Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives 9789048540211

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Martyrdom

Heritage and Memory Studies This ground-breaking series examines the dynamics of heritage and memory from transnational, interdisciplinary and integrated approaches. Monographs or edited volumes critically interrogate the politics of heritage and dynamics of memory, as well as the theoretical implications of landscapes and mass violence, nationalism and ethnicity, heritage preservation and conservation, archaeology and (dark) tourism, diaspora and postcolonial memory, the power of aesthetics and the art of absence and forgetting, mourning and performative re-enactments in the present. Series Editors Ihab Saloul and Rob van der Laarse, University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands Editorial Board Patrizia Violi, University of Bologna, Italy Britt Baillie, Cambridge University, UK Michael Rothberg, University of Illinois, USA Marianne Hirsch, Columbia University, USA Frank van Vree, NIOD and University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands

Martyrdom Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives

Edited by Ihab Saloul and Jan Willem van Henten

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: Mosaic of Tree of Life, by Franz Grau, Chapel of the German Military Cemetery at Menen, Belgium Photo: Jan Willem van Henten Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Typesetting: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6298 818 7 e-isbn 978 90 4854 021 1 (pdf) doi 10.5117/9789462988187 nur 740 © Ihab Saloul & Jan Willem van Henten / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2020 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

9

Introduction

11

1 The Interaction of Canon and History

33

2 The Changing Worlds of the Ten Rabbinic Martyrs

55

3 ‘Who Were the Maccabees?’

79

Jan Willem van Henten and Ihab Saloul

Some Assumptions Tobias Nicklas

Yair Furstenberg

The Maccabean Martyrs and Performances on Christian Difference Jennifer Wright Knust

4 Perpetual Contest

105

5 ‘Martyrs of Love’

129

6 Commemorating World War I Soldiers as Martyrs

153

7 The Scarecrow Christ

181

8 Icons of Revolutionary Upheaval

203

Mieke Bal

Genesis, Development and Twentieth Century Political Application of a Sufi Concept Asghar Seyed-Gohrab

Jan Willem van Henten

The Murder of Matthew Shepard and the Making of an American Culture Wars Martyr Paul Middleton

Arab Spring Martyrs Friederike Pannewick

9 Yesterday’s Heroes?

221

10 The Martyrdom of the Seven Sleepers in Transformation

241

11 ‘Female Martyrdom Operations’

255

12 Hollywood Action Hero Martyrs in ‘Mad Max Fury Road’

283

List of Contributors

309

Index

315

Canonisation of Anti-Apartheid Heroes in South Africa Jeremy Punt

From Syriac Christianity to the Qur’ān and to the Dutch-Iranian Writer Kader Abdolah Marcel Poorthuis

Gender and Identity Politics in Palestine Ihab Saloul

Laura Copier

List of Illustrations Jan Willem van Henten Figure 1 Mosaic by Franz Grau at the German Military 162 Cemetery at Hooglede, Belgium Photo: Jan Willem van Henten Figure 2 Memorial Building by Robert Tischler at the German Military Cemetery at Donsbrüggen, Germany 169 Photo: Jan de Vries, Nijmegen Mosaic of Tree of Life, by Franz Grau, Chapel of Figure 3 the German Military Cemetery at Menen, Belgium 170 Photo: Jan Willem van Henten Friederike Pannewick Figure 4 Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012 Photo: Friederike Pannewick Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the AmeriFigure 5 can University of Cairo, September 2012 Photo: Friederike Pannewick

205 205

9 Yesterday’s Heroes?

221

10 The Martyrdom of the Seven Sleepers in Transformation

241

11 ‘Female Martyrdom Operations’

255

12 Hollywood Action Hero Martyrs in ‘Mad Max Fury Road’

283

List of Contributors

309

Index

315

Canonisation of Anti-Apartheid Heroes in South Africa Jeremy Punt

From Syriac Christianity to the Qur’ān and to the Dutch-Iranian Writer Kader Abdolah Marcel Poorthuis

Gender and Identity Politics in Palestine Ihab Saloul

Laura Copier

List of Illustrations Jan Willem van Henten Figure 1 Mosaic by Franz Grau at the German Military 162 Cemetery at Hooglede, Belgium Photo: Jan Willem van Henten Figure 2 Memorial Building by Robert Tischler at the German Military Cemetery at Donsbrüggen, Germany 169 Photo: Jan de Vries, Nijmegen Mosaic of Tree of Life, by Franz Grau, Chapel of Figure 3 the German Military Cemetery at Menen, Belgium 170 Photo: Jan Willem van Henten Friederike Pannewick Figure 4 Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012 Photo: Friederike Pannewick Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the AmeriFigure 5 can University of Cairo, September 2012 Photo: Friederike Pannewick

205 205

Figure 6

Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012 Photo: Friederike Pannewick Figures 7 and 8 Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012 Photo: Friederike Pannewick Laura Copier Figure 9 Figure 10 Figure 11 Figure 12 Figure 13 Figure 14 Figure 15

War boy calls on his fellow war boys to witness him The first failed attempt at martyrdom by Nux Nux implores Capable to witness him Angharad using herself and her unborn child as a protective shield Angharad’s martyred body Furiosa’s frustration Furiosa is brought back to life by Max

206 207

291 292 294 296 297 302 303

Acknowledgments The idea of writing this book first emerged during the ‘International Expert Meeting, Canonisation and Cross-Cultural Martyrdoms’, which was held in Amsterdam on 8-9 December 2016. We warmly thank all the participants for their inspiring ideas and discussions during the expert meeting. We also wish to acknowledge and thank the following research institutions and projects for their generous funding of the expert meeting and volume: The Amsterdam Centre for Cultural Heritage and Identity (ACHI), The Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material Culture (AHM), The Netherlands School for Advanced Studies in Theology and Religion (NOSTER / Theme Group, ‘Canon-Commentary-Heritage’), the Max-Weber-Kolleg, and the ‘Questioning Traumatic Heritage’ EU project (SPEME, GA n. 778044).

* Introduction Jan Willem van Henten and Ihab Saloul The phenomenon of martyrdom is more than 2000 years old but, as contemporary events show, still very much alive. Think, for example, of the November 2015 Paris attacks at the ‘Stade de France’ and the ‘Bataclan Theater’, or the series of bombings which struck churches and hotels in Sri Lanka on Easter Sunday in May 2019. What these events, and many other ones around the world, show is that martyrdom keeps resurfacing as a highly controversial and contested concept. The concept of ‘martyrdom’ becomes more and more blurred especially because religious or secular martyrdoms play an important role in current social, political and ethnic conflicts, which calls for a book that goes beyond both the insider admiration of martyrs and the partisan rejection of martyrdoms. This book examines the canonisation, contestation and afterlives of martyrdom and connects these with cross-cultural acts and practices of remembrance in the present. Martyrdom appeals to the imagination of many because it is a highly ambiguous spectacle with thrilling deadly consequences. Imagination is thus a vital catalyst for martyrdom, for martyrs become martyrs only because others remember and honour them as such. This memorialisation occurs through rituals, documents, artefacts, art works, and performances which contribute to a culture of remembrance that canonises martyrs, and in so doing, incorporate and re-interpret traditions deriving from canonical texts and pictorial programs. The canonisation of martyrdom, therefore, has two sides. On the one hand, there is the canonisation of martyrs as heroes of a group: clusters of martyr figures are formed and the texts about them are fixated step by step. Communities of inside readers, listeners, viewers and participants in rituals commemorate the heroes as martyrs: they create, recycle and re-interpret texts and traditions until martyrs ultimately receive a canonical status, at least within their * We warmly thank Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt) for his helpful comments on an earlier version of this introduction.

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_intro

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own group. On the other hand, the ongoing process of canonisation often incorporates traditions inspired by older canonical texts. At the same time, we should acknowledge that martyr figures are contested as well, not only because they are commemorated by competing communities but also because those who are martyrs in the eyes of in-groups can be traitors or terrorists for others. Moreover, in a society where the extension of life is one of the central values, martyrdom gains material and cultural forms which are open to change and contestation. The cases analysed in the various chapters of this book explicate the concept of martyrdom from diverse historical and geopolitical contexts in order to highlight the religious and cultural uses of the acts and afterlives of martyrdom in relation to the growing literature on social memory and the politics of commemoration as well as the theoretical nuances between bodily experiences, narratives and cultural discourses associated with the tangible and intangible heritage of martyrdom.1 In many cases acts and practices of martyrdom, with their relations to material and ritual culture, create ‘landscapes of memory’ wherein the canon and its writings play a certain, but not the only nor always the decisive role. By adopting an interdisciplinary orientation and a cross-cultural approach, this book concisely synthesises key interpretive questions and themes that broach the canonised, unstable and contested representations of martyrdom as well as their analytical connections, divergences and afterlives in the present.

What is Martyrdom? Most, if not all, definitions of martyrdom are either a scholarly construct or based on technical vocabulary that refer to martyrs (e.g. martys in Greek, martyr in Latin and shahid in Arabic). The second line of thinking focuses on Christianity and its earliest use of the ‘witness vocabulary’ that at a particular point in history developed into the meaning of ‘martyr’. Whether the witness vocabulary already has martyrdom connotations in the Greek translations of the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, the New Testament or

1 On social memory and the politics of commemoration, see Olick and Robbins, ‘Social Memory Studies: From “Collective Memory” to the Historical Sociology of Mnemonic Practices’, p. 105-40; Nora and Kritzman, Realms of Memory: The Construction of the French Past, Volume 1; Hallbwachs, On Collective Memory.

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later Christian writings is highly debated.2 Several scholars argue that such connotations are only found in post-biblical Christian writings such as First Clement (Brox, 1961, 211-237; differently: Dehandschutter, ‘Some Notes on 1 Clement 5,4-7’, p. 83-89) or the Martyrdom of Polycarpi, dated in the second half of the second or even in the third century C.E. The author of 1 Clement 5 highlights the ways in which Peter gave testimony many times during severe sufferings as well as how Paul testified before rulers (5.4, 7). Moreover, the author mentions the vindication of the martyrs, but it is debated whether the witness vocabulary does refer to martyrdom in this context. In addition, several scholars hold the view that martys and the related verb referring to martyrs and martyrdom were used for the first time in the second half of the second century C.E. (or later) in the Martyrdom of Polycarp. This document introduces bishop Polycarp’s martyrdom as follows: ‘We write you, brothers, an account of those who died a martyr’s death (tous marturêsantas), and especially about the blessed Polycarp…’ (1.1; cf. 2.1; 14.2).3 Roughly during the same period, the Latin equivalent martyr occurs as a self-designation and a reference to the martyrs’ vindication in the North-African Acts of the Scillitan Martyrs. After the governor’s proclamation of the verdict, Nartzalus, one of the condemned Christians, says: ‘today we are martyrs (martyres) in heaven: thanks to God’ (Act.Scil. 15). The Christian tradition is one lens out of many through which we can approach martyrdom. The concept of martyrdom is also one of the most recurrent and complex themes in Islamic history, practice and belief. The Arabic word for martyr is shahid (plural shuhada). This word is derived from the Arabic verbal root shahada, which means to ‘see’, to ‘witness’, and to become ‘a model or a paradigm’. From an etymological point of view, the word martyr in the Islamic tradition has a similar meaning as in Christian and Western traditions. In Greek, a ‘witness’ is martys, and ‘to witness’ or ‘to be or become a martyr’ is martyrein. 4 In Arabic, the word shahid is usually 2 See, for example, the opposing views of Van Henten, ‘The Concept of Martyrdom in Revelation’, p. 587-618, and Bergmeier, ‘Zeugnis und Martyrium’, p. 632-647. See also Middleton, Radical Martyrdom and Cosmic Conflict in Early Christianity, p. 158-171. 3 See Baumeister, Die Anfänge der Theologie des Martyriums, p. 257-260; Dehandschutter, ‘The Martyrium Polycarpi: a Century of Research’, p. 508-514; Dehandschutter, ‘Some Notes on 1 Clement 5,4-7’, p. 83-89; Dehandschutter and Van Henten, ‘Einleitung’, p. 1-19; Buschmann, Martyrium Polycarpi – Eine formkritische Studie: Ein Beitrag zur Frage nach der Entstehung der Gattung Märtyrerakte, p. 136-137; Wischmeyer, ‘Märtyrer II. Alte Kirche’, p. 862-865. For relevant studies on martyrdom in Christianity, see also Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism; Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome; Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism. 4 See Abedi and Legenhausen, Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam ‘Jihad and Shahadat’, p. 3-5.

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taken to mean that martyrs are those who testify to the sincerity of their faith through the ultimate proof which is sacrificing their own life.5 In the Quran, the word is attested in this sense as in the following verse: “So that God may know those who believe and may take shuhada (witnesses) from among you” (Quran 3.140). Moreover, the martyr’s sacrifice of his/her life is a physical act that entails an act of destroying the body (suicide). Although suicide is forbidden in Islamic tradition, the physical act of destroying the body does not have a strong meaning in the case of the martyr. This is so because the martyr’s sacrificial act is embedded in the Islamic belief of the after-life in which his/her death in this life is a necessary step towards the continuation of life in the after-life. Besides the religious dimension of the word shahid in the sense of witness, this application also adds a political dimension to the role of martyrs in society. In witnessing the ultimate truth of God, martyrs become the most effective agents in pursuit of God’s cause, and they testify to the legitimacy of this cause through their willingness to die. Moreover, for the martyrs, martyrdom becomes their religiously internalised goal, and only through their sacrificial act, they make this goal public. This public aspect of martyrdom adds a political meaning to the martyrs’ sacrificial act in which the act serves both to intimidate the ‘enemy’, and to inspire their followings by acting as a role model and a paradigm.6 Whatever the origin of the title ‘martyr’ may have been, semantic and semiotic studies imply that a social phenomenon can occur for a considerable time before it is circumscribed by particular vocabulary that gives it a specific name. One example is the recently invented word ‘millennials’ used for a specific target group for cultural events and marketing activities in order to refer to persons born between 1980 and 2000. By analogy it seems plausible that there may have been martyrs before the title ‘martyr’ was used. If so, how do we know what martyrdom is or was, and who was considered to be a martyr? Or who was made a martyr and by whom, since most of the evidence is not directly transmitted to us from the martyr’s mouth but often based on a document produced by others to commemorate someone’s special death?7 Perhaps we can only answer these questions by proposing a working definition of ‘what is a martyr’. One of the definitions often taken up by 5 See Ezzati, ‘The Concept of Martyrdom in Islam’, p. 9. 6 See Winters, ‘Martyrdom in Jihad’, p. 7. 7 See Middleton, ‘What is Martyrdom?’, p. 1-17; Middelton, ‘“Suffer Little Children”: Child Sacrifice, Martyrdom, and Identity Formation in Judaism and Christianity’, p. 337-356.

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scholars in this regard is the one given by Eugene and Anita Weiner, who rely on a sociological perspective and argue that ‘The martyr will be seen as a member of a suppressed group who, when given the opportunity to renounce aspects of his or her group’s code, willingly submits to suffering and death rather than forsake a conviction’. Moreover, according to Weiner and Weiner there were three ways of becoming a martyr: First, by choosing to suffer or die rather than giving up one’s faith or principles. Second, by being tortured or killed because of one’s convictions, and third, by suffering great pain or misery for a long time (Weiner and Weiner, 1990, p. 9). A different definition, proposed by Jan Willem van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie, implies that the notion and practice of martyrdom originated in the second century B.C.E. in a Jewish context. This definition presupposes that a martyr is killed by somebody else: ‘a martyr is a person who in an extremely hostile situation prefers a violent death to compliance with a demand of the (usually pagan) authorities’ (Van Henten and Avemarie, 2002, p. 3; cf. Avemarie 2013, p. 187). Van Henten and Avemarie’s definition has been criticised because certain self-killings may be considered to be martyrdoms as well (Rajak, 2012, p. 167-172). In a different context, Paul Middleton puts forward an alternative approach of what he calls ‘radical martyrdom’ in which he defines martyrdom as ‘a type of narrative which describes a death that reinforces a group’s (whether religious, political or national) view of the world’ (Middleton 2006, p. 13). However, in a later study Middleton argues that defining martyrdom is ultimately a futile exercise because from the very beginning martyrdom emerged as a contested practice (Middleton, 2014, p. 118-120; p. 130). These diverse def initions imply that martyrdom is contested even within the relatively confined area of the Protestant or Catholic Christian tradition. As such the best option would be to take the contested discourses of martyrdom as a point of departure for research which enables us to analyse a corpus of relevant sources of the phenomenon of martyrdom. Several of the contributors to this volume link up with one of the above def initions while others opt for alternative approaches through which the contested discourses about martyrdom become broader and more ambiguous. Most of these def initions also show that documents and artefacts about martyrs are part of a discursive process of canonisation. A few examples of martyrs, sometimes ancient but still relevant and sometimes recent, discussed in this book concern the Maccabean Martyrs, the Ten Rabbinic Martyrs, spiritual martyrs, gender and homosexual martyrs, South African post-Apartheid’s martyrs, Palestinian female martyrs, and the martyrs of the Arab Spring.

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Canonising Martyrs The cross-cultural history of martyrdoms is full of canons of martyrs, i.e. lists of heroes with a special or holy status of martyrs that were or still are fixated. We use the term ‘canon’ in a discursive and broader sense than the official use of the term in the Roman Catholic Church. The Vatican has revised the procedures for the beatification and sanctification of Roman Catholic persons several times, which also concerns a ‘canonisation’ of martyrs, that is declaring a martyr a beatus (‘blessed’) or sanctus (‘holy’) person of the Church often after much lobby-work by local communities.8 As it is well-known, Pope John Paul II surpassed his predecessors of the last 400 years in beatifications and sanctifications. By March 11, 2001, he had beatified 1,227 and sanctified 477 saints as martyrs (his predecessors 1,310 and 300 respectively).9 Interestingly, these recent canonisations of martyrs show that for Pope John Paul II the concept of martyrdom has become broader than earlier conceived. During a service in the Jubilee Year 2000, on May 8, 2000, the Pope paid tribute to contemporary martyrs and said that the hatred and murder of Christians experienced in the modern period resulted in more than 12,000 new Christian martyrs of the 20th century. He also stated that ‘countless numbers refused to yield to the cult of the false gods of the 20th century and were sacrificed by communism, Nazism, by the idolatry of state or race…’.10 The canonisation of martyrs discussed in this volume is cross-religious and cross-cultural, going even beyond religion, which implies a double 8 The reports about the ancient ‘Catholic’ martyrs were summarised and collected together with more recent ones in the so-called Martyrologium Romanum, a volume that was published for the f irst time in 1584 for the appropriate religious commemoration of these martyrs, Martyrologivm romanvm ad novam kalendarii rationem, et Ecclesiasticae historiae veritatem restitvtvm: Gregorii XIII Pont. Max. iussu editum: accesserunt notationes atque tractatio de Martyrologio Romano (Antwerp: Plantijn, 1584). For an internet copy of the version sanctioned by Pope Benedict XIV in 1749, see Martyrologivm romanvm ad novam kalendarii rationem, et Ecclesiasticae historiae veritatem restitvtvm: Gregorii XIII Pont. Max. iussu editum ac deinde anno MDCCXLIX Benedicti XIV labore et studio auctum et castigatum (Eichstätt: Tipografia vaticana, 2013), http://introibo.net/download/brevier/martyrologium_latein.pdf ( Accessed on May 4, 2018). 9 http://www.dailycatholic.org./issue/2001Mar/mar12nr1.htm (Accessed on May 7, 2018). At the end of 1995 Pope John Paul II had finalised 208 beatifications and 38 sanctifications, which involved 875 individuals. See Woodward, Making Saints: How the Catholic Church Determines Who Becomes a Saint, Who Doesn’t, and Why, p. 5. 10 http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/world/europe/newsid_740000/740218.stm (Accessed on May 7, 2018). See also Royal, The Catholic Martyrs of the Twentieth Century: A Comprehensive World History.

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process of fixation: the number of martyrs is fixed for a longer period, and the documents about them were gradually selected and authorised. This type of canonisation can be explained with the theoretical framework developed by the German Egyptologist and historian of religion Jan Assmann in his work Das kulturelle Gedächtnis (The Cultural Memory).11 Assmann analyses how communities organise their memories and how various mnemotechnic devices affect their social imagination. By transcending daily experiences, collective memories fixate and objectify experiences and transform them into myths which give symbolic meanings to life experiences.12 Thus cultural memory is closely connected with the fixation of myths and sacred texts that cannot be changed and require interpretation and explanation. Within literary studies two theoretical approaches are dominant, which either focus on aesthetics or on social-cultural aspects; sometimes both are combined. A dynamic variant of the first approach understands canons as ‘autopoietic systems’ and implies that the codes determining the inclusion or exclusion of texts into a canon are intrinsic to the system. An important point in Assmann’s concept of the ‘canon’ concerns the transition from ritual coherence to textual coherence. When a ritual is put to text, the stability of its meaning often becomes problematic. This is due to textual variations which accordingly require a second process of fixation (‘Schliessung’) that leads to a canonical text (‘der geheiligte Bestand’) and, as a consequence, to exegetes who need to explain the text according to the normative tradition.13 One of the examples that reflect the process of canonisation of martyrs, following Assmann’s model, concerns the famous Mennonite martyr book, Martyrs Mirror, which describes Mennonite martyrs from the 16th century. 11 Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen, p. 87-129; p. 163-66; p. 171-185; p. 280-289. 12 Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen, p. 52-59. 13 Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen, def ines the canon as ‘… die Übertragung eines in der Rechtssphäre verwurzelten Ideals der Verbindlichkeit und Erfolgungstreue auf den gesamten Zentralbereich schriftlicher Überlieferung’, p. 106; p. 18; p. 87-116. See also Aleida Assmann, ‘Theorien des kulturellen Gedächtnisses’, p. 76-84. On literary theoretical approaches of cultural memory, see Kümmerling-Meibauer and Müller, ‘Introduction: Canon Studies and Children’s Literature’, p. 1-14; Papadima, Damrosch and D’Haen, The Canonical Debate Today: Crossing Disciplinary and Cultural Boundaries; Winko and Rippl, Handbuch Kanon und Wertung: Theorien, Instanzen, Geschichte. Benedict Anderson and Charles Taylor elaborated the concept of ‘social imaginaries’: the knowledge conveyed and preserved in a canon is not merely a literary knowledge but forms part of a more encompassing notion of cultural memory and cultural values which also includes aesthetic concerns. See Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism; Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries.

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Thieleman van Braght compiled the Martyrs Mirror in 1660 after which the book became a source of inspiration for the spiritual life of many Mennonites up to the 21st century. The Mennonites, named after their founding father Menno Simonsz, were a branch of Anabaptists, but different from the radical apocalyptic movement that created the Kingdom of Muenster that was crushed in 1535. Nevertheless, as Protestants living in the Low Countries the Mennonites faced a violent oppression from the representatives of their Catholic overlord, the Holy Roman Emperor King Charles V (1500-1558), especially in Ghent and Bruges, but also Middelburg, Muiden, The Hague and Antwerp during the fifties and sixties of the 16th century. One of the king’s edicts against the Protestants was particularly brutal. This so-called Bloody Placard of 1550 decreed the death penalty for all who were convicted of heresy: the males had to be executed by the sword and the females buried alive; those who were obstinate were burnt alive. The first Mennonite book that collected the stories of the martyrs who were executed during this persecution was The Sacrifice of the Lord (Het Offer des Heeren), published by Jan Hendricksz in 1562 in the Frisian town Franeker.14 The title The Sacrifice of the Lord can be explained on the basis of the content of the book which presents the martyrs’ entries in a chronological order as sacrificed children of God, and aligns them with a list of biblical heroes and previous Christian martyrs. The book also includes a section with Mennonite songs and the preface points to the martyrs as models ‘for the comfort and strengthening of all lovers of the truth’.15 The further canonisation of the Mennonite martyrs took ca. 100 years and resulted in a definitive collection compiled by Thieleman van Braght that was repeatedly reprinted.16 After The Sacrifice of the Lord several other Mennonite martyrologies were published, including those by Hans de Ries whose history of martyrs was entitled Martyrs Mirror from 1624 onward.17 Van Braght’s work was originally entitled The Bloody Theatre, but it borrowed the title Martyrs Mirror from De Ries. Van Braght’s aim for the Martyrs Mirror was to highlight the martyrs as models of virtues such as patience, humility, piety and steadfastness, as well as modesty and chastity. As his preface indicates, Van Braght’s criterion for including reports 14 The scholarly edition of this work is based on the fourth edition of 1570. See Cramer and Piper, Bibliotheca Reformatoria Neerlandica: Deel 2. Het Offer Des Heeren (De Oudste Verzameling Doopsgezinde Martelaarsbrieven En Offerliederen) Bewerkt Door Dr. S. Cramer (Dutch Edition). Charleston: Nabu Press, https://books.google.es/books/about/Bibliotheca_reformatoria_neerlandica_dee.html?id=BD8UAAAAYAAJandredir_esc=y (Accessed on June 12, 2018). 15 See Weaver-Zercher, Martyrs Mirror: A Social History, p. 21-44. 16 See Weaver-Zercher, Martyrs Mirror: A Social History, p. 45-65. 17 See Van der Aa, Biografisch woordenboek der Nederlanden 16, p. 330-332.

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about the martyrs is clear as well: First, the martyrs included had suffered and were slain for ‘the testimony of Jesus their Saviour’, which means that they were put to death as a direct result of their confession of faith and being ‘baptism-minded’ (Dutch: ‘doopsgezind’, i.e. they lived in accordance with the apostolic Christ-centred way of life, which included adult baptism). A second criterion was ‘defencelessness’ (‘weerloos’), which implied a pacifist attitude.18 Finally, the core of the book consisted of the martyrdoms already included in The Sacrifice of the Lord. The first edition of the Martyrs Mirror of 1660 was updated by an anonymous editor in 1685 and illustrated with prints from 104 copperplates by the Dutch artist Jan Luyken. This edition has been reprinted up to the present day.

Contesting Martyrs As we discussed above, Assmann’s approach to canonisation focuses strongly on diachronic continuities which concern the formation and preservation of canons. In this regard Assmann acknowledges that every period has its own canon which can be relativized or even abolished because of contradictions or doubts concerning the truth claim expressed by the canonical texts, for which he coined the word ‘hypolepse’ (controlled variation).19 However, Assmann does not pay much attention to the flip side of canonisation: the process of non-inclusion or even rejection of events or persons while a canon is formed or functioning. This process may be as important as the canonisation itself, as had already become apparent from the example discussed above of the Mennonite Martyrs.20 Several documents that were supposedly written between 1577 and 1609 by Mennonite martyrs were included in the first edition of the Martyrs Mirror, but they were not included in subsequent editions. This implies that the process of the canonisation of Mennonite martyrs also included the exclusion of certain martyrdom writings.21 A more recent and highly controversial case of the canonisation of a martyr is Edith Stein. Stein’s case shows that sometimes there are competing 18 See Weaver-Zercher, Martyrs Mirror: A Social History, p. 54-61. 19 Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen, p. 121; p. 280-89; p. 101-03. 20 See Aleida Assmann, ‘Theorien des kulturellen Gedächtnisses’, p. 76-84. 21 Gregory, The Forgotten Writings of the Mennonite Martyrs, offers an edition of mostly writings from prison of seven Mennonite martyrs: Henrick Alewijnsz, Jacob de Roore, Thijs Joriaensz, Hendrick Verstralen, Joos Verkindert, Reytse Ayssesz and Christiaen Rijcen.

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groups: one which claims that a deceased person is one of its martyrs and the other group radically contests the martyrdom of this person. Stein or Sister Teresa Benedicta (1891-1942) died at Auschwitz. She was Jewish by birth and one of the first German women who earned a PhD in philosophy. Christian fellow-philosophers introduced her to Christianity and she was baptised when she was thirty years old. Eleven years later she took the vows of a Carmelite nun and lived in the Carmelite monasteries of Cologne (Germany) and Echt (the Netherlands) until her arrest in 1942, which was probably an act of revenge by the Nazis for the protest of the Dutch bishops against the anti-Semitic outrages of the occupation forces.22 Stein anticipated her own death in 1939 as beneficial and prayed that it would lead to ‘the preservation, sanctification and perfection of our Holy Order, particularly the Carmel in Cologne and in Echt […] (and) for the atonement of the unbelief of the Jewish people’.23 Stein’s life story and her writings, which keep being re-published, inspire many Christians, and Pope John Paul II made her a saint of the Roman Catholic Church, also because of the miracles she allegedly performed after her death. As is well known, Stein’s canonisation was heavily criticised by Jews and non-Jews alike, who argue that she died because she was Jewish and that her Christian canonisation is a misplaced appropriation of a Holocaust victim.24 This book deals with several martyrs or groups of martyrs who are contested as in Stein’s case. These cases, as the contributors will argue, imply that Assmann’s concept of canonisation should be revised, amended or, perhaps, even replaced by a more dynamic and flexible model that takes into account both the constant reshaping of martyrs as well as the trends towards canonisation and contestation of martyrdom in the present. Such an approach may be derived from Pierre Bourdieu’s theory about Les Règles de l’art (The Rules of Art). Although Bourdieu does not use the words ‘canon’ and ‘canonisation’ excessively, his discussion of the radical changes in the art scene in the nineteenth century, when the old hierarchical structures had disappeared, results in the leading idea that a new ‘literary field’ (‘champ littéraire’) was formed. In this field continuous battles for the ‘symbolic power’ take place between artists and the groups connected with them in 22 See Herbstrith, Edith Stein – ihr wahres Gesicht?: Jüdisches Selbstverständnis, christliches Engagement, Opfer der Shoa; Knaup and Seubert, Edith Stein-Lexikon. 23 https://www.catholicculture.org/culture/library/view.cfm?recnum=802 (Accessed on May 8, 2018). 24 See Batzdorff, ‘A Martyr of Auschwitz’, p. 5; Van Biema, Penner, and Mitchell, ‘A Martyr But Whose?’.

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order to survive and maintain a particular and active position.25 This highly competitive view of the literary field implies that the rules of the game are no longer determined by external religious and political powers. The autonomous artists themselves define the rules and position themselves within the ‘space of possibilities’ (‘l’espace des possibles’).26 Applied to martyrdom, Bourdieu’s approach focuses on the agents who commemorate martyrs and eventually ‘create’ new martyrs, or even criticise such commemorative practices and act against them. These agents may be in continuous competition with each other, signifying that the canonisation of martyrs goes hand in hand with their contestation. A case in point is the French priest Jacques Hamel, who was brutally killed by two supporters of ISIS on July 26, 2016. Hamel is commemorated both as a martyr of France, who died for Western values and ideals, and a martyr of the Roman Catholic Church.27 During the commemoration, one year after the priest’s death in Saint-Etienne-du-Rouvray, President Macron stated that Hamel’s martyrdom was not in vain (‘Et sans en diminuer l’horreur, le martyre du père Hamel n’aura pas eu lieu pour rien’ (Le Figaro July 26, 2017). Pope Francis gave a morning meditation in Rome on 14th September 2016, during which he stated that Hamel was part of a chain of Christian martyrs and should be beatified as soon as possible.28 Here one clearly can see the mechanism that by calling someone a martyr the opponents are often denied any legitimacy and bedevilled. Building on Bourdieu’s views, we can imagine the processes of mediatization and commemoration of martyrs as an arena in which various agents, individuals as well as groups, religious or secular, compete for the commemoration or contestation of martyrs. As will be apparent in this volume, the protagonists will have strong disagreements about who is a martyr and who is not as well as which kind of martyrdom is legitimate and which is not. As such, communities will commemorate, appropriate or contest martyrs, depending also on their own context and group identities and the power mechanisms and discourses involved.29 25 See Bourdieu, Les Règles de l’art. Genèse et structure du champ littéraire, p. 180-81; p.191; p. 223; p. 282-283; p. 357. 26 Bourdieu, Les Règles de l’art. Genèse et structure du champ littéraire, p. 413. For further discussion of Bourdieu’s agonistic approach focusing upon discontinuities in comparison with the work of Jan Assmann and Walter Benjamin, see Zschachlitz, ‘“Blocage canonique”, “espace des possibles”, “dialectique à l’arrêt”. Éléments d’une théorie du canon chez Assmann, Bourdieu et Benjamin’, p. 543-557. 27 See Volder, Martelaar: leven en dood van de vermoorde priester Jacques Hamel. 28 L’Osservatore Romano, weekly edition in English, no. 38, September 23, 2016. 29 For approaches to the nexus of canon and power, see Ter Borg, ‘Canon and Social Control’, p. 411-423; Winko, ‘Kanon/Kanonizität, VII Literaturwissenschaftliches’, p. 316-317.

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Afterlives of Martyrdoms Our brief discussion of canonisation and contestation of martyrs reflects several ways in which the dividing line of finding a working definition for the concept of martyrdom is not only between what is martyrdom or not, nor is it between what is right and legitimate or illegitimate martyrdom. Instead the point which this book attempts to put forward is that definitions and legitimacy of martyrdom are mutually dependent. Moreover, the commemoration of martyrs entails a process of canonisation because many groups who remember their martyrs have established a more or less fixed group of martyrs and sometimes also canonised the documents about those martyrs. Yet, this canonisation of martyrs goes hand in hand with two other processes: First, the canonisation implies the inclusion and exclusion of martyrs and the writings connected with them; martyrs who are heroes for one group are flatly contested by another group; that is to say, canonisation usually emerges in a plural of diverse and conflicting canons. No matter how martyrs are configured during their commemoration, they function as heroes and models for the in-group, which designates them as idealised figures. And, second, the ways martyrs are remembered in documents, visual material and narrations, performances, and rituals build on and re-interpret older textual and pictorial traditions that are either connected with older martyrs or are interpreted in new settings through the lens of commemoration. The canons, lists, and cultural texts of martyrdom are open to later and various traditions; these are present and future-oriented practices which are not permanently closed. Moreover, inasmuch as martyrdom involves actively opting for death rather than abandoning a belief, martyrs also publicly embrace political, ideological and religious positions that oppose powerful institutions and dominant discourses. The various chapters in this book address the issues discussed above through opening up an interdisciplinary space for the analysis of the remnants and narratives of martyrdom, as well as of the re-making and re-conceptualisation of these pasts in the present in order to facilitate a dynamic and transnational approach across several fields and cultural-political contexts. The contributions to this volume deal with various forms and contexts, from Late Antiquity up to the present era, in which they examine how spaces of martyrdom are equally relevant for heritage and memory studies since most of these spaces have been recycled, remediated and musealized in art and cultural practices (reliefs, frescoes, paintings, illustrated manuscripts, etcetera). Many martyr shrines and reliquaries are still being venerated, and street names and graffiti keep the

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memory of recent martyrs alive. The cross-cultural approach and analyses make this book valuable for students and scholars of heritage and memory studies, religion and ancient history, literature and poetry, and media and public culture. In his chapter, Tobias Nicklas focuses on the dynamic interconnections between what became the early Christian canon of the Holy Writings of the Bible and the identities resulting from the history of various Christian groups. The development of the canon was decisive for the beliefs of the Christians and their identity, but changes in the group identities led to changes of perspectives on the canon in various contexts. Thus, the ‘canonical process’ did not come to its end with the discontinuity of the closure especially of the canon. As a matter of fact, other writings that do not claim to be part of the canon, fulfil a function analogous to canonical writings, as the reception history of several so-called apocryphal writings and martyrdom passages implies. Building on Maurice Hallbwachs’ concepts of ‘social memories’ (Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire), and ‘collective memory’ (La mémoire collective), Nicklas critically analyses the relationship between memory and martyrdom and argues that while most of the canonical texts have been largely forgotten the landscapes of memory which were created by these texts still exist. This argument highlights the contestation but also the non-fixation and exclusivity of canons. Yair Furstenberg discusses the changing nature of canonisation of a cluster of martyrdom traditions about the ten rabbinic sages, who were executed by the Romans in the First or Second century CE. The canonical texts were transmitted as isolated stories in several rabbinic writings, which were only combined to a grand narrative in Late Antiquity or the early Medieval period. One indication of the major re-interpretation of martyrdom in this period is the fact that instead of idolatry or the transgression of a Roman decree or another reason that was obvious from a Roman perspective, the ten Rabbis were executed because the emperor found out that the Jews were never punished for the ancestral sin of selling Joseph to the Ishmaelite merchants (Gen. 37:23-37). This implies that their death was intended by God, which was confirmed by the heavenly journey of one of these Rabbis, Rabbi Ishmael, to inquire about their case. Furstenberg argues that the evolution of the Story of the Ten Martyrs from its Talmudic foundations in interaction with Christianity betrays a fundamental shift in Jewish martyrological discourse that reveals the strategy for confronting the religious claims of the political power through the act of martyrdom. Jennifer Knust surveys the gradual canonisation of the Maccabean martyrs within a collection of Christian sacred texts. The eventual adoption of

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these martyrs as proto-Christian models of faith was clearly the result of a complex but now lost process of reconfiguration and appropriation. This march forward of a Christian Maccabean cult also coincides with a postJulian consolidation of Christian ascendancy that began during Julian’s reign and was then further advanced during the ramping up of Christianisation following his death. The introduction of the Christian cult of the Maccabean martyrs can be interpreted both as an anti-Jewish Christian response to changing circumstances under Julian and as evidence that the traditions associated with the Maccabees endured as a continuing site of ChristianJewish interaction even as these same martyrs were spiritualised. The fourth-century re-signification of these martyrs as Christian participated in what Andrew Jacobs describes as the ‘historicisation’ of the Jew, a process that renders living Jews merely ‘historical’ by transferring the Jew or the Jew’s remains into an embodied, living Christian past. Once the martyrs were detached from earlier commemorative contexts, they served to buttress particular, disputed formulations of Christian rather than Jewish identity. According to Knust, the reverberations of this process reach beyond their initial settings and Christian anti-Judaism, rhetorical or real, and have persisted within ongoing and contested histories of difference. Mieke Bal examines the first autobiographical text written by a woman which concerns the life of the Carthaginian martyr Perpetua. The analysis combines narratology, psychoanalysis, and deconstruction, in a voluntarily anachronistic appropriation of this unique document. Scenes of martyrdom are etched on our retina, because there are so many artworks that represent them. The case Bal analyses, however, is literary, although some of its metaphors and descriptions are vividly visual. Bal speculates that a contest shapes the one that informs Perpetua’s choice for this particular martyrdom: the contest between male and female, or rather, the contest for masculinity. Perpetua’s move away from femininity would lead her, not so much to give up sex as to enjoy it in the only way she could have access to it, turns this story of victimhood into a story of victory: over gender-limitations and over narration. Asghar Seyed-Gohrab analyses the concept of ‘love’ in the context of Islamic mystical martyrdom. As a concept, love was used increasingly in a religious and mystical context from the 10th century onward in the Islamic world in such a way that it was often hard to make a distinction between profane and spiritual love. A true lover was often a pious person who would offer everything including his life for the beloved or for love itself. Love was frequently connected with death or to be killed by the beloved either in a metaphorical or literal sense. There are several examples referring to

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love-death and how such a death is interpreted as martyrdom. After an analysis of the origin and the evolution of the concept of love-death to martyrdom in medieval texts, Seyed-Gohrab examines how love martyrdom was reactivated in Twentieth century Iranian political philosophy for a wide range of purposes. He focuses in particular on the cult of martyrdom, scrutinising how the concept was deployed during the Iran-Iraq war (19801988) to propagate a militant ideology, to justify violence, and to convince soldiers that their fight was a spiritual quest to attain the immaterial beloved. Jan Willem van Henten takes a speech by the English Bishop Arthur Winnington Ingram from 1914 for the bereaved families of fallen soldiers as point of departure for a survey of the commemoration of soldiers who died in World War 1 as martyrs. Winnington Ingram characterises the soldiers whom he commemorates as martyrs and links them to Stephen, the protomartyr of the Church (Acts 7). Van Henten explores whether Winnington Ingram’s speech is an isolated case or if others also commemorated soldiers who were killed during the Great War as martyrs, indirectly or explicitly. Van Henten concentrates on several case studies about German and British soldiers: a mosaic referring to the soldiers, a chapel at two German military cemeteries in Belgium (Hooglede and Menen), and a stained glass window and a table with names of the fallen at All Saints Church at Huntingdon (Cambridgeshire). This chapter discusses the particularities of these commemorations as well as how the soldiers are associated with martyrdom and the reward of martyrs with the help of Christian pictorial traditions and specific biblical passages. Paul Middleton deals with the contested homosexual martyr Matthew Shepard. Matthew Shepard, a gay twenty-one year old political science student at the University of Wyoming, was robbed and brutally beaten by two other men on the night of Tuesday, 6 October 1998. The men tied him to a fence after the attack, while he was bleeding profusely in freezing temperatures. He died a few days later, on 12 October 1998, and was called a martyr in Time Magazine, just a week after his death. Middleton examines the popular martyr-making process in respect of Matthew Shepard, arguing that both the making of the martyr and the reaction it provoked reflect American ‘culture wars’, because martyrology is conflict literature, foremost about the conflict between the story-tellers and their opponents. Ironically, both LGBT activists and right-wing religious groups have in some ways sought to undermine Shepard’s martyr status by focusing on his life rather than his death. Such efforts, as Middleton argues, had a limited effect because in martyrologies any interest in the lives of their heroes is incidental, merely setting up the scene for a significant death.

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Friederike Pannewick examines the public memorialisations of the martyrs of the Arab Spring in Egypt as expressed in graffiti and murals in Cairo. The state tried to censor and destroy them, but the memorial spaces were re-appropriated by the public and functioned as visual narratives of the history of the revolution. This artwork not only aimed at counteracting forgetfulness through public remembrance, but also enshrined the remembrance of more than once unpunished crimes and tragic events. The commemoration of these martyrs oscillates thus between personal efforts to cope with inescapable suffering and political strategy. From the perspective of previous commemorations of martyrs in Arab contexts the remembrance of the Arab Spring martyrs displays a major shift: this time the Arab citizens themselves engaged in self-empowerment and establishing and defending their own national history, instead of the political or religious institutions. In addition, a semantic transformation took place through a reconfiguration of religious ideas in the context of secularised modernity that transcends the particularities of specific groups and simultaneously builds on Muslim and Christian imageries. Jeremy Punt argues that the canonisation of South Africa’s anti-Apartheid heroes is an important component in the construction of a narrative of a country emerging from a violent, divisive past informed by racialist engineering and deliberate processes of exclusion and othering. The icon of the struggle against Apartheid and the one who most often springs to mind is, of course, Nelson Mandela, around whom quite a hero if not a martyr cult was erected. Heroes’ discourse plays an important role in structuring memories about South Africa’s past and negotiating identities in the present. Notwithstanding the ambiguities, the role of anti-Apartheid heroes and their veneration are important in underscoring new group values, restoring human dignity and self-esteem while at the same time articulating identity and acknowledging leadership and achievement. But the commemoration of heroes is also time and place bound and therefore susceptible to constant critique and adjustments as is evident from recent events in South Africa. Marcel Poorthuis discusses the radical re-interpretation of the story about seven boys who fall asleep for several centuries in a cave during the persecution by Emperor Decius. They refused to burn incense before ‘idols made by hands’ and fled into a cave, where God took their spirits and brought them to heaven. The story has been associated with martyrdom and has preChristian forerunners but it was transmitted in a Syriac-Christian version by Jacob of Serugh (451-521 CE). The Qur’an recycles this story, but its thrust is wholly different. Ironically, the story in Sura 18 has been transformed into an anti-Christian polemic. This story in turn has been re-created in

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the novel My Father’s Notebook (Spijkerschrift) by the Iranian-Dutch writer Kader Abdollah (translated in English as My Father’s Notebook, 2006). The story symbolises the future return of happiness and beauty for the people, persecuted both under the Shah and under Khomeini. Ihab Saloul investigates the phenomenon of ‘female martyrdom operations’ in relation to the issue of women’s agency in society, particularly women’s political participation and gender roles in contemporary Palestinian society. In the context of the conservative social climate promoted by the Islamists through their emphasis on the religious rather than the nationalist dimensions of martyrdom operations, female martyrs had nationalist motivations and aimed at restoring their position as politically active participants in Palestinian society. Three operations in 2002 (Wafa Idris, Dareen Abu Aysheh and Ayat Al Akhras) managed to open up new spaces for women’s participation on the nationalist front and women were indeed accepted as active participants in the military struggle. On a religious level, these three female martyrdom operations represented a significant challenge to the interpreted religious notions of women’s political participation in relation to contemporary Islamic discourse of martyrdom and warfare. A fourth operation (Hanadi Jaradat, 2003) was carried out on behalf of the Islamic Jihad Movement, which justified her operation also from a religious point of view. Finally, Laura Copier builds on Elizabeth Castelli, who characterises the discourse on martyrdom as highly ambivalent, yet persistent and powerful to this day and age, evaluating martyrdom as ‘an idea without a precise origin’ (Castelli, 2004, p. 35). Because it is both impossible and unproductive to pinpoint the exact historical moment in which martyrdom came into existence, Copier focuses, with Castelli, on the ongoing manifestations of martyrdom, in particular on the sustained investigation of contemporary, popular, and secular representations of martyrdom. The discourse of martyrdom is so powerful precisely because of its adaptability and, critically, the transformation of the object that it allows. It is not just the concept of martyrdom that is not fixed; it also causes related discourses to change. One of those discourses is Hollywood cinema, and its representations of gender and the body in female action heroes. Castelli’s ‘culture making’ dimensions of martyrdom that ‘depend upon repetition and dynamics of recognition’ are played out, as Copier shows, in the female character of Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron) in the 2015 film Mad Max Fury Road. Through a close reading of the film’s genre, narrative, and iconography, Copier argues that the female action hero Furiosa is able to transcend and destabilise the equation of martyrdom with death.

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Works Cited Abedi, Mehdi and Legenhausen, Gary (eds.). (1986). Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam ‘Jihad and Shahadat’. Houston, Texas: The Institute for Research and Islamic Studies. Anderson, Benedict. (1983). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Assmann, Aleida. (2013). ‘Theorien des kulturellen Gedächtnisses’. In Handbuch Kanon und Wertung: Theorien, Instanzen, Geschichte. Simone Winko and Gabriele Rippl (eds.). Stuttgart-Weimar: Verlag J. B. Metzler, 76-84. Assmann, Jan. (1992). Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen. München: Beck. Avemarie, Friedrich. (2013). Neues Testament und frührabbinisches Judentum: Gesammelte Aufsätze. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Batzdorff, Susanne M. (1987). ‘A Martyr of Auschwitz’. The New York Times Magazine, vol. 136, April 12, 5. Baumeister, Theofried. (1980). Die Anfänge der Theologie des Martyriums. Münster: Aschendorff. Bergmeier, Roland. (2012). ‘Zeugnis und Martyrium’. In Die Johannesapokalypse: Kontexte und Konzepte / The Revelation of John: Contexts and Concepts. Jörg Frey, James A. Kellhoffer and Franz Toth (eds.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 619-647. Bourdieu, Pierre. (1992). Les Règles de l’art. Genèse et structure du champ littéraire. Paris: Seuil. Boustan, Ra’anan. (2005). From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bowersock, Glen W. (1995). Martyrdom and Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boyarin, Daniel. (1999). Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Brox, Norbert. (1961). Zeuge und Märtyrer. Untersuchungen zur frühchristlichen Zeugnis-Terminologie. München: Kösel. Buschmann, Gerd. (1994). Martyrium Polycarpi – Eine formkritische Studie: Ein Beitrag zur Frage nach der Entstehung der Gattung Märtyrerakte. Berlin: De Gruyter. Castelli, Elizabeth. (2004). Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making. New York: Columbia University Press. Cramer, Samuel, and Piper, Fredrik (eds.). ([1904] 2010). Bibliotheca Reformatoria Neerlandica: Deel 2. Het Offer Des Heeren (De Oudste Verzameling Doopsgezinde Martelaarsbrieven En Offerliederen) Bewerkt Door Dr. S. Cramer (Dutch Edition). Charleston: Nabu Press.

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Dehandschutter, Boudewijn A.G.M. (1989). ‘Some Notes on 1 Clement 5,4-7’. In FructusCentesimus. Mélanges offerts à Gerard J. M. Bartelink à l’occasion de son soixante-cinquièmeanniversaire, Antonius Adrianus Robertus (A. A. R.) Bastiaensen, Gerard J.M. Bartelink, C.H. Kneepkens (eds.). Dordrecht: Kluwer, 83-89. Dehandschutter, Boudewijn A.G.M. and Van Henten, Jan Willem. (1989). ‘Einleitung’. In Die Entstehung der jüdischen Martyrologie. Jan Willem van Henten, et al (eds.). Leiden: Brill, 1-19. Dehandschutter, Boudewijn A.G.M. (1993). ‘The Martyrium Polycarpi: a Century of Research’. ANRW 2.27.1: 485-522. Ezzati. Ali. (1986). ‘The Concept of Martyrdom in Islam’. In Al-Serat, Vol XII (A Journal of Islamic Studies). London: Muhammadi Trust of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. http://alhassanain.org/english/?com=bookandid=251 (Accessed on July 10, 2018). Gregory, Brad S. (2002). The Forgotten Writings of the Mennonite Martyrs. Leiden: Brill. Hallbwachs, Maurice. (1992). On Collective Memory. Coser, Lewis A (ed and trans). Chicago: Chicago University Press. Herbstrith, Waltraud. (2006). Edith Stein – ihr wahres Gesicht?: Jüdisches Selbstverständnis, christliches Engagement, Opfer der Shoa. Berlin: LIT-Verl. Knaup, Marcus and Seubert, Harald (eds.). (2017). Edith Stein-Lexikon. Freiburg: Verlag Herder. Kümmerling-Meibauer, Bettina and Müller, Anja. (2016). ‘Introduction: Canon Studies and Children’s Literature’. In Canon Constitution and Canon Change in Children’s Literature. Bettina Kümmerling-Meibauer and Anja Müller (eds.). London: Routledge, 1-14. Middleton, Paul. (2016). ‘“Suffer Little Children”: Child Sacrifice, Martyrdom, and Identity Formation in Judaism and Christianity’. JRV 4.3: 337-356. Middleton, Paul. (2014). ‘What is Martyrdom?’. Mortality 13: 1-17. Middleton, Paul. (2006). Radical Martyrdom and Cosmic Conflict in Early Christianity. London: T and T Clark. Nora, Pierre and Lawrence D. Kritzman. (1996). Realms of Memory: The Construction of the French Past, Volume 1. Arthur Goldhammer (trans.). New York: Columbia University Press. Olick, Jeffrey and Robbins, Joyce. (1998). ‘Social Memory Studies: From “Collective Memory” to the Historical Sociology of Mnemonic Practices’. Annual Review of Sociology 24: 105-40 Papadima, Liviu, Damrosch, David and D’Haen, Theo (eds.). (2011). The Canonical Debate Today: Crossing Disciplinary and Cultural Boundaries. Amsterdam: Rodopi.

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Rajak, Tessa. (2012). ‘Reflection on Jewish Resistance and the Discourse of Martyrdom in Josephus’. In Judaea-Palaestina, Babylon and Rome: Jews in Antiquity. Benjamin Isaac and Yuval Shahar (eds.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 165-180. Royal, Robert. (2000). The Catholic Martyrs of the Twentieth Century: A Comprehensive World History. New York: Crossroad Publishing. Taylor, Charles. (2004). Modern Social Imaginaries. Durham: Duke University Press. Ter Borg, Meerten B. (1998). ‘Canon and Social Control’. In Canonisation and Decanonisation. Arie van der Kooij and Karel van der Toorn (eds.). Leiden: Brill, 411-423. Van Biema, David, Penner, Martin and Mitchell, Emily. (1998). ‘A Martyr But Whose?’. Time, October 19. Van der Aa, Abraham Jacob. (1874). Biografisch woordenboek der Nederlanden 16. Haarlem: van Brederode, https://www.enzyklothek.de/biographische-lexika/ nationalbiographien/niederlande/allgemeinbiographien/aa-abraham-jacobvan-der-0 (Accessed on July 27, 2019). Van Henten, Jan Willem. (2012). ‘The Concept of Martyrdom in Revelation’. In Die Johannesapokalypse: Kontexte und Konzepte / The Revelation of John: Contexts and Concepts. Jörg Frey, James A. Kellhoffer and Franz Toth (eds.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 587-618. Van Henten, Jan Willem, and Avemarie, Friedrich. (2002). Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco-Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity. London: Routledge. Volder, Jan de. (2016). Martelaar: Leven en Dood van de Vermoorde Priester Jacques Hamel. Antwerpen/Baarn: Halewijn/Adveniat. Weaver-Zercher, David. (2016). Martyrs Mirror: A Social History. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Weiner, Eugene, and Weiner, Anita. (1990). The Martyr’s Conviction: A Sociological Analysis. Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press. Winko, Simone. (2009). ‘Kanon/Kanonizität, VII Literaturwissenschaftliches’. In Lexikon der Bibelhermeneutik. Oda Wischmeyer (ed.). Berlin: De Gruyter, 316-317. Winko, Simone and Rippl, Gabriele (eds.). (2013). Handbuch Kanon und Wertung: Theorien, Instanzen, Geschichte. Stuttgart-Weimar: Verlag J. B. Metzler. Winters, Jonah. (1997). ‘Martyrdom in Jihad’. Toronto: University of Toronto. http:// bahailibrary.org/personal/jw/my.papers/jihad.html (Accessed on July 10, 2018). Wischmeyer, Wolfgang. (2002). ‘Märtyrer II. Alte Kirche’. RGG 4th ed, 5: 862-865. Woodward, Kenneth. L. (1996). Making Saints: How the Catholic Church Determines Who Becomes a Saint, Who Doesn’t, and Why. New York: Touchstone. Zschachlitz, Ralf. (2007). ‘“Blocage canonique”, “espace des possibles”, “dialectique à l’arrêt”. Éléments d’une théorie du canon chez Assmann, Bourdieu et Benjamin’. Études Germaniques 247: 543-557.

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About the Authors Prof. Jan Willem van Henten is Professor of Religion (in particular Ancient Judaism and Ancient Christianity) at the University of Amsterdam. He is also extra-ordinary Professor of Old and New Testament at Stellenbosch University (South-Africa). His research projects concern Jewish and Christian Martyrdom, the Maccabean Books, the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, and research into the reception of the Bible in popular culture. Prof. Ihab Saloul is Founding Director and Academic Co-Director of the Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material Culture (AHM) at the University of Amsterdam. Saloul is Professor of Memory Studies and Narrative at the International Center for Advanced Studies in the Humanities “Umberto Eco”, Bologna University. He is the author of Catastrophe and Exile in the Modern Palestinian Imagination (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), and an editor of two book series: ‘Heritage and Memory Studies’ (Amsterdam University Press), and ’Palgrave Studies of Cultural Heritage and Conflict’ (Palgrave Macmillan). His research interests include heritage and memory studies, conflict and identity politics, narrative and literary theory, museum studies and material culture, cultural analysis, post-colonialism and visual culture as well as migration, diaspora and exile in contemporary cultural thought in the Middle East and Europe.

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The Interaction of Canon and History Some Assumptions1 Tobias Nicklas Abstract In his chapter, Tobias Nicklas focuses on the dynamic interconnections between what became the early Christian canon of the Holy Writings of the Bible and the identities resulting from the history of various Christian groups. The development of the canon was decisive for the beliefs of the Christians and their identity, but changes in the group identities led to changes of perspectives on the canon in various contexts. Thus, the ‘canonical process’ did not come to its end with the discontinuity of the closure especially of the canon. As a matter of fact, other writings that do not claim to be part of the canon, fulfil a function analogous to canonical writings, as the reception history of several so-called apocryphal writings and martyrdom passages imply. Building on Maurice Hallbwachs’ concepts of ‘social memories’ (Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire), and ‘collective memory’ (La mémoire collective), Nicklas critically analyses the relationship between memory and martyrdom and argues that while most of the canonical texts have been largely forgotten the landscapes of memory which were created by these texts still exist. This argument highlights the contestation but also the non-fixation and exclusivity of canons. Keywords: biblical canon, contestation, rituals, identity, canonisation and landscapes of memory

How is it possible that at least some of us understand the Biblical canon as a group of Scriptures inspired by the word of God? And how is it possible that 1 A slightly different German version of this article will appear in the Romanian journal Sacra Scripta.

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch01

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this group of inspired Scriptures developed and was collected in concrete historical circumstances? The problem of the relation of Biblical Canon and History is by no means new – it has been debated for more than 200 years. How is it possible that texts, which are at least by Jews and Christians understood as (being, being related to or mirroring) ‘the word of God’ originated in complex historical processes and circumstances? And what does it mean that the canon of these texts developed in several steps?2 A classical answer goes back to one of the most important evangelical theologians of the Enlightenment period, Johann Salomo Semler (1725-1791). In his Abhandlung von freier Untersuchung des Canon, which appeared between 1771 and 1775 in four volumes, Semler developed the basic idea that one has to distinguish between Scripture and word of God.3 In its substance, this thesis is still valid. Yet this allowed Semler to describe the origins of both the single books of the Bible and the Bible as a whole as a historical process. 4 In the following contribution I want to argue that Semler’s ideas are still relevant today; going beyond Semler I also want to develop the argument that new ideas about the history of the established canon force us to ask new questions about the relationship between Scripture and ‘word of God’. While I do not want to deal immediately with the problem of ‘inspiration’,5 I will start with another problem, which in today’s debates on the emergence of Christianity plays an important role. If the early ‘Christians’6 based their ‘religion’7 on a collection of apostolic writings (plus the texts we call the “Old Testament”), this means that the relation between this collection, that is, the Christian Bible, and history must be closely connected with questions 2 Regarding this idea which was developed mainly by Trobisch, see under (thesis 1). 3 See Semler, Abhandlung von freier Untersuchung des Canon, § 15 p. 60: ‘Heilige Schrift und Wort Gottes ist gar sehr zu unterscheiden’. Semler’s hermeneutics is discussed by Luz, Theologische Hermeneutik des Neuen Testaments, p. 125-127 and Markschies, ‘Epochen der Erforschung des neutestamentlichen Kanons in Deutschland’, p. 578-604, esp. p. 582-585. 4 See Semler, Abhandlung, p. 60: ‘Es ist Historie, dass die Christen … nach dem Tode Christi soundso viel Evangelien, Bücher und Briefe dieser Apostel in Händen haben und ihre christliche Religion darauf gegründet haben.’ 5 For basic thoughts regarding the idea of inspiration see, for example, Luz, Hermeneutik, p. 109-111. For a discussion of important aspects of the idea of ‘inspiration’ in the documents of the Vatican II council see Lehmann and Rothenbusch (eds.), Gottes Wort im Menschenwort. Die eine Bibel als Fundament der Theologie. 6 I use the term ‘Christians’ only with hesitation if I speak of the earliest times of the movement of Christ followers since the term is clearly an anachronism. 7 I am well aware that the term ‘religion’ is highly problematic if it refers to ancient phenomena. I use it here in the absence of a better and more precise alternative. For a broader and very helpful discussion of the problem see Barton and Boyarin (eds.), Imagine no Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities.

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of the development of Christian ‘identity’.8 To be even more precise: As soon as the historical origins and the development of a canon are decisive for the beliefs and thoughts of a group – and therefore formative aspects of its ‘identity’ – this group’s identity cannot be considered stable, since it develops in a historical process. At the same time, changes and development in the group’s identity must lead to changed perspectives on the canon. Even if this sounds self-evident from a historical or sociological point of view, it raises the question: What does this mean for the group’s relation to the ‘word of God’, which according to the group’s belief can be heard from the Scriptures of this canon? This development, however, is by no means accomplished when the canon itself is fixed. Instead – a new dramatic question arises: What does it mean to ‘translate’ a canon of textually stable Scriptures into new times and worlds? What happens with an already existing canon in the time after its development? During the last two centuries, research on the history of the canon mainly concentrated on the history of the development of the canon, while the history of an already existing canon is hardly discussed in Biblical, especially New Testament Studies. As far as I can tell, this is a broad, important, and still quite unknown field of research, which can both be connected with questions of reception history and the development of new, additional writings besides the canon. At the same time, research in this field leads us into the heart of Biblical hermeneutics. Before I start with my discussion, it may be helpful to explain how I use some of my key terms. I distinguish between the use, the authority and the function of a writing in different situations and contexts in the life of a group or community, and the writing’s canonical status. At the same time, I distinguish between the Biblical canon of the Old and New Testament and its representation as a book that is a bound Bible in the form of a codex.9 On the one hand, the number of texts that were read and used as authorities in different contexts and in different Christian communities is much larger than the number of texts 8 The term ‘identity’ – and even more ‘social identity’ or ‘group identity’ – has been discussed controversially during the last years. For the present argument it may be enough to define that I understand ‘identity’ as a dynamic concept, that is, a pattern of answers to a series of questions like: Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going? Which relations (to whom) are crucial for us? With whom do we not want to be in relation? Who is important for us because we are different from him/her/them? How do we behave in which situations and because of which reasons? 9 For a fuller argument see Nicklas, ‘Christian Apocrypha and the Development of the Christian Canon’, p. 220-240.

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which came to be canonical. One could, for example, think of the impact of extra-canonical writings about Mary in Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches,10 the role of traditions about the true face of Jesus in Russian Orthodoxy 11 or even the influence of Martin Luther’s writings for evangelical teachings on justification. Of course, not all of these authorities are on the same level, and of course, they do not even claim to be considered canonical like the New Testament. Nevertheless, they indisputably were and are used as authorities in certain contexts of the life of Christian communities. On the other hand, at least some canonical writings almost never play an important role in the lives of Christian communities – such as the Epistle of Jude and Second Peter, or Old Testament writings like Ezra-Nehemiah. At the same time, these writings are still understood as inspired – and nobody would think of taking them out of the canon.12 There are, finally, at least two reasons why the distinction between an already existing canon and its representation in the form of a book makes sense. (1) At least in antiquity and in the Middle Ages, the fact that a certain group of Christians acknowledges a certain collection of Scriptures as their canon does not mean that the members of this group have regular access to this canon, for example, in the form of a full Bible bound as a codex. (2) At the same time, canonical texts and stories are not only read and heard, but presented with the help of many different media – such as images, rituals, music, movies, etc.13 All this led and still leads to the result that at least some of these stories and passages in the text, but also figures and ideas connected to them, became part of these groups’ ‘social memories’.14 One of the most important results of the project Novum Testamentum Patristicum – a historical critical documentation of the ancient history of reception of the New Testament – has been to show that for most ancient Christians the Bible mainly existed in the form of a ‘virtual entity’. According to Andreas Merkt, ancient receptions of the New Testament show that unity and coherence of the New Testament writings 10 For a good overview see Shoemaker, Ancient Traditions of the Virgin Mary’s Dormition and Assumption and Norelli, Marie des Apocryphes. Enquête sur la mère de Jésus dans le christianisme antique. 11 See for example Nicklas, ‘History and Theology in Non-Canonical Gospels’. 12 Of course, one has to mention the debates on the theological (and canonical) quality of 2 Peter in mid-20th century German Protestantism. See, for example, Käsemann’s harsh statement in his article Eine Apologie der urchristlichen Eschatologie, p. 135-157, esp. 157. 13 Regarding this problem and the concept of ancient Christian ‘landscapes of memory’, see Nicklas, ‘New Testament Canon and Ancient Christian “Landscapes of Memory”’, and Nicklas, ‘Neutestamentlicher Kanon, christliche Apokryphen und antik-christliche “Erinnerungskulturen”’. 14 Regarding this term see, for example Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen.

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can only be described as a frame of the intertextual discourse in homilies, commentaries, letters, theological tractates or other genres wherein passages from the New Testament are used. Even though for most ancient authors the New Testament (and certainly also the whole Bible) was not (or not regularly) available in its physical form, this mental or virtual entity fulfilled the functions and unfolded the effects as if it existed as a concrete, unified and coherent entity.15 Since the following ideas on the relation of an already existing canon and its history can only offer a preliminary sketch of the field to be covered, I will formulate a series of theses, the impact of which I intend to illustrate with a few examples. Thesis 1: Semler’s idea that the canon of Biblical writings developed in a complex historical process is still valid.

While no serious scholar questions the basic assumption that the Biblical – and more specif ically, the New Testament – canon developed as product of historical processes, there are still two main models of how this happened.16 Besides the thesis, that the books of the New Testament were canonized in a complex and differentiated process, which started with the emergence of smaller collections like the four Gospels and the 15 Merkt in collab. with Nicklas and Verheyden, ‘Das Novum Testamentum Patristicum (NTP): Ein Projekt zur Erforschung von Rezeption und Auslegung des Neuen Testamentes in frühchristlicher und spätantiker Zeit‘, p. 578-579: ‘Noch schwächer als in der materiellen Konkretion biblischer Handschriften treten Umfang und Zusammenhalt des Neuen Testamentes in seiner patristischen Rezeption zutage: Hier erscheinen die Einheit und Kohärenz der neutestamentlichen Texte lediglich als Rahmen des intertextuellen Diskurses, wie er in erster Linie in Predigten und Kommentaren, aber auch in Briefen, theologischen Traktaten und anderen literarischen Genera durch die besondere Art des Rekurses auf diese Texte abgesteckt wurde. Das Neue Testament stellt im Modus seiner patristischen Rezeption also weitgehend eine mentale oder virtuelle Größe dar, eine Entität, die nicht in der physischen Form existiert, in der sie zu existieren scheint, gleichwohl aber alle Funktionen erfüllt und Wirkungen entfaltet, als gäbe es sie als konkrete, einheitliche und kohärente Größe.’ 16 See, for example the short overview by Alkier, Neues Testament, p. 20, who writes: ‘Zwei Thesen stehen sich gegenüber, die jeweils in zwei gegenläufigen Tendenzen vertreten werden: 1. Die Kanonisierung des Neuen Testaments war die Tat eines Einzelnen, nämlich a) Marcions. Der ‚orthodoxe‘ Kanon erfolgte als Reaktion darauf … b) eines unbekannten christlichen Publizisten, dessen redaktionell durchdachtes Werk des Kanon des NT mit 27 Schriften ist … 2. Die Kanonisierung des Neuen Testaments war ein anonymer geschichtlicher Prozess, der gewertet wird als a) theologisch notwendige Formulierung innerhalb der Kirche …, b) dogmatisches Zwangskonstrukt der Alten Kirche …’. My own position comes close to thesis 2a. See for example Nicklas, ‘The Development of the Christian Bible’, p. 393-426.

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Pauline Corpus, in recent years a second model – mainly defended by D. Trobisch – was developed.17 According to Trobisch, the New Testament was produced in a single act, that is, as the redaction of one book which put together all of these collections from the very beginning. Trobisch goes even so far as to date this ‘publication’ of the f irst New Testament to the second century CE. While Trobisch offers many important and fascinating observations, I am not convinced of his overall thesis.18 As far as I see, it fails not only because it systematically excludes all kinds of ancient Christian literature as possible sources and is solely based on the witness of ancient Christian manuscripts. And even these are pre-selected according to certain parameters.19 In addition, Trobisch totally neglects the fact that we lack any kind of evidence for an early collection of the Catholic Epistles.20 He also never asks the question how a second century Christian figure (or even a team of Christian redactors) could have had the possibility not just to create this book but also to make it universally known and accepted. To say it in another way: Why should early Christian communities have accepted such a book as their canonical New Testament, because it existed and was published (in only very small numbers) as such? What kind of authority and persuasive power must have been necessary to convince early Christian groups from different parts of the world to take over this collection as their canon? After all, we deal with a textual authority, which had to be connected to very different aspects of Christian life, like liturgy, education, edifying reading, theological argument etc. That’s why I think that we should understand the development of the Christian canon – and especially the New Testament canon – along the lines of the f irst thesis. This complex model is usually connected 17 Trobisch, Die Endredaktion des Neuen Testaments. Eine Untersuchung zur Entstehung der christlichen Bibel. 18 For a critical discussion of Trobisch see Nicklas, ‘Neutestamentliche Kanongeschichte als Geschichte eines Buches?‘, p. 575-595, and (even more detailed) Grünstäudl, ‘Geschätzt und bezweifelt. Der zweite Petrusbrief im kanongeschichtlichen Paradigmenstreit‘, p. 52-80. 19 This statement, of course, does not mean that the witness of manuscripts is not important for our understanding of canon history. For a very good discussion of options and possibilities see Chapa, ‘Textual Transmission of ‘Canonical’ and ‘Apocryphal’ Writings within the Development of the New Testament Canon: Limits and Possibilities’, p. 113-133. 20 I regard the development of the collection of Catholic Epistles as a still open key problem for the history of the New Testament canon. After all, the first clear witness for the use of the Epistle of James in the ancient Church is Origen. Regarding the problem of the early reception history of James see the forthcoming Regensburg doctoral dissertation by Christian Bemmerl (see also Bemmerl, ‘Die frühe Rezeption des Jakobusbriefs und die Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons’, p. 513-536.)

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with crises that are related to Christian ‘identity’.21 The Marcionite crisis raised the question of the impact of Israel’s Scriptures for Christianity, the Montanist Crisis or ‘New Prophecy’ provoked the question whether and in how far inspired Scriptures could arise even after the apostolic period. The ‘Gnostic’ crisis, f inally, created a new consciousness of the limits of what we call ‘orthodoxy’ and ‘heresy’ today. In addition, the rise of Gnostic movements confronted with the question in how far new ‘Gnostic’ gospels with their (partly ‘secret’) teachings22 related to the four Gospels which came to be canonical. At the same time we should not overlook the new challenges arising in post-Constantinian times with their partly highly aggressive disputes which only slowly led to something like a Nicaeno-Constantinopolitan ‘orthodoxy’.23 These ideas should make clear that each of the crises and challenges mentioned had to do with an increasing awareness of the limits of what can properly be called ‘Christianity’ (at least from certain perspectives). Development of the canon and development of an awareness of ‘Christian identity’ thus went hand in hand. Thesis 2: The history of the canon does not only refer to the development of the canon; instead, even the closed and more or less universally accepted canon still has a history. This can be shown by means of the changing roles and functions of canonical writings in different historical contexts.

According to a broad consensus, the canonical book of Revelation is concerned with two deeply connected crises:24 On the one hand the text reacts to an outward crisis which is usually understood as linked to the rise and impact of the Emperor Cult in late first and early second century Asia Minor. The exact extent of this crisis and the concrete dangers connected to it 21 For a broader discussion of these influences see Markschies, Kaiserzeitliche christliche Theologie und ihre Institutionen. Prolegomena zu einer Geschichte der antiken christlichen Theologie, p. 245-297. 22 On Christian writings, which consciously claim to be ‘apocryphal’, that is, ‘secret’, see Nicklas, ‘Apokryph gewordene Schriften?’ Gedanken zum Apokryphenbegriff bei großkirchlichen Autoren und in einigen ‘gnostischen’ Texten’, p. 547-566. 23 Even Emperor Constantine I’s well-known instruction to produce full Bibles for the churches of the new metropolis of Constantinople should not be underestimated. For more information on this topic see, for example, Skeat, ‘The Codex Sinaiticus, the Codex Vaticanus and Constantine’, p. 193-237, esp. p. 215-220. 24 This is only one example, one could also mention the fact that in different times and contexts, but also for different churches and/or communities different texts mark the ‘center’ of their canon.

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are debated, but it certainly led to the question: What does it mean to be a follower of Jesus Christ, the Lamb, in a non-Christian world?25 On the other hand, the struggles over this question obviously led to a second, inner crisis of the communities of Asia Minor. To what extent may followers of Christ be connected to their former ways of life in Greco-Roman cities?26 How far should they delimit themselves from others – and are they allowed to make compromises? Or does any compromise already imply that one moved over to the side of Satan and his powers? Late antique interpreters of Revelation, however, were concerned with completely different questions. One of the main problems of the early reception of Revelation consisted in the dispute on its (alleged or real) chiliasm. Authors like Papias of Hierapolis (according to Irenaeus of Lyons, Haer. 5.33.4)27 seem to have understood Rev 20:1-6 as the prophecy of a real earthly millennium, a rule of the martyrs in a kind of millennial land of milk and honey. This interpretation of Revelation was heavily criticized by authors like Eusebius of Caesarea (Hist. eccl. 3.39.13) – it was certainly a reason why many Christian authors of the East did not want to accept Revelation as a part of their New Testament canon.28 In the fourth century, however, a new line of interpretation was established. Its fundamental principle was formulated very clearly in the commentary of Beatus of Liébana (776 CE), a monk from Asturia:29 Nihil est enim quod praeter ecclesiam describat.30 Revelation thus deals with ‘nothing but the church.’ This principle probably goes back to Tyconius, a late 4th century “Donatist” author whose largely lost interpretation of Revelation is known to have 25 Very far going Witulski, Die Johannesoffenbarung und Kaiser Hadrian. Studien zur Datierung der neutestamentlichen Apokalypse. But see also the very differentiated contributions in Ebner and Esch-Wermeling (eds.), Kaiserkult, Wirtschaft und spectacula: Zum politischen und gesellschaftlichen Umfeld der Offenbarung. 26 For the role of the city in Revelation see Nicklas, ‘Anti Urban Sentiments in Early Christianity?’ 27 The question, whether Papias of Hierapolis developed his chiliastic ideas from the Revelation must, however, remain open. For a detailed discussion of this problem see Nicklas, ‘Probleme der Apokalypserezeption im 2. Jahrhundert. Eine Diskussion mit Charles E. Hill’, p. 28-45, esp. 32-36. Regarding the relevant fragment of Papias’s text see Norelli, Papia di Hierapolis. Esposizione degli Oracoli del Signore. I Frammenti, p. 174-203. Regarding Commodian’s chiliasm see now Stettner, Veränderte Endzeitvorstellungen: Die Rezeption der Offenbarung des Johannes bei dem ersten christlich-lateinischen Dichter Commodian. 28 For a short overview on chiliastic intepretations of Revelation see Kretschmar, Die Offenbarung des Johannes. Die Geschichte ihrer Auslegung im 1. Jahrtausend, p. 71-72, as well as Stettner, Veränderte Endzeitvorstellungen. For chiliastic ideas in the most ancient commentary on Revelation written by Victorinus of Pettau see Hasitschka, ‘Die Vision von der tausendjährigen Herrschaft (Offb 20,4-6) und ihre Interpretation durch Viktorin von Pettau’, p. 121-134. 29 More information regarding Beatus of Liébana in Kretschmar, Offenbarung, p. 122-127. 30 Kretschmar, Offenbarung 96, n. 226.

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influenced Augustine and many later Latin authors:31 Revelation was read as a book which prophesies the history and final triumph of the church.32 The impact of Revelation thus changed dramatically. This did not only influence the book’s role in the structure of the canon, but even the text’s posture in concrete manuscripts. While today Revelation is naturally seen as the final book of a New Testament,33 this was not always and everywhere the case. While most ancient witnesses of Revelation like P98 (= P.IFAO II.31; 2n/3rd cent.), P47 (= P. Chester Beatty 3; late 3rd cent.), P18 (= P.Oxy. VII 1079, early 4th cent.?) and P115 (= P.Oxy. LXVI 4499; early 4th cent.?) are not transmitted in connection to other New Testament writings,34 later minuscules frequently placed Revelation as the final text of a collection or the entire New Testament.35 Is it possible to connect this development to the tendency to see Revelation as a writing about the future of the Church? We cannot prove this, but I regard it as at least quite possible. Even then, we should not overlook counter-examples like the minuscules 175, 177, 205, 325, 336, 368, 517, 620 and 1424, as Michael Sommer has recently shown.36 Manuscript 368 (15th cent.), for example, places Revelation between the Gospel of John and the letters – and thus creates a kind of Corpus Johanneum; 177 (11th cent.) in turn connects the Johannine Epistles with Revelation, which is followed by Paul’s Letter to the Romans. Other manuscripts offer collections putting Revelation at the end of a New Testament, but arrange this differently from what we would expect: Sommer discusses manuscripts wherein Revelation functions as a kind of appendix to the Gospel of John,37 but also provides 31 Regarding the reception of Tyconius by later authors see Mégier, ‘Species und Genus: Was wird aus den exegetischen Kategorien des Tyconius in den Apokalypsekommentaren der lateinischen Kirche von Primasius von Hadrumetum bis Rupert von Deutz?’, p. 153-193. 32 For a detailed overview see Megiér, ‘Die Historisierung der Apokalypse oder von der globalen zur geschichtlichen Zeit der Kirche in lateinischen Apokalypsekommentaren, von Tyconius bis Rupert von Deutz’, p. 579-604. 33 See, for example the interpretation of the epilogue of Revelation by Hieke and Nicklas, „Die Worte der Prophetie dieses Buches”. Offenbarung 22,6-21 als Schlussstein der christlichen Bibel Alten und Neuen Testaments gelesen. 34 Regarding the early transmission of Revelation see Nicklas, ‘The Early Text of Revelation’, p. 225-238. 35 At the same time, Allen has pointed to a whole group of even quite late manuscripts which either put Revelation in connection with extra-canonical pieces or treat it differently from other canonical writings. See Allen, ‘The Sociology of the Book of Revelation in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages.’ 36 For the following passages, I take over material from Sommer, ‘What do Revelation’s Handwritings tell us about its post-canonical role and function in the Bible. “Work in progress”’, p. 175-197. 37 Ibid, p. 187.

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examples where it is linked with Hebrews and even Philemon. This diversity only came to an end when Bibles began to be printed. Thesis 3: The New Testament canon was more or less universally accepted and closed at about the same time during which a NicaenoConstantinopolitan ‘orthodoxy’ developed. Later historical developments, however, made new differentiations and self-definitions necessary. In many cases, this led to the development of new writings, which never officially became part of the New Testament canon or even claimed to be part of it. But even as extra-canonical writings (which today are usually labelled as ‘apocryphal’) they were regarded as authorities with important functions in different contexts of ecclesiastical life.

The fact that after the middle of the 4th century CE many churches accepted a New Testament canon consisting of four Gospels (or Tatian’s Gospel, usually labelled Diatessaron),38 Acts, a corpus of Pauline Letters plus a corpus of Catholic Epistles plus (in many cases) Revelation,39 did not mean that the Scriptures of this canon were able to give answers to all the questions and problems emerging in the communities which had accepted this canon. That’s why many regional and even local communities developed new writings, which came to be important for different aspects of the identities of these local and regional churches, but were never formally integrated in a canon. Today many of these writings are called ‘apocryphal’, or they are at least integrated in collections of Christian apocrypha. 40 The attribute ‘apocryphal’, however, could not be chosen less appropriately: these texts were never written for just small esoteric groups who read them secretly 38 Interestingly, Watson, ‘Towards a Redaction-Critical Reading of the Diatessaron’, p. 95-112, understands Tatian’s Gospel (which was only later labelled the Diatessaron) not simply as a Gospel harmony but as a gospel text on its own. 39 As is well known the first list of a New Testament canon which is exactly identical with the modern canon goes back Athanasius of Alexandria’s 39th Paschal Letter of the year 367 CE. But even this text does not yet witness a generally acknowledged canon of this form. Instead, it is a text of local or regional impact written in a situation wherein Athanasius has to defend his position against opponents. We should even take into account that Athanasius’ position in the times of ‘Arianic’ controversies was partly very weak. For more information on this witness see Markschies, Kaiserzeitliche christliche Theologie und ihre Institutionen. Prolegomena zu einer Geschichte der antiken christlichen Theologie, p. 224-228; for a German translation (plus bibliography) see Markschie, ‘Haupteinleitung’, p. 1-180, esp. p. 158-162. 40 It is now possible to give a full discussion of the term ‘apocryphal’ here. In the present context, I use it for extra-canonical writings which can be found in today’s collections of New Testament and Christian Apocrypha.

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– and most of them were never branded as ‘heretical’. One can point, for example to the 5th century Doctrine of Addai, a kind of extra-canonical Apostle narrative, which is connected to the well-known Abgar legend (which in its earliest form is transmitted by Eusebius of Caesarea, Hist. eccl. 1.13). The text tells the history of the mission of Edessa by the apostle Addai and the conversion of this city. Formulated from a 5th century perspective the Doctrine describes what it regards an appropriate ecclesiastical life. It even gives a list of the New Testament writings to be used in the church of Edessa. 41 This makes clear that the Doctrine of Addai never claimed to be part of the New Testament. Nevertheless, at least for a certain time this text attained an important status of authority – and could perhaps be considered ‘useful for the church’ (or ‘useful for the church of Edessa’). 42 This is only one out of many possible examples, like the Cretan Acts of Titus, 43 a series of writings connected with Barnabas and the church of Cyprus, 44 Alexandrian writings concentrating on Mark 45 or the Armenian translations and rewritings of the Doctrine of Addai. 46 In many cases these texts with their relations to material and ritual culture created ‘landscapes of memory’, 47 wherein the canon and its writings played a certain, but not the only, and not always the decisive role. David Eastman’s recent collection of extracanonical writings on the martyrdoms of Peter and Paul48 most of which originated only in late antiquity shows that the legends regarding these two apostles did not only change, but that they helped to develop late antique Rome into a ‘landscape of memories’ related to these apostles. Within this ‘landscape’ writings like the Martyrdoms of Peter and Paul, the Martyrdom of the Blessed Apostle Paul by Pseudo-Linus, the Passion of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul attributed to Ps.-Marcellus played an important 41 For more details see Desreumaux, ‘Das Neue Testament in der Doctrina Addai’, p. 233-248. 42 See Nicklas, ‘Neutestamentlicher Kanon, christliche Apokryphen’, p. 608-609. If I call texts ‘useful for the church’ I consciously play with F. Bovon’s concept of writings he calls ‘useful for the soul’. See Bovon, ‘Beyond the Canonical and the Apocryphal Books, the Presence of a Third Category. The Books useful for the Soul’, p. 147-160, and Bovon, ‘Canonical, Rejected and Useful Books’, p. 318-222. 43 Regarding this quite unknown text see Nicklas, ‘Die Akten des Titus. Rezeption apostolischer Schriften und Entwicklung antik-christlicher ‘Erinnerungslandschaften’, p. 458-480. 44 See also Nicklas, ‘Neutestamentlicher Kanon, christliche Apokryphen’, p. 592-594. 45 See Nicklas, ‘The Martyrdom of Mark in Late Antique Alexandria’. 46 See, for example, Calzolari, ‘Réécriture des textes apocryphes en arménien. L’exemple de la légende de l’apostolat de Thadée en Arménie’, p. 97-110. 47 My concept of ‘social memories’ is based on Halbwachs, Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire and Halbwachs, La mémoire collective. See also P. Nora, Les lieux de mémoire. 48 See Eastman, The Ancient Martyrdom Accounts of Peter and Paul.

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role. Besides their function of constructing images of a ‘remembered Peter’49 and a ‘remembered Paul’ these texts point to very concrete places and spaces like the Mamertinian Carcer (as Peter’s prison; cf. Ps.-Linus, Martyrdom of Peter § 5) and the road to Ostia (as place of Paul’s execution; cf. Ps.Marcellus Martyrdom of Peter and Paul Lat. version § 59). They remind the audience of special prayers and reflect (or produce) rituals of veneration of both apostles.50 Today most of these texts are largely forgotten; but the ‘landscapes of memories’ created by them still exist – at least in parts. Apostolic narratives like the ones mentioned, however, form only one group of texts which were produced during creative, selective and partly critical processes of rewriting of canonical Scriptures, and which at least for some time and in some contexts were used as authorities to solve problems or answer questions which could not be solved or answered by the writings of the canon. We can point to writings which came to be important for the ecclesiastical year and its celebrations like, for example, Christmas;51 texts which played a role in the development of pilgrimage52 or new apocalypses for new interpretations of time and history in changing worlds (e.g., related to the fall of the Western Roman Empire and the decline of Byzantium).53 One could also mention new otherworldly journeys, which tried to relate the new varieties of Christian life in an era after Emperor Theodosius I (379-395 CE) with new varieties of afterlife. We should not hastily conclude that these are signs of a naïve, theologically and historically dull ‘people’s piety’.54 For example, in the writings on the martyrdoms of Peter and Paul mentioned above, the material culture and the rituals connected to them played a role in the creation and defense of Rome’s ecclesiastical hegemony. In a time when Rome’s political power declined rapidly, it became increasingly important to enhance its force to connect churches. This also becomes 49 For the idea that the sources available witness a ‘remembered Peter’ see Bockmuehl, The Remembered Peter in Ancient Reception and Modern Debate and Bockmuehl, Simon Peter in Scripture and Memory: The New Testament Apostle in the Early Church. 50 Regarding the idea of late antique Rome as a ‘Petrine landscape of memories’ see Nicklas, ‘Antike Petruserzählungen und der erinnerte Petrus in Rom.’ 51 For the late antique origins of Christmas see Förster, Die Anfänge von Weihnachten und Epiphanias. Eine Anfrage an die Entstehungshypothesen. 52 See, for example, Nicklas, ‘Beyond Canon’: Christian Apocrypha and Pilgrimage’, p. 23-38. 53 For the West Roman horizon of the Apocalypse of Thomas (long version, fifth cent. CE) see Nicklas in collaboration with Geigenfeind and Stettner, ‘Die Deutung der Weltgeschichte in der Langform der Apokalypse des Thomas (Codex Palatinus: §§ 2-1)’. For a history of Byzantine Apocalyptic writings see Alexander, The Byzantine Apocalyptic Tradition. 54 The problems of this term are well-known. See, for example, Merkt, ‘“Volk”: Bemerkungen zu einem umstrittenen Begriff’, p. 17-27.

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apparent from the fact that counter-movements arose at the same time in other parts of the former Western Roman Empire. When late antique Gaul, for example, dissociated itself from Rome, it developed a parallel ‘landscape’ of regional Christian cults which was connected with the veneration of local saints and martyrs. In this context, the cult of Martin of Tours’s relics gained special importance. As the 6th century Sermo in laudem S. Martini (4)55 shows, it would turn Tours into Gaul’s most important city and even a rival of Rome.56 This development was accompanied by intense literary activities. One could mention Sulpicius Severus (363-420/25 CE) with his Vita Sancti Martini and his Chronicle, or, much later, the writings of Gregory of Tours (538-594 CE), that is, eight books of stories on the miracles of Gallic saints (Libri octo miraculorum; among them four volumes on Martin) and ten books of Historiae (usually called Historia Francorum). Even though the Historiae claim to be a history of the world from its creation, they are clearly a world history from a late antique or early Medieval Gallic perspective and end with the establishment of Gaul’s Merovingian kings.57 Of course, Gregory’s work never claimed to become part of a New Testament canon. As a piece somewhere between hagiography and historical writing,58 it seems to have nothing to do with canon history. But if we look into his introduction of the collection of Martin’s miracles a few sentences catch our eye. Gregory emphasizes that he had precursors, which were greater than him: compared to Sulpicius Severus, Paulinus of Nola or Fortunatus he calls himself an unlearned scribe, who is unable to appropriately reflect on and write about Martin’s life and the many 55 The decisive passage is offered by van Dam, Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul, p. 306, who translates: ‘I should indeed call Rome blessed, because to it have been conceded those two bright stars, namely, Peter and Paul, through whom that city was worthy to return from the darkness of unbelief to the light of truth. In a similar fashion it is obvious that Tours is blessed, because through God’s generosity it could be instructed by the teaching of such a great father and in addition distinguished by his bodily presence. Blessed are the parents who produced such an admirable son; blessed are the inhabitants of Tours to whom it was permitted to have such an accepted patron. … Fortunate therefore is Tours, which was illuminated by the teaching of such great a shepherd and which has been worthy to become the head of the entire region of Gaul through [the possession of] his cherished body.’ 56 See van Dam, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, p. 244. 57 For an introduction see Gregory of Tours. The History of the Franks, translated with an introduction by L. Thorpe, p. 7-55. 58 We should not distinguish too sharply between Christian Apocrypha and Hagiographical literature – as in many cases both labels are useful. See, for example, Nicklas, ‘Gedanken zum Verhältnis zwischen christlichen Apokryphen und hagiographischer Literatur. Das Beispiel der Veronica Traditionen’, p. 45-63.

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miracles happening at his grave.59 This is, of course, pure rhetoric: Gregory immediately uses it to put the impact of his work in its true light – and calls the fact that he, the uneducated, is able to prepare such a book, a miracle – a miracle of inspiration. He compares his work (certainly not totally without a sense of humour) to the miracle of Balaam’s speaking ass, and the apostles’ inspiration, which allowed them to write down Jesus’s life. This does not mean that Gregory regards his book as being on the same level as the writings of the New Testament, but he subtly describes it as inspired by God. Something comparable can be observed just a little later: before he starts his own account, Gregory gives an overview of earlier attempts to describe Martin’s life and his miracles. Hereby he offers a, perhaps consciously, wrong quote from a writing of Sulpicius Severus (Dial. 3.17): Because he [Sulpicius Severus] considered him [Martin] equal of the apostles and earlier saints, he even wrote this: ‘Greece was fortunate in deserving to hear the apostle [Paul] as he was preaching; but Christ did not overlook Gaul, to which he gave Martin’ (VM 1,1).60

All this means: Texts like Gregory’s writings with their stories about Martin of Tours and his ‘apostolic’ role must have had an immense impact on the development of late antique Gaul and the early medieval Frankish empire. The Frankish church and its history remain bound to biblical stories (and biblical history), but at the same time they dissociate from Rome. This can even be shown by the fact that his Historiae are transmitted in more than 50 manuscripts. Perhaps, however, the written texts’ real impact could only be understood in its relation to other media, like church buildings and their holy space, relics and the rituals, images and homilies connected with them.61 59 See the English translation provided by van Dam, Saints, p. 201: ‘I grieve because the great miracles that happened during the tenures of my predecessors have not been recorded in writing; and I am afraid because I approach this important task without any training. But because I am inspired by the hope of the Lord’s goodwill, I will follow this advice. For [the God] who satisfied people’s burning thirst by producing water from a dry rock in the desert [cf. Exod. 17:6] can, I think, publicize these events [even]through me who lacks eloquence. And it will certainly be obvious that God is again opening the mouth of the ass [cf. Num 22:28] if he opens my lips and deigns to reveal these events through me, an uneducated man. But why I am afraid of my ignorance when the Lord, our Redeemer and our God, selected fishermen instead of orators and country folk instead of philosophers to destroy the emptiness of this world’s wisdom? I have confidence in your prayers: even though my plain account cannot ornament a page, the glorious bishop will make that page shine with his sparkling miracles.’ (VM 1). 60 Ibid, p. 201. 61 For more details see van Dam, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, p. 177-300.

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Comparable developments can also be shown by means of apocalyptic writings: The increasing number of conversions in the post-Constantinian and era, and even more in the era after Theodosius I, led to dramatic changes in the image and role of the church in ancient society, which was probably one of the biggest challenges in the history of the church. The church, which had at least from time to time been persecuted, developed from the margins of society into a powerful organization, which became increasingly attractive for many who were not mainly interested in being a follower of Jesus Christ. On the one hand, we find radicals like the ascetics in the deserts of Egypt, Syria and Palestine, and on the other hand, we have figures like Synesios of Cyrene (ca. 370-after 412), who even as a (certainly not bad) bishop of Ptolemaïs understood himself more as a philosopher than a Christian interested in the defense and discussion of matters of orthodoxy.62 This created new questions: What could be said about the afterlives of the many Christians who neither led a particularly good and exemplary, nor an especially bad life? Of course, one could understand Revelation’s 144,000 symbolically and as related to the ‘new people of God’, the church. But even then, the heavenly Jerusalem described in Revelation did not mirror the quickly developing diversities of this Christianity. How was it thinkable that a holy man from the Egyptian desert would share his afterlife with the many ‘normal’ Christians of his time? How could he share the heavenly Jerusalem with them, a city, which Revelation describes as an unstructured cube wherein all its inhabitants share the same way of life face to face with God and the Lamb. As far as I can see, ancient and medieval Churches developed at least two solutions for this problem, both of which modify or change ideas of Revelation: Solution 1 is the idea of a purgatory, which allows God the opportunity of a post-mortem expiation of middle-class Christians. People who during their lives were neither good enough to reach direct salvation after their deaths, nor evil enough to be understood as damned for eternity thus had the chance to be cleansed from their sins after death and finally rescued. Although the concept of a ‘purgatory’ was fully developed only in the Middle Ages, Andreas Merkt has shown that its roots go back to antiquity: traces of it can be recognized in the vision of Dinokrates in the Acts of Perpetua, in Tertullian’s De anima and De resurrection carnis and probably even in Cyprian of Carthage (Ep. 55.20).63 Only after the fourth 62 Regarding Synesios see, for example, Watts, Hypatia: The Life and Legend of an Ancient Philosopher, p. 45-55, 66-73, 85-93. 63 For more details see Merkt, Das Fegefeuer: Entstehung und Funktion einer Idee, p. 15-51.

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century CE was this concept64 increasingly elaborated, before it was fully unfolded around the year 120065 as Jenseits der Volkskirche66 (‘the peoples’ otherworld’). This concept thus gained immense importance – even though it is never mentioned in the writings of the canon. Late antiquity, however, developed also a second, less-known solution. While all citizens of Revelation’s heavenly Jerusalem seem to have the same status, the late antique Apocalypse of Paul, which became popular in its Latin version, the Visio Pauli, develops the image of a gigantic golden city of Christ surrounded by twelve walls (ApcPl 23). This perception allows different groups of believers to be placed in different parts of the city – with different distances to its center. Even though this text is connected with 2 Cor 12:2-4, that is, Paul’s vision of the third heaven, it never claimed to become part of a New Testament. The fact, however, that it was translated into Latin (several versions!), Syriac, Armenian, Coptic and Ethiopian languages,67 shows that the impact of this writing for medieval Churches and their image of the otherworld cannot be overestimated. Today the Apocalypse of Paul may be forgotten in broader circles; images and thoughts connected to it, however, live on in iconography, literature and even homilies trying to confront their addressees with gruesome pictures of eternal punishment. In conclusion, the idea of a history of the canon does not only refer to the origins of canonical writings nor their development into a collection. Even the already existing canon still has a history. This cannot only be shown by the different and changing receptions of canonical writings in commentaries, homilies, theological tractates, rituals and prayer, iconography, music, and many other media, but also by means of the development of new writings, which partly rewrote canonical texts, supplemented and even replaced them in parts. These texts took and in parts still take over functions besides, along and/or even contrary to the canon. In many cases they try to answer questions and react to problems which cannot be solved appropriately by canonical writings. To say it in other words: The “canonical process” did not come to its end with the closure of the canon. Instead, manifold canonical processes go on until today. If we take this seriously, we have to ask the question whether and to what extent these still ongoing processes are inspired (or not). Already some years ago U.H.J. Körtner spoke about 64 Ibid, p. 65-66, assumes that even during these times Christianity was on the way to becoming attractive for many people. 65 LeGoff, La naissance de la purgatoire. 66 Merkt, Das Fegefeuer: Entstehung und Funktion einer Idee, p. 65-68. 67 For this text’s history of transmission see, shortly, Kappler and Kappler, ‘Apocalypse de Paul’, p. 777-826, esp. 779 and 781-782.

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the ‘inspiration of the reader’.68 But what does it mean that this ‘inspired reader’ produces new writings? Is it possible to understand writings like the ones mentioned above as ‘inspired’? And, if yes, in which sense and to what extent can this be? Which criteria do we have to decide this?69 And, finally, what does this mean for a church, which accepts the sola scriptura principle, and what does this mean for a church that regards the study of Scripture as the ‘soul of theology’?70 We are only at the beginning – as it is always (and should always be) in theological reasoning.

Works Cited Alexander, Paul. (1985). The Byzantine Apocalyptic Tradition. Berkeley: University of California Press. Alkier, Stefan. (2010). Neues Testament. UTB; Tübingen-Basel: Francke. Allen, Graham. (2018). ‘The Sociology of the Book of Revelation in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages’. In Proceedings of the Irish Biblical Association [Annual Conference 2018, Dublin]. Assmann, Jan. (2000). Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen. Munich: C.H. Beck. Barton, Carlin and Boyarin, Daniel (eds.). (2016). Imagine no Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities. New York: Fordham University Press. Bemmerl, Christian. (2017). ‘Die frühe Rezeption des Jakobusbriefs und die Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons.’ASE 34 (2): 513-536. Bockmuehl, Markus. (2010). The Remembered Peter in Ancient Reception and Modern Debate. WUNT I.262; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bockmuehl, Markus. (2012). Simon Peter in Scripture and Memory: The New Testament Apostle in the Early Church. Grand Rapids: Baker. Bovon, François. (2013). The Emergence of Christianity. Collected Studies III. WUNT 319, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bovon, François. (2009). New Testament and Christian Apocrypha. Grand Rapids: Baker. Calzolari, Valentina. (1997). ‘Réécriture des textes apocryphes en arménien. L’exemple de la légende de l’apostolat de Thadée en Arménie’. Apocrypha 8: 97-110. 68 See Körtner, Der inspirierte Leser. Zentrale Aspekte biblischer Hermeneutik. 69 Such criteria, in turn, are crucial because the interpretation of Scripture has always led to catastrophic, indeed life-destroying consequences. 70 On both theologically fundamental thoughts I have recently expressed in more detail: Cf. (for a Catholic perspective on a Protestant writing principle) Nicklas, ‘supernatural revelation in human words: Sola Scriptura from a Catholic perspective’ and so on. ‘The study of writing is the soul of theology. A series of theses’, p. 92-115.

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Chapa, Juan. (2016). ‘Textual Transmission of “Canonical” and “Apocryphal” Writings within the Development of the New Testament Canon: Limits and Possibilities’. Early Christianity 7: 113-133. Dam, Raymond van. (1992). Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul. Berkeley: University of California Press. Dam, Raymond van. (1993). Saints and Their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Desreumaux, Alein. (2014). ‘Das Neue Testament in der Doctrina Addai’. In Christian Apocrypha: Receptions of the New Testament in Ancient Christian Apocrypha. Jean Michel Roessli and Tobias Nicklas (eds.). NTP 26; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 233-248. Ebner, Martin and Esch-Wermeling, Elisabeth (eds.). (2011). Kaiserkult, Wirtschaft und spectacula: Zum politischen und gesellschaftlichen Umfeld der Offenbarung. NTOA 72; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Eastman, David. (2015). The Ancient Martyrdom Accounts of Peter and Paul. SBL. Writings from the Greco-Roman World 39; Atlanta: Scholars Press. Förster, Hans. (2007). Die Anfänge von Weihnachten und Epiphanias. Eine Anfrage an die Entstehungshypothesen. STAC 46; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Halbwachs, Maurice. (1925). Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire. Paris: Alcan, 1925. Halbwachs, Maurice. (1950). La mémoire collective. Paris: Presses Universitaires des France. Hasitschka, Martin. (2014). ‘Die Vision von der tausendjährigen Herrschaft (Offb 20,4-6) und ihre Interpretation durch Viktorin von Pettau’. In Tot sacramenta quot verba. Zur Kommentierung der Apokalypse des Johannes von den Anfängen bis ins 12. Jahrhundert. Konrad Huber, Rainier Klotz and Christoph Winterer (eds.). Münster: Aschendorff, 121-134. Thomas Hieke and Tobias Nicklas. (2003). ‘Die Worte der Prophetie dieses Buches’. Offenbarung 22,6-21 als Schlussstein der christlichen Bibel Alten und Neuen Testaments gelesen. BThSt 62; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener. Grünstäudl, Wolfgang. (2018). ‘Geschätzt und bezweifelt. Der zweite Petrusbrief im kanongeschichtlichen Paradigmenstreit’. In Das Neue Testament und sein Text im zweiten Jahrhundert. Jan Heilmann and Mathias Klinghardt (eds.). TANZ; Tübingen-Basel: Francke, 52-80. Kappler, Claude-Claire and Kappler, René. (1997). ‘Apocalypse de Paul’. In Écrits apocryphes chrétiens I. François Bovon and Pierre Geoltrain (eds.). Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 777-826. Käsemann, Ernst. (1960). Exegetische Versuche und Besinnungen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Körtner, Ulrich. (1994). Der inspirierte Leser. Zentrale Aspekte biblischer Hermeneutik. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht.

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Kretschmar, Georg. (1985). Die Offenbarung des Johannes. Die Geschichte ihrer Auslegung im 1. Jahrtausend. Stuttgart: Calwer. Le Goff, Jacque. (1981). La Naissance de la Purgatoire. Paris: Persée. Lehmann, Karl and Rothenbusch, Ralf (eds.). (2015). Gottes Wort im Menschenwort. Die eine Bibel als Fundament der Theologie. QD 266; Freiburg u.a.: Herder. Luz, Ulrich. (2014). Theologische Hermeneutik des Neuen Testaments. NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener. Markschies, Christoph. (2007). Kaiserzeitliche christliche Theologie und ihre Institutionen. Prolegomena zu einer Geschichte der antiken christlichen Theologie. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Markschies, Christoph. (2012). ‘Haupteinleitung’. In Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung I: Evangelien und Verwandtes. Christoph Markschies and Jens Schröter (eds.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1-180. Markschies, Christoph. (2012). ‘Epochen der Erforschung des neutestamentlichen Kanons in Deutschland’. In Kanon in Konstruktion und Dekonstruktion: Kanonisierungsprozesse religiöser Texte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. Eve Marie Becker and Stefan Scholz (eds.). Berlin Boston: de Gruyter, 578-604. Megiér, Elisabeth. (2013). ‘Die Historisierung der Apokalypse oder von der globalen zur geschichtlichen Zeit der Kirche in lateinischen Apokalypsekommentaren, von Tyconius bis Rupert von Deutz’. In Abendländische Apokalyptik: Kompendium zur Genealogie der Endzeit. Veronica Wieser et al (eds.). Kulturgeschichte der Apokalypse 1; Berlin, 579-604. Mégier, Elisabeth. (2014). ‘Species und Genus: Was wird aus den exegetischen Kategorien des Tyconius in den Apokalypsekommentaren der lateinischen Kirche von Primasius von Hadrumetum bis Rupert von Deutz?’ In Tot sacramenta quot verba. Zur Kommentierung der Apokalypse des Johannes von den Anfängen bis ins 12. Jahrhundert. Konrad Huber, Rainier Klotz and Christoph Winterer (eds.). Münster: Aschendorff, 153-193. Merkt, Andreas. (2005). Das Fegefeuer: Entstehung und Funktion einer Idee. Darmstadt: WBG. Merkt, Andreas. (2009). ‘“Volk”: Bemerkungen zu einem umstrittenen Begriff’. In Volksglaube im antiken Christentum. Heike Grieser and Andres Merkt (eds.). Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 17-27. Merkt, Andreas; Nicklas, Tobias; Verheyden, Joseph. (2015). ‘Das Novum Testamentum Patristicum (NTP): Ein Projekt zur Erforschung von Rezeption und Auslegung des Neuen Testamentes in frühchristlicher und spätantiker Zeit’. Early Christianity 6: 578-579. Nicklas, Tobias. (2008). ‘Gedanken zum Verhältnis zwischen christlichen Apokryphen und hagiographischer Literatur. Das Beispiel der Veronica Traditionen’. NedThT 62: 45-63.

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Nicklas, Tobias. (2011). ‘Probleme der Apokalypserezeption im 2. Jahrhundert. Eine Diskussion mit Charles E. Hill’. In Ancient Christian Interpretations of ‘Violent Texts’ in the Apocalypse. Joseph Verheyden, Tobias Nicklas and Andreas Merkt (eds.). NTOA 92; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 28-45. Nicklas, Tobias. (2011). ‘Apokryph gewordene Schriften?’ Gedanken zum Apokryphenbegriff bei großkirchlichen Autoren und in einigen ‘gnostischen’ Texten’. In In Search of Truth: Augustine, Manichaeism and other Gnosticism. Studies for Johannes van Oort at Sixty. Jacob van den Berg, Annemare Kotzé, Tobias Nicklas and Madeleine Scopello (eds.). NHMS 74; Leiden-Boston: Brill, 547-566. Nicklas, Tobias. (2012). ‘The Early Text of Revelation’. In The Early Text of the New Testament. Charles Hill and Michael Kruger (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 225-238. Nicklas, Tobias. (2012). ‘The Development of the Christian Bible’. In What is Bible?. Karin Finsterbusch and Armin Lange (eds.). Leuven-Paris-Walpole, Mass.: Peeters, 2012, 393-426. Nicklas, Tobias. (2014). ‘Christian Apocrypha and the Development of the Christian Canon’. Early Christianity 5: 220-240. Nicklas, Tobias. (2015). ‘Das Studium der Schrift ist die Seele der Theologie. Eine Thesenreihe’. In Die Rolle der Theologie in der Kirche. Die Debatte über das Dokument der Theologenkommission. Thomas Söding (ed.). QD 268; Freiburg u.a.: Herder, 92-115. Nicklas, Tobias. (2016). ‘Neutestamentlicher Kanon, Christliche Apokryphen und Antik Christliche “Erinnerungskulturen”’. New Testament Studies 62 (4): 608-609. Nicklas, Tobias. (2016). ‘Neutestamentliche Kanongeschichte als Geschichte eines Buches?‘ In In Mari Via Tua. Philological Studies in Honour of A. Piñero. Israel Gallarte and Jesus Peláez (eds.). Estudios de Filología Neotestamentaria 11; Cordoba: El Almendro, 575-595. Nicklas, Tobias. (2017). ‘Die Akten des Titus. Rezeption apostolischer Schriften und Entwicklung antik-christlicher ‘Erinnerungslandschaften’. Early Christianity 8: 458-480. Nicklas, Tobias. (2017). ‘“Beyond Canon”: Christian Apocrypha and Pilgrimage’. In The Other Side: Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian “Orthodoxies”. Tobias Nicklas, Candida Moss, Christopher Tuckett and Jospeh Verheyden (eds.). NTOA 117; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 23-38. Nicklas, Tobias. (2018). ‘Überzeitliche Offenbarung in menschlichen Worten: Sola Scriptura aus katholischer Perspektive’. In: Sola Scriptura. Stefan Alkier (ed.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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Nicklas, Tobias; Mathias Geigenfeind and Johannes Stettner. (2018). ‘Die Deutung der Weltgeschichte in der Langform der Apokalypse des Thomas (Codex Palatinus: §§ 2-1)’. EThL 94. [Forthcoming]. Nicklas, Tobias. (2018). ‘The Martyrdom of Mark in Late Antique Alexandria’. In Alexandria – Hub of the Hellenistic World. Jörg Frey, Thomas Kraus and Benjamin Schliesser (eds.). WUNT; Tübingen: Morh Siebeck. [Forthcoming]. Nicklas, Tobias. (2018). ‘History and Theology in Non-Canonical Gospels’. In History and Theology in the Gospels. Tobias Nicklas, Karl Niebuhr and Michael Seleznev (eds.). WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. [Forthcoming]. Nicklas, Tobias. (2018). ‘Anti Urban Sentiments in Early Christianity?’ In Early Christian Encounters with Town and Countryside. Markus Tiwald and Jürgen Zangenberg (eds.). NTOA; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. [Forthcoming]. Nicklas, Tobias. (2018). ‘Antike Petruserzählungen und der erinnerte Petrus in Rome’. In Petrustraditionen in Rom. Jörg Frey and Martin Wallraff (eds.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. [Forthcoming]. Nora, Pierre. (1984-1992) Les lieux de mémoire. 3 vols. Paris: Gallimard. Norelli, Enrico. (2005). Papia di Hierapolis. Esposizione degli Oracoli del Signore. I Frammenti. Milano: Paoline. Norelli, Enrico. (2009). Marie des Apocryphes. Enquête sur la mère de Jésus dans le christianisme antique. Geneva: Labor et Fides. Shoemaker, Stephen. (2002). Ancient Traditions of the Virgin Mary’s Dormition and Assumption. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Semler, Johan. (1967). Abhandlung von freier Untersuchung des Canon. TKTG 5; repr. Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn. Skeat, Theodore. (2004). ‘The Codex Sinaiticus, the Codex Vaticanus and Constantine’. In The Collected Biblical Writings of T.C. Skeat. Keith Elliott (ed.). NovT.S 113; Leiden-Boston: Brill: 193-237. Stettner, Johannes. (2017). Veränderte Endzeitvorstellungen: Die Rezeption der Offenbarung des Johannes bei dem ersten christlich-lateinischen Dichter Commodian. Diss. Regensburg. [Forthcoming in WUNT II]. Sommer, Michael. (2016). ‘What do Revelation’s Handwritings tell us about its post canonical Role and Function in the Bible’. In Book of Seven Seals. The Particularity of Revelation, its Manuscripts, Attestation and Transmission. Thomas Kraus and Michael Sommer (eds.). WUNT 363; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 175-197. Thorpe, Lewis (trans.). (1974). Gregory of Tours. The History of the Franks. London: Penguin. Trobisch, David. (1996). Die Endredaktion des Neuen Testaments. Eine Untersuchung zur Entstehung der christlichen Bibel. NTOA 31; Freiburg, CH-Göttingen: Universitätsverlag-Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht.

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Watts, Edward. (2017). Hypatia: The Life and Legend of an Ancient Philosopher. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Francis Watson. (2016). ‘Towards a Redaction-Critical Reading of the Diatessaron’. Early Christianity 7: 95-112. Witulski, Thomas. (2007). Die Johannesoffenbarung und Kaiser Hadrian. Studien zur Datierung der neutestamentlichen Apokalypse. FRLANT 221; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht.

About the Author Prof. Tobias Nicklas is Professor of New Testament and Director of the Centre for Advanced Studies “Beyond Canon” at the University of Regensburg. He is Research Associate at the University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, and Adjunct Ordinary Professor at the Catholic University of America, Washington. D.C. His research focusses on Christian Apocrypha, Canon History, Jewish-Christian relations and the reception history of the New Testament. Among his most recent books are Jews and Christians. Second Century ‘Christian’ Perspectives on the Parting of the Ways (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014) and Der zweite Thessalonicherbrief (KEK 10/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2019).

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The Changing Worlds of the Ten Rabbinic Martyrs Yair Furstenberg

Abstract Yair Furstenberg discusses the changing nature of canonisation of a cluster of martyrdom traditions about the ten rabbinic sages, who were executed by the Romans in the First or Second century CE. The canonical texts were transmitted as isolated stories in several rabbinic writings, which were only combined to a grand narrative in Late Antiquity or the early Medieval period. One indication of the major re-interpretation of martyrdom in this period is the fact that instead of idolatry or the transgression of a Roman decree or another reason that was obvious from a Roman perspective, the ten Rabbis were executed because the emperor found out that the Jews were never punished for the ancestral sin of selling Joseph to the Ishmaelite merchants (Gen. 37:23-37). This implies that their death was intended by God, which was confirmed by the heavenly journey of one of these Rabbis, Rabbi Ishmael, to inquire about their case. Furstenberg argues that the evolution of the Story of the Ten Martyrs from its Talmudic foundations in interaction with Christianity betrays a fundamental shift in Jewish martyrological discourse that reveals the strategy for confronting the religious claims of political power through the act of martyrdom. Keywords: classical rabbinic period, Late Antiquity, Merkabah mysticism, theodicy and Talmud, changing nature of canonisation

Sometime between Late Antiquity and the early middle ages a story of the cruel executions of ten of the most prominent Jewish sages of the classical rabbinic period (first and second centuries CE) by the Roman emperor was formulated and was disseminated in various forms in homiletical, mystical

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch02

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and liturgical texts.1 This story drew on some earlier Talmudic traditions concerning eminent rabbis who died at the hands of Rome, but it integrated them into a completely novel literary framework that roughly runs as follows. Having studied the laws of the Torah, the Roman emperor decided to punish the Jews for the ancestral sin of selling Joseph to the Ishmaelite merchants who brought him to Egypt (Gen. 37:23-37). Despite their grave offence, Joseph’s brothers were never punished for transgressing the prohibition (Ex. 21:16): ‘Whoever kidnaps a person, whether that person has been sold or is still held in possession, shall be put to death.’ Therefore, the Emperor demanded in exchange to execute the most distinguished of the Jewish people, the ten most prominent rabbis of that period. In order to ensure that this heavy punishment was indeed in accordance with the divine decree, the rabbis sent the holy High Priest Rabbi Ishmael up to the heavens to inquire about the case. After an authorized angel identified R. Ishmael’s divine countenance, he verified the decree. Subsequently, the rabbis accepted the sentence upon themselves and the story turns to recount in detail their awful executions. According to one version, the first was beheaded, the second skinned, the flesh of the third, the most renowned R. Akiva, was flayed with iron combs and the fourth was burnt alive with a Torah Scroll, and so on until all ten were killed.2 The initial scholarly attempt to identify the historical kernel of this fantastic legend3 was soon replaced by a more reasonable task of tracing the development of discrete motifs and traditions of rabbinic provenance into a full-fledged narrative. Yet, beyond specific traceable elements, the radical transformation from the rabbinic sources to the post-rabbinic material has long puzzled scholars, who sought to discern the historical, literary and ideological background for the retelling of rabbinic martyrdom. The differences between the two phases are considerable, but it is debated whether these differences amount to distinct conceptions of martyrdom or merely reflect the accumulation of dispersed traditions that found their way into 1 For a collection of these texts see Valner, ‘Aseret Haruge Malkhut ba Midrash u-va-Piyyut. 2 An English translation of the most known version of the Story, ‘Midrash Elle Ezkerah’ (‘These I will Remember’), appears in: Stern and Mirsky (eds.), Rabbinic Fantasies: Imaginative Narratives from Classical Hebrew Literature, p. 143-165. Notably, the versions differ with respect to list of ten martyrs. The unique version of Heikhalot Rabbati mentions only four sages, and it was for this reason that Joseph Dan attributed relative priority to this version (see below). 3 See for example Finkelstein, ‘The Ten Martyrs’, in Essays and Studies in Memory of Linda R. Miller, p. 29-55; Krauss, ‘The Ten Martyrs’, p. 239-277. An alternative literary approach alongside a critique of the preceding historicist interpretation was introduced by Zeitlin, ‘The Legend of the Ten Martyrs’.

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the newly evolved narrative. The most discernible change is the unification of the dispersed stories into one grand narrative. Talmudic sources relate to each of the martyrdoms in isolation, lacking any overarching narrative or justification. In each separate case, the rabbis express their confidence in divine justice and acknowledge their own personal faults. In contrast, the later Story of Ten Martyrs conflates events from disparate periods into an ahistorical story of martyrdom, intended to collectively atone for the ancestral sins of the Israelites. As noted by Zeitlin,4 the unrelenting burden of Joseph’s brothers’ sin troubled Jews in antiquity. Already according to the Book of Jubilees (second century BCE), the Day of Atonement was ordained for the people of Israel to grieve their ancestral sin of selling Joseph and to atone for it.5 The motif then of ancestral sin was ancient; but beyond offering a unified framework for the new narrative did it in fact serve to create a new image of martyrdom? Scholarship suggests two opposing approaches to this question. One approach views the Story of the Ten Martyrs as an appropriation of the rabbinic traditions by a competing apocalyptic agenda. All later versions that relate to the collective sin of selling Joseph include a key element of R. Ishmael’s mystical ascension to the heavens in search of esoteric knowledge. Therefore, Joseph Dan has suggested that the Story was initially created in the circles of the ‘Markabah (‘heavenly chariot’) Mystics’.6 He has further conjectured that the earliest version of the Story is that which appears in the mystical treatise Heikhalot Rabbati that includes lengthy visions of the heavenly chambers and the angelic activity therein. According to Dan, only mystics who possessed a profound apocalyptical sensibility could fabricate such a story, and bring together sages of different generations (in a manner uncharacteristic of the restrained rabbinic literature). This group held to a meta-historical outlook that reflected the inner meaning of history pressing towards its apocalyptic-eschatological culmination.7 Within this worldview, the sacrifice of the sages was to bring about the eminent destruction of the evil kingdom of Rome. Thus according to Dan, the Story of the Ten Martyrs is rooted in the world of Merkabah mysticism 4 Zeitlin, ‘The Legend of the Ten Martyrs’, p. 5. 5 Book of Jubilees 34:10-20. 6 Dan, ‘The Story of the Ten Martyrs: Its Origins and Development’, p. 15-22; Dan, ‘Heikhalot Rabbati and the Story of the Ten Martyrs’, p. 63-80; Dan, ‘The Narrative of the Ten Martyrs: Martyrology and Mysticism’, p. 744-776. Dan is following in the footsteps of Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism, p. 360, n. 39. 7 See also Herr, ‘Ten Martyrs, The’, Encyclopedia Judaica, p. 15: 1006-8. This is a different version of Zeitlin’s (see note 4) separation between rabbinic and apocalyptic Judaism.

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of Late Antiquity, and it offers a unique view into the actual historical concerns of these groups, beyond their personal mystical experiences. Later on, the story was disseminated in a diluted form unto other groups and literary corpora. The comprehensive work of Gottfried Reeg on the textual evidence and recensions of the Story invited alternative descriptions of the literary history of the post-Talmudic construct, resulting in a different assessment of the relationship between the earlier traditions and the emerging narrative.8 Following in these footsteps the detailed study of Ra‘anan Boustan on the relationship between rabbinic martyrology and Merkabah mysticism suggests a gradual evolution of the narrative. At first, the rabbinic material was combined with additional early non-rabbinic traditions into a story of collective atonement. Only later, according to Boustan, in its third phase the narrative was radically transformed in the mystical text of Hekhalot Rabbati.9 Boustan traces the threefold development of the narrative through the changing role of the two main characters, R. Ishmael and R. Simon, to whom the deaths of the other rabbis were later appended. In its original rabbinic form, the story of the unidentified Ishmael and Simon focused on their anxiety concerning the true reason behind their execution: At the time when R. Simon and R. Ishmael were led out to be killed, R. Simon said to R. Ishmael: Master, my heart fails me, for I do not know why I am to be killed. R. Ishmael said to him: did it never happen in your life that a man came to you for judgement or with a question and you let him wait until you had sipped your cup, or had tied your sandals, or had put on your cloak? And the Torah says: If you afflict in any way [the orphan and widow, I will hear their cry (Ex. 22:22), whether it be a severe affliction of a light affliction. Whereupon R. Simon said: You have comforted me, master.10

Since both names, Simon and Ishmael, conspicuously derive from the same Hebrew root, to hear (šm‘), their story may be a form of narrated exposition of this verse, in which God promises to hear the cry of the afflicted. However, post-talmudic sources elevate the status of the martyrs and these two figures were identified as the patriarch R. Simon ben Gamaliel and 8 Reeg, Geschichte von den zehn Märtyren: Synoptische Edition mit Übersetzung und Einleitung. 9 Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism. 10 Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael, Tractate Neziqin 18, p. 454.

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the High Priest R. Ishmael ben Elisha,11 who was to become the true hero of the Story. According to Boustan, under apparent Christian influence in Byzantine Palestine, and through the combination of rabbinic and priestly motifs, R. Ishmael further gained divine attributions; he assumed a godlike countenance due to his miraculous angelic conception, and his death ensured the ultimate salvation of the people of Israel.12 The final and third stage of the literary development took place in the Heikhalot Rabbati. This mystical text inverted the post-Talmudic martyrology by miraculously sparing the lives of the ten rabbinic ‘martyrs’ and in their stead executing (and resurrecting) the Emperor ten times, as he recurrently reappears in their image. According to Boustan, by subverting the martyrological narrative, Heikhalot Rabbati sought to undermine the sacrificial theology by substituting it with mystical praxis.13 This version further eliminates the unique status of R. Ishmael by ascribing the special powers to the mystical group of descenders to the Chariot. From a different direction, Boustan has identif ied another group of medieval texts objecting the uniqueness of the ten rabbinic martyrs. While acknowledging that Jews were continuing to suffer for the sin of selling Joseph, medieval sources returned to the more restricted rabbinic position of personal responsibility and challenged the conception of vicarious atonement underlying the Story of the Ten Martyrs.14 Thus for example the Midrash on Proverbs (ch. 1) protests the enduring suffering of the Jews: ‘R. Joshua b. Levi said: The ten martyrs were seized [and slain] just for the sin of selling Joseph. R. Abun said: you must conclude that ten [are martyred] in each and every generation and still this sin remains unexpiated.’15 Admittedly, the literary and historical relationship between the sources is frustratingly complicated, and any attempt to offer a fixed account of the development either of specific motifs or of the ideological transformation is 11 Avot according to Rabbi Nathan, version a, ch. 38//version b, ch. 41. See also Tractate “Mourning” ch. 8, p. 59-60. In these versions the two are already identified as leaders of Israel, High Priest and Patriarch active during the Temple period. Besides identifying these two figures, the narrative in Avot according to R. Nathan shifts their blame from unnoticeably afflicting oppression to feeling of haughtiness and it describes their form of execution. For further discussion on the transformations of this tradition see Lieberman, ‘The Martyrs of Caesarea’, p. 395-446; p. 443-444; Kister, ‘Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions’, p. 179-224; p. 213-219. 12 Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism, p. 99-148. 13 Ibid, p. 192-244. 14 Boustan, ‘The Contested Reception of The Story of the Ten Martyrs in Medieval Midrash’, p. 369-393. 15 Visotzky, The Midrash on Proverbs, p. 24.

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replete with uncertainty. This is true of all rabbinic traditions transmitted into byzantine and medieval compilations embedding renewed material, but it is particularly the case with respect to the evolution of the martyrdom narratives within a Christian context. Here we come to the heart of the matter: What was the role of the Christian environment in creating the unified narrative and bringing to the surface previously silenced elements? Seemingly, there would not be much room for exchange with Christian notions of martyrdom within the closed circles of mystics, where Dan locates the creation of the Story of the Ten Martyrs. Indeed, his historical reconstruction sets a clear barrier between Christian conception of martyrdom, on the one hand, and both rabbinic and mystic martyrology, on the other. If there are similar hagiographic elements, they belong to later developments of the narrative, outside its original provenance.16 Others however have pointed out particular Christian elements in the Story. Shepkaru suggests that the formation of the Story was inspired by the martyrology of the ‘Ten Saints’ (Hagioi Deka) of Crete beheaded during the persecutions of Decius for resisting sacrificing to Jupiter. Their act delivered the people of Crete from heresy ever since, as the council of Crete informed Emperor Leo I in 458.17 Shepkaru further suggests that the story counters the Christian accusations by ascribing the wretched state of the Jews to the selling of Joseph, rather than to the ancestral sin of selling Jesus.18 Boustan fleshes out the array of responses to prevailing Christian discourse through the renewed image of R. Ishmael in the Story. At this stage, Ishmael is modeled in the image of Jesus, including a miraculous birth and a divine countenance. Like Jesus, he is both the high priest and the sacrificial offering who provides collective redemption through atoning self-sacrifice.19 Furthermore, Boustan identifies a transition from rabbinic ridicule of Christianity to competition with it over the salvation history, and a re-appropriation of Second Temple apocalyptic traditions that were transmitted through Christian channels.20 Significant as these specific motifs may be, they do not reveal the full impact of the Christian context on 16 Dan, History of Jewish Mysticism and Esotericism: Ancient Times, vol. 2, p. 773. 17 Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs in the Pagan and Christian Worlds, p. 112-113. For the details of this tradition see: Thurston and Attwater (eds.), Butler’s Lives of the Saints: Complete Edition, p. 599. The acta of these martyrs appears in PG 116:565-573 (Metaphrastes); Kerameus, Analekta Hierosolymitikes Stachyologias, p. 224-237. 18 Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs in the Pagan and Christian Worlds, p. 116. 19 Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism, p. 101. 20 Ibid, p. 130-133; 197.

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the creation of the new narrative. In what follows, I argue that the evolution of the Story of the Ten Martyrs from its Talmudic foundations betrays a fundamental shift in Jewish martyrological discourse. The transition from the original Roman pagan context of the events to a Christian space goes beyond the particular accusations or the collective meaning of the act of martyrdom, but it relates to the very nature of the religious threat posed by the governing power. The development of the Story reveals the changing strategies for confronting the religious claims of the political power through the act of martyrdom.

Martyrdom without Persecution A major feature of early rabbinic martyrdom stories is the surprising absence of Rome and the lack of any form of confrontation with Roman authorities.21 While rabbinic sources do not conceal the role of Rome in Jewish suffering, and its officials are present at times in these short narratives, they only set the backdrop for the real theological drama. In the case of R. Ishmael and R. Simon quoted above, the sage is grieving his ignorance concerning the reason for his execution. As the dialogue soon reveals, he is not worried about the legal reasoning for his indictment and punishment, but rather about the nature of his fault according to the divine judgment.22 Unable to find any substantial charge that would justify his death penalty, R. Simon finds comfort in the possibility that he is being punished for a minor offence, such as delaying his response to those who came to him for judgment or a ruling. Notably then the rabbis’ concern with theodicy in face of their impending death resulted in the elimination of the actual political forces and legal circumstances determined by Roman presence. We do not know if these two rabbis were sentenced by a Roman court, executed arbitrarily by some Roman official or were killed in the misfortunes of the Bar Kokhba revolt, but 21 A useful anthology of rabbinic martyrdom materials appears in Van Henten and Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity, p. 132-176. 22 This position is somewhat weakened in the later versions of their judgment in Avot according to R. Nathan and Tractate Mourning, there we read: ‘When Rabban Simon and Rabbi Ishmael were seized and sentenced to be executed R. Ishmael wept. ‘Son of our Master’ said Rabban Simon to him ‘you are but two steps away from the bosom of the righteous and you weep?’ ‘it is because we are about to be killed that I weep?’ he replied ‘I weep because we are being executed like murderers and Sabbath breaker.’ Beyond the nature of the divine judgment, the rabbi here is concerned lest he is punished like a criminal (see also n. 25 below concerning R. Akiva).

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the narrator seems to find this question insignificant or even obstructive. After all, from the rabbis’ own perspective, as narrated by the Makhilta, Rome is only the vehicle for executing God’s true judgement. Other rabbinic stories of martyrdom include some form of interaction with the Roman officials, but here too they only serve as an audience for the rabbi’s own theological statement, and not as active agents in determining his fate or as addressees of his testimony. Such is the case of R. Akiva, the most famous of rabbinic martyrs, whose laughter during his trial irritated the governor: Rabbi Akiva was being tried before the wicked Tineius Rufus. The time came for the reciting of the Shema; he began to read and laugh. He [Tineius Rufus] said to him: Old man! Old man! Either you are a sorcerer or you scorn sufferings! He [Rabbi Akiva] said to him: May you perish! I am neither a sorcerer nor do I scorn sufferings. Rather, all my life I have recited this verse: ‘And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might’ (Deut 6:5) – I have loved Him with all my heart; I have loved him with all my money; but ‘with all my soul’ I have not been tested. And now that ‘all my soul’ has arrived [for me], and the time for the reciting of the Shema has come and I did not desist from it – for this reason do I read and laugh.23

R. Akiva was delighted to finally have the opportunity to bring into full realization his love of God in all his soul, but at the same time, his statement does not denote a direct opposition between his love of God and Rome. The rabbinic stories of martyrdom consistently avoid presenting the rabbis as confronting Roman authorities, and their death is not a result of an explicit choice between conflicting loyalties. Furthermore, in stark contrast to contemporary Christian narratives, early rabbinic sources never relate to the nature of Roman charges against Jews, if there were any, and the execution does not involve a statement of loyalty to the true God against the obedience to the Roman authorities. Therefore, these sources never 23 Palestinian Talmud, Berachot 9:5 (114b), Sota 5:7 (20c). For a detailed account of the development of the narrative of R. Akiva’s martyrdom, see Mandel, ‘Was R. Akiva a Martyr? Palestinian and Babylonian Influences on the Development of a Legend’, in Rabbinic Traditions between Palestine and Babylonia, p. 335-385. As Mandel points out the original version in the Palestinian Talmud does not imply that R. Akiva was executed, and it was added only in the later Babylonian version. He therefore concludes that this is not a story of martyrdom but rather a ‘political drama’. Despite his compelling analysis, I find it hard to characterize this story as a political drama, considering the lack of any substantial exchange with Roman authorities.

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disclose the actual circumstances of trial and execution, and the death itself is scarcely mentioned, while focusing on the rabbi’s reaction to his fate destined by God. In the case of R. Akiva, for example, only later Talmudic sources suggest that the Romans charged him for illegally teaching Torah.24 We do not know whether the Roman officials were careful to maintain an adequate legal procedure, but this was beyond the interest of the rabbinic narrator, who viewed Rome only as supplying the stage for the real occurrence between the sage and his God. The complete disregard for Roman procedure and jurisdiction in the early rabbinic renderings of martyrdom challenges previous scholarly attempts to uncover from rabbinic sources the specific legal foundations of Roman decrees against Torah observance.25 In fact, although contemporary rabbinic sources allude to the general danger during the period of the Bar Kokhba revolt, they do not offer an account of the specific prohibitions set by Roman authorities. I would therefore argue that beside a possible lack of interest in the details of Roman policy,26 the rabbis were also anxious to isolate the meaning of martyrdom from its political matrix and to transfer it onto a parallel sphere of relationship with the divine. This theological position sheds light on the interpretation of one major source on rabbinic martyrdom that is usually understood as indicating the details of Roman decrees against Jewish practice. In fact, however, I would argue that this source reflects the way Jews explained their experience to themselves through an alternative theological framework: R. Nathan says: Of them that love me and keep my commandments (Ex. 20:6) – This refers to those who dwell in the land of Israel and risk their 24 As has been persuasively demonstrated by Kalmin, ‘Rabbinic Traditions about Roman Persecutions of the Jews: A Reconsideration’, p. 21-50. A different explanation for R. Akiva’s death appears in Tractate Mourning ch. 8 (p. 60): ‘R. Akiva has been executed not because he was suspected of robbery or because he did not put all his strength into the study of Torah, He has been executed only as a sign’, i.e., to mark the coming disasters. . 25 See Lieberman, ‘Martyrs of Caesarea’; idem, ‘Persecution of Jewish Religion’, p. 213-245; Herr, ‘Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days’, p. 94-102; Isaac and Oppenheimer, ‘The Revolt of Bar Kokhba, Ideology and Modern Scholarship’, p. 33-60 (59-60). A detailed refutation of this position appears in Schäfer, Der Bar Kokhba Aufstand: Studien zum zweiten jüdischen Krieg gegen Rom, p. 195-236. See also Kalmin, ‘Rabbinic Traditions’, p. 47-48 26 Roman Penal system is alluded to already in the Mishnah (Sanhedrin 7:3; Avodah Zara 1:7), on which see Berkowitz, Execution and Invention: Death Penalty Discourse in Early Rabbinic and Christian Cultures, p. 153-179. A foundational work on this topic is Lieberman, ‘Roman Legal Institutions in Early Rabbinics and in the Acta Martyrum’, p. 1-57. At the same time, the overwhelming tendency in early rabbinic sources is that of ignoring Roman presence, for which see more below.

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lives for the sake of the commandments: ‘Why are you being led out to be decapitated?’ ‘Because I circumcised my son to be an Israelite’. ‘Why are you being led out to be burnt?’ ‘Because I read the Torah’. ‘Why are you being led out to be crucified?’ ‘Because I ate unleavened bread’. ‘Why are you getting a hundred lashes?’ ‘Because I performed the ceremony of the lulav’.27

Presumably, R. Nathan lists the punishments set by Rome for each offence, but the result is admittedly quite awkward. Despite the obvious danger that Jews felt during that period, it is hard to imagine that actions such as eating unleavened bread or shaking the lulav would be considered as offences justifying particular punishments.28 Note that the homily puts the judgment in the mouth of the Jews, as an expression of their love for God, and not as an actual Roman decree. It therefore seems that as in the stories of the rabbis above, the people being led out to be executed in this homily were trying to make sense of their fate, through the language of love for God. Therefore, whereas the Roman off icials would not be particularly concerned with def ining the offences and justifying their aggression towards the Jews, it was crucial for the Jewish victims to frame their unfortunate fate through the discourse of dying for the sake of the law, thereby matching their sacrif ice to the commandment they have observed. Early rabbinic sources mention the particular charges set against a rabbi only in one instance, but this exception only proves the rule. In the unique case of R. Eliezer ben Hyrcanus he was not charged for observing the Torah, but rather for being a Christian: There was a case with Rabbi Eliezer, who was arrested on account of heresy (= Christianity), and they brought him up to the tribunal for judgment. The governor said to him: Should an elder of your standing occupy himself in these matters?! He said to him: I consider the Judge as trustworthy. That judge supposed that he referred to him, but he referred only to his Father in heaven. He said to him: Since you have deemed me reliable for yourself, I too have said [to myself]: Is it possible that these 27 Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael, tractate Bahodesh 6, p. 324-325. A later version of this dialogue that alludes to the four rabbinic forms of execution appears in Leviticus Rabba, ch. 32. See Lieberman, ‘Persecution of Jewish Religion’, p. 216-217. 28 The literary and unhistorical nature of this list was pointed out by Tropper, Like Clay in the Hands of the Potter, p. 150 n. 101.

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gray hairs should err in such matters?! [Surely not!] Dimissus, lo you are released.29

In the following scene, R. Eliezer admits in the presence of his colleagues to have associated with followers of Jesus, thus justifying the punishment God inflicted upon him through the agency of the Roman authorities. Evidently, this story shares with previous sources the rabbis’ concern for theodicy. Therefore, as R. Eliezer stands in front of the Roman judge, he actually accepts upon himself the judgment of the real judge. Luckily, the Roman judge misunderstood his statement, and thought it was referring to himself. At the same time, this is a unique story since only in this case the rabbi is explicitly negotiating Roman power, and not disregarding it, as in all other rabbinic stories. As in Christian martyrologies, R. Eliezer’s life depends on his exchange with the Roman official, and he is saved once he gives the Roman judge the impression that he is accepting his authority.30 In this sense, the story of R. Eliezer’s accusation counters Christian martyrologies. While Christian martyrs resist Roman power by publicly confronting it with their commitment to the real God, R. Eliezer finds a way to evade confrontation, although he too was accused of being a Christian. Despite its unique setting, this story follows the familiar rabbinic policy of separating the threat of martyrdom from the political power conflict. The martyrdom of R. Hanina ben Teradion is again a story of theodicy that disregards the reality of Roman persecution. The earliest version of this story, in the Sifre on Deuteronomy, does indeed display the cruelty of the Roman governor, but this only comes to highlight the righteousness of those who wholeheartedly accept God’s judgment, including the sage, his family and even an accidental bystander, thereby ensuring them all a place in the after-world: When they arrested R. Hanina ben Teradion, a decree was imposed upon him to be burnt together with his scroll. They said to him: A decree has 29 Tosefta, Hullin 2:24. On this much discussed story (including the following scene describing R. Eliezer’s encounter with Christians) see Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Judaism and Christianity, p. 26-41; Schremer, Brothers Estranged: Heresy, Christianity and Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity, p. 87-99; Schwartz and Tomson, ‘When R. Eliezer Was Arrested for Heresy’, p. 145-181; Furstenberg, ‘The Midrash of Jesus and the Bavli’s Counter-Gospel’, p. 303-324. 30 Compare the interpretations of Boyarin, Dying for God, 28 and Schremer, Brothers Estranged, 91-92. Boyarin claims that R. Eliezer was not willing to deny the accusation of being a Christian, since he was in fact sympathetic to Christ followers. However, the rabbinic tendency to exchange Roman judgment by divine judgment seems to substantiate Schremer’s interpretation of this scene, which I follow.

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been imposed upon you to be burnt together with your scroll. He recited the verse: The Rock, His work is perfect (Deut. 32:4). They said to his wife: A decree has been imposed upon your husband to be burnt, and on you to be slain. She recited the verse: A God of faithfulness and without deceit (idem). They said to his daughter: A decree has been imposed upon your father to be burnt, and on your mother to be slain, and on you to do work. She recited the verse: Great in counsel and mighty in deed, Your eyes are watching (over all the ways of the children of men, giving to each according to his ways and according to the fruit of his deed) (Jer. 32:19). Rabbi said: How great were these righteous ones! For in the hour of their distress they thought of three verses of justification of the judgement, which have no equal in all the Scriptures. The three of them straightened their heart and declared their judgement to be just. A philosopher stood up before his government. He said to him: My lord, your mind should not boast that you have burnt the Torah. For it has returned to the place from which it came, to the house of its Father. He said to him: Tomorrow your sentence (will be) the same as theirs! He said to him: You have brought me good tidings, for tomorrow my portion will be with them in the world to come.31

Other sources on the martyrdom of R. Hanina ben Teradion appear in the Babylonian Talmud,32 which presents us with a complex composition that combines earlier and later materials. It opens with an early tannaitic unit that adequately captures the basic rabbinic stance described above: Our rabbis taught: When R. Eleazar ben Perata and R. Hanina ben Teradion were arrested, R. Eleazar ben Perata said to R. Hanina ben Teradion: Happy are you, for you were arrested on one charge; woe is me, for I was arrested on five charges. R. Hanina said to him: Happy are you, for you were arrested on five charges and you will be rescued; woe is me, for I was arrested on one charge and I will not be rescued. For you have occupied yourself with the Torah and with works of loving kindness, and I have occupied myself only with the Torah.

This presumably tannaitic dialogue confronts two approaches to the situation of Roman persecution. While R. Eleazar ben Perata calculates his 31 Sifre on Deuteronomy, p. 307 (translation following Van Henten and Avemarie , Martyrdom and Noble Death, p.158). 32 Babylonian Talmud, Avoda Zara 17a-18b.

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chances to live according to the number of charges held against him by the Roman authorities, R. Hanina completely dismisses this outlook. A person’s fate is determined solely by God’s judgment; therefore, any consideration of Roman accusations falsely portrays them as the true rulers of the world, while they are actually executing God’s will.33 In other words, by accepting his impending death R. Hanina is not driven by a resistant stance towards Rome, and his interest does not lie in the dismissal of Roman authority. Even if in practice the loyalty to God’s laws clashes with Roman rules, R. Hanina refuses to conceive his death as a result of the transgression of Roman laws, but as God’s punishment for not being involved in works of loving kindness. The consistent dismissal of Roman reality without directly confronting its authority is characteristic of early rabbinic material, but it did not persist into later rabbinic sources. Already the composite Talmudic version of R. Hanina’s martyrdom diverted from the basic rabbinic position, and as it thickened the plot it reconfigured this event as a locus for negotiating the imperial power. On one level, as in the case of Rabbi Akiva, the Talmudic version adds a specific accusation of teaching Torah, for which R. Hanina was executed by the Romans. More significant however is the contrast the Talmud poses between R. Hanina and other rabbis with respect to the acceptance of imperial authority. The Talmud posits opposing political models for coping with persecution with diverse positions towards the act of martyrdom. Against R. Hanina’s confrontation with Rome through the act of martyrdom, the Talmud sets two compliant options, represented by his rabbinic adversaries. R. Yose ben Qisma, who is depicted as an associate 33 Another obscure dialogue that seems to suggest the same shift of perspective appears in the story of R. Yose be Yoezer and his apostate nephew Yaqim of Tserorot (Genesis Rabbah 65:22, following Van Henten and Avemarie , Martyrdom and Noble Death, p. 143). While the nephew interprets the situation according to worldly considerations, Yose ben Yoezer provides a divine perspective, thus creating a somewhat cryptic exchange. “Yaqim of Tserorot was the son of the sister of Yose ben Yoezer of Tseredah. And he was riding on his horse and came before the beam (upon which his uncle) was going to be crucified. He (Yaqim) said to him: ‘See the horse on which my master makes me ride, and see the “horse” (obviously alluding to the crucifixion beam) on which your master makes you ride!’ He (Yose ben Yoezer) said to him: ‘If (He deals in this way) with those who anger Him, how much more (will He deal so) with him who does His will!’ He (Yaqim) said to him: ‘Has then (any) man done His will more than you?’ He (Yose ben Yoezer) said to him: ‘And if (He deals in this way) with him who does His will, how much more (will He deal so) with those who anger Him!’ This word pierced him like the venom of a snake. He went and applied to himself the four death penalties: stoning, burning, slaying and strangulation etc.” From R. Yose ben Yoezer’s perspective, he has angered God and therefore deserves his punishment, but those like his nephew, who do not care for God’s will deserve a worse fate. Therefore, Yaqim accepts upon himself all rabbinic forms of execution, and not the Roman one.

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of Roman nobles, scorns R. Hanina for transgressing Roman decrees against teaching Torah, for ‘do you not know that from heaven they made this nation reign?’34 R. Eleazar ben Perata, on the other hand, uses trickster wits to get himself out of trouble, deceiving the Romans to acquit him while maintaining a resistant ‘hidden script’.35 By contrasting R. Hanina’s choice to die with other responses to Roman persecution, the developed version of the martyrdom in the Talmud identifies it as a form of political action, which involved outright confrontation with the governing power and stands in opposition to alternative solutions. Possibly, as in the case of R. Eliezer discussed above, the Talmud may be responding to Christian martyrological discourse, by offering a more accommodating alternative. Be it as it may, this trajectory reveals a gradual withdrawal from the earlier rabbinic stance, which was careful to remain outside the political sphere and to remove Rome to the background of the divinely orchestrated drama. In this respect, this inner Talmudic development foreshadows the post-Talmudic creation of the Story of the Ten Martyrs, which developed a diametrically opposed view of the relationship between the political and theological spheres.

The Mystery of Post-Rabbinic Martyrology The assembly of the rabbinic martyrdom stories into one grand narrative took place gradually from a primal stage of catastrophes loosely stringed together. In Tractate Mourning the f irst executions of R. Simon and R. Ishmael foreshadow the following stages of persecution. R. Akiva predicts that others will follow, and soon enough he himself is executed in Caesarea followed by R. Hanina ben Teradion together with many others: ‘In a short while the war came and confused the world, and in twelve months the councils in the cities of Judea desisted.’36 According to this account then 34 While this positon was famously adopted by Josephus (War 5.367), it does not appear in earlier rabbinic sources. Only the Babylonian Talmud attributed such views to the Palestinian rabbis. Compare also R. Judah ben Ilai’s positive assessment of Roman activity in Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 33b. 35 Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism, p. 50-66. As Boyarin points out, the Talmud seems to be more sympathetic to the trickster’s mode of resistance than to the martyr, since it rewards him with miraculous divine intervention that saves R. Eleazar ben Perata’s life. 36 Tractate Mourning, ch. 8, p. 60-61. These events unfold from the prophecy of Samuel the Little at the time of his death: ‘Simon and Ishmael for the sword, the rest of the nation for plunder and after this great disasters will follow’. Apparently, the version of his prophecy in the Tosefta

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the succeeding deaths of four rabbis deteriorated into a national scale destruction, but it does not yet know the overall number of ten martyrs. Yet, this limited framework seems to have provided the foundation for the cryptic description in Heichalot Rabbati that includes two stages. At first, ‘a terrible rumor came from the city of Rome, that four men, the nobles of Israel … and eight thousand scholars of Jerusalem were captured as their ransom’. Immediately following, it adds that Samael, the evil angel of Rome, accepted upon himself to eliminate the noblest ten in order to complete the judgement. For ‘whoever kidnaps a person, whether that person has been sold or is still held in possession, shall be put to death’.37 This apparent contradiction puzzled scholars, but the most probable solution is that Heichalot Rabbati at this point draws from some primal form of evolving disaster. Following the capture of four rabbis, as in Tractate Mourning, a divine decree was set to carry on the persecution in order to complete the atonement of the ancient sin through the sacrifice of the noblest ten.38 Although the grand narrative developed gradually, it entailed a paradigmatic shift in the conception of martyrdom. As mentioned above, the concern for theodicy turned in the Story of the Ten Martyrs from the personal to the collective realm, and transformed the martyrdom of the rabbis into an atoning act for the people of Israel.39 Notably, all versions that relate to ten martyrs (including the unique Heikhalot Rabbati) associate it with the selling of Joseph. Instead of diverse personal factors, such as minute (Sotah 13:4) sets the stage for the development of the evolving narrative: ‘Simon and Ishmael for death, the rest of his colleagues for the sword, the rest of the nation for plunder and great misfortunes will follow.’ 37 See Schäfer, Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur, sections 107, 108. The first list includes R. Simon ben Gamaliel, R. Ishmael, R. Judah ben Bava and R. Eliezer ben Dama, who are also included in the full list of ten martyrs (in some manuscripts). Notably, Midrash Shir ha-Shirim (to Song 1:3) also offers a unique version of a continuous event. The evil king approached the Sanhedrin (high rabbinic court) to study the Torah and when he attempted to punish them for selling Joseph, they all ran away. At first he was able to put his hands on R. Simon and R. Ishmael (who was not willing to hand himself over without divine assurance) and later the king somehow caught all the rest. 38 According to Dan (‘The Story of the Ten Martyrs’, p. 21-22) the original story included only four martyrs, and that the incoherency in the manuscripts of Heichalot Rabbati reflect the fluidity of the formative stage of the story. Faithful to his reconstruction of the history of the narrative, Boustan assumes that Heichalot Rabbati is secondary to the other versions of the Story, and that the reference to the four is a revision of the first part of the narrative (From Martyr to Mystic, p. 207-208). Like Dan, I see this detail as reflecting the relative priority of the Heichalot Rabbati version at this point, but not for the same reason. 39 Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism, p. 51-98.

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transgressions or expression of a love of God (or both), the Story of the Ten Martyrs introduced a collective sin that requires collective expiation. The most illustrious Rabbis, who were now acquitted from any personal charges, sacrificed themselves for the sake of others, thereby distinguishing their death from all other victims of Roman persecution.40 Furthermore, this new narrative was prone to develop into a larger meta-historical scheme, as the final expiation of Israel would ultimately lead to the complete annihilation of the evil kingdom. 41 Yet, I would argue that the development of the postTalmudic narrative reflects a fundamental change of theological-political outlook. The shift from Roman to Christian environment inevitably gave rise to a new formulation of the relationship between imperial powers and divine government. In its final form the Story of the Ten Martyrs includes a distinctive element that is unprecedented in earlier Jewish and Christian martyrologies. According to this version, the persecuting authority did not execute the martyrs arbitrarily nor did he try them for transgressing Roman laws; rather, he is depicted as attempting to implement the laws of the persecuted themselves. For some unclear reason the Emperor chooses to study the Torah, 42 and he finds in it a source for pressing charges against the people of Israel as a whole. In face of the Emperor’s surprising pretention to execute the biblical judgment, the rabbis were compelled to verify that the punishment that befell them was indeed in accordance with God’s decree. The message of the Torah coming from the mouth of the evil emperor is perplexing, and R. Ishmael must ascend to the heavens to learn the true meaning of it. 40 This is in stark contrast to rabbinic sources that present the willingness to die for the sake of the Torah as characterising the people of Israel as a whole. Compare the homily of R. Nathan above, and the story of the non-rabbinic martyrs of Laodicea, Pappus and Lulianus (Sifra Emor, 9.5). Unsurprisingly, although they are mentioned more frequently than any other martyr in rabbinic literature, this couple is not included in the Story of the Ten Martyrs. 41 In response to Samael’s decision to execute the punishments against the rabbis, God summoned Metatron, the master scribe and archangel and commanded him. ‘Write this and seal it: For six whole months, plague and leprosy, tumors, sores burning inflammations, jaundice, every sort of evil boil shall afflict Edom the wicked…until a man shall say to his neighbour: I will give you Rome and everything in it for free, and the other will answer him: What do I need these things for? There is no profit in them for me’, Stern, Rabbinic Fantasies, p. 150. 42 Two versions of the Story explicitly blame the rabbis for the Emperor’s decision to study Torah. According to one version, Reeg’s recension 1, ‘Eleh Ezkerah’, the arrogant rabbis thought they have come to replace the Temple by instructing the world in the study of law and observance of commandments. In return, God punished them for their arrogance. In other versions (recensions 4,5,7,9), the Jews sinned in voluntarily teaching the Emperor Torah, thereby giving him the means to defeat them. Alternatively, the Emperor happened to hear the verses from schoolchildren (recension 3), or for some unclear reason compelled the rabbis to teach him (recension 6).

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Only through direct access to the divine will, is it possible to override the Emperor’s claim of acting in the name of God. The unique nature of this ascension in this Story is highlighted by comparison to what is probably an earlier version in Heichalot Rabbati. There, in a familiar apocalyptic fashion, R. Ishmael ascends to the heavens due to the disturbing rumor about the persecution of the rabbis and their disciples, in order to gather more information and to grasp the full historical scheme. Thus, from his elevated standpoint he learns the expected scope of the persecutions and more importantly that they will bring about the destruction of Rome. According to this version, the true reason of the persecution, the selling of Joseph, is revealed only in the heavens by the Angel of the Face and is not known to the evil emperor. Only through apocalyptic knowledge the complete picture and divine plan could be revealed. In stark contrast, in the later versions of the Story of the Ten Martyrs the ancestral fault of the Jews is already endorsed by the emperor himself. He is not a mere pawn in the hands of divine providence, but an agent acting in the name of God. Therefore, the rabbis turn to hidden knowledge only to confirm it and to make sure of its atoning results.43 Thus the knowledge of the emperor disturbingly blurs the boundaries between mundane and divine spheres. Evidently then R. Ishmael’s ascension to the heavenly chambers is not only an apocalyptic element added among mystics to the basic narrative of persecution; rather it is an essential component of the revised story seeking to understand the divine message coming from the wicked Emperor. Here then lies the fundamental contrast between the Talmudic and post-Talmudic martyrological patterns. The two phases avoid confronting the divine will with Roman power, but they accomplish it in diametrically opposed ways. As we have seen, rabbinic sources ignore the actual experience of Roman rule in favor of an alternative realm of divine justice. In contrast, the Story of the Ten Martyrs holds the Roman emperor responsible for the death sentence, but at the same time portrays him as directly adhering to the divine will. This later version exchanges the initial rabbinic faith in God’s providence with a perplexing confusion between Imperial and divine will. Therefore, instead of discarding the former in favor of exclusive commitment to the latter, as in the rabbinic sources, the Story of the Ten Martyrs has the Emperor speak in the name of God, and therefore he cannot be disregarded. This change of agency, no less than the specific nature of the collective 43 Consequently, the story includes an awkward repetition to the reference to the ancestral sin. In addition, although R. Ishmael has the power to annul the decree by pronouncing the Holy Name, he accepts it upon himself once he receives divine conformation.

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accusation, reveals the fundamental transformation of theological-political conceptions from the world of second century pagan Rome to the early medieval period under Christian rule. I would further argue that in both stages the formulation of the story follows familiar strategies of coping with the governing power. The practice of ignoring Roman power in favor of personal acceptance of the Kingdom of Heaven is not unique to the stories of martyrdom and is in fact a characteristic feature of early rabbinic policy. Following the destruction of the Temple by what seemed then to be the invincible power of pagan Rome, the rabbis sought to re-establish the government of God by reinterpreting ancient practices, such as the recitation of the Shema, 44 and by instituting a set of new daily rituals. In face of God’s apparent disappearance from the political sphere, the rabbis offered a ritual language through which Jews could continuously identify and acknowledge His presence.45 Significantly, the last chapter of tractate Berachot in the Mishnah (on prayer and blessings) encapsulates this rabbinic program by integrating the grand commandment of self-sacrifice for the sake of God into the laws of daily blessings. This newly devised rabbinic system was intended to enhance the awareness of the presence of God in all events including negative experiences, even when God himself – as the Mishnah phrases it – is taking away a person’s soul. 46 In times of theological crisis, to which the Mishnah hints, 47 such 44 The traditional recitation of the Shema (Deut. 6: 4-9) familiar already during the Second Temple period, see Josephus, Antiquities, 4. 212, was transformed by the rabbis from an expression of love and faith in God into a ceremony of royal acclamation denoting the acceptance of the Kingdom of Heaven (Mishnah Berachot 2.2). See Kimelman, ‘The Shema Liturgy: From Covenant Ceremony to Coronation’, p. 9-107, esp. p. 92-93. 45 For a detailed discussion of the theological meaning of the rabbinic innovation of the system of daily blessings see Ishay Rosen-Zvi, ‘Responsive Blessings and the Development of the Tannaitic Liturgical System’, p. 1-29. 46 Mishnah Berachot 9:5: ‘And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul (Deut. 6:5): with all thy soul -- even if He takes away thy soul’. 47 In attempt to justify the ritual innovations, the last Mishnah of the chapter quotes Prov. 23:22 ‘Do not despise your mother when she is old’, clearly referring to God’s current image as old and powerless. Presumably, this heretical notion was the inevitable outcome of the theological crisis following the destruction of the Temple. See Schremer, ‘“The Lord Has Forsaken the Land”: Radical Explanations of the Military and Political Defeat of the Jews in the Tannaitic Literature’, p. 183-200. Interestingly, one scene in the Story of the Ten Martyrs encapsulates the images and concepts in the concluding section of tractate Berachot. ‘The emperor asked Rabbi Hutzapit (the translator): How old are you’? The sage answered: Tomorrow I will be a hundred and thirty years old. Allow me to complete my days. The emperor asked: What difference does it make if you die today or tomorrow? R. Hutzapit answered: The chance to observe two more precepts. And which commandments do you wish to observe now? The emperor asked. The recitation of Shema in the evening and in the morning, R. Hutzapit replied: whereby I will crown as king

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practices could serve to delineate spheres of divine rule without directly confronting Rome. However, it was hardly possible to ignore the agency of the governing power in killing the Jews when it claimed to speak in the name of the same God and applied Scripture to that end. Consequently, the political-theological framing of rabbinic martyrology was bound to undergo a fundamental transformation with the Christianisation of Roman rule. Whereas second century rabbis faced Roman power and imperial worship that pretended to supplant the God of Israel, Christian rule acted against the Jews in the name of this very same God and His Scripture. In this situation, confidence in God’s justice and rule was insufficient, since the question was no longer who was in charge, but what His true will was, and what was the meaning of Jewish suffering within the sacred history. The solution to this deeply confusing situation lies, according to the Story of the Ten Martyrs, in adding beneath the exoteric knowledge of Scripture, accessible to Christians, a layer of esoteric meaning, unique to the rabbinic figures, which could load the familiar sources with additional meaning. Here again we encounter a solution that was not unique to the issue of martyrdom but is familiar from other midrashic texts of Late Antiquity. In face of Christian expropriation of Scripture, later midrashic texts portrayed the Mishnah, the identity marker of rabbinic Judaism, as a kind of esoteric text, inaccessible to the competing Christians: R. Judah ben Shalom says: When the Holy One blessed be He said to Moses: Write down these things (Ex. 34:27). Moses requested that the Mishnah be written as well. But the Holy One blessed be He anticipated that the nations of the world would translate the Torah into Greek and say we are Israel and thus far the scales are balanced. Therefore, the Holy One blessed be He said to the nations: You say you are my sons? I only know those whom hold to my mysterion, they are my sons. And what is it? This is the Mishnah, which I gave orally, and it is for you to expound. 48 over me the name of the great, awesome and sole Lord. The emperor exclaimed: Shameless and greedy people! How long will you trust in your God? He has no power to rescue you from my hands. My ancestors destroyed his Temple. They strewed the corpses of his servants around Jerusalem. No one was there to bury them. And now your God himself is Old, he has no more strength to save you.’ See Stern, Rabbinic Fantasies, p. 157. 48 Pesiqta Rabbati 5; Tanhuma, Ki Tisha 34; Exodus Rabba 47:1. On this text and the role of the term mystery in Jewish Christian polemics see Bregman, ‘Mishnah and LXX as Mystery: An Example of Jewish-Christian Polemic in the Byzantine Period’, p. 333-342.

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This homily displays how even the most fundamental rabbinic notion, the traditional Oral Torah, was bound to acquire new meaning during Late Antiquity in face of Christian supersessionist claims for authorised knowledge of Scripture. Henceforth, ‘Rome’ not only governed the political sphere (which could somehow be ignored), it also sought to seize control over the divine message. A parallel development is thus discernible also with respect to rabbinic martyrdom traditions. The crystallisation of the Story of the Ten Martyrs in an exclusively Christian environment shook the rabbinic confident world-view to the ground. The composers of the Story sought to find refuge in an esoteric and eschatological reinterpretation of the Scriptural decree, but they could not find comfort (as R. Simon did) in this puzzling situation, and could not fully accept the decree, promoted by Christian usurpers. Neither could they, in the face of imminent death, laugh like the Talmudic R. Akiva for fulfilling his unique love to God, who has been snatched by others. Rather, hearing the divine confirmation of the emperor’s decree the ten martyrs remained confused: ‘On the one hand, his [R. Ishmael’s] colleagues felt they had been wronged to have such a grievous decree issued against their lives. On the other hand, they rejoiced that the Holy One blessed be He, judged them to be equal to the fathers of the tribes in righteousness and piety.’49

Works Cited Berkowitz, Beth. (2006). Execution and Invention: Death Penalty Discourse in Early Rabbinic and Christian Cultures. New York: Oxford University Press. Boustan, Ra‘anan. (2005). From Martyr to Mystic: Rabbinic Martyrology and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Boustan, Ra‘anan. (2013). ‘The Contested Reception of The Story of the Ten Martyrs in Medieval Midrash’. In Envisioning Judaism: Studies in Honor of Peter Schäfer on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday. R.S. Boustan et al (eds.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 369-393. Boyarin, Daniel. (1999). Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism. Palo Alto: Standford University Press. Bregman, Marc. (2004). ‘Mishnah and LXX as Mystery: An Example of JewishChristian Polemic in the Byzantine Period’. In Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine Christian Palestine. Lee I. Levine (ed.). Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi Press. 49 Stern, Rabbinic Fantasies, p. 150.

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Dan, Joseph. (2008). History of Jewish Mysticism and Esotericism: Ancient Times. Vol. 2. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar. Dan, Joseph. (1980). ‘Heikhalot Rabbati and the Story of the Ten Martyrs’. Eshel Be’er Sheva 2: 63-80 (consulted the Hebrew version). Dan, Joseph. (2008). ‘The Narrative of the Ten Martyrs: Martyrology and Mysticism’. In History of Jewish Mysticism and Esotericism: Ancient Times. Vol. 2. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar, 744-776 (consulted the Hebrew version). Dan, Joseph. (1973). ‘The Story of the Ten Martyrs: Its Origins and Development’. In Studies in Literature Presented to Simon Halkin. Ezra Fleischer (ed.). Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 15-22 (consulted the Hebrew version). Finkelstein, Louis. (1938). ‘The Ten Martyrs’. In Essays and Studies in Memory of Linda R. Miller. Israel Davidson (ed.). New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 29-55. Furstenberg, Yair. (2015). ‘The Midrash of Jesus and the Bavli’s Counter-Gospel’. Jewish Studies Quarterly 22: 303-324. Herr, Moshe. (1971). ‘Ten Martyrs, The.’ Encyclopedia Judaica. Jerusalem: Keter Publishing. Herr, Moshe. (1973). ‘Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days’. Scripta Hierosolymitana 23: 85-125. Isaac, Benjamin and Oppenheimer, Aaron. (1985). ‘The Revolt of Bar Kokhba, Ideology and Modern Scholarship’. Journal of Jewish Studies 36: 33- 60. Kalmin, Richard. (2003). ‘Rabbinic Traditions about Roman Persecutions of the Jews: A Reconsideration’. Journal of Jewish Studies 54: 21- 50. Kerameus, Athanasios Papadopoulos. (1963). Analekta Hierosolymitikes Stachyologias vol. 4. Bruxelles: Culture et Civilisation. Kimelman, Reuven. (2001). ‘The Shema Liturgy: From Covenant Ceremony to Coronation’. Kenishta: Studies of the Synagogue World 1: 9-105. Kister, Menahem. (1991). ‘Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions’. Tarbiz 60: 179-224. Krauss, Samuel. (1980). ‘The Ten Martyrs’. In The Bar Kokhba Revolt. Aharon Oppenheimer (ed.). Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar, 239-277 (in Hebrew; published originally in 1925). Lieberman, Saul. (1939-1944). ‘The Martyrs of Caesarea’. Annuaire de l’institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 7: 395-446. Lieberman, Saul. (1974). ‘Persecution of Jewish Religion’. In Salo Wittmayer Baron Jubilee Book: On the Occasion of his Eightieth Birthday. Saul Lieberman et al (eds.). Jerusalem: American Academy for Jewish Research, 214-234. Lieberman, Saul. (1944). ‘Roman Legal Institutions in Early Rabbinics and in the Acta Martyrum’. Jewish Quarterly Review 35: 1-57. Leuterbach, Jacob (ed.). (2004). Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael, tractate Bahodesh 6. Nebraska: University of Nebraska Press, 324-325.

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Mandel, Paul. (2014). ‘Was R. Akiva a Martyr? Palestinian and Babylonian Influences on the Development of a Legend’. In Rabbinic Traditions between Palestine and Babylonia. Ronit Nikolsky and Tal Ilan (eds.). Leiden: Brill, 306-353. Reeg, Gottfried. (1985). Geschichte von den zehn Märtyren: Synoptische Edition mit Übersetzung und Einleitung. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Rosen-Zvi, Ishay. (2008). ‘Responsive Blessings and the Development of the Tannaitic Liturgical System’. Jewish Studies Internet Journal 7: 1-29. Schäfer, Peter. (1981). Der Bar Kokhba Aufstand: Studien zum zweiten jüdischen Krieg gegen Rom. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schäfer, Peter. (1981). Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur. In Zusammenarbeit mit M. Schlüter und H. G. von Mutius. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schremer, Adiel. (2010). Brothers Estranged: Heresy, Christianity and Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Schremer, Adiel. (2008). ‘“The Lord Has Forsaken the Land”: Radical Explanations of the Military and Political Defeat of the Jews in the Tannaitic Literature’. Journal of Jewish Studies 59: 183-200. Scholem, Gershom. (1961). Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism. New York: Schocken Books. Shepkaru, Shmuel. (2006). Jewish Martyrs in the Pagan and Christian Worlds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schwartz, Joshua and Tomson, Peter. (2012). ‘When R. Eliezer Was Arrested for Heresy’. Jewish Studies Internet Journal 10, 145-181. Stern, David and Mirsky, Mark J. (eds.). (1990). Rabbinic Fantasies: Imaginative Narratives from Classical Hebrew Literature. Philadelphia and New York: JPS, 143-165. Thurston, Herbert J. and Attwater, Donald (eds.). (1990). Butler’s Lives of the Saints: Complete Edition, vol. 4 (October, November, December). Westminster MD: Christian Classics. Tropper, Amram. (2011). Like Clay in the Hands of the Potter. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar. Valner, Alter. (2005). ‘Aseret Haruge Malkhut ba Midrash u-va-Piyyut. Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kook. Van Henten, Jan Willem and Avemarie, Friedrich. (2002). Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity. London and New York: Routledge. Visotzky, Burton. (1992). The Midrash on Proverbs. New Haven: Yale University. Zeitlin, Solomon. (1945). ‘The Legend of the Ten Martyrs and Its Apocalyptic Origins’. Jewish Quarterly Review New Series 36 (1): 1-16. Zlotnick, Dov (ed.). (1966). Tractate “Mourning” New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 59-60.

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About the Author Dr. Yair Furstenberg is a Senior Lecturer in the Talmud department at the Hebrew University, and has formerly served on the faculty of the department of Jewish History at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. His main fields of research are early rabbinic law and literature, Jewish identity in the Roman World and Jewish Christian relations in the first centuries CE. His latest book, The History of Purity: Body and Community between the Pharisees and the Mishnah (Magnes Press, 2016 [in Hebrew]), surveys the changing significance of purity in Second Temple Judaism and early rabbinic culture. Furstenberg’s articles trace the development of early rabbinic literature, in particular the Mishnah, from its Second Temple Pharisaic foundations. His other publications examine the impact of the broader Greco-Roman culture on the evolution of rabbinic law and thought. In his current project, ‘Making Law under Rome: The Making of Rabbinic Halakhah within its Provincial Legal Context’ he examines the various responses of rabbinic law to its Roman legal environment and standard of law making, as well as the development of the rabbinic movement as a provincial elite. As part of his study of the trilateral relationship of Empire, Jews and Christians, Dr. Furstenberg has edited a book on Jewish and Christian Communal Identities in the Roman World (Brill 2016), and is participating in a project on Jewish Martyrdom in Antiquity.

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‘Who Were the Maccabees?’ The Maccabean Martyrs and Performances on Christian Difference Jennifer Wright Knust Abstract Jennifer Knust surveys the gradual canonisation of the Maccabean martyrs within a collection of Christian sacred texts. The eventual adoption of these martyrs as proto-Christian models of faith were clearly the result of a complex but now lost process of reconfiguration and appropriation. This march forward of a Christian Maccabean cult also coincides with a post-Julian consolidation of Christian ascendancy that began during Julian’s reign and was then further advanced during the ramping up of Christianisation following his death. The introduction of the Christian cult of the Maccabean martyrs can be interpreted both as an anti-Jewish Christian response to changing circumstances under Julian and as evidence that the traditions associated with the Maccabees endured as a continuing site of Christian-Jewish interaction even as these same martyrs were spiritualised. The fourth-century re-signification of these martyrs as Christian participated in what Andrew Jacobs describes as the ‘historicisation’ of the Jew, a process that renders living Jews merely ‘historical’ by transferring the Jew or the Jew’s remains into an embodied, living Christian past. Once the martyrs were detached from earlier commemorative contexts, they served to buttress particular, disputed formulations of Christian rather than Jewish identity. According to Knust, the reverberations of this process reach beyond their initial settings and Christian anti-Judaism, rhetorical or real, and have persisted within ongoing and contested histories of difference. Keywords: canonisation of Maccabean books, Jewish antiquities, Christian-Jewish interaction, memory, performance

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch03

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Preaching a sermon in Cappadocia in the mid-fourth century, Gregory of Nazianzus asked, ‘Who were the Maccabees? The festival today (ἡ παροῦσα πανήγυρις) is indeed in their honour, though not many recognise them because their contest (ἀθλήσις) antedates Christ (Or. 15.2).’1 Gregory was the first but by no means the only fourth-century bishop interested in introducing a feast of the Maccabean martyrs amenable to Christian understanding; his sermon was followed soon after by panegyrics delivered by John Chrysostom and Ambrose of Milan, both of whom preached about the honours due to the seven brothers, their mother, and Eleazar the priest.2 Gregory’s comments indicate that a feast was already known in Cappadocia: the Maccabees ‘are honoured annually and with these festal processions (ὥστε καὶ ταῖς ἑτησίοις ταύταις τιμᾶσθαι πομπαῖς τε καὶ πανηγύρεσι),’ though, he claimed, some witnessing the processions did not perceive who the Maccabees truly were. He endeavoured to rectify any misunderstanding by reinterpreting the story of the martyrs as a celebration of the Christ-inspired fortitude given to all who possess a ‘pure mind’; the martyrs’ courage when facing the ‘daily Antiochus’ of fleshly temptation was, he argued, their actual triumph (Or. 15.1,12).3 Christian priests should endeavour to be more like Eleazar, a supreme example of virtue in word and in deed (καὶ λόγῳ, καὶ ἔργῳ τὸ βέλτιστον παραδείξαντος). Mothers should attempt to emulate ‘that noble mother’ who gave her children to Christ in order that her marriage might be made holy through her sacrifice (ἵνα καὶ γάμος ἁγιασθῇ διὰ τῆς τοιαύτης θυσίας). Sons should seek to imitate the seven brothers by struggling against the passions (ἐν τοῖς κατὰ τῶν παθῶν ἀγωνίσμασι) (Or. 15.12). By doing so, priests, mothers, and sons honour God, who is ‘glorified in the Son and the Holy Spirit’ (Or. 15.12). 4 This closing benediction nods 1 Oration 15 ‘In Praise of the Maccabees.’ PG 35.912A-33A. English translation by Vinson, St. Gregory of Nazianzus. Select Orations, p. 72-84 (at 73); also see Oration 5, ‘Against Julian 2’ (SC 309: 294-381, at 376-79). 2 Two panegyrics to the Maccabean martyrs from John Chrysostom’s Antiochene period survive, both delivered sometime after 379: the first, a homily celebrating the ‘holy martyrs’ light’ (τὸ φῶς τῶν ἁγίων μαρτύρων) which illuminates the city throughout the festival, focuses on the courage of the mother; the second, which may have been delivered the day after the first, focuses on the trials endured by the brothers (Homily 1 on the Maccabees and Homily 2 on the Maccabees. PG 50:617-626. English translation by Mayer, St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters, p. 137-53). Ambrose told the story of the martyrs in his sermon On Jacob and the Blessed Life, delivered to catechumens during Lent or Holy Week of 387, English translation McHugh, Saint Ambrose: Seven Exegetical Works, p. 173-181. 3 Rouwhorst, ‘The Emergence of the Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs in Late Antique Christianity’, esp. p. 84-93. 4 English translation Vinson 2003, p. 84.

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to the Trinitarian theology for which Gregory is famous. It also insists on the Christ-centred significance of Four Maccabees, the scripture for the day. Finally, it transforms an annual festival with ‘visual expressions’ into a call for Christian self-mastery. Lurking behind this sermon, however, lies a more complicated story of Jewish and Christian interaction in Cappadocia and elsewhere, one that the bishop hints at but does not fully name. Who were the Maccabees, who was celebrating them, and why? Both the gradual canonisation of the Maccabean books within a collection of Christian sacred texts and the eventual adoption of these martyrs as proto-Christian models of faith were clearly the result of a complex but now lost process of reconfiguration and appropriation (see Appendix I). This march forward of a Christian Maccabean cult – which within a century had gained a designated feast day (August 1),5 relics,6 sacred texts,7 and a dedicated basilica8 – also coincides with a post-Julian consolidation of Christian ascendancy that began during Julian’s reign and was then further advanced during the ramping up of Christianisation following his death.9 By the f ifth century, Augustine of Hippo could 5 John Chrysostom convinced the Constantinopolitans to add this August 1 feast day to their sacred calendar; On Eleazar and the Seven Boys 3, English translation Mayer 2006, 123. On the date of this sermon, see further Mayer, ‘”Les homélies de s. Jean Chrysostome en juillet 399”: A Second Look at Pargoire’s Sequence and the Chronology of the Novae homiliae (CPG 4441),’ p. 285-87. Perhaps a basilica was dedicated to them soon after, though the evidence is murky. 6 Chrysostom also mentions the bones, see Homily 1.1; Mayer, St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters, p. 137. (Some) bones were eventually translated to Rome: Martyrologium Romanum, August 1: Antiochiae passio sanctorum septem fratrum Machabaeorum Martyrum, qui, cum matre sua, passi sunt sub Antiocho Epiphane Rege. Eorum reliquiae, Romam translatae, in eadem Ecclesia sancti Petri ad Vincula condita; fuerunt, See SC 200:286-93; cf. Rouwhorst, ‘The Emergence of the Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs in Late Antique Christianity’, p. 197. 7 The earliest Greek manuscript with a complete edition of Four Maccabees is Codex Sinaiticus (01 ‫)א‬, the great fourth-century pandect Bible. Omitted from the canonical lists of Eusebius of Caesarea, Athanasius of Alexandria and Cyril of Jerusalem, all four books are nevertheless included in the fifth-century pandect Bible Codex Alexandrinus (02 A). 8 Augustine refers to the recent construction of a basilica in Antioch honouring these martyrs (Sermon 300; English translation by Hill, Augustine. Sermons, vol. III/8, Sermons 273-305A. The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, p. 279). The seventh-century Chronicon Paschale, describing an attack on Constantinople in 626, notes that the enemy ‘approached the venerated church of the Holy Maccabees on the far side at Sycae,’ confirming that a church of this name was known at the time, if not earlier. English translation Whitby and Whitby, Chronicon Paschale, p. 171. 9 As Ton Hilhorst points out, Christian writers were always interested in Four Maccabees for their own reasons, transposing the Jewish model ‘according to their own state of minds.’ See‘Fourth Maccabees in Christian Martyrdom Texts’, p. 118.

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(defensively?) emphasise the true signif icance of the wonderful ‘new’ feast: It is ‘absolutely right’ that the feast be kept, he declared, especially by Christians. ‘What do the Jews know about such a celebration? Word is going round (praedictur, ‘being publically announced’) that there is a basilica of the Holy Maccabees in Antioch … owned by Christians … built by Christians. It’s we who celebrate their memory’ (Sermon 300).10 In other words, whereas Gregory worried that his congregants did not recognise the Maccabean martyrs for who they truly were, Augustine could be certain: they belong to ‘us’.

Why These Martyrs? This coincidence of Christian ascendancy and the introduction of a feast dedicated to the martyrs is well situated within other, more overt and occasionally violent anti-Jewish Christian agitation from the same period, whether against actual Jews and Jewish property or against ‘heretics’ pejoratively labelled ‘Jews’. Indeed, earlier scholars speculated that enthusiastic Antiochene Christians, caught up in their newly found appreciation for the martyrs and inflamed by anti-Jewish sentiments, actually seized and re-dedicated a formerly Jewish Maccabean synagogue or shrine, annexing it for Christian worship. Initially, such an outright theft is a believable scenario given similar synagogue seizures in Mauretania, Spain, Edessa, Daphne and elsewhere; Theodosian era legislation against such practices further confirms that such events took place.11 It is now clear, however, that explicit, overt dispossession of an earlier Antiochene Jewish site is highly unlikely, if not completely impossible; there is simply no evidence of pre-Christian veneration of a Maccabean martyr cult.12 Still, the adoption 10 English translation Hill, Augustine. Sermons, vol. III/8, Sermons 273-305A. The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, p. 279. 11 Schatkin, ‘The Maccabean Martyrs’, p. 106. Others who argue that there was once a synagogue dedicated to the martyrs, possibly with the bones interred there, include: Rampolla, ‘Martyre et sepulture des Macchabées’; Obermann, ‘The Sepulchre of the Maccabean Martyrs’; Bickermann, ‘Les Maccabées de Malalas’. Vinson argues that a Jewish shrine rather than a Jewish synagogue was confiscated, see ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily 15 and the Genesis of the Christian Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs’, p. 166-92. 12 Rutgers, ‘The Importance of Scripture in the Conflict Between Jews and Christians: The Example of Antioch’, p. 287-302 and Brooten, ‘The Jews of Ancient Antioch’, p. 34. Triebel’s exhaustive reappraisal argues that there was no Jewish shrine (‘Die Angebliche Synagoge der Makkabäischen Märtyrer in Antiochia am Orontes’, p. 464-95). But see Mayer and Allen 2012, p. 142-44; their reappraisal re-affirms Vinson’s argument.

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of these martyrs, even at the level of interpretation alone, does resonate within a wider history of late antique Christian aggression against Jews.13 Gerard Rouwhorst would disagree; as he has argued, Christians had their own reasons for introducing this cult, apart from any specific anti-Judaism of the bishops who preached the first sermons in their honour: by adding the martyrs to their festal calendars, they spiritualized yet another set of martyrs, acclimating them within a developing martyr cult that read torture as an impetus to commit more fully to Christ.14 Moreover, I might add, local bishops and monks were busily adding saints’ cults to local civic landscapes, constructing martyria over earlier martyr tombs,15 adjusting local festal calendars to include Christian saints,16 and establishing pilgrimage routes across the Eastern empire throughout the fourth and fifth centuries.17 The introduction of a Maccabean martyr cult served these broader efforts, irrespective of the martyrs’ former status as righteous Jews.18 Thus, the cult could have been provoked by wider Christian appetite for the ‘discovery’ of new saints and their relics rather than by any specific set of historical circumstances. 13 The fourth and fifth centuries are characterised by rhetorical and sometimes actual efforts by bishops, monks, and other Christians to deprive Jews – as well as fellow Christian targets labeled as ‘Jews’ – of their texts, traditions, and property; see Jacobs The Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christian Empire in Late Antiquity. The complexity of these appropriations is further explored in the essays collected by Dohrmann and Reed (eds.) Jews, Christians, and the Roman Empire: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity. On the contra Judaeos tradition as a rhetorical invention at the center of intra-Christian controversy, see especially Fredriksen, ‘What “Parting of the Ways?” Jews and Gentiles in the Ancient Mediterranean City’, p. 35-63 and Fredriksen, Augustine and the Jews: A Christian Defense of Jews and Judaism. 14 Rouwhorst, ‘The Emergence of the Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs in Late Antique Christianity.’ 15 Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult and Community. Grabar, Martyrium: Recherches sur le culte des reliques et l’art chrétien antique, remains an essential source. 16 The Emperor Theodosius removed the off icial status from non-Christian feasts in 381, though temples and feast days retained their sacred significance for quite some time. 17 On Sinai, see Caner, History and Hagiography from Late Antique Sinai; on Palestine, see Stemberger, Juden und Christen im Heiligen Land; on Christian imperial re-mapping, see Jacobs, The Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christian Empire in Late Antiquity, as well as the essays in Gardner and Osterloh, Antiquity in Antiquity: Jewish and Christian Pasts in the Greco-Roman World. On Egypt, see the essays edited by Frankfurter, Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt and Papaconstaninou, Le culte des saints en Egypte: d’après la documentation papyrologique et épigraphique Greque (Ve-VIIe siècle) and, Papaconstantinou, ‘Historiography, Hagiography, and the Making of the Coptic “Church of the Martyrs” in Early Islamic Egypt.’ 18 Gregory himself was an active participant in such activities, see Limberis, Architects of Piety: The Cappadocian Fathers and the Cult of the Martyrs.

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Jerome’s later scepticism about the sudden appearance of relics of these Antiochene martyrs fits this scenario. At the end of the fourth century and living some distance away in Palestine, he translated Eusebius of Caesarea’s Onamasticon into Latin. In the process, he noticed a discrepancy between his predecessor’s earlier account of a Maccabean shrine and current events. Eusebius listed place names worthy of note and their locations, including a tomb with a funerary cult dedicated to the Maccabees, which he located in a Palestinian town called Modeeim.19 By the time Jerome was writing, however, other relics had appeared, this time in Antioch. Jerome responded by inserting a gloss in his translation: ‘Indeed, it is amazing that their remains are shown in Antioch but our author [i.e., Eusebius] is to be believed.’20 In other words, though Jerome had heard something about the newly displayed Antiochene Maccabean relics, he decided that Eusebius was the more reliable source: the true site of veneration of the Maccabees was in Modeeim, not Antioch. Perhaps he was confusing two separate sites, one Palestinian tomb dedicated to Judah Maccabee and his brothers and another that housed a set of Antiochene relics identified with the martyrs who, according to later and exclusively Christian sources, were killed by Antiochus IV Epiphanes in the king’s capital city, Antioch.21 Jerome appears to have harboured some doubts about the Antiochene cult, which was recent and likely mistaken about the presence of Maccabean bones. Such confusion, however, points not only to the sudden appearance of these relics but also to the double history of the Maccabean traditions: These stories – and the books that preserve them – celebrated not only the martyrs but also the victories of the brothers Maccabee over Gentile oppression and their rededication of the Temple. From a Christian perspective, they are ‘about’ the endurance of martyrs who presage the advent of Christ, but other receptions are also possible and those visiting the tomb in Modeeim – an active site in both Eusebius’s and Jerome’s day – may have held a different point of view. 19 Μωδεέμ (1 Macc 2, 1). Κώμη πλησίον Διοσπόλεως, ὅθεν ἦσαν οἱ Μακκαβαῖοι, ὧν καὶ τὰ μνήματα εἰς ἔτι νῦν δείκνυται (Modeeim: A village near Diospolis, where the Maccabees were, where even now their tombs are shown). Klostermann, Eusebius Werke. Vol. 3.1, Das Onamastikon der Biblischen Ortsnamen, p. 132. 20 Satis itaque mirror quomodo Antiochiae eorum reliquias ostendant, aut quo hoc certo auctore sit creditum, see Klostermann, Eusebius Werke. Vol. 3.1, Das Onamastikon der Biblischen Ortsnamen, p. 133. 21 This possibility must remain highly speculative. Nevertheless, as Kerkeslager has shown, pilgrimage to the tombs of Jewish heroes and ancestors did occur, particularly after the thirdcentury CE, ‘Jewish Pilgrimage and Jewish Identity in Hellenistic and Early Roman Egypt’, p. 132-42.

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A Double Tradition? In his analysis, Rouwhorst interpreted Gregory’s sermon as an indication of intra-Christian resistance to the martyrs, a resistance that can perhaps also be detected in Jerome’s brief gloss on Eusebius’s Onomasticon. ‘[F]rom all the homilies,’ he argues, ‘it is clear that several Christians felt embarrassed by the cult, precisely because of its Jewishness.’22 After all, Gregory asks, how can the martyrs be venerated, if they antedate Christ? Yet Gregory’s sermon and Jerome’s comments lead me to prefer another possibility: In my view, the introduction of the Christian cult of the Maccabean martyrs can be interpreted both as an anti-Jewish Christian response to changing circumstances under Julian and as evidence that the traditions associated with the Maccabees endured as a continuing site of Christian-Jewish interaction even as these same martyrs were spiritualised, as Rouwhorst correctly points out. Christian writers ignored the Hasmonean framing of these martyr traditions in their literary works, but that does not preclude the possibility that literate (and illiterate) Christians were also aware of the literary traditions and commemorative practices of their Jewish neighbours, if such practices existed. The categories ‘Jew’ and ‘Christian’ remained porous, unstable, and subject to constant negotiation in the fourth century, long after the labels Christianismos and Christianoi first appeared.23 Festal celebrations were particularly confusing. Populated by persons with diverse interests and allegiances, shrines, monasteries, cemeteries, or basilicas were filled on such days with milling, expectant crowds who regularly failed to behave like ‘Christians’, as bishops often lamented; some neglected to identify as Christian at all, as David Frankfurter has shown.24 Indeed, a successful festival attracted not only the faithful but also curious onlookers, eager to participate in the events of the day. Characterised by what Paula Fredriksen has called a ‘pragmatic religious pluralism,’ this late Roman world included both rhetorical anti-Judaism and shared religious practice.25 Christian anti-Judaism operated on two fronts, she argues, one discursive and one ‘real’: On the one hand, anti-Judaism participated in a Christian contra Iudaeos rhetorical tradition that produced ‘hermeneutical’ 22 Rouwhorst, ‘The Emergence of the Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs in Late Antique Christianity’, p. 96. 23 Reed, ‘After “Origins,” Beyond “Identity,” and Before “Religion(s)”.’ 24 Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt: Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity, p. 111-113, 115. On processions and feast days in Antioch specifically, see Mayer and Allen, The Churches of Syrian Antioch (300-638 CE), p. 182-91. 25 Fredriksen, Augustine and the Jews: A Christian Defense of Jews and Judaism, p. 88-89.

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Jews ‘(the “Jew” as a figure for wrongly reading the Bible)’ and ‘rhetorical’ Jews ‘(the “Jew” as a polemical anti-self).’ On the other, sporadic anti-Jewish acts impacted the actual, historical experiences of Jews and Christians.26 Still, residents of ancient cities were usually quite happy to participate in shared civic observances, to express curiosity about and even appreciation for the gods of others, and to seek common ground, despite the uncompromising comments of literate Christian elites. Indeed, the polemical preaching of fourth-century Christian bishops paradoxically confirms shared (not separate) practices.27 Some Christians engaged in specific, local anti-Jewish violence. Others, however, observed Sabbath, participated in Jewish feasts, joined in Jewish prayer, and buried their dead in shared cemeteries.28 The view that Christians adopted the Maccabean martyrs apart from any interaction with or acknowledgement of Jewish practices, while a defensible interpretation of the literary evidence, cannot account for these embodied, hybrid, cosmopolitan contexts. Fergus Millar’s description of the cities of the late antique Greek East complements Fredriksen’s observations. As he notes, archaeological, epigraphical, historical, and legal evidence points to an ‘uneasy co-existence between Jews and Christians’, and not always conflict. Jewish communities in many of these cities flourished, attracted ‘God-fearers’ (θεοσεβεῖς) and, on occasion, converts (προσηλύτοι), even as Christianity continued to grow and thrive.29 Jews and Christians, he further observes, remained ‘minority elements in a predominantly pagan world’, yet during late antiquity, it was pagan, not Jewish or Christian practice, that was under sustained attack in imperial legislation.30 The evidence therefore points to attraction to and knowledge of the gods and the feasts of others, and particularly toward 26 Fredriksen, ‘Roman Christianity and the Post-Roman World: The Social Correlates of the Contra Iudaeos Tradition’, p. 249. Also see Gager, ‘Who Did What to Whom? Physical Violence between Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity’, p. 35-48. 27 Fredriksen, ‘Roman Christianity and the Post-Roman World: The Social Correlates of the Contra Iudaeos Tradition.’, p. 256-59. 28 As noted by Fredriksen, ‘What “Parting of the Ways?” Jews and Gentiles in the Ancient Mediterranean City’, p. 95 and p. 254-55. 29 Millar, ‘Christian Emperors, Christian Church and Jews of the Diaspora in the Greek East’, p. 7. Kraemer calls Millar’s interpretation of the ‘Godfearers’ into question, arguing that ancient uses of the term are simply too confusing to conclude that it stands for ‘interstitial Gentile persons’ attracted to Jewish practices (‘Giving up the Godfearers’, p. 61-62, 71, n. 44); also see, Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses: Religion, Gender, and History in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean, p. 181-200. Fredriksen disagrees: though the term must be investigated carefully in every case, it can at least point to the pagan and Christian involvement in Jewish diaspora cultures (‘”If It Looks Like a Duck and It Quacks Like a Duck…”: On Not Giving Up the Godfearers’, p. 32-33). 30 Millar, ‘Christian Emperors, Christian Church and Jews of the Diaspora in the Greek East’.

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Christian fascination with Jewish feasts. Boundaries remained rather more fluid than any dyad that opposes ‘Jews’ to ‘Christians’ (or vice versa) can possibly capture. Such identitarian categories must be repeatedly performed and enforced, even as discrete actors – Gregory as well as modern scholars – employ them for their own performances of distinction and difference.31 Gregory’s comments about an ‘annual festival’ of the Maccabees therefore invite further scrutiny. A historical puzzle, the evidence for fourth-century instantiations of this cult remains entirely literary and circumstantial: there are no extant material traces of Maccabean martyr veneration prior to the sixth century;32 the books of Two and Four Maccabees (or portions of them) survive in only a few late antique Christian manuscripts (see Appendix II); and the liturgical settings of the feast must be reconstructed from sermons and oblique references, all of which are preserved only in much later manuscripts.33 Any reconstruction of the occasion for this cult’s seemingly swift and hasty introduction is therefore speculative. However one situates the Maccabean martyrs – as further evidence of ‘pragmatic religious pluralism’, as another example among many of the spiritualization of earlier martyr traditions, or as a rhetorical (if not actual) theft by Christians of heroes initially regarded as ‘saviours of the Jewish people’34 – the transfer of this tradition to uniquely Christian settings was a remarkable event.

Who Were the Maccabees? In a recent article, Tessa Rajak revisits the complex evidence for Jewish veneration of the Maccabean martyrs and reaches a striking conclusion: 31 Cf. Hesford, ‘Surviving Recognition and Racial In/justice’, p. 536-60 and Schiff ‘Confronting Political Responsibility: the Program of Acknowledgement’, p. 99 and 117. I do not mean to suggest that the frameworks of difference defended in the context of modern liberal states and discussed by these scholars are identical with what I am describing in this essay. Nevertheless, I will argue, fourth-century transformations of the Maccabean martyrs also served the purposes of producing categories of ‘groupness’ and difference. 32 By ‘material trace’, I refer to a set of relics interred in the basilica San Pietro in Vincoli (see note 8 above). 33 Medieval manuscripts and menologia place the feast on August 1, but no fourth-century sermon explicitly names the day in question. On the Latin tradition, see Joslyn-Siemiatkoski, Christian Memories of the Maccabean Martyrs, p. 103-10. For the Constantinopolitan feast, as it appears in the 10th century ‘typikon,’ see Mateos, Le Typicon de la Grande Église. Ms. Sainte-Croix no 40, Xe Siècle. Introduction, Texte Critique, Traduction et Notes, p. 356-57. 34 I borrow this term from van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees.

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though there is no evidence for an earlier, pre-Christian Jewish cult of these martyrs, in Antioch or elsewhere, there was certainly some kind of Jewish tradition of honouring these figures for their heroic resistance to Gentile oppression, a tradition shared by Jews and Christ-followers both.35 Affection for these martyrs ran deep in both communities, she argues, especially in Antioch where ties between Jews in that city and Jews dwelling in Judea remained strong.36 The martyr tradition represented in Four Maccabees therefore reveals a ‘common ground’, a possibility that can be read between the lines of the emphasis in Four Maccabees on Abraham’s role as a progenitor. ‘The Abrahamic referencing, which pervades the book’, she suggests, ‘would make good sense as a bid for common ground to Jews and Christians … [H]e is the standard-bearer of the biblical past that the “new Israel” had in common with the “old Israel”, a role he plays also in Paul’s Letter to the Galatians and in Hebrews.’37 Rajak interprets Four Maccabees as a hybrid work that can evince a shared world in which Gentile tyrants threatened devout worshippers of Israel’s God – Jewish and Christian alike – with persecution, violence, and covert as well as overt forms of marginalization. Rajak detects a shared second century Antiochene literary tradition in Four Maccabees and behind that, perhaps, a wider context of collective storytelling and memory. In the fourth century, Gregory also interpreted Four Maccabees, which he read as scripture, but he focused exclusively on the martyrs and de-emphasised the necessity of material resistance to actual Gentile tyrants like Antiochus. As such, Gregory stood within a broader tradition of reception among Christ-followers: the writer of Hebrews also alluded to the suffering martyrs, not to Antiochus per se (11:35b), followed in succession by the Letter of the Churches of Lyons and Vienne (55),38 Hippolytus of Rome’s Commentary on Daniel (35),39 Origen’s Exhortation to Martyrdom (22-27), 40 two works by Cyprian of Carthage (Ad Fortunatum 11 and Letter 58.6) and two early fourth-century martyrologies.41 This focus on 35 Rajak, ‘The Fourth Book of Maccabees in a Multi-Cultural City’, p. 134-50 (emphasis my own). 36 Also see van Henten, ‘The Martyrs as Heroes of the Christian People: Some Remarks on the Continuity of Jewish and Christian Martyrology, with Pagan Analogy’, p. 304-24. 37 Rajak, ‘The Fourth Book of Maccabees in a Multi-Cultural City’, p. 149. 38 Preserved by Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 5.1.55 (SC 41:20-21). 39 SC 14:126-27. 40 Exhoratation to Martyrdom 23 (GCS 2: 3-47). English translation by Chadwick Alexandrian Christianity, p. 408. For further discussion, see Van Henten, ‘The Christianization of the Maccabean Martyrs: The Case of Origen’, p. 333-51. 41 Passio Sanctorum Mariani et Iacobi 13.1-3a. Cavalieri, ‘La Passio SS. Mariani et Iacobi’, p. 62. Passio Sanctorum Montani et Lucii 16.3-4. Cavalieri, Gli atti dei ss. Montano, Lucio e Compagni :

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the martyrs – who are never placed within the larger context of the war their torments provoked – is also found in the earliest manuscript witnesses to Two Maccabees. Rather than preserving the entirety of the book, two Coptic codices, one of which is a roll and the other a miscellaneous codex, include only the account of Jewish suffering under Antiochus, beginning from the moment that Judas Maccabee, the eventual leader of the revolt, retreats to the wilderness to preserve himself from Gentile atrocities and ending with the warning, ‘but you, who have contrived all sorts of evil against the Hebrews, will certainly not escape the hands of God’ (2 Macc 5:27-7:31). 42 As such, these two manuscripts offer a striking material confirmation of the way that the Maccabean heroes were already being treated by Christian writers. 43 To these early interpreters, the Maccabees were principally important for their precedence as proto-martyrs, not for their role in instigating the Recensione del Testo ed Introduzione Sulle sue Relazioni con la Passio s. Perpetuae. Hilhorst also notes that, in Christian receptions of Four Maccabees, the theme of the martyrs as saviours of the Jewish people is overlooked (Fourth Maccabees in Christian Martyrdom Texts’, p. 118). 42 The f irst, a papyrus roll preserving most of the martyrology (Two Maccabees 5:27-7:21), circulated independently; the second, a papyrus codex with nearly identical content (Two Maccabees 5:27-7:41), binds the martyrology with a collection of Christian works, including Melito of Sardis’s homily On the Passover, 1 Peter, the book of Jonah and an otherwise unknown Christian homily. Introduction to the Coptic text, translation, notes and Coptic variant readings of the Crosby-Schøyen Codex MS 193 by Meltzer, ‘The Jewish Martyrs: 2 Maccabees 5:27-7:41’, p. 83-86. The papyrus roll is edited and discussed by Lacau, ‘Textes Coptes en Dialects Akhmimique et Sahidique’, p. 68-76. On Crosby-Schøyen 193, see further Bethge, ‘Der Text des ersten Petrusbriefes im Crosby-Schøyen Codex (Ms. 193 Schøyen Collection)’, p. 255-60, and Nongbri, ‘The Limits of Palaeographic Dating of Literary Papyri: Some Observations on the Date and Provenance of P. Bodmer II (P66)’, p. 23. 43 Hebrews alluded to them by mentioning their tortures, and in a way that suggests familiarity with the account in Two Maccabees (11:35b). Hippolytus encouraged his Roman Christian audience to emulate the brothers and their mother, citing Two Maccabees explicitly and placing these martyrs in company with Daniel and the three Hebrew boys persecuted by Nebuchadnezzar (Commentary on Daniel 2.20.1-5; 35.8-9). Origen reminded his audience of the ‘whips and scourges’ and other instruments of torture mentioned in Two Maccabees, extolling Eleazar, the brothers and their mother for their bravery (Exhortation to Martyrdom 22-27; Origen cites nearly every verse of 2 Macc 6:19 7:35 in the Exhortation). Cyprian also quoted extensively from the martyrological section of Two Maccabees, waxing eloquently about the perfection of the number seven and the heroism of the mother, who ‘looked on her dying children with cheerfulness” (Ad Fortunatum 11). A shared focus on the mother is also present in all three of the martyr acts which cite the story: Blandina is compared to her, as are the mothers of Marian and Montanus (Letter of the Churches of Lyons and Vienne 55, Passio Sanctorum Mariani et Iacobi 13:1-3a, Acta ss. Montani et Lucii 16.3-4). Of these early citations, only Origen reaches beyond the martyrology to include other sections of the book yet, as van Henten rightly points out, ‘Origen restricts the beneficiary effect of the martyrs’ death to their personal fate, the martyrs themselves are purified by their sufferings’ (‘The Christianization of the Maccabean Martyrs: The Case of Origen’, p. 351).

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Maccabean revolt. 44 The brothers Maccabee – the revolt they initiated and the Hasmonean kingdom they founded – were largely ignored. 45 By contrast, both allusions to the Maccabean books and martyrs by Josephus and the introductory material to their story in Two Maccabees preserve the Hasmonean setting of the legend. Josephus compared the martyrs’ suffering to that of the Essenes who refused to capitulate to Roman persecution during the First Jewish Revolt: ‘The war against the Romans proved their souls in every way’, he asserted, ‘while being twisted and also bent, burned and also broken, and passing through all the torture-chamber instruments … they did not put up with suffering either one’ (Jewish War 2.152-153). 46 This depiction invites sympathy both for the Maccabean revolt and for those who suffered righteously under Roman oppression, though Josephus did not expect God to intervene in response. 47 In the Jewish Antiquities, he referenced a feast (πανήγυρις) held in honour of these events: ‘So much pleasure did they [the Jews of Jerusalem] find in the renewal of their customs … that they made a law that their descendants should celebrate the restoration of the temple service for eight days …’ (12.7.323-25). This commemorative festival, which ‘we’ 44 In fact, Latin Christian writers may not have known Two and Four Maccabees at all, but only a set of oral traditions about the martyrs, which they cited loosely to support their own arguments, Ziadé, Les martyrs Maccabées: de l’histoire juive au culte chrétien: les homélies de Grégoire de Nazianze et de Jean Chrysostome, p. 29-32. Cyprian of Carthage, for example, recalled ‘the oppressive torments of the blessed martyrs in the Machabees,’ noting that ‘the documents testify’ to their great faith, even as he fails to specify which ‘documents’ he means (Letter 58.6). 45 Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum 33, SC 39: 115; compare 2 Macc 9:5-6, 9. Lucifer of Cagliari, De non conueniendo cum haereticis 13, citing 2 Macc 5:27; CSEL 14: 27 and De non parcendo in deum delinquentibus 21, citing 2 Macc 7:14 38; CSEL 14: 254-56. This same model would be applied by John Chrysostom to the Emperor Julian’s uncle, also named Julian, fifty years later, Homily on Saint Babylas, or Against Julian and the Pagans 17.92. Julian’s uncle Julian, Count of the Orient, stole the vessels of the Christian basilicas of Antioch, beat them flat and sat on them, John reports, but the ‘punishment was swift’ for ‘his secret parts withered and swarmed with maggots’, English translation Morgan, ‘Gregory of Nazianzus. Against Julian and the Pagans’, p. 68. 46 Jewish War 2.152-153. English translation Mason, Flavius Josephus. Translation and Commentary, p. 121-23. I would like to thank Jonathan Klawans for discussing this passage with me. Van Henten has noted the many correspondences between Josephus’s descriptions of noble death and the martyrological sections of Two and Four Maccabees, ‘Noble Death in Josephus: Just Rhetoric?, p. 193-219. 47 Yet, as Jonathan Klawans observes, Josephus was well aware that the heroism of the Essenes failed to produce Jewish victory; Josephus, like the rabbis, was ambivalent about martyrdom for its own sake, Josephus and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism, p. 123-26. Josephus’s attitude toward the Romans is ambiguous, as a number of scholars have noted; see, for example, Rajak, ‘Friends, Romans, Subjects: Agrippa II’s Speech in Josephus’s Jewish War’, p. 147-60.

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observe, is identified as ‘the Festival of Lights (φῶτα)’, a name Josephus links to the fact that the right to worship appeared to us at a time when we hardly dared hope for it’ (12.7.325). 48 Thus, to Josephus, the martyrs’ suffering certif ies the legitimacy of the Hasmonean cause and, writing after the destruction of the Temple, a tragic reflection on what had once been possible. 49 Two Maccabees offers further supporting evidence for this alternative framing of the martyrs: in the two letters that preface the book, the writer invites the Jews of Egypt to join in the observance of a newly instituted eight-day feast with the Jews of Judea. The second letter concludes, ‘Since, therefore, we are about to celebrate the purification [of the temple], we write to you. Will you therefore please keep the days?’ (2 Macc 2:16, NRSV).50 As Jan Willem Van Henten points out, invitations from one Greek city to another to join local feast days were sometimes accompanied by historical reports similar to the accounts that follow; thus the writer of Two Maccabees may well have had this Greek model in mind when composing his own work.51 If so, the martyr traditions were included to deepen appreciation for the ‘feast of lights’, not to found a martyr cult. Four Maccabees preserves a trace of this memory, describing the martyrs as victors in a ‘contest’ (ἀγών) with victory crowns, spectators, and an arena, employing activities associated with Greek feast days as metaphors to describe the martyrs’ sufferings.52 48 Greek text with English translation by Marcus, Josephus. Vol. 9, Jewish Antiquities, Book XII-XIV, p. 166-69. 49 Jewish Antiquities 12.7.323-25. Greek text with English translation by Marcus, Josephus. Vol. 9, Jewish Antiquities, Book XII-XIV, p. 166-69. 50 Two Maccabees is prefaced with two festal letters, the f irst informing Egyptian Jews of the ‘critical distress’ suffered by the Judeans during the reign of Demetrius and their efforts to restore the observances associated with the Feast of Booths (Sukkot; 1:1-9) and the second inviting their Egyptian countrymen to join in the commemoration of the purifications of the Jerusalem Temple undertaken after the outrages performed by Antiochus (2 Macc 1:10; 2:8). The rest of the book, which had been appended from an earlier epitome of a five-volume historical work by one Jason of Cyrene, appears to offer a rationale for this second celebration and (2 Macc 2:23). 51 Van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees, p. 46-48. 52 Four Maccabees 9:23 (‘Imitate me, brothers. Do not leave your post in my struggle [ἀγών] or renounce our courageous family ties. Fight the sacred and noble battle for religion [περὶ τῆς εὐσεβείας]); 11:20 (While being tortured he said, ‘O contest [ἀγών] befitting holiness, in which so many of us brothers have been summoned to an arena of sufferings for religion [διὰ τὴν εὐσέβειαν εἰς γυμνασίαν], and in which we have not been defeated!’); 15:29 (‘O mother of the nation, vindicator of the law and champion of religion, who carried away the prize of the contest [ἀγών] in your heart!’); 16:16 (‘My sons, noble is the contest [ἀγών] to which you are called to bear witness for the nation.’); 17:11-15 (‘Truly the contest [ἀγών] in which they were engaged was

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Admittedly there is no evidence to suggest that this Hasmonean Festival of Lights was embraced in Egypt or elsewhere in the Diaspora early on, though, as Jonathan Klawans notes, Josephus did assert that the holiday was ‘established as a “law”’ (Ant. 12.324: ὡς νόμον θεῖναι; see also 12.412). Later rabbinic traditions display an awareness that Hanukkah was a postbiblical festival, but the rabbis adopted it as a legitimate holiday.53 Thus, Gregory’s reference to ‘annual processions’ may well have been directed at those observing Hanukkah outside of the basilica that day, rather than to Christians in his audience ‘embarrassed’ by the veneration of these Jewish martyrs. In 1994, Martha Vinson proposed this scenario. She argued that the bishop delivered this panegyric in December 362 CE while the Emperor Julian was residing in Antioch and preparing for his Persian campaign.54 If so, when read closely, the sermon rebukes Julian for his anti-Christian policies, above all for his stated determination to rebuild the Jerusalem Temple, a tantalising possibility to contemplate during a procession honouring the Temple’s earlier liberation. Gregory’s disdain for Julian, made plain in two formal invectives delivered immediately after the Emperor’s death,55 is veiled, but the implications of his words are clear: when interpreted properly, Four Maccabees celebrates Christian self-mastery, not the rededication of the Temple following the abuses of Antiochus IV Epiphanes. By implication, any feast ‘of the Maccabees’ applies to the martyrs alone and cannot be referenced in the context of any future Temple. This reading receives further support elsewhere in Gregory’s remarks. Emphasising the relative futility and insignificance of the Jerusalem Temple, the bishop invented a ‘speech-in-character’ for the eldest Maccabean brother who proclaims: ‘our ancestral homeland and our friends and our kinsmen divine, for on that day virtue gave the awards and tested them for their endurance. The prize was immortality in endless life. Eleazar was the first contestant, the mother of the seven sons entered the competition, and the brothers contended. The tyrant was the antagonist, and the world and the human race were spectators. Reverence for God was victor and gave the crown to its own athletes.’) 53 Klawans, Josephus and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism, p. 159, 169. For further discussion, see Van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees, p. 38-46. Hanukkah is listed as a minor festival in the Mishnah, but the martyrs are not mentioned, M Megillah 3.4; Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years, p. 537, 554, 591, 637. 54 Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily 15 and the Genesis of the Christian Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs’, p. 166-92. Vinson admits that August 1, which became the traditional date of the Christian feast, is possible; the placement of the sermon in December in the context of Hanukkah, however, solves other dating problems as well, p. 188. 55 Orations 4 and 5, ‘Against Julian.’ (SC 309).

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and comrades and this temple with its great and celebrated name and time honoured festivals and rites’ are in no way sweeter ‘than God and the dangers we encounter on behalf of goodness’ (Or. 15.5). The true homeland of the martyrs is the Jerusalem above, the brother insists, and heaven with its splendour far surpasses any earthly temple and the rites observed there. This endorsement of an otherworldly heavenly Jerusalem, realised exclusively by the righteous soul, has significant this-worldly implications: Julian’s attempt to reinstate Jewish sacrifices at a restored temple can have no real impact on the worshippers of the God of Israel revealed in Christ, who are, in turn, heirs to the Maccabees. Not everyone has been convinced by Vinson’s suggestion about the occasion for this sermon.56 Still, John Chrysostom’s homilies, delivered approximately seventeen years later in Antioch, also connect the martyrs to ‘lights’, albeit obliquely, as well as to an earlier feast held in honour of the Maccabees. The first, a homily celebrating the ‘holy martyrs’ light’ (τὸ φῶς τῶν ἁγίων μαρτύρων) which illuminates the city throughout a festival currently underway, focuses on the courage of the mother; the second, which may have been delivered the day after the first, focuses on the trials endured by the brothers.57 Exhibiting the daring rhetorical audacity for which he is so well known, John also invoked these same martyrs to argue that Jews, not Christians, are plagued by a propensity for violence. Jews are guilty, he suggests, of applying the very same torments to Christians that were once applied to the seven Maccabean boys for refusing to eat pork: ‘How many wars have been fanned against the church … or kinds of punishment and persecution contrived’, including those involving ‘frying pans and catapults, cauldrons and furnaces?’ (Homily 5 Against the Jews, 2).58 If both Christians and Jews commemorated the brothers Maccabee and the martyrs, which seems likely given John’s sustained polemic against Christians who foolishly (indeed, heretically) observe Jewish feast days and visit Jewish synagogues, then John’s rhetoric here is particularly pointed.59 56 Rouwhorst, ‘The Emergence of the Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs in Late Antique Christianity’, p. 81-96. 57 John Chrysostom, Homily 1 on the Maccabees and Homily 2 on the Maccabees. PG 50: p. 617-626. English translation Mayer, St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters, p. 137-53. 58 PG 48:885-6. English translation Maxwell, Chrysostom’s Homilies Against the Jews: An English Translation, p. 115. As Maxwell notes, 2 Maccabees 7:3 suggests that, when torturing the mother and her seven sons, Antiochus Epiphanes called for ‘pans and cauldrons’, ἔκθυμος δὲ γενόμενος ὁ βασιλεὺς προσέταξεν τήγανα καὶ λέβητας ἐκπυροῦν, also see 4 Macc 8:13. 59 Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late Fourth Century, remains important. The mention of martyrs’ lights in the first homily (‘more brilliant than ten

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Any earlier, shared tradition becomes in John’s fourth-century sermons means to legitimate a distinctively Christian holiday, complete with martyr relics: Please don’t mention the dust (κόνις), nor think about the ash (τέφρα), nor the bones (ὀστεα) that have been consumed by time, but open wide the eyes of faith (ἄνοιξον τῆς πίστεως τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς) and see God’s power that accompanies them, the grace of Spirit that clothes them, the glory of the heavenly light that surrounds them (Homily 1.1).60

In Nazianzus and Antioch, the ‘Festival of Lights’ for which the Maccabees were known in earlier traditions – whether widely observed or not – was transferred to a setting that confirmed not the victory of sustained Jewish opposition to Gentile tyranny but the grace extended by the Christian God exclusively to those who embrace Christ.61

Christians, Jews, and Everyone Else Certainly the Maccabean martyrs are spiritualised in these fourth-century sermons, but festal celebrations are also embodied performances, both of the bishops preaching to those gathered in the basilica and of the audiences in attendance, as well as among those processing to and from sacred sites within and outside of the city. Indeed, preaching a third sermon honouring the Maccabean martyrs, this time (probably) in Constantinople a decade thousand suns and more visible than the major stars’) is interesting, Homily 1.1: μυρίων γὰρ ἡλίων οὗτοι λαμπρότεροι, καὶ τῶν μεγάλων φωστήρων φανότεροι, PG 50:16; Mayer, St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters, p. 137, though John makes no explicit mention of Hanukkah and, unlike Gregory, he does not complain that the Christians of his city have yet to adopt a holiday observed by others. Joslyn-Siemiatkoski notes that Chrysostom avoids mentioning a rival Jewish cult of the Maccabees on several occasions, an omission he f inds significant, Christian Memories of the Maccabean Martyrs, p. 49-50). Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily 15 and the Genesis of the Christian Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs’, as well as Mayer and Allen, The Churches of Syrian Antioch (300-638 CE)), conclude that a church was constructed within the walls of Antioch to support the activities associated with this feast. 60 English translation Mayer, St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters, p. 137. Wherever these relics were acquired, I see no reason to doubt the possibility that John had some set of bones to display; as Mayer and Allen have shown, relics and even entire bodies were carried through the city any number of times during John’s day, The Churches of Syrian Antioch (300-638 CE), p. 194-97. 61 Also see Hahn, ‘The Veneration of the Maccabean Brothers in Fourth Century Antioch: Religious Competition, Martyrdom, and Innovation’, p. 79-104.

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after the cult was introduced in Antioch, John Chrysostom encouraged his audience to ‘go off [from the basilica] with considerable enthusiasm’, to attend a festival in the martyrs’ honour the next day, and to prove themselves ‘worthy of sharing with them there too their holy dwellings [in heaven].’62 The bishop hoped that, while visiting what must have been a recently constructed martyrium or basilica on the day of the feast (by then August 1), his congregants would perform a visibly Christian identity, comporting themselves honourably while their (non-Christian?) neighbours looked on. Such performances of Christian difference would, he implied, further certify the appropriately Christian character of these proto-Christian martyrs. But who observed the procession that day, who sought inspiration from the martyrs at their new home, and how were participants recognised as either ‘Christian’ or something else? Unfortunately, that information has been lost. We will simply never know. On the surface, the transformation of formerly shared Maccabee traditions into a Christian Maccabean martyr cult is therefore symptomatic of a wider embodied multiplicity within which seemingly bounded categories of difference – Jew, Christian, pagan, Roman, Greek, and so on – were invented, defended, and performed. Yet these ongoing dynamics of relational, conjectural difference within shared civic spaces should not blind modern interpreters to troubling legacies of a Christian encapsulations of a Jewish ‘other.’63 As John Gager cautions, late antique rhetoric did have toxic and abiding consequences: the critical responses of bishops to the appeal of synagogues among their congregants; Christian setbacks under Julian; successful appeals by Jews before emperors in the face of Christian violence; and specious reports of extreme Jewish violence told by Christians to Christians endured, he suggests, like ‘nuclear waste’.64 Even if ‘merely rhetorical’, the anti-Jewish sermons of John Chrysostom were read in liturgical contexts for centuries, granting them ‘a long afterlife in popular memory and in the popular literature’ and providing a firmer ground for later Christian antiJewish rhetoric, theology, and policies.65 Gager’s remarks can also be applied to the Christian Maccabean martyr cult. Gregory’s Oration 15, ‘In Praise of the Maccabees’, survives in a number of Byzantine sermon collections, 62 Mayer, St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters, p. 134. 63 I borrow the term ‘transcultural’ from Rogers, St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters, p. 464-503. I would like to thank Ipsita Chatterjee for calling my attention to this article. 64 Gager, ‘Who Did What to Whom? Physical Violence between Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity’, p. 48. 65 Ibid.

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including a ninth-century illuminated manuscript that illustrates the martyrs’ suffering in a nine-scene grid scene (Paris, Bibliothéque Nationale de France, codex graecus 510, folio 340r).66 The Maccabean martyr cult and the sermons designated for delivery on this important day went on to enjoy a long history in both the Greek East and the Latin West. The fourth-century re-signification of these martyrs as Christian may not have involved explicit property theft or plunder, but it did participate in what Andrew Jacobs describes as the ‘historicization’ of the Jew, a process that renders living Jews merely ‘historical’ by transferring the Jew or the Jew’s remains into an embodied, living Christian past. This discursive strategy, he points out, demands a kind of death: Jews are imagined as ‘dead’ once they have supplied Christians what they need for their own theological and practical projects, and, as such, ‘they can only be viewed, displayed, and catalogued for future observers.’67 Whatever Gregory and later John intended when they defended the value of venerating the Maccabean martyrs – spiritualisation, appropriation, attention within a cosmopolitan civic-religious landscape, a rebuke or Julian, or some other purpose – once the martyrs were detached from earlier commemorative contexts, they served to buttress particular, disputed formulations of Christian rather than Jewish identity. The reverberations of this process reach beyond their initial settings and Christian anti-Judaism, rhetorical or real, has persisted within ongoing and contested histories of difference.

66 Brubaker, Vision and Meaning in Ninth-Century Byzantium: Image as Exegesis in the Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus, p. 257-60. The tenth-century Leo Bible – a two volume illuminated edition of the Septuagint and the New Testament (only the Septuagint survives) – added both an illumination and a Greek epigram around an image of Eleazar, the seven brothers, and their mother (Vatican City, Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana Reg. grec.1) extolling the ‘exploit of the Maccabees’, Mango, ‘The Epigrams’, p. 74. 67 Jacobs, The Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christian Empire in Late Antiquity, p. 111-12.

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Appendix I: A Timeline of Maccabean Martyr Traditions (to the 6th cent.) ca. 80 Josephus, Jewish War 2.152-53 ca. 100 Hebrews 11:35b 177 Letter of the Churches of Lyons and Vienne 55 (Eusebius, HE 5.1.55) 202-204 Hippolytus, Commentary on Daniel 2.20.1-5; 35.8-9 235 Origen Exhortation to Martyrdom 22-27 Cyprian of Carthage Ad Fortunatum 11 252/8 Martyrdom of Marian and James 13.1-3a68 259 304 Martyrdom of Montanus and Lucius 16.3-4 314 Lactantius On the Death of the Persecutors 33 before 340 Eusebius of Caesarea, Onomasticon 356-357 Lucifer of Cagliari, De non conveniendo cum hareticis 13 359 Lucifer, De non parcendo in deum delinquentibus 21-23, 35 362/3 Gregory of Nazianzus Oration 15 367 Athanasius Festal Letter 39 (the Maccabean books are excluded) after 379 John Chrysostom Hom.1 and 2 on the Maccabees 386 Ambrose, On Jacob and the Happy Life 388 Ambrose, Epistle 74 after 390 Jerome translates Eusebius’s Onomasticon 398/9 John Chrysostom On Eleazar and the Seven Boys ?? Augustine Sermons 300-301 419 Council of Carthage, 1-2 Maccabees listed as recognized books before 461 Leo the Great, Sermon 84b 551-561 Relics of the Seven Brothers translated to San Pietro in Vincoli before 578 John Malalas Chronographia 8.2469

68 These North African martyrs were allegedly killed in 259. The description of their deaths was written sometime later, probably in the early fourth century, see Bremmer, ‘Contextualizing Heaven in Third-Century North Africa’, p. 159-73. 69 Thurn, John Malalas. Chronographia.

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Appendix 2: Early Manuscript Witnesses to 2 and 4 Maccabees (to the 10th cent.) Shelf Mark

Date (approximate)

Language

Contents

Oslo, Private collection Schøyen 193. LDAB 10771 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale Copte 135 C (Lacau MS B). LDAB 107963 London, British Library Add. MS 43725 (‫ א‬01) Codex Sinaiticus London, British Library Royal 1 DVIII (A 02) Codex Alexandrinus St. Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 12.

4th cent.

Coptic

2 Macc 5:27-7:31

4th cent

Coptic

2 Macc 5:27-6:21 (fragmentary, a roll)

4th cent.

Greek

1 and 4 Maccabees

5th cent.

Greek

1-4 Maccabees

8th or 9th cent.

Latin (Vulgate)

before 716

Latin (Vulgate)

8th cent.

Greek

1-2 Maccabees and 4 Maccabees (here the Passio Machabaeorum) 1-2 Maccabees (following Ezra as one of the historical books) 1-4 Maccabees (following Judith)

879-882 CE

Greek

10th cent.

Greek

10th cent.

Greek

Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana Amiat. 1 Codex Amiatinus Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Macrina, gr. Z 001 (coll. 0320) Codex Venetus Paris, Bibliothèque nationale grec 510 Vatican City, Biblioteca apostolica Vatincana Reg. grec 1 Leo Bible Paris, Bibliothèque nationale Coisl. 008

Gregory of Nazianzus Orations 1-4 Maccabees (within volume 1 of a full 2 volume Bible, between Tobit and Job; only the LXX survives) 1-2 Maccabees (following Judith)

Works Cited Bardy, Gustave. (1995). Eusèbe de Césarée. Histoire ecclésiastique, Vol. 3. SC 41. Paris: Éditions du Cerf. Bethge, Hans-Gebhard. (1993). ‘Der Text des ersten Petrusbriefes im CrosbySchøyen-Codex (Ms. 193 Schøyen Collection)’. Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunke der älteren Kirche 84: 255-267. Bickermann, Elias. (1951). ‘Les Maccabées de Malalas’. Byzantion 21: 73-83.

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Bremmer, Jan. (2004). ‘Contextualizing Heaven in Third-Century North Africa’. In Heavenly Realms and Earthly Realities in Late Antique Religions. Ra’anan S. Boustan and Annette Yoshiko Reed (eds.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 159-73. Brooten, Bernadette. (2000). ‘The Jews of Ancient Antioch’. In Antioch: The Lost Ancient City. Christine Kondoleon (ed.). Princeton: Princeton University Press, in Cooperation with the Worcester Art Museum, 29-37. Brubaker, Leslie. (1999). Vision and Meaning in Ninth-Century Byzantium: Image as Exegesis in the Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Canart, Paul (ed.). (2011). ‘Notice Codicologique et Paléographique’. In La Bible du Patrice Léon. Codex Reginensis Graecus 1. Commentaire Codicologique, Paléographique, Philologique et Artistique. Studi e Testi 463. Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 3-58. Caner, Daniel (ed and trans). (2010). History and Hagiography from Late Antique Sinai. Translated Texts for Historians 53. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Cavalieri, Pio Franchi De’. (1900). ‘La Passio SS. Mariani et Iacobi’. Studi e Testi 3. Rome: Tipografia Vaticana. Cavalier, Pio Franchi De’. (1898). Gli atti dei ss. Montano, Lucio e Compagnie: Recensione del Testo ed Introduzione Sulle sue Relazioni con la Passio s. Perpatuae. Römische Quartalschrift für christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte. Suppplementheft 8. Rome: Herder’schen Verlagshandlung. Chadwick, Henry. (1954). Alexandrian Christianity. Library of Christian Classics 2. London: SCM Press. Dohrmann, Natalie and Annette Yoshiko Reed (eds.). (2013). Jews, Christians, and the Roman Empire: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Frankfurter, David. (2018). Christianizing Egypt: Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Frankfurter, David (ed.). (1998). Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt. RGRW 134. Leiden: Brill. Fredriksen, Paula. (2008). Augustine and the Jews: A Christian Defense of Jews and Judaism. New York: Doubleday. Fredriksen, Paula. (2015). ‘“If It Looks Like a Duck and It Quacks Like a Duck…”: On Not Giving Up the Godfearers’. In A Most Reliable Witness: Essays in Honor of Ross Shepard Kraemer. Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Nathaniel Desrosiers, Shira L. Lander, Jacqueline Z (eds.). Pastis and Daniel Ullucci. Providence: Brown University Press, 25-34. Fredriksen, Paula. (2013). ‘Roman Christianity and the Post-Roman World: The Social Correlates of the Contra Iudaeos Tradition’. In Jews, Christians, and the Roman

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Empire: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity. Natalie Dohrmann and Annette Yosiko Reed (eds.). Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 249-66. Fredriksen, Paula. (2003/2007). ‘What “Parting of the Ways?” Jews and Gentiles in the Ancient Mediterranean City’. In The Ways that Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages. Adam H. Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed (eds.). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; repr. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 35-63. Gager, John. (2015). ‘Who Did What to Whom? Physical Violence between Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity’. In A Most Reliable Witness: Essays in Honor of Ross Shepard Kraemer. Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Nathaniel Desrosiers, Shira L. Lander, Jacqueline Z (eds.). Pastis and Daniel Ullucci. Providence: Brown University Press, 35-48. Gardner, Gregg and Kevin L. Osterloh (eds.). (2008). Antiquity in Antiquity: Jewish and Christian Pasts in the Greco-Roman World. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Grabar, André. (1946). Martyrium: Recherches sur le culte des reliques et l’art chrétien antique. 2 vols. Paris: Collège de France. Hahn, Johannes. (2012). ‘The Veneration of the Maccabean Brothers in Fourth Century Antioch: Religious Competition, Martyrdom, and Innovation’. In Dying for the Faith, Killing for the Faith: Old-Testament Faith-Warriors (1 and 2 Maccabees) in Historical Perspective. Gabriela Signori (ed.). Brill Studies in Intellectual History; Leiden: Brill, 79-104. Hartel, Wilhelm. (1886). Luciferi Calaritani Opuscula. CSEL 14. Vindobonae: C. Geroldi. Hesford, Wendy. (2015). ‘Surviving Recognition and Racial In/justice’. Philosophy and Rhetoric 48 (4): 536-60. Hilhorst, Ton. (2000). ‘Fourth Maccabees in Christian Martyrdom Texts’. In Ultima Aetas: Time, Tense and Transience in the Ancient World. Studies in Honour of Jan den Boeft. Caroline Kroon and Daan den Hengst (eds.). Amsterdam: VU University Press, 107-21. Hill, Edmund. (1994). Augustine. Sermons, vol. III/8, Sermons 273-305A. The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century. Hyde Park, NY: New City Press. Jacobs, Andrew. (2004). The Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christian Empire in Late Antiquity. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Joslyn-Siemiatkoski, Daniel. (2009). Christian Memories of the Maccabean Martyrs. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Kerkeslager Allen. (1998). ‘Jewish Pilgrimage and Jewish Identity in Hellenistic and Early Roman Egypt’. In Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt. David Frankfurther (ed.), RGRW 143. Leiden: Brill, 99-225. Klawans, Jonathan. (2012). Josephus and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Koetschau, P. (1899). Origenes Werke, vol. 1. GCS 2. Leipzig: Hinrichs.

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Klostermann, Erich. (1904). Eusebius Werke. Vol. 3.1, Das Onamastikon der Biblischen Ortsnamen. GCS. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Kraemer, Ross. (2014). ‘Giving up the Godfearers’. Journal of Ancient Judaism 5: 61-87. Kraemer, Ross. (2010). Unreliable Witnesses: Religion, Gender, and History in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Limberis, Vasiliki. (2011). Architects of Piety: The Cappadocian Fathers and the Cult of the Martyrs. New York and London: Oxford University Press. Lacau, Pierre. (1911). ‘Textes Coptes en Dialects Akhmimique et sahidique’. Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale du Caire 8: 43-109. Levine, Lee. (2000). The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. New Haven: Yale University Press. Mango, Cyril. (2011). ‘The Epigrams’. In La Bible du Patrice Léon. Codex Reginensis Graecus 1. Commentaire codicologique, paléographique, philologique et artistique. Paul Canart (ed.), Studi e Testi 463. Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 59-79. Marcus, Ralph. (1943). Josephus. Vol. 9, Jewish Antiquities, Book XII-XIV. LCL 433. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Mason, Steve (ed.). (2008). Flavius Josephus. Translation and Commentary, Vol. 1b, Judean War 2. Leiden: Brill. Mateos, Juan. (1962). Le Typicon de la Grande Église. Ms. Sainte-Croix no 40, Xe Siècle. Introduction, Texte Critique, Traduction et Notes. Tome I, Le cycle des Douze Mois. Rome: Pont. Institutum Orientalium Studiorum. Maxwell, Mervin. (1966). Chrysostom’s Homilies Against the Jews: An English Translation. PhD dissertation. University of Chicago. Mayer, Wendy. (1999). ‘“Les homélies de s. Jean Chrysostome en juillet 399”: A Second Look at Pargoire’s Sequence and the Chronology of the Novae homiliae (CPG 4441)’. Byzantinoslavica 60 (2): 285-87. Mayer, Wendy. (2006). St. John Chrysostom. The Cult of the Saints: Select Homilies and Letters. Popular Patristics Series. Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press. Mayer, Wendy and Pauline Allen. (2012). The Churches of Syrian Antioch (300-638 CE). Late Antique History and Religion 5. Leuven: Peeters. McHugh, Michael. (1972). Saint Ambrose: Seven Exegetical Works. FC 22. Washington, D. C.: Catholic University Press of America. Meltzer, Edmund. (1990). ‘The Jewish Martyrs: 2 Maccabees 5:27-7:41’. In The Crosby Schøyen Codex MS 193 in the Schøyen Collection. James E. Goehring (ed.), CSCO 521, Subsidia 85; Louvain: Peeters, 83-86. Millar, Fergus. (2004). ‘Christian Emperors, Christian Church and Jews of the Diaspora in the Greek East’. Journal of Jewish Studies 55 (1): 1-24. Moreau, Jacques. (1955). Lactance. De la mort des persécuteurs. SC 39. Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf.

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Morgan, Marna M. (1989). ‘Gregory of Nazianzus. Against Julian and the Pagans’. In The Emperor Julian: Panegyric and Polemic. Samuel N. C. Lieu (ed.). Translated Texts for Historians 2. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 59-79. Nongbri, Brent. (2014). ‘The Limits of Palaeographic Dating of Literary Papyri: Some Observations on the Date and Provenance of P. Bodmer II (P66)’. MusHelv. 71: 1-35. Obermann, Julian. (1931). ‘The Sepulchre of the Maccabean Martyrs’. Journal of Biblical Literature 50 (4): 250-65. Papaconstaninou, Arietta. (1993). Le Culte des Saints en Egypte: d’Après la Documentation Papyrologique et Épigraphique Greque (Ve-VIIe siècle). Université des Sciences Humaines de Strasbourg. Lille: A.N.R.T Université de Lille III. Papaconstantinou, Arietta. (2006). ‘Historiography, Hagiography, and the Making of the Coptic “Church of the Martyrs” in Early Islamic Egypt’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 60: 65-86. Rajak, Tessa. (2016). ‘The Fourth Book of Maccabees in a Multi-Cultural City’. In Jewish and Christian Communal Identities in the Roman World. Ancient Judaism and early Christianity 94. Yair Furstenberg (ed.). Leiden: Brill, 134-50. Rajak, Tessa. (2002). ‘Friends, Romans, Subjects: Agrippa II’s Speech in Josephus’s Jewish War’. In The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cultural and Social Interaction. Tessa Rajak (ed.). Leiden: Brill, 147-60. Rampolla, Cardinal da Tindaro. (1899). ‘Martyre et sepulture des Macchabées’. Revue de l’Art Chrétien 48: 290-305, 377-92, 457-65. Reed, Annette Yoshiko. (forthcoming). ‘After “Origins,” Beyond “Identity,” and Before “Religion(s)”’. Epilogue to Reed. Jewish-Christianity and the History of Judaism. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Reed Annette Yoshiko and Natalie B. Dohrmann (eds.). (2013). Rethinking Romanness, Provincializing Christendom: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Rogers, Richard. (2006). ‘From Cultural Exchange to Transculturation: A Review and Reconceptualization of Cultural Appropriation’. Communication Theory 16: 464-503. Rouwhorst, Gerard. (2005). ‘The Emergence of the Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs in Late Antique Christianity’. In More than a Memory: The Discourse of Martyrdom and the Construction of Christian Identity in the History of Christianity. Johan Leemans. Annua Nuntia Lovaniensia (eds.). Leuven: Peeters: 81-96. Rutgers, Leonard. (1998). ‘The Importance of Scripture in the Conflict Between Jews and Christians: The Example of Antioch’. In The Use of Sacred Books in the Ancient World. L. V. Rutgers, et. al (eds.). Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 22. Louvain: Peeters, 287-302.

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Schatkin, Margaret. (1974). ‘The Maccabean Martyrs’. Vigiliae Christianae 28 (2): 97-113. Schiff, Joseph. (2008). ‘Confronting Political Responsibility: the Program of Acknowledgement’. Hypatia 23 (3): 99-117. Stemberger, Günter. (1987). Juden und Christen im Heiligen Land. München: Beck. Thurn, Hans (ed.). (2000). John Malalas. Chronographia. Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae 35. Berlin: De Gruyter. Triebel, Lothar. (2006). ‘Die Angebliche Synagoge der Makkabäischen Märtyrer in Antiochia am Orontes’. Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 9 (3): 464-95. Van Henten, Jan Willem. (1997). The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviors of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees. Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 57. Leiden: Brill. Van Henten, Jan Willem. (1995). ‘The Martyrs as Heroes of the Christian People: Some Remarks on the Continuity of Jewish and Christian Martyrology, with Pagan Analogy’. In Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective: Memorial Louis Reekmans. M. Lamberigts and P. Van Deun (eds.). Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 117. Leuven: Peeters, 304-24. Van Henten, Jan Willem. (2006). ‘Noble Death in Josephus: Just Rhetoric?’ In Making History: Josephus and Historical Method. Zuleika Rodgers (ed.). Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism. Leiden: Brill, 195-218. Van Henten, Jan Willem. (2010). ‘The Christianization of the Maccabean Martyrs: The Case of Origen’. In Martyrdom and Persecution in Late Antique Christianity. Festschrift Boudewijn Dehandschutter. J. Leemans (ed.). Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 241. Leuven: Belgium, 333-51. Vinson, Martha. (1994). ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily 15 and the Genesis of the Christian Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs’. Byzantion 64 (1): 166-192. Vinson, Martha. (2003). St. Gregory of Nazianzus. Select Orations. FC 107. Washington, D. C.: Catholic University of America Press. Whitby, Michael and Mary. (1989). Chronicon Paschale. 284-628 AD. Translated Texts for Historians 7. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Wilken, Robert. (1983). John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late Fourth Century. Berkeley: University of California Press. Yasin, Ann Marie. (2009). Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult and Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zaidé, Raphaëlle. (2007). Les martyrs Maccabées: de l’histoire juive au culte chrétien: les homélies de Grégoire de Nazianze et de Jean Chrysostome. Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 80. Leiden: Brill.

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About the Author Prof. Jennifer Knust is Professor of Religious Studies at Duke University. Her numerous articles, book chapters, and edited books address the materiality of texts, the intersection of Christian practices with other ancient religions, early Christian texts and their receptions from multiple angles, with a particular focus on rhetoric and gendered discourse, as well as the ethics of interpretation in ancient and contemporary contexts. Knust is the author of To Cast the First Stone: The Transmission of a Gospel Story (with Tommy Wasserman, Princeton 2018), Unprotected Texts: The Bible’s Surprising Contradictions about Sex and Desire (HarperONE 2011) and Abandoned to Lust: Sexual Slander and Ancient Christianity (Columbia 2005).

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Perpetual Contest Mieke Bal Abstract Mieke Bal examines the first autobiographical text written by a woman which concerns the life of the Carthaginian martyr Perpetua. The analysis combines narratology, psychoanalysis, and deconstruction, in a voluntarily anachronistic appropriation of this unique document. Scenes of martyrdom are etched on our retina, because there are so many artworks that represent them. The case Bal analyses, however, is literary, although some of its metaphors and descriptions are vividly visual. Bal speculates that a contest shapes the one that informs Perpetua’s choice for this particular martyrdom: the contest between male and female, or rather, the contest for masculinity. Perpetua’s move away from femininity would lead her, not so much to give up sex as to enjoy it in the only way she could have access to it, turns this story of victimhood into a story of victory: over gender-limitations and over narration. Keywords: Perpetua, psycho-narration, gender and sexuality, contest and heroism, testimony and memory

The first autobiographical text written by a woman that I know of is the account of the last days of the life of the Carthaginian martyr Perpetua. The text is a favourite of historians and theologians but until recently had not yet been studied with the help of contemporary literary tools. However, inspired by Dorrit Cohn’s reflections on the distinction between fiction and (auto)biography on the one hand, and by her analysis of “transparent minds” (1978) on the other, I will contend that it is in its literariness – its narrative structure, its fantasy character, its metaphorical insistence on unavowable themes – that the proto-feminist radicality of the text can be assessed. The most characteristic narrative strategy of literary fiction, not only in the period of realist writing, but also in other periods is the

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch04

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“transparent mind”: the account of visions that no one else can see. This article is meant to make the case for such an assessment. Although it lurks in the background, and doubtlessly informs this volume, I willfully pass over the fact that today, martyrdom has resurfaced as a contested concept. What for some is a brave act of braving common opinion, is for others a dreadful violence act of terrorism.1 Scenes of martyrdom are etched on our retina, because there are so many artworks that represent them. The case I analyse here, however, is literary, although some of its metaphors and descriptions are vividly visual. The mode of Perpetua’s martyrdom, a contest with beasts, will inform my interpretation of her story. I will start from the premise that in this text the notion of contest can be considered a structural device in more ways than one. The idea of contest is applicable to both technical narrative devices and thematic structures, as well as to the interaction between these. The most interesting of all these forms of contest is perhaps the one that affects the status of Perpetua as a narrator: the contest between narration and description. I will speculate that this contest shapes the one that informs Perpetua’s choice for this particular martyrdom: the contest between male and female, or rather, the contest for masculinity. The analysis combines narratology, psychoanalysis, and deconstruction, in a voluntarily anachronistic appropriation of this unique document which will be briefly justified at the end.2 1 This essay was first published in 1991 and written in 1988. Since then, a lot of new analyses have appeared, of which the collection edited by Bremmer and Formisano, Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitaties, gives an excellent impression. Erin Ronsse, ‘Rhetoric of Martyrs: Listening to Saints Perpetua and Felicitas’, p. 283-327, speaks of “resonances”, a fruitful concept especially in view of the word “listening” in her title, and analyses the rhetorical sophistication of the text. She implicitly foregrounds the “second-personhood” of the text: its reader-orientedness. I have minimally adapted my text, to preserve the sense of the 1980s feminism that informed it. Narratological tools have been used since then, e.g. Williams, ‘Perpetua’s Gender. A Latinist Reads the Passio perpetuae et Felicitas’, p. 54-77, who deployed the concept of focalization and its distinction from narration to argue that Perpetua’s visions are told retrospectively (62). For this and all other narratological concepts, see Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. Reading Perpetua’s story today cannot avoid associations with contemporary forms of martyrdom, such as Palestinian ones, discussed by Bremmer, ‘The Motivation of Martyrs: Perpetua and the Palestinians’, p. 535-54, and in this volume especially the article by Saloul, ‘“Female Martyrdom Operations”: Gender and Identity Politics in Palestine”. 2 For a more extensive argumentation in favour of such anachronistic or, as I have termed it, “preposterous” interpretations, see Bal, Quoting Caravaggio: Contemporary Art, Preposterous History. This is more than what it seems; it makes older texts actual. See, for example, the use Mesnard, ‘The Power of Uncertainty: Interpreting the Passion of Perpetua and Filicitas’, p. 321-328, makes of the traumatic Holocaust (non-)experiences to explain certain uncertainties in the Passio. For a study of the narratorial voice and the question “who speaks”, see Heffernan, Philology and Authorship in the Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis. Traditio, p. 315-325.

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Double Introduction The narrative of Perpetua is framed on both ends by contests. I distinguish between the beginning and end of the text, in which the author introduces and supplements Perpetua’s narrative, as a frame, and her own testimony. I consider the latter the main text, while the former is an ideologically alien (male-religious) appropriation of it. In the first paragraph of the text, the contest concerns time; in the final episode of the story, it concerns beasts. Could there be a common ground between these two contests? And could that common ground in turn draw attention to contests of other kinds in the text? And, finally, could the notion of contest have a much deeper structuring effect on this text than the anecdotal level of the contest with the beasts, and the introductory function of the story itself, suggest? These are the questions I will address in this chapter.3 As for the frame of, or preliminaries to, the text itself, the introductory remarks opposing two moments in time, antiquity and more recent, set up a contest indeed. 4 From a prior claim and the prestige of antiquity on the one hand, to the idea that recent events contribute equally to the goals of story-telling, we are confronted with a competition whose outcome is the power of the story which follows. That this contest is not brought to a decision at the end of the narrative is not important; this happens all the time with contests. The contest with the beasts, for example, while not evaluated in terms of victor and loser either, is repeatedly called a contest. In fact, the outcome of the contest between martyrs and beasts is displaced in this case. The martyrs’ victory is not over the beasts, but over the devil which the beasts symbolise; yet victory, there, is on the side of those who by definition could not win. This might be seen as analogous to the current conception of martyrdom as either heroic or terrorist, depending on who is telling the story.5 3 For an extensive discussion of time as a historical versus a narrative category, see Ricoeur’s three-volume study, Time and Narrative, of time as a narrative device. A succinct narratological account can be found in Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, p. 66-103; 177-181. The concept of frame is used here in a complex sense, not simply as in “frame narratives”, although it is also that. But in particular the ideological meaning is activated here. For an extensive argumentation for “frame” as a better alternative than “context”, see Bal, Travelling Concepts in the Humanities: A Rough Guide, on the issue of concepts in interdisciplinary analysis. 4 Jan Willem van Henten alerted me to a similar opposition between old and contemporary exemplary figures in the context of martyrdom in 1 Clement 5-6 (2018, personal communication). 5 The devil is often called “the beast”. The actual beasts function as a metaphor of the devil, but that conventional metaphorical relation is modified in Perpetua’s divisions. It is remarkable that the explicit metaphorical presence of the devil is related not to the beasts but to a man,

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Similarly, the contest between antiquity and recent times does not lead to the victory of recent history but to that of the story that serves as its exemplar. This is where martyrdom is relevant for memory studies; this is the point of remembrance. It is also why an “inter-historical” approach is more suitable than a “chrono-logical” one. Without such self-reflection, memorialising can easily become nostalgic escapism from the present and the responsibilities it entails. In view of this aspect it matters that, if we take the analogy between the two contests one step further, the story takes the place of one party in this contest, thus undermining the idea of contest itself, just as the martyr replaces the other party in her contest with a force within herself. This can lead to self-reflection on the point of the group identities that determine what is heroic and what is pointless violence. Hence, although their opponents were declared winners from the outset, neither victor can lose. Other contests are, on the level of the textual structure, those between the narration of Perpetua’s story by an external narrator and her own account. This is also important for the dilemma of how to value the martyrdom. And, within her own text, there is the contest between narration of events and description of visions; in Cohn’s terms, between narration of events and psycho-narration. On both levels there is an implicit contest between recounting and writing, between narrating and seeing, and between happening and predicting. Within the story there is a contest, also familiar in our current time, between old men and young men, between divine and earthly fathers, between the mother-position and the child-position, between pleasure and suffering, and between masculinity and femininity. Among all these contests we might almost lose sight of the crucial one between Christians and “pagans”. If a story about a contest is set in a structure based on contest, we can happily speak of the contest as an iconic sign, the actual contest with the beast being the mise en abyme of the story and its wider implications. But what if the story as such and what it is about compete as well? What if we don’t even know what the story is about, since its structure perpetually undermines the dichotomies of form-content, or sign-meaning, in what is maybe the master-contest of this text, its fight against itself? This sounds like a deconstructionist qualification of the text.6 the Egyptian, in the last vision, while the actual beast Perpetua is confronted with is a female animal. On the question who can determine the denomination of martyrs, also a contest, see Saloul, ‘“Female Martyrdom Operations: Gender and Identity Politics in Palestine’, in this volume. 6 For the term iconic sign or icon see Peirce, ‘Logic as Semiotic: The Theory of Signs’, p.1-23. For the term mise en abyme, see Dällenbach, The Mirror in the Text, and Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, p. 52-57. The spelling with a ‘y’ is in reminiscence of André

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Such a qualification is by no means based on some marginal figure. Rather, it is based on a central figure, that of contest. This figure makes the story a highly self-reflexive text whose initial contradictions generate the others. The subversive quality of this figure is not its particular shape qua contest, but its status as central figure. The initial contradiction of the text is generated by the problematics of gender played out by Perpetua, whose heroism oscillates between female and male endeavours. This is not surprising since, on the one hand, her heroism is socially framed by a confirmation of her sex, while, on the other hand, her case as exemplar is only possible if she transcends her sex. This transcendence is facilitated by the appropriation of the narrative in the frame, but remains problematic nevertheless, thanks to Perpetua’s insistence on, and sharp awareness of, her martyrdom as within sexuality. This is another way in which the text regains actuality, and relevance for feminist thought.

The Contested Status of Narrative Framing Contests The first paragraph of the text sets out to obscure the content of the story to follow. Not only is the result of the contest between antiquity and recent times left undecided, since the story replaces one of the parties; but the function of the story is also left unclear, based as it is on one ambiguity after another. The story is supposed to be proof of God’s favour, but “proof” can mean both evidence and test. As an exemplar, the tale must “cause the edification of man” (Passio 1.1), but this can maliciously be read with different accents, depending on whether God, too, needs strengthening – depending on whether the test meaning of the word “proof” is joined to its evidence meaning. Recounting the exemplars of Gide’s introduction of the term. The passage from Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice which Cohn, Transparent Minds: Narrative Modes for Presenting Consciousness in Fiction, p. 50, quotes wherein Aschenbach’s hallucinated vision of a tiger is psycho-narrated, seems to me a similar case of the figure of mise en abyme. It asserts the founding importance of vision in the story, both in its insistent use of the verb “to see” and in the destructive power of its actual vision. In this context it is noteworthy that the verb “to see”, especially in the imperative mode, is very frequent in the Hebrew Bible. For a lucid presentation of deconstruction as a critical approach, see Culler, The Pursuit of Signs: Semiotics, Literature, Deconstruction. Examples of deconstructionist criticism are legion. For some of the best, see Johnson, A World of Difference, and Chase, Decomposing Figures: Rhetorical Readings in the Romantic Tradition.

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faith is being opposed to writing them down, the latter activity being geared toward honouring rather than “proving” God, and comforting rather than strengthening men. The means of comforting is recollection, one of the instances of psychonarration Cohn analyses: the evocation of the past in a present visionary act, recorded out of time by writing. Writing is then both recording and fixing the exemplar. By the same move, the temporal aspect inherent in narrative, in recounting, disappears; it loses the contest between it and the contingent testimonial narration supposedly prior in time. I contend that this contest is won by writing, precisely because writing can get rid of, diminish, condense, or otherwise play with time; it is this contest that, through its relation to gender, generates all the others.7 The primary contest, not represented but acted out in the story that Perpetua recounts (writes?), is introduced and, again, framed by a remark, not from the narrator, but from God: “young men shall see visions, and old men shall dream dreams” (1.4). This contest is plural, intricate and self-defeating: it opposes visions to dreams and youth to age. So far, so good; the reader is warned about a thematic contest (age-groups; old men versus young, what we now would see as “oedipal”) and a literary one (modes of focalisation: to dream versus to see, the one at least partially retrospective, the other in the present tense). The remark also opposes the narrated past to the future that initiates it, since it will be in the last days that God will “pour out of My spirit upon all flesh” (1.4), allowing the visions that will be presented as Perpetua’s past, but told in the past tense concerning the present of seeing. This contest between past and future is already complex and contradictory. But the contest between “dreaming dreams” and “seeing visions” is the most interesting one, since it affects the reading of the narrative to follow, which is a narrative of visions.8 7 On the contest between writing and speech, see Derrida, Writing and Difference. On the relation between writing and gender via the historiographic project, see Bal, Murder and Difference: Gender, Genre and Scholarship on Sisera’s Death. Williams, ‘Perpetua’s Gender. A Latinist Reads the Passio perpetuae et Felicitas’, p.54-77, devotes his analysis entirely to gender. 8 For the act of seeing as a favourite case of the “subverbal states” rendered in psychonarration, see Cohn, Transparent Minds: Narrative Modes for Presenting Consciousness in Fiction, p.46.. The act of seeing comes close to the ideal of the window, lens, mirror, or camera as metaphor of the transparent mind. Even keeping in mind the idea of platonic deception, as well as of positivist perception, seeing is the ideal mediation between pure subjectivity and pure objectivity. But in terms of time in seeing, as both tense and duration, perception and memory, the work of Bergson, Matter and Memory, is crucial. In relation to the early Christian literary image-making, see Carruthers, Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400-1200.

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Considering Genre Setting aside the fact that the text is written – by whom? – we can attribute two generic qualifications to Perpetua’s text, both limit-genres of literature: autobiography and testimony. Integrating these two, we can approach it primarily as an autobiographical, testimonial narrative, its self-referentiality being its value as exemplar. American slave-narratives belong to this genre, and the difference between a non-autobiographical testimonial novel and an autobiographical one immediately appears when we compare the wellmeaning, but in many ways dubious, Harriet Beecher Stow’s 1852 novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin to Frederick Douglass’ 1845 autobiography.9 However, the reliability of the testimony is not the only important difference between the two narratives. Somehow, Douglass’ narrative is generically different from Uncle Tom, and not just because of the voice, the use of “first-person”, and the self-referentiality it entails. Making up a story to illustrate a point (Uncle Tom) is easier, or so it seems, than illustrating a point with a real life, because the autobiographical narrative lacks the teleology of a conclusion that only the narrator’s death could provide. Douglass’ narrative is hardly a narrative in the sense that Uncle Tom is. It is much more a series of visions, of disconnected events, each of which has a persuasive value. In other words, if we can take Douglass’ text as exemplary in this sense, testimony and autobiography work against narrative structure. Cohn, then, is right to challenge the conflation of all discourses as fictional. It is not so much the substance as the structure of a text that makes it fictional.10 The generic starting-point of autobiographical testimony, which I assume to be a fairly general reading attitude, entails by itself a number of resistances to narrative. As narrative, it engages the desire for the ending, in conflict with the desire to defer the ending, while as testimony, it freezes the narrative stream into still description. Autobiography’s self-referentiality and its narrativity are a source of tension in retrospect; that is, when we as readers are in a position to summarise the story – when the story contains its own un-narratable ending – it entails the death of its narrator. Since Perpetua’s death constitutes her story – that is, her story as testimony of her martyrdom – the genre is in contradiction with its own project. That is a 9 For a feminist critique of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, see Tompkins, ‘Sentimental Power: Uncle Tom’s Cabin and the Politics of Literary History’, p. 79-102. 10 Theories of fiction are notoriously contested. For a contemporary view, see Culler, Literary Theory: A Very Short Introduction. I still find Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s definition as “the willing suspension of disbelief” helpful, in that it describes a reading attitude, rather than an essential feature of texts. See Coleridge, Biographia Literaria.

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first reason why the voice can only be accorded to Perpetua for a brief time, an episode, framed by the voice which will put the testimony to persuasive use, bracketing the autobiographical mode. This is, consequently, why I had to begin, and will have to end, with a discussion of the framing narrative, and why I cannot isolate the testimony from the autobiography.11

A Reading of the Text Realism and Paternity Now what is Perpetua doing when she tells this story? First, there is not really a story. It starts in medias res, with “While we were still under surveillance” (3.1), and then it proceeds with a dialogue in which she talks to her father in two terms: the visual – “Father, do you see this container here, for instance: this pitcher or whatever it is?” – and the verbal, the narrative – “It can’t be called anything other than what it is, right?” (3.1, 2). This dichotomy generates tension in this text. Her appeal to realism is well known from rhetorical traditions. We all know that a vase is not a mind; rather, a body is often compared to a vase, a vessel, a pitcher. The vase of her body could be filled with either a pagan or a Christian mind. Calling the thing by its name does not have the realistic effect that she seems to seek. On the contrary, her naming seems to be magic that turns a loving father into a devil (“ruses of Satan”: 3.3) who wants to pluck out her eyes.12 What this failed appeal to realism also stages, is the contest between story and description. Perpetua wants to discuss her martyrdom in terms 11 Peter Brooks’ book, Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative, is an attempt to develop a narrative theory on the basis of the psychoanalytical concept of the desire for ending and the need for deferral. The theory, appealing because it tries to relate form and content in a novel way, fails by its blindness to questions of gender and the exclusive focus on male preoccupations it entails. For my review, see Bal, On Story-Telling: Essays in Narratology. The fundamental study on testimony in relation to history and to psychoanalysis is Felman and Laub, Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis, and History. Because of the merging between autobiographical narration and testimony, the disputes in scholarship on who focalizes (the narrator or the woman martyr) seems irrelevant to me. Williams, ‘Perpetua’s Gender. A Latinist Reads the Passio perpetuae et Felicitas’, p. 60-65, attempts to decide on this dilemma, but fails to convince even though his analysis as a whole is precise and warranted. 12 The distinction between description and story-telling can come close to that between words and images. For a discussion of the word-image opposition, see Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology, and my attempt to overcome it in Bal, Reading “Rembrandt”: Beyond the Word-Image Opposition. For an analysis of visuality in literature, see Bal, The Mottled Screen : Reading Proust Visually.

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of the (realistic) description of what she is. Her father’s response, however, does not address her in the same mode. Instead, he acts rather than talks, thus prodding the story into movement again. The character of her father functions this way throughout the narrative. The rhythm of the alternation of narration of events and description of visions is related to the father. The presence versus the absence of Perpetua’s father inaugurates the staging wherein her visions will take place. Perpetua’s relationship with her father turns out to be very special. He loves her more than he loves his wife and his sons – another contest – and when she does not respond to his love by giving up her faith, he starts to behave quite differently: either hating her or identifying with her, being victimized like herself; maybe, let’s face it, he is competing with her. She in turn rejects him, feeling great relief at being separated from him. Later on, she feels sorry for him, a feeling that is phrased as “What a pitiful old man” (6.5). His dreams, her visions: they are incompatible. As her own youth is emphasised on many occasions, there seems to be a competition in this domain, a competition introduced already in the Lord’s framing prediction: the young shall see visions and the old shall dream dreams; a distinction we might see as visions for the future versus dreams of the past. Predictably, the gender-neutral Latin is translated into male language in English, but since in the same statement the distinction between men and women is made, this translation is particularly unfortunate. The gender-neutral plural is needed in order for Perpetua to insert herself into the category of the young who see visions. This has consequences for her gender identity. Away from Femininity The position of the relatives in the story gets more complex when we think of the other relatives evoked: her brother and fellow-martyr, her small brother prematurely killed by an illness whose horrifying description foreshadows Perpetua’s martyrdom itself, her mother, to whom she speaks in her anxiety, and her baby, who signifies her motherhood as well as her detachment from it. All these characters, except the dead brother, appear at the very beginning of Perpetua’s narrative. The movement away from her father toward her motherhood via the evocation of her own mother is, however, less a choice for motherhood than a choice away from daughterhood; it is more negative than positive. Once the baby has been taken good care of, she is not only willing to give him up, but happy to be relieved of this earthly tie. In a traditional, ideological view, this movement away from her father

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does not lead to her maturity as a “real” woman, a mother that is, but, as we shall see, to her detachment from femininity.13 This deviant development is, I contend, what precludes the classic autobiographical narrative from unfolding. Narrative fiction and psycho(auto-) biography stand at opposite ends of a scale. The series of visions that structure the text, breaking the narrative unfolding in time and each taking away one aspect of Perpetua’s femininity, eventually bring out a masculine aspect in Perpetua, as a symptom, a trace, of the difficulty of getting rid of gender. In her first vision, she evokes a ladder, intertextually related to Jacob’s ladder. Jacob’s dream, I remind you, was a dream of ambition, of promise of election, an election that, in Genesis, could only befall men. This intertextual reference begins Perpetua’s contest for masculinity, but that contest does not go very far yet. The dragon, and its obvious association with Eve (“it [her seed] shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his [!] heel”, Gen 3.15, King James Version), reconfirm Perpetua’s femininity, as does her brother’s leadership. When she arrives in the garden, a substitute father with the same grey hair that her worldly father is pitied for, one who does not reject but praises her choice, is waiting for her.14 This father, too, is identified with the nursing mother Perpetua, as he feeds her. The product he gives her – curds, or cheese – mediates between pre-Oedipal “natural” milk and culture. When she comes to herself, the taste of something sweet is still in her mouth. Psychoanalytic critics would see a pre-Oedipal, imaginary remembrance evoked by this phrase, and milkproduct would become mother-milk. Has the father been eliminated only to reappear as so good a father that he becomes a mother? I think that the relevance of this nurturing father lies also elsewhere, in Perpetua’s position before him/her. For the development of Perpetua away from femininity, the 13 On motherhood in Perpetua’s story, see Van Henten, ‘The Passio Perpetuae and Jewish Martyrdom: The Motif of Motherly Love’, p.118-133, and Weitbrecht, ‘Maternity and Sainthood in the Medieval Perpetua Legend’, p. 150-168. For a case study of four women Palestinian martyrs, see Saloul, ‘“Female Martyrdom Operations”: Gender and Identity Politics in Palestine’, in this volume. Rather than referring to the many excellent discussions of femininity as either essential nature or social construct, I wish to draw attention here to what I consider a wonderfully sharp piece of feminist thought, Evelyn Fox Keller’s book, Reflections on Gender and Science. Although Keller’s study is devoted to the problem of gender as related to science, the way she goes about discussing the issue of gender is exemplary for what I take to be the most fruitful position. 14 The concept of intertextuality was introduced into western critical thought by Kristeva, ‘Poésie et négativité’, p. 246-77. See especially Kristeva’s book, Revolution in Poetic Language. For a critical discussion, see Culler, The Pursuit of Signs: Semiotics, Literature, Deconstruction. On Perpetua’s visions, see Bremmer, ‘Perpetua and Her Diary: Authenticity, Family and Visions’, p. 77-120. Especially his analysis of the third vision is illuminating.

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most important aspect of this taste is its position in the pre-Oedipal realm which brings Perpetua back to the stage before sexual difference. But the milk-product is cultured, not entirely “natural”; the regression carries traces of what was left behind.15 After this vision, the narrative goes on to describe a second encounter with Perpetua’s father. This time his love turns not devilish but marital. He behaves as a suffering spouse rather than as a tyrannical parent. And as a spouse, the role he takes on is less that of a husband than that of a wife. He becomes quite feminine himself, crying, kissing her hands, and shedding tears. The statement that “he was going to be the only one in my whole family who would not rejoice at my martyrdom” (5.6) is highly ambiguous if we look at it within the isotopy of relationships. Does she mean that he alone loves her as a real woman would love, or that he alone blames her for her martyrdom? These two meanings seem contradictory, but are actually compatible, since they function on two different levels of the story – the historical-religious one, with which I am less concerned in this essay, and the gender-oriented one that my deconstructionist-psychoanalytic framework allows me to emphasise.16 The third meeting with her father initiates a new phase in the development of their relationship. Carrying her baby now, he seems to be appealing to shared parenthood. The sacrifice he asks of her, on the historical-religious 15 Modern readers cannot help thinking of Proust’s famous involuntary memory aroused by the taste of a madeleine cake soaked in linden-blossom tea, an episode in Remembrance of Things Past, 3 vols (New York, 1981) that has become the emblematic passage on metaphor and its metonymic motivations. See e.g. Genette, ‘Frontiers of Narrative’, p.127-144. For a lucid explanation of the key issues in the theory of metaphor, developed through postmodern literature, see Alphen, ‘Literal Metaphors: On Rereading Post/Modernism’, p. 208-218. And to complete this anachronism: the sweetness left by the cheese can be best imagined if we combine Perpetua’s and Proust’s experiences in the idea of cheese-cake. The issue of motherhood as well as the political nature of Perpetua’s martyrdom in the Passio precludes too quick a comparison with Lucretia, as is sometimes suggested. See Weigel, ‘Exemplum and Sacrifice, Blood Testimony and Written Testimony: Lucretia and Perpetua as Transitional Figures in the Cultural History of Martyrdom’, p. 180-200. Such comparisons seem primarily based on the female sex of the characters, not on the structure of their martyrdom and the stories of it. On Lucretia, see Bal, Reading “Rembrandt”: Beyond the Word-Image Opposition. 16 My approach to this text may indeed be perceived as emphatically different from the more obviously relevant historical-religious approaches. It goes without saying that my choice does not imply that I find those other interpretations less useful – on the contrary. In the spirit of complementarity, and in view of the limits of my knowledge, I have simply chosen to restrict myself to the present approach in order to show that, even though the historical-religious approach is more directly obvious, mine can contribute to the realisation of the still-vital importance of concerns of gender and its relation to narrative, or more specifically, to psycho-narration.

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level, is of course the pagan sacrifice of renunciation of her religion. On this level, it is also an allusion to Abraham’s sacrifice, since Perpetua, too, is ready to give up her child for her God. This promotes her to the position of the patriarch, the most masculine and the least maternal of biblical characters, just as her evocation of Jacob’s ambition-dream of the ladder had foreshadowed. The father-become-mother keeps the child, and Perpetua goes to the next phase of her experience, to her next vision, when she is free to do so: “And so I was not subjected to the torment of anxiety for my baby and sore breasts as well” (6.6). She is relieved from all that emphasized her femininity, that is.17 Back into Infancy Perpetua’s second vision involves another relationship with a relative, her dead little brother. This vision, even more than the first one, is descriptive rather than narrative. She sees her brother because she identifies with him: he comes out of a dark hole, as she has herself been locked up in a dark hole – and has come out of it, for that matter. In light of the previous vision which ended with the taste of pre-Oedipal sweetness in her mouth, we can consider both the sex and the smallness of the brother as contributing to Perpetua’s development away from gender. If that development is an acceptable suggestion, then we can even see in the wound on his face the symbolic marker of his pre-gendered position; as a possibility of femininity. The water then even suggests a pre-natal memory, stimulated by the long time that has elapsed between this vision and the last time Perpetua saw or thought of the boy. Radical separation, the abyss between them, will be overcome in her next vision. Perpetua’s next vision of Dinocrates, which is the third of the series, emphasises not only the relief of his suffering by bringing the water within his reach, but also his childishness, expressed by his playing. Between these 17 It is relevant to note that the episode of Jacob’s dream, in which the ladder appears, takes place when Jacob is still very far removed from the patriarchal status he will later acquire. The dream – a vision – foreshadows his future, just as Perpetua’s visions foreshadow hers. Susan Harvey Ashbrook’s work, ‘Women in Early Byzantine Hagiography: Reversing the Story’, p. 36-59, on “Transvestite Saints” shows that this withdrawal from gender is a generic feature of medieval saint narratives (1990). On masculinity, see the final chapter of Alphen, Francis Bacon and the Loss of Self. On the move away from femininity, see Castelli, ‘I Will Make Mary Male: Pieties of the Body and Gender Transformation of Christian Women in Late Antiquity’. p. 29-49, and Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture-Making. On the distinction between vision and dream, often neglected, see Ronsse, ‘Rhetoric of Martyrs: Listening to Saints Perpetua and Felicitas’, p. 283-327.

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two visions there is, exceptionally, no narrative interference by the father; only a brief narrative fragment, recounting a single event, is interposed. The event itself, Perpetua’s transfer to a military prison, is not without masculine overtones, while the games mentioned in this passage will be echoed in the play of the child in the vision, opposing that masculine and guilty play to Dinocrates’ genderless, innocent play. It is noticeable that the later description of Perpetua’s attitude during her fight with the beasts is more reminiscent of the childish play of her brother than of the masculine game of fighting wild animals. She simply never fights: she wins the game by adopting a dreamy, regressive attitude, the recounting of which requires a most astonishingly “modern” psycho-narration. After this third vision, the father intervenes again. He is now overwhelmed with sorrow and makes a scene that we would be tempted to call hysterical. The father has lost all of his paternal power, throwing himself on the ground and tearing hairs from his beard. But the most significant change in his attitude regards the contest over words that Perpetua initiated in her first encounter with him. He gives in to her model of representation, ceasing to promote narrative and trying in his turn to use language as magically as Perpetua had. As she recounts it: “He started … saying the kinds of things that would move the whole of creation” (9.2). Maleness and Pleasure The fourth vision is the crucial one for Perpetua’s development away from femininity, as it is for the contest between youth and age. The vicious looking Egyptian is not explicitly described as old, but the introduction of the “handsome young men” (10.6) to be Perpetua’s seconds and assistants suggests such an opposition. The Egyptian’s mission is to represent the devil, but the devil had been previously identified with her father. He literally mediates between the father, described as diabolic in the first encounter, and the dragon of the first vision, the more traditional representation of the devil. The key-sentence for my interpretation of the text is the often cited one: “And I was stripped down and am a man” (10.7). One way of explaining this striking element with reference to the social background would be to invoke chastity. Perpetua being a woman, the following scene would have been impossible. And that scene is one of pleasure. The pleasure of being rubbed with oil, the closest we will come to sexual pleasure, has to be mitigated by the transsexual change. But even then, the desire for this pleasure expressed in the vision is striking enough for a martyr so far only interested in the masochism of martyrdom. I am inclined to make more of it,

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to see in this transformation the expression of a real desire for masculinity as the definitive discarding of femininity, a desire motivated by the desire for pleasure. This has, of course, a social background: in the pre-text of the ancient Roman world, the pleasure of being naked and rubbed by handsome young men is accessible only to men. In order to accede to that pleasure, Perpetua had to become a man.18 This vision, the strongest thematically, is also the strongest meta-discursively, in that it demonstrates most clearly the contest between narrative and description. Perpetua says: “Suddenly I am a man” (in Latin, “I am a man”), not “I became a man”. The difference is subtle, but it is the difference between description and narrative. Since description is the visual mode, a specific subcategory of psycho-narration, and narrative is the historical mode, the mode where events control whose victim she is, Perpetua can only assume power over her life by stepping out of narrative, by promoting the description of vision, and by stepping out of the femininity that brings suffering, by being a man and enjoying pleasure.19 The sexual nature of this scene needs further elaboration. Its sexuality is, again, masculine: the beautifully adorned man of marvellous stature who appears in the amphitheatre is inordinately tall not only because he is another incarnation of the father, a function symbolised by his position as arbiter. He is tall also because he represents the sudden growth of the penis in erection. His purple tunic, beltless, with two stripes running down the middle, emphasises his oblong form without interruptions. Of course, this interpretation, as bold as a wilfully anachronistic interpretation can possibly be, does not exclude the other, more self-evident interpretations of 18 The term “masochism” is wilfully anachronistic. Historically speaking, it would be absurd to apply this term to martyrs; yet the combination of suffering and pleasure the term emphasises is pertinent here. The question, of course, is the nature of the pleasure; in the present case, it is arguably sexual. Hence the appropriateness, if qualified, of the term. Of the various alternative terms to indicate the social reality informing texts, Alphen’s proposal pre-text in his book Bij wijze van lezen. Verleiding en verzet van Willem Brakmans lezer, seems the most appealing to me, since it implies both a temporal and an anti-mimetic aspect, while also expressing the idea that the text leans on it, exploits it, only to gain its own status in its difference from it. Rubbing as an indication or even description of sexual pleasure is the only kind that occurs in Proust’s Recherche. In spite of the main character’s claims to heterosexuality, there is not a single penetration mentioned. In light of this, I have conceived of Marcel as a lesbian, see Bal, ‘Bird Watching: Visuality and Lesbian Desire in Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu’, p. 45-66. 19 In this I diverge from Williams’ interpretation, ‘Perpetua’s Gender. A Latinist Reads the Passio perpetuae et Felicitas’, p. 54-77 , esp. p. 64-65, who claims the telling is a retrospective act of interpretation. For me, the verb form sum, in the present tense, and the briefness of the statement, along with the word facta (suddenly) insist on the avoidance of retrospective narration.

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this figure. One such interpretation would identify him with God. But given the intertwining between Perpetua’s search for pleasure and her voyage to God, and the motherly father of her first vision, the ambivalence of this figure is not surprising. To push this a little further, if this man figures an erect penis, his head is logically the top, and his feet, to whose attractiveness so much attention is drawn, the testicles. But this positive figure of masculine sexuality is positive precisely in that it carries femininity. The description of the fight with the evil Egyptian does not represent any form of anxiety or displeasure. On the contrary, the fight is represented as light, as an “unbearable lightness of being”, beginning with “to let our fists fly” and including actual flying, according to Freud (1948) a quite frequent representation of sexual arousal in dreams; there is also a symbolic suggestion of actual intercourse (she “grabbed his head”: 10.11). Perpetua comes down to earth in victory, a pleasurable ending of the event. The tall man has now lost his imaginary stature and is simply referred to as “the trainer,” while he addresses her as “daughter” (10.13). In other words, after this amazing fantasy, Perpetua is back in normal life – as it should be, but isn’t “really”, since she is on her way to death.20 The text we are looking at is so interesting for its passages of psychonarration and relevant for consideration of collective memory, because it contains the fictionalising device of representing minds in the plural. If one takes a look at the parallel vision of Saturus, a male participant in this voyage toward martyrdom, one can immediately assess the difference. Unlike Perpetua’s, his vision is entirely void of any sensuality. The vision is filled with the clichés of paradise: splendid but sexless angels, “rose trees and all kinds of flowers” (11.5). The angels are wearing white robes like Perpetua’s arbiter/trainer/penis, but nothing associates these robes with any gender-related aspect of the angels. Saturus’ vision is, like Perpetua’s earliest vision, concerned with the contest between old men and young men, a contest that is resolved outside sensuality by the vision of “a kind of white-haired man who had snowy hair and a youthful face” (12.3) whose feet he did not see. The father-figure is multiplied by the elders and the aged men who send the martyrs out to play. We recognise this motif from Perpetua’s third vision, the one where her little brother was cured and as 20 The phrase “the unbearable lightness of being” is an allusion to Milan Kundera’s 1984 novel with that title. For me, it is hard to see the flying fists in the present without the frame of Proust’s passage on such a Marey-like evocation of fists. That image is also bound to gender ambiguity. See Proust, Remembrance of Things Past, vol (3), p. 917. I have discussed this passage in a chapter on photography in The Mottled Screen: Reading Proust Visually, p. 214-37.

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a result began to play. In other words, Saturus also regresses back into pre-gendered, pre-historical, pre-Oedipal infancy, but for him this love is simple. If we believe Perpetua’s evocations, overcoming gender is a double fight for a woman, who cannot simply go back to infancy but has to move to infancy via masculinity. Why would this be necessary? Writing Sexual Difference In the visions, we see that the regressions always leave a trace, a writing of sexual difference. In her first vision, Perpetua identified not only with Jacob but also with Eve, and the milk of pre-gendered identity was already processed, hence, gender-bound. In the second, the dark hole was ambivalent – both frightening prison and secure uterus – and the wound suggesting the female sexual organ was graphically represented on her little brother’s face, and deepened by the abyss that separated them. In the third vision, that wound was healed but, emblematically, left a scar. In the final, fourth vision, sexual difference is only overcome after the pleasure of the other, male sexual experience, is integrated into the female experience: the erection of the tall man, the transsexual change, and the flying sensation. When she comes down and steps on the devil’s head, she has overcome the limitations of her femaleness as well as the wickedness of bad, devilish, fatherly maleness. Compared to Saturus’ itinerary, hers is a much more complex and difficult one, as the route toward sexual identity is a more tortuous one for women in a society where maleness is the norm and femaleness the deviation. Perpetua’s last vision is not only the vision of the contest for spiritual victory over bodily mutilation that she will enact in the scene of her actual murder, where she does not even realize that the contest with the beast – the mad heifer – has already taken place. It is not only the contest between the pain of reality and the pleasure of her vision, a pleasure that will replace the pain of her actual martyrdom. It is also the contest for descriptive victory over narrative suffering. However hard they try, the spectators of the contest do not see the event of her suffering, and the narrator of the final scene can only explain this by emphasising Perpetua’s absent-mindedness – a regression to both the pre-Oedipal stage and to the vision that represents her escape from what historical reality tries to do to her. Historical reality needs the narrative mode to structure its unfolding in time. It is that collaboration between temporality and historical reality that Perpetua chooses to undermine. Her narrative is narrative only to the extent that it shows how poor the narrative mode is on its own, compared

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to the descriptive mode that takes Perpetua out of time, out of victimhood, into an atemporal realm that is both pre-gendered and pleasurable. Two moments in the concluding narrative, the final section of the frame, confirm that Perpetua’s contest is related to gender not only for herself but also for the others, the lustful sadistic onlookers. At the same time, they emphasise the distinction between narration and psycho-narration, between biography and autobiography, between fiction and the realm where fiction versus nonfiction is a void distinction: fantasy. First, Perpetua and the other female martyr, Felicitas, are exposed to a female animal, in order for their sex to match that of their antagonist. This contest is set up as a real game, with allegedly fair rules. But when the two women are stripped naked, the mob is shocked to see their female vulnerability. Perpetua is then described as “a beautiful girl”, which, as a young mother, she is not “really”. By contrasting her to Felicitas, “fresh from giving birth and with dripping breasts” (20.2), the narrator shows that he has understood Perpetua’s devolution: her separation from her child – her breasts were dripping there – is seen as a regression to an earlier stage. It is the moment of emerging femininity – adolescence and maternity – that the onlookers are objecting to seeing mutilated, not the suffering of established femininity that, as amateurs of pornography, they would have loved to see. Perpetua wins this contest, too. The sadism of the crowd, which she had ridiculed right before the spectacle, is frustrated, both by her chaste concern for her appearance, her refusal to let her female body be exposed, and by her dream-like unconsciousness, her refusal to let her suffering be exposed. However hard he tries, the narrator ultimately cannot write the martyrdom of this woman. He can only write how she escapes it.

Considerations of Method Although I have cheerfully endorsed the charge of anachronism, my reading of the text is less out-of-line than it may seem, as I hope to argue in this concluding section. I started out by defining a guiding theme – contest – and by specifying a defining genre that challenges established literary categories – autobiographical testimony. The narratological distinction between narration and description encompassed the equally narratological distinctions between telling and seeing and between narration of events and psycho-narration. The problematic status of the genre as self-contradictory matched the problematic status of the text as, if I may say so, self-contesting in all senses of the word. Thus, generic and narratological considerations

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led to a deconstruction of the status of the genre and of narrative from the start.21 In a second step, I came to see a relationship between the technical, narrative, and scriptural devices of the text, and the links the narrator and the heroine of the story are involved in. These connections are as selfdeconstructive as the previously mentioned ones. The awareness of this problem on the thematic level brought me to a psychoanalytically inflected third step, the examination of Perpetua’s moving away from her sex. This move was complex for her, because she not only had her sex to transcend, but she also had to move beyond it through masculinity. As we have seen, this detour was harder, but also more rewarding because leading to positive pleasure, than the simple, infantile evocation of paradise that represented Saturus’ regression. For an important contingent of readers, including feminists – mainly historians – psychoanalysis is a problematic framework, less for its male biases than for its anachronism. Indeed, the historical contingency of Freudian thought has been amply demonstrated for many of its aspects – although not so much for its major foundations. Interpreting an ancient text within such a framework allegedly runs the risk of forcing it into an early twentieth-century bourgeois patriarchal mould. To this objection, no fewer than eight answers can be addressed: two defensive, three aggressive, two ad hoc and one historical. I will simply enumerate these answers, thus positing, denying, and justifying the anachronism of my endeavour. (a) The supplementary-relativistic defensive reply. The historical reality of the text may be partially bracketed but is not violated by my interpretation. (b) The universalist defensive reply. Freud assumed that all people have sexual fantasies, generated by the discrepancy between motoric and mental development of the infant, even if those fantasies are socially and historically embedded and shaped. I have drawn upon one aspect, the universalist assumption, while tacitly presupposing the other, its embedding in social reality. (c) The relativistic aggressive reply. Why would we accept all other contemporary models of textual interpretation to confront ancient texts with, and not the psychoanalytic one? No model we devise can be truly “native”, in historical terms. What are we denying, when we refuse the latter, about the relevance of sex? 21 The distinction between narration and description is notoriously problematic, yet tenacious. See Genette (1981) for the untenability of the distinction; and for an extensive discussion and the analysis of descriptive fragments in their indispensability for narration, Bal (2004).

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(d) The universalist aggressive reply. What position are we taking if we deny peoples in other times and cultures the sexually informed fantasy life that we then reserve for ourselves? Such a denial involves ethnocentrism and “paronthocentrism” – the unwarranted privileging of the present, based on linear chronology and progressivist arrogance. (e) The post-modern theoretical reply. Why would we be open only to what we know already, to a clone of our own thought, rather than addressing the question of what this “a-historical” interpretation can bring us, in our contemporary position as readers for whom the stories of martyrs can serve as an incitement to critical self-reflection? (f) The hermeneutical ad hoc reply. The insistence, in this specific text, on family relations interwoven with erotic fantasies suggests already on the thematic level that the Freudian framework is relevant. (g) The feminist ad hoc reply. Shying away from psychoanalysis is denying the strong concern with gender, and the difficult but particularly fulfilling access to sexual pleasure for women, in the historical context inscribed in this text. (h) The historical reply. “History” involves two sides: the past of the “object” and the present of the “subject”. “Seeing” is the most appropriate act to bring these two together. Both need to be acknowledged, in order to let the two interact, rather than pretending to an objectivist position of security outside the object. The historical position of the reader now, my own that is, is inscribed in what for a long time was an aporetic problem of reading, but where the lack of feminine subjects has now been overruled by feminism. Hence the need for wild readings, as a historical requirement for changing cultural constraints today, readings the wildness of which can be compared to Perpetua’s wild fantasies: delineated yet stretching the limits imposed upon them.22 That Perpetua’s move away from femininity would lead her, not so much to give up sex as to enjoy it in the only way she could have access to it, turns this story of victimhood into a story of victory, not only, not even primarily, in the religious sense, but also in two other senses. First, her victory over gender-limitations makes her possibly, in the end, a proto-feminist heroine. 22 Williams, ‘Perpetua’s Gender. A Latinist Reads the Passio perpetuae et Felicitas’, p. 68, mentions Judith Perkins’ characterisation of Perpetua, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era, p. 105, as “unruly”. Such a character deserves equally unruly readings – which I here call “wild”. This is not an attempt to turn reading into obedient following but into a temporary empathic closeness, as in the “willing suspension of disbelief” of fiction-reading.

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Second, her victory over narration makes her in the same sense a protopost-modern. Thus, the contest set up in the beginning between ancient and recent times, is brilliantly won by her, as she moves way beyond the recent past, into the future of vision and the present of writing.

Works Cited Alphen, Ernst van. (1988). Bij wijze van lezen. Verleiding en verzet van Willem Brakmans lezer. Muiderberg: Coutinho. Alphen, Ernst van. (1988 a). ‘Literal Metaphors: On Rereading Post/Modernism’. Style 21 (2): 208-218. Alphen, Ernst van. (1993). Francis Bacon and the Loss of Self. London: Reaktion Books; Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Ashbrook, Susan Harvey. (1990). ‘Women in Early Byzantine Hagiography: Reversing the Story’. In “That Gentle Strength”: Historical Perspectives on Women and Christianity. Lynda L. Coon et al. (eds.). Charlottesville and London: University Press of Virginia, 36-59. Bal, Mieke. (1988). Murder and Difference: Gender, Genre and Scholarship on Sisera’s Death. Matthew Gumpert (trans.). Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Bal, Mieke. (1991). On Story-Telling: Essays in Narratology. Sonoma, CA: Polebridge Press, reprinted (2012) in Jan N. Bremmer and Marco Formisano (eds.), 134-49. Bal, Mieke. (1991a). Reading “Rembrandt”: Beyond the Word-Image Opposition. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Bal, Mieke. (1995). ‘Bird Watching: Visuality and Lesbian Desire in Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu’. Thamyris/Intersecting 2 (1): 45-66. Bal, Mieke. (1997). The Mottled Screen: Reading Proust Visually. Anna-Louise Milne (trans.). Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bal, Mieke. (1999). Quoting Caravaggio: Contemporary Art, Preposterous History. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Bal, Mieke. (2002). Travelling Concepts in the Humanities: A Rough Guide. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Bal, Mieke. (2004). ‘Over-writing as Un-writing: Descriptions, World-Making, and Novelistic Time’. In Narrative Theory: Critical Concepts in Literary and Cultural Studies, vol. 1. Mieke Bal (ed.). London and New York: Routledge, 341-388. Bal, Mieke. (2017 [4th revised edition]). Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Bergson, Henri ([1896] 1994). Matter and Memory. Nancy Margaret Paul and William Scott Palmer (trans.). New York: Zone Books.

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Bremmer, Jan N. (2002). ‘Perpetua and Her Diary: Authenticity, Family and Visions’. In Märtyrer und Märtyrerakten. Walter Ameling (ed.). Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 77-120. Bremmer, Jan N. (2004). ‘The Motivation of Martyrs: Perpetua and the Palestinians’. In Religion im kulturellen Diskurs: Festschrift für Hans G. Kippenberg zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, Brigitte Luchesi and Kocku von Stuckrad (eds.) Berlin: de Gruyter, 535-54. Bremmer, Jan M. and Marco Formisano (eds.). (2012). Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitaties. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brooks, Peter. (1984). Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. New York and Oxford: Alfred A. Knopf. Castelli, Elisabeth A. (1991). ‘I Will Make Mary Male: Pieties of the Body and Gender Transformation of Christian Women in Late Antiquity’. In Body Guards: The Cultural Policy of Gender Ambiguity. Julia Epstein and Kristina Straub (eds.). New York: Routledge, 29-49. Castelli, Elisabeth A. (2004). Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian CultureMaking. New York: Columbia University Press. Carruthers, Mary J. (1998). Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400-1200. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chase, Cynthia. (1986). Decomposing Figures: Rhetorical Readings in the Romantic Tradition. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Cohn, Dorrit. (1978). Transparent Minds: Narrative Modes for Presenting Consciousness in Fiction. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. ([1817] 1997). Biographia Literaria. Nigel Leask (ed.). London: J.M. Dent. Coogan, M.D. (1978). ‘A Structural Analysis of the Song of Deborah’. Catholic Bible Quarterly 40: 132-66. Culler, Jonathan. (1981). The Pursuit of Signs: Semiotics, Literature, Deconstruction. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Culler, Jonathan. (1983). On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after Structuralism. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Culler, Jonathan. (2000). Literary Theory: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford University Press. Dällenbach, Lucien. (1989). The Mirror in the Text. Jeremy Whiteley with Emma Hughes (trans.). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Derrida, Jacques. (1978). Writing and Difference. Alan Bass (trans.). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Felman, Shoshana, and Dori Laub, M.D. (1992). Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis, and History. New York and London: Routledge.

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Freud, Sigmund. ([1900] 1965). The Interpretation of Dreams. Standard Edition of the Complete Works of Sigmund Freud. James Strachey (ed.). London: The Hogarth Press, V: 533-621. Genette, Gérard. (1980). Narrative Discourse: An essay in Method. Ithaca and New York: Cornell University Press. Genette, Gérard. (1981). ‘Frontiers of Narrative’. In Figures of Literary Discourse. Alan Sheridan (trans.). New York: Columbia University Press, 127-144. Globe, Alexander. (1974). ‘The Literary Structure and Unity of the Song of Deborah’. Journal of Biblical Literature 93: 493-512. Hefferan, Thomas J. (1995). Philology and Authorship in the Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis. Traditio, 50, 315-325. Johnson, Barbara. (1987). A World of Difference. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Keller, Evelyn Fox. (1985). Reflections on Gender and Science. New Haven: Yale University Press. Kristeva, Julia. (1969). ‘Poésie et négativité’. In Sémiotikè: Recherches pour une sémanalyse. Paris: 246-77. Kristeva, Julia. (1984). Revolution in Poetic Language. Margaret Waller (trans.). New York: Columbia University Press. Mesnard, Philippe (2012). ‘The Power of Uncertainty: Interpreting the Passion of Perpetua and Filicitas’. In Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitaties. Jan N. Bremmer and Marco Formisano (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 321-328. Mitchell, W.J.Th. (1985). Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Peirce, Charles.S. (1985). ‘Logic as Semiotic: The Theory of Signs’. In Semiotics: An Introductory Antholoy. Robert. E. Innis (ed.). Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1-23. Perkins, Judith. (1995). The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era. London: Routledge. Proust, Marcel. ([1908] 1981). Remembrance of Things Past. Charles Kenneth ScottMoncrieff and Terence Kilmartin (trans.). London: Penguin Books. Ricoeur, Paul. (1984-1988). Time and Narrative, 3 vols. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Ronsse, Erin. (2006). ‘Rhetoric of Martyrs: Listening to Saints Perpetua and Felicitas’. Journal of Early Christian Studies 14 (3): 283-327. Saloul, Ihab. (2019). ‘“Female Martyrdom Operations”: Gender and Identity Politics in Palestine’. In Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Ihab Saloul and Jan Willem van Henten (eds.). Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 255-281.

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Thompkins, Jane. (1981). ‘Sentimental Power: Uncle Tom’s Cabin and the Politics of Literary History’. Glyph 8: 79-102. Van Henten, Jan Willem. (2012). ‘The Passio Perpetuae and Jewish Martyrdom: The Motif of Motherly Love’. In Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitaties. Jan N. Bremmer and Marco Formisano (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 118-133. Weigel, Sigrid. (2012). ‘Exemplum and Sacrifice, Blood Testimony and Written Testimony: Lucretia and Perpetua as Transitional Figures in the Cultural History of Martyrdom’. In Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitaties. Jan N. Bremmer and Marco Formisano (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 180-200. Weitbrecht, Julia. (2012). ‘Maternity and Sainthood in the Medieval Perpetua Legend’. In Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitaties. Jan N. Bremmer and Marco Formisano (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 150-168. Williams, Craig (2012). ‘Perpetua’s Gender. A Latinist Reads the Passio perpetuae et Felicitas’. In Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitaties. Jan N. Bremmer and Marco Formisano (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 54-77.

About the Author A co-founder of ASCA, the Amsterdam School of Cultural Analysis, Prof. Mieke Bal’s primary commitment is to develop meaningful interdisciplinary approaches to cultural artifacts and their potential effect for the public. As an internationally renowned cultural theorist, critic, video artist and curator, she focuses on gender, migratory culture, psychoanalysis, and the critique of capitalism. Her 38 books include a trilogy on political art: Endless Andness (on abstraction), Thinking in Film (on video installation), both 2013, Of What One Cannot Speak (on sculpture, 2010). Her early work comes together in A Mieke Bal Reader (2006). In 2016 appeared In Medias Res: Inside Nalini Malani’s Shadow Plays (Hatje Cantz), and in Spanish, Tiempos trastornados on the politics of visuality (AKAL). Emma and Edvard Looking Sideways: Loneliness and the Cinematic (Oslo: Munch Museum / Brussels: Mercatorfonds; Yale University Press, 2017) with the exhibition she curated at the Munch Museum demonstrates her integrated approach to academic, artistic and curatorial work. Her documentaries on migratory culture have been exhibited internationally, including in the Museum of the History of Saint Petersburg in 2011. Then she made “theoretical fictions” films. A

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Long History of Madness, with Michelle Williams Gamaker, argues for a more humane treatment of psychosis. Madame B, also with Michelle, is widely exhibited. Her later film and installation, Reasonable Doubt, on René Descartes and Queen Kristina, explores the social and audio-visual aspects of the process of thinking (2016). She is currently making a multi-channel video work Don Quixote: tristes figuras.

5

‘Martyrs of Love’ Genesis, Development and Twentieth Century Political Application of a Sufi Concept Asghar Seyed-Gohrab Abstract Asghar Seyed-Gohrab analyses the concept of ‘love’ in the context of Islamic mystical martyrdom. As a concept, love was used increasingly in a religious and mystical context from the Tenth century onward in the Islamic world in such a way that it was often hard to make a distinction between profane and spiritual love. A true lover was often a pious person who would offer everything including his life for the beloved or for love itself. Love was frequently connected with death or to be killed by the beloved either in a metaphorical or literal sense. There are several examples referring to love death and how such a death is interpreted as martyrdom. After an analysis of the origin and the evolution of the concept of love-death to martyrdom in medieval texts, Seyed-Gohrab examines how love martyrdom was reactivated in 20th century Iranian political philosophy for a wide range of purposes. He focuses in particular on the cult of martyrdom, scrutinising how the concept was deployed during the Iran-Iraq war (1980-1988) to propagate a militant ideology, to justify violence, and to convince soldiers that their fight was a spiritual quest to attain the immaterial beloved. Keywords: Islamic mystical martyrdom, Sufism, love and martyrdom, Persian poetry, Iran-Iraq war

The concept of love, its working and effects are commonly contextualised in a paradigm of martyrdom in Islamic mystical literature. In mystical manuals written around the tenth century, love is treated as a dynamic force that annihilates the lover in order to lead him to the divine beloved.

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch05

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Lovers dance ecstatically to embrace death. One reason for the passionate longing to die and become one with God is that God is identified with love and this Love is the driving force for the creation of the world. Mystics believe that God was in an absolute rich Void, but He longed to reveal Himself, therefore He created mankind in His own image, and asked the angels to prostrate themselves before Adam as a sign of man’s superiority, and appointed Adam as His vicegerent on earth (Quran 33:72). The often cited ‘holy tradition’ (hadith qudsi) ‘I was a hidden Treasure and I desired to be known, therefore I created the world in order to be known’ refers to God’s love. Moreover, mystics cite the verse from the Quran (7:171) relating to the creation of Adam and his progeny, ‘Am I not your Lord? Yes, we witness, you are.’ Mystics interpret this moment as the covenant between man and his creator. Mystics elaborate on the word balā which means both ‘yes’ and ‘affliction.’ They believe that Adam and his progenies were awe-stricken when they responded to God’s question affirmatively. Other mystics say that Adam and his progenies had become drunk by the beauty of God, and the reason for mystics’ drunkenness in the material world is to be reminded of this specif ic moment, constantly longing to go back to this original state when the souls were still in oneness with God. The interpretation of balā as affliction is also related to love.1 The mystic must accept tribulations on the path because, as we shall presently see, love is identified with affliction. Although the tradition ‘I was a Treasure …’ and the Quranic verse (7:171) are often used to describe the first moment of the creation, mystics often admit that they do not know what happened at the inception of the creation, and how God’s love relates to man’s soul. And how does love operate to return man’s soul to its original abode? Ahmad Ghazāli (d. 1126) states that God created the spirit to bring love to the world. To depict the relationship between the spirit and love, Ghazāli uses the image of descending and ascending curves. 2 In the descending curve, the spirit is the vehicle of love and brings love to the created world. The further love is removed from its original abode, the more it loses its effect and strength. A contemporary of Ghazāli, Hakim Sanā’i (d. 1131), describes love in terms of a bird.3 As long as love soars in the spiritual realm, it is 1 Seyed-Gohrab, Laylī and Majnūn: Love, Madness and Mystic Longing in Nizāmī’s Epic Romance, p. 14-6. 2 De Bruijn, Persian Sufi Poetry, p. 51-83. 3 De Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry: The Interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of Hakim Sanā’i of Ghazna.

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a falcon, but when it comes down to earth, it is no more than a kind of chicken, without any power to fly: Love is free from the four nails of the body;4 love is a wise bird, knowing how to break the cage. Know that the soul which is far from unity resembles a farmyard bird. Because she cannot make the journey to the heights she possesses wings but they cannot transport the soul Her aspiration is to eat seeds, her power limits her to flying around the house.5

The only way to return to the original abode is by means of ascetic practices such as keeping vigil, avoiding the community of men and eating as little as possible. Such strict discipline is required to free the soul from the prison of the body. At this moment, the ascending curve starts. The stronger the ascetic training, the stronger the love-bird becomes. Love becomes so strong that it carries the soul to its spiritual home. This metaphor is also used to show the difference between the spiritual and earthly love in which earthly love is likened to a farmyard bird, a chicken unable to fly whereas the spiritual love soars to the highest level. Earthly love is regarded as prerequisite, as a bridge to the spiritual love. The descending and ascending curves create degrees of love. Mystics identify different kinds of love, which are linked to a large number of concepts to depict the effects, working and growth of love. Sometimes love starts with a mere inclination but it may intensify, going through several other stages, each indicated by terms such as ‘longing’ (showq), ‘friendship’ (mawadda), ‘intimate friendship’ (kholla); love (mahabba) till it achieves the highest intensity as ‘passionate love’ or ‘eshq.6 This is the uppermost hierarchy signifying that love governs the lover’s entire being, transforming his rational and emotional realms into love itself. At this stage, love dictates all the actions of the lover (‘āsheq) to enable him to attain union with the beloved (ma’shuq). Arkoun formulates this process concisely, 4 The ‘four nails’ is a poetic reference to the Four Elements from which, according to medieval Islamic philosophy, the created world is made. These elements nail man to the material world. 5 Sanā’i, Hadiqat al-haqiqa, p. 228. All translations from this poem are based on personal communication with J.T.P. (Hans) de Bruijn. 6 Ernst, ‘The Stages of Love in Early Persian Sufism’, p. 435-453; see also Obiedat, ‘The Semantic Field of Love in Classical Arabic; Understanding the Subconscious Meaning Preserved in the Hubb Synonyms and Antonyms through their Etymologies’, p. 300-323.

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highlighting how passionate love generates a strong desire in the lover to reach perfection: love is ‘the irresistible desire (showq, tashawwuq) to obtain possession of a loved object or being (ma’shuq). It betrays, therefore, in one who experiences it (the ‘āshiq) a deficiency, a want, which he must supply at any cost in order to reach perfection (kamāl).’7 This overwhelming love is likened to a creeper that firmly wraps around a tree in such a way that it will be suffocated, and the only thing that remains is the creeper itself.8 As Ahmad Ghazāli says in his theoretical treatise on love that ‘eshq removes the identities of ‘āsheq and ma’shuq so that love remains pure, bereft of any dualities. Playing on the root of the terms lover and the beloved (the letters ‘ayn, shin and qāf ), several mystics postulate that both are derived from ‘eshq, and therefore, ‘āsheq and ma‘shuq will return to their origin again by annihilating the redundant elements. Ghazāli depicts love as a carnivore devouring the lover and the beloved. The lover is totally immersed in love and has burned all his personal traits in order to be love. The offering of one’s own identity is a pre-requisite to be accepted as a lover. While a voluntary effort is expected from the lover, love itself is also an active force, turning everything to its own colour. The gist of Ghazāli’s treatise is that love is a force driving everything towards Oneness, which is identified with God, the absolute Beloved. For Ghazāli such a love is God’s Oneness, referring to the theological notion of tauhid or the ‘action of making one’ which is so central in Islam. This desire to annihilate all human identities in order to be united with the immaterial beloved is usually demonstrated through the examples of mystics, who offered their lives for the sake of union with the beloved. Hoseyn Mansur Hallāj (857-922) is without doubt a supreme example of a lover who was executed in Baghdad for his statement ‘I am the Truth/Real’ (anā’l-Haqq). Arthur J. Arberry calls him ‘the most controversial figure in the history of Islamic mysticism,’ and he is perhaps the most cited Islamic saint in the history of Islamic spirituality.9 While mystics interpret his death as an example of selfless love and true martyrdom, his words are regarded as blasphemy by Islamic orthodoxy. On the authority of Hans Heinrich Schaeder, Annemarie Schimmel summarises the place of Hallāj in Islamic mysticism: ‘he exemplified the deepest possibilities of personal piety to be found in Islam; he demonstrated the consequences of perfect love and the 7 Arkoun, Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, under ‘Ishḳ. 8 Shehāb al-Din Yahyā Suhrawardi, Oeuvres Philosophiques et Mystiques, p. 287. 9 Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, p. 264. For his popularity see Schimmel, ‘The MartyrMystic Ḥallāj in Sindhi Folk-Poetry: Notes on a Mystical Symbol’, p. 161-200.

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meaning of submission to the unity of the divine beloved not with the aim of gaining any sort of private sanctity but in order to preach this mystery, to live in it and to die for it.’10 Hallāj’s name is secured in Islamic mysticism because of his violent execution, which has astounded and moved people for more than one millennium. Depictions of his execution and his statements are included in many treatises. Perhaps the most vivid and touching depiction, which has deeply influenced all later mystic works on Hallāj’s philosophy and suffering, is by the Persian mystic Farid al-Din ‘Attār (c. 1145-1221).11 I cite part of his description in its entirety, since elements of this text have inspired modern Persian poets in poems written to mobilise people to go to the front during the Iran-Iraq war (1980-1988): When they cut off his hands, he burst out laughing. ‘What’s there to laugh about?’ they asked. ‘It is easy to cut off the hands of a person who’s chained up. The true believer is one who cuts off the hands of attributes, swindling aspiration from the highest throne of heaven.’ When they chopped off his feet, he smiled and said, ‘With these feet I used to travel the earth. I have other feet that are traversing both worlds at this very moment. Cut off those feet if you can.’ Hallāj rubbed his two bloody, severed hands against his face, and smeared his face and forearms with blood. ‘Why did you do that?’ ‘I have lost a lot of blood. I knew that my face had grown pale. You might imagine that the pallor of my face comes from fear. I rubbed blood on my face so my face would look red to you. True believers wear the rouge of their own blood.’ ‘If you painted your face red with blood, well, why did you smear your forearms?’ ‘I was performing ablutions.’ ‘What ablutions?’ ‘Only the ablution of blood is adequate for two rak’ats of love.’ Then, they pulled out his eyes. A tumult rose from among the people; some wept, some threw stones. Then they asked for his tongue to be cut out. ‘Wait while I say a few words,’ Hallāj said. He raised his face to heaven and said, ‘My God, do not condemn them for all the trouble they are taking for your sake. Do not deprive them of this good fortune of theirs. Praise be to God, for that they cut off my hands and feet on your path! If they remove my head from my body, they place it upon the 10 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 65. For information about his life, work and theology see p. 66-77. 11 Ibid: 74; ‘Attār, Tadhkirat al-owliyā, p. 509-18; on the theme of death at the hand of the beloved in ‘Attar’s writings, see Ritter, Das Meer der Seele. Mensch, Welt und Gott in den Geschichten des Fariduddin ʿAttar, see analytical index on pages 751-52 where the author treats various aspects of Hallāj. Also see De Bruijn, Persian Sufi Poetry, p. 107.

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gallows, contemplating your glory.’ Then they cut off his ears and nose. (…) Hoseyn’s final words were these: ‘It is enough for the joyous lover to make the one single.’ Then he recited this verse: ‘Only those who do not believe in the resurrection rush toward it. Those who believe fear it, knowing it is real [42:18].’ These were his final words. They then cut out his tongue. When they cut off his head, it was the hour of evening prayer. As his head was being cut off, Hoseyn smiled and died. The people roared. Hoseyn shot the ball of his fate to the final goal of acceptance. From each one of his limbs came the cry of I am the Real. The next day they said, ‘The uproar over this will turn out to be greater than when he was alive.’ So they burned his body – from his ashes came the cry of I am the Real. When he was executed, the form of God’s name appeared in every drop of blood that dripped from him to the ground.12

This story is probably a myth, because the true reason for Hallāj’s execution was the building of a replica of the Ka’ba in his yard and performing a private pilgrimage, walking around this Ka’ba.13 Yet elements from this vivid and stirring depiction have become literary topoi in Persian mystical poetry and other literary traditions influenced by Persian mystical literature such as Ottoman Turkish, Urdu, Kurdish, etc.

Love and Martyrdom The execution of mystics such as Hallāj and the stories of the death of many lovers due to extreme love, which led to madness, delusion or other illnesses, have probably affected the theories developed on love in general, and mystical love in particular. Reading theoretical expositions on mystical love, one wonders why love is depicted as an active violent force, often interpreted in terms of purification and refinement, yet the violent qualities of love remain in the foreground. Such purgative definitions of love are further amplified by stories such as Hallāj’s execution. The interaction between the violent killing of mystics and the development of theories on love may also have affected love’s vehement definitions and working. 12 See Farid ad-Din ‘Attār’s Memorial of God’s Friends: Lives and Sayings of Sufis, p. 405-06; also see Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, the entire description appears on pages 264-71; for a comprehensive study on Hallāj see Massignon, The Passion of al-Hallaj, Mystic and Martyr of Islam. 13 Karamustafa, Sufism: Formative Period, p. 25.

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To give one example of such a theoretical exposition, I cite couplets from Hakim Sanā’i’s ethico-theoretical masterpiece in which he depicts love as a ferocious being that divests the lover of his worldly qualities. Sanā’i’s poetry is very much part of the living mystical and ethical tradition in Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Central Asia, cited in everyday life in many cultural domains. The removal of the lover’s personal traits is a process of exhaustion, purifying and refining the lover from any elements other than love itself. Mystics commonly state that love murders the lover: Love came like a robber of the heart that steals the soul; she came to dissect the head and to reveal the secret. Love tells the secret to those whose heads are cut off because she knows that the head is a tattletale.14

In the above passage, Sanā’i depicts love as an active agent that unexpectedly steals the lover’s soul. Such a love is violent as it severs the lover’s head, revealing the secret of being in love. This is a metaphoric depiction of how love functions in the human body and soul. While love entirely preoccupies one’s soul, forcing the soul to focus on the beloved, it switches off the lover’s intellect, pictured as ‘dissecting the head’ and cutting off the head. The lover is not to follow the intellect’s advice and guidance. Concealing a secret (ketmān al-serr) is the norm in Islam and its revelation is strictly forbidden, but in such mystical texts, love extinguishes the intellect in order to reveal the secret, i.e. that the person is in love. Being in love comprehends both psychical and physical changes such as lack of concentration, lack of appetite, sleeplessness, change of hue at hearing or seeing the beloved’s name, emaciation, etc. As Sanā’i states, a prerequisite for love to reveal its secret is to cut off the head, which is depicted as a tattletale. Sanā’i and other mystics use this metaphor both to emphasise how essential it is to switch off the intellect and as an image for offering one’s life for one’s beloved. A popular cliché metaphor is based on the candle, which burns brighter when its head is cut off, i.e., when the wick is trimmed.15 With a severed head, the lovers dance ecstatically to welcome death. The compound sar-dādan is commonly used in love poetry to convey the lover’s devotion and self-sacrifice. It means ‘to bid farewell to reason,’ ‘to be obedient’ and literally it also means to ‘offer one’s head.’ Mystics advise the lover to offer his head, preferably at the beloved’s hand, as such a love-death 14 Sanā’i, Hadiqat al-haqiqa, p. 228, ll. 3887-3888. 15 For imagery of the candle in Islamic mysticism see Seyed-Gohrab, ‘Waxing Eloquent: the Masterful Variations on Candle Metaphors in the Poetry of Hafiz and his Predecessors’, p. 81-123.

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will be regarded as martyrdom. By renouncing his head, the lover is released from the headache of using reason to understand the subtleties of love. Reason will never be able to fathom love as they are in two different realms. As ‘Attār says, it is as if an ignorant man takes a lantern on a dark night to see the sun. Another reason for such longing is that the lover cannot hide his loving state and the revelation of love in a culture in which revealing the mystic secret is unthinkable, he should be beheaded. The beloved is poetically presented as the healer who cuts the head from the lover’s body to remove his headache. The intellect directs the lover up to a certain station on the mystical path. Mystics usually use the image of the land and the ocean. The intellect guides the lover on the land, but on arriving at the ocean, the lover must bid farewell to his head, making it a stepping stone from which he dives into the ocean. In the depth of the ocean, the lover can find the mystical secret, represented by a pearl in a shell. While the land is the place of order, safety, and flourishing growth, in the ocean disorder, uncertainty and danger rule. The following couplets refer to this journey: Know that although the ship is loaded fully with desires the place of the seeker of the pearl is the depth of the ocean. Journey to the ship on a steed or a donkey: when you arrive at the ocean, use your head as a stepping stone. When the ocean grants him admission, the seeker of the pearl should always use his soul and head as footwear. The journey to the sea should be undertaken by the head learn from your own shadow. In this way, you should search for pearls, otherwise in the market, there is only you, false pearls and a small loaf of bread. This abode of dust is the place of play and pleasure in the pure world you should gamble everything. The lovers bow their heads in the dark night while you are thinking how to wear a turban.16

Sanā’i creates a dichotomy between the material and spiritual worlds, indicated by the metaphors of land and ocean. Attaining to the true love requires abandoning one’s head and daring to dive into the depth of the ocean. In the above passage, Sanā’i indicates that being on a ship fully loaded with desires and longings does not mean that one can find love, rather the seeker should abandone the safe ship and risk his life to find the pearl. The 16 Sanā’i, Hadiqat al-haqiqa, p. 228, ll. 3896-3902.

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ocean is depicted as a spiritual realm, which must give permission to the seeker to enter. The image Sanā’i uses here is from courtly culture, referring to a king giving audience to his subjects. So, when the ocean admits the lover to enter, he should offer his intellect and soul to find love. The first thing the lover offers is his head like one’s shadow which, when one is facing the sun, is behind one’s back. For Sanā’i, such a search for true love is essential for redemption and union with God, otherwise at the end of time, on Resurrection Day, which is indicated here through the metaphor of the market, the person has nothing to exchange save false pearls and a piece of bread. This material world entices man to spend his life in fleeting triviality, indicated here with ‘play and pleasure,’ while in the pure spiritual world one has to gamble everything, including one’s life in order to attain to true love. The final couplet reiterates the contrast between the material and spiritual realms. While a turban and any other headgear are symbols of material possession in medieval times, bowing one’s head refers to the lover’s utter devotion to love. Sanā’i’s message in this text is that the reader should direct his attention to the spiritual world and the path of love is the only alternative to reach the spiritual realm to be united with the immaterial beloved. Sanā’i plays an essential role in Islamic mysticism, especially in love mysticism. He has inspired generations of mystics to the present day. Jalāl al-Din Rumi (1207-1273), a best-selling author in the United States in the last three decades, hails Sanā’i as his spiritual teacher. In fact, Rumi’s magnum opus, the Spiritual Poem, is a creative emulation of Sanā’i’s Hadiqa. Numerous passages can be found in Rumi’s work, emphasising in different ways how love functions. In the Spiritual Poem, Rumi relates the story of a king who wants to behead his boon-companion. When a person intercedes, the companion says: “The king, if he behead me in his wrath, will bestow on me sixty other lives. ‘Tis my business to hazard (and lose) my head and to be selfless; ‘it’s the business of my sovereign king to give (me) a (new) head.” Elsewhere in one quatrain Rumi writes: Your love has killed the Turks and the Arabs; I am the servant of that martyr and this fighter Your love was saying: ‘no one’s soul is safe with me.’ It spoke truly: ‘O heart! Leave this game.’17 17 Alternative translation of this line would be: ‘The Truth said: ‘O heart! Leave this game.’ See Jalāl al-Din Rumi, The Quatrains of Rūmī, p. 494, No. 1591. The translation is mine. On Rumi’ s Spiritual Poem, see Mathnawi, vol. 4, trans. R.A. Nicholson, p. 435, 2963-64; the line numbers vary in critical text edition by Este‘lami. See p. 146, ll. 2962-65.

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For mystics such as Hallāj, Ghazāli, Sanā’i, ‘Attār and Rumi, being killed by love is considered martyrdom. Connecting love with martyrdom is a way to justify the violent and purifying depiction of love. Irrespective of personal beliefs, mystics use the following ‘tradition of love’ (hadith al-‘eshq) to stress the relationship between love and martyrdom: ‘He who loves passionately, remains chaste, conceals his secret and dies, dies a martyr.’18 Moreover, the connection highlights the lover’s innocence, turning love’s violence into a positive trait. It is interesting that mystical love is then increasingly associated with annihilating one’s worldly identity in order to be admitted to the spiritual world and embrace the Beloved. Such union is interpreted as having attained perfection, in contrast to the imperfection and transience of worldly life. In this strong longing for annihilating one’s identity, the lover wishes to be slain or even burned on the path to union with the beloved. Several concepts developed in Persian mystical poetry such as ‘slain or burned by the beloved’ (koshta-ye or sukhta-ye ma’shuq) indicate such a death, even at the hand of the beloved. This notion does not limit itself to Persian culture but in Islamic cultures in general. As Franz Rosenthal writes, ‘Love, if it was true and deep, was considered destined to lead to sickness, insanity or death. There are various stages of love, the last being most fittingly expressed by the metaphor of “killing” and “being killed.”’19 One reason for the violent nature of love is the calamities the lover experiences in pursuit of the unattainable love. There are catalogues of lovers’ tragedies, such as the Masāre’ al-ushshāq (Lovers Who were Slain by Love) written by Abu Mohammad Hoseyn al-Qāri al-Sarrāj (1027-1106).20 Examples of such lovers can also be found in mystic poetry in which the lover desires to be killed by the beloved. ‘Attār tells several stories, one of which recounts the intense love of an ordinary man for a prince. When the prince wants to punish him for such audacity, the man begs the prince to tie him to the prince’s horse and to gallop so that he will be killed by the prince and die as ‘slain by the beloved.’ Such a death is interpreted as love martyrdom. It is worth mentioning here that the notion of love-death is 18 This tradition occurs in a large number of mystical works. See Du resāla-yi ‘erfāni, p. 93-105; Rowzat al-mudhannebin, p. 125; Sufi-nāma, p. 209, ll. 10-11; Ons at-tā’ebin, p. 210, 218; Sharh at-ta’arrof, Vol. 4, p. 1419, ll. 4-5; Ashe‘‘at al-lama’āt, p. 67. In the early centuries of Islam, this tradition was chiefly used in the genre of chaste ‘Udhri love. See Khairallah, ‘The Wine-Cup of Death: War as a Mystical Way’, p. 174; also see Jacobi, ‘The ‘Udhra: Love and Death in the Ummayad Period’, p. 137-148 and Leder, ‘The ‘Udhri Narrative in Arabic Literature’, p. 163-187. 19 Rosenthal, ‘Reflections on Love in Paradise’, p. 247-48. 20 On this genre see Gruendler, ‘“Pardon Those Who Love Passionately’: A Theologian’s Endorsement of Shahādat al- ‘Ishq’, p. 189-236.

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also related to the Prophetic Tradition, mutu qabla an tamutu ‘die before you die,’ alluding to the mystic’s willingness to renounce all his worldly possessions and interests in this world so that the mystic gains a new life by dying. Mystics used the Tradition to dwell on slaying their lower qualities and the possibility to a spiritual resurrection.21 Anything other than the beloved, including the ‘I,’ was regarded as an impediment. The removal of I-ness is so central in Sufism that it is closely connected to love and death. The case of Hallāj of course shows how one should divest oneself of the disturbing ‘I.’ We have examples of mystics who avoided using the word ‘I’ in any situation, considering it as the existence of ego and the lower soul that hold the soul back from spiritual progress. In addition, the desire of being killed by the beloved is inspired by the Tradition (hadith qudsi) in which God says, ‘Whoever loves Me, I kill, and whoever I have killed, I am the wergild for him.’ Ritter elaborates on this and gives another version of the same tradition, ‘Whoever falls in love with Me, I fall in love with him, and whoever I fall in love with, I kill, and his wergild is incumbent on Me and I am the wergild for him whose wergild is incumbent on Me.’ Ritter cites also an anecdote about Hallāj’s execution relating this to the previous tradition. ‘On the day they hung Husayn ibn Mansur (al-Hallāj) in the gallows, Shibli said: “I had a prayer-conversation in the night with God and said: ‘My God, how long will You go on killing the lovers?’ He replied: ‘As long as I dispose over the wergild.’ I asked: My God, what is Your wergild?’ He replied: ‘Coming to me and My beauty are the wergild of the lovers.’22 Hallāj is also credited with several sayings as ‘Kill me, O my friends, As only in death is my life,’ which can be contextualised in the above hadith qudsi.23

Martyrs of Love during Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988) This short introduction to the nature of mystic love, the stories of selfless lovers and doctrines and metaphors of love enables us to understand how they were reactivated in twentieth century Iran in a political context. Perhaps the most forceful use of love martyrdom appears during the Iran-Iraq war, when mystical 21 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, p. 70, 135-137. 22 Ritter, The Ocean of the Soul, p. 548-49; also see Neuwirth, ‘From Sacrilege to Sacrif ice: Observations on Violent Death in Classical and Modern Arabic Poetry’, p. 268-69. 23 Pannewick, ‘Introduction’, Martyrdom in Literature: Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity, p. 7.

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poetry was used to mobilise people for the front, making death meaningful, and convincing young soldiers that such a war was a spiritual quest. Iran’s political situation immediately after the Islamic Revolution (1979) was far from stable and the sudden invasion of Saddam Hussein’s (1937-2006) army took Iran by surprise. Boycotted by western countries due to its anti-western stance, Iran had to cope with this Iraqi aggression using all possible resources.24 One strategy was to use waves of human shields in war operations, which killed thousands of people. The world was puzzled as to why these human waves so readily went on minefields, offering their lives to defend the country. The tactic was based mainly on the use of mystical poetry and concepts to depict death as love-martyrdom, incorporating a wide range of familiar religious concepts into the modern war context. Through songs based on mystical poetry, the propaganda machine was inexorably at work convincing soldiers that they were ‘lovers’ or ‘mystics’ on the road to union with the beloved. Iran actively channelled the thoughts, desires and actions of Iranian soldiers by knitting them to a rich repertoire of religious vocabulary and symbolism. Dying as a martyr was synonymous with love, purity, and eternal life. High social prestige and respect for the family in this world and a guarantee of a loving union with the spiritual beloved stimulated soldiers to offer their lives. Moreover, people believed that these lover-martyrs could intercede for their family and friends in the Hereafter. In this context, people congratulated parents of the martyrs rather than expressing their condolences.25 Hallāj’s execution became a model of selfless love.26 His actual death on the gallows was compared to the nocturnal ascension of the Prophet Mohammad. The cutting off the members of his body became a model for the mutilated soldiers. Poets concocted a wide range of imaginative metaphors to refer to Hallāj and the gallows. The place of death was the ‘gallows of love’ (dār-e ‘eshq), the tresses of the beloved were compared to the rope on Hallāj’s gallows, the red roses on the branches as a symbol of Hallāj’s bleeding. Such metaphors for the spiritual quest existed in medieval times; the modern Persian war poets recycled them and added new metaphors to 24 More on this subject see Seyed-Gohrab ‘Martyrdom as Piety, Mysticism and National Identity in Iran‘, p. 248-73. 25 On this subject see Seyed-Gohrab, ‘“The Houses of the Tulips”: Persian Poetry on the Fallen in the Iran-Iraq War’, p. 89-119. 26 In a five-year research project, my team and I conducted research on such subjects which resulted in several PhD dissertations and publications. In her dissertation, ‘Do not Say They Are Dead’: The Political Use of Mystical and Religious Concepts in the Persian Poetry of the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988), Mahnia Nematollahi elaborates on this theme. Here I will further expand on this subject.

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suit their own goals. With respect to Hallāj’s role for Muslims in medieval times, Schimmel states that Hallāj [I]s the model for every loving soul who will gladly suffer and die for the sake of his love; but he is also in constant danger because it is not permitted to proclaim the word of love openly: The secret that is hidden in the breast is not a sermon; You cannot utter it in the pulpit, but on the gallows.27

In Hallāj’s philosophy, pain and tribulations are identified with love. We have innumerable references to pain as love. One famous couplet by Rumi says, ‘pain is love, how can I refrain from pain.’ When the mystic Abu Bakr Shebli (d. 945) asked God about the meaning of Hallāj’s martyrdom, God revealed himself in the following tradition, ‘Whom My love kills, for him shall I be blood money.’28 The reward for the one slain by love is God himself. Tribulation is a sign that God is near the lover. Hallāj’s saying, ‘Suffering is He Himself’ is often cited to this effect. Suffering is considered as a test. The closer to God, the more suffering the person could expect. Explaining the relationship between love and death from the time of Sanā’i onwards, Schimmel asks the questions, is death ‘the only legitimate way to express the secret of loving union?’ And is the ultimate experience ‘communicable through the silent language of martyrdom, for in the martyr (shahid) God has His true witness (shāhid)?’29 This is briefly how Hallāj’s martyrdom is contextualised in love mysticism. Having these and several other ingredients related to death in love mysticism, it was not hard for Iranian war poets to use a wide range of classical mystical motifs in a violent war context to mobilize young soldiers to go to the front and to offer their lives. Part of the poetry of Iran-Iraq war relies on the classical motifs of Hallāj’s execution. The following ghazal (‘love lyric’) by Nasrollāh Mardāni (19472003) is a random example of how such motifs are utilised to maintain a revolutionary spirit, mobilising Iranians to go to the front: Saddle the steed of the lightning, for we must go as a rider; We must go together with the stars to the Throne of the dawn’s flame. The living historic martyr of love is saying: 27 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 76. 28 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 136. 29 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 76; also see chapter four of Afsaruddin, Striving in the Path of God Jihād and Martyrdom in Islamic Thought, p. 95-115, where she examines the terms martyr and martyrdom in the Qur’an and the exegesis; also see Kohlberg, The Encyclopaedia of Islam (2), s.v. Shahīd; idem, Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom.

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We must again go to the red gallows of “I am the Truth.” Say to the Joseph of thoughts, “O apostle of the hearts, To find a solution we must go into the pit of misadventure.” The boat of the sun has passed on the island of waves We must go from this shore to the vortex of peril. Cover the body of the dawn with the armour of fire, For we must go like sparks to fight the enemy. The lover’s breeze said in the ear of the blood-studded tulip, We must depart the garden of the world torn in pieces like a rose. The sun of certitude has come to bloom in the horizon of the earth, We must go to the roof of the eyes to see the spectacle. The commander of the clan of light is issuing a decree, We must hurry to the battlefield of martyrdom. The appointed time had come, no moment for delay, We must go to the summit of the Great Event (qāf-e wāqe’a) without deliberation.30

Here it is not the place to analyse this poem at length. I have presented the entire translation to show how such poetry works. In almost every couplet, the poet relies on a classical poetic motif to justify going to the front and offering one’s life as a martyr of love. The rhyme is the suffix -āreh and the refrain following the rhyme is ‘(…) must go’ (bāyad raft), which intensifies the action of going, specifically reiterated in the poem’s last two couplets. Here Ayatollah Khomeini is depicted as the commander of the clan of light who has issued a decree to die as a martyr. At such a verdict, one should hasten to attain the final goal without having two minds. Each of the words in the phrase qāf-e wāqe’a comes from the Qur’an. The word wāqe’a or ‘the Great Event’ is the title of the fifty-sixth sura of the Qur’an that alludes to Resurrection Day.31 Qāf is the twenty-first letter of the alphabet, the fiftieth sura of the Qur’an, and a reference to the mythic Persian mountain where the divine Presence dwells.32 In Arabic orthography, the letter qāf is in the 30 Nasrollāh Mardāni as cited in Naqd-o tahlil-e she’r-e defā’-e moqaddas, p. 77. 31 See Sura 56: 1-2: ‘When the great event comes to pass, there is no belying its coming to pass (…).’ 32 The mountain is the destination of thirty birds (si morgh) in search of their king Simorgh who lives on the top of the Qāf. After many trials and tribulations, the exhausted birds arrive at the mountain but they cannot find any King. At that moment they realize that they themselves were each a king. In other words the Soul king is in each individual but a journey is needed to realize this. This splendid story is recounted by Farid al-Din ‘Attār, Manteq al-tayr. For an excellent English translation see Davis and Darbandi, Farid ud-din Attar: the Conference of the Birds.

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middle of the word wāqe’a. So, going to the qāf means going to the summit of the Great Event, which here refers to martyrdom. The allusion to Hallāj appearing in the second couplet as the eternal martyr of love creates the context for such a death. The soldiers must follow Hallāj’s path to the red gallows. Having set the tone, the poet implores his reader in each couplet to offer his life. The presence of red colours in various images and metaphors is overwhelming, referring to love death. This love death is commonly interpreted in a spiritual context, comparing it to the Prophet Mohammad’s (d. 632) ascension. Hallāj’s death on the gallows inspired poets to picture the scaffold as the site from where he set out on his journey to the intimate presence of the divine, which is compared to the Prophet’s journey by night. One night, Gabriel brought Mohammad a wondrous steed named Burāq (‘lightning’), which could move swifter than light, to embark upon his journey to God’s Throne.33 By comparing Hallāj’s death to ascension, the poets create an opening to refer to the soldier’s love-martyrdom, in which they allude to various elements of the Prophet’s ascension. In a deeply religious culture such as Iran after the Revolution, the mere death of soldiers was elevated to such a lofty spiritual plane that any mundane interpretation was excluded. I quote a poem chosen at random in which love martyrdom is pictured in relation to Hallāj and the Prophet’s ascension: As soon as the heroes shout a cry of blood, They pull out the sun from the heart of the night They saddled the light-footed Burāq of loverhood Placing their feet in the stirrup of the ancient steed. (…) They galloped to the nightly encounter with the winged horse of light, Till they reached the rendezvous of love, till they reached Hallāj.34

Another poignant topic with which people were occupied was the mutilated and often dismembered bodies of soldiers returned from the front. Painful as such distressing scenes remain, poets relied on the recurring motif of Hallāj’s execution, i.e., losing a member of the body, especially one’s head.35 The Persian word for soldier is sar-bāz, a compound based on ‘head’ and ‘bāz’ the present stem of the verb 33 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, pp. 219-221. 34 Hoseyni, Ham-sedā bā halq-e Esmā‘il, p. 40. 35 Ernst, ‘On Losing One’s Head: Hallājian Motifs and Authorial Identity in Poems Ascribed to ‘Attār’, p. 333.

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bākhtan, which in classical sense means ‘to play,’ or ‘to gamble’ but in the modern sense, it mostly means ‘to lose.’ The meaning of the word in modern Persian is a combination of all these meanings as classical Persian poetry is a living tradition and classical poets are more than household names in society. The notion of dying became interesting in the poetry in which the word ‘soldier’ was used, especially when it was combined with mystical motifs of offering one’s head. In classical Persian poetry, cutting off the head is commonly emphasised, as in the following quatrain ascribed to the eleventh-century mystic Khwāja ‘Abdollāh Ansāri (d. 1089): Every heart that walks around the door of love, Will be wounded at last through the dagger of love ‘This maxim was written in the book of love He who loves the head of love, does not love his own head.’36

Ansāri’s poem is a statement about pilgrimage to Mecca and the ritual circumambulation, emphasising why the pilgrim should journey to the House with his heart and not by means of his intellect. The head or intellect is a symbol of outward piety, which would bring solicited praise, but journeying with one’s heart, radically renouncing the head, emphasises the pure journey undertaken to revitalize one’s relationship with God. The compound the ‘door of love,’ alludes to the House of God, the Ka’ba. While the outward journey is easy to attain, the internal journey is hard to pursue, requiring the loss of one’s head and all worldly possessions and interests acquired through the intellect. The mystic must be ready to sacrifice his life for the beloved, only then can he be permitted to enter the court of love. Poems such as Ansāri’s were used prolifically during the Iran-Iraq war to connect death with love. The prominent war poet Qeysar Aminpur (1959-2007) replaces the first couplet of Ansāri’s poem to emphasize how essential it is to cut off one’s head in the arena of love: The bird that flies around the roof and the door of the friend Wants to offer its head to the friend’s blade, ‘This maxim was written in the book of love He who loves the head of love, does not love his own head.’37 36 Aminpur, Gozine-ye ash‘ār, p. 160. 37 Ibid.

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In a violent war context, this poem received a totally different meaning. The birds are soldiers who are fluttering around the beloved’s house and longing to be killed by the beloved. The poem may refer to Iranian soldiers who fought in Iraqi territory and wished to be killed in the plains of Karbala. This is a sacred plain for the Shiites as their third Shiite Imam Hosayn was killed there in 680. Shiites commemorate his death, as martyrdom, during the first ten days of the month of Muharram each year. Reference to Hallāj’s ‘I am the truth’ (anā’l-haqq) is so common that it has become a mere cliché in Persian war poetry. The phrase occurs in several of Seyed Hasan Hoseyni’s poems, as in the following, which he has titled ‘the Prelude of Love’ (dibāche-ye ‘eshq), referring to an individual’s willingness to die if he wants to enter into the realm of love. What is interesting here is that the battlefield is likened to the realm of love, and the fighter is a mystic like Hallāj who should bid farewell to his life before entering the arena: So long as the soil is not coloured with pure blood, This naked desert will not be bejewelled with tulips. So long as the tulip-faced do not shout I am the Truth The red prelude of love will not be composed.38

The battlefield is compared to a barren field which can only be adorned by tulips, i.e., the bloodied bodies of soldiers. The tulip has been a symbol of martyrdom from medieval times. The growth of tulips in the field is a symbol for the increasing deaths at the front and growing rows in the cemeteries. The call ‘I am the Truth’ connects the soldier to Hallāj, transforming his death to a mystical annihilation. Hallāj’s ecstatic death is a motif used by war poets to emphasise how willing the Iranian soldiers were to die. The following excerpt comes from a twenty-five-couplet poem in rhyming couplets, dedicated to the martyr Māshāllāh Sarhangi in 1983: I will tell you about a wondrous people Who razed to the ground a wondrous fort. I will tell you of those who drank the cup of “No,” Throwing their heart full of love into the sea. Look at the cloister of the martyrs of love, The row of mystics who are singing songs of love: How ensouled they are whirling for madness, 38 Hoseyni, Ham-sedā bā halq-e Esmā‘il, p. 132.

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Striking on the drum of love with hands of blood. The Head of the mystics saw how they were offering their heads, Therefore, he bestowed upon them the mystic cloak with the blood of his heart, Dancing without hands and feet, Singing, in such a way, the melodies of love.39

Hallāj’s saying about ‘ablution with blood’ is another favourite motif used in war poetry. 40 It appears that ‘Attār introduced this concept and related it to Hallāj, as the topos appears frequently in his poetry and is adopted by mystic poets in subsequent centuries, when they wanted to emphasise the troublesome path of mystic love. Ablutions are done before performing the obligatory prayer, but in the context of love martyrdom the ablution refers to preparing oneself for death. Normally, prayer represents total absorption in the thought of God, seeking direct communion with God, but when ablution is done with blood, it is a preface to death. The following poem is a random example of how this topos is used to refer to the soldier’s death: The tree of day is in flower in the garden of blood The army of religion has covered their bodies with the armour of blood, So that we can perform the red prayer of unity, For the ablution [for the prayer] we draw from the effulgent spring of blood. 41

Conclusion In conclusion, this short odyssey to the mystical notion of love and its relation to martyrdom shows how Islamic mystical love is deeply connected to death. One reason for this association is that mystics define pure love as a force slaying all the traits of the lover, transforming him into love itself. Attaining to perfect love requires death in this philosophy because as long as the lover’s physicality exists, love is impure. Love is also depicted as a force annihilating the lower soul, preparing the lover for spiritual union with the immaterial beloved. Love is defined as a purgative force, a tribulation 39 Ibid: 43. 40 See for instance Aminpur, Gozine-ye ash‘ār, p. 163, the poem opening with the line, ‘Rise so that we perform ablution with the blood of the heart …’ 41 Nasrollāh Mardāni as cited in Naqd u tahlil-e she’r-e defā’-e moqaddas, p. 72.

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purifying the lover from all his earthly attributes. In addition, the tragic lives of mystics such as Hallāj, who were executed for their daring sayings on the path of mystic love, contributed enormously to the formation of a cult of love which was essentially connected to blood and martyrdom. The purgative definitions of love and the stories of the executed mystics feed each other, upholding the necessity of death on the path of love. Such a death in pursuit of unconditional love became a symbol of piety, becoming an example for mystics to follows. The application of Hallāj’s death in the war context in twentieth century Iran demonstrates how deeply Hallāj’s myth and his love philosophy are interwoven with Persian culture. In moments of crisis, his example can be used for mobilisation against the enemy. His famous shout ‘I am the truth’ became a cliché for soldiers to show their readiness to die, and almost all the other elements of his execution became associated with the horrible reality of modern war. The identification of soldiers’ deaths with Hallāj’s execution gives insight into the minds of the Muslims who are ready to die a violent death. For these Muslims, dying is not a matter of offering one’s life, but a way to achieve a higher spiritual position, a reward granted by the reality of God they worship. In Western popular and scholarly discourse, it is often posited that these Muslims offer their lives to be rewarded in Paradise with the promised seventy black-eyed virgins. This might be true for a minority, but the majority of the soldiers during the Iran-Iraq war offered their lives in the hope of union with the beloved, whether this was pictured as a saint, a Shiite Imam such as the third Imam Hoseyn, who was buried in Karbala in Iraq, or God himself. Hoping for a reward would taint the intention of the aspirant martyr, as his intention would become a commercial negotiation (mu‘āmala) rather than an unconditional sacrifice for love. 42

Works Cited Afsaruddin, Asma. (2013). Striving in the Path of God Jihād and Martyrdom in Islamic Thought. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ahmad-e Jām Nāmeqi (ed.). ([1372]1993). Raudat al-mudhannibin wa-jannat almushtāqin.. A. Fāzel, Tehran: Pazhuheshgāh. 42 The treatment of martyrs in the Hereafter is a fascinating subject, which Christian Lange has referred to in his book Justice, Punishment, and the Medieval Muslim Imagination. See for instance page 164, where he writes, ‘The man who seeks martyrdom for the sake of gaining a reputation of being courageous will be dragged on his face and thrown into the Fire.’

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Ahmad-e Jām Nāmeqi (ed.). ([1368]1989). Uns at-tā’ebin. ‘A. Fāzel, Tehran: Tus. Akbari, Manuchehr (ed.). ([1377]1998). Naqd-o tahlil-e she’r-e defā’-e moqaddas. Tehran: Sāzmān-e Madārk-e Farhangi-ye Enqlāb-e Eslāmi, vol. 1. Aminpur, Qaysar. (2007). Gozine-ye ash‘ār. Tehran: Morvārid. Arkoun, Mohammed. (2009). Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, s.v. ‘Ishḳ. ‘Attār, Farid al Din. Farid ad-Din ‘Attār’s Memorial of God’s Friends: Lives and Sayings of Sufis, Paul Losensky (trans.). New York: Mahwah: Paulist Press. ‘Attār, Farid al-Din. ([1368]1989). Manteq al-tayr. Sayyed Sādiq Gowharin (ed.). Tehran: Sherkat Enteshārāt-e ‘Elmi wa Farhangi. ‘Attār, Farid al-Din. (1966). Muslim Saints and Mystics: Episodes from the Tadhkirat al Auliya’ (Memorial of the Saints) by Farid al-Din Attar. Arthur Arberry (trans.). London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. ‘Attār, Farid al-Din.([1370]1991). Tadhkerat al-owliyā. Hoseyn Khalili (ed.). Tehran: Manuchehri. Attār, Farid al-Din. (1984). The Conference of the Birds. Dick Davis and Afkham Darbandi (trans.). London: Penguin Classics. Bākharzi, Abu ‘l-Mafākher. ([1359]1980). Du resāla-ye ‘erfāni dar ‘eshq. Iraj Afshār (ed.). Tehran: Manuchehri. Bearman, Peri; Bianquis, Th.; Bosworth, C.E.; Donzel, E. van; Heinrichs, W.P. (eds.). ([1960] 2005). Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Leiden: Brill. Bruijn, Johannes.T.P. de. (1983). Of Piety and Poetry: The Interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of Hakim Sanā’i of Ghazna. Leiden: E.J. Brill, Publication of the “De Goeje Fund,” No. 25. Bruijn, Johannes.T.P. de. (1997). Persian Sufi Poetry: An Introduction to the Mystical Use of Classical Poems. Richmond: Curzon Press. Ernst, Carl. (2006). ‘On Losing One’s Head: Hallājian Motifs and Authorial Identity in Poems Ascribed to Attār’. In Áttar and the Persian Sufi Tradition: the Art of Spiritual Flight. Leonard Lewisohn and Christopher Shackle (eds.). London and New York: I.B Tauris, 330-343. Ernst, Carl. (1993). ’The Stages of Love in Early Persian Sufism’. In Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins to Rumi. Leonard Lewisohn (ed.). London: KNP, 435-453. Ghazāli, Ahmad. (1942). Sawānih: Aphorismen über die Liebe. Herausgegeben von H. Ritter. Istanbul: Ma’āref. Ghazāli, Ahmad. (1986). Sawānih: Inspirations from the World of Pure Spirits: The Oldest Persian Sufi Treatise on Love. Nasrollāh Pourjavady (trans.). London: KPI. Gruendler, Beatrice. (2004). ‘“Pardon Those Who Love Passionately”: A Theologian’sEndorsement of Shahādat al- ‘Ishq’. In Martyrdom in Literature: Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity. Friederike Pannewick (ed.). Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 189-236.

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Hoseyni, Seyyed Hasan. ([1387] 2008). Ham-sedā bā halq-e Esmā‘il. Tehran: Enteshārāt-e Sura-ye Mehr, fourth edition. Ibn ‘Abbādi, Ardashir. ([1368]1989). Kitāb al-tasfiya fi ahwāl al-mutasawwifa (Sufināma). Gholām-Hoseyn Yusofi (ed.). Tehran: ‘Elmi. Jacobi, Roelof. (2004). ‘The ‘Udhra: Love and Death in the Ummayad Period’. In Martyrdom in Literature: Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity. Friederike Pannewick (ed.). Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 137-148. Jāmi, ‘Abd al-Rahmān. ([1352]1973). Ashe’‘at al-lama‘āt. Hāmed Rabbāni (ed.). Tehran: Nāser Khusrow. Karamustafa, Ahmet. (2007). Sufism: The Formative Period. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Khairallah, As’ad. (1990). ‘The Wine-Cup of Death: War as a Mystical Way’. Quanderni di Studi Arabi, Vol. 8: 171-90. Kohlberg, Etan. ([1960] 2005). The Encyclopaedia of Islam (2), s.v. Shahīd. Leiden: Brill. Kohlberg, Etan. (1997). Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom. Amsterdam: KNAW Press. Lange, Christian. (2008). Justice, Punishment, and the Medieval Muslim Imagination. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leder, Stefan. (2004). ‘The ‘Udhri Narrative in Arabic Literature’. In Martyrdom in Literature: Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity. Friederike Pannewick (ed.). Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 163-187. Massignon, Louis. (1982). The Passion of al-Hallaj, Mystic and Martyr of Islam, 4 vols. Herbert Mason (trans.). Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mustamli Bukhāri Muhammad. ([1366]1987). Sharh al-ta‘arruf, 4 Vols. Mohammad Rowshan (ed.). Tehran: Asātir. Nematollahi Mahani, M. (2014). ‘Do not Say They Are Dead’: The Political Use of Mystical and Religious Concepts in the Persian Poetry of the Iran-Iraq War (19801988). PhD-dissertation, Leiden University. Neuwirth, Angelika. (2004). ‘From Sacrilege to Sacrifice: Observations on Violent Death in Classical and Modern Arabic Poetry’. In Martyrdom in Literature. Friederike Pannewick (ed.). Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag Wiesbaden, 259-81. Nicholson, Reynold. A. ([1930] 1982). The Mathnawí of Jalálu’ddín Rúmí, Vols. III-IV, Cambridge: The E.J.W. Gibb Memorial. Obiedat, Ahmad Z. (2018). ‘The Semantic Field of Love in Classical Arabic: Understanding the Subconscious Meaning Preserved in the Hubb Synonyms and Antonyms Through their Etymologies’. In The Beloved in Middle Eastern Literature: The Culture of Love and Languishing. Alireza Qurangy, H. Al-Samman, M. Beard (eds.). London / New York: I.B. Tauris, 300-323.

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Pannewick, Friederike (ed.). (2004). Martyrdom in Literature: Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity. Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag. Ritter, Hellmut. ([1955] 2003). Das Meer der Seele: Mensch, Welt und Gott in den Geschichten des Fariduddin ‘Attār. The Ocean of the Soul. Men, the World and God in the Stories of Farīd al-Dīn ʿAṭṭār. John O’Kane (trans.). Leiden: E.J. Brill. Rosenthal, Franz. (1987). ‘Reflections on Love in Paradise’. In Love and Death in the Ancient Near East: Essays in Honor of Marvin H. Pope. John Marks, et al (eds.). Guilford: Four Quarters Publishing Company. Rumi, Jalāl al-Din. ([1372] 1993). Mathnawi-ye ma’nawi, 6 Vols. Mohammad. Isti’lāmi (ed.), Tehran: Zawwār. Rumi, Jalāl al-Din. (2008). The Quatrains of Rūmī. Ibrahim Gamard and Rawan Farhadi (trans.). San Rafael CA: Sufi Dari Books. Sanā’i Ghaznavi. ([1382] 2004). Abo ‘l-Majd Majdud Ebn Ādam. Hadiqat al-Haqiqa va shari‘at al-Tariqa. Maryam Hoseyni (ed.). Tehran: Markaz-e Nashr-e Dāneshgāhi. Schimmel, Annemarie. (1962). ‘The Martyr-Mystic Ḥallāj in Sindhi Folk-Poetry: Notes on a Mystical Symbol’. Numen, Vol. 9, Fasc. 3 (Nov): 161-200. Schimmel, Annemarie. (1975). Mystical Dimensions of Islam. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Seyed-Gohrab, Ali-Asghar. (2003). Laylī and Majnūn: Love, Madness and Mystic Longing inNizāmī’s Epic Romance, Leiden: Brill. Seyed-Gohrab, Ali-Asghar. (2016). ‘“The Houses of the Tulips”: Persian Poetry on the Fallen in the Iran-Iraq War’. The International Journal of Persian Literature. Pennsylvania University Press, Vol. 1: 89-119. Seyed-Gohrab, Ali-Asghar. (2012). ‘Martyrdom as Piety, Mysticism and National Identity in Iran’. Der Islam: Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients, Vol. 87, No. 1-2, 248-73. Seyed-Gohrab, Ali-Asghar. (2012). ‘Waxing Eloquent: The Masterful Variations on CandleMetaphors in the Poetry of Hafiz and his Predecessors’. In Metaphor and Imagery in PersianPoetry. Ali-Asghar Seyed-Gohrab (ed.). Leiden/Boston: Brill, 81-123. Suhrawardi, Shehāb al-Din Yahyā. (1993). Oeuvres Philosophiques et Mystiques. Seyyed Hossein Nasr and Henry Corbin (eds.). Teheran: Institut d’Etudes et des Recherches Culturelles.

About the Author Dr. Asghar Seyed-Gohrab is Associate Professor of Persian at the Department of Middle Eastern Studies and the track-leader of the Persian and Iranian Studies program at Leiden University. He received his PhD from Leiden

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University where he has been teaching since 1997. In addition to publishing many articles, and chapters, he has authored, edited, and translated several books on Persian literature and culture, cinema, Sufism, and manuscript tradition. His recent publications include The Layered Heart: Essays on Persian Poetry (ed., 2019); The True Dream: Indictment of the Shiite Clerics of Isfahan (2017 together with S. McGlinn); Soefism: Een levende traditie, (2015, third print); Literature of the Early Twentieth Century: From the Constitutional Period to Reza Shah (ed., 2015); Mirror of Dew: The Poetry of Ālam-Tāj Zhāle Qā’em-Maqāmi (2015); Conflict and Development in Iranian Film, (ed. together with K. Talattof, 2013); Metaphor and Imagery in Persian Poetry (ed., 2012); The Great Omar Khayyam: A Global Reception (ed., 2012); Courtly Riddles: Enigmatic Embellishments in Early Persian Poetry (2010); One Word: A 19thCentury Persian Treatise Introducing Western Codified Law (2010, together with S. McGlinn); Laylī and Majnūn: Love, Madness and Mystic Longing in Niẓāmī’s Epic Romance (2003). He has translated several volumes of modern Persian poetry into Dutch, including the poetry of Sohrāb Sepehri, Forugh Farrokhzād, Mohammad-Rezā Shafi’i-Kadkani, and (together with J.T.P. de Bruijn) Ahmad Shāmlu, Nāder Nāderpur, and Hushang Ebtehāj. He is the founding general editor of the Iranian Studies Series at Leiden University Press and Chicago University Press and the Modern Persian Poetry Series.

6

Commemorating World War I Soldiers as Martyrs Jan Willem van Henten

Abstract Jan Willem van Henten takes a speech by the English Bishop Arthur Winnington Ingram from 1914 for the bereaved families of fallen soldiers as point of departure for a survey of the commemoration of soldiers who died in World War 1 as martyrs. Winnington Ingram characterises the soldiers whom he commemorates as martyrs and links them to Stephen, the proto-martyr of the Church (Acts 7). Van Henten explores whether Winnington Ingram’s speech is an isolated case or if others also commemorated soldiers who were killed during the Great War as martyrs, indirectly or explicitly. Van Henten concentrates on several case studies about German and British soldiers: a mosaic referring to the soldiers, a chapel at two German military cemeteries in Belgium (Hooglede and Menen), and a stained glass window and a table with names of the fallen at the All Saints Church at Huntingdon (Cambridgeshire). This chapter discusses the particularities of these commemorations as well as how the soldiers are associated with martyrdom and the reward of martyrs with the help of Christian pictorial traditions and specific biblical passages. Keywords: World War I martyrs, Christian pictorial traditions, war memorials and cemeteries, commemoration, national heroes

Introduction: Commemorating the Fallen of World War I as Martyrs Martyrdom traditions have become a fascinating framework of reference for commemorating soldiers and other victims of mostly military violence

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during WWI.1 Individual persons who were believed to have made an exceptional sacrifice during WWI are sometimes commemorated as martyrs. One example of such a person is the nurse Edith Cavell, who is, among other things, commemorated as a ‘nurse, patriot, and martyr’ on her memorial outside Norwich Cathedral.2 The Germans executed her on 12 October 1915, because of the help she had given to Allied soldiers trapped in occupied Belgium. Edith Cavell was a devout Anglican and widely perceived as a Christian martyr, as several monuments imply. Her statue in London at St. Martin’s Place near Trafalgar Square, created by Sir George Frampton, is mainly secular in tone but surmounted by a Cross and Virgin with Child.3 A second type of commemoration as martyrs concerns soldiers killed in the Great War. Such a commemoration is common in Turkey as the successor of the Ottoman Empire, but much rarer in countries of North-West Europe.4 This makes the exceptions all the more interesting.5 One of these cases concerns Arthur Winnington Ingram, the bishop of London who also served as the chaplain of the London Rifle Brigade and the London Royal Naval Volunteers. Winnington Ingram is very explicit in a speech in 1914 for the bereaved families of British soldiers who were killed by identifying them as martyrs:6 You have lost your boys, but what are they? Martyrs-martyrs as really as St Stephen was a martyr-martyrs dying for their faith as really as St 1 I warmly thank Tamara Breugelmans (Amsterdam), Jan de Vries (Nijmegen), Gregor Langfeld (Amsterdam), Galit Noga-Banai (Jerusalem) and Peter Pässler (VDK, Kassel) for very helpful comments and references. 2 This memorial sculpture was erected by Henry Pegram in 1918 and moved to its present location in 1993. It was restored in 2014, https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/listentry/1210795 (Accessed on April 10, 2017). 3 https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1264768 (Accessed on April 10, 2017); Pickles, Transnational Outrage: The Death and Commemoration of Edith Cavell; Wolffe, “‘Martyrs as Really as St Stephen was a Martyr”? Commemorating the British Dead’, p. 23-38, esp. p. 25. 4 Hettling and Echternkamp (eds.), Gefallenengedenken im globalen Vergleich: nationale Tradition, politische Legitimation und Individualisierung der Erinnerung, p. 31; p. 36-39. 5 For surveys concerning the commemoration of British and German soldiers including those of World War 1, see Goebel, ‘Brüchige Kontinuität: Kriegerdenkmäler und Kriegsgedenken im 20. Jahrhundert’, p. 199-224, and Hettling and Echternkamp, ‘Heroisierung und Opferstilisierung: Grundelemente des Gefallenengedenkens von 1813 bis heute’, ibid, p. 123-158. See also: Winter, Sites of Memory. Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History; Capdevilla and Voldman, War Dead. Western Societies and the Casualties of War, p. 149-179. 6 Snape, The Royal Army’s Chaplain Department 1796-1953: Clergy under Fire, p. 191. Further references: Carpenter, Winnington-Ingram. The Biography of Arthur Foley Winnington-Ingram, Bishop of London, 1901-1939. Bell, ‘Malign or Maligned? – Arthur Winnington-Ingram, Bishop of London, in the First World War’, p. 117-133.

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Stephen, the first martyr, died for his. They looked up when they died in the trenches, or in the little cottage where they were carried, they looked up and they saw JESUS standing on the right hand of GOD. And he is keeping them safe for you there when the time comes. Covered with imperishable glory they pass to deathless life.7

The bishop obviously connects the fate of the fallen with Stephen facing death: ‘I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God’ (quotation of Acts 7:56). John Wolffe connects this speech of the bishop with a 1914 painting by James Clark, entitled the Great Sacrifice, which was widely reproduced in the early months of the war, also in the Christmas 1914 issue of The Graphic. The painting draws an analogy between a fallen soldier and Jesus’ crucifixion, with Jesus looking down compassionately on the soldier, suggesting that the soldier died for Jesus Christ and that Jesus shared in his suffering.8 Wolffe comments: If the confidence of such equations between Christian martyrdom, the sacrifice of the war dead, and even the sacrifice of Christ himself seem disconcerting to later generations, they need to be seen in their context as a logical consequence of the demonising of the Germans, as a pastoral response to the need to offer consolation to the bereaved, and also as an effort by Christians to shape the national response in a manner that affirmed rather than marginalised Christianity. Winnington-Ingram, it should be recalled, was speaking into a cultural context in which others readily found a more secular nationalistic framework to make sense of the war casualties.9

The tension between a secular and nationalistic framework of interpretation on the one hand and a religious perspective on the other is the main focus of John Wolffe’s discussion of the commemoration of British soldiers as martyrs.10 7 Winnington-Ingram, A Day of God: Being Five Addresses on the Subject of the Present War, p. 75; Wolffe, ‘“Martyrs as Really as St Stephen was a Martyr”? Commemorating the British Dead’, p. 23. 8 MacIan King, The Politics of Meaning in the Commemoration of the First World War in Britain 1914-1939, p. 246. Cf. a stained glass window with a crucifixion and a soldier in uniform at the foot of the cross in the English Martyrs Church (Roman Catholic) at The Sands, Whalley, Ribble Valley, Lancashire, http://www.iwm.org.uk/memorials/item/memorial/42656 (Accessed on April 10, 2017). 9 Wolffe, ‘“Martyrs as Really as St Stephen was a Martyr”? Commemorating the British Dead’, p. 24. 10 Cf. Capdevilla and Voldman, War Dead. Western Societies and the Casualties of War, p. 164-169.

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My focus in this contribution is different: I will concentrate on the articulations of martyrdom itself in the commemorations of fallen soldiers as martyrs, including the use of biblical passages in support of such interpretations. The f irst thing that comes to notice is that a def inition of the martyr f igure remains implicit in Bishop Winnington-Ingram’s 1914 speech. However, in a sermon preached on 28 November 1915, he is more explicit about what being a martyr means for him. He states that he considered every soldier who fell during the war a martyr: he looked upon ‘everyone who f ights in this war as a hero, and upon everyone who dies in it as a martyr’. 11 Bishop Winnington-Ingram, therefore, considerably broadens the concept of martyrdom in comparison to the ‘classical martyrs’ in Judaism and Christianity, who usually die in a forensic context. 12 His martyrs remind one of the battlef ield martyrs in the older Muslim traditions about martyrdom. 13 The second point that strikes the reader is that he remains implicit about the cause of martyrdom. This may have been obvious for him, something like ‘for God and King’, but once again it is quite different from older martyrdom accounts, which often highlight the martyr’s motivation. Instead, the bishop makes a bold statement by drawing an analogy between the fallen soldiers and St. Stephen. This implies that he focuses on those who stayed behind: the re-interpretation of the death of the fallen as martyrs provides meaning and signif icance to their death as well as consolation for their relatives and friends. The analogy with Stephen also implies the prospect of a resurrection, which is explicitly mentioned in the quote: the fallen would be safe in the presence of Jesus Christ until the end of times: ‘And he is keeping them safe for you there when the time comes. Covered with imperishable glory they pass to deathless life’ (above). This implies that the soldiers were privileged, because their resurrection had already taken place, similar to the resurrection of the martyrs in the early Christian tradition. We can consider Winnington Ingram’s speeches about the fallen to be an eye opener for the implicit and sometimes explicit configuration of the deceased soldiers as martyrs on war memorials and in military cemeteries. In the remaining part of my contribution I will focus on several cases of the commemoration of soldiers killed in WWI, which are thematically related, 11 Evans, Mothers of Heroes, p. 66-67; Bell, ‘Malign or Maligned’, p. 127; Wolffe, ‘“Martyrs as Really as St Stephen was a Martyr”? Commemorating the British Dead’, p. 24. 12 Van Henten, ‘Noble Death and Martyrdom in Antiquity’, p. 85-110. 13 Kohlberg, Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom.

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because biblical motifs and older martyrdom traditions play an important role in their commemoration in artwork with religious motifs: it concerns in particular mosaics in two of the four German military cemeteries in West Flanders, Belgium, a statue of Saint Edmund connected with killed soldiers of WWI in the Anglican St. Edmund King and Martyr Church in Dudley, West Midlands, and finally a stained glass window with a memorial inscription in All Saints Church at Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire, also in the United Kingdom.

The German Military Cemeteries at Hooglede and Menen There are currently four German military cemeteries in West Flanders (Belgium), which go back to the years of WWI itself and preserve the bodily remains of more than 100,000 German soldiers, who are commemorated as national heroes.14 The four cemeteries, where also soldiers from other cemeteries that no longer exist were re-buried, are Vladslo-Praetbosch,15 which includes two statues by Käthe Kollwitz, the so-called student cemetery of Langemark-Poelkapelle, which is well-known and turned into a more general memorial site that is visited frequently,16 and the cemeteries that will be discussed in detail, Hooglede, and Menen. Together they are taken up in a Unesco application for the list of heritage in danger.17 There is a myth about the cemetery at Langemark suggesting that the German soldiers buried there were young students who sacrificed their life happily and with glowing patriotism ‘on the altar of the fatherland’.18 George Mosse considers this patriotic glorification of a sacrificial death on the battlefield a deliberate association with Jesus Christ’s passion and a strategy for interpreting the fallen’s death from the perspective of the

14 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Die Deutschen Soldatenfriedhöfe des Ersten Weltkriegs in Flandern’, p. 163-238, https://oar.onroerenderfgoed.be/publicaties/RELT/7/RELT007-008.pdf. Accessed on March 2, 2016). In general: Mosse, ‘National Cemeteries and National Revival: The Cult of the Fallen Soldiers in Germany’, p. 1-20; Hettling and Echternkamp, ‘Heroisierung’. 15 https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/94250 (Accessed on April 5, 2017). 16 https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/83766 [Accessed on April 20, 2018). 17 http://whc.unesco.org/en/tentativelists/5886/ (Accessed on April 11, 2017). 18 Ketelsen, ‘Die Jugend von Langemarck. Ein poetisch-politisches Motiv der Zwischenkriegszeit’; Janz and Trommler (eds.), “Mit uns zieht die neue Zeit”. Der Mythos der Jugend, p. 68-97. Mosse, ‘National Cemeteries and National Revival: The Cult of the Fallen Soldiers in Germany’, p. 6-7; Idem, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars, p. 70-74; Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 166; 171; 181-83; 194.

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sacred.19 The solidarity unto death of the soldiers implies that they are models for the living, which echoes a motif in classical martyr texts.20 The motif of a patriotic self-sacrifice, which is beneficial for the nation, is expressed in the maxim ‘Germany must live, even when we have to die’ (‘Deutschland muss leben, und wenn wir sterben müssen’) by Heinrich Lersch (1914), which is currently located at the back of the inner entrance building at Langemark. The two lines of text were originally put on a wall in front of the so-called grave of the comrades at Langemark between 1932 and 1934.21 Scholars have also associated the many oaks planted in these cemeteries with martyrdom, because the oak is the archetypal German tree and a symbol of posthumous afterlife in nature.22 The most interesting features of these cemeteries for my discussion are the mosaics at Hooglede and Menen, which are directly connected with the fate and commemoration of the fallen soldiers and clearly build on biblical and Christian motifs. One concerns a mosaic on the inside wall of a gallery with arches at the cemetery at Hooglede. It shows a majestic Jesus Christ with two human figures on his right and two on his left and an inscription pointing to its commemorative function. The other concerns the cemetery at Menen, which includes a small octagonal chapel with beautiful mosaics on the inside with symbols deriving from the book of Revelation. This chapel has rightly been interpreted as a representation of Revelation’s heavenly Jerusalem.23 Both cemeteries must have been redesigned under the supervision of Robert Tischler (1885-1959), the chief architect of the Association for the Care of German Military Cemeteries (Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge, VDK) from 1926 to 1959.24 Tischler was a warm supporter of Hitler and he used secular and fascist-nationalistic 19 Mosse, ‘National Cemeteries and National Revival: The Cult of the Fallen Soldiers in Germany’, p. 4; Idem, Fallen Soldiers, p. 7-8; 35; Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 166, https:// oar.onroerenderfgoed.be/publicaties/RELT/7/RELT007-008.pdf (Accessed on March 2, 2016). 20 Mosse, ‘National Cemeteries and National Revival: The Cult of the Fallen Soldiers in Germany’, p. 7; Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 166; 171; Van Henten, ‘Martyrium II. Martyriumidee’, p. 300-327. 21 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 171. During the Nazi period Lersch’s maxim was used for other memorial sites as well, Hettling and Echternkamp, ‘Heroisierung’, p. 136-40. 22 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 169. 23 Ibid, p. 171 and 173. 24 About the VDK, see Von Gudenberg, Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge e.V.: 50 Jahre Dienst am Frieden, http://www.volksbund.de/home.html (Accessed on April 14, 2017); Kuberek, ‘Die Kriegsgräberstätten des Volksbundes Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge’, p. 75-90; Fuhrmeister, ‘Der Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge e.V. im 20. und 21. Jahrhundert. Bemerkungen aus Sicht der politischen Ikonographie’, p. 45-66.

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motifs in his design of the military cemeteries in the Nazi period. After World War II he clearly built on Christian motifs for the decoration of the cemeteries and even included chapels in some of them as sacred spaces of remembrance.25 The cemetery of Hooglede dates from 1917, when there was a great need for burial space because of the third Battle at Ieper, which started in July 1917.26 Before the Second World War the cemetery was mainly a meadow with endless rows of crosses with a triangle top.27 From 1937 onward a hall of honour was built with open arches on the front side, a Neo-Roman propylaeum (30 m wide and 6 m long) in technical terminology.28 This hall was included in the new sacralised set up of the cemetery, which was constructed between 1954 and 1959 and is roughly similar to the present state. Standing in front of the entrance in the low south wall of natural stone with a plaque with the text Deutscher Soldatenfriedhof Hooglede 1914-1918 (German Military Cemetery Hooglede 1914-1918) one looks up to a rectangular piece of land of ca. 1.8 hectare that slightly ascends and that has rows of lying granite gravestones which each contain two names of deceased soldiers, the date of their death, the number of their grave and sometimes also their military rank.29 In between the stones there is grass, extensive stretches of heather and 43 groups of five standing crosses from basalt lava rock. The heather reflects the wish of the VDK, the assocation that was for a long time responsible for maintaining the cemetery, to have a ‘flourishing grave field’ (blühender Gräberfeld) at Hooglede.30 At the west and east sides there are oak and maple trees, and there are a few poplars behind the honorary hall, which is built of sandstone from Ibbenbüren.31 25 Lurz ‘“… ein Stück Heimat in fremder Erde.“ Die Heldenhaine und Totenburgen des Volksbunds Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge’, p. 66-70. Kirchmeier, Eine Festung, die eine Friedhof ist: in Stein gefassten Ideologie – 75 Jahre Totenburg Quero. Leaflet of the VDK (2014), http://docplayer. org/30529801-Eine-festung-die-ein-friedhof-ist.html (Accessed on April 26, 2018). 26 https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 (Accessed on April 12, 2017). Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 174-175. 27 The numbers of soldiers buried at Hooglede differ slightly: Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 179; 191-92; 199 consistently mention 8247 persons, but https://inventaris. onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 (Accessed on April 12, 2017) and http://www. volksbund.de/kriegsgraeberstaette/hooglede.html [Accessed on April 14, 2017) refer to 8241 German soldiers and 16 Russian soldiers. 28 https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 (Accessed on April 12, 2017). 29 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‚Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 168; 202, https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 [Accessed on April 12, 2017). 30 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 202. 31 Ibid, p. 168; 179, https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 (Accessed on April 12, 2017).

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During the adaptations at Hooglede in the 1950s, four of the open spaces below the arches in the hall were covered, two rooms were created and a mosaic was included in the inner wall at the back of the hall. Two of these renovations include explicit and elaborate religious imagery, which implies that all the buried soldiers were from that time on remembered and honoured from a religious perspective. The room at the west side is on the inside closed off by a wrought-iron screen through which a square memorial in bronze in the middle can be seen, designed and sculpted by Fritz Schmoll genannt Eisenwerth in 1956-1957.32 The memorial looks like an altar and on top of it is a small square metal cupboard with a cross on top. The sides of the cupboard are open; on the east side lies a book with the names of all the soldiers buried here. The east side of the memorial has an inscription above a wreath: ‘hier ruhen deutsche soldaten 1914-1918’. The west side contains a relief of an angel and the other two sides have a head of an animal in the middle, possibly a lion. The most explicit religious imagery concerns the Christ mosaic at the centre of the hall, designed in 1956 by Franz Grau (1910-1992),33 a German artist from Munich who also designed the mosaic inside the famous war memorial for the fallen German soldiers at El Alamein (1955) as well as several other war monuments with very obvious Christian motifs.34 The large central f igure in this mosaic of several meters high is a seated Jesus Christ in a long robe with a halo against a mainly brick-red background. The Christ f igure as well as the other human f igures are presented in combinations of pastel colours, light green, yellow, blue, red, green etcetera. Slight variations of colour articulate their forms. Although Christ’s throne is invisible, the folding lines of his robe and his bended knees presuppose he is seated.35 He wears a long robe and his feet 32 Küppers, Fritz Schmoll genannt Eisenwerth (1883-1963): Kunstgewerbler, Innenarchitekt und Bildhauer in München, p. 352; Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 202, https:// inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 [Accessed on April 12, 2017). The VDK’s chief architect Robert Tischler used to contract artists from the Munich region for the artwork of the cemeteries; besides Fritz Schmoll genannt Eisenwerth and Franz Grau, these included Willy Guglhör and others. Vancoillie, ‘From Field Grave to Comrades’ Grave. The German First World War Graves on the Flanders Front’, p. 13, http://www.riha-journal.org/articles/2017/01500176-special-issue-war-graves/0162-vancoillie [Accessed on April 23, 2018). 33 The mosaic was produced by the f irm Gustav van Treeck, Werkstätte für Mosaik und Glasmalerei (Munich). 34 Welscher, Rhythmus in Form und Farbe: Lebenswerk des Künstlers Franz Grau, p. 25-26; 124. See also the artwork by Franz Grau at the war cemeteries of Lommel (Belgium, 1959), Berchtesgaden-Schönau (Germany, 1956), Orglande (France, 1961) and Marigny (France, 1961). 35 Welscher, Rhythmus, p. 124, describes the mosaic as ‘Thronender Christus’.

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are resting on a semi-circle, which has several layers in slightly different colours. His right arm is lifted towards the onlookers, his fingers form a gesture of speaking (below). In his left hand he carries a scroll, the bottom of which is resting on his left upper leg. Two characters are inscribed on the scroll, an Alpha and an Omega. Two figures, smaller than Christ, are standing left of him, both holding their hands together in front of their breast. One of them is clearly a woman with long hair, wearing a long robe and sandals. Her feet and lower legs are clearly visible. The other person, sometimes also identified as a woman,36 closer to Christ, wears a long robe that meets the ground, so her or his feet are invisible. She/he also has long hair, dark, and the bottom side of the face may depict a beard. The dress of Christ and both figures left of him look timeless and clearly build on Byzantine iconographic traditions. The two human figures at the right of Christ, also smaller than him, are clearly males by the look of their faces. They wear military clothes: their boots are clearly visible, as well as the round shackle of their belts. The identif ication of the two bareheaded men as soldiers seems certain because of the helmet held in the left hand by one of them. One of these men holds his arms and hands in front of him, close to his breast. The other one holds his right arm and hand in a similar position. The upper part left and right of the Christ figure shows an inscription ‘1914-1918 in memoriam’, which clearly connects the mosaic with the funerary context of the war cemetery. The central figure probably represents Christ as ruler and/or judge of humankind in line with the well-known iconographical tradition of Christus Pantokrator. The abstract half circle with several concentric layers may symbolise the earth or the rainbow. The identification of the two figures at the left is difficult, also because the gender of one of them is ambiguous. The two figures at the right can easily be identified as two of the soldiers who were buried at Hooglede. This is implied by their military dress, which matches the contemporary context and is supported by the inscription ‘1914-1918 in memoriam’, which explicitly links the buried fallen soldiers in the graveyard to the mosaic. What is the meaning of the entire scene? Freytag and Van Driesche briefly discuss the meaning of this mosaic and suggest that the scene indicates that the soldiers are taken up in heaven as just persons after their heroic death (‘Dieses Bildnis verweist auf die Soldaten als “Gerechte”, die in den Himmel aufgenommen werden’).37 This implies that 36 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 171, https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed. be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 (Accessed on April 12, 2017). 37 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 171; see also p. 202.

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Figure 1 Mosaic by Franz Grau at the German Military Cemetery at Hooglede, Belgium

Photo: Jan Willem van Henten

the soldiers were vindicated directly after death, as martyrs were in the Jewish and Christian tradition. The anonymous author of the item of the Belgian heritage list on Hooglede suggests that the scene represents Jesus Christ as judge of the world making the V-sign with his right hand (this is not

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right, see below) and being flanked by four mourning and praying persons, two soldiers and two women.38 Both interpretations seem plausible, but in both cases a sound argumentation is missing. Since the Christ f igure in the centre obviously builds on Christian iconographic traditions, the clue to the meaning of the entire scene on the mosaic may be found in a particular iconographical tradition about a collective with Christ as the central figure. Three of those iconographical traditions come to mind. The first tradition concerns the so-called Dominus legem dat or Traditio legis iconography, which is attested in antiquity from the fourth century CE onward and implies that Jesus Christ revealed the law in analogy to Moses.39 The second iconographical tradition, attested from the Middle Ages onward, is Christ in Glory (Majestas domini). 40 The third relevant tradition is that of the Deesis, an early-Christian and Byzantine representation that is analogous to Christ in Glory in the West, but with different details. 41 Additional arguments for the interpretation of the pictorial programme of the Hooglede mosaic can be found in other mosaics created by Franz Grau, including those in the chapel at Menen (below). The Dominus legem dat pictoral tradition builds on the transfer of the Torah scrolls by the Romans in 71 CE as told by Flavius Josephus and highlights Rome as the supreme Christian city. This iconographical programme may have been triggered by the Emperor Julian’s failed attempt to rebuild the Jerusalem Temple. 42 The Jesus figure of Franz Grau closely matches the depiction of the haloed Christ of the Dominus legem dat tradition, who is standing or sitting in the centre of the scene and has an open scroll in his left hand and raises his right arm with an open hand. The Apostle Paul stands at the right of Jesus, turned towards him, and the Apostle Peter, who 38 https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95266 (Accessed on April 12, 2017). 39 Spera, ‘Traditio Legis et Clavium’, p. 288-293; Arbeiter, ‘Die mosaiken’, p. 124-147; Noga-Banai, ‘Dominus legem dat: von der Tempelbeute zur römischen Bildtinvention‘, p. 157-174. 40 Berger, Die Darstellung des thronenden Christus in der romanischen Kunst; Van der Meer, Maiestas Domini: théophanies de l’Apocalypse dans l’art chrétien: étude sur les orgines d’une iconographie spéciale du Christ; Schiller, Die Ikonographie der Christlichen Kunst, p. 233-249; Poilpret, Maiestas Domini: une image de l’Eglise en Occident, Ve-IXe siècle. 41 Christopher Walter, ‘Two Notes on the Deesis’, p. 311-336; Schiller, Die Ikonographie der Christlichen Kunst, p. 195; Onasch, Lexikon Liturgie und Kunst der Ostkirche, unter Berücksichtigung der Alten Kirche, p. 83-84; Cutler, ‘Under the Sign of the Deesis’, p. 145-154; Gilsdorf, ‘Deēsis Deconstructed: Imagining Intercession in the Medieval West’, p. 131-174; Neff, ‘Byzantine Icons, Franciscan Prayer: Images of Intercession and Ascent in the Upper Church of San Francesco, Assisi’, p. 357-382 (372-73). 42 Noga-Banai, ‘Dominus legem dat’.

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can be recognised by the crosier in his left hand, stands at Jesus’ left side, supporting or receiving the scroll with his right hand. 43 The scene at Hooglede matches the Dominus legem dat tradition but it also deviates from it in several ways: the figures at Jesus Christ’s right and left side, four together, can hardly be identified with the apostles Peter and Paul (below). The document held in Christ’s left hand probably does not refer to the Law. It has a flat surface and can be an open scroll but also a tablet or a codex. Most importantly, the characters Alpha and an Omega are depicted on it and this detail links the document to the Book of Revelation, where Jesus is introduced by the words ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega’ (Rev. 21:6). The characters Alpha and Omega, symbolising supreme power in Revelation, are elsewhere in this book associated with God (1:8; 22:13), but in Revelation 21:6 they refer to Jesus Christ. This may imply that the scene at Hooglede points in particular to the well-known passage in Revelation 21 about a new heaven and a new earth. If so, the message for those remembered and honoured at Hooglede and for the visitors would be quite appropriate. Read in its immediate context the passage highlights the words of a figure seated on a throne indicating a renewal of everything as well as the vindication for the ‘conquerors’, who can easily be associated with the deceased soldiers. The gesture of the raised right arm and the (slightly malformed) open hand of which thumb, index finger and middle finger are stretched and little finger and ring finger flexed against the palm of the hand supports the interpretation that Jesus conveys a message about the soldiers, because it points to the act of speaking. 44 Revelation 21:5-7 reads: (5) And the one who was seated on the throne said, ‘See, I am making all things new.’ Also he said, ‘Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.’ (6) Then he said to me, ‘It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. (7) Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children.’

The seated one on the throne associated with Jesus Christ in Revelation 21 can be identified with the Christ figure of the scene of the mosaic. The words that have to be written down according to Revelation 21:5 strengthen the connection, because they can be identified with the book or the scroll in 43 Ibid, p. 158-161. The scene can include additional figures, like sheep or lambs, and Christ’s feet sometimes rests on clouds, heaven or a terrestrial globe. 44 Roberts, Encyclopedia of Comparative Iconography: Themes Depicted in Works of Art, p. 54.

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Jesus’ left hand. The self-identification ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega’ also confirms the message of the words, which is about the renewal of everything, the gift of living water to the thirsty45 and salvation to the ‘conquerors’, i.e. those who live by the message of the Book of Revelation. 46 From the perspective of the Dominus legem dat tradition and the interconnections with Revelation 21 the mosaic points to the vindication of the buried soldiers and a renewal of their life in the heavenly Jerusalem. We will see that a similar message is evoked by part of the imagery of the mosaics at Menen. The Christ in Glory pictorial tradition is thematically related to the iconography of Dominus legem dat. Once again Jesus Christ is portrayed seated on a throne with either a globe or a book in one of his hands. He is often depicted together with four figures, which matches the Hooglede mosaic. These figures are the four evangelists, sometimes depicted together with their symbols. 47 A coloured drawing at the beginning of Matthew’s Gospel in a codex with the Gospels from Tournai (ca. 900) depicts Jesus Christ in a similar way as Franz Grau’s mosaic – although in a very different style. Jesus is sitting on the throne within a large halo, he has lifted his right arm and hand slightly and he holds a book in his left hand. This book must be the collection of the Four Gospels. In the four corners the symbols of the four evangelists are depicted, each with a book, i.e. their gospels. 48 The Majestas Domini tradition can help to explain the number of four human figures accompanying Jesus Christ in the scene of the mosaic, although the identification of these figures may be different. The tradition also helps to interpret one detail that was so far not discussed: Jesus Christ is sitting upon a rainbow. The rainbow is a regular element of the Majestas Domini tradition, which depicts Jesus Christ as being seated above a rainbow or a sphere. 49 The biblical context presupposed by the Christ in Glory iconography is the 45 Cf. Rev. 22: about the river of the water of life flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the heavenly Jerusalem (22:1-2). 46 Van Henten, ‘The Concept of Martyrdom in Revelation’, p. 587-618 (615-617). 47 E.g. The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, MS 78 D 40 folio 63r Miniature of MD with 4 evangelists and their symbols. Also without evangelists, e.g.: Lund University Library Medeltidhandskrift 5 folio 77v, http://www6.ub.lu.se/fsi/server?source=Laurentius/Mh_5/Mh_5-f_77_v. tifandprofile=mats_storandtype=image (Accessed on April 13, 2017). 48 The Hague, Museum Meermanno-Westreenianum, MS 10 B 7 Folio 11v, http://www.arkyves. org.proxy.uba.uva.nl:2048/view/byvmss_1328/ (Accessed on April 13, 2017). 49 Schiller, Ikonographie, vol. 3, p. 233 and p. 236; Markus, ‘Baptism and the King’s Coronation: Visual Rhetoric of the Valdemar Dynasty: Some Scanian and Danish Baptismal Fonts’, p. 122-142 (135). Cf. The Iconclass description 11D321: ‘“Majestas Domini”: Christ in mandorla seated in a rainbow or sphere and accompanied by the Tetramorph’, Van de Waal a.o., An Iconographic Classification System, p. 27.

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heavenly courtroom in Revelation 4-5, which includes a transfer of power to the Lamb that was slaughtered as well as its glorification (Rev. 5:12-13).50 The half circle of the rainbow supports this interconnection, because a rainbow of emerald surrounds the divine throne according to Revelation 4:3.51 The Majestas Domini tradition may also suggest a specific interpretation of the depiction of Jesus’ raised right hand with the gesture of the fingers (above). The image of Jesus’ right hand in the Majestas Domini tradition is usually interpreted as a gesture of blessing.52 The half circle symbolising the rainbow brings us to a third relevant iconographic tradition, because it builds on the early-Christian and Byzantine representation of Christ that is called the Deesis. This tradition is analogous to the Majestas Domini in the West.53 The Deesis depicts a seated Jesus Christ as Pantokrator with a book on his left knee, raising his right hand in benediction. Near him figures are depicted who address their prayers of intercession to Christ.54 This iconographical tradition gives us, perhaps, a hint about the identification and meaning of the two figures at the left of Jesus. In the Deesis Christ is often flanked by the Virgin Mary and John the Baptist in the role of intercessors. The gesture of their hands in front of them symbolises both adoration and entreaty. Sometimes Mary and John are kneeling before Christ.55 In what ways are these related older Christian iconographical traditions useful for the interpretation of the mosaic at Hooglede? In line with the Dominus legem dat tradition, which may have influenced the Majestas Domini tradition, the book or scroll held in Jesus Christ’s left hand becomes a focal point. The identification of the book with the Law is not supported by other details of the scene. The book could be the Four Gospels, in line with the Majestas Domini iconography, but the most plausible interpretation is 50 Schiller, Ikonographie, vol. 3, p. 200. Sometimes Christ in Majesty is associated with the Last Judgment. 51 Neff, ‘Byzantine Icons’, p. 372. 52 E.g. on the baptismal font of the Tryde Church, Scania, Markus, ‘Baptism’, p. 137. O’Neill, p. 182; Supercic, Croatia in the Late Middle Ages and the Renaisance: A Cultural Survey, p. 206. 53 Neff, ‘Byzantine Icons’, p. 372-73; Woodfin, The Embodied Icon: Liturgical Vestments and Sacramental Power in Byzantium, p. 76. Also Connor, Saints and Spectacle: Byzantine Mosaics in their Cultural Setting, p. 27-28. 54 Walter, ‘Two Notes on the Deesis’; Idem, ‘Further Notes on the Deësis’, Revue des études byzantines, p. 161-187. The iconographical tradition of the Deesis has also been interpreted as a representation of the celestial hierarchy pointing to the divine Logos, see for a discussion the references in footnote 41. 55 Walter, ‘Two Notes on the Deesis’, p. 312-16. Cutler, ‘Under the Sign of the Deesis’, p. 145-47; 151; Gilsdorf, ‘Deēsis Deconstructed’, p. 133-36; Woodfin, The Embodied Icon, p. 64-76.

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that it is associated with the Apocalypse because of the letters Alpha and Omega inscribed on it. The entire book of Revelation may be represented by the book or, more plausibly, the message for the ‘conquerors’ highlighted in Revelation 21 (above), because that association matches the funeral setting of the scene very well. The book points in that case to the ‘victory’ of the soldiers as well as their reward in heaven. The book may at the same time be associated with the ‘book of life’ referred to in Revelation 20:15: ‘and anyone whose name was not found written in the book of life was thrown into the lake of fire’. This passage is part of the judgment of the dead described in Revelation 20:11-15. If the book of life is alluded to by the mosaic, it would highlight the vindication of the fallen soldiers. In that case another association in line with the Majestas Domini and Deesis traditions becomes obvious: the heavenly courtroom of Revelation may be evoked by the imagery of the scene. From this perspective the scene would anticipate the vindication of the deceased soldiers by their incorporation in the book of life after the intercession of Mary and John the Baptist. However, the identification of the two figures at Jesus’ left side is not certain. If we interpret the two figures in line with Franz Grau’s El Alamein mosaic (1955), which commemorates fallen German soldiers from World War II and depicts a symmetry of twice three figures: three soldiers and three women, plausibly wives or mothers of soldiers, the two figures at Hooglede could also represent female relatives of the soldiers, wives, mothers and/or sisters.56 The cemetery at Menen also dates from 1917 (above) and has also been extensively adapted in the f ifties.57 It is a meadow with trees (mainly oaks and ahorns) and bushes, with lying granite gravestones (52 x 52 cm) with up to twenty names per stone. This is a design that is characteristic for the VDK’s chief architect Robert Tischler, who focused very much on the military collective of the deceased and was not interested in the fate of the individual.58 The huge number of 47,864 soldiers are buried at Menen because bodies from other cemeteries have been moved over to this location.59 The cemetery is ca. 3 hectare in size and has a polygonal 56 Welscher, Rhythmus, p. 25-26. 57 Vancoillie, De Duitse militaire begraafplaats Menen Wald. Geschiedenis van de Duitse militaire graven in Zuid-West-Vlaanderen. 58 Lurz, ‘… ein Stück Heimat in fremder Erde’, p. 69. 59 http://www.volksbund.de/kriegsgraeberstaette/menen.html (Accessed on April 14, 2017); https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95675 (Accessed on April 14, 2017); Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 191, also mention the slightly higher number of 48,049 deceased.

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structure – roughly a pentagon – with an octagonal chapel roughly in the middle. This chapel, built of large blocks of pink iron-sandstone (‘Wesersandstein’), is highlighted right at the entrance, because the gate of the entrance building gives access to a stone path leading up to the chapel. This set up invites the visitor to ‘march up’ to the chapel. The cross on top of the chapel’s pointed roof, an outside large cross built in the wall and especially the extensive religious imagery inside imply that the deceased are commemorated at Menen from a sacral perspective, providing consolation and triggering praise among the visitors in terms of Christian religion. The relief above the architrave of the entrance door displays a lying angel blowing a trumpet, which reminds one immediately of the seven angels with trumpets in Revelation (Rev. 8:7, 8, 10, 12; 9:1, 13; 11:15). It may represent the seventh angel who announces the rule of God and his Messiah in the context of the heavenly courtroom (Rev. 11:15-19). If so, this implies that the visitor is as if invited to enter the virtual world depicted in the Book of Revelation.60 The setting with a sacred building in the middle is very similar to the WWII military cemetery at Donsbrüggen (Germany), which was also designed by Robert Tischler. The building at Donsbrüggen is rectangular, but it also has a long stone path leading up to the entrance and a lying angel blowing a trumpet above it.61 The interconnections with the Book of Revelation are strongly supported by the mosaics with twenty-eight (four times seven) symbolic figures on the walls inside the chapel, designed by Franz Grau (1959).62 Some of them clearly point to imagery deriving from Revelation, including a wounded lamb with a small halo and the characters Alpha and Omega.63 Five of the eight octagonal interior walls are covered with dark grey or green mosaics on which figures in gold are illuminated in varying ways, depending on where one stands and whether the light comes from the entrance or from one of the windows in the two other walls.64 One of these golden 60 The anonymous author of http://www.volksbund.de/kriegsgraeberstaette/menen.html (Accessed on April 14, 2017) mentions that the imagery of the walls derives from a Picture Bible. 61 I owe this observation to Dr. Jan de Vries, Nijmegen (The Netherlands). 62 They were produced by the Firma Vereinigte Süddeutsche Werkstätten für Mosaik und Glasmalerei GmbH, München-Solln. 63 For a description of the interior of the chapel, see Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 216-217, https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/erfgoedobjecten/95675 (Accessed on April 14, 2017). 64 The mosaics were created by Franz Frau and dated in 1959 by Welscher, Rhythmus, p. 124. Also Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 216-217. The twenty-eight symbols include the Christ monogram IHS, the cross, a winged lion and a winged ram, angels with books, various birds, a chalice with bunches of grapes, ears of wheat, lambs and trees.

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Figure 2 Memorial Building by Robert Tischler at the German Military Cemetery at Donsbrüggen, Germany

Photo: Jan de Vries, Nijmegen

figures displays an abstract city with many slimline towers, which has been interpreted as the heavenly Jerusalem (Rev. 21).65 I cannot discuss the entire pictorial programme of the interior of this chapel here, and would like to highlight only two points. The lower symbol on three of the walls concern various types of trees, sometimes just above an extension of the wall as a simple altar on which a book of names can be displayed. In this funerary context highlighting symbols from Revelation these trees plausibly symbolise the tree of life mentioned in Revelation 22:14 ‘Blessed are those who wash their robes [NRSV; cf. 7:14; KJV: who ‘do his commandments’], so that they have the right to the tree of life and may enter the city by the gates.’ This imagery would imply that the fallen soldiers are vindicated and have access already to the heavenly Jerusalem, analogous to the fate of the ancient martyrs.66 65 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 171, http://www.volksbund.de/kriegsgraeberstaette/menen.html (Accessed on April 14, 2017). 66 Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 171 and p. 216-217 argue that the imagery of the chapel symbolizes the sacrifical cult and the resurrection of the soldiers and also suggest that their death was comparable with Jesus’ death.

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Figure 3 Mosaic of Tree of Life, by Franz Grau, Chapel of the German Military Cemetery at Menen, Belgium

Photo: Jan Willem van Henten

The second point concerns the polished octagonal pillar at the centre of the chapel, which is guarded by four animal figures who stand with their backs attached to the pillar in the form of a cross. These animals are small lions reminding one of the reliefs of lions on the square memorial in bronze

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at Hooglede, which is no surprise because the pillar was created by the same artist as the memorial, Fritz Schmoll genannt Eisenwerth (above).67 The number four reminds one of the four creatures around the divine throne in Rev. 4-5, the first of which is identified as a lion (4:7). Strikingly, the elongated capital that connects the pillar at its top to the red-brick ceiling consists of humanlike figures, four adult women with children of various ages, who seem to be mourning. Obviously, visitors are inclined to interpret these mourning figures from the perspective of the funerary context. Plausible associations are the identification of the women and children with the spouses and children of the deceased soldiers, or of the young soldiers themselves with their mothers. This very unusual detail of a capital existing partly of human figures may well be another evocation of imagery of the Book of Revelation. In Jesus’ decree for his followers in Philadelphia (Rev. 3:7-13), he makes a promise to those who have kept his word of patient endurance to keep them from the hour of trial, the last judgment (3:10), and also to reward those who ‘conquer’ by giving them access to the heavenly Jerusalem and making them a pillar in God’s temple: ‘If you conquer, I will make you a pillar in the temple of my God; you will never go out of it. I will write on you the name of my God, and the name of the city of my God, the new Jerusalem that comes down from my God out of heaven, and my own new name’ (Rev. 3:12). This symbolism of the pillar in God’s temple points to the vindication of the soldiers as well as their relatives, similar to the message of Revelation 22:2, 14 discussed above. For the visitor to the chapel, this imagery has the same double function as the words of bishop Winnington Ingram quoted above: it points to the vindication and heavenly reward of the fallen and therefore also implies consolation for those staying behind.68

The Commemoration of Soldiers in St. Edmund King and Martyr Church in Dudley and in All Saints Church at Huntingdon In the United Kingdom, re-interpretations of the death of fallen soldiers in the context of post-war memorials interconnect more explicitly with 67 Küppers, Fritz Schmoll, p. 351; Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 216. Fritz Schmoll genannt Eisenwerth himself refers to the animals as lions in a handwritten invoice to the VDK dated March 14, 1959, preserved in the VDK archives. 68 Cf. Freytag and Van Driessche, ‘Soldatenfriedhöfe’, p. 171: “Wieder ist die Intention, die auferstandenen Soldaten symbolisch in die sakrale Sphäre zu heben und den Besuchern Trost zu spenden, indem das Leben nachdem Tod gepriesen wird.”

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martyrdom traditions than the two German cemeteries at Flanders. I will conclude this contribution with a brief discussion of two cases in which fallen soldiers are commemorated by associating them with earlier famous heroes who are remembered as martyrs.69 Inside the Anglican St. Edmund King and Martyr Church in Dudley (West Midlands) is a wooden pedestal surmounted by a painted plaster figure of St Edmund.70 St. Edmund was King of East Anglia from 855 CE to 870 CE. Abbo of Fleury tells how he was defeated during one of the Viking invasions and refused to renounce his Christian identity and venerate pagan deities. As a consequence, he was bound to a tree and executed with arrows, and finally beheaded.71 There is a dedicatory inscription on a plaque at the base of the statue that associates the saint with the fallen soldiers of WW1: this statue of/ st edmund king and martyr/ is in memory of/ the men/ who gave their lives/ in the war/ 1914-191872

A much more complex case that interconnects fallen soldiers with martyrs and builds on several religious motifs and biblical passages concerns All Saints Church at Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire. The Church has beautiful stained-glass windows, many of which depict saints who are important in the Anglican tradition.73 The east window depicts the tree of life with 69 E.g. the small English Martyrs Memorial Chapel at Preston (north-west of Manchester), which is part of the Roman Catholic Church of St Thomas of Canterbury and the English Martyrs, i.e. Roman Catholics who were executed under treason legislation (1534-1680). The chapel was converted from the Church baptistery. Its name suggests that it is devoted to the English Martyrs of previous centuries, but in fact it commemorates 142 soldiers who belonged to the parish and had fallen during WW1. On the oak panels at either side of the altar of the chapel, with a crucifixion scene in the centre, the names of the dead are inscribed. On the opposite wall to the altar there is a stained glass window with the words ‘Pray for the soldiers of this parish who died in the Great War, 1914 to 1918 to whose memory this chapel is dedicated.’ See https://www.warmemorialsonline.org.uk/memorial/190935/ (Accessed on April 25, 2018). A direct qualification of fallen soldiers as martyrs is found on a simple monument with a cross on top in a hamlet west of Itchen Abbas and north-east of Winchester. The stone base of the cross has an inscription that has ‘Martyr Worthy’ as heading, twelve names of fallen below it in smaller characters, and a comment in large characters below the names: ‘Faithful unto Death’. See https://www.warmemorialsonline.org.uk/memorial/197224/ (Accessed on April 25, 2018). 70 http://www.iwm.org.uk/memorials/item/memorial/48056 [Accessed on April 25, 2018]. 71 Young, ‘St Edmund, King and Martyr in Popular Memory since the Reformation’, p. 159-176, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0015587X.2015.1030909 (Accessed on April 26, 2018). 72 http://www.iwm.org.uk/memorials/item/memorial/48056 (Accessed on April 25, 2018). 73 Pevsner, Bedfordshire and the County Hungtingdon and Peterborough. Buildings of England, p. 269.

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numerous saints and images on its branches.74 On top is the monogram of Jesus. Below the monogram there are four registers; the two highest registers depict two series of four saints, most of whom have been venerated as martyrs.75 The highest ones with the largest figures show St Martin, St George, St Oswald and St Edmund with their banners, four saints who are important in the English tradition.76 The second register from above shows older Christian saints: St John the Baptist, St Felicitas, St Dorothea, and St Pancratius. St Felicitas may be the companion of Perpetua with the same name, who died with Perpetua in Carthage in 203 CE, or Felicitas of Rome, who had seven sons and was tortured to death with them during the rule of Antoninus Pius (138-161 CE).77 Another but less likely interpretation in the context of the other saints in this register reads this name as a corruption of Felec, a local saint from Cornwall from the fifth or sixth century.78 St Dorothea died according to tradition in 311 as a virgin martyr at Caesarea Mazaca (Spain).79 Saint Pancras allegedly died as a martyr, being 14 years old, in Rome in 304 CE. The one but lowest register, with smaller images, concerns Jesus’ birth, crucifixion (two scenes in the centre) and burial. The lowest register shows four angels carrying unfolded scrolls inscribed with quotations from the Book of Revelation.80 These words include an adapted quotation of Revelation 22:14 (according to part of the manuscript tradition): ‘Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, which is in the midst of the paradise of God.’ The first part of the quotation matches the King James Version of this verse: ‘Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city.’ The last part of the 74 East window, stained glass by the Kempe Company, 1920. 75 Exception: St Martin. 76 For St Edmund see above. St George, executed at the order of Emperor Diocletian, became the patron saint of England in the Tudor period, which is celebrated on St. George’s Day (April 23), Meier, Handbuch der Heiligen, p. 161-62. St. Oswald was King of Northumbria from 634 until his death. He is venerated as a saint, because he was killed during the Battle of Maserfield and, as Bede tells us, prayed for the soul of his soldiers when he was about to die. Bede, Hist. eccl. 3; Butler, Lives of the Saints s.v. St. Oswald King and Martyr. Stancliffe and Cambridge (eds.), Oswald: Northumbrian King to European Saint; Smith, ‘Saints and their Cults’, p. 581-605 (598). St. Martin was appointed bishop of Tours in 371 CE, and became a popular saint within several Christian denominations, Meier, Handbuch, p. 131-32. 77 Both saints with the name Felicitas are included in the Martyrologium Romanum and their ‘anniversaries’ are March 7 and November 23 respectively. 78 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felec_of_Cornwall (Accessed on April 25, 2018). 79 Meier, Handbuch, p. 49-50. 80 http://www.iwm.org.uk/memorials/item/memorial/288 (Accessed on April 25, 2018).

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inscription is an explanation of the meaning of the tree of life, which is a symbol of paradise, which is here identified with the heavenly Jerusalem. Interestingly, the tree of life of the east window with saints and martyrs is explicitly connected with the commemoration of those who fell during WWI. A stone dedicatory tablet set within a carved wooden frame is placed on the north wall of the nave. It states that the window glass was dedicated by survivors of the war. It commemorates the 55 (?)81 soldiers fallen during WWI as follows:82 † to the glory of god†/ the east window of this church and/ this tablet have been offered by many/ whose/ homes, liberties and lives were/ preserved through the sacrifice of those who died and the devotion of/ their comrades, in remembrance of/… [names of fallen]/ who gave their lives in the great war 1914-1919/ “they were a wall unto us both night and day” i sam xxv 16.83

The inscription expresses thanks by those who survived for the sacrifice of the fallen (cf. the words ‘sacrifice of’ and ‘gave their lives’), whose death is interpreted as a beneficial death. The soldiers saved their fellow-citizens and their possessions and enabled that they could live on in freedom. It also commemorates the devotion of their fellow-soldiers who stayed alive. The quotation of 1 Sam. 25:16 (‘They were a wall unto us both night and day’) interprets the patriotic self-sacrifice from a religious perspective, highlighting the protection offered by the soldiers ‘day and night’. This quotation also invites the visitor to read the inscription in combination with the message that the window expresses, which would associate the fallen soldiers with the saints of the tree of life. The inscription clearly states that the window and the tablet belong together. The analogy between the fallen and the saints of the tree suggests that the soldiers too fulfilled God’s commandments in extreme circumstances at the expense of their life, and 81 There is conflicting information about the number of names: the Imperial War Museums mention 63 names of the deceased on the memorial but list 66 names, https://www.iwm.org.uk/ memorials/item/memorial/288 (Accessed on April 25, 2018). The Roll of Honour of the Ministry of Defence and the Royal British Legion mentions only 55 names, http://www.roll-of-honour. com/Huntingdonshire/HuntingdonAllSaints.html (Accessed on April 25, 2018). 82 See also the plaque in the churchyard with inscription: to the men of/ 1914-1918 who/ wrought for/ mankind a great/ deliverance/ also to those who/ in 1939-1945/ served and died/ to preserve our/ glorious heritage, http://www.iwm.org.uk/memorials/item/ memorial/66203 (Accessed on April 25, 2018). 83 http://www.iwm.org.uk/memorials/item/memorial/288; http://www.roll-of-honour.com/ Huntingdonshire/HuntingdonAllSaints.html (both Accessed on April 25, 2018).

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as a consequence, that they deserve a similar reward, i.e., ‘have a right to the tree of life’ as the quote from Revelation at the lowest register of the window states. Such a fate is not depicted by the tree, nor stated by the inscription on the tablet, but it seems to be the logical implication of the interconnection of the fallen soldiers and the mostly martyred saints of the tree, who were already resurrected according to the tradition of the Church. To conclude, my search into the commemoration of fallen soldiers of WWI as martyrs started with a very explicit quote from Bishop Arthur Winnington Ingram, who called deceased British soldiers martyrs and compared them with St Stephen, the f irst martyr. My case studies of two German military cemeteries in West Flanders, Belgium, a statue of Saint Edmund connected with WWI soldiers in the Anglican St. Edmund King and Martyr Church in Dudley (West Midlands), and a stained glass window with a memorial inscription in All Saints Church at Huntingdon (Cambridgeshire), show implicit and explicit associations with martyrdom. The artwork by Franz Grau and Fritz Schmoll genannt Eisenwerth builds on Christian pictorial and literary traditions that suggest that the soldiers are vindicated as martyrs and stay in the heavenly Jerusalem with God and Jesus Christ. A cluster of allusions to passages from Revelation helps to articulate this message (Rev. 3:7-13; 4:3, 7; 20:11-15, 21; 21:5-7 and 22:14). The mosaic at Hooglede may also build on the iconographical traditions of the Dominus legem dat, the Majestas domini and the Deesis. A more explicit commemoration of the fallen soldiers as martyrs is found in the two churches within the United Kingdom by way of a direct association with previous martyrs, either St Edmund (Dudley) or a combination of early Christian and older English martyrs (Huntingdon). The latter commemoration also builds on traditions about the tree of life and paradise and quotes Revelation 22:14 and 1 Samuel 25:16, which function here in the framework of martyrdom as pointers to the soldiers’ beneficial death and their reward in paradise.

Works Cited Arbeiter, Achim. (2007). ‘Die mosaiken’. In Das Mausoleum der Constantina in Rom. Jürgen Rasch and Achim Arbeiter (eds.). Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 124-147. Bell, Stuart. (2013). ‘Malign or Maligned? – Arthur Winnington-Ingram, Bishop of London, in the First World War’. JHMTh/ZNThG 20: 117-133. Berger, Robert. (1926). Die Darstellung des thronenden Christus in der romanischen Kunst. Reutlingen: Gryphius Verlag.

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Capdevilla, Luc, and Voldman, Danièle. (2006). War Dead. Western Societies and the Casualties of War. Richard Veasey (trans.). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Carpenter, Spencer Cecil. (1949). Winnington-Ingram. The Biography of Arthur Foley Winnington-Ingram, Bishop of London, 1901-1939. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Connor, Carolyn. (2016). Saints and Spectacle: Byzantine Mosaics in their Cultural Setting. New York: Oxford University Press. Cutler, Anthony. (1987). ‘Under the Sign of the Deesis’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 41: 145-154. Freytag, Annette and Van Driessche, Thomas. (2011). ‘Die Deutschen Soldatenfriedhöfe des Ersten Weltkriegs in Flandern’. Relicta 7: 163-238. Fuhrmeister, Christian. (2007). ‘Der Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge e.V. im 20. und 21. Jahrhundert. Bemerkungen aus Sicht der politischen Ikonographie’. In Soldaten und andere Opfer?: Die Täter-Opfer-Problematik in der deutschen Erinnerungskultur und das Gedenken an die Opfer von Krieg und Gewaltherrschaft. Ellen Ueberschär (ed.). Rehburg-Loccum: Verlag Evangelische Akademie, 45-66. Gilsdorf, Sean. (2012). ‘Deēsis Deconstructed: Imagining Intercession in the Medieval West’. Viator 43: 131-174. Goebel, Stefan. (2013). ‘Brüchige Kontinuität: Kriegerdenkmäler und Kriegsgedenken im 20. Jahrhundert’. In Gefallenengedenken. Hettling and Echternkamp (ed.). München: Oldenbourg, 199-224. Gudenberg, Eberhard von. (1969). Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge e.V.: 50 Jahre Dienst am Frieden. Kassel: Pressehaus. Hettling, Manfred and Echternkamp, Jörg. (2013). Gefallenengedenken im globalen Vergleich: nationale Tradition, politische Legitimation und Individualisierung der Erinnerung. München: Oldenbourg. Hettling, Manfred and Echternkamp, Jörg. (2013). ‘Heroisierung und Opferstilisierung: Grundelemente des Gefallenengedenkens von 1813 bis heute’. In Gefallenengedenken. Hettling and Echternkamp (ed.). München: Oldenbourg, 123-158. Ketelsen, Uwe-K. (1985). ‘Die Jugend von Langemarck. Ein poetisch-politisches Motiv der Zwischenkriegszeit’. In “Mit uns zieht die neue Zeit”. Der Mythos der Jugend. Thomas Koebner, Ralph-Peter Janz and Frank Trommler (eds.). Frankfurt a. M.: Edition Suhrkampf, 68-97. King, Alexander MacIan. (1993). The Politics of Meaning in the Commemoration of the First World War in Britain 1914-1939. PhD Dissertation, University College London. Kirchmeier, Fritz. (2014). Eine Festung, die eine Friedhof ist: in Stein gefassten Ideologie – 75 Jahre Totenburg Quero. Leaflet of the VDK, http://docplayer.org/30529801Eine-festung-die-ein-friedhof-ist.html (Accessed on April 26, 2018). Kohlberg, Etan. (1997). Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom. Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen.

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Kuberek, Monika. (1990). ‘Die Kriegsgräberstätten des Volksbundes Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge’. In Unglücklich das Land, das Helden nötig hat, Leben und Sterben in den Kriegsdenkmälern des Ersten und Zweiten Weltkrieges. Michael Hutt (ed.). Marburg: Jonas Verlag, 75-90. Küppers, Barbara. (2003/2004). Fritz Schmoll genannt Eisenwerth (1883-1963): Kunstgewerbler, Innenarchitekt und Bildhauer in München. PhD Dissertation. Technische Universität München/ Weimar: VDG. Lurz, Meinhold. (1983). ‘“… ein Stück Heimat in fremder Erde” Die Heldenhaine und Totenburgen des Volksbunds Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge’. Arch plus 71: 66-70. Markus, Kersti. (2013). ‘Baptism and the King’s Coronation: Visual Rhetoric of the Valdemar Dynasty: Some Scanian and Danish Baptismal Fonts’. In Images and Objects in Ritual Practices in Medieval and Early Modern Northern and Central Europe. Krista Kodres and Anu Mänd (eds.). Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 122-142. Meer, Frederik van der. (1938). Maiestas Domini: théophanies de l’Apocalypse dans l’art chrétien: étude sur les orgines d’une iconographie spéciale du Christ. Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologica Cristiana. Meier, Esther. (2010). Handbuch der Heiligen. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Mosse, George. (1979). ‘National Cemeteries and National Revival: The Cult of the Fallen Soldiers in Germany’. Journal of Contemporary History 14: 1-20. Mosse, George. (1990). Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars. New York: Oxford University Press. Neff, Amy. (2007). ‘Byzantine Icons, Franciscan Prayer: Images of Intercession and Ascent in the Upper Church of San Francesco, Assisi’. In Franciscans at Prayer. Timothy Johnson (ed.). Leiden: Brill, 357-382. Noga-Banai, Galit. (2015). ‘Dominus legem dat: von der Tempelbeute zur römischen Bildtinvention’. Römische Quartalschrift 110: 157-174. Onasch, Konrad. (1993). Lexikon Liturgie und Kunst der Ostkirche, unter Berücksichtigung der Alten Kirche. Rev. ed. Berlin: Buchverlag Union. O’Neill, Philip. (1996). Enamels of Limoges 1100-1350. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Pevsner, Nikolaus. (1968). Bedfordshire and the County Hungtingdon and Peterborough. Buildings of England. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Pickles, Katie. (2007). Transnational Outrage: The Death and Commemoration of Edith Cavell. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Poilpret, Anne-Orange. (2005). Maiestas Domini: une image de l’Eglise en Occident, Ve-IXe siècle. Paris: Cerf. Roberts, Helene. (1998). Encyclopedia of Comparative Iconography: Themes Depicted in Works of Art. Vol. 1. Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn.

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Welscher, Leonore. (1999). Rhythmus in Form und Farbe: Lebenswerk des Künstlers Franz Grau. Hannover: Benatzky Druck und Medien. Winnington-Ingram, Arthur. (1914). A Day of God: Being Five Addresses on the Subject of the Present War. London: Wells, Gardner, Darton. Winter, Jay. (1998). Sites of Memory. Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wolffe, John. (2015). ‘“Martyrs as Really as St Stephen was a Martyr”? Commemorating the British Dead’. International Journal for the Study of the Christian Church 15: 23-38. Woodfin, Warren T. (2011). The Embodied Icon: Liturgical Vestments and Sacramental Power in Byzantium. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Young, Francis. (2015). ‘St Edmund, King and Martyr in Popular Memory since the Reformation’. Folklore 126: 159-176, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/001558 7X.2015.1030909 (Accessed April 26, 2018).

About the Author Prof. Jan Willem van Henten is Professor of Religion (in particular Ancient Judaism and Ancient Christianity) at the University of Amsterdam. He is also extra-ordinary Professor of Old and New Testament at Stellenbosch University (South-Africa). His research projects concern Jewish and Christian Martyrdom, the Maccabean Books, the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, and research into the reception of the Bible in popular culture.

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The Scarecrow Christ The Murder of Matthew Shepard and the Making of an American Culture Wars Martyr Paul Middleton Abstract Paul Middleton deals with the contested homosexual martyr Matthew Shepard. Matthew Shepard, a gay twenty-one year old political science student at the University of Wyoming, was robbed and brutally beaten by two other men on the night of Tuesday, 6 October 1998. The men tied him to a fence after the attack, while he was bleeding profusely in freezing temperatures. He died a few days later, on 12 October 1998, and was called a martyr in Time Magazine, just a week after his death. Middleton examines the popular martyr-making process in respect of Matthew Shepard, arguing that both the making of the martyr and the reaction it provoked reflect American ‘culture wars’, because martyrology is conflict literature, foremost about the conflict between the story-tellers and their opponents. Ironically, both LGBT activists and right-wing religious groups have in some ways sought to undermine Shepard’s martyr status by focusing on his life rather than his death. Such efforts, as Middleton argues, had a limited effect because in martyrologies any interest in the lives of their heroes is incidental, merely setting up the scene for a significant death. Keywords: Matthew Shepard, homosexual martyrs, martyr-making process, homophobia, contested martyrologies

On the night of Tuesday, 6 October 1998, Matthew Shepard, a gay twenty-one year old political science student at the University of Wyoming, met two other men, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson, in the Fireside Bar in Laramie, Wyoming. After offering him a ride in their car, they robbed Shepard,

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drove him to the outskirts of town, and tied him to a fence. There, McKinney brutally beat him with a .357 Magnum around the head as Henderson watched. They left him, still tied to the fence, bleeding profusely in freezing temperatures. He was found by chance some eighteen hours later by a passing cyclist, who at first mistook him for a scarecrow. Shepard sustained massive injuries including a crushed skull, and was rushed to Poudre Valley Hospital in Fort Collins, Colorado. However, his injuries were too severe to treat, and he never regained consciousness. In the early hours of Monday, 12 October 1998, seven weeks short of his twenty-second birthday, Matthew Shepard died. The brutal murder of Matthew Shepard was one of well over 1000 reported attacks on gay men that year, and one of around 30 murders. While each of the other murders went largely unreported, not only was Matthew Shepard’s death announced by a Poudre Valley Hospital spokesman to a large crowd of journalists and television crews, but by the time he died, his attack had been widely covered in the national press, and several vigils had taken place across the country attended by thousands and addressed by celebrities, including Ellen Degeneres and Kristen Johnston. America appeared to be in a state of shock, as hate crime against gay people entered public consciousness like never before. Within hours of Shepard’s death, President Bill Clinton told reporters from the White House lawn, ‘In our shock and grief one thing must remain clear: hate and prejudice are not American values’.1 While the speed and extent of the coverage was unusual for a gay hate crime, the content of that coverage was even more remarkable. Almost immediately, martyrdom tropes entered into public consciousness. On 19 October, just one week after Matthew’s death, Time Magazine reported on the story: ‘He wanted to find love. But as he lay near death, Matthew Shepard, through no fault of his own, had found martyrdom’.2 The following week, it was their front-page story. Alongside the headline ‘The War over Gays’ was a picture of Shepard and a fence. The fence and the initial witness report that he thought the dying victim was a scarecrow resonated in the popular American religious imagination with the image of crucifixion. The New York Times and The Washington Post both commented on the ‘incredible symbolism’ or ‘powerful Christ-like imagery’ of the scene,3 which was also 1 Associated Press Archive, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qm8D-ANXg8 (Accessed on August 2, 2019). 2 Howard Chua-Eoan, ‘That’s not a Scarecrow: A brutal assault in Wyoming and a rise in gay bashing fuel the debate over sexual orientation.’ Time Magazine, 19 October 1998, p.72. 3 ‘Gay Man Dies from Attack, Fanning Outrage and Debate.’ The New York Times, 13 October 1998; ‘Hundreds Gather to Remember Slain Man as “Light to the World.”’ The Washington Post, 17 October 1998.

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invoked by Rebecca Isaacs of the National Gay and Lesbian task force,4 and the Bishop of Los Angeles, who commented that Shepard had been ‘beaten and left here, in the United States, in 30-degree weather tied to a fence, his arms extended, all too reminiscent of a crucifixion.’5 Although the police originally suspected robbery to be the motivation for the crime, the murder was branded a hate crime in the earliest days. His sexuality was placed at the centre of the developing crucifixion narrative. Matt Shepard (as his parents and friends called him), a victim of a brutal murder in the American mid-West, was transformed through what Loffreda calls ‘a strange American transubstantiation’ into Matthew Shepard, a national gay martyr.6 To coincide with the funeral, a Florida church held a ‘Mass for a gay martyr’, while Newsweek ran a story a few weeks later on ‘The final days and nights of a gay martyr’.7 At the funeral, the Rev. Royce W. Brown brought the martyrological and Christological themes together: There is an image seared upon my mind when I reflect upon Matt on that wooden crossrail fence. However, I have found a different image to replace that with and that is the image of another man, almost 2,000 years ago. … When I concentrate on the Son of God being crucified, only then can I be released from the bitterness and anger I feel.8

In this essay, I examine the popular martyr-making process in respect of Matthew Shepard, arguing that both the making of the martyr and the reaction it provoked reflect American ‘culture wars.’ Martyrology is conflict literature. However, as I have argued before, the most significant conflict in a martyrdom story is not necessarily between the martyr and the agents of execution, but the story-tellers and their opponents.9 Yet, martyrological narratives are difficult to control, as I will demonstrate from the contested nature of Shepard’s secular canonisation process. For at least some in the LGBT community, the dominant hagiography of Matthew Shepard, the gay 4 ‘People have likened it to a scarecrow. But it sounded more like a crucifixion.’ In New York Times article above n.2. 5 Quoted in ‘Religious Leaders Decry Wyoming Man’s Slaying.’ Los Angeles Times, 15 October 1998. 6 Loffreda, Losing Matt Shepard: Life and Politics in the Aftermath of an Anti-Gay Murder, p. ix-x. 7 Mark Miller, ‘The Final Days and Nights of a Gay Martyr’, Newsweek 21December 1998, p.30. 8 Shepard, The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed, p. 185. 9 Middleton, ‘What is Martyrdom?’, p. 117-133

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martyr, is seen as unhelpful. Ironically, both LGBT activists and right-wing religious groups have in some ways sought to undermine Shepard’s martyr status, by focusing on his life rather than his death. Nonetheless, I argue, such efforts continue to have limited effect because in martyrologies any interest in the lives of their heroes is incidental, merely setting the scene for a significant death.

Canonisation Even granting a degree of elasticity to the title ‘martyr’, Shepard’s death does not conform to traditional definitions of martyrdom, in which an individual is given an opportunity but refuses to recant of deeply held beliefs that leads to death.10 Yet, as we have noted, his status as a martyr was established within a week of his death. This raises the further question: who decides who is a martyr? While the Roman Catholic Church has an official ‘canonisation’ process, popular acclamation often bypasses official recognition. As Hoffman has demonstrated, Americans have a particularly developed history of popular martyr-making.11 He points to abolitionist agitator John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, and, of course, Martin Luther King Jr. Even beyond the shores of America, the affirmation that Martin Luther King was in some way a ‘martyr’ would meet little resistance.12 Yet King or the others cannot be said to have died in odium fidei, a crucial step in the Roman Catholic canonisation process; their deaths were clearly ‘political’ rather than ‘religious’.13 Perhaps most importantly, they, like Shepherd, did not deliberately die for their cause. Jensen, Burkenholder, and Hammerback dub them ‘accidental martyrs’, or ‘rhetorical martyrs’ in contrast to what they call ‘real martyrs.’14 However, this is to misunderstand the nature of martyrdom and martyrology. All martyrdom literature is rhetorical; stories 10 See Van Henten and Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from GraecoRoman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity, p. 3. 11 Hoffman, ‘“Last Night, I Prayed to Matthew”: Matthew Shepard, Homosexuality, and Popular Martyrdom in Contemporary America’, p. 123-24. 12 He is numbered among the ‘Ten Modern Martyrs’ installation over the door of Westminster Cathedral. 13 That Martin Luther King was a clergyman has helped efforts to frame his political beliefs, and therefore his death, in terms of religious martyrdom. The same is true of Dietrich Bonhoeffer; see Middleton, Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed, p. 18-20. 14 Jensen, Burkenholder, and Hammerback, ‘Martyrs for a Just Cause: The Eulogies of Cesar Chavez’.

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about the deaths of martyrs are written and recounted for a purpose, for ultimately no martyr can control the account of his or her death. Martyrs need a witness in the form of a narrator. Martyrologies create or reinforce identity boundaries, as narrators presents martyrs as exemplars of their own group with mimetic potential. In the case of early Christian martyrdom, readers may well have had to ready themselves to follow this example by confessing before a governor and face execution. At the very least, the community would identify with the martyr, and recognise their own values reflected in the hero. But martyr literature does more than highlight heroes; it creates anti-heroes or villains. The enemy – representatives of demonic forces, or the Beast of Revelation who demands the martyr recant – threatens the world-view, values, or identity of the martyr’s community. The dramatic conflict in martyrology reflects a social, or indeed cosmic battle in the world of the narrator and hearers or readers. It is the construction of martyr narratives, or indeed resistance to them, that reveals the true conflict story, whether between Christians and Romans, Donatists and Catholics, Catholics and Protestants, or the West and groups labelled ‘terrorists.’ Martyrologies are neither ideologically neutral nor objective, but are bound up with questions of identity. They reinforce a group’s particular view of the world – whether religious, political, or national – which is why they can be so potent and controversial.15 Martyrology presents a representative hero who not only stands for, but dies for the community at the hands of an enemy which threatens it. The sharp boundary between the threatened insiders and the persecuting outsiders reinforces group identity in a dangerous and dualistic world.

The Martyrological Battle: American ‘Culture Wars’ Homosexuality, along with abortion, has long been the touchstone issue in America’s so-called ‘culture wars’ that divides the Religious Right from secularising liberals. Gay Rights, Gays in the Military, and most recently, Gay Marriage have energised both sides of this battle.16 From the Stonewall riots of 1969 and the emergence of radical movements, such as the Gay Liberation Front, the cause of Gay Rights progressed through the next decade: in 1973, 15 Middleton, Radical Martyrdom and Cosmic Conflict in Early Christianity, p. 14; Middleton, ‘What is Martyrdom?’, p. 117-133. 16 See Chapman, Encyclopedia of the Culture Wars: Issues, Viewpoints, and Voices.

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the American Psychiatric Associate removed homosexuality from their list of psychiatric disorders; openly gay politicians such as Harvey Milk were elected; and the first Gay March (the precursor to Pride) was held in Washington in 1979. However, these steps forward provoked a furious backlash from the Christian Right, such as Jerry Falwell and his ‘Moral Majority’ movement, who declared it was time ‘to stop gays dead in their perverted tracks’.17 The AIDS crisis of the 1980s did indeed halt the progress of the liberation movement, widely welcomed as ‘God’s judgement’, rhetoric only mildly toned down when the HIV virus began to affect groups other than gay men. However, the AIDS crisis invigorated fresh activism, spawning radical movements, such as ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) and Queer Nation to campaign for better drug therapies as well as wider social reform. By the mid-1990s, in the face of violence against Lesbian and Gay communities, pressure was building for sexual orientation to be included in state hate, or anti-bias, laws, although it would take until 2009 to come to fruition, when President Barak Obama signed the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd hate crime legislation. However, the Religious Right engaged in counter-offensive manoeuvres, establishing anti-gay marriage laws in many states in response to Vermont recognising same-sex unions. They claimed an initiative by Bill Clinton to teach school children about the dangers of intolerance was effectively declaring ‘war on Christian parents and children’.18 Moreover, in response to the increasing number of celebrities ‘coming out’, the ‘ex-gay’ ministries group, Exodus International, joined with Focus on the Family, raising funds to run a full page advertisement in the New York Times to declare a ‘National Coming Out of Homosexuality Day’ to coincide with ‘National Coming Out Day’. In a twist of fate, these were scheduled for 11 October 1998 to mark Gay Awareness Week beginning the following day; the day on which Matthew Shepard died. Matthew Shepard’s death, or perhaps more accurately, the reporting of Shepard’s death, shone a spotlight on America’s relationship with its Lesbian and Gay citizens. The particularly brutal nature of the attack, the length of time Shepard spent tied to the fence, and then in a coma, at precisely the time at which the opposing sides lined up with their ‘Coming Out’ events 17 Quoted in Hoffman, ‘“Last Night, I Prayed to Matthew”: Matthew Shepard, Homosexuality, and Popular Martyrdom in Contemporary America’, p. 126. 18 Durham, The Christian Right, the Far Right and the Boundaries of American Conservatism, p.51.

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both gave time for the media to mobilise, and shape the narrative of the murder into one of discrimination and hate. Indeed, the murder gave ‘liberals’ ammunition against their conservative opponents. Jonathan Alter accused Republicans of portraying homosexuals in a way that directly led to the attack on Shepard. In the same way as ‘white racists created a climate for lynching blacks, so the constant degrading of homosexuals is exacting a toll in blood’.19 Washington Post columnist, Richard Cohen, held Trent Lott, the Republican Senate Majority Leader responsible for creating the conditions that led to the murder: ‘Anti-gay politicians have given voice to some of the ugliest sentiments in American society – legitimising the sort of hate that left Matthew Shepard tied to a fence, lynched on account of being gay.’20 The Religious as well as the political Right were also implicated in the attack. The ex-gay movement’s high profile protest as Matthew Shepard lay in a coma was damaging, and their advertising campaign was suspended.21 The ‘non-violent world of “love the sinner, hate the sin”’22 was under so much pressure that the editors of Christianity Today felt the need to intervene and work hard to deny the link between Christian faith and the murder: Spokespersons for gay liberation were quick to accuse the so-called Religious Right of creating the hostile environment in which hate crimes against gays flourish. Their surreal thesis indicted anyone who publicly condemns homosexuality as playing a part in Matthew Shepherd’s death. Gay activists cited as Exhibit A the recent ‘truth in love’ advertising campaign, which claimed that a change of sexual orientation is possible and produced ex-gays to prove it.23

While robust in its denial of the link between condemning homosexuality and the attack, the sub-headline acknowledged some discomfort at Christian complicity in the murder: ‘Human nature being what it is, we can too easily 19 Jonathan Alter, ‘Trickle-Down Hate.’ Newsweek, 26 October 1998. 20 Richard Cohen, ‘Legitimizing Hate.’ Washington Post. 15 October 1998. 21 For a good account of the effect on the ex-gay movement, see Thorn, ‘Confess the Gay Away? Media, Religion, and the Political Economy of Ex Gay Therapy’, p. 175-182. Besen, Anything but Straight: Unmasking the Scandals and Lies behind the Ex-Gay Myth, p. 214, overstates the situation in saying that that ‘Overnight, the right wing went from victor to vanquished in the culture wars. The success of their ex-gay campaign essentially evaporated into this air.’ The campaign restarted less than twelve months later. 22 Wilcox, ‘Murderers and Martyrs: Violence, Discourse, and the (Re)Construction of Meaning’, p. 170. 23 ‘Editorial: Who Killed Matthew Shepard?’ Christianity Today, 7 December 1998.

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cross the line between hating the sin and hating the sinner’.24 This line was indeed crossed, most obviously by the high profile presence of the then little-known Fred Phelps and his small congregation from the Westboro Baptist Church. First, they picketed Shepard’s funeral, then the trials of Henderson and McKinney, with placards, such as: ‘No Fags in Heaven’; ‘No Tears for Queers’; ‘Fags Die, God Laughs’, all gathered together under the Church’s website: godhatesfags.com, which included a photograph of Matthew Shepard in the midst of the flames of hell. Interestingly, the Christianity Today editorial portrays this group of Christians as the mirror image of the gay activists, who like Phelps, ‘politicised’ Matthew’s murder, ‘despite his father’s plea not to “use Matt as part of an agenda.”’25 However unconvincing, the conservative Christian editors attempted to ‘scapegoat’ a similar expression of Christianity as the ‘other’,26 and position themselves in the moderate centre between extreme Christian and extreme pro-gay positions. Nonetheless, it is hard to escape Casey’s conclusion that for those on the American Right ‘animus towards gay men is pervasive, public, and well within the boundaries of … family values.’27 This culture war can be illustrated from the other side by another unlikely ‘accidental martyr’. On 20 April 1999, less than six months after the murder of Matthew Shepard, two students went on a shooting spree at Columbine High School, Littleton, Colorado, killing thirteen fellow students, including Cassie Bernall. In a now famous exchange, one of the gunmen found Cassie under a desk and asked if she believed in God. When she said, ‘yes’, he shot her dead. Cassie was proclaimed a martyr in newspapers and websites.28 A few weeks after the massacre, doubt was cast on the veracity of this account. Though the story had originally come from one survivor, two other accounts soon emerged. One has Cassie saying, ‘Dear God. Dear God. Why is this happening? I just want to go home.’ The gunman then slammed his hand on the table, yelling ‘peekaboo’ and shot her without any further words being exchanged. The third version has another student, Valeen Schnurr, rather than Cassie, interacting with the gunman. Though she had told him she believed in God, he walked away. The investigators believe this latter account to be the most likely ‘historical reconstruction’. However, the first, 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 See Wilcox, ‘Murderers and Martyrs: Violence, Discourse, and the (Re)Construction of Meaning’, p. 171. 27 Charles, ‘Panic in the Project: Critical Queer Studies and the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 244. 28 See Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory. Early Christian Culture Making, p. 172-96.

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with Cassie saying ‘yes’ remains the dominant narrative for evangelical Christians. Cassie’s mother, Misty Bernall, effectively ‘canonised’ this account, in her book She Said Yes: The Unlikely Martyrdom of Cassie Bernall. There is a strong focus on Cassie’s life. It is a story of a troubled teenager struggling with drugs and alcohol until she was dramatically converted to Christianity. Her framing of the story as a hagiography29 means that when Cassie eventually says ‘yes’, it is inevitable, and not that ‘unlikely’. Many young people were inspired by Cassie’s example, and there was a surge in membership of religious youth groups, neatly illustrating the powerful appeal of martyrs. However, the counter-narratives persist, promoted generally by secularist websites, reflecting the ‘culture wars’ between Christianity and Secularism.30 Each side has its version of Cassie’s ‘martyrdom’ reinforcing their view of the world. The Christian Right have continued to invoke persecution and martyrdom narratives for less dramatic events, such as losing votes on same-sex marriage. However, these political martyrologies found a tangible focus in Kim Davis, a marriage registrar who was jailed for refusing to conform to a court order to issue licenses to a gay couple. The American Conservative magazine hailed her as a ‘Culture-War Martyr’,31 while The New York Post went further: She’s gone from being an obscure county clerk to a Christian martyr. The jailing of Kim Davis, the Kentucky official who just said no, is a case of religious persecution that should strike fear in the hearts of all Americans gay, straight or anything else.32

Clearly, with its heroes and villains, the martyrdom of Kim Davis is as divisive as any martyrology – even though Davis is still very much alive. The judicial penalty enabled religious leaders and the media to draw on early Christian martyr narratives of persecution. Naturally, many have resisted the canonisation of Kim Davis, but David Uberti’s complaint that ‘The media has made Kim Davis a conservative martyr, missing the bigger picture’ misses

29 Ibid, p. 177. 30 Cullen, ‘Who said Yes?’; Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory. Early ChristianCulture Making, p. 184-87. 31 Dreher, ‘Kim Davis: Political Prisoner? Culture-War-Martyr?’ 32 Dreher, ‘Kim Davis: Political Prisoner? Culture-War-Martyr?’. One British newspaper, The Independent, was slightly less sympathetic with its headline: ‘The US has a new anti-gay marriage martyr – a four-times wed county clerk’ (5 September 2015).

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the point.33 As I have been arguing, martyr narratives reflects the wider conflict in which the narrator is engaged, and so Davis’ story, like Bernall’s and Shepard’s functions precisely as a martyrology should. The stories of Cassie Bernall and Kim Davis function as an interesting counterpoint to the martyrology of Matthew Shepard. Whereas in Misty Bernall’s book, the details of her daughter’s life reinforce the martyr narrative, as we will see, Matthew’s mother, Judy Shepard, was concerned that her son’s life was being obscured by his martyrdom. Whereas to create a saint, a good life is required, to make a martyr, all that is really needed is a death. With Cassie Bernall, details of her life were needed to establish a Christian identity; in the case of Matthew Shepard that he was gay is the only detail necessary for the construction of his martyrdom. We now turn to the way in which Matthew Shepard so quickly became an important and influential gay martyr.

‘The Good Shepard’: The Making of a Martyr For a martyr narrative to work, it must emphasise community boundaries and create an outside, ‘evil other’. Martyr literature forces the reader to choose sides.34 It is my contention that the Matthew Shepard martyrology was so powerful because it created multiple sites of identity, both positively and negatively. We have already seen how the editors of Christianity Today struggled to situate themselves in the narrative, clearly uncomfortable with their obvious identification with the ‘outsider’. In the same way, liberal America, which could not claim the status of an ‘insider’ (at least initially), saw its role in some way as ‘witnesses’ – to use the original meaning of martus – or supporters of Matthew’s ‘cause’. As a country at best ambivalent on gay rights, Shepard’s death ‘shook the nation’,35 as ‘for the first time, in cities across the United States and Canada, straight people have marched by the thousands to protest anti-gay violence.’36 We have already noted the fact the framing of the assault as a homophobic attack along with the ‘crucifixion’ imagery of the scarecrow were the most 33 Uberti’s, ‘The Media has made Kim Davis a Conservative Martyr, Missing the Bigger Picture.’ 34 Cobb, ‘The Media has made Kim Davis a Conservative Martyr, Missing the Bigger Picture’, p. 6-11. 35 ‘The Good Shepard: Young man’s death Shakes the Nation’, The Advocate 10 November, 1993, p. 13. 36 Justin Gillis and Patrice Gaines, ‘Pattern of Hate Emerges on a Fence in Laramie.’ Washington Post 18 October 1998.

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significant hooks on which the media ran their stories. In fact, Shepard was tied seated on the ground with his hands behind his back, rather than in crucifixion position. Although this was widely reported, it did not detract from the crucifixion imagery, probably because of the iconic potential of the picture of the empty fence. In their analysis of the media portrayal of the attack and its aftermath, Ott and Aoki suggest this local story found its way into the national press because the mixture of a gay crime, scarecrow/ crucifix imagery, and sheer savagery of the attack gave the story ‘melodramatic potential’.37 Moreover, the length of time between attack and death was also a significant factor: ‘That Shepard lay comatose in a hospital for several days while people around the country prayed and stood vigil for him, functioned to heighten the public’s investment in the story’.38 A further element in the story’s ‘melodramatic appeal’ was the physical aspects of Shepard. He was young, white, middle-class, small at 158cm and just 105 pounds in weight. Although the American public knew Matthew Shepard was gay, the ‘Shepard iconography’ was not threatening. Reporting of the initial attack emphasised Shepard’s vulnerability, using words and phrases like trusting, soft-spoken, polite, sweet, boyish, cherubic face, shy, sensitive, like a child, meek, well groomed. The policewoman who attended the scene said he looked more like a boy than a man, which created an image of a young child-saint, and crucially, de-sexualised, raising the uncomfortable question: ‘Would Shepard have received the attention he did had his body not so easily been coded as unthreatening.’39 So while America’s gay communities recognised the familiar hate crime that murdered Shepard as a real, experienced, every-day reality, 40 as Ott and Aoki 41 note, for the media and mainstream America, the focus on Shepard’s body made him, rather than the hate crime, the central focus of a human interest story. 42 Comparing the coverage of the Shepard murder with the relative lack of media interest in five black victims of an anti-gay Washington serial killer, or a transgender 16-year-old in Colorado, they 37 Ott and Aoki, ‘The Politics of Negotiating Public Tragedy: Media Framing of the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 487. 38 Ibid: 490. 39 Ibid: 495. 40 See Dunn, ‘Remembering Matthew Shepard: Violence, Identity and Queer Counterpublic Memories’, p. 621-22. 41 Ott and Aoki, ‘The Politics of Negotiating Public Tragedy: Media Framing ofthe Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 488. 42 See also Dunn, ‘Remembering Matthew Shepard: Violence, Identity and Queer Counterpublic Memories’, p. 617-21.

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conclude, ‘an anti-gay murder is tragic so long as the victim is not too gay, which is to say, too different.’43 As journalist Melanie Thernstrom puts it: Parents throughout the country felt that Matthew could have been their son, an idea many had never contemplated before about a gay person. In part, this may have been a result of the fact that while he was described as gay, the press – in unwitting collusion with homophobia – did not portray Matthew as a sexual adult. He was depicted as having parents rather than partners, loving, affluent, married American parents. … He had a fragile, childlike look – a look of pale purity, the translucent beauty favoured in religious art. 44

To put it another way, the ability of general America to identify with Shepard, together with the Christological imagery drawn from the well of American religiosity, exacerbated by the presence of Fred Phelps,45 were the currents that carried the story well beyond Laramie. The alter Christi interpretation persisted in artistic and musical representations of the martyrdom. Phil Hall’s musical, Matthew Passion (2007) intersperses the story of Shepard and Christ, with God welcoming Matthew at the end. In the 2001 MTV documentary, Anatomy of a Hate Crime: The Matthew Shepard Story, Matthew is, despite the actual murder scene, depicted tied to the fence with arms outstretched, as in crucifixion. Yet while Judy Shepard thought the comparisons with Christ were both ‘questionable and inappropriate’, 46 even she acknowledged the representative nature of her son, dedicating her book ‘to all the “Matts” out there’. Moreover, not only was the link made explicit in the funeral eulogy, but also in other important ways. For example, aside from inspiring the eventually successful hate crimes legislation in his name, he is credited with post-mortem or intercessory agency generally associated with saints. First, although there was never any hope that Shepard would recover, he relieves his parents of having to switch off his life support. In a statement, 43 Ott and Aoki, ‘The Politics of Negotiating Public Tragedy: Media Framing of the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 495. 44 See Thernstrom, ‘The Crucif ixion of Matthew Shepard’, https://www.vanityfair.com/ news/1999/13/matthew-shepard-199903 (Accessed August 2, 2019). Cf. Dunn, ’The Crucifixion of Matthew Shepard’, p. 623-28, who in framing Shepard as a ‘secular saint’ strangely plays down the clear religious elements of the narratives. 45 Hoffman, ‘The Crucifixion of Matthew Shepard’, p. 133. 46 Shepard, The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed, p. 111.

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Judy and Dennis attributed the decision to die to Matthew (cf. Jn 10.18): ‘Like a good son, he was caring to the end and removed guilt or stress from the family’. 47 They also attributed the speed of the investigation – both killers were arrested within a couple of days – to an unspecified supernatural agent: ‘it seemed to all of us that somebody, something, or some power stepped in to, as much as possible, set things right’. 48 More dramatically, Matthew Shepard ‘intervenes’ in the sentencing of Aaron McKinney, to ‘save’ him from the death penalty. It had become clear that McKinney had carried out the beating that killed Shepard, while his accomplice, Russell Henderson watched, although Henderson had tied Matthew to the fence. Henderson had already plead guilty to kidnap and murder, and his plea bargain of two life sentences rather than face the death penalty had been accepted. McKinney, however, entered a plea of not guilty and forced a trial. Having been found guilty, he faced the death penalty. However, although in favour of capital punishment, Dennis Shepard addressed the court: Matt officially died at 12.53am on Monday, October 12, 1998, in a hospital in Fort Collins Colorado. He actually died on the outskirts of Laramie, tied to a fence that Wednesday before, when you beat him. You, Mr. McKinney, with your friend Mr. Henderson, killed my son. … You left him out there by himself, but he wasn’t alone … He had God. … Matt became a symbol – some say a martyr, putting a boy-next-door face on hate crimes. That’s fine with me. Matt would be thrilled if his death would help others … My son has become a symbol – a symbol against hate and people like you; a symbol for encouraging respect for individuality; for appreciating that someone is different for tolerance. … I would like nothing better than to see you die, Mr. McKinney. However, this is the time to begin the healing process. To show mercy to someone who refused to show any mercy … I’m going to grant you life, as hard as that is for me to do, because of Matthew … You robbed me of something very precious, and I will never forgive you for that. Mr. McKinney, I give you life in the memory of one who no longer lives. May you have a long life, and may you thank Matthew every day for it. 49 47 Quoted in Shepard, The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed, p. 134. 48 Shepard, The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed, p. 162. 49 For the full statement, see Shepard, The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed, p. 234-47.

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In his extraordinary and moving court statement, Dennis Shepard accepts his son as a martyr, and although he highlights the violence of the attack, also paints a picture of a peaceful death in which Matthew dies surrounded by nature, listing the sky, stars, moon, and then the daylight, wind, and finally, God. In doing so, he reinterprets a violent death into a religious death in which God was present, echoing the martyrdom of Stephen and perhaps Luke’s Jesus (cf. Acts 7.54-59; Lk. 23.46). Moreover, while he would happily see his son’s murderer die, it is in Matt’s name that Dennis Shepard spares Aaron McKinney’s life. Saint Matthew, the martyr, grants life to the sinner deserving of death (cf. Lk 23.24; Acts 7.60). However, both parents were from the outset anxious by the burden of sainthood placed on Matthew. They wanted to counter or at least augment, the ‘gay saint’ narrative with details of his life, the ‘real’ Matt, which, as Thernstrom observes, was obscured in the martyr-making process: ‘The mythologizing of Matthew – his overnight transformation into a national and international symbol – has left him oddly faceless. No one has seemed interested in publishing the details of his life – as if they would detract from his martyrdom.’50 Indeed, something of his mother’s frustration comes through in the introduction to her book, published more than ten years later: You knew him as Matthew. To us he was Matt. I have tried to reconcile the two within these pages. It would be unfair to Matt if only Matthew’s story was told. Matt was so much more than ‘Matthew Shepard, the gay twenty-one year-old University of Wyoming college student.’ He had a life before the night he was tied to that fence.51

Judy Shepard’s book attempts to reconcile Matt her son with Matthew the martyr, insisting that the former is part of the ‘meaning’ of the latter. In the months after the murder, her concern was to protect the memory of Matt, who she feared could not live up to the mythological figure into which he was being transformed. She told Thernstrom: ‘He wasn’t a saint. He was just a young man in search of himself.’ She is disturbed by comparisons between Matthew and Jesus. ‘You must understand, it’s like putting him on 50 For the full statement, see Shepard, The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed, p. 234-47. 51 Shepard, The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed, p. xiii.

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a pedestal that just won’t work. I’m concerned that if people find out that it’s not true, they’ll be disappointed or angry or hate him.’52 However, in important respects, ‘Matt’ and ‘Matthew’ are two distinct entities, as is the case for all martyrs. While Shepard was involved in gay rights activism in his local university group, he never intended to die for the cause. However, narratives about his death have created Matthew Shepard, the martyr. His depression, the details of his life, his HIV positive status are simply not important in these narratives. Contrary to his mother’s fears, the fact that Matthew was not a saint makes no difference to the function of his story. Rather the fact he was gay and murdered and that his death has provoked and inspired change makes him a gay martyr and a gay Christ figure. Matthew’s death has become a death for others. Nonetheless, martyrs are controversial figures whose legacy divides. As with the Cassie Bernall martyrology, opponents in the culture wars have challenged the dominant narrative. However, unlike the Columbine martyr, some opposition has come from ‘insiders’ in the form of LGBT activists.

‘Demythologising Matt’ The dominant martyr narrative for Matthew Shepard was challenging to the Religious Right. Holding ‘Coming Out of Homosexuality Day’ as the national media focused on the trauma unit in Poudre Valley was deeply damaging. Republican leaders were accused of contributing directly to the climate of intolerance and hate that led to attacks on gay people, including Shepard. Opposition to gay rights and, in particular, hate laws were unpopular, and threatened to undermine the carefully crafted narrative that homosexuals constituted the threat rather than the potential victims. Therefore, the main tactic adopted by the ‘mainstream Religious Right’ both at the time and in subsequent opposition to all proposed hate crime legislation has been to acknowledge the severity of the crime, but to insist robbery rather than homophobia was the motive. Bill Clinton’s hate crimes legislation failed to pass through Senate, and stalled under George W. Bush. Similarly, speaking in opposition to the successful Matthew Shepard/James Byrd Jr Bill in 2009, Republican Senator Virginia Foxx noted the bill was named for Matthew Sheppard, and thus: 52 See Thernstrom, ‘The Crucif ixion of Matthew Shepard’, https://www.vanityfair.com/ news/1999/13/matthew-shepard-199903 (Accessed August 2, 2019).

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is named after a very unfortunate incident where a young man was killed, but we know that young man was killed in the commitment of a robbery. It wasn’t because he was gay. The hate crimes bill was named for him, but it’s really a hoax that continues to be used as an excuse for passing these [hate crime] bills.53

Although Foxx later apologised for her use of the word ‘hoax’, her objection was essentially aimed at the main martyrological narrative of Matthew Shepard. She argued Shepard was not murdered because he was gay. Indeed, so far as Foxx is concerned, no one is. Instead, ‘Matthew the martyr’ is a ‘hoax’ to advance the ‘homosexual agenda’ to push through anti-hate laws, which would signal a capitulation to the Gay Lobby’s demand for acceptance. For, as Eve Segwick astutely observes, ‘to specify a condemnation of individual violence against persons perceived as gay would violate the state’s condemnation of homosexuality.’54 Or to put in another way, ‘to protect queers from the violence that faces them would endanger the patterns of allowed prejudice that, by most accounts, causes that violence.’55 An early manifestation of these concerns came at the trial of Aaron McKinney. Jury selection began on the first anniversary of Shepard’s death, and the martyrology was now fully developed. To stand any chance of saving their client’s life, let alone achieve a not guilty verdict, McKinney’s defence team had to ‘attack the myth of St. Matthew’.56 Their tactic was to deploy the so-called ‘gay panic defence’,57 invoking the rhetoric of the Religious Right, that homosexuals were not victims but predators. The defence team claimed McKinney’s intent was robbery, but he turned violent only after Shepard made sexual advances towards him, partly as a result of abuse McKinney had suffered as a child.58 McKinney’s defence attacked the martyr narrative, 53 Transcribed from Virginia Foxx’s speech in the US Senate, 29 April 2009. See https://www.cspan.org/video/?285575-1/house-session (at 2hr 49min (Accessed on August 2, 2019). 54 Segwick, Epistemology of the Closet, p. 18. She later unpacks, where she unpacks her claim that the ‘link between extrajudicial and judicial punishment of homosexuality’ in the United States is ‘endemic’. 55 Charles, ‘Panic in the Project: Critical Queer Studies and the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 246. 56 Dunn, ‘Remembering Matthew Shepard: Violence, Identity and Queer Counterpublic Memories’, p. 623. 57 For a useful legal history of the gay panic defence, see Bagnall, Gallagher, and Goldstein, ‘Remembering Matthew Shepard: Violence, Identity and Queer Counterpublic memories’, p. 498-515; and Charles, ‘Panic in the Project: Critical Queer Studies and the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 230-36. 58 Charles, ’Panic in the Project: Critical Queer Studies and the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 232-33, argues the logic of the gay panic defence is that there exists a ‘public assumption’ that

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and attempted to portray Matthew not as victim but aggressor. The irony of attempting to introduce sexual orientation into hate crimes law in a context in which the law potentially mitigates violence perpetrated against gay men has been noted.59 Nonetheless, this strategy was dismissed by the judge. Several other challenges to the martyr-Matthew narrative have been offered in the name of ‘objective journalism’.60 One of the earliest was a thoughtful but provocative piece on the nature of masculinity by JoAnn Wypijewski in Harper Magazine (1999). Written after Henderson’s sentencing but before McKinney’s trial, Wypijewski focussed on the two killers, arguing Henderson in particular was a victim of ‘wussitude’ or ‘compulsory heterosexuality’. Perhaps more significantly, anticipating some LGBT concerns with the developing martyrology, Wypijewski observed a move to ‘demonise’ the killers as a means of divesting responsibility from the Nation’s structural homophobia. There was a need ‘to caricature McKinney as a devil-man, because to think of him as Laramie’s, or anyone’s child sits harder on the conscience.’61 Others argue the portrayal of Henderson and McKinney as ‘White Trash’ – a racial grouping distinct from ‘White American’, and certainly below Shepard’s ‘white middle-class’ status – was a means of ‘cleansing’ society from all responsibility for the crime.62 So while Matthew Shepard plays a representative role for all gay people who are potential victims of violence, ‘McKinney and Henderson stand [only] for themselves.’63 Two of the more sensational anti-martyr narratives came in the form of Elizabeth Vargas’ ABC 20/20 documentary from 2004,64 and Stephen Jimenez’s book, The Book of Matt (2013), which promised Hidden Truths ‘the expression of same-sex desire is sufficiently anathema to the reasonable juror to warrant violence; and secondly the closet, if disturbed, provokes insanity,’ or that a man resorting to violent rage is justifiable on account of ‘protecting himself against displays of same-sex affection.’ 59 Ibid, p. 234. 60 See Hoffman, ‘“Last Night, I Prayed to Matthew”: Matthew Shepard, Homosexuality, and Popular Martyrdom in Contemporary America’, p. 147-48. 61 Wypijewski, ‘A Boy’s Life: For Matthew Shepard’s Killers, What Does it Take to Pass as a Man?’ p. 71. 62 See especially Walther and Embrick, ’White Trash and White Supremacy: An Analysis of the James Byrd Jr. and Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes’, p. 237-260; and Dunn, ’Remembering Matthew Shepard: Violence, Identity and Queer Counterpublic Memories’, p. 611-652. Amy Tigner, ’The Laramie Project: Western Pastoral’, p. 138-56, uses a different interpretative framework to the same effect, deploying Wild West violent mythology to portray McKinney and Henderson as ‘the outlaws’. 63 Wypijewski, ‘A Boy’s Life: For Matthew Shepard’s Killers, What Does it Take to Pass as a Man?’, p. 74. 64 See Charles, ‘Panic in the Project: Critical Queer Studies and the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 225-28.

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about the Murder of Matthew Shepard. Both argued the attack was not a hate crime, but a drug-fuelled altercation between those already acquainted, both suggesting Shepard and McKinney had been involved in a sexual relationship. The thesis of the 20/20 report was ‘queers fabricated the defendants’ homophobia’.65 While the allegation Shepard knew his assailants has been denied, all other so-called ‘new facts’ claimed by Vargas and Jimenez – Shepard’s depression, assault and rape in Morocco, his HIV status, and drug use – were all well known.66 In response to criticism, Jeffrey Schneider, VP Media Relations at ABC defended the 20/20 broadcast: ‘Our report was about the myths versus the facts of the Matthew Shepard case. Some of the myths lead to important discussions and changes in attitudes, but it is our job to look at the facts.67 Schneider, of course, suffers from a journalistic over-conf idence in separating ‘fact’ from ‘myth’, used presumably and problematically to mean something that is untrue. Nonetheless, he is correct that ‘myths’ (used in the sense of narrative) have tangible consequences. Both versions clashed in the 2009 Hate Crimes debate. The bill bore Matthew Shepard’s name, while the equally ‘mythical’ 20/20 report was cited as evidence in Virginia Foxx’s opposition. Nonetheless, resistance to the dominant martyr narrative has also come, perhaps surprisingly, from some LGBT activists, or those sympathetic to the advancement of LGBT rights.68 Ott and Aoki, for example, argue the media’s framing of the attack worked ‘rhetorically and ideologically to relieve the public of its social complicity and culpability; [and] to reaffirm a dominant set of discourses that socially stigmatizes … LGBT … persons’.69 This works in two ways already mentioned. First, by scapegoating the killers, the media were both ‘expunging the evil within, and restoring the social order.’70 Second, and more significant, is the de-sexualization of the martyr. 65 Ibid, p. 231. 66 An epilogue was added to The Laramie Project 10 Years Later to address these counter-narratives. 67 O’Donnell, ‘Gay-Hate, Journalism and Compassionate Questioning: Journalism’s Response to the Matthew Shepard Case’, p. 112-125. 68 See Jensen et al. ‘Martyrs for a Just Cause: The Eulogies of Cesar Chavez’, p. 628-31. 69 Ott and Aioki, ‘The Politics of Negotiating Public Tragedy: Media Framing of the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 484. 70 Ibid, p. 486. This is a common theme in critiques of martyrology, so Wypijewski, ’A Boy’s Life: For Matthew Shepard’s Killers, What Does it Take to Pass as a Man?’ p. 74, argues, if ‘gay people are recognized only in suffering … straight people are off the hook.’ Similarly, Dunn, ‘Remembering Matthew Shepard: Violence, Identity and Queer Counterpublic memories’ p. 612, critiques the ‘heteronormative public remembrance’ of Shepard.

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The dominant image of Shepard was as an innocent child rather than a mature gay man.71 The gay-martyr began an uneasy transformation into an American ‘everyman’, who ‘could have been the college-aged son of any stereotypical middle-class American family.’72 Importantly, transforming Shepard from Gay martyr to American martyr creates a different set of insiders and outsiders. No longer is the drama a clash between LGBT people and the Religious Right, along with mainstream society that sanctions the attitudes that nurture the hate that creates martyrs. Rather, when a de-sexualised middle-class white martyr is the hero, the ‘other’ includes not only ‘white trash outlaws’, but also sexually active gay men, especially black gay men, and transgressive transgender persons, who, because they do not conform to the image of Matthew the martyr, when they are subjected to violence, are somehow ‘asking for it’. In other words, if liberal America becomes the insiders, then some less publicly presentable gays are pushed out. Nonetheless, this point can be overstated. That Matthew Shepard is expected to represent every gay, lesbian, and transgender person of every race and social class probably rests too great a burden on a single martyr, no matter how iconic the story. Part of the problem is embedded in the New York Times editorial at the time: ‘For homosexuals, the key to winning acceptance and respect has been to make themselves familiar, visible and known. Yet in almost 30 years of struggle, the modern gay rights movement lacked a recognisable public face. Now, in a victim, it has been given one.’73 Initially this victim status was politically useful, especially as it was reported as a civil rights issue. However, as several commentators have noted, such an iconic victim distracts from the ‘hard, slow work for local justice.’74 Gay rights activist, John Stoltenberg, argues that the martyr status of Shepard ignores the tragedies of his life prior to his murder. It is knowing his real lived experiences that will instead help ‘young men in our community who are sold for sex, ravaged by drugs, and generally exploited.’75 However, as Stoltenberg appears to 71 Walther and Embrick, ‘White Trash and White Supremacy: An Analysis of the James Byrd Jr. and Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes’, p. 250-52; Ott and Aoki, ‘The Politics of Negotiating Public Tragedy: Media Framing of the Matthew Shepard Murder’, p. 489. 72 Tigner, ‘The Laramie Project: Western Pastoral,’ p. 139; see also Jensen et al. ‘Martyrs for a Just Cause: The Eulogies of Cesar Chavez’, p. 631-34. 73 ‘The Lesson of Matthew Shepard.’ New York Times, 17 October 1998. 74 Loffreda, ‘Martyrs for a Just Cause: The Eulogies of Cesar Chavez’, p. 19. 75 Quoted in Julie Bindel, ‘The Truth Behind America’s Most Famous Gay-Hate Murder’. The Guardian, 26 October 1994.

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acknowledge if he wants a figure to mirror the lived experiences of the gay community as they really are, then Matthew the martyr cannot do that, for that is not what martyrs do. While there have been many attempts to do so, for both positive and negative reasons – to promote or advocate gay rights, to demonstrate the real life struggles of a young American man, or to tarnish the reputation of a f igure problematic to a Christian Right cause – martyrs cannot be controlled. Popular acclamation and meaning-making operate beyond ecclesiastical, social, community or family control. The significance of a martyr is the story of how they died, not how they lived. To conclude, Matthew Shepard’s brutal murder in 1998 shocked America, and the story of his death became a gay martyrology. Although only one of hundreds of incidences of violence against gay men in America, a constellation of factors – his looks, the manner of his death, the fence iconography, his remaining alive in a coma for several days, and the reporting that emphasised child-like innocence – transformed Matthew Shepard, an ordinary young American man, into a martyr, even undergoing ‘resurrection as patron saint of hate-crime legislation.’76 Like all martyr stories, accounts of Shepard’s martyrdom are divisive, forcing those exposed to the narrative to choose sides in the culture wars that dominate American political and cultural life. Matthew Shepard’s martyrdom, like Cassie Bernall’s, divides the audience into heroes and villains. The power of martyrdom in the American imagination is demonstrated by the Religious Right, those cast as the villains by the Shepard martyrology, now claiming martyr status for themselves in the face of a ‘liberal enemy’ forcing gay marriage upon them after the Supreme Court struck down the ban on same-sex marriage in June 2015. While some LGBT advocates have expressed frustration that Matthew Shepard’s martyrdom cannot fulf il all they might wish it to, the martyrology has been and continues to be effective. Others complain the ‘real Matt’ has been lost in the battle for the advancement of gay rights; his life has been obscured by his death. However, as we have seen, it is diff icult to control the meaning of martyrdom. For better or for worse, the reason martyrs are remembered is not because of the way in which they lived their life; the signif icance, power, and legacy of a martyr lies in the, albeit contested, meaning attached to their death.

76 Wypijewski, ‘A Boy’s Life: For Matthew Shepard’s Killers, What Does it Take to Pass as a Man?’, p. 62.

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Works Cited Bagnall, Robert; Gallagher; Patrick and Goldstein, Joni. (1994). ‘Burdens on Gay Litigants and Bias in the Court System: Homosexual Panic, Child Custody, and Anonymous Parties’. Harvard Civil Rights – Civil Liberties Law Review 19: 497-515. Besen, Wayne. (2003). Anything but Straight: Unmasking the Scandals and Lies behind the Ex-Gay Myth. London: Routledge. Castelli, Elizabeth. (2004). Martyrdom and Memory. Early Christian Culture Making. New York: Columbia University Press. Charles, Casey. (2006). ‘Panic in the Project: Critical Queer Studies and the Matthew Shepard Murder’. Law and Literature 18: 225-252. Chapman, Roger (ed.). (2009). Encyclopedia of the Culture Wars: Issues, Viewpoints, and Voices. New York: Routledge. Cobb, Stephanie. (2017). Divine Deliverance: Pain and Painlessness in Early Christian Martyr Texts. Oakland: University of California Press. Cullen, Dave. (1999). ‘Who said Yes?’. Salon Magazine. September 30. Dreher, Rod. (2015). ‘Kim Davis: Political Prisoner? Culture-War-Martyr?’. The American Conservative. September 3. Dunn, Thomas. (2010). ‘Remembering Matthew Shepard: Violence, Identity and Queer Counterpublic Memories’. Rhetoric and Public Affairs 13 (4): 611-652. Durham, Martin. (2000). The Christian Right, the Far Right and the Boundaries of American Conservatism. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Hoffman, Scott. (2011). ‘“Last Night, I Prayed to Matthew”: Matthew Shepard, Homosexuality, and Popular Martyrdom in Contemporary America’. Religion and American Culture: A Journal of Interpretation 21 (1): 121-164. Jensen, Richard, Burkenholder; Thomas and Hammerback, John. (2003). ‘Martyrs for a Just Cause: The Eulogies of Cesar Chavez’. Western Journal of Communication 67 (4): 335-356. Jimenez, Stephen. (2013). The Book of Matt: Hidden Truths about the Murder of Matthew Shepard. New Hampshire: Steerforth Press. Loffreda, Beth. (2000). Losing Matt Shepard: Life and Politics in the Aftermath of an Anti-Gay Murder. New York: Columbia University Press. Middleton, Paul. (2014). ‘What is Martyrdom?’. Mortality: Promoting the Interdisciplinary Study of Death and Dying 117 (2): 117-133. Middleton, Paul. (2011). Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed. London: T and T Clark. Middleton, Paul. (2006). Radical Martyrdom and Cosmic Conflict in Early Christianity. LNTS 307. London: T and T Clark. O’Donnell, Marcus. (2009). ‘Gay-Hate, Journalism and Compassionate Questioning: Journalism’s Response to the Matthew Shepard Case’. Asia Pacific Media Educator 19: 112-125.

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Ott, Brian and Aoki, Erick. (2002). ‘The Politics of Negotiating Public Tragedy: Media Framing of the Matthew Shepard Murder’. Rhetoric and Public Affairs 5: 483-505. Peyser, Andrea. (2015). ‘Kim Davis a Martyr for Refusing to Issue Same-Sex Marriage Licenses’. New York Post. September 13. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. (1990). Epistemology of the Closet. Berkeley: University of California Press. Shepard, Judy. (2010). The Meaning of Matthew: My Son’s Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed. London: Plume. Thernstrom, Melanie. (1999). ‘The Crucifixion of Matthew Shepard’. Vanity Fair, https://www.vanityfair.com/news/1999/13/matthew-shepard-199903 (Accessed August 2, 2019). Tigner, Amy. (2002). ‘The Laramie Project: Western Pastoral’. Modern Drama 45: 138-56. Thorn, Michael. (2015). ‘Confess the Gay Away? Media, Religion, and the Political Economy of Ex-Gay Therapy’. PhD Dissertation, York University. Uberti, David. (2015). ‘The Media has made Kim Davis a Conservative Martyr, Missing the Bigger Picture’. Columbia Journalism Review. September 4. Van Henten, Jan Willem and Avemarie, Friedrich. (2002). Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco-Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity. London: Routledge. Walther, C.S. and Embrick, D.G.T. (2017). ‘White Trash and White Supremacy: An Analysis of the James Byrd Jr. and Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes’. In Systemic Racism: Making Liberty, Justice, and Democracy Real. Ruth Thompson Miller and Kimberly Ducey (eds.). New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 237-260. Wilcox, Melissa. (2001). ‘Murderers and Martyrs: Violence, Discourse, and the (Re) Construction of Meaning’. Culture and Religion: An Interdisciplinary Journal: 155-178. Wypijewski, JoAnn. (1999). ‘A Boy’s Life: For Matthew Shepard’s Killers, What Does it Take to Pass as a Man?’. Harper Magazine. September: 61-74.

About the Author Prof. Paul Middleton is Professor of New Testament and Early Christianity at the University of Chester. He is the author of numerous publications on the subject of martyrdom including Radical Martyrdom and Cosmic Conflict in Early Christianity (T and T Clark, 2006), Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed (T and T Clark, 2011), and The Violence of the Lamb: Martyrs as Agents of Divine Judgement in the Book of Revelation (T and T Clark, 2018).

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Icons of Revolutionary Upheaval Arab Spring Martyrs Friederike Pannewick Abstract Friederike Pannewick examines the public memorialisations of the martyrs of the Arab Spring in Egypt as expressed in graffiti and murals in Cairo. The state tried to censor and destroy them, but the memorial spaces were re-appropriated by the public and functioned as visual narratives of the history of the revolution. This artwork not only aimed at counteracting forgetfulness through public remembrance, but also enshrined the remembrance of more than once unpunished crimes and tragic events. The commemoration of these martyrs oscillates thus between personal efforts to cope with inescapable suffering and political strategy. From the perspective of previous commemorations of martyrs in Arab contexts the remembrance of the Arab Spring martyrs displays a major shift: this time the Arab citizens themselves engaged in self-empowerment and establishing and defending their own national history, instead of the political or religious institutions. In addition, a semantic transformation took place through a reconfiguration of religious ideas in the context of secularised modernity that transcends the particularities of specif ic groups and simultaneously builds on Muslim and Christian imageries. Keywords: Arab Spring, public memorialisation, contestation, art and martyrdom, self-empowerment and national history

The death toll since the political and social upheavals broke out in the Arab world in 2011 is considerable. For relatives and friends as well as the various protest movements these deaths demonstrate the brutal violence of the relevant political opponent being held responsible for these acts. Many activists trying to lend tragic death some meaning emphasise the sacrificial character of these

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch08

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cases of death. This chapter will look at the diverse aesthetic forms of expression employed to publicly memorialise these martyrs of the Arab Revolution. As in all martyr narrations, the victims are idealised, but their death is nevertheless more than once exploited within the struggle for political interpretive predominance. Whatever the political tendency, what is common to all is the imperative to counteract forgetfulness through public remembrance. To represent the martyrs as visible and ubiquitous as possible in the public sphere should enshrine remembrance of more than once unpunished crimes and tragic events, as if the extinction of remembrance would mean the cancellation of these acts while providing cover and forgetfulness to the perpetrators. The commemoration of the martyrs oscillates thus between personal efforts to cope with inescapable suffering and political strategy. As Mittermaier convincingly stated, the dead ‘were a site of celebration and contestation’, ‘as embodied evidence of state violence, as tools for holding the state accountable, as mobilisers of continuous protests, and as a source of inspiration.’1 Figurations of martyrs in the public sphere are especially prominent in graffiti and murals, and it is for this reason that I will focus on them.2 During a stay in Cairo in September 2012, almost two years after the Egyptian president Muḥammad Ḥusnī Mubārak had resigned from office (11 February 2011), I was able to experience firsthand how different groups were embroiled in a struggle to gain control over the public memorialisation of the victims of the protests. Underway since 2011, those involved have conducted this battle with great resolve and commitment, not to mention great personal emotional input. The outer wall of the old campus of the American University in the Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street was covered with graffiti and slogans. This wall and countless others throughout Cairo were imposing and powerful public platforms of protest and mourning, and it thus comes as no surprise that they have been characterised as a ‘memorial’ or ‘iconic space’.3 In September 2012, there was a strong and visible police presence in the Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, in the direct vicinity of Taḥrīr Square. There was tension in the air. Early one morning there was an outcry on Facebook: the city authorities had whitewashed the murals and graffiti on the wall, and a number of images of the people who had died on Taḥrīr were now erased. 1 Mittermaier, ‘Death and Martyrdom in the Arab Uprisings: An Introduction’, p. 586. 2 Graffiti did exist before 2011 and was dealt with in the film Microphone (2010) by Aḥmad ʿAbdallāh. Recent publications on graffiti include Sherif Boraie, Wall Talk: Graffiti of the Egyptian Revolution; Heba Helmi, Gowayya shahiid: Inside me is a Martyr and Mia Gröndhal, Revolution Graffiti, Street Art of the New Egypt. 3 Abaza, ‘An Emerging Memorial Space’ and Mona Abaza, ‘Mourning, Narratives and Interactions with the Martyrs through Cairo’s Graffiti’.

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Figure 4 Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012

Figure 5 Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012

206 Friederike Pannewick Figure 6 Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012

There was enormous outrage at this strong-arm tactic eradicating representations serving the collective remembrance of people who had lost their lives while fighting for the goals of the revolution. However, it was not the first time that this wall had been painted over. The state has ordered such actions on several occasions since the spring of 2011.4 And just a few hours after the police van departed, carrying the men who had guarded over the ‘wipe out’ action, the first graffiti artists ventured to the wall again. In no time, the whitewashed wall was again full of signs, slogans and images. The memorial space censored by the state was re-appropriated and turned into a space where public opinion could be expressed; the statements now made were updated, referring to the very latest developments. In this way, the walls of Cairo became ‘the site of an unfolding continuous dramaturgical performance that visually narrates the history of the revolution.’5 The battle for control over public space, fought with aesthetic means, was in full swing. Given the traumatic experiences of the violent confrontations played out in precisely this street, the battle fought here was especially fierce and emotional. Important in the context of this chapter is the fact 4 5

Abaza, ‘Segregating Downtown Cairo and the Mohammed Mahmud Street Graffiti’, p. 122-139. Abaza, ‘Mourning, Narratives and Interactions with the Martyrs through Cairo’s Graffiti’.

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Figure 7 and 8 Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, Wall of the American University of Cairo, September 2012

that commemorating the victims and heroes of the revolutionary upheaval seems to be so important that any interference with this veneration instantly whips up feelings and heats up debate.

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Talking with passers-by, students and colleagues during my stay in Cairo in the fall of 2012, it struck me how strong their emotional connection to these murals is and, in particular, to the images of the martyrs. It is as if local residents claim these painted walls as their own – they have become public places of remembrance and mourning. Egyptian sociologist Mona Abaza described this phenomenon in an analysis of 2013: Egyptians are today confronted with an unprecedented escalating violence that is building into a “collective trauma” over how to come to terms with the frightening number of very young victims, of mutilated bodies, and even more of blinded protesters. A collective trauma, which has resulted in that today mourning mothers, who have lost their children, are gaining public visibility in the media by the day. Thus, martyrdom is becoming a public concern. It is no longer the poor man’s concern, since violence and murders have touched upon middle class children. This is no novelty, since Khaled Said, the good looking middle class young Alexandrian, was turned into the iconic martyr exactly because of the diffusion via internet of his face, tortured and fractured by the police officers; this face is what triggered the revolution.6

In an essay entitled ‘Reclaiming the City: Street Art of the Revolution’, Lewis Sanders IV describes how the symbolic battle over the memorialisation of the martyrs was fought in the Egyptian public sphere during the early phase of the upheaval.7 On 28 January 2011, the first so-called Day of Rage in Egypt, a diplomat’s car ploughed into the crowd of demonstrators; the 18-year-old Islam Raafat (Islām Ra’fat) was run over and later died from his injuries.8 The Egyptian artist Muḥammad Fahmy, known by the artist name Ganzeer,9 launched a project on the internet and the streets of Cairo to commemorate those killed in the revolutionary upheavals. The goal was twofold: to honour the martyrs – which met a strong public need – and to remind passers-by of Egypt’s ongoing struggle for freedom, democracy and equality.10 But in April 2011, the memorial walls honouring 6 Ibid. 7 Sanders, ‘Reclaiming the City: Street Art of the Revolution’, p. 160-163. 8 ‘The Death of Innocence’, Al-Ahram Weekly, 10-16 February 2011. 9 For more information on this artist, see http://ww.ganzeer.com (Accessed on August 2, 2019); for ‘martyr murals’ and ‘mad graffiti week’, see http://www.culturecongress.eu/en/people/ ganzeer (Accessed on August 2, 2019). 10 See Blog Ganzeer 31.3.2013, http://www.ganzeer.com/ (Accessed on August 2, 2019). On the reception of graffiti outside the circle of activists and artists, see Hannah Elansary, ‘Revolutionary Street Art: Complicating the Discourse’.

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the martyrs were painted over by the authorities for the first time, sparking outrage on Facebook and other social media. Together with other artists and activists, Ganzeer initiated the ‘Mad Graffiti Weekend’, conceived as the symbolic reconquering of public space, of re-appropriating the street. The second martyr image (i.e. after the whitening over of the first) on the wall was a furious response to state censorship: it was tagged ‘you’re not better than those who have died’. This statement challenged the authority, considered illegitimate, wielded by officials and their attempt to prevent any memorialising of the victims that is not controlled by the state. With these actions they had sought to place themselves above those who had given their lives for Egypt’s democratic future. On 28 June 2011 the police intervened at a public martyr memorial, triggering violent altercations with the families of the victims. Almost a thousand demonstrators were injured. Many commentators see this incident as ushering in the second phase of the revolution. Shortly after the Mad Graffiti Weekend, on May 26, Ganzeer and two other artists were arrested, while the street art created in response was whitewashed in July.11

Figurations of Martyrdom in Poetry and Music The struggle for ascendancy over the symbols used in public commemoration and the interpretational high ground on the history of the revolution – a struggle that has often ended in violence – is ongoing and played out at new venues. The themes and messages of the graffiti are often the same as those of literary texts and songs; the different artistic genres are working in the same direction. Within this context of the Arab Revolution, at the beginning of January 2013, the Egyptian poet Aḥmad ʻAṭīya uploaded a poem entitled Mashhūr (‘Famous’) on YouTube; composed in the local Egyptian vernacular; the text is recited in a soft voice and accompanied by the music of Ian Livingstone: I stay famous/ And my name is engraved in the walls / My image is a decorative sign/ I stay there always / A line in a recurring story / I stay present/ In every poem and novel / I will live in the hearts of the people / But life is diff icult / The day will come when I will be a memory / Then my image loosens from the sign.12 11 Cf. Elkayal, ‘Ganzeer: The de facto Cultural Operator.’ 12 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ss7_MK6Pk6o (English translation by FP, Accessed on August 2, 2019).

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As in the case of the graffiti, memorialising the martyrs here turns into a conflict, as if forgetting amounts to eradicating the achievements of the popular uprising. But two years after the fall of Mubārak’s government, the tone is softer, tinged with melancholy, and perhaps realistic: the day will come, predict the final lines of the poem, when the martyrs are no longer under the living, remembered and revered, but indeed forgetting will begin and the symbolic value of heroic martyrdom fades and vanishes.

Martyrs and Heroes in Political and Religious Contexts13 After these first impressions on the symbolic battle fought over the memorialisation of the heroes and martyrs of the Arab Spring, it is time to consider the relationship between these terms: is a martyr simply a dead hero, or is there something else they have in common? In a study on the religious semantics of heroic death, the political scientist Thomas Scheffler has defined the hero as follows: A ‘hero’ is a role model societies use to emphasise positive guiding ideas which are especially important for their survival and which they refine for collective remembrance. One is not a hero, one is stylised into a hero qua the consensus of opinion-forming groups. It is therefore scarcely possible to separate the ideas of what makes up a ‘hero’ from the oral and written narratives articulating the needs, longings and ideas of a group or society – and they alter in tandem with these.14 Heroes are stylised ideal figures. And this is a quality they share with martyrs. The national hero enters the stage as a saviour, or as a ‘man of action’ predestined to deliver on a ‘national fate’, a redemptive figure, a prophet of the nation, etc. To be bestowed with this title, the success or failure of a heroic deed is not of prime importance; what counts is the willingness to take risks and suffer personally, including death. The hero gives the value motivating his sacrifice a concrete existence in the form of a transcendental principle. In the narrative or the image of the hero sacrificing his life (and only through this form of public ceremony can he become socially active), it seems as if death would suff ice to accrue the value necessary for appropriating an authority that stands above life, and – in turn – as if death is proof 13 Cf. for this subchapter Pannewick, ‘Sinnvoller oder sinnloser Tod? Zur Heroisierung des Opfers in nahöstlichen Kulturen’, p. 291-314. 14 Scheffler, ‘Helden, Märtyrer, Selbstmordattentäter. Zur religiösen Semantik des Heldentods’, p. 92, my translation.

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of this authority’s existence. This is precisely what enables a structural equivalence between the religious and the national in heroic martyrdom. In this sense, evoking a national hero-martyr suffices to posit the nation as something absolute, comparable to divine law. Just as self-sacrifice proves the existence of the higher truth for which the respective act is committed, the gesture of sacrifice also symbolically constitutes the community for which this sacrifice is made. The heroic sacrifice thus forges a sense of community and solidarity. Moreover, dead heroes create a community of remembrance, which establishes an alliance between the living and the ancestral heritage of a nation.

The Commemoration of Martyrs as Self-Empowerment of Arab Citizens The remembrance of martyrs is thus a ubiquitous phenomenon in Arab society. But who stages and mediatizes such a community of remembrance and what are the means they employ? Comparing the representations of heroic martyrs in the context of the various Arab liberation movements in the 20th century with those of the Arab Spring, it is striking that in 2011 it was not the institutions, political parties or religious organisations, nor was it the state authorities who could legitimately lay claim to preserving the memory of the fallen heroes. Whenever violence had broken out in the Near East, it was religious or political groups or state institutions who had stepped forward and acted as the custodians of national or religious remembrance. Fostering the cult of a martyr was not up to individuals, but the domain of organisations.15 Openly authoritarian, they saw themselves as the guardians of collective memory. The Arab Spring sought to put an end to this state monopoly of history and the interpretational sovereignty enjoyed by the state or ruling party. The seemingly unshakeable power of the dictatorships was built on the ideological narratives glorifying wars of liberation and fallen heroes. This all too familiar scenario – and the images it produced – was smashed during the Arab Spring. Instead, we now have the citizens themselves – engaged 15 For more details of graffiti as cultural production during moments of intensive political conflicts and the role of militia and political and religious parties in the Arab world, see cf. Peteet, ‘The Writing on the Walls: The Graffiti of the Intifada’, p. 139-159; Zoghbi and Don Stone Karl, ‘Palestinian Graffiti’, p. 65-71; Saleh, ‘Marking Beirut’, p. 81-88; Mejcher-Atassi, ‘The Martyr and His Image: Ilyās Khūrī’s Novel al-Wujūh al-bayḍā’ (The White Faces, Beirut, 1981)’, p. 343-355.

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individuals willing to make sacrifices – who lay claim to memorialising others in public space, an act of self-empowerment from the middle of civil society. It is no longer the state institutions and political parties who are in charge of the symbolic memorialisation of the martyrs; in the context of the Arab Revolution, this has been seized by individuals, who in the process also battle against the state’s concerted efforts to erase the symbols of collective memory. This highlights what is new since the upheavals of 2011, what has fundamentally changed: the ordinary citizen is no longer content with playing the role of the spectator and passive recipient of manipulated history – Arab citizens are engaging in self-empowerment, looking to make and defend their own national history.

Dying for God and the Fatherland in Palestine During the 1930s Heroes and martyrs as semantic reversible or transitional figures between religious and national meaning – this itself is not something new in the Arab world. Looking back to the early period of the Middle East conflict in the 1930s, we can observe how, in a phase when the Palestinians suffered significant losses on a daily basis, especially these poems and songs proved vital which rendered these tragic experiences meaningful and eulogised the heroism of those who, in the eyes of the Palestinian community, had made the ultimate sacrifice for the nation. The aesthetics of martyrdom thus became an essential pillar in the burgeoning Palestinian national literature. Just a few years before the founding of the state of Israel, as a bitter struggle was underway between the Palestinian population and Zionist settlers, who were supported by the British mandate authority, a famous Palestinian poet, Ibrāhīm Ṭūqān (1905-1941), composed a poem entitled The Martyr/al-shahīd in which an anonymous hero and his martyrdom for ‘God and the fatherland’ are eulogised. The poem ends with the lines: Do not ask where his body liesHis name is on the lips of time. He was the guiding star that shone through The darkness of trial (…) What face glowed with joy, Going willingly into death Singing forth before the world

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As his soul ascended to heaven ‘I am for God and Country!’16

The conclusion of this famous martyr poem is significant: I am for God and Country – the extreme experience of death is legitimated by connecting it to Islam and the nation. The Palestinian nationalist movement of the 1930s shows very clearly how – in this decisive historical juncture of the Arab uprisings – an originally religious figure is now additionally furnished with nationalist attributes. A semantic transformation takes place, one that can be seen either as a reconfiguration of religious ideas in the context of secularised modernity, or conversely, as a secularisation of religious thought in the spirit of nationalism. Since this poem from the 1930s was written, countless others like it have followed – the motif of the hero disdainful of death has experienced a boom.

Commemoration Against State Authorities In moments of extreme violence and desperation, the depiction of martyrs as semantic reversible or transitional figures between religious and national meaning gains special importance. In February 2012, 72 fans of the Cairo soccer team Al Ahly, most of them youths, were killed in a massacre in the Port Said Stadium. There are countless public memorials referring to this traumatic event. Mona Abaza closely followed the continuous painting, white washing and re-painting of graffiti and murals during May 2012 and July 2013. She observed a significant increase of the number of martyrs’ portraits in the streets of Cairo after the events of Port Said; simultaneously, a kind of performative interaction between passersby and these murals emerged: ‘The street was transformed into a memorial space, a shrine (a mazaar) to be visited and where flowers could be deposited.’17 The symbols used here are focused on the icon number 72 as well as the names and profiles of the victims. The memorialising culture around the massacre of the soccer fans displays an interesting emphasis on the anti- or trans-sectarian character of the protests against government violence. The Al-Azhar Sheikh Emad Effat (Shaykh ʿImād ʿIffat), who was killed on Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street in December 2011, and the young Copt, Minā Daniel, who lost his life during 16 Ṭūqān, ‘The Martyr’. 17 Abaza, ‘Mourning, Narratives and Interactions with the Martyrs through Cairo’s Graffiti’.

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the Maspero demonstrations in Cairo in October 2011,18 became icons of resistance, which are continuously redesigned, revealing a seemingly unending aesthetic diversity. Abaza convincingly argues that in several murals both of these martyrs of Egypt symbolise religious unity, based in their martyrdom: Sheikh Emad Effat and Mina Daniel keep on appearing as pairs in multiple drawings. Sometimes they are holding each other’s hands, smiling in a position of victory. Here too one notes the size of both Sheikh Emad Effat and Mina Daniel kept on growing over time. Often their portraits are juxtaposing each other. They symbolise Egypt’s unity as the Azharite Sheikh and young Coptic activist are united by martyrdom.19

The Egyptian poet, musician and political commentator Ahmad Aboul Hassan described how violence erupted more than once in Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street during the first months of 2012, just before the Muslim Brothers with Muḥammad Mursī as president were elected with a majority of 51,7% in June. In the tense weeks full of suspense that followed, supporters of Mursī tried to exert some influence on graffiti activities. In reaction to this, artists like ʿAmmār Abū Bakr and Alaʾā ʿAwad produced large-scale murals. Religion played a pivotal role as place for ethical self-positioning, of the Islamists as well as the artists: For 50 continuous days, we remained in Mohamed Mahmoud Street, painting and talking to thousands of people morning and night about the revolution, about dignity, and about Islam. This was the Islam that certain religious currents had attempted to reinterpret according to political interests.20

According to Basma Hamdy, who analysed quite a few Pharaonic, Coptic, Muslim, Nubian and further local inspirations in the murals of Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street, these elements try to bring back into Egyptian art a kind of local identity being endangered through sectarianism, religious ideology and corrupt politics. Hamdy describes Sheikh Emad Effat as [t]he ultimate antidote to the extreme religious Salafist views and the highly ambitious political goals of the Muslim Brotherhood. Both parties use Islam to gain 18 Khalifa, ‘Maspero: A Massacre Revisited’. 19 Abaza, ‘Mourning, Narratives and Interactions with the Martyrs through Cairo’s Graffiti’ 20 Aboul Hassan, ‘The Wall: People’s Chronicle and Voice of the Revolution’, p. 134-135.

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power and to create a politicised Islamic state that transcends borders. Sheikh Emad – an accomplished religious scholar – opposed both political parties and stood side by side with revolutionaries calling for justice and freedom in Tahrir Square. Again, this mural contradicts the teachings of fundamental Islamic groups and asserts the moderate teachings of Islam.21 At the end of 2012, just before the constitutional referendum, the violence in Muḥammad Maḥmūd Street grew more acute. Security units erected concrete buffer walls in this contested area. Ahmed Aboul Hassan analysed some characteristic combinations of graffiti and calligraphies with verses of the Qurʾān. In his view, this was a critical exposure of the alliance between Islamists and security forces. It was no accident, according to him, that this new symbolic language appeared just at this moment as thousands of bearded Islamists gathered at Taḥrīr Square asking for the application of the Sharīʿa in Egypt.22 Aboul Hassan describes how, on November 25, 2012, graffiti artist Abū Bakr wrote some verses of the Qurʾān on the wall, deleting in this way the huge memorial mural for the victims of the massacre in the soccer stadium in Port Said. This demonstrative act of palimpsest, of painting one memorial above the other, triggered off a heated controversy. The soccer fans blamed the Islamists of having deleted the pictures of their martyrs by writing Qurʾānic verses on them. Although the Islamists had nothing to do with this re-inscription of the wall, they happily accepted the false accusation by stating that the victims of Port Said did not count as martyrs anyway but rather as casualties of violent riots during a soccer game. As both parties quarrelled over the question whether the Qurʾān or martyrs’ images should be regarded as more sacred than the other, Abū Bakr declared that his Quranic inscription should criticize exactly this kind of struggle for the interpretive predominance concerning commemoration: This is what Ammar Abou Bakr confirms stating that he intentionally wrote the Quranic verses over the portraits of the Ultra martyrs as a response to the psychological warfare waged by the counter-revolution throughout this whole phase of the Egyptian revolution. To influence Egyptian society, anti-revolution forces allied with fanatic bearded men and even more fanatic football fans.23 21 Hamdy, ‘Scarabs, Buraqs and Angels’, p. 149 22 Aboul Hassan, ‘Quran: The Revolution’s Voice and Its Holy Witness’, p. 191. 23 Ibid.

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Violence did not end after the removal of Mursī from office on July 3, 2013. The Muslim Brotherhood was declared a terror organisation; a brutal crackdown, akin to a witch-hunt, was launched against the Brotherhood and its sympathisers. Several hundred people were killed. Of course, remembering the victims – the martyrs – also plays an important role in these circles. At the same time however, graffiti and street art appear to be less pivotal than they are for other activist groups. Instead we find iconic signs like the four raised fingers of a hand, a gesture remembering the violent dispersal of the pro-Mursī protest camp set up by the Muslim Brotherhood on Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya Square (Naṣr City) and Nahḍa Square (Gize) in Cairo on August 14, 2013, where almost one thousand people died. The number four refers to the name of the square where the violence took place. After this political sign was forbidden, a single raised finger was used instead of the original memorial and protest sign.24 Over the course of my research, I did not find many other decidedly religious symbols in the circles of the Muslim Brotherhood, in the protest against the government localised on and around Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya Square. What is striking though, are the numbers and colourful writing used as icons of commemoration and protest. Religious attributes in the sense of a confessional self-positioning or the propagation of a faith are not in evidence, just as amongst the artist and activist groups of Taḥrīr. At the same time though, there are demonstrative avowals of an anti-sectarian thinking, in particular in the artist scene around Taḥrīr, where representations of Muslim martyrs are intentionally and demonstratively placed next to Christian martyrs as a way of emphasising that one characteristic of the uprisings is how they transgress religion.

From Saint to Victim of Torture In addition to these demonstrative avowals of an anti-sectarian thinking, on Facebook or in graffiti, there were repeatedly images of the dead which refrained from any semblance of idealisation, showing instead the frightfully and shockingly disfigured victims of violence and torture. Rather than idealise violence and martyrdom, here it is the senseless brutality of the state’s abuse of power that is denounced – i.e. openly ‘shamed and named’. 24 The single raised finger or “the one” signifies the tawhid, the belief in the oneness of God. It would traditionally be used during prayer or sermons. “The gesture has been used by jihadis for years, including high profile ones like Osama bin Laden. Within the jihadi context, the raised index finger takes on political meaning as well, widely rejecting any form of government not under Shariah law …” Rita Katz, see Crowcoft, ‘Isis: What is the story behind the Islamic State one-fingered salute?’

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No saints are portrayed whose self-sacrifice is to motivate emulation, but the victims of human rights violations. Violence and death must stop – this is the emphatic message of these images, a contrast to the highly stylised images of saints. Religious values are not at stake here, nor is this a call to join or defend a faith, an appeal seeking to mobilise believers as members of a religious or confessional community. The struggle of the Muslim Brotherhood was also primarily about political goals, to gain active participation in Egypt’s political system. Religious symbols served as a suitable field for constructing a community with a shared memory, a community that remembers together and derives the urgency and legitimacy of its claims and goals from the transcendental status of their martyrs. As the majority of those responsible for murder and violent acts had not been convicted, public commemoration of martyrs didn’t lose popularity in the first years of the revolution: Pain to injury was added since none of the officers responsible for these killings, have been convicted. […] This explains why there is a kind of perseverance in the act of commemorating the martyrs, collectively, in a multiplicity of ways, through displaying large size photographs of the tortured and dead bodies such as those of the protestors who were brutally tortured at the Presidential Palace in Heliopolis in December 2012.25

Only later on, since massive urban purge campaigns under president ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ al-Sīsī in the second half of the year 2014, many walls in Cairo were whitewashed and all graffiti and murals deleted. According to an essay by Mona Abaza from 2015, graffiti increasingly has lost its political importance and vitality in Cairo: Clearly Cairene graffiti has lost momentum during this year. Having been the faithful barometer of the revolution over the past three years, graffiti has recently faced transmutations and drawbacks that run parallel with the political process of restoring “order” in the street.26

This process is accompanied by the exodus of quite a few Egyptian human rights activists, artists and intellectuals since mid-2013. The military rule under president al-Sīsī had put an end to all such kinds of public display of 25 Abaza, ‘Mourning, Narratives and Interactions with the Martyrs through Cairo’s Graffiti’. 26 Abaza, ‘Is Cairene Graffiti Losing Momentum?’

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meaning. Figurations of martyrs in the context of the Arab Spring proved to be vital representations of ongoing political transformations. The symbolic and sometimes even violent struggle for their remembrance in the public space clearly reflects the ideological and political disputes. Figurations of Arab martyrs are thus highly relevant seismographs of social and political change.

Works Cited Abaza, Mona. (2013). ‘Segregating Downtown Cairo and the Mohammed Mahmud Street Graffiti’. Theory, Culture and Society 30 (1): 122-139. Abaza, Mona. (2012). ‘An Emerging Memorial Space? In Praise of Mohammed Mahmud Street’. Jadaliyya. Edited by Arab Studies Institute, (March 10). www. jadaliyya.com/pages/index/4625/an-emerging-memorial-space-in-praise-of mohammed-m (Accessed November 6, 2017). Abaza, Mona. (2013). ‘Mourning, Narratives and Interactions with the Martyrs through Cairo’s Graffiti’. E-International Relations, http://www.eir.info/2013/10/07/ mourning-narratives-and-interactions-with-the-martyrs-throughcairos-graffiti/ (Accessed November 6, 2017). Abaza, Mona. (2015). ‘Is Cairene Graffiti Losing Momentum?’. Jadaliyya. Edited by Arab Studies Institute, http://www.jadaliyya.com/pages/index/20635/iscairene-graffiti-losing-momentum (Accessed November 6, 2017). Abaza, Mona. (2015). ‘Graffiti and the Reshaping of the Public Space. Tensions between Political Struggles and Commercialisation’. In Grafficity: Visual Practices and Contestations in Urban Space. Eva Youkhana and Larissa Förster (eds.). Paderborn: Wilhelm Fink, 269-296. Aboul Hassan, Ahmed. (2014). ‘The Wall: People’s Chronicle and Voice of the Revolution’. In Walls of Freedom. Street Art of the Egyptian Revolution. Basma Hamdy, Don Karl AKA Stone (eds.). Berlin: From Here to Fame Publications, 134-135. Aboul Hassan, Ahmed. (2014). ‘Quran: The Revolution’s Voice and Its Holy Witness’. In Walls of Freedom. Street Art of the Egyptian Revolution. Basma Hamdy and Don Karl AKA Stone (eds.). Berlin: From Here to Fame Publications, 190-192. Boraie, Sherif (ed.). (2012). Wall Talk: Graffiti of the Egyptian Revolution. Cairo: Zeitouna. Crowcoft, Orlando. (2015). ‘Isis: What is the story behind the Islamic State onefingered salute?’. International Business Time (June 16), https://www.ibtimes. co.uk/isis-what-story-behind-islamic-state-one-fingered-salute-1506249 (Accessed August 2, 2019).

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Elansary, Hannah. (2014). ‘Revolutionary Street Art: Complicating the Discourse’. Jadaliyya. Edited by Arab Studies Institute, http://www.jadaliyya.com/pages/ index/19033/revolutionary-street art_complicating-the-discourse (Accessed November 6, 2017). Elkayal, Heba. (2011). ‘Ganzeer: The de facto Cultural Operator’. Daily News Egypt, http://www.dailynewsegypt.com/2011/07/27/ganzeer-the-de-facto-culturaloperator/ (Accessed November 6, 2017). Gröndal, Mia. (2012). Revolution Graffiti, Street Art of the New Egypt. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Hamdy, Basma. (2014). ‘Scarabs, Buraqs and Angels’. In Walls of Freedom. Street Art of the Egyptian Revolution. Basma Hamdy, Don Karl Stone (eds.). Berlin: From Here to Fame Publications, 146-149. Helmi, Heba. (2013). Gowayya shahiid: Inside me is a Martyr. Cairo: Dār al-ʿayn lil-nashr. Khalifa, Amr. (2014). ‘Maspero: A Massacre Revisited’. The Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy 9 (October), http://timep.org/commentary/maspero-massacrerevisited (Accessed November 6, 2017). Maslami, Maliha. (2013). Graffiti of Egyptian Revolution. Beirut: NN. Mittermaier, Amira. (2015). ‘Death and Martyrdom in the Arab Uprisings: An Introduction’. Ethnos 80 (5): 583-604. Mejcher-Atassi, Sonja. (2004). ‘The Martyr and His Image: Ilyās Khūrī’s Novel al-Wujūh al-bayḍā’ (The White Faces, Beirut, 1981)’. In Martyrdom in Literature. Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity (Literaturen im Kontext; 17). Friederike Pannewick (ed.). Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, p. 343-355. Pannewick, Friederike. (2017). ‘Sinnvoller oder sinnloser Tod? Zur Heroisierung des Opfers in nahöstlichen Kulturen’. In Islamwissenschaft als Kulturwissenschaft. Stephan Conermann (ed.). Syrinx von Hees. Schenefeld: EB Verlag, p. 291-314. Peteet, Julie. (1996). ‘The Writing on the Walls: The Graffiti of the Intifada’. Cultural Anthropology 11 (2): 139-159. Saleh, Tala. F. (2011). ‘Marking Beirut’. In Arabic Graffiti. Pascal Zoghbi and Don Stone Karl (eds.). Berlin: From Here to Fame Publishing, 81-88. Sanders, Lewis IV. (2012). ‘Reclaiming the City: Street Art of the Revolution’. In Translating Egypt’s Revolution: The Language of Tahrir. Samia Mehrez (ed.). Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 143-182. Scheffler, Thomas. (2003). ‘Helden, Märtyrer, Selbstmordattentäter. Zur religiösen Semantik des Heldentods’. In Religion, Staat und Politik im Vorderen Orient. Festschrift für Friedemann Büttner. Amr Hamzawy and Ferhad Ibrahim (eds.). Münster: Lit Verlag, 88-109.

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Speight, R. Marston. (1973). ‘A Modern Tunisian Poet: Abu al-Qasim al-Shabbi (1909-1934)’. International Journal of Middle East Studies 4 (2): 178-189. Ṭūqān, Ibrāhīm. (1987). ‘The Martyr’. In Modern Arabic Poetry. An Anthology. Salma Khadhra Jayyusi (ed.). New York: Columbia University Press, 107. Published first in Arabic as ‘ash-Shahīd’ (1997) in Dīwān. Dār al-ʿAuda, Beirut, 271-273. Zoghbi, Pascal and Don Stone Karl. (2011). ‘Palestinian Graffiti’. In Arabic Graffiti. Pascal Zoghbi and Don Stone Karl (eds.). Berlin: From Here to Fame Publishing, 65-71.

About the Author Prof. Friederike Pannewick is Professor for Arabic Literature and Culture at the Philipps-Universität Marburg, Center for Near and Middle Eastern Studies (CNMS), and co-director of the research field Travelling Traditions: Comparative Perspectives on Near Eastern Literatures within the frame of the research program “Europe in the Middle East – the Middle East in Europe” (EUME) at the Forum Transregionale Studien, Berlin. She is co-editor of the series Literatures in Context – Arabic –Persian – Turkish (Reichert Verlag/ Wiesbaden), and has published extensively on modern Arabic literature and theatre. She is editor of Martyrdom and Literature: Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity (2004), as well as author of a monograph entitled Opfer, Tod und Liebe. Visionen des Martyriums in der arabischen Literatur (München. 2012). Further publications of figurations of the martyr in literature are: ‘Der Tod als Tor zum Leben. Märtyrertum als moderner Mythos in der palästinensischen Dichtung’, in Selbsttötung als kulturelle Praxis. Ansätze eines interkulturellen historischen Vergleichs. (Medick/Bähr (eds.). Köln et al. 2005), and ‘Kreuz, Eros und Gewalt. Zur Choreographie des Opfers in der arabischen Kunst’, in Tinte und Blut. Politik, Erotik und Poetik des Martyriums. (Kraß/ Frank (eds.). Frankfurt, M. 2008).

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Yesterday’s Heroes? Canonisation of Anti-Apartheid Heroes in South Africa1 Jeremy Punt Abstract Jeremy Punt argues that the canonisation of South Africa’s anti-Apartheid heroes is an important component in the construction of a narrative of a country emerging from a violent, divisive past informed by racialist engineering and deliberate processes of exclusion and othering. The icon of the struggle against Apartheid and the one who most often springs to mind is, of course, Nelson Mandela, around whom quite a hero if not a martyr cult was erected. Heroes’ discourse plays an important role in structuring memories about South Africa’s past and negotiating identities in the present. Notwithstanding the ambiguities, the role of anti-Apartheid heroes and their veneration are important in underscoring new group values, restoring human dignity and self-esteem while at the same time articulating identity and acknowledging leadership and achievement. But the commemoration of heroes is also time and place bound and therefore susceptible to constant critique and adjustments as evident from recent events in South Africa. Keywords: South Africa, canonisation of anti-apartheid heroes, victimhood, national narratives, exclusion and othering

Introduction: Towards Apartheid In 1975 John Paul Young released a hit song, Yesterday’s Hero about the fleeting nature of pop-stardom. It expresses a young man’s recollection of his 1 Edited version of a paper presented at an expert meeting, Amsterdam, the Netherlands 8-9 December 2016.

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch09

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days of fame, together with the realisation that if he does not ‘get it together’, he will belong to the past. Although unrelated in many ways, it is a song that in some ways reminds us of the situation of South Africa’s anti-Apartheid heroes. Many of these heroes, some of whom emerged already before this system of racial segregation was legally entrenched in South Africa in 1948, have since passed away and the remaining struggle heroes in South Africa, as elsewhere on the continent, are finding themselves increasingly vulnerable amidst changing local and global circumstances. Indeed, the claim to be struggle heroes or struggle veterans has in the recent past conjured up negative associations of identity and even (material) entitlement. In South Africa, and unlike some neighbouring states, its heroes (both those alive and those who have passed on) and their role in the liberation narratives often are under scrutiny and, in some cases, even criticised. Matters became more complex after the dawn of democracy in 1994, when, in the interest of national reconciliation and government policy to honour the full spectrum of the past, the anti-Apartheid heroes were inscribed alongside the country’s earlier history. Racial segregation and a strong culture of slavery prospered at the Cape and surroundings from the earliest days. The precarious state of small communities of colonists in tension with the Dutch East India Company’s authoritative administrative power at the Cape of Good Hope in the 17th and 18th centuries, was exacerbated by the widening fissure between black and white amidst the importation of slaves and issues of identity foregrounded by the ambiguous social status accorded to blacks. The Groot Trek (‘Great Trek/Move’) in the 1830s, the establishment of Boere Republieke (‘Boer Republics’),2 the South-African (also known as the Anglo-Boer) War of 1899-1902, followed by the Rebellion of 1914 were major events, relative to the size of the communities involved, and indicative of the development and growing sense of Afrikaner nationalism. Changes brought about by external factors such as two (from a Western perspective) ‘world wars’, and internally by the worsening relationship between white and fast-growing black populations, as well as the economic crisis in the first half of the 2 The Groot Trek refers to those Afrikaners who left the Cape colony during the first part of the nineteenth century in ox-wagons with their families, servants and livestock in search of a better life, free from British rule; and also because of discontent with some of the Cape administration’s laws and practices – in no small measure prompted by the official end to slavery on 1 December 1838 as well as the growing sense of alienation of colonists through the continuing conflicts on the Colony’s eastern border. Eventually the Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek or ZAR (South African Republic) was proclaimed in 1852 and the Orange Vrystaat or OVS (Orange Free State) in 1854. See Giliomee, Die Afrikaners:’n Biografie, p. 108-111, 120-154.

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twentieth century, fed into the celebration of Afrikanerhood in a context marked by valorised sameness and rising political ambitions and economic concerns.3 From around the middle of the twentieth century, Afrikaner concerns increasingly started to focus on the future, through a celebration of the past as was evident in the 1938 centenary Groot Trek celebrations, the 1949 inauguration of the Voortrekker monument, and the 1952 tercentenary celebration of Van Riebeeck’s arrival in the Cape. 4 The future orientation included attempts to define Afrikaner identity as distinct from foreign influences and the concern to locate political power in the hands of Afrikaners and other (read, English-speaking) whites allowed into their laager. For many, the development of Afrikaner consciousness or Afrikanerdom came to fruition when the Nationalist Party, which was formed through and as a result of Afrikaner interests, came into power in 1948, a move which heralded attempts at the consolidation of Afrikaner nationalism – as ideological construct of identity and consciousness, informed by a shared history and social culture – and also saw the legislative beginning of the infamous Apartheid times.5 3 Giliomee, Die Afrikaners: n Biografie, p. 39-42. While describing people along the lines of nation and nationalism is anthropologically tenuous at best, Afrikaner communities trace their rich and hybrid nature back to seventeenth and eighteenth century Western European immigrants and – although legally and socially disallowed and maybe in lesser way – liaisons with indigenous people, and Malay slaves in particular. The resultant Afrikaans language is probably the best example and at the same time the primary stimulus in the enduring quest for both social identity as well as political power. Through an intricate and complex history Afrikaners have constructed an identity over many decades, showing – and probably sharing with other ethnic or linguistic groups elsewhere – characteristics common to Afrikaners. Since it took shape in the heyday of modernity, Afrikanerhood was informed by notions like progress and intellectualism, even if increasingly since the twentieth century def ined over against (especially) English-speaking ‘whites’ and indigenous or black people, and with the secular notion of Afrikanerhood from the outset associated with Christian religious and biblical notions. The relationship between religion and Afrikaner identity, and even more particularly, the strong Calvinist influences that played a role in the formation of Afrikaner identity, have often been commented upon. See Van der Watt, ‘“Savagery and Civilisation”: Race as Signif ier of Difference in Afrikaner Nationalist Art’; various essays in Kinghorn, Die NG Kerk En Apartheid. 4 Van der Watt, ‘“Savagery and Civilisation”: Race as Signif ier of Difference in Afrikaner Nationalist Art’, p. 3. 5 With nationalist fervour the late nineteenth and twentieth century Afrikaner historians (such as Gustav Preller) deliberately made use of inversion, displacement and regression in their historical construal of the dichotomy of black savagery and white civilisation, that would increasingly become a benchmark for Afrikaner nationalism, evident among others as a theme in Afrikaner art. SeeVan der Watt.

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Paving the way for and sanctioning the introduction of Apartheid in the mid-twentieth century was Afrikaners’ experience of being beleaguered and having had to struggle to achieve their (hegemonic) control, and so the Afrikaner narrative included as their right claims upon land and commodifying black labour for their own interests.6 Afrikaner whiteness as a form of subaltern whiteness, over time and notwithstanding an element of defiance, in its vulnerability had to compete with the more secure, powerful, British whiteness of the English which rested on imperial culture.7 Discernible in its discourses is the defiant or resistant nature of Afrikanerdom moulded by a salient victimhood. ‘The role of such feelings of prior, and even continuing, victimisation of the Afrikaner by the British in bringing about the mindset that enacted the brutal racism of Apartheid fits a pattern that has been recognised in other perpetrator groups.’8

Martyrs, Heroes, and Struggle Veterans and Stalwarts The list of anti-Apartheid heroes is long, and reaches back further than the inception of the Apartheid state.9 South Africa has had a number of anti-Apartheid heroes, even if they were and are not always seen as the proverbial cloud of witnesses (to use a biblical image), but sometimes rather 6 See Punt, ‘The Other in South African Children’s Bibles’, p. 73-97. 7 Giliomee, Die Afrikaners:’n Biografie. 8 Steyn, ‘Rehabilitating a Whiteness Disgraced: Afrikaner White Talk in Post‐Apartheid South Africa’, p.148. Ironically but also attested widely in history, perpetrator groups have often demonstrated the belief, whether justified or not, that some historical injustice against them warranted their aggressiveness. In her article, Steyn, referring to Apple, points not only to the ‘fiercely reactionary nature’ of Afrikaner whiteness but also to its “characteristics which are being identified in contemporary reactive white identities in countries undergoing a process of ‘conservative restoration’ such as the United States, where certain whites position themselves as victims of a changing racial order’. See also Apple, ‘Forward’, p. ix-xiii. 9 It would be a grave mistake to assume that the heroes of the anti-Apartheid struggle were only South Africans, or only of a certain profile even – our focus here, however, is on the South African heroes. See e.g. Skinner, The Foundations of Anti Apartheid: Liberal Humanitarians and Transnational Activists in Britain and the United States, C.1919-64, on the role of activists in Britain and the USA. In some instances SA authorities widen the definition of heroes beyond specifically the political realm, in acknowledgement of the much wider front along which the anti-Apartheid struggle took place. Planning the Heroes monument for the city of eThekwini (formerly Durban), its proposal invitation included the following: ‘During the course of Durban’s eventful history, men and women of extraordinary courage, vision and enterprise have come to the fore. The varied achievements of many of these heroes and heroines are as yet unrecognised in the city’s public spaces’. See Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p.87.

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as storm clouds bringing heavy weather. Those who are generally identified as heroes include a diverse group of mostly men but also some women, often called stalwarts or heroes of the struggle, people who in various ways resisted racial segregation in South Africa, especially in its legalised and institutionalised form known as Apartheid, instituted by the minority white South African government in 1948.10 Apartheid, in various guises and to different extremities, was official policy until the democratic elections in April 1994, which was preceded – and many would say, was pre-empted – by the unconditional release of Nelson Mandela from prison after 27 years on 11 February 1990. The strong impetus for identifying and commemorating heroes of the struggle against Apartheid is the logical consequence of the current (re)building of a sense of national identity – and for many, unity – in the country. It feeds into the concern both to construct a new South African identity as well as to give expression to restoring the dignity of the country’s majority. Such canonisation processes through which heroes’ narratives or discourse are constructed are important, since marginalised social groups in post-liberation contexts elsewhere in the world also, have often taken to identifying and celebrating heroes as a first step in reconstructing identities and societies.11 Can or should South Africa’s heroes be considered also as martyrs?12 Using what Van Henten and Avemarie call ‘a functional def inition of martyrdom’ and derive from Jewish and Christian sources, that ‘a martyr is a person who in an extremely hostile situation prefers a violent death to compliance with a demand of the (usually pagan) authorities’, many but not all South African heroes qualify for martyr status.13 It bears remembering, however, that the trend that martyrdom need not equate with murder, that 10 In an androcentric if not patriarchal country and world, the lack of recognition for women’s involvement in the anti-Apartheid struggle is perhaps not surprising, yet disconcerting. Some very public examples include the 9 August 1956-march to parliament with its powerful slogans (‘you strike a woman, you strike a rock’) and leaders such as Lilian Ngoyi, Helen Joseph and later (the controversial) Winnie Madikizela-Mandela; however, the important role played by woman at a grassroots level is still largely unaccounted for. 11 Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 183, 190. 12 Another debate is whether those who suffered under Apartheid were victims or heroes or both? Sometimes those who died in the Sharpeville protests (1961) are characterised as passive victims while the Soweto protesters are seen as active heroes in the struggle against Apartheid. Thörn, Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society, p.171, is of the opinion some of these characterisations are informed more than anything else by stereotypes of black people as either passive victims or a violent mob. 13 Van Henten and Avemarie. Martyrdom and Noble Death. Selected Texts From Graeco Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity, p.3.

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physical death was not always considered a prerequisite for martyrdom, started already with the late ancient authors of the Latin West. Commodian, Prudentius, Paulinus of Nola, Augustine, Gregory the Great and others held the notion that martyrdom is not necessarily accompanied by death, which extended martyrdom beyond almost any borders, with a totalizing effect on the Christian believers of the day. Pertinent to our discussion, deathless martyrdom impinged on the concept itself, diffusing martyrdom ideologies and the violence they perpetuate but at the same time it underplayed and redirected the violence of martyrdom ideologies that can serve the contradictory purpose of accentuating and increasing such violence. The identification of Anti-Apartheid heroes and the violence they suffered in many ways came onto the national (and international) agenda particularly strongly though the hearings of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC),14 the new schools History Curriculum 2005, and various commemorative rituals and festivals (including annual Freedom Day on 27 April; Heritage Day on 24 September; and, Human Rights Day on 21 March).15 Early in the struggle already, many years before Apartheid was introduced in 1948 as a legal system, and therefore even before the days of the Republic of South Africa (1961), when South Africa was still a Union related to the United Kingdom, people like Z.K. Matthews (1901-1968)16 and Albert Luthuli (1898-1967)17, publicly challenged the reigning racial segregation and its accompanying mechanisms of social engineering. And later, when Nelson Mandela was not only associated strongly with but really became the icon or epitome of the anti-Apartheid struggle, many others probably played as an important role in the struggle, even if their contributions were and are valued differently among various groups in and outside of South Africa.18 14 The contributions of acclaimed Afrikaans poet and author, Antjie Krog, who covered the TRC hearing as reporter and later published her longer accounts from an autobiographical perspective in e.g. Country of my skull provides a particularly gripping, real-life and human account of events, as experienced in different communities in SA. 15 Cf. Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p.176. Marschall argues that the role of TRC and its months-long media coverage fed in very particular way into the formation of the memory and identity of post-Apartheid SA, p. 181. The TRC is also seen by some as an example of how the secular and religious interact. See Du Toit, ‘Fin de siécle and the Development of a Post-Secular Religion: Intimations from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’, p. 2-20. 16 Matthews, Freedom for My people. 17 Albert Luthuli, Let My People Go. 18 As emerged in a powerful way during the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings, many unspoken yet assumed heroes of the struggle live on in the minds of large sections of the

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Anti-Apartheid heroes represent a wide spectrum, from the well-knowns like Oliver Tambo, Walter Sisulu and Govan Mbeki; extending to clerics like Desmond Tutu, Michael Lapsley and Beyers Naude; to lawyers and politicians like Albie Sachs and Frederik van Zyl Slabbert; and even including those relegated from official hero-discourse for not fitting the agenda of those in power, including classic figures in the struggle like Robert Sobukwe (Black Consciousness Movement) and Chris Hani (South African Communist Party, SACP), the latter who was assassinated by right-wing activists shortly before the 1994 elections.19 At least in the early days of the new South Africa, a mini-struggle raged for legitimacy as far as anti-Apartheid struggle credentials were concerned between those heroes of the struggle who stayed in South Africa and those who had left the country to pursue the struggle from outside South Africa, generally in self-induced exile elsewhere in Africa or the world, about the right to claim their own authenticity with regard to the struggle. In the ‘new South Africa’ it quickly dawned that a variety of factors impacted on the ‘canonisation’ of its anti-Apartheid heroes. The archetypal figure or icon of the struggle against Apartheid and the one who most often springs to mind is certainly Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, around whom – with good reason – quite a hero if not martyr cult was erected.20 Evidently much subjectivity and construction accompanies any definition or selection of heroes, but it is Mandela’s life, his larger than life personality, and commitment to the struggle and dedication to the notion of a free, democratic South Africa for all its people, which grasped and held the attention and sympathy of people in South Africa and elsewhere in the world. Often described in hero-like language, and someone who became the symbol not only of the anti-Apartheid struggle in South Africa but also for opposition to social injustice and for human dignity the world over, portraying Nelson Mandela as the father of the new South African nation is no overstatement. As explained further below, in Mandela’s case socio-political and religious sentiments intersected which saw him depicted also in the image of Christ, even as the reincarnation of Christ, the messiah SA population. Of course space is insufficient here to even mention the great number of unsung heroes, as much as even the other public and better-known heroes cannot all be mentioned here. 19 Hector Pieterson, who was killed during the 1976 Soweto uprisings “became a martyr of a new generation of anti-apartheid activists in South Africa”. See Thörn, Anti Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society, p. 159. 20 See Eastman’s, Paul the Martyr: The Cult of the Apostle in the Latin West, p. 2-11, reference to the four typical elements of martyr cults, and the Pauline martyr cult in particular, as the full complement of places, stories, objects and rituals, and patronage relationships which jointly constituted a martyr’s cult.

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of the people, and reaching back even further in history, as the liberator of his people like a Moses of old.21 The construction, invoking and inscribing of Mandela as anti-Apartheid hero reflects the development of the larger anti-Apartheid heroes discourse, dependent on the interplay between identity and memory.

Invoking, Inscribing and Constructing South African Heroes Regardless of content or object, or the extent to which conscious efforts are involved, memory is always actively constructed and never simply recovered. Neither identities nor memories are fixed in time, and they are not material objects, even if notions of retrieving memory and finding or losing identity may, misleadingly, suggest as much. Memory and identity do however work in tandem,22 with identity informed by memory, and memories which are revised constantly to keep pace with current identities. Since memories are subjective rather than objective phenomena and representations or constructions of reality not fixed,23 the construction of heroes’ narratives or discourse, their canonisation, serves as a mechanism for collating, arranging and structuring memories. In South Africa such canonisation took various forms, with the TRC playing an important role in drawing the narrative contours of the canon, which was further and visually given form at sites like Freedom Park in Pretoria, the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg, and the Mandela monument at Mandela Capture Site in Howick, to name a few.24 Given both the Christian-religious tenor of South African society and the past use to which Christian religion was put during Apartheid years, such influence in the canonisation of South Africa’s anti-Apartheid heroes should not surprise. A steady process of fixing the heroes’ status as well as incorporating sentiments from (especially) the Christian tradition to prop up such status, were and largely still are at work. The use of religious language in political discourse and rhetoric, such as that post-Apartheid leaders resemble Jesus Christ, or that the ANC will rule until Christ’s return, are at 21 E.g. Ott, ‘Heroes of the Anti-Apartheid Movement’. 22 As Gillis, ‘Introduction: Memory and Identity: The History of a Relationship’, p. 3, puts it ‘The core meaning of any individual or group identity, namely a sense of sameness over time and space, is sustained by remembering; and what is remembered is defined by the assumed identity’. 23 Gillis, ‘Introduction: Memory and Identity: The History of a Relationship’, p. 3. 24 Freedom Park is a very short distance away from the Voortrekker monument which celebrates colonial and Afrikaner histories, and which is still considered a national monument.

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times directly connected to the heroes’ narratives, where – in turn – support for such claims are then sought.25 From the many theoretical positions that can be used as a framework for understanding South Africa’s anti-Apartheid heroes’ discourse, a postcolonial perspective serves well both to explain the urge to identify and honour liberation struggle heroes as well as to account for abiding ambiguities. Agents in the post-colony require the recognition of heroes to replace those of the colonisers and in this way format a different, oppositional identity to that which the erstwhile colonisers attempted to induce. Postcolonial agents typically also postulate and claim the moral, social, political and otherwise superiority of the struggle heroes, to further challenge and subvert the colonial masters.26 The ambiguous nature of such processes and actions becomes evident in the various ways that postcolonial agents deliberately or subconsciously appropriate the coloniser’s visual and commemorative strategies and discourses.27 Notwithstanding the ambiguities, the role of heroes and their veneration is important in underscoring new group values, restoring human dignity and self-esteem while at the same time articulating identity and acknowledging leadership and achievement.28 By now it is already amply clear that the establishment of a canon of heroes serves a broader purpose rather than being a mere repository, since 25 Brink, Andre P, ‘Mandela a Tiger for Our Time’. 26 As much as people adopted modernism for the value it added to their lives, similarly a postcolonial theory or stance may in the end prove to be a heuristic paradigm of greater value for both recognising and dealing with the ambiguities of the post-colony in the throes of neo-colonialism. 27 Through the use of mimicry, which is simultaneously imitating and mockery, the postcolonial agents take up or appropriate those mechanisms used against them to both deconstruct colonial remnants and reconstruct alternative, postcolonial versions. The ever-abiding ambiguity of the postcolonial world, however, is that without proper care the new, postcolonial constructs may yet again become exclusionary and hegemonic. Coined by Homi Bhabha, ‘Colonial mimicry’ is a concept which at once indicates ‘the ethical gap between the normative vision of postEnlightenment civility and its distorted colonial (mis)imitation’, and also becomes the ‘sly weapon of anti-colonial civility, and ambivalent mixture of deference and disobedience’. See Bhabha , The Location of Culture, p. 85-92. 28 ‘In the South African context, the needs of non-white communities to have their cultural identity valued, their history respected and their leaders and heroes recognised, have without doubt been frustrated for a long time. One might think of the prohibition, during some periods of the apartheid era, publicly to display the name or image of Nelson Mandela. The current urge and, probably temporary, (over)enthusiasm to identify and publicly celebrate heroes can be understood as a reaction to such prohibition and as satisfaction of deeply felt needs for the public recognition of identity’. See Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p.183. On the postcolonial setting, see also Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 83

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it provides a reference point with regulated memories. The narratives, images and symbols associated with the past heroes provide justification for the present day social order.29 Uncovering (and at the same time maybe unravelling?) those canonical accounts that exercise a controlling influence in political discourse tend to unearth the tacit presuppositions, veiled powers and powerful influences and mechanisms which sustain the political discourse. As Terje Stordalen reminds us, ‘successful canons get woven into the cultural fabric’ and ‘philosophical and political canons exercise influence, even though the average citizen might be unable to explain the ideological fundaments of such canons in ways that would seem adequate to philosophers or politicians’.30 Nevertheless, the subtle or conscious inscription of hero narratives at times bubble to the surface. So for example, the (then) Deputy President Jacob Zuma at the unveiling of the monument for the Cradock Four (Matthew Goniwe, Fort Calata, Sparrow Mkonto and Sicelo Mhlauli) in July 2000 called upon new ANC cadres to assume the qualities of those honoured at this site, which he described as ‘dedicated, unselfish, and ready to sacrifice’.31 In such instances the politically powerful elite overtly defend and promote specific values and ideals, with the purpose of replicating such values, even if the elite’s post-liberation lives stand in diametric opposition to such values.32 The identification and celebration of (new) heroes by post-Apartheid South African communities and even the people as a whole serves the further, analogous purpose of creating genealogy.33 The selection and veneration of a chosen ideological ancestry provides shape and contours for (constructing) a 29 Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 89, emphasises the role of monuments in this regard, as they are ‘dedicated to the remembrance of pre-selected events and persons of the past, [and] thus a means of controlling the perception of the present’. 30 Stordalen, ‘Canon and Canonical Commentary: Comparative Perspectives on Canonical Systems’, p. 160. 31 Marschall, ‘Canon and Canonical Commentary: Comparative Perspectives on Canonical Systems’, p. 185. 32 At the time of the final editing of this contribution, the investigative journalist Jacques Pauw’s book, The President’s Keepers: Those Keeping Zuma in Power and out of Prison, has just appeared on deep-seated corruption, self-enrichment and flagrant disregard for the poor and vulnerable in South Africa’s democratic government and directly linked to the current state president, Jacob Zuma. 33 More than the past or historical figures, heroes discourse is about the present and contemporary people: ‘Through the careful selection of a body of preferred heroes, the establishment of a ‘pure’ genealogy, we can purify and homogenize our national identity, just as we cleanse or whitewash the complex and perhaps contradictory record of an individual hero’s multifaceted identity. In short – we do not want to inherit our ancestors, we want to choose them in order

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desired identity.34 But more (or maybe less?) than the use of heroes’ narratives to shape identity, their canonisation through the planning and erection of statues in honour of anti-Apartheid heroes shows also their political and commercial value – for which two examples must suffice. One, the erection of a statue for Steve Biko in Buffalo City, which includes east London, in 1997 was a political statement and framed the ideological context with which the local (and national) government associated itself. The ANC city council chose probably the most prominent site (city hall) as location for placing the statue of a man whose Black Consciousness heritage was in the view of many in opposition to ANC ideology. In this way the city’s leadership incorporated and thus ideologically neutralised Biko in(to) popular struggle memory. Two, the commercial value of anti-Apartheid heroes and an icon like Nelson Mandela emerges all too clearly in the case of the metropolitan municipality named after him. Nelson Mandela Bay which includes the city of Port Elizabeth, has no historical connection to Mandela but intends to erect at the entrance to its harbour a statute similar (in appeal if not size) to the American Statue of Liberty. While Mandela always shied away from attempts to have his identity monopolized for political or other interests and actively resisted attempts to build a personality cult around him, this city nevertheless managed to construct for itself a sought after genealogy – without antecedent. Although some political motivation may be in attendance, in the end it appears that the commercial value in exploiting Mandela’s iconic status to generate income for the municipality and local government, and even the business community, became the real, overriding concern.35 And in the end, while the formation of a canon of heroes may produce a firm foundation of regulated memories which serves many and diverse goals,36 its constructed nature inevitably makes the canonical susceptible to change and re-formation. to create our own preferred genealogy’. See Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 186. 34 Earlier Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 83, explained how the building of new monuments in post-Apartheid SA served both to present an alternative identity, and identity different to the past but also how the new monuments also stand in service of local and international tourism. This leads her to conclude, ‘Monuments thus construct a particular identity, through which South Africa represents itself to the outside world; the tourist as ‘Other’ helps define the South African self’. 35 Marschall argues that ‘Throughout the world, heritage is habitually driven by economic considerations, but one would struggle to find a heritage project in South Africa that is more unabashedly about big business and making money’. See Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 190. 36 Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 89.

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Criticising the Canon and the Canonised: From Anti-Apartheid Heroes to Anti-Heroes Since heroism, too, is not a self-contained notion but a social construction, it relies upon people and the narratives they choose to invest in,37 the memories people deliberately or unwittingly keep alive and nurture. On the one hand, memories serve a heuristic function, assisting people in making sense of their lives and the world in which they live, like other forms of physical or mental activity. But on the other hand, memories are instrumental also in constructing lives and worlds since memories are lodged in and work in tandem with intricate class, gender and power relations which govern the content, agents and purpose of those very memories.38 After the initial (and some lingering) uncritical embracing of heroes in South Africa, in the last few years the heroes of the past have increasingly come under scrutiny.39 In particular, the exclusivist, elitist, anti-democratic and hierarchical aspects which elevated heroes beyond the rest of society, and male overtones typically associated with the heroism concept are confronted more and more in popular parlance.40 Such exclusivist characteristics attend heroism since earliest times, 41 and pervade both the Christian idea of heroism with its emphasis on love for God and people, patience, self-sacrifice and faith commitment. They also inform the secular idea of hero as encapsulated in Nietzsche’s Übermensch as heroic, superior (to God and other) being that assumes control, power, mastery, and superiority in a hierarchical and anti-democratic fashion. 42 In contemporary South Africa and maybe in 37 Ibid, p. 87. 38 Gillis, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 3. 39 Since hero is a transitory, fluctuating category constructed at a certain time and place, it is not surprising that venerated heroes of today may not be admired in the future. See Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 89. 40 ‘Recent postmodernist and post-structuralist discourses, which question all notions of male superiority or other hierarchical orderings, as well as elitist concepts, grand narratives and binary oppositions of all kinds, pose a profound challenge to the concept of hero-worship’. See Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 86-87. 41 Greek mythology popularized the hero f igure who often was the progeny of divine and human liaisons and who exhibited bravery, strength and courage and exceptional abilities; in Greek tragedy, the volitional determined the heroic nature of people who, amidst freedom to choose otherwise, opt for maintaining moral law, ideals and ethical commitment. Ironically, such exclusivist characteristics have over years been (part of) the appeal of heroes. See Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 86; Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome. The Wiles Lectures Given at the Queen’s University of Belfast. 42 Eastman, Paul the Martyr: The Cult of the Apostle in the Latin West, p. 2, emphasizes the hierarchical aspects characterising martyr cults from the earliest times: ‘The basis of the cult

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other contexts around the globe, too, however, a new and younger generation appears to shy away from the celebrated heroes of the past, leading to a nuanced sense of their canonization. Before further elaboration on the younger generation’s (re)scripting of past heroes, a few remarks on the intersectional gender and religion lines (or lack thereof) in heroes’ narratives, are in order. In striving for reconciliation and unity as socio-political goals in a widely diverse society, national discourse in South Africa constantly tries both to redress hierarchy, exclusivism and elitism but also to promote inclusiveness. Such energies can be observed in so far as the heroes of the pre-democracy past were mostly left intact, in material and often in ideological modes. It is remarkable therefore that when it comes to gender in heroes’ narratives, the country has subscribed to a patriarchal mode where military achievement and political activism are profiled and even prioritised. 43 [I]n South Africa … illustrious groups of heroes are identified at national, regional and local levels, often equipped with a catchphrase label – the Guguletu Seven, the Cradock Four, the Alexandria Three – and publicly revered in real or symbolic heroes’ acres and heroes’ monuments. Bronze busts and statues on pedestals are being set up for the public commemoration of almost exclusively male heroes. 44

However, although in recent years some recognition of the vital contribution of women in the liberation struggle has seen some correction in heroes’ narratives, it is very seldom that women would be identified along similar lines as men. 45 As much as gender is a vastly underplayed and often an unrecognised and even disrecognised element in South African heroes’ discourse, it is a was the belief that the martyrs (those who chose to die rather than recant their Christian faith) occupy a particularly elevated position in the spiritual hierarchy’. See also Cummins, Paul and the Crucified Christ in Antioch. Maccabean Martyrdom and Galatians 1 and 2; De Ste. Croix, Christian Persecution, Martyrdom, and Orthodoxy. 43 Such forms of hero construction, leaning towards the exercise of physical power and poised towards masculinity, are common in other African countries’ post liberation narratives, and in Zimbabwe in particular. 44 Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 179-180; cf. p. 183-4. From the masculinizing of martyrs to the metaphoric rape of feminized nations in Roman art and biblical prophets, gender and violence often coalesce in ancient religion. 45 The recent (2012) repatriation of the remains of Saartjie Baartman, from the Gonaquasub group of the Khoikhoi and nicknamed “Hottentot Venus”, is an indication of attempts to address male-biased heroes’ narratives.

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context where palpable religious (mostly, Christian) convictions bolstered by faith-inspired morality still inform national discourses and influence social behaviour. The connections and intersecting lines between religion and politics are obvious and their presence probably not difficult to understand.46 More detailed evaluation in this regard is best left for another occasion, but such confluences nevertheless put the claims of the ruling party framed in (Christian) religious parlance and more particular to our discussion, about former heroes (mostly, leaders), into perspective. The confluence of Christian tradition’s martyr-language with socio-political claims and aspirations in the last twenty years in South Africa has become evident (as mentioned above) in notions such as that the ANC will rule “until Christ returns” or “till Kingdom come” along with claims that Nelson Mandela and other leaders were reincarnations of Jesus Christ and acted as messianic figures. While martyrdom and heroes’ discourse is indeed part of the foundation myth of Christianity – as also of other religious traditions – what happens when on the one hand such language is extended to contemporary figures for their political actions? And further, what are the social and other effects when religious notions are taken up in political rhetoric, in a context where the Christian myth undergirds and largely suffuses society and its people’s consciousness? But to return to the growing vulnerability of South Africa’s anti-Apartheid heroes, their growing precarious position has become more evident and their canonisation has suffered serious setbacks during the last decade. However, antipathy has grown especially since the middle of 2015 with the rise of popular student movements and a populist new political party, the Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF), to the extent that probably for the first time since 1994, even the iconic legacy of Nelson Mandela is being challenged and criticised in a serious way. 47 To some extent the events of the last few years in South Africa and the student protests in particular have answered Marschall’s question: ‘The question is also whether the heroes of the past will remain meaningful to a young generation, which is taking political freedom largely for granted and whose values and role models are 46 E.g. Punt, ‘Popularising the Prophet Isaiah in Parliament: The Bible in Post Apartheid, South African Public Discourse’, p. 206-223. 47 The leader of the EFF, Julius Malema, is on record for claiming that even (especially?) Nelson Mandela betrayed black South Africans and the Freedom Charter in the historic negotiations which led to the end of Apartheid in South Africa in 1994: ‘President Mandela is a human being like all of us. He’s got his own shortcomings. His legacy and his contribution to the struggle will be a permanent subject for critique in South African politics’. See Quintal, ‘Malema: I Never Said Mandela was a Sell-Out’.

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fast becoming detached from those of their parents’. 48 In South Africa, the recent student social activist movements including #RhodesMustFall- and #FeesMustFall-movements underline the broad groundswell of discontent with increasing socio-economic disparities so typical of post-Apartheid South Africa. 49 The causes of the disparities include historical inequity brought on by Apartheid as well as post-democratic rule that is all too often characterised by inefficiency (at national and provincial government levels as well as in state-owned enterprises) and a range of corrupt activities (including cadre employment; tenderpreneurship; global transactions aimed at the enrichment of a few of which the so-called Arms Deal and an [at the time of writing] impending nuclear deal are examples; accumulating personal wealth at the cost of the citizenry; and so forth). Apart from many other joint -and sub-discourses, a constant refrain among the protest voices is the insistence that the time has come to move beyond the heroes of the past, to look towards the future, to envisage a new beginning.50 Disillusionment with the heroes of the past is often situated on two levels. In the one scenario, uncritical hero worship can issue forth devastating consequences. Even more than heroes of the past, those heroes still alive and actively participating on socio-political terrain are susceptible to dethronement; but some fallen heroes of the past that are considered useful for furthering current political agendas, may become foils for others’ interests. The symbolic lives of heroes can replace their real lives, with history even more than usual selectively constructed and ‘sanitised’ through strategic remembering and forgetting according to the political needs and sentiments of the day.51 In another scenario, as often noted in postcolonial 48 Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 119. 49 The fact that the student protests started with pulling down the Cecil John Rhodes statue at the University of Cape Town is a poignant reminder of Russian art critic, Viktor Misiano’s remark that “[a]ll successful revolutions end with statues coming down”, quoted in Forty and Küchler, The Art of Forgetting, p. 1-18. See also Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 190. 50 Tukwini Mandela, grand-daughter of Nelson Mandela, has been reported as saying, ‘There’s a lot of work that still needs to be done in South Africa but I’m hopeful. The young people of South Africa are really hopeful about South Africa’s future and they really want to contribute to the political process so my feeling is one of great hope.’ See, ‘South Africa: Anti-Apartheid Heroes Honoured’. 51 In the construction of the narrative of identity both remembering as well as forgetting are acts of power and means of maintaining power, regulating inclusion as well as exclusion. The effective use of forgetting in historical constructions often amounts to selective amnesia. ‘We are reminded that it is both through remembering and forgetting that identity is created’. See Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 185.

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studies, once the exhilaration of liberation wears off and the hard work towards emancipation at so many levels of life begins, there is ‘no point in pretending that the objectives of earlier eras have remained the same as for today, or that the politics of the anti-colonial struggles obtain equally for the new demands of the postcolonial era’.52 In South Africa’s current socio-political context of protest, a younger generation is emerging that no longer sees the heroes of the past as such and sometimes says as much in harsh language. This generation uses strong anti-hero language, which includes accusations such as that the past heroes failed to secure liberation. Such failure has given rise to, and in fact demands the renewed, current waves of protest action. A new generation in South Africa no longer simply identifies with nor venerates the anti-Apartheid activist heroes of the past, since for this generation the past heroes have in many cases even become present anti-heroes.53

Conclusion In conclusion, the identif ication and veneration, the canonisation of the anti-Apartheid heroes of South Africa feed off and at the same time inform the creation of a new national script for the country. Apart from how those with vested interests can and do use the heroes narratives for constructing and tailoring a genealogy for themselves, the heroes narratives nevertheless allow different communities to associate themselves more strongly with the new national project and to participate in constructing a new national consciousness, all of which feeds into securing social order and stability.54 The importance of a heroes narrative for the young South African democracy can hardly be overrated, particularly since it is one way in which assurances of stability are provided, for the sake of the country but also the global community. But with changing times, new questions are starting to emerge: Have South Africa’s anti-Apartheid struggle heroes become yesterday’s heroes? What does it take for yesterday’s heroes to remain heroes, especially for political heroes in fast-changing social, cultural and political environments? Is it in South Africa’s case the heroes 52 Young, White Mythologies: Writing History and the West, p. 30. 53 See e.g. Forster, ‘Why the ‘Loss of Faith’ in Heroes like Mandela May Not Be Such a Bad Thing’, p. 2016. 54 Marschall, ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’, p. 184-185.

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who act as main protagonists in the compelling foundation myth which new nations need,55 or is it the myth itself which is consigned to yesterday and replaced by a still to be drafted new(er) myth and new(er) and more inclusive heroes?

Works Cited Apple, Michael W. (2000). ‘Foreword’. In White Reign: Deploying Whiteness in America. Joe. L. Koncheloe, Shirley R. Steinberg, et al (eds.). New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, ix-xiii. Bhabha, Homi. (1994). The Location of Culture. London and New York: Routledge. Bowersock, Glen. (1995). Martyrdom and Rome. The Wiles Lectures Given at the Queen’s University of Belfast. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brink, Andre. (1999). ‘Mandela a Tiger for our Time’. The Guardian, https://www. theguardian.com/world/1999/may/22/southafrica.nelsonmandela (Accessed on May 12, 2018). Cummins, Stephen. (2014). Paul and the Crucified Christ in Antioch. Maccabean Martyrdom and Galatians 1 and 2. SNTS Monograph Series, vol. 114. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. De Ste. Croix, Geoffrey. (2006). Christian Persecution, Martyrdom, and Orthodoxy. Michael Whitby and Joseph Streeter (eds.). Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Du Toit, Chalice. (1997). ‘Fin de siécle and the Development of a Post-Secular Religion: Intimations from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’. Religion and Theology 4 (1): 2-20. Eastman, David. (2011). Paul the Martyr: The Cult of the Apostle in the Latin West. Writings from the Greco-Roman World Supplement Series, vol. 4. Atlanta: SBL Press. Eastman, David. (2015). The Ancient Martyrdom Accounts of Peter and Paul. Writings from the Greco-Roman World Series, vol. 39. Atlanta: SBL Press. Forster, Dion. (2016). ‘Why the “Loss of Faith” in Heroes like Mandela May Not Be Such a Bad Thing’. The Conversation, https://theconversation.com/why-the-lossof-faith-in-heroes-like-mandela-may-not-be-such-a-bad-thing-65690 (Accessed on September 27, 2016). Forty, Adrian and Küchler, Susan (eds.). (1999). ‘Introduction’. In The Art of Forgetting. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1-18. Giliomee, Hermann. (2004). Die Afrikaners: ‘n Biografie. Kaapstad: Tafelberg. 55 Marschall, ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’, p. 86.

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Gillis, John. (1994). ‘Introduction: Memory and Identity, The History of a Relationship’. In Commemorations. The Politics of National Identity. John Gillis (ed.). Princeton: Princeton University Press: Princeton, 3-24. Kinghorn, Johan. (1986). Die NG Kerk En Apartheid. Braamfontein: Macmillan. Krog, Antjie. (2000). Country of My Skull: Guilt, Sorrow, and the Limits of Forgiveness in the New South Africa. New York: Broadway. Marschall, Sabine. (2003). ‘Canonizing New Heroes: The Proposed Heroes Monument in Durban’. South African Journal of Art History 18: 80-93. Marschall, Sabine. (2006). ‘Commemorating “Struggle Heroes”: Constructing a Genealogy for the New South Africa’. International Journal of Heritage Studies 12 (2): 176-193. Ott, Stephanie. (2003). ‘Heroes of the Anti-Apartheid Movement’. CNN, http://edition. cnn.com/2013/12/10/world/anti-apartheid-heroes/ (Accessed on October 4, 2016). Pauw, Jacques. (2017). The President’s Keepers: Those keeping Zuma in Power and Out of Prison. Cape Town: Tafelberg. Punt, Jeremy. (2007). ‘Popularising the Prophet Isaiah in Parliament: The Bible in Post-Apartheid, South African Public Discourse’. Religion and Theology 14 (2): 206-223. Punt, Jeremy. (2012). ‘The Other in South African Children’s Bibles’. In Text, Image, and Otherness in Children’s Bibles: What Is in the Picture?. Caroline Vander Stichele and Hugh Pyper (eds.). Atlanta: SBL Press, 73-97. Quintal, Genevieve. (2015). ‘Malema: I Never Said Mandela was a Sell-Out’. News24, http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/malema-i-never-said-mandelawas-a-sell-out-20151202 (Accessed on November 30, 2016). Skinner, Rob. (2010). The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid: Liberal Humanitarians and Transnational Activists in Britain and the United States, C.1919-64. Houndmills and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. ‘South Africa: Anti-apartheid Heroes Honoured’. (2016). AfricaNews, http://www. africanews.com/2016/01/27/south-africa-anti-apartheid-heroes-honoured/ (Accessed on October 14, 2016). Steyn, Melissa. (2004). ‘Rehabilitating a Whiteness Disgraced: Afrikaner White Talk in Post‐Apartheid South Africa’. Communication Quarterly 52 (2): 143-169. Stordalen, Terje. (2015). ‘Canon and Canonical Commentary: Comparative Perspectives on Canonical Systems’. In The Formative Past and the Formation of the Future. Terje Stordalen and Saphinaz-Amal Naguib (eds.). Oslo: Novus, 133-160. Thörn, Hakan. (2006). Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society. Houndmills and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Van der Watt, Liese. (1997). ‘“Savagery and Civilisation”: Race as Signifier of Difference in Afrikaner Nationalist Art’. De Arte 55, http://www.unisa.ac.za/default. asp?Cmd=ViewContentandContentID=725 (Accessed on May 29, 2009).

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Van Henten, Jan Willem and Friedrich, Avemarie. (2002). Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco-Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity. London: Routledge. Young, Robert. (2004). White Mythologies: Writing History and the West. London: Routledge.

About the Author Prof. Jeremy Punt is Professor of New Testament at Stellenbosch University, South Africa. His work focuses on biblical hermeneutics, past and present, including critical theory in interpretation, the intersection of biblical and cultural studies, and on the signif icance of contextual conf igurations of power and gender, and social systems and identifications for biblical interpretation. His research also includes work on scriptural traditions in religious movements and the interplay between scriptures, canons and hermeneutics in particular. He has recently published Postcolonial Biblical Interpretation. Reframing Paul (Brill) and regularly contributes to academic journals and other publications.

10 The Martyrdom of the Seven Sleepers in Transformation From Syriac Christianity to the Qur’ān and to the DutchIranian Writer Kader Abdolah Marcel Poorthuis

Abstract Marcel Poorthuis discusses the radical re-interpretation of the story about seven boys who fall asleep for several centuries in a cave during the persecution by Emperor Decius. They refused to burn incense before ‘idols made by hands’ and fled into a cave, where God took their spirits and brought them to heaven. The story has been associated with martyrdom and has pre-Christian forerunners but it was transmitted in a SyriacChristian version by Jacob of Serugh (451-521 CE). The Qur’ān recycles this story, but its thrust is wholly different. Ironically, the story in Sura 18 has been transformed into an anti-Christian polemic. This story in turn has been re-created in the novel My Father’s Notebook (Spijkerschrift) by the Iranian-Dutch writer Kader Abdollah (translated in English as My Father’s Notebook, 2006). The story symbolises the future return of happiness and beauty for the people, persecuted both under the Shah and under Khomeini. Keywords: the story of Seven Sleepers, Contestation, Persecution, Sacrifice and Heroism, Contemporary Literary Representations

The folkloristic theme of people who sleep long enough to relate stories about times gone by can be traced in many cultures.1 There is the tale of someone 1 See for Jewish (Abimelech) and Greek (Epimenides) examples: Collaco, With Sleep Comes a Fusion of Worlds: The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus Through Formation and Transformation.

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch10

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who on a summer evening meets a story-teller under a mulberry tree and decides to go home after hearing some beautiful stories, only to discover that some sixty years have passed. This is just one intriguing example.2 Another no less intriguing story deals with people in a cave. In Jewish and Christian stories from Antiquity a cave may indicate different motifs, from a sacred place to a burial site, from a place to hide from persecution to a place for contemplation. Sometimes it is difficult to make out which motif is dominant. This holds good for the story of the Men in the Cave as well, of which the Christian and the Islamic version are the best known. Whereas in these two versions persecution is a central motif, in Greek pre-Christian predecessors of this story this motif is generally lacking. This means that in spite of the interesting vistas which an analysis of the Vorlage of the Christian story may yield, the kernel of the story would remain unexplored. Searching for the origin of a story – an ideal in historic-critical research – does not always offer complete insight into a story. Hence instead of bringing up all kinds of predecessors of this story, I will opt for a different approach.3 I depart from the conviction that no story is transmitted to a new context without subtle transformations. Slavish copying without alterations does not adequately explain this process of transmission. In many studies on the Qur’ān, the implicit assumption has been that the Jewish and Christian sources consist of better originals, slavishly copied or only half understood by the Qur’ān. I abandon this approach by giving each context its due. In the case of the Men in the Cave, I will point out that the Islamic story resembles the Syriac-Christian story as transmitted by Jacob of Serugh (§ 1), but that the thrust of the Qur’anic story is wholly different, although this remains often unacknowledged (§ 2). In addition, I am interested in a modern re-appropriation of this qur’anic story. I choose for that the novel by the Iranian-Dutch writer Kader Abdollah: Spijkerschrift, or with the English title: My Father’s Notebook (§ 3). 4 2 Out of the many stories, I refer here to the modern retold story by Washington Irving, Rip van Winkle. 3 See for a list of some two hundred manuscripts: Grysa, ‘The Legend of the Seven Sleepers in Syriac and Arabic Sources: a Comparative Study’, p. 45-59. His harmonising treatment of the sources is highly confusing. For a comparison between the Syriac and the Arabic (Qur’anic) versions, see Massignon, ‘Les Sept Dormants d’Ephèse (Ahl al-Kahf) en Islam et en Chrétienté: Première Partie’, p. 61-110, whose likewise harmonizing approach reflects his religious outlook. See further Huber, Die Wanderlegende von den Siebenschläfern: Eine Literargeschichtliche Untersuchung. The outstanding folklorist Heller has put together the relevant Jewish and other sources in: ‘Éléments, parallèles et origine de la légende des sept dormants’, p. 190-218. 4 Other modern re-appropriations of the Seven Sleepers: Pamuk, My Name is Red, Seipolt, Der aufgeweckte Siebenschläfer.

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The Christian Story of the Persecution Under the Emperor Decius The third century persecution under the emperor Decius serves as the foil for a story that in its Syriac-Christian version stems from the sixth century.5 The centuries that separate the story from the historical event serve to highlight the long period of sleep. The sleeping of the youthful inhabitants of the cave during several centuries is framed in the theological controversy about the resurrection of the dead. The story allegedly proves the truth of the bodily resurrection against what Gregory of Tours calls ‘a Sadducean heresy’. Resurrection has been a hotly debated issue among the Origenists, followers of the allegorical exegesis as developed by the Alexandrian Church father Origen (185-254 CE). They believed that the physical body would be replaced by a spiritual one. In contrast, this story of the Seven Sleepers should prove that the same physical body that dies will be resurrected. On closer scrutiny, however, the theological controversy does not seem to fit completely, although it is already present in the version of Gregory of Tours. The youths are said to have slept, which is not the same as having been dead for several centuries.6 Besides, being resurrected before the general resurrection creates the problem of whether these youthful people will die again afterwards. This is precisely what happens in some versions of the story. The kernel of the story may have been the steadfastness of the young people facing persecution by the Roman emperor. Here the motif of a hero sleeping for centuries has been connected to the theme of martyrdom. Hence the story reminds the Christians, living in a period without martyrdom and persecution, of the radical choice of these young Christians. Their living testimony from a period long gone by must have impressed the Christian community, even without meeting them face to face. The huge increase of 5 Jacob of Serugh (451-521) wrote the story. See: Jacobus of Serugh, ‘The Youths of Ephesus,’ edited together with other oriental versions (Arabic, Coptic, Armenian) and with an Italian translation by Ignazio Giudi, Testi Orientali Inediti, Il sette dormienti di Efeso (Roma 1885, available on the internet). Some Syriac fragments have been translated by Griffith, in: ‘Christian Lore and the Arabic Qur’an’, p. 128. A Latin version of the story is offered by Gregory of Tours, Liber in Gloria Martyrum, in which mention is made of a Syriac source. See Krusch, Gregory of Tours, Liber in Gloria Martyrum. The Christian story became widely known in the Middle-Ages as a chapter of the Legenda Aurea by Jacob de Voragine (1275). 6 Still the possibility that here the ‘sleep of death’ has been intended should be considered. Likewise the time of Christ in the grave is sometimes described as a sleep. In addition, Heller points out how the story has been influenced by the Biblical story of Daniel and his companions before the tyrant Nebucadnezzar, in which the resurrection plays a role as well (Daniel 12:2): Heller, ‘Éléments, Parallèles et Origine de la Légende des Sept Dormants’, p. 195-6.

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Christians after the Constantine peace had led to a growing urge to renew Christian spirituality. Leaving society for the desert was one of the options, extolling martyrdom of earlier times another. In a way, both tendencies come together in this story in which the cave may symbolize both the hiding for persecution and the locus of contemplation and asceticism. Miraculously, these persecuted youths become the contemporaries of Christians living centuries later. The Syriac Christian writer Jacob of Serugh (451-521 CE) leaves no doubt about the Christian character of the story: his homily opens with a prayer to ‘the Son of God, whose door is always open for whoever calls upon him’.7 In the same Christian vein Jacob of Serugh tells how the son of the prefect and his seven companions state to the emperor: Your king is Zeus and Apollo, along with Artemis. Our king is the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.8

The ‘unholy triad’ of pagan gods is contrasted with ‘the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit’. Hence there is no doubt both concerning the divine Sonship and the Trinity. Of course, the Trinitarian formula is understood as a confession of the one true God. The boys refuse to burn incense before ‘idols made by hands’. Eventually they have to flee in order to escape Decius’ wrath. After they had fled into the cave, ‘God took their spirits and brought them to heaven and commanded a guardian (angel) to guard over the limbs’.9 This text is more explicit about the death of the young men than other texts which merely refer to ‘sleeping’. After the death of the young men, two princes, apparently likewise secret believers in Christ, prepare tablets of lead which relate the whole story of the youths of Ephesus, and put these tablets in the cave. When the youths awaken (or rather: are resurrected) after hundreds of years, one of them goes shopping although they are still afraid of the outer world. Discovering crosses everywhere, the young man begins to realize that something has changed. When he pays with coins from the time of the emperor Decius, the people suspect him of hiding a treasure. Upon arriving at the cave, the people learn from the tablets the whole story. The emperor Theodosius is impressed and intends to build a temple over the bodies in Ephesus. The youths reject this proposal and confess that ‘our Lord, the Messiah has awakened us, so you could see and affirm that there 7 Giudi, Testi Orientali Inediti, Il sette dormienti di Efeso, p. 18 (text) and p. 29 (Italian translation). 8 Ibid, p. 19 (text) and p. 30 (translation). 9 Ibid, p. 19-20 (text) and p. 30 (translation).

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is truly a resurrection’.10 The youths are portrayed as martyrs of the faith and the audience feels blessed by the presence of these pure Christians from centuries ago. Their presence, coming from a time that demanded sacrifices for the faith, exudes saintliness. The place of the cave, for which several locations apply, became a site of pilgrimage. Turning to the Qur’ānic account, we should be prepared to expect a profound transformation. The Trinitarian formula would be a proof of Christian heresy rather than of orthodoxy, according to the Qur’ān. Hence an Islamisation of the religious expressions may be expected.11 However, the transformation of the story is even more radical than that. The happy ending cannot serve the Qur’ān either, as in its perspective the Christian faith of the people from Ephesus cannot be but heretical. Only the youths from the Cave are supposed have preserved the authentic Christian faith, which faith coincides with Islam. Let us now turn to the Qur’ān.

The Qur’anic Story of the Youths in the Cave Sura 18, al-Kahf, the Cave, devotes its opening lines to the story of the youths in the cave. The context of the Qur’ān has been doubled in comparison to the Christian account. The Qur’ān considers the story of the cave as an event already from the past, but still relevant as a message for the contemporaries of Muhammad. There is neither a reference to a threat of persecution nor to an emperor. Many studies of this text from the Qur’ān have assumed an implicit presence of both topics, either derived from its Syriac-Christian predecessor or from post-Qur’ānic Islamic literature that supplies both topics. I will argue that this method fails to do justice to the Qur’ånic account. These youths prefer to withdraw into a cave out of concern about the idolatrous behavior of ‘our people’. Crucial is the question which idolatry is meant here. Probably (Sura 18:4) already gives the answer: ‘to warn (yunzirah) those who say: ‘Allah has taken a son (walad).”’ Apparently, the Christian story of exemplary young Christians who are prepared to flee into a cave rather than betraying their faith, has here already been transformed into 10 Ibid, p. 23 (text) and p. 32 (translation). 11 This is a well-known device in Islamic literature. Compare how the Islamic historian Ibn Ya`qūbī transforms the story of Adam in the Syriac Christian Cave of Treasures into an Islamic story. See Poorthuis, ‘About Naked Women and Adam’s Body: The Syriac Cave of Treasures as a Source of Islamic Storytelling’, p. 81-102. Koch, Die Siebenschläferlegende, has completely overlooked this transformation. Likewise Paret, ‘Aṣḥab al-Khaf’, ignores the polemic with Christianity.

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an anti-Christian polemic. How is that possible? We have to study this text carefully in order to understand its rhetorical devices. (Sura 18:13): ‘We relate to you their story in truth. Indeed, they were youths who believed in their Lord, and increased in guidance.’ Probably this line formally introduces the story. It seems obvious, that the Qur’ān considers the youths from the cave as upright believers. This raises the question how the Qur’ān views Christians in this context. Would the Qur‘ān ignore their Christian identity or would the Qur’ān display a remarkably open attitude to Christians here?12 Neither of the two possibilities seems to be the case. Let us continue our reading with (Sura 18:14). They rose up and declared: ‘Our Lord is the Lord of the heavens and the earth. Never shall we call upon a deity other than Him: this would be an outrageous thing to do. These people of ours have taken deities other than Him.’

The Qur’ān portrays these youngsters as faithful believers, even before Muhammad, but simultaneously as strongly colliding with ‘these people of ours’. These people are, however, not the Romans with their worship of the emperor. Such a historical approach should not be expected in the Qur’ān, but there is more at stake here.13 ‘These people of ours’ are now the fellow-Christians who have strayed from the right path by professing belief in Christ as Son of God. Again, the Qur’anic portrayal of Christians as committing shirk, by making an ‘ally’ to the one God, is not based upon an historical understanding of the story of the Men in the Cave, but is aimed at Christians from Muhammad’s time. The story has probably been transformed in such a way that the persecutors of these young believers were viewed as Christians themselves. Admittedly, the Qur’ān may have had in mind the Romans with their emperor cult as well, but the closing line of verse fifteen seems to imply otherwise: ‘Why don’t they produce clear evidence about them?’ ‘They’, the Christians from Muhammad’s time, are assumed to have distorted the message of ‘them’: The Men in the Cave, who are their Christian predecessors. Instead of the latter’s strict monotheism – apparently combined with their belief in Jesus, but not as Son of God – the Christians 12 One should note that the Qur’ān here and there (e.g. 2:62) considers Christians among those who have nothing to fear at the Day of Judgment, a line that has been re-interpreted by many commentators as referring to the Christians before Muhammad only. 13 Later Islamic authors supply this additional information, such as al-Tabarī (839-923) in his Ta’rīkh al-Rusul wa-al- Mulūk, p. 778; see Perlmann, English translation, ‘Al-Tabarī, Ta’rīkh al-Rusul wa-al- Mulūk’, The History of al-Ṭabarī: the Ancient Kingdoms.

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in Muhammad’s time describe their faith in a distorted way, even while knowing the story of the Men in the Cave, so the Qur’ān seems to argue. They venerate Christ as God and compromise God’s unity.14 The issue of the bodily resurrection does not seem completely appropriate here, as Christianity and Islam do not fundamentally disagree about that event at the End Times. In spite of that, the opposition does not come from the (no longer existing) Romans, but by the Christians who are accused of adhering to false convictions. It is fascinating to see how the Qur’ān has retained some traces of the previous Christian theological controversy about the resurrection of the death in Sura 18:18: ‘We (God) turned them from the right to the left.’ The turning is intended to prevent the bodies from being dissolved into the earth. Hence the issue of resurrection still plays a role in the background according to the Qur’ānic account, in spite of the fact that about the issue of the general bodily resurrection Islam and Christianity do not fundamentally disagree, as stated above. Further on, the well-known motif of the use of coins of a bygone time is introduced.15 In marked distinction, however, with the Christian story, the youths do not discover that the persecution has stopped, and that the people they meet have become fellow-believers. The ‘crosses everywhere’ in the Syriac account have disappeared. Instead the young people are warned in (Sura 18:19-20): ‘Let him conduct himself with caution and not disclose your whereabouts to anyone, for if they found you out they will stone you to death or force you back into their faith.’ If my opinion is correct that the Qur’ān attributes this saying not to the ignorant youths, but to God, then this constitutes a strong corroboration of my claim of a complete transformation of the Christian story in the Qur’ānic account. The youths do not warn each other about the wicked people outside (in that case wrongly, but they could not know that the world had become Christian). God himself warns the youths of the wicked people outside. In that case only the (heretical) Christians can be intended, unless we assume that according to the Qur’ān, God would not be aware of the actual situation outside the cave. 14 The important study by Griff ith, ‘Christian Lore and the Arabic Qur’an’, seems to have missed this essential point. Neither resurrection nor apocalypse are the salient features of this Islamic transformation of the Christian story. 15 The al-Raqīm in verse 18:9, translated as ‘inscription’ probably fulf ils the same role as a testimony from the time of the emperor Decius. Gregory of Tours knows already of such an inscription. Al-Ṭabarī explains it in the same vein, but some later commentators of the Qur’ān interpreted it as the name of the dog! Raqīm as a misreading of Decius (Christof Luxenberg) fails to acknowledge the profound transformation of the Islamic story, while tributary to a Christian Vorlage.

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A genuine Islamic polemic against Christianity forms the key to this transformation. Somewhat of a polemic may be detected in the following verses as well. The Qur’ān seems to be fully aware of the existing veneration of these youths from the Cave among Christians, but argues that their faith has deliberately been perverted, reclaiming the youths as pure Muslims. Even more, the veneration itself seems to be frowned upon in (Sura 18:21): They said: ‘Build a monument over them.’ Their Lord knows best about them. Those who prevailed in their affair said: ‘Let us surely build a place of worship over them.’16 It remains uncertain whether these buildings are themselves condemned as idolatrous practice or that the Qur’ān describes a form of worship that would be acceptable to Muslims. Probably the Qur’ān refers to an existing rivalry between different Christian churches, the masjīd indicating a place of worship, not a mosque. The statement: ‘God knows best’, seems to suggest that remaining aloof is the best option.17 In what follows the Qur’ān refers to an elaborate Christian tale, while aware of many and sometimes even conflicting details in it. Indeed, a kind of debate follows about these details: how many youths were there: three, five or seven, including the dog?18 The debates are again solved by referring to God ‘who knows best’. As often, the Qur’ān does not narrate the whole story extensively, but assumes knowledge of the story among the audience. In this case, however, the Qur’ān subtly transforms the story, perhaps without the audience realizing it. Hence it is not the details about the number of men in the cave and the duration of their stay, in which the specific Islamic element of this story comes to the fore. It is the complete transformation of a Christian story about persecution and flight into an anti-Christian polemic, in which the same youths become paragons and martyrs of the true Christian / Islamic faith.19 The thrust of this polemic is that Muhammed argues that his message is not new, but has been the authentic divine revelation even before 16 The word masjīd is related to the word ‘mosque’, but should not be translated as such here. At the time of the revelation of the Qur’ān, one should speak about a ‘place of worship’, but not yet about a ‘mosque’. 17 Later Islamic literature did interpret the masjid as mosque, herewith demonstrating the victory of Islam over Christianity. See Brinner, ‘Al-Tha’labī, `Arā’is al-Majālīs fī Qisas al-Anbiyā’, or ‘Lives of the Prophets’ as recounted by Abū Isḥāq Aḥmad Ibn Muḥammad Ibn Ibrāhīm Al-Tha’labī, p. 689-715. 18 The surprising presence of the dog can be explained as a concretization of the Syriac Christian divine promise related by Jacob of Serugh, that there will be a guard. 19 Although the debate about Arianism (in which Christ is considered to be a creature and to have become the Son of God, instead of being so from eternity), has continued well after the Constantine era and sometimes even gained the upper hand, one should not assume an allusion to that form of Christianity in this text from the Qur’ān.

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the revelation of the Qur’ān. Christians themselves are supposed to have obscured their authentic faith by all kinds of accretions. The miracle of the youths is central to the Qur’ān, because it testifies miraculously of the true Christian faith of centuries earlier which is supposed to coincide with Islam. It should be noted that in the elaborate Islamic narrative about the Men in the Cave, as told in Al-Tha’labī’s Tales of the Prophets, the anti-Christian thrust has disappeared completely, due to the renewed influence of preIslamic versions of the narrative.20 There the pagan Romans become again the oppressors of the youths. Duqyānus (‘Decius’) cuts people in pieces and attaches these limbs to the walls of the city; and he crucifies them, if they refuse to sacrifice to the idols.21 When Decius traces the youths who refuse to serve the idols and who have fled to a cave, he decides to close the entrance hermetically with stones and states: ‘Tell them to say to their god who is in heaven that if they were telling the truth, he would bring them forth from this place.’ This indeed happens, after several centuries. It is clear that this post-Qur’ānic re-told story constitutes once more a complete transformation of the Qur’ānic account. In a modern novel, this same text from the Qur’ān plays a central role, be it again profoundly transformed. It is fascinating to see how the theme of martyrdom resurfaces, while the polemical recedes into the background.

Kader Abdolah’s Novel Spijkerschrift The novel Spijkerschrift, translated in English as My father’s notebook (2006), reflects the bitter experiences of a refugee from Iran after the revolution under Khomeini. It links up with another novel, in which the author Kader Abdolah describes how a poet from Iran journeys in South Africa.22 Three of his five companions, however, have been murdered under Khomeini. The haunting presence of these dead friends on the poet’s journey, in a blend of nostalgia and guilt feelings, demonstrates the central motif of persecution and being a refugee. It can also be recognised in the high appreciation of the poet for his new fatherland, the Netherlands, and in his masterful use of that language. 20 Post-Qur’anic stories are sometimes more strongly influenced by Syriac Christian literature (i.c. the Cave of Treasures) than by the Qur’ān itself. See Poorthuis, ‘About Naked Women and Adam’s Body: The Syriac Cave of Treasures as a Source of Islamic Storytelling’, p. 81-102. 21 Al-Tha’labī, `Arā’is al-Majālīs fī Qisas al-Anbiyā’, or “Lives of the Prophets”, p. 703. 22 Abdolah, Portretten en een oude droom.

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In the novel Spijkerschrift, Kader Abdolah again introduces the theme of persecution. The novel is multilayered: in a Persian village, there is a cave with an inscription, but in a cuneiform script thousands of years old, which has not yet been deciphered. As such, the text reminds us of the rich history of Persia of several millennia, which indeed includes such famous persons as the ‘king of kings’, Cyrus. However, an excerpt from Sura 18, ‘the Cave’, which opens the novel, is supposed to be part as well of that mysterious message. On top of it, the more or less deaf-mute father of the narrator possesses a handwritten notebook in which he uses the same cryptic letters. A tension with modernity arises when Reza Khan, the father of the last Shah of Persia, wants to modernize the country by constructing a railway. The railway will destroy the cave, but by forced labor Reza Khan manages to prevent that. Simultaneously, the veil of women becomes forbidden and Western habits become obligatory. The narrator joins the left opposition against the Shah’s dictatorial regime. The quotation from the Qur’ān in the novel has left out all references to orthodoxy, such as: ‘We will never call upon any deity other than Him, for that would be an outrage’ (18:14). This may be an indication that theological disputes are not the focus of this re-appropriation of the Qur’ān. In contrast to this, the persecution under the Shah receives ample treatment. When the narrator grows up, he confronts his old father, who has lived all his life in a village, with his increasing doubt about religion and no longer joins him to the mosque. His father remains undisturbed, however, and puts much effort in listening to his son’s explanation of the Big Bang with interest, without however, changing his religious habits in the least. Although the father grows old, he helps his son by hiding friends from persecution under Khomeini. The same persons who were persecuted under the last Shah, Muhammad Reza Phalavi, are persecuted as well in the wake of Khomeini’s revolution. The narrator is involved in the resistance but eventually has to flee ‘over the mountains’ to the Netherlands. It is interesting to note that Khomeini’s dictatorial regime does not disinherit the narrator’s affection for the Qur’ān. The Qur’ān remains for him a source of beauty, of existential guidance and of poetry. Once in the Netherlands, the narrator hears that his beloved sister Goudklokje (‘Golden Bell’) has been taken prisoner, perhaps even due to his own revolutionary actions. After months in prison she manages to escape and tries to flee over the mountains as well, but does not reach the free other side. Probably she is helped by her old father: the days after her escape the people in the village discover his absence. The narrator relates that in the meantime, he himself is busy reading the last pages of his father’s

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mysterious notebook. The book ends with the finding of his father’s body in the mountains. At the end of the book, the Sura about the Cave is quoted once more and the narrator suggests that his sister may be waiting in the cave, until after perhaps hundreds of years, there will be a better world. She will keep a silver coin in her hand. The symbolism of the mysterious cuneiform notebook symbolises the millennial history of Persia. The father’s life embodies that venerated history, the poetry, the beauty and the heroism, although he is deaf-mute and nobody is able to read the book of his life except the narrator. In contrast with the religious leaders under Khomeini, the father sees no chasm between the Qur’ān and the venerable pre-Qur’ānic past, symbolized by the cuneiform writing. Likewise, the father remains loyal to the Qur’ān, in contrast to the Shah, whose celebration in 1971 in Persepolis of the 2500 years of Persia has been perceived as a megalomaniac celebration of idol-worshipping, and which even may have hastened the revolution. The mysterious notebook symbolises in a veiled way the life of the father itself. The story of the Cave symbolises the future return of happiness and beauty for the people, persecuted both under the Shah and under Khomeini. The appropriation of the Qur’ānic story in this novel has left out the polemical aspect in order to highlight the fate of refugees and the martyrs who have died for freedom and for the dawn of a better world. In a way, this longing for future freedom and happiness may be considered a plea for resurrection. In conclusion, the Syriac account of the Christian martyrs emphasised the unbridgeable gap between idolatry and the faith in the one triune God. The youths testify to the brave attitude to refuse to burn incense for the idols ‘made by hands’, even when endangering their own life by that. Centuries after the persecution by the emperor Decius, this sacrifice is no longer demanded, but as such the message of the young boys remains an impressive testimony of saintliness for the Christians. In addition, the story emphasises the bodily resurrection, probably against spiritualising Christian ideas. The Qur’ānic account does not constitute merely an abridgement or allusion to this story, but instead constitutes a complete transformation of the central theme into a polemical account. The triune God and the divinity of Christ are considered heretical, whereas the youths are supposed to have preserved the true Christian faith during these centuries, coinciding with the then emerging Islamic faith as proclaimed by Muhammad. In Kader Abdolah’s novel, the venerated pre-Islamic past of Persia is re-appropriated from the dictatorship of the Shah. Likewise, the Qur’ān does not feature as the exclusive monopoly of the regime of Khomeini, but merges with the history of Persia, integrated in the mysterious book with

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cuneiform script. The deaf-mute father, living his simple life in a village, embodies this rich heritage. His daughter awaits the future era of freedom and peace while sleeping in the cave. By ignoring the polemical thrust of the Qur’ānic account, the novel has transformed the story of the Seven Sleepers into a plea for peace and tolerance, by respecting the impressive history of Persia, including the beauty of the Qur’ān. The motif of resurrection re-surfaces as the central element, as the hope for a better world.

Works Cited Abdolah, Kader. (2003). Portretten en een oude droom. Breda: de Geus. Abdolah, Kader. (2000). Spijkerschrift. Breda: de Geus. Brinner, William (trans.). (2002). ‘Arā’is al-Majālīs fī Qisas al-Anbiyā’, or ‘Lives of the Prophets’ as recounted by Abū Isḥāq Aḥmad Ibn Muḥammad Ibn Ibrāhīm Al-Tha’labī. Leiden: Brill. Collaco, Gwendolyn. (2011). With Sleep Comes a Fusion of Worlds: The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus Through Formation and Transformation, https://digitalwindow.vassar. edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1002andcontext=senior_capstone (Accessed on April 25, 2018). Giudi, Ignazio. (1885). Testi Orientali Inediti, Il sette dormienti di Efeso. Roma: Tipografia della R. Academia dei Lincei. (Jacobus of Serugh. (1885). ‘The Youths of Ephesus’, edited with an Italian translation). Griffith, Sidney. (2008). ‘Christian Lore and the Arabic Qur’an’. In The Qur’an and Its Historical Context. Gabriel Said Reynolds (ed.). New York: Routledge. Grysa, Bartolomiey. (2010). ‘The Legend of the Seven Sleepers in Syriac and Arabic Sources: a Comparative Study’. Orientalia Christiana Cracoviensa 2: 45-59. Heller, Bernard. (1904). ‘Éléments, Parallèles et Origine de la Légende des Sept Dormants’. Revue des Études Juives 48: 190-218. Huber, Michael. (1910). Die Wanderlegende von den Siebenschläfern: Eine Literargeschichtliche Untersuchung. Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz. Koch, John. (1883). Die Siebenschläferlegende. Leipzig: Reissner. Krusch, Bruno (ed.). (1969). Gregory of Tours, Liber in Gloria Martyrum. Hannover: Hahn. Massignon, Louis. (1954). ‘Les Sept Dormants d’Ephèse (Ahl al-Kahf) en Islam et en Chrétienté: Première Partie’. Revue des Études Islamiques 22: 61-110. Pamuk, Orhan. (2001). My Name is Red. London: Faber and Faber. Paret, Rudi. (1986). ‘Aṣḥab al-Khaf’. In Encyclopaedia of Qur’ān. Leiden: Brill. Perlmann, Moshe (trans.). (1987). ‘Al-Tabarī, Ta’rīkh al-Rusul wa-al- Mulūk’. In The History of al-Ṭabarī: the Ancient Kingdoms, Volume 4. New York: SUNY Press.

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Poorthuis, Marcel. (2017). ‘About Naked Women and Adam’s Body: The Syriac Cave of Treasures as a Source of Islamic Storytelling’. In Sanctifying Texts, Transforming Rituals: Encounters in Liturgical Studies. Paul van Geest, Marcel Poorthuis, Els Rose (eds.). Leiden: Brill, 81-102. Seipolt, Adelbert. (1962). Der aufgeweckte Siebenschläfer. Würzburg: Echter.

About the Author Prof. Marcel Poorthuis is Professor of Interreligious Dialogue at Tilburg University where he teaches at the Tilburg School of Theology. His dissertation dealt with the French-Jewish philosopher Immanuel Levinas. He has published on Catholicism, Judaism, Buddhism and recently on Dutch perceptions of Islam (Van harem tot Fitna, Nijmegen 2011). He is co-editor of the international series Jewish and Christian Perspectives (Brill Leiden) and former chairman of the foundation Pardes for Jewish Learning. His recent publications deal with the Jewish and Christian sources of Islam and with parables.

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‘Female Martyrdom Operations’ Gender and Identity Politics in Palestine Ihab Saloul Abstract Ihab Saloul investigates the phenomenon of ‘female martyrdom operations’ in relation to the issue of women’s agency in society, particularly women’s political participation and gender roles in contemporary Palestinian society. In the context of the conservative social climate promoted by the Islamists through their emphasis on the religious rather than the nationalist dimensions of martyrdom operations, female martyrs had nationalist motivations and aimed at restoring their position as politically active participants in Palestinian society. Three operations in 2002 (Wafa Idris, Dareen Abu Aysheh and Ayat Al Akhras) managed to open up new spaces for women’s participation on the nationalist front and women were indeed accepted as active participants in the military struggle. On a religious level, these three female martyrdom operations represented a significant challenge to the interpreted religious notions of women’s political participation in relation to contemporary Islamic discourse of martyrdom and warfare. A fourth operation (Hanadi Jaradat, 2003) was carried out on behalf of the Islamic Jihad Movement, which justified her operation also from a religious point of view. Keywords: female martyrdom operations, gender and Islamic martyrdom, Palestinian national struggle, secular and religious dichotomies, women’s political participation

In the last fifty-three years of the history of the Palestinian armed resistance movement, the role of women has been primarily limited to traditional cultural, religious and gender roles. However, in October, 2003, when the 28-year-old apprentice lawyer, Hanadi Jaradat, blew herself up in a crowded restaurant

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in Haifa City killing nineteen people besides herself, this action did not raise any questioning or debate in relation to women’s participation in the armed struggle and their traditional gender roles in Palestinian society. One of the reasons for this non-questioning is that Hanadi’s act was not the first of its kind, but was the sixth ‘female martyrdom operation’ carried out by women during the Second Intifada (2000-2005). In January 2002, the 27-year-old medic, Wafa Idris, kicked off female martyrdom operations and became the first female martyr killed in a suicide attack in the history of the Palestinian resistance movement. This attack was followed by subsequent ones, and in total there were seven female martyrdom operations that took place between January 2002 and January 2004: Wafa Idris (27-year-old medic/ 27 January, 2002), Darin Abu Aysheh (21-year-old university student / 27 February, 2002), Ayat Akhras (18-year-old school girl / 29 March, 2002), Andalib Takatka (17-year-old school girl / 12 April, 2002), Hiba Daraghmeh (19- year-old university student /19 May 2003), Hanadi Jaradat (28-year-old lawyer / 4 October, 2003), and Reem Saleh al-Riyashi (22-year-old mother of two /15 January 2004). These attacks constitute a new phenomenon in the Palestinian resistance movement, namely ‘female martyrdom operations’, whereby women are becoming actively engaged in the armed struggle. In this chapter, I will not raise the question of the legitimacy of these acts. Therefore, I will not discuss which term is more applicable to describe these acts, either ‘suicide attacks / bombings’ or ‘martyrdom operations’. I rather chose to use the term ‘female martyrdom operations’ as this is the way these acts are described within Palestinian society.1 The philosophical concepts behind the opposed terms, ‘suicide attacks / bombings’ and ‘female martyrdom operations’, do of course largely differ from each other due to their different genesis. The difficulties of understanding these terms are often a question of political standpoints as well as of linguistic implications corresponding to the politically correct terms on either side of the conflict. While most Arabic sources use the term ‘female martyrdom operations’, publications from Israel, Europe or the US speak almost exclusively of ‘suicide attacks /bombings’ and terrorists. In this context I will analyse the phenomenon of female martyrdom operations in relation to gender and identity politics, particularly the issue of women’s agency and political participation and gender roles on three 1 On the contradictory use and gender representation of the terms ‘suicide attacks / bombings’ and ‘female martyrdom operations’ in international media, see Brunner, ‘Female Suicide Bombers – Male Suicide Bombing? Looking for Gender in Reporting the Suicide Bombings of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict’, p. 29-48; Hasso, ‘Discursive and Political Deployments by/of the 2002 Palestinian Women Suicide Bombers/Martyrs’, p. 23-51.

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levels. First, how do we situate this phenomenon within its religious, cultural and political contexts? Second, what is the impact of this phenomenon on women’s role in Palestinian society as a whole? Third, do women, in taking up arms, undermine dominant traditional gender roles, and take on a more active and equal part of political participation in a domain from which they were previously excluded, and do they thus bring about a crucial transformation to the religiously and traditionally male dominant discourse of martyrdom in Palestinian society? In order to examine these questions, I first trace the Islamic concept of martyrdom and its relationship to women from a religious and historical point of view and ask how the concept of martyrdom became transformed in the contemporary Islamic context as a gendered discourse. Two related gender constructs seem to heighten this transformation. The first construct is ‘pre-Islamic socio-cultural’ which is based on patriarchal beliefs and attitudes that are learned through the experience of socialisation. The second construct is ‘Islamic pragmatic’ which is influenced by certain male-biased interpretations of holy texts that, in the process of socialisation, take the form of social laws. By enforcing patriarchal values, the combination of these two constructs has created a particular social order in contemporary Palestinian society wherein power in social and political structures was given to men. This situation has given rise to a contemporary domain in which martyrdom is culturally and politically male. In the final section of this chapter, I investigate Palestinian women’s discourses in the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In this regard I will discuss how social and religious gendered discourses of martyrdom have been transported and preserved in different socio-cultural sites such as the family. After that I examine how the context of conflict played an important role in weakening the dominance of traditional discourses, which brought about changes in attitudes toward women. Those changes, I will argue, gave Palestinian women a more public space that enabled them to enhance their social and political participation. The focus of my discussion in this part will be on how women’s resistance strategies developed in heightened phases of the conflict during the First Intifada (1987-1993), and the Second Intifada (2000-2005) towards a more active political participation, especially in a military context, by breaking away from dominant religious, traditional and cultural views on the discourse of martyrdom. In order to illustrate this development, I will analyse four of the cases of female martyrdom operations (Wafa Idris, Dareen Abu Aysheh, Ayat Akhras, and Hanadi Jaradat) in terms of their religious and secular significations. My selection of these four cases is mainly a matter of chronology and comparison wherein I confront the first three operations (Wafa, Darin and Ayat), which took

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place in 2002, and the fourth operation (Hanadi) which followed in 2003. As I will show, although the religious signification cannot be easily detached from female martyrdom operations, one cannot ignore the possibility of another signification that may be called secular-national. This second possibility involves an internal struggle for recognition, validation and the re-signification of women’s cultural identity in Palestinian society against the gendered contemporary discourse of martyrdom.

Martyrdom in Islam In Islamic tradition, there are two main forms of martyrdom: martyrdom in war and the spiritual martyrdom of asceticism. To fully understand the religious and socio-political contexts of both types of martyrdom in Islam, one needs to examine their religious and historical grounds in the Quran and Hadith.2 The former is the most obvious form: someone who dies in battle for his/her religious belief. In Islamic history, this form is the earliest form of martyrdom and it is primarily related to the concept of Jihad, often translated as ‘holy war’. The word Jihad literary means effort. While the Quran frequently refers to war, the words used for war are harb and qital. Translating Jihad as ‘holy war’ would be incorrect in this context, for the literal translation of holy war is harb muqaddasa, which is not found in either the Quran or Hadith. During the first centuries of Islam and specifically after the death of the prophet Muhammad, Muslims sought territorial expansion in order to spread the new religion in what is known as the ‘period of conquests’. In this period, the material aspect of martyrdom was strongly emphasised as it provided a significant justification and motivation for joining the war. The Quran refers to martyrdom in war and the rewards of martyrs in many places. A pertinent example is to be found in Sorah Al A’raaf (‘the elevated place’): Count not those who were slain in God’s ways as dead, but rather as living with their Lord, by Him provided, rejoicing the bounty that God has given them, and joyful in those who remain behind and have not joined them, because no fear shall be on them, neither shall they sorrow. (Quran 3, 168-170) 2 Hadith is the documentation of prophet Mohammed’s statements and actions which were preserved from original oral transmissions. Hadith exists in a variety of degrees of reliability. While most Hadith are accurate, some may have been fabricated. In this paper I will support my argument by using Hadith from Sahih Al-Bukhari, which is considered by the majority of Muslims as an accurate and valid collection of Hadith. See Al-Bukhari, Sahih Al-Bukhari; Khan, Al-Bukhari: Sahih Al- Bukhari.

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These verses refer to the martyr who falls in battle. While Arabs knew death in war before the rise of Islam, the concept of martyrdom as introduced by the Quran was new for them.3 There are different accounts describing how Muslims first became aware of what it meant to be a martyr in war. Some of these accounts are provided by Muslim scholars, who explain the reasoning behind the revelation of the verse quoted above. According to one account, this verse was revealed to Muhammad on the occasion of the Battle of Badr, as a response to questions by Muhammad’s companions concerning the lot of those who had fallen in the battle. 4 Another explanation is that God decided to reveal the verse without prompting to encourage the Muslim believers to gain paradise.5 Such explanations provide much of the rationale for a strong theological position on martyrdom which does not only take its strength from the Quran, but it is also supported by many Hadith that elaborate further on martyrdom. The following two examples are pertinent in this regard: Narrated Abu Said Al-Khudri: “Somebody asked, O Allah’s Apostle! Who is the best among the people? Allah’s Apostle replied: A believer who strives his utmost in Allah’s Cause with his life and property. They asked, who is next? He replied: A believer who stays in one of the mountain paths worshipping Allah and leaving the people secure from his mischief”. (Sahih Al-Bukhari 4.52.45) Narrated Abu Huraira: Allah’s Apostle said, “By Him in Whose Hands my soul is! Whoever is wounded in Allah’s Cause … and Allah knows well who gets wounded in His Cause … will come on the Day of Resurrection with his wound having the color of blood but the scent of musk”. (Sahih Al-Bukhari 4.52.59)

As these two Hadith declare, the martyr is positioned highly in Islamic tradition. This can be seen through the many rewards that the martyr receives. For example, the martyr who dies for God’s cause escapes the examination in the grave, and receives the highest rank in paradise. Moreover, the martyr’s wounds shine and smell like musk, and his act purifies him from all sins so that he, unlike other Muslims, is not to be washed before burial.6 3 See Kohlberg, Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom, p. 6-8). 4 The Battle of Badr (in the year 2 A.H. / 624 A.D.) is the f irst military encounter between Muslims and unbelievers in Arabia. Fourteen Muslim men died in this battle. 5 See Kohlberg, Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom, p. 6. In his work Kohlberg quotes both accounts from Al-Tabri’s Jami al bayan an tawil al-quran, ([1388] 1968, IV, p.170-173). 6 See Kohlberg, Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom, p.10-12.

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The second form of martyrdom is the spiritual martyrdom of asceticism. Spiritual martyrdom refers to martyrs who are killed for their faith or murdered while in the service of God, but who do not necessarily die in battle. In Islamic tradition, this form of martyrdom had gradually arisen around the third century A.H./ 900 A.D, when the period of conquests ended and the opportunity to die in battle diminished. The success of Muslim armies in Arabia and elsewhere meant that the first generations of Muslims hardly ever faced persecution from non-Muslims. Moreover, it meant that the period that was considered as Jihad had ended, and that the military and political grounds behind it had become irrelevant to the new social and political contexts. In this way, the spiritual aspects of Jihad gradually began to outweigh its previous military and political aspects. As a result, Jihad grew into a more abstract ethical concept with a strong emphasis on asceticism such as practiced by different groups of Islam (for example, Sufism). Accordingly, the shift of the meaning of Jihad has led to the extension of the notion of martyrdom and to the rise of alternative forms of martyrdom. These alternative forms are also grounded in both the Quran and Hadith, and they include: those who died prematurely, as a result of an accident, a disease or some other misfortune such as the bubonic plague, pleurisy or abdominal disease, those who drown, die in a fire or are struck by a falling house or wall, as well as women who die in childbirth.7 In Islamic tradition, these two forms of martyrdom take their centrality from a strong theological basis wherein martyrdom is portrayed as the highest privilege of Islam that contains two main sources of belief. While the first source emphasises the importance of Jihad and its different forms and meanings, the second one describes the glory of the martyrdom act. In what follows, I discuss both how martyrdom’s significations transformed in contemporary Islamic discourses and the ways in which women were positioned within these discourses.

Women and Contemporary Discourse of Martyrdom The position of women in contemporary discourses of martyrdom is best discussed in relation to the larger theme in Islamic tradition of women’s political participation in society. As often argued by Islamic movements in the Arab world, the contemporary Islamic view on women’s political 7 See Kohlberg, Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom, p. 19-27. Moreover, the various meanings and significations of Jihad include defending one’s self, honor, home and land.

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participation is based on the assumption that women should not hold leadership positions. While this view allows women supporting roles in case of war, it does not permit them under normal circumstances to actively engage in war.8 In her book, Women and Gender in Islam, Leila Ahmed argues that discourses shape and are shaped by specific moments in specific societies, so that the investigation of the discourses on women and gender in Islamic Middle Eastern societies necessitates studying the societies in which they are rooted, and the ways in which gender is articulated socially, institutionally and verbally there. Two of the main constructs that influenced the position of women in contemporary discourses of martyrdom in Islamic tradition are, first, the socio-cultural transformation to patriarchy in pre-Islamic Arab societies which Islam was later to consolidate, and second, the mode of interpretation of Islamic holy texts. In relation to the former, Ahmed argues that archaeological and historical evidence shows that women in pre-Islamic Arab societies held a favorable and possibly even a privileged position.9 Women’s privileged position can be seen, for example, in the ‘virilocal’ attitudes and practices as well as in the position of women in dominant social structures in pre-Islamic societies, particularly in relation to marriage and motherhood. Within these structures, women were allowed different types of marriages, including matrilineal marriage. After marriage, women were also permitted to remain with their tribe, where men could visit or reside with them. In addition, children in pre-Islamic structures were associated with the mother and her tribe. While these attitudes and practices cannot be comprehensively indicative of an existing matriarchal pre-Islamic society in Arabia, they do however indicate that women enjoyed greater sexual autonomy than they were allowed under Islam. At the same time, these practices correlate with women being active participants, even leaders, in a wide range of community activities, including warfare.10 8 This view is commonly held by different groups in Sunni Islam in the Arab world (for example, Hamas and Islamic Jihad movements). In this view, warfare is an exclusively male activity. 9 See Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam. Although Ahmed pays little attention to the role of the interpretation of holy texts in Islam and its impact on women’s discourses, in her argument she emphasises that pre-Islamic society was not completely matriarchal but that it was predominantly matrilineal, and that the society was in the process of changing around the time of Muhammad’s birth into a patrilineal one. In her book Ahmed provides a detailed analysis of the socio-cultural transformation to patriarchy in pre-Islamic societies and how this transformation shaped current discourses on women. 10 For the term ‘virilocal’, see Bal, Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges, p. 200-203. It must be noted that Bal’s use of the term ‘viri-local’ refers to the fact that women stay in their father’s house but the term itself does not lean on matriarchy. In my case I chose to describe these practices and attitudes as ‘virilocal’ so as to distinguish them from the

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The pre-Islamic virilocal practices and traditions disappeared and were replaced by patriarchal attitudes in relation to women’s participation in society, including women’s participation in warfare. One of the reasons that played a key role in the transformation of these practices and attitudes is the economic growth that pre-Islamic societies underwent: The commercial growth of Mecca during the fifth and sixth centuries and the progressively sedentary ways of its pre-eminent tribe, the Quraysh, led to the breakdown of tribal values, particularly the notion of communal property, which disappeared as individual traders accumulated wealth. Men now wished to pass on property to their offspring, which gave new importance to paternity and led eventually to the displacement of matriliny to patriliny. (Ahmed, 1992, p. 43)

When Islam came later on, it introduced some social reforms in relation to women, for example the seclusion of the prophet’s wives, which enforced the new social and cultural patriarchal attitudes. However, the impact of pre-Islamic matrilineal practices and traditions is still evident in the history of the first generations of Muslims, the generations closest to pre-Islamic days and traditions, in which the attitudes toward women’s participation in community activities such as war, are similar to the attitudes of pre-Islamic society. Different accounts from early Islamic history attest to women’s actively participating in war. For example, the first martyr in Islam is a woman, Sumaya, the wife of Yasir (one of the prophet’s companions). Sumaya was tortured and killed in the early period of Islam by the tribe of the Quraysh because of her belief in Muhammad’s message (Smith, 1985, p. 25). Moreover, in this period women fought in battles alongside men to defend Islam. Umm Imara, for example, defended the prophet during the Battle of Uhud (3 A.H./ 625 A.D.) after the Muslims were defeated. One Hadith describes this event: Narrated Umar ibn al-Khatab Quraysh: I heard the prophet saying “on the day of Uhud, I never looked right or left without seeing Umm Imara fighting to defend me”. (Sahih Al-Bukhari Vol. 2, No. 389) way which Ahmed describes them as ‘matrilineal’. My choice is based on Bal’s argument of the difference between matriarchy and virilocy, particularly in relation to the degree of women’s autonomy and to the naming of the offspring after the mother’s tribe. Another common practice, which proves that pre-Islamic society was not completely matriarchal, is the practice of female infanticide which was abolished under Islam.

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Another famous warrior in Islam is Nasiba bint Kaab, who fought in the battle of Uhud and later on with Caliph Abu Bakr in the wars of Ridda (‘rebellion’) that followed the death of the prophet. Nasiba was a courageous and a dedicated warrior as evidenced by the fact that Caliph Abu Bakr attended her reception upon her return to Medina. In addition, probably the most distinct example of women’s political participation and their role in warfare in early Islam is Aisha, a wife of the prophet Mohammed.11 In the year 36 A.H./ 658 A.D, Aisha played a crucial role in the armed resistance in the conflict with Ali, the fourth Caliph, and led thousands of men into the Battle of the Camel. Hassan, the son of the Caliph Ali, describing Aisha’s influential leadership in the battle, states: ‘I swear by God, surely she is the wife of your prophet, in this life and hereafter. But it is a test from God to know whether you will obey Him or her’ (Sherif, 1987, p. 121). The second construct that influenced the position of women and their political participation in warfare and martyrdom in contemporary Islam is the pragmatic mode of interpretation of holy texts. Thus, the interpretation of some Hadith and verses from the Quran proved crucial in positioning women outside the discourse of martyrdom such as the following two Hadith: Narrated Abu Bakr: God has benefited me from a word I heard from the Prophet. When the prophet was informed that the people of Persia had crowned the daughter of Kisra as their ruler, He said: No people will ever succeed if they hand their affairs to a woman. (Sahih Al-Bukhari Vol. 5, No. 508) Narrated Aisha: (that she said:) O Allah’s Apostle! We consider Jihad as the best deed. Should we not fight in Allah’s Cause? He said: “The best Jihad (for women) is Hajj-Mabrur” (i.e. Hajj which is done according to the Prophet’s tradition and is accepted by Allah). (Sahih al-Bukhari Vol. 4, No. 43)

Although there are different interpretations of these two Hadith, prominent Muslim scholars take both of them to mean that women cannot actively 11 The assassination of Uthman, the third Caliph, sparked this conflict. Aisha went to mosques and rallied people to avenge Uthman’s death. She also allied with one of the factions opposing the succession of Ali, which eventually led to the split of Islam and the creation of Sunni and Shiite divisions. The Battle of the Camel is named after the camel on which Aisha sat and directed the battle. Aisha was defeated in this battle, and Ali became the fourth Caliph. For a detailed analysis of Aisha’s role in this battle, see Mernissi, Women and Islam: An Historical and Theological Inquiry.

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participate in politics and warfare. For example, one of those interpretations is given by Muhammad Al-Ghazali and Ibn Hazem, who understood both Hadith to mean that women can hold any position of leadership other than being head of state, but that they are not allowed to participate in war.12 Moreover, Muslim scholars use other verses from the Quran to justify excluding women from political participation and warfare. The following verse is a good example of ambiguity: Divorced women shall wait concerning themselves for three monthly periods. Nor is it lawful for them to hide what Allah Hath created in their wombs, if they have faith in Allah and the Last Day. And their husbands have the better right to take them back in that period, if they wish for reconciliation. And women shall have rights similar to the rights against them, according to what is equitable; but men have a degree (of advantage) over them. And Allah is Exalted in Power, Wise. (Quran 2, 228)

The key words in this verse are ‘men have a degree over women’. Some interpretations of this verse, for example Al-Tabari, explain the word ‘degree’ as a sign of the responsibility of men to treat their wives better than they expect to be treated. In other words, a husband should not require his wife to fulfil all of her obligations to him, but he should still fulfil all of his obligations to her. (Sherif, 1987:141) In contemporary Islam, however, such interpretations were replaced by other interpretations that are male-biased. Thus, Muslim scholars interpreted ‘degree’ as equivalent to the (spiritual and physical) advantages of men. As a result, men were given alleged superiority over women in Jihad, inheritance and other socio-political domains. For example, this alleged superiority is regularly used as the basis for the argument that women must obey men in Islamic society.13 In addition, another verse that is often quoted to justify the subjugation of women declares: Men are [Qawamona] the protectors and maintainers of women, because Allah has given the one more [strength] than the other, and because they 12 See Al-Ghazali, Sunna al-Nabawiya Bayna Ahl al-Fiqh wa Ahl- al Hadith, p. 56. These interpretations contradict historical facts of women being the head of state in Islam such as Shajaret Al Dur, who ruled Egypt around 1400 AD. On the role of religious interpretation, see also Sherif, The Muslim Women between the Truth of Sharia and the Fallacy of Falsification; Smith, ‘Women, Religion, and Social Change in Early Islam’, p. 19-37. 13 For a detailed study on the relations between Palestinian women and inheritance in Islam, See Moors, Women, Property and Islam: Palestinian Experiences, 1920-1990.

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support them from their means. Therefore the righteous women are devoutly obedient, and guard in (the husband’s) absence what Allah would have them guard. As to those women on whose part ye fear disloyalty and ill conduct, admonish them (first), (next) refuse to share their beds, (and last) beat them (lightly); but if they return to obedience, seek not against them means (of annoyance): For Allah is Most High, Great (above you all). (Quran 4, 34)

Some interpretations explain this verse as a conditional proposition in which men are to take full care of women if two conditions are met: first, if a man’s bounties are more abundant than a woman’s and second, if a man supports a woman from his means. However, contemporary dominant interpretations of this verse, following the interpretation of the first verse quoted, render it as a justification for men’s physical and religious authority and superiority over women, thereby depriving women of political involvement and participation in warfare.14 In contemporary Islamic societies, the combination of both constructs, pre-Islamic socio-cultural transformation to patriarchy and the male-biased mode of interpretation of Islamic holy texts, had a great impact on the position of women in these societies. As a result, women’s roles were limited and merely positioned at home. This positioning curtailed women’s political roles including their participation in warfare and brought about gendered (patriarchal) socio-political discourses in which warfare and martyrdom are deemed as masculine domains.

The Palestinian Case: Conflict and Women’s Discourses Palestinian society is a predominantly Arab Muslim society. Just as in other Arab Islamic societies, current social and political discourses on women in Palestinian society have been shaped by social and religious discourses inherited from pre-Islamic and interpreted Islamic traditions. Together with the inherited social and religious discourses, including the discourse of martyrdom, the patriarchal view that men are superior to women was inherited, implying that the place of women in society is at home.15 14 For a critical and detailed discussion of how interpretations of these two verses were used as a justification of women’s inferior position in contemporary Islamic context, See Asad, The Message of the Quran. 15 Today, Sunni Islam with its Shafe’i, Hanafi, Hanbali and Malki Rites is the religion of 97 per cent of the population. Many Palestinian Muslims trace their descent to the seventh century when

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In Palestinian society, discourses on women and the views they promote have been transported and enshrined within different socio-cultural sites. One of the most influential sites that hosts and prescribes women’s social and gender roles in Palestinian society is the family. In its traditional form, the Palestinian family is patriarchal and hierarchical in relation to age and sex, the old and the males having authority over the young and the females. Within this structure, the sexes become extremely polarised: the man is expected to be strong and dominant, and the woman is weak, dependent and inferior. In this respect, as a basic unit of society around which the lives of Palestinian women are organised, the family often stands as a framework which strengthens inherited dominant patriarchal social, religious and political discourses. Moreover, the family can limit women’s marital, educational, employment options and political roles. As a basic strategy for prescribing women’s social and gender roles within dominant social and religious discourses in Palestinian society, the family attributes great importance to notions such as women’s sexuality and honour. Such notions include a mixture of traditional and religious discourses, always relied upon as an argument for positioning the roles of women at home and function on different social and political levels.16 This is the cultural context in which discourses on women flourished in Palestinian society. However, this cultural context and the traditional discourses it hosted have been challenged by the presence of another important social and political context that is functioning in Palestinian society: the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It is within this context that the martyrdom of women gains new significance. In her book, Gender and the Israeli Palestinian Conflict: The Politics of Women’s Resistance, Simona Sharoni argues that heightened social and political conflicts are likely to create some fluidity in social ordering whereby dominant traditional and cultural discourses on women’s gender and social roles in society are often questioned. Moreover, this fluidity often includes changes in gender roles and relations introduced primarily through women’s involvement in community and political activism and men’s preoccupation with the overt political conflict. In addition, social and political conflicts Muslims conquered the country. These statistics are taken from The Palestinian Academic Society for the Study of International Affairs (PASSIA), www.passia.org (Accessed on August 2, 2019). 16 See Mattar, The Encyclopedia of the Palestinians, p. 2-6. While these are general features of family life in Palestinian society, one must not ignore the variations of it across different social categories in Palestinian society. Moreover, the family can also be an influential arena in which women can find protection, security and emotional support. See also Sharoni, Gender and the Israeli Palestinian Conflict: The Politics of Women’s Resistance.

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do not necessarily complicate women’s lives and set back their struggle for gender equality. On the contrary, in some cases (such as the Palestinian one), political conflict can function as a springboard for gender equality (Sharoni, 1995, p. 1-3). In order to examine how the context of conflict influenced women’s social and political roles in Palestinian society, one needs to look at how the Palestinian women’s movement developed within the context of this conflict. Particularly, I consider how heightened conflict phases such as the First Intifada (1987-1993) and the Second Intifada (2000-2005) brought about some fluidity in social relations and roles, in which Palestinian women obtained a wider public space where they were able to enhance their political and social roles. First of all, Palestinian women’s involvement in nationalist politics dates to the early part of the twentieth century. Since its inception in the 1920s, the Palestinian women’s movement was caught in a tension between its nationalist and feminist goals. Moreover, despite its early emergence this movement did not play a notable role in the early period of the IsraeliPalestinian conflict. In the period between 1948-1965, the movement was mainly fragmented and confined to a small social group of upper class, urban, educated women. However, with the emergence of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO) in 1968, a centralised women’s movement also emerged in an organised form, the General Union of Palestinian Women (GPUW). The new women’s movement was different from the previous one in many aspects such as its middle-class origin of leadership, its total dedication to the national struggle in its attempts to engage in mass mobilisation of women, and the more independent nature of its relations with the larger national movement.17 Due to its new organisational form, this women’s movement was more successful in mobilising the majority of Palestinian women inside and outside the occupied territories for national struggle and thus playing a more effective role in national and social contexts. Women’s effective role can be seen, for example, during the era of the Palestinian resistance movement’s presence and organisation in Lebanon (1968-1982), where women made notable strides in employment, community-based social work, and most importantly for my topic, in participation in military operations.18 17 See Mattar, The Encyclopedia of the Palestinians, p. 7-10. The total dedication of the Palestinian women’s movement to the national struggle does not mean that the women’s movement did not care about gender issues and the agenda of gender equality. It is rather that the women’s movement adopted a strategy that saw national struggle and liberation as a means towards gender equality. 18 Although few women participated in military operations, sensational operations such as Dalal al-Mughrabi’s attack on Tel-Aviv beach (1965), and Layla Khaled’s airplane hijacking of

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In Palestinian society, the framework of national struggle provided a legitimate context for women’s political participation. More importantly, this national framework played a crucial role in opening spaces within the cultural context of Palestinian society in which attitudes towards women underwent remarkable transformations. These transformations started taking place in Palestinian society from the late-1960s and were intensified in the context of the First Intifada (1987-1993). Some of these transformations can be seen in the social challenges that the family faced as an arena of social control over women. For example, family control over marriages shifted toward women’s active participation in the decision-making process. Women were also spending more time away from home and family: studying, working, and engaging in political activities. In the context of the First Intifada, such changes of attitude in relation to women found relative acceptance and support in both the family and society because they always found legitimate grounds and justification in the context of conflict. Moreover, the reasons that the First Intifada embraced such changes were mainly due to a combination of its particular intensity and form that brought about a new socio-political context in Palestinian society. The intensity of the First Intifada differed from previous phases of resistance in the strategy of confrontation it adopted. While in the past (1960s-1980s) the Palestinian resistance movement depended on partial confrontation as a strategy of resistance, the First Intifada adopted a wholly popular style of confrontation in resistance. In addition, the form of the First Intifada was a completely new form of Palestinian resistance. While previous resistance was primarily conducted under an organisational umbrella, the First Intifada did not have any organisational form when it was launched. Rather, it was a purely popular uprising, led and directed by the people with stones, demonstrations, and all forms of civil disobedience as its main tools of resistance.19 The First Intifada’s intensity and form of resistance meant that the participation of different social groups, including women, was vital for its survival. In this respect, the First Intifada brought about a new context in which some social fluidity was introduced in Palestinian society, and where each social movement regardless of gender, social, economic and political position had a role to play: the early 1970s placed Palestinian women’s militancy in the forefront of the Palestinian national struggle. See Cunningham, ‘Cross Regional Trends in Females Terrorism’, p. 71-81. 19 The United National Leadership of the Intifada (UNLI) emerged as an organised body one year after the start of the Intifada.

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The community’s struggle to survive played a major role in changing people’s views concerning women’s political activism. Because women made themselves indispensable in their communities at a time when conditions were creating new and pressing needs, most people did not view their gender as a liability but rather as an asset. (Giacaman and Penny, 1989, p. 23)

The First Intifada enhanced Palestinian society’s acceptance of the participation of unmarried women in mixed-gender settings, whether demonstrations or neighborhood committees. Moreover, restrictions on the movement of women were eased through widening the range of legitimate roles they could assume. Most families were proud of this new political activism. In addition, another important factor which influenced women’s greater political involvement and its acceptance by Palestinian society was related to the changes of men’s roles as the political crisis escalated. With men absent from home due to the conflict (for example, death, arrest, injury), women had a legitimate reason to get involved in the political struggle, and their participation was viewed by society as a sign of their loyalty to both their husbands and the collective cause of national struggle (Sharoni, 1995, p. 10-16). During the First Intifada, Palestinian women obtained a wider positioning within public space, which enhanced their socio-political roles. This wider positioning, however, was part of the dominant norm of the First Intifada’s socio-political context. While women were able to participate and enhance their roles in various domains such as health, education, community-based social and political work, other domains such as militancy and warfare remained out of reach and the dominant social attitudes about them in relation to women were left unchanged. The reason why social attitudes concerning women’s participation did not change in relation to both militancy and warfare, is directly related to the ‘unarmed civil’ form and context of the First Intifada, in which both domains did not emerge as essentially relevant parts. In the course of the First Intifada there were some attempts by women to open spaces in relation to militancy through conducting a few operations such as stabbing soldiers. However, those attempts failed to leave their imprint on the un-militarised context of the Intifada. However, both militancy and warfare were later to emerge as distinctively engaged domains in a different context, the context of the Second Intifada (2000-2005). The qualitative difference of the Second Intifada from the first one and the distinctive emergence of its militant character can be best observed in the elements of the overall situation leading to it. There are two main elements that seem to have influenced the Second Intifada’s context and enhanced its militant character. The first is nationalist, and primarily related to the main

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outcome of the First Intifada: the Oslo Agreement (1993) and its geo-political context, which mainly resulted in a repositioning of the Israeli army from the urban centres to the borders of towns. In this respect, unlike the First Intifada that took the form of widespread confrontations between the civilian population at large and the Israeli army within the urban centres, the Second Intifada took place at military checkpoints that were assumed to represent the borders of towns. Moreover, unlike the First Intifada, there were now about forty thousand Palestinian police and security men under arms. Their presence allowed, among other things, easier justification of the alleged Israeli excessive use of military force. By means of this new political geography, the battlefront was narrowed and this resulted in a higher death toll among civilians. This in turn allowed a greater militarisation of the clashes.20 The second element that enhanced the militant character of the Second Intifada is religious. It was mainly influenced by the religious dimension of the events that triggered it. While Islamic groups such as Hamas and Islamic Jihad movements emerged as major forces by the end of the First Intifada, the religious character of that Intifada was relatively muted. In comparison, religion played a crucial mobilising and symbolic role in strengthening the militant character of the Second Intifada. These roles can be observed in the events that led to it, particularly the political stalemate manifested by the breakdown of the Camp David II summit (August 2000), and Ariel Sharon’s visit (September 2000) to the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif in Jerusalem and the killing of demonstrators there the next day. The religious dimension of these events, particularly the event of Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif, is what initially galvanised the context of the Second Intifada. This can be seen, for example, in the reactions on the Palestinian street represented by a sudden stress on Islamic themes (particularly, martyrdom) and the emphasis on Jewish-Muslim antagonism in the struggle over Jerusalem.21 The main features of the Second Intifada’s new context are, first, a notable absence of a collective civil rebellion where the larger population has 20 See Hammami and Tamari, ‘Anatomy of Another Rebellion’, p. 7-9, and “The Second Uprising: End or New Beginning?”, p. 5-25. It is worth mentioning here that the increasing militant character of the Second Intifada can also be related to the increasingly high-tech military operations of the Israeli army; these include the use of F-16 fighter jets and targeted assassinations of local leaders. Such methods of repression have undoubtedly contributed to the growing popularity and use of ‘martyrdom operations’. See Peteet, ‘Gender and Sexuality: Belonging to the National and Moral Order’, p. 70-88. 21 Similar religious reactions appeared on the Israeli street. These reactions can be seen in the events following the damage of Joseph’s Tomb in which Israelis burned mosques in Tiberias and Akka, and attempted to burn one in Jaffa.

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assumed virtually no active role in the uprising. Second, a significant shift of perception in which the enhancement of the confessional dimensions of the Second Intifada diminished its secular dimensions. The impact of this militarised confessional context has accordingly determined the form of resistance in the Second Intifada in which there is a total reliance upon contextually geo-political and religiously inspired means of resistance, particularly martyrdom operations.22 In this context, the emergence of martyrdom operations serves as a means that filled the gap between the absence of a collective civil rebellion and the enhancement of the confessional dimensions of the Second Intifada. In other words, martyrdom operations function within a cultural-political dichotomy within which nationalist and religious discourse become intertwined. First, on a geopolitical (nationalist) level and by being technically a primarily individual form of resistance, martyrdom operations function as a replacement of the absent collective. Second, on a religious level and because of the highly honoured position of martyrdom in Islamic tradition, those operations serve as a perfect match to the enhanced confessional dimension of the conflict. Within this nationalist-religious dichotomy, martyrdom operations have found their legitimate socio-political grounds in Palestinian society and have thus become an acceptable and honoured domain of resistance. In gender terms, however, the emergence of martyrdom operations as a socio-politically legitimatised domain of resistance in the Second Intifada, represented a crucial challenge for Palestinian women’s political participation in the uprising and their gender roles in society. This challenge is manifested in the mechanisms of the nationalist-religious dichotomy that hosted this domain wherein women were already situated on both sides, particularly the religious one, of this dichotomy as ‘outsiders’. The positioning of women as outsiders in the religious-nationalist dichotomy of martyrdom operations follows suit, as I pointed out earlier, to the interpreted position of women in relation to militancy, warfare and martyrdom. In the course of the Second Intifada and as a result of the nationalistreligious dichotomy of martyrdom operations and the positioning of women as outsiders in it, various restrictions were imposed on women’s participation in these operations, and in nationalist politics at large. These restrictions 22 See Hammami and Tamari, ‘Anatomy of Another Rebellion’, p. 10-12. Moreover, ‘Martyrdom operations’ are not ultimately the product of the Second Intifada. These operations emerged at the end of the First Intifada after the signing of the Oslo Agreement in (1993). However, statistics show that ‘martyrdom operations’ have intensified in the Second Intifada’s context in which these operations became one of the few, if not the only, weapons of Palestinian resistance.

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gave rise, similarly as in the First Intifada, to a questioning of the gender notions and mechanisms of the nationalist-religious dichotomy of martyrdom operations. Young women fought with society at large for permission to engage in military activity, including martyrdom operations. In addition, a growing Islamist movement (a direct result of the enhanced confessional dimensions of the conflict) and the concessions of the secular nationalist movement to it, convinced women that it was time to organise a specifically feminist-nationalist framework. Furthermore, women’s realisation of the need to organise was deepened since they also saw the advances they had made during the First Intifada threatened by the increasingly conservative social climate promoted by the Islamists through their keen emphasis on the religious rather than the nationalist dimensions of martyrdom operations. As a result, women opted for the nationalist pole of the nationalist-religious dichotomy, which was ultimately determined by their previous experiences within this pole wherein women were often given a wider space of participation. As such, women’s choice served as a strategy of resistance that aimed at restoring their position as politically active participants in Palestinian society. Most importantly, this strategy entailed a deconstructive confrontational relationship with the positioning of women as outsiders within the religious part of the dichotomy of martyrdom operations. This confrontational strategy with the religious has had its results insofar as partial changes took place on the religious perspective in relation to women’s participation in martyrdom operations, as will be shown in the following four cases.23

Four Female Martyrdom Operations Wafa Idris On 27 January 2002, Wafa Idris, a 27-year-old medic, who worked as a volunteer in the Palestinian Red Crescent Society, bombed herself in Jaffa Street in Jerusalem, as a result of which an Israeli man was killed, and more than one hundred others were injured. After getting divorced, Wafa had moved back to live with her family, originally deported refugees from the 23 All the information on these cases was collected from Arabic and English editorials (for example, Time Magazine and Newsweek), reports and documents on the internet. See ‘Suicide Bombers’, p. 24-29; ‘Suicide Missions’. While some of the details and statistics were contradictory and did not match across these sources, my discussion of these operations will be of an analytical descriptive nature rather than statistical.

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town of Ramle, in Al Amari refugee camp near Ramallah. While no-one could really know Wafa’s intentions behind her decision to carry out the bombing, information given by her family and relatives may shed some clarity on her act. Her family remembers her as an intelligent young woman, a dedicated worker and as someone who loved reading. In the First Intifada, while still a teenager, Wafa joined a women’s committee that supported the uprising, although her instinct was to be on the frontline, throwing stones with her brothers, who were Intifada activists, and belonged to the Palestinian National Liberation Movement (Fatah) faction. Later on, her mother pulled her out of school, afraid that she was being influenced to take part in the protests and would get hurt. According to her family, Wafa was not known as an activist in any Palestinian faction during the Second Intifada, and her relatives cannot explain how she obtained the explosives. Two days after the action, however, the Al-Aqsa Brigade militant faction, part of the Fatah movement, published a leaflet saying that Wafa had carried out the attack in response to Israeli military actions, and that a special unit for women was created and named after Wafa. Wafa’s sister-in-law, Wisam, and her relative and best friend Manal Shaheen describe Wafa as angered by the type of casualties she treated during her work: ‘Wafa used to come and tell us about the children who were shot and killed during confrontations, terrible sights that made her cry. Wafa was not religious, she did not pray and did not cover up. She was a merry person and had a strong character’. (Amer, 2002, p. 1) Dareen Abu Aisha The second female martyrdom operation was carried out on 28 February, 2002, by Dareen Abu Aisha, a 21-year-old woman from the village of Beit Wazan near Nablus in the West Bank. Dareen was a senior student of English Literature at Al Najah University. Dareen blew herself up at a checkpoint near Ramallah, killing herself and wounding three Israeli soldiers. Dareen outlined her motivations behind the attack on a videotape, which was broadcast by the Arab satellite channel ANN, saying she “wanted to be the second woman – after Wafa Idris – to carry out a martyr operation and take revenge for the blood of the martyrs and the desecration of the sanctity of Al-Aqsa mosque”. Moreover, in her last words, Dareen highlighted her vision of the role of Palestinian women in the resistance: Palestinian women’s role will not be to shed tears for the killing of our fathers, husbands and brothers, we will now turn our bodies into human

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bombs to destroy the Israeli security theory. Let Sharon, the coward, know that every Palestinian woman will give birth to an army of martyrs including herself. (Awadat, 2002)

According to her mother, Dareen’s heroic act helped relieve the misery of other Palestinian youths. Dareen’s sister, Ibtisam, described her in these words: “Dareen was no ordinary person, she was very active in the Islamic block at Al Najah University, and she was religious.” (Awadat, 2002) In addition, according to Ibtisam, Dareen had been thinking of this operation for more than a year and was searching for anyone to help her. She was also proud of martyrdom operations, and used to collect the pictures and the stories of these martyrs, people such as Mahmoud Abu Hnoud, Ahmed Ulian, Muéd Salah Al Deen and Wafa Idris. Dareen always wished to be like them and to conduct a martyrdom attack. In August 2001, Dareen went to the Islamic Resistance Movement (Hamas). She asked them if she could join the military wing of the movement and carry out a martyrdom operation. However, the organisation turned her down with this answer: “When men are finished [from the face of this earth], we will ask you [women] to conduct martyrdom operations.” (Awadat, 2002) Dareen then tried the Islamic Jihad Movement who also turned her down for the same reason. Finally, Dareen found acceptance in the Al Aqsa Brigade (Fatah), which as a secular organisation did not have this kind of restriction. Ayat Akhras The third female martyrdom operation was carried out by the seventeenyear-old student, Ayat Akhras. On 29 March 2002, Ayat walked towards a commercial centre near Jerusalem and detonated her explosives, killing herself and two Israelis. In her videotape, broadcast a few days after her action, Ayat pointed out that her decision to carry out this martyrdom operation on behalf of the Al Aqsa Brigade was a response to Israeli army brutality and to take revenge for the blood of the martyrs. Moreover, Ayat criticized Arab governments and their passive response to the crimes Israel was committing against the Palestinian people. At the same time, Ayat pointed out her vision of a new active role for women in Palestinian society, as in the following statement: “I say to the Arab leaders. Stop sleeping. Stop failing to fulfil your duty. Shame on the Arab armies who are sitting and watching the girls of Palestine fighting while they are asleep.” (Newsweek special report, 2002)

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Ayat lived with her family, her three brothers and four sisters, in the Deheisheh refugee camp in Bethlehem. Her family and friends knew her as a good student who performed well and managed to achieve the highest marks at school. According to both her father and her fiancé Shadi Abu Laban: “Ayat was a pious Muslim and not overtly political.” (Barr, 2002: 1) While Ayat gave no indication of her intensions before her attack, her family suspects that one particular event may have influenced her decision behind it: Three weeks before her attack, Israeli forces entered the Deheisheh camp and made some arrests, but they also killed a non-combatant named Issa Farah, a construction worker who was shot while playing with his children. Ayat’s brother and a cousin went to help their mortally wounded neighbor but he died in their arms. When Ayat saw them carrying Issa past the doorway, she screamed out in pain. Our neighbor’s death had a powerful impact on her. (Barr, 2002, p. 2)

Ayat’s youngest sister, Samah, reinforces the family’s suspicion of the impact of this event on Ayat. According to Samah, “one week after this event, Ayat became angered and very much interested in the stories of other martyrs, particularly the two martyrdom operations of Wafa and Dareen. Ayat became more than ever determined to follow their path and to revenge for the killing of her neighbor and others”. (Barr, 2002, p. 3-4) Hanadi Jaradat On 4 October 2003, Hanadi Jaradat, the 28-year-old apprentice lawyer from Jenin in the West Bank charged into a crowded seaside restaurant in Haifa city, north of Israel, and detonated explosives that killed nineteen people, besides herself. (Burns, 2003) Hanadi studied law at Jerash University in Jordan, and graduated in 1999. After finishing her law studies, Hanadi went back to Jenin where she lived with her parents and seven brothers and worked as a trainee in a law firm. While Hanadi gave no indication of her plans, her family and friends suspect that the killings of her brother and cousin by the Israeli Army in June 2003 had influenced her act in which she attempted to avenge their killings. According to her family, Hanadi had always been a devout Muslim. Hanadi’s sisters, Fadya and Bisan, described her as a sociable person, lovable and notable for her altruism. But since the death of her brother and cousin, Hanadi had changed:

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Hanadi has very much changed since Fady’s and Salih’s (her brother and cousin) death. Do not expect her not to be influenced by these killings. She saw her brother slaughtered like a sheep. Hanadi completed the task of memorizing the Quran, and also began fasting for two days a week. She also started sitting alone for long hours and pledged to avenge her brother’s and cousin’s death. (Al- Bana, 2003, p. 1-2)

According to Fadya, Hanadi spent the night before the attack talking about the upcoming wedding of a third sister: When our father asked Hanadi to get some sleep, she told him she would first finish her reading of the Quran. On the day of the operation, Hanadi left home in a hurry telling her mother and father that she had a land contract to complete, and a valuable fee to earn. Instead of going to the f irm as usual, Hanadi crossed the border with Israel to Haifa where she blew herself up. On the same day, Islamic Jihad Movement issued a statement claiming responsibility for the operation, stating that Hanadi’s heroic attack came as a response to the deaths of several Palestinians by Israeli Army. (Al- Bana, 2003, p. 2)

Conclusion In conclusion I wish to discuss how these four female martyrdom operations functioned within the militarised context of the Second Intifada, particularly in relation to the nationalist-religious dichotomy of martyrdom operations. In this respect, I discuss the ways in which the phenomenon of female martyrdom operations brought about certain changes on the cultural perspective in relation to women’s political participation and gender roles both on the nationalist and the religious levels in Palestinian society. In order to understand those changes, let us first look at the first three operations that took place in 2002 (Wafa, Dareen and Ayat). Mainly through relying on specific mechanisms that enhanced their public positioning and perception in Palestinian society, these three operations managed to open up new spaces for women’s participation on the nationalist front through a direct confrontation with the religious side of the martyrdom operation. I then turn to the fourth operation (Hanadi’s, 2003) as an example of how the religious pole of the dichotomy, through being confronted by the first three operations’ enhanced public positioning and perception in Palestinian public life, was bound to change and open it up for women.

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First, all three women seemingly took their decision to carry out their attacks on an individual basis: none of these women was pressured by external factors such as family, political commitment or faction. Rather, their motivations were determined by their personal experiences, since all three of them were influenced by their individual traumatic experiences of the Second Intifada. In Wafa’s case, these experiences were related to casualties and horrific scenes she witnessed in the course of her work. For Dareen they were related to her experiences of the Intifada and her personal admiration of martyrs. For Ayat they were symbolised by the event of the death of her neighbour as well as her disappointment of the Arab regimes’ indifference to the Palestinian struggle. Second, all three women committed their acts under a secular organisational umbrella (Al Aqsa Brigade). This is particularly significant in the case of Dareen, who attempted to conduct her attack on behalf of a religious movement, but was turned down for gender reasons that are directly influenced by the positioning of women as outsiders in the religious side of martyrdom operations.24 Due to both their individual form and their being conducted under a secular organisation, these three women have significantly distanced their acts from the religious and accordingly situated themselves within the nationalist side. This nationalist positioning can be observed in the public response these three operations generated and the ways in which the actors (Wafa, Dareen and Ayat) as well as their acts were perceived. While many people disapproved (ethically and morally), the dominant public response on the Palestinian street to them was one of approval. Women’s participation in this domain was viewed by society as a sign of their loyalty and contribution to the collective cause of the national struggle. All three women were hailed as heroines and symbols for the national cause. In Wafa’s case, for example, thousands of Palestinians marched down the streets in symbolic funerals chanting her name as a sign of honor and respect for what she did. In relation to women’s political participation and gender roles in Palestinian society, the phenomenon of female martyrdom operations brought about significant changes to the cultural perspective of women in Palestinian society on nationalist and religious levels. On a nationalist level, these three operations offered a practical answer to the social and 24 The position of the Islamic movements such as Hamas and Islamic Jihad, which rejects women’s participation in martyrdom operations is particularly enforced by the patriarchally interpreted position of women in relation to warfare and martyrdom in Islam. For a critical study on the relationship between Al-Aqsa Brigade and Islam, see Hillel, ‘Has the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict become Islamic? Fatah, Islam and the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’, p. 1-20.

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political debate that accompanied the context of the Second Intifada, and questioned women’s contribution to it. At the same time, because women’s participation in martyrdom operations was viewed as part of their contribution to the Second Intifada, this brought about a different image of women in Palestinian society. Women have been transformed from being passive actors to active participants in the military struggle. On a religious level, these three martyrdom operations represented a significant challenge to the interpreted religious notions of women’s political participation in relation to contemporary Islamic discourse of martyrdom and warfare. Most significantly, they have confronted the religious perspective of women defined in terms of Islamic constructs as being essentially different and their roles as outside the domains of martyrdom, militancy and warfare. This confrontation with the religious notions of women has, within one year, resulted in significant changes within the religious side of martyrdom operations in relation to women’s participation in this domain. The altering of the religious perspective can be seen in Hanadi’s case, the fourth martyrdom operation of my selection. In comparison to the first three cases, Hanadi’s operation followed the same mechanisms. For example, Hanadi also seemingly took her decision on an individual basis in which she was influenced and motivated by her traumatic experiences of the Second Intifada: the killings of her brother and cousin. However, since she was allowed to conduct the operation under the umbrella of a religious movement (Islamic Jihad Movement), Hanadi’s case differs markedly from the three other cases.25 This is particularly significant compared, for example, with Dareen who attempted to do this, but was turned down for gender-related reasons. In addition, the signif icance of acting on behalf of a religious movement is not merely logistical but, in its core, a religious difference. This difference is manifested in the way the Islamic Jihad Movement justified Hanadi’s operation from a religious point of view. In a statement issued on 5 October 2003, one day after the operation, Nafez Azam, the Islamic Jihad’s spokesman in the Gaza Strip said: [Islamic] religious interpretation does not forbid women from participating in the resistance movement. The whole issue depends on circumstances and other things, but from a religious point of view there is no problem in this issue … Women’s participation in the Jihad and the resistance against occupation exists since the beginning of Islam in the times of 25 In 2003, two female ‘martyrdom operations’ were carried out on behalf of Islamic Jihad Movement (Hiba Darghmeh and Hanadi Jaradat).

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the Prophet, and that women had always played an important role in warfare in Islam in all historical periods. (Sharabati, 2003)

The Islamic Jihad’s justification of Hanadi’s operation represents a shift from their long-standing position against women’s participation in martyrdom operations. Importantly, at stake here is also an active attempt by the movement to redefine and alter the dominant Islamic interpretations which position women as religious ‘outsiders’. Finally, it is true that within the Second Intifada’s militarised context, the phenomenon of female martyrdom operations changed the perception of women in Palestinian society on a national level wherein women are now being viewed as active participants in the military struggle. However, it would be overly optimistic to conclude that women’s participation in martyrdom operations has completely altered patriarchal religious and traditional norms and values in Palestinian society. The change of religious perspective is only a partial one. This is due to the fact that while the Islamic Jihad Movement is seemingly changing its position on women’s participation, Hamas, the largest religious movement in Palestinian society, still maintains the dominant religious interpretation that women cannot participate in these operations. As I argued, women’s participation in this domain is one step further towards achieving an equal cultural position in Palestinian society, but not equality itself. An inner struggle between women and men will continue on different levels, but where it will lead us is not yet clear. What women achieved during both the First and Second Intifada has significantly enhanced their struggle for recognition and the re-signification of their cultural identity against gendered discourses. Yet, it is wrong to believe that both Intifada are magic forces and that they are able to offer women a completely equal position to men in Palestinian public spaces. I also believe that it is too early to speculate how the seemingly positive attitudes towards female martyrs on the streets would translate into a more pronounced changed gender roles for women in Palestinian society.

Works Cited Al-Bana, Yasser. (2003). ‘Haifa Lawyer-bomber Avenged Brother, Cousin’. Islam Online, https://archive.islamonline.net/?p=15241 (Accessed on April 28, 2018) Al-Bukhari, Mohammad. (n.d). Sahih Al-Bukhari, Book 4, Volume 52, Hadith 45, https://www.quranexplorer.com/hadithebook/English/Hadith/bukhari/004.052.045.html (Accessed on August 20, 2018).

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Al-Bukhari, Mohammad. (n.d). Sahih Al-Bukhari, Book 4, Volume 52, Hadith 59, https:// www.sahih-bukhari.com/Pages/Bukhari_4_52.php (Accessed on August 20, 2018). Al-Ghazali, Mohammed. (1989). Sunna al-Nabawiya Bayna Ahl al-Fiqh wa Ahl- al Hadith. Cairo: Dar al-Shuruq. Ahmed, Leila. (1992). Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Amer, Wafa. (2002). ‘Palestinian woman bomber yearned for martyrdom’. Jordan Times, 31 January, www.Jordantimes.com (Accessed on April 28, 2018). Asad, Muhammed. (1980). The Message of the Quran. Cairo: Dar Al-Andalus. Awadat, Ibtisam. (2002). ‘Women’s Role in Intifada More Pronounced’. The Star Weekly, Jordan. No. 84, http://www.star.com.jo/default/default.aspx (Accessed on August 27, 2018). Bal, Mieke. (1988). Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Barr, Cameron W. (2002). ‘Why a Palestinian Girl Now Wants to be a Suicide Bomber’. The Christian Science Monitor, https://www.csmonitor.com/2002/0401/p07s01wome.html (Accessed on July 19, 2018) Brunner, Claudia. (2005). ‘Female Suicide Bombers – Male Suicide Bombing? Looking for Gender in Reporting the Suicide Bombings of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict’. Global Society, 19:1, 29-48 Burns, John. (2003). ‘For Bomber’s Parents, A Smile of A Goodbye’. International Harold Tribune: The IHT online, 7 October, p. 10. (Cited in Israel W. Chamy. (2007). Fighting Suicide Bombing: A Worldwide Campaign for Life. Westpost, Connecticut: Praeger Security International, 224). Cunningham, Karla J. (2010). ‘Cross Regional Trends in Females Terrorism’. In Women, Gender, and Politics: A Reader. Mona Lena Krook and Sarah Childes (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 71-81. Giacaman, Rita and Johnson, Penny. (1989). ‘Building Barricades and Breaking Barriers’. In Intifada: the Palestinian Uprising against Israeli Occupation. Zachary Lockman and Joel Beinin (eds.). London, I.B. Tauris, 155-171 Hammami, Rema and Tamari, Salim. (2000). ‘Anatomy of Another Rebellion’. Middle East Report, No. 217, 1-18. Hammami, Rema and Tamari, Salim. (2001). ‘The Second Uprising: End or New Beginning?’. Journal of Palestine Studies, Vol. XXX, No. 2 (Winter): 5-25. Hasso, Frances S. (2005). ‘Discursive and Political Deployments by/of the 2002 Palestinian Women Suicide Bombers/Martyrs’. Feminist Review, No. 81, “Bodily Interventions”: 23-51 Hillel, Frisch. (2005). ‘Has the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict become Islamic? Fatah, Islam and the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’. Terrorism and Political Violence, vol. 17, no. 2 (June): 1-20. Khan, Muhammed (trans.). (1983). Al-Bukhari: Sahih Al- Bukhari (Vol.2, 4, 5,9). Chicago: Kazi Publications.

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Kohlberg, Etan. (1997). Medieval Muslim Views on Martyrdom. Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie Van Wetenschappen. Mattar, Philip (ed.). (2000). The Encyclopedia of the Palestinians. New York: Facts On File, Inc. Mernissi, Fatima. (1991). Women and Islam: An Historical and Theological Inquiry. Mary Jo. Lakeland (trans.). Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Moors, Annelies. (1995). Women, Property and Islam: Palestinian Experiences, 1920-1990. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Peteet, Julie. (1999). ‘Gender and Sexuality: Belonging to the National and Moral Order’. In Hermeneutics and Honor: Negotiating Female “Public” Space in Islamic/ate Societies. Asma Afsaruddin (ed.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 70-88. Sharabati, Issa. (2003). ‘The Sixth Martyr Since the Beginning of the Intifada’. Arabic Media Internet Network (AMIN), 5 October, http://www.amin.org/news/ issa_sharabati/2002/sept/sept08.html (Accessed on July 10, 2018). Sharoni, Simona. (1995). Gender and the Israeli Palestinian Conflict: The Politics of Women’s Resistance. Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press. Sherif, Mostafa Hashem. (1987). The Muslim Women between the Truth of Sharia and the Fallacy of Falsification. Cairo: Dar Al-Marifa Al- Jamiyiya Press. Smith, Jane I. (1985). ‘Women, Religion, and Social Change in Early Islam’. In Women, Religion, and Social Change. Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and Elison Banks Findly (eds.). New York: State University of New York Press, 19-37. ‘Suicide Missions’. (2002). Newsweek’s Special Report, 8 April. ‘Suicide Bombers’. (2002). Time Magazine, 15 April, Vol. 159. No 15, 24-29.

About the Author Prof. Ihab Saloul is Founding Director and Academic Co-Director of the Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material Culture (AHM) at the University of Amsterdam. Saloul is Professor of Memory Studies and Narrative at the International Center for Advanced Studies in the Humanities “Umberto Eco”, Bologna University. He is the author of Catastrophe and Exile in the Modern Palestinian Imagination (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), and an editor of two book series: ‘Heritage and Memory Studies’ (Amsterdam University Press), and ’Palgrave Studies of Cultural Heritage and Conflict’ (Palgrave Macmillan). His research interests include heritage and memory studies, conflict and identity politics, narrative and literary theory, museum studies and material culture, cultural analysis, post-colonialism and visual culture as well as migration, diaspora and exile in contemporary cultural thought in the Middle East and Europe.

12 Hollywood Action Hero Martyrs in ‘Mad Max Fury Road’ Laura Copier

Abstract Laura Copier builds on Elizabeth Castelli, who characterises the discourse on martyrdom as highly ambivalent, yet persistent and powerful to this day and age, evaluating martyrdom as ‘an idea without a precise origin’ (Castelli, 2004, p. 35). Because it is both impossible and unproductive to pinpoint the exact historical moment in which martyrdom came into existence, Copier focuses, with Castelli, on the ongoing manifestations of martyrdom, in particular on the sustained investigation of contemporary, popular, and secular representations of martyrdom. The discourse of martyrdom is so powerful precisely because of its adaptability and, critically, the transformation of the object that it allows. It is not just the concept of martyrdom that is not fixed; it also causes related discourses to change. One of those discourses is Hollywood cinema, and its representations of gender and the body in female action heroes. Castelli’s ‘culture making’ dimensions of martyrdom that ‘depend upon repetition and dynamics of recognition’ are played out, as Copier shows, in the female character of Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron) in the 2015 film Mad Max Fury Road. Through a close reading of the film’s genre, narrative, and iconography, Copier argues that the female action hero Furiosa is able to transcend and destabilise the equation of martyrdom with death. Keywords: Hollywood cinema, iconography, anti-hero and victim-hero narratives, trauma, redemption and empowerment

I live, I die. I live again! − Nux in Fury Road

Saloul, Ihab and Jan Willem van Henten (eds), Martyrdom: Canonisation, Contestation and Afterlives. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press 2020 doi: 10.5117/9789462988187_ch12

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Mad Max: Fury Road (2015) was a surprise success both commercially and critically. The film was a sequel to a franchise whose most recent instalment, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome was released in 1985. Director George Miller was second-guessed after his numerous attempts to get the production off the ground (from as early as 1997) came up short, before financing and casting finally fell into place in 2013. Miller skilfully reimagines and revives the post-apocalyptic universe of his first three films in the series, but opts for some more substantial changes with respect to the characters that inhabit Fury Road. Even though Max (played by Tom Hardy) is ostensibly still the main character, his role is significantly smaller than in the previous three films (when the Max character was played by Mel Gibson). Instead, the new character named Imperator Furiosa (played by Charlize Theron) becomes the main focal point of the film. The story of Fury Road is straightforward and similar to the previous instalments of the Mad Max series. Set in a post-nuclear, post-apocalyptic desert world, society has been reduced to roving gangs fighting for control of resources: water, fuel, bullets, and women. The undisputed ruler of this world is crime lord Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), who presides over his Citadel where a harem of five beautiful young women are kept as breeders for Immortan Joe’s army of War Boys. Furiosa is introduced as an ally for Immortan Joe: she expertly drives high-powered trucks filled with water across the treacherous desert in return for gasoline and bullets. When Immortan’s Wives convince Furiosa to help them escape from their sexual enslavement, the film’s narrative kicks into gear. On the run, Furiosa is forced to team up with road warrior Max to fight off Immortan Joe’s army of War Boys, who are sent to reclaim the overlord’s breeders. The main narrative of Fury Road is thus the women’s escape from their oppressive slave owner, who uses and abuses them as sex slaves and forces them to breed his army of War Boys. Max accidentally gets involved in Furiosa’s betrayal of Immortan Joe and the wife’s escape, since he was captured by the War Boys at the start of the film, and is used as blood donor for War Boy Nux (Nicholas Hoult). It is Furiosa who, with Max’s help, kills Immortan Joe and leads the women back to the Citadel, where she is received as saviour and potential leader. It is not surprising that most reviewers of the f ilm picked up on the significance of the female road warrior character. The critic of USA Today, Claudia Puig, declared that Theron’s performance as Furiosa constituted ‘[t] he best female action hero since Sigourney Weaver in Alien’. Other reviewers have also brought up the visual and narrative similarities between Furiosa and Ripley, and this obviousness serves as my starting point for the

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analysis of the intertextual connections Fury Road sets up in relation to the female action hero and the ways in which female suffering and martyrdom are narratively motivated and visually represented in Hollywood action cinema. I use the concept of ‘martyrdom’ in a contemporary sense, as the expression for persons who die a specific kind of heroic death. In this regard rather than focusing exclusively on the Furiosa character, I will analyse the film’s divergent narrative and visual representations of martyrdom performed in the context and genre of the action film. Fury Road displays two acts of martyrdom, one male and one female, which are crucial for the development of the film’s narrative: without these acts of self-sacrifice Fury Road’s narrative development and subsequent ending would have been very different. The consequences of these acts of sacrifice actually allow the character of Furiosa to develop into an ambivalent martyr figure. As I will argue, Furiosa is a fascinating character because even though her martyrdom is explicitly signalled, perhaps even teased throughout the film by recourse to earlier cinematic depictions of female martyrdom, her martyrdom will be unfulfilled.

Gender Crossing in Martyrdom and the Action Flick The genre of the Hollywood action film has been theorised as a model for the display of masculinity, physical strength, spectacle and heroism. Miller’s Mad Max series, and in particular the first three instalments: Mad Max (1979), Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981), and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (1985), have been analysed in terms of action cinema. The films are a tried and tested blend of different genres: every instalment in the series is basically a post-apocalyptic science fiction action film, with some elements of the Western and the road movie genre thrown in for good measure. Even though the individual films differ slightly in how they apply the series’ main generic components, the character of Max is the narrative and moral focal point for the series as a whole. Based on Joseph Campbell’s seminal work The Hero with a Thousand Faces, as Miller himself has explained (Chute, 1982, p. 30), Max is the archetypical loner. After losing his wife and child in the first film, he is overcome with grief and desperation. His destiny, to become a saviour of a society characterised by a strict survival of the fittest, is initially rejected by Max, but eventually he embraces his heroic fate. The first three films highlight his development from conventional hero to anti-hero, to legendary hero (Newman, 1987, p. 39). Connected to this conceptualisation of heroism is the theme of redemption. As one analyst of

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the films remarks, the journey Max undertakes in the first three films leads to, ‘a vision of hope for the future, inspired by a new symbiotic relationship between hero and society, restoring the individual while bettering society’ (Barbour, 1999, p. 34). Fury Road is a marked departure from the traditional, masculine hero paradigm established in the first three films. Unsurprisingly, and in line with the film’s central themes of sex trafficking and female reproduction rights, the female perspective is favoured. This has two wide-ranging narrative consequences. First, Max is no longer the uncontested narrative and visual heart of the film. Even though the opening sequence of the film has the viewer firmly aligned with Max (through the use of subjective shots) when he is haunted by his primal trauma (the murder of his wife and daughter), his subsequent capture and imprisonment by Immortan Joe’s army of War Boys, delegates Max firmly into the background for the first half of the film. Second, the reversal of the male saviour with a female saviour is a logical outcome of Fury Road’s feminist agenda. Furiosa functions as the moral centre of the film’s narrative; Max is her helper and sidekick. Despite the existence of female action heroines, action cinema is dominated by male characters and generally regarded as the masculine genre par excellence. In this respect, not much has changed since the late 1990s, when Yvonne Tasker (1998) wrote about the ‘sporadic integration of women into the action cinema’ (p. 67). Even though contemporary superhero movie franchises such as the Marvel cinematic universe films feature female superheroes, the dominant cultural paradigm can be succinctly summarised as: women do not belong in the action genre. As Lisa Purse argues in her monograph on contemporary action cinema, ‘Media responses to female heroes occasionally reveal a discomfort about the presence of these powerful women within action cinema’ (2011, p. 76). Reviewers first and foremost express this discomfort. It is they, Purse argues, who apply an ‘explicitly gendered double standard according to which women can only be interlopers in action’ (idem). Even though the critical reception of Fury Road was very positive, one particular group took offence. As Alexis de Coning (2016) details in his review for Feminist Media Studies, the so-called men’s rights activists (MRA), who express themselves in online communities, erupted in anger over the film, slamming it as a piece of feminist propaganda. The fact that noted feminist author Eve Ensler was a consultant for director George Miller on topics such as rape, domestic violence and human trafficking and was even invited to visit the set in Namibia and meet the cast, has led some angry MRAs

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to claim that the film functions as some sort of Trojan horse for feminism which they were ‘tricked’ into seeing (Klangwisan, 2016, p. 83). The supposed outrage which was expressed by these various online MRAs harks back to a discussion on gender, violence, and viewer identification Carol Clover tackles in her seminal 1992 study on gender in horror films. Her analysis of the terms and possibilities for male identification with female suffering and subsequent female empowerment, the so-called female victim-heroes, led her to conclude that the stereotypical reflex that men are presumed to exclusively identify with a film’s male character is unfounded. Rather, Clover posits that female centred narratives are ‘no impediment whatever to the audiences experience of his or her function’ (p. 20). The initial outrage expressed over Fury Road’s hidden feminism by several online blogs, perhaps unsurprisingly, died down as quickly as it arose. It does, however, expose the sensitivity regarding the role female characters can fulfil in a popular culture that is predominantly targeted at a male, adolescent audience. As Tasker points out, The female action hero poses a challenge to gendered binaries through her very existence: her qualities of strength and determination and, most particularly, her labour and the body that enacts it, mark her out as “unfeminine” (p. 69).

This is largely attributable to the fact that the masculine is considered to be the norm in action cinema. There is a thought-provoking parallel between the female action hero and female martyrs: both are often regarded as trespassers. Women who take on the role of the martyr and the action hero transcend or at least destabilise the binary construction of gendered behaviour.

Martyrdom, Masculinity and Violence in Hollywood Cinema In her work on early Christian martyrs, Elizabeth Castelli (2004) characterises the discourse on martyrdom as highly ambivalent, yet persistent and powerful to this day and age. Castelli evaluates martyrdom as ‘an idea without a precise origin’ (p. 35). Since it is both impossible as well as unproductive to pinpoint the exact historical moment in which martyrdom came into existence, Castelli proposes to explore the on-going manifestations of martyrdom, which results in the production of ‘narratives,

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social formations, practices, and representations’ (p. 33). I follow Castelli’s proposition for the sustained investigation of contemporary, popular, and secular representations of martyrdom. The discourse of martyrdom is so powerful precisely because of its adaptability and, critically, the transformation of the object that it allows. It is not just the concept of martyrdom that is not fixed; it also causes related discourses to change. One of those discourses is Hollywood action cinema, and its representations of gender and the body in male and female action heroes. Castelli’s culture making dimensions of martyrdom that depend upon repetition and dynamics of recognition, I argue, are played out in popular culture and Hollywood cinema, in particular. Hollywood action cinema can be regarded as a site of re-interpretation of Christian and non-Christian visual and discursive traditions. Contemporary mainstream cinema offers a large repository of narratives and images that can be traced back to Biblical images and stories on the Apocalypse, though these adaptations are performed by a secular, not (explicitly) religious system (Copier, 2012). Hollywood action cinema not only gladly uses Biblical texts as an inspiration for their films, but it is also particularly adroit at reworking and reinterpreting Biblical conceptions of martyrdom and self-sacrifice. Crucially, even though traditional notions of apocalyptic martyrs and self-sacrifice inform Hollywood’s representations of martyrs and self-sacrifice, these representations are transformed and redirected in the process of transmission. This process of transmission that takes place in Hollywood’s appropriation of biblical texts supersedes the traditional view on the relationship between precursors and that, which follows. The traditional view regards ancient art as the unshakeable source, exerting a foundational influence on everything that follows in its wake. By regarding the Bible as a source and by default regarding biblical f ilms as adaptations, which often are subjected to a test of their ‘faithfulness’ to the original text, this relationship is reduced to a question of accuracy.1 I suggest that the process of adaptation does not follow clear rules of dominance and temporal linearity, that is to say, in the relationship between Bible and film that which comes first does not automatically hold dominance over that, which follows. As such, the relationship between past and present is rethought: the past should not be understood as a bound, coherent point of departure or origin, against which 1 Burnette-Bletsch, ‘General Introduction: The Bible and Its Cinematic Reception’, p. 1-14. Burnette-Bletsch offers a detailed discussion on the fraught relation between Bible and film within the larger field of biblical studies and film studies.

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all later forms are to be evaluated. Past and present engage in a dialogue, which results in the observation that each work of art always to some extent changes the whole of what came earlier. The notion of quotation can function as a mediator. Quotation can be defined as the recasting of past images, which is not only important to contemporary art, but in turn also affects the original source of the images, for which it, in turn, becomes a source. When used as a tool for visual analysis, the term quotation encompasses both iconography and intertextuality. Iconography as conceptualised by art historian Erwin Panofsky (1967), recognises the conventionality of images and their themes, demanding certain knowledge of the literary and textual sources. This def ines for Panofsky a ‘history of types’, which concerns itself with the expression of themes and concepts by certain objects and events (p. 15-16). Panofsky’s understanding of artworks is, however, grounded in the assumption that any given historical precedent is regarded as source and thereby grants it superior status in relation to its successor or referent. Furthermore, iconography frequently avoids interpreting the meaning of the borrowed, or quoted, signs in their new context. This forecloses any possible transfer of meaning, or this transmission is neglected. Instead, it is productive to trace the process of meaning-production over time, and in both directions: from past to present and from present to past. In my use of the term iconography, the visuality of any precedent text, whether this is a written text or a visual text such as film, is of utmost importance. The theme of martyrdom is expressed immediately from the beginning of Fury Road. In the film’s post-apocalyptic society setting, the absolute rule of Immortan Joe is abetted by his army of War Boys. These boys worship Immortan Joe as their god and are willing to lay down their lives for him. The cult of Immortan Joe revolves around the worship of symbols of car culture, which is an important theme in the other Mad Max films as well. Whereas in the first three films cars were a means of survival, revenge, and eventual redemption, Fury Road elevates the object of the automobile to the status of a religion. At the start of the film, we see War Boys praying to an altar made out of engine parts and steering wheels. To mark their submission and enslavement to Immortan Joe, they have the image of a V8 engine burned into their chests. The War Boys engage in violent rituals and are expressly encouraged by Immortan Joe to die for him. The act of violent self-sacrifice, Immortan Joe promises, will lead to Valhalla, a conceptualisation of the afterlife derived from Nordic eschatology. Evidently, the religious cult of Immortan Joe places immense value on masculine displays of fearlessness and the noble act of dying in combat.

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The War Boys’ collective and fearless search for glory in the afterlife drives the narrative in the first half of the film. In pursuit of Furiosa and the Wives, the War Boys, egged on by Immortan Joe, go to great lengths to stop them. The spectacular chase consists of War Boys jumping off speeding cars, getting speared and burned, all for the sake of stopping Furiosa. Here, the viewer is shown the performance of self-sacrifice for the first time. After being critically speared, one War Boy sprays his mouth with chrome paint, an important part of the ritual, which is not explained but obviously serves as a marker and preparation for his imminent death, and jumps onto a speeding car, causing it to swerve and explode. Crucially, other War Boys must witness the act of dying. As he ‘chromes’ his mouth, he screams “witness me!” upon which the other War Boys reply “witness him!” After jumping kamikaze-like to his death, the other War Boys triumphantly scream “witness!” As this scene is meant to make clear, the ritual of martyrdom in service of Immortan Joe is thus greatly dependent on the act of being witnessed. It is strongly suggested that in the absence of witnesses, the act of self-sacrifice is incomplete. It is remarkable how in this scene the film connects the act of witnessing with successfully attaining the status of martyr in honour of Immortan Joe. This echoes a recurring debate in the literature on the connection between witnessing and martyrdom. The common assumption, which has been invalidated, is that the Greek noun ‘martyrs’ (witness) and its related verb ‘martyrein’ transformed into the early Christian title ‘martyr’ and into the meaning ‘to die a martyr’s death’.2 The viewer is also clearly addressed as a witness. The lethal jump is announced through the use of slow, solemn, non-diegetic music (which was absent to this point in the scene). Moreover, through the use of multiple camera angles and extreme slow motion, the spectacular performance is captured in full effect. As visually spectacular as this death may be, its narrative function is limited. It is primarily meant as an illustration of Immortan Joe’s warrior death cult. The martyrdom of this particular War Boy has no lasting impact on narrative events; after all, Furiosa and the Wives successfully escape after this first chase. It is only when a character of actual narrative significance seeks his moment of martyrdom, that the importance of the coupling of the themes of masculinity and martyrdom becomes clear. As the image shows, the first stage of his sacrificial death (being pierced with 2 Van Henten, ‘Jewish and Christian Martyrs’, p. 164-165, argues that ‘the technical terminology referring to martyrdom in Jewish and Christian contexts appears considerably later than the phenomenon itself’.

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Figure 9  War boy calls on his fellow war boys to witness him

arrows), seems inspired by the most well-known icon of male martyrdom, Saint Sebastian. The cult of the War Boys and their drive to martyrdom could also be understood as a vehicle for expressions of masochistic and male-to-male desire. At the beginning of the film, the viewer is introduced to Nux, a War Boy who is terminally ill and in order to survive has been given a living human blood bag in the shape of Max. The two men are attached to one another by means of a blood transfusion contraption, rendering Max a helpless prisoner of Nux. In the pursuit of Furiosa, Max is chained to Nux’s car, forced along for the ride. After witnessing the War Boy’s self-sacrifice, Nux, at this point in the chase the lone pursuant of Furiosa, decides his turn has come. With Max helplessly looking on from his position of the back of the car, Nux begins to hum “Oh what a day! What a lovely day!” indicating that he feels his moment of glory has arrived. He opens up the nitrogen tank which superpowers his car, rips the fuel line so that gasoline flows under the driver’s seat while proclaiming, “I am the man, who grabs the sun riding to Valhalla!” After this, he turns to Max and yells, ‘witness me, blood bag!” and chromes his mouth. While Max frantically attempts to break into the car, Nux intones “I live, I die, I live again!” and sets off a light flare in order to turn the car into a ball of fire. At the very last moment, Max is able to grab Nux’s hand and prevent him from setting the car on f ire. The car crashes and Nux and Max are left for dead, while Furiosa speeds on into the desert.

292 L aur a Copier Figure 10  The first failed attempt at martyrdom by Nux

The first and failed attempt of Nux to enter Valhalla does not mean that his character is relegated to the sidelines. Rather, it is this character’s quest for redemption that structures the narrative of Fury Road. His second attempt follows after Max has finally been able to free himself from Nux. This time, Immortan Joe himself sanctions the act of martyrdom. Nux presents himself to Immortan Joe and suggests that he will be able to enter Furiosa’s rig and safely return one of Immortan Joe’s most treasured wives, the heavily pregnant Angharad. For the first time, Nux has not only a one-on-one interaction with his lord and master, but also receives his personal guarantee for martyrdom: “Return my treasures to me, and I myself will carry you through the gates of Valhalla”. To which Nux anxiously inquires, “Am I awaited?” Immortan Joe chromes Nux’s mouth and intones: “You will ride eternal, shiny and chrome”. Unfortunately, Nux’s second attempt at martyrdom also fails almost instantly, when he gets stuck on a chain while walking on the rig. Crucially, in a reverse shot we see Immortan Joe’s response to Nux’s clumsiness, as he yells at him, “Mediocre!” This sequence is in several ways a turning point in the narrative and it is not surprising that it marks the halfway point in the f ilm. First, it underlines the fact that Nux has failed more dramatically than before: the man in whose honour Nux was supposed to sacrifice himself witnesses his failure. Having failed at gaining Immortan Joe’s approval, it appears that Nux realises that redemption must be sought elsewhere, a notion that is fully developed in the remainder of the film. Second, the sequence does contain an act of self-sacrifice, performed by Angharad (I will return to this

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in more detail below). Where Nux fails to please Immortan Joe, conversely, Angharad succeeds in thwarting Immortan Joe, by depriving him of that which he holds most dear: his unborn child. This second failed attempt at martyrdom proves to be a turning point in the development of Nux as a character. Despite the fact that he is a supporting character, the narrative places great emphasis on his quest to find new purpose, not so much in life, but in death. Now that he has failed in front of Immortan Joe and having been mocked by him for doing so, the act of dying gloriously in Immortan Joe’s honour seems to have lost its allure. By failing to complete his destiny as a War Boy, Nux’s identification as a member of this doomed, yet privileged, group starts to loosen. Instead, for the first time he becomes aware of the plight of the people he was supposed to discipline and kill if necessary: the women subjected to Immortan Joe’s tyrannical rule, in particular Capable (Riley Keough). His failure has opened his eyes, not only to his own goals and motives, but, more importantly, to the realisation that women are not simple breeders of War Boys and providers of mother’s milk, but people with their own hopes and dreams. The film does not spell out explicitly the ideological change Nux undergoes. Rather, it is glimpsed amidst the, literally, unstoppable forward-moving action narrative. Only at one point is Nux’s new-fangled purpose explicitly marked. Being a War Boy turns out to be useful in the strategy Max and Furiosa concoct to take the undefended Citadel: Nux will lead them into the Citadel, pretending to have captured and returned the Wives. Nux agrees to it by remarking, “It feels like hope”, signalling his acceptance of his new role and goal. Similarly, the connected romantic plot line between Nux and Capable is downplayed. She first finds him hidden in the rig, more dead than alive. When he tells her of his failed attempts to enter Valhalla, she comforts him but ultimately makes light of his attempts at martyrdom by stating, “I’d say it was your manifest destiny not to”. The attraction between these two characters is evident, but no declaration or acknowledgement of love is voiced. Instead, the hope and purpose Nux has found is expressed in his third attempt at martyrdom, this time in the service of his friends’ only chance at returning to the Citadel. Chased by Immortan Joe, Nux crashes his pursuit vehicle on purpose, thereby blocking the one safe passage back to the Citadel. This final and successful act of self-sacrifice is clearly inspired by his realisation that Max, Furiosa and the wives are justified in their mission to destroy Immortan Joe’s tyrannical rule. Moreover, Nux appears to have found a new purpose to this life, which is no longer dependent on a possible afterlife in Valhalla, when he tells Capable, “When you are across

294 L aur a Copier Figure 11  Nux implores Capable to witness him

safe, I’ll jam the throttle and follow you”. This time, Nux does not appeal to a fellow War Boy or Immortan Joe to provide witness; instead he faces Capable and urges her to witness him. By imagining a life beyond a glorious death in Valhalla, underscored in Nux’s desire to follow Capable back to the Citadel, this final act of self-sacrifice holds the promise of a possible life lived in the present, paradoxically engaging a death wish for an affirmation of life, which Nux will not be able to lead.

The Mother as a Martyr As my analysis of Nux has shown, this character embodies the conventional ideas regarding physicality, masculinity, violence and strength associated with representations of martyrs and action film characters alike. It is interesting to see in what ways Fury Road develops the notion and representation of female acts of self-sacrifice and in what ways these representations are informed by, on the one hand, canonical traditions and on the other hand the discourse of Hollywood cinema. As has been pointed out by several scholars, acts of martyrdom are interpreted in a significantly different way when women instead of men perform them. Accordingly, female martyrdom should be regarded as a separate entity. Female martyrdom’s significance lies in the fact that women who chose the role of the martyr, determined by masculine values as this concept may be, in their act of martyrdom, at least temporarily, transgress the

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prevailing gender binary (Castelli, 2004, p. 62-63). Although some discursive elements of male martyrdom are relevant for female martyrdom as well, such as the defiance of authority and the manifestation of visions, a simple comparison between the two would reduce the significance of the female martyr. The crucial marker of the female, the ability to have children, is a recurring element in classical martyr stories. The most famous account of a female martyr whose motherhood must be renounced, is the story of Perpetua. While imprisoned, she decides to give her baby to her mother, which brings relief since she is ‘no longer required to claim the maternal role nor worry over the well-being of the infant’ (Castelli, 2004, p.87).3 In order to become a martyr, Perpetua must rid herself of worldly and feminine obstacles that stand in her way. Only then can she fulfil her spiritual journey. Fury Road’s feminist themes of rape, sexual enslavement, and human trafficking are contingent on a particular conceptualisation of femininity and are as such diametrically opposed to the film’s representations of violence and masculinity. Where the War Boys represent the latter part of this strictly gendered binary, the Wives are illustrations of the former. From the beginning of the film, the issue of female reproduction through enslavement and rape is emphasised. The status of a woman in Fury Road’s dystopian society is exclusively marked by her ability to breed. In an early scene taking place in the Citadel, the viewer gets a glimpse of a room where a group of women are chained up to milking machines; breast milk being the drink of choice for the War Boys. Immortan Joe desires his Wives not only for their alluring sexuality and beauty, but also because they will give birth to so-called War Pups that eventually will grow up to be War Boys. The fate of women incapable of breeding is left unclear, except in the case of Furiosa. The narrative hints at her infertility, while at the same time underscoring her connection and value to Immortan Joe, despite the fact that she is neither sexually attractive in a conventional manner nor a breeder. It is this uniqueness that enables her to transgress the limits imposed on women by Immortan Joe, and it also might be the impetus for her eventual rebellion against him. Furiosa thus represents a different kind of femininity, not solely grounded in the reproductive function. It is the character of Splendid Angharad (played by supermodel Rosie Huntington-Whitely) who exemplifies Fury Road’s critique of male domination most explicitly. Heavily pregnant, yet scantily dressed, the beautiful 3 Van Henten, ‘The “Passio Perpetuae” and Jewish Martyrdom: The Motif of Motherly Love’, p. 118-133, on the theme of motherly love in relation to constructions of female martyrdom in Christianity and Judaism.

296 L aur a Copier Figure 12  Angharad using herself and her unborn child as a protective shield

Angharad is Immortan Joe’s most coveted wife. It is precisely because of her physical attractiveness, coupled with the baby she carries in her womb, that she holds a sexual, erotic power over him. In the first part of the film’s continuous chase, Immortan Joe attempts to shoot Furiosa from his car. Angharad opens the door of the speeding truck and flings herself outward, presenting Immortan Joe and the viewer with the vulnerable spectacle of her pregnancy, while, more importantly, by presenting herself as a human shield, blocking Immortan Joe from having a clear shot at Furiosa. This act of self-sacrifice signals Angharad’s willingness to die in order for the others to continue their escape. Interestingly enough, she seems not at all worried about the fate of her unborn child. Angharad’s carelessness can be attributed, perhaps, to the fact that the child is the outcome of rape. Angharad’s abuse can be read into the larger discourse of the canonical Christian martyrs. As Robert Mills points out, the aspect of sexuality lies at ‘the heart of female saints’ lives, suggesting that the martyr legends frequently build to episodes of sexual coercion and symbolic rape’ (Mills, 2001, p. 7). Only in Fury Road, the rape is no longer symbolic and sexual coercion is one of the major aspects of Immortan Joe’s tyranny. Emboldened by her bravery, Angharad climbs over the truck, narrowly escaping a protruding rock. However, she slips and falls off and lands in front of Immortan Joe’s car. In an effort not to run over her and kill her unborn child, he flips the car, sending two of his War Boys flying. Angharad’s act of self-sacrifice is intentional and accidental at the same time. Knowing full well the value she represents to Immortan Joe, her initial decision to

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Figure 13  Angharad’s martyred body

put herself between Immortan Joe and Furiosa is nothing but heroic; her all too sudden death, however, comes off as comical. Despite the pleading of the remaining four Wives to rescue Angharad’s body, Max, who at this point has taken over the wheel from Furiosa, refuses to turn the rig around. Therefore, Angharad’s act of martyrdom cannot be verified by any physical proof constituted by a recovery of the martyr’s body. As DeSoucey et al. (2008) argue, ‘in death, the narrative of martyrdom emphasises both the agency of the body and the pain it suffers. The remains of the body are used to further cement martyr status’ (p.114). In the absence of Angharad’s body, the collective act of having witnessed her martyrdom becomes crucial. Furiosa is the first to realise this, when she presses Max twice to confirm that he actually saw Angharad’s sacrifice: “Did you see it?” Even though Max, Furiosa, and the Wives continue their escape, it is the viewer who does get to witness what happens with Angharad’s martyred body. After having flipped and crashed his car, Immortan Joe loudly bemoans Angharad’s apparently dead body and the unborn child inside it. As it turns out, Angharad is still alive. In order to save his precious offspring, Immortan Joe orders the child to be cut from Angharad’s dying womb. Neither the child, an “almost viable human” the doctor remarks, nor Angharad survive. Underscoring the film’s critique of patriarchy, Immortan Joe only has one question, “Was it a male?” to which the doctor replies, “Your A-1 Alpha prime”. Angharad’s rather accidental act of self-sacrifice is crucial in narrative terms: it enables the continued escape of Max and Furiosa. At the same time, her conscious decision to endanger herself and

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her unborn child, signal a determinedness to stand up against the tyranny of Immortan Joe. Lastly, it also powerfully reiterates the idea that the female body is worthless beyond its capacities to reproduce. By depriving Immortan Joe of a valuable breeder, Angharad’s martyrdom most clearly becomes an act of rebellion. As Brent D. Shaw (1996) remarks in relation to the idea of bodily resistance in pagan and Christian martyr stories, ‘the body itself is seen to embody identity/self/freedom and can itself be used to resist the final acts of violence imposed on it’ (p. 271). Angharad’s use and subsequent self-destruction of her abused, sexualised, yet fertile female body becomes especially significant in relation to the film’s contrasting representation of the Furiosa character.

Female Action Hero Iconography In an interview before the release of Fury Road, Theron reflects on the training she did for her role as Furiosa: ‘It was definitely the hardest thing that I ever had to do in 20 years,’ she says, ‘because it was so long and there were days where you just wanted a break but you couldn’t because you were in it all the time. So when I watch the movie, I can see my own pain in it’ (Hiscock, 2015). Interviews like these, where a movie star discusses his or her research, preparation, and motivation for a role have become an important part of the promotion and marketing of a Hollywood film (Dyer, 2004). Theron’s role in the film is constituted on physical fitness and endurance, which comes at a price. It is not surprising that Theron highlights the gruelling training and subsequent long and demanding shoot of the film: publicity surrounding any major film release works to strengthen the authenticity of the film and with it, its star’s image. The ability to withstand pain is formative for Theron in her creation of the Furiosa character. The role of Furiosa is not Theron’s first venture in the bodily genre of the action film: already in 2005 she played the role of the assassin Aeon in Aeon Flux. As Lisa Purse (2011) notes, even though in this film Aeon undertakes all kinds of relentless physical activity, ‘the physical work of action has been elided, and leaves no trace on the body of the actor’ (p. 185). Contrary to Aeon Flux ‘s sanitized representation of the female in action, Fury Road presents a different kind of female action hero, whose conventional markers of femininity are not maintained. Instead, Furiosa is explicitly defined by her imposing physique: she is short but stocky, has a shaven head, forsakes conventional make up and instead smears motor oil on her face as a kind of war paint. Most importantly, though, is her physical impairment: a large

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part of her left arm is amputated and she wears a prosthetic arm for most of the film. So, Furiosa not only supersedes the sanitized representations of the female action hero, she also undermines the conventional and frequent hyper-inflated displays of able-bodiedness associated with the action film.4 In her 1993 book Spectacular Bodies, Yvonne Tasker outlines the historical development of the female action heroine, with a particular focus on the cinema of the 1980s and 1990s. Her most important conclusion is that progressively, Hollywood action films have allowed for a female hero who is no longer solely defined by conventional female beauty, passivity, and sexual attractiveness. This, Tasker argues, represents a ‘significant inflection of the action cinema’s articulation of gender’ (p. 18). Nevertheless, it is crucial to analyse and evaluate the action heroine as part of existing traditions of representation. Fury Road constructs Furiosa as contemporary female action hero by referring to and building upon the visual traditions connected with its cinematic predecessors. It does this first and foremost through the use of iconography. The idea of quotation, coined by Mieke Bal, guides my approach to the transformations of the discourse of the female action hero and the female martyr. In Quoting Caravaggio, Bal proposes to trace the process of meaning-production over time, and crucially in both directions: from past to present and from present to past. This methodology not only takes the textual nature of precedents seriously as a visual textuality, but also includes the visuality of the precedent text. By recycling forms taken from earlier works, a cultural expression such as film brings along the text from which the borrowed element has been broken away, while at the same time constructing a new text with the debris. The new image-as-“text” is “contaminated” by the discourse of the precedent. As Bal contends, cultural images such as films ‘come to the subject from the outside but arrive in an environment of memories’. Moreover, ‘fragments from other discourses, visual scraps are loaded with memory. The image does not forget where it has been’ (Bal, 1999, p. 198). The visual scraps or the environment of memories that constitute Furiosa’s appearance are recycled out of images from the past, specifically cinematic images from earlier representations of female heroines and martyrs. The iconography of Furiosa consists of the emblematic shaven head, the absence of makeup, and the sackcloth quality of her clothes. All these visual markers 4 Fletcher and Primack, ‘Driving toward Disability Rhetorics: Narrative, Crip Theory, and Eco-ability in Mad Max: Fury Road’, p. 344-357 for an analysis of the film’s critique of normative and ableist understandings about the body.

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are quoted not only from canonical, but also popular representations of female heroism and martyrdom. Her outfit can be read as a sign of female piety and her haircut signals a further eradication of markers of conventional femininity. These two aspects are similar to rituals of conversion enumerated in, to give one example, the martyr text of Thecla.5 In cinema, Furiosa’s looks are perhaps best understood as a synthesis of several iconic female (action) heroes, whose appearances have clearly influenced director Miller in his conception of Furiosa. The already mentioned Ripley of the Alien saga first comes to mind; however, the lineage recedes further into cinema history, beyond the action heroines of the 1980s and 1990s. I would argue that Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1928 silent film classic The Passion of Joan of Arc is the earliest visual scrap quoted. By taking this reference into account, the notion of quotation as a combination of visual and textual sources is useful. Quotation recognises not only the conventionality of images and their themes; but also activates literary and textual sources. Dreyer’s austere interpretation of the martyrdom of Joan of Arc, captured in scenes chronicling the humiliation, suffering, and eventual deification of Joan is crucial in order to understand subsequent representations of female suffering in cinema.6 Cinematic heroines, like Joan, are warriors and often visionaries as well, yet they are also continuously treated as outsiders, interlopers in a world dominated by men. Often times, following Joan’s template, these heroines end up being martyred. Within the confines of this essay, I cannot go into too much detail on the fundamental influence of Dreyer’s representation of female strength and suffering, but the film can certainly be regarded as the visual and textual origin of what Panofsky (1967) has called the ‘history of types’ ( p.15).7 Furiosa does not arrive out of nowhere; she is narratively and visually indebted to a long lineage of divergent representations of female heroism and strength. In terms of narrative, Furiosa’s backstory is particularly noteworthy, since it engages with notions regarding the female body, specifically fertility, sexuality, and disability. The film hints at the fact that Furiosa is infertile, which renders her useless in the post-apocalyptic world of Fury Road. She is 5 Castelli ‘I Will Make Mary Male: Pieties of the Body and Gender Transformation of Christian Women in Late Antiquity’, p. , 29-49, for a close analysis of Thecla’s gender renunciation. 6 Desilets ‘The rhetoric of Passion’, p. 57-91, argues that Dreyer’s film narrative and visual power resides in ‘the tension between its mode of representation and the subjectivity it represents’ (57). 7 Carina Yervasi, ‘The Faces of Joan: Cinematic Representations of Joan of Arc’, p. 8-19, argues that the multiple representations of Joan in cinema (she counts 38 at the time of writing her essay) are ‘essentially films about the female body’ (10).

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able to overcome the double disability of being barren and an amputee. What is more, her status as a barren woman initially gives her special privilege under Immortan Joe’s dictatorship. Her body neither has the capacity for breeding, nor does it exude any sexual attractiveness in the conventional way. Remarkably, her sexuality is completely ignored: the film treats her and Max as equals, not as potential lovers. If anything, her disability emphasises her unusual skills, strength, and resolve. By explicitly marking her as an outsider in all these aspects, Fury Road signals Furiosa’s ultimate narrative function. Consistent with the hero’s journey central to the Mad Max franchise, Furiosa’s narrative arc is a search for redemption. This journey towards redemption is fraught with disappointment and physical suffering. Furiosa’s initial goal was to escort the escaped Wives to the Green Place, a space where women instead of men rule. This matriarchal space, clearly opposed to the Citadel’s patriarchal space, holds the promise of freedom, a green and fertile paradise in a desert. During their journey, they encounter the Vuvalini, a tribe of older women who have roamed the desert for decades on their motorcycles. Furiosa is greeted as one of them, a lost daughter who was taken by Immortan Joe as a small child.8 Unfortunately, the Green Place (analogous to the garden of Eden) is no longer there. In one of the most dramatic and visually arresting scenes in Fury Road, the spectator sees a frustrated and disappointed Furiosa discard her mechanical arm, drop to her knees and elicit an agonising scream of frustration and disappointment. In narrative terms, the futile journey towards the Green Place creates the crisis at the end of the second act, which must be resolved in the third act. There is no other option but to travel back to the Citadel. In the final act of the film, multiple acts of physical harm and suffering are ramped up to such an extreme extent that death seems certain. The persistent threat of a violent death is already apparent earlier on in the film, but Furiosa manages to escape at least once (in the confrontation between her and Immortan Joe, which results in Angharad’s accidental martyrdom). Besieged by what is left of the War Boy army, Furiosa is attacked multiple times and finally stabbed on the side of her chest, while she attempts to save Max who is helplessly hanging upside down on the side of the truck. She manages not only to pull the knife out, but also climb out of her speeding truck in order to face off and kill Immortan Joe, while she is in immense pain. 8 Klangwisan, ‘Mad Max Fury Road: Escaping the Phallic Economy of Exodus’, p. 75-86, examines the obvious parallels between Furiosa and the biblical text of Exodus and argues that ‘It is a refreshing exercise to re-inscribe Moses of Exodus as a woman’ (82).

302 L aur a Copier Figure 14  Furiosa’s frustration

The excruciating physical pain and suffering experienced by Furiosa ties in with what Tasker (1993) understands to be a recurring scene in action cinema: the revelation of the vulnerable body of the hero. This revelation is often characterised by ‘suffering, and torture in particular, [it] operates as both a set of narrative hurdles to be overcome (tests that the hero must survive) and as a set of aestheticised images to be lovingly dwelt on’ (p. 125). Action cinema’s penchant for prolonged pain and suffering echoes martyr stories, in that it draws on the Christian imagery that depicts bodily suffering as benevolent to the human spirit. Action films and martyr stories alike equate the capacity to endure pain with the ennoblement of those who are able to endure that torment. With her courage and determination sufficiently proven, there are two possible endings for Furiosa: she dies, or she survives. On the brink of death, she whispers “home” in Max’s ear. Furiosa could be experiencing a final vision of the afterlife, the reward for dying most martyrs hope to receive. Max, however, refuses to let Furiosa die a martyr’s death. His earlier enslavement in the form of a human blood bag proves to be useful once more: he literally hooks himself up to Furiosa and brings her back to life. Shortly after, they reach the Citadel where Furiosa liberates the subjugated masses. The narrative and visual quotations in Fury Road consistently foreshadows a potential sacrificial death for its female protagonist, yet it does not result in the noble act of dying. This raises the question whether it is suitable to consider Furiosa a female martyr, even within the context of a secular,

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Figure 15  Furiosa is brought back to life by Max

contemporary representation. Contemporary notions of martyrdom differ from the perspective of the classical, canonical interpretation. Yet, any definition of the martyr is somehow rooted in a canonical understanding of the concept. Jan Willem van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie (2002) propose a functional definition of the concept of the martyr. The martyr has become an established expression for persons who die a specific kind of heroic death: a martyr is a person who in an extremely hostile situation prefers a violent death to compliance with a demand of the (usually pagan) authorities. This definition implies that the death of such a person is a structural element in the writing about this martyr’ (p. 2-3).

Hence, the execution and death of the martyr represent the final stage, the narrative climax, in a recurring sequence of events that constitute not only Christian, but also Jewish and Muslim martyr stories. In the case of Furiosa, this final stage, the structural element of the death of the martyr is absent. In order to convincingly argue that Furiosa should indeed be characterised as a martyr, it is instructive to refer to the story of the female protomartyr Thecla. The account of her martyrdom is collected in the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, a series of post-biblical writings. After being converted to Christianity by Paul, Thecla is condemned to death by burning. She survives the pyre by divine intervention, only to be condemned to death a second time, this time ad bestias. Again, she escapes unharmed, leading

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to the apparently paradoxical valuation of Thecla who ‘repeatedly escapes martyrdom and yet is remembered and revered as a martyr’ (Castelli, 2004, p. 139). As Castelli shows, it is only in a later text, Life of Thecla, that Thecla is not only explicitly called a martyr, but also a rescued martyr (Castelli, 2004, p. 156). Thecla’s story underlines the role memory and commemoration play in the veneration of a potential martyr. Moreover, the different literary renditions of Thecla’s story point to a life after martyrdom. These later texts, Life and Miracles of Saint Thecla and Acts of Thecla, could be regarded as sequels to the first episode of the series. Rather than simply die, the rescued Thecla goes on to live a life as an evangelist and teacher. Similar to Thecla, the value and importance of Furiosa is not constituted by, dependent on, or restricted to her martyrdom, rather, the denouement of Fury Road shows that she is more important alive than dead. She has killed Immortan Joe, overthrown his patriarchal system of oppression, thereby elevating herself to the role of the new leader. A final significant parallel between the Thecla/Furiosa narratives concerns the role of the male character Paul/Max as both men strikingly recede into the background. In the case of Thecla, later retellings of her story display the ‘symptom of forgetting Paul’ which leads to the image of Thecla ‘as a lone heroine engaged in solitary battle’ (Castelli, 2004, p. 143-144). Remarkably, in a franchise that carries his name, Max quietly disappears while Furiosa is celebrated. Unlike Paul, however, Max deliberately chooses solitude, rather than being effaced from the narrative. Fury Road’s ending ingeniously leaves open the possibility of more instalments of either Furiosa’s continuing adventures or Max’s ongoing quest for redemption, or both. Furiosa’s encounter with near-death, only to be saved by Max, is the climax in her search for redemption and effectively results in her accepting her role as future leader.

Conclusion In this essay, I have analysed three different representations of martyrdom in the context of Hollywood action cinema. As I have argued from the perspective of film studies, these representations of male and female martyrs serve particular narrative functions within the action film. The similarities between the conventions of action films and classic martyrdom texts have proven to be a productive foundation for comparison between these two different discourses. Analysing the martyrdom of Nux alongside Angharad’s martyrdom shows that, similar to classic acts of martyrdom, the noble act of dying is interpreted significantly different when women instead of men

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perform it. The martyrdoms sought by Angharad and Furiosa result in a contemporary representation that not only destabilises conventional roles and its concomitant imagery of gender in action cinema, but also endows meaning to classic representations of female martyrdom. Reading Angharad and Furiosa alongside their iconographical and textual predecessors shows how textual as well as visual elements of earlier texts are quoted and reinterpreted. Reading Furiosa alongside Thecla shows that the construction and definition of a martyr are to a certain extent influenced by classic texts, yet its contemporary reworking in cinema supersedes the foundational influence of the precursory text. Like Thecla, Furiosa’s act of martyrdom yields purpose and meaning in life, thereby destabilising the equation of martyrdom with death. Ultimately, then it is in the secular, popular action films of Hollywood, that the act of dying a martyr’s death has been given new life and meaning.

Works Cited Bal, Mieke. (1999). Quoting Caravaggio: Contemporary Art, Preposterous History. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Barbour, Dennis H. (1999). ‘Heroism and Redemption in the Mad Max Trilogy’. Journal of Popular Film and Television 27(3): 28-34. Burnette-Bletsch, Rhonda. (2016). ‘General Introduction: The Bible and Its Cinematic Reception’. In The Bible in Motion: A Handbook of the Bible and its Reception in Film Part 1. Rhonda Burnette-Bletsch (ed.). Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 1-14. Castelli, Elizabeth. (1991). ‘I Will Make Mary Male: Pieties of the Body and Gender Transformation of Christian Women in Late Antiquity’. In Body Guards: The Cultural Politics of Gender Ambiguity. Julia Epstein and Kristina Straub (Eds.). New York: Routledge, 29-49. Castelli, Elizabeth. (2004). Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making. New York: Columbia University Press. Chute, David. (1982). ‘The Ayatollah of the Moviola’. Film Comment 18: 27-31. Clover, Carol J. ([1992], 2015). Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Coning, Alexis, de. (2016). ‘Recouping Masculinity: men’s Rights Activists’ Responses to Mad Max: Fury Road’. Feminist Media Studies 16 (1): 174-176. Copier, Laura. (2012). Preposterous Revelations: Visions of Apocalypse and Martyrdom in Contemporary Hollywood Cinema 1980-2000. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. DeSoucey, Michaela, Jo-Ellen Pozner, Corey Fields, Kerry Dobransky and Gary Alan Fine. (2008). ‘Memory and Sacrifice: An Embodied Theory of Martyrdom’. Cultural Sociology 28: 99-121.

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Desilets, Sean. (2003). ‘The Rhetoric of Passion’. Camera Obscura 53: 57-91. Dyer, Richard. (2004). Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society. London: Routledge. Fletcher, Brandon and Alvin J. Primack. (2017). ‘Driving toward Disability Rhetorics: Narrative, Crip Theory, and Eco-ability in Mad Max: Fury Road’. Critical Studies in Media Communication 34 (4): 344-357. Hiscock, John. (2015, May 15). ‘Charlize Theron: I’m not a Fan of Scrawny Little Girls Pretending to Kick Butt’. The Telegraph, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/film/ mad-max-fury-road/charlize-theron-interview/ (Accessed on September 10, 2018). Klangwisan, Yael. (2016). ‘Mad Max Fury Road: Escaping the Phallic Economy of Exodus’. The Bible and Critical Theory 12 (2): 75-86. Lefkowitz, Mary R. (1976). ‘The Motivations for St. Perpetua’s Martyrdom’. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 44 (3): 417-421. Mills, Robert. (2001). ‘“Whatever you Do is a Delight to Me!”: Masculinity, Masochism, and Queer Play in Representations of Male Martyrdom’. Exemplaria, 13(1): 1-37. Panofsky, Erwin. (1967). Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance. New York: Harper. Puig, Claudia. (2015, May 15). ‘Mad Max an Opera of Velocity and Excess’. USA Today, https://eu.usatoday.com/story/life/movies/2015/05/14/mad-max-reviewpuig/27295193/ (Accessed on September 9, 2018). Purse, Lisa. (2011). Contemporary Action Cinema. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Purse, Lisa. (2011). ‘Return of the “Angry Woman”: Authenticating Female Physical Action in Contemporary Cinema’. In Women on Screen: Feminism and Femininity in Visual Culture. Stacy Gillis and M. Waters (eds.). London: Palgrave Macmillan,185-198. Shaw, Brent D. (1996). ‘Body/Power/Identity: Passions of the Martyrs’. Journal of Early Christian Studies 4(3): 269-312. Tasker, Yvonne. (1993). Spectacular Bodies: Gender, Genre and the Action Cinema. London and New York: Routledge. Tasker, Yvonne. (1998). Working Girls: Gender and Sexuality in Popular Cinema. London and New York: Routledge. Van Henten, Jan Willem, and Friedrich Avemarie. (2002). Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco-Roman and Christian Antiquity. London: Routledge. Van Henten, Jan Willem. (2004). ‘Jewish and Christian Martyrs’. In Saints and Role Models in Judaism and Christianity. Jewish and Christian Perspectives Series 7. Marcel Poorthuis and Joshua. Schwartz (eds.). Leiden: Brill, 163-181. Van Henten, Jan Willem. (2012). ‘The “Passio Perpetuae” and Jewish Martyrdom: The Motif of Motherly Love’. In Perpetua’s Passions: Multidisciplinary Approaches to

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the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis. Jan N. Bremmer and Marco Formisano (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 118-133. Yervasi, Carina. (1999). ‘The Faces of Joan: Cinematic Representations of Joan of Arc’. Film and History: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Film and Television Studies 29 ( 3-4): 8-19.

About the Author Dr. Laura Copier is an Assistant Professor of Film and Television Studies at Utrecht University. Her research is focused on the interdisciplinary exchange between religion and popular culture, film in particular. Her monograph Preposterous Revelations: Visions of Apocalypse and Martyrdom in Hollywood Cinema 1980-2000 (Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2012) analyses the divergent representations of the Apocalypse, in image as well as in words, appearing in contemporary Hollywood cinema.



List of Contributors

A co-founder of ASCA, the Amsterdam School of Cultural Analysis, Prof. Mieke Bal’s primary commitment is to develop meaningful interdisciplinary approaches to cultural artifacts and their potential effect for the public. As an internationally renowned cultural theorist, critic, video artist and curator, she focuses on gender, migratory culture, psychoanalysis, and the critique of capitalism. Her 38 books include a trilogy on political art: Endless Andness (on abstraction), Thinking in Film (on video installation), both 2013, Of What One Cannot Speak (on sculpture, 2010). Her early work comes together in A Mieke Bal Reader (2006). In 2016 appeared In Medias Res: Inside Nalini Malani’s Shadow Plays (Hatje Cantz), and in Spanish, Tiempos trastornados on the politics of visuality (AKAL). Emma and Edvard Looking Sideways: Loneliness and the Cinematic (Oslo: Munch Museum / Brussels: Mercatorfonds; Yale University Press, 2017) with the exhibition she curated at the Munch Museum demonstrates her integrated approach to academic, artistic and curatorial work. Her documentaries on migratory culture have been exhibited internationally, including in the Museum of the History of Saint Petersburg in 2011. Then she made “theoretical fictions” films. A Long History of Madness, with Michelle Williams Gamaker, argues for a more humane treatment of psychosis. Madame B, also with Michelle, is widely exhibited. Her later film and installation, Reasonable Doubt, on René Descartes and Queen Kristina, explores the social and audio-visual aspects of the process of thinking (2016). She is currently making a multi-channel video work Don Quixote: tristes figuras. Dr. Laura Copier is an Assistant Professor of Film and Television Studies at Utrecht University. Her research is focused on the interdisciplinary exchange between religion and popular culture, film in particular. Her monograph Preposterous Revelations: Visions of Apocalypse and Martyrdom in Hollywood Cinema 1980-2000 (Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2012) analyses the divergent representations of the Apocalypse, in image as well as in words, appearing in contemporary Hollywood cinema. Dr. Yair Furstenberg is a Senior Lecturer in the Talmud department at the Hebrew University, and has formerly served on the faculty of the department of Jewish History at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. His main fields of research are early rabbinic law and literature, Jewish identity in the Roman World and Jewish Christian relations in the first centuries CE. His

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latest book, The History of Purity: Body and Community between the Pharisees and the Mishnah (Magnes Press, 2016 [in Hebrew]), surveys the changing significance of purity in Second Temple Judaism and early rabbinic culture. Furstenberg’s articles trace the development of early rabbinic literature, in particular the Mishnah, from its Second Temple Pharisaic foundations. His other publications examine the impact of the broader Greco-Roman culture on the evolution of rabbinic law and thought. In his current project, ‘Making Law under Rome: The Making of Rabbinic Halakhah within its Provincial Legal Context’ he examines the various responses of rabbinic law to its Roman legal environment and standard of law making, as well as the development of the rabbinic movement as a provincial elite. As part of his study of the trilateral relationship of Empire, Jews and Christians, Dr. Furstenberg has edited a book on Jewish and Christian Communal Identities in the Roman World (Brill 2016), and is participating in a project on Jewish Martyrdom in Antiquity. Prof. Jan Willem van Henten is Professor of Religion (in particular Ancient Judaism and Ancient Christianity) at the University of Amsterdam. He is also extra-ordinary Professor of Old and New Testament at Stellenbosch University (South-Africa). His research projects concern Jewish and Christian Martyrdom, the Maccabean Books, the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, and research into the reception of the Bible in popular culture. Prof. Jennifer Knust is Professor of Religious Studies at Duke University. Her numerous articles, book chapters, and edited books address the materiality of texts, the intersection of Christian practices with other ancient religions, early Christian texts and their receptions from multiple angles, with a particular focus on rhetoric and gendered discourse, as well as the ethics of interpretation in ancient and contemporary contexts. Knust is the author of To Cast the First Stone: The Transmission of a Gospel Story (with Tommy Wasserman, Princeton 2018), Unprotected Texts: The Bible’s Surprising Contradictions about Sex and Desire (HarperONE 2011), and Abandoned to Lust: Sexual Slander and Ancient Christianity (Columbia 2005). Prof. Paul Middleton is Professor of New Testament and Early Christianity at the University of Chester. He is the author of numerous publications on the subject of martyrdom including Radical Martyrdom and Cosmic Conflict in Early Christianity (T and T Clark, 2006), Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed (T and T Clark, 2011), and The Violence of the Lamb: Martyrs as Agents of Divine Judgement in the Book of Revelation (T and T Clark, 2018).

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311

Prof. Tobias Nicklas is Professor of New Testament and Director of the Centre for Advanced Studies “Beyond Canon” at the University of Regensburg. He is Research Associate at the University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, and Adjunct Ordinary Professor at the Catholic University of America, Washington. D.C. His research focusses on Christian Apocrypha, Canon History, Jewish-Christian relations and the reception history of the New Testament. Among his most recent books are Jews and Christians. Second Century ‘Christian’ Perspectives on the Parting of the Ways (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014) and Der zweite Thessalonicherbrief (KEK 10/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2019). Prof. Friederike Pannewick is Professor for Arabic Literature and Culture at the Philipps-Universität Marburg, Center for Near and Middle Eastern Studies (CNMS), an co-director of the research field Travelling Traditions: Comparative Perspectives on Near Eastern Literatures within the frame of the research program “Europe in the Middle East – the Middle East in Europe” (EUME) at the Forum Transregionale Studien, Berlin. She is co-editor of the series Literatures in Context – Arabic –Persian – Turkish (Reichert Verlag/ Wiesbaden), and has published extensively on modern Arabic literature and theatre. She is editor of Martyrdom and Literature: Visions of Death and Meaningful Suffering in Europe and the Middle East from Antiquity to Modernity (2004), as well as author of a monograph entitled Opfer, Tod und Liebe. Visionen des Martyriums in der arabischen Literatur (München. 2012). Further publications of figurations of the martyr in literature are: ‘Der Tod als Tor zum Leben. Märtyrertum als moderner Mythos in der palästinensischen Dichtung’, in Selbsttötung als kulturelle Praxis. Ansätze eines interkulturellen historischen Vergleichs. (Medick/Bähr (eds.). Köln et al. 2005), and ‘Kreuz, Eros und Gewalt. Zur Choreographie des Opfers in der arabischen Kunst’, in Tinte und Blut. Politik, Erotik und Poetik des Martyriums. (Kraß/ Frank (eds.). Frankfurt, M. 2008). Prof. Marcel Poorthuis is Professor of Interreligious Dialogue at Tilburg University where he teaches at the Tilburg School of Theology. His dissertation dealt with the French-Jewish philosopher Immanuel Levinas. He has published on Catholicism, Judaism, Buddhism and recently on Dutch perceptions of Islam (Van harem tot Fitna, Nijmegen 2011). He is co-editor of the international series Jewish and Christian Perspectives (Brill Leiden) and former chairman of the foundation Pardes for Jewish Learning. His recent publications deal with the Jewish and Christian sources of Islam and with parables.

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Prof. Jeremy Punt is Professor of New Testament at Stellenbosch University, South Africa. His work focuses on biblical hermeneutics, past and present, including critical theory in interpretation, the intersection of biblical and cultural studies, and on the signif icance of contextual conf igurations of power and gender, and social systems and identifications for biblical interpretation. His research also includes work on scriptural traditions in religious movements and the interplay between scriptures, canons and hermeneutics in particular. He has recently published Postcolonial Biblical Interpretation. Reframing Paul (Brill) and regularly contributes to academic journals and other publications. Prof. Ihab Saloul is Founding Director and Academic Co-Director of the Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material Culture (AHM) at the University of Amsterdam. Saloul is Professor of Memory Studies and Narrative at the International Center for Advanced Studies in the Humanities “Umberto Eco”, Bologna University. He is the author of Catastrophe and Exile in the Modern Palestinian Imagination (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), and an editor of two book series: ‘Heritage and Memory Studies’ (Amsterdam University Press), and ’Palgrave Studies of Cultural Heritage and Conflict’ (Palgrave Macmillan). His research interests include heritage and memory studies, conflict and identity politics, narrative and literary theory, museum studies and material culture, cultural analysis, post-colonialism and visual culture as well as migration, diaspora and exile in contemporary cultural thought in the Middle East and Europe. Dr. Asghar Seyed-Gohrab is Associate Professor of Persian at the Department of Middle Eastern Studies and the track-leader of the Persian and Iranian Studies program at Leiden University. He received his PhD from Leiden University where he has been teaching since 1997. In addition to publishing many articles, and chapters, he has authored, edited, and translated several books on Persian literature and culture, cinema, Sufism, and manuscript tradition. His recent publications include The Layered Heart: Essays on Persian Poetry (ed., 2019); The True Dream: Indictment of the Shiite Clerics of Isfahan (2017 together with S. McGlinn); Soefism: Een levende traditie, (2015, third print); Literature of the Early Twentieth Century: From the Constitutional Period to Reza Shah (ed., 2015); Mirror of Dew: The Poetry of Ālam-Tāj Zhāle Qā’em-Maqāmi (2015); Conflict and Development in Iranian Film, (ed. together with K. Talattof, 2013); Metaphor and Imagery in Persian Poetry (ed., 2012); The Great Omar Khayyam: A Global Reception (ed., 2012); Courtly Riddles: Enigmatic Embellishments in Early Persian Poetry (2010); One Word: A

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19th-Century Persian Treatise Introducing Western Codified Law (2010, together with S. McGlinn); Laylī and Majnūn: Love, Madness and Mystic Longing in Niẓāmī’s Epic Romance (2003). He has translated several volumes of modern Persian poetry into Dutch, including the poetry of Sohrāb Sepehri, Forugh Farrokhzād, Mohammad-Rezā Shafi’i-Kadkani, and (together with J.T.P. de Bruijn) Ahmad Shāmlu, Nāder Nāderpur, and Hushang Ebtehāj. He is the founding general editor of the Iranian Studies Series at Leiden University Press and Chicago University Press and the Modern Persian Poetry Series.

Index Afterlives cross-cultural 11-12, 16, 23 heroes’ narratives 225, 228-229, 231, 233 ideology (militant, religious) 25, 63, 129, 214, 231 national Reconciliation 222 post-apartheid leaders 228 postcolonial agents 229 preserving the memory 211 rebellion 222, 263, 270-271, 295, 298 resistance (women’s, civil, armed) 68, 85-88, 263-268, 271-274, 298 solidarity 158, 211 student protests 234-235 Truth and Reconciliation Commission 226 Antiquity Adam’s creation 130 Alpha and Omega 164, 167-168 ancestral sin 23, 55-57, 60 Antiquity (late, Christian) 23, 36, 47-48, 5558, 73-74, 83, 86, 95-96, 107-116, 163, 242 Babylonian 66, 68 charged for observing the Torah 64 Day of Atonement 57 Jacob of Serugh 26, 242-243, 248 Jewish Antiquities 90-91 Merkabah mysticism 55, 57-58 midrashic texts 73 Oral Torah 73-74 Resurrection Day 137, 142 slavish copying 242 Story of the Ten Martyrs 12-13, 16, 18-20, 23-27, 55-57, 59-60, 62, 70-74 Canonisation a group of scriptures 33-35 American religious imagination 182 apocryphal 43 Arthur Winnington Ingram 25, 153-154, 175 Beatus of Liébana 40 Bible as a historical process 34 Biblical canon 34-35, 37 Book of Jubilees 57 Book of life 167 book of Revelation 30, 39-42, 47 canon 22-23, 33-37, 39, 41-43, 47-49 Codex 35-36, 39 Doctrine of Addai 43 Edith Cavell 154 Enlightenment 34

extra-canonical writings 42-43 Johann Salomo Semler 34 Middle Ages 36, 47, 55, 163 Pantokrator 161, 166 relation with history 33-35, 37 Roman Catholic canonisation process 184 scriptures 34, 39 Tyconius 40-41 ‘virtual entity’ 36-37 Christian/Christianity adoption of Maccabean martyrs as proto Christian models 79, 81 aggression against Jews 83 and Jewish interaction 24, 79, 81, 85 antedate 80, 85 anti-Judaism 24, 79, 83, 85, 92, 96 Apostolic Writings 34, 39 ascendancy 24, 79, 81-82 Christ in Glory 163-165 Christian Bible 34, 39 Christian discourse 23, 55, 61, 63-64, 68, 74 Christian-religious tenor 228 confrontation with Jesus 61, 67-68 Deesis 163, 166-167, 175 destruction of Jesus 57, 59, 71-72 discourse 55, 61, 63-64, 68 diversities of 47 early Christian 23, 34, 49 elements in the Story of the Ten Martyrs 60 emergence of 34, 49 evolution of martyrdom narratives within Christian context 60 Ezra-Nehemiah 36 followers of Jesus 65, 88 influence 59, 62 Jesus 19, 36, 40, 46-47 martyrologies 65, 70 martyrs 55, 59-63, 65, 68, 70, 72-74 New Testament Studies 12, 35, 49 notions of martyrdom 60 Novum Testamentum Patristicum 36-37, 51 Old and New Testament 12, 34-38, 40-45, 49 Purgatory 47 Redemption 60 Syriac Christianity 241 Ten Saints of Crete 60 usurpers 74 Virgin Mary and John the Baptist 36, 166

316 Mart yrdom Commemoration collective commemoration 206, 210 collective trauma 208 memorialisation of (martyrs, victims) 108, 204, 208, 210, 212 public remembrance 26, 203-204, 208 role of biblical motifs 157 role of martyrdom tradition 157 soldiers as martyrs (fallen, British) 25-26, 153-154, 156, 172, 174 struggle for ascendancy 209 Communities anti-Jewish 24, 79, 81-96 Arab world 203, 211-212, 260-261 Catholic 38, 42 Christian 16, 21, 28, 35-36, 38-40, 42 communities of colonists 222 culture of slavery 222 Evangelical teachings 36 Gnostic 39 Jewish communities 86, 88 Johannine 41 Marcionite Crisis 39 Martin Luther 36 regional and local 42 Roman-Catholic 16, 18, 20-21, 30, 36 Orthodox 36-37, 39, 42, 47 Contestation Aḥmad ʻAṭīya 209 Arab Spring 15, 26, 203, 210-211 Camp David II summit 270 Ibrāhīm Ṭūqān 212 imperial (culture, power(s), authority, worship, legislation, wars, remapping) 67, 70-71, 73, 83, 86, 174 Intifada (First, Second) 257, 267-273, 276-279 Iran-Iraq war 25, 129, 133, 139, 141, 144, 147 Israeli-Palestinian conflict 257, 266-267, 277 Kader Abdolah 241, 249-251 liberation movement(s) 186, 211, 273 Muslim Brotherhood 214-217 Oslo Agreement 270 political dimension 14 post-apocalyptic 284-285, 289, 300 post-nuclear 284 racial segregation in South Africa 225 speech (1914) 156 Spijkerschrift 27, 241-242, 249-250 Story of the Seven Sleepers 243, 252 Tales of the Prophets 249 war memorials 156, 171 WWI 154-157, 168, 174-175 WWII 168 Cult(s) account of Maccabean shrine 84 Antiochene cult 80, 82, 84, 88

Christian 12, 14, 16, 20, 23-26, 28-29, 31, 39, 44-45, 79-88, 90, 92-96 Emperor Cult 39, 246 Gregory of Tours 45, 53, 243, 247 Historiae 45-46 Jewish cult 23-24, 79, 81-88, 90-96 Martin of Tours 45-46 martyr (cult) 23-24, 79-88, 90-96 of love 24-25, 129, 135-136, 138 of martyrdom 24-25, 129, 136, 138 Onamasticon 84 translation of Eusebius’s Onomasticon 85, 97 Gender anti-gay 186-192 bodily resurrection 243, 247, 251 female reproduction 286, 295 gay martyr 183, 190-200 gender equality 267 gender roles 256-257 gendered discourse 257, 279 homophobia 181, 192-198 homosexuality 186-187, 195-197 LGBT 25, 181-184, 195-200 maleness 120 masculinity 24, 105-108, 114, 118-122, 197, 285-287, 290-295 matriarchal 261-262, 301 paternity 112 patriarchy/patriarchal 122, 233, 262, 265-266, 277, 279, 301, 304 sex trafficking 286 sexuality 105, 118 virilocal practices 262 women’s participation 27, 255-256, 262, 269, 271-272, 276-279 God acting/speak in the name of 71, 73 destined by 63 God’s decree 63-65, 68, 70 God’s judgement 58, 62, 66, 186 God’s justice 73 God’s laws 67, 70, 72 God’s love 130, 132, 134, 144, 146 God’s power 23, 94 God’s punishment 65, 67, 70 God of Israel 73 love for 130, 132, 134, 144, 146 love of 62-64, 70, 72, 74 presence of 72 same 58, 62-63, 65-67, 71, 73 true/real 63, 65 Hate climate of intolerance 195 dangers of intolerance 186 hate crime 186-187, 191-198, 200 hate laws 195-196

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Index

Murder of Matthew Shepard 182, 188, 198 Myth of St. Matthew 196 Hermeneutics acts 12, 43-44 Catholic Epistles and Revelation 42 Doctrine of Addai 43 four Gospels 37, 42 Pauline Letters 42 unity and coherence 36 Heroism activists (LGTB, gay, anti-apartheid, Intifada) 25, 181-184, 187-188, 195, 198, 203, 209, 217, 224-227, 273, 286 anti-hero 185, 232-236, 283-285 Apartheid (anti-, post-) 15, 26, 221-229, 230-236 appropriation (re-, anachronistic, male, religious) 20, 24, 57, 60, 79-81, 96, 105-109, 242, 250-251, 288 as concept 232 empowerment (self-) 26, 203, 211-212, 287 fearlessness 289 heroes discourse 26, 228-229, 233-234 national heroes 153, 157 Nelson Mandela 26, 221, 225-227, 229, 231-235 political activism 233, 266, 269 propaganda 140, 286 redemption 60, 137, 283-285, 289, 292, 301, 304 resistance 85-88, 111, 184-185, 214, 250-257, 263-281, 298 Saviour 19, 87, 210, 284-286 the fatherland 157, 212, 249 The other 105-108, 110, 112, 114-116, 118, 120, 122 transmission (textual, oral) 38, 242, 258, 288-289, 310 trauma (traumatic) 195, 206-208, 213, 277-278, 283, 286 victim-heroes 287 warrior 263, 284-285, 290, 300 Iconic Traditions Apostles Peter and Paul 43, 164 Christian motifs 158, 166, 180 Christian tradition’s martyr-language 234 Dominus legem dat 163-166, 175 early Christian and Byzantine representation of Christ 166 Flavius Josephus 90, 163 Franz Grau 165-167, 175 Hagiography of Matthew Shepard 183 iconography 19, 27, 48, 163-166, 191, 200, 283, 289-299 Majestas domini 163-167, 175 realism 112 Robert Tischler 158-160, 167-168 use of religious language in political 228

Identity Afrikaner nationalism 222-223 Christian 23-26, 33, 35, 39, 79, 84-85, 95-96, 153, 156, 158, 172 gender 24, 105-106, 108, 110, 112, 114-116, 118, 120 group 23, 26, 33, 35 identities 106, 108, 114, 120 identity marker 73 Islamic identity 24, 132, 138, 140 Jewish identity 23-24, 79, 84-85, 95-96 patriotic/patriotism 157-158, 174 Islam Abu Bakr Shebli 141 Ahmad Ghazāli 130, 132 Aisha 263 Al-Tha’labī’ 249 Ayat Akhras 257, 274 Battle of the Camel 263 Battle of Uhud 262-263 Dareen Abu Aysheh 27, 257, 273-277 Hakim Sanā’I 130, 135 Hanadi Jaradat 27, 255-257, 275 Hoseyn Mansur Hallāj 132 Islamic Revolution 140-141 Jihad 258, 260, 263-264, 270, 274 Khwāja ‘Abdollāh Ansāri 144 Nasiba bint Kaab 263 nocturnal ascension 140 orthography 142 pilgrimage to Mecca 144 pre-Islamic Arab societies 261 Qur’an 141-142 Sumaya (first martyr in Islam) 262 the period of conquests 258, 260 Umm Imara 262 Wafa Idris 27, 255-257, 272-274 wars of Ridda 263 Jewish appropriation of rabbinic traditions 57, 60 Bar Kokhba revolt 61, 63 expiation of Israel 70 First Jewish Revolt 90 Heikhalot Rabbati 56-57, 59, 69 High Priest Rabbi Ishmael 56 Jewish martyrological discourse 23-24, 55, 61, 79, 81-96 model of inviting other cities for local feasts 91 non-rabbinic 58 of rabbinic provenance 56, 60 people 20, 56-57, 59-60, 64, 70, 73 persecution 61, 63-71, 90 Rabbi Akiva 56, 61-63, 67-68 Rabbi Eleazar ben Perata 66, 68 Rabbi Hanina ben Teradion 65-66, 68 Rabbi Simon ben Gamaliel 58, 61, 68-69

318 Mart yrdom rabbinic 13, 15, 23, 55-57, 60-63, 65-69, 72, 74 Roman decree against Jewish practice 63 sages 23, 55-57 selling of Joseph by the Jews 23, 55-57, 60, 71 Talmudic (traditions, sources) 55-59, 61, 63, 67-68, 70-74 the ‘Festival of Lights’ 91-92 victim(s) 64, 70 Love love in relation to 138, 141, 143, 146 love-martyrdom 129, 132, 134, 136, 138-143, 145-147 Muslim 141, 147 mystic love 129, 131-135, 137-138, 140-141, 146-147 mysticism 132-133, 135, 137, 140-141 Prelude of Love’ (dibāche-ye ‘eshq) 145 Qeysar Aminpur 144 selfless 140 ‘Spiritual Poem’ 137 Maccabees Augustine of Hippo 81 basilica of the Holy Maccabees 81-82, 95 book of Two and Four 84, 87-91 Feast 80-83, 85, 87, 90-95 Gregory of Nazianzus 80, 90, 94, 96 homilies connect the Maccabees to light 93 Josephus 90-92, 97 Maccabean 23-24, 79, 83-89, 90-92, 94-95, 97 martyrs 24, 79-96 relics of the Maccabean martyrs 81, 84, 94 the ‘Festival of Lights’ 91-94 Two and Four Maccabees 88 Two Maccabees 89, 96 Martyrdom Apocalypse of Paul/Visio Pauli 48 Arab martyrs 218 artistic and musical representations of martyrdom 192 ben Teradion 65-66, 68 canonical texts/writings 12, 33, 48 Christian martyrs 16-18, 21, 65, 95, 216, 251, 287, 290-296 Christian notions of 60 deathless 155-156, 226 female martyrdom operations 26, 108, 114, 255-258, 272, 276-277, 279 High Priest Rabbi 56, 59-60 Ishmael ben Elisha 59 Islamic concept of martyrdom 257 landscapes of memory 12, 33, 36, 43-44

martyr 105-109, 111-123 martyrdom ideologies 226 martyrological patterns 71 martyrology/martyrologies 18, 25, 57, 60, 65, 70, 73, 88, 181-185, 189-190, 195-197, 200 mystic martyrology 57, 60, 69, 74, 129, 132-134, 138, 140-141, 146-147 nationalist- religious dichotomy 271-272, 276 symbols of 132, 140, 145, 147 twentieth century’s 25, 129, 139, 147 veneration of Peter and Paul 13, 15-16, 20, 25, 29, 43-44 Memory landscapes of 12, 23, 33, 36, 43-44 religious/religion 107, 115, 123 remembrance 108, 114-115 ritual 12, 17, 22, 33, 36, 43-44 Tractate Mourning 61, 63, 68-69 “Transparent Minds” 105, 109-110 witness (witnesses, witnessing) 12-14, 38, 41, 80, 89, 130, 141, 182-185, 190, 224, 227, 290-292, 294-297 Narrative autobiographical 24, 105, 112 contest/contested 24, 105-108, 110, 112, 114-115, 118, 120 deconstruction 24, 105-106, 108, 114-115, 122 feminist 105, 109, 111, 114, 122-123 Freud/Freudian 122 genre (genres, film, masculine, action, bodily, artistic) 27, 37, 111, 121-122, 209, 283-286 narratology 24, 105-108, 112 perpetual 105, 107-108, 115, 118, 120, 122 psychoanalysis 24, 105-106, 112, 122 psycho-narration 105, 108, 110 spectators 120 Orthodoxy Ayatollah Khomeini 27, 142, 249-251 Farid al-Din ‘Attar 133-134, 142 Islamic 132 mystic literature 129-130, 134, 138 Persian Poets 133, 140, 143-145 Russian Orthodoxy 36 Punishment(s) Medieval period 55, 59, 72, 74 of God 64-65, 67, 70 of the rabbis 23, 55-56, 58, 61-65, 67-71 rabbinic martyrdom stories 61, 68 set by Rome 61, 64, 67 victimhood 24, 105, 121, 123, 224

319

Index

Rome/Roman decline of Rome’s political power 44 emperor Decius 26, 241, 243-244, 247, 251 oppression 84, 90 Pagan (Rome) 56-57, 61-64, 70-73, 86, 88, 90, 95 war against the 89-90 Temple anti-Jewish sermons 95 Apocalypse (apocalyptic, apocalyptical) 44, 48, 57, 60, 163, 167, 177, 247, 288, 307, 309 Four Gospels 37, 39, 42, 165, 166 four evangelists 165 heavenly Jerusalem 47, 90-93, 158, 165, 169, 171, 174 Majestas Domini 166 Pillar in God’s temple 171 Second Temple 60, 72 victory 24, 91, 94, 105, 107-108, 119-120, 123-124, 167, 214, 248

Theology/Theological crisis 72 drama 61-62, 68 Theodicy 55, 61, 65, 69 theological controversy 243, 247 theological-political 61-63, 68, 70, 72-73 Tradition Christian 23-24, 79, 83-88, 90, 92, 94-95 Day of Atonement 57 double 84-85 honour 80, 88, 90, 92-94 Merkabah 55, 57-58 mysticism 55, 57-60, 69 Violence/Violent enslavement 284, 289, 295, 302 oppressive 90, 284 racism of apartheid 224 state violence 204 victor/victory 24, 105, 107-108, 120