Shi‘i Sectarianism in the Middle East: Modernisation and the Quest for Islamic Universalism 9780755624041, 9781786739513

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Dedicated to my children Nitsan, Ori and Yaniv

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The journey of this book began in the University of Cambridge, where I spent several years writing my PhD thesis and acquiring the tools of critical thinking, while immersed in the history and culture of this beautiful town. I completed this book upon returning to Israel, where years earlier I had developed my interest in the society, culture and politics of the Middle East. I wish to thank several people who contributed to the completion of this book. Prof. Meir Litvak of the Alliance Center for Iranian Studies at Tel Aviv University provided me with a post-doctoral fellowship that allowed me to pursue my research. Prof Litvak, with his vast knowledge, instilled in me a keen interest in Shi‘a studies. Following my project from its inception, his deep insights were a major contribution in shaping this book. I would also like to thank my PhD supervisor, Dr Amira K. Bennison, who provided meticulous guidance for my thesis. Her wisdom and wide-ranging knowledge have been a great source of inspiration for me. Azmina Sidique and Maria Marsh from I.B. Tauris were highly enthusiastic about this project from its early days, and provided me with very professional advice to bring it to completion. Most of all, this study would not have been possible without the endless support of my family. My parents, Sheldon and Irene Fink, provided continuous encouragement and interest in my research. My husband, Avi Machlis, endured many hours of editing and believed in this project from its inception, and my wonderful children, Nitsan, Ori and Yaniv have been a source of joy throughout the process.

A NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION

The transliteration used in this study is based on the system adopted by the International Journal of Middle East Studies. Exceptions include omitting diacritical marks in words that are in common use in English. Words that have not been fully transliterated are Hadith, Imam, Imami, Mahdi, Qur’an, Safavid, Salafi, Shi‘i, Sufi and Sunni. Names in Persian have been given generally in their transliterated Arabic form. Islamic terms, such as tawh.ı¯d or tauhid, are provided in their Arabic or Persian versions according to the original text. For geographical locations that often appear in English, such as Beirut and Tehran, the widespread English usage has been employed.

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

BJMES EI2 FO IJMES MAE MES MW PRO SI WI

British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies Encyclopaedia of Islam (Second Edition) Foreign Office International Journal of Middle East Studies Ministe`re des Affaires E´trange`res Middle East Studies The Muslim World Public Record Office Studia Islamica Die Welt des Islams

INTRODUCTION

When Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-‘A¯milı¯ visited Najaf in 1933, the Shi‘i Lebanese cleric was pleased to encounter the introduction of electricity to this holy Shi‘i city.1 Yet his contemporary Shi‘i communities in Lebanon and Iraq were not always equally enthralled by their first contact with new technologies. At times, technical changes had cast doubt over core Shi‘i beliefs. Indeed, the illumination of Najaf elicited mixed reactions, as described by Muh.sin al-Amı¯n himself, who met two clerics with different approaches towards this issue: The first asked al-Amı¯n: ‘Did you see that the noble courtyard of ‘Alı¯ is lit by electricity? This [development] brings us pleasure and therefore I am very happy’. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n replied: I agree. However, another Shi‘i vehemently opposed the introduction of electricity at the site, and told al-Amı¯n: ‘People these days would rather have died many years ago. You ask me why? Is it not true that the electricity is above the head of The Commander of the Faithful [‘Alı¯]?’ ‘I was amazed by the contrasting reasoning of these two people’, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n said.2 The lighting of Najaf occurred during the initial stages in which the Shi‘is of Iraq began to be exposed to modern change. Until the twentieth century, the Shi‘is in the Arab world had only minimal

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contact with the larger Sunni community and were mostly shielded from changes that began taking place in the Ottoman Empire during the mid-nineteenth century with the far-reaching reforms undertaken under the Tanzimat.3 In the subsequent years, these segregated communities gradually came into contact with new developments through the expansion of communication, the development of stateeducation and a process of socio-political change that began to take place following the emergence of the new nation-states of Iraq and Lebanon. Electricity was introduced to the Shi‘i holy city of Najaf about a decade after the establishment of the nation-state of Iraq. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, the Lebanese cleric who later became the spiritual leader of the local Shi‘i community in Damascus, was studying in Najaf at the time. Upon hearing the discussion on the lighting of the noble courtyard of ‘Alı¯, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n agreed with his fellow Shi‘i that this development was beneficial to the community. His reaction suggested that he accepted technological progress from a rational perspective and did not perceive modernisation as a threat, or as an issue that required justification on religious grounds. With the transition to the twentieth century, modern change was introduced into the secluded Shi‘i communities of Iraq and Lebanon, and, as a result, clerics such as Muh.sin al-Amı¯n were also exposed to new developments. The modern era also led to a belief in a new dawn in inter-sectarian relations, as these communities became part of the emerging national entities of Iraq and Lebanon. This fresh approach to centuries of inter-sectarian strife was exemplified in the thought of Sayyid ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, a contemporary of Muh.sin al-Amı¯n and also hailing from Lebanon. Mu¯sawı¯ was the spiritual leader of the Shi‘i community in Tyre and a descendent of the prominent Sharaf al-Dı¯n family of Jabal ‘A¯mil. Yet Mu¯sawı¯ went beyond sanctioning new developments such as electricity, and endorsed the modern era in general as the age of enlightenment. In Mu¯sawı¯’s eyes, the ideal of a united umma became highly feasible in this age due to the progressive values of the modern era. As early as 1909, during the last years of the Ottoman Empire, Mu¯sawı¯ envisioned a break with past inter-sectarian animosities:

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I am living in the era of knowledge and in the period of intelligence and astuteness. The spring of wisdom has burst forth to the people of this era and the gloom of darkness has been removed from their eyes. The electricity of light shines from their thoughts and the rays of grace radiate from their faces . . . As a result, they have destroyed zealous partisanship and erased its traces. They have also complied with the duties of humanity, erected its lighthouse and hailed the call of civilisation to devote their attention to Shi‘i-Sunni unity. . .4 Yet, Mu¯sawı¯ also cautioned: Prosperity and progress will not be established nor will the search for the spirit of civilisation be possible [. . .]. We will also not succeed in removing from our necks the yoke of slavery through the struggle for freedom, without harmony, meeting of the minds, synchronicity of hearts, unity of resolution, agreement over the renaissance (nahd.a) of the umma’s ethics and promotion of the essence of the religious community. . .5 With these words, Shi‘i clerics such as Mu¯sawı¯, advanced the idea that the modern era provided an important opportunity for Muslim unity. During this period, as members of the community came into contact with the broader Sunni world, Shi‘i clerics from both Iraq and Lebanon initiated a wide-ranging process of reform in an attempt to make Shi‘ism more relevant for the contemporary era. Exposure to modernisation created a debate between steadfast clerics who felt their position was at risk and a group of reform-minded ‘ulama¯’ (men of learning) who believed that measured change was inevitable. The effort to modernise Shi‘ism intended not only to safeguard the place of religion in society, but also to preserve the leadership role of the clerics amid a more inquisitive generation. Several modern-oriented clerics began re-evaluating key notions of Shi‘i thought in theology, law, politics and inter-sectarian relations. Up until this period, centuries of oppression by the Sunni majority led the Shi‘is in this region to live mostly in isolated communities, such as Jabal ‘A¯mil in

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Lebanon or the shrine cities of Najaf and Karbala¯’ in Iraq, where they concentrated on the internal development of their communities. The religious leadership of these two communities coalesced around the centres of learning, focusing on Islamic law and particularly on personal and ritual aspects of jurisprudence. Over the centuries, the Shi‘i jurists enjoyed a great deal of influence in their communities due to their roles as legal experts and bearers of Islamic knowledge. This leadership position was rooted in the belief in the infallibility of the Shi‘i Imams as one of the five fundamental tenets (us.u¯l al-dı¯n) of the Shi‘a. The Occultation, or disappearance, of the Twelfth Imam (329/941), left the Shi‘i community with a void, lacking social, political and religious leadership.6 Consequently, Shi‘i scholars began to gradually reinterpret the Imamate doctrine to allow the delegation of several of the Imam’s religious functions to the ‘ulama¯’.7 The role of the clerics was further sanctioned as they were acknowledged as the general representatives (na¯’ib al-‘a¯mm) of the Imam in his absence.8 This leadership position of the Shi‘i clerics was reinforced at the end of the eighteenth century, following the victory of the rationalist Us.u¯lı¯ School over the literalist Akhba¯rı¯s. The Us.u¯lı¯s presented an important legal role to the jurists by granting them responsibility to deduce Islamic law from the sources, in a process known as ijtiha¯d. The ordinary believer, who did not have the ability to infer legal edicts from the sources, was required to follow and emulate a particular living mujtahid.9 During the nineteenth century, the mujtahids’ powers were enhanced even further as a result of the development of the concept of the supreme exemplar (marja‘ taqlı¯d), or the duty to emulate a mujtahid, who is renowned for his superior knowledge and piety. There were no clear guidelines for the acknowledgment of a supreme exemplar, and as a result, Shi‘i authority was in essence diffused among a broad religious elite, within an informal hierarchy of clerics, who enjoyed different levels of superiority.10 Together with the enhancement of clerical authority, this leadership also developed mechanisms to deal with deviation. Thus, for example, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, in the

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absence of government enforcement agencies, excommunication (takfı¯r) was an important tool for eradicating threats to clerical authority and achieving social cohesion.11 This disciplinary method became an important tool with the rise of the mystical esoteric Shaykhi movement and its derivative, the Baha’i faith, in the nineteenth century, particularly due to the latter’s deviation from Shi‘i Islam.12 It also remained in use during the early twentieth century. In March 1920, the Grand A¯yatulla¯h Muh.ammad T.a¯qı¯ Shira¯zı¯ issued a fatwa in Najaf that pronounced any Muslim who accepted a position in the administration to be a ka¯fir. This fatwa may have also influenced the clerics of Lebanon, who rejected nominations to state-controlled religious positions at least until the 1930s.13 Yet, excommunication could not thwart the long-term threat of Islam being relegated to the private sphere, as large segments of the community created links with the state outside the realm of religion, in the judicial, educational and political spheres. The clerics could no longer rely on this punitive measure and had to create dialogue with the new, modern social classes. This was a period in which the secluded and disempowered Shi‘i communities of Iraq and Lebanon were gradually exposed to a natural process of modernisation, following the establishment of these nation-states. In neighbouring Iran, Reza Sha¯h (r. 1925–41) embarked on a full-fledged modernisation effort, undertaken in an authoritarian fashion through forced anti-religious measures.14 Within these three communities, modernisation and the threat to religion and to the religious leadership led to a new discourse between the clerics and the educated Shi‘i elite. The result was an exchange between modern Western thought, elements of the local cultures and a traditional religious worldview. More than a half a decade after Reza Sha¯h introduced his modernisation project, Imam Khomeini proclaimed an Islamic revolution, investing authority in the guardianship of the jurist, the vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. The aim of the Islamic revolution was to unite the Muslim nation (the umma) behind the political rule of Islam, while establishing a just society under the leadership of the jurist. Shortly after assuming power, Khomeini launched a campaign to export the

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revolution to the broader Muslim nation. The gathering of numerous Muslims to perform the Hajj was perceived as a great opportunity to galvanise the umma behind the cause of Islam. In September 1980, about a year after assuming power, Khomeini delivered the following message to the pilgrims of Mecca: Greetings to the believers who have migrated from their own homes to the House of God.. . . Greetings to those who have turned away from all forms of shirk (polytheism) toward the focal point of tauhid (the belief in the unity of God: the first principle of Islam), who have freed themselves from the fetters of slavery and obedience to the idols installed in the centers of tyranny, imperialism and satanic power, who have joined themselves to the absolute power of God and the firm rope of tauhid. . .15 Like early Shi‘i reformists, Khomeini promoted Muslim unity under the auspices of Islam, though he expressed this message in a more combative tone than his predecessors. Furthermore, departing from the early Shi‘i fascination with light and enlightenment, Khomeini no longer idealised the modern era as a golden age for the Shi‘is. Instead he depicted the modern era as a threat to Islam and to the Muslim world due to the prevalence of secularism and what was perceived as ‘the Western political and cultural onslaught on the nation of Islam’. Putting aside these diverse perceptions of the modern era, however, both generations were dealing with the similar topic of Islam and development. Early Shi‘i reformists – and later, the Islamic revolutionaries – were debating how to practice Shi‘ism in the current era and how to define communal identity within a more globalised Muslim world. They faced similar challenges related to clerical authority and the place of religion, as well as relations with the Sunnis and within the wider international arena in general, amid shifting political frameworks and contemporary intellectual thought. Shi‘i reformist thought from the first half of the twentieth century contributed to later developments in the Shi‘i world, including the

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Islamic revolution in Iran and the politicisation of Shi‘ism in Iraq and Lebanon in the later part of this century. Consequently, the scholarly exchange between these two generations provides a platform on which to evaluate the important relationship between Shi‘i sectarianism and Islamic universalism through the prism of modernisation. The Islamic revolution in Iran was linked to a broader intellectual renewal that began taking place during the first half of the twentieth century in the holy cities of Iraq and in the Shi‘i centres in Lebanon. This revolution should therefore not only be assessed in the context of social and intellectual trends in Iran alone, but also in prior scholarly changes that began taking place in the early twentieth century through the initiatives of several reform-minded clerics in Iraq and Lebanon, who enjoyed a prominent position in their communities. One of the early Shi‘i reformists was Sayyid ‘Abd al-H . usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, the spiritual leader of the local community in Tyre. Born in Ka¯z.imayn in Iraq (1872/3), Mu¯sawı¯ gained his education in Najaf and was considered the most authoritative Shi‘i jurist in Lebanon in his time. His writings spanned the first half of the twentieth century, demonstrating a bridge between the late Ottoman Empire and the new national era. His main message was the call for inter-sectarian reconciliation, which he advanced through his numerous publications. Mu¯sawı¯ also expanded the religious and educational institutions for the local community, including a school for girls.16 Mu¯sawı¯ died in 1957 and was buried in Najaf. In his obituary, published in the Shi‘i al-‘Irfa¯n journal, Mu¯sawı¯ was endorsed by the more modern Shi‘i readership of this periodical, who portrayed him as a reformist who had contributed to advancing knowledge, to the struggle against ignorance and to the promotion of inter-sectarian friendship.17 Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-‘A¯milı¯ was a contemporary of Mu¯sawı¯ who presented a clear reformist agenda and enjoyed the support of progressive forces in the community. Born at Shaqra¯’ Jabal ‘A¯mil to a well-known family of Sayyids (1867/8), Muh.sin al-Amı¯n was acknowledged as the spiritual leader of the local Shi‘i community in Damascus.18 Muh.sin al-Amı¯n (d. 1952) advanced a reformist agenda in a wide range of fields including historiography, popular Shi‘i

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practices and renewed literary genres. He also adopted the Arab cause and furthered Muslim unity.19 Members of the embryonic Shi‘i elite depicted Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n as a fighter for the national cause and as a scholar who contributed to the modernisation of Shi‘ism. While Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n was fighting the French, the next generation of Shi‘i Lebanese clerics undertook more extensive political roles in the new state and beyond. Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya (1904–80) exemplified this more active political inclination. Born in 1904, Mughniyya studied in Najaf and later returned to Lebanon and was appointed for a short time as president of the Shari‘a court in Beirut. In Lebanon, Mughniyya was under the tutelage of Mu¯sawı¯, the most prominent jurist in Lebanon at the time. Yet, following Mu¯sawı¯’s death (1958), Mughniyya did not replace his mentor as the spiritual leader of the Shi‘i community in Lebanon and was instead sidelined by Musa al-S.adr, then a young ‘a¯lim from Iran, possibly due to Mughniyya’s opposition activity against the Lebanese authorities. Although Mughniyya did not enjoy an officially high religious position in Lebanon, he made an important contribution to Shi‘i thought through his numerous publications and his extensive contacts within the Shi‘i world. He contributed to the politicisation of the local Shi‘i community but also to the rediscovery of Muslim philosophy in the Shi‘i-Arab world.20 Similar causes were also promoted at the time by the Shi‘i clerics of Iraq. Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ (c. 1876/7–1954) was one of the leading Shi‘i reformists of the time. He was born in Najaf to a prominent clerical family that ranked among the religious leadership of the community for nearly two centuries.21 The Iraqi mujtahid resided in Najaf, but had many followers in other Arab countries as well as in the Indian sub-continent, Afghanistan and Iraq.22 He cultivated connections with both Shi‘is and Sunnis through extensive travel throughout the Muslim world.23 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ also broke with the quietest inclination of traditional Arab Shi‘ism. Although he shunned direct political participation, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ expressed interest in current affairs, embraced the pan-Arab ideology and supported the Arab cultural revival.24 He established himself as both an Arab and a pan-Islamic leader, undertaking an

INTRODUCTION

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anti-imperialist agenda, opposing the Zionist movement and supporting the Palestinian cause. His obituary confirmed the high status he enjoyed even beyond the Shi‘i community: Al-Shaykh Muh.ammad H.usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ is a man within the nation but moreover, a nation within a man. The Arab countries in general, the Muslim states in particular and humanity collectively, are bereaved by his death [. . .] the publications of our deceased Shaykh will remain after him. His life was a life of knowledge, practice, nationalism, devotion and continuous jiha¯d. . .25 In contrast to Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’s wide-ranging influence, Shaykh Muh.ammad b. Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı (1890–1963) undertook a more extensive reform mission yet remained on the margins of his community. Kha¯lis.¯ı was born in Ka¯z.imayn, Iraq in 1890. He completed his religious education under the leading ‘ulama¯’ of his time, while simultaneously attending private schools where he studied modern disciplines. His father, the Grand A¯yatulla¯h Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, was considered the supreme exemplar of the period.26 Muh.ammad al-Kha¯lis.¯ı developed a revivalist vision of Shi‘ism. He adopted an activist approach toward religion and politics, and he wrote with the spirit of a tenacious cleric who sought reform even at the expense of alienating the Shi‘i public.27 Several of his publications advanced the notion of Islamic unity. Yet although he was not widely acknowledged by the community, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s nonconformist position was nevertheless important, since it paved the way for later developments in the Shi‘i world of Iraq and Iran. In particular, his revivalist inter-sectarian message and his call for religious and political activism was later expanded upon by A¯yatulla¯h Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr, who headed the Islamic movement of Shi‘is in Iraq and was from the same town as Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ka¯z.imayn. The significance of these early reformists was in opening the door for the later and more revolutionary thought that emerged in the Shi‘i world. Representing minority Shi‘i communities living in

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proximity to the Sunni majority, these scholars shifted the Shi‘i world away from exclusive sectarianism. They exposed the broader Shi‘i milieu to new ideas that emerged in the Arab-Sunni world, including an all-inclusive notion of Islam, while initiating a discourse with the new Shi‘i intelligentsia on the modern relevance of Islam. This discourse was later expanded upon by the following generation of Shi‘is in the Arab world and Iran, who introduced more revolutionary solutions to this conundrum. These revolutionary ideas simply would not have been possible without the efforts of the Shi‘i reformists of the first half of the twentieth century, who began to tackle the ramifications of the process of integration and social mobilisation on communal ties. They introduced an enlightened and activist image of Shi‘i Islam in an attempt to restore the former all-inclusive relationship between the mujtahid and his followers. During their time, some of these Shi‘i reformists did not enjoy the full support of their communities. Yet, new ideas that were criticised at the time became widespread in the latter part of the century. These included Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s campaign for the reform of the ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ ceremonies (commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Husayn in the ˙ battle of Karbala¯’, 680 AD), which was later adopted by H . izbullah. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s idea of transforming the image of H . usayn into a symbol of the active struggle for justice was enhanced in the second half of the twentieth century in Iran by Sharı¯‘atı¯ and other revolutionaries. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s proposal to introduce a loudspeaker into the mosque was criticised by members of his community at the time, but became commonplace elsewhere by the end of the twentieth century. An indication of his acknowledgement by the future Shi‘i leadership, Kha¯lis.¯ı was mentioned together with other Shi‘i leaders as contributing to revitalising Shi‘ism in an introduction to a publication penned by H . izbullah’s spiritual leader, Muh.ammad 28 H usayn Fad lalla h (d. 2010). Sharı¯‘atı¯ also paid respect to Ka¯shif al¯ . . Ghit.a¯’ by translating into Persian a letter written by the Iraqi leader denouncing American imperialism.29 Islamic revolutionaries of the late twentieth century developed their all-encompassing call for Islam in a Shi‘i milieu that had already embraced the concept of change and operated within a more globalised Muslim world.

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These earlier Shi‘i reformists contributed to the promotion of inter-sectarian reconciliation within an all-inclusive notion of Islam. They played an important part in the transformation of sectarianism into a more progressive and wide-ranging worldview in the modern era. New approaches to questions of identity, communal membership, networks, intellectual renewal, activism and social change enabled the survival of Shi‘ism in the contemporary era and contributed to its transformation into a revolutionary force. Understanding the input of the wider Shi‘i world to the 1979 Iranian revolution, and the complex relationship between Shi‘ism and orthodox Islam that emerged in the course of the twentieth century, fills a crucial gap in the scholarship on the intellectual roots of the Islamic revolution. Existing research on the revolution has not explored this relationship between the Islamic revolutionaries and earlier Shi‘i reformists’ thought. Instead, it has concentrated primarily on the internal sociopolitical dynamics of Iran and on the influence of Western thought on the revolutionary ideology.30 Departing from these studies, the current project covers the broad scholarly connections between Iran, Iraq and Lebanon. It also sheds light on the significance of early Shi‘i reformist thought by evaluating reformists’ clerical writings within their wider socio-political and intellectual contexts.31 Najaf – a centre of Shi‘i learning – was a focal point for contacts between an international scholarly network of Shi‘i clerics. In 1970, Ayatollah Khomeini presented his theory of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h in this holy city, where he resided between 1965 and 1978, following his uprising against the Sha¯h and subsequent deportation from Iran. At the time, Ayatollah Muh.ammad Ba¯qr al-S.adr, the ideologist of the renowned Da‘wa movement in Iraq, had introduced an all-embracing Islamic system encompassing an Islamic philosophy, economy and society. Yet while both pioneering theories can be linked to internal conditions, and particularly to the socio-political challenges that threatened clerical authority, they could not have been developed without a wider intellectual renewal. Religious renewal began with the first generation of Shi‘i modernisers in the Arab world, and particularly in Iraq and Lebanon,

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the two largest centres of Twelver Shi‘is in the Arab milieu. The connections between these two communities, which were based on historical scholarly networks, received a further boost in the transition to the twentieth century.32 Shi‘is in both Iraq and Lebanon were exposed to similar contemporary movements, such as Sunni reformism, Arab Nahd.a, nationalism and secularism, and during this period the two communities went through comparable processes of socio-political change. In both cases, the Shi‘is also established new relations with the Sunnis as a result of their shifting status under the mandate authorities and the dissemination of contemporary knowledge. Exposure to contemporary thought and a process of socio-political change led Shi‘is in both countries to redefine their relations with the Sunni world, within the growing connectivity of a more globalised Muslim world. This notion of networking has gained scholarly attention in the past few years with the process of globalisation and the emergence of new media. Researchers have begun looking into the wide-ranging impact of these developments on the social, political, cultural and scientific realms within an inter-connected world.33 Globalisation has also affected the Arab and Muslim world, as exemplified in the ‘Arab Spring’. Some perhaps also saw its mark in the so-called ‘Shi‘a crescent’ and its perceived threat to the Sunni world. Yet, current trends of unity and schism in the Arab, Muslim and Shi‘i arenas cannot be understood only in the contemporary context. Instead, they should be assessed through a more in-depth understanding of the early period of modern change in the region, focusing particularly on the first half of the twentieth century. This was a period in which inter-communal relations were re-evaluated, with the transition of this area to the modern age. Greater links were created between fellow Muslims during these years following the establishment of the nation-state, the improvement of communication and the emergence of cross-national ideologies. The historical international dimension of Shi‘ism also received a further boost with the emergence of modern journals and the improvement of road and rail links.34 These developments also led to greater contacts between Shi‘is and Sunnis within a more globalised Muslim world. As

INTRODUCTION

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members of the community began shifting away from their former sectarian seclusion, they began debating the relationship between nationalism, Shi‘i internationalism and Muslim globalisation. In the transition to the modern era, reform-minded Shi‘is developed a multifaceted notion of progress, similar to other nonWestern societies that were exposed to development.35 The ability to incorporate modern change among Muslim modernists, both Sunni and Shi‘i, was related to the fact that Islam is not opposed to progress, since it is a faith that incorporates both the temporal and the spiritual.36 Within Sunni Islam, the religious and the socio-political realms tended to be inter-twined throughout Muslim history, although there were also elements of separation. In comparison, in Shi‘ism we see a tension between the clear other-worldly and worldly dimensions of the religion. Members of this creed balanced a belief in achieving salvation only with the return of the Imam with a de-facto accommodation, particularly in Iran, between the spiritual and the temporal. This accommodation became ever more pronounced in the modern era, as Shi‘i scholars began providing a growing role for the human factor in determining current events through socio-political action and the promotion of modern development. Evaluating this engagement between Shi‘ism and modernity is particularly relevant in the Shi‘i case because of the comparison that may be drawn between modern notions and Shi‘i thought. This includes: an openness to change demonstrated in the Imami mechanism of ‘aql (reasoning), employed in the field of jurisprudence to enable change; holding a just worldview, which is comparable to the Shi‘i concept of ‘adl (justice) upheld by the Imams; and the importance of education, promoted through the Shi‘i centres of learning. In contrast, other components of modernity, to be discussed in this study, were incongruous with traditional Shi‘i thought. At first glance, a debate on the relationship between religion, rationalism and progress may seem archaic in a post-modern world. In the West, a modern emphasis on a rationalist worldview has given way to a more paradoxical, precarious and inconclusive approach. The belief in the omnipotence of science and human ability to control

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nature has been replaced by a perception of uncertainty and instability due to the inability of people to master and dominate the world around them. In this environment, people cannot fully expose the natural composition of the world by the force of reason, since human behaviour is controlled by contradictory forces that lie beyond direct human control. In the socio-political arena, the view of the state as a rational player and its centralised and organised mode of operation has been substituted by a more complex, disorganised and decentralised sense of power.37 In many parts of the Muslim world, however, a debate on the relationship between Islam and development continues to be reshaped until today, as pre-modern, modern and postmodern perceptions coexist within different segments of the population, in a society that is in a transitional stage of development. In Iran itself, the revolution was promoted by modern means and was influenced by contemporary Western thought. Concurrently, the revolutionaries also expressed a sense of despair towards modern development in its social ills exemplified in the Pahlavis repressive regime and its clear Western orientation. This intellectual debate is at the heart of the present study. The book is divided into five chapters, beginning with the socio-political context of the Shi‘i communities in Iraq, Lebanon and Iran. Chapter 1 evaluates the influences of regional and local political developments on these diverse Shi‘i communities and the changing relationship between the clerics and their followers. It also addresses the new contest over the community’s leadership as a result of a process of social change and the emergence of new social classes tied to the interests of the nascent states of Iraq and Lebanon. An attempt to meet this challenge is analysed in Chapter 2. It discusses a new appeal for Muslim unity in the thought of early Shi‘i reformists, comparing this development to Khomeini’s discourse on the topic. The chapter links Shi‘i reformist initiatives to a process of cultural change among the Shi‘i community, and to a broader modern Sunni discourse. It presents a theoretical framework, including both a modern facade and a reconstructed religious discourse, that provides an intellectual basis for Shi‘i reform. A re-evaluation of the contentious Muslim historiography is also discussed in this chapter.

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Chapter 3 addresses the effort to narrow the theological divide between Sunnis and Shi‘is. Shi‘i reformists emphasised their devotion to tawh.ı¯d, presented as a commitment to a normative, rational and unifying Islamic orthodoxy. By emphasising a simplified monotheistic message of Islam, the reformists attempted to promote the acceptance of Shi‘ism among the modernised Sunni circles and to depict a more attractive and progressive vision of Islam for the new secularised Shi‘i classes. Concurrently, Shi‘i modernisers also sought to justify the unique Imami belief in the Occultation and to reevaluate the role of the Mahdi in the modern era. The evolution of a separate Shi‘i body of jurisprudence – another hurdle to Muslim unity – is examined in Chapter 4. While discussing specific judicial questions, this chapter analyses the ethical dimension of judicial thought, the process of opening the Imami legal discourse to the wider educated Shi‘i public, and the effort to soften the boundaries between the sects. The significance of their judicial reform was in emphasising the totality of the Shari‘a as a system that provides for the needs of a modern society, similar to the Sunni modernist call. While Khomeini introduced judicial innovations, he also departed from earlier universal Islamic notions and, instead, propagated a more sectarian outlook. A new clerical experimentation with a genre of political treatises is evaluated in the final chapter. In a shift from their former apolitical tendency, Shi‘i reformists discussed topics such as anti-colonialism, Arabism and the Palestinian issue. Political activism marked the transformation of Shi‘ism from sectarianism toward more wideranging affiliations, as a by-product of the socio-political necessities of the community. This enabled a reconsideration of conflicting Muslim historiographies and the emergence of a more unified notion of Islam.

CHAPTER 1 SOCIAL CHANGE AND THE CONTEST FOR COMMUNAL LEADERSHIP

Dramatic changes swept through the Shi‘i communities in the Arab world and Iran during the twentieth century, weakening the traditional leadership of the clerics and altering communal dynamics. Development of transportation, urbanisation, the rise of new social classes and the spread of state education shook the frameworks that bound these communities together. Similar processes took place in many countries of the Middle East from the late nineteenth century onward. Yet, these changes, particularly the rise of a new secularised elite, had a unique impact on Shi‘is in the region due to the significance of clerical authority in the Imami world and the ‘ulama¯’s historical control over the dissemination of knowledge. In the pre-modern world, the diverse Shi‘i localities were very parochial and, at the same time, had a clear international dimension. For centuries, the majority of Shi‘is in the geographical area of Iraq and Lebanon resided in tight-knit communities, providing for themselves by means of agriculture. Their isolation from the wider Sunni milieu was the result of poor road-links as well as a selfimposed desire to maintain their independence in the face of a hostile Sunni milieu. Concurrently, the religious elite of the ‘ulama¯’ developed broad-ranging scholarly networks with their fellow Shi‘is

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beyond their immediate surroundings. These networks were established over centuries through the Shi‘i centres of learning, which shifted in the course of history from Hilla in the region of Iraq to Jabal ‘A¯mil in Lebanon, and later on to Najaf and Karbala¯’. Beginning in the late nineteenth century, Qum in Iran began to challenge Najaf in this rivalry for scholarly supremacy.1 Interaction between the ‘ulama¯’ of the various parts of the Shi‘i world also continued after they graduated and returned to their local communities. Shi‘is were permitted to follow the rulings of an ‘a¯lim, whom they knew by reputation, even if he lived beyond the limits of their own localities, which further solidified the international dimension of Shi‘ism. It was therefore common, for example, for a Shi‘i in Lebanon to emulate a mujtahid from the shrine cities of Iraq.2 Pilgrimage to the holy cities (‘ataba¯t) of Najaf and Karbala¯’ and the custom of burying the dead in these shrine cities added another element to Shi‘i inter-connectivity. Trade was another factor. The Shi‘i centres of learning in Najaf and Karbala¯’ did not live off agriculture due to low levels of rainfall in these desert cities. Instead, they developed a vibrant network of trade, which was conducted with the Shi‘i south as well as with Persia.3 Shi‘i exposure to modern change in the twentieth century created a new sense of Muslim internationalism. Contact among clerical circles was no longer the primary channel of networking. Scholarly networks expanded in the contemporary era, while new social forces that emerged within the community, including an embryonic intelligentsia, established political and intellectual links that cut across sectarian divides. Transportation and mass education developed, opening these segregated communities to the wider world and enabling growing numbers of Shi‘is to venture beyond their secluded existence. Knowledge began to be dispersed – not only within the religious elite – but among a wider educated population, too. Contemporary journals facilitated greater contacts within the Imami community and between Shi‘is and Sunnis. The development of travel and the proliferation of contemporary ideas not only strengthened networks within the Shi‘i world but also enabled greater contact between Sunnis and Shi‘is, both within the

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boundaries of new nation-states and beyond them. In the twentieth century, Shi‘is began to accept the reality of nationalism but also the emergence of a new sense of Muslim internationalism that existed alongside a core Imami identity.4 In the course of the twentieth century, Shi‘is living in Iran, Iraq and Lebanon were exposed to modernisation and social change. Road and rail links, mass migration from the countryside to urban centres and the expansion of state education were just some of the innovations that began to change their lives. Modernisation also contributed to the emergence of new social forces – the urban poor and a middle class of bureaucrats, businessmen and intellectuals. All three communities were subjected to similar currents of development during this period, although each country embarked on a unique path of state-building and at a distinctive pace of modernisation and secularisation. Social change in Iran had already begun in the late nineteenth century, prior to similar developments among the Shi‘is of Iraq and Lebanon. As secluded and marginalised communities, modern development only reached the Shi‘is of Iraq and Lebanon in the first half of the twentieth century. This was several decades after the wider Sunni population was exposed to modern change, following the wide-ranging reforms, known as the Tanzimat (1839–76), undertaken by the Ottoman Empire.5 The Shi‘i bourgeois was also a factor in the changes sweeping through these communities, although there were clear differences in the relative size, significance and orientation of this middle class in each of the three localities and the nature of the threat it posed to the leadership of the ‘ulama¯’. Iran had a strong merchant class (bazaari), which had developed a symbiotic relationship with the ‘ulama¯’. The bazaaris provided for the maintenance of the clerical community while relying on the clerics for their religious and political needs.6 In contrast, in Iraq the mujtahids lacked religious and financial backing from the merchants. Therefore, the rise of new forces in the transition to the modern era – and particularly the embryonic Shi‘i intelligentsia – greatly threatened the clerics’ position. Compelled to react, they sought to regain their authority in this new leadership competition by initiating wide-ranging reforms and presenting

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themselves as progressive clerics attuned to the needs of a modernised society. As exposure to social change unfolded during the twentieth century, communal dynamics began to shift among the diverse Shi‘i communities in Iran, Iraq and Lebanon.

Iran and the Rise of New Social Forces Significant social changes began to sweep through Iran from as early as the nineteenth century, when the Qajar dynasty (1796– 1925) ruled.7 In the nineteenth century, the tribal population in Iran began undergoing a process of sedentation. There was also a growth in cash crops in the countryside, including opium, cotton and fruit, as Iran expanded its trade with the outside world. Starting from the mid-nineteenth century, Iran also witnessed the emergence of an embryonic middle class of intellectuals and businessmen, who became acquainted with Western ideas on constitutionalism, individual freedoms and modern progress. Public education was also developing. The first modern primary school was founded in Tabriz in 1839, and by 1901 Iran had 17 primary schools, one high school and one institute of higher education. New technology and transport were also introduced. In the late 1860s, Iran built a 4,000-mile telegraph network, and in 1888 the first railway track, 8 miles long, was laid. Iran also modernised its banking system, and in the last decades of this century, foreign banks opened branches in key urban centres. By the end of the century, over 500 miles of roads were built, primarily with Russian financial backing.8 During this period, Iran experienced the beginning of urbanisation. From ancient times, cities played a role in the political, economic and cultural development of the country. They functioned as governing centres, and also as channels of trade and cultural routes for transporting Iranian civilisation to the West. Despite this, in the pre-modern period, Iran’s cities were not very big. They were organised around the traditional institutions of the Friday mosque, the bazaar and public baths, similar to other medieval Muslim cities. The bazaar was the commercial centre of the city and

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also functioned as a community center, and the bazaari served as the financial backbone of the ‘ulama¯’ and the religious institutions. In the late Qajar era, there was a small increase in Iran’s urban population, although up until the 1930s most urban centres still had fewer than 100,000 residents. Urbanisation was expanded under Reza Sha¯h Pahlavi (r. 1925– 41) but only gathered significant momentum under the rule of his son Mohammad Reza Sha¯h, with the promulgation of the White Revolution.9 From the late nineteenth century onward, modernisation began accelerating in Iran, as the West increased its economic penetration. Members of the rising Iranian bourgeois together with progressive elements of the nobility began expressing their dismay over the dismal state of the Qajar Empire, following its defeats in the wars against Imperial Russia and Great Britain. These forces of change sought to emulate progress in Europe and called for an overall reform in the system of governance to resolve its incompetence and corruption. Yet, their success was limited due to the reluctance of the absolute monarchy to relinquish power and support far-reaching changes similar to those undertaken at the time by the rival Ottoman Empire in the legal, administrative and economic domains.10 Only with the Constitutional Revolution and the rise of Reza Sha¯h did Iran begin to embark upon a significant process of modernisation. Still, the forces for change were formidable. Notions of progress and self-governance brought together diverse social classes that launched an armed rebellion against the autocratic rule of the Qajars. Under the banner of constitutionalism, the revolution, which began in 1905/6, enjoyed the support of both the traditional classes of the bazaaris and the clerics as well as the new middle class, who joined forces to bring about political change. It brought together intellectuals, members of the bureaucracy, merchants and religious leaders, each with a different vision of governance and the rule of law. All these segments of Iranian society were united in opposing Iran’s growing ties with foreign powers and the despotic rule of the Qajars.11 Reza Sha¯h Pahlavi put an end to this dynasty’s control over the country. With his rise to power, Reza Sha¯h began advancing an

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all-encompassing modernisation project. As he became increasingly despotic, Reza Sha¯h equated progress with secularisation, undertaking forced measures of modernisation. The Sha¯h established a state-run education system and a secular legal framework, thus undermining the traditional seminars and the mujtahids’ judicial authority. Education became a vehicle to promote national pride, based on a pre-Islamic Iranian culture and on the glory of kingship. The mission was to enlighten society and re-create the splendour of the ancient Persian civilisation. Toward this end, Reza Sha¯h nationalised the education system, while simultaneously introducing new text books and advancing contemporary knowledge. The Sha¯h also sent students abroad to gain higher education and, in 1934/5, established Tehran University as the first Western-style institute for higher education in Iran.12 Reza Sha¯h’s grand modernisation project was built on a strong centralised state and a programme of legal reforms. He also reformed the bureaucracy, established a European-style dress code, created a national army and health system and industrialised the country. Iran’s traditional cities were remodelled by restructuring the old city centres, erecting new administrative buildings, improving public services, developing new residential areas and establishing towns in place of existing villages. His multifaceted modernisation project led to the expansion of a new Iranian middle class of civil servants, intellectuals and entrepreneurs. It also weakened the traditional religious leadership of the mujtahids, whom the Sha¯h considered detrimental to Iran’s progress. Many members of Iran’s growing bourgeois supported Reza Sha¯h, at least in his early years in power. They endorsed his secular notion of Iranian nationalism and championed his effort at organising the state system and limiting the power of the ‘ulama¯’.13 The Iranian intelligentsia began to be exposed to Western thought, particularly to that of the French Enlightenment, through cultural ties between the two countries that developed during this period. Ahmad Fardı¯d (1912– 94), the prominent Iranian scholar of philosophy who studied in Germany and France, introduced German philosophies, in particular Heidegger’s critique of Western

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modernity, to the Iranian intelligentsia.14 The Iranian intelligentsia’s exposure to Western thought gained ground during the second half of the twentieth century. This process followed Mohammad Reza Sha¯h’s rise to power (r. 1941 –79) and his strong ties with the West, as well as the growth of the numbers of Iranian students that gained their education abroad. Mohammad Reza Sha¯h took his father’s modernisation mission even further. In 1962 –3, the Sha¯h launched the White Revolution, aimed at reviving Iran’s past glories and transforming it into a ‘Great Civilisation’. The White Revolution included six principles: land reform, nationalisation of the forests, profit-sharing for industrial workers, sale of state factories, enfranchising women and creating a literary corps. Through these measures, the Sha¯h sought to secure the Pahlavis’ control over society. His aim was to weaken the power-base of the rural landlords and to enhance the loyalty of Iran’s disadvantaged classes, including its rural population and the growing urban poor, towards the regime.15 The White Revolution was later supplemented by rapid urbanisation and rising state despotism. To advance Iran’s past splendour, Mohammad Reza Sha¯h expanded his father’s monarchycentred vision of nationalism and created a strategic alliance with the US. The monarchy and Iran were depicted as one, as the Sha¯h conducted lavish celebrations marking 2,500 years of Iranian kingship. He also replaced the Islamic calendar with a dating system beginning with the first pre-Islamic monarchy of the glorious Persian civilisation. The Sha¯h’s cultural orientation alienated the traditional classes of the clerics, the peasantry, the bazaaris, and the urban poor. In fact, the Sha¯h’s ambitious project of social change ultimately contributed to his own demise. His grand industrial, agricultural and infrastructural projects were remarkable achievements. Yet, the beneficiaries of these initiatives were the top echelons of the bourgeois and the growing numbers of foreign investors. Meanwhile, the Sha¯h’s agricultural reforms did not lead to a dramatic improvement in the lives of the peasants, who began migrating enmasse to the cities, as many landlords evaded land redistribution. The agricultural labourers and village proletariat were not included

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in the redistribution, since only the sharecroppers benefitted from this process. These tenant farmers received some land through the White Revolution, yet, the improvement of their conditions did not translate into clear support for the Sha¯h. The large landowners who functioned as liaisons between the peasants and the government were removed from the picture and the farmers’ grievances were now aimed directly at the authorities.16 Between 1966 and 1976, following these changes in the countryside, over 2 million Iranians moved from the villages to the cities. Many of these were unskilled migrants who settled in the city slums, living in poverty and suffering from inadequate services. Pushed to the margins of society, these migrants began receiving support from Shi‘i associations that provided religious guidance for believers. They also organised religious festivals and popular Shi‘i practices, and particularly the commemoration of Imam H . usayn’s martyrdom. In migrant areas, low-ranking clerics held gatherings (hay’at) in the homes of the poor, cementing this population’s linkage to Islam and to the clerics’ leadership. The revolutionary movement succeeded in mobilising the urban poor through the vast network of mosques, shrines and hay’ats. This traditional population remained committed to religion and was drawn to Khomeini’s call for justice, as a disadvantaged population that suffered from growing inequality, in the decades prior to the revolution.17 The bazaaris were also hurt by socioeconomic changes introduced during this period. Their traditional marketplace was weakened as a result of the drive towards industrialisation and the development of international trade. Concurrently, the regime’s tyrannical rule created resentment among the country’s middle class. Iran’s economic difficulties from the mid-1970s added to the rising revolutionary fervour among the diverse social stratum. Following the oil boom of 1973, the country’s wealth was concentrated among a very small segment of society. This high society included members of the royal court and the top echelon of the bourgeois, which was comprised of the big merchant families and the old landed aristocracy.18 With growing public criticism against the Sha¯h, Khomeini succeeded in galvanising traditional elements among the rural and urban

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populations behind him. He also recruited members of the disillusioned middle class, who resented the Sha¯h’s oppression of individual freedoms and his policy on economic development. The Iranian intelligentsia increasingly felt a sense of cultural alienation due to the Sha¯h’s monarchical-centred vision of nationalism and his strategic alliance with the US. Dr ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ (1933– 77) played a decisive role in mobilising Iran’s secularised elite behind the revolutionary cause. A prominent ideologist of the Islamic revolution, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ gained a PhD in Persian philology from the Sorbonne and spoke the language of the Iranian intelligentsia. He managed to attract the intellectuals by conducting a dialogue with the leading Western ideologies of the time, including existentialism, Marxism and third-world revolutionary thought. In his Islamic worldview, the Islamic tradition of philosophy was combined with more contemporary trends of Muslim modernism and Western thought, as a platform for religious renewal and political action. As such, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ assigned the intelligentsia a leading role in brewing the insurrection. In his view, the enlightened intellectual, ‘the ru¯shanfekr’, with his vast and diverse knowledge, should be the spearhead of an Islamic revolution.19 Iran’s diverse social classes were captivated by the ideology of the revolution. While the Iranian intelligentsia was attracted to its universal reading of Islam, the Shi‘i masses were drawn to its sectarian symbols. The Islamic revolution was an outcome of social change caused by the White Revolution and its aftermath. Similarly, in neighbouring Iraq the rise of new social forces and their threat to the traditional leadership of the clerics served as a catalyst for religious reform.

Iraq: Social Mobilisation and the Challenge to the Clerics’ Leadership In the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire, modernisation had been gaining momentum since the mid-nineteenth century. Yet, the Shi‘i communities living under Ottoman rule only began to be affected in the early twentieth century, several decades later than the

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wider population. At the time, the isolated Shi‘i community of Iraq had little contact with their Sunni compatriots. Their clerics lived in the segregated holy cities of Najaf, Karbala¯’, Ka¯z.imayn and Samarra, while the tribal population resided in the flatlands and marshes of southern Iraq, also detached from the wider Sunni community. These semi-settled tribes engaged in sheep and camel-herding, and also worked the land, producing crops such as barley, wheat and rice. The marsh-dwellers of southern Iraq lived off breeding buffaloes, fishing and weaving reed mats.20 In the late Ottoman era, the tribes of southern Iraq were organised into loose confederations and governed by the local shaykhs. During the the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the nomadic and semi-nomadic tribal population converted to Shi‘ism en masse. Their conversion was driven by the ‘ulama¯’’s vigorous efforts to buttress their position in reaction to the Wahha¯bı¯ raids on Najaf and Karbala¯’. Following their rise to power in the late eighteenth century, the Wahha¯bı¯s invaded Iraq several times and this recurring threat pushed the ‘ulama¯’ of the shrine cities to bolster their ranks. From the tribes’ perspective, it was an opportune time to endorse a new leadership, as they were experiencing a process of sedentation, which weakened the existing social structures. This facilitated a recognition of the mujtahids and a shift to Shi‘ism. Before the tribes’ conversion, Shi‘ism in Iraq was mainly confined to the holy cities. After the tribes were brought into the fold, the number of Shi‘is grew to about 53 per cent of Iraqi populace in 1919 and reached 56 per cent by 1932.21 The shrine cities’ inhabitants and the newly-converted tribes had little contact with changes that had occurred in the wider Sunni arena during the nineteenth century. Iraq was a remote province of the Ottoman Empire and the Shi‘is were situated in an important frontier with their coreligionists of the rival Safavid Empire, which led to Ottoman suspicions over their loyalty to the state. Suspicions over Shi‘i allegiance to the Empire, and a relative disregard of the Iraqi province in general, led the Ottomans to ignore the Shi‘i south. No roads were built and the irrigation system in southern Iraq was not repaired, moves that might have contributed to the social incorporation of the Shi‘is into the framework of the empire.22

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Consequently, both the tribal and the urban Shi‘i population remained socially secluded. Meanwhile, a strong bond developed between the shrine cities and the newly-converted Shi‘i tribes. The holy Shi‘i cities of southern Iraq functioned as market towns and granary centres for the tribal population of the south. Marriage patterns in this region remained in line with sectarian affiliation and tribal connections, further cementing this element of segregation.23 Within the shrine cities, the populace of Najaf was almost entirely Shi‘i, mostly of Arab origin, and numbering about 30,000 in the early twentieth century. Najaf had a strong connection with the tribes of the south due to its location at the edge of the desert, with many Arab clerics tracing their descent to neighbouring tribes. Karbala¯’ had a population of about 50,000 during this period, predominantly of Persian origin. Shi‘is also lived in the holy Shi‘i cities of Ka¯z.imayn and Samarra, where several Imams are buried.24 Ka¯z.imayn is located several kilometres northwest of Baghdad with a Shi‘i community estimated at 7,000 and a small Sunni populace, while Samarra, located about 120 km north of Baghdad, was almost entirely Sunni.25 The physical distance between the Shi‘is in the holy cities and the Sunni population was not vast. In Ka¯z.imayn and Samarra, the small Shi‘i communities neighboured the local Sunni population, while the distance between Karbala¯’ and Baghdad is only 84 km. Najaf and Baghdad are 139 km apart. Nevertheless, although the physical distance was not vast, the Shi‘is remained isolated from the Sunni population due to religious intolerance and undeveloped road links. Excluding their ties with the shrine cities, this tribal population had little contact with the urban centres or the nascent modernisation process that had begun to take place at the time. However, these newly-converted tribes were not totally detached from the Sunni tribal population in their identity or social contacts. Commitment to Islam among the tribes was weaker than among the urban population, as their embrace of Shi‘ism did not supersede tribal, ethnic and family connections. They did, however, follow the leadership of the mujtahids and accept popular rituals related to the cult of the Imams. Some elements of Shi‘i law, such as temporary

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marriages (mut‘a), were also adopted by the tribes. Often their ethnic and tribal affiliation ran deeper than their passion for Imami Islam, while Shi‘ism was perceived as an extension of Arab and tribal values.26 This shared tribal and ethnic identity of Sunnis and Shi‘is may have facilitated the emergence of an inter-sectarian national affiliation during the twentieth century. For both Sunnis and Shi‘is, Arabism, in its tribal association with manhood and bravery and its ethno-religious link with the foundation of Islam, was a core mark of affiliation. It cut across a sectarian membership and perhaps later on contributed to the emergence of a collective Iraqi nationalism. Gradual modernisation led to changes in the tribal way of life. Midhat Pasha, the governor of Iraq (1869– 72), built modern schools and printing presses and improved road links. At the turn of the century, steamships began sailing down the Tigris and the first bank was opened in Baghdad.27 New journals started reaching the shrine cities in the early twentieth century, following the Young Turk Revolution (1908) and the freedom of expression granted by the Turkish constitution.28 In 1909, al-Madrasa al-Ja‘fariyya was the first modern Shi‘i school established in Baghdad, followed by two more in Najaf. The Baghdad school was founded by Ja‘far Abu¯’l-Timman, a wealthy Shi‘i merchant from the city, and its modern curriculum included French and mathematics. With the establishment of the new Iraqi state, Abu¯’l-Timman became involved in the political domain and symbolised the emergence of a new Shi‘i bourgeoisie.29 Yet, for the next few decades, Shi‘i commoners had minimal contact with modern infrastructure such as railways and electricity, which had been introduced into the Middle East’s largest cities during this period.30 Until the late nineteenth century, Anatolia had only a few 100 km of railway, while the vast areas of Syria, Iraq and the Hijaz had no rail links at all. In 1903, the Baghdad Railway Company was inaugurated to link Constantinople to Aleppo, Damascus, Beirut, Mecca and Mosul, thereby reviving this medieval trade route.31 Within Iraq, the Najaf-Kufa railway connection was established between the years 1904 and 1907. It bolstered economic and trade relations between the two cities and contributed to Najaf’s urban development.32

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With their inclusion into the new nation-states of Iraq and Lebanon, the disadvantaged Shi‘i communities’ situations gradually began to change. The creation of the state of Iraq, following the First World War, transformed the framework of Shi‘i communal life.33 In 1921, the Hashemite Amir Fays.al was offered the throne in the newly-established kingdom of Iraq. A relationship with Britain was established in the 1922 Anglo-Iraqi treaty, which limited Iraqi sovereignty and authorised British hegemony over overall policy.34 Even before full British occupation was in place, conflict between the state and the Shi‘i clerics erupted as the mujtahids joined forces with the Sunnis in the 1920 revolt. Following the revolt – and the mujtahids’ opposition to the Anglo-Iraqi treaty – the monarchy sought to tighten its grip on the Shi‘i population by undermining the clerics.35 In June 1923, Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, a staunch opponent of the British presence in Iraq, was deported along with his son Muh.ammad and other family members who had taken Iranian nationality during the Ottoman period to avoid conscription. They were joined in protest by the nine most prominent Persian mujtahids of the shrine cities. Many of the mujtahids were permitted to return to Iraq in April 1924. Muh.ammad al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, the important Shi‘i reformist, was forced to remain in Iran until 1949. His father, the Grand A¯yatulla¯h Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, died in exile.36 Following the deportation of the Persian mujtahids, the relations between Iraq and Iran deteriorated. This had clear financial consequences for the shrine cities. As the volume of Iranian pilgrims to Iraq shrank and the Shi‘i custom of transferring corpses to the shrine cities of Iraq was reduced, the demand for various services in these cities, such as markets and lodging facilities, dropped significantly. With their financial situation in decline, the Shi‘i population struggled to contribute to the clerics’ maintenance. Meanwhile, a deterioration of relations between Iraq and Iran and the emergence of competing nationalist frameworks also distanced these two communities. The state-building process had economic repercussions on the mujtahids, with the establishment of the Department of Awqa¯f – responsible for charitable funds previously controlled by the ‘ulama¯’.37 Yet, while the state was actively

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undermining the clerics, it simultaneously sought to incorporate the wider Shi‘i population. Promising young Shi‘is were admitted into the administration and were offered training and opportunities to advance. To counter the mujtahids’ power, the state also sought to bolster the position of the Shi‘i tribal shaykhs by offering them economic and political incentives such as tax immunities and by allocating seats in the parliament.38 A clear divide began to emerge between the rural Shi‘i masses of Arab origin and the prominent mujtahids, particularly of Persian origin. This reflected a cultural disparity of language, ethnicity and the tribal-urban gap, as well as the disagreement between the two groups over their relationship with the new state. Following initial opposition to the Anglo-Iraqi treaty, tribal shaykhs and leading urban figures began joining the political process, seeking to improve the community’s position through political representation. The disparate interests of Shi‘i Arab tribesmen and the mujtahids, who were predominantly of Persian origin, provided a boost to clerics of Arab origin such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’.39 Ties between growing numbers of Shi‘is and the state weakened the clerics’ power base. Urbanisation, education and social mobilisation drove this process. In the first half of the twentieth century, Shi‘i’s began to migrate en masse from the countryside to the capital of Baghdad and the port city of Basra, with its proximity to the southern marshland. The rapid expansion of industry and trade served as a magnet to both cities, especially amid the financial hardship that plagued the rural south because of problems with peasant ownership and the shaykhs’ opposition to land reform.40 As a result, many peasants lived in debt and were pushed to obtain loans that were tied to the land. Many Shi‘i peasants escaped with great hopes to newly-built urban neighbourhoods, only to discover poor sanitation and slum-like conditions. Often young, married and lacking elementary education, the urban dream turned into a trap of despair.41 With the move to Baghdad, clerics in the shrine cities were far from rural constituencies and detached from their new socioeconomic needs. Although many preserved some rural and tribal

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customs, the mujtahids were losing influence over the new urban poor, as growing numbers began to adopt new clothing, enroll in literacy classes and use state civil courts to settle disputes.42 Furthermore, the symbiotic relationship between the rural leadership of the shaykhs and the religious authority of the the ‘ulama¯’ was also eroding. As the shaykhs acquired political influence in Baghdad they were less in need of religious approval granted by the clerics, and no longer provided their unconditional support to the mujtahids. Education was also changing rapidly and threatening the clerics. While the first secular modern Shi‘i schools were established at the turn of the century, significant development in state education only emerged during the mandate era. The pioneer of modern Shi‘i education was the private Ja‘fariyya school in Baghdad, which boasted a student body exceeding 800 boys in 1914. It educated the new Shi‘i intelligentsia, including Iraq’s first Shi‘i prime minister, S.a¯lih. Jabr.43 Growing numbers of Shi‘is began sending their children to state-run schools instead of the traditional madrasas, since it opened doors to highly desirable government positions.44 In this newly-established state, the public school system was perceived as a tool to promote a new nationalist and secular patriotism.45 The minister of education tended to be a Shi‘i political appointee, who exercised little influence on policy authorised from Baghdad. There were, however, exceptions to this. Shi‘i official Muh.ammad Fa¯d.il al-Jamalı¯ exerted great influence as director general of education and inspector general in the Iraqi ministry of education. Born in Ka¯z.imayn in 1903, Jamalı¯ received a religious education in Najaf, later attending the American University of Beirut and completing a PhD in education at Columbia University in the US.46 Jamalı¯ was a staunch Arab nationalist but remained committed to the Shi‘i community. He contributed significantly to the expansion of state education among the Imami population by adding directors of education in the provinces, establishing a secondary school in Najaf, and appointing Shi‘is to teaching positions and administrative jobs in the ministry of education. Jamalı¯ was later appointed as minister of foreign affairs and in the early 1950s served for a short time as prime minister of Iraq (1953– 4).47

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At first, senior clerics actively opposed such development. They sought to safeguard traditional religious education by campaigning against state education, despite the growing demand among Shi‘is. The well-known Shi‘i Iraqi sociologist ‘Alı¯ al-Wardı¯ recalled that in the first years of the mandate, Imami clerics vocally opposed Shi‘is accepting government positions or enrolling in secular education. In time, however, some clerics accepted administrative positions themselves and sent their own children to state schools.48 New ideas were also voiced about the Shi‘i seminars. The most senior mujtahids sought to defend religious education. In contrast, young clerics, both in Iraq and Lebanon, called for far-reaching changes to the traditional curriculum in the shrine cities.49 Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-‘A¯milı¯ and Muh.ammad H.usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, the two subjects of this study, were senior clerics themselves. Yet they joined the younger and lower-ranks of the ‘ulama¯’ in a campaign to introduce modern sciences to religious education and to tackle its methodological disorder.50 As increasing numbers of Shi’is attended state schools and little significant reform was made in Najaf madrasas, the numbers of religious scholars in Najaf dropped significantly. While about 6,000 students were enrolled in some 20 theological seminaries in the early 1920s, by the late 1950s their numbers had plummeted to about 2,000.51 In 1935, a new modernised madrasa, Muntada al-Nashr, was established with the support of several reformist clerics to teach modern disciplines alongside traditional Islamic subjects. Endorsed by the Iraqi establishment, the institute heralded the creation of a statelinked modernised alternative to traditional madrasas. Although it was approved by some leading clerics, many among the Najaf religious establishment did not recognise this institution as a true madrasa.52 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯, one of the few clerics who endorsed the new institution, published a fatwa that approved opening classes to expand the general knowledge of preachers.53 The new modernised madrasa would become extremely influential. Its students would later include Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr, the main ideologist of the Da‘wa party (established in the late 1950s), and Muh.ammad H.usayn Fad.lallah (1935–2010), the spiritual leader of the H.izbullah movement.54

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Changing patterns of education during the first half of the twentieth century fostered the emergence of new social classes that were tied to the embryonic Iraqi state and to its socioeconomic growth.55 Growing ties between the Iraqi Shi‘is and the state system created a new nationalist affiliation that did not destroy previous tribal, ethnic and sectarian affinities, but weakened and reshaped them. Perhaps these tribes were quick to accept a nationalist identification because as relatively recent converts to Shi‘ism they may have had a deeper sense of affinity to wider Iraqi society. Beginning with the 1920 revolt and more overtly during the mandate years, Shi‘is began using patriotic language, particularly in reaction to Sunnis who questioned their national belonging.56 Migration, changing patterns of education and the development of Iraqi nationalism led to the emergence of a lay Shi‘i political leadership that sought to translate the Shi‘is’ numerical majority into political influence. Shi‘i political involvement was divided between cooperation with Sunni nationalists against Britain and separate Shi‘i representation.57 Growing numbers of secularised Shi‘is also joined the Communist party as an avenue for integration and equality that cut across the sectarian divide.58 Shi‘is began steadily penetrating the Iraqi administration as never before, although they still remained under-represented. Only three Shi‘i politicians – Ja‘far Abu¯’l-Timman, Muh.sin al-Shallash and S.a¯lih. al-Jabr – were nominated to cabinet posts by the end of the second world war. In 1948, S.a¯lih. al-Jabr was appointed as the first Shi‘i prime minister.59 By rejecting direct political involvement, the mujtahids paved the way for the emergence of a more secular-minded leadership to represent the community vis-a`-vis the state. Merchants, intellectuals and politicians were the backbone of this new Shi‘i elite.60 It represented a big change from the early years of the monarchy, when there was a clear correlation between social standing and sectarian affiliation, in which the prosperous landlords and merchants tended to be Sunnis while the cultivators and poor villagers tended to be Shi‘is. Now, growing numbers of Shi‘i land-owners and large merchants known as Chalabı¯s began to change the social equation, though inequality was still rampant.61

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The rise of the Shi‘i bourgeoisie threatened the religious power of the clerics as socioeconomic status became a defining characteristic for leadership. Furthermore, while the bazaari class in Iran traditionally served as the financial backbone of the ‘ulama¯’, this new class of Iraqi merchants did not necessarily provide maintenance for the clerics, particularly since some of its members were affiliated with secular ideologies. Ja‘far Abu¯’l-Timman, the prominent businessman and politician, was a case in point. This nationalist leader came from a wealthy Shi‘i trading family and played a significant role in the 1920 revolt. Later, Abu¯’l-Timman served as the president of the Baghdad Chamber of Commerce (1935–45) and played a leading role in the National Party and in the left-wing populist Aha¯lı¯ group.62 The budding Shi‘i intelligentsia adopted a contemporary and critical approach to society and religion. Many among this small intellectual group were educated in traditional Shi‘i madrasas, but some renounced religion altogether, while others perceived Islam more as a cultural affiliation than a ritualistic and legal obligation. To them, Shi‘ism was seen as a component of a multifaceted identity, even as many intellectuals still considered themselves socially and culturally to be members of the Shi‘i community, which they sought to educate and lead towards a more progressive future. This small group had limited influence on the Shi‘i masses. As they challenged the clerics’ monopoly over knowledge and were the first generation to break away from religion, however, they were considered a clear and present danger by the reformist mujtahids, who sought to counter their influence.63 Al-‘Irfa¯n journal became the mouthpiece of the nascent Shi‘i intelligentsia. Through this modern publication, Shi‘is from both Iraq and Lebanon promoted education, popularised science and advanced a reformist approach towards religion. Shi‘is were also involved in cultural circles within the nation-state and beyond. Al-Shabı¯ba al-‘Amiliyya al-Najafiyya (The ‘Amili Najafi Youth) demonstrated the emergence of a trans-national social and cultural space in which modern ideas were exchanged among an educated Shi‘i stratum. It was a cultural club, engaged with literary ideas of

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Arab cultural revival promoted by the Nahd.a movement, which was established in the late nineteenth century.64 An international sense of a community had already existed in the pre-modern world, cultivated through the Shi‘i centres of learning in Najaf and Karbala¯’. There was, however, much novelty in the twentieth century globalised community. Contacts were fostered by modern means of transportation and contemporary journals. Knowledge was dispersed not only within the religious elite but among a wider educated population, and the topics of discourse were relevant for the current generation. Moreover, this intelligentsia belonged to overlapping intellectual networks and adopted a broader sense of affiliation, embracing Muslim, Arab, Shi‘i and new socio-political associations. The secularised Shi‘i bourgeois in Iraq at the time sought to integrate into the national state of Iraq and into the broader Arab realm. They believed that they could be accepted as equal citizens in the state of Iraq and as full-fledged members in some form of a panArab cultural or political entity. During the first half of the twentieth century, as Iraq was engaged in a state-building process, members of the new Shi‘i intelligentsia began shifting away from sectarianism and towards Arabism and other broad orientations, such as Communism. The Da‘wa (call for Islam) party was founded in the late 1950s by a group of reform-minded Shi‘i clerics against the backdrop of the rising threat of secularism and the growing attraction to Communism among members of the community. It signalled a new Shi‘i understanding that only a separate political representation will safeguard their rights and preserve their cultural heritage.65 While some Shi‘is managed to penetrate the Iraqi administration, the state system as a whole was controlled by the Sunnis from the years of the mandate and through Iraq’s revolutionary regimes. Beginning in 1968, things got worse for the Shi‘is under the Ba‘th regime, with its tight state control and its shift towards totalitarianism.66 From the mid-century, government bodies rapidly grew and state functions expanded. During the first decades of the mandate, the Iraqi government controlled mainly taxation and military conscription. By the 1970s, nearly all jobs, prices, trade and modes of

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communication were under tight state management. In order to get a job, one had to be close to the ruling junta, and later on membership in the Ba‘ath party was a prerequisite for work. As a result, many Shi‘is were unable to obtain jobs appropriate to their skills. By the 1970s, the Shi‘i community, with its separate political representation, was headed for direct confrontation with Saddam’s authoritarian one-man rule. As tensions mounted, the Da‘wa party began to move its message away from the universal call for Islam of its early days toward a clear sectarian orientation.67 The return of the historical Sunni-Shi‘i divide into contemporary Middle East politics was solidified in the following decade as a result of the Islamic revolution and the eruption of the Iran– Iraq war (1980–8). In Lebanon, the Shi‘i community also underwent similar social changes during this period. Questions of leadership, authority, knowledge and identity, were debated in the community, echoing similar discussions among Shi‘is in Iraq and Iran, in the course of the twentieth century.

Lebanon: The Development of Divided Communal Loyalties As in Iraq, until the twentieth century most Shi‘is in the region of Lebanon were detached from the wider populace, although in many cases they lived or worked in close proximity to their Sunni neighbours. As a religious minority in need of protection, they chose to live in peripheral areas. Lebanon’s Shi‘is were concentrated in Jabal ‘A¯mil, situated in south Lebanon, between the Awali River to the north and the Galilee to the south. They also resided in the northern Beqa¯‘. The people of Jabal ‘A¯mil formed a settled peasant society that lived in a difficult mountainous terrain and inhabited meagre plots with poor soil and limited water resources. They were involved in a variety of types of agricultural production including grains, vegetables, fruit, olive oil, wine, cheese, wool, raw cotton and raw silk, mostly for their own consumption or for the shaykhs on behalf of whom they worked. The villagers lived under the leadership of landowning families and the local ‘ulama¯’, who played an important role in the life of this region throughout the centuries by keeping this

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small group in touch with the larger Shi‘i diaspora. The Shi‘is of the northern Beqa¯‘ valley were a semi-nomadic clan society situated in the driest part of Lebanon. Both Shi‘i-Lebanese groups were organised in tight-knit communities, living at the margins of society.68 Like their Iraqi co-religionists, the Shi‘is of Lebanon lived in closed communities until the twentieth century, but sectarianism was not the most prominent component of their identity. Similar to other groups in Lebanon, the Shi‘is had a core loyalty towards family ties and clan affiliations. Sectarian and religious affiliations were also primary marks of identity. Yet, their outward manifestations were softened, as members of different confessional groups lived side-byside and maintained neighbourly relations. Furthermore, Shi‘i rituals, such as the ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ ceremonies, were observed in private, as a result of Ottoman restrictions, which muted the emergence of deep sectarian identification.69 As a result, until the twentieth century, the Shi‘i sectarian affiliation determined the broader politics of the Ottoman Empire but was not a significant factor in local interconfessional relations. Among the Shi‘is of Lebanon, Imami Islam was primarily manifested in a loyalty to the clerical leadership and in private observance of particular rituals – but it was by no means the only or most significant mark of identity. As an unacknowledged religious minority and a disadvantaged social group, the Lebanese Shi‘is generally did not participate in political developments in this Syrian district of the Ottoman Empire. In some cases, Shi‘is lived in the same villages as Maronites and both groups were linked through the cultivation of the mulberry tree and the joint production of silk. Yet, while both communities raised the silkworm, only the Maronites processed the cocoons and managed the silk factories. The latter were also the ones involved in the silk trade with world markets during the nineteenth century. Indeed, different groups lived side-by-side in this region. Yet, confessionally homogeneous clusters and marriage within the sect cemented Shi‘i segregation. Under Ottoman rule, Shi‘is suffered from sporadic persecution. They also lacked foreign patronage in contrast with other minorities in the empire.70

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Only a small group of Shi‘i notables – or zu‘ama’ – began acquiring growing socioeconomic and political influence, and slowly breaking away from communal segregation. These notables such as the ‘Usayrans in Sidon, the al-Khalı¯lı¯s in Tyre and the al-Zayns in Nabatiya, belonged to a small number of urban and town-based merchant families who gained ownership of large tracts of land. At the turn of the twentieth century, members of this class began adopting wider affiliations. They expressed Arab nationalist sentiments by joining political and literary societies promoting the cause.71 Yet, as this group advanced, most of the Shi‘i population remained on the margins of society. The southern villages as a whole had only Qur’anic schools until the late 1930s. In the early 1940s, Jabal ‘A¯mil had no hospitals, only a few paved roads, a shortage of fresh water, and most villages had no access to electricity.72 The situation of the Lebanese-Shi‘i community changed dramatically after the 1920 San Remo conference and the declaration of a French mandate over the former Ottoman sanjak of Mount Lebanon.73 With the establishment of the state of Greater Lebanon (Le Grand Liban) by the French high commissioner in Syria and Lebanon, a large Muslim population was annexed to the predominantly Christian autonomous region of Mount Lebanon. This included the Sunni-dominated coastal cities, along with the Shi‘i areas of Jabal ‘A¯mil and the Beqa¯‘. The new state was a realisation of the Maronite population’s dreams of independence, although its Christian identity was compromised by the incorporation of a large Muslim population. In 1926, Lebanon was declared a constitutional republic with a provision for a parliamentary democracy.74 In both Iraq and Lebanon, the Shi‘is’ incorporation into the new states threatened the ‘ulama¯’’s control. There were, however, significant differences in the political and legal integration of both communities. Unlike in Iraq, most Lebanese Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’ did not revolt against the French occupation, and eventually developed pragmatic connections with the mandate establishment. The legal position of the Shi‘is – who were an unrecognised minority under the Ottomans – dramatically improved under the French. The new

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conquerers recognised the Imami community as an independent sect and established a Ja‘farı¯ court for personal status issues.75 Shi‘i support for a ‘greater Lebanon’ was mustered by the French in an attempt to create a rift between the Shi‘is and the largely pro-Syrian Sunnis and to establish a Maronite– Shi‘i majority. As a result of French efforts to co-opt the Imami population, leading Shi‘i families sought to collaborate with the mandate authorities.76 According to the 1932 French consensus, the Shi‘is numbered 16 per cent of total population of around 793,000, although these figures were questioned by some as under-representing the Shi‘is while overrepresenting the Christian population.77 The development of working relations with the French began with the lower level ‘ulama¯’ and extended to the more senior clerics. During the first years of the mandate, clerics such as ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯ and Muh.sin al-Amı¯n rejected nominations to official religious positions affiliated with the establishment of the Ja‘farı¯ court. In contrast, the lower tier of the ‘ulama¯’, such as Shaykh Munı¯r Usayran, accepted official positions.78 Change began in the 1930s, as the more senior ‘ulama¯’ began dealing with the French establishment in a bid to prevent their isolation, as many religious posts were linked to the establishment of the state-led Ja‘farı¯ court. Mu¯sawı¯ himself petitioned for the appointment of his sons to official positions, one of whom was nominated as mufti of Tyre, adopting a Sunni judicial position that did not exist traditionally in the Shi‘i legal framework.79 Mu¯sawı¯ appeared quite willing to accept the French state-structure in order to buttress his religious authority. In 1943, a power-sharing system was established in Lebanon as a result of what was known as the unwritten National Pact. In the agreement, the Maronites received the office of the presidency, the Sunnis the position of prime minister, and the Shi‘is the office of parliamentary speaker. It followed the 1932 census that placed the Shi‘is as the third-largest community.80 This power-sharing system created some loyalty to the national political framework, without necessarily nullifying old allegiances.81 However, while the structure was confessional, individual Shi‘is were involved in different political movements representing various ideologies in collaboration with

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both Sunnis and Christians, which resulted in the fragmentation of the community. Shi‘is participated in political parties ranging from Christian-dominated parties to communist and socialist groups, panArab movements and even Sunni-dominated parties.82 During this period, the community was shaping its socio-political affiliations. Like in Iraq, this feudal society began undergoing changes with the first major migration from Southern Lebanon to Beirut in the 1920s as a result of urban development under the French and the neglect of the Shi‘i south. Yet, in contrast with Iraq, Shi‘i migration only gained momentum between the 1950s and 70s. By the mid century, Shi‘is numbered only 3.5 per cent of the population in Beirut. The bulk of the community remained socially and politically at the periphery of society, with illiteracy rates reaching nearly 70 per cent in the 1940s.83 Between the two World Wars, several important small towns grew in Shi‘i areas including Tyre, Bint Jbeil, Nabatiyya, Jwaya, Khiam and Ba‘lbak, marking a preliminary step toward the urbanisation of the community. Business and the exchange of agricultural produce occurred in the markets of these towns, as Shi‘is became more involved in trade and small industries such as shoemaking and pottery.84 These gradual changes contributed to a shift in the social fabric of the population. It also led to the political involvement of a remodelled traditional leadership. A small number of prominent Shi‘i families of the zu‘ama¯’ preserved much of their former power in the new state of Lebanon using a clientele system of social control.85 Concurrently, they also buttressed their traditional position as mediators by acquiring political power.86 Under the mandate, the zu‘ama¯’ retained much of their former power by cooperating with the French and adapting their style of leadership to urban circumstances. This coincided with the French decision to include members of all religious sects in the administration.87 Pushing the administration to develop the south, the zu‘ama¯’ demanded that it build roads, establish schools and provide equal representation in government positions, in a clear shift from the former isolationist position of the local Shi‘i population.88

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Uprooted from rural localities, many Shi‘is living in towns and in Beirut began experiencing significant changes in their day-to-day needs, related to housing, employment and medical care. Now they were dependent on access to state services, which were delivered through a chain of alliances with the re-modelled leadership of the zu‘ama¯’.89 The clerics maintained good relations with the zu‘ama¯’, however both the villages in the South and the Shi‘i migrants to the towns and Beirut were in dire need of leaders who could provide access to state services instead of a leadership that contributed only to their spiritual wellbeing. Acknowledging this political necessity, a group of Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’ addressed the high commissioner in Lebanon in 1923 and demanded equal governmental employment opportunities for Shi‘is. Concurrently, members of religious families began entering the administration, including the al-Amı¯n, Sharaf al-Dı¯n, al-Faqı¯h and Mughniyya families.90 It was not the first time that the zu‘ama¯’’s power base was challenged. Since the late nineteenth century, its traditional links to the clerical leadership had been contested with the emergence of a new urban bourgeoisie. Following changing patterns of education, young members of well-known families no longer enrolled in the madrasas of the shrine cities, and instead gained education in the fields of medicine, law, engineering or literature.91 Members of this new bourgeoisie group known as the wujaha¯’ included the ‘Usayran in Saida, the Zayn family in Nabatieh, Tyre and Saida, and the Khalı¯l family in Tyre. Among the Zayn family, prominent members included Shaykh Ah.mad ‘rif al-Zayn who set up the journal al-‘Irfa¯n, relying on the family’s mercantile resources, and Yu¯suf Bey al-Zayn (1878– 1962), the businessman and prominent ‘A¯milı¯ politician of the mandate. As members of a society in transition, the urban notables balanced a sectarian affiliation and a patrimonial kin association with a more complex modern social network based on narrow and specialised ties to state institutions.92 Similar to the zu‘ama¯’, this new middle class acted as mediators between Shi‘i society and the state structure. Their style of leadership was more modern, and they were involved in myriad social networks that provided welfare, education, economic assistance and political

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influence. Al-Jam‘iyya al-Khayriyya al-Isla¯miyya al-‘A¯miliyya (The ‘A¯milı¯ Islamic Benevolent Society) under the leadership of its president Rashı¯d Baydoun symbolised this development. Founded in 1923, the charity promoted modern education among the local Shi‘is, developed welfare projects and also adopted a reformist approach to religion.93 The wujaha¯’ represented a more modernised Shi‘i leadership that did not necessarily detach itself from Islam, but contested the social control of the more conservative ‘ulama¯’. Rashı¯d Baydoun’s charity signalled the first steps in the emergence of a civic conscience among the new Shi‘i elites, similar to the development of a comparable social space among Sunni modernists at the turn of the twentieth century. The formation of Rashı¯d Baydoun’s charity indicated that the community was undergoing an important social transition. From a narrow, local affiliation to a village, progressive members of the community were embracing a broader Shi‘i identity tied to the framework of the new nation-state. From the 1950s, the Shi‘i bourgeois expanded its ranks following the immigration of community members to Arab oil-producing states, and particularly to Kuwait and Libya. The wealthy returnees began investing in real estate development, citrus crop cultivation, leisure activities and trade in Africa. The latter activity was linked to Lebanese immigration to West Africa under the French mandate. During the first half of the twentieth century, the diaspora Shi‘i community of West Africa channelled funds into the neglected Lebanese south to help build schools, mosques and fund social services.94 In the 1970s, there was a further development in the business activity of Shi‘is who returned from Arab oil-producing states. From investment in second-tier businesses, as mentioned above, these affluent Shi’is became involved in banks as well as large industries and corporations. At this stage, the Shi‘is of Lebanon were no longer a predominantly rural community living in marginal areas. More than 60 per cent of this population was now urban, with more than 45 per cent of them clustered in Beirut and its suburbs. In 1975, the number of Shi‘is in the country was estimated at 750,000, about 30 per cent of the population, up from 18 per cent in the late 1940s, as a result of high birth rates in the traditional society.95

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These social changes were behind the establishment of H . arakat alMah.ru¯mı¯n (Movement of the Dispossessed), founded in 1974 by Imam Musa al-S.adr, who succeeded Mu¯sawı¯ as the spiritual leader of Tyre. A charismatic Iranian-born cleric, Musa al-S.adr was a member of the prominent al-S.adr family from Jabal ‘A¯mil that also had branches in Iraq and Iran. One of its prominent members was Ba¯qir al-S.adr of Iraq, who played a paramount role in the revival of Shi‘ism. His cousin Musa al-S.adr instilled a social conscience among the Shi‘is of Lebanon, through his involvement in H . arakat al-Mah.ru¯mı¯n. The movement reflected a new political awareness among Lebanon’s growing Shi‘i bourgeois who began challenging the distribution of power and resources in Lebanon’s political system. This was a protest movement that enjoyed mass support among members of the community, including the urban poor, the deprived peasants and the growing Shi‘i elite. It was complemented by H . arakat Amal (The Movement of Hope), a militia that operated parallel to H . arakat al-Mah.ru¯mı¯n. Musa al-S.adr’s movement came to known eventually as Amal. Similar to the the Da‘wa in Iraq, Musa al-S.adr’s decision to establish a separate Shi‘i representation stemmed from the sense of threat from the rising appeal of Leftist tendencies among young Shi‘is. It also signalled a rejection of the incompetence of the traditional leadership of the zu‘ama with their reliance on personal patronage and their alliance with the existing political forces. Instead Musa al-S.adr called for struggle, which included the use of military means, in order to compel the authorities to address the social grievances of the deprived.96 *** Throughout the twentieth century, Shi‘is in Lebanon, Iraq and Iran experienced a comparable process of social change, which strengthened their ties to the nation-state. These similar processes also facilitated connections that cut across national and sectarian affiliations, and enabled the revival of an international Shi‘i network. Social change was perhaps most meaningful among the Shi’is in Iraq in comparison with their co-religionists in Lebanon and Iran. This was due to the important shift that occurred during this period in the

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isolationist position of Iraqi Shi‘is and the significance of the centres of learning in Najaf and Karbala’ for the entire Shi‘i milieu. Iran also underwent substantial changes during this period. However, these changes did not have the same impact on the mujtahids in Iran, who had cultivated connections with the holders of power and with the urban centres since the Safavid era. In comparison, the Shi‘is of Lebanon were exposed to modernisation later than their counterparts in Iran and Iraq. Despite this, the Lebanese clerics enjoyed a stronger position than their co-religionists because of the state’s recognition of their sectarian affiliation, although their role became confined to state power. The Lebanese mujtahids were also challenged by the rise of new social forces, similar to those in Iran and Iraq. In all three countries, the misery of the new urban poor was a time-bomb and a cadre for future protest movements. Modernisation did not lead to a clear improvement in their physical conditions and did not facilitate their access to power holders. Instead primordial ties based on tribe, family and sectarianism continued to define their core identity. This cemented the popular manifestation of Shi‘i Islam in its cult of the saints and adulation of the mujtahids. Ordinary Shi‘is, on one hand, tended to uphold their traditional affiliations, while mujtahids in the Arab world began re-evaluating core principles of Imami Islam. Later on, this effort was undertaken by Iran, with its strong intelligentsia and growing anti-Shah movement. The Shi‘i-Arab world also witnessed the emergence of a new bourgeois from the early twentieth century. Nevertheless, the Iranian intelligentsia created a deeper exchange with Western thought. On the other hand, Shi‘is in Iraq and Lebanon were minority communities, who were exposed to new ideas, mainly through Sunni Arabist and modernist circles. Consequently, the middle class in Iran was more developed than the embryonic Shi‘i elite in Iraq and Lebanon. The Islamic revolutionary movement was a product of an alliance between clerics and members of the intelligentsia. The new pact between Iranian intellectuals and Khomeini was based on a mutual resentment toward the Sha¯h and on the need to join forces in order to topple a strong authoritarian regime. During this period, the Iranian intelligentsia also began

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rediscovering Shi‘a Islam, which was rebranded as a religion of progress and social justice. In Iraq, members of the Shi‘i intelligentsia joined the Da‘wa party, although the movement was led by modernised clerics and not by the educated Shi‘i elite, due to the success of earlier reformist clerics in recapturing their leadership position. Modernisation and the emergence of new social classes, whose fortune was tied to the state, created a clear threat to the traditional leadership of the mujtahids. Imami clerics, who historically enjoyed great prestige in their communities, began losing their grip over society. The emergence of a new Shi‘i intelligentsia presented an acute danger to the role of Islam in society. Clerical reformists in both Lebanon and Iraq sought to reach out to this secularised elite by developing a rational, enlightened and cross-sectarian vision of Islam in an attempt to make Shi‘ism more relevant to the people. A group of reform-minded clerics attempted to re-assert their authority by initiating a religious discourse that would be more appealing to their communities. To do so, these reformists shifted away from the traditionally narrow approach to learning that had previously focused mainly on the study of fiqh (jurisprudence) and us.u¯l (the sources and principles of law).97 Venturing into new topics of discussion such as politics, society, science, health and women’s issues, and reevaluating the traditional Shi‘i understanding of theology and jurisprudence, the reformists began to open doors that would have unpredictable consequences for the future.

CHAPTER 2 MUSLIM UNITY: A CONTEMPORARY READING TO HISTORIOGRAPHY

O Muslims, followers of the school of tauhid! The ultimate reason for all of the troubles that afflict the Muslim countries is their disunity and lack of harmony; and the secret to a future victory will lie in unity and the creation of harmony. . . Let us all act for the sake of Islam and the welfare of the Muslims and shun disunity, separation and sectarianism, for these are the source of all our misfortunes and weaknesses. . . (Imam Khomeini1) Since the time of the Prophet, the ideal of the united Muslim umma as a cohesive religious community that accepts the Qur’an as its scripture and Muh.ammad as its Prophet was endorsed by both Sunnis and Shi‘is.2 In reality, however, since Islam’s inception and the ensuing outbreak of the internal controversy over the succession to the Prophet, this ideal of a united community that transcends tribal, racial and ethnic differences, as well as the definition of the true umma, had been contested. On the whole, the newly-emerged Muslim community respected the Prophet’s family, known as the ahl al-bayt. Yet, the party of ‘Alı¯ narrowed the meaning of the extended family down to a particular line of descent that included Muh.ammad,

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‘Alı¯, Fa¯t.ima, H . asan and H.usayn. Furthermore, these five members were acknowledged as the only legitimate leaders of the community, while descendants of ‘Alı¯ by other women – as well as descendants of H . asan – were excluded. The lineage continued 3 through H . usayn. Discord over the community’s leadership was at the core of the historical Sunni– Shi‘i controversy. From as early as the period of the Imams, the conflict also acquired a theological dimension. During this period, and particularly following the Occultation of the Twelfth Imam (941), Shi‘i scholars began formulating the distinctive theology of the Imamate. This was the belief in the special qualities of the ahl al-bayt and their descendents and their designation to lead the community. The principle of the ima¯ma, as a core doctrine, defined Shi‘ism as a separate Muslim sect and created an insurmountable rift between Sunnis and Shi‘is. As will be demonstrated, the sectarian schism peaked when the two sects were connected to their respective states, with the emergence of the Ottoman Empire representative of Sunni H . anafı¯ Islam and the ascendance of the Safavids, who adhered to Twelver Shi‘ism. It was not until the first half of the twentieth century that reformist Shi‘i clerics made the call for a unified umma the flagship of their thought. This followed similar pan-Islamic initiatives by their Sunni counterparts. Until the modern era, however, the concept of a unified umma remained an unrealised ideal as the sectarian, ethnic or socioeconomic divides proved too wide to bridge. Only a small scholarly elite held contacts with their rival peers, transcending their close communal affiliation. In the twentieth century, the divisive character of the Muslim community began to give way to pan-Islamic notions. Greater physical and intellectual contacts between wider segments of the Muslim community led to a more globalised sense of a religious community. With the emergence of colonialism and growing Muslim perceptions of a new Christian crusade against Islam, the community felt a new sense of urgency to unite. Shi‘i leaders such as the Iraqi mujtahid Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, as well as the Lebanese clerics ‘Abd al-H . usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯ and his

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follower Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, were the main pioneers of this modern Shi‘i call for Muslim unity. They forged contacts with prominent figures in the Sunni and Arab world and were involved in pan-Islamic efforts. Their campaign for Muslim unity, its framework and its contribution to traditional Muslim notions of historiography, will be evaluated in the following disucssion. The relationship between these efforts and similar notions later to be promoted by the Islamic revolutionaries in Iran will also be assessed. In the early twentieth century, Shi‘i efforts at inter-Muslim reconciliation were facilitated by exposure to modernisation. Greater contacts between Sunnis and Shi‘is resulted from the improvement of road and rail links, Shi‘i migration to the urban centres and Shi‘i involvement in the emerging political frameworks of new Arab states. Shi‘is in Iraq were perhaps open to the idea of Muslim unity, since the bulk of the Shi‘i tribal population were relative newcomers to Imami Islam and shared a similar tribal, ethnic and family-based identity with their fellow Sunnis. Lebanon sits at the heart of the Sunni-Arab world, but is also home to a political system established in 1943 that was based on a sectarian model. Therefore, while the political and judicial structures were confessional, Shi‘is in Lebanon were also receptive to wider notions of Arabism and pan-Islam. Shi‘i clerics began travelling from the shrine cities of Najaf and Karbala¯’ to locations throughout the Muslim world. Their Lebanese counterparts also started to leave their villages, without confining themselves to travels strictly for the purpose of pilgrimage and study. A flurry of meetings took place between Shi‘i clerics and Sunni scholars – particularly the ‘ulama¯’ of al-Azhar.4 For example, in 1904 the Lebanese reformist cleric Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-‘A¯milı¯ visited Cairo, where he discussed Islamic teaching methods with leading figures at al-Azhar. He repeated the journey 19 years later. In addition, the Iraqi mujtahid Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ travelled to Egypt in 1910, where he met the Shaykh al-Azhar, Salı¯m al-Bishrı¯. A year later, Mu¯sawı¯ arrived in Cairo, where he also claimed to have met Salı¯m al-Bishrı¯.5 From the 1930s onward, this trend accelerated, with increasing numbers of Shi‘i scholars visiting al-Azhar,

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furthering connections between Najaf and the Sunni centre of learning in Egypt.6 Nationalist sentiments and steps toward socio-political assimilation aroused a feeling of a new dawn in inter-sectarian relations. Beginning in the 1930s, growing numbers of Shi‘is began to acquire a state education and participate in the emerging nationalist and Arabist discourse. As a result, the emerging secularised elite started to see itself as part of new non-sectarian frameworks.7 Both in Iraq and Lebanon, a reform-minded clerical leadership re-evaluated the historical inter-sectarian discord. In the Sunni world, with the dissolution of the caliphate and the rise of pan-Arabism, the flag of pan-Islam was fading. While Shi‘is continued to promote this notion, their call for Muslim unity focused on the aspirations of the Imami community, replacing the earlier Sunni-led pan-Islamic notion. It was invoked as a means to facilitate Shi‘i integration into the national state system and beyond, in a shift from their historical social and religious seclusion.

Inter-Sectarian Relations: from Historical Conflict to Pan-Islamism For centuries, Sunni-Shi‘i relations were defined by the dispute over the succession of the Prophet and the right to political and religious leadership of the Islamic community. Two diverse historiographies emerged that reflected this inter-sectarian discord over the question of authority. Traditional Sunni historical accounts exemplified the reign of the four rightly-guided Caliphs as the ‘golden age’ of Islam.8 The ‘golden age’ began with the Prophet and his message of the Qur’an through the personal accounts of his companions and the reigns of ‘Abu¯ Bakr and ‘Umar, the first two caliphs. This era reached its culmination during the leadership of ‘Uthma¯n, with the outbreak of the first fitna (literally test or temptation; referring to the revolt or civil war that split the community).9 The historical accounts of al-T.abarı¯, the famous tenth-century Persian historian, became the prototype of Sunni historiography.10 During the late nineteenth century, the Salafi movement revived the idea that the rule of ‘the

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rightly-guided Caliphs’ known as the virtuous forefathers (al-salaf als˙a¯lih.), was the ‘golden age’ of Islam.11 Shi‘ism as a persecuted minority could not refer to a ‘golden age’. The formative period of Imami Islam began with the Prophet who designated ‘Alı¯ as his successor and continued with the perception of an illegitimate seizure of this ordained leadership by the first caliphs, with the assistance of the .sah.a¯ba.12 Shi‘i historiography was highly critical of the first two caliphs. Abu¯ Bakr was condemned for his complicity in convening the Saqı¯fa assembly, which appointed him as the first caliph and usurped ‘Alı¯’s claim to the caliphate.13 Objection to the second caliph was rooted in his involvement in the Saqı¯fa and in the Shi‘i belief that ‘Umar manipulatively barred the Prophet from writing his will and pronouncing ‘Alı¯ as his successor.14 They also disapproved of ‘Umar’s legal innovations.15 A contentious perception of Muslim authority remained the dividing element between Sunni and Shi‘i historiographies. While the Sunnis invested authority in the most capable leader, the Shi‘a notion of leadership was a continuation of the comprehensive charismatic authority held by the Prophet, which incorporated political, judicial and religious power. As they were denied their right to excercise true authority, Shi‘is promoted the historical symbol of Imami ‘martyrology’.16 Inter-sectarian polemics that appeared throughout Muslim history reinforced the sectarian split over Muslim historiography. The wellknown al-H . illı¯-Ibn Taymiyya polemical exchange of the fourteenth century entrenched the inter-sectarian conflict for centuries to come.17 Conflicting historiographies of Sunnis and Shi‘is were linked to the Sunni concept of ijma¯‘ and the Shi‘i perception of al-kha¯.s.sa. In Sunni Islam, consensus (ijma¯‘) became the controlling guideline of legal discourse.18 Ijma¯‘ became a defining feature of the ahl al-sunna. This notion excluded Shi’a Islam, since it was pronounced as deviating from the four recognised Sunni schools of law (the madhhabs).19 Classical Imami thought also developed a vision of exclusivity. Their creed was perceived as a chosen group (al-kha¯.s.sa), in possession of true Islamic belief (ima¯n), living among the generality of the Muslims (al-‘a¯mma). Shi‘i scholars accepted that there was an

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insurmountable gap between the infallible Imams and their followers. Yet they sought to elevate the status of their creed and to portray the followers of Imam ‘Ali as enjoying a lofty position close to that of the Imams. This elitist self-image was rooted in the Shi‘i dualist perception of history, which revolved around a continuous battle between two antagonistic forces. From their perspective, the Imams and their followers were the forces of knowledge, goodness and true belief, while their adversaries reflected ignorance and evil-doing.20 In essence, this Shi‘i view was just as exclusivist as the Sunni position. Yet although there was a clear disparity over historiography and the question of authority, there were also instances of collaboration between Sunni and Shi‘i scholars, particularly in the legal domain.21 A more binary Muslim world emerged with the ascendance of the Safavids at the beginning of the sixteenth century.22 Sectarian relations polarised as Sunni and Shi‘i Islam became associated with the power of two adversarial states; the Safavids emerged as representatives of Shi‘ism, facing the Ottoman Sultans, who believed they were defending the boundaries of Sunni Islam.23 Both empires used religion as a banner to enhance the power and legitimacy of their rule.24 From the late nineteenth century, Muslims from both sects began adopting a more conciliatory approach towards inter-sectarian relations. It started with the activities of the sultan Abdu¨lhamid II (1876– 1909), who raised the flag of Islamic unity as a defensive mechanism against the weakness of Ottoman rule. Pan-Islam became a new binding source of legitimacy for a troubled leadership. The caliph portrayed himself as the spiritual and temporal authority of all Muslims and as the mythical symbol of Islamic power, albeit within a 25 particular Sunni H . anafı¯ version of orthodoxy. Muslim reformers and modernisers raised the flag of pan-Islam from the end of the nineteenth century and during the first decades of the twentieth century. They promoted a vague notion of Muslim unity and avoided contentious inter-sectarian issues. The precursor of Islamic reformism, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Asada¯ba¯dı¯ ‘al-Afgha¯nı¯’, championed the notion of Muslim unity. He urged all Muslims to unite behind the leadership of the Ottoman caliph to overcome political

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weakness and cultural inferiority in the face of Western imperialism.26 However, in order to promote his pan-Islamic initiative, and to receive the backing of the Ottoman Sultan, al-Afgha¯nı¯ preferred to conceal his Persian and Shi‘i origins, presenting himself instead as a Sunni from Afghanistan.27 Pan-Islam under Sunni domination remained on the agenda of the Muslim world throughout the first half of the twentieth century. Between the two World Wars, a chain of Muslim congresses was assembled under the common theme of Muslim struggle against Western imperialism. In 1931, the General Islamic Congress convened in Jerusalem in order to promote the cause of Muslim Palestine. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was invited to attend and became the first noted Shi‘i cleric to participate in a pan-Islamic congress. He was welcomed with a great deal of respect and was invited to lead the prayer for the opening ceremony in al-Aqsa mosque. Yet beyond this significant gesture, the topic of Sunni-Shi‘i rapprochement never surfaced on the agenda of the various assemblies. Towards the middle of the century, the congress movement disbanded as the Muslim world was broken up into nation states.28 Furthermore, despite this pan-Islamic activity, anti-Shi‘i polemics did not disappear from Muslim discourse.29 During this period, prominent Sunni Arab figures expressed clear anti-Shi‘i tendencies. This led to apologetic responses from Shi‘i leaders in Iraq and Lebanon, who felt compelled to react and defend Shi‘a adherence to true Islam. The famous al-Mana¯r journal (The Lighthouse), which was launched by Rashı¯d Rid.a¯ (1865– 1935) in 1898, promoted this prominent Muslim reformist’s progressive vision of Islam and society.30 Yet, al-Mana¯r also begame a platform to advance an antiShi‘i worldview in pro-Wahhabi articles published by the journal.31 The Egyptian historian Ah.mad Amı¯n (1886– 1954) provided another example of this anti-Shi‘i trend, in his book Fajr al-Isla¯m (The Dawn of Islam).32 Ah.mad Amı¯n met Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ in Najaf in 1931 and, as a result of this encounter, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ wrote As.l al-Shı¯‘a wa-us.u¯luha¯ (The Principles of the Shi‘a, and its Basis), an apologetic treatise that aimed to prove the Islamic basis of Shi‘i beliefs.33 It is noteworthy that Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ denounced anti-Shi‘i

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treatises written in far-off Egypt while Muh.sin al-Amı¯n refuted Wahhabi thought without being directly affected by Wahhabi raids on Iraq. This myriad of contacts and the intellectual exchange that developed during this period led to the emergence of a new crosssectarian Muslim milieu, in which both Sunni and Shi‘i scholars were able to discuss the topics of the day. While countering anti-Shi‘i polemics, Shi‘i reformers also introduced a new understanding to the contentious period of early Islam. Their call for Muslim unity necessitated a comprehensive effort to overcome these divergent historiographies. They also needed to put aside the sectarian controversy over the definition of communal membership, reflected in the Sunni notion of ijma¯‘ and the Shi‘i concept of al-khas..sa. In essence, Shi‘is promoted a call for Muslim unity at a time when pan-Islam had already begun to be replaced in the larger Muslim community by other ideologies, such as Arabism, territorial nationalism and Communism. Shi‘i reformists from the first half of the twentieth century were embracing an ideology in decline, yet for them it was perhaps a means to reconnect with the Shi‘i community in its effort towards socio-political assimilation in the Arab and Muslim world. Muslim unity offered a way to facilitate Shi‘i inclusion in the new states of Iraq and Lebanon and in the wider Arab-Muslim arena by asserting the Islamic credentials of Shi‘a Islam, within a common inter-sectarian progressive outlook. By establishing Islam as the common denominator of this region, the clerics attempted to present an alternative to the secular currents that had become attractive ideologies for the younger, more educated segment of the Shi‘i population. The growing significance of Arabism for the Shi‘i intelligentsia prompted some reformist clerics to embrace this notion while linking it to the call for unity based on a common Islamic affiliation.

Establishing a Dialogue with the Modernised Classes Shi‘i reformists combined traditional and more contemporary notions as a conceptual framework to promote Muslim unity. Concepts

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such as knowledge and rationality were presented as a means for achieving Muslim unity, while ideals such as progress, prosperity and civilisation were presented as positive ends to this process. But their reliance on these notions reflected a duality between the clerics’ divine worldview and a more modern, humanist perspective of these values, endorsed by the emerging Shi‘i elite. This twofold perception of progress came into play particularly in the context of the special Shi‘i understanding of the concepts of ‘ilm (knowledge) and ‘aql (reason). For the clerics, it was vital to create a progressive image for themselves in a society that had already started to shun the traditional isolationist worldview. Packaging their message in progressive terminology, they reached out to Sunni modernists and members of the Nahd.a movement as well as to the embryonic Shi‘i bourgeoisie. Reference to concepts such as knowledge and rationality were particularly significant in the newly-developed state of Iraq, as the seminars of Najaf and Karbala¯’ were losing students to the new secular state-school system. These reformist clerics sought to disassociate themselves from the conservative clerics’ worldview and to assert that Islam in its non-archaic understanding endorses true knowledge – even in its modern forms. Their embrace of a modern vocabulary signalled the transitional state of these clerics, who were rooted in a religious worldview but were also exposed to some modern influences through contemporary journals, and particularly through the Shi‘i-Lebanese al-‘Irfa¯n journal.34 Similar to other contemporary journals of the region, al-‘Irfa¯n sought to promote notions of knowledge and progress.35 It published popularised surveys of scientific developments, particularly medicine and hygiene, and also discussed philosophy, literature and social issues.36 These progressive values were to be implemented in three circles of affiliation – the nation, umma and humanity. Delineating these circles of reference, the journal stated: Our line of action is to safeguard the truth and express integrity, even regarding our own conduct. We will also serve the nation (wat.an) which we have progressed through it, the

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umma in whose garden we are a flower and humanity (alinsa¯niyya) in its entirety.37 In this passage al-‘Irfa¯n highlighted the importance of the Muslim umma, although its first identification was with the nation. This reflected the direction of the educated Shi‘i elite, who endorsed the secularist ideologies of Iraqi nationalism and pan-Arabism, and were shifting away from an exclusive sectarian affiliation.38 The clerics could not ignore this new relationship with the state that began surfacing with the development of competing nationalist visions in Iraq, Iran and Lebanon. These were perhaps the first steps in the formation of a nationalist affiliation among some mujtahids, alongside a more international sense of an Imami community. Al-‘Irfa¯n – which represented the educated Shi‘i elite – discussed Islam and Shi‘ism as cultural issues, while mitigating the religious obligations. Reformist mujtahids, in contrast, sought to establish the belief system of Islam as an essential characteristic of the emerging Arab states and the broader Arab and Muslim world, to counter this secularist tendency. Indeed, the clerics’ campaign for Muslim unity perhaps reflected an affinity with the Sunni pan-Islamic discourse. Yet this was also an attempt to shift this Sunni-led ideology to include the Shi‘is as equal fellow Muslims. These Shi‘i reformists depicted an affinity with Salafis and members of the Nahd.a movement in their emphasis on knowledge and reason. Mu¯sawı¯’s campaign for Muslim unity began during the later years of the Ottoman Empire. In 1327/1909, Mu¯sawı¯ published al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma fı¯ ta’lı¯f al-umma (Important Chapters in the Formation of the Umma), which was later printed in numerous editions. Peppering his call for unity with modern-influenced vocabulary, Mu¯sawı¯ saw the new modern era as an important opportunity for inter-sectarian reconciliation. In the introduction to his book Mu¯sawı¯ wrote: Prosperity and progress will not be established nor will the search for the spirit of civilisation be possible [. . .]. We will also not succeed in removing from our necks the yoke of slavery through the struggle for freedom, without agreement, meeting of the

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minds, synchronicity of hearts, unity of resolution, agreement over the renaissance (nahd.a) of the umma’s ethics and promotion of the essence of the religious community (raf‘ kiya¯n al-milla). . .39 Muslim unity was packaged here in a vague modern universal jargon. His appeal for unity is purely utilitarian. Mu¯sawı¯ stressed that it was beneficial for the two groups to cast aside their differences in the name of development, progress and political independence, and did not argue that that this was an inherent message of Islam. This reformist leader also endorsed a more modern and activist approach to religion. Instead of the passive Shi‘i tradition of awaiting salvation upon the return of the Imam, Mu¯sawı¯ stressed here that only by human action and the struggle for freedom will the community reach progress. This passage is comprised of a double-voiced discourse. On one hand, there is a dialectic engagement here with progressive elements among the Sunni community. Mu¯sawı¯ is not compiling this text from his own original ideas but from pre-existing modern symbolic notions of development. On the other hand, Mu¯sawı¯’s own voice resonates clearly. He endorses modern notions of development espoused by the Muslim-Arab intelligentsia, while also linking material prosperity to spiritual progress.40 However, Mu¯sawı¯ softened his message and instead of calling for the revival of the Shari‘a, he spoke about ethics of the umma. Mu¯sawı¯’s use of the concept of milla alludes to the religious pluralism that existed within the Ottoman Empire in its relationship with different non-Islamic religious communities. This, perhaps, reflected a call to extend tolerance toward the Shi‘is. Within Mu¯sawı¯’s pluralistic vision was a unifying and progressive role for the umma, in a shift from the historically exclusive definitions of the Muslim community. By the first decade of the twentieth century, Mu¯sawı¯ felt that a new dawn in inter-sectarian relations might be imminent. His reference to the concept of nahd.a and his allusion to progressive and anti-imperialist terminology demonstrates that the Shi‘i leadership of this period was not cut off from the intellectual discourse of the day. The concept of civilisation, mentioned by Mu¯sawı¯ in this

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passage, is also reminiscent of the Nahd.a discourse in its new interpretation of this concept. Instead of the Euro-centric understanding of this notion associated with the French Enlightenment, the Nahd.a movement called to revive the glorious Arab civilisation. In contrast to this Arab-secularist trend, the Salafi movement of the late nineteenth century linked the concept of civilisation to a progressive vision of Islam. The Salafis called to revive the glorious Arab-Islamic civilisation of the past as a panacea to the superiority of European powers.41 By adopting the notion of civilisation but linking it to the renaissance of the umma’s laws, Mu¯sawı¯ was presenting himself on a par with the intellectual currents of his period. At the same time, he detached himself from the approach of secular Arab-Christians to the revival of the Arab-Muslim community promoted also by Orientalists, which required a separation of religion from public life.42 Mu¯sawı¯ also employed a new understanding to the concepts of knowledge and history in his effort to join forces with Sunni modernists. Inter-sectarian animosity was relegated to the past as Mu¯sawı¯ portrayed the united umma as a progressive phenomenon of a new era: I am living in the era of knowledge and in the period of intelligence and astuteness. The spring of wisdom has burst forth to the people of this era and the gloom of darkness has been removed from their eyes. The electricity of light shines from their thoughts and the rays of grace radiate from their faces [...]. As a result, they have destroyed zealous partisanship and erased its traces. They have also complied with the duties of humanity, erected its lighthouse and hailed the call of civilisation to devote their attention to Shi‘i-Sunni unity. . .43 In this passage, Mu¯sawı¯ did not anchor the call for Muslim unity as a religious duty. He also did not link notions such as knowledge and civilisation to an Islamic or Shi‘i worldview, although these concepts held significant meaning for both Islam and Shi‘ism. In Shi‘ism, ‘ilm was associated with the Imams’ special, divinely-inspired

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knowledge. The concept of ‘ilm was later linked to the mujtahids’ special role in deducing Islamic law in the absence of the Imam, based on the clerics’ knowledge of the revealed sources.44 Despite this, Mu¯sawı¯ ignored the unique Shi‘i perception of ‘ilm and its more general Islamic understanding, in accordance with his targeted modern audience in both the Sunni and Shi‘i community. He also highlighted a rational perspective to decision-making as a basis for a more egalitarian approach to inter-Muslim relations. This was an attempt to create a break with a disputed historiography by focusing on the human-oriented necessities of a developing community. Yet, while creating bridges towards progressive elements in both communities, Mu¯sawı¯ and other reformists sought to counter the growing tendency towards secularisation. They therefore linked this enlightened effort towards inter-sectarian reconciliation with an appeal to a divinely-inspired Islamic corpus. The danger of secularism continued to threaten the Shi‘i religious leadership throughout the twentieth century in the Arab world and Iran. As the century unfolded, this sense of danger intensified, as secularism was incorporated into state policy in many states in the Middle East. In Iran, Reza Sha¯h elevated secularism to state policy with his far-reaching modernisation policy that equated development with secularism. Through legal changes and his secularisation effort, Reza Sha¯h sought to limit Islam to the private sphere.45 His son, Mohammad Reza Sha¯h (r. 1941 – 79), intensified his father’s secularisation drive, beginning with the deportation of Ayatollah Khomeini from Iran in 1964. It continued through the repression of Islamic opposition members and restrictions on public displays of religion. Reza Sha¯h’s land reforms included the redistribution of land owned by mosques and religious seminars, which further harmed the clerical leadership. His strong political and cultural alliance with the West cemented the regime’s secular drive.46 With this onslaught on religion, Khomeini no longer glorified the contemporary era and its values. Almost a century after Mu¯sawı¯ had exalted the modern age of progress with its opportunities for the Shi‘i community in Lebanon, Khomeini took a very negative approach to the current period. The imperialist plot to divide and control the

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Muslim world left the Muslims weak and submissive, Khomeini contended. Imperialism and Western values spread secular ideas and took the wealth from the Muslim nation. Muslims became the downtrodden (al-mustad.‘fı¯n) of the new universal order, he argued.47 Early Shi‘i reformists in the Arab world lived in a time of growing prospects for a developing Shi‘i community, during the first half of the twentieth century. Khomeini, in contrast, led a movement of protest against the existing order’s authoritarian character, dependence on Western backing, secularist nature and social injustice. The solution, in Khomeini’s eyes, was to recreate a robust and unified Muslim nation.48 Time and again Khomeini sought to empower the Islamic umma by unifying its forces: There is no importance to race, language, nationalism and regionalism in Islam, since all Muslims – Sunnis or Shi‘is – are brothers, equal in their virtues and rights, in Islam.49 O Muslims of the world, those who believe in the truth of Islam, rise and unite under the banner of tawh.ı¯d and the teaching of Islam, and cut the hands of the powerful forces who are traitors to your countries and riches. Bring back the glory of Islam and discard the differences and the personal desires. . .50 For Khomeini, the basis for creating this resilient all-Muslim nation was a shared political outlook, unity of thought and a spiritual oneness.51 Yet his call for a cohesive political struggle of the Muslim umma against its enemies required a reconfiguration of the theological disparity between Sunnis and Shi‘is. The following discussion will assess the framework of this ‘brotherhood of belief’, beginning with early Muslim reformists and concluding with Khomeini’s thought.

The Configuration of a Tradition As demonstrated, early Shi‘i reformists employed modern terminology on development in an attempt to attract Sunni progressive circles and the embryonic Shi‘i elite. They also appealed to a unified message

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of Islam. This reflected an affinity with the Sunni Salafi discourse as well as an endorsement of the prevailing religious sentiments of their own constituency. The Shi‘i elite of businessmen and politicians who operated in the newly-emerged states of Iraq and Lebanon did not necessarily sever their links with religion. Some denounced religion altogether, while others adopted a reformist approach towards Islam. This more critical approach to religious practice was exemplified in the activities of the Shi‘i Lebanese charity al-Jam‘iyya al-Khayriyya al-Isla¯miyya al-‘A¯miliyya (The ‘A¯milı¯ Islamic Benevolent Society). Founded in 1923, the society promoted modern education among the Shi‘is, developed welfare projects and also adopted a reformist approach towards Islam. Calling to purify Shi‘ism from popular inappropriate manifestations, the society attempted to bring Shi‘ism closer to Sunni orthodoxy, in line with a similar agenda adopted by several Shi‘i reformist clerics of the time.52 Furthermore, for large segments of the community, religion was still an important source of identification. Although Shi‘i society was undergoing a process of social change, the masses of urban poor, traditional landowners and cultivators continued to maintain a strong connection to Islam. In this situation, the reformist clerics sought to establish a new dynamic in inter-sectarian relations by adopting a common, progressive vision of Islam. The clerics recomposed a tradition of inter-sectarian agreement and disregarded significant judicial and theological differences that had preserved the Sunni-Shi‘i divide throughout history. They reconfigured Islamic conventions to create a harmonious inter-sectarian vision of Islam.53 Efforts toward reconciliation were advanced by focusing on the unifying essentials of religion including the fundamental principles of Islam (us.u¯l aldı¯n), the pillars of religion (arka¯n al-isla¯m) and ijtiha¯d. Shi‘i reformists also began tackling the sectarian divide over the body of Hadith, in which Sunnis followed the traditions of the Prophet transmitted by his companions while the Shi‘is endorsed a different body of Hadith, passed down by the Imams. One of the main obstacles to promoting Muslim unity was the Sunni concept of ijma¯‘, which placed Shi‘i law outside the accepted orthodoxy of the madhhab system. Shi‘i reformists such as Ka¯shif al-

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Ghit.a¯’ sought to replace the Sunni-dominated notion of unity with a more equal and diversified view of communal relations: The meaning of uniting the umma is not that one group harms the right of the other group, which remains silent, acquiescing and saying nothing. It is unjust that the oppressed will be defamed if he demands his rights or that if he calls for justice he is considered divisive and rebellious. . .54 In this passage, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ established a more balanced approach to inter-sectarian relations compared with the Sunni notion of ijma¯‘. He sought to further acceptance of Shi‘ism within a loose framework of Islamic jurisprudence, in which the Shi‘is would not need to resort to the historical practice of taqiyya. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s publication Tah.rı¯r al-majalla – which provided a comparison between Sunni and Shi‘i jurisprudence in the commercial field – was another indication of this attempt to place Imami jurisprudence on a par with Sunni law.55 Adopting a similar agenda, Mu¯sawı¯ promoted a message of universal Muslim brotherhood.56 In al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma mentioned above, Mu¯sawı¯ quoted the following Qur’anic text: Inna alladhı¯n faraqu¯ dı¯nahum wa-ka¯nu¯ shı¯‘an lasta minhum fı¯ shay’in innama¯ amruhum ila¯ Alla¯h (‘those who divide their religion and break up into sects, you have no concern with them in the least. Their affair is only with Alla¯h’, [6:160]). Shi‘i and Sunni commentators debated the meaning of this verse, demonstrating the difficulty of determining the boundaries of religion in a community that both idealises unity but also endorses the boundaries of the madhhab system.57 By including this verse in his call for unity, Mu¯sawı¯ reopened the debate over defining orthodoxy. This was an attempt to gain acceptance of Shi‘ism within a new, more broad-ranging view of the Muslim community, similar to the diversity that had existed in medieval Sunni Islam. The ‘fundamentals of religion’ (us.u¯l al-dı¯n) and the ‘pillars of Islam’ (arka¯n al-Isla¯m) were two additional components of this effort towards reconciliation. Citing Sunni sources, Mu¯sawı¯ argued

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that there is a basic agreement between all Muslims over the ‘fundamentals of religion’ and the ‘pillars of Islam’.58 He depicted an image of a unified community of believers by interpreting isla¯m and ima¯n according to the Sunni understanding of these notions. In this instance, Islam and belief were to be implemented through commitment to the ‘fundamentals of religion’ and the ‘pillars of Islam’. He overlooked the particulars of the Shi‘i understanding of these principles, in which Sunnis were acknowledged as Muslims but only Twelver Shi‘is were conferred with true belief (ima¯n).59 Mu¯sawı¯ portrayed cross-sectarian harmony over questions of belief and theology, while casting aside the unique principles that define Shi‘ism as a separate sect. He disregarded sectarian differences over the traditions of the Prophet, which together with the Qur’an constitute the pillars of Shi‘i ima¯n.60 In addition, Mu¯sawı¯ did not mention the exclusive Shi‘i principles of ima¯ma and ‘adl, the belief in the authority of the Imams and their special qualities and the notion of justice, to be fulfilled only with the return of the vanished Imam at the end of days. These are two fundamental principles of Shi‘ism, that are added to the three shared beliefs in the unity of God (tawh.ı¯d), the message of the Prophet (nubuwwa) and the notion of the resurrection (mi‘a¯d).61 In defining the fundamentals of Islam, Mu¯sawı¯ deliberately omitted these core Imami principles for the purpose of advancing Muslim unity. Another element in the conceptual foundation of inter-sectarian reconciliation was the notion of ijtiha¯d. Mu¯sawı¯ reiterated his call for Muslim unity in a treatise directed against Muh.ammad Kurd ‘Alı¯, a notable Syrian historian who was affiliated with the Arab cultural revival of the Nahd.a movement.62 In this publication, Mu¯sawı¯ sought to refute anti-Shi‘i articles published by the Scientific Academy of the Arabic Language in Damascus, founded and headed by Kurd ‘Alı¯.63 To counter this anti-Shi‘i rhetoric, Mu¯sawı¯ stressed inter-sectarian conformity over the fundamentals of religion, quoting the following Hadith from the accepted collection of S.ah.¯ıh. Bukhari:

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Narrated by ‘Amr b. al-‘A¯s. Then he heard Alla¯h’s Apostle saying ‘If a judge gives a verdict and carries out ijtiha¯d ( fa-ijtahada) [endeavoured or applied independent judgement] and the verdict was correct he will receive a double reward; and if he ruled and carried out ijtiha¯d ( fa-ijtahada) and his ruling is wrong he will also receive a reward’. [volume 9, book 92, number 450].64 In his call for unity, Mu¯sawı¯ argued that all Sunni scholars from Abu¯ H . anı¯fa and Sha¯fi‘ı¯ to Rashı¯d Rid.a¯ agreed that any Muslim who endeavours (ijtahada) is rewarded, whether he is correct or mistaken. Mu¯sawı¯ chose to refer here to the interpretation of this text by Jama¯l al-Dı¯n al-Qa¯simı¯, the mouthpiece of Damascene Salafis in the late nineteenth century.65 Qa¯simı¯ emphasised that any Muslim who is well-versed in the Qur’an, Hadith and principles of jurisprudence can carry out ijtiha¯d, i.e. is permitted to deduce judicial precepts from these sources to befit the contemporary circumstances, using the tool of reasoning. This important Salafi scholar was critical of both the Muslim practice of blind judicial emulation to one’s school of law and the partisanship that evolved from the madhhab system.66 Through an appeal to the Salafis, Mu¯sawı¯ sought to counter the anti-Shi‘i sentiments that were prevalent among Sunni-Arab scholars such as Kurd ‘Alı¯. This was an attempt to create a new judicial affinity between Shi‘ism and progressive Sunni forces in their emphasis on reason and change, through the question of ijtiha¯d. Concurrently, Mu¯sawı¯ disregarded Qa¯simı¯’s criticism of Shi‘ism over fundamental issues including ‘Alı¯’s special position in Imami Islam and its commemoration of H . usayn’s martyrdom. Yet portraying a common agreement over ijtiha¯d may have questioned the traditional Shi‘i understanding of this concept. By accepting an inter-sectarian recourse to ijtiha¯d, Mu¯sawı¯ was perhaps opening the door to redefining the special, exclusive role of the Shi‘i mujtahids in exercising ijtiha¯d and the duty of ordinary Shi‘is to emulate the most learned mujtahid, the marja‘ al-taqlı¯d.67 Thus, in essence, he was permitting scholars who were not necessarily acknowledged by

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Shi‘i standards as the most learned of the community to interpret Islamic law. Moreover, the novelty in the Salafi interpretation of ijtiha¯d was in their particular use of this mechanism.68 The basis for the Salafi call for ijtiha¯d was similar to the traditional Shi‘a use of this notion – i.e. the use of reasoning to infer legal precepts from the sources. By linking ijtiha¯d to Salafi thought, however, Mu¯sawı¯ was in essence endorsing their innovative approach to this concept. The Salafis accepted a rational analysis of Islamic teaching for the purpose of providing answers to modern circumstances, while in some cases finding ways to legitimise European conduct. In comparison with Mu¯sawı¯, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ moved even further away from the traditional Shi‘i understanding of ijtiha¯d. He no longer confined the meaning of ijtiha¯d to the legal domain, and instead rejected stagnation in all fields of Arab-Muslim knowledge. In this context, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ called to revive the fields of linguistics and grammar as well as the judicial areas of us.u¯l and furu¯‘. He lamented that ‘taqlı¯d has spread to all fields of knowledge, even among those who are considered scholars’, stressing that ‘every mujtahid holds a piece of knowledge’. In these statesments, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ implicitly cast aside the Shi‘i concept of ijtiha¯d, which is confined to jurisprudence and to the authority of the acknowledged mujtahid.69 Shi‘i reformists such as Mu¯sawı¯ and Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ sought to redefine the contentious sectarian relations through a shared recourse to ijtiha¯d. They also established an equilibrium between Sunni and Shi‘i jurisprudence and emphasised the joint principles of belief. One can see a direct link between this early effort at inter-sectarian reconciliation based on an appeal to the unity of Islam and allinclusive notions of Islam promoted by the following generation of Shi‘i modernists. In Iraq, Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr’s Da‘wa for Islam from the late 1950s, exemplified this call for a universal religion that incorporated all aspects of life and extended into the social, political and religious domains.70 Earlier Shi‘i reformists emphasised an allMuslim agreement over the fundamentals of religion. Ba¯qir al-S.adr, in contrast, went beyond the principles of Islam and developed an allembracing religious system to provide comprehensive answers to the

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challenges of the modern world. He ventured beyond mere questions of belief and introduced a contemporary fusion between religion, philosophy, economics and politics.71 In Iran, Ayatollah Khomeini also promoted an all-inclusive call for Islam. In his campaign to unify the Muslim world, Khomeini stressed the common belief in monotheism, exemplified in the principle of tawh.ı¯d.72 Both in Sunni and Shi‘i Islam, tawh.ı¯d – or the belief that God is one and unique – is acknowledged as the first article of faith. Khomeini’s recourse to this fundamental principle was similar to earlier Shi‘i reformists’ emphasis on a shared Islamic orthodoxy. Thus, for example, in August 1985 Khomeini addressed the pilgrims of Mecca on the occasion of ‘ı¯d al-ad.h.a, with the following words: In these exalted places, believe – by relying on God the Supreme – in the commitment of unity and brotherhood, when you encounter the soldiers of polytheism and Satanism, and avoid division and contention. . . since the fragrance of belief (ima¯n) and Islam – which is the basis of power and victory – is diffused by strife, and by the creation of parties and accepting human passions that violate the rules of God the Sublime. Convening over the truth, the unity of thought (tawh.ı¯d al-kalima) and the principle of tawh.ı¯d (kalimat al- tawh.ı¯d) – which are mighty sources for the Islamic umma – will lead to victory.73 In other texts, Khomeini sought to muster the political power of the Muslim world in order to fight imperialism. Here, however, Khomeini stressed that the force of the Muslim nation is in its beliefs, and particularly in its shared principle of tawh.ı¯d. For Khomeini, the notion of Muslim unity included both a political and a spiritual dimension. Within this ‘brotherhood of belief’ (al-ukhuwwa al-ima¯niyya) he cast aside the Shi‘i understanding of ima¯n and isla¯m, similar to the earlier Shi‘i reformist discourse, in order to advance the cause of unity.74

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There was, however, a contradiction in Khomeini’s notion of Muslim unity. While stressing the shared principles of religion, in his recourse to the question of authority, he also upheld a clear Shi‘ioriented reading of Islam. Khomeini argued that in the absence of the Imam, the community cannot remain without governance and without a legal framework. The common believer must, therefore, rely on the knowledge of the jurists in order to truly fulfil the Shari‘a, following the most learned of the community, the faqı¯h, who is the source of emulation (marja‘ taqlı¯d).75 Moreover, Khomeini demonstrated a continued adherence to the historical Shi‘i elitist view of their creed as al-kha¯.s.sa: Islam remained alive, thanks to the Shi‘a creed. Islam was always interconnected with Shi‘i heroism and Shi‘i martyrdom.76 Shi‘i Islam is the genuine Islam or the pure religion.77 The revolt of the Iranian people is the starting point for the great revolt in the Islamic world, under the banner of the proof of God, the mahdı¯ (peace be upon him), who will redeem our spirit.78 Similar to Khomeini, the earlier Shi‘i reformists also could not relinquish unique Imami beliefs. They upheld the elitist notion of al-‘a¯mma wa’l-kha¯.s.sa because forgoing this idea of communal membership would have led to the demise of Shi‘ism. Consequently, there is plenty of evidence in their writings in which these reformists emphasise their commitment to core Shi‘i beliefs.79 Thus, for example, Mu¯sawı¯ stressed an all-Muslim agreement over the fundamentals of Islam, but also continued to depict the special position of the Imami creed. Sunni Hadiths were evoked in an attempt to prove that the Sunnis themselves acknowledged the Shi‘is as the best of creations (khayr al-bariyya). In these traditions, shı¯‘at ‘Alı¯ is portrayed as the party of the believers and of those who commit good deeds, who will reach the day of resurrection in content

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and enjoy the pleasures of paradise.80 This emphasis on a shared conceptual framework of Islam, while in some cases depicting the traditional Shi‘i perception of al-kha¯.s.sa, reflected the clerics’ multiple senses of identity. From the first half of the twentieth century, the clerics shifted away from exclusive sectarianism, as the community itself began interacting with new forms of socio-political associations. However, they still remained loyal to a core Shi‘i affiliation. In Iraq, the secularised elite retained some level of identification with its Imami heritage, although its members did not necessarily abide by the authority of the mujtahids. In the Lebanese case, the power-sharing system of 1943 cemented sectarian and confessional identities, but it also created some form of identification with the national political system and with broader ideologies. Communal membership was institutionalised through power-sharing politics and the creation of a separate Shi‘i court-system, as the French recognised the Ja’fari madhhab as an independent legal school. Simultaneously, Shi‘is participated in a plethora of parties, representing wide-ranging political affinities, including establishment-dominated Christian parties, communist and other leftist and socialist groups, pan-Arab movements and even a few Sunni-dominated parties.81 As a result, inter-sectarian reconciliation did not necessarily entail a rejection of nationhood. This was both an acknowledgment of the new states as well as a perception of a more globalised Muslim community. They promoted an enlightened vision of Islam in an attempt to create a new bond between Sunnis and Shi‘is within the emerging national frameworks and beyond. In their perspective, a more knowledgeable and progressive Muslim community would be open to accepting Shi‘ism within the new political and intellectual environment that developed during this period in the Sunni-Arab world. Indeed, both Shi‘i reformists – and later, Khomeini and other revolutionaries – demonstrated this dual sense of sectarian and allIslamic identity. Nevertheless, in comparison to later revolutionary thought, Shi‘i reformists excercised a deeper effort to reach common ground with Sunnis, in regards to Islamic principles and questions of historiography.

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Shi‘i Historiography: Reassessing Traditional Conceptions The disparity between Sunni and Shi‘i versions of Islamic history was a significant obstacle to inter-sectarian reconciliation. Shi‘i reformers sought to mitigate divergent views of history in order to provide room for the current political objectives of an integrating Shi‘i community. In this process, the religious dimension of the Sunni–Shi‘i conflict over the question of authority was cast aside and interpreted as a mere political dispute. This reflected a more modern, human-oriented approach to Muslim relations and less an emphasis on the notion of a divinely-ordained leadership. These reformers also shifted away from the dominant apolitical Shi‘i tendency of passively waiting for future salvation by the Imam. Instead, they emphasised the existence of current socio-political opportunities, which Shi‘is as well as Sunnis could benefit from. Shi‘i reformists began to review contentious accounts of Muslim history, as a result of common political interests in fighting foreign occupation and developing the new nation states. The following discussion will demonstrate that Shi‘i reformists presented a positive yet complex view of Sunni Islam and its formative historical heritage, in contrast to traditional Shi‘i historiography and its binary depiction of early Islam. A historical basis was established for inter-sectarian reconciliation by adopting a respectful position towards cherished Sunni figures. Furthermore, the historical question of Muslim leadership was approached as a political rather then a religious issue, emphasising the current needs of a unified Muslim community. This process began with an effort to reassess long-established modes of historical writing. Shi‘i reformists moved from a sacred vision of history toward a more pragmatic and human-centred approach to evaluating the past and its relevance for the present. Contrary to traditional historical writings, modern history does not intend to convey a moral purpose.82 Instead, it seeks to analyse the human forces behind chronological events.83 By adopting a more contemporary view of history, Shi‘i reformists demonstrated a shift from passive eschatological waiting for the return of the Imam, toward a belief in human ability to shape current events. In a new

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conciliatory approach to Muslim historiography, they provided room for the current shared socio-political interests. History was also used as a means to establish the Arab ethnic roots of the Shi‘is and their affinity with the emerging Arab nationalist entity.84 Socio-political rapprochement between Sunnis and Shi‘is required reconciliation between two very distinct historiographies. The divergence of Sunni and Shi‘i views of early Muslim history was rooted in their contrasting approaches to the question of leadership. The Sunnis accepted the authority of the most capable leader, who was endorsed by the majority of the community in a process of concensus (‘ijma¯’). In contrast, the party of ‘Alı¯ argued that authority can only rest in the hands of the ’ahl al-bayt’, since they were designated to leadership by a divinely-inspired ordinance (the principle of nas..s). These reformists could not forgo the principle of nas..s due to its significance to the core question of authority, yet they were able to reassess the highly negative traditional Shi‘i approach towards the first caliphs. This was particularly significant due to the importance attributed to their reign by Sunnis. Also, the role of the .sah.a¯ba needed to be reviewed. The Prophet’s companions were highly revered by the Sunnis as transmitters of the Hadith, but were vigorously denounced by the Shi‘is as a result of their role in undermining ‘Alı¯’s designation. Mu¯sawı¯ attempted to strike this balance between the two conflicting historiographies. While reiterating traditional Shi‘i historiography on the first period of Islam, he also cast aside the particularities of the historical rift as a result of a more modern approach to history.85 In a new outlook toward the first two caliphs, Mu¯sawı¯ said: Knowledgeable people do not renounce the succession of the two Shaykhs – may God be pleased with them – and people of conscience do not doubt them. Their leadership went on from year 11 till year 22 [of the hijra ] and during this period they began the conquests and religion took root. However, regarding political issues, their caliphates were terminated when they were put to the test. However, to what end should

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Muslims today clash for this reason and what will be the actual fruits that will result from belief in this?86 In this passage, there is a strong statement that the first caliphs should not be renounced. Concurrently, Mu¯sawı¯ also maintained some level of ambiguity in his position towards their rule using the term shaykh rather than caliph. In a vague reference to the first interMuslim fitna, Mu¯sawı¯ said that the leadership of this period was put to the test (ibtila¯’) – and terminated. This may have been a reference to the ill-fate of the first two caliphs, as one tradition attributed Abu¯ Bakr’s death to poison and another to natural causes, while ‘Umar was killed by his Persian slave.87 Mu¯sawı¯ was expressing a highly instrumental assertion that there is no point for Muslims to clash over past events due to current mutual socio-political interests and the need for a rational approach to communal relations. As a result, Mu¯sawı¯ relegated Shi‘i objections to these two caliphs to political considerations and put aside the traditional question of authority. Yet, his willingness to reconcile with the Sunnis over the Muslim leadership of early Islam was limited to the first two caliphs. In particular, Mu¯sawı¯ – and later, other Shi‘i leaders culminating with Khomeini – could not reconciliate with the Sunnis over the conduct of the third caliph ‘Uthma¯n (r. 644– 56), due to his corrupt style of governance and the favouritism he displayed towards his own kin.88 Putting aside the unforgivable misconduct of ‘Uthma¯n, Shi‘i clerics chose to disregard historical grievances against the Muslim leadership of early Islam. Explaining this new approach towards these venerated Sunni figures, Mu¯sawı¯ said: Now then we should look into our current politics and abandon issues related to the politics of the past. The situation is critical and does not befit a process of uncovering hidden relics and vestiges of hatred. The time has come for the Muslims to pay attention to the divisions and dissention that befell them and left them bait for the beasts and prey for the insects. What is the aim of pronouncing Muslims infidels over a dispute on politics and over the caliphate of the past? . . .89

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Instead of the passive orientation of the Shi‘i community, the present was perceived as an opportunity for the empowerment of a united and robust Muslim community. Mu¯sawı¯ explicitly acknowledged that the current exposure to the ‘beasts and insects’ of the non-Muslim world was the catalyst for seeking Sunni–Shi‘i reconciliation. By bringing the discourse to a political level, Mu¯sawı¯ was able to present his case for abandoning historical animosities in order to focus on the current cross-communal necessity of fighting foreign occupation. ‘A¯’isha – Abu¯ Bakr’s daughter and the Prophet’s wife – was another important figure in the Shi‘i effort to mitigate the historical sectarian rift. Shi‘i grievances against ‘A¯’isha resulted from her oppositional activities against ‘Alı¯ following the murder of the third caliph, ‘Uthma¯n. Claiming revenge for the blood of ‘Uthma¯n, ‘A¯’isha opened a revolt against ‘Alı¯ that reached its climax in the Battle of the Camel (656).90 This battle was a major calamity in inter-Muslim relations. Caught in a struggle over the leadership of the community, it was the first time that Muslims faced each other in battle.91 As a result, appeasing the Sunnis over ‘A¯’isha was paramount in the Shi‘i effort to promote Muslim unity. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n attempted to depart from the previously negative approach towards ‘A¯’isha by reappraising the classical Shi‘i depiction of the Prophet’s wife: Honouring the Mothers of Believers in general and the Mother of Believers in particular is obligatory upon us, out of respect to our Prophet – may God bless him and grant him salvation [. . .]. The belief of the Shi‘a in the wives in general, and ‘A¯’isha and H . afs.a in particular, appeared in the text of the revealed noble Qur’a¯n. . .92 However, his respectful position towards ‘A¯’isha only went so far; Muh.sin al-Amı¯n was also fiercely critical of her role in avenging the blood of ‘Uthma¯n.93 In essence, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n did not alter the principally negative Shi‘i position towards important Sunni personas. Instead, he sought to appease his Sunni counterparts by creating a basis of generalised respect towards cherished Muslim figures, despite their human failings.

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Alongside the discussion of the role of ‘A¯’isha and the first caliphs, Shi‘i reformists also re-evaluated the negative Imami attitude towards the .sah.a¯ba. Reconciliation with the Sunnis over the role of the Prophet’s companions was highly significant due to their important position in Sunni historiography. Sunni veneration of the .sah.a¯ba stemmed from their substantial postion as the founding generation of Islam, and particularly due to their role as transmitters of Hadith.94 In contrast, the Shi‘is had adopted a highly negative approach towards the companions due to their alleged involvement in usurping ‘Alı¯’s right to succession. Vilification of the .sah.a¯ba was widespread in Imami literature and Shi‘is adopted the custom of publicly cursing the companions.95 Efforts to reassess this traditional hostility towards the companions opened the door to legitimising the corpus of Sunni Hadith. This step had important ramifications in the judicial domain, as it created a common legal foundation based on a shared body of traditions. In their discourse on Muslim unity, many Shi‘i reformists addressed the question of the .sah.a¯ba. Thus, for example, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ re-evaluated the traditionally negative Shi‘i view of these cherished Sunni figures explaining: I am convinced that the rational and cultured people from the ‘Twelvers’ do not curse and do not insult. Our Imams, the ahl al-bayt – may God grant them salvation – forbid cursing and insulting. We do not curse the guided Caliphs and the favourable .sah.a¯ba who God was pleased with and were agreeable to Him. But in this answer to you, we must lift the veil that conceals the clear truth and the facts [. . .]. This truth is that the .sah.a¯ba who accompanied the Prophet – may God bless him and grant him salvation – from among the muha¯jiru¯n who emigrated with him and the ans.a¯r who assisted him, were not all sanctioned and did not all enjoy the protection of God. . .96 Similar to other Shi‘i reformists, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ sought to create a break with some popular manifestations of Shi‘ism that contributed

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to its backward image among Sunnis. In this context, the effort at inter-sectarian resolution was presented as a bond that unites progressive Muslim forces. Yet, while disapproving of the Shi‘i practices of cursing the companions and phrasing his opinion in an amicable way, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not significantly alter the traditional Shi‘i position on the misconduct of the .sah.a¯ba. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ could not totally exonerate the .sah.a¯ba due to their role in undermining the core Imami belief in the designation of ‘Alı¯. A more appeasing attitude towards the historical role of the .sah.a¯ba appeared in Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s writings. Referring to Shi‘i attitudes towards the Prophet’s companions, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n said: Among the noble .sah.a¯ba who strove in the name of Islam (ijtahadu¯), some were righteous and some committed wrongdoing. Those who were righteous will receive two rewards [from God] and those who committed errors will receive one reward. The killer and the one who was killed, the oppressor and the oppressed, will all reach paradise and will be able to enjoy God’s compassion and forgiveness [. . .]. However, for what purpose should we dwell upon this incitement during our period, which requires more harmony and agreement than controversy and rift?97 Similarly to Mu¯sawı¯, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n also relied on ijtiha¯d as a means of inter-sectarian reconciliation. Characterising the .sah.a¯ba as leaders who committed errors, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n emphasised that the companions exerted effort in the name of Islam and therefore should be forgiven. He praised the .sah.a¯ba for giving an opinion based on ijtiha¯d even if incorrect, in an emphasis on human fallibility and the human nature of the .sah.a¯ba, a point acceptable to both Sunnis and Shi‘is. In addition to his general reassessment of the companions’ deeds, Mu¯sawı¯ devoted special attention to Abu¯ Hurayra. ‘Abd Alla¯h (or ‘Abd al-Rah.ma¯n) Abu¯ Hurayra (d. 59/678) was the most prolific transmitter of Sunni Hadith, with over 5,000 traditions related by him, including a large number that were unknown to other

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companions. According to the Sunni tradition, after accepting Islam in the seventh year of the Hijra, Abu¯ Hurayra remained with the Prophet until his death, attending to him and memorising his words. The abundance of traditions related to Abu¯ Hurayra was questioned by Muslims over the centuries, yet Sunni scholars brushed these doubts aside and embraced this companion as a respectable transmitter of Hadith in order to maintain the veracity of the Sunni body of tradition.98 Cracks in this blanket acceptance of the .sah.a¯ba began emerging in the modern era. Starting with Muh.ammad ‘Abduh and Rashı¯d Rid.a, Sunni reformists began questioning the validity of Sunni Hadith, including the traditions transmitted by Abu¯ Hurayra. They established critical methods to validate the Hadith corpus and opened a debate on the honourable record of the companions, which had been accepted unequivocally over centuries of Islam. Rashid Rid.a¯, for example, did not pronounce Abu¯ Huraya as unreliable but acknowledged that he was over-eager to transmit a large body of traditions.99 Other modern Sunni scholars directly criticised Abu¯ Hurayra and his legacy.100 Adding his voice to these Sunni contemporaries, Mu¯sawı¯ attempted to undermine this companion’s character through his treatise entitled Abu¯ Hurayra. Questioning his position as a trustworthy transmitter of Hadith, Mu¯sawı¯ said: . . .some of these traditions contradict the horizons and power of rationality, some impair upon Islamic belief in its form and meaning, some infringe upon the rules of nature and some of them are incompatible and invalid. In addition, some of these traditions deviate from the foundation of knowledge, which is the backbone of religion. Furthermore, many of them flatter the Umayyads or the public opinion of those days, and some of them are imaginary or confused. In general, they deviate from the basis of truth in all its meanings.101 With these words, Mu¯sawı¯ espoused a shared, rationalist intersectarian vision of Islam. He chose to depict a logical picture of Islam,

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avoiding a discussion of the unproven manifestations of religion related to miracles, belief and mysticism. The Lebanese cleric provided examples of 40 Hadiths attributed to Abu¯ Hurayra that he considered irrational, unfounded and inconsistent. This included, for example, traditions describing a cow and a wolf that spoke Arabic, newborn babies who conversed sensibly or the tradition that Da’ud read the entire Qur’an in one second.102 Appealing to the forces of reason, Mu¯sawı¯ rebuked Abu¯ Hurayra’s corpus for its sheer volume of traditions and the fact that they spanned over such a large period of time. In addition, he portrayed Abu¯ Hurayra as living among the sukkan al-s.uffa (the dwelling of poor people who found refuge in Muh.ammad’s mosque) and therefore had an ulterior motive in following the Prophet.103 Joining forces with this appeal to validate the corpus of Hadith, Mu¯sawı¯ envisioned an all-Muslim conformity over the body of traditions: . . . The sunna is the path of Islam and the constitution of life, the gate to everything necessary for the formation of life, including morals, beliefs, society, knowledge and ethics. It is wrong to remain silent over this defect [Abu¯ Hurayra’s Hadith], which is disgraceful to the essence of Islam and its sublime spirit, which calls for freedom and liberation from the chains of foolish beliefs and fables that are opposed to rationality.104 Mu¯sawı¯ evaded here the traditional division between the Sunni and Shi‘i body of Hadith, their distinct historiographies and exclusive judicial frameworks. His criticism alluded directly to Abu¯ Hurayra’s questionable body of Hadith. Yet his call for freedom from the chains of foolish beliefs is indicative of a wider desire to remove unfounded and irrational traditions from the Shi‘i corpus of Hadith as well. In numerous other treatises he wrote, Mu¯sawı¯ relied on Sunni traditions to promote Muslim unity and as an indication of his apirations for a shared all-Muslim body of traditions.105 A more explicit criticism of Imami Hadith appeared in Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s thought in which he

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directly called the Shi‘is to purify their body of traditions from baseless Hadiths.106 Similar to Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Mu¯sawı¯ championed a rational and orthodox view of religion, joining forces with a comparable Sunni-modernist message. Mu¯sawı¯ and other Shi‘i reformists made a concerted effort at intersectarian reconciliation. They presented a respectful position towards venerated Sunni figures of early Islam and paved the way for the acceptance of a shared, rational and purified body of Hadith. Half a century later, Khomeini relied on Sunni traditions in his discussion of Muslim historiography, in what appeared to be a continuation of the earlier cross-sectarian discourse. His recourse to Sunni Hadith implied some level of acceptance of the .sah.a¯ba as transmitters of the Prophet’s sayings. Yet Khomeini did not seek to overtly exonerate the .sah.a¯ba, nor did he explicitly go against the Shi‘i custom of cursing the companions. In his Kashf al-asra¯r (The Revealing of Secrets), published in 1943, Khomeini reiterated the traditional Shi‘i accusations against the first caliphs, Abu Baqr and ‘Umar. This began with the nomination of Abu Baqr in the Saqı¯fa assembly. Khomeini explained that this represented a direct violation of God’s designation of ‘Alı¯, the true infallible leader of the Muslim community, asserting the traditional Shi‘i-centred notion of historiography.107 Not only did Khomeini maintain Shi‘i grievances against these two highly respected Muslim leaders, but he also emphasised that their actions directly violated God’s commands.108 In this publication, Khomeini reasserted the Shi‘i-oriented historiography. He mentioned, in this context, that Abu Baqr denied Fa¯t.ima, Muh.ammad’s daughter, of her rightful inheritance from the Prophet, of an oasis in Arabia near Khaybar (‘the Fadak affair’). Khomeini also attacked ‘Umar’s legal innovations. This included Umar’s ban on mut‘at al-nisa¯’ (temporary marriage) and mut‘at al-h.ajj (combining the ‘umra and h.ajj, the ‘lesser pilgrimage’ with the ‘major pilgrimage’) as well as his permission to reinstate the pre-Islamic practice of the triple .tala¯q banned by the Prophet Muh.ammad (a man can initiate a divorce by saying the formula of repudiation three times, without the need to bring witnesses).109

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After coming to power, Khomeini barred the distribution of his ‘Kashf al-asrar’ as it undermined his pan-Islamic efforts due to its clear anti-Sunni slant. In contrast, Khomeini’s most prominent publication, H . uku¯mat-i islami, which originated in a series of lectures given in Najaf in 1970, represented a more appeasing approach towards the venerated Sunni leadership of early Islam.110 In .huku¯mat-e islami, Khomeini demonstrated a relatively conciliatory approach towards the first caliphs. Yet, he also repeated the Imami criticism against the Umayyad and Abbasid dynasties. Furthermore, in this treatise, Khomeini did not undertake an in-depth soulsearching process over this foundational period in Islamic history. On the one hand, Khomeini did not mention the customary cursing of these venerated Sunni figures. On the other, however, he did not explicitly go against this accepted Shi‘i practice. In addition, although Khomeini displayed a measured acceptance of the governance of these caliphs, this was a de-facto acknowledgement of their rule, not a real embrace of these figures and their leadership-role in early Islam. Through recognition of their caliphate Khomeini wanted to prove his notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h by demonstrating a continuation of political leadership in Islam from the time of the Prophet and onward. However, in contrast with earlier Shi‘i reformists, Khomeini, did not overtly call to put aside past enmities or to relegate the leadership conflict of early Islam to a mere dispute over politics.111 Yet, while maintaining this Shi‘i-oriented historiography, when addressing Sunni audiences, Khomeini mitigated the elitist perception of Shi‘ism. He called to forgo sectarian differences and emphasised the shared belief in tawh.ı¯d. It is possible that in his effort to promote the Islamic revolution, Khomeini was portraying messages for an all-Muslim rather than an exclusively Shi‘i audience. Another option is that Khomeini’s ‘brotherhood of faith’ implied a call to the Sunnis to acknowledge that the Shi‘is alone uphold true Islamic belief. A middle ground in understanding Khomeini’s sense of universalism is that Khomeini perceived all Muslims as holding a portion of the truth, but only the Sh‘is, the ’chosen ones’, represented the genuine faith.

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Similarly, while promoting a human-oriented, rational religion, Shi‘i reformists of the early century did not alter their core belief in the divinely-designated leadership of the ahl al-bayt. Together with adopting a more conciliatory approach towards venerated Sunni figures, Shi‘i reformists reaffirmed ‘Alı¯’s religious right to succession. These reformists introduced some adjustments to traditional Imami historiography, yet the belief in ‘Alı¯’s leadership role could not be altered as this core issue was justification for the existence of Shi‘ism as a separate Islamic creed. This duality between Sunni appeasement and Shi‘i revivalism illustrated the clerics’ desire to maintain the essence of an Imami identification, while also endorsing broader affiliations adopted by the intellectual elite, both Sunni and Shi‘i. This was a multi-layered sense of identity in which Imami Islam remained a primary yet softer form of belonging, coexisting within wider Islamic and national affiliations. Emphasis on the significance of a core Shi‘i affinity appeared throughout reformist writings. Thus, for example, in al-Mura¯ja‘a¯t (The Book of Reiteration), Mu¯sawı¯ reiterated the traditional Shi‘i depiction of ‘Alı¯’s divinely-sanctioned designation. This book consists of a series of letters written in question-and-answer format in correspondence between Mu¯sawı¯ and the then Shaykh al-Azhar, Salı¯m al-Bishrı¯. According to Mu¯sawı¯’s account, this correspondence took place between the years of 1911 and 1912, during a visit of the Lebanese cleric to Egypt, although it was only published in 1936. During this trip, Mu¯sawı¯ came into contact with the Shaykh al-Azhar and the two began a dialogue on questions of theology and ritual.112 Rainer Brunner in his book Islamic Ecumenism questioned whether this correspondence actually took place. His reservations included the time gap between the correspondence and the actual publication of this book, as well as al-Bishrı¯’s image as a rigidly conservative scholar who strongly opposed ‘Abduh’s reforms. While this technical issue of dates raises questions, however, the actual occurrence of this dialogue is not incomprehensible in an era in which Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ visited al-Azhar (1910) and even lectured there.113 Whether or not this exchange occurred in reality, the publication is significant as it

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demonstrated Mu¯sawı¯’s belief in a new atmosphere of inter-sectarian tolerance.114 Mu¯sawı¯ was encouraged by shifting voices among Sunni modernists and supporters of the Nahd.a movement, who showed signs of accepting Imami Islam or at least demonstrated a more complex relationship with Shi‘ism. Rashı¯d Rid.a¯, for example, displayed this more intricate view of Shi‘ism. On one hand he published pro-Wahha¯bı¯ articles in al-Mana¯r. Yet on the other hand, when he later met several times with Musawi, the two expressed their mutual respect. Rashı¯d Rid.a¯ acknowledged agreement with Mu¯sawı¯ on the need for inter-sectarian reconciliation and on the significance of politics as a channel towards unity.115 By this actual or fictional correspondence with an important figure such as the Shaykh al-Azhar, Mu¯sawı¯ was appealing to the more rationalist Sunnis to conduct inter-sectarian dialogue. In the first letter of this correspondence, entitled ‘Permission to Speak’, the Shaykh al-Azhar himself is cited as acknowledging the emergence of a new Shi‘i pride. In this depiction, Shi‘is are no longer a secretive sect upholding un-Islamic beliefs that do not befit a modern religion of knowledge, but fellow-Muslims with whom Sunnis can carry out a debate as equal partners in religion. As a result, through conducting a balanced rational dialogue with this important representative of Sunni Islam, the Shaykh al-Azhar himself recognised ‘the comprehensive sea’ of Shi‘i knowledge, according to Mu¯sawı¯’s depiction. Mu¯sawı¯’s need to record Sunni praise of a Shi‘i leader was an appeal not only to a Sunni audience but perhaps also to the new Shi‘i bourgeoisie who were adopting Sunni intellectual trends and were casting doubt over the Imami worldview.116 Within this atmosphere, Shi‘is felt that they became equal partners for dialogue with Sunnis, while continuing to uphold key Imami beliefs. As a result, in his conversation with an eminent scholar in the Sunni world, Mu¯sawı¯ maintained that he did not need to review or reassess historical Imami perceptions. Instead, he could merely confirm Shi‘i beliefs, as demonstrated in his treatise entitled al-Mura¯ja‘a¯t (which means reiteration and verification). Presenting his message in a polite tone, Mu¯sawı¯ reaffirmed the Shi‘i belief in ‘Alı¯ and the special position of the ahl al-bayt. His only acknowledgment

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of a Sunni audience was manifested in Mu¯sawı¯’s attempt to influence his Sunni counterpart by quoting traditions related to ‘Alı¯ and the ahl al-bayt mentioned in both Sunni and Shi‘i sources, although they received different interpretations by the two groups.117 Mu¯sawı¯ also mentioned here the tradition of Ghadı¯r Khum as proof of ‘Alı¯’s claim to the leadership.118 ‘Alı¯’s designation was further sanctified by the al-manzila Hadith, which equated the relationship between the Prophet and ‘Alı¯ to the relationship between Moses and Aaron in the Old Testament.119 A similar classical depiction of the events surrounding ‘Alı¯’s designation and the special position attributed to the ahl al-bayt also appeared in the thought of other Shi‘i reformists, including Muh.sin al-Amı¯n and Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’.120 Similarly, in al-Nas..s wa’l-ijtiha¯d (The Designation and its Legal Reasoning) written in 1375/1955 – 6, Mu¯sawı¯ reaffirmed ‘Alı¯’s divinely-sanctioned appointment. In the Shi‘i context, nas..s (stipulation) refers to the divinely-inspired designation of the Imams to the Muslim leadership. By focusing on the significance of this concept, Mu¯sawı¯ emphasised that his message of unity does not diminish a core Shi‘i identity. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n also sought to revive Shi‘i Islam. A‘ya¯n al-shı¯‘a (Distinctive Shi‘i Personas), written in 1934, manifested this new Imami pride. This was a comprehensive display of Shi‘i leadership from the formative period of Islam until the modern era, reflecting his keen interest in the revival of Shi‘ism.121 Muh.sin al-Amı¯n collected the material for this dictionary during his travels throughout the Muslim world, which were facilitated by modern improvements in communication. It presented a wide-ranging display of Shi‘i leadership, from the formative period of Islam until the modern era, in contrast with historical Muslim biographies (‘ilm al-rija¯l) that tended to focus on specific periods and topics. It included not only the biographies of the Imams and Shi‘i clerics but also entries on Shi‘i philosophers, rulers, Imami literary figures and doctors.122 Such a comprehensive survey, extending through the diverse geographies of the Shi‘i world, was a new concept in Shi‘i literature. This reflected an acknowledgement that in the current era the clerics needed to extend their horizons beyond jurisprudence and

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past particular localities. His all-encompassing biographical dictionary also portrayed a new Imami pride, resulting from the opportunities that were open to the Shi‘is in the modern era. *** Reformist efforts to renew Imami thought in the first half of the twentieth century reflected a complex notion of group membership. During this period, the diverse strata of the developing communities in Iraq and Lebanon began negotiating the meaning and significance of Shi‘ism, as a religious, communal, social or cultural affiliation. These reformist clerics also displayed a new interaction between absolute communal identification and the need to facilitate Shi‘i integration into the emerging nation-states and the wider globalised Muslim community. They promoted inter-sectarian reconciliation to establish an enlightened and unified nation of Islam. Several decades later, Khomeini joined this universal appeal to Islam, which he also invested with a clear political message. His Islamic revolution displayed both a ‘brotherhood of belief’ and a call to establish an alternative international order. Yet, first and foremost, Khomeini was concerned with the situation in Iran and the sociopolitical conditions that prevailed in this country at the time of his revolution. Due to the predominance of Shi‘ism in Iran, he did not have the same need as the minority Shi‘i communities in the Arab world to provide an in-depth effort at inter-sectarian reconciliation. He did, however, want to export his revolution to the entire Muslim world and therefore needed to present a conciliatory approach towards the contentious Muslim historiography. This complex relationship between sectarianism and universalism will be further explored in the following discussion on the message of tawh.ı¯d.

CHAPTER 3 `

MODERN SHI I THEOLOGY: PURSUING A RATIONAL CROSS-SECTARIAN WORLDVIEW

. . .During this era, when the link to religion has weakened and people have dared to commit sins and grave offences, the preachers who mention the secrets of H . usayn in the pulpits must understand that the Imam was killed and sacrificed himself for the cause of religion. . .1 In the twentieth century, modernist Shi‘is sought to recreate the image of the Imam H . usayn – the symbol of Shi‘i martyrdom – as a messenger of tawh.ı¯d. Creating a balance between exclusive Shi‘i doctrines and the unifying principles of religion was one of the key challenges that faced Shi‘i scholars in their effort to modernise religion. While the contentious Muslim historiography was a significant hurdle to a pan-Islamic agenda, questions of theology were another obstacle. The emergence of a unique Shi‘i theology in the lifetime of the Imams, and particularly following the Occultation, cemented the inter-sectarian rift throughout Muslim history. The well-known al-H . illı¯-Ibn Taymiyya polemical exchange of the fourteenth century exemplifies the fiery disputes that took place over the years between Sunnis and Shi‘is over questions of

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historiography and theology.2 In the modern era, various Islamist groups claimed Ibn Taymiyya supported a literalist, rigid, puritanical reading of Islam as well as an anti-Shi‘i inclination.3 Yet, while this polemical exchange continued throughout the centuries, Sunnis and Shi‘is also shared the fundamental principles of Islam. This included the belief in the unity of God (tawh.ı¯d), the Noble Qur’an as His word and the message of the Prophet Muh.ammad (nubuwwa). Muslim theosophy and philosophy also provided space for a cross-sectarian religious discourse. Yet, in the course of Muslim history, the exclusive elements of Shi‘i thought assumed an overruling characteristic of sectarianism, bolstering the inter-sectarian discord over centuries. During the first half of the twentieth century, Shi‘i reformists began emphasising the unified elements of Islam as a result of new socio-political dynamics and the growing threat of secularism. The fear of secularism became even more pronounced from the mid-twentieth century in the Shi‘i world as a result of the Shi‘is’ growing attraction to foreign ideologies, particularly Marxism. In response to this challenge, Shi‘i modernists joined forces with a similar Sunni discourse and began to promote an all-encompassing, progressive Islamic worldview as an alternative to secular ideologies. The revival of Muslim philosophy in the Sunni and Shi‘i world in the course of the twentieth century also contributed to a more rational and unified perception of religion.4 As a result, a shared agenda began emerging among modernist forces within both the Sunni and Shi‘i communities in their call for a return to Islam and in their emphasis on a standardised and enlightened vision of religion. Yet to what extent did Shi‘i reformers indeed promote a true universal discourse? What were the premises of this all-embracing vision of Islam; and what remained in this process of the unique Shi‘i beliefs?

Islamic Emphasis on Tawh.ı¯d In the transition to the modern era, Shi’i reformists re-emphasised the significance of the core fundamentals of Islam, and particularly the relevance of tawh.ı¯d (the belief that God is one and unique). This

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effort to redefine the boundaries of religion and the meaning of orthodoxy became highly significant for the community, as greater contacts were conducted between Sunnis and Shi‘is during the first half of the twentieth century in the nation-states and beyond. The establishment of the new Saudi kingdom, with its anti-Shi‘i Wahha¯bı¯ drive, in 1932, and the prominent place that this kingdom assumed in the world of Islam as caretaker of the holy cities, compelled the Shi‘is to define their place within Muslim orthodoxy. In the twentieth century, the Wahha¯bı¯s, continued to promote the concept of ‘tawh.ı¯d al-‘iba¯da’ – the profession of the unity of God through the deeds of the believer. According to this notion established by Muh.ammad b. ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b, the founding father of this movement, all Muslims who conform to diverse understandings of divine worship, particularly the Shi‘is and the Sufis, are pronounced as polytheists.5 Yet the modern Shi‘i debate over the boundaries of religion was not intended only for a Sunni audience. It also derived from an internal need to delineate the role of Islam in the modern age, among a new, more questioning and educated segment of Shi‘i society. In the modern era, Muslim discussions on tawh.ı¯d assumed a broad meaning. This debate was not only on the concept of divine unity but on the totality of God’s existence and attributes and the principles of religion (us.u¯l al-dı¯n) in their entirety.6 During this period, Sunnis and Shi‘is pondered the meaning of an Islamic system of belief and its relationship with questions of science, rationalism, logic and intuition. Shi‘i modernists demonstrated new approaches towards this conundrum, but also a displayed a continued adherence to the fundamentals of Islam as they were shaped throughout Muslim history. Tawh.ı¯d is, in essence, a belief in true monotheism and is acknowledged as the first article of faith by both Sunnis and Shi‘is.7 It is shared by all Muslims, binding the believers in the message of Islam. Different Muslim movements throughout the centuries sought to emphasize their commitment to tawh.ı¯d over other elements in the community, even though monotheism is an axiomatic article of Islamic faith. They sought to mark the boundaries of Islamic

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orthodoxy through exploring the nature of God, his existence and the relationship between the creator and the created. In essence, the question of monotheism brought three main views to the forefront: the rational-philosophical approach of the Mu‘tazilite movement; the puritanical-literal stance exemplified in the thought of the Muwahhidu¯n8 and later in Wahha¯bı¯ notions; as well as the ˙˙ mystical-symbolic outlook promoted by the Sufi movement.9 For Sufis, tawh.ı¯d was not only a theoretical discourse but a call to experience God’s omnipotence through a gradual process of selfannihilation. The believer was to undertake a spiritual journey towards the ultimate realisation of God’s unity.10 Yet over the centuries the question of tawh.ı¯d was not negotiated only through the intellectual arenas of theology, philosophy and theosophy. It also entailed membership in particular political movements, in which profession of tawh.ı¯d became a means to define adherence to orthodoxy and exclude ‘deviant’ elements. Nevertheless, there were also some elements in the Muslim community that conducted philosophical and theosophical discussions over the meaning of God’s existence and omnipotence that cut across sectarian divides. In particular, the Sufi mystical current of Islam became a medium for bridging between the sects due to its exaltation of tolerance and its links with both Sunnis and Shi‘is. Furthermore, throughout Muslim history, the community was divided into diverse and overlapping religious groups on the theological, legal, political and spiritual planes, which undermined a one-dimensional view of Muslim orthodoxy.11 Mulla¯ S.adra¯ (d. c. 1050/1640), the renowned Shi‘i philosopher, exemplified this fusion between diverse Muslim trends. Under the patronage of the Safavid rulers, Mulla¯ S.adra¯ developed his transcendental theosophy that combined Ibn Sı¯na¯’s thought, the Sufism of Ibn al-Arabı¯, the Sunni Malikite jurisprudence, and an esoteric Shi‘i perception.12 Later on Ibn al‘Arabı¯’s mark can be seen in Khomeini’s theosophical treatises, which will be expanded upon in the following discussion.13 Going back to the medieval Islamic world, Muslims from the east, and particularly from Persia and India, played a significant role in the development of philosophy and theosophy. Many of them were

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Sunnis. From the sixteenth century onwards, their thought was embraced by the newly-established Shi‘i centre of Iran. This country was the focal point of this intellectual production, even prior to its acceptance of Shi‘ism as state religion. Furthermore, beginning in the fifteenth century, Islamic philosophy was not taught in al-Azhar University, the major centre of learning in the Sunni world. In the Sunni arena, many philosophers were considered to be situatated on the fringes of orthodoxy, and in some cases were even labelled as heretics. In contrast, throughout the centuries, philosophy was endorsed by Shi‘is due to the rationalist tendency of this creed.14 Jamal al-Din al-Afgha¯nı¯, the precursor of Muslim reformism in the modern era, reintroduced the teaching of Islamic philosophy to al-Azhar University. Al-Afgha¯nı¯ exposed students of al-Azhar to theology, philosophy, astronomy and Sufism, in defiance of the conservative ‘ulama¯’ of this prestigious institution. Yet, for al-Afgha¯nı¯, philosophy was not only an intellectual endeavour but a means to free religion from the shackles of imitation and stagnation. His main intention was to obtain Muslim control over its destiny, using politics as a tool to gain freedom from Western domination.15 Al-Afgha¯nı¯ reintroduced Muslim philosophy, with its universal appeal, to the Sunni world and promoted a unified message of Islam. Yet, at this stage, the sectarian lines remained intact. During this period, pan-Islam remained a narrow, Sunni-affiliated notion promoted in the name of the Ottoman caliph, while the Shi‘is were considered an unrecognised Muslim minority.16 As a result, in order to promote his pan-Islamic initiative, al-Afgha¯nı¯ preferred to conceal his Persian and Shi‘i origins, presenting himself as a Sunni from Afghanistan, as he did not feel free to declare himself an Imami Muslim.17 Muh.ammad ‘Abduh, al-Afgha¯nı¯’s disciple, continued to emphasise the link between Islam and reason.18 Sunni reformists, beginning with ‘Abduh, promoted the idea that Islam is an all-inclusive religion that befits the necessities of a modern faith. Philosophy, with its universal outlook, entered their discourse. Despite this, many of these Sunni reformists still perceived Shi‘ism as digressing from Islamic orthodoxy, due to their continued adherence to a traditional

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perception of theology in its divergent sectarian understanding.19 Given this initial exclusion of Shi‘is by Sunni reformists, the question is: what was the meaning of an Islamic revolution for Shi‘is and to what extent were Shi‘is in the modern era truly open to a universal reading of Islam? The following discussion will study the emergence of a unifying Islamic discourse among the diverse Shi‘i communities in the Arab world and Iran during the twentieth century. It will explore the relationship between the all-inclusive readings of Islam of Sunni and Shi‘i modernists in the fields of philosophy and theosophy, within a contemporary understanding of religion.

Embracing an Enlightened Cross-sectarian Commitment to Islam Al-Afgha¯nı¯, the precursor of Islamic modernism, introduced an all-encompassing notion of Islam to the Sunni-Arab world. Concurrently, Muhammad Iqbal (1877 – 1938), the renowned Muslim reformist, promoted a similar broad-ranging perception of religion. Iqbal appealed to his fellow Muslims in the Indian subcontinent and was later claimed by both Sunnis and Shi‘is in the region. This ideological father of Pakistani nationalism wrote in Persian, Urdu and English, and was immersed in Persian poetry and philosophy. His thought was later embraced by Islamic revolutionaries in Iran such Sharı¯‘atı¯ and Mut.ahharı¯, who ignored Iqbal’s Sunni roots.20 Iqbal’s all-inclusive notion of Islam was based on three interconnected pillars: knowledge, intuition and action.21 He called to empower man in the practice of religion. This aim was to be materialised by comprehending the true meaning of Islam, followed by experiencing religion in a spiritual-Sufi manner and ending with transforming it to a platform for action.22 Living in proximity to Iran, Iqbal and his political call for Islam were clearly attractive to Islamic revolutionaries. Moreover, Iqbal continued a Sufi tendency of glorifying the Prophet’s family, which made his thought even more appealing to the followers of the ahl al-bayt, even though he himself was a Sunni. In his poetry, Iqbal portrayed the legacy of Imam

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‘Alı¯ and the martyrdom of Imam H . usayn as the most profound manifestations of his three-tier understanding of Islam. Acclaiming the current relevance of these Shi‘i figures, Iqbal detached the sectarian affiliation of these personas and portrayed them as exemplars for his unifying message of Islam.23 While Iqbal became a cross-sectarian figure, Shi‘is in the Arab world demonstrated a dialectic engagement with Sunni reformism. Shi‘i modernists sought to redefine the boundaries of religion and create an all-inclusive perception of Islam that is compatible with modern change and a rational worldview. This intended to bring Shi‘ism in line with the accepted Muslim orthodoxy. Thus, for example, they campaigned to purify popular Shi‘i rituals related to the glorification of the Imams, perceived by Sunnis as deviating from true monotheism. Through the message of tawh.ı¯d, Shi‘i reformists attempted to refute historical anti-Shi‘i polemics, reinvigorated by the Wahha¯bı¯s and their followers.24 In response, these reformists sought to reclaim this fundamental principle of Islam from its Sunni monopoly. Yet, in essence, they were picking up their enemies’ argument.25 They addressed the Wahha¯bı¯ concerns on the question of shirk, not by claiming that Shi‘is cannot be accused of polytheism, but rather by calling for the purification of Imami Islam from inappropriate manifestations. Shi‘i modernists’ call for tawh.ı¯d echoed similar Sunni reformist trends. Starting from the revivalist movement of the eighteenth century and followed by the modernist-resurgence of the Salafi movement, Sunni reform emerged in an atmosphere of internal crisis. Sunni revivalism transpired in the backdrop of external challenges to the Muslim world in the military, political, financial and cultural domains.26 A sense of an internal calamity also motivated Shi‘i reformists to invigorate the fundamental belief in tawh.ı¯d. The Lebanese reformist, Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, exemplified this trend. Thus, for example, in his opening to the treatise Falsafat altawh.ı¯d wa’l nubuwwa (The Philosophy of tawh.ı¯d and Prophethood), Mughniyya lamented – why do the youngsters in this era turn away from religion? Approaching this challenge, Mughniyya provided logical proof to the existence of God. This was an attempt to reach

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out to this generation in its focus on the material world and the scientific knowledge associated with it by relying on similar tools, such as reason, to promote a transcendental worldview.27 Shi‘i reformists were dealing with these rebellious youngsters as well as the wider Sunni population that questioned Shi‘i adherence to true Islam. Building bridges between themselves and the Sunnis was particularly significant in this era, in which the Arab Shi‘is were seeking to integrate into the nation-state and the wider Arab-Muslim arena. To facilitate this process, Shi‘i reformists sought to redefine the boundaries of religion in accordance with the concept of bid‘a. Within Islamic thought, bid‘a referred to beliefs or practices that had no precedent in the time of the Prophet. In general, most Sunni schools understood the concept of bid‘a as prohibition of anything that is specifically forbidden in Islam, thus providing room for adapting to changes in cases that have no precedent within the Shari‘a. A more radical position – promoted by the H.anbalite School and its followers, including Ibn Taymiyya and, later on, the Wahha¯bı¯s – rejected any innovation as contrary to the teaching of Islam. According to this stricter interpretation, everything is considered bid‘a and cannot be permitted if it is not clearly endorsed in the text.28 The concept of bid‘a gained a new significance for Shi‘i reformists in their attempt to create a progressive and more orthodox vision of Imami Islam. This was similar to the Sunni modernist campaign against popular manifestations of Islam. Kha¯lis.¯ı and Muh.sin al-Amı¯n were at the forefront of this trend of Shi‘i renewal. Khura¯fa¯t shaykhiyya (The Shaykhiyya’s Fables) was written by Kha¯lis.¯ı in Iran in 1947 by Kha¯lis.¯ı. It was a polemical debate against the Shaykhiyya movement that included also a broader call to rid Shi‘ism of deviant acts. The Shaykhi movement was a mystical esoteric group, based on the teaching of Ah.mad Ah.sa¯’ı¯ (d. 1826) and Sayyid Ka¯z.im Rashtı¯ (d. 1259/1844) and influenced by the akhba¯rı¯ tendency. The movement established what it considered to be a pure and unworldly leadership that surpassed clerical authority. According to the Shayki belief, this charismatic authority comes into the presence of the Hidden Imam through a visionary experience. This is known as the

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doctrine of the vicegerency of the ‘Perfect Shi‘i’.29 Kha¯lis.¯ı’s book sought to refute Shaykhi beliefs that attributed saintly qualities to the prophets, the Imams and the Shaykhi leadership, as deviating from true monotheism.30 Kha¯lis.¯ı extended this polemic against the Shaykhiyya to a broader campaign against inappropriate manifestations of Shi‘ism. In a very bold criticism of Imami practices, Kha¯lis.¯ı pronounced adding a shaha¯da for ‘Alı¯ in the call to prayer to be an act of bid‘a. Embracing the wila¯ya (guardianship) of ‘Alı¯, this third shaha¯da was adopted by the Safavids. It followed the declaration of the belief in the unity of God and the Prophet’s message and was accepted by Twelver Shi‘is throughout the Shi‘i world.31 Kha¯lis.¯ı also rebuked what he called fables (khura¯fa¯t) in the name of religion. These so-called ignorant notions were promoted to the masses by Shi‘i preachers in the mosques. They included, for example, what Kha¯lis.¯ı deemed the Christian-influenced idea that the Imams are saviours of the sinners.32 Also in Lebanon two decades earlier, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n campaigned for monotheism in his appeal for the reform of the ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ ceremonies. He called upon the Shi‘is to eliminate inappropriate manifestations of religion in the commemorative services for the 33 death of H . usayn (maja¯lis al-ta‘ziya). This effort to reshape the image of Shi‘ism as both rational and orthodox was demonstrated in Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s booklet entitled: Thawrat al-tanzı¯h (The revolt against anthropomorphic elements; the struggle to purify religion), published in 1928.34 Muh.sin al-Amı¯n was reaching out here not only to a Sunni audience but also to the Shi‘i bourgeoisie in their emerging ties with wider Sunni society and their desire to disassociate themselves from what were deemed as popular, inappropriate and ignorant manifestations of religion. Muh.sin alAmı¯n’s campaign represented an attempt to create a modern middle class of followers of Islam, acceptable to both Sunni and Shi‘is. Later on in Iraq, Ba¯qir al-S.adr would capitalize on this social sector and recruit them en-masse to the cause of the Da‘wa movement. Similarly in Iran, ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯‘atı¯ placed the enlightened intellectual, ‘the ru¯shanfekr’, at the spearhead of his Islamic revolution.

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Going back to Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, this early reformist directed his campaign to purify religion towards this emerging Shi‘i intelligentsia, focusing on the commemoration of Imam H . usayn. The ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ Ceremonies, which took place on the tenth of the Muslim month of Muh.arram, were observed following the death of Imam H.usayn.35 During the eighteenth century, a new genre of passion play developed in Iran marking Shi‘i martyrdom called Ta‘ziyeh Khani or simply ta‘ziyeh.36 In Lebanon and Iraq, the passion plays were a more recent development, probably imported from Iran during the nineteenth century.37 Prior to that period, Shi‘is in both Lebanon and Iraq were forbidden to observe their rituals in the open and therefore commemorated the martyrdom of the Imam in private by citing the events and through lamentation.38 In a bold attack on this popular practice, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n criticised what he deemed as ta‘ziyeh’s baseless content. Directing his treatise towards the Shi‘i intelligentsia, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n defined several aspects of the ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ passion play as bid‘a. He was also highly critical of afflicting bodily pain during these sermons, using musical instruments and the unacceptable participation of women.39 Explaining his position on this topic, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n declared: . . .the calamities of these times, the detestable affairs, the catastrophes that appear and the ire of the heart are caused by using drums and horns, splitting heads over the famous face [H.usayn]. This exposed the Shi‘a of the ‘ahl al-bayt’ as barbaric and ridiculous among the public, which is unacceptable to rational people [. . .]. H.usayn’s processions and the mourning sessions will not be desirable or permissible without purifying them from any element that God the Almighty prohibited and from elements that are disgraceful and blemishing and cause its perpetuator to appear ignorant and barbaric. . .40 Muh.sin al-Amı¯n expressed here his concern about the reputation of the Imami community and unease over the depiction of Shi‘ism as backward in an age of rationalism. In this argument, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n reflected a comparable approach to the Salafi and Sunni

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modernist view of Sufism and its rituals, which were depicted in these circles as backward, irrational and un-Islamic.41 His call for tanzı¯h exposed the link between modernisation and a decline in folk religion. Similarly, among the Shi‘is of Lebanon, modernisation and shifting patterns of education led to a process of secularisation but also to promoting what was perceived to be a more purified and rational vision of religion.42 According to Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, some aspects of popular Shi‘ism that had played an important historical role in the relationship with the masses belonged to the past. In the current era, the more logical aspects of Imami Islam should take precedence. Similar to Sunni modernism, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n embraced a more standardised faith in order to unite a fragmented Muslim community comprised of sects and local practices. This emphasis on a homogenising version of Islam intended to facilitate the acceptance of Shi‘a within the new nation-states and beyond. By emphasising a normative Islam in line with Sunni modernism, these clerics created a global perception of a Shi‘i community alongside a non-sectarian international Islamic affiliation. This new perception was facilitated by modern means, including travel, modern journals and the proliferation of contemporary ideas through new modes of social organisation in the form of clubs and societies. Shi‘i exposure to Sunni reformism also contributed to their all-Islamic message, even though at this stage the pan-Islamic agenda was led by Sunnis, as part of a Sunni-centred vision of the Muslim nation. Shi‘i commitment to a standardised Islam necessitated review of exclusive popular practices. However, raising doubts over these acts, particularly from inside the community, threatened the Arab Shi‘is as a disadvantaged minority group that needed to continuously protect its beliefs in the face of a hostile Sunni surrounding. As a result, only a few Shi‘i clerics were willing to back Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s approach.43 Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s ideas on this topic gained wide recognition only after his death. The significance of his campaign re-emerged starting in the 1970s, when these reformist ideas began to take root. While traditional ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ commemoration services still existed in Lebanon, a reformist pattern of mourning began gaining ground, predominantly among followers of H . izbullah. It was characterised by

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restrained lamentations, calls to refrain from any bodily harm during the processions as well as a greater focus on the current socio-political relevance of these acts.44 During his lifetime, however, Muhsin al-Amı¯n’s attacks on these wide-spread practices were unacceptable even to other reformist clerics. In Iraq, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, for example, stressed that these popular practices are a mark of Shi‘i identity and even argued that stopping these processions would lead to the demise of Shi‘ism. Nevertheles, in a cautious tone he also expressed reservations against causing bodily harm during these commemoration ceremonies.45 Perhaps in comparison with Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ perceived himself as more of a popular leader and therefore insisted on maintaining these common manifestations of Imami Islam, although he also understood the need to restrain them.46 Even the Communist Party in Iraq, which had begun to attract growing numbers among the younger generation of Shi‘is during this period, understood the significance of H . usayn’s processions for the common Shi‘i. As a result, the party did not call for the annulment of these ceremonies but instead sought to use them to promote the party’s message of social justice.47 While debating the acceptability of popular commemorations of Imam H . usayn, Shi‘i reformists portrayed the Imam himself as a unifying figure. Both Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Kha¯lis.¯ı redefined Imam H . usayn’s historical image as a martyr for the Shi‘i cause and as a symbol of tawh.ı¯d: . . .While reciting the ta‘ziya services, these preachers are insulting the Imams and wiping out the original goal of the Lord of Martyrs. This is because the Lord of the Martyrs was a shahı¯d for the cause of tawh.ı¯d. These ignorant people use the ta‘ziya processions that were established for the ‘wronged martyr’ as a means to spread polytheism. While Yazı¯d and his followers have killed the body of the purified Lord of Martys, these polytheistic and ignorant elements aim to destroy the spirit of the Lord of the Martyrs’ revolt, which epitomised tawh.ı¯d; and they are worse then Yazı¯d and his followers.48

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By invoking the memory of the Imam H . usayn in this context, both Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to transform H . usayn’s figure from a sectarian symbol of suffering to an emblem of tawh.ı¯d. These reformists portrayed the image of H . usayn’s martyrdom, which traditionally exemplified one of the greatest calamities that befell the Shi‘i community in its early history, as a source of inspiration for Islamic monotheism. By using the memory of the slaying of the Prophet’s grandson, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not seek to eliminate a unique Imami existence, but to diminish its sectarian aspect. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Kha¯lis.¯ı advanced a new homogenised and enlightened vision of Islam, in which the belief in tawh.ı¯d was the basis of an allMuslim entity.49 This emphasis on a normative, rational Islam, promoted through the figure of Imam H . usayn, brought to the fore the relationship between science and religion. While campaigning against bid‘a and stressing commitment to tawh.ı¯d, Shi‘i reformists also laid out their understanding of praiseworthy innovations. They extended the debate on popular practices and the boundaries of religion to a discourse on the connection between science and Islam. This was at a time in which the younger and more modernised Shi‘i generation began seeking a wide-ranging modern education. Concurrently, the reformist clerics sought to reassert the historical connection between Imami Islam, science and rationalism. Reasoning or ‘aql was an important component of Imami theology and law over the centuries. In the field of theology, leading Shi‘i scholars joined the Mu‘tazilite movement and accepted rational thought as a means to apprehend the divine. Logical methods were also used as a tool to prove the feasibility of the Occultation and to preserve Shi‘ism in the absence of the Imams. The Shi‘i theologians applied the study of theology, philosophy and mysticism to the understanding of Shi‘i doctrines, such as the Imamate and the ghayba.50 Greek philosophical trends were also absorbed into Twelver Shi‘ism, including Neo-Platonism and speculative theosophy. Yet although philosophy was a notable component of Shi‘i thought, there was also a tension between scriptural and rational thought and between the use of ‘aql as a judicial tool and embracing rationalism in

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the field of philosophy.51 In the twentieth century, Shi‘i debates over the relationship between religion and science brought the Imami rational tendency to the fore. Shi‘i theosophy and a rational Imami legal tradition provided Shi‘i reformists with a logical methodological basis. Yet, the content of the modern debate on religion and science among Imami circles was influenced more by a contemporary discourse on this conundrum than by the Shi‘i tradition of theosophy.52 A rational discourse on religion emerged in the Muslim world at the turn of the twentieth century. At the time, Sunni modernists sought to reclaim scientific development from its Euro-centric proponents.53 Within the Shi‘i world of Iraq and Lebanon, a debate over this relationship began during the first half of the twentieth century. This was a period in which these two countries were ruled by Western powers who upheld theories on the need to ‘enlighten’ oriental societies. Expanding the Shi‘i worldview to include new topics, such as the relationship between Islam and science, occurred during an era in which Shi‘i clerics began travelling throughout the Muslim world, which led to closer links between the two communities.54 As latecomers to the debate on science and religion, Shi‘i clerics did not introduce any new solutions to managing this intricate relationship. However, the traditional Shi‘i emphasis on knowledge and reason (‘ilm and ‘aql) may have facilitated a modern adjustment of these notions. Simultaneously, their delayed exposure to modern development led Shi‘is in general to reiterate views that were already expressed in the Sunni world. They presented a very initial response to modern change, responding in excitement to their encounter with basic elements of modernisation such as electricity and demonstrating a rudimentary knowledge of science.55 Consequently, the importance of the Shi‘i debate about tawh.ı¯d and the compatibility between Islam and science was more in its timing and audience than in its overall content. As modern journals published popular articles on scientific developments, and growing numbers of Shi‘is in both Iraq and Lebanon received modern education, reformist clerics began addressing the relationship between science and religion.

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Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was one of the mujtahids who had been consulted over the relationship between theology and science. Responding to a question on whether the theory of the geological rotation of the earth was compatible with Islam, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ said: Islam is a belief and practice that refines the soul and perfects the force of rationality. It has no connection with natural sciences and the characteristics of materials. The mission behind religions and the revelation of the holy books is to cure souls from harmful illnesses such as envy, greed, and lust which are the only reason in society for the occurrence of evil acts and the spilling of blood [. . .]. The lofty message of the mighty Qur’a¯n and its first mission is the call to God (da‘wa), the strengthening of the belief in the first principle (al-i‘tiqa¯d bi’lmabda’) and the Resurrection, as well as propagating virtues and restraining acts of vice.56 In his answer, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ depicted science and religion as semiautonomous spheres. His approach derived from a traditional Islamic worldview in which human ability to comprehend divine knowledge was perceived as limited. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s view contrasted the more rational currents of Islam. Muslim philosophers, particularly between the tenth and fourteenth centuries, endorsed human intellectual thought in its different scientific fields as representing a hierarchal unity of knowledge and a means to fathom the divine creation and fulfil the spiritual needs of the soul.57 In the modern era, Ka¯shif alGhit.a¯’ actually shifted away from this rationalist tendency. He argued that religion is a value system and man himself cannot fathom the secrets of creation. Similarly, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n also perceived Islam and science as semi-autonomous spheres. Nevertheless, he emphasised that reason must play an important role in man’s relationship with religion as well. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n laid out his position on this conundrum in his treatise entitled Kashf al-irtiya¯b fı¯ ittiba¯‘ Muh.ammad ibn ‘Abd alWahha¯b (Exposing Doubts among the Followers of Muh.ammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b). It was published in 1347/1928– 9 against the

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backdrop of the Ikhwan of Ibn Sa‘ud’s raid on Iraq in 1922. In this treatise, the Lebanese cleric laid out his understanding of tawh.ı¯d while attacking the Wahha¯bı¯ notion of tawh.ı¯d al-‘iba¯da, as discussed above.58 Muh.sin al-Amı¯n questioned the religious basis of the Wahha¯bı¯’s rigid and literalist interpretation of Islam. Concurrently, this Shi‘i reformist presented an agreement with the more moderate Sunni forces in incorporating change into Islam by applying the religious mechanism of ‘aql. The Wahha¯bı¯ prohibition of the telegraph was presented as an example of an excessively strict understanding of Islamic teaching.59 A true interpretation of the concept of bid‘a, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n explained, was a key to repudiating the Wahha¯bı¯ emphasis on tawh.ı¯d al-‘iba¯da, which led them to reject modern technology.60 Muh.sin al-Amı¯n subscribed to the majority Sunni worldview on the concept of bid‘a, as discussed above. Yet he chose to ignore the prevalent historical Sunni view that based the definition of bid‘a on Sunni sources of law. Sunni scholars, and particularly the Wahha¯bı¯s, attacked popular practices prevalent both among the Sunnis and the Shi‘is. Despite this, the pronouncement of bid‘a was based on Sunni sources of law and the Shi‘is were singled out as digressing from the Muslim ijma¯‘. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s discourse on tawh.ı¯d and bid‘a sought to create a progressive Islam that provides room for adapting to changes in cases that have no precedent within the Shari‘a. This was an attempt to marginalise the more radical elements among the Sunnis and reclaim the belief in monotheism from its Wahha¯bı¯ understanding. Using the traditional Shi‘i concept of ‘aql, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n depicted Islam as inherently progressive. He provided legitimacy to accepting modern innovations from a religious perspective while subordinating change to the rules of Islam. Consequently, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n emphasised that Islam itself is an enlightened religion that leaves much room for independent human endeavour. A comparable approach appeared also among Sunni modernists during the last decades of the twentieth century. While earlier Sunni modernists such as ‘Abduh and Sayyid Ahmad Khan emphasised the unity between Islam, science and reason, some later Sunni modernists

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contended that science is value-free and neutral. They argued that Islamic teaching supports the pursuit of knowledge and, since science is objective, there is no barrier to promoting the human quest for scientific development. Among this group, some criticized what they viewed as a literalist reading of the Qur’an that links all sciences directly to the teaching of Islam and leads to a limited pursuit of new knowledge.61 Similar to early Sunni modernists, Kha¯lis.¯ı also linked Islam to scientific development. In Khura¯fa¯t shaykhiyya, mentioned above, Kha¯lis.¯ı debated the question of tawh.ı¯d in a refutation of the Shaykhi movement and its derivative, the Baha’i faith.62 The book was directed at the Iranian middle class. It sought to counter the progressive appeal of the Baha’i movement among more educated Iranians.63 Kha¯lis.¯ı argued that Shaykhism deviated from monotheistic Islam by attributing a transcendental nature to the Prophet and the Imams, and in their belief in ‘the fourth principle’, or the notion of the ‘Perfect Shi‘i’.64 In negating Shaykhi beliefs, Kha¯lis.¯ı interpreted the principle of tawh.ı¯d broadly, as reflecting the divine creation and affirming the link between Islam and scientific progress: . . .Natural sciences, physiology, biology and the rest of the proven sciences as well as modern inventions prove this concept of tawh.ı¯d. All these sciences confirm that the components of creation from people to animals, stars and the smallest particles on earth and in the sky were all created for a certain purpose and according to specific and organised rules. The creator [God] accomplishes this for a certain purpose [. . .] and he is necessarily rational and knowledgeable and all these sciences emphasise the concept of Islamic tawh.ı¯d and prove it indefinitely.65 Kha¯lis.¯ı argued that the complex composition of nature was evidence of the existence of a divine designer. In the Shi‘i milieu, similar ideas had already appeared at the beginning of the century in the thought of al-Shahrista¯nı¯, an Iraqi Shi‘i cleric mentioned above.66 Advocating a total dependence on divine creation, Kha¯lis.¯ı used science to confirm

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Islamic principles. Although he sought to portray the clerics as modern, knowledgeable leaders, he demonstrated a very superficial understanding of science, probably acquired through exposure to the new, popular, modern journals that were published in the Muslim world during this period.67 Using rational sciences in the service of religion was not new in itself. It was reminiscent of the traditional Muslim reliance on the rational sciences, particularly in Islamic jurisprudence, and the rationalist methods adopted by Shi‘i thought in the fields of theology and law. The novelty in Kha¯lis.¯ı’s thought was that he resorted to Western scholars to verify the belief in tawh.ı¯d. This reflected the influence of Kha¯lis.¯ı’s social context on this theological debate. Furthermore, the need to define this most basic Islamic principle accepted by both Sunnis and Shi‘is throughout history demonstrated Kha¯lis.¯ı’s fear of losing support among the educated Shi‘i elite both in Iraq and Iran. This sense of losing the battle over religion emerged in an environment in which Islam was relegated to the private sphere and Shi‘is were adopting new currents of thought that were autonomous of Islam or even anti-religious.68 In Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a fı¯ madhhab al-shı¯‘a (Revival of the Shari‘a in the Shi‘a madhhab), Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to strengthen belief in the divine creation and revive the Shari‘a. While shunning Darwin’s evolutionary theory, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to rely on Darwin to strengthen belief in God’s omnipotence.69 He explained in this context that modern Western thinkers understood that the diversity of species is a sign of the power of the creator. This reference to the founder of biological evolutionary theory is related to the popularity of Darwin’s thought among modern secularists both in the Arab world and in Iran during this period. As a result, Kha¯lis.¯ı chose to mention Darwin’s thought, although Darwin’s belief or disbelief in a divine creator had been debated among scholars and was a more marginal component of his theories.70 Kha¯lis.¯ı, who wrote his treatise in 1951, was perhaps influenced by ideas that began circulating in the Muslim and Arab world at the end of the nineteenth century. The al-Muqtat.af journal played a leading role in familarising the people with notions of scientific progress. This monthly journal, founded in Beirut in

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1876 by Syrian Christians and moved to Cairo in 1884, introduced its readers to Western philosophy and modern secular thought.71 Its contributors emphasised the link between science and revelation and also discussed the question of Darwinism, reflecting the ongoing debate in Arab modernist circles over the relationship between evolution and revelation. In late nineteenth century Syria, when this journal was established, both Christian and Muslim scholars embraced a natural theological approach that perceived nature as evidence of a divine creation.72 The influence of Darwinism, and particularly social Darwinism, was also evident in Iran, where Kha¯lis.¯ı lived for nearly 30 years.73 In this contemporary discourse on tawh.ı¯d, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to Islamise the ongoing debate in Iran on genetics and eugenics. By relying on Darwin to prove the omnipotence of God, Kha¯lis.¯ı wanted to demonstrate that secularism is not a prerequisite to modernisation. Yet, in essence, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s approach was not particularly Shi‘i or even Islamic, as he spoke in general terms about the unity between religion and science. This resulted from the fact that the challenges of modernisation and secularisation created a universal agreement among diverse believers on the need to re-instigate the place of religion in the public sphere. In Kha¯lis.¯ı’s case, the use of scientific data as proof for the veracity of religion weakened the message of Islam. This system of belief was accepted over centuries due to the charismatic power of the Prophet Muh.ammad and the message of the Qur’an and not due to the need for rational proof.74 In Kha¯lis.¯ı’s thought, recognition of modern knowledge was not only limited to the natural sciences, which were endorsed by many religious fundamentalists as a value-free domain. Humanities, social sciences and law, he said, may all be legitimately used to help strengthen belief in the divine creation.75 His conditional acknowledgment of a wider range of social sciences demonstrated some level of openness to Western secular knowledge, although he did not demonstrate an in-depth understanding of these diverse sciences. Furthermore, these different fields of knowledge were not accepted as manifestations of independent human progress, but were authorised as a defensive mechanism to combat secular values. A more wide-

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ranging approach to tawh.ı¯d appeared in the following generation in Iran in the thought of ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯‘atı¯. His all-encompassing view of tawh.ı¯d demonstrated a broad and in-depth exposure to new knowledge among the Iranian intelligentsia of the time, including philosophy, political ideologies and social thought. In contrast, the previous generation of Shi‘i reformists had only had a rudimentary understanding of science and they focused particularly on natural sciences. While Kha¯lis.¯ı perceived tawh.ı¯d as the unity between God and his creation and between science and religion, Sharı¯‘atı¯ created a link between religion, nature, politics, society, philosophy and man. As a result, Sharı¯‘atı¯ perceived tawh.ı¯d as a worldview in which the existence of man, nature and God is a single entity.76 Sharı¯‘atı¯ created a new merger between a holistic approach to Islam, promoted by both Sunni and Shi‘i reformists, and an existentialist worldview, linked to current Western philosophy and to historical Muslim debates on this topic. Through this exchange with existentialism, Sharı¯‘atı¯ sought to transform Shi‘i Islam into an all-encompassing faith anchored in human existence. In his interpretation, this faith of tawh.ı¯d will reach it full realisation only through political action and the creation of a just and unified society.77 Khomeini and other Islamic revolutionaries also emphasized that Islam provided a total programme for life that linked the spiritual domain to the socio-political arena.78 Mughniyya’s approach is also relevant to this discussion on tawh.ı¯d. It can be placed between the perception of an all-encompassing unity between creator and creation mentioned above, and Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’s view on the neutrality of human development.79 In his Falsafa islamiyya, published in Beirut in 1978, Mughniyya argued that belief in Allah results from reason and senses and not from fantasy and imitation. He did, however, stress that faith in Allah is rooted in the belief in the ‘first cause’, which is unseen and unknown (ghayb). Therefore, one cannot fathom God through scientific experiments. Instead, the search for the Almighty can be reached through the senses, the rational faculty and the heart, using vision, logic and insight, Mughniyya explained. To strengthen his point, Mughniyya relied on different Western thinkers including the German

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philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646– 1716). Leibniz assisted Mughniyya to further his cause, as Leibniz argued that every existence has a sufficient reason behind it, although in most cases these reasons are unknown to human beings. Delineating the process of acknowledging God, Mughniyya stated that, through the use of his senses, man can grasp the universe, while philosophy and logic bring him to accept the existence of ‘the first cause’.80 This Shi‘i-Lebanese leader relied here on the logical premises of science as a proof of God’s creation. However, for Mughniyya, scientific experimentation itself cannot provide evidence of God’s omnipotence, since this is a belief in the unseen which can only be obtained through logical deduction and the insight of the heart. In this depiction, Mughniyya reiterated philosophical and spiritual reading of Islam, reminiscent of Iqbal’s thought, and earlier Muslim philosophers. Thus, for example, Mughniyya referred to light as a metaphor to the Absolute God, which is reminiscent of the Ishra¯qı¯ School that combined Muslim philosophy and Sufi mysticism. Founded by Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Suhrawardı¯, known as Shaykh al-Ishra¯q (1154/55–91), and continued in the thought of Mulla¯ S.adra¯, illuminist philosophers defined ‘the light of lights’ as the cause and outcome of all lights.81 Mughniyya’s discussion here can even be seen as a return to classical ontological arguments outside the Muslim world on the notion of ‘the first cause’. In a similar argument, Ba¯qir al-S.adr in Iraq, argued that the belief in God can be proven through rational philosophical claims and not by scientific experiments. Referring to a scale of causes beginning with the ‘first cause’, Ba¯qir al-S.adr explained that both science and religion can be understood through the use of logic, although science is subordinated to the first cause of creation.82 The significance of both Mughniyya and Ba¯qir al-S.adr’s ideas are less in their content, and more in their overreaching Islamic message and in the tools used for this purpose. In the modern era, reformists, both Sunni and Shi‘i, revived the philosophical discourse in Islam, in some cases together with a theosophical undertone. They provided these genres with a new relevence as a means to reconnect to a secularised Muslim intelligentsia and explain the all-inclusive

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notions of Islam. This process began with al-Afgha¯nı¯, continued through Iqbal and came back to the Shi‘i world with Mughniyya, Ba¯qir al-S.adr, and in the thought of Islamic revolutionaries in Iran, such as ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯‘atı¯. As mentioned, the development of Muslim philosophy and theosophy shifted to the Persian world at the beginning of the fifteenth century. During the Safavid era, Iran emerged as the centre of Shi‘i philosophy in which Persian Zoroastrian traditions interacted with Greek and Islamic philosophy, under the patronage of the court. In the nineteenth century, the Shi‘i centres of learning in the Arab Shi‘i world focused on the study of fiqh, and only produced a small number of scholarly works in the areas of kala¯m and philosophy.83 During the twentieth century, however, communication enabled the dispersion of philosophy and theosophy from Shi‘i Iran to the Sunni world, and both locations also contributed to the emergence of a similar discourse among the Arab Shi‘a in Lebanon and Iraq. While the reliance on philosophy during this period can be linked to the Shi‘i-Persian tradition, the Muslim world’s exposure to Western thought during this period also promoted this new interest in logical philosophical debates in the Muslim arena. Ba¯qir al-S.adr and later Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ presented their Islamic worldview through a dialectic engagement between Western philosophy and Muslim thought. In contrast with the previous period, this was not an apologetic campaign to purify Shi‘ism and gain acceptance of this creed within the acknowledged Muslim orthodoxy. Instead, this was an attempt to refute Western philosophies and ideologies, in a campaign directed predominantly towards the Shi‘i intelligentsia and its attraction to Western thought. Ba¯qir al-S.adr presented Islam as an all-encompassing solution to the challenges of the modern world. In his Falsafatuna¯ (Our Philosophy) and his Iqtis.aduna¯ (Our Economic System), he portrayed Islam as a third system of thought, superior to both capitalism and socialism.84 While Ba¯qir al-S.adr debated Marxism, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ was preoccupied mainly with existentialism, and particularly with the thought of Jean-Paul Sartre. Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ wrapped his Islamic message with Sartre’s existentialist notions of free-will, choice and the ethical purpose of

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man. Existentialism served his purpose of shifting Shi‘ism from an other-worldly religion to a faith anchored in human existence. In this fashion, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ created a blend between a holistic approach to Islam promoted by Muslim reformists, both Sunnis and Shi‘is, and an existentialist worldview, relying on both Western and Muslim philosophy. This provided theoretical justification for his call to the believers to fight for justice and assume political power. Other Islamic revolutionaries in Iran also depicted their campaign for Islam in universal terminology.85 Thus, for example, Murtaza Mutahharı¯ ˙ ˙ (1919– 79) not only called for tawh.ı¯d in the name of Islam, but emphasised that monotheism is the right of humanity. Monotheism, he explained, is a universal issue and one of the conditions for the world’s prosperity and welfare. He concluded, therefore, that one has the right to declare war in order to fight polytheism. In order to justify Jihad, Mut.ahharı¯ not only claimed that this is a war for Islam but also defined it as a necessary struggle for humanity.86 The Da‘wa for Islam, beginning with Ba¯qir al-S.adr and continuing with Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and other Islamic revolutionaries, stemmed from a sense of internal threat to religion. This challenge emerged in the previous period but intensified from the mid-century onward, as a result of Shi‘is’ growing attraction to foreign ideologies and particularly Communism. In the following decades, from a focus on the internal challenge to religion, Islamic revolutionaries in Iran began directing their attention to what they perceived as the source of this calamity – the so-called Western political and cultural invasion of the Muslim lands. The Islamic Da‘wa was now extended to the entire nation of Islam fighting this Western onslaught. Khomeini’s call for tawh.ı¯d was an all-Muslim campaign for Islam, led by a proud Shi‘i nation and based on a shared belief in the fundamental principle of tawh.ı¯d. It did not stem from a sense of inferiority vis-a`-vis the Sunni world of orthodoxy, as expressed by Shi‘i reformists during the first half of the twentieth century. Instead, Khomeini sought to empower the entire Muslim community, in which Sunnis and Shi‘is would fight side-by-side against the shared enemy of Islam. In his message to the pilgrims of the Hajj, Khomeini galvanised the believers behind this unity of faith:

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Oh Muslims of the world! Oh followers of the religion of tawh.ı¯d! The secret for the suffering of the Islamic states is hidden in disagreement, the lack of harmony and solidarity between them [. . .]. Indeed adherence to Allah is an expression of Muslim solidarity and Muslim agreement over the movement towards Islam, for Islam and for the interests of the Muslims.87 While Islamic revolutionaries such as Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and Mut.ahharı¯ reflected an exchange between Muslim and Western thought, Khomeini’s ontological discourse displayed a more traditional line. To a large extent, Khomeini expressed a continuation of a centuriesold tradition of Islamic theosophy. Khomeini spoke about ‘the world of the unseen’ and the emergence of ‘the perfect man’, reiterating the theosophical tradition beginning with Ibn al-‘Arabı¯ and continuing through Mulla S.adra¯ on the relationship between the creator and created.88 Although Khomeini did not introduce profound changes to this existing legacy of ‘Irfa¯n, his imminent position in the Shi‘i world represented another important step in the revival of this tradition in the twentieth century Shi‘i milieu. At least in theory, Khomeini provided another layer to the renewal of a cross-sectarian intellectual space, where Sunnis and Shi‘is could renegotiate the relationship between religion, rationalism and spiritualism, within a commitment to the Islamic cornerstone of tawh.ı¯d. Indeed, throughout this century, Sunnis and Shi‘is emphasised the fundamental message of monotheism. They also promoted allinclusive notions of Islam that encompassed theology, philosophy, theosophy, society and politics and blurred the historical tendency to classify Islam into clear categories of knowledge. Islam was no longer the domain of the religious experts alone. Both Sunni and Shi‘i modernists enabled the educated lay Muslim to access contemporary Muslim texts by providing discussions with relevant topics, while minimising technical-legal details and incorporating well-known Western thought. They shifted away from sectarianism and depicted a more universal and enlightened perception of religion, befitting the modern era.

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In this process, influences did not flow in one direction. Philosophy was reintroduced, to the Sunni world through al-Afgha¯nı¯ and from the Sunnis and the West, reaching the Arab Shi‘a, while Iqbal from the Indian sub-continent contributed to shaping political activism in Iran. Concurrently, the Arab Shi‘a advanced pan-Islam and Muslim unity during the first half of the twentieth century, and in the following period Ba¯qir al-S.adr expanded on these notions in his Da‘wa for Islam. Later on, the Islamic revolutionaries, and first and foremost Khomeini, transformed these ideas into a platform for action. Yet when Khomeini declared his Islamic revolution, he did not succeed in galvanising the Sunni world, even though throughout this century Muslim modernists advanced a cross-sectarian and all-encompassing discourse on Islam. The following discussion will explore what remained of the sectarian aspect of Shi‘ism during this period, to understand the underlying difficulties of the Muslim community in uniting behind the monotheistic message of Islam.

Legitimising and Reshaping the Principle of Ima¯ma In order to depict Shi‘ism as an integral component of a progressive and standardised Islam, Shi‘i reformists were compelled to repackage the principle of Ima¯ma and affirm the link between Shi‘ism and rationalism. The supernatural belief in the special qualities of the Imams, particularly the concept of the Occultation, was difficult to grasp in the modern era of reason. Hence, Shi‘i reformists sought to rationally justify these beliefs amid a more questioning younger Shi‘i generation. Competing with contemporary ideologies, Shi‘i reformists argued that Shi‘ism is compatible with rationalism and therefore can provide a viable system for the modern era of reason. They highlighted the rational manifestations of Imami Islam and embarked on a dialogue between the Shi‘i divinely-oriented notion of ‘aql and a secular belief in the independent intellectual capacity of humans. Historically, within Shi‘ism, eschatological beliefs and rationalism existed side by side. Scholars sought to prove the principle of ima¯ma by rational means, while upholding the eschatological belief in the

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Occultation. Thus for example, Ibn Ba¯bawayh (d. 991/2), one of the renowned classical Shi‘i scholars, sought to confirm the viability of the Occultation by basing his argument on examples from the Qur’an on the longevity of biblical examples such as Abraham, Noah, Moses, al-Khid.r and Jesus. Shi‘i mutakallimu¯n deployed logic as a means to prove Imami doctrines, yet continued to rely on the revealed texts of the Qur’an and the Hadith as a basis for their speculative theology.89 Furthermore, together with this supra-natural element of Shi‘ism, jurisprudence with a focus on ‘aql developed into the cornerstone of Shi‘i thought. In an attempt to curb chiliastic expectations, Shi‘i scholars postponed the return of the Mahdi to an indefinite future, while the preservation of a rationalist legal system developed into the focal point of Shi‘i thought. In addition, philosophy, with its emphasis on reason, assumed a prominent position in the Persian Shi‘i world.90 Yet, ‘aql in the traditional sense was subordinated to scriptural knowledge and was perceived as a mere tool to comprehend Shi‘i beliefs and infer legal precepts from the revealed sources. Furthermore, within Shi‘ism there was an inherent contradiction between rationalism and eschatological beliefs, and between human action in this world and awaiting the return of the Imam in the known future. In the modern era, Shi‘i reformists sought to strengthen the belief in the Occultation by using rationalist justifications. As.l al-shı¯‘a wa-us.u¯luha¯ (The Principles of the Shi‘a, and its Basis), written by Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ in 1932, was an apologetic treatise aimed at a general Sunni and Western audience. In this publication, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ laid out the basic doctrines of Shi‘ism and emphasised its compatibility with Muslim orthodoxy. Explaining the principle of ima¯ma, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ reiterated the classical Shi‘i justifications for this unique belief by relying on both scriptural and rational proofs (al-dalı¯l al-sam‘ı¯; al-dalı¯l al-‘aqlı¯). Like Ibn Ba¯bawayh, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ sought proof of the feasibility of the Occultation by resorting to historical examples on the longevity of Prophets such as Elias and al-Khid.r and the occultation of others such as Idris and Jesus.91 Yet in addition to these scriptural examples, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ sought to prove the question of the Occultation by resorting to

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Western thinkers, who supposedly had established the feasibility of immortality. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not rely here on rationalism as a tool to comprehend divine beliefs, as in the past, but to justify Islamic truths. Furthermore, clerics such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ were not only using scriptural proof to legitimise Islamic belief, but were even resorting to Western thought. Explaining the notion of the Occultation, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ said: Consult with the previous volumes of al-Muqtat.af and you will find many articles and rationalist proofs from the most prominent Western philosophers which assert the possibility of immortality in the human world. Well-known European scholars have said that if it was not for Sayf Ibn Muljim [the assassin of ‘Alı¯] ‘Alı¯ would have become one of the immortal figures in the world since he combined all the qualities of perfection and moderation.92 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ relied here on the modern Arab journal al-Muqtat.af to prove the concept of immortality. In this appeal, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was probably referring to articles published in al-Muqtat.af in the 1930s that discussed the concepts of prolonging life. For example, one article published in 1934 argued for the feasibility of immortality through the case of single-cell organisms that divide and transform into new organisms.93 In the future, overcoming old age may be achievable by purifying the composition of the cells that ultimately leads to their demise, the article concluded.94 Depending on a Christian-led journal to prove the feasibility of the Occultation demonstrates the difficulties faced by a Shi‘i cleric in promoting Shi‘ism in the age of reason. It also indicates that Shi‘i clerics in the Arab world were becoming familiar with secularised knowledge through exposure to modernised journals during this period.95 In Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s case, it revealed a contradictory approach towards reconciling science and religion. As demonstrated above, he argued that the two spheres are semi-independent. Yet in this case, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ used science in the service of religion. His

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thought reflected the duality within Shi‘ism between a clear rationalist tendency and the belief in the special abilities of the Imams, and the difficulty in promoting these notions to educated Shi‘is. Aware of the deep-rooted popular Shi‘i beliefs related to the supra-natural qualities of the Imams, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ wanted to maintain his connections with the masses, while seeking ties with the emerging Shi‘i elite.96 In the following years, both Mughniyya and Ba¯qir al-S.adr appealed to all-Islamic and universal notions of religion, demonstrating the socio-political and ideological direction of the Shi‘i intelligentsia at the time. Thus, for example, Mughniyya contended that the awaited Imam is not a unique Shi‘i concept, since the figure of a saviour or messiah can be found in Sunni sources as well as among other religions, including Christianity and Judaism.97 Ba¯qir al-S.adr also argued for a common all-Muslim faith. He provided a very loose interpretation to Sunni Hadith that mentioned the existence of twelve Muslim leaders as proof of the concept of the Ima¯ma.98 With the growing Shi‘i attraction towards universal Communism, Ba¯qir al-S.adr declared that all humankind is united in a belief in the hidden or supernatural (al-ghayb). Humanity also holds faith in a better future for humankind after the world has been overtaken by exploitation and injustice. As a result, the belief that injustice will eventually prevail preceded Islam and exists beyond it, Ba¯qir al-S.adr explained. However, ‘our notion of the Mahdi’, is a belief in a particular living person, living among us and fighting against injustice and not a detached eschatological figure, Ba¯qir al-S.adr emphasised.99 Yet, while using rational arguments to back the belief in the Mahdi, Ba¯qir al-S.adr rejected attempts by earlier Shi‘i reformists to prove this belief through current scientific knowledge. This reflected a more questioning approach to science than in the previous era, in its fascination with modern advancement, as the first Shi‘i generation that was exposed to modern change. Instead, Ba¯qir al-S.adr argued that the existence of the Mahdi can be explained logically, but not necessarily scientifically. This idea demonstrated the rising significance of philosophy within the Shi’i community through exposure to modern Western worldviews and the revival of

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traditional Muslim philosophy. There is nothing to contradict the idea that life necessarily has to end with a quick death, Ba¯qir al-S.adr argued. This cannot be demonstrated in practice according to current scientific knowledge. It is, however, possible, at least in the theory, Ba¯qir al-S.adr concluded, as science has already demonstrated that one can prolong the life of certain living creatures.100 In the following decades, among the ideologists of the Islamic revolution, Mehdı¯ Ba¯zarga¯n, a French-trained engineer, was particularly keen on proving the compatibility between religion and science.101 This attempt to justify Shi‘i principles and more general Islamic beliefs continued in both the Arab world and Iran throughout the twentieth century. In the course of this century, these defensive arguments became more sophisticated and incorporated the discourse of the day. Despite this, at their core they reflected similar attempts to rationalise fundamental Islamic principles, and particularly the Shi‘i eschatological belief in the unknown. While the Imam remained alive in a status of Occultation, some reformists sought to speed up his prolonged return, reflecting the complex Shi‘i relationship with modern change. On the one hand, these early reformists demonstrated a positive approach towards development, since it brought greater connections between Sunnis and Shi‘is in the nation-state and beyond. This was the age of knowledge and reason that contributed to mitigating historical inter-sectarian animosities and promoting a vision of an enlightened and pluralist orthodoxy. Yet, this era brought with it loss of morals and a shift away from religion. The Arab Shi’i were also marginalised in the new nation-states of Iraq and Lebanon. In Iraq they were controlled by the dominant Sunni elite, while in Lebanon they were controlled by the Christians. For Kha¯lis.¯ı, the only possible solution to this situation of social depravity and moral decadence was to hasten the return of the awaited Imam Mahdi, the saviour and harbinger of justice.102 In his recourse to the Imam, Kha¯lis.¯ı demonstrated the sense of social dislocation among the Arab Shi‘is during the first half of the twentieth century, as a result of the rapid pace of modern change that particularly affected the urban poor. The return of the Imam was the only force that would bring stability to this volatile situation, Kha¯lis.¯ı

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argued. His recourse to the Imam also demonstrated the difficulties of Shi’i clerics in this era to reconcile conflicting values: promoting a universal message of Islam while upholding a unique Shi‘i worldview, as well as exposure to modern change together with a continued tension between the rationalist and eschatological trends within Shi‘ism. Kha¯lis.¯ı perceived modern progress as an extraordinarily profound process that could not be grasped as man-made innovations but only as a manifestation of an eschatological transformation. In his eschatological worldview, the modern world was perceived as the end of days brought forth by the negative actions of man. Kha¯lis.¯ı did not empower the individual to act against moral depravity, but proclaimed the imminent return of the Mahdi in a way that ran counter to other more modern aspects of Shi‘i reformists’ thought. This belief in the impending return of the Imam was supported by a re-adaptation of the eschatological signs (al-‘ala¯ma¯t al-ka¯’ina), which, according to Shi‘i tradition, herald the appearance of the Imam.103 Kha¯lis.¯ı identified elements of modernisation in fields ranging from science to society as proofs of the impending rise of the Imam.104 This included the advent of a tailed star – a comet that appeared in 1914 before the First World War and was followed by the development of cars, aeroplanes as well as instruments of torture and destruction; social and political turmoil – such as wars and the emergence of Communism; and moral decadence, demonstrated by the mixing of men and women and social injustice, according to Kha¯lis.¯ı’s interpretation.105 Kha¯lis.¯ı portrayed a society engulfed by fear as a result of the profound changes caused by modernisation. Society was in a state of continuous anxiety over its personal health and social problems and terrified by modern developments, such as the atomic bomb and discoveries in space. There was also fear of the state institutions and the political leadership and a sense of despair as a result of the negative ramifications of modernisation, including growing poverty and the rise of immorality.106 Kha¯lis.¯ı’s illustration of fear indicates a sense of social alienation rooted in the modern transformation of a traditional society, similar to nineteenth-century European responses to industrialisation.107

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His concerns reflected the socio-political circumstances that existed at the time in both in Iran and Iraq, which were undergoing a similar social upheaval. Iran went through a rapid industrial development in the 1930s and 1940s following Reza Sha¯h’s modernisation policy. As a result, a discontented industrial working class emerged that endured low wages, long hours and high consumer taxes.108 The plight of the Iranian peasants and the urban poor continued to deteriorate under the rule Reza Sha¯h’s son, Mohammad Reza Sha¯h, following his land reform and other measures undertaken under the White Revolution.109 Similarly, in Iraq the Shi‘is’ immigration to the cities and particularly Baghdad contributed to the development of a large Shi‘i urban poor in the newly-built slums of the capital. These immigrants, who lived in mud huts, were the poorest element of Iraqi society. Even in the late 1970s, the Shi‘i quarter of Baghdad, known then as Madinat al-Thawra, did not have drinking water, sewers, or paved streets.110 As a result, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to provide his apprehensive followers with the anchor of religion. Attaining command over the power of nature was removed from the human domain and linked to the control of almighty God. Against a backdrop of depravity, the return of the awaited Imam was the only force capable of countering social decadence: Who will be able to destroy the factories of weapons of destruction and the factories of dangerous alcohol? Who will return the woman to her private quarters and protect the family, its structure and splendour [. . .]. Who will the fill human hearts with belief and compassion after they had been filled with tyranny and apostasy and will spread justice and righteousness on the face of earth instead of injustice and oppression? There is no international force – whatever it may be – that holds the ability to undertake this mission [. . .]. The awaited Mahdi – may God hurry his return – will fill the earth with righteousness and justice after it has been filled with injustice and oppression.111

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During the following decades, this sense of injustice lamented by Kha¯lis.¯ı became even more pronounced among the Shi‘is of Iraq, Lebanon and Iran. Both the Imam H . usayn and the Mahdi were brought to the rescue as harbingers of socio-political change. Early Shi‘i reformists’ fascination with the universal discourse of the enlightenment on science, reason and rationalism began to give way to an anti-Western discourse, reflecting opposition to the Sha¯h in his strategic alliance with the West and his secularisation drive. The revolutionaries called for a return to a cultural authenticity through political mobilisation. Iranian scholars were no longer satisfied with rationally justifying Shi‘i notions. Instead, they sought a course of action through a new revolutionary understanding of core Imami principles, to be expanded upon in the following discussion. *** With the rise of competing sources of knowledge and as a more secularist worldview began to take root, Shi‘i reformists relegated theology to its most fundamental components. This debate on tawh.ı¯d and ghayba demarcated the borders of a more minimalist Shi‘ism, negotiating its place among a shifting Shi‘i society and among wider all-inclusive notions of Islam, promoted by both Sunni and Shi‘is during this era. Yet this emphasis on commitment to orthodoxy, symbolised by declaring the Imam H . usayn as the messenger of tawh.ı¯d, did not seek to eliminate the unique Shi‘i identity, but to reshape it within a more progressive standardised and unifying image of Islam. Religion and political activism were also added to this new all-embracing notion of religion, to be discussed in the following chapters. Kha¯lis.¯ı yearned for the return of the Imam as a saviour from socio-political turmoil and moral decadence. The next generation of Islamic revolutionaries empowered the human factor to seek justice in the present through socio-political action anchored in an Islamic state and a Shari’a-led judicial framework.

CHAPTER 4 FROM FIQH TO SHARI‘A: THE CREATION OF AN ALL-ISLAMIC JUDICIAL SYSTEM

The emergence of a secular state-system, with its judicial framework, threatened the power of the mujtahids, holders of supreme legal authority in the Shi‘i world. To reassert their position as religious guides of the community, these high-ranking clerics needed to present a fresh approach to Islamic law, in its sources, classification and particular judicial questions. In a new contemporary reading of Imami jurisprudence, Shi‘i modernists embarked on a dialectical engagement between comprehensive Islamic notions and a more exclusive sectarian view of law, similar to the exchange that occurred in the theological and theosophical arenas. It was perhaps easier for these reformists to reconciliate with Sunnis in the judicial domain, in comparison to the areas of theology and historiography, since there are only minor legal differences between the sects, as will be demonstrated. Muh.ammad H.usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ exemplified this crosssectarian dialogue. In 1943, he wrote a revised edition of the Ottoman Mecelle, in which he engaged in an effort at rapprochement with the Sunni world.1 In his commentary entitled ‘Tah.rı¯r al-majalla,’ Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ presented the Shi‘i understanding of commercial law alongside the relevant Sunni article. In the first section of this book,

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Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ referred to the inherent clash between the Shi‘i notion of legal authority and contemporary state legislation. Explaining this rift, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ said: In this era, many nations became constitutional, and the state’s representatives are the ones who legislate according to their interests. . . Yet – where is the deputyship [of the Imam], where are the representatives and where are the ones who are authorized to do so?2 Indeed, mujtahids such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ had a fundamental problem with the modern state system, since it threatened the Shi‘i notion of authority and broader Islamic values. Yet while rejecting the premise of secular legislation, they needed to offer an alternative that would satisfy the contemporary needs of modern Shi‘is and their growing connections with the larger Sunni milieu. Changes introduced in the legal domain by these modernists, beginning with the generation of Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, enabled the revival of Imami law in the contemporary era and its re-emergence as a cornerstone of Shi‘i thought, as in prior centuries. It not only secured the validity of Islamic law but also the relevance of the mujtahids themselves. Only with the establishment of the Islamic state in Iran did Imami jurisprudence assume a comprehensive role in guiding all spheres of public life, in their political, economic and social dimensions. The following survey will assess this change, beginning with the historical development of Shi‘i law, continuing with the effort to reclassify jurisprudence and review the legal sources, and concluding with an analysis of specific questions of jurisprudence.

Jurisprudence in Historical Perspective For Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’, jurisprudence became the core scholarly domain in the period following the Occultation. After the disappearance of the Imam, there was an immediate need to provide practical answers to the believers, and, as a result, the ‘ulama¯’ began assuming control of the judicial arena. Later, they would gain further leadership roles in

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the community. Jurisprudence remained the cornerstone of Shi‘i scholarship, yet it did not evolve independently of Sunni thought. Imami law was influenced by Sunni law in its sources and different legal principles. Furthermore, leading Imami jurists participated in Sunni madhhabs as part of their taqiyya, while inwardly continuing to adhere to Imami doctrines. Nevertheless, differences emerged between the two legal systems in regards to the sources of law, certain legal principles, some methods for altering legal precepts and specific questions of jurisprudence. Yet, in some cases, the variances among the Sunni madhhabs themselves on particular legal topics were greater than the divergence between Sunni and Shi‘i law.3 In the contemporary era, this element of inter-connectivity between the two legal frameworks became even more pronounced as Shi‘i modernists sought to mitigate these differences in the name of Muslim unity, as will be demonstrated in the forthcoming analysis. Through the legal arena, Imami clerics asserted their hegemony over society by delineating the laws that governed the conduct of the religious community. Their position was further enhanced in the late eighteenth century, following the victory of the Us.u¯lı¯ rational school in Shi‘ism over the more literal Akhba¯rı¯ tendency. With the ascendance of the Us.u¯lı¯ School, the clerics’ role was no longer confined to a literal contemplation of the Qur’an and the Hadith. The jurists were now provided with a more significant legal position and were permitted to deduce Islamic law from the sources using the tool of reasoning (‘aql), in a process known as ijtiha¯d.4 During the nineteenth century, the mujtahids gained more powers as a result of the new notion of supreme exemplar (marja‘iyyat-e taqlı¯d). The common believer was now obliged to follow a living mujtahid who was the most learned of all and was acknowledged as the highest source of emulation: the marja‘ taqlı¯d. An informal hierarchy of mujtahids emerged, as the followers themselves chose which marja‘ to follow. The highest status was al-marja‘ al-a‘la (the most supreme marja‘), who, at least in theory, could be acknowledged as the source of emulation for all Shi‘is.5 As a result of these changes, the religious elite of the mujtahids became a powerful leadership, enjoying immense influence among its followers. During the late Ottoman era, the shrine

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cities in Iraq developed into the most important centres of learning in the Shi‘i world. The Imami community in this Iraqi province maintained a clear apolitical position as an unrecognised religious minority living under Sunni-Ottoman rule. Najaf and Karbala¯’ were geographically remote from the administrative centre of the empire and functioned as scholarly centres that focused on writing and teaching in the judicial domain.6 The Shi‘is’ incorporation into the new states of Iraq and Lebanon threatened the ‘ulama¯’’s position, yet there were significant differences in the processes of integration of these communities. In Lebanon, the legal position of the Shi‘is, an unrecognised minority under Ottoman rule, dramatically improved under the French. The mandate authorities provided the Shi‘is in Lebanon with religious and legal freedom after centuries in which they were pronounced as Muslims, without any acknowledgement of their unique sectarian identity. Following this new recognition, the Shi‘is of Lebanon were permitted to use Ja‘farı¯ law in matters of personal status and were authorised to establish a state-led Ja‘farı¯ court.7 During the first years of the mandate, prominent Shi‘i clerics rejected nominations to religious positions affiliated with the Ja‘farı¯ court, while lower tier ‘ulama¯’ accepted official positions.8 Change began in the 1930s, as the more senior clerics began dealing with the French establishment in a bid to prevent their isolation. Sayyid ‘Abd al-H . usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯ himself petitioned for the appointment of his sons to official positions, one of whom was nominated as Mufti of Tyre, adopting a Sunni-affiliated judicial post that did not exist historically in the Shi‘i legal framework.9 As the Imami community was incorporated into the state’s legal infrastructure, many Shi‘i clerics in Lebanon eventually developed pragmatic connections with the mandate authorities. The Lebanese clerics felt less of a need than their Iraqi counterparts to reform Shi‘i jurisprudence since the state itself recognised Ja‘farı¯ law and, therefore, there was less of a threat from the secular regime. Nevertheless, the courts themselves were a mark of judicial change and also contributed to socio-political awareness among the community in Lebanon. The existence of these separate courts

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strengthened sectarian identity but also enabled the acceptance of other madhhabs from a place of strength. The comparison Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya drew between the rulings of the five madhhabs, to be analysed below, is an indication to this cross-sectarian approach to jurisprudence. Furthermore, the Ja‘farı¯ courts weakened the authority of the traditional Shi‘i leadership, since they enabled prominent members of the community that were not qualified as mujtahids to serve as judges. On the socio-political front, these courts contributed to creating a sense of national belonging among the diverse Shi‘i communities in Lebanon.10 Similarly to Lebanon, in Iraq under the mandate, Islamic law was limited to the areas of personal status. The Ottoman civil code known as the Majallah was still formally in use in Iraq until 1953, although the state also introduced new legislation in the areas of civil, commercial and criminal law. The laws of personal status and the religious courts that administered these cases also remained intact from the Ottoman period. They continued to operate according to Sunni legal guidelines, in which there was no acknowledgement of the Shi‘is as a separate Muslim sect.11 Furthermore, growing numbers of Shi‘is began resolving disputes within the state’s court system and no longer relied on the rulings of the clerics.12 The state itself undermined the position of the mujtahids when it expelled in 1923 leading mujtahids of Iranian origins who were involved in oppositional activity against the British. The mandate authorities also sought to control the flow of money to the centres of Shi‘i learning. Shi‘i jurists were losing ground to the new nation-state and its control over the judicial system. The mujtahids in Iraq could not dramatically alter their situation and therefore did not initiate ground-breaking legal changes. Yet, they needed to introduce some measures to revive Imami law and enable its survival into modern times. The clerics in Iran found themselves in an even more precarious position during this period, following Reza Sha¯h’s forced secularisation project. His legal initiatives sought to weaken the control of Islamic law by tackling the Shi‘i practice of temporary marriage (mut‘a) and child marriages, reforming laws of divorce,

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introducing a new civil code and the waqf law. The latter measure restricted the authority of religious courts and deprived the clerics of their economic independence.13 Under these harsh measures, the clerics felt as though they were under siege and refrained from political engagement. It took them several decades before they regained the confidence to initiate significant changes in the judicial domain. As a result of these differences between the communities, mujtahids of Iraqi origins led the way in the reform of Shi‘i law during the first half of the twentieth century. Their initiatives focused on providing access to religious legal texts to a broader, educated but non-expert Imami audience and also to the wider Sunni public. This was similar to the trends that appeared in these reformists’ theological discourses, as delineated above. In order to reach out to a modern audience, both Shi‘i and Sunni, the clerics emphasised the rationalist component of Imami law and depicted the Shari‘a as a system that provides for the current needs of society, similarly to other Muslim modernists. These were highly significant steps, since they weakened the historical exclusivity of the mujtahids and their control over the dissemination of knowledge. The result was a more minimalist Shi‘ism, negotiating its place among a shifting Shi‘i society and among wider all-inclusive notions of Islam, which were promoted by both Sunni and Shi‘i Muslim modernists during this era. This generation of Shi‘i reformists kick-started judicial change in the Shi‘i world. In an indication of their endorsement by the subsequent leadership of the Shi‘i world, Shaykh Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı was praised in a H.izbullah publication as contributing to religious revival. In an introduction to one of his books, Muh.ammad H . usayn Fad.lallah, the spiritual leader of H . izbullah, acclaimed al-Kha¯lis.¯ı’s works in the same breath as those of Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr and Imam Khomeini, as jurists who contributed to restarting ijtiha¯d by shifting away from former judicial stagnation.14 The following discussion will begin with the contribution of early Shi‘i reformists to the revival of the Shari‘a. It will be followed by an analysis of later revolutionary thought and its relation to earlier

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reformist initiatives. In the early twentieth century, Shi‘i reformers in the Arab world represented poor and disempowered communities that were therefore not in the vanguard of the judicial change that occurred during this period in the broader Muslim world. Furthermore, from a religious point of view, they did not legitimise direct clerical involvement in the political domain and the state judicial system, although they were gradually adopting a more activist approach. During this period, the colonialist powers controlling these countries initiated concrete legal changes that dealt with tangible, pressing issues, combining Western-influenced legal precepts with a reformed perception of Islamic law.15 As a result of their marginal position within these new nation-states, Shi‘is living in the Sunni-Arab world were not the precursors of legal change. Yet they had an important impact on later judicial developments, as will be delineated below.16 What was the basis for reforming Shi‘i law? In his book al-Shı¯‘a fı¯’l mı¯za¯n (Shi‘a in Balance), published in the 1970s, Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya laid down the principles that should guide a contemporary judicial discourse. Among these basic tenets, Mughniyya mentioned independence, preservation of one’s wealth, avoiding harm, and maintaining reason and justice. Contemporary fiqh should be based on these fundamental principles that have always guided Islamic law. Only the reasons and the needs that represent these principles can be altered over time. As long as one is guided by the notions of h.ala¯l and h.ara¯m (permitted and forbidden according to Islamic law) one can find solutions to contemporary circumstances, he concluded. Yet, the problem is that Muslim jurists – both Sunnis and Shi’is – do not always follow these principles. In some cases they digress from the true fundamentals of law, and even base their rulings on zealotry and ignorance.17 As mentioned, a comparable campaign against unfounded beliefs was promoted earlier by other Shi‘i reformists such as Kha¯lis.¯ı and Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n. This was part of an effort to shift Shi‘ism towards a more rational and orthodox notion of religion, befitting the modern era of knowledge and the contemporary need for inter-sectarian rapprochement.

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Shi‘i promotion of an all-Islamic corpus went hand-in-hand with an emphasis on commitment to a normative Islam. Like other Shi‘i reformists, Mughniyya called to return to the true teaching of Islam, joining forces with the revivalist campaign promoted earlier by the Salafi movement. The novelty in Mughniyya’s thought was in his insistence that one can choose from Islamic sources elements that befit the current socioeconomic circumstances. While earlier Shi‘i reformists like Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ presented Shi‘i law on a par with the four Sunni madhhabs, Mughniyya suggested that one can borrow from all schools of law, both Sunni and Shi‘i.18 Sunni reformers in the early twentieth century had already promoted the idea that one has the option of selection (takhayyur) or combination (talfı¯q) from the different madhhabs.19 Yet, these reformers were the product of the Salafi movement, which upheld the historical Sunni perception of superiority and did not acknowledge Shi‘ism as a legitimate component in this new all-inclusive legal corpus. In place of this divisive system, Mughniyya promoted a unified legal framework. Mughniyya revitalised the notion of a united community of believers, reminiscent of the Salafi call for a return to the glorious days of early Islam. Adopting the prevalent anti-colonialist agenda, Mughniyya argued that current rifts only suit the interests of foreign powers.20 Kha¯lis.¯ı campaigned for Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a fı¯ madhhab al-shı¯‘a (Revival of the Shari‘a in the Shi‘a madhhab). Mughniyya, in contrast, called upon all Muslims to endorse the Shari‘a as a corpus that unites the believers, while relegating differences between the madhhabs to mere details, or branches, that derive from the fundamental principles (known in Islam as ’us.u¯l, the principles or roots of jurisprudence, versus furu¯‘, the particular rules within the diverse Islamic schools of law).21 Change towards acceptance of all schools of law can be achieved only by opening the gates of ijtiha¯d and shifting away from the traditional emulation of one madhhab.22 His position cast doubt over the historical self-view of Shi‘ism as al-khas..sa (the chosen ones), and perhaps even on the existence of a separate Shi‘i body of law.23 However, Mughniyya did not call to eliminate the principle of ima¯ma, which would have undermined the existence of Shi‘ism as a separate creed.24

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This effort to create an inter-sectarian judicial discourse coincided with an explicit Sunni recognition of Shi‘i jurisprudence, following the efforts of Jama¯‘at al-taqrı¯b. In 1959, a fatwa by the Shaykh al-Azhar, Mah.mu¯d Shaltu¯t, who was in contact with both Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Kha¯lis.ı¯, authorised the instruction of Zaidi and Imami fiqh and emphasised the Islamic spirit of judicial tolerance. Shaltu¯t also confirmed the validity of Imami worship.25 This effort in the late 1950s to present an all-Islamic judicial system by the Shaykh al-Azhar can be viewed in light of Gamal ‘Abd al-Nasser’s political agenda at the time. His call for pan-Arabism also necessitated an effort to put aside sectarian animosities. Following Shaltu¯t’s initiative, Mughniyya pressured al-Azhar to initiate concrete steps to include Shi‘i law in the curriculum of this important Islamic institution. Despite this, to a large extent, Shaltu¯t’s fatwa remained theoretical in nature, and al-Azhar did not undertake significant steps to implement this ecumenical endeavour.26 During the same year, an implicit recognition of the Shi‘i legal system took place in Iraq, as the Iraqi ruler ‘Abd al-Karı¯m Qa¯sim (d. 1963) introduced a new code of personal status. This was the last country of the former Ottoman Empire to reform its personal status laws. The novelty of this code was in its elimination of the legal differences between Sunnis and Shi‘is in Iraq and its adoption of a more progressive view towards women’s rights, including placing limitations on polygamy and eliminating child marriage. This code promoted a cohesive legal framework that drew its provisions not only from all Sunni schools of law but also from Imami rulings. Qa¯sim was compelled to defend the code, which was attacked by Shi‘i clerics who criticised its liberal approach to women and were perhaps also concerned about its impact on their diminishing authority.27 The code did not receive the approval of these religious circles. Nonetheless, its promulgation indicated that, by the 1950s, there was growing understanding among the Sunnis of Iraq that the Shi‘is were an integral component of this nation-state and its legal system. In addition to this cross-sectarian tendency, Shi‘i reformists promoted the Shari‘a as a religious platform for the layman. A year after Shaltu¯t’s fatwa, and the promulgation of the new cross-sectarian

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legal code in Iraq, Mughniyya published his treatise Fiqh ‘ala¯ almadha¯hib al-khamsa, in Lebanon. This was a legal manual for the common believer on the basic duties of Islam, according to both Sunni and Shi‘i schools of law. Reformists such as Mughniyya did not limit fiqh to a scholarly audience. They could no longer count on the blind emulation of the ordinary Shi‘i who began gaining education, was exposed to new knowledge, and questioned traditional conventions. In order reach out to the educated Shi‘i, these reformists wrote in a readable form and avoided lengthy legal technicalities. Mughniyya also permitted Muslims to ‘pick and choose’ from the different madhhabs. This was a necessary step intended to safeguard Islam, even at the price of promoting a more minimalist religion, simplified for the common people and adjusted to enable a more relaxed practice of the faith. Similarly, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s call for reviving the Shari‘a was presented in straightforward Arabic without providing in-depth discussions on the technical aspects of Islamic law. Indeed, early Shi‘i reformists opened the religious corpus to a non-expert audience, while Shi‘i revolutionaries expanded this trend. The scholars themselves were no longer only a product of traditional religious learning, as intellectuals like Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ became the key ideologists of the revolution.28 This new approach to Islamic law will be discussed in the following chapter. It will be divided into three sections beginning with the process of reclassifying Shi‘i law, followed by a review of the legal sources, and concluding with a reevaluation of the particular judicial questions: ritual purity (t.aha¯ra), prayer (s.ala¯t), women’s head covering (h.ija¯b) and commercial law.

Reclassifying Shi‘i Law: Presenting a More Relevant Judicial Discourse As the role of religion in the public space diminished, the solution was sought by introducing significant modifications to its form, scope and presentation. This process of arrangement was not a mere technical endeavour, rather, it projected a worldview representing a particular understanding of the hierarchy of knowledge.29 Classification of knowledge also reflected a perception of Islam as a

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comprehensive system (niz. a¯m). Throughout history, Muslim philosophers introduced different methods of classification representing diverse theosophical schools of thought. These various currents sought to establish the position of the religious sciences in relation to the rational sciences within the total hierarchy of knowledge.30 Both Sunnis and Shi‘is tended to classify fiqh into two main branches: ‘iba¯da¯t (worship; acts of devotion) and mu‘a¯mala¯t (social affairs; conduct of people among themselves).31 They also introduced subcategorisation to these two branches, which reflected different philosophical approaches to the role of religion on the level of the individual believer and wider society. Traditional Shi‘i modes of judicial classification were not substantially different from Sunni methods. Both perceived Islamic jurisprudence as comprised of distinct essences and therefore categorically differentiated between ‘iba¯da¯t and mu‘a¯mala¯t. They also perceived the practice of worship as the ultimate commitment to a divine worldview.32 Kha¯lis.¯ı was one of the first Shi‘i jurists who sought to redefine the Shari‘a as a comprehensive guide to Islamic behaviour. In place of the traditional narrow approach to fiqh, Kha¯lis.¯ı suggested a more modern perception to taxonomy, in which data are organised by multiple and overlapping characteristics.33 Kha¯lis.¯ı challenged the traditional separation between ‘iba¯da¯t and mu‘a¯mala¯t, by discussing for example woman’s health issues under the category of ritual purity.34 He also referred to some modern legal issues including judicial questions related to women, such as taking painkillers during birth, and the practice of worship through modern means, such as using the radio to call for prayer.35 His main contribution was in promoting a holistic approach to Islamic law. In place of the former rigid classification of Islamic law, Kha¯lis.¯ı presented more negotiable methods of categorisation, shifting according to the particular circumstances of the Muslim community.36 He suggested a modern approach to taxonomy in which categories were not perceived as essential truths but as a wideranging chain of continuity and altering processes, reflecting a more human-oriented view of religion.37 This approach to jurisprudence was innovative in Imami legal circles but had already been advocated

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by Sunni modernists, who had stressed the totality of the Shari‘a. They rejected the traditional, limited view of fiqh and its emphasis on ‘iba¯da¯t.38 In Kha¯lis.¯ı’s reorganisation of law, all fields of knowledge were perceived as components of the divine totality of the Shari‘a. Yet, Kha¯lis.¯ı’ did not verify his all-Islamic message with an in-depth philosophical debate on the true essence of knowledge, but by a need to satisfy a skeptical audience. Opening Islamic jurisprudence to the wider public also questioned the status of the mujtahids as the traditional interpreters of Islamic law and encouraged a critical nonclerical approach to Shi‘i law in the following generation. This process of renegotiating Islamic law began with Kha¯lis.¯ı’s Ih.ya al-sharı¯‘a published in Baghdad in 1951. Through his call for the revival of the Shari‘a, he sought to bring members of the new Shi‘i elite back to religion by presenting a more relevant picture of Islam. His hope of reaching out to this intelligentsia was rooted in the fact that this social group represented a transitional generation. Many of its members still maintained a connection with the community while seeking an alternative to the conservative religious establishment. Thus, for example, Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Jawa¯hirı¯, the well-known Shi‘i Iraqi poet, revolted against his Islamic upbringing but did not entirely detach himself from his Shi‘i roots, and in the years 1947– 8 chose to represent the district of Karbala¯’ in the Iraqi parliament. Another example is the Shi‘i poet Ba¯dr Sha¯kir al-Sayya¯b, who promoted pan-Arabism, socialism and anti-colonialism, and shifted away from religion and sectarianism. Yet, in one of his poems, while depicting himself as a sinner, al-Sayya¯b also expressed his longing for God and sought His consolation.39 Seeking to influence members of this group, Kha¯lis.¯ı, who originated from Iraq and lived for about three decades in Iran, created a more relevant picture of Islamic law for the Shi‘i intelligentsia in both countries. He placed similar areas of fiqh, which were traditionally scattered in different areas of Islamic law, in new, enlarged modern-oriented categories, such as economics, public health and women’s issues. By emphasising these topics, which were the focus of Reza Sha¯h’s modernisation process, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to detach the link between progress and secularisation and suggest an

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Islamic alternative to development. Kha¯lis.¯ı included not only the traditional technical aspects of law but also the rationale behind them, while also introducing mystical and philosophical understandings to jurisprudence. Using this legal methodology, he provided a greater role for the individual and the community to interact with Islamic law. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s innovations will be further demonstrated in the following discussion on specific questions of jurisprudence. When Ih.ya al-sharı¯‘a was printed in the early 1950s, many Muslim countries had already adopted a legal code that combined Islamic and European notions. While rebuffing the embrace of European codes, Kha¯lis.¯ı also acknowledged the need to review traditional fiqh. Yet, by introducing the Shari‘a as a total guide to Muslim life, Kha¯lis.¯ı sowed the seeds for more widespread manifestations of this notion in the following generation. The future Shi‘i leadership of Iraq and Iran, and particularly Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr and Ayatollah Khomeini, expanded this broad approach to Shi‘i thought to the social, economic and political spheres, as will be demonstrated in the following chapter. Ba¯qir al-S.adr, who originated from Kha¯lis.¯ı’s home town of Ka¯z.imayn, depicted a continuation of this innovative approach to the taxonomy of law. In his book al-fata¯wa¯ al-wa¯dih.a wifqan li-madhhab ahl al-bayt (The Clear Decrees according to the Rite of the Household of the Prophet), Ba¯qir al-S.adr reiterated the conventional divide between iba¯da¯t and mu‘a¯mala¯t. He also upheld a sectarian perception of jurisprudence, displaying the rules of the Shari‘a according to the details of Shi‘i jurisprudence. Nevertheless, Ba¯qir al-S.adr adopted a broader approach to Islamic law by adding modern-oriented groupings to the traditional legal classifications, such as the category of public behaviour and differentiating between public and private property. Moreover, Ba¯qir al-S.adr limited the area of iba¯da¯t by removing the topics of zakat (the prescribed alms) and khums (the tax of one-fifth) from it, which he transferred to the category of public property, thus contributing to the emergence of a more humancentred legal framework. He also removed matters of family law and personal status from the category of mu‘a¯mala¯t and placed these areas

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within a legal sphere of private behaviour. Yet, beyond these important changes to the classification of Islamic law, his main contribution was in moving beyond the traditional area of fiqh and creating a comprehensive system of thought, as will be established in the following chapter.40

Reviewing Shi‘i Legal Sources Creating this unified notion of the Shari‘a necessitated a review of Shi‘i legal sources as a basis for judicial change. In this process, Shi‘i reformists focused on the Hadith and the notion of ‘aql. They also reevaluated the concept of ijtiha¯d – the process of deriving legal precepts from the sources of law. Through a more appropriate depiction of Imami law, these clerics sought to reestablish their authority as legal experts and as the general deputies of the Imam in his absence. These reformists integrated new knowledge by reassessing two sources of Shi‘i law: the Imami traditions and the notion of ‘aql. Both Sunnis and Shi‘is accept the Qur’an as the primary source of law, but developed different understanding of the other sources of jurisprudence. Sunni fiqh is based on four legal sources: the Qur’an, the Hadith (the traditions of the Prophet transmitted by his companions), ijma¯‘ (consensus) and qiya¯s (analogical deduction). Shi‘ism also endorsed the Qur’an as the first source of law, but relied on the traditions of the Imams and not on the Hadith transmitted by the Prophet’s companions. The different body of Hadith upheld by Sunnis and Shi‘is exemplified their divergence over questions of authority and knowledge. According to Shi‘i belief, only the infallible Imams could have been conferred with transmitting the Prophet’s true message and not the Sunni companions, who supported the rule of the first three caliphs. Through the Hadith, the Shi‘is asserted themselves as a separate community, followers of the ahl al-bayt.41 Ijma¯‘ is less significant in Shi‘i law when compared with Sunni jurisprudence. Shi‘is rejected the fourth Sunni source of law of qiya¯s as leading to legal uncertainty and instead placed the notion of ‘aql (legal reasoning).42 From the late eighteenth century,

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with the victory of the Us.u¯lı¯ rational current in Shi‘ism over the more literal Akhba¯rı¯ trend, ‘aql became a central component of Shi‘i jurisprudence, supported by the other three sources of law. Within Us.u¯lı¯ thought, ‘aql was applied by the mujtahids to infer legal injunctions by the process of ijtiha¯d. Yet, ‘aql was perceived as a key to strengthen belief in God and the Imams, not as an independent human faculty, and was directly linked to the revealed sources of the Qur’an and the Hadith.43 During the first half of the twentieth century, Shi‘i reformists began to tone down the traditional inter-sectarian differences over the sources of law. In particular, reformists restricted the use of Shi‘i Hadith, which symbolised the historical dispute over the question of leadership. They minimised references to Shi‘i Hadith or combined these traditions with similar texts that appeared in the Sunni corpus. Nevertheless, they did not totally ignore the Shi‘i corpus and made references to it in their writings, particularly in relation to the concept of the ahl al-bayt.44 Their allusion to Sunni Hadith was not novel in itself. As a persecuted minority, Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’ were wellversed in Sunni law and in its corpus of Hadith, which they relied on in polemical discussions.45 Sunnis themselves acknowledged the significance of Nahj al-Bala¯gha, Imam ‘Ali’s most famous collection.46 The innovation in the contemporary Shi‘i discourse was in its use of Sunni traditions for ecumenical purposes, in place of its former use to strengthen exclusive Imami beliefs. The opening of Shi‘i judicial texts to a Sunni audience indicated a diminishing adherence to the classical Imami notion of al-khas..sa, or an attempt to downplay this element. This intended to facilitate the creation of a cross-sectarian alternative to the legal framework of the four madhhabs. Sunnis were called upon to endorse a more flexible interpretation of ijma¯‘, in which the Shi‘is would be accepted within an all-inclusive Muslim consensus. Creating a less disputable notion of Hadith also intended to attract modernised Shi‘is who sought socio-political connections with the wider Muslim population. As mentioned, both Mu¯sawı¯ and Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n appealed separately to Sunnis and Shi‘is to purify their corpus of Hadith from unfounded traditions. Mu¯sawı¯ focused his criticism on unfounded

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Sunni traditions, but also pronounced Hadith as the path of Islam, implying an acceptance of a more cross-sectarian body of traditions. This new approach to Hadith was demonstrated in Mu¯sawı¯’s writings and his reliance on both Sunni and Shi‘i traditions.47 In around the same period in Iran, the Grand Ayatollah Sayyid H usayn Buru¯jerdı¯ (1875– 1961) introduced important changes in . the study of Hadith. Buru¯jerdı¯, who was acknowledged as the sole marja‘ of the Shi‘i world at the time, adopted a clear apolitical approach befitting the conditions of the clerical community living in a period of forced secularisation. Yet while he upheld the traditional quietist Shi‘i approach, he contributed to two contemporary trends: the re-evaluation of the corpus of Hadith and the effort towards intersectarian rapprochement. Following the Muslim modernists’ critique of Hadith, Buru¯jerdı¯ promoted a comparable endeavour within the Shi‘i corpus, which sought to determine the authority of the Imami transmitters.48 Buru¯jerdı¯ was also active in the Egypt-based taqrı¯b movement. Together with this new focus on Hadith, Shi‘i modernists also expanded the traditional meaning of ‘aql, the fourth source of Imami law. ‘Aql was no longer used only as a tool to assist in deducing Islamic law, but as a means to justify Islamic teaching by employing common scientific knowledge. This development was a continuation of the rationalist tendency that existed in Shi‘ism throughout history in the areas of theology and law. Imami Islam relied on rational sciences, known as ‘aqliyya¯t, as an important tool to enhance religious belief and above all to prove the principles of the ima¯ma and ghayba.49 Expertise in sciences was significant to Shi‘i law, as rational techniques and the accompanying knowledge, such as mathematics, was used to determine legal precepts.50 Over the centuries, Shi‘i scholars applied the tool of reason to the transmitted sources to comprehend divine beliefs and to assist in the process of inferring Islamic law. Shi‘i reformists reassessed the traditional understanding of ‘aql beginning with re-evaluating the notion of ijtiha¯d. In 1913, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ conducted a dialogue with leading figures in the Salafi and Nahd.a movements, including Amı¯n al-Rayh.anı¯, Jurjı¯ Zayda¯n and

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Jama¯l al-Dı¯n al-Qa¯simı¯. This exchange focussed on the revival of Arab language and literature and the place of religion in the development of the Arab-Muslim arena, and was published in a twovolume treatise entitled al-Mura¯ja‘a¯t al-rı¯ha¯nı¯ya (Re-examination of ˙ Rayh.a¯niyya or Rayh.a¯ni’s Treatises). A key notion in the discourse of modernised Arab and Muslim circles during this period was the question of knowledge, which also received attention from Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ in this publication.51 Discussing this topic, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ no longer confined ijtiha¯d to the legal domain alone. Resorting to this question, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ said: . . .Closing the gates of ijtiha¯d was a sin against knowledge [. . .]. This closure extended until over the last centuries, taqlı¯d has spread to all fields of knowledge, even among those who are considered scholars. They blindly followed the dictionary of al-Muh.¯ıt. and al-S.uh.a¯h. in the area of linguistics, the corpus of Ibn Hisha¯m and Ibn Malik in grammar and Ibn H . a¯jib in the area of us.u¯l and followed Abu H . a¯nifa and Sha¯fi’ı¯ in the area of furu¯‘. . . They have failed to understand that the one who has granted these great scholars this knowledge and gift did not entrust it and confine it to them alone and prevent those who are equal to them [. . .] since every mujtahid holds a portion of knowledge. . .52 In this passage, ijtiha¯d was no longer used only by the mujtahid as a legal tool, but was applied to wide areas of knowledge. Since every mujtahid holds a portion of knowledge, his view implicitly cast aside the Shi’i concept of ijtiha¯d or the permission granted to the jurists to deduce legal edicts from the revealed sources. Instead of this Shi’i reading, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ offered here a notion of ijtiha¯d that was comparable to the Salafi understanding that appealed for rational analysis of Islamic teaching in order to provide answers to modern circumstances.53 However, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ went further than the Salafi perception of ijtiha¯d, which focused on legal change, to call for a struggle against stagnation in all fields of Arab-Muslim thought. As a leading cleric, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not seek to undermine the

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special position of the mujtahids, as leaders and bearers of unique religious knowledge. Yet he did pay tribute to a variety of leaderships in the wider Islamic and Arab communities and acknowledged their contribution to different fields of thought. Five years after conducting this dialogue, the Iraqi nation-state was established following the First World War. With the integration of Shi‘is in this embryonic state, this community was also exposed to a process of secularisation as a result of social change, including the development of state education and the rise of a Shi‘i intelligentsia. In the following decades, Shi‘i reformist discourse on ‘aql reflected an exchange with Sunni and Arab circles on questions of knowledge and rationality. Yet it also derived from an acute sense of threat to the survival of religion, which necessitated a comprehensive effort to legitimise Shi‘i beliefs. Imami scholars no longer relied only on the transmitted sources but were willing to sanction any knowledge as a result of the magnitude of the challenge posed by the emergence of a secularised Shi‘i elite. Indeed, already in the first half of the twentieth century Shi‘i clerics had already demonstrated knowledge of simple scientific facts which they acquired through access to modern journals, and used them in the areas of theology and law to rationalise Islamic principles. As mentioned, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ relied on al-Muqtat.af to prove the concept of immortality and the Shi‘i belief in the priciples of ima¯ma and ghayba. In the field of jurisprudence, Kha¯lis.¯ı, for example, linked ritual purity to modern understanding of the significance of hygiene. The decision to employ this knowledge to validate Shi‘i law represented a new approach to jurisprudence. This need to satisfy a questioning audience affected the methodology of transmission and possibly also had bearing on the meaning and implementation of Islamic law, as will be illustrated in the subsequent discussion. Not all Shi‘i modernists endorsed the creation of a direct link between Islam and science. Mughniyya, for example, who developed his thought in the mid-twentieth century, went against this trend. He argued in this context that the rituals of the ‘iba¯da¯t can only be understood as reflecting the special connection between the believer and God and cannot be validated by earthly causes.54 Joining the

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broader Muslim debate on religion and science, Mughniyya in essence supported the position that these are two autonomous spheres. He was willing to rely on philosophy and rationalism to explain theology, but rejected the modernist trend to use science for the service of religion.55 In the second half of this century, members of the Islamic revolutionary movement in Iran, both clerics and intellectuals, demonstrated a more comprehensive effort to deploy contemporary knowledge in order to promote their ideology.56 This debate on the relationship between religion and knowledge preoccupied Shi‘i modernists throughout the twentieth century. It began with a discourse on the correlation between Islam and science and continued with discussion over religion and philosophy. While Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ accepted diverse knowledge, he did not question the judicial authority of the mujtahids. Shi‘i reformists such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not doubt the theory of marja‘ taqlı¯d, according to which the common believer must emulate one living mujtahid. Yet they opened the door for an educated public to interpret Islamic texts as they reached out to this audience through simplifying the judicial discourse, discussing contemporary issues and incorporating modern knowledge. Shi‘i reformists’ new approaches to knowledge and authority paved the way for more far-ranging discussions on these topics during the second half of this century. Islamic revolutionaries were exposed to contemporary currents of thought in the Muslim world and the West. Yet, in contrast to their reformist predecessors, their thought stemmed less from a true effort towards inter-sectarian reconciliation, as demonstrated in the discussion on historiography. Several decades after the Shi‘i calls for Muslim unity, the pan-Islamic movement was losing ground to other leading ideologists of the period and particularly to Nasser’s pan-Arabism. In place of the prior efforts of the taqrı¯b movement, Saudi Arabia began seeking hegemony over the pan-Islamic agenda, which it gave an exclusively Salafi understanding. In the Shi‘i world, Iran became preoccupied with internal socio-political challenges following the White Revolution. In this situation, there was less of a place for inter-sectarian reconciliation between an acquiescent al-Azhar and the Iranian Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’. The

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latter were consumed by internal developments and began promoting a religious alternative to secular the Iranian nationalism advanced by the Sha¯h.57 Consequently, Islamic revolutionaries in Iran directed their message first and foremost towards the Shi‘i population in Iran and not towards the broader Islamic world. The immediate aim was to overthrow the Sha¯h, while the end goal was to establish an Islamic state that would encompass the entire Muslim umma. They felt less compelled to build bridges towards the Sunni world, as their predecessors in the Shi‘i Arab world were obliged to do. Living in a Shi‘i state, they did not have the same need to create an in-depth reconciliation with Sunnis over areas such as Hadith and historiography. Khomeini championed the flag of Muslim unity as a basis for political and spiritual framework. Yet, in contrast with earlier Shi‘i reformists in the Arab world, he did not tone down the traditional negative Shi’i approach towards the leadership of early Islam venerated by the Sunnis, since his worldview was rooted in a clear Shi‘i outlook. As a result, although Khomeini sought to export his revolution to the broader Muslim world, he tended to rely on the Shi‘i Hadith to promote his political message.58 While the subtext was sectarian the overall message was universal, however, reflecting the ongoing debates on questions of knowledge and authority among modernist Shi‘i circles. As discussed above, early Shi‘i reformists had already introduced new discussions on the notion of ijtiha¯d, yet they did not doubt the overall authority of the mujtahid to control the interpretation and dissemination of religious knowledge. They engaged with the new intelligentsia from a perception of threat to their traditional authority and to their Islamic worldview. However, by reaching out to a lay audience, they laid the basis for an exchange between Shi‘i notions of knowledge and more universal Islamic and Western concepts, which paved the way for the next generation of Islamic revolutionaries. Religious thought was no longer confined to the mujtahids, the traditional bearers of religious knowledge, but to intellectuals like Sharı¯ ‘atı¯, who became the spearhead of the Islamic revolution in Iran.59

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As intellectuals were endorsed by the revolutionary movement in Iran, ijtiha¯d remained an important tool for members of the religious elite to introduce change, through new readings to the transmitted sources of the Qur’an and the Hadith.60 The earlier Shi‘i endeavour to review the Hadith gained ground in Iran starting from the 1990s. Reformist forces in Iran introduced new understandings to Qur’an and Hadith, as they engaged in contemporary topics such as the question of political freedom and women’s rights within Islam.61 Furthermore, not only was contemporary knowledge incorporated into the process of ijtiha¯d, leading jurists even re-evaluated the notion of taqlı¯d and introduced a more diversified understanding of the term. Ayatollah Fad.lallah (d. 2010), who was the spiritual leader of the H . izbullah movement in Lebanon, and Ayatollah ‘Alı¯ al-Sista¯nı¯ of Iraq (b. 1930), the most widely accepted marja‘ in the Shi‘i world, suggested that one can simultaneously emulate different mujtahids in accordance with their expertise on different topics.62 Almost a century earlier, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ acknowledged different areas of knowledge and diverse sources of authority as contributing to the process of ijtiha¯d. Nevertheless, he did not question the exclusive mandate of the mujtahid over the legal domain. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ also upheld the concept of taqlı¯d, according to which the ordinary believer must choose one mujtahid to emulate in all areas of jurisprudence. By suggesting that different scholars may hold different portions of ijtiha¯d, the door was open for a more diversified approach to Imami law in the following generation. This enabled Shi‘i law to gradually shift according to the necessities of the contemporary era. The following discourse will analyse how ijtiha¯d enabled new understandings of traditional areas of fiqh.

Reassessing Specific Legal Questions: An Effort to Modernise Religion Expanding the boundaries of ijtiha¯d enabled Shi‘i modernists to introduce solutions to new situations. During the first half of the twentieth century, Shi‘i reformists reviewed Imami law focusing on the traditional area of ‘iba¯da¯t, and particularly on laws governing

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ritual purity, prayer and the question of the h.ija¯b.63 These early reformists introduced only limited alterations to the content of these laws. Furthermore, in the area of mu‘a¯mala¯t, the focus of changes introduced by Sunni modernists, there was only a restricted attempt at reform – apparent particularly in commercial law, reflecting to some extent a traditional Imami view on the limitations imposed on the community during the Occultation. The field of ‘iba¯da¯t provided these reformists with the chance to further their religious and cultural agenda, while refraining from involvement in state legislation. Moreover, without substantially changing the content of jurisprudence, alterations to the presentation of legal treatises held significant ramifications for the authority of the clerics. They also expanded the parameters of ‘iba¯da¯t to reflect a more wide-ranging and relevant approach to Islamic rituals. The following discussion will focus on specific questions of jurisprudence, beginning with .taha¯ra, the first chapter in traditional Islamic fiqh. Ritual Purity (t.aha¯ra) In Islamic teaching, the laws of .taha¯ra (ritual purity), symbolise the link between the material and spiritual. Every Muslim is required to undergo purification prior to prayer and other rituals. As a form of worship, .taha¯ra enables the believers to move closer to God by removing all aspects of impurity. Therefore, the act of purification must be linked to moral intention (niyya), in which the Muslim undertakes the act of ablution for a religious purpose. As a sect in need of protecting its unique existence, Shi‘i jurisprudence developed a more stringent approach towards the status of non-Muslims in comparison with Sunni law. Shi‘ism defined non-Muslims, including Jews and Christians (known as ‘ahl al-kita¯b’, or ‘the people of the book’), as inherently impure. In comparison, Sunni Islam advanced a more egalitarian approach to human beings, in which a person is pronounced as essentially pure. Shi‘ism also differs from Sunni Islam in permitting the mere wiping the feet instead of washing during the minor ablution before prayer, known as wud.u¯’.64 Similar to other Muslim modernists, Kha¯lis.¯ı expanded the meaning of Islamic purity beyond its ritual basis and bestowed upon

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it an all-encompassing value. In his interpretation, this important Islamic principle became a manifestation of the Shari‘a in its entirety. In his three-volume Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯’a, Kha¯lis.¯ı went beyond the customary laws of ritual purity to introduce a broader approach to .taha¯ra, both from an Islamic and a more modern point of view. The volumes dealt with different areas of the Shari‘a, but focused particularly on the topic of ritual purity.65 The significance attributed by Kha¯lis.¯ı to this ritual is linked to the importance attributed to .taha¯ra in Islamic thought. Seeking to the lay to lay public, Kha¯lis.¯ı simplified this judicial presentation, using modern Arabic and refraining from lengthy technical discussions. Thus, for example, he did not mention laws related to the time and period of performing .taha¯ra or special Shi‘i occasions in which it is recommendable to enact this duty. He also abstained from mentioning previous rulings on the topics and minimised references to relevant passages from the Qur’an and the Hadith.66 Kha¯lis.¯ı went beyond the traditional perception of ritual purity. He declared that all areas of fiqh contribute to the .taha¯ra of the believer, in his external and internal appearance, as an individual and as a member of society. Therefore, .sala¯t (prayer) purifies the heart, zaka¯t (alms) refines the wealth, .sawm (fasting) leads to internal purity, h.ajj (pilgrimage) purifies man from worldly affairs and jiha¯d cleanses society from polytheism.67 Transforming this ritualistic obligation into an all-embracing Islamic notion was an important step in promoting his revivalist agenda. This was a call for the secularist Shi‘i to return to Islam and for the ignorant masses to refrain from popular practices that deviate from true belief. Shifting away from the traditional technical discourse, Kha¯lis.¯ı included in his presentation the concept of purifying the soul, by choosing good over evil. He did not limit this discussion only to the meaning of .taha¯ra but also sought to justify this notion, similar to the effort of other Muslim modernists to rationalise Islam. In this context, Kha¯lis.¯ı resorted to simplistic understandings of psychological and medical theories about man’s nature, in an attempt to prove the Islamic concept of free will.68 This was another indication of Kha¯lis.¯ı’s effort to woo the Shi‘i middle class, both in Iran and Iraq,

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by making space for human choice in Islamic teaching. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s discussion on .taha¯ra was a part of his wider campaign to combat the secularisation of society, similar to the Muslim Brotherhood’s appeal for the individual to surrender to God, in a total commitment to the Shari‘a.69 In this context, Kha¯lis.¯ı also linked the notion of defilement to a campaign against bid‘a. This was similar to Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s call to remove unaccepted practices from the ta‘ziya ceremonies. Both reformists sought to re-establish the boundaries of a more pluralistic orthodoxy, inclusive of an enlightened and normative Shi‘ism. In an unprecedented attack, Kha¯lis.ı¯ went against the popular Shi‘i practice of adding a third shaha¯da to Imam ‘Alı¯.70 This practice followed the conventional Islamic shaha¯da – the declaration of belief in God and his messenger Muh.ammad – which was the first tenet in the five pillars of Islam (arka¯n al-isla¯m). The third shaha¯da that sanctifies Imam ‘Alı¯’s wila¯ya (authority and guardianship) was introduced by the Safavids during the sixteenth century in an attempt to enforce the new Shi‘i character of the state. From Iran, it probably reached the Imami communities in Iraq and Lebanon during the nineteenth century.71 By pronouncing the third shaha¯da as bid‘a, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to appease the Sunni world that perceived this Shi‘i ritual as deviating from true Islam. It was a very bold step to go against a deep-rooted custom that served as a testimony to the belief in ‘Alı¯’s wila¯ya. Kha¯lis.¯ı also criticised what he defined as widespread superstitious and ignorant beliefs, such as humanising God or elevating the Imams to a divine status.72 Appealing to the educated Shi‘is, Kha¯lis.¯ı associated the symbolic act of religious purification with physical cleanliness and hygiene. This idea indicated that Kha¯lis.¯ı was well aware of the intellectual debate that was taking place at the time, in the Arab world and Iran, on the connection between public health and development, as these societies were undergoing modernisation.73 Contemporary journals published in the region during this period emphasised the significance of public health, hygiene and included general surveys on scientific topics.74 Kha¯lis.¯ı added his voice to this debate by linking it to a religious worldview.75 In this fashion, Kha¯lis.¯ı expanded the

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meaning of .taha¯ra, and extended this discourse to other related topics. He introduced here a debate on modern medicine from a judicial perspective, with a particular emphasis on issues related to women and childbirth that did not appear in earlier books on .taha¯ra. This reflected the importance attributed at the time to medicine and public health in Iran and other countries in the Arab world, which were undergoing a process of development. In this context, Kha¯lis.¯ı argued that stopping the flow of blood of a woman during birth is dangerous, although he did not provide any medical proof for this position. He did, however, permit women to take pain killers during birth if they were provided by a doctor, implicitly criticising the common practice at the time to use the services of traditional healers who did not obtain conventional medical qualifications.76 In essence, Kha¯lis.¯ı was balancing between multiple audiences. It also reflected the transitional state of the mujtahids themselves, who were exposed to this initial stage of modernisation and the difficult theological and legal questions which emerged from this development. Nevertheless, these reformists embraced technological progress and welcomed modern values of knowledge and rationality, since they provided a basis for an acceptance of Shi‘ism within the nation of believers. Traditionally, .taha¯ra did not denote cleanliness in the hygienic sense. Furthermore, using scientific justification for laws that had been accepted unquestioningly for centuries weakened true religious commitment manifested in the legal obligation of intention. In Islamic law, niyya refers both to the intention of the lawgiver and to the aim of the individual who is required to fulfil the law. There is a distinction, for example, between cleaning the fingernails for the sake of personal hygiene and performing the same act as part of preparation for prayer.77 Moreover, throughout history, Muslim scholars tended to rely on rational human knowledge merely as a tool to assist in inferring legal injunctions and to reach a theological comprehension of divine unity. As a result, the use of modern science to validate Islamic law alters the traditional hierarchy of knowledge and questions true belief in the Divine Creation, which cannot be fully proven by rational means.

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Within this expanded discussion on .taha¯ra, Kha¯lis.¯ı provided solutions to some modern circumstances. Yet he did not alter the Imami approach to the impurity of non-Muslims, a topic of significance in the modern age.78 This issue became highly relevant with the development of political and economic ties between Muslims and non-Muslims, particularly in countries which were under foreign occupation. Kha¯lis.¯ı upheld the traditional Shi‘i perception on the impurity of non-Muslims, even though already in the second half of the nineteenth century, Murtad.a Ans.a¯rı¯ (1781– 1864), who was the most prominent Shi‘i jurist of the time, introduced important changes in this area.79 In this context, Kha¯lis.¯ı did not deal at all with the field of economics, which awaited the important contribution of Ba¯qir al-S.adr. On the whole, Kha¯lis.¯ı did not significantly alter the traditional framework of fiqh. Mughniyya, in contrast, as mentioned, promoted a more far-ranging legal change, with his endorsement of the five madhhabs. A similar mechanism of selection (takhayyur) or combination (talfı¯q) from different schools of law had been introduced earlier by Sunni modernists, who called to take into account the public interest (mas.lah.a) or the welfare of the community, although they limited this framework to Sunni Islam.80 Going back to Kha¯lis.¯ı, the novelty in his thought was that it shifted away from the traditional Shi‘i assertion that the Shari‘a cannot be fulfilled in its entirety in the absence of the Imam, and that some Islamic duties are inapplicable during the ghayba. By calling for its implementation, Kha¯lis.¯ı was clearly advocating a more active Imami tendency, both in the political and the religious sphere, although he did not elaborate on the full meaning of practicing the Shari‘a in public life. In this fashion, Kha¯lis.¯ı joined forces with a similar discourse promoted by Sunni reformists on the growing threat of secularisation to Muslim society. Modernists, both Sunnis and Shi’is, agreed that only by a total submission to the Shari‘a will Muslims reach the necessary spiritual revival. Kha¯lis.¯ı contributed to the creation of this non-sectarian Islamic domain, which had a particular applicability for the modern era. Yet his emphasis on .taha¯ra with its particular Shi‘i significance showed that Kha¯lis.¯ı did

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not seek to eliminate unique Imami perceptions. On the contrary, by focusing on .taha¯ra in its Imami understanding, Kha¯lis.¯ı supported the particular Imami worldview, which he sought to incorporate within a cross-sectarian, inclusive notion of the Shari‘a. Kha¯lis.¯ı, who died in 1963, did not live to see the expansion of this universal religious discourse in Iran during the following decades. Shi‘i modernists, both clerics and intellectuals, began moving further away from a traditional Islamic discourse of fiqh, as they conducted an exchange with Western thought. Islamic revolutionaries like ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ promoted what they defined as a worldview of Islam, denoting a theology, a philosophy, an ideology and a social movement. Nevertheless, they also endorsed the exclusive Shi‘i theology of the ima¯ma and maintained the particularities of Shi‘i jurisprudence, exemplified in the laws of .taha¯ra.81 Shi‘i Iran was to lead an Islamic revolution in which the Imami way of life was to take precedence. As the spearhead of this revolution, Iran promoted an isolationist view of its relationship with the outside world. Khomeini also upheld the traditional Shi‘i view on the impurity of nonMuslims.82 This perception became even more pronounced as the political war against the ‘Great Satan’ and the West was added to the religious dimension. Heading a protest movement against the Sha¯h and his strategic alliance with the US, Khomeini galvanised his followers behind the struggle against imperialism. Concurrently, in his judicial tracts Khomeini emphasised a similar notion, as he called to defend Islam and to oppose any political, economic or commercial act that would lead to the subordination of the Muslims to the outside world.83 Nevertheless, while Khomeini unequivocally denounced foreign powers, this question of the impurity of non-Muslims could not easily be dismissed. Pronouncing all unbelievers as basically untouchable was very problematic in the modern age, with its global political and commercial contacts cutting across religious and national boundaries. As a result, while Khomeini explicitly condemned non-Muslims, other Shi‘i scholars promoted a more lenient position towards foreigners. Already in the mid-twentieth century, the Grand Ayatollah Muh.sin al-H . akı¯m (d. 1970) provided a

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more positive approach towards non-Muslims. Ayatollah al-H.akı¯m, who was the leading Shi‘i authority in Iraq at the time, issued the famous fatwa that identified Communism with atheism and forbade Muslims from joining the Communist Party.84 Concurrently, he also ruled that ‘the People of the Book’ are considered pure, and explained that there are conflicting Hadiths regarding the impurity of all unbelievers. A similar position was expressed several decades later by Ayatollah Fad.lallah in Lebanon. Ayatollah Fad.lallah studied under Ayatollah al-H . akı¯m in Najaf and shared Ba¯qir al-S.adr’s political and religious activism. Upon returning to Lebanon and following the establishment of the H . izbullah movement in 1982, Fad.lallah demonstrated a militant approach towards the West. Concurrently, he introduced unconventional and far-reaching fatwas on a variety of topics, particularly in regards to women. This Shi‘i-Lebanese leader also ruled that all human beings are ritually pure. He explained that Shi‘i jurists who stated otherwise were in essence practicing unnecessary precaution, as he shifted towards the Sunni view on the impurity of non-Muslims.85 Fad.lallah adopted a clear anti-Western position, yet he also lived in the multi-confessional state. H . izbullah, the Party of God, presented a pan-Islamic and pro-Iranian outlook. Nevertheless, it operated within Lebanon and in a gradual process began promoting a national discourse. As a result, while Khomeini was able to aspire towards a self-sufficient Islamic nation severing its connection with the non-Muslim world, Fad.lallah and the Shi‘is of Lebanon needed to maintain contacts with their fellow Christians and other denominations in the country. Fad.lallah’s innovative approach to non-Muslims can be understood in the backdrop of his Lebanese heritage. As delineated above, Shi‘i modernists attributed wide-ranging significance to the question of .taha¯ra. The following discussion will continue to explore their contribution to the field of ‘iba¯da¯t, focusing on the Islamic duty of prayer. Prayer (s.ala¯t) In traditional Islamic law, the book of .taha¯ra, which opens treatises of fiqh, is followed by the important religious duty of prayer. S.ala¯t is one

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of the five pillars of religion (arka¯n al-isla¯m) and is perceived as a clear indication to the belief in the Divine. It is an expression of a call for God (du‘a¯’), a glorification of God (tasbı¯h.) or an appeal for pardon (istighfa¯r). Ritual prayer is an individual obligation but is even more significant when performed in congregation. Its communal aspect reaches its full realisation in the mosque and its zenith is the great Friday prayer (al-jum‘a). Through prayer, the believer verifies his adherence to God, the Prophet and the Qur’an, as the basic tenets of Islam.86 Shi‘i modernists pondered over the contemporary meaning of this important religious duty and its significance to the relationship between Shi‘ism and the larger Sunni world. In his book Masa¯’il Fiqhiyya [n.d.], Sayyid ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯ discussed different judicial topics, including the question of prayer. Mu¯sawı¯ did not introduce far-reaching changes to the content or even to the presentation of Islamic law. This reflected his overall conformist approach manifested in his defence of popular practices including the ta‘ziya processions and the custom of transferring corpses to the shrine cities. Yet, like Kha¯lis.¯ı, who lived in the same period, Mu¯sawı¯ acknowledged the necessity of engaging with the needs of an emerging contemporary society. This topic of how to be a Shi‘i in the modern world appeared in Mu¯sawı¯’s discussion on the permissibility of merging between two different prayers (al-jam‘ bayna al-s.ala¯tayn). Referring to this legal question, Mu¯sawı¯ stressed that all Islamic factions permit joining prayers during the Hajj. He added that inter-Muslim disagreements were over the method of performing jam’ during the Hajj and over determining the permissibility of joining prayers during other circumstances. This was part of Mu¯sawı¯’s wider effort to construct a common Islamic framework as a basis for advancing Muslim unity. Mu¯sawı¯ emphasised that according to Imami law, merging between the two obligatory prayers of al-z.uhr (after midday prayer) and al-‘as.r (afternoon prayer; third of the five prayers) is permitted at all times, although performing each prayer separately is highly recommended.87 While backing his position on Islamic teaching,

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Mu¯sawı¯ also linked his ruling to an awareness of some modern practicalities: The jurists in this era [. . .] are reluctant to surprise the public with this [ruling on the question of jam‘ ] and perhaps caution prevents them from doing so. There is no dispute over the separation between the prayers and it is more preferable than performing the jam‘. However, the separation between the prayers resulted in many busy people (ahl al-ashgha¯l) withdrawing from the prayer [altogether] as we have seen with our own eyes [. . .]. Therefore, the fuqaha¯’ should be wiser and produce a fatwa for the public that permits performing jam‘ and makes things easy and not difficult. Yurı¯du Alla¯h bikum alyası¯r wa-la al-‘ası¯r (‘God provides for you; makes it easily attainable and not difficult’).88 As community leaders, the clerics must be aware of changing circumstances, Mu¯sawı¯ contended. Islamic jurisprudence must reflect change and cannot be a bastion of conservatism. Mu¯sawı¯ acknowledged that in the modern world people tend to be fully occupied and, as a result, a total observance of the requirements of religion becomes difficult. In order to prevent Muslims from abandoning religion, jurists must be bold and abstain from undue strictness.89 This judicial leniency that Mu¯sawı¯ promoted actually existed traditionally in Islamic teaching. The Hadith provides examples in which the Prophet himself was willing to modify the requirements of prayer in circumstances that required a more moderate position, such as delaying prayers due to extreme weather conditions.90 From the tenth century, with the creation of the madhhab system, Sunni law was restricted by adherence to a particular school of law. Nevertheless, Sunni jurists issued their legal opinion based on their own understanding of the particular school of law, as the ‘ulama¯’ confronted one another’s legal verdicts. Furthermore, in their fatwas these jurists also took into consideration the local customs, leading to some level of flexibility in Sunni law in the course of Muslim history.91 Shi‘i law in its Us.u¯lı¯ understanding enabled, at least in

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theory, a wide scope of innovation. It provided the mujtahid with the tool of reasoning to apply in the process of inferring legal precepts from the sources. However, in the modern era the more conservative clerics, both Sunni and Shi‘i, were reluctant to introduce change. They sought to safeguard the faith from the growing threat of modernisation and secularisation. Mu¯sawı¯’s call for legal flexibility showed that this spiritual leader understood that Shi‘i law must consider the needs of a modernised community. Despite his conservative outlook, Mu¯sawı¯ understood that in order to maintain the role of religion in society they must apply an innovative approach to ijtiha¯d. While Mu¯sawı¯ called to adapt religious law to existing circumstances, Khalisi opened the door to embrace technology in the service of Islam. Thus, for example, in the context of prayer, Khalisi ruled that it is obligatory to carry out the rak‘a (the sequence of bodily positions and movements performed during the s.ala¯t) even when the believer hears the associated Qur’anic verses through the gramophone or the radio.92 Kha¯lis.¯ı also provoked many Shi‘is by introducing a loudspeaker in the Ka¯z.imayn mosque, which later became accepted elsewhere.93 At the time, Shi‘i reformists needed to justify the endorsement of technology for the benefit of religion, since their followers at times felt that new developments that were incorporated to the practice of religion threatened Islamic beliefs.94 By the end of the twentieth century, Islamic revolutionaries no longer doubted the permissibility of using science for the service of Islam, as the debate shifted to the incorporation of Western ideas into religion. Khomeini himself spread his message prior to the revolution via cassettes, which represented the technology of the day in voice recording. The use of audiotapes enabled Khomeini to reach the people of Iran, who were in turn able to listen to his fiery sermons denouncing the Sha¯h and calling for revolution.95

Friday Prayer Discussions over .taha¯ra and s.ala¯t exemplified Shi‘i efforts to incorporate modern change. Reviewing these legal questions was also

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part of the ongoing debate over redefining the relationship between Shi‘ism and the wider Sunni milieu. The Friday prayer will serve as a case-study for a more in-depth understanding to this shifting relationship, due to the significance of this religious duty in Islam, its political ramifications and its unique Shi‘i understanding. The Friday prayer was one of the political and religious duties of the Imam, which also included jiha¯d, the division of booty (qismat al-fay’), implementing judicial decisions (tanfı¯dh al-ah.ka¯m), imposing legal penalties (iqa¯mat al-h.udu¯d) and receiving the religious taxes of zaka¯t and khums. As stated, following the disappearance of the Imam, Shi‘i jurists began to gradually take on several of the Imam’s roles, beginning with his judicial function. This process, which intended to fill the leadership void created by the Occultation, created a continuous negotiation over the scope of authority assumed by the ‘ulama¯’. Kha¯lis.¯ı made an important contribution to the judicial discussion on the Friday prayer. He presented al-Jum‘a as a religious duty established in the Qur’an, which is not conditioned upon the presence of the Imam or his representatives on earth. In his treatise al-Jum‘a: kita¯b fiqhı¯ istidla¯lı¯ fı¯ wuju¯b .salwat al-jum‘a (al-Jum‘a: a Book of Jurisprudence and Proof to the Obligation of the Friday Prayer), Kha¯lis.¯ı removed the Shi‘i context of this prayer and presented it as an allIslamic obligation. In this book, written probably in the 1930s and published in 1949, Kha¯lis.¯ı rejected the traditional Shi‘i debate over the applicability of this prayer during the ghayba. Instead he portrayed it as an important manifestation of Islamic belief which cannot be limited to a certain period. Kha¯lis.¯ı defined the Friday prayer as a stipulated obligation (wuju¯b ta‘yı¯nı¯), applicable in all times to both Sunnis and Shi‘is, and was highly critical of Shi‘i jurists who abstained from this duty during the ghayba.96 In the classical period of Shi‘i thought, some jurists prohibited performing the Friday prayer in the absence of the Imam. Concurrently, several leading jurists such as al-Mufı¯d (d. 422/1022), al-T.u¯sı¯ (d. 460/1067), and ‘Alla¯ma (d. 726/1325) permitted the fuqaha¯’ to convene for al-jum‘a. Yet they refrained from pronouncing this duty as personally obligatory in the absence of the

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Imam and instead declared it permissible, recommended or an optional duty, sanctioned only in cases in which there was no danger in the community congregating.97 In the succeeding period, Muh.aqqiq al-Karakı¯ (d. 940/1533) argued that the ‘ulama¯’ should be acknowledged as the general representative of the Imam (al-na¯’ib al-‘a¯mm). Following this verdict, Shahı¯d II (d. 966/1558) ruled that the ‘ulama¯’ are bestowed with all the religious functions of the Imam. Consequently, he contended that the presence of the ‘ulama¯’ was a precondition for assembling for Friday prayer.98 Nevertheless, together with this partial permission to perform this duty, Shi‘is who lived in the Sunni world did not congregate for al-jum‘a due to the controversy over performing this obligation in the absence of the Imam. Shi‘is were also put as risk by assembling, since the Sunni leaders perceived the Friday prayer as a seal of approval for their rule, adding another element to the community’s reluctance to participate in this ritual. In contrast with the quietest affiliation of Shi‘is in the Sunni world, the community in Iran developed a clear activist tendency, starting from the sixteenth century. The Safavid leaders of Iran sanctioned performing the obligations of jiha¯d and Friday prayer and used these rituals as tools to legitimise their rule. The Safavids, who adopted Shi‘ism as the state religion, perceived the Friday prayer as a vehicle to establish their authority, particularly in response to their ideological struggle with the Ottoman Empire. They received support in this move from Shi‘i clerics from Arab lands, who authorised convening the Friday prayer even in the absence of the Imam. Among these clerics, some stipulated that this religious gathering must receive the approval of a living mujtahid in his position as the general representative of the Imam. Other scholars ruled that the Friday congregation is permitted at all times, as an important religious duty that cannot be conditioned by the approval of the clerics. These disputes reflected diverse scholarly opinions over the state of the community during the Occultation, as well as competition over obtaining official religious positions under the Safavids. Nevertheless, since some jurists still maintained that the Friday prayer was prohibited during the ghayba, this duty never

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became fully institutionalised under the Safavids. Only during the Qajar period did the Friday prayer became fully established and the leader of the congregational prayer, the ema¯m-e jom‘a, began to enjoy growing religious power.99 Under Reza Sha¯h’s forced secularisation policy, assembling for the Friday prayer was severely curtailed. His legal and educational reforms weakened the position of the clerics and their influence on society. In a situation in which any form of opposition to the government was quickly suppressed, the clerics of Iran maintained a clearly acquiescent position and the Friday prayers were not convened regularly.100 Kha¯lis.¯ı’s treatise on the obligatory nature of al-jum‘a can be understood in the backdrop of this situation in Iran. It was also intended for an Iraqi audience. It sought to revive the practice of Islam which was under threat from forced state secularisation in Iran and from the rise of a competing Shi‘i elite in Iraq. The Friday prayer was also a vehicle to promote his cross-sectarian notion of religion and to demonstrate Shi‘i adherence to Islamic orthodoxy. In the Sunni world, gathering for al-jum‘a served, historically, as an important symbol of adherence to Islam. It was also a mark of membership in a community of believers and of loyalty to the political authority in its role as protector of Islam.101 Shi‘is who lived under Sunni rule and did not participate in the Friday prayer were perceived not only as deviating from the way of Islam, but also as going against communal consensus and insulting the rulers. In his call to revive the Friday prayer even during the ghayba, Kha¯lis.¯ı was shifting Shi‘ism towards the Sunni perception of orthodoxy, in regards to the believer, the community and perhaps even the political authority. He also demonstrated a new Shi‘i dignity in which members of the community could congregate in public and fulfil their religious obligations, similar to the Sunnis, without the need to resort to taqiyya. The modern Shi‘i, according to this understanding, was a practicing Muslim who was proud of his Imami communal heritage but also a member of the larger community of believers. In his call to revive the Friday prayer, Kha¯lis.¯ı shifted away from the apolitical tendency that characterised Shi‘i communities living in the Sunni world. He did not base his position on the precedence of

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the Safavids and the Shi‘i debate related to it. Kha¯lis.¯ı also did not condition this gathering to the presence of the ‘ulama¯’ as the general representatives of the Imam or to the existence of any form of Shi‘iled state.102 In this context, not only did Kha¯lis.¯ı downplay the significance of the historical corpus of Shi‘i jurisprudence, but he also questioned the reliability of the Imami body of Hadith.103 Like his emphasis on the significance of the Qur’an, this appeal to reassess the Shi‘i Hadith echoed a similar message that had appeared earlier in Sunni reformist writings.104 Kha¯lis.¯ı did not seek to annul the Imami body of traditions. Nevertheless, his call to authenticate the Hadith was significant, since the existence of a distinct Shi‘i corpus of Hadith transmitted by the Imams manifested its unique perception of authority. As stated, during this period, Shi‘i reformists began to tone down the traditional inter-sectarian differences over the sources of Islamic law. In addition, Kha¯lis.¯ı obscured the distinctive Imami character of the Friday prayer. He called to substitute the leadership role of the Imam or his deputy in conducting al-jum‘a with the position of the khat.ı¯b (the preacher).105 By severing the link between al-jum‘a and the leadership of the Imam or his deputy, Kha¯lis.¯ı established a non-sectarian understanding of this religious obligation: However, due to misfortune, or to the reflections of Satan and his seduction, they [the Shi‘is] have rejected these wisdoms and sects [. . .]. They have become a faction [shı¯‘a ], their unity a division, their knowledge ignorance, their nobility foolishness. They have formed parties and become despised and have been destroyed.106 God the merciful convening in Naha¯wand,107 will perceive the community of Muslims gathering in Medina and Mecca for the prayer of al-jum‘a as his army, his followers, his supporters and his servants, and this will become a spiritual force that will not be overcome. He will recognise it by its kits of war, its experience of battles and its knowledge of manoeuvres. . .108

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Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to recreate here a notion of a unified religious and political force that rarely existed in the course of Muslim history. He disregarded the traditional Imami centres of worship, and called upon all Muslims to form a cohesive spiritual army gathered in the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. This all-Islamic force was presented as an alternative to the modern secular state, which was depicted as a harmful form of moral decadence. In this attempt to reconnect with a generation lacking true commitment to religion, the details of Islam became irrelevant. Religion was stripped down to its most basic principle – a spiritual force – holding the power to overcome stateenforced secularisation. Following Reza Sha¯h’s forced abdication in 1941, the Friday prayer gradually regained its place in Iran’s public space. This process began with the reintroduction of the Friday prayer in Qum by Ayatollah Moh.ammad Taqı¯ Kha¯nsa¯rı¯ in that same year. It continued with a campaign by Navvab Safavi, the founder of Feda¯’ı¯a¯n-e Esla¯m, to build a Friday mosque in every city in Iran. The movement, established in Iran in 1945, called to implement the Shari‘a, and resorted to political violence to change the status quo. Feda¯’ı¯a¯n-e Esla¯m was a small movement that was quickly suppressed by the government, yet it was one of the early signs of a shift in the common discourse in Iran, as clerics and wider religious circles began calling to assert religion in the public space. Friday prayer was one important means to promote this goal. About a decade after the suppression of Feda¯’ı¯a¯n-e Esla¯m, Khomeini himself began calling to activate the important religious duty of the Friday prayer. In his Tah.rı¯r al-wası¯la (A Commentary on Wası¯la alnaja¯t, written as a tribute to this earlier work by Abu al-H . asan alEsfaha¯nı¯) Khomeini discussed the contemporary significance of the Friday prayer. This two-volume compendium on questions of jurisprudence was written in 1964– 5 in Bursa following Khomeini’s deportation from Iran.109 In his chapter on prayer (kita¯b al-s.ala¯t), Khomeini discussed the legal details related to the implementation of this important duty.110 His contribution to this debate was in emphasising that the sermon (khut.ba), as the epicenter of the Friday

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prayer, must reflect the political agenda of the day. Explaining this duty, Khomeini said: It is incumbent upon the imam, the khat.ı¯b, to mention in his khut.ba the affairs of the Muslims regarding their religion and their denominations. And they should inform the Muslims on developments in the Muslim countries and other countries which are harmful or beneficial to them and are related to Muslims needs in their livelihood, politics and economic matters [. . .]. And they should warn them from the involvement of the tyrant colonialist states in their matters [of the Muslim people] particularly the political and economic affairs which manifest their colonialism and exploitation. The Friday prayer and its khut.ba are among the Muslim acts of devotion such as the Hajj [. . .]. However, unfortunately the Muslims neglected their important political duties such as this. . .111 By the late 1970s, the mosques and particularly the Friday prayer became a showground to confront the authoritarian regime of Mohammad Reza Sha¯h. As the authorities held tight control over mass media, political parties, unions and student organisations, Islamic revolutionaries resorted to the traditional informal communication network of the mosques to galvanise the population.112 Khomeini played an important part in this revival of the Friday prayer, which became a tool to promote the Islamic revolution. The first stage was to create an informed citizenry, aware of political and economic developments in the Muslim countries and beyond. The next stage was to galvanise this populace to resist foreign domination. In Khomeini’s vision, the khat.ı¯b was to fulfil an important role in promoting these goals. Kha¯lis.¯ı had already established an all-Muslim unity over the practice of al-jum‘a. Khomeini, in contrast, not only supported the activation of religion, but further empowered the nation of Islam by linking the revival of religion to the political liberation of the Islamic world. In his view, there was no need to justify the re-inauguration of the Friday prayer during the ghayba. While upholding the details of Shi‘i law in other

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areas, Khomeini viewed the duty of the Friday prayer as no longer holding any unique sectarian meaning. Following the revolution, Khomeini published fatwas on the question of prayer, permitting Shi‘is to pray behind a Sunni Imam. Iranian Shi‘is living in Europe were authorised to perform the Friday prayer led by a Sunni, while Shi‘is living in a predominantly Sunni region in Iran received a similar consent. These fatwas can be viewed as part of Khomeini’s effort to appeal to a Sunni audience in an attempt to export his all-Islamic revolution.113 Yet, alongside these ecumenical rulings, the Islamic republic’s constitution ascertained adherence to the leadership of the Imamate and solidified the doctrine of vila¯yat-e faqı¯h (the guardianship of the jurist).114 These notions were clearly alien to Sunni ears, as will be demonstrated in the following chapter. While Khomeini envisioned the establishment of a strong nation of Islam, the Muslim world remained divided. Colonialist powers were blamed for weakening the Muslim nation. Yet, Islamic revolutionaries themselves did not undertake a comprehensive effort to create an in-depth rapprochement between Sunnis and Shi‘is in areas such as historiography and jurisprudence. H.ija¯b Within this effort to create a nation of believers, through prayer and ritual purity, the place of women in society assumed great importance. In the effort to establish a virtuous society, debates over the role of women adopted a broad meaning. Women’s bodies and their place in society became a topic to contest wider issues, in defining the relationship between faith, worship, ethics, politics and social change. This process had already begun with early Shi‘i reformists and gained ground in Islamic revolutionary thought. The question of h.ija¯b was an important component in this debate over the revival of Islam, to be evaluated in the subsequent discussion. The h.ija¯b was in essence a modern topic, although it was connected to the classical area of ‘iba¯da¯t and rooted in the Islamic concept of modesty.115 The main principle was the duty of sitr al‘awra (concealing the private parts), which includes separate obligations for men and women. In particular, women are required

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to conceal their body (sitr) as mentioned in kita¯b al-s.ala¯t, while the men are prohibited from seeing or viewing women (naz.ar), as presented traditionally in kita¯b al-nika¯h. (the book of marriage). Laws of sitr al-‘awra for men and women differ according to specific circumstances such as prayer, Hajj and ordinary life. Historically, Islamic jurists, both Sunni and Shi‘i, debated the meaning of ‘awra and the rules that derive from this principle. However, h.ija¯b itself is a modern notion that was not mentioned specifically in classical judicial thought, in which laws governing women’s issues are scattered in different areas of fiqh. In the current era, Islamic jurists have attempted to link the h.ija¯b to existing jurisprudence in an attempt to sanctify this practice. Historically, there was no consensus between jurists over defining the meaning of ‘awra. Within Shi‘i thought, there were judicial disagreements over exempting face, hands and feet from the duty of sitr. Permission to exclude all three elements from the principle of sitr, as reiterated by Kha¯lis.¯ı, appeared, for example, in the thought of 116 H However, . asan ibn Yu¯suf al-‘Alla¯ma al-H . illı¯ (d. 726/1325). there were disputes between jurists, particularly regarding the question of covering the feet.117 During the first half of the twentieth century, following Reza Sha¯h’s forced unveiling policy, several mujtahids advocated a full veil, arguing that masking the female is an Islamic duty.118 The questions of the h.ija¯b in particular and women’s status in general were discussed extensively during this period, both in Iran and in the Arab world, by Muslim reformers and secularised intellectuals. The debate on the h.ija¯b began at the end of the nineteenth century in Egypt, which was the epicentre of the struggle for women’s rights in the Arab world.119 The cause of improving women’s status was also undertaken by Muslim reformers such as Muh.ammad ‘Abduh, who focused on developing girls’ education and on reforming personal status issues.120 ‘Abduh supported the tradition of the h.ija¯b, an Islamic duty laid down in the Shari‘a, but argued that women are exempt from concealing their face and hands. He also justified his position from a social perspective, arguing that complete masking of women will prevent them from making a living

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and being involved in communal life.121 Many years before Kha¯lis.¯ı began writing on the topic, Arab feminists raised the topic of veiling and the wider question of improving women’s status. By the 1930s – several decades before Kha¯lis.¯ı authorised to reveal a women’s face – the practice of veiling had already declined significantly in Egyptian society, the epicenter of Arab women’s struggle at the time.122 Kha¯lis.¯ı’s H . aqiqat-i h.ijab dar Isla¯m (The Truth on h.ijab in Islam) was published in Tehran in 1948, toward the end of nearly three decades that Kha¯lis.¯ı spent in Iran, and 12 years after Reza Sha¯h officially banned the use of veils in the public domain.123 The unveiling project, an important component of Reza Sha¯h’s modernisation project, was undertaken in an authoritarian fashion using political repression and physical force. Reza Sha¯h also embarked upon a number of legal reforms intended to improve the position of women, including tackling the practice of mut‘a and child marriages. He also offered women new opportunities in employment and education. Reza Sha¯h’s unveiling policy was strongly opposed by the religious establishment and many women, but was endorsed by some secularised women’s rights groups.124 Many clerics in Iran totally rejected this unveiling initiative and insisted that according to Islamic teaching women’s faces must remain completely covered.125 In Kha¯lis.ı¯’s homeland of Iraq, the question of women’s status emerged later than in other parts in the Arab world. This was due to the fact that Iraq was only established as a united entity following the First World War and the British occupation of the area. Furthermore, at the turn of the century Iraq was a remote province of the Ottoman Empire that did not undergo the same significant changes in the nineteenth century as more central areas in the empire. It was a traditional society that included a large tribal and rural population and very few schools for girls. The question of the h.ija¯b became relevant to Iraq only under mandate rule, as a result of a process of urbanisation and changes of the role of women. Historically, Muslim women living in rural communities tended to be unveiled since veiling restricted their ability to work the fields. In the twentieth century, with the large Shi‘i migration to the cities, the topic of h.ija¯b

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became more pertinent. Developments in girls’ education also brought the debate on the h.ija¯b to the fore. Following the appointment of Sa¯t.i’ al-H . us.rı¯ as director of education and his contribution to this ministry, the question of girls’ education also emerged on the agenda. Gradually, as demand increased, more schools for girls began opening in Iraq. One of the voices who campaigned for girls’ education was Fahmı¯ al-Muda¯ris, a well-known Iraqi Shi‘i intellectual.126 As the concept of girls’ education began to slowly take root, a movement to remove the veil also appeared and, by mid-century, this question began to be discussed in the press and among politicians, religious leaders and poets.127 The question of veiling was also on the agenda in Lebanon during the first half of the twentieth century. Through the pages of al-‘Irfa¯n, educated Shi‘i circles joined this debate. Many articles in this Shi‘i journal expressed support for women’s veiling and stressed that head covering is not an obstacle to women’s progress. This discourse on veiling was part of a wider debate on the role of women in a modern society and the relationship between social morality and the progress of women, conducted through the pages of al-‘Irfa¯n. Contributing authors emphasised the importance of promoting women’s rights, including gaining education and participation in public life.128 Kha¯lis.¯ı’s book on the h.ija¯b was written in Persian, directed to an Iranian audience and described the Iranian social scene. Concurrently, it was probably influenced by the similar discourse that began earlier in the Sunni Arab world and was also emerging among Shi‘i intellectual circles in Iraq and Lebanon. Moreover, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s strong link to developments in the Arab arena led him to emphasise the existence of a Sunni– Shi‘i consensus on the question of the h.ija¯b. Furthermore, although Kha¯lis.¯ı was influenced by events that occurred during his long exile: his upbringing, education and family ties were strongly connected to Iraq, where he returned in 1949. Therefore, this treatise on the h.ija¯b also provides insight on developments in the Shi‘i community in Iraq. In his book, Kha¯lis.¯ı rebuffed the full face covering of women from an Islamic point of view. This was an attempt to demonstrate that there is a common view on this topic which unites the two sects.129

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He presented a middle ground between secularising elements in Iran that completely rejected the h.ija¯b and conservative groups that called for the total covering of a woman’s body, including face, hands and feet. Navigating between these two extremes, Kha¯lis.¯ı rejected what he portrayed as backward Islamic practices, while promoting harmony between modern social necessities and progressive Islam. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s treatise on the h.ija¯b did not introduce any new ideas into the debate on women’s head-covering. Furthermore, it lagged behind earlier and more progressive discussions that had occurred in the Sunni world – and particularly Egypt – on the question of women in general and the h.ija¯b in particular. However, in Iraq itself, a discourse on the question of veiling had emerged only towards the middle of the century. Moreover, in the Shi‘i arena, both in Iraq and Iran, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s position was innovative since it contested the views of many clerics who called for a full covering of women and strongly opposed Reza Sha¯h’s unveiling policy. He also shifted away from an exclusively legalistic debate portraying a social perspective on the question of women’s head covering. His discussion on the h.ija¯b reflected an all-embracing judicial approach comparable to the style that appeared in his book Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a. In an attempt to appeal to a more secularised audience, Kha¯lis.¯ı analysed the principle of the h.ija¯b from several modern angles including its social, financial and health ramifications. In addition, similar to his presentation on the laws of ritual purity, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s discourse on the h.ija¯b was presented in a simplified fashion appropriate for a general public.130 In a clear departure from a traditional legal discourse, Kha¯lis.¯ı opened his treatise with a social analysis of the class system in Iran. He referred to two main social groups: a new modern social stratum comprised of employees in the public sector with Baha’i, communist and materialist tendencies and the more traditional classes including the common people, the Bazaar merchants and farmers.131 This was not a traditional judicial treatise but a forum to advance his revivalist message, and the question of the h.ija¯b was merely a case study for promoting a progressive notion of the Shari‘a. Similar to other Muslim modernists, both Sunni and Shi‘i, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s treatise demonstrated

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that women’s bodies had became a space for contesting broader religious and social issues. Within this depiction, Kha¯lis.¯ı attempted to portray himself as a highly knowledgeable cleric aware of current developments. Yet his analysis of the Iranian social structure was simplistic and did not depict the more complex social reality of Iran. Kha¯lis.¯ı did not take notice of Iranian social nuances, which meant that the dividing lines between the two groups of traditional and modern forces were less clear cut. In addition, Kha¯lis.¯ı portrayed these two social units as equal, although in this period the traditional classes comprised the majority of Iranian society and the more secularised group represented a small minority.132 He accused both the modernised groups and the traditional camp of deviating from the true teaching of Islam. Kha¯lis.¯ı was highly critical of what he described as a new modernised and secularised social group in Iran who adopted non-Islamic beliefs and were guilty of moral degeneration.133 Iranian society, however, also included traditional groups that Kha¯lis.¯ı refers to as ‘the pretenders’ (mutaz.a¯hirı¯n), since outwardly they followed Islam but in reality they embraced superstitious and deviant beliefs.134 As in his discourse on .taha¯ra, Kha¯lis.¯ı introduced here the concept of hygiene to create a link between physical health and mental or spiritual progress. Depicting the traditional classes as suffering with insufficient air, sun and space, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to portray these groups as uncivilised.135 Kha¯lis.¯ı appeared to be joining in with the Iranian middle class’s scientific discourse on the correlation between a healthy body and a sound mind. In this modernist discourse, hygiene, eugenics and genetics were perceived as tools to tackle the country’s demographic and economic problems by mitigating factors that hindered population growth.136 Kha¯lis.¯ı resorted to a similar discourse, but in place of a secular intellectual worldview he advanced a progressive Islamic way of life as an alternative path towards Iran’s development. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s message had an inter-sectarian agenda, reflecting his links with Iraq and the wider Arab Sunni world. He sought to prove that there is a clear agreement between all Muslim jurists over the duty of the h.ija¯b by emphasising conformity over permission to reveal the face, hands and feet.137 In using the concept of ijma¯‘ with

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its Sunni connotations, Kha¯lis.¯ı placed his view on the h.ija¯b within a new Muslim consensus. Yet this specific question was not discussed explicitly in Islamic fiqh, and the principle of sitr al-‘awra was not unanimously agreed upon. His underlying message was Islamic and did not hold any unique Imami understanding. Yet promoting the h.ija¯b from a common Islamic point of view would not suffice for a secularised audience. Thus, Kha¯lis.¯ı added a socioeconomic analysis to his religious line of reasoning, focusing on education and employment. Kha¯lis.¯ı rejected the argument that the h.ija¯b would prevent women from gaining skills and knowledge. However, the question of employment elicited a much more conservative response from Kha¯lis.¯ı, whose views were rooted in the accepted male-dominated traditional society in which he lived and not essentially in Islam. He did not introduce a new modern approach to women’s equality, instead arguing that men and women have different roles in life, in which men earn the living and women have a natural responsibility to bear children.138 Echoing a comparable discourse among Sunni Islamist circles, Kha¯lis.¯ı stressed that wearing the h.ija¯b bears no relevance on women’s opportunities, which remain within the confinements of the Islamic home. The importance of Kha¯lis.¯ı’s treatise on women’s veiling was not in his specific message on the h.ija¯b. His position, which was linked to the principle of sitr, had supportive evidence within classical Sunni and Shi‘i fiqh. Furthermore, he continued to uphold the accepted clerical position that head covering in its different variations is a manifestation of supreme Islamic morals that protect women’s chastity and secure the ideal Islamic family unit. In the current era, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s view on the h.ija¯b was not innovative in itself since this topic was already being discussed extensively in the Sunni world. Yet, in the Shi‘i world of Iran, his opinion went against the clerical norm that advocated a more strict interpretation of veiling. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s main contribution to this discourse on veiling was in his choice of methodology and in his underlying message. He expanded the debate from a narrow judicial point of view to a wider religious and social analysis, creating a break from traditional fiqh. Instead, Kha¯lis.¯ı

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focused on the unifying call for a return to true Islam, which was presented as compatible with some aspects of modernity, and particularly the pursuit of knowledge and the progress of women. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s book was written in Iran in 1948. At the time, Iran was just recovering from the process of forced secularisation under Reza Sha¯h, with its judicial reforms and unveiling project. In the following decades, Iran’s middle class with its bourgeois lifestyle was growing in strength and women were also joining its ranks. Kha¯lis.¯ı and later on Mut.ahharı¯, Jala¯l A¯l-e Ahmad and other scholars lamented the secularisation of Iranian society and particularly the Westernisation of women.139 Less than 20 years after Kha¯lis.¯ı discussed women’s head-covering, Mut.ahharı¯ gave a series of lectures on this topic which were later published under the title of Mas’alat-e h.eja¯b (The Question of h.ija¯b).140 Mut.ahharı¯ addressed this question in 1966, three years after the Sha¯h embarked on his White Revolution, which included the enfranchisement of women.141 Khomeini and other clerics were highly critical of this step, which they depicted as part of a strategy to destroy the family unit. In 1967, the Sha¯h initiated the Family Protection Act, which granted women the legal option of divorce and set up courts to deal with cases of child custody, alimony and other family matters.142 In the following years, the state sought to strengthen its control over the country’s wealth, its cultural heritage and the dissemination of knowledge, and the White Revolution with its land reform and literacy corps was a further step in the power struggle between the regime and the religious establishment.143 Women’s head-covering became a domain to contest the state’s cultural and social vision and Mut.ahharı¯ was an important contributor to this discourse. Mut.ahharı¯ was a philosopher and a theologian who lectured at the University of Tehran and was also involved in religious associations established at the time.144 In his treatise, Mut.ahharı¯ mentioned the judicial discourse on this topic, yet his main emphasis was in promoting the h.ija¯b from a historical, philosophical, theological and social perspective. Mut.ahharı¯, exemplified a new generation of Shi‘i scholars who obtained some level of formal religious education but were also well-versed in

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Western thought. Islamic revolutionaries like Mut.ahharı¯ no longer dealt with the details of fiqh and instead presented a broad-ranging universal Islamic message. The discussion on the h.ija¯b epitomised these revolutionaries’ key agenda. Mut.ahharı¯ approached this topic from a non-judicial perspective, yet he also reiterated Kha¯lis.¯ı’s revivalist campaign, his cross-sectarian message and the significance of Islamic morals. This debate demonstrated the emergence of a common ground between Muslim modernists, both Sunni and Shi‘i, in their call for the renewal of religion, their emphasis on the Shari‘a, and the significance attributed to the honour of woman and the core unit of the family. In his effort to reach out to the Iranian Westernised intelligentsia, the book has an apologetic undertone. Mut.ahharı¯ linked the Muslim practice of h.ija¯b to a similar custom in other cultures but also emphasized Islam’s unique perception on women’s head-covering. His message was that the h.ija¯b does not confine women but enables them to take part in public life from an ethical and moral perspective. It safeguards the values of Islam in response to the moral degeneration of the younger generation and its imitation of the West. Women can be financially independent and a man has no right to use women for economic benefits or to compel a woman to stay at home. The h.ija¯b intends to safeguard the chastity of women and provides true protection for their participation in the public space, Mut.ahharı¯ concluded.145 Relying on Will Durant, the popular American historian (1885– 1981), Mut.ahharı¯ argued that the custom of head-covering was accepted in many cultures. Yet, Islam actually modified its rigid implementation. The duty of the h.ija¯b did not intend to seclude women, but to promote a moral and ethical code of conduct.146 He also mentioned Bertrand Russell, the British philosopher, historian and social critique (1872– 1970), to demonstrate the positive Islamic approach towards women in contrast with the Christian view on this topic.147 His reasoning on this question is reminiscent of that of Mawdudi, an important Muslim reformist who influenced other Islamic revolutionaries and particularly Sharı¯ ‘atı¯. In discussing the

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obligatory nature of the h.ija¯b, Mawdudi mentioned relevant historical developments and emphasised its moral aspect.148 Mut.ahharı¯’s book was not written from a sectarian perspective. He highlighted agreement between Sunnis and Shi‘is over covering women’s bodies, and disagreement, which cut across sectarian divides, over covering of the face and hands. Mut.ahharı¯ quoted Mawdudi, who mentioned a tradition related to ‘Atı¯qa bint Za’id, the Caliph ‘Umar’s wife, who attended the mosque despite ‘Umar’s reservations.149 He relied on this Hadith to support his arguement, since women had taken part in society that the early days of Islam, even against the will of their husbands. Mut.ahharı¯ chose to rely here on Mawdudi and on a Sunni-affiliated tradition in order to promote his all-Islamic approach to women. Concluding this discussion Mut.ahharı¯ stressed that one must not transgress the explicit laws of Islam, but should also refrain from undo rigidity. Similar to Mu¯sawı¯’s flexible position on merging between the prayers, Mut.ahharı¯ argued that there are legal questions that provide room for human interpretation in issues related to culture, society and public health, such as in this debate on the status of women.150 Among Islamic revolutionaries, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ was another important figure who debated the place of women in Muslim society. As delineated above, Mut.ahharı¯ discussed women’s head-covering from a philosophical point of view, but also showed his commitment to Islamic teaching and upheld the duty of safeguarding women’s modesty. Shari‘atı¯, the leading ideologist of the revolution, shifted even further away from fiqh in his debate on the question of gender. Exposed to prominent Western scholars during his studies at the Sorbonne, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ assigned the enlightened intellectual, the ru¯shanfekr, a leading role in the revolution. The ru¯shanfekr was also designated to promote a new vision of Muslim women.151 In this context, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ argued that one should focus less on the question of h.ija¯b and more on the pertinent issues of knowledge and education. He was critical of conservative clerics who left women ignorant but also attacked what he depicted as the westernised model of women, as an object of materialism and immorality.152 Wearing the h.ija¯b should come out of choice, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ stressed, similar to his insistence that

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Islam is a human-oriented religion that provides its believers with free will. Women will not embrace modest clothing out of compulsion, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ explained, but only after comprehending its significance, since the notion of modesty manifests Islamic belief and values.153 In Shari‘atı¯’s vision, the ideal Muslim woman is involved in society and takes control over her destiny. This was an Islamic alternative to the conservative Muslim perceptions that secluded women, and to the Westernised permiscuous approach on this issue. Instead, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ advanced a ‘third way’ based on the legacy of Fa¯t.ima al-Zahra¯’. Historically, Fa¯tima was presented as a virtuous yet passive ˙ Shi‘i figure in her position as the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad, the wife of Imam ‘Alı¯ and the mother of Husayn. ˙ ˙ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ shifted away from the traditional depiction of Fa¯tima. He ˙ portrayed Fa¯tima as an example for modern Shi‘i women who were ˙ called to take an active part in the revolutionary movement. In a new reading of Fa¯t.ima’s heritage, the mother of Imam H . usayn became a model in the struggle for self-esteem, independence, political action and social justice.154 This new activist reading of Fa¯t.ima’s legacy began influencing the followers of Imam Khomeini as Iranian women began joining the revolutionary movement. Women, many of whom were wearing the black chador, took part in demonstrations against the Pahlavi regime. This created an image of an active revolutionary woman modelled on the new vision of Fa¯t.ima al-Zahra¯’. Yet, following the revolution, the Islamic republic reflected an ambivalent position towards women. On the one hand, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯’s call for women to gain knowledge and education gained ground. From the mid-1980s, the numbers of women attending the educational systems at all levels grew significantly. On the other hand, the regime nullified the Family Protection Act, which provided women with access to secular courts on issues of family and personal status. Women were also barred from certain professions and the regime encouraged female students to enrol in ‘feminine’ areas of study. Moreover, the Islamic republic introduced compulsory veiling, gender segregation and advanced stereotypical roles for men and women. It also lowered the legal age of maturity to nine for girls and to 14 for boys. The constitution

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assigned the new Muslim woman the traditional role as wife and mother who safeguards the family, as the core unit of society. Nevertheless, while the enforcement of the h.ija¯b reflected a conservative approach to women, it also enabled them to take part in public life. Indeed, the Islamic republic did not seek to isolate women but to renegotiate their role in society within the accepted values of Islam.155 Shi‘i jurists in Iran also introduced important legal innovations for the benefit of women, prior to the revolution and in its aftermath, permitting contraceptives, artificial insemination and even sex changes.156 Through these debates on h.ija¯b, prayer and ritual purity, Shi‘i modernists significantly altered the traditional understanding of ‘iba¯da¯t. From fixed acts of worship between the individual and the Creator, issues related to ‘iba¯da¯t were transformed into a dynamic discourse on the role of Islam in society. During the first half of the twentieth century, Shi‘i reformers focussed on a new reading of diverse areas of ‘iba¯da¯t with very little change introduced in the area of mu‘a¯mala¯t. There was one significant attempt by Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ to introduce new ideas in the field of commercial law, to be analysed in the following survey. In contrast, during the second half of this century in both the Arab world and Iran, Shi‘i modernists initiated important legal innovations in the social, political and economic arenas, to fit their vision of an Islamic state.

From mu‘a¯mala¯t to Commercial Law Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was among the first Shi‘i modernists to introduce changes in the field of mu‘a¯mala¯t. As mentioned, in 1943 he wrote a commentary on the Ottoman civil code known as the Mecelle.157 The Ottoman Mecelle, which concluded the reform period of the Tanzimat, manifested a modern notion of legal codification. Throughout Muslim history, no single legal code was established. Islamic law was essentially a common law system based on a proliferation of judicial opinions, especially in the area of mu‘a¯mala¯t. The idea of codifying Islamic law was based on a European model, although in content it was firmly rooted in H . anafı¯ law.

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The five-volume Tah.rı¯r al-majalla, was written in 1943, nearly 70 years after the Sunni H.anafi code was inaugurated (1877). At the time of its publication in 1943, 11 years after Iraq gained its independence the Mecelle was still formally valid. However, under the British Mandate, modern legislation was enacted to replace many of the old laws, particularly in the areas of civil, commercial and criminal law. In 1953, Iraq officially replaced the Mecelle by adopting a new civil code largely based on Egyptian civil law.158 In neighbouring Iran, changes were also introduced in the field of commercial law. Under Reza Sha¯h, important legislation was inaugurated which contributed to the secularisation of the legal system.159 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ commented on the Mecelle 70 years after it was inaugurated and ten years before it was formally abolished. At the time, changes to commercial law were introduced throughout the Muslim world. This demonstrated the development gap that existed among the socially-isolated Shi‘i community in Iraq in comparison with the wider Muslim arena.160 Concurrently, the fact that the Mecelle was studied in Najaf and Karbala¯’ indicated that the Shi‘is at this period were not shielded from changes in the wider Muslim arena and that Shi‘i law was not a completely separate system, at this period, as it was throughout Muslim history. His annotation on the Mecelle, however, can be seen, to a certain extent, as part of a traditional debate on fiqh. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ discussed the technical details related to civil and commercial law and, in contrast to Kha¯lis.¯ı’s audience, this book was designated for experts on Islamic law. He presented each clause of the Mecelle adjacent to its Shi‘i version, while endorsing some modern economic principles. Thus, for example, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ showed an understanding to modern notions of pricing related to supply and demand. As a result, he rejected clause 154 of the Mecelle, which stated that the value of an item is its true price. Instead, he explained that prices rise and fall in accordance with time and place and in relation to the principle of supply and demand.161 As the Shi‘i community began taking part in commercial activity in the developing urban centres of Iraq, Ka¯shif

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al-Ghit.a¯’ reflected here a basic modern awareness that value is not a stable category. He also included in this treatise several technical elements of modern commerce, such as costs related to the process of buying and selling162 and the use of phones to conclude a sale.163 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was able to adopt these modern aspects of commerce without too much difficulty, since they did not require altering Islamic law in its legal details and general principles. Western penetration into the Muslim arena during this period was another modern-related topic that appeared in Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’s discourse. In one case he even chose to draw a comparison between Islamic legal concepts and French law.164 In the context of commercial law, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ also commented on the Western calendar and its relevance to Muslims living under Christian rule.165 Yet, these were merely superficial acknowledgments of the Western impact on the Muslim world and Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not provide answers to pressing legal issues caused by exposure to Western laws and customs. In particular, problems arising from trading with nonMuslims and the modern applicability of Islamic contractual law or the ban on usury were left unanswered. His few amendments were based on traditional Shi‘i legal principles. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not provide any secular solutions to these problems or even introduce far reaching changes within an Islamic discourse. This was in clear contrast to the Sunni reformists, who used the principles of takhayyur and talfı¯q (choosing and combining from different Sunni schools of law) to introduce farreaching legal changes. Another pressing modern issue that Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ ignored was the question of freedom of contract. Islamic contractual laws that are bound by the moral principles of the Shari‘a, do not deal with this topic, which is also absent from the Mecelle.166 As mentioned, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ introduced some ammendments to traditional Islamic laws of commerce. Yet, most of his five-volume commentary was theoretical in nature. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ demonstrated only a limited attempt to introduce change to this area of Islamic law, while remaining committed to the details of Shi‘i law. Putting these limitations aside, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla carried an important message of unity, within a more pluralistic vision of the Muslim community. In

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the introduction to this book, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ explained this endeavour stating: The important aim of this [book] is twofold. The first aim is to explain, comment on the Majalla and solve some of its difficulties and problems. The second is to clarify the elements of agreement and disagreement with the Imami madhhab. Perhaps this will create a more balanced depiction of the Ja‘farı¯ madhhab [in comparison with] the rest of the madhhabs, with its large corpus, many branches, its mental faculties, its firm structure, the nobility of its thought and most of all, its conformity with reason (‘aql) and customs (‘urf).167 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ envisioned an inter-sectarian legal framework in which differences would be acknowledged and respected. This was a meticulous approach that balanced a steadfast adherence to Shi‘i legal principles and a new all-Islamic judicial system. His aim was to portray the Ja‘farı¯ madhhab as on a par with the four Sunni schools of law, within a larger judicial orthodoxy. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ demonstrated a break from historical inter-sectarian judicial patterns, presenting each article of the H . anafı¯ Mecelle adjacent to his Shi‘i interpretation. This intended to explain the points of agreement and dispute between the two legal systems and to expand on the meaning of these articles in accordance with new developments. Modernisation created new contacts between Sunnis and Shi‘is within the national state-system and beyond, based on political interest and on a more progressive approach to inter-sectarian relations. In this situation, the Shi‘is no longer felt a need to hide their sectarian affiliation. As a result, Shi’i clerics such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ no longer felt a need to resort to dissimulation (taqiyya), a method that had governed Shi‘i thought over the centuries.168 His decision to write a commentary on the Mecelle also demonstrated a diminished adherence to the exclusive Shi‘i concept of al-kha¯.s.sa. Nevertheless, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not go as far as declaring that Sunni fiqh holds the same validity as Imami law, since this would undermine the basis of Shi‘ism, in its belief in the total

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authority of the Imami line.169 Instead, he sought to soften the boundaries between the sects in an attempt to include Shi‘is within a united and pluralist five-madhhab system. However, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not ignore the legal differences between Sunni and Shi‘i law. He laid out divergences between the sects over the sources of law.170 He also mentioned disagreements over legal principles, such as the parameters for altering existing rulings,171 and differences between Sunni and Shi‘i on specific commercial laws.172 Indeed, both Kha¯lis.¯ı and Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ presented frameworks for an inter-sectarian judicial debate. However, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ remained bound to the madhhab system and to a traditional discourse on fiqh. Kha¯lis.¯ı, in contrast, presented a new allIslamic discourse embodied in his call for the revival of the Shari‘a. During the second half of the twentieth century, Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr in Iraq and Ayatollah Khomeini in Iran advanced this topic of commercial law and the broader field of economics. Both were responding to the growing need among the Shi‘i communities in the Arab world and Iran, for in-depth solutions to contemporary commercial issues, with the growing process of urbanisation and progress in these countries. Ba¯qir al-S.adr presented his Islamic economic theory as an alternative to both capitalism and Marxism. During the 1950s in Iraq increasing numbers of Shi‘is were joining the Communist Party. As a disadvantaged political minority, members of the community were attracted to Communism since it represented a cross-sectarian movement that promoted social justice. In 1960, Ayatollah Muh.sin al-Hakı¯m the highest religious Shi‘i authority in Iraq at the time, issued a fatwa that equated Communism with atheism, refelecting the level of concern among the religious circles in Iraq towards the threat Communism posed to the community.173 Similarly in neighbouring Iran, the ‘ulama¯’ were dealing with the growing influence of secularisation on society. They were also confronted with growing state intervention in the socioeconomic domain, through the White Revolution, in its redistribution of land and consolidation of state power. These social, economic and political challenges required profound initiatives as credible alternatives to leftist ideologies and state

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authoritarianism. In his Tah.rı¯r al-wası¯la, a compendium on questions of jurisprudence, Khomeini dealt with several contemporary economic issues such as insurance, banking and corporations. Written in 1964 –5, Khomeini endorsed these modern economic notions, conditioning their operation to the legal boundaries of Islam. Thus, for example, Khomeini ruled that insurance must be restricted by the contractual conditions of Islamic law. On the question of banking, he emphasised that its operation cannot include prohibited behaviour such as interest.174 Yet, alongside these legal solutions, there was a need for a broader philosophy to underpin a contemporary Shi‘i approach to the economic arena. While Khomeini was contemplating specific questions of jurisprudence, a more profound revolution was taking place in Iraq. During the early 1960s, Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr developed his theory of Islamic economics, as a ‘third way’ between Marxism and capitalism. In Najaf, about a decade later, Khomeini presented his theory of vila¯yat-e faqı¯h (the guardianship of the jurist). The novelty in this comprehensive political theory, which became the basis for the Islamic revolution, was in its endeavour to create a just society under the leadership of the faqı¯h. Indeed early Shi‘i reformists opened the door for transforming fiqh to Shari‘a. Yet, the following generation revolutionised Shi‘i thought by creating a break with the former judicial discourse and presenting Islam as a wide-ranging worldview, encompassing jurisprudence, theosophy, political theory and social thought. *** Shi‘i reformists introduced important changes in judicial thought, including reviewing legal sources, reclassifying jurisprudence and reassessing specific legal questions. The main input of these reformists was in opening Imami texts to a lay audience, both Sunni and Shi‘i. In this fashion, they mitigated the traditional Imami concept of al-‘a¯mma wa’l-kha¯.s.sa and weakened the belief in the special position of the mujtahids as interpreters of sacred knowledge. These were necessary steps for adapting Arab Shi‘ism to the challenges of the modern era. Representing disempowered commu-

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nities, these earlier reformists were not in the vanguard of the judicial reform that occurred during this period in the Sunni world and their changes were evolutionary in character. Nevertheless, their significant contribution was in permitting the educated Shi‘i public to participate in the significant arena of jurisprudence, which had been in the exclusive domain of the clerics for centuries. They also contributed to the empowerment of Shi‘ism as it negotiated its position within an all-inclusive and diversified Islamic jurisprudence. These reformists engaged with new knowledge to provide solutions to contemporary problems. Shi‘i revolutionaries would further develop this necessity to meet the needs of an Islamic state. Islamic revolutionaries expanded the meaning of the Shari‘a to incorporate Western knowledge and political thought. Their core audience was in Shi‘i Iran and, therefore, they felt less of a need to promote an in-depth reconciliation with the Sunnis on the details of Islamic law, in comparison with earlier Shi‘i reformists in the Arab world. Nevertheless, Khomeini sought to empower the Muslim world and create a cross-sectarian political space for the nation of Islam, devoid of foreign presence. For this end, Khomeini introduced some rulings with a clear political agenda. This included incorporating his anti-colonialist agenda into the Friday prayer and his ban against political, economic or commercial exchange leading to the subordination of Muslims to foreign powers. Khomeini also insisted on the impurity of non-Muslims. While introducing different legal innovations there was a more accute need to develop a new political doctrine to transform the place of Shi‘ism within the nation of Islam.

CHAPTER 5 `

THE POLITICISATION OF SHI ISM

A new Shi’i emphasis on a universal perception of Islam went handin-hand with the politicisation of Shi‘ism. The all-inclusive message of religion promoted in the fields of historiography, theology and jurisprudence did not remain theoretical. By the turn of the twentieth century members of the Imami community began venturing into the political arena, exploring questions of authority, leadership and political frameworks, on national and pan-national levels. Even in the first decade of the twentieth century, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ understood man’s need for a homeland. In his book al-dı¯n wa’l-isla¯m aw al-da‘wa al-isla¯miyya (Religion and Islam or the Islamic Call) published in 1909, this Iraqi mujtahid declared: . . .If it were not for the striving and longing for [establishing] homelands (wat.an), the world would not expand to the bosom of development; and if it were not for the control of the laws and customs, revealed or practiced, mankind would sink from the peak of humanity to the lowest point of animals.1 While Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was contemplating the notion of wat.an, clerics in Iran were busy taking part in the Constitutional Revolution (1906– 11). This revolution brought together intellectuals, members

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of the bureaucracy, merchants and prominent ‘ulama¯’ from the ‘ataba¯t, each with a different vision on governance, its institutions and legal framework.2 Clerics who supported this movement insisted on the compatibility between Islam, the rule of law and constitutional government. In their attempt to balance religion with constitutionalism, they endorsed popular representation and called to place limits on the ruler’s power. Yet they also rejected the separation of religion from state advocated by the constitutional secularists and insisted instead on compliance with Islamic law and on maintaining the ‘ulama¯’’s control over the judicial domain.3 Proconstitutional clerics did not provide a clear programme for the implementation of a Shari‘a-based constitution. Nevertheless, they laid the foundation for an important debate that emerged in the course of the twentieth century over the relationship between Islam, governance and clerical authority. Following the Constitutional Revolution in Iran, Shi‘i clerics in the Arab world began demonstrating growing political awareness alongside a more ecumenical vision of the religious community. This new Shi‘i interest in politics expanded the realm of Islam, but also created an autonomous non-religious space, where ideologies, political parties and state interests interacted with one another, outside the domain of faith. Through political activism these clerics developed ties with non-sectarian affiliations in the nation-state and beyond. The following discussion will explore modern Shi‘i encounters with politics in Iran, Iraq and Lebanon, and assess how this development altered sectarian affiliations.

The Historical Political Discourse Historically, two distinct approaches appeared in Sunni and Shi‘i thought over the community’s relationship with the ruling body. At the core of this disparity was a significant disagreement over the concept of authority. Sunnis sanctioned incumbent rulers even in cases in which these holders of power digressed from proper conduct, in order to avoid anarchy. Holders of power in the Sunni world also enjoyed backing from the religious establishment. The sovereign

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provided positions and financial backing to the ‘ulama¯’, while the clerics supported the leadership in its struggle against foreign enemies or internal rivals.4 By contrast, the traditional perception in Shi‘ism was that authority was invested in the leadership of the divinely-designated Imams.5 Only the Isma¯’ilı¯ branch of Shi‘ism adopted a clear activist political inclination.6 The Twelvers’ quietist approach resulted from the political reality of a vulnerable minority, which was later translated to the principle of taqiyya. Its ideological basis was rooted in the Occultation and the limits imposed on the community in the absence of the Imam. Following the Occultation, some Shi‘i scholars permitted the clerics to obtain some of the Imams’ roles and to cooperate with the holders of power on issues related to the welfare of the community. Moreover, in Iran, beginning from the sixteenth century, Shi‘i scholars accepted a de-facto obedience to holders of power, similar to the Sunni view, as will be demonstrated below. Historically within Twelver Shi‘ism, there was an early activist phase manifested in the battle between ‘Alı¯ and Mu‘awiya and the rising of H . usayn against Yazı¯d. Yet it gave way to a more passive political tendency that dominated Shi‘ism since the Occultation. Twelver thought emphasised a remote rather than an imminent justice of God, which would be achieved on the Day of Judgment. The martyrdom of H . usayn began to be perceived as a form of atonement and not as a model for militant struggle.7 Sorrows and suffering became the focus of Shi‘i commemoration of the Prophet’s family legacy. Numerous Shi‘i Hadiths praise the virtue of weeping in memory of the Imams and particularly H . usayn, the martyr of tears (qatı¯l al-‘abra).8 The suffering of the Imam became a paradigm of selfless sacrifice and proof of the Imam’s lofty degree of piety and faith. Shi‘is sought to emulate his model through acts of weeping, flagellation and reenacting the Imam’s martyrdom. This mode of commemoration was to bring salvation to the community on the Day of Judgment, on which the Imam was destined to intercede on their behalf.9 Yet, while chiliastic expectations did not totally disappear, a quietist inclination became the dominant feature of Twelver Shi‘ism. The

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clerics themselves sought to curb militant messianic tendencies by stressing the eschatological element of the Occultation and by emphasising that the Mahdi will return only in the indefinite future.10 In Iran, the Imami community balanced this other-worldly Shi‘i view of religion, of awaiting passively for the return of the Imam, with a world embracing Sunni vision of Islam. Under the Safavids, who established Shi‘ism as the state religion, the clerics became absorbed by the state system. A convergence of interests between the clerics, who lacked political power, and this new dynasty that was seeking to assert its legitimacy, cemented this alliance between the ‘ulama¯’ and the rulers. The clerics provided their tacit support to this new dynasty, while the Safavids provided their share to the ‘ulama¯’ by giving them control of the Shari‘a courts and positions in the civil customary-law courts.11 Yet in the absence of the Imam, despite their political pragmatism, the ‘ulama¯’ were reluctant to directly sanctify clerical participation in the political domain.12 In contrast to Iran, within the Ottoman-controlled learning centres of Najaf and Karbala¯’ a quietist tendency remained the rule. Clerics in the shrine cities were not supported by the political forces. They enjoyed greater autonomy from the rulers, in comparison with their Sunni counterparts, since the power and status of the mujtahids stemmed from the backing of their students and not from the support of the state.13 The shrine cities’ apolitical tendency was further cemented under Sunni Ottoman rule as a result of their physical remoteness from the administrative heart of the empire. These scholarly centres focused on writing and teaching, reflecting a centuries-old Shi‘i tendency and the precarious position of the community, an unrecognised religious minority living under Sunni rule.14 Shi‘is in the Arab world also shunned participation in jiha¯d, the Islamic duty to protect and expand the realm of Islam.15 In Shi‘ism this important Islamic obligation was considered one of the prerogatives of the Imam, and therefore became nullified with the disappearance of the Imam. The first change in Shi‘i approach to this important Islamic duty was introduced by al-Muh.aqqiq al-H . illı¯

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(d. 676/1277/8), an important Shi‘i scholar who legitimised participation in defensive jiha¯d also in the absence of the Imam.16 About two centuries later, the Safavids began using jiha¯d as a tool of foreign policy. The Safavids, who perceived themselves as ruling on behalf of the Imams, mobilised the population through jiha¯d. Yet, jiha¯d was not only confined to wars against the Christian infidels but was used even against their Muslim foes in the Ottoman-Sunni state.17 Jiha¯d was waged by the Shi‘i-led state of the Safavids. Yet, only in the nineteenth century did Shi‘i clerics reintroduce a scholarly debate on the question of jiha¯d. In a treatise entitled ‘Kashf al-Ghit.a¯’’ (Uncovering the Lid), the prominent Shi‘i jurist Shaykh Ja‘far (d. 1227/1812) who was the leader of the community of learning in Najaf at the time, revived the clerical discussion on jiha¯d. His treatise demonstrated the growing interdependency between the Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’ in the regions of Iran and Iraq who were alarmed at the rising threat of foreign powers to Muslim lands. Shaykh Ja‘far permitted the community not only to engage in jiha¯d to protect Muslim lands but also to declare an offensive war against infidels, even in the absence of the Imam.18 From endorsing the status-quo of this Shi‘i state, the clerics in Iran began to take an active stance in the political domain. This resulted from the fact that the issues at stake became more significant for the clerics in the late nineteenth century with the intensification of foreign involvement in Iran. The Anglo-Russian power rivalry, the sweeping monopolies granted to foreign companies in Iran and the regime’s deteriorating economic situation, climaxed in an internal outburst following the Sha¯h’s decision to grant a tobacco concession to George Talbot, a British national, in 1890. A wide protest against the Sha¯h broke out in major cities in Iran in which leading clerics joined the merchant-led resistance movement.19 This outburst demonstrated not only a new level of clerical participation in the internal political domain, but also a willingness to fight and defend the realm of Islam.20 From the clerics’ perspective, foreign control over Iran was not only a threat to the country’s Islamic character but to their own financial well-being due to the significant support they enjoyed from the merchant community in Iran.

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A gradual shift from the apolitical orientation of the clerics in Iran prepared the ground for a change in the passive inclination of the shrine cities in Iraq. As described above, the Shi‘i community of Iran had been contemplating the question of jiha¯d since the sixteenth century. Shi‘is in the Arab world, in contrast, demonstrated a clear quietist position. Although defensive jiha¯d had been legitimised in the thirteenth century, this unacknowledged and persecuted minority did not participate in wars of jiha¯d declared in the name of the Sunni sovereign.21 From the late nineteenth century, the ‘ataba¯t began demonstrating a growing political orientation as a result of Iranian influence and their changing political circumstances. This exchange of ideas between Iran and the Shi‘i centres of learning in Iraq resulted from the close ties between the two communities, in which Iranian clerics studied in Najaf and Karbala¯’ and these two shrine cities enjoyed financial backing from the merchants of Iran. One indication of this direction of influence at the time can be seen in the growing participation of the shrine cities in events in Iran. With the mounting unrest in Iran in the 1890s following increased Western involvement in the county, Mı¯rza¯ H . asan Shı¯razı¯, the supreme exemplar from Samarra in Iraq, issued a fatwa to boycott the use of tobacco.22 Furthermore, in the events leading to the constitutional revolution, the four senior mujtahids of Najaf sent letters of protest to the Sha¯h against employing Europeans in government positions.23 In 1910, Ha¯jı¯ Mı¯rza¯ Muh.mmad H . usayn Na¯’inı¯ (1859– 1936), a progressive Shi‘i cleric residing in Najaf, published a treatise in support of constitutionalism.24 Wider political developments also contributed to the changing orientation of the Shi‘i centres of learning. In particular, the mujtahids witnessed the Young Turk Revolution of 1909 that established political representation in the Ottoman Empire and placed limits on the autocratic rule of the sultan. As a result, the shrine cities were exposed to new political ideas and to contemporary knowledge disseminated through modern journals that began reaching the ‘ataba¯t, following the relaxation of state control in the aftermath of the Young Turk Revolution. The mujtahids felt compelled to react to the growing threat to Islamic lands from

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Western powers, beginning with Italy’s occupation of Libya in 1911, the Russians and British taking over parts of Iran in the same year, and continuing in the First World War with British forces landing in Iraq.25 These were the first signs that the traditional quietist political orientation of Shi‘is in the shrine cities was poised for significant change. However, only with substantial changes to Iraq’s immediate surroundings, following the British occupation and the creation of the secularised state of Iraq, did this Shi‘i community adopt a clear activist approach. With the arrival of the first British troops in southern Iraq in 1914, leading Shi‘i clerics such as Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı played an important role in rallying the tribes for jiha¯d against the invading foreign army.26 These oppositional activities prepared the grounds for the 1920 revolt that united Sunnis and Shi‘is against the foreign occupation of an Islamic land. Under the banner of Muslim unity, the mujtahids reiterated the call for jiha¯d, inciting the Shi‘i tribal population to rise against the British occupation and the danger it posed to Islam. A fatwa attributed to Mı¯rza¯ Muh.ammad Taqı¯ Shı¯razı¯, mentioned above, sanctified the use of force against the British to achieve the rights of the Iraqi people.27 Indeed, Shi‘i activism of the twentieth century can be traced back to the Safavid period and to the de-facto accommodation between the clerical community in Iran and the holders of political power. Later on, this development can be linked to the intensification of foreign involvement in Iran and direct British control of Iraq which undermined Muslim control of their land and threatened Islamic values. Up until the early twentieth century, the direction of influence was from Iran to the Arab Shi‘i world. During the first half of this century, however, the changing political circumstances among the Arab Shi‘is and their Iranian counterparts led the former to actually set the tone for the politicisation of Shi‘ism in the entire Shi‘i milieu. The rise of Reza Sha¯h to power (r. 1925 –41) and his project of modernisation significantly weakened the religious establishment.28 Equating development with secularisation, Reza Sha¯h began an onslaught on religion and the religious leadership. His forced

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secularisation process challenged the ‘ulama¯’ control over the education and legal systems by creating alternative national state bodies. In the judicial domain, he undermined the cleric’s position by embarking upon a number of legal and social reforms. The aim of these policies was to create a complete separation between religion and state, to weaken clerical power and to improve the position of women.29 As a result of these forced measures, the Shi‘i ‘ulama’ in Iran maintained a clear apolitical stance at least until the 1960s, prior to the ascendance of Imam Khomeini and other ideologists of the revolution. While the clerics in Iran were being pushed aside by the state, Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’ in the Arab world began venturing into the political arena. The scholarship produced by the Shi‘i Arab community in particular and the Sunni Arabs in general during the first half of the twentieth century was significant to later developments in Iran. An indication of this direction of influence can be seen, for example, in the fact that ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯, the leading ideologist of the revolution, decided to take part in the translation of contemporary texts from Arabic to Persian. This was not a traditional translation of religious texts but an attempt to transfer new ideas to Iran. Thus, in 1954, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ translated a letter by Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ addressed to Gerald Ivans Hopkins, then the vice president of the American Friends of the Middle East, in which Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ expressed the Muslim world’s condemnation of US imperialism.30 In his struggle against political submission and social injustice, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ relied on a newly-defined image of the Imam H . usayn. In this case we can also see the link to ideas advanced earlier by Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, who presented the Imam as a symbol of political resistance, to be further explained in the subsequent discussion. Moreover, in 1970, Ayatollah Khomeini presented his theory of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h in Najaf, where he resided between 1965 and 1978, following his uprising against the Sha¯h and his deportation from the country. Khomeini developed this comprehensive notion of governance in Iraq at the height of the Da‘wa movement, with its all-inclusive Islamic message promoted by Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr. Later on, the Islamic republic itself acknowledged its debt to the

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ecumenical agenda of earlier Shi’i reformists, embracing the Lebanese scholar Sayyid ‘Abd al-H . usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯ from the first half of the twentieth century as a model for promoting Muslim unity.31 These earlier reformists from the Arab world established the basis for an all-Muslim agenda, and perhaps played a part in the later politicisation of Shi‘ism. The following analysis will explore this interaction between political visions presented by early Shi‘i reformists in the Arab world and later more revolutionary perspectives among Shi‘is in Iran to produce an understanding of why at the end of the day both localities undertook a very different political direction.

The Politicisation of Shi‘ism: Between Nationalism and Wider Ideological Causes In the transition to the twentieth century, with the emergence of competing national frameworks and pan-national ideologies, relations within the Shi‘i milieu began to change. Prior to this period, the majority of the Shi‘i world lived within the two rival empires: the Iranian Shi‘i Empire of the Safavids and later the Qajars versus the Ottoman Empire, representative of the Sunni world. The Shi‘is of Iraq, who were considered an unrecognised religious minority, were living on the frontier of the Iranian-Shi‘i kingdom. They resided in a remote part of the Ottoman Empire and had little contact with the wider Sunni population. As a result, they were left alone to conduct their communal affairs in an autonomous fashion. This community did not feel a sense of belonging to the Ottoman Empire and maintained religious links and trade ties with their fellow-Shi‘is in Iran. The latter embarked on pilgrimages to the holy cities of Iraq and came to study in the centres of Shi‘i learning while contributing to the maintenance of the Imami scholars studying in these centres. Shi‘is living in the province of Iraq or in Jabal ‘A¯mil and the Beqa¯’ in the region of Lebanon were organised in feudal or nomadic communities, living on the margins of society.32 Following the creation of the new states of Iraq and Lebanon and the competing Iranian nationalism that had emerged in the nineteenth century, Shi‘is began to define their loyalties first and

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foremost within these nation-states.33 Shi‘is shifted away from their former secluded existence. They became citizens of these new states, involved in the political arena and exposed to the prevailing ideologies of the day through public education and the media. The Islamic world itself became a smaller place through travel, development of communication, and the swift dissemination of knowledge. A contemporary political need for reconciliation between Sunnis and Shi‘is in the nation-state with its struggle against foreign occupation was another factor in the globalisation of the Muslim community. The following discussion will evaluate the interplay between nationalism, regionalism and pan-Islam within this politicisation of Shi‘ism. During the first half of the twentieth century, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Kha¯lis.¯ı, the two leading reformist clerics from Iraq, wrote a flurry of political tracts. Through these treatises, they discussed the main topics of the day, including colonialism, Arabism and the struggle for Palestine.34 This activity had begun before the start of the First World War, with Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s publication al-dı¯n wa’l-isla¯m, mentioned above. In his treatise, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ urged all Muslims to safeguard their homeland, and nation and sought to empower the Muslims through a renewal of Islam.35 He also displayed a new interplay between religion, the Muslim umma and a modern notion of the homeland. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ argued that man cannot reform society without religion and without a homeland (wat.an). The West had penetrated into the body and spirit of the Islamic world, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ lamented. In these words, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ joined forces with the emerging anti-imperialist discourse which was to become a prominent topic on the agenda of the Muslim world during the twentieth century. In his understanding, there was no contradiction between the revival of Islam and support for the wat.an. Some have portrayed the nation as a zealous idea that harms humankind, yet it actually contributes to man’s development, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ concluded. Nevertheless, this Shi‘i leader portrayed here a vague notion of nationalism or pan-nationalism, without clearly defining its role or territorial borders. He also stressed that these frameworks must be subordinated to the laws of Islam.36

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Written one year after the Young Turk Revolution and at the height of the Constitutional Revolution in Iran, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s book depicted the influence of both developments. It was also a continuation of pan-Islamic revivalist notions that were promoted at the time in the Muslim world, beginning with the Ottoman Sultan Abdu¨lhamid II (1876– 1909) and continuing in the thought of Muslim reformists, both Sunni and Shi‘i.37 The Iranian intellectuals Mirza Aqa¯ Kha¯n Kerma¯nı¯ and Sheikh Ahmad Ru¯hı¯ as well as Jama¯l al-Dı¯n al-Afgha¯nı¯, the precursor of Islamic reformism and IranianShi’i origins, promoted the vision of a united Islamic entity. They presented this notion of unity as a bulwark against the Western political threat to Muslim lands.38 To this end, these three intellectuals were willing to cooperate with Sultan Abdu¨lhamid even though their own affinity with Islamic orthodoxy was questionable. They agreed to work together with the Ottoman sultan, who was the defender of a Sunni H . anafı¯ version of Islam. His pan-Islamist initiative was an exclusive and narrow notion of this concept, while the Shi‘is in his empire remained an unrecognised religious minority.39 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s al-dı¯n wa’l-isla¯m demonstrated the contribution of these surrounding developments, yet it was also a unique treatise in itself. Several decades earlier, al-Afgha¯nı¯ backed the Sultan’s effort to unite the world of Islam in order to overcome Western domination. Yet, in his effort to support this pan-Islamic endeavour, al-Afgha¯nı¯ felt the need to conceal his Shi‘i origins in order to receive the approval of the Sunni-led Ottoman Empire. In Iran, similar ideas were promoted by intellectuals such as Kerma¯nı¯ and Ru¯hı¯, mentioned above. The two were active in the small Azali sect associated with the heretical nineteenth-century messianic Ba¯bı¯ movement. They sought to mobilise the Muslim world to fight the Qajari Shah and his concessions to the West.40 Several decades later, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ also advanced the call for Muslim unity in the face of continued Western encroachment on the Islamic world. Yet the novelty in Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s pan-Islamic mission was that it was undertaken from a position of pride in his Imami identity and his adherence to the Islamic faith. Muslim unity

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and political activism were no longer only led by Sunnis or promoted by Iranian intellectuals detached from their Shi‘i roots. As the Shi‘is in the Arab world were incorporated into the new nation-states, mujtahids such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not feel the need to conceal their Shi‘i roots and resort to taqiyya in order to advance common Muslim goals. Instead these early Shi‘i reformists sought to revive religion and to empower the Muslim world while taking pride in their Imami heritage. The Shi‘i community in the Arab world felt that it could no longer remain aloof from the political process due to the growing threats to the Muslim world. Furthermore, a new opportunity was now open to the Shi‘is to advance their rights through socio-political action. With the establishment of the nation-states of Iraq and Lebanon, Shi‘i clerics began to show a new interest in political developments in their immediate surroundings and also in the broader Arab and Muslim worlds. By 1914, mujtahids from the shrine cities had participated in the jiha¯d against the conquering forces. In May 1920, following the San Remo conference that awarded a mandate over Iraq to Britain, mujtahids from Najaf and Karbala¯’ rallied their followers to jiha¯d against the invasion of non-Muslims. Several leading mujtahids left the confinement of the holy cities and gathered their people to defend what they perceived as an onslaught on religion. In this uprising, Sunni and Shi‘is demonstrated a sense of unity in defending their homeland from foreign occupation. As a high-ranking mujtahid, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ provided religious legitimisation for the emergence of a new political conscious among Shi‘is. Yet, despite his own scholarly credentials, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ almost avoided mentioning Shi‘i teachings related to the historical debate over political activism in the absence of the Imam. Perhaps his evasion of a legal debate over this question was due to the nature of his target audience. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was reaching out to the newlyeducated Shi‘i elite in Iraq who perceived the political arena as a space for promoting one’s rights and did not need lengthy religious justifications to enter this arena. One of the Shi‘i-affiliated topics that Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did indeed discuss was the legacy of the Imam H.usayn. This topic was one of the

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founding myths of Imami Islam, which was highly significant for contemporary Shi‘ism. Even the Iraqi Communist Party of the time understood the power of Imam H . usayn’s symbol for the Shi‘i masses. As a result, the party with its growing appeal among educated Shi‘is, did not call for the annulment of these ceremonies but instead used them to promote its call for social justice.41 Here again we see a situation in which Arab Shi‘is and not Iranians were advancing a more activist perception of religion at the time, in this case through the figure of the Imam H . usayn. This was the basis for Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s reliance on the icon of Imam H.usayn to promote his political and religious agenda. Preaching not only to a Shi‘i audience but seeking to galvanise the broader Muslim arena, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ declared: The lord of the martyrs taught the whole world, and not only the Shi‘a, the path of nobility, honour, dignity and courage. He committed a unique act in order to teach his followers [shı¯‘atahu ] the value of honour and the importance of adhering to the sacred principles. However, we have abandoned the essence and held on to the outer layers, confining ourselves to lamenting, striking ourselves and weeping. I am not saying that you should not strike yourself, but I am saying that you should not restrict yourself to the shells and the external manifestation and relinquish the core and the substance. H.usayn – may God safeguard him – was neither poor nor wretched nor weak. Moreover, he enjoyed an abundance of comfort and wealth, but he sacrificed all this for the cause of bravery and in order to avoid submission and humility.42 This important Shi‘i cleric created a new image of the Imam H.usayn to support a more activist political tendency. The Imam, who in the Shi‘i collective memory represented the ultimate victim of injustice, was reshaped as a fighter for Islamic principles.43 In this newlydefined image of the H . usayn, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not mention the sectarian conflict over the question of leadership that culminated in the martyrdom of the Imam. Instead, the Imam was depicted as a

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religious-political symbol of resistance and a harbinger of political action.44 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ altered the historical apolitical depiction of the Imam in his emphasis on its religious significance. He transformed the Imam into a modern symbol for the anti-colonialist struggle. The Imam H . usayn taught the whole world the path of nobility, honour, dignity and courage. To avoid submission, the Imam sacrificed comfort and wealth. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ stressed this point without elaborating on the meaning of the Imams’ resistance. In a modern take on the Imam’s struggle against Yazı¯d’s forces, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ brought in the connotation of opposition to foreign rule. Thus, through this depiction, the Imam became a symbol not only for a new activist Shi‘ism but for the wider Muslim community fighting against the imperialist presence. In his new political reading the legacy of Imam H . usayn, Shi‘i reformists like Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ were ahead of their time in introducing ideas that became commonplace among the Iranian revolutionaries starting from the 1960s.45 Shi‘i modernists in Lebanon also introduced a similar reading of the legacy of the Imam H.usayn. Mughniyya, for example, emphasised that the memory and weeping for the Imam is not a sign of weakness. It is not a cry for the memory of the slain, Mughniyya emphasised, but a call for bravery and martyrdom and protest against tyranny, evildoing and the denial of one’s rights. Similarly to Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Mughniyya transformed the image of the Imam from its sectarian understanding to a broader Muslim icon relevant to the contemporary era. Thus the Imam became an allMuslim symbol for the struggle to promote one’s values, as Mughniyya explained: For his party and for those who know his aims and intentions, H.usayn is not only a name of a person, but is a symbol of deep significance, an emblem of human bravery and hope and a model of religion and the Shari‘a, redemption and sacrifice for the sake of truth and justice.46

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Crying over the Imam is not an expression of sorrow over his death, as the ignorant perceive it, but a cry over humiliation and tyranny and a loud protest over the hero and his family [. . .]. It is a true expression of righteousness and [a call for] vengeance against exploitation, as well as the glorification of sacrifice and martyrdom...47 Relying on the symbol of the Imam H . usayn, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ emphasised an anti-colonialist agenda while Mughniyya depicted a message of social protest. Mughniyya’s critique of tyranny and exploitation can be understood against the backdrop of the situation of the Lebanese Shi‘is at the time. In this passage, Mughniyya was in essence calling the Shi‘is to rise against their state of marginalisation within the Lebanese system. In his memoirs, Mughniyya remonstrated against the Lebanese government for disregarding the socioeconomic deprivation of the Shi‘i South. Describing the situation of the Shi‘i villages during the 1940s’s, Mughniyya lamented the inadequate health services, schools and roads in this region. The solution, in his eyes, was to instil political awareness among what he described as an ignorant population that does not hold the political representatives of the South accountable to the suffering of the people.48 In the following decades, Mughniyya did not confine his political message only to the Lebanese arena. He joined with broader pan-Arab elements. Mughniyya proclaimed his support for the Arab cause, reiterating the anti-Zionist and anti-imperialist discourse dominant among pan-Arab circles at the time.49 Both Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Mughniyya acknowledged the existence of the new national state system and worked to promote the rights of their community within this framework. Yet they also perceived themselves as part of a broader Arab and Muslim world which they sought to influence, in accordance with their religious worldview. At the time, Shi‘is were not alone in resorting to the figure of the Imam H . usayn to promote socio-political causes. During this period, Sunni modernists themselves began to portray reservations over developments in the formative period of Islam, glorified in Sunni historiography as the ‘golden age’ of Islam.50 This new critical

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approach towards this venerated Sunni leadership appeared, for example, in the thoughts of the Egyptian writer and intellectual T . aha H . usayn. In his book al-Fitna al-kubra (The Great Fitna), T.aha H usayn used harsh words against Yazid, the third Umayyad Caliph. . H . usayn ibn ‘Alı¯ – who rejected Yazı¯d’s claim to leadership – was killed by Yazid’s forces in the famous battle of Karbala¯’. T.aha H . usayn adopted a Shi‘i-oriented depiction of these historical events, proclaiming that Yazı¯d’s actions had transgressed from the conduct of the Prophet and the Righteous Caliphs. Furthermore, Yazı¯d was obsessed with wealth and control and killed those who did not obey him. T.aha H . usayn also rejected the Sunni claim that Yazı¯d protected the unity of the Muslim community and sought to avoid a fitna (trial, discord and civil strife; the development of infighting during the early period of Islam) and instead argued that ‘Alı¯’s camp was actually the one that sought compromise.51 In the Sunni world, another important contributor to this discourse was Muhammad Iqbal. Similar to Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Iqbal removed the Shi‘i reading of Karbala¯’ and portrayed H . usayn ibn ‘Alı¯ as a model for true belief. His view of the Imam may be linked to Iqbal’s Sufi inclination. Sufis, like Shi‘is, venerated the Imams – focussing on their lofty spiritual qualities and not on the disputed questions of authority and historiography. Over the course of Muslim history, Sufism became a medium for bridging between the sects due to its emphasis on a universal outlook and less on the technicalities of Islamic law, which enabled both Sunnis and Shi‘is to take part in its activities. Iqbal demonstrated both a continuation and break with the Sufi perception of the Imams. He combined the mystical dimension of the love for the Prophet’s family with an emphasis on the political leadership-role of the venerated Imam. Iqbal promoted this dual mystical and political message through the figure of the Imam H . usayn. For Iqbal, the Imam exemplified the belief in divine unity through his love and devotion of God, which reached its full realisation in H . usayn’s martyrdom. In this depiction of the Imam, Iqbal demonstrated a continuation of Sufi mystical notions. In Sufism, the true believer is to reach annihilation ( fana¯) of the self (nafs), in a culmination of man’s inner conflict between the human ego and his righteous spiritual existence. Yet in Iqbal’s

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understanding, the epic tale of Imam was not only a model of mystical annihilation in which the believer unites with God through his true love for the Creator. Instead, Iqbal promoted a paradigm of self-sacrifice as a model for the contemporary Muslim community. He called on his fellow-Muslims in the sub-continent and beyond to emulate H.usayn’s struggle and unite behind a reformist notion of Islam.52 This was an Islam that does not separate between religion and politics. It empowers the individual, promotes social justice, and also elevates the downtrodden and unites the Muslim nation behind a common spiritual bond.53 Pakistan’s movement for independence was inspired by this political-Islamic message. Despite Iqbal’s Sunni heritage he was also embraced by the Shi‘i minority in India, perhaps due to his universal call for Islam and to his mystical reading to the Imams’ legacy. Later on, Iqbal’s thought was also adopted by Shi‘i revolutionaries in Iran, such as Sharı¯ ‘atı¯, as a model for Islamic revivalism and political activism. Iqbal’s mystical inclination may have been appealing to these Islamic revolutionaries. Continuing Iran’s long mystical tradition, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ depicted an affinity with the tradition of ‘irfa¯n, portraying the internal and mystical aspects of Islam as loftier than its external manifestations. Concurrently, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ did not associate himself with an exclusive Sufi outlook or with any other Islamic current of thought. Instead, he promoted an all-inclusive vision of Islam that incorporated the material and the spiritual, this world and the hereafter.54 Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ reiterated this activist’s mystical and non-sectarian approach towards Imam H . usayn’s legacy, while introducing a sociopolitical reading to this historical model. As mentioned, Shi‘i reformists such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ used the figure of the Imam to incite against colonialism. Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ went one step further, relying on the Imam’s legacy as a model for revolutionary action. Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ contrasted what he defined as ‘red Shi‘ism’ associated with Imam ‘Alı¯ and Imam H . usayn, with Safavid or ‘Black Shi‘ism’. The former symbolised struggle and martyrdom, while the latter represented inaction and compliance with the holders of power.55 Seeking to create a revolutionary cadre, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ called on ‘Shi‘at Husayn’ to rise

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against political oppression and social exploitation. This vision of a just Islamic society reflected a new exchange between Marxism, existentialism and a political reading of Islam.56 Indeed, in their depiction of Imam H . usayn both Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and Khomeini presented a universal understanding of the the Karbala¯’ epic. For Khomeini, the Karbala¯’ paradigm was not only relevant for Shi‘is, but for the wider Muslim community and is actually a model for all world’s nations. Explaing the Imam’s broad-ranging significance Khomeini said: Muh.arram is the month of the glorious rebirth (nahd.a) of the lord of the martyrs (sayyid al-shuhada¯’) and the lord of God’s friends (sayyid ’awliya¯llah), who taught humanity – through his revolt – the lesson of building and steadfastness and he also taught it how to annihilate the oppressor and defeat him through sacrifices and the sacrifice of the self. . .57 The leader of the Muslims taught us that if a tyrant rules despotically over the Muslims in any age, we must rise up against him and denounce him, however unequal our forces may be. . .58 As discussed above, this effort to advance a more relevant picture of Imam H . usayn began with early Shi‘i reformists such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ in Iraq and Mughniyya in Lebanon. They relied on the figure of the Imam to mobilise their supporters for an anti-colonialist struggle. Through this newly-defined symbol of the Imam, these Shi‘i reformists sought to appeal to Sunni modernists and to the educated and integrated stratum of Shi‘i society. This was an attempt to depict Shi‘ism as an integral component of an all-Muslim polity, united in its struggle against the West and its political and cultural threat to the Muslim world. Several decades later, Islamic revolutionaries in Iran no longer projected a defensive position vis-a`-vis the Sunni world. The aim was to enlist both Shi‘is and Sunnis within an Iranian-led Islamic revolution. Furthermore, these revolutionaries even attempted to set the tone for the international

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agenda, in which revolutionary Iran would lead world nations in a struggle against tyranny and social injustice. This shifting view of the Sunni world began with earlier Shi‘i reformists living in the Arab arena. Improvement in road and rail links and the inclusion of the isolated Shi‘i communities in the new nation-states created new ties that cut across sectarian affiliations. Both Sunnis and Shi‘is upheld simiar political causes including nationalism, Arabism, anti-colonialism and pan-Islam. They also rallied behind the Palestinian question that combined many of these topics. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ himself met H . a¯jj Amı¯n al-H.usaynı¯, the Grand mufti of Jerusalem, during their joint attendance at the General Islamic Congress of 1931. In a significant pan-Islamic gesture, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was called to lead the prayer at the opening of the congress.59 The congress was organised by H.a¯jj Amı¯n al-H . usaynı¯, who sought to rally Muslims and Arabs behind the Palestinian cause and played a leading role in opposing British rule.60 One of the first Shi‘i leaders who endorsed the Palestinian struggle was Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, as demonstrated in his sermons and fatwas which were collected and published in his treatise qad.iyyat filast.ı¯n al-kubra¯ (The Significant Question of Palestine). A fatwa delivered by Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ in Najaf in 1938, which appeared in this publication, called for jiha¯d to assist the Palestinian people. This was at the height of the Arab revolt in Palestine (1936– 9) and the fatwa was given on the occasion of Palestine Day, which was commemorated in Iraq.61 Depicting himself as an Arab and Islamic leader as he rallied the masses behind the Palestinian cause, Ka¯shif al- Ghit.a¯’ said: O Islam!.. O Arabs!. . . No. . . Rather O people or O mankind!. . . The situation which the sacrificed Palestine has reached is visible to everyone. We say and we continue to say that the

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Palestinian problem is not an issue that concerns only Palestine. . . but is the problem of the Arabs in their entirety. If Palestine will emerge from this jiha¯d victorious, the Arabs will triumph, and if – God forbid – the tyrannical Zionist oppressor will gain the upper hand, the Arabs will attain humiliation and loss, moreover death and eternal disgrace.62 . . . The jiha¯d for Palestine is incumbent upon every person, not only obligatory upon the Arabs and the Muslims. Yes! It is a requisite for every human being, not only because of the provision of religious laws and faith but by virtue of the senses, emotions, conscious and sound thought.63 Ka¯shif al- Ghit.a¯’’s call for jiha¯d was a further step in the politicisation of the Shi‘i communities in the Arab world. In a break from their former quietist position, Shi‘is participated in the Ottoman call for jiha¯d during the First World War and a similar campaign during the 1920 revolt, as mentioned above. Yet, in the late 1930s, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s appeal for jiha¯d was not in response to a direct threat to the immediate surroundings of Shi‘is in Iraq but in more distant Palestine. This demonstrated that Shi‘is at the time began to actively defend causes that united the Muslim world, shifting away from their former secluded existence and joining a new all-Islamic polity. As a result, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not resort to Imami teaching to justify his break from the Shi‘i apolitical tendency, since his targeted audience was moving away from a closed communal identification. While mobilising the Muslim population in the name of Islam, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s treatise qad.iyyat filast.ı¯n was not a purely religious tract. It did not display a judicial discourse on the topic of jiha¯d from a general Islamic point of view or from a particular Shi‘i context, and did not include references to Qur’anic verses and to traditions that exalted the virtues of Holy War. This was similar to his depiction of Imam H . usayn as a non-sectarian figure fighting against oppression. In this anti-colonialist campaign, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not refer, for example, to the question of the individual versus collective duty of jiha¯d, in which the obligation of Holy War is considered an

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individual duty only for those who are in proximity to the enemy. Nor did he mention the evolving Shi‘i position on undertaking jiha¯d in the absence of the Imam. In place of the scholarly debate on jiha¯d, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ introduced a pan-Islamic, pan-Arab and anti-colonialist vision of a Holy War. Continuing this agenda, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ also expressed strong criticism against the Arab states for their treatment of the Palestinian question.64 In 1954, this Shi‘i leader rejected an invitation to participate in an American-led religious dialogue in Bih.amdu¯n Lebanon, which he described as ‘an imperialist plot to conceal Western atrocities in the Middle East’.65 While attacking this US-led convention, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ presented a three-staged approach to fighting imperialism. This included preaching by sermons, articles and publications in the first instance; peaceful and non-peaceful modes of resistance including demonstrations, strikes and financial boycotts as a second step; culminating in war, revolution and combat in the case of dire escalation.66 In essence, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ offered a modern political manifesto for establishing political independence, to be carried out by a more politicised younger generation of educated Shi‘is. As mentioned, this example of standing up to imperialism was later endorsed by Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ as a basis for his own worldview. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ no longer accepted that the existing social order was unchangeable and he must wait the return of the hidden Imam. Instead, he sought justice for the community by human action and by modern political means while embracing wider political causes. However, together with assuming this new role as a mobiliser, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not grant religious approval for direct clerical participation in the political domain. In his opinion, the clerics’ main function remained preaching and providing religious guidance.67 Kha¯lis.¯ı depicted a similar approach towards the question of clerical activism. This Shi‘i cleric, who originated in Iraq but was active mostly in Iran, wrote political treatises, was involved in antiBritish activities in Iraq during the First World War and its aftermath and later on preached against the Pahlavi regime after he was deported

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to Iran in 1923. In 1944, Kha¯lis.¯ı was released from a long period of internal exile following his oppositional activity against the Pahlavi regime. He was now permitted to travel to Tehran and several years later wrote about his impressions of public life in Iran.68 The only way to save Iran from its internal and external calamities, Kha¯lis.¯ı argued, was to return to religion and follow the teachings of Islam.69 Kha¯lis.¯ı justified his involvement in public affairs as stemming from the need to ‘propagate the teaching of Islam and arouse the consciousness of the people’.70 By undertaking this responsibility, it appeared that Kha¯lis.¯ı was re-enacting the Muslim duty of ‘enjoining good and forbidding evil’. In Islam, every individual has an obligation to assure moral behaviour in the public sphere.71 Yet, Kha¯lis.¯ı did not refer to the Shi‘i debate over the difficulty in undertaking this duty in the absence of the Imam. Of note, he did not mention the conditions that Imami scholars attached to assuming this obligation, particularly the call to avoid mortal danger and risk to property.72 Concurrently, Kha¯lis.¯ı did not define the scope of clerical participation in the political sphere. Nevertheless, this involvement went beyond preaching and entailed some level of direct participation, even in the secularised modern state-system of Iran. Thus, for example, Kha¯lis.¯ı was banned from convening the Friday prayer, yet he tried to revoke this decision by promoting his cause in the media and through lobbying in parliament and government.73 In his actions, Kha¯lis.¯ı adopted a clear political stance. However, similar to Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, he did not overtly legitimise direct clerical involvement in the political domain and instead relegated the ‘ulama¯’’s role to preaching and ‘forbidding wrong’. Furthermore, many of Kha¯lis.¯ı’s political treatises were oppositional and apologetic, focussing on the struggle against foreign occupation in Iraq and the decadence of the Pahlavi regime, without suggesting a clear system of governance. To sum up, neither Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Kha¯lis.¯ı advocated direct clerical participation in politics, but they opened the door for more profound political developments in the Shi‘i milieu during the following generation. It would take several decades before an explicit

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religious sanction for involvement in politics was introduced by Khomeini in his theory of ‘vila¯yat-e faqı¯h’.74 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and Kha¯lis.¯ı did not present a revolutionary political manifesto, yet they were instrumental in changing the self-image of Shi‘is from a mostly passive sect to a politically active community. No longer would the Shi‘is indifferently await salvation in the return of the Imam, but they would now seek progress in the present through membership in a wide-ranging society.75 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ extended his leadership role beyond his Imami affinity by combining an anti-Zionist and anti-imperialist agenda with a religious call for jiha¯d. Appealing to the educated Shi‘i elite with its growing pan-Arab and national affiliations, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ insisted that there was no contradiction between commitment to Shi‘ism, promoting Muslim unity and embracing Arab nationalism.76 At the time, the cause of Arabism was also adopted by the Shi‘i bourgeoisie in Lebanon and advanced through the Shi‘i Lebanese journal, al-‘Irfa¯n.77 With the establishment of greater Lebanon and the inclusion of the Shi‘is in this new entity, conservative elements in the community began cooperating with the French. They adopted the new Lebanese entity and sought to improve their socioeconomic position by integrating into the new state. Despite this, the younger and more modernised elements of the Shi‘i community endorsed a more pan-Arab agenda, expressing a desire for unity with Syria and rejecting the French presence.78 Mu¯sawı¯, the spiritual leader of the Shi‘i community in Tyre at the time, reflected the more conservative Imami constituency. Following his initial opposition to the occupation, he began to gradually develop working relations with the French. Mu¯sawı¯ did not write political treatises questioning the status quo of the French presence; he focussed instead on his message of Muslim unity. A more pan-Arab stance was adopted by Mu¯sawı¯’s contemporary, Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n, the spiritual leader of the local community in Damascus. Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n’s Arab and nationalist agenda can be seen through his historical writing. Khit.at. Jabal ‘A¯mil (The Land of Jabal ‘A¯mil) depicted an attempt to join forces with a nationalist Arab discourse by establishing the local record of Jabal ‘A¯mil from the

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pre-Islamic period until the current era. In this publication, Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n did not create a total break with traditional Muslim chronology. He employed an uncritical historical methodology and also adopted a broad timeframe which stretched from early Islam until the contemporary era, without an in-depth analysis of historical developments. The novelty in this book was in its underlying purpose, to construct an Arab-nationalist affiliation for a community seeking to integrate into the new Lebanese state. Khit.at. Jabal ‘A¯mil intended to counter the negative image of Shi‘ism in the Sunni-Arab milieu, which persisted into the twentieth century. Many Arab Sunnis viewed Shi‘ism as both a deviation from true Islamic orthodoxy and a foreign Persian element. Through Khit.at. Jabal ‘A¯mil, Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n established the historical and cultural belonging of the Lebanese Shi‘is to the region and refuted Sunni-Arab depictions of this community as an alien minority.79 In this publication, Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n delineated the ‘A¯milis’ Arab origins through their descent from the Yemenite Banu ‘A¯mila tribe, their affiliation with one of the Prophet’s companions, Abu¯ Dharr alGhifa¯rı¯, as well as the Shi‘is’ Arab customs.80 For many Shi‘is, Arabism was an urban and secular ideology based on a Sunni-centred historicism that excluded the Shi‘i community.81 This negative Shi‘i approach to Arabism was exemplified in the writing of Kha¯lis.¯ı, the Iraqi Arab mujtahid, who’s position on this matter was probably related to his long presence in Iran. In 1933, ten years after he was expelled to Iran, Kha¯lis.¯ı published al-‘Uru¯ba fı¯ da¯r al-bawa¯r (Arabism in Hell). The book was most likely smuggled back to Iraq together with many of Kha¯lis.¯ı’s publications.82 While expressing strong criticism against the movement of Arabism, Kha¯lis.¯ı did not reject Arabism as an ethnic affiliation, but emphasised that this affinity must be subordinated to the laws and morals of Islam. Reiterating his message of Muslim unity, Kha¯lis.¯ı stressed that inter-sectarian reconciliation will only be achieved if Muslims reject ethnic racism and accept debate and diversity based on reason and knowledge.83 Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was able to incorporate Arabism by adding a religious dimension to this ideology. However, from Kha¯lis.¯ı’s

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perspective, Arabism was not only a secular ideology but part of an imperialist plot to divide and control the Muslim world. Nevertheless, here Kha¯lis.¯ı demonstrated an endorsement of the anti-colonialist rhetoric prevalent at the time among both Sunnis and Shi‘is in the region, together with a cross-ethnic and all-Islamic vision. In contrast, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s identification with Arabism created a mutual understanding with the emerging Shi‘i bourgeoisie in its vocal support for Arabism. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ was able to embrace this ideology by presenting an inclusive and broad vision of Arabism that absorbed the indigenous Shi‘i population of Iraq and coexisted with an Islamic worldview. Yet, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ did not directly endorse the concept of Iraqi nationalism. Nevertheless, by endorsing the cause of Arabism, which was an important component of the emerging Iraqi national identity, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ demonstrated Shi‘i affinity with the new national homeland.84 In the following passage, taken from one of Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ sermons, this Shi‘i leader galvanised his supporters behind a new national pride: Unite your ranks. . . join your words. . . operate in an organised fashion under the leadership of the powerful among the umma, in order to rid ourselves from the disgrace and loss of our pride which made us poor, submissive and divided, while others enjoy the luxury of our money, living in lofty castles and neat gardens. We have become paupers and prisoners in our country and all this is because of us. Chaos, chaos everywhere, divided in every aspect.85 In this extract, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ not only rallied his followers against foreign occupation but also indicated a nascent sense of nationalism. There are no references here to a Shi‘i collectivism, but instead Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ campaigned here for consolidating the people behind a unified existence. They were to unite behind the leadership of the powerful and not behind the clerics. He also depicted a sense of pride in this struggle against foreign occupation and in a new social order. One can see here Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s affiliation with the nation, but

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also his connection with a more global trans-national religious community. In this new framework, a powerful Muslim leadership emerges that assumes a new political role to undertake the struggle against foreign occupation. Another indication of Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s tacit acceptance of nationalism can be seen in his political activity to promote the interests of the Shi‘i population. This effort was exemplified in the events of 1935. During the Shi‘i tribal unrest, which erupted in January of that year, Shi‘i sheikhs consulted Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ and other Arab mujtahids on the methods by which to further the community’s interests. Following these events, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ participated in formulating a manifesto to present to the Iraqi authorities, which listed Shi‘i grievances against the government, including insufficient political representation of Shi‘is in the state-system and the disadvantaged socioeconomic situation of the community.86 In supporting these demands, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ accepted the prevailing outlook of Iraqi Shi‘is at the time towards the state. After widespread participation in the 1920 revolt, Iraqi Shi‘is began to integrate into the new state-system, acquiring state education, immigrating en-masse from the countryside to the cities and gradually becoming involved in the political arena. The realism which began to take shape among the community was that the only way to advance the community’s position was through endorsing the emerging nation-state and operating within its limits. Furthermore, the mujtahids themselves, who were historically independent of the state, began to rely on the authorities for their personal needs and for the maintenance of their students. This resulted from the fact that the traditional contributions of the community towards the welfare of the clerics dropped rapidly during this period, as growing numbers of Shi‘is gained state education and the numbers of students in the traditional seminars declined dramatically.87 The community’s desire to integrate into the new state played a role in strengthening Shi‘i clerics of Arab origin at the expense of mujtahids of Persian origin who resided in Iraq. In an effort to boost their deteriorating status, Arab mujtahids such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, who shared ethnic, linguistic and cultural roots with the

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Shi’i tribal population of the south, joined the community in its endeavour to take part in the embryonic nation-system.88 These clerics demonstrated that they no longer perceived themselves as traditional mujtahids confined to the holy city of Najaf, but as leaders representing a community competing for power in the new nationstate of Iraq. In the first half of the twentieth century, Arab Shi‘i clerics established their identification with Islam, Arabism and nationalism. This was part of a complex and perhaps ambivalent relationship between an exclusivist sense of a Shi‘i collective and new affinities – of differing levels of intensity – to broader and looser collective groups. It was a subjective association of the clerics with imagined groups that did not necessarily correlate with communal visions among the wider Sunni population.89 These earlier Shi‘i reformists shifted away from their former apolitical orientation. They reconsidered the traditional religious functions of the clerics, combining an anti-colonialist agenda with a call for jiha¯d to defend broad Muslim causes. While encouraging clerical involvement in the political debate, these early Shi‘i reformists did not significantly alter the tradition role of the clerics, which continued to focus on preaching and religious guidance. Furthermore, while promoting the cause of Muslim unity, they did not call for the political unification of the Muslim world, which at the time had already been advocated by a minority of Iranian intellectuals in cooperation with Sultan Abdu¨lhamid. Nevertheless, these earlier Shi‘i reformists were instrumental in introducing a political discourse into the traditional quietist position that defined the Arab Shi‘is for centuries. Their new interest in political debate was particularly remarkable in comparison with the Iranian clerical scene at the time, which was experiencing a withdrawal from the public arena. As delineated above, Reza Sha¯h’s forced secularisation project compelled the majority of Shi‘i clerics in the county to resort to an acquiescent position.90 The political stage was left for the Shi‘i Arabs to promote Imami interests, first and foremost in their immediate national vicinity. As a

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result, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, for example, supported his followers in Iraq in their protest against the socio-political situation of the Shi‘i community in the country. Similarly in Lebanon, Shi‘i clerics, first and foremost, represented the local community’s concerns vis-a`-vis the new state system. As mentioned, Mughniyya sympathised with the plight of the Shi‘i south and expressed his dismay over the marginalisation of this community. His contemporary, Musa al-S.adr, translated the latter’s grievances into concrete political demands.91 A decade after assuming the position of spiritual leader, Musa al-S.adr began mobilising the Shi‘i south. He perceived his mission in secular terms, the advancement of the political, social and economic positions of the Shi‘is within the Lebanese state-system. In particular, he articulated the community’s demands to alter the parameters of the 1943 power-sharing system and its economic ramifications, in which the Shi‘is were considered only the third largest community following the Maronites and the Sunnis. By the 1970s, as a result of the changing demography in Lebanon, Shi‘is numbered about 30 per cent of the population. They became the largest community among the Muslim majority who replaced the former predominance enjoyed by the Christians.92 In May 1970, Musa al-S.adr declared a day of strike in solidarity with the South. Four years later, he established a mass Shi‘i party known as h.arakat al-mah.rumı¯n (Movement of the Deprived), which was later absorbed into the Amal movement. By the mid 1970s, Musa al-S.adr had succeeded in drawing thousands of his followers to rallies, attended by armed Shi‘is, in which he called upon ‘the dispossessed’ to revolt against the existing system.93 Shi‘i activism, which began gaining ground in both the Arab world and Iran throughout the twentieth century, also signalled the emergence of a more complex notion of identity. By the first half of the twentieth century, Iraqi mujtahids such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ had begun debating the relationship between a core Shi‘i affiliation and more cross-sectarian ideologies of nationalism, Arabism and panIslam. This discussion was transferred to a more practical level with the establishment of the Da‘wa Party in the late 1950s. The Da‘wa represented the Shi‘is in Iraq in their particular national framework, but also promoted a clear all-Islamic message. Ba¯qir al-S.adr, the main

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ideologist of the Da‘wa, added a more universal outlook to this question of identity, to be expanded upon in the following discussion. In Lebanon, Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n had joined this debate in the early twentieth century with the establishment of the new Lebanese state, as he adopted the Arab cause in both its cultural and political manifestations. Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n was a member of The Scientific Academy of the Arabic Language in Damascus (al-mujamma‘ al-‘ilmi al-‘arabı¯ fı¯ dimashq), headed by Kurd ‘Alı¯, which was part of the wider Arab literary revival of the Nahd.a movement. As mentioned, in his Khit.at. Jabal ‘A¯mil, Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n established the belonging of the Shi‘i south to the region. Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n was regarded by both the French and the local Shi‘i community as an Arab nationalist.94 A shift towards a more confessional political framework resulted from the power-sharing system established in Lebanon in 1943. Yet, while the structure was divided along religious lines, individual Shi‘is became involved in different political movements representing various ideologies in collaboration with both Sunnis and Christians, ranging from Christian-dominated parties to communist and socialist groups, pan-Arab movements and even Sunni-dominated parties. Nevertheless, until the 1960s, the majority of the Shi‘i south was inactive and remained on the margins of Lebanese society.95 The ascendance of Musa al-S.adr and his Amal Party shifted Shi‘i communal politics towards a more exclusive sectarian orientation. This process coincided with the intensification of confessional politics in Lebanon on the whole as the country slipped into a civil war (1975– 90).96 However, while the establishment of the Amal Party marked the rise of militant Shi‘i separatism, the party also asserted its affinity, perhaps to a lesser degree, to a national Lebanese framework, and at least rhetorically also endorsed pan-Arabism.97 A more pan-Islamic orientation was undertaken by H . izbullah, the Party of God, established in Lebanon in the early 1980s. This militant Shi‘i Islamic party also adopted a clear anti-colonialist agenda. It proclaimed its alliance to the Islamic republic, but first and foremost sought to represent ‘the downtrodden’ Shi‘is of Lebanon in their local interests.98

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Another topic related to anti-colonialism and nationalism was the question of political freedom. Both Shi‘i reformists and later Islamic revolutionaries relied on a universal notion of liberty but anchored it in an Islamic worldview. This was similar to Muslim modernists’ understanding of this concept; not in its Western endorsement of total human freedom, but in man’s subordination to God’s laws.99 Kha¯lis.¯ı, for example, condemned what he described as a situation of political decay in Iran. He also lamented the lack of freedom in Iraq under Faysal and in Iran under Reza Sha¯h, while stressing that Islam is a religion of justice, freedom and equality.100 Several decades later, in a similar depiction, Khomeini attacked the imperialist control of the Muslim world and emphasised that Islam is the religion of the muja¯hidı¯n who fight for freedom, while arguing that independence and power stem from God alone.101 This emphasis on freedom by modern Shi‘i scholars was part of a broader effort to market religion to the educated and secularised Shi‘i by demonstrating that Islam is not opposed to contemporary values. It also reflected these clerics’ own debate over the relationship between Shi‘i Islam, in its traditional technical focus, and their exposure to a more universal intellectual debate on questions of theosophy, society and politics. Islamic revolutionary thought, in its call for struggle and freedom, was rooted in the particular socio-political developments in Iran at the time, but also linked to a larger Muslim and Western discourse. During the 1960s and 1970s, Iranian intellectuals and religious scholars began expressing an anti-colonialist agenda intertwined with a revolutionary reading of religion. They put aside the technical details of religious law and mitigated the sectarian dimension of the Shi‘i creed. Instead, these revolutionaries called the Muslim world to rise against its oppressors in the name of an all-inclusive Islam. Raising this anti-colonialist flag was an integral component of the Islamic revolutionary discourse and was embedded in Iran’s historical memory. In contrast with most countries of the region, modern Iran was mainly spared direct foreign occupation. However, it endored semi-colonialism, as Iran became the scene of an economic battle over the riches of the country. This situation began in the nineteenth

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century with the political and economic rivalry between Britain and Russia in Iran and continued with the emergence of a strategic alliance between the Pahlavi regime and the US in the latter part this century. This particular colonialist heritage was unique to Iran, yet the broader question of foreign involvement in the region was a common topic of discussion during this period for the broader Muslim world. Iranian revolutionaries sought to garner support for their cause through the banner of anti-colonialism, which cut across sectarian and national divides. They linked this sentiment to wider developments in the region, although in essence it was rooted in Iran’s own unique experiences with foreign involvement. Among these Islamic revolutionaries, Jala¯l A¯l-e Ahmad, ’Alı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and Khomeini were the most vocal in their anti-colonialist agenda.102 Jala¯l A¯l-e Ahmad (1923– 69) became the voice of growing anti-Western sentiments among the intelligentsia in Iran during this pre-revolutionary period. His unique contribution was in formulating a conceptualising theory to critique Western domination over the region while offering an alternative international order. In his famous publication Gharbezadegı¯ (Westoxication; West-struckness) published in 1962, Jala¯l A¯l-e Ahmad depicted a binary division of the world in which an underdeveloped and backward East is subordinated to the industrialised West. Gharbezadegı¯ was presented as a worldwide plague in which the West destroys the political, economic and cultural developments of the East, including the Muslim world.103 Jala¯l A¯l-e Ahmad refrained here from any exclusive Shi‘i identification. Instead, he presented an exchange between a third-world revolutionary discourse and an all-Muslim political identification.104 Within this anti-colonialist and third-world discourse, Islamic revolutionaries also endorsed the Palestinian question. As mentioned, Shi‘i defence of Palestine began already in the 1930s with Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s call for jiha¯d. Several decades later, the situation of the Palestinians was very different following the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948, its occupation of Palestinian land in 1967, and the refugee problem created by the two wars. The Palestinians were also more organised at this stage as they established the Palestinian

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Liberation Organization (the PLO). Both the Arab and Muslim world endorsed the Palestinian question as a political card and as a mark of identification. Islamic revolutionaries in Iran adopted the Palestinian cause starting from the 1970s. Key figures in the revolutionary movement were in contact with the members of the Palestinian movements, including the PLO’s leftist factions such as the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (the PFLP) with its clear secularist-Marxist orientation. In addition, the Iranian Moja¯hedı¯n and Feda¯’ guerrilla movements were training in Fatah camps in Lebanon and Syria. Khomeini himself identified with the Palestinian question due to its anti-Western and anti-colonialist rhetoric. In his writings, the Sha¯h was portrayed as an imperialist puppet while Zionism was depicted as an extension of colonialism. To promote the common anti-colonialist struggle, the Iranians chose to disregard the Palestinians Arab agenda and their clear secularist affiliation.105 This was one of the first signs of the pragmatic element of the Islamic revolution, which would later become an integral component in the realpolitik of the Islamic republic.106 Indeed, the situation of both the Palestinian and the Shi‘i world was very different in the 1930s when Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ called for jiha¯d for the sake of Palestine in comparison to the 1970s when Khomeini’s forces aligned with the PLO. Yet, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s affinity with the Palestinians and Islamic revolutionaries’ endorsement of their cause several decades later demonstrated that the Imami community in its diverse locations was shifting away from exclusive sectarianism and adopting multiple senses of identity. Islamic revolutionaries combined religious jiha¯d with an anti-colonialist campaign. They depicted an exchange between a panIslamic agenda and a third-world revolutionary discourse, as the latter was gaining ground during this period among intellectuals in Europe and elsewhere. The Islamic Revolution itself reflected a dialectical engagement between elements of Shi‘i Islam, Iranian nationalist sentiments, pan-Islamic notions, and a universal discourse. The revolution was a product of the prevailing socio-political situation in Iran at the time,

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with the widespread resentment of the White Revolution, the overt secular nature of the Pahlavi regime and its strong relationship with the West. Among Islamist circles in the Sunni world, many rejected the Islamic revolution and portrayed it as befitting the socio-political conditions in Iran alone. The notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, to be expanded upon in the following discussion, was also alien to Sunni ears.107 Islamic revolutionaries themselves emphasised the all-Islamic and universal components of their thought. They promoted notions of social justice, political activism and an all-inclusive perception of Islam, while depicting an affinity with the all-embracing third world and leftist discourse. Concurrently, they also grounded their ideology in Iran’s socio-political experience and in a Shi‘i historical memory.108 This multifaceted outlook of the Islamic revolution reflected the varied groups who took part in its formation and their diverse visions. It also stemmed from an attempt to appeal to different audiences in Iran, the Shi‘i milieu and the larger Muslim world. One can see the complexity that existed in the worldview of each of the Islamic revolutionaries themselves. They were exposed to diverse influences and their thought reflected an evolving perception on questions of religion and state. In his Kashf-e Asrar (Revealing the Secrets) published in 1943, Khomeini introduced the question of governance and called to establish a government based on the Shari‘a. While debating the essence of this government, Khomeini spoke about the need to improve the situation of the country and its people, and the necessity to defend the state against its enemies. One can discern from this discussion a suggested nationalist affiliation, although Khomeini himself did not explicitly refer here to the creation of an Islamic state in Iran.109 In his later publications, Khomeini vehemently rejected the notion of nationalism. Defined as an imperialist plot intended to undermine the place of Islam in society and sow divisions within the Muslim world, Khomeini strongly rebuffed Iranian nationalism as a product of the Pahlavi regime and its secular outlook. Khomeini was highly critical of Mohammad Reza Sha¯h’s effort to separate religion

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and state and establish Iranian nationalism on a pre-Islamic cultural basis. Following the establishment of the Islamic republic, this panIslamic leader began taking Iranian nationalist interests into consideration. Iranian acceptance of the realpolitik of nation-states began to gradually take precedence over the Islamic republic’s earlier disregard of national borders as it sought to export the revolution.110 The Iran–Iraq war also contributed to an emphasis on a national discourse. After the death of Khomeini in 1989, Iranian leaders began to publicly reassert a national discourse. The weakening of the republic’s revolutionary fervour following the death of its founder enabled the re-emergence of Iranian nationalism. At this stage, nationalism was not only an expression of political realism. It reflected some acknowledgement by the country’s leadership of the cultural identity of Iran and its people. This manifested the historical linkage between Shi‘i Islam and the Iranian nation.111 Khomeini, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯, Jala¯l A¯l-e Ahmad and other revolutionaries portrayed the Muslim world as suffering from an identity crisis. They depicted the Muslim nations, and Iran in particular, as controlled by the West and alienated from its true essence.112 The solution in their eyes was a return to Islam in its progressive understanding, as a total system that provides for the social, political and religious needs of its modern believers.113 This emphasis on Islam as the sole mark of revolutionary identity was a very simplistic depiction of a more complex notion of group membership as it existed among Shi‘is in Iran and among the Imami communities in the Arab world. As demonstrated, the writings of Iranian revolutionaries themselves revealed their intricate relationship with Iranian nationalism, the nation of Islam and more universal affiliations. The process of social change and exposure to modern ideologies that occurred among the diverse Shi‘i communities during the twentieth century led to a shift from an exclusive sectarianism towards multiple forms of identity. However, while this phenomenon was shared by varied Shi‘i localities, each community reflected a unique interplay between its core sectarian affiliation and lesser forms of identification. Nearly a century into this debate on the question of

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identity, the Shi‘i leadership did not unequivocally determine its outcome. These various Shi‘i localities in the different stages of this century introduced a new understanding of Imami Islam in its relationship with the broader Muslim nation. Shi‘i reformists and revolutionaries did not detach their core identification with Imami Islam, but presented a less exclusive notion of sectarianism as they negotiated their membership in broader political and cultural associations.

The Political Framework This discussion over the question of identity reflected a more active notion of Shi‘i Islam, defining its place in the nation-state and beyond. It can be traced back to the contribution of early Shi‘i reformists introducing new political genres into the scholarly discourse during a period in which their communities were negotiating their relationship within a more inter-connected Muslim world. Yet, the broader question of governance had already started to be contemplated in the nineteenth century. Mulla¯ Ah.mad Nara¯qı¯ (d. 1246/1830) was an important Shi‘i jurist from Iran who provided a measured legitimisation to the question of governance. In his theory of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h (the authority or governance of the jurist), Nara¯qı¯ argued that the role of the jurist should not be limited to religious functions. It should also include governance, in addition to his specific juristic functions114 However, Nara¯qı¯ did not define governmental authority or the role of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, nor did he establish whether this system should replace the ruling government or function parallel to it. As a result, Nara¯qı¯ did not provide an overall provision for Shi‘i involvement in state affairs or in expanding or defending its border through jiha¯d.115 Nevertheless, Nara¯qı¯’s theory provided an important step in the historical Shi‘i debate over the question of authority (wila¯ya). The need to fill the leadership void created by the disappearance of the 12th Imam in the ninth century let scholars to provide growing roles for the clerics in the leadership of the community. Yet, there was no consensus on defining the clerical authority and whether it entails

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the executive functions of the Imam, or only his supervisory functions. While gradually enhancing the ‘ulama¯’’s leadership positions, only in the nineteenth century did Nara¯qı¯ interpret the concept of wila¯ya to include the political domain.116 This Shi‘i jurist did not define the scope of the faqı¯h’s political authority, yet his contribution to the question of wila¯ya created an important precedent in Shi‘i thought on the question of governance, which Khomeini would later expand upon. Going back to Nara¯qı¯, one can link his notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h to the ideas of Ja‘far Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, a contemporary of Nara¯qı¯. Nearly a century before Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ discussed the significance of nationhood and rallied the nation of Islam behind the Palestinian struggle, Ja’far Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, the founding father of this family, introduced a new approach to the Shi‘i view of jiha¯d. At the time, Ja’far Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ led the defence of Najaf against attack by Wahhabi forces and authorised Fath ‘Ali Sha¯h to lead a jiha¯d against the Russians. The novelty in Ja‘far Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s actions was not in providing legitimacy for defensive jiha¯d, since this tool was already sanctioned in the thirteenth century. Instead, the significance of his theory was in acknowledging the interdependence between the clerics and the political leadership in Iran.117 This link between the thought of Ja‘far Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ in Najaf and Nara¯qı¯ of Iran during the early nineteenth century illustrates the international dimension of Shi‘ism. The myriad of scholarly networks that developed in the course of Shi‘i history received a further boost in the transition to the modern era. As stated, Reza Sha¯h’s rise to power in Iran and his struggle against religious power led to the marginalisation of the ‘ulama¯’. In the Arab world at the time, the mujtahids were also struggling to assert their authority within a new leadership competition with the emerging Shi‘i bourgeois. In both locations, this sense of threat from the secularisation of society led many clerics to withdraw from the public sphere into the Shi‘i centres of learning and focus on the traditional arena of jurisprudence. Several more progressive clerics sought to make religion more relevant for society by venturing into new topics that concerned their followers, including the realm of politics.

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Among his peers in both the Arab world and Iran, Kha¯lis.¯ı was unique at the time in not only discussing the political topics of the day but in actually relating directly to the question of governance. Furthermore, not only was Kha¯lis.¯ı preaching against the British invasion of Iraq and later on against republicanism in Iran, but he took active steps to promote his views. Kha¯lis.¯ı together with his father were among the leading figures in the call for jiha¯d against the British in 1915 and during the revolt of 1920. Following his deportation to Iran, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to represent the exiled clerics vis-a`-vis the Iranian authorities. Furthermore, in 1923 Kha¯lis.¯ı assumed a leading role in the demonstrations against republicanism in Iran which was associated with the secular model of the republic of Turkey declared by Atatu¨rk in October 1923.118 As a result of this oppositional activity, Kha¯lis.¯ı was imprisoned, banished or placed under house arrest for most of his 27 years in exile.119 Reza Sha¯h severely curtailed the power of the clerics, which was at its height during the nineteenth century – when the clerics undertook the struggle against foreign intervention – and up until the Constitutional Revolution.120 With his rise to power, the Sha¯h introduced forced secularisation, silencing the ‘ulama¯’ and forcing them to retreat to their scholarly enclaves. Only a few Shi’i scholars dared to voice their positions on questions of governance during this period.121 Kha¯lis.¯ı himself continued to write on religion and politics, even during his years of imprisonment, smuggling many of his treatises to Iraq. As a result, Kha¯lis.¯ı and several other clerics who engaged in opposition activity kept alive a legacy of Shi‘i activism that would re-emerge in a more robust manifestation in the latter part of the century. In essence, Kha¯lis.¯ı and a small number of oppositional clerics, including Ayatollah Ka¯sha¯nı¯, Hajj Aqa Nu¯rolla¯h Isfaha¯nı¯, Sayyid H . assan Modarres, Shaykh ul-Isla¯m Mala¯yarı¯ and Shaykh Nasser Rasoulı¯, served as an important link in the politicisation of Shi‘ism.122 This process began in the seventeenth century with Muh.ammad Ba¯qir Majlesı¯ (d. 1110/1698). This court cleric sought to strengthen Shi‘i orthodoxy in place of the existing Gnostic

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tendencies in Iran. Nara¯qı¯’, with his notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, added another important dimension to Shi‘i political invovlvement.123 It was followed by the participation of clerics in the Constitutional Revolution, the political debates in the Shi‘i Arab world during the first half of the twentieth century, and persisted in Iran with Kha¯lis.¯ı and small numbers of politically-oriented clerics who were active up until the 1950s. All these developments provided a theoretical basis for the emergence of a more revolutionary Shi‘i outlook in the following period. Debating the question of governance in the 1920s, Kha¯lis.¯ı argued that Islam does not support a particular form of regime. Instead he contended that legitimacy lies in Muslim agreement with the form of government, reflecting a Sunni-inspired notion of consensus (ijma¯’). Concurrently, Kha¯lis.¯ı steered away from the traditional Shi‘i debate on the question of governance during the Occultation. Furthermore, he even depicted a modern-pluralist notion of political authority, as he called individuals to respect the law, the constitution and the parliament, and advocated freedom of the press and the right of association.124 Kha¯lis.¯ı rejected many current political ideologies including democracy, Bolshevism and fascism. In his publication entitled ‘The Text of a Letter by the Fighter for jiha¯d in the Path of God the Grand mujtahid ima¯m al-Kha¯lis.¯ı 1888/1963, to Sayyid Ah.mad Qava¯m’, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to enrol the support of this veteran Iranian politician for his struggle against the secularisation of society.125 Kha¯lis.¯ı expressed dismay over the secularisation of society on the one hand, and the prevalence of ignorant beliefs on the other, which reduced Islam to a state of weakness and stagnation. Providing only a narrow and simplistic analysis of diverse Western ideologies, Kha¯lis.¯ı was highly critical of democracy. He depicted democracy as ‘an imperfect administrative system’, without providing an in-depth understanding to this ideology. Bolshevism, in contrast, Kha¯lis.¯ı described as the worst disaster for humanity, as it sought to abolish religion, while Communism was defined as a materialist and destructive worldview. In his interpretation, Islam, with its comprehensive moral framework and inclusive solutions to all human affairs, was the only

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system capable of bringing salvation to humanity. Islam should be adopted by all mankind, Kha¯lis.¯ı argued, since this is a religion that will unite all people and safeguard the welfare of humanity.126 The roots of this universal perception of religion can be found in classical Islam in the notion of da¯r al-isla¯m (the abode of Islam) as an infinite religious arena that is not confined by political, cultural or ethnic boundaries. According to this perception, a Muslim’s mission is to expand da¯r al-isla¯m by war or persuasion, in order to incorporate the whole universe under the umbrella of the only true religion. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s call for all mankind to adopt the religion of Islam can be linked to the classical notion of da¯r al-isla¯m. Yet, Kha¯lis.¯ı put aside the coercive notion of da¯r al-h.arb (the abode of War). Instead, he spoke about the modern concept of humanity, emphasising the existence of true affection between mankind, and he stressed that God created the world as one entity bound by Islam and its rules. It appeared that in this portrayal of Islam, within a universal appeal to humanism, Kha¯lis.¯ı sought to appeal to the Shi‘i intelligentsia of the time in both Iran and Iraq, who were attracted to Western ideologies and particularly Communism. In essence, Kha¯lis.¯ı demonstrated a de-facto acceptance of any government as long as it complies with the laws of the Shari‘a. He joined in with the clerical tendency in Iran, starting from the Safavid period, to cooperate with the holders of power without directly sanctioning their authority. The novelty in Kha¯lis.¯ı’s position was that he did not limit his position to a Shi‘i-led political framework. He enjoyed some level of religious legitimacy that existed for example under the Safavids. Instead, Kha¯lis.ı¯ stressed that the only test of governance is in its compliance with the Shari‘a, without confining this authority to an Imami worldview. Opposing many modern political ideologies, Kha¯lis.¯ı promoted a belief in the totality of Islam, yet he did not present a detailed and concrete political theory that could provide for the necessities of a modern world. One can see here a reflection of the slogan ‘al-Isla¯m huwa al-h.all’ (Islam is the solution) expressed by most Islamists and coined by the Muslim brotherhood. This demonstrated a possible link with the wider Sunni campaign towards political Islam. Islamists depicted

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religion as a complete system that provides for the social, political and spiritual welfare of its followers. They promoted the common call for a return to true Islam while refraining from delving into the technical details of Islamic law, which may have alienated the Muslim layman. Kha¯lis.¯ı demonstrated here an affinity with this modern allinclusive appeal for Islam adopted by Sunni modernists, suggesting that there was no Islamic regime in itself and legitimacy rests on compliance with the Shari‘a. In the following period, this idea would become common and widespread among the Islamic revolutionaries who introduced a more defined political agenda. Although one cannot determine precisely how this notion of an all-embracing Islam reached Iran, nevertheless it is clear that this idea was circulating among both Sunni and Shi‘i modernists in the Arab world at the time. Kha¯lis.¯ı was a key figure in familiarising the Shi‘i world with this notion, particularly given his long presence in both Iran and Iraq. Returning to Ka¯z.imayn in 1949 after nearly three decades in Iran, Kha¯lis.¯ı continued to promote his reformist agenda. In Ka¯z.imayn, the home-town of Ba¯qir al-S.adr, Kha¯lis.¯ı established a new institute known as Madı¯nat al-‘Ilm (The City of Knowledge).127 In essence, Kha¯lis.¯ı contributed to the emergence of a new Shi‘i emphasis on a universal Islamic outlook. He also played an important part in the clerical debate on the question of governance, which began in the nineteenth century and reached its peak in the revolutionary period. With the rise of Reza Sha¯h, and at least until the 1940s, Kha¯lis.¯ı’s political commentary remained almost a lone voice among the quietist clerical tendency in Iran at the time. Only following the abdication of Reza Sha¯h in 1941 did Shi‘i clerics gradually get involved in a political discourse. In 1943, Khomeini wrote Kashf-e Asrar, mentioned above, as a defence of the clerical community, in response to attacks on the ‘ulama¯’ by the Iranian intelligentsia during the Reza Sha¯h period. He depicted here a continuation of the accommodating tendency of clerics in Iran to provide support for the holders of power. At this stage, Khomeini did not call for toppling existing regimes but instead emphasised the need to cooperate with the current political leadership.128

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Concurrently in this treatise, Khomeini also suggested establishing a more just government based on the laws of the Shari‘a, similar to the message that appeared in Kha¯lis.¯ı’s thought. One can see here the convergence between Sunni and Shi‘i modernist thought during this period. Both emphasised that the Shari‘a, in its progressive outlook and all-embracing nature, is the basis for an Islamic system. At this point Khomeini did not assign a political role to the jurists, which would be the cornerstone of his vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. Instead he consigned them with the mere role of supervising the government and providing consultation to the holders of power, similar to the dominant Shi‘i view at the time on this topic.129 Concurrently, Khomeini also entrusted the mujtahids with the important role of providing consultation to the rulers. Yet, this was a state governed by a vague call for the Shari‘a, without a clear programme for implementing Islamic law. While Khomeini was contemplating the relationship between Islam and governance, the first signs of religious politics began emerging. This began in the 1930s with the activities of a small party known as the ‘Warrior of Islam’. It continued in the following decade with the involvement of Ayatollah Mah.mu¯d T.a¯leqa¯nı¯ (1911–79) and Ayatollah Abu¯’l-Qa¯sim Ka¯sha¯nı¯ (1877– 1962) in the pro-national camp. Both sought to bridge the gap between secular nationalists and religious-minded activists during the short-lived attempt of Prime Minister Muh.ammad Mos.addeq to nationalise the Iranian oil industry and its aftermath.130 Nevertheless, up until the mid-1960s with the declaration of the White Revolution, the Iranian political scene was dominated by secular-minded forces.131 Moreover, during this period many clerics in Iran were dissuaded from involvement in politics due to the quietist position of the grand Ayatollah H . usayn T.aba¯t.aba¯’ı¯ Boru¯jerdı¯. In his position as head of the h.awza in Qum, and later on as the sole marja‘ taqlı¯d of the Shi‘i world, Boru¯jerdı¯ held immense authority. Only with his death in 1961 was the stage open for the emergence of a more activist clerical tendency.132 Boru¯jerdı¯’s death opened the door for the development of a more wide-ranging perception of religion. In Kha¯lis.¯ı’s time, one of the first

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examples of this inclusive Islamic worldview can be seen in the agenda of Feda¯’ı¯a¯n-e Esla¯m, established in Iran in 1945. The movement promoted an ecumenical Muslim outlook and minimised its Shi‘i affiliation. It called for the implementation of the Shari‘a by establishing an Islamic state. Navva¯b Safavı¯, the founder of this movement, was among the first in the Shi‘i world to use the concept of h.uku¯mat-e isla¯mı¯ (Islamic government). This was not a theoretical call for religious revivalism, but a manifesto of action intended to fight the existing status quo. Feda¯’ı¯a¯n members engaged in acts of political violence that reached their culmination in the assassination of Prime Minister H . a¯jj ‘Alı¯ Razma¯ra¯ in 1951. The movement also succeeded in creating ties with members of the clergy including Ayatollah Khomeini. While the government managed to crush the movement by 1955, elements from the Feda¯’ı¯a¯n continued to be active and participated in the anti-Sha¯h demonstrations in 1963 against the land reform programme.133 Khomeini, who took a leading role in these demonstrations, was arrested and eventually exiled, finding refuge in Najaf. Several years after Feda¯’ı¯a¯n-e Esla¯m reached its peak in neighbouring Iraq, Ba¯qir al-S.adr began promoting a similar da‘wa for Islam, in the name of social justice. At the time, Shi‘i scholars in both Iran and Iraq developed theoretical frameworks to underpin social equality. Ba¯qir al-S.adr in Iraq and T.a¯leqa¯nı¯ in Iran argued that Islam is a religion that promotes justice, providing the government with widespread authority to implement this notion. T.a¯leqa¯nı¯ was responding to the socioeconomic situation in Iran at the time and the need for land reform.134 The ideal of social justice would later be undertaken by Iranian radical leftist movements which were active in the 1970s, including the moja¯hedı¯n-e khalq-e I¯ra¯n, a leftist guerrilla movement committed to an Islamic worldview, and the feda¯’ı¯-e khalq-e I¯ra¯n, a Marxist-Leninist guerrilla organisation.135 Leftist tendencies were also present in Iraq during this period, beginning with the communist movement that reached its peak in the 1950s and continued with the pan-Arabists and the Ba‘th movements during the 1960s and 1970s. Ba¯qir al-S.adr sought to advance an Islamic alternative to Marxism due to the growing appeal

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of the communist movement among members of the Shi‘i community at the time.136 In his Iqtis.a¯duna¯, published in Beirut in 1961, he sought to prove the superiority of the Islamic social system. He presented Islam as a middle way between capitalism and Marxism, and a worldview that provides economic freedom within the moral limits of Islam.137 Ba¯qir al-S.adr employed the then fashionable anti-colonialist rhetoric, criticising the Western cultural onslaught on the world of Islam, although his treatises demonstrated an exchange between Muslim and Western thought.138 Ba¯qir alS.adr’s Da‘wa for Islam and his innovative notion of ‘Islamic economics’ presented a concrete programme through which to implement a just worldview. This was a contemporary realisation of an all-inclusive notion of Islam befitting the needs of the Muslim world in its different stages of development had been promoted earlier by Kha¯lis.¯ı. From Kha¯lis.¯ı, this idea branched out to both Iran and Iraq, where it received a more revolutionary understanding by the following generation. In 1970, while residing in Najaf, Khomeini advanced his theory of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h in a series of lectures on Islamic government (huku¯mat-e isla¯mı¯ ). This was a period in which the Da‘wa Party was at its height. Its membership spanned across the diverse classes of the Shi‘i population to include the urban lower classes, students and clerics. The movement was even active among Shi‘i women as a result of the efforts of Ba¯qir al-S.adr’s sister, Bint al-Huda.139 During this period, the ruling Ba’th Party began its clampdown on the movement, which it perceived as a threat to its centralised rule. While there is no precise information on Khomeini’s relationship with Ba¯qir al-S.adr, what is known is that Khomeini was under the patronage of the grand Ayatollah Muh.sin al-H.akı¯m in Najaf and was also in contact with al-H . akı¯m’s sons, who were leading figures in the Da‘wa movement. Khomeini, who kept a low profile in Iraq, was probably exposed during his stay in the country to the Da‘wa Party’s ideology and its all-encompassing view of Islam. At the time, the Da‘wa also enjoyed the support of a young Shi‘i cleric from Lebanon, Muh.ammad H . usayn Fad.lallah, who was studying at the time in Najaf. He was in contact with both Ba¯qir al-S.adr and his sister Bint

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al-Huda and shared their political vision of Islam. All three scholars contributed to al-ad.wa¯’ journal, which discussed questions of religion and politics and was published at the time in Najaf.140 Fad.lallah was later to become the spiritual leader of the Shi’i Islamic movement in Lebanon. H . izbullah adopted a clear pan-Islamic vision that was eventually balanced with a more national outlook.141 Indeed, Khomeini’s Islamic governance based on the rule of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h bears the hallmark of various influences, including this inclusive vision of Islam. The emergence of an all-embracing notion of Islam that was rooted in earlier ecumenical thought enabled the expansion of the jurist’s authority to the entire Muslim world as part of a pan-Islamic worldview. This idea was later translated to the Islamic republic’s mission to export the revolution. Khomeini’s doctrine was also rooted in the faqı¯h tradition in Imami Islam, in the evolving notion of the wila¯ya, in the apocalyptic tendency of Shi‘ism and in Khomeini’s inclination to ‘irfa¯n. The following discussion will analyse these different elements and demonstrate how Khomeini transformed them into their most far-reaching conclusion to create a unique and revolutionary ideology. The doctrine of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h called for establishing an Islamic government based on the all-encompassing authority of the jurist. Khomeini argued that the jurist enjoys a similar scope of wila¯ya to the Prophet Muh.ammad and the Imam, without holding the same status. The jurist’s duty, according to Khomeini’s doctrine, is to implement the Shari‘a in society through assuming political power. This theory, which is expanded upon elsewhere, was rooted in the significant position of the jurist in the Shi‘i world and the enhancement of his authority, beginning with the Us.u¯lı¯ victory and culminating with Nara¯qı¯ notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. Khomeini’s contribution was in claiming that the jurist’s all-encompassing authority must reach its full realisation through the establishment of an Islamic state ruled by the faqı¯h, who will assume responsibility for running its affairs.142 At the time, Najaf, which was a focal point of this new Shi‘i revival, was one of the most important centres of learning in the Shi‘i world and symbolised the traditional Imami emphasis on fiqh. The

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legal domain was the first area in which Shi‘i jurists were given control in the period following the Occultation, due to the immediate need to provide practical answers to the believers. Through the legal arena, which assumed a pivotal role in Imami thought, the clerics asserted their leadership over society by delineating the laws that governed the conduct of the community.143 The jurists’ position was further enhanced in the latter part of the eighteenth century as a result of the victory of the Us.u¯lı¯ rational school in Shi‘ism over the more literal Akhba¯rı¯ tendency. With the ascendance of the Us.u¯lı¯ School, the clerics’ role was no longer confined to a literal contemplation of the Qur’an and the Hadith. The jurists were provided with a more significant legal position and were permitted to deduce Islamic law from the sources using the tool of reasoning (‘aql) in a process known as ijtiha¯d.144 During the nineteenth century, the mujtahids gained more powers as a result of the new notion of the Supreme Exemplar (marja‘iyyat-e taqlı¯d). The common believer was now obliged to follow the living mujtahid, who was the most learned of all and therefore was acknowledged as the highest source of emulation: the marja‘ taqlı¯d.145 As a result of these changes, the religious elite of the mujtahids emerged as a powerful leadership, enjoying immense influence among its followers. During this period of the late Ottoman era, the shrine cities in Iraq became the most important centres of learning in the Shi‘i world. The Shi‘i community in this Iraqi province maintained a clear quietist political position as an unrecognised religious minority, living under Sunni-Ottoman rule. Najaf and Karbala¯’ were geographically remote from the administrative centre of the empire and were able to remain apolitical as scholarly centres that focused on writing and teaching in the area of jurisprudence.146 This emphasis on fiqh, which was well-established in the Shi‘i Arab world, had also gradually developed in Iran, starting from the sixteenth century. Yet, the expansion of the Shi‘i judicial tradition into Iran was a long process in which the legalist approach to religion was continuously competing with mysticism, philosophy, ‘irfa¯n and a messianic perception of Imami Islam. Proclaiming their state as

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adhering to Twelver Shi‘ism, the Safavids’ identification with this creed began on a popular and superficial level without a deep understanding of the principles of faith. It was limited to their claim of messianic authority, their persecution of Sunnis and their wars against the Ottomans. However, in a gradual process, Shi‘i Iran was slowly exposed to the legalist and more orthodox elements of this creed.147 This process occurred through the migration of Shi‘i clerics from the Arab lands to Iran, the development of scholarly centres in Iran, and Iranians’ travels to Najaf and Karbala¯’ for the purpose of pilgrimage and study.148 By the time Khomeini wrote his vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, the h.awza in Qum presented a clear rivalry to Najaf’s claim to precedence.149 ‘Irfa¯n and Khomeini’s attraction to this tradition provides another layer in understanding the comprehensive notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. Khomeini studied ‘irfa¯n and wrote commentaries on Muslim philosophy and mysticism, focusing on questions of ontology.150 In this context, the expansive authority that he gave to his view of the jurist’s authority can be viewed through the mystical notion of the perfect man (al-insa¯n al-ka¯mil). Among scholars of ‘irfa¯n, man occupies a leading position in the creation, while the ideal man is portrayed as the archetype of the universe and of humanity. Khomeini equated vela¯yat-e faqı¯h with the wila¯ya of the Prophet and the Imams, which rendered the jurist in a superior position almost comparable to these infallible leaders, without holding the same status.151 The study of ‘irfa¯n, which had deep roots in Iran, was revived in the twentieth century. By the mid century, the study of Muslim philosophy was no longer limited to Iran. Leading scholars in the Shi‘i Arab world, such as Mughniyya in Lebanon and Ba¯qir al-S.adr in Iraq, discussed philosophy and ‘irfa¯n, resorting to both Muslim and Western sources. As explained, Mughniyya’s call for Islam relied on a combination of a mystical inclination and a rational philosophical discourse, while Ba¯qir al-S.adr’s Islamic economics was presented through a philosophical critique of Western ideologies. Accordingly, the doctrine of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, which bears the influence of both the faqı¯h and the ‘irfa¯n traditions, at least in theory, could have found

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audiences in the Shi‘i Arab world if the socio-political conditions were different. The notion of the faqı¯h’s expanded authority can also be linked to the Shi‘i messianic-populist tendency. While a rationalist legalist tradition dominated Shi‘i scholarship, over the centuries extremist millenarian tendencies reappeared from time to time, particularly among Shi‘i– Sufi movements. In the absence of the Imam, the scholars labelled chiliastic tendencies as deviation or exaggeration (ghulu¯). They stressed instead the eschatological element of the Occultation, in which the return of the Mahdi was postponed to an indefinite future.152 Despite mainstream Shi‘i attempts to curtail chiliastic tendencies, some extremist ideas related to the charismatic and superhuman status of the Imams penetrated Shi‘ism as a result of pressures from below.153 The ascendance of the Safavids and their claim to supreme authority exemplified the persistence of these popular trends within Shi‘ism. This messianic tendency reached its height during the Safavids’ era, but continued to play a part in the relationship between the Iranian clerics and the masses in the following centuries.154 To sum up, Khomeini’s theory was rooted in prior developments within Shi‘ism and can be linked to diverse trends in Imami thought over the centuries. Yet, the amalgamation of these elements in their revolutionary understanding and the particular socio-political situation of the Imami communities outside Iran, made it difficult for Iran’s Shi‘i counterparts to adopt Khomeini’s doctrine of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. As Khomeini returned from his long years of exile and the Sha¯h left the country, the masses in Iran championed the Islamic revolution. Nevertheless, their support of the revolution did not stem from a deep understanding of his theory of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. Instead, this popular endorsement was an expression of Khomeini’s charismatic appeal together with the widespread resentment against the Sha¯h regime for its authoritarian style, its macro-economic policy that harmed many sectors of society, its secular character and its strategic alliance with the West. Within the Shi‘i clerical world, there were those who welcomed the idea of an Islamic revolution, and endorsed its anti-colonialist agenda. However, among these circles,

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both in Iran and the Arab milieu, there were also strong objections to Khomeini’s notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h that were voiced prior to the revolution and in its aftermath. Leading clerics from throughout the Shi‘i world opposed this doctrine due to its revolutionary break with the traditional Imami view of the faqı¯h’s position. Senior jurists who rejected Khomeini’s doctrine included the grand Ayatollah Sayyed Muh.ammad Ka¯z.em Shari‘atmadarı¯, who was the highest ranking mujtahid in Iran from 1970 until Khomeini’s return and was widely considered senior to Khomeini in his scholarly position.155 Objections to Khomeini’s vela¯yat-e faqı¯h were also expressed in Lebanon. Mughniyya, for example, agreed on the need to establish an Islamic state. Within this state, Mughniyya provided the jurists with an important role to ensure that the laws of the country do not contradict the Shari‘a, similar to the traditional Shi‘i view on the function of the faqı¯h. Yet, Mughniyya clearly opposed Khomeini’s broad-ranging theory of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, relying on both religious-based arguments and more universal notions. According to his view, the jurists’ authority is confined to religious legal matters but does not extend to a general wila¯ya over others. He explained that there are no textual proofs in the Qur‘an and the Hadith to support this notion of wila¯ya and argued that Allah made freedom the sacred right of every individual, thus combining adherence to God’s message with a more modern universal recourse to the value of liberty.156 H.izbullah, in contrast, endorsed Khomeini’s vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, yet also maintained the right to exercise its own policy in accordance with the particular situation of the Shi‘is in Lebanon. Fad.lallah himself accepted in theory the notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h but also called for there to be separation between the marja‘iyya and the wila¯ya. The marja‘iyya entailed religious leadership over the broad Muslim nation while the wila¯ya reflected multiple authorities, in the different political systems. In this fasion, Fad.lallah balanced an adherence to a pan-Islamic vision under the guidance of the Islamic republic with a more localised religious leadership attuned to national interests.157

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In Iraq the clerical community expressed its reservations over Khomeini’s notion of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. Prior to the revolution and several years after the publication of this doctrine, Ba¯qir al-S.adr delivered six essays dealing with the structure of the Islamic state. These essays, which were later bound under the title of al-isla¯m yaqu¯d al-h.aya¯t (Islam governs life), played an important role in shaping the constitution of the Islamic republic. Indeed, Ba¯qir al-S.adr supported the concept of an Islamic state, yet he did not embrace the totality of Khomeini’s vela¯yat-e faqı¯h and proposed instead a broader notion of authority. Ba¯qir al-S.adr argued that vela¯yat-e faqı¯h as an individual source of authority could lead to uninformed decisions and, therefore, suggested the establishment of a more institutional authority with clearly defined functions. The jurist, according to his view, was to authorise legal injunctions and political actions while the people themselves, as vicegerents of Allah, were to be entrusted with legislative and executive powers.158 *** Shi‘i reformists from the Arab world operating in the first half of the twentieth century were instrumental in the politicisation of Shi‘ism in the course of this century. They initiated discussions on questions of governance, political participation, nationalism and relations with the West during a period in which the clerical community in Iran was acquiescent to a state that undermined the practice of Islam and challenged its religious leadership. These earlier reformists also contributed to mitigating the centuries-old conflict between Sunnis and Shi‘is and to the creation of an all-embracing notion of Islam, in which Shi‘ism would be accepted as an integral component of a new orthodoxy. This new vision laid the basis for the later call for establishing an all-Islamic polity during the second half of the twentieth century. Furthermore, these reformists shifted Shi‘ism from its traditional exclusive notion of identity towards embracing multiple affiliations including nationalism, Arabism and pan-Islam. Islamic revolutionaries’ debates on the question of identity during the second half of the twentieth century may have drawn on these earlier discussions in the Arab world. Yet it was perhaps even more

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influenced by Iran’s own relationship with foreign powers and its intellectuals’ exposure to Western thought. Shi‘i adoption of a manifold identity reflected the emergence of new ties between the diverse Imami communities and the wider Sunni, Arab and Muslim populations, but also contributed to a disparity between Iranian Shi‘ism and its Arab counterparts in Iraq and Lebanon. Greater connections between the Shi‘i world during the twentieth century, however, brought the diverse Imami communities to embrace a shared vision of political Islam. Mujtahids in both Iran and the world endorsed the gradual change in the traditional apolitical nature of ‘ulama¯’ and even accepted the principle of an Islamic state in the absence of the Imam. Yet, many among them contested the idea of giving sole authority over the political body to the supreme jurist. In particular, Khomeini’s vela¯yat-e faqı¯h was unsuitable to the situation of the Shi‘is of Iraq and Lebanon as minority communities living within a broader Arab and Sunni world. Muslims around the world rejoiced at Khomeini’s success in toppling the authoritarian, secular and pro-Western regime of the Sha¯h. Sunni Islamists in particular supported the notion of an Islamic state and shared its general principles. However, the majority among them totally rejected the idea of being under the control of a state which embraced Imami symbols and rituals and advanced a political theory alien to Sunni views on the limited role of the ‘ulama¯’ in an Islamic polity.159 As Sunnis opposed Khomeini’s revolution, it was more difficult for Shi‘is in the Arab world to support the concept of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, since this endorsement could have jeopardised their long-lasting attempts to integrate into their own nation-states. As a result, while Shi‘is in the Arab world promoted notions of pan-Islam, this did not entail an acceptance of a trans-national Islamic state controlled by Iran and governed by the doctrine of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h. In a situation in which the Shi‘is themselves did not manage to unite behind the Islamic state, its aim to export the revolution to the entire Muslim world was doomed to fail.

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MUSLIM NETWORKS: THE ISLAMIC REVOLUTION IN SHI ISM

Shi‘i reformists from Iraq and Lebanon laid the basis for an allencompassing Islamic system to befit the needs of a developing Muslim nation. These mujtahids from the first half of the twentieth century promoted a wide-ranging and progressive approach to religion and the religious community. They emphasised Shi‘i commitment to true monotheism within a rational and standardised vision of Islam and an all-inclusive judicial system. Their new involvement in the political sphere, together with a conciliatory approach towards historical animosities, created the basis for a crosssectarian Muslim polity. Shi‘is living in Arab lands were no longer secluded communities hiding their beliefs from the Sunni majority, but a proud creed asserting its position in the Muslim world. These earlier reformists contributed to the empowerment of Shi‘ism, as it negotiated its position within a comprehensive and multi-faceted system of belief. They did not seek to eliminate the unique Imami identity but to reshape it within an enlightened and unifying image of Islam. Each of these scholars suggested different solutions to the religion– modernity conundrum. Yet they were united in their campaign for Muslim unity, which was perceived as a means to facilitate Shi‘i

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integration within – and beyond – the nation-state. Inter-sectarian reconciliation became a popular rallying cry due to a growing belief in the opportunities of the modern era and a new focus on current mutual socio-political interests, while historiography, theology and jurisprudence were all employed to advance the cause. By venturing into these areas, these clerics aimed to make a clear break with the historical inter-sectarian rift based on their hope that modern change could start a new chapter in Muslim relations. At the time, a comparable process of modernisation unfolded among the Shi‘is in Iran, Iraq and Lebanon. This was an uneven process in which the new Shi‘i elites became involved in the political process, adopted new ideologies and a universal intellectual outlook. The masses who immigrated in large numbers to the cities, however, moved to the new urban slums. They weakened their ties with the traditional religious and rural leadership, yet maintained a communal affiliation and upheld popular Shi‘i practices that cemented their sectarian identity. Similarly, modernisation had an asymmetrical influence on the older and younger generations, as well as on conservative and reformist elements. The secularised elite, comprised of politicians, businessmen and intellectuals, did not espouse a unified view of religion. Some expressed a desire to reform religious practices, while others accepted Islam and Shi‘ism as a cultural affiliation and relegated religion to the private sphere. Despite these uneven effects, modernisation indelibly changed the social fabric of Shi‘i society and the relationship between the traditional clerical elite and its followers. A multifaceted approach to modernisation was also apparent among Shi‘i reformers in their embryonic exposure to development as they juxtaposed different value systems. They sought to delicately balance Islamic and modern knowledge; a Shi‘i identity and the current necessity for Muslim unity; and a pre-modern passive eschatological worldview with a belief in human ability to achieve progress through socio-political action. These challenges help explain why reform was an uneven process for both the Iraqi and the Lebanese clerics. Understanding the complexities of the Shi‘i experience of modernisation helps provide insight into the dynamics of

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development from a cultural perspective. Despite the differences in their approaches, these clerics all demonstrated a flexible dialectic engagement with modernisation in which aspects of Shi‘ism that were compatible with a modern perspective were emphasised and some new ideas that did not conflict with a broader religious worldview were incorporated. This resulted in an initial attempt to modernise Shi‘i Islam by detaching development from secularisation. Shi‘i reformists presented the traditional theological and judicial discourse in a more modern-oriented fashion by relying on quasiscientific justifications, modern scholarship and social analysis. Several methods were employed in the effort to accommodate religion with modern change. Science and rationalism were embraced as a means to promote a progressive vision of the Shari‘a. Monotheism was emphasised, as was the struggle against popular manifestations of Imami Islam. In this fashion, they affirmed a more orthodox form of the old worldview, while some embraced technology in an autonomous existence from religion.1 New modern topics were introduced into Shi‘i law and incorporated using the Shi‘i mechanism of ‘aql. Activism, both in the religious and political domains, which had support within Sunni Islam was also promoted by these reformists. This changing orientation demonstrated a new belief in human ability to achieve progress in the present and future, moving Shi‘ism away from its former passive inclination. New topics also opened religious texts to a non-expert audience, which formed the basis for the later emergence of Islamic revolutionary intellectual thought. On balance, these earlier Shi‘i reformists contributed to modernising the methods and presentation of Shi‘i thought for a lay audience, using modern scholarship to affirm traditional principles. They also depicted a standardised all-embracing vision of Islam as an alternative both to traditional sectarianism and a modern secular worldview, which was expanded upon by the following generation of Shi‘i revolutionaries. Shi‘i reformists’ uneven approaches to modernity also resulted from their interaction with multi-layered audiences, both Shi‘i and Sunni. This represented a spectrum of socio-political and religious affiliations, including the heterogeneous new Shi‘i bourgeoisie, Sunni

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modernists, Salafis and followers of the Nahd.a movement. Yet together with this discourse with a variety of audiences, the inner voice and shifting worldview of the authors also emerged through their texts, as these reformists were exposed to new currents of thought which led them to emphasise a progressive and standardised depiction of religion. This created a shared vision among pro-reform forces within both the Sunni and Shi‘i communities, which softened the boundaries between the sects and produced a new image of a normative Islam. This multiplicity of audiences and the authors’ own changing worldview was depicted in the reformists’ uneven use of contemporary symbolic language: they professed modern notions, such as progress and development, without any references to a Shi‘i worldview; they reflected a modern-Shi‘i duality in their engagement with the concepts of reasoning and knowledge, but also adopted a conservative approach towards modern issues of gender, which were perceived as contradictory to Islamic morality. The clerics demonstrated an intricate relationship with the nascent Shi‘i elite, their target audience. On one level, the bourgeoisie was perceived as a threat to the authority of the clerics. Yet this new elite was also a partner in the struggle against the more conservative elements among the senior mujtahids. In addition, although the main audience was the middle class, clerics such as Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ also sought to maintain their relationship with the masses, which resulted in their multi-layered approach towards reform. In general, however, these clerics did not do enough to reach out to this wider segment of the population, and particularly the urban poor who needed a more comprehensive socio-political programme to cope with their social marginalisation in the new Arab states. That task would be left to the leadership of the next generation, which responded more proactively to these issues and therefore bolstered the influence of their leadership. Together with their cautious effort at reform, the Shi‘i reformists’ interaction with both modern change and a modernising community led to a clear shift in their former identity. Shi‘i exclusivism was mitigated, as the clerics opened up to more elastic and dynamic forms of identification, while the community itself began endorsing multiple socio-political affiliations. Their adoption of a new multi-

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layered Shi‘i identity in its religious, political and ethnic manifestations was a product of the clerics’ own changing worldview, shifting affiliations within the community, and a more positive view of the Sunnis and their perception of the Shi‘is.2 The clerics demonstrated a complex and perhaps ambivalent relationship between absolute communal membership and a new and less pronounced affinity to broader and looser groups. Islam was the binding framework for these different affiliations as the clerics sought to institute religion as the fundamental basis for the newly established state structures that relegated Islam to the private sphere. Yet, these clerics transformed their view of Shi‘ism from an essentialist claim to leadership to a more pluralistic vision of the community that embraced manifold affiliations, and implicitly accepted nationalism, in its Arab, Iraqi, Lebanese and Iranian forms. While linking themselves to these new associations, the clerics did not forgo a core Imami identity centred on the figure of ‘Alı¯ and the question of authority. Moreover, the promotion of an all-Islamic affiliation did not contradict the emergence of a new sense of Imami pride, which was fuelled by a belief in the opportunities of the modern era to facilitate the acceptance of Shi‘ism. Modernisation therefore sowed the seeds for a more pronounced Shi‘i revivalism during the later half of the twentieth century. These clerics opened the door for transforming Shi‘ism into a more rational, active and less sectarian religion. They provided an important bridge between traditional Shi‘ism and its focus on jurisprudence, and later, more revolutionary socio-political thought that began to gain ground during the second half of the twentieth century. These ideas were later advanced in the thought of Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr, who headed the Shi‘i Islamic movement of Iraq. He demonstrated a revolutionary adaptation of previous reformist initiatives by focusing on an all-Islamic message and venturing into new socio-political writing. In Lebanon, Mu¯sa¯ al-S.adr replaced Mu¯sawı¯ as the Shi‘i Mufti of Tyre and established the Amal movement. He developed a comprehensive platform for socio-political integration of the Shi‘i community of Lebanon while providing a united communal identity.3

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These revolutionary ideas would not have been possible without the efforts of the Shi‘i reformists of the first half of the twentieth century, who began to tackle the ramifications of the process of integration and social mobilisation on communal ties. They introduced an enlightened and activist image of Shi‘i Islam in an attempt to restore the former all-encompassing mujtahid – muqallid relationship. Ideas that were proposed by Shi‘i reformists during the first half of the twentieth century and were widely criticised became widespread in the latter part of the century. These included, for example, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s campaign for the reform of the ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ Ceremonies, which was adopted later by H . izbullah in its insistence on a more authentic commemoration of H usayn’s martyrdom. Ka¯shif . al-Ghit.a¯’’s idea of transforming the image of H . usayn into a symbol of an active struggle for justice was enhanced in the second half of the twentieth century in Iran by Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ to galvanize the people behind the Islamic Revolution. Kha¯lis.¯ı’s proposal to introduce a loudspeaker into the mosque was criticised by members of his community at the time, but became commonplace elsewhere by the end of the twentieth century. Beginning with Kha¯lis.¯ı and continuing with Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr in Iraq and Khomeini in Iran, these modern Shi‘i leaders became a source of inspiration for a more globalised Imami community who embraced the concept of change. Several decades later, Khomeini joined the earlier universal appeal to Islam, which he also invested with a clear political message. His Islamic revolution displayed both a ‘brotherhood of belief’ and a call to establish an alternative international order. Yet, first and foremost, Khomeini was concerned with the situation in Iran and the sociopolitical conditions that prevailed in his country at the time of this revolution. Due to the predominance of Shi‘ism in Iran, he did not have the same need as the minority Shi‘i communities in the Arab world to provide an in-depth effort at inter-sectarian reconciliation. Furthermore, his doctrine of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h was alien to Sunni thought and unsuitable to the socio-political conditions of Shi‘is in Iraq and Lebanon, as minority communities living within a broader Arab and Sunni world. As a result, his effort to export the revolution to the entire Muslim world ultimately failed.

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Nevertheless, in the course of the twentieth century, Muslim modernisers, both Sunni and Shi‘i, promoted a similar call for the revival of Islam and advanced a progressive and universal approach to religion. These ideas were circulating in the Muslim world at the time and were expressed during this period, by both Sunnis and Shi‘is, in the Arab world and Iran. Scholarly networks among Shi‘is shifted in the course of this century. These were no longer confined to the traditional bearers of knowledge but also included an Islamised Shi‘i intelligentsia. Development of transportation and communication enhanced the international dimension of Shi‘ism, but also enabled new contacts between Sunnis and Shi‘is, which weakened the former exclusive sectarian dimension of Shi‘ism. Consequently, the Islamic revolution can only be understood by taking into consideration the country’s socio-political circumstances at the time, Iran’s Shi‘i-religious heritage, the scholarship produced earlier by Shi‘i reformists in Iraq and Lebanon, and the wide-ranging intellectual networks that developed in the course of this century that cut across sectarian affiliations. Yet the quest for Muslim unity, which was at the core of the earlier Shi‘i reformists’ agenda, ultimately failed. By the later part of the century, a strong and violent sense of sectarianism erupted as a result of the Iranian revolution, the Iran–Iraq war, the rise of anti-Shi‘i Jihadist movements and the empowerment of Shi‘is in Iraq in the post-2003 period, as well as a continuation of factional loyalties to tribe, clan, region and family, which undermined a national affiliation.4 In addition, the idea of Muslim unity, which was promoted at this stage predominantly by Shi‘is, was widely rejected in the Sunni world. Antiimperialism, which served as a glue to unite Sunnis and Shi‘is in the first half of the twentieth century, dissipated with the creation of independent states in Iraq and Lebanon and the disappearance of a common enemy, while nationalism and pan-Arabism did not provide room for upholding any form of Shi‘i identity. Nationalism was perceived at first by the Shi‘is in Iraq as an inclusive ideology. Over time, however, the Shi‘is became disillusioned with the nation-state that solidified Sunni rule and contributed to Shi‘i marginalisation by neglecting their economic,

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social and political needs. The state became increasingly authoritarian and used Sunni sectarianism to enhance the regime’s authority. In Lebanon, the creation of a Lebanese nation-state strengthened sectarian ties, since its political system was based on sectarian power sharing. The collapse of this system following cycles of war created recourse to a more violent sectarianism. In the Sunni Arab arena in general, the shift from Islamism to neofundamentalism led to a revival of an anti-Shi‘i Wahha¯bı¯ drive.5 Shi‘is in Iraq and Lebanon became disenchanted with the very nation state that was originally based on a belief in the promise of an inclusive nationalism. An idealised vision of the modern era as a harbinger of a rationalist worldview was replaced with alienation from the state and a diminishing sense of control over their destiny. These factors contributed to a re-emergence of belligerent emotional sectarianism in the late twentieth century. Meanwhile, as the world moved towards post-modernisation and developed more fragmented and disorganised socio-political frameworks, the Shi‘is also began shifting towards more decentralised religious frameworks while reflecting a questioning approach towards the promises of a scientific rationalist world. At the turn of the twenty-first century, the prospect of a fullblown Sunni-Shi‘i reconciliation looked bleak; nevertheless, there are a few current examples of inter-sectarian cooperation in which joint political interests supersede the historical and theological Sunni– Shi‘i divide. During the first half of the twentieth century, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ in Iraq and Muh.sin al-Amı¯n in Lebanon provided an important precedent of dialogue between reform-minded clerics and both the Sunni and Shi‘i intelligentsia which led to an emphasis on a shared progressive worldview. The case of the early Shi‘i reformists shows how an acknowledgement of mutual interests within a national framework and a revival of a more rationalist perspective to inter-sectarian relations could, in theory, lead to a substantial transformation in the dynamics between Muslim communities.

NOTES

Introduction 1. This visit to Najaf was part of Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s travels throughout the Muslim world to collect material for his biography of Shi‘i authors entitled A‘ya¯n al-Shi‘a. 2. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-‘A¯milı¯, Rih.lat al-Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ghadı¯r, 1973?), pp. 112–3. 3. Researchers dispute the precise dates of the Tanzimat. Recent historians describe a long and almost continuous process of reform that occurred between the years 1839 and 1876. See Carter V. Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire: The Sublime Porte, 1789–1922 (Princeton; Guildford: Princeton University Press, 1980), pp. 147–55; Ekmeleddin I˙hsanog˘lu (ed.), History of the Ottoman State, Society and Civilisation, vol. 1 (Istanbul: Research Centre for Islamic History, Art and Culture, IRCICA, 2001–2), pp. 301–23; Butrus AbuManneh, ‘The Sultan and the Bureaucracy: the Anti-Tanzimat Concepts of Grand Vizier Mahmud Nedim Pas¸a’, IJMES 22 (1990), pp. 257–74. 4. ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n. al-Mu¯sawı¯, Al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma fı¯ ta’lı¯f alumma (Beirut: Da¯r al-Zahra¯’, 1977, 7th edition), p. 8. 5. Ibid., pp. 7–8. 6. See Abdulaziz Abdulhussein Sachedina, Islamic Messianism: The Idea of the Mahdi in Twelver Shi‘ism (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1981). 7. Moojan Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam: The History and Doctrines of Twelver Shi‘ism (New Haven, CT, London: Yale University Press, 1985), pp. 189–90. 8. Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 147–64, 189. 9. For information on these two schools of jurisprudence, see Etan Kohlberg, ‘Aspects of Akhbari Thought in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries’, in Nehemia Levtzion and John O. Voll (eds.), Eighteenth Century Renewal and

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15. 16.

17. 18.

19. 20.

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Reform in Islam (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1987), pp. 133–53: Robert Gleave, Inevitable Doubt: Two Theories of Shı¯‘ı¯ Jurisprudence (Leiden; Boston, MA; Ko¨ln: Brill, 2000). See Ahmad Kazemi Moussavi, ‘The Establishment of the Position of Marja‘iyyat-i Taqlid in the Twelver-Shi‘i Community’, Iranian Studies 18 (Winter, 1985), pp. 35–50. Meir Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars of Nineteenth Century Iraq: The ‘Ulama’ of Najaf and Karbala’ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 21–44. On this movement, see, for example, Peter Smith, The Babi and Baha’i Religions: From Messianic Shi‘ism to World Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987). Tamara Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil and the New Lebanon: Community and Nation State, 1918–1943 (New York, NY; Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), pp. 139–44. See, for example, Ervand Abrahamian, Iran between two Revolutions (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), pp. 93–149; Rostam-Kolayi, ‘Expanding Agendas for the ‘New’ Iranian Women: Family law, Work and Unveiling’ in Stephanie Cronin (ed.), The Making of Modern Iran: State and Society under Riza Shah, 1921–1941 (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2003), pp. 157–80; Houchang E. Chehabi, ‘The Banning of the Veil and its Consequences’ in Stephanie Cronin (ed.), The Making of Modern Iran: State and Society under Riza Shah, 1921–1941 (London: Curzon, 2003), pp. 193–210. Ruhollah Khomeini, Islam and Revolution: Writings and Declarations of Imam Khomeini; translated and annotated by Hamid Algar (Berkeley: Mizan Press, 1981), p. 300. This included mosques, charitable societies and schools, with help from the Lebanese Shi‘i Diaspora community of West Africa. On Mu¯sawı¯’s activities, see entry ‘Sharaf al-Dı¯n ‘Abd al-H.usayn b. Al-Sayyid Yu¯suf, al-Mu¯sawı¯ al-‘A¯milı¯’ in EI2 IX, pp. 314–15; Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 151–2; Rainer Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism in the 20th Century: The Azhar and Shiism between Rapprochement and Restraint; translated from the German by Joseph Greenman (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill, 2004), pp. 53–4. Al-‘Irfa¯n (1957), pp. 466–72. For the biography of Muh.sin al-Amı¯n see H . asan al-Amı¯n (ed.), ‘Sı¯ratuhu biqalamihi wa-qalam al-a¯kharı¯n’ [Muh.sin al-Amı¯n] in H.asan al-Amı¯n (ed.), A‘ya¯n al-shi‘a, vol. 15 (Beirut: Da¯r al-ta‘a¯ruf lil-mat.bu¯‘a¯t, 1418 [1998]), pp. 297–466. Rainer Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism in the 20th century: The Azhar and Shiism between Rapprochement and Restraint; translated from the German by Joseph Greenman (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill 2004), pp. 204–5. For more on Mughniyya, see Chibli Mallat, ‘Aspects of Shi‘i Thought from the South of Lebanon’, Papers on Lebanon (Oxford: The Centre for Lebanese Studies, 1988). His contribution to philosophy will be discussed in the chapter on theology.

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21. See FO 371/52505. 22. See al-‘Irfa¯n 42 (1954–1955), pp. 113–5. 23. See Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, As.l al-Shı¯‘a wa-us.u¯luha¯ (Najaf: Maktabat al-Naja¯h., 1962, 9th edition), pp. 7–12. 24. See Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, al-Muthu¯l al-‘ulya¯’ fı¯’l-Isla¯m, pp. 71–2. 25. Al-‘Irfa¯n 42 (1954–55), p. 113. 26. See the unpublished biography of Kha¯lis.¯ı’s father Bat.al al-Isla¯m, translated by Pierre-Jean Luizard in La Vie de l’Ayatollah Mahdıˆ al-Khaˆlisıˆ par son Fils; Texte Traduit de l’arabe; introduction and annotation by Pierre-Jean Luizard (Paris: Martinie`re, 2005). See also Luizard, Shaykh Muh.ammad al-Kha¯lis.ı¯, pp. 223–35. 27. His publications included books on fiqh, treatises on Islamic unity and sociopolitical essays. Kha¯lis.¯ı also wrote a refutation of the Shaykhi movement as well as a biography of his father. 28. In the introduction to one of Fad.lallah’s books, the editor mentioned Kha¯lis.¯ı’s name together with Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr and Khomeini as jurists who contributed to reinvigorating the idea of ijtiha¯d, by shifting away from former judicial stagnation. See Al-Shaykh Ja‘far al-Sha¯khu¯rı¯ (ed.), Taqrı¯ra¯n libah.th sama¯h.at A¯yatulla¯h al-‘uz.ma¯ al-sayyid Muh.ammad H.usayn Fad.l Alla¯h (da¯ma z.alluhu), vol. 2 (Beirut: Da¯r al-Mala¯k, 2002), p. 7. 29. See Mehbi Abedi, ‘Ali Shariati: The Architect of the 1979 Islamic Revolution in Iran’, Iranian Studies XIX: 3–4 (Summer–Autumn 1986), pp. 229–34. 30. See Nikki R. Keddie, Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution (New Haven, NY; London Yale University Press, 2006); Hamid Dabashi, Theology of Discontent: The Ideological Foundations of the Islamic Revolution in Iran (New York, NY; London: New York University Press, 1993); Ervand Abrahamian, Iran between two Revolutions (Princeton, NJ; Chichester: Princeton University Press, 1982); Mehran Kamrava, Iran’s Intellectual Revolutions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 31. Current research illuminates the socio-political transformation of the Shi‘i communities in Iraq and Lebanon during the first half of the twentieth century and provides some examples of Shi‘i reformists’ initiatives. Yet, these discussions are fragmented and do not provide an in-depth analysis of clerical change in its socio-political context. See, for example, Yitzhak Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq (Princeton, NJ; Princeton University Press, 1995 edition); Tamara Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil and the New Lebanon: Community and Nation State, 1918–1943 (New York, NY; Basingstoke Palgrave Macmillan, 2006); Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds.), The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture and Political History (Leiden; Boston, MA Ko¨ln: Brill, 2001). 32. See Chibli Mallat, The Renewal of Islamic Law: Muhammad Baqer as-Sader, Najaf and the Shi‘i International (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 45–6; Chibli Mallat, ‘Shi‘i Thought from the South of Lebanon’, Papers on Lebanon 7 (Oxford: Centre for Lebanese Studies, 1988), pp. 7–8; Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars of Nineteenth Century Iraq, pp. 13–14.

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33. See, for example, Margaret E. Keck and Kathryn Sikkink, Activists beyond Borders: Advocacy Networks in International Politics (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998); M. Girvan and M. E. J. Newman, ‘Community Structure in Social and Biological Networks’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 99:12 (June 2002), pp. 7821–6. 34. On these developments, see, for example, Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 52–5; William I. Shorrock, ‘The Origin of the French Mandate in Syria and Lebanon: The Railroad Question, 1901–1914’, IJMES 1: 2 (April, 1970), pp. 133–53; Edward M. Earle, Turkey, the Great Powers and the Baghdad Railway: A Study in Imperialism (London: Macmillan, 1923); Muh.ammad ‘Alı¯ Kama¯l al-Dı¯n, alNajaf fı¯ rub‘ qarn (Beirut: Da¯r al-Qa¯ri’, 2005), pp. 115–21. 35. On the cultural approach to development see, for example, Timothy Mitchell (ed.), Questions of Modernity (Minneapolis, MN; London: University of Minnesota Press, 2000); Bassam Tibi, Islam’s Predicament with Modernity: Religious Reform and Cultural Change (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2009). 36. Javaid Saeed, Islam and Modernization: A Comparative Analysis of Pakistan, Egypt and Turkey (London; Westport, CT: Connecticut: Praeger, 1994), pp. 9–55; S. Parvez Manzoor, ‘Desacralising Secularism’, in Azzam Tamimi and John L. Esposito (eds.), Islam and Secularism in the Middle East (New York, NY: New York University Press, 2000), pp. 81–96. 37. See Stephen Crook, Jan Pakulski, and Malcolm Waters, ‘Modernization and Postmodernization’ in Malcolm Waters (ed.), Modernity: Critical Concepts, vol. IV: After Modernity (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 1999), pp. 60–83; Stephen Crook, Jan Pakulski and Malcolm Waters, Postmodernization: Changes in Advanced Society (London; Newbury Park; New Delhi: Sage Publications, 1992); Gibson Burrell and Robert Cooper, ‘Modernism, Postmodernism and Organizational Analysis: An Introduction’, Organization Studies 9 (1988), pp. 91–112.

Chapter 1 Social Change and the Contest for Communal Leadership 1. See Rula Jurdi Abisaab, ‘The Ulama of Jabal ‘Amil in Safavid Iran, 1501–1736: Marginality, Migration and Social Change’, Iranian Studies 27: 1–4 (1994), pp. 103–22; Devin J. Stewart, ‘The Portrayal of an Academic Rivalry: Najaf and Qum in the Writings and Speeches of Khomeini, 1964–78’, in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja’ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 216–29; Augustus Richard Norton, ‘Al-Najaf: Its Resurgence as a Religious and University Center’, Middle East Policy XVIII:1 (Spring, 2011), pp. 132–45. 2. Mallat, The Renewal of Islamic Law, pp. 45–7.

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3. On these developments, see Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 18–43; Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars of Nineteenth Century Iraq, pp. 23–30. 4. For comparison, see Amira K. Bennison, ‘Muslim Universalism and Western Globalization’, in A.G. Hopkins (ed.), Globalization in World History (London: Pimlico, 2002), pp. 74–97. 5. Between 1839 and 1876 the Ottoman Empire embarked upon a comprehensive process of legal, administrative, military and economic reform, known as the Tanzimat. On this development, see Carter V. Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire: The Sublime Porte, 1789–1922 (Princeton, NY; Guildford: Princeton University Press, 1980), pp. 1471–55; Ekmeleddin I˙hsanog˘lu (ed.), History of the Ottoman State, Society & Civilisation, vol. 1 (Istanbul: Research Centre for Islamic History, Art and Culture, IRCICA, 2001–2002), pp. 301–23; Butrus Abu-Manneh, ‘The Sultan and the Bureaucracy: the Anti-Tanzimat Concepts of Grand Vizier Mahmud Nedim Pas¸a’, IJMES 22 (Aug., 1990), pp. 257–74. 6. More on this social class see Mehdi Mozaffari, ‘Why the Bazar Rebels’, Journal of Peace Research 28:4 (Nov., 1991), pp. 337–391. Mehran Kamrava, Revolution in Iran: The Roots of Turmoil (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 1990), pp. 18–25. 7. For more information on Iran and its population, see W.B. Fisher (ed.) The Cambridge History of Iran Vol. I: The Land of Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), pp. 3–110; 468–85; B. Zehzad, Bahram H. Kiabi, and H. Madjnoonian, ‘The Natural Areas and Landscape of Iran: an Overview’, Zoology in the Middle East 26 (2002), pp. 7–10; John R. Bradley, ‘Iran’s Ethnic Tinderbox’, The Washington Quarterly 30:1 (Winter, 2006–07), pp. 181–90. 8. See Gad G. Gilbert, ‘The Opening Up of Qa¯jar Iran: Some Economic and Social Aspects’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London IL: 1 (1986), 76–89; Eckart Ehlers and Willem Floor, ‘Urban Change in Iran, 1920–1941’, Iranian Studies 26:3–4 (Summer–Autumn, 1993), pp. 251–75; The Cambridge History of Iran Vol. I: The Land of Iran, pp. 472–76. 9. Ibid. See also Mansoor Moaddel, Class, Politics, and Ideology in the Iranian Revolution (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1993), pp. 98–129. 10. For more on these developments, see B. Alavi, ‘Critical Writing on the Renewal of Iran’, in Edmund Bosworth and Carole Hillenbrand (eds.) Qajar Iran: Political, Social and Cultural Change 1800–1925 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1983), pp. 243–54; Azadeh Kian-Thie´baut, Secularization of Iran a Doomed Failure?: The New Middle Class and the Making of Modern Iran (Paris: Peeters et Insititut d’E´tudes Iraniennes, 1998), pp. 27–47; Abrahamian, Iran between two Revolutions, pp. 33–80. 11. See Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, pp. 62–88; Mangol Bayat, Iran’s First Revolution: Shi‘ism and the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–1909 (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1991), pp. 106–38, 260– 7; Richard R. Cottan, Nationalism in Iran. Updated through 1978 (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1979), pp. 12–19.

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12. For more on these developments, see Afshin Marashi, Nationalizing Iran: Culture, Power, and the State, 1870–1940 (Seattle, WA; London: University of Washington Press, 2008), pp. 86–132; Kian-Thie´baut, Secularization of Iran, pp. 72–88. 13. See Camron Michael Amin, The Making of the Modern Iranian Woman: Gender, State Policy, and Popular Culture, 1865–1946 (Gainesville, FL: University of Florida, 2002), pp. 23–5, 81–3, 94–103; Ali Ghiessari, Iranian Intellectuals in the 20th Century (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1998), pp. 40–60. 14. See Ali Mirsepassi, Intellectual Discourse and the Politics of Modernization: Negotiating Modernity in Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 54–64; Mehrzad Boroujerdi, Iranian Intellectuals and the West: The Tormented Triumph of Nativism (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1996), pp. 52–76, 106–12. 15. See Ali M. Ansari, Modern Iran since 1921: The Pahlavis and After (London: Pearson Education, 2003), pp. 147–65. 16. Kamrava, Revolution in Iran, 95–120; Eric J. Hooglund, ‘Rural Socioeconomic Organization in Transition: The Case of Iran’s Bonehs’, in Michael E. Bonine and Nikki R. Keddie (eds.) Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Continuity and Change (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1981), pp. 191–207; Nikki R. Keddie, Roots of Revolution: An Interpretive History of Modern Iran (New Haven, CT; & London: Yale University Press, 1981), pp. 160–82; Moaddel, Class, Politics, and Ideology in the Iranian Revolution, pp. 51–97. 17. Farhad Kazemi, Poverty and Revolution in Iran: The Migrant Poor, Urban Marginality and Politics (New York, NY: London New York University Press, 1980), pp. 28–67. 18. Mozaffari, Why the Bazar Rebels; Michael E. Bonine, ‘Shops and Shopkeepers: Dynamics of an Iranian Provincial Bazaar’, in Michael E. Bonine and Nikki R. Keddie (eds.) Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Community and Change (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1981), pp. 233–58. 19. For more information on Sharı¯ ‘atı¯’s thought see, for example, Elisheva Machlis, ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and the Notion of tawh.ı¯d: Re-exploring the Question of God’s Unity’, WI 54 (2014) 183–211; Mehbi Abedi, ‘Ali Shariati: The Architect of the 1979 Islamic Revolution of Iran’, Iranian Studies 19: 3/4 (Summer– Autumn, 1986), pp. 229–34. 20. Hanna Batatu, The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq: A Study of Iraq’s Old Landed and Commercial Classes and of its Communists, Ba‘thists, and Free Officers (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978), p. 37; Samira Haj, The Making of Iraq, 1900–1963: Capital, Power and Ideology (New York, NY: State University of New York Press, 1997), pp. 16–18; Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 31–3. 21. On the conversion of the tribes see, Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 18–30; Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, pp. 129–30; Amal Vinogradov, ‘The 1920 Revolt in Iraq Reconsidered: The Role of Tribes in National Politics’, IJMES 3:2 (April, 1972), pp. 123–39.

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22. Joyce N. Wiley, The Islamic Movement of Iraqi Shi‘as (Boulder, CO; London: Lynne Reinner Publishers, 1992), pp. 12–15. 23. Batatu, The Old Social Classes, pp. 14–7; Nakash. The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 4, 29–37; Ta¯lib ‘Alı¯ al-Sharqı¯, al-Najaf al-ashraf ‘a¯da¯tuha¯ wa-taqa¯lı¯duha¯ (Najaf: Mat.ba‘at ˙ al-ada¯b, 1978), pp. 45–8. 24. Ka¯z.imayn houses the shrine of Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z.im, the seventh Imam, and his grandson Ima¯m Muh.ammad at-Taqı¯, the ninth Imam. Samarra is the burial site of Alı¯ al-Ha¯dı¯ and H . asan al-Askarı¯, the tenth and eleventh Shi‘a Imams respectively, as well as the place from where the twelfth Imam, Muh.ammad alMahdı¯, went into Occultation. 25. Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 18–25. 26. Ibid, pp. 43–8, 146–54; Wiley, The Islamic Movement of Iraqi Shi‘as, pp. 18–9; Batatu, The Old Social Classes, p. 14. 27. Vinogradov, ‘The 1920 Revolt in Iraq Reconsidered’, p. 125. 28. See Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 52–5. 29. Vinogradov, The 1920 Revolt in Iraq Reconsidered, pp. 130–1; Nakash. The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 52–3. 30. See, Fuad Baali, Relation of the People to the Land in Southern Iraq (Gainesville, Florida FL: University of Florida Press, 1966), pp. 1–5; Batatu, The Old Social Classes, pp. 44–9. 31. The railway created imperialist rivalries and was completed only after World War I. Shorrock, ‘The Origin of the French Mandate in Syria and Lebanon: The Railroad Question’, pp. 133–53; Edward M. Earle, Turkey, the Great Powers and the Baghdad Railway: A Study in Imperialism (London: Macmillan, 1923). 32. Muh.ammad ‘Alı¯ Kama¯l al-Dı¯n, al-Najaf fı¯ rub‘ qarn (Beirut: Da¯r al-Qa¯ri’, 2005), pp. 115–21. 33. The treaty of Se´vres (August 1920), concluded at the San Remo conference following World War I, determined the administration of former Ottoman lands. 34. See Charles Tripp, A History of Iraq (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000 edition), pp. 1–58. 35. Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 75–103. 36. See Foreign Office reports on anti-British activities by the Persian ‘ulama¯’: PRO: FO 371/E6758/3821/34, FO 371/E526/526/34, FO 371/E8907, FO 371/E3907/3821/34; see also the unpublished biography of Kha¯lis.¯ı’s father Bat..tal al-Isla¯m, translated by Pierre-Jean Luizard in La Vie de l’Ayatollah Mahdıˆ al-Khaˆlisıˆ par son Fils (Batal al-Islaˆm); Luizard, Shaykh Muhammad al-Kha¯lis.ı¯, pp. 223–35. 37. See Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 252–3. 38. Ibid. pp. 88–91; Batatu, The Old Social Classes, p. 26. 39. Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 84–96, 109–25; Tripp, A History of Iraq, pp. 525–7. 40. See Baali, Relation of the People to the Land, pp. 11–13, 21–5, 28.

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41. Basal N. Najar, ‘The Dynamics of Rural-Urban Migration and Assimilation in Iraq’, (Ph.D. Diss., Wayne State University, 1976), pp. 89–91. 42. Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 96–99; Wiley, The Islamic Movement of Iraqi Shi‘as, p. 25; Baali. The Relation of the People to the Land, 46–53; Doris G. Phillips, ‘Rural-to-Urban Migration in Iraq’, Economic Development and Cultural Change 7 (1959), pp. 405–21. 43. Phoebe Marr, ‘The Development of a Nationalist Ideology in Iraq, 1920–1941’, MW 75: 2 (1985), pp. 97–101. 44. Wiley, The Islamic Movement of Iraqi Shi‘as, pp. 18, 74–5; William L. Cleveland, The Making of an Arab Nationalist: Ottomanism and Arabism in the Life and Thought of Sati’ al-Husri (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1971); Malik Mufti, Sovereign Creations: Pan-Arabism and Political Order in Syria and Iraq (Ithaca, NY; London Cornell University Press, 1996). 45. Sa¯t.i’ al-H.us.rı¯ was one of the most outspoken proponents of secular pan-Arabism during this period. He was nominated as the first director of education in Iraq (1923–7) and advanced Arab nationalism through his involvement in the ministry. See Cleveland, The Making of an Arab Nationalist; Mufti, Sovereign Creations. 46. Batatu, The Old Social Classes, pp. 23–36; FO 371/40095; Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 111–3, 125–6. 47. Reeva S. Simon, Iraq between the Two World Wars: The Creation and Implementation of a Nationalist Ideology (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1986), pp. 83–100; George Grassmuck, ‘The Electoral Process in Iraq, 1952–1958’, Middle East Journal 14:4 (Autumn, 1960), pp. 397–415. See also Elisheva Machlis, ‘Shiism, Culture and Group Membership Amidst Social Change’, Bustan: The Middle East Book Review 4 (2013), pp. 1–16. 48. ‘Alı¯ al-Wardı¯, Dira¯sa fı¯ .tab‘iyya¯t al-mujtama‘ al-Ira¯qı¯: muh.a¯wala tamhı¯diyya li-dira¯sat al-mujtama‘ al-‘Arabı¯ al-akbar fı¯ d.aw’ ‘ilm al-ijtima¯‘ al-h.adı¯th (Baghdad: Mat.ba‘at al-‘A¯nı¯, 1965), pp. 344–8. 49. Thus, for example, Muh.sin Shara¯ra (1901–46) – a young cleric from Jabal ‘A¯mil – voiced his criticism of the traditional madrasas for their inappropriate conditions and disorganised curriculum. See Werber Ende, ‘From Revolt to Resignation: The Life of Shaykh Muh.sin Shara¯ra’ in Asma Afsaruddin and A.H. Mathias Zahniser (eds.), Humanism, Culture and Language in the Near East (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), pp. 61–70. 50. Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 111, 255, 262–3; Wiley, The Islamic Movement of Iraqi Shi‘as, pp. 18–22; Sabrina Mervin, ‘The Clerics of Jabal ‘A¯mil and the Reform of Religious Teaching in Najaf since the Beginning of the 20th Century’ in Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds.), The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture & Political History (Leiden; Boston, MA; Ko¨ln: Brill. 2001), pp. 69–86. 51. Wiley, The Islamic Movement, pp. 20–3. 52. Ibid.; Nakash, The Shi‘as of Iraq, pp. 254, 262–268.

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53. Ja‘far al-Khalı¯lı¯, Hakatha¯ ‘araftuhum: khawa¯.tir ‘an ana¯s afdha¯dh ‘a¯shu¯ al-ah.ya¯n li-ghayrihim akthar mimma¯ ‘a¯shu¯ li-anfusihim, vol. II (Baghdad: Da¯r al-Ta‘a¯ruf, 1968), pp. 158–9. 54. See Norton, Al-Najaf: Its Resurgence as a Religious and University Center, p. 139. 55. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’s influence over the tribal population was demonstrated in his involvement in the revolt of 1935. See FO/371/E3287/1583/93. 56. See Sami Zubaida, ‘The Fragments Imagine the Nation: The Case of Iraq’, IJMES 34:2 (May, 2002), pp. 205–15. 57. Thus, for example, some Shi‘is cooperated with Sunni nationalists through joint membership in H.izb al-Ikha¯’ al-Wat.anı¯ (The Patriotic Brotherhood Party). Others preferred separate Shi‘i representation. See Zubaida, The Fragments Imagine the Nation; Tripp, A History of Iraq, pp. 51–2. 58. On Shi‘i adherence to Communism, see Rony Gabbay, Communism and Agrarian Reform in Iraq (London: Croom Helm, 1978), pp. 48–54; Batatu, The Old Social Classes, pp. 422–69, 628–9, 718; Silvia Naef, ‘Shı¯‘ı¯-Shuyu¯‘ı¯ or: How to Become a Communist in a Holy City’ in Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds.), The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture & Political History (Leiden; Boston, MA; Ko¨ln: Brill, 2001), pp. 255–67. 59. Graham E. Fuller, and Francke R. Rend, The Arab Shi‘a: The Forgotten Muslims (New York, NY: St. Martin’s Press, 1999), pp. 95–7. 60. A similar alliance existed also among other minorities in the late Ottoman Empire such as the Greek Orthodox, who underwent a process of social change. See Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel Kural Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, vol. II: ‘Reform, Revolution and Republic: The Rise of Modern Turkey, 1808–1975’ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), pp. 17–18. See also, Pierre-Jean Luizard, La Formation de l’Iraq Contemporain: le Roˆle Politique des Ule´mas Chiites a` la Fin de la Domination Ottomane et au Moment de la Construction de l’Etat Irakien (Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1991), pp. 489–93. 61. Marion Farouk-Sluglett Peter J. Sluglett, ‘The Historiography of Modern Iraq’, American Historical Review (Dec., 1991), pp. 1411–3. Batatu, The Old Social Classes, pp. 44–50, 224–97. 62. See Batatu, The Old Social Classes, pp. 294–7; Gabbay, Communism and Agrarian Reform, pp. 48–50; ‘Abd al-Razza¯q A. al-Darra¯jı¯, Ja‘afar Abu¯’l-Timman wa-dawruhu fı¯’l-h. araka al-wat. aniyya fı¯’l-‘Ira¯q, 1908–1945 (Baghdad: al-jamhu¯riyya al-‘Ira¯qiyya, Wiza¯rat al-Thaqa¯fa wa’l-Funu¯n, 1978). 63. On this idea, see Samir Khalaf, Cultural Resistance: Global and Local Encounters in the Middle East (London: Saqi Books, 2001), pp. 27–8. 64. See Tarif Khalidi, ‘Shaykh Ahmad ‘Arif al-Zayn and al-‘Irfan’’ in Marwan R. Buheiry (ed.), Intellectual Life in the Arab East, 1890–1939 (Beirut: American University of Beirut, Center for Arab and Middle East Studies, 1981), pp. 110–24. On this movement, see Peter E. Pormann, ‘The Arab “Cultural Awakening (Nahd.a)”, 1870–1950, and the Classical Tradition’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 13:1 (Summer, 2006), pp. 3–20;

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66. 67.

68.

69.

70.

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John W. Jandora, ‘Butrus al-Busta¯nı¯, Arab Consciousness, and Arabic Revival’, MW LXXIV:2 (April, 1984), pp. 71–84. On this development, see John Walbridge, ‘Muhammad-Baqir al-Sadr: The Search for New Foundations’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja‘ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 131–139; Mallat, Aspects of Shi‘i Thought from the South of Lebanon; Mallat, The Renewal of Islamic Law; Joyce N. Wiley, The Islamic Movement of Iraqi Shi‘is (Boulder, CO; London Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1992). See Elie Kedourie, ‘The Iraqi Shi‘is and Their Fate’ in Martin Kramer (ed.) Shi‘ism, Resistance, and Revolution (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1987), pp. 135–57. See Chibli Mallat, ‘Religious Militancy in Contemporary Iraq: Muhammad Baqer as-Sadr and the Sunni-Shia Paradigm’, Third World Quarterly 10:2 (1988), pp. 699–729; Rodger Shanahan, ‘Shi‘a Political Development in Iraq: The Case of the Islamic Da‘wa Party’, Third World Quarterly 25:5 (2004), pp. 943–54; Amazia Baram, ‘The Ruling Political Elite in Bathi Iraq, 1968–1986: The Changing Features of a Collective Profile’, IJMES 21:4 (Nov., 1989), pp. 447–93. Helena Cobban, ‘The Growth of Shi‘i Power in Lebanon and its Implications for the Future’ in Juan R.I. Cole and Nukki R. Keddie (ed.), Shi‘ism and Social Protest, (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1986), pp. 152–7; Juan Cole, Sacred Space and Holy War: the Politics, Culture and History of Shi‘ite Islam (London: I.B. Tauris, 2002), pp. 16–30; Joseph Olmert, ‘The Shi‘is and the Lebanese State’ in Martin Kramer (ed.), Shi‘ism, Resistance and Revolution (London: Mansell, 1987), pp. 189–201; Salim Nasr, ‘Roots of the Shi‘i Movement’, MERIP Reports (June, 1985), pp. 10–6; Paul Saba, ‘The Creation of the Lebanese Economy – Economic Growth in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries’, in Roger Owen (ed.), Essays on the Crisis in Lebanon (London; Ithaca, NY, 1976), pp. 2–22. Sabrina Mervin, ‘‘Ashura’: Some Remarks on Ritual Practices in Different Shiite Communities (Lebanon and Syria)’, in Allessandro Monsutti, Silvia Naef and Farian Sabahi (eds.), The Other Shiites: From the Mediterranean to Central Asia (Bern; Oxford: Peter Lang, 2007), pp. 137–47; Fuad I. Khuri, ‘Sectarian Loyalty among Rural Migrants in Two Lebanese Suburbs: A Stage between Family and National Allegiance’ in R. Antoun and I. Harik (ed.), Rural Politics and Social Change in the Middle East (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1972), pp. 198–213; Labib Zuwiyya-Yamak, ‘Party Politics in the Lebanese Political System’, in Leonard Binder (ed.), Politics in Lebanon (New York, NY; London; Sydney: Wiley, 1966), pp. 143–66. Fuad I. Khuri, From Village to Suburb: Order and Change in Greater Beirut (Chicago, IL; London: The University of Chicago Press, 1975), pp. 29–32; Olmert, The Shi‘is and the Lebanese State, pp. 190–1; Richard Yann, Shi‘ite Islam: Polity, Ideology and Creed; translated by Antonia Nevill (Oxford; Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1995), pp. 121–2; Cole, Sacred Space, pp. 16–30; Khuri, Sectarian Loyalty among Rural Migrants, pp. 198–213.

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71. Olmert, The Shi‘is and the Lebanese State, pp. 190–1; Augustus Richard Norton, ‘Shi‘ism and Social Protest in Lebanon’ in Juan R. I. Cole and Nikki Keddie (eds.), Shi‘ism and Social Protest (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1986), pp. 156–78. 72. On the socioeconomic situation of the community, see Yitzhak Nakash, Reaching for Power: The Shi‘a in the Modern Arab World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006), pp. 99–113. See also MAE, Syrie-Liban, 607, Inverntaire 14: Rensignement et presse: Bulletin d’information hebdomadire poste de Tyr, 1663, ‘Circonscription du caza de Tyr: Affairs politique’, 22.10.1933; Syrie-Liban: Mandate, 156, Inventaire 6: Cabinet politique 1926 a` 1941: Revendications de la communaute` chiite 1933 a` 1946: Re´formes au profit des chiites, 22.3.1939; Syrie-Liban: Mandate, 156, Inventaire 6: Cabinet politique 1926 a` 1941: Revendications de la communaute` chiite 1933 a` 1946: Notice sur les chiites, 6.2.1939. 73. See Majed Halawi, A Lebanon Defied: Musa al-Sadr and the Shi‘a Community (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1992), pp. 29–38. 74. Meir Zamir, ‘Smaller and Greater Lebanon – The Squaring of a Circle’, The Jerusalem Quarterly 23 (Spring, 1982), pp. 34–52; Philip K. Hitti, Lebanon in History: From the Earliest Times to the Present (London; Melbourne; Toronto: Macmillan, 1967 Edition), pp. 486–96. 75. More on the impact of the Ja‘fari court, see Max Weiss, ‘Institutionalizing Sectarianism: The Lebanese Ja‘fari Court and Shi‘i Society under the French Mandate’, Islamic Law and Society 15 (2008), pp. 371–407. 76. See Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 112–113, 129–30, 140–1; Halawi, A Lebanon Defied, pp. 40–2. 77. See Rania Maktabi, ‘The Lebanese Census of 1932 Revisitied. Who are the Lebanese?’, BJMES 26:2 (1999), pp. 219–41. 78. See, Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 139–142; MAE, Bayrouth, 16, Dossier 319: Famille Charafeddine, 1933–1955; MAE, Bayrouth, 27, 1942. 79. Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 139–42. 80. Maktabi, The Lebanese Census of 1932 Revisited, pp. 219–41. 81. Abdo I. Baaklini, Legislative and Political Development: Lebanon, 1842–1972 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1976), pp. 82–84, 109–112. 82. Rodger Shanahan, The Shi‘a of Lebanon: Clans, Parties and Clerics (London; New York, NY: Tauris Academic Studies, 2005). 83. Fuad I. Khuri, ‘The Social Dynamics of the 1975–1977 War in Lebanon’, Armed Forces and Society 7:3 (Spring, 1981), pp. 383–408; Joan M. Nelson, Access to Power: Politics and the Urban Poor in Developing Nations (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1979); E.A. Early, ‘The Emergence of an Urban Za‘im: A Social Network Analysis’, Journal of Social Sciences [Kuwait] 1 (April, 1977), pp. 1–25. 84. Nasr, Roots of the Shi‘i Movement, pp. 10–11. 85. The zu‘ama¯’ were land owners and powerful clan or tribal leaders whose power was passed down through a small number of families and that acted as intermediaries between the population and the government. See Albert

238

86.

87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94.

95. 96. 97.

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Hourani, ‘Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables’ in Albert Hourani, Philip S. Khoury and Mary C. Wilson (eds.), The Modern Middle East (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris, 1993), pp. 83–109; Augustus Richard Norton, ‘Harakat Amal and the Political Mobilization of the Shi‘a of Lebanon’ (Ph.D. Diss., The University of Chicago, 1984), pp. 13–14, 21–2. For comparison see, Keith D. Watenpaugh, ‘Middle-Class Modernity and the Persistence of the Politics of Notables in Inter-War Syria’, IJMES 35:2 (May, 2003), pp. 257–86. See also Michael Johnson, ‘Popular Movements and Primordial Loyalties in Beirut’ in Talal Asad and Roger Owen (eds.), Sociology of “Developing Societies” in the Middle East (London: Macmillan Press, 1983), pp. 178–94; Shanahan. The Shi‘a of Lebanon, pp. 87–105. See Baaklini, Legislative and Political Development; Shanahan, The Shi‘a of Lebanon, pp. 53–7. Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 115–28. See Early, The Emergence of an Urban Za‘im, pp. 1–25. Ibid.; Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, p. 122. See Nakash, Reaching for Power, pp. 105–6; Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 22–6. Early, The Emergence of an Urban Za‘im, pp. 1–25. See ibid. The Lebanese community in West Africa included Sunnis, Shi‘is and Christians and was part of a larger trend of economic migration from Lebanon starting from the nineteenth century, particularly to the new world. See R. Bayly Winder, ‘The Lebanese in West Africa’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 4:3 (April, 1962), pp. 296–333. See, Nasr, Roots of the Shi‘i Movement, pp. 10–16. For more on the development of this movement see ibid., Richard, Shi‘ite Islam, pp. 121–139; Joseph Olmert, The Shi‘is and the Lebanese State, pp. 189–201; Norton, Harakat Amal, pp. 105–31. See Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, 193.

Chapter 2 Muslim Unity: A Contemporary Reading to Historiography 1. Khomeini, Islam and Revolution, p. 277. 2. See entry ‘Umma’ in EI2 X, pp. 861–3. 3. See Patricia Crone, Medieval Islamic Political Thought (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004), pp. 70–5; Wilferd Madelung, The Succession to Muh.ammad: A Study of the Early Caliphate (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 4. On these travels, see for example, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-‘A¯milı¯, Rih.lat al-Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n (Beirut: Da¯r al-Gha¯dir, 1973?).

NOTES

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5. Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism in the 20th Century, 58–63. 6. ‘Abd al-Karı¯m ‘Uzrı¯, Ta’rı¯kh fı¯ Dhikraya¯t al-Ira¯q, 1930–1958 (Beirut: Markaz al-Abjadiyya lil-S.aff al-Tas.wı¯rı¯, 1982), p. 63. 7. On the Shi‘i intelligentsia’s adherence to Arabism, see for example, al-‘Irfa¯n 33:1 (Dec., 1946), pp. 1–2. 8. Crone, Medieval Islamic Political Thought, pp. 28–9, 219–33. 9. See Chase Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge; New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 85–92. 10. Entry ‘Ta’rı¯kh’ in EI 2 X, pp. 257–302. 11. On the Salafi movement, see David Dean Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria (New York, NY; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), pp. 124–44. 12. For the Shi‘i perspective on the first period of Islam, see Madelung, The Succession to Muh.ammad. 13. Other wrongful deeds included depriving Fa¯t.ima, Muh.ammad’s daughter of her rightful inheritance from the Prophet of an oasis in Arabia near Khaybar (‘the Fadak affair’). See Hamid Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought: The Response of the Shı¯‘ı¯ and Sunnı¯ Muslims to the Twentieth Century (London: I.B. Tauris, 2005 edition), pp. 32–3. 14. This event is known as the ‘Thursday calamity’ (razı¯yat yawm al-khamı¯s). 15. ‘Umar’s legal innovations included the banning of temporary marriage, his ruling that husbands are permitted to divorce their wives by triple repudiation and his prohibition of tamattu‘ (performing the lesser pilgrimage to Mecca and then performing the Hajj as a separate ceremony). See Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought, pp. 32–3. 16. On the Imami ‘martyrology’, see for example, Abu¯’l Faraj al-Is.faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til al-t.a¯libı¯yı¯n (Cairo: Da¯r Ih.ya¯’ al-Kutub al-‘Arabiyya, 1368/1949). See also Fred M. Donner, Narratives of Islamic Historical Writing: The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writing (Princeton, NJ: The Darwin Press, 1998), p. 134; Tarif Khalidi, Islamic Historiography: The Histories of Mas‘u¯dı¯ (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1975), pp. 57–60. 17. See Ibn al-Mut.ahhar al-H.illı¯, ‘Kita¯b minhaj al-kara¯ma fı¯ ma‘rifat al-ima¯ma li ibn al-Mut.ahhar al-H.illı¯’ in Ibn Taymiyya, Minhaj al-sunna al-nabawiyya fı¯ naqd. kala¯m al-shı¯‘a al-qadariyya (Cairo: Maktabat Da¯r al-‘Uru¯ba, 1962). 18. The meaning of ijma¯‘ was debated among scholars as to whether it referred to the consensus of the community or was limited to scholars within each school of law. Devin Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy: Twelver Shiite Responses to the Sunni Legal System (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1998), pp. 53–9. Joseph E. Lowry, Early Islamic Legal Theory: The Risa¯la of Muh.ammad ibn idrı¯s al-Sha¯fi‘ı¯ (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill, 2007); Wael B. Hallaq, ‘On the Authoritativeness of the Sunni Consensus’, IJMES 18:4 (Nov., 1986), pp. 427–54. 19. Alongside this legal exclusion, Sunni disparagement of Shi‘ism varied according to social, political and economic circumstances. See Wael B. Hallaq,

240

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21.

22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

NOTES

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The Origins and Evolution of Islamic Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 3–7, 150–77; Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, pp. 53–9; Joseph E. Lowry, Early Islamic Legal Theory: The Risa¯la of Muh.ammad ibn idrı¯s al-Sha¯fi‘ı¯ (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill, 2007); Hallaq, On the Authoritativeness of the Sunni Consensus, pp. 427–54. This elitist view of the community was rooted in Shi‘i Hadith. See Muhammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, ‘Only the Man of God is Human: Theology and Mystical Anthropology according to Early Ima¯mi Exegesis’ (Aspects of Twelver Imamology IV) in Etan Kohlberg (ed.), Shi‘ism (Burlington, MA: Ashgate, 2003), pp. 2–23; Etan Kohlberg, ‘Imam and Community in the PreGhayba Period’ in Said Amir Arjomand (ed.), Authority and Political Culture in Shi‘ism (New York, NY: State University of New York Press, 1988), pp. 25–53. In medieval Islam, judicial cooperation between the sects stemmed from mutual respect of a scholarly elite. The Shi‘i practice of dissimulation (taqiyya) also blurred sectarian affiliations. See Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, pp. 61– 109; Ahmad Kazemi Moussavi, ‘Sunnı¯-Shı¯‘ı¯ Rapprochement (Taqrı¯b)’ in L. Clarke (ed.), Shi‘ite Heritage: Essays on Classical and Modern Traditions (Binghamton, NY: Global Publications, Binghamton University, 2001), pp. 301–16; Norman Calder, ‘Doubt and Prerogative: The Emergence of an Ima¯mı¯ Shı¯‘ı¯ Theory of Ijtiha¯d’, SI LXX (1989), pp. 57–78. See Peter Jackson (ed.), The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6: The Timurid and Safavid Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 189–227. Halil I˙nalcik, Essays in Ottoman History (Istanbul: Eren, 1998), pp. 229–40. The rise of Na¯dir Sha¯h in Iran (1736) marked a new phase in inter-sectarian relations due to his conciliatory inter-sectarian agenda. At the end of the day, however, his initiatives were rejected by both the Ottomans and the Shi‘i scholarly community in Iran. See L. Lockhart, Nadir Shah: A Critical Study Based Mainly upon Contemporary Sources (London: Luzac & Co. 1938), pp. 278– 81; Hamid Algar, ‘Shi‘ism in Iran in the Eighteenth Century’ in Naff-Owen (ed.), Studies in Eighteenth Century Islamic History (Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1977), pp. 288–302; Meir Litvak, ‘Encounters between Shi‘i and Sunni and ‘Ulama’ in Ottoman Iraq’, Ofra Bengio and Meir Litvak (eds.) The Sunna and Shi‘a in History: Division and Ecumenism in the Muslim Middle East (New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), pp. 71–5. On the emergence of pan-Islamism, see Selim Deringil, The Well-Protected Domains: Ideology and the Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire 1876–1909 (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris, 1998), pp. 8–11, 16–35, 44–8; Selim Deringil, ‘Legitimacy Structures in the Ottoman State: The Reign of Abdu¨lhamid II (1876–1909)’, IJMES 23:3 (Aug., 1991), pp. 345–59; Jacob M. Landau, The Politics of Pan-Islam: Ideology and Organization (Oxford; New York, NY: Clarendon Press, 1989). See Nikkie R. Keddie, An Islamic Response to Imperialism: Political and Religious Writings of Sayyid Jama¯l ad-Dı¯n ‘al-Afgha¯nı¯’ (Berkeley, CA Los Angeles, CA London: University of California Press, 1983 Edition); M.A. Zaki Badawi, The

NOTES

27.

28.

29. 30. 31.

32.

33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

TO PAGES

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241

Reformers of Egypt (London: Croom Helm, 1976), pp. 27–31; Charles C. Adams, Islam and Modernism in Egypt: A Study of the Modern Reform Movement Inaugurated by Muh.ammad ‘Abduh (London: Oxford University Press, 1933). On Afgha¯ni’s origins, see Elie Kedourie, Afghani and ‘Abduh: An Essay on Religious Unbelief and Political Activism in Modern Islam (London, Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 1977 Edition), pp. 6–8. Similarly, in the following period, Shakı¯b Arsla¯n (1869–1946), a Druze of Lebanese origin and a follower of Muh.ammad ‘Abduh, adopted the cause of Muslim unity but felt compelled to obscure his exclusive Druze beliefs. On Shakı¯b Arsla¯n’s thought see William L. Cleveland, Islam against the West: Shakib Arslan and the Campaign for Islamic Nationalism (London: al-Saqi Books, 1985). Martin S. Kramer, Islam Assembled: The Advent of the Muslim Congresses (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), pp. 132–3, 166–9. Jama¯‘at al-taqrı¯b bayn al-madha¯hib (The Society for the Rapprochement between the Schools of Islam) also exemplified Sunni domination of the pan-Islamic movement. See Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 121–207. In Kashf al-irtiya¯b fı¯ ittiba¯‘ Muh.ammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b, written in 1926, Muh.sı¯n al-Amin sought to counter these pro-Wahha¯bı¯ tendencies. See Emad Eldin Shahin, ‘Muhammad Rashı¯d Rida¯’s Perspectives on the West as Reflected in Al-Mana¯r’, MW 79:2 (April, 1989), pp. 113–32. See, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-A¯milı¯, al-H.us.u¯n al-manı¯‘a fı¯ radd ma¯ awradahu .sa¯h.ib al-mana¯r fı¯ h.aqq al-shı¯‘a [Protective Fortifications in Reaction to al-Mana¯r’s Author’s Allegations against the Shi‘a], (Beirut, 1985). On Rashı¯d Rid.a¯’s defence of the Wahha¯bı¯s see entry ‘Rashı¯d Rid.a¯’ in EI2 VIII, pp. 446–8. See William Shepard, ‘The Dilemma of a Liberal Some Political Implications in the Writings of the Egyptian Scholar, Ahmad Amin (1886–1954)’, Middle Eastern Studies 16:2 (May, 1980), pp. 84–97; Efraim Barak, ‘Ahmad Amin and Nationalism’, Middle Eastern Studies 43:2 (March, 2007), pp. 295–310. See Ah.mad Amı¯n, H.aya¯tı¯ (Beirut: Da¯r al-Kita¯b al-‘Arabı¯, 1971), pp. 236–43; Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 89–92, 95–102, 174–5. In its 1937 edition, the journal’s stated aims included: ‘. . .spreading knowledge and Arabic literature, illuminating the intellect, transmitting Western and Eastern sciences’. See al-‘Irfa¯n 14 (1937), p. 1; see also al-‘Irfa¯n 34 (Nov., 1947), pp. 2–4. On the journal’s aims see, al-‘Irfa¯n 14 (1937), p. 1; see also al-‘Irfa¯n 34 (Nov., 1947), pp. 2–4. Examples of popular scientific surveys included an article on the physiology of the blood [al-‘Irfa¯n 6:1 (1921)] and an article on the importance of hygiene in the home [al-‘Irfa¯n 16:1 (Aug., 1928)]. Al-‘Irfa¯n 34:1 (Nov., 1947). Ibid. ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma fı¯ ta’lı¯f al-umma (Beirut: Da¯r al-Zahra¯’, 1977, 7th Edition), pp. 7–8.

242

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56 – 60

40. For a similar debate, see Lara Deeb, An Enchanted Modern: Gender and Public Piety in Shi‘i Lebanon (Princeton, NJ; Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006). 41. Birgit Schaebler, ‘Civilizing Others: Global Modernity and the Local Boundaries (French/German, Ottoman and Arab) of Savagery’ in Birgit Schaebler and Leif Stenberg (eds.), Globalization and the Muslim World (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2004), pp. 3–29. 42. This was illustrated, for example, by Ju¯rjı¯ Zayda¯n, in his book History of Islamic Civilization. See also Donald Malcolm Reid, ‘Cairo University and the Orientalists’, IJMES 19:1 (Feb., 1987), pp. 51–75. 43. Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma, p. 8. 44. Kohlberg, Imam and Community in the Pre-Ghayba Period, pp. 25–53; Andrew J. Newman, The Formative Period of Twelver Shı¯‘ism: H . adı¯th as Discourse between Qum and Baghdad (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2000), pp. 69–93; Amir Arjomand, ‘The Consolation of Theology: Absence of the Imam and Transition from Chiliasm to Law in Shi‘ism’, Journal of Religion 76: 4 (Oct., 1996), pp. 548–71. 45. Stephanie Cronin (ed.), The Making of Modern Iran: State and Society under Riza Shah, 1921–1941 (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2003); Camron Michael Amin, The Making of the Modern Iranian Woman: Gender, State Policy, and Popular Culture, 1865–1946 (Gainesville, FL.: University of Florida, 2002), pp. 23–5, 81–3, 94–103. See also The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 7: From Nadir Shah to the Islamic Republic, pp. 741–2. 46. See Said Amir Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran (Oxford; New York, NY: et al: Oxford University Press, 1988), pp. 71– 90; Keddie, Roots of Revolution: An Interpretive History of Modern Iran (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996 ed.), pp. 132–69. 47. See for example Imam Khomeini, ‘Message to the Pilgrims (September 12, 1980)’ in Islam and Revolution: Writings and Declarations of Imam Khomeini; translated and annotated by Hamid Algar (Berkeley, CA Mizan Press, 1981), pp. 300–6. Al-Kalima¯t al-qis.a¯r: mawa‘iz. wa-h.ukm min kala¯m al-’ima¯m alkhumaynı¯ (Beirut: Da¯r al-Wası¯la, 1416/1995), p. 115. 48. See Al-H.ajj: fı¯’ ah.a¯dı¯th wa-baya¯na¯t al-ima¯m al-Khumayni (Tehran: Mu’assasat Tanz.¯ım wa-Nashr Tura¯th al-Ima¯m al-Khumayni, al-Shu’u¯n al-Dawliyya, 1997), pp. 47–8. 49. Al-Kalima¯t al-qis.a¯r, p. 133. 50. Ibid., p. 58. 51. Ibid., pp. 30, 52–3. 52. See Early, The Emergence of an Urban Za‘im, pp. 1–25. 53. See Eric Hobsbawm, ‘Introduction: Inventing traditions’ in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 1–14; Talal Asad, ‘Modern Power and the Reconfiguration of Religious Tradition’ Interview by Saba Mahmoud, Stanford Electronic Humanities Review 5:1 (Feb., 1996), pp. 1–23.

NOTES

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243

54. Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, As.l ‘al-Shı¯’a wa-us.u¯luha¯ (Najaf, 1962, 9th Edition), p. 66. 55. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ created this judicial equilibrium by extending the ijma¯‘ of the four Sunni schools of law to include a fifth Ja‘farı¯ madhhab, alongside the Sunni schools of law. Chapter 4. From fiqh to Shari‘a. 56. Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma, pp. 9–12. 57. On interpretations to this verse see, Muh.ammad ibn al-H.asan T.u¯sı¯, Tafsı¯r al-tibya¯n lil-T.u¯sı¯, Ah.mad H . abı¯b Qas˙¯ır al-‘A¯milı¯ (ed.), vol. 4 (Najaf: Maktabat al-Amı¯n, 1963–8), pp. 328–9; Jalal al-Din al-Suyu¯t.¯ı (1445–1505), al-Durr al-manthu¯r fı¯’l-tafsı¯r al-ma’thu¯r; wa-huwa mukhtas.ar tafsı¯r tarjuma¯n al-Qur’a¯n li-Jala¯l al-Dı¯n ‘Abd al-Rah.ma¯n ibn Abı¯ Bakr al-Suyu¯.tı¯, vol. 3 (Beirut: Da¯r al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya, 1421 [2002]), pp. 117–18; Ah.mad ibn ‘Abd al-H.alı¯m ibn Taymiyya (1263–1328), al-Tafsı¯r al-kabı¯r li-Taqı¯ al-Dı¯n ibn Taymiyya; ‘Abd al-Rah.man ‘Umayra (ed.), vol. 1 (Beirut: Da¯r al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya, 199-), pp. 251–2. Alexander Knysh, “‘Orthodoxy’ and ‘Heresy’ in Medieval Islam: An Essay in Reassessment” MW LXXXIII:1 (Jan., 1993), pp. 48–67. 58. Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma, pp. 13–15. 59. See Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, pp. 165–166. See also, ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, Ajwibat Masa¯’il Ja¯r Alla¯h (Sidon: Mat.ba‘at al-‘Irfa¯n, 1953), p. 5; Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, al-H.us.u¯n al-manı¯‘a fı¯ radd ma¯ awradahu .sa¯h.ib al-mana¯r (Beirut: Da¯r al-Zahrak, 1985), p. 47. 60. See entries ‘iman’ and ‘‘ilm’ in N.K. Singh and A.R. Agwan (eds.), Encyclopaedia of the Holy Qur’aˆn, vol. 2 (Delhi: Global Vision Publishing House, 2000), pp. 553–8. 61. On the Shi‘i elements of the us.u¯l and the furu¯’ see Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 176–80. 62. See ‘Abd al-H . usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, Ila¯ al-Majma‘ al-‘ilmı¯ al-‘arabı¯ fı¯ Dimashq (To the Arab Scientific Academy in Damascus) (Najaf: Mat.ba‘at al-Nu‘ma¯n, 1967). On Mu¯sawı¯’s relationship with Kurd ‘Alı¯ see Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 56–7; see also entry ‘Kurd ‘Alı¯’ in EI2 V, pp. 437–8; entry ‘Madjma‘ ‘Ilmı¯: (i) Arab Countries’ in EI 2 V, pp. 1090–4; Muhammad Kurd Ali, Islam and Arab Civilization (Cairo: [s.n.], 1934–6); Rachad Hamzaoui, L’Academie Arabe de Damas et Le Proble`me de La Modernization de La Langue Arabe (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1965). 63. These included denunciation of Imami Hadith, portrayal of the Shi‘i belief in the Imams as ghulu¯ and denial of the religious basis of Shi‘ism. See Mu¯sawı¯, Ila¯ al-majma‘. 64. Mu¯sawı¯, Ila¯ al-majma‘, p. 11. 65. Qa¯simı¯ discussed this concept in his book Mı¯za¯n al-jarh. wa’l-ta‘dı¯l (The Scale of Invalidating and Rectifying). 66. On the development of Qa¯simı¯’s Salafı¯ thought see Commins, Islamic Reform, pp. 44–88. 67. See Linda S. Walbridge (ed.), The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Instituation of the Marja‘ Taqlid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001).

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68. See Itzchak Weismann, ‘Between S.u¯fı¯ Reformism and Modernist Rationalism – A Reappraisal of the Origins of the Salafiyya from the Damascene Angle’, WI 41:2 (July, 2001), pp. 206–37. On the Sunni view of ijtiha¯d, see Wael B. Hallaq, ‘Was the Gate of Ijtihad Closed?’, IJMES 16:1 (March, 1984), pp. 3–41; Haim Gerber, State, Society and Law in Islam: Ottoman Law in Comparative Perspective (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1994); Lawrence Rosen, The Anthropology of Justice: Law as Culture in Islamic Society (Cambridge; New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 69. Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Al-Mura¯ja‘a¯t al-rı¯h˙a¯nı¯ya: [h˙iwa¯r fikrı¯, adabı¯, ‘aqa¯‘idı¯ bayna al-Ima¯m Ka¯shif al-Ghita¯’ wa-majmu¯‘a min al-‘ulama¯’ ˙ wa-al-udaba¯’: ya‘u¯du al-hiwa¯r ila¯ sanat 1913 M/1331 H], 2 vol. (Beirut: Da¯r ˙ al-Ha¯dı¯, 2003), pp. 5–6. 70. Muh.ammad Ba¯qr al-S.adr’s Da’wa for Islam can also be linked to a similar call the Muslim Brotherhood who raised the flag that “Islam is the solution” (al-isla¯m huwa al-h.all). 71. On Muh.ammad Ba¯qr al-S.adr’s thought, see Chibli Mallat, The Renewal of Islamic Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Mallat, ‘Religious Militancy in Contemporary Iraq: Muhammad Baqer as-Sadr and the Sunni-Shia Paradigm’, Third World Quarterly 10 (April, 1988), pp. 699–729. 72. Thus, for example, one of the pillars of early Shi‘i thought, Shaykh S.adu¯q Ibn Ba¯bawayh (d. 991–2) known as al-S.adu¯q, asserted the Imami belief in the principle of tawh.ı¯d. See Asaf A.A. Fyzee, A Shi‘ite Creed: A Translation of Risa¯latu’l-I‘tiqa¯da¯t of Abu¯ Ja‘far, Muh.ammad ibn ‘Alı¯ al-H.usayn, ibn Ba¯bwayhi al-Qummı¯ known as ash-Shaykh as.-S.adu¯q (London; New York, NY: Bombay: Oxford University Press, 1942). 73. Al-H.ajj, pp. 47–8. 74. See ibid., p. 52. 75. Ayatollah Rohollah Khomeini, Al-Rasa¯’il: tashtamilu ‘ala¯ maba¯hith al-la¯-darar ˙ ˙ wa-al-istisha¯b wa-al-ta‘a¯dul wa-al-tarjı¯h wa-al-ijtiha¯d wa-al-taqlı¯d wa-al˙ ˙˙ taqiyya, Vol. II, (Qum: al-Matba‘ah al-‘Ilmiyya, 1385- [1965-]), pp. 4–5, 93– ˙ 104. 76. Al-Kalima¯t al-qis.a¯r, p. 52. 77. Ibid., p. 54. 78. Ibid., p. 55. 79. Adherence to core Imami beliefs was also reiterated by Kha¯lis.¯ı and Ka¯shif alGhit.a¯’. See Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯’a, pp. 58–66; Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, As.l al-Shı¯‘a, pp. 133–41. 80. Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma, pp. 46–8. 81. Shanahan, The Shi‘a of Lebanon (London; New York, NY: Tauris Academic Studies, 2005); Baaklini, Legislative and Political Development: Lebanon, 1842– 1972, pp. 82–4, 109–12. 82. Tarif Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).

NOTES

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83. Robinson, Islamic Historiography, pp. 129–130; Bernard Lewis and P.M. Halt (eds.), Historians of the Middle East (London; New York, NY; Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1962), pp. 14–17. 84. Thus for example Muh.sin al-Amı¯n wrote a history of Jabal ‘A¯mil in an attempt to assert the local Shi‘is belonging to area and their Arab credentials. See Muhsin ˙ al-Husayni¯ al-‘A¯milı¯, Khitat Jabal ‘A¯mil (Beirut: Matba‘at al-Insa¯f, 1961). ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 85. See Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma, pp. 96–142. 86. Ibid., p. 153. 87. Ehsan Yar-Shater (ed.), The History of al-T.abarı¯, vol. XI: The Challenge to the Empires; translated and annotated by Khalid Yahya Blankinship (New York, NY: State University of New York Press, 1993), p. 129; Crone, Medieval Islamic Political Thought, pp. 18–19. 88. On the Shi‘i grievances against ‘Uthma¯n, see Wilferd Madelung, The Succession to Muh.ammad, pp. 78–140. 89. Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma, p. 153. 90. On ‘A¯’isha’s involvement in these events, see Madelung, The Succession to Muh.ammad, pp. 142–76. 91. See Tarif Khalidi, ‘The Battle of the Camel: Trauma, Reconciliation and Memory’, in Angelika Neuwirth and Andreas Pflitsch (eds.), Crisis and Memory in Islamic Societies; Proceedings of the third Summer Academy of the Working Group Modernity and Islam held at the Orient Institute of the German Oriental Society in Beirut (Beirut: Ergon Verlag Wu¨rzburg, 2001), pp. 153–63. On the differences between Sunni and Shi‘i views of the Companions, see Etan Kohlberg, ‘Some Ima¯mı¯ Shı¯‘ı¯ Views on the S.ah.a¯ba’ in Etan Kohlberg, Belief and Law in Imami Shi‘ism, chapter IX (Aldershot: Variorum, 1991). 92. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, al-Shı¯‘a bayna al-h.aqa’iq wa’l-awha¯m, p. 59. 93. Ibid., pp. 59–61. A similar position towards ‘A¯’isha appeared in Mu¯sawı¯’s writings see Mu¯sawı¯, al-fus.u¯l al-muhimma, pp. 156–57. 94. Fu’ad Jabali, The Companions of the Prophet: A Study of Geographical Distribution and Political Alignments (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 67–83; Muhammad Zubayr Siddiqi, H.adı¯th Literature: Its Origins, Development and Special Features (Cambridge: The Islamic Texts Society, 1993), pp. 14–20; Khalidi, The Battle of the Camel; Hugh Kennedy, The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates: The Islamic Near East from the Sixth to the Eleventh Century (London; New York, NY: Longman, 1986), pp. 69–75. 95. Kohlberg, Some Ima¯mı¯ Shı¯‘ı¯ Views on the S.ah.a¯ba. 96. Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Jannat al-ma’wan (Beirut: Da¯r al-Us.u¯l, 1988), p. 127. 97. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, al-Shı¯‘a bayna al-h.aqa’iq wa’l-awha¯m, p. 49. See also, ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, Abu¯ Hurayra (Najaf: al-Mat.ba‘a al-H . aydariyya, 1964, 3rd edition), p. 7. 98. Siddiqi, H.adı¯th Literature, pp. 14–20.

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74 –80

99. For more on Sunni criticism of Hadith, see G. H. A. Juynboll, The Authenticity of the Tradition Literature: Discussions in Modern Egypt (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1969). On Western Orientalists’ contribution to this discourse, see Ignaz Goldziher, ‘Disputes over the Status of H . adı¯th in Islam’ in Harald Motzki (ed.), H.adı¯th: Origins and Development (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), pp. 55–66. 100. Ah.mad Amı¯n and also Mud.ammad Tawfı¯q S.idqı¯, who was an associate of Rashı¯d Rid.a, voiced strong criticism against Abu¯ Hurayra in regards to the large number of questionable traditions attributed to him. Mawdu¯dı¯ also questioned Abu¯ Hurayra’s integrity. 101. Mu¯sawı¯, Abu¯ Hurayra, p. 9. 102. Ibid., pp. 9–16, 54–174. 103. Ibid., pp. 20–6, 45–7. 104. Ibid., p. 6. 105. See for example Mu¯sawı¯, al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma, pp. 13–15. 106. See Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-A¯milı¯, Maja¯lis al-saniyya fı¯ mana¯qib wa-masa¯’ib al-‘it.ra¯ al-nabawiyya (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ta‘a¯ruf, 1978, 6th edition), pp. 6–7. 107. Ayatollah Rohollah Khomeini, Kashf al-asra¯r (Tehran: Nashr-i Zafar, [197-?], ˙ pp. 109–114. 108. Ibid., pp. 114–120. 109. Ibid., pp. 109–120. See also Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought, pp. 32–3. 110. See Hava Lazarus-Yafeh, ‘The Shı¯‘ı¯ Aspect of Khumaynı¯’s Political Theory,’ according to his book ‘The Islamic Government’ (Al-H.uku¯ma al-isla¯miyya, Beirut 1979)’, Hamizrah Hehadash (The New East), XXIX: 1–4, (1980), pp. 99–106. 111. See Ayatollah al-Khomeini, al-H.uku¯ma al-isla¯miyya (Beirut: Da¯r al-T.ali‘a lil-T.aba¯‘a wa’l nashr, 1979), pp. 27, 33, 59–62. 112. ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, Kita¯b al-mura¯ja‘a¯t (Najaf: Da¯r alNu‘ma¯n, 1963, 6th edition), pp. 51, 72–3, 78–81. 113. See Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 51–81. See also, Kramer, Islam Assembled, p. 132. 114. For a similar portrayal of the change in the Shi‘a’s image, see Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, As.l al-Shı¯‘a, p. 32. 115. On the relationship between Mu¯sawı¯ and Rashı¯d Rid.a¯, see Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 57–8. 116. See Mu¯sawı¯, Kita¯b al-mura¯ja‘a¯t, p. 37. 117. These traditions included, for example, the Hadith of the Two Weighty Matters (al-thaqalayn): ‘I have left among you the book of God and the people of my house (ahl baytı¯), adhere to them and you will not go astray’. See Mu¯sawı¯, Kita¯b al-mura¯ja‘a¯t, p. 49. See also Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 16–17. 118. On the tradition of Ghadı¯r Khum, and the differences between Sunni and Shi‘i interpretations of this event, see Dabashi, Authority in Islam, pp. 98–9. 119. Mu¯sawı¯, Kita¯b al-mura¯ja‘a¯t, pp. 152–7.

NOTES

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120. See for example Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Jannat al-ma’wan, pp. 121–3; Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Maja¯lis al-saniyya, pp. 121–4; Mu¯sawı¯, al-Nas..s wa’l-Ijtiha¯d, pp. 76–81. 121. See H.asan al-Amı¯n (ed.), ‘Khut.bat al-kita¯b’ in Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-A¯milı¯, A‘ya¯n al-shı¯‘a; H.asan al-Amı¯n (ed.), vol. 1 (Beirut, 1998, 5th edition), pp. 13– 16. See also ‘Arabic Biographical Writing’ in M.J.L. Young, J. D. Latham and R.B. Serjeant (eds.), Religion, Learning and Science in the ‘Abbasid Period (Cambridge; New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 168–87. 122. See ‘Khut.bat al-kita¯b’, pp. 13–16. See also M.J.L. Young, J.D. Latham and R.B. Serjeant (eds.), ‘Arabic Biographical Writing’ in Religion, Learning and Science in the ‘Abbasid Period (Cambridge; New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 168–87.

Chapter 3 Modern Shi‘i Theology: Pursuing a Rational Cross-Sectarian Worldview 1. Muh.ammad H.usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Qad.ı¯yat filast.ı¯n al-kubra¯: fı¯ khut.a¯b Muh.ammad al-H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ (Najaf, 1969), p. 149. 2. In the fourteenth century, H.asan ibn Yu¯suf Mut.ahhar al-H . illı¯ – known as ‘Alla¯ma (d. 726/1325) – wrote a fiery defence of the Shi‘i Imamate doctrine in a treatise called Minhaj al-kara¯ma fı¯ ma‘rifat al-ima¯ma (The Noble Method of Acknowledging the Imamate). In a reply entitled Minhaj al-sunna al-nabawiyya fı¯ naqd. kala¯m al-shı¯‘a al-qadariyya (The Prophetic Sunni Path of Refuting Qadari Shi‘ism), Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328) sought to counter H . illı¯’s work. See Ibn al-Mut.ahhar al-H.illı¯, ‘Kita¯b minhaj al-kara¯ma fı¯ ma‘rifat al-ima¯ma li ibn al-Mut.ahhar al-H.illı¯’ in Ibn Taymiyyah, Minhaj alsunna al-nabawiyya fı¯ naqd. kala¯m al-shı¯‘a al-qadariyya (Cairo: Maktabat Da¯r al‘Uru¯ba, 1962). 3. In many cases, the modern adoption of Ibn Taymiyya by radical Muslim groups reflected a misinterpretation of this scholar’s complex theological, judicial and political understanding of Islam. See Yossef Rapoport and Shahab Ahmed (eds.), Ibn Taymiyya and his Times (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 4. See A. Albert Kudsi-Zadeh, ‘Islamic Reform in Egypt: Some Observations of the Role of Afgha¯nı¯’, MW LXI: 1 (Jan., 1971), pp. 1–12; Nikki. R. Keddie, ‘Islamic Philosophy and Islamic Modernism: The Case of Sayyid Jama¯l al-Dı¯n al-Afgha¯nı¯’, British Journal of Persian Studies 6 (1968), pp. 53–6. 5. See Muh.ammad b. ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b, Majmu¯‘at al-tawh.ı¯d: al-ma‘ru¯f bimajmu¯‘at al-tawh.ı¯d al-najdı¯yya: majmu¯‘at kutub wa-rasa¯’il (Riyadh: al-Ama¯na al-‘a¯mma lil-ih.tifa¯l bi mi’at ‘a¯m ‘ala¯ ta’sı¯s al-mamlaka, 1999). See also Guider Steinberg, ‘Jihadi-Salafism and the Shi‘is: Remarks about the Intellectual Roots of Anti-Shi‘ism’, in Roel Meijer, (ed.), Global Salafism: Islam’s New

248

6.

7.

8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

NOTES

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84 –86

Religious Movement (New York, NY; West Sussex: UK: Columbia University Press, 2009); Entry ‘Wahha¯biyya’ in EI2 XI, pp. 39–47. See entry ‘Tawh.¯ıd’ in EI2 X, p. 389; Ignaz Goldziher, Introduction to Islamic Theology and Law (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), pp. 85– 100; Richard MacDonough Frank, Beings and their Attributes: The Teaching of the Basrian School of the Mu‘tazila in the Classical Period (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1978). On the Shi‘i adherence to tawh.ı¯d, see Asaf A.A. Fyzee, A Shi‘ite Creed: A Translation of Risa¯latu’l-I‘tiqa¯da¯t of Abu¯ Ja‘far, Muh.ammad ibn ‘Alı¯ al-H.usayn, ibn Ba¯bwayhi al-Qummı¯ Known ash-Shaykh as.-S.adu¯q (London; New York, NY: Bombay: Oxford University Press, 1942). On the Muwahhidu¯n movement, see Mercedes Garcı´a-Arenal, Messianism and ˙˙ Puritanical Reform: Mahdı¯s of the Muslim West; translated from Spanish by Martin Beagles (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill, 2006); Vincent J. Cornell, ‘Understanding is the Mother of Ability: Responsibility and Action in the Doctrine of Ibn Tu¯mart’, SI 66 (1987). See Goldziher, Introduction to Islamic Theology and Law, pp. 85–100; Frank, Beings and their Attributes; Wilferd Madelung, ‘Imamism and Mu‘tazilite Theology’ in Le Shıˆ‘ism Imaˆmite; Colloque de Strasbourg [6–9 mai 1968], (Paris: presses Universitaires de France, 1970), pp. 13–30; James E. Royster, ‘Configuration of tawh.¯ıd in Islam’ Muslim World 77:1 (Jan., 1987), pp. 28–42. See, for example, Ju¨rgen Wasim Frembgen, Journey to God: Sufis and Dervishes in Islam; translated from German by Jane Ripken (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). See Alexander Knysh, “Orthodoxy’ and ‘Heresy’ in Medieval Islam: An Essay in Reassessment’, MW LXXXIII: 1 (Jan., 1993), pp. 48–67; Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought, pp. 37–9. On Mulla¯ S.adra¯’s ideas, see Zailan Moris, Revelation, Intellectual Intuition and Reason in the Philosophy of Mulla Sadra: An Anlysis of the al-Hikmah al-’Arshiyya (London; New York, NY: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003). See Alexander Knysh, ‘Irfan Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy of Islamic Mystical Philsophy’, Middle East Journal, 46:4 (Autumn, 1992), pp. 631–53. See M. Montgomery Watt, Islamic Philosophy and Theology, Part Four: The Period of Darkness (1250–1900), (2009 edition), pp. 147–72. See Kudsi-Zadeh, Islamic Reform in Egypt: Some observations of the Role of Afgha¯nı¯, pp. 1–12, Keddie, Islamic Philosophy and Islamic Modernism, pp. 53–6. See Nikkie R. Keddie, An Islamic Response to Imperialism: Political and Religious Writings of Sayyid Jama¯l ad-Dı¯n ‘al-Afgha¯nı¯’ (Berkeley, CA: Los Angeles, CA; London: University of California Press, 1983 edition); M.A. Zaki Badawi, The Reformers of Egypt (London: Croom Helm, 1976), pp. 27–31; Malcolm H. Kerr, Political and Legal Theories of Muhammad ’Abduh and Rashid Rida (The Gustave E. von Grunebaum Center for Near Eastern Studies, 1966).

NOTES

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249

17. On al-Afgha¯nı¯’’s origins, see Elie Kedourie, Afghani and ‘Abduh: An Essay on Religious Unbelief and Political Activism in Modern Islam (London; Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 1977 edition), pp. 6–8. 18. See Muh.ammad ‘Abduh, Risa¯lat al-tah.wı¯d, Bassa¯m ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b al-Ja¯bı¯ (ed.) (Limassol, Cyprus: al-Jaffa¯n wa’l-Ja¯bı¯ lil-T.iba¯‘a wa’l-Nashr, Beirut: Da¯r Ibn H . azm, 2001). See also, Ibrahim M. Abu-Rabi, ‘Modern Trends in Islamic Education’, Religious Education 84:2 (Spring, 1989), pp. 186–200. 19. Thus, for example, Rashı¯d Rid.a¯ published pro-Wahha¯bı¯ articles in his al-Mana¯r journal. See entry ‘Rashı¯d Rid.a¯’ in EI2 VIII, pp. 446–8. 20. On Iqbal’s thought, see, for example, Sir Mohammad Iqbal, The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam (London: Oxford University Press, 1934). 21. Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ glorified the figure of Iqbal as a reformist who combined a spiritual perception of Islam with an activist model of religion. See Ali Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian: A Political Biography of Ali Shari‘ati (London, New York, NY: I.B.Tauris, 1998), pp. 246–9. Also, Mut.ahharı¯ endorsed Iqbal’s thought. See Ayatullah Murtaza Mutahhari, Fundamentals of Islamic Thought: God, Man and the Universe; translated from the Persain by R. Campbell (Berkeley, CA: Mizan Press, 1985), p. 34. 22. See Iqbal, The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam. 23. See Syed Akbar Hyder, ‘Iqbal and Karbala: Re-reading the Episteme of Martyrdom for Poetics of Appropriation’, Cultural Dynamics 13:3 (Nov., 2001), pp. 339–62. On the Sufi veneration of the Prophet’s family, see Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press, 1975), pp. 82–3, 199–227. 24. At the turn of the twentieth century, Ibn Saud revived the Wahha¯bı¯ ideology while his warriors, the Ikhwan, carried out raids against the Shi‘i populations of Saudi Arabia and Iraq. See Madawi al-Rasheed, A History of Saudi Arabia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 59–70; Steinberg, Jihadi-Salafism and the Shi‘is: Remarks about the Intellectual Roots of Anti-Shi‘ism. 25. Thus, for example, Rashı¯d Rid.a¯’ displayed support for the Wahha¯bı¯s through al-Mana¯r. In response, Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n wrote the following treatise: Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-‘A¯milı¯, Al-H.us.u¯n al-manı¯‘a fı¯ radd ma¯ awradahu .sa¯h.ib al-mana¯r fı¯ h. aqq al-shı¯ ‘a. (Beirut: Da¯ r al-Zahra¯ ’, 1985); Kashf al-irtiya¯ b fı¯ ittiba¯ ‘ Muh.ammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b (Qum: Mu’assasah-i Ansa¯riyya¯n, [199-]). ˙ 26. On these movements, see Nehemia Levtzion and John O. Voll. (eds.), Eighteenth-Century Renewal and Reform in Islam (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1987); Commins, Islamic Reform; Youssef M. Choueiri, Islamic Fundamentalism (London: Pinter Publishers, 1990), pp. 20–35. 27. See Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, ‘Falsafat al-tawh.¯ıd wa’l nubuwwa’ in Falsafa Isla¯miyya (Da¯r wa-maktabat al-Hila¯l; Da¯r al-Jawa¯d, 1993), pp. 17–24. 28. See Nasser I.A. al-Tuwaim, ‘Discussion of the Concept of Bid‘a from Early Islam up till the Twelfth Century’ (Ph.D. diss., Lancaster University, 1992). 29. On the evolvement of the Shaykhi movement, see Denis McEoin, ‘From Shaykhism to Babism’ (Ph.D. diss., Cambridge University, 1979); Abbas

250

30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

35.

36. 37. 38.

39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

NOTES

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90 – 92

Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movment in Iraq, 1844–1850 (Ithaca, NY: London: Cornell University Press, 1989), pp. 48–69. See entry ‘Shaykhiyya’ in EI2 IX, pp. 403–5. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 190–2; See also Von Joseph Eliash, ‘On the Genesis and Development of the Twelver-Shı¯‘ı¯ Three-Tenet Shaha¯dah’, Der Islam 47 (1971), pp. 265–72. Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, Khura¯fa¯t shaykhiyya wa-kufriyya¯t irsha¯d al‘awa¯mm aw dasa¯’is al-qis.as. fı¯ I¯ra¯n (Beirut: Da¯r al-Fa¯ra¯bı¯, 1998), pp. 170, 189– 192, 409–10. See Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Thawrat al-tanzı¯h: risa¯lat al-tanzı¯h, talı¯ha¯ mawa¯qif minha¯ wa-a¯ra¯’ fı¯’l-Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Muh.ammad al-Qa¯sim al-H . usayni al-Najafı¯ (ed.) (Beirut: Da¯r al-Jadı¯d, 1996, originally written in 1927). See also Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Maja¯lis al-saniyya fı¯ mana¯qib wa-masa¯ib al-‘it.ra¯ alnabawiyya (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ta‘a¯ruf, 1978, 6th edition). In essence, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n continued similar ideas presented by the Shi‘i Iraqi reformist Hibat al-Dı¯n al-H.usaynı¯ Shaharasta¯nı¯ in the early century. See Orit Bashkin, ‘The Iraqi Afghanis and ‘Abduhs: Debate over Reform among Shi‘ite and Sunni ‘Ulama’ in Interwar Iraq’ in Meir Hatina (ed.) Guardians of Faith in Modern Times:’ ‘Ulama’ in the Middle East (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp. 141–70. The ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ Ceremonies were popularised during the tenth century by the Buyids, who ordered a public day of mourning on the tenth of Muh.aram. See Mahmoud Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering in Islam: A Study of the Devotional Aspects of ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ in Twelver Shı¯’ism (The Hague; Paris; New York, NY: Mouton Publishers, 1978), pp. 148–63. Chelkowski (ed.), Ta‘ziyeh: Ritual and Drama in Iran, pp. 255–70. Mazzaoui, Shi‘ism and Ashura in South Lebanon, pp. 234–5; Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 142–55. Sabrina Mervin, “‘Ashura’: Some Remarks on Ritual Practices in Different Shi‘i Communities (Lebanon and Syria)”, in Allessandro Monsutti, Silvia Naef and Farian Sabahi (eds.), The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture & Political History (Leiden; Boston, MA; Ko¨ln: Brill, 2001), pp. 79–86. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Thawrat al-tanzı¯h, pp. 21–3. Ibid., p. 27. See Itzchak Weismann, ‘The Politics of Popular Religion: Sufis, Salafis and Muslim Brothers in Twentieth-Century Hamah’, IJMES 37:1 (Feb., 2005), pp. 39–58. See Joseph Tamney, ‘Modernization and Religious Purification: Islam in Indonesia’, Review of Religious Research 22:2 (Dec., 1980), pp. 207–18. His supporters included Sayyid Abu¯’l-H . asan al-Is.faha¯nı¯, who was the supreme mujtahid in Najaf until his death in 1946, and Sayyid Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ Qazwı¯nı¯ in Basra. Still, most Shi‘i clerics rejected Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s attack on these traditions, including some reform-minded ‘ulama¯’ such as Ka¯shif

NOTES

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55.

56.

TO PAGES

92 –96

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al-Ghit.a¯’. Werber Ende, ‘The Flagellation of Muh.arram and the Shi‘ite ‘Ulama¯” Der Islam 55:1 (Jan., 1978), pp. 19–36. Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, Sab’a wa‘ishru¯n shahra¯n fı¯ T.ihra¯n: musha¯hada¯t; translated and edited by Ha¯dı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı (Beirut: Da¯r al-Fa¯ra¯bı¯, 1998), pp. 66–8. Deeb, An Enchanted Modern, pp. 131–58. See Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’s response to Muh.sin al-Amı¯n’s publication: Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, al-A¯ya¯t al-bayyina¯t fı¯ qam‘al-bid‘a wa’l-d.ala¯la¯t (Najaf: al-Sayyid Muhammad al-Sahha¯f al-‘A¯milı¯ al-Kutubı¯, 1926/7). ˙ ˙ ˙˙ Ibid., pp. 9–10, 21–2. See Batatu, The Old Social Classes, pp. 694–7. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Khurafa¯t al-shaykhiyya, p. 445. See also Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Jannat al-ma’wan, pp. 177–8. A similar depiction of Imam H . usayn was promoted by Mughniyya. See Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, al-Maja¯lis al-h.usayniyya (Beirut: Da¯r al-Tayya¯r al-Jadı¯d; Da¯r al-Jawa¯d, 1984), p. 22. This process began with the renowned Shi‘i scholar Na¯s.ir al-Dı¯n al-T.u¯sı¯ (597/1201–672/1274) and continued with his disciple ‘Alla¯ma al-H.illı¯ (648/1250–51–726/1325). On the development of Shi‘i philosophy, see Henry Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy (London: Kegan Paul International, 1964), pp. 319–63. Ian G. Barbour, Ian G. Religion and Science: Historical and Contemporary Issues, A Revised and Expanded Edition of Religion in an Age of Science (London: SCM Press, 1998), pp. 84–9. See Carl W. Ernst, Following Muhammad: Rethinking Islam in the Contemporary World (Chapel Hill, NC; London: University of North Carolina Press, 2003), pp. 151–62. See, for example, Muh.sin al-‘Amı¯n, Rih.la¯t al-Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n. In comparison, small numbers of Sunnis had travelled to Europe by the mid-nineteenth century and several became acquainted with Western culture and development. See for example, Rifa¯’ al-T.aht.awı¯, Takhlı¯.s al-ibriz ila¯ talkhı¯.s ba¯rı¯z.; French l’or de Paris: Relation de Voyage: 1826–1831 (Paris: Sindbad, 1988); Muh.ammad as.-S.affa¯r, Disorienting Encounters: Travels of a Moroccan Scholar in France in 1845–1846: the Voyage of Muh.ammad as.-S.affa¯r; translated and edited by Susan Gilson Miller (Berkeley, CA; Oxford: University of California Press, 1992); Bernard Lewis, The Muslim Discovery of Europe (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1982), pp. 82–134, 221–38. Thus, for instance, Muh.sin al-Amı¯n referred to the lighting up of the shrine city of Najaf only in the 1930s. Similarly, Kha¯lis.¯ı debated bloodletting only in 1951, many years after the practice had been abandoned in the West. See Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Rih.la¯t al-Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n; Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 278–9; Kha¯lis.¯ı, Khura¯fa¯t al-shaykhiyya, p. 418. Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, al-firdaws al-a‘la¯, ta’lı¯f Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’; Muh.ammad ‘Alı¯ al-Qa¯dı¯ al-T.aba¯t.aba¯’ı¯ (ed.) (Tabrı¯z: Mat.ba‘at Rida¯’ı¯, 1953; 2nd edition), pp. 67–8.

252

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TO PAGES

96 – 98

57. On of these two Muslim currents of thought, See Osman Bakar, Classification of Knowledge in Islam: A Study in Islamic Philosophies of Science (Cambridge: Islamic Text Society, 1998). 58. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Kashf al-irtiya¯b; Muh.ammad H.usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Naqd. fata¯wa¯ al-wahha¯biyya, al-Sayyid Ghiya¯th Tu‘ma (ed.) (Qum: Muʾassasat A¯l al-Bayt li-Ihya¯’ al-Tura¯th, 1995, originally published in Najaf: mat.ba‘at al˙ ‘alawiyya, 1926), pp. 491–4. 59. Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Kashf al-irtiya¯b, pp. 491–4. 60. See ibid., pp. 97–8. 61. For comparison, see Bassam Tibi, ‘The Worldview of Sunni Arab Fundamentalists: Attitudes toward Modern Science and Technology’ in Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby (eds.), Fundamentalism and Society: Reclaiming the Sciences, the Family, and Education (Chicago, IL; London: University of Chicago Press, 1993), pp. 73–102; Christopher A. Furlow, ‘The Islamization of Knowledge: Philosophy, Legitimation, and Politics’, Social Epistemology 10:3–4 (1996), pp. 259–71; Sadik J. al-Azm, ‘Islam and the Science-Religion Debates in Modern Times’, European Review 15:3 (2007), pp. 283–95. 62. On Shaykhi mysticism, see Juan R.I. Cole, ‘Casting Away the Self: The Mysticism of Shaykh Ah.sa¯’ı¯’ in Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds.), The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture & Political History (Leiden; Boston, MA: Ko¨ln: Brill, 2001), pp. 25–37. 63. On these movements’ progressive appeal, see Mangol Bayat-Philip, ‘Tradition and Change in Iranian Socio-Religious Thought’ in Michael E. Bonine and Nikki R. Keddie (eds.), Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Continuity and Change (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1981), pp. 42–7. See also Peter Smith, The Babi and Baha’i Religions, pp. 86–94. 64. Shaykhism added ‘the fourth principle’; or the notion of the ‘Perfect Shi‘i’ to their acceptance of the three fundamentals of Shi‘ism – the unity of God, the Prophethood of Muh.ammad and the Imamate of ‘Alı¯. See Vahid Rafati, ‘The Development of Shaykhı¯ Thought in Shı¯‘ı¯ Islam’ (Ph.D. diss., University of California, 1979), pp. 69–89. 65. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Khura¯fa¯t al-shaykhiyya, p. 418. See also, Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 14–15. 66. In his book al-Hay’a wa’l-Isla¯m (Astronomy and Islam), Shahrista¯nı¯ argued that modern astronomy provides proof of the hidden secrets of Islamic teaching. See Hibat al-Dı¯n al-H.usaynı¯ al-Shaharista¯nı¯, al-Hay’a wa’l-Isla¯m (Najaf: Da¯r al-Thaqa¯fa, 1961). 67. See Kha¯lis.¯ı, Khura¯fa¯t al-shaykhiyya, pp. 229, 309–10, 327–32. 68. Here Kha¯lis.¯ı was echoing ideas already articulated earlier in the Sunni world. See Mansoor Moaddel, Nationalism and Fundamentalism: Episode and Discourse (Chicago, IL; London: The University of Chicago Press, 1995), pp. 197–220. 69. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 14–30.

NOTES

TO PAGES

99 –101

253

70. Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, Falsafa Isla¯miyya (Da¯r wa-maktabat al-Hila¯l; Da¯r al-Jawa¯d, 1993 edition), p. 42. See also Neal C. Gillespie, Charles Darwin and the Problem of Creation (Chicago, IL; London: The University of Chicago Press, 1979), pp. 1–18, 134–156. See also, David B. Wilson, ‘Shaping Modern Perspectives: Science and Religion in the Age of Darwin’ in David B. Wilson (ed.), Did the Devil Make Darwin Do It? Modern Perspectives on the CreationEvolution Controversy (Iowa State, IA: The Iowa State University Press, 1983), pp. 5–17. 71. On the development of al-Muqtat.af, see Ami Ayalon, The Press in the Arab Middle East: A History (New York, NY: Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 33–4; Azzam S. Tamimi, ‘The Renaissance of Islam’, Daedalus (Summer, 2003), pp. 51–8. 72. See Marwa Elshakry, ‘Darwin’s Legacy in the Arab East: Science, Religion and Politics, 1870–1914’ (Ph.D. diss., Princeton University, 2003); Marwa Elshakry, ‘The Gospel of Science and American Evangelism in Late Ottoman Beirut’, Past & Present 196 (Aug., 2007), pp. 173–214. 73. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 144–7; II, pp. 46–7, 97. On the Iranian discourse on this topic, see Cyrus Schayegh, ‘Hygiene, Eugenics, Genetics and the Perception of Demographic Crisis in Iran, 1910s–1940s’, Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 13:3 (Fall, 2004), pp. 335–361; Cyrus Schayegh, ‘A Sound Mind Lives in a Healthy Body: Texts and Contexts in the Iranian Modernists’ Scientific Discourse of Health, 1910s–40s’, IJMES 37:2 (May, 2005), pp. 167–88; see also William H. Schneider, ‘The Eugenics Movement in France 1890–1940’ in Mark B. Adams (ed.), The Wellborn Science: Eugenics in Germany, France, Brazil and Russia (New York, NY: Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), pp. 69–109. 74. Kha¯lis.¯ı also relied on the French astronomer and spiritualist Camille Flammarion (1842–1925) to strengthen belief in the power of the creator. Flammarion was probably attractive to Kha¯lis.¯ı in his effort to establish a scientific basis for Shi‘ism due to Flammarion’s belief in the transmigration of souls and communication between the living and the dead. See Tibi, The Worldview of Sunni Arab Fundamentalists; Ernst, Following Muhammad, pp. 160–1; Michael J. Crowe, The Extraterrestrial Life Debate 1750–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 378–9. See also Camille Flammarion, Death and its Mystery; translated by E.S. Brooks (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1922–3); Camille Flammarion, La Pluralite´ des Mondes Habite´s (Paris, 1867, 10th edition). 75. Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, Sab’a wa-’ishru¯n shahra¯n fı¯ T.ihra¯n: musha¯hada¯t; translated and edited by Ha¯dı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı (Beirut: Da¯r al-Fa¯ra¯bı¯, 1998), pp. 70–1. 76. Alı¯ Sharı¯‘atı¯, ‘The World-View of Tawhid’, in On the Sociology of Islam: Lectures by Ali Shari‘ati; translated from the Persian by Hamid Algar (Berkeley, CA: Mizan Press, 1979), pp. 82–7.

254

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101 –108

77. See Machlis, ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯’atı¯ and the Notion of tawh.¯ıd: Re-exploring the Question of God’s Unity’, 183–211; Shahrough Akhavi, ‘Islam Politics and Society in the Thought of Ayatullah Khomeini, Ayatullah Taliqani and Ali Shariati’, Middle Eastern Studies, 24:4 (1988), pp. 404–31. 78. Ruhollah Khomeini; Mu’assasat Nashr wa-Tanzı¯m Tura¯th al-Ima¯m al-Khumaynı¯, al-Kalima¯t al-qisa¯r: mawa¯‘iz wa-hikam min kala¯m al-Ima¯m ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Khumaynı¯ (Beirut: Da¯r al-Wası¯la, 1995), pp. 23–31. 79. See Tibi, The Worldview of Sunni Arab Fundamentalists, pp. 73–102. 80. Mughniyya, Falsafa Isla¯miyya, pp. 22–46. 81. Ibid., pp. 60–1. See also Moris, Revelation, Intellectual Intuition and Reason in the Philosophy of Mulla Sadra, pp. 116–36; entry ’Mulla¯ S.adra¯ Shı¯razı¯’ EI2 VII, pp. 547–8. 82. See Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr, al-Usus al-mantiqiyya lil-istiqra¯’: dira¯sa jadı¯da ˙ lil-istiqra¯’ tastahdif iktisha¯f al-asa¯s al-mantiqı¯ al-mushtarak lil-‘ulu¯m al-tabi¯‘iyya ˙ ˙ wa-lil-ı¯ma¯n bi-Alla¯h (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ta‘a¯ruf lil-Matbu¯‘a¯t, 1982), pp. 5–9, ˙ 469–70; Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr, al-Fata¯wa al-wa¯diha: wafqan li-madhhab ˙ ˙ ahl al-bayt (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ta‘a¯ruf lil-Matbu¯‘a¯t, 1983), pp. 23–39, 40–8. ˙ 83. Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, p. 193. 84. See Chibli Mallat, ‘Religious Militancy in Contemporary Iraq: Muhammad Baqer as-Sadr and the Sunni-Shia Paradigm’, Third World Quarterly 10: 2 (1988), pp. 699–729. See also Muhammad Baqir As-Sadr, Our Philosophy; translation, introduction and notes by Shams C. Inati, foreword by Seyyed Hossein Nasr (London; New York, NY: The Muhammadi Trust in association with KPI, 1987). 85. See Machlis, Alı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and the Notion of tawh.ı¯d. 86. Mahmu¯d Ta¯liqa¯nı¯; Murtaz.a¯ Mutahharı¯; ‘Alı¯ Shari¯‘atı¯, Jiha¯d and Shaha¯dat: ˙ ˙ ˙ Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam, Mehdi Abedi and Gary Legenhausen (ed.) (Houston, TX: Institute for Research and Islamic Studies, 1986), pp. 107–11. 87. Ruhollah Khomeini, al-Hajj fı¯ aha¯dı¯th wa-baya¯na¯t al-Ima¯m al-Khumaynı¯ ˙ ˙ (Tehran: Mu’assasa Tanz¯ım wa-Nashr Tura¯th al-Ima¯m al-Khumaynı¯, al˙ Shu’u¯n al-Duwaliyya, 1997), p. 53. 88. See Knysh, Irfan Revisited, pp. 631–53. 89. See Saı¨d Amir Arjomand, ‘The Consolation of Theology: Absence of the Imam and Transition from Chiliasm to Law in Shi‘ism’, Journal of Religion 76:4 (Oct., 1996), pp. 548–71. 90. Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi‘ite Iran from the beginning to 1890 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1987 edition), pp. 43–5, 66–84, 109–19; Arjomand, ‘The Consolation of Theology’, pp. 548–71. 91. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, As.l al-Shı¯‘a, pp. 133–9. 92. Ibid., p. 139. 93. ‘Ma¯ huwa al-mawt’, al-Muqtat.af (1 March, 1934), pp. 304–9.

NOTES

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108 –112

255

94. See ‘Al-T.ara¯’iq al-mutaba‘a fı¯’l-asbba¯b wa-‘itta¯lat al-h.aya¯t’, al-Muqtat.af ˙˙ (1 March, 1935); ‘al-‘Ilm wa-ih.ya¯’ al-mawtı¯’, al-Muqt.ataf (1 April, 1935), pp. 461–6. 95. Journals from around the Muslim world were already being distributed in Najaf at the beginning of the twentieth century, following the Young Turk Revolution and the freedom of expression granted by the Turkish constitution. See Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 52–4. 96. Thus, for example, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ upheld the Shi‘i belief that H . usayn’s head actually spoke on the spear after the Imam was martyred. See Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Jannat al-ma’wan, p. 313. 97. See Mughniyya, Falsafa Isla¯miyya, pp. 196–197, 205. Similarly, Mut.ahharı¯ argued that the belief in the unseen is not only a Shi‘i concept but an Islamic idea based on the Qur’an. See Mutahhari, Fundamentals of Islamic Thought, pp. 116–17. 98. See Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr, Bah.th h.awla al-madı¯, ’Abd al-Jabba¯r Shara¯ra (ed.) (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ghadı¯r, 1997), pp. 86–7. 99. Ibid., pp. 43–7. 100. Ibid., pp. 54–7. 101. See H.E. Chehabi, Iranian Politics and Religious Modernism: The Liberation Movement of Iran under the Shah and Khomeini (London: I.B. Tauris, 1990), pp. 50–2. 102. A similar link between modernisation and the Mahdi’s return also appeared in the thought of other Shi‘i reformists such as the Ibra¯hı¯m al-Mu¯sawı¯ alZanja¯nı¯, an Iraqi-Shi’i cleric of Iranian origins. See Ibra¯hı¯m al-Mu¯sa¯wı¯ alZanja¯nı¯, ‘Aqa¯’id al-ima¯mı¯yya al-ithna ‘asharı¯yya (Beirut: Mu’assasat al-A‘lamı¯ lil Mat.bu¯‘a¯t, 1973, 2nd edition). See also Abdulaziz Abdulhussein Sachedina, Islamic Messianism (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1981), pp. 166–79. 103. For more on these signs, see Muhammad ibn ‘Izzat, al-Mahdi and the End of Time (London: Da¯r al-Taqwa, 1997), pp. 18–20; Arjomand, The Shadow of God, pp. 160–1, 168–70. See also Sachedina, Islamic Messianism, pp. 150–67. 104. See Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, Man dha¯? Hum Yakha¯fu¯n wa-ana¯ akha¯f ma¯dha¯ yakha¯fu¯n wa-ma¯dha¯ akha¯f? Akha¯f wa-arju¯ wa-yakha¯fu¯n wa-la¯ yarju¯n (Baghdad: Manshu¯ra¯t Lajnat Mashru¯‘ al-Tab‘, 1956). ˙ 105. Ibid., pp. 35–8, 68–93. 106. Ibid., pp. 1–11, 29–35. 107. The English poet William Blake (1757–1827), for example, depicted the damaging impact of the post-industrial revolution period in his description of the ‘dark Satanic mills’. See William Blake, Milton a Poem, and the Final Illuminated Works: The Ghost of Abel, on Homers Poetry, [and] On Virgil, Laocoo¨n, volume 5 of Blake’s illuminated books, Robert N. Essick and Joseph Viscomi (eds.) (Princeton, NY: Princeton University Press, 1996). See also Berger, Facing Modernity, pp. 70–80. 108. Abrahamian, Iran between two Revolutions, pp. 93–149.

256

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109. On the White Revolution see, Nikki R. Keddie, Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution (New Haven, CO: Yale University Press, 2006 edition), pp. 132–69. 110. Batatu, The Old Social Classes, p. 49; Wiley, The Islamic Movement of Iraqi Shi‘as, pp. 89–90. 111. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Man dha?, pp. 34–5.

Chapter 4 From fiqh to Shari‘a: The Creation of an allIslamic Judicial System 1. See S.S. Onar, ‘The Majallah’ in Majid Khadduri and Herbert J. Liebesny (eds.), Law in the Middle East (Vol. 1, 1955), pp. 292–307; Osman O¨ztu¨rk, ‘A Summary’ in Osmanli Hukuk Tarihinde: Mecelle (Istanbul: ‘Irfan Matbaasi, 1973), pp. i–ii. 2. Muh.ammad H.usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla I (Najaf: alH.aydariyya, 1940), p. 41. 3. See Joseph Schacht, The Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959), pp. 262–8; N.J. Coulson, A History of Islamic Law (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1964), pp. 103–19; Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, pp. 13–9, 53–59. 4. A rational current and a traditional trend existed in in Shi‘ism beginning in the tenth century. On the development of these currents, Kohlberg, ‘Aspects of Akhbari Thought’, pp. 133–53; Gleave, Inevitable Doubt: Two Theories of Shı¯‘ı¯ Jurisprudence. 5. Moussavi, ‘The Establishment of the Position of Marja‘iyyt-i Taqlid in the Twelver-Shi‘i Community’, pp. 35–50; Juan R. Cole, ‘Imami Jurisprudence and the Role of the Ulama: Mortaza Ansari on Emulating the Supreme Exemplar’, in Nikki R. Keddie (ed.) Religion and Politics in Iran: Shi‘ism from Quietism to Revolution (New Haven; London, CT; Yale University Press, 1983), pp. 33–46; Linda S. Walbridge, ‘Introduction: Shi‘ism and Authority’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja’ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 3–5; Litvak, Shi’i Scholars of Nineteenth-Century Iraq, pp. 5–7. 6. See Denis McEoin, ‘Aspecte of Militancy and Quietism in Imami Shi‘ism’, British Society for Middle Eastern Studies [BULLETIN] Vol. 11, No. 1 (1984), pp. 18–27; Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought, pp. 19–27; Litvak, Shi’i Scholars, pp. 21–44. 7. For more on the impact of the Ja‘fari court, see Max Weiss, ‘Institutionalizing Sectarianism: The Lebanese Ja‘fari Court and Shi‘i Society under the French Mandate’, Islamic Law and Society Vol. 15 (2008), pp. 371–407; ‘Re´formes au profit des chiites’ (22.3.1939), In MEA Syrie-Liban: Mandate: Inventaire No. 6: Cabinet Politique. 1926 a` 1941: no. 456: revendication de la communaute

NOTES

8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13.

14. 15.

16. 17. 18.

TO PAGES

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257

chiite 1933 a` 1946, pp. 1–4. See also, Richard Yann, Shi‘ite Islam: Polity, Ideology, and Creed; translated by Antonia Nevill (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), pp. 21–2. Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal Amil, pp. 139–42. On Mu¯sawı¯’s shifting position towards the mandate, see MAE, Bayrouth, No. 16, Dossier 319: Famille Charafeddine, 1933–1955; MAE, Bayrouth, No. 27, 1942. Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 139–42. For more more on these developments, see Weiss, Institutionalizing Sectarianism. See Ibrahim al-Wahab, ‘The Legal System of Iraq and the Continuity of Islamic Law’ in Christopher Toll and Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen (eds.) Law and the Islamic World Past and Present. Papers presented to the Joint Seminar at the Universities of Copenhagen and Lund, 26–27 March 1993 (Copenhagen: Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1995), pp. 23–32. See also Ian Edge, ‘Recent Trends in Islamic Law’, in Law and the Islamic World Past and Present, pp. 15–22. See Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 120–23; Peter Sluglett, Britain in Iraq 1914–1932 (London: Ithaca Press, 1976), pp. 82–4, 300–1. Reza Sha¯h also offered women new opportunities in employment and education and embarked upon a controversial unveiling policy. See Shireen Mahdavi, ‘Reza Shah Pahlavi and Women: A Re-evaluation’ in Stephanie Cronin (ed.), The Making of Modern Iran: State and Society under Riza Shah, 1921–1941 (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2003), pp. 181–92; Chehabi, The Banning of the Veil and its Consequences, pp. 193–207; Amin, The Making of the Modern Iranian Woman. See al-Shaykh Ja‘far al-Sha¯khu¯rı¯ (ed.), Taqrı¯ra¯n libah.th sama¯h.at A¯yatulla¯h al-‘uz.ma¯ al-sayyid Muh.ammad H.usayn Fad.l Alla¯h (da¯ma z.alluhu), vol. 2 (Beirut: Da¯r al-Mala¯k, 2002), p. 7. For more on these state reforms, see J.N.D. Anderson. ‘Modern Trends in Islam: Legal Reform and Modernisation in the Middle East’ in Ian Edge (ed.) Islamic Law and Legal Theory (Aldershot: Dartmouth, 1996), pp. 547–67; Ebrahim Moosa, ‘Colonialism and Islamic Law’ in Muhammad Khalid Masud, Armando Salvatore and Martin van Bruinessen (eds.) Islam and Modernity: Key Issues and Debates (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009), pp. 158– 81; Armando Salvatore, ‘The Reform Project in the Emerging Public Spheres’, in Muhammad Khalid Masud, Armando Salvatore and Martin van Bruinessen (eds.) Islam and Modernity: Key Issues and Debates, pp. 185–205. This chapter will focus on fiqh and not on us.u¯l (the foundations or basic guidelines of Islamic jurisprudence) due to the significance of fiqh among early Shi‘i reformists. See Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, al-Shı¯‘a fı¯’l mı¯za¯n (Beirut: Da¯r al-Jawa¯d; Da¯r al-Taya¯r al-Jadı¯d, 10th edition, 1989), pp. 369–374. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ promoted this idea in his Tah.rı¯r al-majalla, which will be analysed below.

258

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19. See Anderson, Modern Trends in Islam, pp. 547–567; Sheila McDonough, The Authority of the Past: A Study of Three Muslim Modernists (Chambersburg, PA: Pennsylvania: American Academy of Religion, 1970); Mansoor Moaddel and Kamran Talatof (eds.), Contemporary Debates in Islam: an Anthology of Modernist and Fundamentalist Thought (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000). 20. See Mughniyya, al-Shı¯‘a fı¯’l mı¯za¯n, 280–4; Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, al-Fiqh ‘ala¯ al-madha¯hib al-khamsa: al-Ja‘farı¯, al-Hanafı¯, al-Ma¯likı¯, al˙ Sha¯fi‘ı¯, al-Hanbalı¯ (Beirut: Da¯r al ‘Ilm lil-Mala¯yı¯n, 3rd edition 1967), ˙ pp. 7–13. 21. A similar idea appeared in Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s thought in his As.l al-Shı¯‘a wa-us.u¯luha¯, pp. 126–8. 22. Mughniyya, al-Fiqh ‘ala¯ al-madha¯hib al-khamsa, pp. 7–13. 23. On this idea, see, for example, Etan Kohlberg, ‘In Praise of the Few’ in G.R. Hawting, J.A. Mohaddedi and A. Samely (eds.) Studies in Islamic and Middle Eastern Texts and Traditions: In Memory of Norman Calder (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press on behalf of the University of Manchester, 2000), pp. 149–62. 24. On this notion, see, for example, Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, pp. 165–6. 25. F.R.C. Bagley, ‘The Azhar and Shı¯‘ism’, MW L: 2 (April, 1960); Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought, pp. 48–50. 26. Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism in the Twentieth Century, pp. 284–305. 27. On this legal change, see J.N.D. Anderson, ‘A Law of Personal Status for Iraq’, The International and Comparative Law Quarterly 9:4 (Oct., 1960), pp. 542–63. 28. Similarly, Mut.ahharı¯ also directed his writing to an educated lay public and sought to demonstrate the rational basis of Islamic teaching. See Murtada Mutahhari, Understanding Islamic Sciences: Philosophy, Theology, Mysticism, Morality, Jurisprudence (London: ICAS Press, 2002), pp. 143–204. 29. See Osman Bakar, Classification of Knowledge in Islam: A Study in Islamic Philosophies of Science (Cambridge: Islamic Text Society, 1998). 30. Ibid, xi–5, pp. 263–370. 31. On the differences between shari‘a and fiqh, see entry ‘Shari‘a’ in EI2 IX, pp. 321–8. 32. See entry ‘Law’ in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Modern Islamic World, vol. 2, pp. 450–72; Taba¯taba¯’i, An Introduction to Shı¯‘ı¯ law, pp. 13–18. 33. See Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 4–5. 34. Ibid., pp. 144–7 35. Ibid, pp. 144–7, 188. 36. Ibid., Introduction, pp. 3–8. 37. See Lawrence Rosen, The Justice of Islam: Comparative Perspectives on Islamic Law and Society (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 45–7, 54, 64. For comparison, see Jennifer Rowley, An Introduction to Information Retrieval (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1992); Bill Mckelvey, Organizational Systematics: Taxonomy, Evolution, Classification (Berkeley, CA; Los Angeles, CA; London: University of California Press, 1982).

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125 –128

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38. See Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, Introduction, pp. 3–4; Muh.ammad ‘Abduh, in particular, was highly critical of the classical narrow vision of Islam. See Badawi, The Reformers of Egypt, pp. 80–3. 39. See Ba¯dr Sha¯kir al-Sayya¯b, ‘Ama¯ma Ba¯b Allah’ (Before the Gate of God), in An Anthology of Modern Arabic Poetry; selected, edited and translated by Mounah A. Khouri and Hamid Algar (Berkeley, CA; Los Angeles, CA; London: University of California Press, 1974), pp. 82–7. Terri Deyoung, Placing the Poet: Badr Shakir al-Sayyab and Postcolonial Iraq (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1998). See also Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ Jawa¯hirı¯, Dhikraya¯tı¯ (Damascus: Da¯r al-Ra¯fidayn, 1988), pp. 51–5, 85–7; Naef, ‘Shı¯‘ı¯-Shuyu¯‘ı¯ or: How to Become a Communist in a Holy City’, pp. 255–67. 40. See Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr, al-Fata¯wa¯ al-wa¯d.ih.a: wafqan li-madhhab ahl albayt lil-Sayyid Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-S.adr (Beirut: Da¯r al-kita¯b al-Lubna¯nı¯, 3rd edition 1977). Malat, The Renewal of Islamic Law, pp. 7–14; Malat, ‘Religious Militancy in Contemporary Iraq’, pp. 699–729. 41. See Saiyad Nizamuddin Ahmad, ‘Twelver Shi‘i H.adı¯th: from Tradition to Contemporary Evaluations’ in Gavin N. Picken (ed.) Islamic Law: Critical Concepts Vol. I: Origins and Sources (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2011), pp. 149–69; A.F.L. Beeston, T.M. Johnstone, R.B. Serjeant and G.R. Smith (eds.), Arabic Literature to the End of the Umayyad Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), pp. 299–307. 42. On the differences between Sunni and Shi‘i sources of law, see Schacht, The Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudenc, pp. 82–9; Joseph E. Lowry, Early Islamic Legal Theory: The Risa¯la of Muh.ammad ibn idrı¯s al-Sha¯fi‘ı¯ (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill, 2007); Wael B. Hallaq, Law and Legal Theory in Classical and Medieval Islam (Aldershot: Variorum, 1995), pp. 286–306; Gleave, Inevitable Doubt, pp. 4–5, 88–9, 130–2; Khizr Muazzam Khan, ‘Juristic Classification of Islamic Law’, Houston Journal of International Law 6:23 (1983–4), pp. 23–35. 43. In the legal sphere, reason was applied in three domains: to discover the ethical truths of human actions, to establish whether an act is permitted or illicit and to analyse the linguistic meanings of the text. See Gleave, Inevitable Doubt, pp. 88–9. 44. See, for example, Mu¯sawı¯, Kita¯b al-mura¯ja‘a¯t, pp. 49, 152–7. 45. For example, during the late eighteenth century, the prominent Najafi mujtahid Shaykh Ja’far Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ (d. 1812) used Sunni Hadith in an attempt to appease the Wahhabis. See Meir Litvak, ‘Encounters between Shi‘i and Sunni ‘Ulama’ in Ottoman Iraq’, in Ofra Bengio and Meir Litvak (eds.) The Sunna and Shi‘a in History: Division and Ecumenism in the Muslim Middle East (New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), pp. 69–86. 46. In the modern era, Muhammad ‘Abduh wrote a commentary on this collection. See Muhammad ibn al-Husayn Sharı¯f al-Rad¯ı, ‘Alı¯ ibn Abı¯ Ta¯lib ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ and Muhammad ‘Abduh, Sharh nahj al-bala¯gha; wa-huwa majmu¯’ ma¯ ikhta¯rahu ˙ ˙ al-Sharı¯f Abu¯ al-H . asan Muh˙ammad al-Rad˙ı¯ ibn al-H . asan al-Mu¯sawı¯ min kala¯m amı¯r al-mu’minı¯n Abı¯ al-H.asan ‘Alı¯ ibn Abı¯ Ta¯lib; Sharah.a Muhammad ‘Abduh ˙ ˙

260

47.

48.

49.

50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57.

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(Beirut: Da¯r al-Andalus, 1984). On the historical Sunni reliance on Nahj al-Bala¯gha, see, for example, Yasien Mohamed, ‘The Ethical Philosphy of al-Ra¯ghib al-Is.faha¯nı¯’, Journal of Islamic Studies 6:1 (1995), pp. 51–75. In his treatises, Mu¯sawı¯ relied on Shi‘i Hadiths as well as on the Sunni corpus of al-Bukharı¯. See ‘Abd al-H.usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n al-Mu¯sawı¯, Ila¯ al-majma‘ al-‘arabı¯ bi-Dimashq (Najaf: Mat.ba‘at al-Nu‘ma¯n, 1967), p. 11; al-Mu¯sawı¯, Al-Fus.u¯l al-muhimma fı¯ ta’lı¯f al-umma, pp. 13–5. On Buru¯jerdı¯’s activities and his contribution to Hadith, see Abdul-Hadi Hairi, entry ‘Buru¯djirdı¯, H.a¯djdjı¯ A¯ka¯ H usayn T.a¯bt.aba¯’i (1875–1961)’, EI ˙ . Online; Muh.ammad ‘Alı¯ Sult.a¯nı¯, ‘Nuga¯hı¯ bi kita¯b ja¯mi‘ ah.a¯dı¯th al-shı¯‘a’, in Shakveh fuqa¯hat: ya¯d na¯me marh.u¯m Ayatollah A¯qa¯ Husayn Burujirdi (Qum, Iran: Markaz Intisha¯ra¯t Daftar Tablı¯gha¯t Isla¯mı¯, 1379/1959), pp. 223–34. See Ibn Ba¯bawayh, Kama¯l al-dı¯n wa-tamam al-ni‘ma fi athba¯t al-ghayba lil-S.adduq Abu Ja‘far Muh.ammad ibn ‘Alı¯ ibn al-H.usayn ibn Babawayh al-Qummı¯ (Tehran: Maktabat al-S.adduq, 1970; Mehdi Mohaghegh, ‘Al-Sharı¯f al-Murtad.a¯ and the Defense of the Imamate’ in Lynda Clarke (ed.), Shı¯‘ite Heritage: Essays on Classical and Modern Traditions (Binghamton, NY: Global Publications, 2001), pp. 123–32; Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi‘ite Iran from the beginning to 1890 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1987 edition), pp. 43–5. See also Shaykh al-Mufı¯d, Kita¯b al-Irsha¯d: The Book of Guidance into the Lives of the Twelve Imams; translated by I.K.A. Howard (Horshami: Balagha Books, 1981), pp. 524–6. On the relationship between the traditional and rational sciences, see Bakar, Classification of Knowledge in Islam. On this exchange, see Elisheva Machlis, ‘A Shi‘a Debate on Arabism: The Emergence of a Multiple Communal Membership’, BJMES 40:2 (2013), pp. 95–114. See Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Al-Mura¯ja‘a¯t al-rı¯h˙a¯nı¯ya II (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ha¯dı¯, 2003), pp. 5–6. Recent scholars have questioned the prevailing view that the gates of ijtiha¯d were closed in the Sunni world starting from the tenth century. Therefore, the novelty of the Salafis was less in their rejection of judicial stagnation, but in applying ijtiha¯ d to current circumstances in order to modernise Islam. Weismann, ‘Between S.u¯fı¯ Reformism and Modernist Rationalism’, pp. 206–37; Hallaq, ‘Was the Gate of Ijtihad Closed?’, pp. 3–41. See Mughniyya, al-Shı¯‘a fı¯’l mı¯za¯n, pp. 350–1. For his reliance on philosophy, see, for example, Mughniyya, Falsafa Isla¯miyya. On Islamic revolutionaries’ engagement with Western thought, see, for example, Assaf Bayat, ‘Shariati and Marx: A Critique of an ‘Islamic’ Critique of Marxism’, Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics 10 (1990), pp. 19–41. On the demise of the taqrı¯b movement during this period, see Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 285–374.

NOTES

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261

58. On his reliance on Shi‘i Hadith, see for example Khomeini Islam and Revolution, pp. 50–3, 68–83. See also, Hamid Mavani, ‘Analysis of Khomeini’s Proofs for al-Wilaya al-mutalqa (Comprehensive Authority) of the Jurist’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja‘ Taqlid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 183–201. On his reference to Sunni traditions, see Ruhollah Khomeini, Kashf al-asra¯r (Arabic); translated from the Persian by Muhammad al-Binda¯rı¯ and edited and ˙ annotated by Muhammad Ahmad al-Khat¯ıb and Salı¯m Hila¯lı¯ (‘Amma¯n: Da¯r ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘Amma¯r, 1987), pp. 142–51, 278–9. 59. For more on this idea, see ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯‘atı¯, al-Insa¯n wa’l isla¯m; translated by ‘Abba¯s al-Turjima¯n (Beirut: Da¯r al-Rawd.a, 1992), pp. 204–5; ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯‘atı¯, Isla¯m shena¯sı¯ (n.p., n.d.), pp. 10–12. 60. See, for example, Murtaz.a Mut.ahharı¯, al-Tajdı¯d wa-l ijtiha¯d fi’l isla¯m (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ad.wa¯’, 1999), pp. 102–5. 61. Thus, for example, Abdolkarim Soroush (b. 1945), the well-known Iranian intellectual and reformist, argued that religious knowledge is relative and human-oriented. Certain traditions reflect the particular culture and politics of other periods in history and, in some cases, are inappropriate for the current era. See Ziba Mir-Hosseini, ‘Religious Modernists and the ‘Women Question’’ in Eric Hooglund (ed.) Twenty Years of Islamic Revolution: Political and Social Transition in Iran since 1979 (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2002), pp. 4–95. 62. See Robert Gleave, ‘Conceptions of Authority in Iraqi Shi‘ism: Baqir al-Hakim, Ha’iri and Sistani on Ijtihad, Taqlid and Marja‘iyya’, Theory, Culture and Society 24:2 (March, 2007), pp. 59–78. ‘Alı¯ al-Sista¯nı¯, ‘al-taqlı¯d’, in al-masa¯’il al-muntakhiba li-Ayatollah al-Sayyid ‘Alı¯ al-Sista¯nı¯, alsafwh.net: www.alsafwh.net/library/vblibrary/olama/rasael/sistani/resala/. See also Roy Muttahedeh, Conference at Columbia University, Middle East Institute: ‘Iran a History of Shi‘i Judicial Thought’: www.youtube.com/watch?v¼Bi aVuprD3M0&list¼SPf1Dab4lwQhB78qfLznNhoCfbsYi9JEYC&index ¼1& feature ¼plpp_video. 63. Meir Litvak mentioned that in the nineteenth century 25 per cent of clerical writings concentrated on ‘iba¯da¯t and only 12 per cent on mu‘a¯mala¯t. See Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, p. 193. 64. On the concept of t.aha¯ra, see Ze’ev Maghen, Virtues of the Flesh – Passion and Purity in Early Islamic Jurisprudence (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill, 2005); Richard Gauvain, ‘Ritual Rewards: A Consideration of Three Recent Approaches to Sunni Purity Law’, Islamic Law and Society 12:3 (2005), pp. 333–393; Marion Homes Katz, Body of Text: The Emergence of the Sunnı¯ Law of Ritual Purity (New York, NY: State University of New York Press, 2002), pp. 46–9, 5–84 164–76; Ze’ev Maghen, entry ‘Ablution’ in EI, pp. 32–8. On the Shi‘i perspective, see Etan Kohlberg, ‘non-Ima¯mı¯ Muslims in Ima¯mı¯ Fiqh’, Belief and Law in Imami Shi‘ism X (1991); A. Kevin Reinhart, ‘Impurity/No Danger’, History of Religion 30:1 (1990), pp. 1–24; Muh.ammad H . asan al-Najafı¯,

262

65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73.

74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79. 80.

81.

82. 83.

NOTES

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135 –140

Jawa¯hir al-kala¯m fı¯ sharh. shara¯‘i al-Isla¯m; Abba¯s al-Qu¯cha¯nı¯ (ed.) Vol. 5 (Tehran: Da¯r al-Kutub al-Isla¯miyya, 1972–81). Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 125–44. For comparison to traditional laws of ritual purity, see, for example, al-Najafı¯, Jawa¯hir al-kala¯m vol. 5. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 188–92. Ibid, pp. 173–4. See Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 196–200. For comparison, see Olivier Roy, The Failure of Political Islam; translated by Carol Volk (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), pp. 65–7. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 189–92. Eliash, ‘On the Genesis and Development of the Twelver-Shı¯‘ı¯ Three-Tenet Shaha¯dah’, pp. 265–72. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Khura¯fa¯t shaykhiyya wa-kufriyya¯t irsha¯d al-‘awa¯mm, pp. 170, 189–92, 409–10. In Iran, intellectuals sought to improve the demographic situation in the country by relying on the social theory of eugenics, which reached the country through academic connections between Iran and France. Schayegh, ‘Hygiene, Eugenics, Genetics and the Perception of Demographic Crisis in Iran’, pp. 335–61; Schayegh, ‘A Sound Mind Lives in a Healthy Body’, pp. 167–88. Thus for example, the Shi‘i al-‘irfa¯n journal published at the time in Jabal ’A¯mil published an article on the importance of hygiene (al-‘irfa¯n 16:1, 1928). See Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a II, pp. 188–92. Ibid., More on Kha¯lis.¯ı’s appeal to medicine, see Simon Wolfgang Fuchs, ‘Failing Transnationally: Local Intersections of Science, Medicine and Sectarianism in Modernist Shii Writings’, Modern Asian Studies (Feb., 2014), pp. 1–35. More on the concept of niyya, see Hallaq, A History of Islamic Legal Theories, pp. 181–7. For Kha¯lis.¯ı’s view on this topic, see Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, pp. 120–1. On Ans.a¯rı¯’s contribution, see Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, pp. 70–9, 108. On the Sunni modernist initiatives, see Anderson, Modern Trends in Islam; Aharon Layish, ‘The Contribution of the Modernists to the Secularization of Islamic Law’ in Ian Edge (ed.), Islamic Law and Legal Theory (Aldershot: Dartmouth, 1996); Oussama Arabi, Studies in Modern Islamic Law and Jurisprudence (The Hague; London; New York, NY: Kluwer Law International, 2001), pp. 22–38. Khomeini laid out the laws of .taha¯ra in his Risa¯lat tawd.ı¯h. al-masa¯’il and in his Ah.ka¯m al-isla¯m bayna al-sa¯’il wa’l ima¯m: fata¯wa¯. See Ayatollah Khomeini, Risa¯lat tawd.ı¯h. al-masa¯’il (Tehran: Mı¯da¯n H.asan A¯ba¯d, 1949), pp. 4–99; Ayatollah Khomeini, Ah.ka¯m al-isla¯m bayna al-sa¯’il wa’l ima¯m: fata¯wa¯ (Beirut: Da¯r al-Wası¯la, 1993), pp. 19–98. See Ayatollah al-Khomeini, Tah.rı¯r al-wası¯la I (Beirut: al-Da¯r al-Isla¯miyya, 3rd edition, 2000), p. 106. See Khomeini, Risa¯lat tawd.ı¯h. al-masa¯’il, pp. 403–4.

NOTES

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263

84. See T.M. Aziz, ‘The Role of Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr in Shi‘i Political Activism in Iraq from 1958 to 1980’, IJMES 25:2 (May, 1993), pp. 207–22. 85. See Ahmad, Twelver Shi‘i H . adı¯th: from Tradition to Contemporary Evaluation, pp. 149–69. On Fad.lallah’s judicial innovations, see Talib Aziz, ‘Fad.lallah and the Remaking of the Marja‘iya’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja‘ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 205–15. 86. See G. Monnot, entry ‘S.ala¯t’ in EI, pp. 925–34. 87. See ‘Abd al-H . usayn Sharaf al-Dı¯n Al-Mu¯sawı¯, ‘al-Jam‘ bayn al-s.ala¯tayn’ in Masa¯’il fiqhiyya (Tehran: Maktabat al-H . adı¯tha, 1970–9?), pp. 7–19. 88. Ibid, p. 20. 89. A similar position can be found in contemporary Sunni law. See Shaykh Muhammad Salih al-Munajjid, ‘Ruling on Joining two Prayers due to Attending Lectures Abroad’’ (11 Sep., 2004): www.islamqa.infor/en/ref/ 110904. 90. See entry ‘s.ala¯t’ in EI, p. 928. 91. On this element of legal flexibility, see Hallaq, ‘Was the Gate of Ijtihad Closed?’, pp. 3–41; Makdisi, ‘The Significance of the Sunni Schools of Law in Islamic Religious History’, IJMES 10:1 (Feb., 1979), pp. 1–8; Weiss, ‘Interpretation in Islamic Law: The Theory of Ijtiha¯d’, The American Journal of Comparative Law 26:2 (Spring, 1978), pp. 199–212; Lawrence Rosen, The Anthropology of Justice: Law as Culture in Islamic Society (Cambridge; New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 92. See Kha¯lis.¯ı, Ih.ya¯’ al-sharı¯‘a I, p. 188. 93. On Khalisi’s innovations, see Ende, Erfolg und Scheitern; Sylvia G. Haim, ‘Shi‘ite Clerics and Politics: Some Recent Tendencies’ in Joel L. Kramer and Ilai Alon (eds.), Religion and Government in the World of Islam: Proceedings of the Colloquium held at Tel-Aviv University, 3–5 June 1979 (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1983), pp. 165–72. 94. As mentioned, the lighting of Najaf in the early 1930s drew mixed reactions among the Shi‘i community over its compatibility with religious beliefs. See Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, Rih.lat al-Sayyid Muh.sin al-Amı¯n, pp. 112–3. 95. For more on this phenomenon, see Charles Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape: Cassette Sermons and Islamic Counterpublics (New York, NY; Chichester: Columbia Chichester, West Sussex; Columbia University Press, 2006); Mowlana, ‘Technology versus Tradition: Communication in the Iranian Revolution’, Journal of Communication 29:3 (Sep., 1979), pp. 107–112. 96. See Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, al-Jum‘a: kita¯b fiqhı¯ istidla¯lı¯ fı¯ wuju¯b .salwat al-jum‘a (Baghdad: Matba‘at al-Ma‘a¯rif, 1949?). For more on this ecumenical ˙ position, see Werner Ende, ‘Success and Failure of a Shiite Modernist: Sheikh Muhammad ibn Muhammad Mahdi al-Khalisi, (1890–1963)’ in Alessandro Monsutti, Silvia Naef, Farian Sabahi (eds.) The Other Shiites from the Mediterranean to Central Asia (Bern: Peter Lang, 2007), pp. 231–44.

264

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146 –152

97. See Abdulaziz Sachedina, The Just Ruler (al-Sulta¯n al-‘a¯dil) in Shi‘ite Islam: The Comprehensive Authority of the Jurist in the Imamate Jurisprudence (New York, NY; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998 edition), pp. 177–204; Norman Calder, The Structure of Authority in Ima¯mı¯ Shı¯‘ı¯ Jurisprudence (Ph.D. Diss., SOAS, 1980), pp. 160–5; Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 189–91. 98. See Rula Jurdi Abisaab, Converting Persia: Religion and Power in the Safavid Empire (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris, 2004), pp. 20–22. 99. See Devin J. Stewart, ‘Polemics and Patronage in Safavid Iran: The Debate on Friday Prayer during the Reign of Shah Tahmasb’, Bulletin of SOAS 72:3 (Oct., 2009), pp. 425–57. There was a similar debate in the Shi‘i Awadh state during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. See Juan R.I. Cole, ‘Indian Money and the Shi‘i Shrine Cities of Iraq, 1786–1850’, Middle Eastern Studies 22:4 (1986), pp. 461–80; Abisaab, Converting Persia, pp. 112–26; Hamid Algar, entry ‘ema¯m-e jom‘a’ in Encyclpaedia Iranica Online. 100. Mohammad H. Faghfoory, ‘The Impact of Modernization on the Ulama of Iran, 1925–1941’, Iranian Studies 26: 3–4 (Summer – Autumn, 1993), pp. 278–312. 101. Sachedina, The Just Ruler, pp. 181–90. 102. Kha¯lis.¯ı, al-Jum‘a, pp. 1–54. 103. Ibid., pp. 16–17. 104. See Juynboll, The Authenticity of the Tradition Literature, pp. 15–32. 105. Kha¯lis.¯ı, al-Jum‘a, pp. 52–3. 106. Ibid., p. 77. 107. In the year 642 AD , an important battle took place between the Arab army and the forces of the Sassanid Empire, which completed the Islamic occupation of Iraq and led to the fall of this empire. The battle of Naha¯wand (or Naha¯vand) was a decisive victory for the Arab army and for the new religion of Islam. See M. Morony, entry ‘Arab ii. Arab Conquest of Iran’ in Encyclopaedia Iranica Online. 108. Kha¯lis.¯ı, al-Jum‘a, p. 77. 109. See Khomeini, Tah.rı¯r al-wası¯la I, p. 2. 110. Ibid, pp. 210–15. 111. Ibid, p. 212. 112. See entry ‘ema¯m-e jom‘a’ in Encyclpaedia Iranica. See also, Mowlana, Technology versus Tradition, pp. 107–12; Asghar Fathi, ‘The Role of the Islamic Pulpit’, Journal of Communication 29:3 (Sep., 1979), pp. 102–6. 113. On this topic and other fatwas published by the Islamic republic, see Hamid Algar, entry ‘Fatwa¯’ in Encyclopaedia Iranica Online. 114. See Asghar Schirazi, The Constitution of Iran: Politics and the State in the Islamic Republic (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris, 1998), pp. 8–44. 115. ‘Abdul Rahman I. Doi, Woman in Shari‘ah (Islamic Law) (London: Ta-Ha Publishers, 1989), pp. 12–18. 116. Al-H.asan ibn Yusuf ibn al-Mut.ahhar al-H.illı¯ (1250–1325), Niha¯yat al-ah.ka¯m fı¯ m‘arifa¯t al-ah.ka¯m; Mahdı¯ al-Raja‘ı¯ (ed.) (Beirut: Da¯r al-Ad.wa, 1986), pp. 365–72; See also Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 94–5.

NOTES

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265

117. See, for example, ‘Alı¯ ibn Muh.ammad al-T.aba¯t.aba¯’i (1748-c. 1816), Riya¯d. alMasa¯’il (Qum: Mu’assasat al-Nashr al-Isla¯mı¯, 1996), pp. 192–252; See also Najafı¯, Jawa¯hir al-Kala¯m, pp. 4, 210–17. 118. See Chehabi, The Banning of the Veil and its Consequences, pp. 193–210. 119. See Qasim Amin, The Liberation of Women: A Document in the History of Egyptian Feminism; translated by Samiha Sidhom Peterson (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1992), pp. ix–xi, pp. 3–8, 11–12, 35–61. 120. Leila Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate (New Haven, CT; London: Yale University Press, 1992), pp. 139–3. 121. Muh.ammad ‘Ima¯rah (ed.), al-A‘ma¯l al-ka¯mila lil-Ima¯m Muh.ammad ‘Abduh, vol. 1: al-Kita¯ba¯t al-siya¯siyya (Beirut: al-Mu’assasa al-‘Arabiyya lil-Dira¯sa¯t wa’l-Nashr, 1972), pp. 107–15. 122. See Huda Sha‘ara¯wı¯, Harem Years: The Memoirs of an Egyptian Feminist (1879–1924); translated, edited and introduced by Margot Badran (London: Virago, 1986); Margot Badran, Feminists, Islam and Nation: Gender and the Making of Modern Egypt (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995); Beth Baron, The Women’s Awakening in Egypt: Culture, Society and the Press (New Haven, CT; London: Yale University Press, 1994). 123. See Jasamin Rostam-Kolayi, ‘Expanding Agendas for the ‘New’ Iranian Women: Family Law, Work and Unveiling’, pp. 157–80. 124. Mahdavi, Reza Shah Pahlavi and Women, pp. 181–192; Chehabi, The Banning of the Veil and its Consequences, pp. 193–207; Amin, The Making of the Modern Iranian Woman, pp. 23–5, 81–3, 94–103. 125. Chehabi, The Banning of the Veil and its Consequences, pp. 193–210; Mahdavi, Reza Shah Pahlavi and Women. 126. Bashkin, Representatives of Women, pp. 53–82. 127. See ibid.; Doreen Ingrams, The Awakened: Women in Iraq (London: Third World Centre, 1983), pp. 83–97. 128. See for example ‘Bayna al-h.ija¯b wa’l-sufu¯r’, al-‘Irfa¯n 20:4 (1930); See also Max Weiss, ‘The Cultural Politics of Shi‘i Modernism: Morality and Gender in Early 20th-Century Lebanon’, IJMES 39:2 (May, 2007), pp. 249–70. 129. Kha¯lis.¯ı, H . aqiqat-i h.ijab dar Isla¯m. 130. Thus, for example, Kha¯lis.¯ı stated the Islamic duty of sitr al-‘awra. Yet, he did not delve into further legalist details, such as the variety of opinions on permitted clothing and head covering or the different circumstances in which women must conceal themselves. 131. Kha¯lis.¯ı, H . aqiqat-i h.ija¯b dar Isla¯m, pp. 5–9. 132. On the development of Iranian social classes during this period, see Ervand Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, pp. 33–69, 144–63. 133. Kha¯lis.¯ı, H . aqiqat-i h.ija¯b dar Isla¯m, pp. 19–22, 50–1. 134. Ibid., pp. 17–22. 135. Ibid., p. 18. 136. See Schayegh, A Sound Mind Lives in a Healthy Body, pp. 167–88. 137. Kha¯lis.¯ı, H . aqiqat-i h.ija¯b dar Isla¯m, p. 34.

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138. Ibid, pp. 34–42, 50–1. 139. See Nayereh Tohidi, ‘Modernization, Islamization and Women in Iran’ in Valentine M. Moghadam (ed.) Gender and National Identity: Women and Politics in Muslim Societies (London: Zed Book, 1994), pp. 110–47. 140. See Murtaz.a Mut.ahharı¯, Mas’alat-e h.eja¯b (Tehran: Intisha¯ra¯t S.adra¯, 1989). 141. See Ali M. Ansari, ‘The Myth of the White Revolution: Mohammad Reza Shah, ‘Modernization’ and the Consolidation of Power’, Middle Eastern Studies 37:3 (2001), pp. 1–24. 142. See Adele K. Ferdows, ‘Women and the Islamic Revolution’, IJMES 15:2 (May, 1983), pp. 283–98. 143. Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown, pp. 71–100; Ansari, The Myth of the White Revolution, pp. 1–24. 144. See Mahmood T. Davari, The Political Thought of Ayatullah Murtaz.a Mut.ahhari: An Iranian Theoretician of the Islamic State (London; New York, NY: RoutledgeCurzon, 2005), pp. 31–49. 145. See Mut.ahharı¯, Mas’alat-e h.eja¯b. 146. On Will Durant’s thought, see The Editor’s Page, ‘Feeling the Call’, American Philosophical Quarterly 30:3 (1993), pp. 279–80; Dan Norton, ‘A Symphony of History: Will Durant’s The Story of Civilization’, The Objective Standard 6:1 (Spring, 2011). Mut.ahharı¯’s treatise appears to refer in particular to the following passages from Will Durant’s series: Will Durant, The Story of Civilization Vol. 1: Our Oriental Heritage (New York, NY: Simon and Schuster, 1942), pp. 350–75, Vol. 4: The Age of Faith (New York, NY: Simon and Schuster 1950), pp. 180–1, 206–24, 347–64. 147. While there are no direct references to Bertrand Russels’ treatise, it appears that Mut.ahharı¯ alluded to the following passages: Bertrand Russell, Marriage and Morals (Garden City, NY: New York: Garden City Publishers, 1929), pp. 48–53, 60–62. 148. See Sayyid Abul A’la Maududi, Purdah and the Status of Women in Islam; translated and edited by Al-Ash‘ari (Lahore: Islamic Publications, 1998). 149. On ’Umar’s view of women, see Ahmad, Women and Gender in Islam, pp. 60–1. 150. See Mut.ahharı¯, Mas’alat-e h.eja¯b. 151. During his years in Paris, Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ became acquainted with the leading Western scholars of the day. See Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian, pp. 81–103; Shahrough Akhavi, Shari‘ati’s Social Thought, pp. 125–127; entry Sharı¯ ‘atı¯, ‘Alı¯’ in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Modern Islamic World, vol. 4 (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1983), pp. 46–9. 152. See ‘Ali Shari‘ati, Shariati on Shariati and the Muslim Woman: Who was Ali Shariati? For Muslim Woman: Woman in the Heart of Muhammad, The Islamic Modest Dress, Expectations from the Muslim Woman, Fatima is Fatima, and Guide to Shariati’s Collected Works; translated by Laleh Bakhtiar (Chicago, IL: ABC International Group, 1996), pp. 37–73. 153. Ibid, pp. 47–9; See also Machlis, A¯lı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and the Notion of tawh.ı¯d.

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154. Matthew Pierce, ‘Remembering Fa¯timah: New Means of Legitimizing Female Authority in Contemporary Shı¯‘ı¯ Discourse’ in Masooda Banu and Hilary Kalmbach (eds.) Women, Leadership, and Mosques: Changes in Contemporary Islamic Authority (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 354–62; Adele K. Ferdows, ‘Women and the Islamic Revolution’, IJMES 15:2 (May, 1983), pp. 283–98. 155. On the ambivalent position of the Islamic republic towards women, see Hammed Shahidian, Women in Iran: Gender Politics in the Islamic Republic (Westport, CT; London: Greenwood Press, 2002), pp. 99–123, 161–216; Golnar Mehran, ‘The Paradox of Tradition and Modernity in Female Education in the Islamic Republic of Iran’, Comparative Education Review 47:3 (Aug., 2003), pp. 269–86; Alexander J. Zolan, ‘The Effect of Islamization on the Legal and Social Status of Women in Iran’, Boston College Third World Law Journal 7:2 (1987), pp. 183–93. 156. See Akbar Aghajanian, ‘Family Planning and Contraceptive Use in Iran, 1967–1992’, International Family Planning Perspectives 20:2 (1994), 66–9; Khomeini, Tah.rı¯r al-wası¯la II, pp. 559–65. 157. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla. 158. Ibrahim al-Wahab, ‘The Legal System of Iraq and the Continuity of Islamic Law’ in Christopher Toll and Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen (eds.) Law and the Islamic World: Past and Present (Copenhagen: The Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1995), pp. 23–32; Anderson, Islamic Law, pp. 36–7. 159. Sayed Hassan Amin, Commercial Law of Iran (Tehran: Vahid Publications, 1986), pp. 36–7. For more on the secularisation of the judiciary in Iran see The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 7: From Nadir Shah to the Islamic Republic, pp. 741–72. 160. Mallat, The Renewal of Islamic Law, p. 49. 161. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla I, pp. 137–8. 162. Ibid., II, p. 19. 163. Ibid., I, pp. 160–1. 164. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla II, pp. 102–9. 165. Ibid., pp. 170–1. 166. The Mecelle, which was based on H . anafı¯ law, attached conditions to the contract that restricted the freedom of commercial accords. Proposed amendments to the original Mecelle based on H.anbalı¯ law, which were intended to liberalise commercial exchanges, were never implemented following the establishment of the Turkish Republic. See Arabi, Studies in Modern Islamic Law and Jurisprudence, pp. 39–62. 167. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla I, pp. 3–4. 168. On this perception, see Muhammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, ‘Only the Man of God is Human: Theology and Mystical Anthropology according to Early Ima¯mi Exegesis (Aspects of Twelver Imamology IV)’ in Etan Kohlberg (ed.), Shi‘ism (Burlington, MA: Ashgate, 2003), pp. 2–23; Etan Kohlberg, ‘Imam and Community in the Pre-Ghayba Period’ in Said Amir Arjomand (ed.), Authority

268

169. 170. 171.

172.

173. 174.

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and Political Culture in Shi‘ism (New York, NY: State University of New York Press, 1988), pp. 25–53. On this idea, see Wilferd Madelung, ‘Book Review: The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture and Political History’, Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds.)’, Journal of Islamic Studies 13:2 (May, 2002), pp. 207–8. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla I, pp. 27–31. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ explained that the Shi‘is reject the idea that rulings can be altered as a result of changes related to time, place and people. Existing verdicts can be altered only as a result of changes to the topics discussed or in cases of changing circumstances related to a specific individual. See ibid., p. 34. This included, for example, differences between Sunni and Shi‘i commercial law regarding the details of concluding a sale as well and as their diverse views over the options that each party can add to the agreements. See Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Tah.rı¯r al-majalla I, pp. 160–1; II, 42–3. See Mallat, Religious Militancy in Contemporary Iraq; Aziz, The Role of Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr in Shi‘i Political Activism in Iraq, pp. 207–2. See Khomeini, Tah.rı¯r al-wası¯la II, pp. 550–77.

Chapter 5 The Politicisation of Shi‘ism 1. Muh.ammad H . usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Al-Dı¯n wa’l Isla¯m (Sidon, Lebanon: Mat.ba‘at al-‘Irfa¯n, 1911), p. 12. 2. Abrahamian, Iran between two Revolutions, pp. 62–101; Bayat, Iran’s First Revolution, pp. 106–38, 260–67; Cottam, Nationalism in Iran, pp. 12–19. 3. See Abdul-Hadi Hairi, Shi‘ism and Constitutionalism in Iran (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1977); Cyrus Schayegh, Constitutionalism and Autocracy in Modern Iran (Geneva: Universite´ de Gene`ve: De´partement de Science Politique, 2001), pp. 17–50; Said Amir Arjomand, The ‘Ideological Revolution in Shi‘ism’, in Said Amir Arjomand (ed.) Authority and Political Culture in Shi‘ism (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1988), pp. 178–212. 4. See Ahmad Vaezi, Shi‘a Political Thought (London: Islamic Centre of England, 2004); Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period, pp. 182–204. 5. Mehdi Mohaghegh, ‘al-Sharı¯f al-Murtad.a¯ and the Defence of the Imamate’ in L. Clarke (ed.), Shi‘ite Heritage: Essays on Classical and Modern Traditions (Binghamton, NY: New York: Global Publications, Binghamton University, 2001), pp. 122–231. 6. Within Shi‘ism, the Isma¯’ilı¯ branch, followers of the seventh Imam, Muh.ammad b. Isma¯’il b. Ja‘far al-S.a¯diq, adopted a revolutionary tendency. The foundation of the Fat.imid dynasty (909–1171), headed by an Isma¯’ilı¯ Imam, was the golden age of Isma¯’ilı¯ Islam. See Farhad Daftary, ‘Intellectual Life among the Ismailis: An Overview’ in Farhad Daftary (ed.), Intellectual

NOTES

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

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269

Traditions in Islam (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris, 2000), pp. 87–111; entry ‘Isma¯‘ı¯liyya’ in EI2 IV, pp. 198–206. On the historical legacy of the Imam H . usayn, see, for example, ‘Papers from the Imam H usayn Conference London, July 1984’, Alsera¯t XII (Spring and . Autumn, 1986); David Cook, Martyrdom in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). See Mahmoud Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering in Isla¯m: A Study of the Devotional Aspects of ‘A¯shu¯ra¯’ in Twelver Shı¯‘ism (The Hague; Paris; New York, NY: Mouton Publishers, 1978), pp. 142–7; See also Hamid Enayat, ‘Martyrdom’ in Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Hamid Dabashi and Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr (eds.), Expectation of the Millennium: Shi‘ism in History (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1989), pp. 52–5. On these ideas, see Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering in Isla¯m; Douglas Karim Crow, ‘The Death of Al-H.usayn b. ‘Alı¯ and Early Shı¯‘ı¯ Views of the Imamate’ in Etan Kohlberg (ed.), Shi‘ism. The formation of the Classical Islamic World, vol. 33, (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), pp. 41–81. Together with this quietist tendency there remained a tension between a de-facto acceptance of the state and the belief in the apocalyptic reappearance of the Imam. Arjomand, The Shadow of God: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi’ite Iran from the beginning to 1890, pp. 43–45, 66–84, 109–19; Arjomand, The Consolation of Theology, pp. 548–71; Denis McEoin, ‘Aspects of Militancy and Quietism in Imami Shi‘ism’, British Society for Middle Eastern Studies. Bulletin 11:1 (1984), pp. 18–27. See Arjomand, The Shadow of God, pp. 56–65; Norman Calder, ‘Legitimacy and Accommodation in Safavid Iran: The Juristic Theory of Muh.ammad Ba¯qir al-Sabzava¯rı¯ (d. 1090/1679)’, Iran 25 (1987), pp. 91–105; Said Arjomand, ‘The Clerical Estate and the Emergence of a Shiʿite Hierocracy in Safavid Iran: A Study in Historical Sociology’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 28:2 (1985), pp. 169–219. Arjomand, The Shadow of God, pp. 56–65; Cole, Imami Jurisprudence and the Role of the Ulama, p. 38. Financial maintenance for the clerics and their circles of learning was secured through a network of patronage which operated through the clerics’ wider followers. Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, pp. 21–44. Ibid., pp. 173–8. In Islam, jiha¯d is considered primarily a collective obligation ( fard. kifa¯ya) imposed on the community as a whole, and for those who live in proximity to the enemy, also an individual duty ( fard. ‘ayn). See entry ‘Djiha¯d’ in EI2 II, pp. 538–9; David Cook, Understanding Jihad (Berkeley, CA; Los Angeles; London: University of California Press, 2005); Rudolph Peters, Jihad in Classical and Modern Islam: A Reader (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener Publishers, 1996), pp. 103–48; Rudolph Peters, Islam and Colonialism: The Doctrine of Jihad in Modern History (The Hague; New York, NY: Mouton, 1979).

270

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16. For more on the Shi‘i view of jiha¯d, see Assaf Moghadam, ‘Mayhem, Myths, and Martyrdom: The Shi‘a Conception of Jihad’, Terrorism and Political Violence 19:1 (March 2007) pp. 125–43; Gleave, Jiha¯d and the Religious Legitimacy of the Early Qajar State; Ann K. S. Lambton, ‘A Nineteenth Century view of Jiha¯d’, Studia Islamica 32 (1970), pp. 181–92. 17. For more on this development, see Palmira Johnson Brummett, Ottoman Seapower and Levantine Diplomacy in the Age of Discovery (Albany, NY: State University of New York, 1994), 21–4; Roger Savory, Iran under the Safavids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), pp. 50–75; The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 6: The Timurid and Safavid Periods, pp. 198–211. 18. See Lambton, A Nineteenth Century view of Jiha¯d. 19. See Nikki R. Keddie, Religion and Rebellion in Iran: The Tobacco Protests of 1891–1892 (London: Frank Cass & Co., 1966). 20. Bayat, Iran’s first Revolution: Shi‘ism and the Constitutional Revolution of 1905– 1909, pp. 12–21. See also Nikki R. Keddie, ‘Religion, Society and Revolution in Modern Iran’ in Michael E. Bonine and Nikki R. Keddie (eds.), Modern Iran: The Dialects of Continuity and Change (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1981), pp. 26–8. 21. See Momen, An introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 189–191; McEoin, Aspects of Militancy and Quietism in Imami Shi‘ism, pp. 18–27; Cook, Understanding Jihad. 22. On the significance of Shı¯razı¯’s fatwa, see Mongol Bayat, Iran’s first Revolution, pp. 18–21; Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, pp. 172–4. 23. See Abdul-Hadi Hairi, Shi‘ism and Constitutionalism in Iran: A Study in the Role Played by the Persian Residents of Iraq in Iranian Politics (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1977), pp. 83–104; Peter Avery, G.R.G Hambly, and C. Melville (eds.), The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 7: From Nadir Shah to the Islamic Republic, pp. 732–6; Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, pp. 174–8; Keddie, Religion, Society and Revolution, pp. 27–8. 24. Na¯’inı¯’s treaty demonstrated an acceptance of some Western notions of governance, which were justified by linking constitutionalism to the laws of the Shari‘a. See Fereshte M. Nouraie, ‘The Constitutional Ideas of a Shi‘ite Mujtahid: Muhammad Husayn Na’ini’, Iranian Studies 8:4 (Autumn 1975), pp. 234–47; Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 50–1. 25. See Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel Kural Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, vol. II: Reform Revolution and Republic: The Rise of Modern Turkey, 1808–1975 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), pp. 260–87; Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 49–61. 26. In 1917, several clerics from Iraq participated in a clandestine society known as Jam‘iyyat al-Nahd.a al-Islamiyya (The Islamic Renaissance Society), which sought to rally the tribes against the British. See Pierre-Jean Luizard, La Formation de l’Iraq Contemporain: le Roˆle Politique des Ule´mas Chiites a` la Fin de la Domination Ottomane et au Moment de la Construction de l’Etat Irakien (Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1991), pp. 319–36. See also Abdullah Fahad al-Nafeesi, ‘The Role of the Shiah in the Political

NOTES

27.

28.

29.

30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

TO PAGES

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271

Development of Modern Iraq’ (PhD. Thesis, University of Cambridge, 1971), p. 79–88; H . asan al-Asadı¯, Thawrat al-Najaf ‘ala¯ al-Inglı¯z aw al-shara¯ra¯t al-u¯la li-thawrat al-ishru¯n (Baghdad: Wiza¯rat al-‘Ila¯m, 1975); Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 66–72. Printing presses introduced into Iraq in the late nineteenth century were established in Najaf and Karbala¯’ and put to use printing leaflets to stir up revolt. For more on these developments, see Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 60–1, 66–71. On the emergence of a competing secular elite in Iran during this period, see Rudi Matthee, ‘Tranforming Dangerous Nomads into Useful Artisans, Technicians, Agriculturalists: Education in the Reza Shah Period’, in Stephanie Cronin (ed.), The Making of Modern Iran: State and Society under Riza Shah 1921–1941 (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2003), pp. 123–45; Mehrzad Boroujerdi, ‘Triumphs and Travails of Authoritarian Modernisation in Iran’, in Stephanie Cronin (ed.), The Making of Modern Iran: State and Society under Riza Shah 1921–1941 (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2003), pp. 146–54. On Reza Sha¯h’s reforms, Mahdavi, ‘Reza Shah Pahlavi and Women: A Reevaluation’, pp. 181–92; Chehabi, The Banning of the Veil and its Consequences, pp. 193–207; Amin, The Making of the Modern Iranian Woman: Gender, State Policy, and Popular Culture, pp. 23–5, 81–3, 94–103; Shahrough Akhavi, Religion and Politics in Contemporary Iran: Clergy-State Relations in the Pahlavı¯ Period (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1980), pp. 25–59. Mehdi Abedi, ‘Ali Shariati: The Architect of the 1979 Islamic Revolution of Iran’, Iranian Studies 19: 3/4 (Summer–Autumn, 1986), pp. 229–34. Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 75–7. Cobban, ‘The Growth of Shi‘i Power in Lebanon and its Implication for the Future’, pp. 137–55; Cole, Sacred Space and Holy War: the Politics, Culture and History of Shi‘ite Islam, pp. 16–30; Olmert, ‘The Shi‘is and the Lebanese State’, pp. 189–201; Salim Nasr, ‘Roots of the Shi‘i Movement’, MERIP Reports 133 (June, 1985), pp. 10–16; Saba, ‘The Creation of the Lebanese Economy – Economic Growth in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries’, pp. 2–22; Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 13–43. For more on the emergence of Iranian nationalism, see Mostafa Vaziri, Iran as Imagined Nation: The Construction of National Identity (New York: Paragon House, 1993); Marashi, Nationalizing Iran: Culture, Power and the State. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’’s anti-colonialist tracts included al-Muthu¯l al-ulya¯’ fı¯ al-Isla¯m la¯ fı¯ Bihamdu¯n; Muh.a¯warat al-ima¯m al-mus.lih. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ ma‘a al-safirayn al-Barı¯ta¯nı¯ wa’l-Amı¯rkı¯ fı¯ Baghda¯d. See Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Al-Dı¯n wa’l Isla¯m, pp. 4–5. See ibid. p. 12. Deringil, The Well-Protected Domains: Ideology and the Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire, p. 8–11, 16–35, 44–8; See also S¸. Tufan Buzpinar, ‘The Question of Caliphate under the Last Ottoman Sultans’ in Itzchak Weismann

272

38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43.

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

52. 53. 54.

NOTES

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179 –185

and Fruma Zacks (eds.), Studies in Honour of Butrus Abu-Manneh (London; New York: I.B. Tauris, 2005), pp. 25–8; Landau, The Politics of Pan-Islam: Ideology and Organization, pp. 1–35; Deringil, ‘Legitimacy Structures in the Ottoman State: The Reign of Abdu¨lhamid II’, pp. 345–59. See Nikki R. Keddie, ‘Religion and Irreligion in Early Iranian Nationalism’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 4:3 (April, 1962), pp. 265–95. Keddie, An Islamic Response to Imperialism: Political and Religious Writings of Sayyid Jama¯l ad-Dı¯n ‘al-Afgha¯nı¯’ (Berkeley, CA; Los Angeles, CA; London: University of California Press, 1983 edition); Badawi, The Reformers of Egypt, pp. 27–31; Adams, Islam and Modernism in Egypt. Smith, The Babi and Baha’i Religions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008); Keddie, ‘Religion and Irreligion in Early Iranian Nationalism’, pp. 265–95. Batatu, The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq, pp. 694–7. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Qad.ı¯yat filast.ı¯n al-kubra¯, p. 149. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ preached against political oppression. In a sermon commemorating ‘Alı¯’s birthday, for example, Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’ chose to devote the lesson of ‘Alı¯’s legacy to the struggle against imperialism and the fight for Palestine. See Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Jannat al-ma’wan, pp. 103–16. Ibid., p. 174. On Islamic revolutionaries’ reading of Imam H . usayn’s legacy, see Kamran Scot Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala: Shi‘i Symbols and Rituals in Modern Iran (Seattle, WA; London: University of Washington Press, 2004), pp. 67–112. See Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, al-Maja¯lis al-h.usayniyya (Beirut: Da¯r alTayya¯r al-Jadı¯d, 1984, 4th edition), p. 15. Ibid., pp. 41–2. See Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya, Taja¯rib Muh.ammad Jawa¯d Mughniyya bikalamihi (Beirut: Da¯r al-Jawa¯d, 1980), pp. 92–8, 395–412, 474–6, 496–7. See Ibid., pp. 385–423. Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought, p. 48. In this argument, T.aha H.usayn did not totally de-legitimise the Umayyads or absolve them from wrongdoing. Instead, he adopted a modern critical approach to history, in which past events are scrutinised in their unique circumstances, and not according to an existing historiography. See T.aha H . usayn, Al-Fitna al-kubra¯, vol. 2: ‘Alı¯ wa-banuhu, pp. 236–45. See Syed Akbar Hyder, ‘Iqbal and Karbala: Re-reading the Episteme of Martyrdom for a Poetics of Appropriation’, Cultural Dynamics 13:3 (Nov., 2001), pp. 339–62. On Iqbal’s political vision, see Fateh Mohammad Malik (ed.), Mohammad Iqbal, Muslim Political Thought: A Reconstruction, edited with an introduction by Fateh Mohammad Malik (Pakistan: Alhamra, 2002). Another example of this trend can be seen in Mut.ahharı¯’s Sufi reading of Imam H . usayn’s martyrdom, which he depicted as an expression of true Gnostic love. Akhavi, ‘Islam, Politics and Society in the Thought of Ayatullah Khomeini,

NOTES

55.

56.

57. 58. 59. 60.

61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66. 67.

TO PAGES

185 –189

273

Ayatullah Taliqani and Ali Shari‘ati’, pp. 404–31; Knysh, ‘Irfan Revisited’, pp. 631–53; Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian: A Political Biography of Ali Shar‘ati, pp. 144–60. On these concepts see, Mahmud Taleqani, Murtada Mutahhari and Ali Shariati, Jihad and Shahadat: Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam, Mehdi Abedi and Gary Legenhausen (eds.) (Houston, TX: Institute for Research and Islamic Studies, 1986), pp. 230–41; Keddie, Roots of Revolution, pp. 183–230. For more on Sharı¯ ‘atı¯’s socio-political message see for example, Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian, pp. 280–96; Assef Bayat, ‘Shariati and Marx: A Critique of an ‘‘Islamic’’ Critique of Marxism’, Alif 10 (1990), pp. 19–41; Arthur Lessing, ‘Marxist Existentialism’, The Review of Metaphysics 20:3 (March, 1967), pp. 461–82. Ruhollah Khomeini, al-Kalima¯t al-qisa¯r: mawa¯‘iz wa-hikam min kala¯m al˙ ˙ ˙ Ima¯m al-Khumaynı¯ (Mu’assasat Nashr wa-Tanz.¯ım Tura¯th al-Ima¯m alKhumayni), p. 70. Khomeini, Islam and Revolution, 242. In a similar fashion T.aleqa¯nı¯ explained that Jiha¯d can also be waged against despots. See Jiha¯d and Shaha¯dat, p. 61. Kramer, Islam Assembled, pp. 132–3. H . a¯jj Amı¯n al-H.usaynı¯ arrived in Iraq in 1939 during the Arab revolt, fleeing from the British who sought his extradition. He played an important role in stirring up pan-Arab resistance to the British presence in Iraq. See Zvi Elpeleg, The Grand Mufti: Haj Amin al-Hussaini, Founder of the Palestinian National Movement; translated by David Harvey and edited by Shmuel Himelstein (London: Frank Cass, 1993), pp. 36–87; Philip Matar, The Mufti of Jerusalem: al-Hajj Amin al-Husayni and the Palestinian National Movement (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1988), pp. 73–93. Ibid., pp. 11–12. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Qad.ı¯yat filast.ı¯n al-kubra¯: fı¯ khut.a¯b Muh.ammad al-H.usayn Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, p. 13. Ibid., p. 14. This meeting was an attempt to gain US and British support for a joint struggle against Communism, which was gaining ground among the Shi‘is of Iraq during this period. See Muhammad al-Husayn Ka¯shif al-Ghita¯, ˙ ˙ ˙ Muha¯warat al-Ima¯m al-muslih Ka¯shif al-Ghita¯’ al-Shaykh Muhammad ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Husayn ma‘a al-safı¯rayn al-Barı¯ta¯nı¯ wa-al-Amrı¯kı¯ fı¯ Baghda¯d bi-muna¯sabati ˙ ˙ ziya¯ratihima¯ li-sama¯hatihi fı¯ madrasatihi fı¯ al-Najaf (Najaf: al-Matba‘a ˙ ˙ al-Haydariyya, 1954), pp. 8–34. ˙ ˙ it.aˆ, pp. 66–7; Naef, Un Re´formiste chiite – Muh.ammad Husayn Aˆl Kaˆsˇif al-G al-Muhammad al-Husayn Ka¯shif al-Ghita¯, al-Muthul al-‘ulya¯ fı¯ al-Isla¯m la¯ fı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ Bihamdu¯n (Najaf: al-Matba‘a al-Haydariyya, 1954). ˙ ˙ ˙ Ibid. On his approach to clerical political participation, see Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, al-Muthu¯l al-‘ulya¯’ fı¯’l-Isla¯m, pp. 71–2.

274

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68. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Sab‘a wa-‘ishru¯n shahra¯n fı¯ T.ihra¯n: musha¯hada¯t); translated and edited by Ha¯dı¯ al-Kha¯lis.¯ı (Beirut: Da¯r al-Fa¯ra¯bı¯, 1998). 69. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Sab‘a wa-‘ishru¯n shahra¯n fı¯ T.ihra¯n, pp. 74–5. 70. Ibid., p. 75. 71. See Michael Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); entry ‘H.isba’ in EI2 3, pp. 485–93. 72. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Sab‘a wa-‘ishru¯n shahra¯n fı¯ T.ihra¯n, pp. 266–87. 73. Ibid., pp. 85–6. 74. See entry ‘Wila¯yat al-faqı¯h’ in John L. Esposito (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Modern Islamic World, vol. 4 (1995), pp. 320–3. 75. Bennison, ‘Muslim Universalism and Western Globalization’, pp. 74–97. 76. Machlis, ‘A Shi‘a Debate on Arabism’, pp. 95–114. 77. See al-‘Irfa¯n 34:1 (1947), pp. 2–5, which described the goals and achievements of the journal, including the promotion of Arabism. See also ‘al-Qawmiyya altha¯’ira’, al-‘Irfa¯n 28:6 (1938), pp. 580–6, ‘Filast.¯ın fı¯ mih.natiha¯’, al-‘Irfa¯n 35:6 (1948), pp. 802–3. 78. See Shanahan, The Shi‘a of Lebanon. 79. On Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n’s reference to these allegations, see Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n, Khit.at. jabal ’A¯mil (Beirut: al-Da¯r al-’a¯limiyya, 1983), pp. 70–1. 80. Ibid. See also Chalabi, The Shi‘is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 153–68. On the ‘A¯mili’s link to Abu¯ Dharr al-Ghifa¯rı¯, see Ulrich Harmann, ‘Abu¯ Dharr-Muh.ammad’s Revolutionary Companion’, MW LXVIII:4 (1978), pp. 285–9. 81. Anti-Shi‘i rhetoric was demonstrated, for example, in the thought of Muh.ammad Kurd ‘Alı¯, the head of the Arab Academy in Damascus. See Brunner, Islamic Ecumenism, pp. 158–161. Mu¯sawı¯ refuted his attack on the Shi‘a in the following publication: Mu¯sawı¯, Ila¯ al-Majma‘ al-‘ilmı¯ al-‘arabı¯ fi-Dimashq (Najaf: Mat.ba‘at al-Nu‘ma¯n, 1967). See also Abbas Kelidar, ‘The Shi‘i Imami Community and Politics in the Arab East,’ Middle Eastern Studies 19:1 (1983), pp. 1–15; Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 113–14. 82. Luizard, Shaykh Muh.ammad al-Kha¯lis.ı¯, pp. 223–35. 83. See Muh.ammad al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, al-‘Uru¯ba fı¯ da¯r al-bawa¯r fa-hal min munqidh: muqa¯yasa bayn al-gha¯bir wa’l-h.a¯d.ir wa-naz.ra ila¯’l-mustaqbal (Mashhad: Mat.ba‘at Khurasa¯n, [N.D.]). 84. See Mufti, Sovereign Creations, pp. 22–31; C. Ernest Dawn, ‘The Formation of pan-Arab Ideology in the Interwar Years’, IJMES 20:1 (Feb., 1988), pp. 67–91; Michael Eppel, ‘The Elite, the Effendiyya, and the Growth of Nationalism and Pan-Arabism in Hashemite Iraq, 1921–1958’, IJMES 30:2 (May, 1998), pp. 227–250. 85. Ka¯shif al-Ghit.a¯’, Qad.ı¯yat filast.ı¯n al-kubra¯, p. 148. 86. See Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 121–5; Tripp, A History of Iraq, pp. 82–3; Liora Lukitz, Iraq: The Search for National Identity (London: Frank Cass, 1995), pp. 58–71, 253–62. 87. See Nakash, The Shi‘is of Iraq, pp. 253–62.

NOTES

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275

88. Ibid., pp. 84–88, 109–122. 89. See Rogers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper, ‘Beyond ‘‘Identity’’’, Theory and Society 29:1 (Jan., 2000), pp. 1–47. 90. On Reza Shah’s modernisation drive, see Ervand Abrahamian, A History of Modern Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 74–96. 91. Mallat, ‘Aspects of Shi’i Thought from the South of Lebanon’, p. 6; Augustus Richard Norton, Amal and the Shi‘a: Struggle for the Soul of Lebanon (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1988), pp. 39–46. 92. See Norton, Amal and the Shi‘a, pp. 5–8, 14–18. 93. On Musa al-S.adr’s activities, see Fouad Ajami, The Vanished Imam: Musa al Sadr and the Shia of Lebanon (Ithaca, NY; London: Cornell University Press, 1986). 94. In his obituary, written in al-‘Irfa¯n, the journal praised Muh.sı¯n al-Amı¯n’s support for the national cause. See al-‘Irfa¯n 39 (1952), pp. 672–85. See also Ministe`re des Affaires E´trange`res [MAE], Beyrouth, Consulat B, p. 188. 95. Shanahan, The Shi‘a of Lebanon, pp. 91–107. 96. For more on these developments, see Norton, Amal and the Shi‘a, pp. 37–49. 97. See the party’s charter. Ibid., pp. 144–66. 98. On the Hizbullah’s shifting orientation, see Martin Kramer, ‘Redeeming ˙ Jerusalem: The Pan-Islamic Premise of Hizballah’ in David Menashri (ed.) The Iranian Revolution and the Muslim World (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1990), pp. 105–30; Jacob Høigilt, ‘Islamism, Pluralism and the Palestine Question: The Case of Hizbullah’, BJMES 34:2 (2007), pp. 123–36. 99. See Meir Litvak, ‘The Concept of Freedom in Modern Islamic Thought’ Historia (Journal of the Historical Society of Israel) 16 (July, 2005), pp. 55–80. 100. Al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, Sab‘a wa-‘ishru¯n shahra¯n fı¯ T.ihra¯n, pp. 75–7; Muh.ammad Mahdı¯ Al-Kha¯lis.¯ı, Nas..s risa¯lat al-muja¯hid fı¯ sabı¯l Alla¯h al-mujtahid al-akbar al-ima¯m al-Kha¯lis.ı¯ 1888m/1963m ila¯ al-sayyid Ah.mad Kawa¯m ra’ı¯s wuzara¯’ I¯ra¯n fı¯ dhalika al-waqt (Beirut: Da¯r al-Fa¯ra¯bı¯, 1998), pp. 112–5. 101. Ayatollah al-Khomaynı¯, al-H.uku¯ma al-Isla¯miyya (Beirut: Da¯r al-T.ali‘a lil-T.aba¯‘a wa’l Nashr, 1979, pp. 8–22. 102. In his writings, Khomeini attacked what he described as the imperialist effort to control the Muslim world and portray Islam an apolitical faith. See, for example, Farhang Rajaee, Islamic Values and World View: Khomeyni on Man, the State and International Politics, Volume XIII, with a preface by Kenneth W. Thompson (Lanham, NY; New York, London: University Press of America, 1983), pp. 86–7; Khomaynı¯, al-H.uku¯ma al-Isla¯miyya, pp. 9–22. On Sharı¯ ‘atı¯’s depiction of colonialism, see Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian, pp. 359–60. 103. For more on Jala¯l A¯l-e Ah.mad’s thought, see Ali Mirsepassi, Political Islam, Iran, and the Enlightenment: Philosophies of Hope and Despair (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 116–28; Ferzin Vahdat, ‘Return to which Self?: Jalal Al-e Ahmad and the Discourse of Modernity’, Journal of Iranian Research and Analysis 16:2 (Nov., 2000), pp. 55–71; Brad Hanson, The ‘Westoxication’ of Iran: Despictions and Reactions of Behrangi, A¯l-E Ahmad,

276

104. 105. 106. 107.

108.

109. 110. 111. 112.

113. 114.

115.

NOTES

TO PAGES

199 –203

and Shari‘ati’, IJMES 15:1 (Feb., 1983), pp. 1–23. See also Roy Mottahedeh, Mantle of the Prophet: Religion and Politics in Iran (Boston, MA: Oneworld Publications, 2000), pp. 287–336. Hanson, ‘The ‘Westoxication’ of Iran: Depictions and Reactions of Behrangi, A¯l-E Ahmad, and Shari‘ati’, pp. 1–23. See Joseph Alpher, ‘The Khomeini International’, The Washington Quarterly 3:4 (Autumn, 1980), pp. 54–74. See David Menashri, ‘Khomeini’s Vision: Nationalism or World Order’, in David Menashri (ed.), The Iranian Revolution and the Muslim World (San Francisco, CA; Oxford: Westview Press, 1990), pp. 40–57. Tibi, ‘The Iranian Revolution and the Arabs: The Quest for Islamic Identity and the Search for an Islamic System of Government’, Arab Studies Quarterly 8:1 (Winter, 1986), pp. 29–44; Sivan, ‘Sunni Radicalism in the Middle East and the Iranian Revolution’, IJMES 21:1 (Feb., 1989), pp. 1–30; ‘Abd Alla¯h Muhammad Gharı¯b, al-Khumaynı¯ bayna al-tatarruf wa’l-i‘tida¯l (Cairo? [s.n.], ˙ ˙ 1986). Fath.¯ı ’Abd al-’Azı¯z, al-Khumainı¯ al-h.al al-isla¯mı¯ wa’l-badı¯l (Cairo, 1986, 2nd edition). Islamic revolutionaries demonstrated a clear link with the French intellectual scene of the time. Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian, pp. 81–103; Bayat, ‘Shariati and Marx’, pp. 19–41; Mirsepassi, Intellectual Discourse and the Politics of Modernization, pp. 58–64; Boroujerdi, Iranian Intellectuals and the West, pp. 52–76, 106–12. See Vanessa Martin, ‘Religion and State in Khumainı¯’s ’Kashf al-asra¯r’‘, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 56:1 (1993), pp. 34–45; Menashri, Khomeini’s Vision: Nationalism or World Order, pp. 40–57. See Menashri, Khomeini’s Vision: Nationalism or World Order, pp. 40–57. See Ludwig Paul, ‘Iranian Nation’ and ‘Iranian–Islamic Revolutionary Ideology’, WI 39:2 (1999), pp. 183–217. On this perception of alienation, see, for example, Gregory Rose, ‘Velayat-e Faqih and the Recovery of Islamic Identity in the Thought of Ayatollah Khomeini’, in Nikki R. Keddie (ed.) Religion and Politics in Iran: Shi‘ism from Quietism to Revolution (New Haven, CT: London: Yale University Press, 1983), pp. 166–88; ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯‘atı¯, Egzı¯sta¯nsya¯lı¯sim ‘ilm wa asku¯la¯stı¯k jadı¯d (Qum: Nashr Amma¯r, 1977), pp. 28–40. See Machlis, ‘Alı¯ Sharı¯ ‘atı¯ and the Notion of Tawhid. See Shahrough Akhavi, ‘Contending Discourses in Shi‘i Law on the Doctrine of Wila¯yat al-Faqı¯h’, Iranian Studies 29: 3/4 (Summer–Autumn, 1996), pp. 229–68; Rose, Velayat-e Faqih and the Recovery of Islamic Identity in the Thought of Ayatollah Khomeini, pp. 166–88; Hamid Dabashi, ‘Mulla Ahmad Naraqi and the Question of the Guardianship of the Jurisconsult (Wilayat-i Faqih)’ in Seyyed Hossein Nadr, Hamid Dabashi and Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr (eds.), Expectation of the Millennium: Shi‘ism in History (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1989), pp. 288–300. Moussavi, The Establishment of the Position of Marja‘iyyt-i Taqlid, pp. 35–51.

NOTES

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277

116. See for example, Gleave, Jiha¯d and the Religious Legitimacy of the Early Qajar State. 117. See Lambton, A Nineteenth Century View of Jiha¯d; E. Kohlberg, ‘The Development of the Ima¯mı¯ Shı¯’ı¯ Doctrine of jiha¯d’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenla¨ndischen Gesellschaft 126 (1976), pp. 64–86; Abdul-Hadi Hairi, ‘The Legitimacy of the Early Qajar Rule as Viewed by the Shi‘i Religious Leaders’, Middle Eastern Studies 24:3 (July, 1988), pp. 271–86. 118. See Touraj Atabaki, ‘The Caliphate, the Clerics and Rebublicanism in Turkey and Iran: Some Comparative Remarks’, in Touraj Atabaki and Erik J. Zu¨rcher (eds.) Men of Order: Authoritarian Modernization under Atatu¨rk and Reza Shah (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris, 2004), pp. 44–64. 119. Luizard, Shaykh Muh.ammad al-Kha¯lis.ı¯, pp. 224, 232. 120. See Said Amir Arjomand, ‘Shi‘ite Islam and the Revolution in Iran’, Government and Opposition 16:3 (July, 1981), pp. 293–316. 121. Besides Kha¯lis.¯ı, Sayyed H . assan Modarres was another religious opponent of Reza Sha¯h who was exceptional at the time in expressing his vocal criticism of Reza Sha¯h and his regime. See Akhavi, Religion and Politics in Contemporary Iran, pp. 25–72. 122. Moaddel, Class, Politics, and Ideology in the Iranian Revolution, pp. 136–8. 123. On Majlesi’s thought, see Abisaab, Converting Persia, pp. 126–30; Arjomand, The Clerical Estate and the Emergence of a Shiite Hierocracy in Safavid Iran, pp. 169–219. 124. See Pierre-Jean Luizard, ‘Shaykh Muh.ammad al-Kha¯lis.¯ı (1890–1963) and his Political Role in Iraq and Iran in the 1910s/20s’ in Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds.), The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture & Political History (Leiden; Boston, MA: Ko¨ln: Brill, 2001), pp. 223–35. 125. On Sayyid Ah.mad Qava¯m and his political role in Iran, see Peter Avery, Gavin Hambly and Charles Melville (eds.), The Cambridge History of Iran, Vol. 7: From Nadir Shah to The Islamic Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 211, 220–1, 244–51, 439, 653. 126. Kha¯lis.¯ı, Nas..s risa¯lat al-muja¯hid fı¯ sabı¯l Alla¯h, pp. 112–27. 127. Ende, ‘Success and Failure of a Shiite Modernist: Muhammad ibn Muhammad Mahdi al-Khalisi’, pp. 231–44. 128. See Martin, Religion and State in Khumainı¯’s ‘Kashf al-asra¯r, pp. 34–45. 129. Ibid. 130. For more on these developments, see entry ‘Coup d’etat of 1332 sˇ./1953’ in Mark J. Gasiorowski, Encyclopaedia Iranica Online (originally published: 15 December 1993; last updated 2 November 2011); H.E. Chahabi, Iranian Politics and Religious Modernism: The Liberation Movement in Iran under the Shah and Khomeini (London: I.B. Tauris, 1990), pp. 111–7; Yann Richard, ‘Ayatollah Kashani: Precursor of the Islamic Republic?’, in Nikki R. Keddie (ed.) Religion and Politics in Iran: Shi‘ism from Quietism to Revolution (New Haven, CT; London: Yale University Press, 1983), pp. 101–24. 131. See Richard W. Cottam, ‘Political Party Development in Iran’, Iranian Studies 1:3 (Summer, 1968), pp. 82–95; Azar Tabari, ‘The Role of the Clergy in

278

132. 133.

134.

135.

136.

137.

138.

139. 140. 141.

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Modern Iranian Politics’ in Nikki R. Keddie (ed.), Religion and Politics in Iran: Shi‘ism from Quietism to Revolution (New Haven, CT; London: Yale University Press, 1983), pp. 47–73; Y. Richard, Ayatollah Kashani: Precursor of the Islamic Republic. See entry, ‘Boru¯jerdı¯, H . usayn T.aba¯t.aba¯’ı¯ in Hamid Algar’, Encyclopaedia Iranica Online. For more on this movement, see Farhad Kazemi, entry ’Feda¯’ı¯a¯n-e Esla¯m’ in Ehsan Yarshater (ed.) Encyclopaedia Iranica Online (New York, NY: Columbia University Center for Iranian Studies, 1999); Vanessa Martin, Creating an Islamic State: Khomeini and the Making of a New Iran (London; New York, NY: I. B. Tauris, 2000), pp. 18–9, 60–6, 129–132. See translated excerpts of T.a¯laqa¯nı¯’s writings in Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Hamid Dabash and Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr (eds.), Expectation of the Millennium: Shi‘ism in History, pp. 126–9; Mangol Bayat, ‘Mahmud Taleqani and the Iranian Revolution’ in Martin Kramer (ed.), Shi‘ism, Resistance and Revolution (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1987), pp. 67–94. On the development of these leftist movements in Iran, see Sepehr Zabih, The Left in Contemporary Iran: Ideology, Organisation and the Soviet Connection (London; Sydney: Croom Helm, 1986); Tora¯b H.aqsˇena¯s, entry ‘COMMUNISM iii. In Persia after 1953’ in Encyclopaedia Iranica Online. Naef, ‘Shı¯‘ı¯ ‘Shuyu¯‘ı¯: or How to Become a Communist in a Holy City’ pp. 255–67; Gabbay, Communism and Agrarian Reform in Iraq, pp. 48–54; Batatu, The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq, pp. 422–69, 628–9, 718. See translated excerpts from Ba¯qir al-S.adr’s Iqtisaduna in Expectation of the Millennium: Shi‘ism in History (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1989), pp. 115–25. Mallat, ‘Religious Militancy in Contemporary Iraq’, pp. 699–729; Amazia Baram, ‘The Impact of Khomeini’s Revolution on the Radical Shi‘i Movement of Iraq’, David Menashri (ed.) The Iranian Revolution and the Muslim World (Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1990), pp. 131–52. See John Walbridge, ‘Muhammad-Baqir al-Sadr: The Search for New Foundations’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja’ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 131–9. See Joyce Wiley, ‘Alima bint al-Huda, Women’s Advocate’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja‘ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 149–160. On the intellectual connection between Ba¯qir al-S.adr and Fadlallah, see ˙ Mallat, Aspects of Shi‘i Thought from the South of Lebanon; Chibli Mallat, The Renewal of Islamic Law, pp. 16–7, 36. See Nizar Hamzeh, ‘Lebanon’s Hizbullah: From Islamic Revolution to Parliamentary Accommodation’, Third World Quarterly, 14:2 (1993), pp. 321– 37. For more on Fadlallah’s thought, see Talib Aziz, ‘Fadlallah and the ˙ Remaking of the Marja‘iya’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the

NOTES

142.

143. 144.

145.

146. 147. 148.

149.

TO PAGES

212 –214

279

Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja‘ Taqlid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 205–15. On the concept of vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, see Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, Islamic Government; translated by Joint Publications Research Service (New York, NY: Manor Books, 1979); Rose, The Thought of Khomeini; Abbas Amanat, ‘From ijtihad to wilayat-i faqih: The Evolving of the Shi‘ite Legal Authority to Political Power’, Logos 2.3 (Summer, 2003); Akhavi, Contending Discourses in Shi‘i Law on the Doctrine of Wila¯yat al-Faqı¯h; entry ‘Wila¯yat al-faqı¯h’ in John L. Esposito (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Modern Islamic World, vol. 4 (1995), pp. 320–3. Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 189–90. On the differences between these two Shi‘i schools, see Robert Gleave, ‘Akhba¯rı¯ Shı¯‘ı¯ us.u¯l al-fiqh and the Juristic Theory of Yu¯suf b. Ah.mad al-Bah.ra¯nı¯’ in R. Gleave and E. Kermeli (eds.), Islamic Law: Theory and Practice (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris), pp. 24–45; Momen. An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, pp. 222–5; See also Kohlberg, Aspects of Akhbari Thought, pp. 133–60; Robert Gleave, Inevitable Doubt: Two Theories of Shi‘i Jurisprudence (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 4–11, 246–53. Moussavi, ‘The Establishment of the Position of Marja‘iyyt-i Taqlid, pp. 35–50; Cole, ‘Imami Jurisprudence and the Role of the Ulama: Mortaza Ansari on Emulating the Supreme Exemplar’, pp. 33–46; Linda S. Walbridge, ‘Introduction: Shi‘ism and Authority’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.), The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja’ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 3–5; Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, pp. 5–7. McEoin, ‘Aspects of Militancy and Quietism in Imami Shi‘ism’, pp. 18–27; Enayat, Modern Islamic Political Thought, pp. 19–27; Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars, pp. 21–44. See Arjomand, The Clerical Estate and the Emergence of a Shi‘ite Hierocracy in Safavid Iran. There is a debate among scholars on the extent of Shi‘i ‘ulama¯’ migration from the Arab lands to Iran and the relationship between these clerics and the Safavids. However, what is clear is that in a gradual process, starting from the sixteenth century, Iran became acquainted with the fiqh tradition. See Albert Hourani, ‘From Jabal ‘A¯mil to Persia’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 49:1, In Honour of Ann K. S. Lambton (1986), pp. 133–40; Andrew J. ‘The Myth of the Clerical Migration to Safavid Iran: Arab Shiite Opposition to ‘Alı¯ al-Karakı¯ and Safawid Shi’ism’, WI, New Series 33:1 (Apr., 1993), 66–112; Rula Jurdi Abisaab, ‘The Ulama of Jabal ‘Amil in Safavid Iran, 1501–1736: Marginality, Migration and Social Change’, Iranian Studies 27:1–4 (1994), Religion and Society in Islamic Iran during the Pre-Modern Era, pp. 103–22. Devin J. Stewart, ‘The Portrayal of an Academic Rivalry: Najaf and Qum in the Writings and Speeches of Khomeini, 1964–78’, in Linda S. Walbridge

280

150.

151. 152. 153.

154. 155.

156. 157.

158.

159.

NOTES

TO PAGES

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(ed.), The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja’ Taqlid (Oxford; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 216–29. Knysh, ‘Irfan Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy of Islamic Mystical Philosophy’, pp. 631–53; ‘Allameh Sayyed Mohammed Tabataba’i, ‘Concerning the Welfare and Spiritual Journey of the People of Intellect’ in Lloyd Ridgeon (ed.), Religion and Politics in Modern Iran: A Reader (London; New York, NY: I.B. Tauris, 2005), pp. 139–48; Martin, Creating an Islamic State, pp. 31–3. See entry ’al-insa¯n al-ka¯mil’ in R. Arnaldez, EI online. Arjomand, The Shadow of God, pp. 43–5, 66–84, 109–19; Arjomand, The Consolation of Theology, pp. 548–71. See Tamima Bayhom Daou, The Ima¯mı¯ Shı¯‘ı¯ Conception of the Knowledge of the Ima¯m and the Sources of Religious Doctrine in the Formative Period: from Hisha¯m b. al-H.akam (d. 179 A.H.) to Kulı¯nı¯ (d. 329 A.H.) (Ph.D. Thesis, SOAS, 1996); Etan Kholberg, ‘Some Shı¯‘ı¯ Views of the Antediluvian World’ in Etan Kholberg (ed.), Belief and Law in Imami Shi‘ism (Variorum Brookfield: Gower Publication Co., 1991), pp. 41–66. See Ali Rahnema, Superstition as Ideology in Iranian Politics: From Majlesi to Ahmadinejad (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 137–83. Menashri, ‘Shi‘ite Leadership: In the Shadow of Conflicting Ideologies’, Iranian Studies 13: 1–4 (1980), pp. 119–145. See also Shahrough Akhavi, ‘The Thought and Role of Ayatollah Hossein ’Ali Montazeri in the Politics of Post1979 Iran’, Iranian Studies 41:5 (2008), pp. 645–66. Akhavi, Contending Discourses in Shi‘i Law on the Doctrine of Wila¯yat al-Faqı¯h, pp. 242–5. See Mallat, Aspects of Shi‘i Thought from the South of Lebanon; Hassan Mneimneh, ‘The Arab Reception of Vilayat-e-Faqih: The Counter-Model’, Current Trends in Islamist Ideology 8 (2009), pp. 39–51; Roschanack Shaery-Eisenlohr, ‘Postrevoutionary Iran and Shi‘i Lebanon: Contested Histories of Shi‘i Transnationalism’, IJMES 39:2 (May, 2007), pp. 271–89; Aziz, Fadlallah and the Remaking of the Marja‘iya. See Talib Aziz, ‘Baqir al-Sadr’s Quest for the Marja‘iya’ in Linda S. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja‘ Taqlid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 140–8; Shanahan, ‘Shi‘a Political Development in Iraq: The Case of the Islamic Da‘wa Party’, pp. 943–54; Mallat, The Renewal of Islamic Law, pp. 67–9; T.M. Aziz, ‘The Role of Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr in Shi‘i Political Activism in Iraq from 1958 to 1980’, IJMES 25:2 (May, 1993), pp. 207–22. See also Rula Jurdi Abisaab, ‘Lebanese Shi‘ites and the Marja‘iyya: Polemic in the Late Twentieth Century’, BJMES 36:2 (2009), pp. 215–39; Sivan, Sunni Radicalism in the Middle East and the Iranian Revolution.

NOTES

TO PAGES

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281

Conclusion 1. On the different modes of accommodation between modernity and religion see Wilson, Modernity and Religion, pp. 9–18. 2. On the process of shifting identities, see Rogers, Brubaker and Cooper, Beyond ‘Identity’, pp. 1–47; Michael A. Hogg and Dominic Abrams, Social Identifications: A Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations and Group Processes (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 1988). 3. Norton, Shi‘ism and Social Protest, pp. 157–78; Norton, Harakat Amal, pp. 105–31. See also Vali Nasr, The Shia Revival: How Conflicts within Islam will Shape the Future (New York, NY; London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006). 4. Farouk-Sluglett and Sluglett, The Historiography of Modern Iraq, pp. 1408–21. 5. See Nasr, The Shia Revival, pp. 81–117, 187–9; Roy, The Failure of Political Islam, pp. 123–4.

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2. Books and articles

Abedi, Mehdi. ‘Ali Shariati: The Architect of the 1979 Islamic Revolution in Iran’, Iranian Studies XIX: 3 – 4 (Summer-Autumn, 1986), pp. 229– 34. Abisaab, Rula Jurdi. Converting Persia: Religion and Power in the Safavid Empire (London; New York, NY: Tauris, 2004). _____. ‘Lebanese Shi‘ites and the Marja‘iyya: Polemic in the Late Twentieth Century’, BJMES 36:2 (2009), pp. 215– 39. _____. ‘The Ulama of Jabal ‘Amil in Safavid Iran, 1501– 1736: Marginality, Migration and Social Change’, Iranian Studies 27: 1 – 4 (1994), pp. 103–22. Abrahamian, Ervand. Iran between two Revolutions (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983). _____. A History of Modern Iran (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). Abu-Manneh, Butrus. Studies on Islam and the Ottoman Empire in the 19th Century (1826– 1876) (Istanbul: The ISIS Press, 2001). Abu-Rabi, Ibrahim M. ‘Modern Trends in Islamic Education’, Religious Education 84:2 (Spring, 1989), pp. 186– 200. _____.‘The Sultan and the Bureaucracy: the Anti-Tanzimat Concepts of Grand Vizier Mahmud Nedim Pas¸a’, IJMES 22:3 (Aug., 1990), pp. 257– 74. Adams, Charles C. Islam and Modernism in Egypt: A Study of the Modern Reform Movement Inaugurated by Muh.ammad ‘Abduh (London: Oxford University Press, 1933). Ahmad, Nizamuddin. ‘Twelver Shı¯‘ı¯ H . adı¯th: from Tradition to Contemporary Evaluation’ in Gavin N. Picken (ed.), Islamic Law: Critical Concepts, Vol. I: Origins and Sources (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2011), pp. 149 – 69. Ahmed, Leila. Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate (New Haven, CT; London: Yale University Press, 1992). Akhavi, Shahrough. ‘Islam Politics and Society in the Thought of Ayatullah Khomeini, Ayatullah Taliqani and Ali Shariati’, Middle Eastern Studies, 24:4 (1988), pp. 404– 31. Akhtar, S. Waheed. Early Shı¯‘ı¯te Ima¯miyyah Thinkers (New Delhi: Ashish Publishing House, 1988). Alavi, B. ‘Critical Writing on the Renewal of Iran’, in Edmund Bosworth and Carole Hillenbrand (eds.), Qajar Iran: Political, Social and Cultural Change 1800– 1925 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1983), pp. 243– 54. Algar, Hamid. ‘Shi‘ism in Iran in the Eighteenth Century’ in Naff-Owen (eds.), Studies in Eighteenth Century Islamic History (Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1977), pp. 288– 302. _____. Wahhabism: A Critical Essay (Oneonta, NY: Islamic Publications International, 2002). Allen, Graham. Intertextuality (London; New York, NY: Routledge, 2000). Amanat, Abbas. ‘From ijtihad to wilayat-i faqih: The Evolving of the Shi‘ite Legal Authority to Political Power’, Logos 2.3 (Summer, 2003).

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Amin, Camron Michael. The Making of the Modern Iranian Woman: Gender, State Policy, and Popular Culture, 1865– 1946 (Gainesville, FL: University of Florida, 2002). Al-Amı¯n, H.asan (ed.). ‘Khut.bat al-kita¯b’ in Muh.sin al-Amı¯n al-A¯milı¯, A‘ya¯n alshı¯‘a, H . asan al-Amı¯n (ed.) (Beirut: Da¯r al-ta‘a¯ruf lil-mat.bu¯‘a¯t, 1418 [1998], 5th edition), pp. 13 – 16. Amin, Sayed Hassan. Commercial Law of Iran (Tehran: Vahid Publications, 1986). _____. [Muh.sin al-Amı¯n] ‘Sı¯ratuhu bi-qalamihi wa-qalam al-akharı¯n’ in H.asan alAmı¯n (ed.), A‘ya¯n al-shı¯‘a, vol. 15, (Beirut: Da¯r al-ta‘a¯ruf lil-mat.bu¯‘a¯t, 1418 [1998], 5th edition), pp. 297– 466. Amir-Moezzi, Muhammad Ali. The Divine Guide in Early Shi‘ism: The Sources of Exotericism in Islam; translated by David Streight (New York, NY: State University of New York Press, 1994). _____. ‘Only the Man of God is Human: Theology and Mystical Anthropology according to Early Ima¯mi Exegesis (Aspects of Twelver Imamology IV)’ in Etan Kohlberg (ed.), Shi‘ism (Burlington, MA: Ashgate, 2003), pp. 2 – 23. Anderson, J.N.D. ‘A Law of Personal Status for Iraq’, The International and Comparative Law Quarterly 9:4 (Oct., 1960), pp. 542– 63. _____. Islamic Law in the Modern World (London: Stevens, 1959). _____. ‘Modern Trends in Islam: Legal Reform and Modernisation in the Middle East’ in Ian Edge (ed.), Islamic Law and Legal Theory (Aldershot: Dartmouth, 1996), pp. 547– 67. Ansari, Ali M. Modern Iran since 1921: The Pahlavis and After (London: Pearson Education, 2003). _____. ‘The Myth of the White Revolution: Mohammad Reza Shah, ‘Modernization’ and the Consolidation of Power’, Middle Eastern Studies 37:3 (2001), pp. 1 – 24. Aghajanian, Akbar. ‘Family Planning and Contraceptive Use in Iran, 1967– 1992’, International Family Planning Perspectives 20:2 (June, 1994), pp. 66 – 9. Arabi, Oussama. Studies in Modern Islamic Law and Jurisprudence (The Hague; London; New York, NY: Kluwer Law International, 2001). Arjomand, Saı¨d Amir. ‘The Consolation of Theology: Absence of the Imam and Transition from Chiliasm to Law in Shi‘ism’, Journal of Religion 76:4 (Oct. 1996), pp. 548– 71. _____. ‘The Crisis of the Imamate and the Institution of Occultation in Twelver Shi‘ism: A Sociohistorical Perspective’ IJMES 28 (1996), pp. 491– 515. _____. ‘The Ideological Revolution in Shi‘ism’ in Said Amir Arjomand (ed.), Authority and Political Culture in Shi‘ism (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1988), pp. 178– 212. _____. ‘Imam Absconditus and the Beginning of a Theology of Occultation: Imami Circa 280– 90 A.H./900 A.D.’ Journal of American Oriental Society 117:1 (January– March, 1997), pp. 13 –38. _____. The Shadow of God: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi‘ite Iran from the beginning to 1890 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1987 edition). _____. The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran (Oxford; New York, NY: et al: Oxford University Press, 1988). _____. ‘Shi‘ite Islam and the Revolution in Iran’, Government and Opposition 16:3 (July, 1981), pp. 293– 316.

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INDEX

‘A¯’isha, 71 – 72 Abdu¯lhamid II, Sultan, 51, 179, 195 Abu¯ Bakr, 49 – 50, 70 – 71 Abu¯ Hurayra, 73 – 75 Abu¯’l-Timman, Ja‘far, 28, 33 – 34 adl, 13, 62 al-Afgha¯nı¯, 51 – 52, 86 – 87, 103, 106, 179 ahl al-bayt, 46 –47, 69, 72, 78 – 80, 87, 91, 126– 128 Akhba¯rı¯, 4, 89, 116, 128, 213 ‘Alı¯, Imam, 1 – 2, 46 – 47, 50 – 51, 63, 66, 69 – 73, 76, 78 – 80, 88, 90, 108, 128, 137, 161, 171, 184– 185, 223 Amal, 43, 196– 197, 223 al-‘A¯milı¯, Sayyid Muhsin al-Amı¯n, ˙ 1 – 2, 7, 10, 32, 39, 48, 53, 71, 73, 75 – 76, 80, 89 – 93, 96 – 97, 128, 137, 224, 226 America, 10, 31, 159, 176, 189 Amı¯n al-Rayhanı¯, 129 ˙ Anglo-Iraqi treaty, 29 – 30 ‘aql, 13, 54, 94 – 95, 97, 106– 107, 116, 127– 129, 131, 165, 213, 221 Arabism, pan-Arab, 8, 15, 28, 35, 40, 48 – 49, 53, 55, 67, 122, 125, 132– 133, 178, 183, 187,

189, 191– 193, 195– 197, 210, 217, 225 arka¯n al-isla¯m, 60 – 61, 137, 142 ‘a¯shu¯ra¯’, 10, 24, 63, 90 – 91, 93, 171, 181–182, 184, 224 al-Azhar, 48, 78 – 79, 86, 122, 132 Baghdad, 27 – 28, 30 –31, 34, 112, 125 Baha’i, 5, 98, 155 Ba¯qir al-Sadr, Muhammad, 9, 32, 43, ˙ ˙ 64, 90, 102– 104, 106, 109– 110, 119, 126, 139, 141, 166– 167, 176, 196, 208, 210– 211, 214, 217, 223– 224 Basra, 30 Bazaar, 20 – 21, 23 – 24, 34, 155 Beirut, 8, 28, 31, 40 – 42, 99, 101, 211 Beqa¯’, 36, 37 – 38, 177 bid’a, 89 –91, 94, 97, 137 Bint al-Huda, 211 Britain, 21, 29, 33, 118, 153, 159, 163, 173, 175, 180, 187, 189, 199, 205 Buru¯jerdı¯, Ayatollah Sayyid Husayn, ˙ 129, 209 Caliphs, 49 – 51, 69 – 72, 76 – 77, 86, 127, 160, 184

SHI I SECTARIANISM IN THE MIDDLE EAST `

312

Christians, 38 – 40, 47, 57, 67, 90, 100, 108– 110, 135, 141, 159, 164, 173, 196– 197 commercial law, 114, 118, 123, 135, 140, 162– 168 Communism, communist, 33, 35, 40, 53, 67, 93, 104, 109, 111, 141, 155, 166, 181, 197, 206– 207, 210– 211 Companions, see saha¯ba ˙ ˙ Congresses, Pan-Islam, 52, 187 Constitutional Revolution, 21, 169– 170, 174, 179, 205 culture, 5, 22, 72, 159– 160 Damascus, 2, 7, 28, 62, 191, 197 da¯r al-harb, 207 ˙ da¯r al-isla¯m, 207 darwinism, 99 – 100 Da’wa, party, 32, 35 – 36, 45, 196, 211 economy, economic, 11, 20 – 21, 24 – 25, 28 – 30, 33 – 34, 38, 41, 47, 65, 103, 115, 119, 121, 125– 126, 139– 140, 150, 156– 157, 159, 162– 163, 166– 168, 173, 183, 191, 194, 196, 198– 211, 214– 215, 225 education, 2, 5, 7, 9, 13, 17 – 20, 22 – 23, 30, 31 – 34, 41 – 42, 49, 60, 92, 94 – 95, 123, 131, 147, 152– 154, 157– 158, 160– 161, 176, 178, 194 Egypt, 48 – 49, 52 – 53, 78, 129, 152– 153, 155, 163, 184 elite, 4 – 5, 8, 17 – 18, 25, 33, 35, 42 – 45, 47, 49, 54 – 55, 59 – 60, 67, 78, 99, 109– 110, 116, 125, 131, 134, 147, 180, 191, 213, 220, 222 Fadlallah, Muhammad Husayn, 32, ˙ ˙ ˙ 211– 212, 216 Fardı¯d, Ahmad, 22

Fa¯tima, 76, 161 ˙ Feda¯’ı¯a¯n-e Esla¯m, 149, 210 fiqh see also law, 45, 103, 120, 122–127, 134–136, 139– 142, 145, 157, 159– 160, 163, 165–168, 212, 213 fitna, 49, 70, 184 France, French, 8, 22, 28, 38 –40, 42, 57, 67, 110, 117, 164, 191, 197 Friday prayer, al-jum’a, 20, 142, 144–151, 168, 190 Germany, 22, 101 ghayba see Occultation Hadith, 60, 62 – 63, 66, 69, 72 – 76, 80, 107, 109, 116, 127– 128, 133–134, 136, 141, 143, 148, 160, 171, 213, 216 Hajj, 6, 104, 142, 150, 152 Hanafı, 47, 51, 162, 165, 179 ˙ harakat al-mahrumı¯n, 43, 196 ˙ ˙ Heidegger, 22 – 23 hija¯b, 151–162 ˙ Hizbullah, 10, 32, 93, 119, 134, 141, ˙ 197, 212, 216, 224 Husayn, Imam, 10, 24, 47, 63, 82, 88, ˙ 90– 91, 93 – 94, 113, 161, 171, 176, 180– 186, 188, 224 ‘iba¯da¯t, 124, 135, 151, 162 Ibn Taymiyya, 50, 82 – 83, 89 identity, 6, 11, 19, 27 – 28, 34, 36 – 38, 42, 44, 48, 67, 78, 80, 93, 113, 117–118, 179, 193, 196– 197, 200, 202– 203, 217– 220, 222–223, 225 ijma¯‘, 50, 53, 60 – 61, 69, 97, 127– 128, 156, 206 ijtiha¯d, 4, 60, 62–64, 73, 80, 116, 119, 121, 127–130, 133–134, 144, 213 ilm, 54, 57 – 58, 95, 197, 208 ima¯ma, 4, 47, 94, 106– 113, 121, 129, 151

INDEX imperialism, 6, 10, 52, 59, 65, 140, 176, 189, 225 intellectuals, intelligentsia, 10, 18, 19 – 23, 25, 31, 33 – 35, 44 – 45, 53, 56, 78, 91, 101– 103, 109, 123, 125, 131– 134, 140, 152, 154, 159, 160, 169, 179– 180, 184, 195, 198– 200, 207– 208, 218, 220, 225– 226 Iqbal, Muhammad, 87 –88, 102–103, 106, 184– 185 Iran, 5, 7, 8 – 11, 13 – 14, 17 – 25, 29, 34, 36, 43 – 44, 48, 55, 58, 65 – 66, 81, 86 – 87, 89 – 91, 98 – 101, 103 – 104, 106, 110, 112 – 113, 115, 118, 125 – 126, 129, 132 – 134, 136 – 138, 140 – 141, 144, 146 – 147, 149, 151 – 163, 166, 168– 177, 179– 181, 182, 185– 190, 192, 195– 196, 198– 210, 211, 213– 218, 220, 223– 225 Iraq, 1 – 5, 7 –12, 14, 17 – 20, 25 –38, 40, 43 – 49, 52 – 55, 60, 64, 67, 81, 90 – 91, 93, 95, 97 – 99, 102– 103, 110, 112– 113, 117– 119, 122– 123, 125– 126, 131, 134, 136– 137, 141, 147, 153– 156, 163, 166– 167, 169– 170, 173– 178, 180– 181, 186– 190, 192– 196, 198, 202, 205, 207– 208, 210– 211, 213– 214, 217– 220, 223– 226 al-‘Irfa¯n, journal, 7, 34, 41, 54 – 55, 105, 154, 185, 191, 212, 213– 214 Islamic Revolution, Islamic revolutionaries, 14, 24 – 25, 67, 132– 134, 159– 162, 176, 182, 198– 203, 212, 217– 219 Ja’afarı¯ court, 117 Jabal ’A¯mil, 2 – 3, 7, 18, 36, 38, 43, 177, 191– 192, 197 Jala¯l al-e Ahmad, 158, 202

313

Jama¯‘at al-taqrı¯b, 122 al-Jamalı¯, Muhammad Fa¯dil, 31 ˙ ˙ jiha¯d, 9, 104, 136, 145 – 146, 172 – 175, 180, 187 – 189, 191, 195, 199 – 200, 203 – 206, 225 Jurjı¯ Zayda¯n, 129 Karbala¯’, 4, 10, 18, 26 – 27, 35, 44, 48, 54, 117, 125, 163, 172, 174, 180, 184, 186, 213– 214 Ka¯shif al-Ghita¯’, Muhammad ˙ ˙ Husayn, 8 –10, 30, 32, 47 – 48, ˙ 52, 60 –61, 64, 72 –73, 78, 80, 93– 94, 96, 101, 107– 109, 114–115, 121–122, 129– 132, 134, 162– 166, 169, 175– 176, 178–185, 187, 188– 194, 196, 199–200, 204, 222, 224, 226 Ka¯zimayn, 7, 9, 26 – 27, 31, 126, 144, ˙ 208 Kerma¯nı¯, Mirza Aqa¯ Kha¯n, 179 al-Khalı¯lı¯, 38 al-Kha¯lisı¯, Muhammad Mahdı¯, 9– 10, ˙ ˙ 29, 89 –90, 93– 94, 98 – 101, 110–113, 119, 121– 126, 131, 135– 140, 142, 144– 145, 147–150, 152–159, 163, 166, 175, 178, 189– 193, 198, 205, 207–209, 211, 224 al-kha¯ssa, 50, 53, 66 – 67, 121, 128, ˙˙ 165 Khomeini, 5 – 6, 11, 14 – 15, 24, 44, 46, 58– 59, 65 – 67, 70, 76 – 77, 81, 85, 101, 104– 106, 119, 126, 140–141, 144, 149– 151, 158, 161, 166– 168, 176, 186, 191, 198– 202, 204, 208– 212, 214–218, 224 knowledge, see also ’ilm, 3–4, 7, 9, 12, 17–18, 22, 25, 32, 34–36, 51, 54–55, 57–58, 64, 66, 69, 74–75, 79, 87, 89, 95–96, 98–101, 105, 107–110, 113, 119–120, 123–125, 127, 129–134, 138,

SHI I SECTARIANISM IN THE MIDDLE EAST `

314

148, 157–158, 160–161, 167, 174, 178, 192, 208, 220, 222, 225 Kurd ‘Alı, 62 – 63, 197 law, 3 – 4, 21, 27, 41, 45, 50, 57 – 58, 60 – 61, 63 – 64, 94, 97, 99 – 100, 114– 129, 131, 134– 136, 138– 144, 148, 150, 152, 155, 160, 162– 127, 169– 170, 172, 178, 184, 188, 192, 198, 206– 209, 213, 216, 221 Lebanon, 1–5, 7–8, 11–12, 14, 17–20, 29, 32, 34, 36–37, 39–45, 48–49, 52–53, 55, 58, 60, 81, 90–92, 95, 103, 110, 113, 117–118, 123, 134, 137, 141, 154, 170, 177, 180, 182, 186, 189, 191, 196–197, 200, 211–212, 214, 216–220, 223–226 madhhab, 60, 63, 67, 99, 116, 121, 123, 126, 128, 139, 143 al-majalla, 61, 114, 118, 163– 165 al-Mana¯r, 52, 79 marja¯‘ al-taqlı¯d, 4, 63, 66, 116, 129, 132, 134, 209, 213, 216 middle class, 19 – 22, 24 – 25, 41, 44, 90, 98, 136, 156, 158, 222 migration, immigration, 19, 23–24, 30, 33, 40–42, 48, 112, 153, 194, 214 modernisation, 2 – 3, 5, 7 –8, 19, 21 – 23, 25, 27 – 28, 44 – 45, 48, 58, 92, 95, 100– 112, 125, 137– 138, 144, 153, 165, 175, 220– 221, 223, 226 Mohammad Reza Sha¯h, 21, 23, 58, 112, 150, 201 mu‘a¯mala¯t, 124, 126, 135, 162 al-Muqtataf, 99, 108, 131 ˙ al-Mu¯sawı¯, Sayyid ‘Abd al-Husayn ˙ Sharaf al-Dı¯n, 2 –3, 7– 8, 39, 43, 47 – 48, 55 – 58, 61 – 64, 66, 69 – 71, 73 – 76, 78 – 80, 117,

128–129, 142–144, 160, 177, 191, 223 Mu‘tazilite movement, 85, 94 Mughniyya, Muhammad Jawa¯d, 8, ˙ 41, 48, 88, 101– 103, 109, 118, 120– 123, 131– 132, 139, 182–183, 186, 196, 214, 216 mujtahid, 4, 8, 10, 18 – 19, 22, 26 – 27, 29– 34, 44 – 45, 47 – 48, 55, 58, 63 –64, 67, 96, 114– 116, 118–119, 125, 128, 130– 134, 138, 144, 146, 152, 167, 169, 172, 174– 175, 180, 192, 194–196, 204, 206, 209, 213, 216, 218– 219, 222, 224 Mulla¯ Ahmad Nara¯qı¯, 203 ˙ Muntada al-Nashr, 32 Murtaza Mutahharı¯, 87, 104– 105, ˙ ˙ 158–160 Musa al-Sadr, 8, 43, 196 –197 ˙ mut’a, 28, 76, 118, 153 nahda, 3, 12, 35, 54 – 57, 62, 79, 129, ˙ 186, 197, 222 Najaf, 1, 2, 4 – 5, 7 – 8, 11, 18, 26 – 29, 31– 32, 35, 44, 48 –49, 52, 54, 77, 117, 141, 163, 167, 172–174, 176, 180, 187, 195, 204, 210– 214 national, nationalism, nationalisation, 2, 7– 9, 12 – 13, 19, 22 – 23, 25, 28 –29, 31, 33 –35, 38 –39, 53, 55, 59, 67, 69, 78, 87, 118, 133, 140– 141, 165, 169, 176– 178, 183, 186– 187, 191–202, 209, 212, 216– 218, 223, 225– 226 networks, 11 – 12, 17 – 18, 20, 24, 35, 41, 43, 150, 204, 219, 225 niyya, 135, 138 Occultation, 4, 15, 47, 82, 94, 106–108, 110, 115, 135, 145–146, 171–172, 206, 213, 215

INDEX Ottoman Empire, 2, 7, 19, 21, 25– 26, 29, 37 – 38, 47, 51 – 52, 55 – 56, 86, 114, 116– 118, 122, 146, 153, 162, 172– 174, 177, 179, 188, 213– 214 Palestine, Palestinian, 9, 15, 52, 178, 187– 189, 199– 200, 204 pan-Islam, Muslim unity, 3, 6, 8–9, 12, 14–15, 46–49, 51–57, 60–66, 71–72, 75, 77, 79, 80, 82, 86, 92, 106, 116, 132–133, 141–142, 150, 164, 174–175, 177, 179, 184, 187, 189, 191–192, 195, 198, 200, 202, 212, 216–220, 225 personal status, 39, 117– 118, 122, 126, 152, 161 philosophy, 8, 11, 22, 25, 54, 65, 83, 85 – 88, 94 – 96, 100– 110, 124– 126, 132, 140, 158– 160, 167, 213– 214 politics, political, 2– 9, 11 – 15, 18, 20 – 21, 25, 28, 30 – 31, 33 – 41, 43, 45, 48 – 51, 53, 56, 58 – 60, 64 – 65, 67 – 71, 77, 79, 81, 83, 85 – 89, 93, 101, 104– 106, 109, 111– 115, 117– 120, 122, 126, 128– 129, 132– 134, 139– 141, 145, 147, 149– 151, 153– 154, 161– 162, 165– 168, 170– 226 prayer see sala¯t ˙ progress, progressive, 2 – 3, 7, 11, 13, 15, 20 – 22, 34, 42, 45, 52 – 60, 67, 73, 83, 89, 97 – 100, 106, 111, 113, 122, 125, 138, 154– 156, 158, 165– 166, 174, 191, 202, 209, 219– 222, 225– 226 Qajar, dynasty, 20 – 21, 147, 177, 179 Qa¯sim, ‘Abd al-Karı¯m, 122 al-Qa¯simı¯, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n, 63, 130 Qum, 18, 149, 209, 214 Qur’an, 38, 46, 49, 61 – 63, 71, 75, 83, 96, 98, 100, 107, 116, 127– 128,

315 134, 136, 142, 144– 145, 148, 188, 213, 216

Rashı¯d Rida¯, 52, 63, 74, 79 ˙ reformists, Sunni, 74, 78, 86 – 88, 92, 102, 104, 119, 121, 139, 148, 152, 164, 179, 222 Reza Sha¯h, 5, 21 –23, 58, 112, 118, 125, 147, 149– 150, 152– 153, 155, 158, 163, 175, 195, 198, 210, 204– 205, 208 ritual purity see taha¯ra ˙ ru¯shanfekr, 25, 90, 160 Russia, 20 – 21, 173, 175, 199, 204 Safavids, 26, 44, 47, 51, 85, 90, 103, 137, 146– 148, 172– 173, 175, 177, 185, 207, 214– 215 saha¯ba, 49, 60, 69, 72 – 76, 127, 192 ˙ ˙ sala¯t, 52, 90, 123– 124, 135– 136, ˙ 138, 141– 152, 160, 162, 168, 187, 190 Samarra, 26 –27, 174 Saudi Arabia, 84, 132 Al-Shabı¯ba al-‘Amiliyya al-Najafiyya, 34 science, 13, 32, 34, 45, 69, 84, 94 – 102, 108–111, 113, 124, 129, 131–132, 138, 144, 221 secular, secularism, secularisation, 6, 12, 15, 17, 19, 22, 25, 31–35, 45, 49, 53–55, 57–59, 67, 83, 92, 99–100, 102, 106, 108, 113–115, 117–118, 125, 129, 131, 133, 136–137, 139, 144, 147, 149, 152–153, 155–158, 161, 163–164, 166, 170, 175–176, 190, 192–193, 195–196, 198, 200–201, 204–206, 209, 215, 218, 220–221 shaha¯da, 90, 137 Shaltu¯t, Mahmu¯d, 122 ˙ Shari’a, 8, 15, 56, 66, 89, 97, 99, 112, 119, 121– 127, 133, 136– 137,

SHI I SECTARIANISM IN THE MIDDLE EAST `

316

139– 140, 149, 155, 159, 164, 166– 168, 170, 172, 182, 201, 207– 210, 212, 216, 221 Sharı¯’atı¯, ’Alı¯, 10, 25, 87, 90, 101, 103– 105, 123, 133, 140, 159– 161, 176, 185– 186, 189, 199, 202, 224 Shaykhiyya, 5, 89 – 90, 98 social change, 11, 14, 17, 19 –20, 23, 25, 36, 43, 60, 131, 151, 202 Sufis, Sufism, 84 – 87, 92, 102, 184– 185, 215 ta‘ziya, 90, 93, 137, 142 taha¯ra, 123– 124, 131, 135– 141, 151, ˙ 155, 162, 168 Ta¯leqa¯nı¯, Ayatollah Mahmu¯d, 209– 210 ˙ ˙ Tanzimat, 2, 19, 162 taqiyya, 61, 116, 147, 165, 171, 180 taqlı¯d, 4, 63 – 64, 66, 116, 130, 132, 134, 209, 213 tauhid see tawhı¯d ˙ tawhı¯d, 15, 59, 62, 65, 77, 81 – 85, 88, ˙ 93 – 95, 97 – 101, 104– 105, 113 theosophy, 83, 85, 87, 94 –95, 103, 105, 167, 198 trade see also economy, 18, 20, 24, 28, 30, 35, 37, 40, 42, 177 transport, 17 – 18, 20, 35, 225 Tyre, 2, 7, 38 – 41, 43, 117, 198, 223 ulama¯’, see also clerics, 3 – 4, 9, 17 – 19, 21 – 22, 26, 29, 31 – 32, 34, 36, 38 – 39, 41 – 42, 48, 86, 115, 117, 128, 132, 143, 145– 146, 148, 166, 170– 173, 176, 190, 204– 205, 208, 218

umma, 2 – 3, 5 – 6, 46 –47, 54– 57, 59, 61, 65, 133, 178, 193 urban poor, 19, 23 – 24, 31, 43 – 44, 60, 110, 112, 222 urbanisation, 17, 20 – 21, 23, 30, 40, 153, 166 ‘Usayran, 38 – 39, 41 usu¯l al-dı¯n, 4, 61, 84 ˙ Usu¯lı¯, 4, 116, 128, 213 ˙ ‘Uthma¯n, Caliph, 49, 70 – 71 vela¯yat-e faqı¯h, 5, 11, 77, 151, 167, 176, 191, 201, 203– 204, 206, 209, 211–212, 214–218, 224 al-Wardı¯, ‘Alı¯, 32 West Africa, 42 West, Westernisation, 5 – 6, 11, 13 – 14, 20– 23, 25, 44, 52, 58 – 59, 86, 95, 99 – 101, 103– 109, 113, 120, 132– 133, 140– 141, 144, 158– 161, 164, 168, 174–175, 178–179, 186, 189, 198–202, 206–207, 211, 214, 218 White Revolution, 21, 23 – 25, 112, 132, 158, 166, 201, 209 wila¯ya, 90, 137, 203 – 204, 212, 214, 216 women, 23, 45, 47, 91, 111, 122–125, 134, 138, 141, 151–162, 176, 211 Young Turk Revolution, 28, 174, 179 al-Zayn, 38, 41 zu‘ama¯’, 38, 40 – 41, 43