30 years old

if you [masculine pronoun] work and the money you earned isn’t spent in and for your home, argument will arise.” Yet another woman stated: “We just argue because of money. There are some spouses who argue in everything.” Male interlocutors cited similar pretexts for arguments, with one asserting: “We have no other reasons to argue. When there is shortage of money, this creates argument. So, there is no other reason for argument.” An example was given by another male interlocutor:

134  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes After the working day he receives his monthly salary and then he goes and drinks and to women. Then the wife asks for money for food, but he has spent it. Where can he get it from? And then that leads to argument. These testimonies highlighted a widespread gender­-​­segregated organisation of marriage in the local rural society, with women being in charge of the home and men acting as breadwinners. While men were generally held responsible for their pernicious habits and behaviour, some abuse was traced to the women’s failure to respond appropriately to their husbands when the latter failed in their duties, were drunk, or were being especially cantankerous. Many interlocutors reasoned that if the wife avoided confrontation and remained silent, conflict could be avoided. Conversely, if the wife retorted with antagonism or criticised her husband, she was acting insensibly since she would further stimulate her husband’s anger. A male interlocutor reasoned that while both spouses needed to show patience, the wife had more responsibility since she was the one who usually had to respond to a drunken or angry husband and whose wellbeing was threatened the most. Similar views were held by women, as exemplified in this comment by a female interlocutor: Violence/abuse in a marriage is the husband and wife’s equal responsibility. Meaning, the husband works outside the whole day and when he comes back and says something to his wife and if she doesn’t respond to him with kind and good words, he gets angry and hits her. This is violence; because a husband should be handled well; because one day the husband might come home drunk and she should let it go (OR let it be). My husband doesn’t argue, but he leaves without any argument. If it’s like this, then it’s called good leadership. And equality means you (the woman) should not hurt your husband and your husband should not hurt you. Like many other interlocutors, this woman considered that a wife needed to be cautious in her dealings with her husband. It could be that one day her husband returned drunk and if she replied with anger or hostility, he might not have the self­-​­constraint to stop himself from hurting her. It was the responsibility of the wife to avoid these situations, which she could do by speaking in a soft voice and responding in good will to his negative comments and unstable emotional states, such as when he was drunk or overly stressed. Some interlocutors thought that the extensive marital conflict they described was fostered by a lack of deeper understanding, emotional attachment or healthy communication between the intimate partners. A female village resident asserted that in many marriages husbands and wives tended to argue because they did not think carefully before they spoke and did not

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   135 try to understand their partner’s point of view. Some related this directly to lack of love or emotional intimacy; for example, one man said to me: “In the marriage there are problems not explained, because as I told you, there is no love. If there is love, you can understand [each other].” A female interlocutor also commented: “Lack of communication, [not] helping each other, [not] helping each other. [It is] not financial. It is selfishness.” Others emphasised behavioural or personality incompatibilities between the spouses, like this man: “Even if husband and wife love each other, bad behaviour always makes them to separate/divorce. The problem is variation in behaviour.” In other words, love was not enough if the behaviour of the spouses was such that it did not meet local expectations about spousal behaviour. A female interlocutor also affirmed: The problems are because of personality deficiencies (nay bahrәyat godälotat; ናይ ባህርያት ጎደሎታት) and the bad mentality of the husband. For the man, if you are a little angry with your wife you go to another wife. The wife because of a little anger she divorces him. It is just frustration because of small things. People do not have toleration (OR endurance), but this is essential (in marriage). If you can have that, it is possible to live together. Some of these pretexts were traced to more profound individual behavioural deficiencies or a problematic ‘personality’ or ‘character’ [Tigr.: bahri (ባህሪ); Amh.: bahrәy (ባህርይ)], which was by far the most pervasive aetiology that interlocutors gave for conjugal abuse. The majority of the interlocutors’ statements about problematic personalities referred to men, but women could also be held liable for such characterological defects. Local people spoke of different degrees of a problematic character or bahri. Some spoke of ‘intense’ or ‘difficult’ men or women [Tigr.: ḥayal (ሓያል); Amh.: ḫayläňňa (ኃይለኛ)], such as when a wife described her husband as ḫayläňňa because he was a loud and demanding husband, but not physically aggressive. In a different case, an elderly woman was married to a very meek man and she was also described as ḫayläňňa by her neighbours. When I visited their home to invite her husband to an interview, she intervened to say that he had no time because he needed to work. The husband had agreed to hold the interview, but upon seeing his wife’s adamant refusal, he remained quiet. Sensing the conjugal dynamics, I thanked them for their time and left. Although I made subsequent attempts to return and to honour my agreement with the man, his wife stubbornly prevented me from seeing him. Very problematic men and women, usually men who were entirely neglectful of their wives or displayed serious vices, tended to be described as ‘bad’ [Tigr.: kәfu’ (ክፉእ); Amh.: mäṭfo (መጥፎ)]. Women who were adulterous with their husbands were also often described as kәfu’. So were women who failed to manage the household properly and constantly or ungratefully

136  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes complained about money or husband shortfalls, fomenting disharmony in married life. Men who were abusive in variable ways with their wives were often said to have a “problem of the head” or suffer from “empty­ -​ ­headedness/foolishness” [Tigr.: bado ḥangol (ባዶ ሓንጎል); Amh.: bado č ̣әnqәllat (ባዶ ጭንቅላት)]. Some interlocutors associated such empty­-​­headedness with an old ‘mentality’ or ‘attitude’ [Tigr.: ’atäḥasasba (አተሓሳስባ); Amh.: ’astäsasäb (አስተሳሰብ)] that was believed to be sustaining some men’s demeaning behaviour with women and their subsequent abusiveness. Gender­-​­related asymmetries Numerous interlocutors chose to speak of women’s maltreatment or suppression, placing emphasis on gender asymmetries. After providing a multifarious definition, a female interlocutor added: “Early marriage is also abuse.” Another woman explained: “Abuse means that she was not educated and as a result she would be disrespected, she would not be able to work (a paid job), these are the reasons. It is called suppression (ś ̣äqṭi zbahal; ፀቅጢ ዝባሃል).” Other male and female interlocutors identified abuse as a situation in which the wife worked and the husband did not, or in which the wife was overworked, for example this wife: “My abuse is that I work until exhaustion. It is about work, we have no other problems.” A male respondent also brought up the issue, remarking: “Abuse means to watch her getting tired; watch her work hard. The woman is exhausted. A woman does not have the ability that a man has.” A husband, who was not native to Tigray but had been married to a Tigrayan woman for many years, was particularly critical of the fact that Tigrayan women worked both in the home and supported husbands in the farm: “Here […] the male waits until his wife finishes her job and when she finishes, together they go out to the field. Then, when they return, the woman has to work in the house and the husband sits.” Citing Church teachings, he explained that within the conjugal relationship husband and wife must love and support each other, sharing their ‘tiredness’. In addition to an unfair division of labour in married life, some interlocutors referred to other wrongdoings with gender­-​­specific implications. One female interlocutor said: “After having six children together, he left me for another woman. This certainly is abuse.” Her statements echoed many other women’s narratives, who spoke of husbands abandoning wives suddenly and failing to support them with child maintenance afterwards. One woman observed how helpless the woman could become if she was abandoned and how this could then result in other forms of harm or disadvantage: If a woman faces a disaster (e.g. if the husband leaves), she could get hurt easily because she has kids so she might face problems, because

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   137 she can’t work on her own and provide. Even if she worked, she could provide for today but not for the future. Her child might get sick and if she doesn’t have money to pay the hospital that is also abuse. This comment should be understood in view of the local gender­-segregated ​­ organisation of life where only the husband earned a living. Such a rigid division meant that women had no consistent financial resources or a paid job to fall back on when the breadwinner left, although the majority of the women still relied on craft­-​­making or petty trading to support themselves and their children. Most gendered forms of violence were again associated with the ‘bad’ mentality that was mentioned earlier. Some interlocutors associated these mentalities with the ‘past’ or the ‘old’ days, which they believed persisted among some men, as highlighted in one female interlocutor’s comment: “It is a problem of thinking/mentality. Some men are aware of the problem of abuse but they continue to abuse their wives. The [men] do it deliberately (they want to humiliate/to undermine the wives).” This explains why many attributed gender asymmetries to men being ‘selfish’ [Tigr.: sәsu‘ (ስሱዕ)]. Others used the Amharic phrasing ‘of their stomach’ [yä hodaččäw (የሆዳቸዉ)] to refer to those who only thought of their own desires and interests, ignoring their spouse’s needs and wellbeing. Physical violence Hitting and beating were prominent forms of abuse in local discourses. Usually interlocutors spoke of physical assault together with issues of poverty and conjugal argument to denote that this abuse resulted from the interaction of the intimate partners and other stresses of marriage. A female interlocutor commented: “Abuse means to argue, to hit in marriage.” Another woman said: “Abuse means economic shortage and physical abuse.” The prevalent form that interlocutors spoke about was ‘hitting’ or ‘striking’ [Tigr.: mwuqa’ (ምዉቃዕ); Amh.: mämṭat (መምታት)]. Both female and male interlocutors also referred to the beating stick, as in the case of this man who observed: “Women make food and coffee. Men work outside. He doesn’t help. She asks him for money and he does not provide. Conflict, misunderstanding and quarrelling follow; and even dula (hitting) follows.” The common perception was that physical abuse of wives by husbands had been widespread in the past, but had now diminished as a result of government legislation promoting gender equality and domestic violence awareness programmes, as captured in the comment of this woman: “It has changed. Nowadays, it has changed, there is no hitting. Wife and husband do not hit. It has changed, they do not hit. Nowadays, they are equal, everyone.” An elderly woman also affirmed: “Nowadays, it is not allowed. Before, it existed. There was beating and she still would not leave the

138  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes house. Nowadays, however, there isn’t. It is not allowed. Today, it is good times.” A male interlocutor in turn, affirmed: Before, those who hit were people who had not been to school. Both spouses are getting schooling now. People in old times who had this problem were without education. In our times, there is equality. So, the previous mentality has been disappearing. Now, if there is hitting, they divorce. The rather transitional nature of the situation was highlighted in a comment by a female interlocutor, who said: “There isn’t (physical abuse). But also, there is. They endure it. But mostly, there isn’t due to the current government.” A few interlocutors referred also to women’s share of abuse, such as this female interlocutor who remarked: “Men are not the only ones who abuse others. There are some women in the society who are a problem. They live without working, so inside their families there is never peace.” This referred to women failing in their gender­-​­specific works, just as some men failed in their breadwinning responsibilities. Another female interlocutor affirmed: “Abuse means hitting or physical violence. This exists in some couples. The problem could be with the man, or with the woman.” Numerous research participants opined that in the past women used to stifle their response and to remain silent when confronted with their husbands’ misbehaviour. However, in current times women were more likely to answer back with confidence and might not try to hide their hostility in an argument with their husband. One interlocutor took a step further and correlated this with increased levels of conjugal conflict: “Before the woman stayed quiet. But in our times we have equality. The woman rejects her husband’s thinking and her defiance strengthens/triggers more disagreement.” An elderly woman made an even more critical comment: But the young woman feels empowered and says “Do not hit us. The government guarantees our right.” And the men become angry. Nowadays, the men are the ones who are insulted. The wife insults the husband and the husband is humiliated and cold. Now the bad behaviour lies with the women. Wherever they go people tell them “What kind of thick­-​­skinned/hard­-​­hearted women are you?” Nowadays it is us, the women, who do not obey. We say it is our night and we spend the night outside. Nowadays some men are shamed [by women]. When she gets in, nobody will hit her. She brings a husband by her own decision, no one can say anything because the law protects her rights. The bad behaviour rests with us, the women. You see a lot of bad things from women; they do not respect themselves and they just do their hair, they go wherever they want to go. But the husband today is the one who is the victim. […] But, now they even hit the men.

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   139 Such accounts were rare, but they illustrate the changing times creating additional stresses for the conjugal relationship. As will be discussed in the following chapter, the majority of my interlocutors were generally in favour of egalitarian and mutually respectful gender relations, but the persistence of traditional spousal expectations made such ideals hard to achieve in the current transitional times. Serious conjugal crimes In general, the harmful conjugal situations and behavioural patterns presented so far were considered intentional and could be rationalised or explained by all my interlocutors. On the contrary, conjugal crimes were considered tragic, accidental or unintended and hard to explain. At first instance, interlocutors tried to contextualise such crimes by referring to the specific circumstances in which these had occurred. An elderly man in the community where a husband had murdered his wife a year ago explained to me that the spouses had conflicted about whether she should attend a religious gathering. According to other people’s reports, the husband opposed her going, but she ignored him. When she returned from the gathering, he struck her fatally. The old man reasoned that this was an accident and that the husband “did not think that she would die”. On further questioning he added: “No, he was not drunk. It was in the morning. But, there had been an offense. It was family grudge (qim; ቂም). The family of the husband and the family of the wife had grudge.” In his narrative, the husband had not wanted his wife to attend a religious gathering on the side of her family, with whom he was at odds for some unstated reason. Her defiance had angered him, resulting in his extreme response. However, despite trying to contextualise properly these crimes, local people eventually turned to spiritual parameters to make some sense of what was generally understood to have been senseless or unreasonable behaviour. Many interlocutors conclusively stated that the assault must have been catalysed by satanic inducement. One elderly man knew the wife who had attempted to murder her former husband with the help of her new partner and said that he really could not explain what had happened. He reasoned that she and her ex­-​­husband had born nine children, five of whom were well­-​­educated and two were employed as government workers. He was truly perplexed as to why this happened since this was a better­-​­off and seemingly fulfilled family. He concluded that this must have been the work of Satan. While conjugal crimes tended to be seen as unintended and accidental, equally appalling non­-​­conjugal crimes were rationalised differently. During fieldwork, a non­-​­local soldier was murdered brutally and some body parts were amputated for no apparent reason. Conversations with residents at the nearest village a few days after the commission of the crime made clear that people understood such extent of violence to be inhumane, irrational

140  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes and catalysed by satanic influence as well. According to my interlocutors, he had been a friendly foreigner and had no grudges with locals. However, such gruesome crimes were seen as “crimes with purpose” (bä ’alama wänžäl; በዓላማ ወንጀል) which my interlocutors insisted were only a recent phenomenon in the city of Aksum and the surroundings and were taking new and extensive dimensions as a result of urbanisation and migration. Such murderous intentions were not generally attributed to fatal assaults that occurred in the conjugal relationship, which were seen as the outcome of momentarily uncontained negative sentiments amplified by satanic influence. Sexual coercion: a hardly­-​­ever discussed issue As the analysis so far suggests, my interlocutors did not generally speak of sexual forms of abuse. No female interlocutor admitted having experienced rape or sexual coercion in her marriage and only a couple of women named sexual coercion as abuse. One woman remarked: Abuse means problem, conflict, maladies and other such things; these are all called abuse. If the husband imposes on the woman to sleep with him without her consent, this is also abuse. But my husband did not give me such kind of difficulty because he does not go to another woman. Her comment implied that if men became involved with other women, this could facilitate/result in marital sexual abuse. A wife who knew that her husband went to other women would be afraid that he could give her sexually transmitted diseases and would probably refuse to lie with him, which could result in the man forcing her. The earlier woman’s reference to “maladies” would seem to condone this view. This might provide some context to the EDHS 2016 results, which found that 84 per cent of women in Tigray were more likely to believe that a woman is justified in refusing to have sexual intercourse with her husband if she knows he has sex with other women.9 As a strategy to make sense of the silence around sexual abuse, I explored how women thought about sex in marriage and issues of family planning. In these conversations, women did not feel shy to share details with me about their sex life, so I started to think that it was not shyness that hindered them for divulging also cases of sexual coercion. It soon became clear to me that the scantiness of references reflected the fact that a wife sleeping with her husband when he requested it was a deeply ingrained expectation in the local society, except for during women’s pregnancy, post­ -​­ partum or sickness and important fasts and religious celebrations. Hence, a local health worker confirmed that sexual matters/problems in the couple existed and could be extensive, calling it “sex whenever the man

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   141 wants it”. One day during my fieldwork, a female informant who worked at the local seed house announced to me that an old couple had just visited the administrative centre to resolve a marital issue. They were in a stalemate because the husband wanted to continue having sexual relationships with his wife, who refused. The wife was looking for the women’s association representative for advice. As per common practice, the issue would be resolved according to the customary understandings of the elders in the community. When I later interviewed the representative of the women’s association about this, she confirmed the case and added that by local standards the man was right to say that it was his wife’s problem and that there wasn’t much that the wife could do. Fieldwork observations evidenced that sexual issues in marriage were probably extensive and preoccupied the clergy also, although I could not establish whether the clergy were speaking from their own experience or had encountered such issues with their spiritual children. A conversation that I had with one priest during a trip between Aksum and the village of residence is illustrative. Seated in a crowded bus, the priest and I started to discuss together the Church’s understandings and teachings on marriage and conjugal life. After a while, he described to me the case of a man who had been married to his wife for many years, but she unexpectedly started to refuse her husband’s sexual advances. My interlocutor was genuinely perplexed about the wife’s sudden change of behaviour and wondered what a husband ought to do in such a situation according to religious teachings. I first suggested that perhaps the wife had become disinterested due to health­-​­related reasons, tiredness or old age, but the priest continued to have difficulty grappling with the idea of the husband being rejected since, as he reasoned, they had vowed to be “one body” and to separate nothing between them. I answered by pointing out that in the faith a man’s headship is predicated on his self­-​­sacrificial behaviour toward his wife, to whom he becomes a servant in marriage, concluding that an Orthodox husband can never coerce his wife whatever the reason may be. This framing of the conjugal relationship – attuned as it was more to the New Testament as discussed in Chapter 4  – appeared to surprise my interlocutor somehow, causing him to fall silent. In discussing the reasons behind sexual coercion in marriage, a male interlocutor attributed women’s refusal to engage in sexual intercourse to age difference with their husbands and early marriage. He explained that traditionally, many marriages had been arranged and that wife and husband tended to have significant age differences, echoing the testimonies of the TPLF fighters reviewed in Chapter 3.10 This was generally combined with a lack of communication between the spouses and expected timidity in the wife, resulting in her inability to effectively oppose her husband’s sexual advances or to express her own sexual needs. This observation echoes Annabel Erulkar’s aforementioned analysis of a population survey in seven regions of Ethiopia (2009–2010), which had found that forced sex was

142  Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes highly associated with early marriage and was probably mediated by a lack of communication between the spouses.11 Clearly, then, sexual matters were an issue in this community and could potentially result in some cases of sexual coercion. The different discussions, including the interaction with the priest, evidenced that local perceptions and standards about the conjugal relationship and spousal responsibilities could be interfering, and deterring people from thinking of the issue as a form of abuse. This could be amplified by women being overprotective of the privacy of their marriage, which reflected a closely connected society where everyone was vigilant of everyone’s affairs and feared being gossiped about. The discussions around conjugal abuse more than anything else raised the need for understanding better local marriage norms and spousal duties, including the role of the clergy in reinforcing or diversifying these expectations.

Local attitudes toward harmful conjugal situations and behaviour As part of the personal interviews, I asked my interlocutors if they considered the harmful contexts and behavioural patterns that they described to me to be right and if any was condoned in the local society. I also tried to ask about the specific situations mentioned in the EDHS questionnaire for more comparative insights.12 Similarly to the participants in the reviewed study by Kedir and Admasachew,13 my interlocutors affirmed over and over again that neither ‘faith’14 (haymanot; ሃይማኖት) nor ‘culture’ (bahәl/bahli; ባህል/ባህሊ) permitted abusiveness, a distinction that they themselves volunteered. One man responded by explaining: “Haymanot teaches good: to kill, to argue is not allowed. The woman is like a sister, like a mother. She must be loved and respected. Of all, the woman deserves the most (respect).” A younger male interlocutor said: “This is a very inappropriate act. Within haymanot, it means abusing oneself because the married couple is considered to be one (one body/flesh).” It is important to note that most of my interlocutors referred to physical violence, which was most prominent in their minds. As it was discussed, sexual abuse was not generally an issue per se. The narratives I heard suggested that there was a socio­-​­cultural expectation that couples should divorce if conflict persists and before things get out of hand. A woman remarked: “It (bahәl) doesn’t allow physical violence, because if you hate the other person, you just give him an answer and you let him/her go with respect, but you don’t physically hit [them].” Yet another female interlocutor opined: “It (abuse) is not right. The reason is [that] they should decide to divorce by agreement/consent.” A third woman said: “There is (abuse): fighting, arguments are created, if there is hitting and they become angry they may even kill their wives. So in order not to reach this stage, they divorce.” These testimonies echo also the canonical

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   143 stipulation in Fәtha Nägäśt that spouses should divorce when there is enmity in the couple,15 suggesting a possible religious influence. While the relatively small sample of this study cannot reveal the average attitudes of the population, the consistency in my interlocutors’ responses is important, on the basis of my having engaged with a diverse and heterogeneous population across multiple lines of difference. It is not unlikely that some local residents were especially conscious with their statements because they did not want to encourage negative or essentialist positions about their culture from outside. Additionally, psychological factors could have led some interlocutors to adapt their answers to make them more ‘correct’ according to what they thought I was expecting to hear. Still, in most cases, my interlocutors admitted problematic aspects with the local society and some divulged very personal negative experiences to me. They never, however, claimed that they approved of or justified conjugal abuse in any of the forms discussed, as would be apprehended by the EDHS results. Invariably, my research participants condemned the harmful conjugal situations that they described, but they felt that there were in the society others who were more likely to condone some forms of conjugal abuse. One woman observed: “It is not allowed/permitted. But, there are some who permit themselves to hit.” Another female interlocutor commented: “It is not allowed (by bahәl). By haymanot it is also not allowed. But, it is their mentality/thinking. It is not the result of the education they received at home/how they were raised at home.” As highlighted in these statements, my interlocutors did not generally make explicit linkages with culture­ -​ ­specific socialisation, but rather held the individuals involved responsible for the abusive behaviour. On the other hand, many affirmed a widespread norm among abused women to endure husband abuse and in these discourses my interlocutors were more likely to cite socio­-​­cultural influences as a contributing factor. One man commented, for example: “[Women] let it go (forgive the abuse) because of the cultural influence, and not because of haymanot.” The juxtaposition between faith and culture, which emerged as a key discourse in my interlocutors’ narratives, will be explored in subsequent chapters. However, such juxtapositions begin to reveal how deeply embedded vernacular life was in religious idiom, with the latter serving as the main point of reference for judgements around human behaviour. It also highlights an important trend among the local residents not to abstractly blame society or wider norms for abusiveness in the relationship, but to attribute motivations to the individual. Even the inactivity of abused women against the perpetrators of the abuse received, which was often described as a deeply ingrained norm perpetuated under socio­ -cultural ​­ pressures, was embedded in a host of other personal motivations, constraints and considerations that research participants brought up. Cumulatively, these patterns had important implications for local people’s responses to abusiveness and the likelihood of them mobilising against it at the societal level.

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Notes   1 T. Yigzaw, Y. Berhane, N. Deyessa, M. Kaba, “Perceptions and Attitude towards Violence against Women by their Spouses: A Qualitative Study in Northwest Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 24, no. 1(2010): 39–45. DOI: 10.4314/ejhd.v24i1.62943.  2 (Amh.) ṭәqat ጥቃት (n): ‘attack, aggression, assault, oppression; scorn, subjection; maltreatment’ [T. Kane, Amharic­-​­English Dictionary. Volume 1 (Otto Harrassowitz; Wiesbaden, 1990), 2128]. Related to the Ge’ez verb ṭaq’a ጠቅአ, which means to ‘  “be intrepid, be harsh, be ruthless” associated with the Ethiopic ṭäq’ә “oppress” and the Amharic täqqa “to strike, to attack” ’ [W. Leslau, Comparative Dictionary of Ge’ez (Classical Ethiopic) (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1991), 595].   3 The Tigrayan tutor that I worked with explained that in its more conventional usage ṭәqә’at has meant to ‘be on the offensive’, such as in the advance of soccer players in the field or in the army.   4 A table of the different formats of the question asked in Amharic and Tigrigna is provided in the Appendix.  5 A. Gessessew and M. Mesfin, “Rape and Related Health Problems in Adigrat Zonal Hospital, Tigray Region, Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 18, no. 3(2004): 140–144; T. Yigzaw, A. Yibric and Y. Kebede, “Domestic Violence around Gondar in Northwest Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 18, no. 3(2004): 133–139. DOI: 10.4314/ejhd.v18i3.9846; Yigzaw et al., “Perceptions and Attitude”; M. Allen and M. N. Raghallaigh, “Women’s Experiences of Gender­-​­based Violence in Tigray, Ethiopia”, Summary Report, UCD School of Applied Social Science, 2012; M. Allen and M. N. Raghallaigh, “Domestic Violence in a Developing Context: The Perspectives of Women in Northern Ethiopia”, Journal of Women and Social Work 28, no. 3(2013): 256–272; A. Erulkar, “Early Marriage, Marital Relations and Intimate Partner Violence in Ethiopia”, International Perspectives on Sexual and Reproductive Health 39, no.  1(2013): 6–13. DOI: 10.1363/390061; A. Semahegn and B. Mengistie, “Domestic Violence against Women and Associated Factors in Ethiopia. Systematic Review”, Reproductive Health 12, no. 78(2015). DOI: 10.1186/s12978­-​­015­-​­0072­-​­1; Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia and the DHS Program ICF, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2016”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA, 305.  6 Laelay Maychew Wereda Women’s Affairs Office, ብዛዕባ ናይ 6ተ ወርሒ (2Y ርብዒ ›መት) ሪፓርት ምልኣክ ይምልከት። ኣክሱም፣ ትግራይ [Six­-​­month Report to the Government of Tigray], Aksum, Tigray, 2008 EC.   7 Laelay Maychew Wereda Women’s Affairs Office, ብዛዕባ ናይ.   8 R. Giel and J. N. Luijk, “Patterns of Marriage in a Roadside Town in South– western Ethiopia”, Journal of Ethiopian Studies 6, no. 2(1968): 61–69; A. Pankhurst, Resettlement and Famine in Ethiopia (Manchester, New York: Manchester University Press, 1992); H. Pankhurst, Gender, Development and Identity: An Ethiopian Study (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1992); D. Tilson and U. Larsen, “Divorce in Ethiopia: The Impact of Early Marriage and Childlessness”, Journal of Biosocial Science 32, no. 3(2000): 355–372. DOI:10.1017/s0021932000003552.   9 CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”, 264. 10 J. Hammond, Sweeter than Honey: Testimonies of Tigrayan Women (Oxford, London and Newcastle: Third World First, 1989). 11 Erulkar, “Early Marriage”. 12 It was not possible to identify how this was framed in Tigrigna or Amharic originally. 13 A. Kedir and L. Admasachew, “Violence against Women in Ethiopia”, Gender, Place and Culture 17, no. 4(2010): 443, doi.org/10.1080/0966369X.2010.485832.

Conjugal abuse concepts and attitudes   145 14 In general, throughout the thesis I use the adjective ‘religious’ and the noun ‘faith’. While in English, faith tends to pertain to more personal belief, in the context of this research the term captures all the analytical levels implied in the original term haymanot (see Chapter 8). Due to this incommensurability in translation, I have tried to preserve the original terminology as much as possible. 15 Anonymous, trans. P. Tzadua, The Fәtha Nägäśt (Laws of the Kings), edited by P. L. Strauss (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia: Central Printing Press, 1968), 149.

Marriage in the local normative 6  framework

Local descriptions of abusive conjugal behaviour or situations invoked arrangements and normative expectations around marriage and the conjugal relationship, such as the norm for the husband to act as breadwinner and for the wife to respond to her husband’s sexual needs at all reasonable times. Various interlocutors spoke of the persistence of an ‘old’ mentality that fostered abusive behaviour among some men toward their wives, with some interlocutors tracing this to cultural influences, although the deeper motivations of abusiveness were attributed almost invariably to the individual. On the other hand, a few interlocutors spoke about women’s improved liberties, suggesting that these could amplify conjugal tensions in recent times. To develop a more nuanced understanding of how gender dynamics and marriage norms have underpinned abusive patterns or situations in the conjugal relationship, I undertook to analyse marriage in the local society through my interlocutors’ discourses and direct engagement with local lifestyle. The overall fieldwork experience provided rich information to contextualise the forms and situations of abuse that were described in Chapter 5 within society­-​­wide relations and norms, adding also important nuances to the gender­-​­sensitive studies from Ethiopia that were reviewed in Chapter 3.1 As it was affirmed for other Ethiopian Orthodox societies, life in the villages surrounding Aksum has been gender­-​­segregated on the basis of perceived normative gender roles. Local rigidity around these norms in combination with some pernicious mentalities could foster the exploitation or disadvantage of wives or female romantic partners. However, the study also found a plurality of attitudes around marriage, many of which contradicted visible gender asymmetries and more harmful mentalities, including religio­-​­cultural values that emphasised mutual help between spouses and encouraged sharing the daily work. In parallel, as it has been noted for other ­African societies, gender relations were embedded in a more fundamental age hierarchy and kinship system, which influenced spousal relations, as well as enabling the interference of parents and elders in the affairs of the couple. The overall analysis enforces depictions of a rigidly hierarchical arrangement in marriage in the past and important progressions since the liberation

Marriage in the local normative framework   147 struggle toward more equalised dynamics between men and women within married life. However, it also reveals that age and other factors influenced husband­-​­wife relations significantly, which could contribute to disadvantaging young wives. However, neither were the ‘old’ arrangements necessarily experienced by all women as oppressive or harmful, nor were the ‘new’ or ‘modern’ norms necessarily without side effects and more problematic consequences, begetting the need for a more nuanced analytical framework. In fact, as a result of developments and changes in relation to gender norms in recent decades, some relationships might have experienced additional pressure, possibly manifesting as conflict or higher risks for women.

Terminological considerations Marriage and gender norms were explored through various means, including during life­-​­based interviews and participatory workshops. In Tigrigna, the word typically used for ‘marriage’ was märә’a [መርዓ; Amh.: gabәč ̣a; ጋብቻ], which referred both to marriage in general and the actual wedding. I initially selected this term in my local enquiries because it did not appear to place emphasis on any particular form of marriage (e.g. church marriage). Gradually, I enhanced this in response to research participants’ own lexicon. For example, interlocutors often used the term särg (ሰርግ) to describe the ‘nuptial feast’, referring to “the form of wedding” as Helen Pankhurst found to be the case in Menz.2 On the other hand, married life and the everyday co­-​­existence of the spouses were generally summarised with the local equivalent for ‘conjugal’ [nay ḥadar (ናይ ሓዳር); Amh.: yä tәdar; የትዳር]. When I referred to marriage in Church I used the proper ecclesiastical terms, although it is important to note that there were differences in how the laity and how theologians understood these terms. Initially, I also differentiated between conjugal life and less formal unions and I gave priority to the investigation of the former. However, as I encountered more and more couples in the countryside living together in semi­-​ formal arrangements publicly known (as opposed to secrete romantic ­ relationships which I also knew existed, but nobody admitted to), I extended the investigations to all intimate romantic cohabitations. I have generally described these as ‘irregular unions’, a term that was used by representatives of the Ethiopian Women Lawyers Association in Addis Ababa.3 I observed that in these unions, couples generally followed the same pattern of married life, bore children together and often thought of each other as husband or wife. These unions were also associated with extensive cases of female abandonment and were not immune to problems and forms of abuse encountered in the officiated relationships. Moreover, the existence of these less formal unions seemed to have implications for attitudes toward formal marriage, which featured in local discourses of conjugal problems.

148  Marriage in the local normative framework

Local depictions of marriage and gender relations in the past and present As it was suggested in Chapter 5, marriage and the conjugal relationship were affected by important changes that were associated by research participants with the liberation struggle and ‘modern times’ or ‘modernity’ (zämänawi gize; ዘመናዊ ጊዘ or zämänawinät; ዘመናዊነት). To understand better these articulations and what motivated them, I found it necessary to look closely at local perceptions of marriage and gender relations more generally. The analysis I provide here proceeds from the research participants’ own discourses and these, by default, differentiated the ‘past’ or ‘old days’ from the ‘modern times’. The narratives I heard agreed that marriage that followed the formal norms had been conventionally arranged by the parents of the groom and bride, with the couple usually meeting each other at the time of the wedding. This was highlighted evocatively by a male interlocutor, who said: “My father went and asked my wife’s father ‘please give me your child/ daughter’. After that, my father brought to me my wife.” In the past, most women were not literate or they completed only a few grades before entering married life. Female interlocutors who were in their 50s and 60s affirmed having married as early as 11 or 12 years old, while 16–17 was the most commonly cited age for the more recent generations. One elderly woman provided the following testimony: I was a child. It is not like today. In those times, we were good. We did not even raise our heads to look at people in the eyes when we walked in the street. It is today (that change has happened). We did not know school. We got married by abduction. These testimonies not only evidenced that marriage involving young girls had been commonplace, but also suggested interestingly that such customs had not been experienced necessarily as a form of oppression and could even be reminisced with some nostalgia by some women today. While all research participants acknowledged that the government now stipulated 18 as the legal age of marriage, they still considered valid the social convention of girls marrying earlier than that. The close intertwinement between people’s religious tradition and these practices was highlighted in one woman’s comment: “Marriage means that God has created us and ordered us to multiply. We girls from age 15 and above can marry, according to our marriage ceremony. Then, wife and husband have opportunity to give birth to children.” In fact, on the first day of research at one of the villages I was made aware of a wedding ceremony (särg) that was taking place in the vicinity. Upon asking around, a local woman let me know that the girl’s age was 15 whereas the man was either 27 or 28 years old. I casually observed that such an early marriage was not allowed by law

Marriage in the local normative framework   149 and asked curiously why the police, whose station was visible from where the marriage was taking place, were not raising any issues. The woman shrugged her shoulders and said that she did not know; however, she affirmed that while this was not accepted by law, it had been accepted by the Church and the people traditionally. It is also notable that the marriage was attended by a number of priests, one of whom I had just interviewed. When I raised the issue with the local police officer a few days later, he echoed ‘secular’ explanations given typically by state officials, namely that the girl lacked a birth certificate and her age could not be established with certitude. The types of marriages performed traditionally included marriage by crowning in church (täklil) and the cultural (bahәlawi) wedding ceremony described by my research participants as qal kidan (ቃል ኪዳን).4 Qal kidan in this community signified the traditional way of marrying at home by taking vows in witness of elders, family members and the ‘spiritual father’ [Tigr.: ’abbat näfsi (ኣባት ነፍሲ); Amh.: näfs ’abbat (ነፍስ አባት)]. However, even when couples decided to marry customarily they went to the church to take the blessing of the priest first, as observed by one member of the clergy: The spiritual father brought the couple to the church when the couple expressed their desire to marry. In the church they received the blessing and then they returned to the home to do the marriage by the ­traditional/​ cultural ring ceremony. A second marriage was generally not performed by clergy and was almost always a cultural wedding. It was also increasingly becoming a norm for couples to go by the town hall to sign marriage contracts as an additional formality or guarantee in response to the marital instability that was described locally. Similar to what previous studies have reported,5 male and female interlocutors in the village affirmed that the church marriage had been feasible primarily for those associated with the Church. An 80­-year­ ​­ -​­old male interlocutor remarked that “[t]hose who marry by crowning are those who studied in the religious school or are deacons”. Another man stated: “Religious marriage can occur in two ways: If one is a virgin or a deacon they can marry by crowning.” During a workshop, a male participant matter­-​­of­-​ ­factly explained: There are two types (of marriage). One is done in church where bride and groom make their promise in front of God and receive the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ. The second starts as a relationship and when they want to get married, they can’t have a church marriage because they were living with each other. Holding a religious marriage followed not so much from personal desire, but local rules, which were rigidly upheld by both clergy and laity. Rules of

150  Marriage in the local normative framework virginity applied to both men and women who wanted to marry in church. A woman stated: “I and my husband were virgins so we married by crowning/​ the Holy Matrimony.” Another female interlocutor remarked: “[V]irginity is required. I was a virgin. But I don’t know whether he was or he was not a virgin, meaning you cannot know with men. So, for this reason we agreed to marry by the elders.” While the Holy Matrimony was theoretically open to anyone who had preserved their physical virginity, people’s stories evidenced that in practice few laypeople attended church to marry by täklil. Many couples appeared to have abstained traditionally from Church marriage because they did not understand it, which could reflect a failure on behalf of priests to teach properly about marriage. One male interlocutor observed precisely this: “Those who marry the traditional way will not know much about the Holy Matrimony; because they are not taught, they don’t have the opportunity to listen about it. They just go for living together.” Other interlocutors considered that a fear of being gossiped about by reason of their marriage choices kept come couples away from the church. A male Maḫәbärä Qәdusan attendant reasoned that “psychologically they felt pressure and did not go to the church. They thought about what others would say”. Due to the emphasis placed on physical chastity, couples were expected to come under public scrutiny if they decided to enter the church for their marriage. The same interlocutor observed: “In general, in Ethiopia social life is connected, somehow strong. Everyone wants to know everyone’s affairs, movements.” Therefore, the concern for exposing oneself to gossip or being socially shamed could deter people from marrying in church. A research assistant suggested the word wärdät (ወርደት) or “losing face” to capture this notion, but this was never suggested by the research participants. Most of these trends were highlighted in the marriage history of the workshop participants and individual interlocutors, with the overwhelming majority having one divorce and a few two or more. The case of one female participant is especially illustrative. Like numerous others, she and her partner had not started pre­-​­marital relations prior to marriage, but due to the general norm that had associated church marriage with the clergy only, they had not considered going into the church to marry. The case of another female participant who reported having married a second time by some form of Qᵂәrban is a more curious case. A closer look into the woman’s life revealed that her second marriage was to a deacon. Since her partner was linked to the Church, he must have been expected to marry by the Sacrament, but because she could not have the täklil, having married before, one must assume that they had a penitential marriage ceremony which concluded with the Holy Communion. This case, if accurately reported, could suggest that not all priests were prioritising a woman’s virginity and that some did perform the penitential marriage, as a departure from the reported norm.

Marriage in the local normative framework   151 Numerous research participants affirmed also the permanence of the church marriage, such as in the following statement made by a rural man: “We take it (Holy Matrimony) as a very strong principle. We are bound together (’asrän nän; አስረን ነን) until the end.” Like this interlocutor most people received these norms as part of their unquestioned heritage which they could not imagine violating. While it could be argued that the perceived indissolubility of the Church marriage acted as an additional disincentive to marry by the Sacrament for those who feared commitment, this is doubtful because most of my interlocutors applied the same ideals to the customary marriage, as highlighted in the following comment by a female workshop participant: “For the rest of the people, it is said also that they have to stay together from the beginning until the end.” An older woman who had married by the cultural ceremony and had a successful long marriage confided that she was happy because this was in accordance with the religious ideal. A priest also affirmed that both types of marriage should be lived by the same commandments. Yet another member of the clergy said that “although they did not get married in church, the rule of marriage (that prohibits divorce) still applies”. In their discourses, many of my interlocutors described an arrangement that had been traditionally embedded in a patriarchal order, with the husband being considered and acting as the head or governor of the rest. The gap between male and female authority had been so large that some interlocutors reported wives being expected to wash their husbands’ feet and to eat last, which is reminiscent of the accounts cited from Jenny Hammond’s research with female fighters in Tigray and Helen Pankhurst’s study from Menz.6 One male interlocutor pertinently remarked: “Because the husband used to be the master of the house, he made all the decisions. He could beat her, assault her and so on.” Like many others, he thought that the traditional marriage order had fostered a ‘bad’ mentality among some men that their wives were there exclusively to serve their needs, contributing to wife assault. Other interlocutors opined that while a patriarchal family organisation had been the local norm, relationships between spouses had not been inherently and always unequal. An educated urban interlocutor opined: “Most of the decisions are made by men. But this does not mean that women are not appreciated. Women are not ignored, they share, they develop ideas, but most of the time the final word is the men’s.” He also observed that women had traditionally played a central role in the household and community life, which had made it somehow difficult and counterproductive for husbands to ignore or to derogate them. A Tigrayan female interlocutor in London, perhaps not unaffected by home­-sickness ​­ remarked: “Back at home the father is the head. I want to tell you, back home, they have responsibility for the family, they work hard.” Within conventional norms, Tigrayan men have been expected to act as breadwinners by working outside and women to administer the household

152  Marriage in the local normative framework and to rear children, while supporting occasionally their husbands in the farm. My interlocutors all affirmed that in the past women had worked all day long, preparing bread, collecting firewood, finding water and doing other chores often from early morning hours until late at night. In the older times, when no water collection system existed (today’s bumba; ቡምባ), girls often exerted themselves in collecting rainwater from the ground. There were also no grinding machines that have now become available at the village level, which meant that women had to labour each day, from the early morning hours, to grind grains in preparation of the staple bread for the day. While it was not denied that men had also worked hard, typically spending the day in the farm under difficult weather conditions, women’s daily housework was described by both men and women to have been particularly exhausting. Changes in this rigidly gender­-​­segregated division of labour were mentioned and were attributed to a variety of factors, such as influences from the urban centres, government awareness campaigns about gender equality and the expansion of secular education. In recent years, the government was reported to have implemented a series of campaigns against pernicious practices, especially early marriage and domestic violence.7 Moreover, women’s associations have been working to inform women on their rights and to communicate women’s conditions on the higher administrative units. The liberation struggle and specifically the Tigray People’s Liberation Front’s (TPLF) educational trainings on gender equality were described as highly effective in changing local mentalities. An 80­-​­year old male interlocutor illustrated this in his personal story: I have no negative attitude towards women because our party [TPLF] taught us well during the [liberation] struggle. I told you earlier that when I was with my second wife in Aksum, I used to give her all the money I got as retirement pension. Regardless of the reasons that motivated changes in local mentalities, during fieldwork many men were seen participating in child care and even in some household tasks. I also saw husbands fetching water from the local bumba, although generally using donkeys and never carrying the water jugs on their backs, as women typically did. In all the four workshops that I held with rural residents, I invited participants to outline the typical day of a woman/wife and a man/husband. The outputs from two different workshops in separate villages are shown in Tables 6.1 and 6.2, and these generally agree with the responses from all the workshops. My participants attributed household activities and child care to women and breadwinning activities to men. Men’s daily occupations in the village communities included undertaking paid day work (such as in construction), farming, or supervising other workers. In addition, women assisted men in the farm or supported home­ -​­ building. This reflected a

Marriage in the local normative framework   153 booming property construction business among rural residents for the purposes of renting out and generating additional income. Both the tables and the discussions that followed these exercises revealed a general agreement that women were busier than men throughout the day, as illustrated in a male participant’s comment: Of course, more work is to the woman. Because they work in the farmland, and then at home there is cooking, treating the children, washing the clothes of the children and the husband. Absolutely, work has more impact on the woman. Some considered that a degree of asymmetry was inevitable due to women giving birth to and rearing children, which made them most appropriate for Table 6.1 What men and women do on a typical day according to male workshop participants in Village 1 What men do on a typical day

What women do on a typical day

• The men/husbands on a daily basis do different things. Because their work depends on their wealth. If he owns animals, he will look after them systematically; if he does not own animals, he will look after his farm. • The youth if they don’t own farmland, they will do day’s work. Day’s work is construction work. This work involves: building, finishing, cutting metal. • He does work that will get him money, runs up and down to ensure a sustainable life.

• In the morning she wakes up and she cleans the house • She boils coffee • She prepares breakfast • She brings water • She prepares lunch • She washes clothes • She cooks dinner • She plans what she has to do in the morning • She looks after the cattle/animals • She does the weeding • She does finishing work

Table 6.2 What men and women do on a typical day according to female workshop participants in Village 2 What men do in a typical day

What women do in a typical day

• • • •

• • • • • • • • • • • •

If he is a farmer he farms He works in construction He builds buildings He does the finishing work/adding cement • He harvests • He checks if the worker is doing his work (oversees other workers)

She raises the children She tailors She prepares food She weaves cotton She fetches water She collects wood She harvests She does the weeding She does the cutting of grasses She farms She builds houses She does the finishing work

154  Marriage in the local normative framework these tasks. Most men I spoke to did not consider the tasks that women did derogatory, but rather saw themselves as less fit than women to undertake them. Some men affirmed that when their wives were pregnant or in their post­-​­natal condition, or sick, men could cook on their own or bring food from outside; alternatively, they asked a female neighbour to do the cooking for the family. Similar trends were identified for the city of Aksum, with the difference being that the pace of change in the city was faster. The results from the same exercise with female Maḫәbärä Qәdusan attendants is shown in Table 6.3. According to the participants, women continued to have the primary responsibility of raising children, administering the house and fulfilling social responsibilities. However, in the city men were said to be even more involved in children’s care. In a female participant’s wording: “He might take care of the child once he gets home. That by itself is work, but he may not do other chores.” Nonetheless, certain customary norms and understandings persisted among the urban population as well. Similarly to the situation in the countryside, men in the city of Aksum preserved their role as breadwinners and were in charge of providing financially. Moreover, participants felt that the husband remained the ultimate authority in deciding important matters. A female participant explained: “The society thinks men are superior to women. It has been improving little by little currently, but it still exists. This problem exists here in Aksum.” A male participant also affirmed: “Here in Ethiopia the culture is somehow different from another country and more credit and more honour is usually given to the male.” This may explain why married female workshop participants felt that they did not have full freedom of movement and considered it necessary to have their husband’s approval in everything they did. One woman commented: “If a woman wants to go somewhere, but if Table 6.3 What men and women do on a typical day according to female Maḫәbärä Qәdusan attendants Men

Women

1. They may be working from home or outside/in an office all day 2. Dedicating time and money to social responsibilities (for example, attend and support weddings and funerals) Weddings –  chopping the meat –  building tents Funerals –  building tents –  serving and assisting 3. Providing for the household financially

1. Raising children 2. Day­-​­to­-​­day household chores 3. Social/cultural responsibility of visiting women who just gave birth 4. Running the house (household necessities and groceries) 5. Not being able to make decisions 6. Without one’s autonomy and having to live under the influence of the husband and act with his permission

Marriage in the local normative framework   155 the husband doesn’t want her to go, she will not go. But if the woman wants to hold the man back, she can’t. It’s a double standard.” This again was confirmed by a male participant who spoke of women’s difficulty “in any movement”. These postulations about both changing and persistent gender norms in marriage led me to a closer investigation into how local people understood equality between men and women and if they thought that this was currently achieved in their society and family life. In their responses, rural interlocutors typically started by indicating that in legislation men and women had equal employment opportunities, citing divorce laws that stipulated an egalitarian share of spousal assets. Interlocutors also referred frequently to more egalitarian practices, as highlighted in the response of a middle­-​­aged man: “I think there is equality in eating together, drinking together. There is more equality in employment.” A woman echoed this: “There is equality now by government legislation. Now the woman can go out, before, she could not go out.” These improvements were contrasted, however, with a persistent mentality that still valued women as lesser, as highlighted in the comment of a female rural resident: There is the equality that the government established. But in this society, there is no equality. They believe a woman can’t work equal as a man. It can be called equality only if the woman and the man work together. Because the society is not educated, there is no practice of equality here. In other words, while nominally women could hold regular jobs like men, mentalities that considered women inappropriate for some professions were changing more slowly. Another female interlocutor remarked: “There is equality but the woman isn’t seen as equal to the man. The man is always above the woman.” Yet another woman observed that some men still treated women’s opinions as inferior and did not allow them to speak confidently: Some are equal but some don’t have equality. The one who don’t have equality, the man suppresses the wife’s opinion. When she says, “let’s do this and that” he says “no” to her opinion and gives his thought. So there is no equality. When I asked female interlocutors to define an egalitarian relationship in marriage, most spoke of a fairer division of labour, evidencing the centrality of daily work in people’s lives. One woman explained that she was a stay­-​­home mom, while her husband worked hard outside of the home and provided for the family. She reasoned that because they both worked their respective shares and contributed equally in their own gender­-​­specific ways,

156  Marriage in the local normative framework there was equality in her marriage. Another woman suggested a similar definition when she said that there is no equality in the couple because the woman is expected to do all the housework, while the man leaves and goes out and has freedom and money. Among male interlocutors as well, equality was envisioned as a situation where men and women cooperated in most tasks and worked equally hard, not letting their partner do unfair amounts of work; however, this was in view of physical differences and capacities, which male interlocutors were more likely to point out: Equality means [that] regardless of whether a person is a man or a woman, they work equally. That’s what equality means. Together and by supporting each other they do their work. But there is capacity or strength difference between a man and a woman. The woman gives birth, which makes her weak. This prevents her from working equally with a man. Other than that, they are equal. While it was recognised that men and women displayed biological and physical particularities (muscular strength, ability to give birth, etc.) that differentiated their capacity for work, both spouses were expected to contribute to the livelihood of the home and the family. Numerous male interlocutors emphasised the need for mutual consideration and understanding between the spouses, with one man affirming that equality in married life existed when there was mutual consideration between spouses. Another man said: “Equality means mutual honour, mutual consideration, mutual understanding.” Yet another commented: “Equality means we share the same thinking (ḥasab; ሓሳብ).” All men agreed, however, that these standards had not yet been achieved at the societal level.

Marriage and spousal ideals and expectations In the discourses of the research participants much conjugal conflict and abuse was associated with wives or husbands failing in their duties, which disturbed the peace of the couple. On the other hand, previously upheld expectations around female virginity raised curiosity about the relationship with early marriage. Such observations generated a dedicated effort to shed more light onto spousal norms and expectations in the local socio­-​­cultural system. The narratives I heard generally agreed that spouses were expected to meet certain criteria that differed for men and women. While many ideals appeared to have evolved over time, some continued to hold strong. One male interlocutor explained that in the past, “[t]he men were expected to be high­ -​­ income, to have a strong personality to be selected for marriage. Women had to be virgins and to have good quality of personality.” As Donald Levine had found in his study from Amhara,8 the expectation of

Marriage in the local normative framework   157 virginity had not generally been enforced for men, highlighted best in a woman’s comment about her husband’s sexual life prior to their marriage: “I don’t know whether he was or he was not a virgin, that is to say, you cannot know with men.” In many cases, the husband had been a soldier, which meant that he had lived in different places where he would be expected to have found a woman to cohabitate with. Typically, the bride and groom would not discuss these matters at the time of marriage or after (since most people married outside the Church), although men were obviously concerned about ascertaining a woman’s chastity. In most of the stories described, the girl had been considerably younger than her husband, with young wives being likely to question their husbands, especially if it was anticipated for men to have an active sexual life. These expectations seemed to persist, although with variations. Female interlocutors still considered that a good husband needed to be able to provide as a breadwinner and should ideally be hard­-working ​­ and have a stable income. It would be a bonus if he was sturdy and strong. Although some of the younger female interlocutors seemed to place increasingly emphasis on men’s education and good manners, which they associated with urbanisation, they insisted that he be a breadwinner. Conversely, most female interlocutors explained that a wife needed to be a good cook and have food ready for her husband and to know how to take care of her children. In particular, she must know how to boil coffee, make sauce (wät; ወት), the traditional ’әnǧära (እንጀራ) and bread (dabo; ዳቦ) and to brew the local beer (sәwa). An elderly woman listed the expectations as follows: “A good wife must always look after her husband; she must always give him beer at the right time, to feed him at the right time, to make coffee before he goes to work, etc. … .” Furthermore, a wife should always have a calm and pleasant comportment with her husband and his family and must avoid criticising him or picking fights with him. My interlocutors spoke about the need for women to be ‘modest’ (tḥut; ትሑት),9 that is to say, quiet and careful because “Tigrayan men do not like arguments”. The women agreed also that a wife must take good care of herself to ensure that she is attractive to her husband and must preserve good sexual relations with him and avoid refusing him when he needs her. Women did not generally refer to expectations about virginity. Men were less outspoken about their expectations, but their priorities seemed to reflect broader mentalities. One rural resident stated with frankness: “The principal thing is physical beauty. If not, it is the character, her own condition, her mentality. To manage married life her character must have some necessary traits. A good woman is like this.” Again, none of my male interlocutors volunteered that a woman should be a virgin, but when I implied it in my questions they hesitated to give a firm answer. This could reflect a changing society where many couples started and maintained sexual relations in secret, which made physical virginity increasingly less relevant to the sexually active population. A woman being schooled was

158  Marriage in the local normative framework also not voluntarily identified as a prerequisite, but when I asked about the value of education for women, many men found it desirable. One male interlocutor stated: “It is good for all. She has brains, he has brains. It is good for all.” At the village, a man once expressed impatience with his wife because she did not know how to respond to him in an intelligent manner, failing to consider that this reflected a societal imposition and was not the women’s fault. Still, this did not mean that men wanted their wives to abandon their traditional gender roles or that they would tolerate or co­-​­exist well with wives who were overly confident and outspoken. According to a female interlocutor, many men would not accept advice from their wives and might condescendingly respond “what do you know?” if she attempted to speak confidently. An interlocutor in the city of Aksum affirmed that most men in Ethiopia might not accept to have women talk to them openly, because they are used to women being quiet and modest and detest argumentation. Especially illustrative is the case of a young man from one of the villages who ran his own local beer house and travelled frequently to the city of Aksum for business. While he expressed what were considered more ‘modern’ ideas about women and relationships, he insisted that he wanted to choose a wife from the countryside because he thought that women in the city, while more educated, tended to be weaker and not as hard­-​­working. He said that rural women have been used to the hard life and could work without complaint whether in rain or under the scorching sun. They would know every job in the home and fulfil their duties without much ado. In contrast, women in the city would leave their work half­-​ ­way if the rain poured down or if the sun became too strong. He clearly wanted a strong wife who could take care of the home and would not depend on him; yet he preferred that they lived in the city. Interwoven with these spousal ideals, was the expectation that a marriage had to be peaceful. A ‘good’ or ‘healthy’ conjugal relationship was invariably defined as a relationship premised on ‘agreement’ [Tigr.: sәmәmә’ (ስምምዕ); Amh.: sәmәmәnät; ስምምነት) and ‘peace’ (sälam; ሰላም). For the majority, as will be discussed elsewhere, peace was considered concomitantly with faith, highlighted best in a man’s remark: “Good marriage means peace. First [living] in faith; then, [living] in peace. Then problems will not come.” While some interlocutors referred to love, emotional concerns were significantly less salient in people’s discourses. For instance, a male interlocutor volunteered that “[p]eaceful married life needs good health. We must be able to work and to find money”; only after I asked if love was necessary, did he answer in the affirmative. Virtually all interlocutors stressed the need for material security, good health and peace as essentials for a good relationship, placing emotional intimacy in a secondary position or not mentioning it at all. This was observed by some of my interlocutors as well, who had various rationalisations for this, including the climate of formality that governed

Marriage in the local normative framework   159 the (traditionally) arranged marriages. One young male interlocutor in the city explained: “[I]f you look at the older people, they were doing everything by formal ways, they felt shame. They felt shame. They were more formal and respectful.” Other urban residents I spoke to thought that this de­-​­emphasis on love reflected rather a more profound problem of intimacy in the local society, which they believed was cultivated in kinship relations from an early age. Such comments stressed again the importance of accounting for other vectors of human identity and relations beyond gender, drawing attention to strong familial relationships in the local society that seemed to have implications for the conjugal relationship.

Kinship expectations and the role of the family in marriage The family emerged as a prominent factor in discussions of marriage problems and some narratives of divorce, such as those attributed to family interference. Family relations could even feature in serious conjugal violence, as exemplified in the aforementioned conjugal murder that one of my interlocutors traced to family grudge. Delving deeper into kinship norms and expectations showed, in fact, a society structured on the basis of strong filial loyalty fuelled by both socio­-​­cultural and practical reasons. My living with different families evidenced that the family was a central unit of survival in both the countryside and the urban areas. Family members were related to each other by blood ties, but they also seemed to be tied together throughout their lives through a system of kinship­ -​­ based responsibilities. Children learned from an early age to support the household livelihood as appropriate to their gender. In adulthood, they were expected to support their ageing parents. Families often lost children owing to diseases and other causes and women seemed concerned to have at least a few children for security. Having a male child, in particular, was crucial since the boy remained in the family and became a breadwinner, contrary to the girl, who became wife to someone else and did not typically earn a living. The socio­-cultural ​­ importance of acquiring male offspring seemed to be highlighted in some of the narratives of divorce that my interlocutors shared with me. Indicative is the case of one man whose second wife had faced fertility problems and had asked him for a divorce. He shared the following thoughts on the matter: In this society if one man has a child, when he dies, the child is named after him. Now, for example, the woman I was married to before, she had one girl child with her first husband, and she wanted another child with me, but she could not have that. In this condition people told her “why don’t you try with another man?” Since they advised her like this, she went (to try with someone else).

160  Marriage in the local normative framework Curiously, the man’s former wife already had a daughter from a former husband. Her desire to have a child seemed to emanate from feeling pressured to have more children, and perhaps specifically a male child. Her former husband suggested this more explicitly in the following narrative about his former wife: She said “I have no children.” If you are disturbed and you are sad/ anxious it is evident. Because they were her family she asked them for advice. “Your youth is passing. Why don’t you try with another man?” they told her; “You will die without giving birth,” and so she did like this. In our society if a man does not bear children, it is an insult (OR he is insulted). If the family of the man cannot bear a child, who is she? They insult. Certainly, there are some people who say that the child is given by God and [who] save/keep their marriage. But, either by family or her age the wife is reminded: “You haven’t borne children.” It is tradition (bahәl). As suggested in this story, acquiring children, and evidently male children specifically, was not only emotionally important for women, but also granted them a proper place in society. A woman without children was nobody (“who is she?”) and would be questioned by others, while a childless man could be treated with contempt as there was nobody to continue his name. As my interlocutor suggested, some people attributed childlessness to God’s will and did not spoil their marriages. However, not all were equally faith­-​­minded and some were more prone to be influenced by societal pressures and practical concerns, leading them to divorce. It is not unlikely that the social importance of acquiring offspring and parents’ material dependence on children in their old age contributed to fostering deep bonds between parents and children. In adulthood, these bonds and expectations could offer the grounds for family interference in marriage. Kinship relations should also be appraised in conjunction with the local standard that older people needed to be listened to and honoured by those who were younger.10 It could be proposed that the age hierarchy was primary to the gender­-​­based structure of marriage and livelihood organisation, as it has been reported for other parts of Africa.11 Hence, research participants explained that traditionally they needed to have the consent and blessing of their parents prior to marrying, an injunction that members of the clergy consistently emphasised. It also seemed to be the case that the traditional wedding ceremony of qal kidan granted a central role to the parents of the couple. In addition, the families of both husband and wife remained directly involved in the married life of the spouses. In the countryside, it was observed that newly married couples typically lived in the husband’s parental house until the newlyweds could move into their own home. Subsequently, family elders and relatives could also mediate conjugal conflict or argument when such emerged during the married life of the couple.

Marriage in the local normative framework   161 Some interlocutors believed that the involvement of the families in marriage contributed positively to the conjugal relationship, while the proximity to the family was believed to function as pressure on the husband to behave better with his wife. Other comments suggested that kinship bonds could influence the marriage negatively due to the expectations they created. One male interlocutor in Meqele had recently asked his friend what he thought of his new married life, and shared with me his friend’s response: He told me that in Ethiopia if you marry a woman you have to marry her mother, her father, her aunt, her brother, her sister. You have to understand and to control and to make and to solve everyone’s problems. They bring different problems. They want to make interruptions in your marriage, to interfere. Since the husband held the exclusive role of the breadwinner, he was expected to support his wife, and if necessary, also his wife’s relatives. The man’s narrative also underscored the tight connection that children and parents preserved throughout the life­-course, ​­ which seemed to extend conveniently to sons­-​­in­-​­law. On the other hand, mothers­-​­in­-​­law naturally expected daughters­-​­in­-​­law to contribute to daily chores while the couple still lived with the parents of the husbands. As these discourses anticipate, families emerged as influential in the conjugal relationship. These bonds seemed to surpass the marital bond due to their longevity and deeply entrenched character, providing ideal grounds for conjugal disagreement when family­-related ​­ issues arose or interference happened. The case of one older woman who had been married to a “good” husband but had felt compelled to separate from him due to their families’ bad relations highlighted exactly this. After narrating to me her marital history and the family disputes, she confided with a sigh that she still loved her former husband and that there had been no reason to divorce, except for the family antagonism.

Irregular unions and changing relationship norms The court cases that I collected in Aksum evidenced a trend whereby irregular unions were affected significantly by wife abandonment and the man’s failure to provide children’s maintenance. One soldier who was at the time in such a relationship with a local woman reasoned that men’s foreignness and lack of kin pressure were conducive to their easy abandonment of women. His female partner, to whom I also spoke at a different time alone, had previously been in a similar union with another non­-local ​­ man. When their relationship resulted in a pregnancy, her partner failed to take responsibility for the woman and their child. In an attempt to rationalise his behaviour, the woman cited cultural differences, although she recognised

162  Marriage in the local normative framework that entering an informal relationship with him had curtailed her possibilities to make demands for the man’s support. Couples living in irregular unions were numerous in the cities and one of the two villages of study, where non­-local ​­ soldiers resided, but not in the village that presented a more homogeneous local population. They could then be partly associated with extensive migration of men, offering highly mobile non­-local ​­ men the liberty to treat local women irresponsibly, as my research participants suggested. It is also possible that some of these unions expanded as relationship norms underwent changes in both the city and the countryside of Aksum. This was suggested by a male interlocutor, remarking: “The conditions of marriage have changed. He and she, if they do not see/know each other before, [they] do not marry. Now, they have started to live together without marriage.” While courting, the couple typically kept their relationship a secret until they decided that they were compatible and wanted to be together more formally. One male interlocutor said this about his own marriage: “Two years we were together in secret. After two years we decided to marry and shared [it] with our families.” In many cases, the decision to marry could be accelerated by an unexpected pregnancy, although a court worker reported that many couples chose to perform illegal abortions, which he estimated could reach high numbers. Despite their more secretive character, it is not unlikely that their existence related to and reflected wide changes in relationship norms in society. Young people’s choices to postpone marriage and their preference for newer forms of intimacy could be appraised in reference to the historical extensiveness of divorce in the local society and what emerged as a widespread suspicion about the quality of men and women as intimate partners. The remark that people lacked ‘candour’ (gәlś ̣әnät; ግልፅነት) was on everyone’s mouth in the villages, and this seemed to manifest most strongly according to gender lines, highlighted best in a discussion that I had with a recently married man in Meqele. He repeatedly observed that men in his society would hesitate to express their love to a woman because of uncertainty about her quality and intentions. Most men’s default reaction would be to think that the woman is “a player” and to wait until they got a better sense of her personality before they revealed their feelings. Women designated as “players” were understood to act flirtatiously with multiple men in an effort to appear desired by many, which would increase their “value” in the eyes of men and could secure for them a good prospective husband. The way in which this interlocutor approached his wife­-to­ ​­ -​­be is telling. He said that they had a common friend through whom he inquired about her. After he found out her “life story”, he approved and wanted to pursue her further. He waited, however, four years before he asked her to marry him. Rumours about female histrionics seemed to acquire new dimensions when they combined with local folklore beliefs about dark magic and trickery. Those who were distanced from their rural communities were more outspoken about these folklore beliefs. Some Tigrayan men in London, for

Marriage in the local normative framework   163 instance, seemed to believe that back home women’s concern with securing a husband made them susceptible to “rushing” to cultural sorcerers in order to secure a husband with the help of magic. An interlocutor working in Addis Ababa but originally from a rural area of Tigray also spoke of magic and love potions being used by women with harmful consequences. He referred to a woman who had purportedly done magic on the brother of one of his good friends, claiming that this subsequently caused the man to behave “like a crazy person”. While rural interlocutors rarely referred to women doing black magic on men, beliefs about the activity of cultural sorcerers and spirit possessions existed and were invoked in the context of intimate relationships. The fieldwork granted numerous exposures to this mentality regarding women, which was perpetuated by both men and women. In one of the villages, two women were described by two female neighbours as “bad women” because they were perceived to use their wardrobe choices and alluring coffee ceremonies and meat­-w ​­ ät ‘feasts’ to attract better­-​­off and educated men as husbands. The ladies were 28 and 29 years old respectively and held governmental professions in the village. On one occasion I was invited to participate in a coffee ceremony at their house and when I went by I found there a group of high­-profile ​­ men. In a brief conversation that I had with the two women earlier that day, I asked them casually why it was they had not been married yet and whether it had been their choice to wait. One remained silent, but the second nodded and said that Tigrayan men were generally not considerate with their wives/women and that good men were hard to find. Perhaps these popular stories and realities made men more suspicious of women, which could interfere with building trustful intimate relationships or could contribute to ending a relationship without making much effort to salvage it. In Aksum, a local university female student, at the time in a romantic relationship, expressed frustration because her partner did not want to believe that she truly loved him. The girl remarked tearfully that Ethiopian men are suspicious of all women because they “know” that the women inside the culture grow up to be calculative and exploitative. As she put it, they think that women cannot truly love them because women are self­-​­interested. She complained that her own boyfriend “does not understand my love”. This could be related to earlier affirmations of limited emotional connection between intimate partners, although my interlocutors did not make such a connection.

Persisting and changing marriage norms and conjugal abuse The discourses that were analysed evidence that marriage in the local society was generally organised according to gender lines, with the male acting as breadwinner and provider and the wife charged with the household and family management, roles that generally have persisted into the

164  Marriage in the local normative framework present. Consequently, a husband’s failure to provide financially for his wife made the wife unable to fulfil her own gender­-specific ​­ expectations. This would not sit well with women who were committed to fulfilling their duties harmoniously in accordance with socio­ -​­ cultural expectations. In other words, due to their husband’s shortfalls as breadwinners, women could become unable to accomplish the essential tasks associated with wifehood, which could exacerbate their frustration with their husbands’ deficiencies. Husbands, in turn, despite their own failures to provide, would still expect their wives to behave according to standard, reflecting deeply entrenched mentalities. One can see how this situation could escalate to conflict and even abusiveness, possibly amplified by an incompatibility of mind­-​­sets. This gender­-​­based arrangement of marriage combined with expectations of a meek and non­-​­confrontational comportment with regard to wives and an understanding that men were more authoritative, not least due to their breadwinning role. This partially explains why many interlocutors held wives responsible for avoiding confrontational responses and were put off by the idea of women becoming too outspoken with their husbands. Along with these observations, my interlocutors placed primary importance on a peaceful conjugal cohabitation, partially explaining why local discourses around conjugal abuse focused on spousal argument, discord and dissimilarity. On the other hand, the kinship norms which were found to underpin the marital relationship add perspective to statements that family interference often led to conjugal conflict and even abuse. The expectation that a husband should provide for his parents (and possibly also siblings and his wife’s family) offers one possible reason for tensions in the conjugal relationship. This may need to be appraised in conjunction with the widely postulated issues of poverty, money shortage and other scarcities that interlocutors affirmed as salient catalysts for conjugal argument. The current changing landscape that has challenged to some extent more traditional norms of marriage and relationships between older and younger generations and wives and husbands did not seem to resolve the associated problems, but created new challenges. My interlocutors spoke of the need for a more symmetrical division of labour and articulated more comprehensive conceptualisations of gender equality. Such discourses probably would not have occurred a few decades ago. Still, these postulated changes did not appear to have displaced convictions that marriage should be organised according to gender­-​­specific arrangements, as evidenced in juxtaposing urban and rural discourses and norms. While younger women in the villages expressed preferences for better­-​­educated men and more­-​­urbanised views on gender roles, they also expected men to continue to be breadwinners and to be able to provide for them materially. Similarly, while younger men suggested that they would like a wife with the education and sophistication of the women of the city, many still looked for meek, non­-​ ­confrontational and hard­-​­working women to marry. In this new scheme of

Marriage in the local normative framework   165 things, traditional normative standards seemed to become harder to fulfil and this probably generated frustration that could contribute to new tensions and even confrontation.

Notes  1 E. Ullendorff, The Ethiopians: An Introduction to Country and People (London: Oxford University Press, 1960), 180; J. Hammond, Sweeter than Honey: Testimonies of Tigrayan Women (Oxford, London and Newcastle: Third World First, 1989); H. Pankhurst, Gender, Development and Identity: An Ethiopian Study (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1992); M. Adugna, Women and Warfare in Ethiopia, Gender Issue Research Report Series 13, Organization for Social Science Research in Eastern and Southern Africa, 2001; T. Mjaaland, “ ‘Ane Suqh’ Ile. I Keep Quiet’. Focusing on Women’s Agency in Western Tigray, North­-​­Ethiopia” (Polit. Thesis, University of Bergen, 2004); E. Poluha, “The World of Girls and Boys in Rural and Urban Ethiopia”, Forum for Social Studies, Save the Children, 2007.  2 Pankhurst, Gender, 103.  3 IDVE1.  4 Translates literally as ‘word of covenant’. Related to the Ge’ez verb ’akeda, which means to ‘take testimony’ [W. Leslau, Comparative Dictionary of Ge’ez (Classical Ethiopic) (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1991), 301].   5 D. F. Bauer, Household and Society in Ethiopia (African Studies Center Michigan State University, Michigan, 1977), 127; D. Buxton, The Abyssinians (London: Thames and Hudson, 1970), 72; Pankhurst, Gender, 119.  6 Hammond, Sweeter than Honey, 39–40; Pankhurst, Gender, 122.  7 Although my interlocutors gave different dates for these and could not name under what programme they were implemented, it is possible that they fell under the National Plan for Gender Equality 2006–2010 (Ministry of Women, Children and Youth Affairs, Assessment of Conditions of Violence against Women in Ethiopia, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, 2013).   8 D. Levine, Wax and Gold: Tradition and Innovation in Ethiopian Culture (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1965).   9 This adjective seemed to have at times positive and at times negative connotations. This is also reflected in the dictionary definition: (Tigr.): ‘(1) low, lowly, poor, coarse, bad, common, miserable, short, meagre, lean, inferior; (2) humble, gentle, polite, courteous, modest, maidenlike, maidenly, suave, smooth, self­ -​­ effacing, mannerly, decent, coy, good; (3) small, mean; (4) deep; (5) raffish’ [Eritrean People’s Liberation Front, መዝገበ­-ቃ ​­ ላት ትግርኛ­-እ ​­ ንግሊዝኛ. Dictionary Tigrigna­-​­English (Asmara, Eritrea: Hindi Publishers, 2003 [1986]), 302]. 10 For an interesting analysis of hierarchical relationships in Christian Ethiopia see D. M. Malara and T. Boylston, “Vertical Love: Forms of Submission and Top­-​ ­Down Power in Orthodox Ethiopia”, Social Analysis 60, no. 4(2016): 51, doi:10.​ 3167/sa.2016.600403. 11 S. Arnfred, Sexuality and Gender Politics in Mozambique: Rethinking Gender in Africa (Woodbridge, Suffolk: James Currey, 2011).

7 Responses to conjugal abuse in the local institutional framework

During fieldwork I came across two women who had been married to the same abusive man. I encountered the first woman in her modest rural home spinning cotton. She looked as if she was in her late 40s, and she had a welcoming demeanour, inviting me to sit in her yard. After I explained the topic of my research and the reason I was there, she eagerly proceeded to narrate to me her life’s story. She let me know that she lived alone, that she had been married before and had one child. During her married life she had been abused consistently by her husband, whom she divorced after five years. Following their divorce, the man went on to wed her neighbour, literally the next­-​­door woman. He then proceeded to physically abuse his second wife, which the ex­-​­wife could overhear over the wall that separated their houses. She explained that she had even tried to intervene once on behalf of her husband’s second wife by calling the police. As she was saying this, her ex­ -​­ husband’s second wife entered the yard. Without any inhibition, my interlocutor turned to her visitor and shared the topic of our discussion and asked her to join us. The second woman agreed and I subsequently held an interview with both. The second woman proceeded to confirm that her husband had been violent, with whom she stayed for about 20 years. Eventually they also divorced, after which he reportedly went to a third wife, this time in the city of Aksum. Both women asserted that the man had been verbally and physically abusive and agreed that he had a bad personality (bahri). The first wife affirmed that she divorced him because she could not tolerate any longer the physical abuse. The second wife explained that she had oscillated for many years between her options. She mentioned that she had talked to a local priest, who had thought it better for her not to break her marriage. The neighbours, including the first wife of the man, in contrast, encouraged her to divorce. In the end, her husband left her to marry another wife. The first wife, at this point, observed that her neighbour had hesitated to report her abuse to the local police. When the first wife had called the police to stop the second wife’s beating, the assaulted woman pretended that everything was fine when the police arrived at her house; the second wife silently confirmed by nodding. When I asked why, they both explained that while there

Responses to conjugal abuse   167 were laws against violence in the local society, these were not generally enforced by police or court workers, who often knew their husbands as a result of occasionally drinking together. The two women might have told their stories selectively, might have exaggerated parts of it or might have left other parts untold. Nonetheless, their story illustrates the widely reported norm among victimised wives to endure violence silently for years on end. A local priest during fieldwork put it very evocatively: “Many women keep the domestic abuses and problems within them in the way they carried their children inside them when they were pregnant. They will carry these problems inside them too and will not share with anybody else.” The case of these two women also highlights the various weaknesses surrounding the array of local institutions that have been traditionally involved in addressing conjugal issues and abuse. As they did, abused women have tended to deal with husband abusiveness informally and to take formal action only if others in their surroundings supported them. In addition, it was invariably affirmed that women have not generally pursued solutions through official means and have preferred to seek informal help from families, elders or priests, echoing previous reports from Ethiopia.1 This has continued despite the proliferation of social courts and police units at the village level. One woman made the pertinent remark: “We are like our parents. We do not know anything. We do not go to the social court. We stay quiet. We only tell our spiritual fathers.” A local member of the clergy confirmed this: “Yes, she doesn’t go to the police station or the local court, she goes to the priest first. For example, in the previous years, such problems existed, but they [the women] did not do anything about it; until now.” This chapter aims to develop a better understanding of the institutional framework locally and how this influenced women’s help­-​­seeking choices and responses to conjugal abuse. As part of the participatory workshops, I asked participants to rank and discuss the most influential local institutions and those they sought help from when they faced marital problems. I also investigated clergy teachings in relation to marriage and their mediating practices in situations of conjugal conflict or abuse by asking research participants about previous experiences with clergy and listening to sermons at every opportunity. These are juxtaposed here to evidence that contrary to some monolithic representations about the influence of religious beliefs or the role of the clergy in conjugal abuse in Ethiopia,2 the situation in this society was more complex. I would argue that in many instances the clergy provided services not otherwise available or limited by ineffectiveness in state­-​­led institutions. Simultaneously, overlap between some clergy discourses and folklore norms and society­-​­wide mentalities with more pernicious undertones meant that religious idiom could become at times conducive to the continuation of the problem. Juxtaposing clergy discourses to the socio­-cultural ​­ norms that were highlighted in the previous chapter helps to evidence that the problem might

168  Responses to conjugal abuse not have been one solely of acculturation or lack of theological training, as many learned scholars and theologians in Addis Ababa and Meqele believed. The clergy discourses that are described here did not generally differ from the formal positions of the Church, but they seemed to lack at times the appropriate contextualisation and nuances to ensure that these did not unwittingly condone and nurture folklore understandings and attitudes with more pernicious implications. Additionally, some of the local clergy who espoused rigid understandings around related topics were highly trained in theological matters. This rather directs attention to the nature of exegetical training in this Church and its postulated emphasis on Old Testament pronouncements reflecting vernacular discourse, with New Testament marriage theology being mostly neglected.

Local police and social courts As in the earlier story of wife battery, numerous female interlocutors associated the continuation of physical abuse in marriage with the ineffectiveness of the local state­-​­led institutions. It was believed that police workers (mostly male), were unlikely to take action against a violent husband because they were on good terms with these men. In the earlier story, one of the two women explained: “He (the husband) will take him (the police officer) out for drinks and pay for all the drinks. This action is greater than my request for justice.” The other woman added: “Previously, a woman could go there (to the police station) and could tell everything. But nowadays, corruption prevails.” Two female officers at the Women’s Affairs Office and one female police officer in the city of Aksum reported that mechanisms to counter police corruption had been put in place, and spoke instead of the problem of lacking data about concrete forms of conjugal abuse and a codification system of the evidence at the level of local police units and social courts, echoing assessments made by representatives of the Ethiopian Women Lawyers Association in Addis Ababa. Perhaps a more important limitation that emerged from the testimonies of the victims whom I encountered during fieldwork is that the local police or courts did not provide pragmatic solutions to their problems. In their narratives, women never expressed an interest in seeing their husbands incarcerated, but rather sought ways to end the violence. According to police procedures, in cases of spousal abuse that did not involve hospitalisation or death the formal path was for perpetrators to either pay a fee or spend 24 hours in the local prison. If a husband were to be incarcerated for assaulting his wife, he would be released soon without any concrete interventions being taken to change his behaviour. A female police officer in the city of Aksum imparted that in most cases nothing happened, and man and woman returned home and stayed together. In a case where the woman left her house to report the assault to the police, a man had the alternative to go to the police station with his children

Responses to conjugal abuse   169 (whom the woman would have left at home) to report his act willingly and to ask for reconciliation. In this way he would avoid being taken into custody and reconciliation mechanisms involving the elders would be followed instead. For this stage, the police officer would typically summon three elders from each spouse’s side to mediate, while the proceedings of the session would be written down. Reconciliation could comprise different phases whereby the husband is made to promise that he will change and is given some time to evidence this. If he persists in his abusive behaviour, the elders then take concrete steps to finalise the divorce and to ensure the equal distribution of property. Depending on the nature of the case, this could necessitate paying a fee to the local court or travelling to the appeals court in the city of Aksum, a cumbersome step for couples who may face economic scarcity. Moreover, some of my interlocutors spoke of the difficulties of dealing with legal procedures, as highlighted in one woman’s comment: “We do not go by the law. Nowadays, if you go to the social court and get caught in legislation, you do not find solutions.” Other interlocutors, including some police officers, suggested more practical or structural factors that impeded the effectiveness of state­-​­run institutions. Some spoke of the long distances that people needed to cover in order to reach the closest police station in their ṭabәya (smallest administrative unit). Moreover, police officers could be absent from the office because they were addressing other problems in their community, highlighting the issue of low human force exacerbated by unsatisfying salary levels. Lastly, police officers could lack understanding about conjugal abuse or have unhelpful attitudes towards it. One officer who was interviewed during fieldwork was genuinely convinced that women did not want to see their husbands incarcerated or prosecuted and that they decided to endure for the sake of their children. While these were found to be possible motivations, such a monolithic understanding could discourage officers from taking punitive measures with perpetrators in order to allow for reconciliation.

Local women’s associations Similar issues emerged regarding the local women’s associations (WAs), which operated at the ṭabәya level to increase awareness about women’s issues and to communicate rural women’s problems to the Women’s Affairs Office at the wäräda level (larger district). The female clients of these associations expressed different levels of dissatisfaction with the WAs. In one of the villages, there was discernible antagonism between a segment in the female population and the secretary of the association. One woman posited that the secretary had lied about having lost her husband to induce sympathy and to obtain her current position. Generally, the WA secretaries in the countryside of Aksum worked voluntarily; however, they received small stipends to cover transportation costs when they were requested to attend regular meetings or training in the city of Aksum, and

170  Responses to conjugal abuse this was considered an incentive for women to take on the post. Complaints by men about WAs consisted in a single observation that these failed to engage men on issues regarding women and the family concerning both spouses. In the other village, the secretary had just been replaced and the new secretary happened to be the wife of a local priest. I knew the woman personally and I had heard her express dedication for her new post. She once described to me the support that the WA granted to women who sought help: “If they come, we go together with them. We ask their husbands why they act the way they do, and we ask them not to repeat it. We are like this.” However, if the female clients did not wish to file a report, the WA had limited room for action. The secretary mentioned the case of a woman who had recently confided in her that she faced abuse at home. The secretary had advised the woman to report the situation to the police, but time went by and no action was taken. She explained to me that she could not possibly report the woman’s husband without her permission: “We cannot go by our own initiative (to the social courts or police). This is not allowed.” Such a move would betray their friendship and would be considered unacceptable behaviour in the local society. Regardless of whether or not WA secretaries were individually dedicated to the post or not, then, the effectiveness of the association was clearly a function of many parameters, including informal norms that governed local standards of confidentiality and permissible or ethical behaviour.

The mediation of family, elders and neighbours In addition to the more formal institutions, interlocutors spoke about the role of parents in the resolution of conjugal problems. When a couple faced problems, it was the norm for the faulted partner to ask parents and elders to intervene. A female interlocutor said: “If there is argument, we tell our fathers/parents. They ask him why he is angry. I tell them why we fight.” The different testimonies collected suggested mixed impressions about the effectiveness of such intervention mechanisms, as highlighted in one woman’s comment: If I advise him, he does not listen. His own family also advises him a lot. But, he does not listen. His father and mother have even arrived to tell him that he is not their child. But, he does not listen. He is a very difficult person. The possible mediation of the family could simply be unsuccessful; on the other hand, women could be too ashamed to share their ordeals even with relatives, as another woman suggested: “She says there is nothing. She keeps quiet. She tells that all is good. If she starts to experience abuse, she does not tell her father and her mother.”

Responses to conjugal abuse   171 Other interlocutors referred to the mediation of elders (sing. šәmagәlle; ሽማግሌ) for the resolution of conjugal abuse. A narrative by a battered woman suggested that elders could act proactively if the life of the woman was in danger. In line with the traditional procedure, elders intervened to reconcile her and her husband, but since he did not listen and continued to drink and to act unpredictably, they assertively put an end to their relationship: [W]hen he got worse, I pressed charges against him. The appointment with the court was the 24th of January. But he came late at night, drunk. Then the elders feared that he might kill me so they stayed the night with me. In the morning, they told him: “You disrupted the neighbours, you will divorce her.” Then they got us divorced. He went back to the city. As in this case, narratives that mentioned the elders were usually situations that entailed divorce, which the elders mediated for fairness, and less so in narratives about constructive resolution. Neighbours and onlookers could also intervene to stop assaults. A research participant who was interviewed in London narrated that when she was young her father had repeatedly helped their female neighbour, who had more than once sought refuge in their home from her abusive husband. At the village, one woman observed: “[I]n this society when there is physical violence the neighbours interfere to help.” Another woman reported: “Some people have problems in their marriage. They hit each other and by screaming they bother their neighbours and we go to their house to help them [to become peaceful].” Other reports suggested a hesitation among people to intervene in the private affairs of a couple without sufficient excuse. One man said that when people heard about conjugal abuse in a home, they told each other to leave the couple alone. Another man affirmed: “However, neither you nor I can solve the problem. They have to resolve it alone.” There were also accounts like the following made by a female interlocutor: “There was a woman [who died] who was physically violated. But people say her husband used to hit her. But there are no bruises on her body and we don’t know how she died.” This testimony suggests that people could have an idea of who was being assaulted in their close surroundings and that they probably watched out for marks that would justify their intervention. However, in the case that no visible injuries could be ascertained, such interventions were not expected to happen. It must also be considered that even in situations where neighbours or onlookers intervened to deter an assault, they were limited in what they could do due to local codes of conduct and fear of retaliation. This was highlighted in a story told by an elderly man, who had served as a TPLF soldier: There was a young woman who used to bake ’әnǧәra for me. […] She is very kind; when it rains she invites people who pass by her house to

172  Responses to conjugal abuse enter and wait until the rain stops. She believes that house is of God and people should be given service into it. One day, as usual, she allowed passers­-​­by to wait in her house until the rain stopped. The rain however did not stop, it became very late night and they slept there. After they left in the following day early in the morning, her husband complained that the people had taken a robe with them and that she was responsible for that because she made them enter into the house and sleep there. He insulted her and was about to hit her. I advised him to be calm and to consider the consequences of his action by telling him that it was not her fault and she is kind to him and others. But he got angry at me and said “it is none of your business.” This story not only affirms the problem of spousal violence, but also demonstrates that people, and specifically men, could interfere to deter other men from assaulting their wives. However, it shows that even such interventions had limited effect if the perpetrator was uncooperative. Additionally, it may be noted that the speaker was an elderly man addressing a presumably middle­-​­aged male. Despite his seniority, which should typically grant him more authority and respect by those younger to him, the husband spoke back with clear disrespect. Interfering further could get the neighbour in trouble and result in a physical fight. One can understand, then, that despite the possibility of interference, people showing willingness to stop an assault and the postulated influence of the elders in the local society, there were some boundaries that outsiders could simply not overstep.

The salience of the clergy in marriage While the formal and informal institutional parameters described above were usually spoken about in terms of their limitations to reverse conjugal abuse, the clergy were almost invariably valued for their mediation to resolve married life problems. This was established unquestionably in the context of the workshops, when participants identified influential local institutions that they resorted to when facing marital problems. In Table 7.1 are presented the results from four different workshops held with rural residents. The age range was 20–58 with the highest average achieved at the workshop held with women (38.45 years of age). As the table shows, participants largely agreed on the primacy of the faith and the priests/the spiritual father in society and marriage specifically. One male participant, for example, explained that due to his faith, “I don’t go to the local court when I get into conflicts with people.” This should be understood in reference to the indigenous Christian worldview that encouraged conflicts to be resolved discreetly, preferably showing a forgiving attitude to avoid fostering hostility, resentment or grudges. The variation in the listing of schools/teachers, social courts and the police evidenced that

Responses to conjugal abuse   173 Table 7.1 Most influential institutions laypeople resorted to when facing conjugal problems Male workshop participants in Village 1, 30 April 2017

1. Haymanot/priests 2. Social court 3. Health unit/doctor or social court 4. Elders 5. Secular school/teachers Female workshop 1. If there is a problem, the solution would be the court participants in 2. By the advice of the spiritual father Village 2, 26 3. By speaking out and communicating the problem in the February 2017 borrowing association (’әdәr) Male workshop 1. Haymanot/priests participants in 2. Elders Village 2, 23 April 3. Secular school 2017 4. Health unit 5. Police 6. Social court Female workshop 1. Haymanot/priests participants in 2. Secular school Village 2, 21 3. Health unit/hospital February 2017 4. Local social court 5. Borrowing association (’әdәr) 6. Elders

the influence of these institutions has been expanding in recent years and preferences are still fluid. Some of my interlocutors listed governmental schools/teachers or the courts ahead of the elders, who had been traditionally very prominent. Most participants were also part of small borrowing groups (sing. ’әdәr; እድር), and this could provide an additional outlet for help if the group was functional and the members in good terms with each other. The reasons that made clergy central in these discussions were firstly practical, as highlighted in this woman’s comment: “In the Orthodox Church one can’t do without a priest. It is impossible to be in wedlock without a spiritual father.” A male interlocutor stressed the importance of clergy when conjugal crises emerged: “[Y]ou will have your spiritual father who is on call on emergency. The spiritual father is like God. One can’t be allowed to do wrong. One has to confess to the priest.” Another male interlocutor thought that the guidance they received from their spiritual fathers was useful and beneficial: “Yes we think that it is useful. These priests, our fathers, come and they say: ‘This is good, this is how you should be.’ If they tell us, we take it as useful.” Another male interlocutor opined: “It is good for priests to teach the people at church; and people ask the advice of the priests in order to improve themselves.” So deep was the respect of the laity for the clergy that one man affirmed casually that “people in this culture learn to say that priests are always

174  Responses to conjugal abuse right; they do not allow themselves to judge the priests”. Such statements would have many nodding, but rural residents were not unaware of shortfalls in priests’ own lives and marriages and did not necessarily follow their injunctions if they were not inspired by them. A woman in the village shared the following narrative: There was one priest who separated from his wife. He was in the church and performed the Sacraments. But afterwards, they were advised by the elders and now they are back together. But, a priest is not allowed to divorce. However, because this particular priest and his wife had [serious] problems in their house, it was allowed for them to get divorced. But [this was] not because it is allowed [for priests] to get divorced. If the priest tries to teach in church about not getting divorced, the people will accuse him of the same thing. They will say, “You didn’t do the right thing, you did not keep your marriage, instead you got divorced, so how can you teach me to not get divorced when you couldn’t even do it yourself!” There are people who told him this and who did not listen to his teachings. This account may have been exaggerated or distorted due to mouth­ -​­ to­ -​ ­mouth transmission, but it made evident awareness among the laity that not all priests led an exemplary life. It also suggests that priests who did not embody Church teaching risked losing their credibility with the laity. The woman’s description also suggested that the faithful could reject a priest openly if he failed to act with godliness. One man made the pertinent comment: “[T]here are priests who are bad. We ask ourselves how can they help the people to improve when they are like this? However, there are some very good priests.” Still, regardless of how willing people were to confront the priests about personal deficiencies and their failure to embody religious teachings, the conviction remained strong that the priests generally taught/spoke the teachings of the Church. This was conveyed best in the remark of one woman: “Who knows what they have inside their marriages. But because what they teach is the word of God it is right; they have to teach it.” The effect of the priests on people’s marriages could be curtailed not only by priests’ own failures to match the Church ideals and to inspire others, but also by people’s own limited comprehension of the priests’ teachings. A woman during a maḫbär in Aksum admitted to me that while she listens to the preaching in church, she forgets everything as soon as she returns home. She explained that as a girl she had been excluded from Church education and had difficulty retaining and understanding the teachings of the clergy. In parallel, not everyone showed the same motivation to listen attentively to Church teachings or to embody them in their everyday life, as will be discussed in subsequent chapters. Thus, in appraising the role of the clergy in conjugal abuse, it is important to remember that the

Responses to conjugal abuse   175 implications of their discourses were always also determined by people’s own ability and motivation to receive whatever messages were imparted, as well as to embody them.

The discourses of rural clergy life and linkages with conjugal abuse Clergy discourses were explored both in interviews with the clergy and the laity and by observing how clergy spoke in public spaces or events. Living in the village, I found that the clergy generally participated in marriage ceremonies, other life­ -​­ cycle events and the religious gatherings. It was also typical for priests and teachers to gather after Sunday liturgy in the local church yard and to discuss local church matters, fundraise to cover church bills, teach and resolve conflicts that arose in the community. I attended many of these sessions and listened attentively to the preaching, which was mostly about the faith and proper Christian conduct in everyday life. Conjugal matters and sensitive topics related to abusiveness were not discussed in public. Laypeople’s private testimonies suggested that teaching occurred in private sessions, such as when the spiritual father visited homes to attend a maḫbär and used the opportunity also to ask the couple how they got along and to reiterate Church commandments about their marriage. Another context was when the priest was invited to mediate spousal disagreement or other problems. Theoretically, the laity could visit the priests at church during weekdays as well, but churches were often closed due to priests attending to other matters. Marriage practices and virginity As it was presented in Chapter 6, in the rural communities people married primarily by the Holy Matrimony if they met the stipulations of the clergy, or by the qal kidan ceremony as per custom, in which clergy were again present and gave their blessing. While the clergy and the laity alike were aware that the government considered the conventional age of 15 for girls to be illegal, no priest opposed openly under­-​­age marriages when these occurred. The relationship between ecclesiastical rules and early marriage in the Orthodox population of Ethiopia needs more research, but it is possible to explore the associations between clergy marriage practices and the continuation of the norm in recent times in Aksum. The clergy’s involvement in customary marriages co­ -​­ existed with an undeniable emphasis placed on bodily virginity as the main precondition for the Holy Matrimony. Various testimonies suggested that the priests had been historically suspicious of the laity and were very rigid with the stipulation of virginity, deterring people from a church marriage. One priest commented: “People before were afraid to marry [in church]. They did not come because the priests did not want to wed them. Thus, people married

176  Responses to conjugal abuse in the culture, the cultural way.” A local deacon stated that, as per convention, people who are not virgins cannot marry by Qᵂәrban in church. He confirmed that such couples traditionally married by qal kidan in their homes in the presence of elders and the spiritual father. Similarly, a priest and church teacher observed that “the law forbids people who lost their virginity to get married in the church; they can go to confession and get married outside the church by qal kidan and have a good marriage.” Such testimonies seem to exclude any possibility that clergy traditionally performed penitential marriages in church. Efforts to make the Sacrament of marriage more accessible were reported to me in recent times. One deacon confirmed that the Church allowed everyone to marry in church by the ring ceremony, which should result in the couple taking Holy Communion together after proper penance if they were not virgins. Another priest mentioned that couples who had not preserved their virginity “will only have the prayer of Fәtḥa Zäwäld and be sprinkled with holy water”. A few priests traced the re­-​­establishment of the marriage by Qᵂәrban for non­-​­virgins to an encyclical that had been reportedly issued by the Church over a decade ago (inconsistent dates). This affirmed that local clergy could perform the church marriage with variations based on whether one of the parties, or both bride and groom, had abstained from pre­ -​­ marital relations or not. One priest reasoned that people who came into church to marry were not all the same, some “clean” and some “with sins”, and that a different approach had to be taken with each group of people. Still, the testimonies of both laypeople and clergy suggested that the ceremony that was performed involved, paradoxically, some form of crowning (’aklil) but omitted the Holy Communion. Second marriages were still unlikely to be performed by rural priests. This preoccupation with bodily virginity in marriage was again illustrated in a discussion with a rural church teacher who had been trained in Gondar. On one occasion, I asked him why the tradition had stipulated the requirement of bodily virginity in view of the discouraging effect it seemed to have on the laity and the objective of the faith to serve as a medium of spiritual healing for all, which should not judge people by their bodily sins. He responded that both spiritual and physical virginity were important in the local tradition. However, he also seemed to suggest that in the context of the Holy Matrimony, the former (spiritual virginity) was predicated on the latter (bodily virginity). This was implied in his rhetorical question: For example, a person who kept their bodily virginity, he or she will be said to have virginity of the spirit, but if they lost the virginity of their body, how could they be said to have virginity of the spirit? In the conversation that ensued he agreed that his question assumed the spiritual state of the individual on the basis of a material parameter, which is curiously at odds with a theology that propounds faith as salvific for the

Responses to conjugal abuse   177 sinful individual, but he remained convinced that physical purity was the underlayer of spiritual purity and should be rewarded with the täklil. Other priests recognised that the emphasis on bodily virginity was problematic because it could incentivise some people to preserve their virginity for ‘worldly’ reasons or to lie about it. Ecclesiastically speaking, when couples told priests that they were virgins and wanted to have a church marriage, priests were expected to accept their word as true. However, given the pressure that most people felt to appear honourable in the local society, some could be understandably hesitant to admit their actual situations. A priest highlighted exactly this possibility when he said that “some would conceal the fact that they are not virgins and will get married by the täklil, which is against the law and the teachings of the Church”. This was asserted also by a layman, who remarked: “Others who are not consistent, they go everywhere, doing what God dislikes and claim to be a virgin. They are on and off with the Church and they confuse the Church.” While the emphasis on bodily virginity as a precondition for the Holy Matrimony derives from the Church’s traditional canons, the Church has also spoken in the same breath of spiritual virginity, such as in the pronouncement of the physical, spiritual and mental cleanliness of St Mary.3 While the holiness of the Virgin Mary is incomparable, the tradition also speaks of achieving likeness with God, which means that living a holy life should not be prohibitive to any adherent. The emphasis placed primarily or almost exclusively on bodily virginity in the context of the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony, then, could partially reflect the Church’s rigid responses to polygamy and promiscuity historically. The emphasis being placed on bodily virginity by the wider society could be leading some people to abuse these stipulations for fear of being shamed. A female interlocutor affirmed once that the established socio­-​­cultural practice was for older women to check females for virginity at the time of their marriage. While conducting research in London, I came across an older woman at one of the Ethiopian churches I attended, who expressed polemical criticisms of the Church’s offering of the Holy Matrimony to non­-​­virgins. Regardless of what nurtured the clergy’s stance on physical purity, it is important to acknowledge a possible link between this persistent ecclesiastical discourse and early marriages among the laity. It is not unlikely that these were partially encouraged by a desire to secure the girl’s virginity, along with other practical motivations. While it may be true that the local clergy stressed that both bride and groom must preserve their virginity, this gender neutral­-​­message is likely to have been distorted by a society that already thought in gendered terms and prioritised female virginity. In addition, the rigid precondition for bodily virginity as expressed in the discourses of many priests and church teachers and their general leniency regarding the age of marriage, in agreement with previous studies from ­Ethiopia that have reported deacons seeking to marry very young girls to ensure their virginity,4 offer grounds to think that some members of the

178  Responses to conjugal abuse clergy themselves might have contributed to a level of adherence to folklore standards. Teachings about the conjugal relationship While the clergy generally taught the ‘word of God’, their pronouncements differed according to their level of understanding, theological training and personal attitudes. More learned members of the clergy thought that priests did not have sufficient training to be able to teach effectively. A learned märigeta in one of the villages remarked: “The priests are the ones who often teach but, because they haven’t learned much besides what they use for liturgical services they do not teach in depth, whatever the subject matter may be.” Another prominent member of the clergy affirmed: “Most priests study only the liturgical services.” The fieldwork observations generally support but add nuance to these affirmations. The majority of interviewed priests had not reached the Maşḥaf Bet and had no formal training in the interpretation of the Gospels. Everyone reported having studied well the liturgical aspects of the Qeddase, primarily Wәddase Mariam, Sä’atat, Kidan and Liṭon with different levels of exposure to St  Yared’s Dәggʷa, Zema and ’Aqʷaqʷam. Two priests affirmed to have studied some of the ’andәmta commentary on the four Gospels. Two mentioned having memorised Ge’ez prayers, but the majority did not specify if they had obtained sufficient training in the language. Most affirmed having undergone training for some years as deacons before marrying and becoming ordained as priests. Exceptions included the cases of a learned märigeta and a church teacher (mämhәr) who was also an ordained priest. The märigeta cited six years’ training, with some years in the School of Interpretation, while a church teacher cited 15 years of study overall. Within Church theology women and men have been considered equal in terms of their make and value, although it has been understood that a difference in authority in marriage reflects the Providence of God to preserve harmony in the family. While the Church has not taught about a gendered division of labour, it does uphold an unquestionable understanding of gender duality premised on the story of Genesis. The clergy interviewed in Aksum more or less upheld these views, but with some variation. One church teacher commented: The Bible says [that] man and woman are equal, it is culture (bahәl) that does otherwise. When they get married, they become one body, one in the “likeness” (’amsal; አምሳለ) of God, the money belongs to both equally. They share one attitude, they share the work. Still, there were clergy who made remarks that appeared to cite biblical passages more literally, as in this case: “The Bible says for the wife to do as her husband says, to submit to him, whether she likes it or not. But nowadays,

Responses to conjugal abuse   179 it is changing (women do not submit).” The speaker was an ordained, older priest with a very poor background in exegetical training. The gender­-​­segregated division of labour was central in the local society, and was associated with an unfair division of labour which some interlocutors considered abusive. In general, the laity tended to attribute this unfair division to culture (bahәl), denying that the clergy taught this way. For instance, two rural men with different educational backgrounds affirmed that it was bahәl to segregate labour in rigidly gender­-​­based ways and were adamant of the fact that their haymanot did not teach such a division. A male resident remarked: “It is not by haymanot. It is our habit. Based on lasting tradition woman works her own work and man works his own work. They work their due work. Until now this old habit has not changed.” A male primary school teacher in the village observed that “the Church has always preached equality. Inequality as seen in current gender­-​ ­segregated lifestyles and distribution of authority in the family is the result of cultural practice.” Echoing the laity’s descriptions, all members of the clergy who were interviewed affirmed that the local gender­-​­segregated lifestyle and the traditional division of labour had been a customary norm contradicting religious teachings. A church teacher explain that “because the woman is physically weaker compared to a man and a man is less capable than a woman, they [people] say ‘this is your work, this is my work’. The clergy do not teach like that.” Another priest condemned a gender­-​­based segregation of labour more directly in reference to Church teachings: For example, if she asks him for money, he will not give her without hesitation. If she said: “I am tired fetch water for me” or asked him to watch the kettle while she was doing something else, he would say to her “this is your job”, then he would think to himself “what kind of wife have I married, am I a woman that she would ask me to fetch water and watch the kettle?” But this is not a response of an Orthodox or a spiritual person, especially to his own wife. If he saw another woman in distress and in need of help he would have to help; that is what our holy book commands us to do in this case. If there is a widow raising kids by herself, it is a duty for those who can to support her. A strictly gender­-​­based division of labour was not condoned by the Church because it was understood that marriage needed to be a mutually supportive union where spouses cared for each other. Nonetheless, in the discourses of some of the clergy such apostolic teachings became secondary to Old Testament standards overlapping closely with socio­-cultural ​­ norms, as highlighted in this priest’s comment: A husband is a male, with his father Adam’s race. A wife is a female, her mother Eve’s race. And because God has instructed them to live

180  Responses to conjugal abuse together, based on that, we still follow that rule. […] Because a man cannot live on his own, if he wants to marry or if he wants to live with another person, he has to bring a female who is from Eve’s race. This female works on keeping the household while the male works outside of the house. They marry and then have children, reproduce, create a child who is like them. His description does not necessarily depart from Church teaching, but it pronounces gender roles in such a manner that a gender­-based ​­ division of labour is rather enforced. Rural residents, who relied on clergy discourses to learn about the faith, would be challenged to grasp the subtle differentiation between a divinely instituted gender binary and marital bond, which this priest invoked, and the rigidly gender­-​­segregated division of work that was conventionally upheld in the folklore tradition. Hence, a layman could assert that “haymanot defines man to care for outside work and the wife in the house”. And since the gender­-​­based organisation of life co­-​­existed with ideals of wifehood predicated on a woman’s ability to take charge of her household, give birth and rear many children and other such expectations, these discourses could be indirectly sustaining ideals of womanhood/­ wifehood that already governed the local society. Clergy discourses about the nature of the conjugal relationship could have equally complex connotations. All members of the clergy I interviewed emphasised the lifelong covenant of marriage, invoking Abraham and Sara as the ideal married couple. They taught that one man should stay with one woman until the end of their lifetime and that divorce was sinful. One priest explained that if a man married a woman and then divorced and then married a second woman and then a third, the first woman would be considered his rightful spouse. Major emphasis was also placed on the spouses’ peaceful cohabitation. A priest affirmed that the clergy generally advised people to live in peace and husbands to love their wives, as it was asked in the Bible. Concomitantly with peace, the clergy asked the laity to avoid fighting with spouses, as this priest explained: “Another thing he (the priest) teaches is not to fight in marriage. What’s holy about fighting? There’s no good in fighting. If you fight, it is a sin, it is trouble. It does not lead you to God.” Another affirmed that the clergy always warned people that if they fight, God is not with them; in addition, fighting will result in a bad name for the wife/husband and also in further fighting between the families of the two, creating bad blood. These teachings generally echo the understanding of the Church that marriage is the base of society and must be protected. It also reflects the Church’s teaching on the need for peaceful co­-​­existence with others as a means to achieving the faith’s soteriological aims. When it is considered that much abusive behaviour in the local society was associated with conjugal argument and fighting, these teachings could indirectly serve as a condemnation and deterrence of conjugal abuse. However, it must be considered that

Responses to conjugal abuse   181 unqualified statements pronouncing the importance of marriage as a lifelong covenant or placing indiscriminate emphasis on the preservation of peace could produce undesirable effects in a socio­ -​­ cultural matrix that rigidly expected women to be non­-​­confrontational with their husbands and to preserve their marriages as ‘good’ wives, and where women’s endurance of abuse was already extensive. I never heard members of the clergy teaching openly in ways that would condemn sexual coercion by husbands. It is rather likely that some priests, if not the large majority, espoused the prevalent folklore attitude that expected wives to cater to their husbands’ sexual needs. This was already highlighted in the story of the priest who expressed disbelief that a wife could refuse her husband. Being one flesh, he has said to me, meant that wife and husband should not separate anything, including their bodies. Nominally, this view does not contradict Church theology, but nor is it complete. Within Church theology, the apostolic teaching that husbands should consider themselves the servants of their wives counterbalances the discourse of male authority and establishes that coerced sex cannot be entertained as Christian behaviour. Failing to present marriage as a mutual act of altruistic giving, while emphasising the oneness of wife and husband, could unwittingly nourish more pernicious folklore attitudes regarding marital sex. In sum, gender roles in marriage, peacefulness and marital sex were spoken about by the clergy in ways that did not contradict Church theology and could promote a conjugal relationship of harmonious co­-​­existence, love and mutual sharing. However, when pronounced outside of a comprehensive theological exegetical framework that draws from apostolic teachings on marriage to counterbalance Old Testament understandings that have been emphasised in folklore experience, the overall effect could be the maintenance of norms and attitudes that were associated with some women’s maltreatment in the local society.

Pastoral mediation of conjugal problems and laity responses When marriage problems were encountered, priests and spiritual fathers generally did what they could to advise couples according to the faith. This was best illustrated in the following description given by one priest on the basis of his experience: Now, when she goes to her spiritual father, she will tell him what happened to her. And the spiritual father will go to her home to speak with her husband, asking him what she did wrong and why he said he will divorce her! He will also ask if her husband was beating her and all the things she’s been keeping to herself. He will then analyse the situation. If the wife did wrong, he will tell her that it was her fault and to not repeat the same mistake again. And if the husband did wrong, he will tell him it

182  Responses to conjugal abuse was his fault and not hers. This is how a priest resolves the marriage problem. But, if the conflict continues day and night, he then concludes that they should go to the local court and settle things once and for all. This comment describes the typical mediation approaches of priests in cases of marital problems and suggests that wife­-​­battering was considered likely. Hence, priests would proactively interrogate women if they were being abused by their husbands if they were summoned to advise on any matter of conjugal conflict. If the perpetrator refused to change his pernicious behaviour, research participants reported that the priest could also advise his parents to talk to him to change his behaviour. Other testimonies suggested that priests could take more rigid steps to change the behaviour of the perpetrator, by shaming them or abandoning them to being without a spiritual father. According to a local priest, a person who refused to listen to the spiritual father’s advice and persisted in his/her harmful ways could be excluded from Church life until he/she publicly repented. In the case that the party at fault still refused to change their ways, the spiritual father threatened to leave them. A male interlocutor thought that such measures were effective because it was unimaginable in the local society for someone to be without a priest: If the man does not straighten up, the priest will try more; but if the man persists in doing wrong (“wronging” his wife), the priest will find a moment when most villagers congregate at a festival or some other event and the priest will declare in public that he has withdrawn his services from that man. As you know, in our haymanot one can’t even stay one night without having a confessor. It is taboo (unheard of). After being dismissed, the man will beg another priest saying “please host me for a night” (’aḥәdruni; ኣሕድሩኒ). It is difficult to get one unless one promises genuinely [to change]. However, it may be noted that even though spiritual fathers abandoned believers who were unreceptive to their counsel, numerous interlocutors suggested that people soon found a new priest, often by moving to another place or when they remarried. In addition, priests themselves did not appear to insist on their spiritual advice being observed if someone chose to follow their own mind and not the rules of the Church, as highlighted in this priest’s comment: “The Church tells the priest that if they (the people) don’t listen, he should let them go.” One woman’s narrative echoed this: But the spiritual father said, “Don’t divorce, reconcile with each other, and make your marriage work,” but he (her husband) said (to the priest): “I am not going to do what you said.” Then, the spiritual father said: “If you are going to do differently than what I told you to do, then you can do as you think best.” Then they gave their consent.

Responses to conjugal abuse   183 These statements start to expose the deeper theological premise of this tradition that one should freely choose to follow the laws of God guided by one’s conscience and that these should not be forced upon them. Priests know very well that they cannot coerce anyone into following the Church standards, unless the individuals themselves wish to do so, as highlighted in one layman’s explanation: But our haymanot teaches us: “If you do not want to listen to God, it is up to you” (nrә’әsḵa ’aytbәl; ንርእስኻ አይትብል). So, the priests accept what people tell them and they are not judgmental because this is what the Bible says (“Take what is said to you”). For example, I can cheat them (priests) unless I have enough conscience to scrutinise myself. If I do not have a conscience, I can cheat them. While priests could take public or private measures to apply pressure on spiritual children to change, they did not generally insist or interrogate believers for their claims. This created room for people to manipulate them, if they so wished to do. In the case of wife­-​­battery mentioned at the beginning of this chapter the priest had advised the woman against separating and this could be associated with the widely postulated norm of women enduring harmful conjugal situations. All other testimonies, however, suggested that priests did not indiscriminately insist that women show forbearance. A priest stressed that when there was a problem in the marriage caused by the husband, the woman was not blamed or made to feel guilty, which could risk keeping her in her abusive marriage: Yes, it (divorce) is not allowed. If the husband is at fault, the wife has nothing to do with it. She is not the one who caused the problem. But tradition hasn’t changed yet. The husband can do and live as he wishes, but the wife can’t. […] It needs effort to change the attitude. Yes, it will add another sin for her, it won’t be right. So we tell the husband he’s the one at fault, he’s the one who is behaving in a bad way and that he’s causing all the problems. And we advise him to change his ways. In the marriage described, the husband left his lawful wife, which the priest tried to address by involving the family of the man, speaking to him directly and reminding him of the sinfulness of his action. He explained that in this case the wife was not held responsible, nor was she asked to tolerate the pernicious behaviour. Other testimonies demonstrated that the spiritual father could even offer material support to help a woman in distress, without again preoccupying too much with forbearance. One woman narrated the following: Yes, we had one (spiritual father). But the husband left. He (spiritual father) told him to return. But, he did not listen. So, the spiritual father

184  Responses to conjugal abuse could not do anything. Because nobody holds a person against their will, he (the spiritual father) said to me: “Don’t worry, I am here for you, you’re going to stay with me.” And I’m staying with them (the spiritual father and his family). This needs to be appraised in conjunction with the understanding that most women had been traditionally dependent on their husbands for their own and their children’s sustenance. A husband’s departure, which could combine with his refusal to pay child maintenance, put the wife and her children in material uncertainty. If the woman had no living relatives to return to for support and no schooling to find some paid work, her situation could be hopeless. Without a salary she could not pay the rent of her village residence and would soon be evicted. This was probably the situation that this woman had found herself in when her husband left: with six children to care for and no sustainable livelihood. The priest responded by inviting her to stay with his family. These narratives construct a considerably more nuanced picture than the one assumed in the scholarship.5 While some clergy did advise the preservation of marriage and some abused women could be affected by this counsel, clergy did not generally become preoccupied with the preservation of marriage because they understood that women were made helpless by the pernicious behaviour of the men. Many were clearly predisposed to prioritising the women’s well­-being. ​­ Women themselves did not appear to be acting solely or uncritically on the basis of the clergy’s advice, albeit valuing the faith­-​­based counsel. This was best highlighted in the narrative of the following woman: Priests teach in church to be in the ways of the religion so that a lot of grace will come our way. Priests teach: “Women be only with your husbands (be loyal). If you have some money, spend it in your home; if you don’t have any, you must live patiently. A wife should not undervalue her husband. And follow your parents’ path (i.e. follow the proper steps; do not resort to other ways, e.g. marriage by elopement). Yes we understand your issues, you are the ones who give birth, or you are rearing children, you might face problems, but you shouldn’t be waiting (relying exclusively) on your husbands. Otherwise, your husbands will say: ‘We’ll never let you go.’ ” I asked my spiritual father some things such as: “You said that we wives shouldn’t be waiting on our husbands, but we wives face a lot of problems,” and my spiritual father said to me: “If it is hard for you, should he then become a thief or an outlaw!” So yes, a woman lives under a lot of pressure. While she understood the rationale behind the priest’s advice, she still felt that this was a lot of pressure for women to live with. The expectation to be

Responses to conjugal abuse   185 supportive of husbands, to be considerate to the man’s stresses in view of gender­-​­specific roles and duties and to bear with the material strains of everyday life seemed to be experienced as a particularly cumbersome reality by her. Nonetheless, she tried to be patient for both faith­-​­related and other reasons. She explained: In your marriage if He (God) gives you something to eat and to drink, then, it’s important to stay in your marriage. She doesn’t know who she will end up with next time, whether she will be more comfortable or more troubled. She has to stay in her marriage. For example, my mother and father have passed away, so I have nowhere to go [but to stay in my current marriage]. She reasoned thus that she should be thankful to God for what she has and should remain loyal and committed to her spouse. Seeking a better or perfect marriage would show ungratefulness and could place the woman in a worse situation since the next man could turn out to be more problematic than the first. Having no parental home to return to, she had no option but to remain in the current marriage, even if she had to deal with poverty and a less­-​­supportive husband. The sequence in the woman’s comments suggest that she tried to adapt her thinking to the understanding of her spiritual father, but still she did not accept the counsel uncritically. This and other similar testimonies show that women should not be considered mere recipients of priestly advice, but as pragmatic thinkers who assessed the advice received in view of their material conditions and constraints. Contrary to the widely attested problem of clergy denial that domestic violence exists in their congregations or unhelpful attitudes toward victims,6 many of the priests I spoke to in Aksum were not only aware of the problem, but also proactively asked women about it and were prepared to respond by mediating. Moreover, for theological reasons they avoided applying pressure to uncooperative or problematic husbands. Many of the priests recognised their limitations and if they thought that the situation was dangerous or could get out of hand, they sent the couple to elders or the social court to proceed with divorce. Despite variations in attitudes and preparedness to talk about conjugal abuse, there was an undeniable sense of pragmatism that governed local priests’ responses to conjugal problems. Still, it is not unlikely that the clergy’s focus on marriage, which ideally needed to be experienced as a lifelong and peaceful affair, might have put additional pressure on women in problematic relationships. Already in the local society it was considered a wife’s expectation and duty to be non­-​ ­confrontational with her husband and to avoid conflict in marriage at all times. In such a context, a wife who was advised to show patience with her husband could hesitate to act to redress her situation. In other words,

186  Responses to conjugal abuse if women who were advised to be patient with their husbands were told this without priests also clarifying that marriage should be premised on mutual love, respect and giving, it is possible that it could reinforce attitudes of forbearance among women, even women in highly abusive situations.

Notes 1 A. Gessessew and M. Mesfin, “Rape and Related Health Problems in Adigrat Zonal Hospital, Tigray Region, Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 18, no.  3(2004): 140–144; T. Yigzaw, A. Yibric and Y. Kebede, “Domestic Violence around Gondar in Northwest Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development, 18, no.  3(2004): 133–139. DOI: 10.4314/ejhd.v18i3.9846; A. Semahegn and B.  Mengistie, “Domestic Violence against Women and Associated Factors in ­Ethiopia. Systematic Review”, Reproductive Health 12, no. 78(2015). DOI: 10.1186/ s12978­-​­015­-​­0072­-​­1; Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia and the DHS Program ICF, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2016”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA, 313. 2 For example, G. Megerssa, “The Role of Religion in Violence against Women”, in Reflections, Documentation of the Forum on Gender, edited by Panos and HBF, No. 7, 2002. 3 A. Tefera, “Mariology in the EOTC Tradition: Special Emphasis on Dәrsan Șәyon”, Journal of Ethiopian Church Studies 2(August 2012): 83. 4 N. Jones, T. Bekele, J. Stephenson, T. Gupta and P. Pereznieto with G. Emire, B. Gebre and K. Gezhegne, “Early Marriage and Education: The Complex Role of Social Norms in Shaping Ethiopian Adolescent Girls’ Lives”, Country Report, Overseas Development Institute, 2014, 37. 5 J. Hammond, Sweeter than Honey: Testimonies of Tigrayan Women (Oxford, London and Newcastle: Third World First, 1989); H. Pankhurst, Gender, Development and Identity: An Ethiopian Study (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1992); Panos Ethiopia and HBF, Reflections: Documentation of the Forum on Gender, No. 7, 2002; Jones et al., “Early Marriage”. 6 A. J. Johnson, ed., Religion and Men’s Violence against Women (Springer: New York, 2015); N. Nason­-​­Clark, B. Fisher­-​­Townsend, C. Holtmann and S. McMullin, Religion and Intimate Partner Violence: Understanding the Challenges and Proposing Solutions (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018); K. Aune and R. Barnes, “In Churches Too: Church Responses to Domestic Abuse – A case study of Cumbria”, Coventry: Coventry University & Leicester: University of Leicester, 2018.

8 Faith, culture and social norms

The Church evolved and developed in socio­ -​­ cultural and political conditions that deeply influenced its structure and discourses. Theologically speaking, the faith tradition may be described as a holistic way of life in light of a current condition and an ultimate objective. Here the reference point is humanity’s fall from grace, and the aim is restoration of its relationship with God, the Father, and the achievement of salvation and eternal life. According to the Church, God’s commandments should be lived holistically in all spheres of life, shaping thoughts and attitudes and guiding decisions and behaviour. The embedding of this tradition in local cultural life and the understanding of theology as everyday praxis anticipated a close relationship with social norms and practices. Some overlaps between Church discourses and marriage norms and standards have already been discussed in Chapter 7, which showed that clergy discourses could be influenced by and reinforce vernacular folklore norms and lifestyles, with implications for the continuation and alleviation of conjugal abuse. The aim of this chapter is to contribute to current social norms theories that attempt to explain the continuation of intimate partner violence by developing a more nuanced analytical framework for this society.1 As I discussed in the Introduction, these theories have remained fundamentally bounded in Anglo­ -​­ American understandings of ‘religion’, affected by ­Western Europe’s relegation of the latter to the private sphere, and cannot reveal the complex mechanisms that are at play in societies that never experienced post­-​­Enlightenment secularisation. In such context, demarcations between religious belief and public culture may be totally irrelevant. In the research sites of Northern Ethiopia, the religious tradition encompassed a worldview and a historical memory that defined individual and collective identities, cultivated societal and individual standards of morality and governed vernacular practices. A strict separation between ‘culture’ and ‘religion’ or religious and social norms in everyday life would not capture the complex relationships observed in the discourses and practices of the people and their implications for conjugal abuse in this society. Nonetheless, my interlocutors still distinguished between faith (haymanot) and culture (bahәl), albeit describing these as being integrally intertwined in

188  Faith, culture and social norms vernacular life. Importantly, how people perceived the relationship between haymanot and bahәl influenced how they understood and responded to social norms and religious practices around them. This was most effectively illustrated in discourses around the religious gatherings that were regularly convened for the veneration of saints or other religious celebrations. These were also related to the widely affirmed problem of excessive alcohol consumption, as an important risk factor for conjugal abuse. Examining how the laity juxtaposed social norms to their religio­-​­cultural worldview helps to delineate some of the more subtle mechanisms that appeared to be perpetuating the normative framework, but also evidences that attitudinal changes have been occurring discreetly without antagonising openly the locally authoritative discourse and practice. These subtle mechanisms of attitudinal change, currently missed in generic theoretical frameworks from the West, could be reducing risk factors or weakening norms conducive to certain forms of conjugal abuse.

Researching the local religio­-​­cultural cosmology In my commitment not to demarcate spheres of life on the basis of western epistemology and societal experience, I approached the investigation of the local religio­-​­cultural cosmology and context holistically, interdependently and multi­-​­dimensionally, as evidenced in my terminological choices. The appropriateness of this approach was validated soon in my fieldwork, which revealed the impossibility of separating non­-​­religious spheres of life from religious spheres because religious symbolism, norms and meanings were pervasive. Many of my participants in fact asserted confidently that that theirs was a ‘religious culture’ (haymanotawi bahәl) and were defensive if one suggested otherwise. This widespread conceptualisation notwithstanding, local people still distinguished between bahәl and haymanot even though they perceived these to be intertwined in vernacular life. Such distinctions raised my curiosity to explore how my interlocutors understood these concepts and defined their boundaries, especially since the dyad was often invoked in discourses of conjugal abuse or gender asymmetries and their rationalisations. In later stages of fieldwork I asked my interlocutors to elaborate on how they understood their ‘correct/proper Orthodox faith’ (tәkәkkәl ’Orthodoks haymanot; ትክክል ኦርቶዶክስ ሃይማኖት). Numerous people thought that in the past their customs had been in full harmony with haymanot, but that the ‘religious’ character of their bahәl had gradually declined due to a hybridisation of local culture with western values and norms transferred with globalisation. The influence of secular ways and thinking was associated with an increasingly feeble embodiment of religious customs and traditions by people in the local community. This viewpoint, which was espoused also by many religious scholars, despite its partial accuracy, did not capture the complex connotations enclosed in the concepts of bahәl and ’Orthodoks haymanot and the diverse ways in which people related to their religious tradition.

Faith, culture and social norms   189 Researching local meanings of bahәl proved one of the most challenging aspects of this study because of my interlocutors’ widespread habit to speak in examples and to provide ambiguous or incomplete answers that needed to be deciphered and to be pieced together in a comprehensible framework. Moreover, I felt that in some situations my interlocutors were split between wishing to share with me openly the more problematic aspects of their vernacular realities and fearing that this might lead to essentialist representations of their culture from the outside. For example, while many respondents attributed some men’s misconduct to a certain pernicious attitude or mentality that was sometimes associated with bahәl, my interlocutors never explicitly referred to wider norms of socialisation, society­-​­wide gender­-​­specific norms or other social parameters. Other conversations revealed that bahәl connoted different things to different people. For example, some identified with bahәl the highly valued tradition of elders intervening when couples faced problems in their marriage. Others referred to the religious gatherings for the veneration of saints (maḫbär; ማኅበር) as bahәl. Since these were often criticised as having lost their spiritual character and being reproduced out of social ‘habit’ (lәmdi; ልምዲ), the notion of bahәl was given more negative connotations. In general, when my interlocutors spoke about haymanot, they referred to their religious heritage and the glorious Aksumite history, Church teachings or the word of God and moral values and standards that should be embodied holistically. It was not surprising that most respondents reiterated to me what they had heard priests teaching in church or had learned from their spiritual fathers. These teachings came in the form of prescriptions, such as go to church and listen to its teachings, respect the one­-​­to­-​ ­one covenant of marriage, live in peace with your spouse, do not syphon (‘eat’) other people’s money, keep the fasts, do not divorce and do not argue because God is not with you. Members of the laity who knew a little more about the Church and its history often added that the faith has been grounded in the teachings of the Early Church Fathers. The sinfulness of humanity and desired state of ‘Eternal Life’ (yäzälä’äläm ḥәywät; የዘለዐለም ሕይወት) were universal premises that everyone in the local society could and did articulate. Apart from these premises, however, no other explanations of haymanot invoked the dogmatics and exegetical language reviewed in Chapter 4. Most interlocutors displayed an experience­-​­based understanding of the faith and a faith­ -​­ based conceptualisation of human life, without eschewing some syncretism with local beliefs about the spiritual world that cannot be traced entirely to an Orthodox cosmology.

The haymanot/bahәl dyad vis­-​­à­-​­vis social norms The way in which haymanot was associated with bahәl depended on who my interlocutors were and, especially, their exposure to more informed perspectives on Church theology. The typical position among my rural

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interlocutors was that their bahәl was also their haymanot. A more critical position was also articulated: haymanot as having become somehow acculturated or being practised at times as thoughtless tradition. These attitudes could be placed along a broad spectrum with the left-hand side representing a viewpoint that considered social norms to align perfectly with the faith and that was resistant to any changes, and the right-hand side equating a perspective that advocated for a redefinition of the vernacular religious tradition. While the latter viewpoint drew from Orthodox teachings, it did so in diverse ways (see Figure 8.1). The following section provides a closer look into this spectrum, evidencing the difficulty of pinning down neat categories or boundaries. For this analysis, I juxtapose discourses of rural laity and clergy to discourses of more learned clergy, Maḫәbärä Qәdusan attendants and urban residents in Aksum since no single point on the continuum could be equated to any one group. Position that pronounced faith as cultural heritage and moral norms On the leftmost edge of the spectrum were located interlocutors who pronounced faith as their distinct heritage and identity. This religious heritage was usually talked about in conjunction with societal moral norms. Pronouncements in this conceptual range made few distinctions (if at all) between haymanot and bahәl, with the latter being generally perceived in positive terms. This position emerged in the discourses of rural interlocutors who spoke about their tәkәkkәl ’Orthodoks haymanot as being indigenous to Ethiopia, the only faith that they had inherited and that was unquestionably theirs. These interlocutors could also affirm that haymanot had been historically strong in Aksum and that it continued to be so in current times. One man observed: “Haymanot among the people has been here for a long time. It is known; we have a known church here. We believe it (have faith in it)

Faith, culture and social norms   191 without any doubt.” He then spoke of the ancient history of the faith: “There is no other haymanot we accept other than what we’ve been raised in. We call Mary our Mother. We do not know any other.” It is important to observe that St Mary was mentioned both because in this tradition she is given the most prominent place as the Mother of God and intercessor, and because she was considered the protectress of Aksum. During one all­-​­male focus­-​­group discussion in the villages, a participant remarked: “Aksum, starting from the ancient times, has been a Christian region. And ’Ortodoks haymanot had a stronger and deeper root in Aksum. Blessed Virgin Mary is here too.” Such statements begin to suggest that faith was not conceived outside of people’s regional/local heritage and history. Simultaneously, the local religious tradition was associated with personal conscience and moral conduct. The man who referred to St Mary being present “here” also added: For example, if I want to steal someone else’s money, my morals punish me because of my haymanot. Because haymanot doesn’t support lying, stealing … and the likes. Haymanot has the highest value in Tigray, especially in Aksum. So haymanot is given the highest place. He located thus the religious tradition and faith in his personal values dictating that he should not steal or lie and “punishing” him if he acted against the laws of God. At the same workshop another man explained: “The Christian people here understand what killing or stealing is. This is because, starting from our childhood, priests have been teaching us what is good and what is not.” In the local society it was common practice for people to be raised within a Christian ethos. After being baptised, children would be typically introduced to “the laws in the Bible” and to fasting as early as seven years old. Like other interlocutors, he made a direct linkage between becoming baptised (a Church Sacrament), fasting (a Church practice) and moral conduct (personal values and standards of behaviour). His testimony highlighted a more general belief that early initiation to Church life combined with the praxis of important religious norms resulted in the cultivation of personal morals or what participants called ‘conscience’ [ḫәllina (ኅሊና)].2 It was also not unusual for local people to make more explicit statements that their ancient faith was also their culture (bahәl). This was best exemplified in some discourses regarding the typical religious gathering (maḫbär). On one such occasion, a woman characteristically asserted that the maḫbär reflected both “our bahәl and our haymanot”, an attitude that was discernibly shared by many rural residents. In various instances, interlocutors identified bahәl with “good” traditions, such as one man who referred to the “culture (bahәl) of helping each other and sharing the work”. Another man associated cultural values that prioritised peacefulness and non­ -​­ violence with their faith. These more positive discourses about bahәl seemed to

192  Faith, culture and social norms emanate from interlocutors’ perception that bahәl overlapped with haymanot, or was heavily influenced by it. Interlocutors in this conceptual range relied primarily on what they had learned or heard from the clergy to explain their faith, illustrated in a man’s statement that “people know what the priests have told them”. When asked about their understandings of the ’Ortodoks haymanot, individuals who understood their faith as their unquestioned tradition cited what they had heard the priests teaching them, which was understood to be the “word of God”. Typically, interlocutors in this conceptual category recognised that they needed to keep the commandments of God, but were unlikely to speak of a spiritual way of experiencing the faith. Most interlocutors answered in the lines of a rural woman who explained that according to the faith one must attend church regularly, pray, participate in the mysteries, while married couples must stay together until the end. This reflected the prevalent discursive repertoire of the local clergy as outlined in Chapter 7. Research participants in this side of the spectrum were convinced that the religious tradition continued to be strong in Aksum. However, many spoke of a deteriorated faith which they attributed to a less rigid religious lifestyle, as highlighted in one woman’s comment: “Haymanot in Aksum does not change because there is arduous conviction. It is people’s laziness. Haymanot cannot create bad things.” The problem seemed to be located in people’s problematic religious embodiment and not the vernacular religious practice itself. Some of my interlocutors opined that this had become weaker as a result of the expansion of what was described as a more individualistic and ‘worldly’ (’alämawi; ዓለማዊ) lifestyle, which they associated primarily with ‘modern times’ (zämänawi gize), urbanisation and the advent and expansion of technologies (phone, radio, TV) and secular education. These were not considered necessarily evil, but were described as a ‘temptation’ (fätäna; ፈተና) that could distance people from a traditional faith­-​­based logic and lifestyle. A rural male interlocutor made the following comment: [T]here is no spiritual action (mänfäsawi tägbar; መንፈሳዊ ተግባር). Some people say “whatever comes, comes”. Now (it is all about today); for eating, for drinking, for dancing, nobody knows what tomorrow will bring, so “let me be as I wish” they say. All in all, they say “whatever comes, comes”. The man’s combined use of “spiritual” with “action” evidences that he referred to people living by religious standards and norms. An older man observed that some men postponed having a marriage in church and only completed the Holy Eucharist (Qᵂәrban) when they were old: Do you know what they think? Do you know what they say? Let me tell you: “I am a boy, I am still young. When I become old I will go to take

Faith, culture and social norms   193 Qᵂәrban” they say. But, the time at which God will come cannot be known (so one should always be prepared). A man in his late 40s who would soon be ordained as a priest also noted that: Before, haymanot was extensive/strong (haymanot buzuh näbärä; ሃይማኖት ቡዙህ ነበረ). Even though people had a more simplistic understanding of the teachings of the haymanot, they were strong about coming to church and praying. Now, they are tempted by the new ways and the desire for money. Both these interlocutors found fault in what they perceived to be a diminished sense of piety, which they equated to a feebler embodiment of religious norms. Despite referring to spiritual “action”, it must be underscored that no interlocutor in this group described faith as personal spiritual experience and both prioritised adhering to established religious norms and participating in the sacraments. Since traditionally the faith had been envisioned in association with a Christian conscience described by some as personal ‘law’ [Tigr.: ḥәgi (ሕጊ); Amh.: hәgg (ህግ)] that dictated moral conduct, the deterioration of the faith was associated with a deterioration in moral values in the younger generations. It was repeatedly affirmed by educators, parents and clergy in the field that in the past children would have not dared to speak in front of adults. As it was discussed in Chapter 7, conventionally, the young were always expected to respect and to serve those senior to them who were identified as having more wisdom. It was posited that with the advent of the secular school, children had changed and had steadily become more outspoken, manifesting a diminishing capacity to listen and to obey. This was paralleled to a reduction in Church education, as in the following comment given by an elderly man: Before, in the time of our mothers and fathers, the faith or belief was strong, now it is not. We were told that children who do bad things are rude. They would tell us that God will be angry and punish us and we were afraid (to misbehave). In the modern times, there is no what you call “fear of God”. The children of the parents of modern times are spoiled. If they (parents) advise them (children), they do not listen. They do not do like this. “You are lame” they say (to their parents). This deterioration was generally attributed to parents and in part to the deteriorated role of clergy in society, who traditionally have been in charge of children’s moral education. One male interlocutor commented: Ay! Now the faith has been weakened. It is the reflection of modernity (zämänawinät). Before, the spiritual fathers found their children on

194  Faith, culture and social norms Sundays at church. If they did not find them, they would ask: “Why did you not come?” Now there is no such thing. Before, the priests if their spiritual children fought, they reconciled them and made them seek repentance and communion. But now, since priests themselves have sunk into modernity, they have abandoned these practices. This statement highlights that what was perceived as modernity was believed to have affected both the laity and the clergy. In the past, all education had been provided through the religious schools, whose prerogative was to instil in children moral values and ethical behaviour and to encourage the cultivation of a faith­-​­based ḫәllina. With the diminution of clergy’s time in educating children this socialisation was jeopardised. Some thought that this was not unrelated to the fact that more and more priests were themselves choosing to attend secular school and to pursue modern theological education, as pointed out by one male interlocutor: “At this time, there are no more priests because they go to the science (secular) school.” Another man reasoned that learned clergy had more incentive to stay in the city due to a large salary gap in the two contexts. He cited as standard a salary for a rural priest of about 300 birr per month (about £8) and for an urban learned märigeta something in the nature of 5,000 birr (about £139), figures that could be considered generally accurate. Still, it is important to observe that while people who held such positions spoke of the deterioration of the religious lifestyle because of diminished piety, the effects of modernity, or clergy’s reduced teaching, they still did not speak of the need to redefine the faith or to abandon vernacular norms and practices. They considered that the faith had been strong in the old times and within the established traditions and norms, suggesting that the remedy to this deterioration was probably a return to a traditional religious lifestyle, and not its redefinition. Position that pronounced faith as conscientious practice Further down the spectrum could be located pronouncements that emphasised the conscientious character that the faith should have. These interlocutors were more likely to view some aspects of the vernacular religious tradition as bahәl, giving bahәl more negative undertones, without fundamentally questioning, however, their religious tradition. Interlocutors in this conceptual remit believed that some of their countrymen and countrywomen lived the faith as ‘habit’ or ‘custom’ [Tigr.: lәmdi (ልምዲ); Amh.: lәmd (ልምድ)] and replicated conventions unconscientiously. One rural man commented: “Sometimes [priests] teach after the liturgy. But, most of the times, people go [to their homes] to eat. People live by habit/convention (lämänor bälәmd näw yäminorut; ለመኖር በልምድ ነው የሚኖሩት).” A female rural resident in turn commented: “There is no [religious conscience]. They just do it without knowing/understanding (zäymәfәlaṭ;

Faith, culture and social norms   195 ዘይምፍላጥ). They just kiss the church walls and they return [home].” Yet another male rural resident opined: “… we just do it without thinking. So, I always feel bad. There exists what we call haymanot but there is no religious schooling.” Similar opinions were expressed by urban interlocutors who considered themselves Orthodox and who frequently attended church, such as a woman who affirmed that the faith has not been lived at the level of ḫәllina, but as lәmdi. She stated: “They all go to church wearing their scarf (näṭäla; ነጠላ), they bow and pray and do the right movements. They repeat without understanding the Ge’ez prayers they hear. Then they go back home and think and do bad things.” These and other testimonies amounted to a perception that many people followed the prescriptions of priests not because they espoused a conscientious understanding regarding the meaning or objective of these prescriptions, but due to thoughtless bodily reiteration under the imposition of custom. It is important to differentiate these concerns from a critique of impiety or worldliness due to modernity, which was associated with the previous position. Here the problem was rather one of acculturation and lack of theological understanding, whereby thoughtless reiteration that was rigidly upheld had replaced spiritual or religious motivations. This was highlighted in the comment of a church teacher at one of the villages, who explained that for the people in his surroundings “faith is culture” (haymanot bahәl ’eyu; ሃይማኖት ባህል እዩ), even though elements of this culture were “new things” (sing. haddiš nägär; ሓዲሽ ነገር) passed on from one generation to the next through habitual or thoughtless practice. In the same group could be included many urban residents, although the population in the city of Aksum displayed probably the highest plurality in attitudes. Many had grown up in villages around Aksum city and thus made similar critical points that the vernacular tradition in the countryside had been practised unconscientiously. One young man opined that people came to church and recited by memory or by reading mechanically, without having a substantive understanding of meaning or the purpose behind the recitation, asserting: “We are there for the presence only.” He also explained that life in the villages had been conventionally based on a repetitive pattern and a time­-​­consuming routine that left no room for spiritual matters. He thought that in their conventional experience of the religious tradition people “only follow the pattern”. Another interlocutor asserted that people unconscientiously bowed when they heard the priests’ teachings and prayers, but in effect they internalised little of what they heard and continued habitual practices after they returned home. Once, a female interlocutor imitated people’s gesture of doing their cross and bowing in church to illustrate the thoughtless bodily recitation. Some of the interlocutors associated the lack of conscientious faithfulness to the clergy’s failure to provide the proper interpretation of the prayers and teachings in the Church, as highlighted in a man’s comment: “Nobody tells us what the meaning/interpretation is.” Others emphasised

196  Faith, culture and social norms the fact that priests were often not available when the faithful sought spiritual advice. As I observed during fieldwork, many churches were often closed during weekdays because priests worked in the field, attended ceremonies to bless, travelled to the city for meetings or to receive their salary, or visited the homes of spiritual children for celebrations and to resolve problems when they were called. Over and over again, research participants postulated that the faith had not been experienced at the level of human conscience (ḫәllina) because people lacked a more profound understanding of the message and objective of the faith. However, research participants who made such comments were still seen to participate in Church life or the vernacular religious practices, as opposed to others who had given up religious life entirely, had espoused more secular lifestyles or had moved to another religious camp. In other words, their critique was not of the vernacular religious tradition per se, but of the limited understanding with which people practised this tradition conventionally. The implication seemed to be that a more accurate teaching about matters of the faith could redress this problem of thoughtless reiteration. Positions that emphasised faith as spiritual experience Research participants who spoke of acculturation could exist at different points along the continuum, with those closer to the centre unlikely to speak of fundamental changes in the vernacular religious experience, contrary to those closer to the right­-​­hand side of the spectrum who emphasised a return to a more spiritual embodiment. Still, even these interlocutors abstained from making critical statements about the vernacular religious tradition, recognising that the general public valued this tradition profoundly and would not well receive departures from what they perceived as cultural heritage and an aspect of personal identity. Maḫәbärä Qәdusan attendees in the city of Aksum could fit in this category since they placed emphasis on the problem of acculturation. Those who were interviewed tended to avoid judgements about the vernacular religious practice and tried to find reasons in historical or ecclesiastical causes to justify the weak understanding of the faith on the ground. Some attendees expressed the desire to rediscover the faith both for personal benefit and by disseminating the proper information to others. This reflected the deeper familiarity of attendees with Church texts and teachings. Participation in the prayer sessions of the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan evidenced also that some attendees had gone through the traditional Church educational system and that most of the attendees were generally highly educated in secular vocations. Indicatively, a male attendee who was also a school teacher at one of the villages reasoned that believers had been impeded to a large extent in their comprehension of Church teachings due to the archaic Ge’ez liturgical

Faith, culture and social norms   197 language, which was infrequently translated by clergy. However, he also spoke of priests’ lack of exegetical knowledge and weak spirituality, as conveyed in the following exchange: R:  Is religious education not given in church? M:  No. Not as often as it should. In our Church,

the largest part is allocated to prayer. The prayer is in Ge’ez, which makes it difficult for most Orthodox Christian followers to understand. R:  Do the priests know the meaning of the prayer? M:  Yes, they do, but they don’t translate it. R:  Why? M:  The absence of the translation is a big problem. Daniel Kibret always says: “People who say love one another don’t know how to love.” The way people understand is different from one another and applying that and translating is the biggest problem. R:  What is the reason for this? M:  The religion exists but the big issue here is the contextual meanings found in the Bible which priests haven’t understood. Hence, they have been influenced [by culture] and translated these through cultural ways. This interlocutor believed that most clergy knew the translation but they failed to articulate it to the people. He cited a statement made by Daniel Kibret, a prominent Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo Church (EOTC) deacon and prolific speaker, to suggest that many members of the clergy could speak the religious teachings, but they might not embody them in their own lives. Since they do not embody them, it is more difficult to comprehend them and to teach them cogently to others. Additionally, this interlocutor was aware of the fact that in this tradition biblical verses needed to be studied in view of the context in which they had been spoken, which priests lacking theological training might be unable to do. Not understanding these teachings through the proper hermeneutical framework made acculturated exegesis more likely. Other urban residents, not associated with the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan, tried to re­-​­inscribe their faith and to embody it in ways that felt more impactful to them. A young man confided that he preferred to pray alone at home but he was very secretive about it. As he attested, he was an Orthodox believer, but if he dared to speak of a more personal relationship with God to anyone in his surroundings, he risked being associated with the Protestant movement: “[A]ny deviation begets suspicion in this society. In our society, any revolution is unacceptable, in every aspect: private, religious, cultural, political, or economic.” The same opposition to change was affirmed by multiple other interlocutors, including a young female store owner in the city of Aksum. She explained that she was often criticised by female acquaintances if she failed to attend church consistently due to her busy work schedule (this being a woman who closed her store every weekend to

198  Faith, culture and social norms be in church). She was also of the opinion that most people had lived their faith according to bahәl and had become change­-​­resistant about the most minor aspects of religious life. She also affirmed that if one tried to question the superficiality of certain practices and to speak of a more conscientious faith, others were likely to become judgemental and call this person a Penṭe (ጴንጤ). A Tigrayan woman in London once stated that if a person was a little different and refused to abide by traditional conventions, people outcast them or accused them even of sorcery, especially if they were female or better­-​­off. The case of a married young woman in Aksum city may also be mentioned. This interlocutor thought that the Church in her country presented many problematic aspects, including the failure of members of the clergy to embody the faith’s teachings in their own living. However, she appreciated the more profound value of the faith and tried to experience it in a way that could bring more fulfilment in her life. She did not appear to be typically religious, in the sense that she did not attend Church liturgy every Sunday and she wore non­-​­traditional clothes (including trousers) which one rarely saw in women with an active Church life. However, she expressed a very strong faith and was thankful to God for the blessings that she had received in her life. She was convinced that a relationship with God could be cultivated at all times and she had developed a habit of frequently praying internally. She confided that every night she said a number of silent prayers before sleeping and she felt that these were having a positive effect on her marriage. It is important to underscore that while all these interlocutors expressed concerns about the way the religious tradition had been conventionally perpetuated, they still appreciated it or partially embodied it. Both the rural and the urban interlocutors who were cited considered their faith to be indigenous and uniquely Ethiopian and did not want to see it harmed, but wanted it to be strengthened in ways that would make it more impactful at a personal level. In addition, many of the vernacular conventions and practices, such as regarding church attendance and behaviour, or the typical religious gatherings, were generally upheld even by more critical interlocutors.

Religious idiom and social norms The analysis so far has sought to provide a sense of the diverse ways in which different research participants juxtaposed bahel to their religious tradition and the implications for how they felt about socio­-​­religious norms. My interlocutors could be located at any point of this spectrum and no neat categorisations could be proposed. The fact that someone considered the faith to be part of the local cultural heritage or identified it with a set of moral rules did not exclude the possibility that they also experienced the faith conscientiously or more spiritually. The spectrum was proposed to

Faith, culture and social norms   199 accommodate better the plurality and dynamic character of the attitudes that were observed during fieldwork. How rural residents thought about their religious tradition had to do with who they were, their level of exposure to urban lifestyles and discourses of learned clergy and their personal spiritual state. However, undoubtedly more rural residents were found on the left side of the spectrum where bahәl was less likely to be criticised. This is not unrelated to the fact that historically the large majority of rural residents relied on rural clergy to learn about their faith, who could be overlapping with vernacular norms significantly, as discussed in Chapter 7. Generally speaking, rural residents who were likely to identify haymanot with bahәl were less likely to be preoccupied with the clergy’s limited training, while those who found faults with the vernacular religious tradition tended to pronounce also the clergy’s deficiencies. Whilst many rural residents recognised that clergy in the city of Aksum tended to have higher theological training than rural priests, few thought that the teachings of the rural clergy did not suffice. Moreover, rural residents seemed to be generally unaware of the activities of the Maḫәbärä Qәdusan or their teaching and prayer sessions in the city of Aksum, with exceptions including a school teacher at the village who resided in the city and occasionally participated in these sessions. The lack of Maḫәbärä Qәdusan pronouncements of faith as spiritual experience and the rural clergy’s own limited invocations of the spiritual aims of the faith resulted in a situation where few rural residents spoke about spirituality. Still, many rural residents thought that haymanot in the countryside was more tangible than in the city of Aksum where the effects of secular thinking were more discernible, with one man commenting: “Still haymanot is strong here and people are simpler in their thinking. In the city, they are all business­-​­oriented and care only to make money and maximise their profits.” ‘Simpler’ captured a popular belief that people in the countryside were less calculative and showed genuine faith in God. Such statements illustrated a widespread understanding in the villages that ‘modernity’ brought a deterioration of the faith, making it a more salient threat than was the problem of acculturation. These rural attitudes are important to understand because they had implications for people’s adherence to or departure from established practices, including social norms that could be fostering gender asymmetries or pernicious situations within marriage. Despite the distinctions made between haymanot and bahәl by some rural interlocutors, these were not sufficiently potent to displace the more prevalent discourse that considered the religious tradition and social norms to overlap considerably. In the following section I take a closer look at how people spoke about alcohol consumption in the religious gatherings. While many interlocutors affirmed that this practice comprised part of their vernacular religious practice, some expressed more critical opinions that these had absorbed innovations and had become socio­ -​­ cultural events without spiritual

200  Faith, culture and social norms benefit. Even clergy considered alcohol consumption on these occasions to have become a thoughtless habit, a practice that they were nonetheless unable to abandon. In the end, the religious gatherings were perpetuated according to convention by both laity and clergy. The example suggests that the dual understanding of bahәl (one as equivalent to haymanot, another as its contradiction), has contributed to the perpetuation of the status quo, whilst enabling local people to criticise or de­-legitimise ​­ certain social norms and practices.

Religious gatherings, alcohol consumption and the bahәl/haymanot binary Drinking was an extensive phenomenon in the local society, with both women and men playing a key role in the supply of alcoholic drinks. Traditionally, it was women who prepared the traditional beer, which they often sold in their own rural homes at certain hours of the day or days in the week. In the village where I lived, for example, about 10 women (three only were married) were known to make beer and to sell it for a living – typically the poorest residents who had no other livelihood to sustain themselves and their children. Some alcohol consumption can also be attributed to the rise of modern drinking houses (sing.: sәwa or tela bet; ስዋ or ጠላ ቤት), which have proliferated in the villages and have made alcohol more accessible to rural populations. The advent of factory­-​­produced beer has given young men the possibility to become involved in this profitable business and it was a common practice for young men to purchase beer from the city of Aksum and transport it to the village to sell, contributing to the mushrooming of drinking places at the local level. However, some drinking was also taking place during the religious gatherings, which were convened for the veneration of the saints or big religious celebrations and functioned as a central component of rural and urban life. Two types of religious gatherings were named by my interlocutors: the zәkәr (ዝክር) or ś ̣wä’ maḫbär (ፅወዕ ማኅበር) and the typical maḫbär. What differentiated the two were the principles under which they operated. The zәkәr was open to an unspecific number of people according to the host’s capacity and the rule of reciprocity (lәfanti; ልፍንቲ), and usually one invited those who had invited him/her before. The zәkәr gatherings also seemed to be segregated by gender, with women and men being seated in separate rooms. If the house had only one main room, men or women were seated in the yard on tree stems. In contrast, the typical maḫbär was for a select group of people of a specific number (12 or 21) and was held by rotation each month. For example, maḫbär gatherings held on Mikael day were for men only (12 persons), although in the countryside women were also invited to the same house but they stayed in a separate room, apparently treating the occasion as a zәkәr. On the other hand, maḫbär gatherings held on Maryam day were both for men and women (21 people). Many of the religious occasions were

Faith, culture and social norms   201 Table 8.1  List of most popular days observed monthly in Village 1 ’Abunä Libanos （አቡነ ሊባኖስ） Sәlasse （ስላሴ） ’Arba’atä ’Әnsäsa （አርባዕተ እንሰሳ） Mika’el （ሚካኤል） Giyorgis （ጊዮርጊስ） ’Abunä ’Abәyä’әzgi （አቡነ አብየ እዝጊ） Marәyam （ማርያም） Mädhani’aläm （መድሃኒዓለም） Bä’alä ’Әgzi’abher （በዓለ እግዚአብሄር）

 3  7  8 12 13 19 21 27 29

celebrated both monthly and annually, with the most prevalent celebrations being dedicated to patron saints of surrounding churches. I counted at least 17 such occasions per each month, with some of the most popular shown in Table 8.1. Typically, the family who hosted the gathering prepared enough traditional beer [Tigr.: sәwa (ስዋ); Amh.: ṭäla (ጠላ)]) and bread (’ambaša; አምባሻ) for the guests and if they were wealthier they served also roasted legumes (ṭәrä; ጥረ). On the day of the religious gathering, when a new guest arrived, she or he was first seated with the other guests of her/his gender. Then, the male host or an older son proceeded to fill a cup for the guest with home­-​­made sәwa, while the woman of the house brought a tray with bread to offer a large chunk to the newcomer. The bread was offered always only once, while the beer was offered multiple times. It was a norm for the host to appear overly generous and to apply pressure on guests to drink more. The sәwa was held in traditional large clay containers and transported with a smaller plastic container into individual cups. Wealthier households used their own traditional cups, but the majority used old tomato cans which could be quickly and easily washed. The religious gatherings started late in the evening and continued into the next day. Participation in about 15–20 maḫbär and zәkәr gatherings during the fieldwork period confirmed that the pattern almost never changed. Female attendants first took some sәwa with their finger and made the sign of the cross on their (and their children’s) forehead before taking a sip. While sipping their sәwa, they chatted a bit with their neighbours and soon they departed to return home where chores and older children awaited them. Men seemed to engage in deeper conversations and stayed for lengthier periods of time. In most gatherings, people spent their time discussing what seemed to be mundane matters, such as money issues, livelihoods, meetings and trainings at the local administrative office or other events that had happened during the day. A single occasion on which men and women had been stranded in the same room provided me with the opportunity to overhear also the men’s discussions. This was on a Mikael day during which

202  Faith, culture and social norms men typically met as a maḫbär, with women joining in a separate room as zәkәr. Due to the pouring rain and lack of space, this being a poor household comprised of a single room and a small yard outside, women and men sat together as a unique occasion. No one seemed to mind the arrangement and readily justified it on the basis of the rain. Initially, men and women did not directly interact, but eventually the discussion extended to both parties when people started to entertain prospects of finding gold in the area, in view of recent reports that such existed in the area. The numerous gatherings that I observed started to evidence the more practical and social function that these had in the local society. When I asked about their meaning, various interlocutors readily said that they participated in these gatherings to obtain the blessing of the saint or because they made them a promise (mäbś ̣a’a; መብፃኣ). However, other reasons emerged to be more salient in the everyday social scene, as highlighted in this man’s comment: “The maḫbär is also a socialisation event. They [attendees] counsel each other and give advice. They also know their place in society. People see who is getting richer and they know their place in society.” A female interlocutor affirmed also that the maḫbär provided a context for eating and drinking together and for “playful conversation (č ̣äwata; ጨዋታ)”. As Helen Pankhurst had found to be the case in Menz, the religious gatherings in Aksum appeared to “provide an event to which women can look forward, and occasion to think about, to dress up for, and one which is socially approved”.3 As opposed to the all­ -​­ male drinking places, in these, women could also drink without being criticised. This aspect of the religious gatherings was especially pronounced in the discourses of women, such as in occasions when women teased each other playfully of drunkenness after returning from these gatherings or when they let go in other ways. Since it was the custom to offer the traditional beer (sәwa) to the guests when hosting them, drinking was a common practice among both the laity and the clergy. The fact that I consistently declined to drink generated the most surprise among my hosts and other attendants, especially when I justified this on the basis of my own religious reasons, such as due to fasting. Sәwa continued to be consumed as a staple of these events, even though numerous interlocutors recognised the problem of excessive drinking, which was also associated with instances of domestic violence. The following narrative by a man in the village is instructive: There are a lot of religious gatherings here and they drink there. The man comes home drunk after spending the evening there, then his wife will tell him: “Drunkard, where were you? Drunkard!” If she insults him, he will take a heavy stick (dula) and strike the woman’s head. This is the origin of divorce. In short, drinking alcohol is the beginning of hitting. In this country there was no other drink than milk and they never got drunk. The drink of this country is ṭäla. It is made of qolo

Faith, culture and social norms   203 (ቆሎ), gäbs (ገብስ) and gäšo (ገሾ). It is really strong. It is not the same with manufactured beer. And when you drink it, it comes up to the head. Then, the brain does not work. Then, there is hitting. To divorce becomes an obligation (OR necessary). In conclusion, it is culture (bahәl). Today, for example, it is the 21st of the month, it is the celebration of Mary, the holy feast; there are many religious gatherings [today]. And there is in these a lot of ṭäla consumption. When I drink beer my brain will soon start spinning. And then there is no sleep, one vomits. So, for the woman to live with such a person is bad. He is very bad, he does not listen. Similarly to this interlocutor who described this pattern as bahәl, other rural residents tended to distinguish between the stipulations of the faith regarding drinking on these occasions and people’s own practices, as highlighted in the comment of another male resident: “[O]ur haymanot forbids fighting. ‘Drink if thirsty’ says the [bible/the faith] and then go home when you are full (you had enough).” In other words, faith and drinking were not considered incompatible, but people took issue with drinking excessively and irresponsibly, which could result in un­-​­Christian conduct. Another man opined: “If the person has faith, he will not drink like this.” Yet another observed: Täwahәdo haymanot teaches one not to be violent but to love by mutual concern, to discuss and to advise each other. As I told you, although one knows the Church’s teaching, some get intoxicated soon. After they go home, they become indiscriminately violent against children and the spouse. In these pronouncements the religious gatherings were differentiated from the pernicious practice of drinking excessively. The latter was described as a norm or culture (bahәl) with clearly negative undertones, but it was always the individual who was held responsible for choosing to drink excessively. The broader culture which incorporated holding the religious gatherings, or the convention of serving alcohol on this occasion, however, was never questioned, even though some interlocutors affirmed that previously the norm had been to serve water or milk. For example, on a certain day, two religious gatherings took place in the village, one of which was hosted at the house across from my compound. The gathering continued, as per convention, until around midnight, at which time a fight broke out in the road, creating a pandemonium of male voices. The next day I was told that a police officer came and mediated the situation. Conversations I had about it evidenced that such behaviour was considered bad. Still, this recognition did not trigger any open problematisation of the norm of serving alcohol at religious gatherings, and the responsibility was again attributed to the individuals involved.

204  Faith, culture and social norms Along with drinking, other interlocutors criticised the departure of the conventional religious gatherings from their more spiritual character. One man affirmed that these should include “[r]eading books and the life of the saint”. In attending religious gatherings for six months in the villages, I did not generally encounter active teaching in their midst, which was confirmed also in the following remark made by a male interlocutor: “In this country, what is called şwä’ maḫbär exist. In this community people meet in order to eat and to drink. So, they are not used to talking and learning about spiritual matters.” A priest who was also a church teacher opined that the gatherings had become acculturated overtime. The local clergy were not immune to this convention and generally consumed sәwa alongside the laity. A conversation that I had with a local priest during a car ride from the city of Aksum to the village is particularly illustrative. Sitting across him, it became noticeable to me that he was slightly inebriated, which I queried him about politely. The priest smiled and explained that he had been to a maḫbär in the city where he had been served sәwa. He first tried to justify his light­-​­headedness by referring to his small frame, which made him easily influenced by alcohol. After a while, he explained with a tone of assumed helplessness that everyone kept offering him drink and that this had become a habit (lәmdi) hard to give up. On another occasion, I joined a group of 10–12 priests after one Sunday liturgy for a religious gathering held in the back of a local church. Like other gatherings, this included eating traditional bread and drinking sәwa. This setting offered a unique opportunity to explore what the priests thought about drinking during the religious gatherings. After I declined the offer to drink, as I typically did, a solemn discussion followed with the attendees about the issue of drinking alcohol in the context of religious activity. Many reiterated that drinking sәwa had become a habit (lәmdi) and that it was hard to give it up. Simultaneously, an older priest expressed uncertainty as to why it would be theologically inappropriate for them to drink. The most learned teacher present, trained in Gondar, was unable to address this question and I was asked to offer my opinion. I did so by discussing the effects of alcohol on cognitive capacity, memory and judgement and the possible effects on one’s ability to make progress in spiritual life and to provide effective pastoral support. Everyone listened carefully and nodded with acceptance, but it was clear that much more systematic work on behalf of the Church would be needed to ensure that the clergy became confident enough to change their practices. Since most priests consumed sәwa, the laity would not be expected to contradict the practice. On the other hand, the fact that the norm had become a habit or addiction that was difficult to abandon, made it unlikely that members of the clergy and laity who indulged in drinking would openly oppose it. Even if some priests did so, in view of the fact that other priests continued to drink and became at times visibly inebriated, they would have little credibility in teaching the laity to abstain from it. This

Faith, culture and social norms   205 being said, an attempt was made by certain individuals to experience the religious gatherings differently on the basis of a deeper commitment to spiritual living. A local church teacher, who conscientiously provided teaching about the faith and was cautious about drinking, seemed to be inspiring people locally. During the monthly gathering at his home, he followed the customary norm of serving sәwa, but he did so in a stronger ambience of quietness that was rarely encountered in the zәkәr gatherings of the laity and most priests. He seemed to belong to the right hand­-​­side of the spectrum together with those who spoke of the need to experience the faith more spiritually. In our conversations, he stressed many times the objective of achieving meekness and likeness to God and spoke about the spiritual effects of the religious gatherings. Still, it is important to note that he did not abstain from the vernacular norms. Such subtle divergences need to be assessed in parallel with the profoundly communal character of the rural society and recent changes on the religious front, but especially the spread of Pentecostalism in Ethiopia.4 Many interlocutors affirmed that their society did not tolerate deviations that were perceived to subvert the local religious tradition and heritage. As already discussed, if one tried to question the superficiality of certain practices and to speak of a more conscientious faith, others were likely to become judgemental and antagonistic and call this person a deviant from the Orthodox faith. Such charges acquired even more urgency and weight with the alarming expansion of Pentecostal or the local Tähaddәso movement in Ethiopia. These charges could result in the person’s alienation from the rest of society, which could then interfere with their livelihoods and social life since the society was largely based on rules of reciprocity. It could de­-​­legitimise the work of the clergy if they were perceived to deviate from accepted religious tradition and practice. And while normally clergy should not receive monetary payments from the laity, they typically relied on kind offerings from the public, which they could not afford to lose. It is possible to see, then, how even those who did not agree with widely upheld conventions and tried to redefine them by embodying them more piously, visibly still adhered to the status quo. Their attitudinal deviations and more private understandings should not openly contradict publicly observed behaviour or antagonise others who followed the conventions, if they wanted to remain influential and integrated in society. Still, attitudinal divergences and shifts within the local normative framework have been evidently occurring, and while they have been subtle and marginal, they have been visible enough for others to be inspired by them and to follow them in their own lives.

Notes 1 World Health Organisation, “Changing Cultural and Social Norms that Support Violence”, 2009, www.who.int/violence_injury_prevention/violence/norms.pdf;

206  Faith, culture and social norms E. L. Paluck and L. Ball, “Social Norms Marketing Aimed at Gender Based Violence: A Literature Review and Critical Assessment”, New York: International Rescue Committee, 2010; R. Marcus and C. Harper, “Gender Justice and Social Norms – Processes of Change for Adolescent Girls: Towards a Conceptual Framework” 2, 2014, www.odi.org/sites/odi.org.uk/files/odi­-​­assets/publications­-​­opinion­-​ files/8831.pdf; C. Bicchieri, T. Jiang and J. W. Lindemans, “A Social Norms ­ Perspective on Child Marriage: The General Framework, UNICEF, 2014; M. Alexander­-​­Scott, E. Bell and J. Holden, “Shifting Norms Tto Tackle Violence against Women and Girls (VAWG)”, DFID Guidance Notes, 2015; G. Mackie, F.  Moneti, H. Shakya and E. Denn, “What are Social Norms? How are They Measured?”, 2015, www.unicef.org/protection/files/4_09_30_Whole_What_are_ Social_Norms.pdf; K. Manji, “Articulating the Role of Social Norms in Sustaining Intimate Partner Violence in Mwanza, Tanzania” (PhD thesis, London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine, 2018). 2 Related to the Ge’ez verb ḫallaya ኀለየ, which means to ‘consider, think, ponder, keep in mind, mediate, look after someone, take care of, watch, reason, reflect upon, turn over in one’s mind, perceive, decide, devise, imagine’ (W. Leslau, Comparative Dictionary of Ge’ez (Classical Ethiopic) (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1991), 262. 3 H. Pankhurst, Gender, Development and Identity: An Ethiopian Study (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1992), 154. 4 J. Haustein and T. Østebø, “EPRDF’s Revolutionary Democracy and Religious Plurality: Islam and Christianity in Post­-​­Derg Ethiopia”, Journal of Eastern African Studies 5, no. 4(2011): 755–772; T. Boylston, The Stranger at the Feast: Prohibition and Mediation in an Ethiopian Orthodox Christian Community (Oakland, California: California University Press, 2018).

9 Faith, marriage and gendered expressions

As the previous chapter demonstrated, faith was pervasive in people’s lives and served as an undeniable moral force in the local society. Not surprisingly, my interlocutors invariably expressed the conviction that faith was beneficial for married life and that it could function as a deterrent to conjugal disagreement and conflict. In some cases, my interlocutors made direct connections between being ‘spiritual’ (mänfäsawi; መንፈሳዊ) and being a good husband or spouse. Contrasting this prevalent opinion, a couple of interlocutors associated religious values with women’s tendency to forgive husband abusiveness. Interestingly, the way in which marriage and the conjugal relationship were understood and experienced was rarely placed within the theological language of overcoming sin and achieving eternal life, even though most interlocutors spoke about the ideal of a lifelong, monogamous (‘one­-​­to­-​ ­one’) marriage and the precondition of peaceful co­-​­existence between the spouses, echoing the discourses of the clergy. While local people clearly attributed the one­-​­to­-​­one covenant to God’s laws, they never showed that they perceived or approached marriage as a spiritual bond or a vehicle for their salvation, which would suggest the absorption of New Testament theology within vernacular experience. For the most part, marriage was discussed as a social contract in which the spouses should live together for the purpose of procreating and helping each other in everyday life. Whilst ­haymanot comprised the wider metaphysical edifice governing and holding together the local society, it was not necessarily theology that shaped most people’s understandings and experiences of marriage. These contrasting discourses and observations prompted an investigation into the role that personal faith and spirituality played in married life and its influences on conjugal behaviour. Such an undertaking was challenging since spiritual experience might underpin a person’s rationalisations, motivations and behaviour in implicit and multi­ -​­ dimensional ways that external observers cannot know or discern. As a pragmatic research strategy, I made an attempt to explore how my interlocutors’ religious beliefs and faith­-​­based values and standards underpinned decisions about marriage, divorce and responses to marital challenges and, where possible,

208  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions abusive situations. On the other hand, living with different families and spending considerable time in the company of married couples throughout the year allowed me to become somehow exposed to their routine cohabitation and relationship dynamics. In all my discussions, I invited my interlocutors to elaborate on the role of haymanot in marriage without defining what I meant by it, hoping that they would refer to what was most salient in their minds and relevant to their lives. Such investigations, together with my existence and participation in the local society, revealed that a religious lifestyle did not necessarily reflect the embodiment of a faith­-​­based conscience in marriage. Conversely, a non­-​ ­religious lifestyle did not necessarily exclude the embodiment of a faith­-​ ­based attitude in marriage. Moreover, I found that both men and women were influenced by religious values, but with differences that probably reflected their gendered identities and socio­-​­cultural conditions. The aim of this chapter is to provide a window into these realities and to contribute toward diversifying current representations that portray religious beliefs exclusively as pernicious or as contributing to victim apathy toward abusiveness.1 I also hope that this discussion can enhance current understanding around men and spirituality in relation to conjugal abuse, a crucial but under­-​­researched area.

Perceptions about the influence of faith on conjugal behaviour In exposing their opinions about the role of faith in marriage, my interlocutors gave similar replies. One woman in the village affirmed: [H]aymanot is very useful in married life. This is because Täwahәdo faith tells husband and wife to stay together by vows. So we say that haymanot is useful. Haymanot is useful to human thinking not only in married life, but in all worldly affairs. My interlocutor clearly considered that living marriage and all human affairs under a faith­-​­based mind­-​­set was desirable and beneficial. Another female interlocutor opined: “[I]t is important/necessary to attend church. Therefore, haymanot is necessary for married life. By haymanot, conscience (ḫәllina) improves.” This interlocutor identified religious life and practice with a cultivation of conscientiousness toward the other and the strengthening of personal morality, which she considered beneficial in marriage. Moreover, faith was believed to act as a remedy for or deterrent to married life problems. One married man remarked the following when we were discussing marital problems: “As I told you, you need to go to the priest. If you have haymanot, it is good. […] All activity (in marriage) has to be by God.” In other words, living according to the ways of the faith, which included having a spiritual father and resolving marriage issues according to

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   209 their advice, could improve marriage. One woman also commented: “­Haymanot is a solution to married life; the act of kissing the icons, the prayer, the Holy Communion are blessings to married life, they bring peace.” The woman described aspects of religious life, suggesting that by attending church and listening to the messages of the faith one became humbler and meeker. A wife remarked about her husband: “At the church he kisses the walls, then he comes home and he is humbler. If you both go to church and you are similar; this is called married life.” She considered that living a life in church could make husbands more appreciative of and considerate toward their wives. The woman also espoused the prevalent view that couples who married in the church, attended liturgy and lived according to Church standards were less likely to face disagreements and more likely to stay together for a lifetime. One man commented: “We have been told by our ancestors that any dispute should not occur in couples who are married by täklil.” A woman also observed: “The people who live together by the vows the majority do not have (divorce). They heed the books of their faith and what their haymanot says. But, it depends on everyone’s works/actions.” She added: “Together they fast, [together] they take communion, [together] they go to Church in mutual agreement, together they eat. So, how can there be divorce with such a couple?” In other words, couples who married by religious vows were more likely to live a mutual religious life and cultivate faith­-​­based dispositions, resulting in a peaceful marriage. These testimonies highlight that the positive effect of faith on marriage was perceived to depend on both spouses’ commitment to prioritise the faith and to apply religious standards to their marriage, as opposed to the ­woman’s or the man’s level of faithfulness. This point was reinforced by testimonies about marriages where such compatibility had been lacking and was held responsible for subsequent spousal conflict, divorce or separation. The belief that men were on average less involved in Church life and less interested in a church marriage was common. Numerous female interlocutors affirmed that men did not want to marry in church and that this could cause conflict with their female partners, since this type of marriage could not be done without the free consent of both. One priest made the default gendered comment: “If she wants to enter the church and the man doesn’t want to enter and to do the Holy Communion, it cannot be done alone; it has to be done together.” Another man recounted the story of a couple where the husband had been persuaded by his wife to undergo a church marriage without him feeling spiritually drawn to it. The marriage reportedly resulted in spousal conflict and soon concluded in a divorce. Alongside these statements, numerous female interlocutors expressed the perception that men or their husbands were not spiritual (mänfäsawi). One woman opined that men did not attend church, and if they went, they stayed outside because they did not fast or prepare for the communion. In contrast to these generally positive views, there were also a couple of interlocutors who hinted at the more indirect effects of the faith that could

210  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions enforce battered women’s endurance in difficult or abusive conjugal situations. One man remarked: They (wives) say they give their silence to God. Hating/scorning and hitting are not allowed within our bahәl or haymanot. The faith says that should someone hit you in the face, turn and give them the other side. The objective is to live by peace and love. That in married life you have to stay until the end with the woman you promise to is the teaching of the haymanot. Here the man was outlining an important premise of Orthodox theology, namely that one must not seek to take revenge for injustices done upon them, but should forgive wrongdoers and try to live in peace with others. In marriage, this is crucial because husband and wife are asked to stay together for a lifetime. If one does not have a forgiving attitude, the marriage can easily break down. Therefore, he thought that women who experienced abuse endured it because they were influenced by religious expectations in marriage and spiritual motivations to forgive and to do everything in their power to secure a peaceful co­-​­existence with their husbands. In the same spirit, one woman commented that “[b]y the faith one should stay quiet” while another woman remarked that there is “really no solution according to the faith, but for women to be patient”. Such testimonies start to evidence a disproportionate emphasis being placed on the duties of women, with nobody discussing men’s duties toward women, echoing the apostolic theology discussed in Chapter 4. Juxtaposing these perceptions and opinions to fieldwork observations offered a more nuanced picture since not all women and men understood or embodied religious teachings in the same way or with the same commitment. Couples married in the church were not necessarily more pious than couples who married in the customary manner and they were certainly not unaffected by divorce. Moreover, I found that both men and women spoke in terms of religious parameters and embodied spiritual concerns, but each gender group tended to stress different dimensions of the faith. Many ­women’s belief that men generally lacked spirituality obscured a more complex situation whereby faith was influential in the lives of the majority, but in ways that resonated with the men’s and women’s unique socio­-​­cultural circumstances and concerns.

Gendered invocations of religious tradition and faith in marriage In one of the many conversations I had about choice of marriage, one man rationalised his decision as follows: We marry by the haymanot; this is how we live married life; this is how we marry by the traditional/old religion of our fathers and mothers.

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   211 Because it (haymanot) says so, we do not argue. We do not know any other religion. Such articulations were popular among the research participants. As it was discussed in Chapter 7, this adherence to religious marriage reflected, in fact, a system of rigidly upheld marriage norms by both the clergy and the laity that constrained considerably the options of the laity. This means that religious marriage did not reflect always a more pious sentiment and those who married in the Church were not necessarily more successful in keeping their marriages, since divorces were also experienced by people whose first marriage had been by crowning (täklil) in church. More noticeable were the different ways in which men and women spoke about faith in marriage­-​­related domains. Invariably, in their narratives, my female interlocutors invoked God’s ‘thinking’ (Tigr.: ḥasab ሓሳብ; Amh.: ḥassab; ሓሳብ)2 to explain how they ended up with their spouses. Women’s stories conveyed a deep trust in divine energies mediating to bring them into their husbands’ paths. One woman shared that she had lost her father when she was little and that she had no brothers, who could ensure that she would be given to a “good” husband for marriage. She also had a physical disability, which she thought had made her less desirable as a suitor. When she reached a marriageable age, she had been very uncertain about her future, placing all her faith in God to find her a spouse. She was eventually married at age 17 to a priest with whom she bore four children and to whom she was still married at the time we spoke. While their relationship was not without challenges, not least due to her husband’s at times inconsiderate behaviour toward her, she never doubted that her marriage had fallen within the boundaries of divine will. She also affirmed that divorce was not possible in her case and that the appropriate response to her marital challenges was to try to be thankful about everything, reminding herself that the situation was not as bad as it could be. She remarked that patience was essential. Another example comes from a middle­-​­aged couple with whom I resided for a month in Aksum city. The wife had grown up in one of the two villages of research, while the husband had come from another rural part of Tigray. After having observed for many months their peaceful marriage and each spouse’s thoughtful behaviour toward each other, I asked the woman why she thought her marriage had worked well in comparison to the extensive marital problems in her surroundings. She agreed with my assessment that conjugal problems were extensive and readily replied that it was all God’s doing. She then narrated to me how she met her husband, who, when she was 17, asked her to marry him. At the time she was working at the local market and he happened to see her. After a while, he approached her to express his interest, before speaking to her family. When I again asked why she decided to say yes to him over anyone else, since she did not know him at the time, she said that it had been God’s will. By God’s will everything happened like this, she said.

212  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions Such narratives illustrate many women’s deep belief in divine providence, but they also suggest that their invocations of the divine were not unrelated to their uncertain conditions and the lack of control they had over whom they married, regardless of whether they ended up in positive or negative situations. In conversations with male interlocutors no similar statements were made about God’s ‘thinking’ guiding their choices in selecting a wife. One young man with a religious background more exceptionally suggested that he sought a pious wife with a similar faith­-​­based mind­-​­set to his, but even he did not state that he let God decide for him or that he trusted that God would bring him a suitable wife. This would not be unrelated to the fact that men have had more control over the choice of spouse compared to women. The other factor that needs to be considered here is the divergence of religious experience across individuals. Not all of my interlocutors, men or women, were equally religious or experienced marriage through a faith­-​ ­based prism. For example, while most women invoked God’s thinking in their lives, the ways in which they embodied their faith in marriage varied. One female interlocutor, whom I came to know very well, was especially committed to following her husband in everything he did, attending to his needs with tremendous eagerness and dedication at all times. Our confidential conversations suggested that she did not do this because he was an exceptionally good husband to her (he, like many other men in the society, downplayed intimacy and did not pay her the attention she desired), but because she was driven to do so regardless of his behaviour. This was a highly educated professional woman married to a highly educated professional man; seven children had been raised  – mostly by herself, with her husband mostly working or travelling across the country. It is also notable that this woman did not have any theological training; rather, her behaviour reflected her traditional upbringing, strong faith and personality. Contrary to the strong loyalty that this woman displayed to her husband and to family life, many rural women married primarily for practical reasons and were prepared to divorce their husbands when they failed to meet their responsibilities. These interlocutors were more likely to understand and to experience marriage as a social contact in which they and their husbands had to meet their respective duties and expectations. Multiple conversations I had with formerly divorced women suggested that they had not hesitated to divorce their husbands when they did not meet their breadwinner expectations or enable them to have children. This contrasts with the attitude of the wife who appeared prepared to endure her husband’s faults in the most challenging of situations. It also contrasts with the attitudes of women and men who had been unable to have children, but still remained married. Given the importance of children in the local society and the relative ease with which couples divorced when issues of fertility emerged, couples who stayed together in these circumstances were quite

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   213 exceptional. In such cases, people were more likely to invoke God’s will to accept and to endure what others saw as misfortune.

Religious beliefs and faith in conjugal life and abusive situations In many of the narratives that I heard about conjugal problems, women invoked God’s thinking to justify or to nourish an attitude of forbearance in their difficult marriages, as in the case of the priest’s wife who was mentioned earlier. Such women usually faced difficult but not necessarily abusive husbands, which their faith helped them to cope with. Physically abused women did not generally make invocations of their faith when they discussed their endurance or responses, although spiritual concerns could still underpin the pragmatic, material or psychological motivations they did talk about. On the other hand, some men invoked religious morality to rationalise their decisions against wife abandonment or adultery, both of which were described as abusive behaviour by many of my interlocutors. While it is not impossible that faith­-​­based rationalisations also deterred women from engaging in adultery or helped men to cope with marriage­-​ related problems, such discourses were not pronounced and narratives ­ generally moved along the gender lines mentioned. In either case, spiritual parameters should not be isolated from men’s and women’s material and socio­-​­cultural conditions. These seemed to lead women to experience their faith more holistically and men to be primarily affected by religious stipulations of moral behaviour and righteousness. Faith in women’s coping with difficult marriages and in their responses to conjugal abuse Narratives suggesting that faith acted as a coping mechanism for married women abounded. Such situations included dealing with an uncooperative husband or responding to emotional hurt and spousal disappointments, such as a husband’s sudden emotional change and his abandonment of his wife, or other situations of uncertainty. In Aksum, married life was especially affected by a pervasive out­-​­migration of husbands who left to look for work in other places, such as Shire, Humora, Adwa or Meqele. This arrangement physically separated the couple and could generate all sorts of negative situations and bad feelings. In the city of Aksum, some women considered this to be an unfair situation for the woman who was left behind to take care of the household and the children, with some interlocutors affirming that this could not be called a marital relationship. Nonetheless, in most cases women still did not break their marriages and visibly found strength in their faith to endure their uncertain situations. The case of a young woman whom I knew from Aksum city conveys this effectively. She was married to a man who lived overseas while she resided

214  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions with their child in Aksum. The woman reported that her husband called regularly and showed interest in their well­-​­being, supporting the family financially and visiting annually to see them. She confided that initially he had wanted her to go to live with him, but she hesitated because she wanted to be at home to support her elderly parents. While he did not contradict this, he continued to live apart from his family for many years and his wife was unable to know where he was, whether or not he had become involved with another woman and generally how he behaved in the new country. The woman confided that she had no other option but to show patience and to hope that the relationship would not break down. She affirmed multiple times that everything was in God’s power and that it was important to have faith in God. Some women in the village dealt with predicaments of a slightly different nature in a similar manner. I also came to know very well a woman who was married to a reportedly “good” man, but who failed to contribute substantially to the family’s expenses. In order not to have to rely on him and to create pretext for conflict when he failed to deliver, the woman had started to bake ’әnǧära and to sell sәwa at her home. She was known to be a very­-​ ­hard­-​­working woman who only stopped her work to go to the market to buy groceries for more baking and beer­ -​­ making. During one of many informal discussions we had, she explained that she tried to accept the situation in order to avoid conflict with her husband and to preserve harmony in her home. Her narrative suggested that she tried to be discerning about how to communicate with him regarding sensitive money issues. While she did not explicitly attribute her attitude to her faith, she was connected to a local church teacher’s family and her behaviour aligned very well with those tenets that the clergy encouraged when they urged wives to avoid arguments with husbands and to endure their flaws, as outlined in Chapter 7. Female interlocutors who had faced problematic marriages that had ended in divorce invoked a similar rationale, attributing these also to God’s thinking (ḥasab), which seemed to give them some sense of peace. This was highlighted in the comment of a woman who separated from her husband after 20 years of marriage due to an inability to bear children: “Faith is useful (OR helpful), but it does not allow divorce. But, because everything is of God, one cannot do anything. But, we separated by God’s thinking.” Another female respondent remarked: “Yes, it (faith) is useful (in married life). Meaning, we are taught to be bound together in marriage. But divorce isn’t a human’s thinking, it’s God’s thinking. So, there is nothing we can do.” A most evocative narrative was provided by a female interlocutor who described her personal marital history to me as follows: We got married by taking vows (qal kidan) given that we were worldly people (laity). The ceremony was in a church with one spiritual father and three friends. Our spiritual father said “in sickness and in bad times, never leave her, and also you (the woman) in the times of his

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   215 sickness and in bad times, never leave him”; by making us take this vow, they got us married. But it being God’s thinking, he left me. The woman’s recognition that her marriage vows were to be observed until the end of their lifetimes did not deter her from thinking also that it must have been God’s thinking for her and her husband to part ways. Like all other women, she seemed convinced that nothing fell outside of God’s providence and invoked this explanation as if to come to terms with the situation. Men who were divorced or tried to rationalise other people’s divorces never expressed themselves in the same way. This could reflect the nature of the divorces and separations, which were experienced in gendered ways. Most women who spoke about their husbands’ desertions lamented that they had been unable to make sense of the men’s sudden actions. By attributing the men’s unanticipated and hard­ -​­ to­ -​­ explain behaviour to God’s thinking, women seemed to find a way to put their disappointment and confusion at ease. This was highlighted in the following comment by one of my female interlocutors: I don’t know by what justification he left me but I, thanks to God, I have been given years to live and good health. “Just like you created me, give me my daily bread”; by begging God and by working, I’m raising my children. That many women fell back on their faith in God’s providence need not signify a functionalist interpretation of faith, but rather evidences its embodied ramifications in real­ -​­ life situations. It is also not unlikely that women’s faith was strengthened by the ordeals they faced in their marriage, as other studies of domestic violence in religious communities have suggested.3 While faith granted women strength to make sense of and to endure distressful situations, it would be unwarranted to conclude that faith motivated women’s endurance. As it was said, the local society emphasised non­ -​ ­confrontation for women and peace in marriage, which meant that women generally acted in consideration of socio­-​­cultural norms and expectations. While these could be coated in religious idiom, the mechanisms of perpetuating normative expectations, as discussed in Chapter 8, had little to do with theology and considerably more to do with the structure of the local society and relations of dependence and reciprocity. Practical and other matters could provide additional motivations. This was highlighted in a conversation I had with a woman, who explained to me why she would not go to her family if she faced marriage problems: When argument arises in a marriage, the solution I would use would be to sit patiently and let the problems/difficulties pass/fade away. Besides, where would a person go with the children? My parents are alive

216  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions (I could go to them) but what would I say to them? That my husband and I got divorced because we don’t agree with each other all the time? No, I don’t want to go to my parents. I am keeping my mouth shut and I am struggling to prevent this from happening and to not get divorced. And as for my children, I don’t want them to get caught up in this. My interlocutor was both practically constrained in her options and felt embarrassed to share her marital problems with her parents. Her narrative suggested an underlying sentiment that it was her responsibility as a wife to “prevent” the marriage from breaking down by letting the problem “pass”. This could be related to society­-​­wide expectations for women to respond with patience in situations of tension or argument with their husbands, as discussed in Chapter 6. One woman said: For example, if he comes from outside angry or drunk and speaks to his wife, his wife must remain quiet; then he will be quiet and if he is drunk he will soon go to sleep and in the morning everything will be peaceful. If you speak with anger, this will create fighting. Another woman remarked: If you fight, do not say anything. It will pass if you show patience. Then, he will think “why did I speak to her like this?” But, if you respond, people respond in an inflamed/angry manner. When they come back [to you] they speak with anger. But, if you say nothing, it will pass. Socio­-​­cultural expectations were in turn informed by a pragmatic understanding that confrontation would inevitably lead to more argument, worsening the problems and potentially leading to abuse or even separation. Such motivations were pertinent also in people’s rationalisations of battered women’s endurance. A number of interlocutors spoke of women’s commitment to preserve their marriage and to let the problem “pass”, such as a man who opined: “Because she wants a home/family, even if he hits, she keeps it inside her, she stays quiet. Then, because the suffering is short, it passes/is forgotten by the following morning.” In contrast to a few opinions that religious values of non­-​­violence and forgiveness fostered some women’s forgiving attitude, most women who had been battered by husbands and the majority of onlookers provided aetiologies that pertained rather to socio­-​­cultural standards of wifehood/ womanhood, practical and material parameters and psychological motivations. The fear of retaliation was a pervasive justification, as one man remarked: “If they tell the police and the man is imprisoned, his aggressive behaviour will worsen. He may even kill. So, they say it is better to be silent.” A woman, in turn, affirmed: “They do not talk about abuse because

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   217 they have to return to their marriages and if they report him, they are afraid they will be hit/beaten.” Yet another woman said: Yes, some of the women who are assaulted by their husbands they will go to the police. They will say that they (the husbands) cannot return to their homes in this situation (because they fear that they will beat them). This needs to be appraised in conjunction with the analysis made in Chapter 7 and the fact that in most cases perpetrators were only incarcerated for a short period of time at the local police station and soon returned home and typically continued to live with their wives under the same roof. In parallel, some interlocutors emphasised the women’s fear of harming their chances of reconciliation with their spouses, as in the following testimony given by a woman: If women are abused in the intimate relationship, they do not speak out. This is because they know that if the truth goes out, their marriage will not be peaceful again. Because when the truth comes out, no solution can emerge, she will keep quiet. Another female interlocutor explained: “They do not talk about abuse because […] they are afraid […] that they may divorce, or that there will be no peace with their marriage.” In the local society where everyone was vigilant of other people’s actions, a wife who reported her husband for abuse would be irreversibly damaging her relationship with him. For many practical, socio­-​­cultural and emotional reasons this outcome was undesirable for women, who generally hoped to avoid divorce. Numerous male interlocutors affirmed that women did not want to divorce because they would be considered ‘bad’ women, as highlighted in this remark: “People fear divorce because the society will badmouth them, especially women.” Another male respondent used more codified language to suggest similar ideas: “They do not speak out. If they speak out, it looks like something else. What will change for the woman (if she tells the truth)? Due to this, women remain silent.” The rhetorical question seemed to suggest that practical solutions were generally inexistent, which should be appraised in view of the earlier analysis of institutional inefficiencies perpetuating the problem. However, the comment “If they speak out, it looks like something else” is more enigmatic. A cue on how to read this came from another interview with a man, who said to me: “Let me tell you, the women keep silent because they are afraid not to be labelled as aggressive; they believe it is better for them to be humble and calm/peaceful.” In the local society, where wifehood ideals were closely linked to meekness, women speaking out would probably be perceived as confrontational or aggressive, and this could blemish their reputation as good wives. Since

218  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions women were traditionally dependent on men and felt compelled to remarry to support themselves and their children, the likelihood of being stigmatised at the time of separation as non­-​­wife material could be a true source of anxiety for some women. Spending most of my days at the village in the company of women left no doubt that they were particularly fearful of being regarded as ‘bad’ wives or wives who failed to keep their marriages. On one occasion, I entered into conversation with two young women who were visiting a female neighbour’s home. Initially, both women were reticent and only made brief statements that they were married with children. As the coffee ceremony progressed (which I took over while my neighbour served beer to some male clients in another room) and I shared with the women my research and observations from the local society, the women opened up more about their background and family lives. One of the young women revealed that she had never been formally married to her “husband” and that they eventually decided to separate mutually less than a year ago. She told me that he soon brought another, richer, wife. She quickly added that their life together had been peaceful and good; she had been a good wife and had cooked and made ’әnǧära and taken care of the child. He had worked outside and had a good salary, which meant that money was not missing in the family. Her female companion asserted also that she had a fairly happy marriage. When the visitors left, my neighbour turned to me and stated simply that the women had given incomplete accounts. She clarified the situation, saying that the former lady’s husband was a good man and that he had left his wife because she repeatedly refused to do household works and to behave like a married woman. She also said that the second lady had also been abandoned by her husband. This incident evidenced to me that women were being careful not to offer reasons that could stigmatise them as bad wives, responding to a society that was especially vigilant about other people’s affairs. It is also possible that some women were concerned to protect not only their image as wives, but also the name of their husbands whom they sought reconciliation with. The following was remarked by a female interlocutor: “She is ashamed. She does not want him to be in chains and imprisoned.” Another woman stated: “In addition to her hurt, she doesn’t want him to be abused. Basically you shouldn’t abuse. He has to be seriously advised. You should not be beaten by two sticks (kәltä bätәri kәtwәṣì’ә yäbәlan; ክልተ በትሪ ክትውፃዕ የብላን).” In other words, it was enough damage for a wife to be beaten by her husband for her to want to incur also the damage of social shame and causing the abuse of her husband by having him incarcerated. A woman thinking this way could be influenced by a deeply entrenched belief that the affairs of one’s marriage should remain private, but the same attitude could be informed by the woman’s faith­-based ​­ values or piety instructing her to respond to violence with non­-violence ​­ and to forgive injustice done against her, as some interlocutors believed.

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   219 Other female interlocutors drew attention to women’s emotional despair and depression, which made it difficult for them to redress their situation. One Tigrayan woman in London told me: You know, when family breaks and marriage collapses, you get confused, you do not know where you are, where you go. You are in a dark area. They (the abused women) cannot reach the light. Honestly, they cannot reach the light. Other interlocutors moved along similar lines, drawing attention to the emotional attachment of the woman to her husband and her hope that he might change in the future. A woman at the village who had experienced physical abuse for most of her married life made a pertinent comment: For 20 years, he beat me. The people who lived in the same compound as I did, only knew, [but] not the ones who lived outside our compound. Even when he used to beat me, I used to keep quiet because I used to hope that he will get better. When the woman eventually pressed charges, it was only because elders intervened after the violence had escalated and had disturbed the neighbourhood and not because she had stopped loving him or caring about him. Overall, faith had tangible importance for women who dealt with marital challenges, possibly helping them to cope with an unsatisfying situation and to come to terms with more negative experiences that had been outside of their control or full understanding. In contrast, women’s endurance in more seriously abusive situations and relationships was almost never linked to their faith and was rather associated with socio­-​­cultural, material and psychological factors. The narratives of the battered women whom I encountered suggested that faith never led them to accept or to justify their husbands’ abuse, but rather to condemn it. Still, it cannot be excluded that religious values might have fostered some hesitation on the part of the more pious interlocutors to take decisive or formal measures against their husbands that could have permanent repercussions for the men. Faith in men’s decision­-​­making about conjugal behaviour Male interlocutors rarely mentioned God or God’s thinking (ḥasab) when they discussed conjugal situations that caused them distress. However, there were contexts in which some invoked spiritual parameters in their rationalisation of decisions that could result in bad conjugal behaviour. The few stories that were collected pertained to a husband’s potential adulterous behaviour or abandonment of his wife for another woman, which was included in some of my interlocutors’ definitions of abuse. As opposed to women, who were more direct about their situations, men did not generally

220  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions speak with a personal voice, but more enigmatically and hypothetically, which was probably not unrelated to my own gender. It could also be that men were afraid that if they spoke in personal terms I might communicate this to others, concomitantly with the possibility that they felt shame since they spoke of what were considered locally morally questionable acts. On one such occasion at the village, a male neighbour described to me a marriage dilemma, requesting my input and advice. He told me the story of a hypothetical man who was happily married to his wife who had borne him many children. Suddenly the protagonist of the story had started to feel attracted to another woman. My interlocutor remarked that Satan had crept into the protagonist’s mind and was inciting him to succumb to the unlawful temptation. Still, he was unsure if the protagonist should follow his desire and if what he felt for the other woman could be called “true love” by the standards of the faith. I conversed with the man for some time about the nature of spousal love within Church theology, describing also apostolic teachings about the duty of husbands to love their lawful wives. My interlocutor listened carefully and shared his own thoughts, clearly interested in the Church teachings. While he did not disclose his thoughts at the end of our conversation, it was clear that he had spiritual concerns and hoped to resort to religious injunctions to rationalise and to decide how to respond to the hypothetical marital situation. At the end of our talk, I encouraged him to consult with his spiritual father, although I knew that he would hesitate to speak to a priest about this morally questionable situation. This could explain also why the man approached me in the first place, an outsider who had been generally non­-​­judgemental and detached from gossip, but willing to share constructive thoughts on theology. A similar invocation of spiritual temptations was made in another interview with a man at the same village. This interlocutor was married with children and I personally knew him to be a hard­ -​­ working and well­ -​ ­respected man. He had previously devoutly held the monthly zәkәr in his home and had a general reputation of being an ethical man in his dealings with others. During the private interview that we had in my compound with the door half open, he observed that marriage should be a ‘one­-​­to­-​­one’ covenant, but admitted having little exposure to Church teachings about marriage. After a long conversation around marriage­-​­related problems in the local society, including adultery, my interlocutor remarked that he had seen many bad things being committed by married men in his surroundings and where he had travelled for work. Then, with a lowered voice he suggested that he himself had been tempted previously, alluding that his religious morality might have had something to do with his choice to return to his wife and to preserve his marriage. Such narratives seem to suggest that religious considerations could be deterring some men from decisions that could traumatise women, such as adultery or abandonment, with material consequences for themselves and their children. In no other situations did men invoke such faith­ -​­ based

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   221 language, which makes it curious why the marital context was more likely to generate problems of conscience. A starting point for exploring this question is the observation that adultery was considered particularly sinful in the local religious cosmology, as pronounced frequently by clergy. It was mentioned in Chapter 4 that adultery was historically one of the conditions for marriage annulment in the Church, and those who committed such acts were barred from the Eucharist.4 More importantly, adultery has been condemned in canonical books not merely as an act, but also as an intention in the mind.5 Members of the laity would not be expected to have read these books, but these key messages were also pronounced in clergy discourses emphasising monogamy and the centrality of virginity and chastity in contrast to fornication. At a workshop in the village, one man commented the following: When I get married, it is in order to have children, to continue my bloodline; also, to have someone who can support me in life. Furthermore, to strengthen my faith, because if I am not married I will jump from one woman to another; this is forbidden. The other workshop participants agreed with him, evidencing that his articulation captured general (or generally approved) understandings. A look at how men spoke about the ‘sin’ [Tigr.: ḥaṭi’at (ሓጢኣት); Amh.: ḫaṭi’at (ኃጢአት)] of divorce and adultery reinforces this view. Like their female counterparts, in their narratives my male interlocutors did not generally express remorse for having divorced, despite recognising that divorce was a sin. In contrast, divorcing as a result of having committed adultery was considered to be a grave wrongdoing. The story of an 80­-​­year­-​ ­old man, who was divorced by his wife, helps to illustrate these patterns. As per norm, the spiritual father was invited to intervene and to advise the wife against divorcing, but the woman was not convinced. Knowing that divorcing was a sin and a disobedience of Church rules, the man had assumed that subsequently his spiritual father would abandon him. However, the priest reassured him that they could continue their spiritual bond since it was not the man who had disobeyed, but his wife. It was not clear if the man had been to confession for this particular incident, but he referred generally to it in his interview, remarking: In confession, if I have done anything I tell the priest. The priest may give me as punishment a prescription to follow. By this way, God will forgive me. If one has done a bad thing, such as divorce or even murder, this is what he/she must do. Except for if you committed adultery. It is important to heed his understanding that the sin of divorce or murder required a different form of penance to the sin of adultery. He did not explain why he made this differentiation, but a cue was given in another

222  Faith, marriage and gendered expressions man’s interview that moved along similar lines. He also considered divorce on mutual grounds to be less sinful than divorce due to adulterous behaviour, as he remarked: “Discussing on issues and coming to a mutual understanding is not sin. What becomes sin is to do a bad thing and hide it. There are those who don’t speak, yet keep doing bad deeds.” In other words, the intensity of the sin was associated with purposefully dishonest behaviour, which denoted for him and others in the local society a higher degree of immorality. This needs to be juxtaposed to the widespread opinions that murder or other serious crimes were usually attributed to accidents or outbursts of rage and were only rarely associated with ulterior motives, as seen in Chapter 5. In this sense, adultery, as a decision one consciously made, was considered to be a heavier sin that required a different kind of penance. Still, there were variations in men’s understandings, with one man affirming that even remarriage itself was equivalent to fornication. In sum, it is not unlikely that at least some men experienced faith in ways that had consequences for their personal decisions, attitudes and behaviour in marriage, and more so in situations where their acts could lead to transgressions of deeply entrenched religious stipulations and standards of morality. The thought of committing a grave sin could be deterring some men from hurtful acts toward women because they felt the gravity of the moral transgression in their conscience, but not necessarily because they sympathised with women’s pain or emotional loss. It is also not unlikely that men who thought this way feared the societal repercussions of being seen by others, or other men in particular, as morally questionable individuals and losing other people’s respect, although this was never explicitly stated. It may be considered that in the local society it was usually the male who was associated with wife abandonment and adultery, which could create considerably more pressure among men to avoid being stigmatised as such. Notably, while some women referred also to female adultery and described these women as ‘bad’, they did not invoke the fear of transgressing religious laws as men’s pronouncements did. This suggested again that men were more deeply attuned to the regulatory expressions of the religious tradition and were particularly moved by the language of morality and righteousness.

Notes 1 For example, G. Megerssa, “The Role of Religion in Violence against Women”, in Reflections, Documentation of the Forum on Gender, edited by Panos and HBF, No. 7, 2002. 2 (Tigr.) ḥasab ሓሳብ (n): ‘(1) idea, thought, contemplation, notion; (2) suggestion; (3) breast; (4) reflection, reflexion; (5) meaning, intention; (6) impression; (7) image’ [Eritrean People’s Liberation Front, መዝገበ­-ቃ ​­ ላት ትግርኛ­-​­እንግሊዝኛ Dictionary Tigrigna­-​ ­English (Asmara, Eritrea: Hindi Publishers, 2003[1986]), 29]. (Amh.) ḥassab ሓሳብ (n): ‘opinion, point of view, idea, notion, thought, concept; stand, position, mind (opinion); proposal, suggestion, motion (parliamentary); worry, concern; computus’ [T. Kane, Amharic­-​­English Dictionary. Volume 1 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz,

Faith, marriage and gendered expressions   223 1990), 11]. Related to the Ge’ez verb ḥasaba ሐሰበ, which means to ‘think, believe, impute, consider, estimate, esteem, appreciate, regard, deem worthy, take into consideration, have regard for’ [W. Leslau, Comparative Dictionary of Ge’ez (Classical Ethiopic) (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1991), 245]. 3 See, for example, S. Shaikh, “A tasfir of Praxis: Gender, Marital Violence, and Resistance in a South African Muslim Community”, in Violence against Women in Contemporary World Religions: Roots and Cures, edited by D. Maguire and S.  Shaikh (Ohio: Pilgrim Press, 2007), 66–89; A. J. Johnson, ed., Religion and Men’s Violence against Women (Springer: New York, 2015). 4 Anonymous, trans. P. Tzadua, The Fәtha Nägäśt (Laws of the Kings), edited by P. L. Strauss (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia: Central Printing Press, 1968), 149. 5 Anonymous, trans. J. M. Harden, The Ethiopic Didascalia (Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge: London and New York: Macmillan, 1920), 4–5.

10 The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse

All my interlocutors condemned the abusive behaviour they discussed, although they suggested that those who abused probably justified it. However, there was also a visible tendency among local people to rationalise certain forms of abusiveness by invoking the individual personality (bahri) and other personal parameters, including uncontrollable emotional bursts, which could suggest a more implicit kind of tolerance. The human personality was strongly or weakly associated with personal conscience, attitudes and intentions, all of which were related to socio­-​­cultural influences and spiritual parameters in variable ways. The extent to which bahri and individual parameters were invoked to justify abuse deserves attention because the implied metaphysics of humanity could be contributing to the perpetuation of society­ -​­ wide conjugal abuse attitudes. Moreover, the popular perception that women were more spiritual than men, in conjunction with a belief that faith cultivated meeker and more considerate spousal behaviour, could be fostering tendencies to anticipate or rationalise some husband abusiveness among men. A closer look at bahri showed both genderless and possible gendered dimensions in the affirmed conjugal abuse attitudes. Embedded in a folklore Christian worldview, my interlocutors were especially concerned to pronounce those aspects of bahri that met Christian standards of moral behaviour and virtue. Such genderless notions of bahri deeply influenced how individuals were viewed, appraised and valued in the local society. Being a good man or good woman meant to embody Orthodox standards and qualities of meekness, self­-​­sacrifice, forgiveness and sharing, or at least not to blatantly oppose them. However, the notion of bahri and other individual parameters did not eschew gendered underpinnings. The general expectation was that one would behave in ways that matched their female or male biological and physiological fashioning, according to which women needed to be non­-​­confrontational at all times, while men had to be breadwinners, hardworking and in control. By becoming abusive, men failed to embody Orthodox Christian ideals of husbandhood, but they did not become unintelligible as males. On the other hand, by being confrontational, argumentative or aggressive, a woman became un­-viable ​­ as a female,

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   225 which partially helps to explain why women in the local society were overly committed to responding to male abusiveness with quiet endurance. These and other gendered expectations, in combination with beliefs around men’s spirituality, could be fostering gendered responses to abusiveness. While these aetiologies of abusiveness were informed by people’s deeper beliefs about human nature and the individual personality, they also reflected my interlocutors’ more empirical observations that some men behaved in ways that socio­-​­cultural, family or environmental parameters could not explain. In this chapter, I therefore make an attempt to discuss how widely affirmed behavioural problems could be incorporated in a psychosocial framework of analysis drawing from the literature that was discussed in the Introduction, especially attachment­ -​­ related theories of intimate violence. The aim of this exercise is not an attempt to explain male abusiveness, which would require a case­-​­by­-case ​­ approach, but to makes some connections and to demonstrate why approaching conjugal abuse in Aksum from an exclusively gender­-​­based or social norms framework would not suffice to understand this multifaceted problem.

Ambiguous personality­-​­based aetiologies of conjugal abuse In their more fundamental aetiologies of harmful conjugal behaviour my interlocutors invariably invoked the problematic nature of the perpetrator’s personality (bahri). The different articulations I heard suggested a complex cosmology around the notion of bahri that interweaved the natural, social and spiritual dimensions together. However, pinning down these relationships was a challenging task due to my interlocutors’ modes of communicating, who generally did not explain their terminological choices and avoided intellectualising everything, as would be anticipated in a western academic environment. In their rationalisations of bad or abusive behaviour, the majority of my interlocutors affirmed something in the lines of “[i]t is just character/ personality (bahri)” to suggest that the problem emanated from the unique personality of the individual, which was typically described as ‘natural’. Usually, these personality problems were spoken in conjunction with a problem of attitude or thinking, associated with old or traditional mentalities about women and spousal duties in marriage. Others spoke of problems ‘in the head’ or ‘empty­-​­headedness’ or ‘foolishness’, as in the case of a male interlocutor who referred to spousal conflict and separation in the following terms: “[It is] misbehaviour; the problem of attitude; it is empty­-​ ­headedness (č ̣әnqәllat yäläm; ጭንቅላት የለም).” The same ‘problem in the head’ was invoked when interlocutors spoke about a bad ‘habit’ or ‘manner’ (’amäl; ኣመል), such as when they discussed the effects of alcohol consumption on individual behaviour. In a cyclical manner almost, these problems in the head and attitudes and the subsequent behavioural issues were attributed back to the individual’s ‘natural’ personality (bahri).

226  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse Such discursive patterns suggested a close relationship between innate personal traits, socialisation or broader social norms, which interwove with gender identity, and the cognitive and mental state of the individual. However, none of my interlocutors ever provided a comprehensive understanding of the relationship between individual parameters and the wider socio­-​­cultural system. Moreover, the human individual was simultaneously situated in a spiritual dimension, which could affect human behaviour in potentially negative ways, as it was highlighted in the discussion of senseless conjugal crimes in Chapter 5. Again, my interlocutors did not generally explain how this spiritual dimension should be accounted for in the conceptualisation of the human personality (bahri) or other personal parameters and the relationship with abusiveness. In this chapter, I make an attempt to tease out local understandings of the human personality (bahri) in conjunction with human abusiveness. While I discuss these in terms of the natural, social and spiritual dimensions of human existence, my interlocutors’ discourses interwove these together, reflecting a perceived multi­-​ ­dimensional individual.

The natural dimensions of the human personality (bahri) As already mentioned, in my interlocutors’ discourses bahri was almost always associated with ‘nature’ (täfäṭro; ተፈጥሮ).1 Some interlocutors referred to problems of ‘behaviour’ or ‘temperament’ (ṭäbay; ጠባይ),2 which etymologically also pertains to ‘nature’ and ‘essence’.3 Contemplating the bad behaviour of a hypothetical male perpetrator, one male research participants said: “It is by his nature (nay täfäṭro; ናይ ተፈጥሮ); it is his own character/ personality (ba’alu bahräy; ባዕሉ ባህረይ). Who knows? It is by nature/making, it is his own [character].” A female interlocutor, in turn, remarked: It is the problem of the husband. Some [husbands] are good, not all are the same. But why is it so? [It is so] because this is a problem of his nature (nay täfäṭro ś ̣ägäm ‘әyu; ናይ ተፈጥሮ ፀገም እዩ). A woman who had been physically abused by her husband for almost two decades rationalised he husband’s behaviour alongside similar lines: “It was his individual problem. There was no family history with such a problem. It was not his father’s problem. It was not his mother’s problem. He was naturally troublesome/misbehaving (bätäfäṭrä’u räbaši ‘әyu; በተፈትረኡ ረባሺ እዩ).” In her understanding, the problem was with the individual personality of the husband and his natural predispositions. Both the terms bahri and täfäṭro seem to connote the story of creation in Genesis, with bahri encompassing the idea of ‘essence’ or ‘substance’,4 and täfäṭro pertaining to ‘fashioning’ or ‘making’.5 It is worth reiterating the ’andәmta for the section in Genesis that describes the fashioning of Adam and Eve: “Man and woman He created them. (Explanation) At this time

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   227 Eve had not yet been created/fashioned, it was later that (he) said that he (Adam) knew her. Another one says thus, that she is in Adam’s nature/ make (bahri)” [ወንድ ሴት አደርጎ ፈጠራቸው: (ሐተታ) በዚህስ ጊዜ ሔዋን ገና አልተፈጠረችም በኋላ ከታወቀ ብሎ፡ አንድም በእሱ ባሕርይ አለችና እንዲህ አለ።].6 Here bahri seems to capture not only the shared human dispositions and characteristics of man and woman, but also their similar fashioning by God Himself. Despite these etymological and theological connotations, my interlocutors did not generally make biblical references when discussing bahri. This may well be explained by the fact that they typically referred to a ‘bad’ bahri and it would not be expected to identify in the same sentence a relationship with the divine, which local people were almost at awe to discuss. However, since nature and all human affairs were perceived to exist within the realm of God’s control, it is not unlikely that when my interlocutors invoked bahri, they were conveying subtly also a belief that the individual displayed some divinely constituted intrinsic characteristics. However, while my interlocutors invariably associated the problematic behaviour with the natural personality of the individual, they always qualified their statements by stressing that not all men/people were the same (ḥadä ’aynät; ሓደ አይነት). The battered woman that was cited earlier, after explaining her husband’s problematic personality added that “not all people are the same. Not all men have a bad character. Not all women have a good character.” A male interlocutor also observed: “Every individual has a natural personality. Some have [problems in character]; some do not. People have different characters. It is like this. That’s that.” A female interlocutor, in turn, remarked: “There is a mentality/attitude problem among many. Nature/Creation is variable (fәṭrät buzuḥ ’әyu; ፍጥረት ቡዙሕ እዩ). But not all are the same.” She held that people were not only different in their make/personalities, but also that their different personalities reflected in different attitudes and behaviour. While many of my interlocutors associated other people’s attitudes with social norms and forces, as seen in ­ 5 and 6, natural dispositions were perceived by some to determine in part the kinds of attitude that one formulated in the social realm. Despite a sense of irreversibility, it was not stated to what extent this natural or essential personality was immutable or changeable. When my interlocutors explained that bad/abusive behaviour emanated from someone’s bahri, often shrugging their shoulders with what could be interpreted as degree of resignation, they seemed to suggest that one had no control over this and could do little to change or subdue the pernicious ‘natural’ proclivities. Only in some instances did a few interlocutors state that bahri changed, but these changes were always for the worse, as in the following comment: “What reason? It is because of character (bahri). I don’t know how, but their character is unstable.” Another woman remarked: “First, he had a good temperament/personality. But what changed him is beyond me. He did not share his plans with me when he left.” Here she was referring to her husband’s sudden change of heart and decision to leave her. In similar

228  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse narratives, my female interlocutors explained that they had not expected the husband to leave when he did and that they could not understand the reason. While the majority tried to explain their husbands’ behaviour by citing his preference for a wealthier wife, a more comfortable or easier life and a loss of interest in their wives, some women invoked the effect of magic or other sorcery guiding their husbands’ actions. While the immutable quality of the personality was identified with nature, this inherent changeability or fickleness seemed to be identified with external stimulants or forces. As it was documented earlier, bahri was associated with personal attitude/thinking (’atähasasba; ḥasab) and the state of the head (č ̣әnqәllat). All these components or aspects of bahri were considered susceptible to external factors, as evidenced in some people’s postulation that local mentalities had changed, for example as a result of education. It may also be recollected that sәwa, the local beer, was considered to hit the man straight “in the head”, making him less inhibited and more likely to misbehave. Additionally, local rationalisations of very serious conjugal crimes, as was seen in Chapter 5, included beliefs that demonic forces acted in the human mind and incited temporarily senseless actions. In sum, the notion of bahri seemed to connote biological or innate traits, but it clearly interfaced with more temporal mental and psychological states, which were particularly susceptible to external stimulants, such as alcohol or satanic inducement. However, how bahri was formed and related to socialisation, or how the spiritual forces penetrated the human mind and under what conditions, were issues rarely explicated. In the following section I attempt to explore more closely links to the social domain as these were implied in my interlocutors’ discourses.

The relationship between individual parameters and the social dimension When exposing their rationalisations of abusiveness, many of my interlocutors spoke of a lingering ‘old’ mind­-​­set or mentality (’atähasasba) which they thought contributed to some men’s abusive behaviour with their wives. It was suggested in Chapter 6 that this ‘bad’ or ‘old’ mentality could refer to pernicious understandings about marriage and spousal expectations that perpetuated gender asymmetries, feeding into other forms of conjugal abuse, or some men’s tendency to treat their spouses as lesser, justifying their abusiveness toward them. In general, these pernicious attitudes were associated with the ‘old’ generation and mentalities of the ‘past’. A male interlocutor, for example, had the following to say about men’s behaviour toward women: If I, let’s say, fight with my wife, we have to split all our wealth, all our money. Some (men) do not give any wealth, there are those who say (to the female) “leave as you are.” In short, it is the mentality. It is poverty.

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   229 It is lack of education. The most important problem is that there is no thinking. It is the problem of the poor in the country. It is the poor of the country. They cannot work (have no options). There are no technology factories (to offer work). While my interlocutor associated men’s inconsiderate behaviour toward women with the lack of education and employment options and poverty, he also spoke of the men’s own mentality, which he, however, did not explicitly relate to wider issues of socialisation. A considerably older male interlocutor also spoke about the harmful attitude of some men to refuse to support their wives in household works, but he more openly attributed this to culture (bahәl) and society­-​­wide gender norms, remarking: The wife brings water; the husband does not carry water. This is culture (bahәl). If the husband brings water, they (other men) tell him: “You have become a wife.” If he brings water by donkey, however, there is no problem. But, some still make fun of this. The attitude that this is the man’s work, this is the women’s work is not by the faith/by the teachings of the Church; this is bad culture (bahәl). I, personally, can bring water and there is no reason to go to the court about the division of labour. If there is equality in work everything is good. It is the mentality/​ attitude (’atähasasba), the brain is empty, it does not work; they do not think. If she works and he works, then there will be no problem. The bad culture that the interlocutor made reference to did not refer to the overall cultural system in the local society, but the norm among a segment of the population to refuse to support women in their works and to look down on men who did. He considered that the sort of rigidity around the division of labour that he described emanated from a deeper mentality issue, but he also related this to the individual men’s foolishness. Village residents generally affirmed that pernicious attitudes toward women had changed in recent decades as a result of the expansion of education and government awareness programmes. For example, some spoke of changes in attitudes that previously upheld hitting one’s wife: “It is the old [attitude]. Now, it (hitting one’s wife) is not allowed; before it was.” Another male interlocutor observed: Before, those who hit were people who had not been to school. Both spouses are getting schooling now. People in old times who had this problem were without education. In our times, there is equality. So, the previous mentality has been disappearing. Now, if there is hitting, they divorce. Interlocutors reasoned that more women now realised that they did not have to tolerate spousal abusiveness and that many chose to separate, by

230  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse resorting to social courts. These attitudes were associated with external parameters that were favourably changing. However, not everyone considered that husband abusiveness or the pernicious attitudes that contributed to it only resulted from a lack of education, as suggested in one woman’s comment: “It is their attitude, but it is not the lack of education.” She clearly thought that such pernicious attitudes were the result of other parameters that could not be explained only by people’s lack of schooling. One man associated the wider culture with a problem of mentality: “The culture must be improved. The mentality must be changed. The wife works the works of the husband, but he does not; this is bad culture.” A TPLF veteran made the same connection between culture and personal attitude, but his comment demonstrated even more explicitly that even explanations that invoked cultural parameters were predicated on individual intention and choice. He remarked: Married life will improve if the mentality/attitude of the people changes. For example, men can lift their influence over women only if they start believing that they should not be doing that (dominate women) anymore. This will be possible when we think women are our wives, our sisters, our mothers and our daughters and [when we] treat them that way. Additionally, the society should believe and accept that women can contribute better ideas and [that] they can speak better. Then problems can be solved. The society cannot change old habits and culture (yä duro lәmd ’әna bahәl; የድሮ ልምድ እና ባህል) overnight. But step by step, it is possible to bring attitudinal change (yä ’astäsasäb läwuṭ; የአስተሳሰብ ለውጥ) in the society through education. But as things are currently, if you give your opinion (openly), there may be people who say “It is none of your business.” The new generation may change its attitude in the future. The old people, however, except for those who have been in the political struggle like me, will say “What does a woman know?” or “A woman has nothing to do,” etc. Our political party during our struggle taught us for about 40 years and helped us to understand that is was not good to undermine women. This interlocutor considered that pernicious attitudes emanated from an old prejudiced mentality toward women which was interwoven with the cultural fabric. He suggested that education could help to change these mind­-​­sets, but this would not suffice unless people themselves realised the need for change and committed to different ways and practices. As another man observed, “[t]he old mentality has not changed very much. Women say that they are equal to men. But, men stay quiet.” In other words, despite proclaimed equality between men and women, some had yet to embrace the change in their private lives. A young male interlocutor invoked a local aphorism to stress the importance of personal intention for change to take place: “You cannot change a person from the outside/externally unless they

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   231 decide by their own heart first” (mäkirkan ’alibi, mäwiś ̣kan ’aysini; መኪርካን አሊቢ፣ መዊፅካን አይሲኒ). Hence, while some people spoke of a bad culture or widespread mentality to explain the persistence of pernicious attitudes, they considered that the remedy was found in personal self­-​­awareness. Interestingly, while interlocutors postulated that positive attitudinal changes were occurring around them, which suggested that some men and women were changing their thinking about rigidly upheld social norms, they did not speak of positive changes at the level of the human personality (bahri). Nor did anyone unequivocally ever state that the problem of abusiveness could be resolved if one changed or improved their bahri. If bahri was believed to have a higher degree of immutability, it would be highly unlikely or very difficult for one to change themselves. This is because the human personality comprised the deeper essence of what made one a unique individual, those traits and temperament that shared socialisation could not possibly explain. On the other hand, some changeability was granted to human behaviour in participants’ discussion of evil social forces and spiritual energies acting on the individual. Since human behaviour was connected to the human personality (bahri), a fundamental human fickleness could be connoted in the concept.

The relationship between individual parameters and the spiritual dimension The investigations into my interlocutors’ understandings of the local religious tradition, as outlined in Chapter 8, revealed an expectation that participating in the sacramental life of the Church and embodying its commandments was expected to cultivate one’s faith­ -​­ based conscience (ḫәllina). This was directly linked to morals and decision­-​­making regarding how one should act in a given situation, such as when one was faced with an opportunity to steal or was called to help someone in need. Ideally, if one cultivated a Christian conscience, one would then embody Christian morals in one’s everyday decisions and actions. It was understood that these behavioural patterns and actions, by being embodied reiteratively and conscientiously, should result in a consolidation of the faith­-​­based hәllina in almost a cyclical movement. However, in this process the individual had to face temptations and to wrestle with thoughts and intentions. This was so because humanity was perceived to be constantly pestered by evil forces and having to grapple with temptations to sinning. An attendee after a Maḫәbärä Qәdusan prayer session in Aksum made the pertinent remark that while many people recognised Church teachings and formulated attitudes in view of these, their practices were not always compatible because people’s lives were driven also by temptations and sin. This was also suggested in the married men’s narratives discussed in Chapter 9, who attributed temptations to Satan. These demonic energies influenced people’s intentions and if they were not

232  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse overcome, they could result in sinful behaviour. Similarly, if bad intentions were not dismissed, they could lead to terrible evil acts and even murder, as exemplified in the case of senseless conjugal acts. Some statements suggested that one was more likely to sin if one already had a naturally evil or bad personality, with one man remarking: “It is a sin. It is bad. But if the character (bahri) of the person is like this, he will do it.” This was also raised in discussions around drinking excessively in religious gatherings, with some interlocutors affirming that men with a bad bahri were more prone to indulge in it. The implication here is that the individual was attributed a degree of independent decision­-​­making about doing good or evil, and this decision­-​ ­making was not necessarily isolated from the natural proclivities of the unique personality that one had. The desideratum was obviously for people to follow the laws of God, which might not always match individual desires. In parallel, people’s cognitive and affective capacities were considered to be invaded by demonic forces that compelled them toward sinning, which could lead to a further departure from God’s laws and ways. The descriptions of conjugal crimes suggested that satanic inducements acted in the mind of the individual and were believed to be capable of temporarily dictating human intentions or blanking out one’s faith­ -based ​­ conscience (ḫәllina). The perception that such terrible acts were mostly accidental and occurred in conflict or emotional outbursts evidences that the affective dimension was equally susceptible to evil energies. It is here where the intensity of personal faith became crucial and could decide the outcome of the spiritual strife. This was illustrated in one woman’s explanation of homicide, which explicitly invoked the oscillation of the individual mind between good and evil. She was convinced that the Holy Spirit abandoned entirely someone who committed a crime. In this vulnerable time, the person came under the inducement of Satan and had little awareness of what he was doing. She believed that when the crime was done, he would come to his senses and would start to feel afraid of being discovered. He could also feel overwhelmingly guilty and regretful and even lose his mind as a result of thinking about the crime he had committed. In this narrative, it was the individual’s evil intentions combined with a weak faith that drove the Holy Spirit away in the first place, providing thus an open window for Satan to enter the human mind and to induce or enforce bad acts. By allowing the bad intentions to take over one became essentially a vessel for satanic acts. Such descriptions suggest that the human individual, who was understood to be imprinted with some traits, characteristics and inclinations presumably by natural or divine ‘creation’, was simultaneously perceived to be a vessel­ -​­ like agent with personal intentions. Presumably, one could direct one’s personal intentions, despite the pressure of social and spiritual forces that induced them to temptations or bad acts since, as it was suggested in the discourses around excessive drinking at religious gatherings,

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   233 one was still held responsible for one’s actions. Such an understanding helps to explain why interlocutors could speak about sudden changes in human behaviour, but still conceptualise bahri as natural and essential. People understood that despite the natural traits and characteristics that an individual had, one was also constantly defined by one’s conscience and heart, where intentions were being formulated and which directed how one acted. Since personal faith was believed to counteract temptations and sin, those who displayed a stronger faith or spirituality were anticipated to be less prone to fickle behaviour. This understanding seemed to underpin also my interlocutors’ belief that faith could help to cultivate meekness in marriage. However, such beliefs, combined with many women’s perception that men were less spiritual, could have implications for abused women’s attitudes toward husband abuse, calling attention to the gendered dimensions of the human personality.

Gendered personalities and implications for attitudes about conjugal abuse In their discourses, many interlocutors proposed that differences in bahri transcended gender, as suggested in the following comment: “Yes, personality differs by person. [For example] I and my wife, we have different personalities. By thought we differ. People are not all the same.” However, the previous chapters made evident that the local society was governed by different understandings and ideals associated with wives and husbands. Consequently, it begs asking if any aspects of bahri and other individual parameters were predicated on gender identity and what the implications could be for abusiveness or people’s responses to it. In an effort to explore deeper understandings of gender identity among my interlocutors, I initially incorporated an exercise during the participatory workshops that asked participants to discuss how they understood ‘woman’ and ‘man’ and the unique characteristics of each. I initially asked this question under the thematic section dedicated to gender relations in the local society. However, this abstract query made little sense to local people, who apparently were not used to questioning what they considered to be given facts of life. On the other hand, when I asked them to consider the same question in the context of the conjugal relationship (e.g. how they understood ‘wife’ or ‘husband’), participants were more responsive. This indicated that people resonated more with context­-specific ​­ realities, as opposed to abstract notions, and confirmed that within local worldviews a woman or man was rarely conceptualised in isolation from her/his role as a wife/ husband, which were considered women’s and men’s natural roles. Understanding this can help to explain further why my interlocutors did not generally question gender roles. As it was discussed, many lamented the unfair distribution of work, but they did not ever question the idea of gender roles per se. Women and men, but especially women, still focused

234  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse on becoming a rightful female doing what was considered appropriate for them in the local socio­-​­cultural system. Becoming a female meant essentially preparing to be a ‘good’ wife, which required embodying a predefined set of qualities and attitudes, such as meekness, a hard­-​­working spirit and a non­-​­confrontational attitude toward others, but especially one’s husband. Thus, within the local cosmological system one might speak of womanhood and wifehood concomitantly, with the woman­ -cum­ ​­ -​­wife being a female­-​ ­bodied individual who manifested the behavioural patterns, types of thinking and activities as defined by local gender standards. Simultaneously, a woman who manifested this gender identity was also attributed, like all human individuals, a unique and ‘natural’ bahri. A person with a good bahri in the local cosmology seemed to invoke Christian morality: seen as someone who was righteous and hard­-​­working and who preferred peacefulness over argumentation. These appeared to be genderless ideals and could have been developed and perpetuated through centuries of using the lives of the monks and nuns as a behavioural yardstick, as suggested by one theologian in Addis Ababa. Despite their universality, however, some of these characteristics were clearly pronounced for women in the vernacular reality. Both men and women should be meek and forgiving, but modesty and non­-​­confrontation were considerably more binding for a woman in the socio­-​­cultural system, otherwise she risked being considered non­-wife ​­ material. The implication here is that conceptualisations of personality and personhood, while deeply entrenched in discourses of the natural and the created, did not eschew the influence of more profane gender standards. These gendered dimensions could also influence how people thought about and responded to female and male aggressiveness. When a man became aggressive, this did not seem to lead necessarily to his alienation by the rest of the society or his abandonment by his wife. Socio­-​­cultural mechanisms were in place to apply pressure on him to change, but nowhere was it suggested that by becoming aggressive he ceased being a man/husband. On the other hand, a woman/wife with a confrontational attitude was an almost intolerable notion, to the extent that some people considered it better for a woman to divorce her husband than to confront him to change. One man who was asked what a wife should do if she dealt with a perennially troublesome husband, proposed the following: If she is good woman, she will say: “If you always drink and come home drunk, give me half of my property and I will leave. When you drink beer and you get drunk I do not want to be troubled.” She should say, “give me my half share and I will go.” By his rationale, a ‘good’ woman would choose to leave rather than force her husband to amend his pernicious habit. Perhaps my interlocutor thought that the husband’s pernicious habits were irreversible and that the

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   235 woman would only endanger herself by speaking out, but it is significant that he invoked the discourse of a ‘good’ wife as opposed to a discourse of safety to make his point. Could these gendered connotations, which made abusiveness seem more acceptable for males than for females, interface with beliefs about spiritual inducements to aggression, resulting in a tendency to justify physical abusiveness on the part of men and to expect endurance on the part of women? The discussion of conjugal crimes, one of which included an attempted murder by a wife and her new romantic partner against her ex­-husband ​­ evidences that demonic forces were perceived to affect both genders. This also resonates with the observation that man and woman were conceptualised as fundamentally similar: vessel­-​­like entities located in a perennial strife between evil and good, defined by a conscience and personal intentions. However, these particular crimes were considered extreme and were appraised slightly differently from milder forms of conjugal abusiveness, raising the need for understanding how evil spiritual activity was described for men and women in conjunction with quotidian conjugal life. A closer look at such discourses suggested that understandings of spiritual activity did not eschew gendered socio­ -​­ cultural boundaries either. Quotidian evil forces that were mentioned in my interlocutors’ narratives were not limited to spiritual entities, but extended to human individuals who became agents of evil by their own choice. Thus, a pervasive fear among interlocutors was that of the däbtära­-​­cantors, who were consistently associated with evil works and satanic activity. The evil works of this group was at times differentiated from the works of the cultural ‘magician’ or ‘wizard’ (ṭänqʷay; ጠንቋይ), who indulged in trickery and magic. The stories that people shared suggested female protagonists finding victims in men or in women for motivations such as revenge or jealousy. The ‘evil eye’ (buda; ቡዳ),7 referring to someone who has the power to cause harm, was associated by some interlocutors with cultural sorcerers and by some with Satan. Incidents attributed to the buda included the sudden sickness of a young female student who died soon afterwards. A couple of incidents were attributed to Satan, such as a young man’s sudden death while farming. I also enquired about zar (ዛር)8 agents, spiritual forces that possessed people identified in other works from Ethiopia.9 Their existence was also confirmed, but the perception seemed to be that the zar was simple and mild, while the works of Satan were more dangerous. The stories that were told about the zar referred to female protagonists, but these were scant. In terms of consequences, some female rural residents affirmed that if a woman was known to have the evil eye she would become unmarriageable or could be divorced if already married. Although these discourses were gendered in some ways, the scattered accounts do not allow conclusive observations, as drawn by Helen Pankhurst in her study from Menz.10 Pankhurst had observed that the domain of folklore spirit beliefs belonged primarily to women and proposed what could be

236  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse described as a functionalist logic to explain this gender differential. Her proposition might have had a degree of accuracy for that context, but it should be an important limitation that Pankhurst engaged in her study primarily with women. Concerning the Aksumite rural society, as Harald Aspen found to be the case in his research site in Shewa, no clear demarcations could be drawn between the “Great Tradition” (Orthodox ­Christianity) and the folklore system of spirit beliefs.11 This is premised on the observation that folklore spirit categories were essentially embedded into a Christian cosmology that positioned the individual within a spiritual battlefield between forces of good and forces of evil. This meant that the most prominent and feared evil forces were traced usually to the arch­-​­enemy of humanity, Satan. It would be more accurate to suggest that the gendered connotations in discourses of spiritual activity reflected the societal reality that was itself organised in a gendered manner. The fact that magic/sorcery was often traced to female jealousy or a desire for revenge resonated with the local reality that many women were abandoned by husbands and had reasons to hold a grudge against men or against the women their husbands went to. Moreover, the gendered descriptions of spirit possession (i.e. a woman who is affected by buda becoming unmarriageable) could be understood in view of the fact that it was usually the woman who was scrutinised for her marriageability in the local society. A sick woman could not possibly meet the expectations associated with a traditionally desirable wife, which would justify why people would be preoccupied with the female gender in discourses of spirit possession. The conclusion is that just as ‘natural’ bahri did not eschew the strictures of social gender norms, the spiritual world did not either. It is not unlikely that these gendered discourses fostered gendered aetiologies about the manifestation of abusiveness and gendered responses to it. Here it is useful to revisit the case of the battered woman cited in Thera Mjaaland’s study from Tigray that was discussed in Chapter 3. It may be recollected that Abeba had chosen to endure an unprecedented assault from her husband for no apparent reason. She gave Mjaaland the following explanation for her husband’s behaviour and the reasoning behind her own reaction: I am sure it was Satan who took hold of him, sheyt’an hizuwu. There had not been anything bad in advance; no bad talking, no quarrelling or other problems that would make him do so. “How can they start quarrelling in the morning,” people wondered. There was no previous problem; Satan had come. She had told Mjaaland before she had not been afraid, now she confirms: “I was not afraid; shey’tan had taken hold of me too.” She also told Mjaaland that her husband had told her that if she screamed, and people came, he would kill them all. “God was looking

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   237 after us, I believe. To keep quiet was the best thing, I think. If people came he threatened to shoot them down. ‘Why did you not cry out?’ people asked me. Blood kept running from my head, my nose all that time, two and a half hour.”12 Abeba discerned in her husband’s sudden and unreasonable abusiveness the works of Satan. Later in the conversation she attributed this to ­jealousy/shame that her husband might have felt because of being teased by his peers for having married a woman who was wealthier than him. If Abeba had considered her husband to be under satanic influence, in view of the analysis in this chapter, it is likely that she also believed that his conscience had temporarily blanked out and that he was in that moment abandoned of the Holy Spirit and thus capable of senseless acts. This could justify why she chose to keep quiet and not to call for the other lodgers. It could also help to understand why her husband told her after being released by the police that she had “saved his life” and why Abeba said that God was watching over them. It can be assumed that had she screamed, people would have come in, which could have led her (temporarily irrational) husband to worse acts and homicide as he had threatened to do. This would have resulted in his imprisonment and also in graver sins. Abeba also must have believed that his loss of conscience was temporary and reversible otherwise she would have not stoically waited for him to stop. Interesting is what she said about herself also having been taken hold by Satan. This appears to be suggesting that Satan affected everyone indiscriminately regardless of the state of their intentions, which would contrast with this study’s findings. This may not be necessarily so and depends on how Abeba understood being affected by Satan. Her attribution of the evil eye or her sudden sickness one mysterious night to Satan in the same interview suggested that satanic influence was associated with a wide range of bad situations with different consequences, as it emerged also to be the case in Aksum. Abeba identified being taken hold of Satan with the loss of her sense of fear, what could be described as a blanking out of conscience resulting not in uncontrollable abusiveness, but in forbearance. Simultaneously, Abeba discerned behind this reaction God’s Providence at work, who “was looking after” them. This is probably because by being petrified Abeba did not confront her husband, which could have provoked him further to kill her. Abeba’s story helps to illustrate that spiritual activity was probably understood to affect men and women through people’s gendered socio­-​ ­cultural realities. This was highlighted in her need to rationalise her husband’s demonic inducement on the premise that he had felt insulted or demeaned due to other men’s remarks about his wife’s wealth, which could directly tie to local standards of a male’s identity as breadwinner. On the other hand, Abeba’s perception that she had also been affected by Satan, leading to a petrified reaction, reinforces the observation of this study that

238  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse while both genders were considered susceptible to demonic energies, the effects aligned with local behavioural gendered standards. Theoretically speaking, satanic energy could have made Abeba as uncontrollably abusive as her husband, but this would breach local socio­ -​­ cultural norms that expected the woman to be always meek and non­-​­confrontational. In view of these observations it may be said that gendered underpinnings to local beliefs about the human individual and the workings and the effect of evil spirits on human behaviour could be fostering gendered responses to abusiveness. While in Aksum abusiveness was invariably traced to a genderless problematic personality (natural dispositions, personal mentality/­attitude, thoughtlessness, selfishness) and while satanic energies could affect both females and males presumably to dictate their intentions and highly aggressive acts, understandings about more quotidian violence were framed within a socio­-​­cultural framework defined by rigid gender ideals and standards that made aggression unlikely for women and compelled them into behavioural patterns in accordance with ideals of meekness and timidity. These beliefs could co­-​­exist with other beliefs that men were generally less spiritual than women, a spirituality that was believed to protect from evil energies inciting bad acts. The overall interface of such beliefs could result in attitudes that expected and more easily justified some degree of male physical abusiveness and some women’s forbearance in abusive situations.

Personality and relationship problems through a psychological lens In the local society men were generally expected to provide for their families and if they did not act as proper breadwinners, their wives would be unable to run the household effectively, which could lead to disappointment and negative feelings. The narratives of men and women that I heard highlighted that the physical, emotional and spiritual proximity of the partners made them dependent on each other and particularly susceptible to each other’s responses. When an imbalance emerged because one party did not deliver, this begot stress and frustration in the other party, whose complaints and accusations amplified in turn the former’s dissatisfaction. This seemed to plunge the relationship into a cycle of dissatisfaction and argument. The results could be worse in relationships lacking intimate communication and understanding, such as in some cases of arranged marriages or due to a large age difference between spouses. Like my interlocutors, attachment scholars generally agree that some intimate partner violence is situational and arises in the context of “negative reciprocity” whereby the responses of the intimate partner provoke incrementally more hurtful behaviour in the other partner.13 Importantly, provocations by partners seem to amplify distorted empathic tendencies in individuals with personality disorders. Some studies show that abusive individuals have a poor capacity to understand the feelings and the distress

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   239 of their partners, which they may perceive as exceptionally negative.14 Contrary to this, individuals with borderline personality types who are generally more susceptible to feelings of anger, fear and jealousy may be particularly good at reading their partners’ facial expressions, which can amplify their level of distress since they are highly sensitive to emotional displays.15 The narratives I encountered in the field suggest other possible connections with the attachment­ -related ​­ scholarship on violence. Many of my female interlocutors complained that their boyfriends or husbands could not understand their feelings or their love. Others spoke about local men’s lack of ability to externalise their emotions and a lack of interest or ability to develop intimate communication with their female partners. For example, a female interlocutor in Aksum asserted that most local men do not know how to think of the woman’s feelings and to care for her so as to ensure that she is emotionally fulfilled. In a group conversation with women at the village it was agreed that Tigrayan men tended to be overly mysterious and introverted and did not generally share their thoughts with their wives. The women also postulated that their men did not express their emotions as much as other men and they compared them specifically to Amharan men, who were believed to be “much better” in that respect. Such observations could be capturing more profound problems of attachment and empathy among a segment of the male population that was particularly problematic or abusive in intimate partnerships. The narratives of wife abandonment, for example, invariably described a husband’s sudden change of heart and spoke of lack of intimacy and connection to his wife. One woman narrated the following: I don’t know what happened. But he said, “I live by working for my daily food (әnjera)”; then he left. But when I asked him why and what happened, he said, “you and I until now had trust for each other, but now, I will live in a place that pleases me” and [he] left. My interlocutor affirmed that their marriage had been peaceful and suggested that her husband had treated her well. In the narrative she provided, the husband felt the need to let his wife know that they had lived well together to reassure her that it was not her fault that he left. However, he did not seem to sympathise with her loss or pain at his sudden change of heart. Changes in people’s feelings can and do happen in all romantic relationships and marriages; however, the alienation between two intimate partners generally develops over time, which the other partner senses.16 The woman who was cited earlier affirmed persistently that she and her husband had never quarrelled, that her marriage had been a fairly good and balanced one and that he suddenly changed. The same scenario was repeated in numerous other women’s narratives who again emphasised the dramatic change in their husbands’ behaviour. It is not unlikely that my female interlocutors adapted their narratives so that they would not appear in a bad light, for reasons that have been

240  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse already discussed. However, it is equally plausible that some men’s impassionate abandonment of wives was underpinned by some personality issue or attachment insecurity that is not immediately discernible. Insecurely attached people of an avoidant type have been reported to keep an emotional distance from the intimate partners and consider that they can be self­-​­sufficient without them.17 On the other hand, some men’s subsequent failure to provide for child maintenance could suggest lower levels of empathy toward their partners and children. Within psychological studies, lower levels of empathy have generally been associated with anti­-​­social personality disorder, which has been suggested in turn to correlate with avoidant attachment.18 Attachment problems are generally traced to problematic relationships between children and parents and inconsistent or unstable parenting styles. In the village, I observed a recurrent parenting style that could be described as detached and which became at times abusive. Many of the households the villages were female­-​­led because the husband was deceased, had left or had temporarily moved to another place for seasonal work. As a result, it was the mother who raised and disciplined the children. In many of the families that I observed, mothers were evidently concerned about their children, but they also regularly hit or reprimanded them in front of others. Girls were usually slapped if they misbehaved, but boys would be beaten harshly. It did not become clear how extensive child battering actually was, but one male interlocutor was convinced that, “[b]efore, this practice did not exist” and that “[a]ccording to the faith, it is good not to hit and to insult the children”. Most interlocutors agreed that the practice had amplified in ‘modern times’. Some interlocutors believed that due to children’s increasingly secular education, parents were feeling unprepared to deal with how their children thought and acted, which could manifest as frustration and abusiveness on their part. Numerous mothers I knew in the villages battered their sons regularly and, as long as this beating was within reasonable limits, no one interfered. Five months were spent living close to a mother who regularly beat her son of 13 years of age. In the city, I spent almost two months living next to a young mother who regularly battered her 10­-​­year­-old ​­ son. The attachment scholarship, as reviewed in the Introduction, suggests that inconsistent parenting styles could contribute to developmental problems, especially if harsh disciplining is not counterbalanced by a stable loving relationship with the mother. One anticipates that mothers’ detached, judgemental and unstable parenting styles might become conducive to boys developing attachment insecurities of an avoidant type. On the other hand, early childhood abuse might result in a weaker empathic capacity among some adult men. Such impacts could be compounded by a father’s departure or a step­-​ ­father’s abusive behaviour with the child, which local women reported to be a frequent cause of second divorces. Family violence is generally understood to be intergenerational, in the sense that children who are abused or witness abuse in their childhood are more likely to develop a tolerant attitude toward violence. Evidence suggests

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   241 that such children are more likely to either become abusive with romantic partners or become more susceptible to victimisation.19 However, this generational aspect need not be reinforced through the sole tract of child physical or psychological abuse, but also through mother abuse by husbands. The former has been aptly captured by family studies scholars in the observation that, “living with the abuse of their mother can be considered a form of emotional abuse, with negative implications for children’s emotional and mental health and future relationships.”20 Mother abuse is likely to have direct effects on the child, but also indirect effects by mediating the mother’s parenting style with the child. In his book, Donald Dutton cited David Winter to suggest that mothers might act in an ambivalent manner with their children as retaliation against their father.21 Winter seemed to believe that this retaliation would be more likely in societies with more rigid gender roles and suppression of women by men.22 A linkage may exist, then, between what appeared to be some women’s own anxiety and emotional agony in their married lives and the use of battery with their boy children. One of the mothers who battered her son regularly lived alone because her (second) husband had left to work in another city and had not returned in a timespan of seven months. The woman confided that the husband called regularly, but he had not returned as he had promised to do. The second woman who was frequently abusive with her son also lived alone because her husband had abandoned her for a wealthier woman. Both women seemed anxious and traumatised as a result of their husbands’ behaviour, which they externalised only limitedly or not at all. I regularly attended religious gatherings with the first woman and it became evident that she often resorted to drinking until inebriation. A neighbour who joined us frequently used to tease the woman for being “an alcoholic”, not entertaining the possibility that she might be ‘drinking her sorrows away’. These juxtapositions are only suggestive and do not make links to Northern Ethiopia’s war history and its influence on local human relations and possible personality disorders. However, it suffices to evidence the importance of investigating the psychological parameters of conjugal abuse more rigorously in future research. Theories of domestic violence applied to low­-​­and middle­-​­income societies have stubbornly focused on sociological explanations and aetiologies of violence, which could reflect a historical bias toward African and other non­-​­western cultures, seeing them as inherently backward or violent. The analysis provided here suggests the need to depart from simplistic explanations and the urgency for more nuanced investigations that simultaneously place individuals within personal life histories and wider systems of socialisation.

Notes  1 (Tigr.) täfäṭro ተፈጥሮ (n): ‘nature, creation’ [Eritrean People’s Liberation Front, መዝገበ­-ቃ ​­ ላት ትግርኛ­-እ ​­ ንግሊዝኛ Dictionary Tigrigna­-​­English (Asmara, Eritrea: Hindi Publishers, 2003[1986]), 296].

242  The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse  2 (Tigr.) ṭäbay ጠባይ (n): ‘nature = ባህሪ, character, apanage, complexion, feature, element, kind, property’ (EPLF, መዝገበ­-​­ቃላት, 563). (Amh.) ṭäbay (n): ‘nature (character), disposition, conduct (behaviour), temperament, character, manners, personality; characteristic, property (physics)’ [T. Kane (1990) Amharic­-​­English Dictionary. Volume 1 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1990), 2150].  3 (Ge’ez) ṭäbayә‘ ጠባይዕ (n): ‘natural disposition, nature, elements, essence’ [W.  Leslau, Comparative Dictionary of Ge’ez (Classical Ethiopic) (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1991), 587].  4 (Ge’ez) baḥri/baḥrәy ባሕሪ/ባሕርይ (n): ‘pearl, precious stone, essence, element, nature, substance, quality, hypostasis’ (Leslau, Comparative, 91).  5 (Ge’ez) faṭara ፈጠረ (v): ‘create, fashion, produce, fabricate, device, invent, feign, contrive, inscribe (or carve), magic letters, make incisions on the skin’ and (Ge’ez) tafaṭro ተፈጥሮ (n): ‘nature, creature’ (Leslau, Comparative, 171–172).  6 Anonymous, መጻሕፍተ ብሉያት እሉ እሙንቱ ኦሪት ዘፍጥረት ኦሪት ዘፀአት፣ አንድምታ ትርጓሜ። አዲስ አበባ: ትንሣኤ ማሳተሚያ ድርጀት፣ ፣ ፲፱፻፺፱ ዓ.ም [The Book of the Old Testament, Genesis and Exodus: Commentary and Interpretation] (Addis Ababa: Tinsae Printing Press, 1999 EC), 19.  7 (Amh.) buda ቡዳ (n): spirit who causes harm by means of the evil eye; person who has the power to cause people to get sick. Popular tradition in rural areas held that traditional workers in iron possessed this capacity. Custom forbids a person from looking at a baby “lest the buda eat him”. (Kane, Amharic­-​­English, 934)  8 (Amh.) zar ዛር (n): ‘spirit which inhabits lakes, wilderness areas or trees and which possesses people, fig. sharp­-​­witted person’ (Kane, Amharic­-​­English, 1624).  9 H. Pankhurst, Gender, Development and Identity: An Ethiopian Study (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1992); J. Binns, The Orthodox Church of Ethiopia: A History (London and New York: I.D. Tauris, 2017), 34–35. 10 Pankhurst, Gender, 1992. 11 H. Aspen, Amhara Traditions of Knowledge: Spirit Mediums and Their Clients (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz Verlag, 2001), 23. 12 T. Mjaaland, “ ‘Ane Suqh’ Ile. I Keep Quiet’. Focusing on Women’s Agency in Western Tigray, North­-​­Ethiopia” (Polit. Thesis, University of Bergen, 2004), 95. 13 K. Clements and J. A. Schumacher, “Perceptual Biases in Social Cognition as Potential Moderators of The Relationship between Alcohol and Intimate Partner Violence: A Review”, Aggression and Violent Behavior 15, no. 5(2010): 362, doi.org/10.1016/j.avb.2010.06.004. 14 Clements and Schumacher, “Perceptual Biases”, 362. 15 Clements and Schumacher, “Perceptual Biases”, 362. 16 N. C. Overall and E. P. Lemay Jr., “Attachment and Dyadic Regulation Processes”, in Attachment Theory and Research: New Directions and Emerging Themes, edited by J. A. Simpson and W. S. Rholes (New York: Guilford Press, 2015), 145–169. 17 T. Li and D. Chan, “How Anxious and Avoidant Attachment Affect Romantic Relationship Quality Differently: A Meta­-​­Analytic Review”, European Journal of Social Psychology 42, no. 4(2012): 414, doi/abs/10.1002/ejsp.1842. 18 A. M. Mauricio, J.­-​­Y. Tein and F. G. Lopez, “Borderline and Antisocial Personality Scores as Mediators Between Attachment and Intimate Partner Violence”, Violence and Victims 22, no. 2(2007): 139–157, doi.org/10.1891/0886670​07780​ 477339. 19 L. Mills, Insult to Injury: Rethinking our Responses to Intimate Abuse (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006); S. Holt, H. Buckley and S. Whelan, “The

The individual, human nature and conjugal abuse   243 Impact of Exposure to Domestic Violence on Children and Young People: A Review of the Literature”, Child Abuse and Neglect 32, no. 8(2008): 803. DOI: 10.1016/j.chiabu.2008.02.004. 20 Holt, Buckley and Whelan, “The Impact”, 799. 21 D. G. Dutton, The Abusive Personality: Violence and Control in Intimate Relationships (2nd ed.) (New York: The Guilford Press, 2007), 135. 22 Dutton, The Abusive Personality, 135.

Conclusion Beyond western ways

In this book I have presented an interdisciplinary study of conjugal abuse to provide a counter­-​­discourse to gender­-based ​­ violence paradigms that are currently applied almost monolithically in Africa and other regions of the world in the context of international development and public health practice. I have argued that while a gender­-sensitive ​­ framework is desirable in the analysis of intimate partner violence, the western Euro­ -​­ centric gender metaphysics underpinning popular gender theories and analytical frameworks have reduced the effectiveness of gender­ -sensitive ​­ research cross­ -​­ culturally. By default, these have neglected or obscured local conceptualisations of humanity and gender, especially those grounded in non­-​­western religious systems. In parallel, the field of gender­-based ​­ violence has tended to interpret locally collected data through sociological frameworks that have not engaged substantively with the multi­-​­dimensionality of human experience, including the spiritual realm. While I am not opposed to theoretical exchanges, I question the idea of treating popular gender theories as globally relevant. Given the diversity of the world, gender relations and asymmetries need to be studied contextually from the ground up and theorised from within local conceptual repertoires and vernacular experiences and this requires meticulous investigations. Alleviation strategies for gender­-​­related issues, such as conjugal abuse, that do not emanate from a contextual and multi­-​­dimensional investigation of local worldviews and social systems are unlikely to make sense in the local population and to leverage effectively on local mechanisms of normative, attitudinal and behavioural change. The study has also sought to demonstrate that local conceptualisations, aetiologies and attitudes towards conjugal abuse are directly linked to wider beliefs and societal norms and need to be analysed in their own terms to achieve an analysis from ‘within’. This is especially urgent in communities such as those found in Northern Ethiopia, where faith and religious idiom are prominent in ways that western societies have little familiarity with. The gender and development field is replete with studies that have either neglected religious parameters or have appraised these through a western ­ Euro­ -​­ centric concept of ‘religion’  – a concept that reflects these societies’ experiences with western forms of Christianity,

Conclusion: beyond western ways   245 imperialism and secularisation. Gender and religious studies, in turn, have sought to apply western feminist ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’ to non­ -​ western religious traditions indiscriminately without reference to local ­ exegetical systems and vernacular experiences, failing to reflect on the historicity and uniqueness of religious traditions. To reverse these tendencies, I have proposed that religious traditions should be approached through the prism of diverse informed insiders, which requires substantive engagement with theological and ecclesiastical discourse as appropriate to each community and context. Moreover, contrary to applying a binary logic that sees ‘religion’ as either conducive to intimate partner violence or as instrumental to reversing it, religious parameters need to be approached as inextricable elements of local cosmological and socio­-​­cultural systems, anticipating their effects to be non­ -​­ uniform and variable according to individual, context and level of analysis. Within so­-​­called Christian Orthodox societies, despite notable variations among them, theology entails the notion of praxis. Subsequently, an ethnographic study with such communities inevitably connotes the theological, which needs to be understood in its own terms to make a better sense of local discourses and embodiments. As it was demonstrated in Aksum, the majority of the lay population was not versed in Orthodox dogmatics or exegesis, but they understood the fundamental premises of their faith and they knew and tried to embody its standards, such as by trying to cultivate a moral and righteous character. Without prior exposure to Church dogmatics and teachings, it is unlikely that I would have ‘made sense’ of my interlocutors’ discourses in the way that I did. My background as an Eastern Orthodox woman was undoubtedly important for accessing my interlocutors’ worldviews around the human personality and gender identity. The inevitable assumptions that I had as a result of my own religious experience did not prove irreversibly harmful provided that I reflected on and challenged these throughout the research process, abandoning them where they were irrelevant. My experience rather stresses the importance of making the workings of personal identity as transparent as feasible throughout the research process and its presentation. Epistemological situatedness and personal positionality are crucial in the linguistic and ‘cosmological’ translation process and need to be acknowledged more openly in the development field. Engaging with local conceptual repertories in the context of this study was not straightforward and included multiple subjective decisions about how to decode my interlocutors’ communication modes and discourses. Religious beliefs and spirituality, gender parameters that governed married life and local metaphysics of humanity were rarely explicitly connected in my interlocutors’ discourses and needed to be related somehow to conjugal abuse attitudes and realities. I was constantly challenged to elucidate and piece together differing pronouncements, evidence their discursive deployments and suggest associations as relevant to the research questions. My interlocutors’

246  Conclusion: beyond western ways tacit or strategic communication approaches also needed to be decoded with sensitivity to my background and identity, their location in local socio­-​­cultural institutions and power configurations, and other parameters. As it was argued, my foreignness – despite the historical and faith­-​­related commonalities  – made many of my interlocutors initially cautious or overly calculated with the information they shared, which changed over time as I built trust with the community. This mistrust and vigilance seemed to be fuelled by inherited historical sentiments toward foreign invaders and politicised western missionaries, as well as the structure of the local society and the risk of being gossiped about. Due to my gender, pronouncements by male interlocutors probably had an additional layer of coding than did women’s pronouncements, although being from ‘outside’ in combination with my familiarity with Orthodox theology seemed to make some men more willing to share personal or even morally questionable dilemmas and thoughts that they would not otherwise articulate to their peers. When gender­-​­based violence studies within international development or public health rely on generic theoretical frameworks to make sense of intimate partner violence, being primarily concerned with the political aim of promoting ‘gender equality’, the process of linguistic or ‘cosmological’ translation is neglected or obscured. These limitations emerge in both population studies and qualitative studies and in the works of both local and foreign researchers when the language and theoretical frameworks are generically assumed or transposed without proper justification and when researchers fail to consider the implications of their identity and relationship to the community in the research process. This recognition raises the need to render more transparent the subjectivity­ -​­ grounded nature of research, data analysis and theorisation and to reflect on the limitations consistently throughout the research process. Making one’s situatedness apparent does not seek to discredit the information collected, but to help readers in making a better judgement of the study’s insights and inevitable limitations.

Beyond western Eurocentric lenses: contextualising conjugal abuse A lack of contextualisation and the hasty application of gender theories circulating in the mainstream could result in a different interpretation of the fieldwork experience in Aksum. Some of the gender realities observed and articulated could lead to the narrow conclusion that subjectivities, relations and social structures in the local society were premised on hierarchical gender identity, which was conducive to conjugal abuse. Such a perspective would probably proceed to explain conjugal abuse in terms of the gender­-​­segregated arrangement of marriage, the traditional patriarchal system and the local emphasis on female timidity and non­-​­confrontational

Conclusion: beyond western ways   247 traits, reminiscent of Hilde Jakobsen’s interpretation of her data from Tanzania.1 The same rationale would emphasise the material dimensions of the rigid gender­-​­segregated system of marriage that placed women at a disadvantage and directly resulted in their exploitation or made them vulnerable to subsequent abusive situations. While these normative and material parameters contributed to women’s difficult and potentially abusive realities and underpinned some pernicious mentalities and societal norms, they were not the only or the most potent parameters in explaining local realities and attitudes towards the problem. First and foremost, different types of abusive behaviour and situations that were identified locally were associated with different attitudes and were rationalised differently. The majority of local people were prepared to condemn gender asymmetries, emotional disappointments and physical violence as abusiveness in intimate relationships, but they were less likely to think of sexual coercion in marriage as abusive. Research participants cited various reasons to rationalise the situations they did discuss, such as socio­-​ ­cultural norms and mentalities governing marriage and gender relations and material realities, including poverty. In their rationalisations and attitudes, most interlocutors seemed to be influenced by deeper beliefs about the human nature and the individual personality, which were not without gendered dimensions. On the other hand, battered women’s responses to husband abusiveness, whilst not disconnected from socio­ -cultural ​­ ideals of wifehood/motherhood and institutional weaknesses to address the problem, were informed simultaneously by women’s own rationalisations of their constraints and their psychological and emotional states and feelings toward their husbands. Moreover, along with more harmful attitudes or norms, the local society displayed a plurality of norms and attitudes that contradicted visible gender asymmetries and pernicious attitudes toward women, such as religio­-​­cultural values emphasising mutual help, respect and righteousness, neighbourly interference to stop conjugal violence, and societal sanctions in the form of general criticisms of immorality. An important insight that emerged is that many people in the local society differentiated between folklore tradition and religious teachings to criticise or counter what they considered more harmful mentalities, norms or situations; however, the communal nature of the local society in combination with a suspicion toward any departure from authentic tradition seemed to maintain socio­ -cultural ​­ norms primarily framed in reference to the local people’s valued religious heritage. The overall picture emerged as considerably more complex and could not be explained through a single sociological theory. One of the study’s main motivations emanated from the three Demographic and Health surveys from Ethiopia (2005–2016), which showed high rates of wife­-​­beating ‘justification’.2 Contrary to most other studies’ emphasis on ‘justification’ and ‘acceptance’, this study suggests a considerably more complex reality. While various parameters influenced what my interlocutors

248  Conclusion: beyond western ways chose to share with me during fieldwork activities, all the research participants of this study considered the abusive behaviour they named to be wrong, inappropriate and unnecessary, excepting sexual coercion, which was generally not identified as abuse. This paralleled local priests’ emphatic reiteration about peaceful conjugal relationships, making them tolerant even of divorces, which should ideally not occur within the faith. Instead, many of my interlocutors believed that abusiveness emanated from a bad personality, exacerbated perhaps by a pernicious mentality from the ‘past’ that persisted among some men and women. A closer look into discourses around the individual personality suggested what might be described as a degree of resignation about human aggression. Many interlocutors seemed to accept the reality of conjugal abuse because they believed that its motivations were not something that anyone could control sufficiently due to the fickleness of human nature under the workings of evil spiritual forces. Some might have also considered a degree of conflict in marriage to be inevitable, as suggested by Tagbar Yigzaw and colleagues for their research context in Gondar.3 Still, it is important not to conflate this aetiology with an acceptance of conjugal abusiveness since all interlocutors condemned the abusive situations they identified on religio­-​­cultural grounds. As Karima Manji found to be the case in the Tanzanian context that she investigated, social norms were not separate from prevalent gender standards and expectations governing marriage, which were embedded in the local religio­-​­cultural cosmology.4 However, the effects of religious values and beliefs were intricate, diverse and dependent on many other parameters that cannot be easily isolated from each other. Religious discourses intertwined with gender ideals that enforced some social norms, such as the gender­-​ segregated organisation of marriage. At a more intimate level, religious ­ beliefs could be deterring some women from seeking formal action against abusive husbands, thus adding to the general ‘tolerance’ of the problem. However, religious parameters also granted women a language through which to condemn abuse and a coping mechanism to endure their ordeals in life. Many of my interlocutors seemed to find some sort of coherence and internal peace by invoking God’s thinking. Some men, in turn, seemed to be deterred from harmful or selfish behaviour by their faith­-based ​­ conscience, which invoked standards of morality and righteousness. In other words, while religious idiom provided credibility to folklore norms with some questionable effects on local attitudes, it could also counter other pernicious practices and tendencies. Gender­ -​­ based violence aetiologies have emphasised the role of rigid gender ideals in the manifestation of intimate partner violence, but this study evidences that such ideals must not be isolated from more comprehensive understandings of humanity. In general, gender identity in local worldviews was neither contemplated nor theorised sociologically, but was considered given and an inalienable aspect of the bio­-​­social and spiritual individual. As bio­-​­social and divinely created spiritual entities, all women and men were

Conclusion: beyond western ways   249 envisioned to be in perennial strife between good and evil, both were called to choose their spiritual path and both were held responsible for their choices. Simultaneously, biological and physiological differences seemed to enforce a gender­-​­based division of labour, which could be abused by people with certain mentalities. Despite such attitudes, nobody in the local society would dare to argue openly that women were spiritually inferior as this would be against an Orthodox understanding of divine creation that society upheld. Moreover, many interlocutors affirmed that gender dynamics in marriage have been increasingly equalised, stressing the dynamic nature of gender relations. Pertinent to the work of Saba Mahmood, who countered the relevance of liberal understandings of agency to describe the behaviour of the female members of the da’wa movement in Egypt, this study begets the need for more nuanced theorisations of gender relations and women’s agentival capacity within patriarchal contexts. The coexistence of fundamental beliefs in ontological equality in combination with a dynamic nature of gender relations points to the need for gender­-​­sensitive analyses of conjugal abuse that do not nullify the multi­-​­dimensionality of human existence.

Appropriate approaches for alleviating conjugal abuse in Aksum This book reflects a profound discomfort with gender and development approaches that invoke western ‘expertise’ to dictate politically motivated agendas to non­-​­western societies. I am, therefore, cautious not to suggest that I know how conjugal abuse should be addressed in the local society. However, it may be appropriate to articulate some of the implications of this study that could prove helpful in addressing the problem under local leadership and initiative. Most of the domestic studies from Ethiopia have stressed the importance of education and awareness­-​­raising regarding gender­-​­asymmetries for changing pernicious attitudes and norms and the need for consolidating the legal and institutional framework for dealing more effectively with conjugal abuse. While these are important measures, I would like to echo the observation made by Tagbar Yigzaw and colleagues that any educational interventions implemented will need to employ culture­ -​­ sensitive information.5 As this book has demonstrated, local cultural life in religious societies such as Aksum and its surroundings is anticipated to be steeped in religious idiom, which means that sensitisation strategies will need to speak to and consider religio­-​­cultural sensibilities. In Aksum and the surroundings, certain forms of abuse, such as the unequal distribution of work or early marriage, seemed to be enforced in reference to local traditions framed, inevitably, in religious idiom. As it was seen, even the issue of alcohol consumption was intertwined with local religious practice. The overlaps between social norms, attitudes and behaviour in relation to religious discourse need to be understood with all their nuances to be leveraged effectively for the alleviation of the problem.

250  Conclusion: beyond western ways More fundamental beliefs about humanity, along with their religious connotations, would also need to be properly leveraged. The emphasis that research participants placed on individual personalities and mental and affective states to explain the motivations of physical aggression, for example, suggested that they did not generally expect structural interventions to be able to alter human behaviour, despite many recognising the positive effects of education and gender equality campaigns on people’s attitudes. Local perceptions about the individual personality, which was underpinned by broader beliefs about human nature, would necessitate combining any structural intervention with counter­-​­discourses to cultivate new beliefs, namely that individuals can improve and that abusiveness need not be irreversible or uncontrollable. Since local understandings about humanity were embedded in an on­-​­going spiritual strife between good and evil, and given the influence of the clergy locally, religious teachings could be employed to develop such a counter­-​­discourse. Moreover, some attitudinal divergence and shifts have already been occurring, but in discreet ways to avoid offending the vernacular tradition and the majority who uphold it. Contrary to feminist tendencies to subvert gender norms valued within institutionalised traditions as a remedy to gender inequality and violence affecting women, it would be more sensible to avoid open antagonism towards the local religious heritage and to leverage rather on existing mechanisms of attitudinal change to address mispronounced religious understandings. As the fieldwork evidenced, more exceptional embodiments of faith­-​­inspired norms and conventions already existed and these tended to be associated with a better understanding of New Testament theology. Such individuals, who included learned clergy and members of the laity, could act as examples. Given the prevalence of folklore discourses, such approaches would need to be combined with more systematic efforts by the Church to improve New Testament literacy among the clergy and the laity and to address the lack of nuanced theological discourse that was observed in vernacular experience. Leveraging on theology and pastoral mediation As a starting point, the Church’s teaching of healing from passions and sin and spiritual growth might be considered. The notion of achieving likeness with God (’Әgziabhern Mämsäl) could become particularly resourceful under the right preconditions, provided that two caveats were considered seriously. As it was explained, within this Church tradition saints have been venerated in such a manner that their saintly life has often been considered too distant from the laity and the ‘sinful’ ways of the latter. ’Әgziabhern Mämsäl, or the equivalent Greek term theosis, was invoked primarily by modern theologians, and was not used by the rural residents. Thus, it is not clear to what extent deploying this concept could impact on the laity, who might dismiss it as an unachievable state for them. Using this

Conclusion: beyond western ways   251 discourse would require, in parallel, more systematic pronouncements by the local clergy of New Testament/apostolic theology. When one considers the internal tensions in the Church between what theologians described as a generally passive Council of Scholars and a more active Maḫәbärä Qәdusan, such changes may require considerable internal negotiation. The two latest Demographic and Health surveys reported that divorced or widowed men and women were generally more likely to justify wife­-​ ­hitting.6 This correlation in combination with the high numbers of divorces in Aksum raises the need to develop conflict resolution skills and improve communication within couples. Many divorces were associated with arguments emanating from the gender­-​­segregated organisation of marriage and spousal failure to meet gender­-​­specific responsibilities. Some of these issues could be alleviated by increasing theological awareness among the laity and ensuring that they can differentiate between Church teachings about a divinely instituted gender binary and the rigidly enforced customary norms that prescribed and maintained a gender­-​­based division of labour in the society. Pronouncing marriage as a union of mutual consideration and sharing could help to displace lingering perceptions that husbands should be served by wives, or that men should not do women’s works. Such discourses could be reinforced either through the clergy’s public preaching following Sunday liturgy or in private sessions with spiritual children. Church teachings upholding the New Testament message of spiritual equality of the spouses and presenting marriage as a union for achieving righteousness and holiness could offer the language to address also the problem of sexual coercion. As it was seen, local clergy have already been contemplating how best to counsel their spiritual children on sex­-​­related matters. Some priests understood the theological premise of spouses being ‘one flesh’ in marriage to mean that husband and wife should not withhold themselves from each other. This is an inaccurate understanding in view of the emphasis on individual free choice in this Church tradition, exemplified also in priests’ unwillingness to apply pressure to those who were unreceptive to their advice. One rural priest even commented: “Only an animal would impose himself on others by force.” Such discourses could be pronounced to consolidate the understanding that husbands have no inherent premise to impose themselves on their wives, countering sexual coerciveness. Due to the sensitivity of the matter, this teaching could be given in private when priests visit homes and speak to couples directly. All these strategies require creating preconditions under which the clergy are willing and prepared to engage in the development of a counter­ -​ ­discourse. The analysis provided in this book, especially in Chapter 7, evidenced that some clergy discourses problematically colluded with folklore pronouncements. Many of the theologians and scholars I spoke to believed that the issue was primarily one of limited training and acculturation, an understanding that has led the Church to increase training for clergy to help them to differentiate between vernacular religious practice and theology, as

252  Conclusion: beyond western ways well as to develop their preaching and pastoral skills. However, as this study found, a lack of training was not the only issue since very learned clergy could also espouse folklore understandings, as exemplified in their discourses around physical virginity. Instead, their attitudes seemed to be sustained by the theology that most priests invoked, which was disproportionately attuned to Old Testament messages. While some members of the clergy did not realise that their discourses could be helping to promote pernicious norms, others probably propounded Judeo­-​­Christian messages as would be expected by the local community. It is important to consider that the clergy would not probably innovate in ways that could deem them heretical in the eyes of the community. As one theologian observed, “[m]ost priests do not have theological training. But even if they had it, their attitudes would not change radically primarily because any change can make them look heretical and [can] associate them with the Tähaddәso movement.” To this could be added a degree of material dependence of the clergy on the laity, who tended to offer some monetary reimbursement for their services. Engaging the clergy in any intervention would require a realistic understanding of the conditions of their existence and the kind of incentives that need to be put in place to encourage their cooperation. These incentives would have to counterbalance any fear of being suspected of departure from the tradition, such as by deploying discourses that remain attuned to the teachings of venerated ‘doctors of the faith’ known to the public, while placing more gravity on New Testament teachings on marriage. In conjunction with this point, it needs to be recognised that currently the rural clergy have limited resources to inform themselves on marriage theology, as highlighted in the comment of one märigeta: “[I]f they (priests) are teaching about marriage they will go to the Old and the New Testament and will quote verses and elaborate on them a bit further and that is all.” The interviews with members of the clergy confirmed that beyond the Bible and the Mäşhaf Täklil most ordained priests used no other resources. While some further commentary is provided in the Fәtḥa Nägäśt, this was typically studied at the higher levels of Church education that was achieved only by a minority. In addition, the provisions on marriage in Fәtha Nägäśt are also fairly basic and not fully attuned to the needs of current times. More concrete but concise and easily comprehensible guidance written in the local language could offer a permanent resource for priests to use locally. In view of the undisputed status of John Chrysostom as a local authority on theological matters and his pertinent commentaries on apostolic teachings on marriage that reverse some Old Testament standards, his explanations could be used for such a manual. However, as opposed to top­-​ ­down and ad hoc trainings, a participatory and systematic format might offer a more effective way to engage the clergy in reflective conversation and to develop nuanced understandings of marriage theology and conjugal abuse in their societies.

Conclusion: beyond western ways   253 Beyond the impacts that theology and clergy discourses might have on norms and attitudes, priests could have a more direct effect on the conjugal relationship through their role as spiritual fathers. It was the case that priests generally mediated marriage problems and often also abusive situations. The literature on domestic violence in religious communities suggests that clergy should not try to work with the victim or the perpetrator directly, but coordinate with specialised service providers and referral services.7 Ideally, clergy should try to assess and alleviate the risk for the victim in appropriate ways, referring them to specialised domestic violence services. Regarding perpetrators, clergy should confine themselves to providing spiritual support, without intervening thoughtlessly in ways that could anger the perpetrator or lead to more violent behaviour. Such guidelines might be especially hard to meet for clergy in Aksum, who generally lacked understanding around the psychological and socio­-​­cultural underpinnings of conjugal abuse in their society and naturally tried to stop the pernicious behaviour and to correct the situation whenever they were called to mediate. Moreover, overlooking their current role as mediators in marriage or attempting to circumscribe it without ensuring that alternative support systems are in place could be counterproductive and impractical in a society without integrated domestic violence services. As the analysis in Chapter 7 suggested, inefficiencies in state­-​­led institutions suggest that the clergy might have provided support not otherwise available to local people due to the limitations of state­-​­led institutions. The support that they provided was not only spiritual, but also material and psychological. The desirable strategy would be to train local priests so that they are equipped to mediate cases of conjugal abuse in more sensitive and effective ways in view of the risks identified. Existing studies have indicated that clergy may be unequipped to recognise the signs and symptoms of conjugal abuse.8 The same literature has warned that priests may be misled by abusers’ tendencies to minimise the abuse or blame it partially on the victimised party and their expression of remorse seeking forgiveness.9 Although in my research sample there were priests who appeared to interrogate women proactively about physical violence, I also encountered two priests who were convinced that spousal abuse did not exist in their communities. And while spiritual fathers generally reported consulting with both spouses to reach a verdict of who was at fault, it was not discussed what happened if the stories contradicted each other. The study also evidenced that priests did not hesitate to engage directly with the perpetrators and took measures to discourage the pernicious behaviour. However, in most narratives their counsel did not appear to affect male recipients, which might be linked with the use of judgemental language that they were said to employ. The clergy might be taught how best to address men who perpetrate violence without triggering their defensiveness, while simultaneously developing the men’s sense of accountability.10

254  Conclusion: beyond western ways The discussion of faith and marriage in Chapter 9 suggested that stipulations against immorality could be more compelling with men. Priests might then find it resourceful to employ a language of righteousness, referring to conjugal abusiveness as an unjust and unrighteous act and motivating men to be ‘righteous’ by treating their wives well. Such discourses could, again, be cultivated in carefully designed workshops with local clergy. A more integrated approach The strategies considered so far have been underpinned by the understanding that rural residents would be receptive to and could be influenced by the clergy’s advice and Orthodox theology. However, as it was highlighted in Chapter 8, the landscape was more diverse and for a large segment of the population faith was experienced in a vernacular idiom. Others appeared to be more oriented toward urban lifestyles and norms, without abandoning altogether their vernacular religious tradition. While this does not reduce the relevance of faith­-​­based strategies, it means that clergy will need to be more prepared and equipped theologically to counsel individuals who might not exactly fit the religious ideals or follow a religious lifestyle, such as couples in irregular unions who were also affected by intimate partner violence but tended to lack a spiritual father. Such strategies would need to be combined with other approaches, not necessarily faith­-​­related. As it was discussed, women and men reported a lack of communication and understanding between spouses, which could combine with general suspicion and mistrust. In Chapter 9, I attempted to demonstrate how some abusiveness and its endurance could have more profound psychological motivations, requiring thoughtfully designed perpetrator treatment programmes. As it was seen in Chapter 7, abusive men are likely to continue to be abusive as they move from one relationship to the other. It seems urgent to work with abusive men, first to understand the deeper causes of their abuse and, secondly, to work with them systematically to reform abusive behaviour. The overall observations raise the need for more integrated approaches that engage state, secular and religious stakeholders. However, approximations between government agencies, feminist organisations working in Ethiopia and the Church might be obstructed by numerous factors, including unwillingness to engage with each other due to differences in their understandings of and approaches to gender issues, or political realities that may alienate the Church from the state or render the state cautious against measures that might be perceived to strengthen the historically dominant faith.11 Although the state has shown willingness to approach religious institutions in order to “[e]nforce constitutional and legal prohibition of Violence against Women”,12 it is not clear to what is meant by religious institutions and if this includes the rural clergy and theology. On the other hand, Church personnel may still prioritise Church Canons over law, as best

Conclusion: beyond western ways   255 exemplified in the clergy continuing to perform marriage ceremonies for under­-​­age girls. An integrated approach will also be challenged by the lack of resources in local communities and the reported inefficiencies in local institutions, such as in registering conjugal abuse cases properly or enforcing the law on perpetrators. While there is clearly a need for clergy to be supported by state­-​­led programmes and to work with secular providers in building preparedness to respond to victims and perpetrators appropriately, finding bridges between the different stakeholders will require considerable negotiation and good­-​­will on all sides.13

Wider implications and relevance of the study It is important to recognise this study’s inherent limitations, such as those related to positionality and the process of ‘cosmological translation’. Moreover, the study engaged only a small portion of the total population in Tigray and the administrative unit to which the city of Aksum belonged, so it should not be considered representative of the region or the wider countryside surrounding Aksum. As it was mentioned, distance from the city and exposure to urbanisation and migration, and access to education and jobs were some of the parameters that influenced village life and local conjugal abuse realities and attitudes towards it. Still, the research conducted in Aksum raises important insights that could have relevance to similar communities, in Ethiopia and outside, but these should be taken as suggestive and their relevance demonstrated ethnographically. Some broad parallels may be drawn with other Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahәdo communities on the rationale that these share the religious tradition and are likely to display some similarities in their religio­-​­cultural and gender configurations. Ethiopia’s historical proximity to the Christianised Roman East and Patristic borrowings offer reasons to draw also some parallelisms with tradition­-​­oriented Orthodox communities in Eastern Europe. Like Northern Ethiopia, many Eastern Orthodox societies experienced historical and political events that curtailed theological literacy among the laity and the rural clergy. This phenomenon has historically combined with the perpetuation of pernicious mentalities regarding women or marriage, which Church theology has sought to reverse.14 Moreover, across these societies emphasis has been invariably placed on authentic tradition and on preserving the correct faith, affecting local people’s receptivity to change. On the basis of such similarities, the study’s main insights could have relevance to these societies as well, pointing to the necessity for interventions that are attuned to the local religious life and that attempt to reverse pernicious social norms, attitudes or practices in reference to Orthodox theology and the local ecclesiastical tradition. Other parallels could be drawn with societies in the African continent. For example, the importance of the religion/culture dyad in the justification or criticism of gender norms and attitudes emerged also in my

256  Conclusion: beyond western ways previous research with a Muslim Sufi population in Northern Senegal.15 Despite the very different religious tradition that prevailed in that context, my research participants also invariably held that their vernacular lifestyle and cultural ways were influenced by their Islamic faith, invoking again the religion/culture dyad to criticise or to justify widely accepted vernacular practices and norms. As it was the case with my interlocutors in Aksum, local people’s understandings and attitudes changed according to their knowledge of Islamic teaching, their location in local political and social hierarchies, exposure to westernised standards of gender equality, education, age and temperament. The re­ -​­ appearance of this religion/ culture debate in Aksum reinforces the need for urgency in contextualising any gender­-​­sensitive study in local religious hermeneutics as these are understood and embodied contextually. Understanding how differently positioned individuals invoke the religion/culture binary in their rationalisations could help to reverse continuing attitudes that justify pernicious norms and practices by leveraging on existing mechanisms of attitudinal change.

Notes   1 H. Jakobsen, “What is Gendered about Gender­-​­based Violence? An Empirically Grounded Theoretical Explanation from Tanzania”, Gender  & Society 28, no. 4(2014): 537–561. DOI: 10.1177/0891243214532311; H. Jakobsen, “The Good Beating: Social Norms Supporting Men’s Partner Violence in Tanzania” (PhD Dissertation, University of Bergen, 2015).  2 Central Statistical Agency of Ethiopia (CSAE), “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2005”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA, 2006; Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia (CSAE) and ICF International, “­ Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 2011”, Addis Ababa, ­ Ethiopia and Maryland, USA, 2012; Central Statistical Agency Ethiopia (CSAE) and the DHS Program ICF, “Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey (EDHS) 20162”, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and Maryland, USA, 2017.  3 T. Yigzaw, Y. Berhane, N. Deyessa, M. Kaba, “Perceptions and Attitude Towards Violence against Women by Their Spouses: A Qualitative Study in Northwest Ethiopia”, Ethiopian Journal of Health Development 24, no. 1(2010): 39–45. DOI: 10.4314/ejhd.v18i3.9846.   4 K. Manji, “Articulating the Role of Social Norms in Sustaining Intimate Partner Violence in Mwanza, Tanzania” (PhD thesis, School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine, 2018).  5 Yigzaw et al., “Perceptions and attitude”, 44.   6 CSAE, “EDHS 2011”, 259; CSAE and ICF, “EDHS 2016”, 283–284.  7 A. J. Johnson, ed., Religion and Men’s Violence against Women (Springer: New York, 2015), 5; N. Nason­ -​­ Clark, B. Fisher­ -​­ Townsend, C. Holtmann and S. McMullin, Religion and Intimate Partner Violence: Understanding the Challenges and Proposing Solutions (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 17, 82.  8 Johnson, Religion, 5.   9 C. Kilmartin, “Men’s Violence against Women: An Overview”, in Religion and Men’s Violence against Women, edited by A. J. Johnson (Springer: New York, 2015), 17; Nason­-​­Clark et al., Religion, 67. 10 Nason­-​­Clark et al., Religion, chapter 3.

Conclusion: beyond western ways   257 11 J. Abbink, “Religion in Public Spaces: Emerging Muslim­-​­Christian Polemics in Ethiopia”, African Affairs 110, no. 439(2011): 253–274; J. Haustein and T. Østebø, “EPRDF’s Revolutionary Democracy and Religious Plurality: Islam and Christianity in Post­-​­Derg Ethiopia”, Journal of Eastern African Studies 5, no. 4(2011): 755–772. DOI: 10.1080/17531055.2011.642539; A. Tolera, “Interrogating Religious Plurality and Separation of State and Religion in Ethiopia”, Eastern Africa Social Science Research Review 33, no. 1(2017): 39–72, 10.1353/eas.2017.0002. 12 Ministry of Women’s Affairs, “National Action Plan for Gender Equality (NAP­-​­GE) 2006–2010”, Addis Ababa, 2006, 30. 13 Many of these challenges have been outlined in Nason­-​­Clark et al., Religion for the North American context. 14 R. Istratii, “Beyond a Feminist ‘Hermeneutics Of Suspicion’: Reading St John Chrysostom’s Commentaries on Man­-​­Woman Relations, Marriage and Conjugal Abuse through the Orthodox Phronema”, The SOAS Journal of Postgraduate Research 11(2018): 16–47. 15 R. Istratii, “Sensitising Gender to Local Cosmology: A Participatory Ethnographic Research Approach for Development from a Muslim Community in Senegal”, Journal of Development Practice 4(2018): 8–23.

Appendix

Table A1  All research groups and sample sizes Research group

London Laypeople in London Clergy in London

Total size (N)

Females (f)

14 2

Ethiopia (excluding Aksum) Domestic violence 4 experts in Ethiopia Theologians and 11 teachers of the faith in Ethiopia Aksum city and countryside Laypeople in 122 Aksum Clergy and monks 23 in Aksum Teachers of the 12 faith in Aksum Participatory 56 workshops Total 244

Males (m) Interviews (voice­-​ ­recorded or note­-​­taking)

8

–

6

9

5

2

1

1

–

4

Informal discussions

4

–

1

10

9

2

76

46

61

61

23

12

11

2

10

9

3

31

25

122

122

–

– 105

– 83

Notes Personal interviews followed the formal process of asking for consent prior to the conversation taking place. Most were voice­-​­recorded, but not all according to the preference of the interlocutor. Informal discussions were more impromptu, opportunistic discussions of considerable length that had a more general (as opposed to personal) tone. Permission to use the information (unattributed) was asked usually during or after the conversation.

Appendix  259 Table A2  Formats for asking about local conceptualisations of spousal abuse How do you (f/m) Bä ḥasabki/ka, nay ḥadar ṭqә’at ’entay malät ’әyu? (በ ሓሳብኪ/ካ understand spousal ናይ ሓዳር ጥቕዓት እንታይ ማለት እዩ？) abuse? Bä hasabš/h, yä tdar ṭqat mәndәnäw? (በ ሃሳብሽ/ህ የትዳር ጥቃት ምንድ ነው？) What is the meaning Nay ḥadar ṭqә’at tärgum ’entay ’әyu? (ናይ ጥቕዓት ተርጉም እንታይ እዩ？) of spousal abuse? Yä tdar ṭqat mәn tärgum ’alläw? (የትዳር ጥቃት ምን ተርጉም አለው ?) How do you (f/m) Bä ḥasabki/ka, ṭqә’at zäläwo ḥadar ’әntay malät ’әyu? (በ understand an ሓሳብኪ/ካ ጥቕዓት ዘለዎ ሓዳር እንታይ ማለት እዩ？) abusive marriage? Bä hasabš/h, ṭqat yalläw tdar mәndәnäu? (በ ሃሳብሽ/ህ ጥቃት ያለው ትዳር ምንድ ነው？) How do you (f/m) Bä ḥasabki/ka, ṭqә’at/bädäl zäläwo kunätat ḥadar wәst ‘әntay understand abusive/ malät ’әyu? (በ ሓሳብኪ/ካ ጥቕዓት/በደል ዘለዎ ኩነታት ሓዳር ውስት harmful situations እንታይ ማለት እዩ？) in marriage? Bä hasabš/h, ṭqat/bädäl yalläw huneta tdar wәst mәndәnäu? (በ ሃሳብሽ/ህ ጥቃት/በደል ያለው ሁኔታ ትዳር ውስጥ ምንድ ነው？) How do you (f/m) Bä ḥasabki/ka, bädäläňa ṭäbay ḥadar wәst ’әntay malät ’әyu? understand harmful (በ ሓሳብኪ/ካ በደለኛ ጠባይ ሓዳር ውስት እንታይ ማለት እዩ？) behaviour in Bä hasabš/h, bädäläňa ṭäbay tdar wәst mәndәnäu? (በ ሃሳብሽ/ህ marriage? በደለኛ ጠባይ ትዳር ውስጥ ምንድ ነው？) How do you (f/m) Bä ḥasabki/ka, zäyṭәuy rәkәb/ḥadar ’әntay malät ’әyu? (በ understand an ሓሳብኪ/ካ ዘይጥዑይ ርቅብ/ሓዳር እንታይ ማለት እዩ？) unhealthy Bä hasabš/h, ṭәna yälelläw gәnәňunät/tdar mәndәnäu? (በ relationship/ ሃሳብሽ/ህ ጤና የሌለው ግንኙነት/ትዳር ምንድ ነው？) marriage? How do you (f/m) Bä natki/natka ḥasab, bädäl zäläwo rәkәb/hadar ’әntay malät understand a ’әyu? (በ ሓሳብኪ/ካ በደል ዘለዎ ርቅብ/ሓዳር እንታይ ማለት እዩ？) harmful Bä hasabš/h, bädäl yalläw gәnәňunät/tdar mәndәnäu? (በ relationship/ ሃሳብሽ/ህ በደል ያለው ግንኙነት/ትዳር ምንድ ነው？) marriage?

List of experts consulted Domestic violence experts in Addis Ababa (4) IDVE1. Interview with Feven, EWLA, 20 December 2016. IDVE2. Interview with Heregewoin Cherinet, 29 December 2016. IDVE3. Interview with Hirut Terefe, Addis Ababa University, 4 January 2017. IDVE4. Interview with Zenebe Mulumebet, Addis Ababa University, 18 January 2017. Theologians and Church scholars in Addis Ababa and Meqele IDCE1. Informal discussion with recent graduate, Holy Trinity Theological College (unnamed), 7 December 2017. ICE2. Interview with Dean Girma Batu, Holy Trinity Theological College, 8 December 2016.

260  Appendix ICE3. Interview with teacher, Holy Trinity Theological College (unnamed), 13 December 2017. ICE4. Interview with Mämhәr Dessie Keleb, scholar of history and Ge’ez, 16 December 2017. ICE5. Interview with Heregewoin Cherinet, graduate of Holy Trinity Theological College, 29 December 2016. ICE6. Interview with teacher, St Paul’s Theological College (unnamed), 17 January 2017. ICE7. Interview with Mr. Aymero, Council of Scholars, 21 January 2017. ICE8. Interview with Dean Tesfay, Frumentius Theological College, 27 January 2017. ICE9. Interview with teacher Yared (Jr), Frumentius Theological College, 30 January 2017. ICE10. Interview with Abba Melaku, Frumenius Theological College, 30 January 2017. ICE11. Informal discussion with teacher, Holy Trinity Theological College (unnamed), 3 August 2017. Theologians and Church scholars in Aksum ICE12. Interview with theologian/Qes at the administrative office (unnamed), Aksum city, 25 March. ICE13. Interview with Father Serapim, Mariam Tsion Church, Aksum city, 1 April 2017. ICE14. Interview with Father Serapim, Mariam Tsion Church, Aksum city, 19 April 2017. IDCE15. Informal discussion with graduate of traditional church education (unnamed), Aksum city, 22 April 2017. ICE16  & 17. Interview with Mämhәr Hiwot, female teacher, and Wolette Yohannes (title unspecified), St Yared Traditional School, Aksum city, 22 April 2017 (×2). ICE18. Interview with Mämhәr Alemayehu, Aksum city, 27 April 2017. ICE19. Interview with Mämhәr Askare Bereket, St Yared Traditional School, Aksum city, 26 May 2017. ICE20. Interview with Abba Andreas, Aksum city, 19 July 2017. ICE21. Informal discussion with Mämhәr Askare Bereket at St Yared Traditional School, Aksum city, 23 July 2017. ICE22. Informal discussion with Father Serapim, Mariam Tsion Church, Aksum city, 28 July 2017.

Index

agency: gender theory 3, 19, 24–25, 249; Tigrayan women 81, 249 Aksumite Kingdom 14, 93, 95, 98 Alcoff, L. 4, 6–7 Amadiume, I. 7 Asad, T. 12, 50–51 attachment issues 15, 22–23, 238–241 bahri 135, 166, 224–233, 245, 247–248, 250 Beattie, T. 47–48 Black feminists 7 buda 235–238, 242n7 Butler, J. 6, 10, 24, 27 CEDAW 2–3, 9, 10 Cherinet, H. 111, 117 Church education 105–108 Coptic Church of Alexandria 96, 98–99, 114 cosmological translation 40–42 Daly, M. 4, 45 decolonial approach 25–28, 58–66, 244–246 Derg 26, 96 Developmental Bible 117 early marriage 76, 82, 136, 142, 148–149, 156, 249 Eastern Orthodoxy 21, 28, 45–46, 53, 245, 255 Early Church Fathers 47, 52, 93–94, 97, 102–103, 104, 106 Әgziabhern Mämsäl 101, 205, 250–251 epistemological situatedness 28, 41, 49, 58–66, 93–94, 245–246; see also decolonial approach

Ethiopian Demographic and Health Survey 26, 72–75, 251 Ethiopian Orthodox Patristics 101–105 Ethiopian Women Lawyers Association 85–86, 147, 168 Ethiopic Didascalia 115 Faith-Based Organisations 16 fasting: EOTC ’andәmta 104; marriage 113, 116, 141, 209–210; religious living 189, 191, 202 Fausto-Sterling, A. 6 feminist epistemologies 43–44 feminist theory 4–8; see also gender Fәtḥa Nägäś ̣t 84, 108–109, 111–117, 252 Fiorenza, E.S. 44–45 Focus Group Discussions 63–64 Gatens, M. 5 Geertz, C. 50 gender: concept of 1, 4–8 Gender and Development 1–3, 9–15 gender and religious studies 44–49 gender equality: conceptualisations 56, 152–156, 164, 250; legal framework 83; theories 10–11, 27 gender violence 15; see also Merry, E Gender-based Violence 15–19, 246, 248 gender-segregated division of labour 136–137, 156–158, 249, 251 gender-sensitive research 23–25, 42–43; see also decolonial approach gendered personalities 233–238 God’s thinking 211–212, 214–215, 248 Gross, R. 47–48 hermeneutics of suspicion 44–46, 245; see also Fiorenza, E.S

262  Index Holy Matrimony 112–115, 149–151 human rights 3 humanity: EOTC theology 101, 110, 187, 189; metaphysics 3–4, 8–9, 11, 14, 27, 44, 46, 249–250; personhood in Aksum 224, 231, 246 Husserl, E. 48, 50; see also phenomenological paradigm integrated approach 254–255 intergenerational violence 15, 238–241; see also attachment issues Intersectionality 7, 10 Intimate Partner Violence: research approach 54–58; theoretical frameworks 15; see also Gender-based Violence irregular unions 126, 147, 161–163 Jakobsen, H. 17–19, 26, 247 kinship expectations 159–161 learning languages 58–62 Levine, D. 81–82 Maḫәbärä Qәdusan 65, 88, 97, 108, 110–111, 117, 150, 154–155, 190, 196–199, 231, 251 Mahmood, S. 13, 19, 24–25, 51, 249 Merahi, K.K. 113–116 Merry, E. 15 metaphysics: gender 3–6, 8–11, 13, 18, 27, 44, 244; see also humanity migration: Aksum city 140; men 162, 213, 250; Oromo people 96 New Testament 107, 111, 118, 207, 250–252; see also St John Chrysostom Nicholson, L. 5–6, 8 Nnaemeka, O. 13 non-governmental organisations 2, 254 Nzegwu, N.U. 7 objective research 43–44 Old Testament 94, 99–100, 104, 111, 114, 179–181, 252 Oriental Orthodoxy 28, 97 Oyěwùmí, O. 7, 11, 24–25 Pankhurst, H. 80, 83, 147, 151, 202, 236 pastoral mediation 53, 57, 107, 181–186, 204, 250–254

patriarchal: contexts 249; family laws 83; religious traditions 23–24; status quo 5; structures 85, 116, 151; systems 1, 247; theology 45–47 Pentecostal movement 97, 205 Phenomenological paradigm 48–50 post-structuralist theories: agency 24–25; gender 6; see also gender psychology of domestic violence 15–17, 238–241 qal kidan 149, 160 religion and development 11–15 religion and domestic violence: theories 20–23 right belief 188, 190 righteousness 213, 219–222, 247–248, 251, 254 Roman East 47, 98, 255 Rubin, G. 5 Ruether, R.R. 4, 45 second-wave feminism 4–7 sexual: abuse or violence 74–78, 85, 128–129, 140–142, 181; coercion 77–78, 140–142, 181, 247–248, 251; difference 3–11, 14, 27; marital relations 112–117, 146, 157 sin see righteousness social institutions: police 58, 75–76, 87, 131–132, 149, 166–169, 172–173, 204, 217, 237; social courts 58, 75, 87, 129–132, 168–169, 172–173; women’s associations 66, 152, 169–170 social norms: folklore culture 187–188; frameworks 19–20, 225–226; religion/ culture spectrum 190; religious gatherings 200–205 Socratic dialogical approach 42, 63–66 sorcery 95, 163, 198, 228, 235–236 St John Chrysostom 47, 93, 98, 100–104, 106, 111, 114, 252 St Paul 47, 100, 111–112, 114–116 Stanton, E.C. 4 Steady, F.C. 41 Sustainable Development Goals 3 Tähaddәso movement 205, 252 theology: religious studies 49–52; research approach 42, 52–54, 93–94 Tigray People’s Liberation Front 26, 80–82, 141, 152, 171, 230

Index  263 Ullendorff, E. 79, 99 urban: gender relations 151–152, 154; religious lifestyle 97, 195–200, 254; violence 73, 140 Virgin Mary: church of 108; feast 200–201, 203; gender theology 110–111; prayers 106; protectress 191; salvation theology 101; virginity 177 virginity 21, 78, 82–83, 112–113, 118, 150–151, 156–158, 175–178, 221, 252

wife abandonment 136–137, 213–216, 222, 239 Wollstonecraft, M. 4, 44 women’s rights: community perceptions 138; Ethiopian legal framework 84–86, 152; TPLF trainings 152, 171–172, 230; western definitions 3–4; see also gender equality Young, K. 48–49